That Feeling When You Know You’re Cooked Because Squid Game Is Merciless About Major Character Deaths

that feeling when you know you’re cooked because squid game is merciless about major character deaths and the final season looms near and your favorite characters are in ho and gi hun

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

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

This darkness was deeper, becoming quieter, then still.

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

Not Hwang In-ho.

The Front Man.

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

And then, there was you.

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

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

But that voice — your voice — it never left.

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

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

Except in his dreams.

Or nightmares.

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

His fingers tapped on the keyboard as the screen flickered.

Pink Guard Personnel Records: 28th Squid Game

He shouldn’t do this.

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

But he couldn’t forget you.

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

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

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

But one file stalls.

ID: P-132-20152745

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

ERROR. FILE CORRUPTED. ACCESS DENIED.

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

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

REDACTED ENTRY: UNAUTHORIZED INTERVENTION DETECTED.

P-132-20152745: Disciplinary Report - MISSING

Security Footage - DELETED

Status: UNKNOWN

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

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

As if that guard never existed.

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

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

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

Yet, it was still playable.

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

“—wasn’t supposed to do this…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone definitely made sure he wouldn’t remember it.

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

“He wasn’t supposed to see me.”

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

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

They didn’t bury you well enough.

His eyes hardened as he locked the terminal.

You saved him once, now it was his turn.

——

The incinerator hisses as the body bag disappears into flame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would he thank you? Punish you? Undo you?

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

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

“VIP arrival. Level Six. Escort detail.”

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

But not you.

Your earpiece buzzes with a separate frequency.

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

Sigma Red.

You hesitate for half a breath before responding.

“Confirmed. On route.”

It wasn’t your first time.

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

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

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

You obeyed, not needing to be told why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Protocol 09 in effect,” the speaker hisses.

No acknowledgment required. They know you understand.

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

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

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

“VIPs arrive in thirty. Escort mode active.”

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

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

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

He must never know.

But you remember.

Every time.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not new, are you?”

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

“That means you know not to fight.”

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

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

The door opened, revealing the Front Man.

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

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

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

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

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

He simply watches.

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

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

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

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

You obeyed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

But because he didn’t stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And weakness isn’t allowed here.

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

That was the night your position was stripped from you.

Because you weren’t always a circle.

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

You were a square.

You remember the weight of command.

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

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

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

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taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

[ANNOUNCEMENT] once you go in, there's no turning back (hwang in ho x reader)

hello! so, this isn't a chapter update at all, so sorry to disappoint you guys.

i would like to let you all know who's been reading the "once you go in, there's no turning back" in-ho x reader series will be lacking updates for awhile. my dad has been rushed to the hospital because of stroke and is in critical condition since monday. at this point, his body is relying on life support and my family and i have been deciding whether to put an end or not.

i'm giving at least 2 weeks or so for me to release the new update. i have it ready actually and i have the outline of all the next chapters to come. it's just that, i don't trust my current mental state and be satisfied with the chapters i've drafted.

again, i'm so sorry for not being able to update lately. i know i said in the previous author's note that i'll be updating fast but with this sudden news and preparation for our next steps in our family, it's taken a toll on me lately.

rest assured that once i feel fine and feel like writing again, i would give you guys an update immediately on the next chapters. :>

with love,

sig aka lieutenantbatshit :>

TAGS: @machipyun @love-leez @enzosluvr @amber-content @kandierteveilchen @butterfly-lover@1nterstellarcha0s @squidgame-lover001 @risingwithtriples @fries11 @follows-the-life-ahead @goingmerry69

CHAPTER 13 - once you go in, there's no turning back (hwang in ho x reader)

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——

“Noona?”

The voice sent a shiver down your spine, stopping you in your tracks. His voice was cautious and uncertain but heavy with unspoken questions. You turned sharply toward the door, your heart pounding as you did so. And there, standing in the doorway, your eyes widened in disbelief.

Jun-ho stood there, his expression unreadable, though his sharp gaze flickered between you and the room behind you. His presence was both a comfort and a threat — he was someone familiar in this unfamiliar place, yet someone who could easily shatter everything you had been trying to hold together.

“Jun-ho…” you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice steady.

“His brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

For a brief moment, you considered telling him the truth. About everything, In-ho, the games, the reason you were here. But your self-preservation kicked in, forcing you to piece together a half-truth instead.

“I… I needed a place to think,” you let out a shaky breath. “A friend told me about this place when I was looking for in-ho.”

Jun-ho’s stare hardened. “A friend?” His voice was laced with skepticism. You couldn’t blame him.

You nodded, forcing yourself to look confused, as if this revelation meant nothing to you. “I wasn’t sure if it was his.”

Jun-ho stepped further into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. His presence filled the space, tense and searching. His dark eyes darted over the room, scanning the familiar surroundings as if he were seeing a ghost. Then, he scoffed. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You held your breath.

“You’re correct, this is hyung’s apartment,” he continued, stepping past you, his fingers grazing over the furniture. “I came here once before he disappeared.” He stopped in front of a bookshelf, his hand ghosting over a framed photo. You knew what it was — a picture of In-ho before the games, before he was swallowed whole by the world he had tried to escape.

Jun-ho picked it up, staring at it for a long moment. His jaw clenched. “I searched everywhere for him,” his voice was quieter now, but the bitterness in it was impossible to miss. “For years, I thought something happened to him. That maybe he was dead. And then I find out he wasn’t just alive — he was running the damn thing.”

Your stomach twisted as he set the frame down with more force than necessary before turning to you. “And now, I find you here,” his gaze pierced through you. “That’s not a coincidence.”

Jun-ho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I figured I should let you know,” his voice was rough, like he had been carrying these words for too long. “Maybe it’s because you actually seem like you care about him. Or maybe I just need to hear myself say it out loud.”

A brief silence hung between you, heavy and suffocating. Then he let out a humorless laugh. “He’s the front man, noona. My brother runs the games.”

You flinched at his words, even though you already knew the truth. You averted his gaze.

Jun-ho studied your reaction carefully, his eyes darkened with suspicion. “You don’t seem surprised.”

You felt your heart thrum harder. Your lips parted, but no words came. You only looked at him, seeing his gaze over you.

Jun-ho stepped closer. “Did you already know?”

You felt your defenses crumbling as your thoughts spiraled. It seemed your silence was enough of an answer as he let out a bitter chuckle.

“I used to think I could save him,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I chased a ghost. And when I finally found him… he shot me.”

Your heart clenched.

“I gave up on him,” Jun-ho said, his voice quieter now. “Because he already made his choice.”

“And what if he didn’t have a choice?”

Jun-ho’s gaze flickered with something unreadable after you said it, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Are you saying that you believe it… or because you don’t want to admit the truth?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. Jun-ho let out a slow breath, turning away from you and walking towards the shelves. He sifted through a stack of books, letters, and relics of a life that In-ho had left behind.

A life that no longer existed.

“Back then,” Jun-ho started, his voice becoming distant. “I thought my brother was the strongest person I knew. He always had a way of pulling himself out of the darkest situations,” his fingers traced over an old medal, the one In-ho had won in university. “But now? Now, I don’t even know if he’s still my brother.”

You felt the ache in your chest intensify. You couldn’t believe how harshly the world treated these brothers. Then, he finally turned back to you, his gaze softer, but the weight of his words heavier than ever.

“Noona, whatever reason you’re here, whatever you’re holding onto, please ask yourself this,” his voice was low, filled with something almost pleading. “Are you willing to live a lie until the day you die, or are you going to do what’s right?”

Your breath hitched as he spoke.

“Because if you know the truth, you only have two choices,” he continued. “Tell me everything you know about him, the frontman, and save the lives of many… or you can bury this forever.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you like a crushing force.

Tell the truth. Betray In-ho. Expose everything.

Or stay silent. Go back. Live in the shadows.

Your throat felt dry, the room suffocating. You had fought for survival. You had fought for In-ho. But now, the real fight was beginning, and you had no idea which side you were on.

Silence filled the apartment long after Jun-ho had left, not realizing he already did. But in your mind, his voice still echoed, lingering like a shadow that refused to fade.

The weight of his words settled deep into your chest, a pressure that made it hard to breathe. You sank onto the couch, staring at nothing yet seeing everything. The past, the present, and the uncertain future that stretched ahead of you.

If you exposed In-ho and the games, the world would finally know the truth — the horrors of the games, the lives lost, the twisted system that had turned desperation into entertainment. But what then? Would it truly end? Would it stop the games, or would the people in power simply replace him and erase his existence as if he never mattered?

Would it change anything at all?

And In-ho…

You pressed your fingertips to your temples, squeezing your eyes shut. It wasn’t just about what he had done, about the blood on his hands. It was about the moments in between — the quiet ones, the fragile ones, the ones where you saw glimpses of the man he used to be.

The man who had once laughed with you on the streets, who promised things he could never give. The man who, despite everything, had let you go when you asked for three days to think.

And then, there was Jun-ho.

Jun-ho, who had spent years searching for his brother only to find a monster in his place. Jun-ho, who had given up on saving him. The memory of In-ho’s bullet sinking into Jun-ho’s body made you feel sick.

Because what if he could do the same to you if you don’t come back?

How much of him was left? How much of the man you once knew still existed beneath the mask, beneath the weight of every decision he had made?

You had seen his hands tremble when he held you. You had seen the way he looked at you in the quiet moments when neither of you spoke — like he was afraid that if he did, the last piece of him that remained human would crack and shatter.

But wasn’t it already broken?

Jun-ho had been right about one thing. You could only do one of two things — expose In-ho and destroy what little remained of him, or stay silent and live with him, carrying this truth in your chest like a lead weight for the rest of your life.

You thought about the others. The ones still trapped in that nightmare, fighting for survival, fighting for a chance to crawl their way out of hell. If you did nothing, how many more would die?

And yet if you betrayed him, would it even matter?

You plopped yourself down to the bed, burying your face in your hands.

Minutes had already passed, maybe even hours. Time felt frozen, meaningless in the suffocating quiet of In-ho’s abandoned apartment.

Then, the black box with a pink bow caught your eye again.

The sight of it made your heart lurch, its place too deliberate and carefully placed. With slow, almost reluctant movements, you reached for it.

Your hands trembled as you untied the ribbon, the silk slipping between your fingers. You hesitated for a brief moment before lifting the lid. Inside, there was an envelope nestled within crisp white paper.

Your breath caught, realizing it wasn’t just any envelope. It had your name on it.

Written in sharp, deliberate strokes, the kind of handwriting you had seen on countless reports, on cold, official documents. But this was different. The way your name curved on the paper felt personal.

With an uneasy inhale, you pulled the letter free, unfolding it with care.

If you’re reading this, you’ve found your way back to me.

The first sentence made your stomach twist. It wasn’t a question, nor hopeful. Rather, it was a statement and certainty.

You asked me once why I did all this. Why I became the Front Man. The truth is, I stopped looking for a way out the moment I realized there was none. There is no justice in this world. Only power and those who wield it. I did what I had to survive.

But if I ever wished for something more, something outside of the choices I made… it would be you.

The words felt like they were cutting into your skin. Your eyes continued down the page, your breath shallow.

It was always you.

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. You inhaled sharply, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You and I have always been the same. You understand survival better than anyone. You understand what it means to make impossible choices. And now, you have another one to make.

Your vision blurred for a second, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

If you choose to walk away, I won’t stop you. But they will.

But if you stay, then come back. Come back, and I will show you the world beyond this. The world we can build together. I never lied to you about that.

I will give you everything. Not as the Front Man. Not as the overseer. Not as the man who ran the games.

Just as me. Your In-ho.

Your hands trembled as you lowered the letter, your heartbeat erratic. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were at a crossroads.

You had spent the last few hours caught between two paths — Jun-ho’s quiet plea for justice, the weight of every life lost pressing into your ribs… and In-ho, the man who had shattered your trust, yet still held something deep inside you that you couldn’t sever.

You could leave and take this letter, burn it, and let the world know what you knew.

Or…

You could step back into the abyss.

The weight of everything threatened to crush you. You ran your hands over your head, fingers digging into your scalp as you tried to steady your erratic breaths. Your chest tightened, your thoughts racing in an endless, suffocating loop.

Jun-ho.

In-ho.

The games.

Their lives, your life, the lives of everyone still trapped in that nightmare.

No matter which path you took, someone would suffer. If you told Jun-ho the truth, you’d be condemning In-ho to a fate he could never escape. You wouldn’t want to know what the system could do to those who strayed too far from their role. They would never let him go. And if they found out about Jun-ho? He wouldn’t make it out alive.

But if you stayed silent, if you kept this secret locked away in your chest, then you were no better than the masked men who orchestrated the deaths of hundreds. You would be turning your back on the people still trapped inside, on the innocent who would be lured into the next set of games.

A sickening weight settled deep in your gut, twisting like a knife. Then, you felt a shift, some kind of pressure. Right near your ear.

Your fingers brushed against something small, firm, and foreign beneath your skin. Your stomach lurched. You pressed against the area again slowly and cautiously, the dread pooling into your veins.

It wasn’t your imagination. It was there.

A cold realization slammed into you like a freight train. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out all other noise. Your stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in your throat.

You had to get it out.

Your feet moved before your mind could fully catch up. You rushed to the kitchen, yanking open drawers with shaking hands, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The metallic clatter of utensils filled the air as you rummaged frantically until your fingers wrapped around the cool, unforgiving metal of a small knife.

You gripped it tightly, your knuckles white. Your reflection in the window caught your eye — a pale, frantic ghost of yourself as your mouth slightly opened as if gasping for air. A woman on the verge of something irreversible.

You braced yourself against the counter. With one final, shuddering breath, you angled the blade behind your ear and pressed down. Pain seared through your skin, sharp, and unforgiving. Your vision blurred, but you clenched your teeth, forcing yourself to keep going. The blade bit deeper, warm blood trickling down your neck, staining the collar of your coat.

And then, a small metallic object dislodged and tumbled onto the counter with a soft clink. It was a tiny black chip, no bigger than a fingernail, glistened under the kitchen lights, coated in fresh crimson.

Your entire body went still, and then the realization hit.

He had never intended to let you go.

A choked sob bubbled up from your throat. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in, suffocating and oppressive. Your breaths came in sharp, erratic bursts. The betrayal burned through you like acid, scorching every last remnant of hope you had left. Your chest heaved as your fingers curled into fists at your sides, your rage exploding.

With a sharp, guttural cry, you seized the closest object — an empty glass left on the counter — and hurled it across the room. The shatter echoed like a gunshot, fragments scattering across the floor. Your hands trembled, your body convulsing with anger, fear, and betrayal.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You inhaled sharply, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth as you turned toward the door. You couldn’t stay. Not here. Not in this place that reeked of his lies.

You had to leave before they came looking. Before he came looking.

One last time, your gaze swept across the apartment. The relics of the man you once thought you knew. The life he had built on a foundation of secrets.

The letter he had left you still sat on the counter, taunting you. His words, his promises, his confessions — nothing more than ink on a paper.

It didn’t matter anymore. None of it did.

You turned away, your footsteps slow at first, then faster, more determined. You reached the door, gripping the handle with bloodstained fingers.

Without another glance back, you slipped into the night, disappearing into the shadows.

——

The car ride was silent.

In-ho sat across from you, though he wanted to sit beside you if only you didn’t avoid him. His fingers loosely curled as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He stole glances at you in the dim light of the limousine, but you didn’t look at him. Not even once. Your gaze remained fixed outside the window, watching the city lights flicker past as if they held answers he could never give. It was all a familiar routine, one that should have been easy and controlled. But today, he felt restless.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He had granted your request and given you space for three days. Three days apart. Three days to return to Seoul, to clear your mind, to decide whether you could live with the truths you had uncovered.

He stole a glance at you, at the way your fingers toyed absently with the hem of your coat, at the way your jaw tensed as if holding back words you refused to say.

As the limousine slowed to a stop in front of your apartment, he turned to you fully, waiting for you to say something. But you didn’t.

You simply reached for the door handle.

“Three days,” he reminded you, his voice quieter than he intended.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping out, but he caught you looking at his lips. But just when he was about to lean in, you exited the car. No goodbye. No glance back.

The door shut, and that was it.

He watched as you disappeared into the building, his throat tightening with something he refused to name. Then, after a long pause, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers pressing into his temples. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? He had given you space and time.

And yet, as the car pulled away, he had never felt more like he was losing something he could never get back.

After a moment, he straightened, inhaled sharply, and signaled the drive. “Take me to my other residence.”

——

When In-ho arrived at his apartment, he didn’t immediately go inside. He stood outside the door for a long moment, staring at the numbers etched into the steel. it had been years since he had last bene here, before he had disappeared, before he had become someone else.

The apartment was dimly lit when he stepped inside, a place untouched for far too long. His footsteps were quiet against the floor as he walked through the space, past the memories he had locked away. The air carried the scent of dust and old books, the faintest trace of something familiar — something from a life that had once belonged to him before the games, before the mask.

On the table, he placed the black box with the pink ribbon. Inside was his letter, carefully folded and carefully written. He had thought of burning it a hundred times before, had debated whether you should even read the words he had poured onto the page. But in the end, he had sealed it away, hoping you would find it.

He lingered there for a moment, his fingers resting against the smooth surface of the box, before his gaze drifted toward the shelf near the window. And that was when the memory came back.

The daisies.

As a child, you had loved them. It was the same kind of flowers he’d given you when he wrapped your finger with a paper ring, imitating what you were both watching on the TV. He had never understood why the concept of marriage fascinated you so much—until he did.

The memory played in his mind like a scene frozen in time, your small hands carefully pressing the petals between the pages of an old book, preserving them as if afraid the world would take them away from you. He had helped you once, collecting the finest daisies he could find, sneaking them into your hands like a secret only the two of you shared.

That had been a lifetime ago.

He exhaled, pulling himself from the memory before it could tighten its grip any further. There was no use in lingering on the past, not when the present was slipping through his fingers.

Without another glance, he turned and left.

——

Hours had passed since In-ho returned, stepping into the apartment with something unfamiliar clawing at his chest. Something hopeful, perhaps. A foolish, desperate hope that maybe you had come back. That maybe he would find you here waiting. Conflicted, but still within reach.

Instead, the sight that greeted him made his blood run cold.

The counter was stained with small droplets of blood, but enough to send a wave of dread through him. And next to it, lying in plain sight, was the microchip.

His stomach dropped, realizing that you had found it.

His hands curled into fists as he stepped forward slowly and carefully. As if the weight of realization might shatter him completely. His gaze drifted to the black box that was still there, but slightly moved. The ribbon had been undone, the letter taken.

You had read it, but you were gone.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned, eyes scanning the room as if you might still be hiding in the shadows. But there was nothing. Only silence, the remnants of your presence, fade by the second.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

Damn it.

You had left. You had run. And this time, you hadn’t looked back. You weren’t just slipping away — you had vanished completely, disappearing into the shadows before he could stop you.

A flicker of something dark settled in his chest — something sharp, something dangerous. He wasn’t going to let this end like this.

He had let you go once.

He wouldn’t do it again.

Jaw clenched, eyes burning with determination, In-ho reached for his coat, slipping it on with practiced ease. Then, without hesitation, he stepped out into the night, his mind set on one thing and one thing only.

And no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you thought you could disappear, he would find you.

——

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A/N: I've decided to put this series also in AO3 and Wattpad so we could reach more people 🫶 I'm so happy with how these chapters are turning out. I find myself writing for hours (even the whole day) again so expect more updates in the next coming days ❤️ Anyway, feel free to leave out your thoughts here, and I'll gladly interact with each and everyone of you. 🫶

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