The Ghost of a Masterpiece

The studio was usually a sanctuary of controlled chaos, but today it felt like the site of a cold-blooded murder.

Hongjoong stood in the center of his private office, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The door was swung wide, the lock splintered where someone had forced their way in. On his desk—the mahogany surface he treated with more reverence than an altar—lay the remains of his life’s work.

It was his sketchbook. Not the one he used for daily commissions or the rough drafts he tossed to the production team, but *the* sketchbook. The leather-bound tome that had traveled with him from the cramped dorms of Antwerp to the high-rise ateliers of Seoul. It contained every iteration of the 'Vandal' collection, every secret anatomical study of Seonghwa he’d drawn from memory, and the foundational blueprints for the next five years of *No1Likeme*.

It had been shredded.

The heavy, high-gsm paper was torn into jagged confetti. Some pages had been doused in black ink, obscuring the delicate pencil work until it looked like a Rorschach test of malice. Others were simply ripped out and crumpled, the spine snapped with enough force to suggest a personal, visceral hatred.

Hongjoong didn’t scream. He didn’t throw things. He simply collapsed into his chair, his legs giving out as if the tendons had been cut. His hands, usually so steady when holding a needle or a charcoal stick, were shaking so violently he had to tuck them under his thighs to keep from hitting the desk.

"Hongjoong? The car for the gala is—"

Yeosang stopped dead in the doorway. He didn't need to ask what happened. He saw the ink-stained ruins, the broken spine of the book, and the way Hongjoong looked—small, hunched, and utterly hollow.

"Oh, god," Yeosang whispered, rushing forward. He dropped his tablet on the floor, ignoring the crack of the screen. "Hongjoong, don't look at it. Look at me."

Hongjoong didn’t look up. A single tear, hot and heavy, tracked a path through the light dusting of setting powder on his cheek. Then another. He looked like a porcelain doll that had finally developed a crack.

"Years," Hongjoong whispered, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. "Yeosang, those were the winter patterns. The veil... the one I told Seonghwa about... it was in there. I hadn't digitized it yet. I wanted it to stay... private."

Yeosang reached out, hovering his hand over Hongjoong’s shoulder, hesitant to touch him when he was this fragile. "We’ll find who did this. There are cameras in the hall, I’ll call security, I’ll call the police—"

"It doesn't matter," Hongjoong choked out, a sob finally breaking through his chest. He doubled over, burying his face in his arms, right next to the ruins of his genius. "It’s gone. It’s all gone. I can’t... I can’t remember the curve of the lace. I can’t recreate the tension of the seams. It was a moment, Yeosang. It was a moment and someone killed it."

The sound that followed was one Yeosang would never forget: the raw, uninhibited weeping of a man who had built his entire identity on perfection, only to find himself surrounded by trash. Hongjoong’s shoulders shook with the force of his grief. He looked less like a world-famous designer and more like a lost child.

The heavy thud of boots echoed in the hallway. A moment later, Seonghwa appeared, dressed in a sharp, blood-red suit for the evening's event. He looked magnificent, a striking contrast to the devastation in the room.

"Yeosang, why isn't he downstairs? The press is already—" Seonghwa cut himself off, his feline eyes sweeping the room. He saw the mess. He saw the ink. Then he saw Hongjoong.

Seonghwa didn't ask for permission. He moved with a predatory speed, crossing the room and physically hauling Yeosang back by the arm to make space.

"Get out," Seonghwa commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"But he's—"

"Get the security footage and lock the building," Seonghwa snapped, not taking his eyes off the broken man in the chair. "Now, Yeosang."

Yeosang nodded, his face pale, and vanished, closing the door behind him.

The silence that followed was filled only by the sound of Hongjoong’s ragged breathing. Seonghwa didn't say a word. He walked around the desk, stepped over a stray piece of torn paper, and knelt on the floor between Hongjoong’s knees.

"Hongjoong," Seonghwa said softly.

Hongjoong flinched, trying to turn his head away. "Don't. Don't look at me. Go to the gala. Tell them I'm sick. Tell them I'm dead. I don't care."

Seonghwa reached up, his large, warm hands framing Hongjoong’s face. He forced the designer to look at him. Hongjoong’s eyes were bloodshot, his lashes clumped together with tears, and his nose was a bright, humiliating red. He looked "bitchy" no longer; he looked destroyed.

"I’m not going anywhere," Seonghwa said. He used his thumbs to wipe away the fresh tears, his touch incredibly light. "Look at me, Joong. Just me."

"They ruined it," Hongjoong sobbed, his composure finally failing entirely. He grabbed the lapels of Seonghwa’s expensive suit, wrinkling the fabric, but Seonghwa didn't blink. "Everything I wanted to show you. Everything I felt about the brand... it was in that book. I'm nothing without my ideas, Seonghwa. I'm just a short, rude man in a loud coat."

"You are so much more than a book," Seonghwa countered, his voice firm, like an anchor in a storm. "You think your talent lives in the paper? You think the genius that made me look like a god in a warehouse lives in a few sketches?"

"You don't understand," Hongjoong wailed, his head dropping onto Seonghwa’s shoulder. "I can't just do it again. It took years. It was my soul."

Seonghwa wrapped his arms around Hongjoong, pulling him out of the chair and down onto the floor with him. He held him tightly, letting Hongjoong cry into the crook of his neck, ignoring the way the tears dampened his designer shirt. He rocked him gently, the way one might soothe a wounded animal.

"Let it out," Seonghwa whispered into his hair. "Cry until there’s nothing left. I’m holding you. I’ve got you."

For a long time, there was only the sound of grief. Hongjoong clung to Seonghwa as if he were the only solid thing left in a world that had turned to ink and ash. He felt small, yes, but for the first time, the height difference didn't feel like a disadvantage. It felt like protection. Seonghwa’s body was a shield, blocking out the sight of the ruined desk.

Slowly, the sobs turned to hiccups, and the hiccups turned to a heavy, exhausted silence. Hongjoong stayed tucked against Seonghwa’s chest, his eyes closed. The scent of Seonghwa’s expensive cologne—something with notes of sandalwood and bergamot—began to settle his frayed nerves.

"Better?" Seonghwa asked after a while, his hand tracing slow circles on Hongjoong’s back.

"No," Hongjoong mumbled against his skin. "But I think I've run out of moisture."

Seonghwa let out a soft, breathy laugh. He pulled back just enough to look at Hongjoong’s face. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of dark hair away from Hongjoong’s forehead.

"You're a mess," Seonghwa noted, though his eyes were full of an incredible, aching tenderness.

"I know," Hongjoong whispered. He looked at the desk, his heart twinging again, but the sharp, stabbing pain had dulled to a heavy ache. "I have to start over, don't I?"

"No," Seonghwa said, standing up and pulling Hongjoong with him. He kept a firm grip on Hongjoong’s waist, making sure he was steady on his feet. "We are going to go to my apartment. You are going to take a bath, and you are going to sleep for twelve hours. And tomorrow, we are going to buy the most expensive sketchbook in the city."

"I can't go to your place," Hongjoong protested weakly, even as he leaned into Seonghwa’s side. "I have work. I have to see what can be salvaged."

"Nothing is being salvaged tonight," Seonghwa said, his 'model' persona returning in the form of an unshakable authority. "Yeosang is handling the logistics. The studio is a crime scene. You are a victim of a very jealous, very pathetic person who thought they could kill your spirit by tearing up some paper."

Seonghwa turned Hongjoong around so they were both facing the desk. He pointed at the ruins.

"Look at that, Hongjoong. Someone was so afraid of what you were going to create next that they felt they had to destroy it before the world saw it. That isn't a failure. That is a confession. They are terrified of you."

Hongjoong blinked, his mind processing the words. He looked at the shredded sketches. He saw the 'Vandal' coat, torn in half. He saw the ink stains. For the first time, he didn't see his own loss; he saw the desperation of his enemy.

"They should be terrified," Hongjoong said, his voice regaining a tiny, sharp edge of its usual bite.

Seonghwa smiled, a slow, beautiful curve of his lips. "There he is. There's my director."

Seonghwa reached down and picked up a single piece of paper that had escaped the worst of the ink. It was a rough gesture drawing of a silhouette—a tall man in a flowing, ethereal veil. It was the piece Hongjoong had been most proud of.

"Is this the veil?" Seonghwa asked.

Hongjoong nodded, fresh tears stinging his eyes. "It was supposed to be the finale."

Seonghwa folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his breast pocket, right over his heart. "Then we'll make it. I remember how you described it. I remember the way you looked when you talked about the way the light should hit the mesh. We’ll build it from that memory. I’ll be your canvas again, Joong. As many times as you need."

Hongjoong looked up at him. The height difference was still there. Seonghwa was still a mountain. But Hongjoong realized he didn't want to climb the mountain anymore; he wanted to stand on top of it and see the world.

"You're going to be so expensive to retain for this much extra work," Hongjoong joked, his voice trembling slightly.

Seonghwa laughed and leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Hongjoong’s forehead. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but one of a deep, soul-level promise.

"I’m priceless, Kim Hongjoong," Seonghwa whispered. "But for you? I might consider a trade-in."

"For what?"

"For the man who drew that veil," Seonghwa said. "I want to see what else is inside that head of yours. And I’m not letting anyone—including you—destroy it."

Seonghwa led him toward the door, his arm draped protectively around Hongjoong’s shoulders. As they passed the desk, Hongjoong didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the man beside him, the one who had seen him at his absolute weakest and hadn't turned away.

The sketchbook was gone. The years of work were a pile of trash. But as Hongjoong stepped out into the cool night air with Seonghwa, he realized that the person who had destroyed the book had made a fatal mistake.

They had left the architect alive. And the architect was now very, very angry.

"Seonghwa?" Hongjoong said as they reached the car.

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow, I want red silk. The darkest red you’ve ever seen. Like blood."

Seonghwa opened the car door for him, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes. "I think I can arrange that. What are we making?"

Hongjoong slid into the seat, his jaw setting in a line of pure, unadulterated steel. "A funeral shroud for whoever touched my desk. And a crown for the man who helped me stand back up."

Seonghwa closed the door, a smile playing on his lips. The world thought they had seen the best of *No1Likeme*. They had no idea that the destruction of the past was simply making room for a much more dangerous future.

As the car pulled away, Hongjoong leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, he was heartbroken, and he was still a little bit of a bitch. But he wasn't alone. And for a man who had spent his whole life trying to be the only one like himself, having a partner felt like the most avant-garde thing he had ever done.