lieutenantbatshit

[lieutenantbatshit]

Byung-hun if he ever discovers AO3

please never let this poor man know about AO3 😭😭😭😭

[lieutenantbatshit]

I apologize in advance for the person I’ll become when squid game s3 drops

[lieutenantbatshit]

"I miss my wife, Tails. I miss her a lot..."

[lieutenantbatshit]

[lieutenantbatshit]

I just discovered that there's a Korean show from 1999 called Happy Together and IF THIS ISN'T YOUNG IN-HO AND BABY JUN-HO 😭😭😭

[lieutenantbatshit]

the one that got away. (hwang jun-ho x reader)

Tags: no happy ending, reader calls in-ho “hyung”, jun-ho is your first love, mentions of death, grief

Summary: You and Hwang Jun-ho were once deeply in love, but broke up ten years ago. You both lived in the same city yet remained strangers by choice. When your father dies, grief pulls old wounds to the surface, and the man who once held your heart appears once more. Some love stories don’t end with closure, just the ache of almost.

————

Ten years is a long time to bury something, especially a love that once threatened the world.

Seoul had never been so small, but it had a cruel sense of humor. Ten years ago, you and Jun-ho had been everything. Young and stubborn, but all-consuming under their own weight. You parted ways with sharp words and silence, no promises of friendship or reunion. It was a relationship that was always doomed to end.

You both remained in Seoul. You both had different circles, different routines, but sometimes — just sometimes — you’d catch a glimpse of him across the street, or in the platform waiting for the train to arrive. He never looked you way, or maybe he did but didn’t choose to show it. You did the same.

Whatever you once were, it had calcified into something untouchable. A shared history neither of you dared to open.

Then, your father passed away.

You hadn’t expected the grief to sit so quietly at first, like a guest too polite to make demands. But it showed up in odd places such as the burnt smell of coffee, wilted flowers, a cigarette being lit up, and the echo of your father’s voice whenever you greet him at home.

Your father’s passing came without fanfare. A message from your mother breaking the news through text, which you felt as if the world was crashing down. You had to handle everything — made arrangements, informed family, friends, and relatives who needed to know of your father’s passing as a father, husband, brother, and friend.

As you were scrolling through your feed, seeing comments from various people sending their condolences, a message from In-ho popped up. It’s been a long time since you and the Hwang brothers have interacted, but they remained respectful and kept the connection within your families.

“Hi. I’m sorry to reach out like this. I just heard about your father. I hope you don’t mind me asking, when is the wake?”

You stared at the screen, seeing the name Hwang In-ho in your notifications. It had been a while since you received something from the Hwangs. You met In-ho multiple times back then during your time with Jun-ho.

“Thanks for reaching out, hyung. The wake will be held for five days to accommodate dad’s relatives coming abroad. It’s at the memorial hall in Mapo.”

Your fingers hesitated over the screen as you finished typing, trying to think of ways to improve the message, but you pressed send anyway. It wasn’t because you were surprised, but because something about it felt too fragile. Like time was folding in on itself, reminding you of a life you’d tried to shelve neatly away.

“Thank you. I’ll try to stop by. Take care of yourself.”

You slipped your phone back into your coat, the air around you felt different. As if it charged, like something unspoken had stirred from sleep.

You shook your head, stirring off the thoughts away, You had a wake and funeral to hold for, and all of that needed your focus. Especially your mother, who needed you the most at this challenging time.

——

The scent of white chrysanthemums hung in the air, faint but suffocating.

You’d been standing near your father’s portrait for hours, nodding quietly at people whose names blurred together. They were your family’s neighbors, colleagues, and friends you hadn’t seen in years. They came with practiced sympathy, bowing their heads, offering hands and words, and then moving on.

The memorial hall buzzed with low voices and the rustling of formal clothes. Incense smoke curled in gentle spirals. You couldn’t look at the view of your father’s casket across the room with his portrait. The situation hadn’t sinked yet. You haven’t cried — not properly, at least.

Somehow, you still expected to hear his voice around the corner, still pictured him in front of a computer coding with crackers on a plate and a glass of water, still felt the residual heat of his steady presence.

You blinked slowly as the room blurred. The doors opened, immediately darting your eyes away as you didn’t want to dwell on the sight in front of you.

And then, there was In-ho.

He stepped into the hall with quiet certainty, dressed in black, his face more worn than you remembered, shadows gathered beneath his eyes. He hadn’t changed. He was still composed, and he still had that calm presence that once made you feel like nothing could collapse if he was standing close enough.

Your heart swelled unexpectedly at the sight of him. He approached you gently, offering a polite bow to your father’s casket first. Then, he turned to you.

“I’m sorry,” In-ho said softly, his voice low. “My sincere condolences to you and your family, Y/N.”

You nodded, words caught behind your throat. You couldn’t bring yourself to say thank you.

He looked at you a moment longer, eyes searching yours. He wasn’t prying nor demanding. He stepped closer, then opened his arms slightly.

It was barely a hug. Just an arm around your shoulders as he rubbed his hand to comfort you.

But it undid you.

The tears came sharp and sudden, like water behind a dam finally breaking. You collapsed into him, face buried in his shoulder, fists curled into the front of his coat. A sob broke from your chest, raw and unfiltered.

In-ho didn’t move nor speak. He just held you, firm and steady, letting you fall apart. It felt like finding a brother again. Not by blood, but by time. A quiet, powerful bond that had outlived distance and silence.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

Jun-ho.

He stood near the back of the room, half-shadowed behind the rows of chairs, his eyes locked on you. You didn’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough to see you break, long enough to watch his brother wrap you in the comfort he used to offer.

You pulled away from In-ho gently, brushing the tears from your face. Your breath was shallow, but you nodded.

“Thank you, hyung,” you whispered.

He gave you a faint smile, resting a hand on your shoulder. “He’s always gonna be proud of you, yeodeongsaeng.”

You stayed still a moment after pulling away from In-ho, grounding yourself in the weight of his hand on your shoulder. He gave it a final, brief squeeze before stepping back, his expression unreadable but kind. The space between you filled again with the low hum of visitors and the rustle of formal shoes across polished floors.

You caught your breath, wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your blouse, and tried to reset your face into something presentable. But grief didn’t care about appearances. It softened the edges of time and brought tenderness to the surface, whether you wanted it or not.

“Have you eaten?” You asked In-ho gently, glancing toward the food corner set up by the memorial hall staff that included tea, coffee, rice cakes, and a tray of neatly wrapped sandwiches.

He shook his head faintly. “Didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“You’re not interrupting,” you said, offering a ghost of a smile. “Come on. I’ll fix you a plate.”

You walked with him in silence, grateful for something to do. You poured him a paper cup of barley tea, handed him a few pieces of yakgwa, some fruits. There was a quiet comfort in the small gestures. For a moment, it almost felt like you were just two people trying to outpace the heaviness around you.

In-ho accepted the offerings with a nod of thanks, then stepped aside, saying he’d give you space and check in again before leaving.

And then, as you turned back toward the center of the hall, you saw Jun-ho again.

He approached slowly, hands at his sides, dressed simply in black. His eyes met yours, unsure, but steady. There was no mistaking the hesitation in his step or the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you. It pressed in with every footfall.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than you remembered, more cautious.

You nodded once. “Hi.”

He bowed slightly toward your father’s casket before looking back at you. “I’m… really sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to be this so soon.”

Your heart ached, in ways you hadn’t prepared for. Seeing him here was a kind of comfort and cruelty all at once.

“Thank you for coming,” you said. “It means a lot.”

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking briefly toward the tea table, then back to you.

“I remember you used to talk about your dad a lot,” he said softly. “How he’d come home smelling like smoke and cheap soju… but still remember to bring you those fish cakes you liked.”

You let out a quiet, tearful laugh, not expecting it.

“Yeah,” you said, voice catching. “He never quit. I couldn’t blame him.”

Jun-ho nodded, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He loved you,” he said. “Even when you were mad at him.”

You swallowed hard. “We had our fights. He could be difficult. But… he was mine.” The words were small but solid. You looked down at your hands. “I used to tell you how I’d sit with him at the end of the night, after my mom went to bed. He’d pour himself a glass, put on that old trot music, and tell me stories that made no sense.”

“You’d say he was a terrible storyteller,” Jun-ho said quietly.

“But I loved every one of them,” you finished.

Silence settled between you like a blanket, not cold this time, just heavy with shared memory. The kind of silence that came from knowing someone long enough to carry the same ghosts.

You stood there for a moment, both of you held in that fragile stillness where grief softened old sharp edges, and memory folded into the present without needing permission.

You gestured toward the empty chairs by the side of the room, a bit away from the flow of people. “Do you want to sit for a while?”

Jun-ho gave a faint nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

The two of you settled into the low chairs, side by side but angled just enough to see one another. The kind of closeness that didn’t need touch to be felt. You stared ahead at the altar, your father’s framed photo resting above the white flowers, candles flickering in tribute. The old you would’ve talked more, filled the air with noise to push back the sadness. But now, you let it sit between you both.

“Do you remember,” you said eventually, your voice low, “when he would be my guardian during field trips and you were so shy to meet him?”

Jun-ho’s lips curved slightly. “Can you blame me? He had that look that would make you rethink your decisions twice.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, he did. He was like hyung.”

The smile on your lips faded slowly, replaced by a softer expression. It was something quieter, a mixture of sorrow and gratitude. “He knew about you. You became a funny memory for us, actually. He would tease me on how I looked after crying.”

Jun-ho didn’t answer at first. He looked down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap. “I looked up to him,” he said finally. “And I… I thought about you. Sometimes. A lot, actually. I just didn’t think it would be like this. That the next time I saw you, it would be here.”

That ache returned, that aching swell of things left behind. But it wasn’t bitter. Not anymore. Just deeply human. Two people who had grown in the shadow of each other’s absence.

“I didn’t expect you to come,” you admitted. “But I’m glad you did.”

Jun-ho looked at you then, really looked, and for a moment the years between you blurred. There was nothing grand in the moment—no sweeping confessions, no romantic music swelling in the background.

Just the soft hum of incense, the warmth of shared history, and the quiet closeness of two people sitting together in grief and memory.

“I’m glad too,” he said.

The hall thinned out. Only a few guests remained where distant relatives gathered in corners, old family friends finishing their tea. The silence had changed now — it no longer carried the weight of ritual, but the hush that follows when grief begins to take root in your bones. The kind of quiet that lets everything you’ve been avoiding rise to the surface. The light had softened through the high windows, casting a pale warmth over the flowers and photographs.

Jun-ho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly. “I’ve been thinking,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, “about the last time we talked.”

Your breath hitched a little. It had been four years ago on a rainy afternoon, over coffee neither of you finished. You had just started finding your footing again. He said he wasn’t ready. You weren’t, either. But it still left a sting you never quite stopped feeling.

You kept your eyes on the floor. “You said we were too late back then.”

He nodded, gaze faraway. “We were.”

“And then, you stopped reaching out,” you added quietly. “And I found out… someone else was already in the picture.”

Jun-ho didn’t deny it. He just sat there, hands tightening slightly. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, though even he sounded unsure. “Things weren’t… official. Not then.”

“Still,” you murmured. “You chose not to come back.”

A beat passed between you, heavy and taut. Then he turned to you, meeting your eyes.

“She’s still around,” he said, not unkindly. Just a fact. “We’ve been… steady.”

You nodded. It wasn’t surprising. The way he said it had no affection, no bitterness, just the weight of something that stayed. Enough to tell you more than he probably meant it to.

You took a breath. “I’ve got someone too,” you said gently, and you didn’t mean it as a competition. Just another truth laid between you both. “For a while now.”

He gave a small nod. Not a flinch, not a reaction. But you saw something shift behind his eyes. A recognition, maybe. A loss that no longer had a name.

“I used to think,” you said slowly, “that if we ever crossed paths again, we’d just… fall back in. Like we used to. Like muscle memory.”

Jun-ho exhaled. “Me too.”

You gave him a soft look, a tired smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “But it’s different now.”

He nodded once. “We’re different now.”

You both sat in the middle of what could have been a thousand versions of a future, the ghost of a relationship that once nearly bloomed clinging to the silence between you. There was still something about this moment that felt quiet and vulnerable. Standing in front of someone who had already seen you without your armor, and who now understood that you’d both grown around the absence.

And then, you felt it before you saw him. Yeong-chan approached slowly, with that familiar look of concern in his eyes. Without a word, he came up beside you and pressed a kiss to your temple. His hand found yours naturally, like it had always belonged there.

You turned to Yeong-chan with a small smile, squeezing his hand.

“This is Jun-ho,” you said, voice quiet. “An old friend.”

Jun-ho stood and extended his hand. Yeong-chan took it without hesitation.

“Thanks for being here,” Yeong-chan said, earnest and sincere.

Jun-ho gave a short nod. “Of course.”

It was all very civil. Very adult.

But when your eyes met Jun-ho’s again, you saw it. That flicker of something unsaid. It wasn’t regret nor desire. Just remembrance of who you used to be to each other, the timing that never aligned, the fact that you had once imagined a life where he would be the one standing beside you like this.

He gave you a faint smile then. “I’m glad you have someone,” he said softly. “Truly.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

And that was it. No dramatic goodbye. No lingering glances. Just the quiet understanding that some loves don’t disappear. They just settle beneath the surface, like echoes you learn to live with.

And as Yeong-chan led you away to check on your family, you didn’t look back. But you knew he was still watching.

It wasn’t because he wanted you back.

But because part of him always would.

——

The wake had thinned to whispers.

Jun-ho stood just outside the doors of the memorial hall now, the evening air pressing against his chest like a quiet hand. He hadn’t lit a cigarette in years, but his fingers twitched with the old instinct. Something about grief always brought back the habits he’d buried with the versions of himself he tried not to visit too often.

He looked down at his palm, still faintly warm from shaking your partner’s hand.

There hadn’t been malice in it. No marking of territory, no subtle flex. Just care. Gentle and steady, like a lighthouse light. The kind of affection Jun-ho remembered only in the way someone remembers the weight of a coat they gave away long ago.

You looked happy.

Or maybe not happy, exactly – but rooted. Like you had finally found a life that didn’t require you to keep waiting for someone to catch up to you.

The moment you’d broken down in In-ho’s arms earlier had caught him off-guard. The sight of you trembling, falling into someone else’s comfort, had made something old and aching stir in him. It wasn’t jealousy — just the helpless realization that he didn’t know how to hold you anymore. That maybe he never truly did.

He leaned back against the concrete wall, arms crossed, eyes tracing the lines in the sidewalk.

You’d both said what needed to be said. At least, in the language of people who still couldn’t speak plainly to each other.

“She’s still around.”

“I’ve got someone too.”

No names. No timelines. Just the exchange of truths dressed carefully, left open-ended but understood.

Jun-ho could still hear your voice. Still see the way you looked at him when you said, “I used to think we’d just fall back in.”

God, he had thought that too. For years, he’d imagined running into you in a bookstore, a crosswalk, a train station. and just picking up where you left off. As if time hadn’t dulled the edges, as if guilt and fear hadn’t wedged themselves between every sentence you used to share.

But when the real moment came, it didn’t feel like coming home. It felt like visiting the ruins of a house you’d once built together in the dark, only to realize someone else had long moved in and made it warmer.

Instead, he was the past now. A quiet part of your story that still echoed in certain chords, in the shared memory of a road trip, in a song you both forgot you loved.

He looked up toward the memorial hall doors one last time. You were inside, speaking softly to Yeong-chan, eyes tired but soft.

With one last look, he turned, shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and walked down the hall’s steps into the deepening dusk. No lingering. No second glance.

But even as he left, the memory of your voice stayed tucked just beneath his ribs.

“We’re different now.”

But some part of him would always remember the version of you he used to love, and the version of himself who had almost been ready.

————

|| REQUEST HERE ||

[lieutenantbatshit]

what if in season 3 we got a scene, parallel to the cliff scene in season 1, where Jun-ho held out his hand for In-ho to take and In-ho actually took it? 🥹

[lieutenantbatshit]

until i found you. (hwang jun-ho x reader)

Summary: You meet Hwang Jun-ho at a prestigious police conference where you're invited as a guest speaker. The moment you lock eyes from across the room, there's a spark. Throughout the conference, you catch each other's gaze again and again, drawn into a silent exchange neither of you fully understands yet.

A/N: Jun-ho is my current fixation lately. In-ho still holds a special place in my delulu heart but Jun-ho is becoming my bias wrecker 😩 why are the Hwang brothers so damn fine

The hum of polite chatter filled the auditorium as the sea of uniforms, sharp suits, and the occasional flash of polished badges reflected under the stage lights. You stood at the front of the hall, just a little off-center from the podium, your presentation slides illuminating behind you with quiet authority.

The conference was about a cross-border event — a joint police training and strategy summit between Korea and other Southeast Asian nations. You’ve been invited as a guest speaker, someone with deep experience in cross-cultural criminal justice cooperation. Your name was announced earlier, your credentials were read aloud to a roomful of attentive faces.

But one face — one set of eyes — kept pulling your focus.

He sat in the third row from the front, his uniform neat, his posture perfect. There was something in the way his gaze lingered. It was steady and analytical, but soft at the edges. Every time your eyes flicked across the crowd, they locked with his. Not in a challenging way, but like he was trying to memorize you.

You finished your speech to a round of professional applause, and as the moderator wraps up with closing remarks, people began to rise, gather their folders, and shift into conversation clusters. You slipped your notes back into your bag when you heard soft footsteps approach you.

“Excuse me,” a voice said. You glanced up to see him, and there he was, the man you kept locking eyes with. 

He offered you a modest smile, the kind that’s all in the eyes, and gave a slight bow before speaking. “I wanted to thank you for your talk. It was… different. In a good way.”

You smiled back. “Different is better than boring, right?”

He chuckled, low and slightly bashful. “Definitely.”

There was a beat of silence before you tilted your head a little and asked, “I didn’t catch your name earlier…?

“Oh, right,” he said quickly, his eyes widening like he couldn’t believe he forgot. “Sorry. I’m Jun-ho. Hwang Jun-ho.”

“Nice to meet you, Jun-ho,” you offered your hand as he shook it gently. It felt formal, but at the same time, something was lingering in the gesture.  He scratched the back of his neck and then held something out in both hands. “I… thought you might like this. It’s not much.”

You glanced down and saw it — a hanji bookmark. It was delicately crafted, with a design of a single magnolia blossom inked in soft watercolor tones. At the bottom, there’s a tiny Korean proverb written in Hangul: 시작이반이다 — “Starting is half the task.”

“It’s handmade,” Jun-ho said quickly. “By my mom, actually. She likes to craft. I carry a few when I travel.”

You ran your fingers gently along the textured paper, feeling your heart catch a little. You couldn’t help but smile. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

He shrugged with a small grin, as if he was glad you liked it but unsure how to say it out loud. Then, his hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“If it’s okay… could I get your Instagram? Or whatever you use,” he added, with the faintest blush on his cheeks. “For professional networking, of course.”

You stifled a smile as you typed in your username on his phone. He sent a message immediately, just a wave emoji, and you both shared a small, private laugh before another officer called his name from across the room.

“Duty calls,” he said, giving you a two-finger salute. You gave him one back as he headed off. 

You left the venue a little later, the bookmark tucked carefully between your planner. The sun dipped low over the skyline as your ride dropped you at the hotel entrance. You found yourself smiling throughout the ride, as you couldn’t help but think of Jun-ho.

As you were about to head inside your hotel, your phone buzzed, which made you blush even more. You read the text, pressing your lips as you felt yourself giggle internally.

“I would love to have lunch with you tomorrow if you’re still here.”

You stared at the screen for a beat, your heart hammering. You weren’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but tonight?

Tonight felt like the start of something quietly extraordinary. 

——

You arrived five minutes earlier at the quiet little hanok-style cafe tucked into a side street, just a few blocks from your hotel. The sky was hazy with the warmth of the early afternoon, and the scene of roasted barley tea drifted from the open windows. The carved wooden sign above the doorway gave off a warmth that matches the soft glow in your chest.

You were nervous, and you hated that you were nervous. It had been a long time since you went out on a date.

As you stepped inside, the hush of the cafe wrapped around like a well-worn poem. He was already there.

Jun-ho sat at a corner table, near a window with paper screens casting soft golden light over his face. His uniform was replaced by a casual dark button-up, sleeves rolled slightly at the wrists. He looked at his phone, lips slightly pursed, but as if he sensed you, he lifted his head.

And then, he smiled.

It wasn’t wide nor showy. It was quiet, just the barest curve of his lips and his eyes softened, but it hit you harder than you expected.

“You’re early,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the flutter in your chest.

He stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs off the table. “You beat me by a minute. I was just… making sure I had the right place.”

You laughed softly and nodded. “Looks like we’re both terrible at pretending we’re not excited.”

He smiled, then gestured for you to sit. You slid into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of how close the table was. It was close enough to notice how warm his eyes were, and close enough to hear the subtle nervousness in the way he cleared his throat. 

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if you… I mean, I hoped you would.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the honesty. It made your stomach twist in the best way. “I was hoping you would ask.”

And there it was again — that moment where your eyes locked just a little too long, and you felt like the room became quiet around you. 

After placing your orders, you sipped your tea to distract yourself from the wild thump in your chest, but your curiosity won.

“So,” you began, watching him over the rim of your cup. “I’ve been wondering, what made you want to become a police officer?”

Jun-ho leaned back slightly, cradling his cup between his palms. “Ah… that’s a bit of a story,” his gaze dropped for a second, then lifted again. “But mostly, it was my older brother.”

“He was a police officer, too?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Actually, he raised me. He was… everything. You know those people who just get it? He was like that. He’s brave and steady. The kind of person you wanted beside you when the world fell apart.”

“He sounds incredible.”

“He is,” Jun-ho said softly, his fingers still resting on the cup. “I remember watching him graduate from the academy. He looked so proud in his uniform. That’s who I want to be — someone people can trust.”

You watched the way his face shifted between pride and something quieter. “He would be really proud of you,” you said, meaning it more than you expected. 

He looked up, and for a second, it was like the words settled into his chest. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “That means more than you think.”

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It felt warm, like a gentle tide coming in. Your food arrived, and the conversation softened into laughter, into stories. You asked about his life, his favorite childhood memory that included fishing with his brother on a rainy day, his current guilty pleasure with an embarrassing addiction to cheesy Korean crime dramas, and his surprisingly poetic habit of swimming at night to clear his head.

And as you listened, you caught yourself staring. He was kind, thoughtful, a little shy, and so quietly beautiful. You weren’t expecting this — you weren’t expecting him. 

When you took the last bite of your food as the sun began to stretch longer across the street outside, you both rose reluctantly. 

“I didn’t think today would turn out like this,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm.

“Me neither,” he replied, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “But I’m glad it did.”

You hesitated, unsure if this is where the spell breaks, but then he spoke again.

“Would you… want to walk for a bit? Or do you have to head back?”

You nodded before your heart could second-guess it. “I’ve got time.”

You and Jun-ho walked side by side down a quiet street near the cafe, neither of you quite ready to say goodbye. There was a gentle hush between you as if it was comforting, like a song you didn’t want to end.

Your eyes caught on something neatly lined up beside a storefront, seeing electric scooters for rent down the alley. You stopped walking, much to Jun-ho’s surprise.

You grinned and pointed. “Those. Have you ever ridden one?”

He followed your gaze and blinked. “The scooters? Not… really. Not properly.”

You turned to him with a sudden mischievous glint in your eyes. “Want to?”

He chuckled, his eyebrows raising like he couldn’t believe you were serious, but the corner of his mouth lifted in that smile that’s fast becoming your favorite. “Right now?”

“Unless you’re scared,” you teased.

“I’m not scared,” he said, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You are so going to crash into something.”

Five minutes later, after figuring out the app and securing two scooters, you both rolled shakily into a quiet park trail, laughing like kids on summer break. The wind rushed through your hair, and your laughter echoed under the trees. You glanced sideways to see Jun-ho beside you. He was focused, a little awkward, but grinned like he hadn’t in years.

And in that moment with just you, him, the golden sky, and the light breeze, you felt it.

You weren’t thinking about your career or your hotel room or the thousand things you’ve left unanswered in your life. You thought about the way he shouted “Watch out!” as you nearly veered off the path, how he reached out instinctively to steady your scooter, his hand brushing your arm with a spark that shot down your spine.

Eventually, the path sidened into a quiet overlook facing the river. The sun dipped enough to paint the water in liquid gold. You both slowed to a stop and hopped off, breathless and flushed with laughter.

Jun-ho leaned against his scooter, arms crossed, watching you try to smooth your windblown hair. “That was…” he began, searching for the word.

“Exactly what I needed,” you finished for him, chest still rising with joy.

You stepped forward to stand beside him, eyes on the horizon, and then he did it.

Jun-ho reached out gently and brushed something from your hair, his fingers lingering just long enough to make your breath catch. Then, just as softly, he tucked a loose strand behind your ear. You looked up at him, and he didn’t look away. 

The air stilled between you. It wasn’t heavy nor expectant, just full. Full of possibility and something real.

“I’m glad I met you,” he said quietly, like it’s a secret he’s only just realized.

You knew by the way your heart skipped, by the warmth that bloomed across your chest, by the way your body leaned ever so slightly toward him. It was just a crush — it was that quiet kind of love, the kind that sneaks up on you, gentle and whole.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” you whispered.

Jun-ho didn’t try to kiss you, and didn’t rush the moment. Instead, he turned to face the river again, but this time, his hand brushed against yours. His pinky curled around yours in a quiet, wordless gesture of trust. 

And you held it there. Just two hearts, and two hands. But one soft, beautiful beginning.

You and Jun-ho stayed like that, side by side, pinkies linked, watching the sky shift from gold to lavender. He didn’t speak for a moment, as if reluctant to break the peace you’ve both fallen into.

Then, in a quiet voice, he spoke. “There’s a gala night tonight as part of the conference. I wasn’t planning to go, but…”

You glanced at him, curiosity tugging at your lips. “But?”

His eyes flicked to yours, then down to your still-linked hands. “But I’d really like to go if you’ll be there.”

Your chest tightened at the simplicity of the question. He wasn’t trying to impress you — he just wanted to share the night with you.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Is this you asking me on a second date?”

Jun-ho blinked, then laughed under his breath, caught off guard but clearly amused. He shook his head slightly, that smile tugging at his lips again. “Well then,” he said, turning toward you a bit more. “Yes, I’m asking you on our second date.”

You met his gaze, holding it. “Then I’ll be there,” you said. “Second date approved.”

There was a moment where you both just stood there, like something between you had quietly deepened. He cleared his throat. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Looking forward to it,” you replied, meaning every word.

And when you walked back together, a little slower than necessary, the city fading into gold behind you, your heart felt full, as if it already knew.

This night might just become one you’ll never forget.

——

Back in your hotel room, the door clicked shut behind you as you exhaled with a shaky kind of giddiness. You pressed your back to the door for a second, grinning at nothing. Well, actually, at everything. At him.

Jun-ho.

The way he touched your hair, the way he looked at you like you were something rare, the way he asked you to the gala, not with grandeur, but with sincerity.

You crossed the room, heart fluttering as your step toward the bed where your dress hung, pressed and untouched until now. You hadn’t even considered going to the gala before, not until he gave you a reason. 

The fabric was a deep, elegant shade, something that catches the light in soft shimmers. As you slipped it on, zipping it up slowly, you couldn’t help but imagine his reaction. The way his eyes might linger just a second too long.

You turned to the mirror and smoothed your hands down the fabric, applying light makeup, brushing your hair with extra care. But more than anything, you felt the flow from inside — the kind that no lipstick or highlighter could match.

The feeling of being wanted. Of being seen.

Not just for what you presented at the conference. Not for your resume.

But for you. 

You heard the knock — three soft taps, a pause, and a fourth like a heartbeat. You smoothed your hands down your dreess and opened the door.

Jun-ho stood here, stilling at the sight of you. He work a tailored black suit, shirt collar neat, tie a deep navy, His hair was freshly styled, though a strand already rebels against gravity. His eyes traveled over you slowly, not a in way that objectifies, but like he was seeing something too lovely to name.

“Wow,” he murmured, blinking once. “You look…”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a word that would do you justice. 

You smiled softly. “I’ll take a ‘wow’.”

He laughed under his breath, his cheeks tinged pink. “Fair enough.”

The drive to the venue was short, filled with gentle music and even gentler conversation, your hands nearly brushing between you. When you arrived, the ballroom glowed beneath a canopy of chandeliers, each crystal catching the light like raindrops frozen mid-fall.

The crowd inside were elegantly dressed — officers, speakers, professionals from different corners of the conference — but the moment Jun-ho offered you his arm, it was like everything faded into soft blur. 

All you saw was him.

You walked in together, and more than a few eyes followed. At the far end, a long, wide table has been prepared for selected guests. Jun-ho led you there, pulling out your chair before sitting beside you. Around you, small talks started, light conversations about caseword, training protocols, someone making a joke about badge polish, but none of it really landed for you, and definitely not for him.

Because you were both leaning subtly toward each other, your knees brushing under the table, and neither of you moved away. Jun-ho murmured something about the chandeliers reminding him of the snowfall near the mountains back home, and you smiled like he was sharing a secret no one else to hear.

At one point, someone two seats down chuckled. “You two look like you’re at a private dinner.”

You glanced up, startled, but Jun-ho scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, lips pressed into a smile.

“We’re just catching up,” he said casually, though the way he looked at you afterward betrayed something deeper.

You met his gaze, and your heart already knew.

The din of the ballroom continues, glasses clinking, music weaving into the air. But for you, time has softened into a slow, golden rhythm. It wasn’t loud nor showy.

A quiet knowing. A feeling that maybe… the space between you and Jun-ho was always meant to be filled.

A fork clinked against a glass somewhere down the table, as someone gave a short toast. Applause followed, then more laughter filled the air.

And then, the band kicked in with that unmistakable brass intro.

“Do you remember… the 21st night of September...”

Your eyes widened, heart leaping with excitement. “Oh my god,” you whispered, turning to Jun-ho with your hands already halfway up in the air. “I love this song.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Of course you do.”

You didn’t give him time to be smug. You stood up quickly and reached for his hand. “Now,” you grinned, tugging him up from his seat. “Dance floor. Let’s go.”

He laughed and let himself be pulled to the center of the room, where a few guests had already started to move. The music filled every corner of the ballroom, infectious and golden, like the soundtrack to a memory that hasn’t been made yet.

You start swaying, playfully off-beat, shaking your arms with abandon just to make him laugh harder. He laughed hard, his eyes crinkled as his dimple peeked, his expression somewhere between “I can’t believe this happening” and “I wouldn’t trade this for anything”. 

Then suddenly, he steps in, and he moves.

You froze mid-twirl, eyes wide. “Wait, what? Jun-ho… you can dance?”

He smirked, one eyebrow raised. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because you look like you listen to crime podcasts while folding laundry in your free time,” you said breathlessly.

He chuckled, spinning you once, just enough to make your hair fan out, and pulled you gently back toward him.

“Grew up with an older brother who made me learn every Earth, Wind & Fire song,” he admitted, sliding effortlessly into step beside you. “He said rhythm was essential for any undercover work.”

You laughed, the image of a younger Jun-ho dancing around a tiny apartment flashing in your mind. He caught your hands again, and this time, he led. You both moved in sync, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like your bodies already knew each other’s stories.

People around you clapped along or cheered, but none of it mattered. Your world has narrowed to his hands on yours, his confident smile, the way he moved with you — not in front of you, not over you, but with you.

The chorus hits as you both sing the words, half-laughing, half-sincere. And it felt like September — warm, golden, and a little nostalgic and electric. 

You can’t remember the last time you felt this light, this free, and this alive. And when he twirled you again, his hands strong and sure, you realized that you trusted him.

Not just with your hand, but maybe with your heart.

The final notes of September faded out, laughter and applause echoing as dancers began catching their breath. You and Jun-ho were still in the middle of the dance floor, cheeks flushed, and hearts racing.

“I can’t believe you were holding out on me,” you said between breaths, managing to tease him still.

He grinned, slightly out of breath himself. “I had to save some surprises.”

But before you can answer, the band shifts. The moon changes as soft guitar chords ripple into the air, something gentle, longing, and familiar.

“Georgia… wrap me up in all your…”

Your breath caught. You know this song.

Jun-ho’s eyes softened as he heard it too, and without a word, he stepped forward again. This time he was slower, more intentional. He then offers his hand.

No more playfulness. No more crowd.

Just the two of you.

You slipped your hand into his, and he drew you in. He placed one hand lightly on your waist, the other cradling your hand with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. You rest your free hand on his shoulder, and just like that, the rest of the ballroom disappears.

You swayed together under the golden lights, moving as if the music was written just for the two of you. His eyes didn’t leave yours. There was no teasing now, only a quiet intensity, a kind of silent honesty that only showed up when words fell short.

Your fingers curled slightly against his shoulder. 

“I would never fall in love again until I found her…”

Jun-ho’s voice was barely a whisper when he spoke. “I used to wonder if I could ever feel this… light again.”

You tilted your head up at him. “And now?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Now I don’t want this moment to end.”

Neither do you.

Because in his arms, the world felt still. You’ve never felt so completely seen, so carefully held in someone’s presence. You leaned your forehead against his, and he closed his eyes at the contact, breathing you in like the only thing anchoring him.

When the chorus builds, he draws back just enough to look at you again. You can feel it between you. It was unspoken, but alive in every heartbeat. 

You nodded, and that was all he needed

Jun-ho leaned in slowly, giving you every second to change your mind, but you didn’t. You closed the distance the rest of the way, your lips meeting in a kiss that wasn’t rushed nor dramatic.

It was warm, certain, and true.

A kiss that said “I see you,” and a kiss that answered, “Me too.”

When you parted, your hands were still linked, your smiles quiet and glowing. The music faded as the night continued, but something between you had changed. 

What started with glances across a conference turned into a story that was only just beginning.

----

|| REQUEST HERE ||

[lieutenantbatshit]

03 - red light, green light | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

previous chapter | next chapter

——

They arrived like cattle.

They were silent, in uniform, and trembling in some spaces and defiant in others. The new batch of players consisted of 456 players - 456 bodies and desperate hearts still clinging to the illusion of hope, marched into the dormitories with blank stares and colorless dreams.

You watched them arrive through the compound’s surveillance monitor hours ago, hidden behind your mask. Most were too tired to speak. Some clutched their numbered vests like lifelines. A few stared blankly at the tall metal bunk beds that stacked the room like a child’s toy set. The dull echo of metal-on-metal rang with each footstep. Some collapsed on their mattresses without words, while others curled up in corners like frightened animals.

It was always like this in the beginning — full of quiet dread.

You stood in the crisp morning air of the Red Light, Green Light arena now, far from the cold steel walls of the dormitory. At least in this place, something felt real — the sky above showing the clouds and sun as if you’ve been deprived of it inside for so long. The field stretched before you like a grotesque playground, bordered by tall fake trees and unmoving grass. At the far end stood her—the doll.

The giant, vacant-eyed creature faced away from the field for now, her pigtails swaying gently in the manufactured breeze. Her mechanical limbs were still, but you could hear the hum beneath the silence. Her systems were powering and preparing. Her eyes hadn’t turned yet, but when they did, death would follow.

You stood beside her, assigned as one of the motion guards. Your circle mask stared forward, motionless. And yet, your thoughts were louder than the silence. 

You shifted your weight subtly, keeping to the practiced stance of stillness. You were nothing more than part of the background, a tool of enforcement, a watcher at the edge of a massacre. You’d done this before. You’d stood beside this monster of a doll for more seasons than you could count now. You’d watched hundreds and thousands fall.

You recalled your first time at this station. How your heart had thundered beneath your uniform. How you had almost flinched at the first gunshot. How you’d stared as red bloomed across white vests and bodies dropped like flies, twitching and gasping. The smell of blood, even here in the open, had found you that day.

But now? You barely reacted. You stood like one of the trees. You counted the corpses in your head before they hit the ground. From behind your mask, your breath fogged lightly against the inside of your helmet. It was all too familiar. The stillness. The silence. The feeling just before the first scream.

The speakers crackled above, then came the hollow, mechanical voice of the announcer. 

“Red Light, Green Light will commence in five minutes. Guards, take positions. Players will be released into the field shortly.”

You inhaled slowly. The words slid over you like ice. You watched as other pink guards moved into position behind the boundary lines, lining up like the walls of an execution chamber.

In the distance, the dormitory gates creaked open. The players stumbled out, dazed and blinking into the sunlight. The fear settled into their faces quickly as they took in the massive doll, the blank faces of the guards, and the open field with its deceptive tranquility. Your gaze flicked across the crowd. You tried not to look at their faces, but some stuck out anyway. A woman biting her nails down to the quick. A man clutching a photograph in his palm. A teenager too young to be here. A father. A criminal. A dreamer.

They always came from different stories. But they always left the same way: dead or broken.

The gates slammed shut behind them. Then the silence fell, heavy as death itself. The doll clicked and whirred as she powered on fully. You heard the rise of energy, the hum that tickled your nerves. The air buzzed like static against your skin.

“Green light,” the doll’s singsong voice chimed.

They ran, while some hesitated, but most of them ran. As if their lives depended on it, well, because they did. Then, the doll’s neck twisted as the sound of turning gears where its head spun sharply.

“Red light.”

There was silence. Your eyes scanned the field with terrifying precision, and so did hers. The motion sensors clicked once, twice, thrice, and a lot of times. In a heartbeat, gunshots exploded into the air like cracking bones as the screams followed. Bodies crumpled into the grass, blood spraying against fake soil as some of them whimpered.

“Green light.”

They ran again. Again. And again. Again and again. Through it all, you stood still. Even watching a player who seemed young collapse under the bullet, your heart gave one heavy thud and then settled again. They didn’t know mercy here, and neither could you. Still, you stared ahead and watched as the game went on.

After what seemed forever, the five-minute timer was up. The last body dropped as the final scream dissolved into the air — all gone in what seemed an illusion of calm. 

You stood stiff beside the doll as you felt your breath fogging against the inside of your mask. The game had ended. The field was still. What was left behind were bodies and silence. 

“427,” the voice crackled in your earpiece, curt and sharp. “Sweep. Confirm all are deceased.”

You stepped forward like clockwork, moving past the stiff limbs and twisted bodies littering the fake grass. Some had fallen with their eyes wide open. Others bled quietly into the dirt. You checked pulse after pulse through your scanner onto the tracker placed near their ear.

You tried not to make sense of it when you found a young girl, maybe around twenty. Her face was frozen in mid-sob, arms curled over her head as if shielding herself might have saved her. You stared at her a second longer than necessary. 

She was young, you thought. Poor kid didn’t have a chance at a good life.

You swallowed hard. The helmet filtered the sound, but inside, your throat ached. You know you’ve seen this in different games and in different seasons. 

Once the final death was confirmed, you gave your report and marched back toward the facility, boots echoing against the tunnel floor as the field behind you was reset for the next bloodbath.

——

High above, in a room carved into shadows and surveillance, the Front Man watched. 

In-ho sat still before the screens, mask polished, posture rigid. In front of him was a wall with a huge monitor, replaying the day’s footage from all angles. He watched as the players ran, fell, and died. Then, he focused on another live footage, filled with the remaining players tucking themselves to sleep.

His eyes went on Il-nam, who foolishly wanted to join the games instead of just watching them. 

The control had been unusually quiet, bathed in a low red glow from the auxiliary systems. Il-nam sat in a chair near the central console. There were no mask and guards.

It was just him and In-ho.

Il-nam’s hands trembled slightly as he poured himself tea. His movements were slower, more fragile than usual. Still, his eyes never lost their gleam.

“You know,” Il-nam said. “The games used to make my heart race.”

In-ho didn’t respond. He simply stood, still and silent behind his mask.

“But somewhere along the way, just watching stopped being enough,” he stirred the tea, smiling faintly. “What’s the use of building all this if you can’t taste the terror yourself?”

“You designed the games,” In-ho replied. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Watching animals run through a maze and being inside the maze,” Il-nam said softly. “…are two different kinds of living.”

In-ho tensed. “You’d be risking your life.”

Il-nam chuckled, his voice almost low and old, like creaking wood. “My life’s already out of time, boy. That’s why I want to spend what’s left of it remembering what it meant to be afraid.”

“You would die.”

“So what?” Il-nam leaned back, his gaze lifted to the ceiling. “Wouldn’t that be more honest than this slow rot behind the glass?”

For once, In-ho had no reply.

There was something sacred, almost something twisted and tender, in the way Il-nam spoke. A dying god choosing to walk among the damned. It wasn’t for sympathy nor redemption, but a mere sheer thrill of it. 

Il-nam sipped his tea slowly, eyeing In-ho. “You still look like you haven’t found what you’re searching for, In-ho.”

In-ho didn’t answer right away, his fingers tightening around the edges of his mask. He couldn’t get rid of the memory. In fact, it haunted him.

“You knew about the guard, didn’t you? The one who saved me during the lights out,” he said.

Il-nam took a sip of his drink, eyes narrowing as he studied In-ho. “Still chasing shadows, are we?”

“Who was she? Why did she help me?” In-ho gritted his teeth. “She broke the rules, and you know it. She should have died.”

Il-nam’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long pause before speaking. “Rules? You think the rules matter when life and death are at stake? She made a choice, In-ho. A choice she believed in. But that choice… the act of mercy… It wasn’t just a mistake. It was a test for you.”

In-ho froze, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. The words hit harder than he anticipated. “A test? For me? What are you saying?”

Il-nam’s gaze never wavered. There was heaviness in his voice now, a clarity that only someone who had seen it all could possess. “You think I didn’t know she’d save you? I had everything calculated. But mercy is a dangerous thing. That guard, whoever she was, failed. She thought she could get away with it, thinking she was saving you. But she’s a fool. I made sure she paid the price for it. People like her... they get too soft. Softness doesn’t belong here.”

In-ho clenched his jaw, anger and confusion swirling inside him. The realization that the woman who saved him was punished harshly struck him harder than he expected. “You made her pay…?”

Il-name gave him a long, unblinking look, as if sizing him up. “Mercy is weakness. That guard thought she could escape the game. But there are no exceptions. Not for her. Not for anyone. You, In-ho, you need to understand that. The games don’t allow mercy. Not if you want control. And you will learn to live without it.”

In-ho’s hand tightened around the edge of the table, his knuckles white. His mind raced, but his words caught in his throat.

“You want to find her, don’t you? You still think about her. That’s why you’re here, asking me these questions. But understand this: what she did is irrelevant now. The game continues. You’ll never find her, In-ho. She’s been... removed from the equation. The question is: Can you keep your focus?”

In-ho snapped. “And if I can't forget her?”

Il-nam leaned forward, his voice sharp, as if testing him. “Then you’ll fail. You’ll lose everything you worked for. Your control, your power. You can’t afford distractions. If you want to be the Front Man, you need to be cold. You need to rule with an iron fist. If you don’t, you’ll end up like her. Soft and pathetic. And you’ll die in the darkness.”

A tense silence filled the room, silencing In-ho as well. He wanted to rip off the mask from his face, but Il-nam’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“The game is as much about you as it is about the players. You’ll learn to wield your power. You’ll understand what it means to control life and death. But first, you need to prove to me that you have what it takes. Prove that you can put everything aside.”

The conversation hung in the air like a thick fog, and In-ho felt the questions in his mind multiply. But he knew now wasn’t the time to push further.

At least, not yet anyway.

“You’re not a player anymore. You’re the one who controls the game. And in this game, there’s no place for soft-hearted fools."

Il-nam’s words echoed in In-ho’s mind as he turned to leave. But deep down, the question remained: who was the guard who saved him?

And more importantly, why did he still feel drawn to her?

The clock in the surveillance room ticked past three in the morning. Most of the staff were tucked into their respective routines — guards asleep in quarters, surveillance teams rotating shifts, medical reports filed. But In-ho sat alone, unflinching, behind a biometric-coded console deep in the restricted archives.

But there were other staff who were still awake who brushed past each other in silent compliance, the maintenance crew locking down gates, the last remaining players in the forms finally succumbing to a drugged, exhausted sleep. The first day of the 33rd season had concluded.

In-ho’s eyes were drawn not to the carnage or the chaos. At least, not tonight. 

Monitor 23. Sector B. Pink Guard Quarters. Room 427.

The only hint that In-ho had on who saved him was a woman. He searched for every guard who had female records; only a few of them made it in, including 011, 003, 314, and so on. But in Room 427, there was something that caught his eye.

She moved quietly in the cramped, sterile room. Four steel walls, one bed, a locker, and a vent that hummed like an ever-watching ghost. No photos, notes, even belongings. Just her.

She peeled off her gloves slowly, one finger at a time, as if the latex were skin. As if she detached herself from what she’d done today took effort. Underneath, her hands were pale, slightly trembling as she flexed them out.

She sat on the edge of her cot for a long moment, mask still on, like she couldn’t bring herself to shed the final layer. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing behind the black glass of his mask. He observed how she exhaled, the stiffness in her posture, and the smallest tilt of her head. 

He played the recording of that night countless times, trying to picture who she was based on mere audio. It was like fate had shielded her from digital eyes. He still didn’t know her face, but something in him, maybe instinct or madness, told him it was her.

But then, she finally took off her mask, her back turned to the camera. She placed it carefully beside the bed, as if there was precision in every movement. As if she were trying not to disturb the ghosts in the room.

In-ho stared harder, willing her to turn, to look into the lens even once. But she didn’t. She laid down with her back still facing the wall, curling slightly into herself, a posture not of rest, but of armor. And that’s when he saw them.

Scars.

It wasn’t the kind that was left by childhood mishaps or stray accidents. These were deliberate. A long, diagonal one across your left shoulder blade. Another jagged and puckered trailing the side of your ribs. Also faint burn marks coiling near your nape. And one… just under the edge of your shoulder strap, a thick, raised welt, like a lash that never healed clean.

He zoomed in on the footage, but not enough to violate, just enough to confirm. 

These scars weren’t recent, as if they were old, layered, and lived in. A cold weight settled in his gut. Could it be her? Because if it is, it was no wonder she moved like that, how she could stand still for hours beside monsters in golden masks and not flinch. 

In-ho’s hands curled into fists on the desk. The camera still showed you, sitting now on the edge of the bed. You weren’t resting nor sleeping. Just existing and staring at nothing. 

For a brief second, his finger hovered over the button. The one that would ping your room, but he pulled back. Because what if he was wrong? What were the possible consequences if he was indeed correct?

“What did they do to you?” In-ho whispered into the empty room.

But then, a thought came to his mind. 

The system beeped softly as line after line of data filtered across the screen. Thousands of entries were enlisted that included guard numbers, assignments, shift logs, facial mapping, redacted files, surveillance pings — all accessible to only one person: the Front Man itself.

Yet even here, in the temple of complete control, he still couldn’t find her.

Until now.

Guard #427-C.

This guard had a circle designation, standard duties, patrol, escort players, enforce order, routine, and the ordinary. In-ho skimmed further, then stopped.

There was another entry with the same number. The exact same one, only to be under a completely different file: Escort Division, VIP Services.

In-ho’s brows furrowed beneath the black mask. That wasn’t possible.

Each guard was coded with one specific role — Circle, Triangle, or Square. The system didn’t allow any overlaps. Even the escorts assigned to the VIPs were chosen through a separate vetting process. There were no duplicates and double lives. That was the point of the masks.

He pulled up both records side by side. It had the same biometric signature, walk pattern, height, and stillness in posture captured by motion AI. Same number, and same guard. Yet… two assignments.

One as a low-ranking, faceless enforcer of order. Another as a mute companion to predators in gold masks. 

In-ho’s hands tightened over the edge of the desk. He opened the footnotes as one line stood out. It was manually entered, not system-generated.

“Escort role ordered as special reassignment. Punishment issued by the upper command. No appeal.” 

He blinked, then read it again.

The system didn’t reveal faces and never showed the human behind the mask. But he felt it in his chest, a distant, clenching certainty. The ghost that haunted his memories. The one who dragged him through blood and broken bodies all those seasons ago. The one he had been trying to find.

Could this double role be the punishment because… she saved him?

He sat back in the leather chair, breath held, heart suddenly louder in his ears. A ripple of something he couldn’t name. Was it guilt? Confusion? Fury?

The screen flickered as he leaned forward again, gaze locked on the unfeeling digits of your records. Was this you? Are you even still alive after all those years? Most importantly, why did you stay silent all this time?

A thousand theories bloomed in his mind, but the one that hurt the most was the simplest: maybe she didn’t want to be found.

——

A/N: SHEESH a lot of things happened over the past few weeks (ph elections, university stuff, extracurricular stuff, and work stuff) that made me lose my mind a bit 😅 Had to travel back and forth in our province to the city BUT WE'RE HERE NOW 🥰 I missed writing so much and being so delulu so here's an update for yall 🥳

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

previous chapter | next chapter

|| masterlist ||

taglist:@roachco-k @goingmerry69 @theredvelvetbitch

[lieutenantbatshit]

i can’t get squid game out of my head but what if the end of season 3 is gi-hun successfully ending the games and it’s exposed to the world

but the twist is they expect the world to hate and wish for the system to be burnt down, only to be glorified by everyone thus, highlighting the true course of humanity

omG

[lieutenantbatshit]

my theories for squid game season 3 (that no one asked for)

okay so the teaser has me put on a PEDESTAL and my mind came up with a lot of theories right after seeing it so here it goes:

i am writing this as i listen to vampire by olivia rodrigo

in-ho ordered to bring gi-hun inside a coffin back to the games, showing more of his cruelty and twisted game (tell me why is this idea kinda hot for me iDK I THINK IM DERANGED)

yong-sik (007) will die and geum-ja (149) will attempt to protect her son with the use of her sharp hair clip

...or geum-ja will go against yong-sik BUT THIS IS SO DAMAGING I-

all players are allowed to vote except gi-hun (seeing as he is tied up)

the next season will show gi-hun contemplating his beliefs in humanity and might slowly turn like in-ho

min-su will have redemption arc (hOPEFULLY BECAUSE THIS GUY IS A FKN PUSSY)

nam-gyu will die (OF COURSE)

remember the scene where in-ho seemed to be tearing up? i think he sees jun-ho somewhere in a surveillance camera footage

...or in-ho could be tearing up if he sees jun-hee give birth as the baby's cries will highlight his longing for his unborn child

gyeong-seok is alive and is going to be one of the guards (no-eul will help him)

jun-ho finds the island and sees no-eul and they might team up together

in-ho and jun-ho will reunite only for one of them to die (typing this made me sick)

jun-hee will give birth after myung-gi dies (or myung-gi sacrifices himself for jun-hee)

another cruelty: myung-gi will betray jun-hee

dae-ho finds about jung-bae and is completely devastated

the players who participated in the rebellion who died will be hung or something like that just like the doctor in season 1

gi-hun finds out about young-il who is truly in-ho, the front man

gi-hun finds out in-ho is jun-ho's brother, which could be the last straw for him to still believe in humanity

there will be a flashback of in-ho back when he was a player in 2015

also a flashback of in-ho before the games, explaining the deleted scene in season 1

gi-hun wins the games again - his efforts to stop the games will be for nothing as he realizes that it happens all over the world

YES there's a lot of theories but can you blame me ?! this teaser had me teRRIFIED WHAT MORE ON THE TRAILER, AND ON JUNE FREAKING 27!!!!

[lieutenantbatshit]

02 - a piece of me | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

previous chapter | next chapter

——

The room was cold. Not from temperature, but from design — sterile and steel-lined, walls pressed tight in perfect symmetry, not a single window to the world outside. You sat among dozens of other guards, each clad in the identical matte uniform, each face hidden behind a black visor with a single geometric shape. You were in a sea of circles - a hierarchy forged not in character, but in obedience.

You felt your breath fog slightly beneath the mask. Even now, after years of wearing it, there were moments it felt like a muzzle.

Then, the door at the far end hissed open, revealing the creator, host, and God of this hell.

Oh Il-nam.

His hair was thinner now, his skin clung tighter to the ridges of his skull, but his eyes — sharp, glinting like polished glass — scanned the room with that same quiet cruelty you remembered from the archives. He walked with a slight limp, supported by a black cane, his mask tucked beneath his arm like a crown he didn’t need to wear to remind you who he was. He was dressed in deep crimson — formal, commanding, and flawless. The color of blood dried into velvet.

He stood before the room of guards and overseers, calm and calculating, as if he were welcoming guests to a dinner party rather than orchestrating death. He spoke softly, but the room bent toward his words like blades of grass in the wind.

“Welcome to the 33rd Season of the Games,”  Il-nam began, his voice low and controlled. “Do you know what that number means?”

Silence answered him.

“It means that the world hasn’t changed. The hunger still lives. That desperation is still the most powerful currency.”

He paced slowly before the first row, hearing his cane tap against the ground with every step.

“The rules remain the same. The games — Red Light, Green Light. Dalgona. Lights Out,” he paused at that, smiling faintly. “Yes, it’s officially part of the cycle now. Chaos has structure. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You remained still, but your stomach twisted. You remembered the screaming, the way the night didn’t hide the dying. You remembered the man bleeding out on the floor, who now sat behind black glass in a tower above, a Front Man forged from your mistake.

“Tug of War. Marbles. And most importantly, the Squid Game,” Il-nam continued. “You will uphold the structure. You will maintain the illusion of order. But most of all—“ he stopped now, facing the crowd directly— “you will not disobey.”

Murmurs didn’t follow — they weren’t allowed. But the tension thickened. Lights Out was once an unofficial chaos was now part of the rulebook. You felt it all rushing back, blood pooling across tiles, and a hand reaching up in the dark. His voice was breathless, shaking, whispering the words, “Why…?”

“Any form of aid to players, any deviation from assigned protocol, any mask that dares to feel… will be punished.”

You flinched, barely, but you knew the sting was meant for you.

“Some of you have already failed us before,” he said, eyes grazing across the room, almost like he could see behind the masks. “You’re here again because we believe in second chances… not forgiveness.”

The word struck like a lash. You didn’t move, but inside, the fire of the truth burned anew. 

The punishment wasn’t execution, at least, not for you. It was service, a reassignment, and a demotion. A demotion that dragged you into night shifts, into silent bedrooms and glided masks, into the leering eyes of VIPs where no screams escaped and no names were spoken. And every morning, you returned to pink.

“Uniforms and role assignments are waiting in Hall B. You will report immediately. Any delay is noted.”

The square guards began barking orders immediately. Role assignments, room numbers, escort teams, firearm calibration checks — all familiar routines returned like a tidal wave. The masked figures rose, each moving with choreographed efficiency toward their fate. 

Season 33 had begun, and you would do anything just to survive.

——

The metal platform groaned beneath your boots as you stood at the edge of the training hall, rows of pink-masked recruits stiffening under your gaze. 

A row of red carpet unfurled like a fresh wound down the center of the pristine room — the designated “escort path.” Gold-painted chairs lined the simulated VIP lounge behind you, perfectly arranged for the demonstration. Surveillance cameras blinked red in the corners. Nothing here was ever unobserved.

“Position one,” you called sharply.

The recruits moved. The pink guard stepped forward to act as the "escort" was young, shorter than the rest, their voice still trembling. Their grip fumbled over the faux decanter meant to mimic luxury service.

They bowed to the mock VIP actor like a civilian would — too deeply, too slowly. You inhaled sharply through your mask. They tried again, offering a drink with both hands, their gloves shaking slightly.

“Wrong,” you snapped, voice cutting clean through the stale air.

The recruit flinched as you strode forward, the click of your boots like gunshots in the quiet room. In one swift motion, you snatched the decanter from their hands and slammed it down on the tray beside the lounge chair.

“You are not a servant,” you said coldly. “You are a symbol. A presence. A product of obedience, not emotion. The moment you show uncertainty, they will know. And they will take advantage.”

Your words hung heavy in the space between you and the trembling recruit. The rest of the class stood rigid, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Again,” you barked. “With your spine straight. Offer the drink like a machine, not a child.”

The recruit obeyed. This time, it was slower and more deliberate. You stood behind them, adjusting the tilt of their chin with the sharp edge of your gloved hand. Their mask tilted toward yours, questioning and fearful.

They reminded you of someone, more of yourself. When you were promoted to square, clean and hopeful, your eyes too bright beneath the black. Before your rank was stripped and your identity erased in silence, not because of failure, but because of mercy.

“Acceptable,” you said finally, though your voice was devoid of warmth.

Training resumed in silence. Hours blurred past drills — posture, presentation, calculated silence. The elite escort role required perfection. Anything less was an insult to the illusion these monsters paid to see.

Eventually, the session ended.

One by one, the pink guards filed out. The doors hissed open, and the cold concrete swallowed them. But one lingered. A square guard, standing by the door with his arms folded, watching you with quiet interest behind the black mask that once mirrored your own.

“They say you were once a square,” he said casually, his voice low and edged with something darker. “What did you do?”

You didn’t answer. He stepped closer. The distance between you was all surveillance and silence.

“Rumors say you saved someone. That you disobeyed for a dying player,” he added. “But they never say why you’re still alive.”

You turned your head, slow and measured. “I follow orders,” you replied flatly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Funny,” he said. “You train them like you’re trying to make them forget what it’s like to be human.” 

You stared at him. “Because being human in here,” you said, “is the fastest way to die.”

You walked away, back into the corridors of steel and smoke, where ghosts wore masks and punishment was survival’s reward. The dim corridor buzzed faintly, the sound of fluorescent lights above flickering like a dying breath. You made your way down the path lined with identical metal doors, the living quarters for the pink guards.

Yours was the last door in the row. Room 427. You keyed in the code. The lock hissed open. Inside was stillness with barren walls, a single bed with starched sheets, and a metal table bolted to the floor. There was no mirror and belongings. Just silence, always silence.

You sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off your gloves like a second skin. Your pink suit was unzipped just enough to breathe. The metal walls echoed with distant footsteps, squares barking orders at newly recruited guards, the crackle of radios, the buzz of the elevator ferrying supplies to the upper floors. But here in your unit’s quarters, it was still.

There was no escort duty tonight. For once, your number wasn’t on the list. That relief was almost as painful as the duties themselves. You stared at your gloves on the bedside table, fingers curled stiff from wear. Blood had once soaked through them. Screams once filled your ears. But now? You were used to it.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

Before the games, you had a name. A life outside the games. You used to dance in the rain.

You lived in colors, not red, black and pink, but golden light from streetlamps, the warm blue of your favorite café, the soft lavender of your tiny rented apartment. You weren’t rich, but you were free. A literature student by day, part-time waitress by night. You wanted to write stories one day. Novels. Maybe even poetry. You dreamed of publishing your own book someday.

Your laughter used to come easily. Your smile wasn’t a mask. You believed in people. Yet in the end, you were the one who stayed.

In a neighborhood where everyone else was desperate to leave, you stayed behind. You watched your friends grow distant and your family grow smaller. It was only one funeral, then came another. Then another. Until the only voices left were the ones in your head.

You weren’t running from anything — there was just nowhere left to go. No final fight nor betrayal. Just… time, taking people from you, one by one. You stopped talking out loud because there was no one to hear you anyway.

So when the pink envelope arrived that was sealed tight, marked only by shapes, it felt like an accident. A glitch in the mail. A strange dream.

But you opened it.

And that’s how it started.

You didn’t become a player. You didn’t owe anything. But you were noticed — someone they could use. Someone who would not be missed. At first, you thought you’d break. But there was no one left to worry about you. No one left to remind you who you were.

Now, you rarely think about your name. It doesn’t come easily anymore.

And maybe that was the point.

——

The order comes like a slap to your already numb consciousness. A square guard, his uniform sharp and flawless, strides over to you in the dark hallway. His voice is cool, matter-of-fact, as if he’s never had to question a thing in his life.

"Fix the Front Man's quarters. Make sure every detail is perfect," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You simply nod, the sound of the mask moving as you lower your head in silent acknowledgment. You’ve been in this position long enough to know how things go. The Front Man’s quarters, as cold and sterile as everything else in the compound, require absolute precision. The slightest mistake, the smallest imperfection, could result in more than just a reprimand. You’ve seen what happens when others fail in front of the Front Man. There’s nothing kind or forgiving about his gaze.

The square guard watches you for a moment longer, as if ensuring you’ll comply, before turning away, leaving you to your task.

You stood in front of the door, taking in the quiet, lifeless hallway. Everything is perfectly still. No noise. No interruptions. The only sound you hear is the distant hum of ventilation systems and the pulse of your own heartbeat beneath the thick mask. You inhale deeply and push the door open.

Inside, the quarters were as pristine as always. It was cold, empty, and unyielding - not a single trace of humanity remains. The room was meticulously organized, the bed made to military standards, the furnishings aligned with an unnatural symmetry, a single chair in the corner, its back to the wall. Every surface gleams, as if the place is nothing but a shell, waiting for its occupant to step inside.

You walk in slowly, your eyes scanning over every inch, every corner. Your mind runs through the mental checklist: lighting, temperature, scent. Every detail is scrutinized until you’re certain it meets the Front Man’s standards. Your gloved hands trace over the desk, wiping away the faintest trace of dust. It’s almost too perfect. There’s nothing left to fix. The space is an extension of the man who occupies it — cold, flawless, untouchable.

You began to adjust the small things. The alignment of books on a shelf, the angle of the chair, the slight shift in the position of a painting on the wall. Every adjustment feels like an offering. Your body is numb to the motion, your mind detached and mechanical.

A sudden movement at the door catches your attention, and you freeze.

A shadow. A figure standing in the doorway, silent and imposing. You don’t need to look up to know it���s the square guard again. His eyes are cold, but there’s something else, a faint smile at the edge of his lips as he watches you.

“Is everything in order?” he asks, his voice like a dull blade scraping against metal.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Your eyes remain downcast, focusing on the smallest of details. The least of your concerns is his gaze, but you feel the weight of it pressing down on you nonetheless.

The square guard takes a step forward, glancing around the room. His eyes land on the smallest imperfection, a slight smudge on the glass of a picture frame. Without a word, he reaches out, wiping it away with a swipe of his gloved hand. His movements are sharp, deliberate.

“You’ve done well,” he says, his voice softening ever so slightly. But you know better. He’s not complimenting you. He’s simply acknowledging your obedience. The look in his eyes doesn’t change — still cold, still distant.

“Finish up,” he commands. “And make sure the Front Man doesn’t find anything out of place.”

The square guard leaves, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. As you turn to leave, your fingers brush against the edge of the desk, and something about the cold metal reminds you of the past. Of who you used to be. Of the girl who had dreams and laughter in her heart.

You barely register the sounds of the Front Man’s approaching footsteps — but you know they're coming. You can feel him before you see him, a presence that lingers in the room even as the door creaks open. 

The Front Man walks inside with his usual poise, the cold mask covering his face, unreadable. His eyes scan the room like a predator sizing up its prey, each movement deliberate, precise, as if assessing not just the space but the person who prepared it. His footsteps echo softly against the polished floors, louder than they have any right to be.

You stand at attention in the corner, still and quiet, as he takes his time walking around the room. You don’t dare speak unless he orders you to.

His gaze flickers to the desk first. He takes a long pause, inspecting the alignment of the books, the sheen on the surface. His fingers brush lightly over the chair, just enough to feel the exact temperature of the room, the subtle pressure of the cushion. He moves with the kind of deliberate grace that you’ve come to associate with someone who knows their power, their dominance, their control over every detail.

For a split second, you hold your breath, wondering what he’s looking for. Is there something amiss? A trace of imperfection you might have missed in your hasty preparation?

But then his gaze shifts to the picture frame. It’s the smallest detail, the most trivial of things. His eyes narrow, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame with unsettling precision. There is a slight tremor in his hand. Just a hint. But it’s enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He simply looks at the picture frame for a few more seconds, as if contemplating something too deep to put into words. His gaze flickers toward the small smudge you couldn’t catch, and for the briefest of moments, you think he might actually speak. But no. His gaze sharpens, and he pulls his hand away.

Finally, he stands still. For a moment, you wonder if the air between you is thick with his thoughts, heavy and pressing. But then, he slowly exhales, a sound barely noticeable beneath the mask. He turns toward you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten, your breath stuttering.

"Good job," he said, his tone as cold as ever. "Everything is in order."

Your heart clenched at the lack of emotion in his words. It was a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. There was no warmth in his praise, no sign that he saw you as anything more than another tool—an instrument to be used and discarded when no longer needed.

"Thank you," you murmured, even though the words felt hollow on your tongue.

He turned his head slightly, his masked face remaining unreadable. "You may leave now."

With a stiff bow, you turned to leave, your footsteps echoing in the silence of the room. As you stepped out into the cold, sterile halls of the compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being forgotten.

You were nothing to him, and perhaps that was exactly what you deserved. After all, you weren’t a guard anymore, not truly. You were just a nameless face in the sea of masked figures, condemned to serve in the shadows for the rest of your days.

And yet, despite the cold dismissal, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder: would he ever look at you again? Would he ever realize that you were the one who had saved him when he had bled out during the chaos of lights out?

But the more you thought about it, the more you realized it didn’t matter. He was the Front Man. You were just a guard—nothing more. The distance between you was as vast as the abyss, and no amount of longing would ever change that.

——

A/N: HAS ANYONE WATCHED THE SQUID GAME TEASER? They just dropped the teaser for Season 3! I am SEATED (and also possibly traumatized) 😳 I think I'm going to be insufferable until June 27 because imagine the teaser making us feel like THAT, then what about the trailer 😨 What are your theories for the next season? I would love to hear about them!

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

previous chapter | next chapter

|| masterlist ||

taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

[lieutenantbatshit]

i miss the person i was before squid game

[lieutenantbatshit]

with the baby crying at the end of the teaser i just know in-ho saw jun-hee giving birth and is longing for his unborn child

watch my heart brOOOOOKE

[lieutenantbatshit]

[lieutenantbatshit]

01 - no good deed | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

previous chapter | next chapter

----

The room was dark. Not the artificial, humming darkness of the dormitories. No flickering overhead lights, no sound of desperate breathing in the shadows. 

This darkness was deeper, becoming quieter, then still.

Hwang In-ho bolts upright in his bed, breath caught in his throat, chest heaving beneath the black robe of the Front Man. Sweat clung to his skin like blood once did. The black mask sits abandoned on the table beside him, and for a moment, he remembers who he is. 

Not Hwang In-ho.

The Front Man.

But the dream, kind of a memory, doesn’t let him go. He can still feel it — the warm pool of his blood beneath him, the shouts, the silence, and the pain.

And then, there was you.

Your gloved hands pressing down his wound with a whisper against the chaos, “If you live, don’t forget who you were.”

In-ho’s hands tremble as he reached for a glass of water beside him. He had forgotten, hadn’t he? Bit by bit, piece by piece, until all that remained was the mask, the control, the machine. 

But that voice —  your voice — it never left.

He brushes his hand through his damp hair, eyes burning as they stare at nothing. You were just a shadow then, a mask among other masks. A rule-breaker in a place where mercy was punishable by death.

He doesn’t even know your face or your name. Yet your presence lives in the cracks of his memory, in the fractured quiet of his mind that he never allowed himself to touch.

Except in his dreams.

Or nightmares.

He rose slowly, each movement deliberate. There’s something cold and restrained about him now, but the weight behind his eyes was unmistakable. He walked to the system terminal as the soft glow of the screens hummed to life, illuminating the sharp edges of his face, the shadow of grief still etched across his expression.

His fingers tapped on the keyboard as the screen flickered.

Pink Guard Personnel Records: 28th Squid Game

He shouldn’t do this.

He knew he shouldn’t. Everything about the games was built on anonymity, everything encrypted as if you were expected to forget, bury the past six feet beneath protocol and power.

But he couldn’t forget you. 

His voice was low, hoarse, as he spoke into the silence. “Who were you?”

The system begins its search as the man behind the mask isn’t the Front Man tonight. Tonight, he’s a survivor… still trying to find the one person who made him feel human again. 

Lines of data flicker across the screen — guard IDs, biometric logs, movement patterns, shift schedules. Thousands of entries. Most were clean, categorized, and controlled.

But one file stalls.

ID: P-132-20152745

In-ho narrowed his eyes as he noticed the file. He hovered his hand on his mouse as he clicked, only for the screen to shudder.

ERROR. FILE CORRUPTED. ACCESS DENIED.

He leaned closer as he squinted at the file number. He doesn’t recognize the number, but something about it pulls at him. The timestamp matches the night he was injured. That narrow window between the second and third round.

His fingers fly over the keys as he bypasses standard security. Firewalls resist him, but he wrote the protocols himself. He cracks through the surface code, digging deeper.

REDACTED ENTRY: UNAUTHORIZED INTERVENTION DETECTED.

P-132-20152745: Disciplinary Report - MISSING

Security Footage - DELETED

Status: UNKNOWN

He sits back slowly, the air tight in his lungs, realizing that someone had scrubbed the record. 

Not just a name or a face. Just plain everything.

As if that guard never existed. 

As if the system had tried to erase the very moment he clung to all these years.

His jaw tightened, rage pulsing beneath the surface. Not just for the system, but for himself for forgetting, surviving, and becoming the very thing he once feared. 

Still, there’s a silver of data remaining. A slashed fragment of a voice file that was compressed and corrupted.

Yet, it was still playable.

The static nearly swallows the sound, but in the middle of the distortion, something cuts through.

“—wasn’t supposed to do this…”

“…remember who you are…” “—forgive me.”

In-ho’s eyes closed, his heart pulsing through his chest. Though it was comforting to feel that you were real, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to you. 

As his thoughts almost swayed him, he immediately snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a heavy thud. Not from the room, but from the recording.

He sat up as a sharp intake of breath was heard, then another sound that seemed like a hit. Then, another sound that pierces through even the most distorted noise.

A soft, broken whimper. A woman’s voice.

“Please…” A muffled cry as another strike seemed to be done, and then, there was silence.

In-ho froze as his jaw clenched while the recording looped, replaying that single moment of helplessness. Something cold grips his chest, curling around his ribs like barbed wire. 

Someone definitely made sure he wouldn’t remember it. 

The file ends with one last, choked breath — one that doesn’t quite sound like fear, but grief.

“He wasn’t supposed to see me.”

The silence after felt suffocating. In-ho’s fingers curled into fists as the final realization sank in. This wasn’t just a disappearing act.

Someone silenced you, covered you up, and buried your existence under codes and protocols. In-ho scoffed, a smirk forming as if an idea shone all over his face.

They didn’t bury you well enough.

His eyes hardened as he locked the terminal.

You saved him once, now it was his turn.

——

The incinerator hisses as the body bag disappears into flame.

It was either buried or harvested for organs — you couldn’t care at all. In fact, you don’t flinch anymore. You haven’t, in a long time. 

The stench of burnt cloth and blood clings to your mask, thick and stubborn, as if even the scent refuses to die here. You stand still, posture straight, hands clasped behind you just as protocol demands.

You were only a pink circle guard. Just another pair of obedient boots, another ghost in the machine.

Your boots echo softly down the corridor. Rhythm is everything here—footsteps measured, spine straight, eyes forward behind a mask that tells the world nothing. Now, you’re Guard 427.

You swipe your card at the checkpoint and enter the security control wing. The guards here don’t speak unless ordered. The walls hum with surveillance feeds, and one screen, larger than the rest, projects the black mask of the Front Man. You’ve worked hard to become invisible. You are precise in your tasks, silent in your duties, unremarkable in your movements. You erase yourself every day, bit by bit, in service of survival.

Still, you remember him. Not as the Front Man. But as Player 132.

He was bleeding when you found him, struggling beneath the weight of survival. You should’ve walked away. Left him to die like all the others. But something in his eyes that night — numb but furious, cracked but not yet broken made you stop.

You knelt. Whispered. Touched his bloodied chest with trembling fingers.

“If you live, don’t forget who you were before they made you fight.”

And now, he sits behind the glass of power, voice modulated, mask unshifting, his judgment absolute. You wondered if he dreams of you, if your voice ever slips into his nightmares. You wondered if, when he stares too long at the monitors, he's chasing something his mind won’t give him.

You kept your head down and your steps even. You cleaned blood off the walls. You followed orders. You pretend you’re not the one he’s unknowingly searching for.

Because if he ever does remember… If he ever sees through the perfect circle painted across your mask, what then?

Would he thank you? Punish you? Undo you?

You weren’t sure. In a place where mercy was a foreign concept, such a situation of his finding you would cause more complications.

The alarm blared. A low tone thrums through the walls, and every Circle in the hallway stops in unison.

“VIP arrival. Level Six. Escort detail.”

Your fellow pink guards peel off wordlessly, boots pivoting toward the service lift that leads to the opulent corridors you’re never meant to see. The ones draped in gold and smoke, the ones that reek of indulgence and blood.

But not you.

Your earpiece buzzes with a separate frequency.

“P-427, Report to Sub-Level Three. Clearance Sigma Red.”

Sigma Red.

You hesitate for half a breath before responding.

“Confirmed. On route.”

It wasn’t your first time.

You walked alone now, past the steel hallways, the flickering fluorescents, the guards who pretended not to see. You made your way towards the door marked only by a red triangle and the faint scent of disinfectant beneath it.

Inside the room was quiet, warmer, and cleaner. There was no briefing. No other guards. Just a room with a solitary mirror and a rack of clean clothing with soft fabric, unlike your uniform.

“Change. Protocol 09 is in effect,” the voice over the intercom says.

You obeyed, not needing to be told why. 

You’ve done this before. You remember the way the Front Man had just taken the mask then. How his presence had loomed even before you could name it. The first time, you’d done what you were told because not doing so meant punishment. 

You were a standard circle guard who was quiet, efficient, and obedient. Not until that night during the 28th Season where you chose mercy. 

He was bleeding out during lights out where his eyes had pulled you in — the hollow ache of someone who wanted to die but was too proud to beg for it. You broke the rules, yet they let you live.

Only so they could strip you down slowly — the escort class.

The lowest, most degrading designation in the hierarchy of this twisted system. You are masked, dressed in thin civilian mimicry, and handed over to the VIPs—not for pleasure, necessarily. Sometimes just for company. Sometimes for cruelty. Always for obedience.

“Escort detail begins in thirty minutes. Await further instruction.”

The door clicks shut behind you. You sat and waited, listening to the hum of the walls as you wondered, what if this is the time he speaks to you? What if he looks at you a second too long? What if he asks your name? And what if you're too afraid to give it?

The walls here were too quiet. No screams, gunfire, and barking orders. Only silence — deliberate, echoing, and unnerving.

The mask stays on. It always stays on. It's the only part of yourself you're allowed to keep. As you sat, the intercom crackled again. A different voice this time. One you know. One you’ve heard before during your disciplinary hearing. 

“Protocol 09 in effect,” the speaker hisses.

No acknowledgment required. They know you understand.

“You aided a player in the 28th Season. Unforgivable.”

A pause, long enough to let the weight settle. “You will not speak of it. Not to him. Not to anyone. The Front Man does not know. He must never know. Do you understand?”

You nod silently, because that’s all you're allowed to do now.

“VIPs arrive in thirty. Escort mode active.”

You fixed the mask over your face as you changed layer by layer, its garments feel like silk-wrapped shame. 

You remember how, once, your hands shook as they held a bleeding man. The one who now runs the games, one who sits behind a mask of black steel, haunted by something he can’t quite name.

He lives because of you and now you serve because of him.

He must never know.

But you remember.

Every time.

——

The scent of cologne, alcohol, and smoke clung to the velvet of the VIP lounge. The lighting was warm, golden, and suffocating — designed to flatter the depraved. Laughter cuts the air like broken glass. Masks of beasts and emperors lounge across gilded sofas, their voices slurred, their gaze predatory.

One of the VIPs snaps his fingers lazily. You pour his drink, bow just enough, and say nothing — as trained. You don’t speak. You don’t blink too long. You don’t feel.

“You’re quiet,” the VIP, masked as a Minotaur, slurred, brushing his fingers against your mask. “That’s good. Quiet girls know their place.”

You don’t flinch. At least, not visibly.

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you slightly closer, examining you like a possession. “You’re prettier than the last one. I like the silent ones.”

You remain still and silent. Fighting the urge to pull away because if you did, they win. And if you speak, you lose more. Your hands rest on your knees as you lowered your gaze.

“You’re not new, are you?”

The question stung, but you didn’t flinch. You were burning inside, but you stayed silent. 

“That means you know not to fight.”

A murmur of laughter from the others. One of them raises a toast. Another gestures toward you and makes a cruel joke about how easily the silent ones break.

But something shifts in the room. The air tightens. The laughter dulls into murmurs. 

The door opened, revealing the Front Man.

Black mask. Black coat. His movements sharp and deliberate. Authority trails behind him like a shadow.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You straightened your back, holding your breath as you felt your pulse surge. You kept your head bowed. 

He shouldn't be here. Not during the lounge sessions. Not unless something’s wrong. Yet here he is.

He walked slowly through the room silently as if he were observing and calculating something. His presence stills the most obnoxious of the guests. Even the ones who believe they own this place lower their voices when he moves near.

From across the room, the Front Man’s visor tilts toward you. He seemed to see your… situation. But, he doesn’t stop it. He doesn’t speak.

He simply watches.

You don’t know what’s worse. The VIP’s hand curling around your waist…

…or the silence from the one man who might have stopped it.

The VIP’s hand had finally left your side—only because another escort had arrived, younger and easier to control. You’d bowed out with the grace expected of you, even though your fingers trembled behind your back.

“Go help the servers,” one of the Square guards said. 

You obeyed.

It was almost a relief to stand by the bar cart again, serving champagne, bourbon, whiskey, gin. Anything they asked for. Anything to stop being seen.

“You,” the Square guard pointed at you. “Pour for the Front Man.”

The air around you dropped ten degrees, but your hands moved on instinct. The Front Man stood near the edge of the lounge, silent and still as the walls themselves. You could feel the room shift around him. 

You approached with measured steps, a crystal decanter in hand.

He didn’t look at you when you poured, though you could smell his cologne even beneath your mask. As you were about to finish filling up the glass, he suddenly spoke.

“Stay.”

You froze. You expected to be dismissed. But instead, he stood there, drink in hand, and allowed you to remain beside him. One step behind. Within reach. Claimed without announcement.

“Careful with that one, Front Man!” a portly VIP calls out with a laugh, drink sloshing in his hand. “Keep her too close, and you might find yourself using her for more than just drinks!”

Laughter erupted from his circle as your breath hitched a bit. You didn’t move, and the Front Man didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if he reacted beneath his mask, but he stayed still. There was no reaction and defense.

He sipped his drink slowly, his gaze never leaving the room. Not even a glance toward the man who joked. Not toward you. But then, you felt a sting inside you.

It wasn’t because of the VIP’s words — you’ve heard worse.

But because he didn’t stop it.

You stood at his side obediently, and he let the insult hang there, untouched. You forced the pain down like glass, straightening your spine. Somehow, his silence hurts more than the joke ever could.

By day, you sweep floors, distribute rations, check that the cameras are functioning. Your circle mask stares back at you from polished metal when you pass the infirmary door. You speak to no one. You salute when required. You blend in easily and invisibly. 

You are not meant to be remembered. That, too, is part of the punishment.

At night, it changes. The suit comes off. The silk goes on. You trade your mask for another kind — faceless still, but far more exposed. An escort — a role no one envies.

No one asks how you ended up there. They already know. 

It’s all because you interfered and saved someone you weren’t meant to. You’re not even sure he remembers. Or if he ever knew. Or if he’s simply chosen to forget because acknowledging what you did would mean acknowledging that even he was once weak enough to bleed.

And weakness isn’t allowed here.

Sometimes, when you stand beside his chair in the VIP lounge and pour his drink, you think about that moment in the dark, years ago. When he was gasping, wounded, barely clinging to life behind a player’s uniform soaked in blood. And you chose to help.

That was the night your position was stripped from you.

Because you weren’t always a circle.

Your hands remember how to hold a gun with authority. Your voice remembers how to give orders.

You were a square.

You remember the weight of command.

But mercy is a betrayal in this place, and your punishment is to be seen and not recognized. It is for you to serve quietly the man you once saved and to suffer silently each time he looks right past you. 

----

A/N: We're back! This time, it's more of a slow burn type of fanfic so please bear with the story. What did you think of how you're a Pink Guard saving the Front Man back when he was still a player and him trying to find you in the crowd? This whole fic will be based on the events of Squid Game Season 1, as it would be like one of the first years of In-ho as the Front Man. :D

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

previous chapter | next chapter

|| masterlist ||

taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

[lieutenantbatshit]

thank you for feeding my delusions

⋆˙⟡ #SecretHusband

lee byung-hun x wife reader, social media!au

yourusername

yourusername me n who?

Liked by wi_wi_wi and others

August 12, 2023

view comments

fangirlforever 5h

YOU N WHO???

softdramalover 1h

is that a MAN???

kdramaaddict 3h

soft launch??? bestie drop the @.

hoooooyeony 6h • Liked by creator

🤍🤍🤍

yourusername

yourusername he takes me out in resto’s like these. who else is winning?

Liked by byunghun0712 and others

August 20, 2023

view comments

eunoiary 7h

who’s that soft giant..

lbhpix 6h

BYUNG-HUN LIKED??

leebyungiee 7h

i swear his hands look like lbh’s…🫠

from_jjlee 7h • Liked by creator

Enjoy!! 그것들은 정말 사랑스러워 보인다~~ (They look so lovely~~)

yourusername

yourusername you look so handsome, 자기이. @/byunghun0712 🤍

Liked by byunghun0712 and others

August 28, 2023

view comments

byunghun0712 12h • Liked by creator

love you more, 자기이. you take absolutely nice photos of me.

detectivekpop 11h

IMAGINE GETTING MARRIED TO THE LEE BYUNG-HUN

kdramaspoilerz 12h

GIRL MARRIED THE DAMN FRONTMAN FROM SQUID GAME??

iluvoldermen 6h

…im jealous.

boxabum 12h • Liked by creator

💝💝💝

hoooooyeony 11h • Liked by creator

love you both 💞