The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

The countdown had begun.

The guards stood at their usual posts, unmoving, their featureless masks staring out over the sea of exhausted, wary contestants. Their presence alone was enough to keep most people from making any sudden moves, but Rae-a knew better. The guards weren't here to prevent anything. They were here to observe.

"Lights out in ten minutes."

A few murmurs rippled through the room, but otherwise, no one reacted. On the surface, it seemed as though the announcement hadn't changed anything—players continued eating, talking in hushed voices, resting on their bunks. But beneath that thin layer of normalcy, something else lurked, an undercurrent of tension so thick it made Rae-a's skin crawl.

She had felt this kind of stillness before. It was the kind of silence that came before a storm, before the first punch was thrown in a fight, before something irreversible happened.

She shifted her weight, leaning against the cool metal of the bunk behind her, one leg bent with her foot propped up against the frame. Her arms remained crossed tightly over her chest, gaze trained on the group of O players gathered near the opposite side of the room. Their conversation was hushed, their expressions guarded, but it was clear they were planning something.

She wasn't the only one who noticed.

Every so often, one of them would glance toward her and the others before quickly looking away. It was always brief, just a flicker of movement, but it was enough.

Rae-a already knew their strategy. It wasn't hard to figure out.

They were discussing who would be targeted first. Who was expendable. Who wouldn't be missed.

And she hated it.

More than anything, she hated them—not as individuals, but as a concept. The way they were willing to decide, without hesitation, whose lives mattered less. The way their choices came down to simple calculations: weaker players, isolated players, easy targets.

The fact that her own group had made the same kind of choices sat like lead in her stomach.

It was brutal. It was heartless. And yet, to them, it was necessary. The money was worth more.

Her fingers curled tighter against her arms, her nails piercing marks on her forearms, as a bitter taste filled her mouth.

This wasn't unfamiliar.

She knew this kind of disregard.

She had spent years doing things she wasn't proud of, hurting people who didn't deserve it, being ordered to teach lessons to those who were already at their lowest. Back then, she had convinced herself it was just the way things worked, that survival meant following orders, that she had no other choice. But no matter how much she tried to justify it, she had never been able to shake the sick feeling it left behind.

It wasn't like she had ever enjoyed it.

The memory of hollowed-out faces, of desperate hands grasping at her clothes, of pleading voices begging her to stop—it was burned into her, carved so deeply that she could still hear them, still see them when she closed her eyes. These weren't violent criminals she had been forced to hurt. They were people. Ordinary people, desperate and scared, drowning in debts they could never repay, manipulated and exploited by men who thrived on their suffering.

And she had been nothing more than a tool in that system.

For years, she had accepted it. Told herself it wasn't her fault, that she didn't make the rules, that she had only been doing what she needed to do to survive; because she was born with nothing.

But now, standing in this room, watching people weigh each other's lives the same way she had once been forced to, she felt sick all over again.

The worst part was knowing she was powerless to stop it.

Rae-a's jaw locked, tension coiling in every muscle as her fingernails dug into the flesh of her forearms. The sharp sting barely registered, the tiny beads of blood that formed beneath her fingertips meaningless in the grand scheme of things. She didn't flinch. She didn't let herself.

The air in the room felt heavier than before, thick with unspoken anticipation, the weight of imminent violence pressing down on her chest like a boulder.

The guards remained where they were, their silence oppressive, unbothered. The O players continued whispering, occasionally glancing toward their intended targets. The X players weren't any better, gathering close, murmuring their own quiet discussions about what would happen next.

The choice had already been made.

And when the lights went out, it would all begin.

She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, but she already knew—tonight was going to be a bloodbath.

And it was only the beginning.

The only reason Rae-a had agreed—no, forced—herself to stay out of what was about to happen was because she knew exactly what kind of threat she posed. She wasn't just a participant anymore. She was a target.

A high-level one.

Among the hundreds of players in this room, she was one of the few who had killed someone outside of the game rooms—and lived to tell the tale. That alone made her dangerous. But the true reason they feared her? It wasn't just that she had killed. It was how.

Two men, brutal and seasoned in violence, both taken down with near to no injury on her part. And worse for them, she had done it as a woman—someone they had likely underestimated from the start.

If she so much as lifted a finger tonight, if she so much as made herself known in the midst of the chaos, they wouldn't take their chances. They'd treat her as the real threat she was. And threats were meant to be neutralized.

It wouldn't just be one person trying to take her down.

It would be a group.

They would swarm her before she even had the chance to fight back, bodies pressing in from all sides, hands clawing for her throat, for her limbs, for anything that could hold her still long enough for them to end it.

And worse, they wouldn't stop at her.

If she fought, if she made herself a spectacle, she would be the match that ignited the firestorm.

And it would lead the violence straight to her friends.

Rae-a exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from her shoulders, but it didn't help. Her arms crossed tighter against her chest, fingers digging into the flesh of her biceps, grounding herself against the gnawing frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

She rested her hands on the back of her neck, elbows pointed outward in a display of nonchalance. It was a deliberate posture, one that masked the tight coil of tension in her muscles. Her fingers pressed lightly against her skin, grounding her, while her gaze remained sharp, scanning the room. To anyone watching, she might have looked relaxed—bored, even—but beneath the surface, she was anything but. Every fiber of her being was on high alert, waiting for the inevitable chaos to begin.

Across the room, the O players were still huddled together, their bodies angled inward, backs forming a loose barrier as they whispered among themselves. They were planning something. Of course they were. Their eyes flickered outward every so often, calculating, measuring their targets, assessing just as much as she was.

They were waiting.

And so was she.

She exhaled slowly, her arms crossing higher against her chest, fingers pressing against her biceps. She leaned against the front bunk, one foot propped against the frame, her posture deceptively relaxed. It was a careful mask, one that hid the storm brewing beneath the surface. Her gaze remained steady, trained on the O players huddled together in hushed conversation, their backs forming a loose barrier as they planned their next move.

She saw the way their eyes darted toward the isolated players, the ones they had already chosen as targets. The ones without allies. The ones who wouldn't be missed.

A sickening familiarity coiled deep in her stomach, sharp and bitter, as the truth of it settled in.

It had been decided from the moment the vote tied—who deserved to live and who was expendable.

And for what? Because they weren't part of some tightly formed group? Because they didn't have people watching their backs? The O players weren't picking fights with each other, weren't risking their own. They were singling out those they knew wouldn't be protected.

The disregard for human life wasn't new to her.

It never had been.

Her fingers dug slightly into her arms as she kept her expression impassive, but the memories clawed at the edges of her mind.

It had been the same outside of these games.

So many times, she had been sent after people who had no real way of defending themselves. People who had made desperate choices, who had been backed into corners so tight there was no way out. They weren't criminals. They weren't evil. They had simply been trapped—by bad luck, by cruel hands, by systems designed to exploit them.

She had seen it firsthand. The way loan sharks worked, preying on those barely holding on, promising them salvation in the form of quick money, only to tighten the noose the moment they accepted. They were manipulated into believing they had a chance—just enough to stay afloat, just enough to breathe—until their debts doubled, tripled, until they were drowning with no way to surface. By the time they realized the truth, it was too late.

And yet, it hadn't mattered.

Orders were orders.

She had still been sent after them. Still been told to strike, to break them, to remind them what happened when they reached for help in the wrong places. And they never fought back. Some of them had tried to beg, some had already accepted their fate, but none of them had ever stood a chance.

Rae-a swallowed, a slow, deliberate motion, forcing down the burn rising in her throat. This wasn't the time to think about the past.

Because this situation was no different.

The rules of survival had never been fair.

And no matter how much she hated it, she wasn't in a position to change anything tonight.

She let her gaze flicker across the room, scanning the uneasy faces of the players who still held on to the naïve hope that maybe—maybe—the violence wouldn't come. That maybe the O players wouldn't start hunting them down the second the lights went out.

They were wrong.

And Rae-a didn't think most of them were ready for what was about to happen.

Her jaw tensed as she shifted her focus to her own group, taking in each of them one by one.

Gi-hun sat on the lower bunk, hands loosely clasped, his expression unreadable. He knew. Of course he did. He had lived through this once before. The difference between him and the others was that he expected it. He wasn't pretending things would be okay.

Then there was Young-il.

She didn't need to look at him to know he was watching everything. Calculating. Taking in every possible scenario before it even unfolded. If there was one person in this hellhole who wouldn't be fazed by what was coming, it was him.

But it wasn't Gi-hun or Young-il she was worried about.

Her focus landed on Hyun-ju, Jun-hee, Jungbae, and Dae-ho.

They were the ones she wasn't sure about.

Hyun-ju might have military training, but that wouldn't help her here. Training could prepare you for a battlefield, for structured combat. It could teach you how to fight, how to strategize, how to win. But it didn't prepare you for this.

It didn't teach you how to sit back and watch people get slaughtered.

It didn't teach you how to force yourself to not help.

That kind of helplessness was its own kind of torture.

Jun-hee, already weak, already struggling, wouldn't last if someone targeted her. If the wrong person noticed her condition, if they decided she was easy prey—

Rae-a pushed the thought away before it could spiral.

Jungbae was intelligent, sharp, always thinking ahead, but intelligence alone wasn't going to save him. When the chaos started, there wouldn't be time to think.

And Dae-ho…

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Dae-ho was strong-willed, always quick to throw himself into the fray, but there was a difference between bravery and recklessness. He had never seen what people were truly capable of when they were desperate.

Would he hesitate?

Would he flinch when it mattered?

Would he be able to cross the line if it meant survival?

Rae-a forced herself to exhale, steady and controlled.

It didn't matter what she thought.

The lights were going out in six minutes.

Whatever happened next would happen whether she was ready for it or not.

Her gaze drifted back toward the O players, still whispering, still planning, their movements slow and careful, like wolves circling their prey. She watched them, memorizing faces, movements, anything that might give her an edge later.

She hated this. The waiting. The knowing. The inevitable, awful familiarity of it.

She had spent too long being wielded like a weapon, commanded when to strike, when to inflict pain, when to take a life—nothing more than a piece of artillery, aimed and fired at someone else's will.

She had spent too long carrying out orders that had never truly belonged to her.

But this time, she wouldn't be anyone's weapon.

She wouldn't let them force her into something she had sworn never to become again.

And when the lights went out, she wouldn't be the one caught off guard.

She would be ready.

And she would make damn sure the people she cared about weren't left behind.

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Rae-a pushed off the bunk, her body moving on instinct, her mind already set on what she needed to do. There wasn't much time left before the lights went out, and once they did, there would be no more chances. She needed to act now.

Young-il noticed the second she moved.

He wasn't even looking at her at first—not directly. His focus had been on the room, on the shifting weight of the players, the low murmurs that never seemed to settle, the way tension hung so thick it almost felt suffocating. He had been calculating, assessing, preparing for what was about to unfold when something pulled his attention. A shift. A presence. Instinct honed over years of knowing when to keep his head down and when to act had him glancing up—just in time to see Rae-a push off the bunk.

Something about the way she moved sent a warning through him.

Young-il's body reacted before his mind could fully process it, his muscles coiling with quiet tension, his fingers halting mid-tap against his knee. His back straightened slightly, though outwardly, his expression remained unreadable, his posture still deceptively at ease. But inside, something bristled.

Seated on the edge of his bunk, he tracked her with quiet precision, his sharp gaze narrowing as she wove through the maze of metal frames and restless bodies. His posture, once casual, shifted almost imperceptibly. His shoulders squared, his back straightened, and his fingers—previously drumming a lazy rhythm against his knee—stilled. The only sign of movement was the subtle clench and release of his jaw.

She wasn't heading toward the O players, and she wasn't moving like she was gearing up for a fight, but she was looking for someone. That, alone, was enough to put him on edge.

She was looking for someone.

His jaw clenched.

Young-il didn't like this.

Not because he thought she couldn't handle herself—he knew better than anyone that she could. She had already proven it more than once. But she had a way of walking straight into the worst situations as if drawn to them, as if trouble had its own gravitational pull and she was caught in its orbit. And the worst part? Half the time, she didn't even seem to notice.

His fingers curled slightly against his knee, and he let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose, forcing himself to stay still, to just watch.

But something twisted deep in his chest as he did.

She didn't hesitate, didn't falter, moving as if she had already made up her mind. The same way she always did. The same way that made him want to grab her wrist and stop her before she could get herself tangled in something she couldn't get out of.

Young-il exhaled sharply.

She didn't even know how reckless she was sometimes. How infuriatingly selfless.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he tracked her further, his eyes narrowing just slightly. If she wasn't looking for a fight, if she wasn't going to the O players, then what the hell was she doing?

His knee bounced once before he forced it still.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain seated. He had half a mind to call her back, but something told him she wouldn't listen.

Rae-a barely registered his watchful gaze. She was focused on something else entirely.

Her strides remained steady, unhurried yet deliberate, her eyes sweeping the players until they landed on the person she was searching for.

Myung-gi sat by the railing, his back hunched, shoulders stiff, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His fingers twitched every so often, his breaths shallow and uneven, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. He didn't move. He didn't acknowledge anyone around him. He just sat there, his gaze distant, unfocused, his entire body locked in place as if he had been frozen in time.

Even without seeing his face clearly, Rae-a knew exactly what he was feeling.

She had been there before.

She had felt the weight of it—the horror of what you had done, the cold shock that settled in your bones when you realized you had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. That first kill always lingered, sinking into the cracks of your mind like a poison that would never fully leave.

The blood had been wiped poorly from his hands, but she could tell it was still there in his head, still dripping between his fingers, still staining everything he touched.

She didn't speak right away. Instead, she leaned against the railing beside him, her posture casual, almost relaxed, though there was a deliberate stillness in the way she held herself. She let the silence stretch between them, offering him a moment before she finally broke it.

"Hide under the bunks tonight."

Her voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge, but firm in its intent.

Myung-gi blinked, his head snapping toward her, confusion flickering across his face.

"What?" His voice came out rough, hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in hours.

Rae-a didn't look at him, her gaze still locked on the players below.

"Jun-hee will come and get you in a few minutes."

His brows furrowed, his confusion deepening, but before he could ask anything else, Rae-a pushed off the railing and turned, already walking away.

She wasn't here to explain.

She wasn't here to comfort him.

She just wanted him to know.

Behind her, Myung-gi remained seated, still processing her words, his breathing slightly unsteady as he tried to piece together what she had meant.

Young-il, who had been watching the exchange from afar, exhaled through his nose, his tongue running over his teeth in silent contemplation. He wasn't sure what Rae-a had just done, but he had a feeling he'd find out soon enough.

And if she had just set something in motion, he needed to be ready.

Rae-a made her way back toward the bunks, her steps measured, her expression locked in unreadable indifference. The air was heavy, charged with the anticipation of what was coming, but she pushed it aside, burying it deep. Her friends were murmuring amongst themselves, finalizing their plan for the night, but their voices barely registered. The tension in her own mind was too thick, drowning out everything else.

But she felt him before she saw him.

A weight, pressing against her awareness.

Young-il.

His stare wasn't passive. It wasn't the kind of glance someone threw in passing, nor was it idle curiosity. It was sharp, deliberate—assessing her every movement with an intensity that settled deep in her bones. She didn't have to meet his eyes to know it was happening. She could feel it.

She clenched her jaw. She didn't want to deal with this right now.

Her shoulders squared further as she approached, but before she could reach the others, Young-il shifted.

The movement was subtle—just the slight press of his feet against the floor, the way his weight adjusted forward. But it was enough. It was a sign.

He was going to say something.

Rae-a turned sharply on her heel before he could, storming off without so much as a glance in his direction.

She wasn't in the mood for whatever this was. Not now. Not with the countdown dwindling into seconds, the storm of chaos about to break over them all. She had more important things to focus on than another one of their arguments, another tense exchange where neither of them said what they really meant.

But she should have known he wouldn't let her go that easily.

Before she could take another step, fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm and unyielding.

She stopped dead.

A sharp jolt shot up her arm, not from pain, but from the sheer finality of the motion. His grip was controlled—not harsh, not punishing, but strong enough to anchor her in place, to make it clear that he wasn't going to let her slip away without a word.

Her pulse kicked against her ribs, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

Young-il didn't move, didn't speak right away. But she felt it—the heat of his palm against her skin, the quiet tension crackling between them, winding tighter with every second that stretched between them.

He wasn't just stopping her.

He was holding her there.

She could have pulled away. Could have snapped something at him, shaken him off like she had so many times before. It would have been easier that way—to pretend this didn't matter, to act like the heat of his grip against her skin wasn't sending her pulse into a chaotic rhythm. But she didn't.

Instead, she stayed still.

Her body, despite every instinct screaming at her to run from things she didn't want to feel, was waiting. Waiting for him to say something. To break the silence that had stretched too long, too heavy.

Because despite everything—despite how much she wanted to resent him for making things so complicated, for making her question things she didn't have time to question—she knew this could be the last time they spoke.

Maybe he knew it too.

For once, Young-il hesitated.

His grip remained firm, grounding, but his expression flickered. It was brief, barely a crack in that carefully controlled mask of his, but it was there. A hesitation that hadn't been there before.

A dozen thoughts slammed through his mind, fighting for space.

Warnings. A sharp reminder that she always managed to throw herself into danger. A teasing remark to undercut the weight of this moment. Something real—something he wasn't sure he wanted to say, but that clawed at the edges of his throat, demanding to be acknowledged.

But he couldn't afford real.

Not now.

Not when there was no future past these games.

Not when he had already made his decision about what needed to happen next.

So he swallowed it down, burying it beneath something easier, something safer.

"No funny business tonight."

His voice was quiet, lower than usual, laced with irritation—but beneath it, something else lingered. Something she couldn't quite name.

And that frustrated her more than anything.

Rae-a huffed, rolling her eyes in frustration as she tugged her wrist, but his grip tightened, refusing to release her. His fingers dug into her arm with surprising strength, and his eyes—dark and unyielding—remained locked on her face, unblinking.

"What exactly do you think I'm going to do?" she bit out, her voice dry, and her eyebrow arched in challenge, though the tension in her posture betrayed something more.

Young-il exhaled sharply through his nose, his lips curling into something tight, annoyed. "You always find yourself in these ridiculously dangerous situations." His grip on her arm didn't waver, but his words were like an accusation, as if he were holding her accountable for every reckless step she took.

Rae-a's jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. "It's a death game, Young-il. Nothing is safe." Her voice was measured, each word sharp as it cut through the air. But there was a bitterness beneath the calm façade, a lingering sting in the way she spoke. The words felt deliberate, like a reminder—not just to him, but to herself, as if she were trying to convince both of them that this was all inevitable. But she couldn't hide the slight edge in her tone, a thinly veiled jab that said more than she intended. It was a callback—his own words, thrown back at him with precision.

The air between them thickened, and Young-il's jaw tightened, the muscles beneath his skin hardening as the echo of their previous conversation slammed into him. Mingle. The words he had spat at her in frustration—you could have died playing hero. She hadn't forgotten. That much was clear. And she was still thinking about it.

His gaze hardened, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared her down, his lips pressing into a firm line. The frustration that coiled tight in his chest twisted, sharp and unfamiliar. She was still thinking about it. Despite the way she acted like nothing bothered her, that damn comment had landed. She had listened. And that suggested she cared more about his words than she let on.

That frustrated him more than anything.

Rae-a's tched as she yanked her arm free, the sharpness of her movement causing their bodies to shift. In the process, she stepped closer, the sudden proximity forcing Young-il to angle his head down toward her. His gaze met hers with an intensity that was unrelenting—dark, unfathomable, like a storm about to break.

For a split second, the air crackled between them, charged with something neither of them could name. The space between them felt impossibly small, suffocating. Rae-a didn't back down, but the heat of his stare made her skin prickle. For the first time, she felt the weight of his presence, how his anger, his frustration, pressed against her like a physical force.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to taste in the air.

She was close—too close—her presence pressing in on him from all sides. The faint crease in her brow, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, like she was about to say something but chose to hold back. Every tiny detail was etched into his mind.

She exhaled sharply, her breath short. "I would never just risk my friends' lives over something as mediocre as getting into a fight with someone."

Young-il's gaze didn't waver. He didn't blink.

He searched her expression with a kind of intensity that bordered on desperate. He was trying to find any semblance of untruthfulness in her words. For any proof that she would be getting involved in the fight tonight and putting herself at risk. A hint of hesitation. But there was nothing. Her face was unreadable—empty.

His fingers flexed involuntarily at his side, a small, unconscious gesture that betrayed the thoughts running through his mind. Something was shifting in him. Something sharp and unsettling. He'd expected her to make excuses, to backtrack, but instead—she still put others first. Even now, in the face of certain death, it was still about the people around her.

Frustratingly selfless. Always.

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smirk forming slowly, almost begrudgingly. He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to acknowledge the frustration crawling under his skin.

But he did.

And it irked him in ways he didn't quite understand.

"I somehow don't doubt that, sweetheart."

The words slid out of his mouth, smooth, deliberately teasing. But there was something in the way he said it, something deeper—like a challenge.

Rae-a's stomach flipped. That smirk, that casual tone, felt like a blow to her chest. She wanted to snap back, but the pressure between them—thick and suffocating—stopped her. It was as if her own breath was trapped in her throat. Her skin prickled, every nerve alert, every thought scrambling to keep up with the intensity that clung to the space between them.

Rae-a hated it. Hated the way her pulse quickened, hated the way warmth twisted low in her gut at the sound of that damned nickname. Sweetheart. It was the one thing that irritated her more than anything else—the fact that she could feel something for someone who refused to do a damn thing about it. And yet, here she was, still feeling it.

But if he wasn't going to do anything, neither was she.

Before she could convince herself to bury it, Young-il's hand shot out, grabbing hers and pulling her toward the bunk beds.

Her fingers twitched instinctively, half tempted to pull away, but she didn't. Instead, she let him drag her along, irritation settling heavy in her stomach like a stone. If he really thought she was going to die, why the hell was he trying so hard to keep her close?

What was the point?

The question spun in her mind, but the answer eluded her, just like him. She didn't understand him. Didn't think she ever would.

As they approached the others, the group fell into an eerie quiet, their hushed voices barely cutting through the thick tension in the air. They quickly made a silent decision to separate under different bunks, each of them too on edge to argue, to waste time debating logistics when something far more immediate loomed over them.

Young-il didn't speak a word. His grip on her hand remained firm, and when they reached the others, his gaze flicked toward Rae-a once more. It was subtle—his eyes narrowing just slightly, a silent warning that seemed to echo louder than any words could have.

His look was unreadable, but she knew it well. Don't do anything stupid.

Rae-a rolled her eyes, trying to push down the sense of discomfort swirling inside her as everyone made their way to their beds.

And just like that, the countdown hit zero. The sound of the ticking clock fell away, replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to swallow everything.

Then the lights went out.