The room was suffocating, thick with the weight of everything that had led them here. The silence stretched unbearably thin, pressing in from all sides, amplifying the unspoken horrors that lingered beneath the surface. Rae-a's gaze flickered to Gi-hun's and Myung-gi's bound wrists, the rope coiled so tightly it bit into their skin. It wasn't just to restrain them; it was a deliberate measure to keep them from making any reckless moves. Or rather, to keep Gi-hun from acting the moment he saw the man responsible for his worst nightmares.
The door groaned open once more, the sound scraping through the stillness like a blade drawn slow and deliberate against bone. Footsteps followed—measured, unhurried, weighted with the kind of presence that demanded attention without a single word needing to be spoken. And then, he stepped inside.
In-ho carried himself with the same detached authority he always did, his face betraying nothing, every movement deliberate, every breath controlled. He did not look at them with cruelty, nor did he revel in the power he held over them. But the absence of emotion was just as suffocating. His presence filled the room, a silent force pressing into every corner, making the air thick, unyielding.
But none of that mattered. Because the moment Gi-hun's eyes landed on him, the world seemed to tilt.
At first, there was horror—a visceral, gut-wrenching reaction that seized his body, freezing him mid-breath, as if his mind was struggling to piece together a reality too cruel to accept. Then came the confusion, the fleeting moment where he seemed to believe he was mistaken, that this wasn't real, that his own trauma was manifesting some cruel hallucination. But realization followed swiftly after, crashing over him like a violent wave, leaving no room for doubt, no space for reason.
Rage.
The snarl that tore from Gi-hun's throat was pure instinct, primal and unchecked, his body already surging forward before logic could catch up. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't weighing the risks. He wasn't even aware of the futility of it, not when his entire being was screaming for vengeance, for retribution, for something, anything, that would make the unbearable weight of loss lessen.
But In-ho moved before he could even reach him, catching his momentum with a swift, almost effortless motion before slamming him back against the wall. The impact sent a sharp tremor through the room, rattling the wooden panels, the framed picture on the desk shifting where it hung. Myung-gi flinched at the sound, his breath stuttering as he instinctively pulled against his restraints, as though his body had already started reacting before his mind could catch up.
Gi-hun fought against the hold, but it was useless. He was pinned, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts as fury and grief coiled together in his chest like something venomous, something uncontrollable.
"You—" His voice was raw, cracking under the weight of his rage, his body still trembling from the sheer force of his emotions. "You sick bastard." The words scraped out of him, each syllable trembling with barely restrained violence. His nails dug into his palms, his entire body wound so tight it looked like he might snap. "You did this. You killed them." The accusation rang through the room, blistering in its intensity, years of buried grief and fury boiling over with nowhere to go. His breaths came too fast, his pulse roaring in his ears, but still, he pushed forward, even with In-ho's arm pressing him back.
"You killed Jungbae right in front of me."
The name landed like a gunshot.
A heavy silence followed, one that felt almost deafening in its intensity.
Rae-a's breath caught in her throat, the force of it hitting her like a physical blow. The air turned colder, heavier, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, leaving only the crushing weight of a memory that refused to stay buried.
She felt the room tilt, her pulse roaring in her ears. Jungbae. The kind-hearted man who had once helped her when she was barely keeping herself together. The one who had fought for others, who had held onto his humanity even in a place designed to strip them bare. She saw him again—his concerned but determined eyes, his beaming smile, his unwavering loyalty.
And In-ho had killed him.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as her body reacted before her mind could catch up. One moment she was standing frozen in the shock of it, and the next she was moving, driven by an anger so consuming it felt like wildfire in her veins.
She crashed into In-ho, using the full force of her momentum to knock him off Gi-hun. They hit the opposite wall with a brutal slam, and before he could recover, she had her knife at his throat. A second blade she had pressed against his skin, a mere twitch away from slicing through.
"Tell me it's not true," she hissed, her voice a dangerous tremor. "Tell me you didn't do that."
In-ho didn't flinch. Even with the blade at his throat, his expression remained infuriatingly composed, though there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something indecipherable. Not regret. Not guilt. Something else. Like acceptance for what he had done.
Her grip tightened, her knuckles going white around the handle. Her body was coiled, every muscle locked in place, vibrating with barely restrained fury. She wanted to hurt him. To make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had caused. And yet—
Her mind screamed at her.
If he had wanted her dead, she would have been long gone. If he had intended to harm her, he never would have let her walk away before. So why? Why had he spared her but not Jungbae? Why had he drawn the line there, choosing to let her live while condemning him? And why now—when she stood before him, raw with fury, daring him to stop her—did he do nothing? Why was he just standing there, letting her unravel, offering no resistance?
"I trusted you," Gi-hun spat from behind her, his voice hoarse with betrayal. "Jungbae trusted you. And you slaughtered him like it meant nothing."
Rae-a's stomach churned, nausea creeping up her throat. Her entire world tilted further off its axis. The man she had been fighting against, the one she had been forced to depend on, the one who had spared her friends, had also taken one away in cold blood.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, as if the weight of everything unsaid had taken form and wrapped around their throats. Rae-a's chest rose and fell in rapid succession, each breath trembling with the force of barely restrained rage. But it wasn't just rage—no, there was something deeper, something raw and vulnerable that she refused to acknowledge.
The tears in her eyes burned as they fell freely, trailing down her cheeks like silent accusations. And still, she did not lower the knife.
In-ho stood frozen, staring at her intently, at the pain carved into every inch of her face. He had seen people weep before—beg, plead, crumble under the weight of their despair—but Rae-a? Rae-a had never let herself break in front of him. At least not sober. She was fire and steel, forged in the crucible of survival, unyielding even in the face of death.
The blade pressed harder against his throat, the sharp sting a reminder of just how close she was to making him bleed. Yet he did not move, did not flinch. He only watched, his mind a battlefield of clashing instincts. He had thought himself prepared for this moment—for her hatred, for the inevitable reckoning. He had accepted the consequences long before Gi-hun ever spoke Jungbae's name.
But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her crying.
The logical part of his mind told him this had been unavoidable. He had done what was necessary. He had always done what was necessary. Regret was a useless thing, a ghost that clung to men too weak to carry the weight of their own choices.
And yet, beneath the cold, calculated exterior he had carefully constructed over the years, there lingered a hollow ache—a longing he had buried so deep within himself that he often fooled himself into believing it was gone. But now, with Rae-a so close yet so distant, that ache resurfaced, raw and insistent. Perhaps it was the part of him he had long abandoned, the part that had once been capable of softness, of care. He found himself wishing things had turned out differently, wishing that the cruel web of fate had allowed him to be more than the manipulative figure she saw him as. He wanted—no, needed—to hold her, to draw her into his arms and shield her from the world, to whisper the soothing words he had never spoken aloud. He wanted to offer her comfort, a fleeting moment of peace amidst the chaos they both lived in. But he knew, deep down, that this was not the world they inhabited.
"In-ho," Rae-a's voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through him all the same. "Tell me it's not true."
A lie would be so easy. A simple denial, a momentary comfort, and perhaps she would let go, would take a step back and stop looking at him like he had ripped something irreplaceable from her. But she deserved the truth, even if it shattered what little remained between them.
His lips parted, but no words came. He couldn't lie to her. Not now.
She studied his face, her fury wavering as something far more perilous took its place—hope. A fragile, desperate thing that clawed its way to the surface despite everything she knew. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the monster she had forced herself to believe he was. Maybe he wasn't capable of tearing away everyone she had left. Not after he had already chosen to let some of them live.
But then, his silence spoke louder than any confession ever could.
The hope in her eyes flickered. Died. And in its place, instead of fury, devastation took root.
A sharp breath hitched in her throat, and for the briefest of moments, the knife trembled in her grasp. But then her jaw clenched, and the fire in her eyes reignited, burning with a fury that sent a shiver down his spine.
"You did it," she whispered, almost to herself. "You killed him."
In-ho forced himself to hold her gaze, to let her see the truth for what it was. He did not offer excuses. There were none that would matter. There was no redemption to be found in justifications or cold calculations. Jungbae was dead by his hand, and nothing could change that.
Rae-a's breath shuddered as she blinked, more fresh tears slipping past her defenses, but it had seemed like she didn't even acknowledge that she was crying. He had done this. He had made her cry. And somehow, that realization cut deeper than any wound ever could.
Gi-hun's voice was a distant roar behind them, spitting curses, shouting about betrayal, about blood spilled in vain. But neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.
For the first time since he had put on the mask, In-ho felt truly exposed.
"You spared me," Rae-a said suddenly, her voice cracking, her hands shaking. "You spared them." Her head shook, her brows knitting together as she struggled to make sense of it. "But you killed him. Why?"
Why indeed?
The answer sat heavy on his tongue, but he could not bring himself to give it. Because what would she do if he told her the truth? That sparing her had never been about mercy, but about something far more selfish. Even sparing them for her. That from the moment he met her, she had been the only thing capable of making him hesitate. That even now, with a blade at his throat, he was not afraid of dying—only of the possibility that once she walked away from this, she would never look back.
So he said nothing.
Rae-a let out a sharp, bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You won't even answer me," she whispered, her grip tightening. "After everything, you still won't—"
Her voice broke.
And truly for the first time, something inside In-ho broke with it.
His hand moved before he could stop himself. Slow, careful. Not towards his own defense, not to push her away, but to her wrist. He didn't grip her, didn't try to force her to lower the knife. He only held it, his fingers brushing against her skin in a touch so light it was almost imperceptible.
For a moment, she didn't react. But then her body tensed, a choked breath escaping her lips, and he knew—he knew that if he pushed just a little further, she would let herself collapse. She would let herself grieve.
But Rae-a had never been one to collapse.
Her jaw tightened, and with a violent jerk, she ripped her wrist away from his touch. The knife wavered—just for a second—before she stilled herself, her expression hardening, the last remnants of vulnerability buried beneath layers of steel.
In-ho exhaled, but the weight in his chest only grew heavier.
This was the moment. This was when she would make her choice—whether to strike, to leave, or to sever whatever fragile, unspoken thing still tethered them together.
The silence was suffocating. It didn't just settle in the room—it consumed it. Every breath, every heartbeat, every thought was drowned beneath its crushing weight. Even Gi-hun's ragged breathing had stilled, his fury frozen in time, suspended like a blade inches away from striking. The only sound left was the faint, uneven rhythm of Rae-a's breath—sharp, disbelieving, trembling in its hesitance.
In-ho stood, unmoving, unflinching, the cold steel of the knife still grazing his throat. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something unreadable, something softer than she wanted to admit. The blade trembled now, but not from fear. It was Rae-a's hand that shook, her grip faltering as she stared at him, waiting. Waiting for him to speak. To confirm or deny the nightmare that had unraveled before them.
"I did it."
His voice was quiet, steady—but beneath it, there was a break, a fracture threatening to split open. "I killed Jungbae."
The words hit like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile silence between them. They landed with a force that seemed to split the very air in two, a jagged rift between what had been and what could never be undone. Rae-a's breath caught in her throat, the sound of it suffocating in the wake of his confession. The betrayal had already taken root in her chest, clawing and twisting with a violence that left her breathless—but hearing him say it, hearing him own it, was something else entirely. It was a raw, gaping wound, a betrayal exposed in its most naked form.
Her fingers, still clutching the knife, trembled. Her knuckles turned white with the force of her grip, the cold steel now a reflection of the coldness spreading through her veins. Every muscle in her body screamed with the ache of fury, of loss, of something deeper—something darker—that she refused to acknowledge. Her chest tightened, a coil of rage winding tighter and tighter until she feared she might snap in two.
"But I am ending it."
It was as if time itself had paused, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for the weight of his words to sink in. For the meaning to sink in.
"The Games," In-ho continued, his voice a razor's edge, unwavering. "They end with me."
The air felt heavy. The moment stretched impossibly thin, as if every second might shatter. And in that breathless silence, you could hear the faintest sound—the echo of a pin dropping to the floor, a final, irrevocable marker of the decision he had made.
Rae-a's arm slackened, the knife slipping a fraction of an inch from his throat, her lips parted in shock. Gi-hun flinched as if struck, his mouth dropping, but no sound came out. His bound hands trembled, fists clenching and unclenching as if struggling to grasp what had just been said. His rage, his grief—everything had been so clear before. But now? Now there was only chaos. He caused all this devestation to now turn his back on it?
Rae-a's mind raced, clawing for reason, for logic, but nothing about this made sense. He was lying. He had to be. Hours ago, she had watched him stand among Chul-soo's men, had seen him play the game as masterfully as always, building connections. And now he was saying... this?
"No."
Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, disbelief coating every syllable. She shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing, searching his face for deception, for the slightest flicker of dishonesty. It has to be a trick.
In-ho held her gaze. Steady. Silent. Unflinching.
"I'm not joking, Rae-a."
A tear slipped down Rae-a's cheek before she could stop it, and this is when she finally acknowledged the tears that had already fell. She didn't want to cry. But the weight of all of this was crushing, suffocating, and she couldn't breathe past the pressure in her chest.
Gi-hun's voice, raw and laced with fury, shattered the quiet. "You expect us to believe that? After everything? After Jungbae?"
In-ho finally turned his head toward him, slow and deliberate. "I knew revealing myself meant exposing my own weakness," he admitted. Showing his face was one way of proving that. "But I did it anyway. Because I have nothing left to hide. I am done with it."
Another crack in the dam. Another fault line splitting through the foundation Rae-a had desperately tried to hold together. But it was the next words that sent everything crumbling into ruin.
"Ensuring Rae-a's safety is all I care about now."
The world tilted beneath her feet.
For a moment, everything blurred—her thoughts, her vision, her breath—before reality came slamming back into her like a hammer to glass.
No.
No, she had misheard. She had to have misheard.
She searched his face, urgently, intently, for even a trace of deceit, but all she found was unwavering certainty. A raw, unshaken truth that unsettled her more than any lie ever could.
The knife wavered in her grasp. Her body screamed at her to move, to fight, to do something—anything—but she was frozen.
Gi-hun swallowed, his anger flickering, unsteady beneath the weight of what had just been confessed. He looked at In-ho as if seeing him for the first time, the once-clear lines between enemy and something else now blurred beyond recognition. He wanted to hate him. Needed to. But there was no manipulation in In-ho's voice, no mask. Just the truth, bare and damning. And if he was to stop the games, none of his effort would have been in vain.
And Rae-a—
She couldn't breathe.
Because if he truly meant it—if every word was real—then what was she meant to do with that? What was she supposed to feel? Did it even matter what she should feel, when the emotions already stirring within her refused to be ignored?
And more than anything…
What did he feel?
Her breath hitched. Her fingers shook. But before she could stop herself, before she could even think—
The knife slipped from her grasp.
The metallic clang echoed like a gunshot against the quiet, sealing the moment in finality.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The silence fractured as static crackled through the air, an eerie hum resonating like a phantom's whisper, coming from the kitchen, perpendicular to the living room. The sound wavered, from a radio, before a voice emerged—smooth, cold, and all too familiar.
Kang Chul-soo.
"Rae-a."
Her breath hitched, the blood in her veins turning to ice, as she stepped back from In-ho.
She knew that voice. Had heard it in the depths of her nightmares, in the moments she felt eyes on her in the dark. It was a voice that had once dictated her every move, one she had spent years trying to escape. But it wasn't a ghost. This was real.
The old radio on the table carried his voice through the room, a direct line from wherever he lurked in the shadows.
"I have to admit," Chul-soo continued, his tone casual, almost amused, "I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd last this long without me. Without purpose." A low chuckle followed, one that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. "But I see now—I underestimated you. You were always good at adapting, weren't you, Phantom?"
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, still trembling from her overwhelming emotions. She forced herself to remain still, to keep her face blank, though her heart pounded so hard she thought it might shatter her ribs.
She barely registered the sharp inhale from Gi-hun, the barely audible intake of breath that spoke volumes. It was enough to tell her that, even without words, the shift in the atmosphere was unmistakable. Myung-gi's body stiffened beside him, his shoulders taut with the tension of a recognition Rae-a had long since grown accustomed to. They were both seeing her now, not as the woman standing before them, but as something else entirely—the assassin. The specter of the underground. Phantom. The ghost who had been whispered about in dark corners, whose name was never spoken, only feared. The one whose reputation preceded her, even in the shadows of their dangerous world.
She felt their gazes on her, their weighty stares like invisible hands pressing against her skin. It was the realization that cut the deepest—the sudden shift from the woman they'd known, the one who fought beside them, to the elusive, dangerous figure she'd been before. The woman who didn't exist in records, whose face was only ever a blur in their memories.
But Rae-a refused to let that vulnerability surface. Her expression remained an unreadable mask as she cast a measured glance their way, her movements controlled and deliberate. It was her skill—her experience—that had kept them alive throughout the games, and they should know that by now. If she had been just an ordinary person, none of them, herself included, would have made it this far.
"But we both know," Chul-soo's voice slithered through the speaker, "that you don't belong anywhere else. This little fantasy you've built? It's laughable. Pretending to be something you're not. Pretending to be free." His voice dropped lower, the taunt thick with knowing. "Tell me, Rae-a, do you still hear me in the back of your mind?"
Her nails dug into her palms.
Then, his voice shifted, and something in his tone made her breath still in her lungs.
"Hyun-ju has certainly been holding up pretty well."
Her stomach twisted painfully. She truly hoped she hasn't been too injured. She was coming for her. And then secondly, the photos.
"We spent a lot of effort searching for her." Chul-soo's voice was low, cold, deliberate. He let the words hang in the air, a weight that pressed down on everything around them. The silence stretched unnaturally, thick with the tension of his unspoken meaning, the static hum of the moment dragging it out to an unbearable length.
"For all of them."
The words hit her with the cold precision of a blade, sinking deep into Rae-a's bones. A biting chill slithered beneath her skin, like tendrils of ice spreading through her veins, freezing her from the inside out. Her breath caught in her throat, trapped by the shock that rippled through her entire body.
As the meaning of those words unfurled in her mind, a slow, creeping realization slithered up her spine, each inch of it sending a tremor through her core. It was as if the air around her thickened, and the world momentarily blurred, leaving only the heavy weight of what she'd just heard. The chilling implication wrapped itself around her like a vice, tightening with every passing second, as her mind struggled to process the magnitude of it.
She had known, in the darkest corners of her mind, that In-ho had saved some of them—perhaps even that more had survived. But hearing it from Chul-soo's lips, from the very man who had been responsible for their suffering, who had destroyed so many lives with his games... It was something else entirely.
A chill settled deep within her, one that wasn't just physical. Her heart stuttered, and her world seemed to lurch beneath her feet.
All of them.
The words echoed in her mind, turning over and over, refusing to be ignored. They pierced through the walls she had spent years building, and for a brief, fleeting moment, something she hadn't dared allow herself to hope for flickered—hope.
Rae-a's breath hitched in her throat, the realization crashing over her with the force of a tidal wave. Her voice broke through the silence, trembling, though she knew it wouldn't reach him. She knew it wasn't meant for him. It wasn't even a question—it was a raw, desperate declaration.
"They're alive."
It wasn't a question. It was the truth. Or at least, the truth she desperately clung to.
The world beneath her feet seemed to crumble, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of it all. She had spent so long, too long, believing they were lost forever—that the Games had taken them from her, that the choices she had made had cost them everything. But now, here, the truth cracked through the walls of despair she had built. Against every dark, twisted thought she had tried to bury, against all odds, there was a flicker—hope.
A cruel hope. So fragile it could break with a single breath.
Before she could even reach for it, before she could let herself believe that there was still a chance, that glimmer was torn away. Like everything else in her life, it was out of reach. And the aching emptiness that followed threatened to consume her whole.
Chul-soo murmured, his voice a blade slicing through her chest, "Jun-hee. Dae-ho."
A sharp gasp left her lips, Myung-gi's lips too, barely a sound. She gritted her teeth against the sickening wave of emotions threatening to pull her under.
"And Gi-hun's ex-wife... his daughter."
The air turned suffocating.
Somewhere behind her, Gi-hun staggered back, his breath hitching in horror. His eyes were wide, his entire body wound tight like a man caught in freefall.
The radio crackled. And then—
A sound. Faint, distant. A muffled sob. A ragged cough. A whimper so soft she almost missed it.
Gi-hun surged forward, his body trembling with an uncontrollable fury, as if he could tear through the very air between them and drag them back by sheer force of will. His hands clenched into tight fists, shaking with the intensity of his anger, each breath a jagged, uneven gasp. Myung-gi stood motionless, his face caught between disbelief and a storm of rage that could only be described as helpless.
But Rae-a—
Rae-a didn't falter. She didn't freeze. She trembled, but not from fear or sorrow. No, this was something darker—something far more dangerous. The fury inside her ignited a fire so fierce, so all-consuming, it burned away everything else in its path. It hollowed her out, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt, only the cold, relentless need to act. She wasn't herself anymore. She was an instrument, a machine set to one purpose—to fix the mess she had created, to make right what she had wronged.
Once again, she was so close.
Once again, the chance to undo her failures was just within reach, but it was slipping through her fingers faster than she could grasp it. And the worst part?
It was her fault.
She had led them here. She had dragged them into her mess, and now—
Chul-soo let the silence stretch on, savoring the weight of it, before finally speaking with cold satisfaction, his voice like poison dripping from each word.
"If you want them to live," he said, each syllable sharp with malice, "you know what to do."
The sharp click that followed echoed through the room, and the static—everything—faded away.
And then, nothing.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up, driven by an instinct sharper than thought. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, no room for doubt. Only the fierce, burning resolve that surged through her, propelling her toward the door with a single, relentless purpose.
She couldn't afford to waste another second. Her friends were out there—facing their own desperate fight—and Rae-a wouldn't be the one to stay behind. She refused to be the bystander, the one who watched while they suffered. The only thing keeping her steady, her focus sharp, was the icy certainty deep within her bones that she could still get them out. She would get them out.
But then, a hand shot out, grasping her arm with an almost painful force, yanking her backward into the hard, unyielding weight of his chest.
Strong. Steady. Inescapable.
In-ho.
She froze. Every muscle in her body locked in place, her breath catching in her throat as a strange weight settled over her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else as she turned her head, meeting his gaze.
His grip was tight, his hand anchoring her in place, like he was afraid she might slip through his fingers. His face was unreadable, a mask of calm, but his eyes—those eyes—spoke in a language far more raw than anything his lips could say.
There was something there. Something desperate. Something torn, as if the walls he had so carefully built were starting to crack, letting something darker, more urgent, spill through.
The space between them hummed with tension, thick with the weight of everything that had led them to this point—the lies, the betrayals, the impossible choices. Words hung heavy in the air, unsaid, suffocating in their silence. They were there, both of them, on the edge of something, but neither could afford to cross that line. Not yet.
Not when they were still trapped in the storm.
Rae-a's breath faltered, the moment stretching painfully between them. She could feel the pull, the undeniable connection, but she couldn't—wouldn't—acknowledge it now. Not when every second counted, when every move was life or death.
Not when their friends were still out there, waiting for her to act.
His fingers tightened, just slightly. "You can't—"
She pried his hand off her, slow and deliberate. One finger at a time. As if she had completely removed the anger from her body, as if she was in a zombified state.
She lingered for just a second longer, as if caught in the gravity of his presence. The pain between them, the hurt, still bled raw beneath the surface. But she didn't let it stop her.
She pulled away.
The air was thick, suffocating in the aftermath of Kang Chul-soo's message. The weight of his words still pressed into the room, suffusing it with an almost tangible dread. Every second that passed without action felt like a noose tightening around their throats.
Rae-a turned toward the door again, her jaw set, her fingers clenched into fists. But before she could take another step, In-ho moved in front of her.
"You can't just go," he said, voice low but firm.
Rae-a turned to face him, eyes blank and stern. "I don't need your permission."
"This isn't about permission, Rae-a. It's about survival," he countered, jaw taut as he searched her gaze. "Walking into Chul-soo's hands alone is suicide. You know that."
She glared, rolling her shoulders reflexedly. "I don't have time for this, I have people I need to protect."
"You need a plan." His voice was sharper now, edged with something dangerous, something desperate.
Rae-a's expression twisted. "A plan? You think I'm going to sit here and strategize while they're in danger? We don't have the luxury of time, In-ho. They need me now."
"You walking in there alone is exactly what he wants," In-ho shot back, stepping forward, invading her space. "He's been waiting for this moment. He'll make you watch as he kills them, and then he'll take you back, break you down piece by piece."
Her breath hitched, but she refused to let his words shake her. "I won't let that happen."
"And how exactly are you going to stop him?"
"I'll kill him if I have to."
For a brief, haunting moment, something flickered across In-ho's face. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible—an expression that was both unreadable and somehow painfully familiar. His eyes darkened, a shadow of doubt or regret crossing them before he spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant.
"And if he kills you first?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and loaded with a silent threat. Rae-a's breath caught, and the world seemed to still around her. She didn't answer immediately, her gaze drifting as she wrestled with the gravity of his question.
Finally, her voice broke through the tension, steady despite the churning storm inside her.
"Then at least I'll die trying."
The silence that followed felt like a physical weight, pressing against her chest, suffocating the room. In-ho remained still, his gaze never leaving her, as if searching for something in her words, in her conviction. But Rae-a felt the sting of her own declaration—something in her tone betraying the truth she didn't want to face. It wasn't just defiance; it was a choice, a willingness to sacrifice everything. And in that moment, something inside In-ho broke.
He had been prepared for her to defy him. Prepared for her to challenge his every word. But the cold indifference she held toward her own life—toward the very notion of losing it—cut deeper than he had anticipated.
A sharp, guttural pain lanced through his chest at the disregard she showed for her own safety. It was a raw ache, the kind that felt like a wound tearing open—an unbearable knot tightening deep inside him.
In that moment, he understood. This was why he had done it. Why he had forced her into this corner, laid his cards on the table, made her see the stakes in stark, painful truth. Because if he hadn't, if he had let her go on believing in her own autonomy, she never would have trusted his words. Not fully. She would have dismissed his warnings as nothing more than control—just another attempt to pull her back into his grasp.
"We need to consider a better plan, Rae-a," In-ho said, his voice low but unwavering, his jaw set with determination. He refused to let her walk into certain death, not after he had exposed everything, not after he had risked so much already. His eyes burned with something unspoken—frustration, desperation, maybe even fear—but he held firm, unwilling to let her slip through his fingers.
A chair scraped violently against the floor as Gi-hun abruptly stood, hearing the 'we' in his statement. He was well aware of In-ho's notions, but was not fully convinced. "Oh, this is rich." His voice was laced with disgust, his glare burning into In-ho like a hot iron. "You suddenly care about whether she lives or dies? That's funny, coming from you."
In-ho turned his gaze to him, unblinking, unreadable. "Believe what you want."
"Oh, I do," Gi-hun snapped. "I believe you care about Rae-a, I'll give you that. But my daughter? My ex-wife? I don't trust you to help them."
In-ho's jaw twitched. Whilst he did not care for them as such, he knew Rae-a did. And that by default meant that he would ensure their safety. "I have connections to the underground. You don't."
"And that means what? That we should trust you now? After everything?"
Rae-a let out an huff. "Enough—"
"No," Gi-hun interrupted. His voice was rising, his emotions barely restrained. "Rae-a, this man is the reason we're in this mess to begin with. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't even know about the damn Games. And now, I'm supposed to believe he's going to help save my family?"
"You don't have a choice," In-ho stated, his voice a razor-sharp edge cutting through the rising tension. His eyes flickered with something dangerous—unwavering certainty, a promise unspoken. He wasn't just talking to Gi-hun anymore. He was making it clear to everyone in the room. They could resist, they could argue, but there was no path forward without him. No scenario where he would simply step aside and let Rae-a face this alone. The idea was laughable. "You think you can pull this off without me, but you can't. I am not leaving Rae-a defenseless."
Gi-hun surged forward, but Myung-gi stepped between them, planting his tied hands on his chest. "Stop," he demanded, his voice firm and reasonable. "This isn't the time for this."
Gi-hun's breaths came hard and fast, but he didn't move past Myung-gi. The room was thick with tension, all of them on edge, ready to explode at any second.
Myung-gi exhaled through his nose, then turned his attention to the rest of them. "As much as I hate to admit it, we need him."
Gi-hun scoffed, looking away. Rae-a's fingers twitched at her sides, her mind spinning at a thousand miles per hour.
"Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, Dae-ho, Gi-hun's daughter, his ex-wife," Myung-gi continued, glancing at each of them. "They're all being held, and we have no way in. Rae-a does and In-ho does."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with finality—like a death sentence waiting to be carried out.
Rae-a swallowed hard, the movement barely perceptible, but enough to betray the tightening in her throat. Her face was a mask of darkness, unreadable and impenetrable, her eyes locked with In-ho's, unwavering. His gaze bore into hers, searching for any sign, any hint of what she would do next and if it would involve her reckless, selfless nature.
And then, without warning, she shifted.
A subtle movement, but the intent behind it was clear. She had a plan.
And it was a good one.
Rae-a's fingers moved swiftly over the phone's screen, the motion almost mechanical. She pulled the device from her pocket and pressed a number, her expression a mask of calm, her eyes fixed on the distance as if she could already see the plan unfolding. The silence in the room was thick, the air heavy with anticipation.
"Who the hell are you calling?" Gi-hun's voice broke through, rough with emotion, his eyes wide with confusion and curiosity. Rae-a's gaze flickered briefly toward him, the faintest of glances before she held a finger to her lips, signaling for silence.
The phone rang once. Twice. And then, a voice answered on the other end, low and smooth, carrying an edge of amusement.
"Didn't expect to hear from you so soon, Rae-a."
Her jaw tightened, a flicker of something cold in her eyes as she didn't hesitate. "Get here. Now."
A pause. Then, the voice on the other end chuckled darkly, the sound laced with curiosity. "You sound desperate."
Rae-a's patience was thinning. "Just get here," she snapped, her voice sharper than before. Without another word, she ended the call, her thumb pressing the button with finality.
She pocketed the phone quickly, the motion smooth, deliberate, as though she was already one step ahead. But as she turned back to face the others, her eyes didn't soften—if anything, her expression grew harder, more focused.
Gi-hun, Myung-gi, and even In-ho were staring at her, their faces etched with confusion and suspicion, the tension in the air palpable. In-ho, more vulnerable than usual after exposing so much of himself, couldn't help but break the silence. "Who the hell was that?"
Rae-a exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her as if it carried with it all the weight of the choices she'd made. But she knew this was the right call. She lowered her gaze to the floor, her mind working rapidly, calculating each possible outcome, each move ahead. Finally, her voice, when it came, was steady—controlled.
"A distraction."
In-ho's brow furrowed, his suspicion deepening. "What kind of distraction?"
Rae-a's eyes lifted, locking onto his with a steel-like intensity. The fire within her was undeniable, a cold, determined resolve that cut through the tension in the room like a blade. Her gaze held a quiet promise—a certainty that she had a plan, and nothing was going to stop her from seeing it through.
In-ho's eyes flickered over her, his expression unreadable at first, but then he noticed it—the fire. It was there again, that spark of purpose, something that burned fiercely behind the calm exterior she projected. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her, a fire fueled by something deeper than mere survival. And for a brief moment, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the challenge in her eyes mirroring something in his own soul.
"One big enough to get us inside with minimal backup," Rae-a continued, her voice steady but carrying the weight of her certainty.
His smirk deepened, but beneath it, something else flickered in his gaze—something more than just amusement. There was a subtle flicker of respect, tinged with an emotion he couldn't quite place. He had seen her fight before, witnessed the way she moved—efficient, sharp, instinctive—but it was the way she thought that had always intrigued him. This wasn't the impulsive Rae-a he had come to expect, the one who acted first and considered the consequences later. This was different. She wasn't just making plans; she was strategizing. He recognized it, the same calculated precision she had shown during his Bossaum game.
It was the same ruthlessness, the same calm efficiency, but now, there was an added layer—a depth to her focus that made her seem almost... untouchable. He couldn't help but admire that, even though it both fascinated and frustrated him. Rae-a was a paradox. She was infuriatingly impulsive, always rushing headfirst into danger without a second thought for herself, and yet there was this side to her—the side that had always been there beneath the chaos—the side that was careful, deliberate, always analyzing and exhausting every possible option to ensure the safety of those she cared about. It was a side he hadn't seen in her since the Games.
It was a side that made her both dangerous and compelling.
He watched her with growing interest as she worked through the plan in her mind. There was no sign of hesitation now, only the sharp clarity that had always marked her when she was at her best, when her instincts and intellect aligned. And for the first time in a long while, he found himself genuinely curious, wondering what exactly she was plotting.
The room fell silent, the words hanging in the air like an unspoken promise. There was no room for doubt, no space for second-guessing. Rae-a's plan was set. She had already weighed the risks, and she was moving forward, no matter what it took.
Her gaze shifted toward the door then, the next phase of their plan already playing out in her mind. "Now," she said, her voice calm but firm, "we wait."
The weight of her words settled in the space between them, a reminder that time was no longer their ally. Every second counted.
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The silence stretched unbearably as they waited, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on all of them. Every tick of the clock was a slow drag against their nerves. The air was thick, charged with tension, the kind that made breathing feel like a conscious effort. They stood in restless stillness, eyes flickering to one another, the anticipation gnawing at their composure.
Then—
A knock.
Everyone turned sharply, the sound sending an electric jolt through the room. Rae-a moved first, her body rigid as she reached for the door handle. Every muscle in her frame was taut, her mind racing through a dozen different possibilities, none of them reassuring. As the door swung open, revealing the figure standing in the dim light of the hallway, the breath was stolen from her lungs.
Jun-ho.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted, a volatile charge igniting like gasoline meeting an open flame. His sharp gaze swept over the room before settling on one person.
In-ho.
The world stopped.
Everything else—the walls, the people, the air itself—ceased to exist as the two brothers locked eyes. In-ho's entire frame stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. Jun-ho, equally frozen, looked as though he had seen a ghost.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Something dangerously close to anguish passed over both their faces, an emotion neither was prepared for nor knew how to contain. It was as if time had folded in on itself, dragging them back to a place they had long abandoned. A place where they were not enemies, not strangers standing on opposite sides of an abyss, but brothers.
Rae-a's heart pounded furiously as she looked between them, her confusion deepening with every second that passed in suffocating silence. The weight of unspoken words pressed against her chest, but she held her tongue.
Did they... know each other?
Her stomach twisted uncomfortably, pieces of an unseen puzzle snapping into place in the back of her mind, forming a picture she hadn't even realized was incomplete.
"In-ho."
The name left Jun-ho's lips as though he barely believed he was saying it.
Rae-a's breath stilled. Her entire body tensed.
Her gaze drifted to In-ho, whose face, was utterly unreadable. No mask of indifference, no carefully constructed facade—just raw, unfiltered shock.
Rae-a's mind reeled.
Jun-ho knew In-ho?
The implications slammed into her like a freight train.
Jun-ho had been searching for the Squid Games. He had been desperate for answers, relentless in his pursuit of the truth. He had wanted to know why the Frontman had spared her, why she was still alive when so many others had been discarded like pawns in a sick, twisted game.
And now, standing before her, the answer was written across his face.
Because he wasn't just looking for the Games.
He had been looking for In-ho too.
A quick glance at Jun-ho confirmed everything. His eyes—usually sharp, unwavering in their resolve—were filled with something else entirely now. Conflict. Affection. A hesitant, fragile hope that shattered any doubt Rae-a had left.
Then, barely above a whisper—
"I'm glad you're okay... brother."
The words sliced through the air, sending shockwaves through the room.
Gi-hun inhaled sharply beside her, his disbelief evident. Rae-a herself felt her breath catch, her stomach knotting. Brother? The revelation sent a ripple through her consciousness, dismantling everything she had assumed, everything she thought she understood about In-ho and Jun-ho's separate lives.
Her hands clenched into fists, despite keeping her face neutral. It made sense now—why Jun-ho had searched so relentlessly, why he had risked everything to infiltrate the Games, why he had been so damn fixated on the Frontman's actions. This wasn't just about exposing corruption or unveiling horrors.
It had always been about finding his brother.
Rae-a's gaze flickered back to In-ho, but it wasn't his face that caught her attention—it was the raw weight in his eyes. His expression remained as unreadable as ever, an expertly crafted mask of stoicism, but his eyes told a different story. They were locked onto Jun-ho's, deep with something neither of them could hide. It was a mixture of regret, grief, and something else—something too heavy, too complicated to name. The tension between them felt thick enough to cut through, a silent battle of unspoken emotions, each one too raw to confront openly.
Rae-a swallowed hard, the motion bitter and thick in her throat as emotions fought for dominance inside her. A thousand questions swirled, each one clawing at her mind, demanding answers, but she stifled them, forcing them down into the recesses of her thoughts. Now was not the time.
Because this moment wasn't about her.
It wasn't about her conflicting emotions, her pain, or her need to understand. This was about Hyun-ju. This was about the others—about the friends she'd lost and the lives hanging in the balance. The reality of that was too sharp, too real, to allow anything else to break through.
Whatever this was, whatever had torn the brothers apart and led them to this moment, that was between them. And they could hopefully put this aside until after they had rescued their friends.
And for once, Rae-a chose to stay silent, letting them face each other without interference, without anyone else muddying the storm that already raged between them.
Whilst they had their moment, she would formulate a plan.