#he is suffering from liver failure

[westernfronter]

My WW2 Soviet Oc, Lev.

[theclearblue]

You know I think I've fully gone through the five stages of grief about Sanji's worst moments as a perv and I'm at acceptance. I'm at a higher level of understanding and being pretty much nothing can tear me down from liking his character at this point

[kaira-diaries]

Intruders:

warning: violence // emotional distress // non-con touching // cannon type violence

pairing: fem!reader x in-ho

wc: 16.7k

summary: What if there were two intruders? Jun-ho and in-ho’s lover...

a/n: oof what if the intruder was also in-ho’s girlie..likeeee the heartache...I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT THE LENGTH. Also this is such a dramatic piece but I’m kinda here for it ??

-> Masterlist <-

You had been with the police department since the day you graduated from college, bright-eyed and full of ideals.

But if you were being honest, the job was never what your partner made it out to be. Jun-ho had painted it as something noble, something that gave you purpose—a career where you could make a real difference. But for you, the police force felt like a necessary evil, like a wound that would never entirely heal. Some days, you believed in the badge, but most days, you saw it for what it was—corruption hidden beneath polished shoes and pressed uniforms.

The moment that sealed your fate—the final, irreversible crack in the foundation—was when In-ho was stripped of his title, dismissed like he was nothing more than a piece of discarded evidence. And the cruelest part? It was your fault.

Three years ago, your body had betrayed you, liver failure creeping in like a slow, merciless tide. The sickness took everything—your energy, your independence, your hope. But In-ho, stubborn as ever, refused to let you go. He did what any desperate man would do when faced with losing the only thing he couldn't bear to live without. He pulled strings, made deals, and buried himself in debt.

Loans turned into bribes, and bribes turned into something much darker.

And for what?

By the time a donor was found—just weeks later—In-ho was gone. Not missing, not dead, just... vanished. No calls. No letters. No trace of the man who had burned his life to the ground for you. You could only imagine the weight of his shame, the crushing defeat of knowing he had sacrificed everything for someone who no longer needed saving.

But in the end, he had saved you.

He just wasn’t around to see it.  

You told yourself it was the pain of losing his career—the one thing he had bled for, suffered for, given everything to. It was all he had ever known, and you had taken it from him.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that. He lost faith. Not just in the system, not just in the job that had defined him, but in everything. In saving you. In living the life he had so carefully planned. Maybe, in the end, it wasn’t even about his career. Maybe it was about you.

And maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t wanted to be around to watch you die.

Only, you didn’t.

You were here.

You were breathing.

The cruel irony of it gnawed at you, an ache that settled deep in your bones. Did he know? Had he ever found out that all his sacrifices hadn’t been in vain? Or did he disappear believing it had all been for nothing? Did he hate you for it? For taking everything from him and still being here? For living the life he destroyed himself to give you?

Jun-ho tells you otherwise. He insists his brother could never blame you, never resent you. But Jun-ho doesn’t carry this weight, this unbearable, suffocating guilt that clings to you like a second skin. He doesn’t lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling from an empty, frozen bed, wondering if somewhere out there, In-ho is doing the same—only his resentment keeps him warm.

You want to believe Jun-ho. God, you do.

But that doesn’t stop the pain from sinking into your chest, heavy and unrelenting, as though his absence is carved into the very fabric of your existence.

You traced lazy patterns through the mound of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables on your plate, the food growing colder with each passing second. Hunger hadn't found you tonight—just as it hadn’t last night or the night before. Beside you, Jun-ho ate with his usual fervor, scooping generous spoonfuls into his mouth without a second thought. Each bite was mechanical as if dinner were nothing more than a task to complete.

Across from you, his mother sat rigid, her eyes locked on the untouched chicken before her. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her plate, but she made no move to eat. Beside her, the empty chair loomed—In-ho’s chair. Though he hadn't sat there in years, his place at the table was still set each night with unwavering devotion. A clean plate. Perfectly arranged silverware. A glass of water filled just enough. She still clung to the hope that one evening, he would drift through the doorway, drawn by the scent of home-cooked food, his nose in the air, his expression a front of quiet satisfaction. But the chair remained empty, a stark reminder of absence woven into your nightly ritual.

"Y/n," his mother called softly, her voice threading through the heavy silence, pulling you from the fog of your thoughts.

You looked to your left across the table, meeting her gaze—warm yet heavy with sorrow. Her eyes, glassy with grief, searched yours as if trying to find the right words, the ones that might bring you even the smallest comfort. Slowly, she reached across the table, her fingers brushing against the back of your hand, a quiet plea for you to let her in.

Your breath hitched. You bit your lip, gaze darting past her, past the dining room, past the life that still moved forward while you remained frozen in time. The tears welled before you could stop them, blurring the dim light, making the world swim. You shook your head.

You didn’t want to talk.

Didn’t want to hear reassurances that felt hollow. Didn’t want to pretend you were okay when every inch of you was unraveling. Even now. After all this time.

Without another word, you pushed back your chair, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor in a sound that made Jun-ho glance up mid-bite. But you didn’t stop. You turned away, footsteps heavy as you left them to their meal, the scent of untouched food lingering in the air.

The moment your bedroom door shut behind you, you locked it—sealing yourself away from the world, from their pity, from the unbearable ache of his absence.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat at your desk, eyes skimming over the words on your screen, though you already knew what they said. The article had been plastered across every major news outlet in the city, but this one—this one came from the most ruthless, the kind that spared no mercy when it came to public disgrace.

And they got every detail right.

Policeman fired for bribery.

Officer dismissed for fraudulent behaviors.

Police Officer Hwang In-ho canned for illegal bribery, lining his pockets.

Criminal.

Criminal.

The words seeped into one another, each one twisting like a knife in your gut. They made him sound like a violent convict, like some immoral officer who had lined his pockets instead of a man who had destroyed himself for someone he loved. For you.

Your stomach churned, a wave of nausea rolling through you. You couldn’t take it—not the truth of it, not the shame clawing at your ribs. With a harsh breath, you slammed your laptop shut, the sound echoing through the quiet room.

A knock at the door rang a moment later.

You blinked, your mind still tangled in the venom of that article, but you forced yourself up, dragging your feet toward the door. When you opened it, Jun-ho stood there, leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was exhausted, dark circles etched beneath his weary eyes.

"Can I come in?" he asked, voice quieter than usual.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping aside, opening the door wider. He slipped past you, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the air as you shut the door behind him.

You turned to face him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture weighed down by something you couldn’t quite name—fatigue, frustration, or maybe the same grief that sat heavy in your own chest. He patted the space beside him, a silent invitation.

You paused before sitting down, folding your hands in your lap, your fingers twisting together as if you could wring the blame from your skin.

Jun-ho cleared his throat, his voice low, careful. "You need to stop blaming yourself, y/n," he murmured.

You scoffed a hollow sound that barely left your throat. A bitter breath pushed past your lips as you shook your head. "I wish it were that simple, Jun-ho," you whispered. "But I can't."

The room fell into stillness.

Then, Jun-ho turned to you, his jaw tight, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes—not at you, but at the weight you refused to let go of. "It is not your fault you got sick," he said, voice firmer now, edged with something dangerously close to anger. "It is not your fault In-ho took bribes."

You swallowed hard, but he wasn’t done.

"He made that choice himself," Jun-ho continued, his gaze piercing, unwavering. "No one forced his hand. Not you. Not anyone. None of this is your fault, y/n."

But the truth—no matter how desperately he wanted you to believe it—didn’t loosen the vice around your heart. If anything, it only made it squeeze tighter.

Tears spilled silently down your cheeks, hot against your skin, as Jun-ho’s words settled over you like a heavy weight. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before softening his tone.

"Besides," he murmured, "I need your skill set."

You blinked through your tears, brows pulling together in confusion. A hollow laugh escaped you as you lifted a dismissive hand. "Jun-ho, I—"

He caught your wrist gently. "Just… listen," he said, his voice low, almost pleading. "A minute is all I’m asking."

You stilled, caught off guard by the urgency in his voice. The weight in his gaze was enough to pull you from your grief, just for a moment. With a slow inhale, you nodded.

His fingers loosened as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, worn card. "I went to his apartment today," he said. "The landlord said he hasn’t been by in a long time." He hesitated before holding out the card. "But I found this."

You took it carefully, fingers brushing against the textured surface. Three shapes were printed on the front—simple, yet unsettling in their starkness. Your stomach tautened as you flipped it over. An address. A date. A time.

Your pulse quickened. "Odd," you muttered, tracing the ink with your thumb again before looking back up at Jun-ho.

His expression had shifted. That familiar sharpness had returned—the one you had seen countless times before, when the two of you were knee-deep in a case, piecing together a puzzle no one else could solve.

"I want to find him, y/n," he said, voice steady, unwavering.

The room felt colder suddenly. You swallowed hard, glancing back down at the card.

For the first time in three years, you felt something other than guilt.

"And I want you to help," Jun-ho said, his voice unwavering.

You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening on the card. "He—he wouldn’t want to see me, Jun-ho," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He probably doesn’t even think I’m alive."

Jun-ho exhaled through his nose, rubbing his hands together as if weighing his words carefully. Then, he looked at you, his expression unreadable. "Maybe," he admitted, but there was something in his tone that made you look up. Something steadier. "But what if he does?"

You let out a bitter laugh, rubbing your tired eyes. "Jun-ho—"

"No," he cut in, shifting closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. "Listen to me. I know my brother. He’s stubborn, and he’s proud. But do you really think he wouldn’t want to know that everything he did wasn’t for nothing?"

You swallowed hard. But he kept going.

"If there’s even the smallest chance that seeing you, seeing his brother, could bring him back to this family… to himself… don’t you think it’s worth trying?"

Silence stretched between you.

The card in your hand suddenly felt heavier.

Jun-ho sighed, running a hand through his hair before standing up. "I’m going," he said simply. "With or without you."

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, exhaling shakily.

And when you opened them again, you knew—you couldn’t let him do this alone.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The sky stretched endlessly above you, an uninterrupted canvas of brilliant blue, unmarred by even the softest wisp of cloud. Sunlight streamed through the canopy of trees, dappling the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. The air was warm, carrying the fresh scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the faint perfume of wildflowers that lined the trail.

You breathed it all in, savoring the tranquility, but your attention—like always—remained elsewhere.

In-ho walked beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brushed with every step. His presence was stable, unshaken as if he belonged here among the towering trees and whispering leaves. You watched him from the corner of your eye, studying the way the sunlight caught in his black hair, the way his expression eased when he glanced at the beauty enveloping you. He was breathtaking in the way that made your chest ache—so full of life, so unshakably kind.

You knew you shouldn’t feel this way. Shouldn’t let your heart stumble over the very idea of him. He was your partner’s brother. This was a line you weren’t meant to cross.

But god, it was impossible.

The forest path narrowed as you and In-ho made your way toward the lake, the sounds of the world around you muffled by the thick, lush trees. The sunlight flickered through the branches, and as the air grew cooler, you felt the weight of his presence more intensely. The water was near—still, calm, and inviting. You could see the glimmer of it through the trees, its surface reflecting the blueness of the sky like a mirror.

In-ho’s steps slowed as you approached the water, and he looked toward the lake beyond the dock with a quiet smile. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” he murmured, almost to himself, the sound of his voice low and dreamy.

You stood at the edge of the dock, the water below gleaming with a quiet invitation. The air felt pure between you and In-ho. You could feel his gaze on you, like a weight on your skin, but you didn’t turn to meet it just yet. Instead, you reached behind you and unbuttoned the top of your shirt, slipping it off, and then slid your shorts down to reveal your bathing suit.

You could hear In-ho’s footsteps pause, a soft intake of breath behind you. His voice was quiet, questioning. “What are you doing?”

You turned to look at him, a small grin on your lips. “I’m going for a swim. Unless you’re too scared to join me?” you teased, your heart racing at the way his eyes followed your every movement.

There was a brief silence between you two before In-ho’s lips curled into a smile. He shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable, before starting to walk toward you. But before he could get any closer, you didn’t wait for him—you jumped, diving into the water with a splash, the coolness instantly enveloping you.

The moment you resurfaced, you caught sight of the dock above you, the ripples of the water swirling around you. With practiced grace, you swam towards the edge, your hands finding the weathered wood as you pulled yourself up, water streaming off your skin.

In-ho stood there, looking down at you from the edge of the dock, his gaze softer than before but still intense. Your heart beat wildly as you stretched out a hand, holding it out to him, your fingers just inches from his.

For a moment, In-ho hesitated, his eyes meeting yours, searching your face. You could see the battle in his expression, but then he stepped closer to the edge, reaching out for your hand.

The moment his fingers brushed yours, you pulled him in, tugging him into the water with you. His surprised laugh echoed in the air as he splashed into the lake beside you.

You turned away from the dock, your eyes fixed on the water, waiting for him to surface. The seconds stretched longer than they should have before you saw the dark shape of In-ho break through the surface, shaking his head to clear the water from his hair.

When he emerged, his hair clung damply to his forehead, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of it. The sound was light, carefree—until he wiped his eyes and looked at you, his face unwound, his expression somehow caught between amusement and something more in-depth. You felt your pulse quicken as you watched him, your body drawn toward him like a magnet.

Without thinking, your hand lifted, almost instinctively, to brush his hair from his eyes. The touch was delicate, gentle, but the moment it happened, you both froze. His eyes locked on yours, the softness in them catching you off guard. There was a stillness that passed between you, one that felt both fragile and inevitable.

His hand reached for your palm then his fingers curled around yours with a quiet passion. Slowly, he pulled your hand toward him, guiding you closer, his movements willful and slow, as if he was savoring the proximity. The way he held you felt different now—his grip was tender.

He gently guided your palm to the warm skin of his neck, his fingers pressing against your wrist, urging you closer still. You could feel the steady pulse beneath your hand, his breath shallow, quickening. At the same time, your other hand found its way around his neck, the back of his damp hair slick beneath your touch. The world seemed to narrow, focusing entirely on the space between you.

Before you could fully process what was happening, his arms slipped around your thighs, pulling you toward him with a strength that made your breath catch. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your bodies pressed so close there was nothing left between you—no distance, no hesitation. The lake water rippled around you, but all you could feel was the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the weight of the moment that pulled you both into a perfect, suspended stillness.

In-ho’s fingers then moved softly through your damp hair, his touch light, almost reverent. He cupped your cheek, the warmth of his hand sending a shiver through you as he gently tilted your head to study you. His gaze lingered, taking you in like he was memorizing every detail—your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes seemed to sparkle in the light of the sun.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. “What?” you teased softly, a playful edge to your voice. “Are you going to compliment me, or just stare?”

His lips curved into a slow, teasing grin, his eyes still locked on yours.

“I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to look even more beautiful after jumping into a lake.” He ran his thumb lightly across your cheek, his touch gentle. “It’s not fair.”

In-ho’s expression softened even further, the playful glint in his eyes fading into wonder. His thumb lingered against your skin, tracing slow, gentle circles. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts as if weighing the words carefully before letting them slip out.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while now…” He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes searching yours, like he was trying to find the right way to say something that had been hidden for far too long. "I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but… I’ve been in love with you for longer than I care to admit.”

The confession hung between you, quiet but heavy with sincerity. His voice was soft, almost fragile, like he was giving you something vulnerable. The weight of his words settled around you, stirring a whirlwind of emotions inside. You could hear the honesty in his tone, the deep affection, the care that he held for you in every gesture, every look.

“You know,” you started, your voice more subdued than normal, “I’ve been thinking about something too.” You searched his eyes, trying to convey everything you felt in that one moment. “You always worry about me and your brother, but… I worry about you, In-ho. Every day, every time we’re out there.”

Your voice trembled slightly as you continued, the vulnerability in your words matching the uncertainty in your heart. “I don’t think you understand how much it scares me, the thought of something happening to you." In-ho reached out, adding his other hand to your cheek, his touch steady. “I know you care, and I care about you more than you can imagine.” His eyes searched yours, intense and serious, but there was a soft kind of resolve in them that made your heart ache.

He leaned in slightly, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “Even if I disappear, even if I’m not here… I’ll always be with you. I won’t leave you, not really. You’ll always have a piece of me with you.” He leaned further in, pressing his lips to yours for a quick kiss, pulling back a moment later with another sweet, reassuring promise.

"No matter what happens, I’ll always be with you.”

A rough, urgent hand shook your shoulder, the pressure bringing you back to consciousness with a start.

Your eyes fluttered open, groggy from the haze of sleep, and you jolted upright in the passenger seat of Jun-ho’s car. The dim glow of the street light filtered through the windows, casting a pale glow on the dashboard. You blinked, still disoriented, trying to shake the remnants of the memory that had been pulling you under.

The weight of Jun-ho’s hand on your arm lingered for a moment before he released it and quickly reached for your hand. His grip was feeble, a contrast to the way his expression was tight with concern. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to push you further.

You turned to him, your gaze meeting his, and you could see it—the groove in his brow, the way his lips were pressed into a narrow line. There was unease in the way he watched you, something familiar but hard to ignore.

You rubbed your tired eyes, trying to will the sleepiness away, and forced a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, your voice still thick with the remnants of slumber.

Jun-ho didn’t seem convinced, though. He hummed softly, his voice almost too quiet for the silence of the car. “You were doing it again,” he said, his tone carrying a weight that made your chest tighten.

“Doing what?” you asked, still trying to clear the fog from your mind.

He hesitated for a moment before withdrawing his hand from yours and reaching over to offer you a bottle of water. His fingers brushed against yours, cold against your warm skin, as he handed it to you.

“Whimpering his name,” Jun-ho said, the words coming out carefully like he was weighing every syllable. His eyes flickered toward you briefly before they returned to the harbor ahead, but there was something in the way he said it that sent a ripple of discomfort through you.

You glanced down at the bottle in your hand, but you didn’t bring it to your lips. Instead, you were focused on the sensation of his words. The reality of it stung, pulling at something raw inside of you.

You didn’t know how to respond, so you did the only thing that felt safe in that moment—you looked away, turning your face toward the window, hiding the flurry of emotions.

You cleared your throat, the sound catching in the stillness of the car as you tried to shake off the heaviness that paused in the air. You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the bustling port ahead, the soft hum of distant engines and the sway of boats cutting through the thick tension between you.

"What's the plan again?" you asked, your voice a little too tight, though you tried to mask it with a sense of casualness.

Jun-ho didn’t take his eyes off the road as he responded, his voice steady but carrying an edge of uncertainty. "We wait until 6 PM," he said, glancing down at his watch. His fingers brushed over the timepiece with a nervous habit. "Which is... three minutes from now." He paused, then glanced at your reflection in the window, his face softened but lined with an unreadable expression. "I wish I knew what to expect, but... I don't." The silence that followed felt thick, charged with the weight of unspoken things.

You looked back at him, your heart twisting at the concern etched into his face, and offered a reassuring smile, though it felt strained. "I'll do whatever you need me to do."

His eyes flickered briefly to you before he nodded, his jaw tightening, like he was carrying more than just the weight of the mission. He sighed, a quiet exhale that seemed to carry everything he hadn’t said. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "What... what were you dreaming of?"

The question caught you off guard, and you felt your throat tighten as you fidgeted in your seat again. You ran a hand over your face, your fingers trembling slightly, the memory still fresh.

"That day at the lake..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. The weight of it—what had happened, the things you hadn’t said, the emotions you hadn’t let yourself feel—clung to your chest like a lead weight.

"When... when In-ho told me..." You faltered, unable to find the words that would make sense of it all.

Before anything else could slip from your lips, the sudden sweep of headlights caught your attention. The flicker of bright, glaring lights poured into the side mirror, sharp and blinding against the darkening sky. You jerked your head toward it, your pulse quickening as you recognized the unmistakable silhouette of several vehicles—vans, by the look of it—growing larger in the reflection.

"Jun-ho!" you gasped, your voice tight with urgency. "Behind us, there’s lights. Lots of them."

Without a word, Jun-ho’s face shifted from concern to something more focused—more dangerous. His eyes shot to the rearview mirror, and in one swift motion, he cut the engine, the car's hum falling silent. The tension in the air thickened, every second stretching as the sound of the approaching vans grew louder, their engines growling through the otherwise still night.

"Down!" he hissed, urgency sharp in his voice. Without thinking, you ducked instinctively, pressing yourself low against the seat, your heart pounding against your ribs. The world outside the car blurred into streaks of light, the headlights of the vans flashing in quick succession as they rumbled past.

Once the last of the vans disappeared into the port entrance, you and Jun-ho slowly sat back up, eyes locked on the convoy as it rolled steadily toward a massive loading ship. The hulking vessel loomed over the water, its floodlights casting long, eerie beams across the dock. The sound of metal groaning echoed through the air as ramps lowered, ready to swallow the vehicles into its depths.

You exchanged a glance with Jun-ho, a silent conversation passing between you—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just action.

With a sharp nod, the two of you flung open your doors, slipping out of the car in one fluid motion. Your boots barely made a sound against the concrete as you sprinted toward the dock, keeping low, moving as one. The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the faint scent of oil and gasoline, and the rhythmic crash of waves was almost drowned out by the mechanical sounds of the ship preparing for departure.

Guns drawn, you pressed yourselves against the cold steel siding of a small storage building, hearts pounding in sync. Jun-ho exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the tension crackling between you.

“What are we doing, Jun-ho?” you whispered, gripping your weapon tightly as you peered around the edge of the building.

He mirrored your movement, stealing a quick glance at the loading area before ducking back beside you. His voice was low but firm. “The vans are stopped.” His eyes flicked to yours, sharp with intent. “We split up. Get low, hide beneath a van, and let them take us onto the ship.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. This was reckless. Dangerous. But it was the only way.

Jun-ho reached into his pocket and produced a tiny comm link, pressing it into your palm. “Put this in your ear,” he instructed. “Keep me updated on your position at all times.”

You gave a tight nod, slotting the device into place as you prepared to move. But just as you stepped forward, Jun-ho’s fingers wrapped around your wrist—firm, urgent.

Your breath caught as you turned back to face him. His grip wasn’t forceful, but there was something weighted in the way he held you there, something implicit that flickered in his dark eyes. Worry.

“Stay out of sight, y/n,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And be careful.”

For a moment, the intensity in his gaze pinned you in place. There was something deeper there, something intimate that went beyond just concern for a partner. It was protective. Personal. A silent plea.

You let a small smile tug at your lips, trying to ease the tension. “Aren’t I always?” you teased softly, though your heart thrummed wildly against your ribs.

Jun-ho’s lips pressed together, like he wanted to say something more—but instead, he simply let go of your hand, his fingers trailing away with reluctant hesitation.

Then, without another word, you turned and slipped into the shadows, heart hammering as you prepared to vanish into the night.

The memories clung to you like a shadow as you ran through the darkness, each footstep light but filled with the weight of the past. The sting of salt in the air, the distant hum of the ship, the adrenaline surging through your veins—it all blurred together beneath the echo of a voice from years ago.

Jun-ho’s voice.

It had been a hard pill for him to swallow back then. The truth of your surface-level feelings for him. The way he had always been there��steady, watching over you with quiet devotion. You had known, even before he ever admitted it, that he cared deeply for you. Perhaps even loved you. But love had a cruel sense of irony.

Because your heart had never belonged to him.

It had belonged to his brother.

Your breathing stumbled as you recalled the night it all came spilling out—the raw, unfiltered confession buried in slurred words and whiskey-laced regret. It had been late, the bar dimly lit and nearly empty, save for the two of you. His fingers had curled around his glass, knuckles white, jaw clenched as he forced himself to say what he had buried for so long.

"You don’t even see it, do you?" he had murmured, his voice bitter.

"How much I lov—" He had cut himself off, shaking his head with a humorless laugh before downing the rest of his drink.

You had frozen, your heart squeezing painfully, because in that moment, you saw it all. The way his feelings had festered beneath the surface, hidden behind late-night conversations and lingering touches that you never thought twice about. And worst of all, you had seen the pain in his eyes as he realized the inevitable.

That you loved In-ho.

And that In-ho loved you.

Now, as time had squeaked by, Jun-ho had learned to hide it well. He buried it beneath layers of professionalism, sarcasm, and quiet understanding. It had become something unspoken, something he never let rise to the surface—except in rare moments. Moments like earlier, when his fingers curled around your wrist just a little too tightly. When his voice carried that same note of hesitation.

It still hurts you.

To know he was in pain. To know that no matter how much time passed, no matter how much he tried to pretend, a part of him still carried that weight.

And yet, as you ducked behind a stack of crates, heart hammering as you prepared to slip beneath one of the vans, you couldn’t afford to think about it anymore. Not now. Not when danger lurked just ahead.

But still…

It lingered.

You clicked the comm link in your ear, pressing it just enough to activate the line. “In position. About to make my move under the van.” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible over the distant crash of waves against the dock.

A faint crackle followed before In-ho’s voice came through, steady and controlled. “Stay low. On my mark, make your move.”

You pressed yourself against the cold metal of the crate, your breath hitching as you scanned your surroundings. The dim glow of overhead floodlights cast long, flickering shadows across the dock, stretching over the pavement like creeping fingers. Your pulse quickened as movement caught your eye in the distance.

A figure. No—figures.

Dressed in pink uniforms, their hoods pulled high over their heads, their faces hidden behind dark masks. They moved in pairs, methodical and silent, sweeping the area with slow, calculated strides. Rifles slung over their shoulders, their heads turned sharply from side to side, scanning the shadows, ensuring every corner of the ship’s perimeter was clear.

A chill ran down your spine. They were everywhere.

You clicked the comm link again, barely daring to move. “Jun-ho, watch your six.” Your voice was tight, urgent. “There are guards everywhere.”

A long pause. Then, his voice came through—lower this time, more serious. “Copy that. Stay hidden.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers flexing over the pavement as you readied yourself. The tension in the air thickened, your body coiled like a spring, waiting for the moment to move.

In-ho’s voice finally returned, quiet but firm. “Now.”

You took a sharp breath and made your move.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The ship had long since left the dock, its massive hull cutting through the waves with a rhythmic hum. You could feel the vibration of it beneath you, the low rumble of the engine pulsing through the steel floor, through your bones. The scent of oil thickened the air, mixing with the faint tang of rust.

Curled beneath the van, you stayed as still as possible, pressed against the cold undercarriage, every breath controlled, every muscle tense. The ship swayed ever so slightly, the motion subtle but constant, a reminder that there was no turning back now.

Your comm link crackled to life in your ear.

"Hanging in there?" Jun-ho’s voice came through, laced with quiet amusement.

You exhaled softly, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. "We’re closer to your brother than we’ve been in three years, Jun-ho. What do you think?"

A short laugh came from the other end—warm but edged with something heavier. "Fair point."

Silence stretched between you for a moment, broken only by the faint sounds of footsteps above, boots thudding against metal as the guards moved across the ship’s deck. Your fingers curled into a fist against the hard ground.

Jun-ho’s voice softened. "I promise we’ll get him back, y/n."

You bit your lip, hesitation gnawing at you. "We don’t even know if he wants to come home," you whispered, barely daring to say it aloud. The thought had haunted you for years. "Or what his part is in any of this."

A quiet hum came through the comm, Jun-ho’s thoughtful exhale. When he finally spoke, his words were steady, resigned, yet resolute.

"If we find him, and he doesn’t want to come home… then at least we’ll know we did what we could for him."

Something in your chest tightened at that.

Because deep down, you knew that if In-ho chose to stay—if he had changed into someone neither of you recognized—you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to let him go.

Jun-ho’s voice was quieter now, almost wistful, carrying an edge of something he rarely let slip.

“And maybe we could start fresh,” he finished, the words hanging between you like a possibility neither of you had dared to speak aloud before.

“We could quit our jobs, find something else—something that doesn’t come with a gun in our hands or a target on our backs. Leave it all behind… for good.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull you under.

Start fresh.

You had never allowed yourself to dream of that. Had never let yourself imagine a life beyond the chase, beyond the endless pursuit of justice, of closure, of the ghosts that never stopped following you. But now, hearing it from Jun-ho—spoken so plainly, so genuinely—it made something inside you ache.

A life where there were no late-night stakeouts, no whispered orders over comm links, no bulletproof vests or bodies lost in the shuffle of corruption. A life where you weren’t constantly searching for something—someone—just out of reach.

Could you really walk away?

Would In-ho, if you found him?

You swallowed hard, staring at the dim underbelly of the van, the vibrations of the ship’s engines thrumming beneath your body. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally spoke.

“Do you really think it’s that simple?”

Jun-ho exhaled, a breathy chuckle tinged with something almost sad. "I don’t know. But I’d like to think there’s a world where we could be more than just this.”

You closed your eyes for a brief second, allowing yourself—for the first time—to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was right as the two of you lay beneath vans beside each other.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Twenty minutes had passed, though it felt like an eternity, the weight of damp fabric pressed against you. The stolen uniform fit awkwardly, the material stiff, the sleeves slightly too long as if the previous owner’s presence still lingered.

You had moved quickly—silently. The guard never even had time to scream before your hands snapped his neck with a sickening crack. His body had hit the water without a sound, swallowed by the dark waves below. You hadn’t let yourself think about it. There was no time for hesitation, no space for second thoughts. Survival had demanded ruthlessness, and you had given it without question.

Now, standing in the dimly lit cabin of the ship, your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat a drum of anticipation. Shadows stretched along the walls, the flickering glow of old, buzzing lights casting uneven shapes across the steel interior. The hum of the ship’s engine vibrated through your bones, yet you still felt untethered—adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t even call for Jun-ho. You were too close to the others.

For all you knew, he could be standing in the room with you, a breath away, just as silent, just as unseen. The air was thick with tension, each second stretching impossibly long. Your grip tightened into a fist at your side, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Then—the lightest touch.

A brush of warmth against your fingers, so delicate you almost thought you imagined it.

Jun-ho.

The tension coiled in your chest began to unravel, the weight pressing down on you, lifting just enough for you to breathe again. He was beside you.

The ship docked with a heavy groan of metal against concrete, the subtle sway of the water beneath you replaced by the rigid stillness of solid ground. The transition was seamless—no hesitation, no time to breathe. Orders were barked, movements synchronized, and like a well-oiled machine, you followed along, blending into the sea of masked figures.

You climbed into the driver’s seat of one of the transport vans, gripping the wheel with hands that didn’t feel like your own. The thick gloves made your fingers clumsy, but you forced yourself to focus. The weight of the uniform, the anonymity of the mask—it was suffocating, yet necessary.

As the van rumbled to life, you drove in a straight, controlled line, mirroring the other vehicles in the convoy. The facility loomed ahead, a cold monolith of concrete and steel, its high walls stretching endlessly into the darkened sky. The moment you passed through the towering gates, your stomach twisted. There was no turning back now.

The night blurred into a haze of orders followed and errands run. The rigid structure of the facility allowed no room for mistakes—no hesitation, no deviation. Guards moved like phantoms, silent, their every step rehearsed. You mimicked them perfectly, keeping your head low, your movements precise. Jun-ho was never far, always within sight but never obvious. A shadow among shadows.

At last, after what felt like hours, you were dismissed to your cabins.

You followed Jun-ho closely, his presence an unspoken reassurance in the vast, sterile hallways. Your masks were scanned at a checkpoint, a quick flicker of red light passing over the numbers now assigned to you. Attendance. A subtle but effective way to track who belonged and who didn’t. Your numbers were sequential—assigned side by side, keeping you close.

Now, you stood in front of your respective doors, the dim, flickering light above casting elongated shadows against the cold steel. You glanced sideways, watching as Jun-ho reached for the keypad on his door, his fingers moving with practiced ease.

You did the same, pressing the cool metal of the scanner, waiting for the soft beep before the lock released.

For a moment, you hesitated, gripping the door handle, your heart still racing from the events of the night. Then, you exhaled and stepped inside, shutting the heavy steel door behind you with a quiet thud.

The silence pressed in around you.

For the first time since boarding the ship, you were alone.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were terrified.

You had faced danger before—walked through crime scenes stained with blood, pursued criminals through darkened alleys, wrestled with the weight of life and death more times than you cared to count. Murders, robberies, violent, gruesome killings—you had seen it all. But this was different.

This was something else entirely.

You weren’t the hunter here. You were the prey, trapped in an environment where the rules were unspoken but absolute, where one wrong move could mean the difference between survival and a bullet to the head.

Your breath was shallow as you sat stiffly on the small cot, the mattress thin and unyielding beneath you. The walls around you were bare, lifeless. Cold. A single dim light buzzed overhead, casting an eerie glow across the metallic surfaces. In the corner of the room, a small, unblinking red light glowed—a camera. Watching. Recording.

The soft crackle of the comm link in your ear startled you, breaking the suffocating silence.

It was as if he could sense your fear.

“Stay calm,” his voice was low, steady—a tether in the storm. “There are cameras in our rooms. Don’t show weakness. And whatever you do, don’t show your face to the camera.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the tension from your shoulders, willing your hands to stop trembling. “Copy,” you whispered.

A deep breath came through the link, then Jun-ho’s voice again, quieter this time. “For all we know… In-ho could be on the authoritative side in this facility. But if we’re caught, we have no idea what they’ll do to us. Best not to take any chances.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, pressing your lips together to suppress the flood of emotions threatening to surface. You had waited three years for this—three years of searching, of unanswered questions, of agonizing uncertainty. And now, you were closer than ever.

But you still had no idea what you were walking into.

No idea who In-ho had become.

The thought sent another wave of unease through you, but you shoved it down, exhaling slowly as you opened your eyes. Jun-ho was right. Now wasn’t the time for fear.

“For now, we take orders,” Jun-ho continued, his tone resolute. “We do what we’re told. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally responded.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“For now, get some rest.” Jun-ho’s voice was softer this time, a quiet reassurance cutting through the barren emptiness of your room. “I’m close by, and it’ll stay that way until we get out of here.”

You wanted to believe that. Needed to.

The comm line crackled faintly, and then—silence.

The absence of his voice felt heavier than it should have, settling into the pit of your stomach like a stone. You sat still for a moment, listening—to the low hum of the ventilation system, the distant echoes of footsteps in the corridor, the rhythmic buzz of the fluorescent light overhead. Everything about this place felt unnatural. Controlled.

Shifting slightly on the cot, you let out a slow breath, your muscles aching from the tension of the day. You knew you needed sleep, but the thought of closing your eyes in this place, where danger lurked behind every corner, made your pulse quicken.

But Jun-ho was close and so was In-ho.

Swallowing back the unease, you lay down, curling slightly on your side to avoid facing the ever-watching camera. The mattress was stiff beneath you, the blanket thin and rough, but exhaustion was creeping in, dulling the sharp edges of your fear.

You held onto Jun-ho’s words, repeating them in your mind like a mantra.

I’m close by.

It’ll stay that way.

As your eyes fluttered shut, the hum of the facility droned on, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to drift into uneasy sleep.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat snug on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of a soft blanket that cocooned you like a gentle embrace, the flickering light from the TV casting a soothing glow across the room. The pages of your book turned easily beneath your fingers, but the comforting scent of fresh coffee wafting through the air kept pulling your attention away. In the space beside you, In-ho sat casually, his presence a quiet comfort. Your feet rested in his lap, and his thumb absentmindedly circled the soft skin of your ankle, the movement both soothing and intimate, grounding you in the moment. His eyes were locked onto the TV screen, absorbed in the rerun of one of your favorite shows. Without hesitation, he'd dove into it once you shared it was something you loved—he was always so eager to understand every little thing that made you smile, laugh, or even cry.

It was as if everything you cared about fascinated him, and you found yourself smiling at the way he would learn about the things you loved, weaving them into the fabric of your shared life.

But as the scene unfolded on the screen, you couldn’t help but watch him. His features softened in the dim light, his attention rapt on the show, but there was something so peaceful about the way he sat beside you, as though this moment was as perfect for him as it was for you.

You must have been staring longer than you realized, because suddenly, his chin snapped in your direction, his eyes locking with yours, curious and alert.

"What?" he asked, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You hummed softly, not needing to think about your response. "Nothing," you said, the words coming out as if they’d always been there. "I just enjoy watching you."

A quiet smile stretched across his face, and without another word, he scooted closer to you. The air around you seemed to shift as he leaned in, taking your book from your hands and tossing it casually onto the coffee table. His fingers gently spread your legs, creating a space for him between them as he lowered his head to your chest.

His body pressed against yours, arms wrapping around your waist, a warm, familiar weight, and you instinctively leaned down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his temple. The moment was so quiet, so tender, and you allowed him to sink into the comfort of your embrace as his gaze returned to the show, now content to simply be near you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. His body was warm against yours, his weight familiar, grounding. The steady rhythm of his breathing matched your own, slow and easy, as though neither of you wanted to break the moment.

Then, without warning, he pressed a soft kiss to your breastbone, the warmth of his lips lingering against your skin. It was fleeting, but enough to send a gentle shiver down your spine. When he lifted his head, his dark eyes found yours, deep and searching, holding something heavier than the peaceful stillness that surrounded you.

“Let’s have a baby,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. The words settled into the air between you, delicate yet weighted, and your eyes widened in surprise. Your heart stuttered, your fingers unconsciously tightening against the fabric of his shirt.

You had talked about it once before—the possibility of starting a family, of what that might look like—but it had been just that: a possibility. A distant thought. Neither of you had brought it up again since then, and now, here he was, laying it bare, no hesitation in his voice.

You swallowed, your lips parting as you searched for something—anything—to say. Finally, you managed, “Are you sure?” The words came out barely above a whisper, tinged with uncertainty, with the weight of everything this meant.

In-ho pushed himself up, leveling himself with you, his face inches from yours. His hand found your cheek, fingertips brushing away a stray strand of hair, his touch impossibly gentle. He held your gaze, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw, and with a certainty that left no room for doubt, he said,

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

His voice was low, steady, laced with quiet conviction. The sincerity in his eyes sent warmth blooming in your chest, melting away the initial shock. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Every word.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, you just looked at him—at the man who had woven himself so deeply into your life, your heart. He was watching you so intently, waiting, searching your face for a sign, for an answer.

A breathy laugh escaped you, shaky and disbelieving. “You really mean it?” you asked, voice softer this time.

His thumb traced small, soothing circles against your cheek. “I do,” he whispered. “I think about it all the time. What our child would be like. If they’d have your smile, your laugh… your heart.” He exhaled, his forehead brushing against yours. “I want this with you.”

Your chest swelled, your heart a fluttering mess beneath your ribs. “In-ho…” You barely managed his name, your throat tightening with emotion.

“I know it’s big,” he continued, his fingers now sliding down to lace with yours. “And I know it’s scary, but I want to build that life with you. I want late nights rocking them to sleep. I want tiny hands reaching for us. I want to watch you love them the way you love everything—with your whole heart.” He let out a small, breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “I love you. And I know that if we do this… our child is going to have the most incredible mother.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Warmth bloomed in your chest, spilling into every inch of you.

You squeezed his hand, the weight of his words wrapping around you like a promise. A future. A dream neither of you had fully allowed yourselves to grasp before now.

A slow, watery smile crept across your lips. “You really think I’d be a good mom?”

His eyes softened. “I know you would.”

Your throat bobbed with emotion, and then, in one swift movement, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. He let out a soft chuckle as he melted into you, his arms winding around your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” you whispered against his temple, pressing a lingering kiss to his hair.

His hold on you tightened. “So… is that a yes?”

A quiet laugh bubbled from your chest as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You didn’t even have to think anymore.

“Yes,” you breathed.

His grin was instant, bright, and boyish, filled with something raw and beautiful. He kissed you then, deep and slow, pouring all of his love, all of his joy into you.

Your heart was pounding—so fast, so violently that it felt like it might shatter right through your ribs. The force of it ripped you from sleep, your body jerking upright as a sharp, gasping breath tore from your lungs. The room was dark, but your vision swam, unfocused, the remnants of the dream still clinging to you like phantom hands you couldn't shake.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a memory again.

Another cruel, agonizing memory, dragged from the depths of your mind just to remind you of everything you had lost.

A strangled sob broke from your throat as your hands shot up, pressing hard against your face, as if you could somehow smother the pain, force it back down where it wouldn’t consume you. But it was already there, crawling through your chest, squeezing around your lungs like a vice. You sucked in a breath, but it was useless—shallow, shaky, burning.

Your skin was damp, slick with sweat, but you were cold. So unbearably cold.

You were tired. Tired of this endless torment. Tired of waking up like this, drowning in grief that refused to let go. Tired of being haunted by something you could never get back.

Your shoulders trembled, your body curling in on itself as wave after wave of sorrow crashed over you, relentless and merciless.

You just wanted it to stop.

Just for one night.

Just long enough to breathe.

But deep down, you knew—this grief, this heartbreak… it wasn’t letting go of you anytime soon.

_____________________________

The weight of the bodies in your arms was nothing compared to the weight in your chest. You knew where you were—what this place was—but the stark finality of it didn’t truly sink in until now. Until you were standing among the dead.

Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted another body, the limp form heavier than you expected. It wasn't just the physical strain—it was the sheer wrongness of it.

Here, life was taken without hesitation. Without ceremony. A single gunshot to the head—quick, efficient, painless, if such a thing could be called mercy. It wasn’t personal. It was routine.

You reached for the coffin cover, your fingers just brushing the edge—when it was suddenly snatched away.

Though Jun-ho's face was concealed behind his mask, his movements betrayed him—protective. Before you could even react, the room erupted into chaos.

A single gunshot cracked through the air, splitting the silence like lightning. Then—shouting. Struggling. The sound of bodies shifting, boots scuffing against the gravel.

Your head snapped up just as Jun-ho shifted closer to you, his voice a low whisper. “Back up. Stay behind me.”

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you obeyed, instinct kicking in. You weren’t armed. Neither of you were. And that realization settled over you like ice.

At the center of the chaos, a player stood trembling, a stolen pistol clutched in his hands. His arm shook, but his aim did not waver. The barrel of the gun was pressed flush against the forehead of a guard.

“Take it off,” the player demanded, his voice raw with desperation. “Take off the mask. Look at me.”

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—the guard obeyed.

The mask fell away, revealing a face that was far too young for this place. Barely a man. Eyes filled with something detached and misplaced.

Your breath caught in your throat.

What was he doing here?

How could someone so young be a part of this?

But before those thoughts could fully form, the player made his choice.

A sharp inhale. A flicker of resolve.

Then—he turned the gun on himself.

The shot rang out, deafening. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating.

And then—boots.

Slow. Intentional.

The purest sound of authority.

Your head snapped to the left, just as Jun-ho’s did.

A man approached, his uniform a stark contrast to the others. Head to toe in gray, a mask black as the void concealing his face. He moved with eerie precision, gun already raised.

One shot.

The young guard barely had time to react before the bullet tore through his head, his body collapsing beside the player’s.

You inhaled sharply, the horror of it settling deep in your bones.

Then—the man spoke.

“Remember.” His voice was smooth, level—chilling. “Once they find out who you are, you die.”

His steps never faltered as he turned, moving past you without a second glance.

So close that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

You stood frozen, every muscle in your body locked tight, your own breath feeling too loud in the deathly quiet.

Jun-ho exhaled slowly beside you, barely above a whisper. “We need to find In-ho and get the fuck out of here.”

You didn’t dare nod. Didn’t dare move.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You sat cross-legged on your bed, the thin mattress barely offering any comfort, the tray of lukewarm food balanced on your lap. Mechanically, you took another bite, chewing without really tasting it, your gaze locked onto the official transfer papers resting on the sheets beside you. The crisp white pages were handed to you by an officer earlier that morning without so much as a second glance.

It had been two days.

Two days of dragging lifeless bodies across cold concrete, the metallic stench of blood clinging to your skin no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands raw. Two days of bowing your head, following orders, keeping your expression carefully neutral beneath the ever-watchful eyes of masked guards. Two days of stealing glances at Jun-ho as he maneuvered through the facility, shifting seamlessly between identities, slipping into the skin of a different man each time.

You had seen the way he carried himself—first as a low-ranking worker, blending into the sea of pink-clad figures, and then as a square guard, his stolen mask concealing the sharp determination in his eyes. He had taken the uniform off a dead man, stripping him of his role just as easily as the guards stripped their victims of life. All to get closer, to gather more intel.

And you—

You wanted to help. You wanted to be in the thick of it with him, to shoulder some of the weight of this dangerous game you were both playing. But Jun-ho had been firm, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"Stay back. Stay safe."

He preferred the target to be on him, for the guards to believe he was the only intruder. It was strategic, calculated—if anything went wrong, at least you wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire. At least one of you would still have a way out.

You exhaled, setting your tray aside, your appetite long gone. Your fingers skimmed over the edges of the transfer papers, the stark black ink of your new assignment staring back at you. A new role. A new place to hide in plain sight

Your fingers curled around the edges of the brittle transfer papers, your stomach twisting as you read the words again. You had been reassigned. Not to the usual mindless tasks—not to disposing of bodies, scrubbing blood from the floors, or following silent orders.

No, this was different.

You were to serve VIPs.

The second-to-last game was about to begin, and your role was clear: cater to them, offer liquor, serve food, be present—but unseen. You didn’t allow your mind to wander beyond that, refused to let yourself consider what else they might expect.

Because there were no rules here.

No boundaries.

No lines that couldn’t be crossed.

That thought alone sent a sickening chill through you.

The comm link in your ear crackled suddenly, making you flinch.

"What were you given earlier?"

Jun-ho’s voice came through, steady but cautious, like he was bracing for something he wouldn’t like.

You swallowed down the unease rising in your throat before answering.

“Transfer papers. They want me to serve the VIPs.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then, Jun-ho hummed thoughtfully, though there was a tightness to the sound, an unspoken weight behind it.

You forced yourself to continue. “Y’know… pour alcohol, serve food. Stuff like that, I guess.”

The words felt hollow as they left your mouth, as if saying them out loud might make them true, might make this role as simple as it sounded. But you both knew better.

"VIPs?" Jun-ho repeated, his tone skeptical. “You hear anything about them?”

You hesitated. “No, but they must be high-ranking if they’re given their own space, their own servers. And if they’re allowed to watch everything up close.”

Jun-ho didn’t respond right away, and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He had been careful since stepping into this place, but this—this was unknown.

"I don’t like it," he admitted at last, his voice quieter but firm.

You swallowed hard. “Neither do I.”

The unstated fear remained between you. Whoever these VIPs were, they were powerful enough to be protected, to be kept separate from the rest.

And that alone made them dangerous.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The black dress clung to you like a second skin—too tight, too short, too deliberately designed to make you look enticing. The fabric hugged your upper thighs, the hem barely skimming the curve of your ass, leaving little to the imagination. Every step you took made the sheer tights shine against the chandeliers, a constant, unwanted reminder of how exposed you felt. The glossy black heels that fit around your feet were the tallest you’d ever worn, forcing you to adjust your balance with each step, each shift of your weight.

Your commanding officers had been meticulous in their orders: hair down, cascading over your shoulders, its purpose clear—conceal the clip of your black mask. The loose strands felt foreign against your skin, framing your face in a way that made you feel even more vulnerable.

But what unsettled you the most was the thick layer of makeup painted onto your face. Powder, contour, shimmering highlights, all meticulously placed to enhance features that no one would even see. And the lipstick—deep, blood-red, stark against your skin. A cruel joke, considering the mask that concealed everything but your eyes. You had questioned its necessity, but no one had answered. Maybe it was all about the illusion, the mere suggestion of beauty beneath the disguise.

Still, it made you nervous. The entire situation did.

But you couldn’t show it.

With steady hands, you balanced the silver tray of wine glasses and descended the grand staircase leading into the lavish room. Gilded walls gleamed under the warm glow of chandeliers, and the plush, oversized furniture was arranged like a decadent playground for the six VIPs lounging around, their golden masks gleaming in the dim light. Laughter and murmured conversation filled the air, but you barely heard it, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears.

Two square guards stood near the walls, their stiff postures a contrast to the indulgent sprawl of the men before them. And then there was the captain.

The moment you stepped onto the marble floor, you felt his gaze.

His mask tilted upward, attention locked onto you as you made your way forward, tray in hand. You didn't know what exactly he was looking at—the length of your exposed legs? The way your hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders? Or maybe it was something deeper, something unreadable beneath the stark black mask covering your face.

You forced yourself to keep moving, the heels clicking against the floor, the weight of the tray steady in your grasp. But the weight of his stare made your breath catch.

So you did what you could.

You lowered your gaze, focused on the swirling crimson liquid in the delicate glasses, and moved through the room, offering wine to the golden-masked men who barely acknowledged you.

Your heart pounded in your chest.

This was only the beginning.

And you had no idea what was expected of you next.

"So how are your scores so far? Bet on any winners?" One of the VIPS asked as you bent down, offering a glass. The breeze you felt on your ass made your breath snag, but you moved on after the man took a glass.

"No. For some reason I keep picking losers." One of the other men said as you walked around. Your heels clicked loudly, drowning out the sound of the music playing overhead. You wished Jun-ho were here. You wished your partner were here.

The game unfolded before you in a spectacle of lights, glass, and muted screams, but you barely registered the horror playing out in front of you. Standing at the side of the opulent room, you kept yourself small, trying to blend into the background as much as possible. The other servers, dressed just as provocatively, moved silently, refilling glasses and catering to the whims of the men who sat reclined in their lavish seats, watching the brutality unfold with twisted amusement.

Then, a deep voice cut through the low hum of conversation.

"Don’t be shy, my lovely. Come on over."

The voice belonged to the man sitting at the front, closest to the captain. His golden elk mask gleamed beneath the warm glow of the chandelier, catching the light with every subtle movement. He was leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest in a posture of complete leisure, his other hand outstretched toward you, beckoning.

Your heart sank...sank and sank until you thought it might crash onto the marble floor beneath you.

For a fleeting second, you hesitated.

And that’s when you felt it—an invisible weight, pressing down on you.

The captain’s mask turned in your direction.

Even without seeing his eyes, you felt his stare—heavy, unrelenting, a silent demand that burned into your skin like a warning. Your refusal to move, even for just a moment, had not gone unnoticed.

The air in the room grew suffocating.

Your fingers tightened into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself against the sickening dread pooling in your stomach. Your legs felt like lead, but somehow, they moved.

One step.

Then another.

The distance between you and the elk-masked man closed too quickly, yet not quickly enough. You could feel the heat of a dozen gazes on you—some amused, some indifferent, but his… his was expectant.

When you finally stopped before him, he tilted his head slightly, as if studying you from behind the mask.

You swallowed hard, standing there stiffly, waiting for whatever was to come next.

But the worst part was, you had no idea what he wanted.

And that terrified you more than anything.

The man let out a low, satisfied groan as his eyes lingered on you, his hand reaching out to graze the curve of your calf. His touch sent a wave of revulsion through you, but you fought the instinct to pull away. With the captain’s mask fixed firmly on your back, every muscle in your body screamed to obey, to stay still, to endure.

You took a step closer, the warmth of his body radiating up to meet yours, but the touch only grew more invasive. His hand slid up your thigh with casual arrogance, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin. Before you could react, he pulled you forward, and you fell, unceremoniously, into his lap.

The shock of the movement knocked the breath out of you, his hands caressing the skin of your thighs.

He laughed, a breathy, self-satisfied sound, his hot, alcohol-scented breath washing over your mask. You could feel his grip tightening on your upper thigh as if claiming ownership, each subtle shift making you feel smaller, more exposed.

“Are you enjoying yourself, darling?” His voice was slow, deliberate, as if testing how far he could push you, his fingers making subtle circles along your skin.

You blinked, fighting to keep your expression neutral, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Of course, sir.” The words were louder than you wanted, leaving your lips before you could stop them, the fake cheer in them tasting bitter and hollow.

His hand cupped your chin, his fingers digging in, forcing you to meet his gaze. You couldn’t look away. The nasty grin on his face sent a sick feeling twisting through your stomach.

“Don’t be shy,” he ordered, his tone thick with amusement. “Where are you from?”

You bit your lip, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart. You told him where you were from, the words left your mouth before you could stop them, a reflexive lie that felt like sand in your mouth.

He hummed, pleased, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking, and inquisitive as he pulled you closer. The force of his fingers in your hair loosened your mask, and for a split second, it made you panic. The black mask had shifted, exposing part of your face. Half of your vulnerability was now laid bare, that half of your face exposed to the captain.

Your pulse spiked, terror rising in your chest as half of your identity was half revealed to him.

You barely had time to react. The second your hand reached up to adjust your mask, it was too late. A gloved hand seized your wrist with unyielding force, yanking you from the VIP's lap. The VIP barked in protest, but it didn't matter. The sharpness of the grip made you gasp in pain, your breath caught in your throat as you were dragged across the room. The sudden motion left you dizzy, and for a moment, your legs struggled to keep up, stumbling as you fought to stay steady.

The force of the hand around your wrist was crushing, unrelenting, and you looked up—meeting the cold, piercing gaze of the captain. His mask bore no expression, but his silence was loud enough.

He gave a sharp order to the guard beside him, his voice low and commanding, “Monitor the game.”

The words sent a shudder through you, but you didn’t have time to process them.

You tried to pull away, to break free, but his grip only constricted. He was stronger, faster, his hold unshakable.

Every attempt to escape felt like an exercise in futility, and a sickening thought crept into your mind: this was it.

You weren’t the face on file for Guard 29. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were an imposter. The realization struck you like a punch to the gut, and a bitter taste flooded your mouth.

You could feel your heart hammering against your chest, but there was nothing you could do. Your commlink, hidden beneath your mask and tucked away in the other uniform, was useless now. You were trapped.

The hallway ahead was cold as he dragged you, the air viscous with the aroma of metal and the distant echoes of distant screams. The sharp sound of your tights ripping apart at the seams made you wince, the fabric tearing like a sickening reminder of your helplessness.

But still, you fought.

You kicked, thrashing against his grip, throwing punches with everything you had. The force of your blows landed against his body like hammer strikes against brick, but it was no use. The man’s hold didn’t loosen; he barely flinched, as if he’d endured much worse.

“Let go of me, you bastard!” you screamed, your voice ragged with frustration, fury, and terror. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left. You weren’t going to let him drag you to whatever fate awaited you in silence.

You weren’t going to die quietly. Not like this.

The sharp turn into the office space came so suddenly that it took your breath away. You barely had time to brace yourself before he shoved you forward. Your knees buckled as you hit the cold marble floor with a sickening thud, the impact leaving you winded and dazed. The sharp echo of the door slamming shut behind you sent a jolt of panic through your body, making you scramble to push yourself up, but before you could even fully react, his boots were already coming into view.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath as he raised his gun, stepping between your legs. The cold, menacing barrel of his gun was aimed directly at your head. The steely glint from his mask matched the deadly precision of his stance. "I've gotta say," he muttered, his voice low and mocking, "you're good. Posing as a guard, unnoticed, undetected." He leaned in, lowering himself to a crouch, his gaze never leaving you as if studying your every move, anticipating your next one.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you instinctively pulled back, trying to create distance, but his hand was quick, gripping your chin with a vice-like force. You gasped, feeling the sting of his fingers digging into your skin, and before you could think to resist, he jerked your head upward, forcing you to look at him. "Take off the mask," he ordered, his voice cold, without a hint of mercy.

Your body stiffened, refusing to comply. You shook your head, a flicker of defiance the only thing that kept you from completely losing yourself in the moment. But that flicker was quickly extinguished as he sneered under the disguise, tightening his grip on your chin. In one swift motion, he yanked the mask from your face, tearing it off with an aggression that made you yelp in surprise.

But, what you expected next… never came. The seconds stretched on, heavy and suffocating, as his looming figure remained just inches from your face. Your heart thudded erratically, and you could feel the pulse of it in your throat, your temples, as you stared up at his grey mask, the blank expression seeming to mock you with its indifference. Every part of you screamed for release, for the end to come—yet he lingered, cold and unmoving. You searched desperately for something to hold onto, anything that could make sense of this twisted moment.

Frustration began to burn deep in your chest. The silence stretched on, suffocating, like a weight pressing down on your lungs. Why was he doing this? It made your blood boil—this twisted game, this drawn-out moment where you could only wait. You wanted it over. You wanted him to pull the trigger, to end it so that Jun-ho could find you, could tear through this man and avenge your death with all the brutality you knew he was capable of.

And in a strange, twisted way, you were at peace with that.

To die for love, for the search, for In-ho.

But the silence dragged, leaving you trembling, caught between terror and resolve. You furrowed your brow in anger, the tension thickening with every beat of your heart. “Well?” Your voice was sharp, louder than before, filled with a raw desperation you couldn’t hide. “Pull the trigger!”

The words hung in the air, reverberating in the stillness. Everything felt like it was holding its breath. Even your own pulse seemed to echo in the silence. And then, just as you thought you might suffocate under the weight of it all, you heard it—the sound of his steady breathing, matching your own. Close. So close you could feel the warmth of it on your skin as it escaped from under the mask.

Then, with a movement so subtle it almost slipped past you, his gloved hand rose slowly, fingers brushing against your chest. The pressure was almost gentle at first, just above your breastbone, but the sensation was electric. It was like his fingers were pressing down on your heart itself, a cruel reminder of its erratic, chaotic rhythm. You sucked in a breath, caught somewhere between confusion and shock. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away, even as the unexpected intimacy of the gesture froze you in place.

His gaze followed the movement, dropping down to where his hand lay against you, as if studying the rapid beat of your heart. The sensation was so intimate, so stark against the brutality of the situation, that it sent a shiver racing through you. The closeness—the rawness—of it felt as suffocating as his presence, and for a split second, you wondered if he could feel your fear through the rapid thud of your pulse.

A long, agonizing minute passed, the tension hanging thick in the air, pressing against your chest until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Without warning, he stepped back, breaking the heavy silence. His body straightened, the movement almost casual, as if the intensity of the moment had been nothing more than a fleeting amusement for him. He holstered his firearm with intentional slowness, the metal clinking as it slid into place, the sound almost mocking in the sudden quiet.

Then, without another word, he backed away, his steps echoing softly in the office space as he turned and made his way toward the door. Each step seemed to stretch out in time, the thudding of his boots on the marble floor a rhythmic reminder of how surreal this entire situation had been.

You remained frozen for a moment longer, your breath a shallow gasp in the stillness, your chest rising and falling in frantic succession. Your body, tense and shaking, finally released the breath you'd been holding in, the air filling your lungs in a rush of disbelief. What the hell just happened?

The question hovered in your mind, but it was tangled, incoherent, an unspeakable knot of confusion. Why had he—what made him do that? It was as if the whole encounter had just… slipped through your fingers, leaving nothing but the wreckage of unanswered questions in its wake.

You couldn’t make sense of it. You couldn’t even finish the thought before the weight of the moment came crashing back down on you. The fear, the confusion, the shock, all swirling in your chest like a storm. You had to get out.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up from the cold marble floor. Your legs were unsteady, as if the ground beneath you had suddenly become alien, but you fought to steady yourself. Your heels lay discarded at your feet, a reminder of how quickly everything had spiraled out of control. You grabbed them, the cold leather against your fingers grounding you slightly in the chaos of your mind. But even as you stood there, alone in the eerie silence of the office, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something had been left unsaid, unspoken.

And now you were left with nothing but the gnawing uncertainty, the unanswered questions clawing at your mind. Why had he stopped? What was he thinking? What had that... touch meant?

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The scorching heat of the shower cascaded over your skin, melting away the tension that clung to your muscles like a second layer. Steam curled around you in thick, swirling tendrils, fogging the mirror and turning the bathroom into a hazy cocoon of warmth. You stood beneath the relentless stream, arms draped loosely around your neck, head tilted back, eyes shut. For a moment, you allowed yourself to exist in nothingness, your mind a void save for the questions you knew would never be answered.

You told yourself to let it go. To forget. You had been spared, and that alone should have been enough. Shouldn’t it? Yet, no matter how many times you repeated it, the unease sat heavy in your chest. The doubt, the uncertainty—it festered.

With slow, deliberate movements, you ran your fingers over your body, ridding yourself of the soap that clung stubbornly to your skin. The water slithered down your form in shimmering rivulets, vanishing into the drain along with any lingering warmth. Reluctantly, you reached for the robe hanging on the wall, wrapping yourself in its plush fabric as you stepped onto the cool tile.

Your new quarters were a stark contrast to what you had grown accustomed to—spacious, luxurious, tailored to your liking. A bed large enough to swallow you whole. Soft lighting that bathed the room in an inviting glow. It was comfortable. Too comfortable. A gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your damp hair. And then, as if summoned by your unease, your thoughts drifted to Jun-ho. What had he been doing? Where had his relentless pursuit led him?

Slipping into fresh underwear and a loose shirt, you moved with a quiet, mechanical precision, your mind elsewhere—trapped in the fragments of a moment that refused to fade. You sank onto the edge of the bed, your gaze fixed on the floor, but you weren’t really seeing it.

The memory pulled at you, insistent and unrelenting. You turned it over in your mind, again and again, dissecting every second, every detail—the way the air had smelled, the way your skin had prickled, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on you.

Your fingers twitched at your sides before moving of their own accord, palm drifting toward your chest, mimicking the movement you had witnessed. The touch was slow, deliberate, tracing the same pattern, the same pressure. A shiver rippled through you.

It felt familiar.

Your breath hitched.

Familiar... similar.

Your heart lurched, your fingers momentarily stilling against your skin as a strange, creeping sensation unfurled in the back of your mind. You hadn’t noticed it before—not in the heat of the moment, not when you were too caught up in surviving. But now, in the stillness of your room, away from the chaos, it clicked.

The way he moved. The way his fingers had pressed. The rhythm. The intent.

Recognition clawed at you, a whisper of something just beyond reach.

And then—like a sudden snap of a thread—realization struck.

It wasn’t just familiar.

It was something you had known before..someone you had loved before and love now.

Your head snapped up. A sharp inhale caught in your throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice over the sudden, deafening pounding of your heart.

It had been In-ho—right there in front of you.

A violent shudder ripped through your body as the realization settled, your limbs moving before you could think. You lunged from the bed, nearly stumbling in your haste, hands trembling as you threw open the closet. Your old uniform hung there, untouched, yet heavy with memories. You tore it aside, fingers finding the cool metal of your comm link.

Fumbling, you pressed the button. "Jun-ho? Jun-ho," you called, breathless.

Static. A moment of silence that stretched unbearably before—

"I'm in a fix here, y/n, make it—make it quick."

His voice was strained, fractured between labored breaths. In the background, the sharp crunch of boots against gravel, the distant clatter of shifting debris. He was moving. Running.

Dread seeped into your bones like ice water.

He’d been caught.

But there was no time for that now. No time to process the cold grip of fear tightening in your chest. He needed to know.

"The captain." Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. "It’s In-ho."

Silence.

A long, chilling silence.

Then—his breath hitched, just barely audible over the crackling static. "Are you certain?"

You clenched your jaw, fingers curling into a fist at your side. You had never been more certain of anything in your life.

"I know it’s him."

The comm-link crackled again, his hurried footsteps echoing through the line. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice low and laced with something between bitter understanding and horror.

"Good to know," he panted. "’Cause that’s who I’m running from."

A pause.

"My own brother."

The words hit you like a blow to the chest.

"What will he do?" you asked, voice tight, barely above a whisper.

Jun-ho’s breath was ragged through the comm, his footsteps uneven as he moved. “My brother wouldn’t kill me—wound me, maybe, for interfering, but he’d give me a choice.”

You swallowed hard, pacing across your room in frantic strides, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt. Your mind raced, grasping at possibilities, at outcomes that felt just out of reach.

He kept talking, his words clipped, focused. “I gathered evidence. Enough to damn this place.”

Your breath hitched. That was more than you expected. More than you dared to hope for. “What do you plan to do?”

“If I can, send it to the chief,” he said. “But depending on how this goes, I’m at a loss.”

You stopped pacing, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed, gripping your knees. The weight of the situation pressed down on you like an iron vice.

"If I'm out…" He hesitated as if forcing himself to speak the words that felt like an admission of something too final. "You’ll have to do this on your own."

You understood.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I know. Just… be careful.”

The moment stretched, taut, and suffocating.

Then—shouting.

Distant, at first. Then louder. Urgent.

Jun-ho sucked in a sharp breath, and the line cut to static.

Silence.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

By the time the next day arrived, you still hadn’t heard from Jun-ho. The silence should have been suffocating, but deep down, something told you he was okay. You held onto that instinct, clinging to it like a lifeline.

You stood beside one of the other servants, a woman taller than you, her posture rigid, almost militant. She barely blinked, her gaze fixed ahead as the VIPs began filing into the lavish hall, their presence thick with arrogance and indulgence. The air was laced with the scent of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of sweat beneath perfume.

The commanding officer barked his order, and without hesitation, you moved. A decanter balanced on your tray, the liquid sloshing gently as you navigated the room, pouring drinks with quiet precision. You slipped between the gilded chairs and velvet-draped lounges, your movements careful, practiced, invisible.

And then—you froze.

At the top of the grand staircase, In-ho stood, his presence an unshakable force in the room. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable beneath the polished mask. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, a silent pull between you two that no one else in the room could feel.

Then he moved.

He descended the stairs with the kind of effortless grace that sent unease curling in your stomach—not because you were afraid. No, not this time. This time, you were ready.

You forced yourself to breathe, finishing the pour of whiskey for the VIP in front of you with a steady hand before feeling the undeniable pull—In-ho’s silent command as he brushed past, his presence dragging you in his wake.

Without hesitation, you followed.

His strides were long, purposeful, but you matched them with ease, moving step for step beside him as the two of you slipped into a familiar office space. The heavy door shut behind you, muffling the sounds of indulgence and excess from the other room.

Silence settled between you.

You stood in front of him, your heart hammering against your ribs—not with fear, but with something else, something deeper. Slowly, instinctively, you reached for your mask, fingers brushing against the metal clips. Your fingers unclipped it, the cool press of it lifting from your skin as you pulled it away, revealing the face he had once known so well.

You let the silence stretch as you slowly took in your surroundings. The office was just as you remembered—dimly lit, with sleek, modern furniture that seemed almost too polished, too calculated. The faint scent of leather and aged wood lingered in the air, mingling with the ever-present sterility of power.

Your eyes landed on a bottle of tequila sitting on a side table, short empty glasses arranged beside it, as if someone had abandoned a half-formed thought. Without a word, you wandered toward it, perhaps to keep your distance, to keep from overwhelming him. The soft rustle of your clothes was the only sound breaking the quiet.

Lifting the bottle, you poured yourself a drink, the clear liquid swirling in the glass. You weren’t thirsty. Not really. But you needed something to do with your hands, something to tether you to the moment before it swallowed you whole.

You refused to let emotion surface, refused to let him see the way your chest ached with longing, the way the sight of him after all this time sent a ripple through the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself. He wouldn’t see it.

But you knew—deep down, you knew.

Despite the unreadable mask he was wearing, his chest was tightening. His breath had caught, just for a second. He was in disbelief.

Spinning on your heel, you leaned back against the counter, the cool surface pressing against your spine as you raised the glass to your lips. The burn of tequila trailed down your throat, sharp and grounding.

Your gaze found his, unwavering.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you murmured, voice even.

He exhaled slowly, a sound barely audible, yet heavy with something unspoken.

“It feels like I have,” he admitted, his voice lower than you remembered, rough around the edges as if it had been worn down over time.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

You pursed your lips, steadying yourself. “After you disappeared, I was lined up with a donor.” Your voice was quieter now, the weight of those words pressing against your ribs. “Received a new liver a few days later.”

Almost instinctively, your hand drifted to your side, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the spot where the scar rested beneath your shirt. The memory of it—of pain, of survival—flashed through you like a distant echo.

But In-ho didn’t move.

His mask remained fixed on you from across the room, cold and impassive, an unbreakable wall between you. You searched for something—anything—beneath it. A flicker of recognition. A hint of emotion. Some sign that he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. But he gave you nothing. Just silence.

The lump in your throat tightened. You set the glass down, the quiet clink against the counter sounding impossibly loud.

“…Can I see your face?”

The words left you softer than you intended. A plea, despite yourself.

Three years.

Did he even look the same?

Had time been kind to him, or had it taken its toll?

For a moment, he didn’t respond. The space between you felt impossibly vast despite the room being small. Then, slowly—so slowly—you saw the slightest shift in his stance, something unreadable pressing at the edges of his silence.

Then, without a word, his gloved fingers rose to the mask.

A sharp click echoed in the room as he unlatched the clasps.

Your breath caught.

Slowly, he lifted it away, revealing the face you hadn’t seen in three years.

Time had changed him.

His sharp features were the same, but there was a hollowness to them now—a weight that hadn’t been there before. Faint lines traced his forehead, shadows lingering beneath his eyes. His gaze, dark and piercing, met yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

But the thing that hit you hardest—he looked tired.

More than tired. Worn. As if he had been carrying something heavy for far too long.

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. You had pictured this moment a hundred times, imagined what you might feel—but none of it compared to the reality of seeing him now.

His lips parted, but no words came. He just looked at you, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

“…You’re really here,” he finally murmured, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”

His eyes flickered down—to where your hand rested over your scar. Something passed through his expression, too quick to catch, but you saw it. A flash of guilt. Of something deeper.

Then, just as quickly, he forced it away. His mask may have been off, but the walls he had built? Those were still standing.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “You don’t have to act like this doesn’t affect you, In-ho.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Doesn’t it?”

His silence was answer enough.

You pushed off the counter, stepping toward him with measured strides. "Where's your brother?"

His gaze flickered for a moment before settling back on you. "On his way back to the mainland."

You hummed, absorbing the information.

"It was his idea you know," you admitted, shifting your weight. "To come and find you. I wasn’t going to, but—"

His expression remained unreadable, his eyes dark and steady. "Why?"

You hesitated, fingers curling against your arms as you crossed them over your chest.

"Because I was afraid," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid of your resentment." The words carried a weight that pressed against your ribs, threatening to crush the breath from your lungs.

You kept your gaze low, the weight of your emotions pressing against your chest, threatening to spill over. A tear welled in the corner of your eye, but before it could fall, you felt a hand brush against your shoulder, its warmth dragging slowly up to the back of your neck. You looked up to find In-ho standing in front of you, his face a mask of control—until his eyes met yours. For the first time, you saw something flicker there, a crack in the wall he’d built.

"What I did... wasn't your fault," he murmured, his voice softer than you'd expected. The words hung in the air between you, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself.

You took a tentative step closer, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The sting of the tear that finally escaped your eye didn’t matter—nothing mattered as much as his presence, the sincerity in his touch. You felt the warmth of his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tear as his other hand settled on your waist. His fingers tightened, a silent plea for you to stay close, to listen.

"I've loved you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "still, as much as I did the day I left. As much as I did when you were on your deathbed."

His throat bobbed with the effort of holding back more, and you could feel the weight of his words pressing against your own heart. His forehead gently met yours, the contact sending a shiver through your body as he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as if trying to breathe you in.

"But, you need to go back home," he said quietly, but there was an undeniable ache in his voice, a pleading note that left you breathless.

You pulled back, your heart pounding in your chest as you took a step away, eyes searching his. "Not without you," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside.

In-ho’s eyes flickered, a flicker of something hardening in them as he shook his head. "I need to finish my job here," he replied, his tone final, almost resigned.

You furrowed your brow, confusion creeping in. "Your illegal job, you mean?" The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t hold back. You had to understand.

He shook his head again, more forcefully this time, before reaching into his pocket. His hand moved with purpose, his fingers brushing against the edge of something—then he pulled out a small badge, its gleam catching the dim light. The police badge. Your eyes widened in shock. "You... you’ve been undercover?" The words barely escaped you, a whisper of disbelief, but the weight of the truth sank in as the badge glinted in your eyes.

Without a word, In-ho pushed it back into his pocket, as though the revelation was nothing more than a passing detail. "The games are finished after today," he said quietly, his voice a mix of relief and resolve. He stepped away from you, the movement stiff, purposeful. His fingers wrapped around the mask he had worn so often, but now, as he picked it up, it seemed like a symbol of everything he had been hiding.

"Once I'm done, I’ll come and find you," he added, but his words, though laced with promise, didn’t ease the ache in your chest. You bit your lip, uncertainty gnawing at you, keeping you rooted to the spot. "How can I be sure?"

He paused, the question hanging in the air between you. His gaze softened as he looked at you, raw emotion slipping through the cracks of his composed exterior. "Because," he whispered, stepping closer, his voice a quiet confession, "I just found out the woman that I love is still breathing. And here, standing in front of me." His words hung in the air. Before you could react, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. It was a kiss you had dreamed of for three long years—a kiss that seemed to erase every doubt, every moment of longing that had consumed you. It was gentle, tender, as if he was afraid to break something fragile.

When he pulled back, his eyes held yours for a heartbeat longer, as if he needed to make sure you were real, that the moment wasn’t just a dream. He reached up, his fingers brushing against his face, clipping the mask back on with a quiet finality.

Then, without another word, he grabbed your mask—his movements quick but deliberate.

"I’ll see you again, y/n," he promised, his voice low, but resolute.

And just like that, he was out the door.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

It had been three months. Three peaceful, tranquil months that felt like a dream, the kind you weren’t sure you’d ever wake from. The sun hung high in the sky, its warmth spilling across the water, making the world glow in a golden haze. The sky above you stretched wide, impossibly blue—bluer than it had ever been in your memory. You sat on the edge of the weathered wooden dock, your legs dangling freely, toes just skimming the surface of the water with each gentle ripple. The coolness of the water kissed your skin, a quiet reminder that you were truly here, truly present.

Beside you, In-ho sat, his gaze lost in the horizon, his profile framed by the light of the sun. He looked calm, peaceful even—so unlike the man you had once known. The man who had been lost in the shadows, in the chaos of things he couldn’t talk about. And yet, here he was, beside you, in this moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

You should have been looking at the view, taking in the beauty of the world around you, but you couldn't. Not when he was sitting so close, not when every breath he took was like a promise that this time, he wouldn't disappear.

Your eyes remained locked on him, tracing the familiar lines of his face, the gentle curve of his jaw, the way his hair ruffled in the breeze. You held his arm firm, your grip strong as if you were afraid he might float away, as if this—this peaceful, perfect moment—was nothing more than a fleeting dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. You reminded yourself over and over, the mantra repeating in your mind like a lifeline.

Real.

Real.

Real.

[imbecominggayer]

How To Write Characters With Addiction

From @differentnighttale: "I am curious if you give advice about writing people with addictions for example substance. I have reasons my male MC does it. But how can I describe the addictions the MC has correctly."

In this post we are going to be talking about addiction! From alcoholism, substance abuse, nymphomania, to everything else that can be a possible addiction. This post will be all about making this realistic and complex :)

A) What Are The Benefits?, Make It Convincing

Grab a fucking piece of paper or whatever you have and just write a paragraph from your addict's perspective on the situation. Omit the bad stuff. Make it highly convincing. if you aren't thinking "hmm, understandable" after you've written and read it, you did it wrong.

What do they get out of it?

Why did they like it at first?

Are they calmer, more intensely concentrated, does it take the edge off?

Are they more confident?

Does it ease the sense of being fundamentally wrong or dull some other pain?

Is it fun to do something rebellious?

What made them like this thing so much they tried it again, and again, and again?

B) Think About The Consequences, And Ignore It

Oftentime, at least in my experience, people will continue with a bad habit if it means they don't have to be the one to think about the consequences.

The Consequences For Addiction Include:

Financial. Depending on what your character uses to get their fix and how much they use, they might be spending hundreds a week if they are a particularly aggressive user. People often steal money from their loved ones. Addiction also tends to get people fired. Write a scene where your drunk character gets fired for operating machinery. Have them be a burdenous sponge.

Social. It's common for addicts to lose their loved ones since it often gets to a point where it's impossible to care about these people despite how much you love them. Make love ones leave your character! And don't blame them

Physical. STDs, Overdose, Liver Failure, and a shit ton of other issues from the chronic to the fatal either cause, exacerbate, or are linked with addiction. Recovery can't automatically save your character so don't write that story.

Psychological. Being an addict isn't fun since you get to struggle with points 1, 2, and 3 all at the same time! Write about your character issues. Their lack of control. Their spiralling life.

Write all about your character's suffering. And then have them justify it. Make it convincing.

They need it. It's not their fault that this is the only that helps them! Everyone just doesn't get it. I'm trying to work on it, OK?! It'll all work out! They know that it's wrong but...

My most hated shit is when a character's arc is easy. They struggle with some things like a big dramatic argument with their wife, they cry a bit, and then they learn that "drugs are bad" so everything is fine :D

NO!!! Why don't you write about a friendship that doesn't get mended? A chronic illness they now have to pay huge medicine bills for? A fucked-up rap sheet that they can't escape?

And it's not because we want to punich addicts. It's because it doesn't matter if you care about addicts if you don't care about the messy shit!

It's easy to sympathize with an addict if you make them the most innocent victim who never hurts someone intentionally and who gets rid of the addiction in a second and never struggles with it ever again!

Do the hard shit. Make your readers sympathize with the unsympathetic asshole addict! Addicts aren't always good people! They can be dickbags. And they still deserve resources. Life isn't some kind of karma game where dickbags suffer and good people rise! Everyone deserves to not suffer!

Addiction is ultimately a disease. But it's a disease that can make someone you love into an absolutely unlikeable person. And this is coming from someone with an alcoholic dad <3 He does good things and bad things. I can sympathise with my dad and not let him walk all over me.

C) Withdrawal Is Leaving An Ex, Relapse Is Returning

Addiction is a motherfucker trying to leave. It's basically the equivalent of a clingy ex who keeps contacting you, asking for just one conversation, and the moment you so much as acknowledge them you are fucked.

And suffering the brunt of a clingy ex who won't take the hint tends to cause the same symptoms as withdrawal!

Obviously, withdrawal symptoms depend on what type of ex you have and what age you are and yada yada yada. Research for specificity :)

Withdrawal symptoms can include:

Headaches

Insomnia

Fatigue

Hallucinations

Seizures

Tremors

Cravings

etc.

BE AWARE: Relapses are when someone returns back to their drug if they were going cold turkey or going back to their original dose. Relapses can sometimes result in an overdose due to the fact that the brain has been weened off the substance and is now overwhelmed by the high dose.

Relapses often happen when a person makes the deliberate choice in order to stop these fucking nightmarish symptoms. To use the analogy of a clingy ex, you start talking to them in order to tell them to stop contacting.

Relapses can also happen through being in a setting where the behaviors associated with the addiction such as sex, gambling, drinking, substance use, and all manner of things are normalized.

This setting could be a party, a bar, or even a friend group.

Relapse is made more likely if someone is self-detoxing away from a support group or a doctor.

Writing about withdrawal and relapses are an important part in making a story feel more authentic. Just like with mental illness, people rarely learn the lesson and follow it perfectly. They make mistakes. Slip back into old habits. Do shitty things.

We aren't writing their suffering to punish them. We are doing it because you can't say you care if all you are willing to do is look at the easy parts.

D) Little Tidbits To Keep Track Off

This is the miscellanious things that didn't fit into their own boxes.

Friends!

Do they have friends who also have their addiction? How do they hang out? What are they like? How are their substance using friends different from their non-addict ones?

Slang!

Don't just look up slang for your substance of choice. You'll need to look at some first-hand accounts of addiction. Find an influence who has struggled with substance abuse in the past and see how they talk about it!

Variables!

Remember to keep their geographical location, socioeconomic status, time, and a host of other factors. If your character is a penniless alcoholic then it's unlikely they'll get their hands on some type of expensive gin. They'll probably use rubbing alcohol. Keep the price of your drug in mind.

A character's status will also impact their slang. No one unironically says doobie anymore.

A character's location will also impact how they get their shit and how other characters will react to that addiction.

A character's financial status also impacts how the consequences of their actions impact them. A low-income character wont be able to afford the same medication as a rich addict. They also won't have the same luxury for quality therapy, rehab, programs, time, anything really.

Look At The Addict And The Loved Ones

Try not the skew the reality of addiction to paint the addict as the victim and the loved ones as evil for not being forgiving and tolerant enough.

Keep sympathy for both the addict and the loved ones. Or drop sympathy for both of those characters.

E) RESOURCES

FDA and DEA online databases and drug resources

Social Networking Groups

Medical Journals

Local medical professionals, police, and medical examiners

The US national poison center

[oldworldb1uez]

OK OK lemme ramble about some of the symptoms Bob likely exhibits due to his chronic alcohism(from someone who's family has a genetic predisposition for it)

-Based on how his hands and feet look he likely has erythromelalgia,it's symptoms can be triggered by alcohol use.

-he is susceptible to alcoholic dementia

-he very likely suffers from memory issues regardless of if he's drunk or not

-canonically exhibits agitation and aggression

-because of his alcoholism he also likely suffers from poor coordination

-if the other things aren't bad enough he could develop brain damage or go into liver failure

[lythiannatheultimate]

Family headcannons for the boxers❤

All of there families💕

🇫🇷 Glass Joe❤

•Sweetest mom

•Sweetest dad

•Joes the spoiled kid

•dead sister

•Overall your average family

🇩🇪 Von Kaiser🔩

•dead mom

•Dead dad

•Von had to stay with Joe because he actually had parents

•dead brother

•Von is the only one left

🇺🇸 Disco Kid🎶

•awesome mom

•Awesome dad

•sweet little brother

•Pomeranian dog

🇦🇬 King Hippo🏝

•Niece but that's basically it

🇯🇵 Piston Hondo/Honda🍣

•The most awesome mom ever

•busy but caring dad

•dead baby sister

•mom is supportive of her son's homosexuality

•Family knows about his boyfriend

•Has a baby Panda plus a ferret

•Has a Baluchistan Pygmy Jerboa

🇨🇦 Bear Hugger🏔

•Family knows about his relationship between him and Hondo

•Mother who suffers from heart failure

•Dad who is actually fit

•Supportive 42 year old dad

•mom has type 2 diabetes

🕌 Great Tiger🇮🇳

•Dead mom

•Highly supportive dad

•little brother

•cute king cobra

•an adorable tiger cub

🇪🇸 Don Flamenco🌹

•normal caring mom

•cocky caring dad

•A horse

•an Italian greyhound who is adorable

•overall good family

🇮🇪 Aran Ryan🔪

•Caring father

•Supportive mom who is lesbian

•Adorable, and innocent little sister named Aris

•Arin (Aran Ryan SNES version), his brother who has a lot of anxiety and gets panic attacks frequently

•Good family

🇷🇺 Soda Popinski🍾

•Father who is very awesome

•Mom who is very awesome

•A little niece that wouldn't hurt a fly

•Father supports Soda for being gay

• awesome family

🇹🇷 Bald Bull🏋

•dead dad

•Sweet mother who has a soft spot for kittens

•Dad died of liver failure

• mom has type 1 diabetes

•has a Calico cat named Ember

🇺🇸 Super Macho Man🏄

•Dead mom

•Dad who is very calm and collected

•Sweet little brother

•Adorable baby Koala

•dead sister

🇺🇸 Mr. Sandman🏋

•Dead dad

•Supportive, elderly, and kind mom

•pet scorpion

•pet tarantula

•Okay family

🇫🇷 Gabby Jay💊

• dead mom

•dead dad

•brother who is 65

•Gabby is the only one in the family that has dementia

• Related with Glass Joe somehow

🇨🇺 Piston Hurricane🌪

•Mom who is supportive

•Dad who loves storms

•brother who smokes A LOT

•baby monkey

•Normal family

🇯🇲 Bob Charlie🐆

•Dead mom

•Dead dad

•Grandmother who has lung cancer

•pet sloth

•the sloth is emotional support

🇨🇳 Dragon Chan🐉

•Dead mom

•Dad who is 35

•Bearded dragon

•baby dragon

•overall chaotic family

🇲🇽 Masked Muscle🐊

•Mom who smokes alot

•dad who is very dead

•pet wolf spider named Josh

🇯🇵 Heike Kagero💃

•dad who is very gay

•dead mom

•Adorable baby Pomeranian

•good family

🇮🇹 Mad Clown🃏

•dead dad

•Mom who is very fit

•Mad Clown's son named Francis

•decent family

🇬🇧 Narcis Prince♒

•Dad who is extremely abusive

•Mom who is a kind-hearted teacher

•An adorable poodle named Matilda

•rich family

🇨🇳 Hoy Quarlow🙇

•Mom is 112

•dad is 36

•Adopted Dragon Chan

•the whole family is filled of fashionistas

🇧🇪 Nick Bruiser🏋

•Dead mom

•sweet mother

•brother named Rick

•Baby greyhound

🇺🇸 Kid Quick🐐

•Mom who has brain damage

•dead dad

•older brother who is very calm

•Kid Quick is the only one who has anxiety in the family

🇯🇵 Kabuki🍜

•mom is very Obese

•Dad is really fit

•red panda named Amber

🇺🇸 Texas Mac🐃

•Loves his Finnish, blonde wife

•Little Mac's biological father who left New York and tried to come back, but failed

•He misses Little Mac ALOT

•Killed his own wife because she cheated on him

🇳🇴 Alice🔧

•dead mom

•dead dad

•Ape is considered family to Alice

•Ape takes care of Alice and their Himalayan cat named Haru🐈

🇺🇸 Little Mac🏆

•Texas Mac is his father

•Birdie is his older brother

•mom who is very Finnish, and very sweet

•Doc Louis adopted him and now Texas Mac and Doc Louis are his parents

🇫🇮 Birdie Mac🐥

•Younger brother named Little Mac

•Father is Texas Mac

•Finnish blonde mom who is supportive

•good family

[hell-dust]

This is the Metal Family Designs for my Misfortune Au!

Click for clearer images

The misfortunate au is where all of the characters are undead, and they died based on events or facts from the wiki and show.

TW: Mild(?) Gore, different types of death

Tyci: Tyci died of suicide–drowning and blood loss.

Why? Tyci suffers with self harm and stage 3 depression, causing her to give up, she was the first to die.

Dee: Dee died of being burned alive, one of the things he was setting on fire didn't go as planned.

Why? In official art Dee is seen setting stuff on fire and canonically is a pyromaniac.

He is second to die.

Heavy: Internal Bleeding and internal damage caused by Chipmunk.

Why? In episode protector, chipmunk is seen bullying Heavy and punches him in the stomach, Dee has already died, meaning he couldn't save Heavy.

Third to die.

Glam: Died of Bubonic Plague

In episode 9(?) Of season 1, younger glam (Sebastian) once confronted about Ches, during his break down said something along the lines of "Lice? Why stop at lice? How about I catch typhus, the black plague! So you all perish..." After his sons had died, Dee's rat had bitten Glam and caused him to die of the black plague soon after.

4th to die.

Vicky: Alcohol poisoning.

Why? Vicky is seen drinking more than the other characters in Metal Family in multiple episodes.

After the death of her family, she started drinking more heavily until she died of alcohol poisoning, causing her to contract jaundice from liver failure.

5th to die.

Ches/Chive: Overdose.

Why? Ches in episode 5 season 2 had an overdose, this is him after the doctors weren't able to revive him.

Original death.

If anyone has any questions, feel free to ask! :]

[sigyn-foxyposts]

"The Afton family" Part 1/2 Fnaf Amaranth AU!

Note: Yes, this AU is inspired by Mobox87's and many others old FNAF lore that was created back in 2015-2016 but is remade to fit into what we have today. I'm simply doing this for the sake of fun and keeping a part of the nostalgia alive. All designs are inspired by how I viewed them personally growing up, making them my original designs. Please tag me if you ever make fanart, thank you :D

A huge thanks to @vamnp for coming up with the name of this AU!

The Parents:

Name: Scott Ralph Afton.

Nickname: Scotty

Nationality: British (Moved to America)

Scott is clumsy and laid back. He is also a bit skittish because his dad used to scare him, intentionally as a child.

Has always struggled mentally, thanks to his childhood being quite rough.

He was bullied in school for being the shy and antisocial kid, often hiding in the bathroom stalls to get away.

He never had a good relationships with his parents, not even with Vincent no matter what he originally thought.

Has undiagnosed ADHD.

His special interest is machinery!

Likes to keep things organized and tidy.

Hates when someone is disobedient.

Loves teasing and making dad jokes!

Like his second oldest son, he has a fondness for the animatronic Foxy!

Suffers from insomnia and hallucinates.

He has a high pain tolerance and often gets injured, hence the many bandages he is wearing. His wife puts them on.

Feels horrible for not being able to stop Vincent from killing his children & being the cause of so many deaths.

Scott is the phone guy and tape guy (aka Henry but now it's Scott!)

Scott didn't actually die after the animatronics attacked and stuffed him into a suit, he was just severely injured.

Despite being in pain, he managed to stay alive until someone found him. After that incident he decided to retire.

He commits suicide, suffocating during the fnaf 6 fire together with Michael.

Scott is a hard working man that love's his family more than anything, but struggles to keep the stability going. Not only does he specialize with dangerous animatronics at work along side his brother Vincent, who has always been questionable in nature. He has always struggled mentally thanks to his upbringing.

The lack of sleep he is getting from his insomnia and night shifts causes him to get injured on the job. Which his wife is very unhappy about, they could be bickering and next thing they know they're argumening over family matters. Though Scott tries to be the one who puts an end to it and be a better husband and father to his children, he has to admit he is far from perfect. He retired from his own business Fazbear entertainment after the tragedies and focused on his remaining family, returning briefly during fnaf 6 to aid Michael and decided he would commit suicide with them.

Name: Margaret Fritz.

Nickname: Mag, Magpie.

Nationality: Norwegian.

Margaret met Scott through high school and originally felt bad for him, letting him rant to her about his inventions.

This somehow sparked feelings between the two and they remained high school sweethearts up until their marriage.

Margaret went to medical school and worked as a nurse for a few years, earning a good living for them.

She did end up quitting early and became a stay at home mom when she first got pregnant with twins.

Later in life she would try getting back into the work field but retires due to mental health issues.

Has a slight drinking problem and hates how addicted she is to it.

She suffers from compassion fatigue.

Developed depression and erratic behavior after the disappearances.

Feels guilty for Charlie's death because she was drinking that night and asked Scott to get him. (He was working late)

After Scott died in the fire, she went back to her drinking habits and died from liver failure. (Basically suicide)

Margaret is a stay at home mother who often finds herself stressed over not just her kids, but also her husband. Thanks to his recklessness at work and his horrible sleep schedules, along with his mental health. Margaret and Scott tend to argue a lot about his well being and over how they should manage things in their household, which often ends up going nowhere. This caused her to pick up a small drinking habit that she tries her best to hide from everyone, especially her children. Margaret originally came from Norway but moved to America with her family when she started high school. There she not only met Scott but got a degree in nursing and after a few years of dating, fell pregnant. This caused her to have to stay home permanently and at first while it was difficult, she knew she was doing it for a good cause. Their growing family. After the missing children's incident she went completely off the rails and had to be sent away to the mental hospital by Scott. She really struggled, especially with the guilt of not being able to protect her children that she had spent so much of her life taking care of. Eventually though she would be able to return back to Scott and their remaining children, raising them.

Older siblings:

Name: Coppelia Afton.

Nickname: Lia

Age: 11 (in 1984)

Coppelia is the twin sister of Charlie!

Has ADHD.

Struggles sleeping like Scott.

Her special interest is also machinery!

She's often found outside tinkering in the garage with something.

She also loves reading books, specially the book that she was named after.

Can be quite hyperactive and playful, often leading her to be a bit brutal.

Love's to have playful banters with Scott or Charlie to see their reactions.

When she was younger she used to draw disturbing drawings, she grew out of it though! Scott affectionately calls her "his creepy daughter"

She loves eating bacon and eggs or pancakes, calling it her british breakfast. (Because she thinks it's funny)

After Margaret was sent away Mrs Andrews, their neighbor helped Scott take care of Coppelia and her brother.

This caused her to became a mother figure to her and she calls her mom!

She doesn't like any of the animatronics and once she got so scared as a child that she threw up and cried.

Coppelia is her families only daughter and tue older twin, taking most characteristics after her father. She is very hyperactive and playful, often tinkering with machinery like her father when he was younger. She can't be still for long, yet somehow she never runs out of energy either. She loves playing around with her siblings which often leads her to be a bit competitive and rough. She always feels a bit guilty because she accidentally hurts them or make them cry! The reason she prefers playing with her siblings still, is because she gets bullied at school too. Unlike her father though, she puts up a fight which gets her in trouble. Surprisingly Coppelia never noticed the issues her family had before her siblings went missing and her parents were even more unstable than what was normal to her. As if she didn't already struggle sleeping it got even worse for her, grieving heavily at the fact she might not even see her twin brother or younger brother again. She didn't know what to do and was afraid of when her father had to get back to work, but Margaret wasn't there anymore. Luckily their friendly neighbor Mrs Andrews would offer to watch over her and her baby brother, offering her support to the girl and comforting her. She knew what it was like loosing someone.

Name: Charlie Afton.

Nickname: Charles.

Age: 11 (When he died)

Charlie is the twin brother of Coppelia!

Struggles with anxiety.

His favorite animatronic is puppet.

He really likes collecting porcelain dolls.

Enjoys listening to the music box because it was a lullaby his parents used to comfort him with as a baby.

Charlie is actually left handed but forces himself to use his right to blend in!

The lefty animatronic was based on a stuffed teddy bear he owned.

Later Scott recreated Lefty as a animatronic to capture Charlie.

Like Scott he is also clumsy and skittish.

He is very pale and easily gets bruised.

To avoid people assuming bad things about his home life, he wears make-up, long sleeves and pants.

He originally wore make-up to just hide his bruises but started to enjoy it!

His parents find this adorable and often his mother helps him experiment around with her make-up stash!

Even though he keeps calm under stressful situations, when conflicts arises his anxiety skyrockets.

Especially when his and Coppelia's bullies search for them during school.

He knows Margaret has a drinking problem but hasn't said that he knows.

He hates when his parents argue because of how his brother accidently got in the way and was injured in the past. Luckily it never happened again.

His favorite cousin is Chris, someone he heavily sympathizes with!

Vincent stabbed Charlie multiple times in the lungs out of drunken rage, leaving him outside to bleed out in the rain.

Charlie is the oldest son and younger twin, taking a lot after both his parents. He is quite gloomy, clumsy and introverted but a passionate caretaker like his mother. Like his sister they're not exactly popular at school and the kids often picked on them, but Coppelia was there to protect him! Sometimes he wishes he would be able to do the same, to show that he was capable.. But all he could do was run and get the teacher. He makes up for this when he is able to protect his brother and the missing children after he is killed by Vincent outside of the pizzeria. The reason he died was because he was waiting for Scott to finish working after Maggie forgot to pick him up. Then the same children who bullied him and his sister threw him outside and locked the door. At first he blamed both his parents for his death, but stopped holding a grudge against them when he realized Scott and Michael tried to free them behind the scenes.

Younger siblings:

Name: Bartholomew Fritz Afton.

Nickname: Bart, Fritz

Age: 7 (When he died)

Has ADHD.

His favorite animal is the fox, hence why he loves and adores foxy.

He has an obsession with pirates and pretends to be one all the time!

His favorite holiday is Halloween.

He likes to tease and be the annoying younger brother, often copying Coppelia's behavior.

Whenever he's bored he ask his parents or older siblings to read to him.

His favorite books are pirate books and books about norwegian folklore: because they have scary sea creatures.

Sings those kids nursery rhymes 24/7.

Hates loud shouting and glass breaking after he accidentally stood between his parents when they were arguing.

His favorite cousin is Brenda because she likes playing pirates with him!

Vincent lured Bart to parts and service, breaking his kneecaps, cutting of his hand and slicing his throat. It was so deep he pretty much decapitated him.

Bartholomew also known as Bart for short, is the second oldest son. He is hyperactive and outgoing to the fullest, insisting he is the leader of any group he comes across, siblings or friends. You'll often see him wearing pirate gears and singing songs, dragging around his younger brother who happily follows. He also never stops talking about what interests him and struggles knowing when to stop. He loves pirates, sea creatures and foxy! Bart also always unintentionally gets himself into trouble, even if it isn't his fault and while he loves his father the most, he hates being punished by him and go to the thinking corner. After he was killed by his own uncle Vincent, like the other missing children he can't trust adults and is very aggressive. Even to his own father Scott, when he figured out he possessed Foxy and tried to communicate with him.

Name: Sammy Afton.

Nickname: Sam.

Age: 4 (in 1984)

He is a very bubbly boy, who easily make people smile.

He is somewhere on the autism spectrum.

His favorite animatronic is balloon boy.

Balloon boy was inspired by Sam's younger appearance and made by Scott.

He has a huge sweetooth and will try to steal sweets when no one is watching!

Margaret jokinly and affectionately calls him a ''menace'' to her existence.

He loves being around other people, which is why he always follows his brother or mother around.

He has a few funny quirks, such as rocking back and forth when he is excited, walking on his toes or biting on things.

He also tends to be so quiet that Scott got scared by him multiple times becuse he was just standing there, smiling at him.

His favorite thing is arts and crafts and he actually helped decorate the pizzeria along with other children there.

He loves playing with balloons, but hates when they pop, then he will start crying.

He used to be close with Bart before he went missing, now he is very attached to his older sister Coppelia.

His favorite cousin is Elizabeth because she offered him ice cream once.

Sammy is the youngest son and the only surviving family member of the Afton family with his older sister after Michael and his parents. As a child he was a bubbly boy filled with laughter, often finding himself following others around rather than leading the way like his older brother Bart. He was very young when his brothers disappeared and when he got older he struggled remembering them. When Maggie was sent away to the mental hospital, Scott retired to take care of him and was finally able to improve on his parental skills. When Sammy became an adult he started working under Fazbear entertainment despite the history it held to his family with his sister.

[ahli-stuff]

Introducing: my cursed Fyozai ship child AU

featuring:

37 year old Atsushi buying a mortgage

40 year old Dazai on the verge of liver failure

Short-haired Fyodor who somehow thinks he still relevant

Fyodor and Dazai’s gym bro son

This might be one of the weirdest mini projects I’ve ever worked on. It all started when I was scrolling through tumblr and stumbled upon some ship kids from another fandom and thought to myself man. Dazai and Fyodor would be horrible parents.

In this AU, Ilya Dazai, Fyodor and Dazai’s son goes by “Ken Hara.” He relinquished Dazai’s surname, due to Reasons, and he simply doesn’t go by Ilya because it’s difficult to pronounce. Ilya is the name that Fyodor gave him (which Dazai just decided to keep as Ken’s name), as well as the cross earring, but Ken has no idea who Fyodor is. All he knows is that his “mother” left him on Dazai’s doorstep one day, 17 years ago. Ken is eager to find “her.”

As for what happened between Ken and Dazai, and Atsushi’s reaction in this comic, I’d say that all of them are a little in the wrong. Ken was being unfair, Dazai was emotionally unavailable, and Atsushi is like that one uncle who cares a lot about you, but he also happens to be friends with your dad (who you hate) for 20 years and who also saved him from a life of suffering and poverty.

[scotianostra]

January 4th 2011 saw Scotland lose one of it’s most talented singer/songwriters when Gerry Rafferty passed away.

Gerry Rafferty came across as a shy, introverted performer, he did little publicity and promotion for his music, preferring to place himself inside the recording studios, and letting the songs speak for themselves.

His introverted ways even went as far as to preferring art work for his albums depriving fans of photos of himself, although ‘Night Owl’ did feature some pics of Gerry in the studio on the LP’s sleeve. He was unlike any 'pop’ artist of the time, Rod Stewart, Elton John, Billy Joel and Paul McCartney were singers whose images were front and centre of their music and fame. Gerry struggled with fame and with alcoholism and depression and the increasingly erratic behaviour they spawned. Perhaps his upbringing didn’t help.

Rafferty was born in Paisley, an unwanted third son. His father, Joseph, was an Irish-born miner. His mother, Mary Skeffington, whose name would provide a Rafferty song title, dragged young Gerry round the streets on Saturday nights so that they would not be at home when his father came back drunk. They would wait outside, in all weathers, until he had fallen asleep, to avoid a beating. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d leave,” Mary told Gerry. Joseph died in 1963, when Gerry was 16.

Alcohol often played a part in Gerry’s songwriting, “One Drink Down”, “Baker Street”, and “Night Owl” at the time of writing these his marriage was struggling, it eventually ended in divorce in 1990 but they had been apart for some time, his ex-wife Carla said: “There was no hope. I would never have left him if there’d been a glimmer of a chance of him recovering.”

In July 2008 while staying in the five-star Westbury Hotel in Mayfair he began a four-day drinking session that left his room extensively damaged. Speaking to The Independent newspaper later, the hotel’s director commented: “It was such a shame. In person, Mr Rafferty was a really nice man, he kept himself to himself and didn’t bother the other guests but he was clearly on a downward spiral. He was in self-destruct mode.”

Conflicting reports and statements from his solicitors included a stay in St Thomas’ Hospital suffering from a chronic liver condition, brought on by heavy drinking, a newspaper reported that the hospital said he had left the hospital leaving all his belongings there and he had been reported missing, this proved to be false and the truth was he was moving from one London hotel to another. During this time, he met Enzina Fuschini, an Italian artist living in Dorset. Rafferty and Fuschini rented a large home together in Upton, near Poole, Fuschini claims she cared for the singer during 2009 and tried to help him overcome his alcoholism, and that he proposed to her at the Ritz Hotel in Paris on Christmas Eve that year.

In November 2010, Rafferty was admitted to the Royal Bournemouth Hospital where he was put on a life-support machine and treated for multiple organ failure. After being taken off life support, Rafferty rallied for a short time, and doctors thought that he might recover. Rafferty died of liver failure at the home of his daughter Martha in Stroud, Gloucestershire, on 4 January 2011.

A requiem mass was held in St Mirins Cathedral in Paisley on January 21st, attended by many politicians, and musical friends through the years, people from all over the world came to Paisley and listened to the mass, a spontaneous round of applause rung out as his coffin was driven away to the towns Woodside Crematorium, Gerry’s ashes were taken to the Holy Island of Iona and scattered, a sad loss to Scotland.

The following year Barbara Dickson Jack Bruce and the Proclaimers joined others along with the Rafferty Family for a tribute performance held Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow.

[fairlyaccuratebully]

Tad: Why not?! Why won't you guys stand up to Derby with me?

Jimmy: Mmmmmm, cause we don't give a shit?

Tad: About the earth?!

Pete: Please, if you really cared you'd resign, but there's no way you ever will because you're just counting the days until, his face bloated and yellow from liver failure, he calls you to his deathbed and, in a croaky whisper, explains that Bif Taylor is totally incompetent and that you, the long-suffering Tad Spencer, are the only one qualified to run the preppies, and you weep shameful tears, because you know this terrible place is the only true love you will ever know.

Jimmy:

Tad:

Tad: I… excuse me. [walks away]

Jimmy: Damn, Petey!

Pete: What? … Oh my God, was I talking?!

[anarchistin]

⚠️⚠️⚠️

Urgent Funds Needed

Please donate to this fundraiser if you can and please do share. 🙏

👇👇👇

Hey everyone, I need your help. My father is currently suffering from Decomposed Liver Disease which can cause multi-organ failure and needs immediate medical treatment. As a final year student at SRFTI and a freelancer, my income is barely enough to feed my family of four, let alone cover the cost of his treatment.

I have set up a fundraiser to collect donations to help save my father's life. Any amount, big or small, will make a difference and will be greatly appreciated. Please donate and share this fundraiser with your friends and family to help us reach our goal.

Thank you all for your support and kindness during this difficult time. Together, we can make a difference and give my father the treatment he desperately needs.

The bank details are as follows:

Kotak Mahindra Bank

Account number: 0445543605

Account name: Jatin Kumar

IFSC - KKBK0000677

Link to ketto fundraiser page:

[psychoticallytrans]

Oh fuck it all, I'm asking for help.

There is a cat I dearly love, but cannot live with because of the apartment complex's policies. He currently lives with the rest of my immediate family, a pretty long journey from where I am.

I was there when we picked him up from the shelter. I have cried into this cat's fur so many times. If I could bring him here, he would be my cat. He loves me more than any other person in the world, and I love him so, so much in return.

He is dying. He has kidney failure, and we can't pay for a new one or dialysis. He won't eat, and he's lost half his weight. He is projected to die within a week. He isn't showing any signs of pain or suffering, so we aren't going to put him down until he does.

I want to go and stay with him until he dies, because I am his favorite person and it would comfort him. I cannot do this because I would lose too much money to afford my expenses- I can't do my job from that location. I can afford two days. I have some chicken bones boiling on the stove to try to get some calories into him, and I'm buying some chicken livers later to see if that entices him to eat something. He is going to die, but he is going to die as comfortable as we can make him.

Here's the part where you can help: I work on a gig basis. This is terrible for my financial stability, but great for flexibility. I need roughly 50$ a day to survive, bare minimum. If we can cover the cost of the missed gigs, I can cancel them, and I can try to stay with this cat until he passes. That is a maximum of 250$, since I can pay up for two of the days out of my savings. Any excess funds will go towards cremation costs.

If all of you can pull together enough for even one day, 50$ to spend one more day with this cat before he passes, I would be everlastingly grateful.

If you can't donate, or want to save your money for something else, then please know that I understand. I know this isn't the most urgent or essential post on this site. I just have to try.

Cat tax, from before he was sick:

Cashapp: $psychoticallytrans

Venmo: @psychoticallytransgender

170/250$ (The first 20 is due to a friend. Thank you.) Last edited 2:20 AM EST 8/11 Three days covered.

[xf-cases-solved]

S1E21: Tooms

Case: Guess who's back, back, back! Back again, again, again! Eugene Victor Tooms is back, back, back! Tell a friend! 

Anyway, Tooms is back.

After being rehabilitated and made totally normal and non-cannibalistic by his psychiatrist, the Baltimore court decides that Eugene Victor Tooms is ready to leave the crazy house—where he was serving time for assaulting Scully (he was never charged with eating livers)—and is now free to rejoin society, despite Mulder's attempts to sway the court otherwise, by using his skills as an expert PowerPoint presentation maker. Tooms, of course, has every intention of finishing what he started before being apprehended, so that he can take a nice long hibernation in his bile cocoon, and Mulder has every intention of stopping him before he does. Mulder engages in some mild-to-moderate stalking behaviors; Scully tries not to kill Mulder and then herself out of pure mortification during the world's most uncomfortable slideshow presentation; a retired old cop in a wheelchair returns and makes fewer references to the Holocaust, and is slightly clairvoyant; I have a moment during the episode where I think, "Oh no, shit, wait, I think he does a gross thing here, is this where he—ah man, yep, it sure is," right as Tooms licks his fingers that are covered in roadkill juice; and, most importantly, ASSISTANT DIRECTOR WALTER SKINNER HAS ENTERED THE MFING CHAT!!!!

All rise for that big, bald, beautiful man!

Does someone die in the cold open: Ofc not, Tooms is a fully rehabilitated, mentally sound, non-homicidal freak of nature, who would never hurt a fly, because flies don't have livers. (It's entirely possible I just googled "do flies have livers"...)

Does Mulder present a slideshow: Unfortunately yeah, he does. Kinda wanted to die alongside Scully as he presented his PowerPoint presentation to the courtroom. I'm all for having the strengths of your convictions, babe, but c'mon, even you had to know that wasn't gonna work.

(^ me and scully suffering from immense secondhand embarrassment)

Does the evidence survive the investigation: Actually, yes, I believe it does. They have their findings, and the findings of the retired old cop in a wheelchair (who straight up just. had part of a victim's liver in his apartment? who let him have that?? mulder and scully are out here literally fighting for their lives just to hold onto one shred of evidence, and this hoe just takes biohazardous material with him after his retirement party and holds onto it as a keepsake of his biggest failure as a cop, smh)

Whodunit: Eugene Victor Tooms once again!

Convictions: Escalator did the justice system's work for them.

Did they solve it: I will say yes. The killings have stopped, the perpetrator is dead, they wrote a report with evidence to cite, and even though Skinner is skeptical, Smoking Man tells him he believes their take on things. It's more solved than most of their cases, anyway. WHICH REMINDS ME. There's a bit in the beginning where Scully tells Skinner that their solve rate is at 75%, which is ABOVE BUREAU STANDARDS, like????? Really FBI? The fucking *X-Files division* is doing better than the rest of your departments? And you wonder why people distrust law enforcement, jfc

[how do i determine if a case is solved? check the scale here: x]

THIS EPISODE IS SPONSORED BY: Escalators. Since 1892 [yes I looked it up], escalators have been a godsend for those of us who, for whatever reason, just don't feel like taking the gosh darn stairs. For well over one hundred years, escalators have been a convenient way for you to get around shopping malls, get to and from train platforms, crush your enemies to death with a conveyor belt, get through airports with ease, and so much more! So next time you need to get from one floor of a building or structure to another, or have someone you need to die quickly, consider using an escalator!

***

General Total Stats:

(green means stat has changed since last ep; red means new stat added to list)

Total Cases *Definitively* Solved So Far: 11 (first time they've solved two in a row for a while. must bc they're so high above bureau standards...)

Total Number of "Mulder/Scully, It's Me" Phone Calls: 1

Total Number of Times Scully Has Conveniently Not Seen Something Crucial: 5

Total Number of Times Mulder Has Been in Mortal Danger: 7 (i mean, tooms chased him through the escalator thingy with murderous intent, right?)

Total Number of Times Scully Has Been in Mortal Danger: 8

Total Number of Sexually Charged, Uncomfortably Intimate, and/or Flirty Moments Between Friendly Coworkers: 11 ("mulder, i wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you" 🥺 actually that whole little exchange is cute af. mulder's like "don't get in trouble bc of me," and scully is like, "don't tell me what to do, bitch, i love you," and mulder's like, "i don't know how to handle genuine compliments, so i'll just say that if you have iced tea for me i will go down on you right now, no hesitation, forget the stakeout, sit on my face" but then she only has root beer 🙁 or at least that's what i remember happening, i might be paraphrasing)

Total Number of Autopsies Scully Has Performed On Screen: 2

Total Number of Times Scully Plays Doctor: 2

Total Number of Times Mulder Talks to an Informant: 10 

Total Number of Times People Making Out in a Car Are Hurt or Killed: 2

Total Number of Nosebleeds: 4

Total Number of Times Mulder Has Tasted/Sniffed/Touched Something Questionable Without Following Proper Safety Procedures: 2 (but tooms definitely did :( )

Total Number of Times Someone Says "Trust No One": 1 

Total Number of Times Someone Says "I Want to Believe": 3

Total Number of Times Someone Says "The Truth is Out There": 1

Total Number of Cigarettes Cigarette Smoking Man Has Smoked: 6 (lol that stat hasn't gone up since the pilot, and then he shows up in one episode and smokes four of 'em)

Total Number of Maggie Scully Sightings: 1

Total Number of Lone Gunmen Sightings: 1

Total Number of Alex Krycek Sightings: 0 :(

Total Number of Times I Had to Look Up What State the Episode Takes Place in Even Though I Literally Just Watched It: 7½ (i remembered from squeeze, bc sometimes my memory works like how it's supposed to)

Total Number of Times I Had to Look at an Episode's Wikipedia Page to Fill This Out Because It Was Fucking Confusing and/or Too Boring for Me to Pay Attention: 5

[gynandromorph]

in my mother's defense of not euthanizing the dog (really not defensible anyway): the last pet she had put down was a senior cat a month after my sister adopted him. he suddenly went into liver failure, and he SCREECHED until he was dead when they put him down. i wasn't there, but it was apparently awful, the two techs who were doing it were like scared and crying and said that isn't supposed to happen. it is far from unheard of for an animal to scream while being euthanized -- you can find hundreds of stories from pet owners online who are deeply traumatized to have tried their best to give their family member the most peaceful and painless death possible only to experience something agonizing and terrifying. i was scared of it with mawkish, but i knew that the alternative was also agonizing and terrifying. it is more likely for the euthanasia to go as expected than for the animal to have a reaction. she was upset being jabbed by a needle in her thigh for the sedative. she huffed and stomped away and didn't want to lay down near the vets. but it kicked in in about 40 seconds (it was supposed to be 10 minutes). i was relieved if not heartbroken that all it took was about 2 minutes of a sedative for her to die. i think that with an IV method, it is probably more likely to distress the animal. they did put the IV in her, and struggled, but she was not conscious by that point. my mother felt deep regret for not putting her dog down before the cancer did the job for her once she got to sit with my dog during her euthanasia and see how gentle it is supposed to be. presumably, the cat prior to that had been her only experience with having a pet medically euthanized. we weren't there for it, but my sister's dog, who was euthanized within a couple of weeks of mawkish's euthanasia, was also very calm and uneventful, despite the fact that it was at the vet's office. her dog was apparently having a very good day and was very happy while being euthanized -- she'd just gotten to eat a ton of fast food when she'd previously had no appetite for months and months. but that's all a detour. the point is that prior to her dog's death, my mother's only experience with euthanasia was a pet screaming in pain until the life left its body, and i think she deeply regretted ever contributing to a death like that. i think she was afraid of having another traumatic memory like that burden her, especially one of a pet she'd had for 17 years. she also broke down with regret that she didn't have the dog put down after seeing a more normal euthanasia process. it doesn't make me less angry, but i do think there is more complexity to why she made the decision to let the dog suffer. i also think not many people are aware that your pet may scream, may very much seem like they are in pain or distressed while being put down. i think the lack of foreknowledge makes it even more traumatizing

[trolloled]

Xrumon stood in the bathroom of his respiteblock in the clinic, fluorescent light above buzzing slightly. The room was clean, nearly spotless even, not that the tealblood really noted this. Instead he stood in front of the mirror, checking the scars across his face. One across the lips, one chunk of his ear gone, a large gash across his cheek.

His eyes flicked to the warped and cracked skin covering his forehead. Permanent burn scars. He was lucky that his hair still grew thickly enough around it to hide the worst of it.

'Lucky'.

He snorted softly. To be sure, there were some people with far worse scars than him. People with faces nearly ripped off whole, victims of chemical attacks, or people with other massive disfiguring injuries that not even a hundred surgeries could repair. By the standards of "horrific attack" victims, he seemed to have gotten off lightly.

A finger traced the scars on his left hand, which still pulsed softly with pain. He refused to take most painkillers. To himself, and to others, he said it was because he didn't want to deal with liver failure from opiate addiction. He could still see it in his memory, the sight of the knives flashing against the buzzing factory lights.

He rolled the sleeve of his sweater up. Permanent bruise marks, stab scars, even grimly pale circles covered one side. He rolled the sleeve back down, then carefully removed the sweater entirely. He folded it up, placing it on the towel rack behind him.

His chest had the worst of it, he surmised. Even now, perigees later, he could still see his ribs poking through his skin when he breathed. More of the pale circles, fortunately only one or two, dotted his chest. He was glad he could not see what his back looked like. He pressed a hand to his heart and imagined he could feel the electronic rhythm of his pacemaker. There were more of the bruises here than anywhere else. He could cleanly recall the sound of it all. It was funny, in a grim way. When he thought about it, the cracking was the most clear memory. The faces were blurred, who had done what exactly, but he could remember the first crunch as clear as a bell, then the second, third, and so on.

He sighed through his nose, letting his hand drop. What was it that some people said? That people thought scars made you look dangerous and cool? He couldn't see it. Scars were a memory, a memory of failure and pain. They couldn't even teach you anything like a good failure could. Maybe a rakish and light scar, one of those absurd ones across the eye that doesn't blind the action hero, those would be appealing. All he saw here was a tapestry of suffering and a requirement for coddling.

Maybe some of the scars could be healed with surgery- No, he stopped his thoughts there. They were ugly, but they were part of him.

'Ugly'.

He squinted at the mirror. He saw his pale-skin, his now ashen-colored hair, his horns that looked like the life had been leeched out of them, the welts, craters, and crags of nearly being killed that covered his body.

A small, weak laugh left his mouth. Sure. He was a little ugly. That was fine. Maybe not the ugliest, but no beauty pageant winner. That was okay. He didn't want people thinking any different of him.

He put his sweater back on, wincing as his hands throbbed again. Could surgery fix the nerve pain? Was it even real pain, or just ghost pain? Phantom memories tricking his gullible grey-matter into thinking he still needed to suffer?

He washed his hands, drying them with a paper towel before leaving.

At least the pain reminded him that he was still alive.