lost-in-thoughts03

[lost-in-thoughts03]

wRoNg || HWANG IN-HO

" Take what I'm willing to give and love it or hate it."

Summary: A surprise visitor showed up at your house. Mr. Hwang In-ho is your father's best friend, whom you have known since you were a child. However, as you grow older, you see him as more than just an acquaintance. You made an effort to hide your forbidden attraction to him, but fate is putting your ability to conceal it to the test.

How long will you continue to hide, or will you simply give in to the taste of forbidden temptation?

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, HEAVY SMUT, AU, DBF! Hwang In-ho, explicit content, mature language, possessive behavior, obsession, taboo, forbidden attraction, erotic, jealousy, mutual pining, thick tension, first time, markings, kissing, passionate, deep, slow, ownership, dirty talk, nicknames, riding, cockwarming, PiV, unprotected, breeding kink, oral (f receiving), dry humping, older man x younger woman (Late 40s x 24), Soft-dom! In-ho, age-gap, aftercare, confession

The low murmur of male voices echoed from the patio as you leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, ears perked. The scent of grilled meat drifted into the house—your dad’s idea of catching up with old friends. And of course, he was here. Mr. Hwang In-ho. You could already picture him, sipping beer like it was water, probably in a black shirt with his sleeves rolled up, talking with that calm, self-assured voice that never seemed to change since you were little.

You peeked through the curtains. Yup. There he was—tall, relaxed, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips while your dad laughed beside him.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated this. Hated that when you were younger, he used to lift you on his shoulders and spin you around in the backyard. Hated that he once helped you with math homework at the kitchen table, patiently explaining formulas while you stared more at his hands than the paper. But most of all, you hated how your classmates' teasing had started to make sense.

" Wait, he’s not your dad?!" One had gasped, pointing to the photo in your living room.

You had winced. “ No, he’s my dad’s best friend.”

“ Oh my God, he’s so fine. That’s not ‘uncle,’ girl. That’s daddy.” You cringed so hard at the time. But now…

You’d caught yourself noticing things. The way his sleeves hugged his forearms. The quiet way he watched people, always thinking. The way he said your name with that deep, warm tone like it actually mattered. You slapped your cheeks gently, trying to ground yourself. Get a grip. If your dad ever knew you were thinking these things about his best friend, he’d lose it. This wasn’t just wrong—it was dangerous.

You stepped away from the hallway and into the kitchen, trying to act casual. Grabbing a cold drink from the fridge, you startled when you turned and found him right there—Mr. Hwang, leaning against the doorway, watching you with an easy smile.

“ Still hiding from us like you used to?” He teased gently.

“ Thought you’d outgrow that.” You cleared your throat, heart racing.

“ Just…getting something to drink.” His eyes lingered on you a little longer than they probably should’ve. Just a second. Just enough to make your skin prickle.

“ You’ve grown up a lot.” He said thoughtfully.

“ Can’t believe the little girl who used to steal my sunglasses is standing here like this now.”

You forced a laugh. “ Yeah, well. Time’s weird.”

He smiled again. “ That it is.”

And then he turned, casually walking back out to the patio like he hadn’t just stirred something in you that you were desperately trying to bury. You exhaled hard, leaning on the counter.

This is fine. It’s just a phase. It’ll pass. You repeated it like a prayer. Because wanting him? That was the kind of mistake you’d never be able to undo.

…

Dinner was warm, familiar—the sound of utensils clinking on plates, your dad’s laugh booming across the table, and Mr. Hwang’s quieter chuckles mixing in like a rhythm you’d known since childhood. You sat across from both of them, poking lazily at your food, pretending not to be hyper-aware of the man sitting beside your father.

Mr. Hwang looked effortlessly handsome, even in casual clothes. You hated that you noticed. Hated even more that you couldn’t stop. Then, the shift happened.

“ So…” Mr. Hwang leaned back slightly, sipping from his glass as his gaze settled on you.

“ Is anyone courting you yet?”

You nearly choked on your food. A snort slipped out as you laughed—too loud, too fast. “ What?”

Your dad narrowed his eyes, amused but curious. “ Yeah, what’s so funny? Just answer the question.”

You shrugged, still laughing awkwardly. “ No one, okay? No boys putting their fences in my life. Maybe they’re scared of Dad. Or maybe they just know better than to mess with someone who comes with a protective unit like you two.”

Your dad grinned proudly like you just gave him an award. Mr. Hwang chuckled lowly, tilting his head.

“ Good to hear. You’re still young. You’ve got a lot ahead of you. No need to waste time on boys who still don’t know how to take care of themselves.” His tone had shifted—just enough for you to catch it. Not patronizing. Not casual. Something…heavier.

You tried to laugh it off, even as your chest felt a little tighter. “ Relationships still…kinda cringe me out, honestly. Not really my thing right now.”

“ Cringe?” Your dad repeated with a chuckle, looking at Mr. Hwang.

“ See? I told you she’s still got that teenage filter. You better keep an eye on her though, In-ho. You know how boys are—one pretty smile from her and they’ll be swarming.”

Mr. Hwang’s eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable behind them. His lips curved into a smirk—soft, subtle, knowing.

“ I already set my eyes on her.” He said smoothly.

Your dad laughed at that, clearly taking it as a joke, already sipping his beer and shaking his head. “ That’s why you’re her godfather figure. Always watching.”

But you? You didn’t laugh. Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. His words weren’t loud, weren’t flirtatious. But something in his tone, in the deliberate weight of that line—it wasn’t nothing.

It was enough to make a cold shiver run down your spine and heat rise into your cheeks at the same time. You glanced up at him, heart thudding.

He was still smiling. Still watching you. And that look in his eyes? That wasn’t the look of an uncle watching a child anymore. That was something else. Something dangerous.

You cleared your throat, forced a smile, and reached for your glass of water—hands trembling slightly. Your dad was still laughing. But you? You weren’t sure where the line between playful and forbidden had just been drawn…

Or if it had already been crossed.

The plates were cleared, your dad excused himself with a satisfied sigh, muttering something about needing a quick shower before catching the late-night news. You offered to clean up, but he waved you off, disappearing into the hallway, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

Alone with him. Mr. Hwang leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same unreadable expression from earlier. The one that still hadn’t left your mind.

His earlier words echoed in your head like a bell refusing to stop ringing:

“ I already set my eyes on her.”

Your fingers fumbled as you picked up the empty glasses, trying to act normal, be normal. But your heart wasn’t cooperating, thudding painfully in your chest. You couldn’t tell if you were nervous…or thrilled.

Or both.

“ Need help?” He asked, voice low and even.

You shook your head quickly. “ No, I got it. It’s just two glasses. Not rocket science.”

He didn’t move. Just watched. Like he was studying you—like you were some puzzle he was quietly piecing together.

“ You’re not really the little kid who used to cry when I’d leave, huh?” He said softly. You swallowed hard, placing the glasses a little too loudly in the sink.

“ Yeah, well. People grow up. Crazy how that works.” You turned, forcing a casual stance as you leaned against the opposite counter, trying not to fidget under his gaze.

“ That thing you said earlier.” You muttered, looking at the floor. “ The ‘eyes on me’ part…You didn’t mean that in a weird way, right? It just—sounded…”

“ Different?” He finished for you. You looked up. He was smirking again. But this time, it wasn’t teasing—it was…deliberate.

“ I meant it in the way that should make a boy think twice before trying anything stupid.” He added smoothly.

“ Nothing inappropriate, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” You nodded slowly, but the tension in your body didn’t ease. Because he might say that…

But something in the air said otherwise.

“ Good.” You said too quickly, chuckling nervously.

“ Because my dad would absolutely explode.”

He stepped closer. Not too close. Just one step. Just enough that you could feel the space shrink between you. Your breath caught, and he seemed to notice.

“ You know.” He said, voice quieter now. “ Sometimes I forget how long I’ve known you. It’s strange seeing you like this…grown.”

You blinked. “ Like this?”

He didn’t answer. And you didn’t dare ask again. The sound of the shower starting down the hall broke the silence like a slap.

A reminder. You both stood there, locked in a beat too long for comfort, too short to mean anything—yet too charged to mean nothing.

You quickly turned back to the sink. “ I should finish this.”

He didn’t stop you. “ Alright.”

You heard his footsteps retreating, the air releasing its tension with every step he took away. But just before he exited the kitchen, his voice came again, lower this time.

“ Still… it’s not boys you should be watching out for.”

A pause.

“ It’s men.”

The words hit you square in the spine. And then he was gone. You gripped the counter, pulse pounding, breath shallow. You were in over your head. And part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to swim back to the surface.

…

The sun dipped lazily across the sky, casting golden light over the school field. You were sprawled on the grass with your friends, half-eaten snacks littered between you, laughter echoing from your small circle as you poked fun at one another and complained about professors with zero sense of humor.

" Tell me why we need to know about 17th-century printing techniques when we’re literally digital now?” One of your friends groaned, flopping onto their back.

“ Because the department loves watching us suffer.” You quipped, chewing on the last bit of your sandwich.

It was easy. Normal. Comfortable. Until your friend’s gaze drifted past your shoulder—and suddenly, everyone went quiet.

“ Uh-oh.” One whispered.

You turned.

Approaching you with hesitant steps was Kang Dae-ho. Even from a distance, he looked like someone out of a teen drama—tall, sun-kissed skin, messy dark hair, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

You’d seen him around. Everyone had. He was the Art Department’s golden boy: sketchbook in one hand, basketball in the other. Smart, talented, and very much swooned over by at least half the female population.

And now he was walking toward you. Your friends began whispering, some already smacking your arm like oh my god it’s happening. One literally shoved a water bottle at you like it could help cool you down.

“ Hey.” Dae-ho said when he reached your circle, voice casual but a little shaky.

“ Uh…hey?” You answered, blinking up at him.

He glanced briefly at your friends, clearly aware he had an audience. But to his credit, he pressed on. From his pocket, he pulled out a small square of cloth—his name patch, the kind stitched onto the chest of his uniform.

“ I, uh…” He scratched the back of his head and gave a sheepish laugh.

“ I wanted to give you this.” Your friends lost it in the background. Giggling. Squealing. One whispered dramatically.

“ He’s giving her his name! This is a drama scene!” You stayed frozen, your eyes flicking from the patch to his nervous smile.

“ I’ve liked you.” He confessed, eyes finally locking onto yours.

“ Since freshman year. I was supposed to tell you before, but…” He chuckled, embarrassed. “ I didn’t have the guts. I always thought someone like you wouldn’t even look at someone like me.”

You blinked. “ What?”

He laughed, eyes a bit more relaxed now. “ You’ve always seemed...different. Not just pretty—but grounded. Real. I wanted to tell you properly, and maybe it’s late, but I figured—if I keep waiting, someone else might beat me to it.”

You stared at the patch in his open palm. Your brain scrambled to form a response. Not because you didn’t know what to say…

But because a single, inappropriate thought shot through your mind like lightning:

What would Mr. Hwang say about this?

Your stomach twisted. You hated that he crossed your mind now. At this moment. But his words from the night before echoed again:

It’s not boys you should be watching out for.

It’s men.

Your friends were nudging you now, mouthing say something, idiot. You looked up at Dae-ho again. His expression was open. Vulnerable. Sweet, even. And yet…That shiver from last night hadn’t left your bones.

What the hell was wrong with you? You took a breath, and with a small smile, accepted the patch.

“ Thank you.” You said, voice quiet but sincere. “ That’s really brave of you.”

His eyes lit up a bit. “ So…can I take you out sometime?”

You hesitated—just a beat too long. Then: “ Let me think about it?”

He nodded, respectful, still smiling. “ Of course.”

As he walked off, your friends swarmed around you like seagulls, squealing and slapping your arms.

“ OH MY GOD.”

“ You’re the main character now.”

“ Did you see his eyes? He was in love, girl.”

You laughed with them. You joked. You acted normal. But deep down…

All you could think about was how Mr. Hwang would react if he ever found out. And that, more than anything, made your pulse race. For the wrong reasons. Or maybe…the dangerously right ones.

…

You kicked a pebble as you strolled along the street, still clutching the fabric of Kang Dae-ho’s name patch in your hand. The sky was awash in the fading colors of sunset, but your mind was far from the scenery.

His words replayed in your head on a loop.

“ I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

“ I figured—if I keep waiting, someone else might beat me to it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as a flustered smile bloomed on your lips.

You did have a crush on him back then—sitting two rows ahead in Art Theory, always surrounded by admirers. You thought it was a harmless, one-sided thing. But now…now it wasn’t.

You glanced again at his name patch in your palm, thumb brushing over the stitched letters. Why was your heart beating like this?

“ Hey!” A familiar voice called behind you. You turned to see Dae-ho jogging lightly toward you, grinning.

“ Oh, hey.” You said, quickly hiding the patch behind your back. Too late—he clearly saw it, but only laughed softly.

“ Didn’t want to walk alone.” He said with a small shrug. “ And you’re heading this way, too. Guess we’re walking buddies now?”

You rolled your eyes. “ Guess so.”

The conversation came easy. Too easy. You talked about food, classes, even niche hobbies you never expected anyone to relate to—but somehow, he did.

You both liked vintage music, secretly watched obscure cooking videos, and had a shared hatred for overpriced campus coffee. You were laughing before you realized how long the walk had been. And then…you were already home.

You stopped in front of your gate. “ Thanks for walking with me.” You said, smiling up at him.

Dae-ho rubbed the back of his neck. “ Thanks for…not finding me annoying.”

You were about to reply when the sound of the front door opening made you both look up. Your father stepped out, stretching his back with a yawn—followed by Mr. Hwang, who looked fresh out of the shower, his sleeves rolled up and towel slung casually around his neck.

Their steps halted the moment they saw you. Mr. Hwang’s eyes locked immediately on the boy beside you. His entire posture shifted—shoulders squared, expression darkening.

You saw the exact second his gaze dropped to your hand. The one holding Dae-ho’s name patch. You quickly shoved it into your pocket.

“ G-Good evening, sirs.” Dae-ho said politely, bowing respectfully.

“ I’m Kang Dae-ho, her classmate. We just walked together since we live in the same direction.”

Your father chuckled lightly, giving him a nod. “ Ah, alright. Thanks for walking her home.”

But Mr. Hwang didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That gaze—sharp, assessing, lethal—cut across the space between them like a knife. Dae-ho seemed to feel it too, stiffening ever so slightly before forcing a final smile.

“ Well…see you tomorrow, Y/n.” He said to you, waving awkwardly before hurrying off. You turned slowly, cautiously, and met Mr. Hwang’s eyes.

He didn’t look at you. Not right away. He stared at the street where Dae-ho disappeared, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching. Your father had already stepped back inside, too distracted to notice anything. But you noticed. Every part of you did.

The tension was palpable.

You swallowed. “ He’s just a schoolmate. He’s not—”

“ Don’t explain.” Mr. Hwang said, voice low. Controlled.

“ You don’t have to explain anything to me.” But the way he was clenching his jaw said otherwise.

You lingered on the step, feeling the weight of something unsaid stretch between you. Then, just before he followed your dad inside, Mr. Hwang turned to you.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “ Careful who you let walk you home.”

And then he was gone. Leaving you standing there—

Heart hammering. Name patch in your pocket. And a chill crawling slowly up your spine.

…

You stepped into the house quietly, trying not to look like your heart was still racing from Mr. Hwang’s intense parting words at the gate. Your dad was lounging on the couch, a half-filled drink in one hand and the TV on in the background. The moment he spotted you, his grin widened like a kid catching someone in the act.

“ Well, well…” He drawled playfully. “ So that boy walked you all the way home, huh?”

You blinked, startled. “ You mean Dae-ho?”

“ Oh-ho! So we’re already on a first-name basis!” He teased, eyebrows wiggling as he leaned back with a dramatic gasp.

“ I like that kid. Polite, well-spoken, smart. You can just feel it—he’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your shoes. “ Don’t start, Dad.”

Mr. Hwang’s voice chimed in from the kitchen doorway where he leaned with a glass of whiskey in hand, his expression unreadable.

“ That’s funny.” He said coolly.

“ Because just last night, you told me to keep an eye on her. Make sure no boys were sniffing around. And now? Now you’re rooting for that kid?”

Your dad laughed, waving him off. “ Oh, come on. I just said that as a dad. You know how it is.” He looked back at you with a shrug.

“ She’s an adult now. I can’t put her in a box forever. Crushes and dating? It’s normal at her age.” You snuck a glance at Mr. Hwang.

He rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink. You tilted your head slightly, brows pinching. That look. That little eye-roll and the tightness in his mouth. The way he was staring into the bottom of his glass like it had offended him personally.

He looked…annoyed.

Why is he being like this? You told yourself it was because he was protective. Maybe even territorial in a weird uncle-ish way. But…

“ Careful who you let walk you home.” Those words. That tone.

It didn’t sound fatherly. It sounded…jealous. You shook that thought out of your head before it dug in deeper.

No. He’s not like that. He can’t be.

Trying to shake off the heavy shift in energy, you perked up and cleared your throat. “ So…why are you here, anyway?”

Mr. Hwang glanced at you, expression back to neutral. “ Got bored at my place. Thought I’d crash over here and annoy your dad for a bit.”

Your dad snorted. “ He missed me, that’s what he’s not saying. Can’t go a single day without hearing my voice. His day’s ruined if he doesn’t see my handsome face.”

You tried not to laugh at how dramatically your dad puffed his chest. Mr. Hwang slowly raised his middle finger without a word, taking another sip of his whiskey.

Your dad howled with laughter. You let out a small giggle, finally sinking into the couch opposite them, tension easing just a little.

For a moment, it felt like any other night—familiar, silly, harmless. But your eyes drifted to Mr. Hwang again. He wasn’t laughing. Not really. He was looking at you—quiet, thoughtful…distant. And that made your stomach twist all over again.

…

The evening wore on. The TV flickered in the background—some variety show with people laughing too hard at things that weren’t even funny. Your dad was sprawled out on the couch, lazily sipping his drink, throwing casual comments at the screen like it could hear him.

Mr. Hwang sat in the armchair near the window, whiskey in one hand, gaze distant. You pretended to scroll on your phone, though your attention was split. You could feel his presence from across the room.

Not loud or overbearing—just there. Quiet and steady like a wall behind your back you didn’t ask for but kept leaning on anyway.

But the thing is…that wall was starting to tilt. You weren’t sure if it was going to fall away from you—or onto you. Your dad cracked another joke at the TV, laughing at his own punchline.

“ So, are you gonna text that kid?” He asked suddenly, looking at you over the rim of his glass. “ Dae-ho?”

You looked up, caught off guard. “ W-What?”

“ Come on, don’t be shy now. I saw your face. You were red all over. You like him?”

“ I—” You faltered. “ I don’t know. Maybe I did. I mean, back in first year, I kinda had a tiny crush, but I didn’t think he even knew I existed.”

Mr. Hwang shifted slightly. You heard the quiet clink of ice against his glass. You dared a glance. His eyes were still on the window, but his jaw had tensed.

“ He’s a good guy.” Your dad said with a nod. “ Better than those wannabe cool boys I caught trying to sneak into your DMs. At least this one has manners.”

You managed a nervous laugh, trying to downplay your flustered face. “ It’s not that deep, Dad. He just walked me home.”

“ That’s how it starts.” Your dad teased.

“ First a walk home, then a coffee date, next thing you know—boom! Wedding invites.” Mr. Hwang scoffed quietly at that.

Your father turned to him. “ What, you don’t see it?”

“ I see a boy playing with confidence because he finally found the nerve to say something.” Mr. Hwang replied coolly, sipping his drink.

“ Doesn’t mean he knows what to do with what he wants.”

Your dad raised a brow. “ You’re harsh tonight, man. What’s with the attitude?”

Mr. Hwang didn’t answer. Just leaned back into the armchair, tapping the rim of his glass with a finger. You watched him. Closely.

And again, there it was: That heat just beneath the surface. A kind of silence that didn’t feel neutral—it felt personal.

You cleared your throat, desperate to cut the tension. “ I think I’m gonna head upstairs. Got a quiz tomorrow.”

Your dad waved you off. “ Go, go. Don’t let us old men distract you.”

You stood, gave them both a little smile. “ Goodnight.”

Mr. Hwang didn’t look up. He just said, softly, “ Night.”

You turned to head upstairs, but the moment your back was to them, your chest tightened. You couldn’t stop thinking about how different his voice sounded.

Not uncle-like. Not best-friend-of-your-dad-like.

No. That was a voice thick with something else. And as much as you tried to pretend otherwise—

You knew exactly what it was. You just didn’t know what to do with it.

Yet.

…

The silence of the house felt heavier at night, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. You rolled on your side for what felt like the hundredth time, staring at the clock’s soft glow.

1:47 AM.

You laid there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. You tried lying on your back, your side, your stomach—even curling up like a cat. Nothing worked. Your mind wouldn’t quiet down.

A low groan escaped your lips as you finally sat up, dragging the blanket off your legs. You slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the hallway. Maybe a glass of milk would help—old remedy, but worth a try.

The house was still, the kind of stillness that made the shadows feel thicker. You unlocked your phone and used the screen to guide your way through the living room, the bluish glow barely enough.

In the kitchen, you opened the fridge, squinting at the sudden light. You grabbed the bottle of milk and took a few long gulps straight from it. The coolness soothed your throat—at least that part of you was calm.

Then—

Ahem. You choked slightly and spun around, heart jumping to your throat. There, leaning casually against the doorframe, was Mr. Hwang.

Black tank top. Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair slightly messy, arms folded across his broad chest. Even in the dim light, his figure stood sharp and defined, shadow and strength molded together.

He arched his brow. “ You always raid the kitchen at midnight?”

You cleared your throat, awkwardly lowering the bottle. “ Couldn’t sleep…thought milk might help.”

He stepped forward—slow, unhurried, until he was close. Too close. You could feel the heat radiating from his body. You swore the air thinned around him. Then—his hand lifted. You barely breathed.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping the drop of milk lingering there. His touch was soft, warm, and it made your entire body tense. Not out of fear, but need. Your lips parted slightly, a reaction you couldn’t stop.

He looked down at you—eyes dark, unreadable—but something flickered in them. Something dangerous. Then, just as quickly…it was gone. He pulled his hand away.

“ Goodnight.” He murmured, his voice smooth, almost teasing.

He turned and walked away, his back muscles shifting beneath the thin fabric of his tank top as he disappeared into the hallway.

You stood frozen in place, heart racing, breath shallow, still holding the milk bottle in your hand—utterly aware of the heat still lingering on your skin where he touched you.

Sleep was even further now.

…

Your heart still hasn't calmed down. Each step up the stairs felt heavier, slower—like your body was lagging behind, still back there in the kitchen where Mr. Hwang’s thumb had touched your lips like a whisper, like a promise he never said aloud.

You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to breathe through the storm inside you. His scent still lingered faintly in the air—masculine, clean, and musky. It followed you, or maybe it was just burned into your memory now. You reached the top of the stairs, finally approaching your bedroom door when—

A strong arm wrapped around your waist. Before you could gasp, a firm hand covered your mouth. You jolted, heart slamming into your ribs as you were dragged backward—your feet stumbling over the hallway rug.

But then—

That scent hit you. That same scent. It was him. Mr. Hwang. Your pulse skipped. Not in fear. In something else. Something hotter. He opened a door—his door—and pulled you inside. The door shut behind you with a soft click. The room was dark, only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the blinds.

He released your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm, slow and deliberate. His other arm was still around your waist, holding you back against his chest.

His voice was right next to your ear. Low. Rough. " You really thought I’d just walk away after that?"

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him in the darkness. “ You said goodnight.”

“ I lied.”

You barely had time to react before he turned you around and pressed you against the door. His lips found yours—hot, demanding, hungry—as if he'd been holding back for far too long.

His hands moved with purpose, skimming under your shirt, exploring the bare skin of your waist like he’d been imagining this moment as much as you had. Your breath hitched, and he swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper than the last.

" You drive me crazy." He whispered against your mouth.

" Every time you look at me like that…every time you act like you don’t know what you’re doing to me." His mouth trailed down your neck, slow and torturous, as your fingers clutched at his shoulders.

And tonight, there were no rules. No hesitation. Just heat—burning, unspoken, undeniable. His lips crashed into yours again—hot, urgent, and full of barely restrained tension. You kissed him back, hands tangled in the fabric of his tank top, trying to keep up with the pace he was setting.

But he was overwhelming—his mouth moved with a kind of skill and hunger that made your knees buckle. You tilted your head, trying to mimic him, to find the rhythm, but your kisses were clumsy, uneven.

Every time he deepened it, you hesitated just slightly, unsure, breath caught between nerves and desire. Then—he growled. Low and rough in his throat. He pulled back just a few inches, his breath hot against your lips, eyes burning into yours even in the dim light. His grip on your waist tightened, possessive and grounding all at once.

“ You’ve never done this before, have you?” He murmured, voice laced with both frustration and fascination.

“ That’s why you’re not matching me.” Your cheeks flushed.

You opened your mouth to speak but no words came—only a soft exhale, a nod, eyes flicking away in embarrassment. But his hand gently gripped your chin and tilted your face back up to him.

“ Look at me.” He ordered softly.

“ Don’t hide from me.” You did. His gaze darkened, not with irritation—but something more primal.

“ Damn…” He whispered, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip again.

“ That just makes this harder to control.” Then, slower this time, he kissed you again. Patiently. Deeply. Guiding your lips with his, one hand on your waist, the other curling into your hair.

You followed—tentatively at first, then bolder. His tongue slid against yours, coaxing, teaching, claiming. He groaned into your mouth when you finally moved just right, and the sound sent sparks down your spine.

“ There you go…” He breathed.

“ Just like that.” You whimpered as he pressed your body harder against the door, every part of him aligning with you, heat pulsing between you two like a current neither of you could shut off.

" You're learning fast." He growled against your throat.

" And it's going to ruin me." The kiss deepened—no longer soft, no longer patient. It was hungry now. Wild.

In-ho’s hands roamed your body with increasing urgency, fingers digging into your sides before sliding down to grip your thighs. Without breaking the kiss, he hoisted you up effortlessly, and a gasp escaped your lips just before you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.

You could feel him—hard and hot—pressing firmly between your legs even through the layers of clothing. The pressure made your breath hitch as he carried you across the room with ease.

The world spun slightly before your back hit the mattress, but his lips never left yours—not even for a second. He hovered above you, chest rising and falling fast, his breath mixing with yours.

The kiss grew messier, wetter, more desperate. Tongues clashing. Teeth grazing. Your hands buried in his hair, tugging him closer when you felt his hips begin to move. He rolled his hips against yours—slow, hard grinds that made your head fall back, lips parting with a breathless moan. The friction made your body arch into him, craving more.

“ You feel that?” He murmured against your lips, voice deep and gravelly.

“ That’s what you do to me.” He thrust again, clothed but unmistakable, pressing his length firmly to your center, making you feel every hard inch through the thin fabric separating you.

You whimpered, instinctively bucking up against him, chasing the friction, feeling heat pool low in your belly. In-ho let out another growl, darker this time, his control slipping more with every second.

“ If you keep doing that.” He warned, lips brushing your jaw.

“ I won’t be able to stop.” But neither of you stopped.

His mouth found the curve of your neck as his hands slid beneath your shirt, fingertips exploring the softness of your skin, learning your body inch by inch.

He kissed, licked, nipped—leaving trails of fire wherever he touched. You were trembling beneath him, needy, caught between your nerves and your desire. And still, his hips never stopped moving.

Every grind—every press of him against your throbbing core—pushed you closer to something that felt like you’d never come back from. His hands moved lower, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, teasing the skin just above your hips.

It was such a simple touch—but it sent a rush of heat through your whole body. You shivered beneath him, breath trembling, skin burning where his fingertips lingered.

He noticed. He always noticed. In-ho’s hands stilled. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm, but he didn’t press forward this time. He looked at you—really looked. His eyes searched your face, reading the tension in your brows, the slight tremble in your lips, the way your body had gone still beneath his.

Then he whispered, low and gentle, “ Is this okay?”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding, throat tight. You wanted this—you wanted him—but the unfamiliarity of it all made your chest flutter with nerves. Your voice came out barely audible, shy, caught somewhere between truth and vulnerability.

“ I…I’ve never done this before.” You admitted, your eyes falling away from him.

“ With anyone.” Heat flooded your cheeks.

You could feel your whole body blushing, like you’d just exposed the softest part of yourself. Your hands clutched the fabric of his shirt, unsure if you were holding him close or grounding yourself. For a beat, In-ho said nothing. Just silence—thick, heavy, intimate. Then his hand came up to cup your cheek, gentle, slow.

“ Hey…” He said softly, his voice now stripped of heat, filled instead with something deeper.

“ Look at me.” You did.

He smiled, just faintly. Not playful. Not cocky. Just warm. “ You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Okay?”

You nodded slowly, lips parted, heart catching in your throat. But he didn’t move away. He stayed close—his forehead brushing yours, one hand still resting on your cheek, the other on your waist. His touch, suddenly less urgent, felt like fire wrapped in silk.

“ I want you.” He admitted, his voice like velvet in the dark.

“ But not if you're unsure. Not if you're scared.” You bit your lip, still red in the face, still burning from the way he made you feel.

“ I’m not scared.” You whispered.

“ Just…new to this.” He leaned in, his lips brushing yours again—slower this time.

“ Then let me teach you.” And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed.

It was intimate. Patient. Like he was taking his time, savoring the moment you let him in. The kiss lingered—slow, deep, intentional. In-ho didn’t rush, didn’t push. His lips moved against yours with purpose, and you felt yourself melt more with every passing second, every soft exhale between you.

His hand stayed warm against your cheek, grounding you, while the other slowly drifted down—trailing from your waist to your wrist. He took your hand gently, fingers threading through yours. Then, still kissing you, he began to guide it lower. Your breath hitched.

He brought your hand down—over his stomach, the muscles flexing slightly beneath your touch down past the waistband of his gray sweatpants, stopping when your palm pressed against the obvious hardness beneath the fabric.

You froze, stunned by the feel of him—hot, heavy, pulsing even through the layers. Your lips parted in a quiet gasp, but he didn’t let you pull away. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, and whispered, “ That’s what you do to me.”

His hand stayed over yours, holding it in place, encouraging you—not forcing, never forcing. You could pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t. Your fingers shifted slightly, and you felt him twitch under your touch. He groaned, low and guttural, like your small movement had lit a fuse.

“ That’s it…” He whispered, eyes falling shut.

“ Don’t be shy. Just feel me.” Your cheeks burned hotter, but you couldn’t look away—not when his expression darkened with want, not when his jaw clenched as you grew a little bolder.

You explored his shape through the soft fabric, and every small touch earned a soft grunt, a deeper breath, a subtle roll of his hips against your palm.

His voice was strained, husky. “ You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this…”

And neither did you—until now. Your inexperience didn’t matter anymore. Not with the way he responded to your every move. Not with the way he looked at you like you were unraveling him. Your breath hitched the moment he slipped your hand under the waistband of his sweatpants.

The warmth of his skin hit you first—then the hard, velvety length of him pulsing against your palm. You gasped softly, eyes widening.

It was the first time you’d ever held a man like this—your fingers barely wrapping around him, stunned by how real and intimate the moment had become. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stay composed, but your nerves and the heat between you were impossible to contain.

In-ho's voice was low and strained, hovering close to your ear. “ Relax…just follow me.”

His hand covered yours, guiding your fingers around his shaft, moving them in a slow, deliberate rhythm—up… down…over the sensitive tip. You felt him throb in your grasp, heard the quiet groan escape from his lips as he dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“ Just like that.” He breathed. “ You’re doing so good.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering as you moved with him—each motion making him twitch in your hand, each sound from him making your core tighten with need.

Then—

You felt his free hand drift downward. He slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers skimming lightly over your most sensitive spot. You jolted, a soft cry escaping you before you could stop it, your body arching slightly into his touch.

“ You’re already soaked.” He murmured, his lips brushing your jaw, filled with awe and need.

“ You were this turned on…just from touching me?” You nodded weakly, unable to speak, caught in the fire of it all—his fingers teasing soft, slow circles against your most delicate flesh, each pass sending tremors through you.

Your hand still moved on him, shaky but willing, while he worked you into a trembling mess, matching your pace, your breaths, your whimpers.

It was too much. Too good. Too intense. And still, neither of you pulled away. Not when you moaned his name. Not when he whispered yours in return—low, reverent, full of desire.

The room was thick with heat, the only sounds filling the air were your ragged breaths, the rustle of clothes, and the subtle grind of skin against skin.

Your hand kept moving along his length—unsteady at first, but gaining rhythm, confidence, especially with the way In-ho responded. His hips twitched into your touch, a groan rumbling low in his chest every time your palm brushed over the sensitive tip.

But then—

His fingers, which had been teasing you in slow, torturous circles, suddenly slipped deeper—two thick fingers pressing inside of you with a slick, deliberate motion.

You gasped—a sharp, helpless sound that filled the air between you. Your knees instinctively bent, thighs tightening around his wrist, feet curling as a rush of overwhelming sensation bloomed in your core.

The feeling was new, unfamiliar—but it wasn’t painful. It was something more intense. Something addictive. He stilled, just for a second, watching your face.

“ There it is…” He whispered, voice dark and laced with arousal. “ You feel that?”

You nodded breathlessly, eyes wide, lips parted as you clung to his shoulders. “ Y-Yeah…I—In-ho…”

His fingers began to move—slow, deep thrusts, curling just right inside you, hitting that spot that made your entire body shiver. It sent pleasure shooting through your stomach, legs, chest. Your grip around his shaft faltered, and he chuckled softly, his lips grazing your cheek.

“ Hard to focus, isn’t it?” He murmured, picking up the pace just enough to make you whimper.

“ You’re so tight, so warm. God, you’re perfect.”

Your hand twitched around him, and you tried to move again, to keep stroking him, but it was hard to stay present when he was unraveling you like this—touching you like he knew every inch of you already.

Your back arched, your body trembling as his fingers worked deeper, more precise, drawing out sounds you didn’t know you could make. Every curl of his fingers pushed you closer to something hot, fast, and impossible to stop.

Your lips brushed his jaw as you moaned his name again, lost, needy.

“ I’ve got you.” He whispered, his voice a promise.

“ Let go for me.”

The tension between you had reached its boiling point—no more hesitations, no more second-guessing. You were both burning, both wanting.

In-ho sat back against the headboard, his chest heaving, pupils dark and dilated as he looked up at you with nothing but hunger in his eyes. Without a word, he reached for you, gripping your waist and pulling you toward him in one smooth, commanding motion.

You let out a soft gasp as he maneuvered you, straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands roamed down your back before slipping to the waistband of your shorts.

“ Off…” He muttered, breath hot, voice rough with restraint.

You lifted your hips just enough for him to peel them down. Your shorts hit the floor, leaving you in just your underwear—bare thighs exposed and brushing against the warmth of his skin.

You could feel him underneath you—thick and pulsing even through the layers still separating you. Then you watched as he tugged down the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing himself fully.

His shaft sprang free, heavy and flushed, slapping against his lower abdomen with a soft thud that made your cheeks burn and your stomach twist with anticipation.

Your breath caught. It was…a lot. Impressive. And now, it was right beneath you. In-ho leaned back slightly, eyes locked on you as his hands returned to your waist. He guided you down—not onto him, not yet—but against him.

He groaned when your core pressed against his length, only your thin underwear separating the heat of your body from his.

“ Grind on me.” He said, low and deliberate.

“ Just like this.” He moved your hips for you, slowly, dragging you along the thick length of him.

The sensation—firm, slick from his own arousal, pressing directly against your sensitive center—pulled a broken moan from your throat. You moved again. And again. Soft gasps escaped you as your hips found a rhythm, dragging your clothed core along his bare length, the friction just right—slow and deliciously torturous.

Every time you rocked forward, the tip of him nudged against the soaked fabric covering you, making your thighs tremble and your body tense.

In-ho’s grip tightened as his head dropped back, a low growl escaping his chest. “ You’re driving me crazy…”

His abs flexed beneath you. You could see the way his jaw clenched, how his breath stuttered every time your hips circled down just right. And the way he looked at you—raw, reverent, undone—it made you feel powerful. It wasn’t just about lust. It was about this—being wanted, being seen, being claimed in the most intimate way possible.

And you weren’t ready to stop. Your breaths came shallow and fast as your hips rolled over him, the soaked fabric of your underwear barely separating you from his bare length.

Every movement stoked the fire between you higher, hotter, closer to unbearable. Then, without a word, In-ho’s hand slid between your bodies again. He hooked his fingers into your underwear and slowly pushed it to the side—just enough.

The cool air hit your wetness for a second—just a second—before he guided himself back beneath you. Thick. Hot. Bare.

Now—nothing separated you. You gasped the moment you felt him press directly against your core, the slick head of his shaft dragging through your folds, gliding against the most sensitive parts of you. Your entire body shuddered, overwhelmed by the sheer intimacy of it.

Skin to skin. His hands returned to your hips, grip firm as he pulled you down onto him—not to take him in, not yet—but to grind. Slow and deliberate. The length of him rubbing along your entrance, your clit, every inch of you slick and sensitive and aching.

“ Fuck…” He hissed, jaw tight as his head tilted back. “ You feel so good…”

Your hands rested on his chest, fingers digging into his warm skin for balance as your hips moved, rocked, rubbed—each motion sending sparks of heat shooting up your spine. You could feel everything—his pulse, the ridges, the way your bodies moved perfectly together, gliding, grinding, building something unbearably hot between you.

Your thighs trembled. Your breath stuttered. The head of him kept catching on your entrance, slick and swollen, making your body twitch every time it pressed just a little too close to slipping in. He looked up at you again—eyes wild, lips parted.

“ Keep going.” He murmured, voice rough with restraint.

“ Let yourself feel it. All of me.” And you did.

You kept moving, kept grinding against his hard length, the heat growing sharp and pulsing, each pass making your body crave more—need more.

And he let you take your time. Let you learn the feel of him—all of him. Your rhythm faltered. You were grinding against him still, skin to skin, soaked and trembling—but it was getting harder to stay in control. Every drag of him along your folds, every accidental catch of his thick tip at your entrance had both of you breathing heavier, hotter.

And then—

He snapped. With a growl, In-ho’s hands gripped your thighs and flipped you beneath him in one swift, fluid motion. The mattress dipped with his weight, and your back hit the sheets, breath stolen by the sudden shift.

Your wide eyes met his, and for a moment, you saw all the restraint he’d been holding back—gone. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you, chest heaving, his hands curling into the waistband of your underwear.

You nodded. Silent permission. And so—he slid it down your legs, baring you fully beneath him. His eyes trailed down your body, then back up to your face, filled with something more than hunger. Something almost reverent.

“ You’re so beautiful like this…” He whispered.

He aligned himself to you, his length slick from the heat you left on him. He pressed the head to your entrance, and your breath caught in your throat. He paused, gaze flicking up to yours again.

“ You sure?” He murmured.

You gave him another nod—smaller, this time, nervous but sure. “ Yes.”

Slowly, gently, he began to press in. The stretch made your whole body tighten. Your brows furrowed, your fingers clawed at the sheets as he slowly sank deeper into you, inch by inch.

The burning ache bloomed fast, your body unused to the fullness, the pressure. It was your first—and he was not small. You whimpered, biting your lip hard. Then he reached up and covered your mouth with his palm—firm, warm, careful.

“ Shh…princess.” He whispered, lips brushing your temple,

“ You have to stay quiet. Your dad’s right next door, remember?” You nodded under his hand, your eyes glassy from the intense mix of pain and heat curling through your belly.

He stilled once he was fully inside—his hips pressed flush to yours, his breathing uneven. “ I know it hurts.” He whispered.

“ I’ll go slow…just breathe. You’re doing so good for me.” His free hand stroked your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye as if he could ease your discomfort with touch alone.

“ You feel so perfect wrapped around me, princess… like your body was made for this—for me.” His words were low and tender, spoken against your skin as he stayed buried deep inside you, giving you time to adjust, to catch your breath.

And when your body finally began to soften beneath him, he pulled out just slightly—then eased back in, slow, controlled, like he couldn’t bear to hurt you but couldn’t stay still anymore either. You moaned softly beneath his hand, overwhelmed by the intensity, the stretch, the fullness.

In-ho’s gaze darkened as he whispered, “ That’s it, baby…take me. Every inch.”

And you did. Even if it meant staying silent while your world shifted beneath him. In-ho stayed still, buried deep inside you, his chest rising and falling as he fought to control himself. The warmth of his hand still covered your mouth, muffling your soft, shaky breaths as your body trembled beneath him.

In-ho stayed still for a moment longer, deep inside you, his chest pressed to yours, one hand gently covering your mouth while the other cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. His breath was hot and uneven near your ear, the muscles in his arms trembling slightly from holding himself back.

“ Princess…” He whispered, voice thick and low.

“ You’re doing so good for me…so tight, so warm…”

You whimpered against his palm, the ache between your legs still pulsing, but slowly—slowly—it was being replaced by something else. A deeper sensation. One that had you shifting beneath him, hips instinctively moving.

He felt it. And he groaned—deep, raw, needy. “ That’s it…”

He drew his hips back slowly, almost completely, then pushed forward again, a little deeper, a little firmer. The stretch was still intense, but the pain dulled under the weight of how closely he moved with you—for you.

Each thrust was slow and deliberate, grinding into the deepest part of you, stealing the air from your lungs. He was trying not to lose control, trying to let you adjust, but your soft, muffled sounds beneath his hand were unraveling him.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him without realizing it, needing him closer—deeper. Your nails dragged across his shoulders, your moans barely contained, eyes glassy as you looked up at him.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he was trying to burn the memory of this moment into his bones.

“ You’re mine like this.” He whispered.

“ No one else gets to have you like this. No one. Only me.”

Your heart fluttered wildly at his words, your hips lifting to meet each slow, grinding thrust. The skin-to-skin friction was almost too much—the heat, the intimacy, the quiet urgency of doing something so loud in complete silence.

In-ho removed his hand from your mouth for a moment, letting you breathe, but his thumb traced your bottom lip, watching the way you gasped when he hit a spot that made your whole body shudder.

“ Feel that, princess?” He murmured. “ That’s me. Right there. That spot you didn’t even know existed until now.”

You nodded helplessly, your voice barely above a breath. “ I feel it…”

And his pace began to build—still slow, but deeper, more insistent, the bed creaking under the rhythm you now shared, your whispered moans mixing with his groaned curses.

“ I won’t stop.” He growled, voice broken.

“ Not until I know you’ll never forget how this feels.” And with each thrust, with every roll of his hips—he kept that promise.

Your body was shaking beneath him, thighs trembling, breath coming out in soft, broken whimpers behind his hand. You were right at the edge—so full, so overwhelmed—and In-ho knew it. He felt every twitch, every clench of your walls around him, and it was unraveling his control.

He pulled out slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But before you could even beg for more, he shifted—sitting back on the bed, legs spread, his powerful frame stretched beneath you. His hand gripped your wrist firmly and pulled you up with him.

“ On top.” He ordered, voice rough and dark, no space left for hesitation.

“ Ride me.” Your eyes widened slightly at the command—equal parts nerves and desire pulsing through you—but your body moved before you could think.

You straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips, feeling the heat of his length standing thick and ready beneath you. In-ho’s hands gripped your hips tightly, dragging you forward until your soaked center was hovering just above his tip.

“ Look at me.” He growled.

“ I want to watch you take me. All of me.” You held onto his shoulders, swallowing hard, your body flushed, your lips parted as you slowly began to sink down.

The stretch was deep—deeper this time from this angle—and your head fell forward with a gasp, your nails digging into his skin as he filled you inch by inch.

“ That’s it…take it.” He breathed, eyes locked on where your bodies met.

“ God, you feel even tighter like this.” You whimpered as you finally took him all the way, fully seated, stuffed to the brim.

His head fell back for a moment, jaw clenched, a sound close to a snarl slipping from his throat. Then he looked up at you again—those eyes burning into you.

“ Move. Now.” You began to roll your hips, slowly at first, feeling every inch of him rub against your walls.

In-ho’s grip on your hips grew rougher, guiding your pace, helping you find the rhythm that made him groan with pleasure—and made your body start to shake all over again.

“ You look so good like this.” He growled, dragging his hands up your waist, then gripping your ass tightly.

“ Made for me.” You bounced harder now, riding him the way he wanted—his cock hitting that perfect spot with every stroke, his hands guiding, his voice commanding.

Then he leaned up, his mouth suddenly on your chest, sucking your skin between his teeth. Hard. You cried out softly when you felt the sting—the mark he was leaving, claiming you, branding you in the dark.

“ You’re mine.” He said low, possessive, mouth hot against your skin.

“ Say it.”

“ I—I’m yours.” You breathed, eyes glassy, body shaking with how close you were.

He grunted, his hands gripping you even tighter. “ That’s right. Now come on me.”

You didn’t even need more. Your body tensed, the orgasm ripping through you like a tidal wave, your walls clenching violently around him.

And he cursed—loud, guttural—just before he grabbed your hips, thrust up into you once, twice, then buried himself deep.

His whole body shuddered beneath you as he spilled inside, filling you with thick warmth, his breath ragged against your chest. He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, his arms around your back now, holding you against him as your heartbeats raced in unison.

“ You were perfect.” He murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“ All fucking mine.”

The room was quiet now—just the soft hum of the ceiling fan, the sound of your uneven breaths, and the rhythmic thud of In-ho’s heartbeat pressed to your chest.

He was still inside you, warm and full, as your bodies slowly came down from the high. His arms circled your waist tightly, like he couldn’t bear to let you go. His breath was warm on your collarbone, lips barely grazing your skin as he broke the silence.

“ I didn’t like seeing you with Dae-ho.” You blinked slowly, still dazed.

“ What…?” He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his eyes dark but unguarded now. Honest.

“ That day…” He said, voice lower than before, raspier.

“ When I saw him walking you home. Your dad is smiling like he already approved of the kid. You laughed like you were so comfortable with him. I hated it.” Your lips parted, but no words came out. You could feel his heart beating harder again.

“ I know I shouldn’t be thinking that way.” He continued, brows drawing together, guilt threading into his tone.

“ You’re his daughter. I’m supposed to be someone who looks out for you—not someone who touches you like this.” His jaw clenched as he swallowed hard.

“ But every time I saw you…every time you looked at me with those eyes, and I had to pretend it meant nothing—” He paused, pulling you even closer.

“ I couldn’t do it anymore.” You felt your chest tighten.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand gently brushed your cheek.

“ I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“ But I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. Not as something temporary. Not out of lust. I just…couldn’t take watching someone else be the one you run to.”

Your voice came out soft, uncertain. “ What if my dad finds out?” His thumb grazed your lower lip as he looked at you with something deeper than desire now.

“ Then I’ll face it.” He said.

“ But I’m not walking away from you.” You whimpered softly when he finally pulled out—your body flinching at the sensitivity.

The loss of his warmth made you feel suddenly cold and bare again, but not for long.

He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before whispering, “ Stay still.”

You watched him quietly as he climbed out of the bed, his broad shoulders flexing in the low light. He moved without rushing, walking across the room to where a folded towel hung off the back of a chair.

The sight of him—still flushed, still breathing a little heavy—made your heart ache in the most unfamiliar way. When he returned, he knelt beside the bed, his eyes soft as he gently nudged your thighs apart.

“ This might feel a little weird.” He murmured, voice low, steady, still laced with the aftershocks of what you’d just shared. You nodded silently, your cheeks warm, and let him take care of you.

The cloth was warm, damp. He wiped between your thighs with a gentleness that made your throat tighten—no teasing now, no roughness, just delicate attention.

He was quiet as he worked, making sure not to miss anything, cleaning you up as if you were something fragile and precious. When he was done, he leaned forward again, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder, his hand still holding your hip.

“ You okay?” He asked quietly.

You nodded, your fingers finding his hair, threading gently through the strands. He looked up at you, eyes meeting yours in the dark.

“ I meant what I said earlier.” He added.

“ This wasn’t just about…tonight. I don’t want this to be something you regret.”

“ I don’t.” You whispered, your voice barely there.

“ Not even a little.” His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw something in him you hadn’t before—vulnerability, maybe even hope.

He crawled back into bed, pulled the blanket over both of you, and wrapped his arms around you from behind, spooning you gently. His warmth settled against your back, grounding you.

No more words. Just quiet breathing. And the feeling of being held like you mattered.

…

Sunlight filtered through your window, soft and golden—but your body ached. A deep ache that had you whimpering as you slowly blinked awake. You shifted under the covers and immediately flinched, your thigh protesting with a dull sting.

You frowned and looked down—your sheets slightly rumpled, your body sore in very specific places. Your cheeks flushed as the vivid memories from last night crashed over you.

That wasn’t a dream…

You swallowed hard, your fingers brushing over the faint mark on your thigh. In-ho…Mr. Hwang…His voice, his touch, his heat—it all came rushing back. You covered your face with a groan. You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into a hole and never emerge.

Still dazed, you finally pulled yourself out of bed and threw on a loose shirt and shorts, wincing with each step as your legs reminded you exactly what happened. You limped your way downstairs, gripping the railing like your life depended on it.

You could already hear the clinking of dishes, low voices, and—him. You froze for a split second in the hallway before stepping into the kitchen.

There he was. Mr. Hwang, sitting casually at the table across from your dad, sipping coffee like he didn’t completely wreck you just a few hours ago. He wore a crisp black shirt now, his usual composed demeanor intact—except for that unmistakable glint in his eye the moment he saw you.

His gaze flicked to your legs. Then up to your face. And he smirked.

“ You’re up, kiddo.” Your dad said, smiling at you. “ Come eat, we were just talking business.”

You nodded and tried to walk as normally as possible, but the soreness made your stride uneven—limping ever so slightly. You heard the soft chuckle under Mr. Hwang’s breath.

Your dad looked at you curiously. “ Why are you walking like that? You hurt yourself?”

You froze for half a second, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you could speak, Mr. Hwang beat you to it—his tone light, teasing, but laced with double meaning only you could understand.

“ She probably stayed up too late again. Out of bed too quickly.” He said, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“ Maybe…stretched a little more than she’s used to.” You choked on your breath, eyes widening, face burning.

Your dad glanced between you two with a confused expression, then shrugged. “ Just be careful, okay?”

Then he frowned and gestured toward your thigh. “ What’s that? You’ve got a bruise. Did something bite you?”

You looked down quickly. A faint mark. You scrambled for the first excuse you could think of.

“ Mosquito.” You muttered, eyes glued to your plate. “ I think one got in last night.”

Mr. Hwang let out another small laugh, quieter this time, like he was trying to behave—but the smirk on his face said otherwise.

“ Mosquitos…” He repeated under his breath with a knowing tone.

“ Dangerous little things.” You glared at him—briefly—before stuffing a spoonful of rice in your mouth to avoid saying anything stupid. Across the table, he simply smiled at you, content.

He had your body. Now he was toying with your composure. And worst of all?

You liked it.

Author's Note: Welcome to the another episode of " What the fuck did I just write?" So yeah, another one-shot story of In-ho, but this time, he is the dad's best friend. A freaky literally story, and it blows my mentally, physically, morally, and spiritually aspect of me. The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. READ WITH RESPONSIBLY.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Thanks for tagging me: @filthygalli

Anyways, yeah, I just finished my final exam for our law subject. And I'm rethinking my life decisions. 🥹😭

Ps: It's too cute haha.

Tags: Take your time, guys. 😁

@astronomicalastro-blog1 @maah-sama

Thank you so much for the tag @good--merits-accumulated !! This was fun :)

Tag game: do this picrew and include the most recent meme in your camera roll!

They did not have my hair color so I guess I’m blond now.

No pressure tags: @ok-just-why @lc-27 @darklordabigail @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies @way-too-indecisive @axe-76 @poetrusic1959 @til-tonight-do-us-part @movielp-pany + anyone who wants to join!!

[lost-in-thoughts03]

RODEO || FRONTMAN

" You know that I'm nasty, you know that I want it."

Summary: You work as a servant. You are serving those filthy and evil VIPs who are watching the game. However, the Frontman did not like what he saw when a VIP unintentionally flirted with you.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK THEME, HEAVY SMUT, AU, explicit content, mature language, age-gap, yandere behavior, possessive behavior, obsession, power dynamics, dub-con, coercion, manipulation, mutual pining, threats, erotic, jealousy, heavy tension, toxic relationship, ownership, dominant male, controlling, mentioned of VIPs, rough, hard, dirty talk, worshipping, oral (M receiving), PiV, unprotected, breeding kink, daddy kink, nicknames, riding, markings, dry humping, pussy slapping, older man x younger woman (LEGAL), boss x employee, dom! Frontman x sub! Reader

The room smelled of thick cologne, expensive cigars, and roasted meats laced with spices too rare for common kitchens. The dull hum of foreign tongues, muffled laughs, and greedy hands filled the VIP lounge of the facility.

You moved like a machine—neutral expression, steady pace, posture perfect. A silver tray balanced effortlessly on your palm, crystal glasses of vintage wine swaying with each step. You served the VIPs as instructed—no emotion, no deviation, just efficiency. Just another ghost in the background.

Until him. The Wolf VIP. Mask of ivory fur and sharp fangs covered his face, but nothing could hide the lewd glint in his eyes. His hand brushed your wrist when you offered him the wine. You didn’t flinch.

“ Oh, how steady.” He purred, voice thick with false admiration.

“ I like a servant with discipline…but I’d like you better if you break that mask just for me.” You stared blankly ahead.

No reaction. That was the rule. No matter the words, the gestures, or the way his fingers trailed up your forearm with disgusting entitlement. The Wolf leaned closer, breath hot and reeking of whiskey.

“ Come now, let me see those pretty lips curl into something. A smile? A whimper?” You didn't say a word. But across the room—he noticed.

The Frontman stood in the shadowed balcony above, overlooking the floor like a god judging mortals. His gloved hands clenched, the sound of leather tightening around his knuckles barely audible over the laughter below.

He saw that bastard touch you. He heard those filthy words spill from his mouth. Behind the impassive black mask, his jaw tightened. His revolver weighed heavily in his coat—one flick and he could silence that VIP forever. But not yet. Not here. Not with you watching. Instead, he descended the staircase, slow and precise. You didn’t notice him until you felt a hand grab your elbow—firm, possessive. You looked up, and there he was.

“ Come.” The Frontman ordered.

You blinked, caught off guard. “ I’m not finished—”

“ I said come.” He cut you off sharply. He yanked you away from the table, nearly knocking over the tray in your hand.

The Wolf VIP chuckled behind his mask, mocking. “ Jealous, are we?” The Wolf teased.

The Frontman ignored him. Didn’t even glance his way. He dragged you to the other side of the hall, past the curtains, into the side corridor where other staff hustled with trays and carts.

“ Help the others prepare for the next course.” He snapped coldly.

You frowned. “ That’s not my task. I still have three tables left to—”

“ I don’t care.” He snapped, the usual calm venom now boiling into something harsher. “ I gave you an order.”

You stiffened. “ With all due respect, sir, I still have a pending load to manage and my rotation isn’t in—”

He stepped forward. Looming. Intimidating. Voice low but sharp like a blade. “ You will do as I say. Now.”

The corridor fell silent around you. You swallowed hard. His voice wasn’t just demanding—it was furious. Furious in the way that made your pulse skip, in the way that made your heart twist with something you didn’t dare name.

You lowered your gaze. “ Yes, sir.”

As you turned away to help the others, you could feel his eyes burn holes into your back. Watching. Possessive. Protective in the most dangerous, suffocating way.

The Wolf VIP would laugh it off for now. But the Frontman? He was already imagining the perfect place to bury his body.

…

The clatter of metal trays and the hiss of simmering dishes filled the preparation room. The heat of the stoves mixed with the pressure of confusion as you stepped in—shoulders squared, expression unreadable, but a storm broiling just beneath your skin. The helpers all looked up as you arrived, a tray in hand, your server uniform completely out of place among the kitchen uniforms. Their eyes flicked to each other in confusion.

“ What are you doing here?” One whispered.

“ This isn’t your rotation.” Another muttered.

You ignored them and began assisting—stacking plates, wiping edges, checking the menu cards. You were trained for front service, not backroom chaos. Every movement was slightly off, slightly wrong for the system they had. You were an outsider in the wrong gears of the machine.

“ Hey!” Barked the head manager—a graying man with a clipboard and a voice that carried authority.

“ This isn’t your section. You’re going to mess the flow—go back where you’re assigned. I don’t care who you think sent you—” Before you could respond, a heavy stomp echoed behind you.

Click. The sharp cocking of a rifle. Everyone froze. The Triangle guard stood just by the entry, rifle raised, cold and unmoving. The muzzle aimed directly at the manager’s forehead.

A pin-drop silence fell in the room. The only sound was the quiet hum of the cooler and the distant clatter from the hall. The Triangle’s muffled voice came through his mask like a verdict.

“ It was the Frontman’s order.”

The head manager’s voice broke. “ W-What…?”

The Triangle stepped closer, not lowering the weapon. “ You will not question it. Do your job.”

The manager’s face paled. He swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly backed away, clipboard shaking in his hands. “ Yes. Of course.”

The helpers went back to their stations in a flurry of nervous movements, no longer looking you in the eye. They worked quickly, silently, the tension thick like oil in the air. You didn’t say anything either. You just kept working—loading the next trays, wiping the sides, arranging the dishes. But in your chest, a thousand things boiled.

Why did he do that? Why did he use force? Why did he drag you here like that, like some possession being moved across the board?

And yet…you couldn’t forget the way his grip tightened when the Wolf touched you. Nor the way his voice dropped to that low, dangerous growl. As if only he was allowed to see you, command you, control you. From somewhere above—maybe in the cameras, maybe hidden in the shadows, you knew he was watching. And you could feel his gaze like a collar on your neck.

…

Steam curled from the silver trays as you arranged the last platter, the tension from earlier still clinging to your spine like cold sweat. You were trying to keep your head down—follow the damn order, get through the task, and get out of this strange assignment. That’s when a Triangle Guard approached from the hallway—tall, rigid, mask expressionless as ever. You straightened, wary.

“ The Frontman wants you in his chamber.” The Triangle announced flatly.

You blinked. “ What? Now?”

“ He has a task for you.” The guard added. But the tone…it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t about plates or wine glasses. You hesitated, hand pausing over the last tray.

The Triangle’s voice dropped low, sharper now. “ Don’t make him wait.”

Your stomach turned. “ I’m in the middle of a rotation, I shouldn’t—”

“ He hates waiting.” The Triangle snapped.

“ If you want to stay alive, follow me. Now.” That cold threat sliced clean through your chest.

You swallowed hard, dropping the towel you were holding. Without a word, you followed him down the corridor—past silver doors, dim halls, surveillance eyes watching from every corner. The path twisted deeper into the facility, the air growing stiller with every step. Then you arrived. A massive black door—tall, silent, intimidating. The Triangle opened it. And shoved you in.

Click. The door shut behind you. Now it was just you…and him. The chamber was dimly lit, spacious and sleek. A matte black desk sat in the corner, untouched. A wall of monitors glowed faintly. The air smelled of leather, smoke, and something sharp—something him.

The Frontman stood near the window, his back to you, hands behind him, long coat brushing the floor like a shadow. He didn’t say a word. You stayed by the door, frozen. The silence stretched unnaturally long. Your gloved hands began to sweat. You could feel your pulse hammering against your neck.

Why did he bring you here?

Why now?

The last time you were this close to him, he had barked at you in front of everyone—commanding you like some pawn on his board.

But this was different. This…was private. Personal.

You dared to speak. “ Sir…you called for me?”

Slowly, the Frontman turned. His black mask stared at you—void of expression, yet somehow burning with something deep. Something raw. He took one slow step toward you. Then another. Each footfall sounded louder in your ears than your own breath.

“ I don’t like sharing.” He said, voice low, rough, edged with a simmering possessiveness.

You took a step back. He advanced again—calm, composed, but there was tension in every movement. Like a man struggling to leash a beast inside him.

“ You let that bastard touch you.”

“ I didn’t.” You whispered. “ You saw it. I didn’t even flinch.”

“ But he wanted you to.” His voice dropped. A growl beneath the mask.

Your breath hitched. He stood right in front of you now—so close that you could smell the faint scent of cologne on his coat. One of his gloved hands reached up…and hovered at your throat. Not touching. Not yet. But you could feel it there.

“ You don’t get it, do you?” He murmured.

“ You walk around like a ghost, but the moment someone else looks at you, touches you, wants you—” He snapped his gloved fingers once, sharply, like breaking glass in silence.

“ I see red.” You stayed silent, lips parted, lungs struggling for calm breath.

He raised his hand again, slower this time, and gently tugged at your uniform collar—just enough to break the professionalism. Just enough to remind you: he could strip you of this role in a second.

Your voice came out shaky. “ What’s the task…sir?” His fingers lingered on your throat now, pressing lightly. Not choking. Just owning.

His head tilted. “ I told you.” He whispered, stepping even closer, until your back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go.

“ You’re here because I don’t like sharing.” And in the silence that followed, your body betrayed you—tense and hot, blood roaring in your ears, breath shallow against your own will.

You were no longer a servant here. You were prey in his den.

…

The room was dim—just the soft flicker of amber light coming from the lamp near his desk. Shadows curled on the walls like smoke, wrapping the place in quiet danger. The Frontman sat back in his black leather chair, legs wide apart, posture dripping with dominance. His mask lifted slightly on his face, revealing the hard lines of his jaw and the exhaustion etched in the set of his mouth. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving you.

“ Come here.” He said, voice low, gravelly.

“ Sit on my lap.” Your breath caught. You stood frozen in place, eyes darting to the glass in his hand, then back to the sharp glint in his eyes.

“ W-What…?” You stammered, nervous fingers curling at your sides. His brow twitched. Annoyance flickered across his face. He didn’t like repeating himself. You knew that.

“ I said sit. On. My. Lap.” His tone was firmer now, slow and dangerous like a blade being drawn.

“ I don’t have the patience to beg for obedience. Not tonight.”

You swallowed hard, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as you stepped forward—hesitantly, as if approaching a predator. Your knees brushed the inside of his thighs as you climbed over and finally settled on him. His legs were strong and wide under you, and the heat radiating off his body felt like fire through your clothes. His arm lazily draped around your waist, pulling you in flush against him, his fingers dragging up your spine like he was playing with prey.

“ Good girl.” He muttered, voice low against your ear.

“ Now do what you’re told. Make me forget today.” You could smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the tension in his muscles beneath you.

Your lips parted as you looked into his eyes—burning, unreadable, dark. You started to move, slowly, testing the waters. His hand gripped your hip hard, making you gasp.

“ No hesitation.” He warned.

“ You wanted to play with fire. Now burn for me.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered filth and praise in equal measure. His other hand trailed up your thigh, rough and deliberate, dragging every nerve in your body into awareness.

“ You’ll take my stress.” He murmured, voice thick and deep.

“ Every ounce of it. And I won’t stop until you do.” His eyes locked on yours, daring you to disappoint him.

You sat nervously on his lap, trying to calm your frantic heartbeat. The cold sheen of your mask barely hid the crimson heat spreading across your cheeks. His body was all tension and heat beneath you—coiled like a beast, dangerous even in stillness.

You cleared your throat, unsure, your voice barely a whisper. “ W-What…what should I do to help you relax…?”

The air stilled for a second. Then a dark chuckle echoed through the chamber. His mechanical voice activated as his finger tapped the side of his throat, the modulator kicking in with that deep, distorted rasp that made your core tighten. It rumbled through the air like thunder licking down your spine.

“ What should you do?” He repeated, mockingly slow.

“ Tsk.” He leaned back a little, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his free hand spreading wider on your waist.

“ That’s the question you’re going to ask me? Really?” He scoffed under his breath—cold, amused, cruel.

“ You’re the one warming my lap, sweetheart. You figure it out.” He tilted his head slightly, voice lowering into something dark and thick.

“ Or do you need a manual for that too?” Before you could respond, he shifted under you—just slightly.

But it was enough. You stiffened when you felt it. The distinct, undeniable hardness pressing against your thigh. A thick silence fell between the two of you. Your breath caught in your throat, hands digging into the fabric of his suit jacket for balance. Your legs tensed, body unsure if it wanted to recoil or melt into him. Heat bloomed in your stomach, hot and inexplicable, curling into a sensation you couldn’t name but didn’t want to stop. Your thighs squeezed involuntarily.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“ Ah…” He murmured.

“ So you do feel it.” His voice was like gravel dipped in honey.

“ Blushing under that little mask of yours?” His hand slid up, fingertips teasing your side through your thin blouse. He leaned in, breath ghosting the edge of your ear through your mask.

“ I can feel how warm you’re getting.” His voice was laced with a cruel smile.

“ You’re trying so hard not to squirm.” He placed his glass down with a soft clink, freeing both hands now as one gripped your hip and the other traced the curve of your back—slow, possessive.

“ So…” He murmured, dragging the question back to you.

“ What are you going to do…to help me relax?”

This time, it wasn’t sarcastic. It was a command. You swallowed thickly, struggling to hold his gaze even though your face was masked—somehow, you knew he was reading everything underneath it.

“ I…I don’t know…” You whispered honestly, your voice trembling as your fingers clutched his suit jacket tighter.

“ I-I could…give you a massage?” For a second, there was silence.

Then—a growl. Low. Deep. Dangerous. It rumbled from his throat, the mechanical modulator twisting the sound into something darker, feral. His grip on your waist tightened, and he leaned in close until his breath ghosted over your cheek.

“ A massage?” He repeated, a cruel smirk in his voice.

“ That’s what you offer me?” Another guttural chuckle slipped from his chest.

“ You think my stress is on my shoulders?” Before you could stammer out a reply, he grabbed your wrist—his fingers firm, possessive, leaving no room for resistance.

“ Let me show you exactly where it is.” He slowly dragged your hand across his chest—gliding over the firm plane of muscle beneath his shirt, letting you feel the heat of his body, the power held just under the surface.

Your fingertips brushed against his heartbeat, strong and steady. Then he kept moving your hand lower. Past the buttons of his vest. Down the firm ridges of his abs.

Lower. Your breath hitched—panic, heat, anticipation all tangled up inside you. You felt the shift in his body, the tension building like a storm waiting to break. Then—your hand brushed against it. Your fingers froze. Hard. Heavy. Thick. You gasped audibly.

Your body went rigid on his lap, thighs tensing around him as your masked face whipped up toward his—only to find his gaze already pinned on you like a predator savoring the moment prey realizes it’s too late to run.

“ Feel that?” He murmured, his voice pure gravel and fire.

“ That’s what you do to me.” He didn’t release your hand. Instead, he guided it—pressing your palm firmer against the bulge straining beneath his slacks, forcing you to really feel the weight of his arousal.

“ All this…built up from watching you squirm. From waiting for you to stop pretending you’re innocent.” His other hand slid up your spine, fingers curling possessively into your hair, gripping the back of your head as he leaned in closer.

“ You wanted to help me relax?” He rasped.

“ Then use those pretty little hands…and make yourself useful.”

Your head lowered instinctively, eyes dropping to his lap as the heat in your body fought with the cold hesitation crawling down your spine. Your hands, still resting against his chest, began to tremble. You didn’t move right away. You knew what he wanted—but your breath came shallow, and your nerves made your limbs heavy. Then suddenly—his gloved finger slipped under your chin, lifting your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

That look. Dark. Intense. Completely in control. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His dominance was carved in his gaze alone.

“ Look at me.” He growled, the modulated voice echoing with dangerous calm.

“ I told you to relieve me. I didn’t say sit there and think about it.” His hand tilted your chin just a little higher.

“ On your knees.” He commanded.

“ Now. Open that pretty little mouth and make yourself useful.”

A hard swallow passed down your throat. Your core pulsed from the weight of his command. You couldn’t speak—only managed to nod shakily. You slid down from his lap slowly, eyes never leaving his, knees pressing into the cold floor between his spread legs.

Your breath quivered as you settled between his thighs. You didn’t dare rush. You didn’t dare disobey. Your trembling fingers reached forward—hesitating at his belt. The silver buckle glinted under the low light. With careful hands, you worked it loose. The metal clinked softly, loud in the heavy silence between you.

He watched every move.

“ You’re shaking..” He muttered, voice low and cruel.

“ Are you scared? Or are you just that turned on?” The zipper came next. You pulled it down slowly, your fingers grazing the heat beneath.

“ Take it out.” He ordered.

“ Show me how that mouth of yours can be good for something other than stuttering.” He sat back, arms draped along the chair’s rests, wide-legged, powerful—waiting.

His eyes burned down at you. “ Go on.”

He whispered, voice dark with hunger. “ Relieve my fucking stress…with your throat.”

Your hands trembled as you peeled back the waistband of his slacks, heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else out.

The heat radiating off of him was suffocating—thick, dominant, intoxicating. He leaned forward slightly, watching your every breath, every twitch of your fingers like a lion eyeing its prey just before pouncing. When you finally freed him, your breath caught in your throat.

Thick. Hard. Heavy in your trembling hands. His cock pulsed in your palm, already aching, already demanding. You stared for a second too long. He noticed. His gloved hand tangled into your hair and yanked your head back just enough to make your lips part with a gasp, the pressure deliciously sharp on your scalp.

“ What are you waiting for?” He growled, voice thick with menace and desire, distorted perfectly through the mechanical filter.

“ You wanted to help me relax, didn’t you? Then stop fucking staring at it and use that mouth.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he guided you forward—slow, controlled and making you feel every inch of his power, even without saying a word. Your lips barely brushed his tip and he hissed through clenched teeth.

“ Open…” He ordered, voice deep, commanding.

“ Wider. Let me see how good that mouth looks stuffed full of me.”

You obeyed—slowly, nervously—and wrapped your lips around him, taking in his heat, his weight. The moment you did, his fingers clenched tighter in your hair.

“ Fuck, that’s it…” He groaned low, voice laced with dangerous satisfaction.

“ That mouth was made for this.” He started to guide your head, slow at first but firm. Controlling your pace. Letting you adjust only for a moment.

“ Relax that throat.” He warned, watching you closely.

“ I want to feel it. All of it.” You gagged slightly as he pushed deeper—but he didn’t stop. His hips rolled forward, making you take more, his free hand gripping the armrest while the other held your hair like reins.

“ Such a pretty little toy.” He gritted out.

“ On your knees, mouth full of cock, eyes all teary—fuck, I could keep you here all night.” His pace grew hungrier. Rougher.

“ You like being used like this, don’t you?” He rasped.

“ I can feel you squirming down there. Pathetic and soaked—just from sucking me off. That’s how filthy you are.”

The sounds of wetness, his ragged breaths, and your muffled whimpers echoed through the dim room, merging into a raw symphony of dominance and submission.

“ You’re going to swallow every drop.” He warned darkly, his voice vibrating with the edge of a growl.

“ Not a single drop wasted. Understand?”

His hips snapped once—deeper. Harder. The storm inside him was close to breaking. His grip in your hair tightened as he rocked his hips with slow, punishing force—each thrust deeper than the last, each movement pushing you further into submission. Your hands clutched his thighs, desperate for balance as your mouth stretched to take him.

“ Fuck, baby.” He growled, voice thick with filth and hunger.

“ You’re taking it so well. Drooling all over my cock like you need this. Like you were fucking made for it.”

His mechanical voice rasped every word with delicious, distorted power, making it echo inside your skull, straight down your spine. You couldn’t respond—not with your mouth so full, not with his thickness hitting the back of your throat. He looked down at you, eyes blazing.

“ Look at you…” He hissed.

“ On your knees for me. My perfect little stress relief. You don’t even realize how fucking good you look like this, do you?”

You whimpered as he pushed deeper, hitting your throat with a groan that told you he was close. His thighs flexed under your hands, his abs tightening with restraint he was fast losing.

“ You feel that?” He gritted.

“ That twitch? I’m about to fucking ruin that throat, baby.” His fingers fisted harder in your hair as his hips snapped one last time—deep, hard, buried.

Then he came. Hot, thick, and overwhelming. He groaned low and filthy, head dropping back as his release spilled into your mouth in heavy, pulsing waves. His jaw clenched, muscles taut with relief and raw satisfaction.

“ Fuck yes…” He growled through clenched teeth.

“ Take it. Swallow it all, like the good little thing you are.”

You did—barely able to breathe, barely able to process the intensity of it all. It dripped from your lips, down your chin, and he watched every second of it with dark, hooded eyes. He finally released your hair, breathing heavy, sweat dotting his temples. His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“ You did so fucking well for me.” He murmured, voice still low and rough, no modulation now.

“ My sweet little mess. My perfect little mouth.” He smirked.

“ Next time, don’t hesitate.” His thumb dragged your bottom lip down slowly, exposing the glisten on your tongue.

“ I always reward obedience.” His breathing was still steadying from the climax, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. Not even a little. You were still on your knees, breathless, lips swollen, trembling slightly. You thought he might give you a moment to catch your breath. He didn’t.

“ Stand up.” He said, voice commanding—raw and dry, no modulation this time, just the full force of his tone.

“ Now strip.” Your heart jolted.

You hesitated, brows furrowed behind your mask. “ W-What? But—”

“ Did I stutter?” He cut you off coldly, his voice sharp as a blade. His eyes narrowed.

“ When I give an order, I don’t need commentary. I want you naked. On your feet. Now.” That tone—firm, cutting, possessive—left no space for argument.

You bit your lip, swallowing the words forming in your throat, and slowly rose to your feet. Your fingers went to the buttons of your uniform, reluctant at first. You undid them one by one under his unrelenting gaze, your breath catching with every inch of skin exposed. The fabric slipped off your shoulders and hit the floor. Now bare before him, your arms instinctively wrapped around yourself, heat flushing over every inch of your body.

“ Don’t hide.” He growled.

“ I want to see everything.” He reached for you again—his strong hands gripped your waist and dragged you back into his lap, this time with skin-on-skin heat that made your breath catch. You straddled him again, thighs spread over his, flushed bare against the fabric of his open pants.

“ You feel that?” He muttered, his hands sliding up your hips to your back, palm pressed to your spine.

“ That’s how real I want this to be.” Then his hand moved to your wrist and guided it toward the buttons of his uniform.

“ Your turn.” He rasped.

“ Take it off. Just the top.” You swallowed, nodding once, and your fingers started undoing the sleek black buttons of his uniform jacket, one by one.

His chest slowly came into view—taut muscles, a trail of hair, the hard shape of control sculpted by stress and power. He let out a low groan as your hands moved over his chest, palms dragging against his skin.

“ Slow…that’s right.” He breathed, voice dark and simmering.

“ Those hands are good for more than obeying—they’re good for worshipping, too.” Then your fingers moved to the sides of his mask.

You paused, just for a second. He didn’t stop you. With trembling hands, you lifted the mask up—slowly, cautiously. You peeled it away from his face, inch by inch. And there he was. The man behind the voice, the mask, the control. His eyes—sharp, heavy-lidded, unreadable. His jaw—tense but so devastatingly handsome.

A scar marked his cheek, subtle but jagged, like it had a story you'd never been told. He didn’t flinch. He just stared at you as you took in every detail, as if daring you to say a word.

“ So…” He murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

“ Was it worth the wait?” His hand moved to your throat—gentle, but firm—guiding your eyes back to his.

“ Now that you’ve seen the face…show me how much you want it.” Your body was trembling in his lap—bare, straddling him, skin flush against skin.

Your fingers still lingered near the edges of his discarded mask, heart pounding as you stared into the face that had haunted your curiosity for so long. But the look he gave you now was something else entirely—possessive, ravenous, and maddeningly in control. He leaned back, his hands gripping your hips as his cock, still thick and hard, pressed against your soaked folds. You gasped at the contact—hot, intimate, and maddening.

But he didn’t push in. He just slid it there. Back and forth. Teasing. Dragging his length along your dripping slit, letting the swollen head glide against your clit with slow, deliberate pressure. You whimpered, hips twitching.

“ Fuck, baby…” He growled, eyes locked on you.

“ You’re soaked. Absolutely dripping. Look at you—such a needy little thing sitting on me like that.” His voice was low, dark velvet against your ears.

“ But you don’t get to have me. Not yet.” He rolled his hips just enough to make you grind against him—your slick folds coating his length, but still denying you that final inch.

That stretch. That fullness.

“ You feel that?” He murmured, one hand sliding up to your lower back, the other gripping your thigh hard.

“ Feel how close I am to burying myself inside this tight, wet little cunt? But I won’t. Not yet.” You whimpered again, grinding down instinctively. He held you still.

“ Easy, sweetheart…” He warned, voice thick with lust and amusement.

“ You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.” He shifted slightly beneath you again, sliding his length along your slit, letting the head tease your entrance, then moving it back up to your clit—slow, torturous friction that made you shudder.

“ God, you’re so fucking soft…” He whispered.

“ So wet for me. Just sitting here leaking all over my cock, like a good little mess.” He kissed your neck—open-mouthed, warm, letting his teeth scrape just slightly.

“ You want it, don’t you?” He rasped into your skin.

“ You want Daddy to fill this sweet little hole and stretch you open ‘til you forget your name.” You nodded desperately, hips twitching again. He chuckled darkly, gripping your ass to still you.

“ I love when you’re like this.” He breathed.

“ All obedient and ruined, just for me. My perfect little doll.” Then he slid the head down again, pressing—just barely—against your entrance.

So close. But not inside.

“ Beg for it, baby.” He whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“ Beg Daddy to break you open.”

You could barely breathe. Your thighs were trembling, your body trembling even harder as his cock continued to glide against your soaked folds—hot, heavy, teasing you to the edge of madness. Then—

With one slow, unforgiving push…

He entered you. Thick. Deep. Stretching you open inch by inch, forcing your walls to accommodate every part of him. You gasped—a strangled whimper escaping your lips as your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in instinctively.

“ Fuuuck…” He growled low into your neck, the sound gritty and feral.

“ So fucking tight…I can feel you clenching already, baby.” He didn’t move fast—he didn’t need to. He wanted you to feel everything.

He pulled back slowly, only to push back in just as deep, just as slow—grinding against that tender spot inside you that made your whole body jolt. Your legs locked around him. Your head fell into the crook of his neck, whimpering helplessly as your nails sank deeper into his back. He groaned—rough and low—both from the sting and the pleasure of you wrapped around him like a vice.

“ Mark me all you want, sweetheart.” He murmured darkly.

“ Scratch me. Bruise me. I want to wear your desperation.” Then he dipped his head to your chest, lips wrapping around your breast—hot tongue swirling, sucking hard until your back arched. You gasped, body quaking at the sudden heat of his mouth.

He groaned against your skin, his voice muffled by your flesh. “ These tits…fuck, I could stay here all night.”

Each slow thrust was calculated—deep and claiming—his hips rolling with relentless precision, making you take every inch of him.

“ Look at you.” He whispered between kisses to your breast.

“ Whimpering like a good little slut…dripping on my cock… clinging to me like you’ll fall apart if I stop.”

Your head lolled back from the pleasure, nails dragging down his back, leaving angry red lines he didn’t shy away from. If anything, it made him thrust deeper.

“ You were made for this.” He grunted.

“ Made to ride me. To take me. To serve me.” He bit gently at your nipple, sucking hard enough to leave it swollen and marked, and you moaned—high and broken. He reached up, cupping the back of your head, guiding your face close until your noses brushed.

“ I want to ruin this pretty body slowly.” He whispered, grinding up into you with heat that stole your breath.

“ Until every inch of you knows it belongs to me.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter—possessive, rough, fingers digging deep into your skin as he thrust up into you with slow, brutal force. Each roll of his hips filled you to the hilt, grinding against that aching spot inside you that had you crying out in broken, breathless sounds.

“ Fuck, baby.” He groaned into your neck, voice thick and ragged.

“ You take me so deep…wrapped around me like you were made for my cock.” Your body trembled against him, nails still clawing his shoulders, your lips parted with helpless whimpers each time he sank into you again.

Slow. Hard. Relentless. Every movement deliberate—every thrust meant to make you feel it.

“ Look at this tight little cunt.” He growled, biting your earlobe before dragging his tongue down your throat.

“ So warm…so wet…fuckin’ pulsing around me like she knows exactly who she belongs to.” You moaned, desperate, hips rocking into him on instinct, chasing every deep grind of his cock. His breath hitched near your ear, voice dipping lower—tainted with something darker.

“ You need to stay the fuck away from that damn Wolf VIP.” He said, voice seething between filthy thrusts.

“ I see the way he looks at you—touches you. I swear, baby, I’m one second away from putting him down for good.” You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice, the heat of his words slicing into your core.

“ I-I will.” You whispered breathlessly.

“ I promise—please, Daddy…” That word made him snap his hips harder—deep, possessive, brutal in the way he drove himself into you.

“ Good fuckin’ girl.” He groaned, hand moving to your lower back, pushing you down to take him even deeper.

“ You belong to me. Say it.”

“ I-I’m yours!” You cried, choking on a sob as your body clamped around him.

“ Only yours, Daddy!”

“ That’s right.” He growled, pounding into you with feral purpose now, his breath turning harsh as his control unraveled.

“ And this cunt—this perfect little cunt—is mine to fill. To stretch. To breed.” You cried out, your body arching into him as he shoved you closer to the edge with each deep, deliberate thrust.

“ You’re gonna take it.” He panted, hips slamming up with a heavy rhythm.

“ Gonna let me fuck you full. Gonna keep every drop I give you, baby girl.” Your walls fluttered around him, soaking, desperate, and he felt every twitch.

“ Oh, yeah…you’re close, aren’t you?” He whispered darkly.

“ Wanna come all over Daddy’s cock while he fills you up, huh?” You nodded frantically, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

“ That’s it.” He groaned, his hands gripping you tighter as he drove up into you one last time—deep, hard, possessive.

“ You’re gonna take my fuckin’ cum, baby. Every last drop. And you’re not letting it go.” He bit down on your neck, muffling his growl as he came—hot and thick, spilling deep inside you while your walls clenched and pulsed, milking him for everything.

You clung to him like you were drowning, trembling from the high as his arms wrapped around you and held you there—still buried inside, still pulsing with heat and rage and love twisted into obsession.

“ You’re mine.” He whispered into your skin.

“ And I don’t fucking share.”

…

The aftershocks still rippled through your body, your thighs twitching around him as you clung to his shoulders, breathless and overwhelmed. His cock was still buried deep inside you—thick, hard, pulsing with possessive heat even after he’d filled you completely.

But he didn’t pull out. No. He kept you there. Held in place by the iron grip of his arms around your waist and the subtle rock of his hips, just enough to remind you—you weren’t going anywhere.

“ Stay right there.” He murmured against your neck, lips brushing over your skin, voice lower now but still steeped in dominance.

“ Keep me inside you, baby.” You whimpered, soft and submissive, and nodded into his shoulder. Your walls fluttered weakly around him, trying to adjust to the fullness that remained. He smirked.

“ Still so tight.” He whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other resting possessively over your lower back.

“ Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go. Just like you should.” Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes—his gaze sharp and full of dark satisfaction. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he brought your mouth to his.

The kiss was slow. Hot. Claiming. His lips moved over yours with a mix of sweetness and control, his tongue parting your lips as he explored your mouth with dominance that didn’t fade, even in tenderness. He kissed like he fucked—with intention.

“ You feel that?” He whispered between kisses, rocking his hips once—just a subtle grind that made you gasp softly.

“ That’s me inside you. Still hard. Still fucking owning you.” You whimpered into his mouth, hands sliding up to cup his face, your forehead pressed to his. The intimacy made your chest ache.

“ I love when you’re like this.” He murmured.

“ Full. Warm. Wrapped around me. Like my perfect little cockwarmer.” He pressed another kiss to your lips—then to your jaw, your throat, the top of your breast. His voice turned into a low purr.

“ You’re not getting up yet.” He said, kissing the side of your neck.

“ We’re staying like this…until I’m ready for you to take me again.” You squirmed slightly, hips twitching from the overstimulation—but he only tightened his grip on you and growled in your ear.

“ Ah, ah…” He warned, tone dipping into that delicious edge of authority. “ Don’t move unless I tell you to, baby girl. You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“ Yes…” You whispered breathlessly.

He smiled, dark and full of hunger. “ Then keep me warm. Be still. And let Daddy enjoy his favorite place in the world…”

Another slow grind. “ Right inside his pretty little toy.”

Still buried deep inside you, he shifted beneath you, his arms slipping under your thighs and back. Without pulling out—without losing that intimate, hot connection—he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

You gasped softly, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as you felt him still thick and hard inside you, your slickness making each step he took a sensual, unbearable ache. Your body clung to him, tender and trembling. He walked across the room, quiet but commanding, eyes locked on yours.

“ You’re not getting off my cock.” He said lowly, firmly, voice brushing your ear like silk over fire. “ Not until I say so.”

The bed creaked softly as he laid you down, still straddling him, still filled, your body stretched open and trembling from the fullness. He hovered over you for a moment—watching, studying your face.

Then, softly. “ Was I…too harsh earlier?”

You blinked up at him, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. You nodded slightly, lips parting to speak, but you didn’t have to. He sighed, head lowering to your chest, resting against the swell of your breast. His breath was warm against your skin.

“ I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice gravelly but sincere.

“ I lost control when I saw that bastard looking at you…like you were something he could touch.” He inhaled deeply.

“ I should’ve handled it better. I just—fuck, you’re mine.” Your fingers drifted into his hair, slow and gentle, combing through the thick strands without thinking. His eyes fluttered shut as he melted into the touch, and then—

He purred. A low, deep vibration resonated from his chest, sending tremors across your skin and down your spine. The sound was primal, raw, almost involuntary. It rumbled right through your breastbone where he lay, and you shivered from the sensation.

“ You feel that?” He whispered against your skin.

“ You’re the only one who gets this part of me. The only one I ever let this close.” He nuzzled into your chest, cock twitching slightly inside you, still hot and snug in your folds, your body clinging around him.

“ You’re my good girl.” He breathed, letting the praise roll off his tongue.

“ So sweet. So perfect. Even after I was rough with you…you still let me stay inside. Still touch me like that.”

You felt his lips graze your skin, and then a soft, broken whisper. “ Tell me I can stay like this.”

A pause. “ Tell me you want me to stay…inside.”

He wasn’t commanding now. He was yearning. Begging—not with words alone, but with the way he clung to you, the way he pressed his hips slightly forward to feel your warmth around him, like he didn’t want to leave your body, your softness, your heart.

And he whispered, like a confession.

“ Let me stay in you, baby…let me feel like I belong.” You stayed connected for what felt like forever—his cock still deep inside, your bodies molded together, breath syncing in a quiet rhythm.

His head rested against your chest, and your fingers lazily combed through his hair, the silence between you thick with something more than lust—something aching. But eventually, he shifted. With a soft groan, he slowly began to pull out of you.

You whimpered, your body instinctively clenching, not wanting to lose the warmth, the fullness. He hissed low between his teeth as your walls gripped him one last time.

“ Fuck, baby…even now, you don’t wanna let me go.” He leaned back just slightly to look at your center, where his release had begun to drip from your sore folds.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then—smack. You gasped as he slapped the length of his cock against your soaked entrance, the wet sound echoing lewdly in the room. Your hips flinched, still sensitive, and he chuckled darkly, teasing your folds again with the tip.

“ Messy little thing.” He murmured.

“ Leaking everything Daddy gave you…” Then, slow and deliberate, he pushed just the tip inside—enough to scoop his cum back into your swollen, used entrance.

“ Can’t waste it.” He whispered.

“ Need it all back where it belongs.” You whimpered, your body trembling from the overstimulation, and he finally pulled away fully.

He stood up—quiet, focused—and disappeared into the bathroom. You laid there breathless, thighs sticky, skin flushed and trembling until you heard him return.

A warm, damp cloth in hand. He knelt between your legs, and with slow, tender movements, began to clean you. He was careful. Gentle. Reverent, even, like your body was something sacred. You whimpered softly as the cloth brushed your sore folds. His other hand came to rest on your thigh, stroking softly.

“ I know, baby.” He whispered.

“ You’re sore…I was too rough.” You shook your head weakly, eyes hazy. But he only hushed you, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your knee.

“ You were perfect for me.” He murmured.

“ You took everything I gave you like my good little girl. I’m proud of you.”

When he finished, he climbed back into the bed beside you. He pulled the sheets over your legs before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into him, body to body, skin to skin. His fingers found yours and interlocked with them—tight, grounding. Then he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, lips warm and soft against your skin. He began to kiss it slowly, nipping with just enough pressure to leave a faint mark.

A memory. A warning. A claim.

“ Mine.” He whispered between kisses.

“ Always mine.” You could feel his breath against your skin, his words sliding beneath it.

“ I won’t let anyone take you from me.” He murmured.

“ Not that bastard VIP. Not anyone.” His voice softened, low and broken in your ear as his hand squeezed yours.

“ You’re the only peace I’ve got in this place…and I’ll burn it all down before I let anyone else touch what’s mine.” He kissed your neck again, slower now. Reverent.

“ I’ll keep you safe.” He promised. “ Even if I have to destroy everything to do it.”

The room had quieted, bathed only in the low, amber light from the corner lamp. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, but beneath that—something softer lingered now.

Devotion. Obsession. A kind of intimacy that stripped away the harsh mask he always wore. He was still holding you. Fingers interlocked. Breath steady against your neck. His cock no longer inside you, but his presence was buried even deeper—in your bones, your chest, your soul. You felt him press another kiss behind your ear, his lips barely brushing the skin.

“ Do you feel it?” He whispered, voice low and husky. “ Right here…”

He pressed his palm flat against your stomach. “ Me. Still inside you. So full of me, baby.”

You whimpered quietly, your body aching but warm—too sensitive to move, too his to care. He buried his face deeper into your neck, inhaling you like he needed it to breathe. The possessiveness never faded—it just softened at the edges.

“ Fuck…” He murmured.

“ I hate how much I need you.” He shifted slightly, wrapping an arm under your shoulders as if to cage you in completely. His thumb brushed over your knuckles slowly, again and again.

“ You don’t get it, do you?” His voice cracked just slightly.

“ You’re the only thing that keeps me from turning into something worse. The only thing I can touch that doesn’t feel filthy.” He paused. You felt the tension build in his jaw as it rested against your neck.

“ I see them look at you.” He muttered.

“ Those sick fucks…the way they smile at you like you’re some kind of toy they’re allowed to play with.” You squeezed his hand gently. He didn’t look at you—but his grip tightened around you like he might never let go.

“ I’ll kill for you.” He said flatly.

“ Without hesitation. If any of them even breathe too close, I’ll make them disappear, baby girl. You hear me?” You nodded against him, pressing your lips softly to his temple.

“ I know.” You whispered. He exhaled, almost shaking. Then pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes.

“ No matter what happens here…no matter what I do, or how dark this place gets—you stay mine. Say it.”

“ I’m yours.” You whispered without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tremble in your thighs, the soreness between your legs, and the warmth still pooling inside you. His eyes darkened with something deep and unspoken—need, relief, madness, love. All tangled together.

“ I don’t care how many rules I have to break.” He whispered.

“ I don’t care what mask I have to wear… I’ll always come back to this—to you.” And then he kissed you—slow, searing. His lips molded to yours like they were claiming territory all over again.

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask. It took. And promised everything in silence.

Author's Note:

Welcome to the another episode of " What the fuck did I just write?" So yeah, another one-shot story of In-ho.

The story is a dark theme. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18.

All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life.

READ WITH RESPONSIBLY.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

ALL I NEED TO HEAR || InHun

" So tell me you love me 'cause that's all that I need to hear."

Summary: There are moments when silence feels like the only escape, especially when your heart screams every time they’re near. You try to forget, to erase the way they’ve etched themselves into your soul, but it's like their name is carved into every part of you that still dares to feel. You settle into the shadows, watching them with quiet longing, pretending that distance is enough. But your heart betrays you—it wants more.

It always wants more. Loving them is effortless. But trying to let go? It feels like dying slowly, one breath at a time. You ache to be seen, to be heard, to matter. But fear holds you hostage—the fear that if they ever knew the truth, they’d walk away without looking back. All you’ve ever wanted were the words that never came:

“ I love you.”

“ I choose you.” But maybe they were never meant for you.

Warnings: A little angsty and fluffy. Make sure you have a tissue nearby in case you start crying.

College AU!

CHAPTER 01

The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting a golden hue over the campus. The smell of tteokbokki and hot odeng broth wafted through the cool air as you and Gi-hun stood in front of your favorite street food stall near the back gate. You took a sip from your cup of fishcake soup, steam curling up into the early evening.

“ You know Chaeyoung from my Marketing class?” You began.

Gi-hun raised a brow as he bit into a hot mandu. “ The one with the pink tablet and the suspiciously perfect handwriting?”

“ Yeah, her.” You leaned closer like you were about to drop state secrets. “ She said her cousin saw us the other day and thought we were dating.”

Gi-hun choked on his bite and started coughing between loud laughs. “ Again?! That’s like the fourth time this month. I swear, people need glasses or a reality check.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “ Can you blame them? You do have that stupid face card going on for you. The charm. The fake humility. The hair you pretend not to style.”

He gave you a mock offended look, flipping his imaginary long hair. “ Wow, not even denying I’m charming? You’ve changed. You used to be humble.”

“ I’ve evolved.” You shot back, nudging him with your elbow. “ Anyway, you’re too high-maintenance for me.”

Gi-hun gasped, placing a hand over his chest. “ I cook instant ramyeon perfectly, excuse you. I’d be the dream boyfriend.”

You both laughed, the kind of unfiltered sound only possible between two people who had weathered years together. Since elementary, through awkward pubescent years, breakups, lost pets, failed group projects, and now—college. Different majors, same hearts.

“ Hey…” Gi-hun said suddenly, a little softer now as he looked at you over his stick of fishcake.

“ You know I’m proud of you, right?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “ What for?”

“ Everything.” He shrugged. “ Balancing a full Business course load, and still finding time to listen to my rants about engine dynamics and my terrible drawings of circuit diagrams. You’re…you’re kind of incredible.”

You nudged his shoulder again, but this time it was gentler. “ You’re not so bad yourself, Gi-hun. You’re smart—even if you do act like a dumbass 70% of the time. And no matter what’s wrong with you—and there are a few things.”

You teased. “ You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”

Gi-hun didn’t say anything for a beat. He just smiled—genuinely, warmly. “ Me neither.”

The two of you stood there, side by side, the hum of campus life around you. Maybe to the rest of the world, you looked like a couple. But to the both of you?

It was something even deeper.

Home.

…

The night breeze carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and engine oil, the sound of cars mixed with footsteps and the occasional street chatter. Neon lights flickered softly above as you and Gi-hun walked side by side down the familiar path home.

“ She did it again.” Gi-hun whined, dragging out the syllables like a toddler denied a snack.

“ My eomma stormed into my room and said it looked like a garbage dump! Garbage, can you believe that? I cleaned it the other day!”

You stifled a laugh but failed miserably. “ Maybe because your version of cleaning is just moving the pile from one corner to another.”

He shot you a glare. “ I reorganized! There was a system! Dirty socks in one pile, random wires in another.”

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “ Wow, truly an engineer’s logic. You should write a thesis on that—‘The Architectural Brilliance of Sock Piles in Shared Living Spaces’.”

Gi-hun frowned dramatically. “ This is bullying.” Still grinning, you didn’t notice when he suddenly snatched your bag.

“ Hey!” You reached up, trying to grab it back, but he lifted it higher, well out of your reach. “ Gi-hun, what the hell?!”

“ I’m being a gentleman.” He said matter-of-factly, swinging the bag over his shoulder like it was nothing. “ You’re tired. And your bag’s heavy. Let me do this noble thing, please.”

You squinted at him. “ You never do noble things without a reason. What do you want?”

He gasped in mock offense. “ Excuse me?! Can’t a guy be chivalrous?”

You raised a brow. “ Says the same guy who laughed when I tripped over my own foot last week instead of helping me up.”

Gi-hun clutched his stomach and started laughing again, almost stumbling from the memory. “ I did help after laughing! That’s what best friends do—laugh first, then help. It’s the law.”

You lightly punched his arm. “ Idiot.” He winced dramatically and laughed louder, then threw his arm around your shoulder as the two of you kept walking.

“ You should just accept I’m your built-in gym partner now. This bag is a legit workout.” You glared at him, and he only grinned wider, completely unfazed.

Then came the inevitable: ruffle, ruffle.

“ Ugh, Gi-hun!” You groaned as his hand aggressively tousled your hair. “ Stop it!”

“ You’re cute.” He said in a sweet, high-pitched voice, clearly mocking but somehow genuine. You pinched his side in revenge.

“ Ow! Okay, okay—I deserved that.” He wheezed, laughing again.

Eventually, you turned the final corner to your neighborhood. The soft jingle of your dog’s collar echoed before the excited barking did. Bluey came bounding toward the gate as if he hadn’t seen you in years—but bypassed you entirely to leap at Gi-hun.

“ Yah!” You shouted in disbelief. “ Bluey! I’m the one who feeds you!”

Gi-hun laughed hysterically as Bluey licked his face like he was some kind of dog king. “ Told you. He knows who his favorite is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “ Traitor dog.”

Even your attempts to call Bluey over were met with disinterest. Meanwhile, Gi-hun was basking in the canine affection like it was a victory.

Eventually, he handed you your bag back with a soft smile. “ Eat on time, okay? And sleep early. You’ve got your early class tomorrow.”

You nodded, a little touched at his sudden gentle tone. “ Yeah, yeah. You too—don’t sleep at 3 AM again just to rewatch Gundam clips.”

He grinned. “ No promises.”

Then, arms wide open. “ Hug?”

You rolled your eyes but stepped into his embrace anyway, wrapping your arms around his torso. It felt familiar, safe.

“ Night, dummy.” You mumbled.

“ Night, nerd.” He replied.

You pulled away and stepped inside your gate. As you turned around to close it, Gi-hun was still there, waving his little cute wave—soft and goofy, the way he always did.

He didn’t leave until your front door clicked shut.

Like always.

…

You closed the door gently behind you, but the smile on your face lingered—soft and stubborn. Gi-hun’s wave, Bluey’s betrayal, his dumb jokes about gym workouts—everything still warmed your chest.

“ Welcome home.” Your mom called from the living room, looking up from folding laundry. Your dad, sitting on the couch scrolling through his tablet, glanced up too.

“ Gi-hun was with you again?” You paused mid-step, already sensing the change in air.

“ Yes.” You said calmly, slipping off your shoes. “ He walked me home.”

Your dad’s voice hardened. “ We’ve told you before—stop spending so much time with him.”

You blinked. “ Why? He’s my best friend.”

“ That’s not a good enough reason.” He snapped. “ You’re not kids anymore. It’s time you distance yourself.”

You set your bag down quietly and faced them, your voice steady. “ Gi-hun is part of my life. He’s always been. We've been together through everything. I’m not just going to end that friendship like it means nothing.”

“ He’s poor.” Your dad said bluntly, without shame.

“ And reckless. I saw how he influenced you back then. Sneaking out just to be with him? And don’t say it wasn’t because of him.”

Your jaw tensed. “ That was one time. And it wasn’t about him—it was about a friend’s birthday. You didn’t allow me to go, even when I asked properly. I just wanted to feel like a normal student, like the others.”

His eyes flared. “ How dare you talk like that to me?” Your breath hitched, your body freezing at the sharp shift.

He stood now, voice rising with every word. “ I’ve sacrificed everything to give you this life! And this is how you repay it—defending a boy who dragged you down instead of lifting you up? Do you think you know better than your own father?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You couldn’t believe how he twisted your words, flipping them like knives. Frustration welled up, your throat tightening, your eyes stinging.

“ I just…” You muttered, trying to steady your breath.

“ I don’t want to hurt someone who’s been nothing but good to me.”

Your mother suddenly stepped in, voice softer but firm. “ Enough, please.”

Both you and your father turned to look at her.

“ She’s not a child anymore.” Your mom said. “ And Gi-hun…he’s a good boy. I’ve seen the way he looks after her. That boy cares, even if he doesn’t have much.”

Your dad scoffed. “ That’s not the point.”

“ It is the point.” Your mom replied quietly. “ What matters is character. Not money. And I trust her to know who belongs in her life.”

He growled under his breath and stormed off toward their bedroom, muttering something you couldn’t hear. The door slammed a moment later. Your mom turned to you, her face soft and tired.

“ I’m sorry.” She said gently, walking toward you. You wiped the corner of your eye quickly, brushing off the warmth that escaped.

“ He just worries.” She added.

“ But sometimes he forgets that love doesn’t mean control.” You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Before she followed after your dad, she looked back at you with an apologetic gaze—a silent apology for the words she couldn’t unsay for him. And you stood there in the quiet hallway, the warmth from outside already fading…but something inside still holding strong. You knew who Gi-hun was. And you weren’t going to pretend otherwise.

…

The morning sun painted the sky with soft orange streaks, and the city was just starting to stir—cars honking lazily, the scent of bread wafting from nearby bakeries, and the occasional chirp of birds competing with traffic noise.

You stood by the familiar streetlamp post at the corner—the unofficial “meeting point” for you and Gi-hun ever since middle school. Your backpack hung lazily on one shoulder, and you rocked back and forth on your feet, glancing occasionally at the watch on your wrist. Just when you were about to sigh for the fifth time, you spotted him, your idiot best friend—sprinting from across the street.

“ Yah!” You shouted, squinting as he got closer.

His school uniform was a complete mess—shirt wrinkled like it came out of a tightly rolled burrito, and his tie was dangling around his neck like an afterthought. His hair was slightly damp, and his breath came in heavy pants as he finally stopped in front of you.

“ Sorry, sorry.” He huffed. “ Eomma asked me to help at the noodle shop. Delivery came late, and she needed someone tall and ‘strong’ to carry the sacks. Which is me, obviously.”

You crossed your arms dramatically. “ I’ve been waiting here for so long, Gi-hun. I think my feet are permanently damaged from standing still.”

He gave you a deadpan look, then flicked your forehead with zero remorse.

“ Ow!” You cried, rubbing the spot with a frown.

“ You’re being dramatic again.” He teased with a lopsided grin. “ Maybe you should audition for a drama series. I can already see you crying in slow motion while the camera zooms in.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but chose silence. Instead, you took a step closer, grabbed the lapel of his shirt, and started smoothing out the deep wrinkles.

Gi-hun froze. You worked carefully, hands brushing along the creases of his shirt, straightening the fabric like a routine—but he could barely breathe. Your fingers grazed his collar, and you lifted his crooked tie, looping it with ease like you’d done a hundred times before.

But this time felt…different. Gi-hun swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fact that you were barely inches from him, your eyes focused, your lips slightly pursed in concentration.

His heart? Pounding.

His brain? Mush.

“ Why are you staring at me like that?” You muttered without looking up.

“ I’m not.” He lied—his voice cracking slightly.

You pulled his tie a little too tight, making him gag comically. “ Before you enter the university gate, at least try to look presentable. No wonder the disciplinary officer keeps calling you out. You walk around like you lost a war with your closet.”

He groaned. “ They should be grateful that I even made it on time. I'm like…ninety percent noodle dust and zero sleep.”

This time, it was your turn. Flick.

“ Ow!” He winced, rubbing his forehead. “ Again?!”

“ You deserved it.” You said with a smirk.

Gi-hun rubbed his forehead, grumbling before mumbling, “ Thanks…for the tie. And the shirt. And, y’know, existing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “ Huh?"

He looked away and scratched his head. “ I mean—tying my tie. I can’t do it. I still don’t know how. Guess the universe knew I needed someone who could.”

You scoffed, shoving your hands into your pockets. “ The universe must be tired of saving your ass.” Gi-hun grinned and opened his mouth to say something witty, but you cut him off, already walking ahead.

“ If you don’t move your noodle-dusted self right now, we’re gonna be late.”

Gi-hun laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he jogged to catch up beside you. “ Yes, boss!”

And the two of you disappeared down the sidewalk together, sunlight trailing behind like it had always known your shadows belonged side by side.

…

The Engineering Department’s hallway buzzed with its usual energy—students sprawled on the benches with energy drinks, muttering over circuit diagrams, and laptops clicking in frantic attempts to finish overdue lab reports.

But Seong Gi-hun wasn’t paying attention to any of it. He leaned against the window ledge at the end of the corridor, eyes fixed across the campus grounds, locked on the Business Department building.

Your building.

His chin rested on his palm as he exhaled slowly. “ She’s probably in that cursed lecture right now.” He murmured, watching the third-floor window.

“ Fighting to stay awake while that monotone prof recites from slides made in 2002.”

He smiled a little at the thought of you scribbling notes, probably underlining the important ones three times and color-coding like your life depended on it. You were a warrior when it came to academics—and stubborn when you had to be.

Just like now.

" Still no sign of her, huh?" A voice interrupted. Gi-hun turned to see his friend Joon-ho grinning as he slung his arm around his shoulder.

Another classmate, Woo-sik, snickered behind them. “ You’ve been staring at that building like you’re on a mission. Admit it—you’re just waiting for your favorite business major to walk out and wave at you like in those high school dramas.”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes and shoved Joon-ho’s arm off, flustered. “ Yah, shut up. I was just…sightseeing.”

“ Uh-huh.” Joon-ho smirked. “ Sightseeing your feelings, maybe.”

Woo-sik chimed in, nudging him. “ You should make a move, man. Before someone else smarter or richer tries to swoop in.”

Gi-hun went quiet at that, his gaze dropping to the tiled floor. “ It’s not that simple.”

Woo-sik frowned. “ Why not?”

Gi-hun hesitated, then sighed, his voice lower. “ Her dad already hates me. I think I’m just some broke kid with messy hair and noodle-scented clothes.”

Joon-ho blinked. “ Wait, seriously?”

Gi-hun nodded slowly, eyes distant. “ He almost beat the crap out of me during her debut. I showed up because she begged me to. I wasn’t even on the guest list. And the moment he saw me, it was like I’d ruined the entire party just by existing.”

Woo-sik’s jaw dropped. “ That’s insane. Did you do anything?”

“ No.” Gi-hun said, shaking his head. “ I get it. He wants her to have a stable life. Someone who can provide, give her the world. I’m not exactly that guy right now.”

There was a pause, until Joon-ho spoke up, serious for once. “ Hyung, you’re one of the most responsible people I know.”

Woo-sik nodded. “ You help out in your family’s business, you take care of your mom, you’ve been a dean’s lister for two straight years—and you still have time to tie your best friend's tie every morning like a damn rom-com lead.”

Gi-hun chuckled under his breath, but his ears turned red. “ You guys are embarrassing.”

“ No, we’re telling the truth.” Joon-ho said, bumping his shoulder. “ You’ve got brains, humor, and heart. Not every guy checks those boxes. She’d be crazy not to fall for you.”

Gi-hun let out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “ Yeah, well…I just hope she sees me as more than her dorky best friend.”

He looked back across the quad at the building where you sat, unaware he’d been thinking about you all morning. And from that hallway window, Gi-hun whispered to himself,

“ Someday…I’ll be someone her dad can’t deny. Not for her.”

…

The hallway quieted down as Joon-ho and Woo-sik waved goodbye, off to suffer under the weight of Calculus III.

“ Good luck, lover boy!” Joon-ho called out with a teasing grin.

Gi-hun just rolled his eyes and flipped them off playfully, but once they were out of sight, the noise of the hallway melted away. All that remained was the familiar hum of the overhead lights and the faint chatter of distant classrooms. He leaned back against the ledge again, his eyes already drifting back to the Business Department building.

His fingers tapped against the windowpane, an unconscious rhythm that matched the soft, steady ache in his chest. He’d been doing this for years now—watching you from a distance, hoping you’d somehow feel his gaze and turn, even just for a second.

Gi-hun had always thought it was just some kind of inside joke the universe played on him. That fluttering feeling he got in high school whenever you walked into a room—he figured it was a dumb hormonal glitch. The way everything slowed down, like some overused K-drama scene where your hair caught the light just right, your laugh drowning out every sound around him, your eyes brighter than the rest of the world.

He thought it would fade. But it never did. If anything, it got worse. Sketchbooks filled with absentminded doodles of your smile. Lines of poetry buried in his notebook margins—your eyes, the color of warm coffee in cold mornings. He once spent hours designing a function on his graphing calculator that, when plotted, formed your name. No one saw it. No one had to.

You were always his muse. There were playlists, too. Songs he’d send anonymously to the class group chat, pretending it was just a “vibe” for studying. But every single one reminded him of you.

Then came Hwang In-ho. Gi-hun’s jaw clenched at the memory. That smug grin, the constant flirtations, and that annoyingly confident way In-ho would lean in when he spoke to you. Gi-hun wanted to dismiss it, laugh it off as nothing. But he couldn’t.

The moment you admitted that you were starting to like In-ho—your academic rival, of all people, it felt like a thousand pins stabbed him at once. He remembered that exact night. He smiled and nodded and pretended to tease you like any best friend would, but when he went home, he stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart hollow and heavy.

That’s when he knew.

It wasn’t just friendship. He was in love with you. Still was. Even now. His eyes scanned the building across until he saw movement—and then there you were.

Walking out of the classroom, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder, your expression full of annoyance as you talked to your friend beside you. Your brows were furrowed in that adorably grumpy way you got after a frustrating class, probably ranting about your professor’s terrible examples again.

Gi-hun smiled like an idiot. God, she’s beautiful.

You looked up suddenly.

Right at him.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

“ Shiba—” He ducked so fast he nearly hit his head on the ledge, crouching like a total idiot below the window.

Smooth, Seong Gi-hun. Really smooth. His heart was racing like it wanted to escape his chest, and he covered his mouth, both in embarrassment and to stifle the stupid laugh bubbling in his throat.

“ She probably didn’t see me...right?” He whispered to himself. Still crouched, Gi-hun awkwardly shuffled toward the nearest classroom door and slipped inside like a criminal.

Because loving you, he thought, felt like standing in the sun. But sometimes, the only safe place was the shade. And for now, admiring you from afar was where he chose to stay.

…

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue across the school field where students were sprawled out on benches or the grass, savoring the last few hours of freedom before heading home. You sat on a shaded bench near the goalpost, munching on a spicy tuna kimbap you bought from the canteen. The plastic wrap crinkled under your fingers as you popped the last bite into your mouth, letting out a sigh as you leaned back.

Then—voices.

Your friends had spotted you.

“ Yah, look at her! She’s waiting for her boyfriend~” One of them teased, wiggling her brows as she flopped beside you.

“ Who said I’m waiting for a boyfriend?” You replied, dryly.

“ Gi-hun, obviously!” Another squealed. “ Come on, you two are so obvious!”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. “ He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend. Since childhood. We’ve literally seen each other cry over failed math tests and stolen lunchboxes.”

They all squealed in unison. “ You’re such a liar!”

You bit into your kimbap again, aggressively this time. “ I’m being honest.”

But even as you said it, part of you wondered why everyone—literally everyone—seemed to assume there was something romantic between you and Gi-hun.

Was it because you two bantered like a sitcom couple?

Because he tied your shoelaces in high school when you broke your nail?

Because he always walked you home and made sure you got inside before he left?

Maybe.

But…no. Not for you. He was your safe place. Your partner in crime. The boy who once broke his arm falling off the monkey bars trying to impress you in 4th grade. The boy who shared his umbrella with you and got sick the next day because he let you stay dry.

He was a brother. Or…you tried to make him one. There was a time you had a crush on Gi-hun. High school, maybe sophomore year. The way he always remembered the smallest things, like how you hated bitter melon or that you only cried when watching animal rescue videos. Your heart used to race whenever he smiled at you.

But those feelings?

You buried them. Deep. You told yourself—He’s my best friend. I can’t ruin this. I won’t risk awkwardness.

And when Hwang In-ho showed up, that decision became easier. You frowned, resting your elbow on your knee as you picked at the wrapper of your snack, your mood suddenly dipping.

That bastard. You remembered the first time he beat you in an accounting quiz. One damn point. And he had the audacity to gloat about it with that smug smile. From that day, you challenged him in every competition he joined. Business simulations, finance debates, quiz bees.

Sometimes you beat him. Sometimes he beats you. And somewhere along the line, your rivalry turned into a strange connection. You started talking outside of contests. Study sessions became long conversations. Jokes turned into secret smiles.

And then?

He told you he was using you. That all those moments meant nothing to him. That he wasn’t serious. That he only wanted to beat the class ranking and you were the best way to sharpen his blade.

He played you. You had given him effort, time, and maybe—maybe even something close to love. And he crushed it like it was disposable.

You never told Gi-hun. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to see that fury in his eyes. You didn’t want him to fight a battle that already broke you. So you tucked it away. Behind jokes and grades and long, empty nights of wondering why.

But…a small part of you, the part you hated, still hoped.

Maybe one day, you thought, I’ll see In-ho again. And maybe he’ll say sorry. Maybe we can have closure. Maybe he’s not the same immature jerk from back then.

You blinked, realizing you were zoning out again. The breeze picked up, rustling your hair slightly, and your eyes flicked toward the path by the field—right where Gi-hun always appeared from.

And just like that, your thoughts were swept away. Because here came that idiot. Running, of course. Shirt half-untucked. Bag bouncing. That same chaotic energy. You smiled—grudgingly.

Some things never change. And maybe…for now, that was enough.

…

Evening came with the glow of warm orange bulbs strung along the street food stalls. The smell of frying batter, spicy tteokbokki, and hot odeng broth blanketed the air in comforting layers. You and Gi-hun stood beside your usual vendor—the same corner stall, the same lady who always gave you extra fishcakes without asking.

Gi-hun leaned against the cart, holding a paper cup of soup, and groaned like the world was ending. “ I swear, if I hear one more word about fluid mechanics, I’m going to actually become one.”

You raised a brow mid-bite. “ What? Turn into a fluid?”

“ I’m serious!” He continued, dramatically slouching. “ Why do I have three group projects this semester? Why does my life feel like a constant team-building activity? I’m not building an engine—I’m building trauma.”

You snorted, nearly choking on your soondae. “ Then quit. Be a barista or something.”

He gasped. “ I was thinking more glamorous. Like…model. Or an actor. You know, get discovered on the street, rise to stardom, cry in a press con, win Best Actor, thank my eomma and you in my speech.”

You snorted harder. “ No one’s gonna hire an ogre with uneven sideburns.”

His jaw dropped as he placed a hand on his chest. “ You wound me, woman. Truly.” You stuck your tongue out at him and shoved a rice cake in your mouth before he could rebut.

The banter felt easy, like always.

Until he glanced at you sideways, slurping his soup with a smug little smirk. “ By the way…when I arrived at the school field earlier, you looked like you were stuck in a drama scene. You okay?”

You raised your brows and shrugged. “ I was impatient waiting for your slow ass. You said after class, not after your entire life. I got bit by, like, five mosquitoes.”

Gi-hun huffed. “ You should’ve waited somewhere else then. I’d still find you. You’ve got that huge forehead—shining like a lighthouse. Easy to spot.” You glared at him and immediately slapped his arm.

“ Aghhkk—!” He choked on his odeng, coughing into his napkin while you cackled like a gremlin beside him. The two of you laughed so hard, the stall ahjumma gave you both an amused glance.

Gi-hun wiped his eyes, still chuckling as he poked you in the side with his elbow. “ But seriously…Are you sure that was just stress? You looked like you were about to time-travel or confront your long-lost ex.”

You stilled for half a second. “ I told you, it’s just market research. Our prof is giving us hell.”

“ Mmm…” He hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “ That face wasn’t ‘market research stress,’ though. That was a ‘thinking about someone’ face.”

You narrowed your eyes. “ You’re so delusional.”

“ And a little malicious, too.” He wiggled his eyebrows while stuffing a hot mandu in his mouth.

You smacked his shoulder again. “ That was one deep thought. Let it go.”

But Gi-hun just laughed, his dimple showing, his eyes soft despite the teasing. And even as you glared at him again, your lips twitched into a smile. Because if there was anyone who could make you laugh in the middle of chaos—it was always Gi-hun.

…

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, the sun shining just right as you and Gi-hun strolled through the neighborhood, plastic bags swinging in your hands. The scent of laundry detergent and blooming flowers danced in the air, and everything felt…familiar.

“ You better behave today.” Gi-hun warned playfully. “ My eomma’s been saying she misses you more than she misses me.”

You laughed. “ Well, I am her favorite child.”

He scoffed. “ She only likes you ‘cause you pretend to compliment her cooking more than I do.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “ Jealousy’s not a cute look on you, Gi-hun.” When you reached his home, the door opened before either of you could knock.

“ Aigoo! Look who it is!” His eomma gasped, beaming as she stepped out and pulled you into a tight hug. “ You’ve gotten more beautiful, sweetheart! Gi-hun, look at her—a goddess!”

Your cheeks turned red instantly. “ Eommoni…you’re being too kind.”

Gi-hun, standing beside you with his hands in his pockets, muttered under his breath, “ She looks like a foot today.”

SMACK! His eomma reached up and pinched his ear so fast, you barely had time to react.

“ A foot?! You rude brat!”

“ OW—OW EOMMA!” He wailed, twisting away as you burst into laughter.

“ You deserve it.” You smirked, walking inside while Gi-hun massaged his poor ear.

Once inside, the familiar scent of broth, spices, and home enveloped you like a blanket. You spotted the pot on the stove and clapped your hands in excitement.

“ Is that your noodle soup?” You squealed.

Gi-hun leaned on the kitchen doorframe. “ Didn’t you just eat?”

“ This is different!” You whined.

“ Yeah—different in a way that you should start paying. You’re gonna bankrupt our family with how much you eat here.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “ Then maybe your eomma should just adopt me. I’m worth the investment.”

“ Absolutely!” His eomma called from the kitchen, grinning as she placed steaming bowls onto the table.

“ You’ve always been worth it, sweetie.” You smiled, heart melting just a little. As soon as you sat down, the aroma hit you full force. Your stomach growled loudly, betraying your dignity.

Gi-hun snorted. “ Your stomach’s clapping louder than I’ve ever seen in any award show.”

“ Shut up.” You muttered, your eyes locked on the bowl of gold.

His eomma handed you chopsticks and gently patted your shoulder. “ Eat well, hmm? I made it extra spicy, just how you like it.”

You looked up. “ Join us, eommoni?”

She shook her head with a smile. “ I already ate. I’ll just clean a bit while you two enjoy it.”

She set a bowl down in front of Gi-hun next and gave him a pointed look. “ And you—you’re paying for the ingredients.”

Gi-hun’s jaw dropped. “ WHAT?! Why me?”

“ Because you invited her!” She fired back, hands on hips.

“ But I thought you liked her more than me!”

“ Exactly.” She grinned.

“ So be a gentleman for once, you noodle-head.” You tried so hard not to laugh—but failed. You were already wheezing into your soup.

“ Unbelievable.” Gi-hun grumbled. “ Invited you here and now I’m getting mugged in my own house.”

You slurped your noodles with a content sigh and smiled at him. “ Yeah, well…thanks for dinner, oppa~”

He blinked, flustered by the sudden nickname. And for a brief second, even with your teasing and his grumbling, something soft filled the air between you both. Warm food. Warm laughter. And something unspoken—but always there.

…

The soft clinking of dishes being washed echoed from the kitchen as you and Gi-hun sat at the small table, bowls half-finished and chopsticks resting in lazy angles. The warmth from the noodle soup still lingered in your chest, but the laughter from earlier had begun to quiet down.

You looked over your shoulder toward the sink. “ I should help your eomma with the dishes.”

Gi-hun shook his head immediately. “ Nope. You know she’ll never let you.”

“ But I’m not a guest anymore—”

“ I swear.” He cut in with a chuckle, “ I tried that logic once. Told her it’s unfair she does everything by herself. You know what she did?”

You tilted your head. “ What?”

He tapped the back of his head. “ Bam. Right here. Smacked me and called me disrespectful. Said a guest should be treated like royalty.”

You snorted. “ Should I feel guilty now?”

He leaned back with a grin. “ Nah. Enjoy it while it lasts, Her Royal Highness.” You rolled your eyes and went quiet for a moment, tracing your finger along the rim of your bowl.

Then, almost softly—too softly—you spoke. “ I wish… my house felt this happy.”

Gi-hun’s smile slowly faded.

“ Every time I go home, it’s always just…silence or arguments.” You continued.

“ I wish it felt like this—warm. Like home actually wanted me back.” He stayed still, listening.

You looked down, your voice even quieter now. “ Last night…appa scolded me again. Because of you.” His head turned sharply.

You shrugged. “ I defended you, of course. Said there’s nothing wrong with hanging out with my best friend. But he twisted everything. Like always. Suddenly I was the ungrateful daughter who talks back.”

Gi-hun sighed deeply and leaned his elbows on the table. “ Maybe…he’s just being protective? You’re their only child. Maybe in his mind, he’s doing what he thinks is best.”

“ But why is it always you?” You whispered. “ Why is it always you he gets mad about?”

You paused, chewing your lip nervously. “ Why wasn’t he like that when it came to—”

You stopped yourself. Gi-hun noticed. His brows furrowed, eyes searching your face. He waited. You exhaled and looked down again, quietly finishing the thought.

“ When it came to my other friends…” Gi-hun’s jaw clenched, just a little. But instead of asking more, he nodded slowly.

He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “ Your dad…he never liked me. I got used to it, honestly. By now it just enters one ear, exits the other.”

You met his eyes again.

“ I know I don’t come from much.” He added, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“ But…I don’t think someone’s bank account should decide if they’re allowed to be in your life. Especially as your friend.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

Then, Gi-hun offered a lopsided grin and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “ From now on, I’ll make sure not to show up at your gate. I’ll walk you near your street, then disappear like a ninja. That way your dad won’t have to stress about seeing this ugly face.”

You shook your head immediately. “ No, Gi-hun—”

“ I’m serious.” He said with a smile, though his eyes held a softness, almost sadness.

“ I don’t want to be the reason you cry. Or the reason you feel unwelcome in your own home.” You looked at him for a long moment.

It hurt—how much he understood, how much he adjusted for you, quietly, without complaint. And maybe…without saying it out loud, he loved you more than anyone else ever had.

Even if he stayed in the background. Even if you never noticed it.

…

The night air was still, cool against Gi-hun’s skin as he crouched behind the familiar tree just a few steps away from your gate. The leaves rustled quietly above his head while he peeked through the branches.

There you were—turning the key, glancing behind you once before slipping into your house. He lifted his hand and gave his usual little wave, small and fond, even if you didn’t see it. When the door shut and the porch light flickered off, Gi-hun finally exhaled, a long, exhausted sigh that seemed to come from deep inside his chest.

He stood up, brushing off his pants.

Another day of loving her from afar.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started the walk back to his place. The streets were empty, save for the occasional distant honk or barking dog. He wasn’t really paying attention to his surroundings anymore. His mind was too loud.

That name you almost said earlier…

He knew who it was. In-ho.

Gi-hun’s jaw tensed. Of course, it had to be him. He remembered how your dad welcomed In-ho—even offered him a drink the day of your academic award ceremony, while Gi-hun stood awkwardly at the corner, ignored.

He’s smart, rich, charming…

And Gi-hun? Just the childhood friend with too much sarcasm and secondhand clothes. He blinked back the wetness in his eyes, tilting his head up to stare at the sky.

It was too dark to see the stars. But he tried anyway. He always did.

When he finally reached home, the soft glow from the noodle stall greeted him like a warm hug. His eomma was outside wiping down the tables, humming a trot song softly under her breath.

She looked up and smiled. “ There you are. Took your time.”

Gi-hun smiled faintly and stepped in, rolling up his sleeves. “ I wanted to make sure she got in safely.”

He grabbed a cloth and started helping her wipe down the counters, falling into the motions easily. But his mom was sharper than most.

“ You’re quiet.” She said, glancing at him.

“ I’m always quiet.” He mumbled.

She gave him a long look. “ And I’m your mother. I know when something’s wrong.”

Gi-hun sighed. “ It’s nothing. Just…school stress.”

“ Lie better.” She said flatly, pointing at his slouched shoulders.

“ You always shrink like a shrimp when you lie. Your body doesn’t know how to play poker.”

He chuckled, tired. “ Fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“ About her?” Gi-hun froze. Then recovered—barely.

“ No.” She narrowed her eyes.

“ Okay, okay!” He laughed, setting down the cloth. “ Kind of. I just…asked myself something weird tonight.”

She raised a brow. “ What?”

He looked down. “ Do you think…people really care about money when it comes to relationships? Friendships, even?” His eomma tilted her head, then smiled gently.

“ Money?” She repeated, placing a hand over her heart.

“ No. Not for real relationships. People connect here, not in their wallets.” She gave his chest a little pat.

“ You can be the richest man in the world, but if your heart’s empty, who will stay? And you, Gi-hun…” She smiled proudly.

“ You’ve got a heart full of gold.” He bit his lower lip, eyes growing hot again. She studied his face for a moment.

Then she asked, “ You love her, don’t you?”

Crash—

The bowl in his hand slipped and clattered into the basin. Thankfully, it didn’t break.

“ Eomma!” He cried, flustered.

“ What kind of soap opera are you watching lately?! She’s just my best friend!” His mom gave him a look that said try again.

He scoffed, “ I’m serious! I just hate how her dad sees me, that’s all. Like I’m some pest.”

She marched over, and before he could run—pinch!

“ OW! OW!! What is with you and my ears?!”

“ You’re such a liar.” She snapped.

“ You think I don’t see the way you look at her when she’s not looking? The way you get all fidgety when she compliments someone else? Or how you always draw her in your sketchbooks?”

His mouth dropped open.

“ And those poems? You left one on the kitchen table once. Thought it was about an actress. But it mentioned her forehead and her noodle slurping habits.”

“ Eomma!”

“ And don’t get me started on the guitar. Even when it’s out of tune, every song is about her. I can hear your little serenades when you think no one’s home!”

Gi-hun turned red—actual tomato red. He rubbed his face with both hands and groaned. “ Okay, okay! You win!”

“ So?” She asked, arms crossed but soft-eyed. “ You love her.”

He sighed deeply, voice small now. “ I do. I love her. A lot. But…”

“ But?”

“ I’m scared.” He admitted.

“ If I confess…I might lose her. Everything we have. All those years, everything we’ve shared… I don’t want to make things weird. Or worse—lose her completely.” His eomma’s gaze softened even more. She stepped closer and gently squeezed his shoulder.

“ Love isn’t supposed to be easy, Gi-hun. But if it’s real—it’s worth it. Even if it hurts. Even if you risk it.” He looked away, blinking fast.

“ I wish it was easy.” He whispered. She smiled and gently brushed his hair.

“ If it was easy, it wouldn’t be love.”

And with that, she went back to wiping the counter, leaving him there—quiet, heart full, and more unsure than ever.

Author's Note:

Hello, guys. I'm back with a new series, this time featuring a college AU of InHun x Reader. I admit that I missed making a series, which is why I created another one.

I'm not sure what will happen to this story, but I'm hoping that writer's block and laziness won't get the better of me. Indeed, I need an angst with fluff story because I want to laugh while being hurt, as that's the emotional rollercoaster that happens when we like or love someone.

My personal experience may have served as inspiration for some of the scenes. It's cliche, but when we fall in love, we're all being cliched. Yes, I still long for someone I like—oops...haha.

Anyway, enjoy the story. Love you and take care, guys! 😉

Chapter 2: Soon

Tags: @startled-cats

[lost-in-thoughts03]

MONA LISA || Hwang In-ho

“ Sketch me like one of those French girls.”

Summary: Art serves as a medium for expressing our emotions. Because of this, you and your appa's best friend created art together, and it was such a unique experience that nothing else can see—not even the museum can take it from you two.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, HEAVY SMUT, AU, DBF! Hwang In-ho, explicit content, mature language, possessive behavior, taboo, forbidden attraction, erotic, mutual pining, thick tension, markings, kissing, passionate, deep, slow, ownership, nicknames, PiV, unprotected, breeding kink, oral (f receiving), older man x younger woman (Late 40s x 28), Soft-dom! In-ho, age-gap, aftercare, confession

The scent of graphite and paint lingered in the air, blending with the faint whir of the electric fan spinning lazily in the corner. Sketches of human anatomy lined your walls from delicate muscle studies to expressive full-body poses each taped or pinned with care.

Your desk was chaos: erasers worn to nubs, stained palettes, and pages stacked with half-finished pieces. Yet, there was beauty in the clutter, in the passion woven into every inch of the space. You were curled over your sketchpad on the floor, legs crossed, charcoal smudged on your fingertips. A fresh piece was coming to life—soft outlines of a spine, a subtle turn of the neck. You hadn’t even noticed the sun had begun to set, casting golden streaks across your room.

Your appa had always supported your art. From the first crayon drawing to your current commissions, he never wavered. And now, at 26, you’d built something of your own. Loyal customers, steady income, and that smug satisfaction when someone said, “Art isn’t practical,” and you silently proved them wrong.

Then your door creaked open. You glanced up, expecting your appa.

It wasn’t.

" Yah, you haven’t come down again." Said a familiar voice—rougher now, deeper with age, but still undeniably his.

Mr. Hwang stepped in, holding a tray of snacks. “ Your dad said if I don’t bring this up, you’ll starve yourself again.”

You blinked. “ Ah…thank you, samchon.” You shifted slightly, brushing off the charcoal from your palm, still sketching with your other hand.

He set the tray down and, instead of leaving, settled beside you on the floor like it was the most natural thing to do. You felt the warmth of him before he even touched the rug. It made your spine stiffen, just for a second.

“ You always had magic in your hands.” He said quietly, eyes on your latest work. “ I wish I had even a bit of that talent. All I ever managed was stickmen.”

You snorted, a grin tugging at your lips. “ You still have time to improve, samchon. Practice and dedication.”

He chuckled—a low, quiet sound. “ I’m too old to start drawing now. My hands…” He lifted one, fingers twitching a little.

“ Don’t have the patience. Or the steadiness.”

“ Then use that as your art style.” You said, nudging his arm with your elbow. “ Call it ‘expressionism of age.’ Someone will buy it.”

He laughed—really laughed—and you found yourself laughing with him. The kind of laugh that curled in your chest and warmed something deeper than you could explain. It wasn’t just the nostalgia of him being there again after so long. It wasn’t just the bond you’d always shared.

It was something else. Subtle. Unspoken. He looked at you, his smile lingering, and you couldn’t help but look back. For a brief second, time folded in on itself—like the past and present blurred into one quiet, heart-tapping beat.

You cleared your throat first, looking down again. “ Eat some, samchon. Before the snacks get cold.”

He hummed, reaching for a biscuit. “ Only if you do too. Your dad will scold both of us if I return empty-handed.”

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on your hands as you picked at the snacks. Or the way his smile softened as he watched you work again. But the silence between you two was no longer just silence.

It was full of warmth. Of years lost and slowly being found again.

…

The fan hummed lazily overhead as you worked, the sound of your pencil scratching against textured paper mixing with the faint crunch of the biscuit in your mouth. Your posture was slightly slouched now—shoulders tense, neck aching from hours of meticulous detail. You leaned back with a soft groan, letting your spine curve as you slowly rolled your neck to the side. A few satisfying pops cracked in the air.

“ Careful.” In-ho muttered, seated still beside you, voice low and thoughtful.

“ You might snap your neck if you keep doing that.” You smiled without looking at him.

“ Been doing this for years. Come with the job.” He didn’t reply right away. The silence thickened—dense, humming with a strange weight.

His gaze never left you. You felt it, even if he wasn’t saying anything. It crawled up from your hands, hovered over your shoulders, and lingered just a moment too long on your profile. His eyes traced the slight charcoal stain near your jaw, the way your lower lip caught between your teeth in concentration. You shifted a little, trying to focus, pretending his presence wasn’t lighting something warm in your gut.

Then finally, his voice cut through the silence. “ What’s this one about?”

You kept sketching, not missing a beat. “ Commissioned portrait.” You replied, eyes still on your work.

“ The customer wants a nude of himself. Paying triple my usual rate, so I couldn’t say no.” In-ho went quiet. A sharp inhale. A beat too long before the exhale.

“ Nude?” He echoed, the word caught somewhere between his teeth and throat.

He shifted his weight, the fabric of his pants rustling against the carpet. “ You…you’re used to that?”

You smirked and reached for another biscuit. “ I went to art school, samchon. You think we just sketched fruits and flowers? Every month we had live models. Completely bare. Men. Women. All kinds of bodies.”

In-ho looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Your grin widened, teasing. “ The first time though? Total nightmare. I was culture shocked. Couldn’t sleep properly for days.”

That got a small huff out of him. “ Why?”

You turned toward him now, resting the pencil on your knee. “ Because…” You said, eyes glinting with mischief.

“ It’s hard not to stare at certain parts. Especially when they’re…how do I say this? Extraordinary.” He blinked.

You laughed lightly. “ We weren’t supposed to react, but internally? Yeah, we judged. Silently compared sizes. Sometimes I gasped when someone was—well—just blessed.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “ You didn’t…feel weird? Awkward?”

“ At first, yeah.” You said with a shrug.

“ But then it faded. After a while, you stop seeing naked bodies as something sexual. It’s just…forms, shadows, light. You’re too focused on capturing structure to care about modesty. In art...” You held up your charcoal-stained hands.

“ You’re free to see everything. Interpret it. Recreate it.”

The room felt warmer. The fading light outside threw soft amber streaks across the floor, illuminating the tension building between you two. He looked at you differently now—no longer just the little girl he once knew, but a woman. Confident. Sharp. Unapologetic.

And you noticed it. The flicker in his gaze, the slight parting of his lips, the way his fingers curled slightly against his knee like he was grounding himself. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

“ So…do you ever model?” He asked. It sounded innocent. It wasn’t. You looked at him—really looked at him. A slow smirk tugged at your lips.

“ Why?” You asked, voice lower.

“ Are you volunteering?” The air held still between you, pulsing. Electric. Heavy. And neither of you looked away.

You were crouched over your sketchpad again, fingers gliding along curves with practiced ease, capturing muscle tension and shadow depth like second nature. The fan above buzzed softly, but the heat in the room wasn’t from the weather anymore.

In-ho still sat beside you—silent but watching. His eyes traced your movements, the flex of your wrist, the curve of your shoulders as you leaned closer to the paper. Then, his voice cut through the stillness, laced with dry humor and something far heavier beneath.

“ So…are you available to sketch me sometime?”

You froze for half a second—just enough to catch it. You turned your head slowly, eyes narrowed with a teasing glint. “ What, you want a nude portrait too?”

He raised both brows, then smirked like he didn’t just imagine how that would look. “ Only if you’re offering a friends-and-family discount.”

You laughed, eyes crinkling. “ Please. If I’m going to see you naked, I better get paid triple what I’m getting now.”

He choked on a breath—not from offense, but from the sudden pulse in his lower stomach. He shifted subtly, one knee drawing up as he leaned his elbow on it, arm carefully draped to cover the tightening in his jeans. He cleared his throat, praying to whatever force existed that you wouldn't notice. You didn’t react, too focused on your art again, biscuit still between your fingers.

As your brows furrowed and your pencil darkened the shadows on the canvas, you asked without looking up, “ So…why are you here, really? Haven’t seen you in months.”

In-ho exhaled and leaned back on his palms. “ I missed hanging out with your appa. Figured I’d drop by. It’s been too long.”

You stopped sketching and slowly turned your head to him, eyes widening in mock betrayal. You placed a hand on your chest like you’d been stabbed. “ You missed him more than me? I’m hurt.”

He rolled his eyes but the corner of his lips twitched. “ Don’t start with the drama.”

You laughed again—light, unfiltered—and shook your head. “ Sorry, samchon. I haven’t really been hanging out with people lately. Just stuck here, sketching like a goblin for all these commissions.”

“ You need a break.” He said firmly, voice a little softer.

“ Touch some grass. Breathe real air. Go outside. Or at least, I don’t know—see the sky.” You reached for the juice bottle beside you, popping the cap and drinking deeply.

You didn’t notice his gaze fall again—this time to your neck. The slope of your throat. The way it flexed as you swallowed. Something about the casual intimacy of it—your bare skin, the slow drag of your hand wiping the corner of your lip—made heat flare under his skin. He clenched his jaw.

God.

The ache between his legs returned with an almost painful urgency. You caught the shift in his posture. The slight grunt in his throat.

You glanced at him. “ What’s wrong?”

In-ho quickly composed himself, lips twitching. “ My joints.” He muttered. “ Probably stiff. Old man things.”

You snorted, unbothered. “ Drink your maintenance, samchon.” He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Instead, he watched you again—your fingers smudging the paper, your thigh brushing his slightly when you shifted, and the unapologetic ease you carried around him. And maybe that’s what made it harder for him to breathe. You weren’t a kid anymore. And he was feeling that truth far too intensely.

…

You were sketching again, lines blending into shadows, your mind trying to stay fixed on the contours of the torso you were working on. But ever since In-ho made that joke earlier, your thoughts kept drifting back—back to him sitting so close, back to the way his voice dipped low, back to the tension simmering just beneath his usual calm. And then he spoke again, voice steady but rough with a hidden edge.

“ What if I take your offer?” Your pencil paused mid-stroke.

“ What offer?” You asked without looking up, already feeling the hairs on your nape rise.

“ To draw me.” He said, leaning slightly forward, just enough for you to feel the weight of his gaze.

“ Be your model. Nude. I’ll even pay more than triple.”

You slowly turned your head, eyes squinting. “ You’re joking.”

In-ho shook his head, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “ Not joking.”

You blinked at him. “ Why? Why would you…? What, you planning to gift a framed portrait of your ass to someone?”

He leaned back against the wall and smirked. “ Nope. I’m thinking I’ll hang it in your appa’s room. Let him have a reminder of how hot his best friend is.”

You choked—actually choked on your own saliva as you burst into laughter. You slapped your thigh as you coughed between giggles. “ Oh my God, In-ho!”

He laughed too, but it faded quickly—too quickly. Then his face grew serious. “ I just…want to help. You’re always grinding so hard in here, barely resting. If this helps your work, your portfolio, your business—then I’m in. I’ve always supported you. That doesn’t stop now.”

The laughter died in your throat. You bit your lip. You wanted to joke again, but his tone made your heart skip. And more dangerously…your thoughts started slipping.

This man—this man—had no idea how long you’d been holding back. How many times you fantasized about him while sketching faceless men. How he’d appeared in your dreams, in your late-night, shamefully unspeakable thoughts. You weren’t just fond of him. You were feral in your mind.

And now he’s offering…that? You could already feel your brain flashing images of what that would look like—and your sketchpad would definitely not be the only thing suffering through heat tonight. You cleared your throat violently and shook your head as if to knock the thoughts loose.

“ You’re really…sure about this?” You asked carefully, trying not to sound breathless.

He nodded once, firm. “ Completely. Just art. Professional. No funny business.”

You stared at him. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren’t. They were sharp. Focused. A little dangerous. You gulped. Then exhaled.

“ Okay…” You said, almost to yourself. “ Fine. Deal.”

In-ho tilted his head, pleased. “ So when do we start?”

You blinked. “ Wait—what?”

“ Why wait?” He said smoothly.

“ I’m here now. You’re here. You’ve got no deadline on that sketch. I’ve got nowhere to be. Let’s start.” Your eyes widened as if he’d just announced he was going to strip right then and there.

You grabbed your juice again, chugging half the bottle like it could douse the heat suddenly crawling up your neck. You coughed again and waved a hand to cool your face.

“ Well…if you really want to start now…I guess I wouldn’t mind.” You muttered, trying not to look too eager.

“ This commission doesn’t have a deadline anyway. I’ve got time.” Your hands were sweating. Your heart was pounding. And when your eyes finally flicked back to him, he was already unbuttoning the top of his shirt, slow and casual.

You were not going to survive this.

…

You swallowed hard. You were trying—trying—to focus. But it was like watching a slow-motion scene from Magic Mike, except your very real, very naked “dancer” was none other than your appa’s best friend.

In-ho stood in front of you, calmly unbuttoning his shirt, one piece at a time. His movements weren’t meant to tease, but God, they did. You averted your gaze—out of respect, self-preservation, survival—but your traitorous eyes kept drifting back just as he slid the fabric off his shoulders. His skin was tanned, smooth, defined in that way that came from decades of quiet strength, not gym vanity.

You slid your current paper aside, barely glancing at the unfinished anatomy you were supposed to be working on. That sketch could wait. You reached for a clean sheet with shaky fingers and grabbed a sharper pencil, your hands already sweating around it. Then his pants came off. You dared a glance.

Big mistake. The outline straining against his briefs made you freeze—paralyzed, breath shallow, every ounce of composure slipping through your fingers like water. You immediately snapped your gaze away and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

And then—he removed the last piece. Gone. Everything. And he just stood there. Waiting. Unbothered. Comfortable in his own skin while your brain was on fire. You blinked, startled back to the moment.

“ U-uh…couch.” You said, voice tighter than usual.

“ Lay down. There.” He nodded without question, stepping across the room with measured ease.

You refused to look below his collarbones, which meant you spent a good five seconds staring too hard at his throat. When he finally laid down on the couch, arms sprawled, muscles flexing beneath the afternoon light, you took a moment to pretend you were being professional. But you weren’t. You were suffering.

Your eyes followed the lines of his body. The curve of his hip. The dips and angles of his stomach. The way his fingers relaxed beside him like he had no idea how dangerous this was for you. He glanced up at you, mischief twinkling in his gaze.

“ You can take your time.” He said.

“ But if you’re gonna sketch me, might as well sketch me like one of those French girls.”

You snorted. It helped, a little. “ Aren’t you too old to reference Titanic?”

He smirked. “ Old enough to remember it in theaters. Still hot enough to pull it off.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying yes, dangerously hot, and approached him—your pencil tapping your lips as your eyes scanned him. Professionally. Professionally.

“ Alright, I need a better pose.” You mumbled, distracted again by the stretch of his abdomen.

“ Move this arm…” You gently reached forward, adjusting his arm across his chest. Your fingers brushed his skin—warm, taut—and you almost forgot how to breathe. You stepped back, evaluating.

“ No, not like that. Hold on—” You came close again, this time angling his thigh just slightly, not quite touching anywhere too risky, but still, God, too close. The heat radiating off him was doing nothing for your sanity. You finally stepped back far enough to stop combusting and gave him a thumbs up.

“ Don’t move.” You said quickly, retreating to your chair like it was a lifeboat.

“ I’ll start now.” You sat down, clutching your pencil like a lifeline and dragging your eyes to the page. Every line you drew felt like a sin. Every glance back at his body made you question your entire existence. You had to finish this fast. If not—

You were going to go insane.

…

Your pencil scratched rhythmically against the paper, trying to match the rapid pace of your heartbeat. You couldn’t stop looking at him—every line of his body seemed to pull your eyes back in. You sketched fast, trying to capture what you saw before your thoughts completely betrayed you.

But it wasn’t easy. Your throat was so dry. You reached for your juice again, gulping it down like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. The cold liquid did nothing to cool the fire in your chest, in your face, lower. It only gave you a brief pause from the war going on in your head.

When you glanced back at him, In-ho was already staring—right into your eyes. Your heart skipped. Your fingers froze mid-air. You blinked, looking away quickly, pretending to adjust your pencil grip. But that single look…it was too direct. Too knowing. He wasn’t just lying there like a passive model anymore—he was watching you. Seeing the effect he had on you.

You returned to your sketching, more determined than ever, but the pressure kept mounting. Every time your gaze traveled down his torso, every subtle flex of his thigh, the faint twitch of muscle—it all led your eyes right back to the thing you were trying so hard to ignore.

And now? Now it was harder. Literally. You noticed the shift in his posture. The rise. The swell of it. His arousal wasn’t hidden anymore—his body was responding. To the tension. To the silence. Maybe to you. Your hand trembled for the first time. Your lips parted, but no sound came out except a whispered, breathless:

“ Why is it so hard?” You immediately slapped your hand to your face, eyes wide as if the walls could hear you.

You wanted to scream. This wasn’t fair. Every ounce of sanity was melting, slipping through your fingers like sweat—which was now dripping down your temple, trailing over your cheek. You wiped it quickly, frowning. The air conditioner was on full blast. And yet…

It was so damn hot. Hot in your chest. Hot behind your ears. Hot between your thighs. You glanced at him again, trying—desperately—to just focus. But he was still watching you, lips parted, chest rising slowly, like he was savoring every minute of this strange, forbidden moment.

“ Focus, focus, focus.” You whispered under your breath like a spell, like a prayer.

You dug into the paper, shading harder now, trying to bring the piece to life. You were already polishing the outlines, refining the curves and tension of his pose. But you could barely breathe.

The air was thick, pressing down on you. The room felt smaller. Closer. You could feel the heat between you—not just physical, but electric. It wrapped around the two of you like a current neither of you were willing to cut off. And he still hadn’t looked away.

…

The charcoal stick slipped from your fingers the moment you signed your name at the bottom of the canvas. It was over. An hour of resisting, breathing shallowly, pretending not to be affected. Your thighs ached from sitting too long in one position. Your pulse, however, hadn't calmed the entire time.

“ I—It’s done.” You whispered, standing slowly, your legs feeling numb…or maybe it was something else entirely.

In-ho moved. Finally. His every step deliberate and slow as he approached, completely bare, not a single thread hiding the body you had studied inch by inch. The soft creak of the floor beneath his feet filled the silence, and your breath caught as he reached your side and stared at the portrait—your version of him—quietly, reverently.

You stole a glance. Then another. Your eyes trailed down, unintentional but unavoidable, lingering on the way the light hit his glistening shaft—still semi-hard, still slick from his own body’s reaction to your lingering gaze and touchless inspection. Your lower lip trembled, caught between your teeth before you realized you were biting down too hard.

“ You’re amazing.” He said, voice deep, barely above a murmur, but thick with heat. His face was inches from yours now. The scent of his skin, warm and clean, overwhelmed your senses.

“ The way you looked at me while drawing…” He tilted his head, his dark gaze studying you.

“ Was the same way you’re looking at me now.” You froze, your lips parting. Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum. Too loud.

“ I—” You stammered, voice cracking, “ I’m fine. Really. Just a little...pressurized. It's not every day I draw my appa’s best friend like this.”

A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes. “ Is that what’s bothering you?” He asked, his voice suddenly softer, more coaxing.

“ Because I felt every second of how you looked at me. And if I’m honest…” He leaned in, whispering,

“ I feel it too.”

Your knees almost buckled. You backed up, needing space, but your lower back hit the edge of your table. His arms went on either side of you, caging you in. The warmth of his body radiated toward you, and then—you felt it. The subtle but undeniable press of his arousal grazing your thigh, sending shockwaves through your nerves. Your eyes flew to his. They were almost black, pupils blown wide, and locked on you.

“ In-ho…” You whispered.

“ You’ve been torturing me longer than you realize.” He murmured, his nose nearly brushing yours.

“ Let me show you how much.” You could barely breathe.

In-ho’s bare skin was so close, the heat of him pressing into you like a second skin. His arms were firm on either side of your body, framing you against the table. You couldn’t escape even if you tried—and honestly, you didn’t want to. Your breath shuddered as his arousal brushed your thigh again, heavier, hotter, more deliberate this time.

Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and what you saw in his eyes sent a wave of heat crashing through you. They were dark—completely overtaken by pupils, bottomless and wild, filled with everything he wasn’t saying aloud. Want. Restraint. Hunger. He leaned in, just enough for your noses to brush.

“ You’ve grown so much.” He murmured, voice husky, rough like gravel.

“ So talented. So beautiful.” You whimpered—actually whimpered—and clutched the edge of the table behind you to keep your legs from buckling.

“ In-ho…” You whispered, but it came out more like a breath, your voice trembling, your thoughts slipping. His gaze darted to your lips. Then back to your eyes.

“ Tell me to stop.” He said, voice a low growl.

“ And I will.” You didn’t. Instead, your fingers released the table, slowly brushing against his forearm—tentative, trembling, but wanting. Needing.

“ I…” You swallowed again, your body on fire, your skin hypersensitive.

“ I don’t want you to stop.”

The second those words left your mouth, something in him snapped. In-ho closed the space between you in a heartbeat—his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that had been simmering in silence for years. His kiss wasn’t soft. It was fierce. Messy. Desperate. His hands gripped your waist, pulling your body against his, your thighs pressing into the length of him.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands flying up to brace yourself on his shoulders. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, tasting every inch of you like he’d wanted this for far too long. Your back arched into him. You moaned when his hands slid down to your hips, fingers digging in slightly, like he was grounding himself through your skin. He pulled back just enough to let your foreheads touch, both of you panting, dizzy.

“ I shouldn’t want you like this.” He whispered, voice raw. “ But I do.”

“ I’ve wanted you for years.” You confessed, breath shaking. His hand moved, caressing up your side, dragging slowly until it cupped your cheek.

“ Then let me have you. Just tonight.” You didn’t answer him with words. You pulled him back in.

The second time your lips met, there was no hesitation. It was fire. In-ho kissed you like he was claiming every year you’d spent apart, every glance you’d exchanged and pretended didn’t mean anything. His hands roamed your waist, gripping tighter as your bodies pressed flush—skin to skin, heat to heat.

You gasped into his mouth when his hips shifted, the full weight of his arousal grinding against your thigh, harder now, more insistent. Your knees nearly gave out. He caught you—hands sliding under your thighs in one smooth motion, lifting you up onto the edge of your art table.

The sketch you finished earlier fluttered to the ground, forgotten. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, trapping him close. He groaned low into your mouth, the sound vibrating deep in your chest. His fingers found your shirt hem, slipping beneath it, dragging upward, palms flat against your burning skin.

“ Off.” He rasped. You pulled back just enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped to your bare chest, and he exhaled shakily—like he’d been punched in the gut.

“ You’re…” His voice broke.

“ More perfect than I imagined.” You blushed, heat blooming in your face, but you didn’t look away.

You reached for him instead, your palms sliding up his chest, over the firm lines of his shoulders. You felt his heartbeat—wild, just like yours. Then he dipped down. His lips found the curve of your jaw first, then your neck. You tilted your head back with a soft moan as he kissed, sucked, bit. His hands roamed—over your hips, your back, your thighs—touching like he’d been starving for you.

Your breath hitched when he kissed the space just above your breast, then again lower, his lips teasing, dragging slow over your skin. His tongue flicked out, warm and wet against your sensitive flesh, and your back arched as your hands tangled in his hair.

“ In-ho…”

He growled at the sound of his name on your lips—needy, breathless, his—and pressed forward, his arousal rubbing directly against the soft heat between your legs through the thin barrier of your underwear. You whimpered, bucking into him. His hand slid between your thighs, teasing the waistband, but he paused—forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“ Still okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, chest heaving. “ Yes. Please.” His mouth crashed into yours again as his hand slid lower—no more teasing.

No more pretending. Your breath was shallow, gasping against his lips as his hand slipped past the final barrier of your underwear—his fingers parting your heat, slow and deliberate. You shuddered, instinctively rolling your hips into his touch, craving more, everything.

“ God, you’re so wet already.” He groaned against your mouth, voice dark with hunger.

“ You’ve been holding this in, haven’t you, baby?” That word "baby" cracked something open inside you.

You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, body arching into his. Your hands fumbled, desperate to touch him, palms sliding down his chest, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his abdomen, then lower, wrapping around the thick weight of him. In-ho cursed under his breath the moment your hand found him.

“ Fuck, sweetheart” He gasped, thrusting slightly into your palm.

“ Do you know what you do to me?” He kissed your neck again—messy, hot, dragging his teeth across your skin like he couldn’t get close enough.

“ You’re so damn beautiful. So good. My good girl.” You whimpered at the words, thighs tightening around his hips.

“ I’ve thought about this.” He murmured, voice low and trembling.

“ For years. What you’d feel like. What your moans would sound like. What your skin would taste like.” His lips moved down again—trailing fire along your chest, then your stomach. He dropped to his knees in front of the table, spreading your legs apart with firm hands. You leaned back slightly, propped on your elbows, watching him between your thighs.

“ In-ho…” You breathed, your voice breaking into a soft plea.

He looked up at you from below, eyes dark and glassy with pure need. “ Say it again.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tangling in his hair. “ In-ho…”

He kissed the inside of your thigh—then the other—closer, closer. “ That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

Then his mouth found you. And your world cracked open. You cried out—head tilting back, one hand flying to grip the edge of the table while the other clutched his hair. His tongue was slow at first, gentle, exploratory—like he wanted to savor every taste of you. He licked a long stripe through your slick folds before wrapping his lips around your most sensitive spot, sucking just enough to make your hips jerk.

“ You taste so sweet.” He moaned into you.

“ Just like I knew you would.” You were panting now—eyes glassy, chest rising and falling in rapid waves.

“ In-ho…oh my God—please—” He groaned against you, the vibration making your legs tremble. His fingers slid inside you, curling just right, coaxing, praising you with every breath.

“ That’s it, my girl.” He whispered.

“ So tight. So perfect. Let me take care of you.” And you let him. You gave in, completely, unraveling in his hands, in his mouth, under the sound of your name tangled in his.

Your body was trembling—each nerve pulled taut, each breath laced with something dangerously close to bliss. In-ho didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when you were falling apart under him like this. You felt his fingers move deeper, his mouth working you with practiced patience, almost reverent. He wasn’t just touching you—he was worshiping you.

“ My sweet girl.” He murmured, lips brushing over sensitive skin, his voice hot and husky.

“ You’re doing so well for me.” Your back arched as he sucked again, more pressure, more precision. Your hands were fisted in his hair now, anchoring yourself in the only thing solid in the heat-swamped world around you—him.

“ In-ho—!” You cried, voice strained and desperate.

He looked up for a second, lips glistening, eyes dark but full of something softer underneath. “ That’s it, baby. Let go. Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.” You gasped, helpless, overwhelmed by the way his words wrapped around you tighter than his hands.

“ You don’t know what you do to me.” He whispered, trailing kisses back up your trembling thighs, rising to meet you again. His body hovered over yours, bare chest pressing against your own, his arousal heavy and hot between you.

“ You’ve always been beautiful…but now? You’re mine.”

Your breath caught—part from his words, part from the way his hand cradled your cheek, so gentle despite the storm between you. He leaned in again, kissing you—slow this time, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His forehead rested against yours, both of you panting, skin slick and flushed.

“ You still okay, sweetheart?” He asked, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nodded breathlessly, eyes half-lidded. “ More than okay.”

A slow smirk curved his lips. “ Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

…

Your back hit the table with a soft thud, art supplies scattering around you, forgotten—because right now, you were his new medium, and In-ho wasn’t painting with brushes. His mouth never left yours as his hands slid under your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside. His lips descended immediately, kissing and biting down your neck, your chest, murmuring praises with every heated breath.

“ Look at you…” He groaned, voice low and dark, the hunger in it unmistakable.

“ You’re so fucking beautiful, my little artist. And all mine right now.” You whimpered under him, arching into his touch, his praise. Your thighs spread instinctively around his hips, and you gasped sharply as his hips pressed down between them—his shaft hot, thick, and already teasing your entrance.

“ God, you're soaked.” He muttered, dragging two fingers through your slick folds, then holding them up, coated and glistening.

“ All from just drawing me?” He smirked, licking the mess off his fingers slowly, deliberately. “ You were starving for me, weren’t you?”

“ I-In-ho—please…” You panted, hips shifting, chasing more of him. That was all it took. His control snapped.

“ Say it again.” He growled, grabbing your thighs and yanking you closer with no hesitation. “ Beg for me, baby. Say my name like you need it.”

“ In-ho…fuck, please—” You gasped, eyes wild, heart pounding.

“ There she is.” He slapped the inside of your thigh, firm but not cruel, his grin wicked as you twitched.

“ My good girl.” He lined himself up and in one deep, hungry thrust, he filled you. Your head flew back, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as your walls stretched around him. There was no slow easing in—he was rough, claiming, overwhelming.

“ Fucking perfect. So tight for me.” He groaned, voice ragged against your ear.

“ Been dying to feel this—ever since you bit your lip that first time you sketched me.” His hips snapped into yours again, sharp and precise, hitting deep and making your table creak under the force. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking down as he set a ruthless pace.

“ You feel that?” He growled, lips against your jaw.

“ That’s what you do to me. You make me lose my damn mind.” You were a mess beneath him—moaning, squirming, unable to do anything except take everything he gave. Your fingers fumbled for something to hold, anything, but he grabbed both wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

“ Keep your hands there, baby.” He ordered, eyes flashing down at you.

“ You already made art…now let me ruin you a little.” And then he drove into you harder, faster, his free hand gripping your throat—not to choke, but to hold you still, to ground you in the moment as his hips slammed into yours.

“ You’re mine tonight.” He growled against your mouth.

“ Every sound, every breath—you give that to me, little artist. You understand?”

“ Yes—yes, In-ho—God, yes—” You cried out, barely able to form words between the waves of pleasure crashing into you.

“ Good fucking girl.” Your body trembled beneath him, nerves stretched taut with every punishing thrust of his hips.

The table rocked with each movement, its legs squeaking against the hardwood floor—loud. Too loud. Your moans even louder. Then suddenly, his hand clamped gently but firmly over your mouth, stifling the next cry threatening to spill out.

“ Shhh, baby…” In-ho whispered darkly, lips brushing against your ear, voice thick and dripping with heat.

“ You’re being too loud. Your appa’s right downstairs…” Your eyes widened in panic, but he pressed his body harder against yours, grinding his hips deep until your thoughts dissolved again. Your muffled moan vibrated into his palm.

“ Can’t have him hearing this, can we?” He teased, voice a hot whisper.

“ Can’t have him interrupting this kind of art in the making…” He chuckled quietly at your muffled frustration, at how your hips bucked up to meet him in silent pleading.

“ What’s wrong, my little artist?” He purred against your neck.

“ You wanna scream, huh? Want to call my name so bad you’re shaking.” You nodded desperately into his hand, your legs tightening around his waist as his cock thrust deep again, slow this time, deliberately grinding to press every sweet, sensitive spot inside you.

“ God, you look so good like this.” He murmured, removing his hand just enough to kiss you hungrily, then trailing kisses down your neck.

“ All marked up, trembling, messy for me.”

Then he bit. Not hard—but enough to make you jolt, his teeth sinking into the curve of your neck, sucking until a bruise bloomed. A claim. You whimpered, your hands gripping his shoulders as he moved lower, his tongue tracing every inch of skin. His lips latched onto your chest next, biting and kissing and leaving soft, swollen marks that would stay long after this night ended.

“ You’re going to feel me tomorrow.” He groaned, sucking hard just above your hip, then biting the inside of your thigh, making you cry out again before his hand flew back to your mouth.

“ Ah-ah…” He scolded playfully.

“ You keep making those sounds and I’ll have to stuff that pretty mouth of yours with something else.” You moaned beneath his hand, eyes glazed, mind spinning from the heat and teasing. He could feel you tightening around him, clenching with every thrust.

“ I know you’re close.” He whispered, nipping at your earlobe.

“ Such a good girl, holding it in for me. Letting me ruin you like this, paint you with bruises and sweat.” You writhed under him, utterly undone, as he slammed into you harder—grinding, dragging his body against yours until your body was singing, begging, breaking.

“ Say it.” He whispered, removing his hand just enough. “ Say you’re mine, my little artist. Let me hear it.”

“ I’m yours.” You gasped out, voice hoarse and raw.

“ All yours, In-ho.”

“ Damn right you are.” He growled, pressing deep one last time. “ And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

You were spiraling—completely at his mercy, every nerve lit, every breath shaky and stolen from your lungs. In-ho was relentless now, his hips driving into you with deep, punishing strokes that made the table rock beneath you, that made your thighs tremble as they clung tightly around his waist. His mouth was everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, down your chest—leaving wet trails and bruising kisses. Each one a signature, a dark mark of worship inked into your skin like you were the canvas he refused to share.

“ You feel that?” He rasped, voice shaking with restraint.

“ That’s me—inside you, ruining you so good, baby.” You whimpered, nodding helplessly, lips parted in silent cries. Your body burned—raw, oversensitized, aching to break.

“ You’re so tight—so fucking perfect for me.” He growled, biting your shoulder, hard enough to sting.

“ Look at me—look at me, little artist.” Your hazy eyes fluttered open, locking on his—wild, black with lust, sweat on his brow, lips swollen from kissing and biting and praise. You could barely hold eye contact, too undone, too close.

“ Good girl.” He murmured, cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your lips.

“ That’s it. Stay with me. Let go for me, yeah? Let me see you fall apart.” He angled his hips just right, hitting that sweet, devastating spot again and again—and stars burst behind your eyes.

“ In-ho—!” You cried, voice breaking as your body seized around him, your orgasm crashing over you like a violent wave. Your legs shook, your nails clawing down his back, your moans raw and unfiltered.

“ That’s it—fuck, that’s it.” He groaned, barely holding back as he watched you unravel beneath him.

“ So goddamn beautiful…so good for me. My messy, ruined, talented little artist.” He thrusted once more, then again, burying himself deep as he spilled into you with a low, guttural moan.

His body trembled, his mouth falling open against your neck as he pressed into you, filling you completely. Heavy breaths. Slick skin. The only sounds in the room now were your shared panting and the quiet thrum of your heart trying to find its rhythm again. In-ho slowly pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft now. A trace of a crooked smile on his lips.

“ You really are a masterpiece.” He whispered, fingers tracing the bruises he left behind.

“ But tonight…you let me leave my own art on you.” You blinked up at him, flushed and breathless, still dazed. He leaned down and kissed your lips gently—just once—before resting his forehead against yours.

“ Mine.” He added softly.

“ Every inch of you, my little artist.” Your body was soft beneath him now—no more tension, just warmth, breathless quiet, and the fading echoes of what you’d just shared.

In-ho stayed there for a moment, his chest pressed to yours, both of your bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. His breath fanned over your cheek, uneven and hot, but slowly beginning to calm. Then, gently, he brushed your hair away from your damp forehead and pressed the softest kiss there.

“ You did so well, baby.” He murmured, voice low and filled with a tenderness that almost made your chest ache.

“ So fucking perfect for me…every second of it.” He eased out of you carefully, hands steady and warm as they held your hips.

You winced a little, your thighs quivering from how hard he had taken you, and he noticed instantly. His brows drew together, but not with guilt—just an overwhelming wave of concern and something deeper.

“ Hey…” He said softly, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “ You okay, sweetheart? Did I go too far?”

You shook your head, lips parting in a tired, satisfied breath. “ No…you didn’t. I feel good. Just…sensitive.”

A soft smile spread across his lips. “ Yeah…you took a lot. I pushed you.” He kissed your shoulder, where the deep bruise from his mouth still throbbed with dull heat.

“ And you gave me everything without even thinking twice. My good girl.” He straightened up, slipping off the table just long enough to grab a soft towel from a nearby drawer.

He always kept a few stashed in your studio—originally for cleaning paint, now with a very different use. He knelt between your legs, tenderly cleaning you up, murmuring soft praises with every touch.

“ So beautiful…” He said as he wiped the mess from between your thighs, gentle and careful.

“ You should’ve seen yourself. The way you looked at me—those eyes, the way you moved…I’ve never seen anything more breathtaking.” Your fingers reached for him instinctively, tangling in his hair as he leaned in again to press a kiss over the mark on your inner thigh.

“ You’re everything, baby.” He whispered against your skin.

“ I mean it.”

When he was finished, he scooped you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing, carrying you to the couch at the corner of the studio. He wrapped a soft blanket around both of you, tucking you close into his chest.

You curled into him, burying your face into his neck, and he exhaled slowly like this—this—was the part he needed most. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your spine, his chin resting against your head.

“ I’m so proud of you.” He said, lips brushing your hair.

“ The way you trusted me. Let me see every part of you. That’s the most honest art I’ve ever been a part of, sweetheart.” You smiled, heart full.

“ You’re not just my muse anymore.” You whispered.

“ You’re my favorite creation.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you in tighter. “ Good. Because I’m never leaving this canvas.”

…

Your lips were still tingling from his kiss, your breath shallow as you curled closer into him. The warmth of his skin against yours, the steady thump of his heart under your palm—it made it too easy to forget anything else existed outside this room.

In-ho pulled back just enough to glance at your flushed face, then down to where your fingers still lazily traced along the ridges of his abs. That smug little smirk curved on his lips again—dangerously charming.

“ I just realized something.” He murmured, voice low and teasing.

“ That nude portrait you made of me?” He tilted your chin up with a finger, his eyes gleaming.

“ I think I paid you more than triple for it.” You blinked, catching the heat in his words.

“ Triple…?” You echoed, breath catching. He leaned in, brushing his lips against your jaw, then down to your neck where the bruises still bloomed—marks of heat and hunger.

“ Mmm…” He hummed, letting his teeth gently scrape your skin, “ Body, soul, and a whole lot of stamina.”

You let out a shaky laugh, gasping as his hands slid back under the shirt he had just helped you into. “ So full of yourself.”

He chuckled, nipping at your collarbone, tongue soothing the sting right after. “ Not full of myself, baby. Just full of you—your moans, your breath, the way you screamed my name like it belonged to you.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders as his hand dipped between your thighs again, fingertips teasing over your still-sensitive core.

“ Besides…” He murmured, pressing a slow kiss under your ear.

“ You can’t tell me this wasn’t worth it. Every pose. Every second of staying still…” Another slow swipe of his fingers, lazy, almost cruel.

“ To see you like this, messy and aching for me, covered in my marks?” You whimpered, hips twitching under his touch.

“ See?” He teased, licking his lips as his free hand slid up your back to cradle your neck. “ You’re still so responsive. Just one touch and you’re already trembling. Still mine, aren’t you?”

“ Yes…” You breathed, melting into his grip, your thighs instinctively parting wider.

“ Good girl.” He whispered, capturing your lips again—this time with a deeper, hungrier kiss, all tongue and teeth, breathing into each other’s mouths like you hadn’t just been wrecked moments ago. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and smirked.

“ Next time you want to ‘draw me’…” His voice dropped, thick and suggestive.

“ Just know I charge in skin and sweat, baby. And you’re gonna owe me extra for letting you keep that portrait.” Your laugh was soft, breathless, your body already betraying you with how much you wanted him again.

“ And if I want a whole series?” You asked innocently.

He grinned like a devil. “ Then you’d better start stretching now, my little artist.”

…

The room still smelled like heat, skin, and something too intimate to name. But now, the air was calmer—quiet, even, save for the rustle of fabric and the faint hum of your heartbeat beginning to normalize. You sat on the edge of the table, cheeks still flushed, as you pulled your oversized shirt back down over your hips, legs wobbling when you stood.

In-ho chuckled under his breath as he adjusted his pants, smoothing his shirt with a satisfied smirk that hadn’t left his face since your body went limp under him. The portrait—the nude portrait—sat beside you, bold and raw on the canvas, your signature in the corner still smudged from your trembling hand.

“ I can’t leave this lying around.” You muttered, already grabbing the circular storage tube you'd stashed under your desk. You carefully rolled the piece and slid it inside, every inch of it a secret that only the two of you shared now.

“ You’re seriously giving it to me?” In-ho asked as he buckled his belt, glancing over his shoulder.

You nodded, biting your lip. “ It was your session. Consider it…payment for services rendered.”

That smug look returned to his face. “ Pretty generous for a guy who just got paid in flesh.”

You were still mid-laugh when he stepped forward, grabbed your waist, and pulled you into another hungry kiss. His lips found yours with a familiar heat, deep and possessive, his tongue brushing against yours like he hadn’t had enough of you—and truthfully, he hadn’t.

One of his hands slid up your back, the other cupping your cheek, thumb grazing your jaw. You moaned softly against him, your hands tightening in his shirt just as the click of your door echoed behind you.

Your blood ran cold. You both flinched—hard—and ripped apart like guilty teenagers. You scrambled a step back, trying to smooth your clothes and catch your breath, while In-ho casually reached up, dragging the back of his hand across his swollen lips like nothing happened.

“ Hey, hyung.” He said smoothly, turning toward the door with his signature, infuriating calm.

There, standing in the doorway, was your appa—arms crossed, one brow raised in that casual, mildly amused way only dads managed to pull off. You froze, eyes wide, heart thudding in your chest for a completely different reason now.

Appa looked between the two of you, narrowing his eyes. “…I hope I’m not interrupting something.”

In-ho chuckled, sliding his hands into his pockets, smooth as ever. “ Just wrapping up her project. You know how she gets when she’s focused. Intense. Locked in.” He glanced at you with a hidden smirk.

“ Real passionate.” You coughed—hard—turning away to hide your face.

Appa sighed, stepping into the room. “ Yah, I keep telling you, sweetheart, you push too hard. You barely eat when you get like this.” He ruffled your hair affectionately before glancing at In-ho. “ She’s got that stubborn streak, huh?”

“ Oh, absolutely.” In-ho replied, his voice was light, playful.

“ She’s…very thorough. Doesn’t stop until every last detail’s…taken care of.” You choked again—this time, on your own breath, and your appa didn’t even blink.

“ I’m serious though.” Appa continued, waving a hand. “ You should rest now, not overdo it again tomorrow.”

“ She’ll be sore…” In-ho added, lips twitching.

“ From all the hard…work.” You nearly died on the spot.

But Appa just nodded, completely unaware. “ Exactly. See, even In-ho agrees. Anyway, I’ll go ahead.” And just like that, he turned and left.

In-ho followed casually, slinging the tube containing the portrait over his shoulder like it was nothing more than a rolled-up poster. But just as he stepped through the doorway, he paused.

Turned his head. And winked. Your cheeks exploded with heat. You practically had to grip the table behind you for support. He grinned—devilish, satisfied—and disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with flushed skin, a pounding heart, and the taste of his kiss still lingering on your lips.

Author's Notes:

Hello! And welcome to another round of "What the fuck did I just write?" For today's session, this is the freakiest story that I ever wrote. I was sketching randomly when I came up with this scenario, which has stayed with me ever since.

If I were Y/n, fuck, no portrait would ever be made because we are creating art together, and our bodies would be the canvas—just kidding. Perhaps I am in an ovulation period, which is why I am acting like this. 😭

Tag: @startled-cats

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Falling for you || Hwang brothers

" I am your slave even if I don't know it."

Summary: Another special chapter for this series.

Warnings: Hmm...

Jun-ho was wheezing with laughter, nearly doubling over as you stood there with arms crossed and a pout growing on your lips.

" You’re serious?!" He gasped between laughs. " You’re actually serious—you’ve never learned how to ride a bike?!"

You swatted at his shoulder, annoyed. " Why is that so funny?! Stop being nosy!"

He held his stomach dramatically. " Oh, I’m not nosy—I’m just concerned that a full-grown human being doesn’t know how to ride something that kids learn by age five."

You glared. “ You’re impossible, Jun-ho.”

“ And you’re going to need training wheels.” He snickered.

You were about to fire back another insult when a loud cough cut through your bickering. Both of you jumped and whipped around. There stood In-ho, his police uniform crisp and imposing under the afternoon sun, arms folded, brow slightly raised.

“ Do you have to be that loud, Jun-ho?” He asked dryly. “ I could hear your voice echoing across the parking lot.”

Jun-ho straightened and made a dramatic bow. “ Apologies, officer. I didn’t realize joy was a crime now.”

You tried to stifle a laugh but failed. And then—Jun-ho’s eyes lit up with mischief again.

“ Hyung, you won’t believe what she just told me.” He said with a grin, pointing a thumb in your direction.

“ She can’t ride a bike. Not even a little. Like, not even stay upright for two seconds.” Your face flushed crimson.

“ JUN-HO!” You hissed, smacking his arm.

“ You’re unbelievable!” In-ho’s eyes flicked to you, and for a second he was just quiet, lips pressed together.

Then—smirk. That subtle, quiet one that barely curved his lips but held so much amusement. Your heart skipped.

“ Really?” In-ho said, voice low and teasing. “ That explains the balance issues when you walk.”

You looked away, hiding your face behind your hands. “ I hate you both.” Jun-ho was grinning proudly at the chaos he caused.

But before he could throw in another jab, his phone rang. He checked the screen and immediately groaned. “ Ugh—club adviser. Again.”

He glanced at you, then his brother. “ They want me in the conference room now. Apparently, I’m needed for the event committee meeting.”

Jun-ho sighed dramatically, then turned to you with a grin. “ Guess I’m leaving you in very grumpy hands.”

He clapped his brother’s shoulder. “ Hyung’s actually good at biking. A great teacher too. Just...try to be extra patient, okay? He gets scary when people don’t follow instructions.” In-ho raised a brow, clearly unimpressed.

Jun-ho winked at you. “ Good luck~!”

And with that, he jogged off toward the building, leaving you alone with In-ho, who was now watching you with that unreadable, slightly amused expression. You glanced at him, nervously playing with your fingers.

He tilted his head. “ Well?”

“ Well what?”

He stepped closer, voice a little lower. “ Are we doing this, or are you going to run from a bike like it’s a wild animal?”

You groaned. “ This is going to be humiliating.”

That smirk tugged at his lips again. “ Maybe. But don’t worry—I’ll catch you if you fall.” Your face burned again. Damn that smirk.

…

The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the empty path behind the campus gym—quiet, secluded, perfect for learning how to ride without a crowd watching. You stood next to the bike Jun-ho left behind, eyeing it like it might bite.

In-ho watched you with arms crossed. “ It’s just a bike.” He said flatly. “ Not a wild horse.”

You gave him a deadpan glare. “ Says the man who probably came out of the womb riding one.”

He sighed and stepped behind you, adjusting the seat and checking the brakes. “ Alright…” He said, voice calm and even.

“ Get on. Let’s start.” You hesitated, then clumsily threw a leg over the bike. Immediately, you tensed.

“ Relax.” In-ho said firmly, stepping beside you. “ You’re too stiff. Your body needs to move with the bike.”

“ I am relaxed.” You snapped, knuckles white on the handlebars.

In-ho gave you a look. “ You look like you’re gripping the last lifeline before falling off a cliff.”

You groaned. “ I’m scared, okay? I’ve never done this before. What if I fall and break something?”

“ You won’t.” He said simply. Then, with a brief pause, he added, “ Unless you ignore what I tell you.” You huffed.

“ I assumed you were an adult.” He continued coolly, stepping behind you and placing one steady hand on your lower back and the other on the handlebars.

“ So I expect you to catch on quickly. Eyes ahead.” You flinched slightly at the contact, but…it felt reassuring. His presence behind you was solid, steady—grounding.

“ I got you.” He said, almost under his breath. “ Now, start pedaling.”

“ I swear if I crash into that tree—”

“ You won’t. Stop overthinking.” You took a shaky breath, pushed on the pedals—and wobbled immediately.

“ Whoa—!”

“ Relax.” In-ho said again, still holding you. “ You’re fine. I’m right here.”

The bike moved forward jerkily, and your heart was hammering. But In-ho stayed right with you, holding your balance, matching your pace as you pedaled.

“ You’re still holding me, right?” You asked nervously.

“ Yes.”

“ You’re sure?”

He chuckled softly. “ Do you feel like falling?”

“ No…”

“ Then yes. I’m holding you. Now stop talking and focus.” His voice was deep, low, and for some reason—strangely comforting. You started pedaling again, trying to loosen your grip, trying to remember to breathe.

After a few moments of silence and more awkward wobbles, In-ho spoke again. “ See? You’re not dying.”

“ Yet.” You muttered. Another quiet chuckle behind you.

“ You’re better than I expected.” He said, his voice oddly warm. “ Even with all that complaining.”

You tried not to smile. “ That was a compliment, right?”

“ Barely.” He replied—but there was a subtle edge of fondness in his tone.

You didn’t notice the way his hand lingered a little longer on your back than necessary. Or how his pace slowed just slightly to match every uncertain movement you made.

You were too focused on not falling. But In-ho?

He was focused on you.

…

The golden hue of sunset painted the path in soft amber light, filtering through the trees as the crickets began to stir in the distance. You were smiling now—genuinely smiling. The wobble in your ride had faded, your grip on the handlebars was steady, and your confidence? Just slightly bloated with pride.

“ Look at me!” You beamed, pedaling freely. “ I got this now.”

In-ho stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, watching with a barely visible quirk at the corner of his lips. “ Don’t get too cocky.” He warned. “ That’s usually when people fall.”

You looked back at him, grinning. “ Are you threatening me or giving a life lesson?”

He raised a brow. “ I’m letting you run straight into your own consequences.”

You stuck out your tongue and faced forward again. “ Let me have this moment, Officer Grumpy.”

“ Fine.” He sighed, waving a hand. “ Go live your stubborn truth.”

You pedaled faster, more daring—giddy from the momentum and the breeze on your face. But your eyes kept darting back to him. To the way his sleeves were slightly rolled up, his uniform untucked just a bit from all the assisting, and the way his unreadable eyes stayed locked on you, unreadable and…something else.

Something you shouldn’t name. And in that moment of distraction—of watching him instead of the path—boom.

A loud thud. A rustle of leaves.

“ Aish—shibal!” Your bike crashed straight into a low tree trunk, and you toppled, skidding onto the rough gravel.

Pain flared in your knees and elbows, and you winced, hissing through your teeth. Before you could even sit up, there were footsteps—fast, heavy ones—and then In-ho was kneeling beside you, his brows drawn in tight concern.

“ Let me see.” He said, voice low and serious.

“ I’m fine.” You grumbled, trying to brush him off.

“ You’re bleeding.” He countered, already reaching for your arm.

“ Stop moving.” His fingers. Rough, warm, calloused—found your skin, brushing over the scrape on your forearm.

You tensed, not just from the sting but from the feeling that sparked through you like static electricity. He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes narrowed as he examined the wound, jaw tight, lashes lowered. You barely noticed.

“ Ow, ow, ow, god, this is the dumbest idea ever.” You groaned.

“ Why did I even think I could do that?! This is Jun-ho’s fault. And mine. But mostly his.”

In-ho didn’t answer. His thumb brushed just beside your scrape, his hand holding your wrist a second too long. Something passed through his face—something unreadable, something forbidden. A flicker of restraint. A deep pull.

He glanced at your face, saw the way you were pouting and scolding yourself under your breath, completely unaware of the tension hanging in the air like smoke.

Unaware of how close he was. Unaware of how soft your voice was when you were flustered. Unaware of how badly he wanted to forget that you were the one person he shouldn’t be thinking of like this. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to pull back.

“ You’re lucky it’s not worse.” He said gruffly, standing and turning away just enough to collect himself. “ Sit still. I’ll grab the first aid kit in the patrol car.”

“ Okay.” You muttered, still huffing.

As he walked off, his shoulders stiff, he didn’t let himself look back. Didn’t let himself think about the spark he felt when his hands were on your skin. Didn’t let himself admit that what he felt wasn’t just concern. And you—still fussing over the scrape—had no idea the ache wasn’t just in your knees.

It was starting for him too.

…

The car ride was quiet—comfortable, even. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. You sat in the passenger seat with a small bandage on your knee, your elbow freshly cleaned and wrapped, thanks to Officer Grumpy himself. In-ho kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear stick. Every so often, his eyes would flick toward you—subtle, guarded.

You caught one of those glances and smirked. “ You know, for someone so emotionally constipated, you’re surprisingly gentle with first aid.”

He exhaled a short laugh through his nose. “ You complain a lot for someone who crashed into a parked tree.”

“ I was distracted.” You defended, arms crossed. “ Maybe it was your fault for being so…so you.”

That made him glance at you fully for a second, brows arching in amusement. “ What does that even mean?”

“ You know what it means.” You said, turning away toward the window, hiding a little grin.

When he pulled into your driveway, he got out without a word and moved around to your side. You started to protest, but when he held his hand out for you, you paused—then took it.

His palm was warm. His fingers curled around yours a little too naturally. And when his hand lingered on your lower back as you walked up the front steps, you leaned into it…just a little. You didn’t miss how long his hand stayed there, either.

“ You know...” You said teasingly, glancing up at him.

“ For someone who complains about me being stubborn, your hands are doing a terrible job letting go.” In-ho’s eyes briefly flicked to yours—steady, unreadable.

Then he removed his hand slowly, clearing his throat. “ Just making sure you don’t trip again.”

“ Mm-hm…” You hummed, smiling as you unlocked the door.

Once inside, you turned to him. “ Thank you...seriously. For patching me up and for not laughing when I cried over a scrape like a toddler.”

“ You did whine like a toddler."

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. “ Fine. Still. Thanks for teaching me—even if it ended in a mild tragedy.”

He gave a small chuckle and nodded. “ You did okay.” He turned, about to leave, but you stepped forward quickly.

“ Wait—hang on.” You grabbed his sleeve. He stopped. Slowly turned back.

“ Let me repay you. You’ve been stuck with me for hours, and I’ve done nothing but complain and bleed and crash into trees.”

“ That’s not exactly a glowing summary of our time together.” He said dryly.

You gave him a look. “ Movie night. Come on. It’s the least I can do.”

“ No.”

“ Please?”

“ No.”

You grabbed his arm with both hands, leaning on him. “ Pleeeeease. You don’t even have to stay the whole time.”

“…No.”

“ I’ll give you popcorn. And soda. And the remote. You can even pick the next movie.”

“ That’s supposed to convince me?” You gave him the most exaggerated pout in history.

He sighed—deep, slow. “ Fine. One movie.” You cheered, dragging him toward the couch before he could change his mind.

…

Half an hour later, you were sitting beside him on your couch, bowl of popcorn between you. The movie played on the screen—some feel-good romantic comedy with an absurd plot and heart-shaped confetti raining from the sky. In-ho, of course, had opinions.

“ That’s not how real people fall in love.” He muttered, reaching for popcorn.

“ No one just trips into someone’s arms and suddenly they’re soulmates.”

You gasped, mock offended. “ Have some imagination, In-ho! Not everything has to be realistic.”

He gave you a look. “ Their chemistry is nonexistent.”

You threw a kernel at him. “ Shut up and enjoy the fake love!”

Still, he stayed. Still, he watched. Eventually, a wedding scene flickered onto the screen—the couple exchanging vows under a sunset glow, music swelling as the bride wiped away tears.

Without thinking, you murmured, “ I wonder what it feels like…to be married.”

In-ho went completely still beside you. You didn’t notice at first—until the silence stretched a little too long.

You turned to him. “ Hey. You’re older. You’ve got to have some thoughts about that, right?”

He didn’t respond. You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “ Don’t tell me you’ve never imagined it?”

“…It’s not something I think about.” He replied lowly, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching it.

You leaned your cheek against the couch. “ Pfft. Liar. You’re still single, huh?”

That earned you a sideways glare, but you just grinned. “ What? Are you waiting for the perfect person? Or are you just too grumpy for love?”

You laughed, teasing, thinking nothing of it. But you didn’t see the way his expression shifted—how his eyes softened, then tightened like he was trying to keep something locked deep inside. You didn’t notice the quiet way he swallowed the heavy lump in his throat.

Because the truth was, he had imagined it. Just never with anyone he was allowed to want. And here you were—beside him. Soft, warm, and dangerously close. He let your laughter fill the room. Let it drown out the pounding in his chest. Because if he let himself answer honestly, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

And some things…weren’t meant to be said out loud.

…

The movie credits rolled quietly, golden names fading into black while the soft instrumental music hummed in the background. You were curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, eyes still fixed on the screen though your mind had wandered miles away.

In-ho wasn’t watching the screen. He was watching you. The soft light from the TV flickered across your features, illuminating every little twitch of your lips, every glint in your curious eyes. You looked so…unaware. Unaware of the chaos you stirred in him just by sitting close, just by laughing at his sarcasm, just by being here. He sighed under his breath—barely audible—but you heard it.

You tilted your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “ What was that?”

“ What?”

“ That sigh” You said, leaning forward with a playful pout.

“ Are you bored being with me? How rude.” In-ho’s eyes met yours. For a second, his mouth parted—he almost said it. Almost.

But instead, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the couch. “ You’re exhausting. That’s all.”

You gasped. “ Rude and dramatic. Seriously, I don’t know who could ever handle you.”

He looked at you again, slower this time. “ There might be someone.” He murmured, tone almost too soft to catch. You blinked, not quite catching the weight in his voice.

“ Ooh? Is this a confession? Wait—do I know her? Is she one of those quiet types who secretly like broody cops?” You teased with a wiggle of your brows.

In-ho rolled his eyes so hard you could practically hear it. “ You’re impossible.”

“ You’re deflecting.” You shot back, grinning. “ So it is someone I know.”

He didn't answer, jaw tightening slightly as he looked away. You, as always, took his silence as shyness—never once imagining it had anything to do with you.

So you shrugged, leaned back with a little dreamy sigh. “ Love is weird anyway.”

He turned back to you, brows raised. “ Weird?”

You nodded, the light fading from your smile into something a little softer. “ Yeah. Like…I’m curious, y’know? About how it works. Is it all cheesy and magical like in the movies, or does it just...sneak up on you when you’re not looking?”

You laughed, low and almost shy. “ Maybe I’m just hopeless. I do like the idea of soulmates and all that corny stuff.”

In-ho watched you, eyes quietly searching for something he could never ask for. Your words—your laugh—dug under his ribs and stayed there.

You paused, fingers idly playing with a loose thread from the throw pillow. “ Sometimes I think…maybe I already like someone.” His body stiffened.

You didn’t say a name. You never said his brother’s name in front of him when things like this came up. But it wasn’t hard to guess. In-ho didn’t flinch, but something behind his gaze shifted. Quiet and sharp.

“ Do you?” He asked, voice a touch lower now.

You huffed, instantly scrunching your nose. “ Ugh. No. I mean—maybe. But no. Love’s kind of…lame. Messy. Cruel, even. Why fall in love when you can chase your dreams instead? At least they don’t ghost you or leave you confused all the time.” He didn’t speak.

But your words hit their mark. Because he knew. He knew you weren’t just talking about love in general. You were talking about his brother. About someone who ran. Someone who never looked back. Someone who didn’t see you the way you wanted to be seen.

And part of him hated that Jun-ho had your heart without even trying—while he stood right beside you, hurting quietly in the background. In-ho’s voice was calm when he finally spoke, but there was something heavier laced between the words.

“ Then maybe it’s better this way.” He said.

“ Choosing yourself first. Taking time to figure out who you are without chasing someone else.” You looked up, surprised.

“ Love doesn’t fix everything.” He continued, softer now.

“ Sometimes it’s not about finding the right person. It’s about being the right version of yourself. So when the right person comes…you’ll be ready.” You stared at him, eyes wide. For once, speechless.

A beat passed before you nudged his arm lightly. “ Wow. That’s deep. Who knew you were a secret therapist in a police uniform?”

He chuckled, low and warm, eyes flicking to yours again with something bittersweet glinting behind them. “ Don’t get used to it.”

You grinned. “ Too late.”

Still, you didn’t notice the weight in his stare. Didn’t notice the way he looked at you like he was memorizing every inch of your smile. Didn’t notice the way his heart ached because the one he wanted…only wanted someone else.

You were too naïve. Too blind. Always.

…

The next morning, you barged into the brothers’ house like it was your second home. You plopped dramatically onto the couch beside Jun-ho, who was eating cereal with the TV blaring in the background.

“ Jun-ho.” You whispered in the most scandalous tone, eyes gleaming.

“ I have tea.” Jun-ho’s mouth was full, but he still managed to raise his brows in curiosity. You leaned closer with a dramatic flair.

“ I think your grumpy brother has a crush.” Jun-ho choked on his cereal.

You smacked his back as he coughed and wheezed through a laugh. “ W-What?! Who?! Who the hell would fall for him?!”

“ I know, right?” You snickered. “ He was acting weird last night. Like, soft weird. You think it’s serious?”

Jun-ho was still recovering from his cereal-induced near-death, laughing louder. “ In-ho? In love? Please. He’d rather arrest himself.”

From the stairs, a voice snapped, “ I can hear everything.”

You both froze, turning slowly like guilty kids caught mid-prank. There he was. In-ho. Leaning against the stair railing with his arms crossed, in a black hoodie and that signature unimpressed stare.

You waved sheepishly. “ Hi, In-ho…”

“ You two are insufferable.” He muttered, already regretting ever opening his heart even halfway last night.

Jun-ho, of course, was already bouncing on the couch in amusement. “ Hyuuung! Do you really like someone?! Who is it? Huh? Is it someone we know? Someone from work?”

“ I’m not talking about this.” In-ho muttered, walking toward the kitchen like he didn’t want to exist anymore.

“ Oh come on!” Jun-ho followed, grinning like a devil.

“ Is she older? Younger? What’s her type? Wait—do you need my help?! I give killer advice.”

You burst out laughing. “ Yeah, maybe teach him how to smile first.”

“ Or how to hold a conversation without glaring.”

“ Or how to confess without sounding like a threat.”

In-ho stopped at the fridge door and turned slowly to glare at both of you, clearly flustered, though his face was doing everything to hide it. “ If I ever had feelings, they’d be gone now. Thanks.”

“ Oh my god, he’s blushing!” Jun-ho gasped.

“ I’m not.” In-ho growled.

But your laughter only grew louder. You and Jun-ho were feeding off each other’s teasing energy while In-ho stood in the kitchen, trying to hold on to his remaining dignity.

And yet, he almost tried again. Almost said it out loud. The hints were practically falling out of his mouth. But neither of you noticed. Too busy poking at his pride, too blind to see that the person he kept hinting about—was sitting right there.

…

Later that afternoon, Jun-ho wandered into In-ho’s room. “ Hyung, can I borrow that charger—?”

He stopped short. There on In-ho’s desk were a few scattered items, nothing out of place…except for the small, printed photos.

Your photos. On the table, by a notebook and pen, were pictures of you laughing at a school festival, one where you posed with Jun-ho, and another candid shot where you were holding a drink, mid-sip, smiling at someone off-camera.

Jun-ho’s stomach dropped. He stared for a long moment before slowly backing out of the room and heading downstairs. You were outside talking to a neighbor, animated and smiling—completely unaware. Jun-ho approached In-ho, who was cleaning up dishes, eyes calm and focused.

Without a preamble, Jun-ho asked, “ Is it…her?”

In-ho paused, not looking up. “ What?”

“ Don’t play dumb.” Jun-ho said, voice a little tighter.

“ Is the girl you like…my best friend?” In-ho finally looked at him. Calm. Deadpan. Not a flicker of panic—on the outside.

“ No.” He said flatly. “ You’re weird.”

Jun-ho squinted at him. “ Hyung…”

“ Jun-ho, I’m not discussing this.” There was a long pause before Jun-ho relented, sighing.

“ Good. Because honestly, it’d be too weird if you liked her. She’s practically family, you know? You’re way older, and she’s my best friend. That’s just…yeah, no. Alarm bells. Everywhere.”

In-ho stayed silent. Not because he agreed. But because the truth was already too close to the surface. Because hearing it out loud like that made something twist painfully in his chest. He glanced toward the window where you were still chatting outside, your smile bright and oblivious.

You were sunshine. And he was the shadow hiding behind your laughter—always just almost.

Always forbidden.

…

“ You better not hog the blanket again tonight.” Jun-ho warned as he tossed a bag of your favorite chips in your direction.

You caught it mid-air with a triumphant grin. “ I don’t hog it. You’re just weak and cold-blooded.”

Jun-ho gasped in mock offense. “ I am a perfectly balanced sleeper.”

“ Sure. That’s why I woke up nearly falling off the bed last time.”

“ You roll like a damn croissant when you sleep—how is that my fault?!” You both dissolved into laughter as you kicked off your shoes and made yourself at home in the living room, blanket draped over your lap, snacks scattered like a crime scene.

It felt warm, natural—too natural, the way you fit into this house.

“ So…” You said between bites. “ You’re stuck with me overnight. Hope your weak immune system survives my presence.”

Jun-ho rolled his eyes, settling beside you. “ You say that like I haven’t suffered enough.”

Just then—BANG. The front door slammed open so hard, the walls shook. You both screamed.

“ WHAT THE HELL—” Jun-ho yelled, already standing up.

Enter: In-ho. He staggered in, one hand clumsily trying to push the door closed, the other reaching out like a half-conscious ghost. His shirt was wrinkled, hair a mess, and his eyes? Barely open. He stumbled forward like a slow, moaning zombie.

“ I smell alcohol.” You muttered, nose scrunching. “ Like, strong alcohol.”

Jun-ho rushed over in a panic. “ Hyung—what the hell—are you drunk?!”

“ I’m fabulous.” In-ho slurred with a sleepy grin.

“ Where’s…m’bed?” He collapsed directly onto the couch—beside you.

Right beside you.

You gagged dramatically. “ Oh my god, he smells like he took a bath in soju.”

“ I told him to stop going out with his precinct buddies on a weeknight.” Jun-ho muttered, trying to peel him off the couch.

In-ho just grunted and hugged the couch like it owed him money. “ S’comfy.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing. “ Is this really the same guy who threatened to arrest me for jaywalking?”

“ Sadly, yes.”

Jun-ho leaned down and tried again to yank In-ho into a sitting position. “ Hyung, seriously, you need to change—go sleep in your bed. You’re stinking up the house.”

In-ho just pouted. Actually pouted. “ No. The couch is nice. Smells like…” He turned his head toward you, eyes barely open.

“ You smell nice.” You blinked. Jun-ho blinked.

“ Okay, ew.” Jun-ho gagged. “ Get OFF the couch.”

“ I like her shampoo.” In-ho murmured like a sleepy confession, nuzzling the cushion dangerously close to your thigh before flopping his arm over the backrest.

You were frozen. “ Is he usually this friendly when drunk?”

“ No.” Jun-ho deadpanned. “ He’s usually brooding in a corner like a villain. This is disturbing.”

“ I’m fun.” In-ho mumbled, smug little smile curling his lips as his head lolled back. “ I’m the fun one.”

Jun-ho crossed his arms. “ No, you’re the liability.”

“ I’m Mr. Sunshine.” In-ho whispered.

You covered your face, giggling uncontrollably. “ Okay, he’s never gonna live this down.”

“ Record it.” Jun-ho said instantly, handing you his phone.

“ Nooo…” In-ho drawled, eyes still closed, but his pout returned with extra drama. “ Dun’ record meee…”

“ You literally kicked the door open like a drunk superhero, and now you’re purring on my couch. You don’t get to say no.”

“ I was born mysterious.” He added with a slurred giggle, then blindly reached for the snack bag in your lap. He missed and slapped your knee.

You yelped. “ Watch it, zombie cop!”

In-ho just smiled dreamily. “ You’re always loud.”

You blinked at him, a strange flutter creeping into your chest at the way his voice softened—even drunk. But Jun-ho yanked his attention away before it could settle.

“ Okay. He needs water. And maybe a mop.” Jun-ho sighed as he hoisted his brother up to sit straighter. In-ho slumped against him like a sleepy cat, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

You sat there watching, caught between horror, laughter…and something soft that bloomed unexpectedly in your chest. Because as absurd as it was, seeing the grumpy, guarded In-ho drunk and vulnerable, pouting and smiling and complimenting your shampoo—made him feel…human. Warm. Yearning stirred beneath the laughter.

You shook your head, chuckling under your breath. “ Mr. Sunshine, huh?”

In-ho didn’t answer. His head had already dropped to the side, resting on Jun-ho’s shoulder as he snored softly, lips still curled into a smile. And for once, the grumpy one looked at peace.

…

You and Jun-ho dragged In-ho’s body like a sack of stubborn potatoes up the stairs, both of you panting, sweating, and wheezing curses under your breaths.

“ Hyung, you weigh like sin and regret.” Jun-ho grunted as he stumbled backward into the room with In-ho’s arm looped over his shoulder.

“ He’s all dead weight.” You snapped, trying not to fall face-first while holding his other side. “ What does he eat? Bricks?”

“ Anger and unresolved issues.” With one final, joint heave, the two of you threw him—unceremoniously—onto his bed.

THUD.

In-ho groaned dramatically before chuckling low in his throat. “ So violent…but still…so pretty.”

You rolled your eyes. “ God, he’s flirting with the air now.”

Jun-ho straightened, brushing off his hands. “ Okay. You watch him. I’m grabbing a towel and hot water before he tries to bathe in mouthwash.”

“ What?!” You yelped.

But Jun-ho was already out the door. “ I’m timing you! If he barfs—your problem!”

You turned slowly to face the heap of drunken man on the bed. He was lying like a fallen hero—legs dangling, arms sprawled, shirt riding up just enough to make your brain go haywire. His lips were curved into a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

You stood there like a broken NPC, blinking at him. Then he muttered something. A string of garbled words you couldn’t quite catch.

You inched closer. “ What? What is it—what are you saying now?”

In-ho turned his head, slow and drowsy, eyes locking on yours. “ You’re beautiful.” He slurred.

You froze. “ Excuse me?”

He smiled wider. “ Like…goddess-level.”

You groaned. “ Okay, great. We’re at the delusional compliments stage of his drunken spiral.” But then, without warning, his hand caught your wrist—firmly—and tugged you forward.

You stumbled—right on top of him. Your hands landed on either side of his chest to catch your fall. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go completely.

You were close—too close. His eyes were open now. And they were staring straight into yours. Warm. Heavy. Bare.

“ Why is it so damn hard to reach you?” He whispered.

You blinked, heart hammering so hard you swore he could feel it from your hands on his chest. “…What?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his free hand moved. Slowly. Fingers brushing against your face, tucking that one stray strand of hair behind your ear with infuriating gentleness. You barely managed a breath when his knuckles dragged along your cheek, ghosting to your jaw. Your skin tingled where he touched—burned, almost. He smiled softly. Sadly.

“ If I was born the same year as you…maybe…” He murmured.

“ Just maybe, there wouldn’t be walls between us.” You stared at him, stunned. Your mouth opened, desperate to ask what he meant. But then he laughed. Quiet. Warm. Tired. And before you could say anything—

His eyes closed. His hand fell. And he slipped into sleep, just like that. You stayed there, paralyzed above him, heart sprinting like it was running from something you didn’t understand. Questions rushed through your mind like a flood.

What did he mean?

What walls?

Why did it hurt to hear those words from him?

You slowly pulled back, heart still in your throat, and sat beside the bed with your fingers curled around the edge of the mattress.

The door creaked, and Jun-ho peeked in. “ Got the stuff. Did he puke on you?”

You turned to him blankly. “ No…he—uh. Fell asleep.”

Jun-ho eyed you suspiciously as he walked in, placing the warm basin down. “ You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“ Yeah.” You muttered.

Just a ghost of a feeling you weren’t ready to name.

…

In-ho groaned from the couch, one arm draped over his eyes like the light itself was committing war crimes against his skull. His hair was tousled, his voice hoarse, and his expression as grumpy as a cat pulled from a warm nap. You and Jun-ho sat across from him—arms crossed, judgment oozing from your eyes like beams of silent disapproval.

Jun-ho broke the silence first. “ You look like you crawled out of a sewer.”

“ Shut up.” In-ho grunted, rubbing his temple. “ My head feels like someone’s playing drums inside it with a sledgehammer.”

“ You deserve it.” Jun-ho snapped. “ You came home drunk like a freaking zombie. You scared the life out of the neighbors.”

You nodded slowly. “ And me. I almost called a priest.”

In-ho squinted at the two of you. “ If you don’t have anything helpful to say, shut up. My skull is splitting in half.”

Jun-ho rolled his eyes. “ Oh, don’t start acting like you’re the victim here.” He stood up, arms flailing a bit.

“ You know Eomma would murder you if she saw you like that. Why did you drink so much?”

In-ho lazily took a sip from the glass of water beside him. “ Someone at work threw a party. Couldn’t say no. He’s one of the few idiots I actually like.”

You stayed quiet. But your gaze lingered. On him. More precisely—his very topless, very sweaty, very unfairly well-defined body. His skin glistened faintly under the morning light, and his hair was sticking to his forehead like he just walked out of a slow-motion scene. You didn’t even realize how obvious you were until—

“ Hey.” Jun-ho flicked your forehead.

“ Eyes up, Romeo.” He said with a sarcastic grin. “ That’s my brother, not a thirst trap.”

You slapped his hand away, fuming. “ I wasn’t staring!”

“ Oh please.” Jun-ho snorted. “ You were practically drafting a fanfic in your head.”

“ Shut up!” You yelled back.

The two of you devolved into a noisy argument—loud enough to make In-ho growl again, covering his ears with a pillow. “ Both of you. Quiet. Now.”

Jun-ho’s phone rang. He picked it up, glancing at the caller ID. “ Ugh, work. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.” And with that, he stepped outside.

Now it was just you and him. The silence was instant. Thick. Awkward. Almost theatrical. In-ho wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and gulped more water. He didn’t say a word. Just sat there, half-naked and hungover, in all his frustrating glory.

You cleared your throat. “ Do you remember what you said last night?”

He blinked. “ What?”

You stood, slowly walking to the front of him. Tiptoeing to match his height, you narrowed your eyes. “ You said I’m beautiful…and something about it being hard to reach me.” In-ho paused. Then smirked.

“ Delusional.” He said, voice dry. “ I was drunk. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your mouth dropped open. “ Excuse me?”

He leaned down to your level, his smirk never leaving. “ You looked like Fiona. Shrek’s wife. That might be what I meant.”

You gasped. “ You little—!” You smacked his chest.

He laughed as he blocked you, dodging your tiny slaps like a bored cat. “ Violence, huh?” You misstepped while swinging—then lost balance.

Right into him. In-ho caught you. Your breath hitched as his hands wrapped around your waist, steadying you. The world paused. Like some cheesy K-drama moment where time slows and the OST plays in the background. Your face was inches from his. His eyes locked onto yours, unreadable. The heat of his skin against yours made your nerves spike. You stared. He stared back. Too close. Far too close.

You shoved at him with a shriek. “ Ugh! You’re disgusting!” He just chuckled as you flailed away from him like you’d been electrocuted.

Still grinning, he said lazily, “ Whatever I said last night…forget it. Drunk people talk nonsense. Never take it seriously.”

You frowned. “ Not true. Most drunk people tell the truth.”

He stood slowly—stretching a little—and sauntered toward you with maddening calmness. You found yourself backed into the kitchen island, nowhere to go.

“ You believe everything you hear, huh?” He murmured.

Then—flick. He flicked your forehead with a smug grin.

“ Too naïve.” He whispered as you groaned in frustration, holding your forehead.

You huffed. “ You’re infuriating.”

“ I’m hungover.”

“ Still infuriating.” He smiled faintly. But behind that smirk, something soft lingered in his eyes. Something neither of you wanted to name yet.

…

The evening deepened into a bruised shade of navy, stars flickering to life one by one, like tiny truths stitched into the sky. You sat alone on a park bench, your knees pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them as your eyes searched the stars like they owed you answers. You didn’t want to go home. The quiet there was too loud. The thoughts, too constant. And then…the gravel behind you crunched. You turned your head slowly.

In-ho. Still in his uniform, badge glinting under the faint glow of the park lights. His jacket was draped over his shoulder, his hair slightly tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it too many times today.

“ It’s already late.” He said, voice calm. “ Why are you still here?”

You shrugged, gaze drifting back up. “ Just thinking…and punishing myself with every bad life decision I’ve ever made.”

In-ho gave a small hum, sliding onto the bench beside you. He didn’t say anything right away, just glanced sideways, curious.

You were playing with the frayed hem of your sleeve now, words tangled on your tongue. Then softly, almost shyly, you asked, “ Do you think someone will ever…look at me and still think I’m beautiful? Even when I look like I just walked through a war zone every morning?”

He blinked. “ You mean like…every morning?”

You threw him a sharp glare. He chuckled, but one look at your face made him sober. “ Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

You sighed. “ No, seriously. Do you think someone could still find you beautiful even when you’re messy and tired and...real?” He didn’t answer at first. And that gave you the space to say what you didn’t mean to say.

“ What if you like someone and you know you’re not supposed to? What if it feels…wrong. Like you’ll ruin everything by saying it out loud. So you hide it. But hiding it just makes it worse.” You rubbed your arms, voice low and cracked.

“ You get jealous. But you have no right to. Because you're not theirs and they're not yours.” In-ho watched you in silence. His jaw clenched slightly. Then, his voice came quiet and firm.

“ You’re beautiful.” He said. Your head turned fast, blinking at him. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t teasing.

“ Inside and out. And if that person can’t see that, then maybe they’re not just blind—they’re a fool.” He leaned back, exhaling.

“ Sometimes…someone’s waiting for you to just look in their direction. But you’re too focused on someone else. That’s not your fault. Just how things fall.” Then—his hand found yours. A gentle squeeze. Warm and grounding.

His gaze met yours, deeper than you could handle. “ Don’t lose your confidence. Just because one person can’t see you…doesn’t mean no one does. Someone out there—” He swallowed.

“ Would give up everything if you’d just give them a chance. To them, you’re everything. A gem. A win. The whole damn trophy.”

You laughed. “ Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”

“ I’m serious.” He said, still not laughing. That shut you up.

A beat passed. Then he asked, carefully, “ Do you…like someone? Right now?” You blinked at him. Your heart pulsed hard in your chest.

“ Yeah.” You gave a small, hesitant nod. “ For a long time now.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “ I thought it was just a phase. A dumb crush. But the longer I tried to ignore it…the harder I fell.”

You laughed softly, bitterly. “ God. I’m being dramatic, aren’t I?” In-ho’s thumb brushed across the back of your hand instinctively.

You squeezed his hand playfully. “ Thanks for being my emotional therapist. You deserve a raise.”

He finally cracked a smile. “ Yeah? I accept payment in snacks.”

You grinned. “ Noted.” Then you looked at him—really looked.

“ And whoever you like...” You whispered.

“ She’s lucky. To have someone who feels that much.” He blinked.

You continued before he could say anything. “ So don’t be like me, In-ho. Don’t waste time hiding it. Tell her. Before it’s too late. Before you’re sitting under the stars thinking about all the chances you didn’t take.”

He stared at you. So many words sat at the edge of his mouth.

I love you.

But instead…

He smirked. “ Wow. Look who’s giving love advice now.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder. “ You are so annoying.”

“ Therapist’s privilege.” He said. And even though he was smiling—

His heart was caving in. Because he couldn’t say it. Not when your eyes were filled with someone else. So he stayed beside you, laughing like it didn’t hurt.

While the stars above bore witness to a love never spoken. And a girl who never noticed.

…

The precinct was busy, as usual—phones ringing, officers murmuring over paperwork, the occasional annoyed grunt echoing in the background. But none of that mattered the moment you walked in, cradling a paper bag and a familiar cup holder with two hands, a mischievous sparkle in your eye. In-ho, hunched over his desk and half-dead from back-to-back shifts, didn’t even notice you until your voice cut through the room like a sunny interruption.

“ Delivery for the most patient officer I know.” You said cheerily, placing the goodies on his desk.

His head snapped up, eyes widening. “ You—what are you doing here?”

You shrugged playfully. “ Thought I’d bribe the officer who keeps dealing with my stubbornness. It’s only fair.”

Across the room, Min-jae stopped mid-sentence on his report. His eyes slowly lifted above his folder, tracking the way In-ho blinked at you like a deer in headlights. Then…he noticed it.

The ears. Bright. Red. Ears. Min-jae bit his lip. Hard. His pen trembled slightly in his hand as he looked back down at his paper, shoulders subtly shaking from trying not to laugh.

In-ho cleared his throat, trying to act like a fully functional adult. “ You didn’t have to…”

“ I wanted to.” You smiled. “ You’ve been really patient with me lately, and I appreciate it.”

You then turned to Min-jae with a little wave. “Hi, Officer Min-jae. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

He let out a muffled squeak of a laugh behind his hand. “ N-Not at all! Please interrupt more often.” In-ho gave him a glare that could melt paint off walls.

“ I should go.” You said, checking your phone. “ I’ve got a mountain of homework waiting for me. Ugh. I’m starting to think the real punishment here is being a student.”

“ Go home safe.” In-ho muttered, awkward but earnest.

You offered him a warm smile—soft, kind, and utterly oblivious to the chaos you just left in your wake. “ Thanks again, In-ho.”

And then you left, waving at Min-jae, who was fully giggling at this point, and completely delighted to be an audience to his partner's emotional downfall.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Silence.

Then—

In-ho let out a slow breath and opened the bag. Inside were all his favorites, perfectly packed. And right on top?

A folded note, written in your unmistakable handwriting:

“ For handling the most difficult civilian in Seoul. Don’t fire me from your life yet. P.S. I spelled your name right this time! I think.”

His lips twitched upward against his will. Min-jae peeked over the report and let out a low whistle.

“ You’re so screwed.” In-ho rolled his eyes and flipped him off.

Min-jae cackled. “ That smile—look at you. You’re gone, hyung. Gone.”

In-ho shook his head, biting back the ridiculous grin that wouldn’t leave. He tucked the note back into the bag like it was something precious. And under his breath, just for himself, he mumbled—

“ If she keeps doing things like this…I’m not gonna survive.” His eyes flickered to the door you had just walked out of.

“ I really can’t help it…even if I’m just her best friend’s grumpy older brother. Even if I’m not supposed to.”

And as he leaned back in his chair, sipping the coffee you brought him, In-ho knew one thing with devastating certainty:

He was already yours.

Author's Note:

Sheesh...another special chapter in this series. Honestly, I miss updating Falling For You. The Hwang brothers' bond with Y/n holds a special place in my heart. As usual, there is a lot of angst and In-ho remains the second lead in this event. Despite the fact that something tragic occurred, I am glad they ended up together; at least Y/n chose him.

Additionally, Alipin song was a true tribute to In-ho who were still wishing and longing for Y/n's love and attention.

Anyways, enjoy reading this special chapter. My response to those inquiring about season two is...soon. 🤭😝

[lost-in-thoughts03]

ONCE THE MOON TWINS || SEONG GI-HUN

" I would rather give everything, even my world."

Summary: You have the silliest, most clingy and chaotic boyfriend ever. Your relationship with him is like a rollercoaster. He is your long-term boyfriend, and the more you learn about him, the more you fall for him.

Warnings: Pure fluff. Be ready. Prepare yourself.

The dinner rush had died down at the small, cozy restaurant tucked between a laundry shop and a secondhand bookstore. You sat on your usual stool near the counter, lazily stirring your drink with a straw while watching your boyfriend fumble with a tray of empty bowls. He looked ridiculous. Hair tied up in a loose bun, apron half untied, and that same old pout on his lips as his eomma scolded him in the back. Something about the gochujang being too strong this time. Again. You smiled. Some things never changed.

" Yah, babe. Can you help me hide in the fridge?" Gi-hun groaned, trudging toward you dramatically.

You leaned on the counter, smirking. “ If I open the fridge, your eomma might stuff you in there for real.”

He dropped his head on your shoulder with a whine. “ Why is she scarier than your mom?”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “ Because she likes me.”

He let out a dramatic gasp and clutched his chest. “ You wound me. Betrayed by my own lover.”

You laughed, lightly tugging on his bun. “ Fix your apron, chef toddler.”

Gi-hun grinned, cheek resting on your shoulder. “ Only if you give me a kiss first.”

" Ugh. You're like a needy golden retriever.” You grumbled, but your hand was already brushing his bangs off his face, eyes soft. “ How are you clingier than me?”

“ Because I love you more.” He said, sing-song, knowing exactly how to melt you. Your glare didn’t last long. It never did.

…

The whispers followed you both like shadows.

“She could do better.”

“Isn’t he too old?”

“When’s he even planning to marry her?”

“He’s just wasting her time.”

Once, at a family gathering, your uncle had looked Gi-hun dead in the eyes and asked with a sneer, “ So when’s the proposal? Or are you waiting for pigs to fly?”

Gi-hun just smiled and said, “ Once the moon gets a twin.”

Everyone laughed awkwardly. You just took his hand under the table and squeezed it. And he squeezed back.

Later that night, he mumbled against your neck as you lay in bed together, “ If ignoring people’s crap made us rich, we’d have our own island.”

You kissed the top of his head. “ Let’s name it Moon’s Twin when we get it.”

He chuckled, arm wrapping around your waist. “ Deal.”

…

You knew your parents weren’t thrilled. The age gap, the humble job, the messy apron and the worn-out sneakers. They wanted someone in a suit. Someone with a car. Someone who wasn’t still being scolded by his mom at thirty-something.

But they didn’t see what you saw. They didn’t see the way he would wait up for you after your shift with warm food and tired eyes. They didn’t see how he’d rest his head on your lap and listen to you rant about your day, always responding with sleepy hums and heartfelt advice. They didn’t know that when you first met him—long hair, nervous hands, muttering apologies for accidentally burning the rice, you already felt it. The pull. The softness. The spark. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t rich. He loved fiercely. Stupidly. Loudly. And you loved him right back.

One night, as you lay on his chest, you whispered, “ What are you still waiting for, Gi-hun?"

He traced lazy circles on your back. “ Just a little more. Something I need to prove. For me. For you.”

You lifted your head. “ You don’t have to prove anything.”

He smiled and kissed your forehead. “ I know. But I want to. It’s confidential.”

You groaned. “ If I hear ‘confidential’ one more time…”

He grinned. “ Then you’ll have to keep being patient. Just a bit longer.” You rolled your eyes but let your head fall back against him.

No pressure. No clocks ticking. Just the quiet hum of the restaurant downstairs, the muffled sound of his eomma cleaning, and the two of you tangled together in your own version of forever. And maybe, one night—when the moon decides to reveal its twin, you’ll finally say yes to the man who already had your heart, long before he ever asked for your hand.

…

The bus ride was long, a little bumpy, and smelled faintly of snacks and old air freshener—but none of that mattered. You had a window seat, the breeze was soft through the half-open window, and Gi-hun was glued to your side like velcro. His fingers laced tightly with yours, swinging your arms like a child with a new toy.

“ I swear, babe.” He said for the fifth time. “ You’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like—ugh!—like the sky itself fell in love with the land. You’ll cry. You might cry. I cried the first time.”

“ You cry when I don’t put cheese in your ramyeon.” You muttered.

He gasped dramatically and pressed your hand against his cheek. “ Because that’s betrayal.” Then he closed his eyes and nuzzled your knuckles with a deep, over-the-top purr. Yes, purr. Like a pampered cat.

You snorted. “ What are you? A cat now?”

“ I’m your cat.” He replied, voice muffled against your palm. “ Pet me.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing, “ Aigoo. So clingy. Can’t you behave for once?” He opened one eye to pout at you before lunging and tickling your side.

“ Yah! Stop—ahh!” You shrieked, squirming away in your seat as your laughter echoed through the quiet bus.

The passengers turned their heads. One old lady smiled in amusement. A teenage girl giggled behind her book. Flushed and breathless, you glared at him, but he just snuggled into your chest and said, “ Touch my hair. I want my massage now. My working girl needs to spoil me.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “ You’re impossible.” But your fingers were already in his hair, threading through the soft strands gently.

He giggled, eyes fluttering shut. “ Mmm. This is why I fell for you. Hands like heaven.” You snorted but didn’t stop.

…

Two and a half hours later, the bus pulled off the highway and into a quiet little countryside road lined with golden grass and sleepy trees. Gi-hun leapt off the last step like a kid on a field trip, then turned and reached for your hand with the biggest grin.

“ Come on! Come on! It’s starting!” You jogged behind him as he dragged you through a narrow dirt path. Your legs were tired, your body sore from work, but something about his excitement made it all melt away.

And then you saw it. A wide, endless field stretched out before you, gently sloping into a cliff that kissed the sea. The sun hovered just above the horizon, casting honeyed light across the grass. The clouds blushed pink and orange, scattered like shy confessions in the sky. Gi-hun stopped at the edge, his breath visible as he took it all in. Then he turned to you, face glowing more brightly than the sunset.

“ Well?” He asked, eyes twinkling. “ Worth the commute?”

You were stunned into silence. The stress from work, the pressure, the noise—all of it slipped away with the wind. All that remained was this golden moment, the sun dipping behind the sea, and the man who looked at you like you hung the stars yourself.

You smiled, walking up to him and resting your head on his shoulder. “ You’re the dumbest genius I know.”

He laughed and kissed your hair. “ I know. But I got you to smile, didn’t I?”

“ Yeah…” You murmured.

“ You always do.” And as the sky began to darken and the first stars blinked awake, you held hands in the quiet, hearts beating in sync, far away from the world that never quite understood how love like yours could bloom in the middle of all the noise.

But it did. And it was beautiful.

…

You both sat down on a patch of soft grass near the cliff’s edge, watching the sun slowly dip into the sea like it was taking a shy bow. The sky above painted itself in layers—deep orange, muted lilac, fading indigo. A breeze danced gently through your hair.

Gi-hun lay down beside you, head resting on your thigh, eyes squinting at the sky. “ See? Told you it’s the best view. You doubted your boyfriend’s taste?”

“ I never said that.” You replied, brushing a few strands of his hair off his forehead. “ I just didn’t expect you to be this romantic and ridiculous in one day.”

He smiled up at you, smug. “ Duality, babe. I’m a full package.”

You let out a soft laugh. “ A full package of clingy, messy, spoiled man-child behavior.”

He gasped, hand on his chest like you wounded him. “ Excuse me, I am emotionally sophisticated.”

“ Oh yeah? You literally cried when that fried chicken place ran out of your favorite sauce.”

“ That sauce tasted like happiness!” He whined, then reached up, tugging gently on your sleeve. “ But nothing tastes better than this moment right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, “ That’s so cheesy I might vomit."

He smirked, “ That’s why you love me.” You didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, your fingers went back to his hair, softer this time. More thoughtful. He sighed, eyes fluttering shut again.

A comfortable silence settled over the two of you, the sound of crashing waves far below blending with the rustling grass. You felt his hand find yours, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your skin.

Then, quietly, he said, “ When I was little, I used to think the sunset was the sky’s way of saying sorry.”

You blinked. “ Sorry for what?”

“ For ending the day. Like…Sorry it wasn’t perfect, but here’s something pretty before it’s gone.” You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, his voice almost sleepy.

You didn’t know what to say for a moment. So you whispered, “ That’s kind of sad. And sweet. Like you.”

He chuckled. “ I want to give you something like that. Something unforgettable. Before everything becomes routine. Before I say the words.”

You tilted your head. “ What words?”

He peeked up at you with a grin. “ Confidential.”

You groaned. “ Again?”

Gi-hun just giggled, then sat up slowly, stretching his arms above his head like a cat. He turned to you, nose crinkling as he smiled. “ But I’ll give you a hint.”

You raised a brow. He pointed to the sky, where the sun had completely dipped below the horizon, leaving behind two bright stars twinkling close together.

“ When the moon gets its twin…you’ll understand.” You looked up.

There wasn’t a second moon. But maybe there didn’t need to be—because his love always felt like something rare, a miracle in the middle of chaos. And in that quiet, golden place where time seemed to slow down, you felt it again: the kind of love that didn't need announcing, didn’t need rushing. Just patient, silly, stubborn devotion. The kind of love that made sunsets look like apologies, and kisses feel like promises.

And you were more than willing to wait for the stars to align.

You noticed it after a few quiet minutes—Gi-hun’s fingers twitching nervously, digging into his coat pocket, lips twitching like he was trying to hold in a laugh. His body bounced lightly beside you like a kid holding in a secret.

“ What’s in your pocket?” You asked, narrowing your eyes.

His face lit up like a child caught sneaking extra cookies. “ N-nothing.” He grinned, way too proud of himself.

You raised a brow. “ You’re that bad at hiding things?” With a dramatic sigh and a sparkle in his eye, he slowly pulled out a tiny bundle of folded paper. Carefully, he revealed what he was working on.

Two little rings. Made out of receipt paper and tape. They were uneven, a little lopsided, one slightly crumpled—but your heart nearly exploded at the sight of them.

Gi-hun beamed like a kindergartener showing off his macaroni art. “ Tada! They’re kind of ugly, but I made them with love.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as you tried not to laugh. “ You made me rings out of a bus receipt?”

He nodded proudly. “ Because you deserve a ring even when we’re broke and stuck on a commute.”

Your heart was in ruins. Melting. Gone. He slipped one of the paper rings onto your finger with so much care it felt like it was made of gold. Then he cleared his throat, stood up, and dropped to one knee.

Oh no.

“ Oh no.” You whispered, already feeling your cheeks flame.

“ YES!” He yelled dramatically. “ Y/N, the sun to my chaos, the boss of my clingy life, the reason I smile like an idiot every day—”

“ Stop it—people are looking—!” You hissed, already covering your face.

“ Will you do me the honor of accepting this...temporary ring.” He held up the second one.

“ And agree to become unofficially engaged to the biggest idiot in Seoul until a real ring can catch up?”

You burst into laughter despite yourself, biting your lip as you nodded. “ Yes, yes, you idiot.”

Gi-hun gasped, then jumped to his feet and shouted to no one in particular, “ SHE SAID YES! WE’RE ENGAGED! THE RING IS…TO BE ANNOUNCED!”

People at the nearby field glanced over in surprise. One couple clapped. A small child pointed at the paper ring and giggled. You slapped his arm playfully as he cackled and spun around, then caught you in a tight back hug, swaying side to side with his chin resting on your shoulder. The sun was sinking deeper now, the sky a glowing canvas of fading light and sleepy colors.

“ I still can’t believe you chose me.” He whispered.

You felt his grip tighten slightly. “ You could’ve had anyone. Someone rich, someone with their life figured out…but you still picked a clingy, childish man running a noodle shop with his eomma.” You turned your head just a little.

“ I choose you.” You said, softly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, you felt his body shake slightly, and when you glanced down, you saw him burying his face deeper into your shoulder. The soft sniff gave him away.

Your eyes widened. “ Gi-hun…are you crying?”

He lifted his head and pouted at you, lips wobbling. “ A little.”

You cupped his cheeks, trying to hold back your smile. “ Aigoo. Why are you crying now?”

He blinked, then grumbled, “ Because I still think this is a dream. You're too good to be real.”

You wiped under his eyes with your thumbs, then teased, “ Well, if I were a dream, I wouldn’t be stuck with your clingy butt every day.”

He gasped and pouted harder. “ Yah! Meanie.”

You giggled, tugging him back into your arms. “ But even if I could choose again, I’d still choose you.”

He softened, burying his face again. “ Even with the crying and the purring?”

“ Even with the purring.” You said, rolling your eyes fondly. There, wrapped up in each other under a sleepy sky, wearing rings made of nothing but paper and affection, you felt something richer than any diamond could ever promise.

Gi-hun wasn’t perfect. But he was yours. And that was more than enough.

…

The hotel room was quiet, dimly lit by the gentle glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. You were already fast asleep, face smushed into the soft pillow, your lips parted slightly as you breathed softly. One hand was tucked under your chin, the other limply resting across the bed—completely unaware of the man who was watching you like you hung the moon.

Gi-hun sat on the edge of the bed, chin in hand, grinning like an idiot. You twitched in your sleep, and your brows furrowed as if something was bothering you in your dream. He chuckled quietly, covering his mouth so as not to wake you.

“ Aigoo…even in your dreams you’re stressed.” He whispered, scooting closer.

“ Should I sue your boss for making you this tired?” He reached over to brush a stray hair from your forehead. Then he glanced at the nightstand drawer. Slowly, carefully, he pulled it open.

There it was: a small velvet box tucked safely inside his pouch. He opened it with practiced fingers, revealing the ring that sparkled softly even in the low light. Simple, elegant, and carefully chosen—one he spent months saving up for. He had secretly skipped takeouts, taken more hours at the shop, even sold some of his old stuff to make sure he could afford the one that felt just right. And he did all of that with a smile—because he knew exactly what day he wanted to give it.

In your seventh anniversary. Your birthday. The day you said yes to being his girlfriend, years ago, with that smile that ruined him forever. Gi-hun bit his lip to keep from giggling again. He pulled out his phone and pressed record.

“ Annyeong~!” He whispered into the camera, smiling wide like he was hosting a vlog.

“ Seong Gi-hun here, certified noodle boy, future husband, and biggest fan of the sleeping beauty behind me.” He tilted the phone briefly to show you sleeping, then back to him, wiggling his brows.

“ Okay, so. Today is—” He paused, flipping the screen around to check the date.

“ Day 241 since I bought this ring. I know, I know. Why so long, Gi-hun? But listen—timing is everything!” He opened the box and held it toward the camera.

“ Tadaaa~! Not just a ring. This is a symbol of me committing fully to making her life more chaotic than ever before. I want to build a small house with her. Two bedrooms, one dog, at least one child who can inherit my silliness, and maybe a turtle. Or cat. We’ll argue about it later.” He chuckled, then looked off screen for a moment—toward you.

“ I know she’s tired. She’s working hard, chasing her dreams. So I won’t rush her. I just want the perfect moment…our moment.” He leaned in closer to the phone, lowering his voice.

“ She has no idea I already bought the ring. Not a clue. She’s probably dreaming about food right now.” He snickered, then clicked the video off and tucked his phone back into his jacket.

Gently, he closed the ring box, kissed the top of it, and slid it into a hidden pocket in his bag. Then, he turned to you. Carefully, he slid under the covers and scooted close until his chest was pressed to your back. His arms wrapped protectively around your waist, pulling you into his warmth. You instinctively sighed in your sleep and leaned into his touch. Gi-hun smiled against your neck.

“ I love you.” He whispered.

“ More than words. More than all the sunsets and silly paper rings.” You stirred just slightly, nuzzling your head against him without waking.

And just like that, in that quiet hotel room, time seemed to pause—a man with a ring in his pocket and a heart full of chaos, holding onto the one person who made him believe that love, no matter how messy or strange, was meant to be lived in full color.

…

The moment you opened your eyes, the smell of something burning greeted your nose. Not quite the morning aroma you hoped for. You sat up groggily, blinking at the sun filtering through the curtains, and then—BANG!

A loud clatter came from the small kitchenette. Your eyes widened. War zone? Earthquake? No…Gi-hun. You padded over quietly, tiptoeing toward the kitchen doorway.

And there he was. Seong Gi-hun, your chaotic boyfriend, in all his morning glory—wearing an apron backward, shirt slightly lifted from his constant stretching, flour everywhere. His face had a smudge across his cheek, another on his forehead, and what looked suspiciously like cocoa powder on his ear. He was staring at a YouTube tutorial playing on his phone, completely concentrated, eyebrows knitted together, mumbling under his breath.

" How the hell did they make it look so fluffy…" He muttered, flipping his long, slightly messy hair in frustration.

That hair flip was everything. You snorted. He heard that. His eyes shot to you, and his pout appeared instantly—lips jutted out dramatically, his arms slumping to his sides like a disappointed toddler.

“ You’re laughing at me.” You pressed your lips together, trying to hold it in, but your shoulders shook anyway.

“ You should be encouraging me. I’m learning to bake! For you!” He huffed, sighing loudly for dramatic effect.

The sigh made a strand of flour-dusted hair float up and fall in front of his eyes. He batted at it like an annoyed cat. You quickly grabbed your phone, heart already skipping from an idea. You pressed record.

“ Okay guys…” You whispered to the camera, facing it toward you while Gi-hun wrestled with a broken whisk in the background.

“ There’s someone so hot in this room right now, I’m sweating.” You made sure your voice was just loud enough.

Hook, line, sinker.

“ Who?” Gi-hun called out, instantly perking up and peeking around the fridge.

“ Yah, who?! If that’s Lee Jung Jae, I’ll allow it. I might even swoon harder than you.” You smirked, turning your phone around to show him his own flustered, flour-covered self on the screen. He blinked. Then gasped. Then dramatically fell against the fridge door like he was heartbroken.

“ You betrayed me.” He whimpered.

“ You used my own face against me!” You were wheezing now, nearly doubled over from laughing.

He peeked at the screen again, then straightened up, puffing his chest. “ Well…not gonna lie, that’s a handsome man.”

“ Oh, please.” You snorted.

“ No, no. Think about it.” He said, brushing flour off his face and striking a pose.

“ Sharp features? Tall? Devastatingly charming? Clearly, I’m Lee Jung Jae’s long-lost twin.” You laughed harder, tears threatening your eyes.

“ My own LJJ in this tiny hotel kitchen.” You said, mock dreamy.

“ Exactly! You’re welcome!” He beamed, walking over and smudging flour onto your nose with his thumb.

“ Now you’ve got flour and a fake celebrity boyfriend.” You squawked and tried to escape his grasp, but he caught you in a bear hug, spinning you slightly while giggling.

“ I’m never letting you go.” He whispered, voice muffled against your neck. “ Even when I burn the cake and almost blow up the kitchen.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around him. “ Even then.”

Because honestly? This was your kind of chaos. And Lee Jung Jae could never bake a lopsided cake just to make you smile like this.

Gi-hun was still giggling when he finally let you go, but not before sneaking one last kiss to your cheek—leaving a powdered sugar mark behind. You didn’t bother wiping it off. The kitchen was a battlefield, and you were already a casualty.

He clapped his hands, flour puffing into the air like mist. “ Okay! Back to business! Chef Gi-hun, reporting for duty!”

You leaned against the doorway, watching as he returned to his chaotic masterpiece: a very uneven cake batter sitting sadly in a tilted baking pan, surrounded by bowls, half-open packets, and what appeared to be…soy sauce?

“ Wait—did you put soy sauce in there?” You asked, squinting.

Gi-hun froze. Slowly turned. “ I thought it was vanilla extract.”

You burst out laughing again. “ You’re the reason the smoke alarm’s twitchy.”

“ I fixed it!” He defended with a proud pout.

“ I opened the window.” You walked over and carefully peeked into the mixing bowl. He stood behind you like a nervous schoolboy presenting his science project. You reached out, dipped a finger into the batter, and tasted it.

Your face twisted. “ It tastes like a confused pancake.”

Gi-hun gasped. “ It’s experimental! Like fusion cuisine! I’m going to start a trend.”

You looked at him, unimpressed. “ The trend of giving food trauma?” He opened his mouth to argue but stopped when you started helping him clean up—quietly moving the soy sauce out of reach.

“ I was gonna surprise you with breakfast in bed.” He said softly as he rinsed a bowl.

“ But the cake was taking longer, and…well, you woke up before my masterpiece was ready.” You glanced at him. He looked sheepish now, lips pressed into a pout, a streak of flour still on his jaw.

You sighed, smiling. “ Even if it exploded in the oven, I’d still eat it.”

He perked up immediately. “ You mean that?”

“ Yeah. I mean, I’ll cry after the first bite, but I’ll eat it.” He ran over to hug you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind as he rocked you side to side like a little kid who just got praised for coloring inside the lines.

“ You always say the sweetest things” He sighed dreamily.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. “ Are you really trying to wife me up before lunch?”

He smirked and kissed your temple. “ Might as well practice. I’ve got paper ring experience already.”

You laughed, leaning into him, your hands still wet from rinsing dishes. After a few minutes of giggling, teasing, and cleaning, the oven dinged. He ran to it like a kid on Christmas.

Pulling the cake out, he squinted at it—then blinked. “ It’s…leaning.”

“ Like the Tower of Pisa.” You said.

He held it up proudly. “ Art.”

You walked over and kissed his cheek again. “ Yes, my chaotic baker. You are the art.” He beamed.

And for a brief, quiet moment—standing in the mess of his love-fueled disaster—you both realized: there’s nothing more beautiful than mornings like this.

Messy. Silly. Loud.

Perfect.

…

The city welcomed you back with traffic, deadlines, noise, and the bittersweet ache of reality. The three chaotic, love-filled days with Gi-hun felt like a dream bubble you didn’t want to pop. But pop it did—and yet, nothing could dull the afterglow of those moments. Not when your every day still includes him.

Your usual routine picked up again. Office work, deadlines, reports. And every lunch break, like clockwork, you dropped by his family’s small restaurant—not just to grab your favorite dish, but to sneak in a moment with your favorite man. You always greeted his eomma warmly. She always greeted you with teasing.

“ You’re lucky my son is cute, but his brain? Sometimes I wonder if he left it in the rice cooker.” She’d say while ladling your food, smirking as Gi-hun appeared from the back, hair tied, pout ready.

“ Eomma! Stop exposing me!” You just laughed. Honestly, you lived for it.

…

Months flew by. And then the day arrived—your day. Your birthday. Your 7th anniversary. And you had one request: “ Let’s stay in. Just the two of us. House date. Simple.”

So you spent the whole day preparing. You cooked all his favorites—spicy tteokbokki, garlic butter chicken, and the dessert he always failed to make: banana milk custard. You decorated the living room with fairy lights, soft linen banners in warm tones, and photos of the two of you over the years. On the table: a flickering candle and a handmade menu card that read ‘Y/N & Gi-hun’s First Official House Date’.

The sun dipped low. Evening rolled in. Nerves tapped at your spine as you applied light makeup in your room, glancing at the mirror and whispering, “ Relax…it’s just him.”

But still—you knew how he was. Unpredictable. Ridiculously sweet. And sneakily theatrical. Then came the doorbell. You raced down the stairs, smoothing your dress one last time. When you opened the door, your breath caught. There he was—Gi-hun, in a full black suit with a gray vest underneath, tousled hair neatly pushed back, and his familiar grin that instantly made your stomach flip.

He held out a bouquet of daisies, your favorite. “ Happy birthday…and happy seven years of loving me.”

You blinked, heart skipping. “ You—are you attending an awards show or something?”

He grinned wider. “ Nope. You’re my plus one. And you…” He leaned in a little, eyes softening.

“ Are the only trophy I want to show off for the rest of my life.”

Your face heated up instantly. “ Damn it, Gi-hun…”

“ You said you wanted a house date.” He shrugged, stepping inside. “ I’m making it unforgettable.”

…

Dinner was everything. You laughed until your sides ached, teased him about his soy sauce cake disaster, and he teased you about crying during a commercial once.

“ And remember when you tripped on my skateboard and still tried to act like it was on purpose?” He said, barely holding in his laughter.

“ That was cool and smooth!” You shouted with a pout, throwing a napkin at him.

He dodged and pointed. “ Highlight of year three. No regrets.”

You tried to shift the conversation to sweeter things—the way he held your hand on your worst days, the time he surprised you with a late-night picnic on the rooftop. But of course, he kept swinging back to your clumsy fails and how he once wore your pink socks by accident.

The plates were pushed aside. The candles dimmed lower. You didn’t even notice when he slid off his seat. You thought he was going to tie his shoe again—typical Gi-hun. You continued talking, waving your fork dramatically…until he nudged your leg.

You looked down. Frowned. “ What?”

Then…you saw it. He was smiling nervously. His hand reached into his suit pocket—and out came a tiny velvet box. You froze. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. When he opened it, a beautiful ring sparkled up at you. Gi-hun took a slow breath, voice trembling slightly, but his eyes—steady, sure, full of love.

“ You know I’m silly, messy, and never know how to fold the laundry properly.” He began, chuckling softly.

“ But I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything. I’ve loved you through quiet nights, chaotic days, paper rings, soy sauce disasters, and sunsets on hills.”

He swallowed, blinking quickly. “ And I want to keep loving you through everything—through dull mornings, hard weeks, and beautiful years.” A pause.

“ Jagi, will you marry me?”

You didn’t need a second. “ Yes.” You breathed, smiling through your tears.

“ Yes?” He repeated, stunned.

“ Yes!” You laughed.

“ Of course, yes!” He beamed, slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands—then promptly jumped up and down like a happy child, arms flailing.

“ She said YES!!” You laughed so hard you had to cover your face. He scooped you into his arms, spinning you around the room.

“ Gi-hun, the food!” You yelped between laughs.

“ Who cares? I just leveled up in life!” He shouted joyfully.

And right there, with twinkling lights, empty plates, and the man you had grown to love deeper each year—your heart whispered what it already knew: This man was chaotic. And you’d marry him a thousand times over.

…

The night wasn’t over yet—not until Gi-hun grinned and said, “ Wait! I have one more surprise.”

You tilted your head, amused. “ There’s more? Are you going to bring out a marching band next?”

He chuckled, pulled out his phone, and connected it to your TV. “ Nope. Just...this.”

The screen lit up. The video started. And then—there he was. A younger version of Gi-hun, holding the little velvet box, wide-eyed and flushed with excitement.

“ Hi, future fiancée. Or...maybe wife? I hope you’re watching this after I survived proposing without fainting.” He laughed nervously on camera.

The video played on—a timeline of his secret, starting from the day he bought the ring. The clips weren’t polished, not even close. His editing was hilariously awful.

Random letters like “hG9wJ” popped up on the screen for no reason. Texts disappeared before you could read them. He tried adding soft music...but somehow mixed it with a meme sound effect that played mid-confession.

“ I'm serious about this—VINE BOOM—I want to marry you—bruh sound effect—forever.”

You were crying. But not because you were sad. You were laughing so hard, your face hurt.

One part showed him dramatically whispering, “ She has no idea. I’ve been hiding this in my sock drawer for six months.”

Then another clip cut in, labeled “ IMPORTANT MESSAGE”…and it was just him singing off-key in the shower.

When the final clip ended—a recording from yesterday, where he held the box and whispered, “ Tomorrow’s the day...I hope she says yes.” You clapped your hands together through your laughter and tears.

Gi-hun gave you a ridiculous bow. “ Thank you. Thank you. I accept this imaginary Oscar on behalf of all clueless boyfriends turned genius editors.”

You laughed. “ That was so bad...but so do you. I loved it.” And then, he surprised you again. He picked up the remote to your stereo and clicked play.

The familiar, timeless melody of “ Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley filled the room.

He extended a hand. “ Dance with me?” You smiled and placed your hand in his.

He gently pulled you close. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other held your hand as the two of you swayed slowly to the music, letting the soft croon of the song wrap around your hearts.

Pressed against him, you murmured, “ Thank you...for making this day unforgettable.”

Gi-hun leaned close, his voice warm and sure. “ You deserve everything unforgettable. All the surprises. All the chaos. All of me. Because I love you very, very much.”

His words were quiet, but they lit a soft fire in your chest. You felt the tears again—this time, from love that had built over years and deepened tonight in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

Then, like always, he broke the moment with a grin. “ Though...you really need to work on not crying during my terrible edits. It ruins the Oscars fantasy.”

You snorted through your tears. “ You should be banned from editing forever.”

He chuckled, cupped your cheeks, and kissed you. Not rushed. Not playful. But soft. Lingering. Deep with meaning. And when he pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his arms still holding you like you were his entire world.

The music played on. The night slowed down. And there, in your living room, under fairy lights and the warmth of his love, the two of you danced gently. Wasting the rest of the evening with nothing but laughter, tears, memories, and the kind of love that only grew stronger with time.

A love not perfect...but absolutely, beautifully yours.

Author's Note:

Another cheesy and fluffy one-shot story for everyone. I swear that while reading this fanfic, I am simultaneously laughing and giggling. Gi-hun is such—ugh—damn freaking cutie patootie in this fanfic. In addition, he looks so adorable in the photo that I wish I could put my hand in his face and squeeze it.

Also, I imagined that pre-Squid Game Gi-hun was similar to this, except that he did not have a gambling addiction or anything, which was a major red flag in the series.

But anyway, enjoy the fluffiness of the fanfic. Perhaps soon, when I post another one-shot fanfic, I want to bring you all to tears. Just kidding—but we don't know. Haha.

Love you guys and stay safe! 🥰

[lost-in-thoughts03]

BLURRED LINES || FRONTMAN

" What rhymes with hug me?"

Summary: You are Oh Il-nam's sonnyeo (granddaughter). Being the next founder/director of the Squid Game, his legacy, carries the heaviest responsibility. Although you do not want the position, you are powerless to change it. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, AU, HEAVY SMUT, explicit language, erotic, dry humping, possessive behavior, obsession, jealousy, mutual pining, matured content, thick tension, ownership, violence, gun violence, markings, kissing, power imbalance, power trippings, manipulation, forbidden attraction, territorial, toxic relationship, age-gap, yandere behavior, overstimulation, worshipping, talking about pregnancy, praising, dirty talk, riding, PiV, deep and slow, unprotected, oral (both), older man x younger woman (legal), VIPs mentioned, character death, coercion, Soft-dom! In-ho

2016

The sun was low, casting a warm, golden hue over the quiet garden behind Haraboji’s secluded estate. The cicadas hummed gently in the trees, blending with the faint clinking of teacups as your grandfather, Oh Il-nam, poured you another cup of chamomile tea with his trembling hands.

Despite his frailty, his posture remained composed—back straight, eyes sharp, and mind calculating beneath the soft wrinkles of age. You were only eighteen then, still wearing your school uniform with your hair loosely tied back.

You sat across from him on the wooden bench under the red-and-white paper lanterns that swayed in the breeze. There was something in the way he looked at you that afternoon, not just fondness, but gravity.

He cleared his throat, folded his hands on his lap. “ Sonnyeo-ya, there’s something important we need to talk about. Something…I should have told you sooner.”

You blinked and straightened, a nervous flutter rising in your chest. “ Is this about your health again, Haraboji?”

He gave a weak smile, the corner of his eyes creasing. “ My health will go how it goes. I’ve lived long enough to make peace with that. This is about something else. My legacy.”

You tilted your head. “ The business?”

He nodded slowly, watching you with keen eyes. “ You’re the only one left in our bloodline who can carry it. Your appa—he’s chosen another path. A quiet life, a family. I respect him for that. But he declined the position years ago.”

Your mouth parted, stunned. “ Wait, you mean…you want me to take over your business? But I—I’m only twenty! I haven’t even finished school yet.”

“ I know.” His voice was gentle, but resolute.

“ I don’t expect an answer now. I won’t rush you. But I won’t lie to you either, child. My time is limited. I can’t promise you that fate will give us long.”

He reached into the side of his robe and pulled out a small, red lacquered box. Inside was an ornate pin—gold, shaped like a circle swallowing its own tail.

“ This was mine.” He said, handing it to you.

“ And it will be yours, if you decide to accept it.”

You stared down at the pin resting in your palm, your fingers trembling slightly. “ But…I don’t know anything about running a company. About power, control, networks—”

“ That’s why you won’t be alone.” He leaned closer, eyes dark with sincerity.

“ Someone I trust—more than anyone—will train you. Guide you. Protect you. They’ll help you build the strength, the wit, the mind you need to lead. To command.”

You glanced up, your voice low. “ And…what happens if I say yes?”

“ You’ll be respected. Protected. Feared, even, when needed.” He smiled faintly, pride glimmering in his tired eyes.

“ No one will dare touch you. You will become something this world rarely sees—a woman born of blood and steel, raised by wolves, and crowned by legacy.” You looked back down at the pin, the weight of it heavier than its size.

A million questions filled your head, but in your chest, a strange calm began to bloom. You didn’t say yes. Not yet. But you didn’t say no either. And Il-nam…just smiled. As if that alone was enough to give him peace.

…

3 MONTHS LATER…

The thick metallic doors slid open with a hiss, revealing the heart of your haraboji’s hidden empire. The air inside was cool and heavy, humming faintly with power, and the scent of sterile steel mixed with distant gun oil.

You stepped in cautiously, your school shoes clicking faintly against the pristine black tiles, sticking close to the side of the man who once held your hand as a child in cherry blossom gardens.

Il-nam walked with you slowly, his gait a little weaker than before, but his voice strong with pride. “ This is the foundation of everything I’ve built. What you’ll inherit, sonnyeo-ya.”

Your eyes scanned the space—grand hallways, sleek surveillance stations, doors locked with biometric codes. Monitors lined the walls, flashing footage from unknown rooms, training zones, weapon vaults, and offices filled with masked personnel. All dressed in the same pink uniforms, all eerily silent.

You clenched your fists at your sides and instinctively inched closer to your haraboji, lowering your head, the vastness of the place making your heart pound. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t wanted this. But you couldn’t bear the thought of watching your grandfather die believing his legacy would vanish.

So you said yes. Now you stood inside the belly of it. You jumped slightly as a cluster of armed guards marched by in formation—pink jumpsuits, black masks, emotionless. Cold. You couldn’t even see their eyes. It felt more like a prison than a kingdom.

“ I can feel your nerves.” Il-nam chuckled lightly, pausing beside a grand observation deck overlooking a glass room with dark-tiled floors.

“ It’s natural. But this fear? One day, it will serve you.”

And then he came. A tall, composed man emerged from the shadows of the corridor ahead. He walked with calm precision, wearing a black coat over his sleek suit, black gloves on his hands, and a uniquely shaped mask—sharper, more angular, like the face of a panther carved in obsidian. Unlike the pink-clad guards, he radiated authority.

Il-nam turned to you with a grin full of pride, placing a trembling hand on your shoulder. “ This…” He declared loudly, his voice echoing across the room.

“ Is the one I trust more than anyone. He is the Frontman. And starting today, he will be your mentor.”

You froze.

The Frontman stopped just feet from you, silent and still as a statue, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of his mask. But you could feel him studying you. Measuring you. Your breath caught. You instinctively moved half a step behind your haraboji, trying to hide the panic welling in your chest.

Il-nam laughed gently, squeezing your shoulder. “ Don’t be afraid, sonnyeo. He may look terrifying—but he knows his duty. He will train you. Sharpen you. And one day, you will walk through these halls as their leader, not in fear, but in power.”

You forced yourself to lift your chin just a little, to meet the unreadable gaze of the Frontman.

He nodded once.

That was the beginning.

…

WEEK 3

The echo of your footsteps bounced off the cold, reinforced walls as you staggered backward, legs trembling. You could barely breathe—your lungs felt like fire, your throat dry from panting and the taste of metal lingering on your tongue.

" Fifteen minutes." The Frontman’s modulated voice rang from behind his obsidian mask, sharp and cutting.

“ You’re at twenty. That's a failure.”

You dropped to your knees, drenched in sweat, muscles cramping so hard you let out a small, pitiful sob. You pressed your hands against the mat, trying to steady your shaking arms, but even your fingers ached.

“ P-please…” You gasped out, voice thick with tears.

“ I-I can’t—my body—hurts—”

“ No one cares what you can’t do.” He barked, walking in slow, intimidating steps toward you.

“ Excuses don’t carry legacies. Stand up.”

You shook your head weakly, tears trailing down your cheeks. “ Please…just a break. Just five minutes—please.”

The Frontman stood over you, his shadow looming, the lenses of his mask reflecting your crumpled form.

“ Is this how you plan to lead?” He said, voice low and cold.

“ Crying on the floor, begging for mercy?”

“ I’m trying!” You cried out, a sob choking your throat.

He crouched down in front of you, his voice suddenly a sneer beneath the distortion of his mask. “ Then try harder, cry baby.”

Your head snapped up, lips quivering, eyes wide with humiliation. That word—childish, mocking—hit deeper than the bruises littering your arms and ribs. You hated how it made you feel. Small. Weak. Powerless.

He stood again and turned his back. “ Another set. Now. Ten laps. Full speed. You stop, you do it again.”

You bit your lip so hard it bled. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse and disappear. But instead, you forced your body to move, stumbling to your feet, crying silently as you limped back to the starting mark. Every muscle burned, and your vision swam, but you ran—if it could still be called running.

Combat sessions were no better. The next day, he threw you hard against the padded floor—again. Your body thudded on the mat with a sharp cry, the impact jarring your bones and knocking the wind out of you. You curled on your side, gasping and clutching your shoulder.

“ You telegraph every move.” The Frontman said from above, tone flat.

“ Your enemies will kill you before you even blink.”

“ I’m trying—!” You whimpered again, blinking through the blur of tears.

“ And failing.” He snapped.

“ Again.”

He grabbed your arm and yanked you to your feet without hesitation. You cried out, your injured shoulder screaming in pain. He didn’t stop. He shoved you back into stance, unrelenting.

“ You think tears will make people follow you? You think a crown is given out of pity?” He said.

“ You’re weak. Pathetic. Useless like this.”

That did it. You let out a broken sob and slumped forward, hands on your knees, shaking not just from exertion, but from shame. His words stabbed sharper than his fists. He said nothing more. Just walked away. And you stayed there—crying, broken, questioning everything. But somewhere deep inside, something was stirring.

A tiny ember burning, whispering proves him wrong.

…

NEXT DAY…

You stood in the middle of the wide, dimly lit training chamber, arms limp at your sides, your breath shallow as pain throbbed relentlessly through your bruised shoulder. The ache had only worsened overnight. Your uniform clung uncomfortably to your skin, sweat from lingering fever already forming beneath the fabric.

The main door opened with a hiss. Your heart skipped. Instinctively, your body tensed—expecting him. But instead, it wasn’t the Frontman who entered. This man was slightly shorter, bulkier, with a silver-trimmed black mask—an indication of his rank, second only to the man who had beaten you into the floor every day for weeks.

He halted in front of you, his stance strict, posture military-grade. Behind the modulated voice came a surprisingly calm tone.

“ I’m the Head Officer.” He announced formally.

“ I’ll be conducting your training for the next few days. The Frontman has…other matters.”

You swallowed hard, nerves tightening your throat. Hesitantly, you asked, “ Are you…more cruel than him?”

A beat passed.

“ I’m not cruel.” He replied, arms folded behind his back.

“ I only follow orders.” That didn’t ease your fear. You clenched your jaw and shifted your stance slightly—too quickly.

A sharp pain radiated from your shoulder, and you winced, almost collapsing forward. Your hand shot up to hold it, eyes squeezing shut.

He noticed. There was a pause.

“ Fractured.” He muttered, more to himself. “ Tch.”

You looked up through your lashes, surprised when he sighed.

“ I’ll modify today’s training.” He said.

“ You’re injured. Pushing through like that will only delay recovery and weaken your foundation. A fractured shoulder isn’t something to ignore.”

You blinked. “ The Frontman didn’t care if I was fractured.” You murmured bitterly.

“ He didn’t care if I was dying.” The Officer looked down at you in silence for a moment.

“ I’m not him.” He said.

“ But don’t misunderstand.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to something almost fatherly—but never soft.

“ I won’t baby you. I’m not here to give you kindness. You will be pushed. You will suffer. But not to the point of destruction. Pain teaches, yes. But we don’t throw away tools, we're still forging.”

You looked away, ashamed at the sting of tears pressing against your eyes again. You hated how fragile you felt. You hated how it still showed.

“ This training isn’t punishment.” The Officer continued.

“ It’s survival. Someday, people will kneel when you enter a room. But they’ll only respect the leader who earned it—not the girl who cried for mercy.”

You nodded slowly, holding your shoulder tightly.

“ Understood.” You whispered.

“ Good.” He said, turning. “ Now follow me. We'll work on your footwork. No upper body strain today.”

And for the first time since you began this hellish journey, you felt like someone saw you as something more than a burden—not yet powerful, but worth shaping.

…

FOUR WEEKS LATER…

Your breathing was steady now. Sharp, controlled. The ache in your muscles had become familiar—no longer a hindrance, but a reminder that you were surviving this. Enduring it. Becoming something.

Your body moved with purpose as you adjusted your stance, sweat glistening on your forehead. Across from you, the Head Officer chuckled softly, still catching his breath after your last spar.

“ You’ve improved.” He said, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.

“ If the Frontman sees this, maybe he’ll finally be pleased.”

You scoffed, wiping your brow with your sleeve. “ He doesn’t show anything except disappointment.” You muttered bitterly.

“ Even when I did well, it was never enough. He only sees my mistakes.”

The Head Officer paused. Then, without warning, he reached up and removed his mask. Your breath hitched slightly. You hadn’t seen anyone else do that. Not here.

He was older than you—maybe by fifteen, twenty years, but not ancient. Not hardened like the Frontman. His jaw was sharp, his expression softening with exertion. There was a faint scar near his eye, a mark of history. He looked…human.

Handsome, even. Too handsome for the hellhole you were in. You quickly looked down, heat rushing to your cheeks. You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping the flush didn’t show through your sweat.

“ Another round.” He said, stepping back into stance.

“ Then you’re done for the day.” You nodded, resetting your feet.

He lunged first, quick and precise—but you were quicker. You ducked, sidestepped, your body moving without fear now. Your fist slammed into the soft spot beneath his ribs, making him grunt and cough. You seized the opening, gripped his wrist, twisted his balance—

SLAM.

You dropped him clean on the mat. Hard. Straddling him, you reared back your fist, ready to finish the move—until someone grabbed your wrist mid-air.

A familiar grip. Strong. Controlling. And then you were shoved back—not hard enough to injure, but with the force of command. You stumbled backward, blinking in confusion and alarm, and then your heart dropped.

He wasn’t wearing his mask. The Frontman stood there, barefaced for the first time since your training began—his sharp eyes piercing into yours, his jaw clenched, his skin slightly damp with sweat.

His black tank top hugged his torso, revealing a lean but powerful build. He looked less like a shadowy executioner and more like a living weapon. You froze, unable to speak. You rushed to help the Head Officer up as he grimaced and clutched his side. Without a word, the Frontman flicked his eyes toward him.

“ Leave us.”

The command was simple. Absolute. The Head Officer obeyed, offering you a glance—maybe apologetic, maybe warning before limping toward the doors and disappearing.

Silence filled the space. You were alone with him again. Just like before. Your fingers curled slightly as that familiar fear returned, your throat tightening. He took one slow step toward you, his voice calm—but cold, controlled, edged like a blade unsheathed.

“ So this is what happens when I’m gone.” He said.

“ You forget your place. You confuse sparring with a street brawl. Sloppy. Wild.” Your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth, but no words came.

His gaze cut into you. “ Disappointing.”

Just that word—again—made your chest ache. You forced yourself to look him in the eyes, even though your vision blurred with the sting of unshed tears.

“ I—I was only doing what you taught me.” You whispered.

He stepped closer. “ No. You were trying to win. Not learn. And there’s a difference.”

His disappointment—cold and surgical—hurt more than any bruise. And just like always, the tears betrayed you first. You stood trembling. Not from exhaustion. But rage. Your fists were clenched so tightly that your nails dug into your palms. You felt the sting—you welcomed it. Every humiliating word he threw at you echoed in your head like a drumbeat.

Disappointing. Sloppy. Weak.

Your jaw trembled. You couldn’t take it anymore. He looked at you like you were nothing but the stupid little granddaughter of Oh Il-nam—the unwanted heir, the sentimental mistake he had to babysit. And this time, you didn't cower.

You snapped. Without thinking, without warning, you lunged at him with a scream caught in your throat. Your fist flew straight into the same weak spot you’d struck on the Officer—below the ribs. It landed hard. He stumbled, grunting in pain as the breath was knocked out of him. But you didn’t stop there.

“ Not good enough?!” You screamed, unleashing another punch that struck the side of his jaw. His face turned with the force.

“ Useless? Disappointment?!”

Another blow. You didn’t even know if it connected. You were shaking, breath ragged, mind clouded with fury. All you wanted was for him to hurt—to feel everything he made you feel.

You wanted to break him. Make him eat every word he ever spat at you. But just as you raised your arm again—

He caught you. Your wrist locked in his grasp. And in one fluid, terrifying motion, he twisted your arm, pressed into your space, and wrapped his other arm tightly around your torso, caging you completely.

You thrashed, gasping, snarling through your tears. “ Let me go—!”

Useless. He overpowered your struggles like they were nothing. His arms were iron bars. His breath was hot against your temple as he spoke low, voice dripping with venomous calm.

“ You’re out of control.” Then he flipped you.

You let out a scream as your body slammed onto the mat, all the weight of the impact crashing into your almost-healed shoulder. White-hot pain exploded through your chest. You cried out in agony, curled half on your side, gripping the injury. Tears spilled instantly. And then—

He was hovering over you. Pinning your body with his own. Knees braced on either side of your hips. His bare arms propped beside your head as his sweat dripped onto your skin.

“ You call that a fight?” He sneered, tone dark, eyes unreadable.

“ You got one lucky hit. That’s all.” You sobbed, trying to turn your head away, but he leaned closer—suffocatingly close.

“ I told you before.” He said coldly.

“ You’re not ready. You think rage is strength? Emotion is a weakness. And you, little sonnyeo, are overflowing with it.”

“ Stop—” You whimpered, unable to bear the weight of his words.

He didn’t.

He smirked. “ Your haraboji believed you had potential. I see a liability. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe all he saw was a scared, desperate little girl and tried to make her into something she’ll never be.”

That crushed you. It wasn’t just humiliation anymore. It was the way he knew where to cut. The way he twisted your love and loyalty into weapons against you.

“ You’re not fighting me.” He whispered, voice lower now, darker.

“ You’re fighting yourself. And you’re losing.”

And still…part of you hated how close he was. Hated how he hovered over you with dominance and control—not just physical but emotional. And part of you…craved the fire that came with it.

Even if it burned.

You stayed on the floor long after he left you in pieces. The weight of his words still suffocates your chest like a vice. Your shoulder throbbed beneath your trembling hand—the same spot he slammed you down earlier.

Pain bloomed through the tendons like fire, and it mixed with your heartache until you couldn’t tell what hurt more: your body or your pride. You didn’t hear when the door hissed open again. But you felt his presence.

That silence. Heavy. Familiar. Cold. You slowly turned your head from where you sat slumped against the glass, and there he was again—the Frontman, towering in his dark armor of quiet rage.

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, sniffling sharply, ready to brace for more insults—but his voice was low this time. Controlled. Seething.

“ I saw how close you were to the Head Officer.”

Your brows furrowed through the tears. “ What?”

“ He trained you. Sparred with you. Let you climb on top of him like some pathetic power play. And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?” You blinked, stunned, unsure how this conversation twisted into that direction.

“ What the hell are you talking about?!” You shouted back.

But he didn’t respond to your tone—didn’t even flinch. He paced slowly in front of you now, his jaw tight, fingers curled into a loose fist at his side.

“ You clung to him like you trusted him.” His voice darkened.

“ You never looked at me like that.”

Your lips parted. “ Wait…is this…are you jealous?”

He stopped walking. That word hit him—like you cracked something beneath that mask of his. But still…he didn't admit it. Not directly. The silence screamed enough. Then he turned his back, arms crossed behind him.

“ I should have never let him train you.” He muttered under his breath.

You struggled to stand, gripping the console, your injured shoulder making it hard, but the adrenaline in your anger helped you through.

“ So that’s why you came here? To accuse me of something I didn’t do?” You laughed bitterly through your pain.

“ You humiliated me, made me feel worthless—and now you’re suddenly bothered because someone else treated me like a human being for once?”

His voice turned razor-sharp again. “ Don’t confuse kindness for affection.”

You shook your head slowly. “ No. You don’t confuse control for care.”

That drew blood. His head turned slightly, and you caught the tension in his jaw—but he said nothing. He couldn’t. So instead, he did what he always did when he was cornered—he struck lower.

“ Maybe your haraboji was wrong.” He spat.

“ Maybe all the years he poured into you were just wasted. You’re still soft. Naive. Weak. Crying like a child over pain you should’ve conquered by now.”

You stared at him—stunned silent—and then you broke. A sob escaped before you could stop it. He didn’t look back this time. He couldn’t bear it. Because deep down, what he hated most wasn’t your bond with the Head Officer, or your tears.

What he hated—was himself. For letting you get close enough to affect him. So he turned sharply, marching toward the door, and as it hissed open, he snapped—cold, clipped:

“ Next time, don’t hover like that over anyone again. Especially him.”

And then—

He was gone. Leaving behind nothing but shattered glass in your heart, and the heavy stench of a jealousy he’d never dare admit.

You slammed the door shut behind you, your chest heaving, your blood boiling hotter than the whiskey still burning in your veins. You found him alone—again—in that silent room lit only by dim golden lights, standing in front of the security monitors like the dictator he pretended not to be.

“ You’re a coward.” You spat, stepping closer.

“ You think hiding behind that mask, behind his orders, makes you untouchable?” He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. But you saw the twitch in his jaw. A crack in his usual stillness.

You pushed harder.

“ You stand there acting like some omniscient god. But I know what this really is. You're scared. You're weak. You cling to his memory like a crutch—using it to justify all the ways you’ve tried to break me.” He finally turned his head toward you, slowly. The mask caught the low light like a predator’s gleam.

“ I’ve never needed to break you.” He said, voice dangerously calm. “ You’ve always been cracked.”

You laughed bitterly. “ Then why haven’t you walked away? Why do you always show up when I’m bleeding, breaking, slipping?” You stepped even closer, chest brushing his.

“ Unless you want to be there. Unless this isn’t about training or legacy. Unless this is personal.”

His hand shot out suddenly and slammed against the wall beside your head, caging you in place. His voice dropped into a whisper, venom-laced.

“ You think this is personal?” He hissed.

“ You think your little tantrums matter in the grand scale of this legacy? You’re nothing more than a reluctant heir raised on delusions and privilege. Your haraboji should have seen it.”

You smirked through your pain. “ There it is. The coward’s tactic. Use a dead man’s name to punish me.”

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cheek. “ He wanted strength. He wanted obedience. Not this self-righteous brat who can’t even keep her hands off his Head Officer.”

Ah. There. That crack. You knew it.

“ Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” You whispered with a smug smirk.

He shoved you harder against the wall, the impact echoing. “ Don’t confuse surveillance with sentiment.”

“ Oh, I’m not confused.” You said darkly, chest rising and falling fast.

“ You watch because you care. You punish me because you can’t stand the way I make you feel. Admit it.”

He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “ What do you make me feel?” He repeated mockingly.

“ You think you’re that powerful? That special?”

You leaned up on your toes, so close your lips nearly grazed him. “ I know I am.”

The tension snapped. He grabbed your jaw, tilting your head up. His voice was low, steady, cruel.

“ Your haraboji would be ashamed to see what you’ve become. Weak. Desperate. Starving for attention you don’t deserve.”

The words sliced through you like a razor. You blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying not to let the tears fall—but he saw them anyway. And he smiled.

“ You can’t even take words.” He sneered.

“ And you think you’re ready to control life and death in this place? You’re a joke.” You shoved him, hard—but he didn’t move. He barely even blinked. He was toying with you now.

“ Go to bed.” He said, stepping back with a cold finality.

“ You’ll need your strength tomorrow.” He paused at the door, glanced over his shoulder—eyes burning behind that mask.

“ Because I promise you…” His voice dropped, cruel and laced with dark promise.

“ By the time I’m done with you in training, you’ll be crying so hard, you won’t even remember why you were so brave tonight.” Then he left—again—leaving you trembling, breathless, broken…

And burning. With rage. With confusion. With the fire of something unspeakable that neither of you wanted to admit.

...

As the heavy door closed behind you, your footsteps echoing away into the dim corridor, he finally breathed. A slow, shaky inhale. Then a sigh—guttural, laced with frustration and longing—as he gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from losing control.

You nearly broke him. Again. He had stared into your eyes—defiant, burning, trembling with fury, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to ruin you. Not in punishment. Not in discipline.

But in hunger. He wanted to slam your mouth shut with his. He wanted to hear you gasp not from pain, but from pleasure. To press you against that wall for a different reason—to feel the heat of your body giving in, not fighting back.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“ Damn it.” He muttered under his breath, removing his mask and throwing it aside like it burned him.

He sat down, elbows on his knees, palms dragging down his face. His muscles were coiled tight like wires, every breath a war against himself. That thin thread of control—so close to snapping earlier when you pushed him, mocked him, stared up at him like you knew the war raging beneath his skin.

Because you did. Of course you did. You were the only one who ever dared see him. He made a promise to your haraboji. A promise of protection. Of discipline. To mold you into someone worthy to inherit this legacy, not someone he would ever touch, ever desire, ever crave.

But the moment he saw you on that training mat, sweating, smirking, victorious—he felt it again. That wicked pull. That forbidden spark that haunted him at night when no one else was watching. When he was alone in this cold room, hard and aching, imagining your voice whispering in his ear, your hands on his skin, your thighs wrapping around him like shackles.

The shame burned as deep as the hunger. He had scolded you, humiliated you, not just to teach you—but to protect himself. Because the more you grew, the more capable and beautiful and strong you became…the harder it was to remind himself that you were off limits.

And tonight? You had cornered him, and he had felt himself break for a second. Your words. Your touch. Your fire. It wasn’t just defiance—it was temptation.

He stood again, restlessly pacing. He opened the drawer of his desk and stared at your file—the one he read too often. The one that reminded him who you were.

The Founder. The bloodline. The one he must guide. Not ruin. Not want. Not need. And yet, his fingers trembled. His breath hitched. His voice cracked, almost pleading with the empty room.

“ Why did it have to be you?” He muttered.

But the silence had no answer. Only the echo of your name in his head and the memory of your eyes—wild, angry, beautiful—burned behind his eyelids. And no matter how hard he tried to run, the desire was always faster.

…

2021

The cold white of the hospital room was unnaturally still, save for the gentle hum of the machines keeping time beside the bed. Outside, the island was quiet—games over, bodies buried, blood washed off concrete floors and bullet-scarred walls. But nothing could wash away what you had seen.

You sat beside your haraboji’s hospital bed, your hands clasped over his frail, cold fingers. His skin, once so warm and full of life, now felt paper-thin and cold. Oxygen tubes looped around his face. His eyes fluttered open weakly to look at you—and he smiled. Not the manic smile he had when he was surrounded by games and masks.

This one…was soft. Human.

“ Sonnyeo-ya…” He rasped, his voice like dry leaves in autumn.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile.

“ I’m here, Haraboji.” You whispered, brushing a loose strand of white hair away from his forehead.

“ You shouldn’t have joined the game. Why did you—?”

He laughed weakly, coughing slightly. “ Because…it was mine to enjoy. My final round. I created the game…I wanted to feel the fear again. To remind myself why I built it.”

Your eyes glistened, heart torn between grief and guilt. You remembered when you found out—Player 001. You had stormed through the facility and demanded answers from the Frontman, only to be met with cold resistance.

“ The Founder’s will is absolute.” He had said.

You hated how right he was.

“ I watched it.” You said quietly now, your voice shaking.

“ All of it. Every betrayal. Every death. Every bullet. And you—you smiled like it was a festival.”

He nodded slowly. “ Because it is…to them.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “ To you maybe. To me…it was a nightmare.”

He slowly turned his head toward you. “ You survived it…and now, it’s yours.”

You shook your head. “ I’m not like you.”

“ No…you’re better.” He murmured.

“ Because you still feel. But now… now you know the weight of what this legacy means.”

You clenched your jaw, pressing your forehead gently against his hand. And then he whispered it — final words.

“ Founder Oh Il-nam…passes the mask…to you.”

You closed your eyes as the monitors beside you slowed.

Beep…

Beep…

Beeeeeeep.

Then silence. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt the tears hitting your lap. And then—

A presence. You looked up. He stood at the edge of the room, near the shadows, tall and still as a statue. No mask. No distortion in his voice. Just the man.

The one who broke you down, built you back, scarred and shaped you—the Frontman. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Maybe hollow. Maybe…something else. You stared at him, breathing hard through your grief.

“ So…it’s done.” You said bitterly.

He stepped forward slightly, his voice calm. “ He made his choice. You were always meant to inherit this.”

You stood slowly, wiping your face with your sleeve. “ Are you here to train me again? Hurt me some more until I become like him?”

“ No.” He said.

“ That part is over.” He looked at you—really looked at you. Not as the crybaby trainee. Not as Oh Il-nam’s granddaughter.

But as the next Founder. He bowed his head slightly. Just enough to mark the shift.

“ You give the orders now.”

And you realized…

You were no longer someone hiding behind your haraboji’s legacy.

You were the legacy.

And there was no turning back.

…

2022

The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of surveillance monitors that lined the obsidian walls. The scent of aged whiskey and leather hung in the air, thick and unrelenting. You sat alone in the Founder’s seat—a throne, really, draped in velvet and shadows, surrounded by silent screens flashing images of desperation, betrayal, and blood.

On one monitor, a man begged for mercy. Another showed two women turning on each other mid-challenge. A third displayed fresh corpses being dragged away by silent guards in pink.

Your fingers trembled as you raised the bottle to your lips again, swallowing the bitter burn of the whiskey. Not for pleasure. Not for warmth. But to feel something that wasn't this aching numbness clawing at your insides.

You had once cried. Flinched. Hid. Now, your face was dry—expression hard, though the subtle jolt in your shoulders with every distant gunshot betrayed your lingering humanity.

You hated it. Hated how the sound still got to you. How the images still haunted you at night, long after the games ended. You reached to pour another glass until the hiss of the chamber door froze your hand mid-air. Heavy footsteps echoed in the silence. Calculated. Familiar. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

“ Drinking again.” His voice was dry. Stoic. The same tone he used when you were eighteen and crying on a training mat.

“ You’re not acting like a Founder.” You stared ahead, eyes locked on the screens.

“ And what does a Founder act like?” You murmured, letting the whiskey swirl slowly in the glass.

“ Smiling at the chaos? Laughing when they shoot each other?” His silence was answer enough.

You finally turned your head to face him—the man who had shaped you through agony. The Frontman stood a few feet away, arms crossed behind his back, his dark coat falling in folds. No mask tonight. He no longer needed one around you. The face of your tormentor was now the face of your most trusted executioner.

You offered him a cold smile, half bitter, half broken. “ This place turns everyone into monsters eventually.”

“ Only if you let it.” He replied, voice flatter now, less biting.

“ But you’re letting it.”

You scoffed softly and downed the drink in one go, setting the glass down with a hard clink. “ I never asked for this. I never wanted this.”

“ But you accepted it.” He said simply.

“ That makes it yours.” You fell quiet, looking back at the screens.

A young boy—maybe no older than you were when this began was begging an older man not to betray him. The older man shoved him. Stabbed him in the back. You didn’t flinch. You just sat there, unmoving, letting the violence wash over you like background noise.

“ You’ll get used to it.” The Frontman said, turning to leave.

You didn’t respond. You just reached for the bottle again. And the monitors kept flashing. And your heart…kept getting colder.

The whiskey glass shattered against the floor before you even realized you threw it. Your breaths came fast and shallow, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dug into your palms.

Rage had crawled its way from your gut into your chest, suffocating, burning—boiling. The monitors around you flashed with more death, more betrayal, more suffering.

Another year. Another slaughter.

Enough.

“ Enough!” You screamed, your voice echoing off the steel walls.

The Frontman didn’t flinch. He stood in front of the door, arms at his sides, watching you like he always had—like you were still that trembling girl he used to throw on the mats.

That look shattered you. You lunged. Your hands gripped his collar, your face twisted in raw fury as you shoved him with all the strength your body could muster.

“ You did this to me!” You screamed, voice hoarse and shaking.

“ You broke me! You watched me bleed, suffer, fall apart—and for what?! For this?!” He didn’t move. Not one step back.

His hands shot up and gripped your wrists—hard. The familiar pain shot through your arms as he twisted and shoved you backward in one swift motion. You stumbled, almost falling into the broken glass behind you. He stepped forward, towering now, calm as a goddamn storm about to hit.

“ You’re not the first person to break.” He said coldly.

“ You’re just the loudest.”

Your chest heaved. “ Fuck you—”

“ No.” His voice was sharper now, cutting.

“ Fuck you. For wasting what he gave you.”

You froze.

His words pierced deeper than any training blow he’d ever delivered. He walked toward you slowly, eyes narrowed. “ You think tears make you powerful? That collapsing like this—again—will give you control? You’re not a Founder. You’re just a girl pretending to be.”

“ I didn’t ask for any of this—!”

“ And yet he chose you.” He snapped, voice like venom.

“ And now he’s dead—and you’re throwing tantrums in his chair while his legacy burns around you.”

You were crying now. Silent. Shaking. You hated him. You hated yourself more. He leaned down, just enough to make you feel small. Just enough to twist the knife.

“ What would your haraboji say, huh?” He whispered, voice laced with mockery.

“ Would he be proud to see you cry like a fucking cry baby again?”

Your heart clenched so hard it felt like it would explode. You wanted to hit him. Scream. Tear everything down. But you stood frozen.

Powerless.

He straightened, brushing his gloves. “ You had years. Training. Preparation. All the tools. And yet here you are…still learning nothing. Still weak.”

You turned away, biting your lip until it bled.

He walked to the door, voice low behind you. “ If you’re not ready now, you never were.”

And then he left you—standing in the ruins of your own composure, crying not just for the pain…

But for the terrifying realization that maybe…

Maybe he was right.

...

2022

The velvet curtain had drawn open. The final game had begun. You sat high above the glass arena, in the golden throne made for the Founder, your haraboji’s legacy—a place that still didn’t feel like yours, no matter how many years had passed.

The carved owl mask covered your identity, your posture regal but distant. You had learned how to sit still even when your soul recoiled. All around you, luxury suffocated like perfume. To your right, the VIPs lounged in silk and sin, their masks grotesque and gaudy—lion, bull, dragon, raven.

Laughter roared like fire among them, fueled by whiskey, drugs, and the thrill of human suffering. Beside each, their servants—half-naked, mute, and obedient, poured drinks and whispered bets.

One of the VIPs, a younger man with a raven mask and a tailored suit, leaned in closer to you. His voice was smooth, his tone flirtatious.

“ You're different from the previous Founder.” He murmured, swirling his drink. “ Refined. Beautiful. Sharp.”

He leaned just slightly closer. “ I wonder if the mask hides more than just your face.”

You didn’t flinch. You tilted your head slowly toward him—an elegant, rehearsed gesture of amusement.

“ Careful…” You said under your breath.

“ The last one who tried too hard to peek behind the owl ended up losing more than just their curiosity.”

The raven-mask chuckled. “ Spoken like someone who knows how to bite. I like that.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Your silence, your presence—it was enough. Entertaining them was part of the show. A distraction. A shield between yourself and the carnage below. Your gaze drifted across the polished floor to the opposite side—the left.

He was there. As always.

The Frontman. He stood silently behind his podium, arms folded behind his back, posture rigid in his signature long coat and obsidian mask. The screen behind him flickered with the final game’s set—a brutal, bloodstained structure lit like a stage. His presence was like a blade: sharp, cold, and heavy in the room. Then, his voice echoed through the chamber.

“ Ladies and Gentlemen…honored guests.” He began.

“ Welcome to the final game of the 2022 season.”

The VIPs clapped lazily, already drunk on violence. You sat still, eyes narrowing behind your mask. His voice—deep and commanding—wasn’t new to you, but the tone was.

There was something…off. Not just theatrics. It was tight. Forced. Each word felt like it was being carved out of his chest.

“ This year…” He continued.

“ We’ve added a twist. One we’re confident will satisfy your appetite for unpredictability.”

A pause.

The room leaned forward. He delivered the next words like a hammer to the spine:

“ Before the players can reach the final objective…they must first betray their only remaining ally. A test of loyalty—one last knife to the back. You may begin placing your bets.”

The room erupted in glee. Glasses clinked. Servants knelt. Money and death passed like candy. But you didn’t move. Because you heard it—in the tightness of his voice, the slight tremble beneath the mask of composure. Rage. Not for the game. Not for the players.

At you? No. Not just that.

There was jealousy. Fury. Possession. You realized it then—his gaze had been fixed not on the game…but on you. On the raven-mask man whispering into your ear. In a subtle way your head tilted when you laughed, even if it was fake.

He was watching. Always watching. You shifted slightly, finally turning your head toward him. You didn’t speak, didn’t make a move. Just stared. But he didn’t return it.

The Frontman’s head remained forward. Still. Cold. Silent. But you could feel it. The heat of his rage, masked as professionalism. The storm he was holding back behind that suit of control. And for the first time in a long time, the arena wasn’t the only place where a dangerous game had just begun.

…

The glass arena below you was alive with desperation and blood. Screams echoed beneath the muffled jazz playing through the lounge speakers. The twisted game had entered its final stretch.

The crowd of masked devils beside you roared and hollered, betting millions on who would kill who. But you weren’t paying attention anymore. You were sitting still in your golden seat, trying to maintain the regal image of the Owl—your haraboji’s mask when something shifted.

A hand. Firm. Possessive.

It rested on your upper thigh. You stiffened. Your breath hitched behind the mask, but your head didn’t turn. Not yet. You glanced subtly downward. The movement was hidden by your ornate robe, but you felt it.

A gloved hand. Black leather. Familiar.

Too familiar.

You thought for a second it was the Raven-masked VIP —the young man who had been whispering sin into your ear all evening—but no.

No. Not him.

Him. Your blood turned to fire. The Frontman sat on your left—silent, unreadable, his attention fixed on the chaos below. But his fingers…they gripped your thigh just enough to make you feel it.

Feel him.

You turned your head ever so slightly toward him, heart pounding. “ What the hell do you think—”

He didn’t glance at you. Didn’t even flinch. Just squeezed your thigh harder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel owned.

“ Sit still.” He muttered lowly, voice filtered through the distortion of his mask.

You tried to remove his hand discreetly—fingers curling under his palm, trying to push him off. But he only gripped harder. You gasped sharply, barely hiding the sound behind your mask.

The Raven VIP beside you turned. “ Is everything alright, owl?” He asked, voice sweet and smug.

Your mouth was dry. “ I’m fine.” You said quickly.

Lie. The Frontman’s fingers slid slightly, tracing the inner line of your thigh under your robe. Your breath caught. The arena roared again. Another player had fallen. More blood. But your world had shrunk down to his hand. His body. His control. You clenched your jaw.

Anger burned in your eyes. You tried again to shove his hand off—harder this time. But his grip turned brutal. His fingers dug into the soft part of your thigh—a silent warning.

The Raven VIP leaned closer, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“ You seem tense.” He whispered. “ Need help unwinding after the show?”

You didn’t answer. Because the Frontman’s thumb moved. A slow, lazy stroke—nothing too obvious, but intimate. Mocking.

Territorial. Your heart was beating out of your chest. You could feel the flush climbing up your neck. This wasn’t about desire. Not fully. This was power. A reminder. You turned your head again, this time toward him, your voice barely audible:

“ You think this proves something? That you can touch me whenever you want?” His mask finally tilted toward you—only slightly. But it was enough.

“ I don’t need to prove anything.” He said flatly.

“ I already have you where I want.”

Then he withdrew his hand. Just like that. Gone. And you were left breathless—trembling, furious, needing—as the room erupted into cheers around you. Another player had died. Another bet was won.

But your game with him?

It was just beginning.

And it had no rules.

…

The heavy doors slammed shut behind you, your footsteps echoing like gunshots across the dimly lit chamber. There he was—the bastard. Sitting in his chair like a king on his throne. Legs spread. One hand gripping a half-empty glass of whiskey.

The other relaxed against the armrest, as if he didn’t just torment you hours ago with that territorial act in front of the damn VIPs. His mask was gone. His face is bare. Shadowed. Beautiful. Dangerous. He didn’t flinch when you stormed in. Didn’t even look surprised.

“ You’ve been quiet.” He said coolly, lifting the glass to his lips.

“ I was starting to think you enjoyed it.”

“ Fuck you.” You spat.

He smirked. That same arrogant twitch of his lips that always made you want to both kiss and kill him. You marched across the room, standing in front of him—your hands shaking at your sides. From rage. From everything.

“ You crossed the line.”

“ I cross lines every day.” He replied simply. “ Be specific.”

“ Back there. In the lounge.” You hissed, stepping closer.

“ Touching me like that—like I belonged to you—”

“ You didn’t stop me.” He cut in sharply, voice low and biting.

You froze.

“ I tried.” You gritted.

“ Not hard enough.”

The silence between you was electric. Charged. Your breath was uneven. You could still feel the echo of his grip on your thigh.

“ You're sick.” You whispered, seething.

“ I’ve been worse.” He muttered, standing slowly. His height towered over you, making the air thick between your bodies.

“ But I’m not the only one.” He took a step forward. You took one back. A game of inches. Of restraint and unraveling.

“ You stormed in here like a wild animal.” He said.

“ And yet, here you are. Face flushed. Still thinking about my hand.”

You slapped him. Your palm cracked across his cheek—sharp and loud. His head snapped slightly to the side. But he only chuckled. Dark. Dangerous. Turned on. Then suddenly—he moved. In one swift motion, he gripped your wrist and shoved you against the wall. The same wrist you used to strike him. His body pressed close, caging you in like prey. His breath ghosted over your face.

“ You want to confront me?” He whispered.

“ Fine. But stop lying.”

“ Let go of me—”

“ Say you didn’t want it.” You faltered.

“ Say…” He growled.

“ You didn’t imagine what my hands would feel like…without the gloves.”

You hated him. God, you hated him. But your body didn’t lie. It arched into him, traitorous and burning.

He saw it. Felt it.

“ You’re cruel.” You breathed. “ Manipulative. You twist everything.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting over your ear. “ And you still came running.”

Your hands gripped his jacket, to shove him off, or pull him closer, you didn’t know anymore. His lips hovered so close, it ached.

“ Tell me to stop.” He whispered again.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. And so—he kissed you. Violently. Desperately. Like he’d been starving for years and only now dared to taste. Your back hit the wall with a muffled thud, the coldness of it a sharp contrast to the heat suffocating you.

His body pressed into yours, firm, dominant, overwhelming — just like always. Your hands pushed at his chest, fists trembling, breath erratic.

“ Get off—” You hissed.

“ No…” He cut you off, voice low and guttural. “ Not this time.”

You shoved again—tried to. But he was stronger, and your resistance only seemed to excite him. He caught your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head. The other hand slid dangerously slowly along your waist.

You felt it—him—hard and thick, pressing against your thigh through layers of fabric. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block the pulse that throbbed embarrassingly between your legs.

“ You’re disgusting.” You whispered.

His smirk was audible in his voice. “ Say that again…when you’re not grinding against me.”

You stopped. Realized you were trembling. Pressed too tight, too aware of everything. The pressure. His scent. His warmth. The heat is blooming low and fast.

“ I should’ve killed that Raven bastard.” He growled suddenly, voice laced with venom.

“ The way he looked at you…like he had the right.”

You opened your eyes. His jaw was clenched. His mask may have been off, but he was still hiding—behind anger, behind that tight control that was clearly breaking apart in front of you.

“ I wanted to snap his fucking neck.” He muttered, leaning close, his forehead brushing yours.

“ But I couldn’t. Because I had to smile. Had to lead the goddamn show for them.” He chuckled bitterly.

“ Your haraboji’s legacy.” He added, mocking.

“ I’m honoring it. I’m protecting it. I’m protecting you.”

You breathed sharply. He loosened his grip on your wrists, but his hand trailed down slowly. Tender. Reverent. Possessive. Then he whispered—raw, hoarse, cracking:

“ You think I don’t feel anything? You think this doesn’t torment me?” He leaned down, lips brushing your neck, dangerously close.

“ I’ve dreamed of this.” He confessed.

“ So many fucking nights. Touching you. Tasting you. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined you under me…begging.”

You whimpered—you hated it, hated him—but it slipped from your lips anyway. Your body betrayed you again, trembling against him.

“ I’ve jerked off to the thought of you more times than I can count.” He growled.

“ And it never helps. Because I wake up still hard, still empty, still wanting.” His hand slid between your thighs—not quite touching, but there, threatening, tempting. You gasped.

“ Tell me to stop.” He whispered again.

“ Lie to me. Say you don’t want this.” But you didn’t speak. You just stared into his eyes—full of hunger and torment and something deeper he’d never admit out loud.

And the silence…said everything. Your breathing hitched when his hand gripped your thigh tighter, your back still pinned against the cold wall of his chamber. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear as he whispered, dark and low:

“ How many times have you denied me?” He murmured, voice laced with heat.

“ How many times did you lie and pretend you hated me…while touching yourself under the sheets?”

You turned your head away, cheeks flushed with both fury and shame, but he didn’t let you hide for long. He gripped your chin and made you face him.

“ I saw it.” He said, biting the words between his teeth.

“ On my monitor. Every. Fucking. Night.” Your heart stopped. He smirked when he saw the horror flash across your face.

“ Don’t act so shocked. You really think I wouldn’t know every inch of this facility? Even your room?” His thumb brushed across your trembling lips.

“ The little secret camera tucked behind the antique mirror…caught you red handed.”

“ That’s a lie.” You snapped, even though your voice broke.

He laughed. Deep. Mocking. Cruel.

“ Lie all you want, baby. But I’ve seen it all. The way you whisper my name when you think no one’s listening. The way your hips grind against your hand—desperate. Needy.” He leaned in, lips brushing yours without kissing.

“ Just for me.”

“ F–Fuck you.” You breathed.

He grinned wider. “ Oh, you wish.”

You tried to push him again, but he didn’t budge. His arousal pressed firmer against your thigh, and you swore your knees almost gave out. He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath hot and ragged now too.

“ You know what I wanted to do that night?” He whispered, rougher now.

“ The first night I caught you like that?” His hand slid up to your waist, fingers pressing into your sides like a claim.

“ I wanted to barge in. Pin you down. Shove your legs apart and taste you until you couldn’t even remember your own name.” He licked the corner of your lips slowly.

“ I wanted to ruin you.” Your breath hitched, but still—denial sat bitter on your tongue.

“ You’re sick.” You choked out, even though your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“ Mm, maybe…” He hummed.

“ But not as sick as you, sweetheart. Because while you were moaning my name, I was in my own chamber, fisting my cock, matching your rhythm. Every night. Whimpering your name like a madman.”

You trembled.

“ Go ahead. Deny it again.” He challenged, his voice almost gentle now, a dangerous contrast to the things he was saying.

“ Tell me you haven’t imagined this. Me between your thighs. Filling you. Owning you.” He leaned closer, lips barely touching yours.

“ You’re mine. You just don’t want to admit it yet.” And you hated how your silence spoke louder than anything else.

Your body betrayed you. The moan, the heat, the way your hips had rocked into his touch—all of it boiled under your skin like shame wrapped in fire.

You hated it. You hated him. And you snapped. Your fist flew before you even thought. The crack of your knuckles colliding with his jaw echoed in the chamber. His head jerked, body stumbling back from the force.

Good. You didn’t stop. Your eyes locked on the baston mounted on the nearby cabinet—part of the décor, ceremonial or symbolic maybe, but solid enough for what you needed. You ripped it free and swung with every ounce of fury and humiliation burning through you.

“ You sick bastard!” You screamed, slamming it toward his side.

But he was fast. He ducked, weaving just under the swing, the smile now gone from his face. He caught your next hit mid-air, the baston vibrating with the force of your rage.

“ You wanna play rough?” He growled, grabbing your wrist.

You tried to jerk back, but he twisted sharply, making you cry out and drop the weapon. The baston hit the floor with a dull thud just before your back hit the bed.

He shoved you—hard. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you. That he was still stronger. That no matter how hard you fought, he would always pin you down. His body pressed on top of yours. Muscles caging you in. His arousal is unmistakable, grinding against your thigh, hot and hard and angry. His hands caught your wrists and pinned them above your head against the sheets, his face hovering just above yours.

“ Stop.” He breathed, voice cracking now—not with anger. With something deeper. Rawer.

“ Stop pretending. Stop running. Stop acting like you didn’t feel it too.” You turned your head, panting, teeth gritted. He leaned in closer, lips grazing your cheek, voice low and guttural.

“ I didn’t want to feel it either. I didn’t ask for this.” He whispered.

“ But I can’t stop.” You trembled beneath him, refusing to look at him.

“ I tried.” He admitted.

“ I tried to focus on the games. On his legacy. I tried to bury it. But every time I saw you—every goddamn moment you walked past me, laughed near me, defied me—I couldn’t breathe.” You clenched your fists under his grip.

“ It started the night you talked back to me.” He murmured.

“ When you stood in front of the guards like you weren’t afraid of anything. I should’ve punished you—but all I could think about was how I wanted to ruin you.” His voice broke, a whisper of obsession.

“ It got worse. I watched you sleep. I watched you smile at others. I counted the seconds you were out of my sight. And when I saw you in that lounge tonight, next to him, laughing like he could ever make you feel what I could…”

He ground into you harder, groaning softly. “ I lost it.”

“ You’re insane.” You breathed.

He let out a soft laugh. “ Probably. But if I am…then you made me this way.”

His mouth was so close now, lips nearly brushing yours. His fingers slid from your wrist to your jaw, thumb pressing gently to tilt your face up.

“ I don’t want to share with you. I don’t want to watch you anymore. I want you under me, screaming only my name.” Your lips parted in defiance—but no words came out. Only heat. Only want.

“ Say you don’t feel it.” He whispered.

“ Lie to me one more time.”

His grip loosened slightly—just slightly—when he saw your eyes shift. Something had cracked behind them. Not just lust. Not just anger. But pain. Old. Deep. Etched in silence.

Your lips trembled before you spoke. “ I thought you hated me.”

He stilled, breathing hard above you, brows twitching. You swallowed, voice rough and broken as your chest heaved under him.

“ I thought…every time you looked at me with that cold face. Every time you said I was weak. Disappointing. Loud. Useless.”

Your voice shattered a little. “ You never said anything kind. Not once. Not when I tried. Not when I stayed. I did everything just to… look good in front of you.”

Your fingers balled into the sheets beneath you as your body trembled. “ I was always hoping you'd say something—that I was good. Smart. Worth something. But you never did.”

He didn’t move. His eyes bored into yours, and now he wasn’t wearing the mask, the voicebox, the shadows. He was just a man. And you hated how broken he looked too.

You let out a breathless laugh, full of ache. “ And now…now you tell me you wanted me. Now you say you dreamed of touching me—after years of humiliating me, breaking me.”

His jaw clenched. “ I thought if I pushed you away…if I made you hate me…it would kill what I felt.”

“ Then congratu-fucking-lations.” You snapped, voice rising as your thighs involuntarily squeezed around his hips.

“ You did it. I do hate you.” But your body…still wanted him. Burned for him. Ached under the weight of those years and every stolen look you once hoped meant more.

He groaned low, a rough sound from deep in his chest, and suddenly he moved—his mouth crashing onto yours, desperate, wild. One hand grabbed your wrist again, pinning it above your head while the other slid under your shirt, rough palm dragging against your burning skin.

You gasped into his mouth, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan, before he growled and shoved his thigh between your legs, parting them and pressing in where he knew you were already soaked.

“ Is that why you moaned my name into your pillow?” He hissed, lips brushing yours between teeth and breath.

“ Because you wanted me to praise you?”

Your back arched with his thrust. “ You never did.”

“ I will now.” He growled, dragging your shirt up over your ribs, mouth following the exposed skin.

“ You’re fucking perfect. Strong. Gorgeous. Mine.”

You slapped him again. Harder. And yet your legs wrapped around him at the same time.

“ Say it again.” You demanded, voice cracking.

His mouth latched onto your collarbone, biting, sucking. “ Mine.”

His hand slid into your underwear again—no teasing now—fingers slipping through the slick folds, groaning at the feel.

“ You think I didn’t see how good you were? You think I wasn’t dying every time I held myself back? I said cruel things because if I let one kind word slip, I would’ve taken you right there.”

You whimpered when two fingers pushed inside you, slow but deep. Possessive. Claiming.

“ You’ve always been good.” He murmured, thrusting at them slowly.

“ You’ve always been mine. And now, I’ll never hold back again.”

His lips were everywhere—your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. Devouring you like a man starved for years, finally tasting what he wasn’t supposed to crave.

Your body arched beneath him, hands no longer resisting but clutching, needing. Your breath hitched when you felt him reach for the strap of your dress.

He hooked it gently with a gloved finger—slow, deliberate—and dragged it down your shoulder. Then the other. The fabric slipped down your body like a sigh.

“ I know this is what you wanted.” He murmured, his voice rough with heat and something else—devotion twisted with obsession.

“ Not just my hands…not just my cock…”

He leaned in, his tongue flicking your pulse point before he whispered. “ You wanted my words.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he dragged his lips lower, tracing the top of your chest with reverence. His hands explored your sides, firm, kneading, like he was mapping every inch he once could only watch from a screen.

“ You’ve always been so strong.” He murmured, kissing the swell of your breast, his breath hot and shaky.

“ Even when I was cruel to you. Even when I tried to bury what I felt.”

He pulled the dress further, exposing your bare chest to him, and you gasped as the cold air licked over your skin—only to be replaced by the heat of his mouth.

“ Look at you…” He whispered, voice husky as he kissed between your breasts, licking and sucking the sensitive skin there.

“ You’re so beautiful, it hurts. Perfect.”

You whimpered when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, gently suckling, tongue flicking until your back arched off the bed. His other hand slid between your thighs again, pressing into your soaked heat with reverence.

“ You wanted praise?” He growled softly, trailing hot kisses down your stomach, inch by inch.

“ Then I’ll worship you.”

You moaned as he dropped to his knees on the edge of the bed, pulling your thighs apart, dragging your dress up to your hips. His hands roamed your thighs, firm and greedy, as he pressed kisses against your inner skin like you were something sacred.

“ You’re soaked.” He whispered, lips ghosting above your center.

“ All for me. All because you’ve been waiting for this—for me—to finally say what you deserve.” His tongue ran slowly up your slit, and your thighs trembled.

“ You’re perfect.” He said again, this time into your skin.

“ Every part of you. Every moan. Every breath.”

You cried out when his tongue dove deeper, lapping you up like it was salvation. His hands held your hips down as he devoured you—slow, deep, thorough. Every motion screamed worship. When your hand tangled into his hair, he groaned against your core like it was the only thing he needed to live.

“ You’re doing so well for me.” He murmured, voice thick with lust.

“ So good. So fucking good. This—” He slipped two fingers into you again, curling them perfectly.

“ This is mine now.” You whimpered, nearly sobbing his name as your hips rocked into his mouth.

“ You don’t ever have to beg again.” He said as you broke under his tongue.

“ I’ll give you everything. Every night. Every praise. Every ruin you crave.” And as you shattered under him, his name on your lips, you knew—

You were never going to stop needing this. You gasped as another wave of pleasure rolled through your trembling body, his tongue slowing but not stopping, like he wanted to savor every shudder you made.

His hands gently eased from your thighs and slid upward—strong, sure—as he hovered above you again. His chest rose and fell heavily as his eyes raked over you—lips glistening, pupils blown wide with desire and something else… something reverent.

“ You’re quiet.” He murmured, thumb brushing your jaw.

“ What is it?” You hesitated.

And then, voice soft—barely above a breath—you confessed.

“ I’ve never… done this. With anyone.”

He stilled.

You looked away, heart pounding. “ Technically…this makes you my first.”

His silence made your skin burn, shame creeping into your veins—until he cupped your cheek gently, forcing your gaze back to him.

“ Say it again.” He whispered, voice trembling.

“ You’re mine…first?” You nodded slowly.

Something dark and reverent flashed through his expression—a possessive hunger so deep it shook you. His mouth captured yours again, slower this time, as if tasting you differently now. Claiming with lips instead of hands.

Then he pulled back, breath warm against your mouth. “ Then help me.” He said, tone slipping into command.

“ Take it off. My uniform.”

You sat up, hands still trembling as they reached for the buttons of his shirt. You undid them slowly—feeling the heat of his body with each one you revealed. His sculpted chest, his hard muscles, the marks of power and sleepless nights.

He watched you closely the whole time, lips parted, jaw tense, like your touch alone was undoing him. Once you peeled the black uniform down his arms, he sat still, waiting, breath shaking.

“ Look at me.” He ordered gently.

You did.

“ I’ve watched you for years. Dreamed of this—us—for even longer.” He took your hand and pressed it against his bare chest, right over his heart.

“ Now you know how badly I’ve wanted to be yours.”

Then he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“ Put a mark on me.”

You blinked. “ What?”

His voice dropped lower. “ Your mouth. Your teeth. Anywhere you want. Prove I belong to you now.”

Your breath hitched. But slowly—nervously—you leaned in. You dragged your lips across his throat first, soft and exploratory, and you felt him tense with pleasure. Then, emboldened, you opened your mouth and bit gently into the junction of his neck and shoulder. He groaned—deep and raw, grabbing your waist as if grounding himself.

“ Fuck… yes.” He hissed.

“ That’s it. Again.” You bit harder this time. His grip on you tightened.

You sucked the skin until you knew it would bruise. Your tongue flicked over the mark, sealing it. Claiming it. He was panting now, forehead pressed to yours.

“ God, you’re perfect.” He whispered.

“ Do you know what this means to me?” Your hands slid down his bare chest, feeling every flex, every shiver.

“ You’re mine now.” You whispered.

And he nodded, eyes dark and reverent. “ I always have been.”

The moment your lips left that bruising mark on his neck, something in him snapped. His hands suddenly grabbed your thighs and pulled you onto his lap, hard. You yelped, but it melted into a gasp when you felt the sheer need in the way his body moved—no more patience, no more restraint.

His cock was rock hard beneath you, straining against the last fabric left between you, and now there was nothing soft in his gaze. Just hunger.

“ You have no idea what you’ve started.” He growled, grabbing the back of your neck and slamming his mouth back onto yours.

It was rough, messy, teeth dragging, tongue dominating. Your body reacted instantly—hips grinding against his, your slick heat soaking his pants. He groaned into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips as if grounding himself before he lost it completely.

“ You should’ve marked me a long time ago.” He rasped.

“ I would’ve given myself to you.” Your head tipped back as he attacked your neck now, nipping, biting, claiming in return.

His fingers tangled in the fabric of your underwear and ripped them from your body with one sharp pull, the sound slicing through the air like the final tear of your control.

“ I’ve waited too long for this.” He growled, fingers immediately sliding back into your slick folds.

“ No more slow. No more soft. You said I’m your first?” You nodded, eyes glazed, body trembling.

“ Then I’ll ruin you right.”

He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, and the moment your eyes landed on his thick, pulsing cock, your breath caught. He was huge. Your body tensed—half with fear, half with anticipation.

He noticed.

He leaned in, brushing your ear with his lips. “ Don’t worry, baby.” He whispered.

“ You’re going to take it.”

Then he gripped your hips and slammed you down onto him. You screamed, the stretch burning, splitting you open, his length driving deep in one rough, punishing thrust. He groaned against your throat, fingers bruising your hips as he held you there, buried inside you to the hilt.

“ So fucking tight.” He growled, voice wrecked. “ So warm. So mine.”

Your nails clawed at his shoulders as you struggled to breathe, the shock of being so full nearly overwhelming—but the pain turned quickly into something darker, needier. Your body adjusted around him, your hips rolling involuntarily.

“ Ride me.” He ordered, grabbing a fistful of your hair.

“ Show me how much you wanted this. How many nights you touched yourself thinking about this cock inside you.”

You whimpered, hips lifting and sinking again—each thrust punching moans from your throat. You could feel everything—every inch of him dragging against your tight walls, every vein, every twitch as he held back from completely losing himself.

“ Look at you…” He hissed. “ Fucking yourself on me like you were made for this.”

You cried out again, legs shaking, but he caught your waist and began thrusting up from beneath, harder, faster, deeper.

“ You’re gonna come on this cock.” He growled.

“ And when you do, I want you screaming my name—so even the guards outside know who you fucking belong to.”

Your head fell back, eyes rolling as you felt your orgasm start to build violently—no control, no grace, just pure, raw surrender.

“ Say it.” Be snarled, thrusts ruthless now. “ Who do you belong to?”

“ You—fuck!—you, I belong to you!”

He snapped his hips up once, twice—and you shattered. Your body locked, then convulsed in his arms, the orgasm ripping through you like a wave of heat and lightning, your scream buried into his neck as you fell apart.

And he wasn’t done. He flipped you beneath him, pulled your leg over his shoulder, and thrust back in.

“ Good.” He growled.

“ Now I’m gonna show you what being mine really feels like.”

…

You hadn’t even recovered from your first high when he scooped you up into his arms, his cock still deep inside you. You whimpered, limp and sensitive, clinging to his neck, but his grip was possessive—like he couldn’t bear even a second of separation.

“ You’re not done.” He growled, walking you across the chamber, still buried to the hilt.

“ Not even close.”

He pinned you against the nearest wall, your back pressed to the cold stone as he rolled his hips into you again—slow, grinding, intentional. The angle was deeper now. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist on instinct.

“ You feel that, sweetheart?” He rasped against your ear.

“ That stretch—that ache?” You moaned, barely able to respond.

“ That’s me.” He continued. “ All of me. Filling you up until there’s no part of you untouched.”

He pulled back just enough to see your dazed, fucked-out expression—lips parted, eyes fluttering. He kissed you hard, wet and claiming, before thrusting into you again with full force.

“ Gonna breed you now.” He groaned.

“ Gonna fuck my cum so deep into you, it won’t have anywhere else to go.” You cried out, nails clawing his back, and he loved it.

“ Gonna make sure no one else ever gets a chance.” He whispered, hips snapping into you.

“ You’ll feel me dripping out of you for days. You’ll remember who did this to you.”

He pulled out suddenly—only to spin you around and bend you over the nearby desk, pressing your chest flat while he lined up behind you.

“ You ready for round two, baby?” He growled, gripping your hips tight.

“ No mercy now.”

He slammed back into you with a force that made your legs buckle. You gasped, eyes rolling as he fucked you harder, rougher, his body smacking into yours with every brutal thrust. His hand snaked under your belly, rubbing your clit, dragging another orgasm up your spine.

“ Come for me again, princess.” He hissed.

“ That’s it. So good for me. So wet, so fucking tight.”

You cried out his name—not the title, not “Frontman”—his real name, over and over again, until he was groaning behind you, hips faltering.

“ I’m gonna fill you up.” He gasped. “ Fuck—I’m gonna fill this pretty little cunt right now.”

With a final thrust, he buried himself deep and came hard inside you, grinding his hips as your walls milked every last drop. He collapsed over you, panting, moaning low as your bodies trembled against one another.

But he wasn’t finished. Not yet. He dragged you from the desk, kissing you breathless as he walked you toward the couch this time. He laid you down gently before hovering above you, brushing sweaty hair from your face.

“ Look at me.” He said, voice softer now—strained, but honest.

“ I’ve wanted you for so long…and it was never just to fuck you.” He kissed you slowly this time. Reverent. Lips lingering.

“ It was always this.” He whispered.

“ Making you mine. All of you. Every sound, every breath, every inch of you.”

You choked on a gasp as he pushed inside again—this time slower, deeper, as if savoring the feeling of your body molded to him.

“ Baby…” He whispered, pressing his forehead to yours,

“ I’m going to fuck you through every corner of this room tonight until you know there’s nowhere you can go that I haven’t loved you in.”

And he did.

He took you on the rug by the fireplace—your thighs trembling as he pounded into you from behind, both of you moaning like animals.

He took you standing against the tall mirror—so you could see yourself, ruined, dripping, his hand gripping your throat gently as he praised every inch of your body.

He took you on the bed again, missionary—slow this time, face buried in your neck as he whispered all the things he never had the courage to say before.

“ You’re everything.”

“ You’re mine.”

“ You’re all I’ll ever need.”

By the end of it—drenched in sweat, skin flushed, thighs sticky with his release—you were barely able to speak. You laid on his bed, your body marked, claimed, loved in every way possible. He pulled you into his arms, still inside you, holding you tight.

“ You’re not just my first.” You whispered hoarsely.

He kissed your temple. “ You’re my last, too.”

He smiled against your skin. “ And now you’ll never forget it.”

…

You didn’t know how long you were out—maybe minutes, maybe an hour. All you knew was the heaviness in your limbs, the sore, satisfying ache in your core, and the way the silk sheets stuck slightly to your sweat-slicked body. You barely had the strength to open your eyes when you felt the dip of the bed shift. Then something warm brushed between your legs.

A cloth.

“ Wha…?” You murmured, weak and confused.

“ Shh…” His low voice soothed. “ Just cleaning you up.”

Your eyes fluttered open, and there he was—kneeling between your thighs, bare, no mask, no uniform, just him. You blinked as he gently wiped your skin, being careful with every sensitive spot.

His brows were slightly furrowed, as if tending to something precious. Still floating in the aftermath, your gaze wandered lower…and you couldn’t help but stare.

His cock—soft now, but still thick—slapped against his abdomen as he adjusted to wipe himself clean. You blinked, eyes wide, heat rising in your cheeks again.

“ How the hell can you even move after all that?” You muttered hoarsely.

“ And how do you even…cum that much? You’re not even—young—”

He barked out a laugh, deep and amused. “ Are you seriously asking that right now, sweetheart?”

You threw a pillow at him. Weakly. It flopped harmlessly onto his lap.

He caught it anyway and smirked. “ It’s the job. Long nights, no sleep, training…and maybe a little obsession.”

You stared, lips parted. He leaned forward, wiping a final drop from your inner thigh before tossing the towel aside and stretching his arms.

“ And…” He added with a devilish grin.

“ I’ve waited years for you. You think I’d last just once?” He leaned close, breath tickling your lips.

“ No, no, baby. You deserved every single drop of my little soldiers marching into your sweet, greedy tunnel.”

“ Oh my god!” You groaned, pulling the sheets over your face.

He laughed again, genuinely delighted, before tugging the sheet down just enough to see your flushed expression. His fingers brushed your cheek.

“ Six rounds? Or was it seven?” He asked innocently, tapping his chin.

“ Hard to count with how many times you begged.”

You shoved his shoulder with a muttered, “ Asshole.”

He only smirked and bent down to kiss your forehead. “ Adorable.”

Eventually, he climbed back into bed beside you, slipping under the sheets with a contented sigh. His arms wrapped around you immediately, dragging your exhausted body into his chest like you were the only thing that could settle his heartbeat.

He buried his face into the curve of your neck, then shifted lower until he rested right between your breasts, exhaling softly.

Then—he purred. Literally. You blinked, glancing down at his wild, raven-black hair spread over your chest.

“ Are you purring?” He didn’t answer. Just nestled deeper into your skin.

You snorted. “ Well, the big bad Frontman sure becomes a clingy cat after sex.”

His voice came muffled from your chest, “ Only for you.”

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, heart fluttering in the strange, intimate silence that followed.

This wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just an obsession. This was something else. And maybe it had always been there, clawing its way beneath years of denial, tension, and rage.

Now…it was quiet. Honest.

You looked down at him and whispered, “ You’re warm.”

He hummed. “ You’re home.”

You yawned as you shifted in the sheets, sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. Every muscle in your body throbbed with the memory of last night—scraped raw and satisfied. Warmth still cocooned you, limbs tangled with his under the expensive, heavy bedding.

He was already awake, chest pressed to your back, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His breath fanned lazily across your neck, every few seconds peppered with a kiss or a soft nuzzle that made you shiver.

“ You’re clingy.” You murmured, amused.

“ I earned this cling.” He mumbled against your skin, one hand lazily brushing the side of your hip.

“ You’re not going anywhere. Not after I nearly snapped my spine giving you seven damn rounds.”

“ Six and a half.” You corrected it with a smug smile.

“ Seven.” He growled into your ear, teeth grazing the shell.

You giggled quietly, curling closer into his chest as his fingers drew lazy circles over your stomach. Then the thought came.

You stared at the ceiling for a second before blurting, “ So…what if I get pregnant?”

His hand paused. You could practically hear the gears clicking in his head behind you.

You rolled your eyes. “ I mean—we didn’t exactly use protection and you weren’t exactly…stingy. You flooded me.”

Now he shifted—leaning over you so you were pinned beneath the weight of his body again, hair falling over his eyes, expression unreadable. But something in his stare was softer than usual. Serious.

“ I wouldn’t mind.” He said, voice low.

“ In fact…I’d fucking love that.”

You blinked up at him.

“ I’m serious.” He continued.

“ If that happens—if you’re pregnant—you’re stepping down as Founder. I’ll handle everything from now on.”

Your brows furrowed. “ But—”

“ No.” He dipped closer, kissing your cheek, then your jaw.

“ You’ve done more than enough. If you're carrying my child…you’re not spending another second in this goddamn place. You’re going somewhere peaceful. Somewhere clean. Somewhere safe.” You didn’t speak. You just watched him, your heartbeat thudding softly.

“ I’ll take your position, your burden, your shadows. You’ll rest. You’ll be free. And when it’s time to raise our child…” He paused, his voice turning more vulnerable.

“ They won’t grow up like us. I won't let them carry this darkness. I won’t pass down this…curse.” He rested his forehead against yours.

“ I want to break it. With you. For them.” Your throat felt tight.

You blinked, trying to laugh it off. “ You sure you’re not still high off last night’s orgasms?”

His lips quirked. “ Maybe. But it doesn't make it less true.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck as he leaned in to kiss you again. This time slower. Deeper.

“ So…” You teased between kisses.

“ If I do end up pregnant…what are we naming this miracle child of yours, hmm?”

He grinned. “ Something strong. Something rebellious.”

“ Like Bastard Junior?”

He groaned into your neck. “ You’re impossible.”

“ And you’re whipped.” He bit your shoulder playfully in response, making you squeal.

Tag: @startled-cats

[lost-in-thoughts03]

MULTO || GWI-MA (K-POP DEMON HUNTERS)

" Because with every glance, your face is visible."

Summary: Some things must be forgotten because they belong in the past. What would happen if you were offered another chance to see each other but one of you had to go again in exchange? Will you continue to gamble or will you let events unfold? Warnings: Get your tissues ready, or simply confirm that everyone is wearing seatbelts. Gwi-ma KPDH x Reader Words: 21.6k

The battlefield reeked of blood and ash, soaked in the echoes of screams long silenced. Gwi-ma stood amongst the ruins, his crimson robes torn and burned at the hem. His once regal armor, inscribed with royal lineage and celestial blessings, was now stained with the blood of the fallen—of his enemies, and of his own people. But none of that mattered. Not when her body lay still in his arms, her lips parted as if she had just whispered his name.

The princess. His princess.

“ Seol-ran…” His voice broke like the shattered remains of the palace behind him.

She had been his salvation. The one who looked beyond the crown and saw the man beneath the iron mask. She had dared to love a king with a heart carved in cruelty and taught him how to feel again—how to be warm. But war had no mercy. He had been too late. Too foolish. Too hopeful. And now she was gone. The sky wept with storm and shadow as Gwi-ma, King of Ten Thousand Spears, laid his forehead against hers, whispering ancient words meant only for the gods to hear. But the gods gave no answer.

…

Months Later – Deep Within the Forbidden Mountain

The temple was carved into the bones of the world. Black stone pulsed with unnatural life as red mist clung to the steps like grasping fingers. Gwi-ma stood alone, the crown discarded, his sword rusted by time and neglect. Before him stood a man cloaked in darkness—no face, no form, just the hum of forbidden magic.

“ You mourn as a man. But you seek as a god.” The being said.

“ I seek her.” Gwi-ma rasped.

“ I will give anything.” A smile, cold and vast as the void, echoed from the shapeless thing.

“ Then give yourself.”

And without hesitation, he agreed. It was agony beyond pain. His flesh burned, twisted, unraveled by divine wrath and infernal power. His bones cracked and were remade. His heart—what was left of it—was torn from his chest and forged into black fire. When the screams finally ceased, Gwi-ma opened his eyes…

And the world recoiled. His skin bore the marks of ancient runes, veins alight with demonic flame. Horns curled from his skull like a crown born of torment. His once noble face was now both beautiful and terrifying—a reminder of what he was and what he had become.

The sacrifice had been made. He had become the price.

…

4,000 Years Later – The Endless Search

Across continents and centuries, kingdoms rose and fell, but Gwi-ma remained. He built an empire in the shadows. His demons—seducers, reapers, deceivers—spread like a plague. They harvested souls for him, all in the name of one purpose: To find her. Some he touched lived luxurious lives before dying in agony. Others were consumed in their dreams. None were her.

The rage only grew. The cruelty multiplied. He mourned with fire and death, with temples desecrated and blood spilled upon sacred altars. He whispered her name with every soul he devoured, begging fate to return what it stole. And yet—

Her soul never came. So he searched. And still, he searches.

A demon not born of malice, but of love lost and the curse of hope that never dies.

…

Seoul, 2025 – Rainy Night

Thunder rumbled like a distant war drum as the rain poured without mercy, drenching the city in a curtain of silver. Neon signs flickered in blurred reflections on the wet asphalt.

Humanity moved like insects—rushed, distracted, oblivious. But not him. Not Gwi-ma. Now wrapped in mortal flesh again, he walked these streets with purpose and disgust. His long coat swayed with every step, black boots silent against the pavement. Behind those striking, inhuman eyes now veiled as warm brown, dwelled centuries of violence and longing.

He had killed his own servants. Those who failed. Those who deceived. Those who dared to say her soul was lost forever. And then…he felt it.

A heartbeat. Not his own, no. Hers. It struck him like a lightning bolt straight to his chest—sudden, electric, familiar. It was the same rhythm that once lulled him to sleep in the arms of his beloved.

A heart he thought time itself had devoured. His eyes lifted. There—across the street, soaked in rain and sorrow, you sat on a bench like a ghost forgotten by the world. Papers clenched in your fists, smudged beyond recognition. Your shoulders shook from silent sobs, and your head bowed low, unaware that fate itself had stopped walking. Gwi-ma’s breath caught.

It’s her. No—it’s you. Reborn. Lost. Yet right here. The centuries collapsed in a breath. He didn’t remember moving, only that one moment he stood still—and the next, he was before you. Umbrella open. Arm extended. Voice soft. Measured. Human.

“ Miss…You’ll catch something in this weather. May I…?” You looked up.

Your eyes, rimmed with red and glistening with rain and despair, met his. And he almost fell to his knees. His façade cracked for the briefest second—the demon, the king, the monster—trembled.

Because it was you. Your soul, dressed in a new life, new pain, but the same heartbeat.

You sniffled, forcing a smile despite the tears. “ Thank you…That’s very kind of you.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand. Broken but still trying to hold your dignity together. You stood, clutching your ruined papers to your chest.

“ You shouldn’t have come to me, though.” You said quietly.

“ People who get close to me…they only end up suffering. It’s like I carry a curse.” Your words stabbed through him. Unknowing prophecy.

“ So…please, don’t waste your kindness on someone like me.”

You walked past him—so gently, like the first time she ever left his chambers 4,000 years ago. Gwi-ma turned, frozen under the rain. His umbrella is now useless in his hand. He didn’t call out. He didn’t move.

He only watched. Watch as you disappear into the mist and rain, like she once did before war tore her away. His jaw clenched. Fists tightening. And for the first time in thousands of years, Gwi-ma whispered into the storm with a voice trembling from more than rage.

“ This time…I won’t let fate take you again.”

Rain or not. Curse or not. He would follow the heartbeat. He would chase you—until you remembered.

…

A Few Months Later – Seoul, 2025

Gwi-ma’s face had become a staple on every social platform. Not for his crimes. Not for his history. But for the way his sharp features looked under studio lights, the cool indifference in his gaze, and the devilish smile that made fans blush and scream.

Acting Manager of Saja Boys. The nation’s newest obsession. An overnight K-pop phenomenon. Except behind every perfect performance, behind the glitter and the stage lights, behind every curated wink and catchy hook, lurked something vile.

Souls. Craved. Counted. Collected. He stood behind the stage now, arms crossed as the boys performed under the flashing strobe lights. Their movements were flawless. Their voices—spellbinding. Fans screamed from the barricades, unaware they were slowly being devoured by charm and enchantment stitched with ancient sorcery. Gwi-ma narrowed his eyes.

To the world, they were idols. To him, they were bait with abs and eyeliner.

“ Good.” He murmured under his breath, watching the crowd swoon.

“ Fools. All of them.”

A staff assistant passed him, asking something about tomorrow’s press schedule. He waved her off with a false smile, never breaking eye contact from the stage. Everything about this modern era disgusted him—plastic smiles, empty words, meaningless trends.

But it worked. This illusion of “personality”, the theater of vulnerability and talent—it lowered their guards faster than fear or violence ever did.

“ They offer themselves now.” He said to one of the boys after the show, his voice quiet and cutting.

“ No need for force. Only a stage.”

Saja Boys. Five demonic servants in pretty disguises. He had molded each of them—imbued with seduction, vanity, rhythm, and desire. They weren’t human. Not really. They were pretty masks over monstrous hunger. And he played the perfect puppet master.

…

Back in His Penthouse – Late Night

Rain began to tap again against the windows of his high-rise apartment. Seoul glowed in neon below, alive with vices and distractions. But Gwi-ma stared at the empty corner of his living room, where no one stood. Where you should’ve been. Even now, with all this power. This is progress. This control over the modern world—you haunted him.

He hadn’t seen you again. Not once. He waited for weeks at that same bench, rain or shine. Nothing. He told himself it was a trick. A cruel echo meant to distract him from his mission. Maybe a soul impersonating hers. Maybe someone planted by a higher force to weaken him. But still…

“ That heartbeat wasn’t fake.”

He felt it. In his chest. The very organ that hadn't been beaten for 4,000 years before you looked at him with tear-streaked cheeks.

And that cursed goodbye.

“ Don’t waste your kindness on someone like me.”

He scoffed, pouring himself a drink. “ As if I ever had any left.”

But the glass trembled in his hand. And his eyes kept drifting to the rain outside. Even surrounded by his loyal demons, even as Seoul knelt at the feet of this new sensation—he felt alone. And that single moment with you—

Was more real than every soul he’s consumed in centuries. He hated it. He missed it. And he would find you again. Even if he had to burn this whole city to find that heartbeat.

…

Flashes exploded like fireworks across the white walls of the grand press hall. Cameras clicked in rhythmic chaos. Staff ran back and forth, adjusting microphones and managing the sea of fans who screamed like their lives depended on being noticed.

At the head table, the Saja Boys sat dressed in matching black and silver designer suits. Their expressions were a perfect balance of humility and charm, each of them playing their role—The Sweet One. The Shy One. The Flirty One. The Stoic One. The Golden Boy.

All masks. All lies. All demons. Gwi-ma leaned against the far wall in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest, one brow slightly raised in eternal boredom. The media adored them. The fans worshipped them. And to him, they were nothing but prey.

“ Pitiful.” He muttered to himself, scanning the crowd with clinical disdain.

“ So easy to lure with a wink and a wink.”

He watched as one of the boys did a finger heart toward a fan in the front row. The girl collapsed into tears. Her friends laughed and squealed, clutching her like she'd been touched by a god. And maybe she had. Just not the kind she thought.

Gwi-ma’s lips curled into a slow smirk. “ Devouring them used to take effort. Now they line up for it.”

He allowed himself a brief moment of dark amusement—until his heart slammed in his chest.

Once. Twice. Then it raced. His gaze snapped toward the middle of the crowd.

And everything else disappeared. You were standing there. Among the noise, the chaos, the madness—you stood like an echo of the past. An ache reincarnated. You didn’t wave. You didn’t cheer. You didn’t even hold your phone up like the others. You just stood there, arms folded, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight, unsure line. You looked so…out of place. Like a dream swallowed by reality.

You turned your head to one of your friends, clearly dragged there against your will, your body language awkward. Resigned. You rolled your eyes at something they squealed about, giving a sarcastic smile—but your discomfort was written all over you.

He read it. Every inch. Every tick of your brow, every shift in your shoulders, every half-hearted smile.

“ You’re not here for them…” He whispered under his breath, eyes softening despite himself.

It was impossible. You had no memory of him. You weren’t even her anymore—not in the way time understood. But your soul… it hadn't changed.

He knew you. The way you tilted your head when you were annoyed. The way you hid your sadness with sarcasm. The way you avoided eye contact when something was too intense.

Thousands of years apart, yet it felt like he had just seen you yesterday.

“ You found your way back to me…again.”

He took a step forward before he could stop himself, his usually unreadable expression now clouded with something dangerous—hope. But the moment your eyes scanned past him, pausing ever so slightly, his breath caught.

Did you feel something? That pulse? That flicker? You blinked and turned your gaze away.

No recognition. His heart dropped and swelled all at once. Onstage, a reporter asked something ridiculous about the Saja Boys’ “ideal type.”

Laughter erupted. The boys answered with rehearsed, flirty charm. But Gwi-ma heard none of it. His entire being was focused on you.

You. After months of emptiness. After centuries of hunger. You were here. Alive. Unknowing. So close. And this time…

He wasn’t going to let you disappear into the crowd again.

…

11:49 PM — Seoul Convenience Store

The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The occasional ding of the automatic door broke the lull of late-night silence, joined by the rustle of ramen packets and snack wrappers. Gwi-ma sat at the far corner of the seating area, a bowl of instant noodles in front of him, untouched.

He was pretending again. Pretending to be human. Pretending this food didn’t taste like plastic and regretting it. Pretending he didn’t miss the weight of a sword in his hand or the silence of a battlefield under moonlight. But most of all, pretending he didn’t still feel you on the edges of his mind.

He watched the mortals move like clockwork. Laughing. Eating. Smiling. Weak and foolish, yet content with their fragility. A couple of girls were giggling over banana milk. A tired salaryman was dozing off over his coffee. He scoffed.

“ So easily satisfied.” He muttered, swirling his chopsticks.

Then—he felt it again.

The heartbeat. And before he could even process it, someone sat beside him. He turned, fully prepared to release a scathing remark about personal space—until his gaze met yours.

You were smiling at him. So innocently. So unaware of the storm you stirred inside him. Carrying a tray with simple food—kimchi rice, a yogurt drink, and a small medicine bottle peeking from your coat pocket. You placed it down beside him carefully before looking at him with a sheepish grin.

“ Uhm…Is it okay if I sit here?” You asked gently, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Gwi-ma blinked, stunned. The predator…silenced.

He swallowed, then nodded—slow, mechanical. “ Yes. It’s…fine.”

You exhaled in relief and sat, quietly arranging your food. You didn’t look at him for a moment, letting a moment of silence pass between you before you gave a small, almost apologetic laugh.

“ I didn’t expect you’d be…the manager of Saja Boys, of all people.” You poked at your rice, eyes focused downward.

“ That night…I thought you were just a regular businessman or maybe a government agent. Definitely not a K-pop manager.” Gwi-ma’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but pain clung behind it.

You sighed, your tone softening. “ I’m still embarrassed you saw me like that. Crying like an idiot in the rain.”

He said nothing. Just listened. You looked at him briefly, then away again. You always looked away. Like it hurts to be seen. He knew that look.

“ I applied to a dozen companies in the past few months. But none of them accepted me.” He turned fully toward you now, his hands resting still beside his untouched food. You didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t.

“ They say I look too pale. Or that they can’t take the liability. I get it, I guess.” You smiled bitterly, stabbing your rice with your spoon.

“ I have leukemia. Critical stage. Maintenance is expensive and my family isn’t exactly well-off. I just want to help. Even a part-time job would be enough to cover some of my meds.” Gwi-ma’s expression shifted.

Gone was the detached amusement. Gone was the predator. What replaced it was something dangerous. Something soft. Something ancient and unbearably human.

“ You’re…dying.” He said quietly, voice tighter than he meant it to be.

You gave him a sad smile, but not a pitiful one. It was strong in a way that hurt. “ I like to think I’m just…on a shorter clock. Still ticking though.”

You took a sip of your yogurt drink and laughed softly. “ Sorry. That’s a lot to dump on a stranger. Especially one as important as you.”

He stared. Thousands of years collecting souls. Thousands of years destroying lives. And here you were—so fragile, so temporary…and yet more alive than anyone he’d met in centuries.

A flame in the rain. Still burning. Still smiling. He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move. But inside, his monstrous heart howled.

Not again. Not again. Not when I just found you. He looked at your tray. At your medicine. At your hands—shaking slightly as you picked up your spoon. And for the first time in 4,000 years, Gwi-ma made a vow not for revenge, not for power—

But to protect something. Someone. You.

“ What if I told you I could help?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked.

He looked calm. But under the surface, the demon in him stirred. “ I don’t need anything in return. Just…let me.”

Your eyes widened. And you didn’t know it yet—but the devil had just offered you his hand. Not for your soul. But because somewhere in his cursed heart—

He would rather burn again than lose you twice. The hum of the convenience store seemed to fade when your breath hitched, your wide eyes shimmering under the cold white light. You weren’t just surprised—you were stunned, overwhelmed, and holding back a wave of emotion that had nowhere else to go but forward. He watched you as if he could feel your soul vibrating.

“ You’ll work as the personal assistant of Saja Boys.” Gwi-ma repeated, calmly.

“ Their last one quit. Said they were too loud. Too childish. Too much.” His eyes softened faintly, just a trace of amusement touching his otherwise flat tone.

“ You, however…I have a feeling you’ll handle them better.”

You clutched your handkerchief to your face, trying not to break. The tears came anyway. And Gwi-ma…froze. You weren’t sobbing loudly, just folding into yourself, trying not to make a scene. You wiped at your eyes with the fabric, shoulders shaking lightly.

He wanted to reach out. To hush you. To say you didn’t need to cry anymore. That you were safe now. That he wouldn't let fate play its cruel games again. But he didn’t. He just quietly watched you, expression unreadable to any stranger—but his heart was aching. Torn in ways he forgot were even possible.

He hated this. He hated seeing you cry, even over happiness. He hated feeling this warmth and pain all at once. But more than that, he hated that you still didn’t know why he cared so much. So he did the only thing he could do to keep from shattering. He picked up his chopsticks and forced a bite.

You finally removed the handkerchief from your face, sniffling quietly but wearing a determined look now. “ I-I promise I’ll do my best.” You said, voice still trembling.

“ I won’t waste this. I really won’t. Thank you…really, thank you.” Gwi-ma nodded slowly, setting down his now-empty bowl.

“ Send me your resume when you’re ready.” He said, pulling a sleek, matte-black card from his inner coat pocket. His fingers slid it across the table with measured grace.

“ That’s the agency address. You can come starting tomorrow—or any day you’re ready or just wait for your call.”

You reached for the card with both hands, reverently, as if it were made of gold. Your eyes darted across the simple silver print like it was some secret spell.

He stood, gathering his trash. “ Rest well tonight. You’ll need it.”

You quickly rose too, bowing your head deeply. “ Thank you so much, sir. Thank you—really, thank you!”

You reached out to hold his hand in both of yours, squeezing lightly in a gesture of sincerity and deep gratitude. But the moment your skin touched his—

Time stopped. For him, anyway. His body went still. His chest tightened. His mind sparked, flooded with memories:

Her laughter under the cherry blossoms. Her tears in his arms during the siege. The feeling of her fingers intertwined with his—

And now, yours. The warmth. The familiarity. The ache. It was you. He nearly forgot how to breathe. He cleared his throat abruptly, trying to push the storm back inside.

You noticed. You immediately pulled back. “ S-sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“ It’s fine.” He said quickly, voice a shade too low.

“ Just…be careful. Don’t do that too easily to strangers.” You blinked, nodding sheepishly.

He nodded once in return, then walked away. Not too fast. Not too slow. Controlled. Always in control. Until he reached his car. He sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the rearview mirror—eyes fixed on the convenience store doors.

And there you were. Inside, practically glowing. Jumping in place, grinning like a child, waving your phone excitedly as you called someone—your parents, perhaps. He could hear the way your voice would tremble with joy, even if he couldn’t hear the words.

“ Someone finally offered me a job…!”

Gwi-ma watched. And for the first time in thousands of years—

He smiled. Not the cruel kind. Not the manipulative smirk. But a real one. Soft. Quiet. Bittersweet.

This time…he’ll protect that smile.

…

Saja Entertainment Headquarters – Morning, Few Days Later

The city air was crisp and clean, the sky a flawless shade of blue that almost seemed to mock the nerves churning in your stomach. You stood before the towering black-glass building of Saja Entertainment, the sleek logo gleaming like a crown above the entrance. You clutched your envelope of documents tighter to your chest—your resume, medical certification, government ID, everything they might ask for. Your heart beat a little faster when you looked up.

“ So tall…” You whispered to yourself, breath fogging briefly as you stared at the impossible height of the HQ.

“ Expensive-looking, too.”

It felt surreal—just days ago, you were sitting in a convenience store with nothing but exhaustion and quiet desperation. Now, you were standing in front of the agency that practically ruled the current K-pop scene. And the fans were already lined up along the barricades, bright signs and lightsticks in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Saja Boys. You walked past them nervously, trying not to draw attention, your presence blending into the crowd like a ghost with purpose. But before you could reach the main doors—

Two security guards stepped in front of you. They were tall, intimidating, dressed in black uniforms and mirrored sunglasses. One raised a hand to stop you.

“ Sorry, miss. No outsiders allowed unless you have an appointment or employee clearance.” You blinked, quickly nodding and fishing into your coat pocket for the card Gwi-ma gave you.

“ Ah—yes, I understand! I was told to come here today by Manager Gwi-ma. He…offered me a job. As the personal assistant of the Saja Boys.” The guards exchanged glances. Skepticism. Caution.

You felt heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment threatening to swallow you. You opened the envelope slightly to show them the resume, about to fumble through an explanation when one of them took the card from your hand. He stared at the dark matte texture and silver print. Then he blinked. His entire posture shifted.

He lowered his radio and clicked it on. “ Control, this is Gate One. We have a visitor claiming an appointment with Manager Gwi-ma. Holding his personal authorization card.”

A crackle of silence. Then a voice responded. “ Confirmed. Let her in. Direct her to the 28th floor. Manager's wing.”

The guard looked back to you, his tone more respectful now. “ You’re clear. Apologies, Miss. Take the elevator to the 28th floor. Straight to the left. You’ll find the door with his name on it.”

You bowed deeply, both in gratitude and from sheer relief. “ Thank you. Thank you so much.”

As you entered the lobby, stepping into the cool, polished interior, your reflection briefly caught in the mirror-like floor tiles. You took a deep breath, then whispered to yourself:

“ This is it.” You touched the card once more inside your coat pocket—your bridge to a second chance at life.

Not just to work. But to survive.

…

28th Floor – Outside Gwi-ma’s Office

You stepped out of the elevator, greeted by silence and the elegant minimalism of the floor’s decor—black marble, golden trimming, and faint music echoing from somewhere distant. You followed the corridor, heart pounding again with every step. You stopped in front of a tall black door with silver lettering:

GWI-MA Manager, Saja Division

You clutched your resume folder, your hands trembling just a little. Not from fear—

But from hope. You knocked twice, gentle but audible. And somewhere inside, behind that door…

The demon who had waited 4,000 years felt your presence again. And this time—

You came to him.

…

The soft hum of the overhead light filled the space between silence and anticipation. The office was cold in its elegance—sleek black shelves, dark wooden desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city below.

The only color came from the sharp red bookmark in the corner of his planner and the faint gleam of gold on the pen he held. Gwi-ma didn’t look up right away.

You stood quietly by the door after your polite bow, hugging your document folder tightly against your chest. The man behind the desk flipped another page, his expression calm and composed—but you could feel the weight of his presence in the room like a second gravity.

Then—

“ Take a seat.” He said, eyes still scanning the text before him.

You let out a nervous breath and moved quickly, settling in the leather chair across from him. He finally looked up. And it made your pulse jump. His gaze was unreadable—focused, intense, but not unkind.

You placed the folder in front of him, sliding it neatly across the desk. He took it with a measured hand, opening it without a word. You sat up straighter, folding your hands on your lap to keep them from fidgeting. The silence was deafening as he read, flipping through your resume, your certifications, your medical clearance all of it.

He finally closed the folder with a soft snap and leaned back. “ You’ve worked in admin before. Light translation jobs. Basic logistics.”

“ Yes, sir.” You nodded quickly.

“ Mostly part-time work when I was still in school. And recently, freelance tasks whenever my health allows me to…” Your voice trailed off when you realized how fast you were speaking. Gwi-ma raised a brow, amused.

“ Calm down.” He said simply, setting the folder aside.

Your cheeks instantly flushed. You bit your lip and looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “ S-sorry…I just—nerves, I guess.”

He didn’t respond with a smile, not exactly—but there was a strange softness behind his eyes that hadn’t been there when you walked in. Another pause. You assumed the next question would be about your schedule, your skills, your familiarity with idol work—

But instead, he asked:

“ That night…the thing you said. About being cursed. What did you mean by that?”

You froze. Your shoulders stiffened, and the air felt heavier somehow. He was still watching you—not as a manager now, but as something more.

Someone is listening. Someone remembering. You exhaled slowly, fingers curling over each other.

“ It’s…something I’ve always felt, I guess.” Your voice was quieter now.

“ I try to be positive. I try really hard. But it’s like no matter what I do, something always pulls me down. Whenever something good happens, it feels like it’s taken away before I even get to enjoy it.” You finally met his gaze. And he didn’t look away.

“ I have leukemia.” You said flatly.

“ It’s in a critical stage now. And it’s not just the pain or the meds. It’s how it makes me feel like I’m…a burden. Like I drag people into my problems just by existing.” You smiled, bitterly.

“ People who care about me always end up suffering, worrying, and sacrificing things for my sake. That’s why I said it that night. I didn’t want you to get involved. I thought…if you stayed near me, you’d just get caught in the mess too.”

Silence. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled. The kind that understood.

You bowed your head slightly, voice a whisper. “ No one’s lucky to have an illness like this. So maybe it’s not a real curse, but…it sure as hell feels like one.”

You expected a typical response. Pity. Or discomfort. Or worse—silence with a hint of guilt. But instead, his voice was calm. Sure.

“ You’re wrong.” You blinked, lifting your head. Gwi-ma’s expression hadn’t changed much. But his eyes were deeper now, darker, as if they carried more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“ A curse is something inflicted. A disease is something endured.”

“ You didn’t curse yourself. And you didn’t choose this. But you’re still here.” His words weren’t kind in a poetic sense. They weren’t comforting like soft cotton.

They were iron. Strong. Heavy. Steady. And somehow, exactly what you needed.

“ I’ve seen real curses.” He added, almost under his breath.

“ You’re not one of them.” You stared at him. And in that moment—your shame, your fragility, your fear—began to loosen their grip on your ribs.

Just a little.

“ Thank you.” You whispered. Gwi-ma simply nodded once. Then, as if nothing happened, he stood up and walked toward the drawer behind his desk.

“ I’ll have the contract and ID prepared by tomorrow.” He said, voice back to neutral.

“ You’ll be with the boys during their rehearsals and events. I’ll handle the rest.” You stood slowly as well, still holding the echoes of his words inside your chest like warmth in winter.

This was your first day. And already, something felt different. Lighter. You were here to work. But somehow…you were also beginning to heal.

…

Saja Entertainment, 9th Floor – Rehearsal Hall

The echo of muffled bass notes pulsed from behind the door before Gwi-ma pushed it open. The two of you entered the wide rehearsal hall—a sleek, mirrored room with pristine white floors, scattered water bottles, towels, and the smell of sweat still hanging in the air.

Five boys stood in a loose huddle, talking and laughing in varying volumes until they noticed who had stepped in.

“ Manager-nim!”

Their laughter cut short. All five boys immediately stood straighter, wiping their faces, and bowing respectfully in perfect unison. It was mechanical—habitual—but the air still shifted sharply, like someone had snapped their fingers and switched the atmosphere. You peeked from behind Gwi-ma, your hands tight around your small notepad and pen. You were used to interviews, applications, even some auditions. But this—

Being the center of their attention?

It made your throat tighten. Your gaze met theirs—five pairs of dark, curious eyes. Their gaze wasn’t judgmental, but interested. Too interested. Like prey noticed by a pack that smiled with teeth. You immediately stepped back a little, hiding again behind Gwi-ma’s frame, barely lifting your eyes from the floor. Gwi-ma instantly noticed.

“ Stop staring at her.” He snapped coldly, not raising his voice but sharpening it enough to slice tension into the room.

The boys blinked—then laughed awkwardly. A few rubbed the backs of their necks.

“ We didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable.” Said one with sharp cheekbones and a silver-streaked undercut. That must be Mystery.

“ She’s cute when she’s shy.” Abby, the pink with mismatched socks, muttered with a small pout.

“ We’re being nice.” Added Baby, barely taller than you and sporting a bubblegum pink hoodie.

“ We didn’t even bite—yet.”

“ Baby.” Gwi-ma's voice dropped low in warning.

The youngest zipped his mouth shut. Gwi-ma turned slightly to you, tone much gentler than the one he used on them. “ Come forward.”

You hesitated but nodded and took a small step beside him, giving a timid bow to the group.

“ This is Y/n.” He announced, expression unreadable.

“ She’s your new personal assistant. She’ll be with you from rehearsals to interviews, schedules, and product shoots.”

The boys straightened again, a new kind of spark lighting in their eyes—not just curiosity, but a quiet murmur of…recognition?

No. It wasn’t that they knew you. But something about you interested them far beyond the usual introduction. You gave them a small, nervous smile.

“ Nice to meet you all.” You said politely. “ I’m looking forward to working with you. Please take care of me.”

Jinu, the leader figure with dark auburn hair and a casual aura, offered a gentle grin.

“ Same here, noona.” He said, voice smooth. “ Don’t worry. We’re not as scary as Manager-nim makes us look.”

“ Speak for yourself.” Romance cut in, flipping his hair with flair. His earrings caught the light. “ I’m terrifyingly handsome.”

“ You’re terrifyingly loud.” Mystery muttered, nudging him.

“ Focus.” Gwi-ma sighed deeply, but his eyes flicked to you—checking, grounding, making sure you were okay. You felt it again. That same strange gravity he carried when he was near. You nodded slightly at him, reassuringly. You’re fine.

You can handle this. They seemed young. Spirited. Maybe a little too friendly—but not dangerous. Not at all.

What you didn’t see was the flicker behind their smiles.

What you didn’t know—

Was that the boys weren’t staring because you were new.

They were staring because there was something off about you. To demons like them, human souls glimmered with a thousand invisible threads. But yours? Yours was like a quiet storm. Dimmed by illness. Sparked by pain. Yet untouched by sin.

And that kind of soul…was rare. The kind demons would be ordered to corrupt. The kind Gwi-ma should’ve kept them away from. But instead, he placed you in the center of their den. And something deep inside of him stirred—because for the first time, the predator wasn’t concerned about the hunt.

He was concerned for the prey. You. And the boys knew it. They just smiled. And bowed again.

“ Welcome to the team, Noona.”

…

As soon as Gwi-ma left the rehearsal hall, the air shifted once again—but this time, it wasn’t stiff or professional.

It was unruly.

“ SHE’S BLUSHING!”

“ Did you see how she hides behind Manager-nim like a kitten?”

“ She’s not even a fan?! Oh no, our pride—crushed!” Voices piled over each other like waves crashing down a shoreline.

The Saja Boys were no longer intimidating idols in a press conference or mysterious idols with perfectly curated personas. Now, they were boys—loud, teasing, chaotic boys with the energy of a storm locked in a dance studio.

Abby draped an arm around your shoulder dramatically, pouting like a child. “ So you’re the brave soul who dared take on this cursed job. Do you enjoy suffering?”

Romance leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “ Or maybe…you're secretly a masochist? That’d explain everything!”

“ Romance!” Mystery smacked his arm lightly with a rolled-up towel. “ You’re gonna make her quit on her first hour.”

They laughed like this was normal. You tried to smile along, cheeks warming, unable to meet their eyes for too long. They started introducing themselves again, one by one, but this time with flair like actors auditioning for your attention.

“ I’m Jinu.” Said the leader with a casual smile. “ The voice, the face, and unfortunately the only one who remembers schedules around here.”

“ Mystery. I don’t do small talk. But I’ll remember your name if you survive us for a week.”

“ Romance. I believe in love at first sight. And I just experienced it five minutes ago.”

“ Abby! The most adorable, sweetest, and unhinged member—reporting for duty!”

“ I’m Baby.” Said the maknae, arms crossed.

“ But don’t let the name fool you. I bite.” You blinked. That… might not be a joke.

“ Also…” Baby squinted at you, dramatically leaning in.

“ You really aren’t a fan?” You shook your head gently, a bit unsure.

“ Not really. I mean…my colleagues are. But I only came to the press con because they pulled me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“ I knew it.” Baby groaned, staggering away as if your words had pierced his soul. “ This betrayal…it’s so personal.”

“ You’ll have to work extra hard to earn his forgiveness now.” Abby teased.

Before things got further out of hand, a sharp whistle cut through the chaos.

“ Break’s over! Back in position!” Called their trainer from across the studio.

They groaned in unison like elementary students forced back into class. Jinu turned toward the trainer, then glanced back at you. His playful smile softened into something slightly more serious. He stepped closer to you—not threatening, but close enough that you could see the fine sheen of sweat across his collarbones, and the calm intensity beneath his idol-perfect smile.

“ You’re different.” He said quietly, voice lower than before.

“ Manager-nim wouldn’t bring someone like you into our world without a reason.”

You blinked. “ What do you mean?”

Jinu tilted his head. “ Nothing much. Just…don’t trust anyone too quickly, yeah?”

“ Especially the ones with pretty faces. Sometimes, we wear them to keep you from seeing what’s underneath.”

Your breath caught. And just like that, his tone lightened again.

“ Anyway, wish us luck. We’re doing a new piece today, so we’ll probably die a little.”

He winked and turned away, heading toward the center of the room where the others were already stretching, laughing, and bumping shoulders. You were left standing alone at the edge of the rehearsal hall. Clutching your notepad. Confused. Intrigued. And a little uneasy.

Something was off. But you couldn’t name it. Not yet. You took a deep breath and sat down on the small assistant’s bench near the mirrored wall.

This is your job now. No matter what those boys were hiding—whether it was ego, mischief, or something else entirely…

You were part of their world now. And there was no turning back.

…

For the past few months, your life has shifted into something you never imagined. You weren’t just a girl struggling to survive anymore—you were now the personal assistant of the Saja Boys, a group of chaotic, otherworldly idols who tested your patience, invaded your personal space, and sometimes treated you like a younger sibling…or a babysitter.

They were nothing like their public personas.

On screen: elegance, poise, perfection.

Behind the scenes: food fights during breaks, arguing over who left their socks in the hallway, and spontaneous karaoke sessions at 3am in the dorm when they should be sleeping before interviews.

You learned their rhythms.

Romance talks in his sleep. Mystery reads horror novels upside down. Abby can’t drink caffeine without vibrating off the walls. Jinu will never admit he cries after successful concerts. And Baby? Baby only listens to you when you bribe him with strawberry milk.

“ You’re doing better than the last three PAs combined.” Jinu told you one day after practice.

“ We haven’t driven you insane yet. That's progress.”

Still, despite the madness…you didn’t mind it anymore. Because even in their chaos, the boys made you feel alive. And Gwi-ma. He remained distant…but not cold. He still rarely smiled unless the boys weren’t looking. Still organized and sharp, dressed in black suits and always buried in contracts, endorsements, and logistics.

But sometimes…

He’d silently leave energy drinks or vitamin tablets on your desk. He’d walk you out when it’s late, saying nothing but waiting until your bus arrived. He'd ask about your medications—not as your boss, but as someone who remembered, who noticed.

There was something…undeniably human in how he cared.

Even if he didn’t say it aloud.

Yesterday, though, reality made itself known again. Your doctor appointment had been quiet, sterile, and laced with clinical language that no amount of soft background music could soften. You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, fingers clenched around your results as your oncologist spoke gently.

“ The medication is working—but only to an extent.” She said.

“ Your leukemia cells are slowing down, but they’re still spreading.”

“ That means the disease is still progressing…just in slow motion.” You forced yourself to nod, even though your throat was tightening.

“ Please…” She added, pressing the prescription into your hands,

“ Don’t miss your doses. No skipping even once. I know you’re working hard—but if your body collapses, everything else will too.” You bowed your head. Whispered a quiet yes, doctor.

…

Now, back at the dorm, you sat alone in the assistant’s corner. The boys were upstairs. Gwi-ma was still at a late meeting. The studio lights had dimmed, and for once…everything was still. You stared at your prescription in your hand, slowly tracing the printed letters. Your life had changed so much…and yet your battle hadn’t stopped.

The chaos of Saja Boys became a welcome distraction, a loud comfort, a substitute for the quiet dread that followed you like a shadow. But tonight, that dread returned. Your hands trembled slightly. Until—

“ You’re late taking that.” A low voice said behind you.

You startled—spinning around—and found Gwi-ma standing by the doorway. He walked toward you calmly. His eyes glanced at the bottle and papers in your lap.

“ You went to the hospital yesterday.” You nodded wordlessly.

He didn’t ask more. Didn’t push. He simply reached out and placed a small thermos on the table in front of you. “ Warm water. You’ll need it.”

Your throat tightened again. “ How did you…?”

Gwi-ma shrugged slightly. “ You’re working under my roof.” He said, voice low and unreadable.

“ Everything that touches my domain…I make sure I know.” He started to turn away. But then paused.

“ If it ever becomes too much.” He said without looking at you.

“ This job, or…anything else—you come to me. Don’t carry everything alone.” Your lips parted, surprised. He had never said something so…forward. You opened your mouth to respond. But Gwi-ma had already vanished down the hallway. You stared at the thermos. Then the pills. And then quietly, you took your medicine.

…

The Saja Boys were out of town—finally. Your schedule had been packed for the past month, chasing five grown men around like a glorified babysitter with a clipboard and a medkit. So when Gwi-ma granted a three-day break, you didn’t argue. You packed your things, bowed politely, and took the first train home. But the second you opened your apartment door…

It was silence. Utter, bone-deep silence. No teasing voices. No water fights over bathroom time. No dramatic whining over bubble tea flavors. Just…the air conditioning hum and the subtle creak of the hallway wood under your tired steps. You dropped your bag beside the shoe rack and slowly made your way to the couch. Your arms wrapped around your knees, like they always did when you felt…like this.

Alone. This was your house—technically. The one left for you after the tragedy. Paid off by some distant aunt you never heard from again. You've lived here ever since you were a child. Since that night. And it never stopped feeling cold. No matter how many candles you lit, or blankets you stacked. The shadows here were deeper. The air still remembered.

You remembered too. That night came back in flashes—just like always. Your father's scream. Your mother’s sobs. The sound of the front door slamming open. And then the other noise—something you didn’t know how to name back then.

A hissing. A whispering. A growl that laughed. You had cried and begged for your parents to hide with you. But instead, they shoved you into the kitchen cabinet, whispered “don’t make a sound,” and closed the door. From the crack, you watched.

A figure cloaked in black. Yellow eyes that weren’t human. Hands like claws…and a mouth that opened too wide. It spoke in a language you didn’t understand—then placed a hand on each of your parents’ heads…

And pulled something out of them. Light. Breath. Life. Their bodies dropped like ragdolls. And you didn’t scream. You couldn’t. You didn’t even cry until the next morning when the neighbors found you. You wiped a tear from your cheek now, frustrated you were still haunted.

“ I’m not a child anymore.” You muttered into the silence. But the ache never fully went away. The grief never gave you back what it took.

You were lucky to have Rumi, Mira, and Zoey. They were your closest friends. Sisters by choice, not blood. They were strong. Each one of them. They wielded enchanted weapons, tracked demonic energy, protected people from the creatures who hunted in the dark. The world called them myths. Ghost stories.

But you knew better. They were Demon Hunters or they called themselves the Huntrix—modern-day warriors shielding humankind from a war most didn’t even know was happening.

You admired them so much. Sometimes…you even envied them. You loathed demons with every piece of your soul. You wanted to fight. To protect. To do something. To be more than just someone watching from the sidelines with a weak body and no power. But you knew your truth. Your illness made even waking up some mornings a victory.

What good would you be with a sword if you couldn’t hold it longer than ten minutes? Still…the fire in you never died. Someday, you swore, you’d help. You just needed to find your own way to fight.

Your phone buzzed on the armrest.

A message from Zoey.

Zoey: Heard you’re back in town. We should meet up. Mira says something’s moving near the subway. A new demon signature. Might be nothing. But it feels off.

Rumi: You okay? Don’t forget to take your meds. And stay inside tonight, yeah? We’re patrolling.

You smiled faintly at their messages.

Even in the darkest parts of your world…you weren’t alone. But somewhere outside, just beyond your walls, something was watching. Something that had followed your scent ever since the day you stepped into Saja HQ.

A creature not yet revealed. But very, very aware of who you were. And what was pulsing in your blood.

“ She survived.” It whispered in an ancient tongue.

“ She’s blooming…again.”

…

The Saja Boys didn’t spend their break lounging by tropical beaches or soaking in mountain spas. No. Their break took them home—to the hidden fortress veiled in ancient spells, buried beneath layers of shadow and glamour. Deep within a part of the city no human dared to see, let alone find.

The air here buzzed with the weight of power, thick with the scent of old blood and forbidden pacts. As they passed the threshold, the glamours faded. Gone were the stylish jackets, the soft boyish looks. In their place stood five beings with glowing eyes, shadow-slick skin, and auras that pulsed like living fire. Other demons greeted them—some bowing, others watching with respectful silence.

They were not just idols. They were vessels of ancient chaos wearing the faces mortals worshipped. They made their way to the center chamber where Gwi-ma stood beneath the massive obsidian arch. His eyes glinted as he scanned them.

“ You’re late.” He muttered, though the corner of his mouth curled.

“ Traffic.” Mystery joked, but bowed respectfully. Gwi-ma’s fingers drummed on the hilt of his blackened blade.

“ Jinu…” He said, turning to the leader.

“ Your plan…it’s working. The humans are flocking to your voices. To your touch. Every soul that attaches to you deepens their spiritual bond—ripe for harvest.”

Jinu smirked. “ Of course it’s working. Humans are too easy. Dangle fame, beauty, and a few fake tears—they’ll sell you their soul before they even realize it.”

“ But will it be enough?” Romance cut in. “ To break the Honmoon?”

“ We’re halfway there.” Gwi-ma confirmed.

“ Once the barrier falls, the last sanctuary of the mortals will burn. Our dominion will be complete.” His voice was cold. Certain. Ancient. Then Jinu’s expression shifted. Less pride. More hesitation.

“ And what of the princess’ soul, Gwi-ma?” He asked.

“ When the Honmoon breaks…you’ll lose your human memories. You said it yourself. So what happens to that mission? The one you chased across lifetimes.” The chamber tensed. Even the lesser demons listened now.

Gwi-ma’s jaw clenched, his face unreadable. “ Forget the soul.” He said quietly.

“ That mission died centuries ago. We've searched every lifetime, every vessel. Nothing fits. She's lost to us now.” He turned away, as if sealing the chapter shut.

“ I’d rather lose my memories and reign than cling to a past that won’t return.”

But then—Abby stepped forward. He sniffed the air, eyes narrowing. “ That’s strange…”

Gwi-ma froze.

“ I smelled something recently. Something familiar. Something…old. It was when we met the new assistant.” He said, looking straight at Gwi-ma.

“ Her soul. It’s not entirely human. It matches every description the Seers gave us of the Princess.”

“ Abby.” Jinu warned. But the others were murmuring.

Romance nodded. “ I felt it too. That…tug. Like something from before the Fall.”

“ Me too.” Baby whispered. “ I thought I was imagining it.”

“ She doesn’t know.” Abby continued. “ She’s not awakened. But it’s her.”

Gwi-ma didn’t speak. His eyes dimmed—briefly betraying a flicker of pain. Of hope. The truth clawed at his tongue, but he forced it back down, locked behind walls he spent centuries building.

“ No.” He snapped. “ You’re mistaken. She's just a mortal. An assistant. Nothing more.”

“ But—” Abby started.

“ Enough!” Gwi-ma’s voice echoed across the chamber, silencing them.

“ You will not jeopardize our mission over a ghost from the past. The Honmoon must fall. Do not get distracted.” His voice held the weight of command. Of a king in waiting. And yet…his hands trembled the slightest bit as he turned away.

Because deep in the core of his ancient soul…he knew. The girl who laughed beside him during lunch breaks. The girl who cried softly in the doctor’s office. The girl whose soul glowed beneath layers of sadness and sickness—

She was his princess. The one he failed to protect. The one he swore he would find. The one who shouldn’t be dragged into this war again.

“ Not this time.” He whispered to himself.

“ This time…I’ll protect you. Even if I must lie to everyone to do it.”

…

You jolted awake. Your throat is dry. Your chest heaving. Sweat clung to your skin like second flesh, soaking through your shirt and pooling in your collarbones. Your fingers gripped the edge of the blanket as if they could anchor you back into reality. But the screams—

They still echoed in your ears. The blood. The gold. The voice that kept calling your name—hoarse, broken, and desperate—still lingered in your memory, even as your bedroom surrounded you in stillness.

“ Princess…No—don’t leave me—!” You clutched your chest.

Same dream. Again. That endless nightmare of a palace. Of you dying. Of someone mourning you like the world had ended. It never changed. Not the marble halls. Not the tears on that stranger’s face. Not the cold, searing pain in your chest as everything faded to black. Unable to breathe through the thick silence, you slid out of bed. You threw on your hoodie—one of your favorites, oversized and faded with time—and slipped out the door.

The city was quiet at this hour, streets bathed in ghostly moonlight. You kept your head down, hands stuffed in your pocket, until the bright buzz of a convenience store broke the silence. You grabbed cup noodles and a few rice balls, paid with trembling hands, then settled on one of the plastic stools inside the store. You ate slowly. Mechanically. Trying to ease the weight in your chest.

The food was warm. But your insides still felt cold. Then—your phone vibrated. You blinked. A message. From Gwi-ma.

Manager Gwi-ma: Are you still awake? How are you feeling?

Your heart skipped. It was late. Very late. Managers usually didn't check on assistants after work hours—especially not with soft-toned questions.

You: I'm okay…woke up from a nightmare again. I just grabbed some food. And yes, I took my meds.

Almost immediately, the typing bubble appeared.

Manager Gwi-ma: Nightmares again. Is it the same one?

You bit your lip. Hesitated.

You: Yes…the palace one. And…my parents."

No response for a moment. You assumed he fell asleep. But then—

Manager Gwi-ma: Full moons tend to stir things. Bad memories…old blood. It’s not your fault.

You stared.

What did he mean by old blood?

You shook your head.

You: Thanks. I guess I'm just surprised you care… You're always so serious. I thought maybe you just tolerated me.

This time, the pause was longer.

Manager Gwi-ma: I notice more than I show. And you are not someone to be 'tolerated'. Rest. You’ll need your strength."

Strength…? For what? You looked at your phone, cheeks warming. Maybe he was just kind. In his own, distant, quiet way. Still, something about his words made your heart tighten. Like he was holding something back. Like he knew more than you did about these dreams. About…you. You finished your food slowly, staring out the glass windows.

The moon hung heavy and full in the sky—watching. You didn't know what was waiting. But you felt it. In your bones. Something was changing. And somewhere across the city, in a chamber cloaked in shadows, Gwi-ma stood by a window—watching that same moon. His phone is still in his hand. His thoughts are drifting to you. And the truth he would one day be forced to tell.

“ You still dream of me…Even after all these lifetimes.”

…

The morning sun gleamed over the tall Saja HQ building as you stood outside, clutching your ID and bag tightly. Three days off wasn’t exactly a vacation when you were haunted by nightmares and loneliness—but here, ironically, amidst the chaos of five rowdy idols and one enigmatic manager, you somehow felt less alone. You tapped your pass. The elevator dinged open. You braced yourself. And as expected—

“ SHE’S BAAACK!”

Baby was the first to leap on you, almost knocking you over with an over-the-top hug. “ I missed teasing you! No one screams ‘stop it!!’ like you do!”

Romance draped an arm over your shoulder next. “ I even missed your glares. That must mean something, right?”

Mystery tsked behind them. “ They were hopeless without you. Jinu couldn’t even find his own shoes.”

“ Liar.” Jinu scoffed. “ She’s not that important. But…” He glanced at you sideways.

“ I guess it’s been boring without our favorite prey.” You chuckled despite yourself.

The teasing was loud. Overwhelming. But familiar. Comfortable, even. As if this chaos…was oddly where you belonged. In the midst of their antics, you caught a glimpse of Gwi-ma entering the rehearsal room. The noise dimmed a little. His presence always brought an odd kind of stillness. Like the air shifted when he was near.His gaze immediately landed on you. And for the first time…he smiled. Not big. Not wide. Just enough to soften his sharp features.

“ You’re back.” He said, voice calm but something warm tucked in between the words. You felt it—a sudden thump in your chest. Your hand clutched your shirt. Weird.

You frowned instinctively, and Gwi-ma tilted his head. “ Are you feeling alright?”

“ I’m fine.” You murmured quickly, avoiding his eyes. “ I guess I just…missed the work.”

He studied you a second longer before giving a short nod. “ That’s good. But don’t overdo it.”

From his folder, he pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to you.

“ This month and next.” He said.

“ Schedule breakdown. The boys are booked nearly every day. Concerts, press, photoshoots…a few overseas gigs too. It will be demanding.”

You flipped through the itinerary. It was intense. Barely any breaks. You glanced at the Saja Boys—still bickering over who missed you the most—and sighed dramatically.

“ And I assume that means I have to babysit five gremlins every single day?”

“ Six, if you include Gwi-ma.” Baby chimed, grinning.

“ Do you want extra vocal training today?” Gwi-ma replied dryly without even glancing back.

You hid your laugh behind your hand. Exhausting as it would be…this felt okay. Your chest still ached sometimes, and the shadows of your past still whispered at night—but here, amid demons in disguise and secrets unspoken…

You were starting to feel a little more alive. Even if you didn’t realize that your mere presence had changed everything for someone.

…

The dorm looked…livable. For once. Empty snack wrappers had been banished, piles of laundry finally folded (even if Abby kept sniffing the fabric softener), and the floor—thanks to Baby’s chaotic mopping—was technically clean, albeit slippery in spots.

Jinu vacuumed while dancing. Romance made you a cleaning playlist, of course. Mystery held the trash bags like a grim reaper while saying ominous things like, “This is the smell of your sins.” Abby? Supervised.

Barely helpful. But they tried. Now, at last, they were all out for a walk—probably causing some sort of public commotion—and you were alone in the dorm’s common room. You slumped onto the couch like a puppet with its strings cut, arms sprawled and head tilted back.

You let out a long, ragged sigh. “ Finally…”

The air was quiet. Your muscles were sore. But your lips curled into a tired smile. They’re exhausting. But they’re mine.

Suddenly, the front door creaked open. You groaned. “ If it’s Jinu coming back because he forgot his lip tint, I swear to—”

But it wasn’t Jinu.

It was Gwi-ma. You blinked, sitting up a little straighter.

Before you could even ask why he was here, he held up a hand. “ Don’t worry. I’m not here to dump more work on you.”

Your brows furrowed. “ Then…?”

He stepped inside, hands in his pockets, gaze scanning the now-clean dorm before settling on you. “ I saw the state of this place this morning. And I’ve seen the boys. I know how they are.” He exhaled, long and low.

“ You’ve earned a break.”

You tilted your head warily. “ This sounds like the beginning of more paperwork.”

“ It’s not.” He paused, and something about his voice softened.

“ I want to take you out. To eat. Or drink. Or anything. Just…something relaxing.” Your eyes widened.

“ You? Offering relaxation?” You blinked. “ Are you okay? Did the Boys hit you in the head?”

“ I’m serious.” He said, eyes fixed on yours. “ You’re handling five overgrown toddlers with too much fame and zero impulse control. That’s not just a job. That’s a survival skill.”

You laughed, rubbing your face. “ I appreciate it, Manager-nim, but I’m really tired—”

Gwi-ma cut you off gently, “ They serve jjajangmyeon at that place near the river. And fried mandu. Also, wasn’t that tteokbokki spot your favorite?”

You froze. Your ears literally rang. You sat upright, blinking in disbelief.

“ Wait—how do you even know?” Before he could answer, you were already grabbing your bag and bolting up.

Gwi-ma blinked slowly as he watched you dash toward the door with a speed you didn't have ten seconds ago. “ So…that’s a yes?”

You didn’t answer—just shot him a determined look as you slipped on your shoes. He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. You didn’t see it, but as he followed you out, he let out a small sigh of relief. Not because he was tired. But because, for once, he found a reason to look forward to something that wasn't chaos. And apparently, that reason ran on tteokbokki and sheer adrenaline.

…

The city lights flickered softly above as you and Gwi-ma walked down a quieter side street near the river. The heat of the day had cooled into a gentle evening breeze, carrying the scent of sizzling oil and red pepper sauce from nearby stalls.

You sat across from him at a small plastic table, the familiar clatter of utensils and quiet chatter filling the space around you. The vendor had just placed your favorites down: a big bowl of jjajangmyeon, golden fried mandu, and a generous serving of spicy tteokbokki.

You nearly moaned at the sight. “ I think I just saw heaven.”

Gwi-ma gave you a side glance, resting his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “ You did. It cost me 24,000 won.”

You stuck your tongue out at him before diving into the jjajangmyeon like a person reborn. “ I haven’t had this in weeks. Abby said it’s too ‘carby’ to keep in the dorm.”

“ He also said breathing near him breaks his ‘aesthetic bubble.’” Gwi-ma deadpanned.

You snorted, almost choking on your noodles. “ Exactly.”

There was a comfortable silence between you as you ate. Occasionally, you’d glance up and catch him watching you—not with any intense expression, but with something calmer. Softer. Like he was…observing peace, not chaos.

“ You’re not eating much.” You said, nudging a piece of mandu toward him.

He raised a brow. “ You need it more than I do. You cleaned five rooms and wrestled with five oversized children today.”

You leaned back in your chair with a sigh. “ True. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed the job until I came back.”

“ And them?”

You gave a half-smile. “ Even them. As annoying and clingy and emotionally unstable as they are.”

He nodded. “ They missed you too. You balance them. Without you, they…drift.” That made your chest warm a little. You looked down at the tteokbokki, suddenly feeling bashful.

“ Still…” Gwi-ma continued, his voice low but steady, “ You need to take care of yourself, too. You give them all your energy, all the time. No one takes care of you.”

You looked up slowly. “ Is that your way of offering?”

His eyes didn’t flinch away from yours. “ Maybe.”

The pause between you stretched—long enough for your heart to beat a little louder.

You reached for the last piece of mandu and broke it in half, sliding one across to him. “ Here. Consider it your reward for tolerating me.”

He accepted it with a faint smile. “ It’s not that hard.”

You raised a brow. “ I said ‘tolerating.’ Don’t push your luck.” You teased, but your voice was softer now. Almost shy.

He didn’t reply. Just watched you with that unreadable gaze of his—like he wanted to say something else, something more, but chose not to. Not yet.

After a while, you both stood, full and a little sleepy from the warmth of food and conversation. As you walked back together, side by side beneath the glow of the street lamps, your hands brushed once. Then again. And again. Until, slowly, without a word, his fingers gently wrapped around yours. He didn’t look at you. But the corners of his lips curved. And neither of you let go.

…

You didn’t know what prompted you to bring it up—maybe it was the warmth from the tteokbokki still lingering in your chest, or maybe it was how Gwi-ma actually listened when you talked, not just nodded politely like most people. But somehow, as you walked back from dinner with your hands still shyly linked, the words slipped out.

“ I used to dream of ice skating when I was a kid.”

Gwi-ma glanced at you. “ Really?”

You nodded. “ Yeah. I always imagined gliding on a frozen lake or something super dramatic. But those indoor skating rinks were way too expensive. So, every winter, I’d wait for a little patch of frozen street in front of our building just to pretend. Slip, fall, bruise. Repeat.”

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him, then laughed awkwardly. “ Anyway. Sorry, that was random. Just a memory.”

But he simply said, “ I’ll take you.”

You blinked. “ Huh?”

“ Ice skating. I’ll take you.”

You stopped walking. “ Wait, you’re serious?”

He nodded. You gawked. “ You—the Gwi-ma, cold manager of chaos, who acts allergic to joy—wants to take me skating?”

“ I’m not allergic to joy.” He muttered. You laughed so hard, he looked away with the faintest tint of color on his ears.

…

True to his word, Gwi-ma brought you to the nearest skating rink the next evening. And the moment you stepped inside, your inner child exploded. You jumped excitedly, squealing as you looked out at the glistening ice under the rink lights.

“ It’s real! It’s actually real!” You said, tugging at his arm.

He raised a brow, lips twitching. “ You act like you’ve never seen ice before.”

“ Not like this!” You beamed.

“ Come on! Come with me!” At first, he resisted with the strength of a man emotionally tethered to a clipboard.

“ I’ll watch.” He said. “ Supervise.”

“ You supervise everything.” You pouted, clutching his sleeve. “ Just once, be chaotic.”

He sighed. “ Fine.”

You cheered like a toddler given candy and yanked him toward the skate rental. And then, you were out there. On the ice. Well—you were gliding. Gwi-ma was…surviving. He shuffled awkwardly behind you, arms slightly raised like he was anticipating an imminent fall. His expression was tight, focused, and entirely too serious for someone in ice skates.

“ You look like a baby deer.” You giggled, skating backwards to face him.

“ I feel like one.” He muttered. But eventually, he let you tug him along. Slowly. Carefully. Then—you both laughed.

It was strange, hearing his laugh—real, genuine, and not filtered through sarcasm. You glanced at him and caught something rare: not the overworked manager, not the cold professional, but the man underneath it all.

The one who’d bring you to a rink just because you once mentioned a childhood dream. You kept skating together, round and round the rink. Time blurred. Cold air nipped your cheeks, and your hands were numb, but your heart felt warm. Until the wind hit you just right and you shivered, teeth chattering slightly. Suddenly, something soft and warm draped over your shoulders. You froze. You turned. Gwi-ma stood behind you, expression unreadable as always—except his coat was now off, and you were wearing it.

“ I told you to bring a thicker jacket.” He said simply.

You stared at him. “.. Did you just K-drama me?”

“ What?”

“ You K-drama’d me. Coat-over-the-shoulders, serious expression, probably some OST playing in the background. You’re doing it.”

His lips twitched. “ That wasn’t my intention.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck, despite the cold. You tried to brush it off with a nervous laugh. “ Very professional, Manager-nim.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low, barely audible above the sound of skates on ice.

“ Off-duty.” You blinked. Then smiled.

Somewhere between the cold and the falling snowflakes, you realized: you weren’t just skating on ice anymore. You were skating dangerously close to something warmer. And maybe—just maybe—you were ready to fall.

…

Back at the Saja HQ, the artificial brightness of the hallways and the distant sound of someone screaming (probably Baby losing at a video game) were harsh reminders that your little winter escape had ended. You trudged in beside Gwi-ma, cheeks still slightly pink from the cold or maybe from other things you weren’t emotionally prepared to unpack yet. He walked you to the staff lounge area, where you both paused, that invisible line between "off-duty" and "professional mode" starting to pull taut again.

Wordlessly, you slipped off the coat he’d given you—still warm, still smelling faintly like him—and held it out with both hands. “ Here. Thanks for letting me borrow it. I—”

“ Keep it.”

You blinked. “ Huh?”

He didn’t even look up from removing his gloves. “ It suits you.”

You looked down at the massive coat swallowing your frame. “ It’s huge. I look like I’m smuggling three other people inside.”

“ That’s the point.” He replied dryly. “ You looked like you were freezing to death. It's warmer than whatever thin apology of a jacket you own.”

You pouted. “ But it’s yours. I can’t just keep—”

“ You can.” His voice left no room for protest, but there was no edge to it. Just a quiet insistence.

“ Call it manager benefits.”

You finally nodded, bowing slightly. “ Thank you. Really.”

He turned to leave, already halfway out the door, when he suddenly paused.

“ I had fun.” He said. You looked up. He still didn’t turn around, but his voice was quieter now. Honest. Almost…unsure.

“ I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.” He continued.

“ I forgot what it was like. Being out. Laughing. Not watching the clock. You…reminded me that I’m still…” He hesitated. And then, as if the word tasted strange on his tongue:

“…Human.”

You froze. There was something raw about the way he said it—like “human” was an identity he no longer felt worthy of. As if he’d become just a machine made of stress, schedules, and strategy. But you didn’t notice the weight behind it right away. You were still too caught up in everything else—the rare vulnerability in his voice, the fact that he’d opened up at all, and maybe the way your heart ached just a little too sweetly when he did. Gwi-ma glanced back at you—just briefly.

And then he smiled. Small. Subtle. Real. He left before you could say anything more. You stood there in the middle of the hallway, wrapped in his oversized coat, his words echoing in your mind like snow falling inside your chest. Your heart gave a quiet, clenching thud. The kind that felt like it came with consequences.

“ Oh no…” You muttered to yourself, face slowly heating up.

“ This is a bad idea…” But then you laughed. Soft, stupidly giddy laughter bubbled out of you—the kind that only comes from knowing you're probably doomed, but kind of okay with it.

…

The photoshoot set was as chaotic as ever—stylists shouting, cameras clicking, flashes bursting. You, meanwhile, were in your usual role: the quiet but steady shadow, sorting out the Saja Boys’ next wardrobe change, making sure every earring, ring, and shoelace was in place. You were crouched near a rack of jackets when—

You heard it. Not the giggles or banter. Not the camera shutters. But whispers—dark, low, furious—leaking through the hallway, past the dressing rooms, coming from the adjacent room no one was supposed to use.

“ He was killed—by the hunters!”

“ If you don’t move faster, I’ll eat your soul next.”

“ We break the Honmoon before they alert the others. No mistakes.”

Your fingers froze around a shirt hanger.

Honmoon? Hunters? No one should know those words. No one…except your friends—Rumi, Mira, Zoey. You silently moved closer, following the voice like your legs were possessed. Then—

“ RRRRAAAAAGH!” A guttural roar rattled the wall. Your body froze.

The scream. That voice. You remembered it. It was the same inhuman howl that filled your home the night your parents died. You inched toward the door, holding your breath, trying to peek—

THWACK!

“ Ow!” Your forehead smashed right into someone else's. You stumbled back, clutching your skull, only to have a pair of strong arms catch you by the waist.

“ You spying, little assistant?” Jinu raised a brow, amused, his face uncomfortably close. “ That’s not in your job description.”

“ I-I wasn’t spying.” You stammered. “ I just heard something weird…I got curious.”

He smirked. “ Weird voices? Oh. That. Probably one of the guys playing around again with the voice changer. Mystery has a thing for horror SFX.” He waved it off nonchalantly.

“ Sorry if it scared you.” You narrowed your eyes. That roar wasn’t from a sound effect. And the things you heard—

No. That wasn’t just some prank.

“ What are you doing out here, then?” You challenged.

Jinu sighed dramatically. “ It’s hot inside. My pores were melting. Needed to cool off—and now look, I caught our sweet little PA eavesdropping.”

You scoffed, trying to hide your nervousness, and turned to walk back—but something caught your eye.

A purple-black streak, like jagged claw marks, scratched along Jinu’s forearm.

You grabbed his arm before he could turn. “ Wait…what’s that?”

He instantly yanked it back, covering it with his sleeve. “ Body paint.” He said too quickly. “ Abby’s trying out designs for our next MV look. He got…overenthusiastic. You know artists.”

Something in his voice wasn’t right. Too polished. Too easy. Then the door creaked behind him. Gwi-ma stepped out. His eyes were—glowing yellow. Just for a second. Just a flicker. Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. Maybe not. But the moment he saw you—his entire expression changed. The sternness cracked. His brows furrowed in concern.

“ You’re not supposed to be here.” He said lowly, walking over.

“ I—I was just bringing the outfits.” You said, holding up the garment bag like a shield. Gwi-ma’s gaze flicked from you to Jinu, and something unspoken passed between them. A cold, heavy silence.

“ Get back to work.” He said quietly.

“ Both of you.” You nodded and walked fast—too fast—back to the styling area. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. But your chest was tight. Your pulse racing. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And your gut screamed at you:

The Saja Boys are not what they seem. They are hiding something. Something dark. And you…might be more involved than you ever intended.

…

Your hands were still trembling as you stepped into a quieter corner of the hallway—away from the chaos of stylists and staff—your phone gripped tightly. Without hesitation, you scrolled through your contacts and tapped Rumi’s name.

Ring…ring…

“ Hello?” Her voice came through, casual at first.

“ Rumi…” You whispered, keeping your voice low, eyes flicking around nervously.

“ Does anyone aside from the hunters or demons know about the Honmoon? Or about the Hunters themselves?”

There was a beat of silence.

“…No. Only us. And the demons, of course. Why?” Her tone sharpened instantly.

“ What’s going on?” You scanned the hallway again before huddling closer to the wall.

“ I overheard something.” You whispered.

“ Just earlier. Someone was talking about the Honmoon…and the Hunters. They said someone got killed by the hunters. Then someone else threatened to eat the others if they didn’t move quickly to break the Honmoon.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“ We killed demons last night.” Rumi finally said, her voice slow and confused.

“ Five of them. That’s the only attack that happened.” She paused again. But this time, when she spoke—

“ Wait—” Her voice cracked into something more urgent. Sharper. Filled with panic.

“ You need to get out of there.”

You froze. “ What?”

“ If you overheard that, it means you’re close to them. Too close. That place isn't safe anymore. You might be surrounded by demons and not even realize it.”

You tried to swallow the fear rising in your throat.

“ But I’m just working here.” You said, almost defensively. “ I’m just a P.A. I didn’t do anything suspicious. They don’t know anything about me.”

Rumi’s voice dropped an octave. “ Who are you working for?”

“ The…Saja Boys.” You answered quietly.

There was a deafening silence on the other end. Then—suddenly—

“ WHAT—?! GET OUT OF THERE RIGHT—” Static. Your phone cracked with distortion. Her voice became chopped, broken—like she was underwater.

“ They’re—demons—Run—!”

“ Don’t—let—find—your—”

“ It’s—your—soul—!”

You frantically checked the signal. One bar. Then none. Crap. Just then, the door behind you creaked open. You spun around. Gwi-ma entered—tall, composed, unreadable as always. But the moment you locked eyes, your heart jumped. The memory of his glowing eyes still burned behind your eyelids.

“ I need the contracts.” He said plainly, looking down at you. “ The ones from last week’s CF deal. Bring them to me within the next hour.”

You quickly nodded, forcing a neutral smile. “ I’ll get them now.”

He studied you for a second longer—eyes unreadable, as if he knew something…or was trying not to show it. “ Also, I’ll need you later tonight for reminders before our midnight taping.” He added.

“ Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and walked out, his presence as suffocating as ever. Your hands clenched around your phone.

The signal returned—but the screen only flashed CALL FAILED. You stared at your reflection in the mirror opposite the hallway. Rumi was right. Something was very wrong. You were in the lion’s den. And worst of all…

You might already be too late to leave.

…

You hesitated before turning the brass knob of Gwi-ma’s office. The hallway had already gone strangely quiet. The usual chatter and shuffling outside the manager’s office were nowhere to be heard. And when you pushed open the door, an immediate chill wrapped around your spine.

Click. The office lights flickered once…twice…before finally dimming to a low, cold hue. You squinted into the shadows. The blinds were drawn, letting no light from outside, and the once-modern room was blanketed in something far darker than you remembered. You have been here so many times, organizing contracts, checking schedules—but never like this. It felt…wrong. Tainted.

“ Gwi-ma?” You called gently, stepping in.

No response.

“ Manager-nim…?” You took another step forward. Your breath hitched when you heard something—a faint rustle behind the desk. And then—

Fsssshhhhhh—

Two glowing golden eyes pierced through the dark. You froze. You knew those eyes. You’ve seen them before—burned into your nightmares, buried in your childhood memories. The ones that stole your parents. That turned your innocence into ashes. The same demonic gaze that stared at your hiding spot in the cabinet that night—but didn’t find you. Your lips quivered. Your knees buckled slightly as your hand reached behind you, fumbling for the doorknob.

Locked. Your breath caught.

“ I-I…don’t come closer.” You warned in a trembling voice.

“ Please…” The golden eyes narrowed, unmoving. The air grew heavier.

And then—

Flick! The lights buzzed back to life. You blinked rapidly against the sudden brightness—only to find nothing across the desk. No silhouette. No glow. Just as you tried to make sense of it, the door opened behind you. Gwi-ma walked in, holding a folder in one hand and flipping through some pages.

“ Ah, you’re already here.” He said without looking up.

“ Good, I need you to che—” He stopped the moment he saw you, standing by the door, visibly shaking, your hand still trembling on the knob.

His eyes widened—just slightly—but his expression quickly shifted from neutral to genuinely worried. For someone so composed and cold, his quick approach felt… almost panicked.

“ Hey. What happened to you?” You looked up at him, and for a moment, it was hard to speak.

“ I…I saw something.” You whispered, voice cracking.

“ There were golden eyes. Glowing. Right over there.” You pointed at his desk.

“ I thought—I thought it was a demon. Like the one who…who—” You didn’t finish. You didn’t have to.

Gwi-ma’s brows furrowed deeply. His expression was unreadable for a moment—like something flashed in his eyes—but he quickly composed himself.

He glanced around the room. “ The lights were fine earlier…” He said slowly.

“ And no one else has been here since I left.” You opened your mouth, but he gently placed a hand on your shoulder and guided you to the nearby chair.

“ You might be hallucinating.” He said carefully.

“ Or…just overtired. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?” You didn’t respond. You just stared at your hands, still shaking slightly.

“ You're still sick.” He added, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you.

“ You shouldn’t be pushing yourself like this.” He crouched slightly to your eye level, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

“ You’ve been taking your medicine, haven’t you?”

You nodded faintly. “ I have. I just…I wasn’t imagining it. I swear—”

“ I’m not saying you’re lying.” He cut in gently.

“ I’m saying maybe…your body’s overwhelmed. And that makes your mind vulnerable.” He stood up again, straightening his suit.

“ Don’t let your thoughts chase ghosts.” He added, tone is colder now.

“ They’ll only drag you further into the dark.”

You didn’t miss the flicker in his gaze. Like he knew something. Like he wasn’t entirely dismissing what you saw—but also wasn’t ready to explain it. As he turned away, walking back to his desk, your heart pounded louder in your chest. You weren’t sure what was real anymore. But one thing was certain—

Those weren’t just hallucinations. And Gwi-ma…He knew more than he was letting on. You stood at the corner of Gwi-ma’s office, still processing what just happened earlier. The lights had returned to normal, and the eerie golden glow was long gone—but the chills down your spine remained. That’s when Gwi-ma’s calm, composed voice pulled you out of your daze.

“ I forgot to mention—Saja Boys’ final concert will be held at Namsan Tower next week.”

You blinked, startled. “…Next week?”

You turned to face him completely, disbelief settling in. “ That’s…a full month earlier than planned.”

Gwi-ma didn’t look up from the paperwork he was scanning. “ Yes. I changed the schedule.”

“ You what?” You nearly choked. “ Without consulting the label or the boys?”

“ I already told the boys.” He responded smoothly, still not meeting your eyes.

“ There was no violent reaction from them. In fact, they welcomed the idea. They’re preparing something special for the fans. Something personal.” You paused. Something felt off.

The boys loved teasing you, and if there was a surprise involved, they would've at least dropped hints or bragged about it like children. But this? Not even a whisper from them?

You crossed your arms. “ That’s a big move, manager-nim. Moving the finale a month earlier without any official lead-up…the PR alone would be a nightmare. And why now? What’s the rush?”

Gwi-ma finally looked up, and for a split second—just a split second—you saw something shift in his gaze. The weight of something deeper. Urgency masked under control.

“ Because it’s necessary.” He said.

“…Necessary?” You echoed, frowning.

He walked around his desk and handed you a new folder—thicker than usual. Inside, you saw a complete overhaul of schedules: rehearsal locations, security clearances, staff lists, production designs. Everything was moving fast. Too fast.

“ This is why I called you.” He said. “ You’ll be very busy in the next few days. We need all preparations to run flawlessly. No room for mistakes.”

You felt your throat dry as you scanned through the documents. “ This is a lot.”

He nodded. “ You’ve handled worse. And I trust you’ll manage this too.”

You lowered the folder. “…Are you hiding something?”

There was a pause. Gwi-ma tilted his head ever so slightly. “ Would it make a difference if I was?”

You opened your mouth—but no words came out. His response left your thoughts tangled. It wasn’t a denial…but it wasn’t quite a confession either.

“ The final concert…” He added, stepping closer, voice quiet,

“ Is more than a performance. It’s the beginning…of something greater.” You stared at him, stunned. But before you could ask more, his demeanor shifted again—stone-faced, professional.

“ Get some rest. You’ll need it.” He turned back to his desk, the conversation dismissed as if nothing strange had been said. You walked out of the room slowly, the weight of the folder in your hands mirrored by the weight in your chest.

Something huge was coming. And you were walking straight into it.

…

Your feet felt heavier than usual as you stepped out of Gwi-ma’s office, the weight of the new concert schedule in your arms—yet that wasn’t the real burden gnawing at you. It was something deeper, something crawling in your bones, dragging your energy out of you like shadows stealing sunlight. Your vision blurred, your breath short. A wave of fatigue swept through your entire body like your very cells were giving up one by one.

You didn’t wait. You hailed a cab, hands trembling slightly as you dialed your doctor’s number. There had been warning signs—too many—but you kept brushing them off. Now, you can't ignore them anymore. The white walls of the clinic felt colder than usual. Sterile. Too clean. Too final. Your doctor sat across from you, her face solemn. She folded her hands together, like he was silently praying he didn’t have to say what came next. But he did.

“ Please stay calm as I explain.” She said gently, slipping the lab results across the desk.

“ We’ve done the latest full panel tests. And…the results are concerning.” You stared at the paper, eyes scanning numbers and unfamiliar codes. But you couldn’t make sense of anything.

“ The cancer cells are…mutating.” She said quietly.

“ They’ve stopped responding to your current medications. It’s as if they’ve developed a resistance—fast and unexpectedly.” You froze.

“ We tried every protocol we could. But it’s moving faster than expected. Your body’s immune response is dropping rapidly.” Your fingers gripped the edges of the document, wrinkling it slightly as you tried to stay composed. But the next words shattered you.

“ I’m so, so sorry…but based on your current condition, you may only have a week left. Maybe less.” You blinked slowly. It felt like time stopped.

One week. Just seven days. Your breath hitched, and before you realized it, your tears were falling. Silently. You couldn’t even bring yourself to cry out loud. The ache in your chest was too tight.

The doctor reached across the desk, gently placing a hand over yours. “ I wish there was more we could do. I’m truly sorry.”

You gave her a nod. A pitiful, shaking nod. You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You simply held the paper and sobbed into your trembling hands. Not for the illness. Not even for yourself. But for everything you still hadn’t said.

For the people you’d leave behind. For the feelings you never admitted. And most of all—for him.

For Gwi-ma.

…

The lights in Gwi-ma’s office dimmed slowly, casting long shadows across the shelves filled with files, photos, and carefully curated lies. He wasn’t reading anything. He just sat there—staring into nothing. His jaw tightened, fingers curling slightly as memories of earlier flickered in his mind like embers refusing to die out. The fear in your eyes. The way your body trembled. How you backed away like a lamb facing the wolf.

" I made a mistake…" He murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper, laced with guilt.

He had revealed too much. Even for a split second, those golden demon eyes—his real eyes—slipped through the human veil. It was a moment of instinct, of carelessness… or maybe weakness. And it rattled you.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known about your past. But he didn’t. He’d never taken the time to truly understand the weight you were carrying behind your soft eyes and tired smile.

He only knew fragments: your sickness, your work ethic, your resilience—but not the demons that haunted you. Not the trauma that gnawed at you every night like fangs on flesh. And now, it was worse. His kind—the ones who called themselves "Saja Boys" and "Idols"—were unknowingly draining you. Slowly. Gently. Unintentionally.

But still draining you. Because demons don’t coexist with fragile souls without consequence.

“ This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” He whispered, clutching his temple, golden light flickering behind his irises.

His original plan was cruel but necessary: the last concert at Namsan Tower would be the moment to break the Honmoon—the sacred seal crafted by the Huntrix to suppress the true powers of demons hidden in mortal form. By unleashing the crowd’s energy, he’d reach the peak of his power and sever his fading humanity.

He even lied to the boys. Told them it was a simple schedule advancement, a last-minute promotion stunt. They didn’t question him—much. They followed orders. They always did. But he couldn't do it now.

Because of you. You, who were never meant to matter. You, whose scent called to something deeper than desire. You, who were dying. And he could feel it in your energy—sputtering like a candle about to be snuffed. The illness eating you was real, but their demonic presence hastened it.

“ She doesn’t even know what she is…” He said with a bitter exhale.

He clenched his fists. You weren’t just a girl. You weren’t just some mortal assistant tossed into their world. You were the reason the Honmoon existed. The final piece. The soul is tied to balance—life and death, human and demon.

His mission was to find you. Now he had. And now he was losing you.

“ If I go through with the ritual…I’ll live. But she’ll die.”

“ If I don’t…I’ll die. But she’ll live.”

He already lived centuries. Alone. Wandering. Searching for the soul he lost. And now, she sat only rooms away—fragile and fading.

His voice cracked softly, “ I don’t care about power anymore…I just want her to live.”

There was only one way. He would use the final concert. But not to break the Honmoon. He would reverse the ritual. Give her the life force of a demon—his life force.

It would be forbidden. Irreversible. Fatal to him. But she would live. And maybe, just maybe…she would remember who she was. Who they were.

Even if he wouldn’t be there to see it.

…

The smell of warm pancakes and kimchi fried rice filled the Saja Boys’ dorm as you carefully carried in their breakfast trays, balancing each with practiced ease. The boys were already awake—half-dressed, hair tousled from sleep, and louder than ever. Abby was dragging Romance across the couch like a sack of rice, Mystery was dancing with a toothbrush in his mouth, and Baby and Jinu were busy arm-wrestling on the kitchen counter.

“ Good morning, our sunshine slave~!” Abby teased as he took his tray.

“ We missed your nagging, don’t leave us again!” Baby added dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

“ She didn’t leave, idiot. She just took a day off.” Mystery muttered, rolling his eyes.

You chuckled, setting the trays down one by one. Despite the weight of yesterday’s revelation—your diagnosis, the glowing eyes, the haunting call with Rumi, you tucked it all away behind a smile. You didn’t want them to worry. Not now. Not when they were so full of life…and you were slowly running out of it.

The boys sat around the low table, passing dishes and bickering about portion sizes. Jinu stole Mystery’s egg, Romance pretended to feed Baby but shoved the food into his own mouth instead. And then the complaining started.

“ Why’d we move the concert again?” Abby groaned.

“ We’ve got a full month of events lined up. We barely sleep as it is!”

“ I didn’t even memorize my choreography yet.” Baby whined with a mouthful of rice.

“ You never memorize it.” Mystery grumbled.

“ It’s just weird.” Romance added, eyes thoughtful.

“ We’ve always planned our comebacks and endings carefully. This felt…rushed.” You laughed with them. Their energy was contagious, their bond grounding. Until your curiosity slipped out like a stone in still water.

“ Can I ask something?” You said, setting your chopsticks down.

“ Uh oh…” Jinu smirked. “ She’s going serious on us.”

“ No, I mean…just a random thought.” You tilted your head.

“ Do you think…once a demon, always a demon? Can they change? Like…if they lived with humans, could they become…better?”

The room fell into a strange, heavy silence. No clatter of utensils. No jokes. Just stillness. You looked up, confused by the sudden shift. All five boys were staring at you, expressions unreadable. Something flickered in their eyes—uncertainty, discomfort…maybe even guilt?

Abby was the first to break it. “ That’s a weird question.” He said, trying to sound casual, but his voice was forced.

“ Yeah…” Mystery muttered. “ Why’d you ask that all of a sudden?”

“ Just curious.” You answered quickly.

“ I mean…you guys joke around about monsters and supernatural stuff all the time, so…” They glanced at one another.

Jinu leaned back, arms folded. “ People change.” He said finally, his voice low but sincere.

“ Even demons. Especially the ones who’ve lived with humans long enough.” You blinked, surprised at the honesty in his tone.

“ Doesn’t mean they stop being what they are.” Romance added softly.

“ But…sometimes, they forget how to be anything else.”

Baby, unusually quiet, reached for more kimchi. “ I think…sometimes, they don’t want to be demons anymore.” He whispered. Mystery just looked away. You nodded slowly, absorbing their responses—half-truths, carefully chosen words.

They were hiding something. But maybe they were also answering you…in the only way they could.

…

The front door clicked shut as you stepped outside with a clipboard in hand, focused on organizing the boys’ wardrobe list, accessories, and props for the final concert. You didn’t notice how all five Saja Boys remained eerily quiet until you were out of sight—until your presence could no longer mask the growing tension in the air.

In the now-silent dorm, Jinu finally exhaled. “ Her energy’s fading faster than we thought.” He muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. “ It’s already taking a toll.”

Mystery leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly. “ I can feel it. Every time she walks past us, it’s like she’s withering. And none of us are doing anything to stop it.”

“ We are…” Baby said, almost in a whisper. “ We’re just…too late.”

Romance paced near the window, jaw clenched. “ We should tell Gwi-ma. He needs to know how bad it’s gotten.”

But Abby snapped—voice sharp and scathing. “ Tell Gwi-ma? Are you kidding me? He doesn't care. All he thinks about is breaking the Honmoon and reclaiming his full power. He’s using this final concert to steal energy from the mortals. He doesn’t care what happens to her.”

Jinu stood, his usual calm now threaded with tension. “ You don’t know that.”

“ I do, Jinu.” Abby pointed toward the direction of Gwi-ma’s office.

“ You’ve seen it too. He hides things. Keep secrets from all of us—even from you.” There was a heavy pause.

“ But…” Jinu continued, softer now.

“ He changed. The moment she came here, he changed. He started hesitating. Pulling back. There’s something he’s not saying…and I think I know why.” All of them looked toward him now.

“ I think…she’s the one.” Jinu said carefully.

“ The one he’s been searching for all this time.”

Baby’s eyes widened. “ You mean…the princess? From the ancient bond?”

“ The one he lost in the war between the demon clans and hunters centuries ago.” Romance echoed in disbelief.

Abby let out a short, humorless laugh. “ So what? He finally finds her after all these years, and instead of protecting her, he’s sucking the life out of her with us.”

“ Maybe that’s why he’s been lying.” Mystery muttered.

“ Maybe he’s terrified. That the moment she finds out who she really is…she’ll run from him. Or worse, she won’t remember at all.” The room grew cold, their unspoken guilt weighing like lead on their shoulders.

Romance finally sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “ We have to do something. If she dies…it’s not just on Gwi-ma. It’s on all of us.” There was silence. Then Abby frowned, his voice low.

“ And what about the Huntrix?” He asked. They all knew who he meant.

“ Rumi. Mira. Zoey.” He added.

“ If the final concert is used to break the Honmoon…we’ll be forced to fight them again.”

Baby’s brows furrowed. “ I don’t want to hurt them.”

Mystery nodded. “ They’re not just hunters anymore. They’re…our friends.”

“ More than friends.” Romance said under his breath, eyes distant with emotion.

Abby leaned back, frustrated. “ This is a mess. We're demons who started to care. About mortals. About hunters. About her.”

Jinu exhaled, fingers curling into fists. “ Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s choose.”

“ Her?” Mystery asked.

Jinu nodded. “ All of them. If we can’t save everyone, then we protect her. We protect them. Even if it means going against Gwi-ma…even if it means going against our own kind.”

…

The roaring excitement of the fans echoed like thunder through the open grounds of Namsan Tower. Colored lights danced across the sky, bathing the night in flashing brilliance. You stood behind the staging area, clipboard clutched tight, mind running faster than your pulse. But your body—

Your body was slipping. Your legs felt heavier. Your breath is thinner. And behind the determined look you wore was the terrifying realization:

This is it. Day seven. The day your doctor warned you about. You thought you’d be confined to a hospital bed by now, wasting away withering in silence. But instead—you were here. Still walking, still moving, still standing…barely.

Why? The question lingered as you wiped the sudden sweat from your brow.

The music started. The final concert had begun. The crowd roared as Saja Boys took the stage in their elegant black hanboks, embroidered with silver threads resembling dragon sigils—regal, dark, and unfamiliar. They were glowing beneath the stage lights, their choreography sharp, inhumanly perfect. At first, it was mesmerizing. Until—

Your eyes narrowed. Jinu turned to face the crowd, his head tilted slightly…and there, under his eyes, stretching along his cheek—a long, deep violet mark. Like paint, but pulsing. His golden eyes glowed like molten fire. You froze. You spun to look at Romance—then Mystery—then Abby and Baby.

They all had them. The marks. The eyes. The demonic energy radiating like a heartbeat. You backed away, your stomach churning. Your knees are threatening to buckle. Demons…All this time…they were demons. Your breathing hitched as the memories came crashing back—

The glowing golden eyes in Gwi-ma’s office. The strange fatigue in their presence. The warning from Rumi. The fear in her voice.

“ You might be surrounded by demons.”

It was true. And then, something above—your gaze lifted instinctively toward the sky. Figures. Swift. Silent. Familiar.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Clad in dark armor, hoods fluttering in the wind. Their hunter suits gleamed under the moonlight. They stood atop the rooftops around the venue like shadows prepared to strike. Your chest swelled with relief. A flicker of hope.

They're here. They’re going to stop this. Your best friends. Huntrix. Guardians of the human world. You smiled—just a little, just for a second. Until your body began to fail. The edges of your vision blurred. You staggered backward, catching the nearby wall for support. The clipboard clattered to the floor as your knees bent inward.

A sudden trickle of warmth from your nose. You reached up slowly, fingers coming away red. “ No…not now…”

You clutched your chest. Your lungs felt too tight. Like your ribs were crushing from the inside. The concert thundered on. The sky trembled with crackling energy. Something massive, ancient, and dark was stirring. And you, hidden in the shadows, slipped slowly downward along the wall, your eyes locked between the boys on the stage and the hunters on the rooftops, unable to move, caught between two worlds—

One of truth, and one of destiny.

…

Chaos erupted in a second. The music that once echoed across the mountain now gave way to metal meeting flesh, flames burning skyward, and the thunder of combat cries from both sides. The Huntrix had descended. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey struck first—silent, swift, and precise. From rooftops to stage, they dove with their glowing weapons drawn, slicing through the air as a wall of sacred power followed behind them.

Audience members screamed and scrambled as the once-glorious concert morphed into a battlefield. Purple flames burst across the stage, swallowing up the instruments and props. The once-proud lights shattered, replaced by hellish fire. And from the center of it all…

He emerged. Gwi-ma, no longer the polished, composed manager in a black suit—but something older. Taller. Broader. Ancient. Draped in darkened armor made of obsidian bone.

A flowing cape of smoke followed behind him, and his golden eyes burned with a fury that could melt stone. His horns curled back from his head like a crown forged in wrath.

A being no longer human. He was the Demon King reborn. You, clutching the metal barricade to stand, coughed hard—your vision spinning, but you didn’t stop. Your legs trembled, knees nearly giving in, but you forced yourself forward, step by step. Not away, but toward the chaos.

“ I have to help them…”

People fled past you, screaming. The flames licked closer. The air was heavy with sulfur and screams. But you—driven by something more than survival—focused only on getting civilians out of the zone. Helping the wounded. Shielding a child from falling debris. Pushing open exits. Herding the crowd. Your arms were shaking. Your skin was cold. But you didn’t stop. Not until—

Everyone was safe. Now, breathless, you stumbled back toward the stage…and you stepped into the inferno. Rumi’s voice screamed across the heat:

“ Y/N—NO! Get away! That’s not a place for—!”

But you kept walking. Purple fire roared around you, but it never touched you. The flames bent around you, avoiding your skin like water flowing around stone. Like it recognized you. Welcomed you. And there—standing before the heart of the blaze—Gwi-ma. No…not Gwi-ma. Not anymore. A being wrapped in pain, memory, and centuries of longing.

You looked up at him. Tired. Weak. “ So, this is your truth…Demon King.” His hollow eyes dimmed for a second at your voice. Something soft, ancient and grieving flickered there.

“ You should’ve run.” He said, voice both monstrous and sad.

You gave a bitter laugh. “ Run where? I only have today anyway.”

You opened your arms wide, flame shadows dancing behind you. “ Collect my soul. Take it. I’m already dead.”

Then—

A blur of movement. You were grabbed—roughly pulled back. A strong arm yanked you to their chest and sharp black nails pressed to your neck.

“ Stop, or she dies!” Mystery roared. His voice is no longer playful. No longer teasing. It was sharp and cruel, twisted with demonic rage. His eyes glowed like sunfire, and his breath was cold as death. Your best friends froze in place, weapons still raised.

Rumi’s blade wavered slightly. “ Let. Her. Go.” You tried to speak, but Mystery held you tighter.

“ She’s already dying anyway.” He taunted. “ Why not end it with my hands?”

“ I’m fine!” You shouted to them. “ Don’t attack!”

But you knew they wouldn’t listen. Not anymore. With a cry, Rumi vanished from view. A whisper of light. And in the blink of an eye…

SHHK! Her blade slid clean through Mystery’s chest. His eyes widened. His grip loosened. You were shoved to the ground as he stumbled back, dark blood spurting from his chest.

“ You…betrayed us…” His voice cracked before his body dissolved—into ash and black mist—gone. You stared in horror. You didn’t want this. But it happened.

Everything broke. The Saja Boys howled in rage—something monstrous echoing from their throats. The air split with heat as they lunged at the Huntrix, now consumed by war. One by one, they vanished into different parts of the battleground, splitting off into personal duels.

Jinu vs Rumi. Romance vs Mira. Abby vs Zoey. Baby—disappearing into the shadows, no one knowing where he went.

And you—

You collapsed. Your body gave in entirely. Breath shallow. Vision dimming. The stage shook as distant explosions ripped through the tower. Fires blazed. Screams returned. But all you could do now was lie there, eyes half-lidded, heart slowing.

“ I did what I could…”

“ Let this…be enough…”

Your vision was nearly gone. Everything blurred. Lights smeared into each other like streaks of paint on glass. You couldn’t tell if the warmth you felt was from fire…or blood…or death itself brushing your skin. But then—

A voice. Low. Shaky. Desperate. “ Stay with me…don’t close your eyes.”

Gwi-ma. You heard him—cracked and breathless—as if he wasn’t just fighting others but fighting fate itself. “ Please. Not again. Not this time…”

You wanted to answer. But your body wouldn’t move. Your lips trembled open, but no sound escaped. Only air. Only the final wisps of your strength. Then—your vision began to clear. Just a little. And in the haze before you…something emerged from the fire.

A face. Not human. A demonic visage, ancient and crowned in horns, floating in the inferno like a ghost born from pain. Its eyes were golden and molten, its form rippling in and out with the flames. The very soul of Gwi-ma stared at you—naked, vulnerable, eternal.

And it was crying.

“ I wanted to protect you… that was the only reason I came back.” He said.

“ But you’re dying. You’re slipping from me again…” The entire stadium trembled. Walls cracked. Beams collapsed. The sky itself glowed with unnatural light.

“ I’ll end this…” He breathed.

“ Even if it means damning myself forever.”

“ I would burn a thousand lifetimes just to give you one more.”

He looked at you—tender and devastated. “ I found you again, my princess…I won’t lose you again.”

The stage exploded in flames. They spun around you like a storm, not burning you, but piercing into your skin, your soul. You were lifted into the air, floating—screaming—as the energy of a god, a demon king, a lover—poured into your breaking body.

Every bone felt like it was cracking. Every limb trembled under celestial force. Your heart surged with something not human. Not anymore. You could hear your own cries echo into the void, the wind howling like a choir of suffering souls, until—

SLAM. You fell. Hard. Onto the broken, scorched floor of the stage, coughing, trembling, unable to move. Every inch of your skin felt like it was buzzing. Like lightning was stitched into your veins. And then…

He appeared. In front of you. Gwi-ma, now in his human form again, his long black hanbok flowing gently in the wind. His golden eyes dimmed slightly—but still glowed. The same marks that adorned the Saja Boys now traced his face, down his neck, glowing faintly.

He knelt beside you. Smiling. Soft. Sad. “ You’re healed now…You’ll live. You’ll live, my love.” You blinked through the tears spilling from your swollen eyes. Your body still wouldn’t move.

“ I gave you everything.” He whispered.

“ And I would give it again and again, for every lifetime.” He leaned down, brushing your hair away from your forehead.

“ At least in this last breath…I was with you again. That’s all I needed.”

He kissed your forehead. “ Goodbye…my princess.”

“ May we meet again…in another life.”

And just as his form began to flicker into dust—

SHHNK! A flash of silver. A blade. Rumi. Rushing forward. Unseen. Merciless. Her sword drove into his back, piercing through his heart and out his chest in a single, brutal strike. Gwi-ma’s eyes widened—not in pain, but in surprise. A gasp tore from his throat as his body lit up like dying embers, flickering violently. He screamed—a sound that tore across the heavens in agony and despair.

He reached for you, but his hand never made it. He turned to ashes and light. Gone. Forever. You couldn’t even cry out. But the tears came. Falling freely. Falling endlessly.

Your lips mouthed his name, brokenly. “ Gwi-ma…”

But there was no answer. Only Rumi, breath ragged, her eyes hard but her hands soft as she scooped your limp body from the stage. She didn’t say anything. Maybe she knew. Maybe she knew what that meant to you. What he was to you. You trembled in her arms. Your soul is freshly healed…but your heart is irreparably broken.

“ He saved me.” You whispered faintly.

“ And I couldn’t save him.”

…

The battlefield was silent now. Smoke coiled in the air, curling into the open wounds of the sky as twilight settled across the ruins of the stadium. What was once a stage full of light, music, and life had been reduced to scorched stone and bloodied earth.

They were all gone. Jinu. Abby. Romance. Baby. Mystery. All the Saja Boys—your boys—were slaughtered. Their beautiful laughter, their teasing, their warmth…gone. Taken by the righteous fury of the Huntrix, who had done what they were born to do: eradicate evil.

Even if some of that evil once smiled at you in the morning and asked what you wanted for breakfast. You could barely stand, your legs still weak from the earlier ritual. But you dragged yourself toward the broken statue in the middle of the stage—the only thing left of the concert venue. And there, Rumi waited, her blade dripping violet blood.

She wasn’t celebrating. She wasn’t triumphant. She was crying. Hands trembling. Eyes red. Knees on the dirt, next to the very place where Jinu fell—sacrificing his soul to channel the final blow into Gwi-ma’s heart. You slowly knelt beside her, your knees hitting the cold stone. She wouldn't look at you.

“ He gave me everything.” She whispered.

“ And I’m not even…I’m not fully human.”

You blinked slowly, trying to register what you heard. “ What…do you mean?”

Rumi lifted her head at last—her cheeks wet, her expression hollow. “ I have…a demon’s blood. My father was one of them. My mother…she never knew. But I did. I’ve always known. That’s why I was stronger than the others. Why could I survive what they couldn't?”

She laughed bitterly, wiping her nose. “ I killed my own kin, didn’t I? I ended this war. But at what cost?”

You stared at her, the weight of the world resting between you. And then, you did something she didn’t expect. You reached forward, placing a trembling hand over hers. “ Rumi…you’re not evil. Not because of your blood. Not because of your past.”

She looked away, ashamed. But you continued. “ You saved everyone. You ended this. You stopped Gwi-ma when none of us could. Even if it meant killing parts of yourself in the process.”

Her lip quivered, and she finally broke into sobs. You let her cry—because grief was the only thing left that didn’t need justification.

Then, a name left your lips. “ Gwi-ma…”

And it felt like a knife in your chest. The syllables were too familiar. Too intimate. You clutched your chest instinctively, as if to stop your heart from splintering.

“ He gave me his life.” You whispered shakily.

“ He burned himself alive…so I could live.” Rumi watched you with cautious eyes.

“ Why would a demon king do that?” You asked, eyes filled with silent confusion.

“ Why would he choose me? A sick girl, a mortal, someone who was ready to die?” You tried to piece it together—but the puzzle refused to fit.

Until…

“ At least in this last breath…I was with you again, my princess.”

That line replayed in your head again. That word. Princess. It echoed louder than the chaos of the battlefield. It didn't feel like a metaphor. It didn’t feel like flattery. It felt like…a truth buried in time. Your hand went to your chest. Your soul felt older than your body.

“ He called me his princess…” You whispered.

“ Why did it feel real?” Rumi’s expression shifted subtly, her eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but recognition.

“ You never felt like just a mortal.” She said quietly.

“ Not since you walked into our world. Even when we first met…something in you felt ancient.” You stared ahead into the broken skyline.

You were just a girl. A Personal Assistant. A sick girl who met their manager on a rainy night. But the pain in your chest…the pull in your heart…the way his name shattered you…

None of it felt mortal.

You looked up at the sky, voice raw. “ Who…was I…to him?”

The wind whispered across your skin like a memory. Like a touch. And for just a second, the flames of that final night flickered behind your eyes, and his golden voice murmured:

“ My princess.”

…

The sky was cloudy again. Same street. Same silence. Same aching stillness that crept in through your coat sleeves and settled into your chest. You sat at the bench. That bench. The one where he first approached you with that mysterious umbrella and quiet smirk. Where your story began.

Now…it was where you tried to end it. The box beside you was heavy, not just with items, but with memories. You’d just packed up the last of your things from the HQ—once lively with the energy of seven chaotic idols who turned your life upside down.

Now…the building was empty. Cold. Your fingers dug through the contents absentmindedly—posters, signed photos, one of Romance’s perfume bottles still half full. The scent made you stop and blink slowly. That same perfume he wore whenever he stole your charger. You chuckled under your breath. But your laugh dissolved into a sigh.

“ You were all demons” You murmured.

“ And yet…you felt more like home than anyone else ever did.” Your hand brushed against a small plush tucked near the bottom of the box.

A doll. Cute. Handmade. Gwi-ma, wearing his usual manager outfit—buttoned up, tiny glasses, arms crossed like he was always lecturing someone. You remembered when Abby gave it to you, all proud and giggly because they’d secretly made merchandise for you as a surprise. Your thumb pressed the center of the plush’s chest.

“ I love you~” It chirped in a mechanical tone.

And just like that, your heart cracked again. You clutched the doll to your chest, curling your shoulders in, the sting in your throat unbearable. Your tears slipped soundlessly down your cheeks, soaking into the doll's soft fabric.

“ I don’t know if you were lying when you said it.” You whispered.

“ But I think…I loved you too.” You looked up at the dull sky—no flames, no golden eyes, no more illusions.

Just clouds. Just you. You weren’t a personal assistant anymore. Not to seven boys. Not to demons. You were just a girl again. A mortal girl. Living in the aftermath of a war no one would ever write about. And yet, they lived on—in the silence, in the soft wind, in the ache inside your chest.

“ Thank you.” You whispered to the air.

“ All of you. Even you…Gwi-ma.”

The wind blew softly, brushing your cheeks—like a ghost of fingers, like a memory refusing to fade. You stood slowly, the box in your arms, the plush doll resting gently at the top. And as you took your first step forward, you realized…

Maybe life would never go back to how it used to be. Maybe you’d never get full answers about what you were—who you really were. But one thing was certain:

They loved you. They chose you. Even if they were demons. Even if they were gone.

…

The city had changed. More buildings. Brighter lights. Louder noise. Yet everything still felt hollow to you. You tugged your scarf tighter as you walked down the street, away from the busy avenues, past the noise, the weight of old ghosts pressed quietly behind your ribs. The smell of warm pastries, car smoke, and early autumn air stirred memories. All the while, your feet led you—not to anywhere in particular, but to somewhere your soul felt drawn.

Then you saw it: the City Museum of Myth and History. You hadn’t been here in years. Maybe not since your school days. Still, something pulled at you. You stepped inside. Warm yellow lights. Wooden floors echoing soft steps. Paintings. Artifacts. History. You wandered quietly, fingers tracing the air as you passed ancient tapestries, clay vessels, forgotten gods.

The ache inside your chest returned like a quiet whisper. But you told yourself it was just nostalgia. Just the city… stirring old grief. Until you turned the corner. And froze. Your breath caught.

There, mounted on the dimly lit wall, was a portrait. Old. Faded. Yet regal. A king, in traditional robes. Crowned. Cloaked in deep purples and charred golds. Eyes glowing. Jaw clenched. A faint, almost-sorrowful smirk on his lips.

You took one shaky step forward. “ No…”

“ It can’t be…” But your heart said otherwise.

Gwi-ma.

The nameplate read: Unknown Ruler - Period Undocumented. Identity Lost to Time.

Of course. No name. No record. He had ruled in shadow. Loved in silence. Died in the dark. You blinked—and tears spilled from your eyes before you could stop them. You quickly wiped your cheeks, embarrassed.

Years had passed. You were supposed to have moved on. You lived a peaceful life now. On a quiet farm. With quiet skies. You had your best friends still—pursuing their dreams as idols while you stayed far from the chaos. But your heart…

It had never fully healed. And just as you were about to turn away, you heard footsteps. Soft, calculated. Echoing behind you. Then a voice.

“ This one always stops me, too.”

You glanced to your side—and your breath hitched in your throat. A man stood there. Tall. Graceful. Dressed in a tailored black suit, flanked by two quiet bodyguards. His eyes scanned the painting—but then flicked toward you. And the moment stretched endlessly.

His face. His face. He looked like him. No. Not just like him. It was him. His eyes were the same—intense but warm. Heavy with unspoken memories. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. He turned fully to you, confused at first. Then something shifted.

Recognition.

“ Have we met before?” He asked, softly.

You couldn’t answer. Your throat is locked. How do you tell someone you once held their dying body in your arms? That they died for you? That they loved you centuries ago? Just as your lips parted to speak, a museum staff member rushed over to him.

“ Chairman! We need you for the press preview.” The man nodded politely to the guide but hesitated. He looked at you again. Longer this time. Deeper.

“ Maybe…another time.” He said quietly, giving you a small, polite smile.

He turned to leave—but his eyes lingered over his shoulder as he walked away, as if reluctant to break the thread that now pulsed between you. You stood frozen, breathless, surrounded by quiet portraits of forgotten kings.

He was real. Alive. Human. Somehow—he came back. And this time…

There were no demons. No death. No fate written in blood. Just two souls reunited in a world that had finally stopped fighting them.

The story wasn’t over. Maybe, just maybe—this was your second chance.

...

The wind carried the scent of earth and leaves as you leaned into your work—your hands deep in the soil, sleeves rolled, sun high above. Life in the countryside was quiet, peaceful, the kind of peace that left space for memories to echo.

You’d made your choice: a life away from chaos, away from heartache, from blood-soaked memories and glittering masks. And yet…

Your heart never quite let go of that day in the museum. Of him. You hadn’t even learned his name. Just a look. A smile. The way the world tilted ever so slightly when your eyes met his. You thought of him more than you’d admit. Wondering. Hoping. Letting it pass like a dream you weren’t sure was ever real.

Until fate moved again. It was late morning when you saw the commotion by the roadside. A small truck had arrived—common enough. Most farmers sold their harvests to local buyers, and this was one of those days. You didn’t pay much attention at first. Just glanced over while stacking crates of cabbages.

Until your eyes caught on him. Dressed in a simple cream shirt and jeans. Laughing, talking easily with the farmers. Nothing like the sharp, suited figure from the museum. But undeniably…

Him. Your breath hitched. The rake slipped from your fingers. As if sensing it, his eyes found you. And again, the world paused. He walked toward you slowly, smiling unsure, hesitant—yet hopeful.

“ Hi…I wasn’t sure if it was really you.” He said, voice softer this time. “ But I was hoping.”

You swallowed thickly. “ What…are you doing here?”

He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle. “ I’ve been helping out with rural distribution. After…after I woke up, I wanted to do something real. Something that mattered.”

You blinked. “ Woke up?”

He nodded, expression turning thoughtful. “ I was in a coma. For four years. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with me. No disease. No virus. Just…asleep. Hooked to machines. I was supposed to be gone. But then I woke up. Just like that.” You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“ They said it was a miracle. But after I woke up…the dreams started.” He looked at you more closely now, like he was piecing together a puzzle that had haunted him for years.

“ I saw a woman in those dreams. Dressed in ancient robes. Sometimes modern clothes. Sometimes covered in blood. Always sad. Always…strong. But her face was always blurry. Until…” His eyes softened.

“ Until I met you. Then the dreams started to shift. Her face became clearer. Your face.” Your throat tightened. The sky above you seemed to pulse in stillness.

“ I know it sounds crazy.” He continued.

“ But…I think I knew you. A long time ago. Or maybe in a different life. And I’ve been searching for you ever since I woke up.”

The tears threatened to rise, but you blinked them back. You looked at him—this man with a soul that once belonged to someone who burned kingdoms just to keep you alive. And here he was now… no crown, no flames, no golden eyes. Just a man. Real. Breathing. Alive.

“ Do you believe in fate?” You whispered.

He smiled gently. “ I never used to. But maybe I do now.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him—and the warmth in your chest no longer felt like grief. It was recognition. A tether pulling tight between two souls that had wandered far, fought battles neither remembered, and finally—

Found each other again. Not in palaces. Not in blood. But in sunlight and soil. In second chances. And this time, maybe the universe would let you both stay.

…

The sky burned with warm hues of amber and gold, the fields around you glowing like waves under the setting sun. You sat on the edge of the wooden fence, arms resting on your knees. The cicadas had just begun to sing in the trees. Beside you, he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the same horizon. For a moment, there was peace. Then he broke the silence.

“ You know…I was supposed to be in a board meeting right now.” He chuckled. “ But I’d rather be here, getting dirt on my hands and listening to cows mooing.”

You laughed softly. “ You’re going to make your shareholders cry.”

“ Let them.” He smirked. “ I’ve lived enough years trying to make everyone else happy. I think this place saved me from losing myself again.”

You turned your head to look at him. “ Why this place though?”

He shrugged. “ I don’t know. It felt like something…was waiting for me here. Or maybe someone. And then I met you—again, I guess. Maybe I just followed fate.”

You gave him a small smile, heart warm, but heavy. “ You talk like you believe in fate now.”

“ Maybe I do.” He said, meeting your gaze. “ Ever since I woke up.”

The air fell into a comfortable silence, and you knew it was time to share your side. You reached into your pocket and brought out your phone. Flicked through your gallery until a familiar picture filled the screen—a photo of you surrounded by five young idols, laughing in the HQ. And standing behind you all, in a crisp black suit, was Gwi-ma.

“ This was him.” You whispered, handing him the phone.

“ Gwi-ma. Our manager. They made him a doll once, because fans adored him too.” He took the phone, studying the image quietly.

“ He really does look like me.” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “ I used to think you were him. When we met in the museum…it scared me. It comforted me. It broke me all at once.”

You looked away, the wind brushing your hair gently. “ I was sick before. Really sick. And I almost died. I was saved by someone…someone who shouldn’t have cared, but he did. He stayed, even when it hurt him. Even when he had to give everything just to let me live a little longer.”

He didn’t speak, only listened. “ We never said what we felt.” You continued.

“ But it was there. Unspoken. Heavy. Like we were caught in the middle of something too big for us to name. I never got to thank him properly. I never got to say goodbye.” He finally handed your phone back.

His smile was faint. But his eyes—they softened. “ Did you love him?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “ In a way I can’t even explain. Even if I wasn’t sure back then, I feel it now. But…we were too scared to cross the line. And then it was too late.”

He looked down at his hands for a long moment. Then spoke, voice quiet. “ I want to be honest with you.” You turned to him again, your chest tightening with something you couldn’t name.

“ I may have his face.” He said gently.

“ But I’m not him. I’m just me. A man trying to figure out why you feel so familiar. Why do I dream of you? Why is being near you feels like coming home.” You swallowed hard, heart clenching.

“ I’m afraid.” He continued.

“ That every time you look at me…you only see him. That I’m just a ghost walking around in someone else’s memory. And if that’s true, then I don’t want to reopen wounds that time tried to heal.” Your hands curled over the edge of the fence, your eyes stinging.

He sighed. “ But if there’s even a small chance that you can see me, the person standing right in front of you—not Gwi-ma—then maybe…maybe we could make something new. Something real. Not born out of grief. Not haunted by the past.”

The sun dipped lower, casting a golden halo over him. You felt the truth in every word he said. And yet, your heart broke a little more. Because he was right.

Gwi-ma was gone. But maybe—just maybe—the universe didn’t bring him back to reopen the wound. Maybe it brought you back to finally heal it.

This time, with someone who could stay. You wiped the tears before they could fall. Then looked at him with a trembling smile.

“ I see you.” You whispered. And for the first time in a long, long time…

You meant it.

…

The stars above twinkled brighter than usual, casting their celestial glow over the familiar countryside. You stood barefoot in the cool grass, wearing the clothes you always wore on the farm. But the air was softer, the breeze gentler. Everything felt distant—like a memory.

And there he was. Gwi-ma stood beneath the silver light of the moon, draped in a long black hanbok that moved like a shadow around him. But there was no trace of darkness in him now. No crimson glow in his eyes. No heaviness in his steps. He looked like a king—regal, noble, and at peace. His eyes softened the moment he saw you.

“ You came.” He said, his voice warm and low.

You didn’t wait. You ran to him, heart breaking open as your arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He let out a soft chuckle, arms encircling you in return.

“ I missed you.” You whispered, trembling.

He smiled, resting his chin gently on the top of your head. “ I missed you more. Don’t ever doubt that.” He pulled away just enough to look at you, brushing the tears from your cheeks with calloused thumbs.

“ I’m okay.” He whispered. “ Don’t cry anymore, my princess. You don’t have to carry the pain of me like it’s a curse.”

“ But I still see you everywhere.” You said, voice cracking. “ He looks like you. His smile, the way he—”

“ Coincidence.” He gently cut in, voice firm but tender.

“ It’s just a coincidence. His path is not mine. His life is not mine. And neither is yours anymore.” You looked into his eyes, so full of love yet filled with something final.

“ I gave up my life.” He said softly.

“ Because you deserve to live yours. Because in all my centuries of solitude, I only felt alive when I found you. I was selfish. I chased your soul across lifetimes. But now I know better.” You swallowed hard, gripping his sleeves tightly.

“ You came back for me…” You whispered.

He nodded. “ I never really left. I’ve been with you all this time. Every time the wind brushes your skin, every time you feel peace in the silence—that’s me. Watching. Guarding. Loving.” He cupped your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks gently.

“ But now…” He said.

“ You need to open your heart to this life. This version of it. With your hands in the soil. With someone who smiles at you like you’re the sun. You deserve love that doesn’t hide in the shadows. You deserve mornings, not memories.” You started crying harder, leaning into his touch.

“ I don’t want to forget you.”

“ You don’t have to.” He said.

“ Just…stop waiting for me. That’s what hurts most. You don’t belong in my past. You belong now.” Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. The kind that lingered long after his lips left your skin. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“ I’m so glad…” He whispered.

“ That I found you before I was lost forever. And I will love you—in every universe, in every realm, in every life—no matter what.” You clung to him as he began to glow, light blossoming from within him like stardust. Your grip tightened, desperate, but he just smiled.

“ You gave me life.” He said.

“ So I gave mine, so you could live yours.”

You tried to hold on. But the light grew brighter. His figure began to fade, warmth slipping through your fingers like water. The night air rushed past you again—empty now.

“ I’ll wait for you.” His voice echoed.

“ When it’s truly time, we’ll find each other again. I promise.”

You screamed his name as he vanished into the breeze. Only the moon remained. And the silence. Your eyes snapped open.

The room was dark. The only sound was the soft whirl of the electric fan beside your bed. Your hand was clutching something tightly to your chest. You looked down. It was the plushie of Gwi-ma, the one Abby gave you so long ago. Your thumb must have pressed the button in your sleep.

“ I love you…” The doll’s tinny voice whispered. Your breath caught. Tears spilled freely as you hugged the plush tighter, burying your face into it.

“ I love you, too.” You choked out, through trembling lips.

“ Always…”

And somewhere, perhaps in a realm unseen, a soul smiled at the stars. Because this time…

You were ready to live.

Author's Notes: I haven't watched KPOP Demon Hunters yet; it's still on my watchlist due to my busy schedule and laziness. Last Sunday, while I was supposed to be napping, I had this idea and immediately started writing the story. I’m sorry if this story does not match the actual film. I researched the movie's summary on every website so that I could somehow align the story with what I had read online. Since it has been all over my FYP for weeks, I also spoiled myself by watching the clips online. Last but not least, I have been crying as I go over this story again for editing and proofreading. I am not sure why I did this just to hurt myself, but it was worth the tears. Haha. Anyway, enjoy this story. Thank you for the reads, blazes, comments, and reposts. I sincerely appreciate it.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

MUNDO || HWANG IN-HO

" My love, you are my home and my world."

Summary: Imagine Hwang In-ho is your fiancé. You are going to handle everything about him. Nevertheless, it deepens your love for him.

Warnings: Just hold your seatbelt and deal with the fluffiness.

Fiancé! Hwang In-ho x Reader

Words: 4.6k

The air smelled faintly of jasmine and grilled meat from the neighbor’s yard. The stars blinked lazily above your heads, and the only light on the rooftop came from the string of fairy lights In-ho had clumsily taped around the edge of the railing—uneven and flickering, but somehow perfect.

You sat across from him on the old blanket he laid down, a box of takeout between you, untouched. He was nervous—you could see it in the way his thumb kept rubbing his ring finger like he was trying to find courage there.

Then suddenly, with no grand preamble or cheesy line, he exhaled shakily and pulled out a small velvet box.

“ Five years.” He said, voice low and trembling with restraint.

“ Five years of being a fool for you. Five years of fighting for this. For us. I never gave up because I knew—I knew—you were it for me.” He opened the box slowly. A simple silver band. No diamonds. No sparkle. Just him.

And everything in you softened. The hesitation, the fear, the guilt of loving your best friend’s older brother—all melted in his trembling voice, in the way his eyes were shimmering despite his firm jaw. You didn’t even realize your eyes were already wet.

“ Yes…” You whispered. Then again, firmer, brighter, happier.

“ Yes, In-ho.”

The grin that bloomed on his face could’ve lit up the whole city. He lunged at you, not roughly, but desperately—pulling you into a hug so tight, so warm, that your chest hurt in the best way. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing against your hairline as if to brand you with his joy.

“ You said yes.” He kept repeating like he couldn’t believe it.

“ You finally said yes.”

…

It was surreal. From the very start, everything between you two had been chaos wrapped in tension. You were just Jun-ho’s friend from high school, the younger one who was always around. But In-ho…he saw you. In ways no one else did.

You tried to fight it. He was older. He was Jun-ho’s brother. It felt wrong. But In-ho never stopped. He didn’t just court you—he dedicated himself. He showed up with flowers every week, learned your favorite food, and memorized the dates of your exams just to bring you coffee.

And then there was that night. When he barged into your house with a guitar slung awkwardly over his shoulder, trying to sing a love song in your native language.

He mispronounced half the lyrics. You laughed so hard you cried—but behind that laughter was something else. You saw the man who would embarrass himself just to see you smile.

Every day after that was a mix of goofy romance and heart-melting sweetness. His silly love letters, crammed with jokes and chessy lines like “ Are you a criminal? Because you stole my whole police-issued heart.” It was ridiculous—and it worked.

Then came the clingy phase. One day he flopped on your lap and refused to move unless you scratched his scalp. He pouted when you ignored his cheek for a goodbye kiss.

He groaned dramatically if you walked away mid-hair brushing, burying his head in your thighs and muttering, “ You hate me now. I can feel it.”

You couldn’t take him seriously—but God, you adored him. Even his tough image crumbled at home. You once came back from work and found him wearing your apron, stirring adobo on the stove with a very serious expression.

Detergent powder smudged across his cheek, the washing machine humming in the background. You should’ve scolded him for doing your chores, but instead you laughed—because how could you not fall for that?

“ I just wanted to surprise you.” He said, sheepishly.

“ It’s your favorite, right?”

It always was. Him. The food. The effort. The love.

And now, tonight, your left hand bore the simplest ring—but your heart carried a memory far too grand for words.

You were no longer just the girl who hesitated.

You were his fiancée.

And as he curled around you on the rooftop blanket later, head resting on your lap, hands still trembling slightly, he whispered,

“ I love you more than anything. Even if you stop brushing my hair.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair anyway.

“ I’m never going to stop.”

…

The next morning, sunlight poured gently through the curtains of your shared bedroom. It was warm, golden, like the universe itself was congratulating you for finally saying yes. You stirred awake slowly, your eyes fluttering open to the feeling of something—or rather, someone—wrapped around your waist.

In-ho’s arm was slung over you possessively, and his face was nuzzled against the back of your neck, his breath even and warm. You tried to move slightly, but he grunted.

“ No…” He mumbled sleepily, tightening his grip like a clingy child.

“ You’re not allowed to leave. You’re mine now. I have proof.”

You chuckled, glancing down at the silver ring glinting on your finger. “ So now I’m a prisoner?”

“ A pampered one.” He said with a lazy smirk, not even opening his eyes.

“ With unlimited cuddles. And I’ll cook for you forever. Just don’t leave.”

“ You weren’t kidding when you said you’d get clingier after I said yes.”

“ You were warned.” He mumbled again, voice heavy with sleep.

“ It’s in the fine print of my proposal.”

Eventually, you untangled from his grip after promising a kiss—and just like that, he let you go with a sleepy hum of contentment.

You padded to the kitchen, only to find the counter already crowded. Breakfast was already halfway done. He must’ve gotten up earlier and went back to bed just to cuddle you.

On the stove was his version of your favorite breakfast—eggs a little too runny, garlic rice shaped into a weird heart, and a pan of hot chocolate with two mugs beside it.

There was a sticky note stuck to one of the mugs:

Mrs. Hwang sounds so sexy. Just saying. 😏

You rolled your eyes fondly. Before you could sit, you felt two strong arms wrap around you from behind. In-ho rested his chin on your shoulder, his lips brushing the side of your neck.

“ Smells good, right?” He asked.

You hummed. “ You even remembered the hot chocolate.”

“ I remember everything when it comes to you.”

You turned around to face him, cupping his cheeks with both hands. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, leaning into your touch like a cat. Then, just like every morning lately, he pouted.

“ You forgot something.”

“ What now?”

“ My good morning kiss.” You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He whined. “ Both cheeks.”

You obliged. “ There.”

Then, with no warning, he scooped you up bridal style, making you squeal in protest and laugh as he spun you once before placing you on the kitchen counter.

“ You said yes.” He reminded you again, like he still couldn’t believe it.

His eyes were soft, almost shy despite the cocky smile. “ Now I can do this every day. Forever.”

“ You’ve been doing this every day for the past five years.”

“ But now it’s legal.” He teased, kissing your forehead. “ And binding.”

You giggled, looping your arms around his neck. “ Then I guess I’m doomed.”

“ Doomed to be spoiled rotten by your clingy, domestic, overly affectionate fiancé.”

“ And dramatic.” You added.

He grinned. “ Hopelessly.”

…

That day, nothing big happened. You didn’t leave the house. There were no grand adventures. Just breakfast, laundry, his awful singing as he folded clothes, and the two of you dancing barefoot in the living room to an old love song he half-remembered the lyrics to.

And when evening fell, In-ho dragged the mattress to the floor in front of the TV, surrounded you with pillows and snacks, and curled against you like a human furnace.

You looked at him—his messy hair, the soft curve of his smile as he fell asleep first, and realized that love didn’t always need chaos or noise.

Sometimes, love is waking up to the same arms. The same scent. The same voice that begged for kisses like it was oxygen.

Sometimes, love is simple.

Just like the ring on your finger.

Just like him.

Just like home.

…

You didn’t expect him to be this excited.

“ Okay, okay, scoot a little to the left. No—my left! There! Now twirl! I need that full dramatic effect.” In-ho said, crouching in front of a field of tulips in the Netherlands, the camera phone held up like he was directing a short film.

You deadpanned at him. “ Why are you acting like a K-drama director on his debut?”

He grinned. “ Because I am capturing the main character of my life.”

You groaned. Loudly. “ I regret everything.”

“ No, you don’t.” He sing-songed as he zoomed dramatically on your face. “ You said yes, remember? Too late now, princess.”

You were trying to soak in the views, the quiet of being somewhere far from the chaos back home. But with In-ho? Quiet wasn’t part of the itinerary.

From Paris to Kyoto, Santorini to Jeju, he’d planned the whole trip as a “Stress Detox World Tour”—his words, not yours. And at every stop, he brought chaotic fiancé energy with him.

In Tokyo, he bought a matching pair of cat ears and insisted on wearing them the entire day. Even on the subway. Even in restaurants.

When you asked him why, he said with a very serious face, “ To match the way I purr whenever you scratch my head.”

You nearly choked on your ramen.

In Greece, he randomly knelt in front of the Acropolis and pretended to propose again.

You stared at him, cheeks heating as tourists began filming. “ In-ho, I already said yes!”

He blinked innocently, “ But I didn’t get it on video that time. And now you’re wearing that sundress I like. It’s cinematic.”

Cue him filming your flustered reaction with a caption:

“ Still marrying me, right? Or should I reapply?”

You started calling him Dad with a camera because he recorded everything—your confused face reading maps, the way you tried to ask directions in broken French, your sneeze attack in the lavender fields, your sleepy face at airport gates.

And every time you thought he was filming scenery, he’d suddenly turn the phone to you and say something ridiculous like:

“ This is the love of my life. She doesn’t know it, but I’m marrying her again in every country we step foot in.”

Or

“ She says she’s tired. I say she needs ten kisses and a nap on my shoulder.”

Once, in Italy, he said to the camera while holding a gelato:

“ They say Rome wasn’t built in a day. But my love for her? Instant. Like this brain freeze.”

Then he immediately cringed as the cold hit him. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

At night, wherever you were, you’d end up tangled together in bed. Sometimes in a cozy airbnb, sometimes in a hotel with a view. In-ho would always insist on being the little spoon.

“ Because you said I’m your baby.” He’d mumble, pushing your arm around him like a blanket.

You’d poke his side. “ You’re a grown man. You interrogate people for a living.”

“ Shhh, not on vacation. I’m soft now. Pet me.”

And you always did. Fingers brushing through his hair, watching him turn to putty under your touch. Occasionally he’d make his little pleased hums, and you’d laugh, telling him he was ridiculous.

But the truth was—you’d never seen him happier. Or freer. Away from his badge, away from expectations, he got to be this: playful, dramatic, soft, yours.

On your last night in Prague, you both sat in front of the river, wrapped in one jacket. The Charles Bridge lights reflected like melted gold on the water. In-ho set the phone on a tiny tripod and hit record.

You leaned your head against him with a smile. “ Another video?”

“ Yeah…” He whispered, voice a little more serious this time.

“ Because someday when we’re old and wrinkly, I wanna show this to our kids. To remind them that their dad was clingy, yes, but also madly in love.”

You looked at him, your heart flipping as he turned toward the camera again.

“ I don’t care how many times she sighs or rolls her eyes.” He said into the lens.

“ This woman right here? She’s my favorite view in the world.”

You covered his mouth with your hand, laughing. “ Stop being so cringey!”

He licked your palm.

You gasped. “ Hwang In-ho!”

“ Too late.” He smirked. “ It’s recorded.”

And maybe, just maybe—you’d never delete it.

…

You were halfway through enjoying your gelato in Florence when In-ho suddenly gasped as if struck by divine inspiration.

“ Jagi~…” He said dramatically, pulling out his phone and pointing the camera at you.

“ Quick. Look at me like you just realized I’m the love of your life.”

You blinked. “ I already did realize that. Like five years ago.”

“ But not on camera.” He argued, zooming into your face.

“ Now say something poetic. Make it go viral.”

You narrowed your eyes, took a deliberate bite of your gelato, and said with all the mock-seriousness in the world.

“ I love you more than this gelato...which, for the record, is pistachio. So that’s saying a lot.”

He dropped his phone to his chest and groaned like you’d stabbed him with affection. “ You’re trying to kill me with sweetness, aren’t you?”

“ I’m just being honest.” You shrugged.

“ No. No, no. I need to sit down. You’ve overwhelmed me.” He flopped dramatically onto the nearby bench, throwing an arm over his eyes like a melodramatic telenovela character. Tourists looked over in confusion. You just laughed.

“ That’s your fiancé?” Someone whispered behind you.

You nodded with a sigh. “ Unfortunately, yes.”

…

In-ho’s brand of clingy only amplified as the trip went on. In Switzerland, you tried to take aesthetic shots of the snow-covered village from your hotel balcony. Instead, In-ho kept jumping into frame wearing your scarf and shouting,

“ Is this boyfriend-core enough?! LOOK AT MY BABY’S SCARF ON ME!”

In Paris, you wanted to quietly appreciate the Eiffel Tower. But no, he had other plans.

He pulled you in front of the camera, holding your hand as he whispered to it, “ Do you see this? I said I’d take her to the top of the world. This is step one.”

Then he kissed your cheek and muttered, “ Step two’s the bedroom later.”

You smacked him with your beret. He deserved it.

In Vienna, he bought you both matching Mozart shirts and insisted on calling you “my muse” in public. He played classical music on his phone and spun you around on cobblestone streets.

“ You look like a lost K-pop idol who got cursed into a romcom.” You told him, breathless from laughing.

“ Good” He grinned.

“ As long as I got cursed with you.”

…

Every country brought new chaos. In Seoul, he threw you into his old college hoodie, recorded you pretending to run around like a student, and titled the video:

“ She’s too cute to focus. Help. I’m failing all my imaginary classes.”

In Bali, he rented a scooter and insisted on being the passenger so he could wrap his arms around you the whole ride. You nearly crashed from how many times he kissed your neck through the helmet.

“ Sir…” You warned, “ This is not safe.”

“ Love makes me reckless.” He grinned.

“ You’re going to get us arrested.”

“ Then at least we’ll be in a cell together.”

You never got a break. He recorded you snoring on flights. He filmed your bedhead in the morning. He captioned one video: “ She threatens to leave me daily but still lets me sleep on her thigh every night. I win.”

But it wasn’t just for fun. Every moment he captured came with a layer of quiet awe in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe this life with you was real.

One night in Copenhagen, after a full day of biking and getting lost, he curled up beside you in your tiny rented room, your legs tangled under the blanket.

You were mid-scrolling on your phone when he whispered, “ I think I’m addicted to you.”

You looked up from the screen, amused. “ Like, emotionally?”

He nodded. “ Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Biologically. Like if I don’t kiss you once every three hours, my heart malfunctions.”

You smirked, tossing your phone aside. “ Is this another line for your next video?”

“ No.” He whispered, softer now, voice suddenly raw.

“ This one’s just for you.”

And you kissed him.

Not because of the line.

Not because of the camera.

But because you were in love with a man who made the entire world feel like one giant honeymoon—and somehow still treated you like it was day one.

…

The moment you opened the door, you were met with the warm scent of home—clean laundry, something vaguely cinnamon, and the soft hum of the air purifier you insisted on running 24/7.

And there he was. Hwang In-ho, your clingy, overgrown golden retriever of a fiancé, sitting on the couch in sweatpants and one of your hoodies. Legs stretched out, one arm lazily slung over a pillow, and a book held close to his face.

You blinked. You expected him to be out with friends or watching reruns of some crime docuseries he already knew the ending of. But here he was. Quiet. Reading.

A rare, suspicious sight.

“ I’m home.” You called softly, kicking off your shoes.

In-ho immediately perked up like a dog hearing his favorite word. “ Baby’s home!” He cheered, tossing the book aside like it offended him and hurrying toward you with open arms.

“ My hard-working wife-to-be is home! Come here, I missed you!”

You laughed, dropping your bag just in time before he pulled you into his chest like a weighted blanket that had a heartbeat.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling dramatically. “ Mmm, stress and overpriced coffee. My favorite scent.”

“ You’re weird.” You murmured, already melting in his embrace. You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to. Your shift was long, your feet hurt, and your favorite clingy man was warm and cuddly. Perfect combination.

“ You love it.” He said proudly, guiding you over to the couch and tugging you on top of him until you were nestled right against his chest.

“ I tolerate it.” You teased, eyes closing as you laid your cheek against his heartbeat.

“ Liar.” He grinned, kissing the top of your head.

A few peaceful moments passed, your breathing syncing with his, your body relaxing into the comfort that was In-ho. But eventually, your curiosity won over.

You poked his chest. “ What were you reading?”

“ Hm?”

“ The book. You looked really focused.”

“ Oh!” He reached over without moving you and picked up the book again, holding it proudly in front of your face. “ This.”

You squinted. “ Wait...is that...my language?”

He beamed. “ Yup.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “ Since when do you read textbooks in my language?”

“ Since I realized I might accidentally call your mom a...um...chicken butt.”

You blinked. “ What?”

“ I—look…” He sighed, running a hand down his face.

“ I tried learning online. YouTube. TikTok. Forums. But apparently, people lie on the internet. Shock!”

He flipped the book open, reading aloud in a careful, exaggerated tone, “ ‘Mahal ko po kayo.’ See? I’m trying to be respectful. Not say things like...” He hesitated, then whispered the last part,

“ Gutom ako sa love mo, bebegurl.”

You snorted, laughter escaping before you could help it. “ Who taught you that?!”

“ I saw it on a Facebook comment under a cooking video!” He defended, eyes wide and wounded.

“ It sounded romantic! The girl replied with a heart emoji!”

“ That’s not romantic, that’s meme culture, babe.”

In-ho huffed and pouted, his bottom lip jutting out adorably as he rested the book on your back. “ I’m doing this for you, you know. So I can properly talk to your parents without accidentally cursing or flirting with your dad.”

You laughed harder. “ Oh my God. What did you say to my dad that time again?”

“ I told him his cooking was ‘malupet,’ which I thought meant amazing.” He muttered.

“ Turns out, I said it with the wrong tone, and your dad gave me a look like I challenged him to a fistfight.”

You were crying now, your shoulders shaking as you clung to him. “ You’re so stupid. It’s kind of impressive.”

“ Stupidly in love with you.” He replied proudly. “ And I will learn your language if it’s the last thing I do.”

“ Oh really?”

“ Yes. So when I propose again—this time in front of your family—I’ll do it fluently, without accidentally insulting your grandma.”

You smiled against his chest, heart fluttering. “ I think she already loves you.”

“ She tolerates me.”

“ Gee, wonder where she got that from.” You mumbled, throwing his earlier words back at him.

He grinned and tilted your chin up for a kiss. “ Shhh. Say you love me in your language.”

You gave him a look, amused and warm. “ Mahal kita.”

“ Mahal kita.” He repeated slowly, proudly, then whispered with a grin,

“ Does that translate to ‘now kiss me again, pretty girl’?”

You rolled your eyes—and kissed him anyway.

Because yes, he was ridiculous.

But he was yours.

…

The evening melted into the kind of quiet only shared by people deeply in love—and deeply tangled. You were still sprawled on top of In-ho on the couch, your limbs comfortably knotted together, a thin blanket thrown over your shoulders even though neither of you had moved in nearly an hour.

His book rested open beside you, completely abandoned the moment your presence had become more interesting. You were half-asleep when he softly cleared his throat.

“ Want to quiz me?”

You cracked one eye open. “ Huh?”

“ My vocab. I’ve been studying.” He puffed his chest, though it was impossible to take him seriously when his hair was sticking up in five directions and your lipstick smudge was still on his jaw.

You smirked. “ Fine. What’s the word for love?”

“ Mahal.” He said instantly. “ Too easy.”

“ Beautiful?”

“ Maganda.” He said with a triumphant grin, then added,

“ Like my fiancée.”

You clicked your tongue. “ Cheesy.”

“ Correct.” He grinned wider. “ That’s my whole personality.”

“ Okay. Stubborn.”

He blinked. “ Uh…”

You raised an eyebrow. “ Come on, Mr. Honor Student.”

He squinted. “ Matigas ang ulo?” He tried, with a tone that made it sound like a question.

You burst out laughing. “ You just described yourself perfectly!”

“ I knew it sounded familiar!” He teased, tapping his forehead. “ My brain is just a mirror for your insults.”

“ You mean compliments.” You corrected, settling your chin on his chest.

In-ho smirked. “ Okay, now you try.”

“ Try what?”

“ Say something to me. In your language. Something sweet.”

You paused, lips twitching. “ Like…Talagang mahal na mahal kita.”

He blinked slowly. “ That sounds serious. What did you say?”

“ That I really, really love you.”

His eyes softened. And suddenly, the teasing melted into something quieter, something warmer. “ Say it again.”

You rolled your eyes but repeated, softer this time, “ Talagang mahal na mahal kita.”

He swallowed like it went straight to his chest. “ You know…” He whispered, brushing his thumb along your jaw.

“ That’s the only phrase I never want to mess up. Ever.”

You kissed his chin. “ You won’t. You’re doing great.”

“ Okay, then how do I say…” he trailed off, pretending to think hard,

“ ‘Please let me kiss you until you forget you’re tired’?”

You blinked. “ That’s not in the book, In-ho.”

“ It should be.”

“ That's not studying, that’s flirting.”

“ Same thing when I’m fluent in you.” He murmured with a boyish grin.

You groaned, pushing his face away as he giggled like a child who just got away with something scandalous. But he caught your wrist gently and turned it, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“ You always baby me after work.” You whispered, cheeks warm.

“ Because you take care of everything and everyone all day.” He shrugged, eyes sincere now.

“ So it’s my job to take care of you.” Your throat tightened. You didn't say anything.

Just bury your face into his neck and let the comfort wrap around you again. He hummed a tune while stroking your back.

“ Are you singing now?” You mumbled.

“ I’m practicing.” He said proudly. “ Next time I do harana, I’ll get the pronunciation right.”

You laughed into his skin. “ You’re never going to let that go, huh?”

“ Never.” He smirked. “ You said yes after that performance. Obviously, it worked.”

You looked up and pinched his cheek. “ You’re so annoyingly lovable.”

“ I’m fluent in that too.” He replied smugly.

And just like that, you realized—he didn’t need perfect words.

He already spoke to you fluently.

…

The soft sound of chopping filled the kitchen, rhythmic and calm. Somewhere behind it, your favorite playlist hummed from the speaker—his doing, always making sure your evenings felt like a movie.

The scent of garlic, sesame oil, and soy danced in the air. It was his specialty dish, and he only made it when he was in a good mood—or when he missed you too much during the day. He was humming, shoulders swaying a little, spatula in one hand as he turned toward the stove.

And you…you were just standing there. Leaning on the doorway. Watching him.

Loving him. He looked so natural in your space. In your life. Barefoot in sweats, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smudge of sauce on his cheek that he hadn’t noticed.

Hwang In-ho—your best friend’s older brother. The forbidden fruit you once tried so hard not to reach for. The risk you once feared taking.

Now he was just yours.

And somehow, you were still in awe.

He glanced up and caught your eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “ You’re staring again. I must look really hot when I cook.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “ You’ve got sauce on your face.”

“ Adds flavor.” He shrugged.

You rolled your eyes. “ You’re impossible.”

“ And yet…” He said, stepping over to press a kiss to your forehead. “ You’re still here.”

You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his shirt. “ I’m always here.”

He looked at you for a moment—quiet, soft—and then leaned his forehead against yours. “ I used to dream about this, you know. Cooking dinner with you watching me, pretending I’m not messing up the recipe, you pretending not to laugh.”

“ I’m not pretending.” You teased. “ You are messing it up.”

“ Then stay with me forever so you can fix it.”

You smiled. “ That’s the plan.”

And in that moment—quiet and ordinary and nothing extravagant—you felt it.

The culmination of all the years you spent yearning. All the fear, the hiding, the sacrifices. All the times you questioned if it was worth it to love someone you weren’t supposed to. Every whispered night. Every stolen glance.

It led here. To this small kitchen. To his ridiculous apron. To him.

You’d never regret loving Hwang In-ho.

Because how could you? He was the only man who made you believe love was real—not the kind from books, but the messy, real kind.

The kind that teased and challenged, that laughed with a smirk but held you when you cried. The kind that cooked for you barefoot after a long day, humming off-key and occasionally burning the rice.

He was the only man you never had to chase anymore—because you had already caught each other.

And you never dared to look anywhere else.

Why would you, when he was the only one who ever made love feel like something you could touch?

If reincarnation was real, you’d choose him again. Every lifetime. Every version of yourself would find its way back to this man. This house. This heartbeat. This stupid smirk.

Because loving him was the most sacred, chaotic, precious gift you had ever received.

And you’d keep choosing it.

Again, and again, and again.

THE END.

Author's Note:

I am literally kicking my feet as I write this piece. Grinning from ear to ear. I blushed as if I had been slapped across the cheeks (haha). This confirms my status as a hopeless romantic. I crave these moments in the real world and hope to have them soon. However, I have to remain in the delulu phase for the time being.

Stay delulu everyone!

Tag: @startled-cats

[lost-in-thoughts03]

FREE || YANDERE! INHUN

Same Damn Time || Next To You

" What if we both tried fighting what we're running from?"

Summary: The revelation shatters any remaining faith in human decency. However, we always have another chance at everything; it is up to us to decide whether to go the right or wrong path. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, AU, POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP, SEASON 3 SPOILER, heavy angst, heavy tension, obsession, possessive, yandere behavior, violence, gore, secrets, gun violence, killings, power imbalance, major character deaths, manipulation, betrayal, explicit content, matured language, consensual deals, sadistic behavior, trauma, mental health issues, self loathing, guilt, erotic, ownership, kissing, cockwarming, overstimulation, worshipping, praising, riding, thigh riding, oral (F), PiV, unprotected, deep, slow, hard, dirty talk, markings, older men x younger woman (LEGAL), soft-dom! Gi-hun, dom! In-ho/Young-il

Yandere! InHun x Reader

Words: 14.6k

The door closed with a heavy finality behind Gi-hun as he stepped into the chamber. His footsteps echoed against the polished floor—measured, cold, stiff.

He wore the black suit now—the one given only to finalists. Tailored, symbolic, a twisted crown for the last man standing. You watched him from the shadows, breath caught behind the mask, heart pounding in your throat.

Gi-hun’s sharp gaze locked onto the figure before him—the Frontman, seated in his high-backed chair like a king on a rusted throne. Legs wide, posture lazy but exuding power. That same mask stared back with hollow, soulless eyes.

“ You…” Gi-hun said flatly, voice dripping with contempt.

The Frontman tilted his head slightly. “ Sit down. This conversation will be…lengthy.”

Gi-hun didn’t move for a moment. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight enough to crack. But eventually, he obeyed. He sank into the chair across from the man who betrayed him—not out of submission, but readiness.

A coiled snake waiting to strike. The Frontman leaned forward slightly, the modulated voice cold but calm.

“ I brought you here…” He began.

“ Because I’m concerned. About your safety. And…the child.”

Gi-hun’s face flickered at the mention of the baby. His gaze narrowed. “ You don’t get to pretend you care.”

The Frontman ignored the sting in the words.

“ You’re not safe.” He said plainly.

“ None of you are. The remaining players—they’re slipping. Hunger. Desperation. The thirst for blood is stronger than ever now. They know you’re a threat. They know the baby slows you down. You and that child won’t survive another round.”

Gi-hun didn’t blink. The Frontman slowly reached beneath the table, then slid a weapon across its surface.

A knife. It stopped halfway between them, gleaming under the sterile light. Gi-hun’s eyes flicked down to it—then back up with visible disgust.

“ You want me to kill them?” He said, tone sharp with disbelief.

“ They’ve eaten too much.” The Frontman explained, calm as death.

“ Drank too heavily. Right now, they’re dead to the world. If you move quickly, silently—you can slit each one’s throat before they even open their eyes.” Gi-hun stared, unmoving.

“ No screams.” The Frontman added.

“ No resistance. No mercy needed. Just…survival.”

A thick silence settled. You could barely breathe from where you were hidden, fists trembling, heart pounding in your ears.

Gi-hun finally spoke—slow, cold, deliberate. “ You dragged a baby into this hell, and now you want me to become a butcher to clean up your mess?” The Frontman didn’t move.

“ It’s your best chance.” He replied.

“ You know that.”

Gi-hun reached forward—hovering his hand just above the knife. But he didn’t touch it. His eyes never left the mask in front of him. And you could feel it—the storm rising inside of him.

The next move…would define the man he would become. The silence had weight. It sank deep into your bones. You could feel Gi-hun’s breath from across the room—sharp, erratic. His eyes locked onto the masked figure before him. His grip on the armrest was white-knuckled. Rage radiated off of him in waves. And then—

A sound. A shift. The Frontman’s gloved fingers reached up… and removed his mask. Click. Slide. Silence. The mask fell away, and the face underneath was his.

Young-il. Unscarred. Unflinching. Still too familiar.

Gi-hun’s body went completely still. You watched, hidden, heart shattering. His eyes widened, then narrowed, lips trembling as everything clicked in brutal clarity.

“ You…” Gi-hun breathed, voice cracking.

“ You were with us…You were one of us.” Young-il didn’t deny it. Didn’t explain. He simply sat there, expression unreadable.

Gi-hun’s chair scraped back violently. He lunged. His hand snatched the knife off the table, raised it high, ready to plunge it down into the man who betrayed him—who betrayed everyone. But Young-il didn’t move. He simply looked up at him, eyes calm, accepting.

“ You can do it.” He said quietly.

“ No one will stop you. It’s just the two of us.” Gi-hun’s arms trembled as he held the knife aloft, tears streaming freely down his face now—pure fury, pure grief.

“ You lied...” He growled. “ You watched Jun-bae die. You let it all happen. You played both sides. You let me trust you.”

“ I did.” Young-il said softly. Gi-hun’s whole body shook. The knife hovered just above Young-il’s chest.

“ You think this ends the game?” Young-il added.

“ Go ahead. Kill me. But nothing stops. They’ll just replace me. Another mask. Another voice. The machine will keep running.” Gi-hun stood frozen.

Breathing hard. Tears falling. Rage simmering to its breaking point. And then—slowly—his grip faltered. The knife lowered. His arm dropped to his side. But his gaze—his hatred—never wavered.

“ You’re right.” Gi-hun said, voice hoarse.

“ Killing you changes nothing.” He leaned in, eyes burning.

“ But I hope it haunts you. Every night. Every second. I hope you never feel peace again.” He let the knife clatter onto the table, its sound final.

Young-il said nothing. And in the dark corner of the room, hidden behind a mask, you couldn’t tell which of them your heart was breaking for more.

…

Gi-hun’s back was already to the door. His shoulders heaved with every breath, each step dragging like lead. His body was broken from more than just the game—from the truth, from betrayal, from grief he hadn’t even had time to name.

But then—

“ Do you still have faith in humanity?”

Young-il’s voice cut through the air like a wire. Gi-hun stopped mid-step. Slowly, tensely, he turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder.

He didn’t respond. Young-il rose from his chair and moved to the shadows—your shadows. Before you could brace, his hand gripped your wrist and pulled you into the light.

“ Gi-hun…” He called again, louder now.

Gi-hun turned fully. The moment he saw you—

Everything in him collapsed. You saw it—his chest sank, his lips parted, his eyes wide and disbelieving. The knife in his hand trembled violently. He took a step forward, as if his body moved before his mind could even catch up. Your mask—his memory of you—slid away as Young-il removed it. And Gi-hun looked like he had just seen a ghost.

“ Y/n?” His voice cracked.

“ No…no, they said you were dead. They announced it. I heard it on the speaker.” His gaze flicked to Young-il, then back to you.

And slowly…his face twisted. Not in relief. But betrayal.

“ You’re with him.” He said, voice rising, almost choking.

“ You’re here—with him.” You shook your head, stepping forward.

“ Gi-hun, no—listen, I didn’t choose—” But he was already backing away, shaking his head violently, the knife slipping in his loose grip.

“ You—both of you—how long? Was this all fake? Were you ever on my side?!”

“ I took her.” Young-il interrupted, stepping between you two now.

His tone was firm, no longer cold but sharp with purpose. “ She didn’t betray you. I pulled her out during the fourth game. Told everyone she was dead. She didn’t know. She didn’t ask for this.”

“ She’s in your chamber.” Gi-hun snarled. “ Wearing your mark. Why would I believe you?”

“ I forced her to stay.” Young-il snapped.

“ I couldn’t let her go back in. She wanted to help you—she kept asking to. I said no. Because if she went back, she’d be dead by now.”

Gi-hun stared at you, searching—desperate to find even a sliver of the truth in your expression. Tears welled in your eyes.

“ I mourned you.” He said hoarsely. “ I blamed myself. I thought I failed you. And now you’re here. With him.”

“ I never turned on you.” You whispered.

“ Never.”

The words barely reached him. He looked away, biting down on every emotion that threatened to spill. And just like that—

The knife dropped from his hand. Clattering. Cold. And so did the last bit of faith he had left. The atmosphere inside Young-il's chamber was tense—thick with unspoken rage and long-held grief. You sat tucked in the corner, knees to your chest, your breath shallow as your eyes followed every movement.

Gi-hun’s fists were clenched, his eyes wild and rimmed with unshed tears. His voice trembled, “ You ruined everything…”

Young-il barely glanced at him, his expression unreadable. But that only made Gi-hun snap. In an instant, Gi-hun lunged forward and tackled him. The two men collided violently, crashing into shelves and scattering documents, glass, and broken memories across the polished floor.

" You made me do this!" Gi-hun shouted, throwing desperate punches.

“ You turned me into this monster!” His voice cracked under the weight of his sobs.

" All of this…all the blood, it's on you!"

But Young-il, cold and composed even amid the chaos, blocked his strikes with ease. He countered with brutal precision, slamming Gi-hun into the desk and then sweeping his legs from under him.

You gasped, your hand over your mouth. You wanted to stop it—but you couldn’t move. Gi-hun tried again, swinging with raw fury, but Young-il caught his arm and twisted it with a sickening snap. Gi-hun let out a cry that echoed through the chamber.

“ Stop it!” Young-il growled, pinning him to the floor.

“ Do you think this changes anything? You want to leave? Then drag your pathetic self out of here and do what you came to do—slaughter the rest. That’s your job now.”

Gi-hun stopped struggling. His body trembled beneath Young-il’s grip. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat and blood as he lay broken on the marble floor.

You watched silently, your chest aching with every second that passed. There was no victory in this room. Only devastation. You rushed to Gi-hun the moment Young-il released him, your heart pounding as you crouched beside his crumpled form. His face was bruised, his arm bent awkwardly from the blow, and his breaths were sharp and labored.

“ Come on.” You whispered urgently, looping his arm over your shoulder and helping him to his feet.

He winced with each step, limping from the damage the fight had done to him. You eased him into the nearest chair, his body sinking into it with a shaky breath. You turned away, your blood boiling, and marched to Young-il.

“ What the fuck did you do?!” You snapped, your voice louder than you intended. Young-il stood still, like a shadow unmoved by wind. He didn’t blink.

“ I defended myself.” He said flatly.

“ He attacked first.” You stared at him, trying to read beneath the mask of indifference—but it was like staring into stone. Cold. Untouchable. Behind you, Gi-hun's voice broke the silence.

“ I’m fine.” He rasped, though the pain in his tone betrayed him. You turned back toward him. His eyes locked on you—and your breath caught. Those eyes, soft and warm even in their agony, shimmered with tears.

“ When they announced you were dead…” He whispered.

“ Something in me died too.” You froze.

“ I told myself I had no reason left to live.” He continued, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“ That fucking bastard took everything from me. Everything.”

Before you could say anything, he reached for you—his hands trembling as they cupped your face. Desperate. Familiar. Ache in every motion.

Then he kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It was urgent. Raw. He clung to you like you were the last tether to what was once real—his lips pressed into yours with a kind of desperation only grief could fuel.

He missed you. Needed you. And yet…you could taste the disappointment. The betrayal. He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, his breath heavy.

“ I hate that you’re with him.” He said hoarsely.

“ But I can’t let that bastard steal you from me too.” Behind you, Young-il stood unmoving, watching.

Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. But the silence he held now was heavier than anything he'd ever spoken. The tension between Gi-hun and Young-il grew thick again, like a storm threatening to explode all over again. Gi-hun wiped the blood from his mouth and glared at Young-il.

“ You think you're the only one who’s lost something? You think power justifies everything you've done?” He spat, voice shaking with rage.

“ You don’t get to act like you’re above all this.” Young-il finally looked at him—sharp and unflinching.

“ And you think your grief gives you the right to attack me in my own chamber?” He returned coldly.

“ You're weak. You let your emotions ruin you.”

“ You took her from me!” Gi-hun barked, stepping forward again, only for you to step between them with your arms outstretched.

“ Enough!” You shouted, the sound of your voice cutting through them like a blade.

Both men froze.

“ I’m done with this.” You said, turning toward both of them. “ You want to tear each other apart? Fine. But I’m not going to be the reason behind it.”

You looked at Gi-hun, your voice softer but pained. “ I’m leaving.”

“ No—no, no, please.” Gi-hun stammered, taking a step forward, then another, despite the limp.

His voice cracked as he reached for you. “ Don’t leave me again… please… I’ve already lost you once—I can’t—I can’t do it again.”

His hands reached for yours, trembling. “ I’ll do anything. Just—don’t go.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. Behind you, you could feel Young-il’s gaze, distant but present.

He didn’t say a word. He only turned his back and walked slowly toward his desk, standing there quietly, giving you both the space you needed. After all, you and he already talked. Already settled what needed to be settled.

This wasn’t his moment. It was yours—and Gi-hun’s. Your heart ached as Gi-hun dropped to his knees, arms wrapped around your waist, burying his face into you like a man on the verge of collapse.

His body shook with sobs, clinging to you with everything he had left. “ I’m begging you…don’t leave me behind.”

The static crackle of a radio broke through the silence, sharp and urgent. It echoed off the marble walls of the chamber like a reminder of the world outside this fragile moment.

Young-il’s earpiece lit up.

“ Frontman, the VIPs are requesting your presence in the lounge. Now.” He exhaled slowly, lifting his gaze toward the door. Then he turned back to the two of you—Gi-hun still kneeling, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and you froze in the middle, caught between two lives.

“ I have to go.” Young-il said calmly, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

“ They need me.” You looked at him—unsure what emotion flickered in your eyes.

He wasn’t asking for permission. He was simply informing you. As he moved toward the exit, he paused near the door, casting a final glance over his shoulder. His voice dropped slightly, lower.

“ Take your time. Settle what needs to be settled.” Then he stepped out, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence fell again. Heavy. Too heavy. Gi-hun still held onto you, his grip loosening only slightly now that you were alone. He looked up, his eyes red and wet.

“ It’s just us now…” He whispered.

“ Just like it should’ve been.” His words trembled, and so did his hands. And yet, in this brief stillness, there was no one left to interrupt.

No lies. No games.

Only truth—and the pain that came with it.

…

The silence between you lingered, heavy and trembling, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Gi-hun still knelt in front of you, his fingers now gently gripping your waist instead of clinging. He looked up at you with glassy eyes, jaw tight and chest heaving.

His voice broke through the stillness, low and strained. “ Why are you here?”

You blinked, your throat tight, but before you could speak, he continued—his emotions pouring out like a dam cracked wide open.

“ When they said you died in the fourth game…I—” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking.

“ I stopped. I stopped eating. Stopped thinking. I’d just stare at the walls, crying like a fucking ghost. I didn’t care about winning anymore.” His hands slid up your sides, trembling, fingers brushing over the fabric of your clothes as if needing to convince himself you were real.

“ I made a promise.” He murmured, his forehead pressing softly against your stomach.

“ I told you I’d protect you. No matter what.” He let out a bitter breath.

“ But I failed. Again.” You could feel his heat, the intensity of his sorrow—his longing. His hands moved around to your lower back, pulling you closer, and his voice dropped deeper, rougher.

“ And now…” He looked up at you again, his pupils dark and blown wide.

“ Now you’re alive. Standing in front of me. And it’s a fucking mess in my head. I don’t know what to feel.”

His hands gripped your hips more firmly, his voice growing more desperate. “ Am I supposed to be happy you’re alive? Or angry you didn’t tell me? Angry that he kept you?”

His lips ghosted over your skin through your clothes, soft and lingering. “ All I know is…I want you. I need you.”

You didn’t answer with words. You sank to your knees, your hands cupping his face the way he did yours earlier—your breath mingling with his.

Gi-hun leaned in, lips brushing against yours like a prayer. But when he kissed you this time, it was fire. No hesitation. No restraint. His hands roamed your back, your sides, hungry to reclaim what he thought he’d lost forever.

He kissed you harder, deeper—pouring in days of grief, rage, longing. Your body molded into his muscle memory. You gasped softly as his lips trailed down your jaw, to your neck, each kiss searing. His voice came out low and rough between kisses.

“ I thought I lost you forever. I don’t care what side you’re on. Just don’t leave me again.” He pushed you gently back, guiding you down onto the soft couch in the corner of the chamber.

His body hovered above yours, gaze locked on yours like you were the only thing that existed in his world. Whatever pain and betrayal still lingered, they burned away in the heat of this moment. All that remained was touch, breath, and two broken souls trying to find each other again.

The kiss had deepened, desperate and consuming, but then something in Gi-hun shifted. He paused—his breath heavy, his gaze sharpening.

And then it hit him. The scent. The faintest trace. The realization. He pulled back, suddenly, violently. His chest rose and fell like a man strangled by rage.

“ Fuck…” He whispered, blinking hard.

“ You…he—” His voice twisted into a snarl. He stood up, fists clenching at his sides.

“ That bastard already fucked you, didn’t he?” You froze, lips parted, but before you could explain, he stepped away like your skin burned him.

“ You let him touch you—now?” His voice cracked with betrayal.

“ You’re coated in him while I’m down here, crawling through this hell thinking you were dead!”

“ Gi-hun—”

“ No!” He snapped, pacing now, gripping his hair.

“ We had an agreement. I know. I fucking know! We agreed. You—you chose to be with both of us back then and I accepted that!” He looked at you with fire behind his eyes, but beneath that—pain. Trembling, barely-held-together pain.

“ But that was before…” He hissed.

“ Before we knew who he was. He’s not just another player anymore. He’s not one of us. He’s the fucking Frontman. The same bastard who watched people die behind a mask. The same bastard I came here to kill.”

The silence between you cracked open like a fault line. Gi-hun’s hands dropped to his sides, and when he looked at you again, his voice was quieter—but no less raw.

“ I don’t know what hurts more…that he touched you while I was breaking…or that you still let him, knowing what he’s done.” Tears formed at the edge of his eyes again, but this time he didn’t try to stop them.

“ I didn’t fight to stay alive just to come back and find out I lost you in another way.” The room felt colder now.

The heat of before was replaced by a silent ache that filled every corner. Gi-hun turned away slightly, like he couldn’t bear to look at you—but couldn’t walk away either.

He didn’t scream again. He just whispered—hoarse and broken. “ Tell me it meant nothing. Or tell me it meant everything. But just don’t fucking lie to me.”

Gi-hun’s chest rose and fell as he stared at you. The rage in his eyes hadn’t died down—in fact, it burned hotter now, fueled not by sadness but by something primal.

You stood frozen under his gaze, your skin still tingling from where he had touched you moments ago. But now, it wasn’t love he looked at you with—it was fury.

Possession. Desperation. His eyes dropped. Slowly. Tracing the shape of your collarbone, the slope of your neck—and then he saw them.

The bruises. The red, faintly darkened marks.

His jaw clenched. “ Fucking hell…” He muttered, stepping closer.

“ He marked you?” His voice wasn’t loud—it was low, venomous. Like the sound of a man seconds from snapping. You instinctively backed up a step.

“ I can see it.” He hissed, reaching out—not gently—to pull your collar to the side, exposing more of the marks on your shoulder.

His thumb traced the outline of a fading bite. “ This…this is what he left on you?”

He let go of the fabric like it burned him, stepping back again, shaking his head. “ He fucking claimed you like you were his to keep?”

You swallowed hard, unsure whether to fight the guilt, the shame, or the heat suddenly crawling under your skin.

“ I didn’t—”

“ You didn’t stop him.” Gi-hun snapped.

“ You let him do this. While I was out there, tearing myself apart looking for a reason to keep going.” He stared at you again, eyes dark—hungry, furious, aching.

And then, suddenly, he closed the space between you and shoved you gently but firmly against the wall. His hand came up to your jaw, gripping it—not hard, but with dominance. His lips hovered over yours, breathing fast.

“ If he marked you…” He growled lowly.

“ Then I’ll make sure you remember who else you belong to.” And then he kissed you. But this time, there was nothing soft. No mourning. No gentle warmth.

This was raw. He bit at your lower lip. His hands were rough, sliding under your shirt, feeling every inch of your skin as if to overwrite the memory of the man who’d touched you first.

His lips trailed down your neck, tongue dragging over the places Young-il had claimed—as if trying to cleanse them with his own fire. He tugged your shirt off, eyes burning into every mark left behind.

“ I’ll fucking rewrite every inch of you.” He whispered.

Your body arched into him, gasping as he pushed his knee between your thighs. His mouth roamed lower, desperate and angry and hungry.

“ Don’t say his fucking name.” He warned between kisses, dragging his teeth over your skin.

“ Not now. Not ever.” And in that moment—there was no past.

No games. Just a man determined to take back what he thought he’d lost. Even if it meant setting both of you on fire. Gi-hun's breath was hot against your skin, every kiss branded with frustration, every touch screaming a deeper ache.

His hands slid down your waist with purpose, gripping your hips as if grounding himself—grasping for the only thing in this world that hadn’t yet slipped from his fingers completely: you.

His lips never stayed in one place. He trailed them across every mark Young-il had left on you, not in reverence—but defiance. With every graze of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, he claimed your skin like a man trying to burn out someone else's fingerprints.

“ I don’t care what the fuck he did to you.” Gi-hun growled as he hoisted you up effortlessly, your back pressed to the cold wall, legs wrapping around his waist.

“ But he doesn’t get to keep you. I’m not letting him have you.” You could feel the rough edge of his anger in how he touched you—but underneath it was hunger.

Grief. Longing that had been rotting inside him for too long. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time—his tongue demanding, claiming your mouth like he had something to prove.

Gi-hun pressed into you, hips grinding, his body demanding closeness, connection—reassurance that you were still his, even if the world had twisted beyond recognition.

“ Say it.” He rasped against your lips, voice hoarse and breathless.

“ Say you’re mine.” You hesitated, and he dragged his mouth down your throat again, biting gently just above your collarbone where the other mark had been.

A new mark. His.

“ Say it…” He repeated, darker this time.

“ I’m yours.” You breathed, your voice trembling between surrender and desire.

Gi-hun groaned low in his throat, like he’d been waiting forever to hear it again. His hands gripped your thighs, grinding harder, hungrier.

“ No matter what he is.” He whispered, eyes locked with yours.

“ I’ll make sure you remember me.” And in that moment, nothing else mattered—not the war outside, not Young-il’s shadow, not the blood on their hands.

Just this: a feverish collision of two hearts trying to survive a love too complicated for this place.

A love made of fire. And refusal to let go. Your bodies were still tangled—sweat-slicked, breathless, and trembling from the desperation that had just consumed you both.

Gi-hun’s hands roamed your waist as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment, still making sure this wasn’t some cruel dream. His forehead rested against yours, eyes narrowed and burning with something deeper now. Not just lust. Not just grief. Possession. Regret.

“ I should’ve never agreed to that fucked-up deal.” He muttered through clenched teeth.

“ I should’ve known.” Your breath caught, your eyes searching for him. He wasn’t done. Not even close.

“ I knew—I fucking knew—that bastard wanted you from the start.” He pulled back slightly, eyes scanning your face with a storm behind his own.

“ That whole agreement…the sharing, the three of us…I convinced myself it was fair. That I could be civil. That we were players on equal ground.” His voice deepened, almost trembling with emotion.

“ But he’s not one of us anymore. He’s the Frontman. He watched people die like it was entertainment. And he still had the audacity to touch you like you were his to keep.” Gi-hun’s grip on your hips tightened. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear.

“ Well, fuck that.” He growled.

“ It’s over. The agreement’s void. Torn to shreds. I’m not sharing you with him. Not now. Not ever again.” He pushed you back down onto the couch, his body pressing into yours like a vow. His hands slid under your thighs, spreading you for him, his mouth lowering to your chest—kissing, biting, branding.

“ I’m claiming you back.” He said between kisses.

“ Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every fucking look you give.” You arched under him, the words crawling under your skin, stoking the fire that never really burned out. His mouth moved lower. Hungrier. Like he was reclaiming territory that had been stolen.

“ You’re mine.” He whispered against your skin.

“ And this time, no one’s going to take you away from me.” And then he showed you—wordlessly, relentlessly, fiercely—that he meant it.

This wasn’t just about lust anymore. It was about taking back what was his. And never letting it go again. Gi-hun's breath was heavy against your skin, his lips moving with purpose—down your chest, your stomach, worshipping and reclaiming, not like a lover asking permission but a man taking back what was stolen. You whimpered beneath him, legs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair. But he didn’t slow down. He didn’t ease up.

“ You let him touch you here, huh?” He muttered darkly, his lips brushing just above your inner thigh.

“ You moaned for him?” You gasped—but before you could answer, he looked up at you with fire in his eyes.

“ Not anymore.” He slid his tongue along your skin, slow at first, then with a hunger that made you cry out.

Every motion was deliberate, every sound you made fueling the ferocity building inside him. His hands pinned your thighs wide open, firm and possessive.

“ Say it…” He growled, mouth never leaving you. “ Say you're fucking mine. Say he doesn’t get to touch you ever again.”

“ I—I’m yours.” You breathed, back arching.

“ Only yours.” Gi-hun groaned low in his throat, like your words snapped something in him.

He rose over you again, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, his body lined up against yours—hot, hard, trembling from restraint he was barely holding.

“ Say it louder.” His voice was rough, dangerous. “ Let it fucking echo in this room.”

“ I’m yours, Gi-hun!” You cried out.

“ He can’t have me. Not anymore.”

He crashed his mouth into yours again—this time, not desperate, but certain. Fierce. Dominant. The way his hips pressed into yours, the rhythm, the hunger—it wasn’t just sex.

It was a war cry. A promise. A possession. And as he moved with you, taking you harder, deeper, letting every thrust speak for the words he couldn’t say out loud, you knew…

Gi-hun wasn’t just reclaiming your body. He was reclaiming everything. Your heart. Your loyalty. Your soul. He buried his face into your neck, moaning your name like a prayer laced with profanity.

“ You’re mine.” He whispered again, slower this time.

“ No more deals. No more fucking sharing. Only mine now.”

And in that moment, nothing else existed. Not Young-il. Not the games. Not the war brewing outside the door. Just the fire between you, burning everything else away.

The room was drenched in heat and silence, broken only by the sound of your breathless moans and Gi-hun’s low groans as he thrust deeper into you—his movements no longer frantic, but slow, controlled, intentional.

He was no longer just trying to reclaim you. He was savoring it. Your wrists were still pinned above your head, but now his fingers had loosened slightly, more caress than restraint. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath mingling with yours, damp and uneven.

“ Look at me…” He ordered, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. What you saw there made your chest tighten—rage, yes. Lust, absolutely. But underneath it all…

Longing. Love. Desperation, still raw. His forehead pressed to yours as he moved inside you again, slow and deep, drawing a helpless whimper from your lips.

“ You feel that?” He whispered, his voice shaking.

“ That’s me. That’s not him. That’s never him.” You nodded, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the unbearable tenderness under the force of his words, his touch.

Gi-hun leaned down, trailing his tongue along your neck, then biting gently into the same place where Young-il’s mark had once lingered.

“ This one’s mine now.” He growled, his teeth grazing your skin.

“ I’m gonna mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left of him.” He released your wrists and ran his hands down your sides, your thighs, gripping them as he pushed into you again—this time deeper, harder, making you gasp.

“ I want you to remember this…” He said through clenched teeth.

“ Every time you close your eyes. Every time he looks at you. You’ll remember this.”

Your nails clawed down his back, desperate to hold onto something—anything—as your body gave into the rhythm, the pressure, the sheer overwhelming presence of him. You were unraveling under him, and he knew it.

“ You're mine.” He repeated, voice a breathless rasp in your ear.

“ And I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever again.” You choked out his name as your climax surged, your body trembling beneath his.

He held you tightly through it, rocking deeper into you, burying himself like he never wanted to leave your body again. When he followed you over the edge moments later, it wasn’t with a roar—it was with a gasp, broken and full of everything he’d been holding in.

The grief. The rage. The love. Gi-hun collapsed against you, both of you soaked in sweat, your bodies tangled, chests rising and falling as one. His lips pressed to your forehead—so soft now, so different than the way he had claimed you moments ago.

“ I should’ve fought harder for you.” He whispered.

And then, quieter, like a confession. “ I’m going to fight harder now.”

The room had quieted, but the storm between you hadn’t passed. Gi-hun still lay beneath you, chest glistening with sweat, his breath slowing into something steadier—softer.

The fury had burned out, leaving behind only the raw, pulsing heat of love and yearning. His hand gently brushed your cheek, eyes studying you with something closer to reverence now. That edge in his voice had faded, replaced by a breathy calm.

“ Come here.” He murmured, tugging you gently up.

You straddled his hips, skin still tingling from the intensity of before. He reached down, guiding himself back to you with a quiet, shaky inhale—then his hands gripped your hips.

“ This time…” He whispered, voice low and warm.

“ You ride me.” You blinked at him, but the look in his eyes wasn’t cruel or possessive—it was soft. Worshipful.

“ I want to watch you.” He added, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin.

“ I want to see how good you look when you take your time.” You sank down on him, inch by inch, both of you gasping as your bodies connected again. His fingers dug into your thighs as his head tipped back, lips parting in a silent curse.

“ Fucking hell…you feel unreal.” You began to move—slowly, rolling your hips, teasing yourself with the stretch and the fullness of him.

Gi-hun's eyes snapped back to you, watching every movement with parted lips and a deep flush spreading across his cheeks and chest. He was already close—you could feel it in the tension in his arms, in the way his breath hitched every time you slid down. But he didn’t give in.

“ Not yet…” He said, jaw tightening, voice strained.

“ Don’t let me come yet, baby. Not yet. Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good.” You whimpered, grinding into him deeper, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your waist, across your belly, to your chest—touching you like he couldn’t get enough.

“ Look at you…” He breathed.

“ So perfect. So goddamn perfect when you’re on top of me.” You moved faster now, chasing your own high as you felt his restraint faltering, his hips bucking up into you with instinct.

“ Shit—wait.” He hissed, grabbing your waist to slow your rhythm.

“ You’re gonna make me lose it—slow down. Just hold it. Yeah…just like that. Keep me right there.”

The edging burned through him—you could feel how close he was. See it in the way he bit his lip, in the twitch of his brow. But he kept praising you through it, voice shaking, mouth spilling low, breathless words:

“ You’re everything. You hear me?”

“ My perfect girl.”

“ Fucking ride me like you were made for me.”

You leaned in, kissing him again—soft, long, full of the love buried under the heat—and as your body rolled with his beneath you, it wasn’t just lust anymore.

It was devotion. And he surrendered himself to it. To you.

The sound of your bodies moving together filled the chamber—a slick, desperate rhythm born of hunger, love, and the fire of everything you’d both been holding in for too long.

Gi-hun had flipped you onto your back now—his earlier tenderness transformed back into something darker, rougher, more primal. His body loomed over yours, chest flushed, sweat dripping down his neck as he pounded into you with controlled, punishing thrusts.

The softness was gone from his voice again. What remained was command. “ I let him touch you once.”

He growled into your ear, each word laced with breath and fury. “ But I’m not making that mistake again.”

He grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his hip, driving deeper, grinding into your sweet spot until you gasped and arched beneath him.

“ You’re gonna take everything I give you.” He snarled, eyes locked on yours.

“ You’re gonna let me fuck you so deep there won’t be a single part of you he hasn’t been erased from.” You whimpered, the feeling overwhelming as his pace grew relentless.

“ That’s it—take it.” He panted.

“ This pussy’s mine now. You got it?”

“ Yes—” You cried.

“ Gi-hun, I’m yours—”

“ Say it again.”

“ I’m yours.” You sobbed.

“ Only yours—only yours—” His mouth crashed onto yours in a rough kiss, teeth clashing, tongue claiming. And then he broke away, face twisted with pure carnal focus.

“ I’m gonna breed you.” He growled.

“ Gonna fill you so fucking deep you’ll feel me dripping out for days.” Your whole body trembled at his words, your legs tightening around him. He groaned low, almost losing control.

“ Yeah, you like that? You want me to fuck a baby into you? Make sure everyone knows you belong to me?” You were falling apart under him, moaning his name again and again as he rutted into you, his hands firm on your hips, keeping you in place like you were something precious—something owned.

“ I want to see you swollen with me.” He whispered roughly, forehead pressed to yours.

“ Walking around with my cum in you. My baby in you. My fucking name burned into your body.” You were close. So was he.

Gi-hun groaned deep, his thrusts turning rougher, sloppier, and desperate. “ Come for me.” He hissed.

“ Do it. Milk my cock. Take every last drop.” You shattered under him with a cry, your body clenching tight, stars behind your eyes.

And with one final, deep, possessive thrust—he came, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer all at once. Hot, thick, and all of him. He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, panting, still pulsing inside you. And then, quieter—dangerously soft.

“ No one else gets this again. You understand me?” You nodded weakly, breathless and dazed.

Gi-hun smirked and kissed your temple. “ Good girl.”

Gi-hun stayed buried inside you, his breath gradually slowing as he hovered above you, one hand brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

The warmth between you lingered, your bodies still tangled, hearts still pressed together in the quiet aftermath. Gi-hun had calmed in your arms, his breath steadying as he clung to the one thing that made him feel alive again—you.

But the silence couldn’t last forever. You both knew that.

Your fingers gently brushed the side of his face as you whispered, “ You have to go back, Gi-hun.”

He stiffened slightly in your embrace.

“ There’s still one last thing you need to do.” You continued, voice soft but firm.

“ Player 222’s baby. That innocent child…they don’t deserve to be left here. You promised, remember?” Gi-hun didn’t answer at first. He only stared into your eyes, something dark and wounded in his gaze.

Then, slowly, he dropped his forehead against your neck, arms winding tighter around your waist. He breathed you in like a man trying to memorize your scent before the world stole it from him.

“ I just want to stay like this.” He muttered, voice thick and aching.

“ Just for a little while. I want to be selfish.” His voice dropped lower, cracked.

“ For once in my fucked-up life, I want to choose me.” You didn’t move. You let him say it, let him ache, let him mourn the peace he couldn’t have.

“ But…” He whispered, exhaling hard.

“ You’re right. That baby needs someone. Someone who hasn’t given up.” Gi-hun slowly leaned back, just enough to see your face.

His hands rose to cup your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing over your skin with reverence. And then, with his eyes locked into yours—raw, honest, and trembling—he said it.

“ I love you.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit with the weight of everything he'd been holding back.

“ I know it’s too fucking fast.” He laughed quietly, almost bitterly.

“ We’re in the middle of hell. This place is a nightmare. And maybe I’m crazy for saying it here, like this…” His fingers slid behind your neck, pulling your forehead to his. His voice cracked as he finished.

“ But if I don’t tell you now, I might not get another chance.” Tears welled up in your eyes as his lips pressed softly to yours—no hunger, no desperation this time. Just the truth.

“ I love you.” He repeated.

“ And I’ll fight to come back. To you. Just…wait for me.” And then, as his arms slid away, as the weight of his final mission settled over his shoulders—

You knew. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about love. About redemption. And about saving something pure in a world that had already taken so much.

…

The VIP lounge buzzed with drunken delight. Laughter echoed through gold-lined walls, mingling with the soft clinks of glasses and the low hum of orchestral music playing in the background. The display screens lit up with the profiles of the final players, their odds displayed like racehorses.

“ Five million on 456.” One of the masked elites barked, lounging lazily as servants refilled his glass.

“ Ha! Foolish bet.” Another laughed.

“ I’m all in on 333. Look at his record—survivor instincts. A killer’s eyes.” The Frontman stood silently above them all, mask firm over his face, posture rigid.

Young-il was there—but not really present. His hands clenched behind his back as he listened to their detached predictions—men and women treating human life as nothing but chips in a game of chance. His mind was far from their laughter. Far from their money. Far from this bloodstained empire.

It was you. And Gi-hun. A quiet war was storming inside his chest. He hated this. He hated the games. He hated the system that swallowed him whole and molded him into something cold. Something feared. But beneath that hardened role, a man was still fighting to breathe.

He remembered the look in your eyes earlier. The pain in Gi-hun’s voice. The way the two of you still held on to each other despite everything.

He had everything now. Power. Status. Authority.

And yet he felt…hollow. He couldn’t protect you. He couldn’t save Gi-hun. He couldn’t even stop the next round of carnage scheduled to take place in another country.

The system wouldn’t allow it. But maybe he could stop it here. Maybe he could stop this one. The sudden scrape of his chair echoed through the room as he stood. The VIPs glanced up briefly, mildly annoyed, but no one dared question the Frontman.

Young-il didn’t speak. He turned and walked out—fast, decisive, storming through the corridors until he reached the elevator. Once the doors slid shut, he ripped off his mask, his jaw clenched, breath shallow.

His eyes burned. His chest ached. His soul—torn between damnation and redemption—screamed for a way out. Minutes later, the heavy doors to his private chamber swung open. You and Gi-hun both looked up from where you sat—wary, bracing.

Young-il didn’t wait.

“ I changed my fucking mind.” He said, voice raw and loud, echoing off the walls.

“ I’m done.”

Gi-hun stood slowly, suspicious. “ What the hell are you talking about?”

“ I don’t want this anymore.” Young-il hissed, slamming the mask onto the table beside him.

“ This game. These killings. These VIP bastards. It’s all bullshit. And I was a coward for letting it happen. For being part of it.” You stepped toward him slowly, your expression unreadable.

“ I know I already fucked up.” Young-il said, his voice breaking.

“ I ruined too much. I hurt both of you. I let this place rot every inch of me—but I want out.”

Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “ Now you want redemption? After everything?”

Young-il didn’t look away. “ I don’t expect forgiveness.” He said quietly.

“ But I’m not going to let this game take either of you. Not anymore.” Silence thickened the air.

“ I’m going to shut it down.” Young-il continued.

“ End the final game before it starts. Get you out. Burn this entire structure to the ground if I have to. Because I want to be free too.” You stared at him.

At the man who once wore the devil’s mask. Now cracking in front of you. For the first time…he looked human.

You reached for Gi-hun’s hand—tightly. And for a single moment, the three of you stood in the same storm. Enemies. Allies. Wreckage. But maybe…also the beginning of something that could still be saved.

Maybe.

The low hum of the chamber was broken only by the distant rattle of machinery echoing through the walls—sounds from deeper levels of the facility where the gears of death were still turning. But here, within these four walls, something else stirred. Something heavier than fear.

It was reckoning. Young-il stood in front of both you and Gi-hun, his posture still commanding, but his voice was no longer sharp. It was weighted. Human.

“ I’ll order my guard to fetch the baby.” He said firmly.

“ To keep her safe. Somewhere even the VIPs don’t know.” You froze—your eyes flickering toward him. Gi-hun's brows lifted, not expecting that from the man he once vowed to kill.

“ I realized…” Young-il continued, jaw tight.

“ You were both right. The child should never have been part of this. None of this was supposed to happen.” He lowered his eyes, almost ashamed.

“ But I was too blind—too wrapped up in my pain. My hatred. And all it made me do was make monsters’ choices.” Gi-hun didn't speak, but his eyes never left him.

A knock came. One of Young-il’s guards stepped in briskly. “ Sir—we’ve detected something unusual on the radar. Movement near the outer perimeter. It could be the coast guard…or interference.”

Young-il raised his hand. “ Dismissed. I’ll deal with it.”

The guard hesitated, then bowed out of the room, the doors hissing shut again. Once silence fell, Young-il turned back to the two of you. His mask now rested abandoned on the table, the symbol of who he was no longer between him and his decisions.

“ If things go to shit…” He said gravely.

“ There’s a weak point beneath the medical bay. There’s a rusted tunnel there that used to be an old maintenance shaft, back when the island was a military outpost.”

“ It leads straight to the sea cliffs. You follow it, you’ll find a boat hidden in a camouflaged dock. Only the original architects and the first generation of staff knew about it. It’s never been logged into the security system.”

You blinked, stunned. Gi-hun's jaw clenched, his heart hammering. This wasn’t just a tip. This was a sacrifice.

“ I’m going to make sure the baby is secured and that the final game doesn't begin.” Young-il said, straightening.

“ If I succeed, the facility will go dark. The signals, the surveillance, the lockdowns—they’ll all fall.”

Gi-hun stepped forward. “ I’m not letting you go alone. If you’re serious about ending this—let me help.”

Young-il turned slowly, meeting his eyes. “ No.”

Gi-hun flinched at the command, but Young-il’s tone wasn’t cruel—it was pleading.

“ You have to stay.” He said, quieter now.

“ With her. With the baby. I’ve already sold my soul to this place, Gi-hun. You haven’t. Not completely.”

“ You think I can just stand here while—”

“ You protect them.” Young-il snapped, his voice cracking.

“ That’s how you help. That’s how you redeem what all of us have lost here.” A silence fell between them. Not of enemies. Not of rivals.

But of two men bound by one thing they both loved…you.

“ I don’t expect you to forgive me.” Young-il muttered, looking at you now. His voice trembled.

“ But I want to at least make sure you live.” You reached out, but he was already turning.

“ I’ll send a signal when it’s time.” He said, opening the chamber door.

“ Until then, get ready.” And with that, Young-il stepped out—into the fire. Into the final act of the hell he helped build. To burn it down. Or be buried with it.

For the first time, maybe he didn’t care which—so long as you escaped it.

…

The air inside the control room was cold and sterile, filled with the constant ticking of surveillance feeds and the quiet rustle of guards shifting at their posts.

Screens flickered with the faces of the final players—some anxious, some numb—each unaware that the floor beneath them was already collapsing. Young-il entered with his mask on once again, the glassy black sheen hiding the storm brewing in his eyes.

“ Frontman.” One of the senior guards saluted stiffly.

“ There’s an unidentified presence moving toward the eastern perimeter. The radar marked it twenty minutes ago—land-based, low profile, but persistent.”

Young-il approached the monitor, his eyes narrowing at the glitchy dot moving closer and closer to the invisible lines of the island’s hidden boundaries.

He already knew who it was. He could feel it.

“ Let it in.” He ordered coldly.

The room froze.

“ Sir?” The guard blinked. “ You want us to let the entity breach our perimeter?”

“ Yes. Let him come.” The younger guards exchanged uneasy glances.

“ Whoever it is.” Young-il continued, voice low.

“ Has been trying to reach this island long before you were even assigned here. Let’s see how far he gets.”

The guard cleared his throat. “ With all due respect, sir…that’s highly irregular protocol—”

“ Irregularity is the only consistent thing in this fucking place.” Young-il snapped.

“ Do I need to repeat myself?”

“ No, sir.”

Young-il turned his gaze toward another screen. Player 456. Gi-hun. Still alive. Still breathing. Still resisting. And next to his name—Player 222. The baby's number.

The corner of his mouth twitched bitterly beneath the mask. “ Eliminate 456 and 222.”

A heavy silence. It was as if time had stopped.

One of the guards slowly lifted his head. “ Sir, both players are alive. If we execute them now without being seen, the others might grow suspicious—”

“ No, they won’t.” Young-il cut in.

“ They’ve already turned their backs on them. They want them dead. The girl and her baby are burdens to them, and 456 is the shield that keeps getting in the way. They’ll celebrate their absence, not mourn it.”

The guard hesitated again. “ And the entity—?”

“ Let him come.” Young-il said, his voice low and venomous.

“ It’s my brother.” A cold breath swept through the room like a ghost.

Jun-ho. The name hadn’t been spoken in years. Not since the first breach. Not since the shots that should’ve ended him. But Young-il’s voice didn’t carry fear. It carried certainty.

“ He’s no real threat.” He said darkly.

“ He won’t survive long. But if he manages to crawl this far alone…then let him see what his big brother has become.” The guards didn’t speak again.

“ Follow the order.” Young-il commanded flatly. “ Eliminate 456 and 222. Quietly. Before the final game.”

“ Yes, Frontman.” The head guard responded grimly, and relayed the command.

Without another word, Young-il pivoted on his heel and walked out of the control room, his cape trailing behind him like the shadow of a condemned king. As the door hissed shut behind him, the tension in the room thickened. Because now—

Everything was in motion. The invader. The betrayal. The blood is about to be spilled. And Young-il? He returned to the VIP lounge. To play the role one last time—

Before it all burned.

…

The heavy doors of the VIP lounge swung open with an audible hiss, revealing Young-il once again in full Frontman attire. The room—usually full of decadent laughter and lazy indulgence—was already thrumming with irritation. Frustrated murmurs grew louder as his boots echoed on the marble floor.

“ Frontman!” VIP 1 barked the moment Young-il stepped forward.

A wave of angry chatter rose like a tide. “ What the hell happened out there?!”

“ Player 456 is gone—eliminated!”

“ And the baby! What the fuck are you running?! A nursery or a goddamn bloodbath?!”

Young-il remained composed, his hands gloved and steady behind his back. He approached the center of the lounge, facing the fuming crowd of masked elites.

“ They were killed by another player.” He announced coldly.

“ While asleep. I issued an instruction to one of the remaining competitors to carry out the task. Quietly.” The room erupted again.

“ Bullshit!”

“ Why would any of them do that?! 456 was the crowd’s favorite!”

“ You tampered with the results! You stole our game!”

VIP 1 stepped forward, teeth bared behind his grotesque gold-trimmed mask. With a snarl, he grabbed Young-il by the collar, shaking him violently.

“ You fucking idiot! This was the climax! The final arc! You ruined it!” Young-il’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t speak yet. Didn’t even blink.

VIP 1 kept going, jabbing a fat finger into Young-il’s chest. “ You’re a liar. A fraud. Just another dog in a fancy suit.”

Young-il’s gloved fists clenched tightly at his sides.

Another VIP tried to intervene. “ Calm down. This isn’t—”

“ No!” VIP 1 screamed.

“ He betrayed us! This entire fucking show is a sham!” Suddenly, Young-il pulled his revolver from his side holster and aimed it directly at VIP 1’s face.

The room froze. The long barrel gleamed under the chandelier's flicker.

“ You don’t treat the host like a dog.” Young-il said in a low, warning growl.

“ Without me, this place wouldn’t even exist. You’d have no stage. No slaughter. No sick pleasure to bet on.” VIP 1 slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, eyes locked with Young-il’s gun.

“ So what?” He hissed.

“ You think waving that thing makes you untouchable?” He lunged forward suddenly—grabbing at the revolver.

A struggle erupted. The two men wrestled for control. Grunts and curses filled the air. Other VIPs screamed, scrambling behind couches and champagne carts. Some ducked. One even shouted to the guards outside—but it was too late.

BANG!

The gunshot echoed like a whipcrack. VIP 1 collapsed to the velvet carpet, blood blossoming from the center of his forehead.

Dead. Instantly. A stillness followed. The kind that strangled a room. Young-il lowered the smoking gun slowly. His mask turned toward the remaining VIPs—now trembling, panting, hiding in fear despite their usual bravado.

His voice was like steel. “ If any of you have intentions to rebel—if any of you think that you can override my judgment—you will share this bastard’s fate. Or worse.”

He holstered the revolver with surgical calm and walked to the center of the room, unshaken by the corpse behind him.

“ To the rest of you.” He added, voice sharp and final.

“ The Sixth Game will begin momentarily. Enjoy the show.” He gestured toward the door.

“ Guards. Clean this mess.” As the soldiers entered swiftly to retrieve the corpse, the other VIPs stayed silent—no longer predators perched atop the food chain, but anxious vultures clinging to their luxury and illusions.

Young-il stood tall at the head of the room. The mask on his face still, but the fire behind it—blazing. Because now, the true game had finally begun.

…

You sat on the velvet chaise in Young-il’s chamber, the silence thick with questions neither of you could answer. Gi-hun stood nearby, pacing slightly—his brows drawn, his body tense, his heart clearly still at war with what just happened.

“ I still don’t trust him.” He muttered darkly. His gaze drifted toward the door, jaw clenched.

“ Young-il doesn’t change. He’s not built for that.”

You looked up at him, tired but grounded. “ Maybe not.” You said gently.

“ But maybe this is the rebellion he once mentioned. Maybe…your rebellion didn’t fail after all.” Gi-hun’s eyes met yours for a long moment.

The same storm of grief, love, and fury still lingered in his eyes. But beneath all that—a glimmer. Of something softer. Something fragile.

“ Redemption, huh?” He scoffed under his breath, pacing again.

“ You think this is what that looks like?” You opened your mouth to respond—but the hiss of the chamber door interrupted.

You both turned swiftly. A Square-masked guard entered silently. In his arms was a small, bundled figure—soft, swaddled in neutral fabric. Barely a sound came from the child as he stepped forward with robotic precision.

The baby. Your heart leapt to your throat. Gi-hun stepped forward instinctively, arms reaching out. The Square guard gently placed the child into Gi-hun’s waiting arms. The baby stirred, small hands twitching against his chest, and Gi-hun froze for a second, just staring. His features trembled—eyes wide and glistening.

“ Jun-hee’s baby…” He whispered. “ She’s… she’s alive.”

The Square guard’s voice cut through the moment, calm and calculated. “ The Frontman instructed me to deliver the child to your care. He advises that you remain inside this chamber until his final command is given.”

You swallowed, watching the way Gi-hun’s arms curled protectively around the baby. “ And after that?”

The guard didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

“ Wait for the signal.” Was all he said before disappearing, the door hissing closed behind him once again.

Silence fell again. But this time…not empty.

The baby made a soft, sleepy noise. Gi-hun looked down at her—his jaw trembling. You reached over, gently placing your hand on the child’s small chest, feeling the tiny rhythm of her breath.

“ She’s safe now.” You whispered, your voice nearly cracking.

“ She’s with us.” Gi-hun didn’t speak for a while. He just stood there, holding her like she was made of glass.

“ If Young-il betrays us again.” He muttered eventually.

“ I swear…nothing will stop me from burning this whole place down.” You nodded, eyes never leaving the baby’s peaceful face.

“ Then we burn it together.”

A sudden, piercing chime echoed through the chamber. Both you and Gi-hun jolted, instinctively tightening together as the voice of the Frontman’s speaker system boomed across the compound—cold, mechanical, absolute.

“ Let the sixth game commence.”

“ Player 456, eliminated.

“ Player 222, eliminated.”

Gi-hun froze mid-step, his entire body turning rigid. The baby whimpered softly in his arms, sensing the tension. His face paled as if the air had been pulled from the room.

“ Eliminated?” He muttered. “ But…we’re still alive…”

He turned to you slowly, eyes wild and confused. “ Why would they announce that?”

Your heart raced as you pulled closer to the monitor embedded in the wall—footage of the arena flickered on screen. It wasn’t the same dull concrete floor or bloodstained sand pit from before.

This time, the game board floated in midair—high above a gaping chasm surrounded by a surreal skyline. It looked like a twisted mimic of the original Squid Game, but…reimagined. Elevated. Deadlier.

“ This isn’t the same.” Gi-hun said under his breath.

“ It's some kind of sky version.” You scanned the screen, voice calm despite the weight in your chest.

“ The arena…it looks like they’re using platformed shapes. See that?” You pointed at the circular markings scattered in the air, some vanishing as players stepped too soon or too slow.

“ It’s like Red Light, Green Light but…vertical. Maybe even worse.” You backed away from the screen, eyes narrowing as you pieced it together.

“ Maybe they need to eliminate others first before earning the right to even cross those shapes.” Gi-hun’s grip on the baby tightened protectively. She whimpered again, unsettled by the noise, the chaos, the tension crawling off his skin.

“ They announced us dead to the others.” He said, his voice hollow, his throat tightening. “ To the players, to the VIPs. It means we’re not in the game anymore.”

You nodded slowly. “ They’ve wiped us out officially…which means we’re now invisible. Free agents. Ghosts.”

Gi-hun muttered something low. Then clearer, as his teeth grit. “ The game must go on.”

You looked at him, startled by the shift in his voice. The rage returned. That sharp edge. The one born from survival, grief, and vengeance. He looked down at the baby. Then at you.

“ No one will see us coming.” He said, eyes burning now.

“ If they think we’re already dead…” You finished the thought with a whisper, your hand finding his. “ Then they won’t be ready when we take it all down.”

The air shifted before the hiss of the door. You and Gi-hun both turned, expecting a guard…or maybe Young-il again.

But it wasn’t.

A young man in black tactical gear stood in the doorway—sweat-drenched, rifle raised, eyes alert. He looked like he’d crawled through hell to get here.

“ Don’t move!” The stranger barked, his voice low but firm.

“ Hands where I can see them!” Gi-hun's grip instinctively tightened around the baby, his body tense as he turned fully toward the figure.

Then, a whisper escaped his lips—

A name, drenched in disbelief. “ Detective Hwang…?”

The man’s expression flickered—surprise flashing behind his focused glare. His stance loosened, and slowly, cautiously, he lowered the rifle.

“ Mr. Seong…?” Jun-ho stepped forward, looking like he was trying to process whether this was real or just another mirage in the madness of this island.

Gi-hun nodded, emotion washing over his features. “ Yeah…yeah, it’s me.”

Jun-ho's eyes fell to the baby in Gi-hun’s arms, brows tightening, breath catching for a second. Then he looked at you—his eyes assessing, questioning, guarded.

Gi-hun spoke quickly, his voice low and steady. “ One of the players gave birth during the game. This baby…she didn’t choose to be here.”

He glanced at you, then back at Jun-ho. “ She’s not her mother, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jun-ho blinked, silent for a second, then exhaled through his nose. “ Shit…” His eyes darkened as he stepped further inside, pacing slightly like a man on the edge.

“ Where is he?” He asked flatly.

“ Who?” Gi-hun asked, though he already knew.

“ The Frontman.” Jun-ho’s jaw tightened like iron.

Gi-hun looked away for a beat, then answered, “ He’s in the VIP longue…keeping them entertained.”

Jun-ho flinched—visibly. As if the mere mention of the VIPs hit a nerve far deeper than just disgust. You didn’t miss the way his hands trembled slightly at his sides before he clenched them into fists. Rage. Or maybe pain. Likely both.

“ I knew he was alive…” Jun-ho muttered, his voice lower now. “ I knew he couldn’t die that easily.”

You exchanged a glance with Gi-hun. There was history here. Dark, tangled history. Jun-ho turned toward both of you again.

His face was taut, haunted—but his voice was steady. “ I don’t know what the hell he told you. Or what game you’re part of now. But you need to get out. Both of you. I came here to end this, and I’m not letting anyone else die.”

The baby let out a soft whimper in Gi-hun’s arms, and Jun-ho’s eyes softened—just for a moment.

“ You said the players don’t know you’re alive?” He asked.

Gi-hun nodded. “ They think we’re eliminated.”

Jun-ho nodded slowly, pulling something from his tactical pouch—a folded blueprint, smudged with dirt and sweat. “ Then we use that. There’s a breach on the northern end of the island. That’s how I got in. It's barely guarded.”

He pointed at a utility tunnel hidden beneath one of the old game facilities. “ We use this path. But we need to move before the last game ends.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but firm. “ We know of a second exit…Young-il told us about it. Said it’s the weakest point if things go to hell.”

Jun-ho scoffed bitterly. “ And you believe him?”

Gi-hun hesitated, then met Jun-ho’s eyes. “ I don’t trust him. But I trust that he wants to end this—maybe not for the right reasons, but…for something.”

Jun-ho was silent. He looked between the two of you…then down at the baby again.

“ Then we move fast.” He finally said.

“ Because if he’s stalling the VIPs, it won’t be long until someone figures out the whole thing’s gone off script.” Gi-hun held the baby tighter and nodded.

“ Let’s end it.”

And so the four of you stood—survivors, born from betrayal, blood, and broken promises—ready to burn it all down.

…

The heavy silence of the corridor was shattered as Jun-ho threw a pistol toward Gi-hun. He caught it without missing a beat.

“ Take it.” Jun-ho said quickly.

“ You’ll need it.” Gi-hun nodded once, then turned to you.

His voice was low, urgent. “ Hold her. Keep her close.”

You gently took the baby into your arms, cradling her against your chest. Her small body trembled, barely understanding the chaos unfolding around her.

Jun-ho checked his magazine. “ We’re close. Once we breach, you stay behind us.”

“ Where are you going after we take them down?” Gi-hun asked, keeping his eyes forward.

Jun-ho didn’t even turn around. His voice was cold. “ I need to get into the VIP lounge. I need to talk to him.”

“ Why?” Gi-hun narrowed his eyes, slowing slightly.

“ What the hell does the Frontman have to do with you?” Jun-ho stopped, jaw tightening like a ticking time bomb.

“ That’s none of your concern anymore.” He muttered without looking back.

“ Just cover me.” Gi-hun exchanged a short glance with you, then silently fell back into position beside Jun-ho.

The three of you rounded the final hall and reached the VIP lounge doors. Jun-ho raised his rifle, and—

BANG!

The entrance was breached with the sound of splintering metal and the sharp shrieks of surprised VIPs. Guards scrambled to raise their weapons, but Jun-ho and Gi-hun were faster.

Gunfire erupted. Jun-ho moved like a machine—years of buried rage and instinct driving his every motion. Each shot was precise. Brutal. Clean. Gi-hun fired beside him, handling the weapon like a man who had nothing left to lose.

You stayed low behind them, shielding the baby with your body. The infant whimpered, tiny fists curling near her face as the sound of bullets cracked overhead.

A final blast rang out, and silence fell just as suddenly as the storm had begun. Then a scream cut the silence—

“ You!” Jun-ho stepped forward, rifle raised, his breathing sharp and uneven.

At the far corner of the opulent lounge, Young-il stood, his usually cold and composed demeanor now shattered into a stiff, pale figure. The remaining VIPs cowered behind lavish couches, their masks scattered or cracked, trembling with the horror of watching their sanctuary turn into a battleground.

Jun-ho’s voice boomed across the room. “ No one moves. If any of you even blink the wrong way, I’ll shoot every last one of you.”

His aim was unwavering—directed at Young-il.

“ Young-il…” Gi-hun muttered under his breath, stepping slightly ahead to shield you and the baby.

“ He’s not here for them. He’s here for you.”

Young-il didn’t deny it. He stood frozen, eyes locked on Jun-ho, shoulders square—but his fingers trembled. Jun-ho stepped forward, one boot thudding hard on the marble floor.

“ Took me long enough, huh?” He muttered, voice venom-laced.

Young-il didn’t speak.

“ You faked your death.” Jun-ho growled.

“ Ran away and built this. All these years, I thought you were a corpse…but turns out, you were busy making hell.”

“ Jun-ho.” Young-il finally spoke, his voice rough. “ I—”

“ Shut up.” Jun-ho's voice cracked. “ You don’t get to speak yet.”

The room was frozen in time. VIPs too terrified to breathe. Guards dead or dying. A baby cooing softly behind Gi-hun. And two brothers—one who built the empire of death. And the other?

The one who came to burn it down. You and Gi-hun stood frozen, backs pressed to one another, the baby tight in your arms. The air inside the VIP lounge turned dense, heavy with tension and a storm of unraveling truths.

Jun-ho’s voice shook the room. “ Hyung…Why?”

“ Why the hell would you do this?”

You blinked—Hyung?

Gi-hun turned to you, whispering, “ Wait…they're brothers?”

Your heart dropped. Young-il—or rather, In-ho—stood still across the room. No longer the unreadable Frontman. No longer the mask. Just…a man with a name. A brother with blood on his hands.

But In-ho didn’t answer.

“ In-ho, answer me!” Jun-ho roared, stepping closer, rifle aimed at his brother’s chest.

“ You left me for dead! And yet I still tried to save you! I still climbed that cliff and dragged myself through hell to find you!” His voice broke, raw and furious.

“ I was in a fucking coma for years, hyung!”

“ Our mother died thinking you were dead! And this is what you’ve been doing all this time?”

“ She believed you were a good son. The lost son. But I found out the truth. You weren’t lost…you were hiding. Behind this—this madness!”

In-ho’s gloved hands twitched. His eyes darted around the ruined lounge, the blood, the chaos.

He finally spoke—his voice quieter, but laced with guilt and bitterness. “ I only pushed you off that cliff to keep you from coming back. You were getting too close. You wouldn’t let it go…”

He took a breath, then added with venom. “ You’ve always been stubborn, Jun-ho. Even when we were kids—you never stopped until you got what you wanted.”

Jun-ho’s breath hitched. His hands shook against the rifle’s grip. Tears welled in his eyes but didn’t fall.

“ Then I guess I wanted a brother more than you ever did.” In-ho winced at those words. But he didn’t lower his gaze.

“ And our mother?” Jun-ho continued, voice trembling.

“ She mourned you every single day. Do you know what she would say if she saw what you’ve become?”

Silence.

“ She’d be ashamed.” That…broke something. In-ho’s fingers twitched. Then his hand moved—

BOOM!

Gunfire cracked through the room. You yelped, pulling the baby tight to your chest as you ducked behind Gi-hun. He raised the pistol, tense, but didn’t fire. Not yet.

Jun-ho dove behind one of the lounge chairs, bullets ripping through velvet and silk as In-ho fired again and again, his revolver unloading in fury.

“ Detective!” You shouted.

Gi-hun turned to you, breath short. “ We need to get out of here—now.”

But your eyes were locked on the two brothers. A family shattered. On a bond poisoned.

The Frontman had a name now. And he just tried to kill his own brother again. Your grip on the baby tightened as your heart pounded. Whatever you thought you knew about this place…

You didn’t know anything yet.

The shrill alarm blared through the entire facility—piercing, frantic, final. Red lights pulsed in every corner of the room, signaling the collapse of order.

Guards swarmed into the VIP lounge, shouting over each other as they scrambled to evacuate the rich monsters who once cheered for death like it was sport. They were no longer entertained. They were terrified.

Gi-hun stood still in the middle of it all, trembling from rage. He stepped forward, voice cracking, shouting above the chaos.

“ How the fuck could you do this, Young-il?! All this time—you manipulated us! Lied to us! You acted like you were someone we could trust!” You felt his pain in every word. His betrayal.

Gi-hun turned to you briefly, eyes sharp, and then back to the man who used to hide behind the mask of the Frontman. “ Your name, your face—it was all made up! And I still trusted you like a fucking fool!”

In-ho didn’t flinch. His voice was level, steady—yet saddened. “ When I joined the game I created, I did it to sabotage you. That was my intention. But the more I watched… the more I saw myself in you.”

His eyes flicked between Gi-hun, you, and the baby. “ I realized I was wrong. That’s why I helped you survive. You, the child…and her. I wanted to save all of you.”

Jun-ho stood back up, rifle steady, jaw clenched. He snapped. “ Save? You don’t get to use that word. You’re a fucking traitor, hyung. You let people die. You killed them. You don’t deserve forgiveness. You don’t deserve to live.”

He raised the rifle. The moment everyone stopped breathing. Gi-hun reached instinctively toward you and the baby. Your arms tightened protectively, but your feet moved forward—

“ Detective, stop.” You put yourself between him and In-ho.

His eyes widened in disbelief. “ What are you doing?! Get out of the way!”

You didn't budge. “ You didn’t come here to kill your brother. You came here to save the players.”

Jun-ho’s chest heaved. You added, voice stronger. “ They’re still up there. On that sky-shaped game. They think Player 456 is dead. They think there's no hope.”

You glanced at Gi-hun. “ But he’s alive. And so is the child. The rebellion didn’t fail—it just changed hands.”

Jun-ho’s eyes flicked between you, Gi-hun, and In-ho. His breathing slowed…slightly.

“ Don’t let this be about revenge.” You said quietly.

“ Let this be the ending your brother never had the courage to give. Save them.” For a second, nothing moved.

The alarms, the panicked shouting, the guards dragging the VIPs—it all blurred into silence. Then…Jun-ho lowered the rifle. He didn’t speak. He just turned away, shoulders trembling, and moved toward the hallway leading to the game arena—toward the trapped players, toward redemption.

In-ho stayed behind, blood on his gloves and guilt in his eyes. Gi-hun looked at him one last time and muttered.

“ I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you…but if you really want to help—this is your last chance.” Then he walked past him.

And you followed—baby in your arms, heart still pounding. This wasn't over. But maybe…maybe the ending could still mean something.

…

A thunderous explosion echoed behind you—so powerful it shook the earth. The baby in your arms flinched and whimpered, her small fists tightening around your shirt. You held her close, pressing your cheek against her soft head.

“ Shhh…you’re safe.” You whispered, voice barely above a hush.

“ It’s all over now. That version of hell…it’s gone.” You glanced out the back of the van's tinted window.

Smoke billowed in thick, black clouds across the sky where the island used to be. The once-mighty Squid Game compound now dismantled, detonated, erased.

The orange glow still lingered on the horizon. Coastguard boats were visible in the far distance, racing toward the remains.

Too late.

Inside the van, it was quiet. Just the hum of the road beneath the tires and the soft breathing of a child born in the middle of a massacre. Gi-hun sat beside you, elbow on the window, staring blankly.

Across from you both was Young-il—no…In-ho.

The silence stretched thick, like suffocating fog.

Until In-ho finally spoke. “ I never thought I’d see that place burn.”

But before he could say more, Gi-hun cut him off—his voice low, angry. “ Don’t talk like you’re the hero here.”

In-ho fell silent, eyes down.

“ You betrayed all of us.” Gi-hun continued, jaw clenched.

“ You used me. Lied to me. And now you’re trying to act like this was part of your plan all along?” In-ho took the blow quietly.

“ I understand you’re angry. And you have every right to be.” He said.

“ I will take accountability. Whatever punishment comes my way…I won’t run from it.” He took off his gloves slowly, as if shedding the last of his disguise.

“ My real name is Hwang In-ho. Jun-ho is my younger brother.” Your eyes widened. Gi-hun flinched—but didn’t speak.

“ I played that game too.” In-ho continued.

“ Years ago. And I won. But I didn’t walk out whole. I walked out hollow.” He looked at Gi-hun directly now.

“ I saw myself in you. That’s why I helped you. But I was wrong…You and I aren’t the same.” Gi-hun turned slowly to him.

“ No.” He muttered.

“ We’re not.” He stared at the baby now nestled in your arms.

“ Because even when they treat us like horses in a race…we’re still human. Humans are—"

Another explosion cut him off. Far in the distance now, but enough to rattle the van and jolt everyone into silence.

The baby whimpered again. You held her tighter, brushing her hair back gently. Then you turned to In-ho, voice calm but pointed.

“ Where are you taking us?” In-ho looked at you through the rearview mirror, hands steady on the wheel.

“ Somewhere safe. My property—off-grid. I have resources, protection. We’ll be ghosts.” You watched him closely.

“ And then?” He didn’t flinch.

“ Then I settle everything. Erase every trace. The world can’t know there were survivors. If they find out…they’ll come for you. For the child. For Gi-hun. I won’t let that happen.”

The baby stirred again, her small hand reaching toward the light leaking in through the window. Gi-hun didn’t speak. He just closed his eyes, breathing out slowly, fists tight on his knees.

This wasn’t the end. But for the first time—it felt like the beginning of something real.

Something free.

...

The sunlight filtered through the trees, warm and golden, casting a soft halo over the park. Laughter rang in the air—high-pitched and pure. Children darted across the grass, chasing bubbles and each other, as if the world never knew pain.

Your eyes followed one child in particular.

Soo-min. She wore a yellow dress that fluttered like butterfly wings as she ran barefoot through the grass. Her hair, dark and curled at the ends, bounced with every joyful jump.

Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her giggles echoed in your chest like a melody you never wanted to forget. You sat quietly on the bench, a smile playing at your lips. A book rested open on your lap, unread.

" She’s grown up so fast." You whispered to yourself.

Seven years. It had been seven years since the day that island burned. Seven years since the bloodshed, betrayal, and survival. And seven years since you became a mother—not by blood, but by fate.

Soo-min wasn’t just any child. She was your second chance. Born in a place of death, yet raised in love. A living proof that no matter how much darkness the past held, something beautiful could still grow.

You were pulled from your thoughts when you heard a familiar scream. “ Appa! Appa!”

Soo-min dashed across the field, her arms stretched wide as two figures approached the edge of the park. Gi-hun and In-ho. Your heart fluttered—still not quite used to the image, even after all these years.

She collided with them, wrapping her arms around Gi-hun’s waist, then throwing herself into In-ho’s arms. The men laughed, genuine and unguarded.

It was a sound you rarely heard in those old days, but now…it had become common. Familiar. Home. In-ho scooped Soo-min up effortlessly and spun her around, his tailored jacket catching the wind.

“ Look how big you’ve gotten!” He teased.

“ I just saw you this morning!” Gi-hun laughed.

Soo-min giggled wildly. “ I missed you already!”

You stood slowly and walked over, joining your little family. Gi-hun leaned down and kissed your temple. In-ho reached for your hand—tentative, as he always was—but you took it without hesitation.

This strange, complicated bond between the three of you had endured. Repaired, redefined—but not broken. After the island, there were moments you thought it couldn’t last. But it did.

You looked at In-ho.

He’d changed. Not just in appearance—though he traded his black suit and cold stare for softer clothes, gentler eyes. But in his actions. He made amends—with Jun-ho, with you, with Gi-hun. He never tried to erase his past. He confronted it. Rebuilt from it.

He was the one who sustained everything. Paid for Soo-min’s medical bills. Her school. Her toys. Her birthday cakes. Her future.

And Gi-hun? He returned to the US for a time, reconnected with his daughter. In-ho helped him. Helped both of them. Gi-hun cried when they embraced again—this time not as strangers, but father and daughter. Now, they video call often. Sometimes Soo-min would wave at the screen and call her "unnie."

And you? You’d finally returned to your foster family. You walked into their home like a storm—trembling, broken, ashamed. But they held you. Tears, apologies, stories you never thought you’d say out loud—all of it poured out that night.

And they listened. They forgave. Now, they sent postcards. Asked about Soo-min. Send her little dresses and hair clips. This—this moment in the park—it was peace, fragile but real.

Soo-min tugged on all your hands. “ Let’s play! Let’s go on the swings!”

The three of you exchanged glances, soft chuckles rising from your throats. Gi-hun ran ahead to push her, while In-ho lingered behind with you. He looked at the child playing with her appa, then turned to you.

“ Thank you.” He said quietly.

“ For accepting her…and us…this life.” You squeezed his hand gently.

“ Thank you for protecting it.” And for a brief, precious moment, there was no past, no Frontman, no games—only family, and the sound of your daughter’s laughter in the wind.

…

The clinking of utensils and soft laughter filled the cozy dining room. The scent of warm stew and grilled side dishes lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of the home you’d all built together.

The table was small, intimate—just enough for the four of you. Soo-min sat between her two appas, swinging her little legs under the table, her cheeks puffed with rice as she chewed. You reached over and wiped the corner of her mouth gently with a napkin.

In-ho poured a little more broth into her bowl. Gi-hun helped pick out the mushrooms she didn’t like, teasing her that one day her taste buds would grow up.

It was a normal evening. Quiet. Peaceful. Until Soo-min, with her bright, curious eyes, tilted her head and asked:

“ Um…why do I have two appas?”

The question dropped like a pebble in a still pond. Silence followed. All three of you looked at one another, wide-eyed—caught off guard. In-ho cleared his throat. Gi-hun choked on a sip of water. You bit your lip to stifle a smile.

“ Did someone ask you that at school?” You asked gently.

Soo-min nodded. “ Yeah. My friend said she only has one appa. She said it's kinda weird to have two.”

She looked back and forth between the men, brows furrowed. “ So...how come I have both of you?”

Gi-hun looked at In-ho.

In-ho looked at you.

You looked at both of them.

Then, Gi-hun smiled softly and leaned toward her. “ Well, you know how some families are different?”

“ Uh-huh.”

“ Some kids have an eomma and an appa. Some just have one parent. And some, like you…” He tapped her nose.

“ Are really lucky and get two appas and an eomma.”

Soo-min blinked, thoughtful. “ But are you two married to eomma?”

In-ho chuckled under his breath. “ It’s…a little more special than that.”

You leaned in, voice calm and loving. “ You know how we always tell you that love is what makes a family?”

“ Mhm.”

“ Well, appa Gi-hun and appa In-ho both love you so much. And they love me too. It’s not like a regular marriage. It’s something we all decided together—because we’ve been through a lot, and we realized we didn’t want to live without each other.”

Gi-hun added, “ We’re a team. We take care of each other. We all help raise you. That’s what makes us a family.”

In-ho, quiet but sincere, placed a hand on the back of her chair. “ Sometimes grown-ups feel love that doesn’t fit in the usual boxes. But it’s still real. We all chose this life. And we all chose you.”

Soo-min stared at each of you for a moment, blinking wide, trying to absorb everything with that sponge-like mind of hers.

Then, she grinned and said. “ So it’s like…you all share one big heart?”

You laughed softly, your eyes misting. “ Exactly.”

She leaned back in her chair, clearly satisfied with the answer.

“ Okay. That’s cool.” She said simply, then shoveled another spoonful of rice into her mouth.

The three of you exhaled in unison—relieved, amused, deeply moved. In-ho reached out and clinked his glass gently against Gi-hun’s and yours.

“ To the girl with three parents and one big heart.”

You all smiled, and Soo-min raised her cup of juice high.

“ Cheers!”

And in that warm, little dining room, with laughter rising and hearts content, you realized once again that what you had—though unconventional—was real, was right, and most of all…was family.

…

The living room lights were dim, the mellow hum of the city slipping through the cracks of the window. You were nestled between the two of them on the couch, legs tangled together, blankets lazily thrown over your laps.

The three of you had just finished talking about Soo-min’s school project, a random cooking disaster In-ho had earlier, and how Gi-hun had narrowly escaped a video call with a rice grain stuck on his cheek.

For once, things didn’t feel heavy. There was no weight from the past looming over your shoulders. Just laughter. Warmth. Closeness.

Gi-hun’s fingers lightly traced circles along your arm, the touch tender, teasing. In-ho’s hand rested possessively on your thigh, thumb moving in slow strokes, his gaze stealing glances at your lips every now and then.

“ You’re cute when you talk about being a mom.” Gi-hun murmured, a grin tugging at his lips.

“ And hot.” In-ho added, his voice smooth as silk.

“ Dangerously hot.” You rolled your eyes, already sensing what’s coming next.

Then Gi-hun leaned closer and whispered in your ear with a smirk, “ You know, I still haven’t forgotten how cute you look when you’re trying to be mad at me.”

You glanced at him, already feeling your cheeks warm. “ That’s because you’re impossible.”

In-ho leaned in from the other side, his voice low and smooth, “ But you love us both anyway, don’t you?” You rolled your eyes, unable to hold back your grin.

The two men exchanged a look over your head, smirking—then wiggled their eyebrows in perfect sync.

You groaned, chuckling. “ No. Don’t you dare start.”

Gi-hun stretched with a dramatic sigh. “ I mean…Soo-min’s definitely asleep by now…”

“ Checked her room earlier.” In-ho chimed in, already sliding his hand under the blanket, his fingers warm on your knee.

“ She’s out cold. Dreaming of dragons or something.”

They were incorrigible. Gi-hun lifted you gently off the couch, bridal-style, while In-ho followed with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“ You know we’re still freaks for you.” Gi-hun teased, kissing your cheek.

“ And you love that.” In-ho added, brushing his lips against your temple.

They laid you gently onto the bed you shared—your safe haven—and closed the door behind them. Their teasing shifted into something tender.

The air grew warmer, the touches slower. Fingers brushed over your skin, lips pressed gently against your neck, your collarbone. Every caress said I want you—but more than that, it said I love you. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.

In your shared bedroom, it wasn’t just passion. It was familiar, teasing, safe intimacy. The kind where love wasn’t rushed—it was savored.

Gi-hun ran his hand down your side, slowly, while whispering something that made you giggle and bury your face in his neck.

In-ho kissed the top of your shoulder, his hand resting warmly on your thigh, fingers brushing with aching tenderness.

Their mouths—hungry but reverent—took turns exploring you, reminding you not just of desire but of how wanted you were. How chosen you were.

They worshipped you in a way that didn’t just make your body sing—but made your soul feel seen. Their rhythm between teasing and passion was artful—whispers against your skin, warm hands traveling places that made you shiver, and the way they looked at you…

God, it was everything.

The three of you tangled in the sheets, breathing heavy, laughter soft and messy in the dark. Their voices, their touches, their murmured I-love-you’s…it was home. In every sense.

Later, lying tangled between them, a light sheen of sweat on your skin and your breath slowly settling, you stared at the ceiling—feeling nothing but warmth and peace.

In-ho’s arm draped across your waist. Gi-hun’s hand intertwined with yours. You whispered, almost dazed,

“ I’m glad I met you two. Even if it was in the worst place imaginable.” Gi-hun kissed the back of your hand. In-ho tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“ Sometimes…” In-ho murmured.

“ The worst places…lead us to the best people.”

You closed your eyes, letting their warmth surround you. You weren’t just loved—you were safe. And after everything, that meant everything. In this quiet moment, in this bed you all shared…you were whole.

And in this bed, in their arms, you were finally home.

THE END.

Author's Note: So this is it...the end of this story. Thank you for your continued support and patience with this story hehe. I am really...really grateful that I saw how many people enjoy this. I was hesitant to post this story in the beginning because I feared it would be strange and disturbing to everyone. Yeah...I'm just experimenting with the plots of my stories. Hehe. Thank you for your comments, reactions, and reblogs. I truly appreciate it all, and it never fails to give me butterflies in my stomach. So, see you all again in my next upload. I love you all. Take care and stay safe.

The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18.

All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life.

READ WITH RESPONSIBLY.

TAGS: @fuckingcunty @katch2020 @marymum @jaktoistnieje @yourpersonalcuckcake @lauren7050 @frontwomann @lindsay00000 @heildiland05 @sweettea-0 @void-peterparker

[lost-in-thoughts03]

NEXT TO YOU || YANDERE! INHUN

Same Damn Time || Free

" I'll be standing right next to you, right next to you."

Summary: The aftermath of everything. Promises that are soon to be built. A silent plea that no one can hear, but when you get close, it sounds louder than a man screaming in your ear. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, AU, POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP, SEASON 3 SPOILER, heavy angst, heavy tension, obsession, possessive, yandere behavior, violence, gore, secrets, gun violence, killings, power imbalance, major character deaths, manipulation, betrayal, explicit content, matured language, consensual deals, sadistic behavior, trauma, mental health issues, self loathing, guilt, erotic, ownership, kissing, cockwarming, overstimulation, worshipping, praising, riding, thigh riding, oral (F), PiV, unprotected, deep, slow, hard, dirty talk, markings, older men x younger woman (LEGAL), soft-dom! Gi-hun, dom! In-ho/Young-il

Yandere! InHun x Reader

Words: 12.8k

The air outside the bathroom was colder—quieter. The chaos from the lights-out massacre had been wiped clean with eerie precision.

No blood.

No bodies.

Just the sterile, hollow silence of survival.

Gi-hun and Young-il had you nestled between them, each man supporting a side of your limp body. Your legs still ached, your core sore and used, but your chest felt strangely full. Safe, for now. Cherished. Even in this place.

They led you slowly to one of the lower bunks. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but to your aching body, it felt like a throne. Gi-hun tucked a blanket around you like a gentle brother, while Young-il knelt at the foot of the bed, removing your shoes for you with silent care. His fingers brushed your ankles, lingering—protective, tender.

You smiled faintly, trying not to melt under their hovering concern.

" You two are babying me." You whispered.

“ You deserve it.” Gi-hun replied softly.

“ You’re ours.”

But the warmth shifted as soon as Young-il looked up at Gi-hun, his expression sharpening.

“ Do you still want to go through with it?” He asked, voice low, eyes narrowing slightly.

“ The rebellion.”

Gi-hun’s entire posture changed. The smile disappeared from his face. His hand on your arm tensed.

“ Yes.” He said firmly.

“ This is the only way. If we don’t make a move now, they’ll keep killing us off one by one. Like dogs.”

Young-il leaned back against the bunk frame, jaw tight.

“ You know it’s suicide, right?” He said.

“ The guards aren’t just watching. They’re trained. They’ll shoot every single one of those players if they smell even a flicker of rebellion. It’ll be a bloodbath before you even reach the gates.”

Gi-hun stood slowly, eyes blazing. “ Then what? We just sit and rot in their maze? Die game after game, while they bet money and laugh behind those cameras?”

Young-il stared at him for a long, tense moment—then dragged a frustrated hand down his face.

“ Fuck.” He exhaled sharply.

“ You never change.”

“ So you’re in?” Gi-hun asked.

A beat.

Then a reluctant nod.

“ I’m in.”

You watched them from the bed, your chest tightening with dread. You knew what this meant—what they were willing to risk. You pushed yourself upright, ignoring the dull ache in your thighs.

“ Then I’m going too.”

They both snapped their heads toward you like whiplash.

“ No!”

Their voices rang out in sync, stern and sharp—so sudden, so instinctive, it made you blink.

Gi-hun came to your side instantly, his hand cupping your cheek. “ You just went through hell. Your body needs to rest. Please.”

Young-il stepped closer, crossing his arms, his expression back to stoic command. “ This isn’t your fight—not yet. If something happens to you out there, I swear I’ll rip every guard in this place apart, myself.”

“ But I can help.” You whispered.

“ No.” Gi-hun said firmly.

“ You help us by staying safe.”

Young-il softened, brushing his fingers along your jaw.

“ You’re the only thing we have left in this place that feels human. Don’t throw yourself into the fire unless we absolutely can’t stop it.”

You looked between them—your protectors, your lovers, your chaos—and saw it in their eyes. Fear. Not of death…but of losing you.

So, with a heavy heart, you nodded.

“ Just come back to me. Both of you.”

Gi-hun kissed your forehead gently. “ We will.”

Young-il brushed his thumb against your lips. “ I swear it.”

But behind their touches—behind their promises—was something else neither of them said aloud. Because even they knew…

In this game, promises were rarely kept.

And survivors?

Even rarer.

…

The cold, artificial hum of the facility buzzed faintly through the walls like a lullaby for the damned. Inside the dim bunkroom, silence had finally settled—heavy and unnatural, like a blanket too thick to breathe under. Almost every player was asleep, scattered across the metal bunks like corpses after battle. Exhausted. Spent. Dreaming, maybe, if they dared.

On the bottom bunk, you lay curled into Gi-hun’s chest, both of you fast asleep. His arm draped protectively over your waist, his breath warm against your temple, the rise and fall of his chest calming the ache in your body. You looked peaceful there, tucked between shadows and safety.

But Young-il hadn’t slept.

He sat on the edge of the bunk in silence for a long while, eyes fixed on the far wall as the weight of every move, every secret, every hidden loyalty spun through his thoughts. His body still hummed with tension—not from lust, not from adrenaline…

But from the burden of control.

His eyes flicked across the room one last time.

The players were out cold.

Perfect.

With quiet, practiced steps, Young-il rose from the bunk and slipped out into the darkened corridor. He passed the cracked door of the storage closet, a guard post, a blinking surveillance camera. None of it registered anymore.

He walked the halls like they belonged to him.

Because they did.

At the far end of the hall, nearly invisible behind a maintenance panel, he pressed a concealed switch. A thin seam in the wall hissed open—revealing a narrow, shadowed passage lit by low red emergency lights.

The secret hallway. Inside, a Square guard stood waiting—rigid, masked, prepared. Young-il didn’t waste time.

“ Stick to the plan.” He said, his voice quiet but cold.

“ The rebellion needs to go exactly as discussed. Let them believe they have a shot. We’ll use that chaos.”

The guard nodded once. But Young-il wasn’t finished.

“ One more thing...” He said darkly, stepping closer.

“ Player 327.”

The guard straightened at the number—your number.

“ If anyone—anyone—touches her…” Young-il hissed.

“ If one of your men even looks at her the wrong way…I will burn this entire facility to the ground with them still in it.”

The threat wasn’t a bluff.

It was a promise.

“ She���s not to be touched. She’s not to be harmed. If other players threaten her, you eliminate them. Quietly. Immediately.”

The guard nodded, unfazed but respectful. “ Understood, sir.”

Young-il narrowed his eyes, holding the silence for a beat longer—making sure the weight of his words sank deep. Then he stepped back.

“ Good. Dismissed.”

The guard saluted, turned, and disappeared down the corridor. Young-il stood there for a moment longer, alone with the red light washing over his face, shadows dancing along the walls. His mask—the one you didn’t see—had slipped back on.

Cold.

Strategic.

Ruthless.

But the moment he stepped back into the bunk room, the tension in his shoulders fell again. His eyes found you instantly, curled against Gi-hun’s chest like you belonged there—like a rare flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

He sat on the floor near the bed, back resting against the cold steel of your bunk. His head tilted back, his eyes closing slowly. He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to hear.

“ Don’t ever make me choose between this game and you…”

Then the world went still again, and the master of the game—

Fell asleep on the floor, just another man trying to hold onto something real.

…

The bunk room was no longer just a cage—it had become a war zone. The air was filled with the echoing cracks of gunfire, the shouts of resistance, and the desperate stomping of boots as the rebellion unfolded right in front of your eyes.

The silence that once defined fear had shattered into pure chaos. You pressed your back against the cold steel of one of the bunks, curled behind it, arms hugging your knees as you peered out—just enough to see everything.

And what you saw made your breath catch.

Gi-hun and Young-il, side by side like fire and ice, were moving with frightening precision. Dae-ho and Jun-bae, flanking either side, worked like gears in a well-oiled machine. This wasn’t random violence—this was a strategic strike, planned down to the second.

Gi-hun rushed low, sliding behind an overturned supply crate and yanking a rifle from a fallen Triangle guard. He tossed it over the floor in a perfect arc—right into Jun-bae’s hands, who caught it without missing a beat and fired into the upper walkway, taking out a guard before he could alert others.

Your breath hitched when Square turned his rifle on Gi-hun from behind—but before a shot could fire, Young-il appeared like a ghost and slammed into the man from the side.

The sound of bones cracking made you flinch, your hands flying to your mouth. Young-il’s fist drove up beneath the guard’s chin, knocking the helmet clear off before twisting the rifle from his arms in one fluid motion.

He moved like someone who knew violence. Not just knew it—mastered it. He dropped the guard and spun, returning fire across the room with such dead-on accuracy that it made the soldiers scatter.

That wasn’t luck.

It was training.

You stared, heart pounding.

“ Who the hell is he…?” You whispered to yourself, barely able to breathe.

Blood sprayed across the floor. Screams rang out—players who got caught in the crossfire or guards trying to regain control. Some players had joined the fight, emboldened by the uprising. Others cowered in corners, praying for it to be over.

You were one of the latter. Not because you were afraid of the rebellion…

But because you were afraid of losing them.

Gunfire rattled again, and you shrieked as a bullet whizzed past your bunk and embedded itself in the steel. You ducked lower, clutching your knees. Your heart was beating out of rhythm, wild and panicked.

Still, you dared another glance. Gi-hun was bleeding—his shoulder grazed, staining his white undershirt red—but he was still moving, still smiling through the pain.

Young-il’s eyes found him immediately, and he snapped, “ Left flank! Now!”

Gi-hun nodded, sliding across the floor again, gun raised. He fired two perfect shots that sent a pair of guards crumpling near the emergency doors.

Dae-ho threw a smoke grenade he’d snatched from the guards’ belt earlier, clouding the area in a thick white haze.

“ This is our chance!” Jun-bae shouted through the smoke.

“ Go!”

Your heart pounded in your ears. The smoke covered the room like a ghostly fog, and silhouettes danced in the haze—some screaming, some fighting, some falling. You gripped the metal frame of the bunk and whispered to yourself again, as tears brimmed in your eyes:

“ Please…let this work.”

Because this wasn’t just about rebellion.

This wasn’t just about escaping the game.

This was about four men—your men—willing to put their lives on the line so people like you could live.

Heroes in hell.

And you could do nothing…but pray they would survive the flames they set.

…

The chaos was deafening. Screams of desperation, gunfire echoing off the steel walls, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground—everything blended into a hellish symphony. Blood painted the once-sterile tiles in thick crimson streaks, and the air reeked of iron and smoke.

The rebellion had erupted like a ticking time bomb, and now, all that was left was ruin.

Gi-hun was dragged back into the bunk room, his feet dragging, eyes glassy. His shirt was torn and stained, not with his own blood, but Jun-bae's. His lips trembled slightly, but he said nothing. He simply let them throw him onto the floor like another broken thing.

You stumbled forward, trying to reach him.

" Gi-hun…" You whispered, kneeling beside him.

" Hey…you're alive. You're okay…"

He didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were staring past you—at something that wasn’t there. The Gi-hun you knew was gone. Something inside him died the moment

Young-il and Jun-bae fell to the ground, executed like dogs in front of him. His plan, their rebellion—it all fell apart in minutes.

The speaker wailed overhead. “ Fourth game: Keys and Knives.”

Panic set in. You turned toward the entrance just in time to see the bunk doors sliding open again. Screams echoed from the halls. It had begun.

You ran.

The lights flickered violently as shadows lunged around every corner. You heard players shouting, chasing, laughing maniacally.

No allies. No friends.

Just survival.

Your breathing was ragged as you tried to weave through the carnage. You didn’t even see him coming. A player from the red team leapt from behind a crate and drove a knife into your thigh.

You cried out, falling hard. Blood soaked your pants, warm and fast. He grinned like a feral animal as he pulled the blade out, but you kicked at him with your good leg, scrambling away as he lunged again.

Limping, stumbling, crying—you forced yourself forward, dragging your weight through corridors of madness. You could barely see through the pain.

Until you found a room.

You slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with shaking fingers. The silence inside was surreal, like stepping out of a warzone into a crypt. You slid down against the door, one hand gripping your thigh.

The wound pulsed with searing pain. Blood poured through your fingers. Whimpers escaped your mouth. You bit down hard to silence them. You couldn't cry. Not now.

Then you heard it.

A soft hiss.

Your eyes darted around in confusion—until you saw it. A silver canister rolling across the floor, spewing white fog.

Tear gas.

" No, no, no—"

You coughed, the sting clawing at your throat. Your limbs grew heavy. Your vision swam. Your body slumped over, twitching once.

The world turned black.

…

A jolt tore through your body as your senses came back like a slap to the face. Your limbs ached. Your wrists and ankles throbbed—tightly bound to a cold metal chair.

The pain in your thigh was sharper now, pulsing with every heartbeat. You tried to scream, but your mouth was stuffed, a thick cloth gag muffling your voice.

Everything was black. Not darkness—blindness.

A blindfold.

You struggled, muscles straining against the restraints, but all it did was worse the pain. Your breathing grew fast and shallow, panic creeping in.

Then…footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Purposeful.

Your body tensed, stilling in fright.

The presence was undeniable—someone was here. Close. Watching. A distorted, mechanical voice broke the silence.

“ You shouldn’t be so reckless and stupid.”

You flinched. The voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold and direct—synthetic, like filtered through a voice changer.

“ You’re lucky I pulled you out before they gutted you like the others.”

You groaned behind the gag, shaking your head, wriggling weakly. Your thigh burned when you moved.

“ Stop moving.” His voice carried a warning now.

“ I’m going to clean the wound.”

Your heart pounded. You wanted to scream, to curse, to demand to know who the hell he was. But all you could do was groan, the cloth soaking up your breath.

You tried to push words past the gag—muffled protests. Something like “ How can I trust you?”

He seemed to understand you anyway.

“ Trust?” He said with a short, amused exhale.

“ I don’t care if you trust me. I’m not doing this because you asked. I’m doing it so you don’t fucking die from infection. Though frankly, if you keep squirming, maybe I should’ve left you bleeding.”

You grunted—defiant even in fear. With as much strength as you could muster, you muttered weakly through the gag, " I don’t need your help."

He chuckled.

Then pain exploded from your thigh.

You screamed behind the gag as he pressed his thumb—hard—into the torn flesh, forcing pressure onto the wound. You convulsed from the searing pain.

“ Still think you don’t need help?” He snapped.

“ You’re so goddamn stubborn. Always putting yourself in danger. Always acting like you’re invincible.”

Your body slumped, tears springing to your blindfolded eyes. You heard him sigh. Then you felt fingers near your cheek, and the cloth was pulled free from your mouth. Your lungs filled sharply with air.

“ What the fuck was that for?!” You rasped.

“ Why?! Why the fuck did you save me?! Why do you care?! You could’ve just let me bleed out like a fucking dog!”

There was a pause.

Then the voice answered, low and tight. “ You’re crazy.”

A small breath, like a scoff. “ Did you ever ask me if I was going to let you die?”

You froze. The question hit harder than you expected. The tremor in your voice cracked through.

“ Who are you…?” You whispered under your breath, teeth clenched.

“ Who the fuck are you?”

Silence.

A few heartbeats passed before the mechanical voice spoke again.

“ I can’t tell you that.” He said simply.

“ Not in this game. Not to any player.”

Then the sound of a chair scraping…retreating footsteps…a lock clicking into place. You were left in the dark, bleeding, trembling—but somehow, no longer alone.

…

The hiss of the door broke the dead silence again.

You stiffened.

Same footsteps—steady, deliberate, hauntingly familiar. Your breath hitched as instinct warred with reason. Every sound he made dug deeper into your frayed nerves. He was back.

You jerked slightly as you felt your injured leg lifted with eerie gentleness. A hiss escaped your lips when fresh pain lanced through your thigh.

“ Fuck—” You groaned, trembling.

His gloved hands worked silently, cleaning and rewrapping your wound. But it wasn’t just what he did—it was how he did it. There was care there. Precision. A certain touch that made your breath catch.

Someone’s held you like that before. Not just someone—one of two men.

Your mind raced.

Young-il…

But he’s dead. Gi-hun told you with his own shattered voice. You saw the body.

Gi-hun? No. He was broken. Traumatized. Hollowed out. It couldn’t be him…could it?

Who the fuck was this man?

Then his voice, distorted but calm, cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“ You’re going to stay here for a while.” He said.

“ You’re off the grid. The players think you’re dead.”

You flinched hard.

“ What…?” You breathed. “ Dead…?”

Anger surged up from the pit of your gut like fire.

“ You bastard!” You cried out, thrashing despite the restraints, the pain, the fear.

“ This is your fault! All of it! You could’ve stopped this—you should’ve saved them! You should’ve saved him!”

Your voice broke, thick with emotion. Tears streaked down your cheeks beneath the blindfold. You heard the soft creak of movement—then felt it.

A finger under your chin.

Lifting.

Your whole body tensed.

That touch.

Not cold. Not foreign.

Familiar.

Your lips trembled. You wanted to scream his name—either of them. But neither made sense. Neither could be here.

“ I’m not apologizing.” He said coolly, thumb brushing your jaw.

“ It’s my job to clean the mess. To keep this place from burning to the ground.”

He paused. His voice dipped lower, almost like a confession.

“ But this time…I want to be selfish.”

You stopped breathing for a moment.

“ I want to keep you.”

“ No one’s going to hurt you here. Not while I’m around.”

You froze, your mouth trembling. Then you snapped.

“ I don’t want you!” You spat through clenched teeth.

“ I want Gi-hun! I want Young-il! Not you, you fucking coward hiding behind a voice changer!”

Silence. Then he chuckled—soft, deep, laced with something maddeningly warm.

“ You’re still so damn stubborn.” He murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

Your heart thundered in your chest. He held your chin gently but firmly, voice dipping into something more intimate.

“ Soon…” He whispered.

“ You’ll know who I am.”

Another pause. His fingers lingered on your skin.

“ But not yet.”

…

Another set of footsteps echoed through the cold room—lighter, quicker, and undeniably different.

A woman.

You tensed as she approached. You heard no voice modulator, no distortion—just a flat, professional tone.

“ He sent me to change your clothes.”

You clenched your jaw. “ Tell him I’m not interested.”

She paused. “ It wasn’t a request. It was his order.”

That name again. Him.

She added sharply, “ And if you plan to fight back, I won’t hesitate to force you into the uniform the Frontman gave.”

Frontman…?

Your heart skipped. “ Who the fuck is the Frontman?”

No answer. Just silence. You sighed through your nose, defeated. What else could you do?

“ Fine…” You muttered, tilting your head forward.

The guard stepped closer. Her gloved hands worked swiftly and efficiently, stripping your blood-stained top and pants with clinical detachment. The chill of the room kissed your skin, making you shiver as she dressed you in the new clothes.

“ They’re long-sleeved. Black.” She said as she buttoned up the top. “ Trousers, too. Looks like the servers here. But yours—”

You felt her pause, then tighten the fabric slightly at your arm.

“ Yours has a blue stripe on the left sleeve. Means you’re above them. That you’re…his.”

You froze. “ His?”

She adjusted the collar with a firm tug. You tried to turn toward her, blindfold still robbing you of sight.

“ Who is he?”

“ I don’t know.” She answered quickly—too quickly.

“ And even if I did, I love my life. I don’t want to die.”

You bit your lip as frustration and dread pooled in your gut. She gave you one final adjustment—then a small retouch on your hair, tucking strands behind your ear as if preparing you for display.

Then her voice lowered, almost like pity. “ You should stop asking questions you’re not meant to know. Especially in a place like this.”

With that, she turned and left. The door hissed shut. You sat there, blindfolded and bound, dressed like property.

Like something owned.

…

The door hissed open once more. His footsteps—slow, heavy, certain—echoed like they always did. That same presence that made your skin crawl and your blood betrayed you.

You didn’t flinch this time. You were exhausted, pissed, and done pretending to play along.

“ Why do you keep doing this?” You asked, voice dry, defiant beneath the blindfold.

“ Why me?”

His voice came through the modulator again—smooth, cruelly amused.

“ Because I own you.”

You barked out a hollow laugh. “ That’s rich.” You scoffed.

“ Hate to disappoint you, but I’m already taken—twice. I’ve got two men who already own me, body and soul. I’ve got no space left for a sick fucker like you.”

He chuckled at that. That mocking, low rumble that made your skin bristle.

“ Oh?” He said lightly, circling you.

“ That’s right. Young-il and Gi-hun.” His tone curled around their names like poison.

“ Both of them, huh? The martyr and the mad dog.”

You tensed as he stepped closer. His voice dipped—curious now, taunting.

“ Tell me then…”

A pause.

“ Which one fucks you better?”

Your whole body jolted in fury. “ Fuck you—”

He cut you off with a laugh that echoed too loud in the small room. You felt him crouch in front of you, hand sliding to your chin again, gripping just enough to remind you who was in control.

“ Come on…” He whispered.

“ Those two were so obsessed with you they made an agreement just to share your tight little body. Didn’t they?”

You gritted your teeth. His breath was hot against your skin, and even through the distortion of the voice, it felt like a ghost crawling across your neck.

“ You remember the bathroom, don’t you?” His fingers traced along your jaw.

“ I told them to make sure no CCTVs were on when the three of you got dirty in there.”

“ Shut up!” You snapped, violently twisting your head away.

He laughed again, darker this time. “ That temper.”

You suddenly felt his hand press flat against your stomach. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat.

“ I can still feel it in you.” He murmured, voice lowering into something like an animal.

“ Like their ghosts never left.” He leaned closer, his mask grazing your skin. Then it settled against the crook of your neck.

He breathed in. Deep. Slow.

A low purring hum vibrated in your ear—predatory, intimate, possessive.

You trembled. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. And yet—familiar. His touch. His scent. That fucking purr in your ear…

Your chest rose and fell erratically. You didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But your mind clawed at the idea.

Young-il is dead…right?

Or did he fake it? Did he crawl back in through this mask and claim you from the shadows?

You were choking on confusion, rage, and fear. And the man—this masked monster—only chuckled.

He knew.

He knew you were starting to recognize him.

And he was going to make damn sure you questioned every part of your reality until the truth crushed you.

The air between you thickened, heavy with tension and a charge neither of you dared to speak aloud. You felt his breath trailing down your neck, warm through the fabric of his mask, making your skin prickle with unwanted need.

Your thighs tightened out of instinct—then flinched in pain from the still-healing wound.

He noticed.

“ Still tender.” He murmured in that distorted voice, not moving back.

“ But not enough to stop that body of yours from reacting.”

You hated him. God, you hated him. But your body didn’t know how to lie when his touch felt that familiar. His fingers brushed along your waist, grazing the curve of your hip, slow and deliberate. You sucked in a breath as the tips of his gloves slid just under the hem of the black uniform top he’d dressed you in earlier.

“ You say you belong to them.” He said, his tone laced with something darker now—possessive, dangerous, hungry.

“ But they’re not here now, are they?”

You felt him rise, his body now towering over yours. He leaned in close, so close the edge of the cold mask met the warmth of your cheek. His gloved hand slowly trailed down the front of your torso, over your ribs, pressing slightly above your navel again.

Your back arched involuntarily.

He chuckled, low and intimate.

“ You still feel like mine.”

You snapped at him, voice breathless but angry. “ You’re sick. You don’t get to do this—”

“ But I am doing this.” He interrupted calmly, his hand now moving between your thighs, not touching where you throbbed, but close—so close you could cry.

“ And you’re letting me.”

You shook your head, eyes burning behind the blindfold, lips trembling. “ You’re not him…You can’t be him.”

“ Why?” He purred, lips barely grazing your jaw.

“ Because he died?”

“ Because he loved me.” You shot back.

“ And this? This is twisted.”

He didn’t flinch. He only whispered darker, closer, voices no longer masked by distance or hesitation.

“ Maybe love looks different when it’s forced into hiding.”

His hand pressed firmer now, your breath catching, thighs instinctively parting. He moved slowly, savoring your reactions, exploring the edges of your resistance like a man who knew you too intimately to be a stranger.

Your heart pounded.

Your body betrayed you.

He leaned down again, his mask pressing into your cheek as his gloved hand gripped your jaw gently but firmly.

“ When I take this mask off…” He murmured into your ear, voice lower now, richer—like the modulator was slipping.

“ I wonder if you’ll beg me to stay or curse my name.”

You whimpered.

Because part of you already knew the answer.

You jolted as the ropes around your wrists and ankles gave way, slackening without warning. Before you could even process the shift, strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you swiftly—firmly—into a straddle position.

Onto him.

You gasped, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body pressing down against a hard bulge beneath you that made your breath hitch in your throat.

The blindfold was still secured, and the disorientation made your senses spike.

“ W-What the f—” You started, voice trembling.

His large hands slid down your back, keeping you seated against him with unrelenting pressure. One palm curved possessively over your lower back, the other rested between your shoulder blades, controlling every subtle move. He didn’t let you go. He only leaned in, his masked face grazing your ear as he whispered.

“ Tell me…” He purred, voice thick with hunger.

“ Does any of this feel familiar to you?”

You shivered. His breath sent tingles through your spine.

“ Do you know who I am yet?” He asked again, slower now, dragging each word.

“ Can you feel the connection?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

“ I don’t know.” You said softly, breath catching as his fingers gripped your hips.

“ I…I don’t…”

He laughed—a low, throaty sound that rumbled in his chest against yours. It made your core clench.

“ You’re such a liar.” He said with dark amusement.

“ Your body remembers, even if your head wants to play dumb.”

He rocked his hips just slightly up into you, letting you feel the full, thick length of him beneath the layers of clothing.

You gasped sharply, biting back a sound.

His grip on you tightened.

“ I want you.” He murmured, teeth grazing the curve of your jaw through the mask.

“ I missed you. Missed how you sounded…tasted…felt when you writhed under me.”

You whimpered against your will, the heat between your legs throbbing with every word he breathed into your skin.

“ But not yet.” He said, pulling back enough to control himself—barely. “ Not all the way.”

He brushed his gloved fingers up your spine slowly.

“ I’ve got a surprise for you.”

You tried to catch your breath. “ A…surprise?”

He nodded, dragging your body tighter against him.

“ Still in the making.” He whispered.

“ Or maybe…on the way.”

You stilled, the meaning sinking in slowly, but he didn’t give you time to process.

“ This…” He whispered against your throat.

“ Is just a warm-up.”

And then he rolled his hips again, slower this time, groaning low as he kept you in place, as if trying to remind your body—and maybe his—that this connection ran deeper than either of you could admit.

Because whatever twisted, haunting thing he had become…

Your body knew him. And he was going to make sure you never forgot it.

Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling as you sat straddled over his lap, legs trembling slightly against the firm press of his thighs. His hands never left your body—one resting on your hip like a brand, the other roaming slowly, possessively up your spine.

You could feel his restraint unraveling with every breath. But what you didn’t realize—what made your pulse thunder in your ears—was that he had already removed the mask.

You were still blindfolded. Vulnerable. Unaware. And he was watching you now. Truly watching you with his bare eyes.

No distortion.

No barrier.

When he leaned in this time, the cold metal of the mask didn’t touch your skin. It was warm. Bare. His lips—real and familiar—brushed your collarbone.

You gasped at the contact, startled at how real it suddenly felt.

Then he bit you.

Not hard enough to wound, but deep enough to mark.

You cried out, hips jerking against him as your nails instinctively dug into his shoulders.

The bite landed just below your neck, exactly where your nerves fired the strongest. Your thighs clenched around his waist as he licked the sore spot, soothing it.

You knew that move.

That exact move.

Only one man ever learned your body like that.

Only one man could draw that sound from your throat with one bite.

" Y–Young-il…?" You whispered, voice cracking in disbelief as your lips trembled.

Your body locked up, the tension exploding through you. Your heart pounded like a drumbeat of dread.

No.

No…it can’t be.

Your mind swirled, rejecting the thought—but your body? Your body knew.

The way he grabbed the back of your neck. The way his tongue trailed a slow line from your shoulder to your jaw. The way his hips lifted in a rhythm that felt like memory burning back into your bones.

“ Still don’t know who I am?” He whispered hotly into your ear. No voice modulator now—just him.

You whimpered, head shaking, lips quivering. “ No…no, it can’t be—”

He chuckled darkly, lips brushing your earlobe.

“ You already know, baby.” He growled, hand sliding under your shirt now, palm spreading wide across your bare back.

“ Your body gave me away a long time ago.”

You sucked in a breath, spine arching as his hand dipped lower, fingers pressing between the curve of your ass, guiding you to grind down harder against him.

He groaned when your core made full contact—heat against heat.

“ God, you still fit me like a fucking drug.” He muttered.

“ How the fuck did I live without this?”

You couldn’t breathe. Your nails dragged down his chest, desperate and confused. If this was real—if Young-il was truly the one beneath you, maskless, alive…

Then that meant the man who ruined the rebellion, who orchestrated the chaos, who sat behind the curtain pulling strings—

Was him.

And your heart broke and burned at the same time.

Because you didn’t know if you wanted to scream at him…

Or beg him to never stop touching you.

Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt—no, his uniform, his disguise—desperate to find something solid as your entire world tipped sideways.

His mouth was everywhere now—your neck, your collarbone, the dip of your throat. His lips trailed heat; his tongue soothed each bitten mark; his teeth claimed the rest. You arched into him involuntarily, your senses drowning in the overwhelming weight of him.

His hands slid under your top, warm and rough, palms skating up the sides of your waist until he reached your breasts. You gasped as he cupped them, thumbs brushing over your already aching peaks through the fabric of your bra.

" You’re shaking." He whispered against your skin, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

" Why?"

“ Because if you’re really him…” You whispered brokenly.

“ I don’t know if I want to fight you…or fall apart in your hands.”

He groaned—a low, guttural sound that came from deep in his chest.

“ I want both.” He confessed, voice raw.

“ I want you to be angry. I want you to beg. I want you mine again.”

He pushed your top up, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His mouth closed around a nipple without hesitation, warm and wet and possessive. You cried out, hips grinding down on the hard line of his arousal through his pants.

You could feel how badly he wanted you.

You could feel how much he remembered.

The moment his hands slid down, gripping your hips again, he guided you into a slow, maddening rhythm against him—grinding, dragging, teasing. You could feel the thick pressure of him beneath the thin barrier of your clothes.

Every drag of your core against him was friction and heat, soaked in memory and twisted desire.

“ Feel that?” He growled, hands bruising your hips. “ That’s what you’ve been missing.”

You whimpered, hands tangling in his hair—God, you knew that hair—pulling his head back just enough so your blindfolded face tilted toward his.

“ If you’re really him...” You whispered, panting.

“ Take my blindfold off.”

He froze for just a moment. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing yours without fully kissing.

“ Not yet.” He said, voice thick with restraint.

“ You’ll see me when you’re ready.”

“ Fuck you.” You snapped breathlessly.

He smirked. “ That’s the plan.”

One hand reached between you, slipping into the waistband of your trousers. You gasped, legs trembling as his fingers found your slick heat, sliding through the mess you’d made just from grinding on him.

“ So wet already.” He murmured, voice dark with satisfaction.

“ And I haven’t even given you half of what I want yet.”

He circled your clit once—slow, cruel—and you bucked into his hand, unable to stop yourself.

“ I missed this.” He groaned.

“ The way you melt. The way your body begs when your mouth won’t.”

You sobbed out a moan as he slipped a finger inside you, thick and knowing. Then another. Pumping slowly, curving exactly where he knew you would fall apart.

Only one man ever knew you like this.

And as your orgasm built hard and fast in your belly, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He was Young-il.

Alive. Obsessive. Changed.

And now, the Frontman.

And there was no going back.

Your body was on fire—skin slick, heart pounding, thighs trembling around his hips. His fingers inside you moved with maddening precision, dragging out whimpers you tried and failed to silence.

You were falling apart on his lap, blindfolded and exposed, your body betraying every protest still clinging to your thoughts. And then he groaned—deep, guttural—as if the sound was ripped from his chest.

“ How do you think Gi-hun would react?” He rasped, voice barely human.

“ If he knew it was me—” He curled his fingers inside you, hard.

“ The one making you come undone like this?”

Your breath shattered. His words hit you like a slap of cold water and a hot shiver at once. He didn’t stop. His thumb moved against your clit with ruthless rhythm as he fucked you with his fingers, jaw clenched tight, breath hot against your ear.

“ He got more time with you. More nights. More kisses. More of you.” He thrust harder.

“ And what did I get?” He hissed.

“ A rebellion. A bullet storm. Your fucking blood on the floor while I stood behind that mask and watched.”

You cried out—because he was right. Because the guilt twisted in your gut even as your pleasure reached a peak so intense it blurred everything else.

“ I watched everything.” He whispered darkly.

“ I watched him hold you. Kiss you. Fuck you.” He groaned again, this time against your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“ And now, I’m done watching.” He pulled his fingers from you—slick and warm—only to bring them to your lips.

“ Open.” He ordered.

You hesitated, panting.

He slid two fingers past your lips, and your tongue instinctively wrapped around the taste of yourself. He groaned again, as if that small act unraveled something primal in him.

“ Fuck, that mouth…” He hissed.

One hand grabbed the back of your neck, pulling your face flush to his. His lips grazed yours, not quite kissing, letting you feel his breath tremble against your skin. No mask. Just him.

“ I’m not following the fucking deal anymore.” He growled.

“ No more agreements. No more rules.”

His hand shoved down the waistband of his pants, freeing himself. Thick, hard, throbbing. You felt it—hot against your soaked entrance as he lifted you slightly, lining himself up.

“ You’re mine tonight.” He breathed.

“ Let him have his quiet days. I’ll take the nights you moan so loud it echoes through this entire fucking floor.”

And then—

He sank into you.

Thick. Deep. Slow.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, your body stretched and filled in a way no one else could ever recreate.

Only him.

Only Young-il.

His jaw clenched as he bottomed out, hips grinding upward, holding you there, pulsing deep inside.

“ This…” He whispered, possessive and raw.

“ Is what I fucking missed.” He thrust again—harder.

“ And I’m not letting it go again.”

And with every deep, claiming stroke, he made you forget what side of the war you were on…

Because right now, the only battle happening was under your skin.

Your moans echoed in the dim, sealed room, each one pulled from you like a confession you hadn’t meant to make. Every thrust of his hips sent waves of heat crashing through your spine, building higher, faster—his grip unrelenting, his pace firm and deliberate, like he was taking back every second he'd lost in the shadows.

You couldn’t see him.

But you could feel him—every inch.

And it was him.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down hard onto him, again and again, each thrust deeper, angrier, needier than the last. His breath hitched every time your bodies met, low curses escaping him as you clenched around him.

" Fuck, you’re still tight.” He grunted, voice raw in your ear.

“ Still fucking made for me.”

You whimpered, head tilting back, the blindfold soaked with heat and sweat. His lips pressed to your throat, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to make you shudder.

Then he moved again—his hips rising with a new rhythm, not rushed, but punishing, driving into you like he needed to carve himself into your memory.

“ You feel that?” He growled, thrusting up so deep it made your breath catch. “ That’s mine. You always were. You still are.”

You cried out his name—not meaning to, but it ripped from your chest like it had been waiting there all this time. It slipped out in a gasp between ragged moans, and that was when he lost it.

He gripped your jaw, forcing your face toward him.

“ No blindfold.” He whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “ Not when you say my name like that.”

You felt him reach up, and a moment later the cloth slipped away—light rushing in, but it was his eyes that stole your breath.

No mask.

No filters.

Just him.

Young-il.

His hair was messy, damp with sweat. His lips were red, parted, jaw tight with lust and emotion. His eyes—those eyes—burned into yours with everything he couldn’t say, everything he never got the chance to.

“ Say it again…” He whispered, thrusting up into you, deep and slow.

You choked on a moan. “ Y-Young-il—”

His hands grabbed your waist and he stood, lifted you, still deep inside. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively as he carried you across the room, pressing you back against the cold wall.

Your head fell to his shoulder, nails dragging down his back as he started thrusting into you again, harder, rougher, the new angle making you cry out.

“ You think Gi-hun could ever fuck you like this?” He snarled, voice low and full of resentment.

“ Think he ever made you scream like I did?”

“ Stop—” You gasped, trying to resist, trying to think—but you couldn’t.

Because he knew exactly where to press, how to stroke, how to tear you apart piece by piece and rebuild you in his rhythm.

Every grind of his hips knocked the air from your lungs.

You were unraveling. Your legs trembled as you clenched tighter around him, his pace ruthless, desperate, punishing.

“ You’re gonna come for me.” He growled.

“ And you’re gonna look me in the eyes when you do.”

And you did.

Right there—your forehead pressed to his, your eyes wide and brimming, your body shattering as he thrust through your orgasm, not stopping, not letting you fall.

He kissed you then.

No warning.

Not masked. Not distorted.

Just him.

Raw. Real. Consuming.

And even if everything was wrong—even if he was the enemy—your heart broke with how right it felt.

His lips stayed on yours even as your body convulsed from the aftershocks, trembling against the cold wall and his burning skin. The kiss was messy, breathless—more possession than passion, but still so achingly familiar it hurt.

Young-il groaned against your mouth, swallowing your whimpers as he kept moving inside you—slower now, deeper.

Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Like he couldn’t.

You were both drenched in sweat, your limbs wrapped tightly around him, your nails still marking his shoulders, his back. He pulled back only slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his dark eyes locked into yours with a kind of desperate intensity you hadn’t seen in so long.

“ You feel that?” He rasped, his voice stripped of all bravado now, raw with something else—something aching.

“ That’s not just sex. That’s me remembering you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, heart crashing against your ribs.

“ Remembering…?”

His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, gentle now. Tender.

“ Every moan. Every breath. The way you clench when I look at you like this.” His hips moved again, slower, grinding deep into your core. You gasped.

“ That’s what they couldn’t have.” He murmured.

“ That part of you that only I knew how to reach.”

Your lip trembled. “ Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

“ Because I wasn’t.” He answered bitterly. “ Not until now.”

His eyes searched for yours, voice tightening. “ They made me the Frontman. Gave me power I didn’t ask for. And the moment I accepted it, I knew I had to give you up. Watch you with Gi-hun. Pretend I didn’t want you.”

You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “ So you just…watched?”

He nodded slowly. “ Every fucking night. Every time he touched you, every time he held you when you cried. I let him…because it was safer than ruining you with who I’d become.”

He pulled out slowly, still holding you. You winced slightly at the loss, and he cursed under his breath, gently setting your feet on the ground but not letting go.

“ I didn’t bring you here to hurt you.” He whispered, brushing sweat-matted hair from your face.

“ I brought you here because if I had to spend one more night pretending you weren’t mine, I was going to burn this place to the ground.”

Your lip quivered. “ But you lied to me.”

“ I had to.”

“ You let me grieve for you.”

“ I fucking grieved you too.” He snapped, jaw clenched.

“ Every night. Every time I heard your voice echo through this place and couldn’t answer.”

The silence hung thick between you. You looked at him—at Young-il, not the Frontman, not the mask—and for the first time, saw the man beneath the monster.

“ I don’t know how to forgive you.” You whispered, voice breaking.

He leaned in, eyes soft and dark. “ I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

His hand slipped between your thighs again, and you gasped, grabbing his forearm.

“ I’m asking for one more night.” He breathed, lips brushing yours.

“ Before you decide whether you’ll leave me…or stay in hell with me.”

And with your body still aching and your soul torn in two—you weren’t sure what scared you more:

That you might walk away.

Or that you wouldn’t.

The room had fallen into a thick silence, broken only by the ragged rhythm of your breathing and the occasional tremble of your limbs still recovering from the intensity he’d dragged you through.

Young-il was quiet too—eerily still, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. His hand never left your waist, thumb drawing slow, absent circles into your damp skin.

The bare light in the room cast shadows over the sharp lines of his face, no longer hidden behind a mask. No secrets now. Not between your legs, not between your hearts.

And yet—everything was still a fucking mess.

You shifted slightly on unsteady legs, and he caught you instantly, strong arms tightening around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let you go. Not even an inch.

“ Stay.” He murmured, his voice no longer demanding, but something else—pleading.

You blinked at him. " Young-il…"

“ I’m not done.” He said, lower now, a quiet rasp.

“ I don’t want you to move. Just…stay. Just like this.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he was guiding you back down onto him—slowly, carefully—his hands on your thighs, his chest pressed against yours.

You gasped softly as his length filled you again, slow and steady, no urgency this time—just heat and pressure and a claim so deep it made your breath shudder in your lungs. There was no thrust, no friction—just the feel of him inside you, deep and full and still.

You were cockwarming him.

And it was so much worse than fucking.

Because now it was real.

His arms wrapped around you from behind as he sat down, pulling you into his lap, your back pressed to his chest. You could feel every slow breath he took, every slight twitch of his cock buried deep inside you, keeping you there—anchored.

“ You feel that?” He whispered, lips grazing your shoulder.

“ That’s how close I need you right now.”

You swallowed hard. “ We can’t stay like this.”

“ We are staying like this.”

His hand cupped your breast gently, thumb brushing over your nipple as you shifted on instinct, but his other hand gripped your thigh and stilled you.

“ No.” He said, firmer now.

“ Don’t move. I don’t want to fuck you right now. I just want to be inside you.”

The intimacy of it hit you like a wave—being filled without movement, locked together, his breath against your ear, his cock pulsing softly inside your aching walls.

You tried to steady your voice. “ You…missed this?”

“ I missed you.”

A pause.

“ I missed being where I belonged.”

Your eyes welled, heart torn and burning.

You wanted to hate him.

You wanted to love him.

You didn’t know which was winning.

“ You should’ve told me you were alive.” You whispered.

His lips brushed your neck again. “ Would it have changed anything?”

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t sure if you’d walk away from him now, even if you could.

You stayed still.

Silent.

Wrapped in his arms.

Wrapped around him.

And the most dangerous part?

You didn’t want to let go.

You were still seated on his lap—full of him, filled to the hilt, your walls wrapped tight around his cock. The silence between you should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

Because your body wouldn’t stop feeling. Every breath made you twitch around him. Every twitch made him pulse inside you. And every pulsing throb sent heat spiraling low into your belly, sharp and unbearable.

It wasn’t enough.

And it was too much.

You whimpered softly, shifting slightly, and his grip on your hips tightened immediately.

“ I said don’t move.” He murmured into your ear. His voice was different now—low and rough and barely holding together.

“ I—I can’t.” You breathed, chest heaving.

“ I’m…I’m too full, I can’t think—”

He smirked darkly, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “ Good.”

His hips bucked up once, slow but deep, making you cry out and arch back into his chest.

“ That’s what I want. I want you to be dizzy. Ruined.”

You gasped as he began to move inside you—not fast, not rough, but deep, dragging himself out just to the tip before sliding all the way back in again.

Every stroke was deliberate.

Controlled.

Merciless.

“ You’re already sensitive.” He rasped. “ Already wrung out.”

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers stroking your swollen clit with cruel softness. Your whole body jerked, legs trembling violently against his.

“ Y–Young-il, please—”

“ You came already.” He said, thrusting again, deep and slow.

“ And now you’re going to come again. Until you can’t even remember why you hated me.”

He rolled your clit in tight circles while rocking into you with brutal rhythm, letting you feel every inch of him stretch your already spent walls. You clutched at his wrists, overwhelmed, hips bucking helplessly in his lap.

“ Too much.” You cried out, but he only groaned, voice vibrating against your neck.

“ You can take it.” He growled. “ You always could.”

Your body locked down hard around him, another orgasm crashing into you like a wave—sharp, violent—and your scream echoed in the sealed room as you collapsed against his chest.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going.

“ You feel that?” He hissed, thrusting faster now, your cunt pulsing around him uncontrollably.

“ You’re milking my cock, baby. Starving for it.”

Your moans were incoherent now, your fingers clawing into his arms as your legs spasmed around his waist. You didn’t know if you were begging for more or for mercy.

And he didn’t care.

“ Third one.” He whispered darkly.

“ I want your third. I want you shaking so hard you scream my name and forget him.”

You couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t fight it.

Because the way he moved—the way he knew every broken piece of you—made it impossible.

Another wave of pleasure surged up your spine. You sobbed his name, your back arching, vision gone white. And all he did was pull you tighter, bury himself deeper, and whisper, breathless and wrecked:

“ You were always mine.”

Your body was wrecked—raw from back-to-back orgasms, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged as you collapsed against him. But he didn’t let you fall far. His arms stayed firm around you, chest rising against your back as he cradled you…for a moment.

Then his voice, low and rough in your ear.

“ Get back up.”

You barely registered the words. “ W-what…?”

He reached up, tugging the blindfold back down over your eyes. You gasped softly as the darkness swallowed you again. Your senses sharpened. Your skin tingles. Every brush of fabric, every drop of sweat, every shift in the air—it all felt louder.

“ Ride me.” He ordered, voice husky with control barely held.

Your breath caught.

“ I—I can’t see—”

“ You don’t need to see.” He growled.

“ You feel me, don’t you?”

You did. God, you did. He was still buried inside you, thick and hard, twitching with need as he waited—taunted—beneath you.

“ Move.”

Your hands instinctively braced against his chest, your knees weakly adjusting on either side of his hips. You were still trembling, your cunt slick and sensitive as you slowly lifted your hips—just enough for the cool air to kiss your overstimulated folds.

He groaned low as you began to sink down again, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you once more.

“ Just like that.” He rasped. “ Nice and slow. Let me feel every part of you.”

Your head tilted back, a moan breaking free of your lips. Riding him blind made everything more intense—his cock dragging along every spot that made your body jolt, your nerves raw and exposed with every grind of your hips.

He didn’t touch you.

He let you work.

And it drove you crazy.

“ You don’t need Gi-hun.” He said between clenched teeth as you bounced gently, circling your hips on him.

“ Not when you’re this fucking perfect for me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders as you moved harder, your thighs slapping against his lap, the wet sound obscene, echoing in the room. You were breathing like you were drowning, crying out every time he hit too deep—but never slowing down.

He growled again. “ You feel that?”

You nodded, panting. “ Y-yes—fuck, I feel all of it—”

“ That’s what being owned feels like.”

You moaned brokenly, your climax spiraling again, your walls fluttering around him as you moved faster—losing yourself.

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your back, chest flush to yours. Still blindfolded, you could only feel his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“ Come for me again.” He growled, thrusting up hard from beneath you.

“ Now.”

And you shattered—again. With his name ripped from your throat, body clenching so hard around him it dragged a curse from his lips as he spilled inside you, deep and hot.

You collapsed against him, blindfold still on, vision still dark. But you didn’t need to see.

You knew exactly where you were.

And exactly who had you now.

…

You were still wrapped around him, your body limp and trembling from the overwhelming intensity, but Young-il made no move to pull out. He stayed buried deep inside you, your walls still hugging him tightly, even as your muscles twitched with exhaustion.

The room was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin like smoke after a fire.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His hand slowly ran down your spine, grounding you in the silence. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, your breath warming his skin as you finally broke the quiet.

“ Why…?” Your voice was small, hoarse.

“ Why did you have to betray them? Gi-hun…Jun-bae…everyone.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand slid to the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair. Then he pulled back just enough to reach up and untie the blindfold.

The world returned in a blur, but your eyes only focused on one thing: him.

Young-il. Fully unmasked. No distortion. No lies in his face—only the exhaustion of a man who had done too much for too long. He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing the heat of your skin, still flushed from everything you’d just shared.

“ I did it to stop him.” He finally said, voice raw.

“ Gi-hun was going to burn the whole place down. I tried to talk to him—I did. But he wouldn’t listen. So I infiltrated his team. Became a player. Got close. Learned every plan he whispered when he thought no one was listening.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest nearly worse than the one between your thighs.

“ And Jun-bae?” You whispered.

“ You let him die.”

Young-il’s jaw clenched. He looked away for a second—just one—but it was enough to see the regret flash behind his eyes.

“ I didn’t mean to.” He said.

“ That wasn’t part of it. I never wanted Jun-bae to be caught in it—but it was either him or everything collapsing at that moment. I had to make a choice. A choice that would remind Gi-hun exactly what this place demands.”

His hands tightened on your waist as if grounding himself—grounding you.

“ His sacrifice meant something.” Young-il muttered.

“ But if Gi-hun kept going…none of it would’ve mattered.”

You bit your lip, eyes stinging. “ So all of it…the pact between us three—was that even real? Or was I just the easiest way to manipulate him?”

His reaction was immediate. His grip hardened, and his eyes snapped to yours, blazing.

“ The fucking pact was real.” He hissed.

“ Don’t you dare say it wasn’t.”

You flinched at the sharpness in his voice—but you saw the desperation behind it. The pain.

“ I never used you.” He growled.

“ I never would. What I felt—what I feel—for you? It’s real. The only real thing in this hell.”

You stared at him, throat tight, breath shaking.

“ Then why share it with me?” You whispered.

“ Why do you even agree with that?”

His brows furrowed. He looked down at you, helpless and fierce all at once.

“ I’m not the kind of man who shares.” He said lowly.

“ I don’t like it. I hate it. I want you for myself.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours.

“ But Gi-hun…he had you first. And when I saw the way he looked at you, the way you held him after everything…I couldn’t take that from him. I couldn’t break that.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, confession unraveling from his chest like a wound he couldn’t stitch back up.

“ So I did the one thing I never thought I would.”

A pause. A breath.

“ I shared you. For him.”

You felt his cock still throbbing inside you, but this wasn’t just physical anymore. This was everything. Every line blurred. Every emotion turned raw.

“ You could’ve taken me.” You whispered.

“ You had the power to lock me away.”

“ I still do.” He murmured.

“ But I won’t.”

His hand came up to your face again, gentle now. Loving.

“ Because what I want from you…can’t be taken. It has to be given.”

And in that moment, with your body wrapped around him and your heart tangled in everything he was—you didn’t know whether you wanted to run from him…

Or fall even deeper.

You stayed seated on his lap, still joined, his warmth surrounding you—but there was a coldness now, not in his touch, but inside your chest. A hollow ache that even the most desperate intimacy couldn’t fill.

Your arms trembled as you pressed both hands against his chest, holding him there—not to pull him close, but to keep space between your words and his breath.

“ I don’t know what to feel anymore…” you said, voice shaking.

“ You were someone who mattered to me. And you betrayed me.”

His hands flexed on your hips, but he said nothing.

“ I didn’t just lose you once.” You whispered.

“ I mourned you.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw twitching.

“ When they announced your number through the speaker…” Your voice cracked.

“ I broke. I thought you died fighting beside us. I thought you were gone. But all along…”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes, tears pooling under your lashes.

“ You were the one mastering the game.”

His breath hitched, barely audible.

You shook your head slowly. “ I don’t know if I believe anything anymore. Not the pact. Not your promises. Not even… this.” Your fingers curled into his chest.

He moved to speak, but you cut him off, the words tumbling now—raw and painful and desperate.

“ Gi-hun blames himself every single day. He told me that maybe if he had done things differently, Jun-bae would still be alive. That you would still be alive.”

Young-il’s gaze faltered.

You continued, the words trembling. “ He just wanted to save people. To stop the killing. To end this madness. And you—”

You met his eyes now, your own wide with devastation. “ You made him suffer for it.”

“ I didn’t want to—”

“ He thought you were his friend.” You choked out.

“ Inside of this hell, he trusted you. And you used that to break him.”

The silence that followed felt like the loudest thing you’d ever heard. Young-il’s lips parted slightly. His brows pulled together, pain blooming across his features—but there was no denial on his face.

No excuses left.

Only regret.

His voice came out hoarse, barely holding together. “ I didn’t mean for it to happen like that…”

“ But it did.” You said, your voice soft but final.

The ache between your legs from what you just shared was nothing compared to the ache in your heart. What was once desire, closeness, craving—had turned into something too tangled to name.

You were still wrapped around him.

Still filled by him.

And yet…so impossibly far away.

Your fingers curled tighter against his chest, heart thudding so violently it felt like your ribs would shatter. You stared at him, eyes wide, disbelief spreading through you like ice.

“ I want to go back.” You said firmly, the tears still drying on your cheeks.

“ I want to help Gi-hun…I need to be there for him. For everyone. I want to fight for something that still makes sense.”

Young-il didn’t speak immediately. His eyes lowered to your lips, then your throat, as if memorizing the last peaceful second he might have with you.

“ You can’t go back.” He finally said.

“ You’ve already been eliminated. Your file was closed when I pulled you out.”

Your stomach dropped. “ Then open it again. I don’t care what rules you’ve set—I want back in.”

“ I can’t.” He said again, this time more steel behind his voice.

“ You’re not going back into that arena.”

You stared at him in confusion until he said the next part.

“ I’ve already replaced you.”

You blinked, silent.

He didn’t stop.

“ I entered the baby—Player 222’s daughter—into the game. She now carries her mother’s number and slot.”

The world tilted.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. You just stared.

“ You…what?”

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. No smirk. No cruelty. Just a cold, hardened mask—bare and emotionless.

“ It was the most strategic move. It creates tension. High drama. And it was requested by the VIPs.” He explained, voice robotic.

“ They want something unthinkable this time. Something that blurs the line between horror and spectacle.”

“ No.” You whispered.

“ No—you’re joking.”

But his silence told you everything. He meant it.

Your voice rose, cracking. “ She’s a baby! She can’t even walk, she can’t fucking speak! You threw an infant into your goddamn arena just to entertain sick monsters?!”

He didn’t flinch.

You snapped.

Your fists came down hard against his chest, again and again, tears streaming as you hit him.

“ You’re sick. You’re fucking sick! She doesn’t even know what death is! And you just—” Your breath caught as sobs took over.

“ You just put her fucking life on a kill list! For a twist?!”

He didn’t stop you.

He took every hit.

Every curse. Every sob.

Until your strength gave out, and you collapsed against him, your face buried in his shoulder, trembling and broken. And only then—only then—did his arms wrap around you, holding you so tightly it hurt.

“ I had to.” He whispered.

“ There’s no more room for weakness. I’m keeping you alive. That baby…that twist…it’s what brought you your freedom.”

You thrashed in his arms weakly. “ Don’t you fucking justify this.”

You pulled back, glaring up at him, your voice filled with venom.

“ You’re not a savior.” You spat.

“ You’re a monster. A merciless, heartless monster.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

His arms stayed wrapped around you, unmoving like steel bands—unrelenting and suffocating. You could feel his breath on your temple, steady but shallow, as if he was trying to stay composed.

You didn’t return the hold.

You just existed in it.

Numb.

Your throat burned from screaming. Your fists ached from striking him. But none of it compared to the hollow in your chest.

The echoing realization that the man who once touched you like you were his salvation…had now become the very thing you needed saving from. You pulled back slowly, forcing his arms to drop. He let you go, reluctantly.

Your voice was hoarse, broken. “ There’s no mercy left in you, is there?”

His eyes met yours—cold, unreadable, but glinting with something else. Guilt. Buried so deep it only flickered.

“ Mercy doesn’t work here.” He said quietly.

“ Mercy gets you killed.”

You stepped away from him, your legs still trembling, his release still inside you—his touch still clinging to your skin like poison. You hated it. Hated that you felt everything and still didn’t know how to make it stop.

“ That baby…” You whispered, voice trembling.

“ Doesn’t even know her mother is dead.”

Young-il didn’t answer.

“ She doesn’t know what pain is yet. What fear is. What this is. And you…you just threw her into a game where people rip each other apart to survive.”

“ I won’t let her die.” He said quietly.

“ I had to put her in—but I’ll keep her safe.”

You laughed bitterly through the tears. “ You can’t protect someone you’ve already used.”

He flinched.

“ I thought you died for something.” You added, shaking your head.

“ But all this time, you were just climbing higher. Building this throne out of corpses.”

His silence was worse than denial.

“ I don’t know who you are anymore.” You said.

“ And I don’t think I want to.”

He stepped forward slightly. “ You do know me.”

“ No.” You said, stepping back, your voice barely above a whisper.

“ I knew Young-il. I don’t know the man standing in front of me now.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling slowly. “ Would you rather I let them kill you? Let them drag you into the Keys and Knives game and leave your body rotting like the others?”

“ I would’ve rather died fighting.” You snapped.

“ Than live knowing an innocent child was sacrificed in my place.”

That hit him.

You saw it.

But he didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing left he could say. The silence stretched. Cold. Final. And in that silence…the line between you and him became something too wide to cross again.

You peeled yourself off him, your body screaming in protest—raw, used, aching from more than just the physical. But you didn’t care.

You reached for your clothes with shaking hands, pulling on the black sleeves and trousers he had ordered for you, even though they felt like shackles now.

You were still dripping with him, your thighs slick and unsteady, your core throbbing with the echo of his presence inside you.

And you hated it.

You hated him.

He watched you silently, chest rising and falling, eyes dark but unreadable again—like he was slipping the mask back on even without the leather and steel.

But you were already speaking before he could.

“ I don’t care if I’m bleeding or broken right now.” You said through clenched teeth.

“ What I can’t endure is the man in front of me—who’s so far gone that he’d toss a baby into a bloodbath just to keep rich bastards entertained.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“ All of us here are still human.” You hissed.

“ But you? I don’t know what you are anymore. Maybe a demon wearing the face of the man I once trusted.”

His nostrils flared.

His fists clenched.

“ You proved it.” You said, louder now.

“ You deserve to rot in this place. Because you chose the darkness. You had chances to leave—you had options—but you stayed because you loved the power too much to walk away.”

“ Shut up.” He growled lowly.

“ No.” You snapped.

“ You’re addicted to control. You could’ve been the one to destroy this place from the inside. You were closer than any of us! But you built your kingdom on corpses instead. You chose this.”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped.

“ You think this is what I fucking wanted?” He barked, stepping forward.

“ You think it’s that fucking easy? You think I asked to be the villain?”

You didn’t move.

He kept going, voice rising, rage bubbling under years of silence and control.

“ I had a life out there. A name. A mother. A little brother. A home. And one fucking game stole all of it from me.”

His hand slammed against the wall, making you flinch despite yourself.

“ I didn’t start this!” He roared.

“ I was you! I was a player! I was terrified and hungry and desperate—and no one came for me!”

You swallowed hard, your voice softer, but sharp. “ So that gave you the right to become the monster that hurt you?”

He froze.

The air was thick. Heavy. The silence is unbearable. You stepped closer, just one pace, eyes burning into his.

“ You say you're a victim…then why are you doing to others what they did to you? Why are you punishing Gi-hun for trying to break the cycle you couldn’t?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, you saw it.

Not power.

Not cruelty.

But grief.

Loneliness.

Guilt that had festered so long, it had turned into armor.

“ I saw myself in him.” Young-il finally said, his voice quiet now. Hoarse.

“ That’s why I gave him chances. That’s why I watched instead of killing him. Because I wanted to believe—maybe…maybe he’d prove me wrong. That someone could still win without becoming what I became.”

Your throat tightened. You stared at him.

“ And now?” You asked.

His shoulders slumped. His voice cracked. “ Now I know…he’s too late. We all are.”

But you stepped back. And in that distance, both of you finally saw the truth.

Maybe he was a victim once.

But now?

Now he was the architect of other people's ruin.

The tension between you cracked like a whip. Young-il’s jaw was clenched, but his voice came out with chilling clarity as he stepped forward.

“ Gi-hun will come here.”

You froze.

“ I’ll give him one last chance.” He continued, eyes narrowing.

“ To win the game. To end it faster. And when he arrives…” He tilted his head slightly, eyes burning into yours.

“ I’ll reveal myself.”

You stared at him, horror swelling like bile in your throat.

“ You’re so fucking sick.” You spat, breath shaking.

He smirked bitterly. “ I am sick. Twisted. Rotten. All of it. I know.”

Your voice rose. “ Then take me back into the game. Let me play. Let me help Gi-hun before he walks right into whatever trap you're setting.”

But Young-il only scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter.

“ Why?” He snapped.

“ Why do you always push yourself into danger for him? Why is it always Gi-hun this, Gi-hun that? His name's the only one that ever fucking leaves your mouth!”

You didn’t hesitate.

“ Because right now, he’s my priority.” Your voice shook with fury.

“ Because Gi-hun, despite his mistakes, remains honest. Despite this fucked-up world, he still chooses to be kind. He still believes in something good.”

“ And I don’t?” Young-il growled, stepping closer.

“ You stopped trying!” You shouted back.

“ You chose the system. You became the very monster you used to fight.”

He stared at you, silent. Breathing hard. A flicker of something breaking behind his eyes.

“ I won’t let you go back in.” He said, low and fierce.

“ Not again. I’ve already seen enough blood. I won’t watch you die in the hands of those greedy fucks.”

You moved toward him, furious. “ It’s not your choice!”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped again.

“ Don’t you get it?!” He shouted, voice nearly shattering.

“ I did all of this—for you! Every fucking deal I made, every move I orchestrated—I burned myself just to keep you safe!”

You froze. Your chest ached. But he wasn’t done.

“ I don’t care about the game anymore.” He said, voice breaking now.

“ I don’t care about the power. I don’t care about the mask. If you die—if you leave me too—I won’t have anything. Not even myself.”

His breath caught, and he stepped forward slowly, his hand trembling as it hovered near your cheek.

“ You are the last life I could ever have again. I know I’m a monster—but even monsters love.”

Your lips trembled.

“ And I swore…” He whispered.

“ No matter what it took…I’d protect you.” His voice cracked.

“ As long as it fucking takes.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

But your heart wasn’t still.

It was torn.

The room was so quiet, you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. His words hung heavy between you, thick with desperation, pain, and a kind of love so distorted, it almost didn’t feel like love at all.

You stared at Young-il—his chest heaving, his hand still hovering near your face, his eyes glassy and wild like a man on the edge of something irreversible.

“ I love you.” He said again, barely above a whisper, as if repeating it would make it more real.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t lean in.

You didn’t speak right away.

Because your heart was breaking for what he was…and for everything he could’ve been.

“ You say you love me…” You finally said, voice quiet but unwavering.

“ But what you’re doing…this isn’t love, Young-il.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“ This is fear. This is control. This is you holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping you from drowning, while you're the one pulling us both under.”

You took a shaky step back, breaking the invisible thread of warmth between your bodies.

“ You didn’t save me.” You continued.

“ You stole my right to choose. You put a baby in that arena. You used Gi-hun’s loyalty. You’ve made every decision as if you were protecting me—but really, you were protecting yourself from losing me.”

“ Because you’re all I have!” He snapped, voice shaking now.

“ You think I’m proud of what I’ve done? Of who I became? I hate this place! I hate what it made me! But I don’t know how to stop anymore. I only know how to survive.”

Your throat tightened.

“ And I only know how to fight.” You whispered.

“ That’s why I want to go back. To help Gi-hun, to try to make things right—even if it’s impossible.”

He stepped toward you again, but slower this time. Wary. Breaking.

“ I don’t want to lose you.” He said.

“ If you go back, I can’t protect you anymore.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but your voice didn’t waver.

“ Then let me go. And if you really love me, trust me to choose the fight I believe in.”

Young-il stared at you for a long time, as if he were memorizing the lines of your face, knowing this moment might change everything.

Then, quietly…his hand dropped to his side.

His gaze lowered.

And he said nothing.

Because in the end, even he knew—

Love, twisted by fear, isn't enough to cage you.

…

The sharp hiss of the chamber door sliding open cut through the room like a blade. You turned instinctively, still reeling from the emotional storm with Young-il, just as one of the Square-masked guards stepped in with stiff posture.

“ Frontman…” The guard said formally.

“ Player 456 is outside. He’s waiting for you.”

Young-il exhaled slowly—almost tiredly—as if bracing himself. The quiet sound of his breath was louder than anything else. He turned away from you, crossed to a nearby table, and reached for the heavy, black mask—the one you knew all too well.

The symbol of fear.

Power.

Secrecy.

With a calmness that didn’t match the storm beneath his surface, he slipped the mask back over his face, sealing himself away once again.

The man you knew—the man you once loved—vanished behind the smooth, inhuman steel.

“ Let him in.” He ordered the guard, voice now distorted through the built-in modulator. Controlled. Cold.

The guard bowed slightly and stepped back out to fulfill the command. Before the door could shut again, Young-il turned to you. He moved to his cabinet and retrieved something small—sleek and dark.

A mask.

Not like his. Not a symbol of command. But a concealment tool—a smooth, curved faceplate with no expression and no markings. A mask made to erase identity.

He crossed the room in long strides and extended it toward you.

“ Put this on.” He said firmly.

“ Now.”

You hesitated only a moment before taking it, fingers brushing against his gloved hand briefly. It felt colder than it used to.

“ What for?” You asked softly, barely audible under the edge of tension.

“ I need you to stay out of sight.” He said.

“ Gi-hun can’t know you’re here—not yet. I’ll bring you forward when the time is right.”

You held the mask for a second longer. Then, silently, you slid it over your face.

It locked into place with a quiet click, and the world dimmed, your peripheral vision reduced, your breathing slightly muffled. But your identity…completely gone.

He stepped back and pointed to the far corner of the chamber, where the shadows were deepest.

“ Go…” He said.

“ Wait there. Do not make a sound. Not until I call you.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say something—anything—but you were tired. Not just in your body, but in your soul. So, you nodded silently and moved as he commanded, disappearing into the darkened corner.

The door hissed open again.

You could hear the familiar footsteps.

Gi-hun’s voice.

And your heart twisted violently inside your chest.

Two men.

Two fates.

And now…you were a ghost between them.

Author's Note: This is the second half of the story. This would be the final post, but this application has a limitation, so there will be a third or fourth part (depending on whether Tumblr cuts me again). This story has a lot of long parts hehe. That's all, thanks for the patience everyone. Love you all! 🫶🏻 The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. READ WITH RESPONSIBILITY.

Tags: @frontwomann @valarie028 @ilovehwanginho @maah-sama @callmespacecat @madzzz0797 @sylviavf @yourpersonalcuckcake @jeongyukook

Part 3 soon...

[lost-in-thoughts03]

SAME DAMN TIME || YANDERE! INHUN

Next To You || Free

" Y'all don't wanna play fair."

Summary: What if these two attractive men are showing interest in you? They share the same desire to possess you. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, HEAVY SMUT, POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP, AU, obsession, possessive, yandere behavior, jealousy, heavy tension, manipulation, character death, toxic relationship, betrayal, explicit content, matured language, violence, gun violence, killings, inexperience! Reader, sadistic behavior, ownership, consensual, deals, fluff, flirting, kissing, markings, older men x younger woman (LEGAL), praising, worshipping, dirty talk, oral (BOTH), threesome, bathroom sex, rough, deep, slow, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, soft yandere! Gi-hun, Dom Yandere! In-ho/Young-il Yandere! InHun x Reader Words: 14.6k

The stale air inside the bunk room hangs heavy with heat, sweat, and tension. The clang of the iron doors echoes as two Circle-masked guards wheel in a steel cart.

They move down the line of waiting players, robotic and silent, distributing the same miserable rations—a single piece of dry bread and a warm carton of milk.

You stand quietly in line, arms crossed, stomach already twisting with disappointment.

“ What kind of pathetic meal is this?” Dae-ho grumbles behind you, holding up his bread like it personally insulted him.

“ Right?” Jun-bae mutters in agreement. “ They want us weak. Easier to break.”

You tune them out. You're too tired to care anymore—until a tap lands on your shoulder. You turn your head slowly, half-expecting another complaint. Instead, you’re met with a flash of purple.

Player 230.

His hair is bright against the dullness of the room. His eyes gleam with arrogance, and his mouth curls into a smirk that’s far too confident for someone living off bread and milk.

“ Hey…” He purrs, voice smooth like he’s practicing for a music video.

“ You got a name, or should I just call you mine?”

You blink, unimpressed. “ No.”

“ No?” He echoes, playfully wounded.

“ Damn. I didn’t even get to introduce myself yet.” He points to his chest with both thumbs.

“ Name’s Thanos. Rapper. Legend. You probably heard my track ‘Born to Break Chains’. Underground hit.”

He winks.

“ Didn’t think I’d find something so beautiful in a place like this. You’re like a rose in concrete.”

And then, with exaggerated flair, he raises his hand and forms a Korean finger heart.

“ I. Like. You.”

You raise an eyebrow and deadpan, “ I don’t.” Your voice is flat, dismissive.

Thanos chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “ Oof. Cold. I like that. I like girls who don’t like me back. Makes it more fun, y’know?”

Before you can snap back, you feel a shift in the air.

Across the room, two pairs of eyes are locked on the scene.

Young-il stands by the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tightly his cheek twitches. His eyes are sharp, dangerous, tracking Thanos's every move like a predator sizing up competition. His posture is stiff, murderous.

A few bunks away, Gi-hun is seated on the edge of a bed, his knuckles bone-white as he crushes the milk carton in his grip. His usually gentle eyes are stormy, filled with silent fury. His lips are pressed into a thin line, but you can see it—pure, seething jealousy.

Neither of them moves. Not yet. But the air crackles with unspoken warning.

If looks could kill, Player 230 would’ve been long gone.

But Thanos, oblivious or maybe just cocky enough not to care, leans in a little closer.

“ I’m gonna make you like me eventually.” He says with a wink. “ Even the ice queen’s gotta melt sometime.”

You step forward in line, turning your back on him without a word. And behind you—rage brews like a storm ready to break.

...

The bunk room buzzes with restless energy—metal bunks, scraping trays, quiet murmurs, and the clatter of footsteps on cold concrete. But none of that reaches you clearly anymore. Not with him beside you.

Thanos. Player 230. Still glued to your side like a damn leech. You’ve shooed him off four times. He doesn’t care.

“ Come on…” He says, voice dipped in artificial charm.

“ All I’m asking is a shot. One chance. I could treat you like a queen, babe. You deserve that. Not this hell."

You scowl, sidestepping as he leans in.

“ No thanks.” You mutter, but it bounces right off his smug smile.

“ Let me be real with you.” He purrs, lowering his voice and leaning a little too close for comfort.

“ We can meet in the bathroom later. I’ll show you the real me.”

You stiffen immediately. He steps back just a bit, wiggling his eyebrows, clearly proud of his disgusting innuendo. You open your mouth to snap at him, but you don’t get the chance.

A throat clears behind you.

Low. Cold. Dangerous.

You turn—and relief crashes over you.

Young-il and Gi-hun.

They don’t say anything. They don’t have to. The tension rolling off them is palpable. Young-il’s jaw is already tight, and Gi-hun’s stare is like ice under fire.

Without a word, Young-il steps forward and grabs your wrist—not rough, but firm. Protective. He drags you behind him and plants himself between you and Thanos.

Thanos scoffs, clearly unbothered.

“ Yo, what’s your problem?” He sneers.

“ You her dad or something?”

Young-il doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at him like he’s already dead. That makes Thanos grin wider, sensing an opening.

“ Ohhh…” Thanos hums mockingly, bowing with sarcasm.

“ My bad. Didn’t mean to flirt with your daughter. Real sorry about that.”

“ Shut up.” Young-il growls, voice low and sharp.

But Thanos keeps going, now walking up and towering over him.

“ What, gonna give me a lecture now? Save it for your daughter or your grandkids. I’m not some punk you can—”

SNAP.

Young-il’s hand flies to Thanos’ throat. The smack of the grab and the gasp of pain echo together. Thanos chokes, stumbling backward, hands flying up as Young-il’s grip tightens.

You flinch as Player 124—Thanos’ buddy—comes charging in to help, but it’s over before it starts.

Young-il steps out, plants a swift, brutal kick to 124’s leg. The guy collapses with a loud yelp, hitting the floor hard and curling around his knee.

Thanos is wheezing now. Desperate. “ O-Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m done, man! I’m done!”

Young-il shoves him back, sending him staggering into a bunk post. His eyes blaze.

“ Stay the fuck away from her.” He says coldly.

Thanos nods rapidly, backing off with trembling hands. No more smirks. No more jokes. Just fear. He grabs 124 and helps him limp away without another word.

Once they’re gone, the air shifts again.

Gi-hun immediately turns to you, his voice soft but tense. “ Did he say anything to you? Something serious?”

Your heart is still racing. You remember the bathroom comment. The filth in his voice. But...if you tell them, things might spiral again. You glance at the bloodied nose of 124, the red mark on Thanos’ throat.

You shake your head. “ No. Just some dumb pickup lines.”

Gi-hun’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t fully believe you, but he nods anyway. He gently pulls you into a protective stance beside him.

Then Young-il turns to you, his sharp eyes suddenly soft as they meet yours. “ Did that bastard hurt you?”

You shake your head again.

A faint smile tugs at his lips—brief, almost unnoticeable. Then he turns and walks away without another word, his broad shoulders tense but slowly easing.

Gi-hun stays beside you a moment longer, his eyes scanning the room. And just like that, you know—no matter how dark this place gets, you’re not alone.

...

The bunk room has softened for a moment—laughter echoing off the cold walls like a rare song. You're sitting cross-legged on one of the lower bunks, surrounded by a few other players.

For once, you’re smiling, even laughing, as you chew on the stale bread, pretending—just for a second—that you’re not trapped in a nightmare.

Across the room, two sets of eyes are locked on you.

Watching. Smoldering.

Gi-hun sits at the edge of his bed, but his food remains untouched. His gaze isn’t just protective now—it’s possessive. He’s watching the way your lips curve when you laugh, the way you lean into the others comfortably. And then he sees it again.

Young-il.

The man is leaning back, arms folded across his chest, head tilted lazily, but his eyes never leave you. Not even once. That same intensity—since the second game. Since the moment he joined Gi-hun’s team during the Six-Legged Pentathlon.

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens. Something boils in his gut.

Enough.

He stands abruptly, strides across the room, and towers over Young-il without a warning.

“ What’s your fucking game?” Gi-hun growls, low but furious.

“ You’ve been eyeing her since the second game. You think I didn’t notice?”

Young-il doesn’t even flinch. A small chuckle escapes him as he looks up at Gi-hun, amused.

“ No game. Just want the same thing you want.” He replies smoothly.

Gi-hun grabs a fistful of Young-il’s collar, pulling him up with fire in his eyes. “ Stay the fuck away from her.”

Young-il’s smile fades. He grips Gi-hun’s collar in return, eyes flashing.

“ Who the fuck are you to order me around? I don’t follow rules. Especially not from another player trying to get in her head.”

With a violent shove, he breaks the grip and pushes Gi-hun back a step.

The air crackles between them. Then, without hesitation, Young-il says it outright—voice raw, honest, and filled with heat.

“ I want her. Just admit it, you do too.”

Gi-hun snaps. “ I don’t—! I’m just trying to protect her!” He lies.

Young-il throws his head back and laughs.

“ Bullshit.” He spits.

“ I see the way you look at her. You hide behind your fucking ‘protection’ like it makes you noble. But I see through it. I see that lust you try to bury under your nice guy act.”

Gi-hun’s fists clench at his sides. His whole body shakes with rage, the need to strike boiling in his veins. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not yet.

Young-il smirks, feeding off the storm in front of him. He steps closer, invading Gi-hun’s space. He places a hand on Gi-hun’s shoulder—mocking, calm.

“ You don’t want to share her. Neither do I.”

“ But if I had to…if I had to do it with someone who’s just as fucked in the head as I am?”

He leans in, eyes cold. “ I’d share her with you.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widen. “ You’re fucking sick.”

Young-il’s smirk deepens. “ So are you. You’re just better at lying about it.”

Silence lingers, thick and dangerous. Neither man backs down. From across the room, you laugh again at something another player says. And both of them…fall silent—haunted by the same thought.

That in this place of blood and games, you are the only thing still worth fighting for. Even if it means losing what little sanity they have left.

The tension between the two men still simmers like a ticking bomb. The noise of the room fades—the laughter, the clinking of trays, the distant announcements—all of it drowns beneath the low voice that now speaks with dangerous calm.

Young-il steps around Gi-hun like a wolf circling its prey, voice slow, sharp, calculated.

“ You think standing back and playing the good guy will be enough?”

“ You think just watching her smile from a distance is gonna make her yours?”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer. His fists are still clenched. Jaw tight.

Young-il stops beside him, voice dipping into something darker, something that drips with warning and truth.

“ You wait too long, someone else will move first.”

He nods his chin toward the far corner—toward the purple-haired bastard who’s still licking his wounded pride. Thanos sits at the edge of a bunk, watching you like a predator still waiting for an opening.

“ You want him to be the one who gets her?” Young-il asks, voice low and deliberate.

“ You want him to put his hands on her? Whisper his bullshit into her ear while she laughs at his dumb lines?"

Gi-hun’s eyes twitch—just slightly—but enough.

Young-il steps in closer. “ He’s watching her too. Just like us. And the next time he tries, maybe you won’t be there to stop it. Maybe I won’t be either. Maybe she’ll be alone.”

A pause.

Then he leans in.

“ Do you want that?” He hisses.

“ Do you want Thanos to snatch her away? You really gonna stand there and let that happen?”

Gi-hun’s breathing is heavy now. He turns his head slightly, watching you laugh again—so unaware of the hellstorm brewing in the shadows because of you.

He hates this.

He hates himself for even listening. But even more, he hates the image forming in his mind: you, cornered by Thanos again, no one there, his hands on you, that voice in your ear...

“ No.” Gi-hun mutters, almost growling.

Young-il smirks. The first crack.

“ That’s right.” He says softly. “ We don’t want that.”

A beat passes. The silence is suffocating.

“ So stop pretending you’re better than me, Gi-hun.”

“ We both want the same thing.”

“ And if we both move...no one else stands a chance.”

He steps back now, just enough to give space—but his words still echo between them.

“ Choose.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer yet.

But his silence?

It’s not resistance.

It’s the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The heavy silence between them is suffocating, charged with heat and unspoken temptation. But Gi-hun stays where he stands, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

His eyes—burning but steady—refuse to drift back toward you now. Not while Young-il’s shadow lingers beside him.

Gi-hun shakes his head slowly, his voice low and cracked with frustration. “ I’m not like you.”

“ I’m not doing this to own her, or claim her as some prize. I care about her.”

“ This is about protection. It’s about...connection. Something real.” His voice tightens as he continues, raw and sincere.

“ I want to keep her safe, not cage her. And if that means standing at a distance...I’ll do it. Because I still respect her.”

Young-il lets out a deep, low chuckle—a sound laced with both amusement and disbelief. He shakes his head, not even looking back at Gi-hun at first.

“ Keep saying that.” He mutters.

“ Keep telling yourself you’re different. Keep pretending that what you feel for her is so pure, so noble.”

He finally turns his head slightly, casting a side glance at Gi-hun with an unreadable look.

“ But one day, Gi-hun...you’ll realize that it’s not just protection. Not just care.”

“ You’ll wake up and feel it burning through your veins. That ache. That fucking need.”

Young-il turns fully now, slowly backing away with calm confidence. “ And when that day comes...”

“ You’ll remember this moment.”

He gives a faint, mocking smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “ The offer’s still open."

“ Take your time.”

And with that, he turns his back and walks away—leaving Gi-hun alone in his storm of thoughts, torn between conviction and the growing shadow of his own desire.

...

The noise of the day has dulled. Players are settling down, curling into thin blankets or leaning against bunk frames with weary eyes. Tension still lingers in the corners of the room like smoke that won’t clear, but for a moment, there’s peace.

You return to your bunk, body sore, but soul strangely light from earlier laughter. You spot Gi-hun, sitting alone on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced together. His expression is far away—lost in a place you can’t quite reach.

You approach him softly, carefully, your voice gentle like a feather. “ Hey...you alright?”

Gi-hun blinks out of his thoughts, startled only slightly. His gaze lifts to meet yours. For a second, that distant cloud in his eyes fades.

You sit beside him quietly, keeping a respectful distance, then smile and start talking—just to ease the air.

“ I was talking to Dae-ho and Jun-bae earlier.” You chuckle.

“ God, those two are ridiculous. Jun-bae’s joke about the guard’s milk obsession? I nearly choked on my bread.”

Gi-hun smiles faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“ It’s good...” He says softly.

“ That you’re getting along with them. I thought you were the type who kept to herself.”

You laugh under your breath and shrug. “ You’re not wrong. I don’t usually talk much...especially not to strangers.”

You glance at him and soften your voice.

“ But sometimes...you just feel it, y’know? That someone’s safe. That someone’s good. Like you. Like them.” Your words are gentle, honest.

“ This place is meant to strip everything from us. But we can’t let loneliness consume us...not until we forget what it means to be human.”

Gi-hun turns to you, truly turns. And this time, his smile reaches his eyes.

“ You’re not like the others.” He murmurs.

“ You’re...full of life. Like you don’t belong in a place like this. You’re the definition of sunshine.”

You snort and nudge his shoulder. “ Sunshine? You’ve been breathing too much stale air.”

He chuckles, softer this time. But it feels warmer—real. Then your eyes scan the room, wandering slightly. Gi-hun notices the shift. Instantly.

“ Where’s Young-il?” You ask, curiosity on your face.

“ He’s not with you for once. I thought you two were glued at the hip.”

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “ Honestly, I was starting to think there’s a forbidden BL drama going on behind my back.” You laugh, teasing.

Gi-hun laughs too—but it’s tighter now. A little strained. His smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore. Because at the mention of that name, the warmth inside him evaporates.

The memory flashes in his mind—Young-il’s offer. That sick idea of sharing you. That slow, smug whisper of a temptation that clawed at him earlier.

Gi-hun’s gut twists. His hand curls slightly at his knee.

He doesn’t want to share with you.

He can’t.

You’re not something to be passed around or bargained over like a piece of candy in this twisted game.

He wants you for himself.

Not just out of desire. Not just lust.

But because being near you makes him feel human again.

And yet...his heart pulses with a dark truth he hates to admit:

Part of him did listen to Young-il.

Part of him...understood.

Your voice brings him back.

“ Hey.” You say softly, noticing his change in expression.

“ You alright?”

Gi-hun looks at you. And smiles. A smile that hides a thousand storms. “ Yeah. Just...thinking.”

But deep inside, he already knows—

He’s fighting a war with himself.

And you're the flame at the center of it all.

The bunkroom is dim now—most of the lights already flickering into their nightly dullness. Soft murmurs echo here and there, the low hum of restless bodies trying to forget they’re still inside a death game.

You’re still sitting beside Gi-hun, your legs swinging gently off the edge of the bunk as you talk. He hasn’t moved, not once. Not while you're speaking. He just listens—every word sinking into him like light through cracked glass.

He doesn’t look at anyone else the way he looks at you.

“ You know…” You say, voice quieter now, a soft vulnerability creeping in.

“ I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

You chuckle awkwardly, like you’re trying to cover honesty with humor. “ Not even a textmate. Zero. Zilch. I mean, I’ve seen love in movies—those sweet moments, the way they look at each other like they’re each other’s whole world...it’s beautiful.”

Gi-hun turns his head slightly to you, his expression unreadable but tender.

“ But maybe it’s stupid.” You continue, shaking your head.

“ Maybe it’s all just…fantasy. Love like that probably doesn’t exist in real life.”

He wants to say you’re wrong.

He wants to tell you that love does exist like that—that you, sitting right here, prove it can. That he feels something burning in his chest every time you speak, every time you smile without even knowing the effect you have.

But he stays silent. Because if he speaks now, he’s not sure he’ll stop.

You let out a sigh and glance down at your hands.

“ Anyway…doesn’t matter now. We’re trapped in this hellhole. No one falls in love here. They just try to survive.” You pause, then snort.

“ Except Thanos. That guy’s high on whatever fantasy world he made up in his head.” You roll your eyes, irritation blooming back across your face.

“ He’s fucking creepy. Always around. Always saying weird shit like he’s starring in a twisted love song. And the way he looked at me…like I was something to own. It made my skin crawl.”

Gi-hun’s hands slowly tighten into fists in his lap.

You don’t notice—your voice keeps going, filled with the pent-up frustration you’ve been holding in.

“ I told him no. Over and over. And he just laughs like it’s part of the game. Like I’m just being coy and playing hard to get. I’ve never felt so...disgusted.”

Gi-hun’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “ He won’t bother you again.”

You look at him, surprised. His eyes are darker now—not angry at you, but because of what you’re feeling. You see it now—the quiet storm in him.

The protectiveness that’s been burning beneath the surface since the very beginning.

“ If he tries, I’ll make sure he regrets it.” He says softly, but firmly.

You smile, touched by his words. Something in your heart aches with quiet warmth. “ Thank you, Gi-hun. Really.”

He nods. But deep inside, he doesn’t just want to protect you.

He wants to be the one who makes you feel all the things you dream about—the connection, the trust, the kind of love that even movies can’t capture.

The kind of love that lasts.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s already falling.

Too deep to ever crawl back.

The air inside the bunkroom is still thick, but warmer now—laughter and quiet chatter making it feel a little less like a prison, and a little more like a moment of stolen peace.

You’re still sitting with Gi-hun, your voice soft, calm, recounting something funny Dae-ho said, when a familiar figure walks up.

Young-il.

He wears that smile—the one that’s just charming enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know better. But Gi-hun does. And the second he sees it, his chest tightens and his eyes narrow.

You turn with your usual warmth, your smile offered easily.

“ Hey, Young-il!” You greet, just like you did with Gi-hun.

Gi-hun watches—frowning—as Young-il takes the open space on your other side. Not just sitting…but leaning. Subtle, smooth, calculated. His knee nearly touches yours. His shoulder brushes too close.

Gi-hun's eyes flick to the side, and he catches it—Young-il smirking directly at him. A silent, smug message: She’s not just listening to you, Gi-hun.

Gi-hun clenches his fist, jaw tightening. But he won’t look weak. He shifts slightly. Not much—but just enough for his shoulder to press gently against yours. Protective. Possessive.

Now, you’re sandwiched between two men who barely tolerate each other—both obsessed, both spiraling—but you don’t even notice. You’re too caught up in your story, laughing softly, your voice still lighting the dull air.

But the two men?

They're waging war in silence.

Young-il leans in a bit, the smirk never leaving his face, and says casually. “ Didn’t know Gi-hun had friends. Must be new at that, huh?”

You snort, laughing, unaware of the venom hiding beneath the joke. “ That’s not true! Gi-hun’s easy to get along with.”

Gi-hun’s smile is tight, eyes fixed on Young-il. “ At least I don’t pretend to be nice before stabbing someone in the back.”

Young-il chuckles, gaze cool.

“ Only if they deserve it.” He winks. “ You’d be surprised how many people do.”

You blink, your smile faltering. “ Okay…what’s with the sudden spice between you two?”

You glance between them, sensing a shift in the air for the first time. Both men immediately straighten, wearing false innocence like a mask.

“ It’s nothing.” Gi-hun says quickly.

“ Just teasing.” Young-il adds smoothly.

“ That’s how brothers bond, right?”

You eye them both suspiciously, your brow furrowed.

“ Weird way of bonding.”

Gi-hun forces a smile for your sake, but inside, he's burning. He knows what Young-il is doing. The subtle digs.

The invasion of space.

The fucking challenge.

And worse?

You’re caught right in the middle.

But this isn’t over. Not for either of them. Not by a long shot.

The tension between the two men simmers just beneath the surface, but you—still blissfully unaware—continue chatting, trying to keep the mood light.

Until Young-il tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement and mischief.

“ Hey…” He says casually, watching you closely.

“ Just curious…would you ever be willing to get shared?”

You pause mid-sentence, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“ Shared?” You echo, clearly confused. “ What do you mean?”

Gi-hun freezes beside you, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move—he just watches carefully, as if your next words will decide the fate of everything.

Young-il grins, leaning back slightly to play off the weight of his words. His tone is teasing but controlled.

“ You know, like when two people…want the same thing.”

“ And instead of fighting over it, they decide to…share it. Like, for teamwork.”

You blink for a moment, processing it.

“ Oh! You mean like group work?” You say, eyes lighting up as you finally make sense of it—though not in the way he meant.

“ Of course! I’m all about teamwork. If I’m part of a group, I promise I’ll pull my weight. I’ll be a good team member if someone wants to share with me.”

You offer a bright, sincere smile, totally missing the implications behind the question.

Young-il turns away, pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh. His eyes water slightly from holding it in. Your pure answer hits harder than any flirtation ever could.

“ God…” He mutters under his breath, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“ You really are something else.”

Gi-hun, still stone-still beside you, glances away to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He's quiet, but deep inside?

Something stirs.

Something dark.

Something hungry.

Your innocent words. The way you agreed without even knowing what they were asking—satisfied him. Not because you understood. But because a part of him, the part he doesn’t speak about, wants to take advantage of that softness. That trust.

His body shifts slightly, knees brushing against yours. He pretends it’s nothing.

But there’s heat now.

Burning just under the skin.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn't have to.

Because now he knows:

If things continue this way…

He might not say no the next time Young-il makes that offer.

You continue chatting, unaware of the quiet electricity pulsing between the two men beside you. The air grows heavier, thicker, as you keep speaking with that same kind-hearted tone—completely oblivious to the storm you've stirred between them.

Young-il watches you with narrowed eyes, lips still twitching with amusement from your innocent answer. He rests an arm casually along the back edge of the bunk behind you, letting his fingers dangle just a few inches from your shoulder.

“ You really mean it, huh?” He says, voice softer now, almost testing.

“ Even if…the people you’re working with are a little messed up? Still willing to be on their team?”

You nod without hesitation. “ Of course. Everyone’s got their flaws. Doesn’t mean I’ll abandon them. I just want to help.”

That answer.

It hits both of them.

Gi-hun exhales slowly through his nose, trying to control the sudden, possessive warmth curling in his chest. He looks down at your hands as you talk, at the way your fingers move, the small gestures, the gentleness in your voice.

You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t realize what you’re agreeing to.

But it awakens something in him again. That same fire. The one he’s been trying to smother ever since Young-il put that offer on the table.

He should be ashamed.

But he’s not.

Young-il, meanwhile, leans in just slightly, his voice a little lower now—teasing, but edged with sincerity.

“ You might want to be careful saying things like that.”

“ Someone might take your words the wrong way.”

You turn to him, brows pinched. “ Huh, what do you mean?”

Before he can respond, Gi-hun speaks, his voice calm but laced with something darker. “ He means people like him.”

Young-il grins and throws Gi-hun a slow glance.

“ I don’t deny it.” He shrugs. “ But I’m not the only one.”

Gi-hun meets his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t deny it either. The silence that follows is thick. Tense. It hums between them like an unspoken pact that neither of them wants to acknowledge, but both of them feel—deeply.

You finally notice it—the subtle shift in the air. The tension. The way their eyes no longer hold the same light as a few minutes ago.

“ Okay…what’s going on?” You ask slowly, looking between them. “ Did I say something wrong?”

Gi-hun forces a soft smile and shakes his head. “ No. You didn’t.”

Young-il mirrors the expression, though his smile lingers longer, more satisfied. “ Not at all.”

You nod uncertainty and start to rise to stretch. As you turn, neither of the men speak. But behind your back, their gazes lock again—this time not with hatred…but with something else.

An understanding.

They both want you.

And you're too good, too kind, too unaware of the world they’re dragging you into. But if you keep smiling like that—keep trusting them like this—

You might never see just how far they’re willing to go.

Or how deep you’ve already pulled them in.

The tension that had been crackling like static between the two men starts to dissolve—at least on the surface—when you suddenly lean back and grin, your eyes dancing with mischief.

“ You two are so weird sometimes.” You tease, arms crossed as you lean into your performance.

“ The way you stare at each other, fight, banter…I’m starting to think there’s something more going on.”

They both blink.

You smirk dramatically, raising a brow. “ I mean, it’s already 2024, you guys.”

“ Pride Month may be over, but I still see rainbows every time you two are in the same room.”

You clasp your hands together as if watching a romance bloom. “ Forbidden love…rivals to lovers…poetic!”

Young-il snorts, but his grin doesn’t hide his sharp stare. He leans a little closer to you, resting his elbow on his knee.

“ If I liked someone like Gi-hun, I’d probably request to be eliminated voluntarily.”

You burst out laughing. “ God! That’s cold!”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, but the edge in them doesn’t disappear.

“ I’d rather throw myself out of concrete than fall for that bastard.”

Your laughter comes louder now, real and unfiltered, your shoulders shaking as you hold your stomach.

“ You two are too much.” You manage between breaths.

“ You’re better than the shows I watched before coming here.”

They smile with you.

They laugh with you.

But beneath the surface?

Nothing is funny. Because the truth is, neither of them is joking.

Young-il's smirk fades the moment you look away, his eyes following the curve of your neck, your mouth, your hands as you wipe away tears of laughter. Every movement feeds the hunger that’s clawing at his restraint.

He wants you.

Not tomorrow.

Not after the next game.

Now.

Gi-hun, though quieter, is no better. Your laugh—it does something to him. It ignites a heat in his chest that won’t go away. You’re so close and yet feel so untouchable…unless he takes a step he swore he wouldn’t.

Unless he breaks the line he’s drawn for himself.

And the worst part?

You have no idea.

You think they’re joking.

You think this is all playful teasing, a harmless rivalry.

But behind every joke is a truth neither of them can keep buried much longer.

Because of the obsession?

It’s real. And it’s growing.

If this keeps going—

If you keep trusting them—

If you keep smiling like that…

It won’t be long before the line they both swore not to cross—

Is completely erased.

…

The dormitory was quiet. Most players were already asleep or faking rest to conserve energy. You were sitting in the far corner, arms curled around your knees, watching shadows move across the ceiling.

Gi-hun sat on the edge of his cot, staring at you. You didn’t see him watching—but he couldn’t stop. Then, soft footsteps approached.

Young-il sat beside him like nothing ever happened.

“ You didn’t sleep.” He said casually.

Gi-hun didn’t respond.

Young-il leaned back, arms behind his head. “ You’re thinking about it. I can see it in your face.”

Gi-hun glared at him. “ You think this is a game?”

“ This whole fucking place is a game.” Young-il’s smile was bitter. “ I’m just trying to play smart.”

Gi-hun shook his head. “ And what? You think dragging her into your twisted logic is smart?”

Young-il turned his head toward Gi-hun, eyes cold but calm. “ I’m offering something real. You think she’ll survive out there alone? Or even with you protecting her? They’ll tear her apart.”

Gi-hun stayed quiet, jaw tight.

“ But are we together?” Young-il continued. 

“ She’d be untouchable. No one here would dare hurt her if they knew she was ours.”

Gi-hun stared at the floor again. He hated how the logic made sense. He hated how Young-il knew exactly how to bend the truth into something seductive.

“ I’m not like you.” Gi-hun murmured.

“ You keep telling yourself that.” Young-il said. 

“ But you’re already standing at the edge. All I’m doing is offering you a hand.”

Gi-hun didn’t take it. 

But he didn’t walk away either.

And Young-il just smiled in the silence.

Because that was enough—for now.

The silence was unbearable. Gi-hun lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of the dormitory, unmoving, eyes wide open as the bodies around him slept in broken, shallow breaths. Every creak of a bed frame, every soft whisper of shifting blankets—none of it reached him.

Only one voice did.

Young-il.

The things he said.

The truth in them.

And the sick, undeniable part of Gi-hun that couldn’t argue anymore.

Because he tried.

He tried to stay above it.

To protect you the “right” way.

To pretend this desire could be smothered by guilt or duty or some imaginary line between wrong and worse.

But tonight shatters that illusion.

And something in him snapped.

Quietly, Gi-hun sat up. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on one man—awake already, waiting for him in the shadows like he knew this moment would come.

Young-il. Their eyes met. No words. Just knowing.

Gi-hun stood and walked to him in silence, his steps heavy, as if each one dragged chains behind it. He stopped in front of Young-il, who sat casually on the lower bunk, one leg resting over the other, arms crossed, a smug gleam already in his eyes.

Gi-hun didn’t sit. Didn’t speak right away. He just stared down at him. Until the words came—low, bitter, broken.

“ You win.”

Young-il tilted his head, a cruel smile curling on his lips. “ Took you long enough.”

Gi-hun didn’t smile. “ This isn’t about you.”

Young-il stood, closing the space between them, lowering his voice. “ No. It’s about her. And we both know—if you can’t have her alone…you’d rather have her with me than not at all.”

Gi-hun flinched slightly at how true it was.

Young-il leaned in, breath close, voice dark and sure. “ We’ll protect her. Keep her safe. Let her feel wanted…needed. She won’t even know what’s happening until it’s too late to fight it.”

Gi-hun looked away. “ If you hurt her—”

“ I won’t.” Young-il said immediately. 

“ Because I want her too. Not like those other animals in this place. I want her.” He paused, eyes gleaming. 

“ Like you do.”

Gi-hun’s fists clenched. “ She deserves better than this.”

Young-il’s tone softened—manipulative, coaxing. “ Then give it to her. Together. Make her ours. She’ll never be alone again. She won’t have to worry about the others, or this place. All she’ll have to think about…is us.”

Gi-hun was silent for a long moment. Then, finally…he nodded.

It wasn't a triumph on Young-il’s face.

It was something darker.

Something possessive.

Something final.

The pact was sealed.

And neither of them knew just how far they were willing to go to make you theirs.

…

The 30-minute lights out had just begun. You were crammed tightly under the bunk, knees to your chest, heart hammering as Gi-hun had warned. 

“ No matter what happens, don’t come out. Don’t make a sound.” He had said, voice stern but laced with fear. Outside your makeshift hiding spot, hell had already broken loose.

Screams echoed—raw, panicked, violent. Bodies thudded onto cold concrete, metal bunk beds clattered, some toppling, others being used as weapons. You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to move.

Then you saw it.

A pair of bloodied shoes stopped right in front of you.

You held your breath. Maybe he’d keep walking.

But no.

A head ducked down.

A twisted smile curled up beneath dark, frenzied eyes. 

" Boo!" He whispered before a hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you out. 

You screamed, scrambling and flailing, trying to hold onto anything—but there was nothing.

Player 124.

He was covered in blood—some his, most not. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, then raised something glinting. A fork.

“ Pretty little thing.” He sneered, waving the fork in front of your face like a toy. “ Scared now?”

He jabbed it playfully at your side. You flinched, sobbing. “ Please—don’t—please don’t kill me—”

" Beg louder!" He screamed. His face twisted into something feral. “ Beg like you mean it!”

You tried, tears falling. But it only amused him.

“ Fucking slut!” He spat.

“ Thanos wanted you. All he wanted was a piece of you, but nooo, you’d rather cozy up with the two old freaks who keep sniffing after you like dogs. You think they care about you? They’re going to ruin you. Fuck you so hard you forget your name. That’s all they want.”

He cackled. “ You think you're special? You're just meat.”

" I'm sorry." He whispered mockingly, voice dipped in false sweetness—then lunged.

The fork came down—fast.

But rage flared in your chest. With a scream, you slammed your fist into his face. He reeled, staggered, blood spurting from his nose. He groaned and lunged again, eyes unhinged.

“ YOU SHOULD DIE!” He roared, pressing the fork toward you again, arms shaking with fury.

You hit him again—nothing.

He was a fucking monster.

Until—

SMASH!

A bottle shattered across his head.

His body dropped instantly like a puppet with its strings cut. You gasped and saw her—a female player, wide-eyed, breathing heavily. She didn’t speak. She just ran.

You scrambled to your feet, trembling, staring at Player 124’s unconscious—maybe dead—body before bolting into the chaos.

Flickering lights made the room feel like a nightmare. Bodies everywhere. Screams. Blood. Madness.

“ Gi-hun?! Young-il?!” You called, voice cracking.

Then—grab!

A hand yanked you from behind and shoved you against the wall. You coughed from the force, head spinning.

Two figures. Familiar ones.

Gi-hun. His expression was dark, jaw clenched.

Young-il. Bloody knuckles. Eyes black with fury—but locked on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“ Got you.” Gi-hun said, voice trembling—not from fear, but relief.

“ You’re ours now.” Young-il murmured.

Before you could answer, they dragged you into the bathroom, away from the chaos.

Far from the bloodshed. But not from what came next. Because in that moment, under the broken lights and the stench of blood, it was clear—this night wasn’t just about survival.

It was about possession.

Your back pressed against the cold bathroom tiles, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your clothes were stained with someone else’s blood, your face streaked with dried tears, your body trembling from the close call with death.

And yet…

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

You frowned, confused, heart still racing. “ What…what do you mean ‘I’m yours’? What is this?” You asked, voice hoarse.

“ Is this—some kind of joke?”

You looked between them, hoping one of them—Gi-hun, usually the gentle one, would chuckle and say of course, it’s a joke, you're safe now. Or Young-il, cold and sharp-edged, would scoff and brush it off like he always did.

But neither laughed.

Neither blinked.

Their eyes burned into you. Two predators. Two men who had kept their obsession hidden—until now. The flickering light above cast harsh shadows on their faces. Gi-hun’s hands were still shaking, not from fear—but restraint. His gaze traced your face, your lips, your neckline.

“ I thought we’d have more time.” Gi-hun whispered.

“ To ease you into it. To show you. But after what just happened—after he almost took you from us…” His voice broke, eyes narrowing.

“ No more waiting.”

You took a step back, lips parting. “ You’re not making sense…”

Young-il stepped forward, voice low and tight. “ We’ve protected you. Watch you. Slept next to you. Killed for you. And you still don’t see it?” His tone twisted with something darker, something possessive.

“ You belong to us. No one else gets to touch you.”

“ I never asked for that—” You started, trying to keep your voice steady.

“ But you didn’t stop us either.” Gi-hun said, stepping closer.

“ You let us in. You let us close. Every time you smiled at me…every time you touched my hand…”

“ You were choosing.” Young-il added, dangerously close now. “ And now the game's over. No more pretending.”

Their eyes were devouring you.

Hungry.

Unapologetic.

Outside, chaos continued. Screams. Clashing metal. Someone begging for mercy.

But in here?

The real madness had just begun.

And this time, it wasn't about surviving the game.

It was about surviving them.

You stared at them—eyes wide, breath caught in your throat—as the reality of their words sank in.

“ I didn’t choose anyone.” You whispered, shaking your head slowly. “ I never—”

Gi-hun cupped your face with both hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. But there was fire beneath his skin, barely held in check.

“ You didn’t have to say it. We felt it. Every look. Every time you ran to us when you were scared. When you hid under that bunk tonight, it was because you trusted me.”

Young-il’s hand slammed against the tiled wall beside your head, making you flinch. His face was so close you could feel the heat of his breath.

“ You don’t even realize what you’ve done to us, do you?” He growled.

“ Do you know how hard it is to share you, to watch you sleep between us and not take what we both fucking want?”

“ You keep acting like this is something pure.” He continued, voice lowering into something husky and dangerous.

“ But it’s not. It’s twisted. And now it’s too late to run from it.”

You tried to move, to step away, but Gi-hun's grip didn’t loosen. He wasn’t hurting you—but he wasn’t letting go, either.

“ I almost lost you tonight.” He said, voice cracking.

“ When I saw him holding you like that…when I saw that fork…I wanted to kill every single person out there.”

“ And I still might.” Young-il said with a chilling smile.

Their eyes met over your shoulder—some unspoken understanding passing between them—and then both their gazes locked back onto you.

You felt cornered.

Not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually—owned, exactly like they said.

Gi-hun leaned in, forehead pressing against yours. “ We’ll keep you safe.” He whispered.

“ But in return…”

“ You’re ours.” Young-il finished, brushing his fingers across your cheek, leaving a smear of dried blood behind.

“ Every part of you.”

Then the door rattled violently—someone trying to get in. Another scream echoed outside. A brutal thud followed by silence. But the two men didn’t flinch. They didn’t even look away from you. It was as if the entire world had narrowed down to this small, bloodstained bathroom…and you.

There was no more pretending. No more games. Just the truth between you—and two men who were finally done holding back.

And you were trapped between them.

The air inside the bathroom grew heavier—hotter.

Gi-hun’s hands were still on your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. Young-il stood just behind you, his presence burning into your back like a brand. You could feel both of them—too close, too much—and the silence stretched unbearably long.

Your lips parted.

“ I…” You breathed, voice trembling.

“ I think I’m just being silly. I mean…maybe I’ve lost my mind here. Maybe it's the fear or the adrenaline or—”

“ Spit it out.” Young-il muttered, voice husky.

You swallowed hard. Then, with your cheeks burning, eyes barely able to meet theirs, you whispered

“ I like both of you.”

Gi-hun inhaled sharply. Young-il stilled.

You stammered, voice cracking with shame. “ I didn’t plan to. I swear. I just—I didn’t think I’d fall this hard. For either of you. Let alone both.”

Silence.

Until you saw it in their eyes.

That look.

Dark. Ravenous. Possessive.

You hadn’t poured water on the fire—you poured gasoline.

Gi-hun’s lips curved into something feral, soft dominance simmering in his gaze. “ You…don’t even realize what you just did to us.”

Young-il’s hand slid from your cheek to your throat—not tight, not threatening, just claiming.

His voice was a low growl against your ear. “ You think admitting that makes this easier? You just made it worse.”

Your breath hitched as Gi-hun leaned forward, nose brushing yours. “ We were already barely holding back.”

Young-il’s hand at your neck tilted your head slightly toward him. “ Now we’re not going to.”

Your knees weakened.

Gi-hun kissed your cheek—soft at first, then lower, brushing your jawline with trembling restraint. “ You shouldn’t have said that…”

“ But we’re so fucking glad you did.” Young-il finished, dragging his fingers down your arm, slow and deliberate, until they laced with yours and pinned your hand gently to the cold tile behind you.

Gi-hun’s forehead pressed against yours again, but this time his lips hovered just above your own.

“ Tell us to stop.” He whispered, voice thick with hunger.

“ Or we’ll ruin you.”

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Not when the heat between the three of you had already reached the point of no return. And in the midst of chaos outside—bloodshed, madness, screams—inside this small bathroom, something else entirely was about to be claimed.

You.

Their hands were on you now—exploring, claiming, trembling with heat and hunger. The air was thick, every breath laced with tension and unspoken promises.

You were pressed against the cold tile, sandwiched between two men who were no longer hiding their obsession—only feeding it.

Gi-hun kissed down your neck, slow, reverent. His hands cupped your waist like you might shatter if he held you too tightly.

“ You’re so soft.” He murmured between kisses, voice breathy, almost a whimper.

“ So perfect. I’ve dreamed about this…every night. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You gasped as Young-il’s hand slid up your thigh, firmer, possessive. He chuckled darkly when he felt your legs tremble.

“ You're shaking.” He whispered against your ear, his voice rough and low.

“ Good. You should be.”

Gi-hun whined softly against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone. “ You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say it…that you want us too.” He kissed your jaw, eyes glassy with need.

“ You're mine. Our sweet little thing…”

Young-il tugged your head back gently by your hair, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. “ You have no idea what you’ve done to us” He said, his tone dark and commanding.

“ I’ve been holding back. Watching you sleep. Fighting every damn instinct to take you right then and there.”

Your voice shook as you finally whispered, “ W-Wait…”

Both men stilled.

“ I haven’t…I haven’t done this before.” You said, eyes wide, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“ This is my first time…”

Gi-hun blinked, expression softening instantly. “ Wait…really?”

Young-il’s smile curled slowly, eyes narrowing in a mixture of wicked delight and possessive pride. “ You’re untouched?” He echoed, fingers tightening on your hip.

“ No one’s ever touched you like this?”

You shook your head.

Gi-hun let out a soft, shaky moan, forehead pressing to your shoulder. “ Oh my god…baby…” He breathed, kissing you softer now, lips trembling.

“ We’ll take care of you. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”

But Young-il leaned closer, voice like silk laced with steel. “ You’re mine even more now.” He whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

“ We’re going to ruin you so well, you’ll never want anyone else.”

His fingers dragged along your spine, his tone darker, dominant. “ You’ll remember us with every breath, every sound you make, every time you close your eyes.”

Gi-hun kissed your lips at last—soft and slow—while his body trembled against yours, needy and gentle. “ You’re so good. So brave.” He whispered against your lips.

“ Let us show you how much we’ve been dying for this…”

And together—two sides of the same dangerous love—they began to claim you.

One with worship.

The other with fire.

You barely had time to breathe before the shift became overwhelming—touches turning into need, lips into hunger, and worship into possession.

Gi-hun’s hands caressed your body with trembling reverence, sliding under your shirt with careful fingers like he was unwrapping something sacred.

His mouth never stopped moving—lips kissing your collarbone, jaw, neck, whispering desperate praises with each breath.

“ So soft.” He murmured, voice thick with awe.

“ Every part of you…fits in my hands. God, I don’t want to stop. I’ll never stop.”

He pushed your shirt up, fingers trailing along your ribs, brushing beneath your chest. His mouth found your skin like he’d starved for it, leaving a warm, wet path as he kissed his way down, groaning when he heard your shaky breath hitch.

Behind you, Young-il was rougher—possessive.

One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush to his chest. His other hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head back so he could kiss your neck with biting heat.

He wasn’t gentle. His teeth grazed you. His hand was already moving lower, slipping past the waistband of your pants with practiced confidence.

“ You feel that?” He growled low against your skin, his voice sending shivers straight to your core.

“ You’re already wet. Just from a few touches. You want this more than you’re even admitting to yourself.”

You gasped, your hips reacting instinctively as his fingers explored lower—confident, claiming.

Gi-hun whimpered softly, kneeling in front of you now, sliding your pants down your legs. His hands gently caressed your thighs as he looked up at you—eyes hazy, lips parted, his breath shaking.

“ Can I taste you?” He asked softly.

“ Please…just once. I’ve dreamed of this… begged in silence for it…”

You couldn’t find your voice—but your body answered for you. A desperate nod. A strangled breath. A tremble.

Young-il didn’t wait for permission. His hand gripped your throat lightly, tilting your head so he could watch your expression as Gi-hun leaned in.

“ You’re ours now.” He said darkly, rubbing his hardened length against your backside, still fully clothed—but clearly undone.

“ And tonight, you’re going to learn exactly what that means.”

Then Gi-hun’s mouth met you—soft, warm, reverent. His tongue was slow at first, careful. But the second he tasted you, a moan escaped his throat—needy, wrecked. He latched on, worshiping you with his tongue like your body was the only heaven he ever needed.

You cried out, hands gripping his shoulders. Your legs buckled, but Young-il held you firm, fingers teasing your chest now, biting your earlobe as he whispered.

“ Don’t look away. Watch him fall apart between your legs. Watch how much he needs you.”

Gi-hun was whimpering as he worked you open with his mouth—addicted to every sound you made. His fingers gripped your thighs like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Young-il was growling, breathing harder, his own arousal pressing into your back. “ When I’m done with you.”

He whispered, “ You’ll never want anyone else’s hands on you. Not even in your dreams.”

Your mind blurred—caught between Gi-hun’s tender worship and Young-il’s brutal promise of possession.

And all you could do was hold on as they devoured you.

Your body was still trembling from the aftershocks—nerves buzzing, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. But Young-il didn’t give you time to recover. He gripped your thighs and spread them wider as he stepped between them, pressing you flush against the bathroom counter.

The cool surface beneath you only made the heat of your skin more unbearable. You barely had time to react before he leaned in, his nose brushing yours, voice rough and low.

“ You came so sweet for us.” He murmured, eyes locked onto yours. “ But now it’s my turn.”

You whimpered as he pressed against your core, still painfully clothed but rock-hard beneath the layers. He was taunting you—grinding, teasing, watching your expression twist in anticipation.

His hand slid up your chest, over your throat again, holding—not choking—just claiming.

“ You feel that?” He growled. “ I’ve been hard for days thinking about you. And now…I get to be your first.”

Gi-hun, still flushed and panting, stood beside you, caressing your shoulder, kissing along your neck. He whispered soft, shaky words—his own need barely contained.

“ He’ll be rough.” He said gently. “ But I’m right here. I’ll hold you. I’ll keep you grounded, sweetheart.”

You nodded shakily.

That was all Young-il needed.

His mouth crashed against yours, demanding and raw, and in the same motion, he unzipped and pushed himself against your entrance—teasing, sliding over your folds, soaking in how ready you already were.

His breath stuttered. “ Fuck…so tight…so warm…I could lose my mind.”

He was big—too big—and your body tensed. But Gi-hun was there, kissing your face, holding your hand, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“ You’re okay.” He whispered again and again. “ You’re doing so good for us. Just breathe, baby…”

Then Young-il started pushing in—slow, unrelenting.

You gasped, nails digging into Gi-hun’s arm. The stretch burned, overwhelming, your walls clenching instinctively. But Young-il held you firm, letting out a guttural groan as he sunk deeper, inch by inch.

“ That’s it…take it.” He gritted through his teeth. “ Take all of me. You're mine now.”

Once fully seated inside, he stilled—panting against your mouth, forehead resting to yours. “ So fucking perfect. I’m going to ruin you, sweetheart.”

Gi-hun kissed your temple, his voice barely audible. “ She’s already ours.”

Then Young-il moved. Slow, hard thrusts that sent your body rocking into Gi-hun’s waiting arms. The rhythm grew faster, rougher. He filled you so deeply that each stroke had you gasping—whimpering. Your mind blurred with every thrust.

Gi-hun kissed you again, cradling your head in his hands as you cried out, caught between pain and pleasure. “ That’s it…let it go. Let us have you.”

Young-il grunted with every push. “ You’ll never forget this.” He growled.

“ No one else will ever make you feel like this.”

You were gone.

Completely.

Surrendered to both of them—the one who held you gently, and the one who wrecked you with every thrust. And somewhere in the haze, you knew…

There was no way back.

Your cries echoed softly in the bathroom, swallowed by the hum of chaos beyond its door. But in here—there was only this: skin against skin, heat pressed tight, and two men who wanted nothing more than to mark you as theirs.

Young-il's hips snapped forward with controlled force, every thrust deeper than the last, stretching you around his length until your body was shaking again. Your breath came in stutters—half gasps, half moans—as your hands clutched onto Gi-hun’s shirt like a lifeline.

Young-il groaned into your ear, sweat beading at his brow. “ Listen to you.” He growled.

“ You’re so fucking tight…clenching around me like your body already knows who it belongs to.”

He slammed into you harder, forcing your body to jolt back—and Gi-hun caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around you, anchoring you.

“ You’re doing so good.” Gi-hun whispered, lips brushing your ear, his hands running gently down your back.

“ So beautiful like this. Let him fill you, baby…let him claim you like he needs to.”

Your moan caught in your throat as Young-il shifted the angle, hitting something deep—something electric. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thought, drawing him in, needing more.

“ You’re close again.” Young-il muttered, voice strained, his rhythm never slowing. “ I can feel it. Your body’s begging for it.”

Gi-hun leaned in front of you, hands cupping your flushed face, his forehead resting against yours.

“ Let go.” He whispered, voice barely holding together.

“ Let him break you this time. And then I’ll take my turn—slow. Sweet. The way you need it.”

Your eyes fluttered, your entire body tightening around Young-il as you moaned into Gi-hun’s mouth, lost in their voices—one soft and loving, the other raw and commanding.

Young-il slammed into you one final time with a deep, primal groan—his fingers digging into your hips as he spilled inside you, his body shaking, teeth gritted.

“ Mine.” He hissed. “ Fucking mine.”

You cried out again, your second climax crashing over you, more intense, more overwhelming—your body trembling, undone. But even as Young-il rested his forehead against your neck, catching his breath, you felt it:

Gi-hun’s fingers trailing down your thigh.

His lips are ghosting over your shoulder.

“ You think we’re done?” He whispered gently.

“ I’ve waited too long to have you like this.”

Young-il stepped back, eyes still dark, lips parted as he watched your shaking form—ruined, glistening, flushed and breathless.

Gi-hun scooped you up slowly, cradling you in his arms like you were something precious and fragile.

“ You’re safe with me.” He whispered against your ear, already lowering you gently to the floor. “ But I’m not letting you go.”

He kissed you deeply then—slow, passionate—starved.

And you knew…

Round two was just beginning.

Your body was still trembling—sensitive, raw, soaked in the aftermath of Young-il’s brutal claiming. Your mind swam in haze, but Gi-hun’s touch was already grounding you again. Different from Young-il’s fire, his touch was warmth. A soft blaze that burned slow and deep.

He laid you gently onto the bathroom floor, his hands ghosting over your sides, caressing every inch with quiet awe.

“ You did so well.” He whispered, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “ You took him like you were made for it.”

He kissed you again—soft, worshipful.

His lips moved over your cheeks, your chin, your throat, pausing at your collarbone as he whispered, “ Now I want to show you what it’s like when someone loves every single part of you.”

You whimpered, the contrast almost unbearable. Your body was overstimulated and still desperate, still open and aching.

Gi-hun was slow—achingly slow—as he removed what little clothing was left on both of you. He looked at you like he was unwrapping a miracle. His hands traced every curve, every mark, as though memorizing you with his fingertips.

“ First time…” He murmured again, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“ And you gave it to us. I’ll never forget this. Never.”

You gasped as he aligned himself against your entrance, where you were still so warm and wet from Young-il. Gi-hun groaned at the sensation, his hips trembling with restraint.

“ Still so tight.” He whimpered, barely sliding in. “ So perfect. I don’t deserve this…”

You reached for him, needing him closer. “ Please…” You whispered.

“ I need you.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, as if he was afraid to hurt you—even after what you’d just taken. He kissed you through every breath, every stretch, every new sensation. Once he was fully inside, he stilled, forehead against yours. His breath was shaky, and his body trembled above you.

“ I can’t…I’m trying to go slow, but you feel too good.” He moaned, voice breaking. “ I might lose it too fast…”

You cupped his face, drawing him into another kiss, deeper this time. “ It’s okay.” You whispered.

“ You’re already giving me everything.”

He moved—slow and fluid, grinding deep, his hips rolling with practiced rhythm that sent waves of pleasure spreading through your already ruined core.

His moans were soft, breathless, desperate. Every time he bottomed out, he gasped your name like a prayer.

“ You’re so good to me.” He cried softly. “ So good. You’re everything. I’ll never let you go…”

His pace grew faster as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer, deeper. His arms cradled your body as he rocked into you with growing need—his soft whimpers filling your ears, his praises spilling endlessly.

“ So warm so tight…fuck, I’m gonna—I can’t hold it—”

You tightened around him and that was it—he gasped, body seizing against yours as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a cry that sounded half wrecked, half in love. He collapsed gently on top of you, holding you like something precious, kissing your shoulder, your chest, your lips—everywhere.

Young-il watched from nearby, eyes still dark, but quieter now. His gaze on the two of you was unreadable—part possessive, part oddly soft.

Gi-hun pulled out slowly, carefully, brushing trembling fingers between your legs to feel the mess they both left inside you.

“ You’re really ours now.” He whispered.

Young-il walked over, crouched beside you, and tilted your chin toward him.

“ Ours.” He repeated.

You nodded faintly—mind dizzy, body claimed, heart torn between the two flames that consumed you. And outside the bathroom door, the chaos still roared.

But in here?

You had been owned.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

…

Your body was wrecked. Ruined by Young-il’s dominance, undone by Gi-hun’s reverence—and yet, neither man was satisfied. You thought it was over. That they had claimed you, filled you, used every part of you already.

But that was only the beginning.

You lay on the bathroom floor, legs parted, trembling, both of their releases leaking slowly from your swollen, sensitive core. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, every inch of you tingling and raw.

Gi-hun hovered above you, brushing kisses along your collarbone while murmuring soft praises. But then Young-il crouched beside him, his fingers trailing between your legs. The moment he brushed against your soaked folds, your hips jerked violently.

“ N-No—” You whimpered, body instinctively recoiling.

“ I…I can’t—too much—”

Gi-hun’s lips found your ear, and he whispered, “ You can. You’re so strong, baby. Just let us love you a little more…”

Young-il’s smile was dark, cruelly tender. “ You’re still clenching. Still wet. Your body’s begging for more, even when your mouth says no.”

His fingers pushed in slowly—two, without hesitation. The stretch made you cry out, hips bucking off the floor, thighs twitching.

“ Sensitive, aren’t you?” He rasped, curling his fingers just right. “ Good. I want to see how much more you can take.”

Gi-hun was already moving down your body again—pressing sweet kisses over your belly, your hips until his mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, swollen and twitching from too much.

You reached down, trying to push him back, your voice shaking. “ Please…it’s too much…I-I’m—”

But he didn’t stop.

He moaned as he licked your overstimulated bundle, slow but relentless. The second his tongue touched you, your legs jolted—back arching, a sob tearing from your throat.

Young-il’s fingers pumped deeper now, curling, stretching, pressing into the spot that made your vision blur. His other hand pinned your hip down firmly.

“ You’re already shaking.” He growled.

“ You’re going to fall apart again, aren’t you?”

Gi-hun was whimpering into you, like your taste was driving him insane. He flattened his tongue, lapping at you hungrily while moaning softly, as if each sound you made fed his desperation.

“ I can’t—” You choked, tears brimming in your eyes.

“ Yes, you can.” Gi-hun whispered sweetly, mouth hot and wet. “ Come for us again, baby…let go.”

You were spiraling—your body overstretched, nerves short-circuiting. The pressure coiled again, too fast, too much.

Young-il watched you come undone again, his voice sharp with pride. “ Look at you. Fucking falling apart from our mouths and fingers alone. So needy. So perfect.”

The orgasm hit violently—your vision whiting out, back arching completely off the floor, a strangled scream escaping your throat as your body seized in blinding overstimulation.

Gi-hun didn’t stop licking.

Young-il didn’t stop pumping.

They wanted everything.

You sobbed out their names, voice cracking, your body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure left you breathless and twitching. Finally, Gi-hun pulled back, panting, lips slick with your release, kissing the inside of your thighs like he just touched the divine. Young-il slowly withdrew his fingers, watching you shake with satisfaction.

“ Still think you’re done?” He murmured, smirking as he licked your release off his fingers.

You couldn’t even answer. Your voice was gone, your limbs limp, your mind spinning.

But they weren’t done.

You were theirs.

And they hadn’t finished ruining you yet.

Your body was still shuddering, twitching from the aftershocks of overstimulation. Your skin glistened with sweat, flushed and slick, and your breath came in short, broken gasps. But even in your dazed state, you could feel it—the shift.

The hunger in Young-il’s eyes darkened.

The gentleness from earlier? Gone.

Now, he was all control. All intent.

He stood over you, bare and hard again, his cock already twitching back to full strength. Your legs were still spread wide, still leaking from both of them, your body so sensitive that even the air made you tremble.

“ You thought that was enough?” He said, voice low and dangerous as he gripped himself, stroking slowly while his gaze drank in the sight of you wrecked on the floor.

“ No, sweetheart. I told you we weren’t done.”

Gi-hun tried to touch you again, to soothe you, but Young-il held a hand out.

“ No more softness.” He snapped. “ Not now. I’m going to fuck her until she can’t speak. Until her body knows it’s mine.”

You whimpered as he grabbed your thighs and pulled you down toward him, dragging your hips to the edge of the counter, then lifting one leg over his shoulder.

You could barely keep your eyes open, but when you saw the way he looked at you—like prey already caught—you knew he meant every word.

Without warning, he shoved into you—deep, fast, brutal.

You screamed, arching off the tile as your walls stretched around him again. The burn was sharp, your body still far too sensitive, but that didn’t stop him. He leaned over you, caging you with his arms as he began pounding into you with no mercy.

“ Fucking tight.” He groaned, jaw clenched, hips slamming into you hard enough to shake the sink.

“ Still soaking wet from us. You were made for this. Made to be bred.”

Gi-hun knelt beside you, breathless, stroking your hair, his own cock still heavy and hard again. He kissed your temple, voice soft in your ear even as your body was rocked by Young-il’s rough thrusts.

“ You’re doing so good, baby.” He whispered. “ Taking him so deep. You’re gonna be so full…”

“ Yeah..” Young-il growled. “ You’re gonna take every drop.”

His pace quickened, brutal and relentless. The sound of skin slapping echoed through the bathroom, drowned only by your gasps, your sobs, and the filthy praises spilling from both of them.

“ Gonna fill you up.” Young-il hissed, thrusting harder.

“ Gonna pump you so full, you’ll feel it for days. Your cunt won’t forget what we’ve done to it.”

You cried out again, the pressure unbearable. Each stroke hit deeper, harder, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body didn’t know whether to run or fall apart again—so it did both.

Your walls clamped down, your body convulsed, and another orgasm tore through you—violent, wrenching, soaked in sensation. Young-il grunted, hips stuttering as your orgasm milked him. He threw his head back with a vicious groan.

“ Take it.” He snarled. “ Fucking take it.”

Then he buried himself to the hilt—deep, hard—his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. Rope after rope of thick, hot release filled your core, your body trembling beneath him, stretched and full and leaking everything they’d given you.

He stayed there, buried deep, panting against your neck, watching as his cum slowly dripped out of you around his cock.

Gi-hun pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shining.

And softly, with a hand to your belly, he whispered, “ You’re going to be so full of us. I want to see you round and swollen…carrying both of us.”

You were shaking, breathless, drenched. And yet your body was already reacting—clenching again. Because with them? There would be no stopping. You lay there—limp, wrecked, full.

Young-il still pressed deep inside you, breathing heavily, his release already beginning to spill from your stretched entrance. The mixture of both men’s seed dripped down your thighs, warm and thick, proof of everything they’d just taken from you. Claimed you with.

He pulled out slowly with a low groan, watching the mess he made leak from between your legs, his fingers immediately gathering it—pushing it back in with deliberate, rough strokes that made your hips jerk.

“ Don’t waste it.” He muttered, voice low and ragged.

“ You’re going to keep it. Every last drop.”

You whimpered, your body too sensitive, twitching with every small motion. You had already fallen apart again and again—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to Gi-hun, who was already sliding in behind you, arms cradling your trembling body with reverent care.

“ Shh…” He whispered, pressing soft kisses down your back,

“ I’ve got you now. Let me make you feel good again. Let me fill you the way I’ve wanted to for so long…”

Your thighs parted again—automatically, helplessly—your body no longer resisting but offering. Broken open, completely pliant for them.

Gi-hun lined himself up, and you could feel him trembling—trying to be gentle, but failing. His tip nudged against your already stretched, leaking entrance, and he let out a shaky whimper.

“ You’re still so full.” He moaned, slowly pushing in. “ Still wet from him…from us…fuck.”

You cried out as he filled you—sliding past the mess inside you, stretching your sensitive walls once more. His pace started slow, agonizingly careful, but it only took a few thrusts before he lost control, overwhelmed by the feeling of your already-used body wrapped around him.

“ I can feel it.” He gasped into your shoulder. “ I can feel him still inside you.”

Gi-hun’s pace picked up, his thrusts becoming frantic—needy. His forehead pressed against the back of your neck, hips slamming into you with more force each time, driven mad by how overstimulated you were, how ruined your body had become for them.

“ You’re gonna take mine now too.” He whispered, breath ragged. “ I want to see you dripping with both of us. I want your belly full. Want you swollen with everything we give you.”

Behind him, Young-il watched, still catching his breath, but already getting hard again—his dark eyes trailing over your trembling form, slick thighs, the flushed arch of your back.

“ You’ll carry us.” He murmured. “ You’ll be marked from the inside out. Ours.”

Gi-hun’s thrusts became desperate, his soft moans now raw, pleading.

“ You feel too good.” He gasped.

“ You always did…every time you smiled at me, every time you touched me, I just— I needed this.”

You were beyond thought—body reduced to sensation. The friction, the stretch, the burn of being taken again and again.

And then he let go.

With a strangled cry, Gi-hun slammed in deep, burying himself fully as he came—hot, hard, endless. You could feel him spill into you, warm and thick, mixing with Young-il’s seed until you were overflowing.

You whimpered, twitching again as your walls clenched helplessly around him—another broken, overstimulated orgasm shaking your entire body.

Gi-hun kissed your shoulder, your spine, every part of you he could reach, whispering through breathless gasps.

“ I love you…I love you…I love you…”

When he finally pulled out, you collapsed forward, legs spread, shaking, completely used. And as the thick mess of both men’s release poured from your aching center onto the tile, they looked down at you—sweaty, spent, shaking.

Your body trembled on the floor—raw, used, leaking. Your thighs were soaked, your lips swollen, your mind fogged with heat and exhaustion. You didn’t even realize you were still moaning softly until Young-il crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

His voice was low, firm—no hint of softness left in him.

“ Look at the mess you made.” He murmured, cock already hard again, glistening with his own release.

“ Clean it up.”

You blinked at him, mouth parting, breath catching.

He smirked darkly. “ We’ll show you how.”

Behind you, Gi-hun knelt, breath still shaky, but his eyes were soft, warm, flushed with leftover tenderness.

He brushed your hair back, voice gentle but firm “ You want to be good for us, don’t you, baby?”

You nodded, heart pounding. You had nothing left to give—yet you still found yourself moving. Kneeling slowly between them, your legs wobbling beneath you, your lips already parting again.

Young-il gripped the base of his cock, the tip flushed and glistening with lingering slick and seed.

“ Start with me.” He ordered, leaning back just slightly.

“ Lick it clean. Every drop.”

Gi-hun kissed your shoulder from behind, whispering sweetly in your ear. “ Just use your tongue, baby. Slow, just like this…”

He guided your head forward gently, letting you feel the weight of Young-il’s length rest against your tongue. Your mouth trembled as you began to lick—slow, kitten-soft licks from base to tip.

Young-il let out a low groan. “ That’s it. That’s good…fuck, look at you.”

“ Now swirl your tongue.” Gi-hun whispered, pressing his lips to your neck.

“ Right around the tip…just like that. Yes, baby. You’re doing perfect.”

You obeyed—lazily tracing your tongue around the head, collecting every trace of him, tasting yourself, tasting both of them. The more you licked, the more praise and growls you earned.

Young-il hissed, his voice sharper now. “ Open wider. Take it in your throat.”

Gi-hun’s hands stayed soft on your back, grounding you. “ Breathe through your nose. You’re okay. Let him feel how good your mouth is.”

You followed their guidance—bit by bit—taking Young-il deeper until he hit the back of your throat, until your eyes watered and your jaw ached.

“ Fuck…” Young-il groaned. “ You were made for this. Keep going.”

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless, lips swollen, saliva slick down your chin. Then Gi-hun turned you gently toward him, his cock twitching with need.

“ Your turn.” He whispered. “ Be gentle. I want to feel your mouth love me.”

You wrapped your lips around him, guided by their voices—one firm and commanding, the other sweet and encouraging. They taught you everything—how to suck, how to hold, how to let your tongue tease the underside.

Gi-hun moaned softly, his hands in your hair, eyes fluttering shut. “ Just like that. God, baby…you’re perfect.”

They switched you back and forth—Young-il thrusting into your mouth with deep, slow strokes while Gi-hun cupped your cheeks and whispered how beautiful you looked serving them.

“ You're learning so fast.” Gi-hun said.

“ And you’ll keep learning.” Young-il added darkly.

“ Because next time? You’ll clean us off while full of us.”

You moaned around them, throat raw, mind dizzy.

Because you knew…

You wanted that lesson too.

Your mouth was sore, your throat raw, your body still aching from the intense claiming they'd given you—but still, you obeyed.

You were on your knees, switching between them, guided by their hands, their voices—Young-il’s sharp and dominant, Gi-hun’s soft and coaxing. Their cocks, slick with your spit and their own release, throbbed against your tongue each time you took them in.

Young-il gripped your hair tightly, forcing you to look up at him as he pushed past your lips again.

“ Keep your eyes on me.” He ordered, his hips moving in slow, controlled thrusts into your mouth.

“ I want to see you own this. Learn it. Crave it.”

You moaned softly around him, tears slipping down your cheeks from the stretch. You were doing exactly as he said—watching him, letting him use your mouth, drool running down your chin as he hit the back of your throat again and again.

Gi-hun was beside you, stroking your back, murmuring praise like a prayer.

“ You’re so beautiful like this.” He whispered.

“ Serving us…letting us teach you how to please. There’s no one else I’d ever want like this.”

Young-il pulled back with a sharp, wet pop, letting your jaw rest for a moment. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, broken breaths. You didn’t even have to speak.

The look on your face—dazed, obedient, hungry—said everything. Gi-hun turned your chin toward him, gently wiping the spit from your lips with his thumb. His cock brushed your cheek as he whispered,

“ Now me, baby. Slow this time. Show me how much you want to take care of me.”

You nodded, eyes glassy, and leaned in. You kissed the tip of him first, soft and reverent, like he asked. Then your lips wrapped around him again—gentle, slow strokes, your tongue swirling with practiced effort.

Gi-hun groaned above you, his hand brushing through your hair, eyes fluttering shut as your mouth worked him perfectly.

“ Yes…just like that.” He murmured.

“ You’re learning so well. You’re so good for us…”

Young-il knelt behind you again, watching as you sucked off Gi-hun with soft slurps and hollowed cheeks. His hand slid between your thighs from behind, cupping your still-sensitive, soaked core. You gasped around Gi-hun, your whole body jolting at the overstimulation.

“ Even your pussy’s learning.” Young-il muttered, rubbing slowly, taunting circles over your clit.

“ Every time your mouth gets full, your cunt drips. Filthy little thing.”

Gi-hun moaned louder as your tongue flattened along the underside of his cock.

“ You like hearing that, don’t you?” He said, voice shaking.

“ Our perfect girl…messy and eager…”

Young-il leaned down, breath hot against your ear.

“ Next time, we’ll fuck your throat together. At the same time. We’ll train you until your mouth can take us both. Until choking on us turns you on.”

That image alone sent a shiver down your spine—and your hips pressed back against Young-il’s hand, needing pulsing in waves through your core again.

You pulled off Gi-hun slowly, your lips slick, your voice hoarse but breathy.

“ I want that.” You whispered. “ Teach me everything…”

They shared a look above you—one of hunger, pride, and ownership.

And you knew your training had only just begun.

Your body was trembling—not from fear, not from pain, but from sheer exhaustion. Used, stretched, and filled beyond anything you had ever known, your limbs barely responded as you lay sprawled across the cool bathroom floor, coated in sweat, tears, and their release.

And yet…you didn’t feel broken.

You felt owned. Seen. Craved. Loved in a way that had burned you down—and now, slowly, was putting you back together.

“ Hey, sweetheart…” Gi-hun’s soft voice broke through the haze as he gently lifted you into his arms, treating you like you were made of glass.

He sat you upright slowly, supporting your back, his hand brushing over your sticky, flushed cheek. His other arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady.

“ Can you stand?” He asked gently, eyes filled with warmth.

“ Come here. Let me help you.”

You nodded weakly, letting him guide you to your feet, though your legs buckled beneath the weight of everything your body had just been through. Young-il was already behind you, steadying your hips with a firm but careful grip.

“ Easy.” He muttered. “ Don’t rush. Just lean on us.”

Together, they walked you toward the sink like guardians guarding a goddess.

Gi-hun grabbed tissues, whispering,

“ I’ll be gentle, baby.” He crouched, slowly wiping the mess off your thighs, down your inner legs, then carefully between your folds, his hand trembling just a bit at the sight.

“ I’m so sorry.” He whispered suddenly, looking up at you.

“ If it was too much…if I—if we hurt you…”

You met his eyes, still glassy and dazed, and shook your head slowly.

“ You two didn’t hurt me.” You said, your voice quiet but steady.

“ Both of you gave me everything.”

He kissed your knee, eyes fluttering shut, breath shaking in his chest. Young-il, standing behind you, ran a tissue down your back, cleaning the sweat and kisses from your spine, and gently pressing a dry towel around your waist. He was quiet for a moment before his low voice followed:

“ I got rough.” He admitted.

“ Rougher than I should’ve. If I hurt you—if it ever becomes too much—you say the word.”

His hands were careful now, unlike earlier, his grip more thoughtful than demanding.

“ I want to own you…but never break you.” He murmured.

“ You’re not just something we use. You're…ours. And we protect what's ours.”

The air was still for a moment. Heavy with the contrast between the savage way they took you earlier and the way they now moved around you like loyal knights tending to a bruised queen.

Gi-hun brought you into his arms again and kissed your temple. “ You’re okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, resting against his chest, completely wrapped in their warmth. Your body might ache, but your heart felt strangely safe—held.

“ I’ve never felt wanted like that before.” You admitted softly. “ Like…you didn’t just want to touch me. You wanted me. All of me.”

Young-il came beside Gi-hun, brushing your damp hair back. “ That’s because we do.” He said simply.

“ And next time…”

His gaze darkened, but his voice remained calm.

“ We’ll listen to every breath, every sound. No lines will ever be crossed unless you draw them for us.”

Gi-hun nodded in agreement, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “ You’re not just someone we want in our bed. You’re someone we want everywhere else too.”

You felt it then—not just the ache between your thighs or the sting of your skin—

But the warmth of belonging.

And though your body was wrecked and weak, you smiled. Because even after being devoured, they were right there—ready to piece you back together with gentle hands, whispered apologies, and promises not of possession…

But of devotion.

Wrapped in towels, your body still tender and your heart spinning with everything that had just happened, you sat on the bathroom counter while Gi-hun gently ran his fingers through your damp hair, and Young-il leaned against the wall, arms crossed but gaze soft.

The chaotic noise from outside the bathroom had long since faded into background static. In this small, quiet space, it was just the three of you—and the weight of something unspoken lingered in the air.

You finally broke the silence.

“ What are we now?”

Gi-hun paused, fingers stilling in your hair. Young-il tilted his head.

“ I mean…” You continued, eyes flicking between them,

“ What’s our relationship? I thought…you could only be with one person. That’s how it usually works, right?”

Young-il pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his expression calm but serious.

“ That’s how most people do it, yeah. One person. Monogamy.” He crouched in front of you so you couldn’t look away.

“ But there’s something called polyamory. It means…loving more than one person—openly. Honestly. No secrets.”

You blinked slowly, trying to process it.

He continued, his voice steady.

“ We aren’t asking you to be in anything you don’t want, though. If the idea of being with both of us at the same time isn’t what you want…we’ll let you choose. No pressure. I’ll step back. Gi-hun will. Whoever you want—really want—that’s who you should have.”

Your heart squeezed painfully. Just the thought of having to choose between them made your chest ache.

You shook your head, voice trembling as you spoke “ No. I can’t choose. I don’t want to choose.”

Both men looked at you, their faces unreadable.

“ I’ve seen sides of myself with each of you.” You whispered.

“ You both give me something different, and I care about both of you. It would break me if I had to lose one of you just to keep the other. That wouldn’t be love. That would be guilt.”

Gi-hun stepped in front of you, resting a hand on your thigh, his voice soft. “ You’re saying…you want both of us? Together?”

You nodded. “ If you’re okay with it…I want to treat you both fairly. I don’t want to hurt either of you. I…I want this to work. The three of us.”

A pause. A heartbeat of tension—

Then Young-il let out a breath of a laugh and shook his head with a smirk.

“ Damn. I told you she’d say that.” He muttered to Gi-hun.

Gi-hun chuckled softly and turned to you, a warm smile tugging at his lips. “ We already talked about it. A while ago.”

Your brows furrowed. “ What do you mean?”

Young-il shrugged. “ Me and him—we made a deal. That if it ever came down to you being caught between us…we’d share you. As long as you gave us consent. No fighting. No jealousy. Just…trust.”

Gi-hun took your hand, kissing your knuckles gently. “ Your choice was all we were waiting for. And now we have it.”

You looked between them, stunned. “ You two really planned this?”

Young-il leaned in, eyes burning with mischief and something deeper. “ We didn’t plan to fall for you. That just happened.”

Gi-hun smiled, softer. “ But we agreed…we wouldn’t make you choose. We’d just love you. Together.”

Your heart swelled. A tear slipped down your cheek—not from fear, or confusion—but from relief.

Because somehow, in the middle of chaos, bloodshed, and danger…

You found two men who were ready to love you completely.

And for the first time in this deadly game…

You didn’t feel like a pawn.

You felt like the prize.

…

You were laughing softly, the sound fragile but real, as Gi-hun cradled your hand in his. The two of you sat close, tangled in warmth and shared relief, the remnants of chaos and desire slowly ebbing into something calm—something tender.

“ I swear, the way you looked at me earlier—like you were gonna cry and pounce at the same time.” Gi-hun teased, his smile soft and teasing.

You chuckled, nudging his shoulder. “ And you were whimpering more than I was.” You shot back playfully, cheeks flushed.

Neither of you noticed the faint click of the door.

The bathroom door cracked open just enough to let in a sliver of cold, sterile hallway light—and Young-il was there, standing tall in the frame.

His expression was unreadable. Blank. Cold.

The warmth in the room didn’t reach his eyes now.

He kept his body positioned precisely, blocking your view from whoever was standing on the other side. You didn’t even look up—too wrapped up in the small cocoon you and Gi-hun had built in the wreckage.

From behind Young-il, a low voice murmured something—muffled, but firm.

A Square guard.

“ The 30 minute lights out is over, sir. Area is secure. We’ve cleared the bodies. Survivors are staying to their beds. Orders?”

You would’ve frozen if you’d heard it. But you didn’t. Neither of you did. Because Young-il simply nodded once, calm and precise.

“ Proceed as normal…” He said flatly. “ Tell the others I’ll return soon.”

“ Yes, sir.”

The door shut again, soundlessly.

Young-il stood there for a moment longer, his hand still on the doorknob, back turned to you. The soft sound of your laughter still echoed behind him.

When he turned around, the mask he wore melted away—back to the same Young-il who had worshiped and wrecked you only moments ago. But there was something else lingering in his gaze now—something that wasn’t there before.

Power.

He looked at you—how your legs draped over Gi-hun’s lap, your flushed skin glowing under the soft flickering light, your lips swollen from kisses and moans—and something deep within his chest coiled.

He stepped back into the space, his voice smooth and calm. “ It’s safe now. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

You smiled at him, unaware. “ Already? That was fast.”

He nodded, brushing his dark hair back, the faintest curve on his lips. “ I saw it. Guards carrying the dead bodies of the players and the lights are finally back..”

Gi-hun looked up at him, relaxed. “ Damn…”

You didn’t question it. Not then. Not yet.

Because in your eyes, Young-il was the fierce, possessive man who couldn’t get enough of you. The one who touched you like you were sacred. The one who stood side by side with Gi-hun to protect you.

What you didn’t know…

He wasn’t just a player.

He wasn’t just a lover.

And he wasn’t just another man broken by the game.

He was the one who built it.

The chaos, the violence, the rules—the very arena of suffering and desire that had pulled you into its web…

It was his design.

And you had just given your heart—and body—to the man behind the curtain.

Author's Note: Welcome to another episode of " What the fuck did I just write"? So, here's one of my experimental fanfics…the POLYAMORY relationship, because I read somewhere that someone wants a poly. Furthermore, it continues to be my coping strategy for the SG season 3 finale. Yes, it has been two weeks, but the pain is still present. The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. READ WITH RESPONSIBLY. Part 2?

[lost-in-thoughts03]

THE ARCHER || FRONTMAN

Part l || Part ll

" 'Cause all of my enemies started out friends."

Summary: 6 months after the game had ended. You tried to live a normal life despite the fact that the past haunts you. Guilt is why you continue to hide from the truth. Sacrifice has the power to change everyone's destiny and ideology. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, SMUT, SPOILER ALERT, AU, obsession, possessive, heavy angst, heavy tension, manipulation, major character deaths, sacrifice, symbolism, heroism, betrayal, selflessness, explicit content, matured language, violence, sadistic behavior, stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, identity crisis, character development, mental health issues, trauma, self hatred, guilt, erotic, ownership, older man x younger woman (LEGAL), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (BOTH), hate sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, and riding

Words: 11k+

Six months.

The world outside moved on. People laughed, lived, worked, and fell in love like the games never existed—like hundreds hadn't died for spectacle and bloodlust on that hidden island.

But not you.

You breathed among the living, but your soul still wandered somewhere between the masked halls and bullet-ridden grounds of that place. That hell.

You’d changed your name.

Your hair.

Your address.

But not your memories.

Not your scars.

Some nights, you jolted awake drenched in sweat, the phantom sound of gunfire and the childish music in Mingle still ringing in your ears. Other nights, it wasn’t the screams of the fallen that haunted you.

It was his voice.

“ You’re mine.”

“ If I survive, I’ll find you.”

“ If I don’t…I’ll wait.”

You buried your head in your pillow at night, but that voice wrapped around you like a ghost you never invited back.

You hated him.

You should hate him.

He was the reason for everything—Jun-bae's death, your betrayal of Gi-hun, the destruction of your soul inch by inch with every whispered order in the dark.

He twisted your survival into something shameful, stained by secrets you couldn’t even confess to the man who stood beside you in the ashes of the island.

But you were never really honest. Because you knew if he ever found out what you’d done behind those locked doors…

He wouldn’t forgive you.

And worse—you couldn’t forgive yourself.

Still, in the quiet of your apartment, when the world outside was asleep and no one was watching…

Your hand would drift to where the collar once sat on your neck. You’d feel his phantom grip on your waist. You’d hear your own voice saying his name—In-ho—like a secret you weren’t supposed to love.

And God, you hated it.

But still…

You watched every dark alley.

Every stranger in a black coat.

Every masked face during protests or celebrations.

Hoping. Hoping for something that shouldn’t exist anymore.

You weren’t even sure what you wanted—

To kill him?

To curse him for what he made you?

Or to just see him again…and fall apart in the arms of the man who ruined you?

You pressed your forehead against the cold window of your apartment, watching the rain smear the city lights. People walked below you with umbrellas and warm drinks and lives they’d never had to gamble for.

Your hand rested against the glass.

“ Why…?” You whispered to the dark.

“ Why do I still want you?”

But the silence, like always, said nothing. Still, somewhere—deep down—you weren’t asking for closure.

You were asking for him. Because part of you still believed the storm wasn’t over. And maybe—just maybe—he was still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Wearing a new mask, or no mask at all.

And if he ever came back…

You didn’t know if you’d run into his arms—

Or pull the trigger.

...

The diner was quiet.

Old jazz hummed through static-speckled speakers while city rain tapped faintly against the fogged windows. The coffee between you and Jun-ho had long gone cold, untouched.

Neither of you said much at first—you didn’t need to. There was too much sitting between you already. Six months of silence, guilt, and shadows that wouldn’t die.

Jun-ho sat across from you, eyes downcast, fingers clasped together like he was still holding a confession he hadn’t yet earned the courage to spill.

His black coat hung wet beside him in the booth. He hadn’t shaved in days. Maybe weeks. There was an emptiness behind his gaze that you recognized too well.

The look of someone who’d survived—but didn’t know why.

“ I wondered if I found the island…” He said at last, voice low.

“ I could stop it. Save whoever was left. Drag my brother back. End it.”

You watched him closely. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

“ But I didn’t.” He continued.

“ I didn’t stop anything. I didn’t save them. Not in time.”

He clenched his jaw. There was venom in his voice—but it was all directed inward.

“ The captain sabotaged me. Playing along made me believe he was loyal. Said he saved me out of duty, that it was his orders to keep me alive.”

You said nothing—just let the words fall.

“ My brother’s orders.” Jun-ho added bitterly.

“ Even after he put a bullet in me, he still gave the command to keep me breathing. Like that would make up for it.”

You lowered your gaze. The knot in your chest grew tighter. The same man who held you in fire and obsession had also chosen to keep his brother alive…and still broke him in the process.

Jun-ho let out a long breath.

“ I’m a detective.” He said, shaking his head.

“ I should’ve seen it. Should’ve known. But I wanted to believe in someone. I wanted to believe that even in that world, there were still lines that couldn’t be crossed.”

You reached for your cup, just for the comfort of holding something.

“ Maybe that’s what breaks us the most.” You said softly.

“ Trusting people we think would never hurt us. And then realizing…they did.”

Jun-ho looked at you then—really looked at you. You weren’t just speaking about him. You were speaking about yourself. About In-ho. About the way he held your hand and promised salvation with the same mouth that ordered death.

The two of you sat in that truth for a moment, bitter and still.

“ You think we’ll ever forgive ourselves?” He asked suddenly.

“ For not stopping it sooner? For not saving them?”

You held his gaze, voice steady despite the ache behind your ribs. “ I think the past only keeps haunting us because we won’t let ourselves move forward. Because we won’t admit we’re human.”

“ And if we did?” Jun-ho asked, almost skeptical.

“ Maybe the ghosts would quiet down.” You said.

“ Or maybe we’d finally hear what they’ve been trying to say all along.”

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, as if something heavy had loosened in his chest, even if only slightly. But his next words still carried weight:

“ I risked everything—my name, my badge, my life—just to find my brother. And in the end…the Games still burned. Mr. Seong still suffered. You…you were pulled into it deeper than anyone should’ve been.”

You looked away.

You can't tell him.

Not yet.

Not that his brother held you with hands both cruel and gentle. Not that part of you still waited for him in your sleep. Not that his ghost hadn’t left you either.

“ You’re not a failure, Jun-ho.” You said quietly.

“ You just didn’t win the way you wanted.”

He looked at you, searching for something in your words.

“ And what about you?” He asked.

“ Did you win?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because you didn’t know.

All you knew was that even six months later, your heart beat for a man who might’ve died a monster…or lived as something worse: a memory that never faded.

You stood from the booth, sliding your coat on.

“ I don’t know what I did.” You said honestly.

“ But I’m still breathing. That has to count for something.”

Jun-ho gave you a tired smile—a small one. A shared understanding.

“ If you ever want to talk again.” He said.

“ I’ll be around.”

You nodded and left the diner, stepping into the gray drizzle of the city. You didn’t look back.

But neither of you were truly walking alone anymore.

...

The smell of popcorn and cotton candy hung in the air, mingling with the distant shrieks of laughter from the spinning rides and carousel music that never seemed to stop.

You stood behind the counter of a brightly painted ticket booth, uniform neat, name tag clipped carefully over your chest. Your voice had learned how to sing again—high and cheerful—though it trembled on the inside some days.

The amusement park wasn’t grand. It didn’t glimmer like a fantasy. It was a modest little place on the edge of a quiet town, surrounded by trees and simple hopes.

But it was far from the island.

Far from the guns.

Far from the masks and the marble halls and the echoing voice of the Frontman.

And most importantly…

Far from him.

You wiped down the counter, watching a group of children run past toward the ball pit, their laughter shrill and boundless. A girl in pigtails tugged your hand earlier, asking if you’d come play hopscotch with her.

You did.

It was innocent.

It was silly.

It was safe.

But every time a child clapped their hands, or the buzzer rang at the balloon-dart game…something inside your chest still flinched.

Sometimes your breath caught when a game started. Sometimes your fingers curled around the edge of the table a little too tight when a countdown was announced.

Sometimes…you remembered red light, green light.

But still you smiled. Not because it was fake, but because these children deserved a world that never tasted fear the way you did.

And maybe…maybe you deserved it too.

Park Gyeong-sok worked at the art booth, tucked beside the carousel. He was soft-spoken and kind, with long fingers always smudged with charcoal and pastels.

He didn’t talk much about himself, and you liked that about him. He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just…existed beside you.

Peacefully.

Sometimes, you brought kids over to his booth after they won their little games. He’d sketch their portraits in ten minutes, quick and full of soul. They’d squeal when they saw the paper—eyes too big, cheeks too round, but perfectly them.

“ You’re good with them.” He said one day, handing you a sketch of a small boy who’d refused to smile until the very last moment.

“ You make them feel safe.”

You smiled at that, blinking slowly at the praise.

“ They make me feel human.” You whispered before you could stop yourself.

Gyeong-sok tilted his head, watching you carefully. But he didn’t press. Just turned back to his next drawing and let the silence speak for itself.

There were still nights the past came knocking. Still dreams where the flames of the island roared louder than the carousel music.

Still whispers in your head when you closed your eyes:

“ If I survive, I’ll find you.”

But now—every morning, you woke up to something brighter.

Chalk-stained hands.

Children’s laughter.

A world with color again.

And maybe fate had brought you back to another “game” this time one made of joy instead of survival.

Maybe it wasn’t about outrunning the ghosts…

Maybe it was about learning to live beside them.

And with every smile you gave, every child’s laughter that echoed in your ears, the grip of the past loosened—if only slightly.

Maybe this was healing.

Not forgetting.

Just…choosing to live anyway.

And somehow, that was enough.

...

It was quiet.

Too quiet, maybe.

Your small home—barely furnished, painted in muted tones—felt heavier on days like this. On days when there were no kids to distract you, no carousel melodies to fill the silence, no chalk-dusted sketches to admire.

Just you.

And the ghosts you still couldn’t bury.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, one hand loosely holding a mug of lukewarm coffee you’d forgotten to sip.

The TV was off. Your phone dimmed. The only sound was the subtle hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock that somehow made every second feel longer.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling and then down to the small shoebox on the low table in front of you. You hesitated before reaching for it—fingers trembling, as if your body already knew what was inside.

You opened it slowly.

Old photographs spilled across your lap.

Your mother is smiling from behind a birthday cake.

Your father is pretending to lift your younger sibling with one arm.

You—fresh-faced, careless, laughing. Before debt, before desperation, before death.

Your hand hovered over one photo in particular.

It was you in front of your old apartment door, holding a grocery bag. You remembered that day.

You had ₩3,000 left in your wallet.

You bought instant noodles and toothpaste.

You told yourself things would get better.

They didn’t. You set the photo down, hand covering your mouth as your throat burned.

“ If only I hadn’t signed that contract…”

“ If only I didn’t need the money.”

“ If only I didn’t trust the wrong people.”

“ If only I didn’t let myself be used…”

Your thoughts spiraled like they always did when it was quiet—when there was nothing to hold you above water.

You hated the choices you made.

But you hated the ones you had to make even more.

“ What would they think of me now?” You murmured aloud, eyes flickering toward the family photo on your shelf.

“ Would they be proud that I’m still alive…or ashamed of what I did to survive?”

Your voice cracked at the end, barely more than a whisper. You pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them tightly, staring at the soft blur of color in the photo. You longed for that version of yourself.

The one who believed in good things. In fairness. In life without masks and cruelty and survival at the cost of innocence.

But that person was gone.

Or maybe…buried deep under everything.

You closed your eyes and leaned back on the couch, taking in a breath—long, shaking.

Forgiveness felt far away. Especially the kind you owed yourself. But the fact that you were still trying to live—that you were still searching for something beyond survival—meant maybe there was still a chance.

Just maybe.

You let the tears come.

Soft.

Quiet.

Unapologetic.

Because healing didn’t always look like strength. Sometimes, it looked like this.

A couch. An old photo. And a heart that, against all odds, still wanted to believe in a future.

And even though you were still haunted…

You were here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.

Still hoping that someday, that would be enough.

Ding dong.

You barely flinched at first.

Still curled on the couch, the old photo of your family resting near your chest, your first instinct was to ignore it. You weren’t expecting anyone—no deliveries, no visits. The rain outside had softened to a misty gray. You figured maybe someone hit the wrong unit.

But the doorbell rang again.

This time, longer.

With a groan, you set the photo down and wiped the dried tears off your face, dragging your tired body to the door. Your fingers hovered over the handle for a moment—then unlocked it.

And everything stopped.

The rain.

The room.

Your heartbeat.

He stood there—no longer in that mask of obsidian, no longer the godlike ghost who ruled the island. No longer just the Frontman.

But In-ho.

Flesh and blood.

Real.

He wore a black tailored suit, clean-cut, almost unassuming—if you didn’t know. If you had never heard his voice while screaming into your pillow, or felt the weight of his gloved hand under a blood-red light. If you hadn’t once called his name with your voice hoarse from shame and something darker.

He looked like a man.

But to you, he still looked like a monster.

He held a black box in both hands—plain, clean, but unmistakable. The seal. That symbol.

A triangle. A square. A circle.

The Games.

You froze in place. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. Your throat closed as your eyes burned with old rage and unshed tears.

And then he spoke. “ I kept my promise.”

That voice—calm, cold, and still so devastating to him. Like no time had passed. Like the world hadn’t exploded around you both.

“ I came back.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. You were trying too hard not to scream.

“ I’m not letting you go again.” He added, voice lower, as if saying it too loudly might break the air between you.

“ I spent six months watching everything I built burn. Six months wondering if you'd survive. Six months…suffering without you.”

His gaze didn’t flicker. But something in them did. A glimmer. A shadow. A man who tried to bury his soul in concrete and realized too late that you were the one thing he couldn’t kill off.

“ It’s time...” He continued flatly, lifting the box slightly.

“ To take what’s mine.”

That snapped something in you.

“ What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snapped, your voice hoarse and shaking. 

“ You came all this way just to give me this?” You pointed at the box with venom. 

“ A tracksuit?! My old, bloodstained, shame-soaked tracksuit? You really thought that was a good idea?!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice. 

“ It belonged to you. And you belonged to me.”

That did it.

“ I’m not yours.” You hissed. 

“ Not your possession. Not your player. Not your…fucking pet.”

The tears broke loose now, hot and unrelenting. You didn’t wipe them.

“ You ruined me, In-ho. You used me. You broke me. And now you show up like this? After six months of silence? And expect me to do what—thank you?”

He set the box down slowly at your doorstep. His face remained unreadable, carved from ice—but his jaw twitched, just once.

“ You’re right.” He said after a long pause. 

“ I did all of that.”

He stepped forward. Just one step.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“ But I also remember the way you looked at me…before the island burned. When everything else was gone. When we were just two broken people in a cage of our own making.”

Your throat tightened. The memory stung like alcohol over a wound.

“ You think I came back for control?” He asked. 

“ No. I came back because for the first time in years, I felt something. And it was you.”

You stared at him. Trembling. Breathing like you were drowning.

“ I brought that tracksuit not to mock you.” He said. 

“ But because it represents where we began. Not where we have to end.”

You looked at the box.

You hated it. You hated him.

And yet…

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to pull him into your arms and beat your fists against his chest. 

You wanted to kiss him until the pain melted.

You wanted to forget.

But you couldn’t.

You swallowed hard. Your voice broke when you whispered. “ You’re insane.”

He nodded. Once. “ Only when it comes to you.”

And for a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain…and the breathless silence between two people who never stopped bleeding for each other.

You didn’t realize you were shaking until your knees hit the floor.

The doorway blurred with rain and memory, but it was your own trembling breath that finally betrayed you. You dropped to your knees like your strength gave out all at once—like your spine, your pride, your carefully constructed silence could no longer bear the weight of all the months you’d carried it.

In-ho took a step toward you—too calm, too still—but you threw your hand up, stopping him.

“ Don’t.” You rasped. 

“ Don’t come near me.”

He froze.

And finally, finally…you broke.

“ I died the day that island exploded.” You whispered, choking on the words. 

“ I’ve been breathing and moving and smiling for six months but I haven’t lived a single goddamn second since.”

Your hands trembled over your thighs, curled into fists as if trying to dig your nails into something real—into yourself, into anything but him.

“ Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you’re still in that red room?” You cried, tears now streaming unchecked.

“ To hear screams in your ears when there’s no one around? To smell the blood even when you’re standing in an amusement park with children laughing all around you?”

His face stayed neutral, but something behind his eyes cracked.

“ I kept your secret.” You spat, finally lifting your eyes to his.

“ I protected you. I let everyone believe you were dead—buried under ash and steel like some relic of hell.”

You stood on unsteady feet, staggering slightly, shoulders heaving.

“ Do you know how it feels to lie to the only man who trusted me, all because I didn’t know how to explain what I let you do to me?!”

His lips parted slightly—but you weren’t done.

“ I hated you. I hated how much I needed you in that place. How I let myself feel safe in your arms even when I knew it was twisted. Even when I knew you were the reason Jun-bae died. That you were the reason I—”

You stopped.

Breathless. Raw.

In-ho’s voice came quietly, the cold edge softened into something almost human. “ I never asked you to protect me.”

“ You didn’t have to!” You shouted.

“ Because I wanted to. And that’s what kills me, In-ho. That somewhere in the middle of all that horror, I looked at you and thought—maybe, just maybe—you were the only thing I had left.”

Silence fell again.

Heavy. Holy.

The rain poured harder now. You stood in the center of the doorway, soaked from the weight of your own grief more than the weather.

“ You said you came back to start over.” You said, quieter now, trembling.

“ But I never left. I’ve been trapped in that game every single day since it ended.”

You looked down at the black box near his feet—your old uniform. The last thread connecting you to that blood-soaked arena.

“ You want to start something new?” You whispered.

“ Then don’t hand me the past like it’s a gift. Don’t come to me unless you’re willing to carry the weight of what you did—to all of us. To me.”

In-ho bent slowly, picked up the box, then placed it gently at the threshold between you.

Not forcing it into your hands. Not stepping past the line.

Just…offering.

“ I came back to take responsibility.” He said quietly.

“ And to see if there’s anything left of the person who looked at me…and didn’t run.”

You looked at him—truly looked.

And for the first time, you saw not the maskless monster…

But a man who had burned the world down, and now stood in the ashes, asking if he deserved to be buried too.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know the answer.

Not yet. Not tonight.

You turned away.

“ Leave the box.” You said, voice cracking.

“ But not your apologies.”

And then, without another word, you closed the door between you.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Silence returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was hollow. A silence so sharp it could carve grief into your ribs.

You stood frozen, staring at the black box resting on your floor like it had teeth. Like it could bite if you touched it wrong. For a long time, you just watched it—unable to move, unable to breathe properly.

But something inside you needed to know.

With a trembling hand, you lowered yourself to the floor and slowly peeled back the lid.

The smell hit you first.

Sterile. Cold. Like the air inside the Game’s facility. Like old blood dried into cotton. It made your stomach twist violently.

You reached inside and pulled out the tracksuit.

Green. Numbered. Wrinkled and frayed, the faintest discoloration still clinging to the fabric—stains you knew weren’t dirt.

Your fingers grazed across the sleeve, and the memory surged before you could stop it.

“ Player 321…”

“ Step forward.”

Gunshot. Screams. Silence.

You flinched so hard your knuckles went white. You tossed the suit aside like it burned. But beneath it…something worse.

Your dress.

The one he gave you. The one he made you wear when he paraded you in front of the VIPs like you were his prize. His chosen companion. His obedient girl.

Red silk. Elegant. Dignified. And yet it felt like a collar.

You held it in your lap, and for a moment…you couldn’t breathe at all. Then you saw it. Something slipped between the folded hem.

A small rectangle.

You reached out with slow fingers and pulled it free.

A photo.

You didn’t even remember putting it there.

Your breath hitched.

It was you—before the game. Long before. The version of yourself that smiled without effort, that stood outside the run-down apartment with crooked teeth and a heart that hadn’t yet been shattered. Holding your grocery bag, laughing at the camera like the world hadn’t turned on you yet.

But the photo was ruined now.

Torn at the corner. Wrinkled. Smudged. A dark splash of something rusty bled into your face—blood.

You didn’t know if it was yours or someone else’s. The image blurred as your tears spilled. And then you broke.

You screamed.

You screamed so hard your voice cracked and turned hoarse. You buried your face in your hands and sobbed like your body had finally had enough.

You screamed until your chest caved in and your throat was raw. Until your breath came in gasps and you could no longer tell if you were crying from sorrow or fury or shame.

“ Why did you come back…?” You sobbed aloud.

“ Why couldn’t you just stay gone?!”

The photo slipped from your fingers. Fell onto the floor beside the uniform. Beside the red silk.

The symbols of everything that broke you.

Your fists slammed into the box. You shoved it, knocked it over. Clothes spilled out. You didn’t care. You wanted to destroy it all. To erase every trace of what he gave back. But your hands froze mid-motion. Because some twisted part of you still couldn't throw the photo away.

This was you.

Before him. Before them. Before all of it.

And it was covered in blood.

You sank to your knees again, gripping the ruined picture to your chest, body shaking violently as the sobs continued. Not just for the trauma. Not just for the memories. But for the person in the photo.

The one you used to be. The one you didn’t know how to return to. The one who deserved better.

And all you could whisper, over and over, through broken cries and bleeding guilt, was:

“ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do…”

Outside, the rain continued. And inside, you shattered quietly—cradling the past that never let you go.

…

Jun-ho’s apartment was warm—oddly warm for how cold your hands felt. You stood in the hallway, frozen, unable to speak at first as your eyes fell to the crib beside the couch. It was modest, put together with visible urgency, as if he’d built it the night he found her.

And there she was.

Wrapped in something too familiar—too cruel.

Green. Numbered.

Player 222.

A child swaddled in death’s colors.

Jun-ho stood nearby, his face unreadable, arms folded over his chest. But you could see the way his fingers twitched—unsettled, like the truth was ticking too loud in the silence between you both.

“ Someone left her here.” He finally said.

“ Just…left her just like that. Like a storybook. Only this one came with bloodstains.”

He motioned to the side table.

A debit card. A ribboned envelope.

Inside: ₩45.6 billion.

The exact cash prize.

“ I thought this was for the winner.” Jun-ho said, shaking his head, voice hollow.

“ But…what kind of sick game makes a baby the victor?”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and raw from the sobs hours before.

“ I know who her mother was.” You whispered.

His eyes snapped to you.

You stepped closer to the crib, looking down at the sleeping infant. Her little chest rose and fell steadily. Her tiny hand gripped the corner of the old fabric like it meant comfort—not like it once clung to people who bled and begged and lost everything.

“ Player 222.” You murmured.

“ She was already showing when we were grouped. Not much. But enough for me to notice.”

Jun-ho said nothing. He just listened. Absorbing it all like a sponge desperate to wring out answers.

“ She tried to hide it at first. Said she only needed to survive long enough to make sure her child would live. She never told anyone who the father was. I don’t think it mattered to her.” You paused.

“ She just wanted the baby to be free.”

The memory clawed back before you could stop it. You were in the VIP longue that day. You were beside him—In-ho. You watched the guests clap and howl with delight as the two massive dolls—twisted mockeries of innocence—swayed on either side of a deadly gap.

The bridge broke halfway through the challenge. The only way across was by jumping—swinging from a rope hung in the hands of mechanical children.

“ She was injured.” You continued, staring into the fire of your past.

“ Her ankle was fractured in the fourth game. She couldn't jump. Couldn't run. But she held on through everything until the fifth game.”

Jun-ho’s mouth twitched, eyebrows drawn, eyes dark.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

“ She secured her baby in Gi-hun’s arms. Said she couldn’t take her any farther. Gi-hun…he promised. He said he’d come back. But he was forced forward.”

You clenched your fists. “ She stood on the edge. Looked straight ahead. Then just…let go.”

Jun-ho lowered his gaze.

“ She chose death.” You said softly.

“ But not for herself—for her child. Because she still believed something better could exist after the game.”

There was silence for a while. The kind that made your skin crawl. The baby stirred but did not cry.

You turned to Jun-ho.

“ It was your brother.” You said quietly, bitterly.

“ He suggested the child continue as a ‘proxy’ for the player. The VIPs laughed. Thought it was art. That helpless baby fighting for survival was the most ‘pure’ version of the Game.”

Jun-ho’s face finally cracked.

He didn’t cry—but something in him broke. “ He made her a contestant?”

You nodded. “ They assigned her a number. They gave her odds. They bet on her survival. As if she were some novelty act.”

Jun-ho looked down at the sleeping baby—then slowly, painfully, back at the debit card on the table. “ And then they gave her the prize.”

You nodded once. Silent.

“ She wasn’t a winner…” He said bitterly.

“ She was a message.”

“ A symbol.” You whispered.

And he didn’t ask what you meant. Because you both knew. That even inside a hell designed to crush the soul, someone chose to give life.

Someone still chose hope.

Jun-ho sat down beside the crib, his hands shaking slightly as he reached to adjust the tiny blanket.

“ So what now?” He asked, not looking at you.

“ What the hell do we do with a symbol like her?”

You looked at the child. The last breath of someone who died for love in a place that only understood pain.

“ We protect her.” You said.

“ We keep her safe. Because that’s what her mother wanted. That’s what Gi-hun tried to do. And maybe…that’s what we have left.”

Jun-ho nodded slowly.

And for the first time, neither of you said anything more.

Because sometimes, grief didn’t need words.

It just needed someone to stay.

You sat at Jun-ho’s kitchen table, silent, unmoving. A chipped mug of untouched tea in your hands. Steam no longer rose. It had cooled. Just like your ability to deny the truth.

Your eyes stared blankly ahead, but your mind was still there.

In that nightmare. In the final game.

You hadn’t let yourself think about it in full—not until now. But holding that baby…watching her sleep as if untouched by the horrors she inherited…

It all came flooding back.

“ He didn’t have to die.” You whispered hoarsely.

“ He could’ve survived.”

Jun-ho leaned on the counter behind you, silent. Letting you speak. Letting you bleed.

“ The final round…it hadn’t started.” You continued, voice trembling.

“ Not until the button was pressed. Gi-hun didn’t realize it. No one told him. Not even me.”

Your voice cracked. “ I watched from the VIP lounge. Trapped in silence. I had to pretend I didn’t care. I had to smile.”

Your hands curled tightly around the mug. White-knuckled. Desperate to hold onto anything other than the memory.

“ He held her—the baby. Player 222’s daughter. He knew he wouldn’t win. He knew that the moment he made his choice.”

You remembered it too clearly. Gi-hun, standing at the center of the platform, cradling the infant. Looking up at the monstrous ceiling, the glowing lights, the twisted emblems of power and control.

And then…

That slow, broken walk.

Across the concrete floor.

To the large red button embedded in the ground.

“ He put her down…” You whispered.

“ On the edge. Like he was giving her to the world. Like he was begging it to do better than what we gave her.”

You bit your lip. Hard. Until you tasted blood. Until it grounded you.

“ And then he…jumped.”

The silence that followed that moment in the arena had been unbearable.

Not applause. Not cheering.

Just the collective tension of the spectators. You can feel In-ho trembling when they hear a body slammed hard on the ground.

“ Player 456, eliminated.”

You remembered the sadness and disappointment in the VIPs’ eyes. And how it took everything in you not to scream until your lungs tore.

“ He died proving we were still human.” You muttered.

“ That we chose love. Mercy. Even in hell.”

Jun-ho moved closer. Sat across from you, his face unreadable, but his eyes filled with something painful and hollow.

“ You saw him on the boat.” He said carefully.

You nodded, dazed.

“ But he wasn’t really there, was he?”

“ I didn’t know.” You said.

“ I couldn’t accept it. I thought maybe—maybe we all made it. Maybe I imagined the fall. I wanted to believe that he was alive, just quiet. That he needed time to heal.”

Jun-ho’s voice dropped to a whisper. “ He didn’t blame you.”

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide and wet.

“ He wouldn’t.” Jun-ho continued.

“ Because he knew what you went through. He saw it. He saw you—every time you stayed standing. Every time you swallow your screams in that VIP lounge. You carried as much pain as any of us, and he knew you were doing it to survive.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “ But I let him die.”

“ No.” Jun-ho said firmly.

“ You witnessed him choose something no one else dared to. He sacrificed himself not out of desperation—but out of belief. Out of hope.”

You looked down, your tears finally falling freely again.

“ He deserved better.” You whispered.

“ We all did.” Jun-ho said softly.

“ But at least one of us died holding onto what made us human. Not because the game forced him to—but because he refused to become like them.”

A quiet passed between you again.

But not empty.

Weighted.

Sacred.

Jun-ho exhaled. “ Mr. Seong carried the trauma. The losses. The guilt. But now…he’s finally at peace. He’s with those he couldn’t save before. And he left us—me, you—with something.”

“ What?”

Jun-ho met your gaze. His voice is steady now.

“ The responsibility to carry what he believed in. That even when the whole world turns to monsters, we can still choose not to be one.”

You stared at him. And slowly, nodded. Your chest still hurts. Your grief still clung like rusted chains.

But somewhere in that pain… You held on to a piece of Gi-hun’s choice.

He died to save the child. He died to remind you of what you once were. And maybe…what you still could be.

A survivor.

Not of the games.

But of the soul.

…

The moment your door creaked open, the silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy fog. Your eyes burned, swollen and red, the tears from earlier still fresh on your skin. You didn’t want to think anymore. You just wanted to collapse.

But then—arms.

Strong. Familiar.

Wrapping around your waist and pulling you back before you could even register the warmth.

Your instincts screamed. You spun, ready to defend yourself, but he was faster. Your back slammed against the wall, your breath knocked out as his body pinned you there.

Hwang In-ho.

His face was too close. His eyes still held that signature coldness—but now, there was something underneath. Wet. Trembling. His breathing was uneven, and so was yours.

The two of you just stared.

And it wasn’t silence.

It was a war.

Anger, pain, betrayal—they all danced in your eyes. His gaze responded, equally feral. No words yet, but everything unsaid was louder than a scream.

You cracked first.

“ You shouldn't have kept your promise." You whispered, the bitterness curling in your voice.

" You shouldn’t have come back. There’s no point. There’s nothing left to fix after what you've done." Your voice rose, breaking.

" You're already destroying what's left of me."

His jaw clenched. But when he spoke, it was calm—too calm.

" You promised me, too." His hand hovered near your shoulder, like he wanted to touch you but knew he shouldn't.

" You said you were only mine. You said I was your only one." He met your gaze, firm.

" That’s why I came back. You’re the only reason I ever came back."

A breath.

" I just want you back. I just want us back."

The words hit you like acid.

You pushed at his chest.

" Us?" You laughed bitterly.

" There was no us! That night—it was lust, In-ho. Confusion. Weakness." You shoved harder.

" You fucking forced yourself on me. What fucking choice did I have?! You cornered me. You took it."

His eyes darkened.

" Don’t say that." He hissed, his voice tightening as he pressed his body closer, trapping you.

" Let go of me!"

" No." He growled.

" I can’t. I won’t. You don’t get to reject me now. I stayed alive because of you. I crawled through hell with your face in my mind. And you—" His voice cracked.

" You’re telling me you didn’t feel anything?"

You snapped again, your voice a knife.

" You fucking killed them!" Your words exploded between you.

" My friends, In-ho! You let them fucking die! You stood there! You didn’t do anything!"

He froze.

Then…he snapped.

" I tried! I gave Gi-hun so many damn chances!" His voice was hoarse, a shout that cracked with guilt.

" I gave him a hint, I gave him everything! But he still chose to be good. He still chose to be the hero!"

Your jaw trembled.

" Because he's not like you!" You slammed your fists into his chest, but he didn’t move.

" Gi-hun stands for what's right. Even when it hurts. He doesn’t abandon people. He doesn’t become a monster just to survive!"

His face twisted with fury. " You think being a hero kept him alive? No—it killed him!"

Tears streamed down your face.

" You chose the system. You chose the power. And now you want me to forget everything you did just because you're still breathing?"

His voice lowered into something almost pleading. " I chose survival…so I could come back to you."

Your voice broke completely. " Then maybe you should’ve died instead."

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

You both just stood there—breathing hard, broken, and tangled in something far too damaged to name.

And yet… Neither of you moved away.

The air between you both hung thick—dense with pain, heavy with history. Neither of you moved. Your words still echoed in the small room like ghosts refusing to leave.

" Then maybe you should’ve died instead."

In-ho's jaw clenched, his body visibly trembling now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Something fragile. Shattered. His eyes, once defiant, dropped for a moment, as if your words had finally pierced through whatever armor he had left.

But he didn’t back away.

He leaned in closer, voice low and rough. " If I died, then who would carry the guilt?"

He looked up again, eyes blazing, wet. " You think death is harder than living with everything I’ve done? You think I don’t see their faces every night? You think I don’t hear your voice screaming in my head?"

You turned your face away, but he grabbed your chin—not harshly, but enough to force you to look at him.

" I lost everything. Everyone." His voice cracked.

" Except you."

Your chest burned.

" Don’t you dare say that like I’m something to keep." You whispered, trembling.

" You don’t get to come back here, to this life, to me, and act like love excuses murder."

His grip tightened just slightly, a silent plea behind his eyes. " I never asked for forgiveness."

A pause.

" I only asked for a chance to feel human again. And you—" He exhaled like it hurt.

" You’re the only one who ever made me feel that."

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, your anger boiling but your grief louder.

" You fucking ruined me, In-ho." You said, voice cracking as the tears pushed past again.

" And now you’re here…asking me to help fix you?"

He didn’t answer.

Because deep down, he knew the answer.

There was no fixing this.

No forgiveness that could sew up the carnage left behind.

Just two broken people, still reaching for something that died long ago. Still, his forehead gently leaned against yours, breath shaky.

" Tell me to leave…" He whispered, eyes closed.

" And I swear, I’ll disappear. Right now. I won’t fight it."

Silence.

But your lips wouldn't move.

Because you didn’t know what hurt more—letting him go…

Or letting him stay.

And he knew that too.

The weight of his words settled between you like a loaded gun.

" Tell me to leave…and I swear, I’ll disappear."

Your lips parted, breath catching—ready to say it. Ready to tell him to go. To vanish like the ghosts of the people you lost because of him.

But nothing came out.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

In-ho didn’t move. His forehead still rested against yours, his breathing uneven. You could feel the trembling in his chest, the desperation he was trying to hide under his calm façade. But you knew him now—maybe too well.

That stillness he wore like armor was cracking.

And so were you.

Your voice finally broke through, barely more than a whisper.

" I hate you."

He flinched.

You closed your eyes, the tears falling freely now.

" I hate what you did. I hate what you made me become." Your fists weakly beat against his chest again, each one softer than the last.

" You made me live with guilt. With silence. With fucking nightmares that never end."

In-ho didn’t stop you.

He let you cry. He let you fall apart in his arms—something he should’ve done a long time ago. But then you looked up, your voice sharper.

" But I hate myself more…because even after everything, I still wanted you to come back."

His eyes widened. It was the first time you saw real shock in him. Vulnerability. Like the last wall inside him finally collapsed.

" I don’t know what’s more fucked up." You continued, swallowing the lump in your throat.

" That you came back for me…or that I never really stopped waiting."

In-ho cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with the gentleness that contradicted everything he’d done.

" Then let me stay." His voice was a quiet storm.

" Don’t forgive me. Don’t forget. Just…let me stay."

You stared at him, your heart thundering, torn open in too many places to count.

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t say no.

Instead, your forehead met his again—both of you drowning in the same wreckage. The room was still. Your bodies close, your pasts louder than ever.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t healing.

Sometimes, it survived.

And for now, maybe that was enough or maybe it was the most dangerous lie you could both cling to.

His breath ghosted across your lips, warm, shallow, trembling—just like yours. His hands, once desperate to hold you back, were now gentle… reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you wrong.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Your heart was screaming in every direction, but your body ached for something familiar—something reckless, something real.

You tilted your face up, just a little.

That was all it took.

In-ho crashed his mouth against yours—not soft, not hesitant. It was rough, fueled by anger, grief, years of buried tension that finally detonated.

Your fingers tangled in his coat, dragging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, lifting you against the wall like he’d been starving for this moment.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. His mouth traced down your jaw, your neck, biting into your skin like a man trying to leave a mark—trying to make sure you remembered.

" Tell me to stop." He growled against your skin, lips hot and trembling.

" Say the word and I’ll pull away."

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, gasping as he slid his knee between your thighs, pressing against the heat building there. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

" I hate you." You breathed out again—barely a whisper.

" I know." He muttered, before kissing you harder.

Clothes started to peel away, piece by piece. He pressed your body tighter against the wall, his lips never leaving yours for long.

His hands roamed with familiarity, but this time…this time there was something raw in every touch. Less control. Less cruelty. More desperation.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up and over your head, tossing it aside. His lips followed the trail, mapping your skin like it was the last thing he’d ever feel.

You whimpered when his mouth latched onto the soft skin just above your heart, sucking hard enough to bruise. You grabbed at his hair, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.

" I shouldn’t want this." You gasped.

" Me either." He rasped, as his hands slid down your back, cupping your ass and lifting you into his arms.

" But I’d rather burn with you than breathe without you."

He carried you to the couch, dropping both of you into the cushions without grace, his body already over yours. The way he kissed you now—it was possession.

Worship. Punishment. A contradiction of everything you both felt.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he grinded down into you, the friction sending sharp pleasure straight through your core. You moaned into his mouth, and he responded with a growl deep in his chest.

His hands explored every inch of you like a man trying to memorize what he once had, what he feared he’d lose again.

" Let me have you." He murmured into your ear.

" Just tonight. Even if you leave me after."

You looked up into his eyes—those cold, broken eyes now full of fire—and pulled him down again, crashing your lips against his with a hunger that left no room for hesitation.

Tonight wasn’t about love.

It was about need.

About ruin.

And you both chose to drown in it.

Your breath hitched as In-ho's body pressed harder into yours, the heat between you burning through the last threads of reason.

The air was thick with everything unsaid—rage, guilt, lust—and all of it poured out through the desperate way your mouths collided, over and over.

Your nails raked down his back as he kissed you harder, more demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it between his.

His hands were everywhere—rough palms sliding under your bra, yanking it up with a groan when your chest finally spilled free.

He dipped his head down and took one of your breasts into his mouth, tongue swirling, biting just enough to make you arch with a gasp. His other hand cupped and kneaded the other mound, fingers pinching your nipple until it hardened against his touch.

" You still feel the same." He murmured against your skin, voice low, hoarse.

" So fucking warm. So mine."

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, eyes wild, voice sharp. " Shut the fuck up and touch me."

He growled—actually growled—and shoved your pants down, dragging your panties with them in one smooth, impatient motion. His fingers dipped between your thighs without hesitation, sliding through your slick folds, spreading you open for him.

" So wet already." He hissed, dragging one finger slowly up your slit.

" You still want me. No matter how much you try to deny it."

Your hips jerked when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them deep, hitting the spot that made your toes curl and your breath choke in your throat.

His thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit while his fingers worked in and out of you, faster, deeper, until your thighs were shaking around him.

But he didn’t stop there.

He yanked his own shirt over his head, muscles flexing, scars exposed, and then undid his belt with one hand, his eyes locked on yours.

There was fire there—rage and need all tangled into one. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip.

He leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear. " Tell me you still feel it."

You stared at him—chest rising, lips parted, trembling beneath him.

" Shut up…" You whispered.

" And fuck me."

That was all he needed.

He grabbed your hips and slammed into you in one deep thrust, making you cry out, your back arching into him.

There was no slow build-up. He drove into you relentlessly, your bodies colliding again and again, his grip bruising your thighs as he pinned them open wider.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his back, forcing him deeper. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, mixed with your ragged moans and his low, broken groans.

" You're still mine." He panted against your neck, thrusting harder, deeper.

" No matter what you say—your body doesn’t fucking lie."

You clawed at his back, your body tightening, pleasure building fast, hot, unbearable.

" Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—"

And he didn’t.

He fucked you like he was punishing you for leaving, for surviving, for not breaking with him. Like he was trying to rewrite the past with every thrust.

You clung to him like a lifeline, your mouth finding his again, biting, gasping, whimpering as the pressure inside you exploded all at once. Your body convulsed around him, walls tightening as you cried out his name, your orgasm crashing through you like a storm.

In-ho groaned against your shoulder, his pace stuttering as he buried himself deep, holding you tight as he spilled inside you, every muscle in his body taut with release.

He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead against your collarbone. Neither of you said a word.

Only the sound of your shared breathing filled the silence.

What just happened wasn’t love.

It wasn’t healing. It was ruin.

Desperate. Brutal. Addictive.

And it wasn’t over.

In-ho was still buried inside you, panting hard against your skin, sweat beading across his back. But there was no pause. No space for afterglow. The hunger between you wasn’t sated—it was only growing, dark and violent.

You felt it in the way his hips began to move again, slow and deep—grinding inside you like he wanted to stay there forever.

You moaned sharply, your legs still wrapped tight around him, dragging him even deeper.

" You’re not done." You hissed against his ear, biting his lobe hard enough to make him grunt.

" Don’t pretend that was enough."

His eyes met yours, blazing. " I wasn’t planning to stop."

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you clenching around nothing—until he flipped you over, your chest pressed into the couch, ass up, legs spread.

He grabbed your hips and slammed into you again from behind with a deep, brutal thrust that made you cry out loud.

" Fuck—!"

He gripped your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched into him as he pounded into you. His cock hit deeper at this angle, grinding against your walls with punishing precision, over and over.

" You say you hate me." He growled into your ear, thrusting unrelentingly.

" But you’re dripping down your thighs for me. You’re begging for it without even opening your mouth."

You gasped as his hand slipped beneath you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard and fast while he fucked you deep, the pace almost animalistic now.

" This is what you want." He snarled.

" Say it. Say you want this."

You moaned—desperate, raw. " I want it."

He slammed into you harder.

" Say who you want."

You tried to resist—biting your lip, refusing to give him that satisfaction. But then his free hand slid up your spine and grabbed your throat, firm but controlled, holding you just enough to steal your breath while his cock pulsed deep inside you.

" Say it."

Your voice cracked, choked and wrecked. " I want you, In-ho. I fucking want you."

He growled in triumph, letting go of your throat just enough for you to breathe—but not escape. Your whole body was shaking now, the coil inside you burning, ready to snap again.

He didn’t slow. Every thrust was harder, deeper, as if he was imprinting himself inside you—staking a claim he was too far gone to give up.

Your orgasm tore through you like fire. You screamed his name, your body convulsing beneath him as he rode you through it, chasing his own release.

And then he came again—gripping your hips tight, jerking deep inside you as he groaned your name like a broken prayer.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just collapsed over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

Both of you ruined.

Spent.

But nowhere near finished.

Your limbs were still shaking from the last orgasm when In-ho pulled out slowly, the sensation dragging a whimper from your throat. Your body was already sensitive, trembling, slick and used—but he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He collapsed back onto the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck. His eyes—dark, wild, ravenous—locked onto yours. He grabbed your wrist before you could move away.

" On top." His voice was hoarse, commanding.

" Ride me."

You hesitated for a breath, your thighs trembling, overstimulated and raw—but your body responded to his tone instinctively. You climbed onto him, straddling his lap, your hands braced on his chest as he grabbed his cock, guiding it back to your dripping core.

" Take it." He muttered, licking his lips as he watched you.

" Let me feel all of you again."

You sank down slowly, both of you gasping in unison as he stretched you open once more. He was still hard—still thick, hot, pulsing inside you—and the pressure against your already sensitive walls made your body jerk.

" F-fuck!" You whimpered, barely able to breathe.

He grabbed your hips and started moving you, grinding you down in slow, deep circles, forcing you to feel every inch.

" You’re so tight like this." He groaned.

" So swollen, so wet. You were made to ride me like this."

You tried to pace yourself, but your body was betraying you. Every grind of your hips, every brush of his cock against your sweet spot made you whimper, moan, tremble. Your head dropped back, mouth falling open.

That’s when he leaned forward.

He latched onto your breast like a starved man—licking, sucking, groaning as he pulled your nipple between his lips and rolled it with his tongue.

He switched to the other without warning, wet and hungry, his hands kneading your ass to push you deeper onto him as you rode him.

" God, look at you." He rasped against your skin.

" Fucking perfect. Bouncing on my cock, dripping down my thighs. You’re everything, do you know that?"

You moaned louder at his words, your hips moving faster, chasing something sharp and unbearable. His tongue flicked your nipple furiously, his teeth grazing it just enough to make your body jerk.

" You take me so well." He praised, eyes locked on your flushed face.

" So good for me. Look at you—so fucked out, but still riding me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive."

Your thighs began to quake, your orgasm building again far too fast. Overstimulation made every thrust electric, every movement almost too much. Your hands gripped his shoulders like a lifeline.

" I—I can’t—"

" Yes, you can." He growled, bucking his hips up into you, slamming deeper.

" One more, baby. Give me one more. I want to feel you come again while I’m inside you."

His mouth returned to your breast, tongue greedy, messy, and relentless.

And you broke.

Your body tensed violently, and you screamed his name as your climax hit again, stronger, overwhelming. You collapsed against him, nails digging into his skin, walls pulsing and clenching him tight.

He moaned like he was in pain—because your pleasure was too much, too good and with a guttural groan, he came again deep inside you, filling you up for the second time.

You both stayed like that—your body trembling, your skin stuck to his with sweat, your breath ragged—as his hands gently rubbed up and down your back.

" You’re unbelievable." He whispered, kissing the top of your chest.

" No one will ever ruin me like you do."

And you believed him. Because even now…neither of you were finished.

Your chest was still heaving, your body twitching from the waves of overstimulation. Every muscle felt melted, your thighs slick and trembling from the relentless pleasure he’d wrung out of you.

You were still straddling him, the heat of your bodies sticking together—until In-ho slowly lifted you by the hips. A low, guttural sound rumbled from his throat as he pulled out.

A wet, messy sound echoed between you as his cock slid free, and you both stared as a mix of your fluids slowly oozed out of you—thick, hot, dripping down your inner thighs in lazy trails.

" Fuck…" He breathed, eyes glued to the sight.

" Look at that."

His fingers slid between your legs, catching the slow drip of cum and arousal that soaked your pussy and thighs. You whimpered, oversensitive, jerking slightly at his touch—but he was already lowering himself, sliding off the couch and dragging your hips to the edge.

You barely had time to react before his mouth was on you.

" In-ho—!" You gasped, your hand shooting down to grab his hair.

But he didn’t stop.

His tongue licked a long, filthy stripe from your entrance down your thigh, gathering every trace of what you two made. He groaned deeply, as if the taste of you mixed with himself drove him insane.

" This—" He murmured against your skin, licking back up slowly, deliberately.

" Is what we are. Messy. Raw. Addictive."

He sucked the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing the tender flesh as his fingers gently spread you open again.

" You feel how swollen you are?" He whispered, tongue flicking your clit just to make you twitch.

" Fucked open. So warm. So perfect for me."

You moaned helplessly as he buried his face back into your core, licking and lapping like a man starved. He didn’t care that you were twitching from overstimulation—if anything, he wanted that. He wanted you wrecked. Shaking.

" It tastes so sweet with my cum dripping out of you." He groaned, tongue thrusting in and out slowly.

" You’re filthy, baby. Just how I like you."

You writhed, one hand fisting his hair, the other gripping the armrest behind you, trying to breathe.

" You were made for this." He continued, licking up everything he spilled inside you.

" Made to take my cock. Made to let me fill you up and then let me taste it right after."

Your thighs tried to close from the intensity, but he pulled them apart again, locking you open with his arms.

" Don’t hide from me." His voice was darker now.

" You wanted this. You begged for it. And now I’m going to enjoy every drop."

His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking hard this time—enough to make your back arch as another sharp burst of heat built again. The overstimulation blurred into something dizzying, euphoric.

You cried out, legs trembling as he pushed you to the edge again, dragging that next orgasm from your already-used body.

" That’s it, baby. Cum for me again. Let it drip—I’ll clean it all up."

And you did.

With his mouth never leaving you, he swallowed every twitch, every cry, every trace of what was left.

When he finally pulled back, chin soaked, eyes glazed and mouth curved in a dark grin, he looked up at you like you were art—ruined and beautiful.

" You’re fucking divine." He licked his lips.

" And I’m never letting you go."

Your body collapsed back against the couch, weak and wrecked.

But something in you knew…

This was only the beginning.

Your body had gone limp against the couch—skin flushed, thighs trembling, your core still pulsing from the wave after wave he dragged out of you. Every nerve was raw, burning in the aftermath of overstimulation.

And yet…

You barely had time to catch your breath when In-ho climbed back over you, hands bracing on either side of your head. His lips crashed into yours again—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just raw, hungry desperation.

You gasped into the kiss, and he took it as an invitation, tongue plunging into your mouth. You moaned as the taste hit you—you and him—salt, heat, and something primal.

The mix of your combined release coated his lips, his tongue, and he fed it to you like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out.

His kiss was a claim.

Sloppy, deep, possessive.

You could feel him growing hard again between your bodies—still slick from what you both made, twitching against your inner thigh.

He broke the kiss with a hiss, panting softly against your cheek. Then he grabbed your hand—firm but guiding—and brought it down to his length.

" You feel that?" He growled, his voice low and rough.

" Still hard for you. Still fucking aching."

You wrapped your fingers around him instinctively, and he let out a sharp exhale through clenched teeth.

" Stroke it." He ordered, eyes dark and fixed on you.

" Nice and slow. Just like that."

You obeyed, your fingers gliding along his thick, glistening shaft. Your hand was slick with your mixed fluids, and he throbbed in your grip, hips bucking slightly into your strokes.

" Fuck—" He muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on you.

" Now be a good girl…" He leaned in, licking a slow line up your jaw.

" And clean me up."

You didn’t hesitate.

You slid down between his legs, still tasting him on your tongue as you lowered yourself until his cock stood inches from your face—hard, twitching, covered in slick from both of you.

You looked up at him as you dragged your tongue along the base, licking your way to the tip slowly, deliberately. His entire body jerked at the first touch, a deep hiss ripping from his throat.

" Just like that…" He groaned, watching you with hooded eyes, his hand gripping the back of your head.

" Get every drop, baby. You made this mess—now fucking taste it."

You wrapped your lips around the tip, swirling your tongue to gather everything there. His taste mixed with yours—salty, musky, intoxicating. You moaned around him as you slowly took him deeper, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn’t reach yet.

His hips twitched.

" God, your mouth…" He gasped.

" So warm. So perfect for me."

You sucked harder, faster now, tongue dragging along the underside with every bob of your head. He was leaking again already, thick and heavy on your tongue.

Your eyes never left his—watching him unravel, his jaw clenched, abs tightening, his grip in your hair tightening with every wet, sinful sound you made.

" You love it, don’t you?" He rasped.

" Tasting yourself. Tasting us."

You moaned in response, and the vibration nearly made him lose control. His head fell back, neck taut, body shaking.

" Fuck—don’t stop." His voice was strained, unraveling.

" I want to cum down that pretty throat. I want you to swallow everything I give you."

You took him deeper, until your nose brushed his skin, your throat tightening around him. That was all it took.

His hips jerked up as he groaned loud and low, spilling into your mouth, hot and heavy. You swallowed him down greedily, not spilling a single drop, moaning as you tasted him again—strong, raw, completely addictive.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, chin wet, he looked down at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

" You were made for me." He whispered.

And from the way your body still craved him, even now, you didn’t deny it.

Because nothing about this was over.

Not even close.

The fire had dimmed, but the warmth between your bodies lingered.

In-ho didn’t let you go.

He gently pulled you back into his lap, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, chest pressed to your back, chin resting on your shoulder.

You could still feel his breath—slow now, softer—ghosting along your skin. His heart beat beneath your spine, steady…real.

He held you like you might disappear again if he loosened his grip.

His voice broke the silence, low and cracked.

“ I missed you.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your body was still too worn, your soul still too heavy. But you didn’t pull away either. You let him hold you, let him speak.

“ I’m sorry.” He said next, the words rough and fragile.

“ For what I’ve done to you. For what happened to them.”

His fingers slid gently along your side—soothing, grounding.

“ You think I didn’t want to save them? You think I didn’t want to stop the game?” He exhaled shakily.

“ But I couldn’t. Because if I tried…I would’ve been the next one buried. And then no one would’ve made it out alive.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. His face was drawn in grief—older than it was before. Worn. Haunted.

“ I didn’t lie about Gi-hun.” He looked at you now, eyes searching yours.

“ I gave him everything I could. Warnings. Options. A way out. All he had to do was take it. But he didn’t.”

A pause.

“ He chose morality. He chose dignity. He died for what he believed in…and it killed him.”

The burn in your throat returned. You closed your eyes.

“ And the baby?” You whispered.

He nodded slowly.

“ The baby lived.” A small, tired smile crossed his lips.

“ Gi-hun wanted to protect that child more than anything. So when he died…I did what he couldn’t.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead on your temple.

“ I gave the baby to Jun-ho.”

Your breath hitched.

“ You know about that already.” He said quietly.

“ Jun-ho told you, didn’t he?”

You gave a faint nod.

He pulled you tighter to his chest.

“ I trust him. As much as I can trust anyone. He’s not like me. He won’t run from responsibility. He’ll raise that baby, and he’ll use the money I gave him to make sure that child has a future. One that doesn’t start with blood.”

Silence settled again.

But not the uncomfortable kind.

Just…heavy. Full of things that couldn’t be undone.

Then he whispered, “ I want to live a life that’s not about killing anymore.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze fully now. “ What are you saying?”

His voice was steady this time, grounded.

“ I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No more hiding. No more orders. No more masks or power games.” His thumb traced along your arm.

“ Just us. A real life. A clean one. If you’ll have me.”

Your throat tightened, but before you could answer, his voice dropped again—more serious now.

“ But you need to know…the games aren't over.”

Your body tensed. He nodded grimly.

“ The island’s done, yes. We destroyed that part. But it was only a piece of the network.” His expression hardened.

“ There are other franchises. Other countries. Other hosts. The system is bigger than we imagined. The blood trail doesn’t end where we thought it would.”

You stared at him, heart sinking.

“ Gi-hun died thinking he was ending it all.”

In-ho looked away, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“ He only knew the surface. The tip of an iceberg. His sacrifice…” He swallowed hard.

“ Might have been for nothing.”

It shattered something inside you again.

But he didn’t let go.

“ That’s why I stopped trying to be a hero.” He said softly.

“ Because in this game…there are no heroes. Only survivors. And I’m done surviving alone.”

He looked at you—naked, raw, and human. “ If I have to carry the weight of this…I want to carry it with you.”

And for the first time, in all that ruin—

He didn’t look like the Front Man. He looked like In-ho.

The man you once knew. Or maybe…the man he always wanted to be.

And now, the choice was yours.

The dim light from the streetlamp spilled through your window, casting faint gold over In-ho’s bare shoulders.

He hadn’t let you go—not even after everything had been said, or after your bodies had gone quiet from the storm of passion. His arms stayed wrapped around you like a vow, like if he loosened them, you might vanish again.

He breathed slowly against your temple, steady now…but you could feel the tension still caged beneath his skin.Then he spoke, low and hesitant—like every word was being peeled out from something deep and hidden.

" I don’t know if what I feel is love." He murmured, fingers tracing slow circles along your spine.

" Maybe I’m too broken to know what that really means anymore."

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

He continued. " But I do know this…"

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. " I don’t want to let you go. I can’t."

His jaw clenched, as if the truth tasted bitter.

" The first time I saw you was on a monitor." His voice was steadier now.

" The first game. You were terrified—but you moved differently. You weren’t just trying to survive. You were fighting for something."

He exhaled a soft, humorless laugh.

" That was when I knew I had to be in that game. Not just to keep the system running. Not just to stop Gi-hun from tearing it all down. But because…" His gaze dropped for a moment, heavy with guilt.

" I wanted to be near you. I wanted you to see me not as the man behind the mask—but as one of you. Someone who could bleed. Someone who could feel."

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

You stared at him, unsure whether to pull away or lean closer.

" When I was acting like a player, I think I remembered what it was like to be human again." He said softly.

" To share food. To feel cold. To fear dying—not because it threatened the system, but because it threatened something personal."

You swallowed, heart pounding at the shift in his tone.

" Humanity…" He whispered, almost to himself.

" It has different meanings. Pain. Loyalty. Guilt. Hope. But in the end, they all come together for one thing: connection. Real connection."

His hand reached up, brushing your cheek gently—so unlike the man who once held power over life and death.

" You all thought I didn’t care." He said.

" That I was just cold. Untouchable."

A pause. Then...

" But when I saw Gi-hun’s body…" His voice broke, just slightly.

" Lying there after the Sky Squid Game—so still, so final—something in me cracked. I nearly forgot I was the Frontman. The man who enforced the rules. The man who watched deaths like they were statistics. I almost forgot that I helped create this nightmare."

You watched his eyes, saw how much he hated what stared back at him from his own memory.

" I became that man in 2015. The victor. The killer. The one who saw people as horses to bet on." His throat worked.

" But now…now I don’t want to be that man anymore."

You watched him unravel, piece by piece, exposing the man beneath the mask—not the Frontman, not the cold commander—but the man who once played for survival and lost his soul in the process.

" I forgot what it meant to feel." His eyes locked onto yours.

" I forgot that I was just like him once. Desperate. Angry. Hopeful."

" And then I made the wrong choice." He looked down, voice cracking.

" I thought power would save me from death, but it only made me stop living."

The silence settled like a fragile glass wall between you.

" I’m not asking for forgiveness." He said carefully.

" I’m not pretending I didn’t do what I did. I forced myself into your life. I used control. Fear. Power. I know I hurt you."

He cupped your face gently now, voice quieter. " But I’m here…because I want to make it right."

You felt the tremble in his hands. This wasn’t the Frontman. This was the fractured man behind the mask.

" I want a beginning with you." He said.

" No masks. No orders. No more death between us."

A beat passed.

" I’ll wait." He added softly.

" For as long as it takes. I don’t care how long. As long as there’s a chance you’ll let me into your life again—not as the man who once caged you, but as the man who’s finally ready to feel with you."

You looked at him—eyes vulnerable, heart laid bare.

And for once…

He wasn’t a villain.

He was just a man begging not to be alone.

Author's Note: I'm still devastated of the ending of season 3. The scenes in each episode are so depressing that I can feel my heart literally tearing. I need a coping mechanism to deal with Gi-hun's death. That is why I write this. Yeah, not every story has a happy ending. Squid Game, on the other hand, is highly allergic to happy endings. I am also sad because it is over now. I remember watching this series by accident because everyone was recommending it online, but I had no idea I would enjoy it so much. I mentioned that Part II was the final...I suppose it isn't. I believe this would be the final one. If you have not seen season three and don't want to be spoiled, please put this story on hold for a bit and return here to finish reading it. That's all for now. Hehe. Take care. READ WITH RESPONSIBILITY.

TAGS: @sylviavf @lindsay00000

[lost-in-thoughts03]

EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE || FRONTMAN

Previous part || Final part

" Oh, can't you see, you belong to me?"

Summary: After the fifth game, the Frontman leaves you under The Officer's surveillance, but it appears that he is not amused to see you with his own worker.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, heavy smut, heavy angst, explicit content, coercion, choking, using of vibrating collar, erotic, power imbalance, manipulation, threats, violence, jealousy, heavy tension, major character death, betrayal, stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, matured language, mentioned of VIPs, obsession, possessive, ownership, older man x younger woman (legal), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (F receiving), hard and rough sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, riding, and markings

Words: 6.4k

The weight of the onyx mask pressed against your face like a second skin—cool, suffocating, final.

Your steps felt hollow as you followed him back through the dim corridors lit only by flickering red panels.

His presence was silent now, just a tall shadow moving ahead of you, once known as Young-il…now a stranger cloaked in secrets and the blood of your past.

The distant sounds of the VIP lounge grew louder—laughter, clinking glasses, animalistic grunts of excitement as the next game played out on massive screens.

It was as if nothing had happened.

No one had died.

No one had betrayed.

No one had been used.

When you both reentered the lounge, the heat of the room and the stench of cigar smoke wrapped around you like a foul welcome. The other VIPs barely turned their heads—too absorbed in the carnage flashing across the monitors to notice your absence.

“ Ah, finally.” One of them drawled lazily.

“ We thought you ran off with your little plaything for good.”

The Frontman gave a slight nod, voice calm, composed again. “ She was attending to errands, as instructed.”

A lie.

Clean.

Undisputed.

You stood still beside him, mask hiding the storm inside your eyes as your heart pounded beneath your robe. You were once again the doll they thought you were—silent, pretty, disposable.

But you knew.

You knew who he really was.

And he knew that now, you were dangerous.

He leaned in close, so quietly only you could hear, his voice a ghost under the mask:

“ Don’t try to turn them against me. They’ll believe me before they believe you.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you agreed—but because every fiber of your being was now at war. Part of you still remembered the calm Young-il in the bunk beds beside you, who once whispered survival strategies through the bars when the guards were asleep.

Another part of you was still reeling from the way he had touched you just minutes ago—how he made you beg for him even while hiding behind a thousand lies.

And another—darker—part of you burned with something cold and sharp.

You weren’t going to forgive this.

“ Next round begins in five minutes.” Another VIP barked, raising a glass.

“ Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.”

The screens shifted—new players, new horror. You watched as the camera panned across Gi-hun’s face on the feed.

He looked older now. Angrier. And painfully unaware that the man orchestrating the whole thing was someone he had once called comrade.

You clenched your fists beneath the folds of your robe. The Frontman took a step forward.

“ Come.” He ordered, just loud enough for you to hear.

“ Stand beside me. Don’t forget your place.”

But you had remembered your place.

And it wasn’t at his side anymore.

It was at his throat.

And when the time came…

You would be the one holding the real mask.

...

The fifth game ended in a flood of screams and silence. Another body. Another life erased under the roar of applause and the shifting weight of money.

You didn’t move.

You stood beside the Frontman like a perfect, polished shadow—silent, masked, untouched on the outside. But your muscles ache beneath the layers of silk and shame, and the dull throb between your thighs was a cruel reminder of what had happened behind those locked doors.

The room swirled with noise.

The VIPs clinked glasses again.

Some laughed. Others groaned over lost bets.

And some were too busy ogling the footage on replay.

You? You felt…disconnected.

Not broken.

But watching yourself from outside your body.

Your fingers were curled gently at your sides, posture graceful, controlled. You weren’t allowed to fidget. He’d taught you that well. Obedience wasn’t just for the bedroom.

It was for survival.

The Frontman turned toward you briefly. His gaze—hidden behind that expressionless, angular mask—lingered just long enough.

“ Be good.” He said, tone calm but unmistakably laced with a command.

“ I have to attend to our guests.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t have to. The silence between you had grown into its own language.

He nodded toward one of the guards standing nearby. Not just any guard. The officer.

Dressed in black, the square symbol stamped on his mask—a rank that answered directly to the Frontman.

Quiet.

Watchful.

Always too still.

“ She stays here.” The Frontman ordered.

“ You’ll make sure she does.”

The officer gave a short nod, stepping closer.

“ Understood, sir.”

You caught the faint tension in the way his hand hovered near his sidearm—not threatening, but a reminder. You weren’t alone. You weren’t free.

You gave a small nod of acknowledgment, still silent.

The Frontman turned without another word, walking back toward the cluster of velvet seats and swirling smoke where the VIPs lounged like bored gods.

And you…

You sat down slowly, perching on the edge of a chaise lounge near the back of the room.

The officer didn’t speak. He just stood a few steps away, arms behind his back, unmoving.

Time crawled.

The voices of the VIPs were distant now—like a murmur behind glass. You stared at the monitor, watching the blood-soaked remnants of the fifth game being cleared. Gi-hun’s face flashed across the screen again.

His eyes…

They were starting to look like yours.

Tired.

Haunted.

Angry.

You wondered if he would even recognize you now. Masked. Owned. Used. A far cry from the girl who once laughed with him during stolen moments in the dorms. The one Jun-bae had once shielded during the first vote.

Jun-bae.

Your stomach turned. His face flickered like a broken slide in your memory, warm and teasing one moment, lifeless the next.

Killed.

By the same man who kissed your trembling lips just an hour ago.

Your hands clenched.

You didn’t cry.

You wouldn’t—not here, not while being watched. But something inside you was hardening. You weren’t planning on staying with his obedient girl for long. And soon, when the final game ended and the masks began to fall—

One of you wouldn’t walk away.

You didn’t know if it would be you.

But it wouldn’t be him without blood on his hands.

And next time…it just might be his.

The room had settled into a quiet lull, the kind that comes before a final act. The VIPs had retreated into their luxuries, sipping their drinks and placing their final bets in hushed tones while the footage of the last remaining players looped endlessly on screen.

You remained seated, arms folded delicately across your lap, the mask hiding the fatigue in your eyes—but not the weight in your chest.

And then…he spoke.

“ You’re quieter than I expected.”

The officer’s voice cut through the haze—low, smooth, calculated. You turned your head slightly to find him stepping forward, his figure blocking out the overhead light as he stood above you.

A shadow in crimson.

“ I saw what happened.” He added, not bothering to lower his voice.

“ In the private chamber.”

You froze.

His tone wasn’t mocking. If anything…it was curious. Amused.

“ Loud little thing, aren’t you?” He said with a hint of a grin beneath the mask.

“ No wonder he’s obsessed.” He tilted his head, studying you like you were an exposed nerve.

“ You’re off-limits. That much is obvious. Marked. Owned. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”

“ You taste as sweet as you sound?”

Your breath hitched, eyes narrowing behind your mask. But before you could respond, he leaned in slowly—his breath grazing the edge of your face as he whispered something into your ear.

Something filthy.

Something bold.

Something that made your heart skip—not from arousal, but from shock.

Your eyes widened beneath the mask.

He laughed quietly.

“ I’d take you out of here.” He murmured.

“ If you asked me to. But you’d have to pay the price, sweetheart. One I think you’re too afraid to name.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch—only watched him.

“ I’ve served that bastard long enough to know what he hides.” He continued, his fingers suddenly under your chin.

He tilted your head up toward him. “ And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

His voice dropped to a murmur. “ You’re his weakness.”

That word rang in your ears like a gunshot.

“ He wasn’t always the Frontman. He was something else before…someone. And you?” He said.

“ You’re the only one left who could make him fall.”

Then, footsteps.

Fast. Heavy. Purposeful.

The air shifted.

Before either of you could turn, a hand snatched your wrist and yanked you to your feet—away from the officer, away from that hushed threat wrapped in temptation.

“ That’s far enough.”

The Frontman.

His voice was ice, absolute, and his revolver was already raised—pointed straight at the officer’s chest.

The room fell dead silent.

You felt his grip tighten around your wrist—not rough, but possessive. His masked face never left the officer, but you could sense the fury radiating off him like heat.

The officer raised his hands slowly. “ Just keeping her company.” He said coolly.

“ She looked a little...untended.”

The Frontman didn’t move.

“ Leave.” He growled.

A pause.

Then the officer slowly nodded, stepping back without another word. But before he disappeared through the lounge door, he glanced at you one last time and said:

“ When you’re ready to break him…you know where to find me.”

The doors shut behind him.

Silence returned.

The Frontman finally turned to you, his body tense beneath the tailored black. Still gripping your wrist, he pulled you in close—not gently, not violently…but like he needed to feel you again. To make sure you were still his.

“ Did he touch you?”

You didn’t answer. Because you knew the question wasn’t really about the officer.

It was about control.

And for the first time…

It wasn’t entirely his anymore.

The silence between you and the Frontman stretched like wire—tight, strained, dangerously thin. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, his grip unforgiving.

Not enough to hurt…but enough to remind you who you belonged to.

Or rather…who he thought you did.

His masked face tilted toward yours, and though you couldn’t see his expression beneath the geometric edges, you felt his eyes—burning into you.

“ You’re quiet again.” He said lowly.

“ Still dazed from earlier?”

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

He took a step closer. “ Or are you trying to forget what happened in the chamber?” His voice dropped an octave—silk laced with threat.

“ Do you need me to remind you?”

You tried to shift back, but he pulled you closer, his gloved fingers ghosting down your side, just enough to make your breath catch.

“ No one else touches you like I do.” He whispered against the edge of your mask.

“ No one else breaks you the way I do.”

Your stomach twisted—not from fear, but from the chaos of your own emotions. Shame. Confusion. Hunger. Rage.

You were his.

But you weren’t.

Not fully.

Not anymore.

“ Maybe.” He said, fingers grazing your waist.

“ I should show you again. Make sure that mouth only moans my name.”

You clenched your jaw beneath the mask.

Then his tone shifted. Still sharp—but colder.

“ What did he say to you?”

You looked up at him.

His body was rigid, controlled, but barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened. He didn’t like what he didn’t know. The idea that someone else had whispered in your ear and made your eyes widen like that.

“ Tell me…” He ordered.

“ Now.”

You hesitated.

And that hesitation said everything.

His grip tightened just slightly, and you felt his breath near your cheek again—hot, angry, possessive.

“ He touched your chin. Get close to your mouth.”

“ Did he offer you freedom?” He said with a humorless chuckle.

“ Did he promise to save you from me?”

You didn’t speak. And that silence struck him harder than any answer.

“ I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.” He muttered.

Then, quieter…darker:

“ You are mine. Every sound, every breath, every bruise I leave—mine. He thinks he knows me?” A scoff.

“ Then he should know what happens when someone touches what’s already claimed.”

He stepped back just enough to look you up and down—slowly.

“ He saw you…but I’m the one who owns you.” Then he leaned in again, brushing his masked mouth against the side of your jaw.

“ So tell me…” He whispered.

“ Do you want me to remind you of what you really are?” His gloved hand skimmed down your thigh.

“ Or would you rather go running to him…just to see if he fucks you as well as I do?”

A line had been drawn.

And now…

He was daring you to cross it.

...

The moment the lounge doors shut behind you, the world went silent.

You didn’t even have time to speak before his grip on your wrist tightened and he dragged you down the corridor.

Each step echoed with authority, boots striking the concrete like a war drum, his long coat trailing behind him. His pace was unforgiving—like he was walking off fury before it spilled into something worse.

You knew where you were going.

Back to the private chamber.

Back to the lion’s den, but this time—not for seduction.

This was punishment.

A test.

A reminder.

The heavy door slammed shut behind you, and he locked it with a sharp click. He turned to you slowly, mask still on. That cold, obsidian thing staring down at you like a god ready to strike.

“ You hesitated.” He said simply. No rage in his tone—just cool disappointment.

“ When I asked what he said. When I asked what you felt.” He stepped forward. You instinctively stepped back—your spine brushing the cold edge of the wall.

“ You think silence protects you?” He asked.

“ No. Silence tempts me.”

He reached into a drawer beneath the shelf and pulled out something gleaming—metal.

A sleek black remote.

Connected to a collar.

Leather.

Clean.

Sharp-edged.

“ Let’s play a game.” He said, voice low and sharp.

“ One question. One answer. You hesitate or lie—” He raised the collar and clicked the control. A soft buzz responded.

“ You wear this. And I make you beg for forgiveness until you forget who tempted you in the first place.”

Your breath caught.

He crossed the room with slow purpose, grabbed the back of your neck gently—but firmly—and slid the collar around your throat. He didn’t buckle it yet. Just held it there, his eyes watching your face for any sign of resistance.

“ Take off the mask.” He whispered.

“ I want to see your face when you answer me.”

With trembling fingers, you removed it. Your lips parted with shallow breath, your gaze meeting the dark void behind his mask.

“ Good girl.”

He fastened the collar—tight, but not choking. Just enough to remind you. Then, the first question.

“ Did you want him to kiss you?”

You hesitated. He clicked the remote—buzz. The vibration against your throat made you gasp, your knees wobbling.

“ Wrong answer.” He murmured, stepping in behind you, crowding you against the wall.

His gloved hand slid around your waist, down between your legs, cupping you roughly over the fabric. “ Your body says otherwise.”

“ Again…” He whispered, pressing harder.

“ Did. You. Want. Him?”

“ No.” You gasped.

He paused. Silent. Then slowly dragged his fingers up your inner thigh.

“ Good.” He growled.

“ Because if you did—I’d make you scream so loud the whole floor would hear who really owns this mouth.”

Without warning, he spun you around and pushed you against the wall—hands braced high, chest heaving.

“ Now the real game begins.” He said.

He clicked the remote again—this time, a deep vibration that pulsed through your throat and straight between your legs. The collar was wired in ways you hadn’t imagined. Your body buckled as heat bloomed instantly, dizzying and involuntary.

“ You want a taste of what he doesn’t get to have?” He whispered darkly, dragging his masked face down your neck, over the collar.

“ Then earn it.”

He pulled your hips back against him, already hard beneath the layers. His hand moved to your front again—slow, calculated, as the vibration deepened with each second.

“ No lies.” He warned.

“ No hesitation.”

And then—he slid two fingers inside you, rough, making you cry out.

“ Answer every question I ask.” He growled.

“ Or I ruin you without letting you finish.”

And with the remote in one hand, his fingers inside you, and your voice already faltering—

You knew this wasn’t just about lust anymore.

It was a war.

A twisted, hungry war between punishment and possession. And you were caught in the center—bare, trembling, and burning.

Exactly where he wanted you. And exactly where you hated to need to be.

Your breath stuttered against the wall, palms splayed flat on the cold surface as the Frontman pressed against your back—his presence a storm wrapped in tailored black and authority.

Every inch of your body was on fire, not just from the harsh vibrations rippling from the collar down your spine, but from him. From the game.

You were soaked.

Trembling.

But still standing.

“ You’re already shaking.” He murmured, fingers pumping slow and deep inside you.

“ And we’ve only just started.”

He curled his fingers and you cried out, your knees nearly giving way—caught only by his other hand braced at your waist.

Then, the vibrations stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

You gasped at the loss, blinking hard, heart pounding in your ears.

“ Do you want more?” He asked coolly.

You swallowed hard, teeth clenching as your body twitched from the denial.

“ Y-Yes…”

A click. The collar buzzed sharply again, just long enough to make you flinch.

“ Wrong answer.” He said, lips against your ear.

“ Say it properly.”

You bit your lip, but the ache was spreading. Desire, humiliation, tension all wrapped into one unbearable coil.

“ P-Please…I want more.” You whispered.

“ Please…”

His fingers moved again, rougher this time—faster. The sudden pace left you gasping.

“ That’s better.” He murmured.

“ But not good enough.”

He yanked your hips back and shoved your chest forward, arching your body into a perfect line for him—forcing you to take it deeper. His fingers scissored inside you, soaked with the mess he’d already drawn from you earlier.

“ Do you think I didn’t notice how you looked at him?” He hissed.

“ Like you forgot whose name made you scream first?”

“ I didn’t—” You tried, but the vibration buzzed again, punishing and sharp. You sobbed.

“ Another lie.” He said, voice like ice.

“ You don’t speak unless it’s truth. Or moaning.”

He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into your mouth without warning.

“ Taste what he’ll never have.”

You gagged slightly, eyes watering as you obeyed, tongue swirling around his gloved digits. He pulled them out slowly, watching your lips part for more.

“ You’re going to ride me again.” He said then, stepping back and dragging you to the center of the room.

“ But you won’t come. Not until I say.”

You barely had time to find balance before he was lowering himself into the velvet armchair, legs spread, cock already out and throbbing, dripping at the tip.

“ Now.” He said, tapping his thigh.

“ On my lap. Face me. Let me watch how desperate you look when you disobey.”

You climbed on, your body still trembling, still soaked, your thighs shaking as you sank down slowly onto him—every inch stretching you open again.

You both groaned.

He gripped your hips, holding you still.

“ Don’t move yet.” He warned.

“ I ask. You answer.”

You nodded quickly, barely able to breathe.

“ Do you want to be mine?” He asked.

Your mouth opened.

Click.

The vibration sparked again. You cried out.

“ Answer.”

“ Yes! Yes, I’m yours—”

“ Then prove it.” He growled, pulling you down harder, his hips thrusting up once, sharply.

“ Ride me like you’d never let another man touch you. Not even in your dreams.”

And you did.

You rode him with everything—desire, guilt, rage, and submission bleeding together. Your moans filled the chamber again, raw and unrestrained.

His hands roamed your body with punishing precision. The collar buzzed when you slowed, or when you hesitated—forcing you to obey, to earn every second of pleasure.

“ You’re mine.” He said again, one hand gripping your throat just above the collar.

“ And I’ll break you again and again until even the thought of someone else makes you burn with shame.”

And as your body clenched around him, right on the edge, right where he wanted you—

He leaned in close and whispered:

“ Now beg me to let you come.”

And you did.

Because you had to.

Because you were his.

And because deep down…

Part of you wanted to be ruined all over again.

Your entire body trembled as you straddled him—legs quivering from exertion, soaked from being edged and commanded and teased into desperate need.

The vibrations in your collar had become unbearable, lighting every nerve in your body with want, and the way he filled you—deep, unforgiving, perfect—made it impossible to think, let alone breathe.

He sat below you like a throne you were chained to—hands gripping your waist as you rode him, every bounce, every grind a test of how far he could push you before you shattered.

“ Please…” You gasped, tears threatening to spill.

“ Please—let me come—”

His hand snapped up to your throat, just above the collar, holding you still as your hips stuttered and your lips trembled.

“ No.”

You whimpered.

“ Not yet.” He said darkly, eyes locked on your face.

“ You want to cum? Then you earn it.”

He leaned in, his masked face just inches from yours. The low flicker of light gleamed across the geometric edges like a blade in the dark.

“ Say my name.”

Your breath hitched.

“ Y-Your name…?”

He was silent. The chamber, the world, the game paused in that moment.

Then, a whisper:

“ In-ho.”

The name.

A real name.

His name.

It struck you harder than any command.

Your lips parted, breath faltering. You stared at him, not the mask—through it. Because now, something cracked. You weren’t just his plaything. Not just his good girl in silk and ruin. You were the only one he gave truth to. The only one who now held something real.

“ Say it.” He growled, his voice unsteady, almost desperate.

“ Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips trembled. Tears gathered in your lashes—not just from pleasure, not just from pain, but from the storm of everything he'd done and everything you still felt.

“ In-ho…” You whispered, your voice breaking.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Your hips moved again, this time not for obedience—but need.

“ Again.”

“ In-ho…” You gasped louder, riding him harder now.

“ Please, In-ho, I need—please—”

“ That’s it.” He hissed, thrusting up into you, matching your rhythm.

“ Only you get to say that name. Only you.”

You were unraveling.

The vibration kicked again.

His grip tightened.

And your orgasm hit like a violent wave—pulling a scream from your throat, your nails digging into his chest, your entire body breaking as you moaned his name again and again, like it was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

“ In-ho—!”

He groaned your name back, his mask pressing to your neck as he buried himself deep one final time—spilling into you as your body shook in his arms.

He didn’t move.

Not for a long moment.

Just held you. Inside and out. Breathing like a man who had just confessed something far more dangerous than a name.

And as the silence wrapped around you once again, he whispered near your ear—this time without a command, or cruelty.

Only the truth.

“ Now you know who I am.”

And somehow, that made everything far more terrifying. Because now…you couldn’t forget him even if you tried.

Your body was still trembling, collapsed against his chest, your breath ragged and shallow, skin damp with sweat and the ghost of everything he’d just drawn out of you. The collar still pulsed faintly against your throat—like it, too, refused to let go of you.

But none of that compared to the heaviness of the name you’d spoken.

The name he gave you.

In-ho.

Not the Frontman.

Not the mask.

Not the myth.

Just In-ho—raw, unguarded, and his.

You laid your head against his shoulder, lips parted, silent now as reality slowly crept back in. His arms were still wrapped around you, tight and steady, as if your body grounded him.

As if your voice—saying his name—had undone something he wasn’t ready to confront.

“ You said I’m the only one who gets to say it.” You murmured softly, your voice scratchy.

“ Why?”

There was a long pause. He didn’t answer right away. His gloved hand slowly moved up your spine, dragging across your skin with quiet care.

Not lust.

Not power.

Something different.

“ Because the others don’t matter.” He said finally, voice rough, low.

“ They only see the mask. You see what’s beneath it.”

You raised your head slowly, your mask still resting beside the chair, forgotten.

“ Is this still a game to you?” You asked, your tone no longer obedient—just…tired.

“ Am I just another player you can control?”

He didn’t flinch. But he also didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted one hand and reached for the edge of his own mask.

And for the first time…he removed it.

You blinked, stunned.

No shadows.

No pretense.

Just a man—exhausted, older than he once was, but still him. Eyes dark, searching. The same eyes that once met yours across the barracks of the dorms when you were both just trying to survive.

His name had changed.

His role had evolved.

But his guilt had never left.

“ I didn’t plan for this.” In-ho said, voice quieter now.

“ I didn’t plan for you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding—not from fear anymore, but confusion. Emotion. Danger.

“ Then what is this?” You asked.

He reached out and took your chin between his fingers—not rough, not demanding.

Just real.

“ Something I can’t afford.” He whispered.

“ But something I’ll destroy anyone else for trying to take.”

And just like that… the Frontman was gone.

There was only In-ho.

And you weren’t sure if that made him more terrifying—

Or more human.

The air was thick with something unnamed—no longer lust, no longer just power. As you straddled him in the velvet chair, the weight of In-ho’s gaze without the mask pierced deeper than any command he’d ever given you.

He wasn’t hiding now.

Not behind titles.

Not behind threats.

Not behind that cold, jagged mask.

Just him.

And that was more dangerous than any gun he’d ever held to someone else’s head.

You didn’t move—afraid that if you did, whatever moment this was would shatter under your fingertips. Your hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. He didn’t stop you.

“ So much blood.” You whispered, searching his face.

“ So many lives…”

His jaw clenched.

“ Don’t.” He said lowly.

“ Not when I finally let you see me.”

But you needed to say it. You had to.

“ You killed Jun-bae.”

He flinched. It was subtle, but it was there. You felt it ripple through him like a crack in stone. His hands fell from your hips. His eyes dropped for the first time.

“ He was going to talk.” He muttered, as if trying to convince himself all over again.

“ I warned him.”

“ He trusted you.” You replied.

“ We all did.”

Silence.

And then—

“ I didn’t want you to become part of this.” He said, voice tight.

“ I thought if I stayed distant, if I left you alone after the first round…you’d be eliminated. You’d be safe.”

You almost laughed. Bitter. Quiet.

“ So your plan was to let me die?”

“ No!” He snapped.

Then softer: “ It was to keep you from becoming something I couldn’t control.”

That stopped you cold. He looked back up at you, and this time, there was no wall in his eyes.

Only fear.

Not of you hurting him.

But of you leaving.

“ You’re the only part of this world that I didn’t build.” He confessed.

“ The only thing that slipped through the cracks.”

“ Then why use me?” You whispered.

“ Why fuck me like a possession? Why break me just to glue me back together again?”

His hand reached up again, thumb grazing the underside of your jaw.

“ Because I don’t know how to love anymore.” He said.

“ Only how to keep.”

The words hit harder than any moan, any order.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a game.

It felt like two broken people—both survivors of the same hell—staring at each other in the aftermath, holding shards of who they used to be.

He leaned forward slowly, this time not hungry, not demanding. Just…tentative.

And when his lips met yours, there was no mask between you.

Only the truth.

Only silence.

And the terrifying possibility that whatever this was… wasn’t over. But maybe—just maybe—it was becoming something real.

...

The silence after chaos was always the most deafening. Your body was limp, boneless against him, your forehead resting on his bare shoulder as the last echoes of what just happened still pulsed faintly in your skin.

Your thighs trembled from exertion, your breath ragged, your heartbeat slowly settling—though the emotional storm inside you had only just begun.

And then…he moved.

Gently.

Without a word, In-ho reached behind your neck and unclasped the collar. The soft buzz that had long since blurred into background heat finally ceased. You let out a faint breath as he slid it away, placing it down carefully as if it were fragile glass.

“ Too much?” He asked quietly.

You blinked, surprised at the softness in his voice.

You nodded faintly.

Then paused.

Then nodded again.

He didn’t scold you for your answer.

Instead, he leaned in and placed a single kiss at your temple—barely a touch—and then gathered you carefully into his arms.

No commands.

No harsh grip.

Just care.

His strength was effortless as he lifted you from the chair, cradling you against his chest. You buried your face against his skin—warm, real, unfamiliar now in this vulnerable stillness.

He carried you across the room to the bed tucked behind a curtain of dark velvet. You hadn’t even noticed it before.

He laid you down gently, and the mattress welcomed you like a cloud. The softest thing you’d felt in weeks.

“ Don’t move.” He said.

“ Just rest.”

You watched him disappear into the adjoining washroom. Moments later, he returned with a basin of warm water, a towel, and the same care he once reserved only for manipulation.

This time…it was different.

He sat at the edge of the bed and began to clean you—starting with your thighs, slow, deliberate strokes, never too firm, never too cold. His gloved hands were gone now.

Skin on skin.

Real.

Human.

You flinched once, but he immediately paused.

“ Sorry…” He said.

“ I didn’t mean to…”

You reached out, lightly touching his wrist. A silent reassurance.

He resumed, gentler now. And when he was done, he cleaned himself quickly, then returned and slipped into the bed beside you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Just the steady rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the dark silk sheets, and the warmth of his body pressed lightly against your back as he spooned you from behind.

One arm wrapped around your waist—tight enough to hold, loose enough to let you go if you shifted. But you didn’t. Because even if you should hate him for everything—

Right now, in this quiet moment, he was no longer the Frontman.

Just In-ho.

And he was holding you like he’d feared losing you all along.

His lips brushed your shoulder as he whispered, “ You’re still here.”

A statement.

A question.

A quiet kind of hope.

And you—half-asleep, sore, emotionally frayed—murmured the only answer that made sense.

“ For now.”

And for the first time…

That was enough.

You lay still beneath the soft silk sheets, your sore body curled against his. For the first time since entering this nightmare, you felt warmth not tied to power or pain—but presence.

His. The one person you never expected to find again…and certainly not like this.

In-ho’s breath was steady behind you, chest rising and falling with a quiet rhythm that almost lulled you to sleep.

Until he spoke.

“ No matter what happens…in the final game.” He said, voice low and unguarded.

“ I want you to know—I'm glad I found you in this hell.”

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim room. He was still holding your hand, fingers lightly tracing the lines in your palm as if memorizing the path back to you.

“ I never expected anyone to slip past the walls I built.” He murmured, voice bitter with memory.

“ Those walls were made to survive. To protect what was left of me. But then…you wrecked them.”

He smiled faintly, you could feel it in the way his lips grazed your shoulder. But his tone wavered, soft and hollow—filled with something deeper than guilt.

It was longing.

“ Somehow, in all of this blood and silence, you made me remember I’m still a man. That I still feel. That maybe…”

“ Maybe I still believe there's hope. Even if I’ve shown it the wrong way.”

You turned to face him slightly, enough to meet his eyes. There was no mask now. No armor. Just In-ho—raw, tired, and human.

“ I didn’t think there’d be anything left after this storm.” He continued, brushing your hair away from your face.

“ But then you…you were like a rainbow after the downpour. Unannounced. Unexplainable.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he gently shook his head and reached for your hand again.

“ Listen to me…” He said, his voice suddenly steadier. Urgent.

“ In the next hour…things may fall apart. This game—it’s not just a show anymore. It’s a fuse about to burn out. I might not make it.”

Your stomach twisted.

A lump formed in your throat.

“ But you…” He said, tightening his hold.

“ You will. I’ll make sure of it. You’re getting out of here, alive. You have to.”

His gaze burned into you—pleading, commanding, loving.

“ Promise me you’ll stay alive. No matter what. Live. Because you deserve that.”

You nodded, the tears already brimming.

“ You’ll find Gi-hun.” He added.

“ If he’s still standing—help him. Finish what he started. Take it all down, piece by piece. For Jun-bae. For everyone who died thinking this place was their only option.”

You wanted to break, but he held you together with those words, like they were bricks and he was building something new.

“ If I make it out…” His voice cracked slightly.

“ I’ll find you. I swear. Wherever you are in this fucked-up world—I’ll come.”

He pulled your joined hands to his lips and pressed a long, lingering kiss to the top of yours.

“ And if I don’t…”

“ I’ll wait on the other side.”

“ Until the day you come to me.”

You looked at him through the blur of tears. His face. His real face. His trembling smile that tried to hide fear. His fingers tangled in yours like a lifeline he refused to let go.

“ In-ho…” You whispered.

“ Promise me...” He said again.

“ You’ll live.”

You nodded, voice cracking.

“ I promise.”

And for a moment, there was no game.

No blood.

No masks.

No chains.

Only two souls, clutching each other in the eye of a storm—hoping to find one another again if the winds ever stopped.

...

The heat of the flames reached even across the water. You sat beside Gi-hun in the small, weathered boat, drifting slowly away from the hell that had consumed so many.

Behind you, the island burned—red and gold, like the eye of some forgotten god finally closing.

The sound of distant explosions and collapsing structures echoed across the ocean like the final gasps of something ancient dying.

Your eyes never left it.

Neither did your heart.

He had kept his promise.

You had kept yours.

But he—In-ho—was gone.

At least…as far as you knew.

Your fists clenched tighter on your lap as the wind whipped past, tasting of salt, smoke, and unfinished business.

“ I thought you died.” Gi-hun’s voice broke through, quiet, haunted.

“ Back in the rebellion…I saw those bastards drag your body.”

You didn’t look at him, but you gave him a faint nod. You weren’t ready to speak. Not about what really happened. Not about the nights.

The truth.

The name you spoke was like a prayer and a curse.

Gi-hun was staring ahead at the burning island, his jaw tight. His hair was wind-tossed, face pale but alive—barely. He’d won. But like you, he didn’t feel like a survivor.

Just…left behind.

“ Only two of our team made it.” He murmured.

“ You...”

“ You and me.”

You glanced at him. He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And then—he looked to the man sitting across the small boat, silent, isolated by choice.

Jun-ho.

His face was cold and unreadable, eyes locked on the island as if trying to see through the fire for someone who never returned.

“ That’s Jun-ho.” Gi-hun said bitterly, lowering his voice.

“ He’s the detective who helped get me back here. He’s the one who leaked everything to the authorities.”

You finally turned toward Jun-ho fully. He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Just watched the island burn like a man watching a piece of his soul go with it.

“ He’s also…” Gi-hun scoffed, bitterness creeping in.

“ The Frontman’s brother.”

Your breath caught.

You already knew.

But hearing it from Gi-hun’s mouth, so casually, so wounded—it carved a new bruise into your chest.

“ Or Young-il. Or whatever name he lied to us with.” Gi-hun muttered, fists clenched on his knees.

“ He knew. He knew all along. And said nothing.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you couldn’t.

Not yet.

Jun-ho finally looked at you. His eyes were sharp, deep, mourning. Maybe not for you—but for the man behind the mask.

His brother.

His blood.

You met his gaze—and in the brief silence between the three of you, something unspoken passed. A shared grief. A guilt none of you could outrun.

“ You knew, didn’t you?” Jun-ho asked softly.

You said nothing.

You didn’t deny it either.

The island behind you groaned one last time—another explosion rippling through the smoke and embers. What was left of the facility crumbled into itself, vanishing beneath the flame-lit sky.

The Games were over.

But your war wasn’t.

You weren’t done.

Not yet.

“ There’s still more…” You whispered finally, voice low but steady.

“ This doesn’t end with fire.”

Gi-hun looked at you, brows furrowed. “ What do you mean?”

You didn’t look back at him. You kept your eyes forward—on the sea. On the smoke. On the memory of In-ho’s hands in yours, and the promise that still echoed in your chest like a bell:

“ If I survive, I’ll find you. If I don’t…I’ll wait.”

Somehow, in the depths of your soul, you knew—

This wasn’t the end.

Not for him.

Not for you.

And not for the ghosts still hiding behind the masks of the world.

Author's Note:

Here's the continuation of Or Nah, which some of you requested—so here it is. This would be the final part. You can consider the previous chapter to be an ending, but this chapter can also be considered an ending—it all depends on your preferences or what makes you happy.

It's a little heartbreaking, but Squid Game doesn't have a happy ending either, so why should this story deserve one? Just kidding.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading. Don't forget the warnings I mentioned previously.

Read with responsibility.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

OR NAH || FRONTMAN

Next part

" Do you like the way I flick my tongue, or nah?"

Summary: The rebellion in the middle of the game causes your entire team to fail. Gi-hun's team is crumbling, and his best friend Jun-bae has died at the hands of the cruel Frontman. You brought in the Frontman's longue to claim you because when you signed the waiver, he already owned you.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, heavy smut, explicit content, coercion, choking, power imbalance, manipulation, threats, violence, major character death, betrayal, stockholm syndrome, matured language, mentioned of VIPs, obsession, possessive, ownership, older man x younger woman (legal), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (F receiving), hard and rough sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, riding, markings, blindfold, and bondage. Words: 9.4k

It all happened too fast.

Gunfire.

Shouts.

The wet slap of bodies hitting the ground.

Jun-bae fell before your eyes—his chest blooming red, his eyes wide with betrayal and shock. The shot rang through your bones, but it wasn’t the sound that haunted you—it was the silence that followed.

Gi-hun screamed. Tried to lunge. But your hand caught his arm—not to protect yourself, but to keep him alive.

Across from you, the Frontman lowered his pistol slowly, unbothered. Pink-suited guards surrounded you, rifles raised and locked. One twitch of resistance and you’d both follow Jun-bae into the dirt.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t even blink.

You held Gi-hun back with one arm—shaking, blood-soaked—while he broke apart beside you, sobbing quietly, the weight of his best friend's death crashing down.

Then—a sudden impact. Something hard slammed into your skull. The world split into white light and crushing blackness.

You fell.

...

When you woke, it wasn’t too painful—not yet.

It was warmth.

Disorienting and wrong.

A blindfold clung tightly over your eyes, and your body screamed in restraint. Rope bit into your wrists, your ankles bound to the legs of a chair carved from fine wood.

You weren’t in a prison.

You were in a sanctuary designed by a monster.

The scent of polished mahogany and expensive cologne filled your lungs. Somewhere nearby, a music box played a soft, eerie lullaby—distorted slightly, like a broken childhood memory.

You jerked your arms—but the rope only cut deeper. Your skin stung. You tasted blood.

Then—footsteps.

Measured.

Calm.

Closer.

You held your breath.

A gloved hand gently gripped your chin, lifting your face. The blindfold slipped away. Your eyes adjusted to light—golden and low—and in front of you stood him.

The Frontman.

His black mask gleamed under the chandelier’s light. He tilted his head ever so slightly, observing you like a man inspecting a painting.

Then, his voice—deep, smooth, chilling.

“ Welcome back, Player 321.”

Your name no longer mattered to him. Just your number. The one you wore when you first stepped into this hell. You stared back, eyes blazing. He saw your hatred—and it pleased him.

“ You were quite the surprise.” He said, his voice silk over steel.

“ So brave. So confident. I watched you stand beside Gi-hun. Watched you whisper, plot, rally the others.”

He circled the chair slowly, each step echoing in the marble-floored chamber.

“ I must admit.” He continued.

“ You fascinated me. From the moment you joined the game, I knew you were different. You weren’t just playing for money. You were playing to win something else.”

You didn’t respond. Your throat burned. Your wrists ached. Your rage churned. He stopped behind you, voice dropping to a whisper beside your ear.

“ You thought you could take me down, didn’t you?”

You flinched at the closeness.

“ Joining Gi-hun's rebellion…risking everything…” He chuckled, low and amused.

“ You really thought it would end any other way?”

He walked back in front of you, bending to meet your eyes again.

“ But here's what you didn't realize, darling—the moment you stepped into my world, you sold yourself to me.”

You froze.

“ What—”

“ You think this game was about consent?” He said, gently stroking your jaw with the back of his gloved fingers.

“ No. This was a transaction. And I’ve claimed you now.”

Your body trembled, not in fear—but fury.

“ You don’t own me.” You growled through your teeth.

He smiled beneath the mask. You could feel it in his stillness.

“ You’ve been mine since the first round, Player 321.”

He leaned in closer, his voice like poison honey.

“ Every decision you made…every alliance, every risk…I watched. I memorized. I admired.”

He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, the motion mockingly gentle.

“ And now…” He said.

“ You’re right where I want you.”

You glared up at him, barely holding back the scream in your chest. Your fingers curled into fists behind your back, cutting deeper into the rope.

And yet—he just tilted your face again, looking into your eyes like he was trying to find the cracks forming.

“ I wonder how long until you break.”

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But you swore one thing in that moment, staring into the cold void of his mask:

You would survive.

You would get out.

And you’d make him regret ever calling you “darling.”

...

You lost count of how long you’d been left alone.

No light changed outside the windows. No time moved in this gilded cage. It was timeless—a purgatory built from blood money and silence.

Your body ached, tied too long to the chair. Your wrists throbbed, the ropes biting deeper every time you shifted. But it wasn’t the pain that was hardest.

It was the memory.

Jun-bae.

The echo of the gunshot still ricocheted in your skull. His last breath. The way he looked at you and Gi-hun like he still believed the plan would work.

And then the world ripped him away.

You bowed your head, eyes fixed on the polished floor.

You didn’t want to cry.

You didn’t want to scream.

But both urges warred in your chest like poison.

Then—the door opened again.

Footsteps. The same slow cadence. The soft thud of leather gloves, the deliberate scrape of boots on marble.

You didn’t look up.

You couldn’t.

Not when the rage and grief were cracking you from the inside. He stopped in front of you again.

Silent.

Watching.

Then his voice, low and casual—like a predator drawing out the kill.

“ Still pretending you’re not to blame?”

You flinched.

“ Still convincing yourself Player 390 didn’t die because you convinced him to rebel?”

Your jaw tensed.

He moved around you like a vulture circling roadkill. His words sharpened now—deliberate, surgical.

“ You said you wanted to change things. That you’d fight the system. But all you did was get people killed.”

You swallowed back the scream rising in your throat.

He crouched again, gloved hand reaching forward, lifting your chin so you were forced to look at him. The mask stared back—cold, glossy black—but somehow, behind it, you felt the sick delight.

“ I love this part.” He murmured.

“ When the fire starts to die in your eyes. When you realize no one’s coming to save you.”

You glared at him, defiant even through the burn of your unshed tears.

“ Is that what this is?” You said through gritted teeth.

“ You watching people die just to get rid of their suffering?”

His hand caressed your cheek, mockingly soft.

“ It’s not the death.” He whispered.

“ It’s the breaking that I enjoy. And you, darling…” He chuckled darkly.

“ You’re exquisite when you crack.”

He leaned closer, voice like velvet soaked in poison.

“ I could’ve killed you. But I didn’t. I kept you. You should thank me.”

You pulled your face away, breathing ragged. Every word he said was a dagger—and yet still you held your ground.

“ I swear.” You hissed. “ When I get out of this, I’ll put a bullet in your skull. I won’t hesitate.”

He was still for a moment.

Then he laughed.

Not a loud, manic laugh—but low. Controlled. Like he’d been waiting for you to say that.

“ That’s adorable.” He said.

“ You think your hatred makes you strong. But no matter how many threats you make, no matter how you resist…”

His hand slid from your cheek to your throat.

“ You’ll still belong to me.”

You barely had time to gasp before his grip tightened.

Choking.

His fingers constricted, unrelenting. You gasped for air, your body thrashing in the chair, legs shaking, arms tugging hard at the rope until you felt skin tear.

He didn’t flinch.

“ What will you do now, 321?” He murmured.

“ What rebellion will save you now?”

You tried to speak—anything, something—but only choked breaths escaped. He leaned in close again, so close you could feel the heat of his breath through the mask.

“ You can promise revenge all you want. But your rage? Your fire?” He chuckled.

“ It’s mine now. I’ll drain it. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but obedience.”

Then suddenly, he released your throat.

You collapsed forward, coughing, gasping, your head swimming in the return of oxygen. He stepped back again, admiring the wreck he thought he was creating. But through the burn in your lungs, you lifted your head.

And even though your voice was raw and torn, you rasped:

“ You can break my body…”

“ But you’ll never own me."

He stared at you in silence.

Then slowly, he tilted his head.

“ We’ll see.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door closing with a final, echoing click.

...

The silence in the chamber had become your only ally.

For hours—or maybe days—you kept your eyes low, your body still, appearing broken.

But your mind was calculating.

Observing.

Every time the guards brought food, every time the Frontman left and returned, you studied the patterns. You memorized how long the hallway outside echoed after a door shut. You mapped the shadows on the walls when the lights dimmed.

Every second was a rehearsal for escape.

So when you faked a fall, tugging hard enough to partially loosen the knot at your ankle, it wasn’t desperation.

It was a strategy.

You moved slowly, inch by inch, careful not to trigger the guards. Careful not to alert the hidden cameras you’d noticed nestled into the corners of the ceiling.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

Too soon.

Too quietly.

He stepped inside, dark and composed as always. And without hesitation, his voice cut through your silence:

“ I admire the effort, 321. But you’ll need to do better than that.”

Your heart plummeted.

He’d known.

All along.

He walked over, slow and smug, arms behind his back like a professor grading a failed student.

“ You almost fooled the guards.” He said, stopping before you.

“ But you forgot something…”

He leaned down, mask inches from your face.

“…I know exactly how you think.”

You clenched your fists, wrists raw and bruised from the rope. “ Then you already know what I’m going to ask next.”

A pause.

The tension thickened.

“ What the hell do you really want from me?”

He tilted his head, like it amused him you were still searching for meaning.

“ Isn’t it obvious?” He said softly.

“ I want you. I own you.”

You blinked.

“ No—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off.

“ You entered my game, 321. The moment you signed your name, the moment you chose desperation over dignity, you sold yourself. To me.”

Your voice cracked as you shouted, “ NO ONE OWNS ME!”

The room echoed with the force of your words. Raw, trembling, broken—but defiant.

And then he laughed.

A deep, low chuckle that filled the room like smoke, curling around your throat.

“ God…” He murmured.

“ I love seeing you like this.”

He stepped forward again, quicker this time. His gloved hand grabbed your hair, yanking your head back. You let out a gasp as he leaned in, burying his masked face near your neck and—

He inhaled.

Slow.

Deep.

Possessive.

Your stomach twisted with rage and disgust. His other hand found your waist—gripping, not bruising, but firm enough to claim.

“ I could break you now.” He whispered.

“ But where’s the fun in that?”

Then—he tossed something onto your lap.

A dress.

Silk. Expensive. Dark red. Slit up the thigh. Tailored for performance, not comfort.

Your eyes stayed locked on it, disbelief and fury clashing in your chest.

“ That’s your purpose now.” He said.

“ To stand among them. The ones you loathe. The ones you and Gi-hun swore you’d destroy.”

He stepped behind you, leaning down so his voice grazed your ear.

“ I wonder…” He purred.

“ What would Gi-hun think, if he saw you in that dress? On my arm? One of the very people he risked his life to fight?”

You shook your head, trembling.

“ I’d rather die.”

Another soft laugh.

He leaned in again—too close.

“ I’m excited to see you in it.” He whispered.

“ To show you off. My plus one. While we watch more poor souls beg for freedom that doesn’t exist.”

Then, stepping back, he gestured toward the door.

“ I’ll let you change in the bathroom. I’m not a monster…unless you force me to be.”

You stayed still.

Silent.

Defiant.

“ I’m not putting that on.” You muttered. “ I’m not following anything you say.”

For a moment, there was a pause.

Then—a dark chuckle.

Not amused.

Dangerous.

He turned his head slowly, cracking his knuckles inside the gloves.

“ Is that so?” He said, voice shifting into something colder.

He walked over, leaned down again—and this time, there was no playfulness left in him.

“ Say that again…” He hissed.

“ And I’ll rip that fucking tracksuit off myself and force you into that dress. Is that what you want?”

His hand twitched at his side, every muscle in his body on edge.

“ You think your resistance is impressive?” He growled.

“ It’s delicious. But don’t mistake my patience for mercy.”

You clenched your teeth, tears stinging your eyes — not from fear, but from the humiliating control he dangled over you.

The dress in your lap felt like fire.

And still, you didn’t move.

You refused to let him see you fall.

Not yet.

Not ever.

...

The dress clung to your skin like shame.

It shimmered under the cold, expensive lights of the VIP lounge, the slit revealing just enough to tempt the leers of the bastards in gold and ivory masks who reclined on plush sofas like gods watching mortals suffer. Their laughter echoed like knives scraping your spine.

You kept your head high.

Mask on.

Expression unreadable.

But inside—you were burning.

The Frontman stood beside you, like a king admiring his newest prize.

His hand had not left your waist since you entered.

Firm.

Possessive.

Territorial.

Each finger pressed into you like a wordless threat: Mine.

The onyx mask on your face was suffocating, but the weight of his grip was worse. He didn’t speak much, not to you. He didn’t need to. Every gesture, every glance, every calculated breath near your skin said enough.

He was parading you.

And the message was clear.

To the ogling, betting, laughing monsters in silk and gold—this one belongs to me.

They caught on quickly.

One of them, a man with a silver wolf mask and a grotesque chuckle, leaned forward with a drink in hand.

“ Quite the beauty you’ve brought to the table this year, Frontman.” He drawled.

“ I didn’t expect you to keep one for yourself.”

The Frontman chuckled beneath his black mask, his voice calm and cruel.

“ She’s earned the privilege. Submission is a rare virtue here.”

Your jaw clenched.

His hand tightened around your waist—subtle, but enough to remind you: don’t speak.

Not here.

Not yet.

The lights dimmed and the giant screen lit up, casting a bloody glow over the chamber. The next phase of the game was starting—the last two rounds. The remaining players were desperate, shaking, bruised to hell and back.

You recognized one.

Other players who had fought alongside you and Gi-hun during the rebellion.

They looked…hollowed out.

You flinched—but barely. Just enough for the Frontman to notice. He leaned in, lips near your ear.

“ Careful…” He whispered, voice slick like oil.

“ They’ll sense weakness. And I’m not finished showing you off.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Not without giving him the reaction he was hunting for.

So you sat.

Stiffly.

The Frontman took his seat beside you, crossing one leg over the other like the games were nothing but sport—and you, the lucky companion to a powerful man.

Then—

His hand slid down.

Slow.

From your waist, across your thigh.

You flinched, teeth biting the inside of your cheek, and shot him a glare through your mask. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. The smirk you could feel under his mask said everything.

His fingers began to toy with the silk of your dress—just idle enough to be seen as nothing, just teasing enough to churn your stomach.

The VIPs kept betting. Laughing. Toasting to who might die next. You sat there, a doll in velvet chains, the Frontman’s hand on your thigh and your rage bubbling just under your skin.

He leaned closer again, breath brushing your ear.

“ You’re doing so well, darling.”

“ Play the role…survive.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to whisper through clenched teeth:

“ One day, I’ll rip that mask off your face…and I’ll watch you bleed for every second of this.”

He chuckled, not phased in the slightest.

“ Spoken like a true fighter.” He murmured.

“ Just remember—every fighter who steps into my ring…eventually bows.”

His hand crept higher.

You reached under the table, your nails subtly digging into his gloved hand—not enough to cause a scene, but enough to tell him: I am not broken.

Not yet.

He stilled.

Just for a second.

Then his fingers flexed, tightening briefly on your thigh like a threat, before letting go completely.

The game began.

Screams erupted on the screen.

The room cheered. And you sat still in the center of hell—burning silently. But never, ever breaking. You didn’t blink. Not once.

The screen before you was painted in screams—two players dangling from a glass bridge, the final round tearing them down one cracked step at a time. One wrong move, and they’d fall into the abyss.

But your eyes weren’t really on them.

They were staring through the glass. Through cruelty. Because the real hell wasn’t on the screen.

It was right beside you.

The Frontman’s hand had not retreated.

It lingered.

Brushed.

Climbed.

Each movement of his glove against the silk of your thigh was like a whisper made of barbed wire. Slow. Precise. Intentional. His thumb curled just beneath the hem of your dress, close—too close.

Your stomach twisted violently.

Not in fear.

Not anymore.

In rage.

But you were frozen—your fingers gripping the edge of the marble table so tightly your knuckles turned bone-white. The fire was climbing, burning from the pit of your gut to your throat, but still…

No words came out.

You couldn’t scream.

You couldn’t flinch.

Because they were watching. The leering masks. The velvet-suited predators sipping gold champagne and throwing numbers at people’s lives like it was sport.

One of them noticed. A heavyset man in a lion mask with jeweled horns tilted his head and leaned forward slightly.

“ You look pale.” He said.

“ Everything alright, Miss…?” His voice purred like a cat circling prey.

“ You’re trembling.”

You froze.

Shit.

The Frontman’s hand paused, resting against your thigh in false comfort—as if to say play your part.

You forced a smile.

Small.

Polite.

Poisoned.

“ I’m fine.”

The words were barely a whisper. The Frontman glanced at you briefly, amused at how tightly you were holding yourself together.

“ You don’t look fine.” Another voice chimed in. “ The girl’s sweating.”

“ It’s her first time in the VIP section.” The Frontman replied smoothly.

“ She’ll adjust. They always do.”

The attention drifted away—thankfully, briefly—back to the screen where one of the players fell, his body crashing into the glass below with a wet, horrible thud.

Cheers erupted around you. But you didn’t cheer. You didn’t even move. You sat there, a ghost in a silk dress.

On fire.

Your heart thundered in your chest, but your lips remained sealed. You wanted to scream, to shove his hand away, to throw that wine glass across the room and carve truth into the walls with its shards.

But instead—

You kept smiling. That same tight-lipped, hollow smile.

A mask on top of a mask.

And beside you, the Frontman’s fingers resumed their slow climb, confident that your silence meant victory. But in your mind, you were screaming.

Not yet.

Not here.

But soon.

You were already planning.

Because if this was the role he forced you into, then you would play it flawlessly—

Until the curtains fall.

...

The room smelled of expensive smoke, stale power, and bloodlust.

The screen stretched across the wall like a stage, playing the brutal game in high definition—each gunshot, each scream, each splatter of red reflected in the gold-rimmed glasses of the VIPs sitting around you.

You were nothing but a novelty to them. Something to glance at between bets. The Frontman sat beside you—silent, imposing, and always watching.

Until now.

He leaned in, his mask brushing your temple, his voice just a breath against your skin.

“ Make a sound…” He murmured coldly.

“ And I’ll make sure they see everything—your face, your weakness, the way you’re breaking just from my hand alone.”

You stiffened, your heart slamming in your chest. His gloved hand moved beneath the table, sliding up your inner thigh with the same detachment he used to orchestrate deaths.

Precise.

Unbothered.

Intentional.

You gripped the edge of the chair, nails digging into the wood, every muscle in your body tensing to resist the urge to squirm. The warmth pooling in your core was infuriating. Shameful. And yet—inescapable.

The guests roared with laughter at a fresh kill on the screen. Their voices blurred, warped by the rush of blood in your ears.

Then one of them turned to you.

“ You there…” A fat man chuckled, drink in hand.

“ Which one are you rooting for, sweetheart?”

The Frontman’s fingers paused, just enough to make you exhale without thinking—but then moved again, slower this time. Deep and cruel.

You bit your lip hard, tasting iron, as your eyes focused desperately on the monitor. The number burned into your brain—your only lifeline, your only answer.

“ Four...five...six.” You managed, your voice thin, strained, but steady.

The group broke into mocking applause.

“ Of course! The righteous one! How cute!”

“ Bet she’s got a thing for martyrs.” Another jeered.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too focused on holding back a sound that would destroy you.

The Frontman didn’t stop. He leaned in again, his voice like ice against the heat building between your legs.

“ Then let’s hope your little hero doesn’t die...because if he does, you’ll be next.”

And still, on the screen, Gi-hun kept running—oblivious.

Just like you wished you were.

Their laughter still rang in your ears, echoing louder than the game’s gunfire, louder than the thud of another body hitting the ground.

You couldn’t tell anymore if the heat rising in your chest was from rage, shame, or that unholy friction of his hand between your thighs—so deliberate, so invasive.

You dared not move.

Your breath caught every time his finger slid closer to the fabric that barely separated you. And still, you had to pretend—pretend you were just another pretty decoration at their table, not a trembling mess barely holding in every humiliating sound begging to claw its way out of your throat.

“ What’s the matter?” One of the VIPs asked, lazily eyeing you.

“ You look tense. Not a fan of blood?”

You smiled. Or tried to. It came out like a grimace.

“ Just…focused.” You said.

The Frontman’s hand paused again, his gloved fingertips pressing deliberately where your body ached the most. Your thigh twitched. You clenched your jaw.

“ Ahh…” The man laughed, mistaking your restraint for nerves.

“ Worried about your golden boy?”

On screen, Gi-hun ducked behind a barrier, narrowly avoiding a shot to the head. You flinched—not just from the bullet—but because the Frontman chose that exact moment to press harder.

You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second. One second too long.

“ Oh ho—what’s this? Blushing?” Another voice teased.

“ Careful, she might cry if he dies.”

“ Let her cry. Would be a good show.” Someone else chuckled darkly.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The Frontman leaned closer again, his voice a razor blade laced with perverse satisfaction.

“ You're doing well. But it only gets worse from here.”

He dipped his fingers past the edge of your underwear.

You sucked in a sharp breath—silent, sharp, your entire body trembling with effort. The world shrank to the heat under the table, the monster beside you, and the endless monitor showing death like sport.

The sound of another bet being placed. The cheer for another death.

And still—Gi-hun survived.

“ Hmph…” One VIP scoffed. “ He’s lucky. For now.”

You almost laughed. Bitter, ugly laughter. Because the real gamble wasn’t on the screen.

It was you.

Your voice.

Your control.

Your dignity.

And the longer the game dragged on, the more you realized—

The Frontman wasn’t betting on the players.

He was betting on you.

And he was winning.

You stared blankly at the monitor, but your vision was beginning to blur. Not from tears. Not yet. But from the overwhelming effort of staying silent while your body betrayed you over and over again.

The Frontman’s fingers moved in slow, merciless patterns, slick with your own arousal now. You hated it—hated the way your hips twitched ever so slightly against him, hated the pressure building unbearably deep in your gut.

Every part of you was screaming to be still, to not draw attention. But your body had long stopped listening. Your nails dug crescents into the underside of the table.

One of the VIPs reached over, casually brushing his fingers under your chin, lifting it slightly to inspect you like you were some exotic pet.

“ You’re awfully quiet.” He smirked.

“ Getting bored?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your lips were parted slightly, drawing shaky breaths that you prayed didn’t sound as uneven as they felt. You were holding on by a thread—suspended between torment and humiliation.

The Frontman chuckled lowly behind his mask, a sound only you could hear. His hand didn't pause. If anything, he pushed deeper, fingers curling just enough to make your eyes flutter.

“ No.” He said smoothly to the guest on your behalf.

“ She’s deeply invested in the game.”

The VIPs laughed.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

On the screen, Gi-hun was crawling—bleeding, desperate, but alive. You watched him like your life depended on it. Like if you just focused hard enough, you could drown out the aching pulse inside you.

If he made it—if he survived this round—maybe the Frontman would stop. Maybe he’d show mercy. Maybe you’d get to breathe again.

But then came the explosion on the screen. Smoke. A trap. One of the players—another poor soul you didn’t even recognize—screamed as they were blasted backward.

Dead.

A flurry of cheers erupted across the table. More drinks were poured. More money was tossed onto the glass tabletop like confetti.

And then—

“ Player 206. Eliminated.”

Someone clapped in satisfaction. Another chuckled darkly. You barely registered it, because at that same moment, the Frontman leaned even closer. You felt the cold edge of his mask brush the shell of your ear.

“ You're dripping.” He whispered.

Your entire body seized.

“ Shall I tell them? That you’re soaking my fingers while watching people die?”

You shook your head almost imperceptibly. The shame burned hotter than anything else now.

“ Then keep quiet.” He said.

“ Or I will.”

Your mouth opened—but no sound came. Because just then, his fingers curled in again, cruelly hitting that spot inside you that made your thighs tremble, made your toes curl, made your vision white out for a single second.

The moan—that moan—it nearly broke free. But somehow…somehow, you bit it back. Only a shallow breath escaped you. The Frontman paused, hand still buried beneath the tablecloth. You felt his gaze, even through the mask.

“ Tsk…” Be murmured.

“ Such a good girl…but for how much longer?”

On the screen, Gi-hun stood again—wounded, dirt-streaked, panting. But still moving. Just like you. Barely surviving. And still, somehow, not broken. Not yet.

The lights in the room dimmed further as the next round began—an intentional shift in atmosphere to heighten the tension on screen.

The remaining players staggered into a new arena, lit with harsh spotlights and blood-soaked history. You could hear the other guests adjusting in their seats, already preparing new wagers.

You, however, couldn’t move.

You were frozen in a nightmare stitched together with silk gloves and wicked control.

The Frontman hadn’t removed his hand. If anything, his fingers had grown more patient, slower, calculated. He wasn’t chasing your finish—he was orchestrating your unraveling, second by second, with terrifying precision.

Every breath you took was shallow. Every muscle in your body ached from restraint. One of the VIPs leaned closer, cigar smoke curling toward your face.

“ Tell me, woman…” He asked with a lazy, twisted grin.

“ Still betting on 456?”

Your lips parted. You blinked slowly, feeling the tears at the corners of your eyes—not from emotion, but the sheer mental strain of remaining silent while your core clenched around him under the table.

“ Y-Yes.” You answered, barely a whisper, breathless.

The Frontman didn’t slow down.

“ Hmph…” The man laughed, turning back to the screen.

“ How loyal. Let’s see how long he lasts, then.”

You flinched as a loud bang echoed from the monitor—a body dropped in the background. You couldn’t even register the number.

Your head dropped ever so slightly, your jaw trembling. Not from grief. But because you could feel it—your edge creeping in, dark and hot and humiliatingly close.

You tried to press your thighs together, desperate for friction or relief, but his hand was already there—spreading you, owning you.

He leaned into you again, and his voice this time was like poison syrup.

“ I can feel it, you know.” He murmured.

“ You’re going to fall apart here, in front of them. And you’ll do it…without a single sound.”

Your stomach tightened, body convulsing in an invisible tremor. You swallowed hard—so hard it hurt.

Another cheer erupted from the table. A new bet, a new death. But none of it registered. Because you were slipping.

Falling.

Your toes curled inside your shoes, back arching just slightly under the table, every nerve in your body igniting like a match.

His fingers never sped up.

He never gave you that mercy. He let you drown slowly in it, pulling the climax from your body like a confession wrung from your soul.

And when it hit—

It was silent.

No cry.

No moan.

Just your lips parted, trembling. Just the subtle, embarrassing shake of your limbs under the table, and the flood of heat that betrayed your release. You sagged forward slightly, chest heaving, eyes wide and wet.

The Frontman finally pulled his hand back, wiping his fingers with maddening precision onto a folded napkin, then placing it beside your untouched drink like a trophy.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to.

You were wrecked—and he knew it.

“ Told you…” He said casually, loud enough for only you to hear.

“ You wouldn’t make a sound. But now look at you…”

You clenched your fists in your lap, trying to compose yourself as another guest glanced at you with mild curiosity.

“ You alright, dear?”

You nodded stiffly.

“ Just…nervous.” You muttered.

“ Don't be.” The fox VIP chuckled.

“ It’s just a game.”

But it wasn’t.

Not for you. Because on the screen, Gi-hun was still alive.

But you?

You weren’t sure anymore.

...

The sound of the VIP lounge faded behind you as the heavy doors swung closed. The Frontman’s hand pressed against the small of your back, guiding you away from their drunken jeers and mindless bloodlust.

None of them even blinked when he excused you—claiming “errands,” claiming “necessity,” but really…claiming you.

You were his to remove.

His to handle.

The click of the private door locking sent a cold shiver through your spine.

And then—

It all happened fast.

His mask was gone.

His mouth crashed onto yours, ravenous and punishing. His gloved hand cupped your face, forcing your lips open as he devoured you, tasting your silence, your shame, and your obedience all at once. His body pushed you back until your spine hit the wall, until your breath was stolen completely.

You didn’t have time to speak—didn’t dare.

“ You did so well.” He whispered, voice rough now without the filter of that haunting mask.

“ So quiet. So obedient.”

His hand moved up, fingers covering your eyes briefly—blocking your vision, drowning you in darkness for just a moment before he replaced it with something else.

A silk blindfold.

Tied tight.

“ That mouth of yours didn’t make a sound back there.” He murmured against your throat, his tongue flicking against the skin just beneath your jaw.

“ Not even when you came all over my fingers in front of a room full of monsters.”

Your knees threatened to buckle. He chuckled darkly, catching you with a firm grip at your waist.

“ What a good girl you are.” He purred, lips brushing against your ear.

“ Sitting there like a doll, soaking wet, taking everything I gave you—and they had no idea.”

His gloved hand slid up your body again, slow and possessive, pausing just over your chest.

“ You’re mine in here.” He said, voice firmer now.

“ And out there…you're a pretty little ornament. A tool. A prize. But here…”

He leaned in, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp.

“ Here, you're my obedient girl.”

You nodded blindly, body quivering under his words, under the weight of the blindfold and his dominance.

“ You like when I control you like that?” He asked lowly, the edge of menace under his breath.

“ When I test your limits and you still don’t break?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. His hand shot to your throat—not squeezing, but holding.

A warning.

“ Answer me.”

“ Yes…” You breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

“ Yes…Sir.”

A satisfied growl left him. His grip loosened just enough to let your breath flow free again.

“ Good girl.” He said, and there was pride laced through that darkness now.

“ My perfectly trained, perfectly obedient little toy.”

Then his hands were on you again—unbuttoning, undoing, unmaking you piece by piece.

The games outside continued.

Blood spilled. Bets placed.

But in this room…

The only game was you.

And the Frontman never played fair.

The silk blindfold dulled the world into nothing—no light, no images, just the sharp rhythm of your own breath and the press of the Frontman’s body against yours.

The rich fabric of your clothes was being stripped from you, piece by piece, each movement of his hands slow and purposeful, as if he wanted you to feel every second of being undone.

The wall was cold behind your back, in contrast to the heat of his mouth now roaming lower—dragging over the curve of your jaw, the edge of your collarbone. Your skin was hypersensitive in the dark.

Every touch sparked like a match.

Every whisper burned.

“ Do you know how proud I was of you out there?” He murmured as his fingers traced along your bare sides.

“ Not a flinch. Not a sound. Not even when you were falling apart for me under that table.”

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. You tried to nod, but his hand was already there, gripping your chin, tilting your head up.

“ You don't have to see to know who you belong to, do you?”

“ No.” You breathed, the word fragile, trembling.

“ I know.”

“ Say it.”

His voice dropped lower, that dangerous softness curling around your ribs like a noose.

“ I belong to you.” You whispered.

The silence that followed was sharp. Then his gloved thumb stroked across your lip with almost…reverence. And then the touch was gone—replaced by the sound of a chair being pulled, and your body being guided downward.

You felt velvet under your knees. Then leather against your wrists as he bound them behind your back.

“ You were quiet for them.” He said.

“ Now you’ll be loud for me.”

Your breath caught again.

“ No blindfold. No rules. Just you…showing me what obedience sounds like.”

You heard him sink to his knees in front of you.

He didn’t rush.

He never rushed.

The Frontman knew how to break you with patience, to unravel your composure strand by strand. And now, without the danger of the VIPs watching, without the fear of being exposed—he wanted it all.

The whimpers.

The moans.

The shaking, the pleading, the surrender.

“ Show me what my good girl sounds like.” He said darkly, hands sliding up your thighs.

“ And I’ll decide if you deserve to wear my silence again.”

You opened your mouth to reply—

But all that came out was a gasp. Because when the Frontman took his reward,

He made sure you screamed for it.

...

The blindfold stayed firm around your eyes, but the rest of you was coming undone—completely, helplessly, at his mercy. Your knees pressed into the velvet as his hands claimed every inch of your skin, roaming up your thighs, parting them with a firm command and no room for protest.

The binds at your wrists forced your chest forward slightly, leaving you vulnerable, offered. You couldn’t see him. But you felt everything. His breath against your inner thigh.

The slow exhale that ghosted over where you ached. The heat of his tongue tracing maddening circles without touching where you wanted him most.

“ That little performance earlier.” He said, his voice calm and cruel.

“ Deserves a reward…but not too easy, hm?”

You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward, your need already slick and pulsing.

“ Shh…” He warned.

“ Obedient girls wait.”

You bit down a desperate sound as he spread your legs wider, holding them open with a firm grip. And then—finally—his tongue dragged over you, slow and deliberate, tasting the proof of everything you tried to hide in that lounge. He groaned softly at the flavor, dark satisfaction pouring into the sound.

“ Still so sweet.” He muttered.

“ Even after being used in front of strangers. Still my perfect little toy.”

You choked on your next breath as he dipped his tongue again—deeper this time, teasing, circling. Every flick, every press of his mouth made you tremble harder. You couldn't see, couldn't touch, could only feel—and it made everything sharper.

“ You didn’t cry.” He said between kisses, lips slick.

“ You didn’t scream.”

His mouth wrapped around your clit suddenly—sucking, tongue flattening—and you did scream then. A sharp, unfiltered cry that echoed around the private chamber.

He smiled at you.

“ There’s my girl.”

You gasped again when he slipped two fingers inside, effortlessly finding the spot that made your legs jerk and your walls clench.

“ Louder.” He ordered, his voice gravel against your skin.

“ I want to hear the sounds you couldn’t make out there.”

And you gave them to him. Whimpers. Moans. Pleas. His name—not said, but sobbed, over and over again, as your body writhed in his grip.

You were crying now—not from sadness, not even from shame, but from the overwhelming sensation of it all. The release you’d been denied. The praise he fed you. The way he claimed you without apology.

And just when you were about to come—

He stopped.

You shook violently, held in place by his hands as your climax was pulled just out of reach.

“ Please…” You breathed, broken.

“ Please…”

He rose slowly, pressing his body against yours, fingers still inside you but unmoving, his free hand cupping your face with mocking tenderness.

“ You did well.” He whispered, brushing his lips against yours.

“ But obedient girls ask before they come.”

You whimpered again, barely holding on.

“ You’ll get to finish…” He murmured darkly.

“ When I say.”

His fingers curled just slightly.

“ Beg for it.”

Your breath hitched—shallow, ragged—as his fingers curled just right, hitting that aching spot inside you with cruel precision.

Your body jerked, thighs trembling violently against the velvet cushion, and the blindfold only amplified the desperation. You didn’t even realize you were begging until the words came out broken and raw:

“ Please…please, let me…I— I can’t hold it—”

The Frontman’s lips brushed against your cheek, his voice a low growl against your ear.

“ Then don’t.”

His thumb circled your clit, pressure firm and relentless, his fingers working in tandem—pulling the orgasm from you like a command you had no choice but to obey.

And you shattered. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream at first, then came the sharp cry that filled the room, raw and shameless. Your body convulsed, the release so intense it bordered on pain, your legs giving out as waves of pleasure tore through your core.

The binds on your wrists strained as your back arched. Tears slipped from beneath the blindfold, your lips trembling as you gasped for breath.

You sagged forward, body weak and pliant—barely present, barely whole.

But he wasn’t done.

“ Don’t relax yet.” The Frontman warned, voice steady, composed, untouched by the chaos he’d just dragged you through.

“ Good girls don’t stop when they’re satisfied. Good girls let their owner decide when it’s over.”

You whimpered as his hands gripped your hips, lifting you with surprising ease and placing you where he wanted—your body bent over the armrest of a nearby leather chair. The position forced your back to arch, legs trembling to hold yourself up.

The leather was cold.

His body was not.

You felt him behind you—his chest against your spine, still clothed, fully in control. He reached around and untied the blindfold, but your vision stayed hazy, your lashes wet with tears and sweat.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“ Look at you…” He whispered.

“ A mess…and still mine.”

You barely had time to gasp before you felt him press into you—no warning, no pause. He slid inside with one hard thrust, filling you completely, stretching your still-sensitive walls with dizzying force.

The sound that left your lips was something between a cry and a sob, your fingers curling against the leather.

“ You feel that?” He hissed into your ear, driving into you again, harder.

“ This is what obedience earns. I own every part of you—even this.”

You could only moan in response, the overstimulation nearly too much. Every nerve was already lit, and now he was using you, dragging you back into another high before you’d even recovered from the last.

Each thrust drove deeper, rougher, his hand gripping your throat from behind as he kept you exactly where he wanted. You felt the weight of his body, the growl in his chest, the dark, relentless rhythm that left no room for protest.

“ One wasn’t enough.” He said, his voice tight with hunger.

“ I want to feel you break for me again.”

And as your second orgasm began to build—sharper, quicker, more desperate—you realized…

You would.

And he knew it.

Because he’d made you his.

The leather beneath you creaked in rhythm with his thrusts, sharp and merciless. Your body, already stretched thin from the first release, was trembling violently with every push inside you.

The overstimulation was maddening—each stroke hit deeper, rougher, pulling cries from your throat that you could no longer control. But the Frontman wasn’t satisfied with just your voice.

He wanted more.

He needed to ruin you completely.

His grip on your hips shifted—one hand snaking between your legs again, his gloved fingers finding your sensitive clit with punishing precision.

You screamed. Your hands, still bound behind your back, clawed uselessly at the air as your knees buckled beneath the weight of sensation.

“ That’s it.” He growled, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin echoing between your cries.

“ You thought you were done? No. I decide when you’re done.”

His fingers rubbed in relentless circles, matching the tempo of his hips. Your body shook violently, your core clenching again—already tightening toward the edge.

It was too much. You were still raw, still twitching from the first time, but he didn’t care. He wanted to drag you into madness.

“ Say it.” He snarled against your shoulder.

“ Say who you belong to.”

“ Y-You—” You gasped.

“ You, I—I belong to y-you—!”

“ Louder.”

He pinched your clit—just enough to make your whole body jolt—and you sobbed the words this time.

“ I belong to you!”

The second orgasm slammed into you without mercy.

Your body convulsed uncontrollably, walls fluttering around him as he buried himself deeper, chasing his own release now with the same violence he gave your pleasure. You cried out again—no longer holding back, no longer trying to be good or quiet.

You were just his.

You felt him grunt behind you—deep, feral—as he finally let go. He spilled inside you with a punishing thrust, his grip tightening on your hip as he pressed deep and stayed there. His breath came out in heavy, uneven bursts, his body still grinding against yours like he didn’t want to leave.

But even spent, even full of him and aching—he still wasn’t done. You felt his fingers slip between your legs again, already circling your clit, gentler this time—but no less dangerous.

“ One more.” He breathed.

“ You can give me one more.”

You whimpered, body twitching at the sensitivity, already soaked, dripping with both your pleasure and his.

“ No.” You whispered weakly.

“ I— I can’t—”

He bent down, his lips brushing your ear like a threat and a promise all in one.

“ Yes…you will.”

And when he rubbed again—slow, steady, cruel—you knew he meant it.

And worse?

So did your body. You were already climbing again.

Your body was trembling—legs weak, vision hazy, throat raw from the sounds he tore from you. Every nerve in your skin buzzed with overstimulation, and your slickness dripped down your thighs, mixed with the heat he had filled you with.

But he didn’t let you fall.

The Frontman gripped your waist, pulled out slowly, deliberately—dragging another helpless whimper from your lips—then he sat back against the wide velvet chair, still fully clothed save for the part of him that had just ruined you.

His dark eyes locked on your shaking form, a dangerous glint in them. He spread his legs slightly, one hand stroking lazily along his still-hard length, glistening with both of you.

“ Come here.” He commanded, voice low and cold.

“ I’m not done watching you obey.”

You tried to move, tried to get your legs to listen, but they barely held you upright.

“ Now.”

You stumbled forward, knees weak, chest rising and falling rapidly as you stood between his legs. He grabbed your chin with a gloved hand, tilting your face toward his, and then—

He smiled.

That twisted, satisfied grin that made your stomach twist with fear and want.

“ Ride me.” He said, slow and deliberate.

“ I want to watch you take me on your own this time. No hands. No blindfold. Just you—putting on a show for me like the perfect little thing you are.”

Your bound wrists trembled behind you, but he reached back and undid the restraints with a sharp flick of his fingers. You barely had time to breathe before he grabbed your hips and pulled you forward.

“ Now earn what you begged for.”

With shaking legs, you straddled him—knees planted on the plush velvet, his strong thighs supporting you. His cock stood slick and waiting beneath you, and when you lowered yourself down slowly, every inch of him stretching you again, your head fell back with a cry you couldn’t stop.

“ That’s it.” He growled, his hands on your hips but not guiding—watching, controlling without touching.

“ Show me how much you need it. How good you look when you ride like a ruined little thing.”

You started to move—slow at first, shallow, trying to find rhythm while your body was still so wrecked. But he didn’t let you ease into it. His grip tightened.

“ Faster."

You obeyed.

You rode him harder, the slap of skin echoing through the private room, your body arching, breasts bouncing with every thrust. He leaned back, watching you with a predator’s gaze, licking his bottom lip as your moans turned ragged again.

“ Look at you…” He murmured darkly, a hand rising to slap your ass hard, making you jolt.

“ You’ve already come twice and you're still fucking yourself like it’s not enough.”

You gasped as his hips snapped upward to meet your bounce—once, twice—and suddenly he was fucking up into you with brutal precision.

“ You want to break?” He growled, hands gripping your ass, dragging you down harder.

“ Then fucking break.”

And you did.

Your third orgasm tore through you like fire—loud, violent, unstoppable. You sobbed his name as your body collapsed into him, twitching, pulsing, completely surrendered.

He caught you in his arms. But even then, his voice against your ear was calm…cruel.

“ We’re still not finished.”

“ Get ready to beg again.”

Your body was limp against him—sweat-soaked, trembling, completely spent. But the Frontman didn’t ease his grip. His hands slid up your back, holding you in place on his lap, keeping you impaled on his still-hard cock.

“ You thought that was the end?” He murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

“ I told you—I decide when it’s over.”

You whimpered against his shoulder, face buried in the warmth of his neck, too overwhelmed to speak. Your body was twitching, still echoing from the intensity of the last orgasm, and he was still buried deep inside you, pulsing, hard.

“ You’ve already come for me three times…” He whispered, trailing his fingers up the back of your neck, into your hair.

“ Now I want to see you beg for the fourth.”

He gripped a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look into his eyes. There was no mask now. No barrier. Only raw, possessive heat that pinned you in place harder than any rope.

“ Say it.” He demanded.

“ Beg for it again.”

Your lips parted, but no words came—just breathless gasps. He thrust up into you, slow and deep, making you cry out again.

“ Say it.”

“ P-Please…” You finally choked out.

“ Please…I want it. I-I want to come again…”

“ That’s not begging.”

He thrust harder, dragging a fresh moan from your already hoarse throat.

“ Tell me how much you need it. How much you’ll do for it.”

Your body was burning. Every inch of you was hypersensitive. You were leaking around him, filled and stretched, barely able to hold yourself upright—but his demand lit a fire under your skin.

“ I’ll do anything.” You gasped.

“ I’ll be good—just please…please let me come for you again.”

He smirked. “ There she is.”

He shifted beneath you, one hand gripping your ass while the other slid between your bodies again—his thumb finding your overstimulated clit and pressing hard.

You screamed.

Your body thrashed in his grip as he began thrusting up into you again—relentless, punishing, pushing past your limits. The rhythm was brutal, deep, slick, the wet sounds between your bodies echoing through the walls like a private symphony of sin.

“ I want you sobbing when you come this time.” He growled.

“ I want you ruined. So broken you can’t even say my name.”

Your head fell back as your vision blurred, white-hot pressure building again too fast. You weren’t ready—but your body didn’t care.

You were spiraling again—grinding down on him, crying, gasping, shaking.

“ Cum for me.” He hissed.

“ Come again while you’re still full of me.”

You screamed as the orgasm ripped through you—a final, punishing climax that stole the last of your strength. Your body convulsed violently, your hands clawing into his shoulders as you collapsed against his chest, sobbing from the intensity.

But he didn’t stop.

He held you still, rocking into you slowly now, savoring the aftershocks of your release.

“ There you go...” He whispered, stroking your spine as your body went limp.

“ That’s my good girl.”

You couldn’t respond. Not with words.

Only with breath.

Only with surrender.

And he savored every second of it.

The silence that followed was thick—heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and satisfaction. Your body, completely undone, lay draped over him like silk, trembling with each shallow breath. Your limbs refused to respond. Your mind was fogged, somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion.

The Frontman didn't move right away.

He simply held you. His arms wrapped tightly around you, one gloved hand cradling the back of your head, the other drawing soft, absentminded circles along your bare spine.

The contrast between his earlier cruelty and this quiet, grounding touch was jarring—but familiar.

You melted into it.

Into him.

No orders. No pressure. Just the warmth of his chest against your cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing keeping you anchored.

“ You did so well.” He finally murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“ So damn good for me.”

His voice had shifted—no longer laced with dominance or edge, but filled with something softer…reverent, even.

“ Took everything I gave you…didn’t hold back once. That’s exactly what I wanted from you. My perfect, obedient girl.”

A weak sound escaped your throat—half sob, half sigh—as your body continued to tremble in the aftermath.

He noticed. Without letting go of you, he leaned to the side, reaching for the plush blanket folded over the edge of the couch.

He wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking you in against him like he was shielding something precious. You flinched slightly when the soft fabric brushed your raw thighs.

“ Shh…” He whispered.

“ I’ve got you. I know you’re sore.”

He reached between your legs again—not to tease, not to claim—but to gently clean you with a warm cloth he’d fetched from the nearby table.

You whimpered at the sensitivity, but he was careful, almost surgical in his touch. He murmured small praises under his breath as he worked.

“ Look at the mess you made…”

“ Still dripping with me.”

“ You took me like you were made for it.”

Once he finished, he discarded the cloth and kissed your temple—tender, unmasked.

“ Breathe, darling.” He said softly.

“ You’re safe.”

He reached for a bottle of water nearby, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to your lips. You sipped slowly, and he tilted it for you, watching every gulp like you were the only thing that existed.

When you finally managed to lift your eyes to meet his, your vision still hazy, you saw it.

Not the mask.

Not the command.

But him.

And the way he was looking at you—so proud, so possessive, so...gentle—made your chest ache more than anything else.

“ You break so beautifully.” He murmured.

“ But you heal even better. And I’ll be right here every time…picking up the pieces.”

You nodded faintly, too tired to speak, and he pulled you closer, letting you curl into the warmth of his bare chest.

“ Rest now.” He whispered.

“ You earned every second of it.”

And in the cocoon of his arms, the blanket wrapped tight, and your body finally beginning to still—you did.

For once, not because he demanded it…

But because he gave it.

Your body was still sore, still humming faintly from the aftershocks, but none of it compared to the heat flooding your chest. Not from desire—but disbelief.

Confusion.

Betrayal.

Because now, sitting half-dressed in the warmth of the private chamber, looking into the face of the man who had just unraveled your body with cruel precision, you saw it clearly.

The tilt of his head.

The faint scar across his brow.

The calm but sharp glint in his eyes.

“ Young-il?” You whispered, barely breathing the name.

His movements stilled. He was just finishing buttoning up his black shirt, the front of it still slightly wrinkled from how roughly he'd pulled you against it.

He looked at you—maskless, expression unreadable—before offering a slow, amused smile.

“ So you do remember.” He said, voice low, laced with something crueler than nostalgia.

“ I was wondering when it would click.”

You stared at him in stunned silence. The same man who used to speak quietly during meal times in the dorms. Who once bandaged your scraped palm without a word after the second game. Who would always say “Don’t trust the rules—trust how they break.”

And now?

The Frontman.

The orchestrator of cruelty.

And the man who had just touched you like you were his, tasted you like he owned every inch—only to pull away and remind you what he’d done.

“ You killed Jun-bae…” Your voice cracked. “ He trusted you. We did.”

He looked at you—unapologetic.

“ He was a tool.” He said coolly, fixing the cuff of his sleeve.

“ A necessary loss. One more piece off the board to open Gi-hun’s eyes. And yours.”

“ You used us.” You whispered, pain bleeding into your tone.

“ You used me.”

“ I did more than that.” He murmured, stepping close again.

“ I broke you open. I watched you unravel for me—mind, body…everything.”

His fingers reached up, tracing your bottom lip. You flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“ And still…” He smiled.

“ You moaned for me. Came for me. Obeyed.”

Your jaw clenched.

“ Is Young-il even your real name?” You spat.

He paused, then gave a low chuckle, dark and taunting.

“ No.” He said simply, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

“ That name belonged to someone I wore like a mask…just like this one.”

He reached for the jet-black geometric mask resting on the dresser.

“ If you want to know the real one…” He leaned in, whispering near your ear, his voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“ You’ll have to earn it. Moan it. Beg for it.”

You looked away, chest rising and falling, your mind spiraling from the collision of memory and reality.

But then his voice hardened again.

“ Now pull yourself together. We’ve been gone too long.”

You felt his fingers guiding the silken inner layer of your robe back over your body. Every touch now felt too knowing, too intimate. He moved with clinical precision—dressing you as if assembling a doll.

You didn’t resist.

Couldn’t.

He reached for the onyx mask—intricately carved, cold to the touch. When he placed it against your face, it clicked into place like a ritual.

“ Hide that expression.” He said, stepping back.

“ The VIPs don’t care about grief…or guilt. Only spectacle.”

And just like that, the man once called Young-il vanished again behind his own dark mask.

He opened the door, then paused—glancing back one last time.

“ Remember…” He said softly.

“ In the game…there are no teammates. Only survivors.”

And with that, he led you back into the lion’s den—where laughter, death, and wagers waited…and where the pain of truth now stung sharper than any blade.

Author's Note: What the fuck did I just write? Yes, another dark one-shot story that I write. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. Please feel free to leave or disregard this if you are uncomfortable with it.

All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. Please read with responsibility.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

ONE MORE NIGHT || Hwang In-ho

Part l

“ Got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo.”

Summary: You've been abducted by your father's mafia enemy. Your father owes him big-time. That's why he needs to teach him a lesson so that next time, if he's going to borrow some cash, he should pay on-time so no one in your family is going to be in harm.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, au, explicit content, violence, threats, coercion, kidnapping, obsession, possessive, matured language, manipulation, stockholm syndrome, mafia! In-ho, age-gap (40s x 28), forbidden, use of drugs, cheating, identity crisis, toxic relationship, dry humping, riding, overstimulation, PiV, unprotected sex, rough, soft-dom! In-ho, oral (F receiving), markings, kissing

You woke up with a strange weight pressing down on you—heavy, warm, unmoving. Your brows furrowed, your lashes fluttered. Something soft but firm was against your cheek. Your breath hitched the moment you realized it wasn’t a pillow.

It was a chest. A bare, muscled chest. Rising and falling with a steady rhythm that wasn't yours.

Your eyes widened, heart thundering.

In-ho.

He was asleep, his face calm, deceptively angelic in the soft light filtering through the curtains. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on high cheekbones, lips slightly parted, brows relaxed in a way you’d never seen while he was awake.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

His arms were wrapped around your waist—tight. Possessive. His entire body molded to yours like you belonged there.

And you—God, you had one leg hooked around his waist like some kind of desperate, lovesick thing. Your face was still tucked under his chin. You were clinging to him in your sleep.

Panic surged in your veins like ice.

You didn’t want this.

You shouldn't want this.

He was your captor. A dangerous man. Unhinged. Obsessed. And here you were tangled in his arms like you needed him.

You began to shift, pushing at his arm with the little strength you could manage—your wrists were still zip-tied tight, skin raw and tender.

But your movement only made him groan softly in his sleep and pull you in closer, crushing you to his chest as if he sensed you slipping away even in unconsciousness.

You froze.

Then slowly…his eyes opened.

Sleepy. Heavy-lidded. Dark.

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the world stopped.

He blinked once. Twice. Then his lips curved into a slow, sheepish smile—so utterly out of place, it made your blood boil.

You scowled. Narrow your gaze in sharp accusation. You pushed at him, hard.

But his reflexes were faster.

He caught your wrist in midair, fingers wrapping around it like iron. Then, with terrifying ease, he yanked you back—pulling your body flat against his again, lips only inches from yours. His breath fanned across your face, warm and uneven. His eyes flicked down—straight to your lips.

You felt his restraint—thin as thread.

You were trembling. Fury, heartbreak, confusion—all tangled in your gut like a knot you couldn’t rip free. You looked up at him. And he wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t mocking. He was just…watching.

Silent.

Still.

Waiting.

“ If you let me…” He whispered.

“ I’ll show you the rest.”

You didn’t answer.

The room was too quiet. Too heavy. The weight of betrayal pressing against your ribs. And in a moment you couldn’t explain, couldn’t control—something in you cracked.

Or maybe it snapped.

Because your hands moved before your mind caught up. And the next thing you knew—

Your lips crashed into his.

It was messy. Desperate. Too fast, too hard. His body stiffened, frozen for a single heartbeat—then he broke.

He kissed you like a man starved. One hand found your waist, anchoring you. The other pressed to the back of your head, holding you there like he feared you’d disappear if he let go.

You felt him tremble. His restraint was gone. All that was left was a raw, unfiltered hunger. Not just for your body—but for your existence.

Your presence.

Your yes.

He pulled you up, his hands under your thighs, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. Your mind screamed to stop. Your heart couldn’t decide. And your body—your betraying body—didn’t pull away.

He kissed you like he wanted to burn the past away.

Then—he stopped.

Pulled back. Just inches.

Chest heaving. Hands shaking.

“ I would’ve let you go.” He whispered, voice wrecked.

“ If you didn’t kiss me back.”

And that’s when you realized…

You had.

Your lips were still tingling.

Every breath burned.

And before you could recover, he crashed into you again—harder this time. Like restraint was no longer even a concept in his mind.

His kiss was fire and fury, blistering and desperate. His hands found your jaw, your hair, your back—everywhere, like he couldn’t get enough.

Your fists twisted in his shirt as his mouth traveled to your neck. You gasped when you felt the sharp graze of his teeth, a moan slipping free before you could trap it. He heard it. Of course he did. You felt his smirk ghost across your skin.

But when you opened your eyes—

He was staring at you.

And this time…there was something different.

His pupils were still blown wide with obsession, yes. But there was pain there too.

A hollow ache.

A raw, almost boyish yearning.

For a moment, he wasn’t In-ho, your captor. He wasn’t the cold collector of debts, the ruthless man behind glassy whiskey and smoldering cigars.

He was just a man who didn’t know how to stop needing you.

“ You’re making this harder.” He said, his voice low and shaking.

“ Every time I try to let go, you give me another reason not to.”

You blinked, confused, breathless, still trembling in the aftermath.

He looked at you like you were his final prayer.

And maybe his final curse.

“ I made a promise…” He muttered.

“ To let you go.”

His jaw clenched. “ But maybe I lied.”

Your blood ran cold.

“ I could lock this room.” He said, not moving.

“ Toss the key. And stay in here with you until the world forgets us.”

He stepped back just enough to let you breathe. Just enough to think. Then he exhaled a long, broken breath and closed his eyes.

“ But I won’t.”

Your body feels like it’s been lit from the inside—by grief, by fury, by the sickening realization that maybe, just maybe, some of what he said is true.

And he feels it. In-ho senses it like a wolf scenting blood in the air.

“ You’re scared.” He whispers, lips brushing yours again. “ But not of me.”

You try to look away. He doesn’t let you.

“ You’re scared of the part of you that wanted this. Wanted me.”

Your breath stutters. “ Stop…”

But it’s not even a command anymore.

It’s a plea you don’t fully understand.

“ You hate me. You should.” He breathes, pressing his mouth to the corner of your jaw. “ But you still didn’t push me away.”

His lips trail lower again, down your neck, tracing the bruised skin he already marked—this time with reverence instead of hunger.

But the hunger is still there. Contained, barely. His breath burns, and your whole body is betraying you, leaning into him even as your mind screams wrong, wrong, wrong.

“ You’re trembling.” He murmurs.

“ I’m angry.” You snap. But your voice is soft. Shaky.

He chuckles, low and dark.

“ Good. Be angry. Rage keeps the blood warm.”

He pushes you back gently onto the bed—slow, giving you every chance to fight, to stop it. But you don’t. You can’t. And you hate yourself for it.

His body follows yours, hovering above you, never breaking eye contact. One hand slides behind your knee, hooking it around his waist. The other pins your wrist to the sheets, not harshly—no, worse.

Gently.

Possessively.

Like he’s savoring every second of control.

“ I could have forced this.” He murmurs, voice dangerously close to soft.

“ I should have. But I didn’t. Because I want you to choose it. Even if it’s just your body that chooses me first.”

“ You’re sick.” You whisper, but your voice is already breathless.

He smiles against your skin. “ Then what does that make you? You’re letting the monster kiss you. Touch you. Claim you.”

His hips press down against yours, and you feel just how much restraint he’s holding back—how badly he wants to let go. And yet…he doesn’t.

“ You still think you’re in control of anything.” He says, voice tightening.

“ But I’ve already buried myself in you. In your thoughts. In your choices. You won’t come back from this. You can’t.”

He kisses you again—deeper, messier this time. The softness is gone. This one is fire. This one tastes like obsession, like something unholy. And God help you, you kiss him back.

You hate it.

You crave it.

Your hand clutches the back of his neck, dragging him deeper.

His grip on your thigh tightens as he grinds into you through the thin barrier of clothes. You arch into him, your body at war with your heart, your mind splintering from the pressure of lust tangled with grief and hate.

He breaks the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips:

“ Tell me you still want him. Say his name while I’m inside you. I dare you.”

You freeze—writhing between guilt and heat.

“ I—” You choke out, but it dies on your tongue.

He smirks like he’s won something sacred. “ That’s what I thought.”

He sits back slightly, still caging you in with his body. His hand lifts your shirt slowly, reverently, like you’re some holy thing he’s about to desecrate. But he stops just above your ribs—pausing.

Watching you.

“ You still think this is about sex.” He murmurs.

“ It’s not. It never was. This is about truth. About showing you who you really are. What you need.”

His mouth dips again, lower, tracing the curve of your stomach with kisses that make your back arch—and your guilt twist harder.

And then his voice again, darker now:

“ You’ll remember this when he begs for you. When he pretends he ever knew you.”

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t block him out. If anything, it makes his presence more unbearable.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t think.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Or maybe…that’s what you want.

His breath ghosts across your stomach. You flinch—not from fear. Not anymore. From how vulnerable you feel, how exposed. Not just your body…but your mind. Your heart.

And he feels it.

Senses it.

In-ho lifts himself slightly, hovering above you again, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Not cold. Not cruel. But something far worse—unhinged tenderness.

Like a storm begging to be loved instead of feared.

His jaw clenches, like he’s fighting something in himself. Something he’s not used to losing.

“ Don’t look at me like that.” He murmurs, voice hoarse.

“ Like I’m something you don’t understand.”

“ I don’t understand you.” You whisper. “ I never did.”

His lips twitch—like a broken smile. “ Then let me show you.”

His hand slides to your cheek again, thumb tracing your lower lip. “ I’ve taken everything from you. I know that. I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

He pauses.

“ I’m begging you...for a chance.”

Your breath catches.

The word hits like thunder.

Begging?

From a man like him?

“ You don’t beg.” You breathe, disoriented.

But he does. Right now.

“ I would for you.” He says, and this time his voice breaks. Just slightly.

“ Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since that night. Not since you smiled at me like I was someone who mattered.”

Your chest tightens. You remember that night. The party. The laugh. The flirtation that felt harmless back then. And now? Now it’s the ghost that started everything.

“ I can take care of you.” He whispers.

“ Better than he ever did. Better than anyone could. I’ll protect you. Feed you. Worship you. Ruin for you. You won’t have to lift a single finger unless it’s to wrap it around me.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone—slow.

Heavy.

Reverent.

“ I’ll show you what it means to be adored. Not used. Not watched. Kept.”

Your hands grip the sheets. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff—one more word, one more breath, and you’ll fall. And maybe part of you wants to fall. Just to feel what it’s like not to carry the weight of betrayal anymore.

“ You want me to surrender to you.” You say, voice trembling.

“ No.” He replies quietly.

“ I want you to surrender to us.”

His hands are on you again, trailing down your waist, pushing fabric away slowly, like he's unwrapping something precious. He takes his time—not like a man rushing to conquer—but like a man starving, who finally has permission to taste.

He presses his forehead to your stomach and stays there for a breathless moment.

“ I’d burn the world if it meant I could wake up with you looking at me like you did that night.” He says.

You can feel the desperation in his touch.

The restraint.

The heat.

“ You don’t know what you’re asking.” You whisper.

“ You want something I don’t even know if I have left to give.”

“ Then I’ll help you find it.” He says, looking up at you with something raw in his gaze.

“ Piece by piece. Day by day. Kiss by kiss. I’ll worship every ruined part of you until you remember what it means to feel wanted. Not because of your name. Not because of your blood. Just you.”

His mouth returns to yours—slow at first. Starving next. His hands are everywhere now—your thighs, your ribs, the arch of your back. He moves like a man who has already made a shrine out of you in his mind.

He kisses like it’s a prayer.

A possession.

A plea.

And you?

You kiss him back.

Maybe it's desperation. Maybe it’s the need to feel something that isn’t betrayal or pain. Maybe it’s the fantasy of being kept—not protected, not loved.

Owned.

With reverence.

With danger.

Your thighs part for him on instinct. He groans—a low, guttural sound—and the way he looks at you then, you swear he’s about to lose control. But he holds himself back, forehead pressing to yours again.

“ Say yes…” He whispers.

“ Let me show you what it feels like…to be wanted by a man who would burn down heaven just to touch you.”

You look into his eyes—and in that moment, the world falls away.

And you say it.

“ Yes.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

No hesitation.

No restraint.

His lips crash back onto yours with the kind of hunger that speaks of years of longing—of nights spent alone imagining this moment, of dreams stained with desire. His kiss is wild, frantic, full of a want that borders on need.

You feel it in the tremble of his hands as they fumble with the buttons of your shirt—each one undone with a quiet urgency, like he's peeling away everything between you and him.

He exhales a shaky breath as he pushes the fabric off your shoulders, and then his mouth is on your neck—hot, wet, possessive.

Each lick, each graze of his teeth sends a shiver running down your spine. And when he marks you, it's not soft.

It’s a claim.

A brand.

A message written in bruises: You’re mine.

His hands explore your skin like he’s reading scripture, like every inch of you is sacred and forbidden. You don’t stop him. You can’t. Your heart slams in your chest, frantic, confused, alive. All you can do is watch—watch him fall apart and rebuild himself around you.

Your mind whispers that this is wrong, that everything about this is morally fucked beyond repair. But your body—your soul—screams that it’s right.

That being poisoned by him is better than breathing clean air without him. He’s the addiction that keeps you burning, and you don’t want a cure.

You whisper his name under your breath—In-ho—and he pauses. Just for a second. Then his lips descend to your shoulder, your collarbone, each kiss a vow, his eyes locked on yours like he's watching for a flicker of doubt.

There’s none.

His hand drifts to your thigh, gripping it with just enough force to pull a gasp from your lips. Your skin burns where he touches, like he’s searing himself into your memory. And when he pulls back to strip off his shirt, your breath catches.

He’s beautiful—but not in a polished, clean way. No, In-ho is raw. His body tells stories of violence, of survival. Scars line his chest and stomach, each one a memory carved into him by bullets and blades.

You can’t look away.

You don’t want to.

You lean back against the headboard, watching him like he’s art.

Dark, dangerous, devastating art.

Then—he grabs your wrist.

You flinch, but not out of fear. It’s the weight of his touch. Heavy with meaning. He guides your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his heartbeat.

And then slowly, deliberately, he drags your hand across his skin—over the scars, the muscles, the heat of him.

Remember this, his eyes seem to say.

Remember all of me.

Every piece.

Every sin.

The tension coils tighter, sharp enough to cut. He leans in, his voice a low growl against your ear.

“ You gave yourself to me. Don’t take it back.”

You don’t speak.

You just grip his chest tighter—because you already know. You wouldn’t take it back if the world burned for it.

Your fingers curl against his chest, feeling the uneven terrain of old battles and broken pasts. His skin is hot—alive—and beneath your palm, his heart thunders like a war drum.

Every beat speaks of obsession, of possession, of something far more dangerous than love.

And you’re not afraid.

You should be.

But instead, you feel your own pulse syncing to his, like some invisible thread has stitched you into him, and there’s no escaping now.

You don’t want to escape.

In-ho watches your expression, searching for the cracks, for the guilt, for that last flicker of resistance. He doesn’t find it. What he sees instead is your surrender—and it sets him ablaze.

He moves fast—too fast—and pins you to the bed with a strength that makes you breathless. Not just from the pressure, but from the weight of who he is. His shadow swallows you whole, and you welcome it.

Every part of him is above you, around you, inside your head like a storm of want and wrong and ruin. His lips trail down, marking a path across your chest, worshipping every part of you like you’re a secret he’s waited his whole life to finally uncover.

“ You’re mine.” He murmurs again—into your skin this time, not your ear.

“ No one else gets this. No one touches what belongs to me.”

His words should terrify you. They don’t. They settle deep in your bones, igniting something reckless in your core. You arch toward him, needing more—not just of his touch, but of him.

All of him.

His past, his scars, his twisted heart.

You raise a hand to his face, brushing your fingers along his jaw. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“ In-ho…” You whisper, voice ragged with need.

“ Don’t stop.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something between lust and devastation.

“ I wasn’t going to.” He says, voice low, rough. “ I can’t.”

His mouth is back on you, feverish and starved. His hands roam lower, gripping, squeezing, memorizing. He’s mapping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you’ll slip through his fingers and vanish into the smoke of all his other regrets.

He pauses just long enough to look at you, his lips brushing yours as he speaks.

“ I want you to remember this. Not just tonight. Always.”

“ I will.” You breathe, not just because it’s true, but because you need to. Need to remember what it feels like to be consumed so wholly, so destructively.

He slides his hand behind your neck, pulling you in for a kiss so deep it leaves you gasping. You taste the desperation in it.

The madness.

The claim.

Then he pulls back again, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes, dark and endless, burn into yours.

“ You’re not going anywhere after this.” He says. “ You understand me?”

You nod.

You already know you’ve passed the point of no return. And in this moment—breathless, bare, bound to him—you don’t care.

Because you don’t want to escape.

You want to fall.

Deeper.

Harder.

Until there’s nothing left but him. He doesn’t need to ask again.

He can feel your answer in the way your body melts into his touch, the way your breath hitches every time his lips find a new place to claim.

You’ve surrendered—and he knows it. Knows it like a hunter knows the moment prey stops running. But there’s no malice in his hunger—just something more dangerous.

Devotion.

He slides his hand beneath your thigh, lifting it as his body pressed flush against yours. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. His breathing is erratic, like he’s fighting to hold himself together while you unravel beneath him.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, dragging his tongue along your pulse, tasting every beat of your hesitation and desire.

“ You feel that?” He growls softly, voice strained.

“ That’s what you do to me.”

You do. Every inch of him, hard and tense against you. Every shuddering breath he takes. You feel it like gravity pulling you under, deeper into something you both know might destroy you—but neither of you can stop.

His hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, locking you into place beneath him. He moves against you with slow, grinding precision, letting you feel everything—the tension, the restraint, the fire he’s barely containing.

You whimper, head tilting back, your body arching into his as friction builds and sanity slips.

His lips trail down your chest, tongue flicking, tasting, teasing. When he takes your nipple into his mouth, you cry out—sharp, breathless. He smirks against your skin, a low, pleased sound rumbling from his throat.

“ Good…” He murmurs.

“ I want to hear all of it. Every sound you make. Every breath I take from you.”

Your nails dig into his back, and he loves it—loves the pain, the bite, the marking. He grinds harder, making your body tremble, your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His name slips from your lips again, raw and pleading.

“ In-ho…”

That does it.

His control finally snaps.

He growls, low and animalistic, then slides his hand down, finding the heat between your thighs. He strokes you through your clothes at first—slow and firm, watching your face twist, your eyes flutter, your hips buck.

“ So fucking wet for me.” He breathes. “ You want this? Tell me.”

“ Yes.” You gasp. “ God, yes—In-ho, please…”

That word—please—breaks something in him.

He pulls your underwear aside with a sharp tug, baring you fully. You feel the cool air against your skin for just a second before his fingers slide in, slick and deep and curling with practiced intent.

You moan—loud, unfiltered, honest. He watches you like he’s studying every twitch, every breath, every sign that you’re falling apart under him.

“ You give me everything.” He says, voice hoarse.

“ And I’ll ruin you so beautifully.”

His fingers pump harder, faster. His thumb brushes your sensitive spot and you cry out, your body arching like it’s chasing him, craving more.

Your hips roll, meeting every thrust of his hand like your body belongs to him now—like it was always meant to.

He leans in, mouth crashing against yours again—messy, greedy, possessive. He kisses like a man trying to claim your soul through your lips. And you let him.

When he pulls back, his fingers still buried inside you, he stares down—eyes burning, breath ragged.

“ I want you to remember this feeling.” He whispers, stroking you just right, pulling another moan from deep in your throat.

“ This is what you do to me. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

You’re close—too close.

And he knows it.

He speeds up, mouth ghosting over your ear. “ Let go. For me.”

And you do.

You come undone beneath him, your entire body shaking, burning, consumed. He doesn’t stop. He rides out your high, watching every second of it like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever witnessed.

And when you finally collapse back against the sheets, boneless and panting, he leans over, brushing the damp hair from your forehead. His hand caresses your cheek, surprisingly gentle for a man who just tore you apart.

“ You’re mine now.” He whispers, soft and deadly.

“ There’s no turning back.”

You’re still catching your breath when he lowers himself again, his mouth trailing open kisses along your ribcage, down your stomach—each one slower than the last, like he’s savoring you.

Worshipping you.

But it’s not gentle.

There’s reverence in his touch, yes, but it’s twisted—filthy and fervent, like he’s not just admiring you, but devouring you from the inside out.

You flinch when his lips reach your inner thigh, and he tightens his grip around it, holding you wide open like you're something sacred and forbidden all at once.

His voice is low, dangerous, as his breath brushes over your sensitive skin.

“ You gave me permission, remember?”

You nod, but it’s not enough.

He grabs your chin and forces your gaze down to meet his. His pupils are blown wide, filled with a kind of lust that borders on obsession.

“ Say it again.”

“ I gave you my permission.” You whisper—no, you confess.

That’s all he needs.

He dips his head between your legs, and the first stroke of his tongue sends your entire body jerking. You cry out, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling tight—but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he groans into you, vibrating against your core, feeding off your desperation.

He licks like he’s starving—slow, deliberate swipes followed by fast flicks of his tongue that have your hips grinding into his mouth. It’s overwhelming.

He doesn’t give you a second to breathe, doesn’t give you space to think. Just sensation. Heat. His grip on your thighs is bruising now, anchoring you down as he takes and takes and takes.

“ In-ho—fuck—please—”

He moans into you again, and your entire body clenches. You can feel it building, pressure winding tight in your gut, threatening to snap.

He senses it. Of course he does. His eyes flick up—still locked on yours even now. Like he needs to see you fall apart for him again. Like it fuels something deep, dark, and dangerous inside him.

“ You’re gonna cum for me again.” He growls against your skin.

“ You’re gonna scream my name, and then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget anyone else ever existed.”

It hits you like a wave.

Your entire body tenses, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as release crashes over you again—hotter, messier, louder than before. You shake, thighs trembling, body twitching beneath him as he holds you through it, still tasting you, still owning you.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is slick, his eyes glassy with lust and something unspoken—something dangerous.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then slowly, deliberately, unbuckles his belt.

You watch him, half in a daze, half in awe.

“ You still sure?” He asks, voice thick, deep, vibrating in your chest.

You don’t hesitate. “ Yes.”

He kneels over you, dragging his pants down, and you finally see all of him.

Your breath catches.

He’s…massive. Hard. Veined. And ready. You swallow hard, and the flicker of fear that flashes in your eyes makes him smirk like a predator.

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, voice a whisper only meant for the darkness between you.

“ I’m not going to be gentle.”

You nod. “ I don’t want you to be.”

That’s all it takes.

He grips your hips and aligns himself, the blunt pressure of him making your body tense. He pushes in slowly at first, just enough to stretch you, to make your breath stutter. You gasp, and he groans—a raw, guttural sound like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

“ Fuck!” He growls. “ You feel like sin.”

He thrusts in deeper—and the world spins. Pain and pleasure collide in a dizzy, burning mix. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red marks, but he doesn’t stop. He slams into you harder, faster, deeper, pulling cries from you that don’t even sound human.

There’s nothing soft left between you.

Only heat. Obsession. Hunger.

Every thrust is a claim.

Every moan is a promise.

He kisses you hard, biting your lip, tasting your whimpers as his pace quickens. The bed shakes with each movement, your body rocked to the rhythm of his need. He reaches down, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“ Say you’re mine.”

“ I’m yours.” You pant.

“ In-ho, I’m yours.”

That’s what it does.

He growls something unintelligible, his body seizing, rhythm faltering as he buries himself to the hilt and releases with a broken, desperate sound.

You feel it—his whole body trembling, his breath ragged against your skin, the last of his control shattering in your arms.

You both collapse—sweaty, breathless, ruined. But even now, even in the afterglow, he doesn’t let you go.

He wraps himself around you like a cage, one hand still gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His lips find your temple, soft for the first time tonight.

“ No one else gets this. Not ever.”

You believe him.

And that’s what scares you most.

...

He doesn’t leave your body.

Even when the tremors fade and the room quiets, he stays buried deep inside you—like he’s made a home there, inside the soft, ruined parts of you he’s just claimed. His arms lock around you like a shackle, the weight of his body a deliberate pressure against yours.

You feel the shift—his pulse still racing, his muscles still taut—but there’s something else now.

Not urgency.

Possession.

You feel it in the way he stares down at you, hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head until your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, swollen and bruised from his kisses.

You let him inside your body, but somewhere in the middle of it, he took your soul with him—and he’s not giving it back. And you don’t want it back. It’s safer in his hands than in the world that tried to break you.

He starts to move again—slow at first, grinding into you with maddening precision. He’s hard still, or maybe hard again—you can’t tell where one round ended and the next began. You’re raw. Spent. And yet, your body responds instantly, clutching him like you’ve never known anything else.

He groans at the sensation—deep, primal, like it tears from somewhere in his chest.

“ You’re so fucking perfect for me.” He snarls, burying his face in your neck.

“ Like you were made to be mine.”

You moan, fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him closer, urging him to go deeper. You don’t care about the bruises. The soreness. The way your legs tremble and shake.

You just want more.

Of him.

Of this.

Of everything.

He sits up, gripping your hips, dragging you closer until he’s kneeling and you're folded underneath him. He pulls your legs over his shoulders and slams back into you—harder, deeper, more brutal than before. You scream, back arching off the bed, and he smirks, eyes glowing with that possessive fire that never dies.

“ You like that?”

“ Yes—fuck—yes—”

He picks up the pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. The bed rocks. The walls might hear. But nothing matters. Not outside this room. Not outside this moment.

Only this.

Only him.

He leans down again, chest slick against yours, his mouth brushing your ear.

“ I’m gonna fuck you until there’s not a single thought in your head except me.”

And he does.

You lose count of the times he takes you—over and over, until the sweat on your bodies turns cold and your voice is gone.

He flips you, pins you down, takes you from behind with his hand gripping the back of your neck. He pulls you on top of him, makes you ride him until your legs are shaking, until your hands are braced on his chest and your vision blurs.

Every time you think you’ve reached your limit, he shows you there’s more.

And you give it to him.

At some point, he kisses you again—not rushed, not frantic. But slow. Deep. Dangerous.

A kiss that doesn’t beg.

It claims.

When it’s finally over, when the storm calms, when you both collapse in a twisted mess of bodies and breath, he still doesn’t let you go.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest as if trying to fuse your skin to his. You can feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move.

He won’t.

And in the darkness, he whispers, “ If anyone ever touches you like this…I’ll kill them.”

You shiver—but not in fear.

You press your lips to his chest, right over one of the bullet scars.

“ No one else will ever get the chance.”

And that’s the final vow.

Spoken not in love.

But in obsession.

And the terrifying, beautiful fact that you feel the same way.

…

You don’t know how long it’s been.

Minutes? Hours? A whole night swallowed by sweat and skin and sinful whispers?

Time doesn't move in this space—not here, not with him. You're locked in a loop, a feverish dream you can’t wake from. And you don’t want to.

You're not resting. You’re recovering—barely. Your legs are still trembling, your chest rising in shaky gasps, your lips swollen, your body marked in places you hadn’t even known could be claimed.

The bruises will bloom beautifully by morning. You can already feel the heat of them under your skin.

But even now…you ache for more.

He feels it too.

You can tell.

In-ho’s lying beside you, but there’s no stillness in him. His fingertips ghost down your ribs, pausing at the curve of your hip bone like he’s memorizing the shape of you in the dark.

But it’s not tender.

It’s territorial.

Every slow drag of his fingers down your stomach feels like a warning.

“ You’re ruined.” He says quietly, almost in awe.

“ And I’m not done ruining you.”

You look at him, dazed, lips parted, throat dry.

He’s staring at you like you’re not a person, but a religion. A sin worth worshipping and burning for.

Before you can speak, he’s already moving—climbing over you, caging you beneath his body again. His cock, somehow already half-hard again, rests between your thighs.

You shudder when he grinds against you, slow and teasing, letting the head drag against your still-sensitive entrance.

He watches your reaction like a predator. Smirking. Studying.

“ You’re still sore.” He murmurs, voice gravel and smoke.

“ You can barely move.”

And then, without hesitation, “ I want to see how many times I can break you open before your body gives out.”

Your breath catches.

And you don't say no.

Because this is what you’ve become. This is what he’s made you—someone who craves the pain, the burn, the weight of him breaking you over and over, just to feel something so violently it blots out everything else.

You nod—barely.

He growls—deep, dark, possessed.

His mouth crashes into yours as he thrusts in again, and this time it’s merciless from the start. There’s no buildup. No pretense.

He’s fucking you like an animal—sharp, ragged, angry thrusts that make your entire body rock beneath him.

The overstimulation makes you gasp, whimpering into his mouth, your nails clawing down his back hard enough to draw blood.

You should push him away.

But instead, your legs lock around him tighter.

Because he owns you.

And you love it.

He drags your hands above your head and pins them there with one of his, the other wrapping around your throat—not tight, not choking, just enough to make your pulse jump and your eyes flutter.

His pace doesn’t falter.

“ Look at me…” He demands, voice rough.

“ I want to see your face when I ruin you again.”

You force your eyes open—barely—and the moment your gaze locks with his, you feel your body give in again, like it’s not even yours anymore.

You scream.

He groans. “ Fuck, yes. That’s it.”

And then he’s chasing his own release, slamming into you faster, harder, until his rhythm breaks and he lets go with a hoarse, broken moan.

He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, body twitching, hands trembling as he spills inside you again.

You both lie there—sweat-slicked, wrecked, utterly lost. His breath is ragged against your skin.

Yours is gone.

But his hand never leaves your throat. Not choking. Not holding. Just there.

A reminder: Mine.

And even when he finally rolls over, dragging you with him, tangling your leg over his hip, pressing your chest against his…he still doesn’t let go.

Not of your body.

Not of your soul.

He whispers, voice like a curse laced with a prayer:

“ If I could climb inside you and never leave, I would.”

And the part that scares you most?

You’d let him.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Every inch of you is trembling—spent, overstimulated, and marked inside and out. You don’t even flinch when he finally moves.

In-ho lets out a low hiss as he slowly, carefully slips out of you. The motion makes your sore body twitch involuntarily, a whimper falling from your lips.

He catches it—soothes it—with a quiet hum and a soft kiss to your inner thigh.

Then he sees it.

His seed, thick and warm, spilling from your swollen entrance like a slow, sinful waterfall. It glistens under the low light—evidence of everything you gave him… and everything he took.

He groans at the sight, almost feral.

“ Fuck…” He breathes. “ Look at what I did to you…”

But he doesn’t look ashamed. He looks proud. Possessive. Satiated—but still wanting.

His fingers trail down, gathering the mess with slow, deliberate movements. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers back into you.

You flinch—body raw, so sensitive it nearly hurts—but you don’t stop him. Not when his gaze is locked on the way your body tightens around his touch again.

“ You’re keeping it.” He murmurs, almost reverent.

“ All of it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You're too far gone—floating between pain and pleasure, need and numbness.

Then his fingers are gone.

You barely register the shift until he’s kneeling beside you, his hand lifting to your lips. You don’t need to be told. You open your mouth, letting him press his fingers past your lips.

The taste hits your tongue—salty, thick, bitter and warm.

Yours and his, mixed together.

You suck slowly, obediently, eyes fluttering closed as he watches.

His voice is low.

“ That’s it…taste what we are.”

When you release him, he leans down to kiss your cheek—then pushes off the bed without a word. You hear him move across the room, rustling through a drawer, running water. You don't open your eyes until you feel the soft heat of a damp towel press gently to your inner thighs.

He’s back. Kneeling again. His brows are slightly drawn—not in anger, but in something almost tender. His touch, this time, is careful. He wipes you clean with slow, reverent motions, taking special care where you’re most sore.

He glances up. “ I hurt you.”

You shake your head weakly.

“ You ruined me.” You whisper.

“ Good.”

He finishes cleaning you, then wipes himself off with the same towel. And after tossing it aside, he climbs back into bed. No words. Just the warmth of his body pulling you in again.

He wraps himself around you—arms tucked tight around your waist, one leg tangled between yours, his hand over your stomach like a seal.

His nose presses into your shoulder as he exhales slowly, deeply, like he finally lets himself rest now that you’re safe in his arms.

You’re sore. Bruised. Exhausted.

But whole. In a way only he could make you.

His voice is a whisper against your neck.

“ You need to sleep, baby. I took too much from you.”

You want to say something. Anything. But your body won’t obey. It’s too tired, too sated, too heavy in his embrace. So you just nod, nuzzling closer into his chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull you.

He kisses your temple. A soft, lingering press.

“ Mine.” He murmurs again.

And that’s the last thing you hear before the darkness pulls you under.

Not the threat.

Not the promise.

But the truth of it.

You are his.

And you wouldn’t survive it any other way.

A/n: What the fuck did I just write?

As you can see, there are warnings. I hope you read them carefully because it is your responsibility to continue or not. Please refrain from reading this if you are under the age of 18. I have given you a warning already. This is not your typical romance. It's a twisted and toxic one.

Always read with responsibility.

Tags: @sylviaf @secretlifeofavi