Chapter Text
The harsh yellow light of the large clear acrylic piggy bank shone down on Seong Gi-hun, who lay on his hard mattress, his thin scratchy blanket pulled across his chest, fingers bunched in the fabric. His breath hitched as he raised a trembling hand to push back his sweat-soaked waves clinging stubbornly to his forehead. They were long overdue for a trim, unruly and oppressive, another small, ridiculous discomfort in a sea of much larger ones.
Tugging at them briefly, Gi-hun let his hand fall limply to the mattress beside his head before his fingers wandered absently into the pocket of his jacket. Not his jacket—wrong number, first versus last. A jacket that belonged to someone who was now gone. His fingers brushed against something small and cool. The marble.
Gi-hun closed his hand around it tightly before lifting it into the glow of the piggy bank above. The marble caught the light, a tiny glint against the overwhelming mass of blood money looming over them all. His chest tightened painfully, his breath coming short. His chin began to tremble, and before the feeling could take root, he shoved the marble back into his pocket, swallowing hard.
Sleep was impossible. Maybe it was for everyone who had survived the Marble game. He imagined that the ones who still had some decency left—however few there were—were lying awake just like him, replaying it all over and over.
He pulled his fingers from his pocket and brought his hand upward again, his fingers curling upward in a strange mimicry of grasping the piggy bank above. He slowly pressed his fingers inward, pretending to crush it, imagining the shatter of acrylic and the cascade of bills spilling out—money so many of them would never truly touch.
Il-nam.
Ali.
Countless others whose names he did not know.
“Stop moving,” Sang-woo hissed from the adjacent bed, his voice taut with irritation but tinged with exhaustion. His scent, which was normally calm and woodsy, with only a faint hint of his alpha designation, was sharper now, tinged with annoyance. Each game seemed to erode that faint balance further, and this last one, after losing some of their closest allies, had left the smell almost acrid. “You’ll draw attention. Lie still and go to sleep.”
“Sorry,” Gi-hun muttered hoarsely, forcing his body to still. His limbs felt leaden, yet his mind buzzed with restless energy. Adrenaline still coursed through him from the last game, leaving his thoughts jagged and relentless.
Gi-hun swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. The reduced number of people in the room pressed on him harder now. With fewer beds towering above his, the scattered sense of cover he had found before—curling up under the shadows and feeling somewhat hidden—was gone. The light of the piggy bank bore down on him now, unyielding. His gaze flicked upward, squinting at its oppressive glow.
It reminded Gi-hun of photographs he had seen once in a nature magazine of glow worms dangling from cave ceilings, their light strange and ethereal. Except this light was not magical—it was cold, stark, and soulless, a glaring reminder of their twisted reality.
“I don’t…” Gi-hun began, but his voice faltered into a whisper. He swallowed, trying to dislodge the tight knot in his throat, but the weight in his chest remained, heavy and unyielding. “I don’t think I can sleep. Not with that thing staring down at me.”
Sang-woo exhaled sharply, the sound caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant pity. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled snores and restless shifting of the others in the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, duller, drained of its usual bite. “It’s not a thing. It’s plastic, Gi-hun.”
There should have been venom in those words. Lately, there always was. But not this time.
Sang-woo shifted slightly, deliberate in his movements, as if signaling that the conversation was over. But then, after a moment, he added, almost begrudgingly, almost softly, “You’re not going to make it any easier on yourself by overthinking it. Try to sleep. You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”
Gi-hun hesitated. “And what if there isn’t a ‘next,’ Sang-woo? What if this is all we have left?”
Sang-woo did not answer immediately, his back still turned. Then, with a low, almost inaudible murmur, he replied,”Sleep. Or at least lie still so the rest of us can." Then he added, irritated,"And fix your scent.”
Gi-hun stilled, his breath catching for a moment. His scent? He knew it was there—unmistakably omega, thick with anxiety and exhaustion, curling around him like a shroud. He had been trying to contain it, to will himself into stillness, but hearing his friend dismiss it so easily, so coldly, stung more than he cared to admit.
A bitter response sat on his tongue, ready to spill. He was tempted to tell the other man exactly what he thought of his scent—how it tangled in his lungs, how it made his stomach twist into knots, how it was only growing sharper, heavier, pressing down on him like a weight. Maybe that was why his own scent was so erratic, frayed at the edges, impossible to suppress.
Instead, Gi-hun shook his head and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, tugging the blanket up as if that alone could smother the restless energy twisting beneath his skin. He forced slow, steady breaths, willing his scent to even out, to disappear, to become something the other man would not find irritating. Then he raised his arm and draped his wrist over his eyes, creating a makeshift shield against the light.
"You smell so sweet," Sang-woo had said long ago, during a lazy summer afternoon, their school uniforms rumpled from the heat. He had been leaning back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded, gaze drifting toward the sky. "When I came to find you out here, I thought a dalgona vendor had come by. Thought about how I was too old for that."
Gi-hun had snorted, wrist draped over his eyes in the same way, shielding himself from the sun. "Mom says I attract flies, especially on hot days like this."
Sang-woo had hummed in response, tilting his head toward him, gaze sharp despite the lazy stretch of his limbs. "It’s so strong today because you’ll be going into heat soon, right?” His tone was purely academic—detached, like he was just stating a fact.
Gi-hun had sighed, shifting against the warm grass. "Yeah." He had shrugged. "But I'll be free to hang out after—"
"What if you didn’t?" Sang-woo had interrupted, his words suddenly quicker, tighter. "Spend your heat alone, I mean. Miss school alone. I could miss school too."
Gi-hun had turned his head then, blinking at him, caught between confusion and something else. "And why would you do that?" He had laughed a little, but it had been awkward, uncertain. "That’d be weird—having someone over, especially my friend, while I’m like that."
Sang-woo had leaned in just slightly, their shoulders brushing. "Someone could help you. Couldn't they?"
Then Gi-hun felt half in a dream. He swallowed, hard, sure this was just one more questioning session. Surely not Sang-woo, who had every reason to look elsewhere—at someone better, someone who was not too lanky and too skinny and talked too much and—
"I mean, yeah," Gi-hun had murmured, wetting his lips, suddenly aware of how dry they felt. "Yeah…"
Sang-woo had held his breath for a moment. Something shifted. The air between them felt heavier.
Gi-hun had felt it before Sang-woo had moved—before his fingers had ghosted over the grass, before one hand had pressed into the earth at his back, before the other had reached up, warm and hesitant, cupping his cheek. A spark of something electric had shot down his spine, pooling low in his stomach. His fingers had been careful, uncertain, but they had lingered, as if waiting.
"You smell so sweet," Sang-woo had whispered again, softer this time, something aching beneath his voice.
And then—
He had kissed him.
But that had been before.
Before Sang-woo had realized—before everyone had realized—what seemed to be inevitable when it came to Gi-hun: There was something deficient in him.
When sleep finally came to Gi-hun, it was fitful. His dreams were fractured and strange, filled with fleeting images of the piggy bank shattering under the impact of a single marble. The bills inside exploded outward, swirling like confetti, but there was no joy in the scene—only a deep, hollow ache. In the dream, he wondered if the souls of all those who had died were trapped in there and if breaking it would free them in some way.
He awoke to the sound of a low, detached voice.
“Player 456.”
A triangle-masked guard stood rigid at the edge of the bed. The dark visor on the mask seemed to devour the light, leaving nothing but darkness where the face should have been. “Come with me.”
Gi-hun blinked, his body frozen for a beat too long. “What for?” He croaked, his voice rasping from his parched throat. The air around him shifted, his scent tinged with panic. It always did when the guards got too close, their presence a threat that set every nerve on edge.
The triangle-masked guard offered no explanation. They simply stepped back, their stance rigid, waiting.
Gi-hun looked toward Sang-woo, but his friend had his back turned to him, his body unnervingly still, feigning sleep. He stared at his back, seeking some kind of reassurance, but he remained motionless, his face buried in the thin pillow.
Swallowing hard, Gi-hun swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold floor. The chill jolted him slightly, though it did nothing to calm the panic clawing at his chest. With trembling hands, he fumbled to slip on his shoes, their worn soles scraping against the floor with a sound too loud in the suffocating silence. He cast one last glance at his friend, hoping for something—anything—but the other man did not move. His betrayal of stillness was deafening.
The triangle-masked guard motioned for Gi-hun to follow, and without another word, he obeyed.
As Gi-hun began to leave, Sae-byeok stared after his retreating form. Her face remained impassive, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of worry, perhaps. Her hand clenched the edge of her blanket, her knuckles white against the thin fabric, as if resisting the urge to reach out. But she said nothing. Then a slight movement caught her eye.
Sang-woo.
He had not been asleep after all. His eyes were open now, dark and watchful, following the retreating form of his friend with quiet intensity. Unlike her barely concealed concern, his expression was carved from stone—cold, calculating. But beneath it, something churned.
Possession.
Instinct.
His fingers twitched once, a fleeting impulse, a brief consideration of rising, of following. But he forced them still, curling them into the thin fabric of his blanket instead. His gaze flicked toward the guards, then back to his friend. Suspicion pooled in the furrow of his brow.
What did they want with him?
Why him?
The thought clawed at him.
Sang-woo told himself he did not care. That it was not his problem.
That Gi-hun was not his to protect, never had been. Or at least had not been for some time.
But his body betrayed him. His alpha instincts, old and stubborn, still stirred in his chest, something protective and possessive winding its way through his bones.
Gi-hun belonged to no one. But if he did—
Sang-woo exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. There was nothing he could do anyway. Not without risking his own life. Not without becoming another stack of bills in the acrylic piggy bank above. So he stayed where he was.
And he waited.
And he watched.
The triangle-masked guard led Gi-hun through a labyrinth of garishly bright corridors, the dizzying contrast of colors making it impossible to track their path. They climbed flight after flight of stairs before stopping in front of yet another funhouse-like door—one of many, he suspected, that led nowhere. The guard pushed it open and held it, waiting.
Gi-hun hesitated, glancing at the unmoving figure before stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him. No doubt, the guard remained stationed outside, ensuring there was no escape.
The room was small, stark in its simplicity. A single desk, old-fashioned, almost like a relic from a school classroom, sat in the center. A cheap plastic chair faced it, and atop the desk, absurdly out of place, was a plaster apple. Sitting behind the desk was a square-masked guard, hands clasped in a show of rigid professionalism.
"Sit." The guard gestured to the chair, their tone as flat and impassive as their mask. "There is no need for alarm. Your scent is sour—fearful. That is unnecessary. You have not been summoned for punishment, Player 456. I suggest you regulate yourself."
Gi-hun instinctively pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he lowered into the chair. He was getting sick of people pointing out his scent, as though it was irrational for it to be affected by a place like this. His gaze flickered toward the neatly stacked papers beside the guard. They were lined up with meticulous precision, their text facing him like this was nothing more than a formal business proposal.
The silence stretched until the guard finally spoke again, their tone detached. "We apologize for interrupting your rest, Player 456, but an opportunity has arisen. One I am sure you will be most eager to accept." A brief pause. "It is a rare privilege, one that few players are ever offered."
Gi-hun swallowed thickly. "Oh?"
The guard barely reacted. "A high-ranking staff member wishes to compensate you in exchange for temporary use of your body. Precautions will be taken to ensure you remain fit for the next game."
Gi-hun starred. The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. His mouth opened, then closed. His brain refused to assemble a logical response.
"...Pay… for my… body?" He repeated, each word drawn out with increasing skepticism.
Gi-hun was suddenly reminded of the Recruiter, and a distant, uncomfortable déjà vu crawled up his spine. The sharp-dressed man with a salesman’s smile who had cornered him at the subway station. He had played, he had lost, and when he had revealed his pockets had long since run dry, he had been told he could settle his debt with his body.
In the end, of course, it had just been a series of humiliating blows to the face. But the memory still haunted Gi-hun.
Cautiously, as if testing the waters, Gi-hun cleared his throat. “So… a member of your staff wants to pay to…slap me…?”
The guard was silent for a beat. Then, deadpan: “No.”
Gi-hun let out a breath. “Oh. Well, that’s—”
"You are an omega, are you not?" The guard interjected smoothly, their tone flat and clinical. "A high-ranking staff member is seeking companionship. They are willing to compensate you for your time. As previously stated, precautions will be taken to ensure you remain in optimal condition for the next game."
Oh.
Oh.
Gi-hun froze. The words hit him like a slap, but his mind refused to process them all at once. There was a moment where he just sat there, waiting for the punchline. When it did not come, he let out a slow, cautious breath.
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“There are few options left." The guard continued, tone as casual as if they were discussing racehorses at the track. “Most players have been eliminated, and of the omegas remaining, you were deemed the most… desirable.”
Lucky me, Gi-hun thought dryly. He wondered if that was supposed to be a compliment. If so, it was the most backhanded one he had ever received.
Gi-hun shot his hands up, palms out in sheer alarm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. You’re saying—what exactly are you saying?” His voice pitched upward slightly, cracking on the last word. “You—are you trying to pimp me out?”
The guard stated coolly. “You are being invited to participate in a… bonus round. One that, for the sake of fairness, will not affect the outcome of the remaining games.”
Gi-hun gaped at him. “Oh, well, that makes it so much better,” He snapped, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I was really worried about the integrity of the competition.”
The guard, either impervious to sarcasm or simply uninterested, continued in the same monotonous tone. “You will be compensated.”
Gi-hun let out a hollow laugh. “Wow. That’s great. That’s just fantastic.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face before leveling the guard with an incredulous stare. “And if I say no?”
The guard tilted their head ever so slightly. “You are free to refuse.”
Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “Right. And that refusal won’t come back to bite me in the ass later, will it?”
The guard did not answer. They simply stared, unreadable behind the mask.
Gi-hun exhaled through his nose, a humorless smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
His gaze flickered downward, thoughts spiraling. He pictured the glowing piggy bank looming over the dormitory, the way its sickly light bathed the room, a constant reminder of how many were gone. How many had once slept beside him, now reduced to nothing but numbers? Seventeen players left. Just seventeen. The odds were not in his favor, and everyone knew it.
His stomach twisted.
“This compensation you keep bringing up,” Gi-hun asked, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “How much are we talking?”
“Ten million won per minute,” The guard replied automatically. “So it is entirely dependent on you and your—” A slight pause. “Performance.”
Gi-hun swallowed. Ten million won a minute. He could make more in fifteen minutes than he ever had in a month. It was absurd. It was humiliating. And yet…
“And even if I die tomorrow in the next game…” Gi-hun hesitated, his fingers curling against the table. His voice dropped, raw and weary. “Could you guarantee that the money I earn playing this… bonus round… goes where it needs to?”
The guard did not hesitate. “It will be included in the paperwork.”
Gi-hun scoffed softly, his fingers tightening into a fist. A few days ago, this offer would have been unthinkable. Even with how desperate he had been before all of this, even with all the debts and broken promises weighing him down, he would not have considered it. But now?
Now, with seventeen players left and the next game looming in the morning, the thought of letting some faceless staff member use him for their gratification, just for a few extra stacks of cash—
His stomach churned.
It should not have been tempting.
But it was.
Gi-hun blinked, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. He exhaled heavily, wiped it away with a rough swipe of his palm, and nodded shakily, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing he was about to jump.
“Okay…” His voice wavered. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to steady. “Okay. What are the terms?”
The guard slid a stack of papers forward. The crisp shuffle of pages felt deafening in the quiet room. Gi-hun reached out, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he took them.
Gi-hun tried to read the words with the same precision Sang-woo would have, but his vision blurred at the edges, his mind skittering away from the worst of it. The terms were blunt, old, and detached as he read them.
Before engaging in any… He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. … sexual acts, the player must be thoroughly cleaned.
The phrasing made his skin crawl. He kept reading.
Protection will be used at all times to prevent the transference of disease or conception.
A bitter snort escaped him. Right. Because that was his biggest concern right now.
For the duration of the transaction, the player will be bound and blindfolded.
His grip tightened on the paper. His pulse drummed against the base of his throat.
The participant is forbidden from discussing this bonus round with other players. The agreed-upon sum will be transferred directly into the bank account of the individual named below, regardless of the player’s survival in the remaining games. If the player wins the games, the earnings will be added to their total prize.
Over and over again, the documents reduced it to one word: transaction.
When the transaction takes place.
During the transaction.
Upon completion of the transaction.
Gi-hun let out a slow, shaky exhale and picked up the pen. The metal felt unnaturally cool against his fingers. His name wavered as he signed, the figures just barely legible.
When he reached the section asking where the money should go, he hesitated. A brief flicker of something—shame, maybe—curled in his gut, making him feel sick. Then he pressed the pen to paper.
Recipient: Oh Mal-soon.
Relation: Mother.
And then, with a slow exhale, he set the pen down.
There. Done.
The triangle-masked guard nodded, wordlessly pulling the papers away. The moment the documents left his sight, the door swung open again, and two circle-masked guards stepped inside.
Gi-hun barely had time to swallow the lump in his throat before hands—silent as ever—descended on him. A blindfold slid over his eyes, the silky fabric tightening as it was secured with meticulous precision. Someone adjusted it, fingers pressing briefly against his temple, ensuring there was no chance of even the slightest peek.
Then, they ushered him forward.
His world shrank to sound, scent, and sensation. The steady fall of footsteps. The muted echo of a winding descent. The cool whisper of air shifting as they passed through doorways, down hallways he could not see.
A door creaked open ahead of him. The air changed—sharper, cleaner. A bathroom. Before he could process it, a soft metallic snip cut through the quiet. Cold metal brushed against his skin.
A shudder ripped through Gi-hun, goosebumps prickling up his arms. He flinched as the sweat-and-blood-stained tracksuit was peeled away—in strips—scissors slicing through fabric with clinical efficiency. His shoes were tugged off, his feet meeting the cool bite of tile. Toes curled, instinctive. There was a soft clack as part of his tracksuit hit the floor.
The marble.
"Wait," Gi-hun blurted, realization striking fast and sharp. He twisted slightly, blind to where the fabric had landed. "There’s a marble in that pocket—please, just—just hold onto it for me. Until after."
Silence.
No acknowledgment.
Then Gi-hun could only hope that one of them had listened. That someone had taken pity on him. That the last piece of Il-nam had not just been swept away like meaningless debris.
Gi-hun was scrubbed down with mechanical efficiency, rough hands lathering away sweat, grime, and dignity in equal measure. The water scalded, then froze, shocking his nerves into submission. A soft towel was dabbed over his skin, methodical and impersonal, before oil was smoothed over his limbs—polishing, perfuming, erasing. A gloved finger traced over his lips, pressing something slick and glossy into them, as if even his mouth needed to be made presentable.
Then, dressed only in silken boxers, delicate, absurdly so, against raw, oversensitized skin, his wrists were drawn behind him and bound. The blindfold never left his eyes. Without a word, the guards took him by the arms and led him forward, into the unknown.
Sometime later, a door clicked shut behind him. And he was left alone.
Gi-hun stood motionless, breath shallow, listening to the silence stretch. A bitter thought flickered through him: Does the wait count toward my pay-per-minute? He doubted it. No sexual acts were being performed, after all.
He let out a quiet, humorless snort. The contract had not technically specified that those acts had to involve another person. He could picture the absurdity of it, the loophole twisting itself into something ridiculous in his mind. But the thought was fleeting.
The door opened again.
Footsteps. Soft but deliberate.
Gi-hun flinched, his head instinctively tilting toward the sound, though it told him little. His sight was stolen, and his hearing was not sharp enough to discern more than movement. Instinct took over, and he inhaled, but a cold, sterile scent met his nose. Like antiseptic.
Whoever had entered wore scent repressors, high-grade ones, the kind that stripped away anything identifying. Alpha, beta—he could not tell. Whoever they were, they did not want their designation to be known.
The footsteps stopped close. Very close.
Heat. The unmistakable presence of a body stepping into his space.
Then, a shift. A telltale huff of breath near his throat.
Gi-hun inhaled sharply, pulse kicking up as warm air ghosted over the scent gland on his neck. Unlike them, he had no repressor. He was exposed. Laid bare in more ways than one.
His lips parted slightly, a shudder crawling up his spine.
He stayed still.
And he waited.
“Oof,” Gi-hun grunted as he was then unceremoniously shoved forward, landing awkwardly on the edge of what felt like a bed. His stomach pressed against the soft mattress, his feet still touching the cold floor, leaving him half splayed in an undignified sprawl.
A firm grip settled on his hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of the silken boxers they had dressed him in, not quite bruising but hard enough to make his pulse stutter. A clothed chest pressed flush against his back, radiating heat, and a slow, deliberate breath ghosted over the shell of his ear. Then—clink. The soft jingle of a belt being undone. The whisper of fabric shifting.
Gi-hun inhaled sharply, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His bound hands twitched behind him, useless. He had not known what to expect from his first transaction of this nature, but somehow—stupidly—he had expected… more? Perhaps less. Perhaps he had just spent too many evenings watching his mother’s dramas, where prostitutes were whisked away by wealthy people, wined and dined, whispered sweet nothings, told they were beautiful, special, better, and bathed in diamonds.
He had no such luck. Instead, he was being positioned like a convenience store rotisserie chicken, arms trussed up, left to spin under a heat lamp. He muttered something under his breath, half a complaint, half a curse, wondering if he should at least get a damn side of pickled radish with this level of humiliation.
Another breath brushed over the shell of his ear, stirring the damp waves at his temple. Then came the voice, calm, detached, but not entirely without amusement,"Should I have had them gag you as well?”
Gi-hun stiffened. “No,” He blurted, then immediately regretted how quick the answer came. He shifted against the hold on his hips, awkward, restless. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Why… why didn’t you?”
A pause. Then—“Did you not hear what I just said?”
Gi-hun huffed, the sound petulant.
The man ignored it. Instead, he continued in that same measured, almost clinical tone. “I was curious… about your mouth.”
Gi-hun blinked underneath the blindfold. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I watched you play dalgona.” The voice remained even and impassive. “I watch all the games. There were so many players—too many.” A pause, then a faint note of irritation, as if recalling an administrative headache. “And you didn’t stand out. Not at first. Just another unfortunate fool who picked the umbrella. I assumed you wouldn’t make it past that round.”
Gihun felt a small shiver crawl down his spine. He could not tell if it was from the cold air against his bare skin or something far worse.
“And then I saw you.” A shift of weight. A tightening grip at his hips. A thumb pressing into the sharp jut of bone. “On your hands and knees, hunched over the ground… licking the honeycomb.”
Gi-hun felt his breath hitch. His stomach twisted. One of the most desperate, humiliating moments of his life… had been arousing to this man?
“You know,” The man continued, calm, matter-of-fact, “you were the only player who chose the umbrella and survived.”
There was the softest exhale, measured and quiet, and Gi-hun felt it ghost against his skin like a whisper of heat. Then, slow and deliberate, the man straightened, his grip tightening at his hips, fingers pressing in just enough to remind him who was in control. “I had assumed this would be a quick and uncomplicated transaction,” He mused, his voice devoid of warmth, almost clinical. “You on your stomach, stiff and silent, making no sound beyond the occasional bitten-off whimper. A minute or two at most. Then a little release. Efficient. Forgettable. Is that what you want?”
Gi-hun then felt a gloved hand reach out, trailing over his cheek with a whisper of leather, and the contrast sent a hot, electric jolt through him. His body betrayed him before he could stop it; his breath hitched, his muscles tensed, and, worst of all, he leaned into the touch without thinking. A mistake. The fingers curled, fitting against his jaw, tilting his face with quiet command.
“Or do you want something else? Something more, Player 456?”
Gi-hun swallowed hard, throat bobbing against the pressure of the hand holding him there. His mind screamed at him to answer, to say something, but all he could think about was the money that would accumulate for every minute he managed to keep this man interested.
The only problem? Gi-hun was not all that interesting. His ex-wife had made that painfully clear, as had countless supposed friends—past, present, and the occasional enemy.
So, in true Gi-hun fashion, he did what he did best. He ran his mouth.
“I’m not a racehorse,” Gi-hun muttered. “I do have a name.”
A hum—soft, amused. “Did the horses you bet on have names?” The question was plain and matter-of-fact; he had clearly done his research.
Gi-hun, for reasons even he did not understand, found himself answering honestly. “I used to name the ones I bet on. For luck.” He hesitated, then added, “Ji-yoon was my favorite.”
The man chuckled, quiet, but unmistakable. Gi-hun, ever the opportunist, decided that it had to be worth at least a few extra minutes.
Then, without warning, the man kissed Gi-hun, brief but hard. A shock of pressure that sent his thoughts scattering before he could gather them again. He barely had time to make a hoarse, startled sound before he was flipped onto his back, his bound arms trapped beneath him, breath punched from his lungs.
Then the lips were on his again, relentless, the weight of the man pressing down, legs bracketing his, his hips aligned in a way that made his stomach tighten. Their chests brushed with each breath, the warmth of another body—of control, of intent—bearing down on him.
Gloved fingers curled around his jaw, firm, keeping him still as his lower lip was caught between teeth and given a slow, deliberate nip. A sharp sting just enough to make him shudder. Then he soothed it with a sweep of his tongue that had him suck in a little breath and chase his lips for more. Then the man pulled back, just slightly.
Gi-hun caught the quiet clack of teeth against leather—the sound of a glove being tugged free, peeled away with measured ease. It was tossed aside, forgotten, and then bare fingers, warm, calloused, and unrestrained, threaded through his damp waves, cupping the back of his head. Bringing him in again for another kiss.
The next kiss was different. Open-mouthed. Filthy.
Gi-hun swallowed hard, a shiver running through him as the heat pooled low in his stomach, coiling into something undeniable. His breath quickened, and he felt it—warm slick beginning to gather in between his legs where he ached. He was hard too, but most others of different designations ignored that in favor of the hole they could bury themselves in. The man gripped his thighs, dragging him closer to the edge of the mattress, stepping between his legs, bold and unyielding.
Then the man scented Gi-hun again. The warm tip of his nose brushed against his scent gland, and he inhaled deeply, exhaling with a pleased, rumbling sound, something thick with satisfaction.
“You smell so good,” The man murmured, his voice rough, his breath warm against his neck. Then his lips pressed over the gland, soft at first, deliberate. A swipe of tongue followed, slow and purposeful, dragging over the sensitive skin.
Gi-hun gasped, his fingers curling instinctively into the sheets beneath him.
The man began to suckle, firm and teasing, drawing on the gland in a way that made Gi-hun tense and arch. A graze of teeth followed—not enough to break the skin, but enough to send a shock of sensation coursing through him, just shy of pain. A mark, but not a claim. It was clear this transaction had no pretense of mating, just a moment, a brief indulgence.
And then the man added softly, with a smirk in his voice,”Like dalgona.”
Sang-woo had said that to Gi-hun once, too. Long ago.
Gi-hun then registered the sound of shifting fabric. The near-silent press of buttons being undone, heavy fabric hitting the floor, and then felt bare skin as the other man pressed against him, chest to chest. He felt hot, solid muscle thicker, broader than him, built in a way that made him feel too tall, too lean for an omega. A shiver crept up his spine, his pulse climbing as a hand curled around the back of his neck, tilting his face up, guiding him into another kiss.
Gi-hun felt painfully aware of how much he wanted with the splay of his thighs, the hot, incessant ache between them, the press of his own arousal against his stomach. And the man was still standing between his legs, still wearing his damn pants, still holding back, still unraveling him with slow, deliberate touches. Finally, there was a soft clink, leather slipping free, fabric whispering as it shifted, then heat. Bare skin met his thighs, searing and undeniable.
Gi-hun released a stuttering breath. “Name…” He managed, voice hoarse. “I don’t even know your name.”
A pause. Then, smoothly: “I thought the blindfold and the contract you signed would have indicated that this was an anonymous transaction.”
The man continued,"Should you, by some twist of fate, survive this game after our transaction… and even have the faintest hint of my identity…” His voice trailed off, deliberate, each word slow and methodical. “You might get ideas.”
His fingers, which had been idly stroking his damp waves, tightened just slightly—enough to make his intent clear.
“You might decide to find out who I am beneath the mask. And then—if you did—would you kill me?”
Gi-hun blinked beneath the blindfold, the weight of the words settling on him. He tilted his head slightly, voice soft, almost thoughtful. “Kill you? Why would I kill you?” He paused, letting out a faint, dry laugh. “I don’t even know your name.”
The man let out a quiet chuckle, a sound low and deliberate. “So, is a name all it takes to give someone the green light for murder?”
"Seems like the bare minimum, I'd say," Gi-hun replied, aware that he sounded terribly naive.
The man hummed, considering. His tone turned faintly amused, but there was a shadow of something darker beneath it. “Hmm. You’re not there yet then. Perhaps after the next game…” He leaned closer, his breath warm against his neck, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “But if you need a name to call out—”
A pause, heavy and charged.
“Call me the Front Man.”
"Front Man," Gi-hun repeated quietly, assuming it was some sort of ridiculous codename. Then, as the Front Man brushed his fingers in the slick evidence of his arousal, pushing a finger in, making his hips buck involuntarily, the name, absurd as it was, was dragged from him again,”Ah—F–Front Man!”
The Front Man stretched Gi-hun with one hand, preparing him languidly with his fingers with skill and obvious absent-mindedness that spoke to his experience with it, while his free hand was unwrapping something, the crinkle of foil and— Ah, the protection the contract had mentioned. He had no sexually transmitted diseases, and his heats, the only time he could possibly conceive at his age, were like throwing darts in the dark while drunk, scattered but hurt like hell when they hit, but he understood the precaution.
It had been years since Gi-hun had lain with anyone of any designation. And even before that, the number had been few. Sang-woo, in the reckless heat of youth. Eun-ji, the woman who had become a wife, then an ex-wife, their intimacy unraveling thread by thread after the birth of their daughter, until it had frayed beyond repair.
Gi-hun swallowed hard, his chest tightening as his mind betrayed him, dredging up memories he had buried long ago beneath glasses of soju and countless race track bets. The factory riot. The hospital. His own screams from the awful pain of labor and from the news that his friend died mere doors down from where he was trying to bring life into the world. Something had broken that day between him and his wife, within himself.
He had recovered physically after the birth, but when his first heat came, his wife had not touched him. She had not looked at him the same.
"I think you need a little more time to recover. It’s best if you’re left alone, I think. So I’m not tempted. I wouldn’t want to hurt you." Her voice had been measured and distant, hands steady as she packed a bag.
"We don’t have to do anything," He had said, forcing a laugh, trying to dispel the tension, the distance. Their newborn daughter stirred in his arms, her tiny face scrunched in sleep as he rocked her, desperate for his wife's eyes to meet his own. "You’re not a mindless alpha. You can lie beside me. Hold me. Touch me without having to take me."
She had continued packing as if he had not spoken.
Gi-hun remembered the sheets, cheap and damp with sweat. The way he had writhed alone in agony for three days, teeth clenched against the cries he could not afford to make. His newborn daughter had wailed for attention, her tiny fists flailing in the dim light, and he had barely been able to lift his shaking arms to hold her.
And when it was over, when his heat had burned through him and left him hollowed out, the walls between him and his wife had solidified, thick and unyielding.
His deficiencies as an omega. As a husband. As a father.
Gi-hun squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, feeling the burn of tears he could not stop. A strangled breath escaped him, his head tossing back as the memories clawed at his chest, threatening to drown him.
Gi-hun felt as the Front Man, his cock hot, thick, and heavy, even with the protection, finally sank inside of him deep and perfect all at once. The other man hooked his elbows beneath his knees, taking his legs and folding him neatly in half as he began to thrust into him, and he was unable to muffle the sounds dragged from his throat with each thrust. His bound arms were falling asleep underneath him, and his legs were bent by his head so he could really only lie there, skin moving against skin, as he was thrust into, each one bordering on too much and not enough.
Gi-hun felt boneless yet hypersensitive, each movement sending jolts of sensation that seemed to light every nerve in his body. His breath hitched with each push, trembling and uneven, until a wild sound escaped his lips—desperate, raw. He tried to call for the man above him, but all he could manage was a strangled gasp and a hoarse cry: “Man!”
The Front Man moved with unwavering, deliberate rhythm. The man slid a hand gently across his cheek, tilting his face upward to capture heavy, bruising kiss after kiss, each one punctuated by low, guttural groans as his fingers tangled into his damp waves. As the thrusts continued, his hot, calloused hands roamed his body, rough and possessive. Nails dragged over his stomach, scraping lightly against sensitive skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Then one hand dipped lower, wrapping firmly around his cock.
Gi-hun gasped sharply, tossing his head back, his saliva-dampened lips parting, his body jerking at the touch. The man’s grip was firm, his strokes in perfect time with the rhythm of his thrusts, working him over with an intensity that had him trembling. The double sensation made his mind blank, his lips parting in a silent cry as his body arched under the relentless attention.
Then the Front Man leaned in close to G-hun, burying his nose in the sensitive junction between his neck and shoulder again, pressing firmly against his scent gland and inhaling as if it were drugging. He gasped, the sound catching in his throat, and his head turned instinctively to give the other man better access. It was a reaction beyond thought, a primal surrender he could not control.
The thrusts slowed, deliberate, as the knot swelled within him. The pressure built steadily until it caught, binding them together in a way that made Gi-hun arch and moan wantonly. The sensation was overwhelming, stretching and filling him completely, and then the pleasure hit—a flood that unraveled every nerve in his body, leaving him trembling as the ache inside him was finally, completely eased.
The Front Man panted against Gi-hun, his breath hot and uneven, each exhale ghosting over his sweat-dampened skin. He stayed there for a moment, still nuzzling into the curve of his neck, lingering like he did not yet want to let go. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, he eased them onto their sides, relieving the weight pressing against his bound wrists. Their bodies remained flush—chest to chest, heat radiating between them, breaths still coming in ragged gasps as they both tried to catch their breath.
As the Front Man embraced Gi-hun, he ducked his head, seeking, chasing warmth, and his lips found the line of the other man’s throat. He kissed it hesitantly at first, then again, deeper, his teeth grazing skin, testing. Nothing, no scent, just the sterile, hollow absence left by scent suppressors. Still, he kissed it, dragging his teeth against it, pressing harder, as if he could draw out something real from the void.
"Fuck," The Front Man groaned in encouragement, his fingers tightening in his hair as he kissed, sucked, and bit his throat.
Sometime later, the knot finally went down, and the Front Man pulled out, leaving Gi-hun trembling, raw, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Then, before he could gather his thoughts, the other man kissed him again deep, consuming, tongue sliding against tongue. He felt the other man release a low, guttural groan that rumbled from his chest, reverberating against his lips, sending shivers down his spine. His body, spent and aching, melted beneath the relentless hold.
Then without hesitation, the Front Man grabbed Gi-hun by his bound arms, flipping him onto his stomach like he weighed nothing at all. A hand smoothed over the curve of his bottom, lingering for a moment, before landing a sharp smack that sent heat blooming across his skin. He released a startled curse, the sound muffled against the sheets, his body jerking at the unexpected jolt of sensation.
But then, the Front Man was inside Gi-hun again, slower this time, hips rolling, controlled, savoring. No less deliberate. The stretch stole his breath, his head falling forward, surrendering to the unbearable pleasure, to the power of it, to him.
The Front Man leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, his voice rough, satisfied. “I’m going to make you lost…”
And Gi-hun was lost.
Completely.
After their final time, the Front Man did not pull away from Gi-hun immediately. He held onto him, still waiting for the knot to fully subside. One hand threaded through his waves, dragging against his scalp, fingertips pressing lightly against his nape. The sensation was grounding, maddeningly soothing, and though it was the worst time and the worst place to feel it—spent, exhausted, bound—he felt something disturbingly close to safe. His body reacted instinctively, his scent shifting, softening into something warm, something satiated, something content. His eyelids fluttered closed, breath slowing as the sound of a steady heartbeat thrummed beneath his ear.
Then, through the silence, soft jazz drifted in, distant but clear.
The English lyrics brushed against the edges of his consciousness:
"You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, in other words…
I love you."
Gi-hun barely had time to register it before sleep took him, restless and dreamless. He awoke only minutes later to rough hands shaking him, the bedsheets already cool beneath his touch. As the guards guided him through the door, the music still played softly in the background.
Chapter 2
Summary:
"Front Man, who did you bet on?" Eagle Mask asked, his tone light, indulgent.
In-ho did not hesitate. "Gi-hun."
A pause.
"Who?" Lion Mask asked lazily.
"Player 456," In-ho clarified, his voice impassive. Then, after a beat, almost as an afterthought, "It’s good luck… to give them names, I’ve been told."
They laughed—guffawed, devolving into their usual juvenile humor.
But In-ho did not laugh. He watched the bridge. And he watched him.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect Omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you aren’t already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
Third, please mind the tags, as this story explores some potentially triggering themes. Read responsibly and take care of yourselves.
And lastly, comments and kudos mean the world to me. They keep me going and absolutely make my day. Thank you so much for reading—I truly hope you enjoy the story.
Chapter Text
Four hours, fifty-six minutes.
Four. Five. Six.
Gi-hun would never have believed the coincidence of that number matching the one emblazoned across his chest if not for the circle‐masked guard with a stopwatch resting casually on the table. It had never even occurred to him that he was actually being timed, and that realization made him feel even more like some kind of racehorse—a record-holding one, apparently.
According to the guard, the average bonus round for other upper staff and clientele barely stretched past an hour, since players could not be taken for too long or damaged before a game. (Though Gi-hun had no doubt there were some who bent that rule, stretching the limits of what this bonus truly allowed.)
Four hours, fifty-six minutes.
Gi-hun was not sure if that number was supposed to make him feel proud, humiliated, or something in between.
Another alternating scorching and freezing hose-off and a clean tracksuit later, Gi-hun found himself being escorted back to the dormitory, moving with a slight limp, which he tried his best to hide. The ache in his body was a dull, constant throb. His scent was also off, heavy and tinged with the unmistakable pheromones of an omega who had been thoroughly and deeply pleasured. It made him feel branded.
Gi-hun could not stop the thoughts from spiraling. What would the other players think when they woke up soon and caught his scent?
What would Gi-hun even say if Sang-woo or Sae-byeok asked? The contract had made it clear: this bonus round was notto be disclosed to others, no matter the circumstances. The weight of shame dragged behind him with every step, but his mind could not stop circling back to the bonus round itself. The memory lingered, raw and vivid, no matter how much he tried to push it away.
If nothing else, if Gi-hun died in the next game, his mother would be taken care of. That had to count for something, right? That he had not been totally deficient in yet another area of his life, his role as a son.
The dormitory door opened, spilling him into the eerie glow of the piggy bank above. Gi-hun winced at the light, his steps stiff and halting as he reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed something small, cold, and round, and he pulled it out, staring at the marble that now rested in his palm. So a guard had taken pity on him after all.
The marble caught the light from the glowing acrylic piggy bank above, glinting faintly, and for a brief moment, its solidity grounded Gi-hun. He closed his fingers around it, holding it tight as he moved toward his bunk. His eyes flitted upward to the oppressive yellow light that was casting shadows over the few remaining players sprawled in their bunks. The room somehow felt even heavier than when he had left it.
Gi-hun made his way back to the remaining bunks, slipping past Sang-woo and Sae-byeok. Their still forms made it seem like they were asleep, but whether they actually were, he could not tell. With a soft groan, he crawled into his bed, flinching slightly as the motion sent another sharp ache through his body. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish, and when his head hit the pillow, he let out a long, shaky breath.
Then it all came rushing back to Gi-hun. His fingers flexed against the pillow, his lips parting slightly as his mind replayed the night, his pulse thrumming traitorously. He could still feel the heat, the weight, the way he had been unraveled and put back together again in ways he never expected.
The Front Man. A man who had hidden himself behind scent suppressors, behind a mask, behind a title that meant nothing. A man who should not have whispered against his skin, "You smell like dalgona," as though his mouth were filling with saliva at the mere thought of it.
Gi-hun pressed his hand to his mouth, teeth biting into the curve of his knuckle. He could still taste him, still feel him hot, rough, and dry at first, then damp, his lips dragging with purpose, each movement calculated. The sensation lingered beneath his skin and in his bones, weighted and hot, like molten lead. His chest tightened, a storm of shame and… something else curling low in his stomach. He did not want to name it. He could not.
Gi-hun let out a shuddering breath, rolling onto his side. The marble was still in his hand, cool and solid, grounding him in a way his mind could not manage on its own. He closed his fingers around it tightly.
"I'm going to make you lost."
The words came back to Gi-hun now, unbidden, echoing in the hollow space of his mind. He had not understood them before. But now, lying in the dark, feeling the ghost of hands that should not have touched him, lips that should not have lingered, a hunger that should not have existed, he realized the truth. He was lost.
“Front Man,” Gi-hun whispered softly to himself, the name slipping past his lips like an echo of the night. He did not know why he said it, did not know what compelled him, but it was there, lingering in the air between him and his thoughts.
Gi-hun squeezed his eyes shut. Exhaustion pulled at him, dragged him under, and the ache remained. His body still burned with it, still felt the weight of someone he would never see again. Someone he should not wish to see again.
And yet...
Come morning, there were sixteen players instead of seventeen. Player 69—the husband who had won against his wife in Marbles—had hung himself. The air in the dormitory was heavy with the weight of it. No one spoke.
Sang-woo had not spoken or looked at Gi-hun since they had risen from their bunks. Gi-hun could smell the sharp, bitter edge of guilt on him, further changed by something darker. He had wanted to soothe his friend, had wanted to reach out, to ease that twisting scent with his own. A simple, natural thing instinctual.
“Sang-woo,” Gi-hun said.
But Sang-woo wanted nothing to do with Gi-hun. The alpha stood stiff, shoulders drawn tight, staring ahead, his expression carved from something cold and unreadable, not answering to his name. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he watched him. His gaze flickered to him only briefly, just enough for his lip to curl.
Gi-hun stepped back.
His instincts screamed at him—leave.
Now.
Gi-hun turned, slipping out of the dormitory, his pulse hammering, breath coming shallow, and did not stop until he was in the bathroom and the door was shut behind him. Grateful no one else was inside, he leaned against it for a moment as if to gather his strength. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating every detail as he finally turned toward the mirror.
And there they were. Marks.
Lots of marks. His reflection told a story he was not ready to read. His lips were swollen, a faint cut at the corner where teeth had nipped a little too hard. As he shifted the collar of his shirt and pulled his jacket aside, there were imprints of hands on his skin, faint but unmistakable. Bruises. Red lines, scratches, jagged and uneven. The distinct shape of a mouth was stained into the curve of his neck.
Gi-hun winced, his breath catching as he ran a hand through his messy waves. His fingers trembled slightly, but he forced them to stay steady. The sight was humiliating, but he clung to one shred of satisfaction: whoever the man had been last night, he was marked too. Even with his hands bound, he had made sure of it.
The memory burned hot and shameful under his skin, and he quickly washed his face, splashing cold water to clear his head. But it did not help. Nothing could wash away what had happened.
“Bastard,” Gi-hun muttered, finding yet another dark bruise on his collarbone, poking it, and then wincing. Then he adjusted his shirt to better hide it. “I hope you’ve got your own marks to hide…”
When Gi-hun turned to leave the bathroom, Sang-woo came in. The eyes of his friend were dark and narrowed, sharp as a blade. His scent hit him before his words did, for it was thick, heavy, and charged, like something volatile, like a forest on fire. His heart sank.
“Gi-hun.” Sang-woo uttered, his voice was low, dangerous. He stepped closer, his presence all-consuming.
Sang-woo took a step closer to Gi-hun, grabbing his face with one hand and tilting his head up, his fingers gripping his jaw firmly. Gi-hun froze, breath catching as Sang-woo leaned in close and drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His scent sharpened, something primal cutting through the air as color stained his cheeks. His dark eyes grew impossibly darker, pupils blown wide with realization.
"Scent repressors," Sang-woo spat, the words sharp and accusatory. "The only ones in this place granted the privilege of hiding their designations are the guards." Then he growled, voice dropping lower, guttural, dangerous as he leaned close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of him, close enough that his breath ghosted over his skin. "Was it them?"
It was not a question.
It was a demand.
Gi-hun stiffened, pressing his shoulders against the wall instinctively, trying to create space between them, but the other man did not relent. He stepped forward again, erasing the distance, their bodies nearly flush. Chest to chest. The warmth of him bled through the fabric of their tracksuits. His fingers curled tighter around his jaw, tilting his head, exposing his marked throat.
“Sang-woo,” Gi-hun began, his voice shaking slightly, both from nerves and exhaustion. “It’s not what you—”
Sang-woo cut him off with a sharp exhale, the fingers of his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “Was it them, Gi-hun?” His voice dropped even lower, vibrating with a barely restrained edge. Then he raised his hand, knuckles skimmed against the bruises at his throat, featherlight, tracing them as if committing them to memory. His thumb swiped over the faint imprint of teeth—not his teeth. “Did the guards touch you?”
Gi-hun swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he struggled to form a coherent response. He could not explain. The contract forbade it. But even if it did not, what would he even say? That yes, someone had touched him—but not like this. Not with anger simmering under their skin. Not with hands that trembled just slightly, like their owner was barely holding himself together.
“No,” Gi-hun gasped, his voice breaking slightly as his thumb brushed against his lower lip, over the cut, the touch almost gentle. "No, they didn’t touch me. I swear. But I can’t… I can’t say—" He clenched his jaw, feeling his temper rising as it always did with the alpha, curling his fingers into fists at his sides. “Don’t look at me like that, asshole. I’m not lying! I wouldn’t lie to you, I just—" His throat bobbed, words catching. "I just can’t say."
The hypocrisy of it all nearly made Gi-hun laugh. Sang-woo was touching him. He held his face in his hands, scenting him as if he had a right to, as if he had a claim, when he had not had anything remotely close to either in years. And yet, here he was, demanding to know if someone else had done the same. The realization left a sour taste in his mouth.
Suddenly, Sang-woo blinked rapidly, as if snapping himself out of something. His grip loosened, then released entirely. He stepped back, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his gaze flicking away, down toward the floor. A sharp inhale. Then, his voice dropped into something rough, gravel-edged,"Did they tell you anything at least?"
“Tell me what?” Gi-hun inquired, rubbing his chin.
“About the next game,” Sang-woo said.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, slowly, incredulously, Gi-hun repeated, "The next game?" His breath left him in a sharp scoff, something bitter laced within it. "Do you think..." He swallowed thickly, shaking his head, barely able to form the words. "Do you think I fucked the guards... for information?"
Sang-woo did not respond immediately.
The silence was damning.
"Sang-woo, you saw them take me from here last night. Against my will." Gi-hun said as he forced himself to look at him, to search his face, his expression. His hands trembled slightly where they hung at his sides, but he held his ground. "If what you think happened had actually happened, the last thing on my mind would have been getting information in exchange—" His breath shuddered, something hot and acrid bubbling up in his throat, his voice thick with barely restrained fury. "It would have been ripping their throats out with my fucking teeth for trying!”
Sang-woo flinched slightly at the words, expression flickering with something Gi-hun could not quite name—regret, maybe, or something close to it. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them stretching taut.
Finally, Sang-woo exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing just enough to lose their edge. “Fine,” He muttered, turning away from him. His voice softened, almost too low to hear. “Forget it.”
Gi-hun watched Sang-woo disappear from the bathroom, his chest tight, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He pushed open the bathroom door, half-expecting to be confronted again, to feel another hand grab his wrist or his jaw, another voice demanding things from him.
But instead, Sae-byeok was waiting. She stood there, hands tucked into her pockets, her expression unreadable as always. But her presence was different. She did not step into his space. She did not touch him. Instead, she inclined her head toward the dormitory entrance and spoke, her voice cool and steady, steady,”The next game will be starting soon. Come on.”
Then, after a brief pause, she glanced back at him.
“We should stick close.”
Her scent was crisp, sharp, something like sea salt brushed against him, a careful, unintrusive nudge. A reassurance. A quiet offering of comfort. It was a stark contrast to the suffocating presence he had endured moments ago.
Gi-hun swallowed thickly, something loosening in his chest, uncoiling just slightly. It was easy to forget that Sae-byeok was an alpha. That she had instincts that pulled her toward protection, toward survival. And yet here she was, offering him comfort. A reminder that he was not alone. And for some reason, the thought struck something deep inside him.
Sae-byeok reminded Gi-hun of Ga-yeong. Of how he suspected, once his daughter reached the right age, she too would present as an alpha. The same quiet strength. The same sharpness. Something warm and protective stirred in his chest, instinctual and fierce.
It did not matter that Sae-byeok was the alpha and Gi-hun the omega. It did not matter that he was older and she was younger. She deserved protection just as much as he did. Maybe they could protect each other.
“Okay,” Gi-hun said.
Sae-byeok nodded and stepped closer, not pushing, not pulling, just moving beside him. Together, they reentered the dormitory, shoulders brushing gently. He did not miss the way her sharp gaze flicked toward the players lingering at the edges, a silent warning that if any of them had thoughts about approaching him, they could think again.
The Front Man, Hwang In-ho, stood at the podium, his gaze fixed on the deadly glass bridge stretching before his gaze, its glistening panels promising either salvation or a long, merciless fall. The fifth game had begun. The VIPs lounged in the viewing area behind him, their laughter grating against his ears, their conversations blending into meaningless noise. He hardly listened. His focus was elsewhere.
His body ached. Not in a way that was unpleasant. The soreness that clung to his muscles was an echo of the night before, a reminder of lips ghosting over his skin, teeth dragging down his throat, and legs locking around his waist with a desperation that had shaken him.
In-ho had chosen Gi-hun, one of the few remaining somewhat desirable omegas in the games, as a means to stave off his rut, one that his suppressants had failed to contain. The biological call of an alpha to claim, to mark, to make something his own had stirred beneath his skin, restless and raw.
But Gi-hun—not Player 456, not just another faceless participant, but Gi-hun—had left his own mark. Even bound, even blindfolded, he had found ways to brand himself into memory. A defiance. A challenge. A raw, reckless need not to be forgotten.
That morning, In-ho had layered on his scent suppressors twice, his routine mechanical but desperate. His alpha scent had been erratic, unstable, and compromised. His body had betrayed him, reacting in ways he thought long since buried, rendered inert by time, grief, and duty.
It should have been nothing. A transaction. A necessary indulgence. A controlled release. Instead, it had become something else entirely.
Choosing Gi-hun had been a miscalculation—a moment of indulgence, driven by biological need and presumed control. Allowing him to speak, though, had been the greater miscalculation. The words themselves were naïve, childish even, but they had struck somewhere buried and unwelcome. Especially when paired with the foolish integrity of his actions throughout the games.
"Can’t you hear me?" Gi-hun had shouted once, as In-ho watched through the cameras momentarily, inexplicably, transfixed. A player had just killed another over a soda and a boiled egg. Brutality was to be expected. Routine. But that omega—the same one who had first caught his eye during dalgona, enough to make him reprimand guards for hoarding that footage—stood up in the chaos and pleaded, "This isn’t right! We shouldn’t be killing each other like this!"
At first, he dismissed his words and actions. Scoffed. But something in them had lingered, scraping at old thoughts and ideas he had long since buried. Ones he had deemed dead. And the more they clawed their way to the surface, the more he wanted to destroy them. Destroy the man who had spoken them. Reduce him to instinct, to submission, to a body overwhelmed by need and desperation. To make him lost.
In-ho had felt it beneath the biological need, beneath the desperation last night. Because of that fire, the stubborn, infuriating spark Gi-hun carried was too familiar. Too much like hers. His wife, who had never listened. Who had never bowed her head. Who had argued with him loudly but clung to him in sleep like he was her anchor. That fire had destroyed her in the end. And now, here it was again, glowing hot inside another body.
In-ho remembered even early in the games recognizing that fire in Gi-hun as much as he did not want to as he licked through the dalgona, survived the tug-of-war, and somehow against all logic, against all odds, kept making it through every game. And now that fire had set something in In-ho smoldering too.
And now, standing before the glass bridge, In-ho watched Gi-hun again.
Gi-hun—naive, reckless, infuriating—still breathing. Still standing.
And last night…
In-ho had dreamed of Gi-hun.
After the guards had returned Gi-hun to the dormitory, after the doors had closed and silence had settled in, In-ho had found himself adrift in memory and sensation. The feel of his waves curling through his fingers, the arch of his back, the way his throat had bared so willingly with every breathless sound, grumbling protest one moment, soft, broken keening the next.
In-ho had closed his eyes for just a moment that morning, only to see it all again: Gi-hun in his bed, fingers twisting in silk sheets, mouth parted. Beneath him. Around him. Gasping his name like a prayer or a curse, it did not matter.
When the few remaining players had begun picking their numbered vests as they lined up before the glass bridge, In-ho had felt drawn to Gi-hun again. The omega had moved through the crowd, hesitating, scanning the numbers. Then, his hand had lifted toward the first vest, the first to cross, the first to fall.
In-ho had tightened his hands instinctively on the podium. You fool.
In-ho had doubted Gi-hun would ever make it this far. And now he was going to throw it all away.
And then luck had intervened. Again. Another player, a beta, had stepped forward. The beta spoke to the omega in hushed tones, asking to trade places. Asking to give him the last number. The omega had looked stunned, conflicted, hesitating before agreeing and trading numbers with him.
In-ho had exhaled then, a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Gi-hun had no idea how miraculously things continued to work in his favor with each game. An omega like him, naive, trusting, and hopeful, should have died early in the games, perhaps even earlier in life. And yet, again and again, something seemed to save him at the last moment.
In-ho should have been indifferent, dismissed it, but as Gi-hun took the final vest, turned back to face the others, and the fabric settled over his chest, he felt something foreign stir low in his chest. Something he could not afford. Something dangerously close to hope.
Now, standing before the podium, In-ho kept his posture rigid, his expression unreadable behind his mask, watching the game unfold as he occasionally flicked his gaze upward to gauge the satisfaction of the VIPs. He felt their eyes turn to him before they spoke.
"Front Man, who did you bet on?" Eagle Mask asked, his tone light and indulgent.
In-ho did not hesitate. "Gi-hun."
A pause.
"Who?" Lion Mask asked lazily.
"Player 456," In-ho clarified, his voice impassive. Then, after a beat, almost as an afterthought, "It’s good luck… to give them names, I’ve been told."
They laughed—guffawed, devolving into their usual juvenile humor.
But In-ho did not laugh. He watched the bridge. And he watched him.
Gi-hun had survived. Barely.
The Glass Stepping Stones game had left him shaken, the explosion at the end leaving shards embedded in his skin, bruises forming beneath the stiff, ridiculous tuxedo they had forced him into. He sat upright in his bed now, his stomach full from food too rich. The weight of it sat heavy inside him, but not heavier than the fury curling in his gut. His scent was flared, not with fear, but with anger. It was burnt sugar, sharp and cloying, a scent of something caramelized just past the point of sweetness, something that could easily turn to ash.
In his grip, a steak knife. His fingers curled tightly around the handle, knuckles white. His hair hung into his dark, shadowed eyes, barely concealing the exhaustion, the grief, and the sharp-edged resentment boiling beneath the surface.
Across from Gi-hun, Sang-woo glared back, a steak knife in his grip as well. His alpha scent had become unrecognizable. No longer the calm, woodsy scent he had grown up with, the scent he had once sought after instinctively, following the trail through childhood like a lifeline. Now it was like a fire in a forest, like destruction spreading with every breath he took.
And it had stayed like that ever since Sang-woo had killed the glassmaker.
Gi-hun huffed sharply, as if trying to expel the scent from his nostrils, to push it away, to make it less real.
"You smell like dalgona," Sang-woo had said once, years ago, holding up his freshly carved sugar honeycomb triangle in front of his eye with a proud, boyish grin.
Gi-hun had blushed. And then promptly snapped his umbrella shape in half.
The Front Man had said that too. The thought sent a strange, shivering sensation through Gi-hun, something crawling beneath his skin, something unsettled. His gaze flicked upward toward the cameras, those ever-watching, unblinking eyes. Was he watching now, behind them? The man whose true face he had not seen, whose real name he did not know? Was he still watching? Had he been transfixed too?
Between Gi-hun and Sang-woo, the floor stretched like a chessboard, the black and white tiles flickering in the dim candlelight. Wax dripped onto the polished surface, the flames of the candles flickering as if caught in the breath of something waiting, something lurking.
There was another scent, however. Cooler. Crisp, like a sea breeze, but tainted with something sickening, something wrong. It was the scent of the ocean when the tide dragged dead things to shore, when the salt stung and the decay curled beneath it.
Gi-hun turned, his grip on the knife tightening for a moment before he forced himself to loosen it. He stood from his bed, his movements deliberate, controlled, stepping across the chessboard floor, stepping between the candles, the wax gleaming like blood in the low light.
A pawn with a sword, Gi-hun thought wryly as he stepped across the black and white tiles, letting out a quiet snort.
And then, softly, carefully, Gi-hun whispered,”Sae-byeok."
Gi-hun allowed himself to exhale, allowed his scent to shift, allowing it to smooth into something gentler, something calmer—something meant to soothe, meant to reassure. A contrast to the sharp, defensive way it had curled toward Sang-woo just moments ago.
She needed him now.
Just as much as he needed her.
“It’s okay,” Gi-hun said softly, crouching low even as Sae-byeok brandished the steak knife at him, her features pale and sweaty in the candlelight. “Just sticking close, remember?”
Sae-byeok hesitated for a beat, then exhaled through her nose, lowering her knife at last. She shifted, inhaling sharply at the movement, her body coiling inward as if bracing against unseen pain. But she still made room for him, scooting aside slightly, a silent invitation.
Gi-hun delicately climbed onto the bed beside her, folding his arms over his knees. She was warm next to him, but not in the way she should have been—not the warmth of comfort, of life. It was the heat of a body running too hot, a fever blooming beneath her skin.
"You don’t look too well," Gi-hun murmured, his voice quieter now, his concern threading into the words before he could stop it. "You didn’t eat much either." His gaze flicked to her, searching, assessing, already knowing the answer before he asked,"Are you hurt?" A pause. His eyebrows furrowed. "And don’t lie to me."
“What does it matter?” Sae-byeok rasped, her voice weak but sharp, cutting through the thick silence between them. “You can’t treat me.” Her lips barely moved, her exhaustion dragging each word down. “You want… want to team up against your former alpha, is that it?” She coughed, then swallowed hard. “I’ve seen how he watches you… through the games. The way he touches you.”
Gi-hun flinched, just barely. He nodded once, slowly, his throat thick as he forced himself to speak. “We were never mated,” He said quietly, honestly. “But… there was a possibility. A long time ago.” His eyes dropped for a moment before flicking back up to her, glassy with the kind of pain that felt old and fresh all at once. “He’s good at leaving people behind. At using them. At making you believe you matter—right up until you don’t.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping low, thick with something desperate, something raw. “But we can win against him.” He reached out, fingers brushing against the mattress between them as if trying to close the distance. “We can beat him. Split the prize money. Make it out of this fucking place together.”
"What… what will you do with your half?"
Gi-hun swallowed hard. And then he spoke. He told her about his mother. About his debts. About all the things he had lost, all the ways he had been deficient in his life, and all the ways he still wanted to make it right. He spoke of his daughter, of the promise he had made to be better. He spoke of life beyond this nightmare, of how he would make sure all this suffering meant something. And she listened.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Sae-byeok had slumped against Gi-hun, her head resting against his shoulder, her breaths shallow but steady. When he finished speaking, her voice was barely a whisper, but she told him, just as softly, what she would do with her half. He kept combing his fingers through her hair, the same way he had done for his daughter when she was little, humming softly. Even as his fingers brushed against something wet and sticky—her blood—he did not stop.
“Sae-byeok…” Gi-hun carefully peeled aside part of her jacket, his fingers trembling. The fabric clung to her, damp and dark with blood. His stomach turned violently. “When did this happen? How—”
Without realizing it, Gi-hun had begun releasing a scent, instinctual and protective, meant to comfort, to shield, to promise safety even when there was none to give. It was the same scent he had emitted when his daughter was a newborn, wailing softly into the crook of his neck. The same scent he had emitted in those fleeting moments he had held his newborn son before he had been taken from his arms and given to strangers as he wept.
Gi-hun had not thought of his son in years, save for the rare moments when he wondered, hoped, that his adoptive family had given him more than he could. But the thought was too painful, too sharp, and he always pushed it away. Still, it made sense now, with the alpha across the room, whether truly asleep or pretending, a steak knife resting loosely in hand.
Sae-byeok inhaled it weakly, her eyelids fluttering as if the warmth of it lulled her somewhere safer. Then, faintly, so faintly he almost thought he imagined it, she whispered, "Mama…" Her lashes trembled against her cheeks, breaths shallow, voice paper-thin. "I want to go home."
"Hey, Sae-byeok." Gi-hun reached for her hand, clasping it between his own, holding her as if that alone would keep her here. "Stay with me. Hey, Sae-byeok. Stay with me!" His words grew more frantic and desperate, but her fingers were barely curling around him now.
She was slipping.
His breath shuddered. "Stay—just please, stay! I’ll go—I’ll go get a doctor! I’ll make them bring a doctor!"
Gi-hun scrambled to his feet, ran across the chessboard floor, and slammed his palms against the massive doors leading out of the dormitory. His blood pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else.
"Help, please!" His voice rang out, raw with desperation. "She’s lost a lot of blood! Please, someone! Is anybody out there? You fucking assholes! Someone is dying in here! You need to keep her alive so she can play in your damn game, remember? Answer me!"
The lights flickered on with a mechanical hum. Gi-hun caught his breath, blinking at the smear of blood across the door—her blood. His stomach twisted.
Then, the doors slid open.
A battalion of guards marched in, perfectly aligned, led by a square-masked figure at the center. Flanking him were two triangle-masked guards and two circle-masked guards. Their footsteps echoed in unison, precise, methodical.
And in their hands—
A black box.
Wrapped neatly with a pink ribbon.
Gi-hun turned, dread curling in his gut. Sang-woo stood across the room, shoulders squared, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The knife in his grip dripped red. Blood splattered up his neck. His eyes were dark. Cold. And his scent reeked like the wind after a brushfire, thick with ruin.
No.
No, no, no—
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
Gi-hun ran, shoving past Sang-woo, his body moving before his mind could even catch up. He dropped to his knees, gathering her still-warm body into his arms with a choked, trembling whimper. “Sae-byeok.”
Her weight slumped against him, her head lolling into the crook of his shoulder. His hands shaking, he pressed desperately against the wound on her neck, fingers slipping in the still-warm blood. Too much. Too much. His breathing turned ragged as he tried to stem the flow, tried to do anything, but she was already gone.
“No, Sae-byeok. No, no, no, no—” His voice cracked as he rocked her, a keening, heart-wrenching sound slipping from his lips.
Gi-hun turned to Sang-woo, eyes wide and wet, glassy with unspilled tears. A single tear finally broke free, carving a path through the grime on his cheek. His lips trembled, parting, but no words came, not at first. His scent, once warm and sweet like honeycomb and childhood summers, had turned sharp and sickly, like sugar left too long in the fire. Burnt. Ruined. And then he moved.
With a snarl, his fingers curled around the handle of the steak knife in his pocket, his breath ragged and uneven as he lunged.
For a moment—just a moment—Sang-woo did not see the man before him.
He saw something else.
"We can marry after I graduate," Sang-woo had said once, long ago, tossing flat stones across the still, mirror-like surface of the river. His voice had been steady, matter-of-fact, as if he were making a business transaction instead of speaking a quiet dream into existence. "Mate… make it official."
Gi-hun, dressed in his work coveralls, had stood beside him, a flat stone in his own hand. He had tried to skim it, but it had sunk the moment it hit the water, barely making a ripple. He had laughed, carefree, teasing.
"What, I stay home, cook the dinners, clean the house, take care of all the babies we’ll have?"
Sang-woo had flushed, visibly startled at the mention of babies; he had not thought that far ahead. He had never let himself dream of it. But now that the words had been spoken, the thought lodged itself somewhere deep, curling inside his chest like a quiet ember.
Gi-hun, pregnant. Soft around the edges. Protective. Nurturing. He had always cared too much for the neighborhood strays, tending to wounded things with gentle hands and ridiculous names.
"I hope any children we have are like you. If they’re like me, they’ll just forget their umbrella all the time, and I’ll have to chase after them with it." Gi-hun had said once, during one of their stolen moments together, meeting Sang-woo outside his university during a break.
"I like that you forget your umbrella," Sang-woo had admitted, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if speaking the words aloud would make him sound foolish. "It means I always have a reason to go after you."
Gi-hun had laughed. Loud and bright and full of something so alive.
And Sang-woo had been sincere then.
Sang-woo had hoped their children might be like Gi-hun, too. What would they have been like? Would they come out wailing, stubborn from the first breath, or quiet like he had been as a child? Wavy hair, maybe. Wide eyes. Little hands that clung too tight. He had pictured them curled up between them on the couch, messy hair and bare feet, laughter echoing through hallways they had not built. Now, that dream lay dead on the bed before them, blood pooling like a stain that could never be washed away.
And Sang-woo had killed it.
And Gi-hun—his childhood friend, his almost husband, never-mate, the would-be bearer of his children—was lunging at him with a knife in hand.
Every instinct in Gi-hun roared, primal and unrelenting, the grief twisting into something feral. The scent he had pressed into her, the same instinctive, protective omega scent meant to soothe a crying newborn, was still there, faint but undeniable, now mingling with the sharp metallic sting of blood. His mind could not reason, could not rationalize—only feel, only ache, only know. Baby. My baby. You killed my baby.
Watching from the cameras, In-ho swirled his glass. Amber liquid caught the dim light, reflecting in his dark eyes as he followed the brutal, graceless fight unfolding on the screen before him as the guards moved to break it up.
This omega, this fool, was fighting for a young alpha woman he had known for only a few days but had scent-marked as his own. As if she were his. As if she were his child. He had pressed his scent into her soft hair, tried to comfort her in what he must have known were her final moments, even as he ran—ran like a man who still believed he could do something.
And yet, Gi-hun had fought for her. Had clung to hope. Had scent-marked her, as if claiming her could somehow keep her safe.
In-ho tipped his glass to his lips but did not drink. Something in his chest coiled too tightly. Something that should not have stirred at all. He turned back to the screen, fingers tightening subtly around the glass as he watched. Lips slightly parted, breath steady but not quite even.
Gi-hun had smelled like dalgona to In-ho before. Even through the screen, even from a distance, In-ho wanted to know how that scent had changed now. Would it still be sweet? Would it have burned under the weight of his rage and grief?
He did not know why he wanted the answer.
But he did.
In-ho stood before the viewing glass, his posture rigid, mask betraying nothing, though beneath it, thoughts churned in quiet, unrelenting succession. His shoulder throbbed, the bullet wound flaring white-hot beneath the layers of his uniform. The painkillers, the alcohol—none of it was enough to fully dull it. But he had to function, had to maintain control. The final game was here, and there was no room for weakness.
The VIPs reveled in their usual indulgence, flutes of alcohol clinking, laughter echoing off the walls, their masks glinting under the dim lighting like the polished veneer of something rotten beneath.
In-ho watched as Gi-hun stepped to the edge of the squid grid, crouching under the guise of tying his shoe. His fingers, subtle as they were, slipped into the sand, gathering it carefully, methodically. A flicker of something like satisfaction curled at the corner of his lips beneath his mask. No one else in the room had noticed, but he had.
Resourceful.
"Offense," Buffalo Mask mused, swirling his drink lazily. "Now why would an omega pick offense?"
In-ho did not turn. He did not acknowledge the smug condescension laced in the question. Instead, his voice remained smooth and detached. "Player 218 killed the player Player 456 scent-marked."
A pause. A shift in the air.
Lion Mask scoffed, the sound more incredulous than anything. "Like omegas do babies? What’d he go and do that for?"
"Sentimental attachment, I think," Buffalo Mask muttered. "You know how omegas are…"
In-ho did not dignify the remark with a response. He simply continued, his tone as even as ever. "The point being that Player 218 might as well have killed Player 456’s child."
This time, the shift was palpable. The room quieted just slightly, just enough for him to feel the momentary stillness in the air. He could sense their intrigue, the curiosity veiled behind their gilded masks, but none of them truly understood what that meant.
But In-ho did.
In-ho had spent years as a police officer, had seen the aftermath of crimes where the victims had been omegas and the carnage they could leave behind when pushed past their limits, especially when protecting something—someone. There was a myth among many that omegas were the most delicate of the designations, that their instincts drove them only toward submission, toward gentleness.
That was a dangerous misconception.
He recalled a case with an omega woman in a park, blood smeared across her mouth, her scent thick with fury, with protection. The alpha who had tried to assault her lay dead at her feet, throat torn open, his body twitching as the last dredges of life left him. She had not whimpered. She had not cowered. She had stood there, steady, unshaken, braced in front of the baby carriage, where her child still slept soundly.
The most dangerous thing in the world was not an alpha at full strength.
It was an omega with something to protect.
In-ho thought of his wife, unbidden.
"It’s mine—ours—to protect. I'll live and carry it, and you will love the both of us."
Her hands in his. The absentminded circles she traced into his palm. The scent of warm food in a home that had once felt full. The lullaby she never finished, because she always fell asleep first. She had held his hand to his distended belly where the child grew, and she had wanted to protect it with her fire.
Gone.
All of it—gone.
Ashes.
In-ho had allowed his own fire inside him to die after the death of his wife and unborn child. After his own games, what remained had calcified grief and anger and hatred turned to ash, ash to stone. The mantle he bore finished the job, burying the coals deep beneath the weight of duty, of survival, of the choices he had made. But something now glowed beneath that hardened shell. Heat had returned. He had not stoked it. He had not wanted to. And yet, something burned.
Gi-hun had warmed something in him.
Then, as if fate itself sought to burn In-ho completely, Jun-ho had appeared. His little brother, reckless and stubborn, had nearly reduced it all to ashes. Even after shooting him in the shoulder to ensure his survival, had sent the ship captain to see that he would never return to this island, to the games, to him, to any of it. He would live.
That had to be enough.
It had to be.
In-ho exhaled slowly, forcing the thought down, down, down, until nothing remained but silence. The VIPs laughed, but it was an idle, hollow thing, completely oblivious to what had just been spoken into the room.
"I’ve felt an omega’s bite and scratch too many times to deny that," Buffalo Mask chuckled, running a finger lazily along the rim of his glass.
"Well, this should make for an entertaining final round," Eagle Mask mused, tone light, careless.
"Oh, absolutely," Bear Mask agreed. "And let’s be honest, we love when they get personal. That’s when they fight the hardest."
In-ho turned slightly toward the glass, eyes locked on the man who stood on the field below.
Gi-hun could not do it. Even after everything after the betrayals, after Sae-byeok, Gi-hun could not kill Sang-woo. He could not let him die. So he stood there, rain soaking him to the bone, blood from his wounds mixing with the water pooling beneath his feet. The downpour blurred his vision, or maybe that was the tears, but it did not matter. His arm was outstretched, his hand open, reaching.
And Sang-woo reached back. For a breath of a second, their fingers almost brushed.
Unbeknownst to Gi-hun and Sang-woo, In-ho behind the glass had watched this with reverence for the scene unfolding looked like a piece of High Renaissance art.
Behind the glass, In-ho watched silently, unmoving. This scene, raw and rain-drenched, struck him with the force of something sacred. It looked like a painting. Like a moment captured in oil and marble, something not meant for life but for the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral.
In-ho thought of The Creation of Adam, but inverted: Gi-hun, battered and radiant, stood not as man, but as God. A god carved not of marble but of blood and desperation, offering life—not through command, but through grace. And Sang-woo—slumped, broken, nearing the end—reached back like Adam. Passive. Faltering. Not ungrateful, but already too far gone. And yet, the hand still lifted before it fell again.
“Gi-hun… I’m sorry,” Sang-woo choked out. Then the hand he had extended to him fell to the steak knife plunged into the ground beside his head; he pulled it out and plunged it into his neck.
“Sang-woo!” Gi-hun screamed, falling to his knees beside him, pulling him into his arms close, his hand cradling his neck, blood seeping from between his fingers.
Sang-woo lifted a hand to Gi-hun and brushed his cheek, gasping, "Gi-hun... " His fingers slid back, just enough to curl around the back of his head, feeling his rain-soaked waves, to tug forward.
“No, Sang-woo. Don’t talk,” Gi-hun whimpered.
Sang-woo rasped, his voice little more than a whisper, "My mom. My mom. You’ll..." His fingers curled weakly into his shirt, tugging once, then again, harder, more desperate. The words came softer this time, fading into the rain, barely audible, because he knew he did not have much longer. “Gi-hun… my Gi-hun… my…”
And then, for the first time in years, it was not a possessive murmur of pride or frustration or bitter longing.
It was a truth, raw and real. “My omega.”
Gi-hun sobbed.
“Sang-woo!” Gi-hun had called out once, long ago, but not long after Sang-woo had graduated, calling him home to their new life together.
Gi-hun had been standing outside his factory, still in his coveralls, smeared with oil and grease, some of it streaking his cheek. He had grinned wide when he saw him, bright and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had run to him. He had thrown his arms around him.
Sang-woo had held Gi-hun close, tighter than he meant to, breathing in the scent of him, sugar beneath machine oil, sweet and clinging to the corners of his memory. Then, Gi-hun had pulled back, laughing, apologetic, brushing at the expensive fabric of the new suit he had worn where the grease had transferred. He had promised to buy him a new one, as if his meager salary could afford something so fine.
“Let’s go home, alpha,” Gi-hun had said, voice full of love and certainty, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Their home, small, cramped, but theirs. A narrow apartment with a single bed barely big enough for two, but big enough for them. They would curl up there, tangled together, dreaming aloud of better things. Someday they would have more. A larger place. Maybe even children.
But Sang-woo had wanted the more sooner. The cramped space became suffocating. The laughter thinned into silence, the chatter turned into tension, then into arguments. The warmth that had once wrapped around them like a blanket now felt like a chain.
When Sang-woo had finally said they should end it, that they should just stay friends, it was not even a fight. Gi-hun had nodded, too easily, too kindly, like he had expected it. Like some part of him had always known the dream would be too much for someone like him to carry. And they had stayed friends. Or something that resembled friendship.
They would later joke about what they used to be, late at night over drinks with Jung-bae, Gi-hun flushed and loud with cheap soju, grinning as he said things like, “Can you believe it? Me and him? Good thing we came to our senses! We would’ve killed each other.”
And Sang-woo, always with his smile too sharp around the edges, would take another sip and say nothing.
In the years that followed, Sang-woo climbed alone. Promotions came, as did sleek offices with glass walls and silent hallways. He had the money, the suits, and the corner view of a city that did not care who you stepped over to rise. He thought, once or twice, of showing up again.
Flowers in hand. A bottle of something expensive Gi-hun would not know the name of. Maybe he would ask him to move into the new place, a wide, echoing apartment meant for more than one but lived in by only him. Maybe the omega would laugh, forgive him, and say yes.
But by then, Gi-hun had married. Some alpha woman. Was expecting a child. Still poor, still wearing those tired, worn coveralls, but happy, or close enough to pass for it. Sang-woo had told himself that was enough, that his happiness was what mattered.
Later, Sang-woo heard about the strike. How Gi-hun had gone into labor mid-protest. How a man had died. He did not know the details and could not bear to look them up. He never asked about it, never offered comfort. And the omega never brought it up.
Then came the divorce. Gi-hun again poor, again smiling but the kind of smile that did not quite reach his eyes anymore. The kind one had to squint to believe. And then, Sang-woo had seen the racing tickets in his hands, sweaty, crumpled, and clenched like lifelines. The light in his eyes dulled with each loss, but still, he smiled. Still, he hoped.
When Gi-hun had divorced, Sang-woo had begun to think again, what would have happened if… Maybe they would have mated. Maybe they would have married. Maybe they would have had money and plenty of it. Maybe Gi-hun never would have worked in that wretched factory in the first place. Maybe the omega would have carried his children instead, and—
No.
Sang-woo had cut off the thought. The foolish thought. He had lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply until the burn scraped his lungs, had stared at the screen at work, watched the numbers blur together, focused on the noise, anything, anything at all to shut it out. Shut out all that he had done and failed to do. Everything he had said was swallowed back. The calls he never made. The words he never let himself speak.
And when all that Sang-woo had worked so hard for had left Gi-hun and began to fall apart when the debt piled high and the phone calls stopped and the silence turned thick enough to choke, he had made his choice. Desperate, wanted, penniless, he had stepped over the edge and into the Games. Maybe it was survival. Maybe it was self-destruction.
And there, against all odds, Sang-woo had heard Gi-hun, wide-eyed and smiling as if nothing had changed, calling his name,”Sang-woo!” Still looking happy to see him, like some part of him had never stopped waiting. And something in him bitter and aching had stirred when it could not afford to.
Now, all this time later, Gi-hun was saying his name again. Calling him home, the way he used to. But his voice was not easy now; he was not laughing. It was broken. Full of breath and rain and grief. A final tether. “…Sang-woo.”
There was no time to think, no space for hesitation. Sang-woo moved, gathering what little strength remained, and somehow impossibly pushed himself up from the blood-slicked ground. His movements were weak, trembling, but purposeful. His nose brushed against his, a fleeting ghost of contact, and then his lips found his. The kiss was soft, achingly so. Too soft for what they were, for what had been lost between them.
Sang-woo held onto Gi-hun with what little strength he had left, his fingers curled into his damp hair, clutching it like a lifeline, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened intentionally, urgently, tasting of rain and grief and everything they had never said.
Gi-hun felt it in the shift of breath, the press of trembling lips, the way his scent surged around him, warm, earthy, radiant. He smelled like a forest after the storm. The way he used to smell, before time and pain had warped them both. And still, he could not move. Could not respond. Did not know how.
Not after everything. Not after the years, the betrayals, the blood. He had no idea what this kiss was meant to mean. A goodbye? A promise? A curse? But before he could ask, before he could even breathe—
Gi-hun felt it as Sang-woo sighed softly against his mouth, and all the tension went out of him, life fleeing his body, and he went limp in his arms.
“Sang-woo, no…” Gi-hun made a terrible sound, thick and choking, scrambling at his shoulders, at his back, holding him closer, rocking him back and forth in his arms as he wailed, tears mixing with the rain. “Sang-woo!”
The guards loomed behind him, waiting. Still, he would not let go.
“Alpha,” Gi-hun whimpered, the word trembling on his lips, softly and reverently spoken for the first time in years. “My Sang-woo,” He gasped, his voice cracking, raw as an open wound, curling himself around the body, trying to shield it from the cold, from the rain. “My alpha…”
The VIPs were chattering now, talking about the unexpected end to the games, but In-ho stood silent before the glass, watching as Gi-hun sobbed, clutching onto the body of the other player still. Watching him reach out not to win but to save, he felt the first breath of warmth in years. Not enough to blaze. Not yet. But enough to sweat the stone, to whisper through the cracks, to promise something could still burn.
Some time later, lost in the chaos of the games' aftermath, In-ho sat in the limousine with Gi-hun, opulence humming quietly beneath their silence. The finest bottle of champagne money could buy had already been opened, the bubbles rising lazily in crystal. But the distance between them, barely a few feet, felt far more vast. In-ho, for all his power, for all the weight of the mask now resting beside him, would not cross it. He did not trust himself to. He did not know what he might do if he did.
He sipped the champagne instead, slow and measured.
Gi-hun was back in the clothes he came in, his wounds, as numerous as they were, hastily bandaged so that he would not bleed out before they returned him to the mainland, blindfolded again, wrists bound, his breath ragged as it sawed through his throat. Head bowed, chest heaving, his shoulders trembled with every breath. Tears, still fresh, slipped unseen beneath the blindfold.
Across from Gi-hun, In-ho sat with his mask removed, gloves still on, champagne flute in hand, wrist relaxed, gaze unwavering. The air between them was heavy, saturated with something thick and intimate. Scent.
In-ho appeared to have the answer to the previous question of what Gi-hun smelt like after everything. Gi-hun reeked of burnt sugar, his scent no longer simply sweet like before, but changed now, charred at the edges by pain and betrayal. It filled the car in waves, bitter and bright, wild with rage and mourning and stubborn, unkillable life. It clung to his skin, spilling from his pores.
In-ho drank it in.
In contrast, In-ho smelled of nothing real. Layer upon layer of scent suppressants cloaked him in sterile precision. The air around him was cold, stifling, sharp with something chemical. He had drowned his own nature in antiseptic and iron resolve.
Early in the drive, Gi-hun had broken the silence to ask In-ho, hoarse and furious, why. Why did he do this? And In-ho had answered honestly, in a language the omega would understand. They were racehorses, all of them. Bred to run. Trained to suffer. Ugly, rarely beautiful, expendable creatures.
But Gi-hun—Gi-hun was the one In-ho had not expected. The one who defied the pattern. The one who survived wrong. Refused to run in a straight line. Refused to fall when the system said he should. If they were all just horses, then this one was his favorite. Not because he won. But because he would not run the way he was told.
In-ho raised the flute to his lips again and was the one to break the silence this time. “This is a little too familiar,” He mused, the undercurrent of something darker threading through the words. “You. Blindfolded. Bound. At my mercy.” He paused, savoring the next sip. A beat passed. Then,“We enjoyed one another, did we not, Player 456?”
Gi-hun let out a bitter breath, slow and ragged. “I spent too much time at the tracks,” He said, voice thick with scorn. “You already know that, don’t you? It’s probably on page one of whatever goddamn file you have on me.” He swallowed hard. “They usually don’t let racehorses retire. They run them until their legs snap mid-stride. And if they’re lucky, they shoot them where they fall. You enjoyed trying to break me, I think…"
“And yet,” In-ho said softly, shifting in his seat, leaning forward just enough to breach the unspoken space between them, “you’re not broken. Not yet. Already pacing the fence like you miss the sound of the gun.” He let his gloved hand settle on his knee, lightly, gently, almost reverently. “You’ve been rewarded. Not once, but twice. From the pit. From my hands.” His fingers traced an absent path up his thigh, gliding along the curve of fabric, stopping just before the belt of restraint. “Tell me, Player 456… Do you even know what kind of animal you’ve become now?”
Gi-hun made a noise. Laughed, sharp and joyless. “Calling us animals makes it easier for you, doesn’t it? Racehorses. Beasts. Something beneath you.”
In-ho slid his hand back, but only just. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with unreadable light in the dimness of the car. “Hmm.” His tone was idle, almost clinical. “Your scent… it’s changed. Not so soft now. No longer that cloying sweetness from before. It’s burnt now. Bitter at the edges. Like caramel left too long in the pan.” He inhaled slowly, as if savoring it. “But it’ll heal. It always does. Wounds close. Scents return to normal. And soon? It’ll all feel like a dream. For you, perhaps even a good one. A sweet one.”
A beat. Then, softly, “Personally, I like the change. It's more honest. More... intoxicating.”
Gi-hun swallowed, jaw clenched. “You smell like death,” He muttered. “Like a hospice room with the window cracked open, waiting for someone to die. You reek of repressors, of something half-alive and choking on the mask you wear.” His lips quivered. He sniffled once, and a single tear slid beneath the blindfold, cutting a clean path through the grime on his cheek. “It makes me want to vomit on your no-doubt custom-stitched, imported leather shoes.”
In-ho chuckled, deep in his chest, and the sound was low, rich, and undeniably amused. “You almost sound like a lover scorned,” He said, voice sliding into something dark and intimate. His fingers brushed his chin, tilting his face up, even though his eyes could see nothing. “Tell me, Player 456… Are you there yet? Do you want me dead? Will you chase me through your waking hours? Through your dreams?” He leaned in, breath brushing his lips. “Or will I still live inside them… but for other reasons?”
Gi-hun trembled, chest rising in broken heaves. “I don’t even know who you are,” He spat. “Your name. Your face. Your scent. You hide everything.” His voice caught. “So tell me—how the hell am I supposed to hate you?” And then again, softer, breath almost gone: “Who are you?”
Even as Gi-hun spoke, he heard the soft, unmistakable hiss of gas filling the limousine, curling into his lungs before he could stop it. He tried to hold his breath, to fight it, but it was useless. His body betrayed him, just as it always had, and he felt it creeping in his limbs, growing heavy, his muscles loosening as if the strings holding him upright had been severed one by one.
But still, Gi-hun tried, forcing the words past his lips again and again, a desperate, slurred whisper against the encroaching dark: "Who are you?"
In-ho still gripped Gi-hun by his chin, holding his head upright. The touch was soft and deliberate, fingertips gloved, grazing over his lips before parting them with slow, maddening ease. He barely had the strength to resist, to pull away, as something rectangular and cool slid between his parted lips, resting heavy atop his tongue. Hard plastic. A credit card. The final insult.
The weight of it pressed against the roof of his mouth, foreign and cold just like the money it represented. His lips closed weakly around it, a hollow mimicry of acceptance. He wanted to spit it out, to tear the blindfold from his face, to force the answer from whoever sat across from him. Instead, the gas dragged him deeper, drowning him in a slow, inescapable pull.
And then, in the last moments before consciousness slipped from his grasp, the gloved hand gripped his jaw, tilting his head just so. Then lips, hot, dry, lingering only for a breath of a second, brushed against his own in a kiss. And there was the faintest scent teasing his nostrils, there and gone, of something human, not repressors, and it burned something like leather, marshmallow, and wood.
Whiskey.
Chapter 3
Summary:
"If you weren’t looking for company, why stop and try to light my cigarette?" Gi-hun asked, voice lighter than he felt.
Young-il flicked his eyes toward him, sharp in the dim light. "Maybe I wasn’t looking for company. Maybe I just recognized something."
"Recognized what?"
Young-il sighed, tipping his head slightly as if weighing the words before he spoke them. "Someone standing in the rain too long. Someone who let it drip into their coffee and still tried to light a cigarette in a downpour. Someone who doesn’t care all that much anymore.” He took a slow sip of coffee. "I know what that looks like."
Gi-hun was not sure what to say to that.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect Omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, discussion of abortion, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
A quick heads-up about structure: I do use time skips in this chapter, especially between the end of the first season and the beginning of the second one. I did not want to transcribe everything beat-for-beat from screen to page, but rest assured, some of those skipped events will be explored in more depth later. (Yes, Gi-hun kept the promises he made to both Sang-woo and Sae-byeok. You’ll see.) After this chapter, though, there should be no more significant time skips.
Also: I tend to avoid writing anything involving Il-nam. After what came out about the actor, I cannot help but feel a bit icky. But do not worry—red-haired Gi-hun does get a mention (you know the Salesman wanted him so bad). Speaking of which, the Salesman will be showing up in all his chaotic, semi-horny glory next chapter.
Additionally, after this chapter, it may take a little longer to get to the next one because school and work are keeping me busy for the next few weeks, but only by a week or so, so two to three weeks at most.
Finally, I came across a South Korean superstition that says if a pregnant person eats duck, their baby will be born with webbed feet. This absolutely feels like something Gi-hun would believe, so it had to get a mention.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Kindly leave kudos and comments if you feel inclined, as this will definitely motivate me to write more quickly!
Chapter Text
Three billion won from the bonus round had done nothing. It had come in a long black box, lacquered and too polished, and wrapped with a gaudy pink bow that mocked Gi-hun with its familiarity. Just like the coffins in which those who had died were packed like trash beneath silk. The box still sat open on the table, glinting in the dim light, next to a pot of cold rice gone dry and hard. A bowl of peas lay beside it, edges browned, unsnapped, forgotten.
“Mom,” Gi-hun called softly as he stepped inside. “I’m home.”
Then he saw her. His mother was lying on her side next to the table. Her fingers were curled inward, her body sunken in a way that spoke of time—too much time passed since she had fallen. A bundle of bills lay inches from her hand, like it had slipped from her grasp.
“Mom?” The word cracked as Gi-hun dropped to his knees beside her. His hands scrambled for her shoulder, her arm, her cheek cool to the touch, still soft, but unmoving. “Open your eyes,” He whispered, his palm running down her face, willing it to flinch, to twitch, to do something.
She did not stir.
“Mom… I’m home,” He tried again, voice trembling now. He snatched up the stack of fallen bills and held it out, desperate, pleading. “I made some money… too much, really. We’ll have enough. More than enough. For anything, everything you…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the cash in his hand, crisp, lifeless, absurd now. The stack slipped through his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Slowly, Gi-hun laid down beside her. The room was dim, washed in the graying light of dusk as he pressed close, curling around her fragile frame like he used to as a boy, head tucked against her shoulder. He breathed in, desperate to catch something, anything of her still lingering in the air. The warmth he remembered: the honey-sweet comfort of rice cakes, the scent of early mornings and worn cotton, and the love he had never quite deserved. But there was nothing.
Just the rot of death that clung to the fabric of her clothes, to the yellowing wallpaper. It choked the room, crept into his nose, and coated his tongue. She had died alone. With nothing but a box of money, useless, too late to save her, there only to haunt her in her final moments, a cruel reminder of the son who should have been there. He cradled her head with trembling hands, brushing the strands of white hair back from her forehead. His fingers moved gently, reverently, as if afraid to break her.
He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her small, still body. His own scent bloomed with a force he could not stop: burnt sugar, acrid and warped with grief. The omega in him mourned instinctively, helplessly. His body cried out for comfort, for the one person who had always given it to him without condition. Then, gradually, his scent faded, the sharp edges dulled, and the sweetness collapsed in on itself, softening and diluting into something streaked with grief.
Like dalgona left out in the rain.
Gi-hun heard the Front Man then, his voice unbidden and cruel: “Scents return to normal. And soon? It’ll all feel like a dream. For you, perhaps even a good one. A sweet one.”
What sweetness? Gi-hun had traded his body. His dignity. He had signed away the last scraps of his pride, every desperate act, every degrading second for this. For nothing. His mother was dead, and he had not been there.
Even worse, somewhere in the ruins of it all, Gi-hun knew he had wanted the man. Not just in the moment, but afterward. In his dreams. In the quiet moments between breaths. Awake. Haunted. He remembered the way that mouth had felt on his skin, how he had been touched, filled, and seen. And even after, even when the words had turned cold and clinical, there had been something beneath them. Something cruel, yes, but intimate. Like he had been something more than just another body.
He had only glimpsed what lay beneath the mask: a flicker of breath, of heat, of something almost human. It was made worse by the memory of his final moments before unconsciousness took him, when he had still been trembling, raw and open, the card already nudging the back of his throat; he had tasted his lips on his, salt and heat, and something sharp, and for one impossible second, he could have sworn he caught it. The faintest trace of a scent not smothered by suppressants.
Whiskey.
But now he was beginning to doubt himself, his senses. Perhaps it had been another similar scent, like cologne or aftershave, that had lingered in the air. Or maybe he had merely tasted a recent drink other than the champagne from his lips. Still that scent, real or imagined, the voice, and the presence were all fading like smoke.
And now there was only this.
His tears came silently. They slid down his cheeks and carved clean lines through the grime on his face, leaving behind streaks that glistened in the growing dark. They felt like oil hot, stinging, searing but still, he made no sound. No sob, no scream, not even a whimper. He simply held her, chest pressed to her stillness, and for a long, long time, he did not move.
Some time later, when the first light of morning filtered in through the window, Gi-hun stirred. His eyes, gritty and hollow, drifted toward the table. That box was still there with its sleek black lacquer and its mocking pink bow. And then he saw it. A small envelope, almost invisible against the sheen of the black box, tied with a pink ribbon. The flap hung open, the note inside shoved back, unread or re-read too many times.
He sat up stiffly, his muscles protesting. Legs shaking, he stood and crossed the room. He picked up the envelope, the paper smooth and cold between his fingers, then turned it over and opened it.
To my favorite racehorse,
They never hear the starting gun.
Only the silence after.
-F
Three Years Later
It was raining hard when Gi-hun first met Young-il, as so many things in his life seemed to begin with rain and end with it.
Gi-hun remembered another rain-soaked evening, many years ago, when he had been left shivering outside his school, too ashamed to tell his mother he had lost yet another umbrella. The money had been tight, and he had already lost too many. He had resigned himself to walking home drenched when a small voice called his name.
Sang-woo—glasses too large for his face, already fogging from the humidity—had been standing there, holding an umbrella just big enough for two. It had been black, trimmed with a delicate pink bow, having clearly once belonged to his mother.
"You’re in the class above me, right?" Sang-woo had asked, squinting at him through rain-speckled lenses.
"Yeah," Gi-hun had murmured, watching the raindrops patter against the fabric. After a beat, he had taken the handle, lifting it higher so it covered them both; he was taller, after all. "Where do you live? I’ll walk you back." And it had turned out that they lived in the same neighborhood. “Let’s go home.”
Sang-woo had nodded, glasses slipping as he pushed them up again, and together, they had walked home under the shelter of something small but shared, hand in hand.
Sang-woo had died in the rain too. The thought twisted deep within Gi-hun like a cold hand around his spine. His fingers curled into his damp sleeves. He shuddered.
Gi-hun stood in an alleyway outside a twenty-four-hour café, his cup of coffee now cold, rain mixing with the remnants inside. An unlit cigarette rested between his fingers, and he was trembling and jittery, too hot under the collar despite the chill. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was something else entirely. He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded as he let raindrops catch against his skin, grounding himself in the sensation.
With a sigh, he shifted, fumbling for his lighter, already bringing the cigarette to his lips.
Then—click.
A flicker of flame bloomed from the darkness; its glow illuminated a pale hand, extended calmly toward his cigarette. The silhouette of a stranger loomed just behind him, barely visible in the downpour.
Gi-hun startled, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as the cigarette slipped from his mouth, forgotten as it hit the wet pavement below. Before he had time to think, his body moved on instinct. His half-full cup of coffee was airborne, and the cup hit square against the man behind him, the liquid splattering across his front, staining fabric already damp with rain. His body was tensed, ready to fight, to strike, to survive. Because after all he had endured, before the games, inside them, and in the bitter, empty years after, he refused to die in a back alley. Not now. Not like this.
But then, he saw him. Inhaled his scent, identifying his designation.
The alpha man was slightly shorter than him, dark brown hair slicked back by the rain, strands falling loose over his forehead. His black shirt, now drenched in coffee, clung to the sharp lines of his frame, half-obscured by a brown jacket and matching slacks, expensive, tailored. A long, sleek black umbrella dangled carelessly at his side, unopened, while in his other hand, the ornate silver lighter still flickered with flame, its craftsmanship too fine, too costly to belong to someone who should be here, in an alleyway, offering light to a stranger.
Yet there he stood. The alpha man did not flinch. Did not bristle. Did not even look annoyed. Instead, he smirked, one eyebrow raised, his free hand lifting in a mock gesture of surrender.
Gi-hun could practically hear the frantic hammering of his own heart, still caught somewhere between fight and flight. God, what the hell is wrong with me? He swallowed, feeling the heat creep up his neck despite the cold drizzle soaking his clothes. His mouth opened, words tumbling out, rushed and breathless.
“Oh, god—I—" He swallowed, feeling his pulse hammer against his ribs. “You startled me, and—” He bent down, grabbing the crumpled, empty coffee cup so as not to litter before straightening with a hasty bow. “Forgive me, I—”
“Serves me right, sneaking up on an unmated omega, I suppose,” The alpha mused, laughter warm despite the chill of the evening. He shook his jacket slightly, fingers brushing over the coffee-stained fabric with casual indifference. “I was already soaked anyway. I’ll just step into the rain a little longer—get the coffee out, let nature wash me clean.”
Gi-hun laughed. Quietly, barely more than a breath, but it was real, the first in longer than he could remember. He ducked his head slightly, rain-damp waves falling forward, shielding his face as he exhaled.
“We can go in,” He said, glancing back toward the café. “I don’t have a coffee now anyway, and it looks like I owe you something warm.”
“Cafe Americano by the smell of it,” The alpha noted, lifting his shirt slightly and sniffing at the stained fabric with casual detachment. “My favorite. I’ll have the same.” Then, extending his hand, he added, “I’m Young-il.”
Stupidly tongue-tied, Gi-hun extended his own hand, shaking it briefly. The grip was firm, warm, lingering just a little longer than necessary. Up until now, he had resisted the urge to scent the other man beyond getting his base designation—alpha—but something in the way he looked at him made him inhale, just briefly, enough to catch a hint of what lay beneath.
Young-il smelled rich and dark, smooth as silk but deep as oak; the scent of whiskey left to breathe in a crystal tumbler matured, full-bodied, the kind that warmed from the inside out. But beneath it, woven so delicately it almost ghosted past him, was the scent of book pages, the warm, papery musk of novels long-thumbed-through.
The scent warmed something in Gi-hun, dangerously so. He blinked, realizing from the prolonged, patient stare of the other man that he had yet to introduce himself.
"Gi-hun," Gi-hun fumbled out, "my name is Seong Gi-hun. Sorry."
"It’s fine." Young-il smiled, understanding, as if he had expected the delay. "Let’s go in."
Gi-hun led the way, opening the café door and stepping inside. The place was small, unmanned, just two coffee machines at the front and several round tables scattered throughout. Nothing remarkable, but the coffee was decent, and more importantly, it was a shelter from the rain.
Honestly, Gi-hun had expected to buy Young-il a coffee, maybe exchange a few pleasantries, and then part ways. Instead, Young-il had chosen a table, pulled out a chair for him—an old-fashioned courtesy, something mothers told their alpha children was polite to do for an omega—and looked at him expectantly. As if there was never a question that he would sit. That he would stay.
They sat by the window. Outside, the street gleamed with rain, city lights stretching in warped reflections across the puddles. The soft patter of raindrops against the glass filled the silence between them, a rhythmic hum against the stillness.
And only then did Gi-hun realize just how long it had been since he had sat down with someone like this. Not in some smoke-hazed bar, nursing cheap liquor, searching for information that always came at a price. Not while keeping his guard up, waiting for the next move, expecting a catch. But like this.
Just sitting. Just drinking. Just being.
Once, he had been good at this. Good at talking, at filling the silence when others could not. During drinks with Jung-bae, or nights spent with Sang-woo before everything fell apart. Dinners with Eun-ji, back when silence between them had still felt companionable. Or maybe… maybe he had never been good at it. Maybe he had only liked the sound of his own voice and liked filling the spaces because it meant he did not have to hear himself think. But now—
"You think loudly," Young-il remarked, sipping his coffee, black. His voice was smooth, edged with something like amusement, something like interest.
Gi-hun startled slightly, blinking back into focus. He was too warm. Beneath the collar of his thin shirt, his skin prickled with heat. A slow, creeping flush crawled up the back of his neck.
"Sorry," Gi-hun muttered, rubbing his hand along his jaw, fingers grazing stubble. The motion did not ground him the way it should have. "I’m probably being rude. It’s been a while since I’ve done this. It’s an easy habit to fall out of."
He took a sip of his coffee softened with milk, but no sugar. The warmth did not help.
Young-il tilted his head slightly, gaze steady. Watching. "This?" He echoed, polite curiosity lacing his words.
"Sitting across from someone like this," Gi-hun admitted, rolling the cup between his palms. The heat pressed against his fingers. His breath felt heavier.
Young-il hummed softly, watching him just a little too closely. "I see." Then he glanced around the empty space, picking up his own cup and taking another sip, cringing subtly, really only a slight tug at his mouth, as if the taste was not to his liking but he was too polite to say so. “I understand… It’s why I frequent places like this. Unmanned, empty.”
"Even if the coffee isn’t quite to your liking?" Gi-hun asked, a small smile tugging at his lips, the teasing coming easier than he expected with this stranger.
"Even if the coffee isn’t to my liking. You’re observant," Young-il murmured, tapping his fingers idly against the cup. "Good coffee comes with a cost. Either you brew it yourself, alone, or you let yourself be surrounded by people—people who talk too much, expect too much. Sometimes, bad coffee in an empty room is the better trade."
Young-il had not directly stated to Gi-hun what weighed upon him, but it had become evident to him in the minutes they had known one another. He had lost, too. Loved and lost and been left with nothing but the weight of absence. It was something he recognized all too well. He glanced down at his hands, suddenly aware of how his fingertips tingled against the paper of his cup, how the heat was almost unbearable.
He exhaled, suddenly restless. His pulse was not quite right. His skin felt too sensitive, his clothes too heavy, the scent of coffee thicker than usual.
"If you weren’t looking for company, why stop and try to light my cigarette?" Gi-hun asked, voice lighter than he felt.
Young-il flicked his eyes toward him, sharp in the dim light. "Maybe I wasn’t looking for company. Maybe I just recognized something."
"Recognized what?"
Young-il sighed, tipping his head slightly as if weighing the words before he spoke them. "Someone standing in the rain too long. Someone who let it drip into their coffee and still tried to light a cigarette in a downpour. Someone who doesn’t care all that much anymore.” He took a slow sip of coffee. "I know what that looks like."
Gi-hun was not sure what to say to that.
Young-il broke the silence first. "Didn’t expect a scalding for my troubles, though.”
Gi-hun let out a soft chuckle, though it felt strangely distant from himself. "I hardly scalded you. It was already lukewarm," He pointed out, his voice edged with amusement. He forced himself to focus, despite the warmth building under his skin.
"What did you see, really?" He asked, quieter this time. "That made you think I was like you?"
Young-il drained the remainder of his coffee, his thumb absently picking at the peeling edge of the paper cup. He did not answer right away, and for a moment, he thought he would not at all.
Then, without looking up, Young-il finally said, "You say that like you don’t already know. Like you don’t see the same in me,” The words hung there intimate, too heavy for two strangers nursing cheap coffee in an empty shop.
And then, as if sensing the shift, the closeness that was not casual, Young-il added lightly, “Also, you really shouldn’t be smoking at our age.”
Gi-hun stared at him, eyebrows rising. “You—you tried to light my cigarette! And now you’re lecturing me?”
Young-il gave a slow shrug, unapologetic. “Because I’m a hypocrite.”
Gi-hun exhaled, incredulous and suddenly restless, flicking his gaze away from the other man, who suddenly smelled quite lovely. His pulse was not quite right. His skin felt too sensitive, his clothes too heavy, the scent of coffee thicker than usual.
"Are you alright?" Young-il asked, his voice shifting, smoothing out into something quieter, something more intentional. His eyes, sharp and watchful before, softened at the edges.
Before Gi-hun could answer, a hand covered his. His breath hitched. Solid. Warm. A steady weight pressed over his own where it lay splayed on the table, grounding, lingering.
"You’re warm…" Young-il murmured, eyebrows knitting slightly, thumb resting just near the curve of his wrist, as if unconsciously checking his pulse.
"Yes. Yes, I’m fine." The words came too quickly, too stiff. He should have pulled away. He did not. Did not want to. The weight, the warmth—it was more than he had felt in so long. "It’s probably just a cold from all this rain," He added, voice rough, throat dry.
The words felt like a lie.
His body was not burning the way a fever would.
"Do you… do you want another coffee?" The question was stilted, an abrupt attempt to change the subject, to pull focus.
Young-il studied him for a moment, then, as if deciding not to press further, he drew his hand back. "Yes. Yes, please.”
The warmth disappeared.
Gi-hun curled his fingers slightly against the surface of the table, missing the sensation.
They sat there for hours, talking about nothing at all, really. Just sipping their coffees, watching the ceaseless rain.
At one point, Young-il had slipped out a book on Vincent Van Gogh, an English edition, thick with worn pages and had turned it toward Gi-hun, showing him a painting of rainy hills and fields. He had compared the colors to the view outside their own window, describing the shifting blues, the weight of the brushstrokes, and how the artist had painted sadness into the sky.
Gi-hun had listened, even though he knew nothing about art. He could only look at a painting and say whether or not he thought it looked nice. Once, his ex-wife had taken him to an art exhibit, and when someone had asked his opinion on a piece, he had answered, "I wouldn’t use it as an ashtray."
Young-il had laughed when Gi-hun told him that. A real, genuine laugh. And Gi-hun had smiled.
They sat like that for a while, the world outside the café seeming to shrink, blur, and fade.
Young-il smudged a finger against the fogged-up glass. "It’s so empty out there. You can almost imagine we’re the only ones left on Earth."
"Most people aren’t stupid enough to be out in this mess," Gi-hun snorted, watching him, watching the way the streetlight from outside shone in his dark eyes, catching on the faint auburn streaks in his now nearly dry hair.
Gi-hun scented Young-il again subtly. The other man smelled lovely, warm, and rich, like a glass of whiskey, though he had never favored the stuff. And beneath that, something more grounded, almost dusty, like the worn pages of a well-read paperback. He was not an academic by any stretch, but he liked books. Liked the quiet they offered.
Both scents wrapped around him, familiar and inviting, intensifying the heat already blooming beneath his skin. It made him tremble, flushed and restless, like he was burning from the inside out. And then the realization struck that made his heartbeat somehow even more wildly in his chest, his flush deepening. He wanted this strange alpha.
Young-il turned back to him, eyes amused. "What does that say about us?"
“I won’t lump you with me,” Gi-hun said, swallowing thickly, mouth dry, lips tingling. “Oh…” He closed his eyes briefly, the heat pouring under his skin suddenly intensifying.
“Gi-hun?” Young-il asked concernedly, instinctively drawing in a deep breath, scenting, Gi-hun realized. Gi-hun watched Young-il, then saw his cheeks flushed with color, and something flickered behind his eyes. They darkened.
“I’m fine,” Gi-hun said quickly—too quickly. But as he shifted in his seat, discomfort twisted in his gut. There was a slickness now, undeniable, between his thighs. Heat coiled low in his belly, sharp and blooming, and his legs pressed together involuntarily.
No. No, that could not be right. He was not that attracted to some strange alpha. He was not—
Was he going into—?
No. Impossible. He was far too old. Too worn down. That part of him had been dormant for years.
“I just… I think…” He swallowed again. “I think I’m sick. It’s probably best if I—”
“Gi-hun,” Young-il cut in, his voice low and rough, a thickness in it now he was clearly trying to keep in check. “I think… you’re in need.”
"In need?" Gi-hun echoed, dumbly. His breath stuttered; his pulse went uneven. Shame and horror both flashed behind his eyes. "You mean… heat?"
The thought was absurd. Impossible. He had not had a heat in years. Not since the divorce, when stress had driven them off for a time, not that he had particularly missed them. Then the games, the grief, his age, and all of it had sealed their permanent absence.
He was too old for this. Too old for three days of misery, writhing alone in the cheap, sickeningly pink sheets of the motel room he used as a base of operations.
"Gi-hun." Young-il said, his voice gentle but pressing. "We need to get you out of here. Out of public. With how fast it’s coming on."
Gi-hun exhaled shakily. The world sharpened. His pulse quickened. “I’m sorry I…” He shook his head and laughed, the sound perhaps slightly hysterical. “I didn’t even know this could even happen anymore. That my body was capable of—” He cut himself off, humiliated enough.
"Gi-hun." Young-il said his name again softly, understanding in his tone. "It’s alright. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Our bodies… they’re far less predictable at our age."
He smiled, crooked, almost self-deprecating. "And these things don’t care to be ignored, as I’ve learned the hard way. I tried to for a time, because I didn’t want to—couldn’t—make myself share it with someone who wasn’t the one I’d shared it with for almost the entirety of my adult life."
Gi-hun stared at him, beginning to understand. Beginning to feel something dangerously close to kinship.
"Is there someone I can call?" Young-il asked, too kind, too polite. "An alpha or beta who helps you through your heats? Someone who can?"
"No. No one." Gi-hun forced the words out gently. He ached. His skin felt hot, and he felt dizzy, not unlike when he drank too much. "I’ll be fine. Please, don’t worry about me. We’re practically strangers, and you shouldn’t have to deal with someone you barely know like this. I’ll just… get a cab. Ride it out at home."
Young-il went still. "A cab," He said slowly, "possibly driven by an alpha?"
Fuck. Maybe I could call Mr. Kim, Gi-hun thought, grimacing. No. He’s an alpha too. And a slimy one at that.
Gi-hun closed his eyes, muttering the curse under his breath. His body betrayed him before he could even think. The scent seeped out warm, tantalizing sugar and honeycomb. Sweet as if it could melt on the tongue. A scent that belonged in a childhood memory, on the breeze of a playground, pulling someone in before they even knew they were hungry.
Young-il sucked in a sharp breath beside him, a quiet, involuntary sound. Then, with something close to a gasp,"Gi-hun." He seemed to quite like saying his name. Again and again, as if rolling it over in his mouth, testing the weight of it. "Your scent. You’re—"
“Oh, sorry,” Gi-hun blurted, mortified. His hands moved in a flash, yanking the zipper of his jacket up to his chin. His body curled inward, jaw clenched tight as he squeezed his eyes shut and drew in ragged breaths through his nose.
“Don’t apologize,” Young-il said quickly, voice tight with restraint. “Your scent—it’s…” He swallowed, his own breath hitching. “It’s good. So good. I just don’t want to—” He stopped himself, but the words lingered in the air between them.
A soft, involuntary sound slipped from Gi-hun. In recent years, people like Sang-woo and Eun-ji had spoken of his scent with thinly veiled annoyance, something to endure, to cover up, to ignore. A far cry from how they once whispered about it in the early days, calling it warm, inviting, and intimate. Now, it was just another deficiency, or perhaps a reminder of his many deficiencies.
Only one person in recent memory had breathed it in like it meant something. And still, it was not Young-il who came to mind. No—God, why was Gi-hun thinking of him now? That voice. That mask. That man who had once inhaled his scent like he meant to trace the edges of it with his tongue and never stop.
Was that why he was thinking of him now? Here? During his heat, when his body was open, vulnerable, begging? Was some part of him wanting that man to find him like this? To finish what he started?
No. No.
He shoved the thought down hard.
Lost indeed.
Then, Young-il inhaled again, a slow, measured breath this time, held it for a moment, then exhaled. His eyes dragged back to him, steady, unreadable, his expression set. Then, suddenly, he was squatting before him, closing the space between them, hands warm and steady. He took his hand, thumb pressing over his pulse. Right where one of his smaller scent glands resided.
Gi-hun wondered distantly if that had been conscious. If he had done it instinctively.
"Gi-hun…"
Gi-hun smiled without thinking, without meaning to, at the way Young-il said his name. Again. Again.
"I… I live nearby," Young-il said, his voice even, deliberate. "My apartment—it’s small, but it has a bed. Plenty of food and water for days. Enough for however long your heat lasts. I understand we hardly know one another. But I know some prefer to deal with their heats that way—with strangers. We can take every precaution, whatever is necessary, so that we both feel safe with one another." Then, his voice final and firm, he added,"I’d like to—to offer my assistance."
Gi-hun blinked. The words took a moment to register, to reach past the heat creeping under his skin, past the pulse hammering in his throat. "I… I couldn’t ask you to do that—"
"You’re not asking. I’m offering," Young-il murmured, voice low and final, and his eyes were all pupils now, dark and steady. His thumb swept idly over the scent gland at his wrist, pressing, stimulating, and something warm, honey-thick, spilled into the air between them, wrapping around them both.
And without thinking, Gi-hun scented Young-il again. Alpha, his hindbrain purred as his scent enveloped him, rich and smooth, whiskey-warm and laced with something quieter, something steady. It made something inside him ache, raw and open and hungry.
Then in a dark flash of clarity, Gi-hun understood. He needed to get away. He needed to run, to stop this before it started, to stop himself from doing something he would regret, something he would make the other man regret. But he also wanted, needed, really, to stay. Because he had been so alone.
Because Young-il, a stranger who was too kind and too good for Gi-hun, seemed to know. The other man had loved and lost as well, and he could see it in his eyes, knowing that the same pain was reflected back to him.
Gi-hun reached out to Young-il, who was still kneeling before him, wrapped his hand around the back of his neck, drew him closer, and kissed him softly. That appeared to be all the invitation the other man needed, as he pushed up into the kiss, sliding a palm across his cheek, cupping his face, desperate to taste him before claiming him. He groaned, nipping at his lip, tugging and yanking at his clothes already, kissing him hungrily.
"You smell so sweet," Young-il murmured, ducking his head, nuzzling against his neck, breathing him in. Then he pulled back, shaking his head, looking as if in a daze. "I have to take you from this place before I have you in that cheap chair."
Which did not sound all that unappealing to Gi-hun.
Time blurred. Minutes, maybe hours, maybe passed; Gi-hun did not know. He could only recall brief flashing images, sensations, the press of a car seat, hands scrambling beneath layers of clothing, mouths exchanging slow, heated kisses. Then the next thing he knew, he was in a bed, in a small apartment, with the faint scent of books and clean linen. A cool bottle was being pressed to his lips.
Gi-hun drank, blinking at the ceiling, registering distantly that fingers were raking through his damp hair. His gaze flickered to the cramped desk in the corner, stacks of books pressed against the walls.
"Young-il," Gi-hun panted, licking at his lips, staring up.
Young-il crouched over him, still fully clothed, empty water bottle in hand. His free hand stroked through his hair, slow, soothing. He set the bottle aside, shrugged off his jacket, and pulled his dark shirt over his head, mussing his styled hair in a way that made his stomach tighten.
"Shh. It’s okay." Young-il pressed a brief, firm kiss to his mouth. "I have you now." His voice was steady, grounding, something he could hold onto. "Tell me what you want. What you need. Tell me."
Gi-hun whined, fingers fumbling uselessly at his jacket zipper. "Clothes. Off." Then other hands were on him, tugging gently, stripping him bare.
Young-il moved carefully, reaching out to Gi-hun, gently unzipping his jacket, peeling it away in a smooth motion before pulling his shirt over his head. His fingers brushed over too-prominent bones, tracing the sharp angles of ribs and collarbones, the scars that marred his skin.
Young-il stilled. His expression softened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. His fingers ghosted over one of the deeper scars, tracing it lightly, almost reverently.
Gi-hun felt his breath hitch, discomfort curling in his gut. "Kiss me already," He muttered, crossing his arms over himself, over his ribcage, as if to shield the sight from him.
Young-il obeyed and kissed Gi-hun hard, deep, and desperate. Young-il took in a shuddering breath as he inhaled more of his heat-sweetened scent, as if he could not get enough, as if it was something intoxicating. He nuzzled briefly at his neck before taking his hand, guiding his long, thin fingers down, pressing it to his own bare torso against the numerous scars littered across.
"I have them too," Young-il murmured, dragging his fingers over the ridge of a long-healed scar at his lower side.
"Did it hurt?" Gi-hun asked, voice quieter now, almost cautious.
"Not as much as it could have," Young-il said, almost offhandedly, but his voice held something weighty beneath it. "The procedure was easy. The recovery… wasn’t."
Gi-hun frowned slightly. Procedure. This had not been an accident. His fingers trailed higher, grazing over another scar, smaller, on his shoulder but no less significant. "And this one?"
A breath passed between them before Young-il answered. "That one was given to me by someone I thought…" His hand twitched where it rested against his waist. "...I thought I could trust."
Young-il did not elaborate. Gi-hun did not press; his fingers hovered over the scar for a moment longer before retreating, curling against his own ribs, settling against a familiar raised line on his lower abdomen.
"Mine too," Gi-hun murmured, barely more than an exhale. He swallowed hard. A shiver ran through him, and when his head tipped back, his hips followed, arching up into the other man without thought, his body moving on instinct. The sharp, sudden jolt of pleasure that followed made him gasp, making his core clench in aching need.
“It’s alright,” Young-il said, voice low, firm, and gentle all at once. The lamplight behind him framed his silhouette in a soft, golden glow. It illuminated the tension in his body, the outline of his arousal straining against the fabric of his dark pants. “I’m here,” He said again, slower now. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Then Young-il was pressing Gi-hun back onto the soft sheets, lips trailing hungrily along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the column of his throat, over his collarbone. His fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head, gripping and tilting, before claiming his lips again. He gasped into the kiss, arching up, desperate, clawing at the solid warmth of the body above him. He lifted a leg to hook around his waist, grinding his slickened, still-clothed core against the hot, hard length pressing into him.
The need between them broke like a fever.
Hands tore at fabric, at barriers, at anything keeping them apart. Their pants and undergarments vanished in the space between shuddering breaths. Gi-hun braced himself, expecting Young-il to just get it over with—to press in, to take what his body was offering, and be done. Be done with him. Just another pitiful omega in heat, one he had shown a bit of kindness to. One he probably regretted allowing into his bed, into his home.
He thought he knew how this would go.
But instead, Young-il moved lower, settling between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. He settled between them, kissed the inside of one trembling thigh, and then lowered his mouth to his slick entrance, his lips soft, reverent.
“Y-Young-il,” Gi-hun gasped, the name breaking apart in his throat as that long, pointed tongue worked over him, licking, tasting, claiming. His hips jerked upward, helpless, but strong hands clamped down on his waist, holding him still.
The slick, obscene sounds filled the space between them, building the pressure inside him until it was unbearable.
“God, you—oh, fuck—”
Young-il only hummed, grip tightening, and swallowed when Gi-hun finally lost the battle with his own pleasure. Gi-hun made a hoarse noise as Young-il pulled away, wiping the back of his hand across his pink and gleaming parted lips, his eyes dark.
“Better?” Young-il asked, voice low, laced with something tender beneath the roughness.
Gi-hun blinked up at him, his body still trembling from the aftershocks. His pulse thundered in his ears, but the fog in his mind had begun to clear. “I… I think so,” He murmured, voice thin. “My head feels less… hazy. How did you know?”
Young-il gave a small nod, his eyes flicking away for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I’ve helped with difficult heats before,” He said after a pause, voice low, cautious. “Usually, stimulation helps. Eases the worst of it. At least at the beginning.”
Gi-hun looked at him, uncertain. “Helped who?”
Young-il hesitated—just long enough. “Someone important to me,” He said simply. “A long time ago.”
The silence between them pulsed, full of the things not said.
Gi-hun did not push. He just nodded, swallowing down the tangle of heat, guilt, and something dangerously close to tenderness rising in his chest. “It worked,” He murmured. “I feel… not good, exactly, but not like I’m dying. Still… hot… still…” He licked his lips.
A faint exhale of amusement slipped from Young-il. “That’s usually a step in the right direction.”
Then Young-il leaned over Gi-hun again and kissed him softly, gently with a measured hunger that made his breath catch. He could taste his own release on his tongue as a loving hand slid from his chest to his waist, then came to rest between his thighs. He felt the other man’s cock, thick and flushed, pressed against him, and the whiskey-sweet scent of his arousal filled the air, dizzying, almost drunken.
When Young-il finally looked down at Gi-hun, eyes dark, triumphant while he lay bare and open beneath him, something inside him tightened, burned, and gave way. The other man leaned in, lowering his head to the sensitive curve where his neck met his shoulder, burying his nose against the scent gland nestled there. He gasped, his head turning to the side, exposing his throat even more.
“You smell…” Young-il murmured, voice low and almost reverent. “You smell so good.” He paused, and there was a flicker in his voice. A breath caught in his throat. A word teetered on the edge of his tongue. And then, with a barely perceptible shift, he stopped himself. His lips quirked in a small, guarded smile as he licked them, as if trying to cover the slip. “It reminds me of something,” He said instead. “Something I can’t quite name.”
“Dalgona,” Gi-hun whispered, eyes half-lidded, the word slipping out like a memory.
Young-il stilled for a breath too long. Then he smiled wider now, something more real behind it, and his lips returned to his neck. “Dalgona,” He echoed, voice like silk soaked in smoke. “I suppose I’ll have to carve some shapes into you then…” He kissed the spot again.
Then Young-il braced on one arm, reached into the nightstand, and pulled out a square of crinkling foil, protection, Gi-hun realized. He tore it open with fumbling fingers and teeth, not as delicate as he might have intended, urgency bleeding into the moment. He rolled it on quickly before sinking into him, slow and deep, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his hair. They lay there for a while, still and breathing, pressed so closely together they felt like a single shape in the dark. Then, his movements began, soft at first, barely perceptible. But with the slow build of shared want, of heat and instinct and the need to be closer, their bodies found rhythm.
“Y-Young-il,” Gi-hun panted, the name half-swallowed in a moan. His arms wrapped around him instinctively, fingers drifting through the silk of his hair, tracing the strength in his shoulders, mapping the shape of his beautiful arms as he moved inside of him.
Young-il was solid above Gi-hun, all muscle and strength. Even in the low lamplight, Gi-hun could see the flex and stretch of his biceps flaring as he lifted his hips higher to meet each thrust. His chest and shoulders gleamed with sweat, radiant and powerful, moving with a control that stole the breath from his lungs. Soon they were flesh to flesh, lost in one another, the lovemaking gentle but fierce enough to satisfy the heat without breaking him. He moved faster and faster, stronger and stronger, thrusting deep inside of him. Shivers of pleasure permeated every fiber, pore, and crevice in his body, and he pushed up harder, desperate to feel more, to give more.
Young-il groaned, a raw, guttural sound, and thrust to meet Gi-hun, entering him so deep he felt pierced. A pang of intense delight curled and uncurled within him, bottomless and bright, and his nails bit into his back as they held tight to one another. He then began to kiss the other man on the neck; the taste of alpha pheromones bloomed on his tongue, whiskey-sweet and dizzying, like intoxication made flesh. But the ache inside him only deepened. The fever had not broken; it surged hotter. It made him bold. Hungry.
Gi-hun continued to kiss Young-il on the neck, then dragging his teeth over flesh, but then he bit harder than he meant to. It was Gi-hun who cried out aghast, though,”Oh Young-il, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to…” He pulled back, horrified, seeing the tiny bead of red rising to the surface. “I hurt you…”
Young-il brushed his thumb over the fresh bite, smearing the small bead of blood. His eyes followed the droplet with quiet focus. “It’s alright. We’re bound to hurt each other,” He said, voice low, rough around the edges. “It’s inevitable really.”
Then Young-il leaned in close to Gi-hun this time, bending his head and pressing a kiss to the neck. Once. Twice. Then his mouth turned urgent, teeth grazing skin, lips sucking until he arched underneath. And then, without warning, he sank his teeth hard into the scent gland. Sharp pain bloomed, and multiple droplets of blood welled.
Not a mating bite. Not that deep. Not that permanent.
Young-il lapped at it gently, mouth soft now, soothing. His lips lingered. “I believe I promised to carve into you,” He said quietly. “Shapes. Lines. Something that lingers.”
Gi-hun moaned, breath catching, pleasure sharp and unbidden. “Oh…”
Young-il thrust to meet Gi-hun, entering him so deep he felt pierced while a pang of intense delight curled and uncurled still deeper within him. They pushed toward one another, craving some sort of meeting in short, frantic motions, and their lips fastened hard together. As the knot caught, the walls of their skin and the blood in their veins seemed to melt into a single bright liquid flame as they came together. Their hearts pounded as one, lips finding each other again in the silence, slow now, reverent. Tongues licking, tasting, sharing breath.
Gi-hun shivered as the knot eased, flushed and breathless while Young-il continued to kiss him slowly at first, then with more purpose. Gi-hun whimpered, hips rocking instinctively, testing the lingering sensitivity. In response, Young-il rumbled low in his throat and snapped his hips forward, pressing into the motion with practiced control.
“I’m sorry, it’s… the heat, it’s…” Gi-hun whimpered softly as heat poured under his skin again like his blood cells had been replaced with the hot coals of a fire. Sweat dribbled down his temple. “I can go though I don’t want to impose, and you’ve already helped so much—" The rest was swallowed in another kiss, the mouth against his firm and unrelenting, silencing the apology before it could take shape.
“You’ll have to let me change this first,” Young-il panted against his lips. He reached into the nightstand again with steady hands, retrieving a fresh strip of protection. The used one was disposed of with a practiced flick into the bin beside the bed. A breath later, he was pressing into him once more, deep and sure, filling the space between them like he belonged there. He pressed his face against his arm, panting, and felt the movement throughout his entire body.
This heat was a relentless one, far too much so for an omega as old as Gi-hun was, but Young-il, steady, patient, and unshakably composed, took care of him. He gave him water when he was too dazed to ask. Fed him bites of food with quiet reverence. Helped him bathe, though they bathed each other, really, kissing under the hot spray of the tiny shower, mouths slick with steam, hands mapping familiar curves again and again. And when the heat reared its ugly, impatient head again, he put on fresh protection and mounted him from behind, focused and dutiful, giving him everything his body demanded.
This round, Gi-hun rode Young-il as the heat inside his gut grew and spread. His body wanted to move, needed to, but he felt the need to tease the other man a bit, so he shifted on his lap, feeling him grip his hips hard. His fingers tightened. He breathed out; the words sounded like a curse and rocked up into him as he rode him.
“You’re going to make me die of old age beneath you,” Young-il groaned as his breath caught. “I’ll be a shriveled husk. Spent.”
“A lovely image,” Gi-hun snorted, half-laughing. He raised a hand to push back his sweat-dampened hair, strands curling at the nape of his neck, and stared down at the other man with a half-smile before bracing one palm against his chest and finally—finally—began to move.
Gi-hun rode Young-il with growing urgency, rocking harder, faster, their pace colliding in a rhythm that bordered on frantic. Each motion pulled soft, guttural sounds from his throat, as though his lungs could not manage breath and this at the same time. Every sensation hovered on the edge of too much. His blood roared beneath his skin. Slick gathered and dripped from him. His cock stiffened again, aching, pinned between their bodies, twitching against his stomach. And still he rode. Still the other man moved upward with his hips beneath him, deep and sure, each thrust knocking the breath from his chest with bone-melting precision.
They moved like that until the last blaze of heat passed.
By the third day, the fire had burned low, finally exhausted. Gi-hun had planned to slip away quietly, crawl out of bed, gather scattered clothes, and disappear before Young-il had to do the awkward thing and ask him to leave. But instead, Gi-hun lay blinking slowly against the fading light, watching.
On the tiny hot plate beside the bed, Young-il stood bare-chested in the dim morning haze, stirring a small skillet of bubbling tteokbokki. The sauce was thick and red with spice. His movements were unhurried, almost meditative. He added two soft-boiled eggs, halved them carefully, then scattered chopped green onions across the top. He served it to him in a porcelain bowl with a pair of chopsticks, then settled beside him in bed with his own bowl in hand.
“Breakfast in bed,” Young-il quipped, tone light but eyes watching.
Young-il had done all of it while still naked, not bothering with modesty. Gi-hun, propped up on one elbow, had watched the entire process with a raised eyebrow and a barely concealed smirk, gaze tracking the line of his back, the flex of muscle with every movement.
Now, Gi-hun lifted a glistening rice cake between his chopsticks, blew gently on the steam, then took a bite. A soft gasp slipped from him. “I can’t tell if it’s just the heat cravings talking,” He said around the food, chewing slowly, “but this might be the best tteokbokki I’ve ever had.”
“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Young-il replied quietly, something wistful flickering behind his voice. He leaned in, reached out, and swiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth where a smear of sauce lingered then brought it to his lips and licked it off. “Mmm,” He murmured, teasing. “Tastes sweeter that way.”
Gi-hun laughed, warmth blooming in his chest, and lightly pinched his bicep with the tips of his chopsticks. It felt easy. Dangerous, maybe, but easy. He had always fallen in love too easily, even when he could not afford to. And there might never have been a worse time than now.
Gi-hun had meant to leave. Really. After breakfast—or maybe it was lunch. Or dinner. Whatever meal Young-il had just cooked them in that tiny skillet on the hot plate. Time had unraveled into something warm and shapeless, and Gi-hun had no idea what day it was anymore.
Now, however, Young-il was propped on one elbow beside Gi-hun, the other arm draped loosely over his waist, and he had arranged a book on the curve of his spine. Its pages splayed open like wings as Young-il flipped to the next one with a slow, practiced touch.
“Enjoying yourself, are you?” Gi-hun mumbled, turning his head slightly at the soft rustle of a page being turned.
In response, Young-il leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to his shoulder.
Gi-hun hummed, a quiet, contented sound, and tucked his chin into the crook of his folded arms. “Read to me,” He murmured, eyes still closed. “I probably won’t understand any of it—but hey, maybe it’ll knock me out faster.”
Young-il chuckled, the sound low and warm in his throat. “That’s one way to use Camus,” He said dryly, then obliged. His voice was deliberately unhurried, like the words were meant to be tasted as he read: “It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.”
Gi-hun exhaled slowly, turning his head further to look at him, his gaze half-lidded and distant. “I never understood the assigned readings in school,” He said, voice soft. “Metaphor. Philosophy. Stuff like that always went over my head. Or maybe I just didn’t care enough to try.” He paused. “I hate that I understand it now. I know it’s supposed to mean I’ve… grown. But it was easier before. Not knowing.”
“What made you understand?” Young-il asked cautiously as if testing the waters, reaching out to Gi-hun, brushing his thumb lazily along his hip bone.
Gi-hun was quiet for a long moment. Then, he whispered, “Losing nearly everything. Having to live with it.” He exhaled slowly. “I get it now. I just… don’t agree.”
Young-il tilted his head, intrigued. “No?”
Gi-hun shook his head against the pillow. “I still want to believe it matters. That something does. Maybe not to the universe, but to someone. Otherwise, what was the point of crawling back from everything I’ve done? Everything I’ve lost?”
There was silence. Not the strained kind, but charged thick with thought. Gi-hun finally glanced back up, expecting to see a smirk, some amused look of patronizing dismissal. Instead, Young-il was staring at Gi-hun intently, eyes dark and focused, lips slightly parted, his expression unreadable. Perhaps curious, much like a seasoned critic reading a new poet.
Gi-hun blinked, thrown off. “I know it sounds naive,” He said, quieter now. “But I have to believe it. I don’t think I’d survive otherwise. I know it’s not very…” He hesitated, heat rising to his cheeks. “Not very intellectual, I guess.”
Still, no reply. Just that gaze.
“Oh my God,” Gi-hun groaned, grabbing a pillow and smacking Young-il lightly with it. “Don’t look at me like that. Philosophy, literature—whatever this is—it’s still not my thing.”
The pillow landed with a soft thud, and Young-il finally let out a low chuckle.
Afterward, Young-il had walked Gi-hun downstairs. He did not have to, he had told him, as such, but he had. He had even washed and dried his clothes before allowing him to leave, returning them with a quiet sort of reverence. And he had packed the leftover tteokbokki in a small container, still warm, tucked carefully into a plain paper bag like it was something worth protecting. At the bottom of the stairs, neither of them spoke for a moment.
“I’m not expecting a call,” Young-il said finally, gently. “I can tell you’re not in a place to try anything.” He then slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand with a number written in a clean, practiced hand. “But maybe… when you’re ready. Or if you need anything. Or,” He added with a small smile, “if you just want another coffee. I’ll pay this time.”
Gi-hun stared at the number in his hand, then looked up, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” He said. “For everything. I mean it. I don’t know when—if—I’ll be able to see you again. But I want you to know… your help mattered. Youmattered.”
Gi-hun hesitated, then reached out and gently took Young-il by his hand. He had nothing to write on. So, with awkward care, he borrowed a pen from him and scrawled his number messily across the inside of his palm. It smudged a little with the lingering heat of their touch.
“If anything happens,” Gi-hun said softly, “if you need something—anything, even financially…” His voice faltered slightly at the word. It always did. “Just call me. Please. I’d be happy to help. Or to hear from you. To see you again.”
Young-il did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a quiet kiss to his cheek. No heat. No pretense. Just warmth. Just goodbye. They stood there a moment longer, then stepped back from each other, something heavy and unspoken lingering in the air between them.
And though Gi-hun smiled faintly as he walked away, container in hand, number folded tightly in his coat pocket, a part of him already knew: He would never see the alpha man again. Because missions like his did not end in reunions. He hoped—prayed—his ending might be different. That it might mean something. But he had already severed every other tie: friends, family, love. What was one more?
Still… he did not throw the number away.
Not yet.
Gi-hun reached into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against fabric where his crumpled pack of cigarettes should have been. Nothing. He patted down the other side. Still nothing. His frown deepened. “He confiscated my cigarettes,” He muttered, incredulous. “That sneaky bastard.”
He let out a breath through his nose, equal parts annoyed and begrudgingly amused. Well… maybe it was about time. He had made that promise to his daughter years ago. Quit smoking. Be better. Live longer. He had not kept many promises back then. Still was not.
Better late than never, He supposed.
Three Months Later
Gi-hun had his phone on speaker, propped precariously on the bathroom sink as steam clouded the mirror. He stuck his head out from behind the shower curtain, water cascading down his hair in thick, sudsy rivulets.
“How was the sweep at Oksu Station?” He shouted over the spray.
Mr. Kim answered, his voice crackling through the speaker. “Some of the men thought they saw a guy playing ddakji, but it turned out to be a grandfather showing it to his grandkids. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize that until after they tackled him. The police got involved…”
Gi-hun groaned and pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall, eyes closing, the water pounding against his back now forgotten.
“You need to be more selective with your men,” He muttered, voice low with exasperation. “Mistakes like that… they tip our hand. If word gets out we’re tackling elders in broad daylight for flipping paper squares, they’ll know we’re searching.” He did not wait for a response, just reached out, thumbed the red icon, and ended the call with a sharp beep.
Gi-hun stayed like that for a moment, forehead resting on the tile, breath fogging faint against the steam. Then, slowly, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, water still clinging to his skin, and steam curled in the air around him, warm and fleeting. He reached for a towel, draping it over his shoulders to dry his hair, and another wrapping loosely around his waist. His fingers, still damp, paused over his middle. Beneath the breadth of his own long, thin fingers, he noticed the faintest curve.
His breath hitched as he turned sideways, eyes flicking toward the mirror. He traced his hand over his stomach again, watching how it rounded ever so slightly, a subtle but undeniable shift in the shape of him. It could have been weight gain, a trick of posture, or a moment of overanalysis. But it was not; after all, he had been through this twice before.
He stood there, dripping water onto the floor, fingers still resting against the gentle swell of his abdomen, feeling something coil tight inside his chest. Then, exhaling slowly, he forced himself to move because he had somewhere to go: the drugstore. A simple test. Something to confirm what he already knew.
Later, the test lay before Gi-hun, its answer plain and undeniable. The proof was in his own body, though he had been slow to recognize the signs. It had been the same the first time with his son and later with his daughter as well. No sickness. No obvious changes. Just the quiet, creeping signs that he had been too distracted, too damn tired to notice. The dull ache beneath his ribs, the fullness low in his abdomen, and the shift in his scent were so subtle it had taken him weeks to realize it was different.
"Don’t brag about it too much," His wife had warned when he had started to show through his factory work coveralls, when he had marveled at how fortunate he was to escape morning sickness. "Some omegas will hate you or try to find reasons to. They’ll say you’re not glowing even though you are."
"Snobs," He had huffed, only for her to cradle his stomach, teasing about how adorable he looked round and glowing in his work clothes before reaching to pinch his cheek. He had groaned, playfully swatting her hand away, but he had been smiling, too. It had been easy to forget, in moments like that, how they used to be.
Before Gi-hun had proven his deficiency again. Losing the strike. And down the hall at the same hospital where he delivered his daughter, his friend had died, alone. Carrying a newborn on his hip with no one to hire him. He should have felt lucky, even after all that. He had an alpha, a baby, a home. But instead, he found himself chasing something easy, something instant.
Jung-bae had taken Gi-hun to the racetrack just to get him out of the house. Neither of them could predict how well Gi-hun would relate to the racehorses later on in life. "They never hear the starting gun, only the silence after," A mocking voice in his mind said. He shook the memory away. He could not spiral into the past, not now. Not when there was already far too much weighing down the present. He laid a hand on his stomach, closing his eyes.
Pregnant.
And at his age.
Now, the same quiet, creeping symptoms were making themselves known in Gi-hun. A subtle shift in his scent that would quickly become less subtle, alerting all other designations to his status. A dull pulling ache beneath his ribs, a tightness and fillingness in his abdomen so faint he had ignored it, dismissed it as exhaustion, sporadic eating habits, anything otherthan this. But the truth sat heavy inside him, undeniable.
Gi-hun had a mission. One he had already neglected the night of his heat several months ago now. Or had his long-neglected biology forced him to? Had it been some cruel twist of fate, something deeper than reason, something primal that had led him into the arms of a strange alpha, into a heat he had not expected, had not prepared for, had not wanted?
A heat that had come with hands tracing reverence into his skin, lips whispering something close to worship against his throat. A heat that had burned through every rational thought he possessed, that had left him helpless against the tide of instinct, surrendering to something he could not stop.
But that was months ago. Now, there was only this.
The weight of another life inside him, one life he had not planned for, could not afford. Financially perhaps he could for the first time in his life, but his full attention was required elsewhere. He was going to stop the games.
That was his purpose, his singular focus now. The mission had already stretched on for years, slipping through his fingers time and time again, always just out of reach. He had barely made progress. The games continued. People still suffered. He had failed. Again and again, he had failed. And now this.
A complication.
A burden.
A mistake.
But—
Gi-hun splayed his fingers over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the faint curvature he had so easily ignored before. His breath shuddered as memories surfaced of carrying his son and then later, his daughter, of the quiet, breathless moments where he had known there was life inside him, moving, growing, waiting. And after sleepless nights, tiny grasping fingers curled around his own, laughter high and bright, filling the small spaces of his home.
He had longed for another once. But the thought had always been interrupted by the weight of his deficiencies, by the crushing burden of poverty, and then by the all-consuming shadow of the games. But most of all by time. He had thought himself too old, that it was too late. And yet. His fingers curled slightly against his stomach, his other hand coming up to cover them, cradling the slight, almost imperceptible curve.
He was far along. Likely too far along to terminate legally. There were places, of course, whispers of doctors willing to ignore the rules for the right amount of money. The thought made his stomach churn, nausea clawing at his insides. He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. He could not actually be considering this, not with his mission, not with the danger.
He was selfish.
Stupid.
God.
Gi-hun foolishly imagined going to visit Ga-yeong in the United States after finally finishing the games with a new little brother or sister for her in his arms.
His chest hitched as he looked up at the ceiling, eyelashes fluttering as tears filled his vision, one slipping free, trailing hot down his cheek. He wanted this child. The realization was quiet but unshakable, settling into the spaces between his ribs, warm and solid and undeniable. After all, what was he doing all of this for if not to cling to hope, no matter how small it was after the games? His arms wrapped around his middle, fingers pressing firm as if to shield, to promise. His resolve filled him, steady and fierce.
Then, as if Gi-hun were not nervous enough about the prospect of what was likely six more months of carrying a child and, if all went well, having a child at the end, another thought occurred: Young-il.
The father.
Who had no idea.
Gi-hun stared blankly ahead for a moment, then muttered to himself, “Well… fuck.”
He took a breath. Then another. Neither helped. At least he had quit smoking. That counted for something, right? ...Although he had eaten duck recently. He looked down at his stomach and chuckled wetly, not realizing he had been crying until then.
“God, I hope you don’t come out with webbed feet.”
Chapter 4
Summary:
The Recruiter tilted his head, considering. “Truth or dare? What are we, teenagers?”
Gi-hun smiled thinly, unmoved. “I know, an upgrade from the usual children’s games. Might be too difficult for you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, with a shrug, the Recruiter laid the revolver on its side on the tabletop. With a flick of his wrist, he spun it across it.
“We’ll play your game,” He said, voice curling with intrigue. “We’ll spin for whoever goes first. Six rounds. Like six bullets in the chamber. Back and forth. No picking. No passing. No flinching. We’ll see if we both get what we want by the end.”
The revolver wobbled, slowed, and pointed toward Gi-hun.
“Looks like you’re up first,” The Recruiter murmured, eyes gleaming. “Truth… or dare?”
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect Omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, discussion of abortion, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. And also this chapter gave me some much-needed brainstorming. Please go and give them a follow too!
This chapter is a bit slower-paced as it sets the stage for the heart of the story: Gi-hun and "Young-il" both returning to the games. And yes—Jun-ho is entering the fray. Buckle up.
And yes, I’m ignoring canon because Seong Gi-hun is keeping his season one hair in this story and is absolutely getting the Will Graham treatment, styling and gelling those luscious curls into submission as a symbol of character development.
Please mind the tags. If you’re not into Omegaverse or mpreg, well… I don’t know how you ended up here, but you’ve been warned.
Hopefully, the next update won’t take as long. My college semester is finally winding down, and with summer break ahead, I’ll have more time to write. Thank you so much for reading—I hope you enjoy! Please leave kudos or comments if you feel inclined. They mean the world and help light a fire under me to keep going.
Chapter Text
It had never happened before. Not once. No player had ever participated in a bonus round and then gone on to win the games. And Gi-hun—he had not even won through bloodshed or betrayal. He had offered a hand to his opponent at the very end, muttering those same stupid, naive things about going home together. He had not won because he had been the strongest, or the smartest, or the most ruthless. He had won because his opponent had taken their own life—because someone else had believed he was more worthy.
Even then, even after all that, In-ho had expected Gi-hun to do what every winner did: take the money, disappear, and pretend it had all been a dream. And for him, it could have been. A sweet one, even. He had made it so. He had left him with a parting kiss, something soft to blur the edges, and a fortune. The gold card had been slipped into his mouth like a coin for the dead. More money had been waiting, gift-wrapped, in his too-small apartment that had reminded In-ho bitterly of his own.
In-ho had told Gi-hun, voice low, almost gentle, “It’ll all feel like a dream. For you, perhaps even a good one. A sweet one.” And he had meant it. He had hoped it would be true—more than he had cared to admit—that the other man would drift away with something warm in his chest, something soft to hold onto. When the gas had begun to seep in through the limousine vents, he had watched him soften, mouth going slack, and had kissed him slowly, deliberately, like sealing a memory—his lips salted with fresh tears, still sweet with the ghost of that dalgona scent he had come to crave. And then, without thinking, he had leaned forward and licked the tears from his cheeks.
But Gi-hun had not allowed it to be a dream. In-ho had watched, at first from a distance, through hacked surveillance, street cameras, and grainy footage of alleyways and overpasses. He had watched Gi-hun living homeless, sprawled across benches and beneath underpasses, a bottle in his hand, his winnings untouched. His hair had grown long and matted, his eyes dull and sunken. As if he had already died.
Then slowly, light had begun to return to him.
The red hair had come first—unexpected and garish. It had strangely suited Gi-hun, In-ho had thought, and had made the blush in his cheeks more vivid when he had smiled—when he had allowed himself to smile. He had closed a chapter. Tied off loose ends. Then, with nothing left to hold him back, he had nearly boarded that plane. He had been on his way to see his daughter.
And truly—in some buried, unguarded place—In-ho had been happy for him. After a year of resisting, of clawing against meaninglessness, Gi-hun had finally allowed himself to sleep, to stay asleep, to drift into the dream. His favorite retired racehorse was finally granted the stable and the silence. He had been going to leave it all behind. Allow the illusion to fold gently around him, like a blanket over tired eyes.
And then—he had seen one of the recruiters.
That had been when he woke up.
The illusion had shattered.
Gi-hun had not boarded the plane. In-ho had urged him to. Had tried, as best he could, to push him toward peace. Toward rest. His voice had been clipped, distorted by the mask, but still edged with something close to desperation. Because he had known what would happen if the other man turned back. It would have meant that everything—the games, the system, the rules, the roles—was under threat. But it would also be an ideological war. Quiet. Personal.
In-ho had believed in systems. In structure. In the brutal precision of rules enforced without sentiment. Gi-hun had believed in something else. That people were more than the choices they made when starving. That survival did not have to come at the cost of compassion. And maybe—just maybe—that had terrified In-ho more than he would ever admit.
He would crush that idea. He had to.
That had always been the battle between them. From the beginning of the games. From the bonus round. To the final ride in the limousine. A war not of force, but of belief. In-ho had wanted to destroy everything Gi-hun had stood for. To snuff out the fire within him. Every stubborn shred of hope he carried. Every flicker of faith in people. And yet, somewhere deep within—unspoken and unwelcome—a part of him had rooted for him. Had hoped. Had longed for him to be right.
But no.
That part had been buried in the ashes.
Because by the end of this, In-ho had promised, Gi-hun would be lost. He had whispered it to him long ago, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, voice rough, satisfied—“I’m going to make you lost…”
He would bring him to his knees. Submissive. Compliant. The fire gone. Nothing left but embers and dust. They would be all that remained. He would have nothing left but him.
And In-ho… would have him.
In-ho had watched across the years as Gi-hun got sharper. Harder. The red had bled back to black, his old shoulder-length waves returning like a quiet acceptance. He had learned how to disappear. How to duck beneath camera angles. Wear caps low. Step sideways through crowds. And yet, sometimes, he still slipped. Visiting an old woman selling dried fish at a corner market. A teenage boy with hollow eyes and quiet grief. The loved ones of those he had loved and lost in the games. Promises fulfilled, perhaps?
Three years had passed since In-ho had last stood face-to-face with him. And even then, there had been barriers: blindfolds. Screens. Masks. Glass. Scent repressors. Always something between them. Never unmasked. Never laid bare.
On a night when In-ho had business on the mainland, he had visited his old apartment—too small, too quiet. The goldfish had been gone. Likely rotted in their water, long dead. One had been named for his wife. The other was for the unborn child he had never met. His fingers had run along the edge of the empty glass bowl. Two more lives he had failed. They had probably been stinking up the place, the thought tugging something at the smoldering pile of ash in his chest more than it should have.
Still, his books had remained. His art. His memories, untouched. There had been a hotel waiting for him—silk sheets, luxury, room service—but instead, he had stayed. Cleaned. Swept dust from corners. Remade the bed.
Then the call had come.
“Sir, Player 456 popped up on some security cameras again,” A guard had said over the modulated line.
Unbothered, In-ho had replied smoothly, “Direct your attention elsewhere. He’s just a stray dog circling a closed gate—he’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Fate. Luck. Whatever it was, it had always taken a peculiar interest in Gi-hun. And lately, In-ho could not deny, it seemed to have taken an interest in him too. Still, he had pulled up the feed. A quiet indulgence. He had navigated to the timestamp, pinpointing the location by the weather-worn curve of the alley and the faded signage. He had known the area well. Not far.
In-ho had wanted this for some time. Ever since Gi-hun had turned away from the plane, from the dream, the illusion so many others had surrendered to without a fight. That refusal had marked him. Branded him. From that moment on, In-ho had wanted to watch him unfiltered. Unmasked. Unguarded. To strip away the screens, the glass, the distance. Just him. Laid bare.
He had found him crouched in an alley painted in bruised blue shadows and gray-green light. The whole world had looked waterlogged and worn at the seams. Rain had soaked through his clothes, plastering his hair to his forehead in uneven waves. And still—there he had been. Feeding a skeletal alley cat from a dented can of tuna, petting it with bare, gentle hands despite its filth, its sickness. Always doting on useless, broken things.
From the cover of a nearby building, In-ho had watched him in silence. Almost reverent. It had reminded him of La Vie, the way Picasso had once elongated his subjects into silhouettes of sorrow. Fragile. Luminous. Lost. Gi-hun had stood slowly as the cat drifted away, tail twitching, mouth slick with gratitude. And then—he had turned, brushing wet strands from his face. That was when In-ho had seen his eyes. Deep brown. Warm. Flickering like an eternal hearth fire. That unbearable, infuriating light was still there. The kind that refused to die, no matter how often the world tried to extinguish it.
In-ho had always prided himself on his sense of smell—sharper than most alphas, trained and honed over the years. He had scented that same maddening dalgona sweetness, faint and fading, on the pillow he had never changed. The one he pressed his face into at night like a starving man, as if scent alone could feed him. He had expected it to be dulled by the rain, washed away like everything else in the city. But instead, it had clung to the air like honey on skin.
In-ho had swallowed hard, his mouth gone thick. He had inhaled through parted lips, trying not to lunge. Gi-hun had a flush beneath his skin, a raw, pink glow crawling up his cheeks. A tremble in his fingers as he had reached into his coat, balancing a paper cup of cold coffee. He had pulled out a cigarette, fumbling with it, a false calm on his face—the calm of a man who thought he still knew his own body. He did not know. Not yet.
But In-ho had known.
Gi-hun had been going into heat.
That was when In-ho stepped forward, moved calmly, purposefully, and pulled the ornate lighter from his pocket. The rain slicked the world in gray. Steam curled from sewer grates. The only color was the sharp flame that danced as he flicked the lighter open.
The moment was delicate. Fragile, like blown sugar.
Gi-hun had reacted on instinct, throwing cold coffee at In-ho with a flick of his wrist like a wounded animal cornered in the rain. Then he had stared, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, dark, rain-soaked curls clinging to his forehead. He had looked at him with a kind of embarrassment and shame, as though he had expected violence and had been disoriented by its absence.
“Oh, god—I—You startled me, and—” Gi-hun had stammered, bending down to grab the crumpled, empty coffee cup before straightening with a hasty bow. The gesture had made something in In-ho tighten. “Forgive me, I—”
And yet, not long after, they had sat together at an unmanned, half-lit café, sipping from paper cups, steam rising from their drinks, slow and curling as rain tapped the windows. Conversation had slipped between them like thread through fabric. Smooth. Unforced. But each word had only sharpened the tension in the air, pulling the silence tighter until it could snap.
In-ho had feigned ignorance, allowing Gi-hun to fumble through the slow realization of what had been happening to his body. Of why he had trembled. Why his voice had kept catching. Why his scent had not let either of them breathe. And when he had finally offered help, softly, plainly, the other man had accepted not out of fear, but with a slow-burning need that had undone them both. He had kissed him, tentatively at first, then like he had been starving.
In the car, later, Gi-hun had kept kissing In-ho as he had driven, lips soft and insistent, each press making it harder to focus on the road. He had kissed his mouth, his jaw, his neck, his breath warm and ragged against his ear, his saliva-damp lips brushing the shell of it as he had whispered, voice cracked and yearning, “Your scent… it’s like whiskey. I feel drunk on it. With you on my tongue. It feels so good. I’ve needed it—needed it to stop feeling…”
He had never finished the sentence.
Each kiss, each trembling stroke, each gasp in the dim light of that room had been a revelation. In-ho had drowned in it, body lit with sensation as Gi-hun had clung to him, wrapped around him like a silken ribbon. The bed had been too small and the sheets too thin, but it had not mattered; the other man had given himself freely, arms wrapped tight, legs open and trembling, the press of their bodies melting into one.
When the world had gone quiet in the aftermath, Gi-hun had lain beneath In-ho on his stomach, slick with sweat, still quaking with the aftershocks, their bodies still joined. In-ho had had his fingers fisted in the sheets, his breath hitching in his throat, when the other man had reached back and laid his hand atop his, their fingers sliding together, intertwining. That simple, intimate, unguarded touch had made something inside him stutter. His hands had never shaken like that. Not even when he had killed a man. But this—this—had made his lungs feel too small.
“Shh,” Gi-hun had hushed, fingers rubbing atop his. “It’s okay. Let me know if it’s too much.”
It had been supposed to be biological. Another transaction. Yet another way to take from this man. But the moment he had pulled the other man against him, met his lips, and pushed into that fluttering, slick heat, the world had fallen away. No mask. No city. No time. Just scent. And breathe.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun had panted, again and again, though it had not been his name. He had said it like a prayer, like a comfort he could cling to in the dark.
For hours. For days.
Once, while Gi-hun had lain asleep beside him, In-ho had felt the other man begin to shudder—tiny, involuntary tremors that had passed through him like wind over tall grass. His breath had hitched, and then the tears had come, silent, searing, tracking hot down his cheeks. In-ho had reached for one, caught it with his thumb, brought it to his mouth, and tasted salt and something unspoken. He had leaned down and nudged him awake, whispering softly, “You were crying out in your sleep.”
Gi-hun had blinked up at him, dazed, lashes damp and dark against flushed skin, and murmured, soft, slurred, as if from underwater,“You do too.”
Later, when the heat had drained from the room and logic had returned like a tide pulling back, In-ho had read to Gi-hun. He told him to stay longer, said the weather was still cruel, that his clothes had not finished drying, and that the streets were likely flooded. Any excuse. Few honest. It reminded him of the things he used to do for his wife. The small gestures. The acts of care. They had done them for each other. Until suddenly, there was no one left to do anything for. No one to do anything for him.
Because he had pushed them away. Because they would not have understood. Because it had been easier that way.
In-ho should not have let Gi-hun speak again. Should not have listened. He should have shut out the hopeful things he said, things he should have long since outgrown. Things that sounded too much like hope. And yet—
“I still want to believe it matters,” Gi-hun had said softly, blinking up at him with lashes too long, too delicate for a man pushing fifty. “That something does. Maybe not to the universe. But to someone. Otherwise, what was the point of crawling back from everything I’ve done? Everything I’ve lost?”
In-ho had stared at him, quiet, struck speechless, not by the words, but by the fact that he meant them. That he believed them.
It enraptured and confounded him in equal measure. How this omega, this foolish, infuriating man, had walked through the same fire, survived the same horrors, loved and lost in the same way... and yet still carried a light inside him. Dim, yes. But never extinguished.
He had not become like him.
In-ho had wanted to crush it. To smother that flickering, naive flame. But another part of him, quieter, buried, aching, wanted to feed it. To see how far it might grow. To warm his own frozen bones by its glow.
Fate. Or something like it.
In-ho had not known. Could not have. That Gi-hun had left not only with his scent on his skin and clothes. More than bruises and bone-deep satisfaction. He had carried something that had been embedded deep, quiet, and undetected. A flicker. A pulse. A beginning. His protection had faltered—barely, but just enough.
Something small. Hidden. Growing.
And somewhere in the space between coincidence and design, In-ho had known, perhaps not consciously, not yet, but had known all the same: their not-so-chance encounter had set something in motion.
Something neither of them would walk away from.
Something that would change everything.
Kim Jeong-rae, though Gi-hun still audibly referred to him as Mr. Kim (not quite ready to be on a first-name basis with a man who had once threatened to harvest his organs), had reassured him that the search for the day was under control. Practically insisted, in fact, that he take a break and go see a doctor. Of course, he had not told him the truth about his pregnancy. But the other man, ever the semi-observant brute, had long since chalked up his haggard appearance to some undiagnosed illness rather than the exhaustion of being a man always teetering between predator and prey and never quite sure which one he was anymore.
Gi-hun was not the brightest man by his own admission, but he had enough sense to know to cover his tracks if he was planning on going through with this. The first thing he did was start wearing scent suppressors, layering them on his scent glands, on his neck, and on his wrists. The smell, made to be strong enough to cover his true scent, nearly made him gag, sharp and chemical, like hospitals and latex and memories he had tried to scrub away. The smell reminded him of another, of the masked man he had been trying, failing, to forget. Or maybe just unwilling to. For reasons he could not name.
Along with that, he purchased looser, baggier clothing, layering up to conceal the inevitable. If the pregnancy progressed well and it still felt dangerous to hope that it would, it would not be long before he started to really show. He ran his fingers over the faint swell of his stomach, barely visible through his shirt, before pulling on a soft zip-up jacket over it, satisfied that it concealed it well enough.
The supposed doctor had been sent to the Pink Motel to meet him, a portable ultrasound machine tucked under one arm—the kind the military used in field tents, quick and clean and impersonal. Gi-hun had been assured, through a cautious and expensive chain of contacts, that this man kept no files, asked no questions, and wouldn’t be tempted to slice him open for spare parts. The supposed doctor was a weathered beta man with half-moon glasses, and along with the portable machine came chewing on a smelly garlic and cream cheese bun. He did not stop eating as he prepped the machine and directed him to lie down on the cheap hotel bed. One hand smeared cool, clear gel over the barely-there swell of his stomach; the other held the half-eaten bun. Cream cheese was smeared onto the edge of the monitor.
“Alright,” The doctor mumbled around a mouthful, voice muffled as he maneuvered the wand over his abdomen. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” The screen flickered, and he pointed with a greasy, glistening finger. “Two of ’em. I’d say twelve, maybe thirteen weeks along.”
Gi-hun rolled his head back against the stiff pillow with a dull thunk on the verge of passing out as he processed the words. He stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, mouth slightly agape, and then slowly he looked back at the doctor. “I’m sorry,” He croaked. “Did you say two?”
The doctor glanced at him, unfazed. “Yep. Twins.”
Gi-hun stared at him, unblinking. “Are you…absolutely sure you didn’t mistake some of the cream cheese for one?”
The doctor licked his finger and smacked his lips. “Wouldn’t be the first time cream cheese complicated my morning. But nope. Two heartbeats. Two fetuses. Congratulations.”
Twins. As if carrying one child at his age, under these circumstances, was not already laughable enough.
Later, Gi-hun sat upright on the same cheap hotel bed, alone, the supposed doctor long since departed after setting a date for their next checkup, if they could even be called that, body sagging under the weight of the day. His cell phone glowed in his hand as he typed, deleted, and retyped: It’s Gi-hun. We need to talk. We could meet for coffee again (decaf for me this time).
He stared at the message. His thumb hovered. Then he snorted, soft and joyless, and deleted it. Subtle. Real subtle. Then he turned the phone off completely and let it fall to the bed. He lay down, dropped his head against his pillow, and closed his eyes, breathing slowly. And still, beneath all of it, beneath the scent suppressors, beneath the fear, and beneath the ache in his back, something warm and quiet pulsed inside him.
“Two,” Gi-hun whispered, his gaze tracing the cracks in the ceiling. “So now I have to worry about giving birth to two babies with webbed feet.” His voice softened into a half-laugh. “Ducklings,” He murmured. “My little ducklings.”
Gi-hun eventually fell asleep, but his dreams were not sweet (as another had once promised they would be). He dreamed of a little girl with black hair tied into low, stubby pigtails, faded purple beads clicking softly at the ends. A barrette shimmered dully in the light. She wore a yellow collared shirt, an orange pinafore, knee-high white socks, and black patent shoes. Beside her ran a little boy in a striped long-sleeved shirt, bowl-cut black hair peeking beneath a navy cap. His grin matched hers, wide and toothy. They held hands as they ran toward him, giggling.
Gi-hun dropped to his knees without thinking, arms open, chest aching. The children collided with him, wrapping small arms around his neck. And then, together, they tilted their heads, and in a high, bright sing-song, they chirped: “The hibiscus flower…”
It was the same line that was sung in Red Light, Green Light. Gi-hun froze. He looked up. They stood watching from across the field, silent and expressionless.
Sang-woo.
Sae-byeok.
Ali.
Not running. Why were they not running?
The children in his arms stiffened. Their hands felt wrong now, too hard, too smooth. The softness of flesh was replaced by molded plastic. Their heads began to turn with a mechanical grind, slow and jerky. Their eyes widened, still and glassy. He recoiled and let them go, stumbling backward through the grass.
“Has bloomed,” They said this time, in perfect unison, voices warping.
There were three gunshots, and Sang-woo, Sae-byeok, and Ali fell to the ground. Gi-hun screamed, or tried to. The sound caught in his throat. He scrambled back in the dirt as the dolls remained unmoved.
And then a fourth figure emerged, tall, shrouded in black. The mask unmistakable. The Front Man approached, his every step deliberate, unfazed. He reached the children and placed a black-gloved hand gently on each of their shoulders. The dolls turned their faces to him, and their rigid limbs softened. Their heads bowed slightly under his touch, like obedient children being gathered home.
Then the Front Man turned to Gi-hun, still sprawled on the ground, shaking. He extended a gloved hand. “Let’s go home,” He said.
Gi-hun sat bolt upright, gasping, drenched in sweat, both arms instinctively clutching his stomach. His eyes darted around the dark room, wild and unfocused, until the edges of the present bled back into view. The familiar mildew-stained wallpaper. The sound of pipes groaning.
He was safe. For now.
Shuddering, he let out a shaky breath and curled forward, rubbing the heel of his hand in slow circles over the swell beneath his shirt.
“Just a dream,” He whispered. “Just a dream.”
But the echo of childish laughter still rang in his ears.
It was the fall months, the air thinning and sharp, too cold even with the heater running. Gi-hun sat curled in the seat of his car, coordinating the search. He wore a bulky black puffer jacket stretched over a gray sweater, unzipped since he was alone in the vehicle. The seat was pushed back as far as it would go. One hand rested on the heavy curve of his stomach, rounded now, tight and distended beneath his layers. He was tired. Hurting. The children, ducklings, as he had come to call them with a fondness, moved nearly constantly inside him, their tiny bodies shifting and stretching his skin out. His back ached, his hips throbbed, and even his legs cramped if he stayed still too long.
But people were still dying—dying because Gi-hun had not ended the games yet—so no, he supposed he did not have the right to complain.
Nearly a dozen phones were arranged around Gi-hun on stands, each buzzing with updates. A larger tablet rested in the center console, its screen displaying a color-coded map of the search grid. Each dot marked a station, a patrol zone, or a rumor. The phones lit up in waves with grainy images, location pings, and terse texts from the men Mr. Kim had deployed: thugs paid handsomely to search for the Recruiter. The man with the sharp suit and the perfunctory smile. The one who had cornered him at the subway three years ago and offered him a slap across the face or a pocketful of money in exchange for nothing but a game of ddakji. And then he had run into him again at the airport.
The Recruiter had not even looked at Gi-hun at first. He had just paused mid-step, nostrils flaring slightly as he lifted his chin and breathed in deeply, and had sighed. He had turned with that same gleam in his eyes, the kind that never quite reached his smile.
“Love the hair,” He had said, grinning, his gaze settling on his bright red hair.
Gi-hun looked away from the chaos of buzzing phones and the glowing tablet map, his eyes heavy with strain. He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing past crumpled receipts and a half-open pack of scent suppressors, until they closed around the cool, familiar weight of his personal phone. He pulled it free and scrolled slowly, thumb grazing over names and numbers that barely mattered anymore. Until he reached the one that did.
No name saved. Just a string of digits. He had not added a contact label. Out of paranoia, maybe. Or something more foolish, like the belief that if he did not give it a name, it could not become real. He could not grow attached.
Young-il.
It had become a ritual. Sometimes during the day, but more often at night, when the world was quieter and the ducklings would not stop moving. He would type everything he wanted to say—fleeting thoughts, tense questions, bitter humor, whole paragraphs aching with meaning—and then delete them before ever pressing send.
He had not told him.
Not about the pregnancy.
And he had not told anyone else either.
Because if Gi-hun told one person, it would become real. And if it became real, it could be taken from him by the ones who wanted the games to continue, who needed people like him to stay poor, trampled underfoot, or dead. That was the thought that clung to him late at night, heavier than the growing weight in his womb or the pain in his hips. He was not protecting a secret. He was protecting them. He did not know if he could survive the grief of naming them too soon, of inviting the world in only to watch it rip them away.
And besides, what could Gi-hun even say to Young-il, a stranger? That their one night together had resulted in something he thought impossible? That he was carrying twins he had not planned for, that he was foolish and selfish for keeping them, and yet somehow he already could not imagine living without them?
When Gi-hun had still been with Sang-woo, someone he had known nearly his entire life, he had not even been able to tell him about the child they were meant to have. Gi-hun had only discovered the pregnancy because Sang-woo, ever cruel when the mood struck him, had made a comment about his weight after sex, sex that had already been cold, painful, and rushed—him bent over the bathroom sink, fingers gripping porcelain. He had laughed it off in the moment. Pretended it did not cut.
But it had.
And afterward, when the fatigue did not pass and the weight gain could not be explained, Gi-hun had realized and gone to the doctor alone. Sang-woo had been waiting for him on the couch when he came home, hands folded, posture too calm, and did not ask where he had been. Had simply patted the cushion beside him, said they needed to talk, and informed him that it would be best if they separated. Said they should stay friends. And after that... well.
Gi-hun had not felt particularly inclined to share.
So just like that—Sang-woo was gone. Gi-hun had not fought it. Had not begged him to stay. He should have. Maybe. Maybe if he had told him about the pregnancy, it could have been different. Maybe the child would have brought them back to each other.
But no.
More likely, they would have only grown to resent one another further. More alternating silence and screaming at one another, more wounds. And that child... that child would have been caught in the middle, watching the cracks deepen. No, Gi-hun had convinced himself—it was better that they had gone. That the baby had been adopted and was far away from him and his deficiencies as an omega, as a husband, and as a father.
Now, Gi-hun did not even know who Young-il really was. Not his last name. Not where he came from. Not even if he could be trusted. But still, he found himself thinking of him when the kicks grew stronger.
No.
It was better this way.
For now.
Gi-hun began typing on his phone, engaging in the ritual:
I thought my first two pregnancies were bad, but they have nothing on this one. I’m too damn old and too damn tired for this—especially for twins. Twins who must be springing out fully grown with how big they’re making me. I’m not exactly a figure of staggering height, and neither were you, so I don’t know where they get it from.
I’m only six months along. I can’t believe I have to do three more months of this... but at the same time, I’m happy to. I’ve got a mission. One I’m hoping—after years of failing—I’ll have accomplished by then. And they’ll be what I was doing it for.
I’ll finally get to see my daughter again. I’ll be able to introduce her to her new siblings.
But then I think of my son. He’d be in his late twenties by now. I think of his father, who never even knew about him. I wonder if my son is happy, wherever he is—know that he must be better off, at least, far away from me and all my deficiencies. But still I think of him. Wonder what he looks like. Wonder what he’d think of having siblings. Maybe after… after all of this—the mission, the games—I’ll try to find him too.
Maybe by then, when I finally tell you—and when you won’t be in danger from the men who want these games to keep going, want all of us to stay racehorses to bet on and shoot down when we can’t run anymore—maybe you’ll be happy to see me again.
You’ll be angry. Rightfully. I didn’t tell you sooner. But happy, maybe, to know we have children. Even this late in life. Maybe you’ll want to stay. And for once, I’ll have enough money for all of us. You can read to us, ramble about art or philosophy, even if I don’t understand a damn word of it—
A tear slipped down his cheek, warm against skin gone cold from holding in too much. He stared at the message, thumb hovering above the screen. And as always, he never pressed send. He set the phone aside and reached for a bottle of water, twisting off the cap and nearly draining it in one go. Immediately, he regretted it, somewhere in the foggy, exhausted back of his mind, knowing it would only mean more trips back and forth to the restroom from the car.
Then one of the phones in the center console began to buzz, sharp and insistent. Gi-hun wiped his cheek roughly with the back of his hand and picked it up. He cleared his throat before answering, his voice low and cautious,“Hello?”
“We’ve found the guy. It’s him,” Mr. Kim said on the other end, sounding stunned, like he could not quite believe the words he was saying.
Gi-hun froze, fingers tightening around the phone. His eyes widened, lips parted slightly, and his tongue darted out to wet them. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight. “Are you sure?”
“The ddakji. The slapping. The money. It’s just like you said. He’s handing over the card now.”
Gi-hun reached across with his free hand, still holding the phone to his ear, popped open the glove compartment, and pulled out his firearm. He shoved it into the inner pocket of his puffer jacket, then with fumbling hands zipped it all the way up to conceal the distended swell of his stomach.
“Where are you?”
“Jonggak Station—but he’s leaving.”
“I’m on my way. Follow him. Carefully. Keep me updated on his location—don’t lose him! Stay on him until I get there!”
He did not wait for a reply. The phone hit the passenger seat as he floored the gas, weaving through traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other bracing against the firm curve of his stomach. He was not surprised when, some time later, flashing red-and-blue lights lit up in his rearview mirror and a police cruiser pulled in behind him. He groaned aloud, but luckily he had a classic maneuver for this. One he had perfected during his pregnancies with both his daughter and son. One of the few reliable perks of being visibly, heavily pregnant.
As the younger of the two officers approached the window, while the superior lingered warily by their cruiser, Gi-hun unzipped his puffer jacket in one smooth, practiced motion. His gray sweater was stretched tight across the rounded swell of his stomach. He jutted it forward, exaggerated his posture into a desperate slouch, and began to puff out great, theatrical breaths, cheeks inflating and deflating with every heave.
The window came down just as the younger officer stepped forward. “Sir, you were going well over the speed limit. Can I see your—oh my God, sir, are you in labor? Should I call an ambulance?!”
Gi-hun shook his head frantically, still panting. “No! No ambulance! I’m almost to the hospital anyway—they haven’t even started crowning yet! I’m only a few centimeters along, but—ah!” He waved his license at the officer briefly, hand trembling for effect, but the young man barely glanced at it. His eyes were wide, visibly panicking. “Sorry, big one—maybe another—oh God. Can you hurry with that ticket, please?”
“No ticket! No ticket, sir! Please—just go! Get to the hospital!” The young officer sputtered, already backing away from the car, waving frantically at his superior to let him through.
Gi-hun gave one more dramatic wince for effect, then hit the gas and sped off the moment the cruiser peeled away. He could not quite stop the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. For the first time in a long while, he felt just a little like his old self.
Gi-hun could practically hear Jung-bae then, voice clear as a bell from years ago, back when they were younger, stupider, and pretending to be husbands during a fake labor to get out of a speeding ticket. Jung-bae had been driving like a maniac to make it to a baseball game on time, and Gi-hun, eight months pregnant at the time with his daughter, had leaned into the bit a little too hard. He had even spilled a soda on his pants to simulate his water breaking and wailed like a banshee, scaring the poor officers half to death.
“Seong Gi-hun, Cheapskate of Ssangmun-dong, willing to fake labor just to dodge a speeding ticket!” Jung-bae had howled, nearly swerving off the road from laughing. “That poor officer probably thought you were having a chestburster, not a baby, the way you were screaming!”
Gi-hun had laughed so hard he had cried. Not from pain. Just from joy.
It had been a different life.
Meanwhile, back on the roadside, Jun-ho approached his visibly shaken trainee, who was now standing beside their cruiser looking pale and a little dazed.
“That was quick,” Jun-ho said, eyebrow arched. “Did you do everything right?”
“He was in labor, sir!” The younger officer blurted. “I couldn’t give him a ticket! He was about to give birth on the seat—”
Jun-ho barely restrained a groan. Of course. Still, he had had the forethought to snap a photo of the license plate. He had already run it, but nothing had come up in the system. Clean—or fake.
“Did you at least get a name?” Jun-ho asked, exasperated.
“Yes, sir. Seong Gi-hun. Why?”
Jun-ho went still. Just for a second. Then, quietly, calmly, as if nothing had changed, he said, “No reason.”
But his mind was already racing.
Gi-hun did not know if Mr. Kim or his associate was dead. But the silence surrounding their last known location said enough. The neon sign above the Pink Motel blinked erratically, casting garish flickers down onto the pavement like the harsh yellow glare of the oversized acrylic piggy bank that had once loomed above his bunk in the dormitory. The Recruiter was here. And he had likely already disposed of whoever had been foolish enough to get in his way. He could feel it, a hum beneath his skin.
Gi-hun entered the building slowly, carefully, his boots barely making a sound on the cheap tile floor. He found the door to one of the many rooms already cracked open, the one that served as his room. The zipper of his jacket was pulled up tight, snug against the heavy swell of his stomach. Instinctively, his hand drifted toward it, seeking the gentle curve that had become second nature to protect. The children stirred inside him, uneasy, alert to his tension.
He caught himself.
Dropped the hand.
And forced stillness back into his bones.
The Recruiter was already inside as Gi-hun stepped in, standing with casual arrogance in front of the wall-mounted calendar and map, both cluttered with pins, ink, and quiet obsession. He was sipping something from a familiar green carton. He felt his eye twitch. That was his last melon milk. It was his latest craving, the one small luxury he allowed himself. And now the smug bastard was drinking it like it was some casual indulgence.
Gi-hun said nothing. Just walked past the Recruiter, pointedly, toward the mini-fridge, pulled the door open, and dug out another carton. Strawberry. Not what he wanted, but it would have to do. He punctured the foil with the little straw and took a slow sip, not bothering to look at the man behind him.
The Recruiter finally turned, that infuriatingly handsome smile curling around the bend of his straw. Like he had dreamed of this moment and was savoring every second. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Seong Gi-hun,” He said smoothly, then slid the straw from his mouth with an exaggerated slowness. He pouted, theatrical and mocking. “But what happened to your hair? I liked the red. It made you look... dangerous. Vibrant. Like something poisonous you’d find in the wild.”
His gaze dropped, tracing the lines of his form, just for a second, and then returned, slower, sharper. “Now you look soft again. You usually smell soft, too. But now...” He inhaled faintly. “It’s different. Scent suppressors, right? A shame.”
Then, after a heartbeat too long: “You should’ve gotten on that plane that day.”
Gi-hun sipped, letting the strawberry sweetness fill his mouth before replying, flatly, "I changed my mind when I saw you.”
That seemed to delight the Recruiter. His eyes sparked, the corners of his mouth twitching in a barely restrained grin.
“But you didn’t smell me first,” The Recruiter said, leaning in, just slightly, but enough. Enough to steal some of the air between them. “Not like I did you.”
He took a slow, exaggerated sip from the carton, lips curling faintly around the straw, before continuing, his voice dropping half a register, suddenly silk-wrapped and dangerous. “I wear them too, of course. Company policy. Keeps us anonymous. Keeps us safe. Makes it harder to be tracked down.” He smiled, teeth just slightly bared. “But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception.”
Then the Recruiter stepped close to Gi-hun, close enough that the air seemed to constrict. His revolver dangled loosely from his fingers at his side, the movement lazy and unthreatening. He angled his head deliberately, baring the bloodied white collar of his shirt. And beneath it, stretched along his pale neck and just above the sharp line of his scent gland, was the distinct, clinical patch of a scent repressor, smudged slightly at the edges.
“Would you like a sniff?” He murmured, dragging two fingers slowly beneath the edge of the patch, teasing it upward like a strip of lace. “Just a little. Just for you. After all…” He took a step closer, so close their bodies nearly brushed. One of his hands trailed along his jacket sleeve, the pads of his fingers light, grazing. The other hand, almost casually, lifted the revolver and pressed the muzzle against the side of his throat, directly over the layers of scent suppressors he wore. “You’ve been working so hard to find me,” He whispered, his breath warm against his cheek, close enough to feel the shape of his mouth as he spoke. “Seems only fair you get your reward.”
Gi-hun didn’t flinch. He scoffed, the sound dry and sharp. His silence answered for him. He sidestepped the man with a slow, deliberate grace that belied the heaviness he carried, the swell beneath his jacket a visible burden. Crossing the room, he walked to the table and eased into a chair like a man settling into the eye of a storm.
“I expect you smell much the same without them,” Gi-hun said, raising the melon milk to his lips with an air of practiced indifference. “Like a hospice ward. Like death.”
He took a sip, savoring the cool sweetness against the heat rising in his throat. “As for your designation,” He added, eyes narrowing slightly, “I couldn’t care less.”
The Recruiter tilted his head, a slow, twitching smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, more animal than man, more entertained than offended.
Gi-hun glanced up through the veil of his lashes, his voice soft but carved from steel. “And besides,” He murmured, “it’s you who should be rewarded. Not me.”
The Recruiter blinked once, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. “Oh?”
“That’s why I did all this,” Gi-hun said, tone turning almost light, almost convincing. He lifted the milk carton in a mock toast. “To thank you. You invited me to the game. I made it out alive. Made a fortune. The decent thing to do would be to say thank you.”
A pause stretched.
“I’m just a messenger,” The Recruiter said with a shrug, easing into the pink armchair across from him. “I deliver invitations. That’s all.”
“Then tell me who sends them,” Gi-hun said, leaning forward slightly. “Let me meet him. I’ve got something to say.”
“Give me the message,” The Recruiter replied smoothly, “and I’ll pass it along.” Then, softer, almost conspiratorial: “But you’d be eager to see him again, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes gleamed with something private, something indulgent. “I’ve seen your file, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. We keep them updated. Very meticulous, our paperwork. You’re the only winner to ever participate in a bonus round. Did you know that?” He took another sip from his milk carton, casual now, almost lazy, as if the taste soothed something in him. “Four hours and fifty-six minutes. A record. All that money… for your poor, sick mother. Touching.”
Then his tone shifted, still smooth, but darker now, as if dredged from some deeper place inside him. “What I never understood,” He continued, voice barely above a murmur, “is why the Captain offered you a bonus round in the first place. He never does that. I remember reading it and thinking it must’ve been a clerical error. But then…” He laughed, low and humorless, “when you’ve spent enough time crawling through landfills, all the trash starts to look the same. Hard to spot the shine through the stink.”
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving his. “But do you think you shine now, Mr. Seong? Because you survived? Do you think the games made you precious?”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “I worked the games before I got this promotion. Had to rise through the ranks. I started in sanitation. Dragged your kind into those black coffins with pink bows. Hauled your bodies and burnt them like waste. And after that, they gave me a gun. Let me watch what was left of you die through the scope.”
He chuckled, almost fondly. “Alpha, beta, omega—it didn’t matter. You all reeked the same. You all looked the same. Panicked. Filthy. Weak. I didn’t even see the shine in my own father when they threw him into the games. Just more rot in the pile. So I took him out myself.”
Gi-hun had once read that serial killers, when finally caught, often could not help themselves—they spilled everything. Not out of guilt, but relief. After so long bottled up, they became desperate to talk. To confess. To brag. It was not remorse. It was pride, unspooling like a rotten thread. He wondered if this was something like that.
Then, abruptly, the Recruiter lifted the revolver, just enough to make Gi-hun stiffen and startle, and gestured broadly toward him with it. “But he…” He said, his voice curling around the word like smoke, “he seems to think you shine. The Captain. The Front Man, whatever you call him in your head—alpha, perhaps. He watches you like you’re his prize. His favorite racehorse.”
Then the revolver lifted again, not aiming, not threatening, but reaching. With the gentlest touch, the barrel nudged a curl of dark hair from his forehead, pushing it back with mock tenderness. “But maybe…” His voice dipped into something velvety, perverse, “Maybe he saw something in you I didn’t. Not then.”
The Recruiter toyed with the revolver between his fingers, the muzzle glinting as he spun the chamber with a flick of his thumb. It made a dry, metallic click. “Let’s play a game,” He said, smiling. “You like games, don’t you, Mr. Seong Gi-hun?”
Gi-hun did not answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, his body heavy with fatigue and burden, but his gaze sharp. The strawberry milk was still in his hand, half-finished, the straw bent between his teeth as he chewed it absently. His hand twitched, tempted to press gently over his stomach in instinctive comfort. But he stopped himself again. Not now. Not in front of him.
Instead, Gi-hun focused on the straw, gnawing it absently while he sifted through possibilities. Every breath, every heartbeat, was calibrated. He couldn’t afford to move too fast or say too much. He had to play this right. Get what he needed. Stay alive. Keep them safe.
“Russian Roulette,” The Recruiter said, his voice light, almost amused, as he slid the revolver across the table with a casual flick of his wrist. The metal spun once before coming to a rattling stop, muzzle pointing toward Gi-hun. “One bullet. No spinning the cylinder. Just pull the trigger. One after the other. Until…” He trailed off with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Gi-hun stared at the gun. Then, without a word, he raised his half-finished strawberry milk and drained it with an obnoxiously loud slurp, the kind that seemed to stretch into the silence between them. When the carton was empty, he set it down gently, precisely, then exhaled slowly through his nose and tilted his head.
“Mm,” Gi-hun said at last with a calm he absolutely did not feel. “No.”
The Recruiter blinked, his smirk faltering just slightly. “No?”
“I don’t play games where the outcome depends on dumb luck,” Gi-hun pushed the revolver back across the table with one finger. “Not anymore. Let’s play my game instead. You like games, don’t you? You’re good at them. You beat me over and over at ddakji.” His gaze was steady, unblinking. “My game is simple. We trade truths. Or challenge each other to dares. You want something from me—maybe a reaction, maybe something else. And I want something from you. So. I ask. You answer. Then you ask. I answer. If you want more, you dare. If I want more, I dare."
The Recruiter tilted his head, considering. “Truth or dare? What are we, teenagers?”
Gi-hun smiled thinly, unmoved. “I know, an upgrade from the usual children’s games. Might be too difficult for you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, with a shrug, the Recruiter laid the revolver on its side on the tabletop. With a flick of his wrist, he spun it across it.
“We’ll play your game,” He said, voice curling with intrigue. “We’ll spin for whoever goes first. Six rounds. Like six bullets in the chamber. Back and forth. No picking. No passing. No flinching. We’ll see if we both get what we want by the end.”
The revolver wobbled, slowed, and pointed toward Gi-hun.
“Looks like you’re up first,” The Recruiter murmured, eyes gleaming. “Truth… or dare?”
Truth was the safer bet. But dare... dare held weight. Dare held danger. And this man was watching him like a predator, his gaze flicking again and again toward his neck, toward the subtle edges of the layered scent repressors. He wanted a reaction. He wanted submission. But more than that, he did not want the game to end. Not quickly.
This, after all—whether either of them said it aloud—was a transaction. A negotiation. One wanted information. The other? Amusement. Pleasure. Control.
Quid pro quo, Gi-hun, A voice murmured within, smug and foreign, Hannibal Lecter, from that old American movie Jung-bae had once insisted they rent. A double feature, cheap beer, and laughter echoing through a cheap apartment.
Gi-hun swallowed, slow and deliberate. The children shifted inside him, a quiet flutter beneath the surface of his skin, reminding him what was at stake. This was not just about him. It never had been.
He gave a shallow breath. “Dare,” He said.
The Recruiter grinned wider, sharp and predatory, like a shark splitting its maw just before the bite. He leaned in slowly, elbows resting on the table, chin tipping down as though sharing a secret. “I dare you to take off your scent repressors.” His tone was light, but there was a weight beneath it. Hunger. “Let’s make it real. No masks. Nothing hiding us from each other. A proper game of truth or dare.”
Then he added, more smugly, more daringly, “We’ll do it together. On three.”
He raised a hand to the patch at his neck, fingers brushing the edge with exaggerated care. His eyes never left his. Not for a second. It was a challenge. A trap. A communion.
“One…”
His fingers began to peel the patch away.
“Two…”
Gi-hun mirrored the motion, heart hammering so hard it threatened to fracture the stillness of the room.
“Three.”
They pulled them off simultaneously, slow and deliberate. The pads peeled from the skin with a faint, sticky sound, like the soft unwrapping of something intimate. Air shifted. Scent spilled. And for a suspended moment, the world seemed to quiet.
The Recruiter leaned in to Gi-hun then, far too close, the tips of their noses almost brushing with the proximity. His nostrils flared as he scented the scant air between them, pupils dilating just slightly. Then he paused, head tilting, as if something unexpected had just clicked into place. A slow, oily smile curved across his mouth as he leaned back.
“Well, you know…” The Recruiter murmured, voice syrup-thick, almost reverent. “The best racehorses… they get bred.” He leaned in slightly, nostrils flaring as he drank in the air between them. “Soft indeed. Your scent… it’s so much sweeter now. Honeyed.” He inhaled again, eyes half-lidded. “With a touch of milk.”
Gi-hun swallowed hard, bile rising behind his tongue. The nausea bloomed hot and fast in his gut, but he kept still. Kept composed. Barely. He had not meant to scent the other man. But curiosity betrayed him. His breath came low and subtle as he inhaled through his nose, just once. Spearmint. Like freshly crushed spearmint leaves from the garden, sharp enough to sting, cool enough to water his eyes. And beneath that, the unmistakable foundation of an omega scent.
The Recruiter chuckled under his breath, the sound more intimate than it had any right to be. “Mm. Surprised, aren’t you? Even omegas tend to see alphas as the default for power. For violence. But look at us. Secrets upon secrets.” He tapped a finger lightly on the table between them. “Me. An omega playing in an alpha’s playground.”
“I told you,” Gi-hun said coldly, “I couldn’t care less about your designation. Alpha, beta, omega—it’s all the same to me. And it’s the same to you too. You only care about what you’re selling to them.” He leaned in slightly “Now. It’s your turn. Truth or dare?”
The Recruiter reclined lazily in his seat, the amusement never leaving his face. “What I’m selling? It’s one of the closest things they’ll ever get to equality. Strip away names and designations, and you're all just numbers then, and you’re all just trash. See? Fair.” Then he tilted his head, a mock-thoughtful expression curling into something darker. “But oh, my mind’s still spinning from that little revelation. They’ve been keeping an eye on you, you know. Surveillance was supposed to catch things like this.” He raised one hand, shaped it into a gun, and tapped it lightly to his temple. “Someone’s getting fired. And by fired, I mean…” He clicked his tongue and mimed the pull of a trigger. “Though, in their defense, who would’ve guessed you were still… capable at your age?” He leaned forward, lips curling, eyes narrowing with a strange curiosity. “Omega to omega—how do you do it?”
Gi-hun did not blink. He did not move. He only said, with ice in his voice, "Truth. Or dare.”
The Recruiter huffed. “Impatient. Fine, truth.”
“Tell me about this Captain, the Front Man,” Gi-hun said. “What do you know about him?”
“Hmm, boring,” The Recruiter said with a sniff, leaning back in his chair, intertwining his fingers, and setting them across his chest. “The Captain’s all about control and anonymity. We’re... associates, I guess you’d say. I knew him when he was still just one of us—though he started higher, of course. Management material. Always was. Don’t know his face. That’s what you wanted, right? A name? A jawline? A weakness?”
He continued in a bored tone, "He followed every rule, checked every box. He never indulged. Never dipped a finger in the honey pot…” His voice lowered into something more intimate. “Until you, that is."
Gi-hun flickered his gaze away just for a moment. Barely a heartbeat. But his fingers betrayed him, curling against the tabletop, knuckles pale with tension.
The Recruiter caught it. His smile sharpened, predatory amusement dancing behind his eyes. “Oh?” He said slowly. “I see.” He tilted his head, studying him now with a fresh glint of curiosity. “So it’s not just him, is it? You’re obsessed too. You ask like you hate him. But look at you. All coiled up like you’re not thinking about him.”
“He heads the games. I want to stop them. That’s all.”
“That's all?” The Recruiter echoed lightly, as though humoring a child. “You just want to stop him?” He leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, chin cradled in one hand. “You hate what he’s done. Hate what he made you do. But deep down, part of you wants to understand. To see the man behind the mask. Not just to stop him. But to know him. I know this because he feels the same about you.” A beat. His gaze flicked lower. To the faint rise beneath his zipped jacket. Then back up. “Don’t tell me…” He made a small, lazy circle in the air with one finger. "That little player you’re carrying… not his, is it?”
Silence. Gi-hun did not breathe for a second. His stomach turned violently, the nausea fast and sharp, not from the pregnancy, but from the sheer audacity of the implication. The children shifted inside him, agitated by his sudden tension, as if echoing the fury surging in his chest.
Young-il was kind, Gi-hun thought, venom coating every syllable of the thought. He didn’t take. He asked. He stayed. He—
He swallowed it down.
“No.” It came out like a whip crack, low and shaking with fury.
“I suppose that was a freebie,” The Recruiter murmured, tapping the table. “But now it really is my turn. Truth or dare?”
Gi-hun answered, his voice low and tight,”Truth.”
The Recruiter hummed like he approved of the answer, lifting his own half-finished milk and taking a slow sip. Then the Recruiter extended it across the table toward Gi-hun, the tip of the straw still wet with his saliva. When he grimaced and leaned back instead of taking it, the other man just shrugged and set the bottle down between them, right in the middle.
Then the Recruiter leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other lazily. “Why come back?” He asked, his tone deceptively casual. “Winners don’t come back. That’s not how it works. They stay asleep. They tell themselves it was just a bad dream and move on. Move up. You know what most of them do with the money?” He did not wait for a response. “They kill themselves with it. Slowly, grinning. Booze. Blow. Sex until their hearts explode. Like pigs in mud, choking on pleasure. Some are clever enough to invest to grow their wealth. Think they’ve evolved—transcended the filth. But even those...” He clicked his tongue and gave a little shake of his head. “They end up on the other side of the glass. Acting like gods while donning masks and acting as though they aren't still animals with better furs."
His eyes sharpened, zeroing in on his expression. “But not you. You didn’t spend a dime, did you? You crawled into the dirt and stayed there, even with a fortune waiting. So, tell me... why?”
Gi-hun swallowed hard. “I tried. God, I tried to let it be a dream.” A sweet one, the memory whispered, and he shuddered at the weight of it. “But I couldn’t. Not for that whole year after I won. I lived like a ghost, haunting the same streets I’d walked before, money untouched, too heavy to carry, too soaked in blood to spend. I thought about all of them—the ones we left behind in that nightmare. Their names never stopped echoing.”
He shook his head. “Even when I finally gave in, when I told myself it was okay to live again... I started small. Bought things I never could before. Dyed my hair that ridiculous red, like it would let me forget. I bought a ticket to see my daughter. I wanted to let the dream in; I did. But I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pretend. Not after I saw you. Not after I saw you recruiting again, spinning more lies for more desperate people. I couldn’t live in the dream when I knew you were still feeding the nightmare.”
“I remember,” The Recruiter said, smiling with a strange nostalgia. “The subway station. Years ago now. You’d just managed to win a single round of ddakji. You leapt up like you’d scored the winning goal at the World Cup. Eyes wide. Bloody lip. Still carrying that shiner from the loan sharks, and yet you didn’t take the money first.”
He leaned forward. “No. You tried to slap me back. Can you believe that? Still owed a fortune. On the run. And all you could think about was paying me back with a sting across the cheek.” He smiled wider, almost fondly. “Is that what this is, then? All of this?” He gestured loosely to the room. “You just want to hit back again?”
Gi-hun was about to say something snide in reply, but the Recruiter shifted in his seat, adjusting his jacket in a way that seemed unconscious, and his eyes tracked the motion. He had seen that gesture before. Back when he worked factory lines and watched management clutch their briefcases tighter when they passed the workers. Like they were guarding something. Always guarding something.
It was instinct, Gi-hun thought. The rich were always reaching for their jackets, their bags, and their pockets. Especially when something inside was worth guarding. Something worth stealing. It was never about the value of what they carried. It was about what they thought people like him would do. His gaze dipped, just for a second, to the inside lining of his jacket where it had briefly flared open. Not enough to see anything. But enough to suspect.
“Truth or dare?” Gi-hun asked, voice level now. Sure.
The Recruiter tilted his head. “Hmm. Dare.”
Gi-hun did not hesitate. “I dare you to take everything in your pockets and lay it on the table.”
The Recruiter did not flinch. But something subtle shifted in his posture, an infinitesimal tightening. And his scent took on a duller note, like spearmint gum that had been thoroughly chewed and spit out when the flavor was lost. “Do you think I’m hiding something, Mr. Seong?”
Gi-hun met his gaze, unflinching. “Men like you always are.” He did not stop. “Men like you—the ones who look at people like me and see trash—you're always gripping your coat tighter, clutching your bag when we pass. Like you think we want what’s yours. And maybe we do. Because when you walk past those people, your eyes full of contempt, they aren’t thinking about your watch or your wallet or what they could steal.” He leaned in, his voice lower now, thick with heat. “They’re wondering what it’s like to be warm.”
The Recruiter let out a low chuckle, mocking and indulgent, as he reached into his pockets. One by one, he produced items and set them on the table with theatrical flair. A slim, fine-leather wallet. A pack of sleek, foreign cigarettes. An engraved silver lighter. And finally… a small black box, its surface matte and seamless, tied with a delicate pink ribbon. This he slid across the table with one slow push of his finger, stopping just before his hand.
“One last invitation, Mr. Seong Gi-hun,” The Recruiter purred. “I was hoping to save it for the end. Keep the game interesting. But… here we are.” He picked up the revolver still resting between them like a shared secret and turned it slowly in his palm, the metal catching the low light. “Oh well, we still have two rounds left. One for each of us. Though I imagine you’re wondering whether I mean rounds in the chamber or turns in the game.” His smile returned, razor-sharp and gleaming. “Depending on what you choose next—truth or dare—you just might find out.”
Gi-hun dropped his gaze to the small box so similar to the coffins in the games that held this ominous invitation inside. Inside him, his children kicked hard, jarring and sudden, as if they too felt the room shift. His hand hovered over the box for only a second before lifting it gently. His other hand curled instinctively over his stomach, then dropped again, steady.
Across the table, the Recruiter smiled still. His scent shifted subtly, sharp spearmint, chemical-clean, with that trace of omega sweetness curling stronger now. It was the kind of sweetness in an omega scent that spoke of pleasure, perverse pleasure in this case. "So truth…" He extended the revolver forward, using the point to catch the zipper of his puffer jacket, and brought it down until it was completely unzipped, revealing the stretch of his shirt over the massive swell of his stomach. His eyes seemed to light up in delight, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. "...or dare?"
Chapter 5
Summary:
"Fine. You want truth? Here’s your question,” Gi-hun said, his voice dropped, slow and deliberate. “You talk about everyone else like they’re garbage. Like they’re broken things crawling through the dirt. But you never include yourself.” He narrowed his eyes. “So tell me, then. What are you?”
A beat.
“Because if we’re trash, what does that make you?”
The Recruiter tilted his head slowly, the smile that crept across his face wide and unsettling. “What am I?” He repeated, voice soft and curling with menace. “I’m the one who takes out the trash. Like your local garbageman I don’t stand above the filth, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. I breathe it. I know what it costs. And I still show up for work. Because someone has to do it.”
Gi-hun scoffed, sharp and bitter. “One thing you and the Captain—whatever the hell you call him—have in common: you’re both very fond of being poetic.”
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect Omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. And also this chapter gave me some much-needed brainstorming. Please go and give them a follow too!
Full disclosure I was not expecting to update this soon, but I was going through the draft for this chapter and was like,"Oh shit, this is over ten thousand words." So I guess all of my readers get an early treat. The next chapter will pick up at the games, and yes, you will have that moment. You know the one. The pregnancy reveal.
Also, as you can tell, pretty much everyone is down BAD for Gi-hun in this story: Sang-woo, In-ho, the Salesman, and Jun-ho. He has a harem; do not judge 💅🏻 ✨ But there is an obvious endgame in mind.
Please mind the tags. If you’re not into Omegaverse or mpreg, well… I don’t know how you ended up here, but you’ve been warned. And mind the updated tags as well, please!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Ah. There it is,” The Recruiter said softly, as if observing a nervous tick. “That little pause. That flicker in your eyes. You’re wondering what the right answer is, what won’t get you hurt—or humiliated.” The revolver, now drawn back but still trained lazily in his direction, glinted under the low light. “Truth probably feels like the safer option. Predictable. Cowardly. But little respect comes from choosing it. No, truth only confirms what most already think of you—that you’re still trash. That you got lucky once, clawed your way out of the dumpster, and now you think you shine.” He tilted his head. “Choose it, and fine. You can take the invitation. You can leave. Go chase your Captain. The man you’re so desperately hoping will give you meaning.”
A pause, then—his voice dipped lower, slick and curling like smoke. “But a dare, one last dare at that for you… Now that’s interesting, isn’t it? You’re wondering what I’d ask. What I’d make you do. And that scares you. But it also means something. Because choosing dare? That’s how I know there’s something in you. Some flicker. Some shine.” His lips curled into a smile, slow and serpentine. “But don’t get the wrong idea, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Oh?” Gi-hun said, one eyebrow lifting just slightly. “The revolver pointed at the pregnant omega says otherwise.”
The Recruiter let out a short, amused breath and pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Mr. Seong Gi-hun, please. I’ve had the revolver this whole time. Left it between us, no less. Within your reach. You could have grabbed it. Shot me. Ended the game before it began. But you didn’t. And neither did I. We both let it stay there. You know why?” He leaned in again, closer this time, until their noses were almost brushing. The breath between them was shared, heavy. “Because we want to see what happens. We want the game. The tension. The things we haven’t said yet.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “So tell me, Mr. Seong Gi-hun… can’t you trust me?”
Gi-hun held his ground. His jaw was set like stone. His breath, however, faltered.
“Isn’t it supposed to be my omega instinct to protect you?” The Recruiter cooed, tilting his head. “To offer comfort. Nurture. Especially now—with you so… full.”
Gi-hun murmured, his expression barely shifting, “You probably have about as much omega instinct toward me in this state as you do toward a carton of eggs.”
That made the Recruiter laugh, soft, delighted, and far too intimate. “You’re not wrong,” He said. “Whatever instincts I had… they were cauterized a long time ago. They don’t surface anymore. Not unless I want them to.” He spread his hands slightly, as if presenting himself. “And even then, they’re just... dress-up. A little perfume and performance.”
Suddenly Gi-hun pulled back, sharply. The scent hit him full-on now—sharp spearmint, unnervingly fresh, underscored with that sickly-sweet curl of omega musk that left his stomach roiling. His breath shuddered out of him, and for the first time in their exchange, he let both hands drop to his heavy, distended stomach, gripping it, grounding himself.
The Recruiter followed the motion like a predator catching movement in the dark. “Hmm. Like that,” He said, voice curling around the words like the tendrils of a parasite. “Once you learn how to control your scent, it's easy to twist it. Alphas use theirs to dominate, to force submission. But omegas?” His smile stretched wider, darker. “We get to play. I’ve driven alphas mad with mine—made them foam at the mouth like rabid dogs. Just a little tilt of the head, a shift in the wind.”
“But much like the Captain, I only want to understand you. To know you. And by the end of this game—I will.” His gaze dragged downward, slow and deliberate, until it landed again on the curve of his body. “Trash or shine. That’s the question, isn’t it? But how you answer… that will decide what I see.”
“What about you?” Gi-hun asked, his voice edged like glass freshly broken. “What will you choose when it’s your turn? Or have you conveniently forgotten there’s still one round left for you, too?”
“You’re stalling. And I’ve given you plenty of time. But no more,” The Recruiter said this while tilting his head, all faux patience and polished menace. “You will see what I pick after you go. Now one last time for you, Mr. Seong Gi-hun, truth or dare?”
Gi-hun knew that choosing truth seemed like the easier option, but the Recruiter had said that truth meant cowardice, meant trash. And trash got discarded. Thrown away. Burned. His gaze went to the revolver. Still gleaming like a dare of its own. The children kicked again inside him, sharp, panicked movements. But he did not look down this time.
“...Dare,” Gi-hun said softly, but the words landed like iron. “I choose dare.”
The Recruiter grinned a rictus grin, and his scent somehow grew worse, sharp and fresh and wrong, and sweet, so sweet, disgustingly so, pure omega pleasure, like a wound covered in mouthwash. “There it is,” He murmured, reverent. “There’s that shine the Captain sees.”
Gi-hun said nothing. He breathed. He endured.
“I dare you,” The Recruiter said, leaning forward now, voice syrup-thick with amusement, “to give me a taste of your bonus round with the Captain.”
Gi-hun narrowed his eyes, and his voice came out low and flat. “Come again?”
“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea,” The Recruiter replied with feigned innocence. “I’m not daring you to let me fuck you on this table, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. Although, two omegas—one of them very much expecting—that would certainly be a story for the break room.” He gave a small, amused exhale. “No. Nothing so scandalous. I just want a taste. A sample. A kiss, perhaps. That’s all.”
A beat of silence stretched long and taut between them.
Gi-hun curled his fingers tightly against his thigh.
“…Okay,” Gi-hun said at last, voice level. Not because he meant it. Not because he wanted to. But because he understood what this was. A game. A move on the board. A sacrifice, if needed.
“But don’t expect me to lean across this table,” He added. “If you want that kiss, you’ll have to come get it.
The Recruiter stood slowly, deliberately, and placed the revolver on the table like an offering. Then the Recruiter crossed the space between them, unhurried, and leaned over Gi-hun, bracing his hands on either side of the chair, one curling tight around the armrest, the other hovering just above the swell of his distended stomach. His hair fell forward as he leaned in close to him, brushing his cheek.
Gi-hun met the Recruiter halfway, curling a hand around the back of his head, yanking him down, and their mouths collided in a bruising crash of lips and teeth. The Recruiter pushed in deeper, body pressing close, lips parting. One hand slid up and splayed across his distended stomach with a disturbing tenderness, fingers spread over the firm, sensitive curve. His other hand tightened on the chair. His mouth moved greedily, hungrily, tongue slipping past his lips, tasting him with something like reverence. He let the other man just long enough to feel the smug curl of his lips, the heat of his breath—
—and then he bit.
The Recruiter pulled back—not with a yelp or a curse, but with a soft, shuddering breath. Gi-hun stared at him; blood clung to his lower lip, a smear of red against his pale skin. His chest rose and fell with sharp, uneven breaths. His mouth hung open, red-stained and glistening. An invitation. Or maybe a dare.
“You wanted a taste, right?” Gi-hun said, voice low and steady. “Well. That’s what I did to him. I marked him just as much as he marked me during that bonus round. And if you watched the final game—” His eyes darkened, “—that’s exactly what I did to my opponent’s ankle.”
Gi-hun expected outrage. A snapped retort. A slap across the face, maybe.
Instead, the Recruiter looked… enamored. Blood on his mouth. A glint in his eye. A flush creeping beneath his skin like something holy had just happened. His tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, and licked the blood from his lower lip as though tasting a rare vintage.
“Mmm,” The Recruiter murmured, blood-slicked lips curling in something between reverence and hunger. “Shine, indeed.”
Gi-hun blinked, lips still parted in disbelief. “Jesus,” He muttered, voice low and sharp with revulsion. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. “And you call us animals.”
“You’re the one who bit first,” The Recruiter purred, eyes glittering. “There should be a leash on you.”
Gi-hun leaned forward just slightly, voice cold and precise. “I bite when provoked. You bite when your master tells you not to, no doubt. And you? You should be put down.” A beat. Then, with a breathless rasp: “I played your dare, fucker. Now it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”
The Recruiter eased back into his seat, entirely too composed, and wiped the blood from his lip with his thumb. He considered Gi-hun with a maddening little hum, then said simply, “Truth.”
Gi-hun stared at him. “Truth?” He echoed, disbelieving. He leaned forward slightly, disbelief giving way to something more biting. “After all that talk—about how choosing truth in the final round is for cowards, for trash. Predictable. Gutless.” His voice turned mocking, acidic. “‘Little respect comes from choosing it,’ wasn’t that the line? And now here you are. Choosing it. What happened? Get cold feet? This is the part where you were afraid I’d tie it all up nice and neat and dare you to put that revolver to your head?
“Fine. You want truth? Here’s your question,” Gi-hun said, his voice dropping, slow and deliberate. “You talk about everyone else like they’re garbage. Like they’re broken things crawling through the dirt. But you never include yourself.” He narrowed his eyes. “So tell me, then. What are you?"
A beat.
“Because if we’re trash, what does that make you?”
The Recruiter tilted his head slowly, the smile that crept across his face wide and unsettling. “What am I?” He repeated, his voice soft and curling with menace. “I’m the one who takes out the trash. Like your local garbageman, I don’t stand above the filth, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. I breathe it. I know what it costs. And I still show up for work. Because someone has to do it.”
Gi-hun scoffed, sharp and bitter. “One thing you and the Captain—whatever the hell you call him—have in common: you’re both very fond of being poetic.”
He leaned forward just slightly, his voice dropping into something colder.
“But I think I’ve won this game. Because you just lied—to me and to yourself. You don’t take out the trash. If you want to stick to your little metaphor, then you’re not the garbage man. You’re more like the junkyard dog. Loyal. Dirty. Barking when told. Rolling over. Wagging your tail for scraps. You bite what they point at, nothing more.”
The Recruiter stared at Gi-hun, his face split clean down the middle, bloodied lips curved in giddy delight on one side, the other dulled with resignation, like a funhouse mirror. Then, with that eerie calmness still clinging to him, he reached for the revolver.
Gi-hun shot his hand out and grabbed his. The skin beneath his palm was rough, calloused, and surprisingly warm. He tightened his grip.
“Don’t,” Gi-hun said.
And that was when the door exploded open.
“Police!” A voice bellowed. A young man stormed in, gun raised. “Hands up! Drop the weapon—now!”
The Recruiter blinked. Looked at the revolver. Looked at Gi-hun. He winked, pried his hand free, and without hesitation placed the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening. Gi-hun flinched so hard it nearly knocked the chair off balance. His ears rang. A fine mist hung in the air—blood, heat, something worse. Then he exhaled sharply, eyes wide. For a second, he just sat there, frozen. Then he doubled over the side of the chair and vomited, one arm clutched protectively around his distended stomach, the other braced against the armrest. He continued, his chest jerking forward with each dry retch, but the heaving came quickly and violently, leaving him gasping when there was only acid left.
Gi-hun had survived the fish stalls in Busan. The spoiled kimchi bins of back-alley eateries. The quiet, cloying stench of death in long-forgotten hospital corners. But these days? Even a whiff of vending machine coffee had him gagging. So, naturally, watching a man blow his own head off in front of him did the job nicely.
When Gi-hun finally lifted his head, eyes bleary and mouth wiped on his sleeve, the young man was still shouting, voice shaken,”Stand up! Slowly! Hands where I can see them—I don’t want to—!” Then his gaze dropped. He saw it. His stomach. The unmistakable heavy curve of it, rising and firm beneath the sweat-dampened fabric. His face twisted. “I don’t want to shoot, Mr. Seong Gi-hun!”
Gi-hun raised his hands, sluggish and half-hearted. “Whoever you are,” He rasped, “You’re a little late.”
The officer stepped forward, handcuffs already in hand, beginning to read him his rights—
When another man, barefoot, in boxer shorts, and still partially tied up, came charging through the doorway with a fire extinguisher and clocked the officer across the back of the head with it. Gi-hun instinctively snatched the revolver from the now-lifeless lap of the Recruiter and pointed it at the new arrival, who was half-naked, wild-eyed, and yelling.
“Who the hell are you?” Gi-hun demanded, one arm shielding his stomach.
The boxer-clad stranger—clearly a beta, judging by the scent—froze mid-stumble, hands up, bindings still tight around his wrists and ankles. “Are you—are you Mr. Seong Gi-hun? I’ve been helping Mr. Kim track the guy with the ddakji—” He pointed toward the corpse slumped across the table and immediately launched into a wild hop in that direction, legs still half-bound. “That guy! That fucking bastard! That damn son of a bitch! He killed the boss—” Then he paused. His eyes dropped. Froze. Widened dramatically. “Oh, you’re—huge. Not like—not bad huge—just—pregnant! I mean pregnant!”
Gi-hun inhaled through his nose. Slowly. Lowered the revolver by a fraction. “Very much so,” He said flatly. He squinted at the half-naked man. “You, whoever you are… I don’t suppose you could throw on some pants and grab me a melon milk? Cold, if possible.”
Then his eyes drifted back to the table. To the body, crumpled over the blood-streaked wood. The room had gone quiet except for the ticking of something dripping. It was all too still. Some strange, muddled mixture of disgust and something like pity twisted behind his ribs.
“Well,” He exhaled. “We’ll need to do something about him first.” He looked down at his jacket, now unzipped, his rounded stomach pushing outward beneath the stretch of his shirt. One hand rose to brace his back, a wince tightening his expression. “I’ll help however I can. But,” He gestured vaguely to himself, “I think I may need to lie down for a bit.”
Then, after a beat, he added with dry clarity, “Let’s get you untied. And him,” He nodded to the unconscious officer sprawled on the floor, “tied up.”
Then Gi-hun glanced back toward the table again, where the body of the Recruiter lay, and saw the little black box with its neat pink bow, now streaked with blood. His invitation. He stepped around the corpse, careful, jaw tight, and plucked it from the table. He removed the blood-slickened lid, revealing a single card smeared faintly red from his fingers.
One side: the familiar symbols. Circle. Triangle. Square. He flipped it over. October 31st. Club HDH. He stared. Blood blurred the ink like a bruise.
“That’s my birthday,” He said quietly.
Gi-hun had dragged a chair into the bathroom and planted it beside the shower, where the young officer, Jun-ho, according to the badge he had taken off his jacket, was now handcuffed to the exposed pipe. Gi-hun sat heavily, banana milk in one hand, revolver in the other. The gun had been cleaned of blood. Not for show. Just because looking at it had nearly made him throw up again.
He took a sip from the straw. Frowned. Not terrible, but it was not melon milk. Last week, he had been craving budae jjigae smothered in enough sliced cheese to suffocate every other ingredient in the pot. Now, going out to find melon milk had slipped far down the list of priorities—somewhere beneath the corpse on his kitchen table and the officer handcuffed in his bathroom.
“I recognize you now. Up close,” Gi-hun said, gesturing with the straw. “You came to see me at my house once.”
Jun-ho did not answer Gi-hun right away. His eyes flicked to the swell of his stomach and stayed there, staring, not with horror, but with a kind of startled intensity. His nostrils flared slightly, and he realized, with a jolt, that he was scentinghim. He watched as his eyebrows furrowed. There was a shift in his posture, even seated and restrained—shoulders tensing, jaw working slightly, like something in him had clicked into place. Something primal. Protective.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Jun-ho said softly at last. “But I suppose I should... congratulate you. Though maybe not on the timing.” There was no sarcasm in it. Only concern. Real, unsettling concern. “But we’ve met three times now. Once outside your home. And two more times... on that island.”
Gi-hun stilled. His fingers curled tighter around the revolver. “You were one of them?” He asked, raising the barrel slightly, his voice low. “One of the masked men?”
“No,” Jun-ho said quickly. “I wasn’t. I snuck in. I disguised myself to find someone—my brother. Hwang In-ho. One of the guards asked you about him, remember? That was me.”
Gi-hun did not move.
Jun-ho pressed on, his voice lowering. “And one of those nights... the night they took you out of the dormitory. I was there. I helped escort you back. Me and someone else. We rinsed you off. We gave you a clean tracksuit. I—” He hesitated, then added, “I’m the one who put the marble back in your pocket. Would one of the masked men have done that?”
Gi-hun felt his stomach twist. The idea of this young man seeing him like that—handling him like that—made his skin crawl. He did not want to ask whether he had known why he had needed rinsing. Did not want to hear the answer either way. So he did not ask. But his grip on the revolver loosened. Slowly, he lowered the weapon, the metal grazing across his thigh as his gaze stayed fixed on the man in front of him.
“I’m afraid your effort with the marble was wasted,” Gi-hun muttered. “I lost it in a later game.” He took a shallow breath, the banana milk suddenly sour on his tongue. “Probably for the best,” He added. “The meaning behind it... wasn’t real anyway.”
Jun-ho tilted his head slightly. “It seemed strange at the time,” He admitted. “Keeping something that symbolized death for so many others. But it looked like it meant something different to you. It was easy to slip it into your pocket.” He paused. “I’m sorry it didn’t keep that meaning.” He shifted slightly against the tile. “Now, I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Seong Gi-hun. Preferably unhandcuffed—”
“Gi-hun,” Gi-hun cut in, waving a hand. “Just Gi-hun. ‘Mr. Seong Gi-hun’ is too much of a mouthful, especially if you're going to keep talking.” His tone was not sharp, just tired. A kind of bone-deep exhaustion. One hand absently rubbed slow, soothing circles across the swell of his stomach. With the other, he tossed him the key. “And as for the cuffs, you’ll have to take them off yourself,” He added dryly. “If I squat down again like I did to put them on, I’m not getting back up.”
Jun-ho caught the key without hesitation and unlocked the cuffs. He stood, flexing his wrists. The metal had left faint red marks behind.
“Gi-hun, then,” Jun-ho said quietly. “That man—the one who killed himself. Who was he?”
“A recruiter,” Gi-hun answered. His tone was flat, mechanical, like flicking a switch in his throat. “He found players for the games. Found me. Twice, apparently. Came to offer another invitation.” He paused, jaw tightening. “Didn’t take losing well.”
Jun-ho stepped closer, standing just over him, not aggressive, just present. Steady. Watching. “Are you still part of the game, then?” He asked. “Mr. Se—Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun exhaled slowly. “I’m trying to put an end to it,” he said, tension curling tight in his shoulders. He rubbed at his temple and, for not the first time in months, wished he had a cigarette. Instead, he took another sip of banana milk and grimaced.
“I’m going after the one who runs it. Calls himself the Front Man.”
“The masked men called him ‘Captain,’” Jun-ho offered.
Gi-hun looked up at him. “Did you see his face?”
There was a pause. Just long enough.
Jun-ho dropped his gaze, not in thought, but in choreography. A small, deliberate movement. A subtle shift in weight. His jaw tensed, then relaxed, like rehearsing a line just before saying it. “No,” He said softly, eyes meeting him now. “I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a black mask.”
Gi-hun watched him for a moment but did not press. He only nodded, slowly, unsurprised. Maybe a little disappointed. But mostly tired. So tired. “I’ve only met him a few times,” He murmured. “He made sure I was always blindfolded. Tied. Wore scent repressors. He scrubbed himself clean of everything that might give him away.” He ran a thumb along the rim of the banana milk bottle. The rhythm was anxious, distracted. “He didn’t want to be known,” He said at last. “For obvious reasons.”
“How do you plan on finding him, then?” Jun-ho inquired.
“I don’t have to,” Gi-hun said. His voice was calm, almost too calm. “I was invited.”
He reached into his pocket and held up the blood-stained card between two fingers, its familiar shapes printed neatly across the front—square, triangle, circle.
Jun-ho stared at it. Then at Gi-hun. “So you go to him,” He said slowly. “What then? You won’t be able to do much in your current state. I don’t mean any offense—it’s just the truth. You’re vulnerable like this.” His eyes dropped briefly to his stomach. There was no judgment in his voice, only concern. “Are you going there to kill him?”
The question hung in the air.
Gi-hun did not answer immediately. Instead, something opened in the back of his mind—uninvited. Unwanted. A memory.
“You almost sound like a lover scorned,” The Front Man had said, years ago now. “Tell me, Player 456... are you there yet? Do you want me dead? Will you chase me through your waking hours? Through your dreams?” He had leaned in. Close enough for him to feel the warmth of his breath across his lips. And he, traitorous body and all, had wanted. “Or will I still live inside them… but for other reasons?”
“No,” Gi-hun said at last, his voice low, measured, but honest. "Killing him won’t end the games." He stared down at the bloodstained card still resting between his fingers. “The game… it’s for clients. People who bet on lives like we’re animals. Racehorses.”
“That’s right,” Jun-ho said quickly, stepping closer. “They call them VIPs. I saw one. Up close. I know what they look like. Let me help you, Gi-hun.”
“Mr. Seong!” A voice interrupted sharply from the hallway. Woo-seok—previously boxer-clad, now barely modest in a floral bathrobe—slammed his palms against the bathroom’s glass door, a blood-streaked rag still clutched in one hand. “You can’t trust cops!” He exclaimed. “I’ve never seen them help people like us. They see us all as trash! Same as that bastard who killed my boss—hey, you already uncuffed him?!”
Gi-hun closed his eyes, just for a moment, and breathed out through his nose. Tired. So tired. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up, one hand instinctively bracing his lower back as he rose. He winced. Stiff hips, sore joints, the awkward weight of two lives pulling at him. His eyes flicked to the young man before him. Then down. Then to nowhere in particular.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Gi-hun said, voice quiet. “But you should forget about it.”
Jun-ho stepped forward, taking Gi-hun by the wrist, not restraining him, just grounding him. He stared at the hand holding his and realized then that there was still no scent coming from the scent gland there. Nothing distinct beneath the sterile air of the bathroom. Repressors, he realized. It unsettled him—being touched without knowing the shape of what was underneath.
“Can you forget?” Jun-ho asked, voice low. Urgent. “The people who died on that island? The people still dying? Or worse…”
Gi-hun tensed. His breath hitched. He didn’t want to know what the other man had seen. What went on in places beyond the games? Beyond his own bonus round. He knew his was not the worst version of what they did to people. And that made it harder to speak. Harder to breathe. He shut his eyes. Just for a moment. He could feel his scent shift, could feel the chemical signature of his distress roll off him like heat, and the other man, without needing to be told, eased back.
“I’m not asking you to tell me,” Jun-ho said, his voice gentler now. “But I saw things too. And I know this much—you won’t make it out alive if you try to do this alone. Not with your life. Not with your child’s.”
There was a beat. Then Gi-hun opened his eyes. “Children,” He murmured, the word tasting strange in his mouth. “I’m carrying twins.”
Jun-ho blinked, the only truly noticeable reaction a subtle tightening of his grip around his wrist. He did not speak, did not push.
Gi-hun looked at him. Really looked. There was something in his face, an openness, a steadiness. He also had kind eyes that felt familiar, in the way that dreams feel even when the details fade away. He did not trust easily anymore. Probably never would again. But the other man was not wrong. If he kept doing this alone, it would not just be his blood spilled.
“…Alright,” Gi-hun said, barely above a whisper. “You can help.”
Gi-hun had two young men now, Woo-seok and Jun-ho, helping him stop the games. Officially, that was their shared mission. And with that mission came constant bickering: over plans, over intelligence, over who shot better. Unofficially, though, they’d taken on an entirely different assignment—one they somehow approached with perfect, unified resolve: acting as his self-appointed caregivers. With this other mission, however, they had found a strange unity. Neither of them had asked permission. They had simply started.
It began with the shoes. Gi-hun had bent over once to put them on, and both had lunged forward to help, like he was about to rupture something vital. When they had actually tried to do it for him, he had responded by flicking each of them on the forehead. Hard. That did not stop them. Eventually, when bending really did become too much trouble, he gave in. He sat, arms folded over his chest as he grumbled to himself, while one of them tied his laces.
Then came the vitamin surveillance. Daily, relentless. Prenatal supplements were handed over, followed by watchful stares until every last tablet was swallowed. They scrutinized everything he ate and everything he drank. The day he ordered duck soup for takeout, both nearly had aneurysms.
“They’re already coming out with webbed feet,” Gi-hun had said flatly. “Might as well give them wings too.
Any time he tried to stand too long or pace while thinking, they would steer him to the nearest seat like he might faint mid-step. Though the constant melon milk in his hands was not unwanted.
It was maddening. It was constant.
It was… oddly comforting.
And the ever-present melon milk they kept handing him?
That part, at least, he did not mind.
Together, they had formulated a plan for the meeting with the Front Man at Club HDH on October 31st. Gi-hun had shown both Woo-seok and Jun-ho the stash of guns, ammunition, and explosives he had collected over time and insisted they train with them daily alongside him. It had taken considerable arguing and a stubborn display of marksmanship before they had begrudgingly allowed him to continue his daily target practice.
He had made a good point, after all: in his condition, hand-to-hand combat was off the table. Firearms were what he had left.
Unfortunately, part of the plan also required Gi-hun to get a tracker implanted—in a back molar of all places. Which was why he now stood in front of a room full of armed mercenaries, an ice pack pressed against his cheek, mood soured, and patience running thin.
“The backup plan will be—” Gi-hun broke off mid-sentence, his breath catching with a wince as the twins rolled sharply within him, and he lowered the ice pack from his face. Knees, elbows, and blunt little limbs strike a dozen places at once before settling. He lowered the ice pack, exhaled through his teeth, and muttered, “Must be stretching their wings.”
“Gi-hun?” Jun-ho said, his voice low and careful. His hand found his elbow, steadying him, concern etched across his features.
“I’m fine,” Gi-hun said, waving him off with a sharp breath. “They’re just restless.”
They often were stirring and stretching like they had inherited his impatience, already pressing against the limits of the space they had been given. The movement was reassuring, a sign of life. But that did not make it comfortable. He was tired of his organs being used as punching bags.
At least the other man had not tried to touch his stomach. That was something. A mercy. Too many strangers had felt entitled to lay a hand on him uninvited. Especially older ones. Like being visibly pregnant turned him into public property, some communal petting zoo attraction. It had happened over and over again, with his son and later with his daughter. He had never liked it. Not once.
His wife, though, when he had been pregnant with their daughter, had had no tolerance for it. She had been quick to step in, sharp-tongued and unapologetic. She had cursed louder and meaner than he ever could when someone crossed that line. He remembered the fire in her voice, the way people had flinched when she told them off. It had embarrassed him then. Now? He missed it.
He missed her.
Even her fury had felt like love.
“Sorry,” Gi-hun murmured after a breath, dragging himself back to the moment. “Where were we?”
Jun-ho withdrew his hand with a quiet nod. He did not push. Did not pry. Instead, he turned to the alpha mercenary leading the squad. “If the first plan falls through,” He said, calm but direct, “then we’re counting on you to track Gi-hun and me through the implant—wherever they take us.”
“Jun-ho,” Gi-hun interjected gently but firmly. “Your face was seen on the island. They may recognize you. It might be safer if Woo-seok comes with me instead.”
Jun-ho tensed, but only slightly. It was not just strategy that flickered in his expression. There was something more. A protective instinct that did not quite know where to go. But he nodded.
Later that night, Gi-hun sat up late on the cheap motel bed, a new room this time. The previous one had become unusable, too large a bloodstain in the corner, and the sour, clinging scent of his own vomit that no cleaner could fully erase. Now he sat surrounded by several sheets of paper and an old ballpoint pen, the motel lamp casting a weak yellow pool of light across the bedspread. He was writing—or trying to. A handful of crumpled false starts sat in a pile beside him, and a few sealed envelopes lay in neat rows, already marked with names.
They were to be handed off to his broker in the morning, meant to be delivered if things did not go to plan. And in his experience, they almost never did.
The first envelope, resting closest to Gi-hun, bore the name Ga-yeong. His fingers hovered over it briefly before drifting back to his stomach. He laid a hand there, smoothing his palm over the cotton of his pajama shirt, watching the soft rise and fall of fabric. A foot shifted beneath it, pressing outward. He exhaled slowly, not quite smiling.
Then a knock.
Soft. Hesitant.
Gi-hun tensed, his hand slipping toward the drawer beside him. He opened it just enough to rest his fingers over the grip of his sidearm. “Come in,” he said.
The door creaked open. Jun-ho stepped in, eyes soft with sleep, his hair slightly mussed. He wore only a shirt and boxers, barefoot and quiet. He lingered in the doorway for a moment before crossing into the room, voice low. “I thought you’d still be up,” He said. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Gi-hun shook his head, his voice low and rough. “It’s hard enough after everything that’s happened.” He rubbed a palm across his face. “And now? I sleep when they sleep. Which is almost never.”
He leaned back against the headboard, lifting one hand to push his hair out of his face, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The pen rolled off his lap unnoticed. “You know,” He added after a moment, “My mom used to say sleeping on your right side meant you were having a girl. Left side, a boy.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I wonder how that works with twins.”
Jun-ho snorted, the sound warm and fond as he stepped further inside. He sank into the chair near the bed, the distance between them shrinking without fanfare. “I guess it depends on how much you toss and turn.”
Gi-hun huffed a quiet laugh and let his gaze shift toward him.
Jun-ho nodded toward the scattered papers. “Who are you writing letters to?”
Gi-hun glanced down, fingers brushing over the envelope marked Ga-yeong. “A few people. My daughter. My ex-wife. My broker. A couple of names I don’t want to forget, just in case…” He trailed off, then added, more quietly, “Some people I owed more than I could repay.”
Jun-ho hesitated, his voice lowering as he asked, “And… your children’s other parent?” He paused. “I’m sorry if that’s rude. Or prying.”
There was something off in the way Jun-ho spoke that was unlike him, something with the sharpest of edges. But it was impossible to place. The scent suppressants clung faintly at his neck, just visible where his shirt collar dipped. Without his scent to go by, he could not tell if what he sensed was jealousy, guilt, curiosity, or something else entirely.
“It’s your right to pry, I suppose,” Gi-hun said, tone dry. “Considering you might not get the opportunity to do it again.” A beat. “Yes. Him too.”
"Your mate," Jun-ho asked, tone odd and flat. His expression twitched, a quick crook of his mouth.
“Oh, no,” Gi-hun said, shaking his head with a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Nothing like that.” He rubbed a hand over the curve of his stomach, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of his shirt. “The twins… weren’t planned. I went into heat at one of those unmanned coffee shops. He just happened to be there. It was supposed to be nothing. But he was… decent. Gentle. Kind in the way that feels rare nowadays.”
He glanced at the other man, then away again, his voice lowering. “I sometimes wonder what it would’ve been like if I’d asked him if I could stay longer. If I’d seen him again after. Not for anything big. Just… another cup of coffee.” A pause. A breath. “One where we could talk more. I liked hearing him talk. Usually I’m the one filling the silence, but with him… I just listened. He talked about art. Literature. Things I’ve never cared about before, but he did. He made them matter.”
“My brother… he likes—liked art and literature too,” Jun-ho said. “He was smart. Smarter than I ever was.” The shift in his tone was subtle but real. His fingers twitched at his side, then stilled. “So… he doesn’t know, then? About you being…?”
Gi-hun swallowed. His throat tightened around the words before he spoke. “No,” He said quietly. “I didn’t… I didn’t know if I’d get this far. Carrying them. And I didn’t tell him because saying anything… it would’ve made it real. And real things get ruined. Get taken. I’ve seen it enough to know better.”
He shook his head slightly. “But maybe after. After they’re born. After this is over—if it ever really ends.” He forced a breath through his nose, grounding himself again as his eyes drifted back to the letter in his lap. “There’s not much in his letter,” He said. “No great words. No sonnets, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m not much for poetry. I can barely get through punctuation.” He turned the page slightly, the lamplight catching the page. “It’s my daughter's I’m having trouble with,” He added, almost to himself. “I keep trying to get it right, but everything feels like too much or not enough.”
Then, suddenly, Gi-hun turned his head toward the bedside table. The red digits of the digital clock blinked to 12:00 AM. A flicker. A silent announcement. He hummed, a low sound in his throat. Something wistful. Almost surprised.
Jun-ho followed his gaze. “It’s October 31,” He said gently. “Happy birthday, Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun huffed a quiet laugh, warm but tired. “Thank you.”
There was another pause, the silence stretching just enough to feel full rather than awkward.
Then, Gi-hun shifted, glancing sidelong at Jun-ho. “Now it’s my turn to pry,” He said, his voice lighter, though not without weight. “You still wear repressors, so I don’t know what your designation is. And I’ll admit, I’m curious—especially since you know mine.”
Jun-ho snorted under his breath, reaching up to touch the repressor patch at his neck. His fingers lingered there, absently. “I wasn’t trying to hide it,” He said after a beat. “Not from you, anyway. If you were wondering. It’s just habit, I guess. You wear them long enough as an officer, you forget what your own scent even smells like.” He let his hand fall away from his throat. “But I’m an alpha.”
“Alpha,” Gi-hun echoed softly. Not a challenge. Not reverent. Just a simple recognition. A fact spoken aloud.
Still, it was enough to make Jun-ho flush just faintly. Like the word had touched something beneath his skin.
Gi-hun noticed. His lips curled into a slow, crooked smile. “Jun-ho,” He said, gently surprised. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flustered.” He tilted his head, studying him with open affection laced in humor. “I’m far too old an omega, and let’s be honest—not exactly an ideal mate for a young, handsome alpha like yourself to be getting flustered over.”
Jun-ho stared at Gi-hun, his eyes flickering to his lips briefly, his own slightly parted, then away again, the flush still lingering high on his cheeks. But whatever thoughts were stirring behind his eyes, he kept them close. Instead, he cleared his throat softly and stood, brushing invisible dust from his thighs.
“You should get some rest,” Jun-ho said, his voice back to steady, if a little quieter than before. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”
Then Jun-ho glanced toward the scattered letters, then back at him. “Don’t spend the whole night writing things you hope no one will ever have to read.” He hesitated, then added, more gently, “Focus on making it out. Not on what happens if you don’t.”
Gi-hun exhaled, slow and quiet. The words did not dismiss the weight of what he was carrying—but they made it feel a little more bearable. A little more shared.
Jun-ho turned to go, pausing at the door. “I’ll be across the hall,” He said softly. “If you need anything.”
Then, just before Jun-ho stepped out, he hesitated. His hand lingered on the doorframe, fingers drumming once, twice, then curling into a fist. He glanced over his shoulder. Briefly. Not quite at Gi-hun. Lower. His gaze flicked toward his lips, then to the round curve of his stomach, then quickly away again, like he had looked without meaning to. Or like he had meant to, but did not want to get caught.
The door clicked softly as Jun-ho stepped out, leaving it just slightly ajar behind him. Gi-hun stared at it for a moment, the dim hallway light spilling faintly across the motel carpet. Then his gaze dropped, drifting to the papers spread out before him, to envelopes, some empty, others occupied, and to the half-written sentences. He did not reach for the pen right away, and instead, he leaned back against the headboard, one hand resting on the curve of his stomach, the other curled loosely at his side. The room had gone quiet, but not empty.
His eyes flicked back to the door again.
Still ajar.
Gi-hun bit his bottom lip not thoughtfully, but because he could feel a slow warmth blooming in his chest, pooling downward into his belly, and lower still. The kind of warmth that had nothing to do with comfort. The kind that made his skin feel too tight, his breath too aware. And of course, right then, the twins started kicking. He groaned, low and exasperated, flopping his head back against the headboard. His palm flattened over his stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to contain them—and himself.
“Don’t even think about it,” Gi-hun muttered. “Just because some young, stupid alpha decided to leave the door open on purpose…” He yanked the blanket higher, as if it might physically smother the heat rising in his face, his chest, and lower. “Stupid hormones. Stupid body.” He shut his eyes tight. “I am not thinking about his voice, or his hands, or what he’d do if I just opened that door and went the short distance to his room and—no, no, no!”
A beat. A breath. A frustrated growl into his pillow. “I’m going to bed. I'm not doing this.”
And with that, he shut off the lamp like it might shut off his thoughts too.
Gi-hun approached Club HDH wrapped in a thick cable-knit sweater, a navy peacoat unbuttoned over it, the hem swaying slightly with each step. His shoulder-length waves had been carefully brushed earlier, but the cool night air had already undone the effort, strands slipping loose across his face. His sidearm was tucked into the hidden pocket of his coat. Both hands stayed buried deep in his pockets, more to disguise the slight waddle he had developed in these later stages of pregnancy than for warmth.
The streets were thick with costumed alphas, betas, and omegas moving in every direction, scents clashing in waves that made his stomach churn. The press of them, the mix of sweat and synthetic perfume, made him pale. But he kept walking, jaw set, one ear tuned to the soft buzz of the earpiece.
“Good luck,” Jun-ho said through it, his voice steady, close. “I’ll be listening. Keeping an eye on your location. I won’t let anything happen to you. Or to them.”
Gi-hun gave a short nod in response, then turned slightly to see why Woo-seok was lagging behind only to find him at a vendor, holding up a hideous neon green horse head. Gi-hun stared for half a second, dead-eyed, before he cursed underneath his breath. Then strode over, grabbed Woo-seok by the ear, and hauled him bodily away from the stall.
Woo-seok yelped through laughter, the mask dangling from one hand as Gi-hun marched them forward. He still managed to toss a few crumpled won notes to the vendor over his shoulder as they approached the entrance of the club.
“Already regretting bringing him with you instead of me?” Jun-ho said.
That earned a soft chuckle from Gi-hun. He pressed two fingers to his earpiece. “How did you know?”
“You curse a lot under your breath when you’re irritated,” Jun-ho replied, his tone warm with amusement. “You probably don’t even realize it anymore. It’s like breathing for you at this point.” A pause. Then, lightly: “I can’t see you, but I’d bet anything you’ve got that little crinkle between your brows right now.”
Gi-hun, despite himself, lifted a hand to his forehead. And sure enough—there it was. The exact line Jun-ho described, etched like habit. He dropped his hand back to his side and muttered, “Shut up,” without conviction.
If anything, there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth now.
Then Gi-hun stepped into the club, Woo-seok at his side, still proudly wearing the hideous neon green horse mask. Inside, the air changed immediately. The space was dark, pulsing with heat, and bathed in a deep, saturated red that painted everything in the hue of fresh blood. The lighting did not pulse so much as bleed, washing across the dance floor like a heartbeat, slow and steady.
The crowd moved like a single living organism, writhing bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, masked and costumed, dressed in lace, latex, leather, and fur. The scent was worse than anything outside: hot breath, open sweat, synthetic perfume, cheap alcohol, and the unmistakable tangle of unmated pheromones colliding in the air. His stomach twisted. He barely managed to keep walking.
Woo-seok shouted over the music as he relayed their location to the mercenary team. Gi-hun barely registered it. His focus tunneled forward as he began to go through the crowd.
The Front Man stood among the partygoers like a shadow that had learned to breathe. Clad in sleek black gloves, boots, and a trench coat, the curve of his geometric mask shimmered faintly in the haze of the club. He was just another figure in the spectacle, watching with the same stillness as the walls. Around him, dancers laughed, drank, and swayed. Some leaned lazily against columns, masks slipping sideways, plastic horns askew. The atmosphere promised that the party would outlast the night.
Gi-hun was easy to find—too easy. No costume. Just a baggy cable-knit sweater, navy peacoat unbuttoned, shoulder-length hair already mussed by the damp air and movement of the crowd. He stood out by trying not to.
The Front Man stepped behind him. And then, gently, he reached, the crowd pulsing and swaying around them like nothing at all was happening. His fingers slid through the dark waves at the back of his head, the leather of his glove brushing softly along the nape of his neck, just above the collar. Not a shove. Not a jostle in passing. A caress. He lingered. One finger curled through a loose strand, catching a soft lock of hair. The music thudded on. People moved. No one noticed. And then, he let it go. The curl slipped free, falling back into place like nothing had ever disturbed it.
By the time Gi-hun turned, hand rising to the place he had been touched, the man was already gone. Lost in the mass of bodies, the blur of lights, the endless movement. His eyes scanned the crowd, but everyone looked the same in the red glow. Too much motion. Too many masks. He frowned faintly, brushing his hair back again. It had felt like nothing. Like being touched by the end of a dream.
Unseen, the Front Man nodded to two passing guards as they made their way toward the rear of the club. And disappeared through the back.
Gi-hun shook his head faintly, beginning to navigate the crowd again. Then, out of nowhere, a young alpha woman stumbled into his path, drunk, reeking of cinnamon schnapps and cherry lip gloss, red devil horns askew. She nearly toppled onto him. Before he could react, she pulled something from the small purse slung over her shoulder: a pale white mask with gray shading and wing-like curves that arced out over the temples. She tugged it down over his face with fumbling fingers, her breath hot against his ear as she leaned in.
“There,” She whispered, breathless. “Now you don’t stand out so much. Come sit on someone’s shoulder with me.”
And just as quickly, she was gone, reeled back by a friend in a matching costume who steered her away by the shoulders and used her blood-red pitchfork to bat aside a drink someone tried to offer her.
Gi-hun adjusted what he realized was some kind of angel-like mask over his face but kept it on and turned to find himself face-to-face with a figure in a familiar, baggy pink jumpsuit and a square mask. He froze. Lips parted. The noise of the club fell away around him for one suspended moment, replaced by the low rush of blood in his ears. The guard did not speak. Did not motion. Just turned and started walking—expecting him to follow, no hesitation.
Gihun stood there for a breath too long, shell-shocked, then forced himself into motion. He followed the guard through the crowd, past revealing costumes and undulating bodies and smoke machines spewing artificial fog into the already suffocating space. No one stopped him. No one looked. At the rear of the club, a narrow door opened to a back stairwell lit by a single, flickering bulb. They climbed. Each footstep felt heavier than the last. When they emerged into the alley, it was cold again—quiet. Empty.
A white limousine waited, lights glowing, engine purring low like a patient animal. The guard stepped forward and opened the door without a word. Gi-hun hesitated only a second before lowering himself into the seat, trying not to brace his back or touch his stomach, still barely concealed beneath the sweater and coat. A quiet grunt slipped out anyway.
He tilted his head back against the smooth leather interior, lips parted, chest rising with slow, unsteady breath. The door shut behind him with a soft, definitive click. And the limousine began to move.
Gi-hun looked out the window, attempting to ground himself and calm his breathing as a single bead of sweat went down his temple, willing himself not to vomit in the limousine, at which point he would just open the door and toss himself into traffic out of humiliation. Then a modulated voice said,”Player 456.”
Gi-hun snapped his gaze forward on a small golden piggy bank, a speaker far too similar to the gargantuan one that hung over player heads in the dormitory back on the island.
“Scent repressors,” The Front Man said with a note of theatrical surprise even through the modulated voice of the piggy bank. “How unlike you. I remember your words spoken in this same car. You said they made me smell like a place where people went to wait for death—just clean enough to pretend otherwise. Tell me, have you been waiting for death all this time, Player 456?”
Gi-hun said nothing, but his jaw locked.
“I’m guessing your scent didn’t heal,” The voice continued, a mockery of empathy. “That you didn’t heal. That you didn’t allow yourself to. It could have been sweet, Player 456. The dream after.”
Gi-hun flexed his fingers slightly against his pants. Then he spoke, his voice low and clipped. “I thought we should be on an even playing field this time.” Streetlights flashed across the cabin, pouring brief light over the leather seats, slicing through the dark. “I still don’t know your scent,” He continued. “And while you may know mine, you won’t be getting more of it to sniff out your advantage. If you’re even really here.”
Gi-hun sat stiffly on the leather seat, the thick cable-knit sweater heavy against his skin. With every breath, the weight of the unborn pressed upward into his ribs. The prominent swell of his stomach was becoming harder to hide. Still, he crossed his arms slightly, bracing them against his thighs to shield his stomach further. He kept one hand close, thumb grazing the underside of his wrist like he could ground himself there.
“You wanted to see me again so badly, Player 456. I had to indulge out of curiosity—at least listen. Now that we’re here, say what you want to say. What do you want from me? After these years apart, are you there yet? Do you want me dead?”
"Your death would accomplish nothing," Gi-hun answered calmly, his gaze fixed on the golden miniature piggy bank. “And like I told you before… I still don’t know your name. Your face. Your scent. Nothing.” He paused, inhaling shallowly. “You’re more like smoke than a man to me. Even if I’ve felt you. Know you have flesh and bone. You were never really there.” Another beat. The hum of the engine beneath it all. “I want you to stop the game.”
Silence stretched.
Then, low and bemused, the voice returned. “The game?”
Just that. Two syllables.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Gi-hun bit out. “The game you’ve been playing. The game that’s still going on to this day.”
The children stirred, tight, urgent movements within Gi-hun. He clenched a hand against his thigh, anchoring himself to the seat, to this moment, to anything but the pressure building inside him.
“Oh… so that’s what all this is about?” The Front Man said. “I’ll admit—I’m almost disappointed.” The voice dipped lower. “All we did was create it. All of you… participated. Willingly.”
Gi-hun hissed, “Don’t give me that shit.” He leaned forward slightly, despite himself, his voice sharpened now. “You prey on people who feel like they’re at a dead end. You corner them. Dangle hope in front of them like a carrot on a stick. You drive them to their deaths, and you enjoy it. You think calling it a choice makes it charity?”
The Front Man was quiet for a moment. Then: “They were all just losers of the game. Trash. Eliminated—”
“I’m sick of hearing it,” Gi-hun snapped, fire now blooming beneath his ribs, burning hot and righteous. “From you. From your recruiters. This line that people are nothing but trash to be disposed of at worst, or racehorses to be run into the dirt for sport at best. Is that what we are to you?” His voice caught, raw. “Horses?”
His breath came faster now. Not rage—heat. Something closer. “We run at your whip. We wag our tails for carrots. We run until we die. And you call it structure. Fairness. Meaning.”
A beat of silence. Then, almost tender:
“Your way with words has improved in our time apart,” The Front Man murmured. “Have you been reading more, 456? You surprise me. I could’ve made some recommendations,” The voice continued, almost conversational. “Books. Essays. Poetry, perhaps. I always thought you'd enjoy Rilke. But you never wanted understanding, did you? Just blame.”
He paused.
“Your metaphors are evocative. But short-sighted. You see whips and tracks and carrots. I see choice. Stakes. Incentive. Meaning. You still don’t understand. Even after all this time. Even after everything you’ve endured. The game... will not change unless the world does.”
Another pause, measured this time, deliberate.
“So tell me, 456. Is that why you came tonight?” The voice dropped lower, intimate in its cruelty. “To plead with the ones who own the racetrack? To ask them kindly to let the horses run free?” And then, lighter, crueler still: “Or was it something else? Were you going to kidnap me?”
A soft, derisive laugh followed. “Would you tie me up? Blindfold me? Trade places for a day?”
Gi-hun stiffened at the implication, flushing, and then over the earpiece Jun-ho exclaimed, voice sharp with panic, "They got me! I’m losing them!”
Gi-hun did not hesitate. His hand shot into the hidden pocket of his coat. The sidearm came free in a flash of motion, and he raised it, pointing directly at the tinted partition where the driver sat. “Stop the car!” He barked, and pulled the trigger, once, twice. Both rounds pinged uselessly off the bulletproof glass with dull, flat thuds. The silence that followed was deafening. His breath hitched as the reality set in.
“Did you really think you could end a game like this with one little gun?” The Front Man inquired unmoved and calm as if he had been expecting this exact moment. Maybe he had.
Gi-hun exhaled shakily and lowered the weapon. He placed it on the seat beside him with trembling fingers. His heart thundered against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears. This could be it. A bullet to the head. A clean execution to tie off a loose end. He and his unborn children inside him. Or worse—they would keep him breathing. Long enough to extract what they wanted. And once they realized he was pregnant… He bit down gently, feeling the ache in his tooth. The tracker implant pulsed faintly beneath the enamel.
They would come for him.
Jun-ho. Woo-seok. The mercenary team. His allies.
They had to.
The games were brutal, inhuman, hell incarnate, but they offered one thing this scenario did not: a chance. A threadbare sliver of possibility. And that, Gi-hun thought bitterly, was something even the most rigged systems could not quite erase. He would endure it again. One last time. Because this was not just about him anymore. He would crawl back into the nightmare, teeth gritted, fists clenched, if it meant even a whisper of survival for the lives inside him. He would find a way to help the others there too, to tear the system down from within.
And he would survive.
Gi-hun looked up at the speaker, at the cartoonish yet monstrous face of the piggy bank, and said, voice steady,"Put me back in the game."
A beat passed.
Not the usual poised silence. Not one measured and calculated for effect. But real. Stunned. For once, the Front Man did not have a clever line waiting in his throat. Then, finally:
“A few moments ago, weren’t you telling me to stop the game?”
“Those fat cats you answer to will eat it up, won’t they? Bet they’re salivating at the thought Gi-hun said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a bitter smile. “The returning winner who came back to play. Make it all even more entertaining for them. That’s what you want right? Go ahead, knock me out and take me back to the game. Hell, maybe I’ll win a second time. Set another record while I’m at it.” He leaned back just slightly, as if anticipating the gas closing in on him. “Why the hesitation? Are you getting cold feet?
The Front Man mused, his voice curled back through the speaker, smooth and contemplative, like a hand running along the rim of a glass,“Have you seen The Matrix, Player 456? They could take the blue pill and live in comfort. But they choose the red pill instead. Just so they can play the hero. What about you? Do you think you’re a hero too? Do you think you can change the world?” A soft chuckle distorted through the speaker. “You wear that righteousness well, though. The angel mask fits. And I’m sure, in your mind, I wear horns to match.”
“I can prove it to you,” Gi-hun said, his jaw tight. “That you’re wrong. That the world isn’t always gonna work how you think it should. Just let me play again.”
“So,” The Front Man said. “The silence after the starting gun got to you, then?” A pause. “If that’s what you want… then so be it.”
A hiss broke through the stillness.
Gas began to pour into the cabin.
Gi-hun flinched, instinctively pulling one hand to his stomach at last, breath catching as the cool, sterile air stung his throat. His vision blurred not from the gas yet but from tears he refused to shed. He pressed his palm flat across the swell of his stomach, trying to steady the shiver in his lips. He closed his eyes as the gas overtook him, warm fingers trembling faintly over the lives he carried. His body slackened. One errant curl slipped across his brow. A single tear slid silently down his cheek.
Then the partition lowered with a faint mechanical whir. The Front Man, In-ho, turned, his mask gleaming faintly in the ambient glow. He looked at the man, slumped in the seat, breath shallow, lashes trembling faintly with unconsciousness head tilted. “Welcome back, Player 456,” He said softly.
His favorite racehorse, brought in from the wild a second time. Not to break, no. But to train properly. The first race had taught him defiance. This one would teach him form. Purpose. There was no need for bit or bridle—not yet. Sometimes, the best way to bring a beast to heel was to run beside it.
And so, he would run again too. Behind a new mask. A new number.
“Once we arrive on the island,” In-ho added to the driver, “he will not be processed with the others. He’ll be taken to one of the private rooms. I’ll handle his inspection personally.”
The first part of that inspection?
Those scent repressors were coming off—
—and In-ho would tear them free with his teeth.
Notes:
Recruiter: I have three hundred and seventy-four million won. Do something to me.
[Gi-hun hawks, spits directly in the Recruiter's face with surgical precision.]
Recruiter: ...I love you. I want to take you away from all of this.
Chapter 6
Summary:
Suddenly, Gi-hun felt a sharp sting at the side of his neck. He winced and raised a hand, fingertips brushing over the sore spot just beneath his jaw, his scent gland. The contact made him hiss, and he jerked his hand back instinctively. Craning his neck at an awkward angle, he squinted down and caught sight of it an angry, red, and swollen welt, peppered with tiny blood-specks. Like someone had ripped the scent repressor off with too much force. Far too much.
He gingerly touched it again, this time more carefully, tracing the outer edge. Then, almost absently, his hand drifted upward. His fingers passed over his jaw and his cheek finding both smooth.
Gi-hun froze. “…Did someone fucking shave me?” He muttered aloud.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect Omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. And also this chapter gave me some much-needed brainstorming. Please go and give them a follow too!
Also: it’s my birthday! I am now twenty-three years old (I know—ancient, decrepit, practically ready to be carted off). But in true Hobbit tradition, I’m giving you a gift instead: this chapter! Hopefully, you enjoy it—and forgive me for the absurd word count. I just had to squeeze in those final moments.
If you’re looking for a birthday gift for me, reading this fic is already an amazing one… but I am also quietly manifesting some fanart of this story.
⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter includes contemplation of sexual assault. It does not occur, but the subject is touched on. Please mind the tags and take care while reading.
Also… please don’t throw too many tomatoes at Sang-woo. I swear I don’t hate him! He’s just not a very nice person in this story—for plot reasons (you’ll see).
Finally, I know most of you have probably guessed who Gi-hun and Sang-woo’s son is by now. But I’m holding off on the name drop and full reveal until next chapter—and trust me, it’s going to hurt so good.
As always, if you think this chapter is worthy, please leave a kudos or a comment! They make my day and keep me writing. 💙
Chapter Text
Some Years Ago…
Gi-hun lay still in the hospital bed, swallowed by blankets and the overwhelming perfume of too many well-meaning gifts, flowers, cards, and plush toys. The scent pressed down on him, cloying, like it was trying to hide the truth of how gutted and empty he felt inside. He felt bruised and tender as if he had been beaten, and his joints ached and felt loose. It had been a difficult birth, but he supposed there was no such thing as an undifficult birth, only ones without complications, of which he had none.
He wore a crisp white hospital gown now, long since cleaned of blood, sweat, and afterbirth, his bed linens replaced with sterile freshness that only made the ache in his body more pronounced. A light blue robe hung open over his shoulders. A thin tube was still taped to his wrist, feeding him slow, measured relief through the IV—drugs he was grateful for, even if they barely cut through the fog.
But it was not the discomfort or the medicine he focused on.
It was the weight in his arms.
A baby boy, swaddled tightly in a powder blue blanket, a tiny knit cap tugged over his soft head, from which impossibly thick dark hair already pushed out in wild tufts. His lips were small and pink, his eyes closed, lashes dark and delicate as soot. He watched him breathe, slow, even, impossibly gentle. The kind of breath that barely seemed enough to sustain a life.
Nurses came and went, soft-footed and smiling. Some on shift. Others, clearly not. Drawn by word of mouth. They cooed at the baby, took turns holding him for brief spells with reverent hands, marveling at his thick hair and at the tiny fist curled against his cheek. He did not mind. Not for a few minutes at a time. His arms were tired. And somehow, seeing how carefully they passed him between one another made the moment feel less frightening. More real.
But each time, they brought him back. Laid him gently in his arms, nestled against the crook of his elbow.
Sometimes, the baby fussed. Gi-hun would shush the baby quietly and would press him close then, just under his chin, near the soft skin of his neck. Close to his scent gland. Instinct. Something older than language. Since the birth, his scent had changed again. No longer just the sweet, sugar edge that had always clung to him like dalgona on a paper stick. Now it was softer, warmer, like honey stirred into warm milk. It settled into the fabric of the baby blanket, clung to his little dark tufts of hair, and his rosy cheek. It was a scent meant to calm. To claim. To protect.
And even though everything else in him still felt bruised and barely held together, something in him, something small, deep, and scared, finally began to settle.
When rocking and scenting were not enough to calm him, tugging aside his robe to feed him with the help of a kind beta nurse who just held aside cloth helped him position the baby and whispered encouragement when his arms trembled from exhaustion. He would hum little lullabies, half-songs, really, lyrics forgotten long ago, only the melody intact. The baby would latch, and for a moment, the world would still.
But it was never going to stay still.
There was a knock at the door.
Mal-soon stepped inside, her scent arriving first, honey rice cake with its familiar warmth, undercut by a thickening layer of worn cotton. That cotton note had deepened over the past hours, heavy with strain. She had not said a word of complaint, not once, but he could feel it: the quiet fury of an omega mother watching her only omega son endure childbirth without his alpha. An alpha man who had once been like a second son to her. If she ever saw him on the street again, she would hurl the entire contents of her vegetable stall at him without hesitation.
Her shoulders were squared with quiet strength. The same strength that had glowered at hesitant doctors, cursed out slow-moving nurses, and nearly lobbed her sandal at a dismissive intern who had been a little too hesitant in administering drugs. She had held his hand through every scream, wiped his sweat with steady fingers, and called him her baby boy over and over, as if the repetition alone could keep him grounded. And, somehow, it had.
Now, her voice was soft. Too soft. “The family is here.”
Something in Gi-hun dropped, low and heavy. “So soon?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought their train—”
“It arrived early,” Mal-soon said gently. “They’re all excited. The parents and their little girls—they’re over the moon about their baby son. Their little brother.”
Gi-hun nodded faintly, but his hands moved on instinct, pulling the baby closer just as the nurse stepped in to help. Together, they adjusted his robe, easing the baby from his chest. The infant stirred, fussing softly, and he shifted him against his shoulder to begin burping him, patting with a slow, practiced rhythm.
Mal-soon turned to the nurse then, her voice calm but firm. “Would you mind giving us a little privacy, dear? And ask the family to wait a while longer. Tell them he’s still resting.”
The nurse nodded, quiet and kind, and slipped out. The door clicked shut.
Gi-hun did not look up. He held the baby tighter, curled his body around him, like he could tuck them both into a space too small to be reached. Stared down at him, watching his little eyelids fluttering closed in milk-heavy sleep. His chin trembled. “Mama…”
Mal-soon came to him and gathered them both into her arms. She cupped the back of his head, pulled him in close, and kissed his temple, the wayward curls damp with sweat and grief. “I know, baby. My baby boy. I know.”
Gi-hun clung to her and to the baby, the sob catching hard in his throat before it could escape. “He’s perfect,” He whispered. “He’s perfect, and I’m giving him away.”
“No,” Mal-soon said firmly yet softly. “You’re giving him something better. Something stable. A home that won’t ask too much. You’re giving him a chance. That’s love too, you know.”
Gi-hun looked down at the baby in his arms, blinking furiously through the blur in his vision. “But it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like—”
“Loss,” Mal-soon finished for him. “Because it is. But love and loss—they’re tied up tight sometimes. You’ll carry both.” She leaned in closer, whispering now, as her finger gently brushed his cheek, swiping away a tear that had fallen. “He’ll have a good life. You made him. You brought him here. That doesn’t disappear just because someone else tucks him in.”
Gi-hun finally nodded, slow and reluctant, jaw clenched. He knew she was right. He had weighed every option. The apartment he shared with his mother now, too small. The bills, too many. His alpha, long gone, ignoring his calls, the future uncertain. He had left message after message. Had asked just for a conversation. An hour. Five minutes. The silence had answered louder than any rejection could.
But none of that made it easier to loosen his arms now. His body refused before his hands did. His chest ached as he shifted, and when his mother reached forward, he let her take the baby—his baby—only because he could not hold on any tighter. His arms felt suddenly weightless and aching all at once.
Mal-soon stood slowly, careful not to jostle the tiny bundle as she cradled him against her chest. She kissed his cheek, once, gently, her eyes glimmering with something too old for tears. Then she looked back at her son.
“You should name him,” Mal-soon said softly. “The family said it’s yours to give.” She paused, her voice a little thicker. “I’ll tell them you’re still resting. Take a little more time.”
Mal-soon turned and walked to the door, the baby nestled safely in her arms. The instant the door closed, Gi-hun dropped his face into his hands, fingers curling against his scalp as his shoulders began to shake in full, helpless silence. He sobbed until his throat burned raw, until the line tugged at his arm from the movement. When he finally looked up, blinking against the blur in his vision, he saw a stuffed tiger sitting on the shelf beside his bed. He reached out for it with trembling hands, fingers brushing over the soft orange fur, tracing the dark stripes like they might mean something.
It had come from a coworker at the factory. One of many small kindnesses. No one had ever asked him what happened. Why his alpha had stopped coming to pick him up after his shifts. They just showed up. Gave him rides. Never let him bend or lift too much, even though it was his job. Slipped him extra money in his lunch bag when they thought he would not notice.
They were good people. Quiet and strong.
He clutched the tiger to his chest and sobbed again, muffled into the soft fur.
A name came to him then, unbidden but certain. He whispered it once, barely audible, and held the tiger tighter.
Sometime later, Mal-soon returned. Her arms were empty. She closed the door gently behind her, the click of it sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room. “The parents are already so in love with him,” She said gently, as if saying it too loud would break something. “And the little sisters… they’re sweet girls. Careful. One of them was already whispering what she’s going to teach him.”
Gi-hun did not respond. He sat where she had left him, hunched slightly forward, still in his hospital bed. The light blue robe had fallen crooked off one shoulder. He was staring down at the stuffed tiger in his lap, his fingers carding absently through its fur like it was the only thing keeping him from simply disappearing into the hospital bed altogether.
Mal-soon stepped closer, voice still gentle, trying. “Would you like something to eat? I could get some seaweed soup. Nice and hot. I had it after I had you. Good for healing.”
Gi-hun blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused. His lips parted, then closed again. He gave a breath of a shake to his head. Then finally, his voice came, hoarse, thin, barely there,“No. Seaweed soup’s for parents.” He swallowed hard, eyes still on the tiger. His grip tightened on it. “And I’m not… I’m not one of those.”
Two months later, the call came. Gi-hun did not recognize the number at first.
Then:“Gi-hun?”
Sang-woo sounded smooth. Practiced. Said he had thought things through and had time to process. That he wanted to reconnect. That he would be in town. “Grab a drink?” He asked, like it had not been months of silence.
Like Gi-hun had not been left bleeding in more ways than one.
Still, Gi-hun smiled into the phone, even though no one could see him. Said sure, of course, he would love to catch up. A drink sounded great. He even laughed a little, soft and easy, like they used to. After he set the phone down on the receiver, his smile instantly faded, and he stared at the wall. Then he stood, walked to it, and punched it until his hand bled. The scream that followed did not sound like his. Not really. It was something pulled up from a deeper, more animal place.
Later, at a bar lit dim and gold, Sang-woo would smile at him like nothing had changed. Would launch into updates about raises, company dinners, and how he was finally being recognized. Then, with that same familiar half-smile: “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”
Gi-hun would smile back. Hollow. Then he would drain the bottle of soju.
Gi-hun never told Sang-woo about the baby. He should have. The moment they sat down. Should have punched his face black and blue. Should have screamed until his lungs gave out. Should have sobbed into his expensive shirt, told him about the baby boy who had had his eyes, his mouth, his damn blood—
—The one who had been born while Sang-woo was processing.
But Gi-hun did not.
Present
Rather than the massive, cement-gray chamber flooded with sterile white light where players were typically processed en masse, Player 456, Gi-hun, had been brought to a private room. Smaller. Still gray. Still too bright. But quieter. Almost reverent in its stillness. The only difference was the narrow one-way pane of glass behind him—allowing him to observe the greater chaos beyond without being seen himself. A single gurney sat at the center of the room, and on it lay the unconscious form he was meant to inspect.
The Front Man, In-ho, had handed over early game preparations to the Officer, stating he would join after the first round to subvert the threat of internal sabotage. He had, of course, omitted the deeper reason for entering the games that lay here before him, chest rising in steady, sleeping rhythm beneath layers of fabric.
Now, alone in the processing room, In-ho stood with both hands braced on either side of the gurney, leaning over the body that had haunted his every quiet moment since that bonus round. His gaze lingered on the slow, even rise of his chest beneath the thick layers he wore: a heavy gray cable-knit sweater and a navy coat still buttoned. He looked well. Healthier than expected. There was a soft flush to his cheeks, and the hollowness that once sat beneath his eyes had softened. His hair was longer, darker, and thicker than before, waves curling slightly across his brow, untamed but gleaming with vitality.
In-ho pulled off one leather glove with his teeth and let it fall to the floor, forgotten. He stripped away the angel mask the unconscious man wore next, slow and deliberate, as if he could feel the fall from grace in the act itself. Then, barehanded, he reached forward, brushing back one of the familiar curls from his forehead. There always was one out of place. Always. His fingers shifted lower, hesitating just above his mouth.
Then In-ho reached out to Gi-hun and traced the fullness of his pink lips and the soft bow of them. He let his thumb press slightly between them, drawn by the warmth that lived there. When the unconscious man exhaled a soft, involuntary sigh, breath stirring against his skin, his own breath caught too, sharp and shuddering.
In-ho remembered sliding the golden credit between his lips, a mark, a claim sealed with a kiss, and now his fingers traced the echo of it along his own mouth. He stared down at the unconscious man, at the curve of his lips, still slightly parted in sleep. At the slightest flutter of breath. He could do it. He could take more, strip away the ugly, ill-fitting clothes, expose every inch, and carve something lasting into flesh with nothing but desperation and want. Something monstrous twisted behind his ribs.
Were it not for the scent repressors clinging to his glands, his alpha scent would have flooded the room, thick with hunger, with need so strong it bordered on violence. His jaw clenched until the bone ached. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more a snarl than a sigh.
Then—unbidden—In-ho remembered.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun had laughed, soft and breathless, months ago. He had partially lifted the sheet to hide his flushed face, eyes crinkling with warmth. “Stop—don’t make me laugh while we’re like this—! Because it feels weird, asshole—!”
In-ho stilled and did not move to rip off the ugly, not form-fitting clothes the unconscious man wore. Not because he was merciful. Not because he pitied him. There simply was not time, or so he told himself. A low, almost disdainful breath left him, bitter in the sterile air. Instead, he bent low and pressed a hard, unyielding kiss to his lips.
In-ho sighed and pulled back just enough to collect himself and then began the methodical work of processing him.
The first step: removing the scent repressor.
In-ho straightened over Gi-hun and began the real work of processing him. The first order of business: the scent repressor. He reached his fingers beneath the neckline of the thick sweater, finding the patch pressed low against the curve of his neck. The edge had already begun to peel. In-ho gripped it and tore it off in one swift motion, the sound loud and adhesive, snapping through the quiet like a slap. The skin beneath it was flushed raw, the gland reddened and speckled with pinpricks of blood where the glue had bitten too deep.
Almost immediately, the sterile odor of latex and chemical cleanser began to fade. In its place, something warmer began to rise, golden and honeyed with a milky richness followed, soft and full, and for a moment he could almost taste it on the back of his tongue. Like steamed milk poured over honey cake, and with it, the ghost of something familiar.
Dalgona.
It had always reminded In-ho of that before—crisp sugar snapped between teeth, sweet but brittle. But this? It coated his mouth, lingered at the roof of it, and clung to the breath in his lungs.
The scent had changed.
Not like it had before, during the games, when heartbreak and anger had turned it bitter and scorched, like burnt sugar clinging to the bottom of a pan. No, this was something else. Rich, creamy, and soft in a way that curled low in his stomach, making his spine tense and something primal shift beneath his ribs. It was instinctive, undeniable. His scent had not just healed. It had softened. There was purpose in it now.
“You see,” In-ho murmured, brushing back the hair at the nape of his neck as he leaned closer. “Scents heal. They change. For the better, in this case.” He cradled the back of his head in one gloved hand, stroking his fingers through the thick, dark waves. “It’s even sweeter than before.”
He inhaled deeply, greedily. His free hand clenched on the side of the gurney. He leaned in again, the tip of his nose grazing just behind his ear, where scent pooled most strongly. He breathed it in, trembling slightly. “I wonder how it’ll change this time around,” He whispered, reverent.
Typically, players’ clothing, shoes, and any items deemed contraband were tossed into gray bins, cataloged, stored, and either returned to the eventual winner or quietly divvied up among the guards who had helped themselves when no one was looking. But as In-ho stood beside the gurney, eyes fixed on Gi-hun, he saw little point in preserving anything the unconscious man currently wore. The clothes were hideous, ill-fitting, clearly fished from a bargain bin, clinging to him like an afterthought. When the games were over, he would be given better, softer things that fit the life he had in mind for him.
He drew back with a sigh, unbuttoning the navy coat now. The zipper gave with a soft sound, and he peeled it open slowly, exposing the cable-knit sweater beneath. He reached down to pull it up and then stopped. His breath caught. There—round, undeniable beneath the thick knit. A swell. Not just the slight softness of weight gained. But taut, curved, carried.
In-ho starred. His mind went blank. For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to the warm stretch of fabric against a body that had changed in his absence. Then, slowly, carefully, he raised the hem higher. The truth met him halfway. And it winded him.
Almost seven months ago, when In-ho had helped Gi-hun through his heat, under the guise of a kind alpha stranger, they had still been tangled in the sheets afterward. The air had been thick with the scent of spent desire, the room quiet but full. He had touched the other man in every way he could, kissing everything he could reach, lips brushing sweat-damp skin and dark curls. And then, with one arm looped loosely around his waist, he had read to him.
At one point, Gi-hun had sobered, blinking slowly up at the ceiling before turning his face toward him.
“You seem to believe the opposite, though,” Gi-hun had said, voice soft. “Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Same as you,” In-ho had answered after a pause. “Losing nearly everything. Having to live with it.” He had been quiet for a beat, the stillness of the room stretching thin. Then, with a breath, he had continued. “Acute liver cirrhosis. That’s what they diagnosed my wife with. She was an omega. My omega. And she found out… the same week we learned she was pregnant with our first child.”
Gi-hun had stilled beside him. He had barely breathed.
“The doctors said she should terminate. Said it was too dangerous. But she was determined to protect our baby—more than she was willing to protect herself,” In-ho had said, and his voice had cracked. He had told himself it was just for effect, that it was all part of the story. Then he had steadied again. “So I vowed I would protect them both. Whatever it cost. And it did cost—money, time, parts of myself I didn’t know I could lose. I stopped sleeping. I sold everything. I gave up… everything. And still,” He had whispered, “They both died anyway.”
“Young-il,” Gi-hun had breathed, the name breaking fragile and small into the space between them. His eyes had gone glassy, lashes fluttering as tears welled and slipped free. He had swiped at them with the back of one hand, his lips trembling faintly. “I’m so sorry. I knew you’d… loved and lost. I could see it in your eyes. But I had no idea it was that.” He had shaken his head then, slowly, carefully, as if unsure of his own words, afraid that more might undo him.
In-ho had not spoken at once. But something had shifted in his expression. The edges of it had softened. As if watching this other man, this nothing omega, feel it with him, not just for him, had stripped something bare.
And now, standing over Gi-hun in the sterile light of the private processing room, In-ho stared down at the unmistakable swell beneath the heavy knit of his sweater, heart stuttering. That heat. That tangle of desire, need, grief, and comfort, of lips and trembling hands, broken histories told in low voices.
That was when Gi-hun must have conceived.
Shuddering, In-ho reached out to Gi-hun, his ungloved hand trembling slightly as it hovered in the space between them, just above the thick gray knit. Then it lowered, carefully, reverently, settling against the massive swell of his stomach. The sweater was warm beneath his palm, the curve unmistakably firm, alive. His breath caught. Slowly, he curled his fingers, pressing the heel of his hand more fully against the shape, trying to ground himself in its reality.
Then with his other hand he lifted the hem of the sweater. His fingers scraped the wool up and out of the way, and there it was, bare skin, flushed with warmth. Soft, taut, stretched across the round fullness of life with a faint line bisecting the swell like a path carved into something sacred. He resettled his bare hand against the swell and then felt a subtle push against his hand. A nudge from within.
In-ho jerked slightly, a breath escaping him like he had been struck. His body stiffened. The ashes in his chest, long cold, long buried beneath grief, anger, and hatred, flared to sudden flame. He staggered under the weight of it: grief for the child he had lost and for the wife whose voice still sometimes echoed in his ears. “It’s ours to protect. I’ll live and carry it, and you will love the both of us.” Her words came back to him like a ghost pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly. His shoulders shook once, sharp and involuntary. He bowed his head, and his dark hair fell forward like a curtain, shielding his expression even as his vision blurred. His throat burned. His nostrils flared. No tears came, but the pain in his chest pulsed, raw and furious. And yet beneath it, somehow, absurdly, joy. Awe. A laugh might have torn from him if he were not suffocating.
When In-ho straightened, it was too fast, too rigid. His spine locked into place like a soldier returning to attention. He yanked the sweater hem down again, smoothing it too many times, fingertips dragging slowly over the curve, unable to let go.
“Gi-hun, Gi-hun,” In-ho murmured, voice breaking low in his chest, “Oh foolish, stubborn omega… so much like her.” His hand lingered one last moment before slipping away. “What were you thinking coming here? Though I suppose you thought you had no other choice. I would have protected both of you if I had known." His voice became rough, almost growling. “Now, you’ve put me in a rather compromising position.”
Finally, In-ho stepped back and began to move through the next motions to finish the processing with robotic precision, though his hands still trembled faintly. He tugged the sweater down again, smoothing it unnecessarily, his fingers lingering too long against the soft curve before finally stepping back again. He pulled the sweater away fully, folding it with uncharacteristic care.
Then he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, leaving him in his undergarments. He ordered replacements, a larger shirt, and a looser jacket and dressed him quietly, the only sound the rustle of fabric, the soft tug of zippers, and the shuffle of shoes onto still feet. He combed his shoulder-length hair back into place with his fingers before carefully zipping up the green jacket. It helped hide the swell of his stomach. A little.
Then In-ho stepped back from the gurney and slipped his mask back on, and when it clicked into place, he made the call. When In-ho spoke again, it was not as a man but as the Front Man, detached and unreadable. “Send the Officer to me. Bring two guards. Finish processing Player 456. All that remains is a scan for any devices on his person. Once complete, he is to be escorted to the dormitory.” A pause. Then, as if remembering something trivial, an afterthought: “And shave him.”
When the Officer arrived, In-ho did not turn to look at him. Just spoke, voice cold as stone through the modulator of his mask,“Tell the other officers and guards that should anyone lay a hand on Player 456, all of their non-vital organs will be surgically removed, handed off to the organ trade you all seem to enjoy bartering with so much, and sold to the highest bidder. Then they will be kept alive—barely—and thrown into the next game. Let them try playing Glass Stepping Stones with no eyes. Am I clear?”
As In-ho spoke, the two circle-masked guards had begun to move the gurney, the wheels squeaking faintly against the polished floor as the unconscious form of Gi-hun shifted slightly with the motion. Both froze mid-step. Even behind the blank masks, their hesitation was palpable. Their gazes, hidden yet heavy, dropped to the unmistakable swell that curved out beneath the zipped jacket. Subtle, but undeniable.
“Yes, sir,” The guards said together, voices hollow in their synchronicity.
The Officer gave a single nod. “Understood, sir.”
In-ho inhaled slowly. His breath trembled on the way out. Then, low and deliberate, he said,"Leave me. Now.”
The Officer did not hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He bowed and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Then, with no warning, In-ho drove his fist into the glass in front of him. It cracked on impact, fractures spider webbing outward. Blood bloomed against the surface, stark and bright, and dripped from the torn edge of his glove. He stared at it, chest rising and falling in short, restrained breaths. The sting was sharp but distant, irrelevant.
Slowly, In-ho reached up, bare ungloved fingers trembling, and unlatched the mask once more. He tore it off like a man tearing away a second skin with a snarl, like it pained him to wear it. He breathed in, unfiltered, shallow, and ragged. Sweat clung to his hairline and trailed down his cheekbones. His eyes, bloodshot, stared at nothing and everything. That old, familiar sting behind them, there, but never allowed to fall.
In-ho had seen the swell with his own eyes. Had felt it. Warm and alive beneath his hand. The memory of that push against his palm, faint but sure, was carved into the space behind his ribs. His finger, still bare of its usual black leather glove, flexed at his side as if remembering the sensation. His wife had been that far along, perhaps even around the same trimester, and the memory of her voice, of her vow to protect what was theirs, rose like ashes in the wind inside him.
“I’ll protect what’s mine this time. My omega. My child,” In-ho said, his voice low and shaking with restraint, the blood on his glove forgotten. He lifted the mask slowly and deliberately, pressing it to his face as if sealing the vow into his own skin. His lips curled into a snarl behind the cold steel, his eyes red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears that would never fall.
My omega. The words echoed. The instinct burned through him from the moment he saw the swell beneath his sweater and felt that faint push beneath his palm; something in him had snapped into place. Something old and rooted in the marrow. That was his. They were his.
A beat passed. The breath behind the modulator felt like a storm breaking in his chest. He stared at the spiderwebbed glass, at the red smear left by his fist, and at the warped reflection of himself beneath it.
In-ho would not use the bit or bridle on Gi-hun, not yet. Not when running beside him would do. Let the others kick and flail, desperate for a carrot, blind to the whip. “He’ll run, yes—but I’ll be there. Every step. Every breath.” The pain in his hand throbbed dully now, overtaken by something colder, heavier, something like clarity. He turned from the glass. “He has to see it. What the world really is. What I’ve become to survive it. What he—and our unborn child—will have to become.”
Gi-hun had been gassed in vehicles far more times than the average civilian should. But then, the later years of his life had been many things, like surreal and grotesquely absurd, but never average. The gas had come the same way: cold, clinical, with a hiss like a snake curling around the base of his skull. And though it mimicked sleep, it never brought rest. What came instead were strange, disjointed dreams, messy things, flashes of old regrets, voices he could not place, and sensations that belonged to other lifetimes.
Gi-hun had dreams about his son, still swaddled in a blue baby blanket, being dragged away while he bled endlessly in a hospital bed. His son, his baby boy, was more concept than reality now, a presence that lived somewhere distant (somewhere safe from him). He dreamed of his daughter walking away across a massive body of water, barefoot and unbothered, her back turned to him as he sank helplessly beneath the surface. Of lovers he had held. Friends he had buried. All of them returning to him one by one, delivering their parting wounds, their last murmured words, their deaths rendered in grotesque, near-theatrical surrealism.
This time, Gi-hun dreamed of Sang-woo. They were young again before anything had happened, before everything had gone wrong. No designations, no power imbalances, no blood. Just boys. Just a squid grid and sunlight.
Gi-hun stood in the circle, laughing, breathless, sunlight glinting off sweat-slick cheeks. Sang-woo stood in the triangle, smiling for a moment before collapsing without warning. No sound, no struggle, just crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Sang-woo!” Gi-hun cried, stumbling forward. He reached out a hand to help him up, but Sang-woo did not move. Did not blink. Just lay there, silent, too still.
There was another boy too, about their age, standing in the square. His hair was neatly combed, dark but catching hints of auburn in the sun like the edges of autumn leaves. His eyes were deep and still, too serious for a child, too aware.
Gi-hun turned and offered the strange other boy his hand as well to see if perhaps he would play with him. The boy tilted his head, studying him like he was trying to understand a language he had never heard. Then, cautiously, he reached out and brushed his fingers with his own, intertwining them, but he held it hard to the point of painfulness.
“Ow—you’re hurting me!” Gi-hun yelped, trying to pull away.
The boy did not let go. He only stared. Unblinking. “Mine.”
When Gi-hun at last awoke, it was not rest that filled him but a heavier kind of exhaustion, and consciousness crept back in pieces: a flicker behind his closed lids, a shallow breath pulled into tight lungs. His eyelashes fluttered, and his eyelids slowly opened. As a wake-up call, familiar blaring fanfare music played over speakers overhead. The lights were white and harsh against his retinas, making every edge too sharp. He could hear the muffled sounds of others stirring around him, their groans and shuffling feet creating a cacophony of disorientation.
For a long moment, Gi-hun simply lay there, still on his left side, staring blankly at the bunks beside him and the other players beginning to stir. Left side—boy, right side—girl? Or did having twins just cancel it all out? The thought drifted through his groggy mind, absurd and a little hysterical, as he tried to remember how to breathe. Then he began to push himself upright and hissed, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as pain pinched through his lower back and hips. The familiar, unwelcome heaviness of his body, the weight gathered at his center, set in. He moved a hand automatically, one pressing against the small of his back, the other curling protectively around the roundness of his stomach as he managed to sit upright.
The green fabric of the tracksuit beneath his fingers was sickeningly familiar. He rubbed higher, following the line of the jacket until his hand bumped against the number stamped over his chest.
Four. Five. Six.
His breath caught. A number he had thought he would never wear again.
Then Gi-hun saw movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head sharply and yelped, the sound bursting out before he could stop it. Across from him, sprawled on her side atop another thin mattress, a beta woman stared at him, wide-eyed, wild, and unblinking. "Crazy" did not even begin to cover her gaze.
As Gi-hun stood, he just cursed under his breath, “Shit,” and scrubbed a hand over his face. Still scowling, he unzipped the jacket; the fabric was too tight, too hot, clinging to the prominent swell of his stomach in a way that made him feel suffocated. He pushed the sides apart and sighed heavily as a bit of pressure eased, though the shirt underneath was not much better. Setting both hands on his rounded stomach, he glanced sideways at the woman still staring at him and muttered, half to himself, half to her:
“If you want to stare at beached whales, you can go to the goddamn beach.”
That seemed to startle her. She blinked rapidly, her manic gaze faltering for the first time. But she rallied quickly, sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk, and leaning in, as if confiding a great secret.
"Player 456," She intoned, her voice dropping into a low, ominous register. "I sense you are burdened—"
"With two babies on my bladder," He muttered without missing a beat, expression deadpan.
Her eyebrow twitched. Just slightly.
"You do not know where to go—" She pressed on, lifting her hands in a grand, sweeping motion, as if she could conjure the very air around them.
He jerked his thumb lazily toward the far wall, his voice bone-dry. "Bathroom’s that way."
Her mouth opened. Closed. For a moment, the wild gleam in her eyes cracked into something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.
“Your destiny—” She tried again, louder this time, as if volume could reclaim her mystique.
“The bathroom," Gi-hun said, patting his stomach with dry finality. "Again, two babies. Full bladder. Real urgent destiny."
Without waiting for a reply, Gi-hun turned and began the long, unglamorous march across the dormitory. One hand braced against the small of his back, the other cupped protectively beneath the weight at his center. Every step sent dull shocks through his hips, each one a fresh reminder that he was, in fact, seven months pregnant, in the worst place imaginable, and far too damn old for this. Still, he just had to stay upright long enough for the tracker to do its work so the others could find him and pull him and the hundreds of other people here out.
First: the bathroom.
Then: maybe figure out how the hell to survive this again.
Hopefully before his ankles gave out.
Suddenly, Gi-hun felt a sharp sting at the side of his neck. He winced and raised a hand, fingertips brushing over the sore spot just beneath his jaw, his scent gland. The contact made him hiss, and he jerked his hand back instinctively. Craning his neck at an awkward angle, he squinted down and caught sight of it: an angry, red, and swollen welt, peppered with tiny blood specks. Like someone had ripped the scent repressor off with too much force. Far too much.
He gingerly touched it again, this time more carefully, tracing the outer edge. Then, almost absently, his hand drifted upward. His fingers passed over his jaw and his cheek, finding both smooth.
Gi-hun froze. “…Did someone fucking shave me?” He muttered aloud, his voice full of disbelief.
He ran his hand along his face again just to be sure. Definitely shaved. The indignity of it bloomed fresh in his chest. Well, at least they had not cut his hair. He shoved his fingers through the shoulder-length waves, pushing them back with a huff and letting them fall across his shoulders again.
Then the dormitory doors hissed open. Gi-hun froze mid-step. Ten guards filed in, all clad in that garish pink, triangle and circle masks gleaming beneath the overhead fluorescents. A square-masked guard led them. He went stiff, breath catching, lips parting in a small, silent gasp. The urge to use the bathroom vanished, replaced by the thunder of blood in his ears. His heart hammered against his ribs, a deep, primal panic roiling in his gut. Do not scream. Do not move. Do not collapse. His hand went to his stomach.
All around Gi-hun, the other players stirred like insects in a kicked nest—some shuffling toward the center, others murmuring in confusion or retreating to the shadows. So many bodies, so many scents. A blur of designations and pheromones. Hints of distant familiarity tickled his nose, faint notes he could almost recognize, but they dissolved just as quickly into strangeness. Some brushed against him; most did not notice. None lingered. They were all focused on the guards now. On learning why they were there.
Then the square-masked figure raised a hand. The familiar modulated voice echoed through the cavernous space: “I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days.”
Gi-hun took a step back. Then another. He bumped into someone. They muttered but did not look at him—too focused on the words, on the rising arguments, and on the building panic. He found the edge of a lower bunk and braced against it, his fingers curling into the metal bar. He worked a finger into his mouth and probed beneath a back molar, relief blooming faintly as he felt the smooth bump of the tracker still in place. Still transmitting.
Suddenly the lights overhead dimmed. A hush fell over the dormitory. Then, from above, a harsh golden glow poured down from the massive acrylic piggy bank suspended from the ceiling. Empty—for now—but glinting like an idol. He stared up at it, breath caught in his throat.
Gi-hun suddenly heard the familiar chiding voice of Sang-woo:“It’s not a thing. It’s plastic, Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun gazed over the sea of tracksuited bodies. Players clustered together like cattle unaware of the slaughterhouse at the gate. Then, slowly, his eyes rose again to the gargantuan piggy bank above and finally back to the memory of the miniature version that had sat in the limousine just hours before. The voice that had poured from it, cold and modulated: “Do you think you’re a hero too? Do you think you can change the world?”
No. He was not a hero. He had no illusions about that. He did not want to change the world—he wanted to expose it. To pull the mask off the lie it wore. To show these games for what they truly were: not structure, not salvation, but ritualized slaughter dressed up in lights and rules. Blood transmuted into gold. Humanity sold for sport. And he would not let them feed more bodies to it, not if he could help it.
Still, he had to be careful. That went against his nature. His nature was all fire and foolish bravery, all teeth bared and words hurled like weapons. He wanted to scream—to climb the bunks and shout the truth until the dormitory shook. To tear the mask from this thing, this farce. But he could not. Not yet.
There would be panic. Chaos. Screaming. A stampede toward the locked doors. And the guards, those blank-faced, triangle-marked butchers, would not hesitate. They would raise their guns and mow them down. Including him. Especially him. And the lives inside him—those soft, steady kicks beneath his ribs—would be the first to go.
His hand moved, reflex, habit, palm cradling the swell beneath his shirt. His stomach was heavy, warm, and real. The life inside him kicked gently, reminding him that this time, it was not just him against the machine. No, for now he had to lie low. Let the tracker do its job. Let his allies work their plan from the outside. So he stood there instead, quiet, hand resting over the tight swell of his stomach, and let the fire behind his ribs bank itself into smoke.
Even as the gold above gleamed, waiting to be fed.
Then the square-masked guard said something that snapped Gi-hun back into focus.
“For these games, you will be given a special new advantage.”
A murmur swept through the dormitory, punctuated by the gruff voice of a sour-faced alpha near the back. “What kind of advantage?”
The guard did not hesitate. “After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether to continue. If the majority chooses to stop, the games will end. The prize money you’ve earned thus far will be divided among the remaining players.”
A ripple of noise followed: surprise, disbelief, and scoffing. But Gi-hun stepped forward, slow and steady, peeling himself from where he had been leaning against the lower bunk. He dropped his hand from the swell of his stomach, his voice sharp but calm,“So even if we quit after the first game… we still get the money?”
He felt more than saw the shift in attention. Though the square-masked guard said nothing for a moment, the silence grew thick, coiled.
Finally, “That is correct.”
Gi-hun scoffed quietly, lips parting just slightly in disbelief. His eyebrows furrowed, not just at the answer, but at the way it had been delivered. Something behind it unnerved him. As if the voice were watching him closer than the others. Peering beneath his skin. His gaze drifted upward to the blinking red eye of a mounted security camera across the room.
He looked into it.
Unbeknownst to Gi-hun, the Front Man, In-ho, stood behind the surveillance feed, hands laced behind his back, spine straight, mask impassive. But beneath it, his breath caught for a moment. He leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes fixed to the monitor.
Something passed between them, wordless, electric, and strange.
A charge neither of them could name.
And neither of them could look away.
Gi-hun stood before the camera for the second time. The first time, he had been blissfully unaware of what was coming, nervous and naive, his tendencies still intact enough to smile without thinking. This time, he stood stiff and sore, shoulders tight, spine aching. The robotic female voice chirped overhead, far too bright for the circumstances: “Please look into the camera. Smile.”
Gi-hun did not smile. He glared into the lens, one hand braced against his lower back. His grimace twisted tighter. Then, without thinking, he raised his hand and flipped the camera off.
A chuckle sounded beside him.
He turned just slightly to see a young man, definitely alpha, probably late twenties, with a shock of dyed purple hair, grinning at him. The man thumped a fist to his chest and said, in loud, enthusiastic English, “Respect, my brother!”
Gi-hun did not respond. He just exhaled, long and slow.
Then came the stairs.
They spiraled and crisscrossed in impossible directions, defying logic and gravity, a twisting, visual paradox of architecture that defied logic. Players walked up and down at impossible angles, their bodies tilting in ways that made his stomach lurch if he looked too long. So he did not. He kept his eyes straight ahead and stood to the side to let others pass, moving slowly, one hand still on his back.
He was not in any hurry.
He knew what came next: the first game. The first bloodbath.
And if no one arrived soon, if his allies did not come crashing in like they had promised, he would have to survive it.
Again.
And help the countless others as well.
“Gi-hun!”
The voice rang out behind Gi-hun, followed by the unmistakable thump of heavy, running footsteps. He turned sharply, instinct already bracing for the worst, until he saw him.
Jung-bae. The man who had once snuck into his hospital room with a stuffed tiger tucked under his coat after his son was born. The man who had shielded him with his own body during that factory riot when the police stormed in had taken bruises so he, mid-labor, would not be touched. Who had drunk warm soju with him under bridges and eaten dry ramyeon like it was a feast. Who had gambled beside him and laughed when they lost it all because it was better than crying.
“Jung-bae?” Gi-hun gasped, stunned.
The older beta barreled toward him, his face breaking into something between disbelief and joy. “I’d recognize that mop anywhere!” He exclaimed, grabbing him by his shoulder with one hand and ruffling his hair with the other, fingers tugging through the shoulder-length waves. His touch softened, became reverent as he cupped his cheek. “Fuck, you were alive this whole time and—” His eyes dropped and widened comically. Then, like something out of instinct, he sniffed the air once, and that confirmed it. “You’re knocked up again?! At your age? I didn’t even think that was medically possible, but look at you—you’re enormous!”
It was an old habit, so Gi-hun did not even think before swatting Jung-bae upside the head, hard, with a muttered curse. “You cabbage-headed bastard,” He hissed. “You don’t see me for years, and the first thing out of your mouth is about my age and my figure?”
Jung-bae just laughed, rubbing the back of his skull where he had been hit, grinning with the warmth of someone who had missed being hit by him. “Damn, I forgot how hard your swings are.”
Gi-hun grabbed Jung-bae by his arm and tugged him off to the side, out of the growing line of grumbling players behind them. “What are you doing here, Jung-bae?”
“What am I doing here?! What are you doing here?! Like this!” Jung-bae exclaimed incredulously and gestured wildly at the obvious swell of his stomach. “You could barely put on your shoes last time you were pregnant, and now you’re waddling into this?! What, you plan on running the games in a maternity support belt?!”
“Jung-bae—”
“And three years!” Jung-bae cut over him. “I heard about your mom—from my wife! Not from you! You disappeared off the face of the Earth, never returned a single call! What kind of bastard friend are you, huh? What, did you meet some new alpha and run off to make a shiny new life somewhere, forget about me? Was it because I didn’t lend you money back then?”
Gi-hun faltered. His voice was quieter than it had been a second ago. “No. It’s not like that. Any of it.” He shook his head. “It’s… a long story.”
The words fell like a stone between them.
Jung-bae studied Gi-hun, something in his expression crumpling, not anger now, but concern. Deep, old concern. He looked at him the way a brother might or a soldier who thought they had lost a comrade only to find them again under the worst possible circumstances.
“I’ll hear it,” Jung-bae said finally, the usual teasing lilt softening into something steadier. “All of it. And I guess I’ve got some confessing to do too. You’ll probably give me a few more swats once I’m done—or hell, maybe just sit on me.”
Gi-hun felt his eye twitch, and so did his hand. He visibly debated between swatting him upside the head again or driving an elbow into his gut. Either would have been satisfying. His irritation spiked just enough to tint the air with that faint trace of sharpness in his own scent, like burnt sugar at the edge. “You’re not funny,” He muttered, but his voice had softened.
As Jung-bae fell into step beside Gi-hun, their pace slow and careful up the twisting, mind-bending stairs, something in him settled. Just a little. His friend smelled like mandarin peel and ginger root, citrusy and warm, with that sharp spiced edge that reminded him of cramped locker rooms at the factory and of crowded bars and noisy street vendors, of home.
Then Gi-hun reached out to Jung-bae and gave his arm a squeeze—gratitude, apology, everything in between. Jung-bae did not speak, but he adjusted easily, letting him keep a hand on him as they climbed, silently bearing some of his weight like he always had. They spoke quietly as they continued the descent up the stairs, catching up as much as they could in the little time they had before they reached the top.
“Whatever happens when we get to the top,” Gi-hun said tensely, not looking over, “Stay close to me.” Then, quieter: “And—for once—just listen to me.”
Jung-bae scoffed, but there was no real bite in it. “‘Stay close’? You’ve gotten melodramatic in your old age,” He muttered. “What next? Gonna tell me to hold your hand if it gets scary?”
Gi-hun did not answer. Just gripped his arm a little tighter.
The Front Man, In-ho, sat in his private viewing room and removed his mask and set it aside with care, though his movements were stiff and deliberate. He winced as he flexed his hand, now wrapped tightly in white bandages. The painkillers had dulled the worst of it; the whiskey would take care of the rest, though the two were not meant to mix. He didn’t care. The injury had been dealt with quickly, an unremarkable trip to the infirmary, the kind that would not warrant whispers. The bandages were easily concealed beneath his glove. No one had seen. No one would question.
It had been a lapse. A momentary slip in control.
He did not often allow those.
In-ho took a slow sip of his whiskey, then turned back to the screen. On it: the Red Light, Green Light field. A vast pastel hellscape, the blue sky stretched high and unbroken, fake clouds painted too still above walls painted like golden fields, with windless stalks of wheat flanking the sides. Players crowded near the start, all in matching green tracksuits that clashed hard against the artificial cheer of the space.
And there—just left of center. Gi-hun. Player 456. His omega.
In-ho narrowed his eyes. The camera panned in slightly, closing in on Gi-hun with his unruly mop of black hair, the sunlight glinting off it like oil. His jacket was unzipped, revealing the distended curve of his stomach beneath the taut white undershirt, which pulled awkwardly over his abdomen. One hand curled protectively under the swell. His expression was focused, jaw clenched, sweat already gathering at his temples.
He was glowing.
But clearly already on edge.
In-ho watched with mild interest as Gi-hun suddenly reached into his mouth, fingers slipping past his teeth. Panic flickered across his face—sharp, unfiltered, and completely visible. A beat later, he pulled free the dental implant, slick with spit, and stared at it as it slipped from his trembling hand and hit the dirt uselessly. The realization was immediate. The tracker was gone.
In-ho tilted his head, not alarmed—intrigued. His bandaged fingers twitched against the leather of the armrest as he swirled the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the low light of the viewing room. Whatever plan he had come in with, it had just collapsed.
So. What now?
What In-ho did not expect was for Gi-hun, his heavily pregnant omega, who was already sweating from the heat, to begin running, not waddling, not limping, but running before the game even started. The shocking sight nearly made him choke on his drink. He watched as the other man surged forward with staggering speed, something he never imagined someone so heavily pregnant could do, barreling past stunned players with sharp and unapologetic elbows. A few toppled. One cried out. He watched, lips slightly parted, as he shoved his way to the very front of the formation, turned, and faced the crowd, chest heaving, defiant.
The speakers crackled overhead with the saccharine cheer of the robotic voice: “Players, the game is Red Light, Green Light. You may proceed forward when it says—”
Gi-hun cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, cutting through the noise. “Everyone! Everyone, listen up—pay attention! This is not just a game! If you lose the game, you die!”
In-ho frowned, setting his glass down with a quiet clack against the armrest. Even now—pregnant, exhausted, cornered—Gi-hun still insisted on playing the hero. Was still trying to save everyone. And with what, exactly? No tracker. No plan. No escape route waiting on the other side. Just his voice and what little knowledge he had. Did he truly think he could keep four hundred and fifty-five people alive in one of the bloodiest game of the six? The one specifically designed to break the herd apart?
The crowd reacted exactly as In-ho expected. Scoffs. Laughter. Others jeered, booed, and barked nervous jokes. A few stared at the ground and pretended they had not heard him at all.
And then, Young-hee turned with a soft mechanical whirr.
“The hibiscus flower has bloomed.”
Gi-hun stood firm. One hand braced against the small of his back, the other cupped protectively around the swell of his stomach. He remained facing the crowd—still commanding, his mouth set in grim determination. Then, as the doll stopped singing, as the players around him lurched cautiously into motion, he raised his hand, his voice low and urgent as he called: “Freeze!”
In-ho took a slow sip of his whiskey.
Gi-hun did not move.
Neither did the other players. For one beat. Then another. The doll finished her turn. No shots fired. Once. Twice. Three times the song looped. Still—no gunfire. Just the awkward shuffle of bodies, the frantic breath of the uncertain, and the tight-held silence of those too afraid to test luck. It was almost impressive.
The silence stretched so long that In-ho could hear the soft clink of ice against the sides of his glass as he rolled it lazily between his fingers. It was, for a moment, almost disappointing. A full three cycles and not one body dropped. Somehow, his omega, heavy with their child, sweat beading at his brow, back bowed beneath the weight of too many burdens, had held them all still through sheer force of will. It was naive, foolish, but admirable. He would learn better. And soon. Once he was by his side. Once he understood.
Onscreen, Gi-hun moved, shifting his arm just enough to shout another warning, his voice muffled behind the crook of his elbow. His other hand never strayed from his stomach, fingers splayed protectively across the swell.
Something in In-ho purred at the sight.
Then, motion caught the edge of the camera. A young woman stood still as stone, but something tiny and golden had landed on her neck. A bee. He could see it even through the resolution, the flicker of its wings just before it crawled along the tender curve of her throat. Her eyes widened. He could see the panic, see the tremble start. She flailed and gave a sharp, instinctual scream.
Then she tried to wave it off, laughing nervously as if embarrassed, as if she had just made a fool of herself in a schoolyard. She still thought it was a game. Still thought elimination meant something temporary. A penalty. A reset.
A shot rang out.
Her head snapped back in a burst of red, her body crumpling. Silence. Then players began to scream and run. Gunfire erupted.
In-ho exhaled through his nose, quiet, calm. He tilted his glass toward his lips and smirked into the rim. And just like that—the game had begun. Like dominoes, the rest followed. The panic. The running. Bodies dropped in flashes of red, limbs contorting mid-fall. The screams became a wall of noise.
It was then that In-ho lifted the remote to the jazz set in the corner, the one with the ceramic figurines that swayed stiffly as they sang, caught in a perpetual loop of joy. He clicked it on. Immediately, the old standard began, Fly Me to the Moon:
“Fly me to the Moon
Let me play among the stars
And let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me.”
There, amid the chaos, Gi-hun was screaming, begging the countless other players to go still and listen. Bent over, yelling into the crook of his arm, his voice raw with panic. The roar of bullets swallowed most of the sound, but the anguish was still visible in his expression, in the way his other arm curled protectively over his belly, shielding what little he could. His fingers were locked in a white-knuckle grip on his jumpsuit, crumpling the green fabric.
As In-ho watched Gi-hun, the other man swiveled his bloodshot brown eyes to the camera, staring through the lens as if through glass, as if he could see who was watching. As if he already knew.
"You are all I long for
All I worship and adore.”
In-ho swallowed hard. The taste of whiskey clung to the back of his throat, sharp and hot. He stood abruptly. The chair scraped back across the floor with a violence that did not match the music, and the glass, half-finished, hit the table with a thud, the sound too loud, too final. He did not look back at the screen. He could not. The game would go on. The broadcast would continue. There was nothing else worth seeing. Not now. Besides, there were other matters to attend to.
He stepped out into the corridor, footsteps clipped and deliberate. The quartermaster was waiting. A nod passed between them, no words exchanged. None needed. He stepped into the private changing room, the door shutting behind him with a soft click. Warm yellow light filled the space, glowing against deep red walls. A black leather bench sat centered like an altar, and upon it lay the all-too-familiar green tracksuit, crisp, neatly folded, untouched. The designation stamped across the chest stared back at him like a brand: zero zero one.
He shed his gloves and mask with practiced efficiency, setting them aside. Then came his outer jacket, shirt, pants, belt, socks, and shoes, each item removed in careful sequence, folded and stacked with precision. Bare now, he stood still for a moment, hands drifting to his throat. His fingers brushed over the cool plastic layers of the scent repressors clasped tightly against his neck. He would remove them last.
He had a role to play now. A new mask to wear.
Player zero zero one.
Oh Young-il.
The players had at last stopped moving enough for Young-hee to turn again with a soft mechanical whirr and sing her song again,”The hibiscus flower has bloomed.”
The scent around Gi-hun was overwhelming. Omegas cloyed with terror, alphas sharp and volatile, betas frozen in disbelief. His own scent was no better, burnt sugar and soured milk, sick with dread. It stuck in his throat, made him gag. Still, he shouted again, hoping they could hear him, hoping they would listen. And finally they stilled; the gunshots slowed and then stopped. The rules were cheerfully repeated.
Not a single player moved now, but the clock was ticking. Staying still too long would be just as deadly as moving when they should not. Gi-hun was forced to focus then, to remember everything Sang-woo had worked out the first time, the details he had shared afterward in hushed tones, and his own observations that were fewer and rougher, but together they formed something he could work with. A rough set of rules, or cheats, for those who had never played before.
Gi-hun called them out, voice cracking, forcing clarity through panic. Then, eyes wide, body trembling with strain, he braced one arm around his stomach and shouted into the crook of his elbow, “We’re running out of time! We’ve got to move!”
When it was time, Gi-hun stepped forward first. Pain curled deep in his lower back, wrapped around his hips like barbed wire. The weight in his belly dragged downward with every step, slow and punishing. Sweat slid down the slope of his spine and pooled along the waistband of his pants. His shirt clung wetly to his skin, tightest around his distended stomach and his chest, which had grown fuller, rounder, and heavier with pregnancy than it had ever been. A shame he could feel but did not have time for. He did not stop. And the others followed.
Jung-bae stopped short a few paces ahead of Gi-hun, and without turning, he reached back and found his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric and anchoring them both. The grip was steady, familiar as the song ended and the doll head turned, scanning all of the remaining players again. He bent into the crook of his elbow, voice low and sure, mirroring his own posture from before,“We’ll stick close to each other,” He said. “When we move again, hold onto me.”
Gi-hun exhaled, just once. The contact grounded him. A pulse of warmth through damp fabric. He leaned into the hand still fisted at his front and spoke just above a whisper into his own elbow,“Thank you, Jung-bae.”
Then they were moving again. Jung-bae took the lead, a step ahead now, still gripping Gi-hun by the jacket to help keep him upright, their bodies moving in tandem. Together they led the front of the fractured line, the survivors trailing behind them in loose clusters, breath ragged, feet dragging, all of them running out of time. The song ended. Stillness fell. A few final gunshots rang out—sharp punctuation in the quiet.
As Gi-hun and Jung-bae neared the pink finish line, a hand, bloody and trembling, unseen until too late, lunged up from the dirt and latched onto his pant leg, dragging him back with a desperate yank. He staggered backward, and the hand on his jacket slipped, the grip vanishing. And he fell. In that moment, he was certain it was over—for him, for the unborn lives inside him, for everything. But his back did not hit the ground.
Gi-hun landed against a hard, solid chest, and arms caught him under his own, tightened just enough to keep him upright. Whoever had grabbed him took the weight in stride, stumbling only slightly before dropping with him, easing them both into a squat just as the music died again and the doll head began to swivel around again.
Gi-hun panted, hand braced over his stomach, heartbeat loud in his ears. His face was flushed, burning with fear and exertion.
A voice came soft and earnest at his ear, warm breath brushing his cheek. “Don’t worry,” It said. Slightly out of breath. “I’ve got you, Mr. Freeze.”
Gi-hun nodded, lips trembling. His eyes were still wide, locked on the pink line just ahead. “T-thank you,” He whispered.
“P-please…” Another voice stammered nearby, cracked and panicked. “I’m sorry I tripped you—j-just don’t leave me…”
Gi-hun turned, dizzy and disoriented, to find a beta man slumped against the dirt, a gunshot wound blooming dark and wet along his thigh. Blood flecked his face and collar. “H-help me…” He rasped, his voice barely holding together.
For one bitter, flickering moment, Gi-hun felt nothing but cold resentment. The man had nearly gotten him and his unborn children killed. But then that edge dulled—softened by the simple, terrible truth that everyone here wanted the same thing. To live. To survive. And this one likely had not meant to trip him. Just panic. Just instinct.
“I-I’ll try,” Gi-hun murmured, still catching his breath. “I’ll get you up on the next turn—”
A voice cut through from a few feet away, sharp but calm,“I’ll help him, 456.”
It belonged to Player 120, a tall alpha woman with shoulder-length hair and straight-cut bangs, her number stenciled across her jacket. “You can’t move him in your condition. 388, keep hold of 456. Help him across the line. He’s done enough. I’ll take 444.”
“Right,” Said the one supporting Gi-hun—Player 388, apparently.
Player 388 had one strong arm anchoring Gi-hun at the back, the other sliding down to clasp his hand, fingers firm and ready. Gi-hun barely had time to register the strength in his arms or his alpha scent of crushed pine needles and honey, sharp but mellow, grounded, before the doll turned again.
“The hibiscus flower has bloomed.”
Immediately, Player 388 hauled Gi-hun upright with surprising ease and broke into a run, half-guiding, half-carrying him toward the finish line. His legs churned forward, barely keeping pace, the pressure in his abdomen pulling tight with each desperate step. From the corner of his eye, he saw Player 120 dragging Player 444, who hobbled along with one arm slung around her shoulder and the other pressed to his bleeding leg. All four of them crossed the line, barely, just as the song ended and the doll head snapped back around.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then Gi-hun turned, breath ragged, and finally looked at the man beside him. Player 388 was a young alpha man, dark-haired, half of it pulled back into a short tail while the rest hung loose, damp with sweat. Stray strands clung to his flushed cheeks. His chest still rose and fell with exertion, but his eyes, wide and brown and sincere, remained focused squarely on him.
“Are you alright, Mr. Freeze?” Player 388 asked, voice still catching, a hand gently placed on his shoulder. His nostrils flared faintly, the way alphas did when scenting, searching for signs of pain, fear, anything.
Before Gi-hun could answer, Jung-bae called out, his voice choked with relief,”Gi-hun!” He was running toward them, stumbling over the dirt, expression unguarded for once.
Player 444, meanwhile, was sobbing against Player 120. “Thank you—thank you—I didn’t mean—thank you—”
The gunshot came fast. It cracked through the air like a whip. Player 444 jerked, his voice cut off mid-word as he crumpled and hit the ground hard. Blood fanned outward beneath him.
Player 120 froze, eyes wide, arms still extended from where she had been holding him a second ago. Blood had splattered across her face. Her mouth was slightly open. She did not speak. She only stared.
No one moved.
The silence after was worse than the shot.
Player 388 jolted beside Gi-hun, hand tightening reflexively on his shoulder, and without thinking, he reached up and pressed his hand over his. He gently rubbed his scent gland lightly against the skin, soothing, instinctual, offering calm the only way he could. He stood rooted where he was, one hand still on the one on his shoulder, the other protectively draped over his stomach. His legs trembled beneath him, not enough to fall, but enough to remind him how close he had come.
Gi-hun sat beside Jung-bae on the lower bunk in the dormitory, surrounded by hundreds of players terrified, bloodstained, and slack-jawed with shock. Most had not spoken. Some had not even blinked. They were both panting, sweat-soaked, and splattered in blood that was not theirs. Their shoulders bumped with each uneven breath. If the overwhelming blend of alpha, beta, and omega scent had been nauseating before, it was unbearable now, clogged with terror, sweat, and blood. It hung in the air like rot.
Gi-hun still heard the echo of gunfire in his ears. His whole body trembled with the aftershock of survival, but it was his stomach he clutched now, pressing his forearms tightly around the swell like he could anchor it, anchor himself. Sweat slicked his temple, trailing down his neck in slow rivulets. With a shaking hand, he pushed the damp waves of hair back from his face, trying and failing to get his breath under control.
Sitting just above and behind Gi-hun and Jung-bae was Player 388, who was nestled into the crook of bunk rails like he was not sure where else to be. The younger alpha hovered nearby like a stray, eyes wide, arms wrapped around himself. He had not spoken since the game ended. Had not drifted far, either. Just close enough to catch his scent and shadow his steps like a second heartbeat.
Gi-hun noticed him out of the corner of his eye and, despite the exhaustion, tried to emit something calming, something stable. But his scent was too erratic from fear, panic, and pain to settle down, no matter how hard he tried. And speaking had been difficult since his last games, where once his mouth had been one of the few weapons he had known how to use; now it felt clumsy, foreign, like one that had not been wielded in some time. But he turned anyway, glancing up slightly at the alpha crouched just above. His voice came out hoarse but kind,"Are you alright?”
Player 388 blinked, clearly startled by being addressed. For a beat, he just stared like the moment had not quite registered. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face, genuine, a little crooked, almost shy. “Y-yeah,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks, Mr. Freeze. I didn’t wanna… bother anyone.”
Beside Gi-hun, Jung-bae let out a tired snort, glancing up over his shoulder. “Mr. Freeze?”
“Yes!” Player 388 said with enthusiasm, shifting forward slightly as if to demonstrate. “You know—from when he went—” He ducked his head, tucked his face into the crook of his arm, and mimicked his shout from earlier. “Freeze! It was awesome. Very action-hero!"
Jung-bae let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rough but real. Gi-hun gave a sheepish shrug, suddenly and absurdly self-conscious. Player 388 looked pleased, maybe too pleased, his smile lingering. Then, as if remembering he was not quite part of them yet, he folded his arms back around himself and tucked into the bunk rails again, drawing his knees up like he could vanish into the metal frame.
Jung-bae glanced at Gi-hun, one eyebrow raised, a slight curl tugging at his mouth. “Seems like he’s stuck to you,” He whispered. “Might as well keep him around.”
Gi-hun sighed through his nose. “Three-eight-eight,” He said quietly, turning his head just enough to look up, “Why don’t you come sit with us?”
“Really?” Player 388 asked, already halfway to his feet. “Yes—yes, thank you!”
Before either of them could clarify where exactly with us meant, Player 388 wriggled between Gi-hun and Jung-bae with zero hesitation, wedging himself in the narrow space. Both older men grunted in unison, their bodies jolting slightly at the intrusion.
“I meant next to—” Gi-hun started, then gave up.
Jung-bae muttered, “Well, too late now.”
Still, neither of them moved him.
Then Jung-bae let out a long, uneven breath. “That damn creepy doll,” He muttered. “I’m gonna see that thing in my dreams. Worse than any horror movie.” He gave a dry laugh that did not quite land. “Shoots people with its eyes.”
Gi-hun shook his head weakly. “It’s not… It’s not the doll.” His voice cracked, frayed. “There are people. Shooters. Behind the walls.”
Jung-bae turned his head, frowning. “Gi-hun… how do you know that?” He asked carefully. “Have you really—have you been here before?” Before he could answer, he caught the strain in his face and stiffened. “Are you—are you hurting? You're not having—” He lowered his voice, glancing around. “—contractions?”
Player 388 went still. He glanced at the older omega man, the humor draining from his face as concern took root. He leaned forward ever so slightly, not touching him but hovering close, scent shifting subtly, nervous, protective.
“No,” Gi-hun said quickly, the word sharper than intended. He shook his head, his voice rasping on the edge of panic. “No. It’s too early. Way too early.” He did not want to think about the possibility of going into labor here. Not here. He gripped his stomach tighter, as though he could keep the possibility itself at bay. “I’m just…” He trailed off. There was not a word big enough for what he was feeling.
The air shifted. Soft footsteps approached. Not the heavy, synchronized march of guards. Something quieter. Hesitant. Gi-hun looked up. And his breath caught.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun whispered, the name falling from his lips before he could stop it. His voice cracked around it. He blinked, dazed, as though the man before him might vanish if he looked too long. Then the horror of it hit him, sharp and sudden, like a punch to the gut. “Oh God… Young-il, what are—”
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said. His voice sounded like it had been dragged out of his chest, low, gravel-rough, and ragged at the edges.
Young-il crossed the little space between them in two fast, uneven steps, just as Gi-hun was staggering to his feet. Then he was there, in front of him, taking his arms in both hands, those hands still trembling, and holding him like he did not quite believe he was real. His nostrils flared as he scented him, and his brow furrowed, faint but unmistakable, as the shift in his scent registered.
With two fingers, Young-il took Gi-hun by the chin, tilting it up, not rough but insistent, checking for injuries or signs of distress. His gaze burned. And then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. Not far. His hands hovered, then roamed, scanning him with feverish intensity, until they dropped. His eyes followed.
Gi-hun shifted, flinching beneath the weight of that gaze. Silently, he drew his hands over the swell of his stomach, where the zipper of his jacket lay undone and the fabric of his shirt clung too tight. His cheeks flushed a shame-colored pink. Young-il, breath hitching softly, extended a hand forward, hovering it over the rounded swell as if the air alone could tell him what he needed to know. He never laid his palm down, only grazing the fabric once with the edge of his hand before staring wide-eyed and stunned, lips parted.
Gi-hun did not speak either. He just stood there, blood on his hands, sweat in his eyelashes, and that impossible truth between them—wordless but deafening.
Behind them, players wept, retched, and prayed. A few were already asleep, exhausted by fear. But around Gi-hun and Young-il, there was a strange, still quiet. In that breathless hush, Young-il looked up at last. Their eyes locked. Gi-hun parted his lips.
Then came a dry, familiar voice that cracked the tension like a stone through glass. “I take it you’re friends with Gi-hun too?” Jung-bae asked, arms crossed, eyeing Young-il with the wariness of an older brother watching a stranger get too close.
Gi-hun flinched, visibly startled, and then felt the familiar strong desire to swat Jung-bae, perhaps even kick him—or throw a shoe, if he could bend over enough. Young-il blinked and stepped back, gaze dropping, breath exhaled sharply like it had been held far too long.
“Young-il, I—” Gi-hun began, voice weak.
The lights shifted. Without warning, the soft, flickering yellow above turned to something sterile and blinding. A harsh, white flood bathed the dormitory, bleaching the color out of everything. Then came the sound, loud, final, the heavy screech of metal doors sliding open. Nearly a dozen triangle-masked guards entered, guns in hand. At their center stood one in a square mask.
The room erupted into panic. Players dove beneath bunks; others pressed themselves against the walls. Someone sobbed. Someone screamed. A few did not move at all, shell-shocked into silence.
Gi-hun stood still. He did not flinch. He did not run. He just pressed a hand over his stomach and waited. “Young-il,” He said calmly, voice low but firm, “Stay close to me. And please—listen to what I tell you.”
“I trust you, Gi-hun,” Young-il replied, just as quiet. He hovered behind him without hesitation, one hand curling lightly around the sleeve of his jacket with the smallest touch.
The square-masked guard took a step forward. His voice filtered through the mask, hollow and amplified,“Congratulations for making it through the first game.”
Chapter 7
Summary:
“Shh,” Came a familiar voice. “It’s okay. You’re alright. You were having a bad dream.”
Gi-hun gasped, blinking blearily. His chest heaved as he tried to steady himself. The scent came first, familiar, anchoring, whiskey and old pages, curling warmth and smoldered smoke. It calmed something in him before he even processed where he was. Then he realized. This was not his bed. “Young-il…?” He rasped, hoarse.
Gi-hun turned his head slightly, the movement stiff with tension. Young-il was there, lying behind him, one hand still on his arm, the other steady at his waist, gently embracing him.
Gi-hun stared, then murmured, dazed, “How did I get in your bed?”
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Second, this story is very much a Frankenstein’s monster of several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
As for this chapter, it's a slower one—more setup and simmering tension than action, but it lays the groundwork for the shifting character dynamics, the upcoming rounds of the games, and some major emotional revelations (and yes, smut) in the chapters to follow. 👀
Content warnings: Thoughts of strangulation (gee, wonder who’s behind that), along with omegaverse-typical power imbalances, gendered dynamics, and general emotional manipulation. Proceed with caution and/or gleeful anticipation.
Now that we’re officially back in the games, please know I’m not aiming to write a beat-for-beat omegaverse retelling of Season Two. Expect major changes from this point forward—and my apologies in advance if certain characters or arcs get shifted or sidelined along the way.
Finally, an enormous thank you to everyone who sent birthday wishes, left comments, or gifted fanart—you made my whole week. I’m endlessly grateful for this little fandom corner and all the freaks (affectionate) who keep showing up for this story. 💖
Chapter Text
The dormitory was dim, bathed in two stark floods of light, half cast in sterile blue, the other in heavy red, split precisely down the center of the room. Each side bore a single bold symbol: a massive X on one side, a massive O on the other. Gi-hun stood just at that divide, eyes flicking down to his own stomach. The blue and red light split cleanly across the curve of it, one side blood-colored, the other like frost. For a brief, strange moment, he was mesmerized by the symmetry.
Young-il and Jung-bae stood on either side of Gi-hun, while Player 388 lingered just behind, quiet again but ever-present. They all watched in tense silence as guards assembled a sleek metal voting machine at the front of the room, placing it squarely between the X and O.
The square-masked guard stepped forward, voice modulated and devoid of inflection. “Now, let us begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will proceed in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456.”
A ripple moved through the crowd. Players shifted, parted, and cleared a path. As Gi-hun stepped forward, he felt the weight of countless eyes. Some followed him with quiet reverence. Others, more brazen, scented the air as he passed, their attention lingering on the swell of his stomach like it was both curiosity and threat.
Then—
“It’s all pointless!” The voice rang out above them like a warning bell.
Gi-hun looked up, already sighing. There she was—the crazy-eyed woman from earlier, perched atop a row of bunks like some deranged gargoyle.
“You didn’t decide when to come into this world,” She crooned, “And you can’t decide when to leave it either. When and where you die is chosen by the gods the moment you’re born.”
Gi-hun stared at her flatly, then glanced down at his shoes. He was tempted again to hurl one. Only the effort of removing it without toppling over stopped him again. Instead, he turned, strode calmly toward the machine, and stepped on the line between the X and O. The moment he reached it, he lifted his hand and pressed the X button.
It beeped. A red light flashed, and the board overhead clicked and updated: X: 1. A circle-masked guard stepped forward and handed Gi-hun a red badge stamped with an X, yet another way to brand them. He snatched it and affixed it to his right breast, and then he turned again, returning to where those he knew were gathered.
Gi-hun tried not to think about the tracker. Without it, there was little chance of rescue. Jun-ho, sharp, determined, and far more resourceful than anyone had the right to be, had spent years trying to find this island and had been thwarted at every turn. If he could not find it then, what hope did he have now?
And yet, in the short time Gi-hun had known Jun-ho, he had learned one thing for certain: he did not give up. He knew he would try. He would chase any lead, any flicker of a signal. He only hoped that the young alpha was safe and alive along with his other allies. But hope was not a strategy.
That left Gi-hun here, stranded, with his fate, the fate of his unborn children, the man who had fathered them, his friends old and new, and the nameless hundreds crammed into this hell all resting on the votes of the broken and desperate. People who had nothing left but debt and shame and the dream of one last chance. If the Xs didn’t win, there would be no going back. No do-over. It would fall to him and the scraps of knowledge he had clawed together from his last time in this nightmare to find another way out.
He almost shouted it. Almost told them all about the stacks of money piled high on a mattress back at the motel like cathedrals above houses. Told them it was theirs if they just voted X and walked away from this horror. But then he looked at the guards. At their guns. At the way their fingers never strayed far from the triggers. If there was one thing they did not tolerate, it was cheating. And offering bribes, even out of desperation, would be seen as exactly that.
Instead, Gi-hun turned, voice low, breath shuddering, and looked to Jung-bae, Young-il, and Player 388. “Please,” He whispered. “Support me in this vote. Press X. If you're thinking of voting O because of your debts, I… I can help. I can’t explain everything now, but I have money. More than enough. Let me help you.”
Jung-bae blinked at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Alright, Gi-hun,” He muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “But this better not be like all those times you swore you'd pay me back for soju and ramyeon.”
Still, Jung-bae gave a short nod. Player 388 mirrored Jung-bae at once, eyes serious beneath the little stray hairs falling across his forehead.
Gi-hun watched Player 388 a beat too long, gaze drawn to his soft, round eyes—earnest and open in a way that tugged hard at something in his chest. His scent slipped, unbidden, and he reached out almost unconsciously, patting the young alpha on the shoulder, the inside of his wrist grazing lightly against it. The young alpha startled, then stilled, his eyes flicking from his face to the hand resting on him; slowly, deliberately, he laid his own hand over it, fingers firm as if afraid to let go, and pressed his wrist gently back to his. His scent rose, all pine leaves and sun-warmed honey dripping down the needles, clumsy and shaky in its presentation, but genuine.
Gi-hun gave Player 388 the faintest reassuring smile and pulled back, just in time to reach out a hand to Young-il, who took it immediately, holding it tightly, his hand as warm and calloused as he remembered. It was almost embarrassing, the way that single touch made his heart skip. For a moment, he forgot how to speak. He stared down at their joined hands, then cleared his throat and managed, “It won’t be your turn to vote for a while yet. Let’s go talk somewhere private.”
They slipped between rows of bunks, finding a quiet pocket deeper in the maze of beds. The hum of the dormitory faded.
“You’re not hurt?” Young-il asked first. His voice was low and measured, but something about the protective way he stood, half-angled between him and the rest of the room, felt instinctual. He had not released his hand, and now his thumb was tracing slow, grounding circles over the scent gland on his wrist, as if trying to soothe them both.
“No. No, I’m okay,” Gi-hun murmured. “Or—about as okay as anyone can be after…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat like shards. He did not want to open that door. Not here. Not yet. He was not sure he would be able to stop once he started. “And you?” He asked instead. “You’re not—?”
Young-il lifted his bandaged hand. “This?” He said with a tired half-smile. “No. I came in with it.” His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, hesitation weighing on his shoulders. Then, softer: “I guess I should say the obvious first.”
A pause.
“You’re… pregnant.”
“Yes,” Gi-hun said dryly and looked away, feeling the color flame on his cheeks again. “They’re yours. There wasn’t anyone else. During my heat—as you know—and at my age, I wouldn’t be able to conceive outside of one even if I wanted to.” He gave a short, awkward laugh, then, catching the stunned, disbelieving expression the other man wore on his face, he added with a crooked smile, “Evidently, you’re terrible at handling condoms.”
Young-il laughed at that, too loud, too sharp for the quiet that surrounded them. Gi-hun smiled wider despite himself, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he ducked his head, the flush on his cheeks deepening. Then, without meaning to, without realizing until it had already happened, he leaned in just slightly, just enough for his scent to brush over the other man like a veil, milk-laden, honey-sweet, rich with quiet life and something deeper, instinctive.
Young-il inhaled, and the response was instant. His breath caught sharp in his throat, pupils flaring wide with reflexive dilation. The hand that still held his tightened, not rough, but firm, and his other hand moved before thought could catch it, drifting forward, hovering just near his waist, his distended stomach, drawn to him like a tether. It stopped, trembling slightly, fingers flexing in restraint just shy of contact.
“When you say ‘they’re,’” Young-il said, voice softer now, slightly winded, “Does that mean you don’t know their gender yet?”
“Oh. No,” Gi-hun said, lifting a hand to swipe at his flushed cheek. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I’ve been trying to guess, based on how I sleep, but…” He gave a rueful little laugh and continued,"That method’s kind of pointless, since they’re, well… they’re twins.”
Young-il blinked once. Then again. It was like the words had hit a wall in his brain and were still trying to break through. “T… twins?”
Gi-hun held up two fingers, a slightly bashful smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, two.” Then, lightly: “They may also come out with webbed feet. My little ducklings. We’ll see.”
Young-il did not answer immediately, just stared, openly, wordlessly, at Gi-hun, specifically his distended stomach, clearly outlined by the stretch of his clothes. His mouth parted slightly, he turned horribly pale, and for a terrifying moment, he thought the other man might faint.
“Hey. Young-il,” Gi-hun said, alarmed, reaching out. He cupped the side of his face, palm warm against skin that had suddenly turned pale and felt clammy. “You're not going to pass out on me, are you?” He asked, attempting levity but barely managing it. “Because I really, really can’t catch you right now.”
“I just might,” Young-il whispered, his breath catching, eyes still wide and shining with disbelief. A strangled sound left him, half-laugh, half-exhale, and he blinked rapidly, trying to push back the sudden heat behind his eyes. He shook his head once, slowly, as if to clear it. “Twins,” He echoed, like saying it again might make it more believable. “Twins. I… what do I even do?”
“There’s really not much for you to do at this point,” Gi-hun said dryly and carefully avoided elaborating on his already-completed role—mishandled condoms, ejaculation, and everything that came after. Not exactly the kind of poetry the moment needed.
“That’s not good enough,” Young-il said, jaw tight. “I want to help. I will help. You’re not doing this alone.” Then, as his gaze scanned his face, his eyebrows drew together, worry bleeding through the edge of his scent, shifting from assertive to something gentler, concerned. “You’re pale,” He murmured. “Should you be lying down? Resting?”
That made Gi-hun laugh, sharp, breathless, and half-exasperated. He could not help it. The memories struck too fast: his first pregnancy, working long shifts on factory floors; the second, going into labor in the middle of a full-scale riot, hiding behind overturned machinery with his water breaking in real time.
“I’m used to being up and about during pregnancies,” Gi-hun said, still chuckling because otherwise he would be crying. “If anything, I’ll be moving more—depending on how this vote turns out—”
But before Gi-hun could finish, Young-il surged forward and pulled him into a sudden embrace, one strong arm wrapped around his upper back, the other around his waist, carefully contending with the enormous swell of his stomach. The awkward gap between their bodies did not lessen the intimacy of the hold.
Slowly, instinctively, Gi-hun leaned in against Young-il, into the comfort, the quiet, the scent. His familiar scent of whiskey and worn pages made him inhale deeply, almost greedily, some primal part of him recognizing what he had been unconsciously seeking for months. It was common, he had read, for expecting omegas to seek the scent of the alpha who had impregnated them and find solace in it. It had been like this before, during his first pregnancy: nesting with old shirts that smelled like his alpha, who did not stay, curling into scent-laced fabric when he could not curl into arms. But this—this—was not a memory, and as he inhaled again, deeper this time, something bloomed warm and steady in his chest, soothing nerves he had not even named.
Young-il, breathing quietly against Gi-hun, dipped his head, and his nose brushed against the side of his neck, breath hot against the skin of his scent gland. Not claiming, not pressing just there, scenting him in return. And he let him and felt the hold on him tighten by a fraction.
For a moment, just a moment, Gi-hun wished to stay pressed against Young-il, buffered from the hum of panic just feet away, the vote climbing higher with every passing second. He wanted to forget the vote, the guards, and the danger. Just hold him. Be held in return. Scent one another. Let the weight of what they had made rest safely between them.
But the world would not wait for him. Not now.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun said softly, pulling back with reluctance. He laid a hand on his stomach and felt a faint shift, one of the twins turning or kicking gently from within. He closed his eyes and let that moment settle in his bones, then opened them again. “We need to get back to the vote.” His voice was low but firm. “I know you have more questions. And I know you must be… confused. Maybe even angry. I should’ve told you. You deserve to be angry with me.”
He hesitated, fingers splaying briefly over the curve of his stomach. “And maybe you won’t agree with why I didn’t. But I’ll explain. I’ll tell you everything—after the vote, no matter how it goes. Just… please. Even if you don’t fully trust me. Even if all you remember of me is a heat and months of silence that you didn’t deserve. Do this for them.” His voice dropped, barely above a breath. “That was only the first game. And if we don’t win this vote—if we don’t get out of here—it’s going to get worse. So much worse. I’ve seen what’s waiting. I know what comes next.”
“You seem to know more than the rest of us,” Young-il said slowly.
“I—” Gi-hun stumbled, his throat tight. “I do. I’ll explain. I swear it.”
Young-il nodded once, then again, firmer this time. “Okay,” He said.
Gi-hun blinked, surprised by how quickly the word came.
Young-il met his gaze, steady now. “Okay,” He repeated, softer. “Like I said before… I trust you. We may not know each other in all the ways that matter, but we’ve seen each other vulnerable. Laid bare. And in moments like that, I think… you see a kind of truth. Maybe not the whole one, but enough. Enough to know you’re kind. That you feel deeply. That you fight hard for the people you love—even when you don’t think you’re worth loving.”
Gi-hun breathed in as Young-il reached out again, brushing his knuckles over the curve of his stomach, gentle, careful. “And if you’ll let me, I want to close. While we’re in this place. And maybe…” His voice dropped. “Maybe even after we get out. If that’s still a possibility.” Then, after a beat, his mouth quirked slightly. “Also… ‘ducklings’?”
Gi-hun flushed to the tips of his ears. “Oh, that.” He laughed softly, rubbing a hand over the swell of his stomach in slow, soothing circles as the twins began to stir beneath the fabric. “Before I even knew I was pregnant, I had duck soup. There’s a superstition—something about babies coming out with webbed feet if you eat duck while expecting.”
Young-il arched a brow, clearly amused.
“And,” Gi-hun added, as if resigned to his fate, “I ordered duck takeout one night, too. So at this point, they’ll probably come out with wings and bills. My little ducklings.”
Another low, unexpected laugh escaped Young-il, quiet but genuine. The sound curled warmly between them. Then, from beyond the bunks, the sounds of the dormitory began to rise again: shifting bodies, murmured voices, a world resuming. Gi-hun exhaled and stepped forward, emerging from the cocoon of their shared stillness. At once, Young-il followed, matching his pace. Together, they stepped out from the maze of bunks, emerging into the harsh wash of alternating blue and red light. Instinctively, his eyes lifted to the display board overhead.
X: 87. O: 93. His heart stuttered. The numbers burned into his vision like a brand. Too many O’s. Far too many.
Gi-hun could feel his pulse in his ears, his breath dragging, and his body heavier than it had felt minutes ago. The weight of the twins pressed low in his pelvis, tugged at his spine, and reminded him that every second here stole more energy from a body already spread too thin. His hips ached and his back throbbed, but still he moved. He zipped up his jacket despite how it cut into his ribs, trying to make the swell beneath it seem less obvious, less vulnerable. Shame had no place here, but exposure still felt dangerous. He pushed toward the front of the crowd anyway.
“Gi-hun—” Young-il began, his voice low and taut behind him, a frown lacing his features, but he did not try to stop him. Not yet.
Gi-hun pushed forward through the sea of tense, bloodstained faces, feeling eyes on him, some surprised, others already sharpening with ridicule.
“Everyone!” Gi-hun shouted, voice cracking but cutting through the din. “Just stop—stop and look around you!” A few heads turned. Others froze, reluctant, wary. “Look at yourselves. Look at each other.” He slapped a hand to the blood-slick front of his jacket. “We’re soaked in it—sweat, dirt, blood. Half the people who stood next to us this morning are already dead.”
Murmurs broke. A few glanced down at sleeves and hems stained red.
“These aren’t games,” He snarled. “They’re culling. You lose, you die. And if you vote O, then you’re saying it’s fine for you—or the person next to you—to be next.” He stepped forward again, ignoring the shooting ache in his legs. “They think we’re desperate enough, stupid enough, to keep playing. Let’s prove them wrong.”
Behind him, Young-il—In-ho—tilted his head slightly at the phrasing—prove them wrong—and for a flicker of a moment, a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Then the rebuttals came.
A deep, gruff voice snapped across the crowd: “Who the hell do you think you are?”
It was Player 100—the sour-faced alpha from before, eyes sharp with suspicion and disgust. “You’re probably the reason all those people died—screaming and carrying on, scaring everyone into a panic so bad they couldn’t even think straight!”
“He was crying about dying like it was already happening,” Someone from the O side called out. “I got so anxious I almost did die! Couldn’t even focus with him wailing like that!”
Player 100 jabbed a finger at Gi-hun, sneering. “And now you’re standing here, still running your mouth? You shouldn’t be speaking at all in the state you’re in—bloated up, trembling, without an alpha anywhere near you to keep you in check. Probably full-blown hysterics. Wouldn’t be surprised if you fainted or burst into tears next.”
The insult hit hard not because it was new but rather because it was an old, deep-seated, systemic wound that was reopened. Gi-hun curled his lip, but he refused to bow his head.
Then another voice joined in: Player 226, lean, sly, and mean-eyed, stepping up beside Player 100. “Could be a ploy. Send in a pregnant omega to draw in dumb, wide-eyed omegas and sway the bleeding-heart betas and overprotective alphas. How else would you know they’d kill us for losing? Hmm?”
The crowd murmured.
“And even now,” Player 226 continued, “Look what he’s doing. Stirring up dissent. Fear. Suspicion. Exactly what they’d want a plant to do.”
Gi-hun felt his breath hitch. “I’m not—”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Player 100 demanded, stepping in and grabbing Gi-hun by his jacket with a fistful of bloodstained fabric. “You’re conning us. Sent in to fuck with our heads. Pretending to be a player—”
“Hey!” Jung-bae barked, already stepping forward. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Player 388 was right behind him, shoulders squared, a low growl beginning in his chest, young, unsure, but still primal.
But then Young-il appeared beside Player 100, without shouting or warning. One hand shot out and caught Player 100 by the wrist. His fingers locked in, and the sound it made when he squeezed was almost audible: tendon shifting under pressure, bone creaking faintly beneath skin. The older alpha man went rigid, a flash of surprise cutting through the aggression in his eyes.
When Young-il spoke, his voice was low, lethal, barely more than a growl: "Let. Go.”
Young-il emitted an alpha scent, thick and heady and impossible to ignore, like whiskey, the real kind, top-shelf and poured heavy, the kind that made you feel drunk just by breathing it in. And beneath it, something darker, sharper: burnt pages and smoldering ink, like old books catching fire. Something controlled, yet furious. Alpha dominance made chemical.
Gi-hun felt his knees nearly buckling from it. His mouth went dry. His fingers curled into the front of his jacket where the other player still gripped him. He had meant to shove the man away, but the moment the other man stepped forward, that need vanished. The space between them flooded with heat and scent and raw presence, and all he could do was breathe.
Young-il stepped in closer to Player 100, heat radiating off him in waves, the full force of alpha presence curling into the space like a threat. “I won’t say it again.”
Player 100 sneered but then looked once to Young-il, who had not even blinked; once to Jung-bae, who looked a heartbeat away from breaking his nose; and then to Player 388, who stood still as a predator with his lips curled faintly back over his teeth. And finally, the older alpha man looked at the omega in his grip, panting, flushed, one hand protectively splayed over the swell of his stomach, eyes wide and burning. The omega was shaking, but it was not with fear. It was with fury. And still, he stood.
The sneer wavered. Slowly, grudgingly, Player 100 let Gi-hun go, and the fabric of his jacket sagged where the grip had been. Gi-hun remained where he was, chest heaving. He did not speak immediately, but his gaze flicked sideways to the other man standing tall, jaw tight, the light casting sharp lines across his handsome face. It should not have been arousing. Not here. Not now. And yet, it was.
“That’s enough,” Jung-bae snapped, stepping forward and raising his voice to the room. “No more of that bullshit. You don’t get to throw around wild accusations when you wouldn’t have made it through that first game without him. We followed him. We survived because of him.”
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” Gi-hun flinched as the words were spoken by an older omega woman who reminded him so much of his mother that he could barely breathe.
The older omega woman, Player 149, stepped forward and gently reached for Gi-hun, one hand curling around his shoulder and the other hovering near his distended stomach, not touching, but close. “A pregnant omega,” She said, her words gathering weight. “One who risked not just himself, but the children in his belly… for all of you.” Her gaze swept across the room like a blade, and the crowd stilled, shamed into silence, for a moment. “He stood between you and death. And this is how you repay him? With suspicion? With insults? With violence? None of you would be breathing if not for him. None. And instead of falling to your knees in gratitude, you lay hands on him?” Her chin lifted, her eyes sharp as glass. “Shame on every one of you. Enough with this disgusting greed. Enough with this delusion. Vote to leave. While you still can.”
For a flicker of a second, Gi-hun felt something like hope.
And then the crowd erupted again.
A wall of voices crashing into each other: affirmatives, jeers, suspicion, outrage. The air thickened. The scent of it all, fear, anger, and confusion, hit Gi-hun like a blow, and he staggered where he stood, one hand cradling his stomach, the other curling against the edge of his jacket as bodies pressed in closer. People jostled past him, shoulders, elbows, and the occasional graze to his side that sent electric terror up his spine. Not aggressive. Not yet. But careless. Disregarding the space his body now required. He flinched with every touch. Someone called his name, but it vanished in the cacophony.
“I—” Gi-hun gasped, then forced the words out, a raw scream from somewhere deep inside. His breathing was shallow and fast, ragged in his throat, and he swayed slightly on his feet, distantly registering a hand on his elbow and one on his lower back to keep him upright. “I have played these games before!”
The room stilled, not silent, but enough. A hush like the wind dying before a storm.
“I said I’ve played these games before,” He rasped. “Three years ago. And everyone who was with me… is dead.”
Murmurs, then again, the bite of disbelief.
“Wait,” Player 226 began,”Are you saying that you… a middle-aged omega was the sole winner?”
Gi-hun swallowed hard. “The sole winner,” He said again, quieter now, but no less firm. “Yes, I was. And if we vote O—if we continue these games—everyone here will die. Just like they did.”
More arguing ensued. Affirmatives and more objections.
Player 230, the purple-haired alpha who had witnessed Gi-hun flip off the camera earlier, now sauntered to the front with theatrical flair. “If you really won, then that works better for us!” He exclaimed, arms spreading as if the crowd had been waiting for him. “Yeah! Then you can just walk us through the games, right? Step-by-step. Beat ‘em once, beat ‘em again.”
“If someone like him can win, then so can I!” Another player yelled.
Player 100 barked a sharp laugh. “We’ve got a winner in our ranks—and not just any winner. A middle-aged, bloated omega. If he survived, what do we have to worry about?” He turned to the crowd, arms flung open like a showman. “Come on! Let’s do this!”
Of course that was the part they latched onto. Not the cold reality Gi-hun had laid before them. Not the blood still staining their clothes and skin. The gunshots still ringing in their ears. But him. Him—as an omega. Because the idea that if an omega, especially one visibly pregnant, visibly trembling, could survive, then surely anyone could. Surely they were better than him. Because what was an omega, after all? Soft. Weak. Submissive by design. Good for scenting, for bedding, for bearing, but never leading. Never surviving what alphas could not. Certainly not winning.
Gi-hun wavered, barely upright. It was not until he felt the steadying pressure on his elbow that he realized someone had been there the whole time, their grip firm, grounding. He turned, eyes locking with the other man's.
“I—sorry,” Young-il said, his voice low. “You looked like you were about to faint earlier, and I just…” His fingers flexed subtly, not quite letting go. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want…”
Gi-hun shook his head, then leaned into the contact ever so slightly. “No. It’s fine.” His hand came up and rested gently atop his, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I did almost fall. Thank you.”
Jung-bae, standing a few feet away, cleared his throat and glanced sidelong at them. “Gi-hun?” He said, cautious, unreadable.
Gi-hun did not move away. “I’m okay,” He said, though his voice trembled.
“From this point forward, we will not tolerate words or actions that disrupt the voting process.”
It was the square-masked guard. Immediately, two triangle-masked guards waded into the crowd, weapons raised, not firing, not yet, but high enough to herd, to threaten. The voices stilled. The mass of players pulled back, sullen and restless, herded back into something like order.
Gi-hun leaned into Young-il before he could think better of it, his body swaying slightly, hand instinctively braced over the swell of his stomach. The pain in his lungs had not quite subsided. His heart still beat too fast, his breath catching as though it could not quite settle inside him.
Beside Gi-hun, Young-il—In-ho—did not move but stood like stone, one hand lightly pressing at his spine, grounding him. But his dark eyes scanned the crowd. The faces. The slick, blood-flecked mouths of people who had seen death up close and still chosen prejudice and greed. The way they whispered, muttered, and cheered. How easily they dismissed his omega. How little they needed to be convinced.
And In-ho drank it in.
The screen above resumed its slow, final tally. Blue. Red. Blue. Red.
Gi-hun watched, his eyes flicking with quiet desperation to each number that blinked to life.
And then there was one.
Only a single vote remained.
Gi-hun felt the shift as Young-il slid his hand gently from his arm, the absence of it colder than it had any right to be. He stepped forward, his movements unhurried and steady, as he made his way down the center aisle, between the divided X and O sides. He reached the machine and hovered there and his palm hesitated first over the blue; then he lowered his hand and pressed the red X. The beep echoed, and the badge was handed over, and he affixed it to his chest.
But it was already over.
The O side exploded, fists pumped, and cries of victory broke out as the screen flashed the numbers: X: 175. O: 190.
The games would continue.
Young-il—In-ho—turned, slow and deliberate, gaze sweeping across the room. He looked past the greedy, sweaty, and ugly players cheering; the alphas puffing their chests; the betas swayed by bravado; and the omegas who had followed the wrong voice. And then his eyes found his omega.
Still as a stone. Lips parted. Eyes not on the screen, but downcast. Crushed.
As In-ho stared at Gi-hun, his expression barely shifted; the corner of his mouth pulled, not quite a smile. Something not quite pity, but wry, knowing, inevitable. Because they had done exactly what he expected of them. And now… the real games could begin.
Gi-hun ate only at the insistence of his allies, each bite slow and reluctant. They had to guilt him into it—reminding him in quiet, urgent tones that he was not just feeding himself, but his children. Still, even that knowledge could not keep the food down.
Less than an hour later, Gi-hun vomited it up in a cold sweat, knees buckled on the bathroom floor as Player 388 held his hair back and another pressed the damp sleeve of his jacket to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Freeze. I’m sorry,” The young alpha murmured again and again, like any of this was his fault. He rushed to the sink, wet his sleeve again, and returned, holding it carefully to his forehead. “My mom did this for me when I was sick,” He added softly, like it might help.
Gi-hun could not explain it, not even to himself. The words were not cruel or mocking, but they snagged on something fragile inside him, and his omega scent shifted sour and heavy, like spoiled cream folded into burnt caramel, a sweetness turned wrong. Player 388 flinched instinctively at the shift—but did not withdraw. Instead, the young alpha pressed his damp sleeve more gently to his brow, radiating pine-and-honey alpha pheromones, steady, grounding, protective. And he leaned in, exhausted and aching, unable to resist the quiet comfort offered.
The rest of the time, Gi-hun kept to himself, curled in on his aching body. His joints throbbed, his lower back flared with dull, constant pain, and the weight in his stomach felt impossibly heavier after the vote. When other players approached, some curious, others blunt, demanding answers about the next game, he replied flatly: dalgona, triangle was the easiest and umbrella was the hardest. He tried to warn them that even if he had played before, these games might be different. That nothing was guaranteed. Most of them did not listen. Most of them did not care.
Jung-bae, Player 388, and Young-il remained close to Gi-hun. They touched his arm and his shoulder and gently brushed their scent against his skin, trying to soothe him. But their comfort could not reach the place inside him that had locked itself shut. He was relieved when the lights finally dimmed. He curled onto his side beneath the thin blanket, wrapping himself around the swell of his stomach, cradling it like he could hold it and himself together. It hurt. Everything hurt.
But worse than the physical pain was the ache Gi-hun felt in his chest, heavy, spreading. He tried to sleep. Tried to slow his breathing, focusing on the gentle kicks fluttering beneath his palm. Sleep eventually came in fits, tangled and thin. His dreams were strange, fragments of past games blending with present ones, voices and faces distorted. He woke not long after with a soft, pained whimper, breath catching in his throat, his body slick with sweat. He twisted against the thin mattress, disoriented and dizzy. A hand touched his arm, grounding him. A warm presence pressed lightly against his back.
“Shh,” Came a familiar voice. “It’s okay. You’re alright. You were having a bad dream.”
Gi-hun gasped, blinking blearily. His chest heaved as he tried to steady himself. The scent came first, familiar, anchoring, whiskey and old pages, curling warmth and smoldered smoke. It calmed something in him before he even processed where he was. Then he realized. This was not his bed. “Young-il…?” He rasped, hoarse.
Gi-hun turned his head slightly, the movement stiff with tension. Young-il was there, lying behind him, one hand still on his arm, the other steady at his waist, gently embracing him.
Gi-hun stared, then murmured, dazed, “How did I get in your bed?”
“You sleepwalked,” Young-il said, his voice quiet enough not to disturb the heavy stillness of the dormitory. “I saw you get up and come over. You didn’t say anything. Just… scented me, laid down. I remembered you’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker, so I let you stay. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Gi-hun whispered. His throat tightened with shame. “It’s your scent. I think I… seek it. Without realizing. Because of…” He trailed off, his hand dropping to the swell of his stomach, and he did not have to finish the sentence.
Gi-hun sat up slowly, one hand bracing on the mattress, the other pressing to his stomach. The muscles in his lower back protested the motion, tight and sore. The strain of the day still echoed through every tendon and breath. He winced, rolling his shoulders as though that might shake the pain loose.
Young-il followed him up, gaze never leaving his face. Around them, the low breathing of dozens of sleeping strangers filled the dormitory, a white noise hum of bodies and fear and exhaustion.
When Gi-hun shifted, trying to ease himself to standing, a hand gently closed over his. “Stay,” Young-il said softly, his fingers brushing over the back of his hand with surprising care. “Sleeping is hard enough in this place. But alone… I think we both need it. One another.”
Gi-hun hesitated, then gave a small nod, the movement slow and unsure, before letting himself ease back onto the thin mattress. “O-okay,” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “How do you want to do this? I need to sleep on my side.”
Young-il shifted immediately, careful and unhurried, creating space without letting distance creep between them. Young-il moved so Gi-hun could turn first, then followed suit, lining his chest to the curve of his spine with careful precision. His breath ghosted softly against the nape of his neck. “Like this?” He asked gently.
Gi-hun exhaled, the sound soft and almost trembling. “Yes.”
Young-il hesitated just a breath too long, then he moved, slow and deliberate, and slid his arm around his waist with care, his palm hovering just above the swell of his belly, fingers barely trembling. “Here?” He asked, his voice low and threadbare.
Gi-hun did not answer immediately with words; instead, he melted back into him, boneless, like his body had been waiting for this exact touch, this scent, this heat. His breath hitched. “Yes,” He murmured at last. “God, yes.”
The moment Gi-hun felt Young-il settle his large, calloused hand over the curve of his stomach, his world pulled tight around that singular point of contact. His spine slackened, his shoulders dropped, and his scent poured out like a trembling flood of dalgona sugar, rich and golden, the faint creamy undercurrent of warm milk a pheromonal confession.
Young-il inhaled sharply. His own scent rushed in to meet it, thick and steady, whiskey on a worn sleeve, the musk of cracked leather and brittle, yellowed paper wrapping around his scent.
“Young-il?” Gi-hun murmured, his voice low and frayed with exhaustion. His eyebrows creased, lips pulling into a faint frown. “What are you doing here? In this place?”
“I was wondering when you were going to ask that…” Young-il said, his voice quiet against the hush of the dormitory. “It was months ago. Not long after we met.” He paused and felt the tension the other man had in his chest against his back. “It was raining again. I went walking. No umbrella at first. I don’t even know where I meant to go. But I ended up outside the hospital. The one where… my wife and unborn child passed.”
Gi-hun inhaled sharply. His hand instinctively folded over the one the other man had already rested against his belly.
“I just stood there,” Young-il went on, voice steady but low. “Staring up at the windows. All those lit squares. All that suffering behind glass. I kept thinking about the dead. The dying. About how much I owed them. About the bills choking my mailbox. About how it felt like my whole apartment might burst under the weight of all of it.” He swallowed. “And then this man appeared beside me. Sharp suit. Expensive umbrella. Polished shoes in the rain.”
“In the pouring rain, he asked if I wanted to play ddakji. I told him paper didn’t mix well with water. He just smiled and led me somewhere dry. I don’t know why, but I followed him. We played a few rounds. I won the most. He got in a few slaps. But he also gave me money. Enough to pay a few small bills, but the big ones? Untouched. Then he gave me a card.”
Gi-hun felt his heart pounding now, slow and sick.
“Said I could earn more. Just like that. Playing games. Said I would probably be good at them. And I was. As a kid. I stood there with the card in my hand and the rain in my shoes, and I thought of calling you before I dialed it. I don’t even know why.”
Gi-hun shivered, hard. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Young-il… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You being here—it’s my fault. I should’ve told you. Warned you. That night, when you told me about your wife and child—why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I offer to help? I could’ve… I had the money; I could’ve—” His chest heaved. He suddenly could not get enough air. “T–they may have found out about you somehow anyway,” He choked. “Maybe they chose you on purpose. To get in my head. To punish me—”
“Gi-hun.” The name landed soft but steady. Gi-hun went quiet. His shoulders slumped. He sank further into the cradle of the warm, hard body against his. The other man never moved his hand from where it rested over the taut curve of his belly. Beneath it, their children stirred, quiet and alive, fluttering like moth wings under skin. And for a moment, the breath snagged in his throat again, but this time for a different reason.
“Breathe, Gi-hun,” Young-il murmured, his voice low and close to his ear, steady despite the ache buried beneath it. “Please. Just breathe.”
Gi-hun tried. A slow, unsteady inhale. Then another. His ribs protested, tight with panic, but they obeyed.
“I don’t know everything,” Young-il continued gently, his breath a whisper against his skin. “But from the way you spoke that night we spent together… and the way you’ve carried yourself here, I’ve got a good idea.”
Gi-hun closed his eyes, guilt tightening in his chest. “I… I promised to explain earlier. Let me—”
“You don’t have to,” Young-il said gently, cutting in. “Like I said, I’ve already pieced most of it together. You’ve played these games before. You won. And I’m guessing you walked away with a lot of money.” Silence. Then a long breath. “And even if you had offered to help me—warned me—I wouldn’t have accepted it. Not then. Not from you. I would’ve ended up right here anyway.” He paused again. And then, quietly: “And if it weren’t for you… for being here, pregnant with our children… I probably would’ve voted to stay. Played another game. That’s how desperate I am for that money.”
“That money…” Gi-hun said quietly, but his tone sharpened. “It’s blood money, Young-il. Every won. Every stack. Each one represents someone who died here.”
“I know,” Young-il murmured, not defensive, not cruel. Just honest. “But I—and people like me—don’t have the luxury to care. Not like you do.”
The words struck like a slap. Gi-hun inhaled sharply, his chest tightening.
Young-il went on, low and deliberate. “If my wife and unborn child were still alive… I would’ve done anything to get that money. Anything. And now?” His hand moved gently over his belly, reverent. “It’s you. And the lives you carry. That’s what matters now. That’s what I fight for. It’s not about what’s right. It’s about surviving. Protecting what’s yours. What you love. The rest?” His voice dropped, something grim beneath it. “The rest are just obstacles.”
Gi-hun pulled Young-il closer despite himself, as if clinging to a version of the other man that had not yet hardened in that way. The pain swelled in his chest, sharp and hot, echoing something he had buried deep. That same rationalization—he had heard it before or something close to it. And he had watched it rot someone from the inside out.
Gi-hun remembered Sang-woo standing over Sae-byeok, hands shaking, bloody steak knife clutched like a death sentence. Sae-byeok, her eyes wide, unblinking. The young alpha girl he had sworn to protect. His baby girl, not by blood, but in scent, in heart. His omega body had marked her as his baby, and it had not mattered in the end. He remembered the way his scent had gone sour—burnt sugar and salt—and how he had screamed, how he had wept. He had launched himself at his childhood friend then. The father of the child they would never know. The slayer of the girl he had come to love like a daughter. And he had wanted him dead.
Now, as Gi-hun curled closer to the warmth of Young-il, who held him so gently, who cradled their unborn children with hands that still bore calluses from an old life, he made a silent vow.
Gi-hun would not let this place turn Young-il into what it had turned Sang-woo into. He would not let the games twist his desperation into cruelty or his grief into violence. He knew that something inside the other man had already shifted, long before this place. There was cynicism in the other man, yes, but there was kindness too, warmth buried deep, and he would not let that die. And maybe, just maybe, he could show him that even in a place like this, there was still something worth believing in. Something worth preserving. That it was not the players they should blame. It was the ones watching. And he would not let them win.
Not again.
Not this time.
There was a long silence.
Then Young-il spoke, his voice roughened by something raw,”You must think I’m a monster.”
“No,” Gi-hun whispered, no hesitation, just quiet certainty. “I think you’re someone who’s been hurt… and I think you're still trying to protect it—whatever you can still call yours.” He shifted slowly, the movement gentle and deliberate. He turned just enough to brush a kiss across his knuckles, where they rested against the swell of his distended belly. “But I also think this,” He murmured. “That when we try to protect only what we love… when we decide that others don’t matter, not really… that’s when we lose the people we love most.”
Young-il said nothing, but his breath caught faintly. Gi-hun pressed on, soft and unwavering.
“Because that mindset—‘them or us’—it spreads. People stop seeing each other as worth saving. They stop reaching out. And once that happens, no one is safe. Not really. Not even the ones we think we’re saving. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve lived it. You fight so hard to save one person that the whole world becomes a threat. And then suddenly… you realize the world stopped fighting for them too. That’s what this place is, isn’t it? A prison for all the people the world stopped fighting for.”
Then Young-il, no, In-ho, shifted behind Gi-hun, arms tightening. He lifted one hand and let it trail up his chest, slow and heavy, pausing over the rise and fall of his breath as though memorizing it. His palm pressed briefly over his heart, then moved up the long line of his throat. There was a moment, a beat, where his hand lingered there, calloused fingers curled, as if weighing something impossible in the dark. Then, slowly, he exhaled through clenched teeth, and his hand softened, cradling the curve of his jaw instead. He tucked his head down and leaned into him, forehead pressed gently between his shoulder blades.
“Go to sleep, Gi-hun,” In-ho murmured finally, the words spoken not like a dismissal, but a promise. “I’ve got you now. Just sleep.”
Gi-hun gasped softly as Young-il dipped his mouth to his neck, the warmth of breath and skin igniting against his scent gland. The slide of lips was slow, deliberate, not just a kiss but a soothing, claiming gesture. He realized, with a soft hitch in his breath, that the other man was scenting him. Trying to calm him. To draw out more of his own scent in return. He instinctively tilted his head, baring more of his throat in silent invitation.
A low rumble echoed from Young-il, and his teeth grazed lightly along sensitive skin, not biting, just enough to spark a full-body shiver. Gi-hun melted further into him. The pressure of those large hands, one cradling his hip, the other anchored protectively over the full swell of his stomach, grounded him completely. The children inside stirred faintly beneath the touch, as if sensing the presence of the one who had helped create them.
Gi-hun inhaled deeply, catching the familiar blend of whiskey and old books that clung to Young-il, soothing every frayed edge inside him. He let go, just for a moment, lips parting, eyes fluttering closed, and surrendered to it. To him.
“If we weren’t in front of all these people,” Gi-hun murmured, voice thick with sleep and something far more dangerous, “I’d say we reenact my heat. But no protection this time.”
Young-il—In-ho—stilled. A flicker of heat raced through him at the thought, blood surging, instinct prickling just beneath the surface. Fuck, he wanted that too. But not now. Not here. Not yet. He exhaled, soft and controlled, and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to the scent gland he had just tasted.
“Sleep, Gi-hun,” Young-il whispered, voice low and rough with restraint. His lips lingered a beat longer than necessary. “You need your strength.”
One bunk over, Jung-bae lay very much awake, eyes wide in the dimness, staring up at the ceiling. He had heard everything. Every quiet word, every murmur, every implication. And now, the dawning realization crept over him like a slow sunrise: one of his oldest friends had not only found someone, an alpha, during their years apart, but that stranger was lying there now, wrapped around him and their unborn child, scenting him, staking a claim.
“You should sleep too, Jung-bae,” Young-il said quietly, not even looking his way.
Jung-bae did not answer. He just blinked, once, expression unreadable. Then he rolled onto his side and stared into the dark, mind turning.
When Gi-hun entered the game room, flanked on either side by Jung-bae and Young-il, with Player 388 trailing close behind, it was immediately clear that this was not dalgona. Not any version he had played, anyway. The space was far too large. The familiar massive doors etched with triangles, circles, stars, and umbrellas were nowhere in sight. Instead, the floor was painted in wide, rainbow-colored, circular tracks.
Then came that falsely cheerful, too-bright modulated voice again,“Welcome to your second game,” It chimed. “This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes.”
Gi-hun exhaled slowly through his nose, the motion barely lifting his chest. “They changed it,” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Of course they did. Because why not?” His tone was not even bitter; it was flat, dull, and too tired for outrage. Why not let him believe for a moment that he could help or do something, only to rip it away the moment he tried?
Jung-bae peered around the vast, colorful room, frowning. “So… it’s not dalgona then?”
“They couldn’t let us have that advantage, huh?" Player 388 spoke up, attempting to lighten the mood, before slinging an arm around Jung-bae and shaking him lightly. “Well, that would’ve been too easy for former Marines like you and me.”
Gi-hun did not answer. He swayed a little where he stood, one hand moving instinctively to the underside of his belly, the weight of it pulling at his spine, making his knees ache. His breath came shallow. The pressure in his lower back had been building all morning, a dull, persistent throb.
Then, from behind, came a sharp, loud, and ugly voice. “We’re not playing dalgona?” Player 100 barked, disbelief already edged with blame.
Gi-hun did not immediately turn. He just closed his eyes and sighed. “No,” He said quietly. “It doesn’t look like it. I’m sorry. I tried to tell you th—”
“What do you mean ‘you’re sorry’?” Player 100 cut in, stepping closer. “Then what the hell is it?”
“I don’t know,” Gi-hun snapped, exhaustion bleeding through the words. He turned slightly, one hand still bracing the curve of his stomach. “I don’t know. I never said I knew all of it—”
Suddenly, Player 100 lunged forward and seized him by his jacket again. “You said the next game was dalgona! You said the triangle was the eas—”
Young-il moved instantly but stopped short when Gi-hun raised one hand and grabbed Player 100 by the jaw, fingers digging into the flesh with a force that made the older man jolt in surprise. The older man flushed red, his mouth twisted, ready to shout, to spit, to curse, but before a single word could form, he tightened his grip. His fingers clamped down like a vise, pressing bone against tendon until the older man went still. The silence that followed was almost more shocking than the outburst.
“You can spit,” Gi-hun hissed, his voice low, breath grinding through his teeth, “You can curse. You can call me whatever you want. But if you ever lay a hand on me again…” His eyes burned. “I’ll tear your fucking jaw off myself. You’ll be blinking your apologies with what’s left of your face.”
Then, with a burst of controlled force, Gi-hun shoved Player 100 backward, who stumbled, caught off balance, crashing into one of his lackeys. The two of them stumbled together, the older man grabbing his face, red blooming beneath his skin where he had grabbed him. Another of his lackeys moved quickly to steady him, muttering something about “hormone-crazed omegas” as they slunk away, tails tucked, refusing to meet any eyes.
Gi-hun stood still, his breath tearing in and out of him, sweat slicking his temple, and his shirt clinging to his chest and distended belly. He pushed his hair back from his face, blinking hard. A sheen of sweat clung to his brow. His knees felt like they might give.
“Holy shit,” Player 388 whispered. His voice cracked a little in awe. “I’m so glad I’m on your team, Mr. Freeze.”
“Me too!” Jung-bae barked out, grinning ear to ear. “I really thought you were about to actually tear his jaw off!”
“You’re alright?” Young-il asked, stepping close to Gi-hun. His voice was low but grounding, and his palm came to rest gently at the small of his back.
Gi-hun gave a weak nod. “Yes. I’m fine. I…” His voice faltered, then steadied again. “I owe you all an apology. About the dalgona—I didn’t know—”
“I still trust you,” Young-il said firmly, cutting him off with quiet certainty. His gaze held his with an intensity that made the breath catch in his throat. “And if it’s alright with you… I’d like to be on your team. For whatever game this is.”
Gi-hun stared at him for a beat, the heat still lingering in his cheeks, then he nodded, his voice catching as he spoke. “I’d… I’d like that,” He said softly.
“That makes four,” Jung-bae interjected, gaze lingering on Young-il a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned, surveying their still-incomplete group with a grunt. “Means we need one more.”
“You can count on me, sirs! I’ll find our fifth!” Player 388 declared, puffing up like a soldier ready for duty. He turned and marched off into the thinning crowd.
Several minutes passed, during which more and more groups solidified around them. Gi-hun shifted his weight against the pull in his back, Young-il staying close, quiet but watchful. Jung-bae occasionally scouted the edges with his eyes, frowning at the shrinking window of time.
Then, from the far edge of the room, a figure broke from the stragglers and approached them with hesitant steps. She was young, an omega, with shoulder-length black hair streaked with soft blonde, the ends curling around her cheeks like brushstrokes. Her bangs skimmed the tops of her large, brown eyes, which flicked nervously between each of them, finally landing on the only other omega in proximity and staying there.
“Please, sirs,” The young omega woman, Player 222, murmured, her voice paper-thin. “If you’re looking for one more…” She hesitated, then slowly placed a hand against her lower abdomen. Her expression tightened, vulnerable. “I’m pregnant too, sir.”
The words hovered in the air, delicate and trembling. Gi-hun stepped forward instinctively, his throat bobbing. Young-il was already looking at the girl—no, not looking, assessing—but not with suspicion, but something deeper. Protective instinct stirred in the hard lines of his jaw.
Then Young-il turned to Gi-hun, catching his eye. “She stays with us,” He said, quietly but firmly. “If she wants to.”
Player 222 blinked, startled by the kindness in his tone.
Jung-bae gave a low grunt, nodding. “That makes five. I’ll find Dae-ho and let him know we’ve filled our spot.” And with that, he turned and disappeared into the tide of players.
Gi-hun took another step toward her. His voice softened. “You’re with us,” He said.
Player 222 let out a shaky breath, her shoulders easing just a little. “Thank you,” She whispered, clutching her arms around herself. Then, inevitably, Player 222 looked back to Gi-hun, her eyes wide, uncertain, and too young for this kind of fear, and dropped to the swell of his stomach, round and unmistakable beneath the stretch of his jacket.
Gi-hun held her gaze, softening. He gave a faint nod, then murmured, “Guess we’ll both need to sit whenever possible, huh?”
“Yeah,” Player 222 said softly. “Guess we will.”
Then the game was at last announced: Six-Legged Pentathlon, which consisted of five mini-games—ddakji, flying stone, gonggi, spinning top, and jegi, all to be completed within a five-minute time limit. Their now-complete team sat in a loose crouch on the packed dirt, huddled shoulder to shoulder.
“We’ve got two omegas on our team, so we’ve got options for gonggi players,” Jung-bae said, nodding toward Gi-hun and Player 222.
Gi-hun shook his head almost immediately. “I never actually played it as a kid," He muttered. "I traded my gonggi set for an umbrella one rainy day after I forgot mine—again. Never got around to learning.”
Gi-hun did not mention how Sang-woo, despite being an alpha, had mastered the game with his usual brilliance, flicking the pebbles across linoleum floors with effortless grace, entertaining him for hours. How Sang-woo would crouch beside Gi-hun on the floor, gently guiding their joined hands through the motions, pebbles dancing between them as laughter softened the silence. For a moment, it was a memory warm enough to sting.
Player 222 raised her hand awkwardly. “Neither can I,” She said softly. “I’ve never played it.”
Jung-bae looked between them, incredulous. “Don’t omegas play gonggi anymore?”
Gi-hun plucked a few pebbles from the dirt and weighed them in his palm. “Here,” He said dryly, holding them out. “Why don’t you try it, Jung-bae? Or you can shove them back into your skull and try thinking for once.”
Before the insult could fully sink in, Player 388 raised a tentative hand. “Actually,” He said, a little sheepish, “I can play gonggi. Two of the four older sisters I had growing up were omegas. Used to join in their games sometimes. Never won, but I got pretty good at trying.”
Jung-bae lit up. “Of course you can! A Marine can do anything—especially the unexpected!”
Gi-hun gave him a dry look but let it pass. That leaves the rest of us to pick from the other four,” He said, already moving on. “I’m best at jegi.”
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said, leaning in closer; his voice was low, laced with concern. “Are you sure that’s safe? In your state, that might be the hardest one to pull off. There’s a lot of kicking, balance—”
“You think he can’t lift his leg high enough?” Jung-bae cut in with a grin, arms crossed like he had been waiting to defend this exact moment for years. “Please. He used to play jegi all the time when he was pregnant with his daughter. He was way bigger back then, too. Like—waddling. Fully ready to pop.”
He continued, clearly enjoying himself, “Back at the factory we worked at, people’d take one look at him—big belly, swollen ankles, whole deal—and bet he couldn’t kick it once, let alone keep it in the air. Man cleaned up at lunch breaks.”
Gi-hun flushed but did not deny it then he stood. He shifted his weight onto one leg and pulled off his shoe with practiced ease and flipped it into his hand. Then he raised his knee, tapped the sole of his foot against the inside of his calf, and sent the shoe flying into the air like a makeshift jegi. It rose. He kicked it once, his foot flicking out precisely, and the shoe flew up again. Once more, twice, three times.
By the fourth kick, it was clear the effort was catching up to him. His movements grew smaller and tighter, and his breath became more audible, but he made the fifth kick before catching his shoe. There was a stunned beat of silence, then polite, startled clapping from a few other players.
“See?” Gi-hun panted. “Still got it.”
Jung-bae whooped, smacking his hands together. “That’s my boy!”
Young-il, however, stepped closer. “You’re pale,” Young-il murmured low, just for Gi-hun. His hand hovered briefly before gently wrapping around his wrist, his broad, calloused fingers splayed with deliberate care. “And your pulse is going too fast. You did five kicks.”
“I know,” Gi-hun said, swaying slightly as he eased the shoe back on and sat with a grunt. “That’s why I’m picking a different one.”
“What?”
“I proved my point,” Gi-hun said, waving vaguely toward the little crowd still murmuring with surprise. “I could do it. That doesn’t mean I should.”
Young-il huffed, but there was a smile in it, relieved, amused, and something a little fonder than either. “Stubborn,” He muttered.
Gi-hun pointed out,”And yet you still want to be on my team.”
Young-il did not answer that, but his thumb brushed lightly across the inside of his wrist, just once, before letting go.
“That was great, sir,” Player 222 said suddenly, her voice small but sincere. “I definitely couldn’t have done it. I can do ddakji, though. I won more times than the guy at the subway station.”
“Perfect,” Jung-bae said, clapping once. “Miss 222 takes ddakji and saves us all from watching Gi-hun throw his back out trying to flip cardboard—” A pebble whizzed past his nose, fast and deliberate.
Jung-bae startled, blinked, then looked across to see Gi-hun casually brushing sand off his fingers. “You missed,” He grunted, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Which also disqualifies you from flying stone, buddy. Guess that means it’s on me. I was pitcher on our factory team—my arm's still decent. Better than yours, at least.”
That left two mini-games. All eyes turned toward the final match-ups.
“I’ll take jegi,” Young-il said without hesitation. “It’s the most physical, and it comes last. If you run out of breath or something hurts, you won't have much time to push through or restart, so I'll do it. Can you do spinning top?”
Gi-hun nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I can,” He said, then reached out to the other man, fingers brushing the bandages wrapped tight around his hand. “And honestly? You shouldn’t be doing anything with that hand anyway.”
Young-il flicked his gaze down to where their hands touched, then back up with a faint smirk. “Well. Guess that settles it. Only one thing left to worry about now.”
Gi-hun arched a brow. “What?”
“That we’ll get disqualified,” Young-il said smoothly. “We’ve got too many players on our team. Eight, instead of five.”
Jung-bae blinked, glancing around their huddled group. “What? No, we’re five.”
Young-il nodded sagely. “Sure. But technically… we’re eight.”
There was a pause.
“Oh!” Player 388 let out a delighted laugh and gestured animatedly to the two pregnant omegas on their team. “In their tummies?”
The others chuckled, the moment briefly easing the weight pressing down on all of them. Even Gi-hun managed a flicker of a smile, though it did not quite reach his eyes.
Then Jung-bae frowned,”Wait, eight? Don’t you mean seven?”
Young-il hesitated. “Well. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but—”
“I’m carrying twins,” Gi-hun said softly, folding his hands on his swelling stomach.
Player 388 stared at Gi-hun with eyes like startled deer as his mouth fell open slightly. “Twins,” He echoed, more breath than voice. Then, as if realizing the weight of it all at once, his expression hardened with quiet resolve.
Jung-bae did not look at Gi-hun first, instead glaring straight at Young-il, sharp and simmering, as though this strange alpha were personally, cosmically responsible for not one but two. Young-il, maddeningly composed, sat with one arm draped across Gi-hun, his thumb idly tracing small circles into the lower part of his distended stomach. His expression was unreadable save for the faintest quirk of a smirk, cool and challenging. Daring him to say something.
Then Jung-bae turned to Gi-hun, slack-jawed. “Twins?! At your age—?”
The pebble flew with surgical precision. Thunk—right off his nose.
“Bastard!” Gi-hun snapped, already reaching for a second. “Bring up my age again and I’ll aim lower next time, you—”
“Mr. Freeze, sir!” Player 388 said immediately, flinging himself into action. He grabbed the older omega man by the shoulders and began massaging them like his life depended on it. “Negative emotions are bad for the babies! Breathe! Relax! I’ll throw pebbles at him for you, sir, I swear—just give the word!”
Gi-hun choked on a startled laugh, shoulders shaking as the tension bled from his posture.
Jung-bae, still clutching his nose, exhaled like a man trying very hard not to laugh. He raised his free hand, palm open. “Alright,” He grunted. “Enough clowning. Hands in, people.”
Everyone leaned in, still seated cross-legged on the packed dirt, one by one, palms stacked.
Jung-bae looked around the circle, eyes settling on each of them in turn. “On three, we go ‘Team Eight’. Ready? One, two, three—”
“Team Eight!” They shouted together.
Chapter 8
Summary:
"Would you all mind… if we shared our names instead?”
A pause. Then Gi-hun raised his head and said, “I’ll go first. I’m Gi-hun. Seong Gi-hun.” He chuckled, a tired, lopsided thing. “No idea what it means. Knowing my mother, probably something like ‘thick-headed mushroom.’”
“I don’t know the meaning of mine either,” Player 222 murmured, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s Jun-hee. Kim Jun-hee.”
Then Player 388 sat up straighter, puffing his chest slightly with a grin that lit his young face. “I’m Dae-ho. Kang Dae-ho. ‘Dae’ means ‘big,’ and ‘ho’ means ‘tiger.’ So I guess I’m a big tiger.”
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Secondly, this story combines several brilliant posts by midnight with a touch of sadness on Tumblr, creating a truly unique experience. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
This chapter is when a lot of the plot-heavy stuff comes into play, and as I am sure you have all guessed at this point, THAT reveal happens. As you might expect, Gi-hun doesn’t exactly cope in the healthiest way. And, of course, In-ho takes advantage of that vulnerability in true alpha fashion. So—warning for bathroom sex. 🫣🫣🫣
Please also check the tags for any updated content warnings before proceeding. General warning that In-ho continues to be an absolute freak.
As a heads-up: updates may slow slightly (possibly every two weeks) as I begin my summer courses. That said, I couldn’t wait any longer to share this chapter—I was just too excited to finally get it out.
A quick note on perspective shifts: When the story is told from Gi-hun’s point of view, In-ho is referred to as Young-il (reflecting what Gi-hun calls him). When we shift to In-ho’s POV, he’s written as In-ho—but Gi-hun still refers to him aloud as Young-il. I do my best to transition smoothly between the two, usually marking it with something like “Young-il—In-ho” to signal a shift in perspective and help you make the mental pivot. Hopefully, that keeps everything clear as the narrative deepens.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Six-Legged Pentathlon was, without question, one of the most brutal rounds Gi-hun had ever witnessed. Five minutes. That was all the time each team had, chained together at the ankles, to complete a gauntlet of mini-games. And the moment the clock began, civility vanished.
Gi-hun watched in growing horror as the first teams sprinted out and immediately fell apart. The rules stated they could not help one another beyond verbal encouragement, which quickly devolved into frantic shouting, panicked shrieking, and crude threats of violence. The cheering turned to chaos. Teams buckled as one player stumbled or failed, and their teammates, bound to them by the ankle, turned on them viciously.
Gi-hun stood frozen, jaw slack, stomach roiling. It was a game that required cooperation, and all it revealed was how quickly people shattered under pressure and how fragile that unity was when pitted against time, fear, and the barrel of a gun.
Unbeknownst to Gi-hun, Young-il—In-ho—watched closely, not the games, but him. His gaze never strayed far from his omega, sharp and unreadable. A lesson was unfolding, and he wanted it learned: this was what humanity did when stripped bare. They flailed, they turned on each other, and they pissed themselves in fear. Even when cooperation would have meant survival. Especially then.
Perhaps, In-ho mused, his omega would need another demonstration when their turn came. But his thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of gunfire, several in quick succession.
Both teams. Eliminated. The silence that followed was louder than the shots. The bloodied rainbow track gleamed under the fluorescent lights, stained now with slick, red streaks. A body twitched where it had fallen. Another lay still, cheek pressed to painted yellow like a drawing left out in the rain.
In-ho frowned as Gi-hun shuddered, his hand instinctively dropping to cradle the swell of his belly, protective and tense. His breathing hitched, lips parting as his complexion went ghostly pale—he looked, for a moment, like he might vomit.
“Gi-hun,” In-ho said, reaching out to Gi-hun, his fingers finding his and threading them together. “Breathe.”
Gi-hun flinched at the touch but did not pull away from In-ho. His eyelashes fluttered, his chest still heaving beneath the thin, sweat-damp fabric. The noise in the room swelled behind them as more players broke into shouting, some sobbing, others snarling blame at those who had voted to continue. The accused snapped back, jeering in return, louder than before. But then something shifted.
What In-ho had not expected, what none of them had expected, was the next team: an unlikely mix of misfits and underdogs. A frail, quiet girl with shaking hands. A disgraced son and his elderly mother. A shaman with wild eyes. An alpha woman whose transition had made her the target of ridicule despite her clear strength. They had little strength and no coordination. But they had each other. And despite stumbling, failing, and restarting, they did not completely turn on one another. They stayed together.
A breath held in the collective chest of the arena was exhaled at once. Cheers started low, then swelled, echoing against the high concrete ceiling. Gi-hun watched, wide-eyed, a trembling hand still over his stomach. In-ho blinked as his own voice joined the others without his permission, full-throated, passionate, and real. His heart was pounding.
Then when the team actually passed In-ho turned, grabbed Gi-hun around the waist on a surge of adrenaline and something he did not want to name, lifting him clean off the ground as his omega yelped in startled protest and joy. His omega released a breathless laugh, ducking his head, hair falling into his eyes, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders.
When In-ho set Gi-hun down again, carefully, his omega leaned close, voice low and teasing at his ear. “Careful with that,” He whispered. “You’ll throw your back out before we’ve even played.”
In-ho smiled, and the urge to kiss Gi-hun then was strong and sudden, fierce in its simplicity. But instead, he bent to help him lower back down onto the dirt, steadying him with a hand at the small of his back, fingers splayed in a quiet act of care.
Just as Gi-hun settled, from across the huddle of waiting players, Player 120 tossed something in a small, underhanded arc to him. A soft thwip—and a scrunchie landed in his lap. He blinked, surprised, and looked up.
“To tie back your hair with,” She said haltingly, her voice uncertain but kind.
Gi-hun blinked again, then gave a grateful little smile. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Just… give it back when you’re done,” She added. “It’s my favorite one.” There was an unspoken weight in those words, not just sentiment, but expectation. As if she believed he would survive to return it.
Gi-hun turned the scrunchie over in his fingers, a soft, faded purple fabric with slightly frayed edges. Then he reached up and pulled his shoulder-length waves into a loose tail, gathering the strands with practiced ease. He hesitated, then looked back at her, as if asking, Like this?
Player 120 lifted her fingers and mimed tugging a few strands loose at the front. Gi-hun obeyed, letting a few wisps fall around his face. Short waves framed his cheeks. She gave a small nod of approval. And then, just briefly, a hesitant smile. And for a moment, in the middle of that bloodstained arena, something gentle passed between them. Not hope exactly, but something close.
“I’ve never kept my hair tied back before,” Gi-hun murmured, as if the thought had just struck him. His fingers lightly brushed the gathered tail at the nape of his neck. “Feels strange.”
“It suits you,” Young-il said quietly. Then, almost shyly, he reached out. His hand hovered for a second, asking permission without words, before lifting one of the loose strands away from his face, tucking it gently behind his ear. His fingertips lingered just a breath too long against his skin. “It was kind of her,” He added, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “To be thinking about something so small. Your hair in your eyes. In a place like this…”
Gi-hun did not move his gaze from him. “It’s the small things we do for each other that remind us we’re still human,” He said quietly.
Young-il sat still and his expression did not change, not at first. But something in his jaw tensed, just slightly. As if he was not sure whether to agree or mourn the impossibility of it. He nodded slowly, but he said nothing.
After that surprising victory, the atmosphere shifted. Spirits lifted tangibly, and one by one, more teams began to pass, far more than Young-il—In-ho—had initially calculated. It was not supposed to happen this way. Not with odds like these. Not in a game this brutal. But it was happening. Because of what? The human spirit? Ridiculous. And yet—he had felt it too. That flicker. That pull. A surge of something absurdly close to joy, of all things. His omega had felt it as well.
Gi-hun had been dull-eyed and bone-tired when they entered this room. Now he stood brighter somehow, flushed with color, something warm kindling beneath the exhaustion.
Eventually, their turn came. One of the last teams to play.
Gi-hun adjusted his hair, tugging it tighter with a breath, then lowered his hands to his sides. He flexed his fingers, slow and deliberate, feeling the tightness in his knuckles and the mild tremble in his joints. They needed to be steady, nimble, and quick. Spinning top required precision: a swift loop of the rope, the right tension, and the perfect flick of the wrist. It had been one of the few games he had actually excelled at as a child that had not required him to cheat, bluff, or brawl his way to victory. Unlike most others.
The order was set: Player 222 would take ddakji, Jung-bae would throw for flying stone, Player 388 would play gonggi, Gi-hun had spinning top, and Young-il would close with jegi. The five of them stood in line, their ankles chained together, metal links clicking faintly as they shifted in place. Gi-hun glanced down at the cuff around his leg, dragging at already sore, swollen ankles. He bit back a groan.
It was a small mercy that Gi-hun had listened to Young-il and not chosen jegi; those quick kicking motions would have likely sent him sprawling on the first try. Still, as he continued flexing his fingers, he could still feel the stiffness there. Pregnancy had a way of making everything slower, heavier, limbs bloated, breath shorter, and everything harder. Even a simple mini-game felt like a monumental task when your center of gravity was warped by the swell of new life. But he would manage. He always had. Each of his pregnancies had taught him how to push through, how to hold steady when his body wanted to collapse beneath him. This time was no different.
He just had more to lose. And more to fight for.
Jung-bae was already shouting encouragement to the team across the game space, his voice loud but good-natured, before his eyes slid back to the team and landed on the younger alpha man beside him. He elbowed him, grin crooked. “You’re awfully quiet. You nervous, 388?”
“No, sir!” Player 388 said, too fast. Gi-hun could feel the tremor in him where their shoulders touched, the tension wound like wire beneath his skin.
Gi-hun did not call him on it. He merely shifted slightly, shoulder brushing the younger alpha man in quiet reassurance, letting the warmth of his presence and his scent, sweet and calming like dalgona dipped in milk, settle into the space between them. Instantly that tight-held fear loosened in the younger man, his breath evening out, eyelashes fluttering with the faintest tremor of relief. The tension in his muscles slowly dissipated as a sense of calm washed over him, allowing his body to relax completely.
Gi-hun knew he should not do this again, get attached to another young one who stirred something deep and instinctual in him. But some part of him always did. And especially now, heavily expectant, aching in places both seen and unseen, it felt only natural to dote on, to comfort, and to protect the younger and more vulnerable members of their team.
“222,” Gi-hun said gently, drawing her gaze. He lifted his hands, palms up and level with his heart, and flexed his fingers slowly. “Try holding your hands like this for a bit,” He added, his voice soft but steady. “Flex them to help with any swelling before you play, alright?”
She hesitated, then mimicked his motion with a shy little nod. Her hands trembled slightly at first but settled into the rhythm. “Thank you, sir,” She murmured, her voice quiet but sincere.
Jung-bae, who had been watching with a thoughtful frown, leaned in slightly and let his eyes flick between them both. “Both of you,” He said, voice low but firm. “Try not to exert yourselves too hard out there.”
Gi-hun gave him a look, half fond, half exasperated, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You too, old man,” He muttered. “Try not to pull something.”
Jung-bae snorted. “Keep talking and I will pull something—like you, by the ear.”
Young-il had already moved in close to Gi-hun. Their arms linked without thought, and their fingers twined naturally, easily. The alpha had a firm but steady grip, grounding him. Then his other hand reached across the small space between them and came to rest over the swell of his stomach, just for a moment, rubbing scent into the fabric, whiskey and old pages settling over the omega. His breath hitched. That one small gesture, instinctual, tender, and possessive in a way that did not suffocate, made something deep inside him ache once more. With longing.
“I believe in us,” Young-il said, voice low, rich with conviction. “Team Eight.”
Gi-hun met his eyes, then looked to the others, his throat tight but steady. “Team Eight,” He echoed.
And around them, the others joined in.
“Team Eight!"
The starting gun cracked through the air.
They surged forward, chained together at the ankles, arms linked tightly to keep their stride in sync. They grunted their rhythm aloud—“One, two. One, two," their voices rough but unified. Their shoes thudded on the track as they moved, legs straining, balance teetering, and breath coming fast. They reached the first station.
A circle-masked guard stepped forward, arms stiff, holding out a tray with two folded paper tiles, one red and one blue. Without hesitation, Player 222 stepped up and snatched the blue tile. The guard dropped the red one onto the track in front of her. Then she gritted her teeth, lifted her arm, and snapped it downward with a force none of them expected. The blue tile hit the red tile hard, a sharp smack cracking through the air. The red tile flipped once, clean and perfect.
“Pass!” The guard then formed an O shape with their arms curved above their head.
Their team broke into breathless cheers. Gi-hun felt his chest swell, not with air, but with something rarer, something hotter. “Ready, go,” He said, voice tight with urgency, and they began moving again, legs straining in unison, breaths syncing to the rhythm of their chant: “One, two. One, two.”
They reached the second station. Jung-bae stepped forward without hesitation, accepting the flat stone from the waiting circle-masked guard. He pressed a kiss to it—half habit, half superstition—then barked for elbow room, and the players flanking him shuffled aside. With a practiced underhand flick, he sent the stone soaring. It struck the other with a sharp crack and sent it skittering out of bounds.
“Pass!” Came the call, and the guard raised their arms into another crisp O.
Another roar of relief. Another burst of adrenaline. They pressed onward, rhythm steady, breath growing tighter but still aligned.
The third station loomed—gonggi. Arguably the most difficult of the five mini-games. They dropped to the ground together, squatting low. Gi-hun and Player 222 struggled more than the rest, each one cradling the swell of their bellies with one arm as they lowered themselves. But the others helped them, hands guiding, steadying, and supporting until all five were down.
Player 388 crouched in front of the tiny table, the multicolored stones already clutched in his hand. He rolled his wrist slowly, warming up. Jung-bae leaned close, steady and low. “Remember, 388. Stay calm,” He murmured, squeezing his shoulder once.
Gi-hun added his own reassurance, coaxing more of his omega scent into the air, sweet dalgona wrapped in milk, soothing and subtle. “You’ve got this. There’s plenty of time—”
Player 388 raised a single finger to his lips, silencing them both, though his chest still heaved with nerves. He took a deep inhale, then another, visibly grounding himself. The shift was immediate, he settled. Stillness overtook him like a wave. Then he began and his hand moved with precision, tossing, scooping, flipping, and catching. The little stones danced across the tabletop as if drawn to him by instinct. It was art, graceful, focused, fluid.
Gi-hun blinked, stunned. Even Sang-woo, who had always been a prodigy at the game, had never played like this.
The final flip and catch landed perfectly.
“Pass!” Arms arched above their head. Another O.
“That was amazing! 388, my boy!” Jung-bae shouted, nearly clapping.
“That was perfect,” Gi-hun breathed, too stunned for restraint. He reached out and embraced the young alpha, one-armed, swift, and warm. Player 388 returned it immediately, hugging back with quiet strength, careful of the curve of his belly. They broke apart only when the chains at their ankles reminded them to keep moving.
They moved in rhythm again, spirits high. Three out of five games cleared. Over three minutes left. Two games to go.
“We've got plenty of time. Don’t move too fast or hard,” Jung-bae said, directing the words gently toward Player 388 and Gi-hun.
They reached the fourth station, and the mood dropped a degree. The rainbow track here was darkened and slick. The blood from earlier had not fully dried, and a circle-masked guard stepped forward, presenting the tray with the spinning top and rope. Gi-hun snatched them without ceremony, dismissing the guard with a terse wave of his hand. The masked figure stepped back silently, unbothered.
Gi-hun began winding the rope around the base of the spinning top, fingers moving swiftly, surely. His hands shook just slightly from strain and adrenaline, but he kept his touch controlled. He tried to ground himself in something familiar, something warm, something real, but instead of his childhood memories of playing the game, his thoughts turned to his daughter.
Ga-yeong had flung the top and rope to the ground with a furious cry, “I hate this game! I hate it—” She had whined, chin trembling, lips wobbling, her big dark eyes fat with unshed tears. “I’ve been doing it again and again, and it won’t—”
Gi-hun had been in the cramped kitchen of his fried chicken shop, sleeves rolled up, elbows dusted in flour, prepping for the opening the next day. He had paused mid-kneed, hearing the frustration in her voice, and turned to see her small frame hunched over the little plastic top and fraying string. He had laughed, soft and affectionate, and wiped his hands off on his grease-streaked apron as he squatted beside her. Then he had picked up the toy and rope, turning them once in his hands before glancing over with mock seriousness.
“Ga-yeong,” Gi-hun had said, voice grave, “Do you want burnt fried chicken?”
“Huh?” Ga-yeing had sniffled, confused enough that her tears had paused mid-fall. Her round cheeks were splotched red, eyes still puffy and rimmed in pink.
Gi-hun had grinned and reached out, smudging a light streak of flour across her nose, making her giggle. He had gently taken her hands in his, curling her small fingers around the spinning top and rope.
“The first time I ever made fried chicken,” He had told her, “I burned it. Horribly. The whole apartment stank. Even my scent turned awful. Like burnt sugar.”
“But you always smell so sweet,” Ga-yeong had exclaimed, bewildered.
“I didn’t then!” Gi-hun had laughed again, loud and real. “Grandma nearly kicked me out of the apartment because I reeked so bad! Said she’d rather house a filthy stray cat than a man who couldn’t cook without stinking up the whole floor.”
He had leaned in a little closer then, tapping her hand with his own. “But if I’d stopped there, if I'd let that first try be the only try, you and everyone else would be eating burnt fried chicken today. You know what I did instead?”
She had shaken her head, still clutching the toy.
“I kept trying. Again and again, even when it sucked. Even when I smelled awful. And now? You get my golden, crispy, extra-delicious chicken. Because I didn’t let one failure stop me.”
Ga-yeong had looked down at the top in her hands, then back at him. “So… even if I mess it up again, I should just keep trying?”
“Exactly,” Gi-hun had said, tapping her forehead with a flour-dusted finger. “Every try gets you a little closer. That’s the whole point.”
Gi-hun allowed himself a small smile. Somehow, almost without realizing it, he had already wrapped the rope cleanly and perfectly around the base of the spinning top. His fingers moved with ease, muscle memory guiding them. He braced his feet, adjusted his grip, and angled his wrist for the throw. If luck was on his side, maybe he could land it on the first try. Then there was a sudden tug at his ankles. One of the others, he did not see who, slipped.
The slick sheen of blood on the rainbow-colored track glistened beneath their feet like oil. Their chain jerked violently, and the balance they had all worked to maintain shattered in an instant. Gi-hun twisted, instincts kicking in. He flung the spinning top forward with a desperate flick before everything went sideways. His hand shot down to shield his stomach, cradling it with fierce, panicked protectiveness as he tried to shift his weight to his back, maybe his shoulder, anywhere but the front. But there was no space to maneuver with their ankles bound. The fall was too fast.
Gi-hun landed hard on his dominant hand. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Pain exploded through his fingers, sharp and white-hot, blotting out everything for a moment. His mouth opened in a silent scream before his breath finally caught.
“Gi-hun!” Someone shouted, hoarse and frantic.
He barely heard it. He could only hear the pounding in his ears, feel the throb pulsing through his broken fingers, and the dreadful silence that followed when the spinning top hit the ground and never spun.
“Mr. Freeze! Mr. Freeze, please—say something! Are you okay?” Player 388 was exclaiming whilst crouched beside Gi-hun, his hands already beneath his arms, trying to lift him with frantic, trembling strength. On the other side, Young-il was there too, face grim, arm braced around his waist with practiced care.
“Your fingers—” 388 choked out, staring in horror.
“Is anything else hurt? Your belly—?” Jung-bae said sharp and fast, his hands hovering, ready to catch or cradle whatever might give out next.
Gi-hun blinked hard, his breath stuttering. He lifted his hand slowly, the dominant one, and held it before his face. The sight made his stomach lurch. Two fingers were bent wrong, his ring and middle fingers, swelling thick and would soon begin to bruise, the skin already tight with pain. Tremors wracked the limb.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Gi-hun muttered, breath hitching as he gingerly touched one of the mangled digits. The pain flared white-hot, stealing the air from his lungs. “I didn’t land on my stomach—just my hand. Just—fuck!”
“Everyone hold onto one another!” Young-il barked, taking charge. “We move together—on three. Careful with the blood.” His arm slid under his, avoiding the shattered fingers, lifting his weight against him. “I’ve got you. Hold on, Gi-hun.”
Grunts echoed from their team as they pulled themselves up in disjointed unison, legs chained, breath coming hard, lungs pumping against rising panic. Together, they stepped away from the slick blood smeared across the rainbow-painted track, the grotesque glint of it still fresh in their eyes.
The clock glared down at them. Two minutes and fifteen seconds. Over half their time was already gone, bled out in a fall, and the frantic scramble to recover. Young-il reached out, handing the blood-slicked spinning top and rope to Gi-hun.
“It’s okay, Gi-hun. No matter what happens—” Young-il began, voice low and steady.
“Maybe we should set them first,” Player 388 cut in, breathless. “I’ve got first aid training from the Marines—if we wrap them quickly, it might help—”
“No time.” The words came flat and final as Gi-hun laid the top against his right palm, cradling it in place with his thumb, index finger, and pinkie, those three unbroken fingers trembling under the strain. “We’ll deal with it all after. But right now, we finish this.”
Then Gi-hun used his left, non-dominant hand to begin to wind the rope around the top, a difficult task but not an impossible one. There had been times at the factory when his fingers, toes, or more had been broken, but he still needed a paycheck, so he had simply gritted his teeth and carried on despite the pain. He had been forced to use his non-dominant limbs on many occasions, so he was no stranger to the challenge. He looped the rope one final time, slower than he wanted, tighter than he dared.
The others gathered in close, linked not just by chains now, but by breath, by worry, by warmth. Low murmurs circled around him.
“You’ve got this.”
“Breathe.”
“We’re right here.”
No one shouted. No one blamed him. No one panicked. Young-il—In-ho—watched silently. He had expected fear. Expected accusation. Desperation made people cruel; he had counted on that. The stumble had been subtle, with a twist of his foot, a shift of weight, just enough to collapse their momentum. Enough to sabotage. Enough to break the illusion of unity. But even then, even sabotaging, he had instinctively moved to shield his omega from falling too hard. He had made sure the omega did not land on his belly.
Still, In-ho thought grimly, eyeing the grotesque bend of his fingers, That part hadn’t been planned. A quiet pang of guilt twisted beneath his ribs. He would kiss them better later.
Yet here they were, touching Gi-hun gently and scenting him, whispering support instead of hate. His jaw clenched, molars grinding behind a tight, unreadable smile. What he had meant to be a lesson on how quickly humans turned on one another had become something else entirely.
Gi-hun inhaled deeply, the air sharp with blood and sweat. The top sat heavy in his shaking palm, rope wound tight, tension bleeding through his grip. He thought of his daughter, her tiny fingers clenched around the rope, her frustrated whine. “Every try gets you a little closer,” He had told her then. He told himself now. His wrist snapped forward, awkward, left-handed, imperfect. The top soared, wobbled once, then found its rhythm.
It spun.
It whirled across the rainbow-painted track, bright and quick and perfect.
“Pass!” Then the circle-masked guard raised both arms in an O above their head.
Cheers erupted. Player 388 lunged forward and wrapped both arms around Gi-hun, nearly lifting him off the ground. “You did it, sir! You did it!" He then drew back and made a soothing motion with his hand toward his distended stomach. “Sorry, sir! Sorry!”
“Gi-hun, you magnificent bastard!” Jung-bae clutched his chest with a bark of laughter.
Player 222 gasped, both hands covering her mouth, eyes damp and shining.
Gi-hun turned to Young-il, sweat streaking his face, fingers still bent and wrong. “You’re up,” He rasped, smiling through the pain.
No hesitation. The five of them moved again, legs heavy, breaths ragged, chains dragging, less than a minute left on the clock as they reached the final station. The tray held the jegi, a small weight of cloth and beans that could spell life or death. Young-il—In-ho stepped forward, picked it up with a calm that belied the thrum beneath his skin, and without a word gave the guard a look, a low, dangerous glare that made them step back without protest, hand still held in the air indicating the task: five clean kicks.
In-ho still held the jegi in his palm, considering the weight and the balance. Five kicks. That was all. His gaze dropped to the track. There, still wet, slick with blood. He could miss a kick. Slip. Let them fail at the final hurdle. A cruel lesson, but a clean one. But…
In-ho glanced sideways to where Gi-hun stood braced against Player 388, cradling that ruined hand, his belly heavy with the weight of what he had put there. He could scent the pain, the effort to hide it. His omega was still standing, still fighting, still believing in people who would never deserve it. So he exhaled through his nose, his mind made up, and he tossed the jegi up and kicked. Once. Twice.
His non-dominant leg ached, but the motion was clean. Three. Four. Time dragged. The fifth kick arched high, nearly too high, but landed perfectly. The cheering was instant, a ripple of elation and scent that broke like a wave over the group. They moved before the guards could register it. He dragged them forward, and they ran, stumbling and breathless, crossing the hot pink finish line just as the final second blinked out on the clock.
Cheers. Cries. Arms flung around each other. A tangle of relief and disbelief. Gi-hun turned to In-ho, brown eyes wide, cheeks blotched red with heat and exertion. In-ho barely registered anything else. The sweat-damp hair his omega had in his face, the adrenaline-bright flush that made him more radiant than he had any right to be. Their eyes locked—and then Gi-hun moved. The kiss was soft, hesitant, barely more than a brush of their lips. But it lit a fuse in his spine, flaring heat through his blood, sharp and possessive.
Gi-hun pulled back, wide-eyed. “Sorry—I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me—”
In-ho kissed Gi-hun hard in answer, crushing their mouths together, one arm firm around his spine, the other spreading across the curve of his belly like he could shield it from everything in the world. His omega melted into him with a low, shaky breath, fingers curling in the fabric of his tracksuit. When he pulled back, his omega was flushed, glassy-eyed, his sweet, warm scent thick with affection and relief and something deeper.
But the gunfire brought them back. The other team, slower and less fortunate, was gunned down just feet from the line.
Gi-hun flinched against In-ho, chest hitching. In-ho turned his head slightly, enough to see the devastation begin to collapse across his features. The clouding of that gentle expression. The sorrow deepened into something darker. He felt it then, having almost forgotten his role in all this. And he hated it.
Back in the dormitory, their team sat huddled on one of the lower bunks, a tight circle of breath, bruises, and sweat. Player 388 had somehow procured little strips of wood and was now tearing his own shirt into rough bandages. He laid the supplies out with careful reverence, his young face drawn tight with concern. “I’ve got the materials to make splints,” He said quietly, his voice low and pitched for calm. He reached for the broken fingers with careful hands. “They’re pretty bad. We’ll need to set them. Can someone hold him steady?”
Jung-bae and Young-il leaned in, neither needing to speak. Young-il, all steady dominance, knelt behind Gi-hun, his knees bracketing his hips as he gathered him close, cradling him against his chest, one hand braced gently but firmly over the wrist of his injured hand. Jung-bae crouched opposite and took Gi-hun by his uninjured hand with quiet care, fingers calloused but gentle.
“Okay, sorry in advance, Mr. Freeze,” Player 388 said, carefully lining up the first broken finger. “I’m going to use the method my instructor taught me. Works every time. Here goes: Which celebrity used to bag groceries?”
Gi-hun blinked, dazed. “Wait, what—”
“Jimkaeri!” Player 388 chirped and jerked the finger.
A sickening pop. Gi-hun gasped sharply, his body jerking, but Young-il held him tight against his chest, steady, anchoring, his scent pressing calmingly into his throat and wrist. Jung-bae murmured low and meaningless words of comfort while squeezing his hand.
“Get it?” Player 388 said, already working the splint around it with careful fingers and tight, practiced knots. “Jimkaeri? Like Jim Carrey, the Canadian actor?”
Gi-hun whimpered through gritted teeth. “That’s… awful.”
“That’s the spirit,” Player 388 said brightly. "The second one’s worse. What does a vampire drink in the morning?” He asked, even as his hands moved to the next swollen finger. Then after a beat he exclaimed: “Kopi!”
Gi-hun tried to brace, but it still caught him off guard. Another sickening pop echoed in the room as his other finger was set back in place. He hissed through his teeth, nails digging into his sleeve as he tried to hold back a cry of pain.
Player 388 said, grinning. “Because it sounds like ‘coffee’? Get it?”
Gi-hun winced but managed a weak chuckle at the terrible joke. "You're a real comedian, aren't you?" He said, trying to distract himself from the pain. Then he continued, panting and still slightly smiling, “I think… you’re supposed to wait for me to laugh before setting it, 388.”
Player 388 laughed aloud. “Well, comedy is subjective, Mr. Freeze!”
Gi-hun laughed then, breathless and tired, the sound rough but genuine. It was the kind of humor he used to love—the kind that clung to you like gum on your shoe and refused to let go. It hurt to laugh. He laughed anyway. “You did good,” He said at last, looking down at his now-splinted hand with a faint smile. “Really.”
“You remembered your first aid training, huh?” Jung-bae grinned, nudging Dae-ho. “Back at the factory, we’d have just duct-taped it and called it a day.”
“Good thing there’s no duct tape here,” Gi-hun muttered, smirking.
Young-il shifted behind Gi-hun, adjusting him and running a hand carefully down his arm to rest near his splinted fingers. “This is good work,” He said, inspecting the wrappings with a critical eye. “Did you train beyond your service?”
“No, sir. Just always liked the first aid part,” Player 388 said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess it stuck.”
“Remind me to keep you around,” Gi-hun murmured, sinking back against Young-il with a sigh.
Then Gi-hun watched as Young-il glanced over at Player 222, who sat a little removed from the tight huddle, her eyes downcast, her scent faint as steam.
“222,” Young-il said gently, his deep alpha voice softer now, more coaxing than commanding. “Are you feeling alright?”
Player 222 straightened with a tiny jolt, bowing her head respectfully before speaking. “Yes,” She said. “Just seeing the fingers being reset made me a little queasy. But thank you for letting me be on your team, sirs.”
“Thank you for being on it,” Jung-bae replied with a hearty grin, elbowing Gi-hun lightly before mimicking a dramatic toss. “You obliterated that ddakji on the first try! Doing that while carrying a baby? That’s a hell of a feat.”
Player 222 managed a small smile, her cheeks coloring slightly. “It was nothing. 456 was the one who spun the top… pregnant. With two broken fingers,” She said, nodding toward the other pregnant omega with clear admiration.
Gi-hun opened his mouth to downplay it, maybe throw the compliment back her way, she deserved it, but something snagged in his chest instead. He frowned. “I hate that we’re calling each other by numbers,” He muttered, brushing a hand tiredly over his face. “It makes me feel like a racehorse, something to bet on. It’s dehumanizing. Would you all mind… if we shared our names instead?”
A pause. Then Gi-hun raised his head and said, “I’ll go first. I’m Gi-hun. Seong Gi-hun.” He chuckled, a tired, lopsided thing. “No idea what it means. Knowing my mother, probably something like ‘thick-headed mushroom.’”
“I don’t know the meaning of mine either,” Player 222 murmured, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s Jun-hee. Kim Jun-hee.”
Then Player 388 sat up straighter, puffing his chest slightly with a grin that lit his young face. “I’m Dae-ho. Kang Dae-ho. ‘Dae’ means ‘big,’ and ‘ho’ means ‘tiger.’ So I guess I’m a big tiger.”
Dae-ho. It was a name Gi-hun had not spoken aloud in years, one that he kept folded and pressed in the back of his memory like a photograph he could not bear to tear up but could not risk unfolding. It was the name he had whispered over soft cotton hospital blankets and painful nights years later thinking of him. The name he had chosen at the urging of the adoptive mother, a kind alpha woman, kind enough to let him keep something. A name.
Gi-hun had named the baby after a stuffed tiger Jung-bae had brought him to the hospital after he had given birth. Bright orange, round-cheeked, fierce in the way all soft things had to be to survive. And now that name stood before him in the mouth of a boy who was not a boy at all, but a grown man. An alpha.
“It’s a fitting name,” Gi-hun said, the words sliding out before he could stop them. “You were certainly fierce… like a tiger with your gonggi.”
Dae-ho flushed, ducking his head, bashful and pleased. His scent wafted forward: pine needles and honey, sharp and sun-warmed and inexplicably familiar. Without thinking, he breathed it in, and something in him, some long-neglected part, softened. And his own scent rose in answer, unbidden: sugar and honeycomb, warm milk.
A strange stillness came over Gi-hun. Something in his chest shifted. It was not just the scent. It was the look, those wide, earnest eyes. That angular jaw, those soft, expressive lips. That nose. He stared openly now at the younger alpha man, too stunned to be discreet. His features flickered in and out of two timelines, present and past, like a broken film reel. Brown eyes, full of eager light. Eyelashes that fanned against his cheeks when he blinked. A softness that curled around the mouth just like—
No.
But yet that scent of pine and honey, threaded, just faintly, with something once achingly familiar. A scent he had once known as intimately as his own. A scent he had not inhaled since—
Since Sang-woo.
His chest tightened. No. No, no. But the recognition had already settled deep within him, a truth he could not deny.
Gi-hun felt a fine tremble start in his fingers and work its way up his arms. His heart stuttered, then surged, beating too hard, too fast. A panic began to rise, slippery and suffocating, clawing up his throat like bile. His vision shimmered, edges blurring with a thin sheen of unreleased tears.
“Gi-hun?” Young-il said and his voice cut through the fog, low and alert. He was at his side in an instant, a hand on his elbow. “Are you okay?”
“Mr. Freeze—uh, I mean… Gi-hun?” Dae-ho asked, voice cautious, the soft frown on his lips filled with worry. “Is it okay if I call you that? Your first name?”
Dae-ho looked so much like Sang-woo in that moment it made Gi-hun want to scream, and oh fuck, fuck, he was going to be sick. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he not realized what his own stubborn, old, and already-damaged body from pregnancy had been trying to tell him all along? That this alpha young man was his baby, the perfect baby boy he had given up? And now he was trapped in this place, this hell with him, likely because of him, and—
“I—I just need to…” Gi-hun started, barely hearing himself. He reached for a calm that was not there, trying to call it up from nothing. “Bathroom. Just… need to go to the bathroom for a second.”
He did not wait for permission. He moved, fast and stiff, past the rows of bunks, past the curious glances.
Gi-hun stumbled into the bathroom, breathing fast, too fast, his chest heaving in shallow, ragged pulls that bordered on hyperventilation. He made it to the sink farthest from the door and gripped its edges, arms locked straight, head bowed low. His body trembled faintly, breath catching like something too large was lodged beneath his ribs. He twisted the faucet on and splashed water onto his face, once, twice, again. The shock of cold helped slow his breath, just slightly. But then the sob rose anyway, violent and sudden. He clapped a hand over his mouth just in time, stifling it into a strangled gasp.
“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun sobbed.
Gi-hun remembered so long ago when his hospital room had quieted and the scent of his baby still clung to the folds of the thin hospital blanket on him, he had whispered it, just once, to the stuffed tiger that had inspired it: “Dae-ho…”
A name breathed into the soft fur, barely audible. A name only the tiger ever heard. And then he had let them take him.
The door creaked open behind Gi-hun. A voice, hesitant but familiar, called his name. “Gi-hun?”
Gi-hun jerked upright, sniffled hard, and wiped at his eyes too roughly.
Young-il stepped into the space, expression tight with alarm. “Gi-hun—are you hurt?” He crossed the floor quickly, his gaze flicking from his face to the puddle of water on the tile to the subtle shift in how he stood. His hand hovered, tentative, over the curve of his distended stomach. His eyes went wide. “Did your waters—?”
“No. No,” Gi-hun rasped, his voice shredded. A laugh tore out of him, brittle, painful. He grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser and patted his face dry, sniffled again, and then cleared his throat. “I’m fine. I just made a mess. As I’m prone to do.”
Young-il did not look convinced. He did not move either. He stared, not harshly, not impatiently, just… watching. Frowning faintly, his eyebrows drawn with something caught between concern and quiet curiosity.
Gi-hun leaned back against the sink. One hand settled low over his stomach. His eyes, red-rimmed and wide, stared at the row of stalls, and he flicked a glance toward the other man and then quickly away. Then a hand, warm, calloused, and familiar now, slid over his own, fingers threading gently as the other man took his hand. That nearly broke him. They stood in silence, the low hum of the bathroom buzzing like static in the background.
Then Gi-hun spoke, because the thought would not leave him. “I have…” He began, voice low and aching. “I have a son.” The other man snapped up his gaze to reach his, and he made himself hold it steady, continuing, “I suppose being surrounded by all these young alphas, betas, and omegas… all about his age… it made me think of him. Couldn’t stop myself.”
There was a pause. Then softly, “What happened?” Young-il asked.
“What happens to so many omegas, really,” Gi-hun said, his voice soft, almost a breath. The weight of it made his throat ache, and his chest tightened and hurt. “The alpha I was with at the time… we were childhood sweethearts. We were always supposed to end up together. Everyone knew it. Our families expected it. We had promised each other so many things before we even knew what any of them meant. He was smart, smarter than me by far. Just… better, really. At everything. And for reasons I never fully understood, he still wanted me. Until he didn’t.”
He paused, blinking rapidly, his gaze somewhere far away. “After he graduated college, I was already working in the factory, where I was always meant to be, I guess. We were living together by then. Planning a wedding. Still sneaking around our mothers’ expectations, still doing the things we weren’t supposed to. But he wanted more. Fast. Faster than he could provide. He got impatient, wanted out of our too-small apartment, wanted a grander ceremony, and wanted to buy me a better ring when I would’ve been happy with anything at all.”
A humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth. “We used to laugh so much. Just hold each other and talk about the future. But one day, without us noticing, it all shifted. The laughter disappeared. It became silent, tense, and stretched thin, and eventually that turned into fights. Screaming matches. Stupid things would set us off. Once, I got grease on his tie. I’d just gotten off my shift and was heading for the shower, but he stopped me. Said the suit needed to be clean, that my shower could wait. When I got grease on it anyway, he shouted and shoved it in my face like it was evidence of everything wrong between us. I tried to flush it down the toilet. Clogged the damn thing. We screamed so loud the neighbors started banging on the walls.”
“The last few times we were together like that… they were full of resentment. Quick. Cold. We weren’t making love—we were just clinging to the ghost of something already gone.” He swallowed hard. “After one of those times…” He paused, but did not describe it aloud, the way it had happened against the sink in their tiny bathroom, brutal and joyless. “He looked at me, after he’d finished, and said I was gaining weight. Then he lit a cigarette and didn’t say another word. We barely ate. I worked double shifts just to help keep us afloat, and I stayed lean from it. So I knew something was wrong. I went to the clinic. Turns out I was pregnant. Far along, even. One of those rare omegas who don’t get early symptoms—no nausea, no changes I could feel. Just… exhaustion. But I worked in a factory. Who wasn’t tired?”
His eyes shimmered, but he kept speaking. “I was happy. Terrified, but happy. I thought—if he knew, if he saw what we had made, he’d come back to me. That it would fix everything. Stop the shouting, the coldness, the night spent on the couch trying to muffle the sound of my crying in my fist, seeing him linger in the doorway apology on the tongue but never saying anything. I rushed home that night to tell him.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath. “But he was already on the couch, rubbing his forehead like he always did when he had a migraine. He looked at me and didn’t even let me speak. Just said it was over. Just like that. I stood there with the words still in my mouth. I should have told him. Even if I was leaving anyway, I should have told him about the baby. But I was so humiliated. So heartbroken. It felt like it would’ve been one more pathetic excuse to make him stay. Like a trap. Later, when I was further along, I tried calling. Over and over. Voicemail every time.”
“I had the baby. I couldn’t bring myself not to. But I knew I couldn’t raise him—not on what I made, not in the place I lived. And with no alpha at the time. So I gave him up. A boy. My baby boy. Even after I reconnected with the alpha—his father—I never told him. I was still angry. Still hurting. I let my feelings get in the way and ruin what little was left. After that, we only met once a year. Drinks, small talk. Pretending we were still friends. I thought about telling him. So many times. But pretending was easier. Less painful.”
“Our son… he’s probably in his late twenties now. Maybe taller than me. Maybe he looks nothing like me. Maybe he does.” His voice cracked then, violently. He turned away, hands shaking, body curling inward like it could collapse in on itself. “Fuck,” He whispered. “I’m sorry. I don’t—fuck, I’m so sorry.”
There was a pause, a breath.
Then Young-il moved, crossing the small space between them without a word, and gathered Gi-hun into his arms, folding him in close like he belonged there. “Shh,” He whispered, soft and sure, beginning to rock him gently. One hand settled on the back of his head, tugging out the scrunchie that still held it, and fingers quickly combing through dark waves threaded with silver. “It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize. You’re okay, Gi-hun. You’re okay.”
Gi-hun clung to Young-il, barely breathing, his shoulders trembling. Then, quieter still, barely above a breath, Young-il said, “That son… it’s Dae-ho, isn’t it?”
Gi-hun sobbed sharply and brokenly and nodded against his shoulder, the complete admission finally cracking him open completely. His arms wrapped around the other man tightly, gripping his shirt, as if anchoring himself to something steady.
Young-il did not flinch, only held Gi-hun tighter, and his lips found his temple and pressed a kiss there, gentle and grounding. His hand continued its path through his hair, slow and steady. “He looks like you,” He murmured. “He has your eyes—big, brown, full of light even when he’s trying to look serious.”
Gi-hun felt his breath hitch again, but softer this time. The sobs were subsiding, turning into trembling.
“And he smells like you too,” Young-il added, warmth in his voice now, something soft and sacred threaded through. “Sweet. Like honey warming in the sun.”
A broken laugh escaped Gi-hun, caught somewhere between grief and wonder. His voice was hoarse. “He smells like the forest, too. Like pine…” His next words came out in a whisper, raw and aching. “Like his father did.”
Young-il kissed Gi-hun on the temple again, then lower, his cheek, his jaw. And finally, his lips. The omega whimpered, soft and breathless, and leaned into the other man, kissing him back. First gently, then harder, urgently, and his tears would not stop, streaking down his cheeks like oil, scalding and silent. Their mouths opened, tongues sliding together, teeth catching in the heat. They clung to one another, bodies flush in defiance of the swell between them, desperate to close the last of the space. As though if they just pressed hard enough, they could forget everything that had come before, everything they had both lost, and simply become one.
Gi-hun whimpered again and reached for Young-il, clutching his shoulders and tugging at his jacket with clumsy insistence. “I want—can we…?” He gasped between kisses. “If you don’t want to, while I’m like this—” He glanced down at his distended stomach, gesturing vaguely, his voice cracking with the insecurity he hated to feel. He knew not all alphas could bear to touch an omega in that state; he had seen that hesitation before.
But Young-il only stepped back long enough to pull off his jacket and drag his shirt over his head. His torso was lean, scarred, real, the kind of strength built quietly over years, not in gyms but in survival. Below, his cock strained visibly against his pants.
“Trust me,” Young-il said, voice rough. “I want.” Then his mouth quirked into a wry, half-exasperated smile as he glanced around the large, too-bright bathroom. “It’s just… a matter of logistics.”
Gi-hun sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, then smiled, small and crooked. His eyes were still wet, but they gleamed now with something else. “Well,” He said, hoarse but teasing, “I’ve heard of players using the stalls for privacy. One sitting on the toilet, the other riding. Some use the sink. Easy cleanup.”
Young-il blinked, then huffed a stunned laugh, startled by the sudden honesty of it. Without another word, he turned, stepped into the far stall, and dropped onto the toilet seat. His gaze remained fixed on him, steady, unwavering. He patted his lap, still clothed, an invitation and a promise.
Gi-hun blinked. Here he was. Fifty years old. Seven months pregnant with twins. Sweaty, swollen, tear-streaked, fingers still sore from the splinting. He probably looked like a bloated tick, and yet the other man looked at him like he was the most desirable thing he had ever seen. Despite the fact that they were in a barely passable bathroom propositioning sex on a damn toilet, that might have been the hottest fucking thing he had ever seen.
Gi-hun moved into the stall and climbed onto Young-il, as if gravity had always meant to pull him there. Strong arms wrapped around him the second he lowered himself down onto his lap. Lips found his throat, then his scent gland, pressing, kissing, and sucking until he gasped, head tipping back with a sharp, helpless sound. One hand traced the arch of his spine, the other slid along his hips, reverent, until it came to rest on the full swell of his stomach. The warmth of that palm undid him.
Gi-hun pulled back slightly, panting, his fingers clutching at his shoulders. “You don’t… you don’t have to do that,” He whispered.
“Don’t have to do what?” Young-il asked, his voice low and gentle, the pad of his thumb brushing circles across the fabric stretched over his belly.
“Touch it,” Gi-hun said. His voice was raw with vulnerability. “My stomach. I know it’s—unsightly. Some people don’t like…”
“Do you not like it?” Young-il asked, pausing, his hand still. He began to lift it away with care.
Gi-hun blinked, confused. “I… I don’t not like it. It’s just—I know you might not—”
But Young-il was already kissing his throat again. Gently. Then with more heat. One hand stayed cradled at the curve of his belly, the other hitching his shirt up to bare more of the soft, stretched skin beneath. Then he lifted his head and claimed his lips in a searing kiss that made him groan against it, wrapping his arms around his neck and closing his eyes.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” Young-il whispered against his lips, brushing their noses together. “Even in a place like this, with all these walls and all these eyes—you’re gorgeous like this. Radiant. Glowing.”
Gi-hun flushed so hard it felt like his skin might burst aflame, ears, cheeks, and neck all burning. He let out a half-laugh, half-moan. “You’ve already got me riding you on a toilet, Young-il. You really don’t need to sweet-talk me more.”
“Fuck, Gi-hun,” Young-il groaned, rutting up gently against him, the hard line of his arousal pressing between them, still frustratingly clothed. His head tipped back against the stall wall with a soft thud, eyes dark and wild. “I mean it. If I had a canvas right now, I’d paint you as Hope II by Gustav Klimt. Birth, death, and sensuality, all held in balance. Suspended in gold.”
Gi-hun let out a shaky laugh, part arousal, part disbelief, part deep, aching affection, and buried his face against the other man, inhaling deeply. His alpha scent flooded his senses, warm and potent, whiskey being poured from the bottle flooding over the rim threaded through musk. “Look at you,” He said, voice soft and amused, “Waxing poetic in a public bathroom. Next you’ll be comparing my stretch marks to brushstrokes.”
Young-il huffed a laugh, but it caught halfway out when Gi-hun abruptly rose off his lap. A warning growl rumbled from his chest, instinctual, possessive, before the omega turned and eased back down onto him, this time straddling his lap with his back pressed against his chest.
“Here,” Gi-hun breathed, guiding one of his hands to the waistband of his pants, pushing down the layers with slow insistence. “This’ll be easier.”
Young-il followed the motion, tugging down his undergarments, his breath hitching when his palm brushed warm, bare skin. He dipped his hand between his round rear and found slick already pooling there. His scent spiked with want, hot and thick, predatory. “Already wet?” He whispered reverently, pressing his mouth to the curve of his neck. His tongue flicked out, tracing his scent gland. “Fuck.”
A single thick finger slid inside. The wet heat clenched around him instantly, tight and ready. “Is this okay?” He breathed, barely holding himself together.
“Y–Young-il,” Gi-hun whimpered, rolling his hips helplessly, riding the rhythm of that one finger. His scent had gone sweet and sharp, soaked with need, the stall humid with it. “I don’t need any prepping—fuck, just—” He pushed back harder, grinding against the hard line of his cock still caged by his pants. “Get in me.”
Young-il—In-ho growled again, deeper this time, primal. He pressed in two more fingers, twisting them, spreading them just to hear that gorgeous whimper tear from his throat again. His alpha instincts were flaring—possessive, protective, and reverent—but lust had sunk its claws in just as deep.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” In-ho rasped truthfully, fingers moving in and out through the mess of slick with aching slowness. “Not again.” He stilled and gently took his omega by the hand, cupping the broken, now-splinted fingers in his palm. The pads of his fingers traced lightly over the bruised knuckles as though an apology could be written there. His voice broke. “I was so worried when you fell. That was me. That was my fault.”
Gi-hun blinked, dazed but focused. “Your fault?” He repeated, barely above a whisper.
“I slipped on that fucking blood,” In-ho bit out, the bitterness thick in his throat. His jaw clenched. “You fell because of me. You—our children—you could’ve died, and it would’ve been on me. All of it.” His voice cracked. He wanted his omega to yell at him, hit him, tear into him. Punishment. Penitence.
But Gi-hun shushed him with a firm shake of his head. “Don’t blame yourself,” His omega said, taking the hand that had been cradling his injured fingers and guiding it down, pressing it over the firm, swollen curve of his stomach, continuing to move on the fingers inside him with soft, open-mouthed pants. “We’re fine. Look at me. Two little broken fingers is nothing. Nothing, Young-il.”
In-ho shook his head, jaw tight. “Fuck, Gi-hun—” The words cracked in his throat even as his fingers curled deep inside the slick heat of his omega. He kept thrusting them, slow and careful, like he could somehow undo what had already happened. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just let me—let me take my time—” But even now, buried knuckle-deep in the one person who made his mind go blank, the guilt gnawed at him like a live wire sparking in his chest.
“You won’t!” Gi-hun gasped, breath coming fast and shallow. He rocked back against him, chasing friction, chasing more. “You won’t, Young-il—just shut up and—” He was flushed head to toe, skin fevered, trembling, hair clinging to his forehead, lips swollen and parted as if perpetually mid-whimper. “Get inside me, now, before I throw you down on this filthy tile, rip your damn pants open, and mount you myself!”
The snarl In-ho let out could have shattered bone. It cut through the air, guttural and possessive, but then, just as suddenly, he stilled. His other hand, which had been gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise, vanished for a heartbeat.
Gi-hun whimpered, wordless and aching at the loss, but In-ho only shoved his track pants down in one sharp motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, the tip already slick with precum, glistening like just scenting and touching his omega had nearly undone him.
“Yes,” Gi-hun panted, sweat beading on his brow. “Yes, that’s—come here—”
In-ho surged forward, the musk of aroused alpha thick around them, pressing close until they were skin to skin. One hand braced at the curve of his thigh, the other settling firmly against the swell of his distended stomach. He pressed his palm there, possessive, reverent, like grounding them both in the reality of what they had made together. Then he moved, slow and careful, pushing in with a groan caught deep in his throat.
In-ho watched every second, his gaze fixed on the way his cock disappeared into his omega, inch by inch, until his omega sat fully in his lap, stretched and shaking, lips parted in a breathless sound. A wave of warm scent flooded the space, thick with omega slick and alpha musk, enough to make him dizzy. He slid his hands against this omega, beneath his shirt and jacket, tracing up sweat-slick skin, caressing ribs and belly and chest, anchoring him close. His hips rolled upward, testing, and the answering moan his omega released broke something loose in him.
“Young-il… alpha,” Gi-hun gasped, breath catching on the word like it physically ached. He pressed downward with a desperate rhythm, body arching as the alpha thrust up into him hard enough to make the toilet shift beneath them. “Alpha. Alpha!”
The title set something primal loose inside In-ho. In-ho moved faster, harder, driven by instinct now, by bond, by the way Gi-hun clung to him with aching need and absolute trust. Each thrust drew more of those ragged cries from his omega, sharp and wet, trembling with heat and urgency. He gripped his omega by the thighs, lifting them high and back, folding him in despite the curve of his belly. He pressed him closer, tighter, pinning him against the heat of his chest, the position primal, possessive, meant to brand.
“Fuck—you're still so pliant like this,” In-ho growled, voice thick with awe and greed. “So fucking good for me.”
“Yoga,” Gi-hun panted, glassy-eyed and grinning, barely able to get the word out through his gasps.
In-ho choked on a laugh, something wild in it, and then ducked his head low. He buried his face in the damp strands of his dark hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of his omega, ripe, familiar, undeniable, flooded his senses. He nuzzled closer, pressing his nose to the warm skin of his scent gland, right where neck met shoulder. It pulsed beneath his lips, tempting. Demanding. His mouth parted, lips grazing the curve as his thoughts swam.
I could bite. Right now. Sink my teeth in, mark Gi-hun permanently, taste the copper of blood and the sweetness of bond, kiss it better through the sting. Make him mine in the way the old instincts still remembered, even if the world around them had turned civilized, even if mating bites were now academic debates and legal grey zones and whispered scandals.
Still, In-ho felt Gi-hun arch into the touch, neck bared, scent flaring open like a flower at dusk. That was all it took. His knot swelled, thickening, locking tight. On a final, helpless surge forward, he spilled inside with a broken sound, head thrown back, mouth wide in release.
In-ho was left dizzy with it all: the weight of his omega atop him, heavy with their unborn children; the way his scent changed, sated now, mellow and warm, like late summer heat; and how it sank into every part of him. His hands moved reverently, gliding along his hips, up the arch of his back, and over the curve of his belly. He kissed whatever skin he could reach, the dip of his throat, the sweat-damp line of his collarbone, still a temptation, and the corner of his mouth still curled from the aftershocks.
The door to the bathroom creaked open suddenly.
“Out!” In-ho barked, his voice sharp and entirely unconcerned. There was a startled yelp and a flurry of retreating footsteps. The door slammed shut.
Gi-hun gave a soft, breathless giggle, utterly relaxed against him. He traced lazy fingers over his swollen stomach, still riding the warmth of the high. “What if they really had to go?” He murmured, head resting on his shoulder, eyes half-lidded.
“They can use a fucking bucket,” In-ho growled, low in his chest, the possessiveness in his voice unmistakable. His hand was still firm over his hip, thumb tracing lazy circles just beneath the swell of his belly. “With me inside you like this? They’re lucky I didn’t bite.”
Gi-hun hummed, hips shifting slightly, knowingly. “In that case… your knot’s going down soon.” He turned his face into his throat, inhaling deeply, brushing his lips over the pulse there. “Want to go again?”
That made In-ho still. His hand paused. “Already?” He asked, his voice roughened by restraint. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to overdo it. You’re—” His gaze swept reverently over the curve of his belly “—carrying.”
Gi-hun tilted his head back, lips curling. His skin flushed, eyes bright with mischief and heat. “I once saw in a nature documentary that omega lions have sex twenty to forty times a day during heat,” He said casually, fingers drawing little circles into the hands cradling his distended belly. “And if their alpha mate can’t keep up, they start biting their privates to motivate them.”
In-ho stared.
Gi-hun smiled, saccharine and wicked. “Now imagine what one’s like while pregnant. Hormones. Nesting instincts. Constant hunger. You really think once is enough?”
In-ho groaned, burying his face in the crook of his neck with a half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re going to kill me,” He muttered, his voice muffled by skin.
Gi-hun purred, satisfied, tilting his head slightly to face him. “Not if you keep up.”
In-ho studied Gi-hun quietly. Beneath the flush and sweat, the swollen belly, and the teasing words, Gi-hun was still spiraling. Still reeling. The want was not the only thing clinging to his skin; it was grief, guilt, and fear. He could scent it now that the haze of lust was fading.
This was Gi-hun being torn apart slowly over the truth of Dae-ho. And now he was stitching himself back together the only way he knew how—through skin, through breath, through the feeling of being wanted when everything else felt too sharp to hold. But he would hold his omega together. Gladly. In the face of this revelation, which staggered him even now. Still, perhaps if his omega was good, then the young alpha could be withdrawn from the games. Brought out. Kept close. An older brother to the twins. A son, once lost, found again.
It was a sweet thought. And perhaps it would help make up for things. A balm to soothe the wound he knew the end of these games would leave.
“Young-il…” Gi-hun whimpered, voice cracking, body trembling faintly. “Please… just—please…”
“Shh,” In-ho whispered, steady and low. “I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
Gi-hun let out a soft, broken sound and nodded, inclining his head to kiss him, needy, wet, and trembling. In-ho caught him in full, his mouth claiming his with a kiss meant to steady and soothe, not just ignite. His touch was reverent, anchoring, sliding down his back to splay across the small of it, scent marking him gently, instinctively.
Then In-ho reached up to Gi-hun, catching a tear before it fell, his thumb swiping it from his flushed cheek. “Easy,” He murmured, his voice warm at his ear. “I’m here. I’ve got you, my omega."
And with Gi-hun not looking, shoulders drawn tight with effort, In-ho pressed the salted tear to his tongue behind his teeth reverently.
Notes:
Gi-hun at the end of this chapter: I’ve come for your pickle 🥒
In-ho: [SCREAMS]
Chapter 9
Summary:
Pregnancy evidently made Gi-hun a damn succubus, In-ho thought, dazed, as they at last shuffled out of the bathroom. His legs barely worked. He blinked, hollow-eyed, staring ahead like a man who had seen the other side. His body felt boneless, like his life force had been sucked out of him aggressively, expertly, and repeatedly. Meanwhile, his omega glowed. His shoulder-length hair, slightly mussed, seemed shinier somehow, a single wave slipping into his face in an infuriatingly soft way. His cheeks were pink, his mouth kiss-bitten, and his jacket knotted casually around his waist.
'No wonder he got through dalgona, even after choosing that cursed umbrella, with a mouth like that,' In-ho thought, still dazed, still not sure if he was walking or floating.
In-ho turned slightly, watching Gi-hun walking with a new looseness, a sway, and ease, his hand resting gently on the swell of his stomach, which made his alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story contains spoilers for both seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Secondly, this story combines several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr, creating a truly unique experience. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
Now—how are we feeling after the big reveal last chapter? 😭 That scene was tough to follow up on, which is partly why this update took a little longer. Between that and real-life stress from school and work, it's been a ride. I’m hoping to finish this story before the fall semester starts in August, so with any luck, updates will be consistent.
Also, I’m working on a one-shot omegaverse fic where Gi-hun is already bonded to the Front Man 👀 So if you’re into slightly unhinged devotion, mark that on your radar.
As for this chapter—it’s a little lighter in tone, more in the spirit of chapter one. Things will be getting heavier again soon, so I wanted to give everyone (myself included) a bit of a breather. You'll also notice we’ve gone from ten planned chapters to twelve—turns out I had more emotional pain to inflict than expected. But I do think twelve will be the final count. Please continue to check the tags as they update with each installment.
As always, thank you so much for your support—your comments and kudos mean everything. They keep me going more than you know.
And don’t worry... more pickle shenanigans are on the way. I imagine it goes a little something like this:
Gi-hun: “Young-il, I’ve had another life-shattering realization. Pants off.”
In-ho, pants already off: “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”See you in the next chapter 🫶🫶🫶
Chapter Text
In-ho and Gi-hun had gravitated back to the far sink, as if instinctively seeking the spot furthest from the door, furthest from the world outside it. The sink dripped rhythmically behind them. Each held a handful of damp paper towels, several already discarded into the small bin overflowing with soggy crumples. Gi-hun leaned against the sink, legs sprawled slightly, a damp paper towel pressed to his face in an attempt to calm the lingering flush in his cheeks. In-ho stood beside him, jacket tossed over his shoulder, hair still damp at the temples.
Gi-hun pressed a fresh paper towel to his face; his body was boneless with afterglow, hair a tousled mess, but his eyes were faraway now, thoughtful, quiet. In-ho paused mid-wipe before tossing his crumpled towel into the bin with a practiced flick. Then, without really thinking, he reached out to his omega, hand gliding beneath the hem of his shirt to rest on the warm, taut swell of his belly.
Gi-hun startled slightly at the touch but then smiled at In-ho, soft and content, and placed his hand over his, and he covered his hand with his own, those long, clever fingers now partially splinted, bruised, and swollen from the last game. He dropped his gaze to them, and carefully, reverently, he let his other hand take the injured one, cradling it like it was something sacred and breakable—because it was. His thumb skimmed lightly over the ridges of the makeshift splints, guilt rising up his throat like smoke because this wounded hand had reached for him. They sat like that for a moment, hands curled over life, breath calm.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” Gi-hun said after a long beat, chuckling under his breath. He dragged his uninjured hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “In a bathroom, of all places. A public one.”
In-ho gave a tired, crooked smile. “We maybe went a little too far.” His gaze flicked to the far stall, the one now ominously sealed off with crossed paper towels hanging from the door like a makeshift warning sign. “To be fair,” He added dryly, “Shoddy workmanship on those toilets.”
Gi-hun snorted, laughter bubbling up again, loose and fleeting. In-ho leaned close to kiss his omega, catching his mouth in something slow and warm. It was not like before, that frantic, blazing need. This one was softer, a press of lips meant to reassure and anchor. His omega kissed him back, his long, nimble fingers ghosting down the line of his spine, pulling him as close to him as the swell of his belly would allow.
Suddenly, Gi-hun pulled back from In-ho, breathing hard, and then, without warning, dropped into a squat.
In-ho blinked. “Gi-hun, what are you—”
“Just trust me,” Gi-hun muttered, already tugging at the drawstring of his track pants. He worked them down in one determined motion, undergarments and all, until they pooled around his ankles. His hair fell forward as he ducked his head, breath already shaky with anticipation. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate. “You made me feel good… so I’m going to make you feel good.”
In-ho felt his pulse trip. A spark shot through him, primal and hot, but he tried, valiantly, to keep it together. “You already made me feel good, Gi-hun! What do you think we broke the damn toilet for—with all that—damn it, I don’t want you straining yourself in your condition—we just cleaned up—” And then he felt it: that mouth around his cock, hot and wet and maddeningly skilled, pulling another groan from deep in his chest. He was already hard again—again—which at his age was nothing short of a miracle that this damn angel, this omega of his, could make happen. His fingers tangled in his hair, unable to resist the overwhelming desire coursing through him.
"Oh, fuck, Gi-hun—” In-ho groaned, and his voice cracked into something ragged, indecent, as his head thudded against the mirror with a dull, helpless clack. One hand flew out, slapping the glass for balance, fingers splayed, trembling, barely holding him up. He gasped, unable to form words as pleasure consumed him completely.
Then, merciful or cruel, Gi-hun pulled back. His lips were slick, obscenely shining, and his cheeks flushed, and he looked up at him with those wide, brown eyes and said with maddening sweetness, "Sounds like you're about to break the sink next, alpha." Then he ducked his head again, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.
Pregnancy evidently made Gi-hun a damn succubus, In-ho thought, dazed, as they at last shuffled out of the bathroom. His legs barely worked. He blinked, hollow-eyed, staring ahead like a man who had seen the other side. His body felt boneless, like his life force had been sucked out of him aggressively, expertly, and repeatedly. Meanwhile, his omega glowed. His shoulder-length hair, slightly mussed, seemed shinier somehow, a single wave slipping into his face in an infuriatingly soft way. His cheeks were pink, his mouth kiss-bitten, and his jacket knotted casually around his waist.
No wonder he got through dalgona, even after choosing that cursed umbrella, with a mouth like that, In-ho thought, still dazed, still not sure if he was walking or floating.
In-ho turned slightly, watching Gi-hun walking with a new looseness, a sway, and ease, his hand resting gently on the swell of his stomach, which made his alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
“What are we going to do if someone asks us about the toilet?” Gi-hun asked, brushing a wave of hair from his face, watching as other players began drifting toward the bathroom. “We were the last ones seen there.”
In-ho snorted. “We sealed it off with paper towels like a cursed tomb. Anyone with half a brain will take the warning and steer clear.”
“God,” Gi-hun muttered with a hoarse laugh. “I can’t believe we actually broke that damn thing. At least it lasted as long as it did—and you managed to catch me.”
“Barely,” In-ho muttered, shifting his weight with a grimace. His lower back still ached from when the two of them had gone crashing to the floor, the toilet overturned in a spray of humiliation. He had caught his omega mid-fall, miraculously avoiding the puddle of god-knows-what, and they had both laughed like lunatics, wheezing, breathless, a little hysterical, before finishing against the wall anyway. It had not helped his back, but it had been worth it. So worth it.
They paused near the edge of the hallway, chuckling low and breathless. The sound was too warm, too soft, and utterly damning.
“Shh,” In-ho hushed, brushing Gi-hun on his uninjured hand lightly as two guards rounded the corner. “We can’t be caught giggling—they’ll know.”
Gi-hun dissolved into stifled laughter, snorting behind his palm, his eyes alight with mischief. And In-ho, utterly spent, utterly smitten, could not even pretend to be sorry. Then they reached the entrance back into the dormitory but did not enter immediately, instead hovering outside of it.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun said softly, and In-ho stiffened at the tone. “Promise me, if we get out of this—if I actually make it to a hospital, if I give birth safe and whole… Smuggle me out after. Just for a few minutes. Hell, I don't care if I'm in a wheelchair or a gurney—all I want is a cigarette after. I'd never think of smoking while pregnant, but after all this, and if I make it that far, giving birth…" He paused and chuckled weakly. “I think at that point I'd have earned it.”
In-ho blinked. Then gave a soft laugh, raising a single finger. “Just one. Actually, make it half.”
“Half,” Gi-hun repeated, mouth already pulling into a half-hearted grin. “God. What a bastard. Letting the poor, basically geriatric omega who just gave birth to your beautiful twin children after surviving this shit—twice—and maybe ending it for good this time… have half a cigarette?”
His omega cradled his belly in mock offense, but the shift in his expression came suddenly. His hand lingered. His gaze unfocused. And then, without warning, his voice dropped. “I don’t know how to do this,” He whispered. “Or even what I’m supposed to do.”
In-ho stepped closer instinctively, bracing, his scent softening to something warm and open. “Do what?” He inquired.
Gi-hung gazed at In-ho with wide, glassy eyes, eyelashes quivering from unshed tears, and his mouth parted around shallow, uneven breaths. “Dae-ho. My... my son.” His voice faltered, but he pressed on. “Knowing what I know now—what I feel now. It’s not just a thought anymore. It’s in my body. In my bones. I know.”
His voice cracked. “He’s my baby. But he’s not. Not really. Not anymore. I gave that up. I signed the papers. I handed him over. I watched strangers walk away with him—right after I fed him, after he fell asleep on my chest. And I still let them take him.” He closed his eyes, breath catching, face twisting in grief. “I let them take him.”
The silence that followed felt too loud.
“And now he’s here,” Gi-hun gasped out. “In this place. With me. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to be to him. I don’t even know if I have the right to be anything. And fuck—now I’m crying. Again. Stupid fucking hormones.”
In-ho stepped closer to Gi-hun, one hand rising to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing against his flushed skin just beneath his eye. He pressed his scent there in soft, steady waves, an instinctive, grounding mark meant to soothe. “For now,” He murmured, “We keep him close. We protect him. We vote to get him out. That’s step one.”
“And I think, even if he doesn’t realize it, his body knows. The way he stays near you, the way he looks at you—it’s instinct. It’s blood. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows. As for telling him…” He hesitated, then added, “Let’s see if we can get him out first. Then, you’ll have the chance to decide whether or not to tell him.”
Gi-hun nodded shakily before stepping forward and kissing In-ho. A soft, reverent thing, full of tremble and ache. He kissed his omega back just as gently, his hand never leaving his cheek.
"Let's get this damn vote over with," Gi-hun muttered as he gently pulled away. “After that initial bloodbath, if some of the O’s still don’t vote X, then I don’t know what it’ll take.”
In-ho reentered the dormitory with Gi-hun beside him, their hands still clasped, fingers laced in a hold neither of them had consciously maintained.
And then Gi-hun gasped and stopped mid-step. “Oh God. Young-il.”
In-ho tensed immediately. “What? What is it? Are you—Gi-hun? Is it—?”
“No,” Gi-hun hissed, face flushing violently. “It’s just—the other players. They can probably smell us.”
There was a pause.
Then In-ho blinked and coughed, once, awkwardly, because yes. Now that he focused, the pheromones were thick. Honey-slick, whiskey-strong, still heavy with aftermath.
“I mean,” In-ho murmured, lips twitching, “It’s probably not much of a mystery. They saw us kiss after the last game. And we’ve… you know. Been close. Before that.”
Gi-hun groaned, hand over his face. “God. What if they say something? I probably look like a mess. I don’t even know what I was thinking—except, wait, I do know. I wasn’t thinking. Raging hormones! I have no impulse control anymore—”
“It’s alright, Gi-hun,” In-ho said, trying to hold in a laugh. “I doubt anyone will say—”
“Who the hell broke the toilet?!” Player 230, Thanos, bellowed as he stormed back into the dormitory, his voice booming off the walls. Then, louder, switching to English and pinching his nose like a dramatic schoolgirl: “Dis. Gust. Ting.”
“The whole damn thing was upended!” Player 124, Nam-gyu, added, aghast. “The seat’s cracked in half! And it reeks. Did one of you omegas go into heat in there or what?!”
In-ho bit the inside of his cheek, barely containing the grin threatening to crack across his face.
Gi-hun, meanwhile, looked mortified. His eyes went wide; he half-turned like he might bolt for cover under the nearest bunk. “Next time, I’m throwing myself into the toilet and pulling the lid shut,” He muttered. He then held up the scrunchie around his wrist and leaned forward to kiss the alpha on the cheek. ”I should go return this to Player 120 before the vote. If anyone asks why we were gone so long—just say I got sick again. That you were holding my hair.”
In-ho watched his omega go, lips twitching with the smile he could no longer contain. “Hair was certainly held. Or pulled, depending on your perspective.”
Gi-hun shuffled across the dormitory with a faint, unmistakable waddle. His uninjured hand cradled the swell of his belly without thought, protective and automatic, while his other hand, splinted, bruised, still faintly aching, hung at an odd angle by his side. His legs still trembled faintly from overuse, from sensation, from shame he could not quite shake. He could not believe he had just done that. In a bathroom. In this place.
And not just any moment—but now.
After one of the most devastating realizations of his life.
And worse—worse—after last time.
After the bonus round.
After—
Four hours and fifty-six minutes.
Gi-hun felt his breath hitch. His steps slowed.
The Front Man.
Gi-hun looked up, and his gaze caught on one of the cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling. The red recording light blinked steadily, unblinking. He stared back at it, jaw tight.
Did he know? The man behind the mask?
Did he watch now, behind surveillance feeds, and know what had just happened in that bathroom?
His stomach churned. He dropped his gaze and kept walking, each step heavy, leaden with the weight of memory and a new, unsettling emotion he could not name.
When Player 120 spotted Gi-hun approaching, her conversation with her teammates cut off mid-sentence. Her eyes widened faintly before her expression shifted to concern as her gaze dropped to his fingers.
“What happened?” She asked immediately, standing up before he could reach her, brows knitting in alarm.
“Oh, this?” Gi-hun held up his bandaged hand with a tired chuckle. “There was a bit of a… spill during our round. No one was seriously hurt—just scrapes and bruises. Of course, I had to land on my hand, so—”
“You didn’t land on your belly, did you?” Player 149 cut in sharply, already rising to her feet. She crossed the space in three quick steps and set her hands firmly on his shoulders before he could protest. With surprising strength, she eased him down to sit on the edge of the nearest bunk. “Does it hurt anywhere?” She asked, her hands already skimming down his arms and over his shoulders, checking for stiffness or favoring.
“Ah—I’m okay, really,” Gi-hun said, startled, a little overwhelmed by the sudden attention. “It just—startled me, that’s all. I caught most of the fall. I didn’t land on my stomach—”
“Good,” Player 149 said, tone steady but firm. “Because you’re not just playing for yourself anymore, and that means people around you need to get their heads on straight.” She clucked her tongue, then called over her shoulder, ”Probably one of the alphas posturing too hard or some beta moving too fast,” She huffed. “When there are not one but two omegas on your team, and both carrying, no less!”
Player 007, a glasses-wearing beta with a put-upon look, called out defensively. “Why are you saying it like I did it?”
Player 149 did not miss a beat. She shot him a glare that could peel paint. “I already gave that young omega woman on your team the talk,” She said, turning back to him. “But you—you’re pretty far along. Almost due, from the looks of it. If anything feels off—spotting, cramping, pressure, or, God forbid, your water breaks in this place—” She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to something gentler. “You come to me first. I’ve delivered more than my share of babies. And as you can tell by that hard-headed son of mine—” She jerked her thumb at the beta man behind her, who merely raised an awkward hand. “—I’ve been through it.”
“Oh! I’m not due for almost seven weeks,” Gi-hun said quickly. “I just look huge because... well, it’s twins.”
Player 095, a shy, more quiet omega young woman who had not spoken until then, suddenly perked up, eyes wide and excited,"Twins?"
Player 149 paused mid-breath. Then, blinking slowly, she reached out and gave his hand a tender pat. “You poor, poor man. Twins? At your age?”
“Mom,” Player 007 groaned from across the bunk, burying his face in one hand.
Gi-hun chuckled, the sound low and worn around the edges, but still warm. He pushed himself upright with a soft grunt, one hand on the small of his back, then turned toward Player 120. He slipped the scrunchie from his wrist and held it out to her with a sheepish smile. “Here—thank you again for letting me borrow it. It really helped. Probably saved me during that fall, honestly, since I didn’t have to worry about my hair being in my face.”
Player 120 accepted it with a kind smile, her voice barely above a murmur. “Of course. I’m glad it helped.”
Before Gi-hun turned to go, he hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Before I head back… would you mind if I got your names?”
After gathering their names and committing them to memory, Gi-hun started back across the dormitory only to have Jung-bae slip into step beside him, walking with the loose-limbed saunter of someone trying far too hard to look casual. “What took you two so long?” The older beta drawled, folding his hands behind his head. “We were starting to think you fell in.”
“Ah, well,” Gi-hun sighed, walking close to Jung-bae, elbow brushing his in a familiar rhythm, “I got sick again. Someone had to hold my hair back, I suppose.”
Jung-bae leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re not the one who wrecked the toilet, are you?”
Gi-hun elbowed him hard in the ribs.
Jung-bae let out a strangled wheeze, clutching his side. “So you did! What the hell did you eat—” He cut himself off mid-sentence. His nose twitched. Then he leaned in again, closer this time. He sniffed once. Then again, deeper.
Gi-hun recoiled. “Jung-bae!” He snapped, planting a hand squarely on his face and pushing him back hard enough to make him stumble. “Stop sniffing me like some overgrown bloodhound!”
“Oh my god,” Jung-bae exclaimed, half-disgusted and half-delighted. “You and Young-il did that in the bathroom, didn’t you?”
Gi-hun froze, caught off guard. The defensive tension in his body slackened, his raised elbow lowering as the words hit. “I… yes, well,” He muttered, ears burning. “Is it that obvious? I tried to sponge off—”
“You reek of each other,” Jung-bae cut in, wrinkling his nose. He started to laugh, then paused. His grin faded, his mouth pulling into a tight twist. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He did not look at him when he added, voice low and even, “But he was scent-marking you even before that.”
Gi-hun did not answer at once. A protest caught on his tongue, but it stayed there, unsaid. Because the alpha had been touching him. Not in ways that crossed lines, but with consistency and familiarity, quickly becoming a steady presence at his side. A brush of fingers. A palm warm against his spine. And he had let it happen. Had started to lean into it, to seek it. He had even returned it in small, foolish ways.
“Ah,” Gi-hun said at last, color creeping up his neck. A warm flutter bloomed under his ribs, and he tried, fruitlessly, to tamp it down.
“You didn’t know?” Jung-bae asked, incredulous.
Gi-hun gave a half-shrug, half-grimace. “We’ve been under a lot of stress. And I don’t think he meant it… like that. Probably just instinct. Protective. Especially with me and his—” He stopped himself a moment too late.
Jung-bae stopped dead in his tracks. “His?” He echoed, eyes going wide.
Gi-hun groaned. “Jung-bae—don’t.”
“You were about to say it. His. His what?” Jung-bae pressed, eyes narrowing. “I mean, I suspected. And he all but confirmed it last night—which, by the way, yes, I heard. And wish I could unhear. So many details…”
“Jung-bae!” Gi-hun hissed, batting at his arms and chest and trying to shut him up. “Stop talking!”
Jung-bae did not budge. “You always act like a bag full of angry cats when you’re pregnant,” He muttered as he easily took the pitiful batting. “Hissing. Batting. One second you’re all soft and purring, the next you’re trying to claw out my jugular!”
“Keep talking,” Gi-hun growled, “And I will.”
Jung-bae just chuckled, then glanced at him sideways, his expression softening. “You know,” He said, quieter now, “You could’ve told me. Even after all this time, I’m still your best friend. You can talk to me.”
Gi-hun did not respond right away, instead looking past the beds and the countless other players to Dae-ho, who stood off to the side, quietly twisting the edge of his sleeve between his fingers. His chest tightened at the sight, and he realized, startled, that he had been holding his breath. A slow exhale followed, his hand drifting to his belly in a protective, absent gesture.
“I know,” Gi-hun said at last, barely above a murmur. “And I haven’t forgotten what you mean to me, Jung-bae. I just…” He paused, then offered a tired smile—one that reached his eyes despite the heaviness behind it. “Let’s make it through this vote. If we’re lucky, we’ll be out. And when we do—you can drag me to a doctor, buy me tteokbokki, and I’ll tell you everything. Like old times.”
Jung-bae bumped their shoulders together. “I’m holding you to that.”
Gi-hun and Jung-bae reached the rest of their team, Young-il, Jun-hee, and Dae-ho, just as the harsh blue-and-red lights flared to life. The guards moved like shadows at the front of the dormitory, and the kill count on the screen above clicked up, then paused. Too many. The prize money rose beside it, apparently still insultingly insufficient. Around them, players muttered, cursed, and argued. But their team stood quietly—waiting. The vote was about to begin.
“Mr. Freeze—oh, I mean Gi-hun—are you feeling better now?” Dae-ho asked, stepping up to him. His tone was warm, but there was tension behind it. His smile, though genuine, was edged with nerves, and his big brown eyes, so achingly familiar, softened when they met his. “Young-il said you were sick again.”
Gi-hun felt like his breath had been stolen again. Here he was—his son. His alpha son. The shape of him familiar and unfamiliar all at once, carrying the scent of both his parents: his own sweet warmth and an earthy thread of someone lost to this place. His lips parted, trembling just faintly. It took effort, real effort, to remember how to breathe again or really do anything. But he managed a nod, small and steady.
“I’ll be better if we manage to vote to leave this place today,” Gi-hun said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’m asking you again—all of you—to support me. Vote X. If you’re thinking of choosing O because of your debts, let me help. I have enough money to last a lifetime, and I’d rather it go to helping you all than sit collecting dust in a motel room while people die in here.”
Jun-hee blinked at him, her eyes wide with surprise, maybe even admiration.
“As a Marine, we’re trained to know when to hold the line and when to strategically retreat,” Dae-ho said, puffing up just a little, then grinning and elbowing Jung-bae. “Right, sir?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Jung-bae muttered, still half-distracted, his gaze drawn up to the bloated plastic piggy bank overhead.
Young-il interjected with quiet confidence, the cadence of an alpha who knew how to take charge without barking. “And we’ve got not one, but two pregnant omegas on this team,” He said, turning toward both the expecting omegas. “As soon as we’re out, both of you need to get checked out. Stress like this, physical strain—it’s not safe for either of you.”
“I’ll go,” Gi-hun said with a dry huff, resting a hand on the swell of his belly. “So long as I get tteokbokki after.”
Jun-hee chuckled under her breath, her hand brushing over her own rounded middle. “Extra spicy. I want my lips numb.”
“Done,” Gi-hun said, then cut a look at Jung-bae with a crooked grin. “Don’t forget, you’re treating!”
“With what money?” Jung-bae scoffed, the bitterness in his voice sharper than expected.
Gi-hun felt his smile falter. He meant to say something, reassure him, maybe, but the twins stirred just then. A sharp, rolling stretch pulled across his belly, his back twinged, and his legs, already aching, nearly buckled from standing too long. But he tried not to show his discomfort, not wanting to cause any undue worry.
Still, Young-il noticed and took a step closer to Gi-hun, as if he could sense it. Without a word, he reached out and braced him with practiced ease, one arm slipping behind his lower back, the other resting gently on the curve of his belly. Their bodies aligned instinctively, like magnets clicking into place. He leaned into him with a soft sigh, letting himself be held for just a moment. For once, letting someone else carry the weight.
Then Young-il was forced to pull away from Gi-hun as his number echoed across the dormitory, the first called to vote. But before the alpha stepped away, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. The omega blinked, stunned by the heat that bloomed beneath his skin, the press of lips leaving behind a phantom feverishness that lingered on his cheek. His hand lifted without thought, fingertips grazing the spot. When he looked up and saw his broad back at the voting panel, as well as his large, vein-covered hand moving purposefully to press the red button, that foolish heat curled even tighter under his skin.
“You’re lucky,” Jun-hee whispered beside him, voice hushed with a strange sort of reverence. “To have a good, strong alpha like him in a place like this.”
“Oh, he’s not my—” Gi-hun started, flushing, the protest reflexive. But the words caught somewhere between denial and longing. What was he, if not his? The father of his unborn children. His protector. His partner in ending this nightmare. “I mean…” He relented, his voice softening. “Yes. I’m lucky. And he is.”
“Jung-bae! Jung-bae!” Dae-ho called out, waving from where the rest of their team had gathered near the far bunks, clustered close in the aftermath of the vote. Jung-bae, however, sat several rows away, a stark blue patch now stamped on his chest, and when the older beta did not move, the younger alpha groaned and stomped over, frustration radiating off him in waves. “Come on, just sit with us! Don’t make me drag you.”
“I’m good over here,” Jung-bae muttered, flinching as Dae-ho grabbed him by the wrist and physically hauled him to his feet. Then he dug his heels in halfway across the floor, adding,”Besides, I don’t want Gi-hun batting at me again!”
“If you didn’t want to be dragged, you should’ve sulked somewhere out of sight,” Dae-ho shot back. “And Gi-hun won’t bat at you again… right, Gi-hun?”
Gi-hun was sitting beside Young-il, who had an arm draped firmly around his waist, thumb absently brushing along the curve of his side. His bun was long gone, and his melon milk nearly drained. For a fleeting moment, he looked almost serene, one hand absently rubbing the tight arch of his lower belly, eyelids lowered in exhaustion. Then his name was said. His eyes opened and immediately narrowed to slits, and his eyebrows twitched. His grip on the carton tightened.
“He won’t,” Young-il said smoothly, answering for Gi-hun, his voice low and reassuring as his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into his side. “He knows it’s bad for the babies to get too riled up. No more batting, or swatting, or elbowing. Right?”
Gi-hun slurped again, eyes narrowed, but said nothing.
“That’s what I’m for, remember!” Dae-ho called cheerfully, flopping down with a grin. “I’ll give him a good swat if that’s what it takes before letting him rejoin the pack!”
“That depends,” Gi-hun said without looking up, “On whether Jung-bae says or does something stupid again. Which, odds are, he will.”
“I won’t, Gi-hun,” Jung-bae said earnestly, approaching cautiously, eyes flicking to Gi-hun like one might eye a wild animal behind flimsy bars. “I promise. I’m sorry—really. To you, to Jun-hee, to Young-il—and to you too, Dae-ho.”
“So much for Team Eight,” Jun-hee said coolly around a bite of her bun. Beside Jun-hee, Young-il—In-ho glanced over, lips twitching at the corners, not quite a smile, but close. There was pride in it.
“You especially shouldn’t have done it, Jung-bae,” Young-il added smoothly, voice mild and laced with just enough disappointment to sting. “Not with us knowing everything Gi-hun knows.” He bit into his bun, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “Certainly wasn’t twice as righteous.”
Jun-hee smirked slightly into her bun.
“Guys,” Dae-ho let out a frustrated breath, determined to restore some kind of peace to what had started to feel, undeniably, like a pack. “Come on. Can we just… move on?”
Gi-hun did not immediately respond, just took another deliberate slurp from the carton. It was the loudest sound in the dormitory. The tension held. Then, grudgingly, the omega scooted half an inch closer to the alpha beside him, as if to signal the beta could sit on the other side of him without risking another elbow to the ribs or swat across the back of the head.
“I’m sitting. I’m sitting,” Jung-bae muttered, easing himself down beside the pair.
Gi-hun did not growl, but it was a near thing. “Just sit. Don’t announce it like I’m some kind of—”
“See? A bag of cats,” Jung-bae said, glancing sideways with a flicker of his old grin. “Angry ones. All teeth and fluff.”
Gi-hun bared his teeth in a silent snarl. Young-il pressed a kiss to his temple in warning, still rubbing calm circles into his side. The omega twitched under his touch but did not pull away.
“But Dae-ho was right earlier,” Jung-bae tried again, softer now. “He said we’re a pack. And he’s right. Not just a team. A pack.” He looked at each of them in turn, trying to reach them. “Think about it—two big, dependable alphas. One grounded, loyal beta. And two pregnant but capable omegas who are still standing after all this.” His voice warmed with conviction. “We’re the ultimate pack. Especially after how we handled the last round! I voted for another game because I saw it in us. Even after we leave this place, we’ll—”
Gi-hun, who had finally been somewhat calmed, then cut in scathingly,”’After we leave this place’? Jung-bae, all of us may not make it through this next round. “For fuck’s sake, look at me! I can barely walk across the damn dormitory, let alone jump rope or sprint or whatever sadistic shit they throw at us next! And Jun-hee—she’s no better! Did you even think about that?”
“Gi-hun—” Young-il interjected; his voice was calm, coaxing. He gently pressed the other half of his bun into his uninjured hand, his touch tender. “I know you’re angry. And scared. But there’s nothing we can do about the vote now. We eat. We rest. We gather what strength we can.”
Gi-hun stared at the bun like it had betrayed him. Then he pushed to his feet with a low grunt, back aching, belly heavy, jaw clenched. “I need to stand for a bit,” He muttered, stalking off a few bunks away with stiff, uneven steps.
Jung-bae hesitated—then followed. “Gi-hun—”
“Why you?” Gi-hun turned on him sharply. “Of all people—why? After everything we just talked about. Tteokbokki. Catching up. You said we’d be out of here. You knew I meant it.” He paused, his voice rising with hurt. “Especially when you knew I would’ve helped with your debts. You knew that—I told you and the others—”
“I didn’t want to take it,” Jung-bae cut in, his voice lower now, raw. “Not after… not after what I did. When your mom was dying and I didn’t—didn’t give you the money.” He exhaled shakily. “I didn’t feel like I deserved it, Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun blinked.
“I felt like… I needed to earn it. And we did so well last round, I thought—maybe this was how. Maybe if I saw it through, if I stood by you now—”
“Did we?” Gi-hun asked softly. His voice did not rise again but sank, barely stirring the air. He extended his splinted fingers into the space between them, swollen and still faintly trembling. “Did we do well, Jung-bae?”
The sight made Jung-bae flinch. His throat bobbed with the effort not to look away.
Silence fell between them, thick and strained.
Then Gi-hun sighed, long and low, and let his injured hand fall. “I’m still angry,” He muttered. “But I get it.”
Jung-bae shifted his gaze upward. “You do?”
“I do,” Gi-hun repeated. Then, after a pause: “You’re still an idiot.”
“I know,” Jung-bae said, blinking fast. “But I’m your idiot.”
Without waiting, Jung-bae stepped forward and pulled Gi-hun into a hug. Gi-hun stiffened at first, arms caught between them, but after a beat, after breathing him in, he slowly folded forward into it. He did not cling so much as collapse, forehead pressing to his shoulder, hands fisting lightly in the back of his shirt. His breath hitched once against his collarbone before leveling out.
Jung-bae wrapped both arms around Gi-hun, firm and steady, one hand rising instinctively to cradle the back of his head. His hair was slightly damp at the roots from stress and sweat, soft, and longer than it used to be. The baby bump pushed between them, round and warm, but neither pulled back. The older beta man only adjusted, hands spread wide along his spine, holding him like he might come apart. They stayed like that for a long moment. Not speaking. Not needing to.
“You stink,” Gi-hun muttered eventually, words muffled against his shoulder but lacking venom.
“And your big belly’s getting in the way,” Jung-bae shot back, smiling through his exhale. “It’s like hugging a watermelon.”
"It's like you want me to swat you," Gi-hun said, raising his head, his eyes narrowed but no longer filled with genuine anger and hurt.
Jung-bae did not move. “I’d probably deserve it, you bag of cats.”
As Jung-bae turned from the embrace with Gi-hun, Young-il was staring at them, brown eyes hard and cold, mouth a thin line. The older beta man felt something like a hand, icily cold and clammy as death, clutching at his heart, a sense of foreboding settling heavily in his chest. He was perhaps not quite forgiven yet, and he gulped.
The team, though now both Jung-bae and Dae-ho were insistent on calling it Pack Eight, as if they should be lining up sponsorships, had pulled their thin mattresses onto the floor, sliding them beneath the bunks for cover. A precaution, in case any players decided to attack during the night. They took turns keeping watch.
Gi-hun had been trying to sleep; Young-il curled around him from behind, his arm slung protectively over his waist. They were wedged together on one of the threadbare mattresses, lying on their sides, breaths synchronized in the dark. Then something warm and wet bloomed against his inner thigh. His eyes flew open.
Panic coursed through Gi-hun like an icy gust ripping through bone. He bolted upright with a choked breath, limbs scrambling free from the hold on him as he shifted under the low bunk. His hand shot to his pants, where the damp heat had spread, and for one awful, hollow beat, his mind screamed: Too soon. My water—
“Gi-hun?” Young-il murmured, his voice low with sleep but taut with concern as he pushed upright beside him.
Gi-hun was still gasping when another pair of hands landed gently on his shoulders.
“Gi-hun,” Dae-ho whispered. His eyes were wide in the dark, frantic, fingers trembling where they gripped his shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I—” He held up a crushed carton of melon milk, its corner still dribbling faintly.
Young-il, hair sleep-mussed and half-shielded by the shadows, raised a single eyebrow.
“I was trying to put it next to you so you’d have something to drink when you woke up for your shift,” Dae-ho explained in a rush, “But I–I jolted and—and spilled it. I swear, it’s just milk.”
Gi-hun blinked at him, the tension still coiled in his chest. His pulse thudded in his ears. He looked down. Sticky, sweet-smelling, pale green liquid clung to his pants and smeared the mattress beneath him.
Not blood.
Not amniotic fluid.
Just… melon milk.
Gi-hun let out a laugh, light at first, then breathy, nearly hysterical. Something inside him uncoiled, softened. Because, of course. Of course this sweet, sweet young alpha man—his son—had been trying to leave him a midnight snack.
“Go back to sleep, Young-il,” Gi-hun murmured, his voice still catching faintly. He reached out and gently nudged the other alpha down away from the soaked spot on the mattress, absently smoothing a few strands of tousled hair from his forehead. His fingers lingered a beat too long.
Then Gi-hun turned back to Dae-ho, his breath evening. “It’s okay, Dae-ho,” He managed, though when he glanced up, the look on the young alpha wore on his face made his breath catch all over again. He looked genuinely frightened, his wide eyes darting over him like he was waiting to be shouted at or worse. “Hey.” He lowered his voice further. “It’s okay. It was just an accident. And I’m already on edge, so I overreacted—” He paused, eyebrows furrowing. “But why didn’t you drink it? Your melon milk?”
Dae-ho was already crouching beside Gi-hun, jacket in hand, wiping frantically at the spill. He peeled off the soaked layer from under the bunk and then extended the jacket wordlessly for the omega to use on himself, the gesture shy but immediate.
“Because you like it,” Dae-ho said, like it should have been obvious. “You said it was one of your cravings. And you were sick again, so I thought… you’d need it more. Especially with the next game in the morning.”
Gi-hun exhaled slowly, a crooked smile touching his lips. He shook his head once, fondly. His uninjured hand lifted to rest against the swell of his stomach, palm splayed. “It’s a pain that I’m used to. It’s always like this during pregnancies,” He murmured. “Not very graceful like the dramas make it seem. A lot of sickness, being battered from the inside out—"
A sharp thump from inside his belly cut him off. He sucked in a breath and pressed his hand to the spot. “Ah—speak of the devils. Sorry, ducklings,” He said, adjusting his tone gently. “Probably shouldn’t be calling you little devils, though it does feel like you’ve got pitchforks in there sometimes…”
“Whoa! I saw that!” Dae-ho exclaimed and then immediately shushed himself, which made the older omega chuckle softly, a sound he hid behind his hand. He pointed at the stretched fabric of his shirt where the movement had rippled beneath. “I thought I saw it, and then—whoa, they kicked again!”
Another nudge followed, a faint, undeniable indent pressing outward from under the fabric, a tiny, impatient foot trying to escape.
“That’s so freaky,” Dae-ho breathed in awe, gaze transfixed. Then, as if realizing how it must have sounded, he stumbled back, flushing red to the tips of his ears. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean to call them freaky. I just meant—it’s wild. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll just—”
Gi-hun chuckled again, the sound fond and unbothered. “It’s fine. It’s natural to be curious,” He said, then tilted his head. “Would you like to feel?”
“Really? You’re okay with that?” Dae-ho asked, wide-eyed.
Gi-hun nodded, and Dae-ho carefully extended one large, calloused hand, pressing it gently against the curve of his belly. At first, there was nothing, then the omega took his hand with his uninjured one and gently guided it to where he knew he would feel them moving. And then—thump. A solid kick met his palm.
A startled laugh bubbled out of Dae-ho. “They moved! That was definitely a foot—that’s so freaky—I mean—oh God, I did it again—”
“Really, it’s alright,” Gi-hun said, chuckling with him. “It’s freaky for me too. Every time.” He sighed then, running a hand gently over the swell of his belly, fingertips brushing over the faint imprint of a foot that had already retreated. “They’re up now, so I guess I’m up. Why don’t you get some rest, Dae-ho? I’ll take over the watch.”
Dae-ho hesitated, like he wanted to argue, but he did not. He nodded sheepishly, rubbed at his eyes, and offered a half-smile. “Are you sure?”
Gi-hun nodded. “I’ve had worse wake-up calls. Go sleep while you can.”
Later, after Young-il had gotten up to take the next shift, trading spots with Gi-hun, Dae-ho had ended up beside Gi-hun on the mattress underneath the bunk, not doing anything untoward, just lying close. The older omega glanced over his shoulder at the younger alpha, barely shifting. His eyebrows were faintly furrowed in his sleep, his mouth parted slightly, and his hand rested near his elbow, but not on him. Not quite. His chest was also pressed gently against his back, his larger frame forming a quiet shield against the world, his presence warm and grounding.
“Told you,” Came a whisper.
Gi-hun cracked one eye open.
Young-il stood watch a few paces away, barely a silhouette in the dark, arms crossed. His voice was low and amused, but there was no mockery in it, only certainty. “His body knows, even if his mind doesn’t.”
Gi-hun did not answer. He just exhaled quietly and closed his eyes again, letting the warmth at his back settle over him like a blanket.
Their pack was surprisingly well-rested despite the staggered shifts through the night. Even Gi-hun, who usually woke up stiff and sour, seemed practically revitalized. His eyes were clearer, his temper more even, and his gait a bit more confident despite the persistent ache in his spine. Unfortunately for him, feeling well-rested also meant one dangerous thing while this heavily pregnant: his nesting instincts were being triggered. And there was no nest to build. No blankets to hoard, no corners to burrow into, no quiet to sink into with warm things and softer ones.
So he compromised.
Somewhere between the second and third landing, Gi-hun traded jackets with Young-il. It dwarfed Gi-hun more in width than in length, as Young-il had a shorter but stockier frame, meaning the hem hit just above his thighs while the sleeves bunched slightly at his wrists. Still, it was warm from body heat and rich with his alpha scent: whiskey and crumpled old pages from books the alpha had half-read, faint musk, a trace of dried blood, and something indefinably him. It was enough to quiet the gnawing ache of his instincts, if only a little.
A quiet, involuntary rumble escaped his chest. He trudged along, one hand braced against the cold cement wall for balance, the other pressed to the small of his back. His steps were careful, slow but steady, making sure to stick to the side so the other players could pass.
“Are you…” Jung-bae narrowed his eyes as he slowed beside him. “Are you purring?”
“No,” Gi-hun said flatly, flushing to the roots of his ears. “I just had something in my throat, asshole.” He winced then, a muscle in his lower spine giving a sharp protest. His free hand tightened against the wall.
Young-il—In-ho, walking a step behind and slightly to the side, looked smug. He did not comment, just reached a hand to his omega and adjusted the collar of his shirt beneath the jacket like it belonged to him now too.
They reached the game room, the swathing white curtains parting with theatrical flair to reveal a cavernous space bathed in warm cream tones and excessive gold trim. The centerpiece was a massive orange platform, circular like a carousel, with cream-colored horses perched stiffly at the center. The room itself echoed that same shape—round, walled with color-coded doors, each marked with a number glowing above it. The ceiling arched high above them like a circus tent, giving everything a surreal, dreamlike sheen.
Then came the voice, falsely cheerful, chirping with the crisp modulation of a commercial jingle. “Welcome to your third game,” It trilled. “The game you will be playing is Mingle. All players, please step onto the center platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, enter one of the numbered rooms, and close the door within thirty seconds.”
Gi-hun and Sang-woo used to play a similar game when they were younger, back when their world was neighborhood sidewalks, classroom corners, and shared lunch boxes. Especially on field trips, when the teachers would try to corral the chaos into something structured. “Grab one of your classmates and hug them tight, tight. Don’t let them go!” A teacher once instructed them during a field trip, pairing them off so no one would get lost.
Gi-hun had wrapped his arms around Sang-woo so fiercely then that he had knocked his glasses askew, making the then smaller boy flush bright red with embarrassment. Still he had not let go, not even when the other boy had protested or squirmed in his arms. He had clung to him stubbornly, dutifully.
Of course, they had still gotten lost anyway. More than once. Gi-hun was always the one leading them off course, to look at a frog, to chase a butterfly, to explore something stupid and small and shimmering with boyhood wonder. But the point was not whether they got lost. The point was that he held on.
He did not hold on later.
That moment in the apartment, when Sang-woo walked away, Gi-hun had let him. He should have embraced him instead. He should have pulled him in, cradled him close, and reminded him they had been through worse. That they had a child growing between them. But instead he had let go again and again. And in the end, when his alpha reached back, he had been the one to offer only a hand, outstretched, open, cowardly when he should have embraced him again. Held him tight. Not let go.
Maybe if he had—
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said gently. The voice cut through the haze. Gi-hun blinked, pulled back into the now by the frown the alpha wore on his face. “Are you alright?” He asked quietly, eyebrows drawing together.
Gi-hun did not answer at first. He just nodded, slowly, and swallowed down the ache curling at the back of his throat.
The game was about to begin.
Their pack stood in a line on the platform—Dae-ho, Gi-hun, Young-il, Jun-hee, and Jung-bae. They had briefly strategized, huddled in quiet urgency, working out what little they could from the rules and their numbers. Then, hands joined tight, they declared in unison, “Pack Eight!”
The platform lurched beneath them, beginning its slow rotation.
Gi-hun looked over at Young-il without thinking. Young-il was already watching him, and he reached out, cupping his jaw with a steady hand, and leaned in. The kiss was a soft thing, a brief and fragile brush of their dry, hot lips. It barely lasted a second, but when it ended, the omega did not pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead against his, closing his eyes and breathing his alpha in, just once. Then he straightened.
“Ten!” The falsely cheerful voice chirped from above, and suddenly the lights snapped out. A second later, the entire space was drenched in harsh, violent pink.
“Hyun-ju!” Gi-hun shouted over the cacophony of footsteps and shouts, spotting the alpha woman near the edge of the platform and hoping desperately he had gotten her name right. “How many in your group?”
“Four!” She called back, raising four fingers without missing a beat, her expression already hardening into resolve.
All around them, chaos bloomed: shouting, jostling, and pushing. Someone tried to grab Gi-hun by his arm, only to be yanked away by another desperate player. Fights broke out like sparks.
“Over there!” Hyun-ju barked, suddenly breaking into motion. She seized a woman, the crazy-eyed one who had been standing perfectly still, whispering to herself like in prayer, and started dragging her toward one of the numbered rooms. “This way!” She shouted over her shoulder, and both packs began to run.
“Hold onto me, Gi-hun,” Young-il said, voice low but firm. He locked his arm with his, drawing him in. “I’m not letting you go.”
There was no time to answer. Gi-hun grabbed hold, clutching Young-il by his forearm with his good hand, the other pressed protectively over the curve of his belly. And they ran. Together, footsteps thudding, breathless, they bolted toward the room. They were the last ones in.
Young-il slammed the door behind them with a clang, the lock sliding into place with a chilling click. Silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural.
For a moment, all ten of them stood frozen, gasping in the cramped space, the only light filtering in from a narrow vertical slit in the door. Gi-hun stumbled to it first, bracing one hand on the wall, the other still clutched to his belly as he leaned forward to peer out. Through the slit, he saw players scrambling, tripping, and doors slamming shut too late. The mechanical whir of guns. The wet, too-loud sound of bodies hitting the ground. Dark silhouettes collapsing beneath flashes of gunfire.
Gi-hun shuddered violently, pulling back from the door. He wrapped both arms around his stomach as if to shield it, breath stuttering in his throat.
Behind Gi-hun, Young-il—no, In-ho—watched with a heavy stare. Not at the carnage, but at him. Watching how his omega processed it. Watched how the so-called teams and newly formed packs with newfound bonds outside had dissolved in seconds. How these things meant nothing when the countdown began. How it always came down to survival—and abandonment.
Would he understand this? Would he see?
“You’re all alive thanks to me!” A loud, self-satisfied voice rang out. Everyone in the tiny space jolted. Player 044 had thrust a finger into the air with the grandeur of a prophet, chin tilted high like she had been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
There was a long pause.
Gi-hun muttered to In-ho, voice dry and unimpressed, “Can one break water on command?”
In-ho leaned in, low and close, not bothering to hide the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t even joke after that scare you had last night. And do you really want to give birth near that witch?”
“It’d at least shut her up,” Gi-hun murmured in response, shifting with a wince as he adjusted against the wall, hand pressing instinctively to the underside of his belly. “Especially if she gets a front-row seat for the crowning. That usually does the trick. Fainting, vomiting—sometimes both.”
After the room had been cleared, bodies dragged away, and screams long since silenced, the door creaked open and the surviving players were herded back to the massive rotating platform. The crowd was visibly thinner now, stripped of faces Gi-hun had not even realized he had memorized. He moved slowly, one arm braced under his belly, the other reaching automatically for his alpha. The alpha was already there, stepping ahead of him, steady as ever. He reached out a hand, warm and familiar, and helped him up onto the platform. Their fingers did not part after.
They stood close, their pack assembling around them in a tense, protective formation. Then the platform began to move. That same off-putting tune piped through the speakers again, the one with disembodied voices singing too cheerfully in perfect cadence. Then, mid-chorus, it cut off. The lights snapped out, and the entire space was again bathed in violent, stomach-churning pink.
“Four!” The falsely cheerful voice chirped from above.
Gi-hun felt his heart plummeting. Four. They were five. His brain scrambled for a solution. They could split three and two—but that meant greater chaos, less control. Less chance of everyone making it. But if they did not—
Young-il was already moving. Gi-hun felt the pull before he registered what was happening, his fingers slipping from his.
“No—wait—” Gi-hun gasped, his voice cracking as Young-il squeezed his hand once, firm, grounding, the imprint of his warmth lingering, and then let go entirely.
“You four go!” Young-il called, already backing into the chaos. “Gi-hun, it’ll be okay! Just stay close to them! I’ll find another group—go!”
“No. No, no—” Gi-hun felt his breath stutter, fingers clenching around nothing. He surged forward on instinct, the omega in him howling, protesting the loss of touch, of safety, of his alpha, but hands gripped his arms now, pulling him back, shoving him toward safety. “Young-il!” His voice cracked, shattered. “Young-il!”
The room blurred around Gi-hun: screams, footfalls, and the pounding in his chest. Even as he ran with the rest of the pack, feeling another hand holding his uninjured one, he twisted, frantic, scanning the sea of shifting bodies under the ghastly pink light. He attempted to scent the air, but his nose was overwhelmed by the scents of panoc fear, blood, and sweat. Still, faint and far, he thought he caught it. That familiar note. Warm whiskey and old paper. Too far away. The countdown ticked louder. Four seconds. Three.
Hands pulled Gi-hun inside, Jun-hee this time, and he stumbled across the threshold. He turned back, one final glance, one last desperate reach. But the door slammed shut behind him. The echo cut through the room like a gunshot.
Gi-hun sagged against it, palms flat, chest heaving. The metal was cold beneath his forehead, but he did not care. He trembled, his breath catching on the verge of breaking. Not from the game or from the bloodshed or the countdown. But from the crushing possibility that he had just lost his alpha to this place. Again.
“Young-il’s a strong alpha,” Jun-hee said, voice soft and coaxing. She reached for him, fingertips curling around the sleeve of his jacket, the one that still smelled like warm whiskey and ink and old pages. “Charismatic. You know he can pull others. He’ll make it.”
Gi-hun did not answer. He pressed his lips together, trembling harder.
“She’s right,” Jung-bae added, low and quiet. “Come away from the door, Gi-hun. Please.”
Dae-ho appeared beside Gi-hun, hands gentle as they gripped his shoulder and his wrist. “Come on,” He said. “Let’s get those splints looked at before they fall apart.” His gaze dipped to the crooked edges of the makeshift splints, then back up, gentler. “I’ll tell you some bad jokes too. You’ll hate them. It'll be great.”
Gi-hun nodded, barely. His body moved, but his heart stayed behind, still pressed against the door. His eyes burned, traitorously wet. His mouth opened, but nothing came. He had not seen his alpha left behind. But he had not seen him go into a room either. And that unknowing was a glacial pang of pain like the stab of a dagger of ice frozen in his chest as he held his stomach with his uninjured hand.
Dae-ho knelt in front of Gi-hun, fingers careful but sure. Pain flared briefly as the splints were tightened, but he did not flinch. He stared at the far wall, lips parted, eyelashes low, and breath unsteady. A single tear slipped down the dirt-smeared line of his face.
“I didn’t hold on,” Gi-hun murmured. “Again.”
Dae-ho froze, glancing up, but Gi-hun did not notice.
Sometime later there was a mechanical thunk. The lock disengaged with a loud clack. Their door swung open. The pack spilled out, four instead of five, eyes scanning wildly, instincts coiled tight.
“Gi-hun!” The voice hit Gi-hun like a physical blow. His head jerked up.
“Young-il!” The others cried out.
Gi-hun could not breathe. His knees almost gave. A choked sound left his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He did not scream. He did not rage, though he wanted to collapse or strike something or bury his face in the warmth of the man who had just broken his heart all over again by making him believe, even for a moment, that he might have been lost.
Gi-hun staggered forward, clutching Young-il by the front of his shirt, fingers trembling with need, with fury, with relief. “Say something,” He gasped, voice cracking. “Young-il, are you—just—say something—please—”
“Shh,” Young-il said softly, catching Gi-hun by his hands and flattening them against his chest, being careful of his injured fingers. “I’m fine. I found a group. I’m here. Feel. See?”
Gi-hun curled his uninjured fingers tighter into the fabric, then he embraced his alpha, pressing his forehead into the crook of his neck. His body trembled against him, the curve of his belly brushing gently between them. “Oh, fuck,” He panted, voice hoarse. “God, Young-il. Alpha, my alpha…”
Young-il—no, In-ho—stiffened at the word, the way Gi-hun had uttered it, raw and reverent: my alpha. In-ho had been thinking of Gi-hun as his omega for days, if not longer, before either of them had dared to think it, let alone say it aloud. The declaration sent a surge through him, something deep and primal, protective and possessive. For a breathless moment, he nearly forgot the lesson he had been meaning to teach, nearly abandoned himself to the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume him.
"My omega," In-ho murmured back, the words like a vow, holding Gi-hun close with one hand stroked the back of his head and the other protectively curved around his spine. The omega lifted his face just enough to find his alpha. Their eyes met. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed him, a brief, aching press of lips, dry with adrenaline and desperation, but full of everything unspoken.
The next few rounds passed in a sickening blur of blaring music, flashing lights, and blood. Screams dissolved into static. The scent of panic, fear, and hurt from alphas, betas, and omegas clung thick to the air. Gi-hun lost track of how many bodies crumpled, how many names he never learned were gone. They had barely caught their breath between rounds before the cheerful voice returned with its mechanical joy.
Then came the platform again—spinning, spinning. They were close now. The final round, maybe. Young-il had said as much, eyebrows furrowed in thought, theorizing aloud to their pack, “There are over a hundred left. Fifty rooms. The last number’s going to be two.”
The lights blinked, sharp and sudden. Music cut.
Then: “Two!” The voice chirped, almost gleeful.
“Gi-hun—!” A voice rang out, hoarse and sharp.
Gi-hun did not have a second to react as strong arms lifted him up without warning, one under his legs and one bracing his back. His entire world lurched, and he yelped, clutching instinctively at the neck of whoever had him. His body jostled with each pounding step, and he moved his uninjured hand to brace his heavy, rounded stomach as he ducked his head. The blur of frantic motion was dizzying, shoulders slamming past other bodies, the thunder of footsteps, and the smell of sweat and adrenaline flooding his senses.
The door slammed shut behind them with a solid kick, and Gi-hun gasped, heart hammering wildly in his chest, face flushed. They were inside a room, safe, for now. But his pulse was still hammering, his skin flushed and damp with heat, and his whole body trembled from the rush of it all. Then he blinked, tilting his head up and to the side to see who had brought him to safety.
Gi-hun blinked through the disorientation and saw that it was Dae-ho—his son—holding him effortlessly, despite the full weight of his body and heavily pregnant belly, like he weighed no more than a breath despite being a full-grown man. The younger alpha had not let go, not even slightly. His arms stayed wrapped tight around his body, cradling him with a reverence that made him feel breakable, precious. There was not a tremor in his grip despite how far and fast he must have run. Instead, he clung with silent, unwavering strength, face buried in the crook of his neck.
“Dae-ho?” Gi-hun murmured, his voice dazed and low. He shifted slightly, not to pull away, but to see his face, to reach for an explanation. The motion pressed their bodies closer, and his scent spilled out instinctively, soft and thick, the honeyed warmth of omega pheromones with a milky undertone. It seeped into the air between them like a balm. “Are you hurt?” He asked, quieter. “Please, look at me, Dae-ho—what is it?”
Gi-hun felt Dae-ho tense around him and press his nose just against the skin of his neck, his breath hot and uneven. The younger alpha was scenting him, and there was no mistaking the reaction. His shoulders crumpled as if the recognition hit too fast, too hard, and he did begin to tremble, but not from exertion. A wet, fragile sniffle escaped him, and then another. His tears were silent but heavy, soaking into the collar of his jacket as he burrowed in deeper, breath stuttering against his throat, arms cinching tighter around his middle.
Gi-hun realized Dae-ho was not just holding him in his arms; he was clinging to him, and it made his chest ache with a feeling of guilt and longing. He scented the younger alpha in return, his nose brushing against his neck, inhaling his windswept pine scent, tinged with the sharp salt of tears and a faint hint of sweetness, like honey straight from the comb. The grip on the older omega remained firm, even as his chest hitched and he burrowed deeper into his neck, gripping him with trembling desperation. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, matching the erratic rhythm of his own.
“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun whispered, breath unsteady. “It’s alright. I'm all right. We both are. But please—you’re scaring me. You need to talk to me. Tell me you’re not hurt. Please.”
“I was just so scared…” Dae-ho whispered, his voice rough, choked, each word cracking like it hurt to say. “Scared I’d lose you. Scared they’d separate us, and I—I wouldn’t get to… to stay with you. I wouldn’t get to— Gi-hun… M-mama…”
Chapter 10
Summary:
Gi-hun tried to smile back, but the pressure in his belly clenched hard, tight like a fist, and a gasp escaped him before he could catch it. He folded forward instinctively, arms braced across his midsection, biting down on the inside of his cheek to muffle the sound.
“Mama?” Dae-ho asked, alarm tightening his voice. “Mama, what is it? Are you—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, panic flashing across his features as his gaze dropped. One trembling hand reached for his knee; the other hesitated mid-air, hovering near his thigh like he was afraid to confirm what he already feared.
Gi-hun followed his gaze, then he froze as it landed on the fabric of his pants, on the spots spreading like ink, dark red blooming down the inner thighs. His hand trembled as he reached forward, hesitating for just a moment before his fingertips brushed the blood. His face drained of color.
Dae-ho whispered,”You’re bleeding.”
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story now contains spoilers for all three seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Secondly, this story combines several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr, creating a truly unique experience. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
Now… I assume we’re all still reeling from season three—and I say this because I logged in today and saw an absolutely INSANE influx of comments and kudos on my stories. First of all, thank you so much! Second… is everyone okay?? Seriously. Blink twice if you’re not.
I do have some critiques of season three, but overall, I really enjoyed it and still love the series deeply as a whole. And now… we descend into the final stretch. Two chapters to go after this one. The angst and emotional damage are very real—and yes, I do feel bad about what’s coming.
That said, please don’t try to kill In-ho after this chapter. You may, however, take a chair and get in line behind Gi-hun and me. He’ll get what’s coming to him 🪑🪑🪑💥💥💥
Thank you, as always, for reading, commenting, and supporting this wild ride. 💖
Chapter Text
“Gi-hun!” In-ho yelled.
In-ho had not even reached for Gi-hun when Dae-ho moved, swift and sure, lifting Gi-hun into his arms before most players had even taken a step. The younger alpha cradled the older omega in his arms, one arm wrapped beneath his knees and the other around his back, as the latter yelped and clung to him while bracing his round belly. He watched them both disappear toward one of the empty rooms. A low growl rumbled from his throat, barely audible beneath his breath, but sharp with warning. He forced it down, jaw clenched. No time for that now. He scanned the others surrounding him on the platform.
Only Jung-bae stood nearby, frozen like a fool. In-ho did not hesitate. He grabbed the beta by the wrist, tight, and yanked him off the platform without a word, ignoring the startled cry that followed. He dragged him toward the nearest doors, one empty, the other already occupied, the second player likely delayed by a scramble to survive.
In-ho felt his lips twitch. He chose the latter.
“Come on,” In-ho barked, barreling forward. Another player lunged for the same room, but In-ho shoved them aside without a glance, still hauling Jung-bae. He threw the door open, dragged them both inside, and slammed it behind them. The locking mechanism had not activated, and it would not until the countdown ended. He pressed his full weight against the door, bracing it with his back. “Jung-bae!”
The player inside the room, a beta man, spun toward them, eyes wide. “W–we were here first! You both go—let my partner in!” He cried, scrambling back, cornered like prey.
“Go, find another room!” Jung-bae shouted, making a desperate grab for him, trying to drag him out.
The beta twisted away. “Please! Just let me stay—my partner’s coming!”
“I don’t want to hurt—” Jung-bae pleaded, voice cracking, lunging for the other man again.
The timer ticked.
Ten. Nine. Eight...
“Jung-bae,” In-ho growled, his voice dropping to something colder, darker. “Do something. Or we both die.”
Seven. Six.
“I—” Jung-bae hesitated, torn.
Five. Four.
The beta tried to dodge again.
Three—
With a sob, Jung-bae grabbed the other beta man and slammed his head into the wall.
Two. One.
The beta man crumpled to the ground, unmoving just as the door lock mechanism clicked. Silence followed.
Jung-bae staggered back, panting, staring at the body. Blood smeared the wall in a dark crescent. His chest heaved. He looked at his hands like they were not his.
In-ho approached Jung-bae slowly, deliberately, not even glancing at the crumpled body between them. “It’s alright, Jung-bae. It’s alright,” He said, almost gently. Then, softer still, just between them. “I won’t tell Gi-hun.”
Jung-bae took in a shuddering breath. Then another. And finally, he nodded.
“What, I stay home, cook the dinners, clean the house, and take care of all the babies we’ll have?” Gi-hun had said once, half-laughing, tossing the words into the breeze like they had meant nothing—like he had not pictured it already. They had been sitting by the riverbank, skipping stones while Sang-woo had still been in school and Gi-hun had already been in his coveralls, smelling faintly of factory grease and futility.
His stone had not skipped. It never did. It had sunk with a soft plunk, swallowed whole by the current.
Sang-woo had gone rigid beside him, eyes widening slightly, the color rising in his face. He had not said anything, just flushed, visibly uncomfortable, like the mere suggestion of a domestic future with the omega had startled something in him. He had looked away too quickly.
Gi-hun had laughed it off, light and hollow, but something in him had sunk too, deeper than the stone, heavier than the silence that had followed. He had not known, then, that the alpha had wanted children. But the omega had taken that silence, that look, and that stiff retreat as disgust.
...
“You’re a fucking infant,” Sang-woo had spat, eyes wide with disgust as he had gestured to the overflowing toilet bowl, where an expensive silk tie, now ruined with oil, had floated in the water. “Red-faced and screaming, throwing tantrums like a child. Flushing my things—my things—down the toilet because you didn’t get your way!”
“I didn’t get my way?” Gi-hun had barked, stepping forward, fists clenched. “I just wanted a fucking shower, Sang-woo! I come home covered in grease after a ten-hour shift, and instead of letting me wash up, you shove your tie at me, demanding I clean it—and then act surprised when it gets dirty!”
Sang-woo had snorted, jaw tightening. “God help us if we ever have a kid. I’d have to raise two of you. One would scream, and the other would flush all our things down the drain.”
The words had struck harder than a slap. Gi-hun had reeled, momentarily speechless, before his voice had come back in a low, seething hiss. “Because you shoved it in my face,” He had said, stepping back, the squelch of his wet socks echoing across the tile. “You made it a fight. You always make it a fight.”
“You’re the one who always flies off the handle, goes too far—” Sang-woo had begun, finger stabbing the air toward him.
“And what about you?” Gi-hun had interjected, voice cracking as it had echoed down the narrow hall. “Are you going to do this if we ever have a child, Sang-woo? Belittle me like this? Talk down to me in front of them? Like the work I do doesn’t matter?” He had stepped forward then, fists clenched. “Just because I didn’t go to some fancy school—just because I come home covered in grease and stink and sweat—you think that makes me less than you?”
“You wouldn’t last an hour doing what I do. Not one fucking hour. And you know it. But I still come home. I still cook. I still clean. I try. All I asked for was a goddamn shower. Five minutes to wash it off before you shoved that fucking tie in my face.” The silence that had followed had been thick and punishing. He had breathed hard, voice softening only slightly. “I’m not any less of an omega because I work with my hands. Because I’m tired. Because I’m not what you thought I should be.”
Across the room, Sang-woo had finally moved, quiet, composed, and without a word. He had crossed the bathroom and reached into the toilet bowl, fingers delicately pulling the soaked silk from the water, shaking it out gently as if it could be saved. He had not looked at the omega. Not once.
...
Gi-hun had laughed breathlessly and stumbled into the hotel room, one arm slung around Sang-woo, the other waving uselessly for balance. Sang-woo had swayed beside him, bottle still in hand, half-drunk and flushed, his glasses slightly crooked on his face. Behind them, Jung-bae had already collapsed in a heap just past the threshold, muttering something unintelligible into the carpet.
The alpha and omega had staggered further into the room, arms still looped around one another, before collapsing sideways onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
“I can’t believe you made me drink all that,” Sang-woo had groaned, dragging off his glasses with a wince and scrubbing a hand down his face, which had been flushed a deep, telltale red.
“Make you?” Gi-hun had scoffed, cheeks rosy, eyes glazed with both alcohol and affection. “I couldn’t make you do anything even if I tried, Sang-woo.”
Gi-hun had shoved at Sang-woo with the weak protest of someone too far gone to commit to it, then had snatched the bottle from his hand, drained the last of it in one go, and tossed it aside with dramatic flair. It had clinked once against the floor before rolling beneath the bed.
Then Gi-hun had let out a groaning whine, pushing against Sang-woo again, slurred but insistent. “Now go to your bed, you asshole! This is my night. Don’t make me kick you off the bed.”
“Already did once, right?” Sang-woo had muttered with a lopsided smirk, rolling a little farther away, though not far enough.
Gi-hun had frozen. The flush on his face had suddenly felt too warm. “Are you… fucking serious? What’d you just say?”
“You heard me,” Sang-woo had mumbled, still facing the ceiling. “That’s what this is, right? Inviting me to be your groomsman. Little payback.”
“What? No—no, Sang-woo.” Gi-hun had sat up slightly, the haze of alcohol thinning around the sudden twist in his gut. “I wanted you here because you’re my oldest friend. My best friend. You’re the one always saying we should move on and I—I thought maybe I finally had. That I could show you I had. But this—this wasn’t about payback.” He had exhaled shakily, his voice softer now. “I mean… I wouldn’t be getting married if I hadn’t moved on, right?”
At that, something in Sang-woo had seemed to twist, jaw tightening, expression clouding, like the words had struck deeper than they should have. He had not spoken. Just lay there, motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it might offer a different answer.
Gi-hun had shaken his head, forcing a smile. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Never could handle your drinks as well as me,” He had muttered, reaching down to undo his tie. His fingers had stiffened on the fabric, remembering another night, before he had continued to push off the jacket and begin unbuttoning the shirt. “Let’s get you ready for bed. You’ll forget about this in the morning and actually be happy for me, you bastard.”
But then Sang-woo had reached for Gi-hun, hand fisting in his shirt, dragging him down with drunken strength and clumsy desperation. The omega had barely gotten out a startled breath before he had been pulled onto the bed, then flipped, the alpha pressing the weight of his body atop him like a pent-up storm craving an outlet.
“Sang-woo, you big oaf—” Gi-hun had started, his voice shaky, half scolding, but the rest had died in his throat as the alpha had wrapped him up tight, dragging him chest-to-chest in a desperate embrace. “S–Sang-woo, this isn’t funny, you can’t—”
Their bodies had pressed together, warmth meeting warmth, chest to chest. His breath had caught as the heat of the other man had sunk into him, his skin half-bared, flushed from drink and emotion. The scent of pine and alcohol had rolled off him in waves, heavy and intoxicating, burning at his eyes and dragging something raw and animal from deep inside him. For a moment, he had not moved. Just breathed. The room had swayed gently around them.
“Please… please, Gi-hun,” Sang-woo had whispered, voice fraying as he had dipped his head. His lips had brushed against his, hot, dry, and trembling. It had not been a kiss, not really, but it had sparked like one, sharp enough to jolt something deep in them both. Their bodies had pressed closer, without meaning to. “Let’s go home.”
Gi-hun had whimpered softly as Sang-woo had leaned down again, pressing their lips together more firmly this time. The air between them had filled with the mingled scent of pine forests, freshly cut wood, sugar honeycomb, and the sharp burn of alcohol. The alpha had pressed into the omega, hard already despite the liquor, the weight of him grinding against his aching, responsive core, where his own want had begun to swell. The omega had spread his legs further, almost involuntarily, his body betraying his better judgment, aching to be filled, to be claimed.
Sang-woo kissed Gi-hun, warm, hungry, and unsteady, an eager hand tangling in his longer hair. And even through the shock, it had only taken a breath, a beat, for the omega to respond. His mouth had parted, soft and giving, drawn into the familiarity of it.
“Missed this,” Sang-woo had murmured between kisses, between the slow swirl of tongues and gasping breaths. “Missed you. Let’s go. Forget it. Forget her—” He had spat the word like it stung. “Fuck, let’s just go—let’s go—”
Gi-hun had closed his eyes. The ache in his chest had swelled, unbearable. Then, with a strangled breath, he had broken the kiss. “We can’t,” He had whispered. “We’re drunk. And my home’s too far below you now… with another alpha. Yours is too high above. High above me. Just like you wanted.”
“But I…” Sang-woo had said, voice barely holding together. “I dreamed of it. You, up there—high with me, Gi-hun. You looked so beautiful… wearing a diamond ring. Silks. You were round with child. There was a baby boy in your arms—”
The words ‘baby boy’ had hit Gi-hun like a hammer to the chest.
But Sang-woo had continued; words had tumbled out, messy and half-formed, but full of something Gi-hun had never heard from him before. “Let’s go home. Let’s—”
Sang-woo had never said anything like that to Gi-hun. Not once. And it had broken something open. Tears had slipped silently down his cheeks as the alpha had clutched him tighter, trembling. “...home… together. To our baby boy—”
“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun had whispered, barely able to speak. “Our baby boy’s name is Dae-ho.”
“Dae-ho,” Sang-woo had repeated, reverent and slurred. “Dae-ho. It’s perfect, don’t you see? Perfect—like you were. Like you are. She won’t think you’re perfect. She’ll see them—your deficiencies—”
“Stop. Stop, Sang-woo,” Gi-hun had snapped, fury blazing beneath his fevered breath. “You—you wait until I’m finally about to get married, possibly even mated, years after you left, and now—now—you get drunk the night before my wedding to say all this?” His voice had trembled with rage and exhaustion. “You sure as hell didn’t think I was perfect then, and I don’t think you believe it now. You’re just realizing how lonely it is at the top. And I—God, I was one of the few who ever tolerated your bullshit. Just like you were one of the few who ever accepted my… my so-called ‘deficiencies.’ But she—she loves me. And we…”
He had trailed off, breathing hard, unable to hide the emotion from his scent or his eyes.
“We…?” Sang-woo had growled, low and dangerous.
“I’m pregnant, Sang-woo,” Gi-hun had blurted, the truth falling from his lips like a blade. “That’s why we’re marrying so soon—”
“It’s hers?” Sang-woo had asked, and the ugliness in his voice had turned his stomach.
“Of course it is!” Gi-hun had shouted. “And I know you, Sang-woo. You could never raise another alpha’s child. You’d treat them like you treated me. Make them feel small. Lesser. I would never subject any of my children to that.”
“I would not!” Sang-woo had abruptly snapped; his hand had slammed down on the bedding beside where his head lay, fingers clenching deep into the fabric. His breathing had turned ragged, chest rising and falling as if each breath cost him something. “I would never hurt a child. Not ours. Not if—”
“There is no ours,” Gi-hun had said, cutting through him like a blade. “You left me. You left me and ignored me for months, Sang-woo! Months later, when you decided to call me back up and say we should still be friends, I accepted it, but I can't—I won’t do that to myself again, Sang-woo. If you left again, left us again, I couldn't—I couldn't. I don’t think I’d live through it.
Sang-woo had stared at Gi-hun then, eyes red-rimmed, pupils dilated—whether from drink or grief or guilt, he had not known. His mouth had worked soundlessly for a moment, as though trying to form an argument that wouldn’t come. Then, in a hoarse whisper: “I wanted more.”
Gi-hun had closed his eyes.
“I didn’t know what to do after when the more came,” Sang-woo had continued, voice unraveling. “I kept climbing and climbing, and when I turned around, you weren’t there anymore. I knew you stopped following. I knew, I knew you gave up on me.”
Sang-woo had gone slack against Gi-hun then, a small sound escaping his throat, half-sob, half-growl, something torn between anger and surrender, before it had softened into a snore. Gi-hun had just lain there, the weight of Sang-woo atop him, staring blankly at the ceiling, his eyes dull and dry in their sockets.
Just like that, it had vanished.
The moment.
The possibility.
Gone.
...
Back in the present, Gi-hun whispered, “Dae-ho.”
Gi-hun did not know when it had started. Maybe it had been building for days, maybe for years. One breath he was standing, and the next he was crumpled on the floor, back pressed hard against the wall, both hands flying protectively to his swollen belly. His knees drew up instinctively, as if to shield what his arms could not. His breath came in short, shallow bursts. Blood roared in his ears, the sound louder than any other voice, louder than his own heartbeat slamming like a fist against his ribs. His hands trembled, fingers numb, and legs tingled as he struggled to breathe or think.
“Gi-hun? Gi-hun!” Dae-ho cried out, raw with panic. He dropped to his knees beside him, cupping his face in trembling hands. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. What can I do? What did I say? Please—”
But Gi-hun could not speak. He could only shake his head, gulping thickly as his arms tightened around himself, though every part of him wanted to scream, to cry, to collapse in relief, in joy, in desperation. But his mind was drowning in memories, good and bad, and it felt as if his own body had turned against him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gi-hun gasped, over and over again.
Then, without another word, Dae-ho leaned in and wrapped his arms around the older omega, careful of his distended stomach. One hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers gently combing through his dark waves. His alpha scent filled the space: pine needles, hay, beeswax, and honey rolling out in warm, deliberate plumes, calming pheromones thick in the air. His body responded instinctively, emitting a softer omega scent in return: sugar, honeycomb, caramel, and warm milk. His scent bloomed gently against his, and the alpha tightened his grip on him with a quiet, broken whimper.
“I don’t... I don’t understand. I don’t—you...” Dae-ho gasped, still holding him, voice cracking as he held him.
Gi-hun finally managed to speak again, hoarse and trembling. “Dae-ho…” He clenched his eyes shut as a stream of tears slipped free, falling like a broken string of pearls. “Oh baby—my baby. I don't—I can’t—” He swallowed again, sniffling, his voice catching in his throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any right to— I know you’re confused, hurt, and angry. God, I know you must be angry, and I’ll explain everything, but I just—”
Still holding Gi-hun, Dae-ho looked at him quietly, eyes wide and shining. Then, in a soft voice, he said, “Mama.”
Gi-hun blinked, breath catching. “Dae-ho, you don’t have to—” He began.
“Mama,” Dae-ho said again, firmer this time. “I… I thought I was going crazy when I first met you,” He continued, voice barely above a whisper. “When I scented you, it was like… like a dream I’d forgotten. But it called to me. Told me to stay near you. That you’d protect me. And you did. You have.”
He paused, shaking his head faintly. “And something inside me told me I had to do the same. That I had to protect you. And I’ve tried. I swear I’ve tried.” His voice broke again, softer this time. “But I’ve never had a scent do that for me. Not in my own family. I’m the youngest. I was adopted. Mom and my sisters—” His lips twisted faintly “—they’ve never made me feel left out, not on purpose. But their scents never… called to mine. Not like yours does. And mine never reached for theirs like this. Do you… do you feel the same?”
“Yes,” Gi-hun choked out. “Yes, I do. It just took my stupid mind a little while to catch up with what my old, battered body already knew.” He reached out, cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing gently along the curve of bone. His eyes, wide and wet, searched the ones that mirrored his own. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I never expected to see you again—especially not here. Not like this. I’m trying to stop these games, trying to do something good for once, and then you were just… here. And I thought, back then, by giving you up, I was saving you. From this world. From me. From everything that would follow.”
“But I’m here,” Dae-ho cut in, voice steadier now. “Because I took that card. I called that number. I signed that waiver. And after the first round, I chose to stay.” His hand came up to rest over the one cupping his cheek, the contact grounding them both. “You’re not responsible for what I did,” He said firmly. “For what any of us did. Or will do. You may be trying to save us from these games—trying to end them—but I’m going to save you. You and my little siblings.”
Gi-hun could not understand it, not the lack of rage, not the absence of blame. He had expected shouting, demanding, and the kind of questions that started with why and never really ended, but instead the alpha had offered nothing but warmth, affection, and protection. And to be on the receiving end of that, here of all places, from the child he had thought lost, it undid him. The ache bloomed fast and sharp, and he pressed a trembling hand to his swollen belly, half-afraid the sheer intensity of emotion had triggered labor, but a slow breath in, a careful sniff of his own scent, told him otherwise.
“I don’t understand,” Gi-hun said, voice cracking with disbelief. “You should be angry—furious. You should be asking me why I gave you up, why I didn’t—”
“Angry?” Dae-ho echoed, startled. He blinked once, then let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. “I mean—should I be? Maybe. But I’m not. I can’t be. I’m standing here with you. Talking to you. I never thought I’d get this—this chance. To look you in the eye. To see where I came from.”
His voice thickened with emotion. “I’ve wondered for years. And now I know. You’re kind. You’re brave. You’re ridiculous sometimes, but you’re also so warm. And I don’t care that it’s taken this long. I’m just… I’m grateful.”
He smiled, wiping at his eyes. “So no, I’m not angry. And if I’m not—maybe that’s something I got from you.”
Gi-hun tried to smile back, but the pressure in his belly clenched hard, tight like a fist, and a gasp escaped him before he could catch it. He folded forward instinctively, arms braced across his midsection, biting down on the inside of his cheek to muffle the sound.
“Mama?” Dae-ho asked, alarm tightening his voice. “Mama, what is it? Are you—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, panic flashing across his features as his gaze dropped. One trembling hand reached for his knee; the other hesitated mid-air, hovering near his thigh like he was afraid to confirm what he already feared.
Gi-hun followed his gaze, then he froze as it landed on the fabric of his pants, on the spots spreading like ink, dark red blooming down the inner thighs. His hand trembled as he reached forward, hesitating for just a moment before his fingertips brushed the blood. His face drained of color.
Dae-ho whispered,”You’re bleeding.”
The descent through the dizzying kaleidoscope of stairs went by slowly; their packmates, bloodstained and hollow-eyed, moved without speaking, the echo of their footsteps a whisper behind them. Gi-hun walked slowly, deliberately, one hand braced against the cold cement wall, the other pressed firmly to the small of his back to steady the throbbing ache that had taken root there. His feet burned with every step, the aftershock of the sprint still pulsing through the soles. Each stair sent a dull jolt up his spine. His breath came fast and too shallow. Sweat clung stickily at his temples.
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said, his voice coming low behind him, threaded with concern. “Let me carry you the rest of the way. You’re being stubborn.”
“I have to be,” Gi-hun ground out, breath catching, hand trembling against the wall. “If I can’t even walk down a damn staircase, what chance do I have—what chance do our unborn children have—if we’re forced into another game?” He paused, panting. “Will you carry me through that too?”
“If I have to,” Young-il said, with no hesitation and no softness. Just grim, unshakable resolve.
Gi-hun faltered and stopped. His head dipped, and he leaned hard against the wall, eyes screwed shut. Players continued past them in murmurs and dragging steps.
Young-il stepped beside Gi-hun, one hand at his elbow, the other hovering protectively near his distended stomach. “Keep going,” Young-il said over his shoulder to the others. “We’ll catch up. He needs a minute.”
As the crowd shuffled on ahead, their layered scents peeled away, and the air cleared enough for Young-il to finally scent Gi-hun properly.
“Your scent,” Young-il said lowly. “It’s off.”
His scent, once all warm milk and soft dalgona, now clung to the air in the sickly-sweet way spoiled things did. Like milk forgotten on a stovetop.
“Something’s wrong, I think, Young-il.” Gi-hun licked his dry lips, then whispered, “I’m… bleeding.”
Young-il stiffened. “What?”
“Not heavily,” Gi-hun said quickly, shifting with discomfort. He had tied his jacket around his waist to help conceal the small blood spots blooming between his thighs. “Just spotting. But the cramps are getting worse. And my lower back—” He exhaled shakily, “It’s been killing me since the last round. And my legs—my legs are going numb.”
“You should’ve told me sooner,” Young-il said, voice clipped with barely restrained panic.
“I thought it would stop,” Gi-hun whispered. “I thought if I just pushed through, it would pass. I was stupid. I know that now.” He gave a weak, bitter laugh. “I just—I can’t give birth in this place, Young-il. Not here. Not like all those years ago at the factory. And if I lose them here—” His voice broke, and his arms curled tighter around his middle.
Without a word, Young-il reached for him, cupping his cheek. The skin beneath his fingers was too hot, flushed with fever. He brushed back sweat-damp curls, pressing his palm to his forehead. “You’re burning up,” He murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Then, without another word, he bent, scooping the omega up, one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back. The omega gasped but clung to his alpha, breath hitching as the sudden shift in altitude made the ache in his belly twist again. “We’re getting you off your feet,” He continued, voice iron. “Right now.”
Young-il carried Gi-hun back into the dormitory, arms locked tight around his trembling frame. The moment they crossed the threshold, their packmates surged forward, wide-eyed, bloodstained, and breathless with concern. Other players looked on from their bunks, watching with wary curiosity.
“Gi-hun!” Jung-bae called, voice sharp with alarm, eyes flicking from Gi-hun to Young-il, narrowing slightly at the latter, the distrust there unmistakable.
“Really, I’m fine,” Gi-hun muttered, breath short. He squirmed weakly against the alpha, pushing at his chest, though his movements lacked real force. “You can put me down—”
“Stop it,” Young-il said lowly, tightening his grip. “You’re the most stubborn omega I’ve ever met. Quit fighting me before you collapse trying to prove a point.”
Dae-ho was already moving. He dropped to his knees by the nearest mattress, yanking spare blankets into a nest with quick, purposeful motions. His jacket came off next, added to the pile without hesitation, scenting the space with comfort and claim. “Bring him here! Lay him down!”
“Young-il, listen to me—” Gi-hun gasped, tugging at his shirt, eyes flashing.
“No,” Young-il said, a growl threading through his words. “You’ve talked yourself halfway to a collapse. Now you’re going to listen. Lie down and shut up for once in your life, or I will tie you to this bed. We’ll see how many knots I can tie with a bedsheet.”
Jung-bae gave a grunt of reluctant agreement. “Yeah. Mouth shut unless it’s a symptom.”
The bluntness knocked the breath from Gi-hun more than the fever did. The omega blinked, mouth falling open, then snapping shut again in indignation. His face went hot. Not flustered—just overheating. Because of the fever. Obviously.
“B-bastard,” Gi-hun grumbled, glaring half-heartedly. His body had no business responding to that voice, that grip, that scent. He was feverish and in pain all over, but his traitorous instincts told him to roll over and purr. Absolutely pathetic.
“I’ll get Geum-ja,” Jun-hee called, already moving. “She was a midwife—she’ll know what to do!”
Young-il lowered Gi-hun into the nest with reverent care, keeping one hand on his back until he was fully settled. He stripped off his own jacket and added it to the pile, tucking the blankets around him. “There. My stubborn omega is finally still.”
“Oh, am I permitted to speak now, alpha?” Gi-hun snapped, then immediately regretted the way the word hung in the air, heavy and electric.
Young-il stilled, and the way his pupils flared, just a little, did not escape the omega. And the alpha released a breath—not quite a gasp, not quite a growl, but enough. His eyes burned into his face, not with annoyance but hunger.
“Now that you’re lying still, yes,” Young-il said with maddening calm.
“For now,” Gi-hun muttered under his breath as he shifted, adjusting the nest around his aching body. Another pang twisted through his belly, sharp and coiling like writhing snakes beneath his skin, and he winced, licking his dry lips. “Until I start biting again.”
“Bite me later,” Young-il murmured, brushing a hand through his hair. “For now, let me take care of you.”
Dae-ho knelt beside Gi-hun, reaching forward with trembling hands, gently brushing damp curls from his forehead. His touch was light but reverent, his voice a whisper threaded with fear. “Oh, Mama… You’re burning up.”
“Mama?” Jung-bae echoed, caught off guard.
“Yeah,” Dae-ho replied quietly, not looking away from Gi-hun. “Mama.” There was no explanation in his tone, only certainty.
Jung-bae stared a moment longer but said nothing. He backed away, shoulders tense, murmuring something under his breath that no one quite caught.
Meanwhile, Young-il shared a look with Gi-hun, one laced with something quiet and irrevocable. His eyes, glassy with fever but still startlingly lucid for a breath, flicked toward him as his son gently cupped his face.
Then the doors slid open with a hiss.
A square-masked guard entered, flanked by two triangle-masked guards armed as usual. The square-masked one spoke, tone flat and rehearsed: “Congratulations to all of you for surviving the third game. Now here are the results.”
Stacks of crisp bills rained into the oversized piggy bank above them, the gold glow catching every stunned or vacant face below.
“The vote will once again be conducted in reverse order of your player numbers,” the guard continued. “Player 456, please cast your vote.”
“What? No—he can’t—” Dae-ho surged up, panic in his voice, his hands already reaching instinctively for the omega.
“You’re going to have to bring the damn machine to him then! Look at him! He can’t even stand!” Jung-bae snapped, stepping in front of Gi-hun protectively.
“If Player 456 refuses or fails to vote, it will be recorded as an abstention,” The square-masked guard replied coldly.
“Oh, what a fair and democratic process,” Jung-bae sneered. “Preying on the weak, the sick—”
“Help me stand,” Gi-hun rasped.
Young-il blinked. “Gi-hun, no—you can’t possibly—”
“I said help me stand,” Gi-hun repeated, more firmly this time. He sat upright, one hand braced on his distended stomach, his face pale and drawn but filled with grim resolve. His other hand reached out to his alpha.
Young-il moved instantly, pulled by instinct and bond, wrapping an arm around Gi-hun, the other guiding his hand as he stood, both of them unsteady but unbroken. The omega placed his feet on the ground with a grimace, his face ghost-pale and glistening with fever sweat, scent turning sickly from the strain, but he walked, haltingly, stubbornly, leaning into the warmth and strength at his alpha at his side.
Mutters rippled through the dormitory, the other players unsure whether they were witnessing a miracle or a martyrdom. Gi-hun reached the voting pedestal, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching from the effort of staying upright, then slammed his hand down on the red X with all the force he had left. The sound echoed like a crack through the cold air.
The red glow flashed. Final.
Still clinging to Young-il, Gi-hun turned back to the room, head high despite the tremor in his limbs, his dark eyes sweeping over the remaining players. Judgment, defiance, and a fierce plea burned in them, condemnation for those who had chosen blue already and wordless hope for those still on the edge. His chest heaved with each breath, but he held the gaze of every player who dared meet it.
Young-il eased Gi-hun back toward the mattress, his alpha presence calm and grounding, his hands firm but reverent as he helped the omega lower down, cradling his cheek and brushing a hand along the curve of his stomach, lips brushing his temple in a silent vow. The omega closed his eyes, eyelashes fluttered shut, and his mouth tightened with pain, but he exhaled shakily and leaned into the contact.
The next vote fell. A blue O.
Gi-hun flinched. Young-il tightened his grip on him.
Young-il—In-ho—watched intently, not the players, but Gi-hun, studying the way his omega trembled yet stood, how his face fell with every blue vote cast. This was the lesson he needed most—that not even a visibly suffering omega, feverish and heavily pregnant, would stir mercy in this place. Only numbers mattered here. Only profit.
In-ho wanted Gi-hun to see every coward, every traitor, every person who chose wealth over mercy, and wanted him to feel it deeply until it changed him.
Just as it had changed him so long ago now.
After the vote, which ended in a tie, with a revote scheduled for morning, Gi-hun lay on the mattress, sweat slicking his face, eyes fixed on the oversized golden piggy bank suspended above. It glowed dimly with the harsh yellow light, hovering like a glass eye, lidless and pitiless, watching as his body betrayed him. His lips parted, dry and cracked, whispering nothing. He was going to die here. Die with his unborn children still inside him. And that damn thing would just keep watching.
As would the other players who had voted O, even after Gi-hun had stood in front of them, sick and trembling, visibly in pain, a heavily pregnant omega barely able to hold himself upright—and still, half of them chose money. What more could he do now? How could he sway them when his body was failing him, when his pleas fell on deaf ears?
“Please hurry,” Jun-hee was saying, bringing Geum-ja over.
“Please, you have to help him,” Dae-ho gasped, his voice trembling as he looked at the older omega woman. “He started bleeding, and he’s hurting. He’s burning up, but he won’t stop shivering. We’re helping him nest with blankets and some of our clothes, but I don't know if it's helping—"
“You did the right thing. Familiar scents help with expecting omegas, especially ones this far along,” Geum-ja said, calm but moving fast. She knelt beside the mattress, her hands already in motion, brushing back his soaked hair to feel his forehead. Her palm met fever-warm skin beneath a sheen of sweat. Her frown deepened as the omega leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering. “He’s feverish. And his scent has soured. Any other symptoms? Bleeding, cramps—?”
“He said he was having cramps and some spotting,” Young-il answered tightly, jaw flexing. “Lower back pain. And numbness in his legs.”
Geum-ja nodded, her hands moving efficiently as she pressed her knuckles to his sternum. “Gi-hun, can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers if you can.”
“Geum-ja…” Gi-hun rasped, barely audible, as his hand weakly closed around hers. His grip trembled, almost weightless, but there was recognition in it. “It’s so hot…” He mumbled, barely forming the words.
“I know, sweetie,” Geum-ja said, gentling her tone. “I know it hurts too. Let me see now, okay?” She peeled back the blankets, lifting the hem of his shirt. Her fingers moved with steady pressure, palpating the taut curve of his belly with calm precision.
“Is it the babies?” Jung-bae asked, hovering nearby. His voice was rough, raw with fear. “Are they… are they okay?”
“I’m no doctor,” Geum-ja said gently, her hands never still, “But I’ve delivered more babies than I can count.” She palpated the tight swell of his belly with care. “The babies are moving. That’s a good sign. There’s spotting, but no heavy bleeding yet, and with a twin pregnancy at this stage—especially in an older carrier—it’s not uncommon. His water hasn’t broken. I’m not feeling contractions either.” She paused and looked up, her eyes sweeping over the anxious faces gathered. “This doesn’t feel like preterm labor. But something is wrong.”
“Then what is it?” Young-il demanded abruptly, and while the words were not shouted, the chill in them stopped everyone in their tracks.
Jun-hee flinched. Dae-ho froze mid-wipe, cloth trembling in his hand. Even Gi-hun stirred weakly at the sound, a soft, confused sound catching in his throat.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun said softly.
“I—I’m sorry,” Young-il said abruptly as his jaw flexed. He did not look at anyone. “That was… unnecessary. Speaking to you like that. Forgive me.”
Geum-ja blinked, surprised, but did not retreat. “It’s alright, dear. I understand,” She said gently. “It’s hard to watch someone you love suffer. And you are his alpha… yes?”
“I am,” Young-il said without hesitation but with a tight voice.
“Then he needs you to keep it together,” Geum-ja said, her gaze firm but not unkind. “Right now, what he needs most is stability. Familiarity. Calm.” She turned back to Gi-hun, brushing more sweat from his brow with quiet tenderness. “He needs you, but not like this.”
“As for what exactly is wrong with him… I can’t say. I’m not a doctor. We have to hope this vote goes through so we can get both of these expecting omegas to real ones.” Her tone shifted back to crisp professionalism as she addressed the group. “For now, the best thing you can do is keep helping him nest. Stay close—especially his alpha. Watch for new symptoms or anything worsening. Keep him cool. Keep him calm.”
Then Geum-ja gazed at Jun-hee, who was watching wide-eyed, one hand protectively cradling her belly. “And I need to check on you next.”
Jun-hee blinked. “I… I’m fine,” She said, almost reflexively.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Geum-ja said, rising and gently guiding her aside, already assessing her with a practiced eye.
Gi-hun murmured something unintelligible and shifted restlessly, clutching weakly at the sheets. His eyelashes were wet, cheeks flushed with more than fever.
“We’ve got you, Mama,” Dae-ho whispered, settling his hand over his.
Gi-hun stilled slightly at the touch. Not eased—but tethered.
Young-il—In-ho—watched Dae-ho silently. His gaze slid to his bowed head, to the way the young alpha held his hand with quiet reverence, his expression open, raw, and unguarded. And for the second time that day, the alpha felt sharp stabs of territorial jealousy in him like volleys of arrows.
It was irrational. It was instinct. But it was his omega lying there fever-stricken, lips cracked and skin flushed. His.
In-ho stood watch, expression as blank as a mask, though his clenched jaw betrayed the tension coiling beneath his skin. After the bathroom incident, the dorm was tense, with boundaries clearly marked between Xs and Os, territory determined by body language, taunting, swearing, hissing, and even emitting offensive odors to dissuade others. The Xs had clustered near the fortified bunks, no doubt hatching retaliation plans in hushed voices. It was a storm brewing in plain sight, and In-ho knew it would break soon. Still, he had chosen to remain by his omega, unmoved, unmoving.
Gazing down at Gi-hun, In-ho held a piece of kimbap between his fingers, lifting it to his parted lips with deliberate gentleness. A fork was gleaming in the foil with the kimbap roll set aside. The omega whimpered, soft and pained, the sound barely more than breath as he turned his head away. The rejection was small, barely a movement, but it struck like a blow.
“I’m sorry, Young-il,” Gi-hun rasped. His scent had gone sick. What once was sweet, soft, and nurturing was now blistered with heat and rot. “I don’t think I can eat right now without being sick again.”
In-ho exhaled softly through his nose, then lowered the kimbap and carefully began pulling it apart with precise fingers, separating the sticky rice. “Just the rice, then,” He murmured, voice low and coaxing. He leaned closer, releasing a gentle wash of his own scent, whiskey and old books, dog-eared pages read on a porch while the rain tapped against the wood. “With some water. Please… just a little.”
Gi-hun shuddered, but after a moment, he relented, taking the rice from his fingers, his lips grazing his fingertips, and swallowing it with effort, his throat working painfully around it as the alpha tipped the bottle to his lips, water sliding down in slow gulps that made his breath hitch.
“Thank you…” Gi-hun whispered, barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut as if even gratitude exhausted him.
In-ho looked at the players gathered on the O side, all sitting in a massive congregation stuffing their faces with the kimbap sticky rice on their faces, their mouths wide in gluttonous, food-stuffed grins. His expression was one of disgust as he glared at them coldly as he pulled a piece of kimbap apart again, the quiet rip of seaweed and soft rice the only sound between them. He offered the rice to the omega gently, almost reverently, and with his other hand, raised the fork, not casually, not idly, but like it meant something.
“What is it, Young-il?” Gi-hun asked, his voice a whisper. He reached out, hand weak and trembling, but still searching for his touch. “Talk to me. Please.”
In-ho intended to remove Gi-hun from the games. He had already decided that he and the life growing inside of him needed medical attention, a thorough examination, and safety. Whether or not his omega stayed out and joined him behind the observation glass would depend on what happened next. Whether he finally saw what needed to be seen. Because before he left, the alpha needed him to understand exactly what the others were. What they would do. What they already were doing.
“You should be in a hospital right now,” In-ho said, the words clipped, tight, and barely restrained. “Monitored. Treated. You and our children.” He looked away, jaw flexing hard enough to crack. “Instead, you’re in here. Burning up. Bleeding. And we don’t even know what’s wrong.” He glanced at the curve of his belly, his voice dropping to a rough rasp. “Not with you. Not with them. Because of them.”
“Half voted to go home,” Gi-hun said quietly, as if trying to believe it himself. “Even now. That’s better odds than we’ve had in any vote since getting here.”
“Half of them voted to stay,” In-ho spat. “Half of them would watch you die—if not kill you themselves—the second the lights go out. Or in the next game. And they’d convince themselves it was mercy. A sick, pregnant omega, too weak to be useful, too kind to survive—and they’d rationalize every second of it. After all your help. After every damn scrap of trust you offered.”
“And look at them now,” He said darkly, “Huddling in corners, whispering like rats. They’re not friends to one another. They’re not allies either. They’re fellow scavengers.” He lifted the fork between two fingers and turned it with quiet precision, the metal catching the low light. “These weren’t meant to feed us. They were meant to feed the part of us that wants to survive no matter the cost.”
And then Gi-hun, hoarse but steady, said, “We’ll have to set up a defense with the other Xs tonight. Try and save as many as possible.”
In-ho blinked once. The words sank in slowly, absurd in their purity, their audacity.
Of course that was his instinct. Not self-preservation. But to save others. To organize. To try. Even now, trembling and soaked with fever, barely able to keep his eyes open, his omega still wanted to believe. Still believed. The alpha stared at him, jaw rigid. And in that moment, he did not know what he hated more, the players who would devour his omega and his unborn children if given the chance, or the part of himself that felt a twisted relief that his omega had not changed at all.
Gi-hun pressed his hands to his stomach, slow, rhythmic circles easing over the rounded surface like he was trying to soothe not just his unborn children, but himself. Sweat clung to his skin. His breath hitched again, the pain in his middle intensifying with each passing moment.
“There’s still hope for tomorrow,” Gi-hun whispered. His voice was papery, barely holding together. “If the Xs hold strong… we might take the vote." He did not sound entirely convinced, but he did sound exhausted and hollowed out. He blinked slowly and looked up at his alpha, his hand rising, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and cupping his face. “Please… look at me.”
In-ho did. Gi-hun could barely raise his hand, but he held it there, cupping his cheek. “Don’t put that on them,” He murmured, his voice cracking. “Don’t hate them.” He swallowed hard, the motion alone drawing a quiet gasp of pain from his throat. “They’re not… evil. Just desperate. Cornered.” His eyes fluttered briefly shut, his next breath rattling as it slid in. “This place—it makes people do things they never thought they would.”
His lips parted again, searching for the next thought like a thread unraveling.
“It’s not the players,” He rasped. “It’s the ones who built this. The ones who bet on us like racehorses.” His gaze went glassy, fever-clouded, and dim, like he was no longer seeing just the walls of the dormitory but something far beyond. “The VIPs…” He whispered. “And him.”
“Who?” In-ho asked, though the answer thudded in his chest like a second heartbeat. “Who, Gi-hun?”
“The… The Front Man,” Gi-hun whispered, the name leaving his lips like a bruise. “He’s the one at the top. Above the guards. I met him during my first time in the games. He… watched me. Challenged me. He had his own games with me.” His throat worked around the next words. “And now it feels like… like he’s brought me back to the games not just to test me, but to… shape me. Mold me. Into something else.”
In-ho said nothing at first. He simply stared, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle ticked along the line of his cheek. The breath that left him was soundless, coiled behind his teeth. Then, subtle and precise, he nodded toward the nearest camera. The message was clear. They would come soon. The guards would take his omega to the infirmary. It was already being prepared. He had made sure of it.
“Young-il…” Gi-hun murmured, soft as breath, barely audible beneath the hum of the lights above. “Will you hold me?” His fingers twitched, seeking something solid. “Your scent… it helps.”
In-ho did not hesitate. He slipped behind his omega and gently pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around his fragile, overheated frame. The heat of the fever soaked through his shirt, but he said nothing. His hands slid down, resting protectively on the swell of his belly. Beneath his palm, he felt it, the faintest nudge. A slow, sleepy kick. Life, moving.
Gi-hun blinked again, long and slow, leaning back heavily against In-ho, like his body was starting to slip under the weight of everything. Then, quietly, like a breath slipping out on the edge of sleep: “Do you ever wonder…”
In-ho looked down, waiting.
“…what it would’ve been like,” Gi-hun continued, “If we’d met before the games? Before any of this. If we’d known each other already. If I’d never stepped into that first round in the first place.” His lips curled faintly, the ghost of a smile flickering there, more sadness than anything else. “I think… you would’ve met me sometime after my divorce. Out at the racetracks. Me holding too many tickets, causing a ruckus like always. Probably with a nosebleed because some alpha got in my face and I shoved him—which almost always meant I got punched.”
In-ho glanced at him, eyebrow arching. “You wouldn’t think it, looking at you. Not a scar. Not even a crooked nose.” He gently traced his thumb over the tip of his flushed nose. Then, curious. “Where do I come in?”
“You come bursting onto the scene looking for who caused the ruckus, which was me, of course,” Gi-hun murmured, lips dry but curled faintly. “And you lay eyes on me—hair in my face, nose running with blood, big teary eyes—and decide I’m the most pathetic creature on the planet.”
In-ho snorted faintly, the sound grudging but real.
“No, no…” Gi-hun went on, barely above a whisper now. “You find it endearing. Like seeing a half-starved stray cat—filthy, shivering, barely hanging on. But still meowing. Still alive. And you, naturally, feel compelled to take it in. Feed it some milk. Maybe kibble. Patch it up.”
In-ho was going to argue; not everyone would see a stray and think what Gi-hun thought, but for some reason, in that moment, he could not quite find it in his heart to say otherwise.
“Go on,” Gi-hun murmured. “Continue it. Let’s pretend. It takes our minds off things.”
In-ho hesitated. Then, gently, he obliged. “I don’t arrest you. I let you off with a warning.”
“Because I’m too handsome?”
“No,” In-ho deadpanned. “Because you’re cutting into my lunch break.”
Gi-hun let out a soft laugh that ended in a wheeze. “Rude.”
“But later,” In-ho said, leaning closer, his voice dipping with warmth, “I see you again. Walking home in the rain, soaked to the bone—you’ve forgotten your umbrella, naturally. You’re shivering and dripping, and you look even more pitiful than before.”
Another laugh. Gi-hun tucked himself slightly closer to his alpha, laying his head on his chest over his heartbeat, his scent beginning to sweeten once more. “Sounds about right…”
“And I can’t help it,” In-ho continued. “I pull over and offer you a ride. But instead of taking you home, I take you to my place.”
“You make tteokbokki,” Gi-hun whispered, eyes barely open now. “The spicy kind. I remember how the whole apartment smelled like it. Hot and sweet. Like you.”
“Eventually, we marry. Mate. Maybe even mark each other. A risky choice,” In-ho said, softer still. “Our families say so. But we don’t regret it. We feel each other through the bond—every heartbeat, every flicker of emotion. Even at work, we send little thoughts. Warmth. Want. Worry. And always love.”
A soundless exhale escaped Gi-hun. He could feel it, phantom pulses of a bond that did not exist but should, thrumming in his throat like a memory from another life.
“We get a big house,” In-ho continued. “A nursery for the twins. A room for your daughter, Ga-yeong. She stays with us half the year. Her laughter fills the hallway.”
“And guest rooms…” Gi-hun added, barely audible. “For Dae-ho and Jun-hee, who visit all the time.”
In-ho swallowed. “Jun-hee has her baby,” He said, the fantasy curling tighter around them both. “Eventually buys the house next door. Our kids all go to the same nursery school.”
Gi-hun did not respond. His breathing had grown shallower, lips slightly parted, sweat gleaming like dew across his brow. His shoulders slumped, and the hands that had been folded protectively over the swell of his stomach slipped limply to his sides, fingers curling inward like a withering petal.
“Gi-hun,” In-ho said.
No answer.
“Gi-hun,” In-ho repeated, sharper this time, his voice cracking on the name as he leaned forward, a hand rising to cup his cheek. His skin burned beneath his palm, fever-hot, frightening. “Gi-hun, wake up. You can’t do this now.”
Gi-hun stirred faintly, eyelashes trembling. His lips moved, a soundless breath slipping out before the voice came. “Don’t… fight them,” He rasped.
In-ho stiffened.
Gi-hun forced his eyes open, glassy and glimmering with fever. “Fight the ones who built this,” he breathed. “Not them. Not the players. Promise me…” His chest shuddered. “They’re not the real enemies…” His head rolled to the side, the last whisper slipping out,“Please…” And then he went still.
In-ho sat frozen, hand still against his cheek, pulse roaring in his ears. This last tether to his omega, naive, soft, forgiving, and impossibly kind even to those who did not deserve it, should have comforted him. After all, some deep-seated part of the alpha desired to see his omega succeed in remaining true to himself and his beliefs in humanity. But now, in this moment, it did not comfort. It enraged.
Even now, after everything… after the carnage of the first games, after being dragged back through it again, Gi-hun still chose to see the players as people. Still believed in mercy. In hope. In goodness.
Even now, his omega had not changed.
And something in In-ho snapped. The alpha rose slowly, staring down at his omega and brushing his fingers over his distended stomach with a gentle touch that belied the storm behind his eyes. His fingers trembled, not with grief, but with something sharper. Something colder. A fury that felt like a cold hand upon his soul.
The guards entered, masked and silent, as they always were. In-ho did not look at them. He did not speak. He simply stepped aside as they reached for the unconscious body of his omega.
In-ho barely registered the pounding footsteps before Dae-ho and Jung-bae and even Hyun-ju were there, screaming, shoving, hands on the stretcher, trying to drag Gi-hun back. “Don’t take him!” Someone cried. But the guards moved fast, rifles snapping up. A heartbeat later, both men stood frozen, arms lifted in surrender, rage and terror carved into their expressions.
Through it all, In-ho said nothing. He did not stop them. He did not explain. He watched, stone-cold, as his omega was eased onto the stretcher, his head lolling. His expression, slack with sleep, held not the agony of illness but something softer, something too still to be real. The fevered flush on his cheeks mimicked rouge. His lips, parted faintly, looked kissed by frost. He resembled a spellbound monarch caught in a dreamless slumber, waiting for the world to soften before he woke.
He looked like a fairy tale. Like a tragedy.
Gi-hun still had one hand still curled instinctively toward the swell of his belly, for even in unconsciousness, he was protecting them, those unborn lives he loved so fiercely. Just like he protected the other players.
And In-ho hated him for it.
His throat burned. He watched the stretcher disappear through the metal doors, and something settled in his bones, cold and final. His omega had not changed. He had not learned. He still believed in them.
“Young-il!”
The name hit In-ho like a blow.
In-ho turned sharply. Dae-ho was standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and shaking. His lips were parted, drawing in shallow, panicked breaths. Blood ran down from his temple, trailing the path where the butt of a rifle had struck him. But he did not even seem to notice.
“What do we do?” The young alpha asked, voice cracking, thick with unshed tears.
In-ho stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight. He thought of his omega, burning with fever, whispering,”Don’t fight them. Fight the ones who built this.” Thought of the softness in his voice. The plea in it. The way he had always carried the burden of belief—even now.
In-ho turned fully to Dae-ho, voice quiet but searing. “Lights out is soon,” He said. “We need to be prepared to fight.”
Dae-ho flinched, as if the word itself burned.
“But not the other players,” In-ho continued, eyes narrowing. “That’s exactly what they want. Chaos. Fear. Hatred. It keeps us weak. Keeps us divided.” He stepped forward. “No,” He continued. “This time, we fight them.”
Dae-ho blinked, trembling. “Them?” He echoed.
“The ones who watch. The ones who bet. The ones who think they own us. The ones who built this place.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jung-bae, voice low and stunned: “How?”
Hyun-ju answered before In-ho could. “We’ll need their guns,” She said simply. “Do you have a plan?”
In-ho did not look back toward the metal doors. Gi-hun had vanished behind, though something in him tugged hard in that direction. But he shook it off and nodded, expression flat and unwavering. The bit and bridle would be waiting now when his omega awoke, not as punishment, but as guidance. He would spark rebellion not to win, not to escape, but to punish. To prove what his omega refused to see. Let them rise, let them rage. Let them try to turn the world upside down. And he would ensure that they failed. Miserably, bloodily, utterly.
Gi-hun had wanted to free the horses. Wanted to hold the ones who placed the bets accountable.
Fine.
He would let the horses believe they could break loose.
And the ones placing bets would clap and howl as the whip came down.
Gi-hun sat on a floor cushion at the low kitchen table, steam curling from a bowl of soondubu beside a smaller dish of rice. One arm cradled the twins beneath his shirt, both latched and nursing with soft, rhythmic pulls. His other hand swiped lazily through his phone, reading text updates from friends and family planning their arrivals, some flying, some driving, all eager. Outside, sunlight poured through the window, catching in the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, but the warmth felt earned, familiar, and safe.
Then the world shattered into white. A sterile light pulsed behind his eyes, searing through his skull. His ears rang. A shrill beeping cut through it like a blade. Images flashed before him: bright pink suits and masked faces with strange swirling geometric shapes. Needles flashed silver as bloodied gloved hands reached for him. The air stank of antiseptic and burning cordite. Somewhere in the distance: gunfire.
“—false labor—”
“—get more fluids—”
“BP dropping—”
“Vitals are erratic—”
Then: “Gi-hun? Gi-hun.” A voice cut through the haze like a lifeline.
Gi-hun blinked, and Young-il was there, crouched in front of him, cupping his cheeks with both hands. His expression was stricken. “You weren’t answering,” He said, breathless. “You just… stared. You went pale and had this awful look on your face—”
Gi-hun blinked hard again. “No, I—I’m alright.” He tried to smile, shaky and thin. “Just a headache. It’s gone now.” He leaned forward and kissed his mate softly, anchoring himself in the touch. He was careful not to jostle the twins beneath his shirt, their small, warm bodies nestled in the safety of his scent. “When did you get home?”
“Just now,” Young-il said, voice low and grounding. He rose and tilted his head toward the stove, sniffing the air. “Is that soondubu?”
“Yes—go ahead and have some,” Gi-hun said, nudging the rice bowl closer. His nesting instincts twitched at the thought of his alpha unfed. “But not too much! Everyone will be here soon—ow, shit!” He jerked backward with a hiss of pain, one hand snapping up to his chest.
“What?!” Young-il was crouched beside him in an instant, an empty bowl forgotten in his hand, all alpha instincts flaring to the surface.
Gi-hun cursed under his breath, his face flushed as he quickly yanked up his shirt, adjusting the cloth that held their infant daughter against his left pectoral. With a huff of frustration, he loosened the wrap just enough to extend his arm and hold the squirming baby out to his mate, grumbling, “Take her!”
“What happened?” Young-il asked, setting aside his bowl and taking their infant daughter with an expression of both concern and curiosity, beginning to burp her.
“I told you: she hates me,” Gi-hun tightened the wrap around his chest again, securing their infant son, still latched firmly to his right pectoral. “She bit me.”
“Bit you?” Young-il repeated, raising an eyebrow, then his eyes widened in realization. “You mean your—oh.”
“Yes, she bit my nipple. Again!” Gi-hun groaned, wincing as he rubbed the spot where the tiny teeth had left their mark.
Young-il snorted but caught himself, pressing the sound into his fist.
Gi-hun did not miss it. He glared. “I swear, if you’re laughing—”
“I’m not!” Young-il insisted, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“You are,” Gi-hun muttered, flopping back with a dramatic sigh. He adjusted their son on his chest, easing him out of the wrap to burp him. “You think it’s hilarious.”
Young-il leaned in, kissing him on the temple. “Only because I know you’d be laughing if it happened to me.”
Gi-hun snorted this time but let the kiss linger. "I hope she spits up on you," He muttered.
Their daughter gave a little burp, entirely unbothered.
Young-il eased onto the floor cushion across from his mate, settling their daughter on his chest and letting her curl instinctively into his warmth. He set his bowl of soondubu on the table between them, steam rising. “When is everyone getting here?”
Gi-hun glanced at his phone nearby. “Sang-woo insisted on going with Dae-ho to the airport to pick up Ga-yeong,” he said, thumb skimming over the screen. “He just texted—they should be here any second. And don’t make that face—you two better behave, alpha, I swear.”
Young-il raised an innocent eyebrow as he took a bite of stew, but said nothing.
“Geum-ja’s still cooking, and Hyun-ju is helping her bring the dishes over, so they’ll be here a little later,” Gi-hun continued, his voice softening with the rhythm of the updates. “Sae-byeok and Ji-yeong are on the train. Ali messaged—he couldn’t make it again, but he sent pictures. His son’s gotten so big… looks just like him.”
Young-il hummed in acknowledgment, gaze soft over the rim of his bowl. Across from Young-il, Gi-hun held their son, patting gently, the domestic quiet wrapping around them like a thick blanket.
A sterile white flash once again cleaved through the quiet. The kitchen dissolved. No cushion beneath him. No bowl of soup. No children resting against his skin. The scent of his mate vanished like steam. What remained was cold. Sharp. Bleached. Noise rose, digital, stuttering. Beeps. Static. Hollow commands. He was on a bed. Sheets slick with sweat. His legs did not work right. His chest felt like it had caved in. The air was thick and hard to swallow.
Then a hand touched his. He recoiled. The scent hit him like fire in a locked room. Metallic. Smoky. Sweet in the sickest way. Blood and rot. Burnt paper. Burnt hair. A hint of alcohol, clinging like spit in the back of a throat. It burned through him, filled every cavity.
A voice followed, whispering too close, too hot in his ear. “It’s alright, Gi-hun,” It said, fervent and unhinged. “They’re safe. You’re safe. You’ll see—it was for you. All for you—”
A strange dark face, all sharp, jagged edges, loomed above him, faceted like shattered obsidian. Trying to meet its eyes was like staring into an abyss, as if the mask itself refused to reflect anything back, only swallowed.
“Gi-hun,” It said again, almost gently.
“Gi-hun?”
The voice shifted. The heat of it softened. It was no longer close but distant, gentle, and familiar. Pulling him back.
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said again, voice low with worry but firm. “Maybe we need to go to the doctor. You’re starting to scare me.”
Gi-hun blinked, and the kitchen returned in pieces: the glow of the overhead light, the rise of steam from the table, and the weight of his son in his arms. “No,” He rasped, breath hitching. “No—I don’t want to miss this. It’s been so long… since everyone’s been together.”
As if summoned by his voice, there came a knock, just once, before the door swung open.
Gi-hun stared as Sang-woo stepped in with that small, familiar smile, gentle and measured, just like always. Dae-ho followed, shrugging off his jacket with a crooked grin, Ga-yeong beaming the moment her eyes landed on the twins. It all looked so right, so ordinary, that he could not help but smile too, even as tears gathered in his eyes, because some distant part of him knew this was not how the story went. Not really.
But pretending was easy. Seductively easy.
Chapter 11
Summary:
“Gi-hun,” Came a familiar voice and the humming stopped. The lyrics dissolved on the air. It had been Young-il. He had been the one singing.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun rasped. His voice was raw, thin, barely audible. His vision cleared just enough to catch the silhouette of his alpha leaning over him, bathed in stark white from the overhead light, the rest of the room still swallowed in gloom. But the light hit him wrong, too high, too sharp, casting deep shadows over his features, horns where his hair curled against the light, eyes sunken by shadow into something briefly inhuman.
For a moment, he looked like a devil.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story now contains spoilers for all three seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Secondly, this story combines several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr, creating a truly unique experience. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
So this is the first chapter I’ve written post–Season 3! The previous one was already nearly finished before the new season dropped, so while this chapter pulls from some of the show’s newer plot points, you’ll notice quite a few differences—especially when it comes to the character of Dae-ho. Without giving too much away, he’s being written here as a far more complex figure, and yes, there will be a redemption arc. Oh—and Hyun-ju absolutely owns this chapter. She’s serving. You’ll see 💅💅💅
Also... I had to bump up the final chapter count again. Why? Because this chapter accidentally passed the 10,000-word mark. Again. I don’t know how it keeps happening. I blink and suddenly we’ve got a novella. But in fairness, this chapter does a lot of heavy lifting—catching up on everything that happened while Gi-hun was, you know, busy dying. I don’t name a specific medical condition, but his symptoms are loosely based on stress-induced false labor and severe dehydration. Which brings me to: the guards are the worst. Give that omega some damn water. And maybe—just a thought—don’t make the pregnant omega fight for his life. But I digress.
Pacing-wise, this one may feel a little slower, but that’s intentional—it’s laying groundwork for the final two chapters. A few important hints get dropped, so I’d love to hear your thoughts and theories 💭And speaking of comments: I want to sincerely apologize for not replying to them like I usually do. Life hit hard—between school and work, I was completely swamped and had to step away for a few weeks. When I came back, there were over a hundred comments waiting (which I adored, seriously), but trying to respond to each one retroactively became overwhelming fast. I’ve learned my lesson and I’ll try to keep up moving forward! I’ll be doing my best to reply again now that this chapter is up—just know I’ve read and appreciated every single one of your messages. Truly 🫶🫶🫶
Chapter Text
Those loyal to Gi-hun, the stubborn, pregnant omega who had only ever wanted to protect them, had been far too easy to sway into a fruitless rebellion. Especially with “Young-il” at the head, posing as the devoted alpha, soon-to-be father, desperate to save his omega. The alpha proclaimed that they would end the deadly games and expose the organizers, regurgitating everything his omega had said to him in a hopeful trembling voice. While his heart, unmoved, remained cold as stone. As they plotted their rebellion, unaware of the consequences that awaited them, they unknowingly played right into the hands of those orchestrating the twisted event.
In-ho had convinced the VIPs of the appeal of a Special Game where players rebelled against their guards. A twist they had never seen. An underdog story to stir emotions and raise the stakes. The so-called rebellion was never real—it was simply rebranded. Their last chance at freedom reduced to another round of entertainment.
The VIPs, predictably, were eager to assist with the rules. Many “fan favorites” were expected to participate, and the investors had grown fond of their drama, their faces, their struggles. They didn’t want to lose them—not just yet. So, they designed a simple goal: if at least one player reached the control room and touched the door, the rebellion would be considered a success. Any surviving players would be granted safety and significant bonuses. Not that they knew; to them, this rebellion was real, their last hope, and not just a game.
Their team In-ho, Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok and a handful of expendable unknowns, fought hard, but the effort collapsed quickly. Surrounded, outgunned, and low on ammunition, it did not take long before the guards had them pinned. In-ho sent Dae-ho to retrieve the remaining ammunition from the dormitory, but he had already seen it in his eyes, how his hands trembled, how he flinched at every shot, how his rifle stayed cold in his grip. The young alpha had never fought before. Probably never held a real gun until this. The moment was a test, and a quiet, bitter failure. He felt the cold in his chest settle deeper, harder.
In-ho could not help but think of Gi-hun then, and how the knowledge would crush him. Dae-ho, his son, the young alpha he had already grown so close to, the one he had believed to be kind and courageous, had not only abandoned the field but had, through that abandonment, allowed their pack to die. His inaction, cloaked in trembling hands and downcast eyes, had kept him alive while the others paid the price. And perhaps worst of all, he had done it under false pretenses, likely fabricating his experience, exaggerating a past in uniform that had never been earned. When the truth surfaced, would the omega still defend his son, or would he mourn him in a way more painful than death, as a disappointment?
At the far end of the compound, In-ho had split off with Jung-bae, Hyun-ju, and Gyeong-seok to locate the control room. This was the final act. Now was the time for the rebellion to collapse. For the so-called hope to be crushed. For the lesson to be given through bit and bridle. When his omega awoke he would find his world in ruins, his friends all dead in a rebellion of his own making inspired by his words by his hope.
“They’ve got us pinned!” In-ho shouted over the roar of gunfire, words sharp and clear despite the chaos. “Jung-bae and I will circle to find another entrance. You two hold position—keep the pressure up and push forward if you can!”
“Okay!” Hyun-ju called back, nodding once, her face slick with sweat and blood but unwavering.
Gyeong-seok gave a brisk nod beside Hyun-ju, turning to her with something like respect in his voice. “I’ll follow your lead, then.”
Hyun-ju flicked her gaze toward Gyeong-seok, startled by the sincerity. Her lips twitched faintly, something almost like a blush threatening to surface, before she shook it off and looked to him. “Young-il,” She said, her voice quieter now, but clear. She stepped forward half a pace, her bangs falling into her eyes as she blinked rapidly, either from the gunfire or emotion, it was hard to tell. “We’ll see you up there. And we’ll find Gi-hun. I promise.”
In-ho blinked, taken off guard by her words. For a split second, he faltered, not in body, but in thought. He had almost forgotten that for some, this was not just a rebellion. It was about his omega. About saving someone they cared for. Someone they believed was in danger. Someone who, in truth, was safer than any of them.
“Thank you,” In-ho said, the words dry in his mouth, quieter than before.
“Now go!” Hyun-ju barked, voice firm, already resetting her sights on the stairwell ahead.
“Yeah, and Dae-ho will be here with more ammo soon!” Jung-bae added, ducking in close beside In-ho. “He must’ve gotten slowed down by something!”
In-ho said nothing. He turned just far enough to hide the twitch of a smirk before moving forward, footsteps silent against the concrete floor.
It was almost a shame Hyun-ju had to be sacrificed with the rest of them. The alpha woman had proven herself again and again, not only in the games but here, now. She led without demanding, fought without glory, and commanded loyalty not with force, but presence. Had things gone differently, he might have recruited her. She would have outperformed half the incompetents in pink he commanded. He exhaled through his nose, cleared the thought from his mind, and kept moving.
In-ho moved with quiet precision, rifle low, his remaining bullets counted and precious. Jung-bae pressed against the corridor wall, peeking out only to be driven back by a hail of gunfire, his own weapon long emptied. Their breathing came heavy. The plan was seconds from catastrophic failure. The alpha adjusted his grip on the rifle, finger brushing the trigger, gaze fixed—calculating the moment. With just a few more steps, he could end it quietly and quickly right here.
“Jung-bae,” In-ho said, almost gently, though the steel in his voice made it clear it was not kindness. He raised his weapon with slow, unshaking intent, the barrel finding the back of his head. “Whatever happens next… I’ll handle Gi-hun. Personally.”
Jung-bae, unable to turn around, blinked, confusion flickering across his sweat-slick face as gunfire echoed through the corridor. “Huh? What did you—?”
But what In-ho had not anticipated, what no calculation or betrayal had accounted for, was Hyun-ju, bloodied and limping, rising from the smoke at the top of the stairwell, surging forward, against all odds, dispatching the last of the guards with clean, merciless precision. Gyeong-seok was at her flank, staggering but loyal, covering her with fire.
With a hoarse, defiant cry, the alpha woman slapped her hand against the steel panel beside the control room door. The mechanism flashed, unlocked. But she did not pause. She raised her gun again, panting, eyes wild and unbroken, waiting for more.
Instead, a small tone chimed from the speakers, followed by the familiar, overly cheerful voice: "Congratulations, players!"
Jung-bae twisted, eyes wide, just in time to see In-ho slowly lower his weapon, his expression unreadable.
“Young-il…?” Jung-bae breathed, chest still heaving. “What just happened?”
For once, In-ho had no answer as he lowered the rifle fully, its weight dragging at his arm like the weight of something far heavier. His gaze moved down the corridor, thinking of the final and damning tone heard at the control room door. A single chime had undone everything. A single alpha woman dispatched a dozen of his guards with such grace and skill that he was stunned. Now knew he had underestimated her, and now he was left to deal with the consequences of his arrogance.
The Special Game had been won. Their so-called pack had made it out intact. Still, In-ho clung to the thought that some kind of lesson could be delivered through this unexpected outcome. The rebellion had been reduced to another game for entertainment. Blood had still been shed, even if it wasn’t as much as he had anticipated. As more guards swarmed in, rifles raised, shouting for them to drop their weapons and raise their hands, the alpha simply stood still, breathing through his nose.
In-ho thought then of what Gi-hun had said before, not shouted, not pleaded, just spoken with what that maddeningly soft surety he carried like a weapon: “I can prove it to you. That you’re wrong. That the world isn’t always going to work how you think it should.”
And Gi-hun, even sick and unconscious, had won.
Gi-hun hummed softly as he washed the dishes, warm water and soap suds clinging to his wrists. From the kitchen sink, Gi-hun looked out into the living room, where Sang-woo and Dae-ho dozed in mirror-image postures, each sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, their socked feet nearly touching. Ga-yeong was curled up in the armchair, fast asleep, her cheek pressed against the armrest. Gi-hun watched as Young-il padded over to her in socked feet, gently pulled off her shoes, and draped a blanket over her shoulders.
Everyone else had already gone home. After dinner, they had crowded around his kitchen table, laughing, eating, arguing over old stories, and the image of all of them there, smiling and full of mirth after so much time and distance, was seared into his memory like sunlight through a lens. The twins had been the first to nod off and were already tucked into bed, their room quiet and still behind a cracked door.
The house had quieted now, as if wrapped in cotton, all the roughness of the world dulled and distant. The kind of peace that never seemed to last. The kind that never felt entirely real.
Gi-hun chuckled quietly when he felt arms wrap around him from behind, soap-slick hands still busy in the sink. Young-il pressed a lazy kiss to his nape and leaned in with a contented sigh.
Gi-hun turned slightly, flicking soapy water at his alpha with a grin. “Go ahead and head to bed. I’ll catch up after I finish these,” He whispered, turning back to scrub at another plate.
“Then you’ll come to bed faster if I help,” Young-il murmured into his ear, already rolling up his sleeves. His voice was low, affectionate, and entirely sure of its place here.
And Gi-hun, cheeks flushed with quiet happiness, did not stop him.
“It was good having everyone here,” Gi-hun said after a long moment, bumping shoulders with Young-il, letting the scent of him, book pages and whiskey and something warm, settle over his senses like a blanket. “I missed them.”
Young-il dried his hands on a towel and tilted his head. “Why would you miss them?” He asked gently, too gently. “You see them all the time.”
Gi-hun blinked. A drop of water slipped down his wrist, cold now. He looked back at the living room.
Sang-woo had not moved. Neither had Dae-ho.
Ga-yeong had not turned in her sleep. The blanket covering her had not moved at all.
The lights flickered just faintly, as if the house were exhaling.
Gi-hun felt something tighten in his throat. His hand clenched around the sponge in the sink. He suddenly felt like he was in a painting with the gloss just beginning to crack. He glanced back at his alpha and tried to smile, but it caught awkwardly at the corners of his mouth, unfinished.
“…I guess I was just being sentimental,” Gi-hun murmured. “It feels like… this house, everyone in it—you, me, our babies, those who came, those who left—it’s all made of glass. Like if I move too fast, breathe too hard, it’ll all shatter.”
The thought came unbidden: a marble hitting a glass pane. Sharp, simple, irreversible.
Then the world fractured. It came all at once, a blinding white, the floor vanishing beneath Gi-hun and he stumbled. He was not in the kitchen anymore. He was laying in a box the sides dark and close like a coffin, and a lid only partially shut. A sliver of light leaked in, slicing across his vision and he blinked against it, head swimming. He could feel the weight of a fading fever still clinging to his bones, could feel his heart stuttering in its cage like it, too, wanted out.
A silhouette loomed, broad and impenetrable. Not human. A mask, perhaps, or a shadow given shape. The edges shimmered slightly in the light, distorting it. A gloved hand reached for him, black and gleaming like lacquered stone, and when it touched his cheek, it was inexplicably warm. The sensation grounded him, barely.
“—he’s beginning to wake up again—”
Voices buzzed through the slit of light, muffled but insistent, like radio static through cotton.
“—prepare him to be moved. Back to the dormitory now that he’s stable—”
“—false labor. Dehydration. Lucky it didn’t trigger the real thing—”
Then, lips. Warm, dry. Pressed softly to his own, which were cool with a passed fever.
And then Gi-hun was back. The kitchen returned in a blink.
Gi-hun was leaning against Young-il, who had both arms looped around his waist, steadying him. His alpha must have thought it was just an embrace, that the omega had stepped in for comfort. The omega did not say otherwise. He stayed there, clinging loosely, curling his arms around those familiar broad shoulders. The floor was solid again, warm beneath his feet, but the echo of that cold unreality still lingered behind his ribs.
Then Gi-hun felt a sharp jolt of pain shoot through his hand. The omega inhaled sharply, lifting two fingers and frowning at them.
Young-il glanced down. “What is it?”
Gi-hun flexed them experimentally and gave a weak smile. “Just my fingers. Probably one of the perks of getting old and being postpartum.” He managed a half-smile. “Guess I’m falling apart in sections now.”
Young-il huffed softly through his nose, but his arms did not loosen, he just held the omega closer. Then Young-il began to hum, softly, low in his throat, and gently swayed them side to side. Gi-hun chuckled under his breath but did not resist, letting himself be pulled into the rhythm, their bare feet padding softly across the kitchen tile. The dishes sat half-washed in the sink, warm water cooling.
Then, with a familiar lilt, Young-il began to sing near his ear, voice rich and quiet. “Fly me to the moon…”
Gi-hun stiffened. A chill curled down his spine. His smile faltered, his breath catching mid-laugh. It was subtle, but he tensed just enough that the sway between them stuttered. “Where did you hear that song?” He asked softly, eyes not meeting his.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Young-il said with a soft hum, like it meant nothing.
But Gi-hun was not listening anymore. The song had reached into him like a hand, brushing against something fragile. A faceless man. Breath mingled with his. Fingers curled in his hair, gentle, reverent. A weight pressed at his back, not cruel but inescapable. He had been held, helpless and bare, the aftermath of heat still blooming through his skin. And through it all, a song with the lyrics in English: “Fly me to the moon…”
Jazz had floated through the air like perfume, distant but unmistakable, curling in like a trick of the mind. But it had not been a trick. It had been real .
A voice had whispered to him, soft and low: “I’m going to make you lost…”
Gi-hun felt lost as he swallowed. “I… It’s late,” He murmured, retreating behind the words. The song pulled at the edges of a memory buried so deep it almost made him fall just trying to reach for it. “I don’t want to wake them up.”
“Fill my heart with song,” Young-il went on, as if he had not heard, his tone steady, unshakably calm. “Let me sing forevermore…” Then, he shifted, dropping the melody as easily as a mask,”How does it make you feel?”
“I… I feel like…” Gi-hun began, voice thin and uncertain, “I don’t know what I feel.”
Young-il only smiled, voice warm, breath brushing his cheek as he whispered, “Don’t you?”
Gi-hun shuddered and Young-il spun him hard and he swooned. His alpha caught him before he could fall very far, arms tightening around his waist like a trap gently sprung. The world tilted and curved, warping like the surface of a soap bubble in sunlight. Everything shimmered, floor, ceiling, the air itself. And for a brief, terrifying second, the omega felt like a fish in a bowl, the sky bending overhead like water.
He tried to speak but his throat seized. The words died before reaching air.
Gi-hun blinked hard. The motion did not stop. He leaned heavier into his alpha, chest tight. The colors swam. “Are we… in a glass?” He whispered. “A bubble?”
No answer.
Only the next line of the song, hummed sweetly against his cheek: “You are all I long for… all I worship and adore…”
“Stop.” The word came out hoarse, barely audible. “Young-il, stop it. I’m tired.” He pushed weakly at his chest. “Let’s finish the dishes, and then bed, and then—”
The arms around him tightened. Too tight. Fingers pressed hard into the soft flesh of his waist.
“Ah—Young-il!” Gi-hun flinched. “What the hell? Stop—”
“In other words…” Young-il sang, voice honey-smooth, “In other words… I love you…”
Gi-hun shook his head sharply, heart pounding. “Please. Please stop. I just want to go to bed. I just want—”
But Young-il turned Gi-hun, spinning him with a grace too smooth to be natural. The lights blurred overhead, streaks of gold and silver, and the omega stumbled again, and his alpha let him go arms falling from around him. The omega fell but this time, there was no cushioning catch, no comforting arms as the world dropped beneath him. He collapsed into weightlessness. The kitchen twisted out of shape. Even the color drained, pink and blue and green warping to white at the edges. The air shimmered harder.
Pop.
A clean, bright crack of pressure burst through the space like a bubble pierced by a finger.
Everything exploded into light.
White.
Blinding.
And then Gi-hun awoke.
Gi-hun was lying in a box, dark, close, the sides pressing in from all around. The surface beneath him was hard, unyielding. His fingers scraped against it blindly as light spilled down from above, cutting through the black. He blinked, lips parting, breath catching. The omega could still hear it, that accursed song. A soft voice humming it, lyrics whispered just above him, threading through the cracks in his mind like smoke.
He stared upward, dazed. The light was too bright. It burned into his eyes, made everything else fade. Only the song remained, sinking beneath his skin like cold water, wrapping around his ribs. His ears rang with it. His whole body stiffened against it. He wanted to scream.
He blinked rapidly, trying to force his vision to clear.
“Gi-hun,” Came a familiar voice and the humming stopped. The lyrics dissolved on the air. It had been Young-il. He had been the one singing.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun rasped. His voice was raw, thin, barely audible. His vision cleared just enough to catch the silhouette of his alpha leaning over him, bathed in stark white from the overhead light, the rest of the room still swallowed in gloom. But the light hit him wrong, too high, too sharp, casting deep shadows over his features, horns where his hair curled against the light, eyes sunken by shadow into something briefly inhuman.
For a moment, he looked like a devil.
“Gi-hun,” Young-il repeated, this time more softly, a tremble in his voice as he smiled down at him. He reached out, his fingers gently cupping his cheek. His scent washed over the omega, familiar and grounding. Whiskey, sweet and woody, laced with the musk of old books, though now faintly soured by something sharper, like gunsmoke. “Let’s move him to a bed. Quickly.”
Jung-bae, Hyun-ju and Geum-ja were already there, peering down at Gi-hun. Jung-bae was already moving and Hyun-ju nodded at once, stepping forward without hesitation. Young-il shifted to support Gi-hun, one arm slipping behind his shoulders, the other bracing his back.
“Easy,” Young-il murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Slowly, carefully, they helped Gi-hun sit up. His stomach, still round and sensitive, made him wince as he moved, but both alphas and the beta adjusted their grips with practiced gentleness. Together, they guided the omega to his feet, holding him as if he might break.
“Jung-bae,” Gi-hun rasped, voice raw and strained.
“Hey,” Jung-bae said, mustering a crooked smile. He patted the arm he held. “Don’t talk too much. Save your strength, alright?”
They brought Gi-hun to the nearest bunk and eased him down, helping him sit before gently lifting his legs up and over. Pillows were tucked around him without a word, beneath his knees, behind his back, one at his side where his hand instinctively curled.
Suddenly, Gi-hun held his hand aloft, blinking at it like he was just now realizing it belonged to him. A bright pink cast wrapped around two of his fingers and part of his wrist, stiff and garish against his skin. Only three fingers remained free, curling slightly as he flexed them. “They… they put my fingers in a cast.”
Geum-ja appeared at his side almost instantly, her fingers brushing across his clammy forehead. “He’s no longer feverish,” She said softly, and then, without warning, she took his arm and began rolling up his sleeve. He flinched at the touch, teeth catching his lower lip.
Deep, blotchy bruises marred the skin of his forearms, old and new alike, tracing the marks where tubes, needles, and restraints had once been. The sight made her pause.
“They were treating him,” Geum-ja murmured, eyebrows knitted with focus. “Fluids… injections… they were stabilizing him. They didn’t want to lose him. Or the babies.” She looked up, her eyes meeting his gently. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore. Tired. A little foggy,” Gi-hun said, his voice rough. “They must’ve given me sedatives. Maybe painkillers. But… I’m not cramping anymore.” His voice dropped further. “Can you check on them? Just to see—”
"Of course, now that I've looked over you," Geum-ja said softly, already reaching. “I always check on the one carrying them first.”
She eased his jacket open and carefully lifted his shirt. Her hands, weathered but warm, pressed to his belly with practiced familiarity. Her touch was gentle, knowing exactly where to press, how to feel for resistance, tightness, or lack of movement. He tensed slightly, but her thumb brushed softly across his side, anchoring him.
“They’re in a good position,” Geum-ja said quietly, her expression calm but focused. “There’s no uterine tension. Strong movement. No more bleeding. No signs of distress.”
“Is that… good?” Gi-hun asked faintly.
“It’s very good,” Geum-ja replied, her voice like a balm. “You did well. You kept them safe.”
Gi-hun nodded faintly, but his gaze drifted past her. His eyes caught the streaks of blood smeared on the floor, discarded weapons, bullet holes in the walls, and the glint of shell casings. The stench of smoke and sweat still lingered faintly in the air, metallic and raw. “What… what happened?” He whispered, voice barely carrying.
“Gi-hun,” Young-il said gently, settling beside Gi-hun on the edge of the bed. He laid a hand on his still-rounded stomach, palm warm and steady. “You lost consciousness shortly before lights out. Not long after, the O players attacked the X players. Some tried to fight back, but too many were getting killed. We knew we’d lose the vote in the morning.”
Jung-bae stepped in, voice hoarse. “And we didn’t know where the guards had taken you, Gi-hun. We didn’t even know if you were still alive. We—” He broke off, jaw clenched, swallowing hard.
Young-il continued, calm but with a quiet, hard edge beneath it. “Some of us X players banded together. We got our hands on a few guns and decided to revolt. We thought if we could make it to the top—where the fat cats you talked about sit, those bastards who eat and drink and laugh while watching us die for their entertainment—maybe we could end it.”
Jung-bae stood nearby, arms crossed, face tired but alert. “Young-il, Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok, and I… we were the only ones who made it. Everyone else—everyone who followed us—they didn’t survive. But the only reason any of us made it at all was Hyun-ju. She got to the control room door. She got us that far.”
“It was for nothing,” Hyun-ju said hushed. She leaned against the metal frame of the bunk, arms folded tight across her chest, dried blood cracked along one temple. “They were already waiting for us. Cameras, guards, the whole circus. They turned it into another damn game. I barely made it to the door before they swarmed in—two dozen guards in pink. They dragged us back, paraded us around like trophies. Said we were the ‘winners’ of a special round.” Her lip curled, trembling. “Said we’d even be getting bonuses.”
“The O’s who didn’t join us?” Jung-bae added with a bitter, humorless smile. “They were pissed. Said if they’d known there was money involved, they’d have joined in.”
Gi-hun listened. He did not speak. Did not blink. His heart thudded dully in his chest, louder than the words that had just been laid before him. He felt as if he were drifting outside his own body, floating somewhere behind his own eyes. The pain in his limbs had dulled, numbed by medication, but it was the weight in his chest that threatened to pull him under.
A revolt had happened. People had died. They had fought for him. For him . Because of something he said, something he believed. And for what? For the pleasure of the spectators above, who had turned every drop of blood into entertainment. He felt a dozen things all at once, grief, guilt, confusion, rage, disbelief, but his body was too worn down to express any of it. His face stayed slack.
His fingers barely moved on the sheets. He had not been there. Had not known. Had floated in fever and fog while the others fought and died. All the while he had only one task, keep his unborn children alive, keep them inside, because if they were born now, they would not make it. And yet somehow this had all still been his fault.
Gi-hun felt a single tear well at the corner of his eye and slid silently down the side of his face. He did not reach for it. Did not blink it away. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
Hyun-ju blinked, visibly startled, as did Geum-ja, her hands pausing mid-motion. Even Gyeong-seok, who did know Gi-hun as well, looked up, his brow furrowing at the rawness in his voice.
“Gi-hun, you don’t have anything to be sorry for—” Hyun-ju began.
But Gi-hun shook his head, slow and trembling, cutting her off before she could try to comfort him further. “I do. I came here to save people. To stop this. And instead… people died. Because of my words. Because you tried to protect me. Protect my unborn children. Because I couldn’t fight.” He turned his face away slightly, ashamed. “I should’ve been out there with you. I should’ve fought with you—”
Geum-ja said gently, “No. You did fight, Gi-hun. You just fought a different kind of battle.” She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “You held on when your body was failing you. You stayed alive for them.” She nodded toward his rounded belly. “And for us too, even if you didn’t realize it.”
Gyeong-seok, who had remained silent through the exchange, finally lifted his head. His voice was quiet but steady, like a current beneath still water. “Ever since the first game… if you hadn’t done or said what you did, none of us would’ve had the courage to stand up.” He looked at the omega not pitying, not accusing, just honest. “And standing up, even if it got people hurt… it was still better than sitting here waiting to die.”
Hyun-ju gave a small shake of her head, stepping forward with her arms crossed. “Don’t do that to yourself. You’re not the reason people died. That’s on them. The ones running this place. Not you.”
Gi-hun blinked hard against the tears welling again and leaned into Young-il. The alpha brought an arm around the omega, steady and grounding. But his expression remained unreadable, still, almost frozen.
Young-il—In-ho—had expected blame. At least some resentment. The others had fought and bled and lost comrades in a revolt sparked, in part, by Gi-hun’s words. And Gi-hun hadn’t even been there. He’d been sick, unconscious, tucked away in the medical wing, given fluids and rest while they were hunted for sport. Surely someone would say it. Would resent him. But no one did.
Not Hyun-ju. Not Geum-ja. Not Gyeong-seok. Their pack, strange, fragile thing that it was, had somehow held together through the fire. Grown stronger. Not splintered.
Suddenly Gi-hun spoke again, snapping In-ho from his thoughts. "…Where’s Dae-ho?”
The room went quiet.
“Gi-hun—” Jung-bae began, voice cautious.
Gi-hun felt a terror unlike anything he had ever known, the words slicing through him like a cold wind through raw flesh. His breath hitched, his voice rising, ragged and breaking. “Where is Dae-ho? Where is he? Where is my—?”
In-ho, who already held Gi-hun with his arms curled protectively around his middle, slid them higher, drawing him in close. His lips brushed against his temple. “Gi-hun,” He murmured, his voice calming. “He’s alive. He’s alright. He’s here. Resting. Right across the room.”
Gi-hun trembled and let out a breath before turning to see Dae-ho sitting curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest and back pressed against the wall. His eyes were distant, glassy and unfocused, his entire frame trembling in silence. Blood stained the side of his face, dried in a smear beneath one eye.
Gi-hun felt his heart twisted, terror giving way to confusion and grief. “Then why—why isn’t he here?” He demanded, voice breaking around the edges. “Why is he over there by himself? What’s wrong with him—”
Jung-bae spoke softly, eyes downcast. “Something in him cracked. He froze up. Didn’t come when we needed him. Hasn’t said much of anything since.”
But it was In-ho who gave the full truth, still seated beside Gi-hun, voice cool and even. “He was supposed to bring the ammunition. He didn’t. He stayed behind.”
Gi-hun turned sharply toward him, eyes wide.
In-ho met his gaze without flinching. “If Hyun-ju hadn’t made it to the control room door after he left… we’d all be dead. Dae-ho hasn’t spoken to any of us since. He won’t even look us in the eye. Jun-hee tried, but…”
Gi-hun looked toward Jun-hee. She was standing quietly, one hand resting on the swell of her stomach, having just returned from another attempt to reach the young alpha man. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and she gave the faintest shake of her head.
Gi-hun shifted to sit up, chest tight, breath shallow. “I need to talk to him. I need to understand—”
“No,” In-ho murmured, guiding Gi-hun gently back down. “Not now. You’ve done enough. You’re still recovering. We don’t even know what was wrong with you and the babies or if it’s fully resolved.”
“But—”
In-ho leaned in, voice low, steady. “You’re still healing, Gi-hun. You nearly died. So did they,” He added, his hand brushing gently over his rounded stomach. “Let him come to you when he’s ready.”
Gi-hun did not argue again, only stared at Dae-ho, the ache behind his eyes deeper than any pain in his body. Dae-ho, his son, his baby boy, whom he had only known for a few days but loved like it had been years. Maybe it was biology, or instinct, or just the cruel miracle of fate that made him feel this way. Across the room, the young alpha man lifted his head and met his gaze for only a second, his lips trembling, his eyes too wide, before he turned away, as if the sight of the omega hurt too much to hold.
Then Gi-hun looked down at the stiff, hot pink cast against the bright, sterile light and turned it slightly, inspecting the underside, and froze. There, scrawled in smooth black ink across the surface, were the swirling characters:
For my favorite racehorse—keep running.
— Front Man
Gi-hun parted his lips, breath catching. His thumb ghosted over the signature. “Unbelievable,” He muttered, a bitter laugh cracking from his throat. “He signed it.”
Funny, though. Real racehorses did not get casts. They got a bullet.
Thirty players, mostly Xs, had been eliminated during the night fight and the revolt now being branded as the “Special Game.” The Os had won the vote by a landslide. And so, the fourth game would proceed with those who remained. Gi-hun stood at the edge of the group, leaning heavily on both Young-il and Jung-bae for support. His body ached. His thoughts felt far away. But his hand still moved instinctively, rubbing slow, soothing circles over his distended belly. Inside, his babies stirred. His ducklings, he thought faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before the moment passed.
“Are you cramping again?” Young-il asked, worry tightening his voice as he glanced down.
Gi-hun shook his head. “No. Just movement. A lot of it.” He exhaled slowly. “It’s good. Reassuring. Even if it feels like they’re trying to rearrange my organs.”
Young-il did not respond at first, just leaned in and let a wave of his scent roll over them both: robust, sweet, grounding. Gi-hun let it calm him.
“Another game,” Jung-bae muttered bitterly, his gaze sweeping the thinned-out crowd. “Even with so few of us left. Though I guess that just means a bigger payout for the Os.”
Hyun-ju stood with Gyeong-seok, her arms crossed and face unreadable. “Whatever the next game is,” She said, “we need to stick together. All of us. Make it through and make sure there isn’t a next one.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Geum-ja added, stepping forward to place a reassuring hand on both Gi-hun and Jun-hee’s shoulders. “These two need to stay close to me regardless.”
Gi-hun gave a tired nod, his voice quiet but certain. “I agree. We all made it this far. Let’s not let them turn us against each other now.”
“That’s eight, I think, now,” Jung-bae said, counting on his fingers. “Me, Gi-hun, Young-il, Jun-hee—” Jung-bae looked back toward Dae-ho, who had already slipped back to the bunks without a word. He did not finish the name. Just cleared his throat and moved on. “Hyun-ju, Geum-ja, Yong-ik, and Gyeong-seok. So we're really Pack Eight now, I guess. Unless we’re still counting the babies.”
“Pack Eight, I like it,” Hyun-ju said, her faint smile catching on. “We’re bonded now. Like soldiers.”
“Soldiers,” Jung-bae echoed, returning the smile, and then, as if something occurred to him, his smile faltered and his eyes went toward his young alpha friend isolated in the far side of the room again.
There were footsteps as Player 044, the crazy-eyed woman, approached Gi-hun surrounded by two other solemn-faced players, their hands clasped in what looked to be prayer.
“You fool,” Player 044 hissed. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re not here by choice—and neither are the ones you carry. The vengeful souls that haunt you dragged you back. Do you want them to suffer too—”
Ali. Sweet, trusting Ali. Sae-byeok. Sharp-edged, but kind. Sang-woo. Complicated, brilliant, broken Sang-woo, who, in the end, had tried to reach for something human again. Grief and fury surged up, a tide Gi-hun could no longer hold back. Before he could stop himself, the omega lunged, seizing the crazy-eyed woman by the throat with his uninjured hand and driving her back with a snarl, fingers tight.
“Gi-hun!” Young-il shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to pull him off.
“Gi-hun, don’t—it’s not worth it!” Jung-bae called, alarm in his voice.
But it was Hyun-ju who stepped into his field of vision, her presence calm but firm, her voice steady. “Gi-hun. Let her go. Look at me.” Their eyes locked. “Keep looking,” She said, her voice softer now. “Let her go.”
Gi-hun felt his hands trembling. His breath came fast, uncontrolled. But then, slowly, he let go. The crazy-eyed woman staggered back, gasping.
Hyun-ju turned on her, cold fire in her eyes. “Go. Now. One more word, and I won’t stop him next time.”
“I’m sorry,” Gi-hun said quietly, not meeting their eyes. “I… I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted.”
Jung-bae exhaled through his nose. “Can’t say I blame you. I’ve been itching to do that myself ever since she brought up my ex-wife and kid. But you?” He nodded at his stomach. “But you gotta keep that temper in check, alright? Not just for you. For them too.”
Geum-ja snorted, arms folded. “An expectant omega protecting their unborn? Instinct, plain and simple. I would’ve done worse.”
“Mom,” Yong-sik said sharply, shooting his mother a look. “Not helping.”
“She’s been asking for it since the first night,” Geum-ja muttered, making no effort to lower her voice. “Circling him—and the rest of us—like a vulture. That woman needed a good throttling.”
Young-il turned to Gi-hun, steady as ever. “Come on, let’s get you sitting. They should be bringing food soon. I’ll go stand in line for us.”
Gi-hun nodded, still rattled, and allowed himself to be guided back toward the bunks. The alpha helped him down gently onto the edge of the mattress before moving off to join the slow-growing queue.Alone now, the omega leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, one hand resting over the heavy swell of his stomach while the other, wrapped in the stiff, glaringly pink cast, hovered slightly. His back twinged again, a sharp little pulse beneath the skin, and the twins shifted in response, restless beneath his palms. But it was his feet that screamed loudest.
Still, the pain was nothing next to the quiet, staggering relief that he and his unborn children were alive. Whatever had gripped him the night before, fever, weakness, or some other ailment, had nearly taken him under. Then the guards had come, taken him away, done something, and returned him as if nothing had changed. He frowned, trying to make sense of it. There were too many gaps, too many silences. His body still throbbed—his back, his feet, the dull ache that settled over his ribs like fog—but it was the unease in his mind that refused to leave. Something about what had happened while he had been taken away or what he had been told had happened left him unsettled.
When footsteps approached, Gi-hun stiffened instinctively. He snapped his gaze up, wary, until it landed on the older omega woman.
“Are you alright?” Geum-ja asked gently, crouching a little to meet his eye. “Two expecting omegas in a place like this. It’s no small thing.”
Something in her voice made him ache. She reminded him so much of his mother, in her voice, her hands, and the way she could scold and soothe in the same breath. He had watched her cuff her own son with the same sharp affection he once knew. He had squandered the love and patience of his own mother, worn both year by year until they were threadbare, until she was gone and there was nothing left but memories and regret. He hoped that her son did not do the same.
Gi-hun nodded, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “A little sore still… but better. Thank you. Really. Just aching, mostly.” He attempted a faint smile. “But… I’m sure you know that’s normal.”
Geum-ja returned the smile with a knowing tilt of her head. “What’s aching?”
Gi-hun huffed softly, close to a laugh. “My feet, mostly. All that running…”
Before Gi-hun could finish, Geum-ja moved, kneeling fully in front of him, reached for his feet, and began to ease his shoes off. Her hands were quick and competent as she took one bare foot in both hands and began to rub with firm, circular motions. Her fingers pressed into the arch, then the ball of his foot, drawing a startled, almost indecent sound from him.
“Oh that’s—” Gi-hun gasped, breath catching, head tipping back.
“Better, right?” Geum-ja said with a grin, still focused on her work.
Gi-hun let out a long, shaky breath and sagged back against the bed, eyelids fluttering. “Yes. That’s… so much better.”
When Gi-hun glanced up, Young-il stood only a few feet away, watching with his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tight, not with disapproval, but restraint. Something in his eyes shimmered, raw and distant, as if pulled backward into a memory. The omega saw it then, clear as breath on glass: this was not new to him. His alpha had done this before, eased swollen feet, and soothed aching backs. Only then, it had been for someone else. Someone who was no longer here. Grief clung to the edges of his alpha like a scent, too faint to name but too familiar to miss.
Gi-hun turned his face away, blinking hard, throat knotting. The tenderness of her touch pressed up against something raw inside him. He had lived when others had not. Been cared for and given medical treatment while others were left to rot in their bunks or fall in blood-slick corridors. No one had come for them. And now he sat here, letting someone soothe his pain like he had not been absent for it all. He did not deserve this.
Geum-ja glanced up at Young-il. “Don’t just stare,” She said, beckoning with two fingers. “If you care about him, learn how to help.”
Young-il hesitated, then after setting down their sweet potatoes knelt stiffly beside Geum-ja. She took his foot in her hands and held it up like an anatomy lesson, tapping her finger against the heel and then the arch. “Here and here—firm pressure, not too much. Helps with circulation and swelling. Don’t touch this spot.” She pointed just below the toes, firm but careful. “That can trigger labor if you’re not careful. Or so the midwives say. Gods know what’s fact or made-up nonsense anymore. Like that old wives’ tale about eating duck making the baby come out with webbed feet.”
Gi-hun flushed, a bit too quickly, and Young-il let out a short, surprised laugh, the corner of his mouth curving in a crooked grin. “If that’s true,” He said, eyes glinting, “The twins are going to hatch out as eggs.”
Gi-hun smacked the back of his arm, face red. “Don’t say that! That’s a horrible image.”
Geum-ja snorted, clearly amused, and gently passed the foot off to Young-il before settling back on her heels. “Your turn.”
“Young-il, you really don’t—” Gi-hun began, voice pitching higher in embarrassment, but Young-il had already accepted the foot with care, settling it across his thigh as though it belonged there.
“I want to,” Young-il said, quiet but steady, his large thumbs gliding over the tender arch with practiced focus. He matched the pressure she had demonstrated, checking her face for approval.
Geum-ja nodded, pleased. “You’ve got a good touch. Big hands help with that,” She added, casting the other omega a knowing look and an impish smile. “You’re in luck.”
With a wink, Geum-ja rose and wandered off, leaving them in the soft quiet of the dormitory. Young-il shifted in front of Gi-hun, then reached for the food containers. He handed one over, the scent of roasted sweet potato rising faintly. “Here. Eat. I know you’d rather they be candied,” He said, his voice quieter now, almost fond. “But it’s what they had. I’ll get you candied ones… when we’re out.”
Gi-hun blinked, touched. “You need to eat too,” He said, hesitating as he accepted the container, the soft heat of it settling between his palms.
“I will,” Young-il replied, already settling back down and reaching for his foot again. “Once I finish this.”
Young-il—no, In-ho—watched Gi-hun closely now, his gaze narrowing at the way devastation bloomed across his face like a bruise. “What is it?” He asked, voice low and gentle. “Are you thinking about Dae-ho again?” He set his foot aside and shifted closer, hand hovering near but not yet touching.
“Yes,” Gi-hun confessed softly. “I’m thinking of what happened, that what happened with Dae-ho, with everyone, was my fault and… and how there’s so much I haven’t told you,” He continued, voice trembling with something between confession and confession avoided. He turned the cast, eyes catching on the writing; he had no idea the alpha had scrawled it himself, smiling when he did, because of course he would. “What happened the first time I played these games. What I did. What he did. What I let happen.” His gaze dropped, eyelashes wet, mouth barely moving now. “I don’t know if I came back to finish something… or if he brought me back to finish me—”
“You don’t have to,” In-ho interrupted gently, though his stomach twisted hard, tight with guilt so sharp it almost made sick. “You don’t owe me anything. Not now. Not ever.” His voice steadied as he reached forward and carefully lowered his foot back to the mattress, then moved closer, eyes searching his exhausted face. “We just have to make it through this next game. After that, if the pack sticks together—if we survive—you’ll have saved lives. Maybe not the way you wanted, not by bringing everything down, but more than anyone thought possible.”
After this game, In-ho knew Gi-hun would finally be taken from the games for good. The Bonus Round would then follow, bringing them full circle and revealing everything. The next game before then was the most brutal yet, one that forced players to take lives with their own hands, with no chance for distance or denial. It was the last resort, designed to break what little remained of his already fractured mate. The revolt-turned-game had wounded Gi-hun, but it hadn’t destroyed him. Not completely. Now, though, he was raw and vulnerable like an exposed nerve, exactly how he needed him to be.
Gi-hun did not answer right away. His jaw clenched, his hands folding protectively over his stomach. “I don’t know what else I can do here,” He murmured. “They’ve changed everything. And like this—” He gestured to the heavy swell beneath his shirt, the curve of life sheltering just beneath the surface. “Like this I’m not a leader. I’m barely a player. I’m just… a burden.”
He hesitated. Then, voice trembling: “I want to go home. I want to have our children somewhere quiet. I want to keep them safe. And maybe… maybe when they’re grown, when all of this is far behind us, I’ll figure out how to end this—for good.”
Then In-ho reached out to Gi-hun, turning his face back, shifting forward to kiss him softly. The alpha hated the taste of salt on his mouth, the way he froze and went still. He shifted, intending to stand, but then his omega grabbed him, seizing the collar of his jacket and pulling. This kiss was a clumsy thing, as his omega pushed up to meet him, throwing an arm around his shoulders as though to anchor him in place, uncareful with himself, and then shifted back after a moment, breathing hard, his eyes wide. The alpha had fallen half over him, hands braced on the mattress to prevent his full weight from falling onto his expecting omega.
Gi-hun released a shuddering breath and his hand lingered in his shirt. Then, voice low and uncertain, he asked, “Young-il… Before, when I was sick. When I was unconscious… I heard someone singing. Was that you?”
In-ho froze for a moment. His expression softened. “Yes,” He said quietly. “It was.”
Gi-hun offered a faint, grateful smile. “I thought so.” He let his head drop back to the pillow, eyelids heavy, like the exhaustion had finally won. His scent was sweet then, warm and golden, like nectar in the early spring, soft and inviting. It carried comfort and gratitude, the kind that made something in the alpha settle, that made even aching guilt ease for a moment. “It helped,” He continued, his eyelashes lowering. “Come here. Lie with me.”
In-ho did as asked, settling carefully beside Gi-hun, mindful of the space his omega needed. One hand found its way to his rounded belly, resting lightly, reverently. As the lights dimmed and the dormitory quieted, his breathing slowed, evened out, and eventually slipped into sleep. But the omega did not sleep.
As soon as Gi-hun heard that first deep exhale, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, blank and still. The smile had vanished. His body remained relaxed, his breathing steady, but inside, inside he was screaming. His scent stayed sweet. Purposefully sweet. The soft pull of honey and milk clung to him, warm and gentle like lullabies because the omega made it stay. Because it had to stay.
Even though every instinct in Gi-hun raged to let that honey crystallize and burn. Even though the milk soured behind his ribs, curdling with grief, with truth. Even though the part of him that had realized was ready to recoil, to run, to fight.
He kept still.
He kept sweet.
Eventually, sleep found Gi-hun, out of sheer exhaustion, while looking across the dormitory to where Dae-ho lay curled on his side, murmuring in half-formed dreams. And when the bright lights rose to signal morning, his gaze remained, still quietly watching his son.
“You’ve got dark circles, Gi-hun,” Jung-bae scolded as they made their way up the stairs to the next game, his tone gruff but laced with concern. “Did you not sleep well?”
In-ho watched as Gi-hun moved slowly, one hand pressed against the small of his back, the other bracing against the cold cement wall as he trudged up at his own pace, careful to stay to the side so the other players could pass. “I actually slept longer than I have in weeks,” The omega muttered, wincing slightly. “But it wasn’t restful. Just… dreams. The kind that leave you more tired than when your head hits the damn pillow.”
“What kind of dreams?” In-ho asked quietly from behind, his voice close, low enough to be for his omega alone.
Gi-hun let out a tired breath, running a hand through his shoulder-length waves, pushing them back from his face. “Dreams about… what could’ve been. Places that don’t exist anymore. People who aren’t here. I had them while I was sick, too.” The omega did not turn to look at him, just kept climbing, step by step, as if carrying more than just his own weight. “They felt real,” He added after a moment, quieter now. “Real enough to hurt.”
They passed through the threshold of the next game room, an entrance lit in shimmering gold, shaped like a dagger piercing upward. A disembodied voice rang out: bright, clinical, womanly. “Welcome to your fourth game. This game will be played in two teams. Before we start the game, you will divide into teams. Please take turns drawing a ball from the gumball machine in front of you.”
In-ho was the first to approach. He stepped forward without hesitation, turned the metal crank, and caught the red ball that tumbled out into his palm. One by one, players followed suit, walking up with measured, wary steps. Each twist of the machine was met with a tense pause, red or blue. One fate or another.
The packmates of their expanded pack drew their colors in near silence, the tension coiling tighter with each draw. One by one, they stepped back with red or blue cradled in their palms. Until only Gi-hun remained. He approached the machine, expression unreadable, and gripped the handle. It turned with a hollow clunk. A red ball slid into the chute, gleaming like a drop of blood in his hand.
The voice returned,”The game you will be playing is Hide-and-Seek!”
Then came the rules: the red players would be the Seekers, while the blue players would be the Hiders. Red received knives. Blue received keys. The room stirred into a low hum of motion as players began trading colors, bargaining for team switches, for perceived safety, for anything but the fate they had been given. Some whispered, others shouted. Desperation was thick in the air.
Pack Eight pulled in close, forming a tight circle beneath one of the few working lights. They each displayed their vests, red or blue, and the matching knife or key they now held.
Hyun-ju spoke first, her voice crisp and steady. “Gi-hun, Geum-ja, Jun-hee, and Young-il drew red.” She glanced around, jaw tight. “That makes me, Jung-bae, Yong-sik, and Gyeong-seok… blue.”
“Gi-hun, trade me,” Jung-bae said immediately. “You can’t fight in your condition. And someone else needs to trade with Jun-hee.”
“I will,” Hyun-ju said gently, stepping forward before anyone else could respond. She turned to the girl beside her. “Give me the knife, Jun-hee.”
Jun-hee hesitated. Her hand trembled slightly, knuckles white around the hilt. Her dark eyes darted across the group, pausing briefly on Gi-hun. The bruise-like circles beneath her eyes deepened under the harsh overhead light, but after a breath, she gave a tight nod and passed the weapon over.
Hyun-ju accepted it without flinching.
After some arguing, a few exchanged curses, and a sharp smack to the back of the head, Yong-sik and Geum-ja finally agreed to switch as well.
Gi-hun, who had been staring blankly at the ground, finally looked up. His expression was drawn, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse with exhaustion. “Jung-bae…”
But Jung-bae was already shaking his head. “I can’t let you do this. You’re not in any shape to fight, and you damn well know it. I mean, look at your damn hand. What are you going to bludgeon someone to death with your cast? I almost lost you last night, Gi-hun—don’t make me go through that again.” He stepped forward slightly. “You’d hesitate. Even if it killed you. That’s who you are. And I won’t let that be what gets you killed. Not when I can step in.”
Gi-hun looked at Jung-bae, eyes shining. “I know, Jung-bae. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I’m grateful. I am.”
Then Gi-hun turned to In-ho, his big round brown eyes wide and earnest and pleading. “But I’d rather stay with you, Young-il,” He said, voice thick. “During Mingle... I was so afraid I’d lose you, and I—” His words faltered as his hand moved instinctively to his rounded belly, protective. “I can’t do that again. I need you with me. To help me. To protect us.”
In-ho did not speak. He did not need to. Instead, he stepped closer, a subtle movement that placed him firmly beside his omega. His hand brushed along the small of his back, fingertips warm, grounding. Then he leaned in, not enough to draw attention, just enough to breathe him in. His nose touched the shell of his ear as he scented him, quiet pride radiating from his touch. The scent was still sweet, still steady, and it filled the alpha with something fierce and unspoken.
Gi-hun turned back to Jung-bae, eyes full but steady. “Please. We need more than one able-bodied person to defend Jun-hee and Geum-ja. Stay with them. I’m asking you to.”
Jung-bae did not respond at first. His jaw flexed, emotions caught behind clenched teeth. His eyes lingered on the alpha, measuring, distant, but then, with a quiet exhale, he nodded once. That was all.
Hyun-ju took quick stock, voice steady despite the heaviness of the moment. “That leaves me, Gi-hun, Young-il, and Yong-sik on red,” She said. “And Jung-bae, Jun-hee, Geum-ja, and Gyeong-seok on blue. Gyeong-seok, I’d like at least two able-bodied people to defend the others. Do you mind staying on blue?”
Gyeong-seok gave a solemn nod. “Of course. Everyone stay close when we enter. We’ll find the exit together.”
In-ho turned to Hyun-ju, voice low but pointed. “Our strategy should be clear. We help each other. No more than one kill each—unless it’s absolutely necessary. We target the worst of them—the blood-hungry players, the ones who’ll just keep killing if they make it through.”
Hyun-ju met his gaze with a sharp nod. “Agreed.”
Then In-ho turned to Gi-hun. His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “Stay with me, Gi-hun. Don’t run. No matter what happens. For your kill… I’ll bring someone to you. I’ll handle it. I’ll protect you. You—and our unborn children.”
Gi-hun looked at In-ho for a long moment. Said nothing. But he reached out, just briefly, and let his hand rest over his, wordless thanks heavy between them.
In-ho watched as Gi-hun turned to face Dae-ho, who stood a few feet away, locked in a desperate negotiation with a red-vested player. Sweat streaked his temple, hair mussed, eyes darting anxiously as he tried to barter for a red vest. Mid-sentence, the young alpha man turned, drawn by some instinct, and saw the omega watching him. His lips quivered before tightening into a scowl, and without another word, he broke away and stormed toward their pack.
“You,” Dae-ho said, stopping in front of Gi-hun. His jaw was clenched, voice unsteady but defiant. “Why do you keep looking at me?”
Gi-hun opened his mouth. “Dae-ho—”
“Don’t,” Dae-ho snapped. “Don’t say it like that. Like you care. ‘Mama’? What a joke. Like that means something now.” He shook his head hard, as though trying to shake something loose, eyes shining with something that was not anger but wore its mask. “You don’t know me. You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I’ve been worried,” Gi-hun said quietly. His hand, instinctive as breath, moved over the swell of his stomach. “About you. About what happened yesterday.”
“You think I need you worrying about me?” Dae-ho snapped, his voice cracking with a bitterness he could not hide. His usual pine and honey scent had deteriorated; smoke and scorched sugar thickened in the air, leaving a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. The omega flinched at the shift, recognition flashing in his eyes like a wound reopened. “You think I regret something? That I’m weak? Is that what you’re staring at?” He stepped closer, chest rising fast, sweat shining at his temples. “You think you’re better than me? All of you?”
In-ho stepped forward, placing himself squarely between them, calm but immovable. “That’s enough, Dae-ho,” He said evenly. “Step back. Now.”
“Dae-ho,” Hyun-ju said, stepping forward, her voice measured but unshaking. “We've wanted you with us. We’ve been hoping you’d talk to us. But during the revolt—you didn’t come back with the ammo. We were counting on you. People got hurt. And when we returned, you were already in bed. You’ve shut us out ever since. Please… help us understand.”
Jung-bae stepped up then, tone gentle, eyes full of something almost brotherly. “Dae-ho… we’re both Marines, so I—” But he did not get to finish.
Dae-ho flinched like he had been struck. His pupils flared. His scent spiked, acrid smoke, something wrong, something burned .
Gi-hun blinked, sensing the shift before the words even came.
“Of course,” Dae-ho spat. “Of course it’s you. You’re all the same. Pretend you’re a pack—until one of us doesn’t measure up.”
“Dae-ho, I wasn’t—” Jung-bae tried, stepping closer, stricken.
“Don’t,” Dae-ho said, voice breaking now. “Just don’t.” He turned sharply, shoulders rigid, ready to disappear into the chaos of red and blue, when a hand caught his wrist.
Gi-hun said, breath catching, his fingers wrapping around his wrist with trembling urgency. “Dae-ho—please. Just stay. Stay with us.”
Dae-ho froze. The tension in his body was coiled tight, trembling. He did not turn.
Gi-hun continued, voice rough and shaking. “I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care if you never call me ‘Mama’ again—if you never look at me the same way. Just… whatever it is, whatever happened—we can talk about it. Or not. But you don’t have to carry it alone. You don’t have to be alone.”
For a second, Dae-ho did not move. His scent wavered, still scorched and bitter, but trembling now at the edges, like a signal breaking apart. His other hand curled into a fist at his side. Then he yanked his wrist free.
“You don’t get to say that,” Dae-ho said hoarsely, eyes glassy. “I already learned how to be alone,” He added as he finally turned to face him one last time. “Because you taught me.”
In-ho watched Gi-hun closely, watched his big brown eyes fill with pain like poison, slow and lethal, curling behind his eyelashes until it burned. Tears welled, unspilled, crowding the corners of his eyes but did not let them fall. The omega only stood there, trembling, grief hollowing him out from the inside like rot in the ribs. His hand tightened around the knife at his side, white-knuckled though the blade was not raised, was not threatening just something to hold onto.
Beside Gi-hun, In-ho exhaled softly through his nose. Then, almost reflexively, he smirked. He stepped forward, unhurried, and wrapped his arms around the omega from behind. His chin came to rest gently on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the place where the young alpha man had disappeared. His hands rested against the curve of his distended stomach, fingers splayed protectively, and he could feel the twins move, faint and fluttering, them shifting beneath his fingertips.
Still here. Still his.
“He’ll come around,” In-ho said softly, almost like a lullaby, his voice threading through the silence. “Or he won’t.” He pressed his palm more firmly against his stomach. A beat passed. “But we’re still here.”
In-ho, Gi-hun, Hyun-ju, and Yong-sik stepped into the next arena, a low, winding maze cloaked in eerie stillness. Above them, a ceiling painted like a starry night sky twinkled artificially, casting faint light on the narrow paths below. The walls were scrawled with childish drawings: stick figures holding hands, homes with crooked chimneys, suns sinking into blue crayon horizons.
The rules had been simple. Each of them had thirty minutes. Each had to find and kill a blue-vested player hidden somewhere in the maze.
They all gripped their blades tightly.
Then Gi-hun turned sharply. “Hyun-ju—”
“I know,” Hyun-ju said, cutting him off with a firm nod. Her voice was tight but understanding. “You want to find Dae-ho.” He hesitated, but she was already moving. “Go,” She continued quickly. “Young-il will stay with you. Watch your back. Yong-sik and I will find the others.”
Hyun-ju glanced toward In-ho, just briefly, a flicker of trust passing between them, or at least necessity. “We’ll see each other again after the game. Good luck.”
Gi-hun swallowed and nodded. His fingers tightened around the knife. Then, in a single smooth motion, he raised the blade in his uninjured hand as well as his bright pink cast, which gleamed garishly beneath the artificial starlight, bold, ridiculous, and impossible to miss. A cast could shield. Or break a jaw. Either worked.
The maze loomed before them, dark and twisting, as though the stars above were watching. “Come on, Young-il.
“You need to stay behind me,” In-ho said softly, already reaching for Gi-hun, taking his uninjured hand with quiet certainty, threading their fingers together as if it were instinct. His other hand lifted the knife with ease, gleaming faintly beneath the star-painted ceiling. “Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time?” His voice was low, coaxing. “You still need a kill to move on. So do they. If you waste too long chasing Dae-ho—”
“I know,” Gi-hun said, flinching as a scream tore through the dark. He did not look at the alpha right away, just stared ahead at the endless coils of the maze. “But he’s my son, whether he wants to be or not. He’s hurting. I can see it, I can smell it, and I’m not leaving him like that. Not again.” He finally looked over, voice low and aching. “I’ve failed him more than once. I won’t fail him again. And I won’t fail the ones we’re bringing into this world by doing nothing now.”
In-ho did not let the irritation reach his face. Dae-ho had seemed like he might grow into his role, a strong alpha, maybe even a future anchor in the strange, makeshift family they were building. But under pressure, the cracks showed: fear, instability, and failure. And still, Gi-hun ran after him, heart-first as always. But if this ended the way In-ho suspected, if Gi-hun had to watch Dae-ho fall, undone by a blade, then maybe it would finally be enough. Maybe then his omega would stop reaching for those who could not, did not want to be saved, and hold on to the one who had never let go, the one who would save him.
In-ho said softly, “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. I’ll keep you safe, Gi-hun—and make sure we get through this. Both of us.”
Gi-hun replied, “One kill is the rule. I know that. But others? They’re going to use this as an excuse to kill with something that's not a fork.” He tightened his grip on the knife. “If we see it happening—we stop it. We have to.”
In-ho reached out to Gi-hun, still clutching the knife, and brushed aside the front of his red vest. The blade glinted faintly as his hand, firm but careful, settled over the swell of his stomach. Steel rested against softness. His fingers curved protectively over the slight movement beneath, but the weapon never left his grip. He exhaled slowly through his nose, breathing in the scent of his omega, sweet, warm, unmistakably his.
Another scream cracked through the maze, distant but sharp. In-ho did not flinch.
The alpha stepped back at last, fingers sliding from his belly, the tip of the knife trailing just a whisper across the fabric as he let go.
“Let’s go,” He said, voice low.
Chapter 12
Summary:
Gi-hun stood his red-rimmed gaze sweeping the room with disinterest, refusing the cheap plastic chair set before the desk for him. The chair looked almost laughable against the prop-like setting, and on the desk sat a plaster apple, its red paint dulled with age. The Officer, black-clad, square mask gleaming under the overhead light, occupied the opposite chair as though presiding over a mock lesson.
“I want to negotiate certain terms of the contract in person with the Front Man,” Gi-hun said, his voice flat, yet there was a roughness under it, a hoarse drag of words that betrayed sleepless nights and unspent grief. “The one you call the Captain. They’re not terms worth sharing with a dog like you.”
In-ho leaned forward slightly in his own chair, the live feed casting a pale glow over the dark lines of his mask. His curiosity sharpened; whatever his omega wanted, he wanted to hear it from his own lips.
Notes:
First and foremost, I do not own Squid Game. This story now contains spoilers for all three seasons, so if you have not seen them yet—consider this your warning!
Secondly, this story combines several brilliant posts by midnight—sadness on Tumblr, creating a truly unique experience. Expect omegaverse dynamics, male pregnancy, and all the messy emotional intensity that comes with both. If you are not already following them, go fix that—they are incredible. Also, thank you to reingkings on Tumblr, who provides the most awesome analyses of the pairing that are simply beautiful and have helped inspire imagery and analyses in this story. Please go and give them a follow too!
I apologize for the long wait on this chapter, which somehow became a 13,000-word behemoth. I had the ending mapped out for a while, but season three’s release derailed my schedule—between absorbing the canon events and deciding which plot beats to keep versus change, the process took far longer than I anticipated. I know some readers may be disappointed by the lack of character deaths, but frankly, after how many there were in the third season, I felt no need to add more or really keep any. Consider this my small rebellion.
I also want to address a recurring compliment I adore: readers calling Gi-hun a strong omega. In this chapter, he might frustrate some at first—remember, it’s entirely from In-ho’s point of view, and that choice is intentional. His strength is not gone; it’s simply waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. Trust the process, and by the end of this chapter, I hope you’ll understand why he has acted the way he has.
Speaking of the end—if anyone made fanart of the final “shot” of this chapter, I think I’d actually ascend.
Finally, I can’t thank you enough for your comments, kudos, and patience. I’m sorry I haven’t replied as much lately, as life has been hectic, but your support means the world to me. Truly. 🫶🫶🫶
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Excerpts from: Zha, M. Y., & Choi, D. H. (2017). Neurological and socio-psychological implications of the mating bite in contemporary alpha–beta–omega populations. Journal of Comparative Bonding Studies, 42 (3), 215–233.
"Though largely abandoned in modern bonding practices, the mating bite remains neurologically potent, inducing immediate full-body paralysis alongside a cascade of sensory and hormonal disruptions that leave the bitten party highly vulnerable."
"Historically, omegas were disproportionately subjected to one-sided mating bites by both alphas and betas, often as a means of asserting ownership or silencing resistance, resulting in prolonged disorientation, heightened suggestibility, and—in extreme cases—lifelong dependency on the aggressor.”
"Recorded cases of coercive mating bites include incidents of deliberate use as a means of control, leading to long-term trauma and destabilization of entire bonded units."
In-ho led Gi-hun carefully through the maze, the walls a dark, chalky blue, scrawled over with childish drawings. Above them, painted stars glowed softly in yellow, their shimmer just visible under the emergency lights. The stars had been his idea. He had once stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to the cracked ceiling and walls of his old, too-small apartment, trying to give himself something to stare at when sleep would not come.
It might have been peaceful, almost gentle, if not for the blood already streaking the walls and the way distant screams echoed through the twisting corridors, drawing closer. The scent of panic was heavy in the air: sharp beta sweat, frantic alpha musk, and the sweet, cloying tang of terrified omegas. It clung to the back of the throat.
Gi-hun suddenly stopped, one hand catching the wall for balance. In-ho halted instantly, eyes flicking to him. “Do we need to rest for a minute?” He asked, his voice soft and neutral but alert. “It’s alright. We’ve got time.”
“Not long,” Gi-hun murmured, pressing his hand gently to the curve of his belly beneath the red vest, his other hand lowering the knife to his side. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed just briefly. “Just a second. They’re restless.”
In-ho gave a single nod. The alpha stood beside his omega in silence, the dim glow of the painted stars overhead casting soft yellow light across the dark blue corridor. Behind them, distant screams echoed faintly through the maze. He kept watch, but his gaze lingered too often on his omega, on the way his breathing slowed, and on the hand that stayed protectively over his belly.
“What will you do if—when—we find Dae-ho?” In-ho asked finally, not out of strategy, but something far more personal. Curiosity, maybe. Or something he would not name.
Gi-hun exhaled, brushing his thumb gently over his stomach. “He’s hurting. I can see it. Everything he’s doing—it’s not cruelty, it’s fear. Like a child cornered. He reminds me so much of his father, and most of the time that’s a comfort. But not here. Not when I know what this place did to him. What it made him become. That’s what terrifies me.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “This place—it doesn’t just kill people. It kills what makes them worth saving. It tears at the softest parts first. Kindness. Love. I know Dae-ho’s not perfect. But he is good. He’s brave in his own way. But if we don’t reach him soon…” His voice trailed off before he finished, because the rest did not need saying.
Beside Gi-hun, In-ho was silent. The stars overhead cast fractured yellow light across his face, too sharp. Something in his words had caught. Not just the mention, unspoken but unmistakable, of Player 218, Cho Sang-woo. But the deeper implication: that Gi-hun still believed in people. Even after all this.
In-ho masked it behind a practiced stillness. “This place doesn’t kill the goodness in people, Gi-hun, from what I’ve seen,” He said evenly. “It just exposes what’s been waiting underneath. The parts that are easy to hide in the world outside. The parts they’re ashamed of. You see a scared child when you look at Dae-ho because even if you haven't known him his whole life, he’s your child, but I see an alpha man who made a choice to run. Maybe he couldn’t face what he thought he was. Or maybe he finally saw what he really is.”
Gi-hun looked at In-ho then, really looked. And did not look away. His eyes lingered on his face like he was seeing through it. Like he knew what was hiding beneath the cool tone and neutral expression. The omega did not flinch. Did not blink. Just held his gaze with a steely determination that made the tension between them crackle in the air, unspoken words hanging heavy between them.
When Gi-hun finally spoke, his voice was low and unapologetic,"No, that’s the trick of this place, Young-il. It doesn’t expose what’s underneath—it tells you that’s all there is. That there’s no choice if you want to live. And if no one tells you otherwise… you start to believe it.”
The silence that followed was heavy, almost reverent. In-ho looked away first. “Let’s keep moving,” He said, already turning back into the maze.
But then, footsteps, rapid and scattered, and then a breathless, ragged yelp. Player 044 rounded the corner, eyes wide with panic, a blue vest clinging to her sweat-drenched frame. At the sight of the two red vests, she skidded back, tried to flee again, but slipped in a smear of blood.
In an instant, In-ho was on her. His hand shot out, catching her by the ponytail. He wrapped it around his wrist and yanked hard, dragging her back with a guttural grunt.
“No—spare me!” Player 044 shrieked, flailing. She collapsed to her knees at their feet, quivering. “I’ll clear your karma, cleanse your spirits! The voices—I'll quiet them all!”
In-ho did not flinch. He jerked her upright by the hair again until she whimpered, tilting her head back to face them. “Ask her,” He said, voice flat with disgust.
Gi-hun stepped forward, blade still at his side. “Where are your followers?”
Player 044 flicked her eyes to the spatters down her front, then to the floor between her knees. In-ho sneered. “You sacrificed them, didn’t you?” He hissed, tightening the grip until she let out a strangled sob. “Some savior you are.”
“Wait—wait, you're looking for him, aren’t you? Player 388?” Player 044 gasped out, eyes flitting between In-ho and Gi-hun. “The one who betrayed you? He has his blood in him—your blood—”
Gi-hun clenched his hand around the knife, knuckles whitening. “Where is he?” He demanded.
“He hurt his leg—he’s bleeding,” Player 044 babbled. “Follow the trail—just go that way—please—!”
Gi-hun turned to In-ho, voice frayed at the edges. “Let her go.”
In-ho did not respond immediately; instead, he tightened his grip on her hair. “Gi-hun,” The alpha said, voice firm but not unkind. “You have to kill a blue-vested player to pass. In your condition, this is as easy a kill as you’ll find.”
Gi-hun faltered, the knife loose in his sweating grip.
“She led them like lambs to slaughter, Gi-hun," In-ho continued, eyes fixed on Gi-hun with that cool patience. “Used their faith, twisted their hope, then sacrificed them to the game. And she just tried to trade a young man’s life—your son’s life—to save her own skin." Then, quieter: "You kept the red on, you took up the knife, and you knew what it meant. Because you knew I would stay beside you and protect you… even in the dark. Especially in the dark. That when the moment arrived, I would guide your hand. And I am.”
Gi-hun did not answer. His hand trembled around the handle of the knife, his fingers slick with sweat. His scent had changed; the sweet turned sour, like overripe fruit left to rot under heat. Beneath the red vest, the swell of his belly shifted, the babies unsettled by the rising tide of his distress . The room felt heavy with tension as his breaths came in shallow gasps, his eyes darting between the knife and his alpha before him.
“Young-il—” Gi-hun rasped.
“Shh,” In-ho whispered, stepping behind him with the soundless certainty of a predator. “Let me help.” One bare hand reached around, brushing over his trembling wrist so gently, so reverently, it felt like a caress. Then firmer, guiding, pressing his hand into the hilt of the blade like he might fold them into prayer. The moment stretched, terrible and intimate.
“She’s already kneeling,” The alpha murmured against the curve of his neck. “Already begging. The gods she believes in won’t answer her. But you can. One act. One breath. One life. And you will live. So will they.”
Gi-hun moved, or maybe In-ho moved him, and the blade plunged down. It met flesh with a sickening resistance, wet and awful, and her cry cut off in a gurgle, and blood spilled down her chest in thick pulses. A spray of crimson hit his omega on the vest. His pupils dilated. His body revolted, and he staggered back with a strangled noise, the knife clattering from his grasp. His knees gave out, and he crumpled to all fours, heaving violently, retching onto the slick, blood-soaked concrete. His scent soured, thick with bile and fear, acidic and sharp. The children inside him no doubt twisted uncomfortably, restless in the wake of the act.
“Player 456, pass.”
In-ho knelt beside Gi-hun without a sound, steady and still as his hand settled between his shoulder blades. The other slipped free, fingers threading gently into his hair, stroking with eerie tenderness. “You did what had to be done,” The alpha murmured, voice velvet-smooth. “You survived. They will survive. That’s not cruelty, Gi-hun. That is devotion.”
Gi-hun did not push In-ho away. Instead, with a ragged, shuddering breath, his omega turned to him, blind, broken, and trusting. His trembling hand clutched at his jacket, and his omega pressed his tear-streaked face to his broad chest like a sinner seeking absolution, not knowing it was a devil who blessed the knife.
Gi-hun sobbed once, then whispered, voice cracking, “I didn’t want this.”
“I know,” In-ho said softly, brushing a knuckle over his cheek. “And still—you did it. You chose to live.” He held his omega through the storm of it, through the shaking and the shame, until he was quiet again. And then, very slowly, the alpha rose, bringing his omega with him. One arm around his waist, one hand over his rounded belly. “You’re still alive,” He added. “So are they.”
Gi-hun stayed close, breath shallow, but his movements were automatic as he wiped the blade clean against the hem of his vest. His hands were shaking. His scent was still bitter with lingering adrenaline and shame, but then it began to sweeten, subtle at first, a soft bloom of something warm and pliant beneath the salt-sting of panic.
Something instinctual stirred in In-ho, a low thrum in his chest, a purr curled deep in his throat before he could stop it.
Gi-hun tilted his head slightly, his voice trembling in just the right way. “I know… thanks to you. I don’t know if I could’ve done it without you.” The alpha hummed, pleased, and his omega pressed just a little closer, scent blooming sweeter still, dampened only by the remnants of blood drying on his sleeves. “What about you?” He continued, barely above a whisper. “Don’t you still need to…?”
In-ho gave a slow, clinical smile. “Let me worry about that,” He said. “We still have time.”
Then, his gaze dropped to the floor. Outside the thick, pooling crimson from the body, a new trail veered off, thin dots of blood like breadcrumbs across the maze floor. “Looks like she wasn’t lying,” He noted coolly. “There’s the trail.”
In-ho followed the blood trail with mechanical precision, his shoes never slipping, never faltering. Gi-hun kept close, held firmly by the wrist like a lamb being led unknowingly into slaughter. As they turned the next corner, the corridor deepened, walls narrowing, shadows dragging long and hungry along the concrete. Then there was a sharp bark of laughter. A yelp. A body hitting the ground.
Then a voice, high and cruel and unmistakable: “Look at that. Rescued by Mommy and Daddy. Must be your lucky day.”
In-ho did not roll his eyes. He did not need to. His expression flattened with the calm of a predator as his gaze landed on the mess ahead.
Thanos—purple-haired, manic-eyed—stood over a limp figure with all the glee of a child torturing a bug. Nam-gyu lounged at his side, drenched in fresh blood, his red vest soaked through and clinging to his ribs. Their eyes were dilated. Their movements are twitchy. High, likely. Dangerous, certainly. Dae-ho lay trapped between them, pinned to the concrete ground, blood seeping out from a wound in his leg.
“Back off,” Gi-hun said, voice low but sharp. His eyes lingered on the crimson stains streaking their sleeves and the way they smiled like hyenas. “You’ve killed enough. God only knows how many were even necessary.”
“For you maybe,” Nam-gyu said, perched against Thanos like a bored cat. “We’re just doing what it takes to make this worth something.”
“Yo, you two forget we’re on the same team or what—Alzheimer’s kicking in already?” Thanos asked with a lopsided grin. “Same team. Same game. Same prize money, okay?” He shook the alpha beneath him like a ragdoll. “And this coward? He was crying for his mommy while your friends got smoked in that ‘special game.’”
Gi-hun snarled, “You want to talk about cowards? Try making it through a round without stuffing your faces full of pills! What happens when you run out, huh? Cry for your dealer next?”
In-ho gave Gi-hun a sidelong glance, heat stirring low in his gut. Then, to the others: “You’re right, we’re on the same team. If we attack one another, we risk immediate elimination from the game. I doubt either of you wants to find out how strictly that rule is enforced.”
Thanos scoffed. “You think they give a shit? They want us dead, old man. As many as possible. You really think they’ll care about friendly fire?"
“Let’s see, one omega about to pop,” Nam-gyu counted, ticking his bloody fingers one by one. “An old man. And a ball-less alpha. This your rescue party, 388? ‘Cause it’s kinda pathetic.”
Dae-ho jerked at that, rage rising to the surface in a ragged breath. “Go to hell.”
“Already there, baby,” Thanos said in English, grinning as he tightened his grip. He shoved the alpha beneath him back down, hard, the sound of bone against concrete sharp and final.
In-ho could smell the anger coming off Gi-hun, sharp, adrenal, and unmistakably alpha-directed. He frowned faintly. The red-on-red rule was clear: attacks on teammates were grounds for elimination. But the guards were not going to eliminate his omega for it; of that, the alpha was certain. And so if nothing else, it might be… entertaining. So he did not stop him.
In-ho merely watched as Gi-hun lunged toward Thanos, not at his face or throat like the alpha no doubt expected, but toward his chest. His casted hand slammed against his collarbone, knocking him slightly off balance, while his other hand snatched the thin chain looped around his neck. The silver cross came free with a violent tug as the omega ripped it away.
For a second, Thanos just blinked, confused, then realization flared in his eyes. “No—!” He shouted, surging forward.
But Gi-hun had already turned. Without hesitation, the omega flung the cross toward the nearest open archway behind them, one of the false exits that led to nothing but air and a fatal drop. The charm arced in the air like a flare, hit the concrete, and then bounced. Once. Twice.
Gone.
“Shit!” Nam-gyu yelped, scrambling upright. “That had all our stash in it!”
Thanos shoved Dae-ho aside like garbage, lunging toward the arch. “You bloated tick fuck! Do you have any idea—?!”
“I do,” Gi-hun said, voice low, breath tight. “I just don’t care.”
Thanos hesitated, trembling with fury. Nam-gyu had already disappeared around the edge of the archway, shouting back, “I see it! I see it—it’s on some ledge!”
Dae-ho did not thank them, just stared at the ground, breath shaking. Gi-hun crouched beside Dae-ho, one arm bracing his rounded belly, the other holding his knife steady. “Are you okay?” He asked quietly, his eyes sweeping over the young alpha man, his arms, shoulders, and face, checking for gashes, swelling, and broken bones.
Dae-ho did not answer, only stared at the floor, chest rising and falling with shallow, shaking breaths. When the omega reached out with his casted hand, the younger alpha flinched so hard he nearly toppled over. He jerked backward, hand raised like a shield. “No—don’t—I didn’t mean to, I swear—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t—”
In-ho watched as Gi-hun froze, breath caught in his throat, knife forgotten for a moment. The panic. The instinct to beg. It was not from Thanos or Nam-gyu. That kind of fear had come from long before.
“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun breathed, softer than before. He let the knife rest on the floor and exhaled, and then his body radiated calm, his omega scent steeped into the air, warm and sweet, like dalgona melting into milk.
The change was subtle. Dae-ho did not stop breathing shakily, but his shoulders sagged, a small sound hiccupping out of him. A raw gasp. “Don’t,” He choked. “Don’t—don’t do that for me—I don’t deserve it. Don’t you get it? I lied. I lied.”
Gi-hun blinked, steadying him with a hand on his knee. “Lied about what?”
Dae-ho looked at him finally, face cracked wide open in shame. “I was never a Marine. I wasn’t a soldier. I was... Social Services Personnel. I sat behind a desk. I filed paperwork. I—I printed name tags and mailed letters. That’s it.” He laughed bitterly, the sound wet. “I made it up. All of it. I thought if I told you I was brave, that I’d seen combat, you’d let me stay. That maybe I’d seem strong enough. Like a real alpha.”
Behind Gi-hun, In-ho stood silent, knife in hand, watching and listening. It was not the revelation of the lie itself that struck In-ho, as that had been made obvious during the Special Game, but the way Dae-ho said “real alpha," like a line learned too young, too brutally, the kind of shame that did not come from nowhere. The older alpha had seen it before, back when he wore a badge. This was not a lie told out of malice or cowardice, like he had thought at first; it was a lie told to survive to get close. And now, the real question was not why the younger alpha had lied, but who had made him feel like he needed to.
Dae-ho trembled, voice unraveling. “I had the magazines. I s—swear I had them. I had them! I was going to bring them back, I swear—but I got scared. Young-il, Jung-bae, Hyun-ju, and Gyeong-seok—you almost died. You… you and the babies… my little brothers or sisters—” His voice cracked, a sob catching in his throat. “And it would’ve been my fault. All of it would’ve been my fault… I knew if I came back after I did that and you found out what I really was and what I wasn’t—you’d hate me. I thought you’d never forgive me. That none of you would. So I ran.”
His hands covered his face as he broke down fully, shaking and small beneath the weight of his own fear. “I’m sorry,” He whispered through his palms, over and over again. “I’m so sorry, Mama…”
Gi-hun made a soft, pained sound and drew Dae-ho in without hesitation, arms encircling the younger alpha with aching tenderness. His omega scent flowed outward, sweet and calming like warm honey in tea, but tinged with sorrow, heavy as summer rain. The omega pressed a kiss to his forehead, smoothing damp strands from his face. The younger alpha clung to him, crying openly now, his voice shaking with apologies, his hand rising instinctively to rest against the swell of his stomach. As if to beg forgiveness from the unborn too.
Behind them, In-ho stood quiet, expression unreadable, blade still in hand. But something inside him shifted.
In-ho had written off Dae-ho too easily, as a liar, a deserter, and a disappointment. But now, watching the younger alpha crumble into his omega, clinging like a boy desperate to be forgiven, something shifted. Not sympathy, not quite. Something quieter, more acute, the kind of ache he had long forgotten. He looked at the hand the younger alpha pressed to his pregnant belly, big enough to almost encompass it, shaking, and apologetic, and for a breath, he saw another child. Somewhere in his chest, beneath the chill and calculation, something ached, small and unwelcome. Because if this had been his child… would they look at him like that? Would they run from him, too?
He cleared his throat.
“Gi-hun,” In-ho said at last, his voice low and composed. “We have to move. Get him on his feet. We’ll bring him to the other blues in our pack.”
Gi-hun nodded, exhaling shakily before turning back to Dae-ho. “Come on,” He murmured, brushing a hand through his hair. “We’re taking you to them. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“No,” Dae-ho choked, shaking his head. “I can’t—I can’t face them. They’ll hate me. They’ll see what I am and—”
“They won’t,” Gi-hun interrupted gently. “They were worried about you. Afraid for you. They knew you didn’t run out of malice. You were scared. You were hurting. And they’ll understand that.”
Dae-ho wiped at his eyes, voice shaking. “But I lied—”
“We all have,” Gi-hun said softly. “We’ve all done things out of fear, anger, and pain—things we wish we hadn’t. And this place… it feeds on that. It twists you until you can’t tell where fear ends and choice begins.” He exhaled, voice unsteady. “I’ve loved and I’ve lost so many to these games, Dae-ho. And one of them… was your alpha birth father. Sang-woo.”
Dae-ho froze, breath catching.
In-ho stood just behind Gi-hun, silent, still, and watching like a predator disguised as a man. The kind of look that made it unclear whether he wanted to protect or consume the man baring his soul in front of him.
“Sang-woo was my friend,” Gi-hun continued, voice low, raw. “My oldest friend. And for a time… we were almost mates. Maybe we were—in some other life. We grew up together. Dreamed of escaping poverty together. And when the world fell apart, we fell into this place side by side.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the next words past his throat. “He was brilliant. Driven. But too guarded to show softness—except in the smallest ways. The kind you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. And in this place… that wasn’t enough.” His hand tightened slightly on his knife, then released. “The games changed him. Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. He started justifying things—little things at first. Lies. Betrayals. Said it was to survive. For me. For his mother. For us. But one day, I looked into his eyes, and the boy I knew was gone.”
Dae-ho stared, stunned. His eyes shimmered. “So you killed him?”
“No,” Gi-hun whispered. “He chose the end. He… took his own life. For me.” The words hung heavy in the air, weighted with grief. “And I carry it with me. Every day. If I could go back—if I could’ve said something, anything, to remind him he was still loved despite everything—I would have.”
His voice cracked, but he did not stop. “That’s why I’m here now. Why I’m telling you. Because I’m tired, Dae-ho. Tired of hearing that people are one thing or another—good or evil, brave or weak. We’re all more than that. Messier. Human.” His hand, trembling slightly, reached out, brushing the back of his fingers against his cheek with heartbreaking gentleness. “You still have time. This place has changed you—it changes all of us. But that doesn’t mean we stop loving each other.”
A pause. Breath held.
“You’ll have to tell them the truth. Yes. But they’ll still want you. Still want you safe. Not bleeding out here alone. You’re not beyond forgiveness, Dae-ho. Not yet.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Dae-ho gave a trembling nod. “Mama… I’m—I’m sorry—”
Gi-hun shushed Dae-go gently, pulling his son into another embrace. Their bodies leaned together, grief-worn and exhausted. Then the omega shifted, and the younger alpha immediately offered his arm, steadying him as he stood. His other hand instinctively hovered near his rounded belly, protective.
Behind them, In-ho tilted his head ever so slightly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He turned away before it could settle.
“Let’s go,” Gi-hun murmured, eyes soft but alert. “Stay close to me and Young-il, alright? If you don’t have anything to defend yourself, take your jacket—wrap it around your arm. It’ll protect you if someone tries to hurt you. Just follow my lead.”
Dae-ho nodded, already tugging off his jacket, that first flicker of focus returning to his expression. His shoulders were still trembling, but now they held weight and purpose.
Around the next bend, they found Hyun-ju, standing over a crumpled body, her face streaked with blood like warpaint, her hair disheveled and loose down her back. Her knife dripped crimson, held loosely at her side. Yong-sik stood beside her, glasses cracked and askew, a shallow cut on his cheek, and blood splattered across his sleeves. His eyes were wide but focused, chest rising and falling with adrenaline.
At their feet lay Player 333, a young alpha man with a jagged knife blade still clutched in one hand, the handle missing. His lifeless eyes stared skyward, mouth slightly parted in frozen surprise.
A monotone voice rang from overhead: “Player 120, pass.”
Yong-sik, still catching his breath, looked up, voice shaking with outrage. “Little scumbag ambushed her. Hid around the corner and tried to stab her in the back. Why the hell was a blue vest even attacking other players?”
Hyun-ju did not flinch, still staring down at the body. Her voice was cold and controlled. “He wanted a bonus. And he didn’t care who he had to cut down to get it.” Then she added to the beta man, "But you pulled me away in time.”
Yong-sik flushed, pushing up his broken glasses. “You’re the one who did that flip move and disarmed him… I just—anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I passed. So did Hyun-ju. I heard you did too, Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun gave a small nod, his face pale but composed.
Yong-sik turned to In-ho. “Young-il, did you—?”
“Not yet,” In-ho replied smoothly, stepping forward close to Gi-hun, one hand still resting protectively over his rounded belly. “There’s still fifteen minutes.”
Hyun-ju then noticed Dae-ho. “Dae-ho,” Hyun-ju said, just his name, simple and steady. He flinched at the sound of it.
Hyun-ju stepped forward, slowly and deliberately, and raised a hand. For a breath, she hesitated, then placed it gently on his shoulder. The young alpha man flinched again, but this time, he did not pull away. Even as a frightened scent escaped him and soured into resinous sap. Her hand stayed, light but firm.
“I’m glad they found you,” Hyun-ju said, voice soft but resolute. Her thumb gave the faintest squeeze, grounding him. Then she turned to the omega. “We can show you where the others are gathered.”
“Take Dae-ho with you, please. I’m staying here with Young-il—he’s not through yet,” Gi-hun said, reaching out to In-ho, his good hand closing around his without hesitation.
“Of course,” Hyun-ju said. Her voice gentled. “Come on, Dae-ho. Stay between me and Yong-sik, okay? We’ll keep you safe.”
Yong-sik gave a nod, standing just behind her. Though his glasses were cracked and blood flecked his collar, his expression was earnest.
Dae-ho hesitated. Then, wordlessly, the young alpha man stepped forward, shoulders still tight but steps more certain. He moved into the space between them. Not quite looking at either of them, but not shrinking from their presence, either.
“Come with us, Mama,” Dae-ho said suddenly. His voice cracked at the end. “You’ve already passed. Young-il can handle himself, and maybe… maybe someone else will come along. Just don’t—don’t go deeper in. Please.”
Before Gi-hun could speak, In-ho cut in, voice low and unbothered. “He’s right. I can manage—”
“I’m staying with you,” Gi-hun interrupted sharply. There was no room for argument in his tone. Then his voice softened. “Why do you think I took this vest, if not to stay with you?”
In-ho looked at Gi-hun, really looked, and his dark eyes, which were usually hard and calculated, flickered with something quieter, something pulled from deeper within as he inhaled his scent. His hand remained soft and steady, and the scent, that sweet, saccharine blend of milk and toasty caramelized sugar, rose between them like steam from a quiet cup. It was warm, inviting, and dangerous in how gently it curled beneath his skin. It coated his tongue like a sweet, softened his breath, and made his thoughts feel heavy and slow, like a warm embrace on a cold night.
The omega was not pleading to stay with him. He was not begging to stay with him.
But he did not need to.
That scent, unhurried, comforting, and familiar, spoke for him. It filled his lungs until all he could do was let him stay.
“We’ll take care of one another, Dae-ho,” Gi-hun said, his sweet scent curling through the air again and the alpha breathed it in without realizing, his grip on his omega tightening. “Come on, Young-il.”
Their fingers remained laced together as they slipped into the opposite corridor, knives drawn in their free hands. Step by step, they vanished into the dark, not fleeing, but hunting. Side by side.
Then came the scream, shrill, high-pitched, and familiar, followed by the erratic pound of footsteps. Gi-hun stilled, his ears twitching, his posture tightening. Three figures appeared from a side corridor, panting and bloodied. They were blue-vested players, and in the lead, face streaked with blood, shirt torn at the collar, was Player 100, who had spat venom at Gi-hun since the first day, always loud, always crude. The others behind him clutched matching keys, their shaped ends glinting in the red light.
They had found the exit. And they meant to use it.
“You,” Player 100 spat, eyes zeroing in on Gi-hun, voice gravel-thick with hatred. He held a knife now, likely pilfered from a fallen red-vested player. “You would’ve died days ago if it weren’t for your alpha. I bet you feel real strong now, huh? Knife in hand. Belly full. Protected.”
4 minutes and 47 seconds on the countdown now.
Behind Gi-hun, the clock ticked like a heartbeat on the wall.
“You two could run for it, you know." In-ho said coolly, his voice calm and unbothered, knife poised at his side. His eyes flicked to the other two blue-vested players flanking Player 100. “I only need one.”
Gi-hun replied with the faintest trace of exasperation, an edge that might have belonged to an omega chastising their alpha over something trivial if not for the fact that death stood less than ten feet away. In-ho schooled his features, not allowing the flicker of amusement to touch his eyes. “There’s no need for more bloodshed than necessary,” Gi-hun said, the weight of his scent carrying reassurance toward the other two even as his stance shifted subtly to shield the swell of his stomach.
“They need my key too,” Player 100 hissed, eyes darting between the two flanking him, measuring their worth and their fear. His fingers tightened on the knife, knuckles whitening. “And only I know where the exit is—which you two are blocking.”
“We’re not blocking anything,” Gi-hun said evenly. “You’re free to try for the exit.”
“Two of you will make it,” In-ho said, voice low and final. “One of you will not.”
Gi-hun hissed, "Player 100 there would likely kill you two the instant he had your keys in those keyholes rather than let you pass to get more money—"
“I want to go! Let me go—” The other blue-vested alpha blurted, his voice breaking under the strain, his scent spiking sharp with panic before he lunged, a clumsy, desperate move born of fear rather than strategy. Gi-hun pivoted without hesitation, driving the hard edge of his cast into his throat. The impact landed with a dull crack, and the alpha staggered back with a strangled wheeze, hands clawing at his neck as he gasped for breath.
The beta woman moved next, quicker than Gi-hun expected, her eyes bright with the calculation of someone willing to risk everything. She grabbed at the omega, nails scraping his forearm, and they grappled in a messy, scraping knot of limbs. The omega tried to twist free, but the strain on his ribs and the swell of his stomach were stealing his breath. In the scramble his knife was torn from his grasp, clattering across the floor out of reach. He staggered, hands instinctively flying back to guard his belly.
In-ho moved before she could press the advantage. His free hand clamped around the back of her vest, and with a sharp jerk and a grunt of effort, he swung her off her feet and hurled her across the space. She collided into the other blue-vested player hard enough to knock both of them a half-step off balance.
“Are you alright?” In-ho asked, his eyes scanning his omega, checking the set of his shoulders, the rise of his chest, and the curl of his arms protectively over the swell of his stomach. His scent was tight and sharp with focus, but a flicker of something possessive slipped through, enough to make the air feel heavier.
Gi-hun gave the barest nod, but Player 100 had already shoved the beta woman aside and drawn his arm back, blade flashing in his hand.
The loss of the blade was all the opening Player 100 needed. His face twisted into a grin so wide it bordered on madness. “Hmm,” He snarled, voice low and certain, “I wonder if your money will be double when I kill you.” His arm lashed forward, the blade whistling through the charged air.
Gi-hun reacted on instinct, snapping both arms protectively to his belly even as his body turned to shield it. But In-ho was faster; his blade sliced the air in a blur, catching the incoming knife and turning its path sideways. The weapon spun and embedded deep into the chest of the beta woman. She wheezed, staggered, and collapsed, her body folding like cloth as blood bloomed across her vest.
“Player 001, pass.”
“Gi-hun,” In-ho breathed, but the quietness of his voice was a thin veil stretched over something raw and ancient, alpha-deep and dangerous. His hands seized the front of Gi-hun’s jacket, fingers trembling with desperation. “Gi-hun—did he—Gi-hun, say something—”
“Young-il,” Gi-hun murmured, catching his hands and forcing them still against the rounded firmness of his uninjured middle. His scent was rattled and bitter with alarm, but his voice held steady. “I’m fine. You deflected it in time.”
The words grounded In-ho, but only for a heartbeat. Once the alpha was certain, absolutely certain, that his omega and their unborn children were unharmed, everything else bled away. There was only the memory of the knife cutting the air toward them, only the image of what could have happened. The thought poured molten anger down his spine until his breath came through his teeth. His jaw locked. His voice, when it came, was a quiet blade. “You just tried to kill… my omega… my unborn children…”
Gi-hun gasped out, "Young-il, you passed. Let them go—let them, Young-il—"
Player 100 flinched, hands shaking as he tore the key from the corpse still bleeding out on the floor, the wet snap of the lanyard loud in the silence. His eyes never left the red-vested alpha, locked there like a cornered animal recognizing a predator. Then he bolted, shoving past the fallen body, dragging the blue-vested alpha with him toward the exit through the winding maze.
In-ho dropped all pretense. The calculated calm vanished, replaced by a slow, deliberate shift in his stance, the kind of movement that predators make before they strike. His shoulders rolled back, chin lowered, and gaze fixed forward with murderous precision. The air shifted with him, his scent swelling, hot and suffocating, smoky like whiskey meeting open flame.
Gi-hun surged forward a step, calling after him. “Young-il—stop it—stop—don’t—don’t—!” The words cracked under strain, but In-ho did not turn.
The clock bled down to 2:35.
In-ho stalked into the corridors, shoes pounding against the floor, the sound echoing like his own heartbeat between the walls. The chase tightened to a corner, then another, until the ragged breathing and frantic footfalls of the blue-vested players filled the space ahead. He closed the gap without hurry, with the kind of inevitability that made prey stumble.
The blue-vested alpha glanced back, and that single look was enough for In-ho to catch them both. His blade was a whisper in motion, catching his throat in a clean, efficient cut. The younger alpha went down soundlessly, collapsing in a widening pool that spread like oil across the concrete. Then he bent, snatching the key from his neck and locking the door behind him as he heard his omega follow, not wanting him to see what happened next.
Player 100 stumbled against a door at the end of the hall, fumbling at the lock with blood-slick hands. The older blue-vested alpha stumbled back, cornered now, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly between the walls as if a way out might appear.
“Please—please—I can give you part of my prize money,” Player 100 blurted, the words tumbling over each other. “You need it—for your family, right? Big strong alpha like you, protecting your omega and your seed—I get it, I do. I’ve got an omega too. Kids. Unruly as hell. I understand—”
In-ho did not answer. The alpha stood at the far end of the spacious room, the pale light catching on the smear of blood along his jaw, the shadows hollowing his eyes. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, as if each breath was drawn on purpose. Then he began walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to let the sound of his shoes hitting the floor carry through the space, each step echoing like the tick of a clock.
Player 100 staggered back, whimpered, and then turned, scrambling on hands and knees. His palms skidded on the wet floor, smearing dark streaks that led nowhere. The air between them grew heavy with the scent of fear, sharp and cloying, but his own scent rolled over it like a tide, thick, dark, and unyielding.
Player 100 tried to crawl faster, elbows scraping along the ground, his sobs tangled with the harsh rasp of his breathing. The older blue-vested alpha looked over his shoulder once, just once, and saw the younger red-vested alpha closing the distance without a change in pace, gaze fixed and cold, every movement coiled with quiet certainty.
Player 100 held his shaking hands up in a pitiful gesture of surrender, his voice climbing into a high, desperate pitch. “Wait—wait, please, I can—”
In-ho brought his knife into view, the blade gleaming wet in the low light. His free hand gripped the front of the blue vest and hauled the older alpha forward, ignoring the strangled cries that burst from his throat and the pathetic swats of his bloated, veiny hands. One smooth, decisive thrust ended them, the steel punching between his ribs. The resistance gave way with a wet, final sound.
Player 100 sagged, mouth working soundlessly, eyes still wide as the light left them. In-ho tossed him down to the floor, the body crumpling in on itself. The alpha stripped the key from the slack neck, the lanyard snapping quietly in his fingers, then rose without looking back. His gaze shifted to the younger blue-vested alpha sprawled nearby.
In-ho wiped the blood from his cheek with his jacket sleeve, smearing it more than cleaning it. The locked room around them was painted in unsettling cheer, two doors, each secured with three locks. One door was gaudy with sunshine, rainbows, and grinning faces, the word BAD DAY scrawled across it in looping yellow letters. The other was darker, painted with storm clouds, jagged lightning, and long, heavy raindrops. Above it, in curling silver, were the words GOOD DAY. His eyes lingered on the storm door.
Moving without hurry, In-ho stripped off his red vest, shaking it out once before crouching beside the corpse of the young blue-vested alpha. A sharp tug tore the blue vest open, and in seconds the red replaced it, fitted snug over his still chest. Then he began to drag the corpse wearing his vest toward the sunny-painted door, fingers closing over the last lock with a flick of the keys. Hinges groaned as the door creaked open to nothing but a yawning black drop.
Then In-ho dropped the body, and it tumbled silently at first, limbs folding and twisting, before striking the floors below with a distant, dull impact. For a moment, the alpha only stood there, staring down; then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to the camera mounted in the corner of the room. He met the lens directly, his expression unreadable, and gave a single, deliberate nod.
The announcement came seconds later, cheery but mechanical: “Player 001, eliminated.”
In-ho turned from the false exit, moving toward the storm-painted door. The keys worked through the three locks in smooth, fluid motions, the heavy bolts sliding back one after another. As the door opened, a wash of golden light spilled through, startling in its warmth. Panels painted with storm clouds and lightning suddenly shifted, mechanical tracks drawing them up and away to reveal a bright, smiling sun against a perfect blue sky. A cheery automated voice rang out: “Rain always goes away—congratulations, player!”
In-ho stepped through without hesitation, the door shutting behind him with a muted clang. Somewhere deep in the maze beyond, he could hear it, the distant, raw edge of a voice screaming his false name again and again, cracking under panic.
“Young-il! Young-il! Young-il—”
The words cut off in the winding corridors of the maze, swallowed by walls and distance. In-ho let the sound fade, his expression softening into a faint, private smile. There was no urgency in his stride now; his omega would only have to think him gone for a few hours longer.
After all, what came after the fourth game every year was the Bonus Round, and In-ho, the Front Man, had already chosen the player he would share his bed with this year. The alpha had chosen once, years ago, and had never once swayed from it. This year, as every year before, the player he wanted was the only one who had ever truly mattered, the one whose scent could cut through the stench of the dormitory. The one whose voice, raw and loud or subdued and quiet, could turn his head even in the chaos of a hundred desperate bodies clawing for survival.
The only one he had ever wanted in his bed since the death of his wife.
The only one he ever would.
In-ho sat in his quarters, whiskey in hand, the amber liquid catching the low light as it swirled lazily in the glass. The silken black pajamas clung lightly to his frame, his mask rested on the table beside him, its polished surface glinting faintly, and his still-damp hair clung to his temples from the heat of the shower, a small mercy that had washed away the grime, blood, and false death he had orchestrated earlier.
His gaze was fixed on the tablet propped before him, its display split on the feed of the main dormitory. The dormitory was dim now, the harsh fluorescents replaced by the soft, almost oppressive glow of the oversized golden piggy bank suspended overhead. Its garish plastic shimmered with the countless stacks of won, a grotesque reminder of what all this suffering was for. The bunks were fewer now, each one occupied by the lucky, or unlucky, survivors.
The vote had been lost again for the Xs. The Os had prevailed. They were staying.
In-ho stared at the camera feed, at Gi-hun, who sat cross-legged on a thin mattress laid across the cold floor, his back slightly hunched, rocking a newborn baby girl in the crook of his arms. The baby girl was swaddled in a spare jacket, her tiny face pressed against his chest as he shushed her in quiet, rhythmic murmurs.
Beside Gi-hun, Jun-hee lay asleep, her body curled protectively toward them even in rest, exhaustion carved deep into her features. She had given birth in the chaos of the fourth game, blood, screaming, and fear all but drowning the moment, yet here she was, finally still, finally breathing slow and heavy before the brutality of the fifth game tomorrow.
In-ho took deep, almost vindictive satisfaction in the fact that none of the other members of their makeshift little pack, all of whom had survived the fourth game solely through their combined effort, could reach Gi-hun in his grief. Behind their barricade of bunks and stacked mattresses, the pack huddled together, each with their own ghosts, but Gi-hun was unreachable. Not even Jung-bae or Dae-ho, each trying in their own halting ways to comfort him, could break through. His omega sat apart, back hunched, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the present. Tears cut silent tracks down his hollow cheeks, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only proof he was still breathing. His scent was muted, dulled to the point of aching absence.
It was only when Jun-hee stirred, the one whose body still trembled from childbirth hours before, that Gi-hun seemed to find movement again. She struggled to quiet her newborn daughter, exhaustion pulling at her every gesture. The older omega woman, who had aided her through labor, was slumped against the wall in a doze, her hands limp in her lap. Without a word, his omega had risen, one hand to his back and the other to his own rounded stomach, crossed the narrow space, and taken the newborn girl into his arms and settled her against his chest. The cries softened, then stilled, her small breaths syncing with his.
Now watching Gi-hun rock the newborn baby girl back to sleep was a strangely soothing sight, one that pulled at something low and instinctive in In-ho hidden behind the mask. His hands were gentle, his head bowed slightly as if shielding her from a world too cruel to meet her eyes just yet.
In-ho raised his radio, pressing the button with deliberate care. “Now. Make the preparations for the Bonus Round.”
“Yes, sir,” Came the immediate, crisp reply from the Officer, the sound crackling through the line.
In-ho lowered the radio, gaze drifting to Jun-hee where she lay curled on the thin mattress, her slight form trembling even in sleep. The pale smudges beneath her eyes made her look almost translucent, fragile in a way that made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly. A memory rose: his wife, her voice low but certain, the same words that echoed in his head time and time again, especially after discovering that his omega was expecting: “It’s ours to protect. I’ll live and carry it, and you will love the both of us.” The words scraped something raw inside him.
In-ho wondered, fleetingly, dangerously, if Jun-hee had anyone waiting to love her and her baby girl when she left this place. The thought lingered only a moment before the alpha forced it away. Attachment was pointless here. The reality was simple and brutal: her odds of surviving, much less those of her newborn, were almost nonexistent. Especially with the next game waiting. And he would know; he had designed it himself.
The feed changed later, after Gi-hun had quietly handed the newborn girl to Geum-ja, murmuring assurances until the protests of their pack faded into uneasy silence. Without another word, his omega followed the square-masked guard down the stark corridors, his steps steady despite the exhaustion lining his face. They brought him to the same room as last time, its design still leaning into an uncanny mimicry of an old schoolroom. The walls were painted a muted, institutional green, chipped in places to reveal the plaster beneath. The only furniture was still a wooden desk, the surface scratched and carved with initials that no child had ever truly left here.
Gi-hun stood, his red-rimmed gaze sweeping the room with disinterest, refusing the cheap plastic chair set before the desk for him. The chair looked almost laughable against the prop-like setting, and on the desk sat a plaster apple, its red paint dulled with age. The Officer, black-clad, square mask gleaming under the overhead light, occupied the opposite chair as though presiding over a mock lesson.
“I want to negotiate certain terms of the contract in person with the Front Man,” Gi-hun said, his voice flat, yet there was a roughness under it, a hoarse drag of words that betrayed sleepless nights and unspent grief. “The one you call the Captain. They’re not terms worth sharing with a dog like you.”
In-ho leaned forward slightly in his own chair, the live feed casting a pale glow over the dark lines of his mask. His curiosity sharpened; whatever his omega wanted, he wanted to hear it from his own lips.
“A few terms I will share with you that you can pass along to your master,” Gi-hun continued, his eyes locking on the masked man with the weary steadiness of someone who had nothing left to lose. “I will not be bound. I will not endure that again, especially not in my current state. I will be bathed beforehand, but I will do it myself, and your guards will wait outside. The terms regarding payment—especially—I will be negotiating with the Front Man, the officer… whatever he is called, himself.”
The Officer, well aware that the Front Man was listening, waited in silence for a response. In-ho raised his radio to his lips, his voice low but firm. “Alter the contract like he wants. I just want him up here—now.”
Without hesitation, the Officer drew a pen and began striking out sections of the Bonus Round contract. Lines of pink ink slashed through previous stipulations, replaced with fresh clauses scrawled in tight, efficient handwriting. When finished, he turned the document around, sliding it across the desk for the omega to inspect. His eyes skimmed the page, his jaw tight, before he signed with a single, almost lifeless stroke.
As Gi-hun made to step away, the Officer lifted a gloved hand, halting him. “The Front Man felt that your previous attire would be inappropriate given your current state.”
“Inappropriate’s a funny word to use,” Gi-hun said, his tone flat enough to be almost bitter. “Considering what I’m about to do. But go on.”
“Uncomfortable then,” The Officer amended, the correction clipped and precise.
The Officer reached beneath the desk and produced a black box tied with a perfect pink bow. It was the same morbid shade of whimsy as the coffins used to dispose of players—a beautiful, hollow mockery of a gift. Gi-hun accepted it with both hands, setting it on the desk. He untied the ribbon without ceremony, removed the lid, and stared down at the contents. It was a maternity nightgown, laid against the black backdrop of the box, that seemed almost spectral, pure white satin shaped into a bodice made to accommodate a growing middle, its seams gently boned and framed by lace-trimmed edges. Long, sheer bell sleeves spill in soft folds, and the skirt drapes in graceful panels, one side cut high to reveal a silk garter strap edged in delicate embroidery.
Gi-hun wore the same expression, but his hands tightened fractionally on the edge of the box. Somewhere far away from that room, watching through the camera feed, In-ho let the faintest smirk curl at the corner of his mouth as he took a slow sip of whiskey, the ice clinking softly in the glass.
In-ho had so much to say to Gi-hun now after the days and nights they had spent together during his heat, after enduring four rounds of the games side by side, and after watching his omega grow heavier with their unborn children while holding together the fragile center of their makeshift pack. Even before that, he had been watching him, listening to him, during the very first games his omega had played, memorizing every flicker of defiance and every crack of vulnerability. He had followed him in the years after, unseen and unheard, while his omega searched unknowingly for him.
Now, In-ho sat, the air humming with anticipation, waiting for the moment Gi-hun would be brought before him, just as he had been that first time, years ago, blindfolded, helpless, yet still carrying that presence that had always commanded his attention. The image stirred something deep and possessive in him, a reminder that fate had brought them back to this point, and this time, he would not let go. Even if his omega remained stubborn, unchanged by all that he witnessed participating in the games, a system that revealed the truth of humanity, not once but twice, he would not let him go nor their unborn children. He would be changed by the end of this; by the time they emerged from this twisted game of theirs, he would make sure of it.
The Officer radioed, "Sir, Player 456 is ready.”
“Let him in,” In-ho said at once. He drained the last of his whiskey in one swallow, the glass chiming softly as the ice shifted. A strange mist pricked at his vision, and he blinked it away with a quick frown. By the time he rose and set his mask in place, the emotion had been buried beneath steel once more.
Then In-ho stood as the door opened, and there at the end of the lacquer-dark hallway stood Gi-hun, and from beneath his mask his breath caught, lips parting soundlessly. Blindfolded with white lace, Gi-hun looked like a groomless bride draped in ghostly white satin and lace, the bodice molded to his frame accommodating the roundness of his belly and the sheer bell sleeves spilling like mist, the high-cut skirt revealing a flash of garter that turned the softness of the gown into something quietly defiant.
For a moment, Gi-hun lingered there as the door shut behind him, the faint click echoing in the stillness. Then he began to walk forward, measured steps bringing him to a stop just before the alpha. His hand lifted between them, palm open.
“If you still insist I be blindfolded,” Gi-hun said coolly, his voice even but stripped of any warmth, “Then at least lead me where to sit.”
In-ho rose without a word, taking Gi-hun by the hand, the smooth black leather of his glove closing firmly over the pale skin of his omega’s fingers. His touch was steady and deliberate, guiding him across the room with the quiet certainty of someone who had no intention of letting go. He helped Gi-hun into the chair opposite his own, lowering him with a faint, careful pressure before taking his seat across from him.
As if on cue, a circle-masked guard entered, placing an ornate silver tray on the table between them. A porcelain teapot, white with black edges, gleamed under the light, flanked by two delicate cups. The steam that curled from the spout carried the rich, earthy scent of rooibos, chosen deliberately because In-ho had read it was gentle and nourishing for expecting omegas. The guard bowed and withdrew, the door shutting behind them.
In-ho reached for the pot, his movements slow and unhurried, the liquid streaming into one of the waiting cups in a thin ribbon of amber. “But first—tea,” He said, the faintest thread of warmth threading through his voice though undetected through the modulator in his mask. “How do you take yours? I have honey, sugar, milk, and lemon.”
“A little honey,” Gi-hun replied after a moment, his tone giving nothing away.
In-ho set the teapot down, taking up the small crystal honeypot. He dipped the silver spoon, the honey clinging thick and golden before it slid off in slow, glistening ribbons into the tea. Then he lifted the cup on its saucer and leaned forward toward his omega, making certain his hands fully enclosed it before releasing his grip.
“Careful,” In-ho murmured, his voice almost softer now. “It’s hot. Blow on it first.”
Gi-hun tilted his head slightly toward In-ho, the layered white lace blindfold casting a gauzy veil over his face. Even without sight, his pomegranate-pink lips parted, trembling faintly as he took the teacup into his hands. For a heartbeat he sat still, holding it as though to follow the instruction, but then, abruptly, he set the teacup back onto its saucer with a soft clink. One hand came to rest protectively over the swell of his stomach, the other rising, groping hesitantly forward until his fingertips brushed the cold, sharp angles of his mask.
“Y… Young-il?” The name broke from Gi-hun on a breath, shaky and thin, as though dredged from somewhere deep.
In-ho froze, his own cup slipping from his grasp. It shattered against the floor in a spray of porcelain, the hot tea bleeding across the polished surface. For a long moment he did not move, the name echoing in his mind like a distant bell tolling in the fog.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun repeated, more certain now, his fingertips pressing lightly as though to anchor himself to the shape beneath.
That was when In-ho moved, swift and decisive, his hand shooting out to seize his omega by the wrist, halting him before he could push further against the mask. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb brushing just once against the inside of his wrist, feeling the faint, quickened pulse beneath his skin.
“I can’t… I can’t scent you." Gi-hun whispered, and that sweet dalgona scent poured from him, an overwhelmingly, almost sickly-sweet perfume that clung to the air, making his head ache. “Y-Young-il, please—”
“Stop,” In-ho said, his tone cutting through the haze with the edge of command. It was not shouted, but it landed with the weight of finality. His gloved hand tightened fractionally on his wrist, holding him in place, not to harm but to keep him from closing that last, dangerous distance between them.
This was not how it was meant to happen. Gi-hun was not supposed to know yet. The reveal was meant to come from In-ho now, the moment had slipped from his grasp, and with it, control threatened to follow.
“Can we take these off now… Young-il?” Gi-hun asked quietly, the question wrapping itself around the name like it was something sacred. His pink lips looked almost too lovely framed by the veil of white lace, and the cast on his arm, ugly, medical, jarring, seemed even harsher against the soft satin and lace he wore. He lifted the casted arm slightly, gesturing toward the blindfold.
“How did you—” In-ho began, his voice catching on the question.
But Gi-hun did not let him finish. He began to hum, low and almost tentative, the melody threading between them like a shared memory. Then, soft as breath, his omega sang:
“Fill my heart with song.
Let me sing forevermore.
You are all I long for.
All I worship and adore.”
The words hung there, intimate and unshakable, their weight more dangerous than any demand.
Behind the mask, In-ho shut his eyes, letting the sound curl through him like smoke, warm at first, then suffocating. He hated how much he loved it, how the melody, wrapped in the voice of his omega, seemed to bypass every barrier he had so carefully built over the years. It was such a small thread, so loose and thin, he never thought his omega would notice it; it should have gone unseen. After all, the connection was fragile at best: a song he had played years ago during their first round together, nothing more than background noise to most, and a melody he had later hummed under his breath to his unconscious omega in another life entirely. Yet here it was now, plucked from obscurity and laid bare between them.
For In-ho, it was never just a song. It was the weight of a hundred moments pressed into a single melody. His wedding song. The one he had swayed to with his wife, her hands resting over his heart, her laughter warm in his ear. The one he had hummed in a hospital room bathed in sterile light, lying beside her and rubbing slow, steady circles into the slight curve of her belly, holding onto the fragile promise of a future that had seemed so certain. And then, after they died, it had become something else.
A cruel ritual. In-ho played it during the games, letting it drift from the speakers in his quarters while the feed showed strangers bleeding and begging for their lives. A bitter echo of what he had lost. It was the melody the alpha had held onto because it hurt, because it reminded him why he had let everything that was once good and warm inside him calcify into something cold, unyielding, and unrecognizable. The song was a tether to the moment he had turned to stone, a moment as final and suffocating as the mask he wore. It had been easier to become this than to feel the absence of what he could never get back.
“Stop it,” In-ho snarled at last, the modulator in his mask twisting the sound into something almost animalistic. Only then did he notice the vise-like grip he still had on his wrist. He released it abruptly, the absence of his hold almost as startling as the force had been.
Gi-hun did not flinch. His omega tilted his head slightly, the lace blindfold shifting with the motion, as though he was listening for something in the silence that followed. His breathing was steady, and there was something unyielding in the way he held himself as he repeated,”Can we take these off now?”
When In-ho gave no answer, Gi-hun moved on his own. His casted arm lifted awkwardly, fingers finding the ties of the blindfold and tugging until the knot gave way. The strip of white lace slipped down his face and fell soundlessly to the ground. His omega blinked against the light, those guileless, deep brown eyes fixing on In-ho’s masked face without hesitation, without fear. His scent lingered sweet and warm in the air, not curdling with anger or souring with betrayal, still steady, still open.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun said at last, the name soft but certain. “No… but that’s not your real name, is it?” His gaze searched the black lenses of the mask, unwavering. “Is your real name… In-ho? Hwang In-ho?”
Now In-ho froze, the name hitting him with the precision of a blade sliding between armor plates, finding its mark. Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed, the muscle along his jaw tightening until it ached. The air seemed to shift, and though he remained utterly still, the room was suddenly smaller, the space between them charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
The tense silence in the space, now practically crackling with energy, was all the confirmation Gi-hun needed. He gave a single, knowing nod. “Your brother’s looking for you.”
“Impressive,” In-ho said at last, his tone low and edged with something that was not quite admiration and not quite threatening. “Most would waste the time licking their wounds, but you’ve been unraveling threads, Player 456.”
“Don’t call me that,” Gi-hun snapped, the first flicker of real anger sparking in his tone. For a moment, it colored the air between them, his scent taking on that burnt-sugar bitterness before sweetening again. “Not you.”
“Gi-hun, then,” In-ho amended, the name slipping past his tongue with a weight it had never carried before, and behind the mask he could feel the danger of it settling into his chest.
“I think we’re beyond ‘Player 456’ and the ‘Front Man’ now,” Gi-hun said, his voice softer but laced with unshakable conviction. Both hands came to rest on the swell of his stomach, a deliberate motion that was less a gesture and more a quiet challenge as he held his gaze through the black lenses of the mask. “Aren’t we?”
Then, with slow precision, In-ho reached behind his head, pushing back the dark hood until his neatly gelled brown hair caught the light. His fingers moved to the clasps of his mask, unfastening them with a quiet click.At first, the alpha kept his head low, the sharp planes of his face hidden in shadow. Then, with deliberate precision, he lifted his gaze, meeting his eyes without the mask. The sight was an intimacy in itself, one that belonged to no audience, no game, and no title. Just them.
In-ho set the mask aside on the table, the faint click of it meeting the surface loud in the quiet. “Gi-hun,” He said, the name bare now, unmodulated, and so much more dangerous for it. “We have a lot to discuss.”
In-ho had braced himself for the eruption, prepared for the sharp crack of porcelain against the wall, the glittering spray of shards hurled with the precision of someone who wanted to draw blood. He had readied himself for the venom of shouted accusations, for the whip of anger lashing across the narrow space between them. He knew his omega was capable of it. He had seen that fire before, banked but dangerous.
But instead, Gi-hun only stared at In-ho. Those wide, deep brown eyes glistened, the sheen of unshed tears catching the light in a way that made them seem more fragile than furious. He did not raise his voice. He did not reach for anything to throw. He simply rose from his chair, every movement deliberate, his gaze never leaving his. The stillness in him was unnerving, quiet where there should have been chaos, soft where there should have been sharpness.
“Can’t I scent you too?” Gi-hun asked, his tone almost gentle, the kind of gentleness that drew the ear closer rather than pushing it away. Then, with only the faintest shift of breath, he added, “Would you conceal that from me too?”
It was then that In-ho remembered the scent suppressors, three-layered patches, their adhesive edges sticky against his skin, hidden beneath the collar of his jacket. He had worn them as armor, the sterile, chemical barrier keeping his presence muted, denying his omega the most primal confirmation of who he was. The alpha rose without breaking eye contact, his gloved hand sliding beneath his collar. One by one, he peeled away the patches. They came off with a faint, tacky pull, the air catching a trace of the synthetic chemical tang before it dissipated.
And then his alpha scent broke free, hesitant at first, like it was testing the air. The warm, husky undertone of whiskey poured into a glass, the faint paper-and-ink familiarity of an old, dog-eared book opened by firelight. It curled between them in slow, cautious tendrils, as if aware of how much it was revealing. But the longer the alpha stood there holding his gaze, the stronger it grew. It deepened, rich and undeniable, the whiskey darkening, the paper scent warming as though the book had been left on a sunlit windowsill. It filled the space between them until there was nothing sterile left, only the truth of him, bare and unshielded.
In-ho had not expected the sudden rush of contact, one moment, they were locked in that heavy, unblinking stare, and the next, Gi-hun was closing the distance with a stumble that felt almost unplanned yet landed with unerring precision. His omega brought his hands up to frame his face, fingers curling as though they had been waiting for this exact moment. The kiss was immediate, unhesitating, deep, drawn-out, and raw in its hunger, his mouth parting with a needy whimper that vibrated against his lips.
In-ho slid his eyes shut, a low, strained sound escaping him before he could stop it, the kind of sound that came from a place deeper than reason. His arms went around his omega instinctively, encasing him in a hold that was both protective and possessive, pulling him flush against the breadth of his chest as though proximity alone could make up for all the distance that had existed between them until now. He felt the solid, precious weight of their unborn children between them, and his touch gentled immediately, one broad hand sliding to cradle the swell of his belly, palm spread over it with care, thumb brushing a slow, reverent stroke as if memorizing the curve.
When they finally broke for breath, Gi-hun made a sound half-whimper, half-sigh. “Alpha,” His omega breathed, the word soft but steeped in need, in claim, in something that sank hotly into his chest like a brand.
“Omega,” In-ho panted back, the word raw in his throat, still holding him close as if the idea of letting go had become unthinkable. He lowered his head, the tip of his nose brushing the delicate skin over his scent gland in a touch so reverent it was almost worship. His omega scent was so thick and sweet it was nearly dizzying, like caramelized sugar at its richest point, deep and golden, laced with the soft creaminess of warm milk, an indulgence both sinful and comforting all at once.
He drew in another breath, greedily, the air heavy with it, and it coiled low in his gut until his knees threatened to buckle. It was overwhelming, the way the sweetness rolled over him, saturating every thought, every breath, making the animal part of him want to kneel right there and lose himself in it completely. His lips parted, breath catching, and the words came out like an admission he could not swallow back. “Omega… my omega… Fuck, you smell so sweet…”
“In-ho… alpha… I was so scared,” Gi-hun whimpered, his voice trembling just enough to sound fragile, yet warm enough to invite. “None of it matters—none of it—so long as you’re here, here with me, with us. I need you… don’t leave me… please. I don’t care about anything else anymore. What you did, what you’ve done, what you will do—I just want you—”
There was no further hesitation. Without a word, In-ho lifted Gi-hun into his arms as though he weighed nothing, the rounded swell of his stomach cradled instinctively, protectively, against him. Crossing the room in long, unbroken strides, he brought his omega to the bed and set him down with a care that was almost contradictory to the hunger in his chest. The alpha climbed over him, caging him in, not to trap, but to shield, to make the world beyond this bed irrelevant.
“I’m here. I’m here. You have me." In-ho murmured, his voice gone low and unguarded, his head dipping close as though he could lose himself entirely in the scent that still clung heavy in the air.
In-ho had braced himself for the inevitable, for anger sharpened into words meant to cut, for the shattering of trust into a thousand jagged edges he would have to gather and smooth over time. He had expected hatred, tears, even the quiet, bone-deep withdrawal of someone who would rather harden into stone than forgive or forget, as he himself had done.
He had not expected this.
But he had needed it.
To be loved. To be accepted. To be seen without question.
In-ho lowered himself further, bracing his weight carefully so as not to press too heavily against the curve of his belly, his mouth brushing his with a kiss that was slow and deliberate, the kind that let him taste every ounce of that impossible sweetness. The scent that rose from his omega filled his head until there was no room left for strategy or restraint, only the pull of something older and far more dangerous than reason. His hand moved to rest over his heavy, rounded stomach, splayed wide, feeling the life stirring there beneath the soft white lace. He wanted to tell his omega things, promises, truths, the confession of how long he had wanted this, but the words tangled somewhere behind his teeth. All that left his mouth was a low, reverent, “Mine.”
“Yes,” Gi-hun whispered, and the sound went through In-ho like a live current, stealing the breath from his lungs. His arms tightened instinctively around every part of his omega he touched, a possessive pull that drew his omega flush to his body. He bowed his head, pressing his face into the warm slope of his neck, inhaling greedily.
That scent, sweet, cloying, and impossibly rich, poured onto In-ho, and he groaned low in his throat as it changed, deepened, and the sugar-dark heat of arousal curled beneath the surface. He scented it as his omega became more aroused; his pheromones sharpened, blooming with a promise that made every muscle in his body tense with wanting. His nostrils flared, and the faint, telltale edge of slick reached his senses, subtle but undeniable, an intimate heat that seemed to cling to the air between them. He could imagine it dampening his thighs, a silent invitation that pressed harder against the fraying edges of his control.
The alpha in In-ho surged up, demanding, claiming, and desperate to answer that call. His mouth grazed the line of his scent gland, his breath warm against the delicate skin there, barely holding himself back from biting down and sealing what instinct told him should have been claimed long ago.
“Alpha,” Gi-hun whimpered again, and when their mouths met once more, it was soft, achingly so. In-ho groaned into it like it was salvation, his hands framing his face as though afraid he might vanish.
“Omega. My omega,” In-ho rasped the words, a confession, a claim, and a plea all at once. “You know now—you understand—all of it, everything—”
“I do,” Gi-hun murmured, stroking his fingers through his gelled hair, cradling the side of his head with such tender finality it almost broke him. “It’s okay. It’s alright.” His voice lowered to a hush, so close to his ear it felt like it was inside him. “Shh… it’s alright. I know now. I understand, alpha.”
That was all it took for something in In-ho to crack. The strength in his arms wavered, and the alpha sank down further, almost bowing over his omega, one hand splayed over the swell of his belly, the other braced beside his head. The alpha could imagine nothing but pressing his advantage, so he did, nipping at his lips, earning those soft, breathy pants that made his head swim. He wanted to strip his omega bare, to press his mouth to every inch of skin, and to sink his teeth into that perfect gland so that no one could ever doubt who he belonged to. He wanted to move with him, to join their bodies until there was no space left to breathe, to fill him and fill him again until there was no room for anything but him.
“It was for you, for them,” In-ho found himself babbling, his voice gone rough, the words tumbling out without the polish he usually wielded. “You had to see, to understand—” That intoxicating sweetness in the air loosened his tongue and melted him down to something unguarded and raw. He felt flushed, his skin prickling under the collar of his jacket, and without thinking, his fingers went to the buttons, working them loose in short, breathless motions.
Gi-hun gazed up at him with those wide brown eyes, the pupils blown so far they were almost black. His lips were swollen and kiss-bitten, his neck flushed and marked in places where his mouth had lingered. Dark curls were mussed from his fingers, the disarray making him look all the more like something precious and claimed. His omega tilted his head slightly, the motion deceptively submissive.
“I do, alpha,” Gi-hun murmured, voice low and honeyed, his hands resting over the curve of his belly like a seal to the bond the alpha so desperately wanted. “I see now. I understand—the games, the people there… even our little makeshift pack…”
Then, it hit. Gi-hun stared at In-ho, his throat bared to expose his scent, but it was not the golden sweetness the alpha had been drowning in, but something so foul it was like a blow to the chest. Burnt sugar, black and acrid in the pan. Milk gone curdled and sour, hitting the back of his throat with a vomitous tang. The stench was violent in its wrongness, fury made manifest, shattering the fantasy the alpha had been letting himself sink into. He barely had time to register the shift before his omega lunged upward. Teeth met the side of his neck with a white-hot sting, right over his scent gland.
In-ho released a sharp, shocked gasp, the bite deep enough to draw blood, hot and wet down his skin. Pain and scent tangled in his head, and for a moment he was too stunned to move, too disoriented to process how swiftly the air between them had turned from honey to ash. By the time his senses caught up, his omega had pulled back, his chin smeared crimson. The sight was jarring against the pure white of his clothes, the blood blooming in stark, ruinous stains over lace and satin. His omega wiped his mouth with the back of his hand almost absently before settling himself upright against the pillows, a blood-smeared hand settled on his heavy, rounded belly.
"I do understand, In-ho…" Gi-hun began, his voice soft enough to sound like forgiveness, the kind of softness that made you lean in only to feel the barbs of stingers beneath the honey.
In-ho tried to move, to reach for Gi-hun, to speak, but the command of the mating bite was already sinking into his muscles, locking him down. A fog of weakness spread through his limbs, and he remembered dimly, he had read it somewhere, that a mating bite could cause full-body paralysis for hours if the biter willed it. He could only watch as his omega shifted his body with deliberate ease, laying his head on the mound of his belly, his fingers slipping into his now disheveled hair in slow, idle strokes.
“I understand,” Gi-hun continued, his voice low enough to still almost be tender, “That if this is hell… then you’re the fucking devil.”
Gi-hun had shifted on the bed just enough for the light to catch him in profile, knees drawn slightly, his bare toes curling against the dark linen. One arm hooked loosely over his bent knee, the other draped across his middle, but it was the way he angled his head, chin tilted, eyes peering upward through a spill of curls, that struck the alpha with something sharp and unnameable. A few tears finally broke free, hot tracks down his cheeks, but they did nothing to soften him.
“You… you—” In-ho managed, the words breaking apart in his throat as he felt fresh gouts of blood soaking into the fabric beneath his head.
“Shh. Don’t speak,” Gi-hun interrupted, the petting motion of his hand unchanged, that foul, furious scent still thick in the air. “You’ll need your energy, my alpha.” The possessive lilt in the words was nothing but mockery now. “We got so wrapped up in other things, we forgot to negotiate the terms of the Bonus Round—specifically, my payment.” His hand pressed deliberately into the swell of his belly, a slow, possessive curve. “I'll make this clear: I don’t want any more of your blood money. Instead, I want to free as many horses from the stables as possible.”
Notes:
Comments, kudos, and applause for Gi-hun’s Oscar-worthy performance are appreciated.
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