Nightmare
"Stop… please stop… let me go…" she whimpered, her voice trembling through broken sobs. Dirt clung to her cheeks, smeared with blood, pain etched into every feature of her face.
It was late evening. The air was heavy, the light dimming into shadows. Her vision blurred—whether from tears, trauma, or both, she couldn't tell. The figures surrounding her were faceless monsters, their laughter cruel,
Then—
She blinked.
Through the haze, a face emerged.
A face that haunted her every sleep, cursed her every dream.The source of her nightmares—the one she could never forget.
6:00 a.m.
Y/N's phone buzzed angrily on her nightstand, the screen lighting up the still-dark room. Half-asleep, she groaned and fumbled for it, answering without checking the name.
"Hello?" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
A sharp, overly cheerful voice replied on the other end.
"Y/N, it's your first day. You need to wake Rabin and make sure he gets ready on time. I've already sent you his schedule."
Before Y/N could even respond, the call ended.
She stared at the screen, blinking.
"…Wake him up?" she repeated to no one, her brain still rebooting.
Her eyes shifted to the time again.
6:02 a.m.
She flopped back on the pillow and groaned.
"Great. Day one and I'm already the devil's alarm clock."
She washed up quickly, scrubbing away the cold sweat and the phantom pain. Her eyes still looked haunted in the mirror—but she forced herself to look away.
By 7:50 AM, she was already standing in front of a sleek building in the heart of the city.
Rabin Angeles' apartment.
The place looked exactly how she imagined a global icon would live—high-end, cold, and way too quiet.
Even stranger was how casually his agent had handed her his door passcode. Like it was nothing.
Clutching her bag a little tighter, she stared at the keypad outside his door.
"Why the hell am I even here?" she muttered, but her fingers were already punching in the numbers.
Beep.
Door unlocked.
And just like that, she stepped into the lion's den.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
She stepped inside cautiously, the door clicking shut behind her with an ominous finality.
The apartment was neat—too neat. Pristine, polished, almost soulless. Like a model unit in a luxury catalog, not a place someone actually lived in.
Her eyes scanned the space.
A couch sat perfectly in place, untouched, like no one had ever dared to sit on it. Just another prop in Rabin Angeles' carefully curated world.
No clutter. No personal items. No sign of life.
Just silence and the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.
She stood there for a moment, her fingers still wrapped around the strap of her bag. Something about the place made her skin crawl—not because it was messy, but because it was too perfect. Like everything had been designed to hide something.
She moved further inside, her footsteps muffled by the soft carpet.
Then—
"Hello… I'm here… Rabin?" she called out, her voice hesitant, almost swallowed by the stillness of the apartment.
No answer.
Only silence.
She glanced down the hall. One door… two… all closed.
She moved quietly, checking one after another—guest room, bathroom, an office that looked more like a showroom.
Then she reached the last door.
Her fingers hovered over the handle. With a soft exhale, she slowly creaked it open.
The room was dim, the blackout curtains keeping the morning light at bay.
And there he was.
Rabin Angeles.
The so-called "Global Icon."
Drowning in sleep like a child, half-buried under silk sheets, one leg awkwardly hanging off the side of the bed. His tousled hair fell over his face, lips slightly parted, breathing steady.
She blinked, stunned.
This was him?
The guy whose reputation kept managers on edge, whose fans called him a genius, a heartthrob, a legend in the making?
Right now, he just looked… normal. A little too normal.
Maybe even a bit pathetic.
She scoffed under her breath.
"Wow. World star, huh?"
"Another sarcasm?"
The voice was low, husky—half-awake but unmistakably sharp.
She flinched, startled for the second time.
He hadn't even opened his eyes.
Yet somehow, he was already playing games.
"Why are you here?" he murmured, still buried in the pillows. "Are you… peeping at me sleeping?"
She blinked in disbelief, her jaw tightening.
Seriously?
"I just got here," she snapped, crossing her arms. "Your agent gave me the code. I knocked. I called. You didn't answer. Forgive me for assuming you weren't busy being a drama queen in REM sleep."
He chuckled softly, the smirk audible even without seeing his face.
"Mm… Feisty," he mumbled. "They told me I was getting an assistant, not a brat."
"They told me I was getting a job, not a man-child."
That made him crack an eye open—just one.
Rabin looked at her lazily, amused. "Touché."
She rolled her eyes and walked straight to the window, grabbing the curtain without hesitation.
Fwoosh.
Blinding daylight spilled into the room.
Rabin groaned dramatically, dragging the blanket over his head like a vampire dodging the sun.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"Tempting," she muttered. "But no. You have an interview at 11. Hair and makeup's at 9. You also need to choose your outfit before then."
She turned back to him, arms crossed.
He peeked out from under the blanket with one eye, squinting at her like she was some kind of invasive species.
"You're really committed to this assistant role, huh?"
"I'm committed to not getting fired," she said flatly. "Unlike some people who seem committed to being late and annoying."
He let out a lazy laugh. "You talk too much."
"And you sleep too much."
He stared at her for a beat, then—without warning—threw the blanket off and sat up, hair wild, eyes heavy-lidded but striking.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's get it over with."
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean… you're actually listening to me?"
He smirked.
"No. But I'm curious how long you'll last."
As he stood and stretched—shirt slipping slightly off his shoulder—he tossed a casual glance her way.
"Oh, by the way…" he said, running a hand through his messy hair, "I don't like breakfast. Just give me a protein bar. The vanilla almond one—not the chocolate."
She blinked. "Noted."
"And make sure to fill my off-white sipper with warm water. Not hot. Warm." He emphasized it like it was a sacred ritual. "Exactly 1200ml. Room temp water mixed with boiled. No ice."
She stared at him, deadpan. "Anything else, your highness? Want me to fluff your pillow too?"
He smirked while heading toward the bathroom. "Nah. I'm not that spoiled. Yet."
The bathroom door closed behind him with a soft click.
She stood there, arms still crossed, muttering to herself.
"Not even 9 AM and I already want to shove that protein bar where the sun doesn't shine."
But she sighed, pulled out her notes app, and started typing.
Task 1: Protein bar
Task 2: Off-white stanley sipper – warm water
Task 3: Try not to commit a felony.
By 8:40 AM, she was waiting at the couch—Rabin's protein bar in hand, and his off-white sipper tucked neatly in the side of her tote. Warm water? Check.
She kept glancing at the time, frowning.
9 AM. Hair and makeup.
They were going to be late.
Just then, Rabin strolled out casually, sunglasses on, dressed in black slacks and a loose beige shirt like he'd just walked out of a magazine shoot. His hair was half-styled—messy in that perfectly intentional way.
And of course, no apology.
"Finally," she muttered under her breath, standing up and brushing invisible dust off her jeans. She adjusted her bag and was just about to make her way toward the door
When a figure suddenly stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
Rabin.
He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable behind his dark sunglasses.
"Hey," he said casually. "You have a driver's license?"
She blinked. "Yes. Why?"
Without a word, he tossed his car keys at her. She barely caught them in time.
"Then drive," he said lazily, already turning his back and strolling toward the garage like it was no big deal.
She stared down at the keys in her hand, then back at him, speechless.
"You're seriously letting me drive your car?" she called out.
"Don't crash it," he replied over his shoulder. "It's imported."
Her eye twitched.
Was this a test? A trap? Or just Rabin being Rabin?
Either way, she followed him, muttering under her breath, "If I didn't need this job, I'd absolutely drive this into a pole."
Still, a small smirk crept onto her face.
Maybe today wouldn't be that unbearable.
When they arrived at the basement parking, she was expecting a regular SUV. Maybe something black and expensive, sure—but still basic celebrity material.
But what was waiting in the space wasn't basic. Not even close.
Her jaw dropped.
"A Porsche GT3 RS?!" she blurted, nearly tripping over her own feet. "You want me to drive that?!"
The sleek, matte-gray beast sat there like a growling panther. Aggressive curves, crimson brake calipers, and a spoiler that screamed, this car is faster than your emotional stability.
Rabin walked past her with the confidence of someone who did this every day.
"You said you had a license," he said over his shoulder.
"Yeah, for driving a normal car! This thing looks like it costs more than my life!"
He tossed his duffel bag into the passenger side and opened the driver's door for her.
She hesitated.
"What if I scratch it?"
"Then you'll owe me four lifetimes of assistant work," he said with a deadpan tone… but the corner of his lips twitched.
"Not funny."
"Then don't crash it," he replied simply.
With a deep, dramatic inhale, she slid into the driver's seat.
The leather hugged her. The engine purred even before ignition.
This was either going to be the best flex of her life—or the beginning of a very public scandal.
"Okay," she mumbled, gripping the wheel. "Dear universe, please don't let me kill us both."
To her own surprise, she drove smoothly.
No sharp turns. No sudden brakes. No engine-revving disasters.
Just a steady, calm ride through the city while a literal global icon sat in the passenger seat—head tilted back, sunglasses still on, already halfway asleep.
Seriously? she thought, glancing at him briefly. He could fall asleep anywhere, like a spoiled cat in a designer bed.
She focused on the road, knuckles tightening slightly around the steering wheel every time a motorcycle cut too close.
But she did it.
She pulled into the studio's private parking area with a soft brake, easing the Porsche into a slot like a pro.
She turned off the engine and finally exhaled.
He stirred beside her, groaning slightly. "We there?"
She didn't answer. She just looked at him and raised one brow.
"Still alive, aren't we?"
Rabin cracked an eye open, stretched his arms with a yawn, and mumbled, "Not bad, rookie."
"You slept," she said, getting out of the car. "You don't get to rate me."
He smirked as he grabbed his bag. "Still counts if I didn't wake up screaming."
She rolled her eyes and started walking toward the studio entrance.
"It's 9:20 a.m. — twenty minutes late. I hate it when people are late, and now I'm part of it… all because of this devil," she thought, frustration simmering under her breath.
When she entered the green room, he was already seated calmly in the vanity chair, facing the mirror with his eyes closed. A makeup artist stood beside him, gently dabbing foundation across his jawline, as if he hadn't just thrown her morning into chaos.
She walked past him without a word, the soft thud of her sneakers barely echoing against the floor. Sliding onto the couch in the corner of the room, she pulled the iPad from her bag. The screen lit up, casting a faint glow on her face as his packed schedule unfolded — a tight maze of events, interviews, and appearances… and now she was caught in the middle of it.
"Okay… let's just get through today," she thought, jaw tightening as her fingers moved across the screen.
By the time the clock hit 10:00 a.m., the door swung open and the stylist walked in, arms full with a rack of carefully curated outfits trailing behind.
Rabin finally opened his eyes, turned slightly in the vanity chair, and said lazily,
"Make me comfortable."
The stylist offered a short laugh, already thumbing through the hangers.
"Let's see… I think we've got enough to turn comfort into luxury."
From the couch, she glanced up briefly, then back at the iPad. She wasn't here to admire fashion. She was here for cracks in his image.
Rabin's eyes lazily scanned the room, lingering on the racks of clothes and the makeup artist bustling nearby. Then, his gaze landed on her — sitting quietly on the couch, eyes glued to the iPad, completely indifferent to his presence.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. She didn't even glance his way. Not a flicker of interest.
For a moment, the room felt colder, charged with an unspoken challenge.
"Hey!!" he called out sharply.
She didn't look up.
"Yah? Didn't you hear me?" His voice rose, breaking the quiet tension.
Finally, she lifted her gaze slowly.
"Me?"
"Yes, you," he said, his tone sharp.
She smirked, unfazed.
"But my name's not 'hey' or 'yeah.'"
He stood up, shadows deepening his expression.
"I want us to be alone."
The makeup artist and stylist exchanged a quick glance, then quietly stepped out, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
He started, "Yah, you…" but then stopped, caught off guard.
Her eyes glinted as she took a step closer.
"My name… oh, I guess I never told you."
She smiled, voice low and deliberate.
"Hello, Devil. I'm Y/N Ramirez."