The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

Rae-a's screams echoed through the small, barren room, her fists slamming against the steel door with unrelenting force. Her breath was ragged, her throat raw from shouting, but she didn't stop. It was as if the pain in her hands, the ache spreading through her shoulders, and the exhaustion clawing at her bones weren't enough to silence the storm raging inside her. She needed out. Needed answers. Needed something other than this suffocating isolation and the heavy weight of betrayal pressing against her chest.

Her legs buckled, sending her to her knees. She had been at this for hours. She pressed her forehead against the cool metal, the fight momentarily draining from her limbs. The tears had stopped hours ago, but the hollow ache and water stains on her cheeks remained. Young-il—if she could even call him that anymore—had ripped her apart in a way she never thought possible. It wasn't just the deception that gutted her, it was the fact that, deep down, she had trusted him. She had never trusted anyone before, not truly, but he had wedged his way past her defenses, offering safety she hadn't realized she craved.

And now she had to wonder—was all of it a lie? The subtle ways he looked after her, the unspoken understanding between them, the moments she thought had meant something? The way he protected her even when she didn't need it. And the kiss—

A sharp breath hitched in her throat, and she clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. How could she have been so blind? He had questioned her identity, told her not to play hero, expressed concern every time she threw herself into the fire. Had it all been manipulation? A ploy to keep her in line, to dismantle the resistance before it even had a chance? Had he been watching her struggle in the games, pretending to care, only to crush everything she believed in when it suited him?

She gritted her teeth, bile rising in her throat at the thought of it. Was anyone even still alive? Gi-hun? The others? The uncertainty made her stomach churn, and the helplessness curdled into rage. With renewed fury, she staggered back to her feet and resumed pounding on the door, the sound reverberating through the small space. She didn't know how long she had been here—hours, a night, longer? Time had lost meaning in this cage, but the suffocating weight of Young-il's betrayal had not.

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Young-il woke with a start, muscles stiff from where he had dozed off in his chair. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for the pistol at his side before his mind fully caught up with reality. The dim light from the monitors cast a cold glow over the room, the screens flickering between various surveillance feeds. The crackle of his radio disrupted the brief moment of stillness, and he knew before even reaching for it that it was about her.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers against his temple before answering. "Report."

"Sir, she's been screaming and hitting the door for hours. She hasn't stopped."

Young-il exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as a dull headache pulsed behind his eyes. He had expected defiance, resistance. He had braced for cold silence, for the sharp edge of her words slicing into him like a blade. But this?

She was relentless.

He leaned forward, watching the grainy footage of the small, dimly lit room that had become her cage. The door was metal, thick enough to withstand gunfire, and yet she kept throwing herself against it. Her fists, bruised and bloodied, struck with the same brutal determination he had seen in her time and time again—on the battlefield, in the games, in every moment she had ever chosen to fight when others would have surrendered.

And it wasn't stopping.

His jaw tightened as he took in the way her body sagged after each blow, exhaustion gnawing at her limbs. Yet she forced herself back up, one hand steadying herself against the wall before she struck again. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her voice hoarse from screaming. She knew no one would let her out. She knew she couldn't break through.

And still, she kept going.

A flicker of irritation passed through him, but it wasn't aimed at her. It was at himself.

Of course she was doing this. She wouldn't sit still, wouldn't wait like some helpless prisoner for him to decide what came next. The Rae-a he knew—the one who had defied impossible odds to survive, the one who refused to kneel to anyone, not even him—would rather destroy herself than submit.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself up from his chair.

If she kept this up, she was going to pass out. Her body would give out before her mind ever did, and that thought unsettled him in a way he didn't care to analyze. The logical part of him knew this was necessary—containing her, keeping her out of the game until it was over—but a small, unwelcome part of him didn't want to see her break like this.

Not like this.

But if he went in now, she'd lunge at him. He could see it already—the wildness in her eyes, the unrelenting fury. She'd fight him with everything she had, even if she was barely standing. And while he had no doubt he could overpower her in this exhausted manner, what purpose would it serve? Talking sense into her was impossible when she was in this state. Restraining her was the only option left.

Bringing the radio back to his lips, his voice came out steady, controlled. "Tie her up. I'm coming down."

There was a pause. Then, "Understood, sir."

Young-il clipped the radio back onto his belt, rolling his shoulders as he steeled himself for what was to come. He had no illusions about how this would end—she was going to hate him even more for this. But hate meant she was still fighting, still alive. And that was better than the alternative.

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Rae-a's fists slammed against the cold steel door with a muffled thud, desperation pushing her to strike again. Her heart thudded, a violent rhythm against her ribcage, as the silence in the dim, windowless room began to suffocate her. The walls, bare and unyielding, held no comfort. This place, in the games, had once been a hideaway, a temporary escape, but now, it felt like the jaws of a cage slowly closing in. Her breath quickened, a sharp contrast to the stillness around her, until—

The door creaked open with a sudden, grating screech that echoed far too loudly in the cramped space. Rae-a's body tensed as the unexpected sound caught her off guard, but before she could react, the cold grip of hands seized her arms. The guards filed in, their boots heavy against the concrete floor, the clinking of their weapons sending a sharp chill through the air.

She fought against them, thrashing with all the power she could muster, adrenaline surging as she knocked one guard to the ground, his yelp lost beneath the growing noise of chaos. But her resistance was futile. The more she struggled, the tighter their grip became. Like iron chains, their hands wrapped around her, dragging her back into the center of the room where the harsh, fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the grim surroundings.

"Let me go!" she spat, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her defiance, however, was a fleeting thing, quickly overpowered as more guards flooded in, surrounding her, a wall of muscle and iron. With every ounce of fight left in her, Rae-a twisted and bucked, but they pinned her down until she could no longer move.

One guard shoved a chair toward her with a squeal of its metal legs scraping across the floor. The sound seemed louder than it should have been in the otherwise silent room. The chair was placed in front of her, a mocking invitation, and Rae-a's pulse spiked again—she knew this was only the beginning.

They forced her into the chair, the ropes biting into her flesh as they tied her legs tightly to the seat. She kicked against the restraints, her teeth gritted, but it was all in vain. Her arms were bound together in front of her, each knot tying her tighter and tighter. Her body trembled with restrained fury, eyes narrowing as she glared up at the guards. She refused to let them see her fear, her pride was the only thing she had left.

And then, through the haze of strained breaths and the scent of old dust in the air, the door opened again.

He stepped in, as if the very act of entering was a performance he had rehearsed a thousand times. Young-il. His presence filled the room like a dark cloud, each step deliberate, measured, and suffused with the quiet power of someone who had long been used to control. Dressed in black from head to toe, he exuded an effortless grace, his tailored suit almost too perfect for the bleakness of the room. The harsh light caught the edges of his clothing, making the shadows dance, and his tousled hair—the same way it had been in the games—brushed across his forehead as though it, too, had a life of its own.

Rae-a's eyes locked onto him immediately, the usual burning anger she felt for him simmering to the surface. But even in the midst of her fury, she couldn't deny the fact that he looked good. Too good. His face was unreadable, his expression cool as always, but there was a weight to his gaze that pierced through her, as if he were trying to calculate something, to figure her out as if she were a puzzle he hadn't yet solved.

For a moment, all Rae-a could hear was the low buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the subtle rustling of the guards in the corners of the room. The air was thick with tension, oppressive, almost choking her. Young-il's gaze never wavered from hers, his eyes studying her with the precision of someone who had mastered the art of reading people. He had always been able to see through the layers others wore, and in this moment, Rae-a could feel the weight of it pressing down on her. The silence stretched between them, suffocating, as though the room itself had been waiting for his next move.

Then, with a swift flick of his hand, the atmosphere shifted. Without a word, the guards moved in unison, as though they had been waiting for the signal. Their movements were so precise, so coordinated, that it almost seemed rehearsed. In a matter of seconds, the room was emptied, the heavy sound of boots retreating toward the door filling the space. Rae-a's eyes remained locked on Young-il, her heart pounding in her chest, but she couldn't help but watch the rush of the guards as they left the room. They moved with such efficiency, such practiced obedience, that it sickened her. She scowled, the disgust clear on her face.

The door swung shut behind them with a finality that echoed in the silent room, and the two of them were left alone.

Young-il's gaze never left hers. He didn't need to speak to make his presence known; his silent command had already sent the guards scattering, like trained dogs, their loyalty unquestionable, their compliance unwavering. Rae-a could feel the subtle shift in the air, the change from a room full of looming figures to one where only the two of them stood, face to face.

Two hearts, torn by emotions neither was brave enough to admit.

He caught the scowl on her face, the way her lip curled in disdain as she watched the guards disappear, and a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A momentary flicker of amusement at her silent judgment. She hated how he could do that, how he could provoke a reaction in her even without saying a word.

Her heart raced, but she forced herself to steady her breathing, to suppress the tremor that threatened to betray her calm facade. She wouldn't let him see her fear, her weakness, not now, not ever.

She forced herself to speak first, her voice sharp, cutting through the thick silence. "Not hiding behind a mask now, are we?" The words were deliberate, a direct provocation, a challenge meant to force him into revealing something, anything. But his expression remained unreadable, that same calculating coolness in his eyes.

Yet, for the briefest of moments, she saw the slightest tightening of his jaw. A small, almost imperceptible reaction, but it was enough. Rae-a felt a flicker of victory, a small triumph in the face of his usual implacable demeanor.

He exhaled through his nose slowly, the sound barely audible, as though her words were nothing more than a mild annoyance. But she could see the way his gaze darkened ever so slightly, the way his body remained perfectly still, poised like a predator waiting for the right moment. He stepped further into the room, the quiet shift in his posture a subtle reminder of his control, his dominance over the situation. His hands slipped into the pockets of his coat, and he leaned casually against the wall, the effortless ease of his posture making her blood boil.

The way he carried himself, the way he commanded the room—it was maddening. He was so confident, so self-assured, as though nothing could touch him. It infuriated her, and yet, she couldn't help but acknowledge it. He had always been like this, always the one in control, always the one who pulled the strings.

"You're a difficult woman to track down," he said, his voice smooth and measured, each word deliberate. His tone didn't falter, didn't show the slightest crack of frustration, but Rae-a could feel the weight of his words as they settled over her like a heavy net, slowly constricting, tightening with every syllable. Dread coiled in her stomache at the implications. "No family. No recorded parents. No verifiable identity." He paused, his head tilting slightly to the side, a mocking semblance of curiosity in his eyes. "Yet, somehow, you ended up in my game. Quite the coincidence, isn't it?"

The words hung in the air between them, each one a sharp accusation, an insinuation of something darker, something more sinister. Rae-a's breath caught in her throat, but she refused to let it show. She wouldn't let him see how much his words unsettled her. How much it stung to have him piece together the fragments of her past, the shattered pieces of who she was, and put them on display like trophies.

His words weren't just observations—they were accusations. Unspoken threats woven between the syllables, a silent warning that he knew exactly what she was. Who she was. And that knowledge gave him power.

But she had learned long ago not to reveal any cracks in her armor. Not to let anyone see how easily they could shatter her. So, she met his gaze, her eyes burning with defiance, her jaw set firm. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words had affected her.

She kept her posture relaxed, unbothered. "Is there a point to this, or do you just like hearing yourself talk?"

If the venom in her voice affected him, he doesn't show it. Instead, he studied her, as if peeling back layers she had tried to reinforce. "The way you moved during the games—it was different. Calculated. Too refined to be simple desperation." He pushed off the wall, slow, purposeful, closing the distance between them step by step. "Someone trained for survival long before stepping into that arena." Another step. "It wasn't instinct. It was discipline."

Her pulse kicked up, but she held her ground. He searched for the truth in her stance, in the flicker of her gaze, in the tightness of her breath. She gave him nothing.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a hunter's patience in his gaze. "A person with nothing left to lose wouldn't fight that hard to live. Not like you did." His voice dropped, quiet and cutting. "Unless, of course... it wasn't your first time fighting for your life."

A muscle tightened in her jaw.

His head tilted, as if confirming a suspicion. "You don't just disappear from the underground, Rae-a. Ghosts like you don't get to walk away."

The words dragged her backward through time. Blood-soaked alleyways. Whispered names in the dark. The sharp sting of betrayal. She could almost hear the distant echo of voices that once called her Phantom. But she wouldn't let him see it. Wouldn't let him drag her down with his words.

The words dragged her further back, down a path lined with bloodstained alleyways and flickering neon lights casting jagged shadows against cold pavement. She could almost feel the weight of the blade in her grip again, the way it molded to her palm as if it had always belonged there. Ghosts stirred at the edges of her mind, whispering her name—not the one she wore now, not Rae-a, but the one that followed her like a curse, a brand that refused to fade.

It echoed in the voices of the dead, in the hushed reverence of those who feared her, in the final choked breaths of the ones who didn't live long enough to say it twice.

But she wouldn't let him see it. Wouldn't let him pull her under.

Then, the final blow—

"Were you hoping I wouldn't find out, or were you expecting me to find out, Phantom."

The name slammed into her like a gunshot in an empty room. The air felt thinner, her lungs tighter. Her breath caught—not enough to be obvious, not enough for most people to notice. But Young-il wasn't like most people.

He knew.

She could feel him watching her, feel the weight of his gaze pressing against her skin, waiting for a crack, a slip, anything he could use. But she spent too many years perfecting the mask of indifference, too many years learning how to smother every instinct, every tell, until there was nothing left for anyone to read.

She could feel him watching her, feel the weight of his gaze pressing against her skin, waiting for a crack, a slip, anything he could use. But she had spent too many years perfecting the mask of indifference, too many years learning how to smother every instinct, every tell, until there was nothing left for anyone to read.

Slowly, deliberately, she let out a breath, measured and even. Her pulse still pounded against her ribs, but her face remained an unreadable slate as she met his gaze. Searching. Calculating. Was he bluffing? Testing her?

No. There was no hesitation in his eyes. No doubt. Only that quiet, unshakable certainty. He had uncovered her identity in a similar way that she uncovered him. What was this for? Leverage?

She rolled her shoulders back, forcing an unaffected stance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A pause. Then—the smallest shift. Not quite a smirk, not quite disappointment. Just that same, infuriating patience.

"Don't insult me."

The words weren't sharp or laced with anger, but they cut deeper than if they had been. They carried weight, conviction. A warning.

And then, slowly, he stepped forward. Purposeful. Controlled.

There was nothing overtly threatening about his approach—no aggression, no grand gestures—but she still felt the walls of the room shrink around her, felt the way each step pulled at the invisible noose tightening around her throat. Not a predator hunting, not yet, but something just as dangerous. A tactician closing in, stripping away every lie she could hide behind.

"You were Phantom," he murmured, as if he was simply stating a fact. "Raised to be a weapon. Molded into something lethal. You didn't just vanish from Kang Chul-soo's empire—you escaped."

The word hung between them like a blade.

He took another step, slow, careful, watching her, reading her.

"And now..." His voice dropped lower, something thoughtful threading through it, like he was turning the truth over in his mind, examining it from every angle. "Now he wants you erased."

Something in her twitched. It was small, barely a flicker, but his eyes caught it before she could smooth it over.

The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn't a smirk. It wasn't triumph. It was something quieter, something sharper.

"The woman who fought through my games with such discipline, such control," he continued, his head tilting just slightly, gaze still locked onto hers, "is the same woman who's been running long before they ever began."

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

The truth lay between them now, raw and exposed.

And he was right.

But she'd rather die than let him know it.

Her fingers curled against her hands. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to fight, to flee. But there was nowhere to move. He just lay everything out for her.

"Spare me the dramatics." Her voice was cold, clipped—a blade honed to carve through whatever game he was playing. "If I leave, I'm dead. If I stay, I'm trapped and an inconvenience. So if you're going to kill me, just do it."

No hesitation. No fear. Just defiance, sharp and unyielding, burning beneath her ribs like a slow, steady fire.

Young-il's face remained impassive, his expression unreadable, but she saw it—the brief flicker in his eyes. Offense, almost. But beneath that, something else. Something heavier. Hurt. Not from her defiance, but from the way she so easily cast herself as a burden, as if the weight of her existence was something others had to bear—as if it wasn't the other way around.

The thought unsettled him, though he masked it well.

Then, a slow exhale, measured, deliberate. Laced with irritation, but not at her. At himself.

"If I wanted you dead, Rae-a, you wouldn't be sitting here."

His tone was even, calm. Unshaken. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He spoke as if her life—or death—was his decision to make, as if she were just another piece in the intricate game he controlled.

But he was wrong.

She had spent months slipping through Kang Chul-soo's grasp, outmaneuvering the very men who had once trained her to be unstoppable. Survival was her choice. Her victory. The only regret clawing at her now wasn't her own escape—it was that she hadn't taken Mi-Rae with her.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms. She knew it was true. Knew that if he had wanted her gone, she would have never woken up in this room at all. But that didn't mean she would sit here and accept whatever twisted reasoning he had for keeping her.

She met his gaze head-on, the heat simmering just beneath her skin. "Then why am I here?"

For a fraction of a second, something cracked in his expression. Not hesitation, not calculation—something deeper. It was there in the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw locked like he was biting down on words before they could slip free. Frustration. Guilt.

The realization struck like a dull blade.

Before she could dissect it, before she could even decide if she believed it, his voice cut through the tension.

"Because if I let you leave now, you won't survive."

It was quiet. Certain. Laced with a certain emotion that Rae-a didn't want to acknowledge. Almost didn't want him to acknowledge either.

The words settled heavily between them, pressing against old wounds that never had the chance to heal.

A breathless, bitter laugh escaped her—a sound sharp enough to cut, jagged at the edges, utterly devoid of humor. It hung in the air between them, taunting.

"And keeping me here changes that?" Her voice was quieter now, but no less biting, laced with challenge.

His jaw tightened. Not at her mockery—he was used to that by now—but at something else, something deeper. Frustration. Disbelief. As if she was blind to the danger closing in around her. As if she was overestimating just how long she could keep outrunning death.

"It keeps you alive." His words were clipped, firm. A truth, whether she wanted to hear it or not.

"Alive." The word left her lips like poison. She leaned forward, ignoring the way the restraints bit into her wrists, ignoring the dull sting of metal against skin. He wanted to talk about keeping people alive?

"You don't get to say that," she hissed, her voice low and controlled, yet laced with seething anger. "You—the man who profits from death. The one who turned survival into a twisted game." Her gaze locked onto his, daring him to deny it, daring him to lie. "So tell me—" She took a slow, deliberate breath, leaning forward in the chair, trying to regain some semblance of control, forcing the tremor from her voice. "Are they still alive?"

The silence thickened in the room.

He didn't answer.

Her stomach churned. "Then they're still playing."

The words hit her like a brutal blow, the weight of them sinking deep. Her hands twitched against the restraints. "They're still playing."

Young-il didn't flinch. Didn't deny it.

"There was never going to be a rescue. The games continue," he said flatly.

Her rage flared. "You lied to them!" She yanked at the restraints, her voice rising in fury with every word. "They trusted you. They died for you. And for what? A role you've been playing from the start?"

A flicker of something—regret, maybe?—crossed his face, but he said nothing. He didn't deny it.

"Say something, you coward!"

His voice was quiet, silencing the hum of guilt that he feels over the situation. "I didn't ask for their sacrifice."

Her breath came hard, uneven as her bruised fingers pierced the skin of her hands with the sheer force of containing her anger. How could he even look her in the eye and say that? "But you let them believe in it. You let them believe in you."

His eyes dropped to the blood pooling around his nails, his eyes sharpening on the display. A slow exhale. "I never promised them anything."

A hollow chuckle escaped her. "That's where you're wrong, Young-il." She spat his name like a curse. "The second you stood beside them, you promised them hope."

His fingers twitched at his sides. For the first time, he looked away. "Hope is a dangerous thing."

Her voice sliced through the air. "So is underestimating me."

Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.

His mask cracked just a fraction. It was barely noticeable, but Rae-a caught it—the slightest flicker in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw. His voice, when it came, was tight, as though he struggled to keep it steady.

"I did what I had to do."

The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken history, but Rae-a didn't let it faze her. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, her gaze sharp as a blade, cutting straight through his facade. She leaned forward slightly more in the chair, the ropes digging into her wrists, but she didn't flinch. Her voice stayed steady, laced with venom.

"And what is it you have to do now? Keep me locked up until I stop being a problem? Or are you waiting for me to break like the rest?"

The challenge in her words was undeniable, and for a moment, Young-il's eyes flickered—just for a second—as if he'd been struck. His breath caught for a moment, sharp, before he exhaled slowly, the coolness of his composure returning. But the tension between them thickened, suffocating. Rae-a watched closely, waiting for his response, her pulse quickening.

"I don't want to break you, Rae-a."

Her heart skipped a beat at the unexpected admission, the words coming slower than she anticipated. There was a vulnerability there, hidden beneath the layers of control, something she couldn't quite place. It wasn't enough to sway her, not by a long shot, but it made her pause.

Her lips curled into a tight smile, one that was sharp, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Then let me go."

Her demand hung in the air, heavy with the weight of her defiance. Rae-a's eyes didn't leave his. She held his gaze, her stare unwavering, daring him to do something, anything, that would give her the freedom she craved. Her words, though calm, carried the weight of everything she'd endured, everything she'd fought for—and everything she'd lost.

For a moment, Young-il said nothing, his expression hardening again, the mask slipping back into place with chilling precision. The air between them seemed to freeze as his eyes hardened, the glint of coldness returning.

"I can't."

The words came out flat, final, like a door slamming shut. Rae-a's heart clenched, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned back against the chair, her jaw tight, the harsh line of her expression betraying no hint of weakness. The tension in the room thickened again, a suffocating silence settling over them, broken only by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

But Rae-a, ever the one to provoke, to cut through the walls he built around himself, pressed on. She leaned forward once more, her voice low, smooth, but dripping with accusation.

"Then don't act like you're any better than Kang Chul-soo."

The words struck like lightning, sharp and unforgiving. Rae-a watched closely as his jaw tightened, his body stiffening at the comparison. She could see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, something she couldn't quite place. Guilt? Regret? It was there, a fleeting shadow, but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. He buried it again, like he was burying a part of himself he didn't want to confront.

For a long moment, the room was silent, the only sound the soft rustling of his coat as he shifted ever so slightly. Rae-a held her breath, watching him with that same unyielding gaze, her mind racing with questions she knew he wouldn't answer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again, his voice colder, harder than before, but something in it was different—perhaps tinged with something deeper than the usual calculated distance.

"The difference is, unlike Kang Chul-soo, I don't take pleasure in keeping you here."

Rae-a froze at his words, her mind racing as she processed them. She stared at him, her pulse quickening, but for the first time, she wasn't sure how to respond. A strange sense of affront washed over her—like he was trying to justify himself, to convince her that he wasn't like the man who raised her, who shaped her into who she was. But she couldn't understand it.

What did he want from her? What did he expect to do with her? The question lingered in the air, unanswered. She didn't understand what he planned to do with her, and that uncertainty gnawed at her, deeper than any of the physical pain she'd endured.

For a moment, Rae-a's eyes searched his face, trying to read him, to peel back the layers that remained so carefully guarded. But it was no use. He was still a mystery to her, and with every word, every move, he slipped further from her grasp.

Her voice came out, softer this time, more uncertain, though she tried to disguise it beneath the sharpness of her tone.

"You don't take pleasure in it?" she repeated, the disbelief evident in her eyes. "Then why the hell are you doing this?

Because keeping you safe matters more to me than I'd ever dare to say.

The room was suffocating in its emptiness. No bed, no chair—nothing but cold concrete and the lingering scent of dampness in the air. The only light came from a single overhead fluorescent fixture, buzzing faintly like an insect caught in a trap. It cast harsh shadows along the walls, stretching across the floor like claw marks. Young-il's gaze passed over the desolate space, his throat tightening slightly. It was barely fit for a prisoner, let alone for someone like her.

His throat tightened slightly. She's been in worse. He knew that much. Her past was littered with far darker corners, places where the air was thick with blood and betrayal. But still... If she was going to be kept here until the games ended, she needed something better than this. She deserved something better than this. Not that she'd ever believe it if he told her.

He exhaled slowly before gesturing vaguely around them. "I'll find you a better place than this."

Rae-a scoffed, shifting slightly against her restraints. "This is much more manageable than being stuck with you."

The sharpness of her tone was deliberate. She was testing him, seeing how far she could push before she struck a nerve. Young-il felt his fingers curl at his sides, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. He had spent years perfecting control, knowing exactly how to keep himself detached. But with her, it was different. She knew how to dig in her nails, how to find the cracks in his patience.

He let the silence stretch between them before reaching into his coat pocket. The sleek handle of a pocket knife pressed coolly against his fingers as he pulled it out. The moment the blade flicked open, a quiet, lethal sound cutting through the air, Rae-a's entire body tensed.

It was subtle—the way her breath caught just slightly, the way her shoulders went rigid for half a second before she forced herself back into composure. But Young-il caught it. She recovered fast, but he saw the hesitation. The flicker of unease she buried beneath her defiance.

Her narrowed gaze locked onto him as he stepped forward, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her chin up in challenge, dark eyes unyielding. There was no hesitation in her stare, no crack in her composure, just the same defiant fire that refused to be extinguished.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible, before he crouched down, the glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light. He moved with practiced ease, the blade slicing cleanly through the bindings around her legs. The rough fibers slackened, unraveling as they hit the cold floor in loose coils. Even as the restraints fell away, Rae-a remained still, her breathing even, her body deceptively relaxed. She was weighing her options, mapping out every possible opening, every mistake he could make.

If she played this right, if she kept herself composed, he might let his guard down just long enough for her to strike. There was no point in fighting now; he was still expecting resistance, still watching her too closely. But if she bided her time, if she let him believe she had resigned herself to whatever fate he had planned, then she might find a way out.

She scoffed, tilting her wrists up toward him, her expression bored but her pulse quickening with barely contained irritation. A silent demand.

Cut these, too.

Young-il's gaze lifted, unimpressed, the weight of it pressing against her like an unspoken warning. "Don't push it," he murmured, voice low and unyielding, his control an unshakable force in the room.

Rae-a exhaled sharply, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips as she tilted her head slightly. "If you know how dangerous I am, why turn your back on me?" Her voice was smooth, laced with mock curiosity, her amusement deliberate. "I could be waiting for the perfect moment."

The words hung between them, bait laced with something sharper beneath.

Young-il didn't answer immediately. He only watched her, his face unreadable, his stillness unnerving. Then, after a long pause, a slow smirk pulled at his lips.

"If I believed you had one," he murmured, his voice low and calming, as he slid the knife back into his coat with deliberate grace, "I wouldn't be here standing here."

Rae-a's fingers twitched against the hand restraints, her expression unreadable. He was confident—too confident. The worst part was that he had every reason to be.

She had no retort.

She needed to bide her time.

Instead, she followed him as he turned, her steps careful and measured. The moment she stepped through the doorway, the air shifted, cooler, less stifling than the barren room behind her. The space outside was wider, but she felt the weight of unseen eyes, the kind that never left, the kind that observed without expression.

The guards stationed outside straightened as they passed, backs rigid, boots perfectly aligned, their presence a silent but constant force. They did not acknowledge her, did not turn their heads or even so much as flinch in her direction. Their sole focus remained on Young-il, unwavering and absolute, like trained hounds waiting for their master's next order.

Not loyalty. Obedience.

Her gaze flickered across them, taking in every subtle detail—the perfectly pressed uniforms, the lack of weapons in hand yet the unmistakable readiness in their stance, the way they moved in tandem as if tethered to an invisible command. This wasn't like Chul-soo's men, whose loyalties wavered depending on power and greed. These ones did not hesitate. There was no impulse, no personal interest, just discipline, submission, control.

And Young-il had molded them into that.

A cold knot twisted in her stomach. She didn't know if she was more disgusted by the guards' mindless obedience or by how effortlessly he commanded it. In some ways, he was more terrifying than Kang Chul-soo.

Her fingers curled slightly as she walked past, resisting the urge to sneer outright. Puppets. That's all they were.

Young-il didn't spare them a glance. He didn't need to. His authority was already cemented in the way they stood, in the way they moved, in the way not a single one of them dared to break formation. He didn't give orders with words—he didn't have to.

Rae-a hated it.

And yet, she couldn't help but take in the surroundings as they moved. The corridor was nothing like the cold, lifeless room she had been kept in. The walls were smooth, sleek, illuminated by warm, golden light that softened the space, casting elegant shadows along the monochromatic palette. It was refined, meticulous, exuding the kind of quiet luxury that spoke not of excess, but of control.

Was this how he lived?

Young-il didn't miss the way her eyes flickered across the hall, absorbing every detail, nor did he miss the subtle furrow of her brows as if she was trying to piece something together. He wondered what she was thinking, what conclusions she was drawing, but he said nothing. Instead, he simply walked ahead, knowing that Rae-a—despite her reluctance—would follow.