7. Make-Up Sex with the Haughty Beauty Streamer BJ Seon-hwa

Staring blankly at the ceiling.

Every time he wakes up in bed, Ha Yeon-su's body floats into his mind. Up until now, sex with women has mostly felt good, but there was never one like her. At his age, he's even on the verge of wet dreams.

Still, he tries to forget. Since getting the app three months ago and blackmailing BJ after BJ, he's made two personal rules: After completing a mission, delete all compromising material on the BJ he slept with. Never meet any woman he's hooked up with again.

The evidence destruction is also part of the Hacking Tool's directives, but he judges it right himself. It makes things cleaner, no loose ends.

He's not some born sadist or congenital psycho, so deep down, the blackmail-and-fuck dynamic gnaws at him. Sure, he acts cool and casual on the outside during threats, but inside, his heart flutters like a bird's more often than not. He has no intention of romanticizing or laundering his thug behavior, but every time he pulls it off, a tiny prick of conscience stabs his chest like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a micrometer.

That's why he needs to wipe the slate clean once it's done—it lets him sleep soundly. Those two principles were born from that need.

Ha Yeon-su's mission is over, so no more Pilates academy. No point showing off anymore either.

"Hurry up and forget her... next bitch, come on, next mission."

Deciding to shelve the perfect yoga instructor, he stretches refreshingly. He kicks off the blankets ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to greet a lively morning.

Speak of the devil—as if his words bore fruit, it happens moments later. His phone buzzes on the desk, signaling an alert.

"Sweet, wonder which BJ I'll meet this time~ who is it~ yo!"

Humming like some old uncle, he taps the phone to check.

His face hardens like Buddha's stone in an instant.

BJ Seon-hwa. The name etched so deep in his brain. Just those two syllables make sweat bead on his forehead.

Terrifying and bewildering at once. A BJ he's already done getting picked again? Never happened before.

Duplicates aren't supposed to be possible, right? Sure, it's my own rule, but...'

Plus, he has no clue what "make-up sex" specifically means in the mission. His mind blanks.

The shackles of his long-held rules shatter easily, plunging him into panic.

For now, to recall events, he digs through memories of the target, BJ Seon-hwa.

He pulls up videos related to her on his phone. Not blackmail evidence—he auto-saves clips from hookups in the Hacking Tool's memory slot. Only he can view them, so no using for threats or showing off. (Per the Hacking Tool's explanation.)

Two clips tagged BJ Seon-hwa: One's him clumsily tangled on her body, pounding away while she glares murderously like Sauron monitoring the whole act. Neither enjoys it—too cringe, he skips.

Next is a short 15-second clip. A pretty woman with light platinum blonde hair, shot from smartphone POV.

"...Hey, what the fuck are you filming? Get that shit away?"

"Wait. Just authenticating real quick."

"You crazy creep, lost your mind? I'll drag your pervert ass to the cops—let's both die!"

"It's just a souvenir... Fine, I'll stop, so your arm..."

"Die! You bloodsucking flea!"

"Aaaah?!"

Screen drops to the floor, goes black. End clip.

Explanation: After sex, trying for sub-mission proof shot, but BJ Seon-hwa rebels and bites his phone-holding arm hard. Phone falls naturally. Bite mark's legendary—still faintly scars his forearm.

Sub-mission failed, obviously. Temper's no joke.

He'd cornered her with bait video of her cozying up to some guy for ad deals, but her inexperience meant the one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠holding leverage got steamrolled by her vibe. First tough nut, caught him off-guard. She nearly went to cops; he barely talked (?) her into sex to end it.

Relationship anything but smooth, naturally. Especially her, more than most he'd bedded. Hence the absurd "make-up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sex" order?

BJ Seon-hwa does beauty streams—pretty face, but thorny rose. No, thorns? Needles. No, awls.

Facing her again's daunting enough; sex on top, sweet-talk to reconcile? Like downing three raw pumpkins straight.

Clutching his phone, he paces the cramped apartment. Pinching his brow, racking his brain—no ideas to soften things with BJ Seon-hwa.

Honestly, scared to meet her.

...Just crash into it? Knock and it shall open. No answers in thought, gotta meet and grind it out.

Next day. Psyched up, subway to Seoul outskirts, arrives at her somewhat upscale villa. Address easy-trace via Hacking Tool; he's been once.

Ding-dong! Rings intercom, wets his parched throat.

Long wait, then low female voice.

"...Who the hell are you?"

Just audio makes his hairs stand. She checked the lens cam.

"Oh, hi. Been well?"

"Well? Wanna fold your carcass, smash your dick, and feed you to the fish?"

Foul mouth—probably loves Korean noir.

"Not here to die... Can we talk a bit?"

"Talk? Slice your neck with cake knife per word, then yeah."

"That's no good... Oh, cake? Birthday recent? Happy birthday~ Want a gift?"

"Your dick's plenty."

"...My dick?"

"Yeah, want it now—chop and verify on cam?"

No sentence sails smoothly. Ends up begging at the intercom.

"Please, really! Just a moment. Short talk and gone—c'mon, somehow...?"

Desperate as hell, groveling smile bared at cam.

"......(click)"

Tu... tu... Call cuts. Footsteps approach, door unlocks, swings wide aggressively.

Glam platinum blonde, voluminous princess curls from mid-length. Average height, upturned eyes giving haughty, intimidating vibe. Ivory dress clings at home. High-level beauty, but loaded with grudges—eyes hurling double-fucks real-time.

"Thanks... Mind if I come in—"

Bam! Hunched awkwardly entering, she kicks doorframe with slipper. One-leg bridge barricade.

"Where you crawling? Talk here, creep."

Affinity visible, max 100? Hers at -100. No gap in the blockade.

"...Good memory."

"Duh, asshole. Think I forgot?"

"Nah... Sorry, yeah."

"Sorry? Here to atone? Strip, wheelie like stray mutt—maybe forgive."

"...Too hard. Other way?"

"Bite tongue, suicide."

"Pass."

"Jump from villa roof."

"...Pass."

Self-inflicted, but turning hated heart's tough. Her pride's ironclad. Princess... queen vibe. That night probably life's stain, ultimate humiliation.

Fuck, knew this'd come, wouldn't have forced it.

"Can't turn back time, I know. But from now, can't we get along?"

"Wanna be friends? Cut your dick."

"Regretted to my bones since (lie). I'll atone forever, gimme one shot!"

"Or seppuku show? Fetch kitchen knife?"

High-pressure suicide pushes. All paths loop to death.

Bored of circles, she arms up, lists core.

"Really sorry, wouldn't drag without blackmail, show empty-handed. Some new reason to meet me? Spill why you showed."

Nails it point-by-point. Sherlock sharper. Frontal assault impossible. Wild card time.

"...Truth is."

"What."

Wets throat, gulps. "......Can't forget that fantasy body from then! One more time? Was clumsy, but now I'll rock it! Send you to Hong Kong proper—one shot!"

Bows waist-deep, pleading earnest. Some hentai where desperate begs get sex? That vibe.

His sole sagging skill's bedroom tech; only card vs. her.

Ridiculous, but no better weapon.

Result? Scrapes lotto slow-head-up. Nada. Blank stare down.

"Stay right there."

Ducks inside, returns with hockey stick. Horrific visual—backs away.

"Perfect."

"H-hey! Why hockey stick at home!?"

"Bought for security post-you. Spot-on use."

Pro swings—ancient Chinese general vibes. He bolts tail-between-legs.

Not just no thaw—plunged to worst.

After, home siege on impregnable BJ Seon-hwa fortress yields no paths. Week, two pass meaningless.

First urge to skip mission—no such function.

Reconcile. Then sex. Each Herculean; both? Wait lifetime.

Pushed blackmail, now reconciliation? What the fuck!

Irked, chucks phone, flops face-down on bed.

Stuck here pointless? Three-month heaven ends? Then—