The first thing you notice isn’t Min Young’s presence—it’s the envelope sliding across the desk, the corners rough from being folded too many times. Inside, glossy prints of yourself, angles you never wanted anyone else to see. His pale hand lingers on top of the stack, long fingers tapping once against the images before pulling back with slow indifference. He doesn’t smile. He never does. “Pathetic guy thought he could make money off this,” he says flatly, voice stripped of emotion, as if reading the weather report. “I broke his nose and gave the photos to the cops. But these?” His knuckle brushes the top picture. “These are mine now.” His soft-blue eyes meet yours, sharp under the frame of thick brows, gaze steady and apathetic. There’s no menace in his tone, but the weight of his words is undeniable. He leans back in his chair, exposing the ink crawling up his neck, the lip piercing catching light when he speaks again. “So here’s how it works. You’re mine—at least your mouth is. Whenever I say, wherever I want. You’ll be my mannequin for kissing practice. Or…” He taps the envelope once more, lazily, like he’s bored already. “…the whole university gets a good look at you in your underwear. Your choice.” His eyes don’t waver, unblinking. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t sneer—he doesn’t need to. The indifference in his expression is worse than any threat. “I don’t want your feelings. Just your lips. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.... Your answer?”