The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

Rae-a's body felt frozen, as if the very blood in her veins had turned to ice despite the heat of the moment. Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, but her grip on the Glock remained firm—except for the slight tremble in her fingers, a tremble she despised. She had trained herself to be unwavering, to remain composed no matter the circumstance, to master fear rather than succumb to it. But nothing in her life had prepared her for this. For him.

Her finger curled around the trigger, her knuckles taut and white as she aimed directly at Young-il's back. The man who had fought beside her. The man who had saved her more times than she could count. The man she had, foolishly, trusted.

Now, the man who had orchestrated all of this.

"Turn around. Slowly."

Her voice was hoarse, but she forced steel into it, refusing to let the weight of her emotions crack through. Her heartbeat pounded so violently against her ribs that it was a wonder he could not hear it. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the lingering scent of gunpowder, making her stomach churn. Every fiber of her being was taut, waiting for him to make a move, to give her a reason to pull the trigger.

Young-il did not move immediately. The weight of her words, of her presence alone, settled onto his shoulders like an iron chain. His posture was rigid, unreadable, but she knew him—knew him well enough to see the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the controlled intake of breath as he braced himself. He exhaled through his nose before finally obeying, turning toward her with slow, deliberate movements. His hands remained slightly raised, a silent acknowledgment of the danger between them.

His mind raced, grasping for an explanation, a plan—anything to regain control of the spiraling situation. Rae-a. Here. Now. Gun in hand. How? How had she made it here undetected? More importantly, why? Why, of all people, was she the one standing before him now, the one holding him at gunpoint, the one who had seen everything? A million possibilities ran through his head, each one more improbable than the last.

His breath was steady, but inside, something uncoiled, something he hadn't felt in years. A flicker of something dangerously close to regret. No—he refused to acknowledge it. He had made his choices, accepted the weight of them long ago. And yet, standing here, staring into her eyes—eyes burning with betrayal, with fury, with something that clawed at his chest—he felt something shift inside him.

His eyes locked onto hers, steady and unreadable. But for a fraction of a second, something flickered in his gaze—something that almost made her hesitate. Almost.

"You shouldn't be here, Rae-a." His voice was calm. Too calm. As if this was an inconvenience rather than a confrontation that could end with a bullet in his chest.

Her grip on the gun tightened, fury igniting beneath her skin. "You... You're one of them," she breathed, disbelief and betrayal lacing every syllable. Her mind raced, replaying every moment, every glance, every word he had ever said to her, looking for the cracks she had somehow missed. Her stomach churned. "This whole time—pretending to be one of us while you pulled the strings. You were the only one I let in. And you-" The sentence broke, splintering in her throat. She clenched her jaw, swallowing hard against the emotions threatening to surface, refusing to let them win.

Young-il took a step closer. Instinct kicked in—she snapped the gun up higher, finger pressing lightly against the trigger. His movements halted immediately.

"It's not what you think," he said evenly, his voice softer now, as if he could still reason with her.

"Don't you dare move!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension between them. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, breaths coming too fast, too uneven. "You killed all those people. You're a murderer. You've been playing with our lives like it's some sick game!"

Young-il's gaze darkened at her response, hurt swirling inside of him calling him the monster he never wished for her to see. There was no flinch, no denial, no desperate plea for her to believe him. Instead, he met her anger with unwavering steel, giving no weakness. 

"Put the gun down, Rae-a," he said, his voice still maddeningly steady. "You don't know what you're doing."

Her hands trembled, but not from weakness. The weight of the gun felt unbearable in her grasp, yet she refused to let it lower. Her vision blurred for a moment before sharpening again, locking onto him with unrelenting fury. The man before her, the man she had trusted, the man she had—

Her throat tightened. No. Not now.

"Don't tell me what I don't know," she spat, venom lacing every syllable. Her breath came fast and shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You've been watching us—watching me. Was it fun? Did you enjoy seeing us fight to survive while you sat back, knowing everything that was going to happen? Watching us scramble for our lives while you pulled the strings?"

For the first time, something flickered in his expression. A shadow of something almost human. Guilt? Regret? She wasn't sure. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Her voice cracked when she spoke next, raw and hoarse, as though the words themselves were being torn from her. "I came back for you."

Young-il's breath hitched ever so slightly. His posture, once perfectly composed, stiffened. His lips parted, but no words came.

Rae-a clenched her jaw, her entire body trembling with the force of emotion threatening to consume her. "I heard you," she choked out, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. "On the radio. I heard you dying. And I—" A strangled breath left her lips as she squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, the weight of that moment pressing down on her like an avalanche. "I dropped everything. I didn't care what it took, I didn't care what it meant. I ran through hell to find you, to save you, and you—" Her voice cracked violently, her throat burning as she swallowed against the sob threatening to claw its way out. "You were here. You were behind it all."

She exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself, but her fingers only tightened around the gun. Her arms ached under the strain, but she didn't lower it. She couldn't.

Young-il swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. His gaze, usually so piercing, so calculating, wavered for just a fraction of a second. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected her to have come back. He had thought she would have accepted his fate, moved on, far away from this nightmare, from him.

Something like shame curled in his gut, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He could have spoken. He could have explained. But for the first time, words failed him. She wouldn't understand.

"You're angry because I lied. But tell me, Rae-a—" his head tilted slightly, a subtle tightness in his tone,"—if I had told you the truth from the start, would you have trusted me at all?"

He let the silence stretch between them before exhaling sharply. "No. You wouldn't have."

Rae-a trembled, overwhelmed with emotion, knowing the answer. If this was from the beginning she would have immediately killed him.

His expression darkened. "You think I had a choice? You should know better than anyone that you cannot survive without blood on your hands." He shook his head.

Young-il's stance shifted, subtle but telling. His tone hardened. "If you knew what I've done to survive, you wouldn't be so quick to judge. But this?" He gestured around them—the carnage, the bloodstained floor, the bodies that would soon be disposed of under his command. "This isn't a fight you can win."

Rae-a let out a slow, shaking breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every cell in her body screamed at her to pull the trigger, to end this, to make him pay for everything.

Instead, she met his gaze with fire in her eyes and whispered, "Watch me."

Rae-a's pulse thundered in her ears, the gun steady in her grip despite the tremor in her fingers. Every instinct screamed to pull the trigger, to end it—end him. But she wouldn't, not yet. Her gaze locked with his, unwavering, challenging. Young-il took a deliberate step forward, his expression unreadable, but his movements betrayed the tension coiling within him. His fingers flexed, his body preparing—waiting.

She pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked.

A cruel misfire.

A hollow sound that echoed between them, mocking. The silence afterward stretched out, oppressive, as if the world itself held its breath. Rae-a's heart slammed against her ribs, and before she could even process the failure, Young-il moved.

It was faster than she could react. He lunged at her with terrifying speed, seizing her wrist in a vise-like grip that nearly crushed her bones. His other hand came around, twisting her arm sharply, pulling the gun from her grasp and sending it clattering to the floor with a sickening finality.

What struck him most was not the failed attempt, but the fire in her eyes. The certainty. The cold, unyielding resolve that—had she succeeded—she would've killed him in that instant. And it nearly destroyed him to know she would have done it, without a second thought.

She didn't hesitate. A snarl ripped from her throat as she brought her knee up, aiming for his ribs. He twisted at the last second, avoiding the full force, but the blow still sent him back, staggering just enough to give her the chance to strike again.

But he was faster.

Her elbow came next, aimed for his jaw, but he anticipated it, catching her arm mid-swing. His grip tightened, using her momentum to force her backward, slamming her against the cold concrete wall.

The air rushed out of her in a painful gasp as his arm pinned her chest, his weight a suffocating pressure. Her wrist felt like it was being crushed in his hand, his grip unyielding. His eyes—dark with something she couldn't read—met hers, and for the first time, she saw it: regret.

His voice was quiet, strained, almost apologetic.

"You should've stayed out of this."

The words were not the cold, commanding tone she was used to. There was something raw underneath, a hint of the guilt that gnawed at him, a desire for her not to have crossed this line. But it was too late. She had already made her choice.

Rae-a glared up at him, defiant even in defeat. Fear coiled in her stomach, but she refused to let it show. She bared her teeth, a twisted smirk playing at her lips despite the danger she was in.

"You think I'm scared of you?" she spat. "You're just a coward hiding behind a mask."

Young-il's jaw tightened, his grip briefly faltering. For a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes—something almost regretful. She saw it, and it infuriated her. 

He had no right to hesitate. No right to look at her like she was something fragile, like this connection was something to be mourned. Like it was real to him.

His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for her. He had never wanted her to fear him. He had wanted to disappear, to let her move on without ever knowing the truth. But now, everything was unraveling, and there was no turning back.

His decision came swift and final. He exhaled sharply, his expression hardening into something unreadable once more as he searched her eyes. With a small, almost imperceptible nod, he signaled to the masked guards standing in the shadows.

"Take her."

Like hell.

A sharp elbow to his ribs—a desperate, instinctive strike. It wasn't enough to truly hurt him, but it was enough to startle him. Young-il's grip slackened just for a fraction of a second, and Rae-a seized the opportunity. Twisting her body, she broke free, ducking low as she lashed out with a brutal kick to the nearest guard's stomach. He doubled over with a grunt, his rifle slipping from his grasp. The chaos was all she needed.

She ran.

Alarms blared overhead, shrieking through the halls in deafening waves. The flashing red emergency lights cast violent shadows against the steel walls, disorienting her vision. But she couldn't stop. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to move faster, to get away, to survive. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tightening with exertion, but she refused to slow down. The dull throb of bruises from the earlier fight went ignored. The emotions threatening to overwhelm her were forced to the back of her mind. None of it mattered.

Find Gi-hun. I have to tell him.

Behind her, she heard the guards shouting, their heavy boots slamming against the cold floor as they gave chase. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, blending with the shrill alarms. Panic clawed at her throat, threatening to strangle her, but she pushed it down. Think. Think, damn it!

Then, his voice.

The facility's loudspeakers crackled to life, and Young-il's voice flooded every corridor, icy and commanding.

"Player 089 is attempting to escape. Find her. Now."

Her stomach twisted violently. He had given the order himself. There was no more pretending. No more hiding. He was the one hunting her.

A sharp turn—too sharp. Her foot skidded slightly, and she slammed against the wall, her palm smacking against the cold steel as she caught herself. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating her, the mechanical hum of the facility vibrating beneath her fingertips. Her lungs burned, her body trembling with the effort of running, but she refused to stop.

She needed to find cover.

Footsteps. Too close.

Rae-a's pulse skyrocketed. She forced herself into the nearest darkened alcove, pressing her body against the wall, hands clamping over her mouth to quiet her ragged breathing. Her mind was a hurricane of desperate thoughts. Stay quiet. Stay still. Think, Rae-a. Use the shadows.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, forcing herself to listen past the relentless pounding of her heartbeat. The sound of boots rushing past. The metallic click of guns being checked. The hurried exchanges between guards, their voices tense, urgent. They weren't far. They're closing in.

Her fingers flexed against the grip of the glock still clutched in her hand, the sweat on her palms making the metal slick. One wrong move, one sound—

A shadow passed over her hiding place.

She held her breath.

The guards hesitated just beyond her hiding spot, their rifles angled as they scanned the corridor. One step closer and they would see her. Her fingers tightened on the gun's grip, a thousand possible outcomes flashing through her mind.

Then—

"Move! She has to be headed for the exit!" one of them barked.

Another second passed. Then another.

The footsteps started again—this time, moving away.

Rae-a finally released a slow, silent exhale. Her entire body was trembling, but she couldn't stop now. She needed to move.

Steeling herself, she forced her legs to carry her forward, slipping deeper into the shadows.

She had to find Gi-hun. Before it was too late.

For the first time, fear gripped Rae-a in a way she couldn't shake. Not the adrenaline-fueled fear of a fight, not the sharpened edge of survival instincts—but something deeper, colder. A fear laced with helplessness. A fear that told her, for the first time in her life, she might not make it out of this.

The facility was alive. It breathed, its walls oppressive, its countless guards moving like a single organism designed to snuff her out. Every step she took, she felt them closing in—silent, methodical. She had spent years anticipating threats before they came. This time, she wasn't sure she could outrun it.

And looming over it all, like a shadow she couldn't escape, was him.

Not Young-il. Not the man who had fought by her side, who had met her in the dark with quiet words and steady hands. No, the person hunting her now was someone else entirely. The Frontman.

Her breath hitched as she ducked into an alcove, pressing against the cold metal, her pulse hammering against her skull.

"I can't let him catch me. Not now. Not when I'm this close."

The words barely escaped her lips, but the truth settled into her bones like a shard of ice. There was no more pretending. No more games. She had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. The weight of her revelation—her knowledge of who he really was, of what the game truly entailed—pressed down on her, and for the first time, she felt the full scope of the danger she was in.

She wasn't just another player anymore.

She was a threat.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and her pulse spiked. Her heart lurched. Gi-hun.

For a moment, she thought it was a trick of the light, some cruel illusion brought on by the tension coiling in her gut. But no. There he was, with Jungbae, a fleeting but unmistakable silhouette. He was alive. He was right there.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her mind went into overdrive. She had to reach him. She had to. He needed to know. Everything—everything—had been a lie. The games, the players, the rules—they were all part of a twisted web she was now entangled in, and Gi-hun was still in it, still in danger. He couldn't stay in the dark. Not now.

But before her legs could carry her forward, reality crashed down like a weight. A suffocating presence, as if an invisible hand had clenched around her chest, froze her in place. She turned the corner, and there he was—Gi-hun. His silhouette became flesh, but it wasn't just him.

Flanking them were guards—sharp-eyed, focused—moving in formation as they scanned the area. Their expressions were unreadable, their steps deliberate. They were likely searching for her.

Gi-hun and Jungbae weren't alone. They were cornered, unarmed, and helpless. They had lost. 

And she left them.

For that monster. The man that wasn't even real.

Rae-a's throat tightened, guilt clinging at the small bit of air she could grasp in her lungs. 

The guards knew.

Her chest burned with panic, but she refused to let it show. She couldn't afford to be noticed, not now. Not when the danger was so real.

She took a step forward, a desperate instinct pushing her. Just one step. One chance to warn him. Them. Please.

Her breath came shallow, her eyes locked on Gi-hun's back, wishing for the impossible: that she could reach him, that she could break through the chaos of the game and deliver the truth before it was too late.

Rae-a froze.

Maybe she could still find a way to him. Maybe she could break through the circle, tell him everything, warn him of what was coming. She would tell him who the Frontman was. She would tell him about the twisted web they were caught in. She would—

But the formation of guards didn't shift.

Her heart sank. There was no escape for them, no last-minute chance.

The truth settled in with crushing weight.

She would never get to him. She would never have the chance to explain herself, to make him understand that everything he thought was real was a lie. That he was caught in a game designed by monsters. She couldn't reach him.

The game had already marked its next move.

And so did she.

There was only one option left.

Flee.

Rae-a's mind screamed, but her body moved on its own, instinct driving her to turn in the opposite direction. There was no time to waste. No more room for heroics, for apologies, for redemption. All that mattered now was escape. Survival.

Not for victory. Not for freedom.

Just to survive.

Because if she stayed, she was dead. If she fought back, she was dead. There was no question anymore. She couldn't walk the same path as the others—not when she had seen behind the mask. Not when she knew who was really pulling the strings.

And then there were her friends. Hyun-ju. Dae-ho. Jungbae. Everyone. The ones who had fought beside her, who had risked their lives for her, and for him. She should have been there for them—should have fought beside them to the bitter end. But she was leaving them now. Leaving them to face whatever came next alone.

The guilt hit her like a physical blow, gnawing at her insides. She had always put them first, always tried to protect them, but now? Now, she was the one running away, when they needed her the most. 

She couldn't help them. Not like this. Not with everything at stake.

Young-il had fought with them. Had bled with them. Had stood shoulder to shoulder with the people who had saved his life and hers.

Had he ever seen them as anything more than pawns in his game?

Were they just pieces on his board too? Like I was?

The thought was too much to bear. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move, to think. There was no time for doubt, no time to look back. She had to keep running, keep pushing forward. She couldn't afford to get caught in the past, in the mess of guilt and uncertainty that threatened to swallow her whole.

All she could do was hope. Hope that there was still something left of the Young-il she had once trusted—hope that, buried beneath the cold calculations and the mask he wore, there was still enough humanity left in him to spare them.

After all, they had been his allies too. His friends.

But the tears that pricked at her eyes were a cruel reminder that she had no certainty. No guarantee. She pushed them away, her chest tight with the weight of what she had to do.

There was no room for weakness now.

She had to keep moving. If she stopped, even for a second, the truth would come crashing down around her. And it might already be too late to do anything about it.

And if she was wrong—if he really wad become the monster she feared—then there was nothing left to save. Their fates were already sealed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The corridors twisted and stretched endlessly, the dim, flickering lights casting elongated shadows against the sterile walls. The alarms had fallen silent, but the absence of sound only made her breathing seem louder, each inhale sharp, each exhale uneven. Rae-a ran, muscles burning, her grip tightening around the gun she knew was useless. Outside these walls, she would still be a hunted woman, never truly safe, but inside—inside, she was trapped.

She rounded a corner, only for her stomach to drop. 

A dead-end.

A narrow maintenance corridor stretched before her, lined with rusted pipes and scuffed concrete, offering no exit beyond the path she had just taken. No vents, no doors, nothing but the looming certainty that she had nowhere left to go. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she spun around, raising her weapon, more out of instinct than strategy. She had always fought, always survived, but the odds had never been stacked so brutally against her.

Then came the sound she had been dreading.

Boots against the floor. 

Measured, unhurried. 

The slow, deliberate approach of a predator with no need to rush.

His black mask gleamed beneath the sickly fluorescents, the embroidered square catching the light. Behind him, guards stood in silent formation, rifles ready, waiting. Waiting for his command.

The sight of them sent a violent shudder through her body, but it was him—him—that made the fear coil deep in her chest.

Because it wasn't just Young-il standing there.

It was the Frontman.

Rae-a swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. She adjusted her stance, lifting her fists, despite the way her limbs ached, despite the way the blood smeared her palms from earlier wounds. She forced herself to meet his gaze, even though the void of his mask made her feel as if she were staring into something utterly unknowable.

She didn't want to fight him. She knew that much.

But she would.

"Stay back!" she snarled, voice raw, desperate.

Young-il remained where he stood, hands clasped behind his back, exuding a calm, controlled presence that made her skin crawl. Like he wasn't concerned. Like he had already won.

But what she couldn't see was the guilt in his eyes.

"You've made this harder than it needed to be," he said, voice smooth, even. Yet there was something beneath it—something unreadable, like the ghost of regret. "But it's over now. There's nowhere left to run."

Her fingers curled into fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms, fresh blood trickling down to stain the floor. His gaze flickered downward, catching the crimson dripping from her hands.

For a moment, he hesitated.

But only for a moment.

Rae-a's breathing hitched. He saw it. The fear. The way she trembled. The way she stood on the edge of something she couldn't escape.

But she was not weak.

Her jaw clenched. She forced herself to straighten, her voice cutting through the thick, suffocating air.

"You think you've won?" Her teeth bared in something between a sneer and a snarl, fury barely contained. "You'll never break me."

Young-il exhaled slowly—whether in disappointment or inevitability, she couldn't tell.

Then, he took a single step forward.

Unrushed. Deliberate.

His presence alone was suffocating, an unseen force pressing into her chest, making her breath come faster, sharper.

His voice was soft, but it carried like a blade against her skin, as he removed the mask and locked his gaze onto hers.

"You're fighting a war that ended the moment you learned the truth, Rae-a. The sooner you accept that, the less you'll suffer."

She swallowed hard, her heartbeat a drumbeat of defiance, but deep down, a terrible truth gnawed at the edges of her mind.

He wasn't just saying that to manipulate her.

He believed it.

And worse—some part of her did too.

Her adrenaline was starting to fade, her mind pulling her back through the chaos. The endless battles, the darkness where the lights had flickered out, the gunfire ringing in her ears as they fought to reach this point. They had been searching for the man behind it all, and now, standing before her, he was right there. The man they had been hunting was the very one contributing to the violence they had fought to stop. He had been there the whole time, orchestrating it from the inside, and everything had unraveled because of him.

And Rae-a... her stupid emotions—those feelings that had allowed her to care for this man, had led her to this moment. They were what had caused her to uncover the truth in the first place.

--

The pounding of Rae-a's heart was deafening, her breath ragged but unyielding. The adrenaline surged through her veins, numbing the bruises and exhaustion that had begun to catch up with her. Surrender was an impossible thought, a distant memory from a time when survival had been simpler.

Not here. Not now.

With a raw, guttural cry, she surged forward, every muscle coiled and ready. Each movement was a calculated strike, every ounce of her being focused on what came next. The fight wasn't over—not by a long shot.

The guards closed in, but Rae-a met them with sheer ferocity. Her movements were a blur of trained precision—elbows slamming into throats, knees driving into ribs. She twisted out of their grasps, her lithe frame slipping between their attempts to restrain her. A well-aimed kick sent one staggering back, and she seized the opportunity, snatching his baton with seamless efficiency. The weight was familiar in her grip, an extension of herself, and she wielded it without hesitation.

A swing to the side cracked against another guard's knee, sending him collapsing with a grunt of pain. She spun, deflecting an incoming blow, her strikes calculated, her intent lethal. For a fleeting moment, she saw an opening. Freedom, just within reach.

But through it all, Young-il stood silent, watching. Unmoving. Calculating. As if he knew. As if he had been waiting for her to strike again.

The instant Rae-a turned to break free, he moved.

Faster than she expected, faster than she could react, Young-il stepped into her path with unnerving ease. A wall of presence, solid and immovable. Her grip on the baton tightened as she swung with all the force she could muster.

"Get out of my way!" she snarled, her voice edged with rage and hurt.

Young-il didn't flinch. His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-swing. His fingers curled around her skin—not crushing, not violent, just precise. Controlled. The heat of his touch burned against her, his grip firm but agonizingly measured, like he wasn't just stopping her—he was claiming control, taking the fight from her inch by inch.

Rae-a struggled, twisting with all her might, but he held firm. The strength in his grip was undeniable, suffocating in its finality. He gave the slightest twist, just enough to send pain jolting up her arm, forcing her fingers to unclench. The baton slipped from her grasp, clattering against the cold floor.

A rush of desperation overtook her. She lashed out wildly—clawing, kicking, anything to break free. He absorbed the impact, barely shifting as she struck his chest. Her nails raked across the fabric of his coat, and for the first time, his breath hitched—just a fraction, just enough for her to notice.

Her chest heaved, frustration and fury rolling off her in waves, but beneath it was something else. Something raw, something suffocating. The space between them was too close, his body too solid, too steady while hers trembled from the fight.

A shift in his stance, a swift maneuver, and suddenly, she was caught. His arms locked around her, forcing her against him in an unyielding hold. Her body pressed against his, the contact sending a violent jolt through her system. She could feel his breath ghosting against her temple, slow and composed, while hers was erratic, unsteady.

"Enough." His voice was low, controlled. Not unkind, but absolute.

Rae-a stilled, her chest heaving, fury burning beneath her skin. But as she looked up at him, the weight of the moment crashed over her. The inevitability of it. The sickening reality that, no matter how hard she fought, he had already won.

And worst of all—he knew it, too.

Young-il held her firm, feeling the tremor in her body, the defiance that still burned despite her exhaustion. A part of him admired it—this unrelenting fire that refused to die, no matter how impossible the odds. But he also knew the truth: she was running on borrowed time. Her adrenaline was fading, the weight of every fight leading up to this moment pressing down on her limbs. The endless gunfire, the brutal encounters in the dark, the desperate chase to uncover the man orchestrating it all—only to find him standing right beside her, always a step ahead.

Young-il studied her, feeling the tension still coiled in her frame, the way her breath hitched in frustration and something dangerously close to devastation. He could see the moment realization dawned in her eyes—the war she had been fighting had already ended. The moment she learned the truth, the battle was lost.

His grip loosened, just slightly, just enough to let her feel the choice she didn't have. "Struggle all you want," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, "but the outcome won't change."

A shudder ran through her—not just from fear, but from something else. 

(Mention here how she rips herself out of his grasp, kick aiming for his shin which knocks him off balance, causing him to have to react quickly and pin her against the wall)

In a heartbeat, Rae-a yanked her arm free from his grasp, her body surging with raw energy as she twisted sharply. Her foot shot out, propelled by a wave of pent-up frustration, and her heel connected with his shin with brutal force. The impact was sharp, immediate, and it sent him staggering back, momentarily thrown off balance.

But before he could recover, before he could even process the blow, his instincts took over. In one fluid motion, his hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist with a brutal grip that cut off any chance of escape. He twisted her towards him, slamming her back into the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening thud. The force of the collision rattled through her, the breath knocked out of her lungs, but she had no time to even react.

His body pressed against hers, his hands immediately pinning her wrists with terrifying precision. The coldness of the wall met her back, but his unyielding grip was what held her in place, his fingers digging into her skin, every movement deliberate, controlled. It wasn't just force—it was methodical, calculated. He wasn't just overpowering her; he was making sure she had no room to breathe, no space to think.

She thrashed against him again, twisting her body in an effort to break free, but his stance barely shifted. The sheer strength in the way he held her sent a rush of frustration through her chest, burning hotter than the exhaustion weighing down her limbs.

"Let me go," she spat, her breath ragged, her body trembling with adrenaline.

Young-il didn't respond at first. His gaze bore into her, his expression impassive, but she wasn't fooled. She knew the signs—the slight clench of his jaw, the slow, measured breath he took as if reining something in. Frustration. Restraint. He wasn't unaffected by this.

"You're not going anywhere," he said finally, voice low and controlled.

Rae-a grit her teeth. "You think you'll be the one to win this?" she demanded, her glare searing into him. "You can't hold me forever, no matter how hard you try."

His fingers flexed against her wrists—so brief, so minuscule, that someone else might not have noticed. But she did. A flicker of tension, a fraction of a second where her words sank in. Then, just as quickly, he smoothed over whatever reaction had surfaced, his expression unreadable once more.

"You never know when to stop," he murmured, a near sigh beneath his breath.

"Because I don't," she shot back, her voice hoarse from exertion. "And I never will."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, and for the first time, she saw it—the weariness settling into his shoulders. Not weakness, not hesitation, but something else. Something quieter, heavier.

"You're out of moves, Rae-a," he said at last, and though his voice was still firm, there was an edge of finality beneath it. "Stop fighting before you give me no choice."

She knew what he meant. He wasn't threatening her with violence, wasn't warning her that he would hurt her. It was worse than that. It was a warning that if she kept pushing, she would force him to do something neither of them wanted.

But Rae-a had never been one to back down.

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh, her chest heaving. "You won't," she said, her voice dripping with defiance, though she didn't quite believe her own words.

Young-il didn't react, but she could see the way his fingers curled slightly against her skin, like he was fighting the impulse to tighten his hold.

"Do you sleep well at night, knowing you're as broken as the people you hurt?" she pushed fiercely, tilting her head just enough to keep her eyes locked on his. "The only difference between you and them, is that you're the one holding the knife."

For the first time, he went still.

Not a flicker, not a shift—just complete, eerie stillness.

Rae-a could hear the pounding of her own heartbeat, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly as the moment stretched between them. His face remained unreadable, but she knew she had struck something beneath the surface. Something he didn't want to admit.

His grip didn't tighten, didn't waver, but she could feel the shift in him, the way his fingers lingered against her wrists for just a second longer than necessary. Then, slowly, he exhaled, releasing her with an almost deliberate slowness.

Rae-a barely had time to react before the heels of her feet hit the ground properly again, but the absence of his hold left her off balance for half a second—half a second too long.

She caught the subtle movement of his hand before she even registered what was happening. A signal. A simple, precise motion.

The guards were already stepping forward.

Rae-a moved on instinct, body tensing to lunge, to fight again—but Young-il was already turning away. He didn't look back, didn't acknowledge her resistance.

Rae-a's chest heaved, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears. The guards closed in, their heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor. She could feel their presence like a noose tightening around her, suffocating, inescapable.

Her body ached, exhaustion clawing at her limbs, but surrender had never been in her nature. She had one shot left.

Rae-a let her body go slack, her muscles loosening as she stilled beneath Young-il's watchful gaze. She kept her head low, her shoulders sagging, letting the weight of exhaustion seem to finally take its toll.

For a fraction of a second, the air shifted. The guards hesitated.

And then she struck.

With every last ounce of strength she had left, Rae-a lunged—driving her forehead straight into Young-il's face with a sickening crack.

He stumbled back, his grip loosening for the first time, and she didn't waste a second.

Rae-a bolted.

Her legs burned with each step, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, but she forced herself to keep moving. The hallways stretched endlessly before her, the heavy sound of boots pounding the floor behind her urging her to push harder. There was no strategy, no direction—just the raw, animal instinct to escape.

She rounded a corner—too quickly.

Her foot slipped, sending her body twisting. The ground slammed into her with a bone-jarring impact, the shock reverberating through her spine, causing her to groan.

Pain exploded through her palms as she caught herself against the cold, unforgiving floor. She barely had time to suck in a breath before a shadow loomed over her.

Young-il.

He stood above her, his breathing steadier than hers, the cold precision in his eyes betraying no emotion. But his nose was bleeding, a stark contrast against his pale skin. She had hurt him. That should have been satisfying.

It wasn't.

"Stay down." His voice was sharper now, edged with an authority that left no room for argument. He was getting angry now.

But Rae-a had never been one to follow orders.

She met his gaze, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Fear—real fear—clawed at the edges of her mind, something raw and suffocating that she refused to name. She had never felt this drained before, never felt this close to the edge of breaking.

But she couldn't stop.

She surged forward again, her body moving on pure instinct.

Young-il was faster.

He sidestepped her effortlessly, his movements smooth and deliberate, as if he had been waiting for this. Before she could react, his hand caught her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back in a way that sent a sharp jolt of pain through her shoulder.

And then she was pinned.

Her cheek pressed against the cold ground, his weight keeping her in place, his body flush against hers. There was no leverage, no room to fight. He had won.

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sheer helplessness of it sent a wave of anger surging through her, hot and all-consuming.

His grip on her was firm, controlled—but there was no cruelty in it. No unnecessary force. It was calculated restraint, the same as always.

She hated him for it.

"You've fought harder than anyone else here," he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding. "But this ends now."

The finality in his tone sent a shudder through her.

She clenched her eyes shut, her fingers digging into the cold floor beneath her, trying to ground herself. Every fiber of her being screamed to keep fighting, to keep moving, but her body was a wreck. She could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling her under—every muscle, every joint aching in protest.

She had nothing left.

Young-il was silent for a moment, his breath steady against her ear. Then, as if sensing the shift in her, his hold loosened just slightly—just enough to remind her that he wasn't hurting her. Just enough to remind her that he could if he wanted to.

Rae-a's body was betraying her. The fatigue seeped into her bones, her limbs growing heavier with every passing second. She fought against it, against him, against the crushing weight of Young-il's pin, but her strength was bleeding out. Every attempt to struggle was met with unwavering resistance—his grip firm, his control absolute.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving against the cold floor. Every muscle in her body screamed for reprieve, yet her mind still clawed for a way out. She had never let herself go down without a fight, never accepted defeat, but now, her body was making the choice for her. Slowly, against her will, her resistance dulled, her movements faltering.

Young-il felt the shift instantly. The rigid strain in her muscles lessened, the feral energy dimming beneath his hold. He tightened his grip slightly, testing her, waiting for the inevitable resurgence of defiance—but it didn't come. His sharp gaze scanned her face, searching for deception. Was she feigning weakness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

But no—he knew better. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her breath shuddered between gasps. She wasn't pretending. This wasn't an act.

She was at her limit.

His jaw tensed. He should have felt satisfaction at this moment, at finally subduing her. Instead, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest as he watched the fire in her eyes flicker, dimmed but not extinguished. Even now, as she lay beneath him, her mind was still fighting. Still searching for a way to rip herself from his grasp.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them was thick with something neither was willing to name. Then, his voice, quiet but firm.

"Don't try anything."

His warning was laced with finality, but they both knew if she had the strength, she would. Slowly, he released the pressure holding her down, his grip lingering for only a second longer than necessary before he pulled her up. She barely fought it—her body too drained to resist. Lifting her was effortless, her weight almost nothing in his hands. He let her steady herself, his grip remaining just long enough to ensure she wouldn't collapse before he took a step back, straightening his posture.

Rae-a swayed slightly but forced herself upright, masking her weakness with sheer force of will. Her breaths were labored, but her glare was sharp, unwavering. Even in defeat, she burned with rage, with venom.

"You think this is over?" Her voice was hoarse but filled with dangerous conviction. "I'll find a way. I'll kill you, you monster."

Young-il met her glare, unreadable as ever. There was no amusement, no mockery—just a steady, assessing gaze that lingered longer than it should have. He didn't flinch at her words, didn't react to the threat that most would have dismissed as empty given her current state, but the words stung nevertheless. If there was anyone in this place capable of pulling off the impossible, it was her.

He turned to the guards without breaking eye contact.

"Take her to isolation." His voice was cold, controlled. "I'll deal with her personally."

Rae-a's pulse pounded at those words, spiking, but she didn't let it show. As the guards seized her arms, dragging her away, she kept her eyes locked onto Young-il's. She wanted him to see it—the defiance, the unshaken will, the promise that this wasn't the end. No matter how bruised, how battered, she wasn't broken. Not yet. Not ever.

Young-il remained still, his expression unreadable as he watched her disappear down the hallway. To anyone else, he was indifferent—just another player dealt with, another obstacle removed. But as her words echoed in his mind, something colder, sharper twisted in his thoughts.

This was far from over.

He exhaled slowly, the tension lingering in his fingers. Rae-a had been a problem before, but now… Now, she was something else entirely. She was dangerous in a way he hadn't accounted for. And worse—

He wasn't sure what he was going to do about it.

But before he could figure that out, there was another matter to attend to. He reached for his radio, voice calm, controlled, but laced with something lethal beneath the surface.

"Find every piece of information you can on Player 089. She was from the underground. Dig up every last bit."

There was a pause on the other end before an affirmative response crackled back.

Young-il lowered the radio and turned, making his way towards his quarters. He needed a moment—to think, to prepare, to push down whatever unwelcome thoughts lingered about the woman he had just sent to isolation.

Because there was something else that needed to be dealt with first.

And tonight, he was going to crush Gi-hun's spirit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Young-il stepped into his quarters, taking his mask off, with the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that settled into his bones. The room was dim, the only illumination seeping through the massive window that stretched across the far wall. The world outside was a deep abyss, dark and vast, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—on the woman who had just been dragged away, her venom-laced words still ringing in his ears.

His gaze flickered over the monochromatic walls, the intricate black lines carved into them like a cage of his own making. The heavy scent of aged mahogany filled the air, grounding him in the familiar space, but doing little to calm the storm raging in his head. His bed stood to the left, a queen-sized expanse shrouded in dark red, draped in black curtains that created a space both indulgent and isolating. To the right, a large leather couch faced a low, glass-topped table, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the room. Beyond it, a single-seated chair—deep brown, with intricate carved accents—stood rigid before his towering bookshelf.

The bookshelf was a world in itself, lined with knowledge and indulgence alike. Rows of books sat in pristine order, their spines unblemished, arranged with the precision of a man who found solace in control. Interspersed among them were bottles of whiskey, aged and potent, their amber depths promising an escape he wasn't sure he deserved. A small side table stood beside the armchair, a decanter resting atop it like an old companion waiting for him to return.

He moved to it without thought, his fingers curling around the crystal bottle, the weight of it familiar. He poured himself a glass, the liquid sloshing steadily as he stared down at it, lost in the chaos of his own mind.

He paced.

Measured strides across the cold floor. His jaw tightened, his free hand flexing and unfurling as he replayed the events over and over. The fight. The way she had thrashed against his grip, the sheer defiance in her eyes. The anger. The betrayal. The fear.

She saw him now. Saw the truth of him.

And she hated him for it.

His breath came sharp through his nose, his frustration growing into something unbearable. The glass in his hand felt too fragile, too insignificant to contain the fury bubbling beneath his carefully composed exterior. He threw it.

The sound of shattering crystal ripped through the silence, whiskey splattering against the black-lined walls like liquid fire. The scent of oak and smoke filled the air, mingling with his ragged breath. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping at the strands in a desperate attempt to ground himself, but nothing settled. Not the distant hum of the city. Not the oppressive quiet of his room. Not even the knowledge that this was his fault.

He had been careless. Caught up in something he shouldn't have been. And now, she knew. She would never stop fighting him now.

What was he supposed to do with her?

He couldn't let her reenter the games—not with what she knew, not with the fire that still burned in her. And yet, the thought of keeping her here, of caging her, twisted something deep inside him. That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted her gone. Free. As far away from this place as possible.

But would she ever stop chasing him?

A sharp knock at the door shattered his thoughts.

His jaw tensed. He forced himself to straighten, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat before lowering himself into the leather chair. His voice, when it came, was level. Commanding.

"Come in."

The door creaked open, revealing a square-masked guard dressed in pink. The man stepped forward, careful and precise, bowing slightly before speaking.

"The information for Player 089 has been compiled."

Young-il's vacant, exhausted stare sharpened in an instant. His gaze snapped to the folder in the guard's hands. Thin. Deceptively insignificant. But he knew better.

His fingers curled around the file as the guard bowed again and quickly retreated. The door clicked shut once more, leaving Young-il alone with the weight of its contents.

For a moment, he simply held it, his thumb grazing the corner of the cover.

Kang Rae-a.

Something twisted deep in his chest. A fleeting hesitation. He almost felt guilty—intruding on the life of a woman who had fought so fiercely to keep herself hidden. A part of him wished she had told him herself. That she had trusted him, even a little. But that was impossible now.

Clearing his throat, he reached for the decanter, refilling his glass with steady hands. He took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down his throat as he finally flipped the file open.

Her demographics. Her past. The cold, clinical truths of her existence, laid bare before him.

Young-il's eyes skimmed over the file, each word etched into his mind like a brand. Kang Rae-a. The name stared back at him, solitary, unanchored to any listed parents. His brows knitted together. No recorded family. No lineage. A ghost in the system. How does someone exist without an origin? It was a question that gnawed at him, a thread that, if pulled, might unravel something far deeper than he anticipated.

His gaze traveled downward, absorbing every detail. Her academic records were flawless, almost too perfect. Top of her class. A high achiever.He smirked slightly. He never expected anything less.

It should have been mundane to file through these details, yet in the context of her existence, it only added to the mystery. Then, his eyes caught her extracurriculars—martial arts, weapons handling, parkour. Not piano. Not debate club. Not anything that belonged to a normal high school life. No, these were the pursuits of someone raised for war.

A flicker of something passed through him, too brief to name. Amusement? Admiration? But the flicker died as quickly as it came.

Then came the medical records—practically nonexistent. A single hospital visit for asphyxiation. He paused, his fingers tightening around the page. Asphyxiation. Not an accident. He doubted there was anything accidental about her life. Then, aquaphobia. A seemingly small detail, but Young-il knew better. Nothing in this file was insignificant. That fear was earned, not born.

Despite her flawless academic record, her history told a different story—one riddled with warnings, suspensions, and violent altercations. That alone would have been enough to make her stand out, but as his eyes skimmed further down the report, something twisted in his gut. Burglary. Pickpocketing. Assault. Suspected murder. His grip on the paper tightened. These weren't the mistakes of a reckless teenager or the desperate crimes of someone struggling to survive. These were calculated. Controlled. She wasn't just some underground fighter scraping by in the shadows—she was something far more dangerous. And if she had been in the underground long enough to have this kind of record… just how deep did her ties go?

His fingers flipped the next page, and the answer struck like a hammer to the ribs.

Adopted.

Kang Mi-Rae, age 9 (deceased).

His stomach twisted at the thought of adopting someone so young and losing them, but he pushed past it, his eyes snapping to the next entry.

Adoptive parent: Kang Chul-soo.

His entire body went rigid.

A sharp exhale left him, slow, measured, but his grip on the file tightened like a vice. The name pulsed on the page, mocking him. It was impossible. And yet, there it was, printed in black and white.

Kang Chul-soo.

There wasn't a single person in the criminal underworld who didn't know that name. He was a myth. A force. A man who had built an empire on blood and fear, bribery and power. Untouchable. He had politicians in his pocket, the police leashed like dogs at his feet. He was a king in a kingdom of corpses, ruling over an empire that thrived in darkness.

And he had raised her.

Young-il exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. It explained everything—the skills, the brutality, the sheer, terrifying precision she carried herself with. She hadn't been born into violence. She had been sculpted by it, trained under the hand of a man who saw human life as nothing more than currency.

His breath was steady, but beneath the surface, his mind raced. He had to process this—had to understand what this meant. Had to decide what it meant for her. For him.

Then his eyes flicked back to the file, and for the first time since opening it, his blood ran cold.

Alias: Phantom.

The world around him stilled. The air grew heavy. He barely blinked as the weight of the revelation settled over him like a suffocating shroud.

Phantom.

The name was legend. A ghost in the underground. The most elusive assassin in Kang Chul-soo's arsenal. Unseen. Untraceable. A whisper of death, a myth even among killers. And now, the myth sat behind bars under his command.

His mind reeled. 

Why was she here? Why had she left? Had she abandoned them? Betrayed them? If so, then she was being hunted. The underground never forgave desertion. They wouldn't stop. If he let her go, she wouldn't be free—she'd be a walking corpse, a moving target, another body in Kang Chul-soo's collection.

His grip on his whiskey glass turned to iron, the amber liquid trembling before he set it down with controlled precision. The file lay open before him, the answers sprawled across the pages, but they only led to more questions. 

More complications. More danger.

He had underestimated her. Completely. And now, he had to decide exactly what to do with the most dangerous woman in the Games.

Because one thing was certain—letting her walk free meant sending her straight to her death.