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thewriterthatghostedyou · 21 days ago

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Oh my godddd the series is amazing. You’re killing me. Can’t wait for the update. If you have a tag list, can you tag me for the series?

HAUNTED | MDNI 18+

chapter 2: yandere! gwi-ma x therapist! fem! reader

summary: this gwi-ma guy sure brings out another side of you. but the voices? they persist amongst it all.

warnings: MDNI/18+, language, sexual references, emotional torture (? idk)

When you left your ex, you wanted to live a solitary life.

No more dating, no more sex, and no more men. You devoted your life to helping others, because to you, life mattered more than love.

But seeing this utter combination of a man made your legs quake with need.

“You have an interesting name, y/n.”

The upbeat music in the background was muffled by the thick walls your back was leaned against, and it heightened the moment he stared at you. Your lips quivered, but you still forced a gentle smile.

“Thank you, I would say the same to you as well.”

“That is very nice of you,” Gwi-ma tilts his head to the side, and a purple lock of his slick hair falls to his carved face, “Say, you don’t look like the type to attend these events.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you’re thankful that the lights in the hallway covered any color radiating from you. This man was awfully…gentleman-ly. From what you were aware, this was the kind of courtesy that only existed in romance novels that aged like fine wine.

“I don’t actually,” you laugh, scratching your neck as you avoid his eyes, “I just came because someone gave me a ticket to see the group.”

“Ah.”

His reply didn’t satisfy you so you continued, scrunching your toes in your heels, “But I suppose you don’t look like the type either to attend these.”

A rich laugh erupted from his throat, and you spare a glance up, seeing his dimples rumble with joy.

“You’re correct, I am but an investor in this band. You might even say a big fan,” his eyes narrow, “Do you actually intend on watching the show? If so, I’ll let you be.”

“Oh, no,” you gush, “I think it’s best I leave now.”

“So soon? The concert just commenced.”

“I insist,” you fix your long coat, wrapping it around you tighter like a cardigan, “In fact, I think I owe you a drink for the favor you pulled for me right now.”

“I’m sorry?”

His voice was commanding, but at the same time so articulate like royalty. It made you wonder about who he was, but that was probably the therapist in you speaking. His wrinkles that creased his eyes made you assume he was around his late 30s to early 40s. But it was only when his face was relaxed— or somewhat because it looked like he was naturally glaring— he looked flat 30.

Though it did leave the color of his persona to your better judgement. You had the urge to ask him if his eyes were a natural violet, or if his hair was dyed— and if so, how he was able to retain such a beautiful color? His entire outfit made you automatically assume that he was wealthy; from the design and to the texture your eyes could feel. It would be disrespectful to just feel him with your hands, so you could only speculate for now.

And while you were at it, perhaps ask him out in the most subtlest of ways you could figure out.

“I was having a panic attack earlier, I think.” You muttered, but then spoke up, “Anywhom, I would like to invite you to a drink as a thank you.”

He raised a brow, crossing his arms. Sure, this is certainly out of the blue, but you might as well shoot your shot.

“That is…fascinating. Do you do this to everyone?” He asked, motioning you to follow him along the corridor. You follow, curious as he leads you to the gates of the stadium’s exit. You turn behind you, seeing an overwhelming amount of people cheer for the singers. A grimace pulls at your lips, how could anyone possibly enjoy this?

The older man catches your frown, and it makes him smirk. He can feel your emotions, and although he can’t read your mind exactly, he knows the feelings that he evokes from you. Maybe, he ponders, you wouldn’t be so bad to keep for a while. There was something he still wanted to test on you.

The human resilience.

How long does it last? How far can it go? And most importantly, how bad can it shatter? Although he projects that the success of the Saja Boys will be completed much soon, he’ll be happy to oblige spending some time with you. It’s just a pity that you think it might be something more, as all humans assume.

“No,” you say, smiling softly, “I don’t.”

“Then why—“

“Can’t a woman offer a man a drink?” You interrupt, your face scrunching. You’re adorable, and he won’t hide that. Perhaps, there can be some fun in discovering human emotions as well.

“Well, it would be rude if I declined.”

“So is that a yes?”

Gwi-ma looks across from you, where the cars were neatly parked outside. He felt the demons lurking behind him in curiosity, but they didn’t dare get close to discover.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“That is good,” you fidget with you fingers, and it made him stare at you with awe, “Do you happen to know Larry’s? It’s a small bar by a local smoke shop, though I will admit it’s kind of a dangerous place.”

The word dangerous piques his attention, “Dangerous?”

“It’s where people have gone missing lately,” you whisper, your small hands cupping your mouth, “But the neighborhood says its not true just so their businesses can keep going.”

The king frowns, remembering some of the scandals that went down there— the ones he clearly orchestrated.

“How about I pick you up from your place?” He offers, enjoying the tint that settles on your face, “It would be sad if a little lady like you went all alone.”

“I would love that actually, thank you.”

Your lips squeeze tight, and your chest feels like it was going to explode any second now. The man bows his head slightly to you, saying;

“You have a good night then y/n, farewell.”

You smile, turning back to the parking lot, but not before you forgot the most important thing;

“Wait, you don’t even know where I live—“

He wasn’t there anymore.

There were so many holes in the date you asked. You didn’t say when, or what time. What to wear, or where you live. Dawn was already rising and you simply couldn’t find the tiredness in you to sleep.

Not only did you waste the ticket your patient had given you, but a potential boyfriend you could’ve had. The warm coffee that nestled between your palms brought you down to Earth again.

Boyfriend?

Since when did you start thinking about love again? At best, this could be a one night stand, and he probably doesn’t even see you like the way you possibly see him. You slumped in your chair, a long sigh leaving your persona. Were you really that desperate?

Today was your “Sunday reset” time. But nothing felt like a reset when all you could do is stress. Were you too quick in asking for a date? Did he even know that this was basically a date?

And moreover, who even was he?

Your glance shifted from your steaming mug to the laptop that was only a few feet away. Well, everything from your apartment was a few feet away really. You lived above your office, the positive side being that you didn’t have to travel much. The downside? Well, there just wasn’t enough space for you.

It’s shameful to admit, but you wanted something grand. Something that would be beautiful to live in. Like, having a big yard or a pool. Maybe, a room that isn’t connected to the kitchen so you wouldn’t have to constantly smell dinner when you sleep.

But then you’re drawn back to real life. You shouldn’t be thinking grand, you should be thinking small. You’re only setting yourself up for failure after all. It was a sin to greed.

But are you really forbidden to desire as well?

To desire—

More? What more could you possibly want?

Your spine stood rigid, and you blinked. You felt the familiar goosebumps rise again as you watched your hand shiver.

You should be grateful of what you have, y/n. You greed like a fox, but desire? You are the epitome of—

The phone rings. And the voice stops.

You stare at your phone for a good second before snapping back into reality. With newfound enthusiasm you reach for it, instantly ignoring the caller ID;

“H-hello?”

“Y/n?”

The awful voice makes you fall right back down to your depressive pit, and you reply with bitter sentiment,

“David.”

“Look, I want to say just one more—“

You hang up again, blocking the new number before he dared to call again. How in the world he manages to reach you every time was nothing short of a miracle. At this point, it was about time you changed your number.

However, for now, it was time for research.

“Gwi-ma,” you said, speaking curiously as you said his name in split syllables. You opened your laptop to a fresh new tab, your hands working quickly to satisfy your hunger,

“Let’s see just the type of person you are.”

You wanted to expect a million results. Some saying he was a billionaire, or possibly even a heir of a rich fortune with the way he talked. Maybe, you expected him to be single; looking for a partner because he needed one. Or, maybe his Tinder— that is, if a man his age had one. Or knew that it existed…

But only a blank screen stared at you.

A broken robot looked at you, with words reading, “Sorry, your search had no key results.”

You frowned, fingers hitting the delete key as you watched the cursor blink in and out of the screen. Licking your lips, you typed in “purple hair man seen in saja boys.”

The same robot looked at you in pity.

Again, “known investors in saja boy band.”

Nothing.

“Who are you?” You whisper, but it seemed more like a question to yourself. Your reflection was seen on the white screen, and you noticed your pensive expression. If you clearly had the effort to be researching a man you just met, then you surely had the energy to clean your home.

Groaning, you rubbed your temples. This was going to be a long day.

Gwi-ma sat down on his throne in hell. His flames engulfed his persona, letting his figure be unseen by the inhabitants of his cruel palace. Fingers impatiently tapped the skull he rested his palm on, and his leg was no help either as it bounced anxiously. There was something he was missing, something he couldn’t quite put his teeth on.

The sky was still its looming amethyst, with the occasional five or six souls shooting right down to his flames and into his belly. And it was delicious.

The fear. The shame. The regret.

But in his mind, he played with you— the dessert. He only had to close his eyes, and envision you. Your h/c hair bouncing slightly as you swept your small home, and even down to your face, that was furrowed in disappointment.

You only ever responded with still fear when he tortured you, yet, never action. There was no shame he could use strongly against you, no matter how hard he searched or how closely he watched your every detail. For now, he was satisfied with your little gasps when he whispered to your ear, eager to caress your cheek with his claws.

A grin pulled at his lips, his fangs prodding at his carved features. The best he could do was—

“B-boss?”

A growl escaped him before he could realize, making his signature fire bloom with newfound energy. Gwi-ma peered down at the small demon on their knees, who trembled in submissive fear before him.

“You dare interrupt my thoughts?” He boomed, his voice deep and furious as he lifted a finger, “What is more important than my thoughts, tell me?”

The demon was one of the uglies he made, one that was meant to target children. They were the type to hide under beds, and grasp at the fresh souls the little ones were always so full of. But, in this occasion, he has them working for haunting the fans of Huntrix. The despicable hunters made him hate with such vigor, and made him lust for the freedom he had before when he reigned the land above.

“E-eh,” the demon clutched its throat, trying to loosen the invisible grip the king had on him, “W-we just wanted to-to let—“

“Can you speak, imbecile?” The kings says, his eyes narrowing miserably at the uglie, “I have no time for those who can’t speak.”

“D-date! D-date!”

Gwi-ma raised a brow, “Date?”

Eagerly, the demon nodded, slobbering its long tongue on its fat lips, “Y-yeah! You told me to remind you y’know a—and I d-don’t know wit w-who—“

The king wrapped his claws inwards, making a fisting motion as the demon below him screamed in agony and stopped a second later. A crowd of panicked gasps was heard from farther below his steps, where the others were huddled against each other.

“With who is not something that you should concern yourself,” he whispered, but then spoke loudly, “Any others desiring the same fate?”

The jittery noises of the demons pleasured him.

Not long later, he was pushing through the honmoon, creating a huge tear in his wake. Today, he wore black from head to toe. His gloves were a way to hide his marks and purple hue, and the black fedora was to cover at least some of his unique hair.

He waved his onyx cane behind him, allowing some demons to escape and create chaos as he did his business. It would be disappointing if the hunters came mid-date after all. Gwi-ma wore a neatly ironed black pinstripe suit, where small lines of white bent at necessary crevices. His broad shoulders were accentuated by his blazer, and his thick-soled dress shoes made him taller.

The demon was a king, and he made sure it showed.

Your attention to cleaning your stove was taken away by a racket outside. Glancing at your clock, it barely hit afternoon a minute ago. Your hands felt grimy and dirty, and your knees ached for squatting for so long. And the racket outside only made you groan loudly.

You managed to clean your floors, organize your pantry, do your laundry, throw away your trash, and prepare for your everything shower for later tonight. The sky outside was bright, the sun’s golden rays peeking through your tall glass doors that led to your balcony. It felt warm on your face, healing even.

A resounding knock was heard from below, shattering your inner peace. But it was Sunday, so who in the right mind would be banging on your office door? There was only one possible solution, and it was certainly a man you didn’t want to see face to face.

Standing, you took your taser from your fruit basket. If David didn’t get the memo over call that you didn’t want to see him, then hopefully you can shock him into staying away. Truly, an electrifying experience for him.

You chuckled, slipping into your grey slippers as you headed downstairs. The wood below your feet creaked with age, and the ventilation was so poor that you could already feel sweat dripping down your face.

The door boomed again, and you yelled back at it, “I’m coming you dimwit! You and—“

When you opened the door, you were met face to face with a pinstripe pattern. Your heart sinks as you look up, meeting eye to eye with a miffed man.

“Gwi-ma,” you whisper, staring at him in disbelief, “I-I thought you were-“

“Well, this is certainly a nice version of you to see and hear.” He says, his lips in a tight line.

You’re confused as you stare down at yourself, and you nearly evaporate on the spot. The black thong you wore was barely covered by your long Huntrix t-shirt, and your hands didn’t look so innocent holding the taser either. Quickly, you toss the taser in your trash bin that was by the door, though he’s probably already seen it.

Pulling your shirt down immediately, you fend for yourself;

“I-I wasn’t expecting guests! And—“

“May I come in?”

His simple question is absurd, and you shake your head furiously, closing the door right on his face. Or what should’ve been his face, because a shiny black shoe stops it from closing. Big hands wrap on the door, pushing it slightly open enough for his face to look inside.

“I said, may I come in? Not, close the door.”

“I’m practically naked and you want to come in?” You squeak, pushing all your weight against the wood to make it close, “You come here uninvited and then you—“

“Did you not offer me a drink the other day?”

You pause, lips shaping into an ‘o’ as realization hit you. Gwi-ma catches on, continuing;

“You were pretty persistent about it too, but I understand if today is not the perfect—“

His voice trails off as you open the door shamefully, and you dont dare look at him as you point to your office.

“Stay there, please.”

“And without a drink?”

He gets the reaction he wanted when you snap your head up, furious, “You get no drink! Now sit!”

The demon makes an alright motion, his gaze traveling to the office. He holds in his remarks, already satisfied with the small curses that escape your breath. When you climb up the stairs angrily, he takes a peek, seeing your ass jiggle with each pouncing step you took.

If only you knew how it tore him apart to withhold his urge to consume your soul right then and there. Your natural blue soul grew a pink hue whenever he neared you, and it was so obvious from your physical reactions too.

You loved him.

But you denied him as well. It made him grimace, sure, he only wanted to play with you. But, are you really so stubborn to confess your feelings? I’d probably laugh at her, he chuckles, tapping his cane on the floor softly.

Your office was suitably to his tastes. Depressed, dark, and boring. He read your sign outside saying “Therapy”, and the plaques on the wall backed his assumption. Maybe you’re not as gullible as he thinks you are.

His gloves graze your desk, the wood coated with an epoxy to prevent scratches and the like. There was only one chair in the entire room— a simple deep red one. It had darker red rose patterns, though faded through continuous wear. He spots another metal chair, folded and leaned against the wall.

“Gwi-ma,” you say, hopping down stairs with loud thumps of your brown wedges, “How did you know where to find me?”

He turns, seeing you almost matching him. It was so trivial, but he found— what was that bitter word again— joy in it. You were buttoning up your brown-cropped pinstripe coat, below it a simple flared dress pant and a tucked in white shirt. Your hair was nearly falling from the messy bun you made, but as you stared at him, you fixed it back to fall down naturally.

“I’m sorry?” He says, entranced.

You were…gorgeous. Yet, you didn’t spare him a minute to ogle more;

“How did you find me? I didn’t tell you where I lived or when to come, so why now?”

“I have my connections,” he says simply, making your brows furrow, “Though it should not concern you deeply as I have a question myself.”

Your hands are on your hips as you hum, “Your reply does not satisfy me, so I don’t see why I should satisfy you.”

You didn’t want to be so easy for him, but at the same time, you wanted to stay away from him. This man was too good to be true, especially for someone who had no digital footprint or known existence online.

Gwi-ma was amused, nearly laughing, “Oh? Well, what do you want to hear?”

“Just what I asked,” you repeat sternly, “How do you know where I live?”

Your chest was beating like crazy, and you could feel your blush settling on your face like a red tomato. Either he’ll reply with a horrible truth, or with an embarrassing fact. But it was best to be sure of him.

“I have a friend that dabbles in real estate,” he lies, “I brought your name up during a conversation and he happened to know you run a business here.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Well, of course.”

His reply was so dumb that you tilted your head and blinked.

“You really are old, aren’t you?”

The demon grinned ear to ear, “I’m forty-three, so I don’t think I have white hairs just yet.”

Unfortunately the latter was right, his reply was so darn simple but so damn…something! You squeezed the bridge of your nose, letting a long sigh out.

“Then like the good woman I am, what was your question?”

Gwi-ma leaned on his cane, his posture moving to his left. Your eyes stared the bejeweled eyes of a golden skull, but then it was instantly covered by his gloves.

“Is this a date, or a friendly outing?”

You swallow thickly, your pupils wide as you stared into his violet orbs.

“What you say might or might not be favorable to your interest.”

You scoff, playing it off with a wave of your hand, “The drinks? What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you simply desire me as a partner or a friend.”

The room fell silent, and only one foreign thought pops in your head.

You are the epitome of lust, darling. He knows.

“I…” your voice trails off, your beliefs and desires ravaging each other.

work and rights belong to me, laurel.

🏷️: (only offering tag list to this series because gwi-ma lovers are rare) @mysteris-things @miuangel @rerarlo @lowkeyjarrr @apelepikozume @reverie-sxno @aurorab-0-realis @comediamaarte

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x you #k pop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #kpdh x you #saja boys #gwi ma

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thewriterthatghostedyou · 21 days ago

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Girlllllll everything you write for In ho makes me feral as hell god damnnnnn

NEXT TO YOU || YANDERE! INHUN

Part l

" I'll be standing right next to you, right next to you."

Summary: The aftermath of everything. Promises that are soon to be built. A silent plea that no one can hear, but when you get close, it sounds louder than a man screaming in your ear. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, AU, POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP, SEASON 3 SPOILER, heavy angst, heavy tension, obsession, possessive, yandere behavior, violence, gore, secrets, gun violence, killings, power imbalance, major character deaths, manipulation, betrayal, explicit content, matured language, consensual deals, sadistic behavior, trauma, mental health issues, self loathing, guilt, erotic, ownership, kissing, cockwarming, overstimulation, worshipping, praising, riding, thigh riding, oral (F), PiV, unprotected, deep, slow, hard, dirty talk, markings, older men x younger woman (LEGAL), soft-dom! Gi-hun, dom! In-ho/Young-il

Yandere! InHun x Reader

Words: 12.8k

The air outside the bathroom was colder—quieter. The chaos from the lights-out massacre had been wiped clean with eerie precision.

No blood.

No bodies.

Just the sterile, hollow silence of survival.

Gi-hun and Young-il had you nestled between them, each man supporting a side of your limp body. Your legs still ached, your core sore and used, but your chest felt strangely full. Safe, for now. Cherished. Even in this place.

They led you slowly to one of the lower bunks. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but to your aching body, it felt like a throne. Gi-hun tucked a blanket around you like a gentle brother, while Young-il knelt at the foot of the bed, removing your shoes for you with silent care. His fingers brushed your ankles, lingering—protective, tender.

You smiled faintly, trying not to melt under their hovering concern.

" You two are babying me." You whispered.

“ You deserve it.” Gi-hun replied softly.

“ You’re ours.”

But the warmth shifted as soon as Young-il looked up at Gi-hun, his expression sharpening.

“ Do you still want to go through with it?” He asked, voice low, eyes narrowing slightly.

“ The rebellion.”

Gi-hun’s entire posture changed. The smile disappeared from his face. His hand on your arm tensed.

“ Yes.” He said firmly.

“ This is the only way. If we don’t make a move now, they’ll keep killing us off one by one. Like dogs.”

Young-il leaned back against the bunk frame, jaw tight.

“ You know it’s suicide, right?” He said.

“ The guards aren’t just watching. They’re trained. They’ll shoot every single one of those players if they smell even a flicker of rebellion. It’ll be a bloodbath before you even reach the gates.”

Gi-hun stood slowly, eyes blazing. “ Then what? We just sit and rot in their maze? Die game after game, while they bet money and laugh behind those cameras?”

Young-il stared at him for a long, tense moment—then dragged a frustrated hand down his face.

“ Fuck.” He exhaled sharply.

“ You never change.”

“ So you’re in?” Gi-hun asked.

A beat.

Then a reluctant nod.

“ I’m in.”

You watched them from the bed, your chest tightening with dread. You knew what this meant—what they were willing to risk. You pushed yourself upright, ignoring the dull ache in your thighs.

“ Then I’m going too.”

They both snapped their heads toward you like whiplash.

“ No!”

Their voices rang out in sync, stern and sharp—so sudden, so instinctive, it made you blink.

Gi-hun came to your side instantly, his hand cupping your cheek. “ You just went through hell. Your body needs to rest. Please.”

Young-il stepped closer, crossing his arms, his expression back to stoic command. “ This isn’t your fight—not yet. If something happens to you out there, I swear I’ll rip every guard in this place apart, myself.”

“ But I can help.” You whispered.

“ No.” Gi-hun said firmly.

“ You help us by staying safe.”

Young-il softened, brushing his fingers along your jaw.

“ You’re the only thing we have left in this place that feels human. Don’t throw yourself into the fire unless we absolutely can’t stop it.”

You looked between them—your protectors, your lovers, your chaos—and saw it in their eyes. Fear. Not of death…but of losing you.

So, with a heavy heart, you nodded.

“ Just come back to me. Both of you.”

Gi-hun kissed your forehead gently. “ We will.”

Young-il brushed his thumb against your lips. “ I swear it.”

But behind their touches—behind their promises—was something else neither of them said aloud. Because even they knew…

In this game, promises were rarely kept.

And survivors?

Even rarer.

…

The cold, artificial hum of the facility buzzed faintly through the walls like a lullaby for the damned. Inside the dim bunkroom, silence had finally settled—heavy and unnatural, like a blanket too thick to breathe under. Almost every player was asleep, scattered across the metal bunks like corpses after battle. Exhausted. Spent. Dreaming, maybe, if they dared.

On the bottom bunk, you lay curled into Gi-hun’s chest, both of you fast asleep. His arm draped protectively over your waist, his breath warm against your temple, the rise and fall of his chest calming the ache in your body. You looked peaceful there, tucked between shadows and safety.

But Young-il hadn’t slept.

He sat on the edge of the bunk in silence for a long while, eyes fixed on the far wall as the weight of every move, every secret, every hidden loyalty spun through his thoughts. His body still hummed with tension—not from lust, not from adrenaline…

But from the burden of control.

His eyes flicked across the room one last time.

The players were out cold.

Perfect.

With quiet, practiced steps, Young-il rose from the bunk and slipped out into the darkened corridor. He passed the cracked door of the storage closet, a guard post, a blinking surveillance camera. None of it registered anymore.

He walked the halls like they belonged to him.

Because they did.

At the far end of the hall, nearly invisible behind a maintenance panel, he pressed a concealed switch. A thin seam in the wall hissed open—revealing a narrow, shadowed passage lit by low red emergency lights.

The secret hallway. Inside, a Square guard stood waiting—rigid, masked, prepared. Young-il didn’t waste time.

“ Stick to the plan.” He said, his voice quiet but cold.

“ The rebellion needs to go exactly as discussed. Let them believe they have a shot. We’ll use that chaos.”

The guard nodded once. But Young-il wasn’t finished.

“ One more thing...” He said darkly, stepping closer.

“ Player 327.”

The guard straightened at the number—your number.

“ If anyone—anyone—touches her…” Young-il hissed.

“ If one of your men even looks at her the wrong way…I will burn this entire facility to the ground with them still in it.”

The threat wasn’t a bluff.

It was a promise.

“ She’s not to be touched. She’s not to be harmed. If other players threaten her, you eliminate them. Quietly. Immediately.”

The guard nodded, unfazed but respectful. “ Understood, sir.”

Young-il narrowed his eyes, holding the silence for a beat longer—making sure the weight of his words sank deep. Then he stepped back.

“ Good. Dismissed.”

The guard saluted, turned, and disappeared down the corridor. Young-il stood there for a moment longer, alone with the red light washing over his face, shadows dancing along the walls. His mask—the one you didn’t see—had slipped back on.

Cold.

Strategic.

Ruthless.

But the moment he stepped back into the bunk room, the tension in his shoulders fell again. His eyes found you instantly, curled against Gi-hun’s chest like you belonged there—like a rare flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

He sat on the floor near the bed, back resting against the cold steel of your bunk. His head tilted back, his eyes closing slowly. He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to hear.

“ Don’t ever make me choose between this game and you…”

Then the world went still again, and the master of the game—

Fell asleep on the floor, just another man trying to hold onto something real.

…

The bunk room was no longer just a cage—it had become a war zone. The air was filled with the echoing cracks of gunfire, the shouts of resistance, and the desperate stomping of boots as the rebellion unfolded right in front of your eyes.

The silence that once defined fear had shattered into pure chaos. You pressed your back against the cold steel of one of the bunks, curled behind it, arms hugging your knees as you peered out—just enough to see everything.

And what you saw made your breath catch.

Gi-hun and Young-il, side by side like fire and ice, were moving with frightening precision. Dae-ho and Jun-bae, flanking either side, worked like gears in a well-oiled machine. This wasn’t random violence—this was a strategic strike, planned down to the second.

Gi-hun rushed low, sliding behind an overturned supply crate and yanking a rifle from a fallen Triangle guard. He tossed it over the floor in a perfect arc—right into Jun-bae’s hands, who caught it without missing a beat and fired into the upper walkway, taking out a guard before he could alert others.

Your breath hitched when Square turned his rifle on Gi-hun from behind—but before a shot could fire, Young-il appeared like a ghost and slammed into the man from the side.

The sound of bones cracking made you flinch, your hands flying to your mouth. Young-il’s fist drove up beneath the guard’s chin, knocking the helmet clear off before twisting the rifle from his arms in one fluid motion.

He moved like someone who knew violence. Not just knew it—mastered it. He dropped the guard and spun, returning fire across the room with such dead-on accuracy that it made the soldiers scatter.

That wasn’t luck.

It was training.

You stared, heart pounding.

“ Who the hell is he…?” You whispered to yourself, barely able to breathe.

Blood sprayed across the floor. Screams rang out—players who got caught in the crossfire or guards trying to regain control. Some players had joined the fight, emboldened by the uprising. Others cowered in corners, praying for it to be over.

You were one of the latter. Not because you were afraid of the rebellion…

But because you were afraid of losing them.

Gunfire rattled again, and you shrieked as a bullet whizzed past your bunk and embedded itself in the steel. You ducked lower, clutching your knees. Your heart was beating out of rhythm, wild and panicked.

Still, you dared another glance. Gi-hun was bleeding—his shoulder grazed, staining his white undershirt red—but he was still moving, still smiling through the pain.

Young-il’s eyes found him immediately, and he snapped, “ Left flank! Now!”

Gi-hun nodded, sliding across the floor again, gun raised. He fired two perfect shots that sent a pair of guards crumpling near the emergency doors.

Dae-ho threw a smoke grenade he’d snatched from the guards’ belt earlier, clouding the area in a thick white haze.

“ This is our chance!” Jun-bae shouted through the smoke.

“ Go!”

Your heart pounded in your ears. The smoke covered the room like a ghostly fog, and silhouettes danced in the haze—some screaming, some fighting, some falling. You gripped the metal frame of the bunk and whispered to yourself again, as tears brimmed in your eyes:

“ Please…let this work.”

Because this wasn’t just about rebellion.

This wasn’t just about escaping the game.

This was about four men—your men—willing to put their lives on the line so people like you could live.

Heroes in hell.

And you could do nothing…but pray they would survive the flames they set.

…

The chaos was deafening. Screams of desperation, gunfire echoing off the steel walls, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground—everything blended into a hellish symphony. Blood painted the once-sterile tiles in thick crimson streaks, and the air reeked of iron and smoke.

The rebellion had erupted like a ticking time bomb, and now, all that was left was ruin.

Gi-hun was dragged back into the bunk room, his feet dragging, eyes glassy. His shirt was torn and stained, not with his own blood, but Jun-bae's. His lips trembled slightly, but he said nothing. He simply let them throw him onto the floor like another broken thing.

You stumbled forward, trying to reach him.

" Gi-hun…" You whispered, kneeling beside him.

" Hey…you're alive. You're okay…"

He didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were staring past you—at something that wasn’t there. The Gi-hun you knew was gone. Something inside him died the moment

Young-il and Jun-bae fell to the ground, executed like dogs in front of him. His plan, their rebellion—it all fell apart in minutes.

The speaker wailed overhead. “ Fourth game: Keys and Knives.”

Panic set in. You turned toward the entrance just in time to see the bunk doors sliding open again. Screams echoed from the halls. It had begun.

You ran.

The lights flickered violently as shadows lunged around every corner. You heard players shouting, chasing, laughing maniacally.

No allies. No friends.

Just survival.

Your breathing was ragged as you tried to weave through the carnage. You didn’t even see him coming. A player from the red team leapt from behind a crate and drove a knife into your thigh.

You cried out, falling hard. Blood soaked your pants, warm and fast. He grinned like a feral animal as he pulled the blade out, but you kicked at him with your good leg, scrambling away as he lunged again.

Limping, stumbling, crying—you forced yourself forward, dragging your weight through corridors of madness. You could barely see through the pain.

Until you found a room.

You slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with shaking fingers. The silence inside was surreal, like stepping out of a warzone into a crypt. You slid down against the door, one hand gripping your thigh.

The wound pulsed with searing pain. Blood poured through your fingers. Whimpers escaped your mouth. You bit down hard to silence them. You couldn't cry. Not now.

Then you heard it.

A soft hiss.

Your eyes darted around in confusion—until you saw it. A silver canister rolling across the floor, spewing white fog.

Tear gas.

" No, no, no—"

You coughed, the sting clawing at your throat. Your limbs grew heavy. Your vision swam. Your body slumped over, twitching once.

The world turned black.

…

A jolt tore through your body as your senses came back like a slap to the face. Your limbs ached. Your wrists and ankles throbbed—tightly bound to a cold metal chair.

The pain in your thigh was sharper now, pulsing with every heartbeat. You tried to scream, but your mouth was stuffed, a thick cloth gag muffling your voice.

Everything was black. Not darkness—blindness.

A blindfold.

You struggled, muscles straining against the restraints, but all it did was worse the pain. Your breathing grew fast and shallow, panic creeping in.

Then…footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Purposeful.

Your body tensed, stilling in fright.

The presence was undeniable—someone was here. Close. Watching. A distorted, mechanical voice broke the silence.

“ You shouldn’t be so reckless and stupid.”

You flinched. The voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold and direct—synthetic, like filtered through a voice changer.

“ You’re lucky I pulled you out before they gutted you like the others.”

You groaned behind the gag, shaking your head, wriggling weakly. Your thigh burned when you moved.

“ Stop moving.” His voice carried a warning now.

“ I’m going to clean the wound.”

Your heart pounded. You wanted to scream, to curse, to demand to know who the hell he was. But all you could do was groan, the cloth soaking up your breath.

You tried to push words past the gag—muffled protests. Something like “ How can I trust you?”

He seemed to understand you anyway.

“ Trust?” He said with a short, amused exhale.

“ I don’t care if you trust me. I’m not doing this because you asked. I’m doing it so you don’t fucking die from infection. Though frankly, if you keep squirming, maybe I should’ve left you bleeding.”

You grunted—defiant even in fear. With as much strength as you could muster, you muttered weakly through the gag, " I don’t need your help."

He chuckled.

Then pain exploded from your thigh.

You screamed behind the gag as he pressed his thumb—hard—into the torn flesh, forcing pressure onto the wound. You convulsed from the searing pain.

“ Still think you don’t need help?” He snapped.

“ You’re so goddamn stubborn. Always putting yourself in danger. Always acting like you’re invincible.”

Your body slumped, tears springing to your blindfolded eyes. You heard him sigh. Then you felt fingers near your cheek, and the cloth was pulled free from your mouth. Your lungs filled sharply with air.

“ What the fuck was that for?!” You rasped.

“ Why?! Why the fuck did you save me?! Why do you care?! You could’ve just let me bleed out like a fucking dog!”

There was a pause.

Then the voice answered, low and tight. “ You’re crazy.”

A small breath, like a scoff. “ Did you ever ask me if I was going to let you die?”

You froze. The question hit harder than you expected. The tremor in your voice cracked through.

“ Who are you…?” You whispered under your breath, teeth clenched.

“ Who the fuck are you?”

Silence.

A few heartbeats passed before the mechanical voice spoke again.

“ I can’t tell you that.” He said simply.

“ Not in this game. Not to any player.”

Then the sound of a chair scraping…retreating footsteps…a lock clicking into place. You were left in the dark, bleeding, trembling—but somehow, no longer alone.

…

The hiss of the door broke the dead silence again.

You stiffened.

Same footsteps—steady, deliberate, hauntingly familiar. Your breath hitched as instinct warred with reason. Every sound he made dug deeper into your frayed nerves. He was back.

You jerked slightly as you felt your injured leg lifted with eerie gentleness. A hiss escaped your lips when fresh pain lanced through your thigh.

“ Fuck—” You groaned, trembling.

His gloved hands worked silently, cleaning and rewrapping your wound. But it wasn’t just what he did—it was how he did it. There was care there. Precision. A certain touch that made your breath catch.

Someone’s held you like that before. Not just someone—one of two men.

Your mind raced.

Young-il…

But he’s dead. Gi-hun told you with his own shattered voice. You saw the body.

Gi-hun? No. He was broken. Traumatized. Hollowed out. It couldn’t be him…could it?

Who the fuck was this man?

Then his voice, distorted but calm, cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“ You’re going to stay here for a while.” He said.

“ You’re off the grid. The players think you’re dead.”

You flinched hard.

“ What…?” You breathed. “ Dead…?”

Anger surged up from the pit of your gut like fire.

“ You bastard!” You cried out, thrashing despite the restraints, the pain, the fear.

“ This is your fault! All of it! You could’ve stopped this—you should’ve saved them! You should’ve saved him!”

Your voice broke, thick with emotion. Tears streaked down your cheeks beneath the blindfold. You heard the soft creak of movement—then felt it.

A finger under your chin.

Lifting.

Your whole body tensed.

That touch.

Not cold. Not foreign.

Familiar.

Your lips trembled. You wanted to scream his name—either of them. But neither made sense. Neither could be here.

“ I’m not apologizing.” He said coolly, thumb brushing your jaw.

“ It’s my job to clean the mess. To keep this place from burning to the ground.”

He paused. His voice dipped lower, almost like a confession.

“ But this time…I want to be selfish.”

You stopped breathing for a moment.

“ I want to keep you.”

“ No one’s going to hurt you here. Not while I’m around.”

You froze, your mouth trembling. Then you snapped.

“ I don’t want you!” You spat through clenched teeth.

“ I want Gi-hun! I want Young-il! Not you, you fucking coward hiding behind a voice changer!”

Silence. Then he chuckled—soft, deep, laced with something maddeningly warm.

“ You’re still so damn stubborn.” He murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

Your heart thundered in your chest. He held your chin gently but firmly, voice dipping into something more intimate.

“ Soon…” He whispered.

“ You’ll know who I am.”

Another pause. His fingers lingered on your skin.

“ But not yet.”

…

Another set of footsteps echoed through the cold room—lighter, quicker, and undeniably different.

A woman.

You tensed as she approached. You heard no voice modulator, no distortion—just a flat, professional tone.

“ He sent me to change your clothes.”

You clenched your jaw. “ Tell him I’m not interested.”

She paused. “ It wasn’t a request. It was his order.”

That name again. Him.

She added sharply, “ And if you plan to fight back, I won’t hesitate to force you into the uniform the Frontman gave.”

Frontman…?

Your heart skipped. “ Who the fuck is the Frontman?”

No answer. Just silence. You sighed through your nose, defeated. What else could you do?

“ Fine…” You muttered, tilting your head forward.

The guard stepped closer. Her gloved hands worked swiftly and efficiently, stripping your blood-stained top and pants with clinical detachment. The chill of the room kissed your skin, making you shiver as she dressed you in the new clothes.

“ They’re long-sleeved. Black.” She said as she buttoned up the top. “ Trousers, too. Looks like the servers here. But yours—”

You felt her pause, then tighten the fabric slightly at your arm.

“ Yours has a blue stripe on the left sleeve. Means you’re above them. That you’re…his.”

You froze. “ His?”

She adjusted the collar with a firm tug. You tried to turn toward her, blindfold still robbing you of sight.

“ Who is he?”

“ I don’t know.” She answered quickly—too quickly.

“ And even if I did, I love my life. I don’t want to die.”

You bit your lip as frustration and dread pooled in your gut. She gave you one final adjustment—then a small retouch on your hair, tucking strands behind your ear as if preparing you for display.

Then her voice lowered, almost like pity. “ You should stop asking questions you’re not meant to know. Especially in a place like this.”

With that, she turned and left. The door hissed shut. You sat there, blindfolded and bound, dressed like property.

Like something owned.

…

The door hissed open once more. His footsteps—slow, heavy, certain—echoed like they always did. That same presence that made your skin crawl and your blood betrayed you.

You didn’t flinch this time. You were exhausted, pissed, and done pretending to play along.

“ Why do you keep doing this?” You asked, voice dry, defiant beneath the blindfold.

“ Why me?”

His voice came through the modulator again—smooth, cruelly amused.

“ Because I own you.”

You barked out a hollow laugh. “ That’s rich.” You scoffed.

“ Hate to disappoint you, but I’m already taken—twice. I’ve got two men who already own me, body and soul. I’ve got no space left for a sick fucker like you.”

He chuckled at that. That mocking, low rumble that made your skin bristle.

“ Oh?” He said lightly, circling you.

“ That’s right. Young-il and Gi-hun.” His tone curled around their names like poison.

“ Both of them, huh? The martyr and the mad dog.”

You tensed as he stepped closer. His voice dipped—curious now, taunting.

“ Tell me then…”

A pause.

“ Which one fucks you better?”

Your whole body jolted in fury. “ Fuck you—”

He cut you off with a laugh that echoed too loud in the small room. You felt him crouch in front of you, hand sliding to your chin again, gripping just enough to remind you who was in control.

“ Come on…” He whispered.

“ Those two were so obsessed with you they made an agreement just to share your tight little body. Didn’t they?”

You gritted your teeth. His breath was hot against your skin, and even through the distortion of the voice, it felt like a ghost crawling across your neck.

“ You remember the bathroom, don’t you?” His fingers traced along your jaw.

“ I told them to make sure no CCTVs were on when the three of you got dirty in there.”

“ Shut up!” You snapped, violently twisting your head away.

He laughed again, darker this time. “ That temper.”

You suddenly felt his hand press flat against your stomach. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat.

“ I can still feel it in you.” He murmured, voice lowering into something like an animal.

“ Like their ghosts never left.” He leaned closer, his mask grazing your skin. Then it settled against the crook of your neck.

He breathed in. Deep. Slow.

A low purring hum vibrated in your ear—predatory, intimate, possessive.

You trembled. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. And yet—familiar. His touch. His scent. That fucking purr in your ear…

Your chest rose and fell erratically. You didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But your mind clawed at the idea.

Young-il is dead…right?

Or did he fake it? Did he crawl back in through this mask and claim you from the shadows?

You were choking on confusion, rage, and fear. And the man—this masked monster—only chuckled.

He knew.

He knew you were starting to recognize him.

And he was going to make damn sure you questioned every part of your reality until the truth crushed you.

The air between you thickened, heavy with tension and a charge neither of you dared to speak aloud. You felt his breath trailing down your neck, warm through the fabric of his mask, making your skin prickle with unwanted need.

Your thighs tightened out of instinct—then flinched in pain from the still-healing wound.

He noticed.

“ Still tender.” He murmured in that distorted voice, not moving back.

“ But not enough to stop that body of yours from reacting.”

You hated him. God, you hated him. But your body didn’t know how to lie when his touch felt that familiar. His fingers brushed along your waist, grazing the curve of your hip, slow and deliberate. You sucked in a breath as the tips of his gloves slid just under the hem of the black uniform top he’d dressed you in earlier.

“ You say you belong to them.” He said, his tone laced with something darker now—possessive, dangerous, hungry.

“ But they’re not here now, are they?”

You felt him rise, his body now towering over yours. He leaned in close, so close the edge of the cold mask met the warmth of your cheek. His gloved hand slowly trailed down the front of your torso, over your ribs, pressing slightly above your navel again.

Your back arched involuntarily.

He chuckled, low and intimate.

“ You still feel like mine.”

You snapped at him, voice breathless but angry. “ You’re sick. You don’t get to do this—”

“ But I am doing this.” He interrupted calmly, his hand now moving between your thighs, not touching where you throbbed, but close—so close you could cry.

“ And you’re letting me.”

You shook your head, eyes burning behind the blindfold, lips trembling. “ You’re not him…You can’t be him.”

“ Why?” He purred, lips barely grazing your jaw.

“ Because he died?”

“ Because he loved me.” You shot back.

“ And this? This is twisted.”

He didn’t flinch. He only whispered darker, closer, voices no longer masked by distance or hesitation.

“ Maybe love looks different when it’s forced into hiding.”

His hand pressed firmer now, your breath catching, thighs instinctively parting. He moved slowly, savoring your reactions, exploring the edges of your resistance like a man who knew you too intimately to be a stranger.

Your heart pounded.

Your body betrayed you.

He leaned down again, his mask pressing into your cheek as his gloved hand gripped your jaw gently but firmly.

“ When I take this mask off…” He murmured into your ear, voice lower now, richer—like the modulator was slipping.

“ I wonder if you’ll beg me to stay or curse my name.”

You whimpered.

Because part of you already knew the answer.

You jolted as the ropes around your wrists and ankles gave way, slackening without warning. Before you could even process the shift, strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you swiftly—firmly—into a straddle position.

Onto him.

You gasped, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body pressing down against a hard bulge beneath you that made your breath hitch in your throat.

The blindfold was still secured, and the disorientation made your senses spike.

“ W-What the f—” You started, voice trembling.

His large hands slid down your back, keeping you seated against him with unrelenting pressure. One palm curved possessively over your lower back, the other rested between your shoulder blades, controlling every subtle move. He didn’t let you go. He only leaned in, his masked face grazing your ear as he whispered.

“ Tell me…” He purred, voice thick with hunger.

“ Does any of this feel familiar to you?”

You shivered. His breath sent tingles through your spine.

“ Do you know who I am yet?” He asked again, slower now, dragging each word.

“ Can you feel the connection?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

“ I don’t know.” You said softly, breath catching as his fingers gripped your hips.

“ I…I don’t…”

He laughed—a low, throaty sound that rumbled in his chest against yours. It made your core clench.

“ You’re such a liar.” He said with dark amusement.

“ Your body remembers, even if your head wants to play dumb.”

He rocked his hips just slightly up into you, letting you feel the full, thick length of him beneath the layers of clothing.

You gasped sharply, biting back a sound.

His grip on you tightened.

“ I want you.” He murmured, teeth grazing the curve of your jaw through the mask.

“ I missed you. Missed how you sounded…tasted…felt when you writhed under me.”

You whimpered against your will, the heat between your legs throbbing with every word he breathed into your skin.

“ But not yet.” He said, pulling back enough to control himself—barely. “ Not all the way.”

He brushed his gloved fingers up your spine slowly.

“ I’ve got a surprise for you.”

You tried to catch your breath. “ A…surprise?”

He nodded, dragging your body tighter against him.

“ Still in the making.” He whispered.

“ Or maybe…on the way.”

You stilled, the meaning sinking in slowly, but he didn’t give you time to process.

“ This…” He whispered against your throat.

“ Is just a warm-up.”

And then he rolled his hips again, slower this time, groaning low as he kept you in place, as if trying to remind your body—and maybe his—that this connection ran deeper than either of you could admit.

Because whatever twisted, haunting thing he had become…

Your body knew him. And he was going to make sure you never forgot it.

Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling as you sat straddled over his lap, legs trembling slightly against the firm press of his thighs. His hands never left your body—one resting on your hip like a brand, the other roaming slowly, possessively up your spine.

You could feel his restraint unraveling with every breath. But what you didn’t realize—what made your pulse thunder in your ears—was that he had already removed the mask.

You were still blindfolded. Vulnerable. Unaware. And he was watching you now. Truly watching you with his bare eyes.

No distortion.

No barrier.

When he leaned in this time, the cold metal of the mask didn’t touch your skin. It was warm. Bare. His lips—real and familiar—brushed your collarbone.

You gasped at the contact, startled at how real it suddenly felt.

Then he bit you.

Not hard enough to wound, but deep enough to mark.

You cried out, hips jerking against him as your nails instinctively dug into his shoulders.

The bite landed just below your neck, exactly where your nerves fired the strongest. Your thighs clenched around his waist as he licked the sore spot, soothing it.

You knew that move.

That exact move.

Only one man ever learned your body like that.

Only one man could draw that sound from your throat with one bite.

" Y–Young-il…?" You whispered, voice cracking in disbelief as your lips trembled.

Your body locked up, the tension exploding through you. Your heart pounded like a drumbeat of dread.

No.

No…it can’t be.

Your mind swirled, rejecting the thought—but your body? Your body knew.

The way he grabbed the back of your neck. The way his tongue trailed a slow line from your shoulder to your jaw. The way his hips lifted in a rhythm that felt like memory burning back into your bones.

“ Still don’t know who I am?” He whispered hotly into your ear. No voice modulator now—just him.

You whimpered, head shaking, lips quivering. “ No…no, it can’t be—”

He chuckled darkly, lips brushing your earlobe.

“ You already know, baby.” He growled, hand sliding under your shirt now, palm spreading wide across your bare back.

“ Your body gave me away a long time ago.”

You sucked in a breath, spine arching as his hand dipped lower, fingers pressing between the curve of your ass, guiding you to grind down harder against him.

He groaned when your core made full contact—heat against heat.

“ God, you still fit me like a fucking drug.” He muttered.

“ How the fuck did I live without this?”

You couldn’t breathe. Your nails dragged down his chest, desperate and confused. If this was real—if Young-il was truly the one beneath you, maskless, alive…

Then that meant the man who ruined the rebellion, who orchestrated the chaos, who sat behind the curtain pulling strings—

Was him.

And your heart broke and burned at the same time.

Because you didn’t know if you wanted to scream at him…

Or beg him to never stop touching you.

Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt—no, his uniform, his disguise—desperate to find something solid as your entire world tipped sideways.

His mouth was everywhere now—your neck, your collarbone, the dip of your throat. His lips trailed heat; his tongue soothed each bitten mark; his teeth claimed the rest. You arched into him involuntarily, your senses drowning in the overwhelming weight of him.

His hands slid under your top, warm and rough, palms skating up the sides of your waist until he reached your breasts. You gasped as he cupped them, thumbs brushing over your already aching peaks through the fabric of your bra.

" You’re shaking." He whispered against your skin, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

" Why?"

“ Because if you’re really him…” You whispered brokenly.

“ I don’t know if I want to fight you…or fall apart in your hands.”

He groaned—a low, guttural sound that came from deep in his chest.

“ I want both.” He confessed, voice raw.

“ I want you to be angry. I want you to beg. I want you mine again.”

He pushed your top up, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His mouth closed around a nipple without hesitation, warm and wet and possessive. You cried out, hips grinding down on the hard line of his arousal through his pants.

You could feel how badly he wanted you.

You could feel how much he remembered.

The moment his hands slid down, gripping your hips again, he guided you into a slow, maddening rhythm against him—grinding, dragging, teasing. You could feel the thick pressure of him beneath the thin barrier of your clothes.

Every drag of your core against him was friction and heat, soaked in memory and twisted desire.

“ Feel that?” He growled, hands bruising your hips. “ That’s what you’ve been missing.”

You whimpered, hands tangling in his hair—God, you knew that hair—pulling his head back just enough so your blindfolded face tilted toward his.

“ If you’re really him...” You whispered, panting.

“ Take my blindfold off.”

He froze for just a moment. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing yours without fully kissing.

“ Not yet.” He said, voice thick with restraint.

“ You’ll see me when you’re ready.”

“ Fuck you.” You snapped breathlessly.

He smirked. “ That’s the plan.”

One hand reached between you, slipping into the waistband of your trousers. You gasped, legs trembling as his fingers found your slick heat, sliding through the mess you’d made just from grinding on him.

“ So wet already.” He murmured, voice dark with satisfaction.

“ And I haven’t even given you half of what I want yet.”

He circled your clit once—slow, cruel—and you bucked into his hand, unable to stop yourself.

“ I missed this.” He groaned.

“ The way you melt. The way your body begs when your mouth won’t.”

You sobbed out a moan as he slipped a finger inside you, thick and knowing. Then another. Pumping slowly, curving exactly where he knew you would fall apart.

Only one man ever knew you like this.

And as your orgasm built hard and fast in your belly, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He was Young-il.

Alive. Obsessive. Changed.

And now, the Frontman.

And there was no going back.

Your body was on fire—skin slick, heart pounding, thighs trembling around his hips. His fingers inside you moved with maddening precision, dragging out whimpers you tried and failed to silence.

You were falling apart on his lap, blindfolded and exposed, your body betraying every protest still clinging to your thoughts. And then he groaned—deep, guttural—as if the sound was ripped from his chest.

“ How do you think Gi-hun would react?” He rasped, voice barely human.

“ If he knew it was me—” He curled his fingers inside you, hard.

“ The one making you come undone like this?”

Your breath shattered. His words hit you like a slap of cold water and a hot shiver at once. He didn’t stop. His thumb moved against your clit with ruthless rhythm as he fucked you with his fingers, jaw clenched tight, breath hot against your ear.

“ He got more time with you. More nights. More kisses. More of you.” He thrust harder.

“ And what did I get?” He hissed.

“ A rebellion. A bullet storm. Your fucking blood on the floor while I stood behind that mask and watched.”

You cried out—because he was right. Because the guilt twisted in your gut even as your pleasure reached a peak so intense it blurred everything else.

“ I watched everything.” He whispered darkly.

“ I watched him hold you. Kiss you. Fuck you.” He groaned again, this time against your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“ And now, I’m done watching.” He pulled his fingers from you—slick and warm—only to bring them to your lips.

“ Open.” He ordered.

You hesitated, panting.

He slid two fingers past your lips, and your tongue instinctively wrapped around the taste of yourself. He groaned again, as if that small act unraveled something primal in him.

“ Fuck, that mouth…” He hissed.

One hand grabbed the back of your neck, pulling your face flush to his. His lips grazed yours, not quite kissing, letting you feel his breath tremble against your skin. No mask. Just him.

“ I’m not following the fucking deal anymore.” He growled.

“ No more agreements. No more rules.”

His hand shoved down the waistband of his pants, freeing himself. Thick, hard, throbbing. You felt it—hot against your soaked entrance as he lifted you slightly, lining himself up.

“ You’re mine tonight.” He breathed.

“ Let him have his quiet days. I’ll take the nights you moan so loud it echoes through this entire fucking floor.”

And then—

He sank into you.

Thick. Deep. Slow.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, your body stretched and filled in a way no one else could ever recreate.

Only him.

Only Young-il.

His jaw clenched as he bottomed out, hips grinding upward, holding you there, pulsing deep inside.

“ This…” He whispered, possessive and raw.

“ Is what I fucking missed.” He thrust again—harder.

“ And I’m not letting it go again.”

And with every deep, claiming stroke, he made you forget what side of the war you were on…

Because right now, the only battle happening was under your skin.

Your moans echoed in the dim, sealed room, each one pulled from you like a confession you hadn’t meant to make. Every thrust of his hips sent waves of heat crashing through your spine, building higher, faster—his grip unrelenting, his pace firm and deliberate, like he was taking back every second he'd lost in the shadows.

You couldn’t see him.

But you could feel him—every inch.

And it was him.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down hard onto him, again and again, each thrust deeper, angrier, needier than the last. His breath hitched every time your bodies met, low curses escaping him as you clenched around him.

" Fuck, you’re still tight.” He grunted, voice raw in your ear.

“ Still fucking made for me.”

You whimpered, head tilting back, the blindfold soaked with heat and sweat. His lips pressed to your throat, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to make you shudder.

Then he moved again—his hips rising with a new rhythm, not rushed, but punishing, driving into you like he needed to carve himself into your memory.

“ You feel that?” He growled, thrusting up so deep it made your breath catch. “ That’s mine. You always were. You still are.”

You cried out his name—not meaning to, but it ripped from your chest like it had been waiting there all this time. It slipped out in a gasp between ragged moans, and that was when he lost it.

He gripped your jaw, forcing your face toward him.

“ No blindfold.” He whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “ Not when you say my name like that.”

You felt him reach up, and a moment later the cloth slipped away—light rushing in, but it was his eyes that stole your breath.

No mask.

No filters.

Just him.

Young-il.

His hair was messy, damp with sweat. His lips were red, parted, jaw tight with lust and emotion. His eyes—those eyes—burned into yours with everything he couldn’t say, everything he never got the chance to.

“ Say it again…” He whispered, thrusting up into you, deep and slow.

You choked on a moan. “ Y-Young-il—”

His hands grabbed your waist and he stood, lifted you, still deep inside. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively as he carried you across the room, pressing you back against the cold wall.

Your head fell to his shoulder, nails dragging down his back as he started thrusting into you again, harder, rougher, the new angle making you cry out.

“ You think Gi-hun could ever fuck you like this?” He snarled, voice low and full of resentment.

“ Think he ever made you scream like I did?”

“ Stop—” You gasped, trying to resist, trying to think—but you couldn’t.

Because he knew exactly where to press, how to stroke, how to tear you apart piece by piece and rebuild you in his rhythm.

Every grind of his hips knocked the air from your lungs.

You were unraveling. Your legs trembled as you clenched tighter around him, his pace ruthless, desperate, punishing.

“ You’re gonna come for me.” He growled.

“ And you’re gonna look me in the eyes when you do.”

And you did.

Right there—your forehead pressed to his, your eyes wide and brimming, your body shattering as he thrust through your orgasm, not stopping, not letting you fall.

He kissed you then.

No warning.

Not masked. Not distorted.

Just him.

Raw. Real. Consuming.

And even if everything was wrong—even if he was the enemy—your heart broke with how right it felt.

His lips stayed on yours even as your body convulsed from the aftershocks, trembling against the cold wall and his burning skin. The kiss was messy, breathless—more possession than passion, but still so achingly familiar it hurt.

Young-il groaned against your mouth, swallowing your whimpers as he kept moving inside you—slower now, deeper.

Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Like he couldn’t.

You were both drenched in sweat, your limbs wrapped tightly around him, your nails still marking his shoulders, his back. He pulled back only slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his dark eyes locked into yours with a kind of desperate intensity you hadn’t seen in so long.

“ You feel that?” He rasped, his voice stripped of all bravado now, raw with something else—something aching.

“ That’s not just sex. That’s me remembering you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, heart crashing against your ribs.

“ Remembering…?”

His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, gentle now. Tender.

“ Every moan. Every breath. The way you clench when I look at you like this.” His hips moved again, slower, grinding deep into your core. You gasped.

“ That’s what they couldn’t have.” He murmured.

“ That part of you that only I knew how to reach.”

Your lip trembled. “ Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

“ Because I wasn’t.” He answered bitterly. “ Not until now.”

His eyes searched for yours, voice tightening. “ They made me the Frontman. Gave me power I didn’t ask for. And the moment I accepted it, I knew I had to give you up. Watch you with Gi-hun. Pretend I didn’t want you.”

You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “ So you just…watched?”

He nodded slowly. “ Every fucking night. Every time he touched you, every time he held you when you cried. I let him…because it was safer than ruining you with who I’d become.”

He pulled out slowly, still holding you. You winced slightly at the loss, and he cursed under his breath, gently setting your feet on the ground but not letting go.

“ I didn’t bring you here to hurt you.” He whispered, brushing sweat-matted hair from your face.

“ I brought you here because if I had to spend one more night pretending you weren’t mine, I was going to burn this place to the ground.”

Your lip quivered. “ But you lied to me.”

“ I had to.”

“ You let me grieve for you.”

“ I fucking grieved you too.” He snapped, jaw clenched.

“ Every night. Every time I heard your voice echo through this place and couldn’t answer.”

The silence hung thick between you. You looked at him—at Young-il, not the Frontman, not the mask—and for the first time, saw the man beneath the monster.

“ I don’t know how to forgive you.” You whispered, voice breaking.

He leaned in, eyes soft and dark. “ I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

His hand slipped between your thighs again, and you gasped, grabbing his forearm.

“ I’m asking for one more night.” He breathed, lips brushing yours.

“ Before you decide whether you’ll leave me…or stay in hell with me.”

And with your body still aching and your soul torn in two—you weren’t sure what scared you more:

That you might walk away.

Or that you wouldn’t.

The room had fallen into a thick silence, broken only by the ragged rhythm of your breathing and the occasional tremble of your limbs still recovering from the intensity he’d dragged you through.

Young-il was quiet too—eerily still, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. His hand never left your waist, thumb drawing slow, absent circles into your damp skin.

The bare light in the room cast shadows over the sharp lines of his face, no longer hidden behind a mask. No secrets now. Not between your legs, not between your hearts.

And yet—everything was still a fucking mess.

You shifted slightly on unsteady legs, and he caught you instantly, strong arms tightening around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let you go. Not even an inch.

“ Stay.” He murmured, his voice no longer demanding, but something else—pleading.

You blinked at him. " Young-il…"

“ I’m not done.” He said, lower now, a quiet rasp.

“ I don’t want you to move. Just…stay. Just like this.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he was guiding you back down onto him—slowly, carefully—his hands on your thighs, his chest pressed against yours.

You gasped softly as his length filled you again, slow and steady, no urgency this time—just heat and pressure and a claim so deep it made your breath shudder in your lungs. There was no thrust, no friction—just the feel of him inside you, deep and full and still.

You were cockwarming him.

And it was so much worse than fucking.

Because now it was real.

His arms wrapped around you from behind as he sat down, pulling you into his lap, your back pressed to his chest. You could feel every slow breath he took, every slight twitch of his cock buried deep inside you, keeping you there—anchored.

“ You feel that?” He whispered, lips grazing your shoulder.

“ That’s how close I need you right now.”

You swallowed hard. “ We can’t stay like this.”

“ We are staying like this.”

His hand cupped your breast gently, thumb brushing over your nipple as you shifted on instinct, but his other hand gripped your thigh and stilled you.

“ No.” He said, firmer now.

“ Don’t move. I don’t want to fuck you right now. I just want to be inside you.”

The intimacy of it hit you like a wave—being filled without movement, locked together, his breath against your ear, his cock pulsing softly inside your aching walls.

You tried to steady your voice. “ You…missed this?”

“ I missed you.”

A pause.

“ I missed being where I belonged.”

Your eyes welled, heart torn and burning.

You wanted to hate him.

You wanted to love him.

You didn’t know which was winning.

“ You should’ve told me you were alive.” You whispered.

His lips brushed your neck again. “ Would it have changed anything?”

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t sure if you’d walk away from him now, even if you could.

You stayed still.

Silent.

Wrapped in his arms.

Wrapped around him.

And the most dangerous part?

You didn’t want to let go.

You were still seated on his lap—full of him, filled to the hilt, your walls wrapped tight around his cock. The silence between you should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

Because your body wouldn’t stop feeling. Every breath made you twitch around him. Every twitch made him pulse inside you. And every pulsing throb sent heat spiraling low into your belly, sharp and unbearable.

It wasn’t enough.

And it was too much.

You whimpered softly, shifting slightly, and his grip on your hips tightened immediately.

“ I said don’t move.” He murmured into your ear. His voice was different now—low and rough and barely holding together.

“ I—I can’t.” You breathed, chest heaving.

“ I’m…I’m too full, I can’t think—”

He smirked darkly, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “ Good.”

His hips bucked up once, slow but deep, making you cry out and arch back into his chest.

“ That’s what I want. I want you to be dizzy. Ruined.”

You gasped as he began to move inside you—not fast, not rough, but deep, dragging himself out just to the tip before sliding all the way back in again.

Every stroke was deliberate.

Controlled.

Merciless.

“ You’re already sensitive.” He rasped. “ Already wrung out.”

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers stroking your swollen clit with cruel softness. Your whole body jerked, legs trembling violently against his.

“ Y–Young-il, please—”

“ You came already.” He said, thrusting again, deep and slow.

“ And now you’re going to come again. Until you can’t even remember why you hated me.”

He rolled your clit in tight circles while rocking into you with brutal rhythm, letting you feel every inch of him stretch your already spent walls. You clutched at his wrists, overwhelmed, hips bucking helplessly in his lap.

“ Too much.” You cried out, but he only groaned, voice vibrating against your neck.

“ You can take it.” He growled. “ You always could.”

Your body locked down hard around him, another orgasm crashing into you like a wave—sharp, violent—and your scream echoed in the sealed room as you collapsed against his chest.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going.

“ You feel that?” He hissed, thrusting faster now, your cunt pulsing around him uncontrollably.

“ You’re milking my cock, baby. Starving for it.”

Your moans were incoherent now, your fingers clawing into his arms as your legs spasmed around his waist. You didn’t know if you were begging for more or for mercy.

And he didn’t care.

“ Third one.” He whispered darkly.

“ I want your third. I want you shaking so hard you scream my name and forget him.”

You couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t fight it.

Because the way he moved—the way he knew every broken piece of you—made it impossible.

Another wave of pleasure surged up your spine. You sobbed his name, your back arching, vision gone white. And all he did was pull you tighter, bury himself deeper, and whisper, breathless and wrecked:

“ You were always mine.”

Your body was wrecked—raw from back-to-back orgasms, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged as you collapsed against him. But he didn’t let you fall far. His arms stayed firm around you, chest rising against your back as he cradled you…for a moment.

Then his voice, low and rough in your ear.

“ Get back up.”

You barely registered the words. “ W-what…?”

He reached up, tugging the blindfold back down over your eyes. You gasped softly as the darkness swallowed you again. Your senses sharpened. Your skin tingles. Every brush of fabric, every drop of sweat, every shift in the air—it all felt louder.

“ Ride me.” He ordered, voice husky with control barely held.

Your breath caught.

“ I—I can’t see—”

“ You don’t need to see.” He growled.

“ You feel me, don’t you?”

You did. God, you did. He was still buried inside you, thick and hard, twitching with need as he waited—taunted—beneath you.

“ Move.”

Your hands instinctively braced against his chest, your knees weakly adjusting on either side of his hips. You were still trembling, your cunt slick and sensitive as you slowly lifted your hips—just enough for the cool air to kiss your overstimulated folds.

He groaned low as you began to sink down again, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you once more.

“ Just like that.” He rasped. “ Nice and slow. Let me feel every part of you.”

Your head tilted back, a moan breaking free of your lips. Riding him blind made everything more intense—his cock dragging along every spot that made your body jolt, your nerves raw and exposed with every grind of your hips.

He didn’t touch you.

He let you work.

And it drove you crazy.

“ You don’t need Gi-hun.” He said between clenched teeth as you bounced gently, circling your hips on him.

“ Not when you’re this fucking perfect for me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders as you moved harder, your thighs slapping against his lap, the wet sound obscene, echoing in the room. You were breathing like you were drowning, crying out every time he hit too deep—but never slowing down.

He growled again. “ You feel that?”

You nodded, panting. “ Y-yes—fuck, I feel all of it—”

“ That’s what being owned feels like.”

You moaned brokenly, your climax spiraling again, your walls fluttering around him as you moved faster—losing yourself.

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your back, chest flush to yours. Still blindfolded, you could only feel his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“ Come for me again.” He growled, thrusting up hard from beneath you.

“ Now.”

And you shattered—again. With his name ripped from your throat, body clenching so hard around him it dragged a curse from his lips as he spilled inside you, deep and hot.

You collapsed against him, blindfold still on, vision still dark. But you didn’t need to see.

You knew exactly where you were.

And exactly who had you now.

…

You were still wrapped around him, your body limp and trembling from the overwhelming intensity, but Young-il made no move to pull out. He stayed buried deep inside you, your walls still hugging him tightly, even as your muscles twitched with exhaustion.

The room was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin like smoke after a fire.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His hand slowly ran down your spine, grounding you in the silence. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, your breath warming his skin as you finally broke the quiet.

“ Why…?” Your voice was small, hoarse.

“ Why did you have to betray them? Gi-hun…Jun-bae…everyone.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand slid to the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair. Then he pulled back just enough to reach up and untie the blindfold.

The world returned in a blur, but your eyes only focused on one thing: him.

Young-il. Fully unmasked. No distortion. No lies in his face—only the exhaustion of a man who had done too much for too long. He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing the heat of your skin, still flushed from everything you’d just shared.

“ I did it to stop him.” He finally said, voice raw.

“ Gi-hun was going to burn the whole place down. I tried to talk to him—I did. But he wouldn’t listen. So I infiltrated his team. Became a player. Got close. Learned every plan he whispered when he thought no one was listening.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest nearly worse than the one between your thighs.

“ And Jun-bae?” You whispered.

“ You let him die.”

Young-il’s jaw clenched. He looked away for a second—just one—but it was enough to see the regret flash behind his eyes.

“ I didn’t mean to.” He said.

“ That wasn’t part of it. I never wanted Jun-bae to be caught in it—but it was either him or everything collapsing at that moment. I had to make a choice. A choice that would remind Gi-hun exactly what this place demands.”

His hands tightened on your waist as if grounding himself—grounding you.

“ His sacrifice meant something.” Young-il muttered.

“ But if Gi-hun kept going…none of it would’ve mattered.”

You bit your lip, eyes stinging. “ So all of it…the pact between us three—was that even real? Or was I just the easiest way to manipulate him?”

His reaction was immediate. His grip hardened, and his eyes snapped to yours, blazing.

“ The fucking pact was real.” He hissed.

“ Don’t you dare say it wasn’t.”

You flinched at the sharpness in his voice—but you saw the desperation behind it. The pain.

“ I never used you.” He growled.

“ I never would. What I felt—what I feel—for you? It’s real. The only real thing in this hell.”

You stared at him, throat tight, breath shaking.

“ Then why share it with me?” You whispered.

“ Why do you even agree with that?”

His brows furrowed. He looked down at you, helpless and fierce all at once.

“ I’m not the kind of man who shares.” He said lowly.

“ I don’t like it. I hate it. I want you for myself.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours.

“ But Gi-hun…he had you first. And when I saw the way he looked at you, the way you held him after everything…I couldn’t take that from him. I couldn’t break that.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, confession unraveling from his chest like a wound he couldn’t stitch back up.

“ So I did the one thing I never thought I would.”

A pause. A breath.

“ I shared you. For him.”

You felt his cock still throbbing inside you, but this wasn’t just physical anymore. This was everything. Every line blurred. Every emotion turned raw.

“ You could’ve taken me.” You whispered.

“ You had the power to lock me away.”

“ I still do.” He murmured.

“ But I won’t.”

His hand came up to your face again, gentle now. Loving.

“ Because what I want from you…can’t be taken. It has to be given.”

And in that moment, with your body wrapped around him and your heart tangled in everything he was—you didn’t know whether you wanted to run from him…

Or fall even deeper.

You stayed seated on his lap, still joined, his warmth surrounding you—but there was a coldness now, not in his touch, but inside your chest. A hollow ache that even the most desperate intimacy couldn’t fill.

Your arms trembled as you pressed both hands against his chest, holding him there—not to pull him close, but to keep space between your words and his breath.

“ I don’t know what to feel anymore…” you said, voice shaking.

“ You were someone who mattered to me. And you betrayed me.”

His hands flexed on your hips, but he said nothing.

“ I didn’t just lose you once.” You whispered.

“ I mourned you.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw twitching.

“ When they announced your number through the speaker…” Your voice cracked.

“ I broke. I thought you died fighting beside us. I thought you were gone. But all along…”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes, tears pooling under your lashes.

“ You were the one mastering the game.”

His breath hitched, barely audible.

You shook your head slowly. “ I don’t know if I believe anything anymore. Not the pact. Not your promises. Not even… this.” Your fingers curled into his chest.

He moved to speak, but you cut him off, the words tumbling now—raw and painful and desperate.

“ Gi-hun blames himself every single day. He told me that maybe if he had done things differently, Jun-bae would still be alive. That you would still be alive.”

Young-il’s gaze faltered.

You continued, the words trembling. “ He just wanted to save people. To stop the killing. To end this madness. And you—”

You met his eyes now, your own wide with devastation. “ You made him suffer for it.”

“ I didn’t want to—”

“ He thought you were his friend.” You choked out.

“ Inside of this hell, he trusted you. And you used that to break him.”

The silence that followed felt like the loudest thing you’d ever heard. Young-il’s lips parted slightly. His brows pulled together, pain blooming across his features—but there was no denial on his face.

No excuses left.

Only regret.

His voice came out hoarse, barely holding together. “ I didn’t mean for it to happen like that…”

“ But it did.” You said, your voice soft but final.

The ache between your legs from what you just shared was nothing compared to the ache in your heart. What was once desire, closeness, craving—had turned into something too tangled to name.

You were still wrapped around him.

Still filled by him.

And yet…so impossibly far away.

Your fingers curled tighter against his chest, heart thudding so violently it felt like your ribs would shatter. You stared at him, eyes wide, disbelief spreading through you like ice.

“ I want to go back.” You said firmly, the tears still drying on your cheeks.

“ I want to help Gi-hun…I need to be there for him. For everyone. I want to fight for something that still makes sense.”

Young-il didn’t speak immediately. His eyes lowered to your lips, then your throat, as if memorizing the last peaceful second he might have with you.

“ You can’t go back.” He finally said.

“ You’ve already been eliminated. Your file was closed when I pulled you out.”

Your stomach dropped. “ Then open it again. I don’t care what rules you’ve set—I want back in.”

“ I can’t.” He said again, this time more steel behind his voice.

“ You’re not going back into that arena.”

You stared at him in confusion until he said the next part.

“ I’ve already replaced you.”

You blinked, silent.

He didn’t stop.

“ I entered the baby—Player 222’s daughter—into the game. She now carries her mother’s number and slot.”

The world tilted.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. You just stared.

“ You…what?”

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. No smirk. No cruelty. Just a cold, hardened mask—bare and emotionless.

“ It was the most strategic move. It creates tension. High drama. And it was requested by the VIPs.” He explained, voice robotic.

“ They want something unthinkable this time. Something that blurs the line between horror and spectacle.”

“ No.” You whispered.

“ No—you’re joking.”

But his silence told you everything. He meant it.

Your voice rose, cracking. “ She’s a baby! She can’t even walk, she can’t fucking speak! You threw an infant into your goddamn arena just to entertain sick monsters?!”

He didn’t flinch.

You snapped.

Your fists came down hard against his chest, again and again, tears streaming as you hit him.

“ You’re sick. You’re fucking sick! She doesn’t even know what death is! And you just—” Your breath caught as sobs took over.

“ You just put her fucking life on a kill list! For a twist?!”

He didn’t stop you.

He took every hit.

Every curse. Every sob.

Until your strength gave out, and you collapsed against him, your face buried in his shoulder, trembling and broken. And only then—only then—did his arms wrap around you, holding you so tightly it hurt.

“ I had to.” He whispered.

“ There’s no more room for weakness. I’m keeping you alive. That baby…that twist…it’s what brought you your freedom.”

You thrashed in his arms weakly. “ Don’t you fucking justify this.”

You pulled back, glaring up at him, your voice filled with venom.

“ You’re not a savior.” You spat.

“ You’re a monster. A merciless, heartless monster.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

His arms stayed wrapped around you, unmoving like steel bands—unrelenting and suffocating. You could feel his breath on your temple, steady but shallow, as if he was trying to stay composed.

You didn’t return the hold.

You just existed in it.

Numb.

Your throat burned from screaming. Your fists ached from striking him. But none of it compared to the hollow in your chest.

The echoing realization that the man who once touched you like you were his salvation…had now become the very thing you needed saving from. You pulled back slowly, forcing his arms to drop. He let you go, reluctantly.

Your voice was hoarse, broken. “ There’s no mercy left in you, is there?”

His eyes met yours—cold, unreadable, but glinting with something else. Guilt. Buried so deep it only flickered.

“ Mercy doesn’t work here.” He said quietly.

“ Mercy gets you killed.”

You stepped away from him, your legs still trembling, his release still inside you—his touch still clinging to your skin like poison. You hated it. Hated that you felt everything and still didn’t know how to make it stop.

“ That baby…” You whispered, voice trembling.

“ Doesn’t even know her mother is dead.”

Young-il didn’t answer.

“ She doesn’t know what pain is yet. What fear is. What this is. And you…you just threw her into a game where people rip each other apart to survive.”

“ I won’t let her die.” He said quietly.

“ I had to put her in—but I’ll keep her safe.”

You laughed bitterly through the tears. “ You can’t protect someone you’ve already used.”

He flinched.

“ I thought you died for something.” You added, shaking your head.

“ But all this time, you were just climbing higher. Building this throne out of corpses.”

His silence was worse than denial.

“ I don’t know who you are anymore.” You said.

“ And I don’t think I want to.”

He stepped forward slightly. “ You do know me.”

“ No.” You said, stepping back, your voice barely above a whisper.

“ I knew Young-il. I don’t know the man standing in front of me now.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling slowly. “ Would you rather I let them kill you? Let them drag you into the Keys and Knives game and leave your body rotting like the others?”

“ I would’ve rather died fighting.” You snapped.

“ Than live knowing an innocent child was sacrificed in my place.”

That hit him.

You saw it.

But he didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing left he could say. The silence stretched. Cold. Final. And in that silence…the line between you and him became something too wide to cross again.

You peeled yourself off him, your body screaming in protest—raw, used, aching from more than just the physical. But you didn’t care.

You reached for your clothes with shaking hands, pulling on the black sleeves and trousers he had ordered for you, even though they felt like shackles now.

You were still dripping with him, your thighs slick and unsteady, your core throbbing with the echo of his presence inside you.

And you hated it.

You hated him.

He watched you silently, chest rising and falling, eyes dark but unreadable again—like he was slipping the mask back on even without the leather and steel.

But you were already speaking before he could.

“ I don’t care if I’m bleeding or broken right now.” You said through clenched teeth.

“ What I can’t endure is the man in front of me—who’s so far gone that he’d toss a baby into a bloodbath just to keep rich bastards entertained.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“ All of us here are still human.” You hissed.

“ But you? I don’t know what you are anymore. Maybe a demon wearing the face of the man I once trusted.”

His nostrils flared.

His fists clenched.

“ You proved it.” You said, louder now.

“ You deserve to rot in this place. Because you chose the darkness. You had chances to leave—you had options—but you stayed because you loved the power too much to walk away.”

“ Shut up.” He growled lowly.

“ No.” You snapped.

“ You’re addicted to control. You could’ve been the one to destroy this place from the inside. You were closer than any of us! But you built your kingdom on corpses instead. You chose this.”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped.

“ You think this is what I fucking wanted?” He barked, stepping forward.

“ You think it’s that fucking easy? You think I asked to be the villain?”

You didn’t move.

He kept going, voice rising, rage bubbling under years of silence and control.

“ I had a life out there. A name. A mother. A little brother. A home. And one fucking game stole all of it from me.”

His hand slammed against the wall, making you flinch despite yourself.

“ I didn’t start this!” He roared.

“ I was you! I was a player! I was terrified and hungry and desperate—and no one came for me!”

You swallowed hard, your voice softer, but sharp. “ So that gave you the right to become the monster that hurt you?”

He froze.

The air was thick. Heavy. The silence is unbearable. You stepped closer, just one pace, eyes burning into his.

“ You say you're a victim…then why are you doing to others what they did to you? Why are you punishing Gi-hun for trying to break the cycle you couldn’t?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, you saw it.

Not power.

Not cruelty.

But grief.

Loneliness.

Guilt that had festered so long, it had turned into armor.

“ I saw myself in him.” Young-il finally said, his voice quiet now. Hoarse.

“ That’s why I gave him chances. That’s why I watched instead of killing him. Because I wanted to believe—maybe…maybe he’d prove me wrong. That someone could still win without becoming what I became.”

Your throat tightened. You stared at him.

“ And now?” You asked.

His shoulders slumped. His voice cracked. “ Now I know…he’s too late. We all are.”

But you stepped back. And in that distance, both of you finally saw the truth.

Maybe he was a victim once.

But now?

Now he was the architect of other people's ruin.

The tension between you cracked like a whip. Young-il’s jaw was clenched, but his voice came out with chilling clarity as he stepped forward.

“ Gi-hun will come here.”

You froze.

“ I’ll give him one last chance.” He continued, eyes narrowing.

“ To win the game. To end it faster. And when he arrives…” He tilted his head slightly, eyes burning into yours.

“ I’ll reveal myself.”

You stared at him, horror swelling like bile in your throat.

“ You’re so fucking sick.” You spat, breath shaking.

He smirked bitterly. “ I am sick. Twisted. Rotten. All of it. I know.”

Your voice rose. “ Then take me back into the game. Let me play. Let me help Gi-hun before he walks right into whatever trap you're setting.”

But Young-il only scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter.

“ Why?” He snapped.

“ Why do you always push yourself into danger for him? Why is it always Gi-hun this, Gi-hun that? His name's the only one that ever fucking leaves your mouth!”

You didn’t hesitate.

“ Because right now, he’s my priority.” Your voice shook with fury.

“ Because Gi-hun, despite his mistakes, remains honest. Despite this fucked-up world, he still chooses to be kind. He still believes in something good.”

“ And I don’t?” Young-il growled, stepping closer.

“ You stopped trying!” You shouted back.

“ You chose the system. You became the very monster you used to fight.”

He stared at you, silent. Breathing hard. A flicker of something breaking behind his eyes.

“ I won’t let you go back in.” He said, low and fierce.

“ Not again. I’ve already seen enough blood. I won’t watch you die in the hands of those greedy fucks.”

You moved toward him, furious. “ It’s not your choice!”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped again.

“ Don’t you get it?!” He shouted, voice nearly shattering.

“ I did all of this—for you! Every fucking deal I made, every move I orchestrated—I burned myself just to keep you safe!”

You froze. Your chest ached. But he wasn’t done.

“ I don’t care about the game anymore.” He said, voice breaking now.

“ I don’t care about the power. I don’t care about the mask. If you die—if you leave me too—I won’t have anything. Not even myself.”

His breath caught, and he stepped forward slowly, his hand trembling as it hovered near your cheek.

“ You are the last life I could ever have again. I know I’m a monster—but even monsters love.”

Your lips trembled.

“ And I swore…” He whispered.

“ No matter what it took…I’d protect you.” His voice cracked.

“ As long as it fucking takes.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

But your heart wasn’t still.

It was torn.

The room was so quiet, you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. His words hung heavy between you, thick with desperation, pain, and a kind of love so distorted, it almost didn’t feel like love at all.

You stared at Young-il—his chest heaving, his hand still hovering near your face, his eyes glassy and wild like a man on the edge of something irreversible.

“ I love you.” He said again, barely above a whisper, as if repeating it would make it more real.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t lean in.

You didn’t speak right away.

Because your heart was breaking for what he was…and for everything he could’ve been.

“ You say you love me…” You finally said, voice quiet but unwavering.

“ But what you’re doing…this isn’t love, Young-il.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“ This is fear. This is control. This is you holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping you from drowning, while you're the one pulling us both under.”

You took a shaky step back, breaking the invisible thread of warmth between your bodies.

“ You didn’t save me.” You continued.

“ You stole my right to choose. You put a baby in that arena. You used Gi-hun’s loyalty. You’ve made every decision as if you were protecting me—but really, you were protecting yourself from losing me.”

“ Because you’re all I have!” He snapped, voice shaking now.

“ You think I’m proud of what I’ve done? Of who I became? I hate this place! I hate what it made me! But I don’t know how to stop anymore. I only know how to survive.”

Your throat tightened.

“ And I only know how to fight.” You whispered.

“ That’s why I want to go back. To help Gi-hun, to try to make things right—even if it’s impossible.”

He stepped toward you again, but slower this time. Wary. Breaking.

“ I don’t want to lose you.” He said.

“ If you go back, I can’t protect you anymore.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but your voice didn’t waver.

“ Then let me go. And if you really love me, trust me to choose the fight I believe in.”

Young-il stared at you for a long time, as if he were memorizing the lines of your face, knowing this moment might change everything.

Then, quietly…his hand dropped to his side.

His gaze lowered.

And he said nothing.

Because in the end, even he knew—

Love, twisted by fear, isn't enough to cage you.

…

The sharp hiss of the chamber door sliding open cut through the room like a blade. You turned instinctively, still reeling from the emotional storm with Young-il, just as one of the Square-masked guards stepped in with stiff posture.

“ Frontman…” The guard said formally.

“ Player 456 is outside. He’s waiting for you.”

Young-il exhaled slowly—almost tiredly—as if bracing himself. The quiet sound of his breath was louder than anything else. He turned away from you, crossed to a nearby table, and reached for the heavy, black mask—the one you knew all too well.

The symbol of fear.

Power.

Secrecy.

With a calmness that didn’t match the storm beneath his surface, he slipped the mask back over his face, sealing himself away once again.

The man you knew—the man you once loved—vanished behind the smooth, inhuman steel.

“ Let him in.” He ordered the guard, voice now distorted through the built-in modulator. Controlled. Cold.

The guard bowed slightly and stepped back out to fulfill the command. Before the door could shut again, Young-il turned to you. He moved to his cabinet and retrieved something small—sleek and dark.

A mask.

Not like his. Not a symbol of command. But a concealment tool—a smooth, curved faceplate with no expression and no markings. A mask made to erase identity.

He crossed the room in long strides and extended it toward you.

“ Put this on.” He said firmly.

“ Now.”

You hesitated only a moment before taking it, fingers brushing against his gloved hand briefly. It felt colder than it used to.

“ What for?” You asked softly, barely audible under the edge of tension.

“ I need you to stay out of sight.” He said.

“ Gi-hun can’t know you’re here—not yet. I’ll bring you forward when the time is right.”

You held the mask for a second longer. Then, silently, you slid it over your face.

It locked into place with a quiet click, and the world dimmed, your peripheral vision reduced, your breathing slightly muffled. But your identity…completely gone.

He stepped back and pointed to the far corner of the chamber, where the shadows were deepest.

“ Go…” He said.

“ Wait there. Do not make a sound. Not until I call you.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say something—anything—but you were tired. Not just in your body, but in your soul. So, you nodded silently and moved as he commanded, disappearing into the darkened corner.

The door hissed open again.

You could hear the familiar footsteps.

Gi-hun’s voice.

And your heart twisted violently inside your chest.

Two men.

Two fates.

And now…you were a ghost between them.

Author's Note: This is the second half of the story. This would be the final post, but this application has a limitation, so there will be a third or fourth part (depending on whether Tumblr cuts me again). This story has a lot of long parts hehe. That's all, thanks for the patience everyone. Love you all! 🫶🏻 The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. READ WITH RESPONSIBILITY.

Tags: @frontwomann @valarie028 @ilovehwanginho @maah-sama @callmespacecat @madzzz0797 @sylviavf @yourpersonalcuckcake @jeongyukook

Part 3 soon...

#squid game #squid game 2 #squid game season 3 #squid game spoilers #fanfic #hwang inho #hwang inho x reader #hwang inho x you #hwang inho x y/n #reblog

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