Chapter Text
The glow of the computer monitor bathed Kim Dokja’s room in a dim, bluish hue. Shadows sprawled across the walls, weaving between towering shelves cluttered with books, figurines, and the occasional empty ramen cup. The faint scent of instant noodles and stale air lingered, a constant reminder of his nocturnal habits. His bed sat unmade in the far corner, more of a forgotten backdrop than a place of rest in a space wholly consumed by his singular obsession: games. The steady hum of the CPU was a comforting white noise as Kim Dokja leaned back in his well-worn chair, the faux leather peeling at the edges. His arms stretched above his head until his spine gave a satisfying pop. The movement was accompanied by a soft groan—he had been sitting far too long, but the thrill of creating and fine-tuning his masterpiece kept him tethered to his desk.
“Yoo Joonghyuk, you perfect bastard,” Kim Dokja muttered, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
On the screen before him, a man with a piercing gaze and a jawline sharp enough to cut steel stared back at him. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair, dark as midnight, framed his face in windswept layers, and his fur-lined armor gave him the air of someone both noble and deadly. His sword rested in its sheath at his side, its hilt gleaming with intricate runes Kim Dokja had designed down to the last detail.
Every element of Yoo Joonghyuk had been painstakingly crafted.
His stoic demeanor, his unwavering loyalty, and his tragic backstory—it was all Kim Dokja’s handiwork. Weeks, no, months of effort had gone into perfecting his knight, this paragon of chivalry and quiet strength. From the way his cape billowed dramatically in the wind to the subtle shifts in his expressions, every pixel of Yoo Joonghyuk had been fine-tuned. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Yoo Joonghyuk was his magnum opus.
“Look at you,” Kim Dokja said, clicking his mouse to initiate a new battle scenario. His knight sprang into action on the screen, effortlessly cutting down a group of monstrous enemies with precise, calculated strikes. “Stoic, loyal, impossibly handsome. You’d think I was compensating for something.”
He chuckled under his breath, leaning closer to the screen as Yoo Joonghyuk dispatched another wave of foes. The knight’s movements were fluid, almost too lifelike for the in-game engine. It wasn’t just the mechanics that made him shine, though—it was the character, the soul Kim Dokja had poured into him.
“If you were real, I’d probably marry you,” He added jokingly, his voice laced with amusement.
Yoo Joonghyuk, of course, didn’t respond. But his in-game portrait, which sat in the corner of the HUD, tilted slightly as if listening. It was a programmed animation, nothing more, but something about the intensity of Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze made Kim Dokja pause for a moment longer than he intended.
“Ah, what am I doing?” Kim Dokja groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair. He leaned back again, letting the chair creak under his weight. “Flirting with my own creation. I really need to get out more.”
Still, his eyes drifted back to the screen. Pride swelled in his chest as Yoo Joonghyuk executed another flawless combo, his sword gleaming as it cut through the air. The surrounding NPCs erupted into cheers, their pre-programmed dialogue praising the knight’s valor.
“Ah, Sir Yoo Joonghyuk! A true hero!”
“Your swordsmanship is unmatched!”
Kim Dokja smirked at the lines, most of which he had written in a sleep-deprived haze. The compliments felt oddly personal now, even though he knew they were directed at his creation.
“You’re my ideal type, you know,” He said with a teasing grin, “If I ever meet anyone like you in real life, I’ll have to propose on the spot. Too bad you're stuck in here.”
His words hung in the air, met only by the rhythmic clacking of the keyboard as he moved Yoo Joonghyuk through the last leg of the scenario. Outside, the city was silent, the world long since gone to bed. The clock on his desktop read 4:47 AM in glaring white numbers. Kim Dokja sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He should’ve gone to bed hours ago, but there was something magnetic about the game, about Yoo Joonghyuk. It was hard to pull away when every battle felt like watching a story unfold, one he had orchestrated to perfection.
Eventually, even his body betrayed him, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily on his shoulders. With a resigned sigh, he saved his progress and moved the cursor to shut down the game. The screen flickered, going black. For a moment, the reflection of his own tired face stared back at him. But his mind lingered on Yoo Joonghyuk—on the intensity of his gaze, the weight of his presence, even as a mere digital construct. Kim Dokja shook his head, chuckling softly to himself as he pushed away from the desk.
“I’m losing it,” he muttered.
But even as he crawled into his unmade bed, Yoo Joonghyuk’s image burned brightly in his mind.
Kim Dokja woke slowly, his senses muddled by the lingering haze of sleep. The first thing he registered was the sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting long streaks of gold across his room. The second was a sound—a faint, metallic clink, out of place in the stillness of his apartment.
Something was wrong.
He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. The familiar clutter of his room came into focus—stacks of books threatening to topple over, empty coffee mugs scattered across his desk, and his gaming setup glowing faintly in sleep mode. But something else was there, something that made his heart stutter in confusion.
A sword.
The blade gleamed in the morning light, impossibly sharp and out of place in the mundane chaos of his room. Following the line of polished steel, his gaze traveled upward—to the hand gripping the hilt, encased in dark leather gloves.
And then, finally, to the man standing at the foot of his bed.
Kim Dokja froze.
“Kim Dokja.”
The voice was deep, commanding, and unnervingly familiar. It cut through the air like the sword the man held, sharp and unyielding.
Kim Dokja’s breath caught in his throat as he stared. The man before him was tall, his broad frame wrapped in fur-lined armor that looked battered but well-maintained. His dark hair fell in soft waves, framing a face that was both harsh and breathtakingly handsome. And those eyes—cold, calculating, and piercing—locked onto Kim Dokja with an intensity that made him feel exposed.
It was impossible. And yet...
“Yoo Joonghyuk?”
The name left Kim Dokja’s lips in a whisper of breath, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The man tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the name, though his expression remained unreadable.
Kim Dokja scrambled upright, his blanket tangling around his legs in his rush, “What the—? Who the hell are you?!”
The man didn’t flinch at the outburst. “You summoned me,” He said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I what?” Kim Dokja’s voice cracked. He glanced around the room, half-expecting to find hidden cameras or hear the punchline to some elaborate joke. But the only other presence was the knight standing before him. “No. This isn’t happening. You’re not real!”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s frown deepened, and his grip on the sword tightened, “I am as real as the blood that stains my blade. Do not jest with me, my Creator.”
The word Creator hit Kim Dokja like a train swerving off track. His legs gave out, and he sank back onto the bed, his mind racing.
“Creator?” He repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. “Okay, hold on. This is either a really vivid dream, or I’ve finally lost it.” He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if that might banish the hallucination.
The clink of armor drew his attention back. Yoo Joonghyuk stepped closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. His gaze swept over Kim Dokja, assessing, before his brows furrowed ever so slightly.
“You appear... unwell,” He said, his tone serious, “Were you injured during the summoning ritual?”
“There was no ritual!” Kim Dokja snapped, throwing his hands in the air, “You’re a game character. I created you! You’re not supposed to exist outside my computer!”
For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated. His frown remained, but there was a flicker of something—confusion?—in his eyes. After a moment, he straightened, his posture impossibly rigid, as if trying to regain control of the situation.
“I do not understand the nature of this world,” He admitted, his voice quiet but steady, “But if it is your will, I shall adapt.”
Kim Dokja stared at him, his mouth dry. Every logical part of his brain screamed that this couldn’t be real. And yet, when Yoo Joonghyuk took another step closer, the soft clink of his armor and the warmth radiating from his presence felt undeniably real.
This wasn’t a dream.
Before Kim Dokja could process his thoughts, Yoo Joonghyuk dropped to one knee. The motion was smooth, practiced, and reverent. His head bowed slightly, his dark hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window.
“I am yours to command,” He stated solemnly.
The weight of the words made Kim Dokja’s chest tighten. He could only gape, his mind blank as he took in the sight before him—Yoo Joonghyuk, the perfect knight he’d spent weeks creating, kneeling in the middle of his messy bedroom like something out of a fever dream. Then, to Kim Dokja’s utter disbelief, Yoo Joonghyuk reached out and took his hand. The glove was soft but firm against his skin, grounding him in a way that felt both comforting and overwhelming. Yoo Joonghyuk’s touch was gentle yet purposeful, as though handling something precious.
“You’re joking,” Kim Dokja whispered, his voice trembling as he felt the warmth of Yoo Joonghyuk’s grip.
“I do not jest,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied, his dark eyes lifting to meet Kim Dokja’s.
Before Kim Dokja could think to pull away, Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward with the precision of a knight performing a sacred vow. His lips brushed softly against the back of Kim Dokja’s hand, warm and fleeting yet impossibly electrifying. The simple touch sent a jolt through Kim Dokja’s body, leaving him frozen in place. His breath hitched as heat crept up his neck, burning hot against his pale skin. He stared at the knight, struggling to find his voice. His heart stuttered and stumbled in a way that felt unfamiliar, unwelcome, and far, far too vulnerable.
“This... can’t be real,” He muttered, though the flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his disbelief.
Yoo Joonghyuk straightened with the same elegance, his expression an impenetrable mask of calm. His unwavering gaze bore into Kim Dokja, dark and piercing, and for a moment, Kim Dokja forgot how to breathe.
Despite himself, he thought, This is exactly how I imagined it.
“I have been summoned, as is your right,” Yoo Joonghyuk declared, his voice deep and solemn, “Tell me, what is your command?”
Kim Dokja’s stomach dropped as the words registered once again. Summoned? His mind scrambled to process the absurdity of the situation, hitting him like a car crash in slow motion. He blinked at the man before him—not just any man, but Yoo Joonghyuk. His favorite fictional character. The stoic, noble knight he had meticulously created for his modded RPG. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t supposed to exist outside of the game world, and yet here he was.
Physically. Tangibly. Unbelievably here.
“Wait, hold on,” Kim Dokja stammered, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall, “You’re not—no, this isn’t real. You’re not real.” His voice cracked as panic clawed at his chest.
“You are mistaken,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied, his tone unyielding yet devoid of hostility, “I stand before you, my Creator. I am as real as the breath you take.”
Kim Dokja’s pulse roared in his ears as his gaze darted over Yoo Joonghyuk, desperate to find a flaw in the illusion. His armor—familiar yet worn—bore deep scratches and dents, weathered like it had endured a lifetime of battles. The sword at his side shimmered faintly, its runes pulsating with a soft, unnatural light that didn’t belong in his apartment or any game engine he knew of. And those eyes—dark, solemn, and too full of conviction—held a weight that felt unnervingly human.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“Okay, let’s just... say you’re real,” Kim Dokja said, his voice rising in pitch, “That doesn’t explain why you’re here!”
“You summoned me,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated simply, tilting his head slightly, as if the answer should be obvious.
“I did not summon you,” Kim Dokja snapped, his voice edging into hysteria.
“You must have,” Yoo Joonghyuk countered, though a faint crease appeared between his brows. “I would not exist in this realm otherwise. It is your will that binds me here.”
Kim Dokja groaned, pressing his palms to his face.
“This isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming. Maybe I’m just—just sleep-deprived, or delusional, or—”
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped forward, his movements measured, as though approaching a cornered animal. Kim Dokja tensed, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. The knight immediately halted, as if sensing his distress.
Yoo Joonghyuk spoke softly, “Have I erred in my arrival?”
Kim Dokja peeked through his fingers to glare at him. “No, you haven’t erred,” He spat, sarcasm laced in every word. “I just wasn’t expecting my game character to crawl out of the screen and come to life!”
Yoo Joonghyuk frowned faintly, as though Kim Dokja had spoken in a foreign tongue. “You speak in riddles,” He said. “Were you not the one who shaped my path and gave me purpose?”
Kim Dokja froze, his chest tightening. The weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s words hung in the air, quiet but heavy with meaning. There was no malice in the knight’s tone, only an unshakable loyalty that left Kim Dokja unnerved. He shook his head sharply, trying to focus.
“Okay, forget all that for now. We need to, uh, figure out what’s going on.”
“As you wish,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, bowing his head slightly.
Kim Dokja’s eyes couldn’t help but trace the knight’s every movement. Despite the heavy armor encasing him, Yoo Joonghyuk moved with practiced ease, the subtle creak of leather and metal accompanying each shift of his body. He exuded a grace that belonged to someone who had carried such burdens his entire life. His gaze drifted to the sword at Yoo Joonghyuk’s side. The runes etched into the blade pulsed faintly, as though alive.
“What’s with the sword?” Kim Dokja blurted out before he could stop himself.
Yoo Joonghyuk rested a hand on the hilt, his expression turning grim. “It is my blade, tempered by the fires of war and inscribed with the will of my ancestors. It has protected me from countless foes.”
Kim Dokja blinked.
“Right...” He muttered, the word dragging awkwardly. It sounded over-the-top, almost laughably dramatic, but the conviction in Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice sent an uneasy pang through him.
“What foes?” He asked, his tone quieter now, laced with reluctant curiosity. He might have designed the character, but even he hadn’t gone into such depths regarding his story just yet.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze grew distant, shadowed. “The beasts of the Abyss,” He explained gravely, “The traitors who sought to end the realm I swore to protect. You know of them, my Creator. You wrote their stories.”
Kim Dokja’s breath caught. He had written those stories. Every monster, every betrayal, every heartbreak—they were all part of the game. But to Yoo Joonghyuk, it wasn’t a narrative. It was memory. His legs gave out, and he slumped back onto the bed.
“Oh, no,” He whispered, staring at the floor, “I think I’m going insane.”
Yoo Joonghyuk moved closer, kneeling before him with the solemnity of a knight pledging fealty. “Fear not,” He said, his voice steady, soothing, “As long as I stand, no harm shall come to you.”
Kim Dokja stared at him, his mind spinning out of control. This was Yoo Joonghyuk—the ideal knight he had created. Protective, loyal, and utterly devoted. But now, standing here in flesh and blood, he was something more. Something real.
And the sincerity in his eyes made it terrifyingly hard to deny.
Kim Dokja rubbed his temples for what felt like the fiftieth time that morning. He hadn’t asked for this—he hadn’t asked for him. Across from him, Yoo Joonghyuk sat stiffly on the very edge of the couch, his back impossibly straight and his hands resting on his armored knees like he was ready to leap into battle at any moment. His dark eyes flitted warily around the room, lingering on the flickering television screen before darting back to the glowing microwave on the kitchen counter. The soft hum of the machine was interrupted by its cheerful ding, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand instinctively shot to the hilt of his sword.
“Relax,” Kim Dokja muttered, dragging himself up from his chair to fetch the bowl. He waved a dismissive hand at the warrior, who still looked seconds away from unsheathing his weapon. “It’s not a weapon. It’s just a… uh… magic box that heats up food.”
The explanation sounded ridiculous even to him, but what else was he supposed to say? The moment Yoo Joonghyuk had stepped into this world, Kim Dokja had resigned himself to a constant headache. The man didn’t belong here. Everything about him—from the ancient armor that gleamed even under his fluorescent kitchen light to the faint air of danger that clung to him like a second skin—was completely out of place.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t seem convinced. His gaze lingered on the microwave as if it might attack at any moment.
“What is its power source?” He asked, his voice low and steady, “It hums like a machine, but I see no flames, no forge. What fuels it?”
Kim Dokja sighed, already regretting his earlier attempts to explain electricity. “It’s complicated,” He said instead, placing the bowl of instant ramen on the table in front of Yoo Joonghyuk. “Just accept that it works, okay? You’re not going to have to fight it.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his attention shifted to the bowl, studying it with the same intensity he’d given the microwave. His expression, stoic as ever, betrayed nothing, but Kim Dokja could practically see the gears turning in his head.
“What?” Kim Dokja asked, frowning, “You’ve eaten before, right?”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s head snapped up, his dark eyes meeting Kim Dokja’s with an edge of offense.
“Do not insult me,” He said, his tone sharp but not unkind, “I have dined in the halls of kings and on the battlefield alike. But…” His gaze flicked back to the bowl. “I have never seen food prepared like this.”
Kim Dokja rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the faint pang of guilt that tugged at him. “It’s just ramen,” He said, “It’s not some rare delicacy. And here—” He pushed a pair of chopsticks across the table. “Use these.”
Yoo Joonghyuk picked up the chopsticks gingerly, holding them as if they were weapons he was unfamiliar with. The sight of the great warrior, clad in his imposing armor, fumbling with a pair of wooden sticks was almost too much for Kim Dokja to bear. He bit back a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Okay, knight boy,” Kim Dokja said, his voice laced with amusement, “Watch and learn.”
He picked up his own chopsticks, demonstrating how to hold them with exaggerated precision. Yoo Joonghyuk watched intently, his brow furrowing slightly as he adjusted his grip to mimic Kim Dokja’s. His large hands fumbled awkwardly with the delicate utensils, the chopsticks clattering together as he tried—and failed—to pick up a single noodle. It was oddly endearing, watching someone so commanding and capable struggle with something so mundane.
Kim Dokja sighed, leaning forward without thinking.
“You’re holding them too stiffly,” He said, his voice softening.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against Yoo Joonghyuk’s as he adjusted the warrior’s grip. The touch lingered for only a moment before Kim Dokja realized what he was doing and jerked his hand back. A faint blush crept up his neck as he cleared his throat, suddenly all too aware of the silence that had fallen between them.
“There,” He said, his voice a little too loud, “That’s better.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. He was staring at Kim Dokja, his expression unreadable but unnervingly intense. Kim Dokja felt his chest tighten under the weight of that gaze, but he forced himself to turn away, grabbing his own bowl of ramen as a distraction.
“Anyway,” He said, his voice deliberately casual, “just eat. It’s not poisoned.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze lingered on him for another moment before he finally turned his attention back to the bowl. Slowly, methodically, he lifted the chopsticks and managed to grab a single noodle. Kim Dokja watched from the corner of his eye, half-expecting Yoo Joonghyuk to make some kind of dramatic declaration about the food’s taste. But the warrior said nothing. He simply ate, his movements careful and deliberate. Kim Dokja let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He turned his attention to his own bowl, shoveling noodles into his mouth with the kind of ease that came from years of living off instant meals. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on his food, he couldn’t shake the feeling of Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze lingering on him, quiet and steady...
Like the man was trying to unravel some secret only he could see.
After they were finished with eating, the sound of clinking armor echoed through the apartment as Yoo Joonghyuk shifted on the couch, his movements as precise and deliberate as ever. Kim Dokja winced, his eyes darting to the faint scratches forming on the edge of his coffee table. It wasn’t just the noise—though that was grating enough—it was the constant reminder that his small, modern apartment was not equipped to house a fully-armored knight straight out of a fantasy world.
“Alright, this isn’t working,” Kim Dokja muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He stood abruptly, pacing toward his bedroom. “You can’t keep walking around in… that. You’re going to wreck everything.”
Yoo Joonghyuk turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “This armor has protected me in countless battles. It will not fail now.”
Kim Dokja sighed, yanking open his closet door.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s great for fighting dragons or whatever, but my couch isn’t a battlefield. You need something softer, less… lethal.” He rifled through the neatly folded clothes, pulling out a loose hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that had always been too big for him. He glanced at the items in his hands, imagining Yoo Joonghyuk wearing them. The thought made him snort.
“Here,” He said, walking back into the living room, “Try these.”
Yoo Joonghyuk regarded the clothing as if they were alien artifacts. His expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—curiosity, maybe, or confusion. “These are… garments?”
“Yes,” Kim Dokja replied, already feeling his patience wearing thin. “Normal clothes. People in this world wear them. You’ll look less like a walking museum exhibit and more…” He waved vaguely in Yoo Joonghyuk’s direction. “...modern. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
Yoo Joonghyuk rose from the couch, towering over Kim Dokja as he accepted the clothes. His hand brushed against Kim Dokja’s for a brief moment, and Kim Dokja quickly stepped back, his heart inexplicably skipping a beat. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze lingered on him, steady and unyielding.
“If that is your command.”
“It’s not a command,” Kim Dokja mumbled, heat creeping up his neck, “Just… a suggestion. The bathroom is over there.” He pointed to the door down the hall, avoiding Yoo Joonghyuk’s penetrating gaze.
Yoo Joonghyuk nodded, his movements calm and purposeful as he strode toward the bathroom. The clanging of his boots against the floor made Kim Dokja flinch, and he let out a long, relieved breath the moment the door clicked shut. Kim Dokja busied himself in the kitchen, rearranging items on the counter that didn’t actually need rearranging. It was easier than thinking about the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk—his creation—was in his apartment, changing into his clothes. The sheer absurdity of the situation was almost enough to make him laugh, if he wasn’t so close to losing his mind.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Kim Dokja froze, his hands stilling on a jar of instant coffee. He glanced up, and all coherent thought fled his mind.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood in the doorway, dressed in Kim Dokja’s oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Or at least, they had been oversized when Kim Dokja wore them. On Yoo Joonghyuk, the hoodie stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, the fabric clinging in a way that highlighted the sheer size and strength of him. The hem, which usually hung loose on Kim Dokja, barely skimmed Yoo Joonghyuk’s hips, rising slightly whenever he moved. The sweatpants fared no better, clinging to his muscular thighs and calves in a way that made Kim Dokja’s face grow impossibly warm.
Yoo Joonghyuk shifted again, tugging slightly at the hem of the hoodie as if trying to understand its purpose. The fabric stretched snugly over his broad shoulders, the sleeves stopping just short of his wrists, exposing strong forearms that Kim Dokja tried—and failed—not to notice. His chest rose as he inhaled, testing the way the material moved.
“These are… strange,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his deep, measured voice breaking the silence. He rolled his shoulders, the hoodie stretching just slightly with the motion. “They do not restrict movement, yet they feel unarmored. How do they protect you?”
“They… don’t,” Kim Dokja replied, his voice coming out much more breathier than he intended. He waved a hand vaguely in Yoo Joonghyuk’s direction, refusing to meet his gaze directly. “They’re for comfort, not combat. People here don’t walk around expecting to fight all the time.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s brow furrowed, as though the very idea of not being prepared for battle was some kind of heresy. His hand rose to adjust the hood, which he had pulled halfway up over his head. The soft fabric framed his sharp features, giving him a strange, almost boyish look that contrasted sharply with his usual commanding presence.
“Comfort is a weakness on the battlefield,” He said, his tone laced with disapproval.
“This isn’t a battlefield,” Kim Dokja shot back, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He spun away abruptly, busying himself with the nearest distraction—straightening an already perfectly aligned stack of papers on the counter. “You’ll get used to it.”
The faint clink of metal made Kim Dokja glance over his shoulder. Yoo Joonghyuk had gathered his armor and weaponry into a neat pile on the floor. The sight of the massive sword resting atop the polished breastplate sent a fresh wave of unease coursing through Kim Dokja. His small apartment felt even smaller with that pile of lethality sitting there, taking up space like an uninvited guest.
“Uh,” Kim Dokja began, eyeing the pile warily, “Where exactly are you planning to put all of that?”
Yoo Joonghyuk straightened to his full height, his expression calm and matter-of-fact. “I will store it in a dimensional pocket.”
“A dimensional what?” Kim Dokja asked, blinking.
Yoo Joonghyuk turned to face him fully, his dark eyes as steady and impenetrable as ever. “A space created by magic to hold items. It exists outside of this plane.”
“You have magic?!” Kim Dokja exclaimed, his voice pitching higher than he would have liked. Excitement lit up his face despite himself, “Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”
Kim Dokja had not known, merely because the idea of Yoo Joonghyuk having magic was a throwaway he hadn’t implemented into the game yet. So to get the confirmation that he did, in fact, have magic...?
Yoo Joonghyuk’s brow arched slightly, his calm demeanor untouched. “You did not ask.”
Kim Dokja groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “Unbelievable. Alright, fine. Let’s see it. Use the pocket thing. I want to see this magic of yours in action.”
For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated.
It was subtle—just the smallest pause before he gave a short nod. Stepping away from the pile, he raised his hand. Kim Dokja’s breath caught as a faint, shimmering light began to form at Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingertips. It spiraled outward in delicate, golden threads, almost like smoke but brighter, alive. The air seemed to hum with an energy Kim Dokja could feel in his chest, a strange but not unpleasant sensation. The glow intensified as Yoo Joonghyuk gestured toward the pile of armor and weapons. The light engulfed it, shimmering as though consuming the objects. Then, with a final flash, the entire pile vanished, leaving nothing behind but silence and empty space.
Kim Dokja stared, slack-jawed.
“That was—! You just—! It disappeared!” His words tumbled out in a rush, his tone brimming with awe, “That’s incredible! How does it work? Can you pull it back out? Can you—”
He stopped abruptly, the words dying in his throat as he realized Yoo Joonghyuk was staring at him. No, not just staring—watching. His dark eyes were fixed on Kim Dokja with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
“What?” Kim Dokja asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
Yoo Joonghyuk tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering, “You are… unusually delighted by this.”
“I—it’s not every day you see actual magic!” Kim Dokja stammered, his face growing warmer with each word. He crossed his arms over his chest, attempting to feign indifference, though his heart was still racing. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” Kim Dokja faltered, suddenly acutely aware of just how close Yoo Joonghyuk was standing. The warrior’s presence felt overwhelming, as if the entire room had narrowed down to just the two of them. Kim Dokja turned away abruptly, grabbing a random glass from the counter and pretending to inspect it. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond, but Kim Dokja could still feel his gaze lingering, quiet and steady, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
In the silence that followed, Kim Dokja found himself gripping the glass a little too tightly, his thoughts swirling. He told himself it was just the magic that had him flustered—the sheer, impossible wonder of it. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just that. It was the way Yoo Joonghyuk had looked at him, like he was something worth studying, worth understanding.
And that, Kim Dokja thought with a pang of discomfort, was far more terrifying than any magic.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s first foray into modern food turned out to be the least of Kim Dokja’s struggles. As daunting as it was to explain instant ramen and its miraculous creation process, teaching Yoo Joonghyuk the basics of modern technology felt like trying to explain calculus to a cat—if the cat had a sword and a tendency to treat every new discovery as a potential threat.
“This,” Kim Dokja began, holding up his phone and waving it slightly in front of Yoo Joonghyuk, “is called a smartphone. It’s… uh, kind of like a magic crystal. Except it does a lot more than glow. You can use it to talk to people far away. Or look up information. Or waste hours of your life scrolling through pointless videos.”
Yoo Joonghyuk sat perfectly still, his dark eyes narrowing at the rectangular object in Kim Dokja’s hand. He didn’t look impressed.
“And this device is common in your world?”
“Pretty much everyone has one,” Kim Dokja replied, tapping the screen to unlock it. He swiped to a news app and turned the screen toward Yoo Joonghyuk. “See? You can read articles, listen to music, watch videos, play games—basically anything.”
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward slightly, his expression skeptical but intent, “It contains knowledge, yet it is so small. Is this device powered by sorcery?”
“No, it’s powered by… electricity. Which isn’t magic,” Kim Dokja said quickly, sensing Yoo Joonghyuk’s brows drawing together in suspicion, “It’s science. I already explained this yesterday, remember?”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s scowl deepened, “Your explanations are vague at best.”
Kim Dokja sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
“Fine, forget the science part. Just think of it as a tool. A tool that lets you access almost anything you’d want to know. Like…” He swiped through the phone’s interface until he found a historical article about knights, figuring it would resonate with Yoo Joonghyuk. “Here. This is what people in my world think knights looked like.”
Yoo Joonghyuk took the phone from him abruptly, his movements quicker than Kim Dokja anticipated. He turned the device in his hands, inspecting the glossy screen and sleek edges as if they might reveal its secrets. His thumb brushed the screen by accident, and suddenly, loud pop music burst from the speakers. Yoo Joonghyuk flinched so violently that Kim Dokja almost laughed out loud. The knight’s hand tightened around the phone, and for one horrifying second, Kim Dokja thought he was about to crush it—or worse, draw his sword to smite the offending device.
“Wait! Stop! It’s just music!” Kim Dokja yelped, lunging forward to snatch the phone back before Yoo Joonghyuk could do anything drastic. He hit the pause button, silencing the blaring tune, and cradled the phone protectively against his chest. “Calm down, it’s not attacking you.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare was fierce enough to rival the heat of the sun.
“Your device emits an unnatural melody without warning. How am I to trust such an unpredictable artifact?”
“It’s not unpredictable. You just don’t know how to use it yet,” Kim Dokja retorted, though he couldn’t quite stifle a grin. Seeing the fearsome warrior flinch at the sound of a girl group’s cheerful chorus was far more amusing than it should have been. “You’re such a medieval relic.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw tightened, and he straightened his posture as if to remind Kim Dokja that he was, in fact, a highly trained knight. “Your world is unnecessarily loud.”
“That’s just how it is,” Kim Dokja said with a shrug, still holding the phone as though it were a fragile bird, “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression didn’t soften, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he cast one last distrustful glance at the phone, as though daring it to make another sound. Kim Dokja, for his part, made a mental note to disable autoplay before giving Yoo Joonghyuk another crash course in modern technology.
But despite the chaos Yoo Joonghyuk brought into his life, there were quiet moments too—moments so fragile and strange that Kim Dokja found himself holding his breath as if afraid to break them. It was during one such moment that he walked into the living room late one evening, only to stop in his tracks.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood in the center of the room, his broad shoulders backlit by the soft glow of the overhead light. His armor had been shed for the night—after he had taken to wearing it for the day temporarily—leaving him in a plain white shirt that somehow made him look more like a prince rather than a knight. The fabric clung to his form in places, outlining the curve of his arms and the powerful line of his back. His hair, dark as ink, fell messily over his forehead, catching faint hints of the warm light. His face was angled upward, sharp features softened by an expression that made Kim Dokja’s stomach twist strangely.
Yoo Joonghyuk was staring at the ceiling light as if it were a star plucked from the heavens. His lips, faintly parted, held a trace of wonder that looked so out of place on his typically stoic face. For a man who had faced down monsters without so much as flinching, the quiet awe in his expression felt oddly vulnerable. Kim Dokja blinked, unsure of what to say. His chest ached with something he didn’t have a name for, a strange tightness that made him want to look away but also kept his eyes locked firmly on Yoo Joonghyuk’s profile. The sharp line of Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw caught the light just so, and Kim Dokja felt his throat go dry.
“What’s so fascinating about a lightbulb?” Kim Dokja asked, forcing his voice to come out dry and unimpressed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, hoping his casual posture would mask the way his pulse had started to race.
Yoo Joonghyuk turned to him slowly, his movements deliberate and graceful, like a predator that had sensed movement in the corner of its eye. The full force of his gaze—dark, piercing, and unrelentingly steady—landed on Kim Dokja, and he felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. The intensity of Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes was something Kim Dokja could never quite get used to, as if the man saw far too much when he looked at him.
“The stars,” Yoo Joonghyuk began, his deep voice tinged with something almost wistful, “are the only source of light at night in my world. Fire burns brightly, but it is fleeting. To see such brightness contained in a glass orb…” He paused, his gaze drifting back to the light above them, “It is extraordinary.”
Kim Dokja’s sarcastic retort died in his throat. He hadn’t expected such sincerity, such raw honesty in Yoo Joonghyuk’s words. The way he looked at the light—like it was both a marvel and a mystery—did something to Kim Dokja. His chest tightened further, and he swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat.
“It’s just… a lightbulb,” Kim Dokja said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. He stepped into the room, avoiding Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze as he walked past him, “It’s not that special.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his expression contemplative as if he were weighing Kim Dokja’s words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, yet it still carried that unshakable steadiness that made Kim Dokja’s heart falter.
“It is special because it is your world. To me, everything here is… remarkable.”
Kim Dokja froze, his hand hovering over the armrest of the couch.
There it was again—that unyielding devotion in Yoo Joonghyuk’s words, the kind that felt too heavy, too intense, for someone who was supposed to be just a character. Kim Dokja’s fingers clenched into fists as he sat down, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the coffee table.
“You don’t have to keep saying things like that,” Kim Dokja muttered, a faint heat rising to his cheeks, “It’s just a light. It’s not like I invented it.”
Yoo Joonghyuk turned back to the light, his profile illuminated by its glow, his words honest to a fault, “Perhaps. But you brought me here, to this world of yours. That makes it important.”
Kim Dokja’s breath hitched, his chest tightening once again. He wanted to laugh, to brush off the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s words, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he found himself studying Yoo Joonghyuk’s face—the strong line of his nose, the slight curve of his lips, the way his eyes softened when they weren’t locked in their usual dark intensity. It wasn’t fair, Kim Dokja thought bitterly. It wasn’t fair that Yoo Joonghyuk could look so beautiful, so otherworldly, while staring at something as mundane as a lightbulb. And it wasn’t fair that Kim Dokja’s heart insisted on pounding so loudly in his chest every time Yoo Joonghyuk so much as glanced his way.
He told himself it was nothing. Just admiration, maybe a little awe for the character he’d created—the perfect knight, brave and loyal, with a face that could belong to the protagonist of any romantic drama. That was all it was. Nothing more. But when Yoo Joonghyuk turned to look at him again, his dark eyes meeting Kim Dokja’s with an intensity that felt like it could pierce through bone, Kim Dokja’s resolve wavered. For a moment, just a moment, he let himself wonder...
What if it was more?
Kim Dokja never thought he’d be giving etiquette lessons to a knight, least of all one he had created on a whim during a particularly dull evening. But there he was, standing in his cramped kitchen, watching Yoo Joonghyuk glare at a microwave with the intensity of a hunter sizing up a dangerous beast.
“It’s not going to attack you,” Kim Dokja said, stifling a laugh. His tone was teasing, but there was a strange warmth beneath it, a pull he didn’t want to think too hard about. “You just press this button, and it heats your food. See?” He tapped the timer, set it for thirty seconds, and the microwave came to life with a soft hum.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s reaction was immediate—he stepped back sharply, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. That blade, ever present, was the one piece of his old world he refused to part with, even when Kim Dokja had finally coaxed him into trading his armor for modern clothes.
“It hums much like a creature,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his deep voice rich with suspicion. His sharp, beautiful eyes—too sharp, too beautiful—narrowed slightly as if he could will the microwave to reveal its secrets. “Are you certain it will not explode?”
Kim Dokja rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched in amusement. He had spent countless hours designing Yoo Joonghyuk to be the ideal image of a stoic warrior, but seeing him like this—cautious and utterly out of place—made him seem almost human. Almost touchable.
“Explode? Do I look like someone who keeps dangerous contraptions in his home?” Kim Dokja asked, arching a brow. He paused, considering, “Wait, don’t answer that. Just trust me on this.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze flicked back to him, assessing as always, before he straightened to his full height. Even in the plain clothes Kim Dokja had forced on him—another simple t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants borrowed from Kim Dokja’s own wardrobe—Yoo Joonghyuk looked regal. The loose fabric did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and strong frame, and the sword strapped casually to his back only enhanced the air of authority that surrounded him.
Kim Dokja glanced away quickly, scolding himself. He was not about to get flustered over his own creation, no matter how ridiculously attractive said creation was.
“Okay,” Kim Dokja said after the microwave beeped, signaling the end of its cycle, “Your turn.”
Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated but stepped forward, his movements deliberate and precise. He approached the microwave as though it were an enemy on the battlefield, his every muscle tense. Slowly, he reached out and mimicked Kim Dokja’s earlier actions, pressing the button with exaggerated care. When the microwave hummed to life again, Yoo Joonghyuk immediately took a step back, his hand hovering near his sword, though he did not draw it this time.
“There,” Kim Dokja said, folding his arms and leaning casually against the counter, “You’ve officially mastered the ancient art of reheating leftovers. Congratulations, Sir Knight.”
Yoo Joonghyuk shot him a look—sharp and unimpressed—but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. Amusement? Resignation? The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips, so brief Kim Dokja almost thought he imagined it.
Almost.
Kim Dokja’s breath caught, his heart skipping a beat in a way that was entirely unwelcome. Was that… no, it couldn’t have been a smile. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t smile. He brooded. He scowled. He leveled those dark, piercing eyes at Kim Dokja as if trying to see through him. But now, all Kim Dokja could think about was how Yoo Joonghyuk’s face might look if he really smiled—something warm, something unguarded.
No. He needed to get a grip.
“Your machines are unnecessary,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, breaking the silence. His voice was smooth, with just a hint of disapproval. “Food should be cooked over a fire, as it was meant to be.”
“Right, because every modern apartment comes with a firepit,” Kim Dokja shot back, his sarcasm masking the way his chest still felt tight, “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Sir Knight Yoo Joonghyuk.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. He rarely did when Kim Dokja teased him, but this time there was something different in the air between them, something heavier. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes lingered on Kim Dokja a moment longer than necessary, his gaze steady and unreadable. Kim Dokja’s cheeks grew warm under the scrutiny, and he turned away abruptly, focusing on busying himself with the microwave as if it needed fixing. He didn’t see the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression softened, the edges of his stoic mask slipping just enough to reveal a quiet tenderness. For all his sharp words and sarcasm, Kim Dokja was gentle in ways he didn’t realize—patiently guiding Yoo Joonghyuk through this strange new world, even if it meant enduring the absurdity of teaching a knight how to use modern appliances.
And for reasons Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t yet name, he wanted to hold onto that gentleness.
Over the next few days, Kim Dokja found himself falling into a rhythm he hadn’t anticipated. Guiding Yoo Joonghyuk—his ideal creation, his impossible knight—through the intricacies of modern life became both a chore and, to his confusion, an odd sort of delight. From teaching him how to handle mundane household appliances to navigating the labyrinthine streets of Seoul, every moment felt surreal. It didn’t help that Yoo Joonghyuk’s mere presence disrupted the flow of reality itself.
He wasn’t just handsome—he was breathtaking, painfully so. Yoo Joonghyuk’s features were sharp and defined, his chiseled jawline a work of art, his midnight-black hair falling in careless strands over his forehead. His dark eyes seemed to pierce through everything they landed on, as though they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Every movement was precise, deliberate, and far too graceful for someone so imposing. People stared when he walked by, their gazes lingering as if they couldn’t believe someone so beautiful could exist.
And, honestly, neither could Kim Dokja.
One such afternoon, they wove through a bustling marketplace. Vendors called out their wares, the scent of fried snacks and fresh produce wafting through the air. Kim Dokja tried his best to blend into the crowd, but Yoo Joonghyuk, tall and regal, looked as out of place as a wolf among sheep. His intense gaze flicked from stall to stall, scanning each face with the sharpness of someone expecting an ambush.
“Stop glaring at people,” Kim Dokja hissed, glancing nervously at the woman selling chestnuts who had been staring at Yoo Joonghyuk for an uncomfortably long time, “You’re going to scare someone.”
“I am not glaring,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied evenly, his deep voice somehow cutting through the noise of the market. His eyes didn’t leave the crowd, sharp as a blade drawn and ready, “I am merely ensuring no threats approach.”
“This isn’t a battlefield,” Kim Dokja muttered, exasperated, “The only threats here are overpriced street food and pigeons.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond immediately, but his body language softened—just barely. He eased the tension in his shoulders and allowed his hand to drop from summoning his sword into his hand, though he still walked close enough to Kim Dokja that their arms occasionally brushed. Kim Dokja pretended not to notice, but the faint heat radiating from Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence made it impossible to ignore. The protectiveness was unnecessary. Ridiculous, even.
But it still made Kim Dokja’s chest feel strangely warm.
He told himself it was just gratitude, a fleeting appreciation for Yoo Joonghyuk’s chivalry. But every time he caught Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes—the intensity softening for a moment, his gaze flickering toward Kim Dokja as though he was the only thing worth noticing.
Kim Dokja’s breath hitched, and the thought evaporated.
Following such days, evenings in Kim Dokja’s apartment had settled into a pattern—quiet, almost serene, with a rhythm that felt so natural it was disarming. Yoo Joonghyuk would sit in the armchair by the window, posture impossibly straight, the dim glow of the setting sun framing his silhouette like a portrait come to life. His borrowed shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, and his hair, dark and unyielding as a raven’s wing, fell slightly into his eyes. Kim Dokja couldn’t help but keep noticing how effortlessly Yoo Joonghyuk made the mundane seem ethereal, his every movement deliberate, graceful, and maddeningly beautiful.
Kim Dokja, on the other hand, sat at his desk, pretending to be engrossed in coding tweaks for the game that had inexplicably bled into his reality. His fingers tapped at the keyboard, but his eyes strayed far too often to the man across the room. Yoo Joonghyuk’s face was all sharp lines and quiet intensity, his brows furrowed in concentration as he thumbed through a dictionary Kim Dokja had handed him earlier in the week.
It was absurd how someone could make reading look regal.
The silence between them was soft, interrupted only by the rustle of pages or the faint hum of Kim Dokja’s computer. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it was a silence that felt shared, like a bridge that had quietly formed between them. And yet, it left Kim Dokja unsettled in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. Yoo Joonghyuk broke the quiet that evening, holding up the dictionary. His long fingers—calloused but elegant—rested lightly on the edge of the page.
“What does this word mean?” He asked, his deep voice filling the room like it always belonged there.
Kim Dokja turned in his chair, stifling the little jolt in his chest that came from Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze settling on him. The knight’s eyes were dark and steady, so focused they made Kim Dokja feel as though he were the only person in the world. He stepped closer, leaning against the edge of his desk to peer at the page Yoo Joonghyuk was pointing to.
“‘Sarcasm,’ huh?” Kim Dokja said, smirking, “Oh, that’s an important one. It’s basically my second language.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression didn’t waver, but his gaze sharpened slightly. “Explain,” He demanded, as if sarcasm were some kind of strategy he could master for battle.
Kim Dokja folded his arms, amused, “It’s when you say the opposite of what you mean, usually to be funny or to make a point. Like if I said, ‘Wow, you’re so good at blending in,’ that would be sarcasm.”
For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. His lips pressed into a firm, contemplative line, the slightest crease forming between his brows. Then, finally, “I understand.”
“Do you?” Kim Dokja teased, leaning in slightly, his grin widening, “Because it doesn’t seem like—”
“I understand,” Yoo Joonghyuk interrupted, his voice firm, his tone brooking no argument. But there was something in his eyes—an almost imperceptible flicker, a hint of amusement that Kim Dokja was certain he wasn’t imagining.
The unexpected warmth in Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze caught Kim Dokja off guard.
He laughed, leaning back and shaking his head, “You’re impossible.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t reply, but his eyes lingered on Kim Dokja for a moment too long before he returned his attention to the dictionary. Kim Dokja’s chest tightened in response, and he quickly turned back to his computer, willing himself to focus. But the image of Yoo Joonghyuk’s dark eyes, so steady and unrelenting, lingered in his mind long after.
As the days continued to pass, Kim Dokja couldn’t ignore the growing shift in his feelings. It wasn’t just that Yoo Joonghyuk was captivating—though he undeniably was. It was the small, unspoken gestures that stirred something deeper in Kim Dokja, something he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine too closely. It was the way Yoo Joonghyuk always kept himself between Kim Dokja and the door, as if guarding against unseen threats. The way his gaze softened—just barely—when he saw Kim Dokja struggling with something, though he never said a word about it. The way his hands, so strong and unyielding, seemed almost reverent when they brushed against Kim Dokja’s own while passing him a cup of tea.
And then there was Yoo Joonghyuk’s beauty—a quiet, devastating sort of beauty that seemed almost otherworldly in its perfection. It wasn’t just his face, though that alone was enough to make Kim Dokja’s chest ache with something he didn’t want to name. It was the way Yoo Joonghyuk carried himself, as though every step, every movement, was a deliberate act of grace. It was the rare, fleeting moments when Yoo Joonghyuk let his guard down, revealing a vulnerability that felt like a secret meant only for Kim Dokja to see.
One evening, Kim Dokja found himself watching Yoo Joonghyuk more openly, his pretense of focus on the computer forgotten. Yoo Joonghyuk was reading again, his fingers tracing the edge of the page with an absentminded precision that made Kim Dokja’s heart stutter. The light from the desk lamp cast soft shadows across Yoo Joonghyuk’s face, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbone. His lashes, absurdly long, cast delicate shadows on his skin, and his lips—
Kim Dokja shook his head violently, forcing himself to look away. What the hell was wrong with him? This was Yoo Joonghyuk, the character he’d created. The stoic knight who had sworn his loyalty to him. He wasn’t supposed to feel… whatever this was.
But then Yoo Joonghyuk glanced up, catching Kim Dokja’s gaze. His eyes softened, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavy, charged. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The way he looked at Kim Dokja, so steady and unyielding, spoke volumes.
“Something wrong?” Yoo Joonghyuk asked quietly, his voice a low rumble that sent an involuntary shiver down Kim Dokja’s spine.
Kim Dokja’s mouth went dry.
“No,” He managed, turning back to his computer with what he hoped was nonchalance, “Just… thinking.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t press further, but Kim Dokja could feel his gaze lingering, warm and unwavering. It wasn’t until Yoo Joonghyuk returned to his book that Kim Dokja let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For the first time in years, Kim Dokja felt like he wasn’t alone. And that terrified him more than any monster from the game world ever could.
(Because the more time he spent with Yoo Joonghyuk, the harder it became to pretend that his heart wasn’t slowly, irrevocably shifting.)
As the days turned into weeks, Kim Dokja found himself growing increasingly aware of Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence in ways he couldn’t entirely explain—or, perhaps, didn’t want to. It wasn’t just that Yoo Joonghyuk was physically striking, though that was undeniable. The man looked as if he had stepped straight out of a dream, every line of his face carved with precision, every movement deliberate and graceful. His long, dark hair framed a face that could have been sculpted by the gods themselves, and his piercing eyes carried the weight of a world Kim Dokja couldn’t fully comprehend.
Yet it wasn’t Yoo Joonghyuk’s beauty alone that unsettled Kim Dokja.
It was the way he acted, so steadfast and unyielding in his devotion. The way he always placed himself between Kim Dokja and the door protectively, his body tense and ready, as though an army might come bursting through at any moment. The way he walked beside Kim Dokja, not as an equal, but as a silent protector, his gaze sweeping the streets for threats that didn’t exist. Even the simplest errands—picking up groceries, buying takeout—turned into charged affairs under Yoo Joonghyuk’s watchful eye.
Kim Dokja wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but the words always stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was the intensity of Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze or the strange warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever Yoo Joonghyuk said things like, It is my duty, or Your safety is my only concern.
One night, after another awkward day of navigating Yoo Joonghyuk’s overprotectiveness, Kim Dokja found himself lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Yoo Joonghyuk’s futon was meticulously arranged, the man himself sitting atop it in a posture so rigid it bordered on absurd. No matter how many times Kim Dokja insisted that Yoo Joonghyuk could sleep in a more comfortable spot—or even on the bed—Yoo Joonghyuk refused.
It would be improper, he had said the first time, his tone brooking no argument.
Improper. As if this entire situation wasn’t already the pinnacle of absurdity.
But tonight, Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence felt heavier than usual. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the television, its faint blue light dancing across Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. He wasn’t looking at Kim Dokja, but the flicker of his gaze toward him every so often did not go unnoticed.
“I do not understand this world,” Yoo Joonghyuk said suddenly, breaking the silence with the softness of his voice. His voice was low, steady, yet tinged with something Kim Dokja couldn’t quite place, “But I will protect you from it. That is my purpose.”
Kim Dokja turned his head, startled.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes were fixed on the far wall, but his expression was serious, almost solemn. The light from the television cast soft shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the strength in his profile. He looked impossibly noble, impossibly out of reach, and yet… here he was.
“You don’t have to—” Kim Dokja began, his voice awkward, but Yoo Joonghyuk cut him off.
“I do,” Yoo Joonghyuk declared simply, his tone carrying the weight of an oath, “You summoned me. My loyalty is to you.”
There was no hesitation, no doubt in his voice. The sheer conviction of it made Kim Dokja’s chest tighten in ways he didn’t entirely understand. He wanted to argue, to insist that he hadn’t summoned Yoo Joonghyuk, that whatever had brought him here was beyond both their control. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, Kim Dokja found himself staring at Yoo Joonghyuk’s face, the flickering light casting it in an almost otherworldly glow. His mind raced with questions he didn’t dare ask. Was this loyalty born of programming, a script he had unknowingly written? Or was it something more, something real? The thought made his heart ache in a way that felt dangerous, precarious—these were questions he was far too afraid to ask. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Then Yoo Joonghyuk turned his head, his dark eyes meeting Kim Dokja’s. There was something in his gaze—something unspoken, raw, and devastatingly earnest.
It felt like a question, one Kim Dokja didn’t know how to answer.
He looked away quickly, his cheeks warming under the intensity of that stare. He told himself it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Yoo Joonghyuk was just a character, a figment of his imagination brought to life through some inexplicable twist of fate. To think of him as anything else—as someone else—was ridiculous. And yet, when Yoo Joonghyuk spoke again, his voice softer this time, Kim Dokja’s heart betrayed him.
“You are all I have in this world,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly, as if confessing a secret, “That is enough for me.”
Kim Dokja didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
His heart was pounding too loudly, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts. Instead, he turned back to the ceiling, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his chest. He didn’t realize it then, but somewhere in that moment—between Yoo Joonghyuk’s unwavering gaze and the unshakable sincerity in his voice—Kim Dokja’s resolve began to crack.
Yoo Joonghyuk sat on the edge of the couch, his profile illuminated by the dim glow of the desk lamp. He was still dressed in the black tunic and leather armor that Kim Dokja had begged him to change out of hours ago, but the knight had refused with his usual stoicism. The faint smell of metal and something richer—earthy, clean—lingered in the air around him. His gaze was fixed on the teacup in his hands, and Kim Dokja swore he had never seen a cup held with such reverence, as if it might break under the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s unspoken thoughts.
The sight shouldn’t have made Kim Dokja’s heart stutter.
It wasn’t fair. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t even doing anything, just sitting there like some ridiculous painting come to life—strong lines of his jaw softened by the warm light, his raven-black hair falling just slightly into his eyes, his posture as regal as a king’s. And yet Kim Dokja’s chest tightened, a sensation he immediately tried to crush under logic. It wasn’t Yoo Joonghyuk’s fault that he looked like this. It wasn’t Kim Dokja’s fault that he had designed him to be the perfect protagonist.
(Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.)
“You’ve been staring for a while,” Yoo Joonghyuk said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.
Kim Dokja startled, his fingers twitching where they gripped the counter, “I wasn’t staring. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Yoo Joonghyuk lifted his head then, his dark eyes meeting Kim Dokja’s with the precision of an arrow finding its mark.
“Was I wrong?”
Kim Dokja’s face grew hot. He forced a scoff and pushed away from the counter, making his way into the living room with what he hoped looked like nonchalance. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze followed him, steady and unyielding, as if peeling back the layers Kim Dokja didn’t want him to see.
“Something on your mind?” Kim Dokja asked in lieu of answering, trying to sound casual as he sank into the armchair across from him.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tightened around the cup, the faintest tension in his jaw giving away the storm simmering beneath his surface.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, “I dreamt of a war.”
Kim Dokja’s heart gave a small, uneven jolt, “A war?”
Yoo Joonghyuk nodded, setting the cup down on the coffee table with an almost unnatural care. His hands hovered for a moment, clenched lightly, before he leaned back. Even then, his posture remained rigid, every muscle drawn taut like a bowstring.
“It was not like the battles in your… ‘game.’” He spat the last word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “It felt… real.”
“Real how?” Kim Dokja asked, and to his dismay, his voice came out quieter than he intended.
Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands.
“The screams. The smell of blood. The faces of the fallen… I knew them. They fought alongside me, trusted me.” His voice faltered for the briefest moment. Then his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, his grip tightening, “But I failed them.”
Kim Dokja swallowed hard. A chill slid down his spine, cold and insistent. None of this was familiar. Yoo Joonghyuk’s world—the world he had created—wasn’t supposed to have this depth. Yoo Joonghyuk was a lone warrior, a perfect killing machine designed to take down monsters and survive impossible odds.
There had been no war. No allies. No betrayal.
“I didn’t write that,” Kim Dokja said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze turned to him, sharp and probing, “Hm?”
Kim Dokja froze, “Never mind. Just—tell me more about this dream.”
For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk simply stared, his dark eyes cutting through Kim Dokja’s hastily constructed defenses. Then, to Kim Dokja’s relief and mild frustration, Yoo Joonghyuk relented.
“There was a betrayal,” He said, his tone clipped. “I do not know who, but someone I trusted turned their back on me. It is difficult to explain, but…” He trailed off, his brows drawing together as he stared at his hands again, “It felt like more than a dream.”
The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thinner. Kim Dokja forced himself to breathe evenly, though his chest was tight. If these memories weren’t from the game… then where had they come from?
“I see,” Kim Dokja murmured, his voice faint.
His gaze darted to his computer. It sat innocently on the desk, the screen glowing faintly in the darkened corner of the room. Over the past few days, there had been strange glitches—lines of code he didn’t recognize, flickers of images that disappeared before he could study them, though he had elected to ignore them for the time being, mind far too scrambled to even begin dissecting what it all meant.
He had dismissed them as bugs. But now...
The screen flickered, its soft glow stuttering like a heartbeat. Kim Dokja’s breath hitched. Yoo Joonghyuk was on his feet in an instant, his movements fluid and purposeful.
“What is that?” He asked, his voice sharp, his hand instinctively moving to his sword.
“It’s nothing,” Kim Dokja lied, stepping toward the desk.
His legs felt heavier than they should. The flickering stopped as he approached, the screen stabilizing as if mocking his unease. Yoo Joonghyuk followed, close enough that Kim Dokja could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“You’re hiding something,” Yoo Joonghyuk stated, his tone low and edged with suspicion. His presence was suffocating in its intensity, and yet Kim Dokja couldn’t bring himself to pull away.
“It’s just a game,” Kim Dokja said, but the words felt hollow even to him.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand settled on the back of the chair, his fingers brushing the fabric. His gaze burned into Kim Dokja, unwavering.
“If it is ‘just a game,’ then why do I remember things you did not create?”
Kim Dokja opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no answer. His heart was pounding, his mind racing with possibilities, each one more alarming than the last. The screen flickered again. This time, a shadow darted across it—fast, fleeting, and far too real. Kim Dokja froze once again.
“What was that?” Yoo Joonghyuk demanded, his hand tightening on his sword.
“I… I don’t know,” Kim Dokja admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression wavered. His brows drew together, his lips pressing into a grim line.
“If this world is connected to mine,” He stated quietly, “then we may not be alone here.”
Kim Dokja’s chest tightened further. He felt the boundaries of reality slipping, crumbling under the weight of something larger than himself. Yoo Joonghyuk stood at the center of it all, as steady and breathtaking as ever.
(Kim Dokja had never been more afraid.)
Yoo Joonghyuk’s protectiveness over Kim Dokja became more apparent with every passing day after that incident, and it wasn’t just in the obvious ways that left Kim Dokja scrambling for composure. Sure, Yoo Joonghyuk always insisted on walking beside him, his broad back a shield against the imagined threats of the modern world, his hand resting lightly on the side of his hip as though he could draw his at any second. And yes, his sharp, calculating eyes scanned every street corner as if the shadows themselves might leap out to attack them.
But it wasn’t just that. It was something quieter. Deeper.
Something that showed in the way Yoo Joonghyuk positioned himself, always slightly closer to Kim Dokja than necessary, or the way his gaze lingered on Kim Dokja just a second too long after ensuring his safety. There was a devotion in Yoo Joonghyuk’s every action that Kim Dokja could not explain away, no matter how much he tried. Once, an overly loud car roared past them on the street, its horn blaring as it narrowly missed a distracted pedestrian. Before Kim Dokja could even flinch, Yoo Joonghyuk had stepped in front of him, one arm outstretched protectively as if shielding Kim Dokja from an overzealous dragon.
“Yoo Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja sighed, exasperated, “You don’t have to act like I’m going to be ambushed by assassins every time I step outside.”
Yoo Joonghyuk turned his head, his expression as unreadable as ever, though there was something undeniably intense in his gaze that made Kim Dokja’s breath catch.
“You are the creator of my world,” He said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “It is my duty to ensure your safety.”
Kim Dokja opened his mouth to argue but found himself faltering under the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s words. There was no mockery in his tone, no room for debate. Just pure, unshakable conviction.
This guy is too much, Kim Dokja thought, turning away to hide the warmth creeping up his neck.
But even Kim Dokja’s growing awareness of Yoo Joonghyuk’s protectiveness couldn’t prepare him for what happened next.
The first time they encountered their rapidly changing reality, Kim Dokja had been walking home from the convenience store, Yoo Joonghyuk trailing a step behind him with that effortless grace that made him seem like he belonged in a royal court rather than among the city’s neon lights and grime-covered sidewalks.
“You really don’t need to carry my groceries,” Kim Dokja complained, glancing at the bag in Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand, which contained nothing more than a few instant ramen packets and a bag of chips, “It’s not like I’m hauling treasure out of a dungeon.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even blink.
“And yet, the burden is lighter in my hands,” He replied, his tone matter-of-fact. His gaze remained fixed ahead, scanning their surroundings as if he expected an ambush at any moment.
“You sound ridiculous,” Kim Dokja muttered, though his eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s long fingers curled around the plastic handles of the bag.
It shouldn’t have been so captivating.
He was about to launch into another complaint when something strange happened. The air around them shifted, shimmering like heat waves rising from asphalt, though the night was cool. A low, guttural growl echoed from the alleyway to their left. Kim Dokja froze instinctively, his phone almost completely slipping from his grip. A chill ran down his spine, his mind scrambling to rationalize what he’d just heard.
“What was that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s demeanor changed in an instant. He stepped in front of Kim Dokja, his posture rigid, his hand already gripping the hilt of his sword, the other cautiously handing over the bag into Kim Dokja’s mostly slack hand.
“Stay back,” He commanded, his voice low and firm.
Before Kim Dokja could protest, something emerged from the shadows. His breath caught in his throat. The creature’s sinewy body, its glowing red eyes, the sharp claws that clicked against the pavement—it was unmistakable.
A Shadow Wraith, Kim Dokja realized distantly, his knees threatening to give out beneath him, they’re not supposed to be real!
The creature let out a piercing snarl and lunged.
Yoo Joonghyuk moved before Kim Dokja could even process what was happening. His sword, gleaming even in the dim light, slashed through the air with practiced precision, intercepting the creature’s claws with a deafening clang. Sparks flew, and Yoo Joonghyuk shoved the monster back with a force that sent it skidding across the pavement.
“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk barked, not sparing him a glance, “Get behind me.”
Heart hammering, Kim Dokja obeyed, stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. He watched, breathless, as Yoo Joonghyuk advanced on the monster with deadly intent. The fight lasted mere seconds—Yoo Joonghyuk’s movements were a blur of lethal efficiency, his blade slicing through the Shadow Wraith’s neck in one clean motion. The creature dissolved into black smoke, its anguished wail fading into the night.
The silence that followed was deafening. Kim Dokja stared at the spot where the monster had been, his mind struggling to catch up.
“That… that was from the game,” He whispered, his voice trembling, “How is it here? Why is it—”
“Are you hurt?” Yoo Joonghyuk interrupted, his voice gentle but insistent.
Kim Dokja looked up, startled to find Yoo Joonghyuk standing much closer than he expected. His dark eyes were scanning Kim Dokja for injuries, his expression uncharacteristically soft. The faint sheen of sweat on Yoo Joonghyuk’s brow caught the light, and his disheveled hair fell just slightly into his eyes, giving him a wild, breathtaking appearance that made Kim Dokja’s heart lurch.
“I–I’m fine,” Kim Dokja stammered, though his voice betrayed him.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look convinced. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against Kim Dokja’s sleeve as if to reassure himself that Kim Dokja was still there.
“You’re trembling,” He noted, his brow furrowing.
“It’s just adrenaline,” Kim Dokja lied, though the real reason for his trembling was far more complicated. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Yoo Joonghyuk, from the way the moonlight seemed to frame his sharp features in a way that was almost otherworldly, from the thoughts plaguing him—that this was all Kim Dokja’s fault.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he stepped back, his expression unreadable once more, “We should return. It isn’t safe here.”
Kim Dokja nodded, though his legs felt like jelly.
As they walked back to the apartment, Yoo Joonghyuk stayed closer than ever, his presence a constant, steadying force that Kim Dokja couldn’t ignore. And later, as Kim Dokja lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling with a growing dread he could not rival, one thought refused to leave his mind:
How can he still look at me like that, after everything I’ve done?