The training room is closed to other soldiers. They do this about three times a week, just the two of them sparring with each other. At first, In-ho simply didn’t have other options. Sparring comfortably would require him not to wear his mask, so he couldn’t do it with other soldiers. But over the past year, he’s come to enjoy this activity a lot more than he expected.
Based on their track records, his chance of winning is almost exactly 50%, which frustrates him to no end but at the same time, he can’t ask for a better form of stimulation. Because they are evenly matched in both combat skills and strategy, he has to engage both his body and mind in those fights. And he expects nothing less from a sparring partner.
He knows he’s about to lose this one when the other man pins him down with an arm on his neck. It’s often difficult to predict the outcome with such a close fight, but that changes when he’s fought the same person dozens of times. He understands his own strengths and weaknesses against the Officer; the fact that he’s faster but the other man is stronger. Therefore he knows it’s almost impossible to get out of the chokehold when the Officer’s on top of him. He doesn’t give up immediately, and still puts up his best fight to maneuver out of the situation. But soon his vision starts to go dark, and he makes the smart decision to tap out.
The pressure on his airway disappears, and he inhales sharply. His vision clears up at once, revealing the smug face inches away.
“So?” The Officer smiles at him from above, their bodies still tightly pressed against each other.
“So what? You won this round.” He feels the thick layer of sweat on his body seeping through the tanktop, sticking to the other man’s wet t-shirt, their scents melting into one. The fight is over but neither of them has moved. He will never ask why because there’s no need to. Humans are not made to sustain themselves with no physical contact at all. Only he knows how hard he’s tried to fight it, but certain urges are called instinct for a reason — people long for it, even when it’s laced with pain.
“I did.” The Officer shifts his weight a little but still doesn’t let go.
His heart beats against another warm chest. Once, twice, three times. And now it’s passed the usual amount of time they allow themselves to linger. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
He hates how clever that is, perfectly deflecting the question while being technically true. There’s a tingling sensation on his skin, a rush of warmth on his cheeks. “Ok, get off then.”
“You’re sure? We still have time.”
The weight on him shifts, heavier on his waist and legs and lighter on his chest. He immediately takes a deep breath, and instantly regrets it when he hears how loud it is.
“Time for what?” Ultimately, both of them know the answer, so it’s less of a question, more like a test to see if the other man dares to say it out loud.
The Officer’s eyes glint with a newfound excitement, the tease in his smirk growing into something undeniable. “How about we play a game? Just you and I.”
In-ho watches the other man’s face slowly lower down and move to his side. Suddenly all sensations around his body are concentrated on this one spot on his neck. He feels the hot breath tickling his nerves, a thin layer of moisture making the hairs on his skin stand up.
“Red light means stop. Green light means keep going.” The Officer lightly nudges his collarbone with the tip of his nose. “You call the shots.”
In-ho doesn’t speak, although he knows he should say ‘red light’ now, or better just order the Officer to stop. Don’t even entertain his game. Nothing good will come of it. Yet he stays silent. His mouth slightly parts when a kiss lands on his neck. The lips are soft and slightly dry, a little harsh against the vulnerable spot right above his artery. Then there’s the tip of a tongue, skillfully tracing the shape of the pulsating vein. He closes his eyes and sighs.
He hears a chuckle right on his earlobe. “Green light?”
“…Yeah.”
“Yeah what?”
He grits his teeth. “Green light.”
“Yes, sir.”
The kisses tenderly travel down to his collarbone, leaving a trail of fresh red marks. He briefly wonders if the Frontman uniform’s collar is high enough to cover everything, and then his mind is pulled sharply back to the present by an intense wave of pleasure on his left nipple.
He moans loudly and grabs the other man’s hair, yanking the head up from his chest.
“What, you said green light.” The Officer palms his sweaty abdomen under the tanktop and squeezes his chest, a calloused thumb brushing over the wet nipple.
His body arches up to meet the pressure, yearning for more despite his mind telling him the opposite. A hand tentatively reaches between his legs, pressing on the bulge.
His eyes snap open. The weight of reality suddenly crashes down upon him. He grabs the Officer’s wrist firmly. “We shouldn’t.”
“Why?” The Officer gently massages his sensitive parts.
“Stop. Hey!” He pushes against the other man with serious conviction this time. Their eyes meet, and he’s face to face with his own desire. He hardens his resolve. “Red light.”
The Officer stays still, neither following his command nor resisting. He starts counting in his head. He’ll allow five seconds before he attacks.
“Alright, your choice.” The other man sighs around the four second mark.
In-ho watches him get up and quickly gather his things from the floor, a clear resignation in his demeanor. Then he hears the door open and close again, leaving him alone in this large enclosed area.
*
His body refuses to calm down. Even after he gets back to his own quarter, his chest is heaving and his heart races against his ribcage. He leaves a trail of dirty clothes on the floor and steps straight into the shower. He seizes up instinctively as cold water hits the muscles on his back. A chill shoots up from his spine, sending waves of shivers through his entire body.
He looks down. As expected, his desire has shrunken back to normal. It’s simple biology. He allows himself to slowly relax, turning the water to a comfortable temperature. He shampoos his hair half distracted. Warm water mixed with bubbles runs down along his body. But today his skin is strangely perceptive. The smooth sensation feels like thousands of soft fingertips tantalizing his nerves, impossible to ignore.
He looks around pointlessly — of course no one is here because he’s the only one with access to this floor, except Oh Il-nam and the VIPs. But he’ll literally shoot himself in the head if any of them comes into his shower.
Inhaling deeply, he savors the fullness in his lungs, the inevitable suffocation that comes with excess. His left hand reaches down and wraps around himself, already getting hard again. Water plus leftover shampoo aren’t enough to function as lube, but he likes the slightly rough touch. Pain is a form of stimulation too, and it’s been too long since he’s known pleasure without it. He rubs himself back and forth, forehead against the cool ceramic while warm water continues to pour down his back.
In-ho lets his eyes close, and his mind wanders seamlessly into the room downstairs. What is the Officer doing now? He left the training room several minutes earlier, so he should be out of the shower already. Unless he’s doing the same thing.
The thought sends a joint through his body. His fully aroused member jumps in his hand. But no, he doesn’t think the other man would like to take care of this type of business in the shower. He doesn’t know why. It’s just a very strong feeling. The Officer will rush through the shower because it merely serves the function of cleansing. Afterwards, he’ll lie in bed naked and enjoy everything properly.
He’ll use body lotion as lube. A generous amount on his large palm, slowly rubbed along his fully hardened length, coating the dark red flesh in a thick layer of white. His legs are apart, maybe knees slightly pushed up. A half bottle of whiskey on his nightstand and an open box of cigarettes next to it. And his face… what would he look like in bliss? Eyes half lidded without focus, lips parted as scandalous sounds escape from them. Will they sound deep and raw like his usual tone, or softer in this special occasion?
In-ho hears a long groan and only then realizes it’s his own. His rhythm is becoming sloppy, his right hand balling into a fist against the wall. He can feel himself growing agitated but the final release will not come. He makes himself return to his imagination, like hitting the resume button on a paused adult movie. The scene is as voluptuous as earlier, but instead of arousal, he’s consumed in shame. What kind of commander does this? Fantasizing about a soldier for his selfish gratification. He can get out of the shower and go downstairs right now, and the Officer will make all this come true. But that possibility doesn’t entice him.
It terrifies him.
All of a sudden his mind shifts, just when he’s about to give up and turn off the water. The entire scene goes dark like he just remotely turned off the light in the Officer’s room. When it comes back on, it’s much dimmer. Not in a bad way like a low quality movie, but more intimate, like a secret he stumbles upon rather than a pornographic setup. It’s the inside of a limo: leather seats, bottles of expensive champagne and the golden piggy bank. It should be his limo now, but not in this scene. His hands are tied up behind his back and his body feels boneless.
“Player 132.”
He snaps to look towards his left. A pink soldier wearing a square mask is leaning casually on the other side.
“It’s you.” The truth is he doesn’t know who’s behind the mask besides a number. “Number 7.”
“Yes. Don’t you miss me? It’s been a while.”
Number 7 closes their distance. He struggles to move away but none of his muscles work under whatever drug they gave him earlier.
“Don’t run.” The soldier holds his chin up. “I’m giving you what you want.”
“Wha…”
He doesn’t finish the question, because the next second, a gloved hand reaches between his legs and grabs him roughly. He screams out in pain, both his body and mind frozen in shock. The soldier chuckles, a familiar sound but he can’t think as the other man relentlessly gropes him. He throws his head back and desperately tries to twist his hands free, the rope leaving rings of red marks on his wrist.
“Stop fighting and enjoy it.”
The irrefutable command sends his body over the edge. His heart skips a beat, his back arches, his vision going blank along with the vivid imagination. His throat makes an awkward, primal sound as he spills hot fluid all over the shower wall.
The water is still warm, but all he feels is a bone deep chill.
*
A week later, In-ho stands over 456 players in the control room. After the first game, the light will go out for more than half of them.
“Preparations are ready.”
He looks at the Officer. “Begin.”
The other man gives him a polite nod and pushes a button on the panel. The broadcast starts to explain rules to the players. Same recording every year. He can recite the whole thing without missing a word. He turns to leave, and as he walks past the Officer, he extends a hand and lightly brushes against the other man’s arm. It lasts less than a second, the touch barely there at all. Other people in the room surely won’t notice with their eyes fixed on the screen. But the Officer never needed anything more than a mere hint.
He watches the game on his couch over a glass of whiskey as usual. Five minutes later, he receives a request to enter the top floor.
The Officer takes off his mask as soon as the elevator door opens, not bothering to hide the smug look on his face. “So? Green light this time?”
“Green light, and do not ask me again.”
Because reality can never be as volatile as his imaginations.
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His housemate has been acting strange for weeks now. Strange how exactly, In-ho can’t explain. The changes are so subtle that sometimes he wonders if he’s imagining everything, and that’s why he also can’t talk to Joon-hwan about it. It’s more like an energy shift: he feels a little bit more restless than usual? But again, that’s solely based on his own judgment, which is barely a judgment at all, more like an instinct without evidence. His phone is still connected to the other man’s smartwatch, and he can see the heart rate is even slightly lower than usual. No signs of being agitated at all.
In-ho decides not to say anything. Ultimately, it’s not his place to pry if the other man doesn’t want to share. And since it hasn’t affected him or Gi-seon, he has no reason to make it his business. He shakes his head, bringing his attention back to the pan. He’s making croque madame for breakfast today, the fancy version where the egg is inside the bread, not on top of it. He just wants to try, but as expected it’s not turning out so well. No problem, he’ll just do it again tomorrow.
“Holy shit, what’s that?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just trying something new.” He turns off the stove and points to a plate on the counter. “I made regular eggs and bacon too.”
“Cool, thanks.” Joon-hwan takes that plate and grabs a box of fresh strawberries from the fridge.
They eat breakfast in silence. Appearance aside, his ruined croque madame tastes totally fine. The ingredients are good, even crumbled up in a messy ball. He reaches into the strawberry box and accidentally brushes the other man’s hand. And he can tell Joon-hwan is more annoyed by it than he’s supposed to be. No reason, he can just tell but he doesn’t know why. It’s starting to bother him.
“Do you want to spar? It’s been a while.”
He looks up from his plate. They spar here and there, nothing weird about it, but he’d like to be extra cautious today. Even though it’s just sparring, it’ll be stupid to do it with someone who’s picking a fight intentionally for reasons he doesn’t know.
“Fight for real, or just practice?”
“Practice, of course. Why would we fight for real?”
“Ok, just asking.”
*
He immediately regrets his choice 20 minutes later when he hits the ring rope hard, air knocked out of his lungs.
“Fuck, are you ok?” His ears are ringing a little, but he hears the other man’s voice. “Sorry I didn’t mean to... Here, let me help you up.”
“You could have said we weren’t holding back.” He ignores the hand offered to him and stands up on his own, clutching his left rib. “Never took you for someone who doesn’t fight fair.”
“I’m sorry! I got carried away. Are you hurt? Let me see that.”
Joon-hwan tries to lift his shirt but he moves away. “It’s fine. I’ll get some ice upstairs.”
“It was an accident!”
“I said it’s fine!”
*
His ribs feel tender, and no doubt there’s going to be a bruise tomorrow. He tosses the icepack away and pours himself a generous glass of a scotch. Not too generous, he still needs to take care of Gi-seon. She’d want to eat soon, and not just formula anymore. She’s six months old now, so she also needs pureed fruits and vegetables, according to the doctor. She’s been able to sleep through most of the night recently. But that means she’s a lot more active during daytime, rolling over in her crib, reaching out to grab him with her tiny arms every time he gets near. He even saw her sit up on her own once from the baby monitor, but when he rushed over, she already lied back down.
She’s due for another doctor’s appointment. Last time the doctor said she was meeting all the developmental marks and was generally in good health. He felt so relieved, knowing despite how she was born, her strength prevailed in every turn. The true testimony of human life’s resilience. Six months have flown by so fast, and in a few more, she should be able to walk, and then say her first word. She’ll call out “mama” like all babies, only to later realize she doesn’t have one.
He’s making puree in the kitchen and sees Joon-hwan come up from downstairs. In-ho chooses to ignore him, not because he’s mad at such a small matter, but there really isn’t anything to talk about until the other man tells him what the hell’s been going on. Until then, he had more important things to take care of. They tacitly avoid each other for the rest of the day. He keeps himself busy taking care of the baby, scheduling her doctor’s appointment and reading the new art history book he got. Soon it’s bedtime, and he hopes Gi-seon can sleep through the night again, as he closes his eyes.
*
He gasps awake at a familiar beeping sound. For a moment he thought he was back on the island and the alarm was ringing. But no, it’s the alarm system in the house, which somehow is the exact same sound. The alarm system for regular houses is designed to produce loud noises as a deterrent. Most burglars will run away as soon as they know the entire block is waking up. But they’re not most people, and if someone is breaking into their house, they’ll want to take care of it privately and quietly. So this alarm is a lot quieter, like the regular alarm on your phone with an unpleasant sound. When the security system detects something, it gets activated in every room.
That includes the nursery too. He inhales sharply and grabs the baby monitor. At the same time, her crying pierces through the wall. He takes out his gun from the bedside drawer and jumps out of bed, checking the safety on his way to the nursery, which only takes about five seconds. Gi-seon is crying loudly, twisting her little body away from the alarm. But no one’s in the room. She’s safe.
He leaves the gun on the changing table and scoops her up in his arms. “Shh…it’s ok. Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re safe, ok?”
The alarm stops, and Joon-hwan appears at the door. Gun in his right hand but pointed down, away from the direction of the baby.
“What happened?”
“Three young men at the front door. I don’t think it’s anything, but I’ll go check now.”
He nods, holding Gi-seon tighter against his chest. But then he looks at his gun and blinks. He takes a deep breath and makes himself think rationally. She’s still crying but tears won’t kill her. Three men will, if they want to. So he gently sets her back down in her crib and picks up his gun, positioning himself by the doorframe and facing the baby with his back. He secures the silencer and turns off the safety, ready to fire.
“What do you want?”
He hears the other man’s stern voice downstairs but doesn’t know who’s on the other side of the door, or what they’re saying. He should know. There is a screen connected to the security camera feed in his bedroom, but he somehow forgot its existence entirely. As soon as he heard the alarm earlier, the only thing on his mind was the baby. That is stupid, inexcusable and so not like him.
“You are at the wrong house.” There’s a frustrated anger in Joon-hwan’s voice, but even so, he can clearly hear the tension dissipating. He knows that well himself — anger is only allowed when immediate danger has passed.
“This is 514. 541 is three rows down to your left. Now leave before I call the police!” They won’t call the police, but that’s often an effective way to scare people off.
He slowly exhales and turns the safety back on, setting down the pistol again on the changing table, barrel facing the wall. Gi-seon is still screaming. He picks her up and gently rocks her in his arms, making shushing sounds. She hasn’t cried this hard in the middle of the night in a while. Seeing her reddened face brings a sharp pain to his chest, and he holds her tighter, anxious to fix it, to do whatever he can to make it stop.
“They left, false alarm.”
He spares a glance at the man standing by the door. “Who are they?”
“Stupid high school kids. Someone’s parents are out of town, so they threw a party in the house. Acting all shady because they weren’t supposed to do that, obviously.”
He would find some humor in it, if he didn’t still have a crying baby to comfort. “Well, good thing you didn’t shoot them.”
“Yeah, I’ll go have a drink downstairs. Don’t think I’ll get more sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet.”
Joon-hwan turns to leave. The baby suddenly grabs the front of his T-shirt like she’s trying to pull him closer, with what little strength she has.
“Hey, I’m here, ok?” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
It’s not the first time he made that promise. He remembers telling the same thing to his wife, over and over, every night by her hospital bed. “You’ll be fine.” “I’ll figure it out.” They all turned out to be lies, didn’t they? No, not lies. It might actually be better if he lied to her. But he meant every word, and still, it wasn’t enough.
Gi-seon slowly settles down in his arms, letting out a soft burp as she falls back asleep. He lowers her back into her crib carefully. At least for tonight, he gets to keep his word.
Running a hand through his messy hair, he takes the gun and goes back to his bedroom. He checks the safety again just to be sure, and then opens the drawer. Besides the gun, there are only two identical golden cards in it: one for the baby sleeping next door, and one for a girl on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. He knows he shouldn’t wait any longer. Gi-hun’s daughter deserves closure, and he shouldn’t let his own cowardice get in the way. That’s a problem for tomorrow, or later today at this point. It’s 2:30 in the morning and he doesn’t think he’ll be getting any more sleep. Shoving his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants, he walks downstairs.
*
The light is not on. Only the moon casts a soft glow into the room, allowing him to make out the familiar silhouette sitting at the bar.
“Mind if I join you?”
Joon-hwan shrugs and nudges the bottle towards his direction. In-ho takes a glass and sits down next to him. It’s one of those perfect nights in early May, not yet summer but way past winter. The air feels cool and clean late at night, even with all their windows shut.
They drink in silence for a while. It might be awkward for anyone else, but surprisingly they’ve never felt that way. They used to do that back on the island, on rare nights when both VIPs and players became unbearable, but drinking alone felt too depressing. He doesn’t remember who initiated it the first time. Maybe it was him, at least he had to allow it. There was no harm, he thought. Just one drink with some quiet company. Neither of them ever overstayed their welcome: one drink, and leave.
He swallows the last bit of smooth liquor, his empty glass glimmering under the moonlight. “Thank you, for earlier.”
“No need. I live here too, you know.”
Warmth transfers from his fingertips to the glass, like the cool surface is coming to life under his hold. He grasps it tighter, and taps the bar counter with his pinky. Once, twice. “I didn’t check the security camera footage.”
The other man turns to his direction and raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. There’s no way to embellish the truth. “The screen was right there next to the baby monitor, and I didn’t even bother to look. I just…forgot about everything else.”
Joon-hwan looks down at his half finished drink. This might be the first time that he’s the one who drinks slower. “It makes sense. People do that when they really care about someone.”
“I lost focus, and it could have ended badly if they weren’t drunk teenagers. I don’t want to endanger you if this happens again. I…” He feels the alcohol burn his stomach, now mostly empty, having fully digested yesterday’s dinner. “I can’t be a burden to you.”
“What? No, that’s not…” The other man laughs like he’s truly taken aback by what he just heard. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t need your help to handle whoever comes to my door.”
He blinks, baffled by this response. “That…was not what I meant at all.”
“I know, but I agreed to this, right? You made it clear on the phone.”
“Not like that.”
“You didn’t say it explicitly, but come on, I’m not stupid.” Joon-hwan pours another glass for both of them. “You didn’t care about the legal loophole like I did. You just wanted someone else to help take care of her. That was the only thing you wanted out of this.”
“Only if I couldn’t. That was what I said.”
“Right, but she’s the only important thing to you, more important than yourself. So of course you’d run straight to her room when there was danger. I didn’t expect anything else.”
He feels his mouth go dry, and he knows more alcohol will only make it worse. “And you’re ok with that?”
“Like I said, it’s not like I needed someone else to help with security when I was living here alone.” Joon-hwan makes a vague gesture towards the space around them. “And you’re not slowing me down. Please don’t insult me by thinking otherwise.”
He feels himself smile. Not smiling intentionally, but one of those rare moments when he only senses the corners of his mouth curving up when the smile’s already on his face. “I would never.”
Silence falls upon them once more, but this time there’s an electric tension threatening to break the habitual comfort. He has to say something, so he lets the first thing on his mind slip.
“So what's been going on with you recently?” That’s probably not the best topic, but it’s too late to backtrack now. “The spar earlier, and everything else. Please don’t insult me by denying it.”
Joon-hwan keeps his eyes downwards on the glass, but In-ho knows he heard it, and he has no intention to pretend otherwise.
“I’m trying to quit.”
In-ho frowns, not sure what the other man’s trying to quit. Clearly it’s not alcohol, but he isn’t aware of any drug problems. Then it clicks for him. “Smoking, you mean.”
“Yeah.” He lifts his short sleeve, revealing a patch.
“That must be difficult.” He has never smoked himself, but has witnessed the addictiveness of nicotine many times. It’s not rare in the police department. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Figured there was nothing to tell, I guess. Not like you could help. I’m sorry about earlier though, the spar I mean.”
“It’s nothing.” He waves it off and means it. A random bruise is really not worth talking about. “But why quit now?”
“Well, it has to be now if my lungs are still salvageable. It just wasn’t a concern before.”
It’s effortless for him to understand what’s not being said. Neither of them thought they’d live long enough for cancer or other chronic health issues to become an issue.
“Plus, the baby’s not gonna stay a baby forever.” There’s an unprecedented softness in his eyes, so fleeting that In-ho barely caught it. “Soon enough she’ll start moving around beyond the second floor. Where would I be smoking then?”
Air catches in his throat, like he’s just punched in the ribs again. The other man said that so casually, unaware of the gravity of the implications. “How long do you think we’ll be doing this?”
“I thought about it, but I don’t know honestly.” Joon-hwan takes another small sip, his second drink barely touched. “Seems long enough for it to become a problem though, so better get it fixed now.”
And there it is, the ultimate question that for some reason, neither of them has brought up before they sealed this deal. How would they know when they’re safe enough to end the marriage? When does it expire?
What if it doesn’t?
“What’s that look? What are you thinking?”
He doesn’t know what look is on his face now, but he’s thinking about the answer to his own questions. What if this doesn’t end? It’s not a possibility that he’s ever assumed or considered before. However, the scariest part is it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. In fact, it doesn’t bother him at all.
“Nothing.” He licks his lips, unable to hide the strain in his voice. “That just reminded me, I’m taking her to her six month checkup on Thursday.”
“Oh, ok. You need help with that?”
“No, it’s just a routine checkup like last time.”
“Alright then.” Joon-hwan stands up and pushes the stool back exactly where it was before. “I’m gonna go back and see if I can get another hour of sleep or two. See you in the morning.”
“Yeah, sleep well.”
The other man’s footsteps slowly fade away. He’s left alone on the first floor with two unfinished drinks, and a thought pulsating through his body.
He chose the right person to trust all those years ago.
He opens his eyes and immediately squeezes them shut again, dizzy from the sudden stimulation.
“Can you dim the light?” He hears someone say. Then the room darkens. He blinks a few more times as his vision slowly clears up.
“Light sensitivity. Normal after a concussion.” The doctor helps him sit up, and he quickly realizes he has no strength to resist. “Don’t worry, it’ll get better. The important thing is you woke up by yourself.”
He looks at his own body first. He remembers the stitches on his head, although he can’t see it. There’s a cast on his left wrist. He remembers that too: it’s a soft cast because they don’t have the material here to make a hard one. But the IV in his right arm is new. They must have put it in after he fell asleep last night.
He looks at the IV again. “What are you giving me?”
“Just saline and paracetamol.” As if reading his thoughts, the doctor quickly adds, “I won’t give sedatives to a patient with a head injury. So if you’re feeling weak, it’s likely because you haven’t eaten, and your body needs energy to heal.”
He sets the empty glass on a small bedside table, silently rejecting the doctor’s offer to help.
“How’s your pain?”
“Not much.” That part is true. The IV painkiller must be working. All he’s feeling right now is a light dizziness, and a dull ache in his left ribs.
The doctor looks like he wants to say more, maybe asking him to describe the pain with a number from 1 to 10, but ultimately decides to drop it.
“Do you want to see him?” He asks instead.
“No.” In-ho glances at the soldier standing on the other side of the room. “But I don’t think I have a say.”
“He’s awake.” The soldier speaks into the radio, and then becomes perfectly quiet and stiff again, like any good soldier following orders. Just not his orders anymore.
He can’t tell which one they are, but he has heard enough voices behind the modulator to know this is likely a woman. That narrows it down quite nicely. There aren’t many female soldiers here to begin with, and the Officer would only trust a few people with this task. He’ll find out soon enough.
“What time is it?” He turns back to the doctor, who seems a lot less guarded than the soldier.
The doctor checks his watch briefly. Staff are not allowed to have any personal item on them. This must be something else the Officer allowed to be smuggled in.
“Just past one in the afternoon.”
“I slept for 12 hours?”
“You’re injured. It’s normal.”
He looks away and lets the silence fall. There’s nothing else to say. Besides, silence alone is a weapon. From what he can tell, the doctor is getting increasingly uncomfortable with each passing second.
“Um, if you don’t mind me asking…” The doctor scratches his head. He broke even sooner than anticipated. “Who are you? And how did you get here?”
That actually catches him by surprise — guess the Officer still didn’t tell them everything.
“If you don’t know, better keep it that way.”
He looks again at the soldier, who remains motionless as if the conversion between the other two people in this room isn’t happening. He has a strong feeling that she knows way more than the doctor does.
The door opens from the outside, immediately grabbing the attention from all three of them. The soldier’s hand goes to her gun on instinct, before slowing moving away when she sees the person.
He sighs and turns away. Seems like there’s no way to avoid this. He can hear the door close automatically, sending waves into the stale air as no one makes a sound or movement.
“Leave us,” the Officer finally says. The soldier wastes no time to walk out of the door, while the doctor gives them one final lingering look before following her.
*
“How are you feeling?” He feels a hand on the right side of his face. Bare hand, without the glove. “I was worried.”
He turns to face the other man, only to be met with the square mask. “Why? You were the one who did it.”
“Oh please, don’t act like some innocent victim!” The Officer pulls his zipper down and lifts his shirt, revealing the three freshly stitched scars across his torso. “You left your fair share of marks. For fuck’s sake, you tried to kill me! Now you’re just mad that you lost.”
Pieces of memories from their fight start to come back. How did he lose exactly? Right, that manager who happened to show up right when he was about to plunge the knife into the Officer’s chest. That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?
“How many people do you have working for you?”
“Enough to keep everything under control,” the Officer answers curtly, and then takes off his mask, tossing it carelessly to the side.
He does look terrible: dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He must have stayed up all night dealing with the consequences of what he started.
“That’s not important, ok? None of them will hurt you further. I won’t either.” The Officer opens the container he brought. “Here, you need to eat something.”
He smells the scent of chicken soup before the lid even opens. Not just any chicken soup, the exact recipe he likes, with the right kinds of vegetables.
He watches the other man take a spoonful of soup, and even blows it gently before offering it to him. As familiar as a movie scene from a lost recording.
*
“Come on, just let me feed you!”
“No! I have a fever, not paralyzed.” He tried to take the bowl but the Officer moved away deftly.
“Please? It’s one of my fantasies.”
“That’s really fucking weird.”
“Not the feeding part!” The other man chuckled and offered him a filled spoon again. “I just meant like, taking care of someone, helping them recover and everything."
Having done that twice himself, he still didn’t understand how that would be anyone’s fantasy. But there was an ease in the air that compelled him to give in. Why not?
“Fine, but only this once.” He leaned in and took the hot chicken soup into his mouth.
*
“I’m not hungry. It’ll make me nauseous.”
“I know, but just try to have a little? The doctor said it’ll be good for you.”
He doesn’t move an inch. Being betrayed is one thing, but he refuses to betray himself.
“What, you’re gonna hunger strike now? You know I’m not giving up until you have some. So don't make it harder for yourself.”
“Harder for myself how? You’ll try to force feed me? Because that won’t go well and you know it.”
He meant it. He won’t make it easy for the Officer. At the same time, however, it was still kind of bluffing. If the other man really wants to do something, anything, he won’t be able to stop him.
There really is no worse feeling in the world.
“Fine!” The Officer finally breaks eye contact, and sets down the bowl harder than necessary. “How about a deal then? I give you something you want, and you finish that bowl of soup.”
“You know what I want.” He keeps his tone even, not showing the wave of relief washing over him.
“I can’t let you go.” The Officer sighs, and then switches to a gentle voice like he’s talking to an inobedient child. “Even if I want to, I can’t send you into the ocean in this condition. I’ll make sure you get out of here safely, when...”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” In-ho interrupts him. “But you can tell me why.”
The Officer avoids his gaze. In-ho recognizes the way he grits his teeth and looks down, when he’s trying to make a hard decision. He’s actually considering telling him.
“Sorry, can’t do that either.”
“Then get the fuck out.”
The Officer laughs sharply and stands up, balling his hands into fists. Yet he still keeps them tightly on the sides of his body,gritting his teeth to fight the rage built up inside.
He has to admit, it’s a bit impressive.
“What about your brother then?”
“What about him?”
“Well, you’re going through a lot of trouble to keep him away, aren’t you?” The Officer leans on the wall next to him, visibly more relaxed, a smugness in his voice at the newfound leverage. “I assume you’d like to keep it that way.”
He keeps his breath even, although it feels like he was just drenched in ice water. There’s no way he’ll let any of this get to Jun-ho. “You won’t expose the operation, at least not when the VIPs are here.”
“Not on purpose, no. But if he somehow finds his way here, I’ll have no choice but to deal with the threat. Plus, if the captain can’t get in contact with you for days, who knows if he’ll do something rash?”
The Officer sits down next to the bed again and gently touches the bandage on the left side of his head, brushing away a strand of hair stuck together by dry blood.
“Don’t get me wrong. You know I don’t want that to happen either.”
No, he doesn’t know. He won’t assume he really knows anything about the man at this point. The hand is still on his head, slowly caressing his hair like someone consoling their upset pet.
“What exactly would you do to make sure that doesn’t happen then?”
“I’ll keep contact with the boat the same way you do, tell them you’re busy with the VIPs. I’ll make sure they’re lost in the sea for at least two more days, arranging fake clues if needed.”
“And you’ll do all that, just for me to finish the soup.”
“Right, that sounds unfair now that you’ve mentioned it.” The Officer picks up the bowl again. “How about you don’t try to refuse any food or medical care from now on?”
The soup is still hot, and its scent travels through the short distance, tickling his senses. He fights the urge to throw up.
“Until when?”
“Until we leave the island.”
“So in two days.”
“Ideally, yes.”
“Ideally?”
“Look, no one wants to stay here any longer than necessary. That you can believe me.”
“Deal, but you’re not feeding me.”
The other man rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you insist. Let me take out the needle for you then. Seems like it’s almost done anyway.”
Putting down the bowl, the Officer reaches for the IV needle on his right arm. He quickly moves to avoid contact, almost involuntarily.
“Relax, I know how to do it.” The Officer takes a hold of his arm and slowly opens the tape, revealing the needle. He watches it get removed from his vein, blood flowing out from the small wound, and quickly gets covered with a bandaid.
As soon as his arm is free, he reaches for the bowl himself before the other man can offer it to him again. It’s a little difficult to use the fingers on his left hand, half covered by the cast. He takes a spoonful of soup into his mouth, and it tastes more bitter than any medicine, scratching down his throat.
The other man silently watches him eat for a little while, and then gets up. Unfortunately In-ho understands him well enough to know he won’t leave until the entire bowl is finished. He hears water running in the bathroom, and the Officer returns with a towel shortly after.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning this up for you.” The Officer presses the towel on his hair, meticulously wrapping it around the strand covered by dried blood. “Must be uncomfortable to have it all stuck together.”
*
“You had to do this right before the game?” He tossed another used tissue into the trash can, pushing the other man away annoyedly.
“Why are you blaming me now? I didn’t see you protest earlier.” The Officer pulled him back and continued to clean his hair with the towel.
“I didn’t tell you to do that!”
“I told you to move! You were too late.” The Officer carefully brushed the wet hair behind his ear. “I think I got all of it.”
He picked up his mask and got up without sparing him another glance. “Never again.”
“Oh, come on! It really wasn’t my fault.”
He could hear the other person follow him, feeling the familiar presence in his bones. As irritated as he was, he couldn’t stop a smile inside his mask.
*
“Ok, this is the best I can do.” The Officer finally moves away. The white towel is now stained with dark red streaks. “I’ll give you a nice bath after this is all over.”
The implication that they’ll still be physically together after the game is not lost on him, but that’s a problem to tackle on another day. For now, he pushes the empty bowl into the other man’s hands. “I’m done. Is there anything else?”
The Officer hesitates for a moment. “No, but I thought you’d have more questions.”
“I do, but I know you won’t give answers for free, so just cut the bullshit and tell me what else you want.”
The Officer firmly holds his gaze, a vindictive glint in his stare. Then he reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small string. The pendant falls into the air, swinging back and forth, its platinum surface reflects the dim light from all angles.
*
“Keep the key while I’m gone. Try not to use it.” He took off the thin cord around his neck and handed it to the Officer.
The other man closed his fist around it, knuckles turning white. There were two things on that cord. The key to blow up the entire island, and something completely irrelevant to the game.
“Don’t you want to keep the necklace on?”
He thought about it briefly. “No, I’m going in as a player. Better be a blank sheet of paper.”
The Officer didn’t say another word, shoving the string into his pocket roughly before walking away.
Suddenly he had an urge to call after him, maybe say it’s temporary, and he’ll take it back after the undercover mission is over. Or just say something. But he couldn’t find the right words, or maybe there weren’t any right words left since they had already spoken all of them.
He watched the elevator door close. Behind him, Red Light, Green Light was about to start on the screen.
*
“Put this back on, and I’ll answer all your questions about the game, and the VIPs.”
It’s nothing too fancy or complicated. A clean square frame with a small piece of black onyx embedded in one of the corners. Even the stone looks natural, polished but not cut, just how he likes it.
“Why does it matter? I can wear whatever you want me to, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to me.” The Officer presses the cold metal against the fresh bruises on his neck. “So make your decision, do you want to ask your questions, or not?”
“Oh, that’s not a hard decision at all.” He snatches the cord and pulls it around his own neck. “It’s just metal and stone after all, no different than dirt you can dig up anywhere.”
A large hand closes around his throat, but the pressure only lasts a second before loosening up. He looks up and meets the Officer directly in the eye. His heart skips a beat, not from fear but surprise — he’s never seen the other man this angry.
The veins on his forehead are pulsating, threatening to burst through the sweaty, reddened skin. There’s a thin layer of wetness in his eyes, his lips quivering as he spits out each word.
“Do you have any idea…”
“I don’t, and I don’t care.” In-ho twists his hand away. “And now’s my turn to ask questions.”
“Oh, don’t bother. I can just tell you what you want to know.” The Officer’s taunting voice feels as familiar as his own, the kind of tone specifically designed to hurt someone. “Your precious Player 456 survived Hide and Seek, as a seeker! Turns out he didn’t have a problem killing other players after all. Thought you might want that piece of info.”
There’s a strategic pause, and he hates how much the Officer knows him. Because he is in fact thinking about what finally broke Gi-hun’s principles. Was it because of what he did? Even if it was, does it still count as a win for him now?
“And don’t worry about the VIPs. You know they don’t care who’s behind the mask, as long as they have their show.”
“You talk to them in English?”
“Well yeah, it’s not like they speak Korean.”
He scoffs, “I taught you English.”
The irony is so overstated, that the dark humor almost feels cheap.
“And it’s proven to be useful, as you insisted.” The Officer puts the empty bowl back in the container, and grabs his mask. “I suppose you have no more questions?”
“Just one.” Something, no, someone suddenly occurs to him. “Did Player 222 survive?”
The Officer pauses by the door, and when he turns back, it’s the mask and modulator speaking. “She did more than that, but I suggest you worry about yourself. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The door closes heavily, leaving him alone in this room, however short-lived that might be. He’s certain the other two people will be back in a minute. And it’s going to be two very long days for all of them.
After the island blows up, In-ho and Officer both go into hiding. Soon enough, they start to seek connection and comfort from each other.
My gift for @eerieaart for the @sgcupidgames2026 event. Hope you like it!
Rating: Explicit
Paring: Inficer
Words: 6,440
Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79537541
“Status update?”
“Out of 458 remaining soldiers, 421 have been confirmed at secure locations. The remaining 27 have until tomorrow 6 pm to get back and report. Tracking and pursuit personnel are on standby, in case they don’t.”
“Good, remember to do it quietly.”
“Of course.”
“I see you’re at your Eunpyeong-gu location. Apartment 503?”
The line goes silent. Every soldier has a tracker implanted. But this location isn’t listed on the Officer’s file, so the other man likely didn’t expect him to know the exact apartment number.
“That’s correct.”
“It’s an urban area. Do not leave your residence unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“I understand. It’s not my first time in hiding.” The snark in his tone is soft enough to be denied if confronted, but undoubtedly there. A subtle way to show he’s displeased with how exposed he felt earlier.
“Report to me again tomorrow after 6 pm.”
“Yes, sir.”
In-ho puts down the receiver. He’s likely the only person with a landline in this entire neighborhood. What can he say? Modern technology and security are almost always antonyms.
The two bedroom apartment is dimly lit in the evening. The light is a warm shade of yellow, but it doesn’t make the place feel less empty. When he set up this safe house, it was simply a logical choice to have more space than he needed. No different from having an extra weapon, an extra plan, an extra passport or two. The extra room almost became useful when he first brought Jun-hee’s baby out of the island. He even allowed himself to briefly imagine it. He could turn the spare room into a nursery. He could do this. Who else would be better suited to protect her? Well, anyone else, really. He was the kind of person that she should never cross paths with. She should be protected not by him, but from him.
He’s sure Jun-ho will be a good father to her. His brother is a good person, always been one.
*
“Only two soldiers failed to confirm by 6 pm. Both were tracked down. Worker 91 experienced technical difficulties but was at his secure location on file. Soldier 22 attempted to flee, and was apprehended."
“Where?”
The Officer tells him a set of coordinates. He writes them down.
“I assume there were no traces.”
“No, of course not.”
“Ok, keep track of everyone. Update me every week at this time, but contact me immediately if any situation arises.”
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“No. You be careful too.” He ends the call, not sure why he said that. It’s not like the other man needs the reminder.
*
Time passes, both faster and slower, somehow. The entire concept of time gets blurrier when he has no set routine and no interaction with anyone. He has a lot to do, of course. As long as the police don't rest, he can’t either. It’s been three months and the island’s explosion is still all over the news, and he doesn’t see that changing anytime soon. But he doesn’t have a set schedule like normal people, which means he can work, eat and sleep whenever he wants.
This supposedly freedom could be insidious, as he quickly found out a month in. Day and night stopped mattering to him, and consequently, neither did eating and sleeping. So he set some basic rules to keep himself functioning. For example, every week he needs to eat at least 20 times, sleep 55 hours and work out 4 times. One week is an easy timeframe to keep track of, because of the brief weekly call he has with the Officer.
Nothing noteworthy happens during those calls, since the soldiers have been obedient and cautious for the most part. That makes sense. They don’t want to be caught either. Occasionally there are situations where someone is more active than usual, often due to family responsibilities like visiting a sick grandparent or taking care of children. It’s surreal to think about them taking off the pink jumpsuit once and for all, getting back to their normal lives like nothing happened.
“What do you do all day?”
“What?” He frowns, not sure where the question comes from.
“It’s been a bit uneventful, isn’t it?” The Officer sounds indifferent as usual. “Staying inside all the time, I got bored of scrolling real fast.”
“Then deal with it! You know the safety protocol,” he snaps, not in the mood to hear any complaints even if that wasn’t the other man’s intention.
“I am dealing with it. You have my tracker too. Did you see me leave my location?” The anger in his voice only surfaces for a fleeting moment, before being masked again behind a perfectly professional tone. “Never mind, I’ll report to you at the same time next week.”
“Reading helps,” he hurries to say something before the other man could hang up, grasping at the slight possibility of having a conversation. He’ll have plenty of time to regret it later.
The Officer speaks again after only a brief silence. “Yeah? What book are you reading?”
He looks at his bookshelf filled with philosophy and art history. “They’re boring.”
“What? Why are you reading boring books?”
“No, not like…” He chuckles and almost startles himself. When was the last time he did that? “They’re not boring to me.”
“Well, try me. I got a feeling that they aren’t nearly as boring as 20 year olds’ TikTok videos.”
He spends the next ten minutes talking about Impressionism and how it was connected to the rise of industrialization and individualism. The other man doesn’t interrupt him, nor does he ask questions, only gives a brief affirmation once in a while to show he’s still listening.
“It’s not boring,” the Officer finally comments after he finishes. “But yeah, I wouldn’t casually bring that up in a normal conversation.”
“Shut up. You forget yourself.”
“Alright, sir. I’ll call you next week.”
*
“I also started a book this week. Not about Impressionism, sorry,” the Officer tells him with an amused tone. “Broken Summer. A mystery or thriller, I’m not sure.”
“What is it about?”
“There’s this super successful, famous artist. One morning he wakes up and finds his wife missing. Then everything goes to shit, basically.”
In-ho can’t hold back a laugh. “That sounds awful.”
“Not at all! I can’t put it down. Or maybe I just crave some old fashioned entertainment.”
He quickly googles the book. “Well, seems like it was one of the best thrillers in 2022. So maybe you’re onto something.”
The silence on the other end feels palpable. When the Officer speaks again, there’s an uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice. “Do you want to read it too, maybe? Might be nice to take a break from your philosophy studies.”
“You mean read it together?” He feels his face flushing as soon as the words come out of his mouth. The simple question carries an unmistakable intimacy that he didn't anticipate.
“Kind of? Unless you have anything better to do.”
“There’s only so much anyone can do without leaving the apartment.”
“Right? Even in prison you get to talk to other prisoners!”
He thinks about all the people he sent to prison years ago. “I doubt you’d want to talk to them.”
“But they’d want to talk to me, and you, for that matter!” The other man sounds truly excited about this scenario that he probably has forgotten it’s a real possibility. “Can you imagine? We’d be superstars!”
“No, we won’t.” He firmly shuts it down before this strange train of thought can go further. “Everyone will hate us so much that we’ll likely spend the rest of our lives in solitary confinement.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Believe it or not, most criminals have a very strong sense of justice.” Sometimes much stronger than normal people outside of prison.
“Oh well, that just gave me hope for humanity again.”
The sarcasm comes off naturally. Others might try to be witty at times, but the Officer’s cynicism has long become a part of his being. That was one of the things that captured In-ho’s attention several years ago. There were quite a few capable managers on the island, all from military or police backgrounds. But choosing a second in command wasn’t only about abilities. It had to be someone he could understand, and trust, at least to a certain extent. And the Officer was exactly that — easy to understand.
In-ho remembers reading his file, all but four pages. Parents died young, no siblings, joined the North Korean military at 17 and served for 14 years, until he defected by killing at least six of his comrades. Then a series of crimes in this country across the span of three years and a half, caught twice but never convicted, before he was recruited to the game as a soldier. No wife or children, not even long term romantic relationships.
If he were a professor or therapist, he would shake his head at this unfortunate case of how negative environments affected people’s development, how someone could have had a normal, healthy life but was robbed of that opportunity. But he did not care for potentials and saw things as they were, so the truth was glaringly obvious.
There is only one way for this man’s life to turn out, and he is exactly how he’s supposed to be.
And the Officer knew that too, and that was the most beautiful part. There was never any self pity, complaints or even anger, at least nothing noticeable. Only a cold, unapologetic acceptance of himself, his circumstances and the world as a whole. And that clarity was more valuable than anything else.
*
He has Broken Summer delivered the next day, and proceeds to read over 100 pages in one go. The Officer really wasn’t lying. It’s hard to put it down when there’s a new reveal or twist every ten minutes. He supposes it’s a nice way to spend his time, more relaxing than reading his usual books. He can simply let his brain rest and be passively led by the author, following those planned stimulations. He doesn’t need to think at all; all he has to do is wait and see. He can’t remember the last time he did that.
“So? Did you finish?” The Officer doesn’t wait to ask him, not even bothering to say hello first.
“Yeah, I really liked it. You picked a good one.”
“You did? I was expecting a more spectacular ending, honestly.”
“What do you mean?” He likes the ending just fine.
“You know, it turned out to be an accident. I was hoping for a grand murder reveal or something.”
He snorts, “Haven’t you had enough murders?”
“True, I’m biased.” In-ho can visualize the other man shrugging a bit disappointedly. “Still, you don’t find the ending a bit underwhelming?”
He could have brushed it off and ended the conversation right there, keeping it surface leveled. Instead, he takes a silent deep breath and starts talking. “Not really. I actually like how they focused on his own denial to face reality for decades, and the consequences from that. I think that’s way more interesting than the accident itself.”
There is a long pause. Somehow he can tell it’s a thoughtful one and not an awkward one. “Ok, I can see that. Glad you liked it.”
He should end the conversation here. There’s nothing else to talk about. “So I get to pick the book this time?”
“Is it going to be art history?”
“What, think you can’t understand it?”
“Hey, that was uncalled for!” The other man laughs loudly. “Alright, let’s see what pretentious stuff you’re reading.”
He looks over to his bookshelf. It’s not that he really doubts the other man’s intelligence, but most of them would be dull to anyone who doesn’t usually read this type of book. His eyes land on one: something closer to psychology than philosophy. When he first read it, he thought it was more “fun” than his other books, in the traditional sense.
“The Happiness Hypothesis.”
“That sounds…cheesy.”
“I know. He should have picked a better title.”
“Alright, let’s see about that.”
The Officer doesn’t bring up the book during their call next week, nor the week after that. He is a little disappointed, not by the lack of reaction but more about the absence of a direct answer. He could have just said he didn’t like it at all. Still, they talk about random things like the movies they watched recently, or even the new grocery items they got delivered.
“Have you tried wild pine mushrooms? It’s bland as hell. I have no idea why they cost so much.”
“Maybe you don’t know how to cook it,” he teases. “But yeah, these things are marketing scams. It’s just food.”
“Is there anything expensive that’s not a marketing scam?”
“Land, probably. There’s only a fixed amount.”
“I’m not gonna buy some land to try it out.”
Winter turns to Spring. He’s turned off the heating in his apartment for about two weeks now. And based on his experience, he’ll get another three weeks of this perfect temperature at most, before he needs to turn on the AC.
“I finished the book,” the Officer brings it up casually one day, when he’s almost forgotten about it entirely.
“You did?”
“Yeah, why are you surprised?”
“Because it’s been over a month?”
“I didn’t promise to read it within a certain timeframe, did I?”
He shifts into a more comfortable position in bed. He moved the phone from his desk to the nightstand a while ago, accepting the fact that these phone calls were rarely about business anymore. “Ok, so? What do you think?”
“I think it just lays out what most people are afraid to admit.” He hears the other man blow a puff of smoke. “The elephant rider metaphor, you know. How people feel about things first, and then try to rationalize it and find a reason.”
“Sounds like you don’t agree.”
“It’s not about agreeing or not. There’s no need to do that if I’m honest with myself.”
He’s always respected that, admired it, even. The kind of candidness that deep down, he wishes he has.
“But I don’t agree with the conclusion,” the Officer continues. “He thinks people will be happier if their rational thoughts are in tune with their emotions. I don’t think that’s true.”
“Why not? You just said you’re like that.”
“Because most people need some kind of illusion to be happy, I think, even with themselves.” In-ho hears a bottle open, and then the familiar sound of liquor flowing into a glass. “And that’s not weak or anything, just normal. I’m not normal.”
He snorts, “you make it sound like a good thing.”
“It can be. The author would agree! Self awareness, right?”
He gets off bed and takes a bottle of whiskey from his own liquor shelf. “I have a feeling that you’re seriously misrepresenting what he wrote.”
“That’s what books are for. Individual interpretations.”
“Fine. What’s the next book then?”
“There was this one about WWII I saw the other day. Hang on, give me a minute.”
*
Every week on Friday at 6:30 pm. It has become a habit, a ritual. The only thing that keeps him sane for the past seven months. It’s the middle of July. He makes himself a watermelon soju at 6:20, brings it to the nightstand and settles comfortably in bed. The phone rings exactly 10 minutes after.
“There is a situation. A soldier was arrested two days ago for drunk driving.”
He feels the smile get wiped off his face. “Which one? How much does the police know?”
“Number 34. It doesn’t seem related at all. He was drunk driving and hit a pole. No injuries besides some stitches on himself. They gave him a big fine, suspended his license and let him go.”
He sighs deeply and runs a hand down his face. “Fuck. Why are people so stupid?”
“I know, right? Just call an Uber! Now he’s in the system.”
“But that’s the only thing he’s in the system for.”
“Yes, so nothing to worry about at the moment. I’ll keep a close eye on him.” The Officer changes to a familiar casual tone, something he didn’t even know existed a couple of months ago. “I just wanted to lead with that, so I don’t ruin your mood later.”
He takes another sip of watermelon soju. The sweetness travels down from his tongue and melts into his chest. “So, do you still want to talk about the book?”
“Fuck no! It was the worst book we’ve read! I’m never touching romance again.”
He almost choked on the soju. “Hey, you picked it.”
“I thought I’d try something new, never again.”
“Come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Not bad? The whole book could have been ten pages! There are zero reasons for them to drag it out. They have no real obstacles or whatever!”
“Oh well, you need to give the author some grace. Most people don’t face real obstacles like escaping from North Korea.”
The Officer goes quiet. He quickly catches himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“No I get it, don’t worry.” The other man dismisses it, but In-ho doesn’t miss the vague tension in his voice. “But that’s why this genre isn’t for us. Our threshold is too high.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He takes the obvious hint to change the topic. “Let me see, how about something totally different this time? You like fantasy? The one with elves and everything.”
“Sure, just not something as long as Lord of the Rings.”
*
The air starts to lose heat by early September. He turns off AC and keeps a window open for most of the day, something he wasn’t comfortable with when he first arrived at this safe house. Police have been looking into the case for almost a year now. They’re still trying, but he can tell the hype is fading. The media has other headlines to chase, and the government won’t spend endless money and resources on a project that yields no results.
The game starts in about two months, and he should already be on the island around this time of the year. Except he isn’t, and will never be again as far as he knows. At first there were talks about finding another location after the heat dies down, but the VIPs lost interest soon after. There were other games in other countries that would gladly offer them an invitation. There was nothing irreplaceable about the Korean game.
He was relieved, more so than he thought he’d be. No more fake pleasantries with these people, no more annual reconstruction projects on a vulnerable structure. No more masks and killings. He thinks about Gi-hun’s eyes across the screen, the sorrowful acceptance. His unfinished last words and the purest form of life he saved. The girl is doing well under Jun-ho’s care, much bigger now. Soon enough she’ll take her first step.
It feels like cheating, to simply get away with all he’s done. He’s always known that there’s no justice in the world, but never saw himself as someone who would benefit from it. He believed he’d work for the game until he’s unable to anymore, or until the VIPs get tired of him for some reason. Then he’d exit the world cleanly with a bullet in the head, if he was lucky.
He never thought there would be an end to it. Now there is, and he has no idea what to do with himself.
*
He steps on a boat, a small white sailboat, almost transparent. He tightens his coat under the chilly sea breeze, watching the familiar black stone appear on the thin line where sky meets the sea. He steps onto the hard, wet rock. But there’s no building in sight, no soldiers standing by. He takes out his radio but there is no signal.
Where is everyone?
He walks towards the facility’s general direction based on his memory, which is blurry for some reason. And suddenly everything appears, four walls shooting up from the ground around him, trapping him in a concrete cell. He turns around, and the Officer is right there in his black jumpsuit and square mask, only that he’s out of the cage across a small window.
“What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know, sir. You should ask yourself.”
“What?”
“Seems like you don’t want to leave.”
“What are you doing? Let me out!”
“I can’t.”
He reaches for his gun but it’s disappeared too from his belt. When he looks up again, he’s staring directly into a barrel.
“Goodbye, In-ho.”
*
He gasps awake, clutching the blanket to his chest. The clock says 6 am in the morning. Autumn air is gently lifting up the thin curtains. He must have left the window open last night. He throws off the blanket and practically jumps out of bed, heading straight to the half finished bottle of liquor on the dining table. He remembers now, about last night: drinking alone, and falling asleep without eating anything.
He pours another generous glass, which he knows is a terrible idea. At least he should have a glass of water first but he can’t be bothered to care at the moment. The whiskey is smooth. That’s how he likes it. The taste is strong but it doesn’t burn his throat immediately, the heat slowly building up as it hits his empty stomach. A wave of dizziness hits him. He closes his eyes, opens them again, and then walks to the phone on his nightstand, before he can lose this brief yet foolish courage.
*
The Officer picks up after three rings.
“What happened?” He clearly sounds like he just woke up, but there’s an urgent seriousness in his voice, thinking this must be an emergency.
But it’s not, and that’s the problem.
“Are you okay? Say something.”
“Yeah, I just…got the time wrong, sorry.” That must be the worst excuse ever.
“What?” There’s some shuffling notices on the other end. “Today’s Wednesday, right? You got the time and date wrong?”
“Forget it.”
“Wait!” The other man shouts as he’s about to hang up, and against his best judgement, he picks the receiver back up. “Look, we don’t have to call at the usual time, ok? It’s not like there’s a rule we need to follow.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if you want to talk now, let’s talk now.” There’s a softness in his voice that feels out of place. “Or if not, we can call another time, anytime you want.”
There’s a sourness rising in his throat, and just for one brief moment, he gives in to the weakness spreading from his chest. “Why?”
“Because we want to, and there’s nothing to stop us.”
That’s the truth, isn’t it? There is nothing that stops them from changing the calls to a different time, or having them more frequently. With how things are going, it likely won’t even be a problem for them to start leaving the apartment occasionally. This should have been the end of the tunnel. Bright light, open space, normalcy.
“It’s ok. We can keep it on Friday.”
“In-ho…”
“No, really, I was…” Suddenly he realizes that was the first and only time the Officer called him by his name. Except just now, in his dream. “I should probably go back to sleep anyway.”
He hears a long, frustrated sigh. “Ok, if you insist. But I’ll call you on Friday, ok? Normal time.”
“Yeah, talk then.”
He puts down the receiver. His muscles instantly soften all around his body. He remembers this feeling well, when a crisis situation turns out to be a false alarm. Maybe he just wants to know someone would pick up.
He has two glasses of water, closes the window, pulls up the blanket and closes his eyes again.
The phone rings on Friday at 6:30, not one minute early or late. They talk about some random things that don’t matter. Neither of them mention the newest book they read, or the incident two days ago.
*
Time goes on, and he hasn’t had another dream. They still have their weekly phone calls, but they don’t talk about books anymore. The conversations are filled with meaningless small talk, or not even that sometimes, when the air is filled with nothing but their long breaths. There’s a unique intimacy to it, how the pressure slowly builds to an inevitable explosion with every week passing by.
The streets are starting to look festive as the end of the year approaches. First Christmas, and then immediately New Year. He hears more commotion from his neighbors, more visitors and more laughter. There’s a Christmas tree in a small square not far from his apartment building. When he looks out the window, he sees young couples and friends line up to take pictures in front of it.
The party on New Year’s Eve is loud, and the fireworks are louder. He never celebrated it this way. Even when she was alive, they’d just have a nice home cooked dinner, sometimes together with Jun-ho, their mom and her parents. They weren’t the type to party all night and kiss in public. Their love was deep and private, so once she was gone, there was no one left to witness.
Not long after the Christmas and New Year decorations are taken down, the ones for Valentine’s Day start to appear. All pink ribbons, roses and teddy bears. He wonders if girls these days actually like those things, or they’re simply conditioned to see them as romantic symbols. Her favorite flower was purple peony. He remembers going to three different shops to find them the first Valentine’s Day they spent together. She felt terrible and apologized for the trouble when she found out. But all he felt was lucky that he had found someone truly special.
“So what did you dream about that night?” The Officer asks him with an eerily casual tone on February 7th. “Come on now, it’s been long enough.”
Long enough since he had the dream, or since they started to have these calls? Or even earlier, when they were on the island still? How long has he trusted him?
“It was the island. Empty, dark, how you’d imagine it after it blew up. The building was gone and no one was there, and then…” His voice sounds faraway, like the dream version of himself is the one talking. “Then there was you.”
“Me? Just me?”
“Yeah, and then I woke up.” Of course he won’t say anything about the part where the other man shot him.
“Oh well, that doesn’t sound bad at all!”
“It’s not.” Even with the gun and the concrete cell, it wasn’t nearly as bad as everything that actually happened on the island.
“It’s nice, if you really think about it.” The Officer’s voice goes deeper, with a smoothly seductive tone. “Just you and me having an island all to ourselves?”
Deep down, he knows where this is going. He’s known since he made that call at 6 am. There was no professional excuse for that, no matter how hard he tried to find one. Yet here they are, months after, and it’s not him who ends up pressing the button to blow up the island again in his own dreams. And he hates himself a little for that.
“I’d prefer somewhere more tropical though, with a nice beach,” the Officer continues. It cannot get more obvious than this.
His heart crashes into his ribcage. Once, twice, faster and faster as heat slowly dissipates from his skin in a thin layer of moist. “Yeah? What would we do there, on the beach?”
There’s a beat of silence. It doesn’t feel like doubt, but determination. “Why don’t you come and find out?”
He can’t help but laugh. “What, to a beach?”
“Hm, maybe later.” It sounds like the Officer is seriously considering it. “But how about you just come over next week?”
“Same time next week?” It’s a coincidence that their weekly call happens to fall on a Friday. But it’ll be a decision to keep it on next Friday, knowing it’s February 14th.
“Yeah, Friday.” The confirmation sounds so casual, like it was silly for him to even ask. “But instead of a call, we meet up in person.”
He grasps the receiver tightly, stopping it from slipping away from his sweaty palm.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
*
In-ho changes his clothes twice. It sounds embarrassing, but he’s sort of lost the touch of getting dressed to go outside. Thankfully he’s not a woman who also has to worry about hair and makeup. At first he picked out a nice grey three-piece, but immediately realized how ridiculous it was when he looked in the mirror. That was definitely the one wrong color. So now he’s wearing white, ivory to be more precise. A polo sweater with a matching casual suit jacket.
He knows he should bring something, but can’t think of anything that’s both legal and appropriate, besides alcohol. He briefly wonders if he should choose wine for the occasion. Then he thinks about the purple peonies, and grabs the bottle of Scotch. Shoving the keys into his coat pocket, he steps out of the door, for the first time in a year and two months.
The traffic is bad. Actually “bad” would be an understatement. It’s not every year that Valentine’s Day coincides with Friday night. Other people stuck in traffic are getting impatient, but he’s strangely calm as he watches pairs of young couples strolling the street, carrying flowers, gift bags and teddy bears. A man holds his girlfriend tighter as wind blows up her white scarf. She presses her smaller body against him and they’re laughing. And all of a sudden, the world starts to make sense again.
The door of Apartment 503 seems ordinary. Of course it is — there is no reason for the door of a safe house to stand out. He was just expecting something special, a sign that tells him he’s made the right choice, the final confirmation that he shouldn’t turn around and leave.
The door opens on its own, before he could knock.
He takes a step back instinctively, his brain going completely blank at the sight of the person standing right there. Not a voice across the landline, right in front of him, in flesh.
“Well…hello?”
He blinks, struggling to get his voice out. “How did you know I was here?”
Now the Officer looks equally stunned. “Because of the camera? Do you not have one at your place?”
“Right, of course.” He steps in and walks past the other man, not sure how to continue this conversation without feeling like an idiot.
“You’re right on time. I thought it’d take longer with traffic.” The door closes and locks behind them. “I’ve been hearing the cars honking outside since 5.”
He can only smile, desperately trying to find the ease they used to have during those calls, when he barely needed to think for them to chat for an hour.
The Officer takes a hold of the bottle in his hand, and looks at the label approvingly. “You still remember.”
He said something else after that, but In-ho didn’t really hear it because their fingers lightly brushed as the other man took the bottle from him just now. The fleeting touch barely lasts a second, yet that’s all it takes to break a dam in his brain, flooding his body with years worth of happy chemicals, instantly engulfing him in paralyzing pleasure.
Warm, real, human. His vision gets blurry for a second and he blinks it away, focusing on the nice buttoned shirt the Officer is wearing. But all he cares about is the vast skin underneath, with a beating heart.
He lunges forward and crashes their lips together.
*
For a few seconds, the other man is completely still. Not kissing back, not pushing him away, still holding that bottle of Scotch. He grunts frustratedly and presses their bodies harder against each other, reaching under the Officer’s shirt to touch the lean muscles on his back.
“Whoa, hang on!” The Officer pushes him away just enough to speak. Their faces still inches apart, and there’s a delighted amazement glistening in his large eyes. “You…are you sure you want to start with this?"
“No, it started a long time ago.” Like growing a new pair of eyes, suddenly everything falls into perspective. He thinks about that dream again. It’s not betrayal that he’s scared of, but the destiny of dying alone in a cage built by himself.
He brings their lips back together, and this time the other man kisses him back with equal passion. A pair of strong arms embrace him, locking him into a warm cage with the scent of whiskey that he never wants to get out of. He hasn’t kissed anyone in a decade, and has long forgotten where teeth end and tongue begins, everything melting into one soft, wet spot to drown in.
Inhaling deeply through his nose, he shrugs off his coat, and then the well-pressed ivory jacket, craving more skin contact. The Officer takes hold of his waist and pushes him backwards. They stumble through a long hallway and then make a left turn. The floor changes from ceramic tile to wood. The back of his knees hit the bed, and he lets himself fall into the soft mattress.
The other man lays on top of him, still not breaking the kiss while unbuckles his belt with one hand. In-ho moans into his mouth, kicking off his pants and struggles to take off the sweater at the same time, unwilling to break any physical contact. There’s still too much clothes. His bare torso is pressed against the Officer’s shirt, the slippery, silky sensation tickling his skin. He reaches for the buttons but his fingers can’t get them open. Annoyed, he grabs the soft fabric and tears it in half.
“Fucking hell…” The Officer whispers in awe. A hand reaches behind his head, and gently pulls him backwards, exposing the side of his neck. He closes his eyes, expecting a kiss or bite but nothing comes. He looks up at the other man, confused and impatient.
There’s an alluring darkness in the Officer’s eyes, a desire so strong that it materializes into danger. “Were you always like this?”
“What?” He doesn’t understand the question, his mind still foggy from the sheer want. Lips, skin, everything.
“How many years have I missed, having you like this?”
The Officer leans down again and starts kissing his neck, leaving bite marks on his collarbone, and chest, licking his nipple. He sucks in a shaky breath, thrusting up his hips, desperate for more.
“Settle down,” the Officer chuckles against his stomach. “Have a little patience.”
In-ho grabs a hold of his shoulders, and with a clean move, flips him over. “No, I’ve waited long enough.”
Everything becomes a blur after that. It feels like he’s forgotten how to touch another human, and his body is solely running on primal instincts. There is no technique, no skillful teases or romantic intimacy, only sloppy movements to seek any stimulation that his body’s starved of. He feels like a teenager grinding against someone for the first time in their life, and the friction itself is enough to set his mind on fire. Except he didn’t actually do this as a teenager. He’s doing it now, blessed with life again from an endless fountain of pleasure, his soul reborn from the ultimate ecstasy.
He lays there panting, everywhere on his body stained with hot fluid. Hand, chest, stomach, between his thighs. He’s long gotten used to exhaustion, but it’s been years since he’s felt such utter depletion inside and out.
“Holy fuck, that was not what I planned.” The Officer hands him a tissue. Something has changed in his tone: a friendly mockery that’s only unmasked now.
He wipes himself, and it’s clear that one tissue isn’t enough. “What did you plan then?”
The Officer shrugs. “You’ll need to find out next time.”
The corners of his mouth curve up at the casual mention of a next time, the promise that there’s more. “I’ll need to use the bathroom. Do you want a towel?”
“Sure.”
He goes to the bathroom and quickly cleans himself. Looking into the mirror, his skin is marked with fresh little bruises, and he has no idea how he even got half of them. He avoids his gaze, heat slowly rising to his neck and face. He quickly finishes wetting the towel and walks back into the bedroom.
“Here.” He tosses the towel to the other man and gets back in bed, already thirsty for skin contact again. He presses their bodies together, relishing the warm softness.
The Officer can’t hold back a laugh. “You’re a cuddler too?”
“You have a problem with it?”
“Not at all.” The other man pulls him in, finding a comfortable angle for both of their heads to rest.
They stay like that for a long time, quietly listening to each other’s breathing and heartbeats. And it all comes back now. The books they’ve read, stacked neatly on a wooden shelf against the wall. The long scar on the other man’s chest that he’s touched before when they sparred. The natural ease they felt with each other’s presence, even when it was just a voice over the phone.
He doesn’t want to leave this bed, this apartment ever again.
“Stay for the night.”
“What?” For a moment he thought he said something out loud earlier.
“If you want to, I mean.” The Officer brushes a strand of his hair away. “I can give you something to wear tonight, and we can figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He feels a kiss on his forehead, with more gentleness that he didn’t know either of them was capable of.
“Do you want to eat something? You didn’t even see the dinner I prepared.”
“You made it yourself?”
“Yeah, but now I’ll need to heat everything up again.”
“Did you use wild pine mushrooms?”
“Oh, shut up.”
They share another kiss, so natural like they’ve done it a thousand times. And maybe they have. Who says they couldn’t have shared a thousand kisses just now? If not, they will soon. After everything, now they have all the time in the world.
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It has been about a month since their co-living situation, and In-ho has to admit, it’s going more smoothly than he expected. Both of them have no problem respecting each other’s boundaries. Joon-hwan has kept his promise of not smoking on the second floor where the nursery is. That doesn’t seem difficult, considering they agreed to try staying away from the other person’s floor in general unless there’s an emergency, which thankfully hasn’t happened yet. Though that doesn’t mean they don’t spend a decent amount of time together.
Their schedules naturally align quite well, thanks to the years spent on that island. They wake up around the same time, both work out three to four times a week, and interestingly, both like to read in their spare time. What they read is quite different: he likes to read about philosophy and art, literature too but mostly classics, while the other man enjoys modern fiction, especially sci-fi and thriller.
“Hey, have you been reading my books?” Joon-hwan asks him after breakfast.
“Yeah, I like The Good Son a lot.”
“That’s great, but just one thing. Do you mind putting them back in the same place after you’re done?”
“Did I not do that?” He’s not sure what the other man’s talking about. He always puts the book back.
“You did, but I meant the exact same place.” Joon-hwan takes out two books that are next to each other. “You see, they’re all in alphabetical order. Like these two are similar, but I never switch them.”
“Sure, I’ll keep that in mind, if it’s important to you.”
That’s something new In-ho discovered about the man since they started living together: he is extremely organized. And that’s not nothing coming from him, because he’s not messy himself. But what Joon-hwan wants definitely exceeds the normal level of household standards. He’s not a psychologist, but he’s pretty sure it’s some kind of OCD.
Joon-hwan gives him a knowing look. “You think it’s silly, don’t you?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“I know, but old habits die hard, I guess. Everything had to be perfect in the military.” He shakes his head and puts the books back. “Not that I had many books in the North, but I don’t know, seeing them organized this way is relaxing.”
“It’s fine, I’m not judging. I’ll make sure not to mess up the alphabetical order next time.” Then something suddenly clicks for him. “Wait, is this why you insist on not letting me clean anything in the house besides my own floor? So I won’t mess things up?”
Joon-hwan laughs, a sound that he’s gotten more and more used to. “I didn’t know how to explain it to you without making it sound like an insult.”
“You could have just said that. I’m not gonna complain about not having to clean.”
“Well, you even it out by doing most of the cooking, so I don’t mind either.”
That’s true, and it’s not like the other man is bad at cooking, more like he can only make about six things in total. While these six things are decent, they’re still only six things. Therefore, he’s been gladly taking on the responsibility of increasing the variety of their diet. They could just eat out or order food all the time, but frankly he enjoys cooking quite a bit. He stopped doing it as frequently after his wife fell sick, and then altogether after she died. But now, he’s slowly finding pleasure from it again, or at least a sense of accomplishment when raw ingredients turn into a delicious meal in his hands. And he’s very happy to find he hasn’t gone rusty with his old recipes.
The only task that he hasn’t let the other man help at all is taking care of Gi-seon. That was their deal, and it’s fair. It was his own decision to save and keep the baby, and it had nothing to do with the Officer or any other soldier on the island. More than that, this is the one thing he wants to keep all to himself. He wants to be the person who changes all her diapers and makes every bottle, the person who cradles her in his arms and sings her to sleep every time she wakes up screaming.
He wants her all for himself.
*
Their peaceful routine is interrupted when In-ho gets a text one morning after Joon-hwan didn’t come downstairs for breakfast.
“Not feeling well today, don’t mind me.”
He replies “feel better soon”, and doesn’t think more about it. But the day goes by and he hasn’t seen the other man at all, and barely heard anything from upstairs. He’s not sure if this counts as an emergency, but decides to go check on him, just to make sure.
Standing outside of the third floor bedroom door, he realizes this is the first time he gets so close to the master bedroom after living in this house for a month.
He clears his throat and knocks on the door gently. There’s no other way to ask the question. “Hey, are you alright in there?”
There’s nothing for a few seconds, and then a slightly stuffed voice. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”
He turns the handle and opens the door slightly. “Mind if I come in?”
“Sure, you’re already halfway in.”
He pushes the door open and finally gains the full view of the room. It’s not much more decorated than other parts of the house, with the same simple color palette.
“I’m fine, just a fever.” Joon-hwan takes off a white towel from his forehead. He’s leaning on a pillow in bed, looking a little flushed, but he does seem completely fine.
“That’s good, I didn’t hear from you all day, so just wanted to check.” He puts down a bowl on the nightstand, next to a half finished cup of water, a bottle of pills and a lamp. “I brought you some chicken soup, if you want it.”
The other man stares at him blankly for a bit too long for his comfort, before picking up the bowl. And In-ho has a strong feeling he’s only doing it to not be rude.
“Wait, this is really good!” Joon-hwan looks up at him with genuine pleasant surprise after trying it. “Seriously, maybe the best chicken soup I’ve had.”
“Yeah? My…” He stops himself from saying my wife used to love it when she was sick. “I’ve heard it from other people too.”
“When did you learn how to cook? No offense but you really didn’t seem like the type.”
“Give it back then, asshole.” He pretends to grab the bowl. There’s a strange playfulness he hasn’t felt in years, slowly creeping back like a stiff muscle.
“What are you doing? It’s hot!” Joon-hwan moves the bowl away, careful not to spill anything on himself. That’s when In-ho notices something on his wrist.
“Why are you wearing your watch in bed? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
“Oh, that? I just kept it on today to check my heartrate, because you know, the fever.” He has another spoonful of chicken soup. “I don’t wear it to bed normally.”
“How are you feeling now? Is the fever coming down?”
“A bit, it was on and off earlier.” Joon-hwan grabs the towel on the nightstand and puts it back on his own forehead. “I should be fine tomorrow morning.”
“Ok, I’ll let you sleep then.” He goes to the bathroom and quickly wets another towel with cold water, and places it on the nightstand. “Here, in case that one gets dry later.”
The other man gives him an indecipherable look, almost like he’s making fun of him but it’s more than that. “Okay, thank you.”
*
He goes back to his own room, takes a shower and changes into pajamas before going to Gi-seon’s nursery, hoping to decrease the chance of him giving the virus to her. She is unusually sweet tonight, giggling as he feeds her, her tiny hands gripping the warm bottle like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. And to her, it is. If only life could stay that simple.
It’s only when he’s about to go to bed himself, he realizes he left his phone upstairs. He contemplates just leaving it there for the night, but can’t remember if it’s on silent or not, and if not, he doesn’t want to possibly wake up a sick person with his phone. He sighs and decides to go get it back. He can do it quickly and quietly, without disturbing the other man.
His plan works well, thanks to whatever medication Joon-hwan took that makes him sleep deeply. He sees his phone right there on the nightstand, next to the empty bowl. In-ho picks up both and turns to leave, but happens to catch another glimpse of the smartwatch on his wrist. All of a sudden a crazy idea washes over his mind, as he looks down at both the smartwatch and his phone.
If he pairs the watch with his own phone, he can also keep track of the other man’s heartrate, and get an alert if it gets too high during the night.
No! Where the hell did that come from? There’s no reason to monitor an otherwise healthy adult’s vitals because of a fever, not to mention he’ll be overstepping all kinds of boundaries. But going to sleep as usual when someone in the house is sick just feels…wrong. It really doesn’t make sense, he knows, but there’s an ugly, debilitating fear rising from deep inside of him. An open wound, a dormant memory that should have been safely sealed for over a decade.
Joon-hwan turns under the cover, and he almost drops his phone. The more he hesitates, the more likely the other man will wake up and see him lurking around here like a serial killer. Well, technically they are both serial killers, but not like that. Giving himself no more chance to back out, he quickly turns on Bluetooth on his phone, and within a few seconds, the watch pops up as a new device. He clicks on the button to connect them, locks his phone, and hurries to leave the room like he just stole something.
*
He sleeps soundly through the night. When he opens his eyes again, it’s already 8 in the morning. Of course there was no alert on his phone about dangerous heartrates; even Gi-seon’s baby monitor didn’t go off at night, making him feel like a paranoid idiot. He runs a hand down his face and unpairs the smartwatch with his phone. Better to pretend this never happened.
When he goes downstairs, Joon-hwan is already in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Hey, how’re you feeling?”
“Good, fever’s gone.” He turns off the stove and takes two sunny side up eggs out of the pan, onto a porcelain plate. Their eyes meet across the dining table, and instantly In-ho knows something’s up.
“Look, I need to ask you a question.” Joon-hwan runs a hand down his own arm. A nervous gesture he learned all the way back at the police academy, but this is the first time he’s seeing it on the other man. “I have a notification on my watch that says it was connected to your phone last night?”
Blood rushes to his head. He can almost feel the heat behind his eyes, clouding his brain. How did he not think of that at all last night? Seriously, how the hell was he so stupid?
“Oh, looks like you just disconnected it earlier.” Joon-hwan checks his watch again. “But still, what was that?”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, it was…” He wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “I didn’t plan it, ok? I left my phone in your room, went up to get it, and remembered you were saying you used it to monitor your heartrate, so I thought just to be safe. Just for last night.”
The words make even less sense as he hears them coming out of his mouth. What was that? He doesn’t even know.
“Wait, so did you think I would…” There’s an amused tension in Joon-hwan’s voice, as if he’s holding back from laughing. “You thought I might die in my sleep or something? Because of a fever?”
“Not die, I don’t know, ok? I didn’t know what was wrong with you.” That definitely sounds even worse than what he just said. “I guess I just wanted to be prepared if something happened.”
The other man is silent for a while. He doesn’t look offended, just truly confused. “Alright, well, nothing happened, as you can see.”
“I know, let’s just forget about it.” In-ho walks past him into the kitchen and gets other things ready for breakfast, desperate for a distraction.
“I don’t really mind, you know?” Joon-hwan calls after him.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I mean, you kinda have a point. If I end up having a heart attack at some point, I can’t call an ambulance myself.”
His hands pause on the edge of a plate. “That’s not funny.”
“Not trying to be.” Another hand takes the plate from him. “If you just want to be practical, there’s no need to do it behind my back.”
In-ho doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he sits down at the dining table, opposite from the other man, and starts eating breakfast in silence. His company doesn’t seem to mind the awkwardness. If anything, he might find it entertaining.
He tries to forget about it, but when night falls, as he lies in bed again, phone in hand, he opens Bluetooth, and clicks “Connect” one more time.
He hates the Frontman with all his might. He doesn’t even know who the man is, which is the problem. He’s been busting his ass on this damn island for years, training new soldiers, picking up the slacks from his stupid colleagues and putting out fires he didn’t start. All that for what? So this newcomer can walk in wearing that stupidly slim fitted uniform, being introduced by the host like some mysterious superstar, and become everyone’s boss with zero experience?
Why the fuck should he listen to this guy? The Frontman, a role that didn’t even exist before. If anything, he should have been the one who got promoted to oversee everything. The soldiers already listen to him anyway. Instead, he got called into the host’s suite and handed a new uniform, the same jumpsuit in a different color. Technically also a promotion, he supposes, but it feels more like an insult.
He usually has a pretty good guess of what the host wants, but he’s truly lost on this one. This is still a massive crime organization, did the old rich man get cocky enough to forget it? What the fuck was he thinking, bringing in some new guy to be in charge of the entire operation? And making him the second in command, what kind of humiliation ritual is that? At this point he suspects if all this is for drama, so the old man can watch the two of them fight, like he watches the players fight each other to death every year, while he sips champagne with his rich friends.
Staring into the mirror, he adjusts the collar of his new black jumpsuit. There’s nothing he can do about the host, not yet, but he sure as hell won’t just hand over his years worth of accomplishments to someone who doesn’t deserve it. He has his orders, sure, but there is a difference between following orders and being helpful. He’s had many soldiers who do whatever he says, but somehow still manage to fuck up, often unintentionally because they’re stupid.
He’s not stupid, and therefore he knows how to do it deliberately, and precisely.
Recording of the previous five games? No problem, literally everything is on this hard drive. Over half of it is just soldiers sitting, eating and sleeping in their rooms, but they are part of the games, aren’t they?
An introduction of the facility and its full capabilities? Yes sir, starting with the host’s grand creative vision of childhood nostalgia, and the artistic styles behind it. Why? Before getting into the practicalities, it’s important to start from the beginning in order to understand the full history of a project this massive.
A report on the VIPs? Of course, he’ll start with their weirdest kinks, which ironically he’s not only doing to spite the Frontman. Believe it or not, this information is a lot more relevant than it should be.
*
It doesn’t take long until he’s called into a private meeting with the Frontman, which he anticipated. His heart pounds against his chest as the elevator steadily goes up to the top floor, not because he’s afraid. If anything, he’s a little excited. What would this new leader do? Will he take the traditional approach, making an example out of the first person who dares to disrespect him, so the others will fear him? Or is he the type to play a more sophisticated game, trying to gain trust and form an alliance with a disgruntled soldier, so he’ll have a true right hand man in the long run?
He slowly breathes out as the door opens, revealing the Frontman’s quarter for the very first time — he can’t lie, it’s a bit disappointing. It looks luxurious for sure, all marble tiles and golden decor, but it has no style or any hint of individuality, just a less fancier version of the VIP lounge. Still, it’s a lot better than his own room, so he should have no right to judge.
He walks straight to the leather chair facing him. “Sir, you wanted to see me?”
“What is your problem?”
He blinks inside the mask, taken aback by the extreme bluntness. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” The Frontman stands up. He’s a little bit shorter but clearly he’s not the type of man who’s affected by such things. “Now answer the question, what is your problem?”
Alright, if this is how he wants to play it. “My problem, sir, is I see no reason why we should all listen to you, when some of us have been here for over a decade, and you only stepped foot on this island a month ago.”
“So you’re questioning my abilities, is that it?”
“Look, I’m sure you have some fancy background that you’re very proud of, enough to impress the host.” He decides to keep telling the truth. This candid style of conversation is surprisingly relaxing. “But this game is its own world. You can’t just come here and expect to run things your way, even if you were a military general, or some mercenary leader.”
The Frontman laughs. At least he thinks it’s a laugh, the sound distorted by the mask, all harshness and edge, devoid of any true humor. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I think. If you want full honesty, you have it.”
Then silently, without warning, the Frontman takes off his hood.
His heart skips a beat. The mask is still on, but even seeing the other man’s soft hair feels like an utmost violation. All soldiers are required to keep the full coverage on at all times, except in their own rooms. A superior is allowed to order someone below them to unmask in private, but they never take off their own mask first in front of a lower ranked soldier.
All of a sudden he has an urge to grab the other man’s hand and stop him. Irrational panic rises from his stomach. He feels like he’s missing a crucial clue but can’t tell what. Yet somehow, he knows his entire life trajectory is going to change in a matter of seconds, a six sense telling him this is the point of no return.
The mask falls off, and he is staring directly at Player 132.
His breath hitches, his hands instinctively looking for something to grab but there’s nothing, so he ungracefully takes a few steps to regain balance. Heat builds up inside his mask alarmingly fast, making his head spinning and his eyes moist.
No… How could this be?
“You remember me.”
He sounds better, less hoarse and smoother, more silky. But he can recognize that tone anywhere, the deep, wounded whisper in the limo: what’s your name?
“I…of course, it hasn’t been that long.” He tries to gather himself, but can’t help the shakiness in his voice. “You were last year’s winner.”
He leaves out everything else he knows. Your name is Hwang In-ho. You’re missing a kidney because you gave it to your brother. You joined the game to pay for your sick wife’s treatment, supposedly that didn’t work out, otherwise you wouldn’t be back here. You’re not just any winner. You played so well, so perfectly that all of us wanted you to win.
“I am. So what now, is my background fancy enough for you?”
With his hair slicked back, his beautiful bone structure is even more pronounced. It’s unnatural how lethally good looking he is. Most attractive people have small flaws too if you look at them up close, but this face looks like it comes straight out of a sculptor’s hands. He wonders what that body is like now under the grey trenchcoat. Has he put on some weight after going through hell last year? Is it still all toned muscles, or something softer?
The silence grows, and takes him a bit too long to realize the Frontman is still waiting for an answer. “Of course, you are more than qualified as a winner. I apologize for my attitude earlier.”
Surprise flashes through In-ho’s face, brief but genuine, before it gets shadowed by cautious suspicion again. He pauses his thoughts, catching himself already using the other man’s real name in his mind. He should watch out for that. One day, he’ll be able to call him that in real life, but he won’t ruin his chances by doing it prematurely.
“I mean it, sir. If I knew who you were, I wouldn’t have doubted your abilities or intentions.” He straightens his stance. There’s no need to fake sincerity, because he means every word. “But of course, your secret is safe with me, if you want it to remain a secret.”
Only a fool would tell all the soldiers their new boss used to be a player, and neither of them are fools.
The Frontman relaxes a little, but it’s only visible to highly trained eyes. “That’s good to hear. I suppose there will be no more useless recordings of sleeping soldiers?”
“No, sir.” He can’t help but smirk. “No more talks about the host’s creative vision either.”
This time In-ho smiles too. “Oh well, I knew you were fucking with me, but honestly? Some of it was interesting.”
“If you really think so, the host would be very delighted to hear that.”
“This is final then. If you say there will be no more problems, I’ll take your word for it.” The Frontman switches back to a more serious tone. “But there will be consequences if you try to undermine me again.”
“I understand.”
“Then take off your mask.” In-ho tilts his head slightly. “You know who I am, it’s only fair.”
He feels his heart pounding again. The Frontman has everyone’s file, so it’s impossible that he didn’t look him up already before this meeting. The other man knows what he looks like, and this is just a test, or an olive branch.
He steadies himself, makes sure his face is neutral and relaxed and then unclasps the strap behind his head. He keeps eyes on the ground for a few seconds before looking up again, meeting the other man’s gaze. It’s eerily intimate, standing across from each other with bare faces, a norm everyone else in the world except here. On this island, however, it almost feels scandalous, like they’re naked.
“Ok, good.” The Frontman gives him a once over, and then immediately changes the topic. “One last thing, has manager Number 7 always been a woman?”
He wishes he still had the mask on, so he could hide the reactions on his face hearing his old number.
“For a few years, yes.” He lies with an even tone. “I assure you, the women here are as capable as men.”
“That’s not why I’m asking.” In-ho dismisses what he’s suggesting. “Are you sure the number was not used by a man before?”
“I don’t think so, but I can certainly look into it.” It’s better this way, he silently convinces himself. The situation is too complicated as it is, and it doesn’t help to make himself appear even more special this early on. “May I ask what’s the reason behind your special interest in manager Number 7?”
A futile question. He knows exactly why.
“We don’t use our names here, but I’m Number 7.”
“Nothing, it’s not your concern.” The disappointment on the Frontman’s face is quickly hidden behind a perfect mask of nonchalance. “You can go now, Officer. The game starts in a week, I’m sure you have more work to do.”
“As you wish, sir.” He puts his mask back on and gives a polite nod. “I’m here if you need anything.”
You can count on me, he says silently, only to himself.
