The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

oung-il pushed open the door and gestured for Rae-a to step inside. His expression remained impassive, but there was a quiet expectation in his stance, a silent dare for her to defy him.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, muscles coiled, every instinct warning her that stepping inside meant surrendering control. But she had no choice. Swallowing her unease, she stepped forward, eyes immediately scanning the space for exits, weak points, anything she could use to her advantage.

The room was neat, everything placed with an almost obsessive precision. To her left sat a queen-sized bed, its sheets smooth and untouched. A sofa rested in the middle of the room facing away from the bed, accompanied by a dark armchair angled slightly toward it. A large office desk was positioned beside the sofa, facing the door. Opposite the seating area, a massive television took up most of the wall, and beside it, an even larger bookshelf loomed, filled with meticulously arranged books. What she could assume was the bathroom door was on the right side of the bed.

But none of that was what caught her attention.

The window.

A massive, floor-to-ceiling window dominated the far end of the room, its heavy curtains pulled halfway open, with a bay-window peeking through and a small balcony beyond it. The glass stretched across nearly the entire wall, offering a view that she hadn't seen in what felt like years.

Instinctively, she drifted toward it, the pull of the outside world stronger than her guarded resolve. The moment her fingers brushed against the cool surface of the glass, a deep ache bloomed in her chest—one she refused to name. The sight beyond the window was breathtaking. An endless expanse of trees stretched toward the horizon, dark greens and browns softened by the early morning light. Towering mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks bathed in muted golds and blues.

And that was when it clicked.

They were on an island.

A cold weight settled in her stomach as the realization sank in. There was no escape. No chance to slip away unnoticed, no city streets to disappear into. Even if she managed to get past Young-il, past the guards, past whatever security measures were undoubtedly in place—there would still be nowhere to run.

Her fingers curled against the glass before she forced herself to release it, exhaling slowly through her nose. No weakness. No panic. Not now.

Behind her, Young-il moved with quiet efficiency, crossing the room toward a sleek cabinet near the bed. His steps were measured, his presence always calculated. There was something unnerving about his silence—how he never wasted words unless they served a purpose. He retrieved a medkit with the kind of ease that suggested it wasn't the first time he'd used it. She wondered briefly how many wounds he'd tended to, how many of them were his own.

He had his back turned, but Rae-a's attention had already shifted. The desk to the right of the window called to her. Not just because it offered a semblance of normalcy in an otherwise strategic space, but because something about it felt... used. Unlike the pristine organization of the rest of the room, the desk bore faint signs of recent activity.

Her gaze flicked to one of the drawers—slightly ajar. An invitation or an oversight?

She didn't overthink it. Moving with practiced subtlety, she dragged her fingertips over the desk's polished surface before seamlessly slipping them into the open gap of the drawer. Her heart rate remained steady, her breathing even, as she rifled through its contents. Documents, papers, a pen—nothing immediately incriminating, but something told her there was more. There was always more when it came to him.

Before she could flip through the stack, a shadow loomed over her.

The air shifted. Heavy. Charged.

Young-il's hand pressed against the drawer, pushing it shut with an unyielding finality. The soft click of wood against wood was deafening in the silence.

A silent warning.

Rae-a stilled, her hand now resting atop the desk, caught in the moment between defiance and retreat. She could sense him just behind her, close enough that his breath ghosted against the nape of her neck, the warmth of his presence stark against the cool air. Her pulse betrayed her, a slow, deep thrum beneath her skin, and though she knew she should step away, reclaim the space between them, she didn't. A part of her refused to be the first to move.

She didn't flinch. But the tension stretched between them, thick and unspoken. His grip didn't tighten, didn't restrain—he didn't have to. His presence alone was enough of a command.

Seconds passed like hours.

Then, with measured patience, he stepped back. A slow retreat, but not a surrender.

The medkit landed on the desk with a muted thud.

Rae-a finally turned to face him, her expression unreadable, carefully devoid of emotion. She met his gaze, daring him to address what had just happened, to call her out for her snooping. But he didn't. He only exhaled through his nose, a subtle, almost imperceptible release of tension.

He didn't reprimand her. Didn't demand answers. He simply opened the medkit with deliberate control, as if the moment between them had never happened.

And somehow, that unsettled her more than anything else.

Then, wordlessly, he gestured to the chair beside the desk. A command, not a request.

Rae-a hesitated for the briefest moment before lowering herself onto the seat. The leather was cool against her skin, grounding her, but her body remained tense, unwilling to let down its guard. Young-il didn't step back immediately. He lingered, his shadow casting over her, a presence both oppressive and calculated. She could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the deliberate way he allowed her to sit beneath his gaze before he finally moved, as if deciding just how much control he was willing to relinquish.

The silence lingered, thick and pressing, as he knelt beside her, taking her hand without asking. His grip was firm but not rough, his fingers brushing against her skin as he examined the damage. Her knuckles were raw, split from her relentless assault on the door earlier. Blood crusted over the wounds, staining her skin in dark, jagged lines. His jaw tightened slightly, though he said nothing.

The sting of antiseptic came without warning. She barely reacted, only the subtle clench of her jaw betraying her discomfort. He was precise, methodical, his touch careful yet distant. But something flickered in his expression—an unreadable thought that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Then, his voice, low and almost too quiet, murmured, "You should take better care of yourself."

Her gaze snapped to his, sharp and guarded. The sheer audacity of him suggesting she should take care of herself filled her with a pool of anger. A slow, deliberate narrowing of her eyes followed, but she didn't respond. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

He finished wrapping her hands in silence, tying the last knot with practiced ease before finally looking up. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second, something almost tangible lingered between them.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

The dim light of the room flickered as Young-il closed the medkit with a soft snap, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. He glanced at Rae-a, who was sitting on the chair, her posture stiff and defiant. She scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she shot him a glance.

His expression remained cool, impassive as ever. He stepped over to a small intercom near the door, pressing a button with a swift, practiced motion. His voice, low and measured, filled the quiet space.

"Food for two. Deliver it now."

There was a slight pause before the voice on the other end responded in the affirmative. Young-il hummed, then turned back to Rae-a, his gaze calm and calculating. He didn't give her a second glance as he walked to the small table in the room, preparing to lay out the meal. It wouldn't take long.

Rae-a raised an eyebrow, eyeing him with suspicion as she made her way around to the table. She was starving. She had no idea if the food would be another part of his twisted manipulation or a genuine offering. Either way, she wasn't about to trust him.

A few moments later, there was a soft knock at the door. A guard entered, carrying a tray with covered dishes. He placed it on the table before leaving quickly, not bothering with any further pleasantries. Rae-a's nose immediately caught the scent of grilled meat, rice, and something else—something savory.

Young-il pulled the covers off the dishes, revealing a simple but well-prepared meal. The kind that suggested care and attention to detail, even if the offering was minimal.

"Eat," Young-il instructed, his voice quiet, but the command was clear.

Rae-a hesitated. Her stomach growled, but her mind screamed caution. She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly unwilling to show any weakness.

"Are you going to poison me?" She muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Young-il didn't respond, not even a flicker of a reaction crossing his face, as if he expected a snide comment from her. He simply slid into the seat across from her and placed his hands flat on the table, waiting for her to make her choice.

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension, as Rae-a slowly eyed the food.

"Look," Young-il said after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically calm, "you haven't eaten for a while." His eyes briefly flickered to her wrist, where the cuffs were still fastened. "And I'm not in the business of letting you starve."

Rae-a scoffed, her eyes narrowing with a sharp edge. "That's your fault, isn't it? You and your games," she shot back, her tone venomous. "You've kept me here, not feeding me, keeping me restrained like a damn animal. Just as you did to everyone else."

Young-il's gaze remained steady, though something in his chest tightened at her words—something he wouldn't admit to even if she could see it. The glint in his eyes shifted, but it was gone as quickly as it came, buried under a controlled mask. "It is not poisoned," he said simply, his voice betraying nothing of the discomfort that lingered beneath the surface.

But underneath it all, a quiet hurt settled in him. It stung more than he cared to acknowledge—her belief that he was keeping her here, caged like an animal. She couldn't see the lengths he'd gone to, the reasons behind every decision, every restraint. He wasn't doing this to break her; he was doing it to protect her. But the words cut, reminding him that no matter how much he tried to shield her, she only saw the cage.

Even if she could protect herself, she is one woman against an army.

She eyed the food one more time before slowly reaching for a piece of meat, her hand not entirely steady.

The food, though simple, was well-prepared. Her stomach, protesting its emptiness, settled as she ate, but she kept her eyes on him the entire time, not willing to let down her guard. She could hear his steady breathing, could feel the weight of his attention in the air. Yet, she refused to give in, chewing each bite slowly, as if savoring the bitterness of the moment.

The meal eaten in silence, and soon, the food was nothing more than a memory. Young-il had mentioned something about work to do and was currently reading through files, with reading glasses balanced precariously on his nose. Rae-a's mind returned to the task at hand—the escape, the testing of her restraints.

As the day dragged on, she found herself once again searching for any weaknesses in her bonds. Her fingers moved beneath the cuffs, pressing gently against them, testing for any give.

The hours passed slowly, the air grew heavier. Rae-a's mind buzzed with thoughts of escape. The room, while quiet and almost serene, was suffocating. Her hands, still bound by the restraining cuffs, ached with the desire to feel free. She subtly tested the ropes, running her fingers along them as though they might somehow loosen or break. No luck.

She shifted slightly, eyes flicking to the door. The guards would be back soon. They were predictable, as they always were. She watched the shadows under the door, anticipating their movements. They never seemed to notice how closely she was studying them, the careful patterns she'd begun to memorize.

Young-il's presence in the room was a constant, but he was absorbed in his work—his focus directed at a pile of papers, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Rae-a's gaze lingered on him, wondering if he ever allowed his mind to wander from his meticulous plans. She raised an eyebrow and, with deliberate slowness, made a subtle movement toward the cuffs on her wrist. It wasn't much—just a slight twist, just enough to gauge his reaction.

Young-il's eyes flicked up from his papers, looking over his glasses. He didn't react, not immediately, but there was something in his gaze—something sharp. He'd noticed. Rae-a smirked to herself, the slightest victory. The game had begun, and she had no intention of losing.

Later, after another long stretch of silence, the exhaustion that had been building in her body began to take its toll. Her eyelids grew heavy, and despite herself, she leaned back into the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. Sleep was a necessity; it was dangerous to keep her guard up without rest. Her body betrayed her, giving in to the weariness as she slowly drifted off.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the distant machinery. Rae-a's breathing became slow and even, her head tilted back in a position that looked almost painful, though she seemed unaware. Her body remained still, but the tension melted from her features, replaced by an almost peaceful expression.

Young-il, ever vigilant, glanced up from his work after a while. His sharp eyes took in the sight before him—Rae-a, asleep on the couch, her head at an odd angle. For a brief moment, something flickered in his gaze. There was no malice in his eyes, just a quiet, almost reluctant amusement. He found it... endearing. Something about the way she held herself, even in sleep, spoke volumes. She wasn't broken.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it vanished quickly as he turned his attention back to his papers. The softness of the moment was gone, replaced by his usual cold detachment, the coldness he forced himself to have, but his thoughts lingered on the image of Rae-a, vulnerable for once.

The night crept forward. At some point, Rae-a shifted, the chill of the room stirring her from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, bleary and confused for a moment. She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

And then she noticed it. The blanket, draped across her body, soft and warm. She didn't remember grabbing it. There was no sign of anyone having moved in the room, no sound of footsteps or door opening. The blanket had simply appeared.

Her gaze moved instinctively to Young-il, who was still sitting at his desk, engrossed in whatever task he had been working on. His back was to her, his posture rigid. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her, but there was a quietness to his demeanor—a stillness that almost felt like... consideration.

Rae-a frowned, uncertainty clouding her thoughts. She wasn't sure what to make of it. Was this a gesture of care, or another manipulation, another game? But as her fingers traced the soft fabric of the blanket, she couldn't deny the question lingering in her mind. Was there more to this man than she had allowed herself to believe?

Young-il's eyes lifted from the papers on his desk as the soft rustling of the bed told him that she was awake. He didn't need to look directly at her, but there was something in the stillness that made him wonder. His gaze flitted briefly to the window beside him, the night outside darker than it should be. Time really slipped by that quickly?

A faint sigh escaped him, his fingers pausing on the page as he glanced back at Rae-a, lying there with the thin blanket pulled over her. Her eyes were already on him, her expression unreadable, though the shift in her posture spoke volumes. There was a moment, fleeting but noticeable, where the tension between them felt heavier than usual.

"You can sleep there," he offered simply, motioning to the bed. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of something unspoken.

Rae-a didn't respond immediately, her body stiffening for just a half-second, a flicker of hesitation that coiled something in his chest. Did he push too far? What was she expecting? The floor?

Her expression quickly shifted, regaining that familiar edge of defiance. "Bold of you to assume I'd be comfortable with that," she scoffed, her voice sharp and deliberate.

Young-il almost let a smirk slip out, the teasing words on the tip of his tongue—something about her fear of him or something else entirely. He almost took the bait, the old back-and-forth that had once defined their interactions. But then it hit him—the weight of everything that had changed between them, that brief but heavy moment of realization. The playful tension that had once simmered between them felt like a distant memory now, replaced by something heavier, more dangerous.

His lips parted for a second, but he didn't speak. Instead, he exhaled slowly and shook his head, an unspoken understanding settling in.

"I won't try anything. I'll take the sofa," he muttered, his words quieter now, tinged with something unfamiliar. Maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to him, or the realization that this situation, with Rae-a, had shifted into something far more complex.

For a moment, Rae-a was still, scanning his face with that cautious scrutiny he'd grown so used to. She was looking for deception, for weakness, for some sign that he was lying. But he didn't flinch. She knew, deep down, that if he wanted to hurt her, he could have done it a long time ago. She knew his worst secret, after all—the secret. And yet, here she was, still alive. Still breathing.

Her gaze softened, just a touch, the hard edge of suspicion fading as she seemed to reach some unspoken conclusion. Without another word, she turned away, her decision made in the silent understanding between them.

There was a pause. The air between them felt thick with unspoken words.

Breaking the silence, Rae-a's voice was quiet, almost reluctant. "I need a shower. And clothes."

Young-il froze, the motion of gathering the papers halting as her request hung in the air. She was asking? She was comfortable enough to ask to shower in his room? He hadn't expected it—this calm, this... openness. The way she put herself in his hands without the usual guard up. He expected her to ask at some point for a shower somewhere different, or wait until he had left. His chest tightened slightly, but he pushed the feeling down, forcing his face to remain unreadable.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to read something in her eyes, but all he found was that quiet determination, that calm resolve that had never faltered, even in the darkest of moments. Finally, he exhaled, the sharpness in his chest dulling as he nodded.

"I'll get it," he replied, his tone steady, betraying none of the storm brewing inside him.

He moved quickly, heading to the closet and retrieving a fresh set of clothes, along with a towel. He didn't say a word as he handed them over to her, his eyes momentarily meeting hers before he pulled his gaze away.

Rae-a took the clothes and towel without protest, her fingers brushing his just briefly before she disappeared into the bathroom. The door clicked shut with a finality that left him alone with his thoughts.

Young-il rubbed a hand over his temple, trying to shake the lingering distraction. He shouldn't let her get to him—not now. Not when everything hung in the balance. But still, his mind drifted back to the image of her, standing there, uncertain for the briefest moment. It was a rare crack in the armor.

She fought, bled, and killed with that same unwavering determination. Yet, in that moment—when he offered her the bed—it was the uncertainty that stuck with him. It gnawed at him more than it should.

He forced the thought away, returning to the papers in front of him, burying his focus back in the work that needed to be done. But even then, his mind drifted again. The image of Rae-a, softer than he'd seen her before, unsettled him in ways he wasn't ready to confront.

The door creaked open, and Rae-a stepped back into the room, her damp hair falling loosely around her shoulders. The clothes she wore fit her differently, in a way that made her seem almost softer. Her usual hardened appearance was gone—she looked more... human, but no less dangerous. The transformation was subtle, but to him, it was jarring.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, he found himself caught. He tried to look away, to maintain his composure, but something caught in his throat. No. He couldn't afford to let this affect him. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.

For a heartbeat, his breath hitched before he pulled himself together. He refocused on his papers, forcing himself to bury whatever it was that flared up in him.

Rae-a, however, didn't miss it. She saw the flicker of something—something that caught, something real. But she said nothing. Neither of them did. There was nothing to be said. Not yet.

The silence hung thick between them, unspoken tension lacing the air like an invisible thread. Rae-a stood there, her damp hair still slightly clinging to her shoulders as she watched Young-il. There was something in the way he avoided her gaze, his focus shifting back to the papers in front of him. He looked like he was lost in his work, but she knew better. She could feel the weight of his attention on her, the subtle tension in his posture. It made her skin crawl in ways she didn't fully understand.

Finally, Young-il, sensing the awkwardness of the moment stretching longer than necessary, cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the bookshelf. "If you want to read something," he offered, his tone almost dismissive, as if to fill the space with something more mundane.

Rae-a raised a brow, skepticism flickering in her eyes. A book? She couldn't even remember the last time she'd had the luxury to sit down with one. But there was something about his offer, the calm way he said it, that made her hesitate. It was too... normal. Too trivial. But then, she realized—this was what he was doing. He was offering her a distraction. A way to fill the silence, to bridge the space between them. It was a small thing, but in this world of chaos and deception, it felt significant in its own strange way.

She stepped forward without a word, her fingers trailing over the worn spines of books. The books were well-kept, but their covers bore the mark of frequent use—creases and faded titles that told the story of a man who read often, who spent his time not just plotting, but perhaps... thinking. Was this the real him? Rae-a wondered, a quiet curiosity starting to form as her fingers hovered over the books.

She paused at one, the spine worn almost to the point of crumbling. It caught her attention, drawing her in like a magnet. She pulled it out carefully, her fingers brushing against the smooth leather cover. But as she opened it, something unexpected caught her eye. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell on the scribbled words inside the front cover: Property of Hwang In-ho.

Her eyes darted toward him, seeking answers, but she didn't find them. In-ho. Her thoughts spiraled, each one more tangled than the last. The part of her that had once been so clear, so determined, began to blur. Who was he really? She'd faced killers, criminals, even betrayed her own, but this—this made everything more complicated. Her pulse quickened as her mind raced through the implications, each one darker than the last.

Rae-a's fingers hovered over the book for a beat longer than necessary, the words Property of Hwang In-ho still etched in her mind like an invisible brand. She felt the blood rush to her ears as her heart hammered slightly faster. She didn't expect this. Not from him, not from the man who had been shrouded in mystery. Not from the man who'd played this game with her, pushing and pulling, manipulating with ease. In-ho. The name felt foreign, even though she should have known it. He'd been lying to her this whole time.

Her grip tightened on the book, and she suddenly found herself unable to stay silent. It was the one question that clawed at her chest, the question she'd been avoiding, the question that seemed to unravel the very foundation of everything they'd been.

She shifted her weight, trying to mask the sudden unease pooling in her stomach. The words slipped out before she had a chance to stop them. "Is this your real name?"

Her voice was quiet but sharp, edged with something she couldn't quite place—an undercurrent of disbelief, suspicion, maybe even a hint of hurt she was too stubborn to acknowledge. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, the weight of her question hanging in the air between them like a taut wire.

Young-il, or rather In-ho, froze for just a second, his gaze faltering, before he gathered himself. For the briefest moment, Rae-a swore she saw something flicker in his eyes—a hesitation, a brief crack in his carefully maintained composure. He considered evading her question, the urge to deflect rising within him, but it was a fleeting thought. Lying now would be futile. There was no point in hiding anymore. Not with everything that was already laid bare between them.

He sighed, a sound full of reluctant acceptance. His gaze met hers, steady but resigned. "Yes," he said, his voice low, the word simple but loaded. There was no dramatization in the admission, no grand explanation. It was just the truth, raw and unadorned, and it lingered in the air between them like a quiet storm.

Rae-a tightened her grip on the book in her hands, her knuckles whitening. Hwang In-ho. Her mind repeated it, trying to piece together the weight of the revelation. The name echoed in her mind, creating a knot in her chest that she couldn't untangle. She'd never even known his real name. How much of him had been a lie? How much of their interactions had been carefully orchestrated by the Frontman behind the mask? Were any of the moments where they shared connections real?

Without another word, she turned away from him. Her feet carried her back to the bed, the distance between them growing as she processed the admission. She sat, pulling her knees to her chest, and stared down at the book in her hands, trying to make sense of it all.

In-ho watched her reaction closely, his eyes never leaving her. He could see the way her shoulders tensed, the slight tremble in her fingers as she gripped the book tighter. She was thinking. Her mind was racing, and he could almost hear the questions she was too afraid to ask, too afraid to voice.

He didn't rush her. He never had.

He shifted his gaze back to his papers, pretending to focus, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something has changed. Something about her, about him, has shifted. And for the first time, he wonders if this—whatever this is between them—can ever go back to how it was before.

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As the night deepened, the room bathed in the quiet hum of tension and uncertainty. The dim light from a small lamp cast long shadows, stretching across the walls and across Rae-a's tired face. She tried to fight the exhaustion pulling at her, but it was a losing battle. Her eyes felt heavy, the world around her blurring, and her thoughts slowed to a crawl. But still, she remained awake, rigid and alert, her mind always on edge.

In-ho stood up slowly, his movements deliberate and measured. He approached the bed without a word, his presence looming in the small space, drawing Rae-a's attention even though her eyelids felt like lead. She knew the moment he was close, could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She didn't need to look at him to sense the shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed between them, an unspoken tension thickening the air.

"I need to cuff you," his voice broke the stillness, low and direct.

Rae-a's body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her eyes snapped open, wide and alert, muscles coiling like a spring, ready to fight. Every part of her screamed to resist, to not let herself be bound again. The feeling of helplessness, of being trapped, sent a flash of panic through her chest. She had been through too much to let herself be controlled now.

But In-ho didn't seem to flinch at her immediate reaction. Instead, his hand raised in a slow, calming gesture, and his voice softened, lowering in pitch, as though he understood the fear and vulnerability his request provoked. "I won't hurt you."

The words hung in the air between them. There was something in his tone—something reassuring, but also oddly vulnerable, as though he knew exactly how much this moment meant to her, how deeply it unsettled her. He was giving her the space to decide whether or not to let him. There was no command, no threat in his words, only a strange offer of safety, of control.

Rae-a scoffed, her breath coming out in a sharp exhale, but she didn't argue. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but not by much. She knew this was the way things were—he was the one who held the power, the one who had always been in control, and yet, here he was, giving her a choice. Even if there wasn't one. She understood why he had to cuff her.

With a slow exhale, she extended her wrist toward him. Her action was deliberate—almost a defiance in it. It wasn't out of trust, but out of a necessity to keep the situation in hand, to make it clear that she was still the one in charge of herself. Her wrist, though extended, was stiff, her fingers tight with an unspoken challenge.

In-ho stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. The moment their skin made contact, there was a crackling sensation, an electric jolt that reverberated through both of them. It was a quiet shock, but it felt like an explosion in the silence that followed. The pulse of warmth beneath his fingertips, the firm, controlled pressure of his grip, left Rae-a feeling uncomfortably exposed, as though a part of her had been laid bare without her consent.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They froze, caught in that single second that stretched far too long. Rae-a's breath hitched, and In-ho's hand seemed to linger on her wrist just a moment longer than necessary. He felt the rhythmic pulse of her heartbeat, steady yet quickening, and it was a strange sensation—familiar and foreign all at once. Her skin felt warm beneath his, and yet, it sent a chill through him. He felt her body's tension, her reluctance, and he wondered if she could feel his own—how it was impossible not to notice the thudding of his heart, how every part of him seemed aware of this small moment.

But then, just as quickly, he broke the connection, securing the cuff to the bed frame with a precision that betrayed his internal conflict. He stepped back, the air between them suddenly thicker, as though the weight of what just happened was too much to bear. Rae-a shifted against the mattress, adjusting her position, but it was clear she was just as lost in the aftershock of that moment. She stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the weight in her chest, trying to pretend it hadn't just cracked open a door she wasn't ready to walk through.

In-ho walked back to the sofa, arms folded across his chest, his gaze distant, lost in thought. His mind, too, swirled, trying to piece together what that moment meant. Why had it affected him so? It was just a touch—a brief, fleeting thing—but it was something he couldn't seem to shake off.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the kind that settled deep into the bones. Neither of them spoke for a long time. They both lay awake, staring off into space, each lost in their own thoughts, trapped in the quiet complexity of the situation they found themselves in. Neither of them knew what to say, or if anything needed to be said at all. There was too much between them, too much unsaid, too many lies and truths that had yet to surface.

Rae-a, her mind spinning in circles, turned her head slightly. She knew he was awake. She could feel the tension in the room, the quiet pressure of his presence, and for a moment, it overwhelmed her. Her throat felt tight, but she forced the words out, the simple gesture of breaking the silence feeling like the most vulnerable thing she'd done all night.

"Goodnight, In-ho."

His real name. The words felt strange on her tongue, foreign in a way she hadn't expected. It wasn't like she hadn't gone by different names in the past to preserve her identity, but calling him by his real name—by the name that was so intrinsically tied to everything she was trying to understand about him—felt like crossing a line.

In-ho froze, his body stiffening as if he'd been struck. His heart raced, inexplicably faster than it should. In-ho. She said his name. She was acknowledging him in a way no one had in a long time—recognizing him as something more than just the Frontman, more than the man who had orchestrated the death of so many. It almost felt as if part of her was accepting who he is.

His breath caught in his throat, and for the briefest second, he wondered what it meant. Did she mean to say it? Was she accepting some part of him?

"Goodnight Rae-a," he murmured back, his voice rougher than he intended, but it was the only thing he could say.

And in that moment, something shifted—small, almost imperceptible, but enough to make the air feel lighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was an honesty between them. No lies, no pretense. Just two people caught in a storm of their own making, bound together by the web of their lies.

Neither of them slept soundly that night. Neither of them knew how they would face tomorrow. But for the first time, both of them felt the weight of their shared existence in a way that was less about control and more about something softer. Something unspoken, yet undeniably real.