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"Youngil? What the fuck? Youngil, What the fuck?" the words fall from Gihun's lips before he even gets the chance to register what he's seeing. The frontman's mask is tucked between Young-il's middle and forefinger, and his body is sporting the frontman's uniform.
Something about seeing Youngil's head on the frontman's body is so offputting in itself, so unnerving. He looks more like a mannequin – a placeholder – than anything else.
"Inho. Hwang Inho," Inho corrects, his voice solemn. Something about the way the muscles in his face twitch is so unsettling to Gihun. He finds it hard to reconcile Inho, Youngil, and the frontman. He seems pained, and although that should be what Gihun wants, he thinks back on all the secret glances they had shared in the games and feels like he's back at square one.
"Oh my gosh, I don't even who you are."
"I know, I'm sorry. And I'm sorry Jungbae had to go like that, too."
Prayers with no destination fall from his lips, end up scattered on the bloodstained floor that they stand on. He can't keep doing this to himself, Gihun knows, prayers hold no value when there isn't any true faith that lies behind them – but between his faith in God and his faith in Inho he doesn't know which flame burns brighter in this moment.
Slowly, Gihun lowers himself to the ground, and hugs his knees to his chest. If he thought very hard, he could recall times where he would assume this exact position as a little boy, waiting for his mother to come comfort him herself.
She wouldn't be coming any time soon, not anymore.
"Let me go," Gihun heaves, his breath coming out a lot heavier than he remembered it feeling coming in.
"I can't do that," Inho replies. His voice sounds regretful. Gihun won't take that.
"Just let me go!" he wails with a raw throat, "I can't do this anymore, I'm so tired. Either kill me or put me back in the games now. I can't stay sitting still like this. Let me die or let me fight."
Although he doesn't look up to witness it himself, Gihun can feel the frontman's eyes lingering on him through the mask. They feel scrutinising, too harsh on his sensitive skin. It worsens the headache already pounding at his skull. In a futile attempt to shy away from it, he cowers, moving his hands to cover his head instead, though he knows it will do little more than muffle his pathetic sobs.
"I'm sorry, Gihun," Inho speaks.
"Don't call me that," Gihun whimpers immediately, words trailing off into a sob.
"My apologies," Inho replies, and waits a beat before returning to his original point. "You will understand soon. I know it hurts now. This is all necessary."
"I won't, I won't, I won't," Gihun weeps, repeating the words like a chant. His head hurts so badly. He wants to go home more than he ever has in his entire life.
This time, Inho doesn't bother trying to reason, and scoops Gihun into his arms without a word.
He doesn't complain, takes Gihun's weight like it's nothing, and doesn't even stumble over his steps as Gihun weakly kicks at him and bangs his fists on his chest. Expression remaining blank, he takes it all, because he knows he deserves it.
Eventually, Gihun can't force himself to fight it anymore, and ends up leaning into Inho's torso. It's humiliating to picture how he must look to passersby, so he forces himself not to think at all.
The Frontman's quarters look so rich. So luxurious, as if his job was a noble one, and the sight alone is enough to make Gihun's stomach churn.
Inho didn't need a screen that big. He didn't need an unlimited supply of high-end whiskey (although the amount he had on demand did make Gihun's question how much he really did enjoy watching the games play out) and he didn't need so many beautiful, ornate decorations hanging about the outskirts of the room.
Still, he settles in the large, comfortable armchair Inho sets him down in.
Inho opts to sit on the floor, at Gihun's feet.
"Shall we talk?" Inho begins, looking up at Gihun with a quirked eyebrow. Slowly, he pours out a glass of whiskey, and takes a swig from it.
"Depends what you're gonna say," Gihun grumbles.
Just by the look on his face, Gihun can already tell Inho is going to open the conversation with a bang. Nervously, his stomach begins to turn.
"What impact did you expect me to make in the grand scheme of things?" Inho asks rhetorically, and cruelly lets the question linger in the air before he continues. "It's true, I'm in charge of the Korean games, but that's all they are. Korean games. They do this in America, Europe, Australia – it's all so much bigger than you've realised."
"They made me the frontman because they needed someone for the job, and there was nothing left for me when I came back home. I was just like you, except I hadn't made any promises to anyone in the games, and they found me before someone else could give me purpose," Inho elaborated. His voice was softer now, his eyes so caring in that sickening way they tended to be. Whenever he said 'they', referring to whatever kind of higher-ups that truly ran the games, it washed a weird sensation over Gihun that he couldn't describe.
What hurts the most is the empathy blooming in his chest as he listens to Inho talk. He pictures Inho, freshly a winner – Gihun knows the feeling too well – and he feels bad for him. Wife and child dead, just like how Gihun had found his mother lifeless on the floor. He imagines himself in Inho's place, and horrifyingly enough, there's a part of him that thinks he'd make the same decision.
"I can't–" Gihun splutters and desperately tries to summon words, any at all, "I can't. I just can't."
Words fail him, so he uses his eyes to plead with Inho. Mercy from the onslaught of truths Inho has been throwing at him non stop. A bed to sleep in for a while. A purpose of his own to be served to him, given the fact Inho had just eradicated all sense of self Gihun had harboured ever since the first time he'd entered the games.
When Gihun had been gathering the courage to get himself out of the depressive slump the games originally put him in, he thought of all the things he had to do, all the promises he'd made. He dyed his hair red and cut all ties to his past. He took care of his debts and the people around him, and dedicated himself to demolishing the games entirely from then on.
But what could he do now? He was nothing but a drop in the ocean, Inho had just told him so himself.
The man doesn't speak, just lets his eyes roam Gihun's face. Eyes so imperceptible that Gihun couldn't begin to decipher his thoughts even if he tried.
He'd been tricked again, by himself, and by Youngil. Really, he was still the same man he'd been in 2020. Nothing had changed.
Gihun ached all over.
"I'm gonna pass out," Gihun mutters, letting his own head fall into his hands.
There's a pause before Inho speaks. Gihun had a suspicion that the man had spent it studying him.
"Let's get you to bed," he sighs, placing one hand on his knee and the other on the floor as he hoists himself up.
Once again, Gihun finds himself in Inho's arms, bridal style.
He doesn't remember how he gets to the room, having been slipping in and out of consciousness the entire way, but eventually Gihun finds himself slipping between the sheets of a silk blanket.
Inho's hands were too rough as they tucked Gihun in, despite exerting his best efforts to be gentle. Gihun was just too tired, too disgusted by the things he'd discovered about the man he considered a 'friend' only hours ago.
They didn't even give him time to process Youngil's death, let alone mourn him, before Inho's true identity had been revealed. It was like he'd died all over again, just in front of Gihun's face this time around.
"Sleep well, Gihun, I hope you have a goodnight," Inho whispers, and really, it perfectly encompasses all the words that have been coming from his mouth for the past hour or so. Ever since he carried Gihun out of that hallway, kicking and screaming, he'd been uncharacteristically kind. He hadn't even been this nice as Youngil, and Gihun wouldn't be shocked if someone told him he wasn't this kind before his own victory as well.
It felt fake, though not in a malicious way. Plastic in the same way they decided to make barbies out of vinyl instead of glass to ensure a child's safety. Gift wrapped, good intentioned.
Suffocating.
Gihun lay immobile in the bed, eyes barely open anymore as they looked up at Inho. He still tried to muster up as much hatred as he could and projected it up at the stationary man.
Inho's mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he wanted to say more. His eyes certainly suggested that he did. Ultimately, no more words came from his mouth, instead deciding to press his lips into a thin line before leaving, presumably heading towards his own bedroom.
It doesn't take long until Gihun's conscious mind loses in its battle against exhaustion, and soon succumbs to sleep.
The darkness fades through shades of white, fuzzy around the edges, and somewhere in the distance, Gihun can hear his mother's voice, singing softly and stroking his hair. She rocks him back and forth, tells him it will be okay.
He's been alive long enough to know not to doubt her.