Chapter Text
The first thing Gi-hun became aware of was the pain.
It radiated from everywhere and nowhere at once. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts sluggish and disconnected, like trying to grasp at fog. He tried to move his hand and found it impossibly heavy, as though someone had replaced his bones with lead.
Slowly, consciousness crept back in fragments. The steady beep of a heart monitor. The antiseptic smell of disinfectant. The scratch of sheets against his skin. His throat felt raw, violated, and when he tried to swallow, he realized with mounting panic that there was something in his mouth, down his throat, forcing air into his lungs with mechanical precision.
His eyes flew open.
White ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights that burned his eyes. He tried to turn his head and immediately regretted it as pain pulsed through his skull. His vision swam, doubled, then slowly resolved into the sterile confines of a hospital room. An IV stand stood beside his bed, clear tubes snaking down to disappear beneath white gauze wrapped around his left arm. More bandages encircled his head. He could feel them now, tight and constricting.
What happened? Where was he? How did he—
The door opened with a soft click, and Gi-hun's racing thoughts scattered like startled birds.
A man entered, pushing a wheelchair. He was lean, dressed in a simple gray sweater and dark jeans that looked expensive. His face was handsome in a severe way, all sharp angles and careful symmetry, with dark hair swept back from his forehead. But it was his eyes that caught Gi-hun's attention: dark, intense, and fixed on him with an expression of such tender concern that it made something in Gi-hun's chest tighten with unease.
"You're awake," the man said softly, his voice warm with relief. He parked the wheelchair beside the bed and moved closer, his movements fluid and practiced. "Thank God. I was so worried."
Gi-hun tried to speak, but the tube in his throat prevented anything more than a strangled sound. Panic flared again, hot and immediate.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," the man soothed, reaching out to gently touch Gi-hun's shoulder. His hand was cool through the thin hospital gown. "Don't try to talk. You're intubated. They had to help you breathe after the car accident. The doctor said they'll remove it soon, once they're sure your lungs are stable."
Car accident? What car accident?
The man seemed to read the confusion in his eyes. He pulled a chair closer and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his expression soft and patient. "You don't remember, do you? The car accident. Six months ago."
Six months?
The words hit Gi-hun like a physical blow. Six months. Half a year, just... gone. Vanished into a black void where his memories should be. He tried to think back, to grasp at anything before waking up in this bed, but there was nothing. Just darkness and the faint, unsettling sensation of something important slipping through his fingers.
A nurse appeared at his bedside, her movements brisk and efficient as she checked the monitors above his head. "Can you squeeze my hand if you understand me?" Gi-hun managed a weak grip. She nodded, satisfied, then glanced at the man in the chair. "The doctor will be in soon to assess for extubation."
The man—the stranger—waited until she left before leaning closer again. "The doctors said you might have some memory loss," he continued, reaching out to adjust Gi-hun's pillow with practiced ease. " Amnesia from the head trauma. But don't worry, I'm here. I'll help you remember everything."
He smiled then, and it should have been reassuring. It was a kind smile, gentle and warm. But something about it made Gi-hun's skin crawl.
"I'm In-ho," the man said, as though introducing himself for the first time. Then his smile widened slightly, and he added, "Your husband."
The heart monitor's beeping accelerated.
Husband?
No. No, that wasn't right. Gi-hun wasn't married. He would remember getting married, wouldn't he? Even with six months missing, he would remember something that significant. He tried to shake his head, but the movement sent fresh waves of pain crashing through his skull.
In-ho's expression shifted to one of gentle concern. "I know this must be confusing for you, honey. But we've been together for three years. Married for one. We share an apartment in Busan—the one we moved into together. We have a joint bank account, shared bills, and photos all over the walls," He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, swiping through it before turning the screen toward Gi-hun.
The photo showed the two of them. Gi-hun and this stranger named In-ho. They were standing together in front of what looked like a courthouse. In-ho's arm was around Gi-hun's shoulders. Gi-hun was holding up his left hand, displaying a simple silver band on his ring finger.
He looked down at his own hand now, the one not connected to the IV. There, on his fourth finger, was an identical ring.
His breathing quickened, the ventilator forcing air into his lungs in a rhythm that suddenly felt suffocating. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. He didn't know this man. He had never seen him before in his life. He wasn't married anymore. He wasn't. Not since Eun-ji
"Hey, hey, calm down," In-ho said, standing quickly and placing a hand on Gi-hun's chest. His touch was firm but gentle, grounding. "You're going to hyperventilate. Just breathe. Let the machine help you. That's it."
Gi-hun wanted to push him away, to demand answers, to scream that this was all wrong. But he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but lie there as this stranger, this supposed husband, was now stroking his hair with disturbing tenderness.
"I know you don't remember me right now," In-ho murmured, his voice low and soothing. "But you will. The doctors said your memories might come back gradually. And until they do, I'll take care of you. Just like I always have."
He reached for a small cup on the bedside table, filled with ice chips. "You must be thirsty. Once they remove the tube, I'll get you some water. And I brought your favorite pajamas from home. The blue ones with the little clouds. You always said they made you feel safe."
Gi-hun had never owned pajamas with clouds on them.
In-ho continued talking, his voice a steady stream of domestic details that should have been comforting but instead felt like walls closing in. He talked about their apartment, about Gi-hun's favorite foods, about the cat they supposedly owned together. He mentioned friends Gi-hun didn't recognize, places they'd supposedly visited, and intimate moments they'd supposedly shared.
With each word, the wrongness of it all grew heavier, more oppressive.
"I've taken a leave from work to care for you," In-ho said, settling back into his chair. "The doctors say you'll need extensive physical therapy. Your legs were badly injured in the crash. They had to operate on both of them. They said..."
He paused, his expression darkening. "They said your legs might never fully recover. But only time will tell, my angel. I'll be with you every step of the way. We'll get through this together, just like we always do."
He reached out and took Gi-hun's hand, threading their fingers together. His grip was warm, secure, possessive.
"I love you," In-ho said softly, his dark eyes boring into Gi-hun's with an intensity that felt like drowning. "I know you can't say it back right now, but I know you love me, too. You always have."
The heart monitor continued its frantic beeping as Gi-hun stared at this stranger who claimed to be his husband, who knew details about a life Gi-hun couldn't remember living, who touched him with the casual intimacy of someone who had every right to do so.
And as In-ho sat there, smiling that gentle, patient smile, Gi-hun felt the first hint of true fear wrap around his heart.
Because somewhere, buried beneath the confusion and the pain and the gaping void where six months of his life should be, a small voice whispered that In-ho was lying