Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shouting doesn’t stop. Not even when the lights flicker and the warning sirens shriek overhead, piercing his ears like knives.

Someone knocks over a metal bed frame. Someone else screams. He can’t tell who’s on which side anymore – the guards? The rebels? The players? The panic spreads fast and wild, as if even the air itself is turning against them.

He stepsides to dodge a rogue glass shard. Then a fist. Then a boot.

I need to get to higher ground. 

His heart drummed heavy in his ears as he raced towards the corner wall, flying up the beds lined in cascading rows. His footsteps hammered against the metal as he ascended. 

Wait. 

Where’s In-ho? And Jung-bae?

He inhaled sharply, ready to holler into the chaos beneath. But then came a hiss. 

Not from a weapon. From the vents.

A pale fog rolls in, low at first, curling around his ankles like steam, then rising, blooming, filling the air with something sweet. Too sweet. Saccharine rot.

Gas.

Someone yells for masks. Someone else coughs, hard. A body slides down the metal bed frame, slumping to the floor with a sickening thud. The sound echoes like it's happening down a tunnel, sounding both too far away and far too close at once.

Gi-hun jerks his head up, scanning the chaos, throat already tightening. The breath leaving his mouth was rapid and fast, coming in and out in desperate gasps. 

“Jung-bae!” His voice cracks. “In-ho – where are you guys?!”

No answer. Just boots thudding across the floor. A flash of red through the darkened fog. The outline of a guard helmet. Then nothing. No slumped body. No collapsed figure. Just...gone.

He stumbles forward, half-blind, hand outstretched. The haze makes it hard to breathe, but even harder to think. It's gotten quieter – most players must have already fallen. Draped against walls, curled onto floors. 

He wants to move faster, but his legs feel wrong, too light and too heavy at once, as if gravity’s pulling in every direction. He takes a step, and finds himself standing at the same bed. Same blood smear…same rail. Has he moved at all? He reaches out and grasps metal – bed frame or guardrail, he doesn’t know. It bends under his touch. No, not bends: shifts. As if recoiling from him. 

Something brushes past him. Or maybe through him. His vision warps, beds leaning sideways like melting scaffolding. The fog pulses, as if alive.

A strange ringing fills his ears. He thinks it’s an alarm, but no — it’s too tonal. Like a bell being struck underwater. Like someone humming. His foot catches. He drops to one knee, metal biting into bone, but barely feels it.

“What–” he whispers, barely audible. “What is going on?”

The fog thickens. The dorms stretch, ripple at the edges like heat waves.

A face flickers in the mist. In-ho? Jung-bae? No – just smoke and memory, blending to fool him. He blinks and the facade clears.

He couldn’t hear anything now. The thundering roar in his head was too loud, too violent. Blood, maybe, or something else, hammering in his ears, deafeningly cymbalic. 

He blinks, and the lights above twinkle like stars. He blinks again, and the walls don’t look like walls anymore. A hallway? A subway platform? No. The dorm. The dorm. He’s still in the dorm…right?

“In—” His voice falters. His knees buckle. 

He was expecting the impact to be hard….but it wasn’t. His body was swallowed by something, something soft, as if sinking into a bed of feathers. His breath fogs in front of him. 

“Sleep well.” 

He doesn’t know if he hears it or imagines it. Maybe it’s someone above him, whispering at the edge of his ear. Maybe it’s inside his head. Either way, it comes too late. Then, everything slips sideways. The world turns inside out. The floor breathes.

And then, there is only black.

Chapter Text

He wakes on cotton sheets too soft to be real.

The air is warm. Still. The ceiling above him is an old, familiar one. Still cracked faintly in the corner from that time he threw a ball too hard indoors. A detail so small, so ordinary , that for a moment it anchors him. A life saver in the storm.

He blinks.

The fog’s gone. No dorm. No sirens. No screaming. Just quiet. Gentle light, pale and gold, poured through the curtains, casting warm rays on Gi-huns face. He sits up slowly, muscles sluggish, as if he’s underwater. His heart still races, echoing the last thing he remembers — gas, footsteps, shouting.

 But then—

"...Home?" he whispers.

It is. Or, at least it looks like it: the bedroom from his childhood, down to the horrid peeling wallpaper and the desk covered in doodles and schoolbooks. But there’s a silence here that doesn’t belong. A quiet, unsettling hush, as if the house itself is holding its breath.

He swings his legs off the bed. His feet sink far too deep into the rug. Not the normal plush. No, this was just wrong .

He turns. 

That wasn’t there before.

The photo on the bedside table isn’t one of his family. It’s a man in a green tracksuit, smiling wide, his face half-blurred, like a corrupted file. A number stamped where his name should be. 

He steps into the hallway. His mother’s slippers are by her bedroom door, like she always would leave them. But they’re too clean…untouched. They cast no shadow.

The clock on the wall ticks. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Then tock. 

Then again: Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tock.

Backwards.

He watches the hands rotate counter-clockwise. The longer hand seems to twitch, then rapidly spin twice, finally resting with a shudder. The second hand halts entirely, then jumps. And jumps again.

He tries the light switch. It doesn't work. The hallway lights remain on, humming faintly, though there's no visible bulb. Just… a glow; an aura.

Downstairs, something smells like kimchi stew: just like mother used to make. He moves toward the kitchen on autopilot, pulled by memory he knew too well. He needs to see — to confirm. He needs to—

Tick.

The chairs in the dining room are familiar, but not quite right. They’re plastic. Red. Like the ones in the game’s cafeteria. 

The bowls on the table are not filled with kimchi stew. They are filled with marbles. He swallows. His throat is dry. The floorboards swallow more of his feet, cementing him where he stands. 

On the wall above the stove hangs a picture frame. It should be a painting of chrysanthemums. 

It isn’t.

It’s a still image of a masked guard, standing motionless. His mask is a perfect circle. The background of the frame shifts, ever so slightly, like a looping video. The guard breathes.

Gi-hun tries to step back. He blinks, and the print is gone. In its place: a child's drawing of a playground. One that he remembers drawing as a kid.

He blinks again. Now it’s a mirror – his own reflection staring back at him, only he’s still sitting at the dormitory table, blood smeared on his neck, dripping down his collar.

Tick.

His pulse spikes. He turns away. The walls feel closer, almost suffocatingly so. There’s a hum now. It’s low and constant, droning through the floorboards and if it was machinery beneath the house.

He takes a step, or tries to. His body strains but his feet won't lift, remaining rooted in the floor. It's as if the floor had grown hands and fingers, holding him down. 

The hum crescendos, deafeningly loud, before coming to an abrupt stop. 

“You’re safe,” a voice says. Gi-hun’s head jerks up. He cannot place where the sound comes from…it’s not from inside the room. Not exactly. It’s above him. Around him. Inside him .

“For now.”

Tick.

A figure stands tall in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, just a few feet away from Gi-hun. Dressed head to toe in black, donning a mask that glints faintly gold in the shifting light. 

The Front Man.

“We’ve been watching your dreams.”

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens. He fights the instinct to flinch.

“This isn’t real,” he says, breath sharp. “I know my house. This—this is some kind of trick. Another game?”

The Front Man tilts his head. “Would that be worse than the truth?”

Gi-hun grits his teeth. “Let me out.”

“We are trying to help you,” the Front Man replies calmly, stepping forward. “The human mind…does strange things under strain. Memories tangle. Time bends. Doors close and open at will. Haven’t you noticed?”

Gi-hun turns. The hallway is gone. Where the hallway should be, there is only another version of the same kitchen. Another table. Another bowl of marbles.

He spins again. A third kitchen. Identical. The same red chairs. The same flickering, breathing photo frame.

He shouts. “Enough!”

The Front Man doesn’t move. “You’re already inside. There’s no need to fight it.”

Gi-hun yanks his feet out of the floor, finally freeing them. He grabs a chair and hurls it at the nearest doorway. It vanishes before it hits the frame, evaporating like it’d never existed. Gi-hun gawks.

“Feel free to explore.” the Front Man asks.

Gi-hun turns, and walks towards the front door. The hum is back, growing louder now. So loud it trembles through the walls, through his bones. He turns the knob with a vengeance, swinging the door open. 

Only, it didn’t open to the outside.

Chapter Text

The door revealed his bedroom – the same hideous wallpaper staring back at him. The same cracked ceiling. The same weathered desk beneath the window, edges nicked from years of use. The same poster from his favorite cartoon clinging to the wall, its edges curling.

“What…?” Gi-hun huffed before stepping through the door, slamming it behind him.

Gi-hun exhaled through clenched teeth, pressing his back to the closed door. His palm scrapes over his face, as if he could rub away the fog building behind his eyes — but the texture of his own skin feels off. Too dry, yet too oily at the same time. Like it isn’t quite his.

The air in the room is still stifling. Each breath feels heavier, each more suffocating, than the last.  

He takes a cautious step forward. Gravel crunches underfoot.

He freezes.

That’s not right.

His breath catches as the room melts — not fading, not blurring — literally melting, like wet paint dripping off a canvas. Then he’s not in his bedroom at all.

He’s standing on a patch of gray dirt.

The Squid Game field stretches wide around him, empty and quiet. The shapes are there: circle, triangle, square, etched into the dust like chalk marks. The sky above is a cloudless, cartoonish blue, stretching too far, too pure. A distant echo of children’s laughter brushes the air.

But there are no children. No guards. No competitors. 

Only silence.

Gi-hun turns—

The Front Man is already there. Standing at the edge of the field, half-covered in shadow despite the bright light.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He waits: calm and composed. Statue-like. 

A breeze picks up — or whatever it is — and with it carries the low thrum of that hum again, like something buried breathing beneath the ground.

The Front Man crosses the field in determined strides. Gi-hun doesn’t run. His legs won’t let him…they feel like lead again. Now just a breath in front of Gi-hun, the Front Man raises a hand. His fingertips graze his shoulder — barely.

Not a push. Not a shove.

Just…a touch. Featherlight.

Gi-hun jerks away, a sharp breath leaving his nose. “Don’t.”

But the man says nothing. He never does.

Gi-hun blinks—

And he’s somewhere else.

The dormitory.

The beds tower around him in perfect sterile rows, all occupied by ghosts. The room, of course, was in pristine condition: beds made, floors polished, walls freshly painted. Though, the overhead lights flicker faintly, casting long, sharp shadows on the gleaming tiles.

However, only one thing remained fetid: the air. It carried a familiar, strong, metallic smell.

He takes one step forward and hears a creak — not from his own feet, but from the upper bunk behind him.

Too slow. Too deliberate. He spins, expecting someone.

No one’s there.

But now there’s a mirror at the end of the room, where no mirror should be. A long one, tall and thin, like a hospital fixture. He walks toward it, cautiously. 

In the reflection: himself. Gaunt. Pale. Blood streaks along his collar, his shirt rumpled from sleep — or maybe death.

But something’s wrong. He's not the only one in the mirror. Someone else is standing. Behind him.

The Front Man.

The two stood close, almost shoulder to shoulder. Gi-hun turns, but the space behind him is empty.  He looks back at the mirror.

The man is still there. And this time, he moves.

A hand reaches up in the reflection and grazes Gi-hun’s jaw. Not hard. Not tender.

Just enough.

Gi-hun gasps. “Why are you doing this?”

“This is yours.”

Another blink– and he’s seated.

The subway platform. Same tile walls, same fluorescent lights. Same train tracks – stretching out to infinity in both directions. Gi-hun’s knuckles are white on the bench’s edge before he realizes he's gripping it. He swallows, throat raw. His eyes scan the empty platform.

He knows the game now: of course he's not alone. 

The Front Man sits beside him. Not looming or threatening, just there – present. His legs were crossed at the ankle, his hands folded causally in his lap, as if he’s merely waiting for the next train.

Gi-hun doesn’t move. Neither does the man.

They sit in silence, the hum of fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead. A train rumbles in the distance – but no train ever passes by. Just the noise of it, thunderous and hollow.

“You came back,” the Front Man says, softly.

His voice is quieter here. It’s almost pleasant. 

Gi-hun swallows hard, his throat dry, eyes still fixed on the Front Man beside him.

“You always do,” the man says again, and this time, Gi-hun hears something behind the words — not mockery, not threat. Something quieter. More final. Undebatable . 

But he doesn’t respond. He can’t.

The hum overhead builds — just a flicker at first, the fluorescent buzz deepening, doubling in pitch, until it becomes something else entirely. A low-frequency tremor in his jaw. A pressure behind his eyes.

He shuts them.

When he opens them again—

White.

Chapter Text

There is only white. Not light. Not space. Just…an empty void. The kind that eliminates dimension, making everything feel too far yet too close at the same time, 

He stands there, unmoving, as the subway bench, the tiled walls, the memory of motion dissolve around him. The silence is deafening.

Then – a weight settled in his palm. A knife. He doesn’t remember picking it up. Doesn’t know how it got here. It’s just there :  heavy, cold, and real. Like the only real thing left.

The Front Man is already waiting.

No sound. No shift. He’s just there , standing ahead in the blank void, as if he’s been there the whole time — or as if he never left.

“Let me out,” Gi-hun rasps, voice faltering slightly at the edges. “I’m warning you.”

Silence. 

Gi-hun's grip tightens on the handle. His breath scrapes in and out, ragged and hoarse. Then—

He lunges.

The Front Man doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there in the endless white, expression unreadable behind the mask. The blade hits him square in the chest—

And bends.

 Gi-hun stumbled in surprise. The tip of the knife curls like rubber, warping in slow motion before his eyes. It doesn’t pierce...it doesn't even scratch. 

Then: a sound. A low, wet tick.

And suddenly—Gi-hun is back where he started. The knife is in his hand again. The white void yawns around him like a stage waiting for its next performance.

The Front Man stands just a few steps away, exactly as before. Gi-hun breathes hard through his nose.

“No.” He charges again. This time, he slashes.

The air parts around the blade — but again, it meets resistance just before it reaches its target. Like pushing through water. The knife wobbles, bending sideways. The fabric of the Front Man’s coat doesn’t even ripple.

Tick. Reset. Again.

Gi-hun screams, hoarse and guttural, and drives the blade towards his neck with everything he has.

Tick. Reset. Again.

He tries everything –  chest, neck, eye, arm, leg – but nothing changes. The rhythm begins to dissolve him. Action, failure, reset. Over and over, until he no longer knows how long he’s been here – minutes? hours? He stabs. He slashes. He screams. But the result never changes. The void seems to pulse with his fury. His knees buckle. He drops to the ground, knife shaking in his hand.

“Please, just…stop.” A breath catches in his throat. Then another.” Why won’t this end?”

He looks down at the knife. At his own hands, unsteady and trembling. Then, slowly, he turns the blade, pressing it to the center of his chest. 

One clean thrust. That’s all it would take. Just one, to end all this madness. He steels himself, letting out a sharp exhale.

He squeezes his eyes, starting a countdown in his head.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One-

A hand catches his wrist. Firm. Warm. Not forcing — just holding. Gi-hun freezes. 

It’s In-ho. Kneeling in front of him. 

Chapter Text

“Why are you shaking?” he asks quietly.

Gi-hun grits his teeth. “Let go.”

“If I do, you’ll hurt yourself.” His voice is calm, frustratingly so. “I wouldn’t want that,” In-ho adds, barely louder than a whisper.

They’re close…too close. Gi-hun can feel the warmth of his breath, the subtle brush of his chest when he exhales. The steady grip on his wrist feels maddeningly gentle. Not an act of defense, but of… protection?

No. That couldn’t be it.

He tries to pull back, but In-ho doesn’t let go. But he doesn’t tighten, either. He just holds him there, quietly, as if waiting for something else to rise to the surface. The air pressed in around them, thick and velvety, as if the room itself had folded inward. The white expanse engulfing them dimmed at the edges until all that remained was In-ho. His voice. His face.

“You...” Gi-hun's grip tightened on the knife, now more so out of confusion rather than anger. “What — why?”

In-ho didn’t answer immediately. He was calm, like this wasn’t abnormal in the slightest. Like this was inevitable. His gloved hand reached out – not for the knife or to disarm. Rather, his fingers ghosted along the hem of Gi-hun’s sleeve. Causal. As if he was straightening it.

“You still dream about me?” In-ho asked. His voice had a weight to it, dangerous and intimate, like the edge of a shared memory they’d never spoken aloud.

Gi-hun’s throat was dry. “You think I—”

“You do.” A faint smile touched In-ho’s lips, not mocking, but knowing. “And not just the nightmares.”

Gi-hun wanted to speak. Demand answers. Scream. Something. But his body wasn’t listening. His heart pounded with something hot and confused, and his fingers twitched around the handle of the knife as if debating who it was really meant for.

“Why are you here?” he asked, quietly.

“What if I said…” In-ho’s drawled, his voice was nearly a whisper now. “What if I said you asked for this?”

Gi-hun’s heart dropped. He didn’t answer…he couldn’t. He was too stunned. 

The space between them collapsed completely. In-ho’s hand rose again, this time to Gi-hun’s face. Just the edge of his glove brushing his cheekbone, his temple. A touch that shouldn’t have felt like anything – synthetic, cold – but somehow it burned.

“You look tired,” In-ho murmured. “You always do, when you're close to the truth.”

Gi-hun swallowed hard. “Why do you think I’m – asking – for this?”

“Not with words, Gi-Hun.” In-ho tilted his head. “But with the way you dream. The way you keep finding me in the dark.”

A long silence hung there, suspended between breath and impulse.

In-ho stepped back just slightly. Just enough to make Gi-hun feel the loss. Gi-hun lowered the knife, just barely. His whole body ached with a tension that had nowhere to go.

“Do you know how long I’ve been standing here, waiting for you to finally look? ” 

Gi-hun didn’t know if he was going to scream or reach out. But he didn’t have to decide: his body did for him. He stumbled forward — arms slack, knees buckling — reaching blindly for the heat that so rudely abandoned him. 

Chapter Text

And he fell. Straight through In-ho’s chest. Straight out of endless white void.

The world tilted. He tumbled end over end, somersaulting through air that tasted like copper and sugar. Wind screamed past his ears, and from somewhere far above — or maybe below — marbles rained from the sky. They pinged against his skin, cold and glassy, leaving tiny stings in their wake.

Then: a lurch. Gravity snapped back.

He hit the floor with a grunt. The tiles were slick beneath his hands, warm and pulsing like skin. The scent of bleach and roses curled in his throat. 

He was in the bathroom now. But, there were mirrors…everywhere. Replacing the lone mirror once occupying the front of the room were dozens of mirrors, lining the walls, stretching floor to ceiling. 

His uniform clung to him, wet with sweat, or water, or blood — he couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was torn at the hem, the threads tickling against his skin. His fingers brushed over a deep stain on his thigh that shimmered dark red under the overhead light.

But, there was no light. No fixtures. No bulbs. The glow came from nowhere and everywhere. Shadows warped every which way, bending at impossible angles.

And ahead of him, the wall — if it was a wall — opened. It didn’t slide or shatter. It simply peeled , curling back like paper in flames, revealing an identical room.

And inside it…was him . Gi-huns breath caught in his throat.

The other version of himself lay sprawled across the slick tile, half-lit by a pulse of red light that seemed to come from inside the walls. His shirt was gone, and his uniform pants sat low on his hips: drawstring untied, waistband gaping open. Sweat slicked his chest. His head lolled to the side, lips slightly parted.

And his hand was between his legs.

Gi-hun stared, frozen, heart pounding in strange, rhythmic stutters. His gaze tracked the slow movement of that hand. The way the fingers teased just inside the waistband. Not yet urgen, but…exploratory. Like the man on the floor was figuring out what his own body craved.

A moan echoed softly in the chamber — his own voice. His own body ached suddenly, hard and pulsing against the confines of his pants. 

His reflection — the other Gi-hun — didn’t seem to notice him watching. Just kept touching himself, slow and steady, fingers sliding under the fabric, wrist moving in lazy, familiar rhythm. His stomach muscles flexed tight every time his hand dragged up the shaft and twisted just under the head.  His thighs were parted obscenely, knees bent wide, back arched high enough to leave only his shoulders and heels pressed to the tile.

Gi-hun’s mouth went dry. He should turn away. Should scream. Should have run.

But his own hips were rocking now — small, unconscious motions against the tile. His breath came shallow. Heat pooled in his belly. His gaze locked to the image of himself gasping, rutting into his own hand, sweat glistening on his collarbones.

Another moan spilled out, this one sharper. The reflection arched, head tipping back, throat exposed. His hand moved faster now. No shame or hesitation. Just need. Pure, obscene hunger.

Gi-hun pressed closer to the barrier, a heat coiling low in his belly. His palm met the glass — it wasn’t cold, as it should have been, but disturbingly warm, like the slick underside of flesh. The surface yielded slightly beneath his touch, breathing under him, exhaling heat and steam in rhythm with his pulse. His breath fogged it instantly, curling into soft swirls that smeared as his forehead came to rest against it.

Gi-hun stood, breathing hot and heavy against the glass, dizzy with the thick perfume of roses and antiseptic. Somewhere behind him — In-ho watched.

He didn’t need to turn to know.

The presence behind him poured across the room like a shadow spilling over his spine. It was a weight in the air, pressing in at the corners of his awareness, heavy as hands that hadn’t yet touched him. It crawled into the base of his skull, seeped down the ridges of his spine, and coiled in the pit of his gut.

The heat of it was unbearable. He was being seen. Observed. Peeled open from the inside.

Gi-hun’s cock twitched in its restraints. Shame bloomed fast and brutal in his chest, but it did hardly anything to slow him. He reached low beneath his waistband, finger teasing the pulsing length. His fingers tightened…his hips bucked. He let out a sound he didn’t recognize, something high and aching, torn from the throat. Like he was begging. Like he wanted to be caught.

The other him was still there, panting, writhing in sync. Hips flying off the tile in short, frantic bursts. His mouth hung open — lips puffy and damp, curled  around a soundless moan. 

Gi-hun’s body was moving on its own. His hand dragged faster, rougher, palm slick with precum. The friction sent white-hot jolts through his thighs. His knees buckled once — barely caught himself on the mirror, forehead still pressed to the steaming glass. He gasped, the moan muffled against the heat of the wall.

Behind him, something shifted.

Cloth — the rustle of a coat. The faint creak of leather bending as someone leaned in. A sound like breath just beside his ear, but it wasn’t his own. But Gi-hun didn’t care. The room swam. The red light deepened. The mirror pulsed under his palm like a second heart. Still, In-ho didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His hips jerked forward, chasing something just out of reach. His hand tightened. Pleasure clawed up his spine like fire. Then, he saw himself come — sudden, hot, messy — and that did it. That final image.

The orgasm hit like a freight train.

He doubled over, gasping, hand still working as he spilled over his fingers and stomach. The sound he made was raw and unrestrained. His back arched, legs shaking as his body helplessly throbbed. The world around him pulsed. And then the image blinked out.

Gone.

Only the blood-warm light remained. Only the silence. Only the aftershocks pulsing through his limbs.

He stayed there, trembling, breath fogging the mirror again, his palm sticky, other hand still flattened against the glass like it might hold him upright. His knees finally dropped. He slumped to the tile, heart still racing, the presence behind him — In-ho — still and waiting.

Watching.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun lay still for a long time, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow gasps. The dream was gone — or maybe he was still in it. He couldn’t be sure.

His back pressed to the slick tile, no longer pulsing, but it still seemed to breathe beneath him. A cold draft ghosted across his skin, and only when goosebumps prickled at his skin did he realize he was still mostly undressed — his torn game uniform clinging to him in places, bunched and wet in others. Sweat, or something thicker. He didn't look.

His limbs felt like they didn’t belong to him. His hands were trembling. His thighs ached. There were bruises he didn’t remember getting. Shame settled in his throat like a swallowed stone.

He sat up. And that’s when he saw him.

The Front Man. 

Not stepping through a door, not appearing in the usual grandiose, theatrical way — just already there, as if he'd always been standing in the far corner, watching.

Gi-hun’s breath caught in his throat.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out dry. “What is this?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else. “What did you do to me?”

The Front Man didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Gi-hun wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away clean, but his skin felt wrong. He could still feel the echoes of touch along his spine, between his legs. Still feel that pressure. That…pleasure. He hated it. Hated how it lingered.

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily.

“You were in my dream,” he said. “You did something to me.”

Still, silence. The mask stared back at him — unreadable, inhuman. And yet, there was heat in the air. Not anger, no. Something far more dangerous.

“You’ve been watching me. I know that now,” Gi-hun said. “Even when I sleep. Especially then.”

At last, the Front Man spoke.

“We wanted to understand you,” he said softly. “What you’d do when you weren’t awake.”

“We?” Gi-hun’s voice rose. “Who the hell is we ? And why me ?” He took a determined step forward. His hands curled into firm fists at his sides, even though his knees betrayed him.

“Is this about the games? Is this part of it? Some…personal trial? Or are you just—” He stopped himself, jaw tight.

The Front Man tilted his head, ever so slightly. That movement again — just off enough to be wrong. Mechanical. Something inhuman.  

“You want something,” Gi-hun said. The words slipped out before he could stop them. “This isn’t about data or understanding. This is— this is something personal .”

He expected denial, deflection. He got neither. 

The Front Man stepped forward — slow, measured — until he was only a breath away. Gi-hun could see his own reflection in the dark visor of the mask: pale and ragged, eyes too wide.

He spoke again, low and steady.

“There are parts of you,” he said, “even you haven’t met yet.”

Gi-hun shuddered. A long silence fell between them. The kind that swallows all the air from a room.

“What does that mean?” Gi-hun whispered, voice rough.

The Front Man said nothing. Just turned, calmly, moving toward the far end of the room — and where there should’ve been a wall, a door had opened. Heavy metal. Backlit with a blinding white.

He didn’t look back. He walked through it, vanishing without a sound.

Gi-hun didn’t move.

His legs ached. His body pulsed both with old sensations and new fear. The question still echoed in his skull like a bell:

Why me?

And beneath that — a deeper, more dangerous thought.

What else does he want?

Chapter Text

It begins again.

Not with footsteps, not with a voice — just the weight of him. Gi-hun feels it before he sees it. A shadow over his ribs, a warmth pressed into his hips. His back sinks into grass, wet and clinging to his skin. But, the ground is distant, like he’s hovering above it and trapped inside it at the same time.

The Red Light, Green Light field yawns around him. Empty. Silent. But the sky is gone — there’s no sun or clouds, no doll, no horizon — just the heavy pulse of red flood lights buzzing overhead.

When Gi-hun drags his gaze upward, he’s there . In-ho. Kneeling above him, legs encaging his hips, gloved hands steadying Gi-hun’s shoulders as though he’s afraid he might slip away. 

His hair was mussed, jaw tense, eyes dark with some sharp, and some other unreadable thing. His chest rises and falls,  gasping for air. 

Gi-hun’s first breath comes out shaky. “Why–”

In-ho leans in before he can finish. "You're still here," he murmurs, the words ghosting hot against Gi-hun’s cheek. His gloves trail slowly down Gi-hun’s chest, though not impatient. Exploring…gliding over fabric, pausing just to feel the thump of his heartbeat through thin cotton. 

“You didn’t wake up,” In-ho says. His voice is soft but weighted, like he knows exactly what that means.

Gi-hun’s fingers twitch, hovering near In-ho’s wrists like he should push him off, like he should resist. But there’s nothing solid to hold onto. The moment feels heavy. Real. More real than it should. His pulse stutters under In-ho’s palm.

“You keep—” Gi-hun tries again. His throat feels too dry. “You keep doing this. Why ?”

In-ho’s thumb brushes up, slowly, until it presses into Gi-hun’s parted lips.

" Don't talk ."

It’s not a command. It’s an invitation.

Gi-hun’s tongue darts out, tasting the cool and bitter flavor of leather. His breath hitches at the heat that pools low in his belly, shame slicing through him.

In-ho’s other hand begins unfastening his jacket, each button sliding free with a patience that borders on cruel. His mouth drops to Gi-hun’s throat, warm and barely there, a series of teasing kisses that never linger long enough.

“You can stop me, you know,” In-ho whispers between kisses, the edge of a challenge buried in his voice. “ If you really wanted to .”

Gi-hun should. He knows he should. But his hands betray him — they fist into In-ho’s jacket instead, pulling him closer.

“You want something real,” In-ho breathes against his skin, dragging his tongue along the curve of Gi-hun’s neck before grazing him with teeth.

Gi-hun jerks beneath him, his breath stuttering out, a harsh gasp ripping from his throat.

“That’s why you keep coming back here.”

He mouths at Gi-hun’s collarbone, slow and deliberate, his hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, gliding his fingertips over his bare skin. The contact wrings something needy, something raw from Gi-hun — a sound low and desperate that he can’t quite choke down in time.

His hips lift, seeking more friction, chasing something he doesn’t want to name.

“You don’t even know why you’re letting me do this,” In-ho murmurs, dragging his nails lightly down Gi-hun’s ribs.

Gi-hun doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know .

All he knows is that the heat blooming in his gut is dizzying, that his body feels so anchored to the weight pinning him down, that he’s clinging to the brush of teeth and the scrape of knuckles like they’re the only solid things in this world.

In-ho’s hand grazes over the bulge in his pants, palming him through the fabric in slow, deliberate strokes. Gi-hun groans, tilting his hips into the pressure.

“That’s it,” In-ho whispers, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “Just feel me.”

His fingers work the button open with ease. His def fingers drag the zipper down just slow enough to make Gi-hun tremble. The cool air brushes his skin, followed by the heat of In-ho’s palm wrapping around him, skin-on-skin now, dragging him out and stroking him — a pace that was slow, tight, and unforgiving.

Gi-hun's head lolls back into the grass, his breath shattering into broken, desperate sounds. His hips roll up into the rhythm, chasing the heat. 

Needing him .

“Why…” Gi-hun pants, his voice cracking under the weight of it, “…why you ?”

The world fractures. The field blinks out. 

Rain . Loud, cold, slick, and endless.

The dorm walls rise around them, gray and rusted, water dripping from the beams overhead. Gi-hun’s back slams into the metal, In-ho pressing him there, wet hair clinging to his forehead, his breathing ragged against Gi-hun’s jaw.

He fists Gi-hun’s cock again, pumping harder now, thumb swiping over the swollen head with devastating precision. Gi-hun’s knees nearly buckle.

In-ho bites at his throat, hard enough to bruise. His other hand pins Gi-hun’s wrists to the wall.

“You need this,” In-ho says, dragging his teeth down to Gi-hun’s collarbone. “Don’t lie to me.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, but the words come out as a wrecked, “I— fuck —I need—”

Another fracture.

Then gold. Perfume. Velvet, soft and plush against his skin. The burn of expensive liquor lingers in the air. Gi-hun’s chest was flushed and slick, his shirt long since removed. His belt was unfastened, pants bunched and waiting at his knees. And In-ho, knelt between his thighs, hands bare and confident.

One hand strokes him, slow and teasing now, coaxing sounds from Gi-hun’s throat that should humiliate him. His hips stutter into the rhythm, his thighs trembling with every pass of In-ho’s palm.

Gi-hun’s gaze flickers sideways—to the tall gold mirror.

The Front Man stands in it, still and silent. Watching.

His breath hitches, panic flaring, but In-ho doesn’t stop. If anything, he squeezes tighter, milking every pulse of pleasure from Gi-hun’s leaky and throbbing cock.

“You hate him,” In-ho says, dragging his tongue torturously slow along the inside of Gi-hun’s thigh. His tone is low and dangerous. “So why do you let me touch you like this?”

Gi-hun’s head falls back, thudding against the velvet cushion. He doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Because he doesn’t know if he’s with In-ho or if he’s with him .

And it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t fucking matter because his body is burning, his hips have been chasing the edge for far too long, his hands are buried in dark hair, keeping him there, begging for more.

The world flickers — field, dorm, lounge — each thrust, each stroke shoving him closer to the edge. 

He comes with a desperate cry, his whole body locking tight, shaking apart under In-ho’s hands. But In-ho doesn’t stop. He coaxes him through it, strokes him until it borders on too much, until Gi-hun is gasping, trembling, clinging to the wrists holding him like a man drowning.

Finally, In-ho relents. He leans over Gi-hun, breath warm, hand cupping his face with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist here.

“You don’t trust me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along Gi-hun’s cheekbone.

Gi-hun’s vision swims, heart still racing.

“…But your dreams do.”

Chapter Text

Gi-hun doesn't know when it shifts again. The world peels open around him—not the field, not the dorm. No. This time, it's the marble halls of the VIP suite. Private. Isolated. Bitter.

He’s already on his knees. Fully naked now and yet again aching. His breathing is ragged in his chest like he’s been dragged here mid-moment. His palms press into cool marble, thighs trembling from exertion. His cock still half-hard, spent but stirring again under the weight of the gaze above him.

Boots click on the polished floor, circling him.

The Front Man. But the mask is gone. It’s In-ho. Or maybe it's both of them . The lines keep bleeding together. The heavy gloves, the dark, tailored coat — he’s dressed like the Front Man but moves like In-ho. Gi-hun’s skin burns under his stare. 

“You're learning not to run,” the man says, voice smooth and steady now, like he’s pleased. His gloved fingers skim Gi-hun’s jaw, tilting his face up, making him look .

Gi-hun swallows hard. His pulse jackhammers. Shame curls in his stomach, but the weight of that hand, the chilled press of the leather—it anchors him.

“There is no ‘me’ here. Only what you want me to be. What you need me to be.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches. His throat works to form words, but nothing comes out. Because deep down, he believes it. Gi-hun can't think of anything that he needs more of right now. The Front Man drags his thumb along Gi-hun’s lower lip, slow, deliberate, until Gi-hun’s tongue flicks out, chasing the touch.

“Good,” the man purrs. His thumb pushes between Gi-hun’s lips, and Gi-hun sucks him in without thinking, mouth closing tight, tongue swirling, wet and eager.

The man hums in approval. “You need this. You need me.”

Gi-hun should pull back. But his body thrums with need, cock pulsing and dripping against his thigh. His own shame curls hot and sharp inside him, but he’s panting around the gloved thumb now, his body betraying him completely.

“Say it,” the man orders, pushing deeper until Gi-hun gags around the intrusion. “Say what you need.”

Gi-hun’s hips twitch, rutting against nothing.

“Please,” he chokes out when the thumb finally drags free, a line of spit connecting them. “ Please —I need—I need you to touch me.”

The man steps closer, unfastening his belt, the click of metal making Gi-hun flinch. “You can do better than that.”

Gi-hun’s stomach knots, a desperate sound clawing its way up his throat.

“Touch me— fuck , I need you to fuck me.”

A pause. Then the man sinks his hand into Gi-hun’s hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back just enough to make his throat strain.

“That’s more like it.”

His other hand drifts lower, lazy, slow, until his cock brushes Gi-hun’s lips. Gi-hun doesn’t hesitate—he wraps his lips around him, taking him deep, letting his throat constrict around the intrusion as his eyes flutter shut.

It burns. It aches. It feels too much and not enough all at once. The man’s hips rock forward, controlled but relentless, using Gi-hun’s mouth like he owns it.

And maybe he does.

Gi-hun drools around him, spit dripping down his chin, moaning around the thick weight filling his throat. His own cock throbs, tantalized, slick with precome. He can’t remember when he started grinding down against the marble, desperate for friction, chasing the edge like a starving man. The man pulls back abruptly, and Gi-hun gasps, spit connecting his swollen lips to the leaking tip hovering just inches from his face.

“Turn around.”

Gi-hun obeys. There’s no thought…just need .

He braces his forearms against the floor, spreading his thighs, ass in the air, heart hammering so hard he can barely breathe. A gloved hand smooths over his back, the touch almost affectionate —until the man grips his hips and slams into him in one sharp, brutal thrust.

Gi-hun’s cry echoes off the marble.

The stretch burns, raw and overwhelming, but he’s already pushing back, already begging for more, desperate to be filled, to be owned , to feel something that grounds him to this impossible place.

The man fucks him hard—deep, punishing strokes that drag sweet, aching pleasure from Gi-hun’s wrecked body. His moans tumble out unfiltered, needy, wanton.

“You hate me,” the man grits out, pounding into him with bruising force. “You hate me—and you still let me ruin you like this.”

Gi-hun’s fingers curl, nails scraping the marble.

“I—” His breath shatters. “I don’t know—fuck—I don’t know why—”

But he does . He knows.

It’s because this feels real .

The thick weight inside him, the bruising grip on his hips, the way the man leans over him now to bite at his neck, sucking a vicious mark into his skin—it all feels so devastatingly real .

The man fists Gi-hun’s cock, jerking him in time with his thrusts, dragging him closer to the brink with every punishing stroke.

“You want to come on my cock,” the man snarls against his ear, breath hot and ragged. “You need it.”

Gi-hun’s thighs shake, his body arching, chasing it, panting, desperate. “Please—please—I—”

His orgasm rips through him like a violent snap, his come painting the marble in thick, messy streaks as his entire body convulses under the force of it.

Chapter Text

The man doesn’t stop.

He fucks Gi-hun through it, brutal and unrelenting until his own climax hits, buried deep, cock twitching inside Gi-hun’s overstimulated body.

They collapse together, the weight of the man pressing Gi-hun into the cold floor, both of them panting, trembling, wrecked.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing. Then, Gi-huns body feels weightless. As if it's floating — no, falling. 

His body convulses yet again as the wind brushes all the sensitive parts of him. Then, he lands with a thud, rushing the air from his lungs. 

He was back in the dormitory. In his bed — no red, pulsing sirens. No melting walls. No long mirrors, stretching from edge to edge. No backwards clock ticking in its crooked rhythm. Tock. Tick.

And, perhaps most importantly, no Front Man.

At least, not that he could see. But, the Front Man was always watching. Always observing.

The sheets beneath him clung to his skin, clammy and fever-warm, sticking to the curve of his back. His thighs ached. His skin buzzed, oversensitive, as if static still crackled just beneath the surface. Every shallow breath snagged on the ghost of sensation still echoing in his muscles.

He felt…used. Peeled open. Like his body wasn’t fully his. Like something had reached inside him and rearranged the seams.

Even more so in the silence, he felt it. The weight of eyes. The unbearable pressure of being seen. The Front Man was gone — but not really. The air still pulsed faintly with his presence. A watching that didn’t need walls, or doors, or distance.

He was still here. He was always here. Inside Gi-hun’s head, under his skin, between each shuddering breath. He had been cataloged, memorized, dragged bare into the open. Even now, the tremble in his thighs, the pulse still thudding low in his belly — it all felt like data . Like notes being written somewhere far away.

Even sleep wasn’t safe. Especially sleep. His hand curled tightly in the sheets, knuckles white, nails biting into the fabric. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to breathe. But his body wouldn’t let go of it. The heat…the ache. The feeling of being touched even when no one was there.

Had he asked for this?

The thought haunted him. Twisted in his gut.

A shadow crossed his peripheral. Footsteps. The faint clink of something metallic, a tray,  maybe just boots sounding on the bedposts. His pulse jumped—until a familiar voice cut through the static.

“Wow,” In-ho said, tone light, almost teasing. “That gas was something else.” He paused, eyes raking Gi-huns disgruntled state. “You must’ve had one hell of a dream. You sleep well?”

Gi-hun jolted, his breath catching in his throat. He turned, sluggish, like his body still wasn’t fully responsive .

In-ho stood at the foot of the bunk, head tilted, hands tucked casually into his pockets as if nothing had happened. As if the thought of him wasn’t just inside Gi-hun’s head. As if he hadn’t just dragged him through that.

Gi-hun stared at him, unable to speak. His breath came shallow. His body still flushed, oversensitive like he hadn’t really left. Like the air itself was too close—sticking to him, clinging to him. Like the gas hadn’t fully cleared. He gripped the edge of the bed to steady himself, but even the metal felt wrong under his palms. Cold in the way the Front Man’s gloves had been cold.

In-ho just smiled faintly, unreadable. “You look exhausted.”

Gi-hun didn’t dare turn his head. He didn’t dare look up. Because if he did—if he looked too closely—he wasn’t sure who he’d find staring back.