The night stretched vast and endless above her, a blanket of inky darkness speckled with distant stars. The city, far beyond the secluded house, murmured in hushed tones—faint car engines in the distance, the occasional wail of a siren swallowed by the wind, the restless pulse of a world still moving. But here, on the balcony, it was different. Here, the silence was heavy, thick like fog rolling over the earth. It pressed into her skin, into her bones.
Rae-a leaned forward against the railing, her fingers curling around the cool metal, grounding herself in the bite of the night air. She exhaled slowly, watching as her breath misted in the cold. Sleep refused to claim her. The stillness of the house—too quiet, too untouched—made it impossible to rest. The unfamiliar comfort of a bed that wasn't stiff with the weight of past horrors unsettled her more than any battlefield ever had.
And the dress.
She glanced down at herself, at the soft blue fabric that clung to her like a whisper, draping over her frame in a way that felt foreign. It was delicate. Feminine. A contrast so stark it almost felt cruel. The scars littered across her body—thin, raised reminders of a life lived in the shadows, a life of sharp blades and clenched fists—did not belong against something so gentle. The jagged ridges of old wounds peeked through where the hem lifted ever so slightly in the wind, proof of everything she had endured.
Softness had never been a privilege she allowed herself.
Then—
A presence.
She felt it before she heard it. The subtle shift in the air, the way the atmosphere seemed to change, as if something steady had entered its orbit. A step. Slow, deliberate. Not cautious, but measured. Purposeful.
Rae-a went still, her muscles instinctively tightening, her senses sharpening as she caught the sound of someone approaching. Slow, deliberate steps. Too quiet to be careless, too measured to be a simple passing-by.
Her grip on the railing flexed, her breath held for just a second too long.
He didn't speak. Didn't announce himself. But she could feel him there, lingering just a few feet away, standing in the periphery of her awareness. Close enough for her to notice, but not so close that he imposed.
It was deliberate.
Everything about him was deliberate.
Her pulse, steady but alert, thrummed beneath her skin. She forced herself to exhale, easing the tension from her shoulders, but the air between them felt different now—to how it felt before.
Charged.
She knew—had always known—what he had done for her. The sacrifices, the choices, the unseen battles fought in the shadows of his own making. The weight of it pressed against her, a silent truth that refused to be ignored. And yet, she felt like a coward, unable to turn and face it directly. Face him. Vulnerability had never been her currency; she dealt in control, in distance, in walls built high enough to keep anything dangerous—anyone dangerous—out.
But this? This was something she didn't know how to handle.
A war waged inside her, fierce and unforgiving. One moment, she wanted to reach for him—to crash into his existence with all the force of everything she refused to name. She wanted to grasp onto the fabric of his shirt, shake him, scream at him for making her feel this much. For weaving himself into the marrow of her life without permission. For standing there, unwavering, as if she wasn't coming apart at the seams.
But then, just as suddenly, came the other feeling. The one that made her chest tighten and her hands curl into fists.
The need to run.
Not to him—to get away. To tear herself from his gravity before it swallowed her whole. Before the weight of this—of them—became something she couldn't escape.
Because whether he realized it or not, Hwang In-ho had become something irreversible in her life. A presence too deeply entrenched, too much a part of her story now.
Her thoughts ran wild, an untamed storm thrashing against the fragile sense of control she clung to. Each one crashed into the next—frantic, relentless, overwhelming. The weight of his presence, the gravity of everything unspoken between them, threatened to pull her under
He didn't speak at first, only stopped beside her, hands resting lightly against the railing. His gaze drifted upward, feigning interest in the night sky, but it never strayed for long.
Inevitably, it was drawn back to her.
The way the soft waves of her wolf-cut framed her face, unruly strands catching the faintest breeze, shifting like shadows and light against her sharp cheekbones. The way the moonlight clung to her skin, painting her in silver, accentuating every delicate angle, every subtle dip and curve. She was both fierce and fragile in the same breath—an enigma wrapped in quiet contradictions.
And her eyes—God, her eyes.
Dark, stormy, unreadable. They held entire wars behind them, conflicts she never let anyone see, battles fought in silence. And yet, despite the weight she carried, there was something unbreakable in the way she stood. Spine straight, chin lifted, as if daring the world to try and shatter her again. As if daring him to reach for something he had no right to touch.
His gaze trailed lower, to the thin straps of her nightdress slipping over her shoulders, to the way the fabric moved like liquid against her, catching moonlight and shadow in its flow. It was delicate, far too delicate for someone like her, yet she wore it all the same—like a blade hidden in silk.
His fingers twitched against the railing.
She was untouchable. Ethereal. A force meant to remain just out of reach.
And yet, here she was, only inches away.
She turned her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the second balcony door behind him, realizing now—perhaps for the first time—that their rooms were connected by this shared space. A thin line between solitude and something else. But she didn't linger on it. Didn't dare.
Instead, her gaze snapped back to the sky, to the infinite expanse above, vast and unknowable.
She didn't let her eyes linger on him.
Not because she couldn't, but because she wouldn't.
Because if she looked too long, she might catch the way his gaze traced over her—not with calculation, not with the carefully measured detachment she had once thought he was incapable of breaking—but with something quieter. Something real.
And she wasn't sure she could handle that.
He, too, was dressed for the night—his clothes a deeper shade of blue, complementing hers in a way that felt strangely intentional. As if, despite everything, despite the war raging between them and within them, they had been cut from the same cloth. Different threads, tangled and knotted, yet woven into the same unspoken pattern.
The thought unsettled her more than it should have.
Slowly, he moved closer, his steps deliberate but unintrusive, stopping at her side. Close enough that she could sense the quiet steadiness of his presence, the way it grounded the space around them. Close enough that the warmth of him lingered at the edge of her awareness, an invisible tether pulling at something deep within her ribs.
But he didn't speak. Didn't force her into conversation. And for that, she was grateful.
Even so, her thoughts waged war.
She felt like she had to say something, anything, to shatter the weight of the silence before it suffocated her. But everything she wanted to say felt wrong. Too much. Too tangled.
How could she voice the storm raging inside her? The fear that gripped her whenever she felt his presence so near? The unbearable contradiction of wanting to run toward him—to throw herself into the overwhelming gravity of him—while also wanting to disappear, to sever whatever invisible thread kept drawing her back?
She clenched her fingers against the railing, as if she could physically anchor herself against the pull of it all.
Finally, before she could stop herself, she whispered the one question that had been gnawing at her edges for far too long.
"...Do you ever wish you'd never met me?"
The words were barely above a breath, fragile in the space between them. But he heard them.
And his response was immediate.
"No."
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just the weight of his certainty, hanging between them like an unbreakable thread.
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh, the sound barely more than a breath against the night air. Despite this, all she felt was relief. Shaking her head, she stared out at the abyss beyond the balcony, as if searching for something in the darkness. "I've spent my life being used—shaped, sharpened, and pointed at whatever target someone else chose. Even now, I don't know if I'm fighting for myself or just against him."
Her voice was steady, but there was something frayed at the edges, something raw. An admittance she hadn't meant to voice aloud, but found no regret in saying.
In-ho didn't flinch. Didn't look away. His gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, as if he could see past the walls she had built—past the sharp edges and the armor—to the truth beneath.
"You are no puppet, Rae-a."
She let out a sharp exhale, fingers tightening around the metal railing. The cold bit into her skin, grounding her. "Chul-soo took everything from me. Molded me into something I never had a say in. And now, he's out there, still pulling the strings, still deciding who lives and who dies." Her grip tightened, knuckles paling. "How am I supposed to just... exist while he still breathes?"
Her words dripped with something close to desperation, but not quite. Desperation was helpless. Rae-a had never been helpless. This was something else—something forged from years of quiet rage, from wounds that had never been given the space to heal.
In-ho turned then, fully facing her, no longer just a silent observer in her turmoil. The weight of his attention settled over her like an immovable force, quiet but suffocating. "You want to destroy him."
It wasn't a question.
She swallowed, her throat tightening around the truth she had carried for far too long. "I need to," she admitted. "I don't know what I'll be after that, but I know I won't be free until he's gone."
The wind whispered between them, cool against her heated skin, but it did nothing to dispel the tension in the air.
In-ho didn't respond immediately. His silence wasn't one of disagreement. It was something else—something heavier. Understanding, yes, but beneath it, something unspoken. Something that sat between them like an unfinished sentence.
And then, finally, his voice came, quieter but no less firm.
"I understand," he said. "But I need you to understand something too."
She looked at him, waiting, her expression unreadable beneath the soft glow of the moonlight. But he could feel it—the weight of everything left unspoken pressing down on them like an impending storm.
"I don't want to lose you."
The words left his lips before he could second-guess them, unfiltered, raw. There was no crafted thought process, no carefully constructed walls to hide behind. Just truth.
Just him.
Rae-a blinked, inhaling sharply, as if the admission had caught her off guard. She had faced death countless times, had stared into the eyes of men who wanted her dead without flinching. But this? The quiet, unshakable certainty in his voice, his confession to not want to lose her—it unsettled her in a way she hadn't expected.
She swallowed hard, shifting her gaze toward the horizon where the city lights flickered, distant and indifferent. "I don't know how to be anything other than this," she confessed, voice softer now, yet laced with something heavy. Something final. "I don't know if I'll make it out of this alive."
A sharp breath left In-ho's lungs, barely audible but loaded with meaning. If I'll make it. Not when. She wasn't even considering the possibility of survival.
It wasn't just the way she said it—it was the sheer conviction in her tone, the quiet acceptance that her life was nothing more than a means to an end. Her revenge mattered more to her than her own survival. She had already made her peace with that.
And that terrified him.
His fingers curled against the railing, tension coiling in his muscles. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she would make it out alive, that he wouldn't allow anything else. But Rae-a wasn't someone who took empty promises, and he wasn't someone who gave them.
So instead, he did the only thing he could.
His hand shifted slightly, brushing against hers—not quite taking it, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but no less firm. "Then let me help you."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. It was a vow.
She wasn't going to change her mind—he could see that now. This was who she was, what she had been shaped into. She would keep walking toward the fire, no matter how much it burned her.
And if she refused to turn back, then he had only one choice.
He would make damn sure she didn't fall into it alone.
Rae-a didn't move, but her breath hitched as his hand ghosted over her own, a fleeting warmth against her skin. The wind howled softly between them, wrapping around the silence that stretched long and heavy.
But it wasn't just the silence pressing in on her—it was him. The tenderness in his voice, the quiet, unwavering way he said those words. He wasn't demanding, wasn't trying to force her hand. He was simply there, offering something she wasn't sure she could take.
And that made it so much harder.
He was making it hard for her to hold back, to pretend she didn't feel the way her chest tightened when he was close. To ignore the way her resolve wavered when she heard him speak like that—so certain, so damn sure that she was someone worth saving.
Finally, she exhaled, slow and measured, closing her eyes for a brief moment. The fight wasn't over.
The silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, yet neither of them moved to break it. The night wrapped around them, cold and vast, the wind carrying the distant hum of the city—a reminder of a world that had long since felt foreign to them both. Rae-a exhaled slowly, her gaze locked on the stars, their cold glow distant and unreachable. Perhaps that was why she focused on them. They were safe. Unchanging. Unlike everything else in her life.
In-ho remained beside her, his presence steady, unwavering. He had always been a man of control, of calculated precision, but now, in the quiet space between them, something about him felt different. He wasn't a shadow looming over her, wasn't the untouchable enigma he had once been. There was something softer in the way he lingered now, something less certain, less impenetrable. Not weak—never weak—but unshielded in a way she had never seen before.
His hand twitched at his side, a brief hesitation, a flicker of indecision she would have missed had she not been so hyper-aware of him. And then, slowly, as if testing a boundary neither of them had spoken aloud, he reached out. His fingers barely grazed hers at first, featherlight, an unspoken question in the quiet of the night. It was so slight that for a moment, she thought she imagined it.
But then, he exhaled, almost imperceptibly, and let himself close the space between them. His fingers settled against hers—not demanding, not forceful, but deliberate. A careful offering.
His touch was warm against her cool skin, grounding, a contrast that sent a ripple of something unnameable through her. She didn't pull away. Couldn't.
Rae-a had spent her entire life knowing how to wield a weapon, how to break bones, how to slip into the shadows and become something untraceable. But this—this simple, quiet moment—felt more dangerous than any battlefield she had ever walked. Because it was real.
Because it meant something.
She swallowed hard, her gaze locked onto their joined hands as if the sight alone might unravel her, might make her see what he wasn't saying out loud. Her fingers curled slightly, hesitant, but she didn't pull away. A part of her wanted to—wanted to flee before this feeling swallowed her whole, before she let herself believe in something she couldn't afford to want. But this time, she hesitated.
Maybe, just this once, she wouldn't run.
Instead, she turned toward him, the soft glow of the distant city reflecting in her dark eyes as they searched his face. Seeking—what, exactly? An answer? Reassurance? Maybe something she couldn't even name. But whatever it was, it kept her there, locked in place, as his unreadable gaze bore into her.
There was something fragile in the air between them. Delicate, like glass held too tightly in trembling hands. And then, slowly, he moved.
Not rushed. Not forceful. Just deliberate.
His hand lifted, his knuckles brushing against the sharp edge of her jaw, the hesitation in his touch betraying the war within him. He was careful, painfully so, as if afraid that pressing too hard might shatter whatever fragile thing was growing between them. She felt it in his touch—the conflict, the push and pull of restraint and something far more risky.
Desire. Fear. Inevitability.
Her breath stilled, her heart hammering against the walls of her chest, but she didn't step back. She should, she knew she should. But instead, her fingers ghosted upwards, tracing along the collar of his shirt, barely gripping, yet somehow anchoring him in place.
His eyes flickered to her lips—just for a second, a moment so brief it could have been imagined. But Rae-a felt it. She felt the hesitation, the war within him, the way his breath grew just a fraction uneven. He had spent a lifetime mastering control, turning emotions into calculations, turning desire into something secondary. And yet, here, with her, that careful restraint was slipping, unraveling thread by thread.
Then finally he closed the distance.
The first brush of his lips against hers was barely there—so soft it could have been mistaken for hesitation. A whisper of contact, an unspoken question. But when she didn't pull away, when she didn't turn from him, he moved again, deeper this time, surer.
The kiss was slow, aching, filled with all the things they had never dared to say aloud. It was an exploration, a quiet discovery, the careful push and pull of something that had lingered between them for far too long. There was no dominance, no battle for control—only the quiet surrender of two people who had spent too long pretending this connection didn't exist.
His hands skimmed over her sides, never taking, never demanding—only feeling. Mapping the space where she existed, as if memorizing her. When his fingers finally settled at her waist, there was hesitation in his grip, a light press of warmth against her that still left her the choice to step away.
But she didn't.
Instead, she pressed closer, her body aligning against his as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tightening as if she could hold him there, as if letting go might break whatever fragile thing had settled between them. A breathy sigh escaped her lips, swallowed into the night air, and she barely registered it until she felt the way his grip at her waist tightened, just slightly—his restraint fraying at the edges, unraveling in the smallest, most devastating ways.
Her hands slid upward, tracing along the sharp lines of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, rough where faint stubble had grown in. When she brushed her thumb against the angle of his cheekbone, she felt it—a sharp inhale, a moment of hesitation, a crack in his careful armor.
In-ho wasn't a man who gave in. He wasn't a man who surrendered.
And yet, he was here, letting himself be undone by her, piece by piece.
The kiss deepened, languid and unhurried, as if neither of them wanted to break the moment, as if stopping meant waking up to the world waiting outside. His hands pressed more firmly at her waist now, no longer hesitating but still gentle, still careful. Her own fingers curled around the collar of his shirt, drawing him closer, needing to feel the weight of him, the warmth of him, the reality of this.
By the time they finally broke apart, neither of them moved away completely. Their foreheads remained pressed together, breaths mingling in the sliver of space between them. The only sound was the distant hum of the city and the soft, unsteady rhythm of their breathing.
His fingers were still resting at her waist, unmoving. Hers remained at his collar, knuckles grazing the skin at his throat.
They didn't speak.
There was nothing they could say to define what this was, nothing that could make sense of it. No clear path forward, no guarantee that either of them would survive the storm waiting for them.
But for this moment—just this one—none of it mattered.
For once, they let themselves exist in the silence.
The kiss lingered between them, heavier than any words they could have spoken. Their breaths remained uneven, though neither dared acknowledge it. In-ho's hand still rested at her waist—steady, grounding. His grip was neither possessive nor fleeting, merely there, as if letting go would make this moment slip through his fingers like sand.
Rae-a's own fingers had loosened at the collar of his nightclothes, but she hadn't stepped away. Hadn't let go.
For a moment, there was only silence. But it wasn't an empty kind of quiet. It was full, brimming with all the things neither of them could say—things they hadn't yet allowed themselves to name.
In-ho swallowed, his fingers flexing slightly, a subtle, restless movement against her waist. He was debating. Pull her closer, or let her go? The answer should have been simple. He had spent a lifetime making calculated choices, knowing when to hold on and when to release. Yet now, with her standing before him, her breath still warm against his lips, his instincts warred against themselves.
He should step back. He should let this moment fade before it turned into something neither of them could afford to keep. Before it became something that couldn't be undone.
But he couldn't move. Not yet.
Rae-a's eyes searched his face, and for once, she wasn't looking for deception or a trap. She was looking for something else, something deeper—something she wasn't even sure she wanted to find.
She had been close to him before. Too close. He had held her wrist in chains, backed her into corners, tested her limits, and forced her to survive in a world where trust was a weakness. Where vulnerability could mean death.
But this—this was different.
His eyes weren't the cold, calculating ones that had studied her every move before. There was no manipulation in them. No mask.
Just something raw. Something uncertain.
It unsettled her more than anything else.
Because it meant she wasn't alone in this.
She saw it, clear as day—the quiet confirmation in his expression. The way he wasn't looking at her as an opponent, or an asset, or someone to keep at a distance.
He liked her. He wanted her.
Just as she liked him. Just as she wanted him.
The realization sat between them like a precarious weight, neither of them ready to carry it. Not yet.
Because there were things that needed to be done first.
Rae-a needed her revenge. And In-ho needed to make sure she survived long enough to get it.
She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, willing her mind to sharpen again. Her fingers slipped from his collar, and he followed suit, letting his touch fall away from her waist with deliberate hesitation.
She didn't want to move. Neither did he. But they had to.
"...We should rest," she murmured, though the words felt hollow, a poor excuse for the reality neither of them wanted to confront. Sleep felt impossibly far away, but what else could she say?
In-ho didn't answer right away. He merely looked at her, as if committing this moment to memory, as if locking it away for a time when the world wasn't pulling them in opposite directions.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"...Yeah."
Neither of them moved. Not right away.
And though nothing more was spoken, the truth remained, unspoken but undeniable.
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They stepped inside, through In-ho's door, the warmth of the night air still clinging to their skin as they moved through the dimly lit halls. The silence between them was neither heavy nor uncomfortable—it was fragile, like the lingering echo of something just spoken, something too delicate to disturb. Their footsteps were slow, unhurried, as if neither of them wanted to reach their doors too soon.
Each step felt like an extension of the moment they had left behind, like some part of them still wasn't ready to let go of it.
When they reached the threshold of their separate rooms, Rae-a hesitated.
Her fingers hovered over the handle, resting there without turning it. The metal was cool beneath her fingertips, grounding, but her mind was elsewhere. Instead of pushing forward, she glanced sideways at him, finding him already looking at her.
For a long time, the only thing that had passed between them was wariness. Defiance. A battle for control, unspoken but ever-present. The last time she had stood in front of a door like this, she had been his prisoner. She had stared at him with nothing but fire in her eyes, resentment curling tight in her chest as he locked her inside a place she didn't want to be.
That night, when he had told her Goodnight, it had felt like mockery. A cruel imitation of normalcy in a situation that had been anything but normal.
But now—
The air between them had shifted. They had shifted.
She exhaled slowly, tilting her head as she studied him. His face was unreadable, his features carved from something practiced, something careful. But his eyes—they were dark, searching, as though he was waiting for her to pull away first. Waiting for her to reinforce the distance that had always existed between them.
She didn't.
Instead, she let her guard slip—just slightly, just enough.
"...Goodnight, In-ho."
She said it softly. No defiance. No bitterness. Just his name, spoken in a way she never had before.
She saw it, the way something flickered across his expression, a shift so subtle that most wouldn't have caught it. But she did.
Surprise.
He hadn't expected it.
Hadn't expected her to say his name like that, with something gentler in her voice. As if, for the first time, she wasn't looking at him as the man who had once locked her away. As the man who had tried to keep her at a distance.
As if, for the first time, she was allowing herself to see him as something else.
For a beat, he said nothing. The space between them stretched thinner, more precarious, and then—
"...Goodnight, Rae-a."
His voice was quieter than she had expected, carrying none of its usual sharpness.
She watched him for a second longer, as if memorizing the way he said it, before finally turning toward her door. The latch clicked softly as she stepped inside, the warm glow of the hall fading behind her as the door shut between them.
Neither of them moved.
On opposite sides of the door, neither of them reached for sleep.
The moment still lingered between them, impossibly fragile. And neither of them were quite ready to let it go.
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Rae-a lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her mind tangled in a mess of thoughts she didn't know how to unravel. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the wind slipping through the cracks of the windowpane. The darkness pressed in around her, but it wasn't suffocating the way it used to be. It wasn't a cage, not anymore.
Back then, she had counted every second under his roof like a prisoner waiting out a sentence. Every breath felt stolen, every moment a reminder that she wasn't free. She had resented the sound of his footsteps outside her door, the quiet murmur of his existence seeping into her space. He had been the captor, the enemy, the reminder of all the things she had lost.
But now—
She turned onto her side, fingers curling tightly into the blanket beneath her, as if gripping something solid could anchor her thoughts before they spiraled further.
Now, she wasn't sure what she wanted.
The war wasn't over. Chul-soo still breathed, still walked this earth unpunished, and as long as he did, her purpose remained unchanged. She had sworn to herself that she would not rest until she saw the life leave his eyes, until the monster who had shaped her suffering was nothing more than a fading stain on the past.
And yet—
Tonight, for the first time in longer than she could remember, something else pressed against the edges of that purpose. Something that had nothing to do with vengeance.
She had kissed him.
Willingly.
Not out of desperation. Not out of misplaced adrenaline or fleeting distraction. It hadn't been an impulsive mistake, the kind that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness. No, she had done it with full awareness, with every part of her screaming at her to pull away—yet choosing not to.
And he had kissed her back.
Not just accepted it. Met her there. Matched her pace. Matched the quiet, aching thing that had built between them for far too long.
Her chest tightened, heat rising unbidden to her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away, willing her body not to react to it, but the phantom sensation of his lips still lingered against hers.
Slow. Intentional.
He hadn't taken. He hadn't controlled. He had waited. As if he, too, had known how fragile this was. How impossible.
Her breath came a little too sharp, a little too fast, and she hated the way her heart betrayed her.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She couldn't afford for this to happen.
Chul-soo still had to die. She still had to finish what she started. And he—In-ho—had his own world of dangers, his own battles, and she was nothing more than another thread in the web he had spun so carefully around himself.
But none of that had mattered in the moment between them.
None of that had stopped her from wanting it.
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In the room next to hers, In-ho lay still, staring at the ceiling, though his mind was anything but quiet.
Sleep had never been a necessity for him—at least, not in the way it was for most people. He had long since trained himself to function on the bare minimum, to thrive in the clarity that exhaustion sometimes brought. His world had always been built on precision, on control, on knowing exactly what needed to be done and executing it without hesitation.
And yet, for the first time in a long time, his thoughts refused to obey him.
Because tonight, he had kissed her.
Not as a means to manipulate. Not to test her limits or push her into a corner. He had kissed her because he wanted to. Because the pull between them had become unbearable, because he had spent far too long pretending he didn't care.
But what shook him most—what truly left him breathless—was that she had kissed him back.
She hadn't shoved him away. Hadn't flinched, hadn't looked at him like he was a monster wearing human skin. She had responded—her fingers tightening at his collar, her body pressing closer, her breath mingling with his as if she had been holding herself back just as much as he had.
That should have made things easier. It should have been a confirmation of something he had suspected for a while now—that whatever was between them wasn't one-sided, wasn't a delusion born from the loneliness of their war.
But it didn't make things easier. It made them infinitely more complicated.
Because now, he couldn't pretend.
His fingers twitched against the sheets, restless. He had been playing a dangerous game long before she ever entered his life, but this—this was something far more treacherous.
She had already slipped past his defenses, long before tonight. He had known it when he made the mistake of showing her mercy in the games. When he had given the order to get her medical attention after the Bossaum game. When he had let her get under his skin, despite knowing better.
She had changed something in him, and he hated how powerless he felt to stop it.
Because no matter how much he told himself there were more pressing matters—Chul-soo, the Lord of the Underground, the inevitable bloodshed waiting for them both—his mind remained trapped in the moment her lips had met his.
The way she had kissed him back.
The way she had made him hope.
He turned onto his side with a quiet, frustrated exhale, his jaw tightening as he forced his eyes shut. Sleep would not come tonight. Not when every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was her.
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The house smelled of freshly brewed coffee and warm rice, the scent curling through the air like a quiet invitation to the day ahead. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the wooden floors, but the warmth did little to thaw the heaviness settled over the group. The air carried something unspoken, a fragile quiet stretched too thin, as if acknowledging it would shatter whatever illusion of peace they had left.
Rae-a sat at the small table, arms crossed, watching In-ho intently, as he moved between the stove and the counter, ladling hot soup into bowls. His movements were casual, practiced, as if they were just a group of friends sharing a normal morning together.
But nothing about this was normal.
Dae-ho let out a yawn, stretching his arms above his head before plopping into the chair across from her. "Feels like I haven't slept in ages."
"That's because you haven't," Jun-hee muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before taking a slow sip of coffee. The bitterness clung to her tongue, grounding her in a way she hadn't realized she needed. In captivity, they had been too afraid to even think about closing their eyes, as if a single blink would lead to their last.
Myung-gi leaned against the doorway, his expression unreadable. He had been mulling over the events that had trespassed the last few days.
"We should talk about what comes next," he said.
The room stilled. The words cut through the thin veil of peace they had been pretending to exist within, forcing reality back into sharp focus.
Rae-a exhaled through her nose, already knowing where this was headed. "No."
Jun-ho, seated beside her, scoffed. "We haven't even said anything yet."
"You don't have to." She looked up, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "You're all thinking about what we do next, how we keep moving forward. But the answer is simple: you don't."
Gi-hun frowned, setting down the pot with a little too much force. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're all staying here."
Her tone left no room for argument, but that didn't mean they wouldn't try.
Dae-ho's brows furrowed. "Rae-a—"
"No."
The chair scraped against the wooden floor as she pushed back from the table, palms bracing against its surface. Her voice was firm, steady, unwavering. "You've done enough. All of you. You need to stay here, where it's safe."
There was a beat of silence, thick and suffocating. The weight of everything they had endured, everything they had lost, hung between them like a storm waiting to break.
The heavy silence settled over the group, thick and suffocating, like the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on them. The scent of soup and coffee lingered in the air, a cruel contrast to the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.
Hyun-ju was the first to break it, her voice quieter than usual. "And what about you?"
Rae-a's fingers curled slightly against the table's surface. Part of her felt her heart warm at the concern for her well being, yet the other part found it unneccesary that they would be worrying over her. "I have things I need to do."
Jun-hee leaned forward, studying her with the sharp, discerning gaze that had always been impossible to escape. "And you expect us to just sit here and do nothing?"
"Yes."
Jun-ho exhaled beside her, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the tabletop. "Rae-a, come on—"
"I mean it."
Her eyes flicked to him briefly, then to In-ho, who had remained silent throughout the conversation. He stood against the far wall, arms crossed, his presence a steady, unreadable force. He had not spoken, but he didn't need to. She knew the way his mind worked—strategic, relentless. He would not let her walk into this alone.
Her arms remained crossed, a shield of indifference she didn't quite feel, but her gaze betrayed her. For the briefest moment, her eyes flickered to his lips—unbidden, instinctive—before she caught herself, tearing her focus away as if burned.
Her voice was firmer when she spoke again. "It's bad enough that he's involved."
In-ho's brow lifted slightly, but he didn't refute her words. There was no point. She couldn't stop him any more than he could stop himself. If she told him to stay out of it, he would simply maneuver from the shadows, ensuring that, one way or another, he remained entangled in her war, by her side one way or another.
But her friends—
She turned back to them. "But you don't have to be."
Gi-hun shook his head, frustration clear in the tight set of his jaw. "This is a fight he started the moment our families. You can't just expect us to—"
"I can. And I do."
Silence fell again, heavier this time, charged with emotions they weren't quite ready to name. Rae-a refused to allow them to taint themselves with the world that was her own.
Myung-gi exhaled slowly, studying her with a quiet intensity. "This isn't just about keeping us safe, is it?"
Rae-a hesitated.
His gaze didn't waver.
"You don't want us to see what you're going to do."
Her jaw clenched, taut as he hit the nail on the head.
Because it was true.
She had no illusions about what needed to be done. Mercy would not come for Kang Chul-soo, nor for anyone who had kept him in power, nor for those who had followed his orders without question. This was not a war that could be won with half-measures. It was a reckoning—a final, irreversible end.
And she did not want them looking at her differently when it was over.
This was the life she had been raised for. She had long since accepted that.
The realisation pressed down on them all, thick with resignation, frustration, and something unspoken that none of them wanted to acknowledge.
Jun-hee looked down at her coffee, fingers tightening around the ceramic like it was the only thing grounding her. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally spoke, her voice quieter than usual. "If we stay here, we won't be able to help you."
Rae-a's expression softened, just slightly looking at her now very protruding stomache. "I know. That's the point."
Hyun-ju exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. "Damn it."
Dae-ho sighed, shaking his head as if trying to find some angle of this that made sense. "You're really not gonna budge on this, are you?"
"No."
A beat of silence. Then—
"Fine."
Rae-a blinked, momentarily thrown off by the voice that had spoken.
Gi-hun leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He looked just as frustrated as before, but there was something else there, too—something quieter, heavier.
"Fine?" she echoed, unsure if she had misheard.
"You're right," he admitted grudgingly. "You have things you need to do. And we'll probably just get in the way of that." His eyes flicked to the others, his voice steady, resolved. "We have each other to protect, too."
Ease seeped through Rae-a, hearing Gi-hun speak her exact thoughts, showing his understanding of her view.
Jun-hee sighed, running a hand through her hair. "That, and I'd rather not spend my last day on Earth arguing with you."
Dae-ho smirked slightly, the tension in the room loosening just enough for a sliver of humor to slip through. "I mean, it's either that or we get thrown in the trunk of a car for trying to follow you."
Myung-gi snorted, shaking his head. "Wouldn't put it past her."
Despite herself, Rae-a felt the corner of her lips twitch.
Jun-ho, who had been quiet for the past few minutes, let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Alright. But I'm coming."
The amusement had vanished immediately.
Rae-a's frown deepened as she turned to him. "Jun-ho—"
"Not negotiable." His tone was flat, firm.
She narrowed her eyes at his audacious tone. "I told you—"
"I'm not doing this for you."
The words cut through the air like a blade.
Jun-ho leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. His gaze didn't waver when it met hers. "I'm doing this for him."
Silence.
She didn't need to ask who him was.
Across the room, In-ho remained still, unreadable as ever. His arms were still crossed, his expression unmoved, but something about him had shifted, something imperceptible to most—but not to her.
Jun-ho's gaze flickered toward In-ho, studying him as though searching for cracks in the man's unreadable expression. In-ho, who had remained unnervingly silent throughout the exchange, finally uncrossed his arms, exhaling slowly, his stance shifting just slightly. "I don't need you to hold my hand," he said, his voice calm, measured, as if the entire conversation barely warranted his attention.
"I know," Jun-ho replied, his tone just as even, but laced with something unshakable. "But I need to know you're not walking straight into a death sentence."
Rae-a watched them, taking in the unspoken challenge in Jun-ho's eyes, the unbothered way In-ho held himself, and the strange, lingering tension that neither of them addressed. It was a clash of two men who, despite their differences, shared the same trait—neither was willing to let the other face this alone.
She let her gaze linger on In-ho for a beat longer than she meant to, long enough to see what she had already known but refused to acknowledge outright. This wasn't about the Games, nor about some sense of duty or justice. In-ho wasn't doing this for Jun-ho, for himself, or for any greater cause. He was doing it for her. Every calculated move, every risk he was about to take, all of it came down to the one truth she didn't have the luxury of ignoring anymore.
And that meant that if anyone was going to get hurt in this mess, it wouldn't be her. It would be him.
Her grip on the edge of the table tightened, a barely perceptible motion, but she forced herself to relax just as quickly. If In-ho was set on doing this—on putting himself between her and whatever was coming—then maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a terrible idea to have someone else keeping an eye on him.
She let out a slow breath, gaze shifting between them one last time before giving in. "Fine."
From across the table, Gi-hun let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "So he gets to come, but we don't?" His voice carried no real anger, just quiet resignation, as if he had already known the outcome the moment Jun-ho spoke up.
"You said it yourself," Rae-a reminded him, her voice steady but not unkind. "You need to stay alive and protect one another."
Dae-ho let out an exaggerated huff, throwing his hands up in defeat before muttering, "Yeah, yeah." His frustration was clear, but it was the kind of frustration born out of care rather than opposition.
Jun-hee frowned, concern flickering in her tired eyes. "You'll keep in contact?"
"Of course." The answer came without hesitation. She'll be damned if she would ever let them go again.
A quiet settled over them, heavier than before, yet lacking the sharp edge of earlier arguments. Myung-gi, who had remained the most reserved throughout the conversation, finally broke his silence, watching her with an unreadable expression before nodding, a single, slow motion that carried more weight than words ever could.
"Then we'll wait."
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The air outside was crisp, sharp with the lingering chill of dawn, the sky stretched in muted hues of blue and gray as they stepped into the open. A biting wind curled around them, ruffling loose strands of hair, but none of them so much as flinched. The silence that had settled over the safe house carried with it a weight, a lingering presence of the conversation they had left behind.
Rae-a adjusted the straps of her bag, shifting the weight across her shoulders, her fingers briefly grazing the outline of her weapons hidden beneath the heavy folds of her coat. The familiar weight was grounding, a quiet reminder of what she had set out to do. Jun-ho rolled his shoulders beside her, already bracing for the inevitable tension that came with this particular arrangement, while In-ho stood just slightly ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.
The others were staying behind—he was making sure of that. In-ho had already given the order, ensuring their so-called safe house remained just that, a place of protection rather than another battlefield. Whatever came next, whatever blood was about to be spilled, it wouldn't touch them. Only the three of them—Rae-a, In-ho, and Jun-ho—were going forward. And they weren't heading to another hideout, another temporary resting place. They were going to his house.
"This is a bad idea," Jun-ho muttered, voice low enough that only the two of them could hear.
Rae-a shot him a look, irritation flickering in her eyes. "You're the one who insisted on coming."
"Doesn't mean it's not a bad idea." He shrugged, the usual sharpness laced in his tone, but there was no real bite to it.
She exhaled, huffing slightly as she turned her gaze forward, unwilling to engage further.
In-ho watched the exchange with a flicker of amusement, his lips barely twitching before he finally spoke. "We should get moving."
Jun-ho scoffed. "What, worried we'll miss our morning tea?"
In-ho barely spared him a glance, his expression flat. "Do you want to come or not?"
Jun-ho smirked, a sharp, knowing edge to it. "Lead the way."
Rae-a shook her head at their ridiculousness, exhaling through her nose before stepping forward. The road ahead was uncertain, riddled with risks, but hesitating now would only waste what little time they had.
Behind them, the others stood in the doorway, watching in silence as the three figures disappeared into the soft glow of the morning light. None of them spoke, but the weight in the air was palpable.
Gi-hun was the first to break, running a hand through his hair, his exhale heavy with something between frustration and helplessness. "She's going to get herself killed."
Dae-ho didn't argue, his sigh matching the exhaustion in his posture. "Yeah."
Myung-gi, however, kept his gaze locked on the empty path they had taken, eyes dark, unreadable. His voice was quieter than the others when he finally spoke, but no less certain.
"Not if she kills him first."