The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

The tension between them was palpable as Rae-a followed In-ho down the hallway, the next morning, her boots clicking softly against the cold floors. He led her to the kitchen, the sleek, sterile environment seeming to mock the raw chaos that both of them had been through. The kitchen itself was pristine—white marble counters gleaming under the harsh lights, stainless steel appliances reflecting the quiet, controlled atmosphere. A large, polished wooden dining table stood in the center of the room, the chairs arranged symmetrically around it.

Rae-a's eyes scanned the space as she moved to sit at the table, still seething with the forced proximity. She couldn't help but feel trapped here, even in this empty, orderly space.

In-ho didn't waste time. He moved toward the stove, his movements smooth and precise, an eerie calm that contrasted with the storm of thoughts brewing in her mind. She remained standing near the table, arms crossed defensively.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice steady, not even bothering to glance at her. There was a coldness to the order, but also something else—an unspoken understanding that she had no choice but to comply.

Rae-a's lips curled into a sneer, her eyes narrowing. "I don't take orders from you."

He paused, his eyes flicking to her over his shoulder, the faintest hint of amusement dancing in the corners of his mouth. "You'll sit. Now."

She felt the weight of his stare, the unyielding confidence in his posture, and despite her defiance, she slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs, still glaring at him as if it would make him second-guess his command.

In-ho went back to his cooking, ignoring her as he moved efficiently through the motions. The sizzle of meat in the pan was the only sound for a few moments, broken only by the rhythmic clink of utensils.

Rae-a's mind raced. She was acutely aware of how he didn't make a show of watching her. He was methodical, calm, like a machine. But there was something else—something beneath the surface that always seemed to lurk when he was near her. Something she couldn't quite grasp.

The table was set with immaculate precision, with no sign of disorder, no sign of weakness. In-ho placed the steaming plates down in front of her. The meal, simple yet carefully prepared, was elegant in its presentation. Yet, Rae-a couldn't shake the nagging sense of unease. She noticed something immediately—there were no knives. Just forks and spoons, nothing sharp.

Her gaze flickered to In-ho, who was standing by the stove, his eyes on the food, but his awareness of her presence never wavered. Rae-a's lips quirked into a knowing smirk. He wasn't an idiot. She was used to this kind of caution, but she still couldn't help but feel a slight rush of irritation.

She reached for the fork, her movements slow and deliberate as she tested its weight in her hand. "Smart. But you do realize I could probably kill you with a fork, right?"

In-ho set the pan down with a controlled motion, the heat in the air thickening with the tension. He didn't look at her, but his lips tightened, his voice low and unwavering. "Yes, but I'm not giving you the chance to try."

Rae-a chuckled under her breath, her eyes never leaving him as she speared a piece of food on her plate. It was well-cooked, but she had no interest in savoring it. Not while he was still in the room.

The table was silent for a long moment, the tension between them stretching like an invisible thread about to snap. Rae-a couldn't stand it any longer, the words itching to leave her mouth. She was antsy.

"How's the game going, In-ho?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm but cutting through the silence like a knife.

In-ho paused, his hand stilling over the plate he was arranging. He didn't immediately answer, but his expression darkened, despite the fact his heart quickened. She said his name again. Slowly, he placed the plate down before him, locking eyes with her.

"The game doesn't concern you anymore," he said flatly.

Rae-a's eyes narrowed, her irritation spiking. "Doesn't concern me? You've made people die for your entertainment, and now you want to pretend it's not your responsibility? You turned it into a game, and now you're hiding behind that as if you're not the one pulling the strings. You seem to forget that my friends are in these games Frontman."

In-ho's jaw tightened at the name. The calm in his voice never wavered. "It's not about entertainment. It's about control, survival. You wouldn't understand."

Rae-a's frustration bubbled over. "Don't talk to me like I'm ignorant. You've been orchestrating these deaths, In-ho. I know how this works. I know what it's like to be on the other side of this game."

She could see him stiffen at that, his eyes flashing briefly with something—maybe regret? She didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing.

They ate in silence for a while, the tension thick between them. But then, finally, Rae-a set her fork down, her fingers tapping nervously against the table. She had been thinking about it for too long, and now, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

"Could you... could you at least keep my friends alive?"

In-ho's hand froze mid-air, the fork he was about to raise to his mouth hanging there. He couldn't believe what she was asking. His gaze shifted from the food to her, studying her intently. "You think I can do that?"

Her eyes never wavered from his. "You're the Frontman. You control everything. You could change things—just this once. You could stop this madness."

He laughed bitterly, the sound low and harsh. "You think I can change it? You think I want to change it?" His eyes narrowed, voice turning cold. "I can't, Rae-a. I can't. This is the game. This is how it works. There's no place for exceptions."

His breath was steady, but beneath the surface, there was something else—something raw. "Do you think I want to be the one who decides?" His voice lowered, quiet but firm. "That's not my place. It's not anyone's. This system exists because without it, there's nothing but chaos. The rules are what keep it from falling apart."

His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. "I don't get to play god, Rae-a. No one does." He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "The moment I start choosing who deserves to live and who doesn't, it all crumbles. There is only order and fairness, or there is nothing."

Rae-a's face flushed with frustration, her breath coming in short, harsh bursts. She stood up suddenly, knocking her chair back, and grabbed a glass from the table, hurling it toward him. In-ho didn't flinch, dodging the glass easily, but the movement was enough to spark a reaction.

"You're a fucking liar! You pretend this is about fairness, but it's about power, and you damn well know it!" she yelled.

Rae-a's hand snapped forward before she could think, the fork sailing through the air and narrowly missing Inho's ear with a sharp clang against the wall. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as his entire body went rigid. A slow, simmering anger coiled in his chest, burning hotter by the second. He turned to her, gaze sharp enough to cut, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Do that again," he said, voice low and dangerous, "and you'll regret it."

Her anger flared up uncontrollably. In a split second, she grabbed the nearest object, a candlestick, and raised it to throw. But before she could act, In-ho was there, his hand locking around her wrist with unyielding strength, pinning it down to the table.

"Enough!" he growled, his voice dangerously low.

She struggled beneath his grip, her pulse racing, but his hold was too strong. His anger was palpable now, and his eyes, usually cold, were blazing with intensity. He forced her hand to the table, pressing down harder until she had no choice but to stop fighting.

She fought to control her breath, her body trembling with adrenaline and raw emotion. She stared up at him, eyes flashing with unspoken fury. "Let go of me!" she snapped, her voice trembling.

"I don't take kindly to threats, Rae-a," he warned, still holding her arm down, his voice dangerously soft.

Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, and finally, she pulled her arm from his grasp and stood up, turning away from him storming off, her heart racing.

"Where are you going?" In-ho's voice cut through the air, dark with warning.

She didn't look back, but her voice rang out, sharp and bitter. "Away from you. You're no different from any of those players down there. You just hide behind the facade of control, pretending like it's all justified. But you could change things. And you won't."

In-ho's face twisted with frustration, but Rae-a didn't wait to hear what he had to say. She stormed out, her boots echoing in the hallway, leaving him in the kitchen, alone with his thoughts.

"If you really cared about me," her voice echoed in his mind, the words piercing his thoughts, "you would at least try to save the only friends I have."

And despite the cold mask he wore, despite everything, he couldn't shake the weight of her words.

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Rae-a's heart pounded in her chest as the sound of the door slamming downstairs echoed through the empty house. It felt like an assault on her senses, the sound of it reverberating in her skull, mocking her helplessness. How could he leave? She stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide, mind spiraling.

Probably for those fucking games.

The thought of him—Inho—stirred an overwhelming surge of anger and confusion. How could he walk out of that door like it didn't matter that every moment spent here, every moment she was trapped in this house, was a moment of fear, guilt, and grief that weighed so heavily on her chest she could barely breathe? He was the reason everything was a mess, the reason she couldn't save anyone. He was the orchestrator of all the destruction, the man who stood at the helm of her worst nightmare, and yet… He was the same man who supported her and saved her life on numerous occasions.

The irony stung. Him saving her life and not allowing her to save her friends.

She was alone. Her friends—her real friends—were down there, in that brutal game, fighting for their lives in a world that was designed to strip them of everything. And yet, here she was—safe. Caged in this place like some sort of prized possession, just waiting for the inevitable end. Waiting for the moment when she, too, would lose her value.

What good is survival if it means standing by while the people who matter are torn apart?

Rae-a's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Why wasn't she out there? She had no control over what happened to them now, no way of getting into the game to protect them. And if it all ends the way the Frontman wants... she couldn't bear to think about it.

She gripped her head as a strangled sob tore from her throat. The walls seemed to close in, the weight of their possible deaths pressing down on her chest until she felt like she couldn't breathe.

She had fought her entire life to survive, to keep going no matter what. But now, trapped in this house, with no way to help the people she loved—what was the point?

The room blurred around Rae-a as the storm inside her raged on. Her breath was still uneven, her chest still heaving from the force of her grief. 

Then, her eyes locked onto the massive liquor cabinet against the far wall. Rows of bottles, dark amber and crystal-clear, lined the shelves, glinting under the dim lights. It looked almost decorative, each expensive bottle meticulously placed—an extension of him, of Inho, of the carefully curated life he had built. A life of control, of indulgence, of watching people destroy themselves for his amusement.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She hadn't touched alcohol in years. The last time she drank, it was in a dimly lit underground lounge, surrounded by teammates who weren't really teammates, laughing too loudly over drinks as they spun lies and collected secrets. That had been her role—to blend in, to drink when necessary, to flirt and pry information out of men who saw her as nothing more than a pretty face with a glass in hand. Intel first. Self-respect second.

She had gotten good at pretending to enjoy it. But alcohol had never been a comfort, only a means to an end. A tool. A weapon.

Still, now, as the weight of grief bore down on her, suffocating her like unseen hands around her throat, she felt something pull her forward. Maybe it was the need to drown out the thoughts. Maybe it was the bitter knowledge that she was useless, that her friends were out there bleeding and dying while she sat in the gilded prison of the man responsible for it all.

Her hands were moving before she could think better of it. She ripped open the cabinet doors and began ransacking the bottles, shoving aside the pristine order Young-il had likely maintained. Vodka. Gin. Cognac. Sake. The variety meant nothing to her. But then—whiskey. Several bottles of it. She should've known.

It fit him.

Strong. Bitter. Unforgiving.

The irony burned in her chest as she grabbed one without hesitation.

No glass. No careful pouring. No pretense of class.

She twisted the cap off with a sharp flick of her wrist and brought the bottle to her lips.

The first sip was long, burning its way down her throat like fire, dragging a wince from her. The whiskey was far too strong, but she forced herself to swallow, letting the sharp sting settle into her stomach. The warmth spread through her instantly, an unfamiliar buzz prickling at her limbs. Too fast. Of course—it had been years since she last drank, and her body was unprepared for it.

But that was the point.

She took another sip. And another.

She let the alcohol scorch her tongue, let the burn of it distract her from the suffocating grief pressing in on her from all sides.

And for a brief, fleeting second, it almost worked.

But then, in the silence, she heard it—their voices. Hyun-ju's rational thinking. Gi-hun's steady calm. Dae-ho's teasing laughter. Jungbae's warm encouragement. Myung-gi's smartass comment. Junhee's quick quips. Echoes of a life that was slipping through her fingers, one game at a time.

A ragged breath tore from her throat.

She wasn't drinking to forget.

She was drinking because remembering hurt too much.

Her lips curled in a bitter sneer as she reached for another bottle, yanking it free from its place among the others. The weight of it was solid in her grasp, reassuring in its familiarity. Whiskey. Of course it was more whiskey. The choice felt like a cruel joke, like some quiet, unspoken mockery of the man who had put her in this gilded cage and left her to rot.

In-ho.

In-ho with his calm voice, his impassive gaze, his unshakable logic that reduced human lives to mere pieces on a chessboard. In-ho with his perfectly calculated moves, his endless justifications, his ability to look her in the eye and say, It keeps you alive. As if this wasn't killing her.

She scoffed, a breathless, humorless sound that barely left her throat before she tipped the bottle back. She didn't need the pretense of civility. She wanted the full force of it, raw and unfiltered, hitting her hard and fast, dulling the edges of her thoughts before they could sink their claws in and tear her apart.

The whiskey burned as it slid down her throat, the searing heat clawing at her insides like fire, but it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. She swallowed again, deeper this time, the acrid taste settling heavy in her stomach, the slow warmth of intoxication beginning to coil in her limbs. But it wasn't fast enough. The burn faded too quickly, the numbing effect slipping through her grasp before it could take root.

The next bottle was half-empty before she even realized how much she had drunk.

The alcohol was spreading now, a heavy fog sinking into her limbs, making them feel slow, clumsy, detached from her own body. The room swayed slightly, the edges blurring, warping. The feeling wasn't unpleasant—it was the kind of dizzying, weightless sensation that made it easier to breathe, easier to forget.

She stopped in front of the liquor cabinet again, her gaze drifting over the rows of untouched bottles, pristine and perfect in their alignment. Her fingers twitched, the sudden, inexplicable urge to destroy surging through her like an electric current. She reached out, gripping the nearest bottle with a trembling hand, but instead of drinking, she hurled it across the room.

The shatter was deafening.

Glass exploded against the wall, shards raining down like jagged stars, the whiskey inside splattering across the floor in chaotic, erratic patterns. Rae-a watched the destruction with a strange sense of satisfaction, her breathing uneven, her chest rising and falling in rapid, unsteady bursts.

But it wasn't enough.

Her pulse was roaring in her ears now, a relentless drumbeat that matched the erratic pounding in her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images only came faster, flashing behind her eyelids like fragments of a nightmare. Hyun-ju, seeing something stupid and saying the exact same thing as her. Jun-hee, laughing at one of her dry, sarcastic remarks. Dae-ho, nudging her shoulder after a hard-fought victory. Jungbae's friendly optimism. Gi-hun's unwavering determination. Myung-gi's silent support. They were all still inside.

Fighting. Suffering. Dying.

And she was here.

Safe. Useless.

Her breath hitched, her hands clenching into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She opened her eyes, and that was when she saw her own reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet, distorted by the dim lighting and the alcohol swimming in her vision.

A wreck.

Disheveled, hollow-eyed, flushed from the whiskey, with strands of hair falling loose from her tie, her clothes slightly wrinkled, her posture slumped with exhaustion and the weight of everything she had refused to acknowledge.

She hated herself.

She hated the way her shoulders looked like they had finally caved, hated the lifelessness in her eyes, hated the way she was still standing, still breathing, when the people who mattered were—

Her teeth clenched as her hands shot to the collar of her shirt, gripping the fabric tightly before she yanked, hard enough that the seams tore apart, the buttons popping off and clattering against the floor in hollow little echoes. It wasn't enough. The frustration was still boiling, still simmering beneath her skin, her body vibrating with too many emotions at once. The world began to spin.

She needed to scream.

The urge built in her throat, thick and suffocating, and she parted her lips, ready to let it out—

But the sound never came.

It died before it could escape, swallowed down by years of discipline, of training, of learned silence. Instead, she pressed a shaking fist against her mouth, muffling the strangled sob that threatened to tear itself free.

It wasn't enough.

Nothing was enough.

Her gaze dropped to the shattered remains of the whiskey bottle she had thrown, and without thinking, she stepped forward, her bare feet pressing against the jagged shards. A sharp, biting sting shot up her leg, but she barely reacted, barely even flinched. The pain was distant, muted beneath the layers of alcohol and grief, like she was experiencing it from outside her own body.

Slowly, she crouched down, her fingers sifting through the broken glass until she found a particularly sharp piece. She held it up, turning it in her palm, watching the way the jagged edges caught the dim light.

Her breath slowed.

Her fingers trembled.

With careful, deliberate precision, she pressed the shard against the skin of her palm, dragging it lightly across, just enough to feel the sharp bite of it, just enough to remind herself that she was still here. Still in this body. Still in this moment.

This is likely less pain then they are feeling right now.

The room swayed again, and she let out a shaky breath, her grip on the shard loosening as exhaustion and alcohol began to weigh down on her in full force.

Her eyes flickered toward the bay window. Just beyond it there was a latch that opened up, giving her access to the balcony.

The cold air was calling to her, the open space, the sheer nothingness beyond the railing. Before she could stop herself, she stumbled forward, pushing open the latch and stepping out into the night. The wind was freezing, cutting through her like a blade, but she welcomed it, relished the way it made her shiver, made her feel alive.

The railing was close.

Her feet carried her there without hesitation, her hands gripping the cold metal as she stared down at the ground below. It wasn't that high. It wouldn't be quick.

But it would be something.

The dizziness swelled, the alcohol pulling her deeper into its haze. Her vision blurred, the ground below shifting in and out of focus. Her hands gripped tighter, her knuckles white, her pulse erratic.

Then—

A voice.

Not real.

Not there.

But there.

'I don't want to break you, Rae-a.'

Her breath caught, her fingers twitching against the railing, her entire body trembling.

She let out a broken gasp, her knees buckling, her body crumbling to the floor as the weight of everything—the grief, the anger, the exhaustion, the alcohol—came crashing down all at once.

And for the first time in years, she let herself sob.

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The cold evening air clung to her skin as Rae-a stumbled drunkenly back through the open window, the sharp wind cutting through her clothes, though she barely registered it. Her vision blurred as she misjudged the step, her foot catching on the frame.

She fell.

The world tilted, and she barely managed to twist her body before she hit the ground, landing in a graceless sprawl against the smooth, polished floor of the bay window seat. Her elbow struck the wood with a dull thud, pain sparking briefly up her arm, but it was distant, muted beneath the suffocating haze of alcohol.

A breathless laugh bubbled from her lips, barely more than a broken wheeze.

Her limbs felt disconnected from her body, slow and heavy, but she forced herself up, dragging herself toward the massive liquor cabinet once more. The room swayed violently, her balance completely shot, but she reached for the nearest bottles anyway, grabbing as many as her unsteady hands could hold. The glass clinked together dangerously, her grip faltering, one nearly slipping through her fingers. She let out a slurred curse, adjusting her hold, clutching the precious cargo to her chest as she staggered toward the bathroom.

The walls blurred as she moved, her feet dragging, her body colliding with furniture she didn't even see until it was too late. A table knocked sideways. A chair scraped harshly against the floor. She didn't care. She didn't stop. It was almost mechanical.

She reached the bathroom door, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stumbled inside. With fumbling fingers, she twisted the lock behind her, the click ringing out louder than it should have in the alcohol-induced haze that fogged her senses.

The bottles clattered onto the bathroom counter as she set them down with little care, her hands moving with a wild, frenzied energy. She turned on the faucet, watching the water gush into the sink, swirling violently as it hit the porcelain. The bathtub was next, the plug shoved hastily into place before she cranked the knob, sending hot water flooding into the tub. Steam began to curl into the air almost instantly, the bathroom filling with warmth, the sound of rushing water drowning out the chaotic rhythm of her own ragged breathing.

She snatched up the whiskey bottle, her fingers barely able to wrap around its neck as she brought it to her lips.

It burned.

The second sloshed down her throat, half of it trailing from the corner of her mouth, dripping down her chin, rolling over her neck in sticky, amber streaks. She coughed, but it didn't stop her. She kept drinking. Faster, messier, her throat working in frantic swallows as if she could drown out the thoughts clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

The sound of water rising mixed with the erratic, unhinged laughter that suddenly tore from her throat.

It was manic. Broken.

The kind of laugh that didn't belong to someone okay.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, mixing with the laughter until she didn't know which was which, whether she was laughing or crying or both. Her body trembled, her vision swimming, the warmth of the alcohol pressing heavy against her skin.

The whiskey bottle slipped from her fingers, clattering against the counter, rolling, before tumbling to the floor and smashing. She didn't bother picking it up. Didn't bother doing anything except stare at the water as it crept closer to the brim of the sink.

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Outside, the world carried on.

A guard patrolling the hallway slowed as his eyes peered through the peephole of the Frontman's room. His brows furrowed. His gaze darted over the disarray—the shattered glass glinting under the dim light, the furniture shoved askew, the liquor cabinet's doors flung wide open, bottles missing.

His hand instinctively went to the radio strapped to his chest, pressing the button.

"Sir—there's a situation."

The response was instant.

"Report."

The guard's eyes flicked toward the bathroom door.

He could here. The water was on.

All of it.

A flicker of something uneasy crawled down his spine.

He gritted his teeth.

"It's player 089. She's locked herself in the bathroom. The room's a mess. Glass everywhere. She—" He hesitated, voice tightening. "She's been drinking."

There was silence.

Then, a single, sharp breath.

And then—

"I'm on my way."

In-ho didn't hesitate.

The second the words left his mouth, he was already moving. The tablet in his hands was tossed aside, forgotten, crashing against the desk with a force that sent papers scattering to the floor. His long strides carried him through the corridors, the air around him sharp with urgency, his usually impassive expression darkened with something unreadable.

His heart pounded.

Not because of anger.

Not because of frustration.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly what someone looked like when they'd had too much, when the world became too heavy, when the weight of grief and guilt and self-loathing crushed them so thoroughly that they started looking for ways to silence it.

And Rae-a—

Rae-a was far too close to that edge.

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A rush of heat surged through her body, her chest tightening. She paced across the room, not caring where she was going. Her breath grew shallow, quick, as though she couldn't catch it, like the grief and guilt were suffocating her. Her vision blurred with the unshed tears that burned at the edges of her eyes, but she couldn't stop them.

Every step she had ever taken in these games had been in an attempt to protect them and to survive. Why couldn't she protect them?

Her chest heaved as the tears came again, streaming down her face in thick, painful waves. The sobs shook her body, breaking something inside her. She gripped her arms tightly, as if trying to keep herself together, but it wasn't working. The grief, the loss, the suffocating fear of never seeing her friends alive again—it was all too much.

She gasped for air, trying to swallow the grief, but it came out as a strangled, guttural cry. She collapsed to the floor, her knees hitting the cold tile, but she barely felt it. It was nothing compared to the storm that was raging inside her.

This isn't me, she thought, but the words barely made sense through her tears.

Her breath came in short bursts, and without thinking, she grabbed a glass from the meticulous collection she had scattered across the floor, fingers slick with water, sweat and tears. The sharp edge of it caught the light just before she hurled it at the wall with all the force she could muster. It shattered into a thousand pieces, the sound deafening, but somehow... it didn't feel like enough.

The glass lay in jagged shards on the floor, along with the pieces from the bottle that slipped earlier, the sharp edges gleaming, but her body didn't stop trembling. The silence in the room swallowed the aftermath. All she could hear was the rush of her own labored breathing, the pulsing ache of the grief gnawing at her chest. She had lost herself. There was no fighting for what mattered anymore. The choices had been made, and now all she could do was hope, pray that somehow, someone—anyone—would survive this nightmare.

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The second In-ho stepped into the room, his stomach twisted with something ugly and unfamiliar.

The place was wrecked beyond recognition.

The once meticulously arranged liquor cabinet had been ransacked, its doors left hanging open, shelves half-empty with bottles either missing or shattered on the floor. The pungent scent of whiskey and vodka filled the air, thick and suffocating, seeping into every corner of the room like a heavy fog. The furniture was upturned, chairs knocked over, broken glass crunching underfoot with each step he took. She had been desperate. Reckless. Thoughtless. His mind immediately turned to the worst possible outcome.

His gaze snapped toward the open window.

A jolt of pure fear speared through him.

The cold wind howled through the gap, sending the curtains fluttering wildly. The woods stretched below in a dizzying drop, and for a brief, terrible moment, his breath caught, his body stiffening. Had she—

A sudden clatter from the bathroom cut through his spiraling thoughts like a gunshot.

His head snapped toward the sound.

A bottle had hit the floor.

Then, laughter.

Manic. Frantic. Wrong.

The sound twisted something deep in his chest, something primal, something alarmed. It wasn't the kind of laughter that came from amusement or even drunken stupor—it was cracked at the edges, hollow, as if it wasn't truly laughter at all but a sharp, fragmented sob forced into something unnatural. It was the kind of sound that sent warning signals through every nerve in his body, the kind that made him move before he could think.

He strode toward the bathroom door, his steps quick, precise, urgent.

His gloved fist came down hard against the wood.

"Rae-a." His voice was sharp, authoritative, but beneath it, there was something else. A tension he couldn't hide. "Are you in there?"

No answer.

Only more laughter.

And then, something worse—a choked, hiccupping sob.

His stomach twisted again, tighter this time, a sensation dangerously close to dread. He pounded his fist against the door, harder, more demanding.

"Rae-a." His voice dropped, harsher now, laced with an edge of urgency. "Open the door. Right now."

Nothing.

She was drowning in her own mind, lost in a haze of alcohol, grief swallowing her whole.

Then—he saw it.

A thin stream of water, seeping beneath the door, slowly bleeding into the floor.

Cold gripped his spine.

The bath was running.

His mind moved fast, calculating the possibilities, weighing the risk, but no matter how he looked at it, there was only one conclusion. This wasn't just drinking. This wasn't just despair. This was something dangerous. Something he couldn't afford to ignore.

He banged on the door again, harder.

"The water is overflowing, Rae-a. Open the damn door!" His voice rose, louder, sharper, cutting through the thick air. Still nothing.

No response.

No movement.

Only the sound of water running.

His patience snapped.

"If you don't open this door in three seconds, I'm breaking it down."

Still, nothing.

"Three." His muscles coiled, his jaw tight, his breathing controlled but fast.

Water still running.

"Two." A deep, searing frustration burned through his veins, laced with something dangerously close to panic.

And then—

"One."

Enough.

He pulled back, then slammed his shoulder into the door with full force.

Once. The wood cracked.

Twice. The lock gave a groan.

On the third, the door snapped open, the lock shattering, the force sending him stumbling forward into the steam-filled room.

The sight before him stole the breath from his lungs.

Rae-a was collapsed on the flooded floor, her body half-submerged in the water that had spilled over from the bathtub. Her clothes were soaked through, clinging to her feverish skin, the fabric slipping from one shoulder, leaving her collarbone exposed. Strands of damp hair stuck to her flushed cheeks, dark and matted, framing the wreckage of her face—a face so swollen from hours of crying that it barely looked like her own.

Her eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, were unfocused, pupils unfixed as if she wasn't entirely present. Her mouth hung slightly open, lips trembling around uneven breaths, caught somewhere between a sob and an exhale.

In her shaking hands, she still clutched a bottle—whiskey, nearly empty, her fingers struggling to keep a grip. Her knuckles were white with the effort, her entire frame trembling from exhaustion and intoxication. He could see her desperation in the way she held onto it, like it was the only thing tethering her to reality, the only thing keeping her from completely unraveling.

And then, her fingers slipped.

The bottle fell from her grasp, hitting the tile with a sharp crash, shattering into jagged fragments. Glass flew across the floor, mixing with the puddles of water that now stretched across the entire bathroom, reflecting the dim light in fractured patterns.

She didn't even react.

Not to the noise, not to the glass, not to the way blood immediately welled up from the fresh cuts on her already wounded hands. She simply stared blankly at the mess in front of her, her expression unreadable, empty, as though she wasn't even in her own body anymore.

His eyes flickered downward, scanning the damage she had done to herself in her delirium.

Her feet were bare, littered with tiny, glistening cuts, thin rivulets of red mixing with the water, swirling down the drain in delicate spirals. She had been walking through the broken glass, completely indifferent to the pain. Her knees, scraped and raw, had turned a sickly shade from the cold water, and her hands—torn up from gripping the shards earlier, from running them along her own skin, from testing the sharpness just to feel something real—were barely able to function.

She had destroyed herself.

And then, as if suddenly remembering his presence, she made a sound.

A broken, gasping breath that turned into a choked laugh, the sound spiraling into something unhinged.

It started softly, just a breath of amusement—empty, distant—but then it grew, bubbling up from her chest like a sickness, her entire frame shaking with it. It wasn't laughter in the true sense. It was something much worse.

Her lips parted, and the laughter came again, raw and breathless, manic in a way that made his stomach twist. It didn't stop. It kept coming, spilling out of her like an open wound, punctuated with short, gasping breaths that he quickly realized weren't from amusement but from the fact that she couldn't stop crying long enough to breathe properly.

She threw her head back against the side of the tub, her whole body trembling, arms sprawled out like she had given up completely.

And In-ho felt something deep within him crack.

It was not anger.

It was not frustration.

It was something else—something colder.

He had seen death. He had orchestrated it. He had stood over dying men and watched as the light left their eyes, had sentenced hundreds of people to their fate without a second thought, had listened to the pleading, the screaming, the raw desperation of those at the brink of their own mortality. And none of it had ever made him feel the way this did.

None of it had ever left him this shaken.

This was different.

This was her.

And she was slipping.

She wasn't just grieving—she was unraveling, spiraling deeper into something dangerous, something that even she might not be able to crawl back from.

And the moment In-ho realized it, he lunged for her.

Water sloshed violently across the floor as his knees hit the tile, his hands reaching for her before he even had time to think. The chill of the water soaked through his clothes, but he didn't care. His fingers wrapped around her wrist with a desperation he refused to acknowledge, his grip firm, grounding, real.

His voice came rough, unsteady, shaking from something he refused to name.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

For a moment, Rae-a didn't react.

Sluggishly, she lifted her head, her glassy, unfocused eyes blinking up at him like she barely registered who he was. Then her lips curled, and a breathy, bitter laugh slipped past them, sharp and broken at the edges.

"Ohhh, the almighty Frontman finally graces me with his presence… Did I ruin your little playhouse?"

She let out another laugh, but it cracked halfway, turning into something closer to a sob.

In-ho's expression darkened, something tight coiling in his chest. He grabbed her wrist roughly, his fingers tightening around it with barely restrained force, feeling the dampness of her skin, the slight tremble in her fingers.

"Do you have any idea how fucking reckless this is?" His voice was low, dangerously close to breaking.

Rae-a only grinned, delirious, detached, spiraling further into something he wasn't sure she could come back from.

"I dooo, actually." She dragged the words out mockingly, giggling through the slur. 

Then, just as quickly, the light in her eyes flickered out. Her smile faded, replaced by something hollow as her gaze drifted toward the overflowing bathtub.

"Drowning would be fitting, don't you think?"

She tilted her head, staring at the water like it was calling to her. "You should know all about that…"

A sharp, suffocating silence filled the space between them.

In-ho went completely still. His breath hitched, an invisible hand clenching around his throat as her words sank in. He had known—of course, he had known. It was only the night before that game that she mentioned her fear of water, knowing the game the next day was going to involve her facing some of her darkest moments again. And still he chose to do nothing but let it continue.

Something flickered behind his eyes—something violent, something raw, something agonizingly human. His grip tightened, just for a second, before he suddenly yanked the bottle from her grasp. Without hesitation, he hurled it across the room as to try and remove the primary reason for this state.

Though it wasn't.

The shattering sound was deafening, glass exploding against the wall, but he wasn't done. Without missing a beat, In-ho turned sharply and strode for the bathtub, his hands moving with swift precision as he twisted the taps off. The relentless stream of water cut off instantly, leaving behind only the dripping remnants clinging to the porcelain edges.

Only then did he go back to her, his steps quick, determined, the tension in his body coiling tighter by the second.

"Y-you owe me a drink for that one, asshole."

In-ho's patience snapped.

His hand caught her wrist again, firm, unrelenting, demanding. This time, he forced her to look at him.

His breath came hard and uneven, his jaw clenched so tightly it might break. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were burning.

"This isn't a fucking joke, Rae-a!" His voice shook, raw with something dangerously close to fear. "You could've—"

He stopped himself, the words strangling in his throat.

He couldn't say it.

Rae-a let out a soft, bitter chuckle.

"Died?" She dragged the word out, her voice barely above a whisper. Then her smile wavered, her expression cracking at the edges. "Yeah… that was kinda the idea."

Something inside In-ho snapped.

Before he could stop himself, his fingers caught her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. His grip wasn't rough, wasn't painful, but it was unyielding. Desperate.

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, low and fractured. "Don't say that."

Rae-a blinked up at him, her lips trembling, her eyes glassy with exhaustion, alcohol, and something deeper—something broken.

Then, she smiled.

Not her usual smirk, not sharp and biting, not teasing.

It was fragile. Tired. Defeated.

"Why?" she murmured, her voice a soft mockery. "You going to pretend to care now? Act like you care for my wellbeing?"

The words twisted like a knife, but she didn't stop. Her breath hitched, a fresh wave of tears welling in her eyes as her expression crumbled, the weight of everything finally crashing down on her.

"You—you're killing them, In-ho."

Her voice broke completely, barely more than a whisper. "You're killing them, and I—I can't stop thinking about it."

Her body trembled violently, her chest rising and falling with uneven, shaking breaths.

And then, she reached for him.

Her fingers, weak and unsteady, clutched at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Like if she let go, she would shatter beyond repair.

Rae-a trembled in his grasp, her broken whisper slicing through the air. "They are all I have left…" Her voice cracked, the weight of it shattering something deep in In-ho's chest. His fury flickered into something unreadable, and his grip loosened, but he didn't let go—couldn't. His other hand hesitated before moving to the back of her head, fingers threading into her damp hair.

"I know." His voice was low, pained, almost inaudible.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Rae-a sobbed, her entire body shaking, and In-ho—In-ho didn't know what to do. He was furious, exhausted, but he couldn't bring himself to let her go. Instead, he pulled her closer, his fingers tightening as she buried her face into his shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirt. Her fists weakly clutched at his clothes, like letting go would shatter her completely.

"I hate you… I hate you so fucking much," she hiccupped against him, her voice shaking, raw with something far too real.

In-ho closed his eyes, his own breath ragged. He didn't argue. He just tightened his hold, letting her break, letting her drown in grief—because deep down, he knew he deserved it.

Then, with a sharp breath, he shifted—lifting her soaked, half-dressed body into his arms.

"Put me down, you—stupid… control freak," she groaned, barely coherent.

She weakly shoved at his chest, but it was half-hearted, more a drunken protest than an actual attempt to escape. In-ho ignored her, his jaw clenched, as he strode out of the flooded bathroom and into the main living area.

He all but dropped her onto the sofa—not rough enough to hurt her, but enough to make a point. Rae-a groaned as she landed, rolling onto her side, damp hair sticking to her face.

"Asshole…" she muttered, slurring.

Her bleary gaze flickered across the room, landing on a half-empty bottle sitting on the side table. Before In-ho could react, she clumsily reached for it, fingers brushing the glass.

"No." His voice came sharply as he snatched the bottle away.

Her hands grasped at nothing, frustration flickering in her glassy eyes as she glared up at him.

"Just—just a little more," she slurred, swallowing hard, her voice cracking. "Please."

In-ho stared down at her, his grip tightening around the bottle. There was something unbearable about the way she said it—like she was begging for more than just alcohol. Like she was desperate for anything to numb her, even for a second longer. His jaw locked, his eyes dark with something unspoken.

Then, finally, his voice dropped to a low, firm whisper.

"No."

Rae-a let out a breathy, bitter laugh, her head tipping back against the couch before her face crumpled again. "It hurts, In-ho." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "I can't—I can't breathe, I can't stop thinking, and I just—" A choked sob wrenched from her throat, her fingers twisting into the fabric of the sofa as if she could ground herself through sheer force.

In-ho watched, his grip on the bottle turning white-knuckled. He didn't move to comfort her, didn't soften—because he didn't know how. But his jaw tightened, his breath coming just a fraction too uneven.

"Drinking yourself unconscious won't make it stop." His voice was quiet but unwavering, cutting through the thick air between them.

Rae-a scoffed, fresh tears slipping down her face. "Oh, and what the fuck do you know about stopping?" Her lips trembled before she grit her teeth, anger flaring through the haze of alcohol. "You don't stop. You don't feel. You just—watch from that fucking mask while people die."

She pushed herself up on shaky arms, swaying slightly, but the venom in her voice didn't waver. "They're still in there, aren't they?" The accusation hit like a blade, sharp despite her slurred words. Her body sagged into the sofa, her limbs sluggish, her head lolling back as she stared at him, hazy but unrelenting. "They're still fighting for their lives while I sit here in your perfect little prison."

In-ho's fingers flexed around the bottle. He said nothing.

His silence only made her angrier.

Rae-a let out a hoarse, wrecked laugh, hollow and sharp. "I bet you think this is kindness. Keeping me here. Keeping me safe." Her voice wavered, a fresh crack forming in the armor of her bitterness. Her hand lifted to press against her temple, as if the weight of her own thoughts was too much to bear. "But it's not, is it?" Her gaze flickered back to him, raw and exposed despite the fury laced in every syllable.

"It's just your way of making sure you don't have to see me die."

Something in In-ho's expression flickered—so fast it could have been imagined. His breath hitched, a fracture of something unspoken flashing through his dark eyes before he shut it down. His feet carried him forward before he could think twice, before he could stop himself.

His voice, when it came, was colder now. A warning.

"That's enough."

Rae-a scoffed, unbothered, shifting against the cushions as if trying to sit up properly. Her limbs, clumsy and uncooperative, betrayed her drunken state, but she still held onto her defiance like a lifeline. "Enough? Enough what? Enough calling you out on your bullshit?" She shook her head, her glassy, unfocused eyes locking onto his. "You don't get to decide when I stop, In-ho. You already took that from me. Took my choices, my freedom, and for what?" Her voice wavered now, the edges fraying as something deeper bled through. "Some selfish, twisted idea that you're protecting me?"

Her breath stuttered, and the fight in her seemed to flicker for just a moment. She swallowed hard, her gaze skittering away from his as her voice lowered—fragile now, bitter in a way that burrowed under the skin.

"They made me want to live again."

The words felt heavier than anything else she had thrown at him. She laughed, but there was no humor in it, only something desperate, something breaking apart. "Do you know how long it's been since I felt that? Since I actually cared if I woke up the next morning?" She swiped a trembling hand over her face, groaning as she tipped her head back against the sofa. "I had something. For once, I had something—and you ripped me away from it."

In-ho didn't speak. Didn't move. But his fingers twitched—so subtly it was almost imperceptible. He stood there, watching, absorbing every word as they cut through him like a blade pressed too deep. For the first time in a long time, something inside him ached in a way he couldn't ignore.

Rae-a let out a breathless, hollow laugh, her voice raw with something dangerously close to grief. "And the worst part? The worst fucking part is I—"

She stopped. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, hard enough that the pressure nearly drew blood. Her throat bobbed with a shaky swallow as she pressed the heel of her palm against her temple, as if she could push away whatever thought was clawing at her from the inside.

In-ho knew that look.

He knew that pain.

And as much as he told himself he was prepared for whatever she would say next, his fingers curled into fists at his sides—because deep down, he already knew it would ruin them both.

Then, finally, it came.

A whisper. Broken. Almost ashamed.

"I don't even know if I hate you."

Silence.

The words settled between them, thick and suffocating, sinking deep like an irreversible wound.

She exhaled shakily, her body slumping further into the cushions. The fight in her was fading, stripped away by exhaustion and alcohol, leaving her raw. Her head lolled to the side, her gaze hazy and unfocused, but in this state—when all the sharp edges were dulled—she was honest.

"I should." Her voice was barely audible, a confession more to herself than to him. "I should fucking hate you. But I don't. And that scares me more than anything."

In-ho's breath hitched.

She was too out of it to see the way his expression finally, truly faltered—just for a second. A second too long.

He shouldn't care. He shouldn't care that she didn't hate him, shouldn't care that she was unraveling right in front of him, shouldn't care that her pain felt like an echo of his own. But he did.

And it enraged him. Because if things had been different—if the world hadn't shaped them into enemies, if fate hadn't torn them apart before they ever had a chance—maybe they could have been something more.

Rae-a inhaled shakily, as if steeling herself, and before she could stop herself, her hand reached for the half-empty bottle on the side table. She moved sluggishly, but her fingers stretched toward it, desperate for something—anything—that would dull the ache clawing at her insides.

Before she could grasp it, In-ho moved.

His hand closed over hers—not rough, not cruel, but firm enough that she couldn't fight it in her state.

She let out a quiet, frustrated sound, weakly trying to pull away, but he didn't budge. His grip was steady, unyielding.

Rae-a's breath came out uneven, her body sinking deeper into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. The room was dim, the only light flickering from the dying embers in the fireplace, casting elongated shadows along the walls. Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the bottle sitting on the side table, but before she could grasp it, a firm hand closed over hers.

His touch wasn't cruel, wasn't punishing—but it was unyielding. A barrier between her and the oblivion she sought.

"Just a little more," Rae-a murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, slurred and fragile in a way she hated.

She tugged at his grip weakly, but it was useless. Her limbs were uncooperative, weighed down by exhaustion, by alcohol, by emotions she couldn't drown no matter how much she drank. She swallowed hard, tilting her head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed as she forced out the admission that had been clawing at her throat.

"It hurts."

Her voice cracked, a quiet, broken thing slipping through the walls she had spent years fortifying. A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but even that felt too exhausting. What was the point? It didn't change anything. It didn't undo what he had done. It didn't give her back what he had taken.

Inho's grip remained steady. He said nothing at first, only watching her. The flickering firelight reflected off the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed with a silent swallow. But his expression gave nothing away. It never did.

And then, finally, he spoke, again.

"No."

A single word. Absolute.

Rae-a let out a shuddering breath, her body slackening in surrender. The fight drained out of her, leaving her slumped against the couch, her hand going limp beneath his. Her gaze drifted back to the bottle, staring at it as if it might offer her some kind of answer, some kind of escape. But it remained out of reach, just like everything else.

Her fingers curled into a loose fist, pressing against her thigh as the weight in her chest grew unbearable. Her throat burned as she swallowed again, but it did nothing to ease the ache inside her.

And then, so softly it was nearly swallowed by the crackling embers, she asked:

"Would you have let me die?"

The words hung in the air, fragile and damning.

Inho's fingers twitched—just barely—but she felt it. His grip on her hand tensed for the briefest second before he forced himself to loosen it. He didn't move, didn't speak, but the silence that followed was suffocating. He knows that she is talking about the games. The medical room after bossaum. Mingle. Ssierum with the panel.

Rae-a turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him, though she didn't know what she expected to find. He wouldn't meet her gaze. His jaw clenched, his shoulders rigid with a tension she couldn't quite place.

She inhaled sharply.

"Tell me the truth."

Her voice was quieter this time, more fragile. She hated herself for it. She was begging for an ounce of honesty.

Still, he didn't look at her. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, as if calculating every possible answer. As if weighing the consequences of what he was about to say. But she already knew. She could see it in the way his throat bobbed, in the way his fingers curled slightly, in the way his silence stretched long enough to carve itself into her bones.

And then—finally—he answered.

"No."

Two letters. One truth. And yet it didn't bring her the relief she thought it would.

Because it wasn't love.

It was possession.

He cared—just enough to keep her breathing. Just enough to keep her from shattering completely. But never enough to give her back the life he had stolen from her. He couldn't sacrifice his pride for her happiness.

Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, the first tear slipped down her cheek. She gritted her teeth, fingers clenching against the fabric of the sofa as if trying to hold herself together, but it was useless. The weight pressing down on her chest was suffocating.

She should hate him. She should despise him for all that he had done, for all that he had taken. And yet, as she sat there, breaking apart under the weight of his control, she realized something far worse.

She didn't.

In-ho stood there for a long moment, watching her—watching the way exhaustion pulled at her features, the way the quiet tremors in her breath betrayed how close she was to breaking. He should have walked away. He should have left her to drown in whatever pain she refused to voice.

But he didn't.

Instead, with slow, measured movements, he reached for the blanket resting near the edge of the couch. The fabric was worn but warm, and without a word, he pulled it over her shoulders, adjusting it with a care so gentle she might never believe him capable of it.

And then, instead of leaving, instead of distancing himself the way he always did—he sat.

Not far. Not out of reach.

Just close enough. Close enough that she would know she wasn't alone. That despite everything—despite the weight of all the blood on his hands, despite the cruelty she swore she'd never forgive—he was still here.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest, unbearable and suffocating, because no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, he knew he was the reason she was suffering. He had put her here, in this room, in this life. He had orchestrated the games that had taken her friends, stolen her choices, torn her apart piece by piece.

And yet—he still had power. And power means control. Power to shift things, manipulate them, just enough to make a difference. And that might just be something that can keep her alive.

The thought settled like a promise in his mind. A quiet vow.

Her fingers, barely visible beneath the blanket, twitched before lifting, slow and uncertain. At first, it was just the lightest brush against his cheek, barely there, as if testing whether he was real. Then firmer, fingertips trailing over the sharp planes of his face, the roughness of his jaw.

In-ho froze.

A sharp inhale, a slight stiffening of his shoulders, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.

Because she was looking at him—not with anger, not with hatred, but with something else entirely. Something raw, something stripped down to its barest form.

"…You're real."

Her voice was quiet, slurred at the edges, but the way she said it—soft, disbelieving, like she wasn't sure whether she could trust her own senses—made something twist deep inside him.

She had spent so much of her life surrounded by ghosts. By people who had been ripped away too soon, by memories that never faded, by things she couldn't hold onto no matter how tightly she grasped.

And now, here she was, tracing the contours of his face like she was afraid he'd disappear, too.

His hands curled into fists against his thighs, forcing himself to stay still, forcing himself to breathe.

He shouldn't let this happen. He shouldn't let her get close.

But he did.

He let her touch him, let her fingertips press against the warmth of his skin, let her convince herself that he was something solid, something real.

Then—her breath caught. The realization hit, crashing into her all at once, and the grief she had been holding back—pushing down, swallowing whole—finally broke free.

Her fingers slipped away, her body folding in on itself, her shoulders trembling under the weight of something too heavy to carry alone.

"It's real."

The words barely carried, just a whisper, but the way they shattered in the stillness of the room was deafening.

She thought she could convince herself that this was just a bad dream.

But she couldn't.

The dim light from the corner lamp flickered softly, casting faint shadows on the walls. The room felt too small, too heavy with everything that went unsaid. Rae-a sat on the sofa, wrapped in a small blanket, her body taut with exhaustion, but her mind tangled in a haze of alcohol and frustration. She tried to hold herself together, but the weight of it all pressed down, making her feel as if she might collapse under it.

Inho watched her. The way her gaze blurred, the tremble in her hands, the way her body swayed as though she might fall any moment—he couldn't tear his eyes away. He barely breathed as she swayed forward, unable to stop herself. Then, in a motion too quick for him to catch, she collapsed against him.

Her warmth seeped through his clothes, and the softness of her pressed into him. He froze the instant she pressed against him, his entire frame turning rigid as if his body was waging war against itself. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, his muscles locking like he wasn't sure whether to push her away or pull her closer. His mind scrambled for an instinct, a response, but all he could do was remain still for that breathless moment.

She was trembling. He could feel it through the thin fabric between them, the way her body shuddered against his, the way her fingers curled weakly into the sleeve of his coat.

She was holding onto him.

The realization hit harder than he expected.

Slowly, carefully, he moved.

His arm moved, stiff at first, unsure, like he might shatter her with a touch. He didn't want to hold her too tight, but he couldn't let her fall further. So, he steadied her, his hand settling on her shoulder, barely grazing the skin, trying to stop the trembling in his own chest as much as hers.

She didn't pull away. She clung to him instead, her fingers weakly gripping the sleeve of his shirt. It wasn't a plea, but he could feel it—the silent desperation in her touch. She wasn't asking for help. She wasn't trying to make him fix anything. But in that moment, he felt the weight of everything she had ever carried—everything she had buried beneath layers of pride and anger—and it was all too much.

His own breath caught, thick in his throat. She shifted against him, her body resting more heavily, her breathing starting to even out. But with every breath, the silence between them deepened, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't comfortable. Instead, it felt like the room was closing in on him.

Seconds stretched into minutes, the weight of her words still lingering from earlier, the ache of her grief pressing into him like a wound left open. The quiet should have settled something inside him, but it didn't. It only made the tension coil tighter, the uncertainty heavier.

Then, her voice broke through the stillness—soft, slurred, distant. "Maybe I don't want to wake up."

The words hit him like a blow to the chest. His body locked, every muscle tensing in a way that hurt. He could barely process the sound of her voice, so detached, so calm. But it wasn't a plea for attention. It wasn't a trick. She meant it.

The realization sank into him, deeper than anything else. His chest tightened painfully, his breath hitching. He didn't know what to do. How to make her believe that there was something left worth waking up for. Her words weren't just words—they were a confession of the emptiness inside her, a raw truth that made him feel like he was losing her.

He had seen countless people break. He had been the one to break them. He had watched them crumble under the weight of hopelessness, of despair, of knowing that no matter how hard they fought, the world had already decided they weren't meant to survive.

But this was different.

This wasn't a broken woman lashing out in anger. This wasn't rage or hatred or even desperation.

This was surrender.

His grip on her tightened instinctively, desperate to keep her from slipping into whatever dark place she was inching toward. His fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt as if he could hold her here, keep her from vanishing.

"Take it back," His voice cracked, rough and low, not even close to steady. 

It wasn't an order. It wasn't even a warning.

It was something else entirely—something raw, something he didn't know how to name.

He wanted to say more, to fix this, but nothing came. The words swirled in his mind, but none of them felt right. None of them could fill the chasm between them.

He realized, then, that in trying to keep her close—trying to protect her from everything else—he might have been the one taking away her reason to keep fighting.

The weight of his mistake pressed against him, but there was no time to reflect on it. Her body grew heavier in his arms, slipping into unconsciousness, her breathing slow and even now. She didn't notice the way his jaw clenched, or how his fingers twitched, struggling not to let go.

His chest felt hollow. A wave of helplessness swept through him, and for the first time in a long time, Inho had no answers. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't pull her out of the darkness she was sinking into. And that realization, more than anything, terrified him.

For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, her warmth against him both comforting and crushing at the same time. And in the quiet, he let the fear settle over him, knowing that he is becoming really close to losing her completely.

And he refused to let that happen.