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The night sky over Seoul was unnaturally clear for late October. Gi-hun had driven for what felt like hours with no destination, turning at random, weaving his way out of the city proper and into a quieter, older district tucked between forested hills and the slow sprawl of forgotten outskirts. His knuckles ached from how tightly he’d been gripping the steering wheel. He hadn’t even told Woo-seok where he was going. Jun-ho had been mid-sentence when Gi-hun muttered something about needing air and slipped out.
The Halloween party was days away. Their last, desperate plan to expose the Front Man. And Gi-hun—supposed leader—was falling apart.
He pulled over near a crumbling lookout point, engine humming softly before he killed it. The world fell to stillness. Up above, stars blanketed the sky, eerie in their clarity. No city lights out here, just breath, and cold, and the creeping echo of the past.
Gi-hun laid back on the hood of his car, arms folded behind his head, heart racing. He hadn’t seen the stars like this in years. Not since the nights with Ga-yeong, lying on their backs with a worn telescope and his cheap book open.
“I think that one’s Cass..siopeia,” he would read outloud, pointing to what would be a similar shape as the book. “It says she was a queen, like you.”
And Ga-yeong would giggle and name the next one.
He hadn’t cried in weeks. Not during the planning, the arguing, the fear. But now, under this night full of stars, he cracked. The sobs escaped sharp and sudden, pain lodging deep in his chest.
Then, his phone rang.
Unknown Number.
He stared at the screen, blinking tears from his eyes.
It rang again.
He answered, voice thick. “Hello?”
A pause. Then the mechanical distortion he knew too well.
“456.”
Gi-hun sat up, the stars forgotten. Rage flared through his veins.
“You,” he spat. “You—you goddamn—what do you want? Haven’t you taken enough? You just had to call now, when I finally— finally —got a moment to breathe?”
On the other end of the call, somewhere far away on a rooftop, Hwang In-ho stared down at the glowing dot on his screen. The GPS ping from Gi-hun’s phone lit up like a beacon on the quiet map. The laptop sat beside him, ignored. He could have let it be. He should have. But something about Gi-hun, this volatile, maddening man, had crawled under his skin.
Just like she had once done.
“I thought you would be done chasing ghosts,” In-ho said, his voice filtered through the voice modulator. “Back to your daughter…”
“I’m not chasing—” Gi-hun stopped himself. “You don’t get to talk about that. You don’t get to talk about her. Or my daughter. Or anything. ”
“You could still walk away. Be with her. Let this go.”
Gi-hun’s voice broke. “Don’t you dare talk about Ga-yeong. Don’t—don’t pretend you care. You don’t know what it’s like to look your child in the eyes and see how much of yourself you ruined.”
And then he was crying again, shoulders shaking with it. He hated himself for crying in front of him , to let him know how weak he was, but it was too late.
On the rooftop, In-ho’s gloved hand tightened around the phone. Guilt pooled in his chest like wet cement. He had meant to call to warn him. Maybe scare him into walking away. But hearing Gi-hun break like this—raw, human—it did something to him.
There was a long silence, except for Gi-hun’s soft sobs.
“You know,” the distorted voice said finally, slower now, “the Greeks believed each star told a story. Bellerophon was one of them. A man who flew too high, tried to reach Olympus on Pegasus’ back.”
Gi-hun let out a hollow laugh through his tears. “Is this a bedtime story? You call to traumatize me with mythology?”
“You remind me of him.”
Gi-hun blinked up at the stars again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
In-ho’s voice stayed steady, but inside, something shifted. “Bellerophon flew too high. The gods didn’t take kindly to that. They sent a gadfly to sting the horse. He fell. Crippled for life.”
Gi-hun swallowed, staring at Cassiopeia again. “So I’m flying too close?”
“You’re trying to become something no man should be.”
The air was cold, but Gi-hun felt warmth against his cheeks, slow and strange. The story, despite himself, soothed him.
“He wanted justice, didn’t he?” Gi-hun asked, eyes wet but voice calmer now. “He thought it was righteous.”
“He thought his pain made him chosen.”
The modulator clicked off, unintentionally, and for a moment, Gi-hun heard something else—a real voice. Deep. Human. Tired.
“You don’t have to be Bellerophon,” In-ho said, quiet now. “Take what little peace you have. Be with your daughter. Let the world burn without you burning with it.”
Gi-hun’s heart froze. The voice—it was human. Real. Not some soulless machine. And for some reason, it wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He didn’t know this man. But for a second, he felt sincerity.
And then the line went dead.
He stared at the phone, the silence now louder than before. He turned his eyes back to the sky.
Cassiopeia. Pegasus. Bellerophon.
He breathed in.
Somewhere across the city, In-ho stood frozen, the wind brushing against his coat. He looked at the same stars, thinking of names he’d long forgotten. Of love. Of mistakes. Of a man crying alone with no idea that the monster he hunted had just tried—feebly, quietly—to give him peace.
Hoping for Gi-hun to run away from the hell he has chosen to be leading. Hoping that stubborn man who once offered sincere smiles would find the happiness he once turned down.
The End.