Work Text:
The room was dark except for the flicker of the massive screen on the wall.
It was strange now, being back in his room. He almost got used to being Young-il, stuck in debt and in games. He almost got used to the brightness of it all and the noise and… -
Gihun, right in front of him on the big screen, was approaching the guards.
Bloodied. Furious. Alive.
Gihun stood under a harsh overhead light, screaming about wanting to be killed.
“Why? Why didn’t you kill me?!”
In-ho watched him scream. But the furious questions quickly turned into desperate demands.
“Why didn’t you kill me? You won! I’m begging you, just kill me!”
In-ho reached for his drink. He should have been satisfied. The guards were doing their job, keeping Gihun contained, keeping him from doing anything stupid. But he didn’t care to watch four sets of hands touching him.
The screaming continued, muffled now.
The phone on his desk began to ring. In-ho stood.
Today, he had been Young-il. Then himself. Now - now he might as well be the Front Man again.
Morning came without ceremony. Cold white light filtered through the vents in the concrete walls, the only signal that time had passed.
The players moved down the line of beds with unease, collecting breakfast and bottles of water. One by one.
Gihun hadn’t moved.
He was still chained to one of the beds, half-sitting, half-collapsed. His eyes were open, unfocused, like they hadn’t blinked all night.
Back in his observation room, In-ho watched. He had washed the blood from his hands. Reassembled himself piece by piece.
Gloves, suit, mask. The ritual always helped. Usually.
But something was different now. Something about Gihun.
Was this shock? Was it a trick? The defiance from the night before had dissolved into a terrifying stillness. Not calm, more like something was broken.
On-screen, Player 149 hesitated near Gihun’s bed. The mother and her son, nervous almost.
They spoke to him, placing the brekafast and the water by Gi-hun. No response.
Gihun didn’t even look at them. He didn’t blink. Just breathed. Barely.
In-ho leaned forward, his drink untouched beside him. He realized he didn’t know when the last time Gihun had eaten was.
In-ho stood, before he could think it through properly.
He pressed the button by the screen, switching the audio feed to a private channel.
“Unit 6,” he said calmly. “Restrain the others. Bring Player 456 to the medical wing. Alone.”
Seong Gi-hun was out of the Games. He hadn’t voted. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t even flinched when the guards unchained him and led him away.
When the medical team cleared him, they worked in near silence, bandaging cuts, checking his pulse, applying disinfectant with practiced indifference.
Soldier 02 did most of the work. He always did.
Probably the only one among them with actual medical training.
When it was done, Soldier 02 lingered longer than usual. He looked up at the surveillance camera with a tired sigh and spoke without waiting for permission.
“It’s shock,” he said, pulling off his gloves.
“I don’t know what you want with him. He’ll sit it out, should be fine for the next game. Tomorrow. Or the day after.” He paused. “The VIPs won’t mind.”
Back in the control room, In-ho stood with his hands behind his back, watching in silence.
He didn’t know why he asked them to bring Gihun here. But now he was.
The door opened, and the guards led him inside , still shackled, still silent. They placed him into the armchair across from In-ho, then stepped back to the walls, awaiting further orders.
Gihun didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
He sat like dead weight, body slack but not unconscious, head tilted slightly down. His knuckles were red and raw from the restraints, but he didn’t seem to notice.
In-ho dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand.
The door shut behind them, locking with a final mechanical click. The room was quiet. Just the soft hum of the monitors and the slow, steady sound of Gihun breathing. In-ho stood there for a long moment, watching him.
Waiting for something. Anything.
Still, Gihun hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.
The stillness was beginning to scrape against something inside him, something sharp, irrational.
They’d put fluids in him. He knew that. Soldier 02 would have made sure. But food? No. Nothing solid. Not since before the last round.
He should make him eat.
The thought struck him bluntly, with more urgency than it deserved. He crossed the room and opened the small panel near the wall, pressed the button for a meal delivery.
Nothing special. Rice, soup. Water.
When it arrived, he didn’t let a guard carry it in. He brought it himself.
Set it carefully in front of Gihun, crouched a little, lowered his voice like speaking to someone on the edge of sleep.
“You have to eat.”
No answer. Gihun didn’t even glance down.
His eyes remained half-lidded, fixed somewhere far beyond the room.
In-ho stared at him for a moment longer, something coiling in his chest.
Frustration. Concern. Guilt. Something worse.
He almost pulled off the mask. Almost showed himself. It was a childish thought, wanting a reaction.
Wanting him to react, to acknowledge, even if it was with hate. He couldn’t help himself. Still, he didn’t do it.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood. Walked around to the other side. His voice was lower this time, careful.
“We must get you out of these bloodied clothes then.”
Gihun didn’t move as In-ho gently unshackled him. Didn’t speak as he was guided to the private bathroom adjoining the room.
He moved like a marionette with cut strings.
Like something that had already left the body.
In-ho moved mechanically, grabbing clean clothes, towels, and turning the tap to fill the bathtub.
He hadn’t thought he’d ever use it, he preferred the shower. The tub always felt excessive, indulgent. A VIP luxury, which he despised on this island.
But now, he was almost glad it was there.
The water began to rise, steam curling into the cold air.
“Come,” In-ho said.
But Gihun didn’t move. So In-ho did.
He crossed the tiled floor, hands steady, voice silent. He reached for the bloodied green jacket first and it slipped off with little resistance.
That was easy, but now In-ho hesitated. He flexed his fingers, already regretting the gloves. The latex clung to his skin, made everything feel clinical.
Still, he kept going.
The shirt was next. Lifted over Gihun’s head. No resistance. Not even a flinch. Then the shoes. Socks. Then his trousers. Red-streaked fabric and dried blood peeled away from pale skin like old leaves.
In-ho had thought about this before - about undressing him.
He couldn’t even help thinking about it now.
But not like this.
He always pictured it with some kind of reaction. He’d imagined defiant screams or inviting sighs, maybe something else. A gasp, a challenge, anything alive.
Not silence. Never silence.
When he lowered Gihun into the tub, the man didn’t protest.
The water took him in with a soft splash, limbs weightless and slack. In-ho knelt beside him.
“Player 149 talked to you, didn’t she?” he said, voice low.
“She told you it’s not your fault.” Childish. It was his fault. Both of theirs. Everyone’s.
But still, he whispered, “You should believe her.”
No answer.
He reached for the shampoo, worked it into Gihun’s hair. The wet gloves clung to his fingers, sticky and slow. He rinsed with care, as though handling something breakable.
“Believe her,” he said again, quieter now. “It’s not your fault. That is easier…”
Gihun moved.
Not toward him. Not against him. He didn’t move to lay a punch on the Front Man or strangle him.
He gripped the edges of the tub with both hands.
And slowly, deliberately, slid beneath the surface.
In-ho stared. Too long.
Then he lunged, grabbing under Gihun’s arms and yanking him out, water spilling onto the floor.
He held him up, dripping and breathless, his own mask wet with steam.
“No more baths for you,” he said.
To the VIPs, Player 456 was already dead.
That was the story In-ho gave them: a failed rebellion, crushed beneath boots and bullets.
Clean. Entertaining.
They had loved the corpses of the traitorous soldiers hanging in the hallway like decorations. Thoroughly enjoyed the footage In-ho showed them of the rebellion.
The blood spray caught in high definition. The shootout montage had them laughing, clapping.
Cheering for more.
In-ho drank nothing. Spoke less.
He played host, as expected. Explained tactics, nodded politely at their delight. Accepted compliments on the “drama” of it all.
Let one of them joke about the poetic justice of 456 dying in a pile of bodies.
But his mind wasn’t in the room. It was two floors below.
Player 456 was still alive. Still in his room.
Still not eating. Still saying nothing.
And In-ho, The Front Man, found that he had even less patience for the velvet-draped parasites in front of him than usual.
“Shame about 456. I had my eye on him. Would’ve liked him in my bed before the end.”
The VIP that spoke leaned back in his seat, grinning. Something in In-ho’s chest twisted.
A small, hard coil of heat. He said nothing. Just tilted his head, mask hiding the shift in his jaw.
But when he poured the man more wine, his hand lingered on the bottle half a second too long, too preoccupied with the fantasy of smashing the man’s face in with wine stained glass.
And he poured too much.
The door slammed harder than intended. In-ho didn’t care. He was fuming, heat still prickling under his gloves from the VIPs’ laughter, their empty praise, their filth.
That one voice, still echoing in his head.
“Would’ve liked him in my bed…”
Disgust curdled into something darker.
He walked into his room, crossed the room in quick strides, already snapping, voice cold and louder than usual. The small table was still set.
"Another untouched tray. You think starving yourself will change anything?"
He looked to the chair in the corner, the same one Gihun had spent the last night in, hunched and immobile like a ghost in fabric.
But it was empty.
In-ho froze.
His eyes shifted, then he saw him.
Gihun was lying in the bed. Not sitting. Not slumped. Lying, fully on his side, curled slightly under the blanket, eyes half-closed but unmistakably awake.
The soft bedding dwarfed him. He looked thinner than he had hours ago. Smaller.
In-ho stopped in his tracks. The room went still. His anger didn’t vanish, but it changed. Muted by the unexpected sight, the intrusion of intimacy he hadn’t prepared himself for.
He’d been yelling. Now he couldn’t speak.
Inho spent the night in the same bed. Only when dawn neared, he put his mask back on.
The next game was Jump Rope , a brutal one. Short, efficient. High body count. The VIPs loved it.
Which meant In-ho had to remain with them, answering questions, narrating violence like a tour guide in Hell.
He’d left Gihun in the room. Two guards outside the door. Two inside, silent as statues.
Overkill, maybe, but something in him refused to take chances. Not with him.
Still, In-ho kept checking the tablet. Status updates. Heart rate. Surveillance feeds.
When he finally returned, the room was dim. The dinner tray had been moved, untouched again, but the monitor on the far wall was on.
Gihun was in the armchair, bathed in cold flickering light, eyes fixed on the screen. Footage from the Game.
They were showing the aftermath now: blood streaking the concrete floor, bodies unmoving.
In-ho froze at the door for a moment, then sighed quietly and waved the guards out with a simple flick of his hand. He wanted the day over. Wanted the mask off. Wanted to be-
“They’re all dead?” The voice was hoarse, uncertain. But it was Gihun’s.
In-ho stopped in his tracks, slowly turning. Gihun didn’t look at him.
Eyes still on the screen, glinting faintly with unshed tears.
“All of them?” he asks, “The mother and the son? The pregnant girl?”
His voice cracked on the last word.
His chin trembled. In-ho stared.
He should have said something. But instead, he just nodded. Gihun’s shoulders began to shake.
In-ho didn’t move. Just watched. Fascinated. Awestruck. Wrecked.
It was the first real thing Gihun had given him in days. And it was grief.
That night, Gihun lay at the very edge of the bed, facing the wall again. In-ho was beside him. And in the dark, Gihun silently shook with sobs he refused to make a sound of.
Gihun didn’t get up for breakfast. Or lunch.
By dinnertime, In-ho had returned to his rooms just to pace them.
The stillness of it all had begun to claw at his nerves. The untouched tray from that morning sat like a quiet accusation on the side table.
He grabbed it, not even thinking, his fingers white-knuckled around the metal edges.
He stormed into the bedroom. Gihun hadn’t moved. Still curled on the bed, face to the wall, eyes unfocused and rimmed red.
In-ho slammed the tray down on the bedside table.
“Sit up.”
There was no response. He didn’t wait. In-ho gripped Gihun’s arm and pulled him upright, none too gently. The motion startled him. Not violently, but enough to draw a soft, startled gasp from his throat.
It wasn’t resistance. Just shock. In-ho sat beside him, jaw clenched, breath shallow.
He scooped a spoonful of rice, dipped it in the congealed soup, and held it up.
Gihun said nothing. Didn't move. Didn’t even blink.
So In-ho moved the spoon to his mouth and pressed.
“Open.”
He did. Barely.
But he did.
The first bite went in with awkwardness, forced, mechanical. Gihun swallowed with a visible wince. Another spoonful. In-ho was rough again, holding Gihun’s chin when he didn’t respond quickly enough. But there was no fight in him.
The third bite, In-ho didn’t grip his jaw as tightly. He adjusted the spoon so it wouldn’t spill.
The soup dripped a little down Gihun’s chin and without thinking, In-ho wiped it with his thumb.
He was holding the back of his neck steady, almost cradling him. By the fourth bite, his voice had softened.
“You have to eat.” He wasn’t sure if he said it for Gihun… or for himself.
Gihun didn’t respond, but his breathing had evened out.
His eyes were lowered. For the first time, he wasn’t trembling.
That was when In-ho set the spoon down.
He stood, slow and careful, as if afraid to startle him again. Walked to the dresser. Reached up.
And removed the mask.
He turned back to Gihun, holding his breath as if the air between them might shatter.
No ceremonial reveal. Just his face. Plain. Human. Young-il.
Gihun’s eyes lifted - and locked.
At first, there was only stillness.
Then - Recognition.
And then horror.
His whole face contorted like something cracked beneath it, not fury, not the defiance of old, but something worse.
Tears welled instantly. No resistance. No pretense.
A sob tore from his chest, low, guttural, raw.
In-ho stepped forward, instinctively but stopped.
“Y-Young-Il..” Gihun whispered and shrank back, curling against the bedframe, covering part of his face with one shaking hand. Not from pain. From knowing.
All this time. In-ho stood frozen, the mask hanging at his side like a dead weight. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He only watched, heart hammering, breath shallow.
Did I break him? Or is this just what’s left?
Gihun cried until there were no more tears.
And In-ho stood in silence, unable to put the mask back on.
That evening, In-ho returned to the room late.
The preparations for the very last game were done, the VIPs informed and otherwise entertained, waiting happily for the last game.
But none of it mattered now, not compared to the space behind the door.
In-ho opened it to find the bed empty.
Gihun was standing by the corner, arms wrapped around himself, eyes red-rimmed but dry. His whole body tensed as In-ho stepped in.
He turned, as if to retreat again to the armchair, to the cold, rigid silence where he could vanish. Or maybe even make for the door, away from In-ho altogether.
But In-ho was faster.
He crossed the room and caught his arm.
“Stay.” Gihun flinched, tried to pull away. “Stay.”
The second time, it was sharper. In-ho’s hand slid from his wrist to his waist, guiding, restraining, anchoring.
He backed him toward the bed, chest to chest now, the air between them brittle and trembling.
Gihun struggled, not wildly, not like before, but with a desperate sort of resistance. A flinch that said don’t make me.
But In-ho held him there. And when he pushed him back onto the mattress, both of Gihun’s arms held up by Inho’s hand, the other hand on his throat, Gihun stayed put.
He had nowhere to go. Nobody to go to.
“Young-Il.” Gihun only said, scared eyes on the ceiling. “Young-Il!”
“In-ho.” he grunted back, waiting for Gihun’s eyes to find him.
“Young-Il never existed, I am In-ho.”
A pause.
“Say it.”
“...”
“Say it!”
Gihun closed his eyes, trembling.
Later, long after the room had gone still again, In-ho lay beside Gihun.
Gihun hadn’t moved much.
He lay stiff, curled on his side, facing the wall. Not asleep. Breathing too fast. Too quietly. In-ho reached out.
Fingers to shoulder, then the line of Gihun’s arm.
Slowly, so slowly, afraid more of being allowed than being rejected. His hand brushed Gihun’s waist, and he felt the flinch.
But Gihun didn’t pull away. Didn’t move at all.
He ran his palm lightly across the fabric of his shirt. Over ribs. Over the dip of his stomach. Tracing the edge of warmth like something sacred or shameful.
“You’re still here,” In-ho whispered, not sure if it was gratitude or accusation.
Gihun let out a small, shaky breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite anything.
When In-ho’s hand paused, Gihun shifted and pressed his face deeper into the pillow.
It wasn’t consent. But it wasn’t rejection either.
So In-ho stayed there, palm resting gently over him, feeling every shiver, every breath.
And Gihun trembled quietly in the dark.
Gihun refused to speak again.
He didn’t refuse In-ho’s touch, but he didn’t say another word.
In-ho’s hands never knew when to stop.
The last game was about to begin.
The VIPs lounged in velvet and gold, eyes glassy with champagne and bloodlust.
In-ho stood beside them, hands behind his back, voice steady as he delivered the very sad news.
The infant player 222 did not make it through the night.
“Unfortunately, Player 222 did not survive the night.” A few disappointed murmurs.
“The baby?! Tragic. Must’ve been complications from the pregnancy that went unnoticed. A real shame… could’ve been… compelling.”
A chuckle. A sigh. A shrug.
“A bummer, of course! Would’ve made a great show.”
The remaining players were already on the field. They entertained the VIPs just enough.
No one asked what happened to the baby. No one cared.
That evening, In-ho returned to his private quarters.
He didn’t bother with ceremony. No guards. No tray. No mask.
Just the baby, bundled tightly in her late mother’s green jacket, sleeping in his arms.
He stood at the edge of the bedroom for a long moment. Gihun was on the bed again, unmoving, still facing the wall, eyes dry, face blank.
In-ho moved slowly. Sat on the edge of the bed. The baby made a small, hiccupped sigh.
Gihun stirred, barely. They moved in sync.
He turned his head, blinking slowly and finally saw the bundle.
A flicker of confusion. A twitch of his brow.
And then, something else.
His whole body tensed as he sat up on instinct.
In-ho placed the baby gently into his arms.
No warning. Gihun froze, arms stiff, unsure.
“Is this…”
“Player 222 had her baby, yes. She got disqua -”
In-ho started to explain, but Gihun stopped him.
“No! … No.” he repeated. He didn’t want to know.
The baby squirmed slightly. A tiny fist brushed against Gihun’s chest. Warmth, real and human and terrifying.
And then Gihun broke.
He let out a sound, not a word, not a sob, just a hollow, shaking breath.
His fingers closed around the baby slowly, protectively.
In-ho watched. No orders. No demands. Just the silence of something changing.
The Games were over. No celebration. No closing ceremony. Just the silent, clinical dismantling of a nightmare.
The VIPs had vanished within the hour. No goodbyes, no gratitude. Just discarded robes, half-finished drinks, and sticky bloodstains left behind for someone else to clean.
The guards moved like insects across the complex, gathering files, packing weapons, logging bodies like inventory.
In-ho stood at the threshold of his quarters, mask under his arm, watching the last threads of the operation unravel.
Inside, Gihun sat on the floor with the baby in his lap, wrapped tightly in a blanket that had once been folded across the foot of the bed.
He held her like something sacred, not delicately, but securely. As if afraid the world might try to take her back.
When the guards brought in formula, the screaming started.
They hadn’t even crossed the room before Gihun was up, one arm around the child, the other raised in fury.
“Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her!”
The baby wailed, startled by the noise, clutching a handful of Gihun’s shirt in her tiny fist.
In-ho only sighed to himself.
Eventually, he waved the guards away. Took the formula himself and left it just inside the door.
Gihun wouldn’t look at him.
He sat back down and rocked the baby in silence, whispering something only she could hear.
Later, In-ho stood just outside the bedroom again, hand on the wall, listening.
He wasn’t sure why he stayed there so long. He heard Gihun’s voice, soft and cracked, speaking words not meant for him.
“You’re okay now… shh, you’re okay.”
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The baby cooed, half-asleep in his arms. And for the first time since the Games began, Gihun sounded alive. Not whole. Not healed. But breathing. Present.
And In-ho, The Front Man, stood outside the door, listening to a life that didn’t include him.
Not really.
Not yet.
In-ho had imagined his late wife with a baby in her arms a million times - soft light, quiet laughter, a version of peace that had never come.
But he hadn’t pictured it in a long time.
Not until now, watching Gihun in the half-light, cradling someone else’s child like she was the only thing left worth saving.
That night, he refused to go to bed.
He had made a makeshift bed out of the jackets and blankets he could find and laid there beside the infant. In-ho watched them.
“You run again,” he said, voice low, steady. “And I’m taking her.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Gihun froze, arms tightening around the baby.
Eventually, a nod.
Everything was done. The Games were over for the year.
The island was already half-emptied. Halls silent, floors cleaned, blood washed away like it had never happened.
All that remained was to return. Return, regroup, and in a few months, plan again. New Games. New rules. New arenas.
In-ho would normally go home, the house in Virginia, or the apartment in Vienna. Places with enough distance to forget what he'd done, if only for a season.
But traveling with Gihun and the girl now? That felt absurd.
So instead, he made a quiet arrangement. A place by the coast. Busan, big enough to disappear in, quiet enough not to be noticed.
When the last soldiers escorted them to the private helicopter, baby wrapped and asleep in Gihun’s arms, Gihun silent and wary as ever,
In-ho said nothing. He just boarded with them. And Gihun stayed.
Their first few nights in the new house weren’t as relaxing as In-ho would’ve liked.
The place was beautiful - white walls, tall windows, and the sea just a breath beyond the glass. But peace was a myth. The girl had lungs like a siren.
Every few hours, without warning, she’d scream like the world was ending, demanding food, or warmth, or comfort, or nothing at all.
And Gihun? He was always there. Always moving. Rocking her, feeding her, walking slow laps through the hallway with her clutched against his chest like a lifeline. There were no words between them. Not really. But In-ho knew the distance wasn’t just emotional anymore. It was practical. Gihun was busy.
Too busy for In-ho’s hands to wander.
“But what do you want?”
In-ho could hear him ask the baby. It was chaos that day, it was like she was screaming just for the sake of it.
“… You know, I had a daughter just like you. In another lifetime. I wasn’t a good father to her either.”
His voice shook by the last bit, he was sniffing.
“I don’t know what you want, sweetheart.”
“You need to eat.”
In-ho said, sitting down next to Gihun with a bowl in his hands. Gihun didn’t answer. Didn’t look up.
In-ho scooped a spoonful, held it out in front of him.
“If you’re not okay,” he said, calm but sharp, “she won’t be either. So eat.”
Gihun blinked once.
Then opened his mouth.
He chewed slowly, swallowed without comment.
In-ho fed him again.
And again.
And again.
The baby was finally asleep in her crib, just down the hall, the first night Gihun had allowed it. He hadn’t left her side since they arrived in Busan, but now, for once, the small monitor clutched in his hand offered some illusion of peace.
He lay stiffly in bed, back to In-ho, the baby monitor resting on his chest like a shield.
The room was quiet. Only the soft white noise from the device and the distant roll of waves beyond the windows.
In-ho moved closer.
His hand drifted across the sheets, finding Gihun’s arm, then his side. Slow, steady.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. He just touched. Not urgently. But possessively.
A careful slide of fingers down his back, over his ribs, around his waist. Gihun tensed. But he didn’t move away.
In-ho’s hand wandered higher, across his chest. Paused.
Gihun finally spoke, voice low, barely audible, like it had been waiting all this time to come out.
“You don’t know when to stop,” he muttered. “Your hands. They never do.”
In-ho didn’t argue. He just looked at them, his hands, like they weren’t quite his at all.
The truth was, that he didn’t want them to stop.
The months drag on. The world shrinks. It's just the three of them.
Eventually, hate gets quiet. Fear dulls. And one night, Gihun just... stays. In the bed. In the silence.
Not because he trusts him, but because there’s nowhere else to go, and something in him doesn’t want to be alone anymore.
It had been two full days.
In-ho had to leave Busan to meet up with a potential new client that wanted to know too much too soon.
Gihun and the girl were left at the house, surrounded by armed staff.
In-ho returned well past midnight, the front gates closing behind him with their usual hiss of security. The house was silent.
He stepped inside, loosened his tie, and climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing just enough to remind him he was home. First, the bedroom.
Gihun was asleep, or pretending to be. Curled on his side, the baby monitor still clutched in one hand, breathing deep and even. His face looked thinner, more worn than when In-ho had left.
Then the girl’s room. She was safe. Asleep. Dreaming of something too far away to name.
In-ho returned to the bedroom and changed quietly out of his suit, folded, methodical, like the mask he wasn’t wearing was still there in spirit.
He slid into bed beside Gihun.
The sheets shifted.
His hand moved, instinctively over Gihun’s hip, the curve of his back, the dip at his waist. Familiar territory.
Claimed.
Then lower.
Gihun tensed. Just a little. But he didn’t pull away.
“You’re back,” he said softly. Not warm. Not angry. Just awake.
In-ho didn’t answer. His hand moved again, slower this time.
Exploring like he had the right to, like silence had granted him permission.
He pressed his mouth to Gihun’s neck- Once, soft, almost reverent and when Gihun didn’t stop him, his breath hitched.
Need tangled with guilt and something desperate beneath his skin.
In-ho turned Gihun onto his back, rolling onto his body slowly.
Pulling down the boxers Gihun wore to bed, he wrapped his hand around both of them.
His pace quickened.
The sounds Gihun made would probably echo in his mind forever.
He would never let go of these sounds, he’d always -
always - …
When it was over - when In-ho’s breath came hard and shallow against Gihun’s neck, skin flushed, chest rising and falling like he was remembering how to be human again, Gihun finally turned his head.
“Young-il.” he muttered, breathless.
In-ho froze. For once, he had no idea what to do with his hands.
It was late. The baby monitor hummed softly on the nightstand.
A dull, rhythmic white noise that had become part of the house’s new heartbeat.
They lay in the dark, Gihun on his side, facing the wall, arms folded in close. For a long time, there was nothing but breath and silence. Then Gihun spoke.
“Her name’s Seoyul.”
His voice was quiet. Not quite uncertain, but like he was saying it more to himself than to the man beside him.
In-ho didn’t move. Seoyul? Like a calm melody?
“Yes,” he said softly. “Okay.” Inho wondered fondly where he got that from.
Certainly not from the screaming she liked to do.
Another stretch of silence.
Then Gihun asked, voice even lower now: “Is she really staying? You’re not… taking her away?”
In-ho inhaled. Let the air sit in his lungs a moment too long before exhaling.
“...The town would probably crumble if I ever separated the two of you.”
Silence.
And then Gihun scoffed, a small sound, sharp at the edges but startlingly real.
It was the first thing resembling laughter In-ho had heard in weeks. And then, without a word, Gihun turned.
From his side, onto his back.
The space between them collapsed with that one motion. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop him either.
In-ho reached over, hand tentative at first, brushing along Gihun’s shoulder, his chest, down to his waist. Slow. Careful.
A question in every movement.
Gihun let him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist. His face was unreadable in the dark, but his body stayed open, still, breath slow, gaze lifted somewhere toward the ceiling.
And In-ho moved closer. Hands remembering paths they didn’t quite have the right to know.
Seoyul wouldn’t sleep. Again.
Gihun was dead asleep, finally, stretched out on the couch, one arm over his face, completely gone. In-ho had watched him try for over an hour with the baby, pacing with her in slow circles through the house, whispering apologies and lullabies in a voice that barely existed anymore. Now it was In-ho’s turn.
He hadn’t meant to take her. Had only meant to offer - but Gihun had handed her over without a word, eyes already sliding shut, trusting him in a way that made In-ho feel undeserving and terrified all at once.
He held her awkwardly at first. Like she might break.
But she didn’t cry. She just blinked up at him, wide-eyed and solemn, like she was trying to memorize him.
Her little fist rose and without thinking, In-ho offered her his finger. She curled her fingers around it. Tight.
He let out a soft, stunned breath.
"You're stronger than you look," he murmured. Seoyul didn’t respond, of course. But she didn’t let go.
This was their life now.
In-ho never thought he would get anything even resembling this, ever.
But here they were.
But slowly the time came to return to the island.
And In-ho did return, to host the games.
Gihun and the girl stayed behind, In-ho had granted him that.
This was their life now.
In-ho never thought he would have anything even resembling this. Not again. Not after everything. But here they were.
The house was filled with sunlight when he stepped inside. Warmth soaked the floorboards. There was music playing, soft, from another room. He heard a quiet laugh.
Gihun.
He stood near the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, smiling. Not wide, just enough to show he meant it.
And then Seoyul came toddling across the floor, wobbling on unsteady legs, shrieking with joy. She was running straight to him. In-ho dropped to his knees, arms open.
This is it, he thought. This is mine. This is real.
She collided into his chest, laughing, fists gripping his shirt. He pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her hair. Gihun watched from across the room, arms folded, content.
“You’re back,” Gihun said softly.
In-ho smiled. Said nothing. Just breathed. And then -
The floor shook. Just slightly. The warmth began to flicker. The light fractured into shadow.
The laughter cut out like a switch.
Smoke crawled in under him. The baby in his arms vanished. Just gone. Like vapor. Gihun’s face twisted in pain and confusion - and then flame swallowed the edges of the scene.
The room cracked open. Reality rushed in. The island burned. Steel groaned. Sirens screamed. Concrete split.
They had found the island, found the games.
His brother had found him.
There was no escape this time. No quiet return. No Seoyul. No home.
Just the fire that In-ho had to ignite himself.
There was movement. Heat. Salt air. Voices, distant.
Familiar. Pain.
Then darkness again.
In-ho woke up to a rhythmic creaking, the groan of wood and water beneath him. The ceiling above was old, discolored, the low curve of a fishing vessel’s cabin.
There was a dull ache behind his ribs. Bandages wrapped tight across his chest. He turned his head and saw a man seated on a stool nearby, flipping through a medical kit.
Soldier 02. The doctor.
His face was bruised but alive, calm as ever.
“About time,” the man muttered, not looking up. “Captain Park sent me. You're lucky your lungs didn’t fill with seawater.”
In-ho blinked. Tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“You’ll make it,” 02 added. “Barely. But you will.”
He woke again in Busan.
The light through the curtains was soft and gray, and the sheets smelled like lemon detergent and the sea.
There was a chair pulled up beside the bed.
Gihun sat in it, arms folded over his chest, looking tired but unshaken. His expression was unreadable at first, then it softened.
In-ho opened his mouth, voice raw and barely there.
“Where’s the girl?” Gihun didn’t answer right away.
But then, from down the hall, a familiar cry, sharp, insistent, very much alive.
Seoyul.
In-ho laughed, but it resembled a hoarse gasp more than anything else.
He reached over, grabbing Gihun’s hand.
Gihun held on to In-ho’s hand, and the faint smile stayed too.
"In-ho." he simply said.