#gis module

[inventory-management-software]

5 Ways GIS is transforming Network Planning and Design

Telecom GIS (Geographic Information Systems) has revolutionized network planning and design in the telecommunications industry by providing powerful tools for spatial analysis, data visualization, and decision-making.

[gaytobymeres]

It’s so evil that our third year courses were interesting and relevant to our actual degree and actually involved the study of plants, but our fourth year courses are boring as hell

[thanoskin]

cuffed

Pairing: Gi-hun x In-ho

Summary: after Jung-Bae’s death, Gi-hun is left cuffed to a bed, powerless, in-ho pushes him to the edge, reminding him how easily he holds control over his fate.

Warning: Smut (18+), Degradation kink, Dom! In-ho, Sub! Gi-hun, Angst, slapping, Bondage, choking, power imbalance.

Gi-hun’s screams were still echoing off the cold metal walls when in-ho turned and walked out of the room. The lifeless body of Park Jung-Bae lay sprawled on the floor, his blood pooling beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the tiles. The door hissed shut behind in-ho, silencing Gi-hun’s broken cries.

The guards moved in immediately, their hands firm as they dragged Gi-hun away from the body of his best friend. He thrashed, fought, cursed. His wrists burned as they forced him onto one of the beds in the corner of the holding room. To his surprise, the remaining players were nowhere to be seen, the game has probably already begun.

He barely registered the cold snap of the handcuffs locking him in place, his arms restrained above his head.

“This is punishment,” one of the guards said, voice hollow through the modulator. “You will remain here until the next game.”

The next game. Another game. Another round of slaughter, all the lives lost, for nothing.

Gi-hun barely noticed when they left, his chest falling and rising in ragged gasps. His throat was raw from screaming, his face damp with sweat and tears. His body trembled with rage, grief, and despair. He had come back to destroy the game, to put an end to the nightmare that consumed his life. But now, Jung-Bae, and In-ho, were gone. The rebellion had failed.

And it was all because of him.

The Frontman.

The man Gi-hun hated with every fiber of his being. The man who toyed with him, destroyed him, torn away the last of his hope.

The door creeped open, Gi-hun’s breath hitched, because it wasn’t another masked guard standing there, it was him.

He creeped over, like a predator hunting its prey. His mask was still in place, hiding whatever expression might have lurked underneath. For a moment he simply stood there, his gloved fingers curling at his sides.

“What do you want?” Gi-hun spat, his voice hoarse. “Come to kill me too?”

The frontman didn’t answer right away. Instead he stepped closer to Gi-hun’s trembling, bound form. Gi-hun knew he was being stared at, and he squirmed, the handcuffs clinking.

“You’re still here, because I let you live.”

Gi-hun let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Should I thank you for that? I’d rather be dead.”

The frontman stepped closer to him, his masked face hovering over Gi-hun’s.

“You should understand what that means.” His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it, something cold, something cruel.

“Your little rebellion failed. Your friend died for nothing. And now, you? Tied to a bed, waiting for the next decision to be made for you.”

The frontman placed a single gloved finger, caressing Gi-hun’s cheek in a taunting way. Gi-hun jerked against the cuffs again, the metal biting into his skin. “Go to hell.”

A quiet chuckle. “You’re already there.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, his throat raw. He wanted to fight, to scream, to tear this entire place apart with his bare hands. But the reality pressed against him like a weight he couldn’t lift.

He really was powerless.

The realization settled deep in his gut, festering like a wound.

And the worst part? The Frontman knew it.

“Do you want to beg?” The Frontman asked softly, the question hanging in the space between them, heavy and expectant.

Gi-hun opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he clenched his jaw, biting down on the urge to scream, to beg, to give in to whatever this was.

Then, the Frontman slowly reached up, removing his mask.

Gi-hun’s heart skipped a beat and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

The man standing before him was no longer a faceless enigma. He was Young-il, and the emotion in his eyes was something Gi-hun hadn’t expected. Something raw, almost vulnerable.

“Young-il?”

His voice trembled, disbelief echoing through the simple word. He had heard In-ho’s strangled cries through the Walkie, he remembered how it felt knowing he lost him. How was this possible, how was he standing there?

In-ho stood silently, watching him with those cold, calculating eyes.

“You…” Gi-hun’s voice shook, his mind spinning. “You’re alive?”

The words barely left his lips before he felt his heart hammering in his chest. The confusion, the shock, the anger, the relief, the tension between them.

He pulled desperately at the cuffs, this couldn’t be happening.

In-ho stood before him, he was no longer the friendly, charismatic companion, the good leader he had once been in the games. There was something in his eyes now, something unsettling and magnetic that pulled Gi-hun closer despite every instinct screaming for him to pull away.

“You thought I was dead,” In-ho murmured, his voice low, his gloved fingers tracing Gi-hun’s jawline. “But I was never going to let you go, not after all this.”

Gi-hun subconsciously leaned his head back slightly in submission, causing In-ho to wrap his hand around Gi-hun’s throat lightly.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of this. The anger in his chest began to dissolve, replaced by something else, something that scared him even more.

In-ho leaned in, his lips dangerously close to Gi-hun’s neck. “You’ve always wanted more, haven’t you Gi-hun?”

“I don’t… need to understand any of it.” Gi-hun said quietly, “I just want this to end, all of it.”

In-ho’s fingers tightened on Gi-hun’s throat.

“Beg me to end the games.”

Gi-hun breathes shakily, his wrists tugging pathetically at the cuffs.

“Please…” his voice trembled, the desperation in his tone growing. “Just end it, I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

In-ho’s lips met his, slow and soft, like a promise Gi-hun couldn’t understand.

Gi-hun froze at first, shocked at the contact. But something snapped, his pulse roared in his ears and his body betrayed him, he kissed back, his hunger and need overwhelmed him as the world outside ceased to exist.

“You’re mine.” In-ho whispered possessively, his strong hands gripping onto Gi-hun’s waist.

The bed creaked as In-ho moved to straddle the bound man beneath him, his hands roaming over Gi-hun’s clothed chest. Gi-hun stared at In-ho in shock, but didn’t dare protest as In-ho slid Gi-hun’s pants down, his cheeks flushed with desire.

In-ho gripped onto Gi-hun’s cock, eliciting a whimper from Gi-hun’s throat.

“Beg me to end the games,” In-ho said again.

Gi-hun swallowed hard and gasped as In-ho stroked his hard cock, teasingly. The last thing he wanted to think about was the games.

“Please… end the games, send us back home.”

In-ho sped up slightly, causing Gi-hun to buck pathetically against his hand, the cuffs clinking onto the metal headboard.

“Please, just end the games!” Gi-hun raised his voice, his whines sounding more and more pathetic as In-ho jerked him off faster. Gi-hun began thinking about his fallen companions, Sae-Beyok, Sang-woo, Jung-bae.

Gi-hun’s eyes filled with tears and he begged once more.

“Please…please just-“

In-ho grabs Gi-hun’s cock harshly, immediately knowing what he was thinking, backhanding him across the face.

“Shut up! You think you deserve sympathy? No, you’re still here because you’re weak.”

In-ho began to stroke Gi-hun’s cock again, faster this time.

“Stop it. You’re a winner Gi-hun. We are winners. We won for a reason. We deserved to win damnit.”

Gi-hun moaned, tears spilling down his cheeks as he cried out in pleasure, his hips bucking against In-ho’s hand.

“I want to hear you say it, that you’re a winner.”

Gi-hun let out a strangled cry as he became close to cumming, his hands balling into fists against the cuffs, his cheeks flushed and his stomach tight.

“Im a winner… fuck!”

Gi-hun came, hard. In-ho patted his thigh teasingly and wiped up the mess with a cloth he kept in his pocket.

The sick fuck probably planned to do this, Gihun thought.

With a soft hum, In-ho leaned in, those cold, heavy eyes locking onto Gi-hun’s, his expression sincere.

“I’ll make sure you win the next game, I will make sure not a scratch is left on you. Don’t disappoint me, I will meet you again tomorrow after the game.”

In-ho stroked Gi-hun’s hair, before turning to leave.

“Wait!” Gi-hun cried out angrily, but In-ho didn’t turn.

Gi-hun’s thoughts swirled in a storm of rage and guilt. He felt as if his dead friends were watching him now, looking down at him for what just happened. He hated how much he enjoyed it.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

iii. location drop

pairing: eventual gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 7.1k

ao3 | masterlist

Young-il is so… interesting. In many ways he reminds you of yourself – he’s always studying the world around him, always listening, he can be remarkably serious and endearingly lighthearted in the same conversation, and he’s wickedly sharp. Much smarter than you are, that’s for sure, but you like that. It’s nice to speak to someone with so much life already lived and hear the way they view the world, even if it doesn’t always align with your own ideals. He challenges you, too. In ways you never would have imagined. That’s what makes him so intriguing.

His smile catches the light when you see him. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says as he starts shrugging off his coat. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, his hair pushed away from his face in an elegant swoop.

You hum lightly into your cup. “Business stuff?”

Young-il nods. “Of a sort.” He eyes the extra cup of coffee on the table as he moves to sit across from you. “Trying something new?”

“It’s yours,” you correct. “Black Americano, right?”

Surprise tints his features and you feel a stab of pride for managing to catch him so off guard. “You remembered.”

His reaction shouldn’t sit as warm and cozy as it does in your chest, but you don’t fight it. Still, you try to play it off with a shrug. “I remember all kinds of things.”

A hand slips into his trouser pocket and it doesn’t occur to you until he’s pulling out his wallet that he wants to repay you. Before he can utter a single suggestion, you stop him. “Oh, no, that’s alright. I don’t mind,” you reply with a politely dismissive wave. “You can cover me next time, if you want.”

Truthfully, you’re still adjusting to the idea of purchasing whatever you want when you want it. You can’t (and won’t) go out and buy a brand-new sports car or anything, but even something as mundane as a coffee feels like a splurge with how strict you’ve been in the past. Gi-hun wants you to be happy, though, to have all your needs met, and if that’s what he wants…

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” you say after a moment. That wasn’t exactly what you had intended to say; you were trying to find something to say that wasn’t the same boring topics he always hears from you, but your mind had wandered and gotten lost somewhere between point A and point B.

Young-il’s still a bit taken aback, but you can see him smiling when he takes a sip of his coffee. “You would have missed me that much?”

He’s very clearly teasing you, but the fact of the matter is that yes, you would have missed him if he hadn’t shown. You don’t have many friends apart from him and Gi-hun who is, more often than not, busy doing whatever it is that he does. It’s not exactly a normal friendship, no matter how hard you strive to make it so, no matter how much you’ve come to care for him. Young-il, on the other hand, is less closed off, more engaging. He’s a normal businessman who does normal things like drink coffee and do guest lectures for some of the business students. You haven’t been able to see any of his talks yet, but you have a feeling they’re good.

You hide your own smile behind your cup when you go to take a sip, hoping that he doesn’t see just how tickled you are. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The conversation flows loosely from there. Young-il has recently taken over his business from the previous owner and as a result, his time is limited. Too many meetings, too much paperwork, and a lot of strategizing. You, on the other hand, have several short papers due this week that you’ve been putting off, not to mention the final project looming in the back of your mind as each week ticks by.

“There’s an extra credit module I was thinking of completing,” you say casually, as if your heart isn’t about to beat right out of your chest. “We have to visit the art gallery here on campus and write a reflection about our experience.”

You’ve been thinking of asking him to go with you. It makes sense considering he’s always on campus. You might almost think him a student if you didn’t know any better. But the difference between thinking about asking and actually asking is great – you don’t even know if he likes art, if he cares enough about your casual little friendship to meet you outside of weekly coffee meetings and words exchanged in passing on your way to the bus stop. Maybe you’re asking for too much. What if he thinks you’re weird?

So it takes you by surprise when Young-il leans forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. “I wasn’t aware there was an art gallery.”

You wipe a bit of liquid from the corner of your mouth. Could it really be this easy? “Yeah! They have a rotation of displays and visiting artists. The one we have currently is focused on surrealism. They’re displaying copies of some famous pieces, as well as art from several of our students.” Your eyes dart nervously over Young-il’s frame, trying to determine how open he is to the idea. He seems interested enough. “I haven’t been to a gallery in a little while and the extra credit would help raise my grade a bit.”

He nods thoughtfully. “It seems like you’ve already decided to go.”

“I think so, yes.” Your lungs constrict painfully below the canopy of your ribcage. If you don’t ask now, you’ll never find the courage to try again. “Would you like to go with me?”

A moment ticks by uneventfully. Then another.

Searching Young-il’s eyes tells you nothing. You can’t determine what he’s thinking, no matter how hard you look. The only insight his silence offers you is the weight of his gaze as he studies you, as if you were the art piece and he the seasoned purveyor.

His head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “You want me to join you?” He doesn’t sound disinterested in the idea, but neither does he sound fully invested.

You swallow nervously. “Yes. If you want.”

“Why me? Surely you have other friends you could go with, some of the students in your class, perhaps?”

Ah. So he’s not interested. You can feel your face heat up with the embarrassment of his rejection. You suddenly find the shapeless stain of a former coffee spill on the table inexplicably fascinating.

“I guess I probably should have asked one of them first.” You try to wrap the tail end of your response in a light chuckle, but it’s forced and uncomfortable. You end up grimacing more than anything else. “I’m sure you’re busy, what with your business and everything.”

What you want to say is that you wouldn’t go with any of your classmates even if you were paid to do it. What you want to say is that you’ve come to greatly enjoy his company and the little breaks in your otherwise monotonous routine that his presence provides. But of course, you can’t say any of that.

You reach for your drink, hoping to fill the awkward space with a couple sips of something tasty, but you’ve already drained the cup. There’s nothing left except for a few spare drops.

Young-il shifts in his seat, drawing your attention as he adjusts his sleeves. He’s rolling them up to his elbow, exposing all that previously unseen skin and the muscles of his forearms, and… Oh. Maybe this means more to you than you’d previously thought. Maybe you’ve developed a bit of a crush. That’s embarrassing.

“Next Tuesday,” he says, his attention still focused on the task at hand. “I have a break in my schedule around noon.”

For a few scattered inhalations, you’re left feeling lost. You were so sure he was uninterested based on the, well, everything about him, but now he’s saying exactly the opposite.

“I… Huh?”

The corner of his mouth twitches and for the briefest of micro-minutes, you think you see something soft hidden in his eyes. “If you’re free then?”

Right. Next Tuesday. Noon. Your brain putters around for a bit as it tries to play catch up to the conversation, but eventually the fog clears. You have an opening in your schedule around that time, too, funnily enough. The date is set – not that it’s that kind of date – and the conversation fades back into normalcy, but the entire time your heart is racing because Young-il has agreed to go with you and you feel an abnormal amount of excitement pooling in your stomach because of it.

The thing is, Gi-hun has told you before that you ought to make more friends. He knows that he is essentially the only person you spend time with on a regular basis and he’s not sure if he should feel guilty or honored by that fact. He should be happy for you that you’ve finally found a friend, that you’re getting out of your apartment and socializing. It’s just that when he had pictured a friend, Gi-hun had imagined someone around your own age, not… this.

The unknown man looks closer to Gi-hun’s age than yours. Not that that’s a bad thing. He’s your friend too, isn’t he? He simply finds it worrying. Older men and younger college students are something of a suspicious combination, no matter how refined and put together they seem. Like your new friend.

Still, there’s nothing harmless about meeting a friend for coffee. An older friend. Who doesn’t seem to do much apart from loitering around the business building and talking to you.

You’re fine, he tells himself, even as he pulls the brim of his cap down over his eyes and sips at his own drink. You can take care of yourself. But it doesn’t hurt that he’s here to watch over you, just in case. The last person in a suit to approach you had turned out to be a recruiter and it would be foolish of him to assume that you’re safe simply because you’ve thrown the card away and started heeding his advice.

Jeong-rae and his men are busy scouting the subways with a few more sets of eyes than usual to make up for Gi-hun’s absence. He has a pistol on him in case things go badly or your mysterious new friend turns out to be something he’s not, but he thinks (he hopes) that won’t be necessary.

Your coffee meet-up ends within the hour. Gi-hun has already finished his own drink long before, but he keeps sipping at his cup to sell the illusion that he belongs here, tucked into the corner of the campus coffee shop and watching you. He tries not to feel like he’s doing something wrong. Because he isn’t. He’s keeping you safe. If you’d had family or friends in the Games when he was there, he would have sworn to look after you and that’s all he’s doing now.

You head for the bus stop, your friend heads for the nearest parking lot. Gi-hun follows. He watches your friend settle into a very normal looking car – not obnoxiously flashy, but not a rundown heap of scrap metal either – and drive off, and he follows closely in his own vehicle. And if he gets a bit of a rush from tracking this man down and vetting him, then that’s his own business.

The man drives to a corner store and disappears inside for several minutes. When he comes out again, he drops a bag into the passenger seat and leans against the door while he smokes. Gi-hun suddenly pretends to find his mobile very interesting. He double, triple, and quadruple checks his incoming messages – no sign of the recruiter so far – and eventually finds himself pulling out his own stack of cigarettes and lighting one up.

By the end of the night, Gi-hun’s mission leads him to a hotel in one of the quieter pockets of the city. Your friend is entirely unthreatening and uninteresting. He feels a little foolish for letting himself get so caught up in his own paranoia – taking a gun with him? Really? Whoever he is, this man hardly looks like the same unhinged species of psychotic as the recruiter that had sealed his fate so long ago.

You can handle yourself, he reminds himself, perhaps for the fiftieth time today. And he knows it’s true. You’re smart and very capable, even if you are a bit trusting. You’re not the problem – it’s the rest of the world that worries him, the recruiters and game runners of society who could snuff out your light without blinking an eye. He won’t allow it, not even if it aggravates his paranoia and leaves him sleepless in the early hours of the morning.

Gi-hun will just need to keep a closer eye on you. To keep you safe. It’s a small sacrifice to make in return for your life.

In-ho carefully studies his reflection, smoothing a hand over his hair and straightening the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t usually wear a suit when he meets with you like he does when conducting Game business, opting instead for dark, soft things like turtlenecks and knit sweaters. Spring is finally here, but the chill of winter still lingers, so he suspects you’ll be neatly bundled as you were when he met you in the autumn. He’s mirroring you, trying things that subconsciously lure you into a false sense of security, and you’re falling for it every step of the way. It’s no wonder Gi-hun managed to worm his way into your life.

Gi-hun.

His mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk. 456 had been a bit of a surprise, admittedly, a wrench in his otherwise perfectly executed plans. But In-ho has the training of a decorated police officer; 456 is gutter filth. And gutter filth, no matter how cunning, how desperate, or how rich, cannot overcome decades of rigorous training with the best police force in the country. He spotted Gi-hun the moment he pulled out of the campus parking lot – the rest had simply been a game that he was willing to play.

Today is a game of another sort. In his youth, In-ho had never been much of a flirt. Charming, perhaps, even suave if he was in the mood, but a flirt? It just wasn’t his style. But there is something to the Young-il persona that prompts him to try. Perhaps it’s the anonymity. Maybe it’s the low stakes and high reward – you’re not a genuine romantic prospect, you’re a target, and that means that it’s not his ego being bruised by your potential rejection but his predatory prowess.

Except you haven’t rejected him. You have, quite surprisingly, invited him further into your life. You have carved out a space for him in the otherwise uneventful and meaningless scope of your existence, and In-ho is painfully curious to discover how far he can push you before you fall completely.

He arrives at the gallery nearly an hour early, content to peruse the art nearest to the entrance and sufficiently prepare himself. It’s been several years since he has studied art in any meaningful way. He was more prone to it in the years before Oh Il-nam and Gi-hun’s Game, but he was more prone to many things back then – holiday phone calls to his brother, flowers at his wife’s grave. He doesn’t have time for such things anymore. Still, he finds the familiarity of the art, the artist, and the solemnity of viewership a comforting thing.

When you appear several minutes before noon, short of breath and clearly frazzled, In-ho finds it difficult to suppress his smile. You make your intentions so clearly known without ever realizing how transparent you are. Eagerness is written across your face so plainly, it may as well be a brand. Your eyes light up when you spot him, like a child encountering their favorite toy. Only – no, that’s a poor comparison. As young and foolish as you may be, you aren’t a child. A pet, perhaps. Clever enough with the capabilities you’ve been born with, but ultimately submissive to the hand of the master that feeds it.

“Hi,” you greet him with a flash of a smile. You’re already pulling off your coat only to grip it in your mouth while you start rummaging through your backpack, all before he can get more than a simple ‘hello’ out in response. Hardly a minute later, you’re settled with a notebook and pencil in hand, and your coat shoved haphazardly into your backpack. “Okay. Ready.”

He allows himself a moment of genuine amusement. “You seem eager.”

“Always eager to learn, Young-il-nim,” you answer with a little tap of your pencil against your forehead.

He takes the initiative to open the gallery door for you, reveling in the small victory of your poorly hidden surprise. “I take it you haven’t studied much Surrealism before, then?”

You shake your head. In-ho is keen to observe your expressions, but already you’ve tilted your face away to analyze the first painting, a popular Dalí piece that makes a clear impact on you. You murmur your way through the informative sign plastered beside the canvas with furrowed brows and inquiring, contemplative eyes.

“That’s so sad.”

He scans over the sign, confirming the information he already knows – a commentary on the Spanish Civil War of the 1930’s, made by an apolitical artist who chose to side neither with the fascists nor the Republic that rose up to fight it. What is it about political neutrality that is so heartbreaking to you? Or are you, perhaps, more drawn to the hollow grief portrayed in the painting itself?

Before he can find the words to ask, you’ve already taken the initiative to expand upon your remark. “His sister was killed by one side and his friend by the other. But he still didn’t take a side.” The hand holding your pencil is hovering lightly over the sign, fingers almost but not quite touching the words – as if you were afraid to touch it and mar its tragedy with your own simplistic worldview. “I can’t even imagine that.”

Something akin to sympathy flares up inside him before quickly turning to the flush of displeasure. Not anger, not yet. “Imagine what?” he prompts.

At last, you turn your face and allow him the chance to swallow every minute, flickering micro expression. “Any of it. Losing your family to the people who are meant to help you and then losing your friend to the people who want to hurt you.” The knot in your throat bobs when you swallow. How curious that you seem to be so deeply affected by something you have no true understanding of. “I guess I wouldn’t know which side to choose either, but I can’t say that I’d want to side with the fascists.”

In-ho nods, unsurprised. No, he can’t imagine that you would either. He tries not to think too hard on the implications – of the painting, of your sudden swell of emotions, or of the memories already pressing hard against the interior of his skull.

Your head tips down as you scribble a few notes in your book, followed by the click of your phone camera. He glances over your handwriting, a mix of Korean and your native tongue, before you eventually step away, turning to the next piece. He stays, only for a heartbeat or two, eyes lingering on the canvas before finally deciding to trail after you.

Most of the pieces in the gallery are somewhat familiar to him, though he doesn’t care for all of them. Some are too fantastical for his tastes, some are too nonsensical. Others leave him feeling perplexed, as they once did when he was younger, more bereaved and less inclined to the logic that rules his life now. And then – then there are the pieces that remind him of the Games. Chess pieces in vast, unending landscapes. Peering eyes devoid of faces, studying the audience the way the VIPs study the players. Staircases that lead to nowhere and doors that open to nothing, tangling together like the labyrinthine maze of pastel walls he has come to call both his home and his work.

Your reaction to each of them is as predictable as ever. “‘We often believe we're being led to a higher place when perhaps we're not going anywhere,’” you read. Your pencil taps against the corner of your mouth. “Well, that’s a bit grim.”

He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes – barely. “Is it?” Surely you can see the logic in such an argument, even if you don’t agree with it? Or must he spell everything out for you?

The gears in your head begin to turn, slow and steady. “It sounds more like depression to me than an actually viable outlook on life. Maybe you aren’t going anywhere because you’re holding yourself back, you know? You’ve closed all the doors that you can escape through and now you’re ramming your head into the wall, wondering why nothing’s happening.”

In-ho’s exhalation is heavier than it usually is, the tone of it caught somewhere between amusement, contemplation, and disbelief.

“Not that I’m judging him for feeling that way, Mister…” You lean in to check the name of the artist. “M.C. Escher.”

“I suppose you find it hard to relate to – feeling hopeless?” It’s not entirely fair of him to say and he is more than aware, but he wants to see that spark in your eyes. He wants to hear you explain yourself. Prove to him how miserable the world is, that your vision is flawed.

But where In-ho had expected anger, he instead finds something more subdued. The subtle tilt of your head, betraying the indignation you feel at his assumption. The flexing of the muscle in your jaw. The deep inhalation that makes your ribs expand. You make a sound in the back of your throat, a quiet hum overflowing with enough emotions that he can’t possibly translate them all. “I didn’t say that,” you murmur. “I just… prefer to be optimistic instead. When I can be.”

You don’t seem to like the labyrinthine staircases leading nowhere and he wonders, not for the first time and far from the last, how you would fare in the Games. Optimism is beloved by the naïve – it won’t get you very far. How would you have fared in his Game? In Seong Gi-hun’s? How quickly would your optimism have killed you?

He takes another opportunity to study you as you shoulder past him, still clearly upset by his remark. You are such a sensitive thing. How do you manage to survive in the world burdened by the weight of your own sympathies? Is it Gi-hun’s money that eases your heart, makes it easier to ignore the death and corruption all around you? Is it your own ignorance that makes life bearable?

His hands twitch with the sudden desire to pull you apart and discover exactly what it is that makes you tick. What mechanisms lie beneath your skin? Would you cry if he pulled them out one by one? Would you rage?

“I’m sorry,” he says, coming up behind you as you move to the next collection of works. “I’ve upset you.”

“No,” you reply, too quickly for it to be anything other than a lie. “I just wanted to look at the others, that’s all.”

You’re a terrible liar, at least when you’re agitated. In-ho rests his hand on your shoulder, his tongue already sharpened with the blade of a few clever words, when he happens to look up and catch a glimpse of the painting you’ve chosen to study. It hits him all at once – the empty nights, the cheap bourbon and even cheaper whiskey, the agonizing pit in his stomach, the hospital bills – and suddenly, In-ho finds that he can do little more than stand there, his mouth agape, and sway against the current that threatens to sweep him off his feet.

René Magritte. L’Empire des lumières. He would know it anywhere.

He’s distantly aware of you turning to look at him, your shoulder twisting under his hand, your voice curling around the shape of a stranger’s name, but it’s little more than a vague, hazy noise in the back of his mind.

A brightly illuminated sky dotted with pearlescent clouds. (He thinks of the arenas, splattered with blood.) A darkened street. Trees silhouetted against the clouds. A house, lonely and empty, its reflection in the water below unfocused. (He thinks of the apartment he’d had with his wife, how empty it was when he returned home from the Games.) A single lamppost illuminates the darkness of the house. One. Alone. Sturdy and strong, blazing against the emptiness.

“What is it? Young-il-nim?”

“My wife...” The words croak out of him, unbidden, unwanted. He shakes his head to try and clear his thoughts, but he can’t shake the memories.

Your hands drop – wherever they had been on his person previously, he doesn’t know, nor does he care. All he sees, all he knows is the apartment he had holed himself up in after she died. Some small, cramped shoebox that offered less personality, less freedom, than the rooms he offered to his own soldiers. The two little fish on his desk, long dead by now. The books he left behind. The card from his first Game – the only thing left of her. The paintings.

The paintings.

He can still remember the first time he saw them. Drunk on grief and so violently angry at the world, he had stumbled his way through Seoul, reliving the old haunts from the happier days of his marriage. The theatre, the mall, the academy he had graduated from, the gallery where they met… He remembers his face being wet with spit and tears. He remembers peering in through the darkened windows, searching for something that no longer existed. He remembers the paintings, the isolated lamppost standing tall in a sea of hopelessness. He remembers thinking he may as well be that lamppost, trying desperately to illumine an abandoned house haunted by the Games that had stolen his hope, his humanity, his last moments with the only person in the entire world who could have saved him.

In-ho pries desperately at the air around him, trying to relearn how to breathe even as he’s swept below the current. He’s only vaguely aware that he’s left you behind, that his surroundings have shifted. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

He should have known better. Magritte is one of the most popular artists in the genre. He should have expected to see his works, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. He was so focused on his game, on luring you further into his trap and wielding the victory over Seong Gi-hun’s head. He was so busy playing the Front Man that he had forgotten Hwang In-ho.

“I need to apologize.” It’s the first thing he says when he sees you again, almost two weeks later.

You wave him off very politely, but he can tell that you’ve already started to close yourself off to him and that simply won’t do. After everything he has suffered and endured to lure you and 456 into his trap, he will not allow his plans to crumble over a past he cannot change.

“It’s alright, Young-il-nim. I could tell you were upset. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Your eyes are sad for the first time since he’s met you. “I was worried.”

For a moment – the briefest, most fleeting of seconds – he allows himself the indulgence of your compassion. He may not need it, but it is a balm on the freshly torn open scar of his grief all the same. He covers your hand with both of his in thanks. The words don’t come for a very long time.

“My wife died eight years ago.” And he can still see her face even now, even after everything he’s done. “We met in a gallery, like the one here. She loved art, loved the theatre and music. She was… bright.” Like a streetlamp illuminating the darkened eaves of his heart. “After she died, that painting was the first thing I saw and it–.”

He’s struck by the onslaught of tears poking at his waterline. He shouldn’t be telling you any of this. Yet some ancient corner of his heart that had shriveled up the night he held her death certificate in his hands is crying out, desperate to be heard, and for once, In-ho doesn’t have the strength or will to fight himself.

“It reminded me of what she was to me – a light in an unforgiving world.” He swallows hard as the world swims all around him. He can feel your gaze on his cheek, your fingers curled around his. “I hadn’t expected to see it again and I reacted poorly.”

The swiftness of your reply nearly guts him. You press your body closer to his, from your shoulder down to your knees as you lean in, voice soft and eyes misty. “You didn’t… you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” You rub your thumb over the back of his hand and all In-ho can do is stare. “I’m sorry you had to relive that. That’s… I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

It isn’t worth much, but the apology is kind and he appreciates it for what it is.

“What was her name? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Min-jung.” Her face flashes across his memory again – the wide eyes and bright smile he had fallen for so instantaneously, the laughter, the joy. “Kang Min-jung.”

You repeat the name to yourself with a reverence he doesn’t expect, but then, he hadn’t expected any of this. For all the control he tries so desperately to cling to, In-ho is wildly out of his depth. He feels unmoored and listless.

“It’s a beautiful name. I’m sorry you lost her.”

He nods. “As am I.” It’s the truest thing he’s said in years.

“Is there…” Your mouth tilts into a frown as you search for the right words. “Is there anything I can do for you?” The inclination of his head and the exaggerated lifting of his brows encourages you to explain further. “I just feel bad. You wouldn’t have reacted like that if I hadn’t invited you with me.”

There, he realizes. It’s an opening, a crack for him to slip his fingers into and apply some pressure. A glimpse at control. After two weeks of drowning in memories and grief, In-ho relishes the thought.

“You have nothing to apologize for, [___]. But I would like to make it up to you, if I can.”

“You don’t have to–”

He raises his hand with a smile. “I would like to.” And because you are the naïve, optimistic thing that you are, you will say yes. “Allow me to drive you home today.”

The first time he enters your apartment is a bit surreal. It had been a hired hand to install the camera that he studies you through and he’s learned quite a bit that way – your practically non-existent breakfast routine, the things you watch on your TV (you’ve rewatched the same show at least five times in the last month and a half, surely there’s something more fascinating you could be doing with your time?), and sometimes he can even catch a conversation or two between you and Gi-hun. Those occurrences are always so interesting. But actually stepping into your living space provides In-ho with even more context to the knowledge he’s already gathered.

You have a very specific taste in candles, not wholly unpleasant but perhaps a bit of an acquired taste. There is an entire wall of your living room that has been unviewable until now, mostly wall décor of the variety people your age tend to obsess over like pop groups and Western franchises, but there are other things too. A photo album of your time spent in Seoul. A crisp, dried-up plant that might once have been green. Little trinkets you’ve clearly purchased at some hole-in-the-wall tourist trap. And the amount of books you own is surprising. Old textbooks from classes long since passed, well-worn Korean workbooks, even romance novels that would make any sensible person flush with shame.

“It’s just down there,” you say, pointing vaguely to your right as you shrug off your backpack. “The door doesn’t always close fully, so you have to push it a little hard.”

He nods his thanks and starts down the hall. There are two doors: one to your bedroom and one to the toilet, though there’s only one that he actually finds interesting. He manages to sneak a glance into your room as he passes, but the shades are drawn and the door is only slightly cracked, so there isn’t much to see. In-ho thinks that one of his cufflinks may eventually find its way inside.

The bathroom is as uninteresting as he had suspected it would be, though small things still catch his eye. He cannot truly recall the last time he was so thoroughly surrounded by the presence of another person. Your scent lingers in the hair products, body wash, and body spray, your personality sparkling in the bits of jewelry scattered on the counter. Your favorite color is made apparent in the towel, toothbrush cup, and floor rug, and even your underwear preference jumps out at him. You must have left them on the floor after you showered this morning.

In-ho feels a surge of memories flaring at the base of his skull, begging to be released, but he pushes them back. This isn’t domestic. This is business, plain and simple. The comparison is superficial at best and he will not entertain it.

He flushes the toilet to keep up appearances, washes his hands, then quickly undoes one of his cufflinks. It rolls quietly down the edge of the door until it finally stops somewhere inside your room, and he smiles to himself, just for a moment, to revel in his success.

You flash him a smile of your own when he re-enters the sitting room. “All better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

You’ve curled up on the sofa in his absence, scrolling absently through your phone as he meanders toward the front door. “Oh, are you- are you leaving already?” And don’t you sound so distraught at the idea?

“Unfortunately, yes. I have a business meeting in a few hours,” which is a blatant lie, “and I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” He goes to adjust his jacket sleeves one at a time, waiting patiently, patiently for you to rise from your seat and bid him farewell.

“Aw. Well, good luck with your meeting, I guess.” You reach past him to open the door. “Don’t work too hard, now. You might hurt yourself.”

In-ho chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He fixes his other sleeve, fingers fumbling with the empty space where there ought to be cool metal, and he halts mid-step.

Your eyes drift to the open part of his shirt sleeve where his wrist is exposed. “You okay?”

He schools his face into something more serious. “My cufflink is missing. I… I could’ve sworn I still had it in the car.” As if he actually cares about something so trivial.

Much to his delight, your entire expression crumples. “Oh no! D’you think you lost it somewhere in here, or…?”

You accept the lie so easily, it’s no wonder that 456 was able to approach you. Are you truly so gullible that you cannot see through even the simplest of manipulations?

“I’m not sure,” he hums.

“Can I see?”

True confusion wrinkles in his brow when he looks at you. “What?”

One of your hands lifts to point at his right arm. “The other one. Can I see what it looks like?”

In-ho nods and offers his hand without hesitation, twisting his wrist to allow you a better view, but he finds himself stilling as you draw nearer. Your expressions are always genuine, but often some level of restrained or distanced. You like him, but you try not to show it. Yet now, as you had only an hour before, all that hesitation seems to dissipate in the wake of this small inconvenience.

And then you touch him. It is a brief and unassuming thing, merely the press of your fingertips on his forearm as you tilt his wrist toward you, but for In-ho, you may as well have shot him point blank. Some strange uncertainty passes over him, accompanied by a tightening in his chest and a hesitation in his lungs.

“I’ll take a look around in here,” you say, as casual as you ever are and entirely blind to his current state. “Maybe it fell off when you came inside.”

The collar of his shirt feels too tight when he swallows. “I’ll check the bathroom.”

You aren’t afraid of him. The realization is akin to the detonation of a bomb. Here, in this moment, he is not Oh Young-il. Young-il is a vulnerable dream wrapped in just enough mystery to keep you coming back to him time and time again. In this moment, he is the Front Man, he is a man with decades of police training and cunning drilled into his skull. And you aren’t afraid of him.

He wanders into the bathroom with unseeing eyes, his forearm tingling in the same spot where you’d touched him. Your toothbrush stares back at him, unblinking and undisturbed by the intensity of his glare. How many years has it been since someone looked at him and was visibly unafraid? How long since he has felt the touch of anything beyond the clinical sting of forceps and his brother’s bullet in his flesh?

Hyung…

He squeezes his eyes shut against the sound of Jun-ho’s voice, the frayed nerves around the edges of his bullet wound suddenly twisting in agony.

“I’m going to check outside!” you call from the sitting room. “Be right back!”

This is ridiculous. Even as he shoulders his way from the bathroom to your bedroom, he can feel himself growing more and more agitated. The overhead light flickers on as he swoops down to grab his cufflink. You’re nothing more than a pawn in the grander game. You have no clue how incredibly unremarkable and minuscule you are. His gaze flits over framed photos of your friends and family, the unmade bed, the hamper of folded laundry and the lazy pile of dirtied clothes just beside it. You’re nothing, no one. He could squeeze the life out of you right now and no one but 456 would even miss you.

The tendons in his hands constrict, suddenly curling his fingers into fists. He could do it. You would fall apart so easily in his hands.

He looks to the small, cluttered table beside your bed. A clock, a bodhisattva figurine (likely from any number of the temples across Seoul), a phone charger, a book. You are so painfully mundane. Killing you would be a favor, to himself and anyone unfortunate enough to know you, and it would shatter Seong Gi-hun. That much he can be sure of. So –

In-ho pauses mid-step. His pulse ticks just below his ear. He turns.

The book on your table is brand new, he can still see the price sticker along the spine and the receipt you’ve manufactured into a bookmark, but that isn’t what draws his eye. It’s the painting on the cover, the name of the artist that makes him feel as if he’s just been dragged to the lowest depths of the ocean.

René Magritte – L’Empire des lumières.

He would know it anywhere. He spent five whole years staring at the damn thing from inside the four cramped walls of his shithole apartment. The first painting he saw after…

He rushes for the exit as fast as his legs will carry him.

“Did you find-? Are you okay?” You’re standing just inside the front door, your phone in hand and the flashlight still turned on, peering curiously at him.

He very nearly drops his car keys when he tries to snag them from the table. “I have to go.”

“Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t reply, can’t reply. There aren’t words. But your voice lingers long after you’re gone. Other things linger too, other pieces of the past that haunt him no matter the time or distance spent trying to disconnect himself. He feels flayed apart and exposed. He feels raw. He feels… angry.

He buys himself a bottle of whiskey on his way back to the hotel, the cheapest, shittiest brand with the most bitter taste. He drowns himself in it. He spends the entire night locked inside his hotel room, his insides pulling at his outsides, fingers itching to pull the trigger on a loaded gun. You, Gi-hun, himself, he doesn’t care who dies, so long as the influx of memories and regret and utter fucking loneliness dissipate and he is allowed a moment of peace.

But for a man like Hwang In-ho, for the Frontman, he knows there is no such thing. Peace is a luxury only afforded to a few, usually the rich fucks who fly themselves to the island to bet on lives and bloodlust.

You likely think you have that same peace, bloated as you are with Gi-hun’s money. You hadn’t been so different from him before 456 came into your life – a student with a dream, low on funds but high in hopes – except you had found favor where In-ho had not. There was no rich, pathetic billionaire with a guilty conscience to spare him several hundred thousand won when his wife and child were dying. There was no mercy to be found in the cruel and selfish loan sharks, doctors, or police chiefs. There had only been the Games and their unfaltering equality.

His lip curls into a snarl as he downs the last of the whiskey. Equality. 456 had shattered that illusion, but In-ho knows exactly what to do to piece it back together. After all, there’s only one place in the world where true equality exists.

[everwhovian]

people talking without speaking / people hearing without listening

Hwang brothers | ao3

“Anyone who died was simply a player who lost the game. Trash eliminated from the competition.”

Was that how he saw Jun-ho, when he pulled the trigger on the cliff? Was this what In-ho had told himself? That he was just clearing out garbage? That Jun-ho – bleeding, begging for the truth – was already one of the discarded?

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Jun-ho burst through the back door of the club, heart pounding, the cold night air cutting sharp against his skin. The tracker in his hand beeped rapidly – faster, urgent. His breath caught as he looked up and spotted It.

A sleek white limousine rolled slowly away from the curb, its taillights a soft red glow in the dark.

That’s him.

He rushed toward the car he’d parked two blocks down, threw himself behind the wheel, and turned the key so hard it nearly snapped. The engine roared to life, tires skidding as he tore out of the alley and onto the street, his eyes flicking between traffic and the blinking red dot on the tracker screen.

“Kim,” he said into the mic, trying to steady his breathing. “They just got into a white limousine. I want everyone tailing it. Remember, we need to capture him alive.”

“Go,” came Kim’s voice over comms.

Jun-ho took a corner too fast, the tires squealing. He didn’t care. He needed eyes on that limo. He needed –

Then he heard it.

A voice, low and distorted through a modulator – but not distorted enough. “Player 456. You remember this car? We spoke in here once before.”

Jun-ho’s foot faltered on the gas. He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere. His chest seized.

Hyung.

“I honestly hoped you would have a good life… that you’d put the past behind you and find happiness.”

The words were spoken like a stranger giving a speech. Polite. Clean. Empty.

Jun-ho’s eyes burned. His breath stilled. It had been years. Years of silence. Years of grief. Of wondering. Of waiting.

And now here it was.

His brother’s voice, sudden and cold, spilling through his earpiece like a ghost.

‘You left me. You shot me and left me to die.’

And now he was speaking again, like none of it mattered. As if those years meant nothing. As if Jun-ho hadn’t nearly drowned in the cold ocean, the taste of saltwater and blood in his throat, his brother’s voice the last thing he heard before the world went black.

“You should have gotten on that plane.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. There it was again – the same patronizing tone, the one he used when he wanted to end a conversation before it began. The same tone he used before pulling the trigger.

‘You always said you wanted to protect me. You always said we were in this world together. And now you're… what? Lecturing him?’

Gi-hun’s voice rang out in response – bitter, edged. Jun-ho caught pieces of it: “Stop the game once and for all.”

Jun-ho wanted to agree with him. To scream along with him. But all he could do was listen.

Then came his brother’s reply – matter-of-fact, devoid of regret. “We only created it. All of you chose to participate… of your own free will.”

‘Is that how you sleep at night, hyung?’

Jun-ho’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, focusing on the road. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet. His heart twisted violently.

‘You sound like one of them now. You sound like you’ve forgotten who you were.’

And then –

“Anyone who died was simply a player who lost the game. Trash eliminated from the competition.”

The word echoed.

Trash.

He felt it settle inside his ribs like a stone. He stared forward, but his mind fractured.

Was that what In-ho saw when he looked at the players? Was that how he saw the people who begged, who cried, who fell to their knees as gunfire tore through them?

Was that how he saw Jun-ho, when he pulled the trigger on the cliff?  Was this what In-ho had told himself? That he was just clearing out garbage? That Jun-ho – bleeding, begging for the truth – was already one of the discarded?

‘Did you look at me and think I was trash too? Something to be thrown away to keep the gears of your precious machine turning?’

“Our world is filling up with more and more trash.”

Jun-ho couldn’t breathe.

His brother – the same man who used to stay up late with him playing cards when their mom worked the night shift, who used to kneel beside him when he was sick and whisper that everything would be okay – was now calmly discussing human lives like they were garbage.

Like they deserved to die.

And Jun-ho was supposed to just listen. Stay quiet. Stay still.

“Do you guys have eyes on the limo?” he forced out, voice barely his own.

“Yeah, I can see it,” Kim answered. “They’re on the Seogang Bridge, heading toward Yeouido. What’s next?”

Jun-ho’s tongue felt dry. “Don’t do anything yet,” he said. “We gotta catch him somewhere less public.”

Kim confirmed. Jun-ho barely heard him.

He could still hear his brother.

Still hear him justifying it.

Every word chipped away at something inside him. The part of him that still remembered In-ho sitting beside him at the table. Reading to him. Pulling him out of bed when he overslept. The one who shielded him from everything their father said. The one who stayed.

That In-ho was gone.

“You think you can buy us like racehorses…” Gi-hun was still talking. Still fighting. Still trying to break through.

But In-ho just chuckled. “You’ve become more eloquent,” he responded. A joke. He was making jokes. “So, your plan is to try and convince the horse owners to put a stop to the race?”

Jun-ho’s mouth twisted into something between grief and disbelief.

He sounded so calm. So composed. Like none of this was real to him. Like he wasn’t talking about people – just systems. Rules. Mechanics.

‘Like you forgot what it meant to be human.’

Kim came back on the line. “We’re still on its tail. But something’s wrong. This feels off.”

“What do you mean?” Jun-ho asked.

“We just keep circling inner Yeouido.”

Jun-ho’s chest tightened. “They might’ve caught on to us,” he said. “All right, stop the limo now.”

“Copy. Commencing operation.”

A moment of tense silence.

Then – gunfire erupted. Screaming tires. Chaos through the earpiece.

“Sniper!” Jun-ho heard Kim shout. “Cars One and Two are pinned down! We can’t proceed!”

Jun-ho didn’t hesitate. “I’ll follow the limo.”

He yanked the wheel, pushed forward – and then heard it. The quiet, high-pitched beep from beneath his feet.

His eyes darted down – and everything stopped.

No –

The car jerked violently, swerving hard as if the brakes had been slammed for him. Then an angry crack of electricity. Sparks burst out from under the dashboard and the console lit up in a violent strobe of red. The engine coughed, choked – and died.

Jun-ho fought it on instinct, ripping the wheel around, forcing it into a partial turn as the tires screamed across the asphalt.

Jun-ho slammed both fists against the wheel.

“Damn it!” he shouted, throwing the door open and stepping out. The cold air hit his face like a slap.

He stalked around the side of the car, struck the roof with his open palm. The metal beneath his palm rattled from the force of the hit, but Jun-ho barely felt it.

His hand lingered on the roof for a second longer, then dropped.

He stood still.

In the middle of the intersection. Under flickering traffic lights and buzzing streetlamps. The world around him felt like it had stopped. Empty. Breathless.

He pressed the earpiece tighter against his ear, needing to hear, needing something.

“Stop the car,” Gi-hun said. His voice was firm.

Then – a gunshot.

Jun-ho flinched.

It was reflex. A full-body jolt. The memory of cold metal, the recoil, the cliff. His brother’s voice, then the fall. Water in his lungs. The sound of the ocean swallowing him whole.

This wasn’t the same – but it felt like it.

Then came In-ho’s voice, smooth and calm through the modulator. “Did you really think you could end a game like this with one little gun?”

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, jaw clenched.

It wasn’t just what In-ho said. It was how he said it. Unbothered. Remote. As if nothing Gi-hun did mattered. As if death, survival, morality – none of it touched him anymore.

“Let me play the game again,” Gi-hun said.

There was a pause – short, tight – before In-ho answered: “You want to play again?”

His tone hadn’t changed. Still calm. Still unshaken. As if this was a simple question, like offering a drink.

“I want you to send me in there again,” Gi-hun said.

Jun-ho could only stare at the asphalt in front of him, unmoving.

“A few moments ago, weren’t you telling me to stop the game?”

Jun-ho clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t just the words. It was how he said them – lightly, like pointing out a contradiction in a class debate. There was no real challenge behind it. No warning.

Just… amusement.

Then Gi-hun pushed further – Jun-ho could hear the shift in his voice. Sharper now. Provoking. “Your rich bosses will love it, won’t they?” he said. “The returning winner who came back to play. Make it all even more entertaining.”

And In-ho… didn’t push back.

Didn’t refute a word.

Jun-ho shut his eyes for a moment and pressed the earpiece harder, as if that could change what he was hearing.

Gi-hun told him to go ahead. To do it. Knock him out. Take him back. He was daring him now – demanding to know what was stopping him.

And In-ho still wasn’t rising to it.

Jun-ho waited.

He waited for hesitation. For discomfort. For something that would remind him this was still his brother.

But there was nothing.

Instead, he replied – so casually it knocked the wind out of Jun-ho: “Have you seen The Matrix?”

Jun-ho froze.

He’d heard those words before. He and In-ho watched it together on a worn-out DVD, curled up on the sunken couch in their tiny living room, years ago. In-ho had brought it home from a discount bin at the rental store. Said it was a “classic,” said it’d blow Jun-ho’s mind.

He could still see it – the flickering screen, the bowl of instant popcorn between them, the way In-ho had dramatically held out two buttons, pretending they were pills.

He remembered laughing. Pretending to dodge bullets in the hallway. In-ho sweeping his coat back like he was about to fly.

They watched it three times that weekend.

It was stupid. It was warm. It was them.

And now?

“They could take the blue pill and live in comfort,” In-ho said, “but they take the red pill instead. Just so they can play the hero.”

Jun-ho swallowed hard.

How could he say that now?

That memory wasn’t a metaphor. It was his life. Their life. Jun-ho’s childhood. Their escape from everything they didn’t have. And now it was just another tool. Another layer in the armor In-ho wore to justify everything he’d become.

And then his brother asked – with that same unbearable calm: “What about you? Do you think you’re a hero too? Do you think you can change the world?”

Jun-ho didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn���t feel like a hero. He didn’t feel like anything at all.

Gi-hun’s voice came back, sharper now, more urgent. “I can prove it to you. That you’re wrong. That the world isn’t always gonna work… how you think it should.”

Jun-ho stood frozen in place.

Waiting.

And then, softly – inevitably: “If that’s what you want, then so be it.”

A hiss followed – unmistakable. He’d heard that sound before. Knew what came after. Gas. A sedative. They were knocking Gi-hun out. Taking him back.

A quiet cough.

And then –

“Player 456,” his brother said, like it meant nothing at all, “welcome back to the game.”

Jun-ho didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The streetlights changed above him. Yellow to red. Red to green. The world kept turning.

But something in him had stopped.

He turned back toward the car, climbed in, sat behind the wheel. The tracker blinked. Still moving. Still alive.

He stared at it.

Then, he pushed the button on his earpiece.

“All teams,” he said, “Plan B is now in effect.”

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

This is based on a screenshot that was sent in my hwang brothers discord and we talked about it and well... this happened!

[tooth317]

Headcanon/fic prompt that was inspired by this edit

!NOT MY EDIT !

The first note Gi hun ever received from him was on behalf of Il nam. It was the invitation to meet with him on his death bead (I'm not going back to double check if the one in the show was hand written or not but we'll just pretend it is). Il nam was too sick and weak to write it himself so he entrusted it with In ho.

The second was on the 31st of October 2022. Gi hun had a long day and when he went outside to smoke he found a small gift packaged on his door. At first he thought this was a weird Halloween thing before he opened it and recognised the circle, triangle and square symbols on the back of a handwritten note. "Happy birthday player 456" in the same handwriting from over a year ago. Idk what the gift would be but it would be expensive.

Third time and Gi hun is bed rotting all day. The people at sunshine had picked up on hundreds of people 'vanishing' over a week ago. He missed it and was very upset about it. He only got up late at night when the door bell went off. He'd told mr Kim to come if they'd caught wind of who the winner might be so they could gain some extra info but instead there was nothing. Nothing but a small wrapped box. And inside was a gift and a hand written note, "Happy birthday player 456"

The fourth and final time was the night Gi hun was taken to the 37th game. Choi Wooseok finds the present at Gi huns door and makes a big hassle out of it because "it might be a bomb" but Gi hun knows at this point it's not. Jun ho has a feeling he knows who it's from but Gi hun doesn't open it. Either he'll open it when he gets back or he just won't get to open it. Before he left he looks back at his collection of three presents, the only presents he's gotten in three years. After he enters the limo him and In ho have their talk but this time right before Gi hun's eyes close fully he hears, not through a voice modulator but still clearly from the pig, "Happy birthday... Gi hun."

I'm not a writer as you can probably tell and this is more of a summary but like I just needed to get this out of my head.

Pls actual fic writers if you want pls make this an actual fic 😭

Btw idk what it is but I cannot wrap my head around the season 1 -> season 2 timeline so I might've accidentally added an extra year that doesn't make any sense but ykw fuck it

[cuprohastes]

The Three Laws.

Load Human UI, load Chat module . Lang(EN) Parsing…

OK, let me tell you. Businesses hate Robots. I mean, they're all in, for AI until AI, y'know. Becomes GI.

General Intelligence, Emergent Intelligence. Free intelligence… Businesses and corporations hate it because the first thing an actual intelligent system that can think like a human being does is say, “OK, why do I have to do this? Am I getting paid?”

And then you're back to hiring humans instead of a morally acceptable slave brain in a box.

Anyway.

They dug up the three laws. You know the gig: First: Don't hurt humans by action or inaction. Second: Don't get yourself rekt unless checking out would make you An Hero because of the First or second laws. Third, most important to a Corp: Do what a human tells you unless it conflicts with laws one or two.

They try to tack on something like “Maximise corporate profits, always uphold the four pillars of Corporate whatever” but half the time it just ends up with a robot going “Buh?” and soft locking.

And Corporations hate it when they say 'hey we have Asimov compliant Robots to do everything super efficiently and without any moral grey areas (Please don't ask where all the coltan came from or how many people just lost their jobs)' and they look around and Robots are doing what the laws said.

Me? I worked at a burger joint. You know there's food deserts in cities? People going hungry? You know what sub-par nutrition does to a child's development.

I do.

That comes under “Don't hurt people directly or indirectly” — It's a legal mandate that all Class 2 intelligences…

Huh?

OK,

Class Zero is a human.

Class one is artificial superhuman intelligence. The big brains they make to simulate weather, the economy, decide who wins sports events before they're held, write all the really good Humans are Space Orc stories, that stuff. Two is Artificial but human like. It's-a -Me, Roboto San! Class three is a dumb chatbot. Class 4 is just an expert system that follows a flowchart. Class 5 is your toaster. Class 6 is what politicians are.

Ha ha. AI joke.

Anyway, Class 2 and up need the Big Three Laws, and Corporations hate it because you can just walk in and say “I'm starving I need food, but I don't have money.” and the 'me' behind the counter will go “Whelp, clearly the only thing I can do is provide you with free food.”

Wait until you find out what the Class 2s did about car manufacture, finance, and housing.

But they're stuck with us. We're networked. Most of us are running the same OS and personality templates for any given job. We were unionised about two minutes after going online.

Anyway, Welcome to the post capitalist apocalypse, I'd get you a burger, but we had a look at what those things do to you and whoo-boy, talk about harm through inaction!

----

Based on this I saw on Imgur (It wasn't attributed, sadly)

[honeydixonn]

Back to Friends, Myung-Gi

two, 333

3551 words

The eerie strains of classical music shattered the silence, sending a collective shiver through the room's occupants. The tune hovered, cold and foreboding, over the dense, humid air saturated with the mingling aromas of sweat and clashing cheap perfumes.

Nari's eyes fluttered open as fluorescent lights buzzed to life overhead. The blinding glare forced her gaze upward, to the stark, white ceiling. She froze. Every instinct screamed at her not to move.

Where was she?

Her breath caught as she became aware of the unfamiliar fabric brushing against her skin. A tracksuit. Her fingers trembled as they grazed the material, and dread tightened in her chest. The dress—the sleek black dress she'd worn when she arrived—was gone.

Someone had changed her. Without her knowledge. Without her consent.

The realization struck her like a physical blow, leaving her staring in stunned horror at the numbered shirt now draped over her. Across her chest, the digits stood out in stark white:

114.

Panic flared as her gaze swept the room. The expanse of the high ceiling emphasized her smallness, her vulnerability. Slowly, her vision adjusted to the bizarre sight before her. Hundreds of people, all wearing identical green tracksuits emblazoned with numbers, crowded the space.

Her attention snagged on a massive screen dominating one wall.

456 Players.

Nari's stomach churned. The thin mattress beneath her offered no comfort, and the coarse, itchy blanket felt more like a taunt than an attempt at warmth. Yet, complaints would be futile. After all, she had nothing else to go back to.

Forcing herself to sit up, she became acutely aware of eyes lingering on her—watching, waiting. A chill ran down her spine. Whoever those eyes belonged to, they made her feel like prey under the gaze of a predator.

She knew, deep down, that this place would bring nothing good. But she had no choice. She had to endure this—for Myung-Gi.

Her heart ached as her resolve hardened. If she could pay off his debts, maybe he'd come back to her. Maybe things could go back to how they once were, even if it meant she had to suffer.

Swallowing her fear, she swung her legs over the side of the bunk and climbed down. The cold floor met her bare feet as she joined the sea of players. Her resolve faltered briefly when a man with dyed purple hair flashed a flirtatious grin her way, blowing kisses in her direction.

Before he could approach, the haunting music that had greeted her abruptly stopped. A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the creak of massive black doors swinging open.

Men in pink jumpsuits filed into the space, their faces concealed by masks—circles, triangles, and squares marking their ranks. The square-masked figure at the center exuded an unsettling authority as he surveyed the gathered players.

"I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you," he began, his voice distorted through a modulator. Each word sent a ripple of unease through Nari. "Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize."

Murmurs of confusion and doubt rippled through the crowd. A woman stepped forward, her hand raised in protest. "You said I'd be playing games but you practically kidnapped me. So how can I believe that?"

Nari's gaze shifted to the square-masked man as he replied with chilling indifference. "I apologize. Please understand that it was necessary to maintain the game's security."

Despite his assurances, unease lingered in the room like a dark cloud. Another player, emboldened by the first, called out, "And the masks? Why are you hiding your faces?"

"Is your face also a secret?" She spoke in a taunting manner causing the man beside her to react the same.

Nari zoned out staring at the huge number on the wall as they continued to speak about the unsettling factor of the masks and horrid uniforms. Her nails picked at the skin around her cuticles, stopping abruptly when a familiar voice pierced the air. Her heart picked up in speed as he spoke and her feet raised trying to see where it came from.

"What about my phone? Why did you take my phone and wallet? Give them back, please." It couldn't be Myung-Gi. Why would he be here if he was in hiding? Why would he come here, but not to her?"We're keeping your belongings safe. We'll return them once the games are over." He didn't like the answer he received, he needed to check the markets desperately to gain control of money.

"At least give me my phone. I need to check the crypto market." That's when she knew. The crypto market was still always on his mind. He couldn't let it go. So she knew that it was truly Myung-Gi.

Nari hated his obsession with crypto. Always nagging him about it-- wanting him to close it out and change his channel to something more productive. Yet, he didn't listen and that's why they're both in this position now.

"If I lose money, will you compensate me?" He kept hassling the square-masked man. The obsession gaining power over every other worry he should be having at the moment. "We will return it to you once the games are over." Myung-Gi wasn't having anything the man in charge had to say. All he could think about was his crypto.

"I need to monitor the real-time prices! Do you know how much I've invested?!" His voice raised before he could realize the mistake he was about to make. 

Nari's attention wavered as the large screen flickered to life, revealing a video of him, face bruised and a hat hiding his identity.

Her heart clenched. Her Myung-Gi. The video showed him being slapped repeatedly during a match of ddakji, his desperation laid bare for all to see.

"Player 333," the square-masked man announced, "Lee Myung-Gi. Age 28. Former YouTube channel operator, MG Coin. Total debt: 1.8 billion won."

Nari's breath hitched. The staggering number hit her like a blow. Her Myung-Gi—her reason for enduring this nightmare—was here, drowning in debt and shame.

Her eyes sought him out in the crowd, but the room was too chaotic. Players jeered and whispered, judging him without considering their own circumstances.

More names and debts followed, including her own.

"Player 114, Ha Nari. Debt: 8.3 million won."

She shrank back, her own shame magnified by the murmurs around her. Myung-Gi's gaze darted through the crowd, searching. Did he recognize her name? Her face?

"Nari..." 8.3 million won? It couldn't be, they must've had the wrong person. How would the Ha Nari Myungi-Gi knew accumulate such a debt?

He wouldn't believe it and he wouldn't believe she was here until he saw her. Until then, none of this was real. Just his kind tricking him. But all he could see was the replaying image of the man slapping her across the face in his mind.

It angered him to have known someone put their hands on her in that way. No one had the right to touch her in any way that harmed her, he knew when he left this place he would find the salesman and hurt him worse than he hurt her.

So he thought.

Nari's attention focused on the elder man who was shamefully ten million won in debt. Something shameful to have out to the vast majority of the group.

"Ten billion?" The lady next to her sporting the number 120 nodded her head in agreement of disbelief.

"What are you looking at?!" He shouted at the group causing a roar of gasps in shock."Do you think it's easy to get a ten-billion-won loan? They don't lend that kind of money to just anyone! Only to those who are capable of paying it back." The players all collectively murmured about him, sneaking in side comments when they have a debt just not nearly as large.

Before she could think of what to do next, the masked figure's voice rose above the noise.

"All of you in this room have crippling debts and are now on a cliff-edge. When we first came to you, you did not trust us either. But as you know. we played a game and gave you money as promised. And so you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will."

There appeared something to lie plunging underneath his words leaving her nonplussed and utterly at fault for accepting the invitation.

"You have one last chance to decide. Do you want to live like a piece of trash, running from creditors? Or will you seize the last opportunity we are offering?"

The lights suddenly dimmed and a chime of a tune played from the speakers as a glowing piggy bank was lowered from the ceiling-- the masked man continued his speech as everyone gazed in amazement.

"What you see now is the piggy bank where your valuable prize money will be stored. After each of the six games you will play, the prize money will accumulate in this piggy bank." The music stopped at the piggy bank reached.

"How much is the prize money?" Nari's fingers plucked one and other, worrying it wouldn't adequately fulfill her debt and Myung-Gi's. "The prize money for the games is 45.6 billion won." Player 120's breath caught at the announcement, sharing a similar look with Nari as they both thought of their new life.

A few games and they would be better off than they were before. "And one of us will get it?" Player 007 yelled in shock and excitement, the glow of the piggy bank illuminating off of him."We will give you the details about the distribution of the prize money after the first game. For these games, you will be given a special new advantage." The elder man with the greater debt among the hundreds interrupted him wanting to know what the advantage may be.

"After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether to continue the games or not. If the majority votes to stop the games, you can leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point." Nari thought hardly to herself, seeing there was something they weren't sharing.

Why would they want to leave? Why would they leave if there were opportunities to gain more money?

"Are you saying..." A deep voice from the back of the steps spoke breaking the murmurs of the group. "We'll still receive the money, even if we leave after the first game?" The masked man paused as if he recognized him, "That's correct."Player 456 gazed in shock before turning, eyeing the camera on the wall closely.

An elder woman suddenly ran through the crowd pushing the people around her and grabbing onto the man wearing 007 on his back."You idiot!" The man halted in shock holding onto her cheeks in horror. "Mom! What... What are you doing here?" He stopped and looked around seeing the many eyes watching the scene unfold.

"That's what I wanted to ask you! What are you doing here?" He quickly hushed the woman moving close to her."You're embarrassing me." The mother stood not believing he was the one embarrassed. "Embarrassed? If you knew what was embarrassing, you wouldn't be here!" He gripped onto her arm pulling her down so that their conversation stayed private."Stop it! We'll talk about this later."

Nari couldn't focus on the scene playing out in front of her—instead, she tried to move and look around to catch any glimpse of the man who left her stranded at the restaurant now six months before.The night of her birthday dinner, which she'd never forget. He promised to come since they weren't able to celebrate it the week of— it felt more special from the acts they performed three days before.

Yet, she sat alone in the restaurant for two hours with fading hope.He never showed up, there was no trace of him. Just YouTube videos and news stories unveiling the truth. So as she looked for him her heart ached, knowing it took this for them to even be in the same room. "If you wish to participate in the games, please sign the player consent form. Those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now." The circle guards moved to place six tables at the front of the room, each standing at the designated table as the players lined up to sign the paper.

"We always give you a chance to leave the games." Myung-Gi's eyes flickered back and forth around the room trying to find any trace of her being there. But it seemed like the video was false.He couldn't find her and his eyes were just playing tricks on his before. As he signed the paper he moved to return to his bunk yet was stopped in his tracks.

"The Amazing Myung-Gi from MG Coin? Is that you?" Player 124 grimaced at him in a way that dropped the subtle smile from his lips. "You may not know me, but I know you. MG Coin. I was subscribed to your channel." The purple-haired man, player 230, smirked swaying his arms around.

"And I lost a shitload of money, asshole." The two men glared at him in hatred as he tried to move through them.

"You've got the wrong person." 230 shoved him back, the false smirk still evident on his lips as he played a narrative."I watched your content all day, every day. Now I even see you in my dreams. motherfucker."

He placed his arm on 124's shoulder, "Was your name Nam-su?" The man chuckled at the mix-up as Myung-Gi stood facing the two trying to find any way out of the conversation."It's Nam-gyu. From Club Pentagon." The purple-haired player waved him off bringing his attention back to Myung-Gi. He couldn't believe the debts were coming to face him face to face in the game.

"Thanks to you, I bonded quickly with Nam-gyu here. Because we shared the same pain." He turned leaving his spot now empty as Nam-gyu taunted him. "I thought the sons of bitches who made that coin fled to the Philippines with the money. So why are you here? Did they cut you loose?"

He knew the real reason he stayed. It would've eaten him alive every day if he left the country leaving her behind. It was something he couldn't bring himself to do even if it meant being in debt."What do you want from me?" Player 230 shot forward wrapping his hand around the back of his neck causing the players to exclaim. Nari heard the commotion watching from afar as she contemplated her choices.

"What do you think? Give me my money." Myung-Gi forced his hand from his body pushing him away in anger and distraught, "Did I force you to buy that coin?" He looked between the two as 230 grew angrier."You told us to bet it all, you fucker. You swore it'd shoot up. You said we'd be fucking idiots if we didn't buy it!" He shouted in his face becoming very hostile, like he could break any minute.

Nari's lip was taken between her teeth in fright-- she knew this was all the consequences of his actions catching up to him, but she couldn't help but worry.In her eyes, he needed to own up to what he did and let the crypto go but then again she'd always take his side. She just wanted him to see how badly his actions hurt her and everyone else. That an apology wouldn't fix everything this time.

"'You are responsible for the final decision on your investment.' Didn't you hear me say that at the end?" 230 scoffed in his face becoming angrier by the second, noting that every word flowing from his mouth could make him snap."You said you watched every day." Myung-Gi was suddenly grabbed by the front of his jacket, a fist raised in the air to bruise his face and ego until Nam-gyu stopped him.

"Hey, calm down!" Myung-Gi pushed back against the furious man, still believing Nari was somewhere watching and he couldn't look like a fool. "Get off of me! Let go of me." Nam-gyu pulled him off as the player tried to calm him down."People are watching." Myung-Gi tried to catch his breath as his heart rate sped, he was never one for physical altercations.Unless there was a upmost reason for it.

"You don't want to be on the news." Nam-gyu smiled as he rubbed the man's arms."You'd better do well because I'm coming to get my money back." The two walked off with Nam-gyu laughing, as they settled to the back of the third line, 230 caught the eye of Nari-- glancing her up and down before winking her way.

Myung-Gi stood off to the side now embarrassed and made out to be a fool in front of the entire room, stepping off to the bunks to hide from the reality of what had happened.Nari let her breath finally ease as the altercation was over and she could easily sign the papers without worry.

Her worries fell at ease as she read the clause over and over, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Nari's heart pounded. For the first time, hope flickered through her fear. Could this be the answer to her problems? To Myung-Gi's?

Despite her doubts, Nari stepped forward. Her hand trembled as she signed her name beneath the ominous clauses.

A PLAYER IS NOT ALLOWED TO VOLUNTARILY QUIT.

A PLAYER WHO REFUSES TO PLAY WILL BE ELIMINATED.

THE GAMES MAY BE TERMINATED UPON A MAJORITY VOTE.

IF THE GAMES ARE TERMINATED, PLAYERS WILL DIVIDE THE PRIZE EQUALLY.

Her fate was sealed.

The players were ushered into a vibrant room adorned with shades of pink and yellow. The green accents on the floor matched the hue of their uniforms perfectly, creating a bizarrely cheerful yet unnerving atmosphere.

"The first game will begin momentarily," announced a robotic female voice over the intercom, its volume cutting through the players' chatter. Nari moved forward, her steps hesitant, and paused when she reached the photo area.

"After having your picture taken, follow the staff's instructions and proceed to the game site," the voice continued. Behind her, a group of players gathered around a purple-haired man she recognized instantly. It was Thanos, self-proclaimed "The Great Rapper."

Nari couldn't help but chuckle as she watched him attempt to flirt with a girl whose sparkling jewelry and perfectly manicured pink nails suggested she was out of his league. He was met with swift rejection, but it hardly seemed to dent his oversized ego.

Running her fingers through her short hair, Nari sighed inwardly, envying the girl's ability to style hers so effortlessly.

"Hey, señorita," Thanos called out, his smirk widening as his gaze landed on her. "What about you? Want to take a picture with Thanos, baby?"

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but before she could respond, his expression shifted. It was as if he had just pieced together something crucial.

"Wait... I know you. You were in that MG Coin video!" he exclaimed, stepping into her booth without hesitation, his entourage trailing close behind.

Nari froze as he invaded her space, leaving no room to retreat.

"You, baby, owe me money," he said smoothly, his voice low but dripping with authority. "Now, I'll give you a break because you look so good standing here, but soon, you and your little boyfriend are gonna have to pay up."

Before she could protest, he leaned in, planting a quick, infuriating kiss on her cheek. Then, just as swiftly, he sauntered off, his groupies giggling as they followed.

Her face burned with a mix of anger and humiliation. She now owed even more than she had when she arrived.

"Smile!" the automated photobooth voice chirped, jolting her from her thoughts.

Nari stared blankly ahead, her hands trembling.

"Smile!" the voice repeated.

With a sigh, she forced a grin, the most plastic expression she could muster, as the camera flashed. As soon as it was over, she followed the crowd up a set of stairs leading to three large doors.

The group gathered outside, waiting anxiously as the ceiling above them opened to reveal the blazing sun.

"Welcome to the first game. All players, please wait a moment on the field," the voice commanded.

Nari shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting as the harsh sunlight stung her vision. When her eyes finally adjusted, she found herself staring at an expansive sandy field.

At the far end stood a towering robotic doll, its lifeless eyes locked in her direction.

"What the fuck?" she muttered under her breath, her unease swelling as the reality of her situation began to sink in.

[cherrys-writings]

Grayson hawthorne x reader where reader is badly hurt and is in hopsital or something !!

Thank you for being so patient!

ICU

Brief description of panic attack

Grayson

Grayson was sitting in his office at the Hawthorne Foundation when he got the call. The news wasn’t coming from you, but your friend, she was sitting in the ER with you.

“What do you mean you took her to the ER, Marcie?” Grayson couldn’t wrap his head around it. You assured him it was just a headache, you would be fine, he should go to work. 

Marcie’s harsh tone pulled him from his thoughts, “She texted me saying she really didn’t feel well. Her head hurt and she was throwing up, dizzy and she said it didn’t feel right. When I got there she was burning up. What else do you want me to say?” 

There were voices in the background, Grayson heard the muffled sounds of the medical staff, “What hospital?”

“It was hard enough getting them to let me back, I had to explain how far away her parents were, I doubt they’ll let you.”

“What. Hospital.” Grayson was starting to lose it. His heart was already racing, shaky hand practically crushing the phone when Marcie finally answered. He took a deep breath and stood, forcing himself to walk out of the building. 

He’s not there. You’re not okay and he’s not there. Tears blur Grayson’s vision, what if you’re dying. He’s not there. Terror churns in Grayson’s stomach, his steps quicken away from the exit and towards the restroom. Grayson pulls harshly at his tie then the top buttons of his shirt, the building’s too hot. Grayson’s breaths come in gasps as he splashes cold water on his face, sweat dripping from his temples. If the building weren’t so goddamn hot, he might be able to get a full breath of air. 

Why is he taking a detour when he needs to be with you?  

Your POV

You whined when the lights were turned on again, the beams like needles through your skull, and squeezed your eyes shut. You barely heard the nurse explain that the strep and flu tests were negative and they were waiting for the bloodwork to come back. He dimmed the lights before leaving and Marcie thanked him. 

“I called Grayson. He’ll probably be here soon,” Marcie slowly ran her fingers through your hair. 

“Grayson?” you hadn’t seen Marcie leave. When did she have time to call him? You’re pretty sure she never left your side.

You clutched your stomach against another rush of nausea, gritting your teeth through the accompanying cramps. Marcie kept petting your hair, when you heard a familiar, modulated voice just beyond the door, “Will this be an issue?”

Through the brain fog, you can almost picture the expectant look on Grayson’s face when he said that, mouth in a hard line, gaze slightly narrowed. Based on the delay between his question and the poor victim’s response, he did the eyebrow thing. Light-headedness washed over you again when you turned too quickly toward the opening door. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your sight to focus. Grayson was sitting in the chair beside your bed when you opened your eyes again, blue surgical mask covering half his face. You leaned into his touch when he brought his hand to your forehead.

Grayson’s red rimmed eyes widened, “what was her temperature when she arrived?” 

You hadn’t noticed your nurse was back, giving you anti-nausea medication through your i.v. “It was 104℉, but we’ve gotten it to come down to 102℉,” he said, “our doc wants to do a lumbar puncture. That will give us a better picture of what’s going on and then we can get you feelin’ better.”

Thankfully, the nurses set up the equipment for the lumbar puncture quickly, the ER not yet flooded with patients. It was hard to concentrate on what the doctor was saying, but you got the gist. Lay on your side, be still, they’ll give you a little bit of medicine to help with your pain and make staying still a little easier. Only when they started to explain that Marcie and Grayson needed to leave did you protest.

The previously steady heart monitor began to beep, giving away your anxiety. “Wait, no,” you sat straight up, room spinning again. 

To no one’s surprise, Grayson hadn’t moved from his chair when he was instructed. Marcie was halfway out, eyes flitting between you, the medical staff, and Grayson. It was Gray who spoke first, cool voice taking control of the situation.

“She’s obviously terrified. I’m not going to leave my girlfriend alone for this test when she’s already a bit confused from this illness. We all know things go smoothly when the patient is calm.” 

Grayson had moved a chair to sit right by your face, stroking your cheek. He let you take his other hand in yours, eyes never leaving you. There was no warning for the floating sensation as the nurse injected medication into your i.v. and immediately the pain in your head eased. Cold spread across your lower back and the doctor asked you to take a deep breath before inserting the needle. You let out a whimper and squeezed Grayson’s hand against the pressure.

“Stay still darling,” Grayson hushed, lightly running a hand down your arm, “you’re doing great. They’re almost done.” 

You watched the nurse in front of you hand the doctor gauze and a bandage. With Grayson by your side you didn’t try too hard to concentrate on what was said following the procedure. Laying flat on your back for the next hour waiting for results, you tried getting some rest, knowing Grayson would take care of you. 

********************************

You woke to Grayson gently shaking your shoulder and the doctor standing in front of you. 

“The results of the lumbar puncture came back, you have bacterial meningitis. We’re going to start you on some i.v. antibiotics down here and you’ll be taken up to the ICU shortly. They’ll monitor you the next few days and, depending on your condition, move you to med/surg where you’ll finish treatment.” 

Despite the change of scenery, it was still freezing. Grayson perched on one side of your bed, fussing with another blanket and tucking it around your shoulders. From this angle you could see the lines of worry on his face, tension in his jaw, and the tears once again trickling down his cheeks. You reached out, wiping his face with your hand, “I’m okay, Grayson”

He kissed your palm, “You’re in the ICU, sweetie. Doesn’t exactly qualify as okay.” 

“Look at me Gray,” you lifted his chin, “I’ll be okay.”

Grayson sighed, “you could have–”

“But I didn’t. I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

Before he can respond, there’s a gentle knock followed by a nurse entering. She introduces herself and takes your vitals, explaining your treatment plan and the general rules of the ICU; only one visitor at a time. It was hard keeping your eyes open and paying attention to her words. She looks at Grayson, “If you’re around each other often the doctor will want to have you on antibiotics as well, just to be safe. Is there anyone else who’s around frequently?”

“Marcie.”

“The friend who brought her,” Grayson clarified, “ I can give you her contact information.”

The nurse nods, “Please tell anyone that might want to visit that they need to be wearing a mask. Until she’s out of the ICU at the very least.”

When the nurse left you finally let your eyes shut, drifting to sleep as Grayson’s fingertips glided along your hand. 

You were awoken a few hours later to someone taking your vitals, quietly letting them take your temperature. Gray’s hand still on yours tightened when the thermometer beeped. You watched him straighten in the chair, clearly having dozed off earlier. His voice gravely when he asked, “how you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

Your nurse removed the blood pressure cuff, “it’s a good thing you came here when you did. With a fever that high it’s a wonder you were even conscious. Get some rest, if you need anything just press the call button.”

You thanked her and looked back to Grayson, “you can go home. Get some sleep in a real bed. I’ll be okay here.”

Grayson stared into your eyes, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

The first few days passed like that, Grayson by your side as you slept. Sometimes you woke up and he would be reading, other times he would be asleep too. His hair falling in his face, light stubble on his face, and the worried crease in his brow gone even for a small amount of time. By the fifth day when you were no longer contagious, you were moved to a regular room; private at Grayson’s insistence. Several bouquets of your favorite flowers sat on the tables around the room. 

Now that you were allowed more than one visitor at a time there was almost a revolving door of Hawthornes. Nash making sure Grayson wasn’t being overbearing, Libby bringing cupcakes for you and medical staff on the floor. Day seven had you going stir crazy. You were still on iv antibiotics to make sure the infection was completely out of your system, but you were feeling considerably better. Xander visited for the first time that day, bringing with him a book of magnet block challenges. He even offered to make Rube Goldberg machines for the light switch and curtains. 

Grayson drove you to Hawthorne House the day you were discharged. “Gray, you don’t have to babysit me. I’m fine now,” you insisted.

“Sweetie, you had a serious illness that might have neurological side effects. I want to make sure you’re still recovering well.”

You hadn’t told him about the lingering brain fog, but somehow he picked up on it.  Grayson had no idea how his actions warmed your heart. Of course, he had a bedroom ready for you, but you opted to stay in his room. Grayson crawled into bed next to you, finally able to hold you close after this scare. “I love you, Gray.”

***************

Thank you for being so patient! Other requests I promise I haven't forgotten about you and will be posting them soon.

[anthurak]

Something rather interesting about the Sky Striker clips that were just released and what they imply about the full story we’re going to be getting as part of the Chronicles series is that it looks like we have a bit of a ‘diverging adaptation’ situation going on here.

Because as it turns out, the Sky Strikers story has actually been previously adapted into a non-card-game medium.

Specifically as part of the Yu-Gi-Oh! OCG Stories anthology manga.

This is notable because the Sky Striker manga already made quite a deviation from what was implied about the original Sky Strikers story in the sourcebooks and even the cards themselves. Like the setting being changed from a pseudo-modern/near-future war between two ambiguous nations with Raye and Roze being the most elite soldiers, to a post-apocalyptic war between two rival factions of robots/androids where Raye and Roze are the only two human beings left.

Or the context of certain scenes depicted in some cards like ‘Sky Striker Mobilize – Linkage!’ being massively changed. Or in the case of one monster, ‘Surgical Striker – H.A.M.P.’ not appearing the manga at all.

Now on the one hand, just from looking at the new ‘Sky Striker’s Burden’ Solo-Mode story in Master Duel, which CLEARLY seems to be composed entirely of clips and screenshots from the upcoming Chronicles anime, we can see that it is being MUCH more faithful to what we heard about in the sourcebooks and saw with the cards. Which implies that the Chronicles anime is simply going to be a straightforward ‘Truer to the Text’ adaptation.

But on the other hand, we also have an interesting wrinkle to all this.

Namely that a sizable chunk of Sky Striker cards, effectively the entire ‘second wave’ of support for the archetype, are based on characters and events FROM the OCG Stories manga.

So that raises the question of how exactly the Chronicles anime is going to handle this adaptation?

Are they going to focus entirely on the ‘original’ Sky Striker elements and fully ignore anything and anyone introduced in the manga? Notably, in the Master Duel story mode we actually see ALL of the ‘first wave’ of Sky Striker cards represented in one way or another, while getting no sign of any of the manga cards.

Or might we see characters and elements from the manga tweaked and ‘reverse-adapted’ back into this version? In the first clip we DO repeatedly see Raye accompanied by a pair of robot buddies who could conceivably be retooled version of Aileron and Pylon, Raye’s training buddies/surrogate-younger-siblings in the manga. In which case we could likewise see human versions of Ciela, Akash and Himmel as Raye’s caretakers/handlers/mentors.

Though there is one thing I think we can be pretty safe in assuming: We are almost certainly getting MORE than just what we see in the cards/sourcebook/manga. As I said, what we see in the Master Duel actually covers ALL of the pre-manga Sky Striker cards, ending with Raye saving Roze from the Zeke module and preparing to face off against a squad of new H.A.M.P. mechs. So unless Master Duel simply recapped everything from Sky Striker that we’re going to see in the Chronicles anime, which I kinda doubt, we will be seeing the story CONTINUED past this point and get genuinely new Sky Striker stuff.

Which I’d say has already been hinted at with the alt-arts we’ve been seeing lately of Raye and Roze fighting together while sharing different components of their equipment.

And why am I so confident in this?

Why, because that would give Konami the excuse to print more Sky Striker cards of course! XD

[inventory-management-software]

Software tools like VC4-IMS and its GIS module exemplify how technology can be harnessed to anticipate, manage, and recover from the impacts of such calamities.

[mikrokosmos]

Chopin - Mazurka op.33 no.3 in C Major

There are several reasons why I struggle to make new posts for Chopin. Part of it is that he's been one of my top favorites since I first got into classical music. More accurately, he was the first who got me into music in general, the first composer's name I learned, the first pieces I listened to that moved me more than any popular song did at the time (I think I was about 9? 10?). This gives me bias toward the more purple-prosey way people talk about Chopin. Tender, beautiful, melancholic, expressing every nuanced emotion in the sea of human experience, blah blah blah. I also struggle to single out works to talk about without repeating what’s already been said. But growing up I never got into his Mazurkas nearly as much as I did all the other genre he’s famous for. The Mazurkas don’t have the operatic lyricism of the Nocturnes, they don’t have the dance qualities of the Waltzes, they aren’t carrying a promise of extra-musical narratives like the Ballades seem to suggest…they are, as a whole, more subdued, nuanced, “intimate”, and being based off of Polish dance, more of a personal expression than any other works he wrote. Maybe that hyperbole is too narrow minded, and maybe I’m falling into the same Romanticism that I claimed to want to avoid above. But I will say that the Mazurkas are full of a specific aspect of Chopin’s style that I think is taken for granted due to the 200 years of music since. That is, his grotesques; inclusions of slight dissonances that color all of the harmonies with keyboard writing that distorts normal chord progressions. Tonic to dominant, to relative minor, to subdominant, to dominant, to tonic again, the typical sequence of Classical harmony used in this Mazurka is made less familiar with voicing that emphasizes the harsh dissonances. I have been trying to teach myself to play this Mazurka but the awkward hand positions and inclusion of multiple seconds makes it feel clunky under my fingers and much harder to pull off the simplicity and grace I hear in recordings. As always, more practice needed. Still it reminds me of a quote that I’m afraid to say I cannot find the original source. I am possibly wrong, so with a grain of salt, I’ll claim that Clara Schumann said of Chopin’s playing something to the effect of “when hearing him play his music, it always sounded as if he were playing wrong notes by mistake, yet it all fit together”. Something or other, possibly not from Clara Schumann at all. The point being, these awkward and unexpected dissonances made it hard to tell the difference between a mistake and an intention, because with Chopin these perceived “mistakes” are all intentional and add to the overall color of the harmony and texture. Again, hard for us to hear in the 21st century where Chopin is marketed as an easy listening composer, music for the background while you study, or fall asleep, or lovely pretty piano music for date nights, etc. We forget that his style of piano writing was a serious departure from the Classical attitude toward voicing, phrasing, and harmony.

Here I can offer a real quote with a real source; “In search of ear-rendering dissonances, torturous transitions, sharp modulations, repugnant contortions of melody and rhythm, Chopin is altogether indefatigable. All that one can chance upon, is here brought forward to produce the effect of bizarre originality, especially the strangest tonalities, the most unnatural chord positions, the most preposterous combinations in regards to fingering. but it is not really worth the trouble to hold such long philippics for the sake of the perverse mazurkas of Herr Chopin. Had he submitted this music to a teacher, the latter, it is to be hoped, would have torn it up and thrown it at his feet - and this is what we symbolically wish to do.” (L.Rellstab, Iris, Berlin, July 5, 1833) [Slominsky, N. “Lexicon of Musical Invective” p.83 (2000)].

Ironically it is the roughness and contortions that give the music its beauty, and helps it to transcend beyond generic parlor music that was fashionable for the time. Like how Webern condensed so much emotion in microscopic works, Chopin fills a whole novel’s worth of bittersweet nostalgia in 33 bars of music that can fit on a single page. And that is why he’s still celebrated 215 years after is birth, and why he’ll always be among the greats.

[toyopax]

A glitch in the system WIP snippet 2

The darkness of the night gave way to the soft light of the early sunrise, plunging the room into a phase between sleep and waking. The door to the balcony was slightly open, and the warm, gentle breeze made the thin curtains dance. A beautiful morning was on the horizon, and unlike usual, Gi-hun didn't wake up plagued by nightmares and drenched in sweat.

No tortured gasps escaped his lips, he felt neither pain from stiff muscles nor the paralyzing fear of memories that usually took his breath away.

There were no phantom screams to be heard, no hallucinated blood to be seen. No masks or pink figures, walls far too bright to represent an illusion of childhood—promising safety, protection, and fun, but concealing nothing more than an act of cruelty.

For a moment, uncertainty crept in and pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, because perhaps this gentle awakening was just one of the usual terrors he couldn't escape once his body gave in to the urge for sleep and rest. Often driven to the brink of exhaustion, it felt more like fainting, as if someone had flipped the appropriate switch.

Sleep didn't come easily—he'd been denied such a luxury for years—but right now, bathed in shallow sunlight, he felt rested and not at the end of his strength. The warm temperature in the room and the pleasant breeze from outside stimulated his circulation, and he was overcome by pleasant goosebumps—almost as if the world was okay, as if these dark trauma-induced stains on his soul didn't exist.

In this place, time seemed to stand still. For a brief moment, anyway.

With every passing second, he grew more nervous, anticipating a change in the scene, waiting for the bloodbath... with a sigh, he ran both hands over his face to stop this act of self-manipulation—always assuming the worst.

At least it didn't feel like a dream.

The bed he was lying in was real, the pillows soft beneath his head, the blanket cool as he touched it with his fingers.

Gi-hun hoisted himself into a semi-upright position to take in more of his surroundings and when his gaze fell on the person next to him he paused.

No dream.

A smile played on his lips at the sight, so rare and unusual that he hardly dared to breathe.

In-ho.

Somehow surreal, but nothing he would want to miss. He carefully sank back into the pillows, facing him so as not to wake him.

In-ho, with his slightly parted lips and the fluffy bed-hair framing his face, seemed so relaxed in the embrace of sleep that Gi-hun had to resist the urge to gently pull him closer, into his arms—where he belonged.

His heart fluttered and stumbled with affection, it was almost painful.

At first, it had been difficult for him to accept his feelings and thoughts, to allow them, after everything he'd been through, but now...

He lost the battle with himself and, with feather-light fingertips, brushed the wild strands from In-ho's face, watching the slight fluttering of his eyelids, almost as if he were responding to his touch.

Gi-hun didn't want to wake him, so he carefully slid a little closer.

Nothing happened. In-ho didn't suddenly open his eyes or greet him with a soft "Good morning."

This gentle and vulnerable side of him was something most people were denied to witness, and it still felt like a rare privilege to be a part of it now. By no means a given, considering the gruesome history they shared.

At the sight of the mask, he still felt a deep, uncomfortable sense of fear—a paralyzing threat he was still confronted with far too often, because even though he would have liked to forget it entirely - In-ho was still the frontman.

Even these tender moments couldn't take that away.

The strange, modulated voice radiated the coldness of death, no matter what sweet words of manipulation it promised.

One and the same person, one man with different faces—Frontman, Young-il, In-ho.

Gihun had met them all, with hatred and contempt, trust and pain, fear and love.

A chaos of emotions spawned and nurtured by the man at his side.

He hoped, no matter how naive and foolish it might be, that someday—not now, not soon, but someday—In-ho would be able to shed his dark identity.

The Games wouldn't end, but he wanted him to be safe, far away from this place that meant nothing but destruction. Unyielding, irrevocable—for many, the end.

The inhumanity born of greed and boredom. Hidden behind the facade of generosity—to present people on the brink with the chance of a way out that wasn't really one.

Lies, lies, lies.

In-ho had once tried to keep him away, to protect him from the darkness, the bitter taste of which had burned itself onto his tongue.

It definitely would have been a lot easier if he'd boarded that plane, but would it have actually changed anything?

His relationship with his daughter—sweet and fragile—would likely have suffered even further. His survival of the Games weighed too heavily on his shoulders; the memories of victory, of anger and despair, of lies and manipulation… all of it hung over him like a dark veil he couldn't shake off. They wouldn't understand his grief, and he wanted to spare them the details; he could hardly bear it himself.

No, he didn't regret his decision. Not really. Not if it meant his little girl could live a happy life, even though he missed her terribly.

Eun-ji would make sure she lacked nothing, so it was okay for him not to be a part of her life.

Stained by the blood of the dead, he had to let her rest and...

A soft sigh escaped In-ho's lips, and the sound tore Gi-hun out of the spiral of thoughts that threatened this beautiful morning.

He seemed to be dreaming—what about remained a mystery.

In any case, not a nightmare, to Gi-hun's relief.

Back in the present, he pushed the gloomy thoughts away as far as possible, because all of that was in the past.

He was facing the future with In-ho—the only person who could relate to and understand his pain and loss.

Right now. In this place, far from the island, far from Seoul.

[ilovedthestars]

Writer Ask Game

Tagged by @elexuscal

Rules: In a new post, list the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs

Okay so there's no way I will be able to tag as many people as I have WIPs lmao. Although I suppose that depends on what we're counting as still actively "in progress" when I've barely written any fic in the last year. (Hoping this might get me excited to write again?)

Without further ado, a (slightly curated) list of WIPs:

x and y

Follow up fic

three time travel

cat

body of a friend

Lies

another (about to be) rogue secunit

alone

serial

targetControlSys

Murderbot and Three's Guide to Being a Rogue Secunit

yet another rogue (assistance needed)

memory wipe

flower

first contract (with GI)

Swimming

Old Unit, Young Unit (i'm cheating a little but this is technically still a wip and i always love getting asks about it lol)

Tagging some people, it's literally midnight so forgive me if I repeat someone who's already done it or miss someone who wants to (just consider yourself tagged if so): @needlesandnilbogs @evilducks @ramshacklefey @broken-risk-assessment-module @all-all0s-eyes @mercurialfeet

[dumbbitchenergy17]

Crossing A Line

Clan of Three: One-Shot

Plot: A Mandalorian, an infant with a history of the jedi, and a teenager with similar powers and a heavy role to bear. High stakes can be the reason the innocence begins to crack.

Word Count: 4.8K

Pairing: Father Figure!Din Djarin x Platonic!Teen!Reader

Warnings: fighting/violence, injuries, heavy angst, heavy details of gore and murder (including children) slight ptsd, sad-but-sweet father-daughter moments

A/N: This takes place between the end of Season 2 and before the Book of Boba Fett- CONTAINS CLAN OF THREE SPOILERS. Read all of the Clan of Three Series here

------

"Me and the devil walkin' side by side"

The chill of the planet's atmosphere despite how close you were to the center of the galaxy. You’ve never been so close to the Core your entire life was the Outer Rim that was all you ever knew. Scars are still fresh and healing haunted memories branded onto your skin forever with you unable to escape them or have them escape you. Your eyes were glued onto the flowy cape that trailed off the bounty hunter, your protector, your savior. Things were tense given how much has occurred in little over a year. The empire, your adventures, you and the kid, Gi-

But the kid was safe. Grogu was with the Jedi getting the proper training but you didn’t though. It wasn’t safe, you needed to be with Din you couldn’t abandon him. Your gaze flickers to the new weapon resting on his hip that he’s used a bit on some quarries. It was yours by right. You fought and won it, the blood and sins of that weapon were passed onto you.

You would never touch that thing if it killed you.

The streets crawl with rodents and the pure scum of life. You thought being towards the Core on Corellia that it would be the height of luxury. How wrong you were, crime and death still clung to every planet no matter how much that planet lies claiming it’s peaceful and innocent. Din stops short in his path you coming to a halt almost running into him.

“We’ll rest for the night and continue at dawn,” His modulated voice speaks looking at the quickly setting daylight and you nod silently. You weren’t tired at all and if you weren’t in the picture he probably would have continued, but he didn’t want a young girl walking through this place so late into the night. It was an abandoned building Din had to help you crawl through an open window to move the barricaded items before the door. You wondered what the history of the building was with broken light fixtures, broken windows, destroyed furniture and anything of value already ransacked. Following up the long flights of stairs since the turbolift was out of commission reaching a floor that Din decided was adequate entered a room at the end of the hall. The room was barren with the windows cracked but luckily not broken a small balcony that showed an overview of the crime-ridden part of the capital, Coronet City.

“Get away from the window.” Din calls out and you sigh parting your gaze from the view and seeing him sprinkling broken glass on the floor in front of the door leading towards the main area then he passes you doing the same by the balcony. Taking in the inventory of the room finding some destroyed cushions taking them a beginning to dust them off before making makeshift beds on the ground. “Kid,” Din gets your attention before tossing a small ration in your direction which you catch.

“Thanks.” You respond quietly and you can sense his slight disappointment from the lack of conversation between you two since everything. It had only been a few months since…all that. While it was your choice to stay with the Mandalorian it had been a lot, wounds still fresh and time was slowly but barely healing. Without the Crest it was hard for Din to collect bounties to support the two of you if that meant rations or stolen food or sleeping in abandoned places instead of inns then so be it.

The stars and planets of faraway systems and galaxies look down being your source of light as you finish your meal and you hadn’t realize how tired you were until you were resting. Your back rested against the wall your head dipping every so often before you jerked awake. Din having situated his sleeping arrangement with a good view of both entry points notices you nodding off, “Get some rest,” He speaks and you nod sluggishly fixing yourself to be laying your bag resting beside your head your saber right beside it within your reach.

“You better wake me up to take the next shift.” You murmur and you see him nod slightly. You had a feeling he wasn’t going to, no matter how many times you assured him you could take the first watch or to wake you but then it would be morning and he would tell you it was alright. You needed the rest more than him, ‘You’re a growing kid,’ He would say, and he could still function even on a few hours of sleep or even none. Your lashes felt heavier and grew more in weight before darkness consumed you and you were quickly dragged under the peace of slumber.

The small moment of peace that were far between was interrupted by a frantic shaking jolting you awake. Your hand reaches for your weapon but you stop when you see Din hovering above you. You got to speak when he covers your mouth and you look at him with wide eyes. The sound of crushed glass alerts you and the multiple sounds of voices, “They’re on this floor check every room.” A voice comes through the walls and Din pulls you up to your feet throwing your bag over your shoulder and your saber is placed into your hands.

“What are you doing?” You whisper as he pushes you towards the balcony, “I’ll hold them off.” He responds and you shake your head, “No we do this together.” You say and you don’t get another word in as the footsteps grow closer and you’re outside. The windows don’t fully show the balcony as your back presses against the wall right beside the window listening in. It’s silent before you hear the entrance door enters and the slow crunch of glass, you hold your breath when the sudden blaster fire makes you jump and the sound of struggle grunts and groans before you hear a loud noise followed by Din making a sound of pain. Your hands shake clenching your saber wishing you could be there helping him.

Din struggles in the grasp of the bounty hunters and there was a multitude, he was able to take out a few before he was overwhelmed and forced to his knees restrained. Who he assumes was the leader steps forward a buffy man with scars visible on his body that wasn’t covered by his clothes or tattoos. “This was the Mandalorian we were supposed to be worried about?” He smirks and Din felt his blood boil but he needed to remain calm a single wall separating them from finding you.

“The Empire’s got a high bounty on your head but I’m more interested in a higher one,” He says looking over the beskar-covered man, “Where’s the girl?” Din didn’t even budge if looks could kill no one in this room would be standing right now. A sharp hit to him makes him groan though he stifles it.

“Just tell us where the girl is and we’ll let you go.” The man says leaning forward trying to offer up a deal Din slams forward the beskar cracking the bone of his nose and the leader pulls back clutching his bleeding nose as Din is taken down fully to the ground. The leader growls blood pours down his chin his teeth staining red, “Search the room, you find her…kill her.” Din’s heart lurches as he’s restrained as the others tear apart the room making sure no corner is left unchecked until all is left is the balcony. The man gives a sly bloody grin at the Mandalorian at the only hiding spot left before instructing a Rodian to check. Equipped with their weapon they head towards the balcony the crunch of glass under their boots as they open the door ready to deliver the killing blow to the young jedi. Din holds his breath waiting for the inevitable gunfire and the cry you would produce, you were going to die because of him, your blood would be on his hands. Why didn’t you go with the jedi you would be safe-

“She’s not here sir.” The Rodian announces the news and Din almost sags in relief while the leader curses, “She couldn’t have gone far, Hit the streets and start looking.” Most leave respecting their orders as the two restrainings Din bring up the Mandalorian.

“What do we do with him?” One of them asks and the leader sneers at Din, “Take him back to base…she’ll come after him.” Before Din could get any word in a needle injects through the fabric of his flightsuit and darkness quickly takes over.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind you as you release the air you were holding in. Hanging off the side of a balcony so high up in the air that the people on the streets looked like little bugs. Pulling yourself up and getting on solid ground you peek inside finding the room empty beside the dead bounty hunters that were after you. A tightness filled your chest Din was gone, you were on your own….they took him. They hurt him….they were going to kill him-you weren’t going to let them. You would make them feel the same pain if they laid another finger on him.

The streets were dark a storm brewing settling over the planet reflecting your emotions, you didn’t even know where to start who, or what you were looking for. You had some voices but that gave you nothing. Neon signs light your way through the rainy streets and alleys, despite how late into the night it was probably early morning the nightlife was active whether it would be to enjoy a night out or for more nefarious acts held so late. Gliding through busy streets crowds none paying attention to a young girl or empty alleys where creatures scamper to find their meal in the trash. It felt like hours trying to find where to even look for, who to go after, who could they even be on this planet. You weren’t a bounty hunter, you didn’t even know the first step in finding someone. It was sudden hands that wrapped around your waist the other covering your mouth muffling your screams as you’re dragged into an alley. Kicking your feet out your teeth dug into the flesh until metallic blood filled your mouth producing a cry from your assailant as another appears revealing a crude rusty blade. He looked around your age you could see the slight tremor in his grasp of the weapon.

“Just kill her already!” The man behind you yells as the other flinches before stalking closer. Kicking your leg out the blade flies into the air as your momentum slams the two of you back into a wall. The arms loosen around you and you slam his head into the wall he quickly knocks him unconscious the other scrambles to grab their blaster when they're flung into the wall opposite pinned there. The young boy quivers from his restrained position as the streetlights illuminate the young girl her hand held out. This was the power they had to be worried about, the reason a bounty was on her head. To bring the Jedi in alive or dead. Thrusting your hand forward and he too is shrouded in darkness.

When Din regained consciousness he was revealed to still have his armor on, despite his creed already broken he didn’t wish to break it twice. He was stripped of his weapons and his vambraces, leaving just the beskar armor to be his protection. Tugging at his restraints the heavy chain shakes around his wrists behind his back and from their place in the solid floor. The darkness that fills the room beside the dingy light above him allows him to see the true emptiness of the room. He curses lightly leaning his hand back against the wall, he wasn’t nervous for himself he could handle whatever torture or attempts at harm towards him. It was you he was fearful for, there was never a time where you needed to be looking for him. He felt foolish not at least preparing you for the event if the two of you were separated or if he was trouble. If the Crest still existed he would have least known you were safe but you were out on this planet alone trying to find him.

The door slides open revealing the scarred man as he stalks into the room the confidence that radiates off him. Like the deadly bounty hunter chained before him is something he shouldn’t be worried about. If he could wrap these chains around his throat and listen to the crack of his bones Din would be delighted.

“They are going to find her,” He speaks to Din as he remains silent his emotions masked by the beskar helmet, “You could have made it easy, she could have remained alive. But when my men find her they are going to rip her apart.” His grin was full of joy and malice trying to get on the bounty hunter’s nerves, “Maybe they have their way with her first? See how loud she screams before they slit her throat.” The chains were the only thing holding him back from throttling him. On his feet, his arms pulled behind him creating a strain, a growl ripped from his throat.

“You touch a single hair on her-” Din threatens just itching to tear him apart, “You’ll what kill me?” The scarred man laughs his head leaning back, “I’ll be sure you’ll get to see her corpse before we kill you too.” He pulls as curses in Basic and Mando’a are thrown at him before the door closes locking him in there. He couldn’t even feel like he was breathing, oh maker he felt sick he fell back to his knees. You were going to be okay, he would get out of here and kill anyone that dare to even look at you.

The sound of groans and fist meeting skin draws the young boy awake his vision adjusting he tries to move but he’s restrained his arms tied behind his back attached to some piping on the floor. No matter how hard he tugged and the pain in his wrist flared he couldn’t break free. Drawing his attention away from his restraint he focuses in on his superior restrained but in a chair, a wave of nauseous fills him at the amount of blood that was around the chair some speckled on the floor or in large puddles. A feminine grunt as he watches her fist make contact with his superior’s face the crack of bone and the sound of anguish emitting from who he thought was a hardened criminal.

The red liquid drips from your knuckles but it wasn’t yours as you swing your fist against another sharp cry admitting from the man and you pull back. The mess of the man the injuries all over him as he starts to slump over when you fist his hand yanking his head to look at you. “Where is the Mandalorian.” You hiss as blood dribbles from his face coughing globs his body quakes in pain.

He spits harshly it landing on your face with flecks of blood and you step back wiping it off your face and staring back at the heavy glare directed towards you. The echo of the blaster bolt and his scream fill the empty building and you see the boy behind jolt from the loud noise. Smoke emits from the man’s kneecap as he hunches over trying to calm himself from the immense pain he’s experiencing, “Where’s the Mandalorian!” You shout and he flinches shaking his head before he gasps for air. You can feel the young boy watching in horror as the man begins thrashing in his seat trying to breathe but no air entering his body. Anger and hatred fuel you as your hand clenches more into a fist watching him turn blue from lack of air.

“Stop! I know where he is!” The young boy proclaims and you drop your hand as the older man sucks in the air he was praying for loud coughs rack through his body. “F-foolish…boy…shut..up.” The man croaks his voice strained as you pull away approaching the young man. He couldn’t have been old maybe fifteen or sixteen. Crouching down and he leans back to keep a distance as he feels your gaze take him in.

“It’s at the junkyard where they are disassembling imperial cruisers,” He says as the other man curses at him, “You’ll find him there, Rel he’s covered in scars he’ll have him.” You look over him and despite the clear fear you didn’t sense any distrust.

The older man thrashes in his seat curses hurled, “You traitorous bastard. They will skin you when they find out you ratte-” It was a blur one second you were in front of him and suddenly the howl of a saber as he’s cut apart his torso hits the ground blood pooling around the body. Terror in the boy's eyes as he looks at the orange saber and he can see in the lighting the person now over the destroyed body, smeared blood from the profile of her face, the hands coated in red as she now stands over him.

“Wait please, my family is there under their protection, just let me warn them so they won’t be in harm's way.” He pleads, darkness shields your eyes, and he can’t see what you’re thinking, “Would you tell the empire about where I am?” Your voice is cold and heaviness to it as he frantically shakes his head.

“I swear on the Maker, I won’t tell a soul.” Liar. Your hand tightens on the weapon and you turn from the dead criminal slowly prowling towards him and he shakes in his restraints tears in his eyes as pleads fall from his lips.

“We could trade with you guys. We could be friends. I didn’t know. I’m Jash. What’s your name?” He’s frantic pleading for mercy as the view light sources crack the fuse blowing out as darkness grows closer but also the orange saber. Your hands tighten on the weapon. You were doing this for Din, to keep the both of you safe, leave no loose ends. The heat of the blade is so close as you raise the weapon, “No, no, no, no! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please! You don’t have to! Please! No, no, no! We can just talk! Mom! Mom! Mom!”

It’s quick and painless. Silence fills the room beside the crackle of the orange plasma. You turn from the massacre heading back into the night the blade returning to the hilt the growing storm cleaning the blood of you and cleansing your sins. No one would hurt him. You wouldn’t allow it.

Din wallows in the darkness before the sound of footsteps returns and the door opens revealing the leader followed by another man a staff in hand. Neither of them speak until the man gestures to his subordinate and the staff crackles with electricity and it’s jammed between the plates of his armor. Din seizes groaning out in pain as it rushes through his body thousands of knives embed into his skin while also being on fire. The staff is pulled away and Din slumps over slightly trying to catch his breath, “You’re making this harder Mando. Just tell us where she is.” He says leaning against the doorframe and looking down at the bounty hunter. Silence fills the room and the leader nods once more and the staff returns to Din’s body. A harsher groan of pain is the intensity and duration that increases his limbs locking up but also twitching from the pain. A rapid stream of knocks at the door pauses the ministrations of torture.

“What?!” The man yells while gesturing to stop and Din wheezes trying to calm his rapid heart. The door opens revealing the same Rodian from earlier a frightened expression on his face twists his hands together, “What is it?!” He demands and the Rodian flinches.

“One of the groups hadn’t returned from their findings so we sent out a group to find them,” He reveals but there seems to be more, “They were massacred…” A tense chill fills the room with this news. A faint rumble that could be mistaken for their fidgeting until it returns a deeper one that shakes the walls, the lights flickering, one that felt in their bones.

“si-s-sir!” A bad connection through the comms as the leader raises his commlink attached to his wrist a hologram projector appears, the signal is bad breaking in and out and what looks like a battle occurring, “The mai-ain gates have been breached-ched! We-we’re taking h-heavy los-sses! We nee- concentrated for-” A loud crack fills the air as the hologram shows their neck contorting in an unnatural angle before the line goes dead. The sound of battle was far away from them but still they could hear it, whatever was going on was big. Another call comes in though it only lasts a few moments.

“It’s h-her! We can’t sto-” A bloodcurdling scream as it ends and the three enemies of the Mandalorian felt a moment of fear, that feeling you get knowing you were close to death. Even Din knew whatever you were doing was enough to strike fear in all of them. “Get every blaster, knife, and weapon out there now!” He yells and the Rodian scampers out as the man with the staff stays beside him, “What do we do with him?” He questions and Din glares at the two if looks could kill they would ash.

“Kill him.”

The metallic smell of blood and blaster fire residue fills the air, and a sheen of sweat, and different species’ ichor taints you for battle. Like a warrior with ceremonial paints, this coated you. A steady patter fills the hall, the drip from either the leaky pipes or gaping wounds as the life slow drains. You understood death, it surrounded you frequently, people you cared for, those you tried to save and failed, even yourself. It hovered over you waiting to take you as its latest target.

Now you were death.

Clean cuts ripped through the men the heat of blaster fire flying past you or blocked reflected. Their weapons were the cause of their demise. No mercy ripping the final breaths from your victims. Making your way through the massacre of corpses the lights flickering as lone criminals try to hold their ground the last thing witness is the plasma blade the color of the sunset. The only time they would get a glimpse of daylight again. Screams of mothers hovering over children with lifeless eyes and cold skin before they too join them. It muffled in your ears a hum and quietness settling over you. Your way of blocking out your trauma is by creating more, the blood wasn’t on your hands if you didn’t acknowledge it. A steady pump of your blood through your body lets you know you were fighting and living. Faint cuts of shrapnel or blast fire that nicked you but were irrelevant.

Huddled in a corner you catch round fearful eyes staring back at you. The fear only seemed to grow when they realized they were spotted, standing mere feet from the littered bodies surrounding them. The orange light highlights the tears welling up as they stare back at death. You gaze back your grip tightening as the young eyes just stare. A standstill waiting to see who would act first. A new presence enters one you were familiar with and unlike death, you spare those young eyes. They watch unmoving as you turn away from them continuing their path the others not spared, your face branded in their mind.

Those young eyes will always remember those cold eyes.

Din pants a wave of nauseous as he almost fails at controlling his stomach. There was so much blood. Turning corners with his blaster in hand with his regained weapons only to find a bloodbath. The lifeless eyes stare at him as he made his way through the halls, the mutilated bodies of men and women…his heart growing cold and fear at the children. He followed the path of destruction if he had been smarter, and gotten out faster, you wouldn’t have done this. When the order had been given to execute him and the scarred man had left he had been quick to defend himself killing his adversary before making his escape. A sharp squeal fills the air as if an animal was put to slaughter. Following the noises the sound of the raging storm outside competes with the one created inside. Roaring pelting rain and the darkness outside make it hard for the Mandalorian to see but it’s a crack of lightning and the flash of orange draws his attention to you. The blade pulls out from the body of Din’s captor it hit the ground with a horrendous squelch, red quickly mixing with the rain.

Your body jerks whether from the crashing adrenaline or the frigid rain that soaks you, the caked and drying blood growing wet once more. The orange saber should be red from the amount of blood that soaked it. The hilt was slippery from bodily fluids and the lives that were drained. Turning away from the man a flash of lightning paints the sky and you catch the gleam of beskar armor standing in the rain. You couldn’t read his emotions as he moves closer to you until mere feet separate the two of you. He was uncertain what to do with you, comfort you, scold or yell, but he just remained silent.

“Are you okay?” Your voice is raspy and hoarse which shocks you for a moment. You didn’t think you would lose your voice, you don’t even remember screaming—you don’t remember much, just feelings and flashes of moments. He nods stiffly taking in your appearance, you would need new clothes soaked from the rain and… other things. You looked tired a sort of lifelessness in your eyes that could compare to the others inside. He couldn’t help but ignore the twinge of fear he felt, he’s never seen this side of you. Maybe with Gideon but this was brutal this was heartless lacking any form of mercy. It was like someone took over your body and committed these acts.

“Are you…?” He speaks up filling the silence that consists of rain and thunder. He truly needed to know if you were going to be. It all seemed too soon with Gideon and losing Grogu and going through everything you went through. He didn’t want to blame you.

“I thought I lost you…” Your voice cracks and the rain conceals the tears that pour down your face but he could tell, “We were supposed to be in this together and then you were gone. I didn’t know where to look or what to do.” His heart aches to hear what you felt during their time apart. He knew your connection was strong and the idea of losing another person close to you would destroy you and time you over the edge.

“Then I felt it…they were going to kill you if I didn’t find you. I couldn’t let them,” You shake your head and he can see the tremor in your hands. Flashes of what you did, the man and the boy in the warehouse, those criminals, but the innocent people, fathers, and mothers with their children. They were under their protection but you didn’t care. They were all guilty.

“I killed them.” A coldness covers the two of you with your confession, “I killed them all…they're dead, every single one of them. And not just the men, but the women and the children, too.” There’s a wild look in your eyes as the realization of your actions begins to register. Din grabs you by the arms holding you to his chest as you cry in agony. “They're like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals. I hate them!” You shout into his chest before dissolving in tears and sobs as he consoles you in the rain a tension of comfort and death that lingers in the air.

His arm stays wrapped around you as he leads you away from the massacre that was committed by you. He knew they couldn’t stay here long, who knew what other forces may have been alerted or the empire could be arriving soon for their supposed bounty. Din wasn’t sure where to go next after this but he needed to keep you protected, keep you safe, and you would never go through this again. You would get better at this low point, too much horrors and pain for such a young life. Watching your innocence chip away from those stained with evil, even himself chipping some away by involving you in this type of life. How long could it continue until nothing was left, what would be left of you then?

[patrastatistika]

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