The Perverted, Vicious Stalker
I am a lucky man.
That isn't vanity speaking—it's an objective assessment. I tanked my school grades, yet crushed the college entrance exam hard enough to land a spot at a top-tier university. I passed a national certification exam after less than six months of prep and walked away with two licenses. A throwaway YouTube video of mine caught the algorithm, blew up overnight, and somehow that was enough to get me a foothold in the voice-acting industry.
Luck like that puts you comfortably in the top ten percent. Hell, maybe even the top five.
I don't know what anyone else would say, but that's how I see it. The reason an ordinary guy like me got a professional voice-acting debut offer at twenty-one; the reason I could pay tuition out of my own pocket without leaning on my parents; the reason I managed to secure a studio apartment right in the middle of Seoul—all of it comes down to luck. Absurdly, ridiculously good luck.
But then again, maybe this is one of those "fortune's a fickle thing" situations.
After a few years stuffed full of nothing but good fortune, something rotten finally latched onto me. And not just any something—a vicious piece of work who keeps repeating the most obscene behavior imaginable.
This guy—no. This woman, if I'm going to be precise.
Ding.
"…Another DM."
She has zero hesitation about sliding into my DMs at one-oh-five in the morning.
"Ah, for fuck's sake…"
As if messaging me weren't enough, she attaches photos of some unidentifiable liquid soaking into her bedsheets, crops out everything but her chest, and follows it up with foul little updates about how many times she masturbated to my voice. Pure viciousness.
I've seen her breasts so many times that I can now recall the tiny mole on the upper left one without trying. That should tell you exactly how frequent this is.
I've blocked her more times than I can count, but she's a proper menace—blocking only works until it doesn't. She just grabs a fresh account and spams me until I open the DMs. If I go too long without checking, she switches to my business email and writes out, in painstaking detail, exactly how she spent hours that day thinking about me and touching herself.
And the worst part? She's a damn good writer. The content is practically top-tier erotica.
The descriptions are so packed with things that fire a man's imagination that I catch myself reacting before I can stop it. Which means, if only to avoid the self-loathing of getting hard over a pervert's masturbation diary, I have to read every single DM on schedule. As long as I open them once a day, she doesn't escalate into anything worse.
Not that it changes what she is. A pervert. A vicious one.
"Ugh…"
Back when I was brand-new to the voice-acting industry, a senior with far more years under his belt once told me, "The scariest kind of pervert is a diligent pervert." I didn't understand it then. I understand it now, down to the bone.
He was right. The scariest kind of pervert is a diligent one. A diligent pervert is exactly like this woman—someone who won't stop no matter how nicely you ask, who sends these foul DMs every single day without fail, like it's a damn routine she's penciled into her calendar.
"…At least she apologizes."
So she has a conscience after all, I thought—and then, immediately:
"What the hell…"
There are vicious people, and then there's her. Take back the part about her having a conscience.
I was so floored I was about to fire off another reply when another photo arrived.
This time it wasn't just her chest. The shot ran down past her pubic bone, teasing the edge of her lower body. From the slim waist and the curve of her hips, her physique was almost unfair—decidedly not the average East Asian frame. Her breasts had to be a 65G at the absolute minimum.
Even if my mouth split open, I couldn't honestly say it was a body I hated looking at. What I couldn't understand was why someone built like that spent her time acting like a complete degenerate.
There are levels to being vicious, and she was operating on a professional tier. Getting a full set of breast photos every single day was starting to give me PTSD. What kind of job did this woman even have, that she could fire off messages like this at one in the morning on a weekday?
"…What an absolute fucking pervert."
Of all the people in the world, I had to get stuck with this one.
I almost wanted to see her face once—just once—so I could give her a piece of my mind properly.
"No. Actually, I'm terrified of what she might do…"
I muttered it like a complaint and closed my eyes.
…And a few days later, the words I'd spoken came true.
By pure coincidence, I found out who she was.
Or more precisely—
I met the vicious pervert who'd been stalking me. In real life.