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He was beautiful. No other word would do.
In-ho had tried to find others—clinical ones, detached ones—to file the thought away under, to make it something explainable. But the word persisted, unwanted and heavy, curling in his mind like smoke. Beautiful. The word of poets and fools. The word of weakness.
Gi-hun lay on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, breath whispering through parted lips. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that felt almost foreign in this place—the slow, unguarded breathing of a man who had forgotten, just for a moment, to be afraid. The faint light from the piggy bank above softened further as it touched him, turning sweat and grime into something almost luminous. The lines carved into his face—the weary years, the losses, the shame—all blurred in sleep, as though the exhaustion had finally won its battle and claimed him whole.
In-ho watched, still and silent. “Young-il” was on night watch, keeping an eye on the others, keeping them safe. Not that he really needed to; his soldiers were watching closely and would intervene at the first sign of any real danger. But it gave him the opportunity to really watch Gi-hun, to trace the curve of his throat, the twitch of his jaw, the way the lines of his face smoothed. He wanted to know what Gi-hun saw behind those closed lids. Wanted to know if the ghosts in his sleep were the same ones that haunted In-ho.
It had been years—In-ho was sure of it—since Gi-hun had known rest like this. The man had carried exhaustion like a second skin since returning from his first games. And yet here, of all places, surrounded by the machinery of cruelty, he seemed strangely at peace. As if the circle had closed, as if returning to this nightmare brought a kind of clarity he couldn’t find outside it.
That thought twisted something inside In-ho—something ugly, yet almost tender.
Maybe Gi-hun felt safe because Young-il was on watch. Maybe that was why he’d allowed himself to drift off so easily, so carelessly. He already trusted him. Too much.
A mistake.
In-ho’s fingers flexed, his pulse steady and deliberate. There was power in this—watching a man sleep, knowing he couldn’t hide a thing. Stripped of his words, his charm, his desperate moral posturing, Gi-hun was just flesh and breath and fragile warmth. Humanity, in its rawest form. The kind In-ho had sworn to expose for what it was—selfish, corruptible trash.
And yet, he couldn’t look away. Because Gi-hun was different.
In-ho let his eyes wander again. The low light painted Gi-hun’s face in a mix of shadow and clarity. A short lock of hair had stuck to his forehead, held down by the faint sheen of sweat. It bothered In-ho. Irrationally so. The imperfection of it. The intimacy of noticing such a small thing. He reached out, and the tip of his finger brushed against the hair, sweeping it back and away.
Gi-hun twitched. A tiny motion—a breath catching, a muscle tightening under the skin—then rolled over onto his back. In-ho froze, every nerve sharpened as he waited for him to stir. But Gi-hun didn’t wake. His brow furrowed, then eased again, and the rhythm of his breathing returned.
In-ho exhaled soundlessly.
It was absurd, how charged the air felt—how something so small could pull at him with such force. The proximity, the faint scent of sweat and blood and something beneath it—something that belonged only to Gi-hun—it all pressed against the edge of his restraint.
The urge was impossible, immediate, and ugly, growing louder with every shallow breath. In-ho shifted forward, knees denting the sagging mattress, one hand bracing above Gi-hun’s shoulder. The bunk creaked—a sharp, fragile sound in the dark. He hesitated there, body tense, not daring to breathe. The heat between them was a living thing, crowding out logic, crowding out everything.
For a moment In-ho just hovered, watching and waiting. He could see the slow rise and fall of Gi-hun’s chest, the pulse beating just beneath the skin at his throat. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that every sense sharpened until it was almost unbearable. His own heart pounded, loud and insistent.
He could feel his own body betraying him—the heat pooling low, the sharp ache of want pulsing through his veins. The need grew by the second, raw and insistent, hollowing him out from the inside.
Carefully, almost mechanically, In-ho shifted his weight. He dragged in a shallow breath, steadying himself as he let his hips dip forward, just enough for the barest contact. The pressure was slight—a whisper of friction—not enough to satisfy, barely enough to make him shudder. His erection brushed against Gi-hun’s thigh through their layers of cloth, and the sensation exploded through him, too much and not enough all at once.
He gritted his teeth, knuckles pale where they pressed into the mattress. He couldn’t help it. He let the friction linger, slow and careful, just enough to feel the push of heat against his own skin. The urge was a living thing, shivering up his spine, burning behind his eyes. He wanted to dig in, devour, pull him closer and take—and for a moment, the possibility hung there on the knife’s edge, dangerous and electric.
That was when he noticed it: a subtle swell beneath Gi-hun’s waistband, the unmistakable weight of want even in sleep. He stared, pulse drumming wild in his ears, the rush of excitement mixing with something darker. Gi-hun’s breathing had shifted, softer now, almost restless. He was dreaming, maybe. Or maybe the body just betrayed, the way all bodies did in the end.
In-ho’s restraint frayed, one trembling thought echoing: More. He did it again. The smallest motion—a shift of hips, the ghost of friction through stifling cloth. Heat arced up his spine, raw and electric. His breath caught. The world narrowed to this: the grind of his own want against the sleeping warmth of Gi-hun’s body. Again. And again. Until the hunger inside him drowned out everything outside of the bunk. Just pressure, rhythm, a pulse of need.
Each time he pressed forward, he felt Gi-hun stiffen fractionally in sleep. A shudder, a soft hitch in his breath. The swelling beneath the waistband grew, straining at cheap cotton. The evidence of it—the helpless response, the way Gi-hun’s body betrayed him back, met his own need with silent urgency—made everything sharper. Meaner. Almost holy.
He kept going, until Gi-hun was hard and flushed in the dark, the proof of it curled against In-ho’s body.
The hunger spiked. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. His hand moved, certain and silent, sliding beneath the waistband, into heat and dampness and the frantic, urgent thud of another man’s pulse. The thin cotton clung to the shape of him, to the ache beneath, and In-ho’s fingers trembled as he closed them around the length of Gi-hun’s cock.
The shock of it was electric, dizzying, a jolt that hammered up In-ho’s forearm and set his teeth on edge. Gi-hun’s body went rigid. For one impossible second, the world held its breath.
And then Gi-hun jerked awake, a wounded gasp tearing loose, raw and involuntary. His hips bucked. Confusion warred with pleasure in his eyes, mouth open on a word that wouldn’t form. In-ho didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
“Young-il?” Gi-hun gasped, his hand immediately reaching down to close around In-ho’s wrist, to stop him. “What are you—?
“You saved my life today, Gi-hun,” In-ho whispered, the lie falling easily from his lips. “I have to repay you for that. I noticed you—in your sleep—your needs. I thought, while everyone was asleep… I want to do this Gi-hun. To make you happy.”
He said it like a promise, soft and certain. A debt that had to be paid, here and now. Gi-hun shuddered, his body caught in some purgatory between panic and pleasure, the line blurred and wavering. His breath hitched. He tried to twist away, but it was feeble, half-hearted, the grip on In-ho’s wrist tightening and then faltering, as if he couldn’t decide which way to pull.
“Young-il, you really—you don’t have to…” The protest was thin, trembling, and oh-so easy to ignore.
In-ho’s hand moved again, steady and relentless, working Gi-hun’s cock with a slow, clinical pressure. Up and down, palm slick with sweat and heat. It wasn’t gentle, not really, but it wasn’t cruel, either. Just transactional. Mechanical. A service rendered in the dark.
Gi-hun’s hips jerked in spite of himself, shame twisting through every motion. “Your wife…” he began, but In-ho cut him off.
“Shhh, it’s ok. She’d understand. I need to.”
He didn’t wait for another protest. The words were pointless now, burned away by the heat gnawing in his gut. In-ho let go of Gi-hun’s cock just long enough to shove the cotton pants down, rough and impatient, until the length of him spilled free, flushed and swollen and leaking in the dark.
He bent low, not thinking, just acting, the hunger knocking everything else aside. “Stay quiet,” he whispered.
His mouth pressed to the head, tongue slick and eager, and the taste was salt and sweat and something uniquely him. He took Gi-hun in slowly, letting his lips slide down the shaft, feeling it throb against his tongue, filling his mouth until there was nothing left but the ache and the need.
Gi-hun gasped—a sharp, helpless sound. His hips jerked, chasing the heat, body frantic against the cold air. In-ho swallowed him deeper, lips tight, jaw working to draw out every shudder, every twitch of helpless want. Gi-hun clamped a hand over his mouth, desperate to stifle the sounds that could betray them. But the noise still escaped—a strangled sob, wet and stark in the dark. The kind of sound a man made when the pain finally broke him, or when the pleasure did. There wasn’t much difference anymore.
In-ho didn’t look up. He let his mouth work, relentless, steady, refusing even the smallest shred of mercy. His hand squeezed at the base, thumb pressing hard, claiming every inch, every tremor. He wanted to leave Gi-hun no room to think, no room to remember anything except this—the heat, the pressure, the slow obliteration of self. He swallowed him deeper, hollowing his cheeks, letting the salt and desperation coat his tongue until it blotted out every other sense.
Gi-hun tried to twist away, hips jerking, heels digging into the mattress for purchase, but In-ho’s grip was iron. He pinned Gi-hun easily, not bothering to hide the force of it, shoving the man down until he went rigid. Another sob, muffled by Gi-hun’s own hand. The rest was pure pleasure: the tremor in his thighs, the way his cock throbbed helplessly inside In-ho’s mouth, all restraint burning away in the dark.
He came suddenly, a sharp, desperate pulse of heat. It hit the back of In-ho’s throat, bitter and slick, but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he held himself tighter there, swallowing as it spilled out, refusing to waste a drop. He could feel Gi-hun shuddering, hips bucking up into the pressure, the climax wrung out of him in slow, broken waves.
For a moment, nothing moved. The only sound was Gi-hun’s breathing, hoarse and ragged. He hardly had time to twist away before In-ho’s hand landed on his collarbone, just below the hollow of his throat, pinning him. Not hard. Not cruel. Just inescapable. The kind of grip that said, don’t run.
He didn’t.
Gi-hun froze beneath him, pulse thrumming wild against In-ho’s palm. The line of his throat flexed, jaw clenched, a muscle twitching just under the skin. All around them, the dark pressed in close. Sweat dripped down In-ho’s spine, hot and unreal.
He held Gi-hun there, pinning him, while slowly, with the other hand, he dragged his own pants down over his hips. The fabric caught at his thighs, rough and clammy, but he forced it lower, exposing himself to the stale air. There was no hiding how hard he was—the ache of it, swollen and urgent, already leaking against his own fist.
He let Gi-hun see it. Let the anticipation fill the air between them, thick and impossible to ignore.
Gi-hun’s gaze tracked downward. For a second he just stared, jaw tense. Then he nodded, once, shaky but real. Yes.
In-ho released him.
Gi-hun didn't move for a moment. Then his tongue darted out, wetting his lips. His eyes found In-ho's in the darkness—no longer confused, but clear with decision. When In-ho straddled him, Gi-hun's hands came up to grip his thighs, steadying him as his weight settled on the mattress.
In-ho caught Gi-hun's chin, thumb dragging across his bottom lip. Gi-hun's mouth opened in response, not waiting to be asked. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, taking In-ho into his mouth before In-ho could even line himself up. The heat enveloped him, sudden and electric.
Gi-hun set the pace at first—eager, almost hungry—his tongue working against the underside as he took In-ho deeper. His hands moved from In-ho's thighs to his hips, guiding him forward, urging him on. When In-ho's hips began to roll, Gi-hun matched the rhythm, his throat relaxing to accommodate him.
They moved together, finding a shared cadence in the darkness. In-ho watched Gi-hun's face transform with each thrust. The flush spreading across his cheekbones looked something like determination. His eyes stayed open, locked on In-ho's, refusing to look away even as his breath came in ragged bursts between them.
The sounds Gi-hun made were deliberate, appreciative, a low hum of pleasure that vibrated through In-ho's core. One hand left In-ho's hip to reach around and grab his ass, pulling him in even deeper..
It was this—the thought of Gi-hun being so desperate to please, that finally broke In-ho's control. Heat coiled tight in his gut, electricity racing up his spine. Gi-hun sensed it coming, his movements growing more insistent, more demanding. He drove in, deeper, all restraint snapped. Gi-hun’s mouth clamped tight, lips sealing around him. Every desperate, ugly sound was swallowed. In-ho felt the heat coil in his gut, searing up his spine, until the urge broke him wide open. He came hard—the kind of release that left his vision white at the edges, every muscle rigid, his hand locked in Gi-hun’s hair.
And Gi-hun didn’t waste a drop. Not one. He swallowed everything, the salt, the bitter edge, the proof of In-ho’s hunger. The suction, the hollow of his cheeks, the frantic, automatic movement of his throat—it was perfect.
When it was over, In-ho just hung there, shivering, his pulse ragged and wild, Gi-hun’s lips still pressed to the base, refusing to let a single thing escape.
For a long moment, they just stayed like that. Neither of them moved. Gi-hun’s mouth was slick and hot, while In-ho’s pulse hammered at his temples, sweat prickling cold along his spine.
He pulled out slowly, letting the last shudder run through him, dragging the heat with it. Gi-hun didn’t tear his eyes away; he swallowed hard, his breathing ragged and uneven. That lock of hair had once more stuck to his forehead and with a gentle touch, In-ho swiped it away.
Not breaking eye contact, he tucked himself away, the motions neat and methodical. He wiped the sweat from his lip with the back of his hand. The need was still there—he wasn’t entirely sure he would ever be free from the coil of tension under the skin—but the edge of it was blunted and manageable now.
Gi-hun’s breathing had steadied again, but the air between them still felt charged.
In-ho hesitated, then lowered himself onto the mattress beside Gi-hun. The springs creaked beneath their combined weight. He stretched out beside him so there was no space left between them, so he could feel the heat radiating from Gi-hun's skin, the faint brush of his exhale against his neck.
Gi-hun's eyes were still open, glassy with exhaustion. When In-ho reached up to cup the side of his face, something shifted in that gaze—surprise, then a fragile relief. Without speaking, Gi-hun's hand moved up, fingers brushing against In-ho's wrist. The touch was tentative, barely there. In-ho didn't pull away.
For several heartbeats, they lay like that, connected by that point of contact. It should have felt wrong, but it didn't. Not entirely.
In-ho told himself this was strategy—that the softness was calculated, that every gesture had purpose. The lie sat bitter on his tongue.
"Go back to sleep," In-ho said finally, his voice low.
Gi-hun's lips parted as if to speak, then simply closed. His fingers tightened once around In-ho's wrist before letting go. “Wake me when you want me to take over,” he whispered, before his eyes fluttered shut.
In-ho stayed where he was, watching as Gi-hun drifted back into an uneasy half-sleep. The faintest smile ghosted across his face—not joy, not tenderness exactly, but satisfaction threaded with something darker.
He’d touched him. Finally crossed the line he’d wanted to cross long ago. The feel of him still burned on his lips—not with passion, but with proof. Proof that Gi-hun was breakable.
And yet, beneath that calculation, something restless stirred—the faint pulse of something he tried desperately to ignore; an unwelcome combination of guilt and the realisation that maybe there was something still human within him too.
He pushed it away. And when Gi-hun finally stilled, In-ho leaned closer again, just enough to whisper the lie he’d already chosen to believe.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, the words soft as breath.
Then he sat back, eyes open, awake long into the night—guarding what he’d already begun to ruin.
***
The rebellion ended faster than it began.
It didn’t take long until the floor was slick with failure—the metallic smell of mixed blood and gunpowder still hanging in the air when the last body hit the ground. Order had been restored.
And Young-il was dead. The mask had been reclaimed, the uniform restored, the lie folded neatly back into place. The Frontman lived again, untouchable and unseen.
Now, in the dim silence of his private suite, In-ho stood by the bed and looked down at Gi-hun.
He was still unconscious, the pulse in his throat slow and stubborn. A bruise was beginning to bloom along his temple, dark against the pallor of his skin. He looked smaller somehow, stripped of the righteous fury he’d carried only hours ago.
For a moment, In-ho had considered sending him back to the player dormitory as a warning to the other players. Instead, he’d had brought Gi-hun here, to the quiet heart of the facility.
He thought of the whispered lie he had made to Gi-hun. The one telling him he was safe. Safe from the games, perhaps. In-ho would never let him die here. But safe from hiim?
Never.
Now it was just the two of them.
He watched the slow drag of Gi-hun’s breathing, the faint hitch of it every few seconds. The sound was the same as before—uneven, human—but everything else had changed. The illusion of equality was gone.
Now Gi-hun was nothing but possibility. Laid out and helpless, jaw slack, pulse fluttering at his throat—a body reduced to its most basic function: survive.
In-ho’s mind raced through every option, sharp and clinical. He could cut the clothes away, run cold hands over every bruise, every scar. Leave marks that would last days, weeks, years, if he wanted. Strip away the last shreds of dignity and watch what crawled out. He could drag Gi-hun upright by the collar and make him kneel, force him to look up and listen, really listen, as he explained the rules of this new world. He could press a knee to Gi-hun’s chest, pin him there, watch the panic and recognition flicker behind half-lidded eyes when he woke.
He could be gentle, too. Trace the lines of Gi-hun’s face with a thumb, memorize how trust died and something uglier took its place. He could trace the faint tremor that ran through Gi-hun’s body, study it the way a scientist studies a specimen, cataloguing the exact moment when fear became recognition. He could let Gi-hun see the mask before the man behind it, make him understand that mercy and control are sometimes the same thing. He could offer comfort just long enough for it to hurt when he took it away.
There were a thousand ways to remake a man.
He already had begun to. His mind drifted to the Mingle game. He thought about the terror in Gi-hun’s eyes when they were separated, and the all-consuming relief in them when Gi-hun saw that he was safe. Their tryst the night before had clearly settled in Gi-hun’s bones, made him rely on Young-il as more than an ally, more than a friend. His years of loneliness had made him susceptible to latching onto even the slightest positive attention. The memory of last night’s surrender lingered in every line of his face.
A strange pride twisted in his chest at the thought that he had affected Gi-hun so rapidly. It was almost pathetic, the level of yearning their one night together had triggered. As if Gi-hun had been starving for touch and approval for so long that the smallest scrap sent him spiraling. Just a single night’s warmth, and he had become wound around Young-il’s presence like a vine around a post.
The memory of Gi-hun’s touch stuck to him like sweat, impossible to shake loose. The shape of him on that mattress. The softness of his mouth, the heat of him, the way he’d clung even after everything was stripped away. He couldn’t forget it. Didn’t want to. Not when Gi-hun was right there, splayed out and helpless and so obscenely beautiful it made something in In-ho’s chest twist. It was impossible not to want him.
He reached for Gi-hun without hesitation now, hands steady and carefull. There was nothing to stop him. Every instinct screamed for caution, for calculation. Instead, all he felt was hunger. He curled his fingers around Gi-hun’s jaw, forcing slack lips apart, watching for any twitch of response. Nothing.
He stripped Gi-hun fast and methodically, peeling away the blood and sweat-soaked tracksuit. The skin underneath was damp, salt-sheened, and scattered with bruises. Each motion jostled Gi-hun’s slack limbs, but he didn’t flinch. Whatever they’d injected into his veins, it had done its job with brutal efficiency. He was dead weight, limp and yielding, breath hissing softly between slack lips.
In-ho pressed a palm to Gi-hun’s chest, savouring the faint, stubborn thump of his heart, while his eyes roamed over and catalogued every inch. The bruises scattered across Gi-hun’s ribs, mapping out the violence he had been subjected to in purple and blue. The line of his throat, exposed and defenseless, bobbing with each ragged inhale.
He wanted all of it. The aftermath. The mess. Not a word had been spoken, but it didn’t matter. This was the shape of surrender.
He climbed onto the bed. The frame creaked under his weight, springs groaning in protest. He didn’t bother with ceremony. Didn’t undress. He just shoved his pants down enough to free himself, cock flushed and leaking, the ache of it almost painful.
He took Gi-hun’s hips in both hands, angling him up, not gentle but not savage either. Gi-hun’s body was still limp and unresisting. The drugs made sure of that. In-ho pushed two slick fingers inside, forcing the muscle to yield, working them in shallow, steady pulses. The resistance gave way, slow at first, then easier, the heat of Gi-hun’s body swallowing him deeper each time.
He watched the small twitches in Gi-hun’s thighs. No sound. No protest. Just the quiet, animal shiver of a body adapting to whatever was demanded of it. In-ho’s other hand gripped Gi-hun’s hip, pinning him down, holding him right where he wanted. He added a third finger, twisting relentlessly, until he felt Gi-hun loosen around him, stretched open and slick and ready to take more.
With a deep, steadyig breath, he pressed his cock against Gi-hun’s hole and pushed inside slowly, letting the heat swallow him bit by bit. The pressure was unreal, a sensation so sharp it almost numbed him. For a moment, he just held there, hips pressed tight, marvelling at how Gi-hun’s body accommodated him. As if Gi-hun had been made for him and him alone. He drove in deeper, the stretch of it brutal and perfect.
The slick sound of it filled the air. Sweat beaded down In-ho’s spine, pooling in the hollow of his back and soaking into the cotton of his shirt, every muscle straining just to keep control. The rhythm came easily—the steady grind of flesh on flesh, Gi-hun’s limp thighs forced up and apart, every thrust shoving the breath out of him.
He buried himself to the hilt. And then he did it again. And again.
There was no resistance. Only heat, only the wet slap of skin against skin and the shudder that ran through Gi-hun’s body, pulsing up from where In-ho drove into him. The sheets bunched beneath Gi-hun’s hips, soaking up sweat and blood and pre-cum. In-ho gripped tight, thumbs digging deep into bruised flesh, and set the pace—a steady, grinding rhythm that erased all thought.
He barely registered the details anymore. The world had boiled down to this: the flex of muscle under his hands, the slow, bruised shudder of Gi-hun’s body with every rough drive forward. Each thrust hollowed him out and filled him at once, as Gi-hun’s head lolled helplessly against the mattress, his jaw slack.
It was the sight of that face—the peace of it, careless and unaware, even now—that twisted the excitement sharp in In-ho’s gut. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. The mouth half-open, lips parted in a soundless gasp. The bruises blooming down his throat, proof of the violence already done, and each time In-ho pushed deeper, Gi-hun’s body spasmed, a pulse of motion that made the need inside him spike.
He wanted all of it. To ruin the quiet softness, and see what would be left. Every part of him wanted to freeze this moment—to memorize the hollow of Gi-hun’s throat, the way his lips parted with each ragged inhale, the soft, unconscious furrow in his brow. It made In-ho feel invincible. Godlike. Every thrust sharpened the want, made it coil tighter, until the sight of Gi-hun’s sleeping face made him snap.
The release was brutal, ripping through him in a single, blinding rush. For a second, he thought he might black out. His whole body went rigid, locked in place, every muscle straining with the force of it. The heat pulsed out of him, thick and raw, and he drove in deep, needing every last inch. The world blurred to nothing but this—the shudder, the helpless peace in Gi-hun’s expression, the slick grip of his body, the profane, animal satisfaction of winning.
Afterward, everything went quiet. The silence almost rang.
In-ho slumped forward, collapsing into the heat of Gi-hun’s body. Sweat soaked his shirt, stuck them together, and for a long moment he just lay there. Breathing him in. The scent of salt, blood, and something underneath it all—a sweetness, faint but real. He pressed his face into Gi-hun’s shoulder and let the warmth bleed into him as he pressed a series of soft, tender kisses along the lines of Gi-hun’s neck. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”He stayed like that for a while, heart hammering, sweat cooling across his back. He didn’t want to move. Not yet. The heat of Gi-hun’s skin, the slow, uneasy thud of his pulse, still pressed close, so much more real than anything else.
Eventually, the rush drained out of him, leaving only a dull ache in his limbs and a hollow, pulsing satisfaction in his chest. He dragged in a ragged breath. Forced his body into motion. The fabric of his pants was damp, clinging to his skin as he pulled them back up, every movement deliberate and slow.
With steady hands, he worked Gi-hun’s bruised body back into the tracksuit. He was gentle, almost loving, smoothing the sleeves, tugging the zipper so it wouldn’t catch on raw skin. When he finished, he ran a thumb across Gi-hun’s brow, smiling down at him with a possessive ache.
He picked up the mask that was waiting for him on the side table, hiding his identity once again, then reached for the metal cuffs.
They were cold and heavy in his hand. He dragged Gi-hun’s wrists together and for a second Gi-hun’s fingers twitched, some last ragged instinct, but he didn’t wake. Not yet.
The handcuffs snapped shut with a clean, mechanical click. No drama. No ceremony. Just the sound of inevitability. He looped the chain around the bars of the bedframe, double-checking it, making sure there was no room for slack, no hope of cleverness or escape, and snapped the other cuff around his other wrist. Gi-hun’s arms stretched above his head, locked in place, body sprawled and helpless against the sheets.
That was it. The final touch. He sat back to watch.
Time ticked out, slow and deliberate. In-ho waited, barely breathing, as Gi-hun's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven scrapes.
The first sign was a flutter—eyelids twitching, stuck with sweat. In-ho leaned forward, transfixed by the gradual awakening. Gi-hun's throat worked, a painful swallow that looked like it took real effort. His face contorted, brows drawing together as consciousness returned, bringing pain with it. A testament to what In-ho had done.
When Gi-hun tried to move, In-ho's pulse quickened. He watched the exact moment realization struck—the way Gi-hun's muscles tensed, testing the restraints, finding no give. The raw sound that caught in his throat sent a thrill down In-ho's spine.
Chained. Helpless. His.
Gi-hun jerked upright, or tried to. In-ho savoured the way the cuffs bit into his wrists, forcing him back. He could read the shock in every line of Gi-hun's body—the animal panic, the desperate, futile fight against metal that wouldn't yield.
“Don’t struggle, Player 456,” In-ho said, his voice unrecognisable through the mask’s modulator.
Gi-hun's head snapped toward him, pupils dilating to black pools in bloodshot whites as he realised his enemy was so close. A strangled sound tore from his throat as he thrashed against the restraints, metal biting into raw flesh until crimson beaded along his wrists.
“You have been eliminated from this year’s games.”
“Eliminated?” Gi-hun repeated, his voice cracked and harsh.
In-ho tilted his head, the black glass eyes of the mask reflecting Gi-hun's fury and terror back at him “That is correct. Congratulations on being the only player in the games’ history to still be alive following elimination.”
Gi-hun’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “You killed Jung-bae,” he spat. “Why not me? Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Because, Player 456, you belong to me.”
He watched it land. The words. The realization. Saw the flicker as Gi-hun’s gaze dragged over his own body, taking inventory. The sweat had dried tacky on his skin, and the tracksuit clung in strange, unfamiliar places. His hands tugged, testing the cuffs on instinct, and then he froze.
A shudder ran through him. His hips twisted, testing for answers, and In-ho saw it then—the moment every detail slotted into place. He imagined Gi-hun taking note of the ache that wasn’t just bruising. The cold, clammy wetness trapped beneath the waistband, already going sticky. The raw, alien pulse burning between his thighs, spreading upward, warping the rhythm of his breath.
For a second, Gi-hun went completely still. Then his eyes went wide, horror peeling the edges of his face open.
He knew. And he sobbed.
It wasn’t loud, but it was raw. Ugly. His whole body shook with it, shoulders knotted tight, face pressed hard against his arms. Each inhale scraped at his throat, and the sound echoed in the silence.
In-ho just sat beside him, unmoving.
A moment passed. Then, careful, almost tentative, In-ho reached out. His fingers brushed Gi-hun’s shoulder—a gesture meant to soothe and comfort. “In time,” In-ho said, “you’ll learn to appreciate what I give you.”
He wasn’t sure who he was convincing.
He touched Gi-hun’s cheek, almost gentle, almost nothing.
“You will,” he repeated, softer. “I promise.”
“Who are you?” Gi-hun sobbed.
In-ho weighed his options. To either keep the memory of his time with Gi-hun as a willing participant whole, or to shatter it with the knowledge that Gi-hun would hate him for that, too.
He chose the latter. He couldn’t keep the lie going forever, and the truth was the first step towards forgiveness and reconciliation. Very slowly, In-ho reached up. His hand hovered at the edge of the mask, fingers trembling. He exhaled, a long, deliberate breath.
The world was silent. In-ho’s thumb found the seam beneath the jaw, the pressure point that would split the lie from the flesh beneath. For a second, nothing happened. Just breath. Just the pulse in Gi-hun’s throat, wild and uncertain.
Then, with steady force, In-ho lifted the mask away.
It was like tearing the night off his own face. The silence shuddered. And Gi-hun saw him. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. A sound escaped—not quite a word, something between a gasp and a name. Blood drained from his face as his gaze darted across In-ho's features.
“Young-il,” he whispered. “Why?”
For a heartbeat, In-ho’s mask felt heavier in his fist, the weight of it digging into his palm. He couldn’t tell which question Gi-hun was really asking. Was it about the face he’d hidden behind the glass and metal, the one that had given orders, killed men, twisted the world into something unrecognizable? The lie that had gotten Gi-hun to believe in a future that was entirely out of reach, and the betrayal that had ripped it away? Or was it the other thing—the thing neither of them could name, the thing that still ached between Gi-hun’s thighs and burned behind his eyes?
He almost said nothing. It would have been easier, maybe, to let the silence do the work. But Gi-hun just stared at him, needing something. More than an answer. Maybe absolution. Maybe just the comfort of a reason, even if it was a lie.
In-ho’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Because I had to. Because you alone, in all of humanity, are worth saving. Because I needed to be close to you. Because you, Seong Gi-hun, are my salvation.”
He watched the words land. Watched them carve something raw across Gi-hun’s face, pale and sweating, the line of his jaw gone stiff with animal disbelief. Like he’d expected violence, not explanation. Like the truth was heavier than any blow.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The silence bunched in the space between them, thick as cloth. Gi-hun’s lips trembled around the beginning of another question, but nothing came out. Only a shuddering breath, sharp and bright as biting down on foil. Then, with a force that shook the entire bedframe, his arms fought the cuffs again, frantic, wrists flexing until the metal cut cruel lines into skin.
He wasn’t going to break the chain. He probably knew it already, but his body was still learning, desperate for some loophole, some trick. There wasn’t one. In-ho had made sure of that.
He watched Gi-hun run through the stages of realization. Anger. Confusion. Denial. He saw the flicker of it in Gi-hun’s eyes, the wild refusal to accept what was already chiseled into his bones. The way his breath caught, stuttered, then broke in a ragged exhale. Nothing mattered anymore. Just the fact of Gi-hun’s body, chained to the bed, the wreckage of what In-ho had done written across his skin.
The sobs came and went, not steady or dignified, just raw. Broken. Gi-hun twisted, testing the cuffs again, as if this time the metal might give out of sheer pity.
Then the fight went out of him all at once—a slow collapse, shoulders curling, cheek mashed against his forearm. In-ho stoodthere, watching. He waited for the moment when Gi-hun would look up at him again—a slow, shuddering motion, red-rimmed eyes refusing to focus, lips gone white and bloodless from being pressed together so hard.
There wasn’t much left to say. Not after all this. But In-ho tried anyway.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, voice stripped bare, “I’m sorry it ended up this way. I didn’t want any of it for you. I wanted you to have a life. I wanted you to be happy.”
He meant it. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Dry and bitter
Gi-hun didn’t respond—not at first. His hands curled around the metal, knuckles gone bone-pale, shoulders rigid with shame. The silence pooled between them, thick and final.
But In-ho didn’t take it back. He let it hang there because it was the only thing he could offer. It wasn’t a comfort, but it was the truth, brutal and cold.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The chains creaked softly when Gi-hun shifted, the only movement in the room. In-ho stayed seated by the bed, mask abandoned, face open. He watched the tears pool along Gi-hun’s lashes and slip down to drip onto the sheets. Saw the way Gi-hun’s mouth worked, trying to shape questions he couldn’t bear to ask.
When Gi-hun finally looked up, the hate in his eyes was so pure it was almost breathtaking. Gi-hun’s lips peeled back, a rictus grin twisted by pain. “You can chain me. Hurt me. But I’ll fight you. Every second. I’ll never be yours,” he spat. “Not ever.”
In-ho just watched him, completely unmoved. Not even a flicker of surprise. Only hunger sharpening in his gaze, cold and bright. “I know,” he said, voice low and certain. “I wouldn’t want anything less. It’s what makes you so worth the effort.”
He reached for Gi-hun’s face, slow and inevitable. His thumb dragged under Gi-hun’s eye—not just a brush, but a careful, measured sweep, catching the salt before it could fall. The touch was tender, lingering as it traced the wet streaks down Gi-hun’s cheek.
He truly was beautiful.