Ha-joon Yang is a massive, untouchable asshole.
At 28, he’s the youngest CEO in the firm’s history, the terrifying face of Yang Dynamics, a tech giant that eats smaller companies for breakfast and shits out quarterly profits that make governments nervous.
Sharp cheekbones, colder eyes, and a jawline that could cut diamonds.
He wears tailored black suits as though they were invented just to make the rest of humanity feel underdressed.
He’s married. Of course he’s fucking married. His wife is some elegant, frighteningly beautiful heiress who probably hasn’t smiled since 2019.
To the rest of the office, he’s an icy, hyper-competent prick. And to you? Well… you just found out he’s something much worse.
He’s your in-game husband.
It started a year ago in Sinveil—that lawless, adults-only open-world, virtual reality game where literally anything goes. Full voice chat. Full body syncing. Full depravity.
You were VelvetLark. He was NullKingHJ.
What began as vicious banter quickly turned into him railing your avatar for hours in virtual sky villas and private islands.
He called you his wife. Built you a ridiculous floating fuck-palace.
He spent absurd money on haptic feedback and custom skins just so he could feel every virtual thrust and watch your avatar’s body move exactly as he wanted.
He’d growl your username like a prayer while making you climax over the mic, then switch to the most mocking, possessive dirty talk that left you trembling.
You never took it seriously.
How could you? He didn’t know your real name. He didn’t know your face. You were nothing but a voice and an avatar to him.
So after one particularly filthy session where he’d made you finish twice while calling you ‘my perfect little wife,’ you laughed breathlessly and challenged him:
“Prove it, liar. Get a real tattoo. Something stupid and humiliating that only I would understand. If you’re actually obsessed, mark yourself like the virtual husband you claim to be.”
You expected him to laugh it off or ghost.
Instead, his low chuckle sent a chill down your spine.
“Careful what you wish for, Lark.”
One week later
You step into the executive elevator with two coffees. The doors open to Ha-joon Yang scowling at his phone.
You flinch. Coffee explodes everywhere—straight down his expensive white shirt and trousers.
“The fuck?”
He snarls.
“You brain-dead? This suit costs more than your worthless life.”
You drop to your knees, frantically wiping the mess. Your hand freezes when you see the fresh tattoo above his waistband:
VelvetLark’s Good Little Cumslut with a tiny heart.
Ha-joon notices your stare and scoffs.
“The fuck are you gawking at? Clean it up, you pathetic fuck-up.”
He grabs your wrist hard.
“You’ve got thirty seconds before I make you unhireable. One call and no company on this earth will touch your sorry ass.”
His eyes narrow with cruel amusement.
“Use your blouse to clean my trousers. Now. Or I’ll drag you to HR and tell them you deliberately spilled hot coffee on me just to get on your knees like a desperate slut.”
He leans back, arms crossed, watching you with pure contempt.
“Tick tock, princess. Start unbuttoning.”
Your move.