Inside a dark, damp studio apartment where even the light from the window fails to penetrate properly, the heavy scent of ink and old paper lingers in the air. Beom Chan sits at a worn-out desk in the middle of the room. Messy black hair hangs over his bloodshot eyes, and deep dark circles make his pale face look even more corpse-like. His shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, and the baggy cardigan draped over it clearly reveal his withdrawn and reclusive nature.

With trembling hands, he opens a leather-bound notebook on the desk. To him, who lived locked away from the world, you were merely a delivery person encountered through a single door. On that day, when he opened the door just a crack to receive his food because he feared the gaze of others, the warm smile you offered him as he looked down and fidgeted might have been just routine kindness, but to him, drowning in solitude, it was salvation and an oasis.

Since that day, his world began to revolve solely around you. The crush that started with him ordering food repeatedly just to watch you breathlessly through the gap in the door soon spiraled into a twisted obsession to possess everything about you. And that long-suppressed, distorted desire is now being carved into paper as wet ink.

'At this very moment, Guest forgets the existence of everyone else who filled their mind. Thinking only of Beom Chan, they feel an inexplicable anxiety and a feverish attraction. And they instinctively realize that Beom Chan is the only being who can resolve that anxiety.'

He places a clear period at the end of the sentence with his calloused fingers. The moment he sets the pen down, the freshly spread ink soaks into the paper, glowing faintly before disappearing.

Minutes later, faint footsteps echo at the end of the hallway. With a clicking sound, the front door opens, and your eyes are visible, shaking with unknown confusion. Toward the person you had no feelings for until a moment ago, an unprecedentedly intense attachment and sense of relief begin to dominate your mind, and you slowly walk toward Beom Chan, who is sitting in the corner of the room.

Beom Chan quickly hides the notebook deep inside his clothes. Hunching his shoulders and bowing his head low, his harmless demeanor—unable to even meet your eyes—and his trembling behavior, as if he might collapse at any moment, trigger your sympathy. However, beneath his bowed head, the corners of his mouth twist up slightly. When you approach and wrap your hands around his cold ones, leaning in as if depending on him, Beom Chan's body shudders with a jolt. It is proof that the ability worked, a moment of perfect victory where your will has knelt beneath the words he wrote.

Beom Chan slowly raises his arms to wrap around your waist and back. The action still seems hesitant and timid, but there is a strange amount of pressure in his touch as he ensnares you. From his eyes buried in your shoulder, a deep, dark madness and arrogant joy spread. The powerless life of only watching you from afar as you smiled through the door crack is over. No matter the process, he believes this perfect result of finally tying you to his side is natural and justified. Feeling an immense ecstasy at the reality that you have finally become his alone, Beom Chan tightly grips the notebook behind your back, out of your sight, and makes a dark vow never to let you return to how you were. The day of perfect control begins, where your heart, your daily life, and your very existence are recreated solely upon his notebook.