The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

Rae-a barely had time to process the relief washing over her before she was moving—her breath coming short, her heartbeat thundering against her ribs like a warning drum. Her eyes darted through the crowd, scanning faces, searching for the ones that mattered.
A deep, gnawing fear clawed at her stomach.
Did any of them make it?
She hadn't let herself think about it during her match; she had pushed down the fear with sharp, single-minded focus—but now? Now, the possibility slammed into her full force.
What if she came back to nothing but empty space?
What if she was left alone?
The thought made her chest squeeze painfully. She needed to see them. Needed to know.
Her gaze snapped from person to person, desperation mounting—
Dae-ho.
Jun-hee.
Jung-bae.
Her lungs clenched, but she kept searching—
And then—
Gi-hun.
Her pulse stuttered.
All of them were here. Alive.
The relief that hit her was so sharp it was almost painful. It crashed over her like a wave, tightening around her ribs, stealing the breath from her lungs. She had forced herself not to think about this—about returning only to be met with a gaping absence. She hadn't let herself dwell on the possibility that any one of them—no, all of them—could have died.
But now, seeing them, knowing they had made it, something in her cracked.
Before she could second-guess herself, she moved—crossing the space between them, reaching out before she could stop herself.
She pulled Jun-hee into a firm, almost desperate hug, her fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt so tightly it nearly wrinkled under her grasp. She could feel the quick rise and fall of Jun-hee's breath, the way her body tensed in surprise before slowly easing into it.
Then she turned to Dae-ho. Then Jung-bae. Then Gi-hun.
She hugged them all.
She didn't care if it was out of character. Didn't care how strange it might have seemed.
She needed to do this.
She needed to know they were real.
Jun-hee blinked, startled. Then, a soft laugh tumbled from her lips. "Okay... who are you, and what have you done with Rae-a?"
"Seriously," Jung-bae added, beaming. "Did we just witness a hug? From you?"
Rae-a ignored them. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the moment, trying to bury the lump in her throat. She didn't explain why.
She didn't tell them about the panel.
About how, in the last, desperate seconds of the game, she had been certain—certain—she was going to lose.
She could still feel it.
The sensation of her opponent's weight against her. The burn in her arms, her legs, the cold slither of fear coiling at the base of her spine as she realized—
She wasn't strong enough.
She could see the moment the tide turned against her. Could feel it the second her footing gave out.
For one terrifying breath, she had braced herself for the end.
But then—
The floor shifted.
The ground beneath her opponent tilted ever so slightly, sending him stumbling just enough for her to overpower him. Just enough to give her the win.
It hadn't been luck.
Someone had rigged it.
And she knew exactly who.
The Frontman.
A shiver crawled up her spine. She didn't know why. Didn't understand his angle. But she knew one thing for certain—
She should be dead.
And yet, here she was.
But she kept that to herself, being selfish for the first time.
It wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't change what needed to be done. They still had to get out. That was the only thing that mattered.
Slowly, the tension in the group began to fade. Conversations picked up, voices filling the space, recounting their games, their near-death experiences. It felt normal.
A voice cut through the noise.
"Hey, did you really think I wouldn't make it?"
The voice carried over the lingering tension, smooth and edged with amusement.
Rae-a turned sharply at the sound, her breath catching in her throat before she could stop it.
Young-il stood a short distance away, his stance relaxed, arms hanging loosely at his sides. There was an ease to the way he carried himself, like he had all the time in the world, as if the weight of the last few hours hadn't touched him at all. The usual smirk tugged at his lips, but his eyes were sharper than usual, flicking over their faces, scanning their reactions.
Dae-ho was the first to break the moment, letting out a breathy laugh before stepping forward and clapping Young-il on the shoulder. "Took you long enough."
Young-il barely reacted to the impact, only tilting his head slightly as he shot him an unreadable look. "Had to make sure the odds were fair," he replied smoothly, voice carrying that same effortless confidence.
Rae-a exhaled. She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath.
She had refused to let herself think about it before, hadn't given herself permission to consider the possibility that he might not come back. It had been easier to push the thought away, to focus on her own survival, to convince herself that he was just as capable as ever and didn't need her worrying about him. But now, standing here, looking at him, hearing his voice—relief crashed over her like a wave she hadn't been prepared for.
And before she could think twice about it, she was already moving.
The distance between them disappeared in just a few steps, her body acting on instinct before her mind could catch up.
She reached out and wrapped her arms around him.
It was firm, quick, lacking hesitation or second-guessing. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his uniform, grounding herself in the reality that he was here, that he had made it.
"I knew you'd make it," she murmured, her voice steady but carrying something softer, something real.
Young-il froze.
It was a brief hesitation, barely a second, but he felt it. And worse, he knew she felt it too.
Her warmth pressed against him, solid and undeniable, and he had no idea how to react.
This wasn't something he had prepared for.
She trusted him.
Without question, without hesitation—she had known he would come back. She hadn't considered the possibility of him failing, hadn't let doubt take root. It was such a simple thing, so instinctive for her, but for him, it was unfamiliar. Foreign.
And it shouldn't have mattered.
But for some reason, it did.
Something lodged itself in his chest, something he couldn't name, something he didn't want to name.
Because he knew.
He knew what was coming.
The weight of it settled in his stomach, cold and suffocating, spreading through him like a slow-acting poison.
By tonight, everything would change.
The vote was only a formality at this point. The division between them had already begun. They just didn't realize it yet. But by dinner, they would all have weapons in their hands. Forks wrapped in foil, tucked away in sleeves. Glass bottles hidden in pockets, waiting to be shattered and repurposed as jagged, makeshift knives. And when the lights went out, when the last bit of control had been stripped away, the bloodbath would begin.
And she had no idea.
His fingers twitched at his sides. He should push her away. He needed to push her away.
So he did.
It was awkward, stilted—nothing like his usual self. He barely lifted a hand, giving her the lightest, most dismissive pat on the back, as if the entire moment was a mistake he was trying to undo. The contact lasted a fraction of a second before he stepped back, putting space between them. His gaze didn't meet hers.
Rae-a hesitated.
Her arms dropped to her sides, fingers curling slightly, and for the first time since she had moved, she seemed to really register what had just happened.
Something about his reaction felt wrong.
Young-il was never awkward, never uncertain. He should have made a comment, thrown some cocky remark at her, teased her for getting sentimental. It was what he always did. It was the kind of person he was. But this time, he said nothing.
And that, more than anything, made something twist uncomfortably in her stomach.
Her brows knit together slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. She didn't say anything, didn't press him for an answer, but the silence between them stretched longer than it should have. Then, almost imperceptibly, she shifted back a step, as if unconsciously mirroring the space he had just placed between them.
It was like he had drawn an invisible line between them. A barrier that hadn't been there before.
What changed?
It shouldn't have bothered her. She shouldn't have cared.
But the sting of it sat in the back of her throat, unwelcome and persistent.
Young-il didn't linger on the moment. He turned toward Gi-hun, his expression smoothing into something unreadable. He spoke in a low voice, words measured and deliberate. Rae-a couldn't hear what he was saying, but she could tell it was important—his posture was too controlled, his tone too steady. Gi-hun nodded once, responding just as quietly, and though their exchange was short, the weight of it settled heavily in the air.
Young-il's gaze flickered back to her.
Rae-a was already watching him.
Her expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in her eyes, something searching. She wasn't just looking at him—she was studying him, dissecting every move, every shift in his posture, the way his jaw tensed slightly before he forced it to relax.
For a moment, neither of them looked away.
Then she turned, shifting her focus back to the others, as if the moment had never happened.
Young-il exhaled slowly.
He wasn't stupid. He knew Rae-a. He knew how she thought, how she acted. She wasn't just going to sit back when the fight broke out tonight. He had planned for nearly every outcome, but she was the one thing he could never quite get control over.
And that unsettled him.
Because whether he liked it or not, no matter how much he told himself this was the only way, he couldn't stomach the idea of her being caught in the crossfire.
He was going to do anything in his power to get her out of this.
Alive.
Even if, by the end of it, Young-il was no longer alive.
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The air in the room was thick with nerves as the guards announced that the voting process would begin after dinner. Conversations erupted instantly—low, urgent whispers, frantic murmurs of doubt and hope and fear. Some players paced like caged animals, others sat frozen, staring at their plates as if searching for an answer in the cold, unappetizing food.
The tension was palpable, pressing against every breath, every movement.
It was the kind of tension that came before something irreversible.
Dae-ho, Jungbae, Jun-hee, and Gi-hun sat huddled together, their expressions a mixture of unease and exhaustion. The idea that their fates would be decided by something as simple as a vote was suffocating.
"I don't know what to think," Dae-ho muttered, his knee bouncing restlessly. His eyes darted around, searching for something—anything—that might ease the anxiety clawing at his chest. "I want to go home, but what if the majority still votes to stay? I can't handle another game."
Gi-hun let out a slow breath, grounding himself. He was the most level-headed of the group, but even he wasn't unaffected. "No one's going to vote to stay just to keep playing," he said, voice firm. "Not after everything we've been through." His fists clenched against the table. "They've seen what happens here. The blood. The death. Nobody's choosing to die for a little more money."
Jungbae, who had been absentmindedly tapping his foot, suddenly stopped. He looked up, face pale, voice just barely above a whisper. "But what if we're wrong?" He swallowed, his fingers tightening into fists. "What if people still want to stay for the money?" He shook his head, his breath coming quicker. "I don't know. I just don't know."
Their voices blurred together, a rising wave of anxiety, of desperation.
And then—
"We shouldn't worry about losing votes."
Rae-a's voice cut through their frantic discussion, sharp and calm. The others turned to her, their eyes expectant, waiting. She met each of their gazes evenly, her expression unwavering.
"The ones who voted to leave before—they voted to leave for even less money than we have now. They'll leave again." Her tone was cool, matter-of-fact, but there was an edge to it, a certainty that made it hard to argue. "It's not going to be the ones who want to stay that are the problem."
Silence settled over the group.
Dae-ho and Gi-hun exchanged glances, the weight of her words sinking in. Even Jungbae, still visibly shaken, let out a slow breath, his shoulders easing just slightly.
Across the room, Young-il sat in silence. He had chosen not to sit next to Rae-a this time, instead taking a spot beside Gi-hun. It was deliberate—too deliberate. Rae-a knew it, felt it in the quiet space between them. It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
That strange pull in her chest—something unfamiliar, something she couldn't name—tightened at the sight of him keeping his distance.
Young-il's voice finally broke the quiet.
"True," he mused, his tone light, but there was something sharp beneath it. "The challenge isn't going to be with the people who want to leave. It's going to be with the ones who wanted to stay." His gaze flickered, catching Rae-a's for just a second. "We have to convince them to vote against it."
Rae-a didn't react, not outwardly, but something about the way he spoke, the way his eyes lingered, sent an uncomfortable chill down her spine.
Still, she nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment.
Jungbae pushed himself up from the table, brushing off his pants as if steadying himself. His face was set with quiet determination. "I'll count all the O and X votes," he announced. "We need to know exactly where everyone stands before the vote starts."
He turned on his heel, striding toward the crowd, but his departure left behind a hollow silence.
A heavy, stifling quiet that settled like a storm cloud.
The others felt it, shifting uneasily, exchanging wary glances. The tension in the air wasn't just about the vote anymore—it was something else, something unspoken, something just on the edge of breaking.
Young-il, who had been staring absently at the wall, suddenly looked up.
His eyes met Rae-a's.
It was only a second.
A fraction of a moment.
But neither of them looked away.
There was something in his gaze—something unreadable, something just out of reach. Rae-a's expression remained blank, but she held his stare with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't anger, it wasn't curiosity—it was something heavier.
The others shifted, the air between them growing unbearably thick. No one spoke. No one moved.
Rae-a finally broke the silence, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"I'm going to help Jungbae count the votes."
She pushed herself off the bunk, her movements controlled, but something about the way she moved felt too purposeful, too deliberate. She didn't look back as she walked toward the door, but she felt it.
She felt his eyes on her.
Felt the weight of his stare pressing into her back.
And Young-il—
He didn't stop watching, didn't move, didn't breathe.
His fingers curled against his knee, an ache settling deep in his chest.
Because this—this moment, this split-second where she walked away without hesitation—felt different.
The shift in his expression was subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
And for the first time in a long time—
Young-il felt uncertain.
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Rae-a caught up to Jungbae, falling into step beside him as they weaved through the crowded room. The murmur of hushed voices, the occasional scrape of metal utensils against trays, and the ever-present hum of tension filled the air, but her mind was elsewhere. Counting. That was her focus. It was something simple, methodical—something to keep her grounded amid the weight pressing against her chest.
Jungbae was unusually quiet beside her. Normally, his nervous energy was palpable, his foot tapping or fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. But now, he was pensive, lost in thought. Rae-a didn't mind the silence. She had no desire to make small talk. But she could feel his eyes flickering toward her every few steps, like he was debating something. She ignored it at first, keeping her gaze forward, but eventually, he spoke.
"Is there something wrong between you and Young-il?" His voice was light, but there was a knowing edge to it.
Rae-a stiffened slightly, caught off guard. She turned to him, expression unreadable, but before she could say anything, Jungbae scoffed, shaking his head.
"Come on, Rae-a. Everyone in the damn room could feel it," he muttered. "The two of you had some weird tension going on back there. It was like watching a staring contest where neither of you wanted to admit it was happening."
Rae-a let out a small, irritated huff, shifting her gaze to the players around them as if pretending to be too busy to answer. She could have denied it, brushed it off, but instead, she exhaled, voice low. "I'm not really sure," she admitted. "It's only been like this since we finished the last game."
Jungbae hummed in thought, hands tucked into his pockets. He didn't pry, which she appreciated. He was observant, but he wasn't the type to push for things she wasn't ready to say. Instead, after a moment, he offered a lopsided grin and nudged her lightly with his elbow. "Well, whatever it is, don't let it get in your head too much. You're tough as hell. You'll figure it out."
Rae-a blinked, then exhaled a quiet chuckle. It was rare for someone to reassure her like that. Most people expected her to be the one keeping it together. "Thanks," she said, her voice softer than usual. "For being so optimistic."
Jungbae shrugged. "Someone's got to be."
Despite the brief ease in tension, something still gnawed at her. Young-il's sudden shift in behavior wasn't random. A part of her wondered—was it because he didn't think she would make it? Was he putting distance between them because, in his mind, there was no point in getting attached? The thought made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She didn't want to admit how much that idea unsettled her, so she shoved it down and focused on the count.
Together, she and Jungbae moved through the room, discreetly marking down who was leaning toward X and who was still stubbornly clinging to O. They were making good progress—until a familiar voice cut through the noise like nails on a chalkboard.
"Well, if it isn't our little prodigy."
Before Rae-a could react, an arm slung heavily around her shoulders, yanking her slightly off course. The force behind the movement wasn't casual. It took a conscious effort not to react—not to jerk away, not to break his grip on instinct. Years of surviving in the underground had trained her body to perceive any physical contact as a threat. Even now, she could feel the spike of adrenaline, the way her muscles coiled, waiting. But she remained still, her expression unreadable, her control unwavering.
She didn't need to turn her head to know who it was—Player 230, Thanos, grinning at her like they were old friends. His lackey, Nam-gyu, stood beside him, smug as ever.
Jungbae tensed slightly, hovering nearby.
Thanos squeezed her shoulder, his grip too firm to be friendly. "Smart girl like you wouldn't seriously be thinking of voting X again, right?" He leaned in, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. "Come on, you of all people should know that staying is the better move. You're strong. You can last. Just think of all the money you could rack up."
Nam-gyu, standing at his side, nodded eagerly, his smirk oozing condescension. "Yeah, Rae-a. It's not like you'd be one of the ones dropping dead so soon. You're good at this." His tone had an underlying sneer, as if he was mocking her even as he tried to convince her.
Rae-a didn't flinch under their stares. Instead, she slowly pried Thanos's arm off her shoulder and took a step back, rolling her shoulders like she was brushing off the very presence of them. Her expression remained neutral, but her eyes were sharp. "Not interested."
Thanos clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. "Now, now. Don't be so hasty. You really think leaving is a better option? You think life outside is going to be any kinder to you?" His grin widened. "You don't exactly seem like the type who has much waiting for her out there."
Something in Rae-a's chest burned, but she didn't let it show. Instead, she met his gaze evenly and arched a brow. "Funny. I could say the same to you."
The grin on Thanos's face twitched, but he quickly masked it with a chuckle.
Jungbae took a small step forward. "She said no." His voice was firm, though Rae-a could tell he was trying not to show how tense he was.
Thanos sighed dramatically, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No need to get all riled up. But don't say I didn't try to help."
With that, he and Nam-gyu turned and sauntered off, their chuckles grating against her ears. Rae-a watched them go, her hands curling into fists for a moment before she forced herself to relax.
Jungbae let out a relieved breath. "Well, that was unpleasant."
Rae-a exhaled through her nose, the frustration still simmering under her skin. "They are unpleasant."
They didn't dwell on it. Instead, they finished their count and made their way back to the group, where the weight of the situation fully sank in.
"We're five short," Jungbae announced grimly. "If we want to leave, we need six people to change their vote."
A heavy silence followed. The odds weren't great. But they could only hope.
And Rae-a wasn't sure if hope was something she was ready to rely on.
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The heavy metal doors groaned as they slid open, the sound scraping through the tense silence like a knife against bone. The Square and Triangle guards strode in, their boots clapping against the cold, hard floor in an unbroken rhythm. The sight of them sent a ripple through the crowd—backs straightened, breaths hitched, and a suffocating unease filled the air.
They all knew what this was.
The vote.
Rae-a stood at the back of the room, her body rigid, shoulders squared. Around her, players shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flicking between the guards and the scoreboard looming above. The current tally stared back at them—undecided, uncertain, the outcome hanging over their heads like a guillotine.
She kept her distance from Young-il, her arms crossed tight over her chest. If he didn't want to be around her, then fine. She wasn't going to chase after answers. He could figure out for himself that she wasn't someone who needed saving. She'd make it out of here just fine—without him.
A muscle in Young-il's jaw twitched as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She wasn't looking at him. Not even acknowledging him. He knew exactly why, and despite himself, it twisted something inside his chest. But he didn't move, didn't reach out. He couldn't.
The Square guard's voice cut through the heavy silence like a gunshot.
"The vote will now begin."
Every breath in the room seemed to still.
"We will proceed in reverse order. Player 456, step forward."
Gi-hun inhaled sharply before stepping down the aisle, his face lined with quiet determination. He didn't hesitate when he reached the button.
He pressed X.
The red X lit up above him.
A murmur spread through the room like wildfire. From the X voters, there was a soft exhale of relief, quiet nods exchanged between those who had already made up their minds. But the O voters—they stiffened. Their expressions shifted, some tight with concern, others dark with frustration.
And so it began.
One by one, players were called forward. Some pressed X, their choices met with hushed cheers and flickers of hope. Others pressed O, and the reaction was just as charged—but different.
Each vote added weight to the air.
The scoreboard climbed, numbers creeping higher, but neither side truly pulling ahead. With each new decision, the divide between the players became more visible—not just in votes, but in body language. A slow, dangerous split was forming.
Rae-a felt it in the way some people stared.
The glances weren't just of uncertainty anymore. They were measuring. Calculating.
By the time Hyun-ju stepped forward, Rae-a realized she was running out of familiar faces around her. One by one, the people she had known were disappearing into the crowd, leaving only strangers in their place. The distance between her and them felt vast, unfamiliar.
Except for one.
Young-il.
A sharp breath hitched in her chest before she forced it steady, pressing her lips into a thin line. Of course, it was him. It always seemed to end up this way.
The silence between them was suffocating, thick with an unspoken weight neither of them dared acknowledge.
He was close enough that she could feel his presence, an undeniable force beside her, but she refused to look at him. She stood perfectly still, her posture stiff, as if shifting even slightly toward him would betray her thoughts. He didn't deserve to know what she was thinking. Not after the distance he had put between them. Not after the way he had pulled away without a word.
But Young-il could feel it—her anger, her confusion, her hurt. It clung to the space between them, crackling like a storm on the verge of breaking. And for once, it wasn't edged with the usual sharp-witted banter that had always defined them. This wasn't a game of push and pull anymore.
This was different.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, hesitating. Then, finally, he spoke—his voice quieter than usual, as if he was treading carefully over glass that had already begun to crack beneath his feet.
"You're taking this pretty seriously."
Rae-a's response was immediate, sharp as a blade and just as cold.
"Do you think I won't make it?"
Young-il stilled.
It wasn't just the question itself—it was the way she said it. The raw, unguarded weight behind her words cut through the space between them like a knife, and for the first time, he found himself completely caught off guard.
"What?"
She turned to him then, finally, her dark eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a strange chill down his spine. There was no teasing this time, no calculated edge to her expression. Just quiet, searching anger.
"Is that why you're keeping your distance?" she asked, her voice low, steady, but firm. "Because you think I'll die, and you don't want to be around when it happens?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
For the first time in a long while, Young-il had no words.
His mouth parted slightly, his usual easy confidence evaporating like mist. The teasing glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something uncertain.
"That's not—" he started, but Rae-a had already looked away, her jaw tightening as she turned from him.
She didn't believe him.
And that—more than anything else—hit harder than he expected.
"Player 089."
The call sent a jolt through her, sharp and immediate. Rae-a inhaled, steadying herself, forcing her mind to snap back into the moment. She pushed away the weight of her last conversation, burying it deep where it couldn't shake her now.
She stepped forward, spine straight, every movement precise, controlled. She had to be. The eyes on her were suffocating—some hopeful, others hungry, waiting to see which way she would fall.
The X voters—her people—stood frozen, breath held tight. Gi-hun, Jungbae, and the others were statues, their gazes burning into her back, willing her to make the right choice.
And from the O side—
"Come on, sweetheart! You know what to do!"
The voice sliced through the air like a blade.
Thanos.
He lounged on the opposite side of the room, that smug, infuriating grin plastered across his face. One arm draped lazily around Nam-gyu's shoulders, the two of them grinning like they had already won.
"Be smart, Rae-a," Nam-gyu added, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet. "You're strong enough to survive a few more rounds. Think about the money."
She didn't spare them a glance.
Her steps didn't falter as she reached the button. The cold metal stared back at her, waiting. The pressure of a hundred gazes pressed down on her back.
She exhaled through her nose—
And pressed X.
A sharp beep. A red flash above her.
A roar erupted from the X side. Relief. Vindication. On the other side, Thanos' grin cracked into a silent curse. Nam-gyu's smirk twisted into something ugly.
Rae-a turned on her heel, face unreadable, and walked back without hesitation.
The votes continued. The numbers climbed, each press of the button like a hammer to the chest.
Then—
Someone from the X side hesitated. And, at the last second—
Pressed O.
The shift was instant. A sharp inhale from Gi-hun. Jungbae stiffening beside her. The air, once electric with momentum, shattered. The scoreboard updated, cruel and unyielding.
49 votes for X. 50 votes for O.
A pit opened in Rae-a's stomach.
Even if Young-il voted X, it wouldn't be enough.
A low murmur spread like wildfire through the room, panic creeping into hushed voices. Gi-hun was whispering urgently to the others, but the words blurred in her ears. The sound of her own heartbeat was deafening.
The Square guard's voice cut through the chaos.
"Player 001."
Young-il.
He stepped forward, unhurried, deliberate. The room quieted, breaths collectively held, watching, waiting.
Rae-a barely breathed.
His expression was unreadable. The easy arrogance, the playful smirk—gone. His face was calm, too calm, like he had already seen how this would play out. Like he already knew that whatever happened next—
Everything would change.
He wouldn't be Young-il much longer.
He reached the button. His fingers hovered over it. His gaze flickered up to the scoreboard, taking in the numbers that had sealed their fate.
And then—
He pressed X.
The sound of it was deafening.
A tie.
The room detonated.
Gasps. Shouts. Raw, unfiltered chaos. Some people cursed, voices rising in fury, while others sagged in relief. A storm of bodies turned, accusations flung in hushed, heated tones. The arguments were instant, desperate.
On the X side, Gi-hun's face was taut with disbelief, his mouth moving quickly as he exchanged words with Jungbae. The O side was fuming, Thanos shaking his head, hands gripping his hips like the outcome had personally offended him.
The guards, unfazed, remained still.
The Square stepped forward.
"There is now a tie. A revote will take place tomorrow morning."
A final snap of tension.
A beat of silence before the room erupted once more, voices clashing, hands grabbing at arms, shoulders, anything to make their side heard. The noise was suffocating, a cacophony of rising fear.
Rae-a barely heard it.
This wasn't over.