Triggering You | Moon Baek [Trigger] x Reader

Bullets N Roses

You were never meant to be ordinary.

The first time you stepped into Seoul's fever bright spotlight, the city swallowed you whole. Cameras clicked like insects in the dark, hungry, relentless, and you—draped in silk, sculpted by light, offered them the face they demanded. A foreign girl made myth, eyes rimmed in kohl and lips painted like the promise of sin. They said you were too beautiful to belong to just one place, too luminous to be confined to one stage.

You believed them, once.

Back then, your name was stitched into billboards and whispered into champagne flutes at rooftop parties. The fashion houses called you their muse, directors called you their dream. Strangers called you theirs. But beauty is not devotion. Beauty is a mirror, and you learned too late that a mirror can cut.

The first stalker arrived as they all do; unseen at first, then everywhere. Whispers of an affair that never existed crawled like ivy across forums and newsfeeds. A rumour birthed from obsession, sharpened by envy, carried by mouths too eager to taste scandal. You denied it, of course. You fought with dignity. But dignity is not marketable, and contracts are fragile things when tarnished by suspicion. So you disappeared.

No more runways. No more scripts. No more you—the woman they claimed to know. Just headlines, cold and cruel: Fallen Starlet, Model in Disgrace, The Beauty Who Burned Too Bright.

But you are not a woman who stays broken.

You returned not as a goddess painted in designer hues, but as a voice. A news reporter and journalist, for the most famous news channel in South Korea. A woman with questions sharper than any lens. The public—fickle, forgiving in their own way, welcomed you back. They trusted you not to seduce them with illusion, but to hold their gaze steady when the world bled truth.

On screen, you found a strange kind of redemption. Your voice, calm, sonorous, persuasive, became a balm to the restless nights of the nation. They forgot the scandals. They forgot the rumours. They forgot that you had once been a body to be claimed. Now you were a presence. An anchor.

Still, the price of being seen has not changed.

Every broadcast, is a return to the stage. Every smile, a performance. Every headline you read aloud, another chance for someone—somewhere—to fall a little too deeply in love with the idea of you.

And somewhere, in the dark veins of the city, a man has already decided you belong to him.

But you don't know his name yet. Not the one whispered in alleyways. Not the one burned into police files. Not the one that will lace itself around your throat like a silk ribbon pulled tight.

~~~

The night fold itself around you, thin and fragile. From your window, Seoul hums in neon, a city that never learned how to sleep. Park Min-Ji sprawls on your couch, shoes kicked off, laughing at something on her phone. She's the kind of friend who turns silence into warmth, who reminds you that you're more than the screen version of yourself.

"Another long day," she sighs, tossing a pillow at you. "You're lucky, you know. You talk for ten minutes and people treat you like you delivered them salvation."

You smile faintly, setting down your teacup. "And yet here I am, still broke compared to my modelling days."

"Please, you're better off. Models get stalkers. Reporters get..." she pauses, a wicked grin spreading, "mob husbands."