Chapter Text
The mask was suffocating.
It always had been, but tonight, it felt like a noose, tightening with every agonizing step he took.
In-ho moved with the rigid grace of a man carrying the weight of his own execution. Every movement felt unnatural, stiff beneath the suffocating layers of his uniform—once a symbol of control, now just heavy armor meant to hold him together. The voice modulator buzzed low in his ear, hiding the tremble in his breath, as if it could also hide the unraveling within him.
This was the only way.
But knowing that didn’t make it easier.
Gi-hun knelt before him, a ruin of the man who had once laughed in the face of fate. His chest heaved, each breath a battle. Blood smeared his temple, sweat stung his eyes, and his wrists were bound, skin torn from resistance. Even surrounded, even broken, there was a fire still lit behind those eyes. A defiance In-ho wished he could steal for himself.
It made him sick.
It made him proud.
It made him feel like a monster.
His boots echoed across the floor with each step, heavy as judgment, final as a death knell. The Officer stood to his side, waiting. The soldiers flanked them like statues carved from threat alone.
Then Gi-hun looked up.
And In-ho couldn’t breathe.
That look—a hurricane of grief, rage, betrayal—hit him like a fist to the gut. There was hate in those eyes. But there was heartbreak too. Grief for Young-il.
Grief for him.
And In-ho, bound behind the mask, could do nothing but let it shatter him in silence.
His voice emerged cold and modulated: "Did you enjoy playing the hero?"
Gi-hun’s reply came low, a growl carved from pain. "Go to hell."
The words should have made it easier. They should have been enough to lock In-ho in the role he’d scripted for himself. The villain. The executioner.
But they weren’t. Because Gi-hun still saw Young-il in him. And In-ho could feel the jagged truth of it, ripping through the fragile distance he’d tried to keep.
His fingers curled tighter around the gun. Not to shoot. Never to shoot.
With a breath so sharp it sliced his throat, he raised the weapon—not to end it, but to spare him. A single, calculated strike to the back of the head. Enough to knock Gi-hun unconscious. Enough to end the moment.
Gi-hun crumpled.
And with him, something else collapsed in In-ho’s chest.
The silence that followed was deafening. Like standing in the aftermath of a bomb, everything broken, everything burning beneath the surface.
He didn’t look back.
He couldn’t afford to.
Because if he did, he might never be able to turn away again.
The guilt, the crushing weight of every choice he had made to keep Gi-hun alive—it suffocated him. In-ho could barely tolerate the torment gnawing at him. His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
With a grim finality, he forced himself to turn away. He stepped over Gi-hun’s limp form, refusing to acknowledge the broken man he’d just left behind.
He had to become what the mask demanded him to be—what the game needed him to be in order to pull this off.
A villain in Gi-hun’s eyes.
And the knowledge of it—that he had become that for Gi-hun—it destroyed him.
The Rage
The cell is silent, save for the slow, rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe in the corner. The air is damp, stale—the kind of place that exists outside of time, where days blur into nights and reality warps into something barely recognizable.
Gi-hun is not chained, but caged. But that isn’t what holds him still. No—it’s the weight of his fury, coiled tight in his chest, burning hot enough to eat him alive. And In-ho, standing just beyond the pool of light cast by the single flickering bulb, is drowning in it.
“I know what you are,” Gi-hun spits, his voice ragged, raw. “You’re a coward. A murderer.”
In-ho braces himself. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
He can’t move. The words are expected—but they still find soft places. Still hit harder than they should. “Coward” stings more than “murderer.” Because he is. He knows it. He’s been hiding behind layers of silence, masks, control. Even now, he can’t bring himself to speak.
Gi-hun does—just enough to surge forward, his fury so absolute that for a moment, it seems like he might break through the bars, shatter the very air between them. His hands slam against the cold metal, rattling through the silence. “You killed him.”
The words land like a bullet between In-ho’s ribs.
Young-il.
He knows who Gi-hun means. Knows that, in Gi-hun’s mind, Young-il is dead. That Gi-hun isn’t just grieving a fallen ally—he’s grieving a man. A friend. A brother-in-arms. And maybe more than that. And the worst part?
Gi-hun isn’t wrong.
Young-il is dead. He died the moment In-ho pulled the mask over his face. Died the moment In-ho stepped onto that balcony and gave the order that sent their world spiraling into hell.
And Gi-hun doesn’t even know the worst of it. He doesn’t know that In-ho knew Young-il was at risk. That he'd seen his name. That he’d let it happen—had told himself it was cleaner this way. One less name to weigh on Gi-hun. One more burden to shoulder himself. And still—look at what it’s done.
Gi-hun exhales, slow and bitter. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” His voice is lower now, threaded with something more dangerous than rage. Disgust.
In-ho clenches his hands behind his back.
He tells himself he deserves it. That he has no right to feel wounded by the venom in Gi-hun’s voice. But it does wound. Because it’s him. And because Gi-hun once looked at him like he was something good. Something worth believing in.
“You think I don’t see it?” Gi-hun goes on, relentless. “Watching us suffer. Watching him suffer.”
His breath stutters, his expression twisting into something shattered and furious.
“He died because of you.”
Something cracks in In-ho’s chest. He forces his voice steady. “The game always takes what it wants.”
Gi-hun’s breath hitches, his shoulders going rigid. “You take what you want.”
In-ho stills.
It’s not an accusation. It’s a truth. One he’s tried not to name. One he sees clearer now, standing beneath this guttering light.
And then—
Something snaps.
Gi-hun lunges for him, grabbing at the bars, rattling them with such force that the entire cell trembles. “You son of a bitch!” His voice shatters against the cold walls, hoarse from screaming, from grief, from the sheer unbelievability of what’s happened. “You think you’re above this? You think hiding behind that mask makes you anything but a fucking coward?” His hands are shaking so violently he can barely keep hold of the bars. “You killed him. You killed him, and now you’re here playing god, deciding who lives and who dies—” His breath cuts off, his chest heaving.
“What happens to the others?”
The words hit fast, sharp. It takes In-ho a second to register what Gi-hun is asking—what his first instinct is, even in the depths of his own hell.
The others. The people who fought beside him.
Even now, he’s still thinking of them first.
Of course he is. That’s who he is. It’s what made him different from everyone In-ho’s ever known. The man who gave his rations away. Who carried broken bodies through the games-across finish lines, and over barriers. Who still looks at the world like it could be saved—if he could just give enough of himself to do it.
The realization buries itself deep in In-ho’s chest, a fresh wound atop the dozens already carved there.
For the first time, he moves. Takes a slow step forward, enough to be seen, but not enough to cross the invisible boundary between them.
“The game is on hold,” he says, voice-controlled, measured. “For now.”
Gi-hun laughs. A broken, bitter sound. “On hold?” His voice drips with disbelief. “You expect me to believe you give a damn about fairness?”
No. He doesn’t expect Gi-hun to believe anything. But it’s the only thing he can offer.
In-ho takes another step, enough that the dim light catches the edges of his mask. “Equality among the players is still a priority. We still have to run the game.”
Gi-hun scoffs, shaking his head. “You still have to run the game,” he repeats, his voice slipping into something almost mocking, like he can’t believe he’s hearing these words come out of In-ho’s mouth. “And what? You want me to be grateful?”
“No.”
The answer is quiet. Measured.
But Gi-hun isn’t quiet. He erupts.
“You think I don’t know why you’re doing this?” His voice breaks on the edges of his rage. “You think I don’t see what this is? You didn’t bring me here to spare me. You just didn’t want to get your hands dirty. Isn’t that right, Front Man?” The title drips from his tongue like poison. “You wanted to keep me out of the way while you clean up your mess—”
In-ho’s fingers twitch at his sides.
And for a moment, he’s dangerously close.
Dangerously close to stepping forward. To letting it all fall apart. To ripping the mask off and giving Gi-hun the one thing he hasn’t yet dared: the truth.
He wants to tell him. That he brought him here because he couldn’t bear to watch him die. That he chose to isolate him not out of cruelty—but fear. Fear of what he’d do if he had to hear Gi-hun scream again. If he had to witness that brightness go out.
“I never left you,” he wants to say. “I never wanted to do this to you.”
“You were the only thing keeping me from falling apart in the first place.”
“And I am breaking, Gi-hun. Just like you.”
But he can’t say it.
So instead, he does what he has always done.
He pulls back.
“You’re still breathing. Get some rest.” His voice is level, almost indifferent.
He makes sure of that. Makes sure his voice gives nothing away, even as something inside him recoils at the sight of Gi-hun like this—worn down to nothing but bones and grief, a man unraveling in front of him. He tells himself this is the best way.
That if he says it like this, if he keeps it measured and cold, Gi-hun won’t hear what’s really there.
He won’t hear how badly In-ho needs him to still be here.
Gi-hun goes silent.
For the first time since In-ho walked into the room, his breath slows. His fists uncurl. And when he lifts his head—when In-ho sees his eyes—his gut twists so violently it nearly takes him down with it.
There is nothing there. Not fire. Not fight. Not even sorrow.
Just emptiness, vast and endless.
No. Don’t look at me like that. Not like I’m already dead to you.
Gi-hun blinks sluggishly, his voice barely a breath.
“Am I?”
In-ho stills. The air between them turns razor-sharp.
“I think I stopped,” Gi-hun murmurs. “Back there. When I—I lost him, when he fell… I think I stopped existing.”
And just like that, the knife twists deep.
When I lost him.
The thought is sudden, blinding, brutal. It shouldn’t shake him as much as it does. Shouldn’t feel like something inside him is tearing apart at the seams. But it does.
Because he knows that look in Gi-hun’s eyes. He’s seen it before. He’s worn it before.
It’s the look of a man who is here and not here all at once.
And for a flicker of a moment, In-ho wonders—would things have been different if he’d told him everything sooner? If he’d never put on that mask? Would Gi-hun have smiled at him the way he used to? That shy, half-broken thing—like he didn’t know how to offer it, but still wanted to? Could that have saved them both?
Gi-hun stares past him, as if he’s already gone.
Something shatters inside In-ho.
He wants to—he wants to—
But there is no want in this world. Not for men like them.
So he turns. He doesn’t let himself hesitate. Doesn’t let himself look back.
The door shuts behind him.
And in the empty corridor, In-ho breaks.
His fist slams into the wall.
Then again.
Again.
Until his gloves are torn, his knuckles split, his blood staining the cold, unforgiving metal. And still—he does not scream.
He just breathes. Shakes.
And when he finally stills, hands trembling, chest heaving—
He knows.
He has just lost Gi-hun.
And this time, he might not get him back.