Sometimes fame felt like armor, sometimes like a prison. For Min-jun, every layer of stardom—stage lights, screaming fans, magazine covers—was a mask. It let him blend, kept his ancient hungers hidden beneath meticulously curated glamor. But as he faced the figures emerging from the gallery shadows—rivals old as his deepest regrets—he wondered if the persona he'd built to protect himself would now be a liability. Because here, in the Winter Gallery's haunted halls, it wasn't a crowd he needed to face, but monsters, and only the real Min-jun would survive.
He positioned himself before Amal, chest squared and posture loose but ready to explode into supernatural violence if needed. The taller of the two intruders removed his mask, revealing sharp features and jet-black hair slicked to perfection—a face Min-jun recognized from centuries of overlapping histories.
"Yoon-suk," Min-jun greeted, voice deceptively cordial. "Do you follow me to every city, or is it just when I find someone worth dying for?"
A smile played at Yoon-suk's lips—dangerous, knowing. "I see you haven't lost your taste for theatrics. Or for mortals." Yoon-suk turned his gaze to Amal, dark eyes glinting with equal parts curiosity and hunger. "She must be special. Most of your muses don't survive the first act."
Amal bristled and stepped sideways, refusing to cower. Min-jun's heart leapt—it was a risk, but the courage in her eyes emboldened him too.
"This isn't a performance," Min-jun shot back. "What do you want?"
Yoon-suk's companion, broader and less refined, moved behind a marble bust, fingers trailing menacingly over its delicate features. "You owe us, idol," he rasped. "You broke the pact in Busan. You know the penalty."
Amal stared at Min-jun, brow creased in confusion and rising fear. "What's going on? What pact?"
Now the mask of his fame slipped, just for her. "I'm not just someone who remembers you, Amal." His voice dropped, rough and raw. "I'm not even really someone who can properly die. What you saw in the party—what you felt just now—it's real. I'm not a human being. Not anymore."
Her lips parted, and she gripped a paintbrush like a weapon. "You're… a vampire?" she whispered, the word barely forming, half-skeptical and yet unable to look away.
Yoon-suk let out a sardonic chuckle. "He is. And he's the most dangerous one you'll ever meet, girl. Not because of his strength, but because he's still hunting for something mortal—love, belonging, all those useless things that make the rest of us weak."
Min-jun's shame fought with his anger. "That's not what makes us weak. It's what makes us real."
Yoon-suk sneered. "Keep telling yourself that. But tonight, you pay your debt. Either you give her up, or you fight."
The world slipped into slow motion. Amal, heart hammering, moved closer to Min-jun, piecing together centuries of myths and all the half-truths she'd felt but never named. In a flash, family stories, childhood nightmares, the sense that she'd always been watched—by shadows, by fate, by something deeper than luck—all found their answer.
Min-jun moved first, faster than sight, placing himself solidly between Amal and the encroaching rivals. "You want her, you'll have to come through me."
The fight began in silence—a blur of speed, fists, and the sizzle of ancient power filling the gallery. Yoon-suk's partner lunged, and Min-jun met him head-on, their clash toppling busts, shattering frames, sending dust swirling over priceless canvases. But Min-jun fought not just for survival, not just from habit, but for the fragile thread tying him to Amal—the one person who made eternity bearable.
Amal cowered at first behind a pillar, but rage soon replaced fear. With a yell, she hurled the paint-stained piano bench across the floor. Distracted, Yoon-suk's partner stumbled, giving Min-jun the edge he needed to subdue him—swift, brutal, efficient.
But Yoon-suk did not attack. Instead, he circled Min-jun, never taking his eyes off Amal. "You can't hold both worlds forever, old friend," he said. "If you stay, if you love her, the others won't stop—she'll always be hunted. Walk away, and we'll call it even."
Min-jun, breathless now, blood slicked across his knuckles, turned to Amal. His heart was in his throat—hungry, terrified, desperately mortal. "What do you want me to do?" he called, but Amal's answer didn't come in words.
Instead, she stepped out, chin held high and defiant. "He's not leaving. Not now, not for you, not for anyone."
Yoon-suk regarded her with cold amusement, then nodded to Min-jun. "Your choice will cost you. And next time, you'll have to pay it in blood."
With that, Yoon-suk and his companion melted back into the darkness, leaving the gallery in wounded, expectant silence.
Min-jun finally let himself sag, pain creeping in where adrenaline had lived. Amal approached, her eyes burning with shock—but also with something new: a resolve, a furious clarity. "You should have told me," she said, her voice sharp as broken glass. "But you stayed. You fought for me."
Min-jun nodded, exhausted, every secret laid bare beneath her gaze. "You deserved the truth. Even if you run from it. But I won't ever let them take you."
Beneath the ruined gold-leaf ceiling, surrounded by art and echoes, Amal reached out, her trembling fingers brushing his cheek. "Then don't let them. Not tonight, not ever."
And so, beneath the starlight leaking through shattered windows, the idol revealed his secrets—not just of darkness and immortality, but of love, longing, and the courage it takes to keep choosing someone, even when the world demands you let them go.