r-u3

[r-u3]

Summary: You met In-ho after your dog had ran away, after the rain grew heavy and a storm came he let you stay in his Apartment, before you knew it, the stranger wasn't so strange anymore

Pairing: In-ho x Reader

Warning: None

A/N: Thank you all for your support🫶

Part 2 of 2

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It had been three months since you’d moved in—three months since everything had shifted, for better or worse. After losing your job and your apartment, In-ho became the steady center of your world, the main source of income while you embraced your role as the stay-at-home partner.

He preferred it this way. That was clear—not just in the quiet support he gave you daily, but in the simple, shining ring he had already slipped onto your finger. No grand announcements, no fanfare—just a promise made and kept.

You looked up from the stove, wiping your hands on a towel as the sound of the door opening echoed through the apartment.

He stepped inside, shedding his coat and shoes, the familiar weight of the day settling from his shoulders. His eyes met yours immediately, and a small, tired smile curved his lips.

“Smells good,” he said softly, dropping his bag by the door.

You smiled back, the warmth in your chest growing. “Thought you’d like that. Long day?”

He nodded, moving closer. “Long. But coming home here makes it better.”

Luna greeted him with a happy bark, weaving between his legs as he walked toward you.

You smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned back to the stove, stirring the pot as the aroma filled the kitchen.

But instead of moving to help or settle in, he just stood there, watching you—quiet, still, his eyes fixed on your movements.

You glanced up, brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head slowly, but the serious look in his eyes didn’t fade. “I wanted to have a talk with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. “A talk? Where did that come from?”

He took a slow step closer, folding his hands in front of him. “I’ve been thinking. About us. About the future.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you set the spoon down, turning to face him fully.

“Well?” you prompted gently. “What about it?”

He sighed deeply, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on him. “I haven’t exactly been honest with you,” he admitted, eyes flickering away for a moment.

Your heart tightened, confusion and a flicker of fear rising all at once. “Wait—did you… cheat?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. “What? No. Why would you think that?”

You shook your head quickly, feeling foolish for even asking. “I don’t know… I just—”

He let out a low, almost dark chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes narrowed, the usual calm mask slipping away to reveal something sharper—colder, heavier. The smile you’d expected vanished instantly.

“About my job…” His voice dropped, steady but edged with steel, like a blade barely contained. “I told you I was the leader of a business, right?”

You nodded, curiosity mixed with unease.

He took a slow breath, then leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “But this business? It’s not some clean, corporate deal. It’s not what you imagine.”

His voice hardened, each word deliberate, weighted. “People—real people—play children’s games. For money, yeah, but not just that. For survival. They gamble everything they have, their lives hanging by a thread.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for it to sink in. “And some don’t make it out alive.”

Your nervous laughter died on your lips as the cold truth in his eyes hammered down. The room felt colder suddenly, smaller.

“What the fuck,” you breathed, heart pounding.

He didn’t soften. Didn’t flinch. Instead, his jaw clenched. “This isn’t a game you walk away from. It’s a nightmare dressed up in bright colors and childish rules.”

His voice lowered, voice raw with something fierce. “You think I’m just some guy in charge? I’m the one who keeps the blood from spilling all over the floor. The one who holds it together when everything wants to fall apart.”

He took a step closer, voice barely above a growl. “You want to be with me? Then you need to understand what that means. No more half-truths. No more pretending it’s safe.”

His eyes bore into you, unblinking. “Are you ready for that?”

The sharp crack of your hand meeting his cheek echoed through the room. Both of you stood frozen—your eyes wide, his expression unreadable. The sting of the moment hung between you like a drawn blade.

Then panic surged through your veins like ice water.

Your hands scrambled for the nearest thing—your fingers closing around the handle of a kitchen knife. You pointed it at him, your grip shaky but desperate. “Don’t come closer! I swear—just—just stay where you are!”

In-ho didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he sighed deeply and brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose, weariness suddenly written into every line of his face.

“There’s no need for that,” he said calmly, his tone quiet, grounded. “Put the knife down.”

“Why shouldn’t I?!” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You—you said people die, In-ho! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?! You lied to me!”

He lowered his hand and looked at you—really looked, with that same unreadable intensity. “Yes. I did. Because I didn’t know how to tell you something this… monstrous. But I never—never—lied about how I feel about you.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as your breathing quickened. Still, you didn’t lower the knife.

He stepped one pace closer, slow and deliberate. “And I would never hurt you. Why the fuck would I hurt you, huh? After everything?” His voice broke slightly with frustration, not anger.

Your hand still trembled as you held the knife up, your heart pounding in your ears. Every instinct screamed at you to defend yourself, to do something—but his voice cut through the chaos again, sharper this time, more commanding.

“Drop the knife,” he said firmly, stepping closer with a cold edge that wasn’t directed at you—but it was clear he wouldn’t let this go on.

You backed slightly, but he was faster.

In one swift motion, he closed the space between you, hand wrapping around your wrist—not harshly, just enough to push it down and away. The knife clattered against the tile floor.

Before you could react, he pulled you into his chest, holding you firmly, securely—arms around you like a barrier against the panic still surging in your blood. You were breathless, caught between fear and adrenaline and—

Your eyes darted up to his. His face was close—too close. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn, his eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing every breath you took.

He smelled like rain and smoke and something expensive you couldn’t name.

You blinked. Well, shit. This is… kind of hot.

He leaned in slightly, voice lower now, rougher. “Are you done trying to stab me now?”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

He exhaled a laugh—dry, humorless, but not unkind. “You’re fucking insane.”

“You run a murder game,” you shot back, still pressed against his chest.

“Touché,” he muttered, and you felt the low rumble of it in your cheek where it rested against him.

You suddenly wriggled in his grasp, trying to push him off. “Wait—wait, let go—Luna—!”

He looked down in confusion before following your gaze.

There she was. Standing in the middle of the kitchen.

With the knife in her mouth.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” In-ho muttered, releasing you immediately as you both scrambled toward her. “I just wanted one calm fucking conversation—one.”

“Luna, drop it! That’s not a toy!” you scolded, half-panicked, half-stifling a hysterical laugh as the golden retriever pranced two steps back, clearly thinking this was a fun game of chase.

In-ho reached toward her. “Don’t make me bribe you again, mutt—”

Luna gave a happy bark, tail wagging wildly… just as a sharp hiss filled the room.

You both turned.

The pot on the stove was overflowing. Steam gushed from under the lid as the sauce bubbled over the sides, hissing against the burner. Your once-carefully-prepared dinner now painted the stovetop like a murder scene of tomatoes and herbs.

You froze.

In-ho stared at it.

Then, he slowly turned back to you with the blankest, most done expression you’d ever seen on his face. “Is it too late to go back to when I was being threatened with a knife? Because this might be worse.”

You burst out laughing—shaky, exasperated, but real. Luna barked, still holding her stolen prize.

He sighed again, rubbing his temple. “I lead one of the most brutal operations in the country and somehow this… this chaos is what gets me.”

You walked over, gently taking the knife from Luna’s mouth, finally. “Well, welcome to domestic life, Mr. Hwang.”

He looked at the mess, then at you—eyes softening just a little despite everything. “Remind me why I proposed again?”

You smirked. “Because you love me.”

He snorted. “Right. Stockholm Syndrome. Got it.” Then, without missing a beat, “Get the dog a chew toy. Please.”

“And clean the stove?” you offered sweetly.

He groaned. “I miss the murder games already.”

You turned back to him, your expression hardening again as the adrenaline faded and the reality of everything he’d said came crashing back. “Don’t think this little moment means everything’s fine,” you snapped, pointing toward the disaster of a kitchen. “I’m still mad at you, In-ho.”

His face dropped slightly, and he sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Would I have proposed to you if I didn’t love you?” he asked, voice calm but strained—serious now, all amusement stripped away.

You stared at him, lips parted. “Well… no,” you admitted slowly, unsure. “But—”

He stepped forward carefully, watching your every reaction. “I told you the truth tonight because I couldn’t stand lying to you. Not because I had to. Not because I got caught. Because I chose to.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And I still want you to be my wife. I still want you to be Mrs. Hwang.”

You took a step back—overwhelmed, confused—but your hand grazed the metal edge of the stove.

The hiss of pain escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Ah—shit!”

In-ho moved instantly. “Hey—” He reached out, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly and pulling you away from the stove. “Let me see.”

You winced but let him guide your hand under the cold water. His touch was steady but careful, his brows furrowed as he inspected the red skin. You could feel the shift in his demeanor—gentle, controlled, but underlined by that low hum of tension in his jaw, like he was blaming himself for this too.

“God, you’re such a handful,” he muttered, half to himself.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re the one who runs murder games.”

He looked at you, and to your surprise, a small, crooked smile crept onto his lips.

“And you’re the one who said yes.”

You huffed, turning your face away—though your cheeks burned hotter than the damn stove. “Yeah, well… maybe I was concussed when I said that.”

He chuckled softly and kissed your temple, still holding your hand under the stream. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

---

You sat stiffly on the bench of the small speedboat, the cold wind whipping through your coat as the island slowly came into view. Around you, silent figures in red jumpsuits sat perfectly still, their masks blank and geometric — circles, triangles, squares. Not a word was spoken.

Even Luna, somehow seated perfectly between your legs, wore a ridiculous little black mask with a circle on it. She wagged her tail like she was on a damn picnic.

You glanced sideways at In-ho — no, Front Man now — dressed in his signature all-black, angular mask and long coat. The air around him was calm, unreadable… but you could feel the tiny flicker of amusement from him even through the layers of quiet tension.

You scowled under your mask. “Why the hell did I say yes to you again?”

He tilted his head toward you just slightly, voice like silk beneath the roar of the motor. “Because I’m devastatingly handsome. And I make great tea.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And because you forgot to mention you run a dystopian murder game disguised as a ‘business.’”

“Ah, yes.” He tapped his mask thoughtfully. “Details. You never asked for the full job description.”

“You said you worked in ‘entertainment.’”

“And this is entertainment,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the island with an invisible flourish.

You turned back toward the fog-covered shore with a deep sigh. “I swear to God, if Luna ends up as a contestant…”

“She’s got a mask. She’s already outranking most of the staff.” He sounded amused, the smugness practically radiating off him. “I’d say she’s management material.”

Luna barked once, cheerful and oblivious.

You groaned and rubbed your temples under the mask. “I’m married to a madman.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur only you could hear. “You’re married to the madman. And you love it.”

…Unfortunately, you kind of did.

You didn’t respond — just glared at him through the mask’s eye slits.

He hummed again, the sound deep and content. “How nice of you.”

You moved your hands up to his neck slowly, fingers brushing against the stiff collar of his coat. Your thumbs hovered just over his pulse point, and for a brief, powerful second, the intrusive thought screamed louder than usual.

Sometimes… sometimes you just want to snap his damn neck.

He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he calmly reached up and wrapped his gloved hand around yours, holding it there. Not to stop you, necessarily — but like he was choosing not to stop you, like he trusted you wouldn’t do it.

“That wouldn’t be very romantic,” he murmured beneath the smooth exterior of his mask.

You opened your mouth to respond—when a click echoed around the boat.

You froze.

Half a dozen masked guards had turned their rifles toward you without hesitation, not a single word spoken.

In-ho didn’t even glance at them.

He sighed, gently lowering your hands. “Stand down,” he ordered, his voice cold and authoritative now.

The guns immediately dropped back into a resting position. No hesitation. No question.

Your heart pounded as the air seemed to crackle with tension. You looked up at him sharply.

“What the hell?” you hissed under your breath.

“They’re trained to protect the leader,” he said coolly. “Even from you.”

You stared at him, bewildered, offended… and, if you were being honest, a little impressed.

He turned his head just slightly toward you. “You really think I’d let them hurt you?” he added in a low voice, and despite everything, there was a soft edge there. “I said stand down. And they did.”

You muttered, “I should’ve snapped your neck when I had the chance.”

He chuckled softly. “Ah. Love.”

For the entire ride, you were furious—gritting your teeth and threatening him over and over again. “If you think I’m just going to sit quietly, you’re dead wrong,” you snapped, voice sharp as the cold wind whipped around you.

He only smiled beneath his mask, gently squeezing your hand. “You look stunning when you’re angry,” he murmured, his tone teasing but sincere. “Very… passionate.”

The guards stayed silent, rifles never wavering, always ready to shoot at the slightest misstep. Their presence only added to your growing frustration and discomfort.

As the waves rocked the boat relentlessly, nausea churned in your stomach. The sea sickness hit hard, and you swallowed back bile more than once, clutching your coat tighter.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Finally, unable to hold it together any longer, tears pricked your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You sniffled and wiped furiously, cursing the sea, the situation, and yourself.

You were hunched over the railing, one hand gripping the cold metal, the other pressed to your trembling stomach as another wave of nausea overtook you. You heaved again, your body wracked with shivers and salt-tears. The mask was gone—thrown to the deck in a burst of frustration earlier—and now the wind kissed your face freely, cruel and cold.

You spit into the water, throat burning. Every crashing wave below mocked you. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to go. This wasn’t how love was supposed to go.

You wanted to marry a kind man. A simple man. Not a fucking murderer.

You gritted your teeth as a sob clawed its way up your throat. “God,” you muttered, “I’m such an idiot…”

Behind you, boots stepped slowly across the deck.

“Stop right there,” you barked without looking. “If you come any closer, I swear to god, I’ll throw myself in.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” In-ho said calmly, his voice soft but edged with concern. “The water’s freezing. And I’d have to dive in after you, and then I’d get soaked, and that would really ruin the moment.”

You let out a bitter laugh, but it cracked halfway through.

“Moment?” you snapped, turning your head toward him, your eyes glassy. “This isn’t a moment. This is a fucking disaster. I’m about to marry someone who oversees death games, In-ho.”

He didn’t flinch. Just took one more step forward.

“We’re about to marry each other,” he corrected quietly. “And I told you because I didn’t want lies between us. You hate me right now, I get it—but don’t act like I haven’t been trying.”

You gripped the railing harder. “Trying doesn’t undo blood.”

“No,” he admitted. “But love can rewrite the future.”

You scoffed. “Poetic. That what you tell yourself when people die?”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t rise to your bait. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

A small box. Blue velvet. Drenched from sea spray, but unmistakable.

You stared. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” he said. “It wasn’t going to be like this. But then again, neither were we.”

You shook your head, eyes wide, sick all over again—this time not from the ocean.

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“Possibly,” he replied. “But I’m also in love with you. And I’d rather face every gun on this ship than let you go over that railing.”

Silence stretched between you, the wind howling louder than either of you could speak. And for a moment, it wasn’t about games. Or lies. Or titles.

It was just him. Just you. And the open sea.

You barely had time to respond before another wave rocked the boat, sending your stomach into another violent churn. You turned sharply and leaned over the railing again, retching into the sea. The taste of bile burned your throat, tears stung your eyes—not just from the sickness, but from the sheer weight of it all.

When it finally passed, you stood hunched over, cheeks flushed with heat and shame. “Fucking perfect,” you muttered hoarsely, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “So romantic. Real fairy tale shit.”

You flinched as you felt him step closer, but this time he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled a soft tissue from his coat and gently pressed it to your lips, cleaning the corner of your mouth with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

“Hold still,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. His fingers lingered at your temple, cold from the wind but gentle. “There you go.”

You swallowed, not meeting his gaze, too embarrassed, too overwhelmed.

The wind picked up again, howling through the metal of the boat. And then—you heard it. The clink of his mask hitting the deck.

You turned to him sharply.

He had removed it—tossed it aside like it meant nothing. Like all of this meant nothing next to you. His face was open now, no longer hidden behind iron or titles. Just Hwang In-ho. Just the man who caught your dog in the park, who always made your tea right, who memorized your favorite brand of ramen and let your toothbrush clutter his sink.

His dark eyes locked with yours. Intense. Unflinching. Tired. Real.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, the words nearly carried away by the wind.

Your throat tightened. “Even now?”

“Especially now,” he answered without hesitation.

And something in your chest—bitter and broken and angry—twisted under the weight of his gaze. Because you knew he meant it. God help you… you knew he meant it.

---

You were completely out—limp in his arms, head tucked beneath his chin as he stepped off the boat and onto the wet stone dock of the island. His mask was back on now, the familiar cold facade returned, but his arms remained careful, cradling you close as if the wind itself might try to take you away.

Your sickness had knocked you out somewhere mid-ride—right after cursing him for five straight minutes, crying, then throwing up again. Your final words before slumping into his chest had been a dramatic, muffled, “You better have ginger tea waiting or I’ll divorce you before we even marry…” followed by unconsciousness.

Behind him, chaos was unfolding.

A Circle-masked guard cautiously reached for Luna’s leash. “Here, puppy… nice dog—OW!”

Luna responded by lunging, sinking her teeth straight into the poor man’s pants and yanking. A loud RIP echoed as a chunk of fabric (and what might have been dignity) was left in her mouth. She growled proudly, tail wagging like she’d just won a prize.

Two other guards approached cautiously. “Sir, we—uh—we can’t get the dog to comply.”

In-ho didn’t slow his steps. “Figure it out.”

“She bit him.”

“She’ll bite harder if you keep annoying her,” he replied flatly, adjusting his hold on you as your arm shifted in your sleep. “Treat her with more respect.”

Another guard yelped as Luna barked and began chasing him in gleeful circles, leash dragging behind her. The man sprinted, slipping in the sea spray.

In-ho didn’t even turn. “I said figure it out.”

Meanwhile, you snored softly against his shoulder, utterly unaware your dog had just declared war on the entire red-suited task force.

By the time he reached the main gates of the island compound, he murmured beneath his breath, “One wife. One dog. And I still fear the dog more.”

In-ho gripped the ladder tightly with one hand and cradled you securely with the other, careful not to jostle you too much as he descended into the narrow concrete tunnel below. Each step was calculated, deliberate—he’d done this countless times, but never with someone so deeply woven into his life resting in his arms.

Your head shifted slightly on his shoulder, a quiet breath escaping your lips. You were still asleep. Still pale from the seasickness. Still his.

Behind him, the metallic clang of boots echoed as other guards began their descent.

“Well?” one muttered, peering over the edge of the platform above. “Where’s the dog?”

There was a burst of barking.

In-ho paused, glancing up.

Luna, it turned out, did not do ladders.

Two guards hovered on either side of the open hatch, attempting to coax her down. One held a treat, the other her leash. Luna, in turn, stood firm at the top—tail stiff, paws locked, ears back, head tilted in deep suspicion.

“Come on girl… c’mon. It’s just a ladder. You’re brave. You bit Chun’s pants off, remember?” the first guard tried to reason.

Luna barked once, took one cautious step—

And immediately backed up, letting out a low growl.

“Sir,” one called down hesitantly, “She’s… not cooperating.”

In-ho exhaled through his nose, adjusting your weight in his arms before turning his head toward the ladder’s base. “Lower a harness. Treat her like a VIP if you have to. Just don’t force her.”

“Yes, sir…”

Moments later, Luna was wrapped like a wild, mildly insulted princess in a safety sling, being gently lowered into the tunnel while making angry little huffs. Her eyes never left the guards. If a dog could plot revenge, she was doing it.

In-ho finally stepped away from the base of the ladder, still holding you close, and glanced toward the others. “If anyone drops her, they answer to me.”

A guard gulped.

Safely on the ground, Luna was unhooked and immediately trotted to In-ho, sniffed your dangling hand, and gave it a comforting lick before sitting by his side with a heavy, protective thump.

“She gets her own room,” In-ho muttered, almost to himself. “And her own guard.”

Luna wagged once, as if to say as it should be.

In-ho’s sharp eyes scanned the group of guards clustered around the tunnel entrance. Without hesitation, he pointed to a random man standing stiffly near the wall.

“You. Watch over Luna.”

The chosen guard blinked behind his mask, then shifted his weight nervously. His gaze flicked warily down to the golden retriever sitting obediently by In-ho’s side. He swallowed hard and shook his head slowly, as if the very idea was borderline absurd.

In-ho’s lips twitched, barely hiding a smirk. Then his eyes softened slightly as they moved from the reluctant guard back to Luna—and finally down to you, still nestled against his chest.

“Well,” he said dryly, “perhaps your training didn’t pay off as much as I hoped.”

The guard took a hesitant step forward and, with exaggerated care, reached out and grasped Luna’s leash. His grip was gentle but cautious, like handling a ticking bomb.

Luna gave him a slow, appraising look, tail wagging just enough to unsettle the guard further.

In-ho chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. She’s more bark than bite… mostly.”

The guard gave a tight, forced smile as he stared at the dog again, leash held like a lifeline.

In-ho glanced down at you once more, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. “Let’s keep moving.”

And it moved on, too fast for you to follow.

The years passed in a blur of red jumpsuits, masked faces, and screams behind closed doors. One day, he brought you to the island—just once, he said. Just to see. But once turned to twice. Twice turned to routine. Before you knew it, it was your life.

You were still there.

The woman who once cried on a boat, clutching Luna and swearing she’d never return, had now memorized the hallways. You knew which camera showed which game. You recognized the patterns of desperation, the way people cracked at different speeds. You stopped flinching when the gunshots echoed through the speakers.

What was once sickening had become… normal.

You sat beside him again—another year, another batch of players—watching the games from the control room. Your tea was still warm in your hand. The room was silent but for the hum of screens and the distant, dull sound of chaos.

You turned to look at him. The man beside you. Hwang In-ho. Your husband. The man who once caught your dog in the rain.

You searched his face, but you didn’t see the warmth anymore. The softness in his eyes had long been replaced by calculation. The silence between you had become routine too.

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed on the monitor, expression unreadable behind the mask he still wore, even in private.

“You used to say that about yourself,” he replied. “Now you don’t flinch when they fall.”

Your hand trembled around the cup. You hated that he was right. You hated even more that you couldn’t remember when it changed.

You laughed. Loud, bitter, and sudden.

In-ho’s eyes flicked to you, brows drawing slightly beneath the edge of his mask. But he didn’t speak—he just watched.

“What is this?” you asked, your voice wobbling between amusement and disgust. “Seriously. What the fuck is this?”

You pushed your hair from your face, eyes wide with disbelief. “I used to worry about rent. About if I could afford dog food or get to work on time. I used to cry over cold tea and bad dates. And now?”

You gestured to the wall of screens.

“Now my biggest concern is whether a goddamn children’s game is entertaining enough for the VIPs. Whether they’re laughing, betting, enjoying the execution of desperate people.”

You leaned back in the chair and let the laugh escape again, louder this time. “God. I lost my life somewhere along the way, didn’t I? Somewhere between Red Light, Green Light and marbles.”

He still didn’t speak.

“I had a dog,” you continued, blinking rapidly as your voice dipped quieter. “Do you remember Luna? She died in my arms, In-ho. Of old age. You buried her under cherry blossoms and said it was peaceful. But I wonder… did she get the better ending?”

That’s when he looked at you fully. The screens behind him flickered with people clinging to life, faces too young, too tired, too real. But his eyes were only on you now.

He finally took off the mask.

His face looked tired too—older than before, the lines around his mouth deeper, his eyes darker, weighed down with choices he never said aloud.

“You could’ve left,” he said quietly.

You scoffed. “Could I?”

He didn’t answer that.

You leaned forward, voice sharp. “You brought me in. You made me part of this. You wanted me beside you, remember? Mrs. Hwang. Wasn’t that the plan?”

A long silence stretched between you, broken only by the low hum of static and the flickering glow of the monitors. Somewhere in the distance, a scream pierced the air—then cut off abruptly, swallowed by the cold machinery.

You raised the gun slowly, hand trembling but determined, aiming it directly at him. “Look at us,” you whispered, voice raw. “Two fucked-up people in a fucked-up game. And somehow, here we are.”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he met your eyes squarely, that small, almost wicked smile curling beneath his mask. “You still look hot,” he said quietly, voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—amusement? Sadness? Desire?

You blinked, caught off guard. Before you could say anything, he stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it shocked you, a strange contrast to the cold metal and harsh lights around you.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, lowering the gun slightly.

He shrugged, then turned away briefly and reached for the glass on the table. Pouring whiskey with practiced ease, he didn’t take his eyes off you. “Maybe. But I’m yours, aren’t I?”

You swallowed hard, the weight of those words hitting deeper than you expected. The scent of whiskey filled the air—sharp, smoky, intoxicating.

Without thinking, you dropped the gun to the floor with a loud clatter and launched yourself at him from behind. Your arms wrapped tight around his neck, desperation and anger swirling inside you.

He moved with effortless grace, pivoting to catch you in his arms, holding you flush against his chest. His breath was warm against your skin.

“Crazy,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re completely crazy.”

“And you’re completely insufferable,” you shot back, voice shaky but fierce.

His hands slid down your back, steadying you as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, searing kiss. The world around you dissolved—the monitors, the cold walls, the screams fading to silence.

You stared up at him, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat. Couldn’t he at least not be so damn cool while pulling this off? you thought bitterly.

He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze, a teasing glint in his dark eyes. Then he chuckled softly, the sound low and warm against the cold air.

“You want to admit you enjoyed that far too much,” he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes, stepping backward with a reluctant smile tugging at your own mouth. “Maybe a little,” you muttered, unable to hide the flush heating your cheeks.

He watched you retreat, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you did enjoy it.”

You flipped him off without hesitation, the gesture sharp and fiery. “Don’t get cocky. I still hate you just as much as before.”

He shrugged, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face. “Worth it, though.”

You shot him a fierce glare, narrowing your eyes like you could burn right through his mask.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the game. “Still want to shoot me with that gun that wasn’t loaded in the first place?”

You scowled, biting back a smile. “Maybe I’ll find a loaded one next time.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’d like to see you try.”

His fingers curled gently around your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “After all,” he murmured, “you do look pretty hot threatening me like that.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but you shoved his hand away firmly. “Focus on the games,” you snapped, stepping back.

He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “You’re no fun anymore,” he said, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You crossed your arms, shooting him a sharp look. “Maybe you just got used to me.”

He grinned. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to surprise me again.”

You bent down, picked up the gun from the floor, and leveled it at his whiskey glass with a devilish grin. “Let’s see how loaded this really is,” you said, finger tightening on the trigger.

Bang!

The shot echoed sharply, and the glass exploded into a glittering shower of shards, whiskey spraying across the table—and onto In-ho’s hands.

He stared down at the broken glass in his palm, now drenched in sticky amber liquid. For a moment, he just blinked, his mouth slightly open as if trying to process what just happened.

Then, with mock horror, he held up his soaked fingers like they’d committed a crime. “Well,” he said dramatically, voice dripping with amusement, “this is not how I envisioned my whiskey tonight. Although, I guess I didn’t really envision any whiskey tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

He glanced at you sideways, smirking. “Seems like that gun was loaded after all. Careful—next thing you know, you’ll be shooting up my entire liquor cabinet.”

You wagged a finger at him. “Hey, I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

He sighed theatrically, wiping his hands on his pants. “Great. Now I have to explain to the VIPs how I spilled whiskey and got shot by my wife in one night.”

You laughed, stepping closer. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “With you? Never.”

[r-u3]

Summary: You met In-ho after your dog had ran away, after the rain grew heavy and a storm came he let you stay in his Apartment, before you knew it, the stranger wasn't so strange anymore

Pairing: In-ho x Reader

Warnings: None

A/N: requests are open :)

Part 1 of 2

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Soft raindrops fell steadily, their gentle taps creating a soothing rhythm against the canopy of leaves overhead. The air was calm—no wind stirred the branches—and only a handful of people lingered outside, hurrying along with umbrellas or ducking under tree branches for shelter. The city’s usual noise was muted, softened by the rain’s steady drumming.

Your golden retriever, Luna, was far too full of energy for such dreary weather. She tugged eagerly on her leash, nose twitching as she caught the scent of something interesting in the damp earth. Suddenly, with a burst of excitement, she lunged forward, yanking you off balance as she chased after a squirrel darting between the trees.

“Luna! Hey, slow down!” you called, laughing as you struggled to keep up with her boundless enthusiasm.

Her paws splashed through puddles, sending droplets flying in every direction. You could feel your jacket growing damp where the rain seeped through, but you didn’t care. There was something peaceful about the quiet world wrapped in a gentle shower, a softness that seemed to hush the city’s frantic pace.

“Come back here, girl!” you urged again, breath catching as she veered toward the edge of the park.

For a moment, she paused, her head tilted curiously, eyes bright. Then with a happy bark, she bounded back toward you, tongue lolling in pure joy.

“Good girl,” you said, crouching down to scratch behind her ears. “You’re impossible in this weather, aren’t you?”

Luna responded with a wag of her tail so vigorous it almost knocked you over. The rain thickened, the droplets growing larger as the sky darkened further, clouds rolling in low and heavy.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. “Alright, I think it’s time we head back before you drag me into a puddle bigger than my patience.”

She barked again, as if daring you to make her leave this small adventure, before finally trotting by your side, calmer but still alert.

As you walked, the park felt transformed — trees glistened under the wetness, leaves dripping with rain, the familiar path slick and shining beneath your feet. The soft patter of rain was a quiet companion, almost like the world was holding its breath, waiting.

“Hey, I’m glad we came out despite the rain,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, watching Luna sniff at a patch of wet grass. “It’s kind of nice… just the two of us and the rain.”

Luna looked up briefly, eyes warm and trusting, before turning back to explore. You smiled, feeling a simple, peaceful connection between you — two friends sharing a moment in the storm.

The rain picked up again, now a steady curtain, and you pulled your hood over your head, but the quiet joy in Luna’s company made the dampness almost welcome.

“Okay, last lap around the pond,” you said, nodding toward the small lake at the park’s edge. “Then home, I promise.”

Luna barked happily in agreement, her energy never fading even as the rain soaked you both through.

Yet what you didn’t expect was the squirrel’s sudden dash.

One moment, Luna was by your side, tail wagging; the next, she spotted the tiny creature slipping between the trees and bolted like a streak of gold, dragging you along in her wake.

“Luna, no!” you shouted, your feet slipping on the wet grass as she pulled harder than ever.

Before you could regain your balance, your foot caught on something hidden beneath the damp leaves — and you tumbled forward.

The world tilted wildly as you fell, cold water swallowing you up before you even realized it.

Splash!

You landed face-first in the pond, water rushing into your mouth and soaking your clothes. Your heart pounded in shock as you scrambled up, gasping and wiping water from your eyes.

“Luna! Come back!” you called, but the golden blur was already a good distance away, weaving through the trees with carefree abandon.

Drenched and breathless, you sat at the edge of the pond, watching as your dog disappeared further into the rain-soaked park, your frustration mixing with a reluctant smile.

You sat devastated by the edge of the pond, water dripping from your soaked clothes, the cold rain no longer bothering you now that you were already drenched. Your chest heaved slightly as you tried to calm your racing heart, watching the ripples settle on the pond’s surface.

Suddenly, you flinched at a voice cutting through the quiet drizzle.

“Looks like she’s quite the runner,” the man said, stepping into view.

You looked up to see a stranger holding Luna firmly but gently in his arms. The dog’s tail wagged excitedly as she licked the man’s hand, clearly unbothered by her adventure.

“I… uh, thank you,” you stammered, surprised and relieved. “I thought I’d lost her for good.”

He smiled faintly, his dark eyes calm and steady beneath the shadow of his hood.

“I’m Hwang In-ho,” he introduced himself, “and you have a very spirited dog.”

You managed a small laugh, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I’m glad someone was here to catch her. I’m [Your Name].”

You stood up and extended your hand, offering a formal greeting.

He took it firmly, his grip warm despite the chill in the air. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he reached into his bag and pulled out a black umbrella, opening it with practiced ease.

“Here, you’ll need this more than I will,” he said, stepping closer and inviting you to share the shelter from the rain.

You quickly leashed Luna again, securing her with a relieved sigh. She nudged your hand, clearly still excited from her escape.

You looked up at him, feeling an unexpected warmth despite the dampness clinging to your clothes. “How can I ever thank you?”

He shook his head, brushing a stray drop of rain from his hair. “No need. But if you really want to, perhaps a coffee? My flat isn’t far from here.”

You smiled, a genuine warmth blooming inside you. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

He nodded, closing the umbrella just enough to walk side by side with you.

He glanced down at your soaked clothes, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.

“Looks like some dry clothes might be in order, too,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

You chuckled, wiping rain from your face. “Yeah… probably. How far is your flat from here?”

“Not too far,” he replied thoughtfully. “How long do you think it’d take you to get home in this weather?”

You shrugged, a wry smile on your lips. “Maybe an hour, if I’m lucky.”

He nodded decisively. “Well then, it’s settled. You’re coming to my flat for now—until the rain stops.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

Luna wagged her tail enthusiastically, as if approving the decision herself.

---

You were cautious at first as you stepped inside his flat, every instinct whispering that you should be wary—after all, he was still a stranger. The rain had soaked through your clothes, your hair clung damply to your neck, and your mind raced with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. But there was something in his calm demeanor and steady gaze that began to ease your apprehension, even if only a little.

Without hesitation, he moved with quiet efficiency, retrieving a thick, fluffy towel from a nearby shelf and handing it to you. “Here,” he said simply, “you should dry off before you catch a cold.”

You accepted it, grateful for the warmth, and he fetched another towel. With gentle hands, he began helping to dry your hair, the careful way he worked around your face making you relax despite yourself. The room was warm, filled with soft light that contrasted the grey gloom outside.

“There’s no need to get sick,” he added quietly, his voice steady but kind, almost like a quiet promise.

As you closed your eyes for a moment, allowing him to help, Luna took the chance to explore. The moment the door opened, she darted off with a happy bark, nose sniffing eagerly as she investigated every corner of the flat. You tried to call her back, but Luna was already weaving around furniture, tail wagging with excitement.

“She seems comfortable here,” he observed with a small smile, watching the dog’s joyful exploration.

You smiled, the tension slowly melting away. “Yeah, she always makes herself at home wherever she goes.”

The flat was surprisingly cozy—a neat space with muted colors, soft textures, and a quiet, lived-in feel. It was unlike anything you’d expected, and yet it made you feel… safe.

He glanced at you again, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. “Do you want something warm to drink? Tea, coffee? Whatever you like.”

You nodded, feeling a flicker of gratitude you hadn’t anticipated when the day started. “Tea sounds good.”

He moved to the small kitchen area, pouring hot water into a mug while Luna settled down nearby, content and calm now that her adventure had paused.

He turned back to you as the water began to brew, the soft whistle of the kettle filling the quiet room.

“I still have some spare clothes you can borrow,” he said casually, glancing over his shoulder. “For now, I can dry yours properly.”

You blinked, feeling a sudden flush creeping up your cheeks. “You’ve done more than enough already,” you murmured, embarrassed by how much trouble you felt you were causing.

He shook his head firmly, a gentle, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Nonsense. My mother raised me to be a good man, after all. Helping others isn’t optional—it’s just how I’m made.”

There was a sincere warmth in his voice, quiet but unwavering, and it settled your nerves a little more.

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful laugh. “Alright… I guess I can’t argue with that.”

He pulled open a closet door, revealing a neat stack of clean clothes: a simple shirt and comfortable pants. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “Take your time in the bedroom. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You nodded, clutching the clothes as you moved toward the quiet, softly lit room. Luna followed silently, curling up by the door where she could keep an eye on you.

As you changed, the gentle hum of the kettle and the soft patter of rain outside were the only sounds in the flat. When you returned, dressed in the dry clothes, you felt lighter—not just because of the warmth, but because of the unexpected kindness you’d found here.

He handed you a steaming cup of tea, and you accepted it with a smile. “Thank you, In-ho.”

He nodded, a subtle smile lingering. “It’s no trouble at all.”

You looked down sheepishly as you slipped into the clothes—too big for you by a good margin. The sleeves hung well past your wrists, and the shirt billowed loosely around your frame, swallowing you in soft fabric. You tugged nervously at the oversized cuffs, feeling a little awkward.

He didn’t comment on the ill fit. Instead, he offered a quiet, almost apologetic smile. “Sorry, these are the closest I have. Hopefully they’re not too uncomfortable.”

You shook your head with a small laugh. “No, it’s fine. Better than being soaked through.”

He crouched down beside Luna, who was now comfortably sprawled on the floor, and began gently petting her. His hands moved slowly over her soft fur, a tenderness in his touch that caught your attention. Luna leaned into the affection, letting out a soft, contented sigh.

“You’ve got quite the little adventurer here,” he remarked without looking up.

“She’s impossible to keep still,” you admitted with a smile, watching the calm scene unfold. “But she’s my little troublemaker.”

You cradled your cup of tea, the steam rising in delicate swirls as you took a slow sip. The warmth spread through your chest, comforting and grounding after the damp chill that had followed you in. The taste was soft and slightly floral—something calming. You sighed quietly, letting your shoulders finally relax.

In-ho had turned to the window, one hand resting on the frame as he watched the rain. It poured steadily now, heavier than before, the kind of storm that blanketed the world in grey and made the streets shimmer like mirrors.

“Doesn’t look like it’s letting up,” he murmured, half to himself.

You followed his gaze, then glanced down at your borrowed clothes. “I can head out once it eases a bit,” you said, your voice tentative. “Don’t want to overstay.”

He turned his head toward you, that same calm look on his face—measured, unreadable, but not cold.

“No,” he said gently, shaking his head. “That’s not a safe option.”

You blinked. “It’s not that bad, I’ll be fine—”

“You fell in a pond,” he interrupted, though not unkindly. The corner of his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a restrained smile. “You’re barely warmed up, the storm’s only getting worse. Slippery roads, flooded paths… no.”

You looked down at your tea, a little embarrassed, unsure what to say.

After a moment, he added, almost casually, “But if you really want to repay me for the clothes and tea… you could help me cook.”

You looked up, surprised. “Cook?”

He nodded, now moving toward the kitchen, Luna trailing at his heels like they’d been best friends for years. “I was going to make dinner anyway. It’s no use trying to go out in this storm. Might as well stay dry, warm… and fed.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you set your cup down. “I guess that’s fair.”

“Good,” he said, already pulling open a cabinet. “You know how to chop vegetables without losing a finger?”

“I think I can manage,” you said, laughing softly as you stood and joined him at the counter.

You glanced toward Luna, who had flopped down contentedly near the edge of the kitchen. Her tail thumped lazily against the floor as if she knew she was being watched.

You frowned. “Wait… what the hell am I supposed to feed her?”

At the sound of your voice, Luna lifted her head and barked once, loudly—almost like she had an opinion on the matter.

You sighed. “Well, vegetables it’s going to be.”

In-ho chuckled softly as he placed a cutting board in front of you. “She’s had a big enough adventure today. I think she’s earned a few scraps.”

You rolled up the sleeves of his too-big shirt, trying not to let it slip over your hands as you took the knife he handed you. “You sure you trust me with this?”

He glanced sideways at you, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “We survived the park. I think we can survive dinner.”

You snorted and got to work, cutting vegetables while he moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency—seasoning a simmering broth, measuring out rice, checking the pan’s heat with practiced ease. He wasn’t showy, but there was something focused and careful about the way he cooked, as if every movement had a purpose.

You worked in sync without saying much, the rhythm of chopping and stirring, the sound of rain against the windows, and the occasional bark from Luna filling the small flat with a comforting kind of silence.

“She likes you,” you said after a while, glancing toward Luna, who was watching In-ho intently in case food happened to fall.

“She’s a good judge of character,” he replied simply, not looking up from the pan. “Dogs usually are.”

He turned to glance at you, eyes soft under the warm kitchen light, the scent of dinner thick in the air.

“If the rain doesn’t ease up soon,” he said, nodding toward the living room, “I can prepare the couch for you.”

You almost dropped the knife. Quickly, you shook your head. “No, no—it’s fine. Taxis should be driving… probably… I hope.”

He raised a quiet brow and looked back out the window. The rain hadn’t slowed—it had only grown heavier, the streets shimmering beneath a sheen of water, reflections warping in the dark. Wind now swept the rain sideways across the glass.

“Well,” he said, glancing back at you with a hint of a smirk, “it doesn’t look too good for you.”

You sighed, putting the knife down with a soft clack and crossing your arms. “I just… don’t want to be a burden.”

He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head as he stirred the pot on the stove. “A burden? Come on. I offered, didn’t I?”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he cut you off with a calm look and a quiet smile. “You didn’t invite yourself in. You didn’t even want to stay. I asked. That makes it my choice.”

You blinked, a little taken aback by how gently firm he was.

“…Okay,” you said at last, your voice quieter than before. “Only if it’s really okay.”

“It is,” he said simply, turning back to the stove.

Luna barked in agreement, as if she had no doubts whatsoever. She wagged her tail once and curled back up on the rug, already settling in like she’d claimed the space for all of you.

And with that, you picked the knife back up and resumed chopping—maybe a little slower this time—as the rain kept falling and the kitchen filled with the quiet, steady rhythm of warmth and new familiarity.

---

After dinner, the kitchen carried the warm scent of cooked rice and vegetables, the kind that lingered in the air like a comforting memory. You stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up once more, rinsing dishes beneath the steady stream of warm water. Beside you, a towel lay ready for drying, which you used between each piece, stacking them neatly.

From the living room, you could hear the quiet sound of cushions being adjusted, the soft rustle of a blanket. In-ho was preparing the couch just as he said he would—quietly, efficiently, without making a fuss.

Outside, the storm had only grown worse. Rain hammered against the windows in relentless waves, and a sharp flash of lightning illuminated the flat for a brief moment, followed almost instantly by a low, rumbling growl of thunder. You paused, glancing out the window as the sky cracked open in flickers of white and silver.

In-ho reappeared at the kitchen doorway just as you were drying the last plate. His expression was relaxed, but you could see he was watching the weather too. “That should be fine now,” he said softly, nodding toward the couch behind him. “Blanket, pillow—nothing fancy, but it’s warm.”

You turned to him, feeling a mix of gratitude and that same lingering awkwardness. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He gave you a small, easy smile and stepped aside, motioning toward the fridge. “If you’re thirsty later, help yourself. There’s water, juice, a few beers… whatever suits you.”

You nodded. “I’ll try not to drink all your juice.”

He chuckled and leaned against the wall for a moment, arms loosely crossed. “I think I’ll survive.”

Luna stretched out on the rug, clearly at peace with the new sleeping arrangement.

In-ho stood by the window for a moment longer, arms crossed loosely as he watched the sky flash white again. The lightning danced behind the sheer curtains, casting brief, flickering shadows across his face. His expression was calm, but thoughtful.

“It’s good you decided to stay,” he said without looking at you. “In weather like this… no one should be outside.”

You nodded quietly, your eyes following the steady stream of water running down the glass. “Yeah. I think I figured that out the hard way.”

He glanced back at you then, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly in that quiet, knowing smile of his. You couldn’t tell if he was amused or just relieved.

He stepped away from the window, heading toward the hallway, but paused in the doorway. “I’m going to retreat to my room now,” he said, voice low but clear. “If anything comes up—if you need anything or… I don’t know, if the ceiling decides to cave in—just knock.”

He pointed down the dim hallway. “First door on the left.”

You gave a small smile. “Got it. Ceiling emergencies only.”

He smirked faintly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Luna gave a sleepy grunt from her spot on the rug, clearly unconcerned about ceiling emergencies or anything else for that matter.

“Sleep well,” he added as he turned away.

“You too,” you replied softly, watching as he disappeared down the hall, the quiet click of the door behind him the last sound before the storm outside stole back the silence.

You walked over to the couch and sank down onto its soft cushions, pulling the blanket loosely over your legs. The fabric was warm and comforting against your damp skin.

Reaching for your phone, you scrolled through your notifications—no new messages, no missed calls. Just a flood of alerts about the worsening weather: warnings, advisories, reminders to stay indoors. Great.

You glanced over at Luna, curled up peacefully on the rug nearby. How could she be so calm? So utterly at ease in a stranger’s home, while you felt the weight of every unfamiliar sound and shadow pressing in?

Your lips pressed into a scowl as you stared at her. “Seriously, Luna? How are you so chill about all this?”

She lifted her head lazily, blinking at you with those warm, trusting eyes, as if to say, What’s the big deal?

You sighed, shaking your head. Maybe she had the right idea—sometimes, letting go was the only way through. But still… this was a stranger’s house.

You pulled the blanket tighter and settled back, trying to find some comfort in the quiet hum of the storm outside.

---

You were snoring softly on the couch, the blanket tangled and slipping off as you lay sprawled comfortably in your borrowed clothes. The quiet rhythm of your breath mixed with the gentle hum of the flat, a peaceful contrast to the storm that had raged hours before.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, warm and golden, spilling across the room and waking the world anew. The rain had finally stopped, and a calm stillness settled outside.

In-ho was already at the kitchen table, absorbed in the morning newspaper, the corners of the pages creasing softly as he flipped through. His posture was relaxed but attentive, a quiet presence in the room.

You stirred slowly, eyelids fluttering open to the soft glow of the new day. The lingering warmth from the blankets and the calm atmosphere made it hard to move at first.

“Morning,” you murmured groggily, voice rough but soft.

He glanced up briefly, offering a small nod. “Good morning. You slept well?”

You stretched slightly, the oversized shirt shifting against your skin. “Better than I expected.”

You slowly got up from the couch, stretching as you rubbed the last traces of sleep from your eyes. The blanket slid off your shoulders and onto the floor in a soft heap.

Walking over to the window, you peeked through the curtain.

No storm to see anymore. The sky was bright, streaked with soft blue and pale gold, the streets still wet but glistening now under the morning sun. A few birds hopped along the sidewalk below, and the world looked as if it had been freshly washed.

You sighed, pressing your fingers lightly to the glass. “Well… guess I should tidy up and head out.”

Behind you, you heard the rustle of newspaper. “Or,” In-ho said, his tone light but firm, “you could eat, wake up properly, and then help tidy up.”

You turned to find him watching you from the table, one brow slightly raised, a mug of coffee in his hand. He didn’t look like he was rushing anything.

You blinked, a little surprised by how casual he still was. “You sure? I’ve already taken enough of your time and space.”

He took a sip from the mug, then set it down gently. “You’re here. You might as well do it properly. There’s breakfast, if you want it.”

Luna, hearing the word breakfast, let out a hopeful bark from her spot on the rug, tail thumping the floor as if she too agreed that leaving could wait.

You sighed again—but this time, there was a hint of a smile behind it. “Okay, fine. But I’m doing the dishes afterward.”

He shrugged, not arguing. “Deal.”

So with that, you sat down across from him and shared a quiet breakfast—toast, eggs, a bit of fruit he’d pulled together without comment. The conversation was light, slow at first, but easy. You found yourself asking questions—where he was from, what he did for work (to which he answered vaguely but politely), and what kind of books he liked. In turn, he asked about Luna, your work, your favorite places to walk.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were the kind of person to run into ponds,” he teased lightly, smirking behind his coffee mug.

You rolled your eyes. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were the kind of person who invites strangers into your flat.”

He tilted his head. “I’m full of surprises.”

You laughed, the mood warm, the kitchen filled with the clinking of silverware and the soft sound of rainwater still dripping from the rooftops outside.

After breakfast, you gathered the plates and brought them to the sink without a word. He offered to help, but you waved him off, determined. “You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule.”

He didn’t argue.

Once the dishes were done, you helped him straighten up the flat—folding the blanket, fluffing the couch cushions, putting away the clean dishes and wiping down the counters. Luna followed you around with her tail swaying gently, as if supervising.

Eventually, you disappeared into the bathroom to change back into your (still slightly damp) clothes. They were at least wearable now. The borrowed clothes were folded neatly in your arms as you stepped out into the hallway again.

You paused when you saw him leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

“I’ll wash these and bring them back,” you said, lifting the bundle slightly. “You didn’t have to lend them, but… thank you.”

He gave a small smile, brow slightly raised. “You don’t have to bring them back. They’re just spare clothes.”

You shook your head with a faint smile of your own. “Still. I’d feel better doing it.”

He met your eyes for a second longer, then gave a quiet nod. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

Luna gave a bark from the door, like she was telling you it was time to move.

He stepped forward without a word and took your coat from where you’d draped it over the back of the chair. With a careful gesture, he helped you slip it on, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders before quietly reaching for his own jacket from the hook near the door.

You paused as you bent to put on your shoes, glancing up at him with a confused look. “You’re coming too?”

He shrugged, tugging on his coat. “I’d rather walk you home. Just to be sure you get there safe.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the gesture—by how effortlessly he said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No awkwardness, no obligation. Just quiet certainty.

“…You really don’t have to,” you murmured, though the protest felt half-hearted.

“I know,” he said simply, grabbing an umbrella by the door. “But I want to.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you hummed softly and reached for Luna’s leash, which she greeted with an excited bark and a wriggle of anticipation. You clipped it onto her collar, watching her tail wag wildly.

“Alright,” you said, giving him a faint smile. “Let’s go before she pulls me into another pond.”

He smirked, opening the door and stepping aside to let you both pass.

“I’ll be ready this time,” he said, only half-joking, as the three of you stepped out into the clean, damp air of the new morning.

And before you realized it, you had met him again.

Not intentionally—at least not at first. Just passing moments. A familiar figure at the edge of your vision while walking Luna through the park. A quick wave. A small nod. The faint curve of a smile exchanged across misty paths and sun-dappled trails.

From seeing each other… it became meeting each other.

It started simple. You’d linger a little longer when you spotted him. He’d slow his steps when he noticed you first. And soon enough, it became routine—no longer coincidence, but quiet intention.

He began showing up with two cups of coffee, one always handed to you without a word, like it had been part of the plan all along. You never had to ask how he knew what you liked—he just remembered. Of course he did.

Luna would bolt across the park, chasing birds or fallen leaves, circling back occasionally for a scratch behind the ears before taking off again. You’d both sit on the same bench, sometimes talking, sometimes not. The silence was never uncomfortable.

“This is becoming a habit,” you said once, glancing at the coffee in your hand.

He gave a small, amused hum. “Bad one?”

You shook your head, smiling. “Not really.”

There was something easy about it all. No pressure. No rush. Just small steps taken quietly under soft skies and rustling trees, shared glances and steady company.

And somehow, the space beside him began to feel a little like home.

You two sat there every day, the routine quietly settling into something comforting. What started with hot coffee slowly shifted as the seasons changed—from steaming mugs warming your hands in chilly spring mornings to cool, refreshing iced tea under the summer sun.

It was always the same time you saw each other, like clockwork, an unspoken rhythm neither of you needed to schedule.

One day, you arrived a little late, the bench empty and your heart briefly sinking with the absence. No sign of him, no familiar figure waiting.

Then, almost without warning, you felt a presence behind you—a soft step on the gravel path.

“Running late today,” he murmured with a quiet smile, his voice low enough to feel like a secret between just the two of you.

You laughed softly, turning to meet his eyes. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

He shrugged, pulling something from his bag—a small, carefully wrapped package. “Thought you might be hungry.”

Inside was your favorite snack, something you’d mentioned offhand months ago but hadn’t expected him to remember.

From remembering your favorite snacks, it naturally grew into remembering the kinds of food you liked—your favorite teas, the way you took your coffee, even the way you preferred your meals simple and comforting.

One afternoon, he hesitated just a little before asking, “Would you like to come back to my place sometime? For dinner, maybe?”

You blinked, surprised, but nodded before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”

At first, Luna had nothing of her own there—just the familiar scent of you lingering on his couch. But that changed quickly. A small food bowl appeared by the kitchen corner, a soft dog bed tucked near the window, and bags of her favorite food lined neatly on a shelf.

“She seems to like it,” he said one evening, watching Luna curl up in her new spot.

You smiled, running a hand along her fur. “Looks like she’s made herself at home.”

Before you knew it, you were there nearly every day. Meeting late in the afternoon, the three of you taking long walks through the park as the sun dipped low, the golden light warming the city. Sometimes you stopped for groceries together, chatting about what to cook—or whether to order in.

“Do you want to try making that recipe you mentioned?” he’d ask, holding up a package of noodles.

You’d grin, “Only if you promise not to judge my cooking.”

He’d laugh softly. “No judgment. Just honest feedback.”

And after the meal, you’d settle in for another quiet night at his apartment—small moments weaving together, a life slowly stitching itself between two strangers, a dog, and a thousand little shared memories.

He was there when you were sick.

No hesitation, no awkwardness—just quiet care. He picked up medicine without you asking, made sure you drank water, and sat by your side while you slept off the fever. His presence was never overwhelming, just steady. Constant. Gentle.

And when he ever got sick—which was rare—you stayed with him, no questions asked. You’d make tea, insist he rest, and scold him gently when he tried to get up and do things anyway.

“You’re not invincible,” you told him once, fluffing the pillow behind his back.

He looked at you with a small, amused smile. “I don’t have to be. You’re here.”

And before either of you realized it, your toothbrush had made itself at home in his bathroom. Then your hairbrush appeared on the sink. A sweater left behind on a chair. Socks in the laundry. A pair of slippers next to his own.

You didn’t talk about it—it just happened. Easy. Natural.

From sleeping on the couch, it shifted to sharing a bed. At first, maybe it was just because you dozed off watching a movie and didn’t want to move. Then it became a habit. Then it became… yours. His and yours.

And one day, without fanfare, you found yourself standing outside his building, key already in hand. You didn’t even think twice as you unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The smell of something warm and familiar greeted you. Luna was sprawled comfortably across the couch, tail thumping lazily when she saw you. In-ho sat beside her, a book open in one hand, the other absentmindedly stroking Luna’s head.

He looked up as you entered, not surprised, not startled—just content.

“You’re back early,” he said, closing the book gently. “I was about to make tea.”

You smiled, setting down your bag. “I could make it for us.”

He patted the spot beside him. “Only if you sit with me for a minute first.”

You sat. Luna shifted to press her head against your leg, and In-ho leaned back with a sigh, as if everything had finally settled exactly where it belonged.

There were bad days too, of course.

The kind of day where everything seemed to pile up at once.

You were pacing the bedroom, phone pressed tightly to your ear, voice raised in frustration. The argument with your landlord had gone from civil to chaotic in minutes. You were being kicked out—no extensions, no compromise—and he wanted your things gone by tomorrow.

“What do you mean you gave it away?! That’s my stuff! You can’t just—No, don’t you hang up on—”

Click.

You stared at the screen for a beat, your breath short and hot in your chest before you swore—loudly, bitterly, not caring who heard.

The door creaked slightly. In-ho was leaning against the frame, arms folded, his expression calm but unreadable. He had been listening—quietly, respectfully, not interrupting. Just there.

You turned to him, the pressure in your chest bursting out in a flare of frustration. “Don’t just stand there like that! Say something!”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice.

Instead, he stayed where he was, grounded and quiet as he looked at you. “Are you finished yelling?”

You stared at him, arms still tense at your sides, and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Well, no…”

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle and walked toward you, the weight of your anger dissolving under his steady gaze. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His scent was familiar, grounding—something like tea and warm linen and safety.

“You shatter your pretty little head too much, hm?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple.

Your chest stuttered, the fight finally leaving your lungs.

Then he gently cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. His expression was calm but serious now—decided.

“We’ll drive to your place,” he said quietly, “pick up whatever you need. The rest we can deal with later.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He tilted his head with a soft smile. “You’ve been here for months already. Your toothbrush has seniority in the bathroom. Luna’s got more furniture than I do. Let’s stop pretending it’s temporary.”

A lump caught in your throat. You hadn’t meant to cry again, but it was different this time—no longer frustration, but relief.

“I didn’t mean to make this your problem,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “You’re not a problem. You’re my person. That makes it ours.”

You let out a quiet laugh, eyes stinging. “You always say the right thing, don’t you?”

He smirked. “Only when it really matters.”

---

You were in your now shared flat, barefoot on the warm wood floors, moving through the space with purpose as you began putting your things away. It felt surreal—your things mixing with his, shelves being filled not just with his carefully placed books and minimalist decorations, but now your lotions, your tiny clutter, your life.

In-ho walked through the door, carrying another box on his shoulder, Luna trotting behind him with her tail wagging like she was welcoming herself home all over again.

He set the box down with a soft grunt. “What do you keep in here, bricks?”

You glanced over from the bathroom doorway, holding a small tray of skincare bottles. “Excuse you. That’s just toner, serums, and very necessary self-care.”

He raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on his pants. “Necessary, huh? Is that why there are four steps just for cleansing?”

“Five,” you corrected, smirking. “If I’m tired, four. If I’m upset, seven.”

He snorted and opened the next box. “God help me.”

You stepped out of the bathroom with a teasing grin. “Careful, Mr. Hwang. This is your life now.”

He looked up at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “I know. I’m doomed.”

You walked over and kissed his cheek quickly before grabbing a handful of your socks from the box.

Luna barked excitedly, circling your legs, and you glanced down. “Yes, yes, your things are next.”

In-ho nodded toward the last box in the hall. “That one’s all hers. Toys, treats, that weird pink duck she tries to kill every morning.”

You laughed, the sound light and warm in the shared space. “She loves that duck.”

“She hates that duck,” he corrected. “It’s a difference fueled by passion.”

You smiled, pausing for a moment just to look at him—the way he already knew where your mugs should go, how easily Luna settled beside his feet, how he never once made you feel like a guest. Not even now.

By the end of the evening, the last box had been unpacked, the last picture frame set on the shelf, and the final drawer closed with a satisfying snap. You both collapsed onto the bed with tired limbs and content hearts, the glow from the TV flickering gently across the room as a movie played softly in the background.

In-ho lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his other hand loosely linked with yours. The room smelled faintly of takeout and the lavender candle you insisted on lighting. A quiet, peaceful exhaustion settled over both of you.

Then, with a sudden thump and a huff, Luna jumped onto the bed without warning, paws landing squarely on In-ho’s stomach.

He let out a dramatic groan. “Luna, again?”

She barked softly, tail wagging as she confidently wedged herself between you both, her head plopping down on his chest like it was her personal pillow.

You giggled, turning onto your side. “She has good taste.”

“She’s heavy,” he muttered, though he didn’t move her. Instead, he sighed in defeat and scratched her ears. “I used to have boundaries, you know.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, tracing lazy patterns on the sheet with your fingers. “And now you have us.”

He looked down at you with a crooked smile, eyes soft. “Yeah… now I have you.”

Luna snorted in her sleep, already out cold, and you both chuckled.

[r-u3]

Summary: In-ho had adopted you years ago and raised you like his own. Growing up in the island you never really understood the importance or rather things that happened in there, always getting shielded by your dad.

Pairing: In-ho x daughter!reader

Warnings: /

A/N: requests for squid game are open :)

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You were a curious child, barely six years old, with wide, trusting eyes that drank in the world around you like it was a grand adventure. You didn’t know any family but In-ho — the man who had taken you in, who had become your entire world. You never questioned it; you never needed to. For you, he was all there was.

In-ho’s nature was cold, sharp, like the steel of the island’s harsh games he controlled. To everyone else, he was a figure of command, distant and unyielding, a man who kept his emotions locked away behind a mask. But to you, he was different. Beneath the stern exterior, there was a quiet, fierce care — a care that made him watch over you with an intensity that sometimes frightened you, but mostly made you feel safe.

He was protective in his own way. Though his words were few, every action spoke volumes: the way he gently tucked you in at night, the small, rare smiles he allowed himself when you laughed, the way he shielded you from the cruel realities he couldn’t yet let you understand. He wanted to keep you innocent, to preserve that fragile trust and wonder that you carried so freely.

You, naive and trusting, clung to him like the whole world depended on his presence — because, in truth, it did. You saw him as your father, the man who acted like one, who bore the weight of that role even if he never said it aloud. He wasn’t just the Front Man to you; he was your protector, your quiet guardian, your anchor.

In-ho’s coldness was never meant to hurt you. It was a shield — his way of holding the chaos at bay, so that your small world could be a little brighter, a little safer.

Every morning and every evening, without fail, In-ho would brush your hair. His hands, steady and sure, moved carefully through the tangled strands, never rushing, always patient. The softness of your hair beneath his fingers was a rare moment of tenderness in his otherwise cold world.

“You have such beautiful hair,” he would say quietly, his voice low but gentle. “It’s important to take care of it. Like you.”

You’d watch him with wide eyes as he worked, fascinated by the careful way he brushed, the way he tried to keep your hair neat and smooth. Sometimes he’d frown, trying to figure out the best way to braid it — awkward at first, but persistent. His brows would crease in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line, until finally, he’d look up at you with a small, satisfied nod.

“Almost got it,” he’d say, a rare hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You have to be patient. It’s a skill.”

He never hurried, never showed frustration, even if the braid was imperfect. His patience was unwavering, as if in those moments with you, the coldness of his usual self melted away just a little.

“Sleep well tonight,” he’d whisper as he finished brushing, his hand lingering softly on your head. “Tomorrow will be a better day.”

On other days, In-ho would feed you with the same quiet patience he showed when brushing your hair. Every meal was served right on time, always warm — as if the steady rhythm of these moments could anchor you both in a world that often felt uncertain. He made sure you never went hungry, never cold, never forgotten.

Sometimes, when he had a rare moment to spare, he’d prepare extra snacks just for you — a small treat hidden away, something special he knew would make you smile. You didn’t always understand why he did it, but his gentle care was unmistakable.

“Eat slowly,” he would say softly, placing the bowl in front of you. “There’s no rush. Food is meant to be savored, just like this moment.”

If you tried to eat too fast, he’d gently remind you, “Patience, little one. Good things come with time.”

And when you looked up at him with those trusting eyes, he’d add quietly, “I’ll always be here to make sure you’re safe… and fed.”

Other times, when the calm didn’t hold, In-ho would simply watch you — silent and still, his dark eyes fixed on your small figure. You weren’t a talkative child; you preferred to stay quiet rather than speak up. That made things harder for him. In moments when your emotions overwhelmed you and you broke down into loud, uncontrollable sobs, his usual patience wavered.

He didn’t know how to help you. After all, you barely talked, and that silence made it almost impossible for him to understand what you needed. The frustration showed in his furrowed brow, the tight line of his lips.

“Why won’t you say anything?” he would ask, voice low but firm, a hint of reprimand threading through. “How am I supposed to help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

He stepped closer, voice softer now but still edged with a quiet urgency. “Crying won’t fix anything by itself.”

After a while, when the storm of your sobs began to slow but the sadness still clung to you like a shadow, he would carefully pick you up into his arms. His grip was firm yet gentle, steadying you like a rock in the middle of a restless sea.

He brushed your tears away with the back of his hand, his touch surprisingly tender despite the coldness he usually wore like armor. Then, without a word, he’d hand you your stuffed animal — a small, worn companion you clung to for comfort.

“Here,” he’d say quietly, voice almost a whisper now, “hold this. It’s safe. You’re safe.”

It wasn’t much, but it was everything he knew how to give — a quiet promise that even when words failed, he was there.

---

You were running around the room where he sat watching the games, your small feet barely touching the floor as you darted between shadows and chairs, laughter bubbling up like a carefree melody. The space was dimly lit, filled with the low hum of the monitors and the distant sounds of the players’ struggles on the big screen. His mask—cold, unyielding—and your smaller one lay neatly folded on the table, silent witnesses to the dangerous world just beyond these walls.

To anyone watching, In-ho seemed absent-minded, his eyes fixed on the screens, calculating, commanding. But the truth was far different. His gaze often flickered away from the ruthless games unfolding before him to follow your every move. You were so small against the backdrop of this brutal place, yet you held all his attention. He watched carefully, making sure you didn’t stumble, didn’t fall, didn’t hurt yourself in your innocent exploration.

“Be careful,” he murmured, voice low and steady, the calm edge in his tone barely hiding his concern. “Don’t run too fast.”

You ignored the warning, caught up in your own little world, spinning and chasing invisible dreams. His eyes narrowed just slightly, and his voice grew firmer, a subtle warning threading through. “Slow down. You’re going to fall.”

But you didn’t listen. Your laughter only grew louder, your pace faster, and with that, a quiet tension settled into his posture. The usual cold mask he wore seemed to tighten, and his patience wore thin.

“I said, stop,” he said more sharply, his voice cutting through the air, cold but urgent. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

But it was already too late. Your small foot caught on the edge of a chair leg, and suddenly you were tumbling forward, the world spinning as you fell hard onto the floor. The impact was sharp and sudden, and for a brief moment, everything was still. Your breath caught, your body frozen in shock, and the room held its breath alongside you.

In-ho sighed quietly, a sound heavy with frustration but also something deeper—an unspoken worry that tightened his chest. Then the silence shattered as your cries burst forth, raw and unrestrained. You called out, “Appa… appa…” your voice trembling and desperate, reaching out for the one person you knew could make it better.

Without hesitation, In-ho rose from his chair, his movements swift and purposeful. The cold, calculating mask he wore melted just slightly as he crossed the room and bent down to scoop you into his arms. You clung to him, still crying, the tears wetting his shirt, your small frame trembling against his chest.

“You have to be more careful,” he said, voice low but firm, the reprimand threaded with undeniable care. “If you keep ignoring me like this, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

His hand moved gently to brush your tears away, his fingers steady and patient despite the sharpness in his tone. “I can’t always be right here to catch you. You need to listen when I tell you something. You need to learn that.”

Slowly, he rose, cradling you carefully in his arms as he moved back to the couch. Sitting down with measured care, he settled you into his lap, holding you close as if to shield you from the harshness of the world outside this quiet room. The steady weight of your small body pressed against him was grounding — a fragile moment of calm amid the cold and chaos.

Leaning forward, his dark eyes studied your knees with a careful intensity, searching for any sign of real harm. There was no blood, no broken skin — only the faintest flush of red where you’d hit the floor. Mostly, it was shock and pain that made you cling tighter to him.

He lifted one of your knees gently, his touch deliberate but soft, then moved to the other. Satisfied there was no serious injury, he reached up and began to pet your head, running his fingers slowly through your hair with an unexpected tenderness. It was a quiet gesture, but one that carried the weight of all the care he usually kept locked away.

You sniffled and looked up at him, your lower lip trembling as you whispered, “Apeu…” — ouch — your voice small and vulnerable.

He hummed, the deep sound vibrating softly in his throat as he met your gaze. The corners of his mouth twitched into a faint, almost shy smile. “Apeu?” he repeated, his voice softer now, curious and concerned. “Did your knees hurt?”

You nodded slowly, still wrapped in his arms, feeling safe despite the sting.

In-ho brushed another tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, the motion unhurried and quiet. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face with calm intensity, his voice low and gentle.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

You gave a little sniffle, then nodded again. “Ne,” you whispered softly — yes.

Your small hands gripped the fabric of his coat tighter as you nestled closer into his chest. A few seconds passed, your breath still hitching slightly from the fading cries. Then you looked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and softly called, “Appa…”

He looked down at you immediately, the ever-present focus in his eyes sharpening. “Hmm?” he responded, a slight furrow in his brow. “What is it? What do you need?”

But you didn’t answer with words. Instead, your hands rose into the air between you, fingers flexing, palms open — your small version of grabby hands. A silent request.

He blinked, lips twitching at the corners with something caught between exasperation and affection.

“You just want to be held, huh?” he murmured, voice a little softer, almost amused now. “After scaring me half to death.”

Still, he adjusted you in his arms, holding you closer, one large hand supporting your back while the other gently cradled your head. He sighed, the sound heavy but no longer frustrated.

“You’re lucky I’m soft for you,” he said under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear. But even if you didn’t catch the words, you felt the meaning in the warmth of his hold, in the slow way his hand began to pet your hair again.

Suddenly, in the stillness of that quiet moment, your stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl.

In-ho’s eyes shifted downward immediately, the faintest flicker of amusement passing across his usually unreadable face. He arched a brow and looked back at you, still cradled in his arms.

“Hungry?” he asked, his voice low but touched with that same dry amusement, as though your tiny body had just betrayed you in the most predictable way.

You gave a sheepish nod, mumbling a soft “Ne…” under your breath, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Just then, as if on cue, the door opened with a gentle hiss, and one of the masked guards stepped inside. He didn’t glance in your direction, nor did he say a word. Without even a pause, he approached silently and placed a covered tray of food on the low table beside the couch—right next to where you and In-ho sat.

With mechanical precision, the guard bowed his head slightly and turned, exiting just as quickly as he had arrived, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

In-ho didn’t move right away. He simply watched the door for a moment, as if making sure it was properly closed, then looked back down at you.

“Well, seems someone was listening,” he murmured.

He shifted you gently off his lap, setting you beside him on the couch with the same careful touch he always used, making sure you were comfortable. Then he reached over and pulled the tray toward the two of you, removing the lid. The scent of warm rice and broth filled the room — simple, comforting, and just enough to quiet the hunger gnawing at your belly.

He handed you a small spoon and met your gaze once more. “Eat slowly this time,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m not cleaning up after a second mess today.”

And despite his stern words, there was warmth in them.

---

He leaned back against the couch, the quiet creak of the leather the only sound in the room aside from the muffled broadcast of the games playing on the large screen before him. You were fast asleep against his side, your head resting lightly on his chest, your small fingers curled gently around the edge of his coat.

Your soft breaths came in slow, even rhythm — so different from the frantic sobs just an hour ago. Now, you were peaceful, safe, completely unaware of the brutal reality unfolding just a few feet away on the screen.

In-ho finally let his gaze drift to the monitors, watching the players move through their trials — struggling, falling, surviving. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Focused. The mask he wore without physically putting it on.

But as his eyes lingered on the screen, a deep pressure settled in his chest. That familiar ache — the one he only ever felt when he looked at you.

He glanced down, careful not to move too much, and watched the way you clung to him even in sleep. Your face was peaceful, soft. Innocent. You didn’t know what those games were. You didn’t understand why the people screamed. You didn’t ask why he wore a mask or why no one else ever spoke to you.

You were still untouched by it all.

And he would keep it that way.

You’ll never grow up in poverty, he thought, his jaw tightening slightly. Not like I did. Not like they did.

He had crawled through fire to stand where he stood now. Done terrible, unspeakable things. Made choices that still haunted him, that left echoes in his mind even in the quietest hours. But you — you were his one fragile exception. His reason. The only soft thing left in a world he had helped turn hard.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he whispered so quietly it was barely sound. “You won’t ever know hunger. Or fear. Or the kind of desperation that makes people do what they do down there.”

His hand rested gently on your back, just enough to feel the rise and fall of your breath. He didn’t deserve peace — but he would build it for you.

Even if it cost him the last of his soul.

The soft hum of the monitors filled the quiet room as In-ho sat still for a moment longer, eyes flicking from the screen to your sleeping form curled gently and peacefully against him.

But peace, for him, was always borrowed time.

With a quiet exhale, he reached toward the table and picked up his mask — the cold, sharp lines of it catching the dim light. The moment his fingers closed around it, the weight of his role returned like a second skin. The Front Man. The Watcher. The Warden of this twisted world.

He slipped it over his face with practiced ease, the click of it settling into place echoing faintly through the room.

Then he turned to you.

Carefully, almost reverently, he picked up your smaller mask. The one made just for you — soft edges, light material, harmless in every way. It wasn’t meant to hide you. It was meant to shield you.

He held it in his hand for a moment, hesitating just slightly, as if the very act of placing it on your face would steal a piece of your innocence. But it was necessary. You couldn’t be seen — not by the guards, not by the others.

With gentle precision, he slipped the mask over your face, adjusting the strap behind your head as delicately as if you were made of glass. You didn’t stir. Still sound asleep, lips parted, arms limp against his chest.

“Good,” he murmured under his breath. “Just keep dreaming.”

Then, slowly, he stood. He lifted you easily into his arms, careful not to jostle you, holding you close against his chest with one arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. You nestled instinctively into his shoulder, unaware of how quickly the warmth of safety was traded for the cold halls that awaited him.

Duty called. The next game was beginning. Orders had to be given. Eyes had to be kept sharp. Blood would be spilled.

But as he stepped through the door, flanked by silent guards who quickly looked away, he held you tighter.

Even as the world burned behind his mask, he carried you as if you were something holy.

The sterile hiss of the control room door opened ahead of him, and the cold, clinical light bathed the space in its familiar glow. Screens lined the walls, flickering with camera feeds of the arena, showing every trembling player, every shadow, every countdown. Voices buzzed faintly through the headsets, and guards moved with quiet efficiency around their assigned stations.

In-ho stepped inside, still holding you carefully in his arms, your small masked face nestled against his shoulder. You remained fast asleep, your breathing steady, untouched by the gravity of the world that pulsed around you.

A tall guard stood waiting near the back — one of the few he trusted without question. Not with the games, but with you. That was a far greater responsibility.

Without a word, the guard stepped forward, and In-ho lowered his arms slightly, offering you to him with the same gentleness he used when holding you himself.

“Careful,” he said softly, his voice slightly muffled behind the mask, but still firm. “She stays asleep if possible. No sudden movement.”

The guard gave a slow, silent nod and took you gently into his arms. His hold was secure but soft, supporting your head and back as if you were something fragile and rare — because to In-ho, you were.

For a moment, In-ho didn’t move. His gaze lingered on you, making sure you were comfortable, that your head was resting just right, that the blanket tucked around you hadn’t shifted. Only once he was satisfied did he finally turn away, straightening his posture — a complete shift as the mask of the father gave way to the mask of the Front Man.

Duty called.

He walked toward the main console, arms behind his back, voice sharp and commanding as he addressed the room. “Prepare the next game. Ensure all systems are synchronized. No malfunctions. No deviations.”

The staff responded instantly, movements brisk and calculated. Everything had to go smoothly. There was no room for error.

Behind him, in the corner of the control room, the guard sat in silence, holding you securely, rocking you ever so slightly without drawing attention. You remained asleep, unaware that the man who ran this cruel machine had just handed over his heart — even if only for a short while — so that he could ensure the darkness never reached you.

It was a normal routine for you, a rhythm carved out amidst the chaos of the games and the cold walls of the facility. Some days, you stayed close to your papa, nestled in his quiet, watchful presence. Other days, you were entrusted to one of the guards — or sometimes a small group of them — all dressed in the same dark, uniform jumpsuits and faceless masks, their identities hidden behind the cold anonymity of the game’s rules.

To most, they were nothing more than silent enforcers, moving with rigid precision, voices low and monotone, their faces unreadable beneath the masks. But with you, they softened in their own way. The guards weren’t just watchers or soldiers; they became your unlikely playmates. Their hands, usually steady on weapons or controls, became instruments of gentle care as they played simple games to keep you entertained.

Sometimes they played hide and seek. One guard would kneel, arms folded over his knees, his masked face turned slightly away as he counted in a slow, even voice. “Ready or not, here I come,” he said, monotone but patient.

You giggled softly, the small breath of laughter almost a secret in the quiet room. “Gidaryeo…” — wait — you whispered back, barely loud enough for him to hear.

You crouched behind a column, peeking carefully around the edge. Another guard stood still a few feet away, his posture stiff but eyes, even behind the mask, gentle as they scanned for you. “Where are you hiding, little one?” he asked, voice flat but curious.

Suddenly, the first guard lunged forward and gently tapped your shoulder. “Gotcha,” he said softly.

You squealed, dropping your hands to the floor in surprise and delight.

“Again?” the guard crouched beside you, his tone unchanged but somehow patient, almost coaxing.

“Ne…” — yes — you answered, eyes bright with excitement.

They didn’t speak much otherwise, their words brief, measured, stripped of emotion, but the way they moved around you, careful and watchful, was a quiet kind of warmth.

In this strange place filled with danger and cruelty, these moments of play were fragile islands of normalcy. And though the guards’ voices remained monotone, and their faces forever hidden, their presence was a constant reassurance — silent guardians in a world that rarely offered mercy.

As your father appeared once again in the room where you were playing with the guards, your small feet pounded eagerly across the floor toward him. Your mask hid the full extent of your smile, but the sparkle in your eyes gave it away—a mixture of excitement and mischief bubbling just beneath the surface.

Without hesitation, and with the bravado only a child could muster, you whispered loudly enough for him to hear, “Shibal…” — fuck.

For a long moment, In-ho simply stared at you, his expression unreadable behind the cold lines of his mask. The room seemed to freeze as his dark eyes locked onto yours, calculating, weighing the unexpected word that had slipped from your lips. There was no anger, no sudden outburst — just a steady, piercing silence that made your heart beat a little faster.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the group of guards standing stiffly nearby. All dressed in the same dark uniforms, their faces hidden behind identical masks, they stood motionless, each waiting for his command, their posture rigid and expressionless.

“Which one of you taught her that?” His voice was calm, controlled, but the underlying sharpness was unmistakable. It sliced through the quiet air like a blade, demanding an answer.

The guards shifted slightly, exchanging subtle glances behind their masks, but none spoke up. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, the tension in the room palpable.

In-ho took a deliberate step forward, eyes narrowing beneath his mask, his presence commanding absolute attention. “I expect better,” he said slowly, each word measured and firm. “She’s still a child. Words like that don’t belong to her.”

But you, of course, had other plans. Ignoring his serious tone completely, you began to circle him, repeating the word again and again in Korean — “Shibal… shibal…” — the mischievous rhythm rolling off your tongue like a little chant. Your tiny voice filled the room with unexpected defiance, and your father’s eye twitched visibly beneath his mask. It was a twitch that said, This is exactly why I can’t have nice things.

You giggled uncontrollably, clearly enjoying yourself far too much for his taste.

One of the guards, standing stiffly with arms crossed, finally cleared his throat in that same monotone voice, as if reciting from a script: “Sir, she hit my shin earlier. The word slipped out… accidentally.”

In-ho’s gaze snapped to the guard, the twitch in his eye intensifying as if the man had just suggested something utterly ridiculous. You meanwhile were still giggling, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing.

Then, with the coldest tone possible, the Front Man pointed at you and said, “Look away. Cover your ears.”

You blinked, puzzled for a moment, but obeyed anyway, turning your head to the side and squishing your hands over your ears like a good little kid — though not without a few sneaky peeks.

Before the guards could even process what was happening, In-ho pulled out his pistol with lightning speed. Two sharp shots echoed through the room.

Two guards crumpled silently to the floor, eyes wide and frozen in stunned surprise.

Your father turned back to you, his voice softening just a little as he tried to reassure you. “It’s okay now,” he said quietly.

Then, after a pause, he gently made you turn your head toward the fallen guards. “See? That’s what happens when you don’t listen,” he said firmly.

He hesitated, searching for the right words to scare you into behaving, but the idea didn’t come easily. He scratched the back of his head—an almost human gesture behind the cold mask—and finally blurted, “You will… uh… get your period and sleep forever.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide as saucers. “Nooo!” you gasped, utterly horrified by the idea of forever sleep and mysterious bodily changes you didn’t understand yet.

Without missing a beat—and clearly unimpressed—you muttered your favorite word again, “Shibal.”

In-ho let out a long, tired sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of every exhausted parent who’s ever lost the battle in under five seconds. “All that parenting… gone to waste in about five seconds,” he muttered, shaking his head as if you were a tiny tornado of chaos.

He glanced back at the two guards on the floor and then back at you, as if trying to reconcile the absurdity of it all. “Honestly, I thought dealing with the games was tough. Turns out, parenting you might be the real nightmare.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed behind your little mask, suddenly unsure if he was joking or if he really might throw you into the nearest furnace for being a menace. In a tiny, hesitant voice, you muttered, “Meodeopakeo…” — motherfucker.

In-ho’s sigh this time was long and low, as if his very soul was trying to walk out the door. “No,” he said flatly, rubbing his temples beneath the cold metal of his mask. “You do not say that.”

But your remorse lasted all of two seconds.

Because then, as if possessed by the sugary chaos coursing through your tiny body, you took off running again, arms flailing like a windmill, shouting every curse word you’d absorbed like a sponge. “Shibal! Meodeopakeo! Ssibal! Ya—!”

In-ho stood in place, staring at the wall like a man contemplating the end of the world, or at least the end of his patience. Another sigh. A deeper one this time.

His eyes drifted down—and then he saw them.

Scattered across the floor. A battlefield of open candy wrappers. Chocolate smudges on the floor. Half-eaten lollipops stuck to the wall. A juice box dripping slowly onto one of the guard’s boots.

His head tilted.

“…Ah,” he muttered grimly. “So that’s why.”

You shrieked with delight, grabbing a jelly bean off the ground and popping it into your mouth mid-spin before launching yourself across the room like a sugar-fueled rocket.

In-ho didn’t move. He just watched.

“She’s not going to sleep tonight,” he said to no one in particular. “And I am going to lose my mind.”

Then, with the dramatic weariness of a man who’s seen both death games and the aftermath of a toddler eating twenty pieces of candy in ten minutes, he quietly pulled out his walkie-talkie and clicked it on.

“This is the Front Man,” he said flatly. “Send backup. And a mop.”

---

He sat with you in the large, dimly lit room again—his mask resting on the table beside him, a heavy glass of whiskey untouched by his hand. The big screen in front of him was turned off for once, leaving only the soft mechanical lull of the music box echoing through the air. Its tinny melody played over and over, a delicate, almost haunting tune that tried—uselessly—to calm the room.

It was well after your bedtime.

And yet there you were: a small, sniffling mess in his lap, hiccupping through soft, miserable sobs. Your face was damp with tears, your body curled into yourself, writhing with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t allow for rest. You weren’t throwing a tantrum—this wasn’t defiant, sugar-fueled chaos. This was the meltdown of a child who was simply too tired to function, but too restless to surrender.

You didn’t even have words for it. Just that aching pressure in your chest and head and behind your eyes that you didn’t know how to release except through tears. Your small hands gripped his shirt tightly, as though you might fly apart if you didn’t hold on to something.

In-ho sat still, one hand around your back, the other slowly brushing through your tangled hair. His patience was taut—stretched thin by the late hour and your endless energy—but he didn’t snap. Not now. Not when you were like this.

He sighed quietly and looked down at you, his voice low, just above a whisper. “You’re tired,” he said gently, thumb wiping under your puffy eyes, “but you’re fighting it like it’s war.”

You let out another miserable whimper and buried your face deeper into his chest, clutching his black shirt as though it were a lifeline. Your knees curled up on his lap, trembling, and your voice was barely a squeak: “Nan an jayo…” — I’m not sleepy.

He looked at the clock. It was nearly 2 a.m.

“Mm.” He exhaled, resting his chin briefly atop your head. “And I’m not running a daycare. Yet here we are.”

Another hiccup, another sob. You mumbled something half-syllabled and thoroughly unintelligible in Korean, like a sad, sleep-deprived baby ghost. In-ho shifted in his seat again, sighing as the velvet couch squeaked beneath him. His coat fell around you like a big, dark blanket, and with robotic precision, he pulled the actual blanket up around your squirming form, tucking it in snugly.

“There,” he said softly, almost proud. “Tight and warm. Like a little burrito. Problem solved.”

No. Problem not solved.

You immediately began to squirm, kick, and whine louder—as if the blanket had personally insulted your family and stolen your lunch. You hated it. You hated being tucked. You hated this exact position. You hated that your sock was a little twisted. And you especially hated that your left foot was slightly colder than your right one.

You let out a high-pitched whine that could probably register on military sonar.

In-ho blinked once. Twice.

Then he exhaled through his nose, slowly. “Of course,” he said flatly. “You don’t like the blanket. You’d rather perish.”

You wiggled harder, arms flailing, face red, tears rolling. You were now in full meltdown mode: the floppy stage. The jellyfish stage. The “my body is no longer connected to my brain” stage.

He leaned back, watching as you threw the blanket off in one dramatic motion, kicking it away like it was on fire.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “We’ve declared war on textiles.”

Your little fists pounded weakly against his chest. He did not react. At this point, it was like being attacked by a damp hamster.

You paused, hiccuping, staring up at him with flushed cheeks and watery eyes. “Appa…” you whined, voice thick and wobbly.

He gently wiped your nose with a tissue. “Yes. Appa. The poor man who hasn’t slept in 48 hours and just wanted one quiet drink.”

You hiccupped again, then whined louder. You hated the way your head was resting. You hated being tired. You hated everything. You hated gravity.

“Okay,” he muttered. “We hate physics now, too. I’ll put it on the list.”

You let out a muffled sob against his chest, then kicked again for good measure. He didn’t even flinch this time. Just sipped his now-room-temperature whiskey, dead-eyed, like a soldier in a trench.

“This is fine,” he whispered. “Everything’s fine. I’ve run death games, I’ve killed men, I’ve lied to my own brother. But no, this—this is the real test.”

You hiccupped again, squirming once more.

“I am being terrorized by someone who can’t even spell,” he said flatly.

Still, despite the chaos, despite the crying, despite the crushed spirit of a man who once orchestrated the most brutal game known to mankind—he shifted you carefully against his chest, tightened his arms around your tiny, wriggling frame, and began gently rocking back and forth like some exhausted metronome ticking its way into madness.

But no. That didn’t help.

You let out a loud, miserable wail and thrashed like you were being lowered into lava. You were too hot. Too cold. Too everything. Your tears intensified, streaming down your cheeks with the volume and commitment of a small waterfall.

In-ho sighed so deeply it sounded like it came from the pits of whatever was left of his soul. Then, with the kind of resigned calm only found in truly defeated men, he reached for your favorite stuffed animal—the worn rabbit with a crooked ear—and gently used its fuzzy body to blot your face.

“See?” he muttered, patting your cheek with the bunny like it was a dish sponge. “Mr. Rabbit does tear control now. He’s got a side job. We all do.”

You hiccupped. Sobbed louder. Kicked again for good measure.

“Okay. Fine.” He tucked the bunny under your arm and slowly stood up, lifting you in his arms like a grumpy little sack of potatoes.

“If you won’t sleep,” he mumbled as he adjusted you against his shoulder, “then I guess you’re coming to work.”

He walked across the room, one hand steady on your back, the other lifting his mask from the table. The lights flickered briefly as the heavy hallway doors slid open, spilling cold fluorescent light across the polished marble floors—a stark contrast to the dim warmth you’d just left behind.

The music box’s soft, haunting melody clicked off, swallowed by the sterile silence that filled the vast corridors.

You snuggled deeper into his shoulder, your face pressed against the fabric of his coat. Your small hands clung weakly, seeking comfort in the solid presence that held you. In-ho moved deliberately but gently, each step measured to avoid jostling you too much. The warmth of his body was a shield against the chill of the empty hallways.

Your tears had dried, leaving faint, glistening tracks on your cheeks.

Not even five minutes into the walk, your breathing slowed, the tension in your small frame melting away until you finally slipped into sleep. Your body relaxed completely in his arms, vulnerable and fragile.

In-ho’s eyes, sharp and unyielding beneath his mask, softened ever so slightly as he glanced down at you. The world around him—the cruel games, the endless strategies, the merciless calculations—fell away in that moment, leaving only this small, sleeping child in his arms.

He tightened his grip protectively, carrying you through the cold halls not as the ruthless Front Man, but as a father—silent, watchful, and quietly determined to guard the one piece of innocence he still had left in this broken world.

[r-u3]

Summary: You're the wife of In-ho also known as the Frontman. While you're the sunshine out of you two he has his own ways of showing you his love, until he couldn't.

Pairing: Hwang In-Ho / Frontman x Wife!Reader

Warnings: A bit out ooc!in-ho, blood, killing, rushed fanfic, first fanfic spare me, angst, grief, lots of cringe, very cringe

A/N: request are open :)

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In-ho, normally known as the Front Man — cold, calculating, the silent shadow that loomed over the Games. To others, he was a phantom behind a mask, a man who had stripped himself of emotion for the sake of order and survival. Ruthless when necessary, precise always. His voice was rare, his gaze sharp, and his presence carried an air of danger — like a loaded gun resting quietly on a table.

But with you…

He wasn’t quite that man.

Sure, he didn’t speak much — silence was still his armor — but when he looked at you, it wasn’t with the detached stare he gave the workers or the players. He saw you. Not as a variable in a system, not as someone to manage or observe, but as something he didn’t even realize he’d needed: a reminder that he was still human.

He’d never say it out loud — not in those exact words — but the way his fingers would linger just a second too long when brushing your hand, or how his jaw would soften when you spoke, said more than declarations ever could.

He was distant, yes, but not absent.

His presence didn’t always come with words — it came with the quiet cup of tea left on your table before you woke, still warm. With the soft creak of the door when he returned late at night, slipping into bed beside you without a sound, but never without wrapping an arm around your waist. It came in the small ways he anchored himself to you, like a man afraid of drifting too far into the darkness he’d chosen.

He never said I love you.

But he looked at you like he meant it — in the brief glances when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his gaze lingered on your face as if trying to memorize every piece of you. It was subtle, cautious, buried beneath layers of control and guilt, but it was there. You saw it.

And maybe you were the only one who ever would.

With everyone else, he was the Front Man — feared, respected, untouchable. But with you, he was In-ho. Flawed. Wounded. Human.

You still remembered how he was before he became the man behind the mask. Before the island. Before the weight of secrets and death settled on his shoulders like a second skin.

He used to look at you as if you were the only constant in a world that never made sense. That gaze — half soft, half teasing — when you did something mundane like burn the rice or walk around the apartment in his oversized shirt. There was warmth in it, something boyish almost, something untouched by the gravity that would later consume him.

Back then, he’d hold your hand in public — reluctantly, maybe, claiming it was too hot or that people were staring — but his fingers always found yours eventually. You’d pretend not to notice how tightly he held on when crossing streets or weaving through crowds. Like some part of him didn’t trust the world not to take you away.

He had opinions about everything — the brand of coffee you bought, the movies you liked, even the way you folded laundry. It used to frustrate you, the way he always had something to say. But looking back… it was just how he engaged with you. How he stayed connected. How he made sure you knew he was paying attention — to everything.

And God, did he spoil you.

He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t make a show. But he’d walk into the room holding something you offhandedly mentioned liking a week ago. A watch you saw behind a store window. A necklace he said reminded him of the way your collarbone caught the light.

He never asked if you wanted it — he just gave. Quietly. Thoughtfully. As if the only way he knew how to show affection was by giving pieces of his success away to you.

That man… he never truly disappeared. He just became harder to reach.

But sometimes, in those brief flashes — when his hand brushed your hair behind your ear, or when his eyes met yours longer than necessary — he came back.

Not the Front Man. Not the commander of death and silence.

Just In-ho.

Yours.

He would sit in his chair — the tall, sleek one in the corner of the room, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft golden light of the lamps you insisted made the place feel warmer. He’d sit there after a long day, one leg crossed over the other, mask off but expression unreadable, watching you.

But never critically.

Never like he did the players or the guards or the world he ruled with such cold precision.

When he looked at you, it was different. Measured, yes — but not detached. His eyes would linger, traveling from your shoulders down to the hem of your dress, not with judgment but with a strange kind of admiration. As though he couldn’t quite believe you were real, still here, still his.

“That color suits you,” he’d murmur, voice low, almost too casual. “The blue… it brings out your skin.”

You’d glance at him in the mirror, arch a brow. “Just my skin?”

A faint smirk would tug at the corner of his mouth. “Among other things.”

Sometimes, he’d rise — slow, deliberate — and step behind you, wordlessly opening a drawer from your vanity. You never knew how he memorized what was inside, but he always reached for the right shade. A soft red, once. A rich plum, another time.

“This one,” he’d say, handing it to you. His fingers would brush yours as he passed the tube over, and his gaze would stay on your reflection. “Try it. It’ll match the heels you wore last week.”

You’d laugh, softly. “Are you keeping track of my shoes now?”

He wouldn’t answer at first — just sit back down in his chair, arms resting on the sides, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror.

“I see everything,” he’d say. “But with you, I actually care to remember.”

It was these quiet evenings — the ones no one else would ever witness — that reminded you he wasn’t lost. That beneath the silence and the structure, the surveillance and the power, In-ho was still there. Not a ghost. Not a stranger.

Just a man.

Watching the woman he loved put on lipstick he picked out.

And for once, not feeling like the villain.

Sometimes — on the rarest, most quiet nights when the island felt like it wasn’t swallowing him whole — you could convince him to cook with you.

He’d grumble about it, of course. About the mess, the time, the ridiculousness of it all.

“This is inefficient,” he’d say, rolling up his sleeves, “We could have just ordered something from the mainland.”

And yet… he stayed.

You’d hum beside him, hands already in the flour, ingredients lined up with more chaos than precision. He was surgical with his measurements — you were not. But he didn’t complain, just quietly corrected you when you got the sugar ratio wrong, or handed you a spoon without being asked.

That night — the night you tried baking for the first time — it all went sideways in the best way.

You reached for the flour, misjudging the tear in the paper bag. It split too fast, the white powder puffing into the air like a cloud, dusting the counter, your arms, and your dress.

You froze, hands suspended midair, turning slowly to look at him — wide-eyed, ready for the sigh, the scolding, the cold voice of order that usually accompanied anything messy.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, he stared at you for a second. His face neutral. Too neutral.

And then — before you could speak — his hand dipped into the flour pile and flicked it straight at your face.

You gasped.

He smirked.

“In-ho!” you shouted, sputtering, flour clinging to your lashes.

He didn’t even try to act innocent.

He just reached for another handful.

You grabbed your own in retaliation, and soon the kitchen turned into a war zone — two grown adults ducking behind countertops, laughing, covered in white from head to toe.

He laughed. He actually laughed.

Not the small exhale he gave during your teasing. Not the sarcastic huff. A real laugh — deep, unguarded, raw.

And when the battle ended, when you were both breathless and leaning against each other for support, your cheeks flushed and clothes ruined, he looked at you — really looked at you.

“I forgot,” he murmured, brushing a streak of flour from your jaw, “what this felt like.”

“What?” you asked, voice soft.

He met your gaze, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“This. Being stupid. Happy. Free.”

Even though the guards did have to clean up the mess after you were done — flour dust settling like a thin ghost over the sterile floors — those moments of laughter lingered in your heart.

But many things changed quickly when he slipped back into his role.

The easy warmth between you faded like mist at dawn. He became the Front Man again — the commanding presence, the shadow behind the mask.

Putting on the mask was like donning a second skin. It altered him instantly. His voice shifted — colder, sharper, clipped in a way that made your chest tighten. The softness you knew was buried deep beneath layers of duty and control.

Before he left, though, there was a small ritual only you ever saw.

He’d reach out — slow, deliberate — and cup your face in his hands, gentle but firm. His thumbs would trace your cheekbones as if memorizing your features all over again.

Then, with a careful touch, he’d place the mask over your own face.

“After all,” he’d say quietly, eyes searching yours, “your identity should remain hidden at all costs.”

In that moment, beneath the weight of the mask, you understood just how much he guarded not only the Games, but you — protecting you from the world that could destroy what little peace you had left.

And even behind the mask, in the silence that followed, his love never disappeared.

---

You watched him—silent, still, a shadow framed by the dim light of the room. The big, dark space felt heavier somehow, filled with the hum of screens and the faint clink of glass.

His mask was off now, resting on the table beside him. You could see every line of his face—the tightness around his eyes, the set of his jaw. He swirled the whiskey in his glass slowly, as if trying to dissolve the weight pressing down on him.

The screen in front of him flickered to life, casting a pale glow over his features as the Games unfolded again—players moving, lives hanging in the balance.

Before he spoke, you already knew.

He didn’t like you watching.

Not this.

His voice cut through the quiet, low and edged with something like warning.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. More like a careful line he didn’t want you to cross. A boundary drawn between his world—and the one you belonged to.

You giggled softly, stepping closer, the quiet sound breaking the tension in the room.

“How did you know I was here?” you teased, eyes sparkling in the low light.

He hummed thoughtfully, swirling his whiskey once more before setting the glass down with a deliberate calm.

“You’re my wife,” he said, voice low but certain. “It would be… bad if I didn’t know where you were.”

There was no menace in his words, just a steady, unshakable certainty — the kind that comes from years of instinct and care, even in a world built on rules and masks.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his cheek in a soft, fleeting kiss.

Before you could pull away, his hand rose slowly to caress your cheek, his thumb tracing delicate circles along your skin.

“You’re too close,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You hummed playfully, tilting your head. “Then maybe you should push me away,” you teased, the smirk clear in your tone even behind the mask.

He turned his head, giving you that slow, unreadable glance — one you knew far too well.

Without a word, his hand snapped up, grabbing your arm with ease. And in one swift, practiced motion, he pulled you forward and tossed you — effortlessly — so you landed with a small oof on the couch, half in his lap, legs tangled and dress bunched slightly at the hem.

You blinked, stunned, breath catching as you stared up at him with wide eyes beneath your mask.

“…In-ho.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand steady on your waist, the other reaching calmly for his glass again. “I didn’t push you,” he said dryly, “You just changed positions.”

You scoffed, laughter bubbling in your throat. “That’s not what I meant.”

His eyes flicked down to you again, calm and amused. “Then be more specific next time.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“And you say I’m the dramatic one.”

He took a sip of his whiskey, voice smooth.

“You are.”

But he didn’t move you off his lap.

He just held you there — as if this was right where you belonged.

You shifted slightly, settling into the curve of his body, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. His hand didn’t move from your waist — it stayed there, firm, like a quiet promise he’d never say aloud.

The screens flickered ahead, scenes from the Games continuing on without pause, but for once, his attention wasn’t on them. It was on you.

“You’re not going to scold me for sneaking in?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric of his sleeve.

He let out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “Would it change anything if I did?”

“Nope,” you said with a small grin, tilting your head so your masked eyes met his. “But it’s cute when you try to sound stern. Almost like you mean it.”

He turned his face slightly, raising a brow — and for just a moment, that unreadable mask of his cracked with the faintest smile. One of those rare, precious ones that never reached anyone else.

And then — shhk — the quiet hiss of the door sliding open cut through the stillness.

A guard stepped in, clad in red, mask in place, posture stiff with protocol. You turned your head instinctively, eyes narrowing behind your mask to see who it was. But the guard, upon seeing you — half in In-ho’s lap, comfortably close — quickly looked away, gaze dropping to the floor in practiced submission.

“Front Man,” he said, voice neutral, professional, but slightly strained — as though unsure whether to acknowledge your presence or pretend he hadn’t seen anything at all.

In-ho’s hand didn’t leave your back. He didn’t shift, didn’t straighten, didn’t make a show of distance.

He just replied calmly, his voice cool again — the one you recognized from every announcement, every command that echoed through the halls.

“Speak.”

The guard cleared his throat quietly. “The next game is ready. The players have been moved. We await your signal to proceed.”

A long silence followed.

You felt In-ho’s fingers twitch slightly against your spine, subtle, like something passed through him — a flicker of something he wouldn’t voice. Then he nodded once.

“Proceed,” he said, his tone sharp now, absolute.

The guard gave a small bow. “Yes, sir.”

The door slid shut behind the guard.

And silence fell again — the only sound was the soft clink of ice in his glass as he finally took another sip of whiskey.

“Do you think they talk about us?” you asked quietly, half-joking, half-curious.

He didn’t answer right away. Just set the glass down and pulled you a little closer.

“They know better.”

He then removed you from his lap with a slow, deliberate motion, standing up and leaving you alone on the couch. The air shifted instantly — the warmth drained, replaced by the cold weight of duty settling back over him.

Without a word, he reached for his mask and slipped it back on, the familiar concealment snapping him fully into the role you both knew so well.

He didn’t say much — just turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps steady and measured.

At the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, eyes silently telling you to follow.

You could feel the unspoken command — not harsh, but certain.

You rose from the couch and trailed behind him, stepping into the shadowed halls where the Games waited, and where In-ho would become the Front Man once more.

The hallways were quiet — heavy with the kind of stillness that clung to the walls, humming faintly beneath the surface like something alive. Your footsteps echoed softly beside his, the click of your shoes light against the cold floor.

You followed him in silence for a moment… and then, in a small burst of mischief, you skipped a few steps ahead. Your mask tilted toward him, a playful energy in your stride, as if none of the weight of this place touched you.

He watched you through the black mesh of his mask, head tilting ever so slightly. Even with no expression visible, you could feel his stare.

And then — his voice, low, firm, with that familiar edge.

“Walk properly.”

You turned your head back toward him, letting out a light laugh. “You sound like an instructor at a boarding school.”

“I sound like someone responsible for keeping you alive,” he replied coolly, not breaking pace. “Don’t make it harder than it already is.”

You slowed down slightly, falling back in line with him.

He hummed as you fell back beside him, the quiet sound barely audible beneath the steady rhythm of your footsteps.

You turned to face him, your eyes searching beneath your mask — wondering if he could see the question there, clear as day. Would he catch you if you were falling?

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence. Then, without warning, he reached out and gave you a gentle push — not harsh or angry, but firm enough to unsettle your balance just a little.

You stumbled forward, surprise flickering behind your eyes.

He didn’t let you fall. Not yet.

He added, voice low and almost teasing:

“If you were to fall… I would catch you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness beneath the words.

“But until then,” he said, straightening up and pressing forward again, “don’t make me have to.”

---

You were in a grand room, sitting on the couch like a pretty little thing — poised, composed, your mask hiding any hint of nerves. Behind you, the Front Man stood tall, both of you masked, his hand resting firmly but gently on your shoulder. The pressure was grounding, a silent reassurance amid the spectacle unfolding around you.

The VIPs lounged on their own plush couches, draped in expensive suits and gowns, already deep in conversation, chips stacked and drinks in hand. Their voices buzzed with anticipation and greed as they placed their bets on the next game.

One of them, a sharply dressed man with a calculating grin, leaned over to his companion.

“High stakes tonight,” he murmured. “I’m doubling down on the number 218”

His companion chuckled softly.

“Bold move. But I’m betting on endurance. Those players burn out fast.”

Suddenly, the heavy curtains were pulled back by a guard in a tailored suit, revealing the sprawling arena bathed in harsh lights below. The entire room fell into a hush, eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

Another pair of guards moved through the room, serving beverages on silver trays—crystal glasses filled with dark, rich whiskey and sparkling water, the polished uniforms contrasting sharply with the brutality outside.

You shifted slightly on the couch, feeling the weight of the Front Man’s hand steadying you.

“They never tire of this, do they?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer immediately, eyes locked on the screen. Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, he said,

“They’re not here for the players. They’re here for the spectacle. The power. The control.”

You watched the VIPs laugh, their voices light and cruel, as the games began. The camera panned to a massive glass bridge suspended high above a dizzying drop—a terrifying maze of tiles, some ordinary glass, others reinforced, capable of holding a player’s weight.

Your lips pressed into a grimace behind your mask, and you quickly looked away, unable to bear watching the tension build.

The Front Man remained still, his gaze fixed on the screen with unwavering focus, unreadable behind the mask.

A faint sound — a soft sip of whiskey — broke the silence beside you.

“Do they even understand what’s happening down there?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away, then finally said,

“They understand enough to enjoy the show. That’s all that matters.”

The VIPs cheered, their excitement swelling as players hesitated on the fragile tiles, the first cracks echoing like distant thunder.

You felt his hand tighten slightly on your shoulder, a subtle reminder — a connection — in the midst of the cold, calculated chaos.

And for a moment, you wished you could protect them all.

But you knew you couldn’t.

Not here.

Not now.

The VIPs laughed—cold, cruel laughter that echoed off the walls—as one by one, players fell through the glass tiles, shattering into the abyss below. Each death was met with cheers, with bets celebrated and fortunes shifting in real time.

After the fourth person plunged, your chest tightened. You pushed yourself up from the couch, the weight of the spectacle suddenly unbearable.

The Front Man’s hand snapped fingers sharply at a nearby server in a tailored suit. The man froze, catching the gesture immediately.

“Escort her out,” the Front Man ordered, voice clipped and commanding.

The server nodded silently and moved toward you, but a guard stepped forward, blocking the way. Without breaking protocol, the guard’s eyes met yours briefly—calm, steady—and wordlessly, he fell into step beside you, matching your pace as you were led out of the grand room.

You glanced over your shoulder once, catching the Front Man’s gaze fixed on you through the dark mask—unreadable, but unmistakably watching.

The door slid shut behind you, muffling the distant cheers and laughter. The cool silence outside was a sharp contrast, the guard’s steady presence a quiet anchor as you walked away from the chaos inside.

Suddenly, before you could fully process the steady pace of the guard beside you, everything shifted in an instant. A forceful shove sent you crashing against the cold, unforgiving wall. The breath left your lungs in a sharp gasp, and your back hit the stone with a heavy thud.

Before you could steady yourself, a gun was pressed against your temple, cold metal biting into your skin. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you looked up, heart racing wildly.

The guard’s hand moved deliberately to remove his mask.

Your eyes widened in shock, disbelief freezing you for a moment, as the face beneath was unmistakable — familiar yet strained with desperation.

Jun-ho.

In-ho’s brother.

His eyes were wild, haunted, flickering with fear and resolve. There was urgency there, a rawness that broke through the cold exterior you’d only ever glimpsed in stories, never expected to see firsthand.

“You have to trust me,” he breathed, voice low but urgent, barely more than a whisper.

“They’re watching everything. We don’t have much time — not here, not now.”

His gaze flicked nervously toward the corridor, muscles tense as if ready to spring into action at any moment.

Yet he still held the gun pressed firmly against you, the cold barrel steady and unyielding.

What the hell was going on?

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the moment — the familiar face, the threat so close, the confusion swirling like a storm inside you.

Jun-ho’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and unblinking. Then, barely above a whisper, he spoke:

“I’m here to rescue you — to free you from his grasp.”

His voice cracked slightly when he said “his,” the name unspoken but heavy in the air.

“And to save the remaining players. All of them.”

Before you could respond, his hand shot out and snatched the mask clean off your face, pulling it away as if stripping away the last barrier between you and the truth.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and confused, heart pounding in your chest.

Without hesitation, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you along the dim hallway, his grip firm and unyielding.

Your mind was reeling—fragments of fear, disbelief, and loyalty colliding all at once. You didn’t want to leave In-ho. Not like this. Not now.

You glanced back toward the heavy doors that sealed off the grand room, your heart aching at the thought of what — or who — you were leaving behind.

“Wait,” you breathed, voice trembling, “I can’t just—”

Jun-ho’s grip tightened slightly, but his voice was steady, almost pleading.

“You have to. There’s no time. If you stay, you’re lost.”

Your eyes searched his face, desperate for something — a sign that this was real, that you weren’t being pulled deeper into a nightmare.

He dragged you through the twisting maze of corridors, down narrow stairs and rusty ladders, his gun never wavering — always pointed, always ready — as if daring you to try anything.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, the cold weight of the weapon a constant reminder of how fragile your position was.

“Why keep the gun trained on me?” you finally asked, voice shaky but steady.

Jun-ho’s eyes flicked briefly toward you, grim and conflicted.

“Because I can’t trust either of you yet,” he said quietly. “Maybe… with you, my brother will come to his senses. Maybe you can be the key.”

You swallowed, trying to process his words as you descended deeper, the air growing colder, damper.

Eventually, you found yourself in a cavernous room beneath the earth, dim lights flickering overhead. Rows of diving equipment lined the walls — wetsuits, oxygen tanks, masks — all waiting silently.

Jun-ho paused, glancing over the gear. “This is our way out. The sea.”

You didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not without In-ho. The thought of leaving him behind twisted your stomach into knots.

But Jun-ho’s gun remained steady against you, a silent command sharper than any words.

“Get the equipment,” he said firmly. “We’re escaping together — and then I’m getting help. For all of us.”

You stared at him, conflicted, your hand hesitating in the air before slowly reaching out. With trembling fingers, you began to put on the diving gear, the cold rubber and metal unfamiliar against your skin.

Jun-ho watched you carefully, his expression unreadable behind the shadows.

You noticed, almost imperceptibly, how his body relaxed just a little — a brief flicker of lowered guard. Instinct took over.

In one swift motion, you grabbed his hand holding the gun, wrenching it away, and screamed at the top of your lungs, “Help! Someone—!”

Your voice echoed fiercely through the cavern, but it was drowned out by the sharp crack of a gunshots. The sound ripped through the air, deafening and final.

Jun-ho’s eyes widened, momentarily flickering with regret and urgency. Without hesitation, he shoved you hard toward the dark opening ahead.

You stumbled, barely catching yourself before plunging into the cold water below.

A sharp, burning pain blossomed in your stomach — the wounds spreading like wildfire — and the water around you blossomed crimson, swirling like ink in the dark abyss.

You gasped, the cold biting through your lungs as you sank deeper, heart pounding — caught between desperation and the fading hope that you might still survive.

You just watched him as he dove beneath the dark water, the gear strapped tight, moving with purpose — leaving you mercilessly behind.

Your lungs burned fiercely, every desperate breath a searing agony. Summoning your last reserves of strength, you fought through the suffocating cold to break the surface one final time.

Gasping, your chest heaving as the sharp sting of the night air filled your lungs, you struggled to stay afloat.

But the world around you spun uncontrollably — blurred shapes twisting as pain shot through your body, relentless and crushing.

Your arms trembled, the wounds in your stomach pulsing with fiery agony, dragging you down even as you fought to stay above.

And slowly, inevitability wrapped around you like a cold, dark shroud.

You clawed at the rough, cold stone beneath you, every finger trembling as your upper body fought to pull itself halfway onto the platform. Your breath came in ragged gasps, the sting of saltwater burning your lungs.

Just as your strength began to fail, and the dark water threatened to claim you once more, strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist, hauling you up with a fierce urgency that stole what little air you had left.

You coughed violently, trying to steady yourself, but the pain from the wounds in your stomach flared sharply, radiating through your entire body.

Guards crowded around you instantly, pressing heavy hands against the bleeding wounds, their faces taut with focus and urgency.

“Stay with us! Keep your eyes open!” one barked, voice urgent but controlled as he pressed harder, trying to stem the flow.

You tried to speak, your voice barely a rasp. “Please… don’t… let me die here…”

A wave of dizziness washed over you, and your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to stay conscious. Your hands grasped weakly at the guard’s arms, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

The Front Man’s footsteps echoed sharply as he approached, his masked gaze sweeping the room with a chilling calmness. He crouched beside you, eyes narrowing as he took in your pale face, your shallow, erratic breaths.

“Is she stable?” His voice was low, almost mechanical, but with an edge that cut through the chaos.

The guard shook his head, grim. “No. She’s lost too much blood. If we don’t act fast—”

“We will act fast,” the Front Man interrupted, voice colder now, laced with a steely determination. “Prepare for immediate medical intervention. No mistakes.”

One guard looked up at him, eyes hard but resigned.

“This is a lost cause. The bullets went straight through. There’s nothing more to do.”

The Front Man’s gaze didn’t waver. He nodded slowly, his voice cutting through the room like ice.

“Send the others away. Find the intruder who did this. Now.”

The guards exchanged brief glances but obeyed immediately, turning to move swiftly toward the exits. Their footsteps echoed as they vanished, leaving you alone with the Front Man.

Silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the shallow rasp of your breathing and the distant, steady drip of water echoing through the cold chamber.

Slowly, he reached up and removed his mask, revealing his face—etched with exhaustion, worry, but still composed. His eyes locked onto yours, calm and steady, as if trying to anchor you amid the storm raging inside.

Tears welled in your eyes and spilled over, tracing hot, silent paths down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to hide them. The pain and fear were too much to contain.

Without hesitation, he brought his hand up, fingers trembling just slightly, and gently wiped the tears away. His touch was soft—almost reverent—like he was afraid you might shatter.

His voice came low, steady, but heavy with the brutal truth.

“The bullet… it went right through,” he said quietly, each word measured but filled with quiet anguish. “It damaged your organs.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding painfully in your chest. The world seemed to tilt, the weight of his words pressing down like a stone.

“You’re… going to bleed out,” he whispered, his calm tone only making the reality sharper.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t raise his voice or flinch. Instead, he stayed composed, as if trying to give you strength just by holding himself together.

His hand moved to caress your face, tracing a slow, soothing line along your cheek. His fingers trembled only a little now, betraying the depth of what he felt beneath the surface.

Your own hand, weak and trembling, reached up and found his. You gripped it tightly, desperate for connection, for something solid to hold onto in the face of the overwhelming darkness creeping in.

He sighed deeply, the weight of the moment settling heavily over him.

“You’re going to die slowly, with pain,” he said quietly, voice low but steady—an unbearable truth wrapped in calm acceptance.

Your lips quivered, tears spilling again as you understood what he was proposing without him saying it outright.

Without another word, he reached for his mask and put it back on, the familiar barrier slipping into place like armor against the crushing reality.

Then, with surprising gentleness, he lifted you into his arms. You were limp, fragile—a feather caught in a storm.

You never wanted a painful death. Never wanted to be so helpless, so broken.

He was ever so gentle, cradling you carefully as he moved through the labyrinthine corridors—the maze of cold stone halls that stretched endlessly beneath the surface.

Guards passed by quickly, their gazes averted or fixed ahead, giving you a wide berth. The weight of their silence pressed heavily around you, but his steady presence was a balm against the growing darkness.

Step by step, he carried you deeper into the heart of the complex, his grip never loosening despite your fading strength.

After what felt like an eternity, you felt something soft beneath you — a mattress, carefully placed, waiting.

As he lowered you down, the fabric quickly soaked a deep, blooming red, stark and undeniable in the dim light.

You looked toward him, your vision blurred but desperate to hold on to every detail—the lines of his face, the way his hand shook just slightly as he raised the gun.

If you looked closely, you could see the tremor, the tiny, fractured edge beneath the calm mask he wore so well.

His voice was low, steady, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken sorrows.

“This is the only mercy I can give you now,” he said, every word heavy, deliberate, like the final promise of a broken man.

Your trembling hand reached out, brushing against his wrist, searching for something solid—not just to steady his hand, but to anchor both of you in the chaos swirling around you.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking but soft, “it’s okay… I’m not afraid.”

A sharp breath caught in his throat. His eyes flickered with pain, guilt, and a heartbreak so deep it seemed to fracture the very air between you.

“You don’t deserve this,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath, unable to meet your gaze as if the weight of the moment was too much to bear.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling freely now, and a fragile, bittersweet smile touched your lips.

“But neither do you,” you said, voice trembling but filled with a fierce tenderness. “Sometimes… love means letting go.”

His breath hitched, the gun steady but his body trembling. You squeezed his wrist weakly, willing him to feel your presence — to know that this was not just an end, but a final act of mercy wrapped in love.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, voice breaking, the fragile sound barely carrying through the cold air as tears welled unseen behind his mask.

The gunshot rang out sharply, a brutal punctuation that silenced the room and stole your pain in an instant.

He lowered the weapon with shaking hands, pulling his mask off as if shedding a second skin, gasping deeply as if trying to fill the emptiness inside him.

For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing uneven and heavy, the weight of what he’d done crashing down like a tidal wave.

Then, bending over you, he reached out with trembling fingers to gently close your eyes—soft lids that held all the life and light fading away.

His lips brushed yours in a last, desperate kiss, filled with sorrow and love so deep it threatened to shatter him.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he whispered brokenly, voice thick with grief. “None of this was supposed to happen to you.”

His hands trembled as he gathered a blanket, wrapping it around your still form with care, as if shielding you from the cruel world beyond.

He sank down beside you, silence pressing in from all sides, and for a long time he spoke only to himself.

“I should have protected you,” he murmured. “I should have been the one to go… not you. You were supposed to be safe. With me.”

His voice cracked, tears slipping free at last, tracing hot lines down his face.

“But I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save anyone.”

He closed his eyes, head bowed, the unbearable weight of loss anchoring him in a darkness that felt endless.

He looked down at you once more, pain and sorrow twisting deep inside him — but beneath it all, a fierce, burning anger began to ignite.

His eyes darkened, cold and hard, as he clenched his jaw.

“No,” he muttered through gritted teeth, voice low and sharp like a blade.

“This… this won’t be the end.”

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and pulled his mask back on, the familiar weight settling over his face like armor for the storm to come.

Without another glance, he stormed out of the room, each step echoing with resolve and fury.

“The one responsible for this…” he growled under his breath, voice thick with wrath,

“…will be caught. And they will pay.”

The doors slammed shut behind him, sealing the silence — but his fire had only just begun to burn.