Chapter Text
The sound of the engine hummed softly, steady and unrelenting. You stirred, your head lolling against the cool leather of the seat beneath you. Awareness came slowly, a heaviness lingering in your limbs and mind. The faint scent of cologne—his cologne—lingered in the air, grounding you in a reality you wished was a nightmare.
Your eyes fluttered open, and the first thing you registered was the dim, ambient lighting of a spacious limo interior. The city lights of Seoul flickered past the tinted windows, blurring into streaks as the vehicle moved smoothly through the streets.
“You’re awake.”
His voice drew your attention like a hook, your head snapping toward the source. In-ho sat across from you, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. He held a glass of what looked like whiskey in his hand, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it.
“Where—” you began, your throat dry and voice raspy. You swallowed hard, trying again. “Where are we?”
“Almost home,” he replied, his tone calm, almost casual, as though he hadn’t just drugged you and whisked you away. He tilted his head, studying you. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” you snapped, forcing yourself to sit up, your body protesting with a wave of dizziness. “What did you do to me?”
His gaze didn’t waver, his expression infuriatingly neutral. “I did what I had to,” he said simply. “You wouldn’t have come willingly.”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” you shot back, your voice gaining strength despite the pounding in your head. “You can’t just take people like this, In-ho. This isn’t—” You cut yourself off, realizing the futility of reasoning with him.
He sighed, setting the glass down in a cup holder beside him. “I couldn’t leave you there. It wasn’t safe.”
“Safe?” You let out a bitter laugh. “You’re the one I need to be safe from.”
That made him flinch, just for a second, but it was enough to remind you he wasn’t invincible, wasn’t immune to your words. “Cute,” he said, recovering from the sting with a soft smirk.
“You–” You scoffed, regaining most of your feeling once the tingling had subsided. “You drugged me.”
In-ho’s smirk remained but his eyebrows furrowed confusedly at your words. “That's how you were transported to the games in the first place.”
He took his glass from the holder, swirling it around before taking a sip. You glared as he did so. “You didn’t take issue with it before.”
You immediately opened your mouth to protest, but forced it shut when you begrudgingly admitted to yourself he was right.
“It’s not harmful for you, or the child, if that’s what you were concerned about,” he continued, the casualness of his tone igniting your anger even further.
“You don’t get to make that decision for me!” you snapped, leaning forward, your hands gripping the edge of the seat to steady yourself. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, or my baby!”
In-ho’s expression darkened, the smirk slipping away to reveal something colder, more dangerous. “I’m not going to argue about this,” he said flatly. “You were safer sedated than you would’ve been conscious. The less you know about the island, the better.”
“Fuck…” You muttered, bringing your hands to your face, fingers trembling as you tried to process the reality of what he had just said.
You heard him say your name softly, forcing you to snap your head up. “You’re not going back there again,” he said, his words sharp but deliberate, almost as if he had more to add but stopped himself.
His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the edge of his glass. “Do you know what they’d do to you? To both of us if they found out you survived? If they found out I let you go?”
You scoffed lightly, unwillingly settling more so into your predicament. You had just awoken, yet you were still too tired to argue with him. Not again.
“I thought you were the head of the games,” you muttered coldly.
In-ho raised his chin, eyes flickering down upon you like you were just so naive. “I am,” he replied sharply. “But there’s more to it than that.”
His brows creased, a flash of concern within them. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of money that is put into them.”
You held back a sneer, “I don’t know, I can imagine quite a bit.”
He sat back, his jaw working as though weighing how much to say. “Do you know what happens when someone like you— a non-winner— slips through the cracks?” His gaze met yours, hard and unflinching. “It’s not about you being recognized. No one remembers the faces of the dead players, not really. But the people funding the games? The ones who bet millions on the outcomes? If they find out I let a player walk free… a player who didn’t win…”
His voice dropped lower, more serious. “I tampered with their profits— To save you . And the people who lose that kind of money?” He paused, leaning forward slightly, his voice a chilling whisper. “They don’t forgive.”
“Then leave,” you pushed, leaning forward, trying to catch his gaze once he looked away from you.
He kissed his teeth. You should’ve known it’s not always that easy.
“I inherited the games,” he confessed, finally looking at you. His eyes reflected a deeper trouble, like the one before him was someone of importance– perhaps someone he was grieving.
You tilted your head at his words. “What? Is it a family business?”
In-ho’s face slowly dropped at your words, as though you'd thrown a dart blindfolded and hit the bullseye.
His lips then pressed into a thin line, and his eyes lowered for a moment, a slight tightness around his features.
“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice quieter, tinged with something far heavier than just a business transaction.
He paused, clearly struggling with the words, then looked at you, the hint of a storm flickering behind his eyes.
“Family’s a complicated thing,” he said, not giving you any more to go on. But you knew enough to understand there was far more beneath the surface than he was willing to let on.
For a brief moment, it seemed like a crack in his carefully composed facade—a hint of something that could almost resemble vulnerability, but he shut it down before you could even react to it.
The limo pulled into the sleek, towering structure that was his penthouse. The car slowed, then stopped in front of the building's grand entrance. The doorman opened the door for you, and before you could gather your bearings, In-ho was already beside you, his hand on your arm as he guided you toward the doors.
He was no longer the detached, calculating man you’d been dealing with, but someone more deliberate, almost... tender. His touch on your arm was firm yet gentle, and when he opened the door to the penthouse for you, there was something almost ceremonial about it. The way he stood aside for you to enter, how he didn't rush but moved as though your presence held some kind of significance, was disarming in a way you hadn't expected.
His voice, when he spoke, was softer than you’d heard it all night. “After you,” he said, his eyes searching yours for a reaction.
You walked past him, taking in the space, though it was the smallest thing that caught your attention-- how he stepped in behind you, closing the door with a quiet click, and how he lingered for just a moment, watching you.
It was almost like he was... guiding you, like the whole world outside of this moment had dissolved, and he was leading you through some domestic space, not a cold prison. You could almost see it—him, leading a life not of games and deceit, but of something more ordinary, even a little intimate. A husband guiding his wife into their home.
You shook the thought away, unwilling to entertain the softening of your resolve. He was dangerous, he was part of this system that had manipulated and killed. None of this was real. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a truth in the way he held himself, how he'd let the mask slip just slightly, leaving you wondering what lay behind it all.
As you step into the penthouse, the first thing that strikes you is the vastness of the space. It’s everything you expect from someone like In-ho-- grand, sleek, and impossibly modern. The walls are lined with large windows, offering a panoramic view of the city, the skyline gleaming as night falls. The flooring is a rich, dark hardwood that contrasts with the sleek metallic furniture, giving the space an almost clinical elegance. Every surface shines, perfectly polished, untouched by any sign of life.
But despite the coldness of its perfection, there's a subtle warmth to it, almost imperceptible, that softens the edges of the stark luxury. Soft lighting from recessed fixtures illuminates the space, casting gentle shadows that add a sense of coziness to the otherwise pristine environment. Plush rugs of deep, muted colours are scattered across the floors, breaking up the modernity with a touch of comfort.
As you step deeper into the penthouse, the living room opens up before you—an expansive area with minimalist furniture, a huge flat-screen television mounted on the wall, and a statement fireplace at the far end.
It was… homely.
Without much thought, you started to remove your shoes, but when you caught a glance at them, scuffed, covered in dirt, you were reminded where they came from.
In–ho watched you intently, eyes flickering between you and the shoes in your hand before he lurched forward, taking them. “We’ll buy you new clothes tomorrow.”
You cringed at his words, whirling around to face him. “Is this my life now?” You asked him, lightly gesturing to the space around you. On one hand, everything expensive and grand was something you had only dreamed of, but a cage with a view was still a cage.
His gaze softened, but only slightly. He didn't speak at first, taking a moment to study you in a way that felt more like weighing you than truly understanding you.
Finally, he took a step toward you, his voice low and calm, yet there was an edge to it. “It can be,” he nodded almost invisibly. “I will show you, you’re much better off here with me than on the street.”
You frowned at him, pulling your eyes away and dragging them across the space. “You don’t own me,” you muttered with a small shake of your head, turning back to him. “This won’t win me over, I don’t belong to you.”
His lips parted, a small, albeit genuine upturn in his lips. “You’re right,” he replied, the words soft. “You don’t belong to me.”
In-ho’s head tilted, eyes flickering up and down you in a manner that you could’ve almost mistaken for concern. “But you belong with me.”
You stiffened at his words, the weight of his gaze now feeling much heavier, as though he were pulling you in with an invisible force. The way he looked at you wasn’t possessive, not in the traditional sense—it was deeper, layered with something else, something less obvious but undeniably intense.
Then, out of all things, you smiled. But it was one that didn’t meet your eyes. It was one that came off almost as mocking, as though his words were some kind of joke.
He seemed to dislike your reaction, eyes flickering on you up and down before he loosened his tie.
“What are you doing?” You asked with wide eyes, taking a step back.
He stared at you in confusion, pulling the tie from around his neck and wrapping it up in his hand. “Incase you haven’t noticed, it’s midnight,” he spoke like it was obvious, despite the fact that your perception of time had been warped by your… extended sleep.
You almost flushed when you realised you had taken his actions completely differently than intended, and you hoped to god he wouldn’t notice. You forced yourself to look away when you saw his suit jacket come off. He began to roll up the sleeves of his perfectly ironed white shirt, and you had to remind yourself that you were pregnant. Hormones. Natural reaction. Et cetera.
“Are we going to bed?” He asked, tilting his head at you, drawing your gaze back.
You frowned. “We?” You blinked back.
“I have one bed, Jagi ,” he told you, the nickname coming out more natural than it previously had. “Apologies I wasn’t ready for your unexpected arrival.”
You shifted uneasily. “I can take the couch,” you offered quickly, almost too quickly.
In-ho let out a low laugh, though there was no humour behind it, just that ever-present tinge of exasperation. “The couch?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “Do you really think I’d let you sleep there? In your condition?”
Your frown deepened as your gaze flickered to the plush sectional in the living room. It looked far more comfortable than anywhere you’d slept in months—no, years. But of course, that wasn’t the point he was making.
“I’m not sharing a bed with you,” you said firmly, though the wavering in your voice betrayed your confidence.
In-ho leaned back slightly, his brow arching in amusement. “You act as if I haven’t seen worse from you,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp enough to cut. His eyes softened a moment later, as though he realized he’d gone too far. “You need to rest,” he said simply, his voice low but commanding. “That’s all this is.”
Despite yourself, your body seemed to loosen, exhaustion creeping in and weighing you down. But your pride was louder than your fatigue. “I’m not going to just... trust you,” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest.
“I don’t expect you to,” he replied smoothly, moving past you toward the bedroom. “But you’ll sleep better in an actual bed. That’s not something you can argue.”
You didn’t have a retort for that, and he didn’t wait for one. His absence left the space quieter, but no less heavy, as you stood there, debating whether to follow him or fight another battle you weren’t sure you could win.
“Come,” he gestured, holding his hand out to you.
Your eyes flickered down despite yourself, momentarily catching on the way his sleeves clung to his toned arms, veins trailing over his forearms in a way that made your breath hitch before you caught yourself.
What was wrong with you?
Has one taste of his lips really driven you to this madness?
You wanted to smack yourself in the head, but instead, you found yourself stepping forward, hesitantly laying your hand in his.
He led you across the apartment, into a room that was easily thrice as large as his last quarters you’d stayed in.
It was more than just a bedroom—it was a suite unto itself. The polished hardwood floors reflected the warm, ambient lighting, and an enormous bed, draped in luxurious gray and white linens, stood as the centrepiece. A wall of windows stretched along one side, revealing the Seoul skyline in all its glittering, midnight glory.
To one corner, a plush seating area invited with a sleek leather couch and an armchair arranged around a low coffee table. T o the other, a door slightly ajar hinted at an en-suite bathroom, the faint gleam of marble tiles visible within.
You hesitated in the doorway, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all. It was a stark contrast to the stark, suffocating simplicity of the room you'd slept in during the games—or even your life before.
In-ho released your hand, his movements deliberate and careful as he gestured toward the room.
“It’s not as lived in as it should be,” he said, bringing his strong hands into his pocket. The action made you quiver. “We’ll get you clothes tomorrow,” In-ho then nodded, eyes meeting you for permission.
You paused, looking down at your rather dirty garments from the island– it was a plain ensemble that clearly showed you there was no luxury to be afforded to people such as yourself.
“What do I wear to sleep?” You asked, eyes flickering around to the en-suite, stacked with fresh clothing suited for In-ho.
In-ho moved past you, his steps careful and quiet. Upon entering the en-suite, he flicked through a few coat hangers before pulling out a plain button-up shirt.
You looked at him unsure.
“I have plenty,” he offered, holding it out to you with extra emphasis.
You reached forward grabbing the coat hanger and shirt and muttering, “that wasn’t my issue.”
As you looked down at the shirt in your hands, your fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you couldn’t help but notice how intimate the gesture felt. Wearing his clothing? It was something close, personal, something you couldn’t easily brush off.
Your eyes flickered up to meet his, unsure what to say, unsure how to even feel. He stood there, watching you, his expression unreadable.
In-ho arched a brow, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s just a shirt,” he said, his tone calm, almost dismissive, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—an awareness, perhaps, of the weight the gesture carried.
You swallowed hard, retreating toward the en-suite without another word. The door closed behind you with a soft click, and as you stood there holding the shirt, you couldn’t help but feel like this was more than just sleeping attire. It was another thread tying you to him, whether you wanted it or not.
Emerging from the en-suite, the oversized button-up shirt hung loosely on your frame, the fabric soft against your skin. You caught his gaze briefly as he stood by the bed, pulling back the duvet on one side with methodical precision. His sleeves were still rolled up, his tie discarded on the nightstand, leaving him looking less like the stoic enigma he usually was and more like… something softer.
It made you uneasy. Or maybe it made you angry. You couldn’t decide.
You hesitated at the threshold of the room. “So, is this how you make people feel at home?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the air of discomfort hanging between you.
“Nobody besides myself and sometimes guards have been here,” he replied, his tone lacking its usually firmness. You felt something different with him, as though he was trying hard not to anger you further. He was usually more argumentative, but more than anything now he just seemed tentative.
Your brow furrowed as you stepped closer. “Is that supposed to make me feel special?” you asked, though the edge in your tone had softened, curiosity starting to creep in.
He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the faintest flicker of something crossed his face—regret, perhaps, or maybe uncertainty. “No,” he said finally, his words deliberate. “It’s supposed to make you feel safe.”
You blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. The anger simmering in your chest wavered, but you forced yourself to hold onto it, to remember why you were here and the circumstances that had brought you to this moment.
“Safe,” you echoed bitterly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You think drugging me and dragging me here was about my safety?”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically restless. “I made a choice. It wasn’t a good one, but it's the only one I had,” he said, meeting your gaze squarely. “I’d make it again if it meant keeping you out of danger.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. There was a part of you that wanted to lash out, to demand answers, but there was another part—a quieter, more vulnerable part—that felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite place.
Hurt? Understanding?
You had a question burning in the back of your mind, but you forced it down. His care was something you were never certain about, never sure why or how genuine.
You shook your head, breaking the moment. “I’m going to bed,” you muttered, stepping around him and slipping under the covers on the far side of the bed.
He didn’t argue, didn’t press you further. Instead, he walked to his side of the bed, sliding in with a quiet, measured grace that somehow made the space feel smaller than it was.
The silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy. You lay stiffly on your side, facing away from him, acutely aware of every movement he made, every steady breath he took. He didn’t properly undress, and you wondered if that was for your benefit.
The tension was palpable, the silence amplifying every subtle shift of the bed and every muted exhale. In-ho lay still beside you, his presence filling the space even though he kept a respectful distance.
You shifted slightly, glancing over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him. He was lying on his back, one arm resting on the mattress beside him, the other draped over his chest. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling as if lost in thought. The faint glow of the city lights filtered in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across his face.
You frowned, biting back the impulse to ask what was on his mind. After everything he’d done, why should you care? But the way he lay there, quiet and unmoving, felt unnervingly human—vulnerable, even.
The thought made you clench your jaw, turning back to face away from him. You reminded yourself of the anger you still harboured, the resentment simmering just beneath the surface. But even so, you couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed so distant, so weighed down, as if the penthouse walls bore witness to a side of him he never let others see.
“Sleep, Jagi ,” he then suddenly groaned, head whipping over to you.
You were thankful it was dark because your cheeks flushed and you turned back around quickly. “Sorry,” you muttered meekly, the words coming out as a habit.
Your weak apology hung in the air, the final words spoken before you fell asleep.
The nausea hit you before you even opened your eyes. It was the kind that didn’t just settle in your stomach but seeped into every corner of your body, dragging you down like an anchor. You groaned softly, rolling onto your side and hugging the edge of the bed for some semblance of stability.
The bed was warmer than you remembered, the covers impossibly soft against your skin. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were, your groggy mind struggling to catch up. And then it all came rushing back—the penthouse, the oversized shirt, him.
You shifted, pressing a hand to your forehead, willing the nausea to subside. Beside you, the bed was empty, the faint indent of his body the only evidence he’d been there at all. A glance around the room revealed it was bathed in soft morning light, the city skyline gleaming through the expansive windows.
As you sat up slowly, the events of the previous night replayed in your mind: the shared bed, his oddly quiet demeanour, the way his voice had softened just before you drifted off. For all the anger and resentment you carried, there was something else too—something harder to name.
Pushing the thought away, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the chill of the floor beneath your bare feet grounding you. The question lingered in your mind as you sat there: Was this what your life had become? Waking up in a stranger’s home—albeit a lavish one—trapped by circumstance and tangled in something far bigger than yourself?
The faint sound of movement in the distance drew your attention. He was awake, of course. Likely already orchestrating whatever came next. The thought alone made your stomach twist again, though this time you weren’t sure it was just the nausea.
“Are you alright?” Was the first thing he asked, eyes brushing over you with concern. You were pale, a lovely side effect to your sickness.
You nodded, unable to speak the words. After coming to sit at the kitchen counter, you felt more awake.
“Toothbrush?” You asked immediately, hygiene feeling most important before you started your day– especially if you were going to vomit up your breakfast later.
“There’s spares in the bottom drawer of the bathroom,” he replied, hand brushing over his coffee mug. “Would you like breakfast?”
Your stomach gurgled at the idea, but your nausea felt stronger. “No,” you replied, creasing your brows as you tried to subdue the feeling.
In-ho stared at you with a strange look. “I just asked to be polite,” he said, a flicker of his true self coming forward. “You’re eating breakfast whether you want to or not.”
“There’s the Hwang In-ho I remember,” you muttered, yawning before standing up from the chair. You reflected on his words as you headed back to the bathroom, brushing your teeth and combing your hair. As you stepped out the door you felt bile rise up your throat.
Tears sprung into your eyes as you forced yourself to the ground in front of the toilet, the action of vomiting feeling equally uncomfortable and relieving.
The sour taste in your mouth lingered as you slumped against the bathroom wall, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. The nausea ebbed slightly after you’d emptied your stomach, but the ache in your chest refused to subside. The vulnerability of the moment—it was overwhelming, and the awareness that he might have heard didn’t help.
You wiped at your face with trembling hands, trying to gather yourself. The sound of approaching footsteps made you freeze. Of course, he wouldn’t stay away for long.
The bathroom door opened a fraction, and In-ho peeked inside. His brow furrowed as his gaze landed on you, pale and huddled against the tiles. For a moment, he just stood there, the usual sharpness in his features softened by something unreadable.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
You glared at him weakly, gesturing to the toilet. “I figured this was self-explanatory.”
He sighed, crouching down beside you and offering you a glass of water he’d seemingly brought without you noticing. “Drink,” he said firmly.
You hesitated but accepted it, rinsing your mouth and taking a tentative sip. The quiet between you was heavy, punctuated only by your shaky breaths and his steady presence.
“You need to see a doctor,” he said, the words immediately bringing you anxiety. “It would be beneficial to check up on your pregnancy, find out how far along you are.”
“I don’t…” You began, standing up with the glass. “...Care.”
Confusion flickered across his face. “Don’t be ridiculous. You need to start preparing.”
For some reason this seemed to scare you. The idea that you were really pregnant and would have to learn and pick up so much, all the while you were trapped with In-ho– the mass murderer. You felt like going crazy just at the thought, and before you realised it, you were panting.
“What’s wrong?” In-ho asked, standing up with you and placing his hands on your shoulders. He turned back to the toilet, flushing it before taking the glass from your hand and leading you to the bed.
You were breathing heavily, eyes red and head fuzzy.
In-ho called your name as he sat you down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he demanded, kneeling before you and taking your hands.
You shook anxious, ripping your hands from his. “Stop,” you muttered, clenching your eyes shut. “Just be quiet.”
He didn’t shrink back at your small outburst, just watching you carefully as you tried to control your breathing.
“I’m scared,” you finally confessed, eyes flickering open.
His gaze softened, though his grip on his own emotions remained steady. “Scared of what?” he asked gently, his voice quieter now, as if trying not to add to the burden already pressing on you.
You shook your head, the lump in your throat making it hard to form the words. “Everything,” you managed, the confession spilling out despite your resistance. “Being here. Being with you. This… this thing inside of me.” Your hands instinctively moved to your stomach, trembling as they hovered there.
In-ho’s eyes followed the gesture, his jaw tightening as he knelt there, unmoving. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he said finally, his tone steady, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. “I’m here. I’ll help you.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound dry and hollow. “Help me? Like you did when you betrayed me? When you had me drugged and dragged here against my will?”
His head dipped slightly, acknowledging your words like a blow he knew he deserved. “That was… not handled well,” he admitted, taking your hands again and bringing them to his head. “I can’t ask you to forgive me. But I’ll prove it to you.”
You hesitated, eyes casted down on him. “How?”
He looked back up at you, eyes almost hopeful. “I’ll start by making you breakfast.”
You tilted your head at him, pondering the idea. Then, you sighed. “Okay,” you agreed.
After your breakfast, you felt much better. You were now ready to go out shopping with him, dressed in the smallest sizes of his clothing. They were thrown together in a manner that made you look corporate, professional– despite the fact that you were the furthest person from it.
“Am I only ever allowed to leave the apartment with you?” You asked In-ho, watching him adjust the fourth bag of your trip. You had to admit, it was an odd circumstance, but you tried for once to enjoy the idea of living rich—even though there was that small chant in the back of your head going 'Blood money. It’s blood money.'
He didn’t seem surprised by the question, but a flicker of something crossed his face— was it amusement or possessiveness? You couldn’t tell.
“Right now, we should focus on this,” he replied, purposefully avoiding the question. And you weren’t sure if it's because of his answer or because of his lack thereof. You had reached a strange point in your relationship– if you could even call it that– where you were both tired of arguing, and so your time just consisted of you tolerating each other, living in peaceful ignorance of anything deeper than that.
As hard as you tried to ignore it, you could still feel the anger fizzling within you. You also knew that whilst he was being more gentle since arriving in Seoul, that he also was forcing everything down, allowing you your way. He had been less firm with you. And just like you weren’t sure how long you could keep being ignorant, you weren’t sure how long he could keep himself from exerting his control over you– reminding you why you were there in the first place.
After shopping, In-ho had planned a dinner outing for you, his attempt to immerse you in the world he inhabited. He’d promised something special and had meticulously arranged every detail. As you stepped back into the apartment, your mind was already preoccupied with the reality of your situation. Despite his gentleness lately, a part of you knew he was simply allowing you to have your way for now, playing a game of patience.
In the bedroom, you dressed in a new dress that had been picked out just for the occasion. The fabric was luxurious, hugging your figure in a way that made you feel both foreign and elegant. You added a light layer of makeup, careful not to overdo it—though the long mirror reflected someone you didn’t fully recognise.
You stepped into the living room to find In-ho standing by the door, dressed in his usual crisp attire. His eyes immediately flicked over you, scanning your appearance. There was an unreadable quality to his gaze, but you noticed the brief tightening of his jaw— appreciation? Or something else?
“Well?” You asked, crossing your arms, feeling awkward beneath the weight of his scrutiny.
“You look… different,” he replied, voice low. He didn’t seem able to offer more, but there was something in the way he studied you that made your heart beat faster.
You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you turned towards the door, watching as he opened it for you. His hand lingered at the small of your back, an almost protective gesture, as he guided you outside.
The drive to the restaurant felt surreal. The car’s interior was comfortable, almost too comfortable—soft leather seats, polished wood panels, and the hum of a quiet, expensive vehicle that felt like it could shield you from the world. As you arrived at the restaurant, you were immediately struck by the ambiance. The grand lobby, the rich decor, and the polished marble floors felt like something out of a dream. A host greeted In-ho by name, and there was no waiting, no hassle—just the soft ushering of the two of you to a private, candlelit table.
As you sat down and ordered, you uncomfortably tugged on the hem of your dress, wondering if anyone else could tell how out of place you were.
The waiter offered wine, and without hesitation, In-ho shook his head, turning his attention to you. “No,” he said firmly when the bottle was offered in your direction. “Not for her,” he added, as though it were an obvious request.
You glanced at him, surprised at the decisiveness in his voice. It wasn’t just about the wine—it was about control, as always. A reminder that despite this illusion of normalcy, the rules he lived by didn’t change.
You watched him across the table, the small bits of ignorant bliss you focussed on slowly chipping away. You loathed this environment, and was starting to question why you thought this might be a good idea.
Finally, you couldn’t keep the frustration bottled up anymore. “Do you always do this?” you asked, your voice sharp, unable to hide the bitterness creeping in. You couldn’t shake the feeling that everything, down to the smallest detail, was orchestrated to remind you of your helplessness.
In-ho’s gaze didn’t waver as he took a slow sip of his water, the tension between you two building with every second. “Do what?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with a hint of calculation, as though he already knew what you were about to say.
“You know what I mean,” you snapped, glancing down at the glass of water in front of you as if it held all your frustrations. “Every decision you make is like you're trying to control everything around you. Even something as simple as a glass of wine.” You let out a frustrated sigh, meeting his gaze again. “What is it that you want from me, In-ho? This isn’t normal.”
“I said I wanted to protect you, to help you,” he replied, expression giving nothing away.
“ Why ?”
“You remind me of–” You cut him off before he could continue his rehearsed excuse.
“Enough with that,” you hissed quietly, leaning forward to him. You both paused as the waiter came over with both your dishes.
You both passed on gratitude before turning back to one another.
“I’ve had time to think about it,” you said finally, taking your cutlery and cutting up your overpriced steak. “If that were the case, you would’ve shown more care to Jun-hee.”
In-ho rolled his eyes, mimicking your actions with his own plate of food. “I risked myself to send her home too.”
You held your cutlery still, staring up at him in challenge. “Because I asked you.”
He scoffed, the loud noise drawing in attention from the nearby tables before he leaned in closer, bringing his voice down low. “Because you asked me?” He repeated, setting down his cutlery and taking to his glass of wine. “What makes you think you have any sort of influence over me?”
“Don’t pretend you’re above caring for someone else,” you snapped quietly, your words coming out more forcefully than you expected. “You’ve been trying to control everything and everyone around you for so long, but I won’t let you manipulate me.”
In-ho’s expression hardened, but he didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, setting the wineglass down with a soft clink. “And yet, here you are,” he said, voice low, but with that unmistakable undercurrent of challenge. “Still playing this game, still at my table, still choosing to engage with me.”
“I’m not choosing anything, that’s the whole point.”
He narrowed his eyes on you. “Right, because you want to leave so badly,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you hadn’t noticed, I gave you every opportunity to escape me.”
You stilled at this, thinking back to your shopping today. It was just the both of you, and if you really willed it, you could’ve easily escaped his grasp, fleeing the centre and him forever.
“Maybe you’ve always had a choice,” he said quietly. “Maybe you’ve just been afraid to face it.”
You didn’t reply, keeping your head lowered into your food as you ate. The rest of the dinner passed slowly, and the car ride back was even more excruciating. You bounced your leg, staring out the window as the city passed you by. You reflected deeply on his words, knowing now why they haunted you so.
“If I choose to be with you,” you spoke quietly, breaking the silence in the car. “What does that make me?”
You spoke the question so quietly that the words almost got lost in the hum of the car's engine. In-ho’s silence was unsettling, though not unexpected. He remained still, his profile only faintly illuminated by the streetlights passing outside, as if he were searching for a response to match the weight of your words. The question had lingered between you since his challenge, now more pressing than ever.
When you arrived back at the penthouse, the silence stretched. In-ho stepped out of the car, his movements deliberate. Only when you both entered the apartment did he finally speak.
“What does it make you?” he asked, turning to face you. His voice was softer now, almost pensive, but there was a certain edge to it, as if you were closer to something profound than either of you had been willing to admit before.
“The version of humanity that you see,” you replied softly, leaning against the wall and removing your shoes.
“During my games I saw the worst of humanity,” In-ho began, taking off his suit jacket and walking over towards the large glass panels that overlooked the city. “I saw greed, I saw betrayal, and I saw people turn on one another like starved animals for the slim chance of winning a small fortune.”
“I was…” He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. “Disgusted.”
"When I returned home, my wife and child were gone," he continued, his tone heavy, haunted. "I had all this won but none of it could fill the hole in my chest."
You were still, quietly moving toward him as his words unfolded, each confession revealing more of the man who stood before you.
“The choice to leave my wife when she needed me most was the biggest gamble I’d ever taken. It felt good, it felt purposeful, until it didn’t.”
In-ho's voice trembled slightly as the truth slipped out.
“There’s not an ounce of kindness left in humanity, not when it really matters,” he added bitterly. “That was the point of the game, and it was the most sought after entertainment for men who already had it all.”
His words struck deep, but you couldn't help but question him. "If you were disgusted by humanity's greed, why join in on it?"
In-ho's face tightened, and he leaned back slightly, as if the question required more than just a simple answer.
"I was young when my family adopted me," he said, eyes lowering as the weight of his past pressed down on him. "I never bothered to find my real parents. I had a brother, a family who cared for me, so what did I need from them?"
He paused, looking out the window as if the memory was unfolding before him.
"But after the games," he said slowly, "I was lonely. I lost everything—the bond with my brother, my wife, my child—hell, even the adoptive parents who had raised me. I had nothing left." His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "That's when a man approached me, told me he created the games. At first, I wanted to kill him for what he had done, but then he said he was my real father."
You froze, your breath catching in your throat. "Your real father?" you repeated, incredulity filling your voice.
“Oh Il-nam,” In-ho nodded, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "He had seen me in the games. Watched how I played, analysed my every move. And over the course of that week, he pieced together who I was. The son he abandoned."
"I didn’t want him to be my father," he said, almost under his breath. "But when he told me everything, when he showed me the power he could offer... I was weak. I didn't know where else to go."
You watched him carefully, piecing together the fragments of his story. In-ho, the man who had been both a victim and a perpetrator, caught in a cycle of self-destruction, a man who had lost everything—except for his desire for control.
"I joined him," In-ho continued quietly, "because it felt like the only thing I could do. It was the only way I could make sense of everything that happened.”
“With the games, I took control, but I lost an important part of myself on the way.”
"Each year was the same thing over and over, until Seong Gi-hun," he continued, his voice softer now, tinged with something akin to regret. "That was the year my father was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and the year he himself joined the games as Player 001."
Your eyes widened, the connection suddenly clicking into place.
The man Gi-hun had fooled in his first games. The games where you saw his true selfishness shine, but you could never deny the change you saw in him. In the end, you knew he wasn’t the same man as when he began. He took the opposite path In-ho did.
“I saw his greed, like all the others,” In-ho continued, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “But he never let that stop him from doing the right thing. He managed to keep his humanity intact when all I wanted was to control everything.” He paused, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “Gi-hun... he showed me what I could’ve been, what I should’ve been.”
You noticed the subtle change in his expression, a flicker of something akin to regret or longing in his eyes.
“I hated him for it,” he admitted, almost as if it was a relief to say it aloud. “Because he didn’t have to compromise like I did. He didn’t have to abandon everything that made him human just to survive.”
In-ho’s gaze darkened slightly. “And yet, he still won. And that—” His voice broke slightly, but he regained control. “That’s what I never understood. How did he win without losing himself? How could someone like him, with everything stacked against him, still walk away with his soul intact?”
“And I joined the games, as you well know, but what I didn’t expect was you.”
He finally turned his head away from the glass, face directly angled towards you beside him.
“When you told us you were pregnant, I’d never felt more shame,” he confessed. “But I pushed on for the show, I had to.”
You could hear the struggle in his tone– the conflict between the mask he wore and the man he’d become in pursuit of power. He had manipulated, controlled, and fought for his survival, yet in the face of your pregnancy, in the face of you – something shifted.
“I thought you were the world giving me a second chance to fix the errors of my past– But I realise now that I made all the same mistakes again– except one, and that was leaving you.”
You stared at him expectantly, unable to find the words to reply.
“But when Gi-hun told us about his plan, I realised I could get you out safely,” he said, hand instinctively reaching out to grasp yours, but pulling himself back at the last moment. “I made one last gamble, and that was for you to live.”
Your forehead creased as you tried to make sense of it all.
“You wanted control,” you told him, your tone light but accusatory. “You’ve manipulated every situation, every person around you, because you couldn’t bear to let go. Not even when you were ‘saving’ me.”
In-ho’s gaze drops, but his fists clench, the tension in his posture unmistakable. You can feel the anger and guilt roiling in him, the frustration of someone who has fought so long for dominance that it’s now a reflex.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says quietly, almost as though convincing himself. "I wanted to fix things...to fix myself.”
His words crack open a hidden part of him, something deeper than just a desire for control. You see it now. You exhale slowly, your frustration starting to shift into something softer, more contemplative.
“What did you see in me?” You asked softly.
“The same thing I saw in Seong Gi-hun. Humanity.”
You felt something stir inside you at his words. It was as though he’s revealing the very thing that you’ve been struggling to understand, the very essence of what he’s been searching for in his convoluted journey. Humanity—the ability to feel, to care, to still have something left in the midst of all the darkness.
“I was wrong,” he said finally, deeply exhaling after the words left his lips. “You made me realise that.”
The words were heavy, but there was something almost peaceful in the way he said them, like a burden had been lifted. He looked at you, eyes full of a kind of vulnerability you hadn't seen from him before. “It’s why I didn’t just get you out,” he muttered, his voice quiet, as if the admission itself carried too much weight to speak more plainly.
You felt a flicker of confusion rise within you before realising what he had meant. He had stepped down, given the burden to another. “But the games will continue,” you argued softly, your voice tense as you crossed your arms.
In-ho's gaze sharpened, and there was an eerie calm in his expression as he met your eyes. “Not for much longer.” The finality in his tone took you by surprise, like the words had come from a deeper understanding of what will happen.
You stared at him for a moment, allowing everything you heard to unfold. You watched him cautiously, feeling so exposed with his unmoving eyes on you. “You don’t get to control me anymore,” you told him, like it was your first rule for this to continue.
In-ho’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but there was something behind his eyes—a mix of admiration and challenge as he leaned closer to you. “Anything you want,” he replied, his tone low, as though every word was both a promise and a dare.
“But,” In-ho murmured, dipping his head lower, hand trailing down your bare arm. “You don’t get to leave me.”
His possessive words sent a shiver down your spine, the weight of them sinking deep into you. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, every breath between you both held tightly in place.
“How will you ensure that?” You challenged, your voice a mix of defiance and something else you couldn’t quite name.
In-ho’s smile deepened, his gaze flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Because you can’t resist me, and deep down, you know it,” he whispered, his words laced with an undeniable certainty.
The air around you seemed to pulse as his hand moved to your waist, pulling you into him. Your body quivered against him, your chest pressed on him raising and falling in uneven and uncontrolled breaths. “Look at how you react to me, Jagi ,” he murmured, lifting his other hand and tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
His breath was warm against your cheek, the space between you all but evaporating. You could feel the heat radiating off him, every fibre of your being hyper-aware of his proximity. Your heart raced in defiance of your mind, which screamed at you to pull away, to hold your ground, to not give in to him.
But his eyes held you captive, his gaze flickering down to your lips. Slowly, agonisingly, he closed the gap. His lips brushed against yours—a question, a provocation.
You sucked in a breath, heart drumming against your ribcage. Then, you took control, taking both your hands to his face and pulling him in. Your hands then slid into his hair, gently tugging. His lips were soft against yours, and you could taste the remnants of wine from dinner. He was addictive, dangerous– and despite this, you couldn’t stop.
When you finally pried away from him in need of breath, you both panted softly, staring at one another. When your hands slowly fell from his hair, he caught them tightly before they could return to your side.
“More,” he demanded, eyes piercing you with such an intense ferocity. He acted like a thirsted animal being pulled away from its water source.
“Wait, In-ho,” you murmured, letting out a breath and lowering your head. You needed to try to think rationally. His eyes stared down at you expectantly, but carrying a concern as though whatever you said would be the most important thing he had ever heard. “I need you to promise me to be good.”
“What?” He muttered softly, taking his fingers to your chin and tilting your head up. He seemed confused.
“We can start whatever this is,” you began to tell him, using your now free hand to stroke his cheek. “But you need to promise me no more games.”
He tilted his head at you, eyes igniting with something more light and understanding, as if your request were the simplest instruction. “I don’t need to gamble anymore, Jagi ,” he said, the nickname coming out harsh as he pulled down your dress straps, unable to contain himself. “I’ve already won.”
With that, he took you against the glass window, hoisting one of your legs around his waist. You loosened his tie once his lips began to attack your neck. It was hard to focus, but he pulled away, allowing you to pull it over his head and throw it off to the side.
His hand dug into your thigh that was around him, your lips pressed together again in a needy and desperate kiss. You could feel his hand rubbing, angling higher and higher. Your legs tingled as his hand brushed over your underwear, just the mere tease igniting something within you.
You let out a shudder, wrapping your other leg around him. He moved his hand from under your dress, steadying you with two hands on your waist. Lips still connected with yours, he turned you both around, aiming for the large table behind you.
You squirmed with anticipation once he pulled away, snatching off his belt and rolling up his sleeves before taking his hands to your knees, forcing them further apart.
You propped yourself up with your elbows on the table, looking at In-ho as he then began to free his length from his pants. Your eyes widened slightly when you could see how much he wanted you. You hadn’t realised how much you want this– and the thrill of it all was fuelling you further.
One hand on his semi-hardened dick, he began to stroke slowly, the other slipping up your dress and removing your panties with ease. When he tossed them to the side, his eyes met yours, shimmering with question– permission.
You stared hard at him, head slowly nodding. You didn’t want to move, to breathe wrong, to pull away– You just wanted him to keep going.
You were both quiet as he positioned himself at your entrance, both completely focussed on the action– the step forward you were about to make.
His hand hit the table as he entered you, his palm flat by your head. His other hand grasped onto your waist. You gasped softly at the feeling, it having not been something you’d experienced properly in so long. He was gentle, yet firm, as he slowly began to pound into you, his pace consistent.
Your hands slid down to the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up. He moved his hand on your waist, helping you. You managed to get the dress over your head without breaking the rhythm, leaving you almost completely bare in front of him.
“You’re so beautiful,” In-ho murmured, his spare hand coming to rest against the back of your head.
You fought to keep your eyes on him, each thrust bringing forth small gasps from your lips. You quivered, trying hard to keep it together when his pace quickened. But all too quickly, it slowed, his length pulling out suddenly.
You were quick to whine, your eyebrows furrowing in frustration and desire as you objected.
“Sh,” he muttered, placing a finger to your lips. His other hand came to his cock as he gently repositioned it against your clit. He mimicked thrusting motions, his dick rubbing slowly against you.
“In-ho,” you cried softly, trying to capture the hand that was holding his length.
“Just breathe for me, Jagi ,” he cooed, his hand at your face brushing away stray hair.
He watched you enter a different realm of pleasure and frustration all mixed into one, the feeling being somewhat satisfying to him.
“Please,” you begged pathetically, feeling yourself burn for him inside you.
Moments after you spoke, you could feel him fill you again, the action making you moan out loud. He slowly built up his pace again, this time fucking you more passionately and lovingly.
“Just a little more, Jagi ,” he talked you through it as you began to lose yourself. “Good girl.”
He leaned in further to you, going even deeper and harder than you thought possible. You feel the tingling across your body, the tightness in your core building up with every thrust. You panted desperately, clenching around him as you came, perhaps even shouting out some profanities– but you really had no idea.
In-ho’s thrusts became more sloppy as he pumped into your once, twice, three more times before he softly groaned. You let out soft gasps when you felt his warmness fill you, something you’ve never before had with another.
You felt your shudders slowly fade, your mind settling back into reality when In-ho pulled out of you, his seed spilling out of you. Your tensed body relaxed onto the hard table, your breath coming out rigid and in pants.
He was the same, the light sweat coating his face and dishevelling his hair. He readjusted his pants, then standing still as he tried to recollect himself. You thought that was going to be it until he took your limp hands, pulling you up from the table.
He then pulled you in by the neck, smashing his lips against your own in a possessive kiss.
His words that followed came out as a soft mutter, but they echoed the perpetuity of a vow, “I promise.”