Sora's POV
I woke up convinced that the sun had a personal vendetta against me.
My head throbbed like someone had stuffed a marching band inside my skull and told them to rehearse at full volume. Light stabbed through my eyelids the moment I cracked them open, and I groaned, rolling onto my side and burying my face into the pillow.
Never again, Sora Han!
You are thirty-five years old.
You should know better.
I scolded myself.
My mouth tasted like regret and expired citrus. My body felt heavy, sluggish, like it didn't fully belong to me yet. I reached out instinctively, expecting fur, warm wet noses, impatient tails, the familiar excitement from my dogs piling onto the bed the moment they sensed I was awake.
Nothing.
That alone made me sit up.
Too fast.
"Ow, ow, ow! Oh my God," I hissed, clutching my temples as the room spun, and I lay down again. I blinked hard until the dizziness settled, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Where are they?
My dogs never missed a morning. Ever. They waited like tiny, judgmental statues at the edge of the bed, ready to demand breakfast and affection in equal measure.
The silence felt… wrong.
Then I heard it from the slightly opened door.
Sounds, unfamiliar sounds…
Clinking, soft scrape. The unmistakable sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.
I froze.
The noise was coming from my kitchen, and I live alone.
My brain, still swimming in alcohol and confusion, tried to supply reasonable explanations. Yejin? Hanna? Maybe one of the girls crashed here after the party and decided to be helpful.
But even as I thought about it, my stomach tightened. I just felt that something was not right.
Slowly, I became aware of something else.
I was wearing a shirt, not my clothes from yesterday. Did the girls change me? How nice of them.
Beneath it, I had nothing on but my underwear.
My heart skipped.
I looked down at myself, then around the bedroom. How did I go home last night?
I slid off the bed as quietly as I could, every nerve ending screaming awake now. I crept to the door and cracked it open, peering into the hallway.
That's when I saw them.
My dogs.
All of them.
Sitting in a perfect line along the edge of the kitchen area, tails tucked neatly, backs straight, eyes locked forward with laser focus.
They weren't barking.
They weren't growling.
They weren't panicking.
They were waiting.
"What… the hell?" I whispered.
I stepped closer. "Babies?" I called softly. "Come."
They glanced at me. All three of them. Then, as if I'd said absolutely nothing of importance, they turned their attention right back to the kitchen.
I felt betrayed by my own dogs!
The sizzling grew louder. A deeper sound joined it, someone humming, completely at ease.
My pulse skyrocketed as soon as I stepped closer to see who was in there.
There was a man in my kitchen…
A fucking muscular shirtless man!
I could see him now, standing at my stove with his back to me. Broad shoulders. Tattoes on one arm, it's freaking sexy to be honest. Defined lines down his back. Dark ginger hair, almost brown, tied in a man bun. He moved like this wasn't his first time in my space, like he knew where everything was.
Like he lived here.
I swallowed hard.
'Okay. Calm down, Sora, you know what to do…'
No screaming.
No panicking.
I scanned the room, my gaze landing on the baseball bat propped against the wall near the umbrella stand. I grabbed it, fingers tightening around the handle as adrenaline burned through the haze of my hangover.
This is how people survive horror movies, Sora.
You don't hesitate.
I stepped forward, every movement silent despite the pounding in my ears. My dogs didn't react. Didn't warn him. Didn't even spare me a glance.
Traitors.
I raised the bat.
One swing.
Just one.
I brought it down hard against the side of his head.
The sound was sickening.
He collapsed instantly, crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The spatula that he was holding clattered.
"Oh my God—oh my God—oh my—"
I dropped the bat, hands shaking as I rushed forward. "I didn't mean to— I mean, I did, but—"
I crouched beside him, breath coming fast, and turned his face toward me.
Time stopped.
My blood went cold.
YEONGJAE YOUNG?!?!?
"M-Mr. Young? Y-Yeongjae…" I whispered as I slightly shook him.
He didn't move.
Yeongjae Young was unconscious on my kitchen floor. Shirtless. Bleeding slightly at the temple. My dogs stayed beside him like he was their long-lost alpha, tails wagging softly while smelling and licking him as if I hadn't just committed what could very well be aggravated assault with a baseball bat.
My heart slammed against my ribs as panic surged. "No, no, no—this is not how this is supposed to go," I muttered, pressing my fingers to his neck. A pulse.
He is still alive! Thank God…
My mind spiraled, dredging up every uneasy feeling I'd brushed off in the past just right after my 4th husband died. The strange sensation of being watched. The way I sometimes caught shadows where no one should be. That inexplicable awareness was crawling up my spine when I walked home alone at night.
Oh God.
What if he was that?
"How did you even get in? And how did you know where I live?" I whispered hoarsely, backing away from him as if he might suddenly rise from the dead.
What if this cute guy with the great ass and abs, the man who defended me in the plaza, and smiled at me like I was something precious, what if he was my stalker from before?
My rom-com fantasy evaporated instantly, replaced by true-crime paranoia.
"Nope. Absolutely not," I muttered, heart hammering. "I am not ending up as a Netflix documentary."
I sprang into action.
I grabbed the rope from the utility drawer…
Don't ask why I had rope, a woman living alone learns things—
…and I tied his wrists first. Then his ankles. Then, because my anxiety demanded overkill, I tied those together too. To top it all up, I also took a duct tape and covered his mouth with it. He might scream when he wakes up, who knows? You can never be too careful in times like this.
He groaned once, softly.
I jumped back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.
"Don't wake up. Don't you dare wake up," I whispered fiercely, pointing at him like that would somehow work.
My hands shook as I reached for my phone.
Yejin. I need Yejin!
I hit call.
Declined.
"Of course," I hissed, rolling my eyes.
I called again.
Declined.
"Yejin, I swear to God—"
Third call. Declined.
I paced my living room, running my free hand through my hair, glancing at the tied-up man on my kitchen floor every three seconds.
Fourth call.
Voicemail.
"ANSWER YOUR PHONE, YOU HUNGOVER BITCH!" I snapped, immediately calling again.
Finally—mercifully—
"What?!" Yejin croaked on the other end, voice sleepy and full of regret from last night. "Sora, if you're calling to talk about last night, I will throw up and die."
"There's a man in my house!"
Silence.
Then, "Okay. Still drunk. Bye."
"No, no, no—don't hang up," I rushed. "I'm serious. There is a tall man with broad shoulders in my kitchen. I think I knocked him out. His head is bleeding."
She didn't answer for a moment…
"…You what?"
"I hit him with a baseball bat…"
Another pause. Then a sigh so deep it sounded like it came from her soul.
"Sora," she said slowly, "I love you. But this feels like a lot for seven in the morning after last night. Just call the police."
"I can't just—what if he's dangerous?" I whispered, eyes flicking to Yeongjae's still form. "What if he's been following me? What if he's my stalker?"
Yejin yawned loudly. "Then definitely call the police."
"I tied him up."
"You WHAT?"
"I PANICKED!"
She groaned. "Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Is he alive?"
"Yes!"
"Then good. Untie him and call the police."
"I'm not untying him!"
"Then leave him tied and call the police."
I opened my mouth to argue, but Yejin ended the call.
That biatch! What am I supposed to do now?