The Dream's Warnings.

The air in the opulent mansion hung heavy with the scent of lavender and old money, a stark contrast to the chilling terror that gripped Seongho's dreams. He lay sprawled in his king-sized bed, sheets tangled around his limbs, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the oppressive silence of the grand bedroom.

A cold sweat slicked his skin as the images of his nightmare replayed in his mind: masked figures, their faces obscured by shadows, their eyes gleaming with a cruel, predatory light. They had blindfolded him, the rough fabric pressing against his skin, a suffocating symbol of his helplessness. Then, the knife. A sharp, cold blade, driven slowly into his flesh, a searing pain that spread through his body, a torture that seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

He gasped, a guttural scream escaping his lips, a primal cry of terror that shattered the stillness of the mansion. The sound echoed through the grand halls, reverberating off the marble walls and the ornate chandeliers, a chilling testament to his fear.

Junseong, who had been sleeping beside him, was jolted awake. He saw Seongho, his face pale and contorted in fear, his body trembling uncontrollably. He reached out, his hand finding Seongho's shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring.

"Seongho," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the storm raging within Seongho's mind. "It's alright. It was just a dream."

But the sound of Seongho's scream had already reached the ears of the maids and servants, who rushed upstairs, their footsteps echoing through the hallway. They banged on the door, their voices a chorus of concern. "Mr. Seongho, are you alright? Is everything okay?"

Junseong, his own heart pounding in his chest, silenced them, his voice low and firm. "Go back to sleep. Everything is fine."

He knew that Seongho was shaken, and he needed to calm him down. He gently helped Seongho to sit up, handing him a glass of water. He watched as Seongho took a few sips, his breaths still ragged, his eyes wide with fear.

"Tell me about it," Junseong said, his voice a gentle murmur. "What happened in your dream?"

Seongho's voice trembled as he recounted the nightmare, his words painting a vivid picture of terror and pain. He described the masked figures, the sharp knife, the unbearable agony. Junseong listened intently, his expression unreadable, but his hand tightened around Seongho's shoulder, a gesture of comfort and reassurance.

"It was just a dream, Seongho," Junseong said, his voice calm and steady. "A bad dream. You have nothing to be afraid of."

But Seongho, his face pale and drawn, shook his head. "I don't know, Junseong," he whispered, his voice filled with a deep-seated unease. "I have a bad feeling about the Met Gala. I feel like something terrible is going to happen."

Junseong, despite his outward calm, was deeply troubled by Seongho's dream. He knew that Seongho was not prone to paranoia, and he sensed a genuine fear in his voice. He picked up his phone and called one of his trusted men, instructing him to add extra security for the Met Gala. He needed to ensure Seongho's safety, not out of love, but out of a primal need to protect him.

He returned to Seongho, his voice a soothing balm. "Everything will be alright," he whispered, his touch firm and reassuring. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way."

He held Seongho close, his body a shield against the darkness that threatened to engulf them. He knew that the Met Gala, a night of glittering facades and carefully constructed personas, was just a few hours away. But for Seongho, it was a night that promised a different kind of revelation, a night that could either bring him peace or plunge him into a nightmare he might never wake from.

The heavy oak door of Seongho's bedroom stood as a barrier between the hushed fear inside and the simmering gossip outside. The maids, their faces a mix of concern and morbid fascination, huddled together in the hallway, their whispers a hushed counterpoint to the silence that had settled over the mansion.

"Did you hear that scream?" one whispered, her eyes wide with alarm. "It sounded like something out of a horror story."

"Poor Mr. Seongho," another chimed in, her voice laced with sympathy. "He's always been so sensitive."

"When I eavesdropped,I heard he had a strange dream," a third maid added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Something about masked men and a knife."

"Oh, my goodness," a fourth maid gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That's terrifying! What could it mean?"

Their whispers mingled with the faint echoes of Seongho's muffled sobs, a chilling reminder of the fear that had gripped him. The maids, their curiosity piqued, exchanged furtive glances, their imaginations running wild with possibilities.

"Maybe it's a sign," one suggested, her voice hushed. "Maybe something bad is going to happen soon later."

"Don't be silly," another scoffed. "It's just a dream. Nothing more."

But even as she spoke, a shiver ran down her spine, a prickle of unease that she couldn't quite shake. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, the silence pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. The maids, their nerves on edge, exchanged nervous glances, their whispers dwindling to a hushed murmur.

They knew that they should leave, that they should respect the privacy of Mr. Seongho and Mr. Junseong. But something held them back, a morbid fascination that kept them glued to the spot, their ears straining to catch any sound from behind the closed door.

They cared about Seongho so much because of his kind, cheerful, outgoing personality. Before their boss got married to him,they were always stepping on eggshells, they knew he was a good, caring man but he always yelled at them for no reason and his temper was not a good sight to see him . When he was angry,he could fire all his employees in a blink of an eye but thanks to Seongho they don't even remember the last time Junseong shouted at them except for occasional glares or snickering.

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The silence in the bedroom was broken only by Seongho's soft, uneven breaths. He lay asleep, his face still pale, his brow furrowed in a silent replay of his nightmare. Junseong watched him for a long moment, his heart heavy with a mixture of concern and a chilling sense of foreboding. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that the dream was more than just a figment of Seongho's imagination.

He rose from the bed, his movements quiet and deliberate. He walked to the balcony, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the bedroom. He lit a cigarette, the familiar ritual a brief respite from the swirling thoughts in his mind.

He stared out at the moonlit cityscape, the twinkling lights of the city a distant, shimmering mirage. He tried to make sense of Seongho's dream, to decipher its meaning, but his mind drew a blank. The masked figures, the knife, the unbearable pain – they were all too vivid, too real, to be dismissed as mere fantasy.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the night air, a wisp of his own anxieties. He knew that he had to be vigilant, that he had to protect Seongho, no matter the cost. He had a responsibility to him, a primal need to keep him safe.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Taesung, his voice a low murmur as he recounted Seongho's dream. Taesung, his voice calm and reassuring, listened intently, offering words of comfort and advice. They chatted for a few minutes, their conversation a blend of concern and strategy.

Junseong hung up the phone, his mind still racing. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands. He had a sudden, unsettling memory. He remembered seeing Tae-joon's name on the guest list for the Met Gala. Tae-joon, his former best friend, the one who had been more like a brother, the one who had betrayed him and left him behind for a new life in Japan. The memory brought a wave of bitterness, a surge of anger that he had buried deep within himself.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes hardening. Tae-joon. The name was a festering wound, a reminder of a past he couldn't escape. He swore to himself that he would avoid him at the Met Gala, that he would not let Seongho know about his presence. He knew Seongho, knew his kind heart, knew that he would try to repair their broken friendship if he knew Tae-joon was there. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't risk Seongho's vulnerability, his naive trust.

He flicked the cigarette butt over the balcony railing, watching as it fell into the darkness below. The night was silent, but the air crackled with a sense of impending danger. He knew that the Met Gala was more than just a night of glamour and extravagance. It was a battlefield, a place where shadows lurked and secrets whispered. And he was determined to keep Seongho safe, even if it meant facing his own demons.