brainmaggotzzzz - Tumblr blog

brainmaggotzzzz · 28 days ago

Text

♡Lucky

hwang inho x fem!reader

cw: age gap, daddy issues, injury, pet death, toxic themes, manipulation, death, Inho isn't a good person but he thinks he is 💀,amnesia,kind of shit

requests?yes!

word count: 15k

Trust.

A currency, your mother used to say—more fragile than coins, and far more costly when lost.

You had always been rich in it, perhaps too rich. You let the other kids copy your homework, trading equations and essay paragraphs for a sliver of friendship that never quite materialized. You trusted your father when he promised you a summer at a five-star resort, even as he missed child support payments month after month. You clung to the sound of his voice through static phone lines, believing he’d call back when the line went dead—for one month, then two, then three.

Your mother tried to teach you better. “Only trust yourself,” she’d whisper over late-night tea, exhaustion clinging to her like perfume. “Trust your gut. Trust your instincts. If something feels too good to be true, it probably is.”

So where did it all go wrong?

Those warnings were carved into your conscience like ancient scripture, echoing since the moment you slipped into the world. And yet, maybe it was because she herself never quite followed her own doctrine. You watched her place trust in trembling hands—sleazy salesmen with shark smiles, bosses who promised promotions but handed her pink slips instead. Trust, misplaced again and again, until it left her buried beneath bills and IOUs.

But you never blamed her. How could you?

She tried. She gave up her youth to raise you, a child she hadn't planned for, but loved all the same. You grew up close, bound by something tender and unspoken. She wrapped you in affection when the world didn’t. Supported you through every stumble, every scraped knee, every dream you dared to speak aloud.

You noticed the way other mothers whispered behind French-manicured hands, their eyes lingering on your young mom as she arrived at school in secondhand clothes and tired eyes. But it never mattered—not when you had her. She was your fortress. Your best friend wrapped in the shape of a mother.

You didn’t have much, but you had enough.

Money was always tight—tight like the threadbare coats you wore each winter. She worked two jobs to keep the lights on, scrubbing floors by day, babysitting by night. You spent long evenings alone, your homework illuminated by a flickering kitchen bulb. And then, one day, she brought home a dog.

A beagle, born without an eye.

Free, because no one else wanted him.

But to you, he was perfect. Loyal. Silly. Gentle. He filled the empty spaces in your evenings, warmed your feet as you fell asleep on the worn-out couch, his missing eye never making him any less whole to you.

But soon, the world began to fray at the seams.

Your grandfather—the same man who never lifted a finger to help your mother—died, leaving behind not an inheritance but a heap of debt. Prices soared. Groceries became luxuries. Your mom still begged you to go to college, to chase a better life.

But instead, you packed your things and left for Seoul.

You promised to send money back. To help.

You found work at a restaurant where the manager skimmed tips like it was his God-given right. Your second job involved caring for an elderly woman who hurled curses with more strength than her frail body should’ve allowed.

Life was exhausting. Unfair.

You started to wonder if trust had ever been a currency at all—

or just a cruel joke passed down like a family heirloom.

That was, of course,

until In-ho came along.

◇

The way you met him was almost laughable in hindsight—one of those moments that feels insignificant at first, but in time, you realize was the beginning of everything.

It was late—far past the hour when the streets of Seoul begin to quiet, but this avenue still pulsed with life. Neon signs flickered overhead like electric stars, casting the pavement in a kaleidoscope of color. Cars honked. Strangers brushed past. Somewhere, a street performer strummed a sad tune on a cracked guitar. And under the silver gleam of the moonlight, he was running.

You barely noticed him at first. You were too tired to notice much of anything.

Your body was bone-heavy, sagging under the weight of exhaustion. You shuffled forward with the sluggish grace of someone who hadn’t truly rested in weeks. Fried chicken grease clung to your clothes, the scent so deeply soaked into your skin that it felt permanent. A pale stain spread across your chest—milk, from earlier that evening, when the elderly woman you cared for hurled her breakfast at you in a fit of unprovoked rage. You hadn’t changed, hadn't eaten, barely even spoken since.

You felt invisible.

But then, something sharp caught your eye—a flicker of leather tumbling from his coat pocket as he weaved through the crowd toward a waiting taxi.

A wallet.

You blinked, suddenly alert.

The crowd was too thick, the street too loud. If you didn’t act, someone else would see it—or worse, he’d drive away and never know it was gone.

So you ran.

Your legs protested, sore from hours of standing. But you pushed forward, dodging pedestrians, weaving past tired workers and chatty students. The night air was cool and smelled faintly of exhaust and roasted chestnuts from a vendor nearby. The city buzzed around you—alive and uncaring.

“Sir! Sir!” you called, breathless as you neared him.

He had one foot in the cab when he finally turned.

The taxi’s interior light illuminated his face. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a hard jawline. His hair was neatly combed back, though a strand had fallen loose over his brow. He wore a long black coat that looked expensive, tailored, precise—everything you weren’t.

His eyes met yours—cold, assessing.

You held up the wallet like a peace offering, your fingers smudged with oil and sweat. “Your wallet,” you said, voice hoarse from fatigue, but clear.

His gaze lingered.

Not with gratitude—more like suspicion.

He looked you over, eyes flicking down to your stained blouse, your fraying coat, your worn shoes. Then back up again. And still, that expression didn’t change. He took the wallet slowly, fingers brushing yours for a brief second. You could feel it—his surprise. Not in his eyes, not in his words—but in that stillness.

He hadn’t expected to get it back.

Not from someone like you.

Then, without a word, he reached into the wallet and pulled out a few crisp bills.

You laughed softly and shook your head, waving your hand. “I’m fine,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I’ve got money.”

He studied you a second longer, unreadable. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or just didn’t care.

“Take it,” he said flatly, his voice low, refined—too calm, too empty.

But you only smiled, tired and genuine. “Keep it,” you replied.

The taxi driver rolled his eyes, impatient. “We going or not?” he snapped, glancing at the rearview mirror.

Without another word, the man stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The cab pulled away, merging into traffic and disappearing under the blur of neon and night.

You stood still for a moment, the city moving around you again like a tide. Then you turned and kept walking, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself.

You didn’t see it—but from the backseat, he glanced at you through the rear window.

Not with curiosity.

Not with warmth.

But with something unreadable. A flicker of thought.

Like you’d unsettled something in him.

◇

You were crouched behind the fried chicken restaurant, tucked between the dumpster and the back door, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between your fingers. Your knees ached. Your apron smelled like grease and soy sauce. There were stains on your jeans you didn't even remember getting. The buzzing neon sign above you cast a pale pink glow across your tired face. Your eyes were rimmed with fatigue, but they softened when you looked down at your phone.

“Yeah, Mom… I’m eating well,” you said with a small, practiced smile, your voice hushed and warm. You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slowly, and turned your face up to the cool night air. “Yes, I stopped smoking.”

You looked off to the side, smiling a little at your own lie.

“Are you eating well? Did I send enough this week? Did you get the rice? Did you feed the doggo?” Your tone shifted—tender, anxious. “He’s not limping again, is he?”

Your fingers pinched the cigarette out, and you dropped the butt beside your foot, grinding it into the concrete.

“I have lots of new friends and everything’s working out beautifully.”

Another lie. A softer one.

You didn’t want her to worry. She’d given you everything. She’d never let you see her cry, even when the fridge was empty. Even when the power got cut off. You wouldn’t let her feel the weight of your struggle—not if you could help it.

“I love you, Mom. Please rest, okay? Eat well. Don’t stress yourself out. And if you need anything, anything, just tell me. I’ll make it work. I promise.”

Your voice broke just a little on that last line. You pressed your forehead to your knee, closing your eyes, holding the phone close even after she hung up.

You didn’t see him at first. But he saw you.

In-ho hadn’t meant to be there. When he wasn’t overseeing death and depravity in the Games, he lived like a shadow. A rented room in a crumbling workers’ building. Cheap meals in plastic containers. No luxury, no attention. It was a strange habit—immersing himself in poverty when he had access to opulence. But perhaps it made him feel in control. Maybe it reminded him that he was different from the people he manipulated.

He had just picked up dinner—a sad little paper bag of soup and rice—and was heading back when he noticed you. Crouched beside the dumpster. Phone pressed to your ear. Laughing quietly through your exhaustion.

He stopped.

There was something about you. Something that didn’t fit.

He remembered your face instantly. The girl from the street. The one who’d returned his wallet without blinking, who refused his money with a crooked smile and tired eyes. He had written you off in a moment as another poor girl on the edge. But now... now he found himself watching.

He heard you speak, gentle and full of care. Saw the way you talked about food, warmth, small comforts like they were luxury goods. The way you lied so easily—but not for yourself. For someone you loved.

For years, In-ho had lived in a world carved from extremes. The rich were monsters in tailored suits, bored and cruel. The poor were desperate and dangerous, willing to trade loyalty, humanity, even blood for the faintest whiff of salvation. He’d seen it with his own eyes—how debt warped people into animals. How quickly they'd betray, steal, kill. In his world, everyone had a price.

And yet... here you were.

Wearing a threadbare sweater, with a stain on your collar and dirt on your shoes. And still, you'd said no to money. You gave more than you took.

What was it? Pride? Stubbornness? Or something rarer—something real?

Then you noticed him.

You turned your head slowly, eyebrows raised, but not startled. Just curious. When your eyes met his, you smiled. Soft and amused.

“You’re the wallet guy,” you said, rising slightly to stretch your legs, your voice teasing but gentle.

He didn’t smile, not really. His face was still, unreadable. But something in his posture shifted—less rigid, less distant.

“You’re too young to be smoking,” he said, stepping forward a little, eyeing the burnt-out cigarette near your foot.

You laughed, eyes crinkling. “And you’re… well, I don’t have a comeback yet. I’m tired.” You stretched your arms, then dropped them. “But you’re right. I should quit.”

He didn’t reply. But the corner of his mouth lifted—barely. Almost like the idea of smiling passed through him, but didn’t stick.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, voice quiet. “For giving me my wallet back.”

You waved it off. “It’s fine,” you said, already gathering your bag. “I’ve got to go. My second job’s waiting.”

You were already walking past him when he spoke again.

“Wait.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“You didn’t take the money earlier,” he said, adjusting the takeout bag in his hands. His voice was lower now, almost hesitant.

You shrugged. “Didn’t feel right.”

He nodded slowly. Then, after a beat, added, “You seem like someone who stands her ground.”

That caught you off guard. You tilted your head.

“So… let me at least treat you to dinner sometime,” he said, and for the first time, he actually looked at you—not just through you.

There was no charm in his tone, no flirtation. Just quiet sincerity. An offering.

◇

And that’s how it began.

Your… what was it, exactly? A friendship? A connection? A slow-burning tangle of something unnamed with Hwang In-ho.

He never called it anything.

Neither did you.

Maybe because words felt too heavy, too defined for something that crept in so gently.

At first, it felt simple. Two lonely people orbiting each other’s silence, drawn in by the shared ache of being unseen. You weren’t trying to fix each other—you just existed near one another, and that alone brought a strange kind of relief.

He seemed untouchable on the outside, but when you were together, he softened. Not with big gestures—he wasn’t the type—but in small things. The way he listened. The way he asked about your day and actually waited for the answer. The way he offered you his jacket without a word when the night air got too sharp.

You started seeing each other more. Quiet, aimless walks after your shifts, when the streets were half-asleep and the city didn’t ask much of either of you. He wasn’t much of a talker, but with a bottle of soju between you and no one else around, his words loosened. You’d talk for hours—about life, about regret, about the absurd meals you threw together when all you had was rice, eggs, and ketchup.

You told him how you used to make up stories to keep yourself company as a kid, how you wanted a dog sanctuary one day, how you sometimes cried in the shower just to let it out. He told you strange things, too—like how he could only fall asleep if there was white noise, how he hated his own birthday, how sometimes he didn’t feel real.

You were sun, he was shadow.

You were warm chaos, he was cold precision.

And yet, somehow, you fit.

Soon, the quiet moments multiplied. A text after work:

Are you okay?

Did you eat?

Come over.

Late-night calls. A shared playlist. You’d send him memes you knew he wouldn’t laugh at, but he’d reply with a “…” or a dry “cute” anyway. He never used emojis. You never stopped sending them.

Then one day, he moved. You didn’t even know he was looking for a new place. But not long after he asked where your late shift was, he ended up in a high-end apartment just two blocks from the restaurant.

You never questioned it.

And somehow, your toothbrush found a home in his bathroom. Your hair ties scattered across his sink. He always had your favorite snack in the kitchen. You had a key—but he never said the words “this is yours.” He didn’t need to.

Sometimes, you’d crawl into bed after a 12-hour day, too exhausted to speak. He’d already be there, reading some article on his phone, the room dim and still. You’d fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, his breath steady beside you. There was no sex—not at first. It was intimacy of a different kind. Quiet. Earned.

It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no grand confessions, no candlelit dinners. But there was care. Real, aching care.

He let you in, bit by bit.

And in return, you let him see you in ways no one else had.

You never talked about what you were. Maybe because naming it would break the spell. Maybe because neither of you believed you deserved something so tender.

But still—you kept showing up.

And so did he.

And somewhere in the middle of all those unsaid things, something like love began to grow.

◇

“What did you plan for yourself, Y/N?” he asked quietly, his voice a low hum against the hush of the night.

You lay with your head on his chest, your damp hair cooling against his bare skin, freshly washed from the shower you’d just taken. The scent of his laundry detergent clung faintly to the sheets—clean, crisp, unfamiliar, but comforting now in a way that felt like safety. Outside, the city murmured in distant traffic and faint neon. But inside, wrapped in his arms, it was still.

You were exhausted. Bone-deep tired, the kind that lived in your spine and under your eyes. But in his arms, your muscles finally stopped bracing for the next blow. You let yourself breathe.

“What?” you asked, your voice a little groggy, softened by fatigue and the haze of warmth from his body.

“What would you be doing—what path would you have taken—if life hadn’t... cornered you?” he asked, one hand absently tracing small patterns against your arm.

You paused, blinking up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be etched there. “I’d be a nurse,” you said after a moment.

He stilled slightly beneath you. “Why?”

“I’d want to help people, I guess,” you murmured, your fingers playing with a thread on the blanket. “It always felt right. Real. Like maybe I could make a difference, even a small one.”

You let out a soft laugh, a little self-conscious. “I’m not smart enough to be a doctor anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” he said quickly, gently, like a reflex. His tone was steady, but something in it carried a quiet weight, like he hated hearing you speak about yourself that way.

You smiled faintly. “I’m going to see my mom soon,” you added, a touch of brightness lighting up your tired voice. “And my dog.”

“Are you happy about it?” he asked, turning his head slightly to look at you more directly.

“Yeah… I mean, she’s been begging me to visit for months. And finally, I scraped together enough hours to take two days off,” you said, your voice warm but tinged with guilt.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he murmured. “You know I could help. Financially, I mean.”

“Stop it,” you replied gently, not unkind, just firm. You’d had this conversation before.

He exhaled slowly. “Your mom should be proud of you,” he said after a pause. “You’re working yourself to the bone for her sake.”

“She is proud,” you whispered. “She tells me all the time… but she’s also ashamed. Embarrassed that I have to work this hard. She shouldn’t feel that way. Helping her—it’s just what I’m supposed to do.”

“It’s not,” he said, more sharply than usual, a rare flicker of conviction in his tone. “Yet you still chose to. That’s... noble.”

“It is my job,” you insisted softly. “She gave up everything for me. Her twenties. Her dreams. It’s only fair I return the favor.”

“You didn’t ask to be born, Y/N,” he said, staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to reason with the stars. “A parent’s duty is to give their child the world. The child doesn’t owe them anything.”

You smirked, nudging his side. “Didn’t you just finish that book on Confucius? Isn’t he all about honoring your parents?”

He let out a soft laugh, deep and a little amused. “What a beautiful way to misinterpret a lifetime of philosophy,” he said. “But yes. He is.”

You smiled and shifted closer to him, your leg brushing his under the sheets. “Also… I don’t feel like I’m wasting my youth,” you said quietly. “I’m just living it a little differently. Not the way the world says I should, but… my own way.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “So you don’t feel like you’re wasting it… being here? With me?” His voice was quieter now, uncertain in a way you rarely heard. “I’m older. You could be spending this time with someone closer to your age, someone who… fits more easily into your life.”

You looked up at him, really looked. His sharp edges, the weariness behind his eyes, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t feel like I’m wasting anything,” you said, voice steady. “Especially not with you.”

◇

Sometimes, late at night, when your breath came in soft little huffs against his skin, when you mumbled nonsense in your sleep and shifted closer to him with childlike trust—In-ho would remain still. Wide awake. Fully conscious.

There was something narcotic about being near you. Of course there was.

You were young. Bright. Pretty in that quietly natural way that made the world seem softer. You laughed easily, made bad puns over soju, and had a kind of gentle clumsiness that made him want to steady you by the elbow. But you were also surprisingly mature. Rooted. You carried yourself with a grace you didn’t seem to notice, a strength buried under layers of exhaustion and selflessness.

You were a breath of fresh air. No—more than that. You were an escape.

An escape from the filth. From the perversion and the power games. From the grotesque indulgence he was submerged in for too long. And even though you had tasted bitterness, were scraping your knuckles on the grind of life—you remained intact. Not untouched. But uncorrupted.

Because you were still hopeful.

Because despite it all, something in you still looked for the light.

The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. The way your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks when the sunlight filtered through the window. The way your fingers, soft and small in his, held without demand, without expectation. You didn’t want anything from him. Not really. Not money, not gifts. You refused every offer, waved away every bill with a guilty smile and a sheepish apology for letting him pay again.

So he’d lie there and wonder—what was it that drew you to him?

He knew you were lonely. That much was obvious. The city had swallowed you whole and you were still trying to find your voice in its cold machinery. But if it was just loneliness, you’d have found someone else. Anyone else. Someone closer to your age. Someone easier.

Not a man like him. Not a man twice your age with far too many secrets and blood on his hands.

That’s when he realized.

You never talked about your father. Not really. Just the offhand jokes, the little stabs you disguised as humor—“He went to get milk and forgot the way back.” You laughed when you said it.

He never did.

Because underneath the sarcasm, he saw it. The crack.

You were still waiting for someone to choose you. Someone who didn’t leave. Someone to provide—not in the financial sense, but emotionally. Someone to stand still while the world pulled everything else away. You didn’t even know it yourself. Wouldn’t admit it even if you did.

But he knew.

And when he saw it—when he finally, fully understood—he felt fear. A kind he hadn’t felt in decades. A quiet, ice-in-the-veins kind of dread.

Because what if one day, you saw it too?

What if you realized that the affection you gave so freely was also a quiet cry for something you lost long ago?

And what if—when you figured it out—you left?

He couldn’t stand the thought. Couldn’t bear it. Not when you were the one clean thing left in his life. The one untouched note in a symphony of corruption. The one person who looked at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

So the thoughts started to whisper. Slowly. Seductively.

I know her better than she knows herself.

I know what’s best for her.

And it wasn’t long before he accepted the role he felt he had to take.

To protect you.

To guide you.

To love you—in the only way he knew how.

◇

That day, you were tending to the woman who—on most days—seemed to hate the world simply for spinning. The sun hung low in the sky, slanting rays across the room. But the blinds were shut, pulled halfway down at her demand. “Too much light,” she’d muttered earlier, her tired eyes glued to the flickering screen playing some daytime soap.

You’d learned to move carefully around her. No sudden gestures, no cheerful tone that might come off as patronizing. You knew the phrases that worked, how to ask without asking, how to shift her weight when helping her up without making her feel small. She wasn’t kind, not exactly, and most of your days with her were a test of patience. But still, somewhere along the way, she stopped being just another shift. Something in you softened toward her.

A week ago, you’d overheard her daughter—the one who paid your wages—muttering over the phone. It slipped out casually, in a breath between frustrations. “He died in the war,” she said. “She still thinks he’s coming home some days.” The Korean War. That meant she'd waited a long time—for someone who never came back.

And maybe that’s why, despite the sharpness of her words, you started to see her not just as a bitter old woman, but as someone who’d been left behind.

“Make me tea,” she snapped, her voice dry and command-like, but quieter than usual.

You offered a small smile and nodded, rising to your feet and stepping lightly to the kitchen. “Would you like some sugar in it?” you asked gently, knowing she’d say no. She always said no.

“No,” she replied flatly.

The apartment smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The furniture was heavy, dark mahogany with threadbare cushions. The wallpaper, once floral, had yellowed over time, and the only sound besides the television was the faint whistle of the kettle coming to life. You poured the water with care, letting the tea steep just long enough, then carried it back to her with both hands, walking slowly, carefully.

“Careful, it’s hot,” you warned softly, setting it on the little tray table in front of her.

She grumbled, lifting it with shaking fingers. Her skin was paper-thin, her hands dotted with age spots. Her hair was grey, sparse and pinned back in a messy bun. She took a sip, grimaced slightly—maybe the tea was too strong, maybe everything was just wrong today.

Then her eyes drifted toward the small wooden shelf in the corner. A black-and-white photo sat framed behind glass—faded now, the edges curling a little. A young man in uniform, smiling stiffly.

“Who’s this?” you asked gently, not expecting much of a response.

Her eyes snapped to the photo. She blinked once, twice. Her mouth dropped open as her hand lifted, trembling, to cover it.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “Oh no… I forgot. He’s coming back home soon, and I haven’t made dinner—”

You stiffened. Her eyes darted frantically, her breath coming quicker. “Rice… fish… where is everything?! Where are the spices?!” Her voice was rising, panicked. She pushed herself up with surprising strength and shuffled to the kitchen, throwing open cabinets and drawers. Utensils clattered. A dish broke.

“Ma’am—please, it’s okay—”

“Who are you?!” she snapped suddenly, eyes wild, teeth clenched. “Are you his mistress?! Is he doing this again?!”

You took a step back, startled. “No, no, please—let’s sit down, alright?” you pleaded, hands out like you were soothing a frightened animal. You tried to guide her gently back to her armchair.

But she jerked away.

“Liar!”

The tea cup flew before you had time to react.

It shattered against your stomach, hot liquid searing your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. You cried out instinctively, stumbling back. The heat was sharp, immediate. Without thinking, you ripped the shirt over your head and bolted to the bathroom, fumbling to get cold water running. The mirror caught a glimpse of your flushed, reddened skin. Angry welts were already forming.

Your heart was pounding. Not from the burn—but from the chaos. From the ache of being hurt by someone who didn’t know where or when she was.

Once the pain dulled a little under the cold stream, you returned to the living room. She was sitting still again, mumbling to herself. Her eyes glassy. The photo still perched behind her, untouched.

You grabbed your phone with shaking fingers and called her family.

They were… uninterested. Dismissive. “Just do your job,” the daughter said, clearly annoyed. No pause. No concern.

So you called an ambulance.For her. No dramatics. You gave them the address, reported the confusion and the outburst, and waited.

She didn’t know what was happening. Not really.

◇

The tears came before you could stop them. They welled up and spilled over, burning tracks down your cheeks as you walked, your steps uneven and mechanical. You had your puffer coat on—the expensive one In-ho had gotten you. A gift you'd tried to refuse, but he’d been so persistent, gently pressing it into your arms with that quiet firmness you never quite knew how to argue with.

Underneath it, you wore only your bra.

You didn’t cry because of the old woman—not really. She didn’t know what she was doing. If anything, the guilt sat squarely on her family’s shoulders. They cut corners, hired you—a girl with zero professional experience in elder care—because you were cheap, desperate, and easy to mold.

No, you cried because you were tired. Bone-deep tired. Tired of being kicked around by the world, of being treated like a disposable thing. Of swallowing pain without acknowledgment, of having your tips stolen, of smiling politely through mistreatment just to get by. You missed your mom. You missed your dog. You missed the version of yourself that never got to exist—the college girl who might’ve been complaining about finals, stumbling home drunk from frat parties, kissing people without thinking about consequences.

Instead, you had this.

Then the guilt came. A fresh wave of it. Because what kind of daughter thinks like that? You had to do this. For your mom. For your life. For survival. And yet, deep down, you felt selfish. Like something inside you was broken.

In-ho was the only one left.

He had seeped into your life slowly, like warmth filling the cracks, until he was the only constant. The only one you could run to.

You unlocked his door with the key he’d given you and stepped inside. Your face was blotchy, your cheeks damp and red. He was there, in his massive living room, seated on the velvet couch, a book in hand. As soon as he looked up, he was on his feet.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low but urgent, brows pulling together.

“I’m just so tired,” you whispered, voice crumbling.

He approached, carefully, raising a hand to unzip your coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, stopping him.

Confused, he took a step back, watching silently as you unzipped it yourself.

His eyes fell. He froze. “Why don’t you have anything under—did someone…?”

Then he saw the burn.

His face went dark. “What happened, Y/N?”

You sniffled. “That old lady—I swear, she went completely psycho. She started talking about her dead husband and thought I was his mistress or something, and then… then she threw a cup of hot tea at me.” Your words came in a frantic tumble, cracked with disbelief. “She burned me, In-ho. I—I don’t even know what happened. I tried to help her.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, your voice quivering. “I just can’t.”

He didn’t interrupt. He listened in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he took your hand and gently guided you to the couch.

“Sit,” he said softly.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with cold towels. He knelt beside you, pressing them gently against the angry red marks on your stomach. He didn’t baby you. He didn’t scold. He didn’t flinch away from your pain.

He just stayed. Present. Solid.

“I’m just so tired,” you sobbed again, clinging to him now, wrapping your arms around his neck. “And God, I’m horrible.”

“Horrible?” His voice was gentle, but there was a sting to it. Like your words had insulted him.

“Don’t say that.”

You weren’t trash. You weren’t like the others. Not to him.

“Sometimes I think… I’m angry at my mom,” you whispered, shame heavy in your throat. “Even though she didn’t do anything wrong.”

He said nothing.

“I wonder what life would’ve been like if I was born into money. But then I feel like such a piece of shit, because she loved me so much. She gave up everything for me.”

Your voice cracked. “And sometimes—God—sometimes I wonder what she could’ve been if she never got pregnant with me. What she lost because of me.”

He stilled. Listening.

“Maybe this is my punishment,” you said bitterly. “Me suffering like this. It’s karma. For taking her life away.”

He pulled you tighter into his chest.

“If she never had me, maybe she could’ve gone to college, had fun, found someone rich to love her. She could’ve lived. But she had me. And now I have to carry that weight too.”

“Punishment for being born?” he said softly.

“Punishment for being a fucking leech,” you said.

“Is that how you see yourself?” His voice was tight now. Controlled. “As a parasite?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, eyes hollow.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured. “You’re a good girl. A sweet girl. You tried your best. That’s more than most.”

He adjusted the towel gently, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“Let me take care of you.”

His voice was a balm, steady, certain.

“They don’t appreciate you like I do,” he whispered between kisses. “They don’t see you like I do.”

“I just… I feel so useless,” you cried softly. “I’m trying to help. I really am. But I just end up making things worse.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Don’t say that.”

“Let me help you,” he murmured, hands steady on your body.

“For the thousandth time, I won’t take your money,” you said, wiping your eyes.

“I know,” he smiled faintly. “You stubborn girl.”

“What if I employed you?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “We’ve known each other for a year now and you still haven’t told me what it is you actually do.”

“You never asked,” he replied smoothly, settling the book on his lap. “You’re smart, Y/N. Charming. The job is easy. And it pays very, very well.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, exactly, is this mystery job?”

He leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “I help run an organization. We give people a second chance.”

You laughed, dryly. “Hwang In-ho, the humanitarian. Who would’ve thought?”

He didn’t laugh. His smile dropped. He didn’t even meet your gaze.

“Come to think of it,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, “you’d be a perfect candidate.”

“A candidate for what?”

“I digress,” he waved it off. “You wouldn’t be playing. Just… recruiting.”

You blinked. “Recruiting for what?”

He walked to the window, looking out at the glowing skyline. His voice dropped.

“It’s a game. A competition. People play children’s games. The winner gets enough money to change their life.”

“And the players?” you asked carefully. “What kind of people are they?”

“Desperate,” he said simply. “Like you. Like your mom. It’s fair. Everyone starts with the same rules.”

You frowned. “And my job?”

“All you’d do is approach people. Offer them a game. Something simple. If they win, you give them cash. If they lose…” he trailed off.

“If they lose?” you echoed.

“They get slapped.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Just a slap,” he said, as if it were nothing. “It’s symbolic. You’d be perfect. You have that presence. People trust you.”

“And after that? The ones who join—what happens if they lose?”

He hesitated. “They’re eliminated.”

“Like… they go home?”

You poor thing.

You didn’t know.

And he couldn’t tell you—not yet. Not when your innocence was the only light he had left in this wretched, bloodstained world.

"Yes, Y/N, they go home"

◇

When you came to visit your mom—those two precious days you scraped and clawed to make happen—she ran into your arms the second you stood in the doorway. Your dog came limping after her, a little slower than he used to, his face like a powdered donut, all frosted gray around the muzzle.

“Mom!” you grinned, hugging her tightly as she buried her face into your neck.

“I missed you,” she murmured, squeezing you. “Come, come inside already.”

She ushered you in quickly, her hands still on your shoulders, as if afraid you might disappear again.

“You look thinner,” she said with concern, eyeing you up and down. “You said you’ve been eating well.”

“Oh, I am! Just been doing a lot of cardio lately, you know,” you replied with a soft laugh, brushing off the lie with practiced ease.

She didn’t press further—just guided you to the small kitchen table like she always did. The table was the same, chipped at the edges. There was still a dent in the corner where you once dropped a pan as a kid. The old magnets clung to the fridge, holding up crayon drawings you barely remembered making—one of a sun with a face, one of a stick figure you claimed was her. You ran your fingers over one of them without realizing. The clutter made your chest ache with nostalgia.

Your dog pawed gently at your knee, trying to climb into your lap. He didn’t quite make it. You smiled and gently scooped him up. He settled in with a tired groan, resting his chin on your arm.

“Mama,” you said softly, “I found a new job. A well-paying one.”

Her eyes lit up instantly. “You did? Oh, my Y/N, I knew you would. You’re smart. I’ve never known where you got it from—surely not from me or your daddy,” she said with a chuckle, brushing your hair back with that motherly tenderness that always made you feel five years old again.

You watched her closely now, though, her features a little more worn than you remembered. She looked tired. Not just sleepy—tired.

“And you, Mom?” your voice lowered. “How are you holding up?”

She gave you a wobbly smile. “I’m just… trying to make it work, baby.”

You saw it then—behind the smile, the weight she carried. The strain in her shoulders. The quiet sadness in her eyes.

“I found a third job,” she said lightly, as if that wasn’t a devastating sentence.

“A third job?” you repeated, stunned. “God, Mom… you need to rest.”

“But the debt collectors don’t,” she said with a humorless chuckle, pointing at the empty space in the living room. “They took the damn TV.”

You both laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that hurt in your ribs.

“The TV? It was old as hell. Why the hell would they want that junk?” you said through your laughter.

“I know, right? Maybe they needed a vintage exhibit,” she smiled. Then her expression softened. “Anyway… I found something the other day. And I’m sorry, baby, for reading it. I really couldn’t help myself.”

She walked over to the shelf and pulled something out with a sheepish look on her face. You recognized it instantly—your old diary, the one with Disney princesses on the cover, covered in glitter and peeling stickers.

“Mama… no,” you groaned, covering your face as you cringed at the memories.

Your dog barked, startled by your outburst.

Your mom cleared her throat, shushing him. Then, in her most performative voice, she began to read:

“Dear diary. Today I tried to flush my math book down the school toilet. It clogged it, of course. The school went under maintenance and we got to go home early. I’m a hero.”

She burst out laughing.

“I take back everything I said about you being smart,” she teased, and you reached out to snatch the diary from her.

“No, give it back—!”

She danced away, still reading:

“Second entry. Dear diary. I met my mom’s fifth new boyfriend. I like him. He took me to McDonald’s. Every time she gets a new one, I hope the next one will be my actual dad.”

Her voice trailed off as the weight of that entry settled over the room like dust. Quiet. Guilty.

She gently closed the diary.

“Anyway, baby… tell me more about that new job,” she said softly.

You hesitated. “My… friend employed me. I’ll be helping recruit people for a charity. Well, it’s more like games, where people can win money. A lot of it.”

She frowned, confused. “So… gambling? Y/N…”

“No, no! Of course not.” You sat up straighter, trying to reassure her. “It’s not like that. They don’t bet money or anything. It’s to help people. To give them a chance.”

Her expression softened, her worry fading just enough.

“Oh… okay, baby.” She reached out and kissed the top of your forehead. “I’m proud of you. My helpful, sweet girl.”

◇

Being with your mother was sweet, nostalgic, and quietly heartbreaking all at once. There was a warmth to it, but it clung to your ribs with a kind of sadness you couldn’t quite shake.

You kept messaging In-ho when you could, short little updates, photos of the house, your dog, the rice your mom made. You missed him, oddly enough—though you’d only been apart a day, the quiet had started to ache in the spaces he usually filled.

Now, you sat on the floor, legs tucked under you, your dog curled across your lap. One hand scratched him gently behind the ear as he snored, his head warm and heavy on your thigh. His fur was mostly gray now, coarse and thinning. He used to be so full of life, bounding through the hallway like a blur of energy. Now, he just lay there, tired. Like he’d run his race and was waiting for the signal that it was okay to rest.

Looking at him hurt. He wasn’t just your dog. He was your childhood. Your innocence. He was the last familiar thing in a world that kept changing.

“My good boy,” you whispered softly, watching his chest rise and fall. He snored lightly, his paws twitching in some distant dream.

Your mom stepped into the room, cradling a mug of tea in both hands. She looked down at you with a quiet smile, worn around the edges.

“He really loves you, you know?” she said, voice low, almost reverent.

You looked up at her. The amber lamp behind her softened the lines on her face, made her look almost like a memory herself.

“When you first left,” she said, easing down to sit on the couch behind you, “he kept sleeping in your bed. Wouldn’t move for hours.”

She paused, taking a sip of her tea.

“But then he couldn’t jump up anymore, poor guy. So he started sleeping on the floor, right beside it. Same spot, every night.” She looked at the dog, her smile turning wistful. “I tried getting him to come to my room, but he’s stubborn. Just like you.”

She laughed softly, more breath than sound. “And then… I guess I got it. I started sleeping in your room too. I missed you. We both did.”

“I missed you too,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “All of you.”

Your mom lowered herself down to the floor beside you, legs creaking slightly, tea now forgotten.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured, eyes on the dog but words aimed at you. “I’m sorry you feel like you can’t live your life—that all you can do is work yourself to the bone just to stay afloat.”

“Feel like it?” You let out a soft laugh. “It kind of is the reality.”

She looked at you, face full of something that bordered between guilt and admiration.

“It didn’t have to be. You could’ve gone off to college, gotten a scholarship, started your life—left me with all of this. But you didn’t. Not you.”

She paused, swallowing.

“I wish you were more selfish, Y/N. I wish you weren’t so goddamn… good,” she said, her voice cracking. “All I ever wanted was to make sure you didn’t end up like me. I kept you away from repeating my mistakes, but I couldn’t keep you away from… this.”

She blinked fast, as if tears would make it real.

“I just wish you were happy.”

“Mom, don’t say that.” You took her hand in yours. “Everything’s going to be better now. I’ve got that new job starting soon. It pays enough that I can quit the other two. Things will be okay.”

You smiled a little. “And I’ll get you a new TV, one of those flat ones you can hang on the wall.”

She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Stop. Just hearing you talk about giving me more—God, it makes me feel so guilty,” she said, voice thin.

She kissed the top of your head gently, then got up, heading to her room with slow steps.

You stayed there, on the floor, not ready to move yet. The dog shifted a little, licking your hand, then stilled again, content. The lamp hummed softly. Outside, you could hear distant traffic, and the creak of branches swaying in the wind. The air was warm and still.

You must’ve dozed off like that—your hand on his fur, his head in your lap.

When you woke, stretching your arms, something felt wrong.

He didn’t move.

You frowned and looked down.

“Lucky?” you whispered, reaching to nudge him gently. He was stiff. His body cool. His one eye slightly open, but unfocused.

“Lucky?” you repeated, a little louder, panic starting to climb up your throat.

“Wake up,” you whispered again, shaking him softly, gently. “Come on, my good boy. Wake up.”

But you knew. The moment your hand touched his still side, you knew.

“Wake up, my good boy… please.” Your voice cracked as the tears started to well. You ran your hands over his fur like you could warm him back to life. “Please…”

Your chest ached as you bent down, hugging him gently. “I love you, I love you so much… please.”

You didn’t know how long you sat like that, whispering into his fur, your tears soaking into it.

Your mom came into the living room, still groggy, rubbing her eyes—then she saw you, and the way you held him.

She froze.

“He was waiting for you,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “He waited for you to come home.”

She crouched down beside you, and without a word, wrapped her arms around you.

You both cried quietly, surrounded by the warmth of the lamp, the old drawings on the fridge, the absence of a TV—and the presence of something far more important that had just slipped away.

◇

A day later, with your bag slung over your shoulder and your coat pulled tightly around you, you stepped onto the early morning bus back to Seoul. The windows were foggy from the warmth of the bodies inside, and you sat by one, staring out as the countryside slowly gave way to the hard lines of the city. The trees blurred past like old memories. It rained lightly—drizzles slipping down the glass like fingers reaching backward. You kept your forehead pressed against the cool surface, earbuds in, the music too low to drown anything out. Just low enough to keep your thoughts company.

By the time the bus pulled up near In-ho’s apartment, you felt hollow, held together more by motion than will. But when he opened the door and looked at you—really looked—you felt like you could breathe again.

“Y/N,” he said, eyes scanning you as if trying to figure out what had changed since you’d last stood there.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“I missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

He held you firmly, his voice gentle. “How was it?”

You didn’t answer right away. He helped you inside instead, took your bag from your shoulder, and waited patiently as you kicked off your shoes. The apartment smelled like cedar and the faint scent of soy sauce from whatever takeout he’d ordered. Familiar. Safe.

He walked with you to the bedroom, and you both knelt by the bed to start unpacking. It was a quiet act, almost reverent. Then, as he reached into the bag, his hand froze.

His fingers closed around a worn leather collar, still warm from being tucked away. The little metal bone clinked softly against his knuckles. Lucky, it read, engraved in small, careful letters.

“What’s this?” he asked, though his tone was already laced with realization. His eyes met yours.

“My dog…” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He passed away.”

In-ho walked toward you and gently squeezed your shoulder, grounding you.

“No, no—stop it,” you said quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. “If you say anything about it, I’m gonna cry again. And lately, all I seem to do when I’m around you is cry.”

Your eyes shimmered again, bloodshot and heavy. The pain in your chest hadn’t dulled—it had simply quieted, waiting for the right moment to speak again.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was how, in that moment, something in In-ho lit up. Not out of joy, not from seeing you broken, no. It was the intimacy of it. The unfiltered truth of your sadness, and that you trusted him enough to bring it here. That he was the one you came to when the world turned its back. That your grief didn’t seek solitude, but him.

And that made him feel irreplaceable.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You leaned into him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in like a place you hadn’t visited in years.

“It’s... strange,” you whispered. “That dog’s been in my life since I was a kid. He was there when I used to watch cartoons and make him wear pirate hats—because he didn’t have one eye.” You laughed softly through the tears.

“He was there when I snuck out to drink with classmates. He never barked when I came back in, like he understood.” You smiled, small and tired.

“So, on top of being a great companion, he was a symbol of your childhood,” In-ho said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “A reminder of all the things you once were.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “He died in his sleep… surrounded by love. Old age.”

You looked down at the collar in your lap and chuckled, eyes glassy again. “I want to die that way, too.”

“Don’t we all,” he said softly, rubbing your back.

◇

Later, you sat at the table across from him, chewing slowly on your favorite sushi—salmon nigiri, shrimp tempura rolls, miso soup cooling at your side. You barely tasted anything. Your mouth moved like a machine, mechanical and tired. You stared down at your plate, eyes vacant, your hand still curled around your chopsticks like it might drop them at any moment.

In-ho watched you, his own appetite gone. He hated seeing you like this—dulled, quiet. It wasn’t something he could fix with money, or power, or presence. No gifts. No control. No easy solution.

This pain was real. Personal. And the only thing you would accept from him right now was emotional closeness. That made it sacred.

“Eat up, Y/N,” he said gently, nudging the soy sauce closer to you.

You nodded absently, eyes not lifting.

He hesitated. “Did you already quit the two other jobs?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“I think you should rest. Maybe wait a week before starting with me,” he offered carefully. “I won’t dock anything from your pay.”

At that, your head lifted, brows knitting in immediate disapproval.

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I said no.”

Your voice wasn’t raised, but it was firm. Steady.

“If anything, I want to work. It’ll take my mind off of it. And I want to be a part of something… good.” You met his eyes. “I don’t want to feel useless anymore.”

In-ho didn’t push. He just nodded, accepting your resolve.

Here, he could only be someone who sat with you in the quiet, who passed you napkins when your hands trembled, who listened.

And strangely, that made him feel more important than ever.

◇

“Your posture is completely off,” In-ho murmured, then nudged your foot with the side of his own, repositioning you.

You huffed, holding up the red ddakji tile with a sigh of defeat. “Oh for—how could my foot placement possibly matter when it’s just paper slamming onto paper?” You looked at him, brows raised in exasperation.

He chuckled softly, hands resting in his coat pockets. “Try again.”

This was your tenth—maybe twelfth—attempt. You’d long lost count. But he remained there beside you, patient, steady. He had this way about him—quiet, composed, almost fatherly in how he guided. Never once mocking. Never once annoyed. Just... there. A presence you could lean into. One that didn’t vanish when you faltered.

You bent down again and struck the tile onto the one on the ground. It didn’t flip. Again.

Groaning, you dropped your arms. “I really suck at this.”

In-ho tilted his head, a flicker of something fond in his eyes. “What if…” he said, walking over and crouching down to retrieve the tile, “…you could play another game? One you’re actually good at. One you’re confident in?”

You shook your head, firm. “No. I committed to this.”

You glanced at him as he stood beside you, tall and composed, the late afternoon light making shadows dance across his features. You were close—close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to smell that familiar scent of pine and leather that always clung to him. There was something intimate about moments like this, something soft. Unspoken.

“Loyal,” he said quietly, almost like a compliment. His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.

He offered you the tile again, holding it out in his palm like an invitation. “Try again.”

You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His hands were colder than yours.

“This time…” he said, his voice low, deliberate, “be confident.”

You raised a brow and stepped toward him, just an inch closer than polite. A teasing grin pulled at your lips. “What makes you think I’m not confident?”

He didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes. Something amused. “You throw it like you’re expecting to fail. Throw it like you’re expecting it to flip.”

You drew in a breath. His words rang louder than they should have.

Then you dropped your gaze to the tiles, focused. This time, you slammed the ddakji down with every ounce of certainty you could summon.

It flipped.

You gasped, eyes wide, then broke into a grin. “It flipped! It flipped!” You jumped once, then twice, unable to contain it, your joy bubbling over. You reached for his shoulders without thinking, gripping him, shaking him lightly as you bounced.

He stiffened at first—out of habit—but then his hands moved to steady you, and for a moment, something cracked through his usual reserve. His cold expression warmed, just barely. A softness flickered in his eyes.

You were so sweet. So pure. So painfully oblivious.

You thought you were training to recruit people for a program that would help them rebuild their lives. That you were part of something good. That you were helping.

And in a way, you were. But not in the way you thought.

Only one of those hundreds you’d soon face would get back on their feet. The rest... never would again.

A sliver of guilt lodged in his chest. But stronger than guilt was the conviction that this—this—was for your good.

You needed the money. Desperately. And you’d never accept it straight from his hands. Not In-ho’s money. You had too much pride for that. Too much integrity. So this was his way of giving you what you needed without wounding that pride.

You wouldn’t let him protect you overtly, so he had to lie—just a little. Bend the truth. Shape the reality.

He told himself it wasn’t wrong. It couldn’t be. He was taking care of you. Protecting your innocence, your wellbeing.

Wasn’t that noble?

Wasn’t that love?

◇

You stood at the edge of the quiet, empty metro station, heels clicking faintly on the cold tile floor. The distant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a pale sheen over the otherwise still platform. There was no one in sight—except him.

The man.

You recognized him instantly. You’d studied his photo, his financial records, his criminal record, his hospital visits. His face was bruised, mottled with fading purples and fresh red. Probably a debt collector’s doing. His clothes hung loose over his frame, stained and riddled with holes, his eyes sunken like he hadn’t slept in days.

You approached, one careful step at a time, your legs stiff in the heels that In-ho insisted you wear. Your hair was pinned up, your blouse tucked neatly into your slacks. You were supposed to look sharp. Professional. Like someone important. Someone who could change a life.

You clutched your purse tight. Inside was a stack of crisp bills and two red and blue ddakji tiles. The purse was heavy. So was the weight of what you were about to do.

“E-Excuse me, sir,” you said, offering your most polite smile as he looked up, blinking hard under the harsh lighting.

He squinted at you, frowning. “Fuck off. I’m not interested in some pyramid scheme,” he spat, lip curled.

You blinked, a breath of a laugh leaving your lips. How funny. He didn’t even realize it yet—this was probably the best day of his life. You were giving him a chance. A golden ticket.

“I assure you, sir,” you said lightly, “it’s no pyramid scheme. Actually, this might be the best day of your life.”

He groaned and waved you off again. “Fuck off. I'm not joining your Jehovah's Witness cult either.”

You kept your voice pleasant. “All I want is a simple game of ddakji. If you win, I’ll give you 10,000 won. If you lose... you give me the same amount.” You held up the tile, watching how his gaze finally snapped to it. Then to your face.

The gambling spark lit behind his tired eyes.

“You up for it?”

You already knew he would be. You’d seen his records—he gambled everything away, from his apartment to his ex-wife’s last ounce of patience.

He picked up the blue tile, rolled his shoulders back like it mattered, then flung it at the red one. It bounced. Landed. Didn’t flip.

“Shit!” he growled.

You looked at him with real sympathy. “You don’t have the money, do you?”

He stiffened, jaw clenching. “Well… fuck,” he muttered, spitting to the side.

“Then pay with your body,” you said softly, stepping closer.

His eyebrows shot up—and his lips twisted into something disgusting. His eyes raked over you with open lechery.

“Shit,” he chuckled. “And I thought I was the loser tonight.”

He reached forward, fingers twitching toward your waist. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you raised your hand and slapped him—hard.

The sound echoed off the station walls. He staggered back a step, touching his cheek in shock.

“You crazy bitch!” he barked, face twisted in rage.

“You paid with your body,” you said coldly, wiping your palm on your pants. “Shall we carry on, sir?”

He glared, but he picked up the tile again. Gritted his teeth. This time, he threw it with a growl.

It flipped.

You didn’t say anything. Just opened your purse, counted out 10,000 won, and handed it to him neatly. He snatched it like a starving man would grab bread.

“If you'd like more opportunities like this—where you can win a handsome cash prize, enough to free yourself from all your debts—give us a call,” you said, handing him a sleek business card.

He stared at it for a long time, then slipped it into his pocket, eyes not meeting yours.

As you turned and walked away, the heel of your shoes clicking against the tile, you felt something swell in your chest. A kind of pride.

You’d helped him.

You’d pulled someone from the gutter and given them a real chance. Sure, it wasn’t a typical job opportunity. But this wasn’t a typical world. People like him didn’t get second chances. And you—you—were giving them one.

You were doing something good. Noble, even.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

◇

You rested on the couch, head in In-ho’s lap, your body curled up comfortably like a cat basking in sunlight. The soft hum of the city outside filtered through the window, but in here, the world felt muted, like time had decided to slow just for the two of you.

He watched you silently.

You looked… happy.

Not the haunted kind of happy that flickers through a nervous laugh or through trembling lips stretched too wide—but truly content. Your mouth held a soft, natural curve. Your eyes blinked slowly, sleepily. You looked tired, yes, but not like before. Not the kind of tired that came from burning yourself to the bone. Not the kind that came with burns on your skin or tear tracks on your cheeks.

No, this was peace.

Peace in the illusion he built for you.

"I think God sent you in my path," you murmured, voice drowsy with comfort.

“God?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes,” you nodded, eyes half-lidded. “It’s no coincidence you were there when I was struggling. When I was so low I could barely get out of bed. When I felt like I wasn’t contributing anything… like I didn’t matter."

You stretched slightly, shifting against him like you were trying to melt into his warmth.

“But now I’m doing good. I’m helping people. Helping society,” you said, a gentle pride in your voice.

In-ho smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Yes, you were helping society… in your own way. But not in the way you thought.

Those people you recruited—people drowning in debt, addiction, crime—they weren’t people to him. They were filth. Dead weight. Rotten limbs of society in need of amputation. And through your hands, they were being removed.

He wanted you to see it the way he did. He wished you could. But maybe you were too young. Too soft. Still holding on to that desperate belief that everyone deserved saving.

So he let you believe in the fantasy. The noble mission. The shining cause.

He let you believe you were a hero.

Because if you opened your eyes too soon, the guilt might crush you. And he wouldn’t let that happen. Not to you.

"Actually,” you sat up a little, propping yourself on your elbow to face him better, “this guy I recruited today—he said some real creepy stuff. But before he could try anything… bam!” You grinned, smacking your palm against the air. “I slapped him. Like, hard. It actually felt kinda good. Is that… wrong?”

Your eyes searched his, filled with a strange mix of shame and pride.

“That it felt good?” he asked softly.

“Yes...” You laughed awkwardly, cheeks a little flushed. “I don’t know, it was just instinct, and my literal job, but also... satisfying.”

“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s not wrong. You just felt powerful. You put a creep in his place. You reminded him he wasn’t in control.”

You blinked slowly. “Powerful…”

The word hung in the air, foreign in your mouth but intriguing.

In-ho stood up quietly, walked over to a nearby shelf, and pulled down a small, black box. He returned to you and placed it in your hands.

“I thought about this,” he said, his voice unusually soft. “You should have something… for protection.”

Curious, you opened the box.

Inside was a sleek hairpin, metallic and delicate, its design elegant and intricate—almost like jewelry. But as you turned it in your fingers, you felt the mechanism and pulled. A thin, sharp blade slid out with a faint click.

“Oh wow…” you whispered, eyes wide. “It’s actually really pretty.”

“And deadly,” he added, kneeling before you, his eyes locked on yours. “Just like you. Pretty and deadly.”

You laughed, unaware of the double edge in his words. Oblivious to the world you were slowly becoming a part of. Oblivious to what he was turning you into.

But In-ho just smiled.

Because he had you where he wanted you—safe, protected, dangerous when needed… and still innocent enough to think this was all good.

All love.

All right.

And he would keep it that way. For as long as he could.

◇

For weeks now, you worked under In-ho, fully immersed in your new purpose. You showed up every day without fail, submitting reports, studying files, memorizing faces, approaching strangers in metro stations, alleyways, and abandoned plazas with your red tile in hand and your heart swelling with strange, misplaced pride.

You had recruited… what now felt like an uncountable number of players. And with every one, you felt lighter. Giddy. Important. For the first time in your life, it felt like you mattered.

You looked into the eyes of the struggling—the deeply, gut-wrenchingly desperate—and you felt something burst open in your chest. Sympathy. A desire to save. A beautiful, aching compassion. When you told them they had a chance, you watched those broken eyes flicker with something so raw and fragile… hope.

It became narcotic.

You remembered each one. The pregnant woman who hid her belly behind her coat, trembling as she confessed she had nowhere to go. The man whose child was dying of leukemia. The mother who couldn’t sleep at night knowing loan sharks would beat her son if she didn’t pay soon.

Their stories imprinted on you. Their grief, their burdens, became yours. You read their files late at night and cried sometimes, quietly. But then you'd wipe your eyes, and tell yourself: I'm helping them. I'm giving them a chance. I'm doing good.

And then… the money.

God, the money.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t have to hesitate. You walked into stores with your head held high, swiping cards without flinching. You bought your mother the fanciest TV available. You paid off her debt like it was nothing. You started researching college, browsing weekend classes. You were building a future, brick by brick, on top of something solid and real.

The thought that In-ho might be lying to you?

Absurd.

So abstract it didn’t even register as a possibility.

Not In-ho. Not the man who sat with you in silence when words failed. Not the man who rubbed circles into your back when grief tore you apart. Not the man who remembered how you took your coffee, who let you fall asleep on him mid-ramble, who made sure you ate, who took in your messiness and chaos with a calm patience you had never known before.

No. He was yours. And he would never lie.

Right?

◇

“I’m sponsoring my mom to come over to Seoul,” you said cheerfully, kicking your legs playfully from where you sat on the counter, coffee mug warming your hands. “I got her the nicest hotel ever, five stars. I’ll take her to a spa, shopping, museums, maybe a fancy restaurant or two.”

You were beaming, practically glowing. Your skin caught the morning light just right, dewy and warm. Your bed hair was still mussed, but perfectly so—chaotic curls haloed around your face, giving you a dreamy, sunlit charm.

In-ho stood next to you, coffee in hand, his expression unreadable.

“You are?” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting up faintly. “When is she coming?”

“This weekend,” you grinned. “Don’t worry, boss.” You bumped his shoulder lightly with yours. “I’ll put in extra hours on Friday, promise.”

He smiled more fully, and stepped closer. You stilled as his hand reached up, brushing a rogue lock of hair from your face. He tucked it gently behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheek just a moment too long.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice soft. “You’re doing your best anyway.”

And God help him… maybe that was the worst part.

You were doing your best.

Your heart was in the right place.

And that was what made the lie so cruel—and so easy to justify.

Because if he told you the truth, it would break something inside of you. And he wouldn’t let that happen.

Not to you.

Not the one pure thing he still had left.

◇

Saturday.

The sun had risen into the perfect day.

You and your mother had spent it in an indulgent, glittering blur. She had barely stepped out of her hotel suite before you whisked her away—first to an upscale boutique where you insisted she pick anything she liked (and she, of course, insisted she needed nothing), then to a spa where you both lounged in robes and let yourself melt under warm oils and skilled hands. You visited a contemporary art museum next, the kind she always used to admire in brochures but never had the time or money to visit. She held your hand as you wandered room to room, eyes shining with pride and quiet awe.

By dinner, the two of you were seated beneath a crystal chandelier, dining on five-star cuisine that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Your mother muttered, “You’re spoiling me too much, sweetheart,” but her smile betrayed her enjoyment.

Now it was late, your legs tired but your heart impossibly full. You were both glowing from the wine and the joy, leaning into each other like old friends as you walked arm-in-arm through the Seoul night.

“Mom, let’s go to a bar,” you said with a grin, playfully bumping her shoulder.

“A bar?” she laughed, her voice light. “I’m too old for drinking!”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like we’re getting blackout drunk. Let’s go somewhere classy—martinis and live music, like a real sophisticated family.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, but gave in. “Fine, but you’re ordering. I don’t know what’s trendy anymore.”

◇

The bar was moody and elegant, tucked away from the bustle of the street. Jazz played softly in the corner, a smoky tune curling around the clink of glasses and low laughter. You and your mom were seated at a table far from the main bar, right next to the stage where a small jazz trio played under warm amber lights.

You walked up to the bar to order, already thinking about which cocktail she’d enjoy the most, when you spotted two men at the corner of the bar.

One of them you knew in an instant.

“Inho!” you smiled, waving brightly.

He stiffened—subtle, but you caught it. Like he'd been caught mid-act.

Still, you walked over to him. “Hey,” you greeted gently, your tone casual, warm.

The second man beside him turned slightly, a sharp glint in his eye and a faint curl of mischief on his lips. He was tall, sharply dressed in a suit that looked expensive but effortless. His smile was the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes—polished, but just a little too amused.

“Oh?” he said, tone teasing. “And who might this be? A secret daughter?”

You laughed at the absurdity. “That’s… my second recruiter, L/N Y/N,” Inho answered. His voice was flat, guarded. He then added stiffly, “And that’s... Gong Yoo.”

“Second recruiter? That’s so amazing!” you beamed, completely oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. You extended your hand to Gong Yoo with genuine excitement. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Gong Yoo said, grasping your hand lightly. His grip was firm but performative, the kind of man who could charm and disarm all at once, though you sensed something… off. His smile was polite, but too polished. Too knowing.

“Wasn’t your mother supposed to visit?” Inho asked, his voice cold, barely masking his discomfort.

“Yeah, she’s sitting over there,” you said, gesturing toward your table. “I should get back to her—it was great to meet you!” You smiled at Gong Yoo and gave Inho a sweet look before turning away.

But Gong Yoo wasn’t done. He smelled Inho’s unease, and he thrived on it.

“Oh, I’d love to meet your mother,” he said smoothly, tilting his head with mock innocence. “Wouldn’t you, boss?”

Inho’s jaw clenched.

Still, you nodded enthusiastically, completely unaware of the undertow. You picked up the drinks, carefully balancing them in your hands, and returned to the table with a bright smile.

“Hey, Mom!” you said, placing a martini in front of her. “That’s Hwang Inho, my boss—and that’s Gong Yoo, my fellow recruiter!”

Your mom looked up with a warm, welcoming smile. “Now I know where you got the beauty from,” Gong Yoo purred with a wink, and Inho shot him a glare that could’ve cracked glass.

“It’s so nice to meet you, gentlemen,” your mom said kindly, clearly pleased to put faces to the names you’d spoken of. “My daughter’s been over the moon since she started working at your charity.”

“She has?” Gong Yoo asked, his grin widening just slightly—an amused, prying thing. “Ah yes… the charity.”

You smiled, utterly guileless.

He could’ve assumed that’s just the version you told your mother. But no—there was a depth to your innocence. A kind of unknowing that couldn’t be faked.

“Just recently I recruited a pregnant girl,” you said, sipping your drink. “And a dad whose child is really sick. I’m really rooting for them. It’s not perfect, I know—not all players win—but I figured… worst case, they go home, right?”

Your mother nodded, thoughtful. “You’ve always had a big heart,” she said quietly.

Inho nearly choked on his drink.

Gong Yoo didn’t miss a beat.

“Ah yes,” he echoed, eyes glinting. “Exactly. Go home.”

◇

The day had been perfect.

After dropping your mom off at the hotel, you watched her disappear through the grand glass doors with a smile on your face. You were so happy—she was glowing. And even though it was late, she couldn’t resist going out again. It was just like her, taking a solo walk through the city center before bed. A lifelong habit, one she always said cleared her mind and helped her sleep better.

She sent you short videos as she wandered: one of a fancy bakery still open late, another of a busker singing near the square, and a final one of her mimicking a statue's pose like a tourist. You giggled under the covers, the sheets pulled up to your chin, your phone held just above your face.

Inho lay beside you, still in his clothes, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he wasn’t even in the same room.

You glanced over at him, amused. “Look, Inho,” you said, turning the phone toward him, showing a selfie of your mom throwing up a peace sign at a streetlight.

He didn’t look.

His jaw was locked. His eyes distant.

“What’s wrong?” you asked finally, your voice soft.

There was a pause. Then, quietly, with a tired edge:

“I didn’t want you to meet him.”

You blinked. “Why? He seemed like a nice guy.”

His head rolled slowly to the side, eyes finally meeting yours, sharp and full of something dark.

“Well, he’s not, Y/N. He’s ruthless. Sadistic. He’s a sociopath who completely lacks empathy.”

The disgust in his voice was pure, like the taste of iron. It wasn’t just dislike—it was loathing. To Inho, Gong Yoo was a disease masquerading as civility. A man who wore charm like a mask, but behind it? Rot.

Gong Yoo didn’t believe in mercy. Didn’t believe in betterment. He believed in power. And he believed the people in debt—those desperate, crumbling souls—were beneath him. Not flawed, not lost. Just… trash. And it gave him pleasure to watch them squirm.

Inho was different, or so he believed. His morality was warped, yes—but he saw himself as merciful. Ending their suffering was a kindness. The game was, to him, an escape. A chance. Or a euthanasia, if they failed. He could sleep at night, because he believed what he did was noble. Efficient. Humane. That he was helping society. Trash in misery, but trash nonetheless.

Gong Yoo? He enjoyed the kill. And that's what made him so effective. He was a necessary evil.

You frowned. “What are you talking about? Why would a sadist work in a system that helps people?”

You didn’t get it. Of course you didn’t. Because you were good. And young. And he didn’t want to be the one to rip that innocence away.

Inho sighed, deeply, like the weight of everything was pressing into his chest.

“It’s just how his messed-up brain works, Y/N,” he said finally, his tone rougher now. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re young. And good—”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Your voice came sharper than you intended.

He looked at you. Really looked. And for a moment, you saw it—that flicker of surprise behind his eyes. Like he’d forgotten you could bite, too.

“I’m not,” he said. “I just know who’s good for you. And who’s bad. I only want what’s best for you.”

His hand reached for yours under the blanket, his grip gentle but firm. Possessive.

You studied him, unsure now. The man who held you while you cried, who made you breakfast, who called you powerful after you slapped a creep.

And yet, right now, he felt distant. As if he were holding something back. Something enormous.

Your phone lit up. A picture from your mom. She was waiting for the metro, her smile wide, her thumbs up.

Your heart warmed. You smiled at the screen.

But beside you, Inho was still staring at the ceiling—his hand around yours, holding tight.

◇

shop tucked away on a quiet Seoul street. It had the kind of ambiance you liked—low jazz playing from the speakers, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air, bookshelves lined with novels no one ever read, and warm-toned wood that made the place feel like a hideaway.

Your hands were wrapped around a latte, slowly growing cold between your palms.

Inho was gone. He’d left two days ago to supervise the Games. You wanted to go, insisted even, but he shut it down quickly—too quickly. "Recruiters aren’t allowed during the Games," he said, his tone clipped, final.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t ask. And maybe it wasn’t because you believed him, but because you didn’t want to believe anything else. Some part of you… didn’t want to know.

The chair across from you slid back with the sound of wood scraping tile.

“Mind if I join you?”

You looked up, startled. It was him—Gong Yoo. That same amused smile playing at his lips, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he always did.

He wasn’t dressed like a man at leisure. He wore a pristine suit.. And not a hair out of place.

Your body tensed. But you forced a smile. “No, not at all,” you said, gesturing to the empty chair. It felt oddly reassuring to see him, actually. If he was here, in the city, then maybe Inho really had told the truth. Maybe recruiters weren’t allowed during the Games.

He sat down with grace, folding his gloves and placing them neatly on the table.

“I see the job is treating you well,” he said, eyes trailing your face with a look that wasn’t quite intrusive, but not entirely polite either. “You look good.”

You smiled, cheeks warming faintly. “Thank you. I could say the same about you, I guess. I mean—doing the good thing must make people glow.”

You laughed at your own remark, shrugging as you sipped your coffee. It was such an obvious truth to you, so sincere.

But Gong Yoo’s smile widened, just enough to show teeth. “The good thing?” he echoed, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

“Uh, yes. Helping people. Obviously,” you replied, giving him a look like duh. “We’re giving them a second chance. What could be better than that?”

“Ah, of course,” he said, voice velvety. His tone held no malice, but it also held no sincerity. “The noble crusade.”

You tilted your head slightly, uncertain if he was mocking you.

Then, smoothly, casually, he changed the subject.

“Y/N, how has your mother been lately?”

The question caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. “She loved the trip to Seoul,” you said, relaxing into the warmth of the memory. “Now, she’s probably too busy catching up with TV shows on the new TV I got her. We haven’t talked much this week, but she’s fine.”

You laughed softly, swirling your spoon in the now-lukewarm latte.

Gong Yoo nodded, his smile still intact—but something in his eyes shifted. Just a flicker. A flash of thought.

And yet he said nothing. Just leaned back slightly in his chair, as if settling in for a longer conversation than you expected.

The jazz music played on. People came and went. And outside, clouds began to gather in the sky.

◇

One thing Inho had never lied about was Gong Yoo’s character.

He was a textbook sociopath—void of empathy, unfeeling, controlled only by his thirst for chaos. Gong didn’t just tolerate disorder; he fed on it. Thrived in it. His smile was his weapon, and his words were razors laced in silk. When he saw you and Inho together, he immediately understood everything. The softness in Inho’s eyes when he looked at you, the way his shoulders relaxed in your presence. Gong saw it all. And just one comment—“Is she your secret daughter?”—was enough to strike a crack in Inho’s composure. That was all he needed.

At first, Gong didn’t understand why Inho chose you. Why involve someone so… good? So unspoiled?

But eventually, he figured it out. Logically. Emotions weren’t something Gong could feel, but he understood them. Feelings were unpredictable, explosive. And where there’s emotion, there’s opportunity for chaos.

Now, Inho was back.

The two of you were enjoying the golden hour sun spilling across the balcony, painting the sky in hues of fading orange. You were curled up with him on a lounge chair, legs tangled, a quiet breeze brushing past.

He looked tired. Not just tired—haunted. Gaunt. Like something vital had been drained from him. The Games always left a mark on him. It was the same haunted look he wore when you met.

When he thought about it now, the irony wasn’t lost on him—that you once called yourself a parasite. But it was him. He was the one feeding off your warmth, your light, your innocence. You were the sun. He was a black hole, pulling everything into himself.

You smiled softly, straddling his lap, kissing the side of his neck. His hands rested firmly at your hips, grounding himself in the softness of you.

“You seem so tired,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “I missed you.”

He blinked, as if your words pulled him out of a trance. “You did?” he said, like it was the highest compliment he could ever receive.

“Of course,” you smiled. “You’ve been away too long.”

He exhaled, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “Were you good while I was gone?” he asked, voice low.

You pouted, playful. “I don’t know… you left me all alone.”

He chuckled under his breath, the closest thing to genuine peace he'd felt in days.

Then—ding.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside you. “That must be Mom,” you said as you reached for it. “She didn’t text me back all week.”

But it wasn’t your mom.

Your brows furrowed.

It was a strange email. No sender name. Just a title: The Truth. Two videos attached. Marked to self-delete after viewing. Your stomach twisted, instinct screaming at you to not click it. But your curiosity—a deadly thing—won.

You clicked the first video.

Inho watched you silently, brow creasing.

The screen lit up. It was your mom. She was at a metro station. Laughing. Filming herself. But the frame shifted—and then he appeared. His voice, unmistakable. Gong Yoo.

“Ma’am, would you be up for a small game?” His voice was smooth, coaxing.

“Oh, you’re the gentleman I met earlier!” she smiled politely. “What kind of game?”

“I’m sure your dear Y/N told you all about it.”

“Oh… the charity? But I don’t want to take the place of someone who really needs help. I’m doing well now.”

“It’s not like that. It’s a chance. Wouldn’t you like to pay your daughter back for all the sacrifices she’s made for you? The money she gave you?”

Your mother hesitated.

“I just feel so… guilty for her being so good,” she said softly, wiping under her eyes.

“I have to pay her back. I’m her mom, for Christ’s sake.”

And then: “Let’s play.”

“No…” you whispered. “No, Mom… it’s fine…” Your voice broke as you stared at the screen. “You didn’t have to…”

“What are you watching?” Inho’s voice was low, tight.

You stepped back. The second video was already auto-playing.

Your mom. Kneeling. Holding up a shattered dalgona cookie. Her hands trembling. Bloodshot eyes wide in terror. Behind her—bodies. Dozens of them.

“Please, no—I have a daughter—” her voice cracked.

Bang.

Her body fell like a ragdoll from her crouching position, lifeless.

Your phone slipped from your hand.

“No. No…” You couldn’t breathe. “What is this… what is this?!”

You staggered back, gasping. The weight of realization slammed into your chest like concrete. You had sent people here. To a slaughterhouse. And your mother… your sweet, gentle mother…

“Y/N, what did you see?” Inho stood, took a step toward you.

“Don’t touch me!” you shrieked, flinching violently.

“They die, Inho. The losers, they don’t go home. They die!” You hit his chest weakly, fists shaking. “You lied! You LIED!”

He didn’t fight back. He just stood there, as your fists hit his chest like falling rain.

“My mom… oh God… my poor mom,” you sobbed. “Why? WHY?!”

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” he said finally, voice hollow. “That sick bastard—he did this to hurt me. I swear to you—”

“You’re sicker! You're fucking sicker!” You stepped back, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You let it happen! You let them DIE!”

“I only lied because I love you,” he said. His voice broke.

“Love me? Love me?!” you screamed. “Stop it. Fuck. I hate you!”

You collapsed to your knees, your chest caving under the weight of grief and betrayal. And that was the moment—the moment the bubble popped. Your blissful ignorance. Your innocence. Gone.

Inho dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes frantic, face twisted in something that looked almost like pain.

But you weren’t done.

Your fingers reached into your hair, trembling. The pin. The one he gave you. The elegant silver one with a hidden blade, for protection, he said.

“Stay away,” you whispered, pointing it at him.

His eyes widened—but he didn’t move back. He reached toward you.

You slashed his arm.

A gasp tore from his throat as blood spilled over his sleeve, but you didn’t wait to see his reaction. You turned and ran.

Out the balcony. Down the stairs. Not sparing a second for the elevator.

“Y/N! WAIT!” he shouted behind you, holding his bleeding arm, chasing you.

“I’ll go to the police!” you screamed as you hit the street. “You’ll be locked up, you psycho!”

He didn’t respond.

Because the police never mattered. The evidence was gone. The videos, deleted. And even if you had them—it wouldn’t matter. He had people on the inside. He always did.

You didn’t stop.

You ran. Ran through red lights, through horns and traffic and screams. You clutched the blade in your hand like your life depended on it. The world around you blurred—buildings, signs, people—just streaks of color and noise.

And then—a car.

The impact was instant. Bone. Glass. Screams.

Your body hit the ground hard, blood pooling beneath you.

Everything turned fuzzy. Cold. Silent.

Faces leaned over you, blurred shadows. Distant voices. But one broke through clearer than the rest.

“Y/N!” It was him.

Inho dropped to his knees beside your shattered form, blood on his hands, in his hair, in his mouth as he whispered your name like a prayer.

◇

You woke up slowly, as if surfacing from the bottom of a deep, black sea.

A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through your skull. Your eyelids fluttered open but were assaulted by the sterile white light above. The hospital room was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint rhythmic beeping of machines around you. The sheets felt cold against your skin. Your limbs were heavy, unfamiliar. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know… anything.

“You’re awake.”

A nurse stood over you with a soft, relieved smile, already reaching to check your vitals. Her touch was gentle, clinical.

“W-What happened?” you rasped, your voice hoarse and dry, like it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… had a psychotic break,” she said carefully, tightening the strap on your blood pressure cuff. “You were seen running with a blade in the middle of the street. A car hit you. You were unconscious when the paramedics arrived.”

You blinked at her. The words made sense, but they didn’t feel real.

“I… I don’t remember this. I don’t remember anything.”

Her expression softened further. “You have amnesia. The trauma to your head was significant. The doctors say your memory should come back, little by little.”

“How long… how long have I been here?” you asked, eyes wide.

“It’s hard to say exactly how long your recovery will take,” she replied, wrapping her stethoscope around her neck. “But one thing’s for sure—your fiancé will take good care of you. He really loves you.”

Your eyebrows drew together. Fiancé?

“He comes here every day,” she continued with a knowing smile. “Hasn’t missed a single one.”

“How long…?” your voice trembled.

“Two months,” she said. “You’ve been unconscious for two months. We notified him the moment your vitals improved. He should be here any moment.”

Later that day, after a round of brief neurological checks and routine physical exams, you sat propped up against crisp pillows, dazed, the hospital gown slightly crumpled against your skin. You were still trying to piece the world together when the door opened.

He came in like a gust of wind.

Inho.

With flowers in his arms and a look of absolute devotion on his face.

“My love,” he breathed, like he’d been holding those words in for weeks.

You stared at him.

Brows furrowed.

There was nothing. No recognition. No flutter. Just… confusion.

“Who are you?” you asked, almost apologetically.

He paused, and then gave you a smile so warm it could melt mountains. “I’m your fiancé.”

“…Do I love you?” you asked, hesitant, like a child asking about a bedtime story.

“You do,” he said, stepping closer, placing the flowers on your bedside. “Very much.”

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper. “What happened?”

“You’re unwell, my sweet Y/N,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead. “But I’ll take care of everything. You’ll be okay. You’ll feel better before the wedding.”

“…Married?” your voice was smaller now, like you were shrinking into yourself.

“Of course,” he said, his tone bright but measured. “You were so happy when I proposed to you, Y/N.”

You blinked. “Who… who is Y/N?”

He paused only a second too long before giving you a small smile.

“It’s you,” he said gently, pulling a notebook from his coat. “And I have this for you.”

The cover was soft, pastel pink with Disney princesses on it. A child’s journal. You took it with trembling hands, running your fingers across the cover.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Your childhood diary,” he said with a tender smile. “I thought it might help. You can learn more about yourself.”

You opened it slowly. The pages smelled old and worn. Some of them were scribbled with crooked handwriting. Drawings. Innocent dreams. But you noticed many pages were gone. Ripped out. Like whole chapters of your life had been rewritten or erased.

But you didn’t know that.

The accident… it was divine intervention for Inho.

Now he could preserve the version of you he so desperately clung to—the untouched, untainted you. The one he fell in love with. The one unburdened by truth. No more questions. No more doubt. He could write the narrative now. From scratch.

You were completely his.

And you could be that sweet couple. Sweet you and your devoted, adoring fiancé.

Just like it was always meant to be.

“I think…” you said softly, looking up at him. “I think I do love you. I feel it.”

Inho smiled.

And behind that smile, there was triumph.

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