Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Seong Gihun heard was the sound of his own heartbeat.

Slow at first, echoing like distant footsteps down a hallway. Then faster. Louder. Like thunder rolling in from the edge of a storm he couldn’t yet see but felt it in his bones.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Then came the sharp, unrelenting beeping of a heart monitor. Mechanical. Cold. Alive. That single realization hit him like a punch straight to the chest.

He was alive.

And yet, every part of him recoiled from the idea. His body tensed up as if rejecting the word, as if the notion itself was too cruel to be true. His lungs ached. His skin prickled with cold sweat. He wanted to scream but his voice was stuck somewhere beneath the weight of memory.

Because being alive wasn’t supposed to be the ending.

His mind clawed backward, frantically scrambling to find the last thing it remembered before everything had unraveled.

Then, antiseptic. The sterile smell flooded his senses, and something inside him snapped. His eyes flew open, wide and wild. The ceiling above him was white and the walls were unfamiliar. The hum of fluorescent lights crawled under his skin.

He sat up too fast. Pain shot through his ribs, sharp and immediate. Gihun’s arms thrashed instinctively, fists clenched, elbows knocking against the side rails of the hospital bed. He was trying to run. Or fight. Or claw his way out.

He didn’t know which. Maybe all three.

The electrodes attached to his arms and chest tightened, tugging like restraints. The adhesive stung against his sweat-slick skin, and the monitors shrieked in protest, the chaotic beeps and alerts that only fed his panic.

He was caged. Again.

His breath came in rapid, uneven gasps, each one catching at the bottom of his throat like broken glass. His chest heaved, ribs struggling to expand, like his lungs had forgotten how to fill. His heart slammed against his sternum like it was trying to break free. His eyes darted from corner to corner, too fast to register what he was seeing. The IV pole, the chart, and the closed door. None of it mattered.

Where the hell was he?

The lighting. The sounds. The smell of disinfectant and plastic and sterile sheets.

Was he back there?

Was this another room?

Another punishment?

A cold sweat broke over his back, seeping into the gown he hadn’t realized he was wearing. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Gihun… hey, hey, woah, calm down—”

The voice pierced through the panic. Not sharp. Not cruel. Familiar.

Real.

His head whipped toward the sound so fast his vision swam.

She stood by his bedside, her expression a delicate mix of concern and calm. Short black hair brushed her jaw, the same soft fringe partially veiling her eyes. Light freckles dusted her cheeks like constellations.

Saebyeok.

His throat closed up. He didn’t trust his own voice. Didn’t trust that she wasn’t some mirage conjured by a mind that had finally broken.

Because she had died.

He remembered every detail. The cold, damp floor of the dormitory. The awful, wet gurgle in her throat. The blood that spilled from her neck, too fast, too much. He had held her in his arms, felt the warmth drain from her skin, screamed her name until his voice broke, until his body gave out beneath the weight of loss.

He grieved her.

Buried her in the back of his mind, because remembering meant breaking apart again.

Yet she was here, arm’s length away. The only mark on her neck was the one she got from being a pickpocket.

“Saebyeok-ah…?” Gihun choked out, almost afraid saying her name would make her vanish.

She blinked. Her brows furrowed faintly, surprised at how fragile he sounded, “Uh… yeah? Last time I checked.”

But her small, gentle, and crooked smile was so achingly human it hurt. Gihun had never seen her smile like that. Not when she was alive, fighting for her and her brother’s future in those horrible Games. He stared at her, his breath caught halfway in his throat. His hand moved on its own, trembling as it reached forward, like he was reaching across a chasm between the dead and the living.

And she let him.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She let him touch her jacket, worn and soft beneath his fingers. He gripped onto it, as if trying to process it all at that moment.

Without warning, his body moved. Instinct overriding thought, heart leaping ahead of reason.

One moment he was staring at her like a man glimpsing a ghost. The next, his arms were around her, pulling her in with a force that bordered on frantic. He clung to her as though she were the only thing anchoring him to reality, as if loosening his grip by even an inch might cause her to dissolve like smoke between his fingers.

His face buried itself in the crook of her neck, drawn by some aching need to feel that she was real. Warm. Solid. Alive.

Saebyeok’s body yielded gently to his, arms folding around his back in quiet understanding. No questions. No resistance. There was only the steady rise and fall of her breath and the hand that lifted to rub slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.

Gihun squeezed his eyes shut. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven waves, like his lungs were still trying to catch up to the impossible. His throat tightened around something wordless. Something sharp.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t know what this was.

She had died.

He had held her body, cold and bleeding, cradled it like it would make any difference. He had felt her slipping away with every second. He had screamed her name until his voice cracked and there was nothing left but silence and blood.

And yet, here she was. Breathing. Standing. Her heart thrummed a steady rhythm against his own, quiet but undeniable.

Was this death? Was this what it felt like? Had he finally crossed some invisible threshold and stumbled into a version of the afterlife shaped by longing?

The memories before waking were cloudy. Fragments of violence and desperation, scattered like broken glass. He remembered staring at the pitch black one way glass, saying something that had lived in his chest too long.

We’re not horses. We are humans. Humans are...  That’s what he had said. That’s the last thing he remembered. He never explained what humans are, what it means to be more than a pawn in someone else's spectacle. The darkness had taken him before the words could fall.

So maybe he had died.

And if this was the afterlife, then it was her heartbeat that proved it. The gentle rhythm against his chest. The faint scent of cheap shampoo in her hair. The warmth of her fingers brushing softly at his back, like she already knew he was falling apart and was holding him together piece by piece.

Saebyeok didn’t ask questions. She stayed there, letting him hold on as long as he needed.

She was here.

When he pulled back, his hands were still resting on her shoulders. Then something strange caught his eye. The scar on the back of his left hand…

Gone.

The pale, jagged reminder of the knife Sangwoo had driven through his flesh during that final, brutal fight was nowhere to be seen. Smooth skin. Untouched.

His stomach twisted.

“What… happened?” Gihun’s voice cracked as the question fell from his lips, barely more than a breath.

Saebyeok tilted her head slightly, studying him with quiet curiosity. Her expression softened as she reached out and gently swept a damp strand of hair from his forehead, her fingers light against his clammy skin.

“They’re not sure,” Her tone is somewhere between reassurance and exasperation. “Doctors think it might’ve been exhaustion. Maybe dehydration. You kind of… collapsed.”

The look she gave him was unexpected. It was half amused, half scolding, like a friend mildly annoyed but still concerned. It threw him off. This version of Saebyeok… smiled. Not wide, not dramatic, but enough to crease the corners of her eyes, to give her face a softness he didn’t remember her ever letting anyone see.

The Saebyeok he knew had been guarded, all sharp edges and narrow eyes, as if smiling was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Does she not remember? he thought, watching her in disbelief. Does she not remember what happened to her?

A flicker of something twisted deep in his chest. Grief, relief, confusion, they tangled in his ribs, impossible to separate. His gaze lingered on her face like it might vanish the moment he looked away.

Is this what the afterlife looks like?

Is this my reward? A place where the dead are returned, and no one carries the scars of what came before?

It felt too gentle. Too peaceful. Too unreal.

More importantly, he had no idea what she was talking about. Dehydration? Exhaustion? The pain pulsing at his temple throbbed harder as he tried to summon clarity, trying to make sense of a world that felt both familiar and foreign.

The door creaked open softly, and Gihun flinched at the sound. He braced himself without meaning to, muscles tight, breath caught in his throat. Instead of some faceless enforcer in a pink mask, a man in a white coat stepped in. He was calm, professional, and utterly human.

His presence didn’t invoke fear, but it struck Gihun like a slap to the face all the same.

Because he knew that face.

The man’s features were unmistakable, the slightly downturned eyes, the sharp jaw, the precise way his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His expression was focused, serene, like this was just another patient check-in. However, Gihun had seen him differently before.

Suspended.

Limp.

Dripping blood in the middle of a sickly pink corridor, his body a brutal reminder of what happened to those who broke the sacred “fairness” of the Games. And yet… here he was alive and unscarred, wearing a name badge instead of a numbered jumpsuit. There was no fear in his eyes nor sign of the carnage he once endured.

“Hello, Seong Gihun-ssi,” The man said gently. “My name is Byeonggi. I’m your primary care provider.”

Gihun’s jaw twitched, but no words came.

He wasn’t breathing.

This couldn’t be real.

This has to be the afterlife, he thought, not knowing if the realization comforted or terrified him. There’s no other way any of this makes sense.

Saebyeok sat quietly in the corner of the room with her posture relaxed. She gave Gihun a small, encouraging nod as Byeonggi stepped closer, tablet in hand. Gihun stared, his lips parting slightly but no words came out. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust himself.

Byeonggi began asking questions, standard ones, really. Simple. It was meant to assess coherence.

“Do you remember your full name?”

“...Seong Gihun.” He answered after a long pause. His voice sounded hoarse, like it had been buried under layers of dust.

“Birthday?”

“... October 31st, 1974.” He muttered.

“Any family?”

Gihun blinked, “A daughter, Gayeong. And… ex-wife Eunji?”

Byeonggi nodded, tapping notes onto the screen, “Good. Do you know what year it is?”

Gihun hesitated. He glanced toward Saebyeok as if the answer might be written on her face, but she gave no clues. His fingers twitched against the blanket, “...I don’t know.”

Byeonggi looked up and nodded, “It’s okay. You’re under no pressure.”

More questions followed, and each one chipped away at Gihun’s composure. He could recall vague facts about himself that felt more like lines memorized from a role he once played than truths he lived.

After several minutes, Byeonggi let out a quiet and thoughtful hum. He tapped something onto his screen while Saebyeok had remained silent in her chair, her arms folded tight across her chest.

“It may be retrograde amnesia,” Byeonggi glanced toward her, tucking the tablet under his arm. “It’s possible the trauma has disrupted his access to long-term memory. The details he does remember appear fragmented.”

Saebyeok’s brow furrowed, her skepticism immediate.

“Amnesia?” She echoed. “From collapsing. Is that even possible?”

Byeonggi lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug, “It’s uncommon, but not impossible. Especially if there’s existing psychological stress at play. The brain has strange ways of protecting itself. Repression, displacement, memory gaps…”

He trailed off, but the implication lingered in the room.

Gihun stared at the blanket pooled in his lap, jaw tight, hands curled into the fabric.

Amnesia.

It was too perfect. Clean. Scientific. A digestible reason for the confusion swirling around him. A label they could all nod at and accept. A way to explain why he didn’t know this version of his life.

Except... he did know.

Just not the version they thought.

He didn’t have amnesia. He hadn’t forgotten.

He remembered everything.

The cold sting of betrayal. Blood under his fingernails. The feeling of stepping over bodies. Friends, strangers, all alike in death. He remembered Saebyeok’s final breath. Sangwoo’s haunted eyes. Youngil’s voice after the mask fell. The rage. The blood trailing down his head.

And now, he was here. Alive and awake in a version of reality that felt too soft, too bright, too cruel in its unfamiliar kindness. People who weren’t supposed to be alive were smiling and safe. On top of it all, none of it made sense. None of it fit.

For a split moment, Gihun wished that he actually had amnesia, to forget the horror of the Games.

Yet they don’t know.

They have no idea Gihun did retain his memory.

But from a reality where they were all dead.

Gihun was discharged from the hospital that same afternoon, dressed in a borrowed hoodie and sweatpants that didn’t feel like his. When he had changed, he was able to get a good look at himself in the mirror.

After changing, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

He froze.

Long, unkempt hair curled just over his ears. A faint stubble dusted his chin, but it was neat. Trimmed, even. His skin looked clearer, fuller. The lines he remembered carving across his face from stress and age were softer now, smoothed out by something foreign: health.

He looked like someone who was… okay . Someone who was sleeping, eating, surviving without chaos clawing at his heels. It unsettled him because it wasn’t the face of the man who had walked through blood and betrayal. It wasn’t the man who had held dying bodies in his arms or dragged himself home with blood on his hands.

It was a stranger’s face wearing his eyes.

And he hated how easy it was to recognize it as his own.

When he stepped outside, the late afternoon light stung his eyes.

He didn’t go home.

Because the truth was, he had no idea where home even was.

The idea gnawed at him as the crisp air bit his skin. The streets were familiar in a broad, blurred way, like walking through a dream set in a city he used to know.

It felt unsettling, though.

Saebyeok had let him take his time, waiting with her arms folded, a knit scarf wrapped tight around her neck. She didn’t say much at first, offering him a coffee, and when he shook his head, they started walking in silence.

“We’re going to meet with the others for dinner.” She was typing something into her phone, perhaps a text. Gihun’s eyes were darting around, taking in the world around him.

He spoke slowly, “The others…?”

Saebyeok blinked, then she explained as they waited at a crosswalk, “Right, you probably don’t remember. You’ll meet some of them, but you moved in with Sangwoo and Jungbae a few years ago. The three of you have this sort of… weird roommate thing going on.”

The names dropped like stones in his stomach.

Sangwoo. Jungbae.

One had killed himself at Gihun’s feet. The other had died with a bullet in his chest, fired by the man Gihun still saw in his nightmares. Hearing that they were alive , let alone living together with him , made his skin crawl with dissonance.

Saebyeok didn’t seem to notice the way he flinched, too busy watching the crosswalk light change.

“Apparently, Inho was supposed to live with you guys too,” She said as they began to cross. “But in the end, he didn’t move in.”

The name hit him like a whisper through a locked door.

Inho.

Gihun blinked, and for a moment the name felt sharp yet elusive. His mind didn’t register it. He shook his head, trying to scatter the sensation. Whoever that was, he wasn’t ready to ask.

Not now. Not with Sangwoo and Jungbae’s names still heavy in his chest, not while his brain screamed that none of this should exist.

As they stepped off the curb, Gihun glanced up.

A massive LED screen on the side of a sleek glass building flickered with stock tickers and news blurbs. Then, the date appeared in bold white text. November 6th, 2024.

His breath hitched.

The same.

It was the exact same date as the world he came from. Down to the hour, if he had to guess.

He couldn’t help but think that if he was here in the afterlife, what else would have changed? What other ghosts were walking around with the same familiar names and gentle smiles?

They arrived at a cozy BBQ place tucked just far enough from the main road that it felt like a secret. Warm yellow lights glowed through fogged-up windows, and the smoky, savory scent of grilled meat and charcoal wrapped around Gihun.

He hadn’t even seen the restaurant yet, but the smell clung to the air like an invitation.

Saebyeok walked slightly ahead, glancing back and nodded approvingly, “This place is good. Not too expensive, and they don’t skimp on the side dishes.”

Gihun managed a nod, though his chest was tightening with each step. As they walked in, the scent deepened, mingling with laughter and the sizzle of meat. Saebyeok scanned the room, and her face lit up when she spotted their friends tucked into a corner booth near a wide metal grill.

“There.” She said, gesturing.

Gihun followed her gaze…

And his breath caught.

There they were.

Sangwoo, Jungbae, Jiyeong, and Ali. All clustered around the table, drinks in hand, plates piled high. Jiyeong was mid-laugh, Ali clapped Sangwoo on the back, and Jungbae was already reaching to flip something sizzling on the grill.

Alive.

Together. His heart thudded once, painfully.

They weren’t supposed to be here.

Not like this.

He couldn’t move, his throat going dry as he watched his friends chattering at the grill, interacting with each other. Having fun.

Saebyeok guided him forward. Gihun barely took a step, then another, legs heavy as iron. It was like he was walking through wet cement. Even if she noticed it, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, Saebyeok walked toward them easily, greeting everyone with a casual wave and grin.

“Look who I brought with me.” She announced.

They turned toward him in unison, faces brightening with recognition and relief.

“Gihun!”

“You’re out!”

“Are you okay?”

“Man, you scared us!”

Smiles. Warmth. Voices filled with genuine concern. Gihun tried to mirror their expressions, to swallow the panic rising in his throat like bile and pretend this moment wasn’t unraveling him from the inside out.

As they slid over to make room for him at the table, Jiyeong clinked a glass and said, “It’s a little welcome-back dinner. We figured you’d want something good after hospital food.”

“Where’s Minyeo and Deoksu?” Saebyeok asked casually as she slipped effortlessly into the rhythm of the table, her chopsticks already reaching for a sizzling slice of pork belly.

Sangwoo took a sip of his drink, “Baby troubles. Heard they were fighting over whose turn it was to change the diapers.”

Jungbae let out a bark of laughter as Ali smiled, chewing on his food. Jiyeong snickered and Saebyeok let out a small scoff. Meanwhile, Gihun stayed quiet. He hadn’t touched his chopsticks. He barely even moved, save for the slight shift in his jaw as he clenched it tighter.

Minyeo and Deoksu… here in the afterlife too?

His gaze lowered to his lap, suddenly feeling like the room was spinning.

And they have a baby?

His thoughts spiraled faster than he could stop them. He remembered Minyeo screaming in the Game, remembered the jagged intensity of her voice, the way it broke like glass before she grabbed Deoksu and hurled both of them off the glass bridge to their deaths.

Gone.

That was the last time he saw them. Their bodies hitting the ground. Final. Brutal.

But here?

They were fighting over diapers.

His stomach turned.

He sat in silence, hands knotted tightly in his lap beneath the table, feeling the pressure of his clenched fists. Around him, the laughter and chatter flowed easily, like warm air on a summer night. It was the kind of effortless joy that should’ve been comforting.

But to Gihun, it felt surreal. Disorienting. Wrong.

The people around this table… they shouldn’t have been here. Not like this.

Sangwoo, who had once carved betrayal into the shape of a friend, was now gently pouring drinks for Saebyeok, his expression soft and easy.

Saebyeok, who had cursed Deoksu’s name with venom, spoke about him with the casual fondness of a friend, even mentioning how fatherhood seemed to have softened him.

Ali, who had died clutching false hope and stolen marbles, sat across from him alive and glowing, his eyes crinkled with laughter.

Jiyeong was laughing too, a sound Gihun never heard during the Games. Not like this.

Then there’s Jungbae… who had died with a gunshot wound in chest and was now sitting here breathing with no wound at all.

It was like watching ghosts laugh through moving mouths.

He couldn’t look at them. Not a single one. Because all he could see was blood and in his ears were the sound of dying breaths. The weight of knowing what they had done to each other pressed down on him like a heavy stone.

Before his thoughts could spiral completely into that dark and suffocating place, a low and familiar voice cut through the haze and snapped him back to the present.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

The sound hit Gihun like ice water poured down his spine.

His head turned slowly, movements stiff and reluctant, as if his body already knew what his mind was too afraid to confirm.

“Oh, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!” Jungbae called out, grinning. “Hwang Inho-ssi!”

And then Gihun saw him.

He stood there beside the table, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of a navy jacket, shoulders relaxed like he belonged. His hair hung just above his brows, casually unkempt, catching in the light as he leaned slightly forward with interest.

And that smile…

That easy, familiar smile that could have disarmed a room, resting on his face like it had always lived there.

Gihun’s world narrowed to a pinpoint.

The softness, open gaze in his eyes, was a lie. It had to be. Because Gihun had seen those same eyes behind a black mask, except they were cold, calculating, and empty. Gihun couldn’t breathe, his throat clenched around nothing, lungs refusing to expand. His fingers curled slowly beneath the table edge.

Oh Youngil.

The name detonated in his mind, the recognition sinking in like a hook dragged through his gut.

Youngil wasn’t dead though. He had never died. Gihun remembered it with blistering clarity the way Youngil had offered him a knife without blinking. He told Gihun to slit the throats of the others to finish the Game. For the baby, he’d said, as if the promise of a future made murder easier to swallow.

The memory scratched at the inside of Gihun’s skull like broken glass.

Yet here he was standing under the warm restaurant lights. Smiling. Friendly. Human. There was no mask nor blood. Only laughter echoing from the rest of the table, his friends chatting with him like they knew him, trusted him.

They called him Inho.

That was what Jungbae had said. 'Hwang Inho'. As if he belonged here, as if he was one of them.

A deep, sour heat bloomed in Gihun’s chest. He didn’t know when the rage began, only that it was already roaring through his ribcage like a wildfire. Maybe it was the casual way Inho stood there, alive and clean, in a world that seemed to forget what he’d done.

Or maybe it was the part of Gihun that had clung to the idea that this place, this strange, quiet world, was some kind of afterlife. Now Inho’s presence shattered that illusion like a hammer to glass.

“Why,” Gihun said, voice trembling with the effort to hold it all in. “Why did you let me live?”

Inho blinked. His smile faltered, replaced by confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“I said,” Gihun was on his feet before he even realized it, the chair screeching across the floor as he lunged across the table. “Why did you let me live?!”

And then—

His fist connected with Inho’s jaw in a brutal, unrestrained arc. Inho staggered back as their friends gasped behind them. Gihun stood there, his hands trembling at his sides, breathing heavily like he was still in the Game. Still trying to survive. 

The voices in his head started to echo deep in his skull…

This isn’t the afterlife.

Chapter Text

“Oh my god!”

Jiyeong was the first to move, rushing forward with widened eyes. Saebyeok wasn’t far behind, already crouching beside Inho as he leaned against the table. One of his hands clutched the edge while the other gingerly probed his jaw. He flinched at the touch, his breath hissing between his teeth.

Meanwhile, Gihun thrashed like a man possessed.

Ali had his arms hooked under Gihun’s shoulders, gripping tight as Gihun struggled to break free. Jungbae grabbed hold of his other arm, struggling to keep him back as Gihun lunged forward again.

“Gihun-ah, stop!” Jungbae barked, half-commanding and half-pleading.

“Sangwoo-hyung, help us out here!” Ali shot a desperate look behind him, sweat dotting his brow as Gihun twisted violently in his grip.

Sangwoo sat calmly at the far end of the table, still chewing on a bite of food. He didn’t even look up right away. 

When he did, it was with a slow, unbothered lift of his brow like he was watching a mildly interesting scene on TV.

“No, no. Let them fight.” A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Hyung wouldn’t throw the first punch without a reason.”

“Sangwoo!” Jiyeong snapped, but he only shrugged.

A waitress appeared from behind the counter with a cold pack in her hand, hesitant but professional. She passed it off to Saebyeok, who took it with a quick nod and turned back to Inho. 

Saebyeok's expression shifted the moment she pressed the ice gently to his jaw, her fingers careful and her eyes tight with concern. She murmured something Gihun couldn’t hear, but it was the tenderness in her voice that twisted like a knife.

He felt it again. That heat. That crawling, rising pressure just under his skin. The anger that had exploded moments ago didn’t recede. It curled, low and bitter in his stomach, as he watched Saebyeok tend to the man who watched them all die in the comfort of his office.

And then Jiyeong said it.

Inho.

The name hit Gihun like a slap.

He almost laughed. A bitter, breathless sound that caught in his throat before it could escape. Of course. Of course. Oh Youngil had been a lie from the beginning. Just another mask, like the glossy black one he wore during the Games. Another layer of the performance. Another story crafted to gain trust. To manipulate.

So, what else had been false?

The soft-spoken grief about his wife? The way his voice had trembled when he’d told Gihun he just wanted to survive, for the sake of someone else? That tear in his eye… had it been real, or rehearsed? Or was this all just another prop in his toolbox?

The betrayal stung in ways Gihun couldn’t explain, not even to himself.

Because it wasn’t just anger now. It was humiliation. Confusion. Loss. He mourned for people like Youngil, or Inho, or whatever name he decided to pull out of his ass. Gihun risked everything to keep the memory of the dead alive, only to learn that one who had also witnessed it all was standing here, smiling at his friends.

Still pretending. Still lying.

And yet, Gihun said nothing.

He couldn’t. The pressure in his chest built and built, a silent scream trapped beneath his ribs. His heart pounded furiously against the cage of his bones.

To speak would mean explaining. And what could he say?

That he came from another world where Inho wore a mask and watched people play games to their deaths with a glass of whiskey in hand? That he'd watched this man use words like “fairness” and “choice” to justify bloodshed? 

It would sound like madness. Delusion. Trauma rewiring his brain into fantasy.

So instead, Gihun stood there trembling. Held back by the hands of people he once tried to survive with. 

Jungbae gave a weak, nervous laugh as he loosened his grip, “Gihun-ah, did you two… have an unresolved fight again or something?”

Again.

The word rang in Gihun’s ears like a bad joke. If only it had been a simple fight. If only it had been petty words or bruised egos. He wanted to laugh, or maybe scream, because fight didn’t even begin to cover it. 

Their entire relationship, if you could even call it that, had been a battlefield. One where lives were sacrificed, where blood stained the ground, and where trust was not only broken, but incinerated.

Gihun stayed silent.

Inho straightened slowly, brushing his fingers against the corner of his mouth where the punch had landed. A faint red mark was already blooming beneath his cheekbone.

Still, he gave a small shrug, “It’s okay, Jungbae, I probably deserved it.”

That damn softness again. That stupid, infuriating smile on his face, like none of this mattered, like he hadn’t destroyed and watched people die and called it justified. Gihun didn’t know what pissed him off more: everyone else’s concern for Inho, or the fact that Inho didn’t even yell or curse at him. He didn't even question it.

If he’d just reacted, Gihun might’ve felt grounded and anchored in something real. But this forgiveness just made it worse. Gihun had punched him and Inho simply forgave.

“Gihun, you should say sorry.” Saebyeok said quietly, her eyes flicked between them.

However, Gihun didn’t answer. Instead, he yanked his arms free from his friends’ grips, his jaw tightening as he turned away. He refused to look at Inho.

“It’s fine, Saebyeok-ah.” Inho said, even softer this time.

Liar, Gihun seethed silently. You don’t get to pretend this doesn’t hurt. You don’t get to be the one who understands.

He could feel the silence settling like dust in the room. The others stealing glances, unsure of what to say or how to patch the crack that had split across the table. Gihun sat down stiffly, ignoring the weight of their eyes on him. His chest still rose and fell with the echoes of his anger, even as everything else tried to move on.

Eventually, the conversation resumed. It was slow and hesitant at first, plates shuffled, sizzling meat crackled on the grill. The chopsticks clinked sharply against dishes and the soft thud of soju glasses touching filled the air again.

Then laughter bubbled up in pockets. Someone teased Jungbae about his appetite. Saebyeok and Jiyeong leaned into one another, whispering something that made them snort into their sleeves. The warmth of it all should’ve felt comforting.

But it didn’t.

Gihun didn’t speak. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink much. He stared blankly at the grill, watching as the slices of pork belly hissed and curled under the heat. Fat popped, sending little flecks of oil into the air like sparks. The smoke drifted upward in lazy spirals, and he followed it with his eyes, letting it blur his vision until the table, the people, even the voices began to melt away.

The sounds around him faded into something warped and distant. Like hearing joy through a thick pane of glass. Muted. Unreachable.

His body was there, seated among them. But his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere darker.

It whispered in the back of his mind, in a voice that was not quite his own, that none of this was real.

That these people weren’t alive.

His chest tightened. His heart picked up speed, pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. The laughter at the table became warped, echoing off the inside of his skull like something out of a nightmare. Jiyeong’s giggle. Jungbae’s teasing. Inho’s voice. 

He couldn’t tell them apart anymore; it was all blending together into a noise that clawed at his nerves.

He could feel it coming.

That moment.

The lights overhead would flicker. The floor would fall out from under him. He’d blink and find himself surrounded by pink walls, masked guards, the metallic scent of blood filling his nose. They’d all be dead again, like they were supposed to be.

His breath shortened into sharp and shallow bursts. The scent of grilling meat suddenly turned his stomach. Too hot. Too thick. Like burnt flesh.

He had to get out.

Gihun pushed his chair back too fast as his hand flew to his mouth, “I’m sorry.”

But it wasn’t for the punch.

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for, only that something inside him was splintering. Maybe it was guilt for wanting this life, this illusion of peace. For pretending he could laugh beside people who, not long ago, had died screaming. Maybe it was regret. That he couldn’t save them. That he hadn’t tried harder.

Perhaps it was the weight of remembering.

Gihun didn’t know anymore as his vision blurred at the edges.

Heads turned, voices called his name, but he didn’t hear them, nor did he care. His legs moved on their own as he staggered away from the table, nearly running into a waiter.

The restaurant doors slammed behind him. The cold air hit his face like a slap.

He sucked in a breath.

Then another.

It wasn’t enough.

Gihun stumbled a few feet down the street, away from the glowing windows and the smells and the sounds, until he reached the shadowed side of the alley beside the restaurant. His back hit the wall. He bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, trying to focus, trying to remember how to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

It wasn’t working.

Gihun’s mind spiraled, a dizzying tangle of memories. His thoughts caved inwards, looping in erratic circles as a distorted voice asked: did you have fun playing the hero?

He pressed his palms against his temples, as if he could crush the memories into silence.

The Game wasn’t real.

His friends are alive. They were here. He was here.

Playing deadly children’s games was just a bad dream.

The Game wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t—

“Hyung… are you okay?”

The voice cut through the static in Gihun’s mind like a ripple across still water. He jerked upright, inhaling sharply as if he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning. 

Standing a few feet away, Sangwoo’s brow furrowed with concern, and he didn’t approach right away. Instead, he watched cautiously like he was unsure whether Gihun might bolt.

Gihun couldn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice, or the words wouldn’t fracture under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. But the sight of Sangwoo standing there without judgement gave him enough strength to remain standing. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

“Saebyeok told me you lost your memory. Or something like that.” Sangwoo added.

Gihun looked away, the shame clawing at his insides. Sangwoo followed his gaze toward the street. Then, he added quietly, “Do you want to go home?”

Home.

Gihun didn’t even know what that meant anymore. But anything was better than going back inside, sitting across from him, pretending everything was fine while the other world he had left behind screamed in his mind.

He gave a small nod, and that was all it took.

“Alright,” Sangwoo said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

He didn’t reach out or mumble something meant to sound comforting. There was no clumsy attempt to make the moment lighter, only a quiet understanding wrapped in steady restraint. Then he turned and started walking, leaving a space beside him. An invitation, not an expectation.

Gihun hesitated before stepping forward.

There was something strange about trailing behind Sangwoo. He wasn’t used to seeing Sangwoo like this from the back, leading the way. In the past, it had always been the other way around. Gihun, the older one, had been the impulsive force of gravity. He would drag Sangwoo into trouble, into laughter, into whatever wild idea had sparked in his head.

He remembered the tug of small fingers in his hand, Sangwoo’s reluctant footsteps behind him, the bright defiance in his voice urging, “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

And now…

Now, Gihun was the one following. A hollow echo of the boy he used to be, trailing the man Sangwoo had become in whatever reality this was.

As it turned out, Gihun’s so-called “home” was a modest, yet surprisingly cozy apartment tucked into a quiet street. The building itself was a little worn down around the edges, but the soft glow from the windows above gave it a strangely welcoming presence.

“This is it,” Sangwoo stopped in front of the entrance, fishing for the keys. “You, me, and Jungbae moved in about four years ago. It was cheaper to split rent, and we got lucky with this place. Close to the subway and the cat café.”

He glanced over at Gihun as if still gauging whether this version of him would find any of this familiar. He unlocked the door and stepped aside, gesturing to him, “After you.”

They both slipped off their shoes inside the entryway. The scent of laundry detergent and faint incense hit Gihun immediately. 

The place had a decently sized living space with warm wood floors and soft lighting.  A low coffee table sat in the middle of a plush rug, littered with a few open magazines and an abandoned game controller. A couple of mismatched mugs sat on the counter, and there was a folded blanket draped over the back of the couch.

He could already tell which parts of the apartment belonged to whom. Sangwoo’s influence was in the alphabetized bookshelf and the modern black-and-steel desk lamp. Jungbae’s was more playful, evident in the posters on the wall, one of a cartoon ramen bowl with googly eyes.

And Gihun?

There was a small tray by the window with a few potted plants. One of them had a hand-painted rock sitting at its base with the words, “You’re doing great!” scrawled in bright red. Maybe that was his. Maybe.

“Bedroom’s down the hall,” Sangwoo placed his keys in the dish by the door. “Yours is the one on the left.”

Gihun nodded wordlessly, his eyes flicking from the living room to the hallway beyond. It was so… normal. Too normal. Like he had just walked into a life already halfway lived without him.

His bedroom was simple. The walls were painted in soft gray color, and the curtains were sealed shut. Tucked into the corner, against the far wall, sat a single extra-large twin bed. The sheets were neatly made; the blanket folded back slightly at the top.

What caught Gihun’s eye was a small frame perched neatly on the nightstand beside the bed. He sat down slowly at the edge and reached for it.

It was a group photo taken at the beach, judging by the wide stretch of sun-warmed sand and the glittering horizon where the ocean melted into sky. The light was golden, the soft rays made everything look gentler, like even the world itself had exhaled.

In the front, Jiyeong and Saebyeok leaned into each other, cheeks nearly touching, flashing matching peace signs and wide, uninhibited smiles. Jiyeong’s sunglasses were crooked. Saebyeok’s hair was tangled from the breeze, strands flying in every direction.

Behind them, Ali stood flanked by Jungbae and Sangwoo, their arms slung around each other in the lazy, easy way of people who trusted one another. All three were smiling, Sangwoo’s grin had that rare softness Gihun remembered only in fragments from when they were young.

And then, there was himself.

Gihun blinked at the image, his breath catching.

He was grinning, his long hair tousled by the sea breeze. His eyes were lit up in a way he hadn’t seen in years. He looked younger. Like a man who had never tasted despair, never watched his childhood friend bleed out in his arms.

And beside him…

Inho.

Or Youngil, as he’d been called in that other world. But this wasn’t the man in the black mask. This version of Inho had his brows raised slightly in surprise, caught mid-laugh or maybe mid-confusion. Gihun’s arm was looped casually around him, tugging him into the shot, like he didn’t want him left out. He stood next to Gihun as if he belonged right by his side.

Inho’s smile was small and soft. Softer than the one he’d worn during that one Mingle round in the Game where kindness had started to feel real and trust was a currency too expensive to spend.

Here, in this photograph, there was no blood. No betrayal. No games. Only sunlight, sea air, and a moment that suggested they'd always been friends. That the past Gihun remembered had never happened at all.

“That was taken this past summer. We all went to Jeju Island together since Jiyeong and Saebyeok wouldn’t stop talking about it.” 

Gihun glanced up from the photo. Sangwoo stood nearby, a small first aid kit in his hands. The red cross on its cover was worn, like it had been used more than once.

“You don’t remember?” He asked.

Gihun shook his head, “No…”

“That’s okay.” Sangwoo replied as he sat next to him on the bed. He carefully opened the kit, rummaging inside as he let his words settle between them. It was simple and kind, but they hit harder than Gihun expected.

He looked back down at the photo. The seemingly impossible reality frozen in that glossy snapshot. Everyone was alive and smiling.

Even him.

The edges of the frame bit into his fingers as he held it tighter. Despite the invisible wounds he carried with him into this strange version of the world, the photo, the dinner, and the effortless laughter were all proof that this reality was real. 

That in this world they had made it. Together. Safe.

Gihun didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread.

His eyes remained fixed on his own face, bright and windblown, caught mid-laughter.

Could he ever be that person again?

Could he let himself believe in a version of the world where the Games never happened? Where the nightmares weren’t memories but simply shadows that didn’t belong?

This was what he had prayed for in the dark. What he’d whispered to the empty air when guilt hollowed him out at night. A world where Jungbae lived, Saebyeok laughed, and his relationship with Sangwoo had never snapped in half.

It was everything he had begged for.

And now that it was here, it terrified him. Because for the first time in so long, he felt something tug at his chest. Not grief, not anger, but longing. A craving to belong. To stay. To not wake up and find it all gone.

His thoughts broke as Sangwoo’s fingers gently closed around his.

Gihun hadn’t even realized Sangwoo had reached for his hand, turning it over to examine the raw skin across his knuckles. There was a tenderness to the way he held it, the cotton swab dabbed against the torn skin, and Gihun hissed sharply at the sting.

“You really clocked him,” Sangwoo muttered, his brow furrowed in that focused way Gihun remembered from childhood. It was like he was solving an equation instead of handling a wound. “Didn’t think you had that kind of right hook.”

Still, Gihun said nothing.

There was too much swelling behind his ribs that he couldn’t find the words. But Sangwoo didn’t ask for them. He didn’t try to fill the silence. Wrapping the bandage snugly around Gihun’s hand, Sangwoo was careful not to tug too tightly.

When he was done, he gave Gihun a small nod, the one that said all done without needing to say anything at all.

“Try to get some rest,” Sangwoo said softly as he stood. “I’ll be out in the living room. If you need anything... come get me.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone now, Gihun exhaled a long and slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in the entire time. He stared at the fresh bandage wrapped across his knuckles, thumb rubbing along the edges, lost in the texture and pressure.

Then his eyes found the photograph.

It still sat on the bedside table where he’d left it earlier. A snapshot of a world he wasn’t sure he belonged to. But something about it felt… wrong now. Off. 

For a second, a flicker of the moment, Inho’s face seemed to shift, his features blurring like smoke, the smile stretching too wide, the eyes narrowing into something colder.

Gihun blinked.

The image returned to normal.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever had gripped at him. His hand moved on instinct, pulling open the nightstand drawer. Inside, tucked between an old charger and a stray pen, was a lighter. A cheap one. He flicked it once.

A small flame danced to life.

The light flickered across the glossy surface of the photo. Gihun brought it closer, the flame licking at the edges. The paper curled ever so slightly, heat bending it out of shape. The faces in the photo seemed to waver as the fire reached for them.

His hand trembled.

It would be so easy. To let the fire take it. To erase the image and the ache it brought with it. To destroy the evidence of something too beautiful to be trusted. 

Too perfect to be real.

The morning light slanted gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the kitchen as Gihun sat at the small table, holding a mug between his hands. Somewhere near him, Sangwoo was humming a low, familiar tune from their school days.

The scent of fried eggs and grilled ham filled the air, and Sangwoo soon emerged, two plates balanced effortlessly in his hands. He slid one toward Gihun before settling in across from him.

"Thanks." Gihun mumbled, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking about the food or the silence Sangwoo had given him the night before.

For a while, they ate without speaking. Then, as if remembering something, Sangwoo lifted his eyes. "By the way," he said like it was no big deal. "You have your own cat café."

Gihun froze mid-bite, his fork suspended inches away from his mouth, "What?"

"Yeah," Sangwoo responded. "Just a few blocks from here. ‘Purrfect Brews’. Inho came up with the name. I thought it was ridiculous, but you laughed for five minutes straight and said you liked it.”

At the mention of Inho’s name, a small and bitter expression flickered across Gihun’s face. His nose wrinkled as he muttered under his breath, “Maybe I should change it.”

Sangwoo shrugged, “Jiyeong and Saebyeok felt like it was a good thing for you, a place to pour yourself into without bleeding dry for it.”

Gihun’s fingers tightened slightly around his mug, the ceramic warm beneath his touch. His voice came quieter this time, “Because of the chicken shop.”

Sangwoo nodded slowly, “You were scared. Thought you’d mess it up again. But we all pushed you. Told you that one mistake didn’t mean you weren’t allowed to try again.”

Gihun stared into his mug, watching the steam curl upward like a slow breath.

A sharp buzz cut through the moment.

Gihun reached for his phone on the table and flipped it over. A message lit up the screen.

Inho: I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. But I just want to talk. Please.

Gihun’s thumb hovered over the screen. He could feel the anger bubble up again, hot and unwelcome. The polite tone and false remorse felt like a performance. Another mask.

He locked the screen without replying and put the phone face-down, using more force than needed.

Sangwoo didn’t say anything, but Gihun saw the slight flicker in his expression. The slight knit of the brows. He looked like he wanted to say something but chose not to.

Instead, he stood up and grabbed both plates, walking them to the sink.

"You want to go check it out?" He asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.

Gihun blinked, "The café?"

"Yeah. You haven’t seen it since… everything. Might help things feel a little more real," Then, Sangwoo gave a small glance toward the door. "It’s only a few streets away. Come on, it’s a nice morning."

They ended up stepping outside into the brightness of the day, the cool November air humming with life. Sangwoo walked beside him in silence, keeping an easy pace.

Occasionally he pointed out something mundane such as the corner store they used to sneak drinks from, or the bakery where Saebyeok got her favorite pastries.

At the end of a quiet residential street lined with trees, Gihun saw it.

A small storefront with a wide window, sunlight pouring in and catching the outlines of tiny figures inside. Cats lounging in hammocks, perched in the sills, padding lazily across polished wood floors.

A soft-painted sign hung above the door in white lettering against a pale green background: Purrfect Brews.

The door was adorned with little bells and cat stickers, and handwritten signs in careful block letters offered details about adoptions, specials, and play hours.

The moment Gihun stepped through the front door, he sucked in a breath. He didn’t hear Sangwoo murmuring something about dropping by after work. The soft chattering of customers also dulled into a hum, and he barely felt the tabby brushing its soft body against him in greeting.

“Oh! Gihun!” Junhee's light and bright voice came from behind the register. “Are you okay? I heard about what happened from Saebyeok. Also, what happened to your hand?”

She gave a worried look at Gihun’s knuckles, before glancing back up and her eyebrow piercing caught the light. Her hair was longer now, tied in a loose ponytail that hung over one shoulder. She was in a soft and comfortably worn sweater, with a small name tag pinned at the front.

“Junhee-ah…”

Her name left Gihun’s mouth like it was too fragile to speak, too important to forget. The last time he said it; it had been through tears. A desperate plea meant to stop her from dying.

But she had jumped to her death.

Only now she stood in front of him, warm and alive.

Suddenly, the world twisted. The café flickered like a broken film reel, the space between them replaced by a narrow bridge. The air filled with the harsh slap of jump rope echoing in time with every beat of his heart. His stomach twisted at the memory.

Junhee’s hand touched his forearm with gentle pressure, the vision collapsing almost instantly. The smell of coffee returned. Soft jazz played from overhead speakers.

“Come with me.” She said gently, stepping around the counter. She handed him a pair of slippers and Gihun changed into them. Then, she guided him toward the staff room. Gihun followed without a word, his hands trembled as he slid his coat off and hung it on the rack, fingers fumbling slightly.

A faint cry made him turn.

Near the corner of the room, nestled in a woven bassinet was a small bundle stirring beneath a fleece blanket. Gihun’s entire body stiffened.

Junhee’s gaze followed his and she smiled, “Don’t push yourself too hard. If you want… you can hold Yumin for a bit. She’s usually fussy, but when you hold her, she falls asleep almost instantly.”

Before Gihun could respond, Junhee moved toward the bassinet and scooped the baby up with ease. Then, she gently placed the bundle in Gihun’s arms without hesitation. Yumin shifted slightly against his chest, letting out a small coo before settling again, her tiny fingers curling toward his shirt.

“You’re good with her,” she hummed. “Take it easy today, alright? Hyunju and I can handle the rush.”

She gave his arm a firm pat, then disappeared through the doorway and into the cozy noise of the café.

Gihun sank into the nearest chair by the arched staff room entrance, Yumin still in his arms. He rocked her gently; his eyes fixed on the front of the café. A cat leapt onto a nearby table with a soft thump, stretching before settling into a loaf. At the counter, Junhee and Hyunju were laughing about something.

It was strange. In what felt like another life, Yumin didn’t even have a name. She was just a number on a roster in a place where names were stripped from people. Even then, Gihun had fought for her. Protected her like she was his own flesh and blood, because he made a promise to Junhee.

But here… here she had a name, a mother who held her close, and a home filled with love and lullabies instead of gunshots.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, the best way to learn wasn’t by asking but by watching. Sangwoo had taught him that a long time ago.

Not through lectures or a speech, but from the quiet and observant way he moved through the world. As kids, Gihun remembered being taken aback by how Sangwoo always seemed to know things about him that even he hadn’t noticed himself.

Back then, it had felt like magic, until he realized it wasn’t magic at all. It was Sangwoo paying attention.

Now, seated in the worn chair just beside the staff room doorway, Gihun found himself falling into the same stillness. Yumin lay nestled in his arms, her tiny body warm and soft. She had been asleep for almost twenty minutes, and Gihun hadn’t moved. He didn’t want to.

From his seat, he quietly observed the café in motion.

Hyunju moved effortlessly behind the counter. Her focus was razor-sharp, pulling espresso shots, steaming milk, sprinkling cinnamon or foam designs like a painter at a canvas. Each drink was slid across the counter with care, her head nodding once to confirm it was ready.

On the other hand, Junhee greeted every customer with a genuine smile, her voice gentle but clear as she took orders, offered recommendations, and leaned down to hand treats to the children who came in wide-eyed at the sight of the cats.

Then there were the cats. Five of them, each occupying a different part of the café. One of them had a torn ear, another had three legs. It seemed that the café was a temporary medium for them to heal until they could be adopted into a more permanent home. Each cat seemed to carry its own quiet personality, and Gihun soon noticed a wall near the counter that was covered in laminated cards.

Every card had a cat’s photo, name, and a short biography printed underneath. Details like age, temperament, favorite toys, or little quirks like “loves climbing shelves” or “hides in bags.” Some bios had handwritten notes with small updates or doodles in the margins.

Yumin’s sudden cry pulled him from his thoughts.

Gihun jolted slightly in his chair, attempting to soothe her, but her face scrunched tighter, red and trembling as her cries only grew louder. He bounced her gently, murmuring nonsense, but it did nothing.

Junhee poked her head around the corner, already halfway to him the moment she heard the cry. Her eyes found her daughter instantly, then flicked to Gihun’s.

“She must be hungry,” Junhee said with a small laugh. “Can you cover me at the front for a bit?”

“Yeah.” Gihun said, quickly rising and carefully handing Yumin over. Her tiny fists were clenched tightly, but she began to quiet as Junhee held her close, murmuring to her.

Gihun took a breath and stepped out front. Behind the counter, Hyunju was already halfway through explaining the register by the time he got there. She taught him how to tap in drink orders, how to mark cups, and how to double-check the loyalty cards some customers carried.

“I’ll handle drinks. You just focus on the orders,” She said, handing Gihun an apron. “And watch out for Kimchi, he’s been trying to sneak snacks out of the treat jar ever since we put him on a diet.”

Gihun followed Hyunju's gaze and spotted the culprit: a stocky orange tabby perched on one of the upper shelves, tail twitching with slow mischief. One of his ears was torn at the tip, and his golden eyes were locked on Gihun as if he was already plotting a way to break into the treat jar.

As the first customer stepped up, Gihun found himself leaning forward, offering a polite greeting, asking for her order. His fingers hovered clumsily over the touchscreen, but he managed.

Minutes passed, and the flow of customers picked up again. One ordered three different drinks and lingered at the counter to ask which cats were currently available for adoption. The next purchased a pack of treats from the display, immediately crouching to tempt one of the nearby cats. A mother tried to comfort her child as he began to cry, his arms outstretched toward a disinterested black cat that refused to sit on his lap.

Across the room, Kimchi had launched himself onto a table and swatted a ceramic mug clean off the edge. It hit the floor with a loud clatter and shattered into jagged pieces. The sound startled another cat, who darted off and disappeared into the nearest cat tower.

Hyunju let out a long, familiar sigh as she grabbed the broom from behind the counter. “Again, Kimchi?” she muttered, making her way over to clean up the mess while the tabby watched.

With each moment, Gihun felt his mind slowly crawl out of its haze. He didn’t have to think about which reality he belonged to, or why he was even here. He only had to take the next order, keep an eye on the cats, and smile when someone asks for an oat milk refill.

At some point late in the morning, the soft jingle of the café door announced a new arrival.

A woman stepped inside, wrapped in a thick forest-green coat that reached her knees, a long brown scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon. Her breath fogged gently in the cool air, and her cheeks were flushed from the chilly weather. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm and a cat carrier gripped firmly in the other.

As soon as she spotted Hyunju, her face lit up.

“That’s Youngmi,” Hyunju murmured to Gihun, who was wiping down the counter. “She’s with the Seoul Cat Rescue. One of their best ambassadors.”

Youngmi approached them with a warm, familiar smile.

“Unnie!” She greeted brightly, placing the carrier carefully on a nearby stool. The two women spoke in low, quick tones, exchanging forms and updates on the cats in the café. Hyunju flipped through the paperwork efficiently, nodding as Youngmi pointed out medical notes and feeding instructions.

Gihun, meanwhile, found his gaze drawn to the carrier. It was unusually quiet. No scratching or hissing, no impatient meows. He crouched slightly and leaned in, careful not to startle whatever was inside.

Through the mesh front, he caught a glimpse of delicate white fur, curled into a tight ball like a puff of cotton. Two pale and cloudy blue eyes blinked slowly at him, and a tiny pink nose rested gently against the carrier door. The cat stayed still but seemed to be highly aware of its surroundings.

“This is Mandu,” Youngmi said softly, kneeling down beside him. “He’s around four years old. We pulled him from a hoarding situation last month. He was malnourished, dehydrated, and had a severe eye infection that left him completely blind.”

Gihun’s chest tightened. He found himself crouching lower, so he was at Mandu’s level. The cat didn’t recoil or shrink back. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly in Gihun’s direction, ears flicking, like he was trying to sense where he was at.

“He’s still adjusting,” Youngmi continued, watching them both. “He relies heavily on sound and scent. He’s gentle, gets along with other cats, but the shelter was too overwhelming. Too loud. We’re hoping a quieter place like this might help him decompress.”

Mandu remained quiet inside the carrier, though he didn’t cower. He simply waited, his ears twitching at every sound, as if he was trying to make sense of this new environment he couldn’t see.

“He isn’t deaf?” Hyunju asked, pausing beside the carrier as she looked through the intake papers.

Youngmi shook her head, “Nope. His hearing is intact. He’s actually really lucky. It’s hard enough adapting to blindness, if he’d been deaf too, the adjustment would’ve been a lot more difficult.”

Hyunju gave a thoughtful nod, her eyes scanning the health history again, “Poor guy… Still, sounds like he’s got some fight in him.”

“He does,” Youngmi said, her hand hovering near the carrier door and Mandu’s nose twitched in response. “He just needs time.”

Hyunju gave Mandu a soft look before turning to Gihun, “Alright, come on. Let’s walk through his intake setup.”

They set up a quiet enclosure in the side room, one of the low, private corners often used for new arrivals or cats needing space. The floor was layered with a thick, heated blanket. There were two ceramic dishes, one holding some cat food, another holding water. Tucked in the back of the room was a fresh litter box, and the enclosure walls lined with a set of soft textured mats to help Mandu begin mapping the space with his body.

When everything was finally in place, they carefully unlatched the carrier door. There was no sudden movement or frantic scramble to escape. Mandu remained still for a moment, only his small head emerging past the door. His pink nose sniffing as he took in the unfamiliar scents.

Then, he stepped out carefully, his paws brushing the ground, head tilting now and again to track sounds and vibrations.

He took a tentative circle around the blanket before finally settling into a curl at its center. His ears turned toward the low hum of conversation beyond the staff room door, then flattened in contentment. His body relaxed.

“I think he likes it already,” Youngmi said, a quiet smile tugging at her lips as she scribbled on her clipboard. “I’ll check in on him in a few days. But I think this might be a good fit.”

She gave Mandu one last affectionate glance before standing and offering quick hugs to Hyunju and a nod to Gihun. Then, with a wave and another soft chime from the door, she stepped back out into the morning sun.

Once she left, Hyunju turned and motioned for Gihun to help her with the new delivery.

Together, they carried the hefty bags of cat food and litter into the storage room at the back of the café. The air there was cooler and quieter, the sounds muffled from the light chatter and feline rustling out front.

As they worked, Gihun stole a glance at her.

She looked different. Better.

Her hair was longer now, was pulled into a low ponytail that swayed gently as she moved. A small gold earring glinted in her ear. It wasn’t anything flashy, but delicate in a way that caught the light when the sunlight reached the jewelry. Her nails were painted a soft rose color, short and practical but neatly done. She looked like someone who finally had found her place in the world.

The lump rose in his throat before he could stop it.

He remembered her. Not someone he’d known well before the rebellion, but someone who had stepped forward when no one else would. She had taught them how to use the pink guards’ rifles, handling the weapons like she’d been waiting her whole life to do something meaningful with her anger. She didn’t flinch, not even once.

She had no reason to trust him. No promise of survival. And still, she had helped.

He hadn’t let himself believe she would’ve made it out. And now here she was, alive and real, fussing with stacked bags of litter and glancing over her shoulder to ask if he could hand her the scooper from the shelf.

After Gihun handed her the scooper, his grip tightened around the bag of dry food in his arms, the plastic crinkling under his fingers as he lowered it to the ground.

In that small silence between them, with the smell of cardboard and catnip lingering in the air, he was silently grateful she didn’t ask why his eyes had gone glassy.

When Gihun wasn’t buried in the stockroom or hauling crates of supplies, he found himself stepping in for Junhee during her breaks to feed and soothe Yumin. He easily slipped behind the counter, tying on the apron, and manning the register while the soft coos of a hungry baby echoed faintly from the staff room.

The bell above the café door jingled, signaling another customer. Gihun straightened his posture and wiped his hands on a towel before greeting them. He took their order and kindly thanked them for their patronage. The customer in front of him then stepped aside to wait for their drink, and for a brief moment, Gihun allowed himself to exhale a quiet breath.

He looked up as the next person approached the counter, his tone polite as he began, “Hello, what can I—”

The words died on his lips when he saw who it was.

Inho.

He was wearing a regular dark gray coat and a black turtleneck. His hair fell casually over his brow, softening his face despite the dark bruise under his jaw. That look of gentleness and vulnerability was what once made people trust him.

It made Gihun trust him.

Now it was also the look he couldn’t stand.

“Hey,” Inho spoke as if they were two old friends meeting by chance. “Purrfect weather today, right?”

Gihun stared. There was no change in his face, only the subtle tightening of his fingers against the wooden counter. Of course, Inho would try to open with a joke. And of course, it would be terrible and tasteless just like his ridiculous alias. Oh Youngil. A name as shallow as the man himself.

Sensing the joke falling flat, Inho cleared his throat softly, as though trying to cover the silence, “I, uh… I tried texting. But you haven’t answered so I figured maybe I’d come by and say hi.”

Still, Gihun said nothing. His eyes narrowed just slightly. It wasn’t a scowl yet, but it was cold and distant.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally let out a sharp breath and tapped the screen, “What do you want?”

Inho’s brows twitched slightly, but he didn’t flinch.

“Americano. Hot.” He replied after a pause. Gihun punched the order in as the screen beeped. Inho glanced down and noticed the redness still clinging to Gihun’s knuckles.

In hindsight, Gihun probably should’ve put a bandage over his knuckles. The skin was still raw, the cut angry and red. But when he woke up this morning, the swelling had gone down a little, and he told himself it was better to let it breathe.

Now he regretted that choice.

Because Inho had seen it. And worse, he’d looked at it like he cared. He reached out without thinking, his voice gentle, “Is your hand okay?”

Gihun jerked back like he’d be stung and hissed, “Don’t touch me.”

Inho’s hand froze mid-air before he quickly pulled back, “Right. Sorry.”

He offered his card, and Gihun swiped it harder than necessary. The machine beeped and Gihun handed back the receipt without meeting Inho’s gaze, his fingers brushing the counter like he was trying to scrub something off.

Inho lingered a second longer, then moved toward a small two-top table near the window. He sat down quietly, tucking his hands into his lap, his eyes trained out toward the street. Gihun’s eyes followed him, his stare sharp and steady.

The calm of the café suddenly felt too fragile now.

Inho still didn’t look back. Or maybe he knew he was being watched and simply chose not to acknowledge it.

When Junhee returned to the front register, Gihun quietly excused himself, retreating into the staff room trying to avoid more than just responsibility. He told himself there was plenty to do, the next batch of cat food hadn’t been prepared, the supply shelf was still a cluttered mess, and the dry mix for tomorrow’s cleaning routine sat unopened in the corner.

But his hands didn’t move with any real purpose. Instead, he drifted from task to task, picking up containers only to set them down again, adjusting labels that were already straight, shifting items a few centimeters before undoing the change. The silence of the storage room pressed in around him, muting the low hum of conversations from the café beyond the door.

Gihun didn’t step back onto the floor.

Instead, he stayed tucked in the quiet corners of the café, hiding between the storage shelves and stainless-steel counters.

When that wasn’t enough, he slipped into the community cat room. It was a smaller, enclosed space meant to be peaceful and separate from the bustle of the main floor. There were only two cats here, but the soft sound of purring and the rustle of tiny paws greeted him the moment he closed the door behind him.

He busied himself there with the routine: scooping out the litter boxes, tying off trash bags with slow movement, refilling water bowls and scattering fresh kibble into polished dishes. One of the cats brushed against his ankles, while another curled in its napping spot, undisturbed by his presence. He envied how they seemed to be unbothered by everything around them.

Inevitably, he found himself near the arched doorway of the staff room again, one shoulder leaning against the frame as he peered out toward the front. Specifically, toward the man sitting by the window.

Inho looked like he belonged here. He seemed unbothered sitting with his coffee cupped between both hands, watching life outside the café go by.

Gihun didn’t buy it though.

He searched the man’s posture for the cracks. The tiny, telling fractures that might give him away. A twitch of a finger. A too-controlled sip. The furrow in his brow that lasted a beat too long. Gihun scrutinized it all. He knew what Inho was capable of. He had seen him murder Jungbae and strung his corpse up in the hallway of that bright pink staircase.

So how could this be the same person, quietly sipping a hot drink in a cat café?

“You’re staring.”

Gihun blinked and saw Junhee with her arms crossed, standing a few feet away, her expression amused. She followed his gaze, her eyes landing briefly on Inho, then back at Gihun.

“Did you two fight again?” She asked with genuine curiosity.

Gihun frowned, pulling away from the archway like he’d been caught doing something wrong, “Why does everyone ask me that?”

“Because you have a very specific face when you’re mad,” Junhee said dryly, then pointed her chin toward his hand. “You show up with your knuckles all messed up, and he walks in with a bruise under his jaw. Do I also need to mention you have this awful habit of staring people down like you’re waiting for them to spontaneously combust?”

“I do not.” Gihun muttered, folding his arms defensively.

“You do.” She replied without missing a beat.

“It wasn’t a fight,” Gihun said after a pause, voice low. He rubbed the back of his neck with a tired hand, fingers digging in like he could massage out the weight pressing against him from the inside. “It’s… complicated.”

Junhee didn’t push. She looked at him with a knowing expression. One of her eyebrows arched in quiet skepticism, as if she’d heard “it’s complicated” before, usually from people trying to dodge the full truth.

Gihun sighed, the fight going out of his shoulders. His hand dropped back to his side.

Junhee gave a small hum, somewhere between sympathetic and unimpressed, “Well, if you’re done trying to set him on fire with your eyeballs, I could use some help restocking the napkins.”

They worked together throughout the café during its downtime even after Gihun had helped her with the napkins. What Gihun had once assumed was a laid-back job turned out to be quite involved: feeding schedules, cleaning rotations, inventory, customer service, all while making sure none of the cats got into places they weren’t supposed to.

He could see why this version of himself had chosen this life. There was something therapeutic about offering warmth to strangers in the form of coffee and cats, tending to small lives with no expectation of anything in return. Every task was a moment away from the thoughts that threatened to unravel him.

However, what didn’t help was the fact that Inho had also decided to get involved.

“Here, let me help with the boxes.” Inho offered as he stepped forward, spotting Junhee and Gihun moving sealed cardboard containers from the supply area.

“No.” Gihun snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Sure, thanks Inho!” Junhee said at the exact same time, flashing a grateful smile at him. Gihun shot her a look, and she merely shrugged as if she were saying: ‘what’s the big deal?’

Inho didn’t hesitate. He reached for one of the heavier boxes like he’d done this a hundred times before. However, Gihun instinctively lagged behind, unwilling to walk shoulder to shoulder with a man whose face had once been hidden behind a black mask.

He watched them from a few steps back. Junhee made a lighthearted comment about how the new packaging made everything feel heavier, and Inho answered with a joke so predictably corny that Gihun grimaced.

But Junhee laughed. It wasn’t out of politeness or social grace; she laughed like she meant it. The sound was light and warm, filling the café in a way that made it feel more alive.

Was he performing? Manipulating? Gihun’s fingers dug into the side of the box. He didn’t like being unsure. And he especially didn’t like seeing the man who had orchestrated violence for entertainment was now lending a hand and helping them.

Once the boxes were stacked neatly in the staff room, Inho’s attention shifted. His eyes landed on the bassinet in the corner, where soft blankets stirred.

“Is that…?” He asked, his voice gentler.

Junhee followed his gaze and nodded, “You haven’t met Yumin yet, have you? Come here.”

Before Gihun could say anything, Inho followed her across the room. Junhee leaned down, gently scooping Yumin into her arms. The baby stirred in her sleep, a tiny noise escaping her lips, but she didn’t cry. She only shifted closer to the warmth of her mother’s chest.

Then without hesitation, Junhee held the bundle out toward Inho.

He froze, visibly caught off guard. His hands hesitated in midair like he wasn’t sure how to hold something so small and fragile.

“She won’t bite.” Junhee teased.

Inho nodded slightly, then reached forward. His movements were clumsy, his fingers curled too tightly at first, then not tightly enough. Yumin shifted, and he panicked a little, nearly jerking his arms back.

“You need to support her head.” Gihun said, more out of instinct than kindness as Inho awkwardly adjusted himself to try to support the infant better.

Junhee giggled softly and stepped in, helping Inho reposition his arms until Yumin was secure against his chest.

With the infant finally settled, Inho stared down at her. His eyes softened, and a very faint smile played at his lips.

Gihun turned away. He didn’t want to see Inho’s expression, or the moment of this man holding someone so innocent.

Back at the counter, Gihun resumed his position at the register. A young woman with a sketchpad was waiting, and Gihun took her order, prepared her drink, and slid it across the counter. Each small task helped quiet the thoughts that clawed at the back of his mind.

Behind him, Junhee’s bright and melodic with Inho’s lower and more measured conversation continued. Occasionally there was even a soft squeal and a rustle of baby blankets.

On the counter, Kimchi had once again climbed up, pawing at the plastic treat jar with exaggerated innocence.

Gihun raised a brow, “Don’t even think about it.”

The cat froze mid-swipe, eyes wide, and then leapt down with an offended flick of his tail.

Gihun exhaled slowly through his nose, attempting to ground himself in the steady rhythm of café work.

He tried to focus on his surroundings such as the hiss of steamed milk, or the low meows coming from the cats in the background. Anything to keep his mind occupied, to hold back the slow, simmering heat of resentment unfurling in his chest like smoke.

He didn’t want to feel it. Not now. Not again. But it crawled its way up from the corners of memory, fed by every glimpse of Inho’s face and every echo of Junhee’s laugh.

Some time passed before they emerged from the staff room.

Junhee slipped into place beside Hyunju at the espresso machine, falling into sync with her as they started prepping the next round of orders.

Inho, meanwhile, stepped out into the customer space and made his way casually up to the counter.

Gihun kept his expression neutral.

“Can I get a small hot mocha with soy milk?” Inho asked evenly, it was almost too polite.

Gihun nodded without looking up, fingers moving automatically over the touchscreen. He keyed in the order, accepted the card when it was offered, and handed back the receipt without a word.

A few minutes later, the drink was finished. It had perfectly foamed milk with a neat swirl of cocoa on top. Gihun slid the cup across the counter without a second thought, already trying to forget who had ordered it.

But instead of taking the drink and walking away, Inho pushed it right back.

Gihun blinked, brow furrowing in mild confusion. Then his eyes lifted slowly and met Inho’s.

“For you.” Inho softly said.

The words were simple, and there was no arrogance in his voice. In fact, it was the unexpected sincerity that threw Gihun completely off balance.

Before he could formulate a snippy response, Inho turned and walked out the door, the café bell chiming in his wake.

Gihun stood there, staring at the front of the café before his eyes dropped to the mocha. The untouched cup sat there on the counter steaming gently, and now he didn’t know what to do with it.

A moment later, Junhee walked up beside him with a towel in hand, her brows lifted in unmistakable amusement.

“He just bought you coffee.” She said, grinning like she couldn’t wait to see how Gihun would deflect it.

He scoffed, handing the cup out to her, “You can have it.”

She scrunched her nose and lifted her hands in mock surrender, “What? That’s your go-to drink. And it’s made exactly the way you like it.”

“Not when it’s from him.” Gihun responded.

Junhee rolled her eyes, “It’s still too sweet for my taste.”

Without missing a beat, Gihun turned to Hyunju, who was stacking clean mugs nearby. He held out the cup like it was something offensive he didn’t want on the counter any longer.

“Here. You want this?”

Hyunju blinked at the cup, then at him, “Are you sure?”

He nodded once.

She took the cup with a small thank you, testing a sip before holding it gently in both hands. The warmth clearly pleased her. Junhee shot Gihun a flat look, her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something but didn’t. Instead, she turned to wipe the tables down.

Meanwhile, Gihun was already back at the register, taking the next customer’s order like the exchange had never happened.

Chapter Text

Near closing time, the café had quieted to a gentle hush after a long and steady day. Junhee had already left a little while ago with Yumin bundled in her arms, waving goodbye with a soft smile as the door shut behind her with a chime. That left Gihun and Hyunju to finish closing up.

They divided the tasks, such as switching off lights, stacking chairs, and wiping down surfaces. The main café area was securely locked, while the cats were safely settled into their designated rest zone for the night, which was an enclosed section with dim lighting and fleece blankets.

Hyunju tapped her phone screen and showed a live feed from the security cameras to Gihun.

“We monitor everything overnight,” she explained. “Just in case.”

The footage was crisp even in the low light. Gihun could see a few of the cats already curled up, while Kimchi stretched dramatically on a perch, yawning.

“We learned the hard way,” Hyunju added, tucking the phone into her coat pocket. “A few months ago, Kimchi swallowed a rubber band in the middle of the night. We only caught it thanks to the motion alert. Had to rush him to the vet. Cost a fortune.”

Gihun winced at the thought, “He doesn’t seem like he learns his lessons.”

“He doesn’t.” Hyunju said flatly.

They stepped outside together. The night air was cool but not unpleasant. The streetlamps overhead cast a gentle glow over the pavement, and the faint hum of passing cars gave the city a low, distant hum.

Gihun fumbled with the dual locks on the café door, his fingers moving stiffly against the metal as he tried to recall the exact sequence Junhee had drilled into him earlier. Right key first. Turn, click. Then the bottom one.

As Gihun clicked the final latch into place, he heard footsteps approaching from the street. He turned, and his posture straightened instinctively as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. It was Sangwoo, his hands were in his coat pockets, and he sported a faint grin on his face as he spotted them.

“Sangwoo?” Gihun asked, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

Sangwoo raised an eyebrow, stopping a few feet away, “I told you earlier I’d come pick you up after work.”

Gihun blinked again before averting his gaze, “Oh... right. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Sangwoo looked past him and gave Hyunju a casual nod, “You heading to the pub tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said with a slight smile. “You too?”

He nodded, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Gihun glanced between them, his brows knitting slightly at the casual exchange. It felt odd seeing people from two separate Games casually conversing like they have known each other for a while.

Sangwoo seemed to notice the hesitation. He turned back to Gihun, his tone light but sincere, “That’s actually part of the reason I came, hyung. We’re meeting up at Jungbae’s place tonight. Just a few of us, some drinks, nothing heavy. You should come.”

The invitation hung in the air.

For a moment, Gihun didn’t respond. It was something he had imagined dozens…no, hundreds, of times before. In the dormitory of the Game, huddled in sleep-deprived whispers, he remembered talking with Jungbae one night about getting soju again like the old times. If we get out of here. When we get out of here. We’ll meet up. We’ll drink.

It had felt like a promise, a flicker of hope that clung to the fantasy like ivy wrapping around a cracked wall.

Now Sangwoo was standing in front of him, asking if he wanted to go grab a drink.

It felt like a betrayal to the ones he'd lost to say yes, as if he was moving on without them. But saying no felt just as wrong, a disservice to the ones who were alive and had no idea what their fates were in another life.

Gihun looked up. Neither of them was pushing the offer. But they were both waiting. Hyunju’s eyes held no pressure, and Sangwoo looked hopeful, maybe a little amused.

Was it really okay to move forward? Was Gihun allowed to live in this version of reality, one that didn’t involve blood and survival and impossible choices?

Gihun didn’t know if he deserved peace. But he knew what it felt like to live in the shadow of grief for too long. And right now, surrounded by warmth instead of violence, maybe it was okay to choose something different.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to want something simple. He wanted company and laughter. He wanted to feel, even briefly, like the person he used to be before everything shattered.

Gathering all his courage, Gihun gave a small nod.

Hyunju smiled and turned, casually mentioning that the pub was only about fifteen minutes away. She led the way down the sidewalk, her scarf fluttering slightly in the breeze. Sangwoo fell into pace beside Gihun, careful not to step too close into his personal space.

“Do you guys always drink this often?” Gihun asked curiously.

Sangwoo gave a half-shrug, “We try to meet up every Friday night. Not everyone shows up, though. Some got work, families, things pulling them in different directions. The Jeju trip we planned? Barely made it out of the group chat.”

“Group chat?” Gihun repeated, brow furrowing slightly.

At the crosswalk, Hyunju turned her head and gave him a surprised look, “Wait… you’re not in it?”

“He isn’t,” Sangwoo answered before Gihun could open his mouth. “Left it a few days ago.”

Hyunju let out a small laugh. “Let me guess, had another fight?”

“Probably,” Sangwoo said with a knowing grin. “Not that he’d remember. He’s still in recovery mode.”

Gihun looked away, faint warmth prickled at his cheeks. The thought that he’d once belonged to something as mundane as a group chat felt oddly normal. In his previous life, he had very few contacts, even shorter conversations, and connections were rare. But here, it was different. In this life, apparently, he had people. People who remembered him. People who noticed when he left.

His phone buzzed.

Gihun glanced down at the new notification on the screen: You’ve been added to “Put it on my tab.”

He hesitated, his thumb hovering for a split second before he tapped into the chat.

The group chat was already alive with messages: plans for the night, memes, photos from previous meetups; but Gihun wasn’t focused on the words. He tapped into the member list and began to scroll.

The names hit him like a slow wave.

One after another, familiar names popped up.

Too familiar.

Faces he remembered in flashes: on the floors of the arena, or under the harsh dormitory lights. People who had stood beside him, played alongside him, and sometimes died right in front of him. Others were just... gone. They never returned to the dormitory, their bunks left empty, their stories cut short.

But here they were.

He looked up and saw Hyunju waving her phone at him playfully, “Well, might as well bring you back.”

Gihun stared at the screen for a long second. His chest felt tight in a way that wasn’t painful. It was... comforting. Like maybe, even if he didn’t remember anything from this version of reality, some part of him was still held by the people who knew him before.

The pub Jungbae owned in this life was nothing like the one Gihun remembered from his old world. That one had been small, dimly lit, its worn-out wooden tables sticky with years of spilled soju, its walls yellowed with cigarette smoke and time.

This place was something else entirely.

Sleek lines, polished fixtures, and soft, ambient lighting made the interior feel warm without being suffocating. Exposed brick ran along the far wall, giving it a rustic touch, while the long bar gleamed under rows of hanging bulbs. Booths lined up the edges of the room, each one plush and spacious. Even the background music was playing low tunes to keep the atmosphere easy.

Hyunju stepped in first as she scanned the room. Gihun followed close behind, the scent of fried food and citrusy beer filling his senses, and Sangwoo followed, shutting the door behind them.

“There,” Hyunju said, nodding toward the bar.

Gihun followed her gaze and saw Saebyeok and Jiyeong, seated side by side on high stools, already halfway through their first drinks. Saebyeok was dressed in her usual understated fashion, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one leg hooked casually over the footrest. Jiyeong had a denim jacket on, and she was in the middle of gesturing with her glass as she spoke.

They both looked up as the trio approached.

Saebyeok offered a nod, cool as ever, while Jiyeong broke into a wide grin and waved them over enthusiastically. Her eyes lit up the second they landed on Gihun.

“Hey! You actually came!”

Gihun raised a hand in a half-wave, lips parting like he was about to say something, but the words didn’t come right away.

Hyunju reached the bar first and slid into the stool beside Jiyeong, already slipping into conversation. Sangwoo gave Gihun a firm pat on the back and took the seat beside Saebyeok.

Gihun remained standing for a second longer than necessary, taking in the hum of laughter and the smell of fried chicken.

Finally, he pulled out a stool and sat down.

“You guys better not blow a hole in my business tonight,” Jungbae called out as he rounded the corner with a tray balanced in one hand. He set down a round of light drinks in front of them, his grin wide and teasing.

Jiyeong leaned over dramatically, eyeing the drinks with delight, “Oh, come on. Getting discounts is the only reason we come to this dump.”

Jungbae snorted, “You say that like you’re not the one who drains half my inventory every time.”

“She is,” Sangwoo added dryly, raising his glass. “You and Inho statistically consume the most. We’ve tracked it.”

“That one night doesn’t count!” Jiyeong huffed, though she clearly wasn’t offended. “Besides, I still need a rematch with him. I’ve been training.”

Saebyeok let out a rare low and warm laugh, and laced her fingers into Jiyeong's, “You're lucky you're hilarious when you're drunk.”

Hyunju smiled into her glass, taking a slow sip of her cocktail. Her eyes flicked toward Gihun for a brief moment, checking in without saying a word. He caught it and offered a small, grateful nod in return.

The conversations around the table were lighthearted and easygoing. Laughter sparked here and there, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass against glass. Gihun mostly kept to himself, choosing to sit back and absorb it all.

Saebyeok shared updates about the refugee center she and Jiyeong had been running together. There were after-school programs, language classes, and even housing placement services. She spoke as if it was just another update, but the pride was unmistakable in the way her eyes lit up.

Jiyeong nodded along, occasionally jumping in to add a detail, “We had this little boy who kept calling Saebyeok ‘eomma’ because he thought she looked too serious to be anything else,” she said with a laugh, grinning at Saebyeok playfully.

“He still does.” Saebyeok muttered, though her lips quirked in the faintest smile.

Not long after, Jiyeong managed to steer the topic toward Hyunju’s love life. Gihun wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute they were talking about casework, the next Jiyeong was whispering something into Hyunju’s ear that made her choke on her drink.

“Oh my god, no.” Hyunju said, flustered but not unamused.

“Yes.” Jiyeong shot back, and suddenly the three women were leaning into each other, trading stories, giggling behind their hands and exchanging knowing glances like high schoolers during lunch break.

Meanwhile, Sangwoo reached over and gently slid a small glass of soju toward Gihun. Their eyes met, but there was no pressure in Sangwoo’s gaze.

“Just one glass.” He said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Gihun hesitated for a second. Then, slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the cool, clear glass.  He lifted it, raised a small nod of acknowledgment, and tossed it back in one clean motion.

The burn hit his throat and bloomed warmly through his chest. He let out a long exhale, eyes closing for the briefest second.

When Gihun set the glass back down, he noticed Jungbae watching him from across the counter.

“Do you happen to remember anything?” He asked gently, as if he didn’t want to press Gihun too much, but couldn’t help being curious.

Gihun stared down at the empty soju glass, his fingers still resting lightly around it. He gave a slow shake of his head, “No... I don’t think I’ll ever get my memories back.”

There was a pause.

“That’s okay,” Jiyeong piped up from a few seats down, her chin resting on her hand as she sipped her drink. “We can always make new ones.”

Her words were light, but they landed with a sincerity that made Gihun glance at her way.

Jungbae gave a nod of agreement, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the bar, “Have you tried looking at the photos on your phone?”

Gihun blinked. The question caught him off guard, “Photos?”

“Yeah,” Jungbae said. “You used to take them all the time. Even the dumb ones. You wouldn’t shut up about ‘capturing moments.’ Might help jog something.”

Gihun hesitated. It wasn’t something he’d really considered. His phone still felt like it belonged to a stranger who happened to look like him. Even after waking up in this world, he’d barely touched the photo album. Maybe he didn’t want to.

Still, curiosity edged out the fear.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and unlocked it. He tapped into the photo gallery, and after a moment, the screen lit up with a mosaic of snapshots that he knew he didn’t live through.

At the top were recent ones: blurry cats mid-jump, latte art from the café, someone’s birthday dinner with candles mid-melt. But as he scrolled, older images emerged: group photos, beach selfies, nights out. Faces he knew. Some smiling, some blurry in motion.

Among the endless stream of photos, Gihun began to notice a recurring face. Inho. There were more pictures of him than Gihun was expecting. At parties. At the café. Standing awkwardly beside cats.

In one photo, Inho was squinting against the sunlight, standing next to Jungbae on a rocky pier, both of them wearing fishing vests and holding up a long, silver fish between them. Inho had a wide and unguarded smile, the kind of expression Gihun didn’t associate with him.

The sight made something twist in Gihun’s stomach. The lingering taste of soju on his tongue suddenly turned sharp and bitter.

He looks stupid. Gihun thought, swiping past the photo a little harder than necessary.

He stared at the next image, a group shot from some kind of hiking trip, when he asked, “So… how did you all become friends?”

The question made the group pause.

Hyunju exchanged a glance with Jiyeong, who shrugged slightly. Saebyeok raised a brow but said nothing. For a moment, it looked like no one wanted to be the first to answer.

Finally, Sangwoo set his glass down and leaned back slightly. “It started with you, me, and Jungbae,” he said. “We were one of the first regulars at the bar after Jungbae opened it. Then you started inviting people.”

As Gihun digested his words, Sangwoo swirled his drink, as if the memory surprised him too, “You kind of... collected people. Eventually we started doing weekend trips, birthdays, game nights. Before we knew it, this became a thing.”

Gihun blinked. He scrolled to another picture of the group crowded around a low table, laughing over a half-burnt birthday cake. His own face was in the center, eyes squinted and in the middle of laughing. Everyone looked happy.

“Oh.” He said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

There was something about learning that he had once been the glue between people. He had built something in this life, something good. Despite everything, these people had chosen to stay in each other’s orbit. Even now, with him halfway lost.

“You definitely recruited all of us for the perks,” Jiyeong teased, breaking the softness of the moment with a mischievous grin.

Saebyeok elbowed her with a mock-scolding look, but Gihun blinked in confusion, “Huh?”

Jiyeong leaned in, drumming her fingers against the table like she was delivering a well-rehearsed list.

“Okay, hear me out. Geumja and Yongsik run that Korean BBQ spot. You’ve got your cat café. Jungbae owns this place. Ali works at the bakery near the station. Sangwoo’s knee-deep in finance. Hyunju has ties with the animal welfare group.”

She grinned, enjoying the stunned look on Gihun’s face, “That’s discounts on food, drinks, cat supplies, pastries, and free investment tips. And that wasn’t even including everyone in our group either.”

“Don’t forget the shaman lady.” Hyunju added as she took a sip from her glass.

“Oh my god, yes!” Jiyeong lit up, snapping her fingers. “That totally random woman you somehow managed to befriend on the street, who, by the way, correctly predicted that you will have a fight with Sangwoo that same weekend.”

“And you convinced her not to charge you for it.” Hyunju added with a laugh.

“She said the energy around you was, and I quote, ‘volatile and cheap,’” Sangwoo said flatly, without even looking up from his drink. “Which… sounds about right, honestly.”

“Classic cheapskate of Ssangmun-dong.” Jiyeong giggled.

Gihun’s eyes narrowed. He turned toward Jungbae, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “You told them my nickname?”

“Hey!” Jungbae threw up his hands in protest while laughing, “I didn’t say a word! They figured it out on their own.”

“Yeah,” Saebyeok said with amusement. “You’re the reason half of us forget what a bill even looks like. You’ve somehow convinced everyone not to charge you for anything because you offer free lattes at your café like it’s some kind of trade offer.”

She took a slow sip of her drink and smirked, “That’s why our group chat is literally named Put It on My Tab.”

The table erupted into warm and easy laughter. Gihun shook his head in mock exasperation, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a growing, reluctant smile. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he belonged.

Then, behind Jungbae, a voice rang out:

“Hyungnim!”

The sound cut through the laughter like a blade. The glass slipped from Gihun’s hand.

Time seemed to stall.

The drink hit the floor with a sharp, crystalline crash, shattering into fragments that sparkled under the pub lights. But Gihun didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on the figure emerging from the back hallway.

“Kang Daeho…?” Gihun’s voice cracked, barely audible.

The young man glanced over and smiled. His hair was pulled back into that familiar small ponytail atop of his hair, “Oh Gihun-hyung! You’re here too!”

Gihun’s pulse thundered in his ears as Daeho turned to talk to the others. The chatter around the table faded into a low, muffled hum, like the sound of being submerged underwater. The walls of the pub seemed to close in, the lighting suddenly became too bright, too sharp.

And then it hit him. The memories crashing down like a tidal wave.

Daeho’s face, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with panic. The damp, suffocating maze closing in around them. Gihun’s fingers clenched tight around his throat, driven by rage. He could still feel it, the frantic struggle, the violent tremble of Daeho’s body as his breath drained from his lungs. And then, just before the end, he had told Gihun:

It’s your fault.

The words echoed through Gihun’s skull like a verdict. He shot to his feet.

“I— I need a minute.” He muttered. Without waiting for a response, Gihun turned and walked away, refusing to look back.

The hallway spun slightly as he shoved open the bathroom door and stumbled inside, the light flickering overhead.

He gripped the edge of the sink and turned the faucet on full blast. The water came out sharp and cold, but he barely felt it. His hands slid beneath the stream, trembling violently, skin pale. He scrubbed them hard, again and again, fingernails digging into his own flesh until it burned raw.

But it didn’t help.

He could still feel it. The pulse under his palm slowing… then stopping.

Gihun stared at his reflection, hollow eyes, shallow breath, sweat dripping from his forehead. The bathroom felt like a box, the walls seemed closer now, too close.

“Shit.” He hissed, barely above a whisper. The word broke out of him, desperate and bitter.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, lost in the motion. The world around him barely existed, until a stranger entered, paused, and said something about the blood.

Only then did Gihun glance down.

His knuckles were raw, skin torn, the water turning into a light pink. The sting finally registered, sharp and pulsing.

He shut the water off.

Gihun didn’t return to the table. Instead, he slipped out into the night, shoulders hunched. A few blocks away, he bought a pack of cigarettes and a roll of bandages from a convenience store, ignoring the cashier’s curious glance.

Outside, he leaned against the cold brick wall of the pub’s exterior, the weight of his memories pressing heavy against his chest. With shaking fingers, he wrapped his wounded hand, the white fabric staining into red almost immediately. Then he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face.

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, the smoke curling in the crisp autumn air.

“Figured I’d find you out here.”

Gihun turned his head slowly. Hyunju stood a few steps away, hands tucked into her coat pockets, the wind tugging lightly at her hair. Her voice was casual, almost teasing, but her eyes were anything but.

He tried to play it off, lifting the cigarette to his lips as if this were just a break. But Hyunju didn’t move or speak right away. She watched him for a moment, then stepped closer and leaned against the wall beside him.

“I know it’s probably… a lot,” she said quietly. “Coming back to all of this.”

Gihun stayed silent. He couldn’t say what he wanted to. That it wasn’t just memory loss. He didn’t belong here because this wasn’t his life. Not really. He came from a world where survival was bought with blood and desperation.

And yet… these people, this place, it all felt painfully real.

Hyunju glanced at him sideways, her voice softer now, “You don’t have to explain everything. But… it feels like there’s more to this than simple amnesia.”

Gihun’s eyes flicked to her. She didn’t flinch under his gaze, instead she offered a faint smile, one that didn’t press him but didn’t let him off the hook either.

He inhaled deeply, smoke curling around the edges of his thoughts. “I just…” he began, the words dry in his throat. “I feel out of place, like I don’t belong. Like I woke up in someone else’s life. One I’m supposed to recognize but can’t.”

Hyunju nodded, looking down as she nudged a loose pebble with the toe of her boot, “That makes sense. It’s hard trying to live in something that doesn’t feel like it’s yours. After I left the Special Forces and decided to transition… for a while, I didn’t even feel comfortable in my own skin, couldn't get hired anywhere, either. Not because I wasn’t qualified. But because I wasn't what they expected.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the quiet honesty in her voice. There was no pity or pressure.

She tilted her head slightly, glancing back at him, “So what’s going on? You don’t have to talk about everything, but… I don’t think silence is doing you any favors.”

He hesitated, gripping the cigarette tighter between his fingers.

Would it sound insane to say he remembered another life, a darker, crueler one? That he remembered killing Daeho in a maze, remembered the weight of their body going slack in his hands? Where all this laughter and warmth felt like a parallel universe, where the people he saw die had somehow found their way to happiness?

Would she believe him? Or would she look at him the way the other players had during the second Game, like he’d already lost his mind?

But something about the vulnerability Hyunju had offered made it feel wrong to keep everything inside.

“I…” Gihun’s voice faltered slightly. Where and how could he even begin? His grip on the cigarette tightened as he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging.

“I killed someone.”

He didn’t look at her, afraid of what he might see on her face. Quickly, he added, “Or at least… it felt like I did. It felt… real. And now I see them in front of me, I don’t know what to think or feel…”

Hyunju didn’t say anything at first. Gihun couldn’t tell her the full truth that he had killed Daeho, in another universe where everyone in his friend group died. He clenched his free hand until his nails bit into his palm, needing something sharp to tether him to the present, to stop the memories from flooding in again.

Then Hyunju spoke, “They’re still alive though, right?”

He blinked, her words slowly registering, “Huh?”

Hyunju turned her gaze up to the sky, as if searching for the right way to explain it, “They’re here. Alive.” Her eyes met Gihun’s. “And so are you. Even if they don’t know, that doesn’t mean you have to carry that guilt. You deserve to live like all of us.”

It hit Gihun harder than expected, the words you deserve to live echoed in his mind. He took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs before he let it slowly trail from his lips. Above them, faint stars dotted the night sky, barely visible through the city’s haze.

“I didn’t know what to think, either,” Hyunju continued gently. “When I found out you didn’t remember anything… it hurt a little, I won’t lie. But I remember what you did for me. You were the first person who saw me as me. You handed me a job at your café and told me to save up so I could go to Thailand one day and finish my transition.”

Gihun’s breath caught in his throat. The weight of her words, the memory of kindness he didn’t remember giving, felt like both a wound and a blessing.

“I didn’t forget it, even if you might’ve,” Hyunju said, stretching her arms above her head, her voice lighter now. “Perhaps you even have different memories now, but that doesn’t mean everything is gone. It just means we get to start again. Like Jiyeong said, we can make new ones. Moving forward doesn’t mean you’re betraying the past. Sometimes it’s the best way to honor it.”

Gihun looked at her, finally. And something inside him, long coiled and braced for rejection, softened just a little.

Hyunju pushed herself off the wall, brushing a bit of dust from her sleeve and adjusting her jacket. Then she offered him a small, easy smile.

“You should come back in when you’re ready,” She said, her voice laced with warmth. “If not, that’s fine too. No pressure. We all miss you.”

And with that, she turned and walked back toward the glowing lights of the pub, her figure slipping through the door.

Gihun stayed behind a moment longer, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette, the chill of the night wrapping around him like a faded blanket. Her words lingered, quiet and steady.

We all miss you.

He wasn’t sure he deserved that kind of grace. But for the first time, he didn’t immediately reject it.

Gihun stubbed out the cigarette against the ashtray, the ember dying with a faint hiss. He lingered a moment longer, letting the cool air settle against his skin before finally turning back toward the door.

The warmth inside the pub hit him almost immediately. The scent of sizzling food, the low murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter.

His steps slowed as he crossed the room. Then he stopped altogether.

At the bar, his friends were still gathered where he had left them. Jiyeong was leaning halfway over the counter, laughing at something Saebyeok had just said. Hyunju was back in her seat, chin propped on her hand, her eyes bright as she nodded along to the conversation. Sangwoo had turned sideways on his stool, taking sips as he listened. Jungbae moved between tables, joking with customers, but always pausing at their group to say something that earned a fresh round of smiles.

For a long moment, Gihun didn’t move.

It felt like watching them through glass, close enough to touch, yet impossibly distant. Then, as if sensing the weight of his gaze, Saebyeok’s eyes lifted and found his.

There was no hesitation in her expression. A small, knowing smile touched her lips as she raised a hand and waved, casually motioning for him to come over, like he naturally belonged with them.

One by one, the others turned to look at him with a welcoming and patient look.

And suddenly, the glass cracked. Not all at once, but enough for him to remember that this life still had space for him.

Just as Gihun began to take a step forward, a sudden commotion to his right yanked his attention away.

“Hey, boy! Look what the hell you did!” A rough voice barked, cutting through the hum of chatter.

Near one of the booths, a man had stood to his feet, wine-soaked and furious. His shirt was drenched in deep red splotches, liquid still dripping from the table’s edge into a widening puddle on the floor. In front of him stood Kang Daeho, stiff as a board, clutching his tray against his chest like a shield.

“I— I’m so sorry, sir,” Daeho stammered. “It was an accident—”

“This is a brand new shirt, you little shit!” the man snapped, stepping forward aggressively. “You gonna pay for this?”

Daeho flinched hard, like the man’s voice alone had struck him. His shoulders curled inward, bracing for something worse.

Gihun’s jaw clenched. His bit the inside of his cheek, and for a split second, the twisted and low voice returned, crawling through his mind like smoke.

It’s your fault.

He told himself to stay out of it, look the other way and walk. These things happen in bars all the time. Jungbae would step in to diffuse the situation since he was the owner of the pub. Besides, Daeho wasn’t a child. He could handle himself.

Gihun’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat as the man’s complaint grew louder, his gestures sharper and more erratic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to obey him. Just walk away. Sit down. You don’t deserve to help him after what you’ve done to him.

But his legs stayed rooted, locked in place.

The man took a step closer to Daeho.

And Gihun moved.

Chapter Text

The pub had gone quiet, save for the grumbling of the customer and the occasional shuffle of nearby chairs. Daeho was still standing there stiffly, the tray hugged tightly against his chest, his lips quivering slightly as his eyes betrayed the ripple of panic beneath.

Gihun didn’t move quickly. Instead, he felt like he was wading through a strong current, his hand twitched at his side, as though he was unsure if he wanted to clench it into a fist or not.

He passed his friends without looking at them. He didn’t acknowledge Sangwoo’s concerned look, Saebyeok’s tilted head or Jiyeong’s slight frown. He barely even noticed that Jungbae had rounded the corner of the bar and Hyunju had lowered her drink. The warmth of the table behind him faded. The laughter and the familiarity, all of it dimmed.

Daeho didn’t even notice Gihun at first. The man still stood there angrily with his shirt stained, voice loud and echoing with the kind of outrage that fed off public humiliation.

“You think an apology’s enough?” The man roared, his voice rising over the murmurs that had started to fill the pub. “You servers think you can just spill drinks and walk away with a sorry and a smile? Look at this, this was designer, you little—”

Gihun stepped in between them.

“That’s enough.”

The man faltered mid-rant, blinking at Gihun as if noticing him for the first time. His mouth opened to argue, but something in Gihun’s face made him pause.

Because Gihun wasn’t angry. He didn’t flinch in the face of a threat, because he knew he had already survived worse.

Daeho looked up startled, his lips parting slightly. He hadn’t expected anyone to step in.

The stillness only lasted a moment.

Then, with a snarl, the man lunged forward and grabbed Gihun by the collar, yanking him close. Daeho sucked in a breath, instinctively taking a step back. Across the room, Sangwoo shot to his feet, but Saebyeok reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him in place.

“Who the hell are you to get involved?” the man spat, his breath thick with alcohol, his face inches from Gihun’s. “You trying to be a hero, huh? Think you’re brave?”

A hero.

The words landed like an insult rather than an accusation. Gihun’s shoulders dropped slightly, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped him. It was quiet, bitter, and hollow. His head tilted downward, not in defeat, but in resignation.

A hero. That word again.

It clung to him like a bad joke. The Frontman— no, Inho had once called him that. He had dared Gihun to stop the Game, but in the end Gihun had to pay the price.

He had never asked for that label. He didn’t deserve it.

All he had ever wanted was to do something right, just once, without it being too late.

When Gihun lifted his gaze again, the shift was visible. His eyes locked onto the other man’s, steady and unflinching. It didn’t carry the rage the man expected, but something colder. It was a stare that made people uneasy, because it meant this wasn’t a bluff.

For the briefest second, something flickered in the man’s face. Confusion, maybe even clarity. It was like he was sobering up under that gaze, realizing too late that whatever line he thought he was crossing, he already had.

The man’s hand tightened in Gihun’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

“You wanna die, huh?” he spat, voice breaking into a growl. “You want to fucking die?”

Gihun didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His voice, when it came, was low and stripped of anything that could be mistaken for fear.

“Do it,” he said. “Kill me, then.”

The man hesitated. Then he muttered “fucking psycho” and shoved Gihun backward. Gihun stumbled one step, catching himself, but he didn’t retaliate.

Jungbae was already heading over, but the man grabbed his coat off the back of the booth, storming out with a string of curses before he could be stopped.

The door slammed behind him.

Silence lingered like smoke in the air. Gihun exhaled slowly and straightened his collar, brushing off invisible dust as if the whole thing had just been an inconvenience. He nodded at Jungbae in quiet acknowledgment, then turned to make his way back to his table.

“Gihun-hyung.”

He froze before turning slightly.

Daeho was still standing there with the tray in hand, his posture rigid with adrenaline. But his eyes held a tender and quiet gratitude.

“Thank you.” He said shakily and bowed.

Gihun didn’t answer. He stood still for a beat longer, his gaze lingering on Daeho’s face. This version of him didn’t remember the way his life had ended in that other world, at Gihun’s hands, in blood, terror and betrayal.

But maybe that was exactly why this mattered.

By choosing not to look away, not to walk past, was the closest thing Gihun would ever get to penance. Maybe peace wasn’t found in confession, but in course correction. In doing it differently this time.

He gave Daeho a small, wordless nod, then turned back to rejoin his friends, the noise of the pub gradually returning behind him like a record unpausing.

“Now that was cool.” Jiyeong said, there was a glint of admiration in her eyes, but she kept her tone light, almost teasing.

Gihun slid back onto the stool at the bar, the wood scraping against the floor. “It was nothing,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

He reached for the soju bottle with a hand that still trembled slightly, pouring a glass and knocking it back in one swallow. The burn didn’t bother him. It barely registered.

Around him, his friends resumed their rhythm in half-jokes, low murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter. But it all blurred at the edges for Gihun. The confrontation replayed behind his eyes like a scene on loop. The man’s red face twisted in outrage, his words ‘you trying to be the hero’ still echoed like a bruise forming beneath the skin.

Gihun’s grip around the soju glass tightened, the cold seeping into his palm but doing nothing to steady the heat rising in his chest. That’s right. It wasn’t Daeho’s fault. And it hadn’t been his, either.

Not entirely.

His phone buzzed softly, and he glanced down. The screen had lit up with a message from the group chat with another lighthearted exchange, a reminder that in this universe everyone was alive and okay.

Gihun didn’t read it though.

His eyes locked on the name at the top.

Hwang Inho.

The overseer of the game. The one who watched people unravel from behind a mask, while others bled for his and the VIP’s amusement. Gihun could still taste the bitterness of it like metal and smoke lodged at the back of his throat. He remembered the rage that had coursed in his veins when Youngil removed his mask and placed the knife on the table, offering that impossible choice: kill the others to save the baby. Save one, doom the rest.

Inho had never interfered. Not even at the end. Not when he could have stepped forward, and certainly not when the rules twisted into cruelty so profound that morality became a joke.

He had power. He could have helped. He chose not to.

Even in the end, when Gihun had stood at the edge of the platform with blood on his hands and grief in his lungs, holding Junhee's newborn to his chest as he waited for the clock to run down, Inho had never offered anything real. Not even his name.

Just silence.

That was the depth of his betrayal: faceless and nameless.

Gihun blinked, the weight in his chest coiling tighter, more familiar now. The true blood didn’t belong to the young man clutching a tray in fear. It wasn’t on Gihun for killing others whether it was out of despair or self-defense.

No.

The real blood was on Hwang Inho’s hands.

And someday, Gihun would make sure he remembered that.

He didn’t even realize he was still gripping the glass until the edge dug into his fingers. He loosened his grip and let go, finally looking back toward his friends who were laughing, alive, and whole.

“Gihun-hyung?”

He looked up. Daeho stood across the counter again, the tray now lowered to his side. His expression now was softer and apologetic, almost boyish in a sense.

“Please,” Daeho said, voice steady but cautious. “Let me take care of your bill tonight. For helping me. You didn’t have to… and because of me, you could’ve gotten hurt.”

For a second, Gihun didn’t answer. He blinked at him, like he was pulling himself back through a fog.

Then Jiyeong pointed a dramatic finger at Daeho, her voice rising in mock outrage, “No fair! Why does he get to drink for free tonight? Is saving a waiter the new loyalty program tier?”

Before Daeho could stammer a response, Saebyeok rolled her eyes and clamped a hand over Jiyeong’s mouth. Hyunju chuckled, shaking her head as Sangwoo rolled his eyes before taking another sip.

Gihun glanced back at Daeho and really looked at him.

His shoulders were drawn inward, chin slightly dipped not in fear, but in shame. Guilt radiated off him in quiet waves, as if he were trying to make himself smaller, to fold into the corners of the room. His eyes, wide and uncertain, searched Gihun’s face like he was waiting for confirmation that he hadn’t made things worse. 

And for a fleeting second, Gihun saw him differently, not as the man he once killed in another lifetime, but as he was now: kind, awkward, and still learning where he fit in the world. It seemed like some things do stay the same across realities.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault.

And it hadn’t been in that other world either.

Gihun let out a breath, the tightness in his chest loosening just slightly. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“It wasn’t your fault, Daeho-ah,” he said quietly. “Don’t carry what doesn’t belong to you.”

There was a pause. Then Daeho’s face softened, like some invisible weight had lifted from his frame. The furrow in his brow eased, his lips curved into a grateful, almost shy smile.

“Thank you, hyung-nim.” He said, bowing his head.

Gihun nodded, his attention returning to the soju bottle in front of him.

Because Daeho would never know the truth. He’d never know that those words weren’t only for him.

They were also for the man who had once squeezed the life out of him in a different world.

For the man still trying to forgive himself in this one.

The rhythm of the café on weekends moved with an entirely different pulse than the weekday rush. Gone were the early-morning commuters and hurried takeout orders. On Saturdays, the doors opened at nine instead of seven, and everything unfolded a little slower.

Still, Gihun had woken before sunrise, the instinct to be early hardwired after years of living on edge. It was his first time opening the café, and despite Hyunju’s promise to help him ease into it, he didn’t want to slip up. Not with this.

Hyunju arrived a few minutes after him, her hair still damp from a quick shower, greeting him with a smile.

“You look like you slept in your regular clothes.” She remarked as she shrugged off her coat.

“I didn’t want to be late.” Gihun responded, rubbing the back of his neck.

They moved through the opening routine. First came the cats. Hyunju walked him through the list of morning meds. There were certain felines like Mandu that needed eyedrops, while others that got powdered supplements mixed into their wet food. Kimchi needed coaxing and a special bowl warmed up to even go near his food. Gihun crouched to prep their trays while Hyunju moved into the back to clean litter boxes, her soft humming occasionally drifting in from the other room.

Once the cats were fed and content, lounging or stretching across their climbing trees, the two shifted focus to the café itself. Machines powered on with soft whirs and beans were grounded fresh.

Unlike the packed weekday mornings, weekends came gently. Most people choose to sleep in, brew their own coffee, or scroll through brunch menus from bed. Which meant the early hours were quiet enough for Gihun to hear the faint lapping of water from the cat fountain and the clink of mugs being shelved.

“Ali should be arriving soon with the pastry delivery,” Hyunju said, her eyes scanning the clipboard in her hand as she walked alongside the counter. “You two worked out some kind of partnership a while ago. Forty-sixty split on profits. You sure you weren’t being overly generous?”

Gihun glanced over from where he restocked the coffee bean bags. “I probably was,” he admitted with a faint smile. “But he’s a good guy. Deserves more than most.”

Hyunju hummed in agreement, flipping to the next page of the delivery schedule, “Well, it’s working. Customers love his stuff.”

Almost on cue, the front door chimed with that familiar, gentle ring. A gust of early morning air swept in, followed by the warm, cheerful presence that could only belong to one person.

“Hyung!” Ali called out, a wide smile lighting up his face as he stepped inside, arms full of two large trays neatly packed with fresh pastries. The aroma of butter, sugar, and something faintly spiced followed him. He wore his usual delivery jacket with the sleeves rolled up, a dust of flour still clinging to his forearms. He looked energized, almost proud, as if every croissant and tart had been personally handcrafted with great care.

“I brought the extra batch of cinnamon buns you mentioned last time. They’re still warm.” He held the trays up a little like a trophy before setting them down on the counter.

Gihun moved to help, lifting the cover off one of the trays. Steam rose in a soft curl, the pastries were golden, delicate, and perfect.

“Smells amazing.” Gihun said, giving him a nod of thanks.

Ali grinned, rubbing the back of his neck modestly, “Thank you, hyung. I added a few seasonal ones, too. Just in case you get any early customers.”

Hyunju raised an eyebrow at the display, “Okay, I take it back. Forty-sixty might’ve been a steal… for us.”

Ali chuckled, “I just want the café to do well. You’re feeding people and helping cats. It’s a good place. That matters.”

Gihun felt something in his chest shift slightly at that. The simplicity of Ali’s faith in people and in kindness. It hadn’t changed, no matter what timeline they were in.

Once Ali had waved goodbye and disappeared through the door, the café was left with a lingering scent of warm pastries and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, wrapping the space in a kind of lazy, weekend softness.

Gihun moved behind the counter, carefully unpacking the trays one by one. Each pastry was placed gently into the glass display case. He wiped down the edges, adjusted the placement, made sure the labels were straight. There was something almost meditative about it.

At the register, Hyunju had started taking the first round of weekend orders, her voice calm and warm as she chatted with a couple of early-bird regulars who shuffled in with puffy coats and sleepy eyes.

Suddenly, a soft thud could be heard behind the counter. Gihun turned just in time to catch a blur of orange fur mid-pounce.

“Kimchi, no!”

The tabby froze, one paw already reaching for a strawberry tart, his green eyes wide and unapologetic. Gihun swooped in just in time, scooping the cat up before he could wreak havoc on the fragile stack of baked goods.

“You are not about to become a health hazard for the customers.” He scolded, holding the cat at eye level with an exaggerated glare.

Kimchi gave a slow blink and an indifferent flick of his tail before wriggling free from Gihun’s grip. He landed lightly on the floor and immediately scampered off, unbothered by the failed heist, already darting after another cat with mischievous purpose.

Gihun sighed, watching the tabby disappear into the lounge area with the others.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He muttered under his breath before returning to the counter.

In front of him, the espresso machine hissed to life. Somewhere near the sunlit windows, a couple giggled as a calico curled up in one of their laps.

With no orders for the moment, Hyunju wandered through the café with her phone in hand, pausing every now and then to crouch and snap photos of the lounging cats or the fresh batch of pastries in their glass display. She moved with ease, finding good light, soft angles, and capturing the candid moments.

“What’s that for?” Gihun asked, looking over.

Hyunju grinned and tilted her phone toward him.

“It’s for the café’s social media account,” she said, opening the Instasnap app with a few quick swipes. “We’ve been gaining traction ever since you posted that picture of Youngmi and Inho with the cats.”

She scrolled down through the café’s profile until she reached a post from three months ago. It showed Youngmi standing in front of the café’s community bulletin board in her ambassador shirt, a gray kitten curled in her arms, her face glowing with delight. Next to her stood Inho, looking slightly awkward but smiling, a sleepy orange cat in his arms.

The caption beneath the post read: “Adoptions #49 and #50! We’re so happy to have found furever homes for these two sweethearts. Thank you to their new family for giving them a second chance. Come by Purrfect Brews to see more sweethearts in need of a home!”

Hyunju tapped on the comment section. “Apparently, half the internet thinks Inho should be an actor,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully. “Look at this, ‘navy shirt guy is so fine,’ ‘is that your barista or a K-drama lead?’ ‘he looks like Lee Byunghun' ‘Can he adopt me instead?’”

Gihun leaned in and scanned the screen. While a handful of comments praised Youngmi and cooed over the kittens, the majority were directed at Inho, specifically his jawline, his hair, and how “soft but brooding” he looked. Gihun snorted, shaking his head.

“He still looks stupid.” He muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Hyunju raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. With a soft swipe, she saved the photo of Gihun and Kimchi and began composing a new post with the other shots she’d taken earlier.

The café bell jingled and Gihun looked up, instinctively glancing toward the entrance.

Saebyeok stood in the doorway, exhaling hard like she’d been in an argument the whole walk over. She wore her usual air of prickly exhaustion, one hand firmly clasped around Cheol’s wrist as he trailed behind her, mid-whine.

“Why do you have to leave me here alone—”

“You’re not alone. There are cats. There’s Gihun-ahjussi and Hyunju-noona.” She said, cutting him off as she changed into the café slippers by the door.

Cheol huffed and flopped down at a small table in the corner, dragging his backpack beside him. He started pulling out a notebook with a mutter of annoyance under his breath as Saebyeok gave Gihun an apologetic look.

“Can I leave him here for a bit?” She asked, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Jiyeong and I need to run to the center. It won’t be long.”

Gihun didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said, his voice softening slightly as he glanced over at Cheol, who was already pretending to ignore both of them.

“Thanks,” she said with a quick breath. “I owe you one.”

She stepped over and planted a brisk kiss on Cheol’s head. He squirmed in quiet embarrassment but didn’t pull away.

“I’ll be back soon. Be good.”

With that, Saebyeok turned on her heel and slipped out the door. Gihun watched her go, then turned his gaze to Cheol. The boy had a pencil in hand now, eyes darting from his math book to Kimchi who was inching toward his eraser with interest.

Gihun decided to keep himself busy with the mundane tasks of the café. Behind the counter, Hyunju took orders with a warm smile, her voice rising now and then above the hum of conversation and the soft purrs and meows of the cats.

Every so often, Gihun’s eyes drifted toward the corner table where Cheol sat hunched over his homework. The boy’s phone was propped beside his notebook, alternating between math problems and distracted scrolling. He chewed on the back of his pen, brows furrowed, frustration mounting in small, visible ways.

In the other life, Gihun had made a very different decision.

He remembered the suitcase of cash he’d left with Sangwoo’s mother. The way he had walked away without looking back, hoping she would raise Cheol with care, that the money would be enough to make up for all that had been taken. After he entered the Game a second time, he never got to know what had happened to Cheol.

But here, in this life, Cheol still had Saebyeok. They had each other. And that, more than anything, seemed to be making all the difference.

As Gihun swept the lobby, broom gliding over the floor, he watched Cheol let out another sigh, then drop his pen with despair. Gihun walked over and stopped at his table, leaning slightly on the broom handle.

“You good, Cheol-ah?” He asked gently.

Cheol groaned and leaned back in his chair, slumping dramatically, “This problem is impossible. I don’t get any of it.”

Gihun leaned down to peer at the workbook. It was algebra. Something with variables and parentheses and a long string of numbers that blurred together faster than he cared to admit. Truthfully, math had never been his strong suit. Back in high school, he’d spent more time doodling in the margins or daydreaming out the window than actually solving equations. But he picked up the pen anyway, trying to walk Cheol through what might have been the right steps.

“Okay, so… you wanna move this number here, I think,” Gihun muttered, brow furrowed as he traced a finger across the equation. “Then maybe… you divide?”

Cheol gave him a flat, unimpressed look.

“You don’t even know how to do this problem, do you, ahjussi?” He said, suspicion clear in his voice.

Gihun laughed awkwardly, the pen pausing mid-scratch, “I mean… I almost had it.”

Just then, a hand slid into view and plucked the pen right out of Gihun’s fingers.

“Hey—!” Gihun started to protest, straightening, but the words trailed off as he turned and saw who it was.

Inho had pulled out a chair and sat down beside Cheol, already leaning over the workbook as his eyes scanned the problem.

“You need to isolate this variable first,” Inho said, pointing casually at the equation. “You’re trying to solve for x, but you skipped a step.”

Cheol leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest, while Gihun remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.

He scowled, “What are you doing here?”

Inho didn’t look up or flinch, “Came by to get coffee. Saw you both suffering and figured I’d save the day before the poor kid fails algebra.”

Yet you couldn’t save me. The thought entered Gihun’s mind before he could even process it. He caught himself, frowning immediately. Wait, why the hell do I care if he saves me or not. He betrayed me, he shot Jungbae. He was never going to be a good person in the end.

Gihun narrowed his eyes. Before he knew it, his voice was laced with dry sarcasm, “And here I thought you only cared about high-stakes games. You know, life or death, morally ambiguous dilemmas. Not algebra homework.”

Inho’s pen paused for a second. Then he lifted his gaze, meeting Gihun’s eyes. There was something unreadable there, but it passed too quickly to name.

“What are you talking about?” He asked.

Gihun scoffed in exasperation. “Forget it,” he muttered, the anger bubbling up now more from the fact that he’d even let the conversation veer into dangerous waters than from anything Inho had said.

Inho stared at him for a second longer before he turned back to the workbook and resumed walking Cheol through the problem. Gihun watched as Inho explained with surprising patience, and Cheol scribbled down notes with a growing look of understanding.

Eventually, Gihun let out a quiet sigh through his nose, turned on his heel, and returned to sweeping the café floor. The rhythmic scratch of bristles filled the space, blending with the soft hum of conversation and the purring of a black cat curled near the windowsill.

But Gihun’s ears stayed tuned to the table behind him.

“How are you so good at this?” Cheol asked, clearly impressed. “You explain it better than any of my teachers.”

Inho chuckled, the sound quieter than usual, almost fond. “My younger brother used to struggle with math too,” he said, eyes still on the page. “I tutored him whenever I could. He was smart, just needed things broken down differently.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, and it felt like a splinter under Gihun’s skin. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned away, broom in hand, and made his way to the staff room.

Inside, he propped the broom against the wall, tying off the trash bag, and replacing it without a word. There was a hollowness in the silence that followed.

When Hyunju excused herself to the bathroom, Gihun stepped behind the counter to cover for her. He greeted customers, took orders, and moved through the motions. He almost forgot Inho was still there, until he wasn’t sitting at the table anymore, but standing right in front of Gihun.

“Can I get one hot Americano?” Inho asked, then hesitated. “And a hot cocoa. For Cheol.”

Gihun didn’t speak, he simply nodded and tapped the order into the register. The beep of the screen and the swipe of the credit card were the only sounds exchanged between them. Inho took the receipt with a quiet thanks but didn’t walk away.

Instead, he lingered.

Gihun raised a brow, his voice clipped, “Do you need something else?”

Inho gave an awkward laugh, “No, I just…” He hesitated, then glanced at Gihun again. “I saw the café’s new Instasnap post. You and Kimchi. It’s a cute photo.”

Gihun stared at him, unimpressed by Inho's attempt to compliment him. Then, he asked flatly, “What’s your handle?”

Inho blinked, “Inh0202. Why?”

“No reason.”

Gihun turned back to the drink station where he made the Americano first, then the cocoa. Once both cups were ready, he placed them on the counter and slid them toward Inho without meeting his eyes, “Here.”

Inho gave a quiet thank-you, taking the drinks and heading back toward Cheol. Gihun watched him go, just long enough to see the small smile he gave Cheol as he handed him the cocoa. His phone was already in his hand by the time he reached the far end of the counter. He opened Instasnap and into the search bar, he typed:

@inh0202.

The profile loaded in an instant.

A grid of quiet moments popped up. Mountain trails wrapped in morning fog. A streetlamp-lit alley after rain. A quick snapshot from a morning run.

Gihun’s gaze hovered there only briefly before it slid to another post. One that made the breath catch slightly in his chest.

It was a photo of him from a few months ago.

Taken from the side, in front of the café. He was crouched low, smiling at a stray cat that had climbed into his lap. The light hit just right, enough to soften his expression, to make him look almost at peace.

The caption beneath it read: “How does he always find them first?” Followed by a paw print emoji.

The image was too casual and affectionate. It felt like a quiet punch to the gut. Not because of what it showed, but because it hinted at something more, something Gihun had never agreed to give and never wanted to receive. He stared, not at himself, but at the fact that Inho had taken and posted the photo. The way he framed Gihun through a lens that saw something worth remembering left a sour taste in Gihun's mouth.

Because Gihun didn’t want to be remembered like that.

Not by him.

Without hesitation, he tapped the menu icon in the top corner of the screen.

Block.

The button turned red.

Confirm?

Yes.

The screen refreshed, the profile vanishing without ceremony.

Done.

The screen faded back to his feed. Blank in all the ways Gihun wanted to feel. He slipped the phone into his back pocket and returned to the counter, cloth in hand, wiping slowly. The surface was already spotless, but his movements didn’t stop.

His thoughts didn’t stop.

Why did this version of me have to be friends with him?

Chapter Text

By the time Gihun got back around five thirty, the apartment was steeped in a haze from the setting sun. The scent of garlic and something gently simmering greeted him at the door.

Inside, he found Sangwoo on the living room couch, a laptop balanced on his thighs. His glasses had slipped low on his nose, and he didn’t glance up when Gihun entered, only offering a vague hum of acknowledgment. From the kitchen came the low hum of music and the sound of water running. Jungbae was moving about efficiently, already half into prepping dinner. He wore a dark apron over a black T-shirt and joggers, his sleeves rolled up.

“You’re back early,” Jungbae said. “Go wash up. We’re eating soon.”

“I didn’t know we were doing a whole meal.” Gihun muttered, eyeing the array of dishes already in progress. There were banchan containers opened on the counter, rice steaming in the cooker, and a pot of bubbling jjigae on the stove.

Jungbae finally glanced over his shoulder, “I don’t go into work until eight. One of the rare times that all three of us are here. Figured I’d make something decent.”

Gihun lingered a second longer. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves on the way.

Later, at the dinner table, the three of them sat on each side, chopsticks clicking against bowls. Gihun ate quietly. Jungbae and Sangwoo exchanged a few words, mostly teasing jabs and the occasional sigh over work. Gihun joined here and there, offering a comment or a nod, even a low chuckle when Sangwoo recounted a story about a coworker breaking the copy machine.

Even as he swallowed the warm broth and let it settle in his bones, something felt… off.

Not bad, merely strange.

Across the table sat two of the most important people from his life.

Jungbae, his steadfast best friend from adulthood. The one who stuck with him through the factory strikes and the blood-soaked halls of the Game’s rebellion. He had fought and fallen for the same cause Gihun had once believed might save something.

And Sangwoo, his childhood best friend. The boy who had followed him everywhere with that loyal devotion, the word hyung always at the tip of his tongue like a promise, even when the world turned cruel. Even when everything fell apart, he still took his own life so Gihun could live.

Now they were here again. Together. Sitting at a table in a cramped apartment, passing kimchi and scooping stew into bowls like it was another Saturday.

You deserve to live like all of us.

Gihun drew in a slow breath, the scent of bubbling stew and sesame oil grounding him. He focused on the clatter of chopsticks and the low hum of conversation between Jungbae and Sangwoo.

Hanging onto the past wasn’t helping him. He could feel the way his guilt hollowed him out, how it turned every small joy into a shadow of what it could be. It wasn’t fair to his friends either. Gihun could tell they were worried but didn’t know how to approach him about it.

Perhaps it was time to let go, not the memory, but of the way it clung like chains around his ribs.

Maybe this really was a second chance. If there was penance to be made, he could make it here. In quiet kindness, in laughter, and within moments like this.

He pushed his shoulders back and tried to relax, consciously releasing the tension coiled in his spine. He didn’t talk about the past. Instead, he forced himself to lean into the present.

At first it was conscious effort. Every smile was forced, every laugh a small rebellion against the weight he carried. Bit by bit, something in his chest began to loosen.

“Jungbae-ah,” Gihun said, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you still over-season your side dishes like you’re trying to bribe our taste buds.”

The chopsticks in Jungbae’s hand froze mid-air, his expression shifting from surprise to mock offense. He slowly turned to face Gihun, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, you are not starting a food war at my own table,” Jungbae warned, jabbing a spoon in Gihun’s direction. “Not when I slaved over this dinner.”

Gihun snorted, leaning back in his seat with a smug tilt to his head, “Too late. War has been declared. This kimchi? Saltier than your attitude towards our supervisor back at the factory.”

Sangwoo nearly choked on his rice from laughter, “He’s not wrong, hyung.”

“You little traitor!” Jungbae barked, turning toward Sangwoo now who was still nonchalantly eating. “You used to beg me to pack you extra for work!”

“Stockholm syndrome.” Sangwoo coughed behind his hand.

Jungbae dramatically placed a hand to his chest, “You ungrateful punks. One day I’m gonna stop cooking and then we’ll see who begs who.”

Gihun smiled into his bowl, the laughter humming in his chest like a distant melody he thought he’d forgotten. For a brief moment, the air felt lighter. They were simply three ordinary men sharing dinner.

And Gihun found he didn’t mind the salt after all.

He glanced across the table and cocked an eyebrow. “Sangwoo-ah,” he said, voice playful, “you’re still mixing all your banchan into one bowl? What are you, seven?”

Sangwoo didn’t look up, too focused on his chaotic bowl of rice, kimchi, and marinated bean sprouts, “It all ends up in the same place, hyung. I call it innovation.”

“You call everything innovation,” Jungbae muttered, glancing at the empty bowls and stacked utensils, “Anyways, it’s Rock-paper-scissors time. Loser does the dishes.”

All three of them instinctively extended their hands over the center of the table.

“An naemyeon jin geo gawi bawi bo!”

Gihun’s hand flashed out in a confident paper while Jungbae groaned when he threw out rock. Sangwoo sighed when he also had thrown out rock, making Gihun the winner of the first round.

“Of course,” Jungbae said, exasperated. “Of course you win again. I swear, you’ve got the devil’s luck when it comes to dish duty.”

“I guess I’m just lucky.” Gihun said innocently, though there was a playful glint in his eye.

Now it was down to Sangwoo and Jungbae. Gihun stayed at the table, watching the two stare each other down. Where Gihun came from, Sangwoo and Jungbae had never met. In truth, after Sangwoo had gone off to college and kickstarted his career, Gihun started drifting further apart from him. But here, the three of them were roommates. Friends.

“An naemyeon jin geo gawi bawi bo!”

Gihun looked down.

Sangwoo threw scissors.

Jungbae threw rock.

Nobody moved for a split second, until Sangwoo’s shoulders slumped dramatically, “Unbelievable.”

“You lose,” Jungbae said smugly, already pushing his chair back with exaggerated relief. “Guess being the genius Cho Sangwoo of SNU doesn’t help you with chores.”

As Jungbae disappeared into the hallway and into his bedroom with his smug theatrical flair, Gihun watched Sangwoo gather the bowls with a dramatic sigh, but no real bitterness. Gihun didn’t leave the kitchen right away. Instead, he drifted over to the sink beside Sangwoo, grabbed a clean dish towel, and began drying the plates as they came out of the soapy water.

“You really don’t have to—” Sangwoo began, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“Let me help, Sangwoo-ah.” Gihun cut him off gently.

Sangwoo paused for half a second, like he might protest again, but he gave a faint nod and returned to scrubbing. The only sounds between them for a while were the soft clatter of ceramic, the rush of warm water, and the faint hum of city traffic through the apartment windows.

Gihun wiped down a bowl slowly before carefully placing it back into the cabinet, his fingers lingering on the cool ceramic. Then, without looking up, he asked, “How did the three of us… end up living here?”

Sangwoo gave a short exhale, not quite a sigh. He didn’t stop scrubbing.

“It was after Jungbae got divorced,” he said simply. “Had nowhere to stay. You were the one who brought up the idea of moving in together. Said it’d be cheaper if we all chipped in. Dragged me and Inho into it.”

“You and…?” Gihun started, but the rest of the sentence caught in his throat.

Sangwoo flicked a glance his way and nodded slightly, as if he understood the question Gihun hadn’t fully voiced.

“My lease was ending anyway,” he said. “Didn’t see the point in paying for a one-bedroom when I could split rent with people I already knew. As for Inho… I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”

There was no edge to his voice, but no warmth either. It was a simple matter-of-fact tone, rinsed clean of whatever opinions might’ve once lingered underneath. The scent of citrus dish soap floated up with the steam.

Gihun reached for another plate and dried it carefully. A part of him tried to picture the version of himself that had suggested this living arrangement. The one who’d smiled more easily and convinced old friends to stay close. The one who still believed he deserved that kind of closeness.

“That version of me,” Gihun murmured, almost to himself. “Do you think I could ever be like him again? Even if… I don’t remember being him at all?”

He wasn’t sure what answer he expected. Maybe a shrug, or even silence. Instead, Sangwoo didn’t move right away. He rinsed the last bowl with quiet care, then passed it over, his fingers brushing lightly against Gihun’s. When their eyes met, Gihun saw something shift behind the lenses of Sangwoo’s glasses, as if he was searching. Not suspicion, not doubt… just a long, lingering look, like he was trying to find the thread of the friend he once knew.

And maybe, in that moment, he did.

Sangwoo’s expression softened. The faint crease between his brows eased, and the hard lines around his mouth gave way to something gentler.

His voice, when it came, was low and sure.

“No matter what you remember… or don’t,” he said. “You’ll always be our Seong Gihun.”

Gihun exhaled slowly. He folded the towel in his hands slowly, the kitchen suddenly feeling warmer. It wasn’t from the heat of the sink or the steam still curling in the air. Rather, it was from the comfort of being seen. Even when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

“Thanks,” Gihun’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Sangwoo only nodded, then turned to hang up the sponge, as if he hadn’t just stitched a piece of Gihun back together with a single sentence.

Once Gihun had finished drying the last dish and handing it off to Sangwoo, he offered a quiet goodnight and made his way down the short hallway to his room. The door clicked softly behind him.

He sat on the edge of his bed and let out a slow breath. He reached for his phone, thumb already tapping open Instasnap without conscious thought.

The café’s account was the first thing he checked.

The feed was its usual collection of cozy. Cats lounging on cushions, latte art under golden light, and the occasional photo of pastries in the display cases. He scrolled until he saw the latest post that the account had uploaded that afternoon: one of him, mid-motion, catching Kimchi red pawed as the cat tried to sneak a snack off the counter. His expression was half-annoyed, half-amused, and the lighting made it look like a genuine ad.

It had already pulled in more likes than usual. Then, Gihun tapped on the comments.

Jungbae had left a snarky note about the lighting: “Who took this? Vogu? ELL?”

Ali had commented something sweet about his strawberry croissants: “Pastries might be the real thief today 🥐”

Even Daeho had dropped in with a nostalgic “I gotta come by again, miss those fluffy gremlins.”

Gihun allowed himself to let out a small smile, amused at his friends’ reactions until he spotted a comment that made him pause.

“Barista looks like a model 👀”

Below it, the café’s official account had replied, cheeky and fast:

“That’s our owner 😉 come by and say hi!”

His brows furrowed. That’s our owner with a winky face? He could already imagine Junhee’s smug grin behind the screen. He made a mental note to interrogate her later.

Before he could spiral into embarrassment, he refreshed the feed and immediately scowled. A new post from a few hours ago.

It was Inho with a close-up shot of his hand holding one of their café’s signature mugs, the logo perfectly angled. The caption read: “@purrfectbrews always make the best coffee ☕️”

Gihun’s jaw clenched, “I could’ve sworn I blocked him.”

Irritation prickled at the edge of his thoughts as he tapped on Inho’s profile. Sure enough, he was unblocked. Without hesitation, Gihun hit block. The screen confirmed it: red button, final click.

Done.

He set his phone down on the bed, lying back with a groan. Maybe he needed to meditate. Or scream into a pillow. Or both.

But ten minutes later, when he absentmindedly opened his app again, his blood pressure spiked.

Inho’s post was still there. And worse, his profile was not blocked. Gihun blinked in response. He checked again. He had blocked him. He was sure of it.

And yet, somehow, Inho was back.

Again.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gihun muttered.

He blocked him again with far more force than necessary, practically jabbing the screen with his finger. Then he held the phone, staring at it and daring it to undo him a third time.

Slowly, he set his phone down.

Five minutes later, Inho’s account was unblocked yet again.

“What the—” Gihun sat up like he’d been shocked, his thumb already hovering above block again. And that’s when his screen flashed with a caller ID:

Junhee.

He accepted the call immediately, “Hello?”

Her voice came back in a flat tone, “Stop blocking Inho’s account.”

“Excuse me? You’re abusing your admin privileges,” Gihun retorted back. “It’s my café. Not his fan club.”

Junhee responded immediately, “Listen, I don’t care if you block him on your personal account, but stop nuking our visibility every time he tags us. You’re messing with the café's engagement algorithm.”

“You and your damn algorithm…” Gihun gritted his teeth.

“Me and my damn paycheck. The bills don’t pay itself, Gihun,” she said before adding on. “Besides, Hyunju have done the math. Inho contributes a good chunk of the profits since customers would come to the café to meet the good-looking owner they saw on his account.”

Gihun scowled, “What’s next? You want me to collab with him?”

“Ooh,” Junhee chirped with mock enthusiasm. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

Gihun wasn’t amused by her answer. “Goodnight, Junhee,” he said, and hung up before she could squeeze in another word.

His eyes lingered on the screen, still lit up with Inho’s profile. He should’ve closed it, tossed the phone aside and gone to bed. However, he let out a deep and annoyed sigh and started to scroll.

Just a little, he told himself. Just enough to see if this version of Inho had any cracks in the polished surface. If Gihun had found a way into this world, maybe this wasn’t their Inho either. Maybe the real Inho from his world had done the same.

And Gihun wasn’t about to let the Frontman ruin this world too.

He needed a reason to justify the strange weight in his chest, something to prove he was right to block him. A right to stay angry.

The top of Inho’s grid was what Gihun expected: aesthetic coffee shots, quiet city mornings, and running trails with filtered sunlight catching his breath mid-air.

But as he kept scrolling, the tone shifted.

Mixed in among the artsy shots were photos from group outings. Nights at Jungbae’s pub, the amber glow of overhead lights casting warmth over clinking glasses. A group selfie from Jiyeong’s birthday, half-laughing with cake on her face. Even Gihun himself, caught blurry in the background once or twice, talking to someone out of frame.

But Inho?

Always the one behind the camera.

He scrolled further. There were a few more posts like that, his presence only marked by captions or tagged usernames. Photos of his friends laughing together, but never a trace of Inho in the moment.

For someone who seemed so present in everyone else’s stories, it was strange how absent he was from his own.

Then one photo stopped Gihun cold.

He’d been scrolling on autopilot, skimming captions, but this one drew his full attention.

It was a shot taken in front of the café. The “Grand Opening” banner stretched above the entrance, bright against the clean storefront. A ribbon of sunlight cut through the frame, casting a soft hue across the scene.

Standing beneath the banner was Gihun, a large bouquet of white lilies and soft pink dahlias cradled in his arms. And right next to him was Inho, dressed in a pale turtleneck under a light coat, his expression relaxed, almost warm.

However, it wasn’t the setting or the flowers or even the banner that made Gihun go still.

It was them. The way they were standing.

Their shoulders brushed so closely they overlapped. They didn’t seem to notice the space shared between them, or if they did, they didn’t mind. Inho wore a small, close-lipped smile, subtle but undeniably sincere. It wasn’t the cold, unreadable mask the Frontman had worn like armor; nor the bold, magnetic grin of Youngil that had once pulled Gihun in like gravity. It was…

Human.

And Gihun?

His own smile looked… different.

It wasn’t forced. The corner of his eyes curved upward into a crescent shape, his face relaxed and open. His body wasn’t angled toward the camera but toward Inho. And his head had tipped ever so slightly in Inho’s direction, like it was a habit that happened often.

“What the hell…” Gihun muttered, narrowing his eyes at the caption.

Congratulations on your grand opening, Gihun.

He blinked. The photo had a dozen comments and a good number of likes. Compliments on the café, people cheering on the opening, and even emojis. Some even mentioned how “cute” the two of them looked together.

Gihun stared longer than he meant to.

Then he noticed something else, his username was tagged. He hesitated for a second, then tapped the tag. It brought him to a profile he hadn’t seen yet: @gi_hunny1031.

It was his personal Instasnap account.

Apparently, he had one in this world. Not only that, he’d also been using it. Or… this version of him had.

A few clicks and swipes later, he’d switched from the café’s profile to his own. The app loaded, pulling up a feed of filtered photos, mostly cat content, café life, snapshots with friends. And Inho. More of him than Gihun was expecting. Group photos, shared coffees, blurry candid moments, and inside jokes in the captions.

In one post, he and Sangwoo sat shoulder to shoulder at a convenience store with two bowls of ramen, their faces caught mid-bite. Gihun’s cheeks were puffed out with food, his expression vaguely startled, like his name had been called in the moment. Sangwoo had his chopsticks raised, eyes glancing upward, lips parted as if he’d been about to ask a question. It wasn’t perfect but it caught the moment in time.

The caption beneath read: “Late-night ramen run with Sangwoo and Jungbae”

It had likes, comments, even a string of emojis from their friend group. Gihun stared at it for a long moment, a strange ache forming in his chest. How many of these nights had happened in this world without him? Or rather, with a version of him that wasn’t burdened by everything he remembered?

Gihun didn’t know how long he stared for, but eventually his fingers moved again. He tapped into his profile settings, clicked on the username field. gi_hunny1031.

The username had once belonged to another Seong Gihun. A man carved from laughter and light, who smiled beside Inho beneath sunlit skies, and slurped ramen with Sangwoo under neon nights. He was probably unburdened by the weight of graves, and untouched by the echo of gunfire and the taste of copper.

A Gihun who had lived, not survived.

However, he was here now. And if this life was his to live, then he could at least keep a new username. A piece of belonging, however small.

He carefully deleted the existing handle. Then he typed:

@ssangihun31

He hit update. With a deep exhale, he swiped out of the app.

His gaze drifted to the KaokaTalk icon next, buzzing faintly with notifications. The group chat was active with over a dozen unread messages. Gihun tapped it open, watching as message after message filled the screen in rapid succession. They were all talking about the outing they'd been planning for weeks now.

It was paintball this time. Apparently, it had started off as a half-joke that snowballed into an actual plan with rentals and locations.

Now the event was making it out of the group chat.

Saebyeok: I’m already packing snacks for the trip. If anyone touches my choco pies, I will not hesitate to shoot you first.

Junhee: We’re leaving early. I’m not kidding. If you’re late, we leave you behind.

Hyunju: Last-minute headcount! @gihun, you in? Need to finalize the cost.

Gihun stared at the message. A few days ago, he would’ve ignored it, closed the app, or typed out some half-hearted excuse. But now…

His fingers hovered, then typed out a simple reply.

Gihun: Yeah. I’m in.

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Then:

Hyunju: Noted.

Jiyeong: Omg, Hyunju write it down. The legend has returned.

Saebyeok: Brace yourselves, he’s gonna be dramatic about paintball, I can feel it.

A smile tugged at the corner of Gihun’s mouth. Before he could think too hard about it, his thumbs were already moving again, this time sending a sticker of a tiny cartoon bear dressed in an army outfit, saluting with intensity. More messages flew in. Ali was debating who would win in a Gihun-vs-Jungbae standoff. Daeho chimed in to claim he had perfect aim and would carry the team. Someone sent a gif of a paintball war zone from a comedy sketch show.

Within minutes, Gihun found himself typing replies. Joking back. Dropping emojis. Adding reactions. As he was in the middle debating with Junhee, a notification popped up across the top of his screen.

Inho: Did you change your Instasnap user?

Gihun stared at the message. Why does he care? He typed in a quick response.

Gihun: yeah.

Then, without another thought, he flicked back to the group chat, tossing in a few emojis to Junhee’s barrage of over-prepared itinerary notes. He managed to keep the flow going… until another notification flashed.

Inho: Why?

Gihun exhaled, a sharp sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. He tapped into their private chat. It was empty, save for this brief exchange. There was no lingering history, no archived photos, no breadcrumb trail of friendship or anything close to it. Just this.

He started typing.

Gihun: I felt like it.

A few seconds passed.

Inho: But why ssangihun?

Gihun’s thumb hesitated above the screen. Since when was Inho this persistent?

Then again, he might’ve misremembered. The only version of Inho Gihun had truly known was the one hiding behind the name Youngil, sharp, confident, and composed to the point of intimidation. A man who never buckled, who picked up the pieces when Gihun couldn’t hold it together. It was Youngil stood at his side when no one else did.

And it was Youngil who ultimately shattered every illusion Gihun had built.

Now here he was, still chipping at Gihun’s defenses with a string of casual questions. Still trying to pry something open.

Inho: Is it short for Sangwoo and Gihun?

Gihun’s fingers tightened around the phone. That hit too close. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but it came out as a breath through his nose.

Gihun: No. It stands for Ssangmun-dong Gihun.

He didn’t blink, expecting an immediate reply, something smug or sarcastic, but nothing came. The stillness stretched long enough for doubt to creep in. Gihun wondered if Inho had closed the app, or maybe he’d finally stop being annoying and dropped it.

As he began to turn away, the familiar typing bubble appeared.

Inho: I don’t believe it. You probably typed an extra s by accident and now you’re trying to make it mean something.

Gihun: Take my explanation or leave it.

Inho: You sure do respond quickly when I get your attention.

Gihun nearly threw his phone across the room. A flush of heat climbed up the back of his neck. Anger, shame, or something dangerously close to both. He immediately swiped out of the app and locked his phone. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned. He plugged his phone in and placed it face-down on the nightstand.

The nerve, he thought bitterly, as if it’s a game to him, getting under my skin.

Gihun settled into his bed and pulled the blanket over himself, turning away from the nightstand. The room was quiet, but his thoughts churned with unwelcome noise. The corners of memory curled up, foggy but insistent: Inho’s voice, Youngil’s smile, a warm hand offering help before twisting it into betrayal.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the words lingered.

Later that night, sleep didn’t come easy. When it did, it came in waves, shallow and uneasy, chased by flickers of past games and half-formed regrets that never stayed buried for long.

The paintball venue sat nestled at the foot of a forested mountain, the towering trees swaying gently in the cool morning breeze. The scent of pine and damp earth lingered in the air, an odd contrast to the anticipation of the colorful chaos about to unfold.

Gihun, Jungbae, and Sangwoo had taken the subway together, then flagged down a cab that wound its way up the narrow road toward the national park. The ride had been mostly quiet, except Jungbae kept talking about the cost of weekend surge pricing and Sangwoo quietly checking the rules of paintball on his phone as if it were an exam.

When they arrived, Gihun was the first to spot the others. Under a patch of shade near the check-in booth, Daeho stood with a coffee in hand, chatting with Ali. Meanwhile Hyunju, Youngmi and Junhee were leaning against a wooden railing, waving as the trio approached. Even little Yumin had come along, nestled in Junhee’s arms.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Junhee called, shielding her eyes from the sun with a dramatic sweep of her hand.

Ali grinned wide and gave Gihun a firm clap on the back, “You came just in time! We’re going to do check-in soon.”

They exchanged greetings, laughter bubbling easily among the group as the energy picked up, fueled by caffeine, excitement, and the promise of mild violence with paint.

Not long after, a familiar voice rang through the clearing.

“Yah! I swear, if I get shot in the face again like last time—!”

Jiyeong jogged up the dirt path with a drawstring bag bouncing on her back and a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. She waved enthusiastically as she neared, her cheeks already flushed from the brisk air.

Behind her came Saebyeok, her hood drawn tight around her face like armor against the cold. She gave a short wave with one hand, the other stuffed in her hoodie pocket.

“You’re gonna get warm once the game starts,” Jiyeong said, nudging her playfully. “No use hiding in there like a turtle.”

Saebyeok muttered something under her breath, her nose still tucked into the fleece, but Gihun caught the subtle smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Walking behind her was a woman Gihun didn’t recognize. She moved with steadiness, her posture straight despite the uneven dirt path. Shoulder-length hair swayed with each step, the ends kissed by frost and curled slightly from the cold.

As the group began to gather closer, Gihun leaned toward Saebyeok.

“This is…?” He asked quietly, gesturing toward the unfamiliar woman. Saebyeok tilted her head slightly, then motioned toward her with a gloved hand.

“This is Kang Noeul,” she said. “She’s the lead ambassador at the refugee center.”

Noeul offered a modest bow, her hands tucked neatly in front of her. The group murmured their greetings in return, a mix of polite nods and curious glances. Gihun’s eyes flicked between the two women. Now that they stood side by side, it was hard not to notice: the matching sharpness in their features, the similarly cut hair, even the subtle guardedness in the way they scanned their surroundings.

“Saebyeok-ah,” Gihun said, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. “You never told me you had a sister.”

Saebyeok let out a rare laugh, “We’re not related. But you wouldn’t be the first person to think that.”

“She insists it’s a coincidence,” Noeul added.

Daeho looked up first, a wide grin spreading across his face as he lifted a hand and waved past Saebyeok and Noeul, “Hyung-nim!”

Gihun turned automatically, but the sound of his name felt distant, muffled by the sudden rush in his ears. His vision narrowed, tunneling as two familiar figures came into view.

The first was Inho.

He looked calm, his long coat neatly buttoned. But for once, it wasn’t Inho who made Gihun’s pulse spike. It was the person next to him. Taller, leaner, and walking with light steps. A bowl cut with bangs falling over his brows that framed a face Gihun hadn’t seen since he had been gassed to sleep in the limo. The sight of him brought back the heavy memory of rain falling against his back, a tense conversation beneath a flickering streetlamp. A voice laced with quiet determination. “Help me find my brother.”

Hwang Junho.

Gihun’s stomach twisted sharply. His voice came out low, flat with disbelief, “Why the hell is Junho here?”

Saebyeok gave him a look and raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean why is Junho here? He’s Inho’s little brother, he always tags along to these things.”

“Because—” Gihun started, then stopped. His mind raced. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more: that Junho was here at all, or that he hadn’t made the connection sooner. Of course, Junho was Inho’s brother. The names. The quiet intensity. The guarded silences. How could he have missed it?

Before he could say anything else, Saebyeok placed a firm hand on Gihun’s shoulder, “Let’s go check in before you throw a fit.”

Gihun wanted to argue, but a sharp glare from Saebyeok meant she was not in the mood for anything he had to say. Gihun tossed one last side-eye to the younger Hwang brother. How much did he know? Had the other Junho known what Inho had done, what he had become? He remembered Junho saying once that he never saw the Frontman’s face.

Maybe that was true. Maybe not.

I’ll just deal with him later. Gihun thought to himself.

The group huddled under the pavilion, jackets zipped up against the early mountain chill. Hyunju stood at a picnic table, a clipboard in hand. Junhee sat with Yumin, reminding Hyunju that she wasn't participating in the game. Nearby, Sangwoo fished out his wallet and paid for the group session, shaking his head at the growing stream of payment notifications as the others sent him their share.

Beyond them, a paintball instructor wheeled out a heavy-duty garment rack. One side was a row of vibrant red, the other, a crisp cobalt blue.

Suddenly, the vivid and uninvited memory hit Gihun like a freight train.

The gumballs. He could almost hear them clattering in his hand. Then the red vest, its scratchy, synthetic fabric catching awkwardly on his ears as he pulled it over his head, sealing his fate with one simple motion. That particular shade of red had never left him. It had bled into his dreams, stained his memory like wine on white linen.

And then the knife. He remembered the hilt first. Cold, smooth, heavy enough to remind him that it was real. That what he was about to do was real. His grip had been too tight; knuckles pale against the metal as he stepped into the arena.

The rest of it was fragmented. Flashes. Muffled cries. The sound of running feet on concrete. His own heartbeat like a drumline inside his skull. Voices that filled his mind, some from the others, some from within. And that dizzy, ever-present haze from lack of food and sleep.

He blinked, pulling himself back to the present with effort.

His eyes scanned the group until they landed on Daeho, who was leaning close to Jungbae, whispering something with a wide, eager grin on his face. Jungbae laughed in response, nudging him with an elbow, the two of them already immersed in the game before it had even started.

Gihun stared for a moment longer.

“Alright, you guys sort out into two teams, make it even.” The instructor said as the vests swayed gently in the breeze, as if foreshadowing the chaos to come.

Immediately, chatter broke out like popcorn. Jungbae, ever the loudest, suggested they settle it with a massive game of rock-paper-scissors.

Jiyeong cut in, arms crossed, “That’s not fair. Some people here actually know how to shoot.”

Her eyes flicked toward Hyunju, Junho, and Inho.

“Hey, it’s been a while since I held a gun.” Hyunju said with a smirk.

“I think it should be random,” Junhee offered, rocking baby Yumin in her arms. “That way it’s fair and fun.”

As the debate continued, Gihun stood a little apart from the others. His arms were crossed; gaze locked on the distant tree line. His thoughts were elsewhere, looping through timelines, betrayals, fractured trust. The laughter around him felt like it came from underwater.

“Gihun…?”

The voice was tentative and familiar. He turned to see Inho walking toward him, hands half-raised like he didn’t want to startle an animal. There was something careful in the way he approached, as though he was stepping onto a frozen lake.

“Do you…” Inho hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Do you want to be on the same team?”

Gihun’s eyes narrowed, heart pulsing with something bitter and sharp.

The same team? With him?

With Hwang Inho?

It felt absurd, cruel, even. There was a time, sure, when Gihun and “Youngil” had stood side by side, partners by circumstance if not by choice. But that illusion had shattered, and no friendly game could put it back together.

“No.” Gihun said flatly.

 “But—”

“I said no.” Gihun repeated himself, his voice louder and firmer.

The air around them shifted. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Some glanced away quickly, pretending not to notice. Others exchanged awkward looks. Jiyeong chewed her bottom lip. Daeho stiffened beside the instructor. Even the trees seemed to hush.

It wasn’t their fault.

Gihun turned and walked toward the rack of vests, the squeak of his shoes against the gravel loud in the sudden silence. He yanked a few red vests off the rack, then a few blue ones. Spinning back, he marched up to Inho, who hadn’t moved.

Without ceremony, Gihun shoved a blue vest hard into Inho’s chest. Inho stumbled back a step, gripping the fabric more from reflex than acceptance.

Junho stepped forward, “Gihun, what are you—”

“You’re on the blue team too, kid.” Gihun snapped, tossing another blue vest in Junho’s direction. He caught it instinctively, wide-eyed, then glanced at Inho, who only offered a small, tired shake of his head.

For a long second, no one spoke.

Then Jiyeong clapped her hands together with an exaggerated brightness, trying to diffuse the tension, “Welp! Guess that’s settled. Inho can lead the blue team, and Gihun gets red.”

She quickly added on, “Since Junho and Inho are already on the same team, I guess that means Gihun gets first pick for red.”

There was a heavy pause, then a shift of bodies. All eyes turned to Gihun. He stood still; his gaze swept across the group like a searchlight. If he could’ve, he would’ve pulled everyone else into his orbit, leaving Inho and Junho to play on their own, alone on the opposite side of the battlefield. A petty part of him, and a deeply human one, found satisfaction in that idea.

But practicality overruled pettiness. He couldn’t pick everyone.

His eyes landed on one face in particular, the one he knew best. Familiar not just from memory but from survival. From late nights and ramen, from shared failure and hollow victories.

Gihun saw the flicker of tension ripple through Inho’s posture as he noticed who Gihun was looking at.

He lifted his chin slightly, his voice loud and clear.

“Sangwoo-ya.”

Everyone turned to him. Sangwoo blinked, caught off guard for a moment, but not displeased. His lips parted in something close to a smile. Then, he gave a small shrug as if to say, figured as much, and stepped forward. Gihun held out a red vest, and Sangwoo took it.

Their fingers met in the exchange, brushing in that fleeting space where contact becomes something more. Sangwoo’s warm and familiar hand closed around Gihun’s. It lingered, steady and unspoken, before slipping away. The warmth vanished with it, replaced by the rustle of nylon as Sangwoo tossed the vest over his head.

Inho didn’t say anything either, but Gihun saw the subtle shift in the way his jaw tensed, how his hand twitched as if resisting the urge to say something. Maybe it stung that Sangwoo had been chosen and not him. Maybe it reminded Inho of just how much of a chasm there was between them now. Good.

Let it sting.

Let it remind him.

Let it burn.

Chapter Text

Inho didn’t tear his gaze away from Gihun.

And Gihun, jaw tight, met it without flinching.

That face was still the same. The one Gihun had once trusted, followed, and leaned on. A face that had once told him he wasn’t alone. Now it only reminded him of the gaping void between them, lined with silence and half-truths.

Every nerve in his body screamed for him to step back, to break eye contact, to escape. But Gihun forced himself to stand still and hold the line. He wasn’t going to be the one to waver. And he was not giving Inho that power again.

No. He wouldn’t be the first to look away. Not this time. Not with Inho.

Their group of friends made a valiant effort to pretend the tension wasn’t thick enough to cut with a knife. However, the silence was there. The void of gravity pulling the air out of the space between two people who once aligned like planets in orbit and now couldn’t even exist comfortably in the same radius.

Everyone felt it. No one acknowledged it.

Not out loud, anyway.

Then Saebyeok spoke.

“Inho, it’s your turn to pick.”

Gihun saw the shift happened, though it was subtle enough that someone else might’ve missed it. The tension in Inho’s brow loosened, his shoulders dropping slightly. His gaze, once unwavering, finally averted away, as if the weight of Gihun’s stare was too much to bear.

That’s right. Look away, coward. Gihun thought to himself.

Without another word, Inho turned toward the group.

“Jungbae.” He said, voice flat, unreadable.

Gihun’s eyes widened as they flicked over to Jungbae, who gave an awkward, sheepish smile as he scratched the back of his head.

Hwang Inho you bastard.

There was guilt in Jungbae’s posture, Gihun could see it. Maybe he felt caught in the middle, or he didn’t like being chosen by Inho either. Nonetheless, he still stepped forward without protesting and plucked a blue vest from the rack.

Gihun’s chest tightened a little, but he buried the feeling.

Don’t waver, he reminded himself, watching as Jungbae joined up with Inho’s group. Inho is just doing what he always does, staying just close enough to win, but never close enough to risk anything.

“Hyung.”

Gihun turned slightly at the low voice beside him. Sangwoo had stepped in, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. His voice was quiet, careful not to cut through the nervous chatter of the others still waiting to be picked.

“We should probably pick someone with shooting experience,” he said, his eyes flicking discreetly toward the blue team. “They already have Inho and Junho.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but strategy. A quiet move in which Sangwoo had already begun analyzing before the game had even started. That was how his mind worked. Gihun could still remember the way Sangwoo had sized things up in the first Game: assessing leverage, risk, and odds of survival. He’d always had a way of reducing chaos into variables and calculations.

Back then, it had given them an edge.

In Tug-of-War, it was Sangwoo’s quick thinking that saved them. In Glass Stepping Stone, it was his twisted logic that determined he got to walk away.

Now, he was here, eyes sharp, voice steady, reading the situation like a game. Different world, same mind.

Gihun exhaled through his nose, the weight of memory pressing in, then drifting away.

Even though this was only a paintball game, the muscle memory of handling a gun, the ability to move under pressure mattered. And the blue team already have two marksmen.

Still, Gihun’s gaze involuntarily swept toward Saebyeok.

She stood off to the side, half-watching Jiyeong with a guarded smile tugging at her lips. Saebyeok had never said much unless it mattered. Yet she was the one who’d once told him with unshakable conviction that he was a good person. And he wasn’t a murderer.

She was the reason why Gihun didn’t slit Player 100’s throat the night before the last Game.

However, sentiment wouldn’t win this.

“Hyunju.” Gihun said firmly. She gave a short, respectful nod before stepping forward to pull a red vest from the rack.

The second she started moving, Inho’s voice followed, clipped and decisive, “Saebyeok.”

Gihun tried his best to keep his temper in check. He stared at Inho, gaze locked and unflinching, like he could bore through the back of Inho’s skull if he just focused hard enough.

Inho didn’t even glance his way.

“We’ll take Ali.” Sangwoo called out. Ali’s face lit up with a smile, giving a quick salute before moving to Gihun’s side, the red vest clutched tightly against his chest.

Inho’s next choice came fast, almost automatic, “Daeho.”

Gihun flinched inwardly.

Daeho jogged over, all energy and warmth, throwing an arm around Jungbae and getting a lighthearted smack for his enthusiasm. Yet all Gihun could see was another image: the crimson splashed over the vest, the shocked silence in Daeho’s eyes. A blink, and the image was gone.

Get a grip. This isn’t the Game.

Gihun took a breath through his nose, “Noeul.”

Inho’s arms folded across his chest, “Jiyeong.”

“Let’s go!” Jiyeong practically shouted, pumping her fist in the air before dashing to Saebyeok’s side.

Youngmi, the last one left, skipped over to Hyunju’s side, clearly unbothered by the tension that still simmered beneath the group’s carefully maintained chatter.

The group gradually began suiting up, the air filling with the rustle of fabric and the muffled thuds of gear being fastened. Thick vests were pulled over shoulders, utility trousers buckled tight, and goggles being adjusted.

Despite the underlying tension that still clung to the group like static, there were pockets of warmth that shimmered through.

Jiyeong stood on her tiptoes, carefully slipping the goggles over Saebyeok’s head, the band catching onto a tuff of hair. Saebyeok chuckled softly and leaned in, placing a light kiss on Jiyeong’s forehead. She turned bright pink, muttering something incoherent as she ducked her head. Saebyeok flashed a soft and amused smile at her.

A few feet away, Hyunju was helping Youngmi into her red vest. She tugged at each strap, adjusting the fit and making sure the weight was evenly distributed, the padding sitting snug against Youngmi’s frame. When she was done, she stepped back to meet Youngmi’s eyes.

“You good?” Hyunju asked softly.

Youngmi gave a grateful but shy nod, “Yeah. Thanks, unnie.”

Hyunju gave her a gentle pat on the head before turning her attention to her own gear.

On the opposite side, Daeho and Jungbae were gearing up as well. Daeho was already halfway into his vest when he noticed Jungbae fumbling with a pair of gloves. Without a word, Daeho held his own out, offering them up with an easy grin.

Off to the side, the Hwang brothers stood in a quieter corner of the clearing. Junho leaned slightly toward Inho, saying something under his breath with a glance toward the others. Inho shook his head in response, swiftly buckling the straps in and zipping up his jacket.

Gihun was half-aware of it all, the blur of motion around him somehow both vivid and far away.

Until a firm hand settled on his shoulder.

He turned to see Sangwoo holding out the gear toward him, the bulky padded vest folded open like an invitation. Wordlessly, Gihun turned and held out his arms, letting Sangwoo ease the vest over his shoulders. There was something almost domestic about the way Sangwoo gently tugged the fabric into place, then spun Gihun back around with the slightest pressure at his waist.

The proximity made it hard to think.

Gihun could feel Sangwoo's warm breath in the shared space between them, Sangwoo's fingers finding the zipper and pulling it up with steady care, the metal teeth clicking into place one by one.

Sangwoo's eyes remained downcast, focused solely on the zipper, while Gihun’s eyes stayed on him. He took in the quiet concentration on Sangwoo’s face, the slight furrow between his brows, and the way he always seemed more composed when he had a task. He looked less stressed in this universe, more... loose.

“Done.” Sangwoo said, giving the front of Gihun’s vest a final firm pat before smoothing out the creases with both hands.

Gihun gave a small, appreciative nod, “Thank you, Sangwoo-ya.”

“Come on you guys!” Ali looped an arm around Sangwoo’s neck and the other around Gihun. “Time to take photos.”

The two groups began to shuffle toward the middle of the pavilion, laughter rising as friends threw arms over shoulders, leaned into one another, and struck exaggerated poses.

Gihun found himself pulled into the center of the pack, Sangwoo stuck close, standing on his left. It was tight, almost suffocating, but the warmth of camaraderie was real… at least in that brief, collective moment.

Then Gihun felt a nudge against his other side, subtle, but difficult to ignore.

He stiffened.

When Gihun turned his head, he saw Inho being pushed slightly closer, caught in the jostle of the crowd. The others on Inho’s side had unintentionally boxed him in, forcing him shoulder-to-shoulder with Gihun.

“Get away from me.” Gihun hissed under his breath, his voice sharp and cold.

Inho turned his head slowly until their eyes met. His dark brown gaze was steady, but not cold. Not quite. There was something beneath the surface, a flicker of something too human, too intimate. Something that felt dangerously familiar.

For a fleeting second, Gihun couldn’t breathe.

Because he saw him.

Not the Frontman nor the Inho, who wore masks both literal and metaphorical.

But Youngil.

It was in the tilt of Inho’s head, the way his eyes searched Gihun’s with quiet intensity. Gihun could almost feel the phantom weight of Youngil’s arms draped around his shoulders during the pentathlon, almost hear the echo of his bright voice and laughter as they'd watched the other teams celebrate over the pentathlon.

And then Inho spoke softly.

“Does it bother you?”

The question landed like a bucket of cold water being poured down Gihun’s spine, as if Inho had pulled it from their shared history despite Gihun’s refusal to speak about what had happened in the other universe.

Gihun’s blood ran hot, confusion swirling into fury. Was it a coincidence? Just an innocent choice of words? Or had Inho said it deliberately, reaching backward into memories Gihun had fought to bury?

A sudden, stabbing throb erupted behind his eyes, like an ice pick being driven into his temple. Gihun staggered slightly, blinking through the stars blooming in his vision. His palm lifted instinctively to his head, as if that alone could steady him.

The moment Inho noticed, his expression softened not with pity, but with something far more dangerous. Real, raw concern surfaced in his eyes. Not for the situation or the chaos around them.

But for him.

For Gihun.

Inho's hands lifted slightly, as if drawn by muscle memory. Maybe some part of him still believed he had the right to reach out, to steady Gihun when he faltered. Yet his fingers hesitated midair, suspended in a fragile kind of hope. His lips parted with a breath catching in his throat, ready to form words that never came.

But silence hung heavy between them.

And Gihun hated him for it.

Hated the concern in his eyes. Hated the way his presence could still stir something vulnerable and treacherous inside him. Hated that his body still recognized Inho’s nearness, still remembered that voice, those hands, that calm.

The pain surged again, a sharp spike lancing through his skull. Gihun winced, his vision splintering into flashes of white, dots of light swimming like static. Through the haze, his glare sliced through like the very knife that Inho had given him the night before the final Game.

It was sharp. Direct. A warning wrapped in hurt.

Don’t you dare.

Don’t look at me like that.

Like you still care.

Youngil is dead. He was never real. Not in that world, and sure as hell not in this one.

No matter how hard Gihun tried to shove the image of the Frontman onto Inho’s face, it refused to stay. The projection shattered like glass every time. Gihun wanted to see the architect of cruelty, the man who turned death into spectacle. It was easier that way, no strings attached.

But all he could see was him.

“Alright! Smile!”

The moment shattered with the blinding flash of a phone camera. The rest of the group shouted “kimchi!” in bright unison, bodies pressing in closer, laughter rippling through the pavilion. Jiyeong flashed a peace sign. Daeho grinned with his arms thrown around Jungbae. Ali’s eyes crinkled with joy.

But Gihun didn’t smile. His gaze remained locked on Inho, rigid and burning. And to Gihun’s growing frustration, Inho didn’t flinch nor look away.

The instructor squinted at the screen, then raised a hand and called out over the chatter, “Uh… you two in the middle!”

Everyone’s heads turned.

“You and the one next to you.” He clarified, pointing directly at Gihun and Inho. “Can you look at the camera instead of each other?”

The group broke into scattered laughter. Jiyeong giggled and whispered something that made Saebyeok roll her eyes and smirk. Ali let out a low snort, shaking his head. Even Daeho gave an exaggerated ooh, nudging Jungbae.

Gihun didn’t hear any of it.

The noise fell away, muffled like it came from the bottom of a pool. His thoughts spiraled, tightening like a noose. It wasn’t embarrassment, but the pressure. The slow, suffocating churn of anger, confusion, and memory. Being looked at by Inho was like standing on the edge of an old fault line, one that still cracked underfoot.

And the longer they stared at each other, the more Gihun felt himself slipping back into something he didn’t want to remember.

Then everything went dark.

A palm slid over his eyes, fingers brushing his forehead as his head was tilted back slightly. Gihun stiffened, startled by the sudden contact. Before he could react, a familiar and solid presence pressed against his back.

“Hyung,” Sangwoo said lowly. “Focus.”

Gihun’s breath hitched slightly, before he allowed himself to exhale slowly, his shoulders releasing the tension that had settled in his bones. He tried to focus on the coolness of Sangwoo’s hand. Despite not being able to see, he could still feel Inho’s eyes on him.

Sangwoo glanced up, meeting Inho’s gaze directly. There was no warmth in it, only a cold look of calculation. It wasn’t a challenge, but a warning. Inho’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything. 

The faintest curve of a smirk touched Sangwoo’s lips. “Let’s switch spots hyung,” he said quietly. “You seem uncomfortable.”

By the time Sangwoo’s hand dropped from Gihun’s face, Gihun realized they had swapped spots in the group photo. Sangwoo now stood squarely between him and Inho, and Gihun didn’t say thank you, because he didn’t have to.

The way Sangwoo remained where he was, eyes forward, arms crossed lightly over his vest, said everything.

Once the group photo was done and the laughter settled into anticipation, the instructor stepped forward, holding up one of the paintball guns. The chatter quieted as he launched into the briefing. Gihun only half-listened. His eyes scanned the group, noting how some leaned forward attentively while others bounced on their toes, eager to start.

When the explanation ended, the instructor pointed toward the far end of the arena.

“Blue team, head to your zone.” He said, gesturing toward a series of walls and overgrown foliage that marked the boundary.

Inho gave no parting glance as he led his team into the brush, his back disappearing into the terrain. Saebyeok followed while Daeho was still grinning like this was the best part of the day.

The group vanished one by one behind rusted barrels and artificial barriers, swallowed by the arena’s silence.

“Red team, this way.” A staff member called out.

They were escorted in the opposite direction. The path forked behind a stack of mesh crates and barricades, winding toward the red team's starting zone.

At the edge, just before the gates opened, a long table waited. On it there were multiple matte black paintball rifles and extra gear. One of the staff members gestured toward it with a gloved hand, “Choose your weapons, and mask up.”

Everyone moved forward. Gihun lingered at the back of the line, watching them all. Part of him felt like an observer in his own memory, caught between now and a moment buried somewhere in the past.

“Will you be okay?”

Sangwoo was standing nearby, his mask tucked under one arm. Gihun hesitated, his fingers hovered over the nearest paintball gun, brushing the barrel. It was lighter than it looked, but its weight settled less in his hands, more in his chest. The scent of dust, oil, and old paint filled his lungs.

Gihun could feel the quiet pulse in his wrists, the way tension curled beneath his skin. This wasn’t the Game. But the terrain was familiar. Rules, teams, winners, losers. Paint instead of blood, masks instead of faces. But some instincts never changed.

He let out a long, slow breath, like he was exhaling the ghosts from his chest.

“Yeah,” Gihun said at last, slipping the mask over his head. “Let’s do this.”

The staff member waved them forward. With a loud mechanical groan, the gates opened, revealing the forested expanse beyond.

An arena of battered covers, tangled trees, and artificial barriers rising from the underbrush. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, painting the ground in dappled gold and shadow. The red team began to move, fanning out cautiously. Their vests gleamed faintly in the light, boots crunching over dirt and leaves.

Memories flickered through Gihun’s mind like an old photo reel. The pink guards standing in rigid formation. The crimson splash of rebellion. The cold, unforgiving weight of a real gun pressed into his palms.

Gihun-ah. Jungbae’s final words echoed, half-choked and full of something between disbelief and heartbreak. Gihun hadn’t even realized how tightly his grip had clenched until his knuckles ached.

It was all Inho’s fault.

No matter how many times Gihun replayed the moments in his head, no matter how many angles he turned them over like puzzle pieces searching for some other possibility, there was only one conclusion. Inho had known what he was doing. He’d chosen his side.

And now they were on opposite sides again. Except this time, Gihun was ready.

The others had already pushed ahead, weaving between trees, whispering strategies. Gihun stood still for a second longer, staring at the ground as a shaft of sunlight lit the dust swirling in the air. He could still hear the laughter from earlier, but it sounded far away now.

Finally, Gihun stepped forward. The gates groaned behind him as they creaked shut, the sound echoing like the slam of a cell door.

The forest swallowed him.

Let the hunt begin.

There wasn’t exactly a plan. Only scattered nods and vague murmurs of strategy before everyone broke off in their own directions, disappearing into the underbrush like children playing hide-and-seek.

The sharp pops of paintball fire cracked through the trees, echoing off the arena walls like distant fireworks. Shouts and bursts of laughter followed, blending with the rustle of leaves and the thud of footsteps on packed dirt.

To most of them, it was still a game. A chance to goof off, let loose, and pretend they were soldiers in some cartoon war. Friends ducked and dove behind cover, occasionally tagging each other even if they wore the same color vest, all for the thrill of it.

Red or blue, it didn’t really matter. Not to them.

But Sangwoo knew better.

He had split off from Gihun a while ago. He didn’t want to, though. If anything, he hated leaving his hyung alone in this kind of mood. However, he had seen the way Gihun’s expression had changed. That spark that had danced in his eyes earlier had vanished. What was left behind was something cold, distant, and focused. Gihun’s hands gripped his paintball gun like it weighed ten times more than it should.

Sangwoo had seen that look before, once during the worst days of Gihun’s grief when he had watched a coworker die in front of his eyes. This level of intensity meant only one thing: Gihun wasn’t here for fun anymore.

So Sangwoo chose to step back.

He played alone, sticking to the trees. He managed to tag Jiyeong in a quick ambush, earning a loud “Are you kidding me?!” from her and a string of curses from Saebyeok. That, of course, led to a long and mildly terrifying chase through the trees, Saebyeok hot on his heels with vengeance in her eyes.

Even after Sangwoo managed to shake her off, the adrenaline didn’t wear off, because there was somebody he hadn’t seen yet.

Hwang Inho.

Just thinking about the name made his blood boil.

Their dislike for each other wasn’t a secret, it never had been. The tension didn’t come with shouting matches or physical fights. It was quieter than that. Every word was coated in civility but sharpened like a knife. All for Gihun’s sake, of course. Both of them knew better than to drag him into it. So, they kept it civil and clean. In front of Gihun, they smiled.

Behind his back, they watched each other like wolves.

There had never been an actual agreement. No sit-down talk. But they both understood the rules: stay polite, keep your distance, pretend you’re indifferent. Above all: play nice.

However, Sangwoo could read subtexts unlike his airheaded and overly optimistic hyung. And Inho didn’t write in small, careful lines. He wrote in bold italics.

It probably hadn’t been smart to stir the pot like he had earlier. Everyone in their friend group had noticed the tension between Inho and Gihun for a while now. Hell, they even made a secret group chat without Inho or Gihun in it. Half of the messages were betting pools. Who would confess? Who liked who more?

It was childish, but addictive. Saebyeok swore Gihun was oblivious. Jiyeong thought Inho was playing the long game. Daeho said they were already secretly dating, and nobody wanted to believe him. Yet not a single one of them could say for sure that he was wrong.

There was always something more, like unspoken understanding and affection. It passed between Gihun and Inho like static, unpredictable and electric. Sometimes warm. Sometimes combustible. Always impossible to ignore when they would interact.

And as Sangwoo pushed deeper into the trees, that mystery burned in the back of his mind. He had told himself this was just a game, a stupid paintball match among friends. But his sense remained alert, and his steps were purposefully light. He wasn’t just looking out for Gihun anymore.

He was looking for him.

The sound came first. A soft crunch of boots against dried leaves. It was like the person didn’t care if they were heard or simply didn’t think they needed to be careful. Sangwoo stopped to listen. He caught a flicker of movement through the trunks and someone slipping between shafts of light like smoke.

Then Sangwoo saw him.

Inho moved alone like a shadow, deadly even when in motion. The vest he wore was still clean, unblemished by paint. His head turned, not noticing Sangwoo but clearly searching. Not for targets. But a specific person.

For some reason, that fact made something coil tight in Sangwoo’s chest. He stepped out from behind a tree, his presence no longer hidden.

“Looking for Gihun?” He called out.

Inho turned his head slowly, eyes meeting Sangwoo’s with the usual unshakeable and infuriating serenity behind the mask’s visor. Sangwoo’s hand clenched a little tighter around the paintball gun. Inho’s gaze flicked down to it, then back up.

“Sangwoo,” Inho said calmly. “Still trailing Gihun around like a guard dog?”

“If anybody is a dog, it’s you.” Sangwoo shot back without hesitation.

Inho’s brow ticked slightly, “You always assume the worst.”

“No,” Sangwoo said, stepping forward slowly. “Only with you.”

They moved at the same time. Inho ducking behind a tree, Sangwoo flanking left. The first paintball cracked against bark, bright orange. Then another zipped through the air that missed. Neither of them was trying to win this, not in the sense of paintball.

Sangwoo lunged from his cover as Inho rounded toward him. They collided hard, shoulder to chest, and went tumbling to the forest floor. Their paintball guns skidded away in opposite directions.

“Sshibal—” Sangwoo growled, grappling with Inho’s arms, trying to pin him down.

Inho grunted, twisting sharply. He brought up a knee that caught Sangwoo hard in the stomach. The force knocked Sangwoo sideways, coughing as he rolled off. Inho sprang to his feet first, while Sangwoo stood up slower, his eyes locked onto the man in front of him.

“What did you two fight about this time?” Sangwoo demanded.

Inho frowned, “It’s none of your business.”

“He is my business.” Sangwoo snapped.

“You always do this,” Inho muttered. “Are you jealous because he looks at me instead of you?”

The moment the words left his mouth, Sangwoo lunged. Fists clenched, he grabbed Inho by the collar of his tactical vest and slammed him back against the nearest tree trunk with a dull thud, knocking the wind from Inho’s lungs. He let out a low breathless chuckle.

“Hit a sore spot, didn’t I?” Inho rasped.

“I’m not jealous,” Sangwoo’s grip only tightened, knuckles whitening around the fabric. “I’m furious. Furious that an ex-cop like you, who marched out with a baton to silence a worker’s strike, still managed earn Gihun’s forgiveness.”

The words rang out sharp, cutting through the stillness. There was only silence, except for the distant chirp of birds overhead. Inho’s face wavered slightly.

“That was thirteen years ago,” He muttered, quieter now. “And it wasn’t the full story.”

Sangwoo’s jaw tightened. Thirteen years. Somehow, he’d almost forgotten how much time had passed. The only ones who really knew the origin of Gihun and Inho’s friendship were him and Jungbae.

Even then, the truth was a fractured thing. Gihun had never told Sangwoo what really happened that day. Jungbae had been at the strike too, but not when the two of them met. The others, Hyunju, Saebyeok, even Ali, had only heard the sanitized version: “We met and just hit it off!” Gihun would say with a smile.

It was Gihun’s heart, too generous for his own good, that made people gravitate toward him, even those who had no right to. He gave without question, forgave without conditions. That was the kind of person he was.

“You. Don’t. Deserve. Him.” Sangwoo said, punctuating each word like a punch. “Not back then. And certainly not now. You wormed your way in and now look at him. He doesn’t even look like himself.”

Inho shoved him back, breaking free from Sangwoo’s grip, his own eyes flashing.

“And you think you deserve him?” Inho snapped back. “Where were you when he lost custody of his daughter?”

Sangwoo froze.

“You were overseas, weren’t you?” Inho said. “Sending him half-hearted messages and calling once a month, like that was enough. Meanwhile, Jungbae and I had to make sure he hadn’t choked on his own vomit.”

They didn’t move; their paintball guns lay forgotten on the ground. The distant pops of paintballs were muffled by the woods. They both knew they had once hurt Gihun in different ways.

And sweet Gihun, as always, had laughed it off with that crooked smile of his and a dismissive wave of the hand. “It’s in the past,” he’d say. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But neither of them believed that anymore.

Finally, Sangwoo stepped back, his chest still rising and falling with quiet fury. He bent down and grabbed his paintball gun.

“Someone like you won’t understand what I did to support him.” Sangwoo said over his shoulder. “Fix whatever is going on between you two. I’m tired of watching him come home looking like he’s carrying the end of the world on his back.”

Without waiting for a response, Sangwoo turned and disappeared into the trees, his silhouette swallowed by the branches and brush, leaving only the echo of his words behind.

Inho remained rooted like stone in the same spot. The stillness pressed in around him, broken only by the fading sounds of distant laughter and paintball fire. Slowly, he exhaled a shaky and uneven breath.

Eventually, he walked to where his paintball gun lay half-buried beneath a scatter of leaves. He crouched and picked it up. His fingers lingered on the grip.

Then, with a voice barely above a whisper, Inho spoke as if saying it aloud made it more real.

“I’m trying,” he murmured. “I really am.”

Chapter Text

Gihun had ran into nearly everyone in the arena except the person that he was hunting for.

The first time was with Saebyeok. She appeared out of nowhere, quick as a shadow, hair flying wild beneath her helmet. Her paintball gun was already raised, that signature glint of challenge dancing in her eyes.

“Bang.” She called out as she fired.

Gihun barely managed to dive behind a splintered wooden barrel, the paintball striking the edge just inches from his shoulder in a loud pop. Neon orange splattered across the wood like a flare, and Saebyeok’s gleeful laughter echoed behind him as her footsteps retreated into the trees.

He hadn’t fired back.

Despite being a simple team-building match meant to bring everyone closer, his fingers stayed frozen on the trigger. His heart pounded for all the wrong reasons. Something about pointing a gun, even a plastic harmless one at a friend made his gut twist.

So, he crouched in silence and listened to the wet drip of paint sliding down the wood. And when her footsteps eventually faded, he still couldn’t move.

The second time was worse.

He rounded a bend too fast, too distracted, and collided straight into Daeho. Their vests smacked together with a dull thud, bodies crashing to the ground in a mess of limbs and tangled gear. Gihun grunted as his shoulder hit the dirt, breath shoved from his lungs.

Instinct kicked in. He rolled, reaching for his paintball gun.

Then he saw the way Daeho held himself.

The younger man had backed up against a tree, his mask askew, eyes wide and unfocused behind the fogging visor. And the raw and trembling look on his face wasn’t confusion, or even the adrenaline of competition.

It was fear. Real, naked, gut-wrenching fear.

A look Gihun recognized immediately because it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it.

It was that expression, the one Daeho had worn in the maze. The day everything cracked. The day Gihun’s raw and unfiltered grief and rage needed somewhere to land, and Daeho had been the closest, the easiest. The day he'd stopped being a teammate and became a target.

A scapegoat. A body to hit when the real enemy felt too far away.

“Hyung-nim…” Daeho’s voice came out small and hoarse, almost like a whisper that he didn’t trust.

Gihun's breath hitched. His hand fell away from the gun.

He wanted to speak, to say something. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it’s not like before… but his throat closed around the words. What good would it do? What version of that day could he ever rewrite? What apology could scrub the blood from memory?

A familiar emptiness coiled in his chest. That suffocating paradox: remembering everything so vividly… and knowing no one else did.

When you’re the only one who remembers, is what you remember even real?

A pulse of pain exploded behind Gihun’s eyes, like a knife being twisted in the base of his skull. His knees nearly buckled as he reached up, clutching his temple with a grunt of pain. His vision blurred, edges going hazy, as if the air around him had thickened.

Daeho shifted slightly. Gihun caught the movement and snapped back to awareness. The younger man was still sitting against the tree, but now he had pressed himself even tighter against the bark, flinching instinctively like he still wasn’t sure Gihun wouldn’t hurt him again.

“I thought if I were one of you, even a pathetic loser like me could do anything.” The voice distorted in Gihun’s mind, slithering through his skull, as if there were invisible hands dipping into his mind to conjure the memories Gihun tried to bury and convince himself that it wasn’t real.

Gihun staggered slightly, blinking hard. Sweat beaded at his brow, even in the forest’s shade. He was losing his grip again; the edges of reality were blurring.

Without a word, Gihun turned his back to him and walked away. Each step was heavy like penance. The weight of Daeho’s eyes clung to him, sharp and confused.

Gihun didn’t look back. He wasn’t sure he could stand it if he did.

The third time, it was Junho.

Gihun spotted him crouching behind a low ridge of the brush, catching his breath. He was half-laughing to himself after tagging Noeul out of the game. The smear of green paint was still fresh on her vest, dripping slowly in the sun as she walked to the elimination zone. Junho didn’t see him, too focused on the thrill of the moment.

The shot missed by inches, splattering harmlessly against a tree trunk as Junho dove and rolled on instinct, his gun up, ready to retaliate until he saw who it was.

“Gihun?” Junho called, wide-eyed and breathless.

Their eyes met. Something in Gihun’s face made Junho go still.

“Where’s your brother?” Gihun asked. His tone was flat, making it very clear that it wasn’t a request.

Junho hesitated, visibly torn, “I… I don’t know. We split up near the creek a bit ago.”

Gihun didn’t lower the gun.

Junho’s hands came up cautiously, “Look, I know he probably said something stupid. I know he’s... complicated. Whatever happened between you two a few nights ago? I swear to you, Gihun, he’s trying. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Gihun’s fingers twitched on the trigger. Not enough to fire.

Everyone kept saying it, over and over again, like it was something simple and manageable. “Whatever happened between you two.”

Like it was a fight, an argument between friends. A clash of tempers that had gotten out of hand. Something heated, yes, but ultimately human. Something messy and raw that could be smoothed over with time and effort, with apologies and grace.

But Gihun couldn’t remember it.

Because it hadn’t been him.

Not really.

It had been the other Gihun, the version of himself who belonged to this timeline. The one who had belonged here. He made these choices and said those words. The one who might’ve yelled, or shoved, or turned his back at the worst possible moment.

And now this Gihun… a stranger from another universe, carrying scars of his own was left to pick through the wreckage. Left to wear a face that didn’t entirely belong to him, speak with a voice that came burdened with histories he hadn’t lived, and answer for damage he hadn’t done.

While still carrying the weight of his own sins.

His own failures. His own ghosts.

It was like trying to swim through grief that wasn’t his, while drowning in guilt that was. Trying to be accountable for choices he never made, while knowing there were choices he had made that were just as unforgivable.

Every glance held expectations he didn’t understand. Every well-meaning friend tried to talk him through a fight he couldn’t have witnessed.

He was a replacement. A patch stitched too tightly into a life that didn’t quite fit.

And still, he was expected to fix it. As if being sorry was a language that worked across timelines.

It was frustrating.

His finger pulled the trigger.

Splat.

A burst of pink paint exploded across Junho’s chest, right over the heart. He staggered slightly at the impact, then stared down in stunned silence. His mouth parted slightly as if to speak.

Gihun didn’t offer an explanation. He turned without a word and walked off into the trees.

Behind him, he heard Junho’s faint mutter of disbelief.

“Goddammit, hyung… what the hell did you say to piss him off this much?”

“Well, look who just got eliminated,” Saebyeok called out, her voice teasing as she watched Junho approach the elimination zone, mask pushed up on his head and shoulders slumped in irritation. “Who eliminated you?”

“Gihun did.” Junho sighed and rolled his neck, setting his paintball marker aside with a clunk of resignation. Most of their group had already gathered on the bleachers with paint splatters that stained their vests, proof of battles lost and won.

Saebyeok scooted over, patting the space next to her with a smirk, “Come. Sit with us. Reclaim your dignity.”

Jiyeong snorted, “Imagine, an actual cop getting eliminated by an ahjussi.”

Junho threw her a look as he sat down, tugging his vest off with a groan.

“Real funny, Jiyeong. You try going head-to-head with a fifty-year-old man who looks like he’s one bad day away from setting the whole forest on fire.”

He grabbed a bottle of water and took a long swig, then twisted to look up at Sangwoo, who was lounging on the bleacher above him, arms crossed.

“You’re Gihun’s best friend,” Junho said, squinting up at him. “Do you know what’s going on with him? Why the hell he’s so mad?”

Sangwoo raised an eyebrow and tilted his head with a noncommittal shrug, “You’re Inho’s brother. Shouldn’t you be asking what he said to piss Gihun off?”

“I did ask!” Junho threw his arms up. “Believe me, I’ve asked several times. All I got was a headache and one very drunk, very uncooperative hyung.”

He leaned forward, pressing his fingers to his temples like he could massage the memory out of his skull.

“All I know is the night Gihun rage-quit the group chat, Inho came home completely wrecked. Like… destroyed. He was already intoxicated, then drank three more glasses of whiskey and refused to say a single word. He then proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next two hours. It's a damn miracle that his remaining kidney is still even functional.”

The group went a little quieter at that.

Hyunju broke the silence gently, “Sounds worse than a typical argument between friends.”

“Obviously,” Junho muttered, leaning back slightly. “But your guess is as good as mine. He won’t talk about it, and Gihun’s acting like he wants to body-slam anyone who mentions Inho’s name.”

Hyunju gave a dry chuckle but didn’t comment.

Junho exhaled sharply and rested his elbows on his knees, “I just don’t get it. Gihun was fine with him before. Annoyed sometimes, sure, but… not like this. Not whatever-this-is.”

“Don’t forget, Gihun has amnesia,” Saebyeok pointed out, like she was thinking through it aloud. “He probably doesn’t even remember having that argument with Inho.”

Junho shifted slightly, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy or evidence. He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Right, but…” Jungbae spoke up from where he sat, finally adding his voice to the mix. “If he doesn’t remember… then why does he still look at Inho like he does?”

That question hit harder than it should have.

A heavy silence settled over the group, stretching a few seconds too long.

Because Jungbae was right.

Gihun shouldn’t have any memory of that fight. And yet, every time Inho would be near, Gihun’s entire body would tense up. His voice would dip into something colder.  It wasn’t subtle or subconscious.

It was personal.

Nobody said anything for a moment, eyes subtly avoiding one another, as if trying to see the puzzle from a different angle without admitting the shape it was starting to take.

A soft, amused voice broke the silence like a pebble dropped into still water.

“Are you sure it’s not just sexual tension?”

Junho snapped his head up, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

The comment had come from Junhee, who was gently rocking Yumin in her lap. The infant was already half-asleep, cheek nestled against her shoulder, thumb curled in a tiny fist.

All heads turned toward her.

Saebyeok blinked, Jiyeong let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh. Even Jungbae looked like he’d choked on his breath.

Junho stared at her, utterly thrown off, “I— the hell?!”

“What?” She asked innocently. “Have you seen the way they look at each other?”

The group collectively paused, because they had.

Even before whatever argument fractured the two men, there was unspoken tension. The silences that stretched just a little too long; whereas other people might’ve felt uncomfortable, it seemed that neither Gihun nor Inho cared.

There were times when Gihun’s eyes lingered thinking Inho wasn’t looking, and how Inho always seemed to notice. The biting remarks that somehow carried more weight than humor. That feeling that something was constantly building between them beneath the surface, neither of them were willing to mention it but both refused to walk away from it.

“They look like they’re one wrong word away from either Gihun tackling him or Inho kissing him,” Junhee continued matter-of-factly, gently bouncing Yumin in her arms. “And honestly? I’m not sure which one they’d prefer.”

Chuckles bubbled up amongst the group, then Jiyeong sucked in a dramatic gasp, clutching Youngmi’s arm like she’d just discovered a plot twist in a drama.

“Oh my god, add that to the pool!” Jiyeong hissed, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “I’m putting all my money on the makeout. No question. That tension? That’s not ‘I hate you’ energy, that’s ‘I hate how much I want you’ energy.”

Youngmi, already halfway through typing, didn’t even glance up. Her phone was a blur in her hands, “Logged. Odds have officially shifted in favor of ‘heated makeout with emotional repression.’ Betting closes in thirty minutes.”

Junho groaned, “Can we stage an emergency intervention on those two instead of making more betting pools?”

He paused. Then he sighed as he pulled out his phone anyway and tapped on the poll option labeled: Gihun tackles Inho into the emotional and physical abyss.

“I’m just saying,” Junhee replied, barely hiding her smirk. “There’s a reason why people confuse unresolved rage with unresolved longing. The line’s thinner than you think.”

Saebyeok raised an eyebrow. “Speaking from experience?”

Junhee rolled her eyes, scoffing, “Please. Myunggi was neither rage nor longing. That man had the emotional depth of a houseplant.”

“Hey, don’t insult houseplants,” Jungbae chimed in. “Some of them are thriving.”

That got a round of light snickers from the group.

“I think I read a study about that once,” Jiyeong added helpfully. “Adrenaline, proximity, intense eye contact… classic ingredients for confusing sexual arousal with aggression.”

“Can we not psychoanalyze my brother and Gihun like they’re characters in a romance drama?” Junho snapped, but his ears were tinged pink now.

Junhee shrugged. “Maybe they are and we’re just living in it. And maybe you’re just the unsuspecting side character who’s about to become a brother-in-law.”

Everyone let out lighthearted laughter as Junho buried his face in his hands.

“I hate it here.”

Gihun moved through the treeline with quiet steps, his paintball gun cradled loosely in his hands. The once constant pops of paintballs cracking through the air had begun to fade, replaced by occasional distant shouts and laughter. More people had been marked out by paintball pellets.

But Gihun wasn’t counting.

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking. Five minutes? Ten minutes? It all blurred together beneath the canopy of leaves and filtered sunlight. He was following Junho’s vague directions, looping toward the creek, eyes scanning every break in the brush, every flicker of movement behind the trees.

A small voice in his head wondered if maybe Inho had already been tagged out and sent to the elimination zone, sitting quietly on the sidelines with a splatter of color on his vest. The thought lingered.

But another voice, louder and more certain, dismissed it immediately.

Hwang Inho wouldn’t go down that easily. Not in a game like this. Not when Gihun was still out here.

Especially not after whatever argument they had that Gihun didn’t even live through, though everyone else seemed determined to remind him of it.

His boots pressed deeper into the soft undergrowth as he moved forward, the trees beginning to crowd closer together, their twisted limbs reaching down like fingers. The canopy above thickened, blotting out the sky, and the shadows at his feet stretched long and strange.

Still, Gihun kept walking. Searching. Hunting.

The paintball gun in his hand had started to feel like it was made of lead, each finger twitching slightly from the effort of holding it upright. His palms were slick with sweat, though the forest air had grown cool.

The distant pop-pop-pop of paint pellets echoed through the trees, but they didn’t sound like friendly fire anymore. They were louder and sharper now.

Like real gunshots.

And the laughter?

The high-pitched giggles and shouts drifting through the woods warped in his ears. They didn’t sound like joy. They sounded like screams. Distant. Dying. He told himself to keep walking, to keep hunting for Hwang Inho.

But he didn’t notice that his hands were trembling now, knuckles pale beneath the gloves. His feet dragged like he was wading through tar, heavy and sluggish.

Paint splatters on tree trunks blurred in his peripheral vision. The bright reds, dark purples, and other array of colors morphing in his mind into the wet smears of blood.

The forest was no longer a paintball field. It was something else now. A cage of bark and bone. A maze of memory.

And it was closing in.

The suffocating pressure of the forest in the form of heavy canopy, warped shadows, and the sense of being hunted by something unseen, seemed to recede all at once. Because just ahead, was the person Gihun had been searching for all this time.

His vision narrowed, tunneling in on the solitary figure a few yards away. Everything else from the trees to the light and the sounds of the forest faded into white noise.

Hwang Inho.

His back turned, paintball marker gripped loosely in one hand. He was scanning the woods, checking his surroundings, unaware that Gihun had found him.

Gihun stepped forward without thinking.

Crack.

A twig snapped beneath his foot.

Inho turned sharply at the sound, instinctively raising his paintball gun toward the noise. Toward Gihun.

Their eyes met.

Inho’s expression faltered for a second. He lowered his gun by a few inches, a flicker of hesitation in his stance. But it was too late. That motion, that image of Inho turning a gun on him, hit Gihun like a lightning strike to the chest. Inho wasn’t in padded paintball gear anymore. He wasn’t holding a paintball marker. In Gihun’s mind, the scene warped instantly.

The black cloak. The silver pistol. The geometric mask.

The cold precision with which Inho had pointed the gun, not at Gihun, but at Jungbae’s heart.

Before pulling the trigger.

And Gihun saw red.

Inho spoke, his voice low and careful, “Gihun…"

But Gihun was already moving.

He let out a half-yell, half-cry, fully broken as his finger squeezed the trigger again and again. Pellets exploded against bark and brush, some whizzing inches from Inho’s shoulder as he dove for cover behind a tree. Gihun advanced, boots pounding the ground, every breath sharp and furious.

Inho’s gun clattered to the dirt beside him, discarded. A clear sign of surrender.

It didn’t matter.

Gihun didn’t stop, he couldn’t.

The rage had taken the reins now, unrelenting and blinding.

Inho stepped out slowly, hands raised, palms open. But Gihun had already crossed the distance. With a burst of momentum, he slammed his shoulder hard into Inho’s chest, driving them both into the forest floor. The impact kicked up a plume of dirt and brittle leaves.

Gihun’s knees pinned Inho’s arms down, the barrel of his paintball gun pressed tight under Inho’s chin. His own shoulders heaved with each breath, chest trembling with fury that had nowhere left to go.

Inho’s mask was gone, either it was ripped off or knocked loose in the fall, revealing wide eyes and messy hair. Gihun faltered.

He looked exactly like Youngil.

But Gihun didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to see a man. Or a friend. Or whatever the hell Inho had once been.

He wanted to see a villain.

“YOU KILLED THEM ALL!”

Gihun’s scream ripped through the trees, hoarse and guttural, torn from someplace far deeper than his throat. His voice cracked under the strain, splintering like glass under too much weight.

He jammed the barrel of the paintball gun harder into Inho’s throat, the plastic pressing into skin, trembling from the force of his grip.

“You stood there, and you pulled the damn trigger! You watched them die and you did NOTHING!”

Inho’s body stayed still beneath him, muscles tense but unmoving. His breath caught as he locked eyes with Gihun. There was something in his eyes that made Inho’s blood run cold. He hadn’t seen that look in a long time, not since his days in the force. It was the look of a man driven to the edge by loss, one that no longer saw the difference between justice and vengeance.

“Gihun,” Inho said softly, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was no defiance or mockery in his tone, only confusion and concern. His wide and earnest eyes weren’t searching for an escape, they were searching for him, for the Gihun he remembered.

His Gihun.

But this Gihun wasn’t and had never been his.

Perhaps he never would be.

All Inho saw in this Gihun was a man who looked like a ghost made of everything Inho had failed to protect.

Gihun’s vision blurred as hot tears swelled and broke free, trailing down his cheeks in streaks that collected at the bottom of his mask. His entire body trembled in pure, unfiltered, and aimless fury. It flooded his veins, surged to his hands, and made his fingers twitch with the sick, violent urge to pull the trigger.

Just one squeeze. One act of retaliation.

And yet—

Gihun couldn’t.

Even now, even here with his enemy beneath him. The image of Jungbae’s blood stained his mind, Sangwoo’s phantom corpse in his lap, and the countless other deaths he had witnessed because they were all exploited by the Game ran by the rich, overseen by Inho himself.

Every memory of death and betrayal stuck like thorns inside his chest.

He still couldn’t do it.

The trembling turned into shaking.

And then, something broke.

Gihun let out a strangled, guttural wail. It wasn’t a scream nor sob, but something desperate in between. The sound of grief being pried open with bare hands. The sound of a heart failing to make sense of its own pain.

His grip loosened. The pressure on the barrel slackened. His shoulders sagged forward, collapsing like a building whose foundation had finally given out. He squeezed his eyes shut and cried out, voice thin and shattered.

“I TRUSTED YOU, YOUNGIL!”

The words fell between them like ash.

Gihun’s chest heaved, struggling to breathe past the knot in his throat as he opened his eyes. Tears blurred his vision, stinging hot against the cool air. His fingers trembled on the grip of the paintball gun, unable to let go, yet unable to pull the trigger.

“It’s my fault…” Gihun exhaled hoarsely, his throat feeling like sand. “It’s all my fault…”

Every mistake, every death, every scream that still haunted him, he carried them. If only he hadn’t pushed so recklessly for the rebellion, hadn’t believed in some naive thought of a small sacrifice for the greater good. If he wasn’t so damn convinced that they had a chance. It was never going to work. Not with the Frontman walking among them, playing God with all their lives. Gihun had been foolish.

And that foolishness had gotten people killed.

Inho lay silently beneath him, watching with those soft eyes which stirred something within Gihun. He hated how human Inho looked right now, like he was a man who didn’t have any answers either.

Then, Inho moved slowly, causing Gihun’s body to tense up, muscles locking up instinctively. He braced for anything.

But he didn’t pull away.

Inho’s hand rose carefully, almost hesitantly. With a quiet click, he unlatched the strap of Gihun’s paintball mask and slid it off, exposing his tear-streaked face to the open air. Gihun didn’t meet his eyes.

Then, without a word, Inho’s fingers brushed against his cheek. His thumb moved tenderly across the skin, wiping a tear away.

“It’s not your fault, Gihun.” Inho said. The gentleness in his voice made Gihun feel like he was breaking open all over again.

And for just one second, Gihun let himself lean into that quiet touch, the warmth he wished he didn’t crave.

Then he slapped the hand away.

“I trusted you…” Gihun repeated quietly, as if saying it once more might unwrite everything that had happened in another universe.

But it wouldn’t. Nothing could.

Inho inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. This time, he didn’t reach out again.

His hand gripped firmly around the barrel of the paintball gun that was pointed at his throat, before pushing it down to his heart. His fingers slid down the plastic and to the trigger, where his warm fingers gently covered Gihun’s trembling ones.

“Then kill me.” Inho whispered.

And he pulled Gihun’s finger on the trigger.

Pop.

The paint bloomed violently across Inho’s vest, a vivid stain over his heart. The mark of elimination.

A signal of surrender.

The gun fell from Gihun’s hands like it burned him, hitting the forest floor with a dull thud. He should feel relief for pulling the trigger, instead he felt emptiness. He stared, heart pounding, as he lifted his trembling palms to eye level. Red. So much red.

Paint, Gihun told himself. Just paint.

But it didn’t feel like paint. It felt warm and sticky, the shade was too dark. The scent hit him next, not the faint chemical tang.

Copper. Iron. Blood.

Gihun’s head suddenly throbbed with brutal intensity. A blinding flash behind his eyes made his vision swim. And he wasn’t in the woods anymore; he was somewhere else. Somewhere darker. He could see it, the aftermath, the real one. The bodies. The cold. The red that wasn’t paint.

His hands began to tremble violently. His breath shortened, fast and shallow. Too fast. Too tight.

He couldn’t breathe.

His chest seized up, each inhale more useless than the last. The trees pressed in again, the shadows reaching out like claws while the light spun sideways. His body wanted to run, but his mind was trapped. He couldn’t see or feel.

“Gihun…?” A soft and distant voice barely cut through the ringing in his ears.

He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear anything.

Gihun was somewhere else now. Trapped in the liminal space between past and present, between universes and memories. A reality made of blood and screams and broken trust.

“I…” Gihun’s croaked out. “I… I can’t breathe—”

His hands rose to his face in a desperate attempt to ground himself, but it only smeared the red across his cheeks. The forest felt like it was closing in, the trees pressing tighter and tighter, the canopy sealing off the sky. Gihun curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut while his shoulders shook, his breath came in sharp and useless bursts.

All the while, the paint clung to him.

Blood.

Theirs.

Youngil’s.

Gihun’s fingers trembled harder, twitching like they remembered every moment his brain had tried to forget. He couldn’t tell which version of reality he was standing in, whether it was this forest or the isolated island where everything had ended. Where lives had ended.

Time fractured. Sound distorted.

He didn’t know what was real anymore.

And then something shifted beneath him. Gihun barely registered the movement before the warmth enveloped him. Strong arms pulled him down close. A solid and steady chest pressed against his own. The scent of forest and sweat and something both familiar and unfamiliar hit his nose.

Gihun tensed instinctively at first. Then he heard it.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A heartbeat that wasn't his own.

Gihun’s breath was still coming in broken bursts, sharp and useless, but now he had something to follow. Something real. He pressed his ear more firmly against the chest beneath him, barely noticing the smear of paint that transferred between their bodies. Sticky red between them, but it didn’t matter. He focused on the rhythm.

“You’re okay,” came the low murmur above him. “You’re safe.”

The words were quiet, spoken into his sweat damped hair, but they vibrated through Inho’s chest and went straight into Gihun’s bones.

“In.” Inho whispered, his chest rising.

“And out.” He continued, breathing out slowly.

Gihun inhaled a sharp drag of air into his lungs, not yet clean but better. He let it out shakily, counting the heartbeats again. One. Two. Three. He matched the next breath to Inho’s. Then another.

The screaming in his head began to fade. The forest around him softened, the branches no longer clawing, the shadows no longer closing in. The throbbing in his skull had also dulled into a hum.

Somewhere beneath him, he felt the warmth emitting from the firm body. Inho’s hand rested gently against the small of Gihun’s back, moving in slow, grounding circles. Gihun stayed like that for what felt like hours but may have only been minutes, curled over Inho’s body, breath uneven but steadier with each inhale. The chaos inside him began to quiet as he reminded himself, over and over:

You’re not in the Game. They’re not dead. You’re not alone. They’re waiting. They still believe in you.

Alive.

With a strained exhale, Gihun slowly pushed himself upright, limbs heavy with exhaustion and mind still spinning in the aftermath. He could feel Inho’s chest rising and falling beneath him, and Gihun avoided his gaze entirely. He didn’t trust what might break loose if he looked. Not yet. Not after everything.

Inho’s hand which had hovered a second longer near Gihun’s waist, dropped quietly to the dirt. His eyes searched Gihun’s face, but Gihun kept his own fixed downward, jaw clenched, willing himself to get off but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

Then—

Pop.

A sharp sting exploded across Gihun’s upper back. He flinched violently, a hiss tearing through his teeth as the pain bloomed under his vest. He instinctively half-turned with wide eyes, just in time to catch the smear of color spreading across his shoulder.

His gaze snapped upward. Standing in a blue vest a few feet behind a barrel, a familiar figure was panting hard with his paintball gun still pointed right at Gihun.

Kang Daeho.

Gihun froze, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, none of them moved. Not Gihun, his eyes wide in panic. Not Daeho, standing like a deer in headlights in what looked like pure shock. And not Inho, whose body tensed slightly beneath Gihun who was somehow still sitting on top of him, straddling his waist.

Gihun’s thoughts raced.

How long had Daeho been standing there? How much had he witnessed?

And more than anything…

… What did Daeho think he saw?

Chapter Text

“Don’t touch me! I can walk fine.” Gihun snapped, swatting Inho’s hand away with a sharp flick of his wrist.

They both got up from the ground, brushing dirt and leaves from their clothes. Gihun's breathing was shallow, and his knees trembled beneath him. The world spun in slow, nauseating circles. He tried to take a step forward, pretending he was fine, but the moment his foot met the ground, his balance faltered.

Inho caught him by the elbow before he could crumple, steadying him with his strong grip.

“Get off.” Gihun hissed, jerking his arm free, more embarrassed than angry.

Inho exhaled, his brow furrowing, “Seong Gihun, stop being so damn stubborn.”

“I’m not stubborn.” Gihun bit out, even though the ringing in his ears and the pulsing behind his eyes said otherwise.

Behind them, Daeho trudged quietly, awkwardly cradling all three paintball guns in his arms. The announcement blared over the distant loudspeakers: “Time’s up. All players report to the elimination zone.”

No one acknowledged it. No one said a word to Daeho either. The silence between the three of them stretched thin. Gihun forced himself to move again. But this time, his body gave out. His legs buckled beneath him, and he pitched forward.

Before the ground could meet him, a strong arm swept beneath his knees, another bracing his back. Inho caught him in one swift motion and lifted him, causing Gihun to let out a startled noise as his feet left the ground.

“What the hell are you— Put me down!” He squirmed, trying to push Inho away, his feet kicking the air, but Inho’s grip only tightened.

“You can yell at me later,” Inho said calmly, eyes forward as he began walking. “Right now, you’re barely conscious, and I’m not letting you faceplant into a tree just to prove a point.”

Gihun’s cheeks burned, part fury, part shame. He looked away, teeth clenched, arms stiff at his sides. If any of his old friends from the other universe could see him now, being bridal-carried by the same man he once swore to hate, they’d probably lose their collective minds.

In this reality, nobody said anything. Daeho trailed behind them in silence, juggling paintball guns in his arms. The forest buzzed quietly with the last echoes of the game’s end. And maybe the most disturbing part of all… was how natural it felt.

Inho didn’t look smug nor triumphant. Just tired. Like this wasn’t about power, or pity, or proving anything. He acted like it was only about Gihun, about keeping him safe.

And that was the hardest part to accept.

They moved quietly through the forest path, dappled light falling through the trees, crunch of boots muffled beneath fallen leaves. Gihun kept his eyes on anything except Inho’s face. The branches overhead, the distant sky, or the shifting glint of sunlight against the mask Inho had hooked at his belt. His thoughts tumbled wildly, but he forced them to land anywhere except on the man carrying him. His enemy. His supposed enemy.

The man who had ruined everything in another life.

But when Inho finally spoke, his voice was low and hesitant; and for reasons Gihun hated, it made his chest ache.

“So… who’s Youngil?”

Every nerve in Gihun’s body tensed up. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Oh, Youngil? He’s you. Not this version of you, but close enough. The one who looked me in the eye while helping telling me how he had a sick wife and unborn child to go back to. He earned my trust with quiet words and encouragement, only to turn it into a weapon. The one who stood by my side as we toppled a system together… and then turn around and make me watch as he used that same system to kill Jungbae.

He’s the version of you that ruined me. And the worst part? I still don’t know if he meant to.

Gihun swallowed thickly, staring past Inho’s shoulder into the trees, eyes wide but unfocused. The words burned in his chest. They screamed at him to speak. To say something. Just rip the bandage off and watch it bleed.

Maybe then Inho would finally walk away. Maybe he’d finally realize how broken Gihun really was and give up trying to fix someone who wasn’t his responsibility in the first place.

“…Is he your boyfriend?” Inho asked.

That snapped Gihun’s gaze to his face, startled at the absurdity of the question. Inho turned his head slightly, catching Gihun’s eyes with his own unflinching ones. He was serious.

“What?” Gihun croaked.

Inho shrugged, adjusting Gihun’s weight in his arms, “I don’t know. You called me another name so… I figured he must’ve been someone special.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Gihun muttered.

Still, something twisted inside him. And after a beat, he added, softer this time, “…He’s not my boyfriend. He has a wife. He was just… somebody.”

Inho hummed faintly, as if turning the answer over in his mind, and asked, “Was he important to you?”

The question hit harder than it should’ve.

Gihun blinked, his gaze falling away. His mouth opened like he might respond, but nothing came. The silence stretched between them, heavy and full of ghosts.

Was he important to you?

For three days, Youngil had been everything. The only one who had looked Gihun in the eye and didn’t flinch, not when things got ugly, not when the lines blurred between right and wrong. He had spoken like someone who knew how far down the rot went. And he never doubted Gihun’s resolve. Not once.

Even when Gihun himself did.

They had survived together. Lied for each other. Covered one another’s backs in a place where trust meant nothing and alliances dissolved with the next blood-soaked twist. Somehow, against all odds, they’d formed a fragile kind of brotherhood shaped by necessity, hardened by circumstance. For Gihun, it made the bond unbearably real.

Then Youngil shattered it.

Not with a laugh or silence. Not even with the gunshot that ended Jungbae’s life.

No. It was later. After the blood. After the smoke. After the rage had burned out and left only bone-deep exhaustion in its place. In that quiet office, high above the dormitory and arenas where it had all gone wrong, Youngil had removed his mask and placed a knife on the table. An offer of release and choice.

Gihun hadn't accepted it no matter how enticing it was. Kill the trash that wants to kill you and the baby. He hadn’t had the strength to think much about it. He only had Junhee’s baby in mind, and the only thing that mattered in that moment was her survival. He didn’t even register the betrayal fully. He simply took the knife, turned around and left, as if motion alone would carry him past the truth.

But now, with the world quieter and that infant no longer crying in his arms, Gihun remembered the look in Youngil’s eyes.

It wasn’t cruel nor cold.

It was human.

That was the worst part.

Because for all the manipulation and double-crossing, all the moral ruin and blood spilled, Youngil had still looked at him with something that resembled regret. Or maybe hope. And even now, Gihun didn’t know which possibility hurt more.

There had always been that part of him that was stubborn and buried beneath layers of old wounds and newer scars that had wanted to ask. Up there on that rusted Sky Squid pillar, surrounded by silence and the creaking groan of oxidized metal, he'd nearly said it aloud:

If it were your choice… would you save me? Not wearing the mask, not just to play the part. Would you be willing to try to fly again, knowing that the cage is open?

Would you choose me over the system that made you?

But the question remained unspoken.

And so had the answer.

Even now, even here, in a place with no stakes and no blood spilled for real, Gihun hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. Not in the office with a knife. Not in the forest with a paintball gun. Not on Inho, on Youngil, or whatever fractured reflection of the different versions of him.

Gihun mulled over that hesitation often, more than he cared to admit. He dissected it in quiet moments, kept looking for the exact second his resolve had cracked, the fragile thread of humanity left that always pulled him back.

Was it mercy? Or denial?

Hope? Or guilt?

Maybe it was all of them, tangled up in the same knot that lived just beneath his ribs.

Gihun looked down at his hands.  The paint had dried by now, curling at the edges like dead leaves. But in the light of the day, with shadows stretching long across the ground, it still looked too much like blood.

His fingers curled into his palms.

“I don’t know,” Gihun finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Somehow, that truth felt more dangerous than anything else.

“Whoever he was… he must’ve hurt you a lot.” Inho said, his eyes remained forward.

Gihun didn’t respond. Not aloud. But in his mind, he answered simply: Yes, he hurt me. He tore apart something I didn’t even realize I’d given him. He made me believe we were on the same side, only to remind me that I was just a racehorse.

There were no words to explain what Gihun had gone through, and even if there were, Gihun wasn’t sure he had the strength to speak out loud about them.

So, he stayed silent.

The trees began to thin. The gravel crunched differently. And up ahead, the elimination zone came into view, bright orange tape marking its boundary, a handful of brightly colored bleachers visible beyond.

A handful of their friends were already seated there, sprawled across the benches in various states of relaxation or banter. The moment they spotted the approaching figures, the mood shifted.

Jiyeong’s jaw dropped. She shot upright.

“Oh. My. God.”

Jungbae’s eyes went wide, his mouth halfway open in silent disbelief. Next to him, Saebyeok arched an eyebrow in intrigue. Even Hyunju, who had been leaning back lazily with a bottle of water balanced on her knee had straightened, her mouth falling open slightly at the sight.

And there was a sight to take in.

Sangwoo’s reaction was quieter. His eyes slid toward Inho, taking in the scene with slow calculation. Then, they dropped to Gihun, his features softened, concern flickering behind the cool façade.

The rest of the group hadn’t noticed yet, huddled a few feet away under a tree near the cooler, laughing about something completely unrelated, blissfully unaware of the tension approaching. Gihun squirmed as they neared the tape.

“Put me down.” He hissed under his breath, already feeling his ears burn.

Inho obliged without a word. He slowed his pace, then knelt slightly to let Gihun slide from his arms. Gihun’s boots hit the gravel a bit harder than he intended, knees still weak, but he managed to stay upright.

Barely.

He straightened his vest and cleared his throat, avoiding everyone's gaze. But the weight of their stares was like a heat lamp. He didn’t have to look to know Jiyeong was absolutely vibrating with excitement.

With a barely stifled squeal of glee, Jiyeong leapt down from the bleachers, boots hitting the gravel with a bounce. She passed both Inho and Gihun entirely, as if whatever that was didn’t even require commentary yet. Instead, she zeroed in on a new target.

“Daeho!” She called, voice syrup-sweet and deadly.

“Huh? What?” Daeho jolted in place and spun around, nearly knocking over a hopper of extra paintballs.

Before he could react or run, Jiyeong was already at his side, grinning ear to ear. She looped her arm through his with all the force of a grappling hook.

“You,” she said, voice low. “Are going to start talking.”

“Talking?” Daeho sputtered, blinking rapidly as she began dragging him toward the others gathered by the bleachers. “Wait, talking about what? Jiyeong!”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” Jiyeong shot him a knowing glance. “You showed up last with a squeaky-clean vest while those two came back looking like they’d just survived a personal war zone. Come on. You saw something.”

“I didn’t—!” Daeho’s face flushed a brilliant shade of crimson, his arm flailing slightly as if trying to wriggle free. “I didn’t walk in on anything! There was no— I mean, not like that!”

“Uh-huh,” Jiyeong said, clearly not buying a single word. “So, you're telling me you just coincidentally missed the firefight and also happened to be right behind them when they showed up looking like that?”

“I was just… walking. I swear.” Daeho was sweating now. “I heard yelling, maybe, I don’t know. And then paint. Lots of paint.”

Jiyeong leaned closer, eyes sparkling, “Yelling and paint? So, it was passionate.”

Daeho groaned into his hands, “Why are you like this?”

“Because I live for this,” she said cheerfully. “Now spill before I force you to.”

Behind them, a few others were perking up, their curiosity piqued by the commotion. Saebyeok raised a brow. Jungbae nudged Youngmi, already opening a group chat.

Gihun didn’t notice them. Honestly, he didn’t notice anything except the way his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, a dull throb pulsing behind his eyes. He barely registered the approaching footsteps until a familiar hand closed gently around his elbow.

“Are you okay, hyung?” Sangwoo asked, voice low and careful. He was close enough now that Gihun could see the concern pinching the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” Gihun said quietly, though it sounded more like a reflex than a conviction. The word was brittle in his mouth.

Off to the side, out of his peripheral, someone shifted their weight. Gihun felt it more than saw it, the quiet presence hovering just behind his shoulder. Inho hadn’t left his side.

“I’m going to bring Gihun to the hospital.” Inho said firmly, as though it had already been decided.

Sangwoo’s head snapped toward him, his entire demeanor hardening in an instant.

“What? Why?” His gaze sharpened, icy with suspicion. “What did you do?”

“It’s not me,” Inho replied evenly, meeting Sangwoo’s glare without flinching. “He nearly collapsed earlier. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

Sangwoo’s grip on Gihun’s elbow tightened slightly.

“I can bring him,” he said, his tone clipped. “He doesn’t need you for that.”

For a moment, the two men stood there, locked in a quiet but unmistakable battle of wills. Inho’s eyes flicked from Sangwoo’s grip to Gihun’s face, then back again.

“I have a car,” Inho said. “I’ll take him. I’ll bring him back when he’s cleared.”

“No,” Sangwoo said flatly, not looking away. “I can bring him there for the checkup.”

The silence stretched tight like a wire. The air was thick with a tension that was no longer unspoken. Around them, the forest may as well have fallen silent. Even the birds seemed to hush in anticipation. Gihun blinked slowly, the argument only half-absorbed. His balance faltered slightly, a wave of dizziness rolling through him like a sudden tide. He swayed forward.

Inho instinctively reached a hand out, steadying Gihun’s lower back before he could stumble again. He ignored the way Sangwoo’s eyes snapped down to his hand with his jaw clenched.

“You’re not okay,” Inho murmured. “Stop pretending.”

“Don’t touch him.” Sangwoo snapped, stepping between them now, forcing Inho to take a half step back.

The tension cracked like static between them.

Gihun exhaled shakily, finally raising his voice, though it was hoarse and thin, “Enough.”

Both men turned toward him.

“I just need to sit down for a second,” he muttered, lifting a hand to his temple. “Before one of you punches the other and I pass out in the middle of it.”

Jungbae’s whisper floated from the bleachers, “Ten bucks on Inho.”

Saebyeok replied without missing a beat, “Sangwoo’s got that businessman aggression. He’s been waiting years to deck someone.”

Neither man laughed. Gihun slowly sank down onto a nearby bench, his legs giving way beneath him. His hands braced against his knees as he bent forward, trying to control his breathing. Each inhale through his nose was shaky and thick with the dry taste of exhaustion.

He barely noticed when Sangwoo crouched beside him, uncapping a bottle of water and pressing it gently into his hand.

“Drink,” Sangwoo said softly, his voice stripped of its earlier edge. “You’ve lost a lot of fluids. Just sip slowly.”

Without a word, Gihun obeyed, the bottle trembling slightly in his grasp as he brought it to his lips. The coolness was a balm, even if it only scratched the surface.

While Sangwoo hovered protectively at Gihun’s side, Inho had quietly stepped away. No one saw where he went, but he returned less than a minute later with a cold, damp towel he must have soaked from the staff tent nearby. Withou hesitation, he knelt down and gently pressed it against Gihun’s forehead, the chill making Gihun flinch, but it helped. The ache in his skull eased, just a little.

Gihun didn’t protest. He couldn’t. He was too tired to pretend his built up walls mattered.

“Sangwoo,” Inho said quietly. “Let me take him to the hospital. Please.”

Sangwoo looked up, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly from the towel in Inho’s hand to the sweat on Gihun’s brow. His gaze lingered on Gihun’s drawn and pale face, still fighting to stay upright. Then back to Inho, as if searching for any trace of ulterior motive.

“I saw what happened,” Inho added, a hint of urgency in his voice now. “I can explain it to the doctors. His symptoms, when they started, what triggered them. He needs proper care, not just a ride.”

Sangwoo’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, it looked like he might argue again. The old habits of mistrust and protectiveness were still there, that simmering anger just under the surface. But something in Gihun’s posture made him pause. The slump of his shoulders, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was barely keeping it together.

Finally, Sangwoo exhaled a slow and resigned breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he said, voice low. “But I want updates.”

Inho nodded, “Of course.”

Sangwoo stood, giving Gihun’s shoulder a brief squeeze before stepping aside. Inho helped Gihun to his feet again, more carefully this time. There was no fight left in him, only tired acceptance, and the unspoken hope that someone, anyone, could make sense of the way his world kept spinning out of control.

Gihun didn’t even remember getting into the car.

The entire drive blurred into the edges of his mind like watercolors left out in the rain. All he knew was that it was quiet. Inho didn’t try to make conversation or press him with questions or glances. Instead, he simply drove, the hum of the engine steady beneath them, the soft flicker of the turn signal the only interruption to the stillness… besides the radio.

At first, the music had been unremarkable, some background classical drifting through the speakers. But when the familiar waltz of The Blue Danube filled the car, Gihun’s body went rigid and his breath caught.

That music. The memory of it.

He stared forward, vision blurry as nausea curled in his stomach like smoke. The harmony no longer felt like music; it felt like a countdown. Black masks and pink suits. Blood and the sound of screaming beneath an elegant tune.

Inho noticed. He didn’t say anything nor ask. He reached forward and calmly skipped to the next song.

Gihun exhaled shakily, relieved and grateful for the silence that followed. Then another tune faded in, this time softer.

“Fly me to the moon… Let me play among the stars…”

It wasn’t peace exactly, but it wasn’t fear either. The music settled over him like a thin blanket, and at some point, Gihun let his eyes slide shut. He didn’t remember drifting off.

When he opened them again, a hand was on his shoulder.

“We’re here.” Inho said gently.

The hospital’s front awning loomed outside the windshield. Gihun blinked hard, forcing himself upright. His limbs felt sluggish, like they weren’t entirely his.

Inside, the sterile white of the clinic only made his headache worse. The lights buzzed overhead as he leaned against Inho for balance. When he stumbled halfway to the reception desk, Inho caught him instinctively, his grip firm yet gentle to not hurt Gihun.

That was when Inho’s composure broke.

“Where’s Byeonggi?” He demanded sharply, eyes fixed on the nurse at the front desk.

The nurse, clearly startled by Inho’s sudden shift in tone, stammered, “He’s… he’s on his break right now—”

Inho’s jaw clenched. “This crack doctor.” He muttered under his breath, already pulling out his phone like he might summon the man himself.

Gihun wasn’t sure if Inho texted someone, called a favor, or just sent out enough threatening energy to alter the gravitational field of the building… but within minutes, Byeonggi appeared at the far end of the hall.

He was still sipping on a banana milk, his white coat fluttering behind him like he’d just stepped out of an argument with the pharmacy department. His expression was unimpressed at best.

“Hwang Inho,” Byeonggi said flatly as he approached. “You are not about to cause a ruckus in my clinic. Again.”

His eyes landed on Gihun.

Whatever snark had been loading in the doctor’s tone melted into concern as he took in the sheen of sweat on Gihun’s forehead, the way he leaned ever so slightly against Inho, legs unsteady.

“…Alright. Let’s get you looked at.”

Without waiting for any further protest, Byeonggi turned sharply on his heel and gestured for them to follow, already making his way down the corridor.

The rhythmic squeak of his sneakers echoed against the floor as Inho guided Gihun along behind him, one hand hovering protectively near Gihun’s back in case he swayed again.

They were led into a private room tucked at the end of the hallway, quiet and dimly lit compared to the bright lights outside. Gihun sat down heavily in the chair across from Byeonggi’s desk, his shoulders hunched slightly, as though trying to make himself smaller. His fingers twitched in his lap. He didn’t even look up.

Byeonggi settled into his chair with a quiet sigh, flipping open a slim file folder and skimming the sparse chart that had been assembled so far. A pen clicked softly in his hand.

“So,” he began, glancing at Inho without looking away from the notes. “You said he had a panic attack… during a game of paintball?”

“Yes.” Inho stood to the side of Gihun, arms loosely folded. “It looked like the red paint set him off. He froze up, couldn’t breathe. Called me by the wrong name… ‘Youngil.’”

Byeonggi’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he tapped the pen against the chart. “Huh. Youngil.” He jotted the name down. “And that triggered name... you recognize it?”

Inho shook his head, “No. Never heard it before.”

“Any history of panic attacks or PTSD before the amnesia?”

“Not that I know of since I’ve known him.” Inho said.

Byeonggi hummed under his breath, scratching absently at the back of his neck with his pen. His eyes flicked between Inho and Gihun again, lips pursed in thought. Finally, he stood, motioning toward the door.

“Alright. Gihun-ssi, just sit tight for a minute.”

Gihun barely reacted, nodding faintly, his eyes locked somewhere near the floor.

Once outside, Byeonggi shut the door behind them and leaned against the cool wall of the hallway. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, staring down the corridor with a furrow in his brow. Then he spoke, his voice low.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Inho frowned, “What doesn’t?”

“Him.” Byeonggi nodded toward the closed door. “The reaction. The specific trigger. The fact that it happened now, so suddenly.”

“I already told you,” Inho’s voice tightened, his arms crossing over his chest. “It looked like a trauma response. I’ve seen it before while I was still in the force.”

Byeonggi held up a hand, “I’m not doubting that. What I’m saying is, it doesn’t make sense with this profile. There’s no recorded trauma, no prior panic responses. And then suddenly… this?”

Inho glanced down the hallway, words held behind his teeth. He hesitated.

“There was something.” He finally admitted.

Byeonggi’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, “What was it?”

Inho sighed, running a hand through his hair as if it could help untangle the thoughts running through his mind.

“The worker’s strike. At Dragon Motors. It was brutal. He lost people. But that was thirteen years ago. He’s never had a panic attack over it. He drinks too much on the anniversary, sure. Gets quiet. Maybe melancholic. But nothing like this.”

Byeonggi’s face didn’t change, but he tapped his fingers lightly against his arm in thought, “A traumatic event left unresolved can resurface… but not usually in this form. Not with such acute precision. Well, in this specific case, it seemed he had a color-based trigger. And then calling you by a completely different name.”

Inho’s jaw tightened, “He’s not making it up. The way he reacted, it was real for him. Like he wasn’t just remembering something. He was reliving it.”

Byeonggi looked at him not as a doctor, but as a man trying to see past layers of emotion and bias, “You also said in your texts that he seems to be fine around the others. But not you. That… he gets tense and withdraws.”

Inho didn’t answer immediately. He looked down, the floor suddenly far more interesting than Byeonggi’s face.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “He doesn’t want me around.”

Byeonggi sighed slowly, “You’re probably not going to like what I’m about to say.”

Inho glanced up.

“I think you need to back off. Just for now.” Byeonggi hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “From what you’ve been telling me… there’s a chance you are the trigger.”

The words landed with a quiet thud, heavier than they should have been.

Inho didn’t respond. He didn’t argue nor defend himself. He just stood there, his throat working around the weight of something unspoken. Down the halls, the muffled bustle of the hospital filled the silence with paging announcements, rolling carts, and the soft chatter of nurses.

It all felt distant, like the world had momentarily melted in white noise.

Byeonggi exhaled and pushed off the wall, his voice gentler now, “I’ll write him a prescription. Low-dose anxiety meds. Non-habit forming. It’s not a cure, but it might help take the edge off, help him stabilize for a bit.”

Inho followed silently, his footsteps softer now.

“If it happens again,” Byeonggi continued. “We’ll need to run a full psychiatric evaluation and a neurological scan. Maybe there’s something buried deeper that the amnesia’s been masking until now. But for now, you should give him space.”

They paused outside the door again. Inho watched him carefully.

“And if it’s not medical?” He asked, voice barely above a murmur.

Byeonggi hesitated, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Then you better find a shaman,” he muttered, only half-joking. “Because if science can’t explain it… something else might be at play. And I don’t like what that implies.”

With that, he pushed the door open.

Inside, Gihun blinked sleepily under the soft lights, his posture was a little more relaxed than before, but his eyes were still glassy and distant. He straightened when they entered, gaze flitting between the two men.

“Seong Gihun-ssi,” Byeonggi said gently as he approached, slipping back into his professional tone. “I’m going to start you on a mild anti-anxiety medication. Just one pill in the morning, once a day. It won’t knock you out, just help manage any lingering stress symptoms.”

Gihun nodded.

“Don’t skip a dose,” Byeonggi added, his voice more insistent now. “Even if you feel fine. And if anything like earlier happens again, you come back here immediately, understand?”

“…Yeah.” Gihun said quietly. Inho remained near the door, watching them both, his brows drawn in tightly.

“You’re clear to go,” Byeonggi said, scribbling the final note onto Gihun’s chart. “But take it easy for the next few days. No strenuous activity. And absolutely no paintball.”

He shot Inho a sharp look, one brow arched in dry disapproval. Inho scoffed under his breath, barely hiding the eye roll, “Got it.”

Byeonggi shook his head with a sigh, muttering as he handed over the prescription, “Your little band of misfits is going to give me an early retirement.”

As they left the room together, Gihun leaned slightly into the wall for balance. Inho was at his side in an instant, offering a steady arm. This time, Gihun didn’t pull away.

Inho kept his word.

The drive back to the city was wrapped in silence, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional shift of tires over asphalt. The sun had climbed high as it approached the afternoon, short shadows stretching across the dashboard. Neither man spoke.

Gihun leaned his head against the window, eyes half-lidded as he watched the city bleed past. Traffic lights blinked dully in the distance. The world was continuing, indifferent to the chaos still echoing in his chest.

When they pulled up in front of his apartment building, two familiar figures were already waiting on the curb.

Sangwoo was pacing in tight, agitated circles, while Jungbae stood with his arms folded, gaze scanning every approaching car like a hawk. As soon as Inho shifted the gear into park, Sangwoo was already moving. The passenger door swung open with more force than necessary.

“Easy there.” Sangwoo said, his voice sharp with concern as he reached in to steady Gihun. One hand pressed gently against Gihun’s back, guiding him out with quiet urgency.

Jungbae met them halfway up the sidewalk, his eyes narrowing as he took in Gihun’s pale face and sluggish steps, “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Gihun didn’t protest, he simply moved with them, his legs still heavy and unsteady. Once inside the apartment, he didn’t head for the couch or retreat to his room. Instead, he wandered toward the window, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he stared down at the street below. He remained there, shoulders hunched slightly, watching the scene unfold outside.

Down on the sidewalk, Sangwoo and Inho stood a few feet apart, deep in conversation. Gihun couldn’t make out a single word from this height, but the body language said enough.

Inho’s arms were folded loosely across his chest, his posture more weary than confrontational. He spoke first. Something short, maybe clipped, but his expression wasn’t cold. Sangwoo’s reply came with a sharp motion of his hand toward the building, eyes flicking up briefly, as if he could sense Gihun watching from above.

They didn’t look like enemies.

Not quite friends either.

“Jungbae…” Gihun murmured, his voice just above a whisper.

Jungbae’s head poked around the corner from the kitchen, “Hm?”

Still watching the silent exchange below, Gihun let the side of his head rest against the wall.

“What’s the deal between them?” He asked quietly. “Do they… hate each other?”

Jungbae walked over, peering out the window beside him, then let out a small scoff under his breath. “Not exactly,” he said. “They just care a lot about you… in their own competitive ways.”

Gihun blinked. The words echoed in his chest, soft but heavy. He didn't respond right away.

In his world, the one he remembered, the one he couldn’t escape, he hadn’t spoken to Sangwoo in years. Not until the Game. And even then, that reunion came laced with guilt, pain, and the silent weight of time left unspoken. Their friendship had been buried long before it was resurrected in blood.

And Inho? Gihun never truly knew him. Not until it was far too late, when the mask came off and everything he thought he understood turned to ash.

But here… Things were wrong in ways that felt strangely right.

In this world, Sangwoo hadn’t grown bitter and distant. He stayed close. Protective, even when he tried to hide it behind that clipped tone and logical voice. And somehow, Inho had entered Gihun’s life long before a black mask or numbered files could ruin anything. They had… history. Familiarity.

Even the others, Jungbae, Saebyeok, Ali, Hyunju, they were all just a little different from the people he had lost. The lines around their eyes were softer. They laughed more. They lived more.

Maybe this universe hadn’t broken them the same way.

Chapter Text

When Gihun entered the kitchen the next morning, Sangwoo was standing by the stove, dressed casually in a loose dress shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

As he walked over while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sangwoo turned just in time to place a plate down on the table. Gihun blinked slowly, the hem of his oversized T-shirt slipping down one shoulder. His hair stuck up slightly at odd angles, and his voice was thick with sleep.

“Good morning.”

Sangwoo looked up and for a second too long, his eyes lingered on the sliver of skin exposed at Gihun’s collarbone before flicking quickly away. His expression didn’t shift nor falter, but Gihun noticed the way his posture straightened slightly, like he’d caught himself.

“Morning, hyung.” Sangwoo said, though there was a softness underneath it that hadn’t been there the night before.

“You’re up early.” Gihun murmured.

He moved to the table and slid into the chair with a low exhale. His limbs still felt heavy with sleep, but the warmth of food in front of him made his stomach growl in hunger.

Sangwoo handed him a spoon quietly and then placed something else down beside the plate. A small orange bottle of pills. The faint rattle inside seemed louder than it should have in the room.

“I need to make sure you’re going to take your pills.” Sangwoo gently said. There was no judgement in his voice.

Gihun paused mid-bite, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. His eyes dropped to the bottle. For a moment, he stared at the label and the small white pills inside it. He wouldn’t have imagined this for himself. Not even weeks ago.

In the other world, the one he remembered too vividly, he had spiraled. Grief and guilt had carved out a hollow in his chest so deep he could barely breathe in it. He’d shut himself away from everything except for a few fragments of connection in the form of loan sharks that had become his unlikely allies.

But here… things were different.

He was being taken care of.

He wasn't pitied. Instead, he was watched over in quiet ways by his friends. It was in the form of meals being made, doors left unlocked, and company that never felt forced but always offered.

He had people who noticed when he looked too pale or when the circles under his eyes grew too dark. People who reminded him to eat, to rest, to heal. Friends who sat across the table in the morning and waited wordlessly to make sure he took the next small step toward being okay.

And that meant he had to try. Not just for himself.

But for them.

With a quiet inhale, Gihun reached for the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and shook one pill into his palm. The plastic clicked softly as he put the lid back on, then grabbed the glass of water beside him. Without another word, he popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed.

Across the table, Sangwoo didn’t smile, but there was a faint softening in his features as he continued to eat.

After breakfast, Gihun slung his small canvas bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the crisp morning. The autumn air bit gently at his cheeks, tinged with the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the distant promise of rain. He tugged his jacket tighter around his body, the wind slipping beneath the hem like icy fingers.

His boots hit the sidewalk as he hurried toward the cat café, breath fogging slightly in front of him. The city around him stirred with early risers of shopkeepers rolling up shutters, cyclists weaving through intersections, and the low murmur of buses and taxis rumbling to life.

Despite the chill, Gihun found comfort in the rhythm of the city waking up where its routine was soothing in a way his thoughts often weren’t.

He reached the café and unlocked the door with a soft click, the familiar chime of the bell above the entrance greeting him. Inside, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the faint scent of coffee grounds, worn wood, and catnip.

A chorus of meows echoed in greeting from the cat room. When he walked in, a wave of fur-clad bodies made their way toward him, weaving between his legs like tiny, eager shadows.

“Hey, how are you guys?” Gihun asked quietly, crouching to give a few of them light scratches behind their ears.

He gave Kimchi a tired glance as the tabby blinked at him from atop the feeding station, already sitting in front of his empty bowl like a dignified guest awaiting service.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, Your Majesty.” Gihun muttered with mock frustration.

He picked up the food bowls and made his way behind the small counter tucked against the far wall. Then, he scooped the kibbles into bowls while simultaneously nudging overly eager paws off the counter with his forearm.

A mischievous black cat batted at the edge of a bowl with one paw, nearly toppling it.

Gihun clicked his tongue in warning, “Oh no you don’t, get off you sneaky thing.”

Once the bowls were filled, he crouched and distributed them in a wide circle across the floor. The cats immediately descended, tails flicking and ears twitching as they dug in. Kimchi gave a satisfied grunt as he settled in to eat, while Mandu swatted blindly at a feather cat stick nearby, more interested in it than the meal.

Gihun wiped his hands on a towel and stood in the center of it all, watching the peaceful chaos unfold around him. Here, in the quiet rhythm of feeding and cleaning and tending, he felt grounded. The cats didn’t ask questions. They didn’t look at him with suspicion or concern. They just wanted warmth, food, and the occasional scratch behind the ears.

“Mmmroww!”

Gihun’s head jerked toward the sound, ears already tuned to feline trouble. One of the cats, a fluffy grey tabby with an overinflated sense of adventure, was squirming beneath the lip of a drawer that sat slightly ajar beside the window. Only his twitching tail and hind legs remained visible, kicking comically in the air.

“Aigoo…” Gihun sighed, already kneeling. “Look at you. Going around getting yourself stuck… again.”

He reached in gently, curling his fingers beneath the cat’s belly and carefully tugging him free. The tabby gave a soft, indignant meow as Gihun pulled him out, cradling him in his arms.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He muttered with mock sternness, lifting the cat to eye level.

Suddenly, he felt it.

The hair at the back of his neck prickled.

A chill crept down his spine as though a breeze had passed through the café, even though the door was shut tight. Gihun inhaled sharply, his gaze flicking over his shoulder.

The street beyond the window looked as it always did. Cars rolled by in neat lines, morning traffic moving its way down the block. A woman in a dark coat was hurrying across the crosswalk, holding her coffee in one hand and dragging a distracted child behind her with the other. Farther down, a cyclist rang their bell as they weaved through a pair of university students.

Nothing seemed out of place.

And yet, the sensation didn’t leave him. That creeping, skin-prickling awareness that made him feel watched.

The cat gave a small squawk and jumped from his arms, landing lightly on the floor and trotting off with its tail high in the air.

Gihun slowly stood, still scanning the street as though expecting to see someone out of place. But there was no one. Just Seoul in its usual weekday rhythm. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers trailing over the skin where the chill had settled.

“Weird.” He murmured under his breath.

The soft bell jingled overhead and Gihun's head instinctively turned toward the sound.

Hyunju stepped inside, her cheeks tinged pink from the morning air with a light scarf wound around her neck. She spotted him through the glass partition separating the front from the cat room, and her expression lit up as she lifted a hand to wave.

Gihun quickly tried to shake off that eerie feeling, forcing a smile in return as he lifted his hand stiffly to wave back in response.

“Morning!” Hyunju called.

She stepped through the door, shaking the autumn chill from her shoulders. She toed off her shoes at the entrance, placing them neatly by the rack. Gihun stood beyond the partition, still half-lost in thought. He blinked once, then quickly straightened.

“Morning, Hyunju-ya.” He said with a small nod.

They slipped into the rhythm of opening the café together, the quiet clatter of mugs and rustle of last-minute checks breaking the morning stillness. The cats padded lazily around their feet, tails flicking in anticipation of attention and treats.

As sunlight filtered through the windows, the first trickle of customers began to arrive. Shoes came off at the door, voices lowered instinctively as they stepped into the serene atmosphere of the café. Gihun greeted each person with a gentle smile, jotting down drink orders.

Behind the counter, Hyunju moved with efficiency, pulling espresso shots and steaming milk. The sound of the espresso machine joined the soft hum of conversation, as the soft music played overhead through the speakers.

A little after nine, the bell above the door chimed again, and Ali stepped in, balancing a tray of neatly wrapped pastries with one arm and a paper bag under the other.

“Morning!” He called cheerfully, his eyes crinkling as he met Gihun’s gaze.

“Ali, you’re a lifesaver.” Gihun said with a grin, stepping forward to help unload the baked goods.

The familiar smell of warm bread and sugar filled the air as they unpacked the pastries of cinnamon rolls, croissants, and red bean buns. Gihun stole a flaky bite from the edge of a croissant while Ali pretended not to notice. Soon, the display case was soon full and glowing with fresh warmth.

By midmorning, the café was in full swing. Tables were filled with regulars and new faces alike, the cats weaving between legs or napping in sunlit corners.

Gihun moved easily among them while he didn’t have any orders to take, checking in and laughing softly at one of the cats knocking over a napkin holder. He refilled water bowls and even slipped a treat to Kimchi, who had posted up near the counter.

The morning rush reached its peak just as Junhee arrived, breathless but smiling. She cradled baby Yumin gently in her arms, slipping past the counter to the staff room, where the small bassinet sat in the staff area.

“She’s still asleep,” Junhee whispered as she returned, already tying on an apron. “Perfect timing.”

“Glad you made it.” Hyunju said, sliding a finished latte across the counter.

Junhee joined her seamlessly, taking over the pastries while Hyunju focused on drinks. The two women worked in tandem, their movements smooth and familiar.

As the hours passed and sunlight shifted across the café’s cozy interior, Gihun found himself sinking into the rhythm of the day without resistance, the mundane routines became a comforting hum in the back of his mind.

He laughed easily with Hyunju, gently teasing her over the crooked foam art she made on a cappuccino. He bantered with Junhee as she managed pastries while eyeing the staff room to make sure Yumin was okay.

Children wandered in with parents and wide eyes. Gihun knelt to their level, introducing them to the more patient cats. He showed them how to let the cats sniff their hands first, how to stroke gently behind the ears, how not to chase. The cats responded in kind. Kimchi even allowed one little girl to cradle him like a plush toy, a miracle in and of itself.

It felt good and normal. So good, in fact, that he stopped thinking about the past. He didn’t think about how he was an echo from somewhere else.

During a lull between customers, Gihun leaned against the counter and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through the photos he’d taken over the last hour: blurry shots of Kimchi mid-yawn, Junhee balancing a tray of iced lattes with exaggerated flair, Hyunju pretending to box with a bag of flour.

There were also a few shots of the café interior, the sunlight catching the steam rising from cups, customers tucked into corners with books and cats curled up beside them.

Life looked good through the lens.

As the weekdays slipped by, Gihun began to notice that he was starting to feel better. The weight in his chest had started to lift, the heaviness in his limbs that used to drag him through the day now seemed a little lighter, a little less persistent. He took his medication each morning without hesitation and had even started lingering outside the café for a few extra minutes to breathe in the crisp air before stepping inside to begin his shift.

Some mornings, he was able to clock in a bit later. Hyunju or Junhee would open in his place, and Gihun would arrive just as the early rush started, coffee already brewing and cats already fed. Those small changes gave him space, and he welcomed the slower pace.

That Thursday morning unfolded just like any other.

“Morning, Hyunju-ya.” He greeted as he entered, slipping behind the counter and clocking in.

“Morning.” She replied cheerfully, steaming milk while juggling a customer’s order. One of the cats brushed up against his calf with a lazy meow, and Gihun crouched down to scratch behind its ears. A few more cats appeared, circling his feet in anticipation. He laughed under his breath.

“Alright, alright, I know I’m late.”

He ran through the usual tasks: checking inventory sheets, making small notes in the margin where stock was running low; double-checking the monthly budget log, mentally bracing for the slight dip from the last vet visit expenses; and answering a few calls from the rescue center. They confirmed a handful of adoptions and a reminder about the fundraiser next month.

Gihun wrote it all down, nodding along, even as his mind wandered.

When he finally hung up, he set the phone down with a soft thud on the counter. That was when he noticed the screen lighting up again.

A steady stream of notifications blinked across the top of his phone. He picked it up, unlocking it with a swipe. The group chat was buzzing, and there were at least forty messages unread. He opened it.

Apparently, someone had entertained the idea of dinner, and the stars had aligned. The venue was a familiar neighborhood restaurant, run by the mother-son duo Jang Geumja and Park Yongsik. Jiyeong was already in full negotiation mode, teasing Yongsik about securing a better group discount.

Jiyeong: if you’re not giving us 40% off at this point, I’m never coming back

Yongsik: you say that every time

Jiyeong: AND I MEAN IT EVERY TIME

The others were egging them on with a flood of emojis, heart stickers, and laughing gifs.

Then came a ping.

Jungbae: @gihun are you going?

Gihun didn’t hesitate. He typed a quickly:

Gihun: Yes.

He set the phone down or tried to. But his hand lingered as he stared at the roster. There was one name missing that usually always showed up.

And then it hit him.

He hadn’t seen Inho at all this week.

There wasn’t a familiar silhouette stepping through the door. No usual order of “Americano, black” in that low and calm voice. The absence was sharper than Gihun expected. No more subtle glances from across the café, or quiet moments where he’d catch Inho watching the cats with that unexpected softness in his eyes.

There had been nothing.

Gihun’s brow furrowed as he stared at the corner above the text box, watching as various names popped up to type. But no Inho. Gihun caught himself wondering if Inho was just busy, or maybe he found another café closer to wherever he spent his time now.

This was what Gihun had wanted, wasn’t it?

There won't be any more annoying run-ins. No more tightness in his chest every time their eyes met and walking on glass between resentment and some strange pull he couldn’t explain. He can simply live his life with his group of supportive friends and be at peace.

He had wanted distance.

And he had gotten it.

So why… why did it feel so empty?

It was Cheol who noticed him first.

The Kang siblings were walking side by side along the sidewalk, a light breeze tugging at their jackets as the wind scattered dried leaves across the path. Cheol was dribbling a soccer ball casually, weaving it between cracks in the pavement while Saebyeok walked beside him, half-distracted by her phone. Her thumbs tapped quickly as she typed a message to Jiyeong, confirming the time of their dinner reservation for that evening.

She barely registered the sound of the ball tapping the curb until Cheol spoke.

“Noona… isn’t that Hwang Inho-ssi?”

She looked up immediately, then her gaze followed Cheol’s down the street toward the familiar corner where Purrfect Brews stood nestled among its row of warm little shops.

The bell above the café door jingled faintly as someone exited, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. A few meters away from the entrance, tucked near the edge of a lamppost and half-obscured by the branches of a decorative tree, stood a figure she knew all too well.

Saebyeok narrowed her eyes.

There was no mistaking the profile even from a distance: the clean-cut lines of his coat, the subtle tension in his shoulders, and the way he lingered barely out of sight while his gaze remained fixed on the café windows.

Hwang Inho wasn’t trying to be noticed, but he wasn’t trying very hard not to be, either.

She followed his line of sight instinctively. Her eyes flicked toward the café window. Through the glass, Gihun stood behind the counter, smiling softly as he handed a to-go drink to a young couple. He said something, probably a joke, judging by the way both of them laughed. Gihun’s posture was relaxed, lacking the tension he had the week prior.

Saebyeok’s gaze cut back to Inho.

Even with the hat pulled low over his brow and the oversized glasses perched awkwardly on his nose, he didn’t exactly scream creep. If anything, he looked the opposite. Slouched shoulders, a strained stillness in his frame, like he was hoping the tree beside him might somehow absorb him if he stood still long enough.

Not a stalker. Just... pathetic.

She sighed, thumb hovering over her phone screen before turning it off and slipping it into her jacket.

“Should I just head in?” Cheol asked, stopping his ball with the sole of his shoe.

Saebyeok gave a slight nod, “Yeah. Make sure you finish all your homework this time.”

Cheol groaned in annoyance before he jogged ahead toward the café entrance; the ball cradled under one arm. Saebyeok lingered for a moment longer before making her way toward the man she hadn’t expected to see.

Even when she was arm’s length away from Inho, he didn’t notice, too absorbed in watching the café. Saebyeok nearly rolled her eyes at that.

“Why are you standing here like you’re on a stakeout? You’re not a cop anymore.” She finally spoke.

Inho jumped slightly, turning his head toward her. There was something unreadable in his eyes, but guilt was definitely part of it.

“I wasn’t trying to be.” He answered quietly.

His gaze flicked back toward the window, where Gihun was now crouched down, offering a saucer of treats to a particularly smug-looking calico. Then, Saebyeok eyed him suspiciously.

“So,” she started. “What are you doing here?”

Inho didn’t answer right away. His hand drifted to the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the muscle there. He stared past her, to the sign of the café, then to the smudged glass of the windows. Anywhere but her face.

“I just wanted to see how he’s doing.” He murmured, like saying it any louder might mean something.

“Then go in,” she said, jerking her chin toward the door. “What’s stopping you?”

Inho hesitated. His shoulders tensed, then slowly dropped as his hands unfurled at his sides, fingers twitching once before curling into fists.

“Byeonggi said I should give him space. But I can’t help but worry.”

That caught her off guard. Her brow ticked up slightly.

“You're telling me, that the doctor told you to keep your distance,” she repeated slowly, as if making sure she’d heard it right. “So, your next move is to… loiter outside the café anyways?”

Her voice wasn’t angry, but it was low and unimpressed. Meanwhile, Inho didn’t even try to justify himself. His jaw tensed, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the window like it held some kind of answer he was waiting for.

Saebyeok stepped around him, shifting her weight to one side as she studied his face. The circles under his eyes were darker than she remembered. It wasn't just from lack of sleep, but a kind of slow erosion that’s been chipping away at him day by day.

Her gaze flicked toward the café again, where the warmth of laughter trickled faintly through the windows. Yet Inho stood out here like a satellite worn down in orbit, trying to remain close to a planet that no longer seemed to pull him back.

There was a kind of sadness in that, one Saebyeok hadn’t expected to feel for him. Of course, Gihun’s stubbornness didn’t make it easy. That had always been true.

Aside from Jungbae and Sangwoo, Saebyeok had become one of Gihun’s closest companions. Her relationship with him had been built quietly through small, shared moments. Gihun had never said it aloud, but he treated her like family. Saebyeok never felt like a friend or someone to look after.

Instead, she felt like a daughter that he had never truly been able to raise but was somehow being given a second chance with. And in those moments, she let him not out of pity, but because she understood the quiet ache of needing be cared for too.

But now… now with the memory fracture, even she wasn’t sure where she stood. It was like talking to a reflection that didn’t always recognize her. A stranger wearing the shape of someone she’d grown to love.

Inside the café, Gihun’s head turned, his gaze sweeping toward the front window. Straight in their direction.

Saebyeok noticed it immediately, and so did Inho.

He ducked, hunching lower like a kid caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Pressing himself closer to the trunk of the tree, Inho's shoulder nearly caught onto the bark as if it could somehow absorb him.

From where they stood, it was the perfect blind spot. Gihun wouldn’t be able to see them, only the reflection on the glass and the shadows between leaves. But they had a full view of him. Saebyeok tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She folded her arms as she leaned against the tree.

“You look absolutely ridiculous.”

“Did he see me?” Inho hissed, not bothering to lift his head. His voice was low, tight with nerves.

“No,” she replied, biting back a laugh. “But I’m very tempted to call him out here right now.”

Inho shot her a sharp glare from the corner of his eye, “Don’t you dare.”

She grinned, tilting her head toward him, “You’re hiding behind a tree, Inho-ssi. Is this what tactical surveillance looks like now?”

He muttered something under his breath and straightened, the tension in his posture refusing to ease. From anyone else, it might have been concerning and creepy. But from Inho, it was almost endearing. Saebyeok reminded herself she had to tell this story to Jiyeong later.

She let out a sigh, “You’re not helping him by haunting the sidewalk like a ghost.”

“I know,” Inho admitted, almost too quickly as he stood up again. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Saebyeok hesitated, then reached out and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. Inho finally turned to look at her.

“Maybe let him process things,” she said quietly. “He’ll come to you eventually… if he wants to. Trust that.”

Inho didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back toward the café window like it had a gravitational pull he couldn’t fight. Gihun was still inside, crouched slightly to better hear Cheol, who was clearly in the middle of a long explanation about something. Whatever it was, it made Gihun laugh. A real, full-bodied laughter that lit up his whole face.

Inho stood motionlessly, watching as something flickered across his expression. Regret, maybe. Or longing. Or both.

"He looks happier." He murmured.

Saebyeok didn’t need to see Gihun’s face to understand what Inho meant. She’d noticed it too, the way Gihun smiled more often, the way his shoulders sat just a little lower like the weight had eased a bit. She pressed her lips together, searching for the right thing to say.

But there wasn’t anything she could offer. Nothing that could untangle what Inho was feeling, or what Gihun was working through.

“Inho…” Saebyeok began to say.

But he cut her off gently, almost pleadingly, “Please don’t tell him I was here.”

The request landed heavily in the air between them. Saebyeok inhaled through her nose, held it for a second before letting the breath go in a slow exhale. She studied his face, saw the exhaustion that clung to him like fog, and gave a small nod.

“Alright.” She said without judgement, only understanding.

The silence stretched between them again before she shifted her weight, her tone softer and more careful.

“I assume you’re not going to the dinner tomorrow either?”

Inho shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

Without letting Saebyeok respond, Inho turned, pulling up the collar of his coat before stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking away. His footsteps were slow and almost heavy.

He didn’t look back.

Saebyeok stayed where she was, arms folding over her chest again as she watched him disappear down the sidewalk. Even after he was gone, she lingered, gaze drifting back to the glow of the café window.

A part of her wondered if Gihun had sensed any of it at all.

Telling Jiyeong was also not a good idea.

It wasn’t close to dinner yet since the reservation wasn’t until seven. But by five thirty, Cheol had gone off to a friend’s house, and Saebyeok found herself back near Gihun’s café, loitering with a creeping sense of déjà vu.

She told herself this wasn’t her idea but Jiyeong's. After she caught wind of what's going on, Jiyeong had dragged Saebyeok here, which was how they ended up crouching behind the edge of a brick alleyway across the street.

“Oh my God, just look at them.” Jiyeong whispered dramatically, eyes wide as she tugged at Saebyeok’s sleeve and pointed toward the sidewalk.

Saebyeok rolled her eyes and shifted beside her, “Yes, I can see very clearly.”

From their little corner, they had a clear vantage point of the tree across from the café. Yes, that tree. The same one Saebyeok had stood beside hours earlier.

And as if caught in some sad orbit, Inho had returned like a moth to the same flickering flame. He was standing awkwardly beneath the leaves, glancing between the window and the sidewalk like he couldn’t decide if he was about to go in or turn and run. His hat was pulled low, and he kept pushing his glasses up.

Jiyeong giggled in delight beside Saebyeok. “He’s like a drama character who got dumped,” she whispered gleefully. “God, does he live behind that tree now? Should we start leaving him snacks?”

“I swear, Jiyeong—” Saebyeok muttered.

“What? This is better than any dramas we've watched,” Jiyeong said, grinning from ear to ear. “And I want to see what happens when Gihun finally notices.”

Saebyeok snorted under her breath but didn’t move. Instead, she stayed beside Jiyeong.

She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her was also watching. She was curious, even a little sympathetic. There was something tragically funny about watching a man so emotionally repressed try and fail to act normal around the person he obviously couldn’t stop caring about.

They stayed hidden in the shadowed edge of the wall, watching Inho move and hide into the alleyway across from the tree as Gihun stepped out of the café. He gave a warm goodbye to Hyunju and Junhee as he locked the front door behind him. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he headed down the sidewalk back toward his apartment.

And like some skittishly attached stray dog, Inho crept out of the alleyway across from the tree. He waited until Gihun had made some distance, then began to follow where he was far enough to not be noticed, but close enough to keep him in sight.

“Saebyeok look,” Jiyeong whispered in a delighted gasp. “Is Inho walking him home secretly?”

Saebyeok squinted. It was somehow both pitiful and kind of sweet. Tragic, too. Like Inho didn’t trust himself to reach out, only to linger quietly behind, as if that was the only way he knew how to protect someone without being seen.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Saebyeok said, brushing her palms on her jeans and tugging Jiyeong by the sleeve. “We’re going to be late for our date night.”

Jiyeong whined, dragging her heels just a bit as she kept glancing over her shoulder.

“But jagiya,” she pouted, drawing out the word dramatically. “I want to see what happens next.”

“Nope,” Saebyeok looped an arm around her girlfriend’s waist and steered her firmly down the sidewalk in the other direction. “This isn’t a drama series. We’ll be here all night.”

“Ugh.” Jiyeong groaned, finally giving in as she muttered under her breath.

“These two ahjussis are so hopeless.”

Chapter Text

Gihun stood in front of the mirror that sat next to the dresser, his fingers combing absently through the curls that framed his forehead.

His hair had grown longer than he realized, and it reminded him of his hair from four years ago. Thick waves brushing the nape of his neck, the ends curling softly with no real direction. He made a mental note to get a haircut soon.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when getting a haircut was a luxury. It was something his bank account wouldn’t allow. Back during the 2020 Games, he hadn’t just been broke. He’d been unraveling. Days bled together. His hair had grown wild and unkempt, a physical manifestation of how little he cared.

Then after the Game, for a whole year Gihun let his hair grow, his life filled with emptiness and grief. He remembered the day he came back from meeting Ilnam, the victory tasted bitter like ash on his tongue. It was a hollow kind of triumph; a reward resulting in the old man’s death and no clear-cut answers.

The moment he had stepped into his old house, the air felt suffocating. The overhead light flicked on with a harsh, unforgiving glare, casting stark shadows against the peeling walls. He walked slowly to the cracked mirror hanging crookedly above the sink. Staring back at him was a stranger with sunken eyes haunted by sleepless nights and hair tangled and wild as if he hadn’t cared enough to groom it for days. The man in the glass looked broken, worn down by things that normal people would never understand.

Without thinking, Gihun had reached for the pair of scissors sitting on the cluttered counter. The cold metal pressed into his palm as he held it there for a long moment, the weight of the choice pressing down like gravity.

His eyes had drifted to his pale and fragile wrist that was barely holding on. The thought whispered itself clear and simple: fill the bathtub, press the blade into the skin, let everything slip away.

No one would miss him. No one would mourn.

Gihun had truly considered it at the time, believing it was the only penance he could offer himself for surviving. He didn’t deserve to live, nor did he deserve Sangwoo’s sacrifice. But before that, he had done what he thought was right. He had kept his promises: he’d made sure Cheol had a parent he could trust and left enough money to secure Sangwoo’s mother and Cheol’s future.

They wouldn’t know Gihun was gone. Because in the end, maybe that was the only way to be forgiven.

Yet the minute he had raised the blade to his skin; his eyes went to the half-healed wound carved by the steak knife. The scar was pink and new then, the last remnants of Sangwoo that he had.

Maybe that’s why Gihun hadn’t gone through with it at the time.

Instead, he had raised the scissors to his head and began cutting. The sound of the blades slicing through hair echoed in the silent room. When he was done, he barely recognized himself. Jagged bangs clung to his forehead, but somehow necessary. It felt like a small act of reclaiming something.

Now, standing in front of the mirror once again, Gihun was in a different body and a different life. One where the face staring back at him looked healthier: skin with color, eyes less hollow, and a body that ate regularly and slept through the night more often than not. He adjusted the sleeves of his light jacket, smoothing the soft cotton of the shirt underneath. The motions were small, and perhaps it was silly, but he wanted to look like he had it together tonight.

A soft knock made Gihun turn.

Jungbae was leaning casually in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame.

“You ready?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Gihun replied, flicking off the lights and crossing the room to join him.

In the front hallway, Sangwoo was already tugging on his shoes, and the three of them stepped out into the cool, early evening air. The street hummed with the quiet rhythm of distant traffic, the occasional bark of a dog, and the muted laughter of someone’s television spilling out from an open window.

They walked together down the sidewalk, falling into an easy pace. Jungbae immediately launched into teasing Sangwoo, nudging him with his elbow.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to order the same thing again.”

Sangwoo didn’t even flinch, “Of course I am. Why would I mess with perfection?”

“It’s literally just kimchi stew,” Jungbae groaned. “You could make it at home.”

“Exactly,” Sangwoo said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Which is why I know it’ll be good.”

Jungbae scoffed in response.

Their voices faded slightly as Gihun lingered a few steps behind; hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His eyes drifted downward, following the small pebble he kicked absentmindedly along the pavement, watching as it skipped and rolled ahead of his steps.

Then the sensation hit him again, that prickling along the back of his neck. The chilly feeling of being watched.

Gihun glanced over his shoulder. A couple passed on the opposite sidewalk, chatting quietly. A man leaned against a lamppost, scrolling on his phone. On the street, a cyclist coasted by.

There wasn’t anything unusual. Nothing was out of place.

And yet…

It had been like this for days now. A low hum of presence. It wasn’t threatening, but persistent, like a shadow that hovered just out of reach. It didn’t feel malicious. But it clung to him like a ghost, irritating in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Hyung?” Sangwoo’s voice cut through the haze. “You okay?”

Gihun blinked and looked back to his friends, “Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Sangwoo slowed a little, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over his shoulder. “You keep looking back like someone’s following you.”

Gihun managed a smile that felt slightly off even to himself, “It’s nothing. Probably just tired.”

He quickened his pace to close the gap between them, catching up with Jungbae and Sangwoo. Slipping an arm around Jungbae’s shoulders, he gave a half-hearted grin. Jungbae raised a brow and glanced sideways at him, but he didn’t press. Instead, he adjusted his stride to match Gihun’s as Sangwoo muttered something under his breath about how Gihun had been acting weird all week.

They didn’t ask more.

And Gihun didn’t look back again.

They arrived at Geumja and Yongsik’s restaurant as the sky dimmed into the softer hues of twilight.

A warm glow radiated from the windows, and the muffled sound of chatter and clinking dishes poured out from the front entrance. As soon as Gihun stepped inside, his breath caught.

The place was packed.

Back in the Game, Geumja had offered to feed everyone if they had voted X. At the time, it raised laughter, and deep down Gihun knew it was futile. The division had been too deep between the X and the O. But now seeing it actually being real in front of his eyes, Gihun exhaled a relived breath. At least in a different universe, things have gone right. Even if that universe wasn’t his.

The door jingled as Jungbae stepped forward first, waving at Geumja behind the counter. She grinned broadly in return, nudging a reluctant Yongsik beside her with a loud “Go on, go greet them! Don’t just stand there like a turnip.”

Yongsik grumbled but obeyed, wiping his hands on his apron as he approached them.

“Your tables are already set,” he said with mock exasperation. “Try not to start a food fight.”

Yongsik then led them past other occupied tables, weaving through the cozy layout until they reached the far corner of the restaurant. That’s when Gihun saw his friends clustered around two tables pushed together, already deep into conversation and laughter.

Jiyeong was doubled over with a loud laugh at something Youngmi had said, one arm casually slung around Saebyeok. Hyunju sat beside them, placing food into Youngmi’s bowl. Daeho, red-faced from laughing too hard, had to drink water to calm himself down while Ali chuckled beside him, managing the sizzling grill. Junhee sat near the edge, gently rocking a stroller with one foot. Yumin’s little voice babbled contentedly, tiny fingers grabbing at the plush trinket hanging from the stroller’s canopy.

The sight warmed something inside Gihun that he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

“Oh! You guys are finally here!” Ali called out, his eyes lighting up as Sangwoo slid into the seat next to him.

Jungbae sat next to Daeho, being greeted with cheerful nods and waves. Gihun took his seat last next to Sangwoo, accepting the plates and glasses passed his way as the rhythm of the dinner settled around him.

Then Gihun noticed them.

Two faces he hadn’t expected to see.

One belonged to Han Minyeo. She sat beside Junhee, cooing over the baby and offering advice with a surprising amount of warmth. Gihun had nearly forgotten that Minyeo had a child with Deoksu now, her voice was softer here and she looked quite content.

The other face sitting directly across the table from him was the shaman woman. She was exactly as he remembered, eyes sharp with eyeliner, her lips curled in a knowing smile. Except here, she sat comfortably among them with a cup of water in one hand. She met his eyes and didn’t look away.

Gihun tensed up, his fingers tightening around his spoon. A memory flared: her cryptic riddles, the smug way she had taunted him, and how she'd bartered with lives when the end was near by selling Daeho out to buy herself time. Yet, she was here.

And everyone else didn’t seem to mind.

Gihun dropped his gaze to his bowl, focusing on the steam rising from the soup and the clink of dishes around him.

Suddenly, her voice cut through the noise. It was quiet but loud enough for Gihun to hear.

“Interesting.”

Gihun froze. The spoon paused halfway to his mouth as her words lingered, heavy in their simplicity. He glanced up again, and she was still watching him, eyes glinting with curiosity. Something in her expression made his skin crawl not out of fear, but the discomfort of being seen.

He tried to pretend he hadn’t heard.

However, she leaned forward slightly, placing her cup down with a clink.

“It’s like looking at a thread that’s been pulled from the wrong tapestry,” she murmured, more to both of them than anyone. “You’re not quite stitched in, are you?”

Gihun said nothing.

The shaman's fingers tapped once against her glass, eyes narrowing slightly as she tilted her head. The noise around the table continued: Jiyeong bickering with Saebyeok, Daeho trying to sneak extra pork belly while Ali wasn’t looking. But her attention remained fixed on Gihun as if none of it existed.

“The thread, I can feel it,” she said quietly, just above the hum of laughter. “Can’t you?”

Gihun forced a bite of rice into his mouth, chewing slowly as though food could keep him tethered. He didn’t answer because he didn’t trust his voice. The shaman let out a low and dry chuckle.

“It’s the eyes,” she went on, lifting a piece of meat with her chopsticks, turning it like an artifact. “People think it’s the memories that give someone away. But it’s not. It’s the way they see. And you…”

Her eyes locked onto his again.

“You look at us like ghosts.”

Gihun's stomach twisted.

“Like you’re afraid if you blink too long, we’ll vanish.”

Gihun swallowed hard, the spoon trembling slightly in his hand. She glanced around the table, her voice softening to a whisper, though Gihun could still hear her perfectly.

“He should’ve been here too, you know. The needle to your thread. But you can’t seem to pass through the eye.”

“It’s not because the thread is frayed,” she continued. “No. The thread is still strong. Stubborn, even. But it pulls in the wrong direction, knotted with memory, tangled with guilt. You can't pass through the eye because you keep looking back.”

Gihun’s throat tightened as he tried his best not to take her words to heart. Then, she smiled knowingly as if she’d already seen the end of the story.

“Some threads belong to one tapestry. Others…” Her fingers danced lightly in the air, drawing a figure eight.

“…Are meant to unravel one world so that another may be woven.”

Across the table, Hyunju scoffed, trying to lighten the sudden shift in mood, “Seonnyeo, stop creeping him out. He has amnesia, remember?”

Seonnyeo slowly turned her gaze to Hyunju, one brow lifting in faint amusement.

“Amnesia?” she repeated, her tone dry and knowing. “Is that what the esteemed minds in white coats are calling it these days?”

A low chuckle escaped her lips, something ancient and bitter laced in the sound, like she had tasted the truth before anyone else at the table even smelled it. Seonnyeo’s fingers drummed against the table, watching Gihun roll a ball of rice with his spoon.

Then, she turned her attention back to her food, lifting her own utensil and reaching for a slice of grilled beef. She chewed thoughtfully, before continuing her ambiguous speech that Gihun never asked for.

“There’s a pattern waiting for you, one that’s already begun,” She said lowly. “You want to be stitched in, but you haven’t let go of the tapestry you unraveled to get here. Release it and let the needle do its work.”

The table erupted with cheers as someone poured a round of drinks. Jiyeong let out a whoop of triumph as she downed a shot, banging the empty glass down with flair. Minyeo groaned dramatically about being too full while reaching for more food. Daeho held a piece of grilled meat above Ali’s plate, and Jungbae was already holding out a lettuce wrap toward Gihun with his name on his lips.

The moment was slipping, being buried under the noise of a warm room full of people who didn’t notice the quiet unraveling.

“You’re still as cryptic as ever.” Gihun finally muttered.

Seonnyeo smiled, “You are always welcome to request a ritual cleansing, Seong Gihun-ssi.”

Gihun didn’t respond, he simply continued eating. Or at least, he tried to while Seonnyeo resumed her conversation with the group. Jiyeong, never one to let a moment pass quietly, leaned in with a grin.

“If I pay you enough, can you predict whether I’ll finally get rich this year?”

Seonnyeo let out a small smile, “I’ll need cash, incense, and three strands of hair. No refunds.”

That earned laughter around the table, a few playful groans, and Saebyeok telling Jiyeong not to waste her money. Even Sangwoo cracked a faint smirk. As the dinner continued, Geumja and Yongsik would swing by the table often, talking and cracking jokes with the group. The moment passed among them except for Gihun, who felt the echo of Seonnyeo’s earlier words vibrating like an omen in the back of his mind.

Gihun recalled when he first woke up in the dorm room of the Game, Seonnyeo had been there then, too. She had watched him with those same eerie eyes and mentioned cleansing in a tone that he hadn’t taken seriously at the time. He’d written her off as strange, one of those people who lived in riddles and incense smoke.

Now, though, he wondered if he should consider taking up the offer.

But the other half of him, the louder part, wanted to curse whatever version of himself had thought it was a good idea to befriend Seonnyeo in the first place. What kind of man had he been here? Who had let her that close?

Gihun returned his gaze to his bowl and took another slow bite.

He didn’t want a cleansing.

He wanted answers.

“Has anyone seen Inho-hyung?” Daeho asked suddenly, glancing around the table.

Saebyeok replied smoothly, “He couldn’t make it.”

Inho.

The name hovered at the edge of Gihun’s mind like a whisper he couldn’t shake. He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen but unwilling to scroll. No new notifications. No texts. Nothing. Just silence in the group chat where they usually buzzed with chatter.

Even earlier, when he’d checked Instasnap out of boredom, Inho hadn’t posted a single story since the paintball session. In Gihun’s defense, he wasn’t trying to actively look at Inho’s account, he simply noticed that it was as if Inho had slipped off the grid entirely, gone radio silent without a word.

It didn’t matter; somehow, it gave Gihun a fragile sense of peace. On the very first day in this universe, he had been forced to sit through the entire dinner with the man who had orchestrated the death games right across the table from him.

Today was different. Tonight, it was just him and his friends. No Hwang Inho lurking in the shadows of his thoughts, no more fragments of Youngil showing up in every ‘kindness’ and ‘niceness’ Inho had shown, and no Frontman prowling in the dark corners of his mind.

Across the table, Seonnyeo sat quietly while swirling the last bit of her drink in slow, almost hypnotic circles. Her eyes weren’t just watching; they were peeling back the layers Gihun tried so hard to hide. There was a knowing amusement in her gaze, like she had already read the worry behind his forced composure.

The weight of her stare was almost unbearable. Gihun’s fingers clenched, then relaxed, his chest tightening. The room felt suddenly smaller, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses fading into the background.

He swallowed hard, then pushed his chair back.

“I’m going on a smoke break.”

Gihun didn’t wait for a response, turning and weaving through the clustered tables and out into the night.

Outside, the sky was heavy with darkness, city lights blinking like distant stars against the inky black. Gihun leaned against the rough and cold wall. His hands trembled slightly as they fumbled in his pocket.

Slowly, he withdrew a cigarette and brought it to his lips, flicking his lighter and inhaling it deeply. The sharp burn bit into his lungs as he held the smoke inside, letting it fill the hollow spaces in his chest.

Gihun’s eyes drifted past the glowing ember, tracing the uneven sidewalks and busy streets of Seoul. He could hear the faint laughter of couples strolling hand in hand, the distant hum of passing cars, and the murmur of late-night chatter drifting from open doorways. His free hand pressed flat against the rough surface of the wall as his eyes darted from the brightly lit storefronts across the street to the food vendors lining the sidewalks. The rich, spicy scent of tteokbokki mingled with the crisp night air.

For a brief moment, a small, genuine yet fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His mind surprisingly didn’t spiral into memories or regrets. Instead, it lingered on the happiness of his friends, the simple joy he’d glimpsed in their faces earlier.

Maybe Seonnyeo was right, it was time to let go.

Gihun exhaled another slow puff of smoke, watching the tendrils curl upward and dissolve into the chilly air.

Suddenly, breaking through the noise of the night, came a small and weak cry.

Gihun’s head snapped toward the sound. Down the cracked sidewalk, something small and round was struggling, dragging itself unevenly across the concrete. He frowned, stepping off the wall and moving quickly toward it, curiosity prickling at the edges of his wariness.

As he drew closer, the shape formed into a tiny calico cat, a fragile creature no more than five months old. Its fur was matted with dirt and grime. It moved with a pitiful effort, limbs trembling and weak, dragging itself forward in fits and starts.

Without hesitation, Gihun knelt beside the little animal, his breath fogging in the cold air as he gently reached out. He carefully checked the kitten’s body, searching for wounds or broken bones. There were no obvious injuries, but its ribs were sharply defined beneath its thin fur, and the faint shiver that ran through its tiny body told him just how delicate it really was.

Gihun glanced around, scanning the nearby alleyways and storefronts for any sign of a mother cat. However, the only thing that he could see was the restless shuffle of pedestrians and the flickering light of a streetlamp.

As if sensing the faint heat radiating from him, the kitten began to inch forward, dragging itself across the pavement toward his legs. Something in Gihun’s chest twisted. Without thinking, he shrugged off his jacket, feeling the cold instantly through his shirt. He wrapped the fabric around the small body, cocooning it in warmth.

The moment the kitten felt the soft embrace of the cloth, it stilled. The trembling quieted to a faint quiver, and for a second, it simply lay there, breathing.

“C'mon.” Gihun murmured as he gently lifted the kitten and placed it against the base of a nearby wall, out of the flow of foot traffic.

He stood up, scanning the street until his eyes caught the bright fluorescent sign of a convenience store. He jogged toward it, the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark until he grounded it out under his heel at the entrance.

The blast of warm air inside instantly hit him. Gihun weaved through the aisles, eyes scanning until they landed on the narrow shelf crammed with pet food. A single can of wet cat food found its way into his hand, followed by a bottle of water from the cooler.

He didn’t wait for the clerk to count change, slapping a few bills on the counter and left.

When he returned, the kitten was still bundled in his jacket, a small lump of quiet meows in the shadows. Gihun crouched beside it, the cold making his fingers feel stiff as he opened the can. The sharp scent of meat filled the air, and he slid it toward the little bundle.

“Eat up.” He whispered.

The kitten’s nose twitched, its tiny head lifting as it caught the smell. It dragged itself forward with surprising eagerness, sniffed once, then began to devour the food with desperate, noisy bites.

Gihun remained crouched, his elbows resting loosely on his knees as he watched the kitten eat with an almost insatiable hunger. The steady scrape of its tiny tongue against the metal can was the only sound between them.

He was just about to reach out to brush his hand over its matted fur when a faint dampness spread against his shoulder. He froze, glancing down at the darkening patch on his shirt. Another drop followed, then another, trailing cold against his skin.

Gihun’s frown deepened as he tilted his head back toward the sky. Above, the thick blanket of clouds had split just enough to let the rain through, each droplet glistening under the city’s neon light. Within seconds, the scattered drops began to multiply, pattering softly against the pavement, darkening it in irregular blooms.

A small, contented purr tugged Gihun’s attention back to the kitten. Its head was bent over the can, oblivious to the growing drizzle.

“Alright, alright.” Gihun muttered under his breath.

He tugged his jacket free from where it lay around the kitten and raised it above them like a makeshift canopy, shielding the little creature first, leaving him heavily exposed to the weather. The fabric sagged slightly with the growing weight of raindrops.

Gihun knew he probably looked ridiculous, half-squatting in the rain on a Seoul sidewalk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the sidelong glances from passing pedestrians, the brief flickers of curiosity or amusement as they skirted around him.

The rain intensified, the pitter patters turning into a steady hiss as it bounced off the pavement and the makeshift canopy above. Gihun’s hair quickly grew heavy and cold, strands plastering themselves to his forehead. Water ran in thin streams down his face and back, blurring the edges of neon reflections on the wet ground.

When Gihun glanced down, the sight made it worth it. The kitten was still dry beneath the tent of his jacket, its head buried in the can of food. It ate with single-minded determination, a low, steady purr rumbling faintly in its tiny chest.

The November chill sank deeper with every passing second. His soaked through shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, and he couldn’t stop the involuntary shiver that rippled through him.

Footsteps passed nearby, muted against the rain-slick pavement. Gihun didn’t bother looking up, thinking it was probably another pedestrian in a hurry, heading somewhere warm and dry.

But then the sound changed. The rain’s steady patter against his jacket stopped.

Frowning, Gihun blinked against the water dripping into his eyes and slowly lifted his head. First, a pair of boots, and above them, black trousers and a long dark coat. Gihun’s gaze climbed higher, his heart beating in slow, reluctant thuds, until he saw who it was.

Standing over him, one hand casually holding an umbrella to cover them both, was Hwang Inho.

Gihun stared for far too long.

From where he crouched, the world narrowed to the man in front of him. The lamppost above them hummed faintly, its light pooling down that caught the edges of Hwang Inho’s face. It highlighted his sharp cheekbones and the fine line of his jaw. Inho shifted his grip on the umbrella, angling it so the cover stretched fully over both Gihun and the shivering kitten at his feet. A small stream of rainwater slid off the edge, splashing against the pavement by Gihun’s shoes.

“Is the kitten okay?” Inho’s voice was even, quiet enough that the rain nearly swallowed it.

Gihun blinked, startled from his thoughts, and glanced down. The kitten had finished eating, its tiny frame pressed against his ankles, purring faintly despite the cold. He scooped it up with careful hands, cradling the frail body against his chest, his damp jacket slung over his other arm.

“I… I don’t know.” He answered, the words catching slightly in his throat.

Inho stepped forward. The scent of faint cologne and clean wool cut through the smell of wet asphalt. He reached out, fingertips brushing over the kitten’s matted fur when their hands touched briefly.

Gihun jerked back as though the contact had burned. Inho’s eyes flicked up, catching the movement as he withdrew his hand without a word.

“There’s an emergency vet nearby,” he said after a pause. “We could bring it there. Get it checked out.”

Gihun didn’t answer. His fingers kept moving over the kitten’s back, more for his own comfort than the animal’s. The cold was seeping through his soaked shirt now, but he didn’t move nor acknowledge the man standing close enough to feel the faint shift of air when he breathed.

And then there was warmth, heavy and unexpected.

Gihun glanced up.

Inho stood in front of him, the long line of his dark coat now breaking the wind for both of them. He was adjusting the collar, making sure it fell in a way that wrapped Gihun in it completely.

“What—” Gihun began, but Inho’s voice cut him off.

“You’ll catch a cold,” He said, before his gaze flicked down to the small bundle in Gihun’s arms. “And it’ll keep the cat warm too.”

Gihun hated the way his shoulders relaxed under the coat.

He told himself that it was instinct in the way that his body reacted to warmth after standing too long in the November rain. But still, the fact that it came from him… from Hwang Inho, of all people, made something in Gihun bristle.

He didn’t like this, and he certainly didn’t want it.

Kindness from Inho was never clean. You could never tell if it was meant to help you climb out or remind you how far you’d fallen. Gihun had learned that much after he had been betrayed by him. Hwang Inho didn’t do things without reason.

You don’t care about him, Gihun reminded himself, clutching the kitten closer. You cared when you thought you could trust him.

He could feel the faint heat radiating from where Inho’s coat pressed against his back. Meanwhile, the bastard didn’t even seem cold. He stood there in his turtleneck, one hand still steadily holding the umbrella over them. Gihun wanted to tell him to go away. To keep his damn coat, take his perfect shoes, and walk back to wherever the hell he came from. But the words wouldn’t leave his throat.

“Come on, hyung,” Inho said, already stepping toward the sidewalk. “The kitten might not make it out here much longer.”

Gihun’s scowl came without thought, “Don’t call me that. We’re not that close for you to call me hyung.”

The words were meant to sting and draw a line in the wet pavement between them. But Inho only paused mid-step, his gaze lowered.

“My apologies, Gihun-ssi.” He said quietly.

The faintest shadow crossed his expression, a flicker of disappointment, or maybe it was the rain refracting in his eyes. Either way, Inho didn’t try to explain himself. He simply adjusted the angle of the umbrella again and resumed walking.

Gihun followed, though every part of him itched to turn in the opposite direction. The coat around his shoulders hugged him just right, and it irritated him how much he noticed it.

They walked in silence, shoes splashing through shallow puddles, the sound of the rain muffled under the umbrella’s thin canopy. Inho kept his gaze fixed ahead while Gihun kept his head down, his focus on the tiny weight in his arms. The kitten was tucked against his chest and wrapped inside the coat. Gihun’s fingers moved over its fur in slow strokes. The rhythmic purring bled into the pounding of his own heart, and for a few fleeting seconds, he could almost pretend that was the only sound in the world.

Still, Gihun couldn’t shake the awareness of the man beside him. He could feel the faint brush of the umbrella’s edge against his shoulder, hear the sound of Inho’s even breathing, and notice the way his stride slowed enough for Gihun to keep pace.

The clinic sat between a laundromat and a stationery shop, its glass door rattling faintly in the wind as Gihun pushed it open. A wave of heated air rolled over him with the faint scent of antiseptic and something floral. The sudden warmth made the chill in his bones ache, and he shivered slightly.

The woman at the desk looked up from a computer screen. Her polite smile faltered when her gaze settled on Gihun, hair plastered to his forehead, cradling a tiny, trembling bundle of fur in his arms.

“We found it on the street,” Inho cut in before Gihun could speak. “It’s weak, and we’re not sure if there are internal injuries.”

The receptionist’s expression shifted to something more professional. She slid a clipboard and pen across the counter, “Fill this out and have a seat. The vet will be with you shortly.”

Inho accepted the form with a polite nod, “Thank you.”

Gihun had already claimed a chair in the corner of the waiting room. He angled himself away from the door, the kitten still pressed against his chest under Inho’s coat. Inho crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough for their elbows to almost touch. Gihun shifted a few inches to the right, the leather squeaking in protest.

A small exhale left Inho’s mouth.

“Gihun-ssi, I can’t fill this out if I can’t see the cat.” He said.

Gihun hesitated, then loosened his grip. Slowly and reluctantly, he shifted back toward Inho, pulling the coat aside just enough for the other man to see the small curled up shape in his lap. The kitten was little more than skin and bone under its matted fur, a tiny ribcage rising and falling in shallow rhythm.

Inho bent slightly to look, then he froze at the first line, the tip of the pen hovering over the paper.

“Do we…” Inho’s voice faltered as his eyes flicked from the form to Gihun’s face. “Do we have a name for it?”

Gihun glanced down at the small lump of fur. Its ears twitched once, then stilled. “No,” he answered.

After a brief silence between them, Inho spoke up.

“How about…”

He hesitated, like he was testing the sound of the word before committing. His gaze lingered on the kitten, and Gihun's heart skipped at the way Inho's expression softened.

“Giho.”

Chapter Text

Gihun’s head snapped up, his brows pulling together.

“Giho?”

“You know…” Inho twirled the pen between his fingers, his voice trailing off as if he knew the explanation was flimsy. But he was committed to saying it anyway. “Gi, as in spirited, and ho, meaning tiger.”

Gihun’s gaze fell back to the kitten. The little creature was a ragged patchwork of black, orange, and white, its fur still clinging to the dampness from the rain despite the warmth of the clinic. Its small body lay heavy in his lap, limp with exhaustion. The shallow rise and fall of its chest made Gihun’s heart ache.

“The kitten doesn’t look spirited,” He muttered, his thumb stroked over the soft hollow dip between the kitten’s shoulder blades. “And it’s definitely not a tiger.”

The corner of Inho’s mouth twitched subtly and Gihun caught it. The flicker of amusement was there and gone in an instant, replaced by the same careful neutral expression.

“Well,” Inho said lightly.

The sound of it scraped at Gihun’s nerves. It was the same infuriating tone he knew too well. The casualness that didn’t feel casual at all. In the other universe, it had been Inho’s favorite weapon, delivered in those quiet moments before he lobbed some comment designed to test boundaries. It was never small talk. He would deliberately poke and prod, which made Gihun feel like he was standing on a chess board he hadn’t agreed to play.

It had happened every single time they’d clashed over the Games; their opposing stances on whether people deserved another chance or another choice. Youngil would go quiet, considering for a brief second before speaking in a deceptively light tone while pushing. Gihun had ignored the signs anyways, telling himself that Youngil hadn't done anything yet to make Gihun distrust him.

“Giho can also mean ‘mark,’” Inho commented, nodding toward the kitten’s head. “Look at him, he’s got that yellow patch right there.”

As though it were an afterthought, he added, “We could give him my surname, Hwang. It means yellow. Fits the cat, don’t you think?”

Gihun’s eyes narrowed sharply. Was this man seriously trying to name a half-frozen kitten Yellow Mark? He stared at Inho, trying to read whether the suggestion was a genuine slip of awful humor or a deliberate provocation.

Then again, this wasn’t new. In the other universe, Inho had taken Gihun’s own last name, “Seong,” and twisted it into some ridiculous pun, laughing like he’d invented comedy itself while everyone else sat in silence, their discomfort filling the air. And that fake persona Youngil was no better, a smug nod to his player number 001 that he probably thought was clever.

Back then, Gihun didn’t laugh, but he smiled. He’d even found it a little charming in its absurdity.

Now it left him feeling like an absolute fool.

The memory simmered hot beneath Gihun’s damp skin, making his pulse beat harder in his temples. It was the same humor and calculated little jabs dressed up as harmless wordplay.

“It’s not even yellow. It’s orange.” Gihun snapped.

His fingers traced slow circles along its frail side. The tiny heartbeat beneath his touch was erratic but steady enough, a quiet reminder of why they were here in the first place. If he focused on that, maybe he could ignore the tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with the cat.

Inho shrugged as if the distinction didn’t matter.

“Yellow, orange, same thing.”

Gihun nearly rolled his eyes as Inho went back to the clipboard and began writing. He neatly printed 황기호 (Hwang Giho) in the name field, then moved on to the other sections. Color: yellow, white, black. Coat: Calico. Sex: Unknown. Estimated age: four months. Condition: malnourished.

Shortly after, the exam room’s door creaked open, and a young woman stepped out.

Her eyes quickly assessed the kitten nestled in Gihun’s lap. Without hesitation, she moved to gently take Giho into her arms, and Inho followed closely behind her. Gihun watched as he spoke quietly with the woman, his wet hair and shirt dripping rainwater onto the clinic floor. When they had stepped into the exam room, Gihun lingered behind.

He hesitated before turning to the receptionist, “Do you have extra towels I could borrow?”

The receptionist blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question, then nodded quickly, “Yeah, give me a moment.”

She rose from her seat and disappeared down the hallway, returning a minute later with a small hand towel, still warm and soft from the dryer. Gihun accepted it gratefully. Clutching the towel, he stepped into the exam room.

Inside, the young woman was already examining the kitten, her gentle hands cradling it with careful concern. “I’ve already put the kitten’s information into the file,” she said, offering a polite nod. “The vet will be with you shortly.”

Without waiting for a response, she stepped out, closing the door softly behind her.

Inho leaned casually against the wall, motioning toward the chair beside the exam table. Gihun shifted stiffly across the room and sat down, his eyes never leaving Giho’s fragile form.

After a brief pause, Gihun held out the warm towel toward Inho, his gaze fixed on the kitten rather than the man beside him.

“Here.”

Inho glanced at the offering, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he reached out to take it. Their fingers brushed briefly, the contact light but noticeable. Gihun ignored it, telling himself it meant nothing. He only did this because he hated being indebted to anyone, even if it was something as small as an umbrella or a coat offering.

“You got wet trying to cover me and Giho with the umbrella.” Gihun muttered.

Yes. That was all it was. Settling debts. Nothing more.

Inho’s reply was quiet but sincere, “Thank you, Gihun-ssi.”

He lifted the towel, working it through his hair with quick motions. Droplets of rain clung to his temples before being absorbed into the fabric, and his dark hair fell in disheveled strands as he tousled it dry.

Gihun kept his gaze locked on Giho. He told himself that the cat was all he cared about. He wasn’t paying attention to the sound of the towel in Inho’s hands, or the faint rustle of fabric near him. The more uncomfortable truth was Inho’s presence. Even when Gihun refused to look at him, he could feel the man there, his movements making it impossible to ignore. There was no trace of the cold precision Gihun remembered from the other universe, none of the calculated menace hidden under polite words.

Instead, there was this… gentleness. A calmness in the way Inho leaned just slightly forward when Giho made the smallest sound, or how his voice softened earlier when thanking him for the towel.

Gihun’s fingers tightened slightly on his knees. His mind, scarred by years of betrayal and loss, whispered its warnings. Kindness could be a mask. Gentleness could be rehearsed. For all he knew, this Inho could be the same as the one from his universe. The person who could smile while lying through his teeth, who could weave sincerity into manipulation until you couldn’t tell the difference.

It was almost worse, seeing this version’s kindness. Because that small and treacherous part of Gihun wanted to believe it was real.

And wanting to believe was a dangerous thought to entertain.

“Gihun-ssi…” Inho’s voice broke the silence.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

The words hit like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through Gihun’s chest. There was no accusation in Inho’s tone, only a faint, aching sadness that was harder to endure than anger would have been.

Gihun’s teeth found his lower lip, biting down hard enough to send pain radiating along his jaw. If he told Inho the truth about what had been done, what he had seen, what Inho had done, this man wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. Any path that conversation took would end in the same place: the other universe.

And Gihun had no desire to open that door.

He wanted it to be sealed shut, its horrors left to rot in the dark corners of his mind until time and abandonment eroded them to dust. No one here needed to know what had happened there. Nobody deserved to carry those images and atrocities. In that other world, death had been the only fate, and the man standing before him... this gentle, confused Hwang Inho had been the one to enforce it.

How could words possibly convey that? How could he describe the magnitude of it without tearing open wounds he had fought so hard to keep closed?

“Please…” Inho whispered. “Gihun… What did I do wrong? I can’t fix it if I don’t know.”

Gihun’s gaze stayed on the kitten for a moment longer. His voice, when it came, was quiet but unyielding.

“There is nothing you can fix.”

Finally, he lifted his eyes. Inho didn’t look away, his dark eyes seemed to catch the light differently, and for a moment Gihun thought he saw the faintest shimmer of glassiness, like a film of unspilled tears. Harden your heart, he told himself. You gave him your trust once, and he shattered it. There is no repentance, no apology that could ever piece it back together.

“Is it… about the argument we had?” Inho asked tentatively, like he was laying a fragile bridge between them and waiting to see if Gihun would cross.

Gihun exhaled slowly. “I didn’t even know we had an argument,” he said. “No. It has nothing to do with anything here.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Inho’s eyes searched his face, as though there might be some hidden seam he could pry open to understand what was really wrong. Gihun kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to give him that opening.

Before Inho could say anything again, the door swung open with a soft creak, the quiet tension shattering like glass.

The vet stepped in, a man in his forties with a calm demeanor that carried the faint smell of antiseptic. His gloved hands adjusted his glasses as his eyes went straight to the small frail body on the table.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Min and I’ll be Giho’s primary vet today.” He said.

Both Gihun and Inho turned toward him, their earlier exchange abruptly buried beneath the vet’s arrival. Dr. Min picked up the file from the counter, skimming through the notes with quick efficiency before setting it aside. His gaze softened when it landed on Giho.

“Alright, little one, let’s see what’s going on.” He murmured, voice dropping to that gentle tone reserved for frightened animals and children.

He reached out carefully, letting the kitten scent his gloves before touching it. Giho gave a weak, raspy purr, his small chest fluttering under the man’s fingertips. The vet’s brow creased slightly, “How long was he outside for?”

“Too long,” Gihun replied before Inho could answer. His voice was tighter than he meant it to be.

The vet gave a small nod, an indicator that was all the confirmation he needed, and reached for a soft fleece-lined pad from the counter, plugging it into the wall.

“We’ll warm him up first, then check for injuries or infection. He’s dehydrated, but that’s manageable.”

As Dr. Min worked, Gihun found himself watching every small motion. Although he didn’t look at Inho, he could feel the man’s quiet presence beside him, the way Inho's proximity pulled at the edges of his attention no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

The vet adjusted the warming pad beneath Giho, then straightened, glancing between the two men. “I’ll need a second pair of hands. Actually, two pairs,” he said, pulling a digital thermometer and a small flashlight from his coat pocket.

Gihun stiffened at the implication. He didn’t look at Inho, but the silence was answer enough.

“Inho-ssi,” Dr. Min prompted. “Hold him steady so I can check his temperature. Gihun-ssi, you can keep his head supported. Cats feel more secure that way.”

Reluctantly, Gihun moved closer, slipping his hands beneath Giho’s chin and chest. The kitten’s head was no heavier than a folded scarf, and he could feel the faint thrum of its purr against his fingers.

“Careful.” Inho said under his breath as he adjusted his hold around Giho’s body.

Gihun retorted, “I am careful.”

The vet’s brow twitched, but he said nothing as he slid the thermometer in place. Giho gave a faint twitch, a tiny squirm of discomfort, and Inho instinctively tightened his hold.

“Easy,” Gihun murmured softly, the words barely more than whisper. “It’s alright… just a moment…” The nonsense that followed had no meaning, but the effect was immediate. Giho stilled, his tiny body settling against Inho’s palm.

“Alright,” Dr. Min said, glancing at the display. “Temperature’s low, but it’s rising. That’s a good sign.”

Gihun stepped back quickly, putting an extra inch between him and Inho. The smell of rain and the faint heat from Inho’s sleeve lingered in the air between them, enough to remind Gihun that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t entirely tune the man out.

The examination continued with Inho’s assistance. He held the kitten at certain angles, adjusting Giho’s position so Dr. Min could check his paws, ears, and belly. Gihun stayed seated this time, his eyes locked on the tiny calico’s every movement. When Dr. Min finally clicked off his flashlight, he scribbled a few notes into the chart.

“Other than dehydration and exhaustion,” he began. “there’s no external injuries or signs of illness. A full diagnostic exam would be more thorough, but that would be an additional cost. Vaccinations and microchipping can be done later this week if you plan on keeping him. We take walk-ins for that.”

Inho glanced at Gihun before answering, “It’s up to him.”

“That’s not a problem,” Dr. Min said smoothly. “You can think it over. Our clinic is always open.”

He tore a slip from his pad and handed it to Inho, “These are the aftercare instructions. Feeding schedule, hydration, and temperature monitoring. Make sure he stays warm.”

Then his expression brightened, “Oh! One more thing. You’ve got quite a rare kitten here.”

Both Gihun and Inho looked up.

“Giho is a male calico,” Dr. Min explained with a small smile. “Extremely uncommon, most calicos are female. Less than one in a few thousands are male.”

Inho’s brows lifted in quiet surprise. His gaze lingered on Giho for a moment, then drifted toward Gihun. There was a softness there, his smile was meant to be warm rather than sharp.

“You must have good luck, Gihun.”

The words didn’t land well with Gihun. He almost laughed not from humor, but from the sheer irony of it. Luck? That was a joke. If there was one constant in his life, it was that fortune rarely, if ever, favored him. His memories were full of proof: losing streaks at the horse track, arcade claw machines that never clamped shut, bets that went bad in ways he couldn’t even predict. And that was just the harmless kind of bad luck.

And on the rare occasions when fortune had tilted his way, it had never come without a shadow. He could still see it, the recruiter’s smug grin, the way the man leaned in like he was sharing some great secret, only to twist the knife with that single word: lucky.

It hadn’t felt like luck. Not then. Not now.

The so-called victory in 2020 had been nothing but survival by blood, a grotesque lottery where the prize was waking up the next morning while others didn’t. Every breath he’d taken after that had been paid for by someone else’s last gasp. There was no skill to it when it came to games like Glass Stepping Stone, and no divine favor to save any of them. The recruiter had said it as if surviving made him special.

However, all it had done was leave him standing in a room where every echo reminded him of the dead.

Gihun swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat and forced his attention back to Giho, his thumb brushing the kitten’s fur in slow circles.

“I guess.” He said at last, voice so flat it barely qualified as a response.

If Inho noticed the edge beneath the word, he didn’t comment.

Once the appointment was over, Gihun carefully cradled Giho against his chest, feeling the kitten’s faint warmth seep through his damp shirt. They moved through the quiet clinic to the front lobby. At the receptionist desk, the woman typed swiftly on her keyboard, then gestured toward the monitor on the counter’s ledge.

“Your total for today’s visit is 206,462 won.” She said. “For emergency contacts, I have Hwang Inho-ssi as primary, and secondary Seong Gihun-ssi.”

Gihun didn't really hear the latter half. He was too busy shifting Giho in one arm and digging through his soaked pockets, fingers fumbling for his wallet. His hand trembled slightly, a mix of cold and nerves making the search clumsy. Before he could pull anything out, Inho had already slid his credit card across the counter.

The receptionist accepted it without hesitation and processed the payment. Gihun’s eyes widened, fixating on the simple gesture. He met Inho’s soft, almost apologetic smile.

“Think of it as an apology,” Inho said quietly. “For whatever I have done.”

That phrase made Gihun’s skin crawl. It was exactly the kind of thing that set his nerves on edge, the pity, charity, and implied debt. He didn’t want anyone’s apologies, especially not from Hwang Inho whose presence alone stirred a whirlwind of memories and confusion inside him. What Gihun truly longed for was distance, a space to heal and just be without the weight of the past dragging him down.

His jaw tightened, and he forced a stiff nod, eyes flickering away from Inho’s earnest gaze. Giho shifted in his arms, his quiet purring was one small reminder for Gihun to keep moving forward despite everything that he was feeling.

Outside, the rain still came down in silver sheets, hammering the pavement and hissing against the clinic’s awning.

The air was sharp with the scent of wet asphalt, and the streetlights casted trembling halos across the puddles. Gihun adjusted his hold on Giho, tucking the kitten closer to shield him from the cold. Inho stood beside him under the shared umbrella, close enough that Gihun could feel the faint warmth from his side despite the damp air.

Then, without a word, Inho shifted. He reached toward Gihun’s chest and began fastening the buttons on the coat. His coat that he had given to Gihun earlier. His fingers worked quickly, each button sliding into place easily. When he was finished, he placed the umbrella firmly in Gihun’s free hand.

It took a moment for Gihun to process it. He blinked, watching Inho take a step backward right into the downpour. Rain immediately soaked through the man’s hair, streaming down his face and collar.

“Be safe when you walk home tonight.” Inho said.

Gihun frowned, trying to shove the umbrella back toward him. “Take this—”

His other hand juggled Giho while working clumsily at the coat’s buttons, intent on giving it back too. He didn’t want this, nor did he need it. He didn’t even ask for it.

But Inho’s hand caught his wrist firmly enough to stop him. His touch felt hot against Gihun’s skin despite the rain, and the quiet insistence in it made the taller man freeze.

“Just take the coat and umbrella home.” Inho said. His eyes held that same unreadable depth they always had, but there was a simple, almost fragile sincerity.

Then, he whispered softly, “Please.”

The rain roared in the space between them. Gihun felt his own resistance faltering, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the weather, the warmth in the coat, or the way Inho had said that one word. Gihun looked away first, tightening his grip on the umbrella.

“I never asked for you to help me…” The words came out low and frayed, almost lost to the rain. “I don’t want your kindness.”

“I know.” Inho replied simply.

That made Gihun’s head snap back up, his eyes narrowing in confusion, “Then why—”

Inho’s gaze flicked downward to where Giho was tucked against Gihun’s chest, half-buried in the folds of the coat. For a brief moment, his features softened and Gihun saw him again. Oh Youngil, stripped of every mask Gihun had ever known. When Inho’s eyes lifted again, they locked onto Gihun’s.

“Because I care about you.”

It wasn’t spoken like a plea or a confession. He said it like it was a fact. Gihun couldn’t respond, deciding whether to scoff or demand an explanation. However, Inho had already turned away, jogging down the street without looking back. His figure blurred in the downpour until he was nothing but a shadow swallowed by the night.

Gihun stood frozen on the corner of the street, Giho’s faint purr vibrating against his ribs. The umbrella was tilted just enough for the rain to graze his cheek, but he didn’t lift a hand to wipe it away.

And the coat still smelled like Inho.

Gihun returned to his apartment not long after, the rain clinging to his hair and sleeves, Giho bundled close to his chest like something he feared might vanish if he loosened his grip.

The key clicked in the lock, and he nudged the door open with his shoulder, leaning the umbrella against the frame outside before stepping in. Sangwoo was sprawled on the couch, half-watching some late-night variety show. He turned at the sound of the door.

“Hyung! You came back,” Sangwoo said, sitting up and setting the remote aside. “I was wondering where you went.”

Gihun toed off his wet shoes in the entryway, the faint smell of rain still clinging to him. He’d texted Sangwoo earlier, telling him to head home first; there was something he needed to take care of.

Now, Sangwoo’s gaze lingered on Gihun. No, not on Gihun. On the coat. And then it dropped to the bundle in his arms.

“A cat?”

Gihun nodded, shifting Giho slightly so Sangwoo could see, “Found him on the street. Just came back from the vet.”

Sangwoo’s expression softened, his voice lowering instinctively as he reached out. His fingers brushed lightly over the top of the kitten’s head, careful not to disturb the fragile creature’s rest, “What’s his name?”

“Giho.”

Sangwoo paused, brow creasing as his eyes flicked up to meet Gihun’s, “Did you name him that?”

“No. Inho did.”

A scoff broke from Sangwoo, “Of course he did.”

Gihun didn’t respond. There was nothing in the comment he didn’t already know. From the way Sangwoo’s jaw tightened, he could tell the name itself wasn’t the problem; it was the person behind it. But it was late, the rain had already drained him, and right now he didn’t have the strength to wade into that conversation.

“I’m going to get him settled in,” Gihun murmured. “Then get ready for the night.”

Sangwoo only nodded, his eyes lingering on the Giho and the coat for a moment longer before he stepped back toward the couch.

Gihun slipped into his room, grabbing a towel and a set of fresh clothes before heading to the bathroom. He set the clothes neatly on the closed toilet lid, and with his free hand, he turned the sink on, letting the water run until it warmed up. Cradling Giho in one arm, Gihun cupped the water carefully, letting it spill in a soft stream over the kitten's fur. The little body flinched at first, then stilled in a trusting gesture. Under his fingers, Gihun could feel the dirt and grime loosening.

Once Giho was rinsed clean, Gihun wrapped him gently in the towel, rubbing at the damp fur. Then, he set Giho down. As he turned the shower on, he kept glancing over, his focus drifting to the cat who was now pawing at the corner of the mat. Every time his tiny legs wobbled, or his nose bumped into the wall, Gihun found himself suppressing the urge to reach out.

After a quick rinse and finishing up his nightly routine, Gihun scooped Giho up and carried him into the bedroom. The rain still whispered faintly against the window as he placed the kitten gently onto the bed, watching him stagger forward with a clumsy sort of determination. The covers made his steps less steady, and twice he wandered too close to the edge.

Each time, Gihun’s hand darted out to catch him.

Eventually, Gihun slid beneath the blankets, the day’s exhaustion settled into his bones. He placed Giho beside him, close enough to feel the faint rise and fall of the kitten’s breathing. The thought of rolling over in his sleep and crushing something so small and helpless sent a flicker of unease through him. He shifted slightly, creating a little nest with his shirt around the cat.

As he lay there with Giho pressed against his side, Gihun realized it had been a long time since he’d fallen asleep with something worth protecting.

It was the sharp scent of rust and cold iron slammed into Gihun’s senses first.

It coiled in his nostrils like smoke, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. His eyes opened, only to be met with a sight that turned his stomach cold. Black walls stretched high around him. The floodlights were harsh, illuminating the arena below like a spotlight on a stage. In front of him and beneath him were three towering shapes. A circle, a triangle, and a square.

Gihun’s breath hitched. The same towers from that place. From the Game. His hands trembled at his sides, sweat already beading at the back of his neck despite the chill in the air. His chest tightened, he couldn’t breathe.

No. No, this isn't real. This can't be real.

Then there was a voice behind him.

“Gihun-ah.”

He turned sharply. His breath caught in his throat.

Jungbae.

And next to him, Hyunju, Ali, Sangwoo, Youngmi, Yongsik, Geumja, Jiyeong, Saebyeok, Minyeo, Seonnyeo, Daeho, and Junhee, holding little Yumin close to her chest. Even Giho was standing at his feet. All of them were standing atop the tower with him. They were all calm and clueless, some were even smiling innocently.

Like they didn’t know.

Gihun staggered back a step, his head shaking violently. No, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. Not again.

Then he heard the click. A mechanical hum rose from beneath his feet as the center panel of the tower slid open with that awful smoothness. The sound was too familiar as he slowly turned his head and there it was. That button. Red, round, and waiting. It gleamed under the arena lights, as horrible as ever.

And Gihun knew instantly what it meant.

One death per tower, or all.

His stomach turned. He spun around, desperately searching for the high wall of mirrored one-way panel the VIPs hid behind, watching, judging, and drinking champagne while people died.

But there was nothing.

The silence shattered with a blaring beep. The red button pulsed once. Then twice. Then it turned green.

“No!” Gihun shouted. He took a step forward but before he could reach the edge, something yanked him backward.

His body snapped through space like a rubber band. The air warped. The tower disappeared. Suddenly, he was no longer in the arena. Gihun slammed into a velvet chair, golden trim digging into his shoulders. The room around him was fancy, floor-to-ceiling drapes, gold fixtures, and crystal glasses on silver trays.

He shot up, lurching toward the window. On the other side of the glass, the arena stretched out below. His friends were still standing there, not knowing what was going to happen to them.

“No— no, stop!” Gihun's fist hammered against the glass, each strike a dull thud that reverberated uselessly back into his bones. His throat burned as he shouted, desperation cracking his voice. “They don’t know what this is! Kill me instead!”

Before his words could echo away, something yanked him still. A leather-gloved hand tangled cruelly into his hair and wrenched his head back. Gihun gasped, his whole body went rigid, his eyes dragged helplessly to the scene below.

Then came the mechanical and cold voice that turned his spine into ice.

“Look closely… at the consequences of your little hero game.”

The grip in his hair tightened, pushing him forward until his forehead nearly pressed against the glass. He couldn’t look away. On the other side stood his friends, every single one of them looking around the tower now with growing confusion, their faces shadowed by fear.

Then the distortion shifted. The voice glitched, and the timbre changed. It wasn’t the Frontman’s.

It was Inho’s.

He was unbearably close now, Gihun swore he could feel the warmth of Inho's breath against the back of his neck, “And now…”

“…everyone pays.”

The arena lights dimmed.

And Gihun screamed.

“Hyung!” A voice yelled.

Gihun jolted upright with a strangled cry, the sound tearing from his throat raw and violent. His chest heaved. He couldn’t breathe. His whole body was slick with sweat, his shirt soaked and his hair clinging to his forehead. He gasped desperately, hands trembling as they clawed at the sheets.

His eyes darted across the room to search for the towers, the walls, the red button; but all he saw were familiar shadows. The soft yellow light of the nightstand lamp. The safe, beige walls of the apartment. The pale curtains swaying slightly from the open window. Beside him, Giho was blinking at him in confusion.

There was a firm grip on his arm.

“Hyung, breathe.”

Sangwoo sat beside him with his brows furrowed, concern etched deep into the lines of his face. His fingers never left Gihun’s arm. But Gihun didn’t seem to hear him.

“I have to save them,” Gihun said, his voice breaking. “They don’t know— they don’t know what’s waiting. I—” His words collapsed into frantic sobs. “I have to go back— I have to save them—”

“Hey. Gihun-hyung. Look at me.” Sangwoo gently took Gihun’s face in both hands, turning him until their eyes met. “You’re safe. You’re here. It was just a dream.”

“No,” Gihun whispered hoarsely. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t a dream.”

Sangwoo hesitated, the corners of his mouth tightening with quiet concern. He didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted closer to the edge of the bed, sliding one arm around Gihun’s trembling back, rubbing in slow and rhythmic circles between his shoulder blades. With his free hand, Sangwoo reached for Giho, lifting the kitten and setting him gently into Gihun’s lap.

Gihun closed his eyes, trying to push away the images behind his eyelids. Without realizing it, his fingers began moving, brushing through Giho’s fur in slow, repetitive strokes. The kitten shifted and purred softly, and Gihun latched onto the sound to quiet his own pounding heart.

He couldn’t tell Sangwoo the truth. That it wasn’t a dream but a memory that seared into his bones and blood. His chest still heaved, but the storm inside him began to quiet. He didn’t even notice how Sangwoo stayed at his side, his hand never leaving Gihun’s back.

Eventually, Gihun leaned back into the pillow, his limbs heavy, eyes blinking slowly. Sangwoo reached down and pulled the blanket up over him, tucking it under Gihun’s arms like he used to when they were boys.

“Try to sleep,” Sangwoo said quietly. “We’ve got an early morning.”

Gihun frowned faintly, “What, why?”

Sangwoo blinked as if only now remembering, “Oh… right. You probably don’t remember.”

He offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We’re visiting our mothers tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Gihun couldn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The room felt too quiet, the shadows were too long, and every creak of the apartment seemed to echo the memory he could never fully silence. He lay on his side, Giho curled against his chest, but even the kitten’s soft purring was not enough to still the storm in his mind.

In the other universe, his mother had died shortly after he returned from the Games. The 45.6 billion won he had earned meant nothing in the end. Money couldn’t bring back the warmth of her presence, nor could it erase the hollow ache that had settled into his chest.

Gihun barely remembered the days that followed. The funeral had been private, arranged with meticulous care, and there had been no one else to attend. No friends, no distant relatives, there was only the scent of white chrysanthemums and the silence of the end of a life. Even then, the funeral felt more like an obligation than a farewell, performed for someone whose absence was already a permanent shadow in his world.

His mother had died wondering where her son was. And Gihun had never been the best son.

In the darkness of his room, the persistent and cold memories pressed against him like the rain against the window. The past whispered, and though he had survived the Games, he realized survival alone had never been enough to make the pain go away.

He closed his eyes, curling inwards, desperate for sleep, but it remained elusive. The night stretched long and heavy, and Gihun felt the unsteady weight of being truly alone, even in the company of others.

Hours later, Gihun sat on the edge of the subway seat, his knees angled inward with fingers interlaced so tightly that his knuckles were white. The rhythm of the train beneath him was a low hum.

Across from him, Sangwoo stood close by, one hand curled around the overhead railing. His body moved with the sway of the train, his eyes were fixed on his phone, scrolling, occasionally typing. They hadn’t spoken much since morning. It wasn’t out of anger, rather it was because Gihun didn’t know what to say. His mind was still caught between disbelief and fragile hope, grappling with the impossibility of his mother being alive in this world.

Earlier that morning, he had woken to Sangwoo’s gentle insistence to take his medication, eaten the breakfast placed before him without question, and followed obediently when Sangwoo said it was time to leave.

Apparently, this was routine. Twice a month, they visited their mothers together. Sangwoo had explained that if they didn’t, the women would bombard them with calls until they relented. Gihun had nodded silently, allowing the words to settle.

Now, he stared at the scuffed floor beneath his shoes, unwilling to meet anyone else’s gaze. Because the truth sat heavy in his stomach. In the other universe, Sangwoo’s mother would never see her son again. And Gihun’s mother…

Still, Gihun was here now where everything had gone differently. Sangwoo made the journey to Ssangmun-dong twice a month, and Gihun’s mother waited for him. Alive, breathing, and waiting.

The thought tightened around his ribcage until it was nearly impossible to draw a full breath. He clenched his hands harder, nails biting crescents into his palms. He tried in the small futile ways to calm the frantic pulse in his chest.

He didn’t know what kind of son he had been in this reality, whether this version of Seong Gihun had been present, attentive, and worthy. He wondered if he deserved to step through the door of their home to see her alive and smiling, or if he was walking toward someone he had no right to face.

The train jerked slightly, pulling him back into the present. Every stop and blur of passing light and shadow reminded him that he was moving forward toward her.

And with each meter, the weight in his chest pressed harder with the terrifying gravity of what it meant to have a second chance.

They first arrived at Sangwoo’s mother’s fish shop.

The air was thick with the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the sharp, metallic scent of fresh fish. Gihun hung back slightly, letting Sangwoo move forward as he approached the fish stand. Sangwoo’s mother emerged from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a damp towel. Her face lit up immediately at the sight of her son, and the years melted away in the warmth of her smile.

“Sangwoo-ya!” She called, her voice ringing across the small shop.

He responded with a laugh and a quick embrace, and for a moment, the world shrank to that singular, human connection.

Gihun felt a strange dissonance twist in his chest. It was surreal to see Sangwoo here so unguarded, unashamed and so present. In the other universe, Sangwoo had lingered at a distance in hiding, as if proximity itself were dangerous. He had watched his mother from the shadows, knowing he could never approach her without risking something irreparable.

Here, it was different. Sangwoo’s mother’s shop was alive with activity: customers haggled gently over the morning catch, the clerk called out prices, and a small boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve near the entrance. There was no sense of danger or invisible debt hanging over their heads. The fish store was not a bargaining chip for some reckless collateral gamble.

Gihun realized that he was watching more than just a shop. He was seeing a world in which Sangwoo could simply be a son, and a mother who had been eagerly waiting for her child to return. That heavy and almost painful knowledge pressed against his chest as he lingered silently afar.

Then, she spotted him. Her eyes widened, and a smile broke across her face.

“Gihun-ah!” She called out.

Gihun blinked, as if trying to shake himself from the spiral of his thoughts and forced himself into the present. He smoothed the front of his jacket and stepped forward, offering a poorly attempt at a casual smile. “Eomeonim,” he greeted softly, the word feeling both familiar and foreign on his tongue.

“Aigoo, I haven’t seen you in a while. Sangwoo-ya told me you got injured. Are you okay?” She stepped closer. Her eyes scanned his face, darting over every line and shadow as though she could read the story of the past weeks written in his expression.

Gihun nodded, “Yeah… I’m okay.”

He wasn’t sure whether he was answering her or trying to convince himself that it was true. The words felt hollow, but he repeated them anyway, clinging to the fragile tether of normalcy she offered.

Next to him, Sangwoo stayed silent, though his gaze never strayed far. Those sharp calculating eyes were fixed on Gihun, scanning every twitch of his mouth and shift in his shoulders. He was watching for the cracks and signs of discomfort that Gihun couldn’t quite disguise even behind a strained smile.

And Gihun tried. He forced the corners of his lips up, let out short chuckles at the right beats, even dipped his head in polite nods as Sangwoo’s mother continued her warm chatter. But the words slid over him like water over stone. The familiarity of her voice and the way she fussed over him like he belonged there all felt alien.

As only Korean mothers could, she carried the conversation seamlessly, spilling into stories, questions, and small admonishments about his health, his eating habits, the weather, and how men never take proper care of themselves. To anyone else, it might have been comforting.

To Gihun, it felt like his throat was closing up, every word reminding him of how trapped he truly was.

The longer it went on, the more the air in the shop seemed to thin. The chatter of customers, the smell of fish, and the scrape of knives on wood all blended into a haze. His smile wavered, his throat felt dry, and he found himself nodding without hearing half of what she said.

Finally, Sangwoo’s voice cut through. “Eomma,” he said, his tone soft with respect. “Gihun-hyung still has to see his mother.”

His mother blinked, then her eyes widened as if she had just remembered something obvious. “Oh yes, of course!” she exclaimed, her face brightening. She reached out, clasping Gihun’s hands briefly, warm and firm, before letting go. “Don’t keep her waiting, hm? Go on, go on.”

“Do you want me to walk you there?” Sangwoo asked.

“No.” The word slipped out too fast, almost as if it had been waiting on his tongue. Gihun took a step back, shaking his head with more force than he meant to. “No, it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”

The bustle of the street around them seemed distant, cars passed on the streets, vendors both murmured and yelled out prices, and there was a scent of lingering salt in the air from the fish shop. Sangwoo’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes followed Gihun as though he already knew what Gihun was refusing. Yet he didn’t argue or push the matter. He only tilted his head slightly, letting the space remain and granting Gihun the dignity of choice.

Gihun turned before he could falter, his feet moving with a strange heaviness toward the direction of home. Every step felt like treading across fragile glass, but he forced himself forward, not daring to look back.

Behind him, Sangwoo stayed rooted near the shop, a silent figure in the blur of the street, watching until the crowd swallowed Gihun whole.

Ssangmun-dong felt like a half-forgotten dream to Gihun. The streets were too familiar, yet foreign. This was the neighborhood that had shaped him, and it had grown older in tandem with him. Now stepping into it felt like trespassing into a place that no longer belonged to him.

Gihun hadn’t walked these streets since his mother’s funeral. At least, not in the world he had left behind. After laying her to rest, he had carried the weight of her absence into the sterile loneliness of the Pink Motel. Three years had passed there, each day eaten away by grief and anger, his life stripped bare under the shadow of the Game.

Standing here again with the world intact and his mother alive somewhere within it, Ssangmun-dong no longer felt like home.

He passed the convenience store where he and Sangwoo used to press their faces against the glass, deciding which candy they’d pool their coins for, laughing when the shopkeeper chased them out for lingering too long. The metal shutters had been repainted, but the shape of the building was the same, and he could almost hear their boyish laughter echoing against the glass.

The great tree that stood near the corner had grown even taller, its roots stretching deeper, the branches casting an even wider shadow than before. Gihun slowed as he walked past it, his head tipping back slightly to follow the reach of its leaves. That tree had stood guard over his childhood, and now, it loomed like a stranger.

Before he realized it, his feet had carried him to the front of his house. The sight made him stop short. The small gate leaned ajar, swinging ever so slightly with the whisper of the breeze, as though the house itself had been waiting for him, welcoming him home after all these years.

Gihun’s throat tightened. Slowly, he pushed the gate open. The faint squeak of its hinges rang far louder than it should have. He stepped inside, his shoes crunching softly against the gravel as he veered toward the modest little home tucked into the corner of the lot.

He knew every crack in the plaster and patch of faded paint by heart. This was the doorway he had run through as a boy, the one he had staggered through drunk as a young man, the one he had left behind when he’d failed as a son and a father.

And now he stood before it again, hand hovering inches from the doorknob.

He froze.

Did he deserve this? Did he deserve to see her again, when in another world, she had died without him at her side, wondering where her son had gone?

Shame pressed in on him like a vice. His stomach churned as the air grew thin. The world tilted off-balance, and his vision swam. His ears filled with a low, muffled hum, as though sound itself had been swallowed whole.

He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will his lungs to keep working, to force the panic down.

“Gihun-ah?”

His eyes snapped open, his head jerking upward. The door had opened, and there she was. His mother. Standing in the doorway of the home he thought he’d lost forever.

She looked… different, yet achingly the same. Her gentle silver hair was tied neatly into a low knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin bore the fine lines of age, but her posture seemed better. And her eyes, those eyes he had inherited, were warmer than he remembered. It was brighter, carrying none of the weariness he had last seen etched into them outside the hospital in another life.

For a moment, Gihun could only stare, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. He couldn’t move or speak. He was afraid that if he did, the sight before him would dissolve like smoke.

“Eomma?”

The word slipped from Gihun’s lips, raw and trembling, like a child calling out in the dark. His voice cracked midway, and his mother paused, tilting her head in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” She asked softly, her eyes narrowing with concern as they searched his face. “Why do you look so pale?”

But Gihun couldn’t answer. His throat closed up, his body shaking with something he couldn’t control. His vision blurred not from dizziness this time, but from the sting of tears that spilled faster than he could blink them away.

His lips parted, trembling, and the apology tumbled out in a broken whisper.

“I’m sorry…” His voice hitched, the words spilling through the cracks in his chest. “I’m so sorry, eomma…”

He didn’t even know how many times he repeated it, each syllable drenched in desperation, each one heavier than the last. Sorry for not being there. Sorry for failing. Sorry for letting her die alone in another life.

Through the watery haze clouding his sight, he couldn’t make out her expression. For a moment, he feared the rejection and confirmation that he didn’t deserve to stand here.

Then warmth enveloped him.

His mother’s arms came around him. She pulled him close, pressing his head against her shoulder as though he were still that foolish boy who used to come home bruised from playground fights. The familiar weight of her body, the subtle tremor of her breath, and the faint smell of laundry soap that clung to her clothes—

God, it was all so achingly real.

The scent undid him. The fragile dam inside him cracked wide open, and Gihun collapsed into her embrace. His chest heaved as sobs tore their way out, raw and unstoppable, until all he could do was cling to her like a child again.

“Aigoo…” she murmured, her voice trembling with motherly worry. “What’s gotten you so upset, hmm?”

Her hand began patting his back in a steady rhythm, the same comforting pats she used to do when he was small and had nightmares. The other hand slid into his hair, combing through the damp strands with patience and care.

And there, pressed into the warmth of his mother’s chest, surrounded by her scent, her touch, her voice…

Gihun wept harder. He couldn’t think or breathe. There was only the burning sting of tears carving paths down his cheeks, and the crushing, impossible relief of being held again by the one person he thought he had lost forever.

It took nearly twenty minutes for her to calm him.

Twenty minutes of holding, whispering, and coaxing him to breathe until his ragged sobs thinned into shaky exhales. By the time she finally ushered him inside, the lines of worry had etched themselves deep into her brow, though her hands never once stopped their gentle and grounding touch.

“Sit,” she said softly, guiding him toward the low table. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Gihun obeyed without resistance. He folded his legs beneath him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and let her place a bowl of steaming rice and soup before him. The savory scent drifted up, familiar and almost unbearable in its comfort. His stomach clenched as he lifted the spoon with trembling hands, taking slow and cautious bites.

The food was simple like always, but the warmth of it spread through him, colliding with the lingering ache in his chest. He sniffled quietly between mouthfuls, the tears no longer rushing but surfacing now and then, sneaking past his guard. He hadn’t realized how deeply he had missed this: the taste of his mother’s cooking and the quiet rhythm of an ordinary meal.

Across from him, his mother sat with her own bowl, her gaze never strayed far from him. The silence stretched for a few minutes, broken only by the clink of utensils and the occasional sound of Gihun’s unsteady breathing. Then, finally, she spoke.

“Did you come with Sangwoo?”

Gihun swallowed hard, nodding faintly, “Yeah… He’s with his mom right now.”

She hummed in acknowledgment, scooping up a mouthful of rice. For a long moment she simply studied him with the look of a mother who had learned all her son’s microexpressions. Then she leaned slightly forward, her voice soft but steady.

“So,” she said, her gaze holding his. “Are you going to tell me why you looked so distressed at the door?”

Gihun didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shoved another spoonful of rice into his mouth with unnecessary force, chewing far too slowly. It was an old habit his mother had always recognized, a silent signal that he didn’t want to answer in hopes the food might shield him from her probing questions.

Her sharp eyes didn’t miss it though. She leaned back slightly.

“Did you and Inho-ya have a fight?”

The question hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened, and he swallowed hard, the food sticking in his throat. “What? No!” he snapped, scowling before he could stop himself. “Why is he even brought up in this conversation?”

His mother raised one brow at his reaction, but to his relief, she didn’t press. She simply returned to her food, the faintest shadow of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The meal continued. She asked a few more questions about his health, work, and the little things that made up his days. And though his responses came clipped and short at first, the comfort of home began to sink into him like warm sunlight after rain. The peeling walls, the smell of soybean paste and sesame oil, and the steady rhythm of his mother’s presence smoothed the sharp edges of his thoughts.

Little by little, Gihun found himself talking. Not about the truth, but about ordinary things. He listened as she explained she was living well in retirement, how she and her friends gathered weekly to play cards and gossip, and the money being invested wisely. Life, in this universe at least, has steadied into something simple and sustainable.

When she asked about the café, his lips curved into something almost like a smile.

“It’s going well,” he murmured. “I… recently rescued a kitten.”

“Oh? A kitten, you say. Are you keeping it?”

He hesitated a moment before nodding, “Yeah. I’ll probably take him to the café. Maybe someone will want to adopt him.”

“And did you give him a name?” She asked, scooping another bite of rice.

“Inho named him Giho.” Gihun replied without thinking.

His mother blinked. Her chopsticks froze in place, and for a second, she didn’t chew, letting her gaze linger on him. She finished her bite slowly, setting her utensils down with care.

“Giho…” she echoed softly, almost under her breath, as if tasting the syllables. “Huh…”

“Yeah.” Gihun frowned, the defensive edge returning to his voice. “What’s wrong with it?”

Her lips curved, and a small gentle and dismissive laugh escaped her. She waved her hand lightly as though brushing away the tension.

“Nothing, Gihun-ah. It’s a good name. Very cute for a kitten.”

As if finally mustering the courage to steer the conversation himself, Gihun cleared his throat, his voice quieter than he intended.

“Eomma… how… how did you get the diabetes treated?”

His mother’s face shifted between surprise and mild exasperation. Then she spoke, “You really don’t remember. When Sangwoo told me about your memory loss, I thought you were just making an excuse to cheap out on something again.”

“Eomma!” Gihun protested defensively, pouting like he was a young boy again.

“Alright, alright,” she teased, reaching for her soup again. “Don’t make that face.”

She took a small sip before adding casually, “Inho paid for the surgery.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone sinking into water, sending ripples through every corner of Gihun’s chest. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Inho did what?

His mother seemed completely unbothered. Gihun sat frozen across from her, every muscle locked tight. His fingers clenched into the fabric of his pants until the pressure left sharp stabs of pain in his thigh.

“He…” Gihun’s voice broke on the word, the syllable heavy and trembling. “What?”

His mother mixed the food in her bowl before explaining, “Four years ago, we didn’t have enough funds at the time; things were difficult. But Inho was kind enough to step in and pay for half the cost. You two even argued that day. In the end, he insisted.”

Gihun felt the floor tilt beneath him. His hands shook against his thighs. He didn’t want to believe it. Not that man, the one who wore the mask and orchestrated death like theater, who carried blood on his hands.

Why?

Why couldn’t Inho just remain the villain Gihun knew him to be? Why did every revelation in this place seem to twist the narrative, painting Inho in shades of decency, in choices that looked more like compassion than malice? The sharp and unrelenting realization settled in his mind. His and Inho’s lives had always been tangled, threads crossing where he wished they wouldn’t.

Gihun pushed his bowl aside and rose abruptly, the legs of the low table scraping faintly against the floor.

“I need a minute, eomma.” He muttered.

His mother blinked at him but didn’t stop him as he stumbled toward the door. The air outside hit him cool and damp, but it did nothing to clear his head. He walked all the way to the front gate and leaned against the rusted bars.

His hands shook as he fumbled with his phone. He scrolled through his contacts with trembling fingers, and there it was. Hwang Inho. Before he even realized what he was doing, the line was already ringing.

Then came the voice, smooth but tinged with confusion.

“Hello? … Gihun?”

His chest tightened. For a split second, Gihun considered ending the call and pretended none of this had happened. But the hoarse and broken words pushed out of him anyway.

“Why?” He swallowed hard before he could continue. “Why did you pay for my mom’s surgery? Did you—”

His voice cracked, panic knotting in his gut, “Where did you get the money from?”

“Wait. Just— calm down for a second.” Inho’s voice replied, steady but urgent.

But Gihun couldn’t stop now. His breath came ragged, his hand gripping the phone so tight his knuckles turned white. The panic bit at him, and the pieces in his mind began slotting into terrifying shapes.

“Did you… win the money somehow?” He demanded. “Did you win 45.6 billion won or something?”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Huh? What are you even talking about?” Inho’s voice finally came, laced with sharper concern. “Calm down. Tell me where you are right now.”

Gihun could barely hear him. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. Because in his world, the answer to his question was the start of everything: the Games, the death, and the blood. And if Inho really had been a player too, then this world wasn’t as different as he wanted to believe. Had he already gone down the irreversible path?

“Inho, answer me!” Gihun yelled.

On the other end, Inho’s voice hardened, “Gihun, stop. Just listen to me. You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m not making sense?” Gihun let out a broken laugh, pressing his palm to his forehead as his body shook. “You paid for her surgery. Where else would you have gotten that kind of money? Don’t lie to me, Inho. Did you… did you play too?!”

There was silence again. Gihun’s heart slammed in his chest. His stomach lurched. For one horrifying second, he thought the silence was an admission.

Then, Inho spoke, “No, I didn’t get the money from playing, I didn’t win 45.6 billion won. Where are you? Tell me, I’ll come get you.”

“No!” The word tore out of him before he could stop it. “Don’t come near me. I don’t— I can’t—”

“Gihun,” Inho’s voice dropped low, commanding in a way that made Gihun freeze. “You’re spiraling. Let me explain it to you properly, face-to-face. Not like this. Please.”

But Gihun only shook his head violently, even though Inho couldn’t see it. His body was trembling so hard he could barely keep the phone to his ear. “No… I don’t trust you. I don’t trust—” His words faltered, the panic climbing higher in his chest until he thought he’d choke on it.

Inho let out a heavy and restrained sigh on the other end, “Then at least tell me where you are so I know you’re safe. You sound like you’re about to collapse.”

“I don’t need your concern!” Gihun yelled before his voice lowered again. “I… I just need answers. And you’re not giving me any.”

“Hyung,” Inho said again, softer now, almost pleading. “Please. Let me come to you. We’ll talk.”

Gihun lowered his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen before pressing down, ending the call.

His arm dropped limply to his side like it had drained the last ounce of strength in him. Then his knees gave out, his body sagging against the iron gate until he slid down to the dirt. The cold metal pressed against his back, grounding him only enough to realize the phone had slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly against the ground beside him.

His breath came sharp and shallow. He pressed a palm against his chest, but it did nothing to slow the pounding there. The panic was alive, clawing and tearing from the inside.

The Games… Could they really still exist here?

The thought spread like wildfire, impossible to shut out. Images battered his mind. 456 faces, nameless and terrified, gathered in a sterile dormitory. A green tracksuit on his back. Blood staining the floor. And Inho… always Inho. His stomach turned violently. Did he enter the Games again? Was he still part of it? Still pulling the strings, moving people like pieces on a board?

Gihun pressed his forehead against the heel of his hands, trying to anchor himself, but his own blood rushing through his ears echoed and vibrated throughout his body. His head throbbed, heavy with the flood of possibilities he couldn’t untangle.

And beneath all of it, the question chipped away at him like a parasite: Why is Inho in my life at all? Why does every path I take still lead back to him?

He didn’t hear the other half of the gate creak open, nor did he hear the footsteps approach or the voice calling his name. It wasn’t until a strong pair of hands gripped his shoulders firmly that Gihun’s head snapped up, eyes wild.

“Hyung!” Sangwoo’s voice broke through the static in his mind. He was crouched in front of him. “What are you doing out here?”

Gihun’s breath hitched, “S-Sangwoo-ya…? Why are you here?”

“Never mind that,” Sangwoo’s tone was tight, almost sharp with worry. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to faint.”

Gihun gulped hard, scanning the street with jittery eyes. His voice came out unsteady, trembling at the edges.

“I… I think so…”

“Can you stand up? Do you want to go back inside to your mom?” Sangwoo slid one hand under Gihun’s arm, bracing him.

“No.” Gihun shook his head quickly, though his legs still trembled as Sangwoo helped him get up. “No, I’ll… I’ll go back later. Sangwoo…”

He looked directly at Sangwoo now, desperation flickering in his eyes, “I have questions. Questions I need you to answer.”

Sangwoo’s expression faltered, his hand lingering a second longer before he slowly let go. His jaw worked as though weighing the risk of what might be asked. But at last, he gave a small nod.

“Alright. What do you want to ask?”

“Why… did Inho pay for my mom’s surgery?” Gihun asked. His fingers dragged across the metal, nails scraping the rusted paint as if he could claw out the truth that way.

Sangwoo inhaled slowly before carefully answering, “You should probably ask him directly, hyung.”

A sharp and humorless laugh escaped Gihun’s lips. “Hah… I thought you two couldn’t stand each other.” His smile was bitter, curling at the edges like something spoiled. “Why are you suddenly covering for him now?”

The words didn’t stop once they started; they tumbled out in sharp bursts, each one cutting deeper into the silence. Gihun pressed on.

“Everyone keeps telling me we had some fight, but I don’t remember it. And honestly? I don’t care. What I want to know is why you, Sangwoo, out of all people, are suddenly defending him. Why him?”

For a long moment, Sangwoo didn’t answer. He pressed his lips together, his eyes daring away quickly, and then leaned his back against the gate. The hinges groaned with the weight of both of them.

“Hyung. I don’t hate Hwang Inho,” Sangwoo admitted at last. “It’s… complicated. It always has been. But don’t mistake this for me defending him. I’m not. Even I don’t know about what happened between you two that day.”

The words settled heavily between them. Sangwoo let out a faint sigh, his eyes scanning Gihun’s strained profile.

His voice dropped lower, “Because to be honest, hyung… you never told us anything when it came to you and him. All we ever had was guesswork and pieces. The only fact I know, and what everyone knows, is that Inho paid for half your mother’s medical expenses.”

Gihun didn’t say anything, and Sangwoo continued.

“That’s why I think it’s best for you to hear it straight from him, hyung. Not from me, or Jungbae, or anyone else. Otherwise…” He trailed off, finally glancing at Gihun with a somber look. “…you’ll just keep torturing yourself with the wrong answers.”

Gihun didn’t argue. He couldn’t. His throat had closed up, his body turned stiff. The silence between him and Sangwoo stretched thinly. Minutes bled away, there was only the faint chirp of birds in the distance and the occasional groan of the metal gate under his weight.

At last, Gihun tilted his head back, his gaze climbing toward the sky. Clouds drifted lazily across the blue canvas, their edges glowing faintly in the haze of the sunlight. He drew in a shaky breath. He knows Sangwoo was probably right, letting this fester and clinging to half-answers and assumptions, would only drag him deeper into the spiral clawing through his mind. But the stubborn part of him didn't want to talk to Inho, nothing he said would make Gihun feel better about any of this.

Against better judgement, he pulled his phone from his pocket with stiff fingers. The glow of the screen washed across his face, his thumb hovered over the name in his contacts, the three simple characters that seemed to hold everything that he didn’t remember. Every second of hesitation felt like a ticking bomb, threatening to paralyze him again.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Sangwoo watching him quietly. The younger man didn’t speak; his silence was its own kind of support. Gihun pressed the call button before fear could tighten its grip again.

The line connected almost immediately. Before Inho could even get a word out, Gihun cut in, his voice flat and stripped of everything but mental exhaustion.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

Almost thirty minutes later, the low rumble of an engine echoed down the narrow alleyway of Ssangmun-dong.

Gihun straightened against the gate, his stomach twisting as a sleek black car slowed to a stop just meters away. The driver’s door swung open and out stepped Hwang Inho. The sight of him made Gihun’s jaw tighten.

Of course, Inho knew exactly where to find him. Gihun had barely managed to choke out the word “hometown” over the phone before Inho hung up without another word. And now here he was, standing in the same alley Gihun had walked a thousand times as a child.

Inho rounded the car, his gaze flicking toward Sangwoo. He dipped his chin in a brief nod of acknowledgment, and Sangwoo’s eyes slid from him to Gihun.

“I guess I’ll leave you two to talk then,” he said, pushing off the gate with one hand. “Hyung, if he’s mean to you, let me know.”

Despite everything, a breath escaped Gihun’s throat that almost resembled a laugh. He gave Sangwoo a small, grateful nod.

As Sangwoo walked past, he purposefully brushed his shoulder into Inho’s. The contact was sharp enough to make Inho jolted back slightly, though his expression didn’t crack. He adjusted his stance quietly, watching Sangwoo disappear down the alley without a backward glance.

Now it was only the two of them. Inho took a step forward, but Gihun quickly drew a line with his foot across the dirt just inside the gate.

“Stay on the other side,” Gihun said. “We’ll talk like this.”

Inho froze mid-step, his brow furrowing slightly. For a moment, confusion and maybe even disappointment flickered in his eyes. He drew in a slow breath, standing on the other side of the line. Finally, he exhaled.

“…Alright.”

Now standing face to face, Gihun fought to steady his breathing. However, it did little to quiet the frantic pounding in his chest.

He couldn’t look at Inho. Every time his eyes brushed against his face, something inside twisted. The memories of another world, another Inho, hidden behind the mask and the gun. Instead, his gaze stayed fixed on the ground between them. He shifted his weight awkwardly, then he forced the words out.

“Why,” Gihun began, his brows furrowing hard. “Did you pay for my mom’s surgery?”

There was no hesitation in Inho’s response. His voice was calm, like he had rehearsed this answer long ago.

“I had enough funds to cover the remaining cost needed for it.”

Gihun’s eyes snapped up, “Where did you get it from?”

That question landed heavier. Inho paused. His jaw tightened just slightly, his gaze flickering away before returning. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t with the same casualness as his first answer.

“… It was from you.”

Gihun blinked, his scowl melting into confusion, “What?”

Inho gave him a sidelong glance, studying his reaction, “The money came from you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Gihun shot back, shaking his head. His voice rose with disbelief. “Why would I give you money when I didn’t have any at the time? My mom said things were difficult at the time.”

Inho’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then, quietly, he explained, “You held a fundraiser for my wife’s liver surgery nine years ago. But she passed away before we made enough. You gave me the remaining funds and told me to keep it.”

Gihun’s mind blanked out, reeling in the explanation as he tried to process it.

“I never used it,” Inho continued. “Not a single won. And I’m glad, because it saved your mom’s life.”

Gihun froze. His body felt like it had been doused in cold water.

My wife’s liver surgery. The sentence echoed in his head, colliding violently with old memories. Youngil, desperate and distraught in the dorms, speaking of his wife who had acute liver cirrhosis and their unborn child. After he had taken off his mask in that office, Gihun had dismissed it as a convenient story, a sympathy card in a game where lies bought survival. But now…

It hadn’t been a lie.

Gihun’s stomach flipped. His thoughts tangled in on themselves, the past and present crashing together, and he couldn’t tell which one was real and which one was an illusion. The Inho in his memory clashed horribly with this one, who stood in front of him with quiet sincerity, talking about saving a mother’s life.

His throat tightened, the words failing him. All he could do was stare, dizzy with the weight of it. The silence stretched and Gihun’s mind raced. Fundraiser. Money. None of it matched the picture burned into him: the cold mask, the pistol raised, and the blood on marble floors.

He staggered back a half step, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“No… no, this doesn’t make sense.” His voice cracked. “You— You’re lying. You have to be lying.”

Inho’s expression tightened, but he didn’t speak. He stood there, letting Gihun spit his confusion into the air.

“You expect me to believe you’re some… some grieving widower who just happened to keep a stash of money around for years? You? Hwang Inho?” Gihun’s voice rose, sharp and ragged. His chest heaved, fury tangled with fear. “I know you! I know what you are! You—”

His throat bobbed painfully, “You’re not a savior. You’re not kind. You’re not…”

He faltered, clutching his own arms like he could hold himself together as he whispered.

“You’re not this.”

Still, Inho didn’t react. There wasn’t any denial or anger, only patience.

That made it worse.

“Stop standing there like you’re innocent!” Gihun shouted, his words finally breaking loose. “You ruined lives. You—”

A sudden thwack landed against the back of his head. It wasn’t hard, though it was firm enough to jolt him out of his spiral.

“Ow!” Gihun yelped, clutching his head and spinning around. His mother stood behind him, a kitchen towel in hand, glaring up at him with narrowed eyes.

“Yah, Seong Gihun!” she scolded sharply. “What do you think you’re doing, screaming like a madman out here? The whole neighborhood can hear you!”

“E-Eomma…” Gihun stammered, caught completely off guard.

She swatted the towel at his arm this time, “You think I raised you to disrespect someone who saved my life? You’ve lost your mind.”

Gihun rubbed the sore spot on his arm, his throat tight and the shame twisting in his gut. He could only watch as his mother shifted her attention away from him entirely, moving past the gate toward Inho. Her face softened, the sternness melting into warmth as she reached for him.

“Inho-ya,” she said gently, taking his hands in both of hers like she was greeting an old family friend. “Are you alright? Don’t mind my son, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Inho gave a small, almost bashful smile, dipping his head politely.

“I’m fine, eommoni. Really. Gihun-hyung…” He glanced past her toward Gihun, his tone steady but not sharp. “…he’s still struggling. Adjusting to memory loss isn’t easy. It’s not his fault.”

Even now, Inho wasn’t cruel, going to the point of defending him. Gihun’s tore his gaze away. The words, the tone, the gentleness, it didn’t match the image seared into his mind of a cold mask and those glassy eyes. Why? Why is he like this here?

His mother laughed lightly, shaking her head as if Inho’s explanation was enough to dissolve the tension. She patted his hand, her smile warm and unguarded.

“You’re too kind. Always so considerate.” She looked at him with overflowing affection and trust, like she might have looked at a son-in-law or someone she’d known for years.

Watching them together, Gihun felt something ugly coil in his stomach. It was a mix of jealousy, confusion, and a sick twist of betrayal. His mother, showing the kind of care to Inho that shouldn’t exist in Gihun’s memories.

However, he felt the edges of his anger begin to fray. She wouldn’t lie to him; she was the woman who had carried him for nine long months and raised him alone when his father had vanished from the picture. She endured every hardship with quiet resilience. If she trusted Inho enough to smile at him, laugh freely at his words as though they were family…

Then what right did Gihun have to keep doubting?

The bright and aching familiarity of her laughter slipped past his defenses. His chest, so tight with suspicion and fear, loosened. It was as if some stubborn part of him finally surrendered, unclenching its grip on the frustration and doubt that had consumed him from the moment he’d stumbled into this strange, distorted version of his life.

“Gihun, I would like you take somewhere.” Inho said at last.

Gihun’s mouth opened, ready to refuse outright, but then he caught the sharp glare from his mother. The look alone had the power to freeze him in place; the same one she used to silence him when he was about to argue his way into trouble.

He bit down on the words. In the past, he would have fought tooth and nail, maybe even stormed back inside like a sulking child if he didn’t get his way. That version of himself was one he knew all too well. After everything he had endured, the deaths and the blood and the hollow grief of losing his mother once already, he could no longer afford to be that man.

Reluctantly, he gave a short nod, “...Okay.”

Inho inclined his head politely toward Gihun’s mother, “We’ll be going now, eommoni.”

She nodded with an easy smile, “Go on then, don’t take too long.”

Gihun’s steps were slow as his gaze flickered down to the subtle line he’d drawn earlier with his foot. The invisible boundary he’d sworn Inho wouldn’t cross. Now he found himself stepping over it, leaving the safety of that self-made wall behind.

By the time he reached the car, Inho was already there. Without a word, he opened the passenger-side door and gestured for Gihun to get in. Slowly, he slid into the seat stiffly, folding his arms across his chest in quiet protest.

Behind them, his mother’s voice called out, “Have a safe trip, you two.”

Inho gave her a nod, “Will do.”

Gihun exhaled a sharp huff of annoyance, turning his face toward the window. His arms tightened across his chest. His mother’s fond glance landed on him one last time before she waved them off.

The ride stretched on in silence, Gihun leaning his temple against the window. Outside, the scenery rolled past in fragments. He didn’t ask where they were going, nor did he care enough to know. Conversation meant acknowledgment, and right now, Gihun didn’t have the strength to give Inho that much of himself.

The only reason he had agreed at all was because of his mother. The thought of worrying her and dragging her into whatever fractured conflict existed between him and Inho made him feel uneasy.

So, he stayed quiet.

When the car finally slowed, Gihun lifted his head from the window. They pulled up to a curb outside a modest corner store. Beyond it, a flower shop spilled bursts of color into the dull street.

Gihun frowned, suspicion flickering across his face. Before he could voice it, Inho had already cut the engine.

“Stay here,” Inho said. “I’ll be quick.”

The door shut softly, leaving Gihun alone in the car. Through the wide glass window of the shop, he watched Inho gesturing toward something just out of sight. A moment later, the cashier returned with two small bouquets wrapped in thin paper. Inho accepted them with a bow, exchanged payment, and turned back toward the car. When he slid into the driver’s seat again, he simply set the bouquets into the cup holder between them.

“It’ll be a longer drive from here,” he said as he started the engine again. “Rest if you want.”

Gihun didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his body toward the window once more, trying to shield himself from the low warmth. The glass offered only a faint reflection, but he could make out the sharp cut of Inho’s jaw, the way his hair fell loosely over his forehead, softening his expression.

He looked exactly like Youngil. The resemblance made Gihun’s heart skip, and he shut his eyes.

Slowly, he let the quiet rumble of the car pull him under, dragging him into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

Gihun didn’t know how long he had been asleep.

He stirred with a low groan. His neck ached from the angle he had slumped against the window, and when he shifted, the dull stiffness in his body made him wince. As he sat up straighter, something slid from his shoulders and pooled in his lap. He blinked in confusion, then glanced down.

A dark and warm jacket rested against his body. It wasn’t his. The subtle trace of cologne clung to the fabric, familiar enough that realization crept over him with discomfort. The jacket was Inho’s.

His first instinct was to fling it aside and get rid of that unwanted gesture of care. But before he could act, the click of the passenger door startled him.

“You’re awake,” Inho said as he leaned slightly to look inside.

Gihun shifted at once, his body tensing like he was caught in a moment of vulnerability. He shoved the jacket into Inho’s arms, refusing to linger on its warmth.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Sorry. I dozed off.”

“That’s okay.” Inho replied, slipping the jacket back onto his shoulders without hesitation.

Pushing open the door on his side, Gihun stepped out, stretching limbs that had grown heavy from sitting so long. The air outside was cooler than he expected, crisp and tinged with the scent of earth and pine needles carried down from the hill above.

Inho stood to the side, his gaze fixed on the winding stone path that climbed toward the hill. Gihun followed the line of his eyes and saw the walls rising in quiet order. He knew what this place was.

An outdoor columbarium.

“Here.” Inho said softly, extending one of the bouquets of white chrysanthemums.

For a moment, Gihun hesitated, his hand hovering before he finally accepted the flowers. He didn’t ask questions. Whatever this was, Inho clearly wanted him to see it. And now that he was standing here, Gihun couldn’t turn away, not without disrespecting the dead.

He trailed after Inho, their footsteps crunching faintly on the gravel as they climbed. The rows of marble walls marked with names, dates, and sometimes small photographs. The air itself seemed quieter here, with only the rustle of wind and occasional chirping of a bird.

Then Inho stopped.

Gihun slowed to a halt beside him, his own eyes falling to the wall Inho faced. He felt his breath catch sharply. Two photographs stared back at him, one of a woman, and the other of her with Inho at her side, both smiling.

Inho pulled the wilted flowers from the brass holder and replaced them with his bouquet. Then, he turned slightly and spoke softly.

“Come put yours in.”

Gihun shuffled forward. His head dipped in an instinctive bow of respect as he nestled the chrysanthemums beside Inho’s. For a second, he let his hand linger against the stone. He stepped back quickly after, his posture stiff and tense. His pulse roared in his ears and the air suddenly felt too thin.

Finally, Inho’s voice broke the silence.

“This is my wife’s memorial,” he said, his eyes remained on the photos. “I figured you might not believe me with your amnesia, so I brought you here.”

Gihun bit his lower lip hard, and he opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize. But Inho’s voice carried on. “Because of your hard work, we were able to extend her hospital stay a little longer. And through that… I was able to be with her until her last moments.”

The admission settled between them, and Gihun’s breath hitched. His gaze lifted slowly to the small, framed portrait fixed into the marble. His chest tightened, the words scraping out of him like confession.

“I’m not that kind of person…”

“Maybe not,” Inho murmured, finally shifting his eyes to him. “Since you don’t remember.”

A pause.

“But I remember.”

The weight of his words pressed down on Gihun. He sucked in a shaky breath, his gaze darting away. Inside, he felt a storm brewing. Grief tangled with disbelief; guilt intertwined with resentment. His memories and truths felt slippery, colliding with this world’s versions of them. He wanted to protest and insist that the man Inho believed in wasn’t him.

But how could he deny something that had clearly been real for someone else?

Finally, in a voice barely above a murmur, Gihun asked, “And the argument?”

Inho blinked, caught off guard by the question. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes drifted to the trees lining the hill, anywhere but Gihun’s face.

When Gihun stared, patient and insistent, Inho finally exhaled a long, quiet sigh. From his pocket, he took out a small slip of paper, holding it out.

“Here.”

Gihun took it, brow furrowing as his eyes scanned the contents:

ICN -> LAX | December 24th, 2024

His eyes widened. A plane ticket to Los Angeles. For a moment, the world narrowed to that paper. He looked up at Inho, who studied him carefully and almost nervously, as if bracing for Gihun to erupt in anger or frustration.

“A plane ticket?” Gihun asked, his voice sharp but uneven. “What… what is this supposed to mean?”

“Our argument was over this,” Inho said quietly, his eyes dropping to the ticket. “It was your late birthday gift. But you were angry because I didn’t ask you first. You felt like I was forcing you to see Gayeong, making you feel obligated just because I spent my money.”

The ticket trembled in Gihun’s hands. Gayeong. His daughter. In the chaos of another life and world, he had almost forgotten that if everyone existed here, then Gayeong existed too. He never got to see her again after his 2020 Games.

His fingers curled around the paper, the edges cutting faintly into his palms. Anger rose in him, surprisingly not at Inho, but at the cruel fracture between two worlds. Timelines that refused to reconcile, leaving him suspended between what was and what might have been.

He hated how unsteady he felt, the way his thoughts tumbled and turned, demanding answers that might never exist. He wanted to scream and shake Inho, to make sense of it all.

But all he could manage was a quiet response:

“…I don’t know if I deserve to see her.”

Inho’s hand hovered briefly near the ticket, then he lowered it. His reply was unnervingly gentle.

“You’re still her father.”

The ride back to Ssangmun-dong passed in silence again.

Gihun sat slumped against the window, the flowers and the photographs still etched in his mind. The ticket sat heavy in his pocket. Inho didn’t speak either.

When they arrived, his mother looked up from the potted plant that she was tending right outside the front door. Her face brightened the instant she saw them.

“There you are.” She said, clapping her hands lightly together.

Gihun watched as she spoke easily, asking Inho about his work, his health, his family, and laughing at his replies. The conversation swelled between them, lively and familiar, as though he had always belonged here in this space with her.

On the other hand, Gihun said nothing.

He felt himself shrinking into silence, caught on the edges of their exchange. Every now and then he risked a glance, his mother’s face open with warmth, and Inho responding with respect and gentleness. He could hear his own breath over their laughter.

Then there was the talk with Inho that replayed over and over in his head. Gihun tried to make sense of it, his mother and Inho’s conversation dulling into a buzz. He was too exhausted to feel anything.

And then there was Gayeong too.

Before he could sink deeper into his thoughts, Inho’s voice broke through.

“Let me help carry these in.” He offered, reaching for the heavy plant pot.

But Gihun’s mother moved quickly, swatting his hand away with a soft laugh. “No, no. You’re a guest. Why don’t you give me and Gihun a few minutes together instead.”

Inho paused, then gave a small respectful nod, “Of course, eommoni.”

He gave Gihun a lingering glance before passing him, the gate shutting softly behind him.

Gihun picked up the heavy pot, forcing himself to follow his mother. The moment he set the pot down by the front door, his mother turned to him. She folded her hands neatly, studying him in a way that made his pulse stutter.

“You’re not really Gihun-ah, are you?”

Gihun froze, the blood in his veins turning cold. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers.

“…What?”

She didn’t flinch. “I know my Gihun-ie. I raised him. He was never this quiet or careful.” Her voice softened, but the firmness beneath it remained. “Even memory loss wouldn’t change the way a heart speaks. A mother knows these things.”

Gihun’s lips parted, but no sound came. His throat had closed up, his excuses evaporating under her gaze. She reached across the space between them, her hands warm as they enveloped his trembling ones.

“So, tell me the truth, my son. What happened to you?”

His lower lip quivered. He wanted to dismiss it and laugh it off, insisting that he was tired and that things would go back to normal soon. But faced with her warmth and unwavering belief, he felt himself unraveling.

“You may be able to fool your friends,” she continued softly. “But you can’t fool your own mother.”

The words shattered his defenses. His head bowed low, tears welling and spilling before he could stop them. A choked breath escaped him, rough and uneven.

“I’m not from here, eomma…” His voice cracked, the confession trembling in the air between them.

She stayed quiet, only squeezing his hands, her thumb brushing across his knuckles as if coaxing him to go on.

The words tumbled out of him, messy and desperate.

“It’s going to sound crazy but… I don’t belong here. I’m from another world… where… where—”

His throat closed around the words. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t look into her eyes and tell her that in the place he had come from, she had died alone, waiting for a son who never came home in time. To admit it aloud would make it real again, and he couldn’t bear to lose her twice.

His breath hitched, panic swelling so fast that he thought he might choke on it.

And then her arms were around him. She drew him in, her hand smoothing through his hair like she had when he was a child. Her embrace carried no hesitation.

“I see,” she murmured, her voice steady even as his body shook against hers, as if she had expected something like this all along. “You must have suffered a lot there, huh…”

The dam broke again. Gihun let out a broken sob, clinging to her as though she might vanish if he let go.

“I’m sorry, eomma. I don’t… I don’t know where your Gihun went. I don’t even know why I’m here. I don’t deserve this… I don’t deserve you—”

She hushed him gently, rocking him ever so slightly as she whispered against his temple.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Her hand pressed firm against the back of his head. “No matter where you came from, you are my son. Always.”

The words burrowed into him, splitting something open that had been sealed shut for far too long. Gihun trembled in her embrace, unable to stop the tears that kept spilling. He had tried so hard to keep everything buried, but with her… it was impossible to pretend.

Little by little, the dam inside him cracked further. In broken pieces, he told her about the other world. Not everything though. He couldn’t bring himself to describe the games, the deaths, the exact horrors that still haunted him. But he told her enough for her to glimpse the truth of why he walked around in this new life carrying so much guilt and rage.

His mother listened quietly, her hand never leaving his, her silence was a soft invitation for him to continue at his own pace. When he finally ran out of words, she exhaled, brushing her thumb against his damp cheek.

Then, in the same calm tone, she asked, “So is that why you look like you want to kick Inho out of the house every time you see him? Were you guys on bad terms?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. He swallowed and looked away, his jaw tightening.

“Bad terms,” he muttered. “That’s a generous way to put it.”

She gave a small hum, her gaze thoughtful.

“Regardless,” she began slowly. “Don’t you think it’s unfair to Inho-ya?”

At that, Gihun’s head snapped toward her, “Unfair?”

“Yes,” she said gently. “The man who waits patiently for you to speak and saved your mother’s life… he isn’t the Inho you remember. He’s lived a different life. Made different choices.”

She paused, her expression softening, her eyes twinkling with a wisdom that only came from her age and experience.

“So, tell me, my son,” she leaned closer. “Is it just to punish this man for sins he never committed? Or has your grief woven such a veil over your eyes that you cannot see people anymore, only the shadows of your sorrow?”

Gihun’s throat worked as if he wanted to argue, but no words came. He wanted to say she didn’t understand how seeing Inho’s face made his blood boil, that it was easier said than done to separate this Inho from the one who had ruined so much in the world he left behind.

But… her question lingered like a thorn in his chest, making it impossible to ignore. His hands curled into fists against his knees, his voice rough when it finally emerged.

“I don’t know how to look at him without seeing the other one. Every time I do, it feels like… like I’m still there, living it all over again.”

Gihun exhaled, the breath trembling as it left him, tangled with doubt and hesitation. His uncertainty hung thick in the air, but his mother seemed to feel it. She gave his hand a reassuring pat.

"Sometimes taking a leap forward means leaving a few things behind, Gihun-ah.”

Her words echoed in Gihun’s skull. He didn’t respond. He knew his mother was right, even if he wanted to continue denying it. He had been stumbling beneath the weight of two lives, dragging the ghosts of one world into the fragile light of the other.

And yet, what unsettled him most was not the truth of her words, it was the blooming thought within him: he had never once considered forgiveness. Not for Inho, not even for the man he saw in the mirror each morning.

It was easier to cradle his pain and let it define him, to bleed rather than to heal.

But his mother’s hand stayed, and in her steady grip, he felt the terrifying possibility of letting go.

Later that day, Hwang Inho slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door to his apartment.

He stepped inside and went through the motions without thinking. Shoes lined neatly against the wall, keys dropped into the porcelain bowl shaped like a cat, a gift Gihun had once pressed into his hands years ago with a laugh.

Right now, his mind was still hanging onto the image of Gihun leaving his mother’s house. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes and his posture hunched over. The sight had struck Inho hard. He had been waiting patiently outside the gate, debating whether to approach again. When he saw Gihun vulnerable like that, he knew better than to intrude. Whatever had been said inside those walls was not his to know.

So, he had walked away without goodbye, only sending a text to explain he was heading home. He was left on read.

“Hyung, you’re back!” A voice cut through his thoughts as he closed the door. From the couch, Junho’s head poked around the corner, bright-eyed and curious. “How did the talk go? Did you get punched again?”

“No.” Inho muttered flatly.

Junho tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. He had grown adept at reading his older brother’s moods, and the curt reply only sharpened his curiosity. As Inho crossed the room to fetch a bottle of water from the fridge, Junho rose from the couch and followed, gaze falling on the jacket folded over Inho’s arm.

“Want me to toss that in the washer for you?” Junho offered, reaching out casually.

But Inho recoiled, jerking the jacket away, “No. Don’t touch it.”

Junho froze, blinking in surprise at the sudden edge in his brother’s voice, “…Okay, damn. Just asking.”

Inho gave his brother a half apologetic, half warning look, but said nothing more. Then, he turned down the hall without another word, jacket clutched firmly in his grip. In his room, the tension finally loosened from his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the jacket.

Slowly, he lifted it to his face and buried his nose into the cloth. The scent rose to meet him, his own cologne clinging faintly, but threaded through with something else. A cheaper detergent, the hint of citrus.

Gihun.

Chapter Text

The dream unfolded gently, like Inho had been dropped into the middle of a life he had never lived but always longed for.

The door clicked shut behind him. He slipped off his shoes and loosened the collar of his work shirt as he stepped into the warmth of home. The air smelled of garlic and soy, along with something simmering that carried comfort on its steam.

From the kitchen, he heard the soft humming, off-key yet familiar. He followed the sound, and there was Gihun. Apron tied clumsily around his waist, a pan hissing on the stove. His unruly hair curled at his temples, catching the light. It was such a simple sight, yet it made Inho’s chest ache.

He moved before thinking, slipping behind Gihun and burying his face into the curve of Gihun’s neck. The warmth there and the faint citrus scent clinging to his skin was enough to make Inho forget to breathe.

Gihun chuckled, glancing over his shoulder while stirring the pan, “What’s wrong with you, huh? Long day?”

Inho said nothing. He only pressed his forehead deeper into Gihun’s shoulder. The kitchen stilled, the simmering pan bubbling and filling the silence between them.

Then, Inho pulled back slightly, his hand lifting on instinct as his other hand gently turned Gihun to face him. His fingers traced the edge of Gihun’s jaw, trembling as they cupped his face. Gihun didn’t move away. His dark eyes widened, watching him.

The world narrowed to only him as Inho leaned forward, tilting his head up. He felt the smooth skin beneath his palm, the breath between them, and his eyes flicked to Gihun’s mouth.

And just before he could taste the warmth of Gihun’s lips—

Inho jerked awake.

His eyes snapped open to the ceiling of his bedroom. His pulse hammered, the ghost of domesticity still clinging to his senses. The ache in his chest lingered, cruel in its tenderness.

It was then he realized his face was pressed into the familiar jacket, pulled close without him knowing. His cologne hung on faintly but intertwined with it was the scent of citrus.

Inho closed his eyes, burying himself deeper into it as though he could chase the dream back. But all that came were fragments: the curl of Gihun’s hair, the warmth of his eyes, and those lips Inho had never got to touch in reality, nor in the dream that had slipped through his grasp.

His boxers strained low in his body, a reminder of the heat that had twisted out of control in his sleep. With a low sigh, he threw the covers back, grabbing a fresh set of clothes, and quietly made his way down the hallway.

The cold water of the shower hit his skin like needles. Inho stood motionless beneath the stream, his gaze fixed on the marble tile in front of him.

How long had it been? Ten years? More? His mind sifted through the blur, hunting for something solid. And then he remembered the night they met.

It had been pure chance. Inho wasn’t supposed to be there. He worked in wide-area investigations, yet that day he had been reassigned to lend support to the Public Order Bureau as they tried to break a strike that had turned volatile. The factory was barricaded, hundreds of workers refusing to come out.

Inho had taken his shift on night watch, and that was when he caught Seong Gihun clambering over the fence, his face set with determination and fury, his fists clenched like he was ready to take on the world. In fact, he nearly punched Inho square in the face.

Even now, Inho couldn’t help but smile faintly. Gihun had been like an angry puppy, ferocious in spirit, hopeless in execution, all barking defiance even when cornered. Cute, though he hadn’t dared think of it that way back then.

He remembered calming Gihun down somehow. Then he had pulled out a food parcel, holding it out like an offering. Suspicion flashed in Gihun’s eyes, but hunger won out. They ended up sitting by the broken fence, eating in silence at first, then watching the sliver of night sky between the factory roofs. Words followed, tense at first, then freer. Dreams, frustrations, and fragments of lives that never should’ve intersected.

After that, something unspoken bound them. Each night, they found each other again in the shadows. A police officer upholding the system. A worker fighting to tear it down. Two sides that should have been enemies, and yet… their conversations kept going. About people, fairness, and how the world could be different. What began as uneasy truces grew into negotiations. But Inho should have known better.

The system never bent for men like Gihun.

The night of the negotiations was supposed to change everything. Instead, it destroyed it. The order came down from above before the workers barely took a step out of the factory. Tear gas. Batons. Screams. By dawn, some were dead, many arrested, the strike crushed. Severance pay was offered like hush money, but the cost was clear. Most of them never found work again.

The memory sat cold in Inho’s chest. The water ran colder, but he hardly felt it.

Despite everything that had happened during the strike, Gihun had never once turned his anger on him, even when most of the other workers cast icy looks at Inho whenever he lingered nearby or whispered traitor.

Through it, the two of them had carved out a friendship somehow, one that only seemed to grow stronger with each passing year.

Gihun became a constant in Inho’s life, a voice that cut through the endless grind of his work, a laugh that reminded him he was worth cherishing outside the badge. And he, in turn, found himself weaving more and more into the fabric of Gihun’s world.

When Inho married Minjee, it was Gihun who stood by his side, grinning wide and teasing him mercilessly, his laughter cutting through the ceremony in a way no one else could. Later, when Minjee discovered she was pregnant, Gihun was one of the first to know. Inho could still remember the way Gihun’s eyes lit up as he went on to talk about how Inho could go to him if he needed any help raising a baby daughter.

And Inho had been there for Gihun just the same. Within only a few meetings, little Gayeong had decided that he was her ahjussi, shouting it at the top of her lungs whenever she saw him. When Eunji’s shifts ran late, or Gihun being too tangled up in jobs as an excuse for him to stay late at the racetrack, it was Inho that went to the daycare, crouching down to meet Gayeong’s bright little eyes that she’d inherit from Gihun. He’d walk her home and listen to her endless chatter about picture books and playground dramas.

Inho twisted the knob and the shower sputtered to silence, leaving only the sound of water trickling down his body and pattering against the tiles. His brows knitted, the weight of memory afterwards suffocating him.

The few years after that, they had both gone through different shadows, but dark all the same. Inho had lost Minjee far too young, her smile extinguished by liver cirrhosis. Gihun’s darkness came a little later: the court ruling against him, custody of Gayeong slipping from his grasp no matter how hard he fought. Watching him crumble under the weight of it, Inho had known that kind of powerlessness and despair.

But between their losses, they had leaned into each other, two men caught in the undertow of grief and regret. There were nights when Inho would drag himself out of his empty apartment just to sit across from Gihun at some small corner stall. He’d watch the man pour out his frustration with the world over soju, slamming his glass harder each time, the flush of alcohol blurring the sharpness of his sorrow. And Inho, who preferred whiskey, would let the burn sear down his throat even as he kept a careful eye on Gihun. He never let him spiral too far, always catching him before the soju turned reckless.

In those moments, it was less about the drinking and more about the solace they provided each other. Inho kept Gihun from drowning, and Gihun gave Inho a reason not to drink alone.

After returning to bed and staring at the ceiling for who knows how long, Inho had finally managed to doze off again. By the time his alarm blared, the sky outside was glowing with morning light.

He moved through the apartment like a shadow, until the sound of Junho clattering in the hallway pulled at his attention.

“Hyung!” Junho was half in his shoes, hopping awkwardly as he tugged at his uniform trousers, a crooked mess of fabric and belt. “Can you drive me to work? I overslept.”

Inho slipped his coat on, adjusting the lapel, “Did you not have an alarm set? You’re slipping.”

Junho shot him a sidelong glare as he yanked the zipper on his jacket. “I did, but someone decided to take a shower at four in the morning. By the time I fell asleep again, boom, overslept. Why were you even showering that early? Don’t tell me you had a we—”

Before he could finish, Inho gave him a firm shove toward the door, “Walk, before I make you late for work.”

Junho stumbled, then grinned at him over his shoulder, “Okay, okay. No need to get defensive.”

They slipped out into the crisp morning and got into the car. The drive began in silence, until Junho broke it first.

“Hyung, I haven’t eaten yet. Can we swing by Gihun’s café? Just grab something quick.”

Inho’s hands tightened on the wheel. For a split second, the refusal hovered on his lips. But when he glanced sideways, Junho was giving him that wide, pleading eyes and a pout sharp enough to cut through his emotional walls. Inho sighed, his shoulders sinking as he relented.

“Fine.”

Junho’s grin returned immediately as he pulled out his phone to check the café’s menu. But Inho’s thoughts had already spiraled elsewhere.

Would Gihun even want to see him? Or would he still carry that same mingling look of anger and sadness that had burned itself into Inho’s memory?

Nothing made sense anymore. At first, Inho had convinced himself that the distance was about the ticket, but then Gihun had mentioned not remembering their argument at all. Yet he took the plane ticket Inho offered yesterday. That alone unsettled him, like there was something more complicated underneath.

Inho knew Gihun too well. If he tried to press, Gihun would just deflect. He would change the subject and turn it into smoke. Which left only one option: patience. The long game. Something Inho had always been good at, even when it cost him.

“I heard they’ve got a new pastry on the menu,” Junho piped up. “Ali came up with it, apparently. People say it’s been selling out before noon.”

Inho hummed in response, but his gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter as the café came into view. By the time he parked and cut the engine, Junho had practically leapt from the car. Inho lingered on the sidewalk, his coat pulled close as the morning breeze tugged at his hair.

Maybe he could just… wait out here. Let Junho grab whatever he wanted and bring it back. He almost convinced himself until Junho circled back, eyes gleaming, and tugged at his arm.

“Come on, hyung. Don’t just stand there.”

Before Inho could protest, he was pulled inside.

The warm air of the café enveloped him immediately, laced with the scent of grounded coffee and buttery sweetness of fresh pastry. An occasional chirp of meows rose from the cats.

After putting on the house slippers, the brothers joined the short line at the counter. When it was their turn, Junho bounded forward first, rattling off his order before stepping aside.

That was when Gihun finally looked up. It was just a flicker, his eyes widening ever so slightly before dropping back to the register, but enough to make Inho’s heart flip.

“What can I get for you?” Gihun asked quietly, carrying none of the sharp tone Inho had braced himself for.

For a moment, Inho could only hear the steady pound of his own heartbeat. He swallowed, forcing his voice to steady.

“Hot Americano. Black. And… a croissant.”

Gihun nodded, typing in the order. Inho drew in a small breath, before deciding to take a risk.

“How’s your morning been?” He asked.

There was a pause as Gihun tapped the screen before he answered.

“It’s fine.”

Inho blinked. The neutral tone caught him off guard, making his brain short circuit. He’d expected another glare, a clipped dismissal, maybe even silence. Not this calm answer that felt like the ice between them had thinned by the faintest crack.

Up close, though, he noticed something else. The faint but dark smudges beneath Gihun’s eyes.

“Did you not sleep well?” Inho asked cautiously, lowering his voice to keep the question from sounding intrusive. “Your eyebags look worse than usual.”

Gihun gave a small shrug, eyes fixed on the screen as he swiped Inho’s card.

“Could say the same to you.”

The words were casual, almost offhand. But they made Inho blink in surprise, and suddenly it felt hard to breathe for a second. Was that… concern? A mirror of the care he himself had tried to offer? Or was it nothing more than a tired man pointing out what was obvious?

Inho hesitated, fingers raking absently through his hair as he searched for something to say that might bridge the gap between them. But the moment slipped through his grasp like sand.

“...Right,” he muttered, almost defeated. He accepted the receipt, lingering just enough to catch the faint brush of Gihun’s hand. “Thanks.”

He quickly stepped aside, retreating toward where Junho was already waiting, grinning with that infuriating perceptiveness that told Inho he had noticed everything. As Gihun worked behind the counter, Inho tried super hard not to stare. But inevitably, his gaze drifted back again and again, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Gihun never once looked at him. His focus remained firmly on the order and arranging pastries. To other customers, he offered a serviced warmth: a polite smile, a low chuckle when someone cracked a joke. But even that smile was different. It curved across his mouth without ever reaching his eyes.

Inho missed the real smile, the way Gihun’s eyes used to crinkle when Inho said something stupid. The soft laugh that spilled only for him.

That had felt like a long time ago.

Now, all he could do was accept this distance. He told himself he should be grateful even for this. But the knot in his stomach said otherwise.

Their names were called. Junho darted forward immediately, seizing the bag of pastries and digging in immediately. He tore into a tart, cheeks puffing as he made a pleased noise.

Inho followed slower, and before he reached for his cup of coffee, a shadow shifted in the corner of his eye. Then, something small and warm collided against his chest. He caught it instinctively, blinking down at the tiny calico squirming in his arms.

Giho blinked up at Inho with wide, bright eyes, meowing softly. Junho immediately leaned down to get a better look, his tart forgotten.

“Awww! Is this a new cat?” He cooed, brushing a fingertip over the kitten’s small head. “What’s his name, Gihun?”

“Giho.” Came the answer from behind the counter.

Junho blinked in surprise as Junhee emerged from the staff room. Junho’s brows furrowed in thought, “Did you name him?”

Gihun shook his head, then tipped his chin toward Inho, “No. Inho did.”

From the corner of his eye, Inho saw Junhee trying to hide the faintest gasp. Meanwhile, Junho’s eyes widened more, his tart still halfway to his mouth as he turned to gape at his older brother.

Inho shot Junho a sharp look, a silent warning not to push it.

But Junho thrived on mischief. His grin broke wide, eyes sparking as he turned back to Gihun. “Wait,” he said, laughter already spilling into his voice. “Do you know why my brother named the cat Giho?”

“Because it means yellow mark.” Gihun answered evenly, like it was obvious.

That only made Junho laugh harder. He bent over, slapping his knee with one hand while holding the half-eaten tart in the other.

“Oh my god, that’s too funny. The real reason he named it Giho—”

Before he could finish, Inho shoved his brother’s hand, stuffing the rest of the tart straight into Junho’s mouth. Junho spluttered, choking on laughter and pastry at the same time.

“Chew.” Inho muttered darkly as he adjusted the kitten in his arms.

Junhee, meanwhile, had turned back toward the counter. She leaned over to rearrange the cups, but Inho caught the way her shoulders shook slightly, and the unmistakable smile tugging at her lips.

And Inho? He refused to look toward the register, he didn’t want to know whether Gihun had seen the way his ears burned red. A faint note of citrus drifted past him, making his gaze flick upward. He was startled to find Gihun standing so close, his presence brushing against Inho’s senses.

But Gihun’s eyes weren’t on him, they were fixed on the stupid cat.

“Giho, come here. It’s not polite to jump on customers.” Gihun said, his voice threaded with patience and warmth. It was softer than anything he’d offered Inho in weeks.

The kitten, not Inho, was the one who earned that tone.

The pang deepened and twisted harder in his chest. Of course it was Giho who got Gihun’s full attention, gentle voice, and soft eyes. Inho almost envied the tiny ball of fur that was about to be cradled in hands that hesitated to reach for him.

Shifting slightly, Inho pried at the kitten’s claws. Giho, stubborn as ever, refused to budge, and he couldn’t help but think that the little thing knew exactly what it was doing, stealing Gihun’s gaze that Inho wanted for himself.

When Gihun finally stepped closer, Inho’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. Together, they worked to untangle Giho from the fabric, Gihun’s fingers brushing against his as they pulled carefully until the cat relented.

As Gihun finally lifted Giho into his arms, Inho had to bite back the ridiculous thought that the kitten looked so smug while curled against a chest where Inho longed to rest his head.

“Troublemaker.” Gihun murmured, scratching the kitten’s chin with a tenderness that made Inho’s jaw tighten.

That smile, that softness, how long had it been since it was directed at him? Inho expected the warmth to fade when Gihun passed the kitten over to Junhee. But instead, he lingered a second longer, his fingers still curled as if reluctant to let go. Inho stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, a knot of irritation pulled tight in his chest.

He couldn’t remember the last time Gihun had looked at him the way he was looking at the dumb cat.

Defeated, Inho turned, ready to leave when Gihun’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Inho glanced back to see Gihun heading into the staff room, and after a few seconds, he came back out with a small bag and an umbrella. He hesitated before extending them, his gaze flicking away.

“Here,” Gihun said, almost under his breath. “I, uh… washed your coat. And thanks… for the umbrella.”

Inho froze for a moment, caught off guard. Then, slowly, he reached out. Their fingers brushed, the barest touch sending a sharp and electric jolt through him. He swallowed, attempting to even out his voice.

“Of course.”

Gihun dipped into a quick polite bow, before retreating behind the counter. Inho stood there, holding the bag tighter than necessary, then finally turned away to follow Junho out of the café.

The ride to the police station was quiet again. Out of the corner of his eye, Inho could still see the wide grin on Junho’s face.

“Don’t.” He warned.

Junho smirked, “You’re not smooth, hyung. Giho? Really? You might as well have named the cat Inhun. Honestly, it sounds better, don’t you think?

“It means yellow mark.” Inho replied flatly.

Junho rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “Right. That’s just the cover-up excuse, isn’t it? Also…” he added, dragging out the words for effect. “You looked like you wanted to punt that poor cat across the café when Gihun was trying to peel it off you.”

The jab landed, and Inho’s cold and warning glare cut across the car. Junho immediately looked away, whistling under his breath as if the street outside the window had suddenly become fascinating. But the corner of his mouth twitched upward, betraying the laugh he was holding back.

The rest of the drive was silent, and Inho dropped Junho off at the station. His hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel before he turned away from the police building, driving back across town toward the Seoul Cat Rescue Center.

After Minjee had passed, Inho couldn’t return to the police force. He’d resigned, and then drifted jobless for months, sinking further into the black water of his own depression. He remembered the way the apartment used to smell of stale liquor, how he barely ate, and even showering had felt like a chore.

It was Gihun who’d dragged him out, quite literally. To the horse tracks, of all places. Inho had never cared for gambling, but he let himself be pulled along. Maybe because the chaos of the place dulled the sounds in his head, or because if he didn’t go, Gihun would have wasted every won on reckless bets. He spent more time dragging the man away from the betting window than watching the races while Jungbae would follow behind, laughing.

And then, one afternoon, they found a cat. Small, limping, with one paw bent strangely, wedged between the walls. Gihun had been the first to kneel down, coaxing the frightened creature out with soft words. Together, they’d brought it to the rescue.

The shelter agreed to cover most of the vet bills, but the cat needed fostering during recovery. Inho had assumed Gihun would do it since he’d been the one so worried, after all. But when he asked why Gihun was telling him to foster it, the taller man simply grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Because you need something to take care of, Inho-ya.” He’d said.

Just like that, the cat had come home with him.

It was only a few months, but in that short time the days felt a little less empty in the form of feeding, cleaning, and watching the animal slowly grow stronger. When the cat was finally adopted out, the apartment felt quiet again, but he didn’t fall back into the dark as deeply as before.

After that, he and Gihun kept volunteering at the rescue. Gihun preferred sitting on the floor with kittens climbing all over him, laughter spilling from his mouth as though he hadn’t been struggling with his own demons. Inho, predictably, gravitated toward the administrative side.

Somehow, that ended up turning into a career. When an opening appeared at the rescue, the director had asked him to consider it. He’d accepted, and years later, he was still there.

Now, he worked closely with Youngmi as a project manager, making sure adoption procedures ran smoothly, coordinating fundraising, and managing partnerships, including the one with Purrfect Brews. It was a life he never would have imagined for himself back when he wore a badge.

And like always, his mind drifted to the same person.

Seong Gihun.

Inho managed to push through most of the day, burying himself in reports, adoption paperwork, and the stream of phone calls. Routine kept his mind quiet.

At least until the very end of his shift.

He had just hung up with one of the shelter’s sponsors, the conversation still echoing faintly in his ears, when a soft knock came at his door. Youngmi’s head peeked in, smiling.

“Inho,” she said in a higher pitch than usual. “Gihun’s here. Figured you might want to see him.”

Inho’s heart skipped so violently it almost hurt. He tried to collect himself, but his body betrayed him. He shot to his feet quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and rounded his desk before his brain could remind him to breathe. The sponsor, the paperwork, the whole day, forgotten in an instant.

By the time he reached the lobby, he had forced his steps into something slower. However, it was too late; his pulse thundered in his ears.

There he was.

Gihun stood near the entrance, one hand shoved awkwardly into his pockets, the other holding a cat carrier, weight shifting from one foot to the other. His eyes wandered across the lobby, landing briefly on the bulletin board plastered with adoption flyers, then flicking toward the front desk, never staying anywhere for long.

Inho froze for a fraction too long, caught in the gravity of the moment. If it hadn’t been for Youngmi nudging him lightly in the ribs, he might’ve stood rooted there, watching the man who made the rest of the world blur and fade away.

“So, you mentioned Mandu didn’t look so well?” Youngmi asked smoothly, drawing Gihun’s attention.

Gihun’s gaze landed on her first, then flicked briefly toward Inho before darting back. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Hyunju noticed it first.”

“He probably needs more eyedrops. I’ll head to the back with Youngmi.” Hyunju offered, casting a quick knowing look at Inho before Youngmi nodded.

Hyunju took the carrier from Gihun. Then, with Youngmi beside her, they headed toward the treatment rooms. The sound of their voices grew faint as the door closed behind them, leaving silence in their wake.

Now only Inho and Gihun remain.

Inho’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, then forced his voice out, “Would you… like to see some of the cats while you wait?”

That earned him the smallest reaction. Gihun’s eyes flicked up, curiosity softening the distance in them. Inho caught on and clung to it, turning quickly as he gestured down the hall.

At the end of the corridor, they reached the public cat room. Through the glass, a dozen tails flicked lazily, kittens tumbling in play while older cats lounged on shelves.

Gihun’s expression shifted the moment he saw them. The faint furrow in his brow smoothed, and a quiet light sparked in his eyes. Inho opened the door, holding it for Gihun to slip inside first.

The change was immediate. The tension that clung to Gihun seemed to melt away as he crouched on the floor. A small, unguarded smile tugged at his lips, and he let out a soft half chuckle, half coo as he tapped the floor, calling a kitten over. One of the braver ones inched closer, flopping dramatically onto its belly before swiping at the feather toy he had picked up.

Soon, the room came alive around Gihun. A cluster of kittens swarmed him, tiny paws scrambling over his legs, tails batting at his arms. One bold kitten scrambled up onto his shoulder, nuzzling against his jaw.

“Alright, alright. One at a time, you guys.” Gihun laughed, half-toppled under the sheer weight of a bunch of furballs.

Inho’s fingers curled loosely against his crossed arms, the ache in his chest sharp and familiar. He watched as Gihun pulled a pouch of lickable treats from the shelf and tore it open. Immediately, the cats swarmed tighter. He held the treat out, letting them lick eagerly, his other hand busy stroking soft fur, scratching chins, and smoothing ears.

Every single cat got attention.

Meanwhile, Inho stayed rooted to the wall, the ache in his chest hardening into something sour.

It’s fine. This is fine. He’s happy. That’s all that matters, he told himself, forcing the thought to repeat like a mantra. But it didn’t ease the burn that licked at his insides.

Because it should’ve been him.

It should’ve been his shoulder Gihun leaned into, his arm Gihun brushed against, his words that make Gihun’s laugh spill out.

Instead, a damn army of cats got what Inho craved.

One particularly fluffy tabby nestled against Gihun’s neck, pressing so close it almost looked possessive. Inho’s jaw tightened before he could stop himself. Absolutely ridiculous.

Yet the feeling coiled tighter, low and insistent, until he had to shift his weight, drag his gaze toward the ceiling, anywhere but the sight of Seong Gihun being adored so easily by creatures who didn’t even know how much they were stealing from him.

For a while, Inho let the storm sit, watching in silence.

Eventually, the need to do something burned through him. Before Inho could overthink, he pushed away from the wall and crouched nearby, plucking a toy wand off the floor. He brushed it across the floorboards until one curious kitten pounced at it. Another followed, and another, until he had stolen back a small crowd.

“Looks like I’m still the favorite.” He teased, though his voice came out rougher than he intended.

Gihun’s head snapped up, a scowl tugging at his features. His brows knitted together in that endearing way Inho had memorized years ago.

“That’s not fair.” Gihun muttered as he turned his face away to sulk.

Inho blinked, surprised. Had he actually offended him? The realization made his throat dry. What had started as a petty attempt to draw attention had turned into something else entirely, and now guilt gnawed at him.

“Hey—” Inho started, softer this time, but Gihun was already bending his head, petting the lone cat that had stubbornly remained in his lap. His hand moved slowly, like he needed to pour all his tenderness into that one creature who hadn’t abandoned him.

Inho’s chest tightened. He dropped the toy and pushed himself back to his feet. He returned to his place against the wall, leaning into it heavily.

It didn’t take long for the tide to turn again. One by one, the kittens drifted back to Gihun. Soon, he started laughing again, hands moving to give each cat as much love as he could. His smile widened, and it made Inho forget how to breathe.

The ache bloomed quietly in Inho’s chest, but he didn’t do anything about it. Watching Gihun’s smile reaching his eyes was like watching the sun break through a week of rain.

And in that instant, Inho understood something he could never say aloud: to be invisible in Gihun’s orbit was still better than being anywhere else.

He could remain here forever, silent and unseen, if it meant he’d get to witness that smile again.

Chapter Text

For the next week, Inho finally managed to muster the courage to slip back into his old routine.

Each morning before work, he found himself pushing open the glass door of Purrfect Brews, the little bell chiming above his head, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries wrapping around him like a familiar embrace.

He told himself it was for the coffee and breakfast croissant he’d grown used to, not for the man behind the counter. And maybe part of him even believed it. But deep down, Inho knew better.

At first, every visit was edged with anxiety, his chest tight with the fear that he might undo the fragile progress he had made. Their last exchanges had been tentative steps forward, and he worried that one wrong word could shatter it all, sending Gihun retreating behind that wall of anger again.

But surprisingly, when he ordered and asked his usual small questions, “How’s your morning?” or “Busy today?”, Gihun actually answered. His voice was neutral, stripped of that sharp edge that used to cut through every word. The answers were short, yes, but they were real. And Inho didn’t dare push. Even a single word from Gihun felt like more than he deserved.

And then, of course, there was Giho.

The tiny calico had become a daily problem, or maybe a blessing, depending on how one looked at it. Every time Inho stopped by, the kitten would dart toward him with energy, scaling his leg or leaping into his arms like he was its personal perch. No amount of shooing seemed to keep the little thing away.

Without fail, it ended with Gihun and Inho both trying to pry the stubborn ball of fur off his coat. Their hands would brush in the chaos, shoulders nearly colliding, and Inho’s pulse would skyrocket every single time. To anyone else, it might have looked like they were just two men wrangling a mischievous cat. But to Inho, those fleeting seconds felt electric.

And Giho, damn the little creature. Always purring the loudest when he was in Gihun’s arms. Nestled against his chest, Giho would look up at Inho with those wide, blinking eyes, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was mocking him, flaunting the kind of closeness Inho wanted but couldn’t have.

Once, when Gihun wasn’t paying attention, Inho had muttered darkly to the cat.

“I’m going to have you adopted out if you keep this up.”

Giho had tilted his head, meowed sweetly, and then rubbed his tiny face against Inho’s wrist, leaving fur and warmth in its stupid innocent act. Inho had let out a quiet sigh, his threat dissolving into the air.

Inho never admitted it, but sometimes he wished he could trade places with that tiny furball, just to remember what it felt like to be the one Gihun held onto so tightly.

Of course, the people around him also didn't make things easy.

One weekend afternoon, Inho received a call from Junhee. She had asked if he could watch Yumin for a few hours, nothing too complicated. Inho agreed almost immediately. Junhee deserved a break, as raising a child alone was no easy feat. And after practically raising Junho himself, Inho figured he was more than qualified to handle a few hours with a baby.

What he didn’t expect was for the door of Junhee’s apartment to swing open and reveal Seong Gihun standing on the other side.

For a moment, both men froze.

Gihun’s brows furrowed, his voice carrying a note of confusion, maybe even irritation. “What are you doing here?”

Inho’s mouth went dry. The words tangled on his tongue before finally tripping out in a stammer.

“Baby.”

“…What?” Gihun’s eyes narrowed.

“Uh—” Inho cleared his throat, heat rushing to the tips of his ears. “Babysitting. Junhee called me here to babysit.”

The explanation sounded clumsy, and he silently cursed himself. Babysitting shouldn’t have sounded like a guilty confession. But somehow, in front of Gihun, it always did. From further inside, it wasn’t Junhee but Jiyeong who walked up, a grin on her face from ear to ear.

“We’re going out for a girl’s night,” she announced brightly, her gaze flicking from Gihun to Inho. “We’ll be back before it gets late. You two can handle a baby, right?”

Gihun’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t answer. Inho, meanwhile, couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. The slope of his shoulders, the faint crease in his brow, even the way the light caught in his dark eyes pulled at him, leaving his own voice stuck somewhere useless in his throat.

Jiyeong sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she nudged Gihun aside, clearing a path for Inho. “Don’t block the door. Let him in before the baby grows up without a sitter.”

Inside, the apartment was warm and filled with the faint scent of baby powder and formula. Hyunju and Youngmi were playing with little Yumin in the living room, while Saebyeok was sitting at the counter, sipping her banana milk and looking unimpressed by the whole arrangement.

“Finally.” She muttered, giving Inho a brief glance before returning to her drink.

At the table, Junhee scribbled down last-minute notes on a notepad: feeding times, emergency contacts, Yumin’s preferred lullaby playlist. Her movements were brisk, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her satisfaction.

That was when Inho realized with a sinking feeling this wasn’t just a night off.

It was clearly a setup.

“Anyways, call us if you need anything,” Jiyeong said, tugging her bag over her shoulder as the girls shuffled toward the door, putting on their shoes.

Junhee gave her daughter a gentle kiss on the head before carefully handing her over to Gihun. Yumin let out a squeal as Gihun’s arms cradled her, and Inho’s heart skipped at the sight.

Gihun’s usual sharp edges softened in an instant, his eyes warming as they met the tiny, wriggling bundle in his care. Junhee shot Inho a small, knowing glance over her shoulder before she and the others slipped out. The click of the door closing left the apartment strangely quiet.

Inho froze for a moment, unsure what to do. Yumin cooed softly in Gihun’s arms, her tiny fingers curling around his coat, and Inho’s eyes couldn’t leave the two. Gihun, so domestic and impossibly endearing, looked utterly at home with a baby, and the realization left Inho feeling strangely hollow in his chest.

Finally, Inho shuffled toward the fridge, scanning for milk. His gaze flicked over the containers, his brow furrowing. There was none prepared. These girls. Inho silently cursed. They definitely did this on purpose. He could practically hear their laughter and giggles in his head.

He grabbed a container of formula, carefully reading the instructions, trying to keep his hands steady while balancing his fascination with Gihun, who was humming softly and completely absorbed in the baby’s tiny reactions.

As he opened the can, Gihun asked, “What are you doing?”

“Making baby formula,” Inho muttered. “Apparently, the girls didn’t prepare it beforehand.”

Gihun moved quietly toward the kitchen, his eyes never leaving Inho as he carefully bounced Yumin in his arms. Inho’s chest thudded painfully, each beat echoing the sudden awareness of being watched.

He could feel Gihun’s eyes on him, tracing his every movement as he fumbled with the formula bottle. His fingers trembled slightly, and for a panicked moment, he thought the powder might spill everywhere.

“Careful.” Gihun said.

“I got this,” Inho stammered, his hands tightening around the container. He forced himself to take a slow breath, trying to steady his shaking fingers, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. He could sense Gihun stepping closer.

Then, Gihun asked, “Do you want me to make the formula and you hold the baby?”

“No!” Inho said too quickly, his pride and panic mixing into one sharp refusal. He pivoted toward the stove, turning on the kettle with more force than necessary.

“Okay…” Gihun said, clearly unconvinced.

He backed away and returned to the living room, lowering himself onto the couch. Flicking the TV on, the noise immediately captured Yumin’s attention, earning a babble from the baby.

Meanwhile, Inho was still fighting for his life in the kitchen. First, he dropped a measuring cup, and by the time he fished it out and rewashed it, the powder had spilled again on the counter. Then, reaching for another mug, he nearly sent a stack of plates crashing to the floor. The clattering pulled Gihun’s gaze back to him.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Gihun asked.

Inho barely managed to catch another mug before it slipped from his hands. “Yeah… I’m sure,” he said, trying to sound confident while his posture betrayed him.

At last, after what felt like hours of fumbling and near-disasters, Inho managed to assemble the bottle. He brought it over to the living room, carefully handing it off. Gihun accepted it, tilting it slightly against his wrist to test the warmth before lifting it toward Yumin.

The baby latched instantly, tiny fingers curling against Gihun’s sleeve. Inho hovered for a second, torn between want and hesitation, then lowered himself onto the couch. Instead of taking the empty space beside Gihun, he sank into the opposite end, leaving a careful gulf of distance between them.

He told himself it was a respect for boundaries, that there was still an awkward tension that lingered between them. But the truth ached sharper: he wanted nothing more than to slide closer, shoulder brushing shoulder, and help guide the bottle in Gihun’s hand. He wanted to share that small, ordinary intimacy.

Instead, his fingers curled tight against his knees, knuckles whitening as he fixed his eyes on the television. Bright colors blared across the screen, cartoon characters bouncing in time to a tune, but the noise barely registered.

From the corner of his vision, he caught the way Gihun’s entire face softened as he watched Yumin drink. Inho’s throat worked, swallowing down the knot that formed there. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out, quiet and careful.

“Does she remind you of Gayeong?”

The question hung in the air, and Inho saw it immediately. Gihun’s fingers stiffened, curling tighter into the fabric of the blanket tucked around Yumin. His gaze lingered on the baby, then dropped sharply.

Regret clawed at Inho’s stomach. He winced, already backpedaling.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I just thought—”

“It’s fine,” the words were clipped, but not unkind. Gihun’s arms folded a little closer around the baby. “She does remind me of her.”

Inho dropped his eyes to his lap. Damn it. You ruined it, he cursed himself, staring at the floor like they might swallow him whole. Great job, Hwang Inho. You really can’t keep your mouth shut, can you?

Then Gihun spoke again, his voice low and hesitant as he asked, “Do you… miss your wife? And… the baby?”

The words cut sharper than he expected. Inho’s head snapped up only to find Gihun’s gaze meeting his directly. There was a wetness there and behind it, a sadness so raw it tugged at something deep in Inho’s ribs.

For a moment, Inho couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. But the man sitting before him, cradling the baby, didn’t remember. And that hurt in a way Inho couldn’t put words to.

“I do,” he quietly said at last. “But… I’ve made peace with it.”

Gihun nodded slowly, and Inho thought that was the end of it. He almost let himself relax when Gihun’s voice broke through again.

“If you… happened to go into a world where you did horrible things,” he began, pausing briefly. “How would you react?”

Inho’s brows knit together. Gihun was known for blurting out philosophical things at random, and Inho had always humored him, answering with patience even when the questions seemed pulled from the clouds. However, this didn’t feel like one of those times.

The way Gihun’s shoulders hunched forward and his hands clutching Yumin spoke volumes. His body language wasn’t casual musing. It was defensive and haunted.

“I think…” Inho began carefully. “I’d want to know why. What pushed me to that point. If I had done terrible things…” His brows furrowed as he considered it. “I’d want to make it right. I can’t erase what’s been done, but I can… stop it from happening again. I want to choose differently moving forward.”

Gihun’s expression didn’t shift, but Inho noticed the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes blinked for a second too long, as if warding off something welling inside.

Inho tilted his head slightly, voice gentler now.

“Why do you ask?”

Gihun finally looked at him then, and the look in his eyes made Inho’s chest constrict. They were searching, almost pleading, like he desperately wanted Inho’s answer to be true not for some abstract situation, but for himself.

“…No reason.” Gihun muttered, his voice so low it almost disappeared beneath the sound of the TV.

Inho wasn’t convinced though. He leaned slightly forward, his brows knitting as he searched Gihun’s face, looking for a crack in that carefully guarded expression.

“Gihun,” he said softly. “I can’t force you to tell me anything, but just know that I care about you, okay? You don’t have to carry it alone.”

The words left his mouth with more urgency than he intended, but he didn’t regret them. He meant every single one.

In over a decade of knowing Seong Gihun, Inho had learned that the man’s heart was his compass. When he loved, it was boundless. When he laughed, it filled the room and pulled everyone into its orbit. And when he hurt… he hurt hard, down to the marrow, as though every burden carved itself into his very bones.

Inho didn’t know what shadows clung to Gihun now, what secrets or burden weighed him down. But what he did know and couldn’t bear was to watch Gihun shoulder it in silence.

The push and pull inside him was unbearable. Part of him wanted to reach across the shrinking distance, to cup Gihun’s cheek in his palm and whisper against his skin that it was all right, they could weather it together. The other part reminded him of the chasm that still remained between them.

And so he stayed still, his fingers curling against his knees, trembling with restraint.

 After finishing her bottle, Yumin stirred in Gihun’s arms. At first, it was a restless squirm, then came the high-pitched and unrelenting wail.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Yumin-ah…” Gihun adjusted his hold, bouncing her gently.

His voice softened into nonsense syllables, but the baby only cried harder, her face scrunching red. Inho felt the panic crawl into his chest. He leaned over quickly, his hand resting lightly against Yumin’s small stomach, his voice pitched lower, calm and steady.

“It’s alright… nothing’s wrong. You’re safe.”

His palm patted in soothing motions, the way he remembered with Junho when he was a baby. Yumin’s cries only grew louder, the sharp little sobs rattling her chest.

Gihun stood up. He tried rocking, pacing the length of the living room, even humming under his breath. But the cries only grew louder.

Inho lingered for a moment, watching. He could see the strain in Gihun’s body, the faint frustration edging against the tenderness of his expression. Stepping forward, he held his arms out.

“Let me.”

Gihun hesitated, his lips pressed thin, before slowly offering the baby over. Their hands brushed during the transfer, warmth sparking like a jolt up Inho’s arm. Then Yumin was in his arms, still sobbing.

Inho adjusted his grip carefully, tucking her close. His heart hammered not only from the fragile weight of the infant but also the awareness of Gihun’s eyes on him.

So, he did the first thing that came to him. He hummed.

“Fly me to the moon…” The words left him in a low murmur, cracked around the edges. “…and let me play among the stars…”

It had been years since Inho last sang this song. Those late nights at the hospital, gripping his wife’s hand as she laid in that sterile hospital bed, clinging to the comfort of a melody when life felt too sharp. It wasn’t pretty, as Inho never had a gift for singing, but this song lived deep in his marrow.

As if sensing the tenderness beneath the uneven notes, Yumin hiccupped, her cries softening. Her fists unfurled, her body relaxing little by little against Inho’s chest. Encouraged, he kept going, his voice trembling but steady enough to where her lashes fluttered sleepily. She gave out a yawn, before slowly settling in Inho's arms as he reached the end of the song.

“In other words…”

The words caught in his throat. His chest tightened as if the air itself had thickened, making it harder to breathe. For a heartbeat, he nearly stopped. However, Yumin shifted in his arms, her small body twitching as if sensing the absence. And Inho, against the weight pressing down on him, forced the words out.

“… I love you.”

It was fragile, almost broken, nothing more than a trembling whisper. And the instant it left him; his mind betrayed him. He didn’t see the baby in his arms anymore. He saw the warm depth of Gihun’s brown eyes, the crow’s feet that deepened when he smiled, and the quiet radiance he carried even when he didn’t realize it.

The words lingered, meant for someone who wouldn’t hear them the way Inho longed for.

That felt like the cruelest part. Because he knew it wasn’t just a lullaby. It was his truth, the quiet confession he had carried for years, gnawing at him from the inside. He had been ready to tell Gihun the night he gave him the plane ticket. But everything had gone up in flames when Gihun turned sour, rejected the gesture, and stormed away in frustration.

The day before that, Inho had gone with foolish courage, to seek Malsoon’s blessing. She’d welcome him inside without hesitation, ushering him into the small but tidy living room. He’d folded his legs neatly under him, palms sweating as he tried to rehearse words that suddenly felt childish.

“What brings you here, Inho-ya?” She had asked curiously.

His throat had dried, but he forced the words out, bowing his head slightly, “I… I came to ask for your blessing.”

Her brows had furrowed, though her smile never faltered, “Blessing? For what?”

He had clenched his fists against his knees. “To date Gihun-ssi.” His voice cracked, and he rushed to add. “I know it’s… unconventional. We are both men. And I am widowed. If that is a problem, I understand.”

A heavy and suffocating silence stretched, and Inho’s heart had plummeted, certain of rejection.

“Being widowed and wanting to be with a man, neither is a shameful thing, Inho-ya. But…” She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “My Gihun-ie. Are you truly ready for what comes with him? He is divorced. He has a daughter. You know how messy his life is, and he himself can be a handful.”

“That’s okay.” Inho blurted out, too quick and eager.

“Is it?” She asked, leaning back slightly, studying him. “Because it’s not just about taking Gihun. You take his shadows too. His debts. His recklessness. He isn’t… easy.”

Inho swallowed, his pulse loud in his ears. “I know. He gambles until he regrets it, drinks until he almost passes out, and he talks way too much without thinking. But…” He faltered, then forced himself to meet her eyes, because he owed her that much.

“When he laughs, it feels like the world softens. When he talks about his daughter, he lights up. And when he’s hurting—” His voice caught, and he drew in a breath, softer now. “I want to be the one who stands beside him. Even if he pushes me away. Even if he never asks. I… I can’t not.”

For a long moment, Malsoon was quiet. The clock ticked faintly in the background, and outside, a bird chirped once before flying away. Then she smiled gently.

“You sound like a man already halfway in love with him.”

Inho’s ears burned. He ducked his head, as if bowing could hide it. “More than halfway,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

Malsoon let out a small laugh, rich with warmth and resignation. “Ah, my poor son. He is lucky then, though he doesn’t know it.” She reached out, laying a hand over his. “If this is the life you want, and he accepts it, then you have my blessing. But remember, love isn’t just about smiles and laughter. It’s about staying when the nights are long, and the burdens grow heavier than joy. Can you promise me you’ll do that for him?”

Inho didn’t hesitate. His chest tightened with the weight of the vow, but his answer was firm. “I promise.”

And he meant it with everything he had.

When he saw Gihun again in the restaurant that day, he wasn’t the same man anymore. There was a strangeness to him, a distance that felt like looking at someone he had known all his life but through a fractured mirror.

Even then, Inho loved him. Still. Always.

“You’re crying.”

Inho blinked, disoriented, and reached up with one hand. His fingertips brushed wetness beneath his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t much, just a few quiet tears that had slipped out, probably from the memories. Or maybe the exhaustion.

Quickly, he wiped them away with the back of his hand and cleared his throat.

“Dust got in my eyes.” He muttered.

Gihun gave him a sideways look, skepticism flickering but he didn’t push. Instead, he exhaled softly and said that he’ll make dinner. As he went toward the kitchen, Inho moved toward the bassinet in the corner of the living room, setting Yumin down carefully and tucking her in.

“I’ll help.”

The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two grown men to stand side by side. But Gihun moved easily, opening the fridge and pulling out eggs, a few vegetables, and some pork belly from the freezer.

“Something simple.” He murmured to himself.

Meanwhile, Inho hovered a moment, then decided on a task, “I’ll wash the vegetables.”

He reached for the basket of spinach, rinsing them under the faucet. The cool spray of water splashed his hands, but it wasn’t the task keeping him distracted. It was Gihun.

Every time he turned his head, he caught Gihun’s profile. The way his brow furrowed in concentration while chopping scallions and his lips tugged into the faintest smile when he realized he wasn’t entirely hopeless at cooking.

Inho pretended to focus on rinsing spinach or peeling garlic, though his attention was entirely elsewhere.

At one point, when he shifted to grab a cutting board, their shoulders brushed. Neither said anything, though he felt the contact burn through his sleeve. Later, when Gihun reached for the salt, their arms bumped again. The kitchen was too small and too close, and Inho couldn’t decide if he wanted more space or less.

The domestic rhythm settled in the form of the hiss of oil in a pan, the bubbling pot of water on the counter, and the faint sound of cartoons from the living room. Yumin had been asleep in her crib, but it didn’t last long. A soft whimper grew into a fussing cry.

“I’ve got her.” Gihun said quickly, already wiping his hands on a towel as he left the stove.

Within moments he returned, cradling Yumin against his chest. She settled with a few hiccupped whines, her tiny fists curling into his shirt. Gihun stepped back into the kitchen, baby held in one arm, his free hand reaching to stir the pot.

But the counter was crowded, and when his hip brushed it, the pot of boiling water wobbled on its edge.

The world narrowed.

Inho saw the instant of panic in Gihun’s eyes as he frantically moved to shield the baby, curling himself around her. Inho lunged forward, grabbing Gihun by the shoulder and twisting them both out of the way.

The pot slipped and the hot water cascaded. Instead of hitting Gihun or the baby, it splashed across Inho’s forearm and wrist.

Inho hissed as his jaw clenched, the heat searing through skin. But he held on firmly, his other hand gripping Gihun’s shoulder until the danger passed.

The pot clattered harmlessly to the floor. Startled by the noise, Yumin began to cry again.

“Shit— Inho!” Gihun’s voice cracked with guilt, eyes widening as he looked between the baby and Inho’s arm.

Inho forced a breath through his nose, the pain radiating in waves up his arm, “Are you hurt? Is she?”

Gihun shook his head, his lips pressing tight. He looked down at Yumin, who was wailing into his shirt, then back up at Inho, “You shouldn’t have—”

“What? And let you get burned while holding her?” Inho cut him off, the adrenaline still screaming in his veins. “I’d take worse than that. For you. For her.”

Gihun froze, before quietly saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Inho immediately responded.

Gihun shut off the stove, clearing everything out of the way as he took Inho’s wrist in his other hand, bringing him to the living room. The burn on Inho’s arm suddenly felt like nothing compared to the heat of Gihun’s touch.

Then, Gihun set Yumin down before going to fumble in the cabinets. He returned with a first aid kit. Opening it, he rummaged inside, finding the burn packs. Tearing one open, he took Inho’s arm, carefully spreading the gel across. Inho sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the coolness against the throbbing skin.

“It looks pretty bad. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Gihun asked.

Inho shook his head, “It should be fine.”

Gihun didn’t look convinced. His brows furrowed as he worked silently, tearing open another gel pack with his teeth and smearing the cooling balm across Inho’s burn with painstaking care. Then he reached for the roll of bandages, winding it around Inho’s arm in steady circles, careful to leave space so the skin could breathe.

Inho’s eyes lingered on him, watching the concentration etched into every line of his face. For a fleeting second, a dangerous thought flickered through his mind: if getting hurt meant being cared for like this, maybe a little pain wasn’t such a bad trade. But he crushed it as quickly as it came. He didn’t want this kind of attention at the cost of seeing Gihun so distressed.

When Gihun finally tied off the bandage, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers stayed against Inho’s wrist. His voice was rough when he spoke.

“This is my fault.”

Inho tilted his head, “It isn’t.”

“If I hadn’t— if I’d paid attention—” Gihun’s words stumbled over themselves, the frustration building.

Inho exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Gihun.” He waited until those restless eyes reluctantly met his own. “I don’t regret stepping in. Not for a second. You had Yumin in your arms. Protecting her was the only thing that mattered.”

Still, Gihun’s expression twisted, guilt digging its claws in. His grip on Inho’s wrist tightened again before finally loosening, as if he realized he was holding too hard. Inho saw the spiral forming, the way Gihun’s chest rose faster, and he decided not to let this moment end in guilt. He let a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

“If you really feel that bad about it,” he said lightly, leaning back against the couch. “Then you can make it up to me.”

Gihun blinked, “Make it up to you?”

“Mm.” Inho nodded. “Come fishing with me tomorrow. Just the two of us.”

For a moment, Gihun only stared at him, as if trying to decide whether Inho was serious. Inho kept his gaze steady, hiding his own nerves beneath a calm mask.

Finally, Gihun huffed out a disbelieving breath, “You’re odd.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Inho said, smirking faintly.

Gihun didn’t correct him. And that was all the answer Inho needed.

Chapter Text

Seong Gihun couldn’t sleep that night.

Even after the long day, his body dragging with exhaustion, his mind refused to quiet. After Inho’s arm had been bandaged, the rest of the evening passed in a blur of bottles, lullabies, and tiny fits of crying. By the time Junhee returned, Gihun had collapsed on the couch without meaning to. When he stirred awake, he found a blanket neatly tucked at his shoulders. His gaze had drifted to Inho across the room, sitting on the rug, bouncing Yumin on his knee. Gihun didn’t ask, a small certainty told him the blanket had been Inho’s doing.

He managed to catch the last bus home, his muscles ached from holding and rocking a baby half the afternoon, and his mind spun with thoughts that refused to let him rest. The city outside blurred, but his focus wasn’t on that. Instead, it was on Inho’s words.

“I’d want to know why. What pushed me to that point. If I had done terrible things… I’d want to make it right. I can’t erase what’s been done, but I can… stop it from happening again. I want to choose differently moving forward.”

Those words had lodged in him like a splinter, persistent and irritating, exceptionally impossible to ignore.

Gihun dragged his nails along his forearm until the skin stung, trying to chase the thoughts away with pain. But it didn’t work. Because when he remembered Inho saying it, he also remembered the man’s face. A heavy somberness that spoke of carefulness and resolve at once. He wanted to hate Inho and convince himself that Inho’s sins were unforgivable and that they outweighed any good. But then there was the other fact, one he didn’t want to hold onto but couldn’t shake free of: without Inho, his mother would be dead. He would’ve never seen her smile again, never heard her nagging voice or felt her hand clasp over his.

Such was the truth, albeit an uncomfortable one.

And over that truth, another voice pressed in.

“Is it just to punish this man for sins he never committed? Or has your grief woven such a veil over your eyes that you cannot see people anymore, only the shadows of your sorrow?”

Now, Gihun laid in bed, staring up at the faint cracks in the ceiling before finally turning onto his side, facing the wall. The shadows there seemed deeper than usual, pressing close. He shut his eyes tightly, but the question remained.

The answer was that he didn’t know. He didn’t know if his anger was truly righteous, or if he had been living inside his grief for so long that he no longer recognized who he was anymore.

Gihun wasn’t sure when sleep finally claimed him, only that when it did, it dragged him somewhere both alien and strangely familiar.

Gihun found himself standing on a quiet street, the morning air crisp against his skin.

In front of him stood Purrfect Brews, but it wasn’t the cozy, lived-in café he knew. The paint on the sign was fresh and unchipped. The windows gleamed, and inside, there were no cats curled on the shelves, no traces of time and memory etched into the place.

A banner stretched across the awning: “Purrfect Brews Grand Opening.”

Something about it made his chest twist. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t now.

“Gihun.”

The sound of his name made him whip around. His breath caught.

Inho stood a few paces away, dressed simply in a pale turtleneck tucked under a light coat that moved gently with the breeze. The clothes weren’t anything extravagant, but the way Inho carried himself made them look almost elegant. His expression, however, was what struck Gihun most. There was warmth, a softness that felt almost like… love.

Gihun’s throat went dry, and he had to swallow against the sudden tightness there. His palms felt clammy. He wanted to ask what this is, but the words wouldn’t come.

Inho stepped closer. When he stopped in front of Gihun, he held something out. A bouquet of white lilies and pink dahlias arranged so carefully. The scent reached Gihun first: fresh, delicate, almost intoxicating. He stared at the flowers, then up at Inho, then back at the bouquet again. His heart hammered so violently in his chest he worried the sound might give him away.

“What…” His voice cracked, thin and uncertain. “What is this?”

But Inho didn’t answer right away. He only tilted his head, that almost-loving expression never leaving his face, as though he were waiting for Gihun to take the bouquet. Hesitation locked Gihun in place, but finally, as if drawn by something beyond his control, he reached out.

The cool stems pressed into his palms, the white lilies brushing against his knuckles, the pink dahlias startling in their brightness. The bouquet felt real. Too real.

Then came the voices.

“Take a picture together!”

“Yeah, come on! Stand closer. Strike a pose!”

Gihun’s breath caught. His entire body stiffened, nerves screaming under his skin. But Inho moved first, closing the distance between them. His arm brushed against Gihun’s, and then slid deliberately across his lower back, his palm firm against the small of it. The contact sent a jolt through Gihun’s spine.

Inho tilted his head toward him, lips curving into a gentle smile. Gihun tried to mirror it, but the corners of his mouth faltered into something awkward.

The shutter clicked.

A sudden burst of light seared his vision.

And when Gihun opened his eyes again, everything had changed.

He was running. His lungs burned, his feet pounded against the pavement, the sky above dark and choked with mist. The streets were empty except for the echo of his own breath. He could feel the weight of his phone in his pocket, vibrating again and again.

Gihun tried to reach for it, but his arm refused to obey. His body wasn’t his own.

Panic coiled inside him.

Was this… this universe’s Gihun’s memories?

His pace slowed into a reluctant walk. His foot nudged a pebble, sending it clattering across the street. Without his permission, his hand slipped into his pocket and pulled the phone free. The screen glared in the misty dark:

November 5th, 2024. 10 missed calls: Inho.

“Stupid Inho,” he heard his own voice mutter, rough with frustration but undercut with something softer. “Always doing stuff for me when I didn’t ask. Did he ever think about how I might feel?”

The words weren’t his. And yet they were.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and looked up at the lamppost overhead. The cold glow spilled down on him, pale and unyielding. His chest tightened not with the gnawing guilt he was used to carrying, but with something lighter and sharper. Like a knot of butterflies breaking loose inside him.

The pedestrian light flicked green. His legs carried him forward into the crosswalk. He tugged his phone out again. Dozens of unread messages blinked on the screen, all from Inho. Apologies. Concerns. Pleas.

And with them, emotions surged. A stubbornness that refused to relent. But also, endearment. Something quieter, deeper. He was still mad at Inho, but underneath, buried where it hurt most, he cared.

Maybe care was too small a word.

It swelled against his ribs, making his chest ache in a way anger never could. It was affection threaded with longing. He could almost feel it in his skin, that pull, that yearning.

It struck him like an unbidden and merciless lightning. Then came the heavy rush of breathless warmth, the flutter in his stomach that left him dizzy. His heart pounded from something dangerously close to affection.

With it, he heard his own thoughts whisper a single word.

Inho.

The sound of it reverberated through him, and the dream shattered into blinding light.

Gihun jolted awake with a gasp, his fingers clutching the sheets so tightly they bunched beneath his fists. His chest heaved, lungs strained. The dream clung to him, refusing to fade. It receded only slightly, ebbing away like the tide, but the fragments still pulsed behind his eyes. The bouquet of lilies and dahlias, the feeling of the phone vibrating in his pocket and that flood of emotions, along with the sound of his own voice whispering Inho.

Was it a dream… or a memory?

He couldn’t tell. And that terrified him. He rubbed his hands along his arms, though the tremor in his chest remained. He had experienced dreams and nightmares before, plenty of them, but this was different.

What rattled him wasn’t fear, but feelings. The emotions he carried inside that dream weren’t the ones he was used to.

They were lighter. Sharper. Exhilarating.

The way his chest had fluttered reading through those desperate texts, as if each word had tethered him to something precious. The way his heart had pounded from something warm and unsteady when Inho had stepped close in front of the café, his palm pressing gently to his back.

It wasn’t grief. Nor was it guilt.

It was something else. The last time Gihun felt like that was decades ago, back when he first met Eunji in his own universe.

Gihun dragged a palm across his forehead, his skin was damp with sweat. His other hand pressed hard against his chest, as though he could steady the uneven thrum of his heartbeat.

Was this version of him… in love with Hwang Inho?

The silence of the room answered him, along with the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen filtered faintly through the walls.

Gihun’s stomach lurched. “No. No way…” he muttered, as if he could physically dislodge the thought. But his body disagreed. The goosebumps prickling along his arms betrayed him, as did the racing pulse in his veins.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, needing proof to dispel the thought clawing at him. The screen flared to life, blinding in the dark, and his thumb swiped instinctively to the photo album.

There they were.

Photo after photo of himself and Inho. Sometimes smiling, sometimes serious. Inho’s hand brushing against his shoulder in one. The two of them, standing close, heads tilted toward each other as though sharing some private joke.

There was no mistaking it.

It wasn’t the stiff politeness of acquaintances, nor the casual distance of old friends. There was something else captured in those images, an intimacy woven between them. Gihun’s throat went dry. He scrolled slower now, his pulse loud in his ears, each photo tightening the knot in his chest.

If this wasn’t love… then what was it?

He scrolled back up through the photos, then down again, as if repetition could dull the sharpness of what he was seeing. But it didn’t.

The intimacy was there, glaring back at him in every frame.

His fingers moved before he could stop them, opening his contacts. He scrolled down, heart thudding, until the familiar name stared back at him. Hwang Inho.

He hesitated. The rational part of him screamed to throw the phone aside and forget this. But beneath that was a quiet voice, insistent and dangerous: You need to know. The butterflies in his chest, the ache in his throat, and the warmth that clung to his skin… they had to be remnants of another version of himself.

So, his thumb pressed down.

The line rang once when the other end clicked.

“…Gihun?” Inho’s voice was low, groggy, roughened by sleep. But even like that, hearing it hit Gihun like a punch to the chest.

He couldn’t speak at first. His throat closed, and all he could do was clutch the phone tighter, pressing it against his ear.

“…It’s late,” Inho murmured, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

Gihun swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. “Nothing. I just…” He trailed off, fumbling for words. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, Inho exhaled softly, “You want me to stay on the line until you can?”

The offer was so casual and simple, but Gihun felt his chest constrict. Right, he had called to prove those feelings weren’t real, and that they belonged to someone else.

“…Yeah. If that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

The rustle of sheets came through the speaker, followed by Inho’s breathing evening out, slow and steady. The sound filled the empty room, chasing away the ghosts of his dreams. Or memory.

It’s just a test. Gihun told himself as he lay back down. He didn’t say another word. Neither did Inho.

And as exhaustion pulled at him, Gihun’s eyes drifted shut, lulled into sleep by nothing more than the sound of Hwang Inho breathing at the other end of the line.

The morning came gray and cool, a faint mist still clinging to the windows when Gihun dragged himself out of bed.

His body moved on autopilot for his morning routine, tugging on a casual outfit for the fishing trip with Inho. It consisted of a red scarf, a hoodie under a light jacket, comfortable pants, and sneakers. Nothing special, but enough to keep the chill of the sea air away.

Yet, as he adjusted the hem of his sleeve, his eyes drifted toward his phone lying next to the pillow. Last night came back to him in pieces: the dream, the blur of lights, and then… Inho.

He remembered how he’d fallen asleep with the phone pressed against his ear. At some point, the call had disconnected. But when he checked the record earlier, the call had lasted hours. Long enough that Inho must’ve stayed there even after Gihun had drifted off.

Slowly, he picked up the phone and unlocked it. For weeks, he’d avoided this. He didn’t want to scroll through his own past with Inho nor open old wounds or stir ghosts he wasn’t ready to face. But curiosity, sharpened by that dream, finally overcame the hesitation.

He tapped into their chat thread.

At first, there was nothing special, only simple updates and casual exchanges. But as he scrolled up, his breath began to shorten.

There it was. The messages. November 5th.

His fingers froze on the screen. One by one, the words matched perfectly with what he’d seen in the dream. The missed calls. The pleading texts in apologies and concern. The stubborn back-and-forth. Every line was exactly as he remembered it.

A chill rippled through him.

So, it wasn’t just a dream.

By the time he locked his door and started down the stairs, his head was buzzing, trying to fit pieces of a puzzle that refused to align. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. Memory or dream, it was all tangled together. One fact remained though: it was him in this body now. Those fragments, whatever they were, were his to bear.

Irritation prickled at the back of his neck, but not toward Inho in the way it once had. That blind, consuming hatred he’d clung to like armor had… cracked. He thought back to yesterday, where Inho was fussing over him and Yumin, the concern when he had shielded both of them from the boiling water, even to the stupid way he fumbled with baby formula. Nothing in Inho’s actions had shown malice. Nothing suggested cruelty.

If anything, it was the opposite.

The docks were quiet when Gihun arrived, the water rippling softly under the morning light. He spotted Inho standing near the pier, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

The first thing he noticed as he approached was the way Inho’s eyes flicked down briefly. Whether they lingered on Gihun’s lips or the scarf wrapped around his neck, he couldn’t tell. But they came back up quickly.

Gihun found himself watching Inho more carefully than usual, searching for an answer written in the subtle lines of his face. Yet Inho’s expression gave nothing away. Instead, he simply nodded and turned, leading the way toward the far end of the dock.

Meanwhile, Gihun followed a step behind, his thoughts circling back to the dream, and the unsettling flutter it had left in his chest. He needed to know if that feeling belonged to him, or to the version of himself who had walked this life before. He needed to know he still had control.

So, he tested it.

Without thinking too hard, he reached out and brushed his fingers against Inho’s sleeve before curling them gently into the fabric.

The effect was immediate. Inho stiffened, then slowly, he relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. Gihun’s hand twitched, ready to pull back. He’d confirmed what he needed, there was no flutter, no sudden rush in his chest.

Before he could let go, Inho’s hand closed around his wrist. He didn’t stop walking, nor glance back, but the grip remained, steady and warm, as though he wasn’t willing to let Gihun go.

With his breath catching, Gihun’s eyes traced the sharp line of Inho’s jaw to the barest trace of color on his skin. A blush? No, Gihun reasoned, it was just the cold as evident from the wind cutting across the water.

The wood of the dock creaked beneath their steps, the quiet rhythm of water lapping against the posts. Gihun stared at the back of Inho’s coat, the way it shifted with each step, and forced himself to breathe.

He’s lived a different life. Made different choices. His mother had said.

It was hard. Every time he looked at Inho, the ghosts threatened to surface. The betrayal, the loss, and the what ifs. However, the past few days have softened the rigid edges of the walls he had built up. If this man wasn’t that Inho… then perhaps he deserved to be seen for who he was, not who Gihun remembered.

When Inho released his wrist at the edge of the dock to busy himself with the tackle box, Gihun cleared his throat.

“Um…” His voice cracked awkwardly. “I’m sorry for punching you. A few weeks ago. After I got out of the hospital.”

Inho’s hands paused mid-motion. He looked up, brows lifted. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved slightly.

“And…?”

“And what?” Gihun blinked, then grimaced as memory slammed back. “Okay. And maybe for the paintball thing, too.”

“Maybe?” Inho’s tone was dry, amused.

Heat flared in Gihun’s cheeks. He narrowed his eyes at him, the apology turning sour on his tongue. Why did I even bother? He crossed his arms in defense, twisting his mouth into a scowl. “Forget it. Screw you.”

A low laugh escaped Inho’s lips. He shook his head, returning his attention to the tackle box.

“I’m kidding. I never took it personally,” he said, voice quieter now. “You seemed to be dealing with a lot of things. I… understood.”

The words landed heavier than Gihun expected. He blinked, throat working, then turned his gaze toward the water. The horizon stretched endless and blue, but all he could hear was the quiet sincerity that lingered in Inho’s voice.

The small motor sputtered to life, and the boat rocked gently as it cut away from the dock. Gihun gripped the edge of the hull, the salt-tanged wind whipping against his scarf as the expanse of water stretched out before them. Inho stood at the stern, steady as if the sway of the waves was second nature to him.

“You always come out here?” Gihun asked at last, raising his voice over the engine’s buzz.

Inho glanced back at him, “Whenever I can. I’ve got a fishing group. We come out most weekends. Sometimes just off the dock, sometimes out here.” His gaze flicked toward the water. “It’s peaceful. No noise except the sea.”

Gihun made a small sound of acknowledgment, though he wasn’t sure if Inho heard it. Peaceful. That wasn’t a word he’d ever thought to use about the ocean. Restless, maybe, definitely vast and untamable. With Inho guiding the boat through the glittering surface, he supposed he could see it.

When they finally slowed, the engine coughed to silence as the boat bobbed with the current. Inho straightened, rolling his shoulders before crouching by the tackle box. He moved through the motions, unspooling the line, tying knots with quick fingers.

“Here.” He handed Gihun a rod, the reel already set. “Basics first.”

Gihun accepted it awkwardly, gripping the handle too tightly.

“Relax your shoulders,” Inho said, stepping closer. He reached around, nudging Gihun’s elbow down with the gentlest touch. “Don’t strangle the rod. It won’t fight you until there’s something on the other end.”

“Easy for you to say,” Gihun muttered, trying to adjust but feeling clumsy under Inho’s watchful eye.

A hint of amusement colored Inho’s hum. He hooked the bait with deft precision, then demonstrated the cast, the line arcing smoothly before landing with a soft splash. “Like that. You’ll get the feel for it.”

Gihun mimicked the motion. It was less graceful, his line splattering too close to the boat. He scowled.

“Not bad for a first try,” Inho said, lips quirking. “Better than Junho, anyway. He almost smacked me in the face the first time he cast.”

Gihun glanced at him, then let out a small laugh he didn’t expect. Inho’s eyes widened a fraction, surprise flickering across his face before a faint smile curved at his mouth. Gihun reeled himself back in quickly, smothering the laugh into a cough as his gaze darted to the bobber floating on the waves. His fingers tightened around the rod, though his mind drifted elsewhere.

He didn’t know if this version of himself had ever come out on the ocean like this. But in his world, he remembered another time with sharp clarity.

Gayeong had been only three, maybe four, when he first took her fishing. Not to the wide, unpredictable sea, but a quiet lake on the outskirts of the city. He could still see the way her tiny hands clapped when the line tugged, her eyes bright at the sight of a glimmering silver fish wriggling at the end of his rod. It was pure luck, but in her eyes, it had been magic.

“Appa caught it!” She had squealed, voice high and bubbling with laughter.

His daughter’s laugh had wrapped around his chest like sunlight, and from that day forward, he studied fishing as if his life depended on it. It wasn’t for sport, but to see that radiant smile again. He remembered the way she looked at him in that moment: not as a failure but as her hero.

They never really got to fish again after that. Eunji had cut him down before he could, her voice sharp with exhaustion. We’re barely scraping by, and you want to waste time with pointless hobbies? Do you think smiles will put food on the table, Gihun? Find another job. Do something useful for your family.

The memory stung, though he couldn’t deny it had truth buried in it. Somewhere along the way, the line between trying and failing blurred into giving up. He didn’t recall when the gambling started, only that it had crawled into the cracks left behind by his inadequacies.

Now, he stood at the edge of a small fishing boat, the wind tugging through his hair, and all he could do was wonder: had anything he’d ever done been good? Were there moments where he’d brought joy, or had those been exceptions, rare and fleeting?

His thoughts spiraled dark and familiar, a current he’d been swept into many times before, until the line jerked. The rod bent against the pull of something beneath the surface, and the spiraling thoughts scattered, replaced by a rush of focus.

“Shit—!” Gihun dug his heels into the deck, his grip slipping. His arms trembled, muscles straining against the pull of whatever monster was thrashing beneath the surface.

Then suddenly, warm hands closed over his.

“Don’t fight it,” Inho’s voice cut through the rush of panic, low but steady. “Relax, ease into it.” 

His chest brushed against Gihun’s shoulder as he stepped in close, practically molding himself along Gihun’s back to guide the motion. Their hands overlapped, Inho’s firm and sure around his own, steering the rod with patience.

Gihun’s heart lurched from the proximity. The scent of salt clung to Inho’s coat, his breath warm against the edge of Gihun’s ear. Every shift, tug, and word of instruction seemed to vibrate directly through him.

“Now pull, then let the line go slack, not too much. Good. Just like that.”

Together, they worked the reel, the fish thrashing in protest. Finally, with one last coordinated pull, the silver body broke the surface, gleaming in the sun like liquid metal. It slapped against the side of the boat, water spraying across both of them.

Gihun blinked, stunned. The thing was huge.

Before he could find words, Inho had already sprung into motion, securing the catch with the net. His eyes lit up, and suddenly he was talking fast, his composure forgotten in favor of unfiltered excitement.

“This— this is incredible, Gihun! Do you see the size of it? Must be at least four kilos, maybe more. Look at the coloring, see how bright that silver is? It’s a healthy one, strong fighter. For your first catch out here this is rare, you know? Some people come out ten times before they get one like this. The tide, the season, it all lined up perfectly. And you actually reeled this in.”

He kept going, hands moving animatedly as he rattled off facts about the species, the currents, the perfect conditions. His lips curved in a genuine smile, softening the sharp lines of his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Oh my god. He won't shut up about the fish, Gihun thought, dumbfounded. He should’ve focused on the damn fish still flopping against the deck, but he couldn’t. Not when Inho looked so different and alive.

“It’s just a fish.” Gihun muttered under his breath, as if that would somehow slow the flood of words pouring out of the other man.

Inho ignored the dismissal entirely. His hands landed firmly on Gihun’s shoulders, steady and warm, and when Gihun glanced up, he was startled by the sparkle in Inho’s eyes.

“It’s not just any fish, hyung. For your first catch? This is amazing. You know my fishing buddies would kill for a reel like this? Junho didn’t land one this big until his third— no, fourth trip out here.”

Gihun’s mouth parted, but no words came. He had no defense against that kind of enthusiasm, so pure and unchecked it knocked the air out of him. He had never seen Inho like this before, not even in the Games. His voice carried the same tone Gihun used to hear in Gayeong’s laugh, the sound of someone unashamed to be happy.

Finally, Inho seemed to catch himself, clearing his throat and composing his expression. He scooped up the fish and handed it to Gihun with surprising gentleness.

“Here,” he said. “You should get a picture with it.”

Gihun blinked, “A picture?”

“Yeah,” Inho insisted, already taking his phone out of his coat pocket. “You earned it. First catch deserves proof.”

Gihun hesitated, then held up the fish with both hands. It was heavier than he expected, the scales slick and glistening in the sunlight. He tried to muster a grin, but it came out crooked and awkward.

“Perfect.” Inho said anyway, raising the phone. The shutter clicked, once, then twice.

By the time the sun had climbed higher into the sky, they had caught a total of three fish: the first Gihun had managed, and two more Inho had pulled in effortlessly.

As Inho tucked them carefully into the fish box, Gihun sank onto one of the benches. He angled his body out toward the sea, arm resting lazily along the edge. The breeze ruffled his hair, carrying with it the scent of salt. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply watch the water.

Soon, Inho joined him on the bench. He sat a little closer than necessary, and Gihun could feel the warmth radiating from him. His eyes lingered on Gihun’s side profile, before sliding to the vast ocean.

It was Gihun who broke the silence first.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving the water. “For protecting Yumin… and me. Yesterday.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle shift of Inho turning toward him.

“Of course,” Inho said without hesitation. “I meant what I said, I’d take worse than that for you two.”

The words should’ve brought back the fire of anger or the suffocating grief that always gnawed at him whenever he thought of Inho. But strangely, they didn’t. His body wasn’t tense; his chest didn’t tighten in that familiar, hostile way. Instead, his mind was acutely aware of Inho’s nearness, of the quiet sincerity in his tone.

Ever since his mother’s words, something had been loosening inside him. Like a rope he had clutched for so long was finally slipping, strand by stubborn strand, no matter how much he tried to hold on.

“I…” The words came before he could stop them. His eyes lifted, tracing the vast dome of the bright blue sky, the shimmer of sunlight across the waves, the abyss of deep blue beneath. “I used to dream of a world like this. Where everyone was okay, and no matter how hard things were… everyone still had each other.”

He knew he sounded strange, maybe even nonsensical, speaking to someone who couldn’t possibly understand what he meant. Inho didn’t know about the other world drenched in blood, despair, and the endless games that had defined so much of Gihun’s pain.

“Somewhere along the way…” Gihun’s voice broke softer now, his gaze dropping to his hands. They gripped the edge of the boat so tightly his knuckles whitened. “…I lost myself.”

Silence hung between them, carried only by the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves. Then, Inho’s voice cut gently into it.

“No matter how many times you’ve fallen,” he spoke steadily. “You’ve always gotten back up, Gihun. Whatever happened in the past… it’s never too late to build something new.”

Gihun blinked, turning his head, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Inho’s gaze was wide, glassy, and impossibly earnest, like dark marbles glistening with unshed emotion. It was too raw, and Gihun looked away first, the heat creeping into his throat.

A few seconds later, that was when he felt it. Something warm overlapping his hand. He startled, jerking slightly as his eyes snapped down to find Inho’s hand covering his own.

“Sorry, I—” Inho pulled back immediately, guilt flashing across his face. He sighed softly, his shoulders lowering as though a weight pressed on them. Then, in a voice stripped bare of its usual composure, he asked:

“Can I… just hold your hand… like it’s the first time?”

Gihun froze. The vulnerability in Inho’s tone unsettled him in the form of the slight tremor and unspoken fear of rejection. In truth, Gihun wanted to refuse. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have mended what had broken between them. But here, in this world, things were different. And the feelings he had glimpsed in that memory-like dream, the flutter of affection, the aching tenderness… those were undeniable.

Besides, Inho couldn’t know. He didn’t know that the man sitting beside him wasn’t quite the Gihun he had once loved.

Maybe the least Gihun could do for this universe’s version of himself was to let Inho feel that the fondness hadn’t been lost. That somewhere, in some way, this Gihun had cared for him.

“…Okay.” The word came out soft and almost reluctant. Gihun didn’t move, keeping his gaze on the endless sea.

Then, slowly, Inho’s hand began to move.

At first, it was just the barest brush of skin, his fingers ghosting over the back of Gihun’s hand, like he was testing whether the permission given had been real. The touch lingered there tentatively, waiting for rejection. When none came, Inho’s fingers slid more firmly across, curling inward with quiet determination.

One by one, his fingers threaded through Gihun’s own. The space between them closed, filled with warmth. His grip was careful but steady. Inho’s thumb began to move in small, rhythmic circles along Gihun’s skin, like he needed the reassurance that this was real and he was allowed this closeness.

Gihun’s entire body went stiff. His heart hammered so violently he swore the sound carried over the water. He didn’t dare to look down or at Inho. If he did, he was afraid he might see something in his eyes that would undo him. So, he fixed his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight, letting the horizon bear the weight of his struggle.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

And so, they sat like that, side by side, the sea stretching endlessly before them. Two men bound by a single, fragile link of fingers laced together.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun had climbed higher, bathing the ocean in molten light, they had agreed it was time to head back. The small boat cut across the waves with a low hum, leaving a trail of white froth in its wake.

Gihun sat slouched on the bench, his arm draped along the edge of the boat. The sea breeze tangled through his hair, sharp with salt, yet his thoughts were louder than the wind. He found his gaze drifting, again and again, toward Inho at the wheel.

The man stood with an easy posture while focused on steering, though strands of hair occasionally blew into his eyes. Every so often, he’d brush them aside with a flick of his fingers, a movement so ordinary yet strangely human.

Gihun caught himself rubbing absently at his fingers, the place where Inho’s had threaded through his earlier. The phantom warmth made him tense. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until the motion startled him back into awareness. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket, as if to bury the memory along with it.

“Cold?” Inho’s voice carried over the motor. He turned his head slightly, enough that Gihun could catch the curious glint in his eyes.

“Not really,” Gihun muttered.

Inho didn’t press. He returned his gaze forward, hands steady. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t suffocating, only filled with what remained between them. After a long pause, Inho spoke again, quieter this time.

“You looked… peaceful out there. While we were fishing.”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard. He let out a short, humorless laugh, “Peaceful? That’s a first.”

“I meant it,” Inho said earnestly. He glanced over briefly, the corners of his mouth curving faintly. “You laughed. A real one. I haven’t seen that since… well. A long time.”

The words sank into Gihun. He looked away sharply, his jaw tightening, “…Don’t read too much into it. It was just the fish.”

“Maybe.” Inho’s smile lingered, soft but not teasing this time. “But it suits you. Laughing, I mean.”

Gihun’s throat tightened, and he huffed out a breath through his nose, pretending the sting in his chest was from the sea air, “You talk too much.”

“Only when I feel like someone needs to hear it.” Inho replied lightly.

The rest of the ride lapsed back into quiet. Gihun kept his eyes on the horizon, yet he was acutely aware of every glance Inho sent his way, every subtle shift of presence. He hated how much he noticed and hated even more that some part of him didn’t want to push it away.

The boat slowed as the docks drew near, the low rumble of the motor fading into a soft purr before cutting off entirely. The sudden quiet was filled by the cries of gulls circling overhead and the gentle lap of waves against wood.

Inho maneuvered them skillfully into place, tossing the rope over to secure the boat. Gihun rose from the bench, his legs a little stiff from sitting too long, his hand trailing along the boat’s side as though reluctant to step onto solid ground.

“Careful,” Inho said as he hopped down first, offering a steady hand without thinking.

Gihun hesitated, staring at the open palm between them. The warmth of their earlier handhold came rushing back, too vivid to ignore. His instinct screamed to ignore it and step down on his own, but his body betrayed him. His fingers brushed Inho’s as he accepted the help. The contact was brief, fleeting, yet it left him strangely unsettled.

Once they were on the dock, Gihun shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. “So. That’s it. Fishing trip over.”

Inho arched a brow, lips quirking, “Sound disappointed, hyung.”

“I’m not.” Gihun said too quickly. He forced his eyes toward the glittering water.

The silence that followed carried a new weight. It wasn’t sharp or suffocating, but delicate. Gihun’s eyes drifted to the weathered planks beneath his feet, then out to the expanse of sea shimmering beneath the sun.

Lately, Gihun’s thoughts had been chained to the other world. Its pain, betrayals, and the scars that refused to fade. However, on this dock, with the man who had once destroyed him in another life standing close enough to touch, those shadows felt just a little farther away, as ironic as it felt. For the span of a few quiet hours, he had let himself simply exist. No grief. No vengeance. Just the soft rhythm of waves and the unfamiliar steadiness of life.

“Come on,” Inho finally said, breaking the stillness. He nodded toward the path leading toward the parking lot. “I’ll drive you home.”

Gihun almost refused and told him he didn’t need his help. But the words caught on his tongue. Instead, he just gave a small shrug and fell into step beside him.

The ride back was quiet, carrying the hum of the engine and the soft jazz that bled faintly from the car speakers. The notes drifted like smoke, curling in the corners of Gihun’s mind as he leaned against the window.

His lids grew heavy, his blinks slower, his reflection ghosting faintly in the window. The sleepless night from yesterday started to catch up to him, tugging him down, until even the rhythmic sway of the car threatened to pull him under.

“It’ll be about an hour before we’re back at your place,” Inho said over the music. “Get some rest.”

Gihun turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Inho at the wheel. His hands rested steady at the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road.

Why is he so observant? Gihun wondered bitterly, his gaze sliding back to the blur of scenery outside. He told himself he was only closing his eyes to rest them, just for a moment, but the darkness was too inviting.

It wasn’t long before another face surfaced, unbidden. Youngil. The way his chestnut hair fell over his brows, those soft, glassy eyes looking up at him as if he were something worth believing in.

“I still trust you.” Youngil’s voice echoed.

The words cut sharper than they ever had before. Gihun’s breath hitched, and before he realized, a tear had slipped down his cheek, sliding silently into the collar of his coat. His eyes cracked open just slightly, unfocused on the smear of lights rushing past the window.

Why did you have to lie, Youngil? The thought burned as he bit down on his lower lip, pressing hard until the sting replaced the ache in his chest.

If Inho could exist like this here, why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you have been this version of yourself, the one who chose light instead of darkness, the one who didn’t betray?

Gihun shut his eyes again, tighter this time, as though it could keep the memories at bay. But the ache remained, threading itself through the sound of the jazz.

When Gihun woke up, it was to the gentle shaking of his shoulder. The light from the midday sun filtered through the window, but his mind was still foggy, slow to process where he was. Blinking rapidly, he noticed his apartment outside, and the figure leaning over him.

“We’re here.” Inho said softly.

Gihun rubbed the sleep from his eyes and muttered a quiet, “Thanks,” before swinging his legs over the side of the car seat. He moved to step out, feeling the pavement under his shoes.

“Wait,” Inho said. “Are you busy tonight?”

“No, why?” Gihun asked, raising an eyebrow as he turned, curiosity stirring despite the grogginess. He saw the faint flush in Inho’s cheeks as he avoided eye contact.

“Would you… maybe like to go out and get soju together?”

Gihun blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. His mind raced for a moment, sifting through obligations and the lingering fatigue.

Then, he managed to reply, “Uh… not tonight. I’m still tired from yesterday. Maybe next time.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s not a problem, next time then,” Inho said. He nodded once, glancing down at the car hood as if to avoid admitting the slight disappointment on his face. “Have a good rest of your day, Gihun.”

“You too.” Gihun said, offering a small, polite smile.  He turned toward the door of his apartment, quietly slipping inside.

As he made his way to his unit, he heard the sound of Inho’s car turning on, before hearing the engine disappearing into the distance.

Gihun managed maybe three hours of sleep in the form of a restless nap before his door swung open abruptly. The familiar, boisterous voice of Jungbae sliced through his room.

“Gihun! Let’s go out for drinks tonight! It’s on me!”

Gihun groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. With sluggish hands, he dragged the covers over his head, clinging to the last scraps of warmth and silence

“Ah, come on! Don’t be like that!” Jungbae called as he strode over.

Without hesitation, he seized the blanket and yanked it clean away. A cold draft cut through Gihun’s skin, and he instinctively curled inward, pulling his knees toward his chest as his body shivered in protest.

“Jungbae…” Gihun rasped into the pillow, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Don’t ‘Jungbae’ me. Just get up!” Jungbae shot back, a grin audible in his tone. He reached down and clasped Gihun’s arm, tugging him upright with a stubborn persistence. “It’s Sunday night! You can’t just waste it sleeping like an old man.”

“I am an old man.” Gihun slumped forward, resisting with the weight of his entire body.

He pressed his face deeper into the pillow again, as if sheer willpower could return him to slumber. Maybe, if he stayed perfectly still, Jungbae would lose interest and leave him in peace.

Yeah. As if.

Sure enough, Jungbae nudged him in the butt with the tip of his foot, playful but insistent.

“What’s wrong with you? Did you not sleep well last night? Why are you napping at, what, four in the afternoon?” He paused, tilting his head with suspicion. “By the way, where were you this morning?”

Gihun’s reply was groggy, more grumble than words, “No… I didn’t sleep. And I went fishing with Hwang Inho earlier.”

The name slipped out before he could think twice, and immediately, he regretted how casually it sounded.

 “Fishing, huh? With Inho? Since when do you two go on little weekend getaways alone?” Jungbae asked.

Before Gihun could even muster a response, another voice drifted in from the doorway, softer and far less invasive than Jungbae’s.

“Jungbae-hyung,” Sangwoo said calmly, his hands tucked into his pockets, gaze flicking toward the half-conscious Gihun on the bed. “Why don’t we let Gihun-hyung sleep a little longer? We can wake him an hour before heading out for drinks.”

There was a faint note of reason, almost protective in Sangwoo’s tone. The words made Gihun’s chest loosen, just slightly.

Jungbae snorted, throwing his hands up in mock defeat, “Fine, fine. But if he bails on me tonight, he’s paying.”

As the room fell quiet again, Gihun let his body sink back into the mattress, his heart still unsettled by the slip of Inho’s name and the way Jungbae had latched onto it so quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself he could reclaim the nap that had been stolen from him.

The next time the door creaked open, it wasn’t Jungbae’s booming voice that filled the room, but something quieter.

“Hyung.”

Gihun stirred, one arm flopping over his eyes as though that alone could shield him from the intrusion. His head still felt heavy, clouded with leftover exhaustion. He barely registered the soft thump of fabric being set down until Sangwoo’s voice followed, low but firm.

“I brought you some clothes. You should change.”

Blinking into the dimness of his room, Gihun tilted his head. On the chair by the desk, neatly folded, lay a clean shirt and trousers. Not his usual wrinkled choices, but something tidy, undoubtedly Sangwoo’s doing.

“…What time is it?” His voice rasped, scratchy from too much sleep and not enough real rest.

“Almost seven. Jungbae-hyung’s already waiting.” Sangwoo’s expression softened, but there was insistence in his tone. “Come on, hyung. Just for tonight.”

Gihun let out a long, dramatic sigh, opening his eyes slowly. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, seriously considering burrowing back under the covers. But Sangwoo didn’t move, simply standing there with that quiet patience. It was harder to say no to Sangwoo than it ever was to Jungbae.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, dragging himself upright. His joints cracked in protest, his hair sticking out at odd angles. He shuffled over to the chair, fingers brushing the clothes. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent.

He changed slowly, tugging the shirt over his head and stepping into his pants. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognize the reflection. He looked… decent. Presentable, even. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Better.” Sangwoo said simply, his lips quirking into the faintest smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gihun grumbled, though the corner of his own mouth twitched despite himself. He rubbed his eyes, throwing his coat on and shoving his wallet into his pocket. “Let’s get this over with before Jungbae breaks down my door again.”

Sangwoo chuckled under his breath and reached for Gihun’s arm, tugging him toward the door with gentle persistence.

And though Gihun dragged his feet, grumbling the entire way, he didn’t resist.

The neon buzz of the convenience store sign painted the sidewalk in flickering light.

Plastic chairs scraped against concrete as Gihun, Jungbae, and Sangwoo sat clustered around the little round table out front. Half-empty bottles of soju and paper cups littered the surface, alongside crumpled snack wrappers.

“Gihun, you’re too slow,” Jungbae teased, sloshing more soju into Gihun’s cup. “At this rate, Sangwoo will outdrink you, and he’s the youngest!”

“Yah, I’m pacing myself,” Gihun shot back, his words already loosening with the alcohol. He pointed accusingly at Sangwoo, who only chuckled, cheeks flushed from the drink. “Don’t let that angel face fool you.”

Sangwoo raised his cup with a grin, “Cheers to that.”

They all laughed, the sound light and easy in the night air. Gihun felt the warmth of the soju blooming through him, smoothing over the rough edges of exhaustion. He let himself sink into the moment, laughing, joking, trading stories.

Gihun leaned back in his chair and let out a crooked smile as Jungbae slapped the table mid-joke. Sangwoo chuckled so hard he nearly toppled his chair, his flushed cheeks making him look even younger.

“Gihun, admit it,” Jungbae wheezed, pouring another round. “You haven’t had this much fun in years!”

“Maybe.” Gihun muttered, hiding his small grin behind his cup.

And then a shadow crossed their table.

“Gihun-hyung?”

The sound of his name, low and startled, cut through the noise. Gihun’s heart lurched violently, his head snapping up.

Standing under the harsh neon glow was Inho, a thin plastic bag from the store in one hand, his coat collar turned up against the night air. His eyes flicked quickly from Gihun’s flushed face, to the bottles littering the table, then to the easy company of Jungbae and Sangwoo at his side.

Gihun’s stomach dropped. Of all people to run into.

“Inho…” he stammered, the words tangled uselessly on his tongue. The alcohol in his system didn’t make it any easier. “It’s not— it’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t— I mean, they just dragged me out here, I didn’t…”

There was no anger in Inho’s face. Instead, it was quieter, more cutting. A flicker of hurt buried under composure. His expression didn’t harden, but it didn’t soften either.

Gihun didn’t even notice Jungbae’s puzzled glance or Sangwoo’s quiet frown. All he could do was look down in embarassment, his chest tightening unexpectedly.

It looked bad. He knew it. After turning Inho down so directly earlier, here he was, drinking casually with Sangwoo and Jungbae, laughing like he hadn’t laughed in ages. Of course, Inho would see it poorly.

Still, why did it bother him so much? Gihun hadn’t felt this kind of sting since… since the betrayal. For so long, any thought of Inho had been met with bitterness, rage, and grief. But now, knowing he’d hurt Inho, even unintentionally, made his gut twist.

Gihun clenched his cup in his hand. Somewhere between the babysitting, fishing trips, and tentative hands brushing against his, he had started to feel a shred of empathy for Inho again.

Inho’s lips pressed into a thin line before he finally spoke.

“It’s fine.”

Two words. Flat and clipped. Before Gihun could get another word out, Inho turned, walking away down the street, his figure swallowed by the night.

“It’s not fine.”

Junho’s voice barely broke through the bass shaking the floor, the synth-heavy beat of the club rattling against Inho’s chest like an echo of his own pulse. Inho didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at his younger brother. His gaze remained fixed on the low amber glow of the whiskey in his glass, the distorted color refracted through the ice cubes that clinked every time his hand shifted.

The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and expensive liquor. Laughter burst from nearby tables, dancers swayed beneath flashing lights, but it all felt muffled to Inho, like he was sitting underwater.

Beside him, the Salesman’s laughter sliced through the fog. It was sharp, barking, and unrestrained. He leaned back in his seat, his suit pristine despite the chaos of the club, and slapped his thigh as if Inho’s humiliation was the funniest thing he had heard all week.

“Wait, wait— let me get this straight,” he said, letting out a wolfish grin. “You asked Seong Gihun out for a drink; he turned you down… and then you caught him tossing back soju with his roommates at some convenience store?” His tone dripped with mockery, every word pressing harder on the bruise already spreading inside Inho’s chest.

Junho bristled immediately, his scowl sharp as he turned on the Salesman, “Stop rubbing it in. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But the Salesman only chuckled, savoring the bitterness in the air. He raised his glass lazily, taking a long sip before setting it down with a clink, “Oh, I know enough. Doesn’t take a genius to see when someone’s being strung along.”

Inho’s fingers tightened around his glass, the faintest tremor in his knuckles betraying him. He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, hoping the burn would drown out the words and the way Gihun had looked so startled and guilty when Inho found him there, laughing under the fluorescent glow with Jungbae and Sangwoo.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

And yet, it did.

Because Inho knew Gihun had been guarded and distant since their argument. But in the last few days, he’d thought— no, he’d felt that wall begin to lower, even if only by a crack. The fishing trip, the laughter, the hand he’d dared to hold like it was the first time. He had seen something there. Hadn’t he?

But then the image of Gihun smiling at someone else’s jokes, glass lifted in easy camaraderie, flashed again before his eyes, and the whiskey turned sour on his tongue.

“It’s not about being strung along,” Junho muttered hotly, glaring at the Salesman. “Gihun-hyung’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that to my brother.”

The Salesman only smirked, unconvinced, clearly enjoying the tension.

Inho finally set his glass down. He exhaled slowly, dragging his hand across his face as if to wipe the heat from his skin.

“It doesn’t matter,” Inho said flatly, though the words scraped his throat raw. “It doesn’t matter what he meant.”

The bass thudded through the floor, vibrating up Inho’s legs and into his ribs, but it barely registered. His thoughts circled the same memory again and again. That smile, so easy and careless. Why hadn’t it ever been that easy with him?

“Oppa!”

A sharp giggle pulled him back, the sound piercing through the fog of his thoughts. Three girls had drifted over, dressed in shimmering fabrics that caught every flash of the strobe lights. They leaned close, perfume thick in the air, nudging each other as if daring one another to speak first.

“You guys look bored over here,” one said, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “Mind if we join?”

Another leaned across the table, “What are you drinking? Maybe you can buy us one too?”

The Salesman, ever the performer, smirked and leaned into the attention immediately, his tone smooth, “Well, lucky for you, we’ve got room at the table. Sit down, join the fun.”

Junho shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. Inho didn’t even bother to look up, swirling his drink once before setting it down untouched. He wasn’t interested in their glittering smiles or the false charm of strangers.

The girls giggled louder, settling in and talking over each other in bursts of laughter. The Salesman encouraged them with easy banter; one arm stretched casually across the back of the booth.

It was Junho who caught the flicker of a camera’s flash. His head snapped around just in time to see his phone tilted ever so slightly, screen glowing.

“Yah— what the hell are you doing? How did you even get my phone?” Junho hissed, leaning forward to snatch it.

The Salesman only chuckled, slipping it out of reach, “Relax. Just adding a little spice to the feed.”

Junho’s stomach dropped as he saw his own account pop up on the screen already tagged in a photo of the booth. The caption was flippant and suggestive, designed to stir.

“You posted it on my account?!” Junho’s voice cracked in outrage.

Inho finally looked up, his expression tightening, annoyance flickering sharp across his features, “Delete it. Now.”

The Salesman only laughed, raising his glass as if in toast, “Why? Think about it, it’ll make Gihun jealous. Works out in your favor, doesn’t it? You girls can take a hint and leave now.”

The three girls glared at them, mouths twisted in irritation, before turning on their heels and disappearing into the crowd. Junho’s face hardened, but the Salesman didn’t care. His smirk lingered, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

Inho’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as heat rose in his chest. He wanted to snatch the phone and smash it into the floor, then wipe that smug grin off the Salesman’s face. Instead, he forced his gaze away, staring hard into the glass in front of him.

Then Junho’s phone lit up on the table. The screen glowing among the haze of colored lights, and Inho’s eyes snapped to it instantly.

Gihun: Are you guys at a club?

“Ah, that didn’t even take ten minutes,” the Salesman murmured with a smirk, leaning forward as if he could read Inho’s thoughts. He reached for the phone, but Junho’s reflexes were faster, swiping the device away before the man could touch it.

Junho shot Inho a quick glance, his brow rose in silent communication, and then quickly typed back a response. “Don’t worry hyung, I’ll just keep it vague.”

Inho nodded slightly but said nothing. He let the music wash over him; nothing was able to distract him from the knot tightening in his stomach.

Gihun laid sprawled across his mattress, the room dim save for the glow of his phone. His lids felt heavy, but his mind refused to still. The vibration of a new message pulled him back, and he squinted at the screen.

Junho: Yea, just to relax a bit.

He chewed on his lower lip, teeth digging into already-raw skin. A knot had settled in his stomach, and the lingering buzz of soju only made his thoughts hazy. His thumb hovered over the keyboard before moving almost on its own, letters forming without his conscious permission.

Is he okay?

The message sent with a faint whoosh.

Gihun froze. His heart stuttered. The words glared back at him, a betrayal in plain text. That wasn’t what he meant to say. His chest tightened as panic swept through him. Without hesitation, he swiped out of the chat, as if burying it beneath the weight of indifference could erase what had already been sent.

Pretend it never happened. Just forget.

But he couldn’t forget when the photo was still there, burned into his feed. Blue, purple, red lights danced across the screen, highlighting the girls, Junho, and Inho at the bar. Gihun’s eyes didn’t linger on the girls laughing, or at Junho’s easy smile. They went straight to Inho, who was holding that glass of whiskey, his lips slightly parted, eyes shadowed.

That tightness inside Gihun’s chest only grew, coiling and twisting like something alive. He told himself it was nothing. It was only guilt for the misunderstanding. Just… anything but what it really felt like. His fingers twitched, aching to maybe type something to Inho privately.

The phone slipped from his hand and smacked directly against his face.

“Ah, sshibal,” Gihun hissed, clutching his nose with one hand as the phone bounced onto the blanket beside him. His eyes watered at the sharp sting.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow. Why did it matter so much? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Inho’s face at the convenience store, or his face under those flashing lights of the club in the photo?

It wasn’t care. It couldn’t be.

But the feeling lingered anyway.

Chapter Text

“Woah! Gihun, careful!”

Gihun snapped out of his daze just in time to see the coffee spilling over the rim of the cup, dark liquid streaming across the counter.

“Shit,” he muttered, jerking the pot upright.

The smell of burnt espresso hung in the air, sharp and bitter. He grabbed a cloth and started wiping the mess, but his movements were sluggish. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

He didn’t even remember unlocking the café this morning. The bell above the door must’ve chimed half a dozen times already, but every sound felt muffled. He looked up at the wall clock: 9:03 AM. The morning rush was still trickling in, the scent of croissants and ground beans filling the café. Everything looked normal, but inside, Gihun felt slightly out of sync, as though he were a step behind reality.

His gaze drifted to the front door again.

Inho hadn’t stopped by today.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and intrusive. Normally, Inho would show up by now, sometimes just to grab a coffee on his way to work, other times to linger by the counter and make quiet conversation. It had become part of Gihun’s unspoken morning rhythm, something he hadn’t realized he’d grown used to until it was missing.

Junhee, who was steaming milk nearby, noticed his distraction. “You’ve been zoning out since you got here,” she said, brows knitting together. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Gihun replied quickly, forcing a small, unconvincing smile.

He fetched the cloth into the sink and reached for another cup. Junhee didn’t buy it for a second. She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter.

“You’re not fooling anybody, you know. You’ve remade the same latte twice already. So, what happened?”

Gihun froze mid-motion, hand hovering over the espresso machine. His mouth opened, but the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to say nothing, but even that felt like too much of a lie.

“…It’s been a long week.” He finally muttered, eyes trained on the floor.

Junhee raised a brow, unconvinced as she said, “Uh-huh. And that ‘long week’ wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain someone who usually drops by for coffee, would it?”

Gihun’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer. Instead, he busied himself with refilling the grinder, the sound of beans pouring into the machine. But when the bell over the door jingled again, his head shot up instinctively before he could stop himself.

Not Inho. Just another customer.

Junhee sighed softly, a knowing look flickering in her eyes as she went back to work. Gihun’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter, and his gaze lingered on the door a moment longer than it should have.

He told himself that the only reason he cared was because he hated misunderstandings. That was all. It wasn’t like he was waiting for Inho to walk in, or to call, or even text. No, that wasn’t it.

It was just… awkward.

He hadn’t talked to Inho since that night outside the convenience store. Not even a word. The air between them had gone cold, filled with a silence that reminded GIhun too much of that confrontation in the Frontman’s office. And maybe, if he was being honest, Gihun didn’t know how to fix it. Or if he even should.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He could practically imagine the lecture he’d get from his mother if she found out. “You shouldn’t be so stubborn, Gihun. That man’s been nothing but kind to you. You should apologize if you hurt his feelings.”

Yeah. He could hear it. His mother had obviously liked Inho, her tone softening whenever she mentioned him, like she’d already decided he was part of the family. The idea of disappointing her or seeing her upset made his stomach twist.

A soft meow broke through his thoughts.

“Hey, buddy.” Gihun murmured.

Giho had jumped up onto the counter, the little calico landing with grace. He meowed again, rubbing his small face against Gihun’s sleeve, his tail curling around the barista’s arm. Those big, round eyes blinked up at him.

Gihun sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he scratched under the cat’s chin. Giho purred, pressing closer. The sound was low, a comforting rumble against the café’s soft jazz playing overhead.

That’s when Gihun noticed the cup sitting at the far end of the counter.

The Americano. Still untouched.

He frowned, walking over and picking it up. The cup had gone lukewarm; condensation dried at the rim. This was the drink he’d made earlier out of habit, maybe. He held it over the trash can and paused.

“Goddamn it,” Gihun muttered under his breath, his knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped the cup. “Just throw it away. He’s not coming.”

Giho tilted his head curiously, watching him.

“Who even cares about him anyway?” Gihun said, half to himself. But the words didn’t feel convincing. Not even close.

He exhaled slowly and set the cup back on the counter. Giho sniffed it, then pawed at the cardboard sleeve lightly, as if questioning his indecision. Gihun chuckled humorlessly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I don’t know either, little guy.” He murmured.

By late afternoon, the hum of the café had dulled into the soft clinking of cups and the low murmur of a few customers. The light outside had turned golden, spilling long stripes across the polished counter and the wooden floor. Gihun was restocking beans when Junhee came in from the back, a cat carrier in each hand, their doors clicking faintly as she set them down in the staff room.

“Here,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re taking these two to the park.”

Gihun blinked, “What?”

Junhee jerked her chin toward the carriers. Inside one, Kimchi yawned lazily, his orange fur catching the light. In the other, Mandu sat curled up in a little ball, his cloudy eyes half-lidded but his ears twitching to every sound.

“The Seoul Cat Rescue is hosting an adoption event this afternoon,” Junhee explained, wiping her hands on her apron. “We’re one of their organization partners. It’ll be good exposure for Purrfect Brews.”

“Why me?” Gihun asked, crossing his arms. “Why can’t you or Hyunju go? You’re both better at talking to people.”

Before Junhee could respond, Hyunju appeared from the kitchen, holding a small tray of pastries wrapped neatly in paper boxes. “Because you’re our spokesperson, remember?” she said, setting the pastries on the counter. “People actually like you when you talk about the cats.”

Gihun groaned as Hyunju pointed toward the pastries. “Besides, this is a good opportunity to advertise. Hand them out, tell people they’re from us. Free publicity, and maybe we’ll help Kimchi and Mandu find families. They deserve good homes,” she continued gently. “Especially Mandu. He’s at a disadvantage, but events like this help.”

Gihun exhaled, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You two always know how to guilt-trip me, huh?”

“We prefer the term persuade.” Junhee grinned.

“Uh-huh.”

He crouched, checking the latches on both carriers and making sure the small blankets inside were tucked in. Kimchi meowed again, as if approving of the plan, while Mandu merely tilted his head toward the sound of Gihun’s voice.

“All right,” Gihun said. “I’ll take them.”

Junhee clapped her hands together in satisfaction, “Perfect. The event’s at Yeouido Hangang Park, by the north lawn. Starts at four, but they’ll let you set up early.”

Hyunju handed him a tote bag with the café’s logo printed on it, “Pastries, flyers, and some café coupons.”

Gihun carefully picked up the carriers. Kimchi gave a chirp of approval, while Mandu remained silent, his tail flicking once before curling neatly around his paws. As he stepped out the back door into the warm afternoon, a faint breeze brushed through his hair.

He glanced down at the two carriers. “All right, you two,” he murmured. “Let’s go get you adopted.”

The subway ride was crowded as usual, but Gihun had managed to snag a seat near the door, the two cat carriers placed carefully at his feet. Every so often, a curious commuter would glance down at the carriers.

Gihun leaned forward slightly when the train jerked, and Mandu let out a grumbled meow. “It’s okay, Mandu. We’re almost there,” he murmured.

By the time he reached Yeouido Hangang Park, the air had turned crisp, and the smell of street food wafted faintly through the park, the familiar sweetness of hotteok and the buttery aroma of roasted corn mixing with the river breeze.

He balanced both carriers in his hands as he followed the signs toward the event area. The chatter of volunteers and the faint sound of music drifted through the air as he rounded a bend. And there it was: a large white tent with Seoul Cat Rescue printed in bold navy letters across the front, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Gihun exhaled in relief, “Found it.”

As he approached, he spotted Youngmi, clipboard in hand as she directed volunteers and other partner organizations to their designated spots. Her voice carried over the mild chaos. “Set the adoption tables in a line… No, not there, a little to the left!”

She turned when she caught sight of him, her face lighting up as she exclaimed, “Gihun! You made it!”

“Barely,” he said with a tired smile, setting the carriers down gently on the grass. “Traffic on the subway’s a nightmare today.”

“Tell me about it,” Youngmi laughed, crouching to peek through the carriers. “Ah, Kimchi looks good. And Mandu…” Her tone softened. “Poor baby. Still adjusting?”

“He’s doing okay,” Gihun said, crouching next to her. “I’m hoping someone special will take him home today.”

Youngmi smiled, giving him a brief nod. “You always had a soft spot for the hard-luck cases. Here, these are their files.” She handed him two folders, each labeled with the cats’ names, complete with photos and short descriptions.

“Your booth is down the path, near the riverfront. You’ve got a good spot, should bring in plenty of foot traffic.”

“Perfect.” Gihun said, adjusting his grip on the carriers again.

Following the gravel path, he found his tent just as she’d said, with a table and a few chairs already set up under a string of hanging lights. The breeze off the Han River was cool and carried the faint sound of laughter and music from the other booths.

Gihun set the carriers down carefully, exhaling as he stretched his back. Then he got to work.

He laid out the Purrfect Brews banner neatly across the table, arranged the boxes of pastries Hyunju had packed earlier, and stacked a few flyers promoting the café and the adoption program. A couple of people passing by slowed down, peering curiously at the setup.

Next, he pulled out a foldable pen and assembled it quickly on the grass beside the tent. Kimchi meowed as soon as the door opened, stepping out with his tail high as he explored the pen. Mandu followed more cautiously, his movements slow as his head tilted slightly toward the sound of rustling grass and the river breeze.

“There you go,” Gihun said softly, crouching down to smooth out the small blanket inside the pen. “Fresh air, sunlight, and hopefully some nice people today.”

Kimchi circled once before settling neatly in the middle, his gaze turning toward the stream of people walking by. Mandu pressed his nose to the mesh, sniffing the air.

As Gihun stood back, brushing the grass off his hands, he took in the little setup with satisfaction.

Then, from the tent next to his, Gihun saw him.

Inho.

He wore a long black wool coat that looked almost too formal for the casual, sunny afternoon. The wind toyed with his hair as he glanced down at a clipboard in his hand, jotting something down before exchanging a few words with the woman in front of him. She laughed, her voice light and warm, and Inho responded with a faint smile, but soft enough to twist something sharp in Gihun’s chest.

For a moment, Gihun just stared, caught completely off guard. What was Inho doing here?

Gihun turned slightly, pretending to adjust the pastries, though his eyes flicked back without meaning to. Then he noticed it, a small white badge pinned neatly to Inho’s coat. The same badge Youngmi was wearing.

So that’s why.

He looked down, pretending to brush a crumb off the table. The sun was warm against his back, but his skin felt cold, his pulse quickening for reasons he couldn’t rationalize. When he risked another glance, Inho was turning slightly, his gaze sweeping across the scattered booths until it landed squarely on him.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the event seemed to fade. Gihun froze where he stood, his hand still resting on the table. His throat felt dry, and he couldn’t seem to decide whether to look away or raise a hand in some awkward greeting.

He didn’t do either.

Instead, he stood there, caught like a deer in headlights as Inho’s eyes widened slightly before it shifted to something quieter. Then, walking past the other booths, Inho approached, the gravel crunching faintly under his shoes.

“Mr. Seong,” he greeted. “You’re representing Purrfect Brews, right?”

Gihun blinked. He has never been called Mr. Seong before, and it felt too formal and professional. His throat worked anyways, before his voice came out with a slight crack.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Junhee and Hyunju are back at the café. They, uh, sent me to help promote the cats. Kimchi and Mandu.”

Inho nodded, eyes flicking briefly toward the two cats lounging in their enclosure. “They’re both listed in the adoption roster,” he said, flipping through a few pages on his clipboard. “I just need to confirm their file numbers for the rescue record.”

He leaned forward slightly, close enough for Gihun to catch the faint scent of soap and coffee that clung to his coat. It made his chest feel uncomfortable.

“Here,” Inho said, pointing at the sheet. “This one’s Kimchi, six years old, male orange tabby, social, good with other cats…”

Gihun was unable to meet Inho’s eyes for long. The professional tone and distance made sense. It was exactly how it should be. Still, guilt pressed heavy against his ribs. He hadn’t spoken to Inho since that night outside the convenience store, and the memory of Inho’s disappointed and guarded face had refused to leave him.

And before Gihun realized what he was doing, the words slipped out.

“Do you want one?”

Inho blinked in response, glancing at the pastry wrapped neatly in Gihun’s hand. A small cookie, still warm despite being exposed to the chilly air.

“What?”

Gihun’s ears went hot. He quickly thrust the pastry toward him a little awkwardly, “It’s, um, free.”

Inho hesitated, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking from the pastry to Gihun’s face.

“And,” Gihun added in a rush, words tripping over themselves. “It's an apology for what happened at the convenience store. I shouldn’t have gotten persuaded by Jungbae and Sangwoo to go out drinking after declining your invitation.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything, only the noise of the park filled the space between them. Then, Inho slowly exhaled. His gaze softened slightly, though his face remained composed.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly. “But… thank you.”

He reached out, taking the pastry from Gihun’s hand. Their fingers brushed, and Gihun felt a strange jolt run up his arm. It was small, stupid, and entirely involuntary.

Inho tucked the wrapped cookie into his pocket, before turning slightly, looking toward the main tent again before glancing back.

“I’ll come by later to check on the cats’ status,” he said after a pause, straightening the clipboard under his arm. “Good luck today, Mr. Seong.”

He started to turn away, but before he could take a step forward, Gihun moved without thinking, his hand reaching out, fingers curling gently around Inho’s wrist.

“Inho, wait.”

Inho stilled, looking back at him. His dark and steady eyes met Gihun’s, and the rest of the world seemed to blur around them.

“Can we talk later?” Gihun asked.

For a split second, he thought for sure he’d gone too far. That Inho would pull away, say he was busy, or worse, tell him there was nothing left to say. But instead, Inho’s expression softened again, just a fraction.

“Sure,” he said.

The tension in Gihun’s chest eased, though his pulse didn’t slow. He released Inho’s wrist, his hand falling back to his side. Inho gave him a polite nod once before turning toward the main tent, his long coat catching the wind as he walked away.

And Gihun was left standing by his table, the afternoon sunlight warm against his face, his heart doing something it really shouldn’t have been doing.

Inho should have been focusing on his rounds. That was what the clipboard in his hand was for, to check off each station, make sure volunteers were in place, and that everything ran smoothly for the event. As project manager, he had a responsibility to keep things in order.

But his attention refused to stay where it should.

Even as he moved from booth to booth, offering polite nods and the occasional word of encouragement, his gaze kept drifting toward one particular tent down the path.

Gihun stood there, cradling Kimchi in one arm. A small group of visitors had gathered around, cooing over the blind cat Mandu, who was nestled in a cozy blanket within the pen. Gihun laughed easily at something one of them said, his smile open and warm.

Inho found his gaze lingering, his clipboard forgotten in his hand. It made something deep inside him ache, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore ever since… well, since he had started liking Seong Gihun more than a friend.

“You look like you’re about to drool over him.”

Inho’s head snapped toward the voice. The Salesman set down a stack of informational pamphlets onto the nearby table with a smirk that screamed trouble. His tie was sitting perfectly, his sleeves rolled up just enough to feign effort.

“Am I wrong?” He added, eyes glinting with amusement.

Inho’s tone came out sharper than intended. “Focus on your job.”

The Salesman chuckled under his breath, his gaze sliding lazily in the direction of Gihun’s booth. “I should be saying that to you, Project Manager Hwang. From where I’m standing, your productivity plummets whenever Seong Gihun is in a ten-meter radius.”

Inho shot him an annoyed look, “You want to do my job for me, then?”

The Salesman recoiled, wrinkling his nose, “Absolutely not. I hate talking to people. I prefer things that don’t talk back or get emotional.”

“You talk plenty.” Inho muttered dryly, jotting something down on his clipboard.

The Salesman leaned casually against the table with his arms crossed, “Mmh, maybe. But I’m not the one staring holes through Seong Gihun like I’m writing a tragic romance novel in my head.”

Inho froze for half a second, the pen stilling over the paper. He forced a measured breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. The Salesman’s grin widened.

“Though, I’ll admit, I get it,” he said, motioning in Gihun’s direction. “He’s got that ‘I’m trying to hold my life together with caffeine and a smile’ charm. Very tragic. Very marketable.”

Inho’s eyes flicked up again. Gihun was crouched now, helping a little girl hold Mandu properly while explaining the cat’s condition, gentle and patient in every motion. The parents nearby were smiling, and the girl’s laughter rang out like a bell.

Something in Inho’s chest eased and tightened at the same time.

“...He’s good with people and animals.” Inho said quietly.

The Salesman rolled his eyes, “Of course he is. That’s why people like him. Some of us have to buy our likability with drinks and good suits.”

Inho gave him a look before walking off. He told himself he was just doing his job and talking to Gihun later was just about professionalism, nothing more. Still, his gaze flicked back again to the sight of Gihun smiling under the sunlight.

Once the crowd began to thin, Inho finally found his way back toward Gihun’s booth. The sun had started to dip lower, washing the Han River in streaks of amber and pink. He hadn’t intended to seek Gihun out so soon. Before he could even make up his mind, Gihun spotted him first.

Now they sat side by side behind the table. Mandu was curled up, purring softly, while Kimchi occasionally flicked his tail. The pastries and flyers were mostly gone, leaving behind empty plates and scattered crumbs.

Gihun shifted in his seat, fingers fiddling with the corner of the table. His shoulders looked tight, his expression distant, like he was still trying to find the right words but couldn’t quite get them out.

And Inho noticed. It was an instinct sharpened from years as a detective, the ability to read people and to see what wasn’t said. He could tell when someone was lying, nervous, or hiding something.

With Gihun, he wasn’t sure anymore.

Up until the night he had handed Gihun that plane ticket, he thought he could read him perfectly. He’d seen the silent hope in Gihun’s eyes and maybe something more.

Now, sitting beside him again, Inho realized he didn’t know where they stood, and the uncertainty felt heavier than it should.

Perhaps it was time to stop avoiding it. So, Inho exhaled slowly before letting the words out.

“Gihun, I know you might not like me.”

Gihun’s head snapped toward him in response, his eyes widening, “That’s—”

Inho continued before he could lose the nerve. “And that’s fine. You have your own feelings, and I have mine,” he drew in another slow breath, then met Gihun’s eyes. “Still,” he said softly. “Can we be friends?”

Gihun simply looked at him and Inho thought that he might say yes. Or maybe no. He didn’t know which one would hurt less.

Before either of them could speak, a bright voice cut through.

“Eomma! Look at the two guys being lovey!”

Both men jerked slightly, their heads turned toward the sound. A little girl, no older than six, was pointing toward a couple walking hand in hand along the riverside.

Her mother’s eyes went wide, and she quickly clasped her daughter’s hand, murmuring something soft but firm. The girl blinked up at her mother in confusion before allowing herself to be guided away, still glancing back curiously.

Inho let out a quiet breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Beside him, Gihun stared down at the fabric of the table, his fingers tracing absent shapes against it. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, Inho. I…” Gihun paused, eyes flickering as though he was searching for the right words. Then, with a deep exhale, he forced the rest out. “You betrayed me in another lifetime. Every time I see you, I’m reminded of what you did to me.”

Inho’s breath caught. His first instinct was to ask, “what do you mean?”, but something about the way Gihun said another lifetime stopped him. He didn’t want to push, not when Gihun was finally opening up.

So instead, Inho told himself he’d ask about it later when the moment wasn’t so breakable, and when Gihun was ready to let him in.

Gihun scowled faintly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “Knowing that you’re a good person here, it confuses me,” his voice faltered. “But my mom said it wasn’t fair to hold you accountable for things you haven’t done.”

The park around them carried on. The chatter from nearby booths, the laughter of children chasing bubbles, and the distant hum of traffic across the river blurred into background noise.

Inho stared at him, then asked quietly, “What did I do to you?”

The question seemed to hang in the air. Gihun’s lips parted, but no words came at first. He looked like he was trying to drag something up from deep inside him.

“You… ran a terrible organization that exploited the poor. People died, and you allowed it to happen. And you…” his voice wavered, and Inho could see his fingers trembling slightly against the tablecloth. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes glistening.

And then, in barely more than a whisper, Gihun added, “You killed someone close to me.”

Inho felt something twist sharply in his chest. Him? Killing someone dear to Gihun? That was unthinkable. He couldn’t even bear the thought of Gihun in pain, let alone being the one to cause it. Yet, seeing Gihun’s shaking hands and the grief flickering just beneath his words, Inho knew this wasn’t a lie. This was truth, at least to Gihun.

And even though none of it made sense, Inho believed him. He always had.

“I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” Inho said softly.

Gihun blinked, startled by the sudden conviction in Inho’s tone. Their eyes met, one pair filled with confusion and lingering hurt, the other brimming with quiet resolve.

“If you want me gone,” Inho continued. “Just say the word, and I’ll disappear from your life. I don’t want to see you distressed because of me.”

Gihun's expression wavered between disbelief and uncertainty. He looked away toward the park’s edge where the sunlight shimmered on the Han River, like he was pondering on his answer. Finally, he let out a long drawn exhale.

“I’m fine with that,” he said.

Inho’s heart dropped, “What?”

“Being friends,” Gihun clarified, turning his head just enough to meet Inho's eyes. “We can do that. Just… don’t lie to me anymore, Inho. Whatever happens, I want the truth. Even if it hurts. I can handle that a lot better than being lied to.”

Inho gave a small nod, almost a bow. “Alright,” he said softly. “No more lies.”

Gihun’s shoulders relaxed slightly at that, and he let out a slow, careful breath.

“Good.”

The late sun dipped lower, bathing the park in that soft amber light that made everything look gentler than it was. Then, after a few minutes of silence, Gihun turned to him again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Gihun hesitated, eyes searching his face, “Would Gayeong… want to see me?”

Inho’s lips parted before he even thought. His first instinct was honesty; the ugly truth pressed against his throat. He wanted to tell him that this year, Gihun had promised Gayeong he would visit her for her birthday. He’d told her he was finally turning things around and he wouldn’t let her down.

For a little while, it had seemed true. Until it wasn’t.

Gihun had relapsed. Just a few visits to the racetrack were enough for him to gamble away the plane ticket. When Gayeong called to ask when he was arriving, all she heard on the other end was silence.

Then came the shouting and tears, and the last thing she’d said to him was: “Don’t bother talking to me again if you’re just going to break your promise every time, Appa.”

That call had shattered Gihun. Since then, he convinced himself that his daughter never wanted to see him again. When the amnesia happened, Inho had hoped the memory loss would be a perfect opportunity to have him visit Gayeong without putting up a stubborn fight. But he was worried about Gihun retreating back into that hard shell of defensiveness if he learned what happened.

So, Inho swallowed the truth, and forced the words out softly.

“Yes.”

The lie left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he managed to hold Gihun’s gaze.

At last, Gihun nodded, relief flickering across his face. “Alright,” he murmured. “Perhaps I should go see her this Christmas.”

Inho gave a small smile, “You should.”

As Gihun turned back toward the cats, crouching to refill their water, Inho looked away toward the river. He told himself it was better this way; some truths only hurt the ones you meant to protect.

And that this small lie was mercy, not betrayal.