The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

Warmth.
It was the first thing Rae-a registered, even before her mind caught up with consciousness. The air was cold—this place was always cold—but beneath the thin blanket, there was a steady, quiet warmth pressed against her.
Her brow furrowed slightly. She hadn't fallen asleep alone.
She stirred, shifting slightly, and that was when she realized—an arm, solid and unmoving, was draped over her waist.
Her breath caught.
The memories came back in hazy flashes. The lingering adrenaline of the last game. The exhaustion that had settled deep in her bones. Young-il's teasing remark when she'd asked if she could lay with him. The way he had shifted without question, making room for her beside him.
She hadn't expected to actually sleep.
And yet here she was, tangled in the warmth of another body, her head tucked beneath Young-il's chin.
Rae-a stiffened instinctively, her fingers twitching against the fabric of his shirt. She should move—she should definitely move—but for some reason, she hesitated.
She could hear his heartbeat. Slow. Even. Steady in a way that made the world feel a little less cruel, if only for this fleeting moment.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She had never been the type to seek comfort in another. But here, in this hellish place, with death around every corner, she had sought him out. And now, against all logic, she didn't want to pull away.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She barely had time to scold herself before the arm around her waist shifted, tightening slightly.
A slow, quiet exhale above her.
Young-il was awake.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then—
"You're a heavy sleeper," his voice came, low and unreadable.
Rae-a scowled before she could stop herself. "I could say the same about you."
His arm was still draped over her, though he didn't make any move to pull away. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, feel the warmth radiating off of him despite the cold of the room.
"You're warm," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"You say that like it's an excuse."
His tone was lighter, as if he were amused, but something about it didn't sit right.
Rae-a hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the closeness between them. It wasn't suffocating—not uncomfortable—but it was something. Something unspoken. Something she didn't have the time or energy to decipher.
She shifted slightly, expecting him to move away first.
He didn't.
Instead, his fingers curled the faintest bit against the fabric of her shirt. It was so subtle she almost didn't notice. Almost.
His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against her side.
Guilt clawed at his chest.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He shouldn't be allowing himself to enjoy this, to let himself feel this.
Because he was the reason she was even here.
She didn't know it, but every single time she fought to survive, every time she scraped by with blood and bruises, it was his fault.
She wanted to destroy these games. And he—he was the one keeping them running.
He should let go.
He should be the one to pull away first.
But he didn't.
Instead, he allowed himself one more moment. One more second of pretending.
Just this once.
"You should get up," he finally said, voice quieter now.
Rae-a frowned. "You're the one still lying down."
He huffed a short breath through his nose, something close to a laugh, but it lacked its usual sharpness.
This was different.
He was different.
She turned her head slightly, not enough to see him, but enough to sense the tension in the air.
Something about this wasn't just the usual teasing.
Before she could say anything, he moved, stretching his arms above his head and ruffling his already-messy hair. The motion was slow, effortless, as if he had all the time in the world. His shirt rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin before settling back into place.
Rae-a watched without thinking, her gaze lingering a second too long. There was something almost careless about the way he moved, something that made it easy to forget where they were, easy to forget that they were supposed to be enemies.
Young-il noticed.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned his head slightly toward her, eyes flickering with amusement.
"You always wake up this mesmerized, or am I just special?"
Her eyes snapped away immediately, her expression unreadable—but the warmth on the back of her neck betrayed her.
"Tch." She scoffed, pushing herself up. "As if."
He chuckled under his breath but didn't push it further.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he couldn't.
Rolling her eyes, she made her way toward the bathroom.
As soon as she stepped inside, one of the guards was already waiting for her, silent as ever. Without a word, they handed her a neatly folded uniform—a fresh one.
She hesitated for only a moment before taking it. The fabric was stiff and smelled sterile, a stark contrast to the worn-out one she had been wearing since the start of the games.
At least it was clean.
She quickly changed, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. As much as she wanted to ignore it, last night had felt different. And now, wrapped in a fresh uniform, she couldn't shake the feeling that things between her and Young-il weren't the same as before.
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The moment the guards entered, the air in the room thickened, turning heavy with unspoken dread.
Their boots struck the concrete in sharp, deliberate steps, the rhythmic impact echoing through the enclosed space like a countdown to something inevitable. The players barely moved, barely breathed, but the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. It crackled with tension, a silent storm rolling through them all.
No one dared to speak. Even the usual murmurs—the quiet reassurances, the anxious mutterings—had vanished.
Then, the static hum of the speakers clicked to life, and a voice, cold and mechanical, sliced through the silence.
"Players, line up."
The order rang out like a gunshot.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, hesitantly, one by one, the players began to shuffle into place. Some did so quickly, spurred by instinct and fear. Others hesitated, reluctant to obey, as if dragging out these last few moments of freedom before whatever came next.
Uncertainty coiled in the air, thick and clinging.
Rae-a inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaling in a slow, measured breath as she stepped into line beside Jun-hee, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, and Jung-bae. She kept her stance firm, steady—but her eyes moved, scanning the guards, picking apart every detail.
That's when she saw it.
Thick black cloth, folded neatly in their hands.
Blindfolds.
A cold knot twisted in her stomach.
Her grip on control was about to be ripped away.
Losing sight meant vulnerability. It meant no way to read the room, no way to anticipate a shift in stance, no way to brace before something struck. The unknown was already dangerous—but being forced into it, left with nothing but sound and instinct? That was worse.
A sharp inhale beside her.
Jun-hee.
Rae-a could hear the anxiety in her breath, the way her hands fidgeted, wringing together. Dae-ho wasn't any better—he had gone still, unnaturally so, his jaw clenched tight. Jung-bae, usually so sure of himself, shifted his weight, the movement just barely audible.
Gi-hun exhaled through his nose, the sound controlled but strained, as if trying to ground himself.
Then, one by one, the blindfolds were pulled over their heads.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
The world ceased to exist.
Rae-a's senses sharpened immediately, grasping at the sounds around her. The faint scrape of boots. The nervous rustling of fabric as someone adjusted their stance. A sharp inhale from nearby—probably Gi-hun.
The air smelled of sand, sweat, and something metallic. Something sterile.
She turned her head slightly, listening.
A breath ghosted against her ear.
Low. Teasing.
"Don't tell me you're scared of the dark."
Rae-a didn't flinch, but the familiar voice sent a prick of something through her chest.
Young-il.
Of course.
His tone still carried that lazy amusement, but it wasn't as sharp as usual. There was something gentler beneath it—something... warmer.
She scoffed, keeping her voice even. "I just don't like surprises."
Young-il hummed, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Is that so, sweetheart?"
Rae-a stiffened—barely, but it was enough.
The nickname wasn't new, but something about the way he said it now made her stomach twist. She wasn't expecting it, not here, not in this moment. His voice lacked the usual sharp edge, the cocky teasing that usually came with it. It was smoother, lower.
And he noticed.
Young-il let the pause stretch for just a second too long. If she hadn't known better, she would've thought he was testing something.
He should've laughed, should've pushed a little harder like he always did, but he didn't. Instead, his smirk wavered just slightly before he covered it up.
Because the truth was, it wasn't just a nickname anymore, was it? Somewhere along the way, it had started to mean something.
That was dangerous.
He shouldn't be this close. Shouldn't want to make her react. Shouldn't enjoy the way she turned toward his voice, like some part of her was drawn in without realizing it.
But he did.
And it was a mistake.
"You'll get used to them," he muttered, almost more to himself than her.
Rae-a wasn't sure if he meant the surprises... or him.
Before she could think too hard about it—
A yelp.
Then, a sharp thud.
Someone had miscalculated a step.
The ripple of movement sent Jun-hee stumbling blindly backward, her small frame colliding into Rae-a with enough force to throw her off balance.
Rae-a's instincts kicked in instantly. She reached out, fingers latching onto Jun-hee's arm before she could hit the ground. But the momentum was unforgiving—Jun-hee's weight dragged her backward, and before she could brace herself—
Her shoulder crashed into something solid.
Warmth. Steady. Unyielding.
Hands caught her. Firm. Sure.
For a split second, Rae-a was acutely aware of the way his grip steadied her—not rough, not forceful, but certain. A silent anchor.
Even blindfolded, she knew.
Young-il.
His hands remained on her arms, holding her steady longer than necessary. Maybe he was assessing if she was okay—maybe he wasn't even thinking about it at all. But she was.
Then—
A cold, sharp jab against her spine.
The unmistakable press of metal.
A gun.
"Keep moving, or I'll put a bullet in your spine."
The guard's voice was devoid of emotion, but the implication was loud enough.
Rae-a's body went rigid. A familiar heat crawled up her spine, not from fear—but from restraint.
Her fingers twitched against Young-il's jacket, gripping the fabric for half a second before she forced herself to let go. The instinct to react—fight back, strike—was buried deep beneath years of control, but it burned at the edges of her resolve.
Young-il's hands didn't move right away.
For a moment, the air between them was thick, weighted with something unspoken. He hadn't let go immediately either. And though she couldn't see his expression, she felt something shift in the way he finally—slowly, deliberately—released her.
A small space formed between them, but the awareness remained.
The weight of his attention lingered, pressing against her like a phantom touch. Not teasing, not taunting—just... there.
She heard Jun-hee's uneven breaths, the hurried shuffle of fabric as she scrambled back to her feet.
Rae-a clenched her jaw, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
She wanted to react. She wanted to move, to turn and meet the faceless guard behind her with something sharper than silence.
But before she could, another voice sliced through the thick silence.
Calm. Amused. But there was an edge to it now, something Rae-a couldn't quite place.
"Now, now." Young-il's voice was as casual as ever, but there was a subtle change—something darker, deeper, in the way he spoke. His words stretched slowly, lingering in the silence between them. "Is that really necessary?"
The guard didn't respond, but Rae-a could feel the heat of his presence pressing in behind her. The barrel of the gun, still cold against her spine, only served to amplify the silence that followed.
And then—
Young-il let out a quiet breath, barely audible, but Rae-a caught it. She could feel the shift in his attention, like a subtle recalibration. He was calculating, deciding, weighing his options. The tension in his voice was almost imperceptible, but Rae-a knew him better now.
He was making a choice.
Then—he laughed. It was soft, almost careless, the kind of laugh that held no humor but plenty of meaning.
"Gotta admit, you guys really know how to keep things interesting." Another pause, followed by the words that made Rae-a's stomach tighten. "But if you kill her before the game starts, then you don't get your little show."
Rae-a's heart skipped, her unease spiking as the words landed. Something about the way he said it didn't sit right with her. It wasn't just the fact that he was defending her, or that he was seemingly shielding her from the guard's aggression.
It was the meaning behind it.
She couldn't shake the feeling that Young-il wasn't just concerned with the game or her safety. There was something deeper—something unspoken—hidden beneath the layers of his words. He was still playing, still manipulating, and even though he'd intervened on her behalf, the feeling gnawed at her. Was he really doing it out of care? Or was there something more?
She forced herself to push the thought away.
The guard hesitated, the gun at her back withdrawing with a reluctant click.
Rae-a exhaled sharply through her nose, her stance relaxing only slightly. The tension in her body remained coiled, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Beside her, Jun-hee sniffled quietly, the soft sound drawing Rae-a's attention. The girl didn't speak, but Rae-a could feel her trembling, the fear evident in every breath.
Young-il was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, more reassuring, though Rae-a wasn't sure who the words were meant for.
"Relax."
The words weren't meant for the guards, nor were they directed at Jun-hee. But Rae-a knew they were for her. The quiet command, the subtle tension beneath it, pulled at something inside her.
But then the thought came, dark and undeniable. Who knew when this would be the last time they saw one another? It hit her harder than she expected, a sharp pain spreading through her chest, leaving a dull ache behind. It was an uncomfortable truth, one she wasn't ready to face.
And yet, as much as she tried to ignore it, the nagging feeling wouldn't go away. There was something about him, something in the way he acted when he wasn't hiding behind that facade—he did care. She could feel it, despite everything, despite the distance he kept. He cared more than he let on. And she felt the exact same.
The space between them felt too close, too charged, as if every word, every breath was heavy with unspoken meaning.
Rae-a shifted slightly, about to respond, when a sharp pressure at her back pushed her forward—just enough to remind her of the situation.
It wasn't forceful enough to knock her off balance, but it was a clear demand to move.
The tension that had been thick between her and Young-il dissipated for a moment, replaced by the immediate threat of the game. But Rae-a couldn't escape the feeling that this moment was just another step toward something neither of them could control.
They were both dangerously close to something neither of them was ready to face.
The silence between them stretched thick, oppressive, like the air itself had become heavy with expectation. No one spoke. It was as though every person in the line was holding their breath, their focus sharpened, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Every footstep was a muted echo, some hesitant, others firm, but all of them filled with an unease that Rae-a could almost taste.
Every so often, someone would bump into another, the accidental contact lingering for a moment before they quickly pulled away. Each brush of skin was an unwelcome reminder that they were all pressed together in this suffocating silence, no space to hide. No place to escape.
Rae-a tuned into the sounds, the subtle shifts of movement around her. Her mind mapped the terrain, the sounds of her fellow players, trying to mentally mark where everyone was. It wasn't just the terrain she had to watch—it was the people.
Jun-hee's breaths were shallow, uneven, barely a whisper. Rae-a could almost feel the girl's nerves vibrating through the air, could sense her fear. The girl walked just ahead of her, a few steps in front, but Rae-a kept a mental tally of the girl's movements, watching for signs of a break.
To her right, Jung-bae moved with sharp, calculated steps, as if every motion was carefully planned. He was always the type to calculate the odds, to weigh risks. His calmness, however, didn't fool Rae-a. She knew that beneath that careful composure was a storm of his own, and she wondered just how long he could hold it in.
Dae-ho, however, was a different story. He muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of irritation and nerves. He was twitchy, restless, and Rae-a couldn't help but glance at him occasionally, noting how his hands fidgeted or how his feet tapped the ground anxiously.
And then there was Young-il.
He moved with the same effortless grace he always did, but this time, something felt off. Even though they were both blindfolded, Rae-a could still sense him beside her. His presence was a constant, an anchor in the shifting sand beneath them. But it wasn't just his proximity—it was how steady he felt. 
That unnerved Rae-a more than anything else.
He was calm, too calm.
She couldn't even explain why, but the ease with which he moved made the tension in her chest tighten. His nonchalance was a stark contrast to the heaviness she felt pressing in from every direction.
"Still here?" His voice was quieter now, a low hum, as if he was barely aware of her response at all.
Rae-a's breath caught in her throat before she responded, the words coming out clipped, almost mechanical. "Unfortunately."
A soft chuckle followed, but it wasn't the usual teasing, that sharp edge of mockery that normally colored his voice. This time, it was softer—almost reluctant, like there was something underneath, a thread of something else, something unspoken. Something she couldn't quite catch.
She felt him then, his arm brushing against hers. The contact was light, fleeting, but it sent a ripple of warmth through her, almost like a spark of recognition. His presence next to her was already too much to ignore, but that brief touch—that small gesture—felt heavier than any of the words they had exchanged. It lingered, not in the way the brush of a hand normally would, but in the air around them, making her hyperaware of the space between them.
For a moment, she couldn't move. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and her breath caught as the gap between them felt like it was closing. Then, just as quickly, he was gone again, slipping ahead with the same casual confidence he had before.
The march continued.
But the air between them had changed. The unspoken tension hung heavier now, thick with something neither of them could put into words. Rae-a's mind raced, trying to process it all, but the only thing she knew for sure was that this was different. She wasn't sure what it meant or how to respond, but the uneasy feeling in her chest wouldn't fade. Maybe it was because of the games?
As they moved forward, the weight of the situation seemed to settle over her even more. It wasn't just the game they were playing anymore. It was the game they were playing with each other, and she couldn't help but wonder just how far they would push it before everything broke.
The ground beneath Rae-a's boots shifted from smooth to gritty, the change so subtle it almost went unnoticed at first. What had once been a cool, firm surface underfoot quickly morphed into something softer, grainier—like sand. The particles shifted with every step she took, and with each subtle movement, the ground seemed to give way beneath her, making it harder to keep her balance. It wasn't just the texture; the very feeling of the sand seemed to stir something in the pit of her stomach.
Sand? A million questions flashed through her mind in an instant. Sand, the symbol of shifting dunes, the relentless tide of time, and—more ominously—the inevitability of fate. What did sand have to do with any of this? What kind of game involved sand? The questions swirled like the grains beneath her boots, but they only added to the growing tension in her chest.
She pushed the thoughts away, her senses sharpening to the sounds around her. The shuffle of feet, the occasional rustle of fabric, the slight shifts of weight. She could feel the presence of the players near her, even if she couldn't see them. There was a stocky man to the right, a leaner woman farther back, and two taller men near the front. Rae-a strained to remember every little detail of the room—every person's shape, their position—before the blindfolds had been put on. There had to be something important she could use.
Her heartbeat picked up, the anticipation of the unknown creeping in. She had no idea what they were walking into, but the sand beneath their feet had given way to something else entirely. Something more dangerous.
And then, finally, they stopped.
The world stilled. The air seemed to tighten around them, pressing in from all sides, and Rae-a couldn't shake the growing sense of dread that wrapped itself around her like a vice. The silence was unbearable. It felt as though something monumental was about to happen, and she wasn't sure if she was ready for it.
And then the speakers crackled to life.
"Ssireum. A traditional Korean wrestling match. Two players will fight at a time, trying to pin the other to the ground for 10 seconds. The loser is eliminated. The last ones standing continue the game."