Taste of You (Eng Version)

Chapter 1 - TASTE OF YOU

(This story contains gore, sexual themes, sexual abuse and intense scenes, not recommended for people sensitive to these things)

=3
IMPORTANT⚠️
ALL COPYRIGHTS TO JOHAN (me btw), THE CREATOR OF THE STORY

Now then...

The rain was thin, persistent, the kind that seems to pierce the skin rather than just soak it. Jihoon walked quickly, backpack slung over one shoulder and jacket completely drenched. At that hour, the city was a wet desert: flickering streetlights, neon lights reflecting on the asphalt like colored scars, and the distant hum of a night train.

He always took the same route, skirting the oldest streets of Seoul, where old buildings stood with rusted signs. And in the middle of it all, a place that contrasted with the rest: "Fleischhaus," a luxury butcher shop that looked more like a boutique than a store. Jihoon had seen it dozens of times, always closed at those hours, always spotless behind its polished glass.

But that night, the light was on.

He stopped. The first thing he saw were the shadows: a tall figure moving inside, the flash of a knife under the white light, and the bright red of freshly cut meat. Jihoon didn't know why he stepped closer, pressing his forehead against the fogged glass. It was as if something invisible pushed him to look.

The man worked calmly, with a precision that didn't seem human. His movements were slow, almost ceremonial, like a musician tuning his instrument. The meat wasn't just meat in his hands: it was a work of art. Jihoon stayed hypnotized, unable to look away.

Then the man raised his head.

Blue eyes, intense and icy, caught him instantly. It was like looking into an ice mirror: brief but devastating contact. Jihoon felt the air thicken, his heart stop, and he stepped back.

The door opened. The metallic creak broke the silence of the street. The man stepped outside, imposing under the rain. He wore a white shirt rolled up to the elbows, stained here and there with fresh red. In his still-wet hands, a white cloth absorbing those marks as if it was used to it.

—Curious at this hour? —he asked in a deep tone, with a foreign accent dragging the syllables. German, Jihoon guessed.

—I... I'm sorry. —He bowed automatically, awkwardly. His cheeks burned despite the cold.

The man watched him calmly. There was no anger in his eyes, only a dangerous interest.
—You're not bothering me. —He stepped closer, and Jihoon stepped back without noticing. That calm smile disarmed him. —Few dare to look at what they prefer to ignore.

The air smelled like iron and expensive perfume. A dizzying mix. The man extended his hand.

—Rony.

Jihoon hesitated. That hand was big, firm, with marked veins and a strange warmth, too intense for a rainy night. Finally, he shook it. A shiver ran up his arm, as if there was something more in that gesture than just an introduction.

—Jihoon —he whispered, almost like a secret.

Rony's smile widened slightly.
—A delicate name.

Silence wrapped around them. Only the rain hitting the asphalt. Jihoon wanted to move away, keep walking, forget that gaze, but his feet didn't respond. There was something magnetic about him, a dark gravity that kept him trapped.

—You should take shelter —Rony said at last—. Rain makes people sick.

—And you... why do you work so late? —The question slipped out before he could bite his tongue.

The blue eyes shone with something he couldn't decipher.
—Some passions don't follow schedules.

The way he said it made his skin crawl. It wasn't the answer of a normal butcher. It was the confession of a man who turned his obsession into art.

Rony stepped back and pointed to the butcher shop.
—Do you want to come in? It's warmer inside.

Jihoon hesitated. Every rational part of his brain screamed to walk away, keep going, forget that gaze. But his lips said the opposite.
—Just a moment.

The inside was different from what he expected. There was no chaos or disorder. Everything was perfectly clean, with steel surfaces shining like mirrors. Cuts of meat hung in glass displays, red and shiny under white light. But it wasn't the place that chilled his blood — it was the way Rony looked at him.

—Are you a student? —he asked while moving behind the counter, calmly cleaning a long knife.

—Yes... —Jihoon cleared his throat—. Architecture.

—Interesting. —The knife's edge reflected his face for a moment. That perfect face, with hard and symmetrical features, impossible to forget. And yet, Jihoon remembered something he had read in the news: a European serial killer, never caught, whose face no one knew.

A chill ran down his spine.

Rony placed the knife softly on the table and intertwined his fingers.
—I like your curiosity, Jihoon. It's dangerous... but necessary.

The way he pronounced his name was intimate, almost like a touch on the skin. Jihoon felt a strange warmth in his chest. It wasn't fear. Or not only fear. It was... attraction. A forbidden attraction, like getting too close to the edge of a blade.

—I... should go —he said, stepping back.

Rony didn't stop him. He just watched him, with that unsettling calm, like a hunter who knows his prey will return on its own.
—Of course. But remember, Jihoon... —his voice was a deep whisper—, what you saw here you won't be able to forget. And neither will you forget me.

Jihoon stepped back into the rain, heart racing. He walked fast, but at every corner he thought he could hear his footsteps following him, his gaze on the back of his neck. When he finally reached his apartment and closed the door, he leaned against it, soaked and trembling.

He had met a stranger. A dangerous man.
A man he shouldn't see again.

But deep in his chest, something was already decided:
he wanted to see him again.