Work Text:
The walls of the hallway felt too tight.
Steel and shadow pressed in on both sides as Guard 011—Kang Noeul—walked with measured steps down the long corridor. Her boots echoed across the floor, but she didn’t flinch. She never did.
Not even when she was summoned by the Frontman himself.
Inside the darkened control office, the lighting was sterile, flickering slightly like a dying eye. The masked officer stood by the window, his hands behind his back, rigid, silent. The Frontman sat at his desk. Waiting.
The moment she entered, she felt it.
The shift in atmosphere.
Something colder than the usual metallic indifference. She took her mask off.
"Sit," the Frontman ordered.
She didn't. Just stood. Watching. Daring.
"We have a problem," he continued, slow and deliberate, "and you are it."
No reaction.
"You helped Player 246 escape during the rebellion."
A beat passed.
Then she spoke, calm as ever. "He would've died anyways."
"That was the point."
The Frontman's voice sliced through the silence like a wire through bone. "We couldn’t caught him and now, first time ever, the player escaped this place." It sure sounded bad but he wasn’t angry. It was confusing.
The Frontman looked to the masked officer. “Deal with her.”
And that was it.
Dismissed like trash. Like she was just another number.
She turned, walked out.
The officer followed.
They didn’t speak until the elevator took them down and doors closed behind them. The hall was long, empty, and silent.
Then—
“I swear to God,” he started, his voice low, dangerous. “That was the last straw.”
Her boots didn't slow as she kept walking. "You say it every time. Yet nothing changes."
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a side corridor. Slamming her back against the wall—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.
“Why would you do something this stupid!” he hissed. “Do you know what the Frontman told me? He suggested to kill you in front of two dozen armed guards, so they’d learn what happens when someone disobeys."
She tilted her head, met his stare.
“Do it then.”
His hand twitched.
But he didn’t.
He stepped back, pacing. His fists clenched.
“You think this is some game? That I’ll keep covering for you?”
“You will.”
“I can’t keep defending you.”
“Try. Otherwise, I’ll die. And you know it.”
Silence fell.
His hands dropped to his sides.
And then, suddenly, colder—quieter:
“Why?”
She looked up, startled at the shift.
“Why did you help 246?”
Her breath hitched, barely. “Does it matter?”
He took a step forward. And another.
“Do you have feelings for him?”
There was something acid in the way he said it. Something that wasn't protocol.
She looked him dead in the eyes.
“Why are you asking?” she murmured. “Are you jealous?”
Something in him snapped.
He slammed his fist against the wall beside her head—just to the side. Dust scattered from the blow.
“You think I’m jealous of some fucking player?”
He was.
She didn’t flinch.
He was breathing heavier now. His control starting to fracture.
“Every time you break a rule, I cover it. Every time you ignore a command, I clean up the mess. You kill a man in the wrong zone? I rewrite the logs. You sneak food to the weak? I disable the cameras.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No, but you know I will.”
They stared at each other, the space between them thick as blood.
“You're reckless,” he said, barely audible. “You throw yourself into fire like you want to burn.”
“Maybe I do.”
He moved then—fast. Gripped her shoulder, spun her, slammed her back to the wall again, this time with his body closer. Almost too close.
She was used to it. “But you would rather die yourself than let me burn.”
Her voice was steady. As always. Something trembled between them, sharp and unnamed. She was right. Both of them always knew it.
“I told you. That was the last time I let it pass for you.”
She could feel his breath now. Could feel the way his hands didn’t move further. Didn’t press harder.
He hated her.
He still hadn’t hurt her.
“I should end it,” he said.
“Then do it.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, his hand found the edge of her collar. Hovered there.
Then dropped.
“You’re not afraid to die,” he muttered. “You’re afraid of being seen.”
“And you?” she shot back. “You hide behind that mask like a coward. You feel everything, but you never show it. What’s the point of surviving if you’re already empty inside?”
His jaw clenched. She could see it in the way his neck moved.
“You don’t get to talk about me.”
“I just did.”
They stood in silence, heat pulsing between them like a second heartbeat.
Something was breaking—cracking beneath the surface of all the orders and masks and protocol. Something raw.
“You don’t understand,” he said, finally.
His face was inches from hers.
“You make it impossible to think,” he said hoarsely. “When you do these things… when you act like your life has no value… it—”
He cut off. Fisted his hands.
She said nothing.
He stepped back, abruptly.
“You're suspended from your current post,” he said coldly. “I’ll transfer you to surveillance for now. Minimal contact.”
She raised a brow.
“And after that?”
He looked at her for a long time.
“I don’t know.”
* * *
It was supposed to be a punishment. A message.
But it didn’t stick.
One night later, she was gone.
He found her in the operation room, crouched beside a wounded player—one of the last rebels who tried to kill her. The player didn’t know she was going to help him too. But he was too stubborn, or afraid, to even listen to another pink guard in a mask. Her fingers were red with blood. She’d tried to stop the bleeding. Useless.
She didn’t hear the officer approach.
When she finally turned, slow and defensive, she saw the gun in his hand.
“I told you surveillance only.”
“You didn’t mean it.”
“I should report you. Again.”
“Please just do it and cut the bullshit.”
She was always daring him to be the monster he was supposed to be.
He raised the gun.
Her chin lifted.
His hand trembled—just once. Then lowered.
“Eventually you will get yourself killed. But not by me.”
“You will let it happen?”
“No.”
He pulled her to her feet. His gloves came away sticky.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s not mine.”
He looked at her then—really looked. And for the first time, she looked tired.
Not weak. Just… spent.
He took a step closer. She didn’t move.
“Stop making me choose you over the rules,” he whispered.
“Stop choosing me. I don’t ask for this.”
“You know I won’t.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t answer.
He backed her against the wall again. This time slower. His hand gripped her jaw—not roughly, but firm. His eyes searched hers through the mask.
“Tell me.”
He was quiet.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me to stop and to become the same as the other guards. Tell me to become nothing just another number. Tell me to become invisible for you.” She didn’t stutter. “Tell me to be all of this and I will. Isn’t it what you want? So just tell me.”
He didn’t. He didn’t want her to be this.
His hand didn’t leave her face.
And when she sagged against him, bloodied and exhausted, he caught her again.
He carried her this time not to the infirmary—but to his own quarters.
The room was small, clean, lined with surveillance monitors and locked drawers. He kicked the door shut with his heel and laid her gently on his bed.
Her vest was soaked. Her uniform stained.
When he peeled it back, she winced.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she muttered.
He didn’t understand what she meant but then his hand froze mid-motion.
“You said it wasn’t your blood!”
She shrugged faintly. “Didn’t want you to fuss.”
He stood, unmoving, for too long. Then turned—violently—smashing the things from the bedside table.
“You—”
Another hit on the table.
“You were fucking bleeding out there! Trying to help this bastard you almost got yourself killed! Again!”
She smiled faintly, weak.
He glared down at her. Breathing hard.
“Do you enjoy driving me to the edge?”
“Maybe.”
He pulled gauze from a drawer. Tore it open.
“You’re infuriating.”
He began cleaning the wound with slow, precise movements. His fingers careful even when his voice wasn’t.
She hissed. “Could be gentler.”
He paused. Then leaned in.
“I’m trying not to shake you,” he murmured, “because I’m this close to losing it.”
She smiled again. “You look cute when you’re mad.”
He looked at her eyes and then her lips.
Just for a second.
Then he shoved the gauze into place, rougher this time.
“You’re impossible.”
She caught his wrist.
“You’re obsessed.”
His breath stilled.
But he didn’t deny it.
Outside, the facility moved like a machine—cold, efficient, blind.
Inside his room, she bled.
And he stayed.