The limousine pulled up without a sound, sleek and polished. Its tinted windows reflected the dim morning light, an unspoken barrier between the outside world and the luxury within. The black paint gleamed under the soft glow, an immaculate contrast to the cracked pavement and flickering streetlights further down the road. Even the air seemed different here, heavy with the unspoken weight of power and privilege.
Rae-a took one look at the glossy black vehicle and scoffed quietly. "Seriously?" Her voice held a thread of dry amusement as she turned to In-ho, one brow arched. "A limousine?"
In-ho didn't blink. His gaze met hers, dark and unwavering, and for a fleeting moment, the world around them seemed to narrow. There was something in her expression—something skeptical yet laced with intrigue—that made his chest tighten. Her sharp, cool brown eyes pinned him in place, searching, dissecting, and yet, for reasons he couldn't quite name, he wanted her to keep looking. The weight of her scrutiny sent a current through him, not unsettling, but sharp and electric, a quiet thrill threading through his pulse.
But he wouldn't let it show. Instead, he simply stepped forward and pulled the door open, a subtle smirk ghosting his lips as he gestured for her to enter in a gentlemanly manner. "Would you rather take the bus?"
She held his gaze for a moment longer, her sharp eyes scanning his face, as if searching for an answer beyond the one he'd given. His heart beat just a fraction faster. But then she huffed and slid into the seat, sinking into the plush leather with reluctant amusement. She had been expecting something discreet, maybe a nondescript sedan, something that didn't immediately scream power and status. Instead, they were being chauffeured like VIP guests heading to some extravagant event. She could only assume it was the most efficient way to keep up appearances—either that or In-ho was just as arrogant as she had once suspected. But somehow she feels like the former is more likely, that or he wanted to show off to her.
Jun-ho let out a low whistle, glancing between the two of them before shaking his head. He had seen a lot of things, but whatever this was between them? It was charged. Unspoken. "Took you for a pretentious bastard, but this is a whole new level."
In-ho, to his credit, ignored him entirely. Jun-ho had always been sharp-tongued, the privilege of being the youngest. A privilege In-ho himself had never received.
Jun-ho followed, sliding into the seat across from her with a smirk. "Hope you've got champagne in here. Feels like a waste if you don't."
In-ho entered last, ignoring his brother again, settling beside Rae-a with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The door shut behind him, enclosing them in a space of cool, muted luxury. The driver—a man in a crisp black suit, his posture stiff with quiet discipline—gave a slight nod through the rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb.
The door shut behind them, enclosing them in a space of muted opulence. The driver—a man in a crisp black suit, his posture stiff with quiet discipline—acknowledged them only with a slight nod through the rearview mirror before smoothly pulling away from the curb.
Rae-a leaned back against the seat, fingers tapping idly against her thigh. "Where exactly do you live?"
It was a fair question. She had speculated before—he didn't seem like the type to live in the heart of Seoul, surrounded by people. If anything, she had imagined him in a remote house, high in the mountains where the silence was absolute. Or perhaps underground, hidden within the very infrastructure of the city, where no one could reach him unless he allowed it. Nothing in-between. He was all or nothing.
"Not far," In-ho said, his eyes on his phone. "An hour, maybe less."
She arched a brow. "And you needed this to get there?"
This time, he looked up. His gaze met hers again, and it was unwavering, cool but assessing. He held the silence between them deliberately, letting it stretch just enough to make her wonder what exactly he was thinking before he finally said, "It's safer."
For a moment, neither of them looked away. His words weren't just about convenience—she knew that. They carried layers, meaning beyond what was spoken. His world was one of control, of precision, and this was simply another measure of that. But there was something else too, something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface.
Jun-ho deadpanned. "Right, because no one will suspect the one limo cutting through Seoul at this hour."
The conversation lapsed into quiet, the hum of the road filling the space. The city gradually faded behind them, giving way to long stretches of open road. Towering buildings shrank into the horizon, and the air seemed to shift, cleaner, less suffocating. The further they traveled, the more distant their chaotic reality seemed—an illusion of peace stretching before them, waiting to be shattered.
Rae-a eventually gazed to the window, watching the scenery shift. The roads grew quieter, the spaces wider, the sky deepening into a richer hue, streaked with golden light that filtered through scattered clouds. She breathed in, slow and measured, allowing herself this rare moment of stillness.
And yet, she was aware. Aware of the way In-ho sat beside her, unmoving but ever-present. He wasn't obvious about it, but he was watching her, always aware of her movements, her reactions. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing she was—that this quiet moment, this temporary pause, was something neither of them allowed themselves to have for long.
She turned her gaze back to him, lingering a beat longer than necessary. She knew why he was doing this—why he was keeping her close, why he was willing to go this far.
But he shouldn't feel tied to her. Not like this.
Because when the time came, she would have to do what needed to be done. And she couldn't let herself believe, even for a second, that she would be standing beside him in the aftermath. After all, she might not be here by the end.
Jun-ho, oblivious to the thoughts running through her mind, stretched out with a sigh, his arms folding behind his head as he sank further into the plush leather. "You know, I always figured you were a rich bastard, but I didn't think you'd be this obnoxious about it."
In-ho didn't even glance up from his phone, though his gaze flickered toward Rae-a as she stared out the window, her sharp eyes tracking the changing landscape. "Then don't take up space in my car."
Jun-ho grinned, entirely unbothered, exuding the effortless arrogance of a younger sibling pushing his limits. "Oh, I'm definitely taking up all the space I want. Might even steal something while I'm at it."
Rae-a let out a quiet breath, shaking her head. It was a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement, the kind of response they both knew to expect from her by now. "How the hell do you two both annoy me in completely different ways?"
Jun-ho shot her a smug look. "Talent."
In-ho sighed, long-suffering. He was used to Jun-ho's antics, had endured them for years, and yet, deep down, he didn't mind. Not really. He found himself comforted by the familiarity, the normalcy of their presence despite everything that had changed.
They shouldn't be here—not Jun-ho, not Rae-a. Not with him. Not after all that had happened, after all that he had done. He didn't deserve this—the ease of their banter, the warmth in their voices, the way their presence made the air in the limousine feel less suffocating.
And yet, they were here.
A fact he would never take for granted.
He hadn't expected this, not after all the lines he had crossed, after everything he had sacrificed in the name of control. The two people he cared for most—Jun-ho, the reckless younger brother who had every reason to walk away and never look back, and Rae-a, the woman who should have despised him—somehow, impossibly, still sat within arm's reach.
The weight of it settled in his chest, an emotion he didn't dare name.
So he said nothing. Just returned his attention to his phone, hiding the relief in the quiet between them.
The ride continued in silence after that, the limousine gliding through the city, leaving behind the cluttered streets of Seoul's busier districts. The further they drove, the taller the buildings became—sleek glass high-rises, luxury apartments, structures designed for the elite. They gleamed under the early morning light, a silent testament to power and status.
These were the kinds of places Rae-a imagined suited In-ho—cold, calculated, detached from the world below. But she knew better. Knew he hated this kind of visibility, this illusion of prestige. If he could, he'd bury himself somewhere far from here, somewhere untouched by prying eyes.
It wasn't long before the limousine pulled up in front of one such building.
A towering structure of steel and tinted glass, its facade both imposing and impersonal. The entrance was flanked by security—only a few men, but their presence alone made a statement. They weren't positioned to deter small threats; they were there as a silent warning, a symbol of the power that resided inside.
Jun-ho let out a low hum, surveying the place with an arched brow. "Well, damn."
Rae-a didn't comment, merely exhaled through her nose, suppressing the amusement that threatened to surface. Of course. She should have expected nothing less.
In-ho stepped out first, moving with the kind of practiced ease that suggested this was just another routine stop, another inevitable part of his world. The guards straightened at the sight of him, offering short, respectful nods, but none spoke.
He acknowledged them with the briefest glance, nothing more. No words, no unnecessary gestures. Then, without pausing, he started walking toward the building.
Rae-a and Jun-ho followed, their footsteps echoing against the pristine pavement. It was only after they had put some distance between themselves and the entrance that In-ho finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.
"They never step inside."
Rae-a glanced sideways at him. "What?"
"The guards." He kept his gaze ahead, his expression unreadable. "They only watch from the perimeter. No one enters unless I allow it."
It took a second for his meaning to settle.
Control.
Not just over the security, but over his space, over who had access to it. Over who got to see him beyond the front he presented to the rest of the world.
She supposed she shouldn't have expected anything less.
She wasn't sure why, but the knowledge lingered, pressing against something unspoken between them. She didn't respond, only continued walking beside him, the entrance looming ahead.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The house was eerily familiar.
It wasn't the kind of place meant to welcome anyone in. There was no warmth, no evidence of a life truly lived—just a structure built with ruthless precision, designed for function rather than comfort. Dark walls loomed around her, steel fixtures glinting under dim lighting, the air cold with an unspoken rigidity. The architecture was sharp, sterile, suffocating in its quiet control. It was a house meant to contain, not to comfort. A space carved from silence, void of any excess, where even shadows felt intentional.
And yet, something was different.
The dim glow of the overhead lights cast a softer hue against the otherwise severe interior, the amber tones a quiet contradiction to the sharp edges of black leather and cold steel. It was subtle—perhaps even unintentional—but the warmth it tried to provide gave the illusion of something more, as if the house was attempting, in some small way, to feel like a home rather than a holding cell. It didn't quite succeed. The warmth was artificial, like a painting of a fire rather than the real thing. But still, the effort was there, lingering in the soft glow against the walls, in the way the light fought against the overwhelming coldness of the space.
Rae-a stepped further inside, her gaze trailing over the meticulously curated interior—black leather furniture, dark wood, subtle accents of polished metal. Everything had its place, a careful order woven into every inch of the space, much like the quarters in the Squid Games. The resemblance was almost unnerving, as if In-ho had taken the blueprint of his existence there and replicated it in the real world, carrying the same discipline, the same meticulous detachment into his private sanctuary.
It felt like walking into the quarters of the Squid Games all over again, a carefully replicated version of the world he had spent years ruling from behind a mask. Cold. Unforgiving. Efficient.
And yet, as she stood there, letting the weight of the space settle over her, she realized something had shifted.
The first time she had been dragged into this place, she had fought against every inch of it, resisted its suffocating stillness with every part of herself. She had been exhausted, her body still raw from the Games, her mind frayed from survival and loss, and the realization that she had not truly escaped—that the walls around her had simply changed—had filled her with a rage so thick it had nearly choked her. She had loathed every inch of it. Every too-clean surface, every soundless step, every reminder that she was still caged, just in a different way.
But now, standing in the same space, she felt something else entirely.
Something dangerously close to familiarity. And familiarity, in the absence of anything else, had begun to feel almost safe.
Safety was not a luxury she could afford to have.
She turned, watching In-ho as he stepped further into the room, and arched a brow. "You really just copy-pasted your house from the Games, huh?"
He had been shrugging off his coat, movements as precise as the world he had built around himself, a man who had long since learned that control was the only thing that stood between order and ruin. The fabric slid from his shoulders without a wrinkle, folded neatly over his arm before he placed it on the back of a chair, the gesture so natural it almost felt rehearsed. But instead of answering immediately, he looked at her, his gaze settling on hers with the quiet intensity he often carried, dark eyes searching her expression as if trying to extract something deeper from her words.
He wasn't looking for the question. He was looking for the intent behind it.
Because it was different now.
She didn't say it with the same resentment she once had, didn't spit the words out like a condemnation. There was something softer beneath them, something neither of them wanted to acknowledge but both understood.
"It works." His voice was even, free of anything that might reveal what he was thinking, a response so simple it was almost dismissive. But the way he lingered, the way he studied her in that unreadable way of his, betrayed that it wasn't just about the words.
Behind them, Jun-ho made a quiet noise, something unimpressed, his eyes scanning the space with the careful scrutiny of someone cataloging every possible weak point. His expression remained neutral, but there was something in the way he studied the room, an assessment not just of its structure but of the man who had built it.
His gaze flicked to In-ho, as if peeling back the layers of the person who had chosen to live in a place like this. Then again, he always knew In-ho was one for practicality. "Let me guess—no TV, no music, just a stocked bar and a couple of locked drawers?"
In-ho hummed at his brother, not confirming or denying. Of course he had all of those things, though indulging in these things was a rarity for him given his previous profession.
His attention remained on Rae-a for a moment longer before finally turning toward the hallway, voice quiet but firm. "Guest room is down the hall. Second door on the right."
Jun-ho clicked his tongue, his sharp gaze lingering on a sleek security panel embedded in the wall, committing it to memory before pushing off and heading in the direction given. He did not want to linger, and was still exhausted from the previous night after sleeping so little. He didn't look back, but his voice carried easily over his shoulder, a parting shot laced with amusement.
Silence filled the space again as he disappeared down the hall, the weight of his absence settling just as heavily as his presence had.
Rae-a exhaled, slow and measured, her gaze flickering back across the room. It was too still, but not in the way an abandoned house might be, not in the way emptiness usually felt. This was a different kind of silence, one that was maintained rather than accidental, a silence so deliberately cultivated that even breathing too loudly felt like a disruption.
She had spent too many nights in places like this—spaces designed for control, where the air itself seemed to exist on borrowed time, where nothing moved unless permitted. It was the kind of quiet that could make a person forget what real noise sounded like. The kind of place where stillness wasn't just a presence, but a prison.
And yet, against the quiet hum of the lights, the warmth they provided in their soft, golden glow, there was an effort—small, almost imperceptible, but there. A contradiction to the calculated sterility of everything else, as if something deep within the house itself was trying to push back against the cold.
Or perhaps, in some strange, unspoken way, In-ho was.
The faint clink of glass against polished wood pulled Rae-a's attention back to him, her gaze shifting toward the bar in the corner where In-ho stood, his movements as deliberate as ever. He reached for the decanter with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of controlled habits, his fingers curling around the glass with a precision that left no room for hesitation. The liquid inside sloshed gently, the deep amber hue catching the glow of the recessed lighting, flickering like a dying ember. The scent of aged oak and smoke unfurled through the still air, rich and heavy, filling the silence between them with something unspoken.
Rae-a stepped forward, her eyes briefly flicking toward the second glass that sat beside him. The room was quiet, the hum of distant city life beyond these walls barely audible, as if even the world outside had been forced into submission. She reached out, her fingers just brushing the cool rim of the empty glass—
And then the bottle was gone.
Not slammed, not snatched, but pulled away so swiftly, so decisively, that the space between them tensed with the force of everything left unsaid. Her fingers stilled in midair, suspended in the moment of what could have been. The shift was so subtle it might have gone unnoticed to anyone else, but she caught it instantly—the way his grip tightened around the bottle's neck, the controlled but unmistakable flicker in his eyes, the brief but deliberate way he positioned himself just enough to block her reach. A warning, one that didn't need to be spoken.
Her expression remained unreadable, but beneath the stillness, something in her sharpened, the ghost of an instinct telling her to analyze the moment, to dissect the reason behind the sudden shift. She studied him, gaze locked onto his, watching the way his shoulders squared ever so slightly, the way his lips pressed together in a line too neutral to be casual.
Then she understood.
This wasn't about the whiskey.
It was about the night she had nearly drowned herself in it.
That night had bled into the quietest hours, the weight of grief pressing down on her lungs until she couldn't breathe, until she had needed something—anything—to silence the thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind. It hadn't been about indulgence or pleasure; it had been a reckless, desperate grasp for oblivion, a way to escape the unbearable reality that had settled over her like a noose. She had thought everything was gone. That there was nothing left for her. And in the confines of the walls he had placed her in, she had crumbled, let the alcohol drag her under like the tide, as if losing herself in it would make surviving easier.
But he had been thinking about the consequences.
He always thought about the consequences.
It was there in his expression now, a look so carefully composed that it almost masked the weight behind it. Almost.
Her chest tightened, not with guilt, but with frustration—frustration at the realization that he still saw her that way, still clung to the image of her at her most vulnerable, the moment she had least control. He had kept his distance, acted as if he didn't care, but he had always been watching, hadn't he? He had seen the way she had unraveled that night, and now, even with the time between them, he still held onto part of that version of her.
She scoffed, shifting her weight slightly, her voice edged with something between annoyance and defiance. "I wasn't going to drink myself to death, you know."
He didn't respond, didn't argue or justify himself. He just stood there, fingers wrapped firmly around the bottle, his silence heavier than words. There was no anger in his expression, no frustration—just that same unreadable depth that made it impossible to tell if he was waiting for her to push, or waiting for her to let it go.
She rolled her eyes, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly as she reached forward, but this time, she didn't go for the bottle. Instead, she snatched the glass from his other hand, the cool crystal pressing against her skin as she pulled it from his grasp. His jaw tensed, the only outward sign of his disapproval, but he didn't stop her. Not this time.
Because this time, he was here.
This time, if she went too far, he wouldn't let her disappear into the depths of it again.
The whiskey burned as she took a slow sip, the fire spreading down her throat, curling in her stomach, the familiarity of it almost enough to make her wince. It tasted like old wounds and quiet regrets, like nights spent in silence and mornings filled with the ghosts of choices she had yet to reconcile.
She lowered the glass slowly, resting it against the curve of her palm, her fingers curling loosely around the cool crystal. The room was quiet save for the faint hum of the city beyond these walls, a distant murmur that felt worlds away from the tension lingering between them. In-ho finally lifted his own drink, his movements as precise as ever, unhurried, as if nothing between them had shifted, as if last night had never happened.
But her mind betrayed her.
The memory surfaced unbidden, slipping through the cracks of her carefully guarded thoughts—the firm press of his mouth against hers, the heat that had surged between them in that fleeting, stolen moment when restraint had finally snapped. He had kissed her with the certainty of a man who had already made up his mind, with the kind of quiet intensity that left no room for doubt. And despite herself, despite every warning screaming at her to turn away, she had felt something she hadn't let herself feel in years. Her heartbeat had faltered, stuttering at the sensation of him, at the way he had held her like she was something real, something worth keeping.
Now, as she watched him take a slow sip of his whiskey, her eyes lingered longer than they should have. His lips brushed against the rim of the glass, his wrist tilting with effortless grace as the amber liquid passed between them. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, because a part of her—the part she buried deep beneath layers of pragmatism, survival instincts, and the sharp edges of who she had become—remembered exactly how those lips had felt against hers.
The whiskey burned as it slid down her throat, but the fire in her chest had nothing to do with the alcohol. It coiled beneath her ribs, something slow and smoldering, something dangerous. Desire.
Her fingers tightened around the glass, the pressure making her knuckles pale against the dim glow of the room. She exhaled sharply through her nose, steadying herself, forcing the errant thought back into the shadows where it belonged. He was the enemy. He was the reason she was trapped here, the reason her life had been ripped apart in ways she was still trying to piece together. She had no business thinking about the way he had kissed her.
And yet, she had felt something shift last night.
She tore her gaze away, scoffing under her breath, trying to wrest back some semblance of control.
"Relax, Frontman," she muttered, voice edged with forced indifference, more to herself than to him. "I'm not about to drown mtself in another bottle."
For a moment, he said nothing, noting her use of his former title. The nickname that she uses when she is annoyed at him. He watched her through the faint shimmer of his glass, the movement deliberate as he took another sip, as if weighing his response. He found it amusing—the way she masked her thoughts behind sharp remarks and feigned carelessness, the way her voice carried the bite of someone trying too hard not to feel anything at all. It was a familiar act, one he had played himself more times than he cared to count.
His silence made her pulse quicken, though she refused to acknowledge why.
She looked away again, setting her glass down with more force than necessary, as if the act alone could sever whatever invisible thread had wrapped itself around them.
The thought of drinking herself into oblivion, of drowning in liquor until the world blurred at the edges, had once felt like the only way to cope. A fleeting impulse born from loss, from grief so consuming that nothing else had mattered. But she wasn't that person anymore.
Not now.
Not when there was still so much left undone.
Making sure they were safe.
Her revenge.
And maybe—just maybe—something else.
Someone.
The realization struck like ice fracturing beneath her feet, spreading in jagged lines before she could stop it.
Rae-a clenched her jaw, shaking her head minutely, banishing the thought before it could take root.
Whatever this was—whatever he was—didn't matter. Yet.
Not when there was still a war to fight.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rae-a shifted her weight slightly, arms folding over her stomach in a futile attempt to suppress the unwelcome pang of hunger that had crept up on her with frustrating stealth, a sensation she had been too preoccupied to notice until now. The weight of the night hung thick around them, the room steeped in quiet save for the soft ticking of a clock in the distance, its steady rhythm an almost taunting reminder of the hours slipping past. The hush between them was nearly comfortable, or at the very least tolerable, until an unexpected sound cut through the silence with humiliating betrayal.
A low, drawn-out grumble.
Her body stiffened immediately, a flicker of irritation sparking beneath her skin before she could will it away, as though sheer defiance might somehow undo what had just happened. She knew without needing to look that In-ho had heard it, and yet some stubborn part of her still clung to the absurd hope that if she remained perfectly still, if she refused to acknowledge it, perhaps he would let it go.
That hope lasted precisely three seconds.
In the quiet, she heard the faintest shift in his posture, a deliberate pause in movement that all but confirmed his attention had already zeroed in on her. When she finally forced herself to glance in his direction, her suspicions were met with undeniable proof—the sharp, assessing gaze that had locked onto her, the slight but unmistakable lift of his brow, the glint of something infuriatingly close to amusement threatening to break through the composed mask he so often wore.
His silence was damning, stretching between them like an unspoken accusation, until finally, with measured patience, he broke it.
"Was that your stomach?"
The question, though simple, carried a weight of quiet amusement that sent a fresh wave of irritation prickling along her spine, though she did her best to smother it beneath feigned indifference.
"No."
The denial came too quickly, too sharply, betraying her before she even had the chance to control it, and as if to mock her further, In-ho's expression didn't waver in the slightest. Instead, something in the way he watched her shifted, his scrutiny deepening, eyes flickering over her with an almost imperceptible change in focus that set her nerves on edge. He wasn't just amused—he was assessing, calculating, drawing conclusions in that infuriating way of his.
And then she saw it—the exact moment it clicked.
His gaze darkened ever so slightly, the sharp intelligence in his eyes narrowing in on something she hadn't even considered until now. This morning. Jun-ho had eaten. He himself had grabbed something absentmindedly, a brief pause in his routine that had gone unnoticed at the time. But her? She had touched nothing. Not a single bite.
"You haven't eaten all morning, have you?"
There was no accusation in his voice, no outright judgment, just that same irritating ability to see through her without even trying, to strip past whatever mask she wore and pick apart the pieces she didn't want to acknowledge herself.
Rae-a exhaled through her nose, sharp and slow, as if the controlled breath alone would be enough to suppress the growing frustration curling tight in her chest, but the sudden awareness of her own neglect had already settled too deep to ignore. She hadn't even noticed it before, hadn't registered the emptiness in her stomach until now, hadn't realized how unbalanced the whiskey sat inside her without anything to temper it. It was nothing—she had gone longer without food before, had endured worse, had functioned just fine under far harsher conditions—but now that he had pointed it out, now that his gaze remained fixed on her with that irritating mix of mild exasperation and quiet scrutiny, she was suddenly too aware of it.
In-ho sighed, a sound that carried something between irritation and inevitability, before pushing himself up from where he had been sitting, the motion smooth, controlled, entirely unhurried in a way that only served to put her further on edge. He just wished she would take more care of herself.
"Come on."
Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing as she followed his movement with suspicion, unwilling to simply obey without knowing what he was planning. "Come on, what?"
He didn't look at her as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, his attention already elsewhere, as if he had already made up his mind about something and was now merely carrying out the motions. "You're not going to be any good at strategizing like this," he said, his tone absentminded yet firm, before adding with quiet finality, "I'll make something."
For the first time that night, Rae-a was caught entirely off guard.
Of all the things she had expected him to say, that had not even been on the list.
Her lips parted slightly as if to respond, though no immediate words came to mind, and instead, she found herself staring at him with unmasked skepticism, as if expecting him to follow up with some kind of explanation, some indication that this was a joke, that she had misheard him entirely.
But he was already walking away, not waiting for her response, not giving her a chance to argue or refuse, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided she was going to follow whether she wanted to or not.
She hesitated, but only for a moment.
Curiosity, reluctant and unwelcome, prickled at the edges of her mind as she moved to follow him, her steps slow, cautious, like she was walking into unfamiliar territory. She had been inside this house for days now, had memorized its layout in a way only someone constantly searching for an exit could, yet as she stepped into the kitchen, she found herself observing it with fresh eyes.
The kitchen was larger than Rae-a expected. Unlike the rest of the house, which was sterile in its perfection, untouched and impersonal, there was something different about this space, something warmer, something that hinted at use. Though everything remained neatly in its place, there were small details that stood out—the faintest scent of something charred lingering in the air, the subtle heat from the overhead lights casting a softer, more inviting glow than the harsh, calculated brightness of the other rooms. It wasn't homey, not exactly, but there was a familiarity to it that she hadn't expected. Despite that, everything was meticulously arranged, not a single item out of place, making it clear that this space—like much of In-ho's life—was one of strict order rather than warmth. It felt sterile, as if it had been scrubbed of any real signs of life.
Rae-a lingered near the doorway, arms crossing over her chest as her gaze flickered across the space. It was too clean. Too unused. The faintest trace of past meals clung to the air, but it was subdued, as though the scents never had a chance to settle before they were wiped away, just like everything else in this house. She wondered if In-ho ever actually enjoyed a meal here, or if eating was just another necessity to check off a list, another function of survival rather than anything to be savored.
In-ho had already begun rolling up the sleeves of his fitted black shirt with practiced ease, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms, the sharp, corded lines accentuated in the dim kitchen light. His movements were unhurried, methodical, but there was something calculated about them, an efficiency that went beyond mere habit. He didn't reach for things so much as anticipate them, each motion fluid and precise, as though he had already mapped out every step before beginning.
She had expected something different—perhaps a hint of hesitation, a rare display of unfamiliarity. Instead, she found herself watching a man who was just as in control here as he was in every other aspect of his life. He wasn't simply grabbing ingredients; he was assessing, measuring, ensuring that everything was exactly where it needed to be before he even began. There was no second-guessing, no wasted effort, only an ingrained certainty that extended even to something as simple as this.
A cutting board met the counter with a quiet thud, its placement exact, followed by the soft metallic click of a knife being pulled from its magnetic strip. The blade caught the light as he turned it in his grip—sleek, gleaming, honed to a deadly sharpness. Rae-a didn't know much about cooking, but she knew knives, and this one had been kept in perfect condition. Expensive. Balanced. Maintained with the same meticulous care as every other tool in his possession.
Without hesitation, he reached for a head of garlic, fingers grazing over the papery skin before peeling it away in one swift motion. The scent hit the air almost instantly, sharp and fresh, but In-ho paid it no mind. The blade in his hand moved without effort, gliding through the cloves in smooth, precise strokes, each cut uniform, deliberate, controlled. The rhythmic click-click-click of steel against wood filled the quiet, the sound unnervingly steady, almost hypnotic in its repetition.
Rae-a remained where she was, arms still folded, watching with an unreadable expression.
She had seen him fight. She had seen him kill. She had witnessed the way he orchestrated violence with the same level of detached precision he applied to everything else, shaping chaos with nothing more than a glance and a quiet command. But this? This was something else entirely.
Here, there was no blood, no screams, no calculated cruelty hidden beneath a mask of apathy. There was only movement. Only the sharp glint of a knife catching the light. Only the quiet discipline of a man who had mastered control in all its forms, even in something as simple as this.
And yet, something about it unsettled her.
Because for the first time, she wasn't certain whether she was watching a soldier preparing for battle or a man simply making a meal.
"Are you just going to stand there and stare?"
His voice carried the same calm indifference that accompanied most of his words, but Rae-a didn't miss the faint amusement buried beneath it, a subtle thread woven so seamlessly into his tone that it could have been overlooked by anyone who didn't know how to listen.
She scoffed, pushing off the counter where she had been leaning, arms still crossed, her expression carefully measured. "I'm assessing your technique."
In-ho didn't bother looking up, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth didn't go unnoticed as he transitioned effortlessly from mincing garlic to slicing an onion, the razor-sharp blade cutting through with precise, methodical movements. There was no pause, no wasted effort, no moment of uncertainty—only the kind of quiet efficiency that belonged to a man who had long since mastered control in every aspect of his life, down to something as simple as handling a knife.
"And?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely contemplating the question, her gaze following the smooth, practiced glide of his hands. "It's almost impressive," she finally admitted, allowing just the slightest pause for effect before adding, "Almost."
The huff of laughter that followed was quiet, nearly imperceptible, but she caught the brief shake of his head, the subtle shift in his expression that hinted at something dangerously close to amusement. Without another word, he swept the diced onions into the waiting pan, and the second they met the hot oil, a sharp sizzle erupted into the air, filling the kitchen with the rich, unmistakable scent of garlic and caramelizing onion.
The aroma hit her instantly, curling into the space between them with an almost tangible weight, and though she hadn't felt hunger before, there was no ignoring the way her stomach tightened at the scent, the involuntary pull of something she refused to acknowledge.
She watched as he moved with the same measured ease, the slight tilt of the pan allowing the oil to coat everything evenly, the wooden spoon in his grip stirring with just enough force to keep everything from burning but never enough to feel careless. It was a strange contrast—seeing a man so capable of orchestrating death with a mere flick of his hand now standing here, coaxing flavors to life with that same exacting precision.
"Didn't expect the Frontman to be a chef," she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended.
"Didn't expect Phantom to look like she's never cooked a meal in her life," he countered smoothly, his tone unreadable, though the slight glance he cast her way spoke volumes.
Her shoulders tensed as she met his gaze, refusing to let the unspoken challenge pass unnoticed. "I can cook."
There was no immediate response, only a brief flicker of consideration before he reached for an egg and held it between two fingers, extending it toward her with a slow, deliberate motion. His expression was unreadable, but the skepticism was evident in the deliberate way he presented the challenge, wordlessly daring her to prove him wrong.
Rae-a didn't hesitate, snatching the egg from his hand with more force than necessary, rolling up her sleeves as she stepped forward, determination set in her jaw as she positioned herself in front of the stove.
The first crack was anything but graceful.
The shell broke unevenly, jagged edges splitting in the wrong places, and while half of the egg landed in the pan, the other half dribbled uselessly down the side of the stove, forming a pathetic, slow-moving trail of defeat.
A breath of silence hung in the air, and then—
A barely contained snort broke the silence.
Her fingers twitched involuntarily at her sides, the restless motion of a woman fighting the urge to lash out. She bit down on her frustration, determined to fix her mistake. She grabbed another egg, her grip tight as she cracked it with a force that should have been enough to assert control. But it was too much. The shell splintered under her fingers, and the yolk bled into the whites in an ugly, streaked mess. The sizzling oil reacted angrily, splattering in tiny, blistering pops that seared against her wrist. She hissed in irritation, recoiling slightly, but quickly steeled herself. No more mistakes. She clenched her jaw, ignoring the sting as she focused on the task.
But the silence stretched between them, heavy, thick with tension, until—
Laughter.
It was quiet at first, a soft rumble in the air, but unmistakable. Deep, resonant, and rich in a way she'd never heard before. For a split second, it was as though the sound wrapped itself around her, threading through her veins, warm and strange, like the first rays of sunlight on a cold morning. Beautiful. It was beautiful. She couldn't remember the last time she had heard anything so unguarded, so... human.
Her heart stumbled, her mind scrambling to reconcile the sound with the man who had, until now, been nothing more than calculated distance and cold command. This man? Laughing like that? It was absurd. She had to be imagining it.
She turned sharply, her expression already darkening at his mockery, only to find him—him—looking at her not with the icy detachment she was so used to seeing when gazing at everyone, but with something else. Something that she hoped she would one day see more of. Something that slipped past the well-guarded walls he had so carefully built. His head shook in a subtle gesture, a small, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders, usually so rigid, were trembling, but not with tension—no, with something close to amusement. Genuine amusement. The kind of thing she had never, ever seen from him.
His eyes, those cold, calculating eyes that always seemed to be a step ahead, were lighter now. A flicker of humanity passed through them, a crack in the façade that revealed something raw, something unscripted.
And yet, despite the moment of unguarded ease, despite the way his laughter settled deep in her chest like a forbidden melody, she hated it.
She lied.
Her scowl deepened, trying to forget about his gorgeous laugh, though the sting wasn't from the hot oil this time. "I haven't exactly had the time to engage in such mediocre things," she muttered, feigning disinterest, though the bite in her voice lacked conviction.
"Step aside before you set my kitchen on fire."
Still smirking, In-ho effortlessly plucked the spatula from her hand and took her place in front of the stove without so much as a second glance at the disaster she had left behind. With practiced ease, he tilted the pan slightly, letting the remaining oil coat the surface evenly before cracking a fresh egg against the counter. The movement was precise, fluid, the shell breaking cleanly in a single motion as the yolk landed perfectly in the pan, the whites spreading in a smooth, unbroken ring. He didn't hesitate, didn't fumble, didn't so much as blink as he flipped the egg once, the golden edges crisping to perfection in a matter of seconds.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes but saying nothing, unwilling to acknowledge his success, even as the irritation burned low in her stomach.
Instead, her gaze drifted to the countertop, fingers trailing absently until they found the hilt of a knife, smooth and cool beneath her touch. Without thinking, she picked it up, turning it in her palm, feeling the weight of it settle into something familiar. Unlike the spatula, which had felt foreign and unwieldy in her grip, the knife was something she understood, something that belonged in her hand in a way that no kitchen tool ever would.
She ran her thumb along the handle's curve before letting the blade catch the light, watching as it gleamed under the overhead glow.
This, at least, she could wield without hesitation.
"I may not be able to cook," Rae-a admitted, rolling her shoulders back as if to brush off the failure of the last few minutes, "but I can cut well."
That, at least, was undeniable.
In-ho's brow lifted slightly at her declaration, his smirk barely visible but present nonetheless. Without a word, he picked up a firm vegetable from the counter—a carrot, smooth and rigid—and placed it in her hand, his fingers brushing lightly against hers before withdrawing.
"Then dice this properly."
It wasn't just a challenge. It was a test, subtle but deliberate, and they both knew it.
Rae-a didn't hesitate. The weight of the knife in her grip was familiar, comfortable in a way that no spatula or frying pan had ever been. Her fingers curled around the hilt with the kind of natural ease that only came from years of practice—not in kitchens, but in places far less forgiving.
The first cut was swift, the blade gliding through the vegetable with seamless precision, the pieces falling into perfectly even slices without a moment's pause. There was no wavering in her grip, no uncertainty in her movements, only a quiet efficiency that spoke of muscle memory, of skill honed in far more dangerous circumstances.
She worked quickly, methodically, her strokes effortless and fluid, and by the time she was finished, the diced pieces lay in perfect, uniform rows on the cutting board, lined up as neatly as if they had been measured.
Silence settled between them, the only sound the soft scrape of the blade as she placed it down beside her work.
When she finally looked up, In-ho was watching her, his expression unreadable, his gaze lingering not on the vegetables but on her hands—steady, controlled, lethal even in something as mundane as this.
"...Well," he murmured after a beat, his voice laced with something she couldn't quite decipher. "You can cut things."
Rae-a exhaled through her nose, tilting her chin slightly, a flicker of pride in her dark eyes. "Obviously."
She had expected some form of acknowledgment, a begrudging nod of approval at the very least, but instead, In-ho's smirk returned, the corners of his lips curling just enough to be infuriating.
"That's a terrifying level of skill for someone who can't even fry an egg."
Her glare was instant. Before she could stop herself, her fist shot out, landing a solid punch against his shoulder. It wasn't meant to hurt—not really—but the motion was automatic, a reflex born from sheer irritation.
"Shut up."
He let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulder slightly as if to shake off the impact, though the glint in his eyes betrayed the amusement he wasn't bothering to hide. For a moment, the air between them shifted, the usual tension giving way to something looser, something almost easy.
And before she even realized it, the corners of her lips quirked upward, just slightly, just for a second—because, despite herself, despite everything, she couldn't quite fight the way his laughter sounded far too natural in that moment.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rich aroma of food filled the air, warm and indulgent, curling through the dimly lit kitchen like an unspoken invitation. It was the kind of scent that made a place feel lived in, the kind that softened the sharp edges of silence and turned four walls into something dangerously close to a home. Rae-a hated how much it affected her, how the simple act of warmth and food wrapped around her senses like something she didn't quite know how to reject.
She wouldn't admit it, of course—not to herself and certainly not to him—but it smelled incredible.
They sat across from each other at the modest wooden table, bowls placed neatly before them, wisps of steam rising between them in delicate, curling tendrils. The space they occupied was quiet yet oddly comfortable, a stark contrast to the ruthless reality lurking just beyond this brief, stolen moment of normalcy. Somewhere, beyond these walls, Kang Chul-soo's reach loomed like a storm on the horizon, and they both knew it. The inevitability of what was to come, of the bloodshed they would soon have to endure, hung over them like a shadow, but here—in this fleeting sliver of time—banter cut through that morbid reality like a blade through silk.
Rae-a picked up her chopsticks, leveling a scrutinizing gaze at the meal before her, as if she expected it to betray her somehow. In-ho, ever patient, watched her with a knowing smirk, his elbow resting lazily on the table as he waited for the inevitable. Finally, she took a bite.
The moment the food touched her tongue, warmth settled deep in her stomach, the well-balanced flavors soaking into every taste bud with an almost infuriating level of perfection. She chewed slowly, deliberately, willing herself not to react too visibly, forcing down the hum of approval that threatened to slip past her lips.
She set her chopsticks down with measured ease, nodding begrudgingly. "Not bad."
In-ho scoffed, a breath of incredulous laughter escaping him as he leaned back in his chair. "Not bad?" He raised an eyebrow, mock offense curling into his voice as he placed his own chopsticks down with exaggerated care. "Try not to flatter me too much, Phantom. I might actually think you enjoyed it."
Rae-a smirked, taking another bite, this time without hesitation. "I wouldn't want your ego to get any bigger. I doubt this house could contain it."
He picked up his own bowl, shaking his head as if disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm. "My ego is perfectly proportioned, unlike your cooking skills."
She narrowed her eyes over the rim of her bowl, an unspoken challenge flickering beneath the surface of her expression. "At least I can cut things."
"Right, because dismembering vegetables is a highly transferable skill."
"I didn't see you complaining when I diced everything perfectly."
"You also nearly set my stove on fire."
Rae-a exhaled sharply through her nose, jabbing at a piece of rice a little too aggressively, the movement precise yet far from gentle. "That was an accident."
"A tragic accident," In-ho deadpanned. "The egg never stood a chance."
She almost threw her chopsticks at him. Almost.
But before she could follow through, the quiet creak of footsteps descending the stairs shattered the lighthearted air between them, dragging them both back to the present with an almost cruel efficiency. The shift was immediate—subtle but tangible, like a curtain being drawn over something fragile. Their heads turned in unison as a familiar figure stepped into view, the weight of reality settling back into place like an unwelcome guest.
Hwang Jun-ho stood in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping over the scene before him, cataloging every detail with the meticulous scrutiny of someone who had learned long ago not to take anything at face value. His eyes flickered between them—Rae-a, chopsticks still poised mid-air, and In-ho, leaning just a little too comfortably in his chair, the hint of amusement still ghosting at the corners of his lips.
The air shifted again, but this time, it wasn't easy. This time, it was a reminder.
No matter how normal this felt, no matter how their banter had carved a brief reprieve from the blood-stained reality waiting just outside, it didn't change the truth.
They still had a war to fight.
Jun-ho's gaze flickered to the food, his expression unreadable, though something in his eyes—curiosity, hesitation, perhaps even the barest trace of disbelief—gave him away. It was subtle, but Rae-a caught it. Like he couldn't quite reconcile the man he had spent years hunting with the one sitting here now, casually eating dinner as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
"You made enough for me?" His voice was neutral, carefully measured, but there was something beneath it, something he didn't bother masking entirely. A question, a challenge—maybe even a small shred of something like awe. He truly had missed his brother.
In-ho leaned back in his chair, arms folding lazily across his chest, his smirk just a fraction too controlled. "Didn't know you were still here."
It was a lie.
The portions were too precise to be accidental, the extra bowl too deliberately placed. In-ho had known exactly how much to make. He had made sure of it. Because despite everything—the years of chasing, the bullets fired, the truths buried beneath betrayal—he wanted Jun-ho to sit at this table. He wanted him to taste something familiar, something that wasn't laced with suspicion or violence. A meal that belonged felt like it belonged to another lifetime. One where they had been brothers, not strangers. One where meals had been shared without tension thickening the air like a storm waiting to break. Still, In-ho had meticulously created a meal that was remeniscent of their childhood, one that he used to often make on the nights where their parents were back late.
Jun-ho didn't call him out on it. Didn't push or pry. He only shrugged, casual in a way that felt deliberate. "I could smell the food from upstairs."
That was all. No accusation. No questioning the intent behind the extra portion. Just a simple acknowledgment, given without force, without pretense.
Without another word, In-ho reached for the spare bowl, nudging it across the table in a movement so casual it almost seemed thoughtless. But it wasn't. Nothing about this moment was.
Jun-ho hesitated. It was brief—just a flicker of hesitation before he pulled out the chair opposite them and sat down. The old wooden table shifted slightly under the added weight, the three of them now seated together in a moment that felt strangely foreign yet undeniably natural.
The first few bites passed in silence. Not an awkward silence, but not quite comfortable either. It was something in between, something neither of them was entirely sure how to navigate.
The quiet stretched, carrying things unspoken—questions neither brother wanted to ask, answers neither wanted to admit. Words that had been left behind in the years between them, in the spaces where gunfire had replaced conversation.
But no one said them.
Instead, they ate.