#still rotating him in my mind. rotating him so much

[gothwizardmagic]

god ok also gotta say as a choreographer, whoever did the superbowl choreo was a fucking GENIUS like. it manages to be so effective without ever being flashy or complicated & like. flashy & complicated are great but to do the basics this effectively is PHENOMENAL. the repeated motifs are so striking and so strong and so CLEAR in their meaning its PAINFULLY effective - the contrast of more relaxed dancers just vibin and having a good time at the beginning & end, when its just people being themselves vs. "what america wants" - disquieting, emotionless, rigid lines of soldiers throwing salutes while kendrick & sza are singing on stage in the middle, keeping the people entertained & distracted as the goose-stepping dancers circle like sharks

and thats not to even mention the SCALE - working with such crisp colour lines in such an ENORMOUS group is staggering to even fathom like. making sure all the reds are in the right place at the right time & you dont have someone who was a blue in one section but accidentally wound up in the white group somewhere in the shuffle....... the formations are UNBELIEVABLY complex & span such an enormous space, its mind blowing to think about. over a hundred dancers. over a HUNDRED people to keep track of at all times to make sure they're getting from one place to another in the right way at the right times in the right formations. over a HUNDRED.

the dancers executed FLAWLESSLY too - taking big steps and remaining PERFECTLY in line is incredibly hard & they made it look effortless. the amount of split-second transitions to nail and vibe-shifts to hit.... oh my god. also shot to the camerapeople who were working their asses off on those transitions just as much as kendrick & the dancers were

also thinking of scale like... arena choreography and stage/film choreography are VERY different things. on a stage or in a music video etc. you have ONE front. at most on a big stage the audience might wrap slightly around the sides but generally speaking, you're choreographing for the people or camera in front of you, and they're gonna have a pretty good view of your face the whole time. arenas are MASSIVE, and there are people on ALL SIDES. you can't pick A Front, you have to be entertaining people all around you simultaneously, which means completely rethinking how things are structured. you also can't rely on detail nearly as much, because the audience is Really far away. even if there are screens, you want to make sure that there's something to look at on the stage itself, so the audience doesn't feel like they're just watching a music video. it's still a live show & you want it to feel like one

so theres a balance to strike between giving the individual artist focus & acknowledging that they literally... can't face every direction at once. even if kendrick is facing away, there are always dancers doing something that'll be visually striking at a distance for the audience to enjoy. but at the same time because there ARE cameras, it also has to work for video & HAVE those detailed up-close elements, so the footage doesn't just look like a guy bopping around with people walking past him for the whole time. the most effective example i can think of is in peekaboo - the groups of white-clothed dancers in the X is visually strong from a distance - even if you can't see exactly what's going on, it's an interesting visual, whereas up close you have the strong music video feel of kendrick popping up out of nowhere; of all these different up close groups of dancers giving their full performance directly to one front while that front is rotating from one group to another, as opposed to the multiple surrounding fronts on the main stage. it transitions from an arena show to a music video (and then back when he walks out onto the main stage with that trail of dancers so the visual is most effective from above rather than up close) SO EFFORTLESSLY and makes absolutely brilliant use of the space

this is literally jsut stream of consciousness it could definitely all be phrased better & honestly i could keep talking for a Long time like i didnt even get in depth abt the use of colour in the costuming & the way every costume is slightly unique in the up close shots but when you pan out to the stadium they become lines of clones like. god i could go on!!!! i coudl go on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! its a masterpiece choreographically fr its elegant its communicative its mindbogglingly complex ive watched it five times now trying to absorb as much as i can

[goldfades]

WNBA CHAMPS ───── LUKA DONCIC (crashout couple)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.8k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (request for my baby jo, @wanderlusturous) luka and reader at the wnba finals after the liberty win it for the very first time

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | nothing but fluff!!! luka being a proud husband<3

You don’t hear the buzzer. Not really.

Not over the chaos, the explosion of sound from the packed Barclays Center, not over your own blood rushing in your ears, drowning out everything except the echo of the shot you just made.

A logo three. Your logo three.

Ball arcing high, perfect rotation, the kind of shot that makes the crowd inhale as one—and then the net barely ripples as it drops through. Clean. Filthy. Forever.

It takes a second for reality to catch up, for the scoreboard to register what you already know in your bones: it’s over. Liberty, WNBA Champions.

And then everything breaks.

Your teammates hit you like a tidal wave. Someone tackles you—Sabrina? Betnijah?—and you go down, the weight of a whole franchise crashing over you in screams and tears and flying water bottles. The confetti starts before you can even process it, gold and seafoam raining from the ceiling, getting caught in your lashes, in your braids, in the sweat still cooling on your skin.

Your chest is heaving, heart sprinting, and when you finally claw your way out of the dogpile, searching for the first person you need to see, he’s already there.

Luka.

Front row, arms flung so wide it’s like he’s trying to grab the whole damn moment in his hands. His mouth is open, screaming something you can’t hear but absolutely feel, something loud and ridiculous, probably in Slovenian, probably something that’ll get clipped and memed by tomorrow morning.

He’s been a problem all night. Worn your jersey like he was on the team, talked shit to the refs, nearly got ejected from his courtside seat after he and Breanna Stewart’s wife started chirping in Spanish at each other in the third.

And now, he looks—god—he looks like he just won, too.

Like you just hit that shot for him.

Like you’d do it all over again if it meant seeing him like this.

Your legs move before your mind does. You shove past the cameras, the interviewers, the mob of celebration, sprinting full-speed toward the sideline, Luka already stepping over security like they don’t even exist. He barely has time to open his arms before you’re in them, legs wrapping tight around his waist, his arms locking around you like there’s nowhere else on earth you belong.

"You saw that?" you gasp against his ear, laughing, crying, shaking.

"I saw everything."

Luka is shaking.

Not in the way you’ve seen on the court—bouncing with adrenaline after a game-winner, vibrating with the last remnants of competition. No, this is something else entirely.

His grip on you is tight, almost desperate, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the confetti storm, into the chaos of cameras and screaming fans. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts beneath your hands, like he can’t catch his breath. Like he just ran the length of the court in your shoes.

You pull back just enough to see his face, to take in the way his eyes shine under the bright arena lights. Luka never cries. Not after wins, not after losses. He swears he did once—after the 2018 EuroLeague championship—but you’ve never seen it yourself, only heard the story in passing, a rare glimpse at the part of him that cares so much it hurts.

But right now?

Right now, there’s a dampness at the corners of his eyes, his lips parted in something between awe and disbelief, his whole body still buzzing, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the love, all the pride, all of you.

"You really did it," he breathes, voice thick, uneven.

"You doubted me?" you tease, but your own voice shakes at the edges.

His fingers curl into the fabric of your jersey, gripping at your waist like he needs to hold onto something real, something solid. "Never," he murmurs, shaking his head, pressing his forehead against yours. His skin is warm, damp from the heat of the arena, and for a second—just a second—it’s just the two of you. No cameras, no noise, no legacy-defining moment. Just Luka and you, caught in something bigger than either of you can name.

And then—before you can say anything else, before you can laugh or cry or whisper some smartass comment about how he’s gonna be even more unbearable now that you’ve got a ring—he moves.

Luka lifts you.

Easily, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh a damn thing, arms locked under your thighs as he spins you in the air, laughing through the crack in his voice. The world tilts, gold and green and electric, and you let yourself go with it, throwing your head back, hands tangling in his hair as he carries you in a wide circle, parading you like his trophy, like he just won right alongside you.

"You’re a fucking champion!" he shouts, voice breaking mid-sentence, too full of joy to care. "The best! The best!"

It’s ridiculous. It’s over-the-top.

It’s him.

And when he finally stops spinning, when he sets you down, eyes wild with something uncontainable, you barely have a second to react before he’s cupping your face and kissing you.

It’s not neat. Not soft.

It’s everything.

A crash of lips and teeth and breathless laughter, his hands shaking where they frame your face, your own fingers curled in the fabric of his t-shirt, holding him there, here. The arena is screaming, your teammates calling for you, the trophy waiting, but for this moment—this one, infinite moment—it’s just Luka and you, caught in the aftermath of something neither of you can control.

"You’re gonna be insufferable about this," you gasp when you finally pull away, forehead resting against his.

He grins, dimple deep and cocky. "Oh, you have no idea."

You roll your eyes, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before shoving at his chest. "Alright, alright—I gotta go celebrate with my actual teammates."

Luka groans, dramatic, swiping at his eyes like he wasn’t just on the verge of tears. "Fine. Go. Leave me here. Broken. Forgotten."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, but you’re laughing as you backpedal, fingers lingering in his grip for just a second longer before you let go, let yourself be swallowed back into the mass of bodies waiting for you.

The last thing you see before you disappear into the sea of jerseys and cameras is Luka, standing courtside, watching you with that same stunned, stupidly in-love expression.

Like he already knows—win or lose, on or off the court—you and him?

You’re always playing for the same team.

ESPN | “WNBA HISTORY: NEW YORK LIBERTY CLINCH FIRST TITLE IN THRILLING FINALS WIN—L/N SEALS IT WITH LOGO THREE” Barclays erupts as Liberty star delivers championship moment—husband Luka Dončić loses his mind courtside.

Luka Dončić doesn’t stop smiling.

Not once.

Not when he takes his seat, not when the reporters fire off their first questions about his game last night, not when someone brings up his recent dust-up with the refs—nothing. He’s all grin, his dimples carved deep, eyes still carrying the afterglow of something far more important than basketball.

It doesn’t take long for someone to bite.

“Luka, your wife just made history tonight,” one reporter starts, barely getting the sentence out before Luka practically vibrates in his seat. “What was it like watching her win her first ring?”

His whole face lights up.

“Bro.” He drags a hand down his face, like he still hasn’t fully processed it. “You don’t understand. I am—” He pauses, exhales sharply, shakes his head. “I am the happiest man alive.”

A chuckle ripples through the room. Luka leans forward, elbows on the table, still grinning like he won the damn championship himself.

“I lost my mind. Gone. Brain—poof.” He makes an explosion motion with his hands. “When she hit that shot? I was gone. Finished. I mean, you saw it, right? Best shot of the whole playoffs. Best player. Best moment. Ever.”

A few reporters laugh, already knowing this press conference has completely derailed.

“People are calling you the ultimate trophy husband after your reaction,” another journalist teases.

Luka beams. “Good! Yes! That’s me! Put it on a t-shirt—I’ll wear it to every game.”

The room cracks up. Someone asks if he’d actually wear a “Trophy Husband” shirt, and without missing a beat, Luka goes, “I’ll wear it to her ring ceremony. Front row. Say I won’t.”

The internet is already eating it up. Twitter is flooded with clips of his reaction, memes of him clapping like a proud PTA mom, videos of him looking like he was about to storm the court himself.

And he did almost storm the court.

--

You’re still on the floor, still in the haze of celebration, the weight of the championship sinking in by the second. The trophy’s been passed around, champagne’s already been popped, and your voice is hoarse from screaming—but you’re still looking for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Luka’s back on the court, despite security’s best efforts to keep him at bay. He’s already in your jersey—where the hell did he even get one that fast?—the name on the back stretched tight across his shoulders.

The moment you spot him, he spots you.

“MY WIFE’S A CHAMPION!” he bellows, arms wide, grin even wider.

“Oh my god,” you groan, but you’re already laughing, already jogging toward him as he moves fast in your direction, ducking past staff and reporters.

The second you reach him, he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, spinning you in the air again because once wasn’t enough, because he needs to hold you, needs you right there in his arms.

You cling to him, laughing, hands in his hair as he presses a long, over-the-top kiss to your cheek.

“MVP!” he yells, still holding you. “BEST IN THE WORLD! BETTER THAN ME! BETTER THAN EVERYONE!”

“Luka, put me down,” you giggle, swatting at him.

“No. No, you won, I won, we’re winning everything.”

“You didn’t win anything,” you tease.

“I won you!”

You groan, half-exasperated, half-melting because god, he’s ridiculous. Perfectly, beautifully ridiculous.

By the time he finally sets you down, you barely have a second to adjust before he cups your face again, tilting your chin up so you see every ounce of joy written across his.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, steadier. No more yelling, no more antics—just him. Just you. “So, so proud.”

Your chest tightens.

He’s seen you at your lowest, held you through every late-night doubt, every failure, every moment where you didn’t think you’d get here. And now—he’s still here, still holding you, still yours.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole face softens.

“Love you more, champ.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue, your teammates call for you, dragging you back into the celebrations, into the history you just made.

Luka watches you go, hands still outstretched like he wants to pull you back in.

Like he’ll never get tired of celebrating you.

Like he already knows—he’ll be right here, courtside, for the next one.

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 8: welcome to my breaking point

pairing: hwang in-ho x reader

also available on ao3

word count: 8.7k

-----

The arena was massive, but it felt suffocating.

It was impossibly vast, a circular stage bordered by fifty vividly coloured doors. At the centre stood a carousel—not a functioning one, but a relic frozen in time. Its painted horses stood eerily still, their glossy eyes reflecting the sterile lights above. The entire setup felt like a mockery of childhood wonder, a carnival-themed nightmare dressed in bright colours to disguise the horrors lurking beneath. Bright, playful, festive—designed to look inviting.  

It felt wrong. All of it. A grotesque parody of something that should have been safe.  

You couldn’t move for a moment. Couldn’t do anything but take it all in, your mind scrambling to understand the twisted logic behind it. Your pulse quickened, a faint ringing beginning at the base of your skull.

Beside you, the others walked forward slowly, but still caught in the same silence. You quickly averted your gaze back to the group and followed them with hurried steps.

Then, the voice came.  

“The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your stomach lurched. Your steps slowed as your group neared the edge of the platform, exchanging wary glances.  

“Let me repeat: The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your fingers twitched. You swallowed hard. Another game you didn’t know.  

The announcer continued, her voice detached and clinical.  

“All players, please step onto the centre platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”  

The words felt like they had weight, pressing down on your chest, squeezing.  

Your blood ran cold as the instructions sank in. This was life and death.  

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as your mind started racing. This game wasn’t just about moving fast. It was about forming alliances in real-time, making split-second decisions. Who would be left behind? Who would hesitate? Would people break alliances to save themselves?  

Your breathing quickened. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.  

Jung-bae’s voice cut through the mounting hum of voices. “Oh, this game? We used to play something like this on school trips. We’d form groups by hugging.”  

“Yeah,” Dae-ho muttered, scanning the room. “Except now, instead of hugging, we’re going into those rooms.”  

Your group instinctively tightened into a loose half-circle, drawn together by sheer survival instinct. But it wouldn’t be enough. You knew it wouldn’t.  

Your eyes widened and you turned to Young-il. You lowered your voice so only he would hear you, “If I turn away for a second and you’re gone, Young-il, you better pray I don’t survive.”

Young-il huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head.  

"Oh? So now my biggest threat isn’t this game, it's you?" His lips quirked up at the corner. "Terrifying."  

You shot him a look, a wide smile appearing on your face. "You should be scared. Very scared."  

He exhaled through his nose, amused. "Right. And what’s my punishment if I disappear?"  

You crossed your arms. “You’re one move away from seeing stars."  

Young-il let out a low hum, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Damn. I’d like to see you try.”  

Your glare sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Go on then.”  

His smirk deepened, but this time, his eyes lingered on you a little longer. Then, with an easy shrug, he murmured, "I won’t."

Young-il’s fingers curled around your shoulder. The panic that had been climbing your throat long forgotten. Not gone, but suddenly contained. He didn’t pull you in, didn’t tighten his grip—just held you steady. A quiet reassurance. His fingers curled slightly, like he was anchoring you just as much as you were anchoring him.

His voice was soft, but steady. “On a more serious note, I won’t leave you. Nothing will happen to you. Or me.”  

You trusted him, no matter how scared you were.  

You nodded stiffly, forcing your breath to steady, forcing your body to still. Gi-hun was already strategising. “If the number is bigger than six, we’ll just grab the extra people we need. We’ll stick close together as long as possible.”  

“But what if it’s smaller?” Dae-ho asked, voicing the same fear that had been sitting in your gut. “What if it’s four or five?”  

What if I was the one left behind? Worse—what if Young-il was?  

His hand moved from your shoulder to your waist and pulled you closer to him, like he knew you were thinking it. Like he knew exactly where your thoughts were spiralling.  

“No matter what happens,” Young-il said, calm and sure, “don’t panic. Let’s stay calm. We will make it out together.”  

It wasn’t an if. It was a statement. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching. Young-il noticed. His gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing.

Then, his head lowered to your ear and he whispered, "You're thinking too much," he said simply, tone softer than usual. "Stop."

You exhaled, shoving the thought aside. "Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

The certainty in his tone did something to you. Slowed the panic just slightly, just enough for you to breathe again. He turned to the others again and extended his right hand toward the centre of the circle.  

For a second, nobody moved. Then, slowly, you reached out first. Your palm pressed against his, cold against warm. His fingers twitched slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the first to take it.  

The others followed soon after, hands stacking over one another. The breath between you all felt heavy, like the moment just before a storm hit.  

Young-il spoke first, voice low and steady. “One, two, three…”  

The response came in unison, whispered but strong.  

“Victory at all costs.”  

The moment stretched for just a second longer before your hands fell away. The platform stood before you, waiting. The lights above seemed brighter now, the doors looming like silent threats.

The rules had been given. The game was about to begin. And all you could do was hope you wouldn’t be the one left behind.

As Young-il let go of you, all of you stepped onto the platform, moving as one, instinctively drawn together amid the growing sea of players. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with tension, with the unspoken fear of what was to come. Your group stayed close, forming a tight knot in the chaos, an unspoken pact holding you together.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted them—Hyun-ju and her group.

They were positioned right beside you, their presence impossible to ignore. Their postures were tense, their expressions guarded, scanning the room the same way you were.

After the last game, there was a quiet understanding between you. Having them close felt almost… reassuring.

Your gaze wandered through the arena once more, when your eyes landed on a peculiar screen. The numbers displayed were bold, impossible to ignore. 255. 

Dread curled low in your belly.

It was a countdown. A tally of everyone left. Of everyone still breathing. And you knew what it meant. Another way to remind you that the numbers could—and would—drop. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering as you stared at it, heart lurching with a sudden, sick realisation. It wasn’t just a tracker. It was a tactic.  

A constant, looming reminder that at the end of this game, people would be gone. That every time you looked up, the number would be smaller. And it could go down, because of you. 

Your breath came faster, shallow, uneven. This was psychological warfare. Just like the piggy bank, just like the first vote. Fear bred desperation, and desperation made people dangerous. You could already feel it in the air, in the tense way players glanced around, already sizing each other up like potential liabilities. Like obstacles.  

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt tight, constricted.  

No, no, no. Not now. Not again. 

But the panic was creeping in anyway, slithering under your skin, curling tight around your ribs. You barely heard the announcer’s voice over the ringing in your ears, your thoughts spiralling as the weight of the situation settled, reallysettled.  

What if I'm alone?  

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, the platform felt too small. The bodies pressing in around you, the hum of anxious murmurs, the overwhelming sense of being trapped—you couldn’t breathe.  

A touch. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Fingers curled around your waist, firm but not forceful.  

"Nothing will happen to you," Young-il murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

Your body locked up, but your breath stilled. He wasn’t looking at you, his attention still fixed forward, his grip not tight but assured. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just empty reassurance. Like he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, no matter the cost.  

And for the first time since stepping onto this platform, since seeing that goddamn screen, you felt like you could breathe.

“Let the game begin.”  

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as the platform beneath you jerked to life, moving with a slow, deliberate spin. Around you, players stumbled, muttered curses and sharp gasps filling the space as everyone fought to steady themselves. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was disorienting—just enough to throw you off balance, to remind you that you weren’t in control.  

And then the music started. Bright. Nostalgic. Sickly sweet.  

It snaked through the air, light and playful, curling through the space like a taunt. A melody pulled straight from childhood, but wrong, twisted in the way it didn’t belong here. A wave of nausea rolled through you.

“Round and round.  

Round and round we go.  

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along.”  

Something cold settled deep in your stomach. The song continued, high-pitched and cheery, the kind of thing meant for playgrounds and skipping ropes—not for this. Not for this nightmare dressed up in carnival lights. The overhead bulbs flickered in a rhythmic pattern, casting shifting colours across the room, making everything feel even more surreal.  

The dizziness clawed at you, the spin, the lights, the music— It was too much.  

Your eyes darted around, searching for something, anything to ground yourself, until they landed on him. Young-il.  

He was standing right beside you, steady as ever. Completely unfazed. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture loose. The artificial glow from above carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look impossibly calm.  

How was he so calm?  

His eyes met yours before you even realised you had been staring. You forced yourself to swallow, to breathe, but it wasn’t working. The numbers on the screen above the entrance loomed in the back of your mind, a constant, gnawing reminder of what was coming. They wanted you to see it. The number of players dwindling. A visible countdown to ensure panic and desperation.  

It was working, at least on me. Good for them.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your breath came too fast, too shallow, and you knew what was happening, you knew, but that didn’t make it stop. You reached for him before you could think about it. Fingers curling around his sleeve. Holding on. Tight.  

Young-il glanced down immediately, his gaze flickering to your grip, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs. That nod was everything. The music carried on.  

“We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round

Ring-a Ring-a Ring”  

Your grip tightened. You weren’t sure if you were steadying yourself or clinging to the only thing that felt solid in this moment. Maybe both. 

“You’re breathing too fast,” he murmured, voice low, even. “Slow down.”  

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you forced yourself to follow his words, pulling in a shaky inhale, then another. His fingers pressed just slightly against your waist, grounding. “Good. Just like that.”  

Then—everything stopped. The music. The platform. Everything.  

The sudden halt sent a jolt through your body, your balance thrown before you could react. You stumbled, the ground feeling like it had been ripped out from under you, panic crashing through your chest in a violent wave. But before you could fall, a hand caught you. Warm against your waist. His other hand caught your elbow, his grip solid, keeping you upright. His thumb brushed against the dip of your waist, a barely-there motion, but enough. Enough to anchor you.  

A second passed. And then the voice of the announcer rang through the silence.  

“Ten.”  

The overhead lights pulsed in rapid bursts of red and purple, casting the arena in a dizzying, disorienting blur. Your pulse spiked, as the urgency in the air thickened, heavy and suffocating. Then, chaos.  

Voices rose around you, sharp and desperate. Bodies moved in frantic bursts, hands grabbing, pulling, shoving as players scrambled to form their groups. The panic was contagious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, feeding into itself, turning rational thought into raw desperation. 

A sudden grip on your arm made you jolt. You turned sharply, breath catching, only to find Young-il’s hand wrapped firmly around your forearm. His fingers pressed just enough to ground you, to remind you he was there with you.

Around you, your group was already moving. Gi-hun’s gaze snapped toward Hyun-ju and her people nearby. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, hand brushing against her shoulder.  

“How many are you?” he asked, voice steady despite the rising panic.  

“Four,” Hyun-ju shot back immediately.  

Gi-hun’s head turned sharply toward the rest of you. “We’re ten now!” he called out, his voice slicing through the noise.  

“Come with me and don’t let go,” Young-il commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Then, he moved. Fast.  

Before you could think, before you could process, his grip tightened, pulling you with him as he cut through the crowd. You barely had time to register the others falling in step behind you, Hyun-ju’s team blending seamlessly with your own as Young-il led the charge. Your feet barely kept up, your breath was sharp, uneven, but you focused on the tug of his hand, on the way his grip was certain.  

Ahead, a door loomed. One of many.  

Young-il reached it first, yanking it open with a sharp motion. His body twisted, gaze locking onto yours. “Get in.”  

You didn’t hesitate. You darted inside and stood near the entrance, the rush of bodies following closely behind. One by one, they poured into the room. Young-il was last.  

He lingered at the threshold for half a second longer than necessary, scanning the arena one last time before stepping inside and pulling the door shut with a firm, final click.

Silence.  

The room was small, barely large enough to hold all ten of you, but compared to the chaos outside, it felt like a fortress.

Overhead, a timer glowed on the wall, the numbers ticking down in bright, merciless red.  

2… 1…  

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You couldn’t look away. The sound of your heartbeat thundered in your ears.  

0.  

Young-il’s hand reached out to you and gave the faintest squeeze. A long, piercing beep rang out, the finality of it sinking into your bones. Then, the lock clicked into place.  

The screams started almost immediately.  

Muffled cries and sobs seeped through the thick wood of the door, bleeding into the tense silence of the room. You barely had a second to process before your gaze caught on something—a rectangular slot near the centre of the door. A viewing panel.  

Gi-hun stepped forward and looked through. You hesitated. You knew you shouldn’t look. But morbid curiosity clawed at you, sinking its hooks in deep. Before you could stop yourself, your feet carried you forward. You peered through the slot, alongside Gi-hun.  

The sight outside turned your blood to ice.  

They’re dying.

That was the first thought that cut through the static in your brain. The first thing you managed to grasp in the overwhelming, suffocating chaos.  

They’re dying. One by one.  

Collapsing like puppets with their strings severed, bodies hitting the pristine floor with dull, wet thuds. The sound was barely audible over the gunfire, but you could feel it. The way the ground beneath you seemed to tremble. The way something inside your chest coiled so tightly you thought you might snap in half. Your and Gi-hun’s body jolted as if you had been the one hit.  

They’re dying.

Not players. Not numbers on a screen. People. People who were just standing there moments ago, eyes darting, hands scrambling, looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Now they were still.  

The first few had been too fast, too sudden for your mind to register. But then you saw one—really saw one.  

A man. Maybe in his forties. You hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t even noticed him before now. He had his hands pressed against a door that wouldn’t open, his nails digging into the metal like he could pry his way inside if he just tried hard enough. You could see the desperation in the set of his shoulders, in the way his breath hitched.  

And then a single shot. He jerked violently. Then crumpled. Just like that. 

A high-pitched scream cut through the air, raw and wrong. You flinched. Someone stumbled. Fell. Their hands outstretched toward nothing, their lips forming words they never got the chance to say. Another shot. Another body.  

The number on the screen was already dropping.  

Don’t look.

You forced yourself to turn away, to stare at the floor in front of you, at the people in the room with you. The ones who made it. The ones still breathing. Your legs felt locked in place, stiff, heavy. Your hands trembled where they curled at your sides.  

I made it.

That should have been enough. But the thought lingered, curling around your ribs like something rotten.

What if I hadn’t? What if my foot had slipped? What if my hand had missed his? Would I still be out there? Would he have even turned back?

The gunfire was slowing now. The screams were fading.  The arena outside was quieting. Bodies littered the floor, unmoving. Not players. People. And you watched.

You stumbled off to the side, your shoulder slamming into the wall. You didn’t realise your legs were shaking until you nearly lost your balance. The images were already burned into the back of your eyelids. You couldn’t stop hearing it. The shots. The screams. The silence that followed.  

A firm hand found your waist. Fingers pressed lightly into your side, just enough to remind you where you were. Who you were with.  

“Breathe.”  

The voice was low, even. But when you looked up, Young-il’s face was full of concern, his lips pressed in a firm line. His grip on you didn’t tighten, didn’t waver. Just remained there—present, unwavering. His voice dipped lower, quieter. Just for you.  

“None of that is happening to you,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”  

You swallowed, throat tight, nodding slightly.  

“Say it,” he pressed, not unkindly.  

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past your lips in a mere whisper. “It’s not happening to me.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a beat longer before giving a small, approving nod. And just like that, the moment passed. His hand fell away, taking his warmth with it. But the steadiness it left in its wake remained.

“The following players have been eliminated: Player 013, 043, 049, 054, 060…”

You try to drown out the mechanical voice as best as you could. Minutes passed in heavy silence, the only sounds filtering through the door were the distant shuffling of boots, the scrape of bodies being dragged, the wet splatter of something you refused to name. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, even from behind closed doors, seeping into your lungs, clinging to your skin like something permanent.   

Click.   

The lock disengaged with a dull, mechanical sound, the finality of it settling over you like a weight. One by one, your group stepped forward, filing out into the arena. You followed, your legs stiff, your pulse drumming against your ribs.  

The moment you crossed the threshold, the smell hit you harder. Coppery. Sharp. It clung to everything—the floors, the walls, the very air you breathed. And then you saw it.  

The blood. It was everywhere.  

Dark pools stretching across the pristine floor, smeared in streaks where bodies had been dragged away. Some of it had begun to dry, thickening in ugly patches, while fresh streaks still glistened under the harsh lights. Footsteps tracked through it, careless and indifferent, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be wiped away. A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach, but you shoved it down, locked it up, buried it beneath something colder.  

Get it together.  Focus on your breathing. In. Out. Keep it steady. Don’t let them see. Don’t make yourself an easy target.

You squared your shoulders, forced your muscles to relax, forced your face into something neutral—something unreadable. The same way you always had. The same way you always would. Fake it till you make it.  

You stepped forward, deliberately avoiding the larger pools of blood, careful not to let your shoes smear through it. Not because it mattered—it was already everywhere—but because you refused to let it touch you. Not more than it already had. You exhaled a loud sigh, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well. That sucked.”  

Young-il’s gaze flickered to you. He didn’t answer right away, just studied you with that quiet, infuriating patience of his. Like he was waiting for you to drop the act.  

Then, finally, he hummed. “That's what we’re calling it?”  

You stepped over a streak of blood without breaking stride. “What else am I supposed to call it?” Your voice was steady. Casual. Too casual. “We didn’t die. Could’ve been worse.”  

His eyes didn’t leave you. “You were shaking.”  

Your jaw tightened for half a second. Then, with a careless shrug, you shot him a look. “And now I’m not.”  

It was a lie. You were still shaking. Just… on the inside. He tilted his head slightly. You caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides before curling into a loose fist. He saw right through you. Of course he did. But he didn’t call you on it.   

He saw the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into something solid. He saw the way your breath came just a little too fast, the way your muscles were coiled just a little too tight. Instead, he let out a low hum. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.”  

The rest of the group moved forward. You kept your chin up. Kept your steps steady.  No one had to know that every inch of you was still trembling beneath the mask.

The second round passed in a blur, tension clawing at the edges of your mind even as you forced yourself to move, to react, to survive. The number had been four. Your group didn’t stay together and you were forced to part ways with Young-il and Gi-hun. It all happened too fast. The moment the number was called, the platform erupted into chaos, bodies moving in every direction, scrambling for safety. Young-il shoved you in Dae-ho’s arms and told you to go. His face said everything; Don’t argue and go. 

But he promised me? 

No time to think about that right now. You grabbed the nearest person—Jun-hee—and barely had time to latch onto Jung-bae before the frantic rush toward the doors began. In those thirty seconds, you lost sight of everything but the desperate need to make it through. Not everyone would. The buzzer blared. The doors slammed shut. Gunshots soon followed.  

You stopped flinching at the sound—mostly. But as you leaned against the closed door, breathing hard, the weight of it pressed down on you. It was impossible not to think about who was still out there. Who might not have made it.  

Young-il. Gi-hun.  

You hadn’t seen where they went. You hadn’t seen if they found two more people. The thought made you want to throw up, panic gnawing at the edges of your mind. Your pulse was a hammer, each second stretching unbearably. You tried to tell yourself they were fine. That they had to be fine. That people like Young-il didn’t just disappear in an instant. But you knew that wasn’t true.  

The seconds bled into minutes. The screaming outside died down. Then, silence. The mechanical whirr of the clean-up. The guards moving with calculated efficiency. You barely registered it. You needed the doors to open. You needed to see them.  

Finally, the locks clicked open. You swung the door open, and you pushed through, your head snapping up, eyes scanning the thinning crowd with frantic precision.  

Jun-hee was by your side, holding her belly and trying to control her frantic breathing.  Soon, Dae-ho appeared by your side, ”Do you see them?"  

No. No.  

The empty spaces where bodies had once stood made the room feel impossibly vast. Your gaze swept over every face, your heart slamming harder with every second that passed.  

"(Y/N)!"  

You held your breath. You spun around so fast you almost lost your footing. There. Across the arena. Young-il, standing at the edge of the crowd, Gi-hun beside him. The relief hit you so hard it was almost painful.  

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t stop yourself. You ran.  

Not like yesterday. Not like after the second game, when you had forced yourself to freeze, to pull back at the last second, to pretend that the instinct wasn’t there. This time, you didn’t stop. Your feet barely touched the ground as you closed the distance, pushing past other players without care. And then—finally—you reached him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in before you could think twice. Warm. Alive. 

Young-il stiffened for a half-second, caught off guard, but then he pulled you in. 

His grip was firm, grounding, one arm tight around your waist while the other slid up, fingers threading through your hair, cradling the back of your head.

He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but the way he pulled you in, the way his hand curled just slightly against your spine, told you enough. He had been just as scared as you were.  

You buried your face against his chest, breathing him in, heart still racing against your ribs. You didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care if anyone saw.  

Young-il exhaled, a slow, steady breath against your ear. His voice was quieter than usual. Less controlled. "I told you not to worry."  

“Doesn't work like that. Not with you. Don’t ever do that again. You promised.” 

Young-il's grip on you tightened just slightly, the warmth of his palm pressing firm against your back. His breath hitched—barely, but you felt it.

"I know," he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something almost regretful. "I know."

You clenched your fists against his jacket. "Then why the hell did you let go?"

"I had to," he admitted, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But I won’t again."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your pulse still hammering in your ears. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark, sharp, searching—were anything but indifferent. He was watching you too closely, like he needed to make sure you believed him.

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.

Either way, he deserved this. Without thinking, your fist shot out and smacked his arm—hard.

Young-il lurched back slightly, like you’d just stabbed him instead of hit him. He grabbed his arm with an exaggerated wince, staring at you in open-mouthed betrayal, eyes widening in mock betrayal. "Ow—what the hell?!”

"You deserved that." You flexed your fingers, shaking out your knuckles. "And if you ever pull that shit again, I swear I’ll make it worse."

Young-il blinked, still clutching his arm like you’d actually done damage. "I just risked my life getting us both through that round, and this is my reward?"

"Your reward is that I didn’t aim for your face."

He scoffed, rubbing his arm in slow, exaggerated circles. "I think you fractured something. I can’t move my shoulder."

You rolled your eyes and laughed loudly. "You’re so full of shit."

He gasped, feigning offence, but you could tell that he was fighting a smirk. "You hit me with intent. I felt malice. There was rage in that punch."

You raised a brow. "You’re about to feel it again."

Young-il immediately dropped the act, hands up in surrender, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "Okay, okay. Point made."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Good. Let’s keep it that way."

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer. Then, softer, quieter— "I really won’t leave you again."

You sighed, the weight of the moment settling between you. "You better not."

A sharp mechanical beep cut through the dormitory, signalling the next round was about to begin.

"Come on," he murmured, voice softer now. "We have to go again."

The words sent a fresh wave of unease rippling through you. Again. The game wasn’t over. Not even close. The fear that had gripped you moments ago wasn’t a one-time thing—it would happen again, and again, until there was no one left to lose.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. To focus. To push past the lingering warmth of his embrace and the way your chest still ached from the last thirty seconds of sheer panic. Because the carousel was already spinning again, the music was starting, and another number would be called.

The third and fourth round was much worse. People weren’t just scrambling anymore—they were fighting. Someone shoved you in desperation, nearly sending you to the ground before Young-il pulled you back. The numbers were three and six this time, and you barely managed to make it inside a room before the buzzer blared both times.  And the gunshots on the other side were getting less and less per round.

The first time someone died in front of you, it had felt like your own lungs had been ripped out. The gunshots had echoed in your skull long after they stopped, rattling your bones, your breath hitching every time the trigger was pulled.

But now?

Now the sound barely registered. The fourth round had ended, another group of players executed in the middle of the arena, and you didn’t even flinch. You barely even looked. Just kept walking, stepping around the fresh blood without a second thought.

You caught Young-il watching you. His dark eyes flicked down to your hands, curled loosely at your sides—steady, not even trembling. He didn’t say anything. But you could feel the thought lingering between you.

When had you stopped reacting? You didn’t have an answer.

For hopefully the last time, all of you shifted back to the platform. This time, your group and Hyun-ju’s group stood together, with player 246, 280 and 333 joining you as well. But the relief of finding each other didn’t last. Something felt… off.

A quick scan of the faces around you sent a cold weight pressing into your chest. One was missing.

Young-mi.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where’s Young-mi?”

No one answered. A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. 

Hyun-ju’s face said it all. 

Your stomach twisted, but it was distant. Muted. You should cry. You should feel something more than this quiet, dull acceptance. But the tears didn’t come.

Instead, you just nodded.

"Okay," you murmured under your breath, as if that was all there was to say.

Something inside you cracked.

The platform beneath you groaned as it started to rotate once more, the familiar, sickly sweet melody curling through the air. That same eerie, high-pitched cheerfulness, now warped by everything that had happened. The contrast was unbearable.  

The announcer’s voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.  

"Now, the final round will begin."  

For a second—just one fleeting second—relief crashed over you. Final.  

This was it. The last round. One more number. One last push. One last chance to survive. But relief was a fragile thing. It barely had time to settle in your chest before something colder, sharper, meaner replaced it. Because final didn’t mean safe.  

Final meant when this round ended, more people wouldn’t be standing here. That whatever number was called next would carve names into the floor in blood. That the game wasn’t ending—it was culling. One last round.  

Your gaze flickered up—drawn to the screen hanging above the entrance.  

126.  

Your stomach dropped.  

One hundred twenty-six players left. But only 50 rooms.  

A slow, creeping dread curled up your spine.  

Two. The last number is two. That means 26 people would die this round. Maybe more. If someone hesitated. If someone got left behind at the last second. Pairs.  

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Instinct. Pure, primal instinct. You reached for Young-il’s hand without a second thought, fingers latching onto his, tethering. Like hell you were letting him wander off again.  

Jung-bae stepped in closer, voice taut, strained. “What do you think it’ll be this time?”  

Gi-hun was already deep in thought, brows furrowed, but before he could open his mouth—  

“Two.”  The word left your lips at the exact same time as Young-il’s.  

A sharp pause. Like a crack in the air.  

Every pair of eyes in your group snapped to you both. But you were only looking at him.

Jung-bae frowned. “Why?”  

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. His thumb caressed your hand. “There are 126 people left,” he said, voice even. “And only 50 rooms.”  

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, finishing his thought, “That means there’s only enough space for 100 people.”  

Dae-ho stiffened. Jun-hee sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of it settled. Tangible. Crushing.  You swallowed hard, the words tasting like lead on your tongue, “The rest will be killed.”  

“Everyone pair up right now," Gi-hun urged, voice tight, sharp.

"And move to the edge of the platform so you can run as soon as they announce it.”, you added.

Everyone quickly grabbed someones hand. Without thinking, Player 333’s hand found Jun-hee’s, his fingers curling around hers. She went rigid for a moment, her eyes darting to his—uncertain, searching. But she didn’t pull away. You’d seen them talk before, distant. But never like this.

Was he the father of her child? God, how tragic.

Your own grip tightened around Young-il’s. His fingers curled back just as firmly, solid, grounding.  

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, urgent. Then, he moved. And you followed, letting him pull you toward the edge of the platform, where the moment of truth awaited.

“Round and round

Round and round we go

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along

We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round”  

Suddenly, the platform lurched to a stop.  

The rotation ceased so abruptly that it sent players stumbling, gasps ripping through the crowd as the music cut out. But the silence barely lasted a second before the fast-paced melody blared back to life, louder, shriller, more urgent.  

The overhead lights pulsed violently—red and purple, turning the arena into a dizzying, chaotic blur.  

Then, the voice.  

"Two."  

A tidal wave of movement exploded around you. Without hesitation, Young-il tighten his grasp on your hand and ran. The platform swarmed with bodies, the scramble for survival more violent than ever before. You barely had time to register anything beyond the crushing urgency in your chest, the way Young-il’s grip on your hand was unrelenting as he pulled you through the madness.  

From the corner of your eye, you saw the rest of your group scattering—Hyun-ju and 246 sprinting toward a blue door, Gi-hun and Jung-bae pushing through the crowd. Everyone was desperate to make it out.  

You could barely breathe. Could barely think. 

Suddenly, a force slammed into your side, so hard it sent you reeling. Your fingers slipped from Young-il’s grasp. You didn’t even have time to scream before you hit the ground. Your hands smacked against the cold, blood-slicked floor, the force rattling through your bones.

"Young-il!" The scream ripped from your throat, sheer terror clawing at your chest as you stumbled.  

He was there in an instant. His grip latched onto your arm like iron, hauling you forward with so much force that your feet barely touched the ground. You barely caught sight of his expression—livid—before he was dragging you through the chaos again.  

You blinked at him, slow. He was saying something, you could see his mouth moving, but your brain was sluggish, like your thoughts were wading through molasses.

Your arms ached. Your legs burned. Somewhere, you were pretty sure you had a gash along your shin, but you couldn’t feel it.

Actually, you couldn’t feel much of anything. Weird.

Then you came back to your senses. A door. You needed a door.  

You saw one ahead—a red one, slightly ajar. Relief surged. Then it slammed shut.

Occupied.  

You turned immediately, heading for a different one. A mustard yellow door stood open a few meters away. Two players were scrambling toward it—too far, too slow.

You could reach it first. But only if you—

The thought slithered in before you could stop it.

Shove them out of the way. Take the spot. They wouldn’t be fast enough anyway.

Your breath hitched. The moment you registered it, disgust curdled in your stomach.

What the hell was wrong with you?

But you didn’t shove them. You just ran. Still, the thought didn’t leave. It lingered, curling around your ribs, whispering. Next time, would you?

Once you reached it, you realised that a player was standing in the threshold. Player 285.  

Young-il let go of your arm and ripped him out. A choked gasp. A flash of panic in the man’s eyes. His hand clamped around his throat like a vice, and with terrifying ease, he tore him away from the doorway and threw him onto the floor.  

"Get in, (Y/N)!” His voice was steel.  

You didn’t argue. You bolted inside. Young-il followed a second later, slamming the door shut, locking it with a harsh, final click.  

The relief was so intense that it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. But then—you turned. And your blood ran cold.  

Player 343 was still inside.  

The man was already backing up against the farthest wall, eyes darting between the two of you, chest heaving. "Wait, please. We were here first." His voice cracked, raw with desperation.  

Young-il stepped forward. His stance was lethal.

"Get out."  

The timer above the door flickered.  

15 seconds.    

The man flinched, raising his hands in surrender. "Please."  

10 seconds.  

He stepped forward, fast. Before you could process what was happening, his arms snapped around the man’s throat. A strangled wheeze—the sound of air being cut off instantly.  

Player 285 lunged for the door, desperation twisting his face as he shoved against it with all his strength. But you were faster. You threw your entire weight forward, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle your bones. Your hands locked onto the handle, gripping it so tightly your knuckles burned.

A furious bang against the wood. Then another.

"Open the door, you bastards!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. "I was here first!"

Another sharp thud. The door trembled under the assault, but you didn’t budge. You pressed harder, chest heaving, every muscle locked in place.

Young-il crouched low, pivoting with terrifying precision, manoeuvring 343’s body into submission with ease.  

You froze, eyes wide, unable to do anything but watch.  

The man clawed at Young-il’s arms, his legs kicking wildly, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His muscles flexed as he tightened his hold, squeezing.  

3 seconds.  

The world had narrowed down to the sharp, wet sound of Player 343’s gasps, to the way Young-il’s muscles flexed as he crushed the air from his lungs. But he was taking too long. The thought came out of nowhere—quick, instinctive, cold.

Just do it yourself.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath felt too slow, too steady, like your body had already decided before your brain caught up. You could end this in half a second—snap, clean, efficient.

One twist. It would be so easy.

And then it hit you. The sheer horror of what you were thinking. It crashed down like ice water, washing away the haze. You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to step back, fingers curling into fists at your sides. 

What the hell is wrong with me?

The man struggled, hands clawing at Young-il’s arms, eyes wide with pure, animal panic. It was instinct. Desperate. But it didn’t matter. Young-il adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his throat—tighter, harder. The gurgling turned to choking, then silence. It didn’t happen fast. That was the worst part.

Young-il’s grip shifted. Sharpened.  Then—crack. The man’s body jerked once. Then stilled. Your breathing stopped as Player 343’s head rolled to the side at a 120° angle.  

The timer hit zero. A piercing beep.  

"Game over."  

The silence after the snap was worse than the sound itself. For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was your own heartbeat, roaring in your ears like a war drum. Young-il let the body fall and pushed it off his own. It hit the floor with a dull, final thud.  

You lurched back, spine pressing into the wall—not because of him, but because of the thoughts twisting, snarling, sinking their teeth in.

What the fuck was wrong with you.  

Your eyes snapped to Young-il. He was only looking at you. His breathing was even, unlike your own. Like he hadn’t just snapped a man’s neck in three seconds flat.  

Then, the speaker crackled overhead.  

“Attention. Due to a technical error, the doors will remain locked for longer. Please remain calm as we fix this problem. Thank you."  

Trapped. In here. With him and your thoughts. And the body.

Oh, how nice. Fantastic.

You should feel something. Horror. Guilt. Revulsion. But you just… didn’t.

The exhaustion settled deep, thick and all-consuming, swallowing up whatever part of you was still supposed to care. It should have scared you, how easy it was to let go, how numb you felt.

You slowly turned your head to Young-il, who looked about as calm as someone waiting for a bus, then down at the very, very dead man at your feet. 

Your heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The realisation was slow, creeping, like a sickness curling through your veins. You waited for the horror to hit. For your stomach to churn. For something, anything, to claw its way up your throat.

But it never came.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Cool. Love that for us.”

“Why are you so calm?” His voice wasn’t mocking—just genuinely perplexed. “You usually have a panic attack.”

You stared at him. Then at the dead man. Then back at him.

And something in you just… cracked.

A laugh bubbled up, sharp and humourless, slipping past your lips before you could stop it. You ran a shaky hand down your face, exhaling hard.

“I don’t know, Young-il,” you muttered, voice hollow with exhaustion. “Maybe I ran out of tears to cry.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.

You let your head tip back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I think I just lost my last fuck to give. You choked the guy out, I didn’t stop you, and now we’re locked in here with a corpse like it’s just a normal Tuesday.” You let out a breathy, almost delirious chuckle. “So, honestly? I don’t even care anymore. Welcome to my breaking point.”

Silence. Too long.

You opened your eyes again, expecting another dry remark from him, another roll of his eyes. But what you found instead— It wasn’t that.

Young-il was staring at you. His expression had cracked, just slightly, just enough to let something else slip through the fractures. And then—he took a step back.

Not much. Barely an inch. But you noticed it. Young-il shook his head slowly, breath leaving him in something too soft, too unsteady.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” His voice was lower now, rougher, like the words themselves scraped against his throat. “I knew you’d change in here. I knew you’d have to.” A pause, as if the weight of his own words hit him mid-sentence. “But not like this.”

His eyes flicked to the corpse. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, finally, his gaze landed back on you.

"You were supposed to be the one thing that didn’t rot."

Something sharp twisted deep inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what could you possibly say to that?

Young-il dragged a hand down his face, eyes shutting for half a second before he let out a slow, measured breath. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I didn’t want this.” His gaze flicked toward the body, the blood. Then back to you. “Not for you.”

A strange, uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it down. Or at least, you tried to. But it sat there, heavy, lodged deep in your chest.  

Because the thing was—he was wrong.  

You weren’t rotting. You weren’t turning into some hollowed-out thing, some soulless husk that no longer cared. You still felt everything. You just… couldn’t afford to let it swallow you whole. Not now. Not when you were still fighting to survive.  

But how could you explain that to him? How could you make him understand that this wasn’t you breaking, not really? That this numbness, this eerie calm, wasn’t some kind of irreversible descent into nothingness—but rather your brain’s last-ditch attempt to protect you?  

You couldn’t. So instead, you just exhaled slowly, your gaze flicking to his, searching.  

“You think I don’t care,” you said quietly. Not a question. A statement.  

Young-il’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.  

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’m just… gone. That I don’t feel anything anymore.”  

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands twitched at his sides—  That was enough.  

You inhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair before shaking your head. “I do care, Young-il. I’ve cared all my life. I care so fucking much it hurts.” Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “I just can’t afford to show it right now. Because if I do—if I let myself actually feel this—” Your voice wavered, just slightly. “It’s gonna break me.”  

Young-il’s gaze searched yours, like he was trying to pick apart your words, to find a lie hidden somewhere between them. But there wasn’t one.  

After a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out of him, but not completely.  He sighed, running a hand down his face.  

“So that’s it, then?” His voice was quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re just gonna go numb until it’s over?”  

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”  

Young-il exhaled a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this place.”  

You huffed out something close to a laugh. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”  

For a while, neither of you spoke. You weren’t sure how much time passed. The scent of blood clung to the air. The corpse remained between you, an unmoving reminder of how far you’d already gone. Then, finally—  Young-il stepped closer.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice steady now. “If that’s how you have to get through this—fine.” His eyes met yours, unwavering. “But don’t shut me out, alright?”  

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. Your lips parted, instinct telling you to crack a joke, to keep the mood light, to deflect. But for once, you didn’t.  Instead, you just nodded. “Okay.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a second longer. Then, he sighed. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you in. It wasn’t careful, or hesitant, or any of the things you might have expected from him. It was rough, desperate—his arms wrapping tight around you, like he was holding onto something solid before the ground completely gave out beneath him.

Not because you needed it. But because he did.

You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his scent surrounding you. You breathed him in. His fingers curled against the fabric of your clothes, grip unyielding. His breathing wasn’t steady. It wasn’t uneven either. It was just off. A fraction too deep. A second too slow. Like he was still trying to get control of something that had already slipped through his fingers.

You blinked, your hands hovering slightly at your sides, caught off guard. But only for a second. Slowly, you let your arms come up, hesitantly returning the embrace. 

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was. Then, finally—his voice, low and raw against your ear. 

“You don’t get to lose yourself in here.” The words were quiet, firm. “Not you.” 

You swallowed. “I’m not.” 

His grip tightened, just slightly. “You better not be.” 

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes slip shut for just a second. “I promise.” 

Another beat of silence. Then, a breath. A slow, heavy inhale. 

“I fucking hate this place.” His voice was strained now, rasping at the edges. “I hate what it does to people. I hate what it’s done to you.” 

You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You hated it, too.

Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. A long, controlled inhale. Then, a slower exhale. His hands shifted—one sliding up, the other following, cupping your face with a carefulness that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed lightly along your cheekbones. His breath hitched, just barely, like he was fighting something back. 

“I won’t let you lose yourself in here.” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. “Not you.”

You swallowed, your hands instinctively gripping at his wrists, not to pull away, but to hold on. “I’m not losing myself.”

His fingers twitched against your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Dark. Intense. Like he was searching for something.

“You better not be,” he murmured

His grip tightened, just slightly, and something unspoken crackled between you—something thick, electric, thrumming under your skin. You were too close. His breath fanned across your lips, warm, uneven, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to pull away or close the distance.  

The air between you was thin, charged. You could feel every inch of him, the way his chest rose and fell against yours, the heat of his hands on your skin.  

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”  

Your breath faltered. His grip on your face didn’t waver. Your heart pounded, too loud, too fast. He was still so close, his lips just barely parted, his fingers brushing lower, skimming the edge of your jaw.  His grip didn’t loosen. Neither did yours.

You weren’t sure which of you moved first—if it was him, if it was you, if it even mattered. But the space between you had never felt smaller.

"Attention all players. The technical issues have been resolved. You may now step out of your rooms and follow the instructions of the guards." 

The words sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Young-il froze, just a mere centimetre away from your lips. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—his fingers twitched against your skin, like they weren’t sure whether to tighten or release. Then, as if burned, he let go.  

He stepped back. Once. Then again.  

His expression shifted. The heat in his gaze, the raw intensity that had been there just seconds ago, vanished. It was like watching a flame snuffed out in an instant. His posture stiffened, his face smoothing into something unreadable.

You blinked, your breath coming out in pants, your body still tense from the moment that had almost—almost—happened.  

But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He turned toward the door, his movements sharp, controlled, his back straight as if nothing had happened. As if none of it had meant anything.  

The sudden shift was jarring. Just seconds ago, he had been right there, holding onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. And now? Now he looked at you like you were nothing at all.  

A lump formed in your throat, but you forced it down, watching as he reached for the door. His voice, when he finally spoke, was distant. Detached.  

"Let’s go."  

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. Just a command. Without another glance, he stepped outside. The cold air of the arena seeped into your skin as you followed him, but it wasn’t just the room that felt empty. It was the space between you.  

Something had changed. Something had broken. And you had no idea how to fix it.  

[millenianthemums]

Golden Boy 💛

[hiphopcherrrypop]

happy premier week!! who else tuning in ✌😲

[italyveneziano]

Obsessed with what America and England have going on in HetaOni. America's like "I keep having to watch my dad die from overusing his magic in past timelines and not knowing how to stop it is killing me inside but I'm not going to talk to him about it" and England's like "I can't seem to hold a conversation with my son without insulting him but I won't hesitate to use my dying breath to ensure I can protect him from beyond the grave"

[silveme]

Sigma has been in Overwatch for five. FIVE!!! 🖐️ (<-12345. Count it.)

Slutty..

Slutty…

SLUTTY….

YEARS!!! 🎉🥳🎊👏🍾🥂

In celebration of that fact, here is my piece for @afterlematch ‘s Sigma anniversary collab! Original post is HERE. Final composition and the original png is under the cut! 👇

[mamawasatesttube]

superman (1987) #75 // infinite crisis (2005) #7

and if i said one more for the kon just like clark fr pile...?

[buwheal]

woah. actual thought out reference?

Completely disregard wtf the reference from a couple weeks (a month?) ago looks like. Completely inaccurate. not sure what I was thinking w/ that one. This time I thought this one through, lol. wahoo!! Ive been kind of lazy and totally leaving out features the past few times Ive drawn him and I dont want that to happen again because he loses all the fun features.

notes written out for those who need it (glances behind my shoulder at the mobile app) under the cut. be warned, its long, lol.

starting from the top left, going across to the right side in rows.

-TURN-AROUND -opt grey hairs/grey stripe. he keeps it evenly colored with car oil. -eyebrow crease opt. -head lifted for convenience (for the pose. Also spelt that wrong on the image whoops) -5" when slouched. -neutral expression. Teeth always visible. -eyebags NOT opt. (Except in certain circumstances.) -"Tail" not usually visible -HORRIBLE posture* -black bottom lip pokes out a little -hands reach knees in reg. posture -Gnarly mullet -Overbite -Constant slouch. -Warped lens/frame -Sweaty & jittery a lot - \___ misc. extremes ___/ -BJD body -Motherboard cover -Plush tummy :-) -wears heart boxers underneath. Not shown. - |dissociating-----|-------disconnected| -sensitive eyes w/o glasses. Squints. - :arrow: Sparratically ejects -overdramatic - *except when actively interacting with someone - 5"1 when standing straight - |forced--|genuine--|?----|???---|

[sysig]

Kabu superfan, very normal and usual about him (Patreon)

[jacqcrisis]

Re-playing the Cazador Palace and the end of Astarion's quest line reminded me of the bad end I had for him and Ronan.

Astarion ascends despite Ronan's protests, using one of the other companions to help him. From then on, there's a strain between him and Ronan, the affection and intimacy gone as the cleric seems to refuse to even address him and Astarion is angry he refused to help. Once the brain is defeated, Astarion, missing his love, stupidly feels brave enough to approach Ronan about becoming his spawn.

As they are alone and Astarion tries to sell his idea, something snaps in Ronan. Astarion finds himself divinely held, incapable of moving as Ronan glares him down silently in the same way he does any enemy that crosses his path, raising his mace and smoke billowing from his mouth. Astarion manages to escape the spell in time to avoid getting bashed in the head, pleading and begging Ronan see reason, what's gotten into him, what the hells happened, doesn't he love-

And he finds himself grabbed, physically this time, a fist around his arm tight enough it feels as though the bone may break. Ronan finally speaks to him, the first time in at least a week, telling him with every ounce of hatred and wrath Astarion knows the dragonborn to be capable of that the man he loved died with all the other people Astarion killed and as a cleric, it his duty to eradicate such a monster. Stunned and in disbelief, Astarion mists away at that just in time to avoid an onslaught of flames, gone into the night as his new ascended life already begins with an enemy gained.

It goes from there. Ronan is in constant pursuit of Astarion and the vampire can't rest for too long. His operation must always be moving, always secret as he never knows when his doors will be kicked in by a group of holy men and his spawn and undead and werewolves and pawns eradicated as he flees once more. If Ronan catches him or he gets to Ronan, it's a fight to the bloody end until one is forced to flee as with every ounce of power and control Astarion has scraped together as an ascended vampire, Ronan has matched him with his own vengeful devotion to his divine warpath.

And they don't give up, not even Astarion. While Ronan wants him dead, wiped from this plane of existence, Astarion wants Ronan to be his. While he found everything he thought he wanted with his completion of the black mass, all the power, all the unending worship, all the status he could feasibly attain as a vampire, what Astarion finds in this new existence is a lack of connection.

At one point, he had friends and allies that wanted to know him for him and he had love and affection without parameters, a taste of the unconditional, of devotion to his being that developed naturally, genuinely, free of a want or a need for anything more of Astarion than himself. As he is now, this doesn't exist; all the spawn and thralls who serve and fawn over him only do so due to his powers making that love exist and all the other vampires who devote themselves to him only do so to keep his favor. Astarion finds this reality barren, empty of warmth as he looks at lover after lover he charmed in the eyes and finds nothing but his own face staring back him and he hates it.

So he obsesses over what he had with Ronan. Yearns for his neck and his subservience and his love that he cut himself off from with one bloody decision. Every time they meet again, as Ronan is attempting to cut him down, Astarion is trying everything in his power to make the cleric his, to seduce him back into his arms with either his teeth or his words, desperate to see Ronan look at him like he used to.

And Ronan always denies him. Every time, he denies him, dressed horn to toe in plate and deaf to the pleas spat at him in a voice that haunts him that he'd give anything to hear come from the person he used to have. So they fight and neither ever wins.

Over. And over. And over again.

[primeministerofantarctica]

i love team chaotix so much they're so silly. the found family ever <3

they're brothers they're coworkers they're a dad and his adopted kids they're everything at the same time

[arolesbianism]

I may be failing my plan to not make any isat aus. So there's this guy her name is Euphrasie right. What if I took her and combined what could be 3 separate au concepts into one. And in the process forced myself to go back and reread a bunch of shit to make sure I know how to maximally fuck over this sad wet puppy of a woman

[qwuilty]

Restless

My beautiful princess who should be in like an amv or something

[rosykims]

should i.

[aeb-art]

siblings :)