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Seong Gi-hun stared at the ceiling. He shifted on the narrow bed, his body heavy as if submerged in tar. His limbs refused to obey at first, nerves twitching with tiny prickles like dead wires suddenly reignited. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, rhythmic and insistent. Memories flickered - fragments swallowed by fog: a gunshot, someone screaming, blood slick on colorful tiles… Then nothing.
Untuil he blinked and opened his eyes into the void.
Someone sat nearby, a silhouette outlined by shadow and half-light.
“Young-il?” Gi-hun called out, his voice cracking like dry leaves underfoot.
The man turned slowly. The soft glow of a single emergency strip traced his profile: high cheekbones, a calm and composed expression.
“I’m here.” Oh Young-il said softly. He leaned forward in his chair beside the bed and placed a hand over Gi-hun’s forearm through the blanket. “Don't strain yourself. Take it easy.”
“How long…” Gi-hun rasped hoarsely, trying to piece together events. “What happened? Where are the others?”
Young-il shook his head ever so slightly, the gesture so subtle it felt too deliberate for genuine sorrow.
“Probably gone.” He murmured. “You are the only one I have seen alive after they captured us.”
A moment passed. Gi-hun closed his eyes again, feeling tears burn hot behind his lids. Blurred faces passed behind his inner vision, the people who trusted him enough to follow his lead, when he didn't even have time to ask their names. All gone, while somehow he still drew breath, always surviving when better men fell.
And there beside him sat Young-il, with that unreadable expression on his face.
Gi-hun stared at the ceiling again, as if the truth might bleed through the concrete above him. But there was nothing. Only absence, a void wher a tragedy should be.
His breath came in light and shallow, his mind full of fog that hollowed his memory, softened the edges of trauma so sharp they could cut through his sanity. All he coild remember was screaming, but not whose voice it had been.
“You were brave.” Young-il said suddenly. “Braver than most who ever walked these halls.”
Gi-hun turned his head slightly, not fully trusting this reasurance, but too starved for warmth.
“It wasn't enough.” He whispered. “I got them killed.”\
“No.” The word slipped out with ease, precisely measured before release. “You gave them purpose. In their final moments, they believed something greater was possible because you made them believe it.”
A flicker crossed Gi-hun’s face. It wasn't hope exactly, but something close enough to hurt.
Gi-hun tried to sit up but gave up after a moment, flopping back against the sheets with a sharp exhale. The world kept tilting at odd angles, blurring in and out of focus. Wheater it was some sort of drug, or head trauma, he wasn't sure.
“Young-il.” Gi-hun muttered. His thoughts were scattered and he tried to collect them, like pieces of a puzzle. Something had happened to him, something other than defeat. “Why am I naked?”
Young-il’s hand remained steady on Gi-hun’s forearm – warm, human, real. For half a second something slipped between them, a gust of cold, like a draft from a window at night where the darkness comes creeping in. Then it was gone.
Expelled by a gentle expression, like the one policemen may wear while comforting grieving parents outside a morgue.
"I don't know.” Young-il said without hesitation. "When they brought me here, you were already sleeping in this bed." He paused. "I was afraid you would never wake up."
The words were plausible, convincing enough for someone half-conscious on sedatives. And Young-il delivered them with such certainty that only the most suspicious mind would’ve have questioned it.
But Gi-hun wasn't thinking clearly.
His thoughts kept circling back to all the things he recalled that happened after the rebellion. The guards dragging him out… hands grabbing… fingers splayed over his naked skin…
Was this part of the punishment? Was stripping him down symbolic? Or had something else occurred while he lay drugged and helpless?
A cold prickle ran up his spine and he pulled the blanket instinctively to cover himself.
Young-il saw that too. His hand moved and rested the tips of his fingers against Gi-hun’s cheek.
“You are cold.” Young-il murmured. “They probably gave you something strong. It lowered your body temperature.”
His thumb brushed just beneath Gi-hun’s eye, a gesture so tender it could’ve belonged in another life entirely.
Gi-hun flinched, just slightly. Something about all this gentleness felt wrong. It did not match what they had been through, the violence they'd endured together. Should Young-il not be angry with him for failing all of them? Should he not be scared?
And yet here he sat beside Gi-hun, touching him like he was something precious.
“Did… did you see anyone touch me?” When Gi-hun finally asked, his words were quiet. He could feel it more clearly now, the discomfort in places where there should be none.
Young-il let out a soft breath, as if sensing his hesitation, and withdrew his hand. He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands now folded neatly in his lap. Composed and collected, he was a picture of calm amid the storm.\
Gi-hun watched him, dread pooling low in his gut where the soreness pulsed faintly.
His mind raced through fragments, hands dragging him, a needle prick. Then waking up here.
Alone. With him.
“Please, tell me...” Gi-hun's voice cracked again. “Did they...”
The words were small and unsure. Far from an accusation, more like begging for denial so desperately it hurt just to say these words.
“Why are you asking me that?” Young-il replied softly, coaxing the truth from lips too afraid to speak its name aloud. Like he didn’t understand why Gi-hun would wonder about such a thing.
Gi-hun’s throat tightened.
“Because.” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “I feel… weird.”
He did not feel bruised like after being beaten. Because this wasn't a physical pain, but more like a stain, as if dirt had gotten under his skin.
“I can't remember what happened.” He admitted, eyes dropping to his lap. “But I woke up naked... and there is this ache... like something was done to me while I was asleep.”
The confession burned his lips as it left them, as if saying it aloud made it real in a way nothing else could.
Not a muscle twitched on Young-il's face. His eyes, those dark, depthless pools, reflected nothing.
Then Young-il reached out again, this time gently taking Gi-hun’s hand in both of his own. Warm palms cradled calloused fingers with surprising tenderness.
"I’m sorry you feel this way.” He said. The words echoed with a hint of regret. "But I really don't know what could have happened to you while you slept."
A lie, Gi-hun thought.
Every syllable felt like a lie, polished and delivered with such perfect timing and tone that it could have fooled anyone who didn’t know the truth. And Gi-hun knew something had happened.
His body knew the truth, unmistakable in its silent horror.
He stared at their joined hands, wondering at the contrast between Young-il's smooth skin and his own rough, bloodied knuckles, the hands of a man who fought until the end.
"Young-il..." Gi-hun said faintly. "Why are you touching me like this?"
Young-il didn’t let go.
“I’m touching you.” He spoke slowly. “Because I care.”
There was no pause or stutter. Just certainty, as if caring for Gi-hun was the most natural thing he could do.
Gi-hun didn't pull his hand away. Not because he trusted the touch, but because something deeper, more primal than logic, responded to it. The need for comfort, for someone to be here for him. Even if that someone was a man he really knew nothing about.
Young-il didn’t rush him to speak. Instead, he waited, still holding his hand and looking at him with those eyes that seemed to absorb what little light was in the room.
And when Gi-hun stayed silent for too long, Young-il leaned forward again, just enough to close the distance without seeming threatening.
“You’re afraid.”
The words came out soft and subtle.
“Is something wrong? Do you think someone hurt you?”
The question, so direct and kindly phrased, pierced through the haze of denial.
Gi-hun's lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Just a breath, shaky and thin, as if after admitting it there would be no pretending he imagined things when his body remembered what his mind didn't.
But Young-il wasn't letting go. Not of his hand, and certainly not of this moment.
And somehow that quiet pressure, the patient expectation in those dark eyes, coaxed Gi-hun onto speaking.
“I think.” Gi-hun whispered. “I think someone did.”
The words felt foreign on his tongue, heavy as stones dropped into deep water.
Young-il’s expression didn’t change. Nothing in his face betrayed the way someone might have reacted after hearing something shocking. It was like Gi-hun had just confirmed what he had been waiting to hear.
“Tell me.” Young-il’s voice was even softer now, as if speaking too loudly might break something fragile between them. “What makes you think that?”
His voice offered an invitation, an open door for Gi-hun to walk through with his fear.
Gi-hun looked down at their joined hands again, then slowly up at Young-il's face – the man who had been by his side through everything, the one person who seemed untouched by all that had happened in this place.
“My body.” Gi-hun whispered. His voice cracked under the weight of shame and confusion. “It hurts. Down there.”
A moment passed. Then another.
He couldn’t say more than that, not yet and not out loud, not like a proper sentence with all its horror spelled plainly: I think I was raped.
Young-il quietly absorbed the words. Then he nodded once, as if confirming something silently to himself.
"Who could have done such a thing?" Young-il mused. "A soldier? One of those with a triangle mask?"
The question did not sound as if it came from someone genuinely concerned about justice for him. Rather, it was analytical. Neutral, as if they were discussing the weather. And that made something icy slither through Gi-hun’s chest.
Because who would do this? Who could have had access to him while he was unconscious?
Guards? Staff? Or worse, a fellow player...
His mind shied away from finishing the thought.
“No. I don't think it was a soldier.” Gi-hun finally said, his voice hollow. “They all look alike. This one... was different.”
He paused, as if bracing himself before pushing the words out of his throat.
"He wore another mask."
“What did it look like?” Young-il echoed.
The drugs were wearing off. Gi-hun was still groggy, sluggish in thought, but his mind felt clearer now than before. Memories surfaced like bubbles breaking the surface of dark water.
Gi-hun’s brow furrowed.
He could recall a room. Maybe even this one, lit with white light. There were hands holding him down – not rough, but firm. Too strong to fight off in his drugged state.
Then there was a mask. But not the usual triangles and squares he had seen during the games. This one felt wrong, an array of geometric patterns arranged in a grotesque parody of a human face.
And behind that mask, there was a voice.
“He talked.” Gi-hun murmured suddenly, blinking slowly as if trying to focus through a haze. “He talked to me…”
“What did he say?” Young-il pushed gently.
Gi-hun was silent for a moment longer, hesitating before stepping into a place he didn’t want to revisit.
“He said I was brave.” Gi-hun whispered.
His voice trembled. That phrase echoed in his mind, tangled with the words Young-il had told him just a moment ago: braver than most who ever walked these halls. It had sounded kind both times.
The memory was no longer just words anymore. It was sensation.
Cold metal on his wrists. The sharp pinch of a needle to keep him pliant while consciousness faded at the edges.
Then came the hands, the touch methodical and controlled.
And then a body pressed down over his.
He squeezed Young-il's hand without thinking.
“Do you remember anything after that?” Young-il probed further, his voice eerie serene.
Gi-hun's chest rose quickly, then fell in a shaky exhale. The memory was blurred at the edges, distorted by sedatives. But certain feelings were razor-sharp.
Cool sheets under his back.
A weight pressing down - not crushing, but dominant. Unmovable, as a mountain. Yet the hands on his skin were careful in a way that felt wrong because violence was not supposed to be gentle.
Then came the worst part.
Something foreign forced its way into his body while he lay there half-conscious.
“Was there pain?”
Gi-hun shook his head.
There was no real pain, and that was the worst part.
The assault had not been brutal. Just a quiet invasion while his mind floated, aware enough to feel, but not lucid enough to fight back properly. What was done to him was meticulous in its cruelty, even as his body stretched and burned.
“No pain. But I felt it all.” Gi-hun whispered.
“It seems like that man didn't want to hurt you." Young-il mused. “Why do you think that is?”
Gi-hun stared at the ceiling.
"I think..." Gi-hun began, his voice choked with emotions he tried to suppress. "I think he didn't want to hurt me too much."
“So.” Young-il said slowly, tilting his head. “He took care of you.”
Gi-hun blinked.
That phrasing made his stomach twist. It wasn't just wrong, it was insane. Because what had happened wasn’t care. It couldn't be. Care didn’t involve assaulting someone while they were drugged and helpless.
But the way Young-il said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, disturbed him the most.
“No.” Gi-hun replied harshly, shaking his head more firmly this time. “That is not taking care.”
His voice wavered, but there was a spark in it now. Confusion was sharpening into dawning terror. Why would anyone describe an assault that way?
Young-il’s lips curved, just slightly. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible softening at the corners of his mouth that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Instead of explaining his choice of words, Young-il asked something different:
“Did he console you afterwards? When you cried?”
Gi-hun froze. His mind raced, searching for an answer through the haze of sedatives and fragmented memories. And then he found it.
Yes. He did console him.
A hand on his cheek. A voice murmuring soft words he couldn’t fully recall now, something gentle, almost soothing after… after it was done.
And that contradiction tore him apart more than anything else. He coudn't comprehend how someone could do both.
“Young-il…” Gi-hun whispered. It felt as if this name was all he had left to hold on to, the only thing keeping his sanity from shattering. “How do you know that I cried?”
Young-il didn’t answer. His dark eyes held Gi-hun’s, steady and unblinking.
Gi-hun’s heart faltered as the silence stretched.
Why would Young-il know that detail? He was stating it as a fact, as if he’d witnessed it firsthand.
And then another thought struck him even harder. What else did Young-il know?
The pieces did not fit together neatly. It felt like shards of glass were being forced into a puzzle inside his head.
But something was wrong, very wrong.
His mind raced through every interaction they had. Young-il being by his side now, holding his hand, while everyone else was gone; his prowess in both games and combat; the name that sounded just like the number on his player uniform. The way he asked questions instead of offering comfort first, like gathering intelligence rather than showing empathy.
Young-il knew everything because Young-il was there when it happened.
Right at the beginning.
Gi-hun’s breath stopped.
His entire body went rigid with a wave of pure, gut-wrenching dread.
No. This couldn't be real. It couldn’t.
But there was only one person who could have been present during that. Only one man with authority over the guards and everything else involved in what happened to him last night. Someone with enough power to let him live him after the rebellion, just to play another game with his mind.
And his name wasn’t Young-il.
Gi-hun’s eyes locked onto Young-il’s, wide and unblinking, lit with raw horror dawning like sunrise over a battlefield.
The truth was right there, in the shape of his face, in those dark, knowing eyes.
He was him.
The Front Man.
Young-il didn’t move. He stayed still, like a statue carved from ice, watching the exact moment Gi-hun’s soul convulsed with realization. His face said it all - shock, betrayal, horror. And then there was the devastation at being touched by someone pretending to care for him afterward.
This man, the one holding his hand in comfort, the person who violated him was sitting right here.
Calm and unaffected. Like nothing had changed at all.
At that moment, Gi-hun snapped. His lips parted, and for the first time since waking up, his voice came out loud.
"You."
But In-ho said nothing. He met Gi-hun’s gaze head-on with those cold, dark eyes. The same ones that watched players die in games every year without blinking.
Gi-hun tried to yank his hand back.
But he was still weak, muscles sluggish from lingering sedatives, and the movement came out jerky, uncoordinated. He couldn't pull free yet.
So his other hand shot up instead, shaking violently as it aimed for Young-il’s face in pure instinctive rejection.
"Don’t touch me." Gi-hun spat out. "Don’t ever touch me again."
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but they had not fallen. He wouldn't allow himself to cry this time, even as the hurt grew so deep it felt like drowning.
Young-il didn’t resist.
He let Gi-hun's trembling hand flail uselessly against him, and when those fingers weakly pushed at his face, he just allowed it.
As Gi-hun’s hand fell away, his body gave out. It all came crushing down on him.
His arm dropped limply to his side. He just lay there with eyes wide and wet.
Finally, Young-il - no, In-ho - spoke. But this time his voice was stripped of all pretense, steady and tired.
“You were always looking for me.” He said. “You left the games, and then you spent years searching. I watched you the whole time, every step, every failure when they found nothing about me. And I knew that if we ever met again, you won't be leaving this place, because you chose to be here."
Gi-hun listened, but his face did not soften. The words only added to his confusion and a growing, gnawing dread at what In-ho just admitted.
Two years of hunting down every lead, every rumor about the games. He had risked everything to find this man, not out of hatred, but desperate desire to end it, to save others from dying like his friends had. And now In-ho was saying that Gi-hun's own search led him straight into this.
In-ho kept staring at Gi-hun as he had before, but now he was no longer hiding. There was no mask, no alias.
Just him.
“I wanted you.” In-ho said simply, voice cold and smooth as black ice. “From the moment I saw you win. You were brave but weak where it mattered most.”
In-ho's figure was like a shadow stretching across the bed, ominous and inevitable.
“You searched for me.” In-ho murmured. “So I let you find me. And once you were here, I took what was always meant to be mine.”
The touch - a gentle, careful brush of a finger against his knuckles -sent a jolt through Gi-hun like electricity. It felt intimate. Affectionate, even, like the caress of a man who had waited years to finally hold what was lost.
And that was exactly how In-ho saw it. Not as an assault, but as coming home.
“When you were unconscious.” In-ho continued softly, ignoring Gi-hun attempts to free himself. “You called out for me. Not your mother. Not your daughter. You called for Young-il.”
Gi-hun tensed beneath the blanket.
“No… that’s not…”
“I was inside you.” In-ho continued. “When it happened.” His face remained impassive as he observed Gi-hun’s reaction. “The drugs kept you from resisting, but not from feeling.” His voice dropped lower. “You held onto me.”
It was a lie, it should be. But when it was delivered with such severe certainty, Gi-hun couldn’t tell where reality ended and madness began.
And then came the final cut.
“You didn’t say stop.”
Everything In-ho spoke pierced deeper into him. Not because it was true, but because of how certain In-ho sounded, as if he were stating an undeniable fact of the universe.
And In-ho spoke so softly, as if these words had the power to comfort him.
Like all of this was all expected.
The rape, the drug, Gi-hun's semiconscious state, none of it registered to In-ho as wrong. It just happened. Because he wanted it to happen.
In-ho smiled with a quiet curve of his lips, a private satisfaction reserved only for moments like this, when he had everything.
He leaned in closer, close enough that his breath ghosted over Gi-hun’s ear, and whispered.
“You were so warm when I held you afterward.”
In-ho’s voice was almost dreamy as he continued, his lips barely moving now.
“You smiled.” Нe murmured. “While you slept. After everything.”
“You looked peaceful.” He went on. “Like for the first time in years, you weren't burdened by your vendetta, or guilt over leaving your daughter behind. Or grief for your mother.”
He traced his fingers across Gi-hun’s knuckles, light as a feather.
“Like you finally stopped fighting and let go.”
Gi-hun didn't move, his body frozen from sheer disbelief at what In-ho was describing.
That wasn’t possible. It simply couldn’t be true.
Gi-hun turned his face away because if he looked at him any longer, if he met those dark eyes one more time, he might believe it himself.
That it wasn't violence.
That somewhere in that drugged oblivion, he had wanted it. Craved another human’s touch. Like his sins were finally redeemed and the weight of the world had been lifted by something unspeakable.
In-ho seemed pleased with what he saw, as if this reaction confirmed everything. He knew that Gi-hun rejected what happened, that he was ashamed or traumatized or both.
But In-ho also knew something else. Knew that beneath the denial, something in Gi-hun's consciousness had shifted during that drugged slumber, finding the kind of peace that only true surrender brings.
So he kept pushing.
“You looked so happy.” He whispered. “Like you finally belonged.”
That word, soft and simple, made Gi-hun flinch.
In-ho didn't say owned, raped, or punished.
But belonged. Spoken about a wanderer who had finally found a place like home after years of being lost. And that was the most terrifying thing In-ho had said so far.
A single tear escaped, falling into the pillow.
After a long silence, Gi-hun finally spoke again. His voice was quiet, a mere whisper, half-choked with betrayal.
“Why…” He started, then swallowed hard. “Why did you do that to me?”
There was no accusation left in his voice, just confusion, raw and childlike in its helplessness.
And for once in that cold, dark room, In-ho hesitated. He had answers, plenty of them. Сold ones, calculated ones, deceitful ones. That it was about control, that he wanted to show him his place and reclaim what had escaped him once before. That Gi-hun was always meant to be his.
But looking at him now, In-ho's own eyes were no longer hollow.
“Because I watched you win.” He said. “And I hated how pure you stayed.”
His gaze held an intensity that bordered on devotion. The kind of twisted affection only a man who built hell could feel for the one light trying to destroy it. In-ho’s voice was a confession spoken in the dark.
“I wanted to break you. To take away your light.”
He raised one of his hands to brush another tear from Gi-hun’s cheek.
“But when I touched you.” He continued. “You didn’t thrash or curse at me. You just accepted it and called out for Young-il. Like even then, some part of you kept trusting people.”
“Even now.” In-ho whispered, each word heavy as if it hurt him to speak. “You asked “why” instead of screaming at me with hatred.”
Gi-hun stared at him. For the first time since In-ho had revealed himself, his expression changed, contorting into an almost impossible amount of pain.
“You…” Gi-hun whispered, voice cracking. “Are not human. You can'r be human anymore.”
But even this was spoken with sorrow, an eulogy for someone who had died and not even realized it yet.
Of course, In-ho knew that was true. He hadn’t been “human” since he first played the games and won by any means necessary. Or maybe since the day he stopped looking for his dead wife's face in the crowd.
Yet hearing Gi-hun say it so plainly, so sadly, as if he was mourning another loss rather than accusing a monster, cracked something inside him.
But the crack in In-ho’s soul didn’t shatter it.
Instead, it let out an even deeper darkness.
Something ravenous.
Gi-hun, that desperate, pathetic Gi-hun, the man who called him "not human” with sorrowful eyes, was still speaking to him like he deserved a reaction beyond contempt. As if In-ho was someone worth mourning, despite having done the unspeakable. And In-ho wanted that.
Wanted it desperately.
“Fair enough.” In-ho murmured. “I'm no longer human. And therefore I'm free to be whatever I want.”
In-ho closed the distance between them in one smooth motion. He cupped Gi-hun’s face with both hands, his grip unyielding. The kiss was deep and slow, as In-ho poured every twisted emotion he had buried for years into it. There was the loneliness, the isolation, and the longing to be seen by someone who still carried light in a world he had helped darken.
Gi-hun didn’t respond, didn’t kiss back. He just stayed still, lips stiff beneath In-ho's. This wasn't love. Not even close.
Still, In-ho kept kissing him like a lover returning home after war.
The kiss finally broke.
In-ho pulled away to look at Gi-hun’s face, his eyes searching every inch of that stunned expression. Then he leaned in again, breathing him in like he was inches from drowning.
Without breaking the tender moment and without any sudden movement that might alarm Gi-hun, the Front Man reached for a small syringe tucked in his sleeve.
The injection was shallow, quick. Almost loving in its precision.
Gi-hun didn’t feel the prick. The sensation was too faint against the weight of In-ho’s body pressed to his, their breaths mingling.
But within seconds, warmth spread from his neck, blooming in his veins like ink in water, spreading through his limbs, clouding his thoughts.
As In-ho’s face began to blur at the edges, those dark eyes were still fixed on him with quiet intensity.
Gi-hun tried to focus, to say something. But words dissolved before they formed and his body went slack against the pillow. All he knew was that In-ho still held him close.
***
Sunlight, warm and golden, spilled through the wide windows, dancing across polished wooden floors and soft white linens.
Gi-hun blinked awake slowly, disoriented but not in pain.
The scent of salt and blooming flowers drifted in from outside, a gentle ocean breeze carrying the sound of waves lapping against the shore.
He was lying on a plush bed in what looked like a luxurious hotel or a villa by the sea – windows open and curtains fluttering softly with the ocean breeze.
And beside him, sitting calmly in an armchair, was Young-il. He looked peaceful, probably more relaxed than Gi-hun had ever seen him. Ho wore no player uniform, just a simple, soft sweater and slacks, his dark hair slightly tousled from the breeze.
He turned as soon as he heard Gi-hun stir, and his face immediately softened with quiet relief.
“Good morning.” Young-il said, his voice warm like sunlight on water. “You’ve have been asleep for two days.”
He reached out slowly to brush Gi-hun’s forehead with the back of his fingers, checking for fever.
Gi-hun frowned, his thoughts sluggish and slow. His mind felt hazy,not foggy from drugs, but empty, like pages torn out of a book. He remembered the rebellion, fighting guards and screaming players, blood on the floor. But after that, there was nothing.
He had no memory of being captured or anything that happened later.
All he knew was that one moment he was in hell, and now he was here.
“Two days?” Gi-hun murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep. “How… how did we get here?”
Young-il’s expression remained calm, perhaps too calm, perhaps. His eyes, however, held a gentle look.
“You were injured." He said simply. “You hit your head hard during the escape. We found you unconscious, and I took care of the rest.”
He smiled in a small, reassuring way that did not feel like a mask at all. And why would it? Gi-hun had no idea why such a thought even crossed his mind. This was the same Young-il he had met before, the man who owed him nothing but chose to stay by his side during the hardship they shared.
“I wanted to get you somewhere safe.” He added, reaching for Gi-hun’s hand this time - not forcing it, just offering his palm open for him to take if he wished.
Gi-hun stared at Young-il’s outstretched hand.
Something about the gesture felt off. Not threatening at all, but it felt like…
This man had held his hand before.
But his mind couldn’t grasp it.
So all that remained was this: Young-il, who helped him through the games as a fellow player, was now offering him his hand after dragging him out of a nightmare.
Slowly, still dazed and confused by his missing memories, Gi-hun lifted his own hand and placed it into Young-il's.
Young-il's fingers were warm, a bit dry from sea salt but not rough. They were not like the hands of a guard or a fighter, just ordinary hands.
As soon as their palms touched, Young-il laced their fingers together.
"Have we... have we won?" Gi-hun asked.
Young-il’s thumb brushed over Gi-hun’s knuckles , once, twice, in a slow, comforting rhythm.
"Yes and no." The answer was simple and honest. There was no hint of sarcasm or deceit in his tone. "The rebellion failed. Many have died..." Young-il said gently, his eyes holding Gi-hun's with unwavering sincerity. "But the surviving players were so terrified they voted to stop the games and split the money. The compound itself was damaged after the explosion you caused. I doubt they would be able to fix it."
He paused, giving Gi-hun time to absorb the information.
"You stopped the games. For some time, at least."
He smiled again, soft and proud, like someone who genuinely admired what had been accomplished despite everything else lost along the way.
Gi-hun listened quietly, his fingers still curled in Young-il’s.
For a moment a surge of relief warmed him. They had won. Not completely, not forever perhaps, but they had halted it. Saved countless lives that would have been lost in future rounds.
That was something. Perhaps more than anyone expected to achieve.
But then reality sank back in, the price they had to pay.
"How many died?" He asked, his voice heavy with grief.
Young-il’s face dimmed. A quiet shadow passed over his features, the kind that only comes from remembering too much death.
"Most of the players who fought in the rebellion... did not make it." He said carefully. "The guards fought hard."
There was a moment when none of them spoke. The ocean breeze rustled through the open windows, serene and indifferent to human tragedy.
"But some survived." Young-il added quickly, squeezing Gi-hun’s hand slightly as if to remind him that not everyone was gone. "You and I, and others. Those who fell saved many lives with their sacrifice."
He did not give a number. Instead of describing carnage, Young-il chose to focus on something else, the victory rising above the wreckage.
"The survivors are rebuilding their lives. Some went home to families they had not seen for years. You saved them all by starting that fight."
Gi-hun closed his eyes.
Many of the people he had seen every day in the compound, who had struggled alongside them during the games, were gone now. Dead because they had dared to rise up against an unstoppable system.
Still, Young-il was right. They had saved lives. Their rebellion gave others hope strong enough to make the VIPs fear another outrage if more games continued immediately after this massacre.
So everything he was doing was not pointless.
He opened his eyes again to look at Young-il.
Young-il watched Gi-hun with a quiet, steady gaze, seeing the weight of loss in his eyes. He did not try to fix it. He did not say "it is okay" or offer empty comfort. He understood that grief was not something to be fixed, but a wound that healed with care and time.
So instead, he just stayed there and held his hand.
The ocean kept breathing outside, waves crashing softly against the sand. Birds cried distantly over the water. A world that had not stopped because some men had died fighting for freedom.
Young-il had not moved his hand from Gi-hun’s as moment passed between them. Still holding it gently. Still warm.
Yet now his gaze had changed. Fixed on Gi-hun, like a statue's stare, unblinking, unwavering , as if memorizing every pore of Gi-hun's face with terrifying focus. His eyes remained still, two dark pools of water with no ripples, no reflection of light or emotion beyond quiet observation.
He kept holding Gi-hun's hand, neither squeezing it tighter, nor pulling away, merely maintaining that connection. As if anchoring him to this moment, to this villa, and to himself.
“Stop thinking about the dead. You have likely done more for them than anyone else in their lives.” Young-il’s voice was quiet but carried a weight beneath it. Not harsh, but authoritative. “You are safe. That is all that matters right now.”
His touch lingered as if he had every right to be this close.
Gi-hun didn't resist.
The sorrow was still there, deep and aching, but Young-il's words had a calming effect. No words could erase the pain, but they gave him permission to stop fighting for once. To focus on what had remained after his mission had reached its goal, at least for the time being.
He sank back into the soft pillows. His body felt heavy from both sleep and exhaustion that went beyond muscle fatigue.
"Where are we?" Gi-hun asked softly.
Young-il’s face brightened and he finally released Gi-hun’s hand.
"Private island." He answered. "Owned by a man who owed me a favor."
No name. No explanation of how someone like Young-il, a former Squid Game player, could have access to something this luxurious.
He stood smoothly, moved toward the window with quiet grace, and looked out at the ocean, an endless strip of blue stretching to the horizon.
“No one will find us here. A trusted doctor will come to examine you, and I have someone delivering supplies by boat every few days.” He added calmly, his voice steady as stone. “Other than that, we are completely alone.”
Gi-hun followed Young-il’s gaze to the window, taking in the vastness of the ocean. The words settled over him, not frightening, just a bit strange. Like waking up in a dream where reality had been rewritten. But this though, too, dissolved like salt in the ocean.
No guards. No other players. No games with their cold halls and steel doors.
Just the whispering waves.
And Young-il. Here, by his side.
For a moment, Gi-hun wondered, how did he get him out.But his mind was too tired to press further.
Young-il turned from the window, his silhouette framed by golden sunlight. Without a word, he walked to a small table where a tray sat, with steam still rising from a covered dish.
He lifted the lid: warm rice, sliced meat with vegetables. Simple but well-prepared food.
“Eat.” He said. He carried the tray to Gi-hun’s bedside and placed it on his lap carefully, adjusting the pillows so he could sit up more comfortably before handing him chopsticks.
Gi-hun took the chopsticks, his hands a little unsteady – still weak from everything.
He picked up a piece of meat first. It was delicate and perfectly cooked as he put it into his mouth, so unlike the scraps from Squid Game meals. For a second, he felt normal again.
Young-il watched him eat but did not sit down.
Instead, he stood beside the bed and quietly poured warm tea from a clay pot into a small cup. The steam curled up in delicate spirals.
Once the tea was ready, he held it out to Gi-hun in a silent offering.
Gi-hun took the teacup with both hands and blew softly on the surface before taking a sip. The tea was herbal. Soothing, like something his mother might have made when he was sick as a child. It eased something in his chest.
A tension he hadn’t even realized was there, the kind that came from surviving hell and then waking in a soft bed.
He drank slowly, savoring the feeling. For the first time since his first round of games began, he felt safe.
"Young-il." Gi-hun called out softly. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
Young-il froze. Just for a fraction of a second, so brief most people would not notice. But it happened.
He looked at Gi-hun, the man eating his food calmly, eyes filled with tired gratitude, and something flickered behind his dark gaze. Something deep.
But then his smiled returned, gentle and warm. Perfectly normal.
“Because I care.”
There was no dramatic confession or grand speech about fate or friendship, just these three words spoken with terrifying sincerity. Young-il reached out and fixed the crooked collar of Gi-hun’s pajamas.
It was a small gesture. Intimate in it's own unique way, not something he would have done during the games. Not when they were just players sitting side by side in the dormitory.
But here it felt natural.
His fingers lingered for a second on Gi-hun's shoulder, like he was checking if Gi-hun was real. Or maybe memorizing him all over again.
The bed dipped slightly under Young-il’s weight as he settled beside him. He remained seated next to Gi-hun as the afternoon light stretched across the floor, casting long shadows like golden prison bars.
His expression wasn't hungry or desperate, it was peaceful. Content, one could say. He looked like a man who had finally gotten what he wanted after years of yearning. There was no pressure in this closeness, no demand for more than this moment allowed.
Because that moment, that villa, that peace belonged to him. And by extension, so did Gi-hun.
And when Gi-hun finally finished his meal and looked up at him, he would see only kindness and nothing else.
Nothing dark beneath it.