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She woke to sunlight.
Not harsh, not blinding—just a steady warmth slipping through gauzy curtains, dusting over the room like it belonged there. The bed beneath her was too soft, the blanket too clean. Her eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the gold and white around her.
A ceiling she didn’t recognize. No sterile walls, no surveillance monitors. No hum of electricity.
Kang Noeul sat up too fast.
Pain lanced through her skull—sharp, splitting. She gasped, one hand reaching instinctively toward the side of her head. Her fingers found gauze.
And then she remembered. The fight. The bottle. The way he looked at her right before everything went black.
She staggered out of bed.
The room was simple, rustic. Wood panels. White curtains that moved gently with the wind. Outside the window, there were trees. Not the bleak metal skeletons of the island—but trees. Green and full. Alive.
She stood up on her feet, each step dragging with the weight of her still-healing body. Down the narrow hallway. Through an open doorway.
The kitchen was warm with morning light.
And he was there.
Standing barefoot on tiled floors, shirt sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in his hand. No mask. Just the face she’d learned too well—cut with silence, bruised at the lip, always a little too calm.
He didn’t turn.
“Not exactly your style,” she muttered.
His voice was mild, like it always was when he was trying not to say something worse. “You’re awake.”
She crossed the threshold, slowly. Her legs hated her for it. Her balance tilted—but she caught herself on the edge of the counter. He didn’t move to help her.
“You hit me with a bottle.”
“You weren’t going to stop.”
“I was winning.”
He glanced at her then. One raised brow. “Were you?”
That did it. She lunged, or tried to—but her legs crumpled and the room spun sideways.
He caught her before she could hit the floor. Again.
She found herself pressed against his chest, her cheek brushing the collar of his shirt. His arm tightened just slightly around her waist.
“You’re a disaster,” he said, voice like gravel and dry smoke. “You never know when to stop.”
“If I will stop trying to kill you, it means I’m dead.”
He didn’t respond. Just held her a second longer than necessary. Then he set her down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table, poured water into a glass, and placed it in front of her.
The air between them buzzed.
She watched him as he leaned back against the counter, sipping from the same glass he'd been nursing when she walked in. Something amber. Expensive.
“What is this place?”
“My house.”
“You have a house.”
“I have several. This is the one no one knows about.”
She glanced toward the window again. The countryside rolled out in endless green. A pond shimmered in the distance. “You kidnapped me to the countryside.”
“You were unconscious.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She drank the water. He watched her throat move.
Her voice cut the air next. “What happened to the island?”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Destroyed.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass. “What happened to the last player? It was 456, right?”
Silence.
“And the child?”
He stared at her like he was deciding how much of the truth to give. Then, finally:
“They were evacuated. He handled it before the facility was blown.”
She exhaled. Just once. “Why did you take me?”
“You don’t need an answer.”
She stared. “You’re still playing control, even here.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
She watched him for a moment—calculating, suspicious, defiant.
Of course she didn’t trust him. She shouldn’t. But she was here, in his house, in a chair he pulled out, drinking water he gave her. Breathing because he let her.
She kept staring, as if trying to decide whether he was the enemy today. He didn’t help her decide.
He stepped to the drawer and pulled out gauze, antiseptic, a pair of medical scissors. Set them down on the table with the kind of precision most would mistake for indifference.
“We should change your the bandage,” he said.
She leaned back in the chair. “Don’t bother. I’m not your patient.”
“No,” he said coolly.
She scoffed. “Then leave it.”
“Sit straight, or I’ll knock you out again. It will be easier for me this way.”
Her silence was the only agreement he needed.
He moved behind her. Slowly. Not because he was gentle. Because he didn’t trust himself.
Fingers slipped into her hair, parting it to get to the gauze. She didn’t flinch, but he could feel it in her posture—the way her spine tightened like a coiled spring.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
He pressed harder.
She hissed. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“To remind you not to take it for granted. If I want to, you’d be dead in a second.”
She didn’t answer. She knew he was right. She also knew he never would.
He cleaned the wound with quiet, calculated movements. Steady hands. Sharp restraint.
“There,” he said under his breath. “I’m not patching you up next time.”
She didn’t say anything. Her breath caught for half a second—enough.
He leaned back, but not far. His gaze never left her back.
“You think I enjoy cleaning up after you?” he asked, voice like glass. “Because I don’t. I fucking hate it.”
A beat of silence.
“Why do it then?” she said finally.
He didn’t reply. He stepped away, returning to the counter. The whiskey glass was still there, a halo of amber light in the morning sun. He took a sip without looking at her.
She stood, and the distance between them crackled.
“What about Player 246?” she asked.
The words dropped like poison into water. Tainting everything.
He didn’t answer.
She took a step forward. “Is he alive?”
He didn’t move.
“Did you leave him to die on that island?”
Still, nothing.
“Or did your dogs shoot him on the boat? Wasn't enough for you, huh? You had to kill him too?”
That snapped something.
He turned fast—faster than he meant to. The whiskey glass slammed down, hard. Not shattered, but close.
“You really want to know about 246?” he said, voice low and controlled only by muscle memory. “Is that what you care about right now?”
She blinked. “I asked a question.”
And that was it.
He closed the distance between them in two strides, hand latching onto her wrist before she could step back. She tried to twist out of it, but she was still weak and he didn’t care. Not in that moment.
“You’re hurting me.”
Good, he thought. But he didn’t say it.
Instead, he dragged her down the hall, ignoring every insult she spat at him. Her fists pounded his shoulder. He didn’t feel them.
The door to the bedroom slammed open. He shoved her in—not hard enough to injure, just enough to remind her who brought her here. Who still held all the power.
She stumbled back against the bed, caught herself, panting.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she shouted.
He didn’t answer.
Just stood in the doorway, a silhouette made of tension and breath.
“Stay here,” he said.
“You don’t get to order me—”
“Stay.”
She stared at him, shaking. Not from fear. From fury.
Then he turned and shut the door behind him, the final click loud in the silence she left behind.
He stayed on the other side for a long time, listening to nothing. Or maybe to everything.
Hours later it was late. The countryside house had grown quiet, the wind still, the woods silent. The officer stood outside her door, a tray of food in one hand, the other clenched tight by his side.
He didn’t knock.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a bedside lamp. Empty.
Then—
A flash of movement.
Something hard slammed into the side of his head. Not enough to break skin, not enough to floor him—but enough to stagger him a step.
The tray crashed. Food scattered across the floor. The lamp clattered from her grip.
She stood beside the door, panting, eyes wild, off-balance.
He turned slowly.
His face twisted into something dark.
“I should’ve killed you,” he growled.
She didn’t flinch. Her body trembled, but not from fear—her body was still too weak to hold its defiance steady.
He crossed the room in two strides. His hand gripped her collar, slammed her back into the wall.
“You think I won’t?” he snarled. “You think I won’t fucking end this right now?”
He was angry. Really angry.
His voice suddenly came like a knife.
“I let that bastard 246 go.”
The words hung in the air.
“Do you fucking hear me now? I transferred him money. Enough to disappear. Because you told me his kid was sick.”
Her lips parted. Shock flickered behind her eyes.
His jaw twitched. “You said it once. I remembered. I acted.”
His grip on her tightened.
“I was breaking protocols all the time. I was lying. I covered your tracks. I made the others believe you wasn’t the reason behind it all.”
Silence pressed in.
“I have done all of this for you.”
Her defiance faltered.
“I should’ve let the island eat him alive,” he spat. “But I didn’t. Because you said one thing. One damn thing.”
Her lips were dry. Her throat clenched.
He shoved her back again—harder this time. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to make her feel it.
“You want to know why?” he hissed. “Because you fucking drive me mad.”
Each word hit like a blow.
“Every time you break a rule. Every time you look me in the eye and dare me to stop you. Every time you walk into chaos like it doesn’t matter if you make it out.”
His free hand slammed the wall on the other side of her head. He caged her in.
“And I cover for you. I lie for you. I bleed for you. And you keep testing how far I’ll go—how many lines I’ll cross before I finally snap and do what I should’ve done from the start.”
His voice cracked at the edges.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on his, something unreadable rising behind them.
He was still saying words, but she couldn’t listen anymore. She didn’t have to.
She reached up. Fisted his collar.
And dragged him down.
Then she kissed him.
Hard. Fast. Fierce.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t respond.
At first.
His body went still, muscles locked in something between shock and refusal. Her mouth pressed harder—rougher—like she was trying to force the moment not to collapse. Like she didn’t know if she’d survive the silence that would follow if he didn’t kiss her back.
She bit his lip—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to break through the numbness.
And that’s when he snapped.
His hands shot to her waist, gripping her like he was anchoring himself to something dangerous. He yanked her forward, crushing her body against his, and slammed her into the wall so hard the air knocked out of her lungs.
Then he kissed her back.
Harder.
Brutal.
There was no hesitation. No breath. No forgiveness.
He kissed her like he wanted to rip her open just to see what made her burn.
Teeth. Pressure. Bruised lips and breathless tension.
His hands splayed over her hips, dragging her up just enough that her toes barely touched the ground. His body pinned her, chest to chest, thighs to thighs, unforgiving. Dominant.
He didn’t know if it was hatred or obsession or something darker crawling up from the part of him he always locked away—but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t pull back.
Her hands tangled in his hair now, yanking. Her nails scraped at the back of his neck. He slammed his hand against the wall again beside her head, needing something to hit before he lost what was left of himself.
His body only knew her mouth. The way it opened under his. The way she met every savage press with another. How she tasted like blood and breath and rebellion.
He kissed her like he was punishing her.
And she kissed him like she dared him to go further.
He broke the kiss.
Breath ragged. Heart a snarl of fury and something far worse.
His hands still gripped her, hard. His chest heaved against hers, and when he pulled back just enough to look at her face—her lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair in chaos from where his fingers had dragged through it—he didn’t feel guilt.
He felt something much darker.
Addiction.
His gaze traced her mouth like he might crush her again just to see if she’d kiss him harder.
She was still breathing like she’d just survived a war.
His war.
And he liked that.
Liked her like this—wrecked. By him. Because of him.
He swallowed something bitter and let out a breath through his teeth.
“Can’t kill me physically so you chose this?” he muttered, voice like gravel and fire.
She didn’t answer.
The silence between them said it all.
He stepped back, suddenly cold. That awful restraint locking back into place like chains.
His hand left her waist last.
She stayed where she was—back against the wall, still catching her breath. Watching him. Daring him.
Hhe walked to the door. Opened it. Stared into the hallway for a beat like he might throw himself into the night just to get away from whatever she’d just done to him.
Then he turned the lock from the outside.
The bolt clicked.
She didn’t flinch.
He paused.
Didn’t speak.
Just stood there—still, coiled, furious—and then said, without looking back:
“Sleep. Or don’t. Either way, the door stays shut tonight.”
Still not a single word from her.
“Pray to God I won’t just kill you after this.”
And then he was gone.
Leaving her alone in the dark, lips burning, heart pounding, skin still buzzing with the taste of him.
Locked in.
Again.
But this time—for very different reasons.
Because he wasn’t sure how far he would’ve let himself go. And how far she would let him go.