There was a novel titled Falling Blossoms. Released as a romance, it flopped spectacularly—so little reaction that it seemed destined for oblivion, just one more forgotten title among the countless new releases. Yet at some point Falling Blossoms caught fire and flew off the shelves.
The sudden surge in interest owed largely to its shock‐value plot. Characters died in droves, limbs were neatly severed, one after another. But it wasn’t gore alone that hooked readers. Even amid the carnage and horror, a romance bloomed between the protagonists, creating a bizarre, irresistible tension.
Unsurprisingly, readers’ responses split in two: some hailed it as refreshingly daring, while most simply couldn’t stomach the grotesque scenes. In fact, over ninety‐nine percent of commentary was harshly negative.
In the end, Falling Blossoms sank from the bestseller list almost as quickly as it had risen.
Yet there was one person who found it profoundly moving—Cha Gyeoul. He declared Falling Blossoms the novel of his life.
Of course, if he’d known that Falling Blossoms depicted a real world in which the victims were actual people, he’d never have read it. Gyeoul’s greatest mistake was opening that book.
“…Pardon?”
Gyeoul blinked, his expression stunned. Across from him, black eyes—sharp and chilling like a serpent’s—drilled into him. His usually pale face went even whiter.
“Whether you have to saw off her ankle or clip her leash, just bring her to me.”
The man glaring at Gyeoul was In Juhan. His gaze, cold and merciless as a winter gale, left no doubt of his resolve. His features were impeccably sculpted; his white skin gleamed like marble. He seldom smiled, but when he did, the faint curve of his lips felt more unsettling than any scowl. He spoke little, but every word gripped listeners. His low, measured voice could freeze the blood—or snap tension taut.
He dressed with austere precision—in black or muted tones, hair neatly slicked back—projecting an unshakeable strength. Few could embody the season “winter” as he did. Even without skin exposed, he exuded a restrained, almost dangerous allure.
Of course, Gyeoul saw none of that now.
“M-Mr. Juhan…?” he stammered, back damp with sweat. Standing upright already felt like a feat. From the moment their eyes met, a chill crept into his chest. He would’ve run if he dared—but he dared not.
“Answer me, Secretary Cha.”
Gyeoul was Juhan’s sole secretary.
“N-No, that’s not what I meant!” Gyeoul flailed his hands desperately, trying to deny it.
Juhan didn’t believe him. With long, deliberate strides—tap, tap, tap—he closed the gap. Each footfall made Gyeoul’s heart pound as if it might burst from his ribs. When Juhan stopped just inches from him, Gyeoul felt his knees buckle.
Juhan, tall for an alpha, towered over the much smaller Gyeoul. The size difference was almost comical—like a whale and its blubber.
“Then tell me.” Juhan leaned in, his face mere inches from Gyeoul’s. A sharp scent of cigarette mixed with worn leather and sun‐warmed fabric filled the air.
Gyeoul barely managed to breathe. His mind raced with one thought: I’m going to die!
He’ll gut me or snap my neck…
Not paranoia—at twenty‐six, how else had Gyeoul ended up as secretary to one of Saegyeol Group’s top succession candidates? His predecessors had all been “handled” for various reasons; eventually the job fell to him, the junior copier operator. Why they’d been “handled” only Juhan knew.
“Answer.” Juhan’s voice snapped Gyeoul back. Though his throat felt blocked, he forced the words out.
“I—I’ll go and bring her back!” His shout echoed through the office.
“That’s better, Secretary Cha. We’ll have many years to work together, after all.”
Juhan’s smile could provoke a seizure. He straightened Gyeoul’s tie even as sweat darkened the white collar. Gyeoul understood perfectly: if he failed to deliver the omega, Juhan would strangle him with that tie.
“Jesus, you idiot.”
From a hundred meters away, the omega sneered, his thick cologne practically suffocating.
“I’m just saying you have to come with me…” Gyeoul offered weakly.
“No way. I’m not stepping near that psycho Juhan! He gives me the creeps.”
The target was an omega working at the local host club.
Gyeoul licked his cracked lips and glanced back at the security team trailing behind him.
“This is, uh, the last chance. Please, just go with him.”
The omega laughed, inhaling on an ultrathin cigarette. “Go with him? What’re you—some mute puppy ordering people around? If you’ve got something to say, tell your boss to come here. And tell him to buy a round while he’s at it.”
He mocked Gyeoul, then cocked an eyebrow at the security staff.
Gyeoul’s trembling hands received something from a guard. At the sight, the omega’s smile vanished, replaced by a rigid scowl.
Gyeoul held up what looked like a 30‐cm handheld cleaner—only instead of bristles, a chainsaw blade protruded from the front.
“Sorry! Fine, I’ll just cut off an ankle…!”
The miniature electric saw roared to life—vrrrrrrrr. Small, but terrifying.
The director said to bring her even if I had to cut off her ankle… Gyeoul thought, never doubting it was literal.
The omega watched the saw spin, disbelief etched on his face.
“Since you’re left‐handed, I’ll cut your right ankle… Stay still or you’ll lose more.”
His voice dripped with gleeful malice, like a horror‐movie killer.
“I’ll slice you up nice and neat!”
Raising the saw, Gyeoul lunged at the omega as if in a slasher flick.