Chapter Text
The days blurred together as you rested, recovering in a haze of uncertainty and quiet. Every time you thought about the reality of what you’d learned—what you were to him—it was as if the world outside that small room was too much to bear. You weren’t sure if it was the lingering effects of the pain, the exhaustion, or the confusion about In-ho’s intentions that kept you awake at night. Or maybe it was all of it, mixing together until the weight of it was unbearable.
You were quickly becoming sick of being confined to such a small place. There was nothing to do except sleep or attempt to read one of the many English books he had stacked in his room. At some point, if you were losing your mind, you supposed you could try to teach yourself the language.
In-ho’s absence, though rare, made you realize how much his presence had shifted the balance of the space. Despite the unease between you, there was a strange comfort in his proximity– something you didn’t want to admit. And it pained you that he spoke to you less after your incident in the bathroom.
Your pain eventually morphed into frustration, the quiet moments with nothing but your thoughts clawing at you until you couldn"t take it anymore. The room felt smaller with each passing day, and the silence between you and In-ho was suffocating. Every time you thought you might be able to ignore the ache in your chest, it resurfaced, sharper than before. You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation you had with him, about the way he had been so distant, almost cold, after your breakdown.
You couldn’t stand it anymore. You needed to distract yourself before you exploded– and it seemed the only thing you could access to take your mind off of everything was the screen in the main room. You bounced your leg nervously as you sat on the single couch. The remote was tight in your hands, and curiosity had gotten the better of you.
2021, Player 456, Seong Gi-hun.
Before you had even started you felt ill. He had the same number as last time? Was that some kind of sick joke?
You felt disgust creep in, directed towards In-ho.
You leaned back into the couch, your fingers tight around the remote as you hit play, the sound of the screen flickering to life in front of you. The first image that flashed was of Gi-hun’s number, 456, glowing in the eerie darkness of the show. Your stomach churned.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away as the opening game began to play out—Red Light, Green Light, and the panic, the chaos, the desperation. Each death, each gasp for breath, reminded you of the situation you’d narrowly escaped. The intense fear, the hopelessness, all the people thrown into a game of life and death with no way out. You swallowed hard.
Gi-hun"s rise, his survival against impossible odds, made your skin crawl as you thought of In-ho. He had watched this, had seen the people die, the violence, the utter madness, and yet here he was, seemingly unbothered. You wanted to shut it off, to not think about it, but you couldn’t. There was something morbidly fascinating about watching these games unfold, seeing how people like you—people in desperate circumstances—fought, bargained, and died.
And in all that, there was a hollow pit forming in your chest as the connection became clearer, though you didn’t want to admit it. Was this his way of manipulating you? Of testing you? Of keeping you in line? You couldn"t tell. The disgust you felt for him deepened, but your own guilt and confusion over what you were seeing kept you rooted to the spot.
Yet, you couldn’t deny the flicker of yearning for him. But you shut that thought down every time it got too close.
Watching Gi-hun’s games had filled you with a disgust more so than In-ho’s. He was so different, and that much was obvious when he played against Player 001 in marbles. But Player 218, Gi-hun’s friend, his brother, was the most devastating to watch out of them all.
He was sickening, the embodiment of greed– and you thought back to In-ho’s words from days ago.
‘ Humanity deserves this.’
‘Maybe some people did’, you thought as you watched Gi-hun take Player 067 under his wing, almost like a daughter. ‘But not all.’
Your thoughts tangled as you watched Gi-hun’s journey unfold. You couldn’t deny that he was a man marked by moments of humanity, the rare glimpses of kindness he showed even in the face of overwhelming brutality. His willingness to protect Player 067 spoke of a deep, protective instinct that you found yourself envying.
But, as always, your mind drifted back to In-ho. You thought about the way he’d spoken about humanity, about how he seemed to think everyone deserved what was happening to them—how it was justified. But when you watched Gi-hun, when you saw how he fought to maintain some semblance of his morals, even when faced with insurmountable odds, you wondered if In-ho’s words were born from something deeper.
Maybe it wasn’t just about survival or pragmatism for him; maybe there was an element of jealousy, a feeling that Gi-hun represented something In-ho had lost or couldn’t have.
In-ho returned to the room quietly only a few minutes later, a slight shift in the air around him as you met his gaze. The intensity of everything that had been building up inside of you– the confusion, the disgust, the unanswered questions– came to a head in that moment.
You didn’t give him time to speak before you found your voice, sharper than you intended but raw with emotion. “Why do you hate him so much?”
In-ho paused, his expression betraying nothing.
You knew the answer already, suppressing a small smirk once you had finally realised you figured him out– well, at least a part of him.
“I’ve told you,” he sighed deeply, taking the mask from his pocket and tossing it onto the bar as he went to get himself a drink.
But you weren’t done.
“You’re jealous,” you pointed out, eyes watching him carefully. Your lips parted as you watched for his reaction, just waiting for the satisfaction of being right.
In-ho didn’t respond immediately, his face twitching at your words but not giving you the satisfaction of a direct answer. He focused on filling his glass with whiskey, his movements deliberate, as though he was trying to drown out the tension building between you both.
“You see him clinging to humanity, and it drives you mad.”
In-ho’s gaze hardened at the accusation, but you didn’t back down. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re angry because Gi-hun can hold on to something you can’t.”
He stood rigid for a moment, the glass still in his hand, before he finally pushed away from the bar with a sharp exhale. His posture was tense, but his voice was laced with bitterness when he spoke.
“It’s not about that,” he snapped, stepping away from you, the words almost escaping his lips as though they were forced out. “It’s because he thinks he can hold onto his humanity—and he’s wrong.” His eyes met yours, a flicker of something deep, something unresolved passing through them.
“You heard him, right?” In-ho asked, holding up his hand out to you. “ A small sacrifice for the greater good? ”
“I don’t think you understand,” In-ho’s voice became colder, sharper as he stepped closer, his anger now more controlled, more focused. “You can’t just make a sacrifice, call it necessary, and pretend like you’re doing the right thing when the whole reason for this is to stop people from dying. That’s not saving them. That’s playing the same game.” His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “And the worst part is, Gi-hun doesn’t even realise it.”
“He thinks he’s a hero,” In-ho sneered. “I wanted to show him he’s wrong.”
“He believes himself a hero because you made yourself a villain,” you countered, voice unwavering despite the heat of the moment. The words were sharper than you intended, but they felt like the truth that had been lingering unsaid for far too long.
In-ho froze, the tension in his posture palpable. For a moment, he looked like he was about to lash out, but instead, he stood there, his face a mixture of surprise and something else—something almost vulnerable, though it quickly disappeared behind a mask of anger.
“Is that how you see it?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, like a warning.
You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. The difference between you two is that he’s willing to fight for something good, something real. And you…” Your voice faltered for a second, but you pushed through, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve convinced yourself that the world deserves what it’s getting. But that’s not justice. It’s just your way of coping with your own guilt.”
For a second, it seemed like he might retaliate, but instead, In-ho laughed darkly. The sound was bitter, filled with years of pain and unresolved rage. "Guilt... you really think that"s it?" he muttered under his breath, before turning away, as though he were the one trying to escape from something too painful to confront.
“Of course that’s it!” You finally yelled, the sound unfamiliar to yourself. “Not only that but you have me hostage thinking I’m somehow the key to finding closure with your dead wife.”
In-ho froze, his back to you as your words hit the air like a slap. His shoulders stiffened, and for a brief moment, you wondered if you’d finally broken through to whatever was buried inside him.
“That’s not why you’re here,” his voice cut through the silence, dark and holding back a deeper rage.
You didn’t flinch, even as the air between you seemed to crackle with the tension. “Then why am I here, In-ho?” You demanded, stepping forward again, challenging him to finally be honest.
In-ho’s eyes rolled back into his head, slowly turning around. His eyes darkened, his gaze drifting over you in a way that made your breath hitch. His voice dropped to a low murmur, carrying a mixture of challenge and something else—something more raw, more real.
“You think I didn’t see it?” His lips curled into something that almost resembled a smirk. He took a step closer, closing the distance that had felt so important until now. "That... desire in your eyes whenever you looked at me in the games. You think I didn’t see it when you got close, when you touched me like you can’t control yourself?"
The words came out slow, deliberate, each one punctuated by the space between you shrinking.
You swallowed hard before finding yourself and letting out a scoff. “Please, your hands were on me any opportunity you had.”
In-ho"s expression shifted at your words, his smirk turning into something darker, more amused.
“Is that so?” he murmured, the distance between you practically gone. “You looked at me with that fire in your eyes, the same way you are now. I saw something in you I’ve never seen in anyone else.”
You bit your tongue, trying hard to convey your disapproval of his words. “That fire you see is hate.”
His eyes scanned across your face, a small smirk taking place on his lips. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?” His voice was dangerously quiet, as if he was savouring the moment. He reached up, brushing his fingers lightly against your arm, the contact deliberate and electric.
“I told you that you’re here because I want you to be,” he whispered, head lowered by your ear.
Your pulse quickened at the touch, but you fought to maintain your composure, your mind a battlefield between anger and something else you refused to acknowledge.
His lips hovered just inches from yours, breath mingling in the charged air between you, your heart hammering against your chest. You could feel the pull, the tension between you both so thick it seemed to vibrate with every small movement. For a second, it seemed as though he might close the gap, that the world might narrow down to just the two of you.
But before you could do anything, In-ho pulled away, his smirk deepening as his gaze held yours with an intensity that felt almost suffocating.
"Admit it," he breathed, voice low and filled with an unspoken dare. His eyes never left yours, daring you to speak the truth you refused to face.
You tried to pull away, desperate to put some distance between you and the storm swirling in the air. But as you took a step back, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist with surprising force, pulling you back toward him.
“Admit it,” he repeated, his words now a command. “You want this.”
You tried to resist, tried to shake your head, but it was as if every cell in your body screamed the opposite. Your words came out shaky, soft. “Maybe I did before. But not anymore.”
The space between you evaporated in an instant. In-ho’s lips were on yours before you could even process the shift, a kiss that was not gentle, but filled with raw intensity. The world around you seemed to blur, the only thing real was the way he held you close, his kiss commanding, devouring.
When he finally pulled back, your breath was ragged, and your body felt unsteady, like it had forgotten how to stand on its own. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto yours, and he whispered, low and sure, “You still do.”
His words hung in the air, his confidence infuriating and intoxicating all at once. Your body betrayed you, a sharp inhale escaping before you could stop it. His smirk deepened as though he could see straight through the flimsy wall of defiance you tried to hold onto.
"You’re wrong, I–”
His fingers pressed gently to your lips, silencing your attempt to argue. “Sh sh sh,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, both commanding and maddeningly soft. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, lingering there, as though daring you to defy him.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, his tone deceptively gentle, though his eyes burned with a challenge. “Not when I already know.”
Your heart pounded, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his presence pinned you in place. You wanted to fight back, to push him away with every ounce of defiance you had left, but the way he looked at you—as if he could see every hidden truth you refused to speak—made it impossible.
When he spoke again, his words were softer but no less certain. “You want me to be wrong. You want to hate me, I know that. But that’s not what you feel right now.”
His hand lingered on your face, fingers tracing a slow path along your jaw. The touch was maddening, tender and possessive all at once. “So, tell me,” he said, leaning closer, his lips almost brushing yours again, “if I’m so wrong… why aren’t you stopping me?”
The silence stretched between you, charged and suffocating, as you struggled to find an answer he hadn’t already unraveled.
You then pried yourself away, the feeling like separating magnets, but your head became clear instantly. Your breath, uneven and short, was a dead give away that he at least had some affect on you.
“There it is,” he muttered, tongue darting out to swipe across his lips, savouring the remnants of you. “That hesitation. That spark of something you don’t want to admit.”
Your stomach churned as his words hung in the air. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth clawed at the edges of your conscience. Every face of the dead flashed before your eyes—their screams, their fear, their desperation. And here you were, caught in this moment, feeling something for the man responsible for it all.
“You think this is about me?” he asked, stepping closer, his tone darker now, more cutting. “But it’s not, is it? You’re fighting yourself. Fighting the part of you that knows what I’ve done, but also knows you’re still here, standing in front of me… Letting me touch you.”
“I’m not—” you began, but the words died in your throat.
He tilted his head, his gaze dissecting every crack in your armour. “What does that say about you?” he continued, his voice like a blade slicing through the fragile threads holding you together. “You, who should hate me. You, who should have opted out the moment you could.”
You couldn’t respond. You couldn’t even move. The weight of his words pressed down on you like an unbearable truth you weren’t ready to face. If you admitted what you felt, if you gave in to it, what did that make you? Did it mean all those lives were nothing? That you could overlook everything for something as shallow, as base, as this?
“I wonder,” he murmured, his voice almost soft now, as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. “How many lives are worth this moment to you? How many dead faces can you still see when you close your eyes? Because I can promise you, I see them all. And yet, here we are.”
You took your hands up to your face, dragging them down in frustration. “You’re messing with my head,” you muttered, turning your face away from him. “I know that’s what people like you do, and I know you get off on it.”
Your words were sharp, and you saw the crease of his forehead as you spoke them. He stayed silent for a moment after, and you tried not to let guilt seep in that you had taken a step too far. This is what your husband would do, but whilst his words were more so coated in lies, you were unsure if In-ho’s were truth.
“The games are over,” In-ho then said suddenly, his swift change in topic taking you back.
"What do you mean?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.
“It means it"s over,” he repeated, voice firm. Then, his eyes seemed to set alight with understanding. “But for you? It means you have no more business here. You’re coming with me.”
A cold laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Coming with you? You must be crazy.”
“I wasn’t asking,” his tone was sharp and decisive. “I’ll take care of you at my Penthouse in Seoul.”
You were exasperated. “Using your blood money?” You spat with a small huff. “I’d rather be left on the streets.”
His face twitched angrily, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Now, don’t say things you don’t mean.”
Your frustration boiled over. “What do you want from this, In-ho?” you demanded, your tone sharper, louder. “Do you want me to live with you? Play house? Have my baby so we can all become a family?”
His reaction was immediate, his eyes narrowing, his lips pulling into a humourless smile that chilled you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, voice low and cutting. “You think I’m looking for some fairytale ending? You think any of this is about playing house?”
“Then what?” you shot back, stepping closer despite the danger in his stance. “What do you want from me, In-ho? Why can’t you just let me go?”
For a moment, his expression softened—not into kindness, but into something more raw, more vulnerable than you’d expected. “Because I can’t,” he said, almost too quietly, as though admitting it was a weakness. “...maybe I don’t want to.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and charged, leaving you breathless and unable to respond.
“And maybe you don’t want to either,” he added, taking a deliberate step toward you, his voice daring, taunting.
“Don’t,” you started again, your head spinning as you felt you were going around in circles with him. “Don’t start this again.”
He tilted his head slightly, and you could see a flicker of turmoil within him– as if his next actions would be fought with hesitation.
“I want you safe,” he said with a small shake of his head. He stepped in front of you, taking your face in his hands, an action you were too weak to resist. “Don’t you understand that?”
His eyes scanned yours, and for a moment your demeanour slipped. His gaze was so tender, like Young-il had somehow flickered back to life within him.
You furrowed your brows, a deeper conflict brewing within as you stared up at him. You wanted to believe him, but you couldn’t allow yourself to be given so easily. “I…” You trailed off, trying to find the strength to speak your mind. “I can’t trust you.”
He swallowed hard, and you swore you could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “ Jagi …” He whispered, hand slipping to the back of your head, pulling you into him. His lips pressed against your forehead, the action so sweet that you couldn’t have predicted what came next. “I’m so sorry.”
You felt a prick in your arm, your body tensing as you instinctively tried to pull away, but the action was too swift, too quiet. Your pulse raced, and you searched his face, eyes wide with disbelief as he held you firmly against him.
In-ho pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression almost unreadable. “I didn’t want to do this,” he murmured, his voice tight with regret, “but I don’t see another choice.”
Your mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The room swayed slightly as the sedative took hold, dulling your senses and clouding your thoughts. “You—” you tried to speak, but the words were heavy, slipping away from your tongue like water.
“Shh,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentle hands. “Rest. We’ll speak when you wake.”
The last thing you saw before your vision blurred completely was his face, soft and tender, as though the man you thought you knew had vanished entirely. And then, nothing but darkness.