Finally got around to actually creating a banner and putting together my Masterlist.
Requests are open đŠˇ
Hwang In-ho / Frontman
One shots and headcanons
NSFW alphabet
Heartbeat (one shot; fluff ; hurt and comfort)
Series
Attention (series masterlist), in ho x recruiter!reader x salesman
Salesman
One shots and headcanons
Yandere!Salesman x reader headcanons
Mine (one shot; slightly explicit, yandere!salesman x wife!recruiter!reader)
Series
Attention (series masterlist), in ho x recruiter!reader x salesman
Rules and some other important information for requests:
i donât write non con, i can do dubious con sometimes but please do not request that
i only do fem!reader / gn!reader due to being a straight woman myself so I don't think I can do it justice if you want a male!reader
i strictly write character x reader
i do not write smut, mostly because I am not good at it lol but I can do obssessive/possessive/yandere, more heavily explicit scenes just not full smut
i can write for any Squid Game character, I am open to female ones as well but please keep in mind I do not have experience writing wlw content
Do you have any rules? May attach them to your pinned post so you donât lose them
Hello! I have a Masterlist and the rules for requests linked here 𩷠sorry for the late reply, i've had a couple of hectic days! Requests are open for now!
Hi! Could you write about yandere salesman Ă wife reader. Where the reader also works with him, and Kim jeong-rae and woo-seok begin to follow her in order to kidnap her. Please?
Hello! Of course! I apologize for the delay, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Link!
Warnings: canon adjacent violence, suggestive sexual themesÂ
Summary:Â when the Salesmanâs wife is targeted in broad daylight, a routine morning turns into a blood-stained warning. love, after all, is just another word for possession. Salesmanâs name is Nam Shin for this one.
Category: hurt and comfort (twisted) ; mild explicit/ fade to black
Word count: 2.8k
Request: yes, âHi! Could you write about yandere salesman Ă wife reader. Where the reader also works with him, and Kim jeong-rae and woo-seok begin to follow her in order to kidnap her. Pleaseâ
It had started out as an ordinary morning, slow, almost deceptively so. She was meant to meet Nam Shin for lunch later, their usual weekday ritual when they werenât working a job. He recruited by day. She preferred the night shift. That rhythm worked for them, smooth, clinical. Clean. But her mornings were hers, and today, she'd chosen to spend them shopping for groceries in Apgujeong, combing through the pristine aisles and artisan stalls for ingredients heâd approve of.
Shin was the one who usually cooked, always had been. He liked the control, the ritual precision of it. Each knife stroke, each carefully measured gram, it soothed something in him. Sheâd never minded, not really. She could burn water if she wasnât paying attention, and aside from two meals she could barely manage, the kitchen was his territory. But with their anniversary creeping up, sheâd made a quiet vow to herself: this time, she would cook for him. Something good. Something real.
It was just after she passed the dry-aged hanwoo stand that she felt it, that electric snap at the base of her neck. Not fear. Not yet. Just the sense of somethingâŚoff. Wrong, and watching.
It was a feeling sheâd learned to trust. You didnât last in their line of work, not in the Squid Game system, without learning to listen to your instincts. She didnât react. Not immediately. That was the first test. You donât turn around. You donât let them know you know.
Instead, she kept walking, slow, deliberate, as if she had all the time in the world. Past the fresh produce, past the artisan seaweed display, pretending to examine jars of soy-cured garlic. She tilted her head just slightly, catching reflections in the brushed steel surface behind the counter.
There, two men, a few paces back. Too casual to be casual. One of them had been at the tea shop when she entered the market, she remembered the eyes. The other was new. Both were dressed like any other Seoulites in summer: light jackets, neutral tones. But they werenât shopping. Not really. They were watching. Tracking.
Following.
Truly, it was almost cute how they tried to pass unnoticed. She picked up a jar, pretending to read the label, her fingers tightening subtly on the lid. Her pulse didnât rise, not much. Just enough to make her sharpen. Not enough to panic. Not yet. Her hand slipped into her purse, slow and unhurried, just a woman about to pay for her groceries. But instead of reaching for her wallet, her fingers brushed against her phone, warm from the press of her palm.
Psycho Killer. The name still made her smile, soft and secret. Equal parts truth and endearment.
Without looking down, she typed a message, fast and fluid:
followed. 2 men. apgujeong market.
She hit send, then plucked the jar from the counter with a graceful nod, offering the cashier a small, composed smile as she paid. There was no real need to tell him where she was. He always knew. She knew better than anyone: he was always tracking her. But they both played the game, she pretended not to notice, and he pretended it was not obsession.
It was the rhythm of their relationship: sharp edges tucked beneath clean surfaces. And if those two men following her had any sense, theyâd already be running.
And now here she was, outside the market, guiding them like stray dogs on a leash of silence. Her steps were unhurried, her posture relaxed, but every movement was calculated. She led them away from the crowds, away from witnesses, toward a side street that narrowed and quieted the deeper she went. A turn to the left. Then another.
She didnât recognize the men, but she could guess what this was about. Seong Gi-hun. It always came back to him. Shin had warned her: the man hadnât stopped digging. Three years of chasing shadows, trying to claw his way back into something he never fully understood. What she couldnât quite figure out was how theyâd managed to find her.
Maybe Shin would figure it out before she did. He usually did.
She entered a narrow alley, quiet, boxed in by brick walls and heavy stillness. A dead end. Perfect.Her heels slowed, then stopped. She reached down to straighten the hem of her dress, smoothing the fabric as if this were just another stroll, another errand. Then, at last, she turned around. The two men stood at the mouth of the alley, still pretending to be subtle. She smiled, slow, amused, like a cat watching mice convince themselves they were lions.
âGentlemen,â she purred, cigarette already between her fingers. âIf youâre going to attempt to kidnap me, the least you could do is buy me dinner first.â
She lit the cigarette with a flick of her thumb, the flame briefly illuminating the glint in her eyes , not fear, not surprise but anticipation.
One of them chuckled at her comment, a sharp, ugly sound that echoed off the alley walls. The other stepped forward, drawing a knife from inside his jacket. Not flashy, not theatrical. Just clean, curved steel. A tool for taking someone quietly.
She sighed.
âKnives? Really?â she said, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. âBit dramatic, donât you think?â
They didnât answer. They didnât have to. She let the cigarette drop to the pavement. Then she moved.
Her grocery bag swung up in a wide arc, heavy with the jar and groceries sheâd just bought, glass and weight behind it. The first man didnât expect it; it cracked against his temple with a sickening thud, and he dropped with a grunt, dazed. The second lunged, she pivoted, slamming the edge of the bag into his wrist, knocking the blade just far enough off course to avoid her throat.
She kicked back, fast, efficient, and he stumbled. But the first one was already recovering, blood running down his face now, fury replacing stealth.
It wasnât graceful. It wasnât some trained choreography. But it was desperate, and sheâd always been good when desperate. She dodged, fought, twisted, landed a heel square into one manâs knee, felt it give, but she was only one person. Unarmed. Tiring.
One of them tackled her.
She hit the pavement hard, the concrete scraping her palms, her head snapping back against the ground. For a moment, her breath left her chest in a sharp gasp. A boot pressed to her shoulder.
âGot you now, bitch,â one of them hissed.
She didnât panic. She laughed, breathless, blood in her mouth, but still laughing.
âAre you sure?â she whispered.
And then, everything changed. The air behind them shifted. Not wind but presence. A blur. A flash of movement .And then the Salesman was there. Her Salesman.
No sound. No warning. Just sudden violence.
The first man was yanked off her, slammed into the alley wall so hard the bricks cracked. The second barely had time to turn before Shin drove something ,it couldâve been a blade, or maybe just his hand, into his ribs with brutal precision.
No shouting. No theatrics. Only silence, and the wet sounds of pain as he drove his briefcase to hit the attackerâs head. She sat up slowly, her dress torn, her lip bleeding, and watched him finish it like someone painting, controlled, exact, terrifyingly intimate.
He turned to her when it was over. Not winded. Not shaken.Only watching.
And for a moment one long, electric moment he just stared.Then he stepped toward her, his hands still red, and knelt beside her on the cold concrete.
âYouâre hurt,â he said, his voice soft. Too soft.
She smiled, dizzy, her head still ringing. âA little.â
He knelt beside her, one knee grazing the blood-stained pavement, the scent of copper and cigarette smoke lingering between them. For a moment, he didnât speak. He only looked â at her torn dress, the blood drying on her skin, the bruise blooming just beneath her jaw. His expression didnât shift. But his eyes?
His eyes were murderous.
He reached out and touched her lip with a fingertip, featherlight, reverent, then pulled his hand back and looked at the blood like it had personally insulted him. Something cold and precise tightened in his face.
Without a word, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a handkerchief, crisp, monogrammed, absurdly clean. Gently, he took her hands, one at a time, wiping away the blood on her palms with practiced care, like he was performing a ritual. His fingers lingered at her wrist, tracing the faint tremble beneath her skin.
Then, finally, he touched her mouth again â dabbing at the corner with the handkerchief, slow and careful, like she was something fragile.
âYou shouldâve messaged me the moment you felt eyes on you,â he murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. âNot after.â
She tried to roll her eyes, but her breath caught as the cloth pressed against the cut on her lip. âDonât be so dramatic, jagi,â she said, forcing a smile. âIâm still breathing, arenât I?â
He stopped, just for a second, that pet name softening something dark inside him. But only for a second.
âBarely,â he said. âAnd that is the problem.â
Her smile faded. âWho were they?â
He didnât answer right away. Instead, he turned his head slightly, eyes flicking back to the bodies crumpled at the far end of the alley, still twitching with residual pain. One was trying to crawl. The other wasnât moving at all.
âThatâs what I intend to find out,â he said coldly. âThey followed you. Touched you. Hurt you. Thatâs more than enough.â
She shifted to stand, but he caught her wrist again, steadier than she felt, and rose with her. In the silence that followed, the city returned â a distant hum of cars, laughter from a cafĂŠ around the corner, the normal world.
But in this alley, time felt suspended.
âCome,â Shin said, his voice back to that unnervingly gentle cadence. âLetâs get you home. Frontman sent a carâ
He didnât say what he would do to the men once she was gone. He didnât have to. She already knew.
Nam Shinâs penthouse ; Gangnam district; 07:30 PM
A few hours later, the world had quieted.
She stepped out of the bathroom, skin warm and flushed from the shower, the steam still clinging faintly to her limbs. A thick robe hung loosely from her shoulders, the tie knotted at her waist without much effort. Her hair, damp and curling at the ends, left cool traces down her back.
The bedroom was dim â not dark, just muted. Heavy curtains were drawn against the night, and the soft glow of a single bedside lamp cast amber light across the space. The bed itself was too large for two people who rarely shared it at the same time, dressed in black silk sheets and a blanket in muted charcoal. Clean lines. Cool tones. But hers was the only scent in the room now, faint citrus and soap, curling into the corners like memory.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, letting herself sink into the softness. Every muscle ached, not with pain anymore, but with the thick, echoing weight of exhaustion. She curled beneath one of the blankets, the comfort instant and quiet. Her limbs heavy. Her breath slowing.
And exactly one hour later, she heard the door open.No knock. Just the familiar, measured rhythm of his footsteps.
She didnât need to open her eyes to know it was Shin. She knew how he walked â calm, controlled, almost silent, but never quite. Like even his silence had purpose.
He crossed the room without a word, stopping at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned in. He reached for the blanket sheâd barely pulled up and adjusted it gently, tucking it beneath her shoulder. Then, without hesitation, he pressed a kiss to her forehead â soft, slow, reverent.
Her eyes fluttered open, half-lidded, her lashes brushing the curve of her cheek. A small smile crept across her lips.
âYouâre so sappy when I almost die,â she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep. âPsycho.â
He exhaled , not quite a laugh. But close.
âIâd be devastated if you did,â he said quietly, his hand brushing her damp hair back from her face. âThen Iâd have to kill someone for ruining the only thing in this world I actually care about.â
She sighed, not out of fear, but with that strange, fragile affection that only they shared. A love forged in blood and silence and violence too quiet for the world outside.
She sighed into the pillow, the silk cool against her cheek, her body too tired to move but her mind humming â not fear, not adrenaline anymore, just the warm, woozy aftermath of survival. Of being hunted, and protected. Of being his.
He was still kneeling beside the bed, his fingers in her hair, carding through the damp strands like he was memorizing her all over again.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with sleep and something heavier.
âIs that a love confession, Salesman?â
A pause. Then a breath, low, amused, dangerous.
âYouâre my wife,â he said, brushing his knuckles down the curve of her jaw. âYou know exactly what it is.â
His hand slid lower, from her cheek to her neck, soft at first, then firmer, his thumb stroking the pulse point like he was feeling her heartbeat just to reassure himself it was still there. Still his. Still alive.
âI spend all day getting blood off my shoes,â he murmured. âBut you bleed, and I lose my mind.â
She smiled again, slow and wicked, eyes still closed. âThatâs the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me.â
Shin laughed, a low sound, intimate and dark. âYou married a lunatic,â he said, letting his lips brush just below her ear, voice warm as breath. âWhat did you expect?â
âI expected to be spoiled.â
âYou are.â
One hand slid under the blanket, possessive, unhurried, trailing down her side as he leaned further in. His mouth followed the curve of her neck, his breath hotter now, his restraint thinner than it had been moments ago.
âAlmost lost you today,â he said quietly, more to himself than to her. âThat doesnât happen again.â
There was no question in it. No room for argument. Just that awful, beautiful certainty. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. Her voice was softer now, and far more dangerous.
âThen remind me who I belong to.â
He growled low in his throat, and the rest of the blanket was gone.Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and Shin moved without hesitation â smooth, quiet, controlled. Like a weapon unsheathed. He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the silk sheets shifting around them like water. One hand braced near her head, the other sliding beneath the edge of her robe with no pretense of shyness.
His eyes trailed over her like he was checking for injuries â not just concern, but possession. Obsession.
âYou donât get to almost die on me,â he said, voice low, cold. âNot without consequences.â
She arched a brow, amused despite the echo of bruises beneath her skin. âWhat, are you going to punish me for surviving?â
âNo.â His hand closed around her hip. âFor not letting me kill them sooner.â
She laughed, breathless, wicked. âGod, youâre insane.â
âI know,â he said simply. âAnd you're still here.â
He leaned down and kissed her, not soft, not tender. Feral. Claiming. His teeth grazed her lower lip, and when she gasped, he deepened it, hand moving to her throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just a reminder. A warning.
Her robe parted easily beneath his grip, her skin still warm from the shower, vulnerable in a way he both worshipped and resented. He hated seeing her like this after a fight, after a scare but he couldnât help needing her like this, too. Just to prove she was his. Still breathing. Still here.
âYou donât get to leave me,â he whispered into her mouth. âEver.â
She didnât answer. She didnât need to.
She pulled him in harder, her kiss just as vicious as his, nails dragging across the back of his neck. His hand tangled in her damp hair, tilting her head to kiss her deeper, rougher. She let him welcomed it, the edge of violence always laced into their affection.
The room went quiet but for the sounds of silk rustling, breath hitching, and the low growl in his throat when she bit his lip in return.
He pushed her down against the pillows, breath hot against her ear.
âMine,â he said. Not a question.
âYours,â she whispered. Not a lie.
The lamp flickered. Her robe slipped. And the city outside never heard a thing.
I think most of y'all accusing Squid Game of being cynical are actually the cynical ones. Acts of rebellion aren't rewarded with happy endings. You don't only die for something if it's a guaranteed success, you don't only try if your kindness and/or defiance is measurable.
If you need Squid Game to have a happy ending to believe it's worth fighting capitalism, then there isn't a revolutionary bone in your body. The Hunger Games has a more palatable ending because while its themes are greater, it was written for middle schoolers. You have to be able to handle allegory of corrupt systems above the level of 12-14 year olds to process Squid Game. That's not a failing of the show.
Choi Woo-seok has agency and a future after the cops slapped him with a prison sentence instead of taking the Squid Game seriously. His tragedy, and the ways the system made it worse, are something he can rise above because of relationships and personal development he likely wouldn't have without Gi-hun. In-ho is still who In-ho is and I think fanon delusions about that are why a lot of you are feeling betrayed but he reaches outside of the system in a way that, while still cruel, gives two girls some kind of future that will keep them out of the games. Jun-ho is trusted with Jun-hee's baby and that money because In-ho knows that he is a good person, LEGITIMATELY A GOOD PERSON. Jun-ho walks away from policing and aligns himself with former criminals because community >>> the system, in big and small ways.
Gi-hun dies a human being. Him dying to save a child is not about "pro life," and y'all have got to stop just digging for the worst possible takes on something whenever you're disappointed or upset. Jun-hee trusted him. Geum-ja trusted him. Hyun-ju died protecting those two. He was seeing the dreams of his community through. When he realized he couldn't win, he kept his word, protected the next generation as best he could, and died with his humanity in tact. His humanity was affirmed in his games by Sae-byeok & Sang-woo & while he fucked up with Dae-ho (which was the point of that, I don't know how y'all are missing that), Gi-hun was NEVER going to sacrifice his humanity, despite the many parasocial fantasies the fandom created there in many ways.
His death happens in part because Myeong-gi cannot decide who he wants to be. The games didn't come down to a bunch of men in suits fantasizing about their turn at being rich, led by a formerly wealthy hack, because Hwang Dong Hyuk hates women. Myeong-gi was a crypto grifter who got swindled by a richer, probably older weirdo. He NEVER takes accountability for that, despite the people in the games BECAUSE HE MISLED THEM. He did love Jun-hee and sometimes he wanted to keep his word & come through for her or his child, but he's endlessly pulled towards the vision of Wealthy Man in Suit as the end all, be all of success.
I could do more in depth breakdowns for any of this, and for every alliance that made it into season 3 and what their deaths represent. It's undeniably in service to what Squid Game has ALWAYS been and these deaths hurt so much because the show and the characterization is good actually. You feel betrayed because the characters were changed or killed or sometimes both by the system Squid Game critiques. That feeling doesn't mean any of those deaths were unjustified narratively.
I STAND CORRECTED. INHO, THE OFFICER, AND THE RECRUITER ALL CANONICALLY WENT ON FISHING TRIPS TOGETHER WITH THE CAPTAIN. IM FUCKING CRYING. HOW WOULD THEY EVEN INTERACT. IM LITERALLY DYING FROM LAUGHTER. (someone write a fic please)
Summary: your husband finally comes home after the games⌠but he is not alone, he brings a baby with him
Category: fluff, slight angst but mostly fluff
Word count: 2k
Author's note: Well... I finished season 3, I am in shambles so I wrote something short and sweet to feel better. This was a request, so if you have any more ideas, feel free to reach out!
It was well past midnight when the door finally clicked open.
The sound echoed through the penthouseâsharp and sudden against the low hum of the city outside, like the crack of a gunshot in a cathedral. She didnât move at first. For a long moment, she simply stared out at the Seoul skyline, a thousand windows blinking like stars through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Rain misted the edges of the panes, turning the city into a blur of gold and neon.
She sat curled on the sleek leather sofa in the center of the room, barefoot, a glass of red wine balanced delicately in her hand. The place was immaculate, as always, cool-toned marble floors, matte black counters, and warm recessed lighting that cast soft shadows against the high ceilings. Everything about the penthouse was polished, modern, and cold.
Except for the way she waited.
It had been nine days. Nine long, unspoken days since heâd left, no details, only a promise that he would return. And now, without fanfare or forewarning, he had.
âYouâre late, jagi,â she said softly, her voice cutting through the silence like silk through paper. A smile ghosted at the corners of her mouth, faintly amused but laced with something harder,relief that tasted like resentment on her tongue. âThereâs dinner in the oven. Iâll go warm itââ
She turned.
And stopped breathing.
There, just inside the doorway, stood Hwang In-ho. Her husband. But not quite the same man who had left. His black suit clung to him, damp from the mist outside, his hair slightly disheveled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion or something deeper. He looked like heâd walked through fire and rain to get hereâand perhaps he had. But it wasnât his state that stole the breath from her lungs.
It was the child in his arms.
A baby. Wrapped in a soft, pale blanket, its tiny hands curled like blossoms against its cheek, fast asleep against his chest.For a moment, the world tilted. Her breath caught, and something inside her chest twisted with confusion, awe, and a fear she couldnât name.She took a step forward.
âIn-hoâŚâ she murmured, her voice cracking, more air than sound. âWhat did you do?â
He didnât answer. Not yet. His gaze met hers across the polished expanse of the room, unreadable and heavy with something unspoken. Guilt? Grief? Resolve?
As she approached slowly, her eyes dropped to the bundle in his arms. Her heart softened instantly, instinctively. The baby was so small. So peaceful.
âHi, treasureâŚâ Her voice broke again, this time with something gentler, something maternal that she hadnât expected to feel. She reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the babyâs downy head. âYouâre safe now.â
And in that moment, in the hush of their immaculate home, beneath the vast, glittering night, she understood: whatever had happened on that island had changed everything.
âOne⌠one of the players was pregnant,â In-ho said at last, his voice a low rasp barely above a whisper.
The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into the corners of the room. He didnât look at her as he spokeâhis eyes stayed fixed on the baby in his arms, as if acknowledging the truth out loud might somehow undo it. But she heard it all the same. The guilt. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight behind his confession.
She didnât need to ask more. She knew. She had watched him return from that island year after year, never unscathed, never quite whole, but always composed. Cold, even. Efficient. He carried the role of Frontman like armor, thick and impenetrable. But tonight... that armor was cracked.
And something inside him was bleeding through. She watched him, standing in the soft light of their home, and understood with chilling clarity: this time had broken something in him.
âGo eat,â she said quietly, her voice firm but warm, her eyes never leaving his. âIâll take care of her.â
He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, she closed the distance between them and rose onto her toes, cupping the back of his neck with one steady hand. Her lips met his in a kiss that was less greeting than grounding, something to anchor him back into the world.
His lips tasted of whiskey. Of cold night air. And beneath that, something darker. Gunpowder, maybe. Regret. She kissed him slowly, deliberately, letting the silence wrap around them, letting the weight of his actions settle without judgment.
In ho kissed her back, but with hesitation, like a man who wasnât sure if he deserved comfort anymore. His hand hovered at her waist, unsure. When she finally pulled away, she rested her forehead briefly against his before stepping back.
Then, gently, she reached for the baby.
The tiny thing stirred as she was transferred into new arms, her eyes fluttering open with a soft, confused noise, somewhere between a coo and a cry. Just a breath of soundâbut it shattered something fragile in the air.
She cradled the infant close to her chest, instinctively swaying, and looked down into wide, unfocused eyes the color of deep ink. There was something hauntingly familiar in them, though she couldnât place it.
âShe doesnât even know what sheâs survived,â she murmured, almost to herself. Her voice was softer now, reverent and full of sorrow. âNo child should have to start life like that.â
In-ho stood still, shoulders tight, hands empty now. He looked utterly lost, like a man whoâd brought back something sacred from a place meant only for death, and didnât know what to do with it.
âShe doesnât have anyone,â he said after a moment, his voice rough. âHer mother died⌠after one of the games. I donât even know if she had a name picked out.â
She looked up at him, her arms wrapped securely around the child.
âThen weâll give her one,â she said simply. âAnd sheâll have us.â
For a moment, he just stared at her. Then he nodded, once, slowly, like he didnât quite believe he deserved her grace, but was willing to accept it anyway. The baby gave a soft sigh and drifted back into sleep against her chest, and the room, so often sterile and still, felt different now.
Warmer. Fragile. Alive.
âWhat was her motherâs name?â she asked softly, shifting the baby in her arms with practiced ease, as though sheâd held her a hundred times before. With her free hand, she reached out to take the worn baby bag from In-hoâs shoulderâits weight a small thing compared to the burden that had brought it here.
In-ho hesitated, as if the answer might cost him something. Then, quietly:
âJun-hee.â
He shed his suit jacket firstâdamp at the shoulders, creased and bloodless from hours of wear. Then the black gloves came off, tossed beside the jacket like discarded armor. His tie followed, unknotted with fingers that trembled only slightly, and he leaned heavily against the marble kitchen counter, suddenly looking older than sheâd ever seen him. The low lights of the penthouse cast long shadows over his face, tracing the hollows of a man stretched thin by grief and guilt.
He raked a hand through his damp hair, but his gaze never left herânot her, and not the child in her arms.
A child whose mother had died in a place he helped run. A place where people were pitted against one another like animals in a cage. And yet here he was, watching that same child held gently by his wife, as if the world hadnât just split open.
He didnât deserve this.
That truth sat on his chest like a stone. He didnât deserve the soft sound of the babyâs breath, or the way his wife had kissed him without flinching, without needing an explanation. He didnât deserve to live in this quiet, golden-lit moment knowing he had facilitated the games that took Jun-heeâs life, even if he hadnât pulled the trigger himself.
But what else could he have done?
Jun-hee had made Gi-hun promise. With a broken voice and bloody hands, she had begged Gi-hun, Keep her safe. And now, the girl had no one else in the world. Just In-ho. And his wife..
âThen she should be named after her mother,â his wife said simply.
The baby stirred again, as if recognizing the sound of her name spoken with such warmth. One tiny hand slipped out from beneath the folds of her blanket, reaching into the air with a gentle flail.
âOh, you like that?â she cooed, cradling the baby closer. âIâm sure your mother was beautiful⌠and very brave. Brave enough to bring you into this world hoping you'd have a better life.â
The babyâs fingers curled into her sweater as she spoke, and his wife pressed a kiss to the infantâs head, breathing in the warm, powdery scent only newborns had. The ache in her voice was subtle, but real. She didnât know Jun-hee, but she understood her.
In-ho exhaled and turned to the counter, wordlessly opening the baby bag, packed by one of his pink guards. Inside, everything had been packed with care, formula, diapers, a single pink onesie folded with delicate precision.Â
He pulled out the small bottle and a container of powdered milk. He didnât need instructions, his hands moved on instinct, like theyâd done it before, in some other life. He warmed the bottle gently, testing it on the inside of his wrist, watching the steam rise.
âSheâll be hungry soon,â he murmured, almost to himself.
His wife glanced back at him, eyes soft.
âYouâre good with her,â she said.
âI donât feel good,â he replied, voice raw.
âI know,â she said. âBut you still came home. And you brought her with you.â
He looked down at the bottle in his hands. In another world, maybe this would have been his child. Maybe he and his wife would have had this moment under gentler circumstances. But in this world, this cruel, twisted one, this was how it had to begin.
With guilt. And blood. And a desperate attempt to do one right thing.
He crossed the room and handed her the warm bottle. The baby stirred again, whimpering now, her eyes fluttering open, searching blindly for something to hold onto. She took the bottle and started feeding her, while humming a soft lullaby as she gently rocked her.
âSheâs yours now,â he said quietly.
His wife looked down at the infantâat little Jun-heeâand then up at him, her expression unreadable.
âNo,â she corrected gently. âSheâs ours.â
And for the first time since he stepped off the island, In-ho allowed himself to breathe. Just for a second.
well, after a long break due to some personal problems, I am back to writing. watched the first 2 episodes of season 3 and I must say the obsession is very much alive and will continue writing for them so if you have any requests, feel free to drop them in my inbox. only character x reader for now!
Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!fem!reader; Salesman x recruiter!fem!reader (As always readerâs addressed as is Dancer, her title within Squid Game)
Word count: 5k
Summary:Â Torn between two obsessions, reader finds herself unraveling. A night with Gong Yoo sparks heat and honesty neither can afford, but peace is short-lived. When a gift from In-ho arrivesâtoo precise, too personalâold wounds split open. And when he calls, itâs not just with affection. Itâs a warning: heâs not letting go. Not now. Not ever.
Authorâs note: No smut in this chapter, but it's pure tension and emotional undressing. Gong Yooâs control slips. In-ho tightens his grip. The fuse is lit. Well, itâs been a long time since Iâve posted. I have went through some very major life transformations from finally finishing my dissertation to getting fired so I couldnât find the time to write. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this part, I havenât gotten the chance to watch season 3 but I am ready and excited. Love you all!
Masterlist
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
Hongdae area ; 03:30 AM ; Outside a bar
The night clawed at the city with fingers of frost, the early grip of Seoulâs winter creeping in through the seams of coats and the cracks of neon-lit alleys. Hongdae was still pulsingâits arteries full of intoxicated laughter, spilled drinks, and stumbling bodies. Music bled from every doorway, basslines colliding in the air like a brawl no one could win. And from one of those bars, she emerged.
Dancer stepped out of the bar and into the chaos, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that felt too symbolic. She didnât flinch at the cold. If anything, she welcomed it. The sting on her skin grounded her, and offered a kind of clarity that alcohol and fluorescent lights inside couldnât. Her breath curled in front of her like smoke. The real battle wasnât out here, not really. It was still waging war in her skull, twisting around memories and questions that refused to be buried.
Work kept her sane. The recruiting kept her focused, sharp. But moments like this, alone, outside, under Seoulâs indifferent sky, her mind spiraled. Always back to them. To him. To both of them. To the way In ho kissed her in that cold, sterile conference room. No warning. No softness.And to how close sheâd gotten to Gong Yoo lately. Too close. She lit a cigarette with a flick of her thumb, the flame briefly illuminating her face, tired, calculating, unreadable.
âYou know,â she muttered, voice low and sardonic, âif youâre going to stalk me, you could at least pretend to be subtle.â
A shift in the shadows. She turned.There he was.
Gong Yoo leaned against the crumbling brick wall like heâd been carved into it, still, deliberate, dangerous. The glow of his own cigarette highlighted the edges of his face: sharp jaw, hungry eyes, unreadable expression. His suit looked untouched by the night, pristine like heâd just stepped off a private jet instead of trailing her through Itaewonâs gutters. Hair slicked back, the man was a paradox of elegance and menace. The cigarette barely clung to his lips, but he didnât move to take a drag.
âCall it personal curiosity, princess,â he said, voice smooth, lazy, too calm for someone whoâd just been caught tailing her. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke like it bored him. âAnd trust me⌠if I didnât want you to know I was here, you wouldnât.â
His voice was ice dipped in velvet, casual but edged. A warning laced in flirtation. The kind of tone that made people lean in and regret it.
She didnât reply immediately. Just stared. Heart pounding harder than she wanted to admit. How the hell could someone look like thatâlike a wolf in a three-piece suit? Like the city itself had conspired to spit out something beautiful and terrifying? The bruises were still there, faint beneath the streetlight, faded purple blooming beneath his jaw, a neat line of stitches on his lip and brow. In-hoâs work. She remembered the sound of it, the sharp crack of bone against tile in the HQ shower room. She hadnât stopped it.Â
âHmm,â she murmured, tilting her head, inspecting him like one of the contestantsâwounded, calculated, dangerous. âIs that the best youâve got, Ghostface? Because honestly⌠Iâm unimpressed.â
The smirk that tugged at his mouth was slow, deliberate. But it didnât reach his eyes.She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the pavement, her coat falling open just enough to reveal the hem of her dress hugging the tops of her thighs. She wasnât cold anymore. Adrenaline had burned that away. She shifted her weight lazily, watching his gaze flickerâjust for a second.
Not a flinch. Just a recalibration. The air between them tightened.
âHow about we get a drink?â His voice cut through the tension like a bladeâcalm, deliberate. Too deliberate.
Dancer turned her head slowly, trying to gauge his angle. She didnât answer immediately. Just let the silence stretch between them, heavy with all the things theyâd never saidâand never would.
âA drink?â she echoed, finally. Her tone was light, playful. But it was armor. âIs this you asking me on a date, psycho killer?â
She flashed a crooked smile, but her heart was sprinting in her chest, wild and reckless. This wasnât how they worked. Their rhythm was violent. Primal. They fought like rivals and fucked like enemies, teeth, nails, scars. They didnât do soft things. They didnât dodrinks.
And yet here he was, calm as a loaded gun.
âAnd what if I am?â he asked, smoke curling from his lips, eyes fixed on her like he was dissecting her soul.
That stopped her cold. No grin. No smirk. No deflection. Just those words, bare and real.
It was disorienting. For a split second, it felt like the entire city had gone quiet. Like they had slipped out of the game, out of time itself, and landed somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere dangerous.Her mouth opened, then closed again. She was supposed to laugh it off. Call him delusional. Make some joke and walk away. Thatâs how they survived each other. But now?
Her throat tightened. Because this wasnât him playing. This wasnât some manipulation. There was no calculation in his expression. No mockery. Just a quiet, almost exhausted sincerity. And it scared the hell out of her.
Because her heart, stupid, stubborn, starved for something real, melted at the offer.
Just a little.
She stepped closer, the space between them taut like a wire. Her voice came out lower, more steady than she felt.
âOne drink,â she said. âAnd youâre paying.â
His mouth curved, slow, dangerous. âI wouldnât expect anything else, little girl.â
The nickname still hit like a whip. Sharp. Undeniably possessive. But tonight, it carried something different beneath the bite. A flicker of memory. Maybe even regret. She hated that she noticed.
He flicked his cigarette away, the embers scattering like sparks on concrete, and without another word, turned and started walking. She hesitated only a second before following him. As they disappeared into the neon-soaked dark, side by side like strangers pretending not to be intimate, the air between them pulsed with something volatile, something that could either become salvation or completely destroy them.
They didnât touch. Of course they didnât. That wouldâve been too easy, too exposed. But as they walked, her shoulder brushed his arm now and thenâbarely noticeable to anyone else, but electric to her. Yoo didnât pull away. Didnât shift. If anything, he seemed to lean into it, like the heat of her skin was anchoring him too.
They said nothing as they passed flashing club lights and late-night food stalls, their silence its own strange rhythm. Eventually, he slowed in front of a narrow door wedged between a fried chicken joint and a half-lit convenience store.
It wasnât much to look atâjust a cracked sign in faded Hangul, one red light overhead, and thick glass so fogged with time and smoke it reflected nothing at all.
Perfect.
Yoo  pushed the door open without a word. She followed.The inside was dim, soaked in amber shadows and secrets. The air reeked of old cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap alcoholâbut not in a way that repulsed. It felt honest. Like the place didnât care who you were or what youâd done, as long as you paid in cash and didnât bleed on the floors.
A few locals nursed drinks at the bar, eyes barely flicking toward the newcomers before returning to their own quiet misery. A low, grainy record played from somewhere in the backâslow, mournful jazz. The kind that made you think of dead lovers and rooms you shouldnât have left.
The bartender was an older man, maybe late fifties. He had eyes like heâd seen war, and a face that had given up on smiling years ago. He gave them a nodâjust a fraction of oneâand went back to wiping down glasses that would never truly be clean.
Dancer let her coat slide off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the booth they claimed. The cracked leather seats squeaked under her, but the warmth of the enclosed space started to seep into her skin.
She looked at Yoo as he settled across from her, his suit still perfect despite the walk. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but there was something different about him hereâlike this place stripped away the mask just enough to let something more human slip through the cracks.
âWant soju?â she asked, arching a brow. âOr are we saving that for our second date?â
Her voice was laced with sarcasm, but her heart thudded like a war drum beneath her calm facade.
âYou wound me,â he replied with mock gravity. Then, to the bartender: âTwo glasses of whiskey.â
She narrowed her eyes. âI donât like whiskey.â
âI know.â He met her gaze without flinching. âTime to give up the pretty girl drinks, princess.â
Her jaw clenched at the nickname againâpart taunt, part ritualâbut she didnât argue. Not out loud.The drinks arrived in short, heavy glasses that smelled like smoke and fire. She stared at the amber liquid, then back at him. He was already watching her, elbow on the table, fingers loose around his glass like he was holding something far more dangerous than alcohol. She took a sip. It burned like hell. She didnât wince.
âYou bring all your hot dates here?â she asked, voice low almost amused.
He didnât answer right away. Just sipped his whiskey, eyes never leaving hers.
âNo,â he said finally. âJust the ones I donât know what to do with.â
That stopped her. Just for a second. Then she smiled, tight, dangerous.
âWell,â she said, fingers curling around her glass. âHereâs to bad decisions.â
They clinked glasses. The sound was small. But in that dim bar, it echoed like the beginning of something that couldnât be undone. The bar wrapped around them like a cocoon of shadows and low heat, the scent of tobacco and stale whiskey clinging to every surface. Dancer leaned back into the cracked leather booth, her legs crossed lazily, one foot brushing the inside of Gong Yooâs calf beneath the table. He didnât flinch. He never did. But his eyes sparked with somethingâamusement, warning, hunger.
âI still donât like whiskey,â she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way the dim light fractured through it like flame behind stained glass.
âThatâs not why youâre drinking it,â Gong Yoo replied, voice low and unapologetically smug. âYouâre drinking it because I told you to.â
She snorted, lips curving. âYou mistake tolerance for obedience, darling.â
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate. âAnd you mistake defiance for power. But Iâve always liked watching you pretend.â
His gaze dragged across her face, down her throat, pausing briefly at the delicate pulse beating in her neck. The silence stretchedâloaded, intimate. Her skin prickled.
âCareful,â she murmured, voice like velvet over a blade. âYou keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you feel something.â
Gong Yoo leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands still wrapped around his glass. âYou think I don't?â he asked, quiet. âYou think I spend nights bleeding for women I donât feel something for?â
Her smirk faltered. Just for a moment. Then she leaned in too, the space between them charged enough to burn.
âYou donât feel, Gong Yoo. You consume. You break. You haunt. Thatâs not the same thing.â
He smiled then. Slow. Wicked. Like a man who knew how the story ended.
âI donât remember you complaining when I was haunting you against that wall last month. Or when you begged for more.â
Her cheeks didnât flush, she didnât give him that. But her eyes darkened, her pupils dilating in a way that wasnât from the dim lighting. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, slow and deliberate, and Gong Yooâs jaw tightened.
âOh, I remember,â she said. âI remember everything. Your hands. Your mouth. That knife.â She leaned forward, her voice a whisper now, her breath ghosting over his skin. âYou ruin people with such precision, itâs almost poetic.â
He reached out, slow, deliberate, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering against her jaw longer than necessary.
âAnd yet you keep coming back, little girl.â
She didnât pull away.
âI like collecting monsters,â she whispered. âYouâre just my favorite.â
Their eyes locked.
The bar seemed to dissolve around themâno music, no smoke, no bartender polishing glasses and pretending not to watch. Just the two of them, locked in this unholy gravity. They didnât need to touch. The tension between them was touch.
Gong Yoo leaned back slightly, the smile returning, dark, knowing.
âOne day, youâre going to wake up and realize Iâm the only thing left standing between you and the abyss.â
She raised her glass in a mock toast. âThen I guess Iâll have to make the fall worth it.â
They clinked glasses again, and this time the sound was less a toast and more a fuse being lit. For a moment, silence blanketed themâdense, deliberate. But it wasnât the brittle kind that demanded to be filled. No, this one pulsed with something heavier. Intimate. Dangerous. It wrapped around them like a second skin.
Dancer took another slow sip of her whiskey, the burn grounding her. Her gaze never left hisâstudying him, dissecting the angles of his face, looking for fractures in the mask he always wore so well. He stared back, unblinking, unreadable. Then her voice cut through the quiet.
âTell me something real.â
It wasnât a plea. It was a challenge.
Gong Yoo tilted his head slightly, watching her like a predator might watch something smaller, more dangerous than prey, but not untouchable. The edge of his mouth curled, not quite a smile. Of course he didnât. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. Once. Twice. Each click a measured pause, a slow exhale. The air between them thickened.Then finally he spoke.
âI have a daughter,â he said.
The world stilled.
Dancer blinked, the words crashing into her like cold water. Her foot, previously brushing against his beneath the table in a game of unspoken tension, stopped. She leaned back slightly, unsure if sheâd misheard.
âWhat?â
Gong Yoo didnât repeat it. He just looked at her, eyes black and flat, like he was waiting to see what sheâd do with the information. For a second, her brain refused to process the sentence. She blinked once, twice, as if trying to shake it loose. Her body went strangely still.
Not the kind of answer she expected. Not from him. No smug quip. No deflection. Just that single, brutal truth dropped between them like a blade.
âI didnât exactly peg you as the family man,â she said slowly, her tone laced with disbelief but not cruelty. Her mind raced. Trying to square the man in front of herâthe recruiter, the sadist, the flirt who spun ddakji games and dripped violenceâwith the image of him reading bedtime stories or braiding hair.
âIâm not,â he said. âThatâs why she lives with her mother.â
Something in his voice shifted. Not softerâbut real. There was no bravado, no baiting smirk. Just brutal honesty wrapped in ice.
âI send them money every month. Clean, untraceable. She doesnât know who I am. What I do. Just that Iâm⌠gone a lot.â
âAnd you think thatâs enough?â Dancer asked, not accusatoryâjust stunned.
âNo,â he said. âBut itâs the only thing I can give her that wonât get her killed.â
He didnât blink. Didnât look away. And for the first time since sheâd known him, Dancer saw something fracture across his features. Not guilt. Not warmth. But control slipping. There was something underneath it. A tired kind of grief. A truth shaped by years of separation, by decisions heâd buried long ago.
Dancer watched him closely now, the edges of her sarcasm stripped away. There was nothing performative in her expressionâjust stillness, and a rare, reluctant tenderness she didnât often allow herself to feel.
âShe looks like me,â he added after a beat. âExcept her eyes. Those are her motherâs. Warm. Trusting.â His jaw flexed, voice tightening. âIt terrifies me.â
The confession made her throat go dry.
âYouâre scared of your own kid?â
âIâm scared of ruining her,â he said plainly. âAnd I ruin everything I touch.â
There it was. The truth beneath the mask. Not a sob story. Not a redemption arc. Just a man too broken to fix, standing at a distance from the one thing that could make him human, and choosing to stay away to keep it safe.
Dancer stared at him. At the man who had ripped her open more than once, emotionally, physically, and who now sat in front of her confessing the only thing in his world that wasnât for sale. She sat back slightly, processing. Trying to find a foothold in this new terrain heâd just laid bare between them.
âDoes anyone in the organization know?â she asked finally.
He looked at her thenâreally looked. Eyes dark and flat, voice almost a whisper.
âNo. Iâve gone to great lengths to keep them invisible. Changed their names. Moved them to Busan.â
âAnd you expect me to believe this?â she asked, arching a brow.
He shrugged. âI donât care if you believe me.â
There it was. The chill beneath the truth. Not warmth. Not humanity. Just strategy. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasnât. But the factthat she couldnât tell was more disturbing than the confession itself. He leaned in, the dim light catching in his eyes. âYou asked for something real, princess. I gave you something realâ
Her breath caught.
Because that was the game, wasnât it? Everything with him was a test. A maze. A dare.
âYouâre a sick bastard,â she muttered, finally.
His smile widened just slightly. âThatâs the part you like most about me.â
She looked away then, downing the rest of her drink in one go. It burned all the way down. But not nearly as much as his words did. And when she looked back, he was still watching her. Still waiting. Like he knew exactly what heâd done. Like he always did. And even then⌠a part of her knew he wasnât lying.Â
And that? That scared her more than any lie he had ever told.Â
Itaewon area ; 05:07 AM ; Dancerâs apartment
She entered the apartment in silence, closing the door behind her with a dull click. The air inside was still, untouched. Like the place had been holding its breath while she was gone.
Dancer didnât bother turning on the lights. She let the darkness swallow her whole. Her heels clicked against the wood floorâsoft, tired echoesâbefore she kicked them off near the threshold with a heavy sigh. Her coat slid from her shoulders and landed somewhere near the sofa, forgotten.
Yoo had walked her to the building.Not up the stairs. Not to her bed. Not to the parts of her that always stayed raw after him. Just to the building entrance. And thenâlike some twisted parody of a man with mannersâGong Yoo kissed her knuckles. A single, slow, deliberate press of his mouth to her skin. Like they were in some ridiculous melodrama, not co-conspirators in something dark and bleeding.
The kind of gesture that shouldâve made her laugh.
But instead?
It made her freeze.
The bastard. She hated the way he looked at her thenâlike he saw her. Not her body. Not her role. Her. And she hated even more how that soft, stupid gesture had sent a shiver crawling up her spine. Sheâd smiled like an idiot. Like some breathless teenager who didnât know better.
God. Get it together.
She moved deeper into the apartment, the soft ambient glow from the city spilling through the windowpanes, casting thin shadows across her furniture. Everything was as sheâd left it.
Except for the box.
It sat in front of her door. Neatly placed. Too precise. A black box. Sleek. Minimal. No logo. No tag. Just one detail: a pink ribbon, tied in a perfect bow.
Her stomach twisted. She didnât need a card to know who it was from. Only one man sent packages like this. Only one man wrapped cruelty in satin and called it affection.
In-ho.
A quiet shiver ran up her spine, not fear. Not exactly. Something colder. Older. Like dĂŠjĂ vu dipped in dread. She crouched, fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up. The weight of it was deceptive. Heavy in all the wrong ways.
By the time she made it to the coffee table, her hands were shaking. She sat, legs folded beneath her, and slowly unwrapped the ribbon. The box opened with a gentle creak.
Inside: black dahlias.
Her breath caught. They were her favorite. And he knew that.Which is exactly what made it feel like a knife hidden in a silk glove.They were perfect. Just like always. Not a single petal out of place. The way only In-ho could orchestrate something so effortlessly haunting.
She didnât reach for the flowers. She reached for the note.
It was thick, cream paperâelegant, textured, expensive. Handwritten, of course. He wouldnât have typed this. No, this needed to be personal. Her fingers curled around it, hesitating for a breath she didnât take. Then she flipped it open.
The ink was dark. Immaculate. And unmistakably his.
You didnât flinch when I touched you.
You didnât stop me when I kissed you.
And you havenât stopped thinking about it since.
Neither have I.
I know who walked you home tonight.
I know how he looks at you.
I wonder if he kissed your mouth the way I did.
I wonder if you let him.
â I.H.
The breath sheâd been holding escaped in a sharp, guttural exhale. Her fingers tightened around the card until the edge bit into her skin.
Of course he knew.
Of course he was watching. Of course he was always watching.
She stood abruptly, the note slipping from her hand and landing on the table next to the box. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small.
That kiss, it hadnât been nothing. But it hadnât been safety either. It had been heat and history and the kind of ache that never really healed. A scar that reopened the moment his fingers brushed her skin.
And he knew.
He always knew.
She stepped back from the table like it might explode. Or worseâcall her back. Because a part of her wanted to keep the flowers. Wanted to touch them. Breathe them in. Hold onto whatever twisted affection he was offering between the blades.
But the smarter part, the cold part, knew better. This was the pattern. It had always been the pattern. In-ho would vanish, retreat behind masks and silence, hide behind duty and discipline. Let her suffocate in the absence. And then, just when she started to breathe again, just when she remembered how to be alone without aching, heâd reappear. With flowers. With whispers against her skin in locked boardrooms. With that look.
Like he still owned a piece of her soul and didnât care how many times he had broken it.
But after today, it felt different. Because this time, he had apologized. Not with words alone, but with his eyes. And silence. And regret that didnât feel performative. He had looked at her like he saw her, not as a weapon, or a pawn, or a ghost from his better past, but as the woman standing in front of him. Still wanting. Still waiting.
So, she did something stupid.Reckless. She picked up her personal phone, not the encrypted work line, not the safe, sterile one, and called him. The screen lit up with his real name. Not Frontman. Not a title. A man.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
And for a breathless second, she thought he wouldnât answer.
âAre you okay, little dove?â
Her heart lurched violently. Stupid, traitorous thing. His voice was steady, quiet. But not detached. There was something beneath the calm, coiled, raw, almost careful. As if he, too, didnât trust what might come out if he let the wrong word slip.
She swallowed hard, words catching in her throat. âI got your flowers.â A pause.âHow⌠how did you know what kind I liked?â
There was a beat of silence on his end, just long enough for her to think he might laugh. Mock her. Twist the vulnerability back on her.But he didnât.
âContrary to what you might believe,â In-ho said, voice low, almost gentle, âI do actually listen when you speak.â
The confession landed softly, but its weight was enormous. Because it wasnât just about flowers. It was about the way heâd cataloged her. Piece by piece. Emotion by emotion. The way heâd memorized her not just as a woman, but as a person he wasnât supposed to want. Wasnât allowed to care for.
And yet. Her fingers tightened around the phone. âI donât even remember telling you.â
âYou didnât,â In-ho said.
His voice dipped lower, roughened by memory. âIt was after your first VIP event. Three years ago. The American tried to offer you a rose, remember? You laughed in his face and said youâd rather have black dahlias⌠or nothing at all.â
Dancer said nothing, but in her mind, the moment came flooding back in fragments. The oppressive heat of the underground theater. The Americanâs oily smile. The weight of the mask she had to wearâthen, and now. She had said it without thinking, a sharp remark meant to bite.
She never imagined anyone had been listening. Especially not him. But he had. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, as if trying to hear the shape of his expression through the wire. And she could almost see him: standing alone in some sterile office, fingers curled around his phone, half a smile playing at his lips. That same damn smile that had always made her ache in places she tried to ignore.
The thought made her chest tighten.
âIn-hoâŚâ she began, voice caught somewhere between warning and invitation.
âDonât,â he cut in gently. Not a command. AÂ plea. âNot yet.â
The silence that followed was deafening. Not hollow, charged. It held every unsaid word between them like a blade held at the throat. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath barely steady. When she finally spoke, it came out quiet, threadbare.
âWhy now?â
It was a question that had been blooming in her chest since she saw the box on her doorstep. Since the kiss. Since the moment he stopped pretending not to care.
For a heartbeat, she thought he might not answer. That he might retreat again. Cut the line. Leave her in the dark like he always did, wondering what was real, what was manipulation, what was just madness cloaked in memory. But this time⌠he didnât disappear.
âI intend to fight for you, little dove.â
The words were soft. But they detonated inside her. She inhaled sharply, but the breath caught, lodged in her throat like splintered glass. Her hand trembled slightly as it held the phone, and her teeth found her bottom lip, biting hard enough to taste copper. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to believe him.But when she closed her eyes, it wasnât him she saw.
It was Gong Yoo, leaning against that brick wall in Hongdae, smoke coiling from his lips, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Watching her like he already knew how the story ended.Calling her princess and little girl like she was his.
Her eyes flew open, snapping back to the present. They landed on the bouquet. Those perfect, poised black dahlias. And for a second, just a second, she hated them. Hated what they represented. What they didnât answer.
They were beautiful. And utterly unhelpful.
On the other end of the line, In-ho exhaled softly. When he spoke again, the softness was still there, but his tone had shifted, back to business. Back to structure. The shift was sharp, like he was re-drawing a boundary he had already crossed.
âYou should get some sleep,â he said. âItâs late. And I still expect the full report tomorrow. Your recruitment numbers from Hongdae.â
And just like that, the moment, whatever it was, was over. The mask slipped back into place. But the words he left her with lingered like smoke in her lungs.
I intend to fight for you.
She stared at the flowers long after the call ended.
And for the first time in weeks⌠she had no idea who she was hoping would win.
Have you ever thought of posting your work on Ao3?
Hello! Yes, I've thought about it, I just am not sure how it works exactly for creators? But I have been meaning to look into it! Thank you for your support, means a lot â¤ď¸
Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!reader; The Salesman x recruiter!reader
Warnings:Â mention of drug use; canon violence; slapping
Word count: 5.7k
Summary:Â In-ho has spent years building a fortress around himself â a mask, a title, a kingdom of blood and order. But when the carefully managed balance of power slips in a single moment of rage, he finds himself unraveling in front of the one person he can't afford to lose, ending up kissing her. The Dancer, caught between the ghosts of two men who were never supposed to mean anything, fights to keep control the only way she knows how â by hunting.In the neon-drenched rot of Hongdae, a new player is about to be recruited, and sheâs wearing her sharpest smile, her reddest lipstick, and a heart cracked down the middle. Love was never part of the game.
Authorâs note:Â Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments! I am glad you are enjoying this as much as I am. For this chapter I decided to include Nam gyu and accelerate a bit the timeline even though in my story Il nam is still (barely) alive. Decided to find my In ho girlies today so enjoy!
Masterlist
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Headquarters ; 12:00 PM; Boardroom meeting 013
By the time the meeting adjourned, In-ho was a storm barely caged behind polished steel. The geometric mask on his face felt suffocating now. It no longer felt like a shield, but a prison, trapping the fury coiling through his veins like venom.The meeting droned on, new game cycles, projected numbers, potential player surveillance, but he hadn't heard a single word. His focus had long since narrowed to a single point.
The Salesman.
That smug, stitched-up face, lounging across the table like he hadn't been bleeding twelve hours ago. Still wolfish. Still lazy. Still maddeningly unbothered. As if none of it mattered. As if the blood on the tiles, the fists, the broken skin, had all been a joke only he was in on. It wasnât the violence In-ho regretted. Noâsomeone should have rearranged Gong Yooâs face years ago. It was the fact that he had reacted exactly the way the bastard wanted him to.
After years of flawless discipline, the Salesman had slipped a blade between In-hoâs ribs and twisted, exposing the raw nerves he had spent a lifetime burying. One blind, incandescent momentâand the carefully cultivated façade he wore like armor disintegrated into ash.
And just like that, he wasnât the Frontman anymore. Not the overseer of the Games. Not the right hand of the Host. Not the heir apparent to the empire. He was the disgraced detective again.The desperate man who once bartered away his soul in the neon shadows of a subway station. The man Gong Yoo had seen straight through all those years agoâthe rot already festering, even then.
And then there was her, The knife hidden in silk. The wildfire he thought he could contain if he only stayed cold enough.Things were not supposed to spiral this far. The only reason he even went to the training center was to speak to her. Instead, he found her shackled against the wall by the one man he should have destroyed years ago. Found her choosing him. And the red mist that descended had been absolute.Blinding. Consuming.
Hwang In-ho did not lose control. Not for lust. Not for rage.Not for anyone.
Until her.
Now, as the chairs scraped back and the room emptied, he moved.
âDancer, if you could stay back for a moment, I have some matters to discussâ In hoâs voice was clear, perfectly poised, deadly.
A few heads turnedâbrief flickers of curiosity quickly smothered under the weight of knowing better. Enough for Gong Yooâs lazy grin to sharpen, slicing deeper into In-hoâs restraint. Il-nam lifted an eyebrow, half amusement, half warning. In-ho didn't spare him a glance.
His eyes were locked on herâand her alone.
And she, damn her, smiled.
Slow. Sharp. A razor blade wrapped in honey. She met his stare head-on, unflinching, a sarcastic smile curving over her lips like a blade drawn clean. Every inch of her screamed defiance, masked in sugar and silk.
âOf course, boss," she said, the word twisted into something mocking and sweet at once. "Anything for you.â
In-ho watched as Gong Yoo leaned down, murmuring something against her earâa private joke, a final provocationâand then turned on his heel to leave, nonchalance written into every step. The boardroom door clicked shut behind him, sealing them into the silence. The Dancer smirked as if the whole thing amused her. But her gaze drifted backâanchored to In-ho.She didnât move to follow.Didnât even flinch.
Her tablet sat abandoned in front of her, screen dark. She lounged in the chair like a queen surveying a battlefield, one leg crossed lazily over the other, her weight shifted onto one hip. With deliberate slowness, she lifted her coffee cup, taking a long, unhurried sip.
And all the while, she watched him. Unblinking. Daring him. Daring him to speak.To move.To break first.Minutes bled by. Neither of them moved. The air between them tightenedâthick with everything they hadnât said, couldnât say, wouldnât admit. Finally, In-ho reached up and removed his mask and gloves.He placed them carefully atop the files stacked neatly beside him.
His stare locked onto herâflat, cold, designed to grind her down.To force her to crack first.
But God, she was stubborn.
In-ho rose from his chair, movements precise and controlled.The quiet scrape of leather against the floor echoed louder than any shout would have.Step by step, he crossed the room, never looking away. A predator stalking, measured, inevitable. He stopped just in front of her, close enough to see the faint sheen of coffee on her lips, the tiny twitch of muscle at the corner of her jaw.
Still relaxed.
Still mocking.
He leaned slightly on the edge of the table, arms loose at his sidesâcasual in posture, lethal in presence.And when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Flat. Cutting.
âTell me,â In-ho said, his eyes burning into her. âDid you really lose all your self-respect that easily?â
She didnât blink. Didnât even pretend to be wounded.
Instead, she laughedâa short, sharp sound, soft enough to be almost sweet. But her eyes? Her eyes flashed with something sharper.
âGeez,â she drawled, setting her cup down with a lazy clink, âdidnât know you got promoted to father figure, boss.â
The word boss dripped off her tongue like a blade dipped in honey. Mocking. Defiant.She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle she had already solved and grown bored of. Her leg swung idly where it was crossed, the tiniest, deliberate show of controlâtaunting him.
"Can you stop being a brat for half a second so we can have an actual adult conversation?" In-ho said, voice cold enough to strip flesh from bone.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing with something between laughter and contempt.
âOh?" she drawled, lacing her tone with mockery. "Now you want to communicate like adults? I thought big men like you only knew how to talk with their fists.â
She rolled her eyes with exaggerated disdain, the movement as deliberate as a slap. In-hoâs jaw clenched. Hard. The control he prided himself onâthe one thing that had survived the worst nights, the blood, the betrayalsâfractured another inch under her gaze.
"God," he bit out, the words scalding his throat, "Iâm trying to apologize here. Could you shut up for one second so I can?"
His voice was sharp enough to slice between them, brutal and raw. "You are insufferable. Thisâ" he stopped himself, biting down hard enough on the words that they nearly tore free anyway.
This is exactly why I canât have you.This is exactly why youâll burn.This is exactly why I keep losing.
But he didnât say any of it. Didnât give her the satisfaction of hearing the truth.Even so, the damage was already done. His half-choked fury hit her harder than he intended. He saw itâthe flicker in her expression. The breath she forgot to take.The way her fingers froze for a single, raw second.
But she recovered fast.Too fast.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back with a screech that shattered the fragile stillness of the room. Without a word, she began gathering her thingsâfast, sharp movements, more violence than necessity in the way she stuffed her tablet and phone into her bag.
Done.
Not with the meeting.
Not with the Games.
With him.Â
In-ho didnât move.He watched. Watched the cold armor slam back into place around her.Watched the walls go up so high he could almost hear the stone grinding against stone. But as she threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, something black and feral inside him roared to life.He had promised himself he would fight her, so then why did it feel so much easier to let her hate him?
Because he knew, if she walked away now, it wasnât anger she was carrying. It was indifference. And that?That was the beginning of losing her forever.
âLittle doveâŚâ
The words slipped out before he could cage them, softer than he intended, raw, almost fragile.
âStop. Please. Letâs talk.â
The sound of it, broken in ways he hadnât meant to reveal, halted her in her tracks. For a moment, she didnât move. Didnât breathe. Then, with a sharp, tired exhale, she set her bag down on the nearest chair.But she didnât turn to face him.Didnât give him the dignity of her eyes.
In-ho stayed frozen for a heartbeat longer, pulse thundering somewhere between his teeth and his throat.Her silence wasnât a rejection. But it wasnât forgiveness, either.It was a wound. A wound heâd inflicted.And now, standing behind her, so close he could see the tension pulling at her shoulders, he realized he wasnât sure how to stop the bleeding.
Slowly, cautiously, he closed the last few feet between them.The scent of her hit him firstâwarm amber and smoke and the faint, addictive sweetness of vanillaâso familiar it carved something out of him. Every cell in his body screamed to leave it alone. To walk away before he made it worse.
Instead, he reached out.His hand moved almost without thought, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her armâa touch so featherlight it could have been mistaken for a ghost.
But he felt it.The shiver. The way goosebumps bloomed across her skin like a storm moving beneath the surface.A visible betrayal of the control she fought so hard to maintain.
âWhat is there left to say at this point?â she whispered, voice cracked at the edges.
It wasnât cruelty. It wasnât even anger. It was finality. A death sentence spoken too softly to hear until it was too late. And she was right. It felt like they had said goodbye that night on the rooftop pool of the hotel in Jeju, beneath a sky so wide and merciless it felt like a graveyard. When she'd looked at him like she was already mourning the man he could have been.
Still, In-ho couldnât stop himself.
âYouâre going to be the death of me,â he muttered, the words scraping out of him low and broken, more confession than accusation.
And maybe he meant it to sound bitter. Maybe he meant it to wound.But instead, it sounded like truth. Like surrender. Like he had already made his choiceâand it was her, even if it killed him. His hand moved again, slower this time. Tracing the line of her arm, brushing the curve of her shoulder, skating lightly along the side of her neckâuntil finally, he found her jaw.He turned her gently, almost reverently, until she was facing him.
Her eyes stayed closed.Tightly. As if seeing him would break something she wasnât ready to let go of. In-hoâs thumb ghosted over her cheekbone, a caress so delicate it barely registered as touch. He felt the tremor just beneath her skin.The way she was fighting herself even now.His voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.
âYou were right," he said, each word heavy with regret. "Iâve been playing with your feelings. You didnât deserve that."
His thumb swept the hollow beneath her eye, careful, hesitant, like he was afraid she might shatter under his hand. "That's why I went looking for you last night," he continued, voice cracking under the weight of it.âTo talk. To apologize."
A beat.
A fracture.
"And then I found you with him. And Iâ" The confession stuck in his throat like a knife he had no choice but to swallow. "I lost control," he finished, raw. "I shouldn't have hit him. I shouldn't have... but I did."
The words felt pathetic. Inadequate. As if they could undo the blood still staining the back of his hands. For a long moment, she said nothing.And when she did, her voice was sharpâbut hollow. A blade dulled by too many cuts.
âSo you donât want me..." she said quietly, "...but you donât want anyone else to have me either." The corner of her mouth twistedânot a smile. Something closer to a scar. "Checks out," she added, the sarcasm mechanical, practiced.
But the conviction behind it was thinner now. Worn down by nights she never spoke of and wounds he had cut too deep to dress properly.
He stayed silent, his fingers still absently tracing the shape of her faceâmemorizing her like a man trying to remember the feel of sunlight before stepping into the dark. Without thinking, he cupped her face fully, palms bracketing her cheeks, anchoring her to him.
"Look at me, little dove," he said, voice low, breaking apart at the edges.
Not a command.
A plea.
Slowly, like dragging herself through quicksand, she opened her eyes. And there she was.
Raw.
Wounded.
Beautiful in a way that felt almost holy and almost cruel.
A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouthâsad, reverent, devastating.
"There you are," he murmured, the words cracking against the silence like a prayer he had no right to say. âThere is no world,â he added, voice barely audible, âin which I donât ache for you.â
The confession hung between them, raw and bleeding. And for a few seconds, neither moved. The world shrank to the pounding of their hearts and the faint, ghostly hum of the fluorescent lights overheadâan eerie symphony for the unraveling happening inside them.
Slowly, In-ho tilted her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, a touch so careful it might have shattered glass.His gaze dragged down to her mouthâsoft, parted, trembling slightly with each shallow breath.
He took her in completely. The way her lashes cast trembling shadows across her cheeks.The way her breath mixed with hisâwarm, uneven, magnetic.The frantic pulse beating beneath his fingertips, betraying her, betraying both of them.In ho leaned closer, their foreheads brushing.
The contact was featherlight, but it stole the breath from his lungs.
His other hand found the small of her back, resting there, warm and grounding, the quiet weight of it pulling her imperceptibly closer.Closer than either of them should allow.
He could feel her hesitateâfeel the war raging inside her.But she didnât pull away.She stayed. In-hoâs fingers slipped from her jaw to her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair away with aching reverence.She closed her eyes at the touchâjust brieflyâand when she opened them again, he was already there.
Hovering.
Waiting.
A heartbeat away from ruin.
And then, impossibly slowly, he closed the distance.Their mouths met in a kiss so soft it was almost a question. A brush of lipsâhesitant, reverent, as if he was asking for permission even now.Testing the fault lines between them, afraid that one wrong move would collapse everything. But when she didnât pull awayâwhen her hands fisted lightly into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herselfâhe deepened it.Just slightly. Enough to taste the breath she had been holding.
The kiss wasnât violent.
It wasnât desperate.
It was aching.
In ho tilted her deeper into him, his hand pressing firmer against her lower back, molding her against the steady thrum of his body. Her lips parted under his without hesitation now, and he drank her inâslow, methodical, like he had all the time in the world to memorize her this way.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile spell between them.
In-ho broke the kiss first, tearing himself away with a sharp inhale, retreating a few steps like the air itself had become too dangerous to breathe. His hand reached for the mask lying on the table, and in a single, practiced motion, he slipped it back onâcovering not just his face, but everything he had just dared to feel.
The Frontman returned the moment the cold metal kissed his skin.
The man who didnât bleed.
The man who didnât falter.
He slid his gloves back on with mechanical precision, each movement severing what little intimacy remained between them.
âCome in,â he called out, his voice cutting through the room, harsher than he intendedâlaced with annoyance he no longer had the luxury to show.
The door creaked open. A pink-suited guard entered, the square insignia stamped across his mask stiff with apprehension. He glanced between them quicklyâher standing by the table, gathering her things with practiced indifference, him rigid and unreadable behind the featureless mask.
If the guard sensed anything off, he knew better than to comment. She, of course, was already perfect againâbuttoned up, composed, her movements casual and efficient, as if nothing had ever happened.She had always been good at pretending, In-ho thought grimly.Better than him, sometimes.
âWell?â In-ho snapped, the word a whip crack across the silence.
The guard stiffened.
âPardon me, Frontman,â he stammered. âWe have a situation involving one of the previous winners... You asked for constant updates regarding Seong Gi-hun?â
The guardâs gaze flicked nervously between the two of them again, though the black mask hid most of his expression. In-ho didnât hesitate. Duty devoured everything else.
âLead the way, Manager 013," he said, voice cold, final.
But before he moved, he allowed himself one last look at her.
She met his gaze with infuriating poise, a faint tilt to her chin that made the moment feel less like an ending and more like a battlefield truce.He gave her a small, imperceptible nod.The kind of gesture that would mean nothing to anyone elseâbut between them, it was an order, a warning, and a promise all at once.
âI expect your report regarding progress in the Hongdae area on my desk by the end of the day, Dancer,â he said, voice stripped of anything but professionalism.
His words were steel. Impersonal. Because they had to be. She responded without missing a beat, slipping into her role like a second skin.
"Iâm scheduled to be in the field tonight, sir," she said smoothly, her tone polished and deferential, perfectly crafted for ears that might be listening. "The best I can offer is a completed report by tomorrow morning. Iâll be heading to Hongdae either way this evening."
For a fraction of a second, In-ho almost allowed himself to break character. To tell her not to go. To tell her to stay, to stay here, where he could watch her, keep her close, keep her safe. But that wasnât the maskâs place. And the mask always won.
He gave her a curt nod.
"Very well," he said, voice iron. "Tomorrow morning, first thing. Dismissed."
And without another glance, without another word, he followed the pink guard out of the room.
Leaving her behind, once again.
Leaving the wreckage of what almost was scattered like ash in his wake.
Hongdae area ; 11:22 PM ; Pentagon club
The club reeked of stale beer, sweat, and regret. Usually, she liked the sceneâthe chaotic pulse of it, the easy thrill of the hunt for new players, the simple, ruthless calculus of survival.But tonight, it felt like a chore.Her lips still tingled from In-hoâs kiss, her heart hammering against her ribs in a chaotic rhythm she couldn't control. She should have been elated.
He had been vulnerable with her.
He had admitted what he felt.
He had let the mask slipâfor her.
So why did it ache? Why did it feel like something inside her had cracked, not healed? And worse: Why was her first thought after the kiss not of In-ho at all but of the Salesman?
God, you are such a mess.
She pressed her fingers lightly to her mouth, as if she could wipe the memory away. But it lingeredâelectric, haunting.
Was I really stupid enough to fall for him too?
The thought made her chest tighten in disgust.
Gong Yoo had been a choice.Calculated. Safe, in the most dangerous way possible. She had picked him precisely because he was a monster in a tailored suitâbecause with him, there were no illusions. No broken promises.No chance of being wounded by anything as foolish as hope.It had been simple.Flesh and games.Mutual destruction dressed up as pleasure.
So why did it all feel so fucking complicated now?
The thought turned her stomach.She had always prided herself on being smarter than this. Sharper. Immune to soft touches and lazy smirks and predatory stares.Immune to men like Gong Yoo, who wore violence like cologne.Immune to men like In-ho, who built walls around their hearts and dared her to climb them anyway.
And now?
Now she was caught between two men who despised each other and somehow, impossibly, she had managed to betray herself with feelings for both.If there was a god out there, he must have had the cruelest sense of humor imaginable. She tipped back the cheap tequila in her glass, the burn a poor substitute for clarity.
Focus.You know how to do that, at least.
Recruit. Manipulate.Survive.
Thatâs what she was built for.Not this.Not hearts and bruises and battlefield kisses that left her feeling more broken than whole. She set the glass down hard enough to crack the thin rim, straightened her posture, and let the mask of professionalism slide back into place like a blade into a sheath.
She would do her job.She would do it perfectly because if she couldnât control what was unraveling inside her, then she would damn well control everything else. Her eyes found her target immediately.Â
Roh Nam-gyu.Twenty-seven, barely older than her. Black hair that brushed the ends of his ears, black eyes as cold and empty as a busted neon sign. A tough Hongdae boy wannabeâcheap leather jacket, ripped jeans, the stink of desperation and secondhand fame clinging to him like cheap cologne. Club promoter at Pentagon. Addicted to a cocktail of whatever powder or pill would keep the high sharp and the crash manageable. Mean streak a mile wide when he didnât get his way.
And most importantly: three hundred million won gone in a scam cryptocurrency scheme.A financial wound still raw, still festering. And it had just happened that Gong Yoo had recruited the same man who endorsed the scam last week. And nothing entertained the VIPs more than player who knew and hated each otherâs guts.Â
She had spent months gathering intel on Nam-gyu. Months coming to this club, sipping watered-down tequila, letting herself be seen.Not enough to draw attentionâjust enough to exist on the periphery.To become familiar.Recognizable.She had let the wolves circle her without biting, cultivating an image that hovered somewhere between temptation and ghost.A reputation carefully spun from sweat, smoke, and the slow, deliberate erosion of defenses.
And tonight was the night she chose to finally strike. She had dressed for it like it was war. A short red dress that clung like a second skin. Signature red-soled heels that clicked like gunshots against the floor.And a blood-red lipstick that turned her mouth into a weapon.
When she saw Nam-gyu saunter up to the bar, all fake swagger and cheap confidence, she made her move.She leaned over the counter, ordering a shot she wouldnât drink, letting the hem of her dress ride up just enough to catch the eye.The lighting caught the curve of her thigh, the arch of her back.A siren song written in flesh and fabric. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it.
The glance.
The smirk.
The hungry hook of his gaze dragging over her like a brand.
Perfect.
She smiledâsmall, knowing, dangerousâand tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with calculated innocence. Not too much.Just enough. And then turned back to the bartender, as if she hadnât noticed him at all. Letting him watch. Letting him want.
Because that was the trick.You didnât catch a wolf by running. You caught him by making him think he caught you.
And just like clockwork, she felt the shift in the air the way the man's body angled toward her, the way his gaze latched on, the way the false confidence thickened his voice as he slipped onto the stool beside her.
"I'll have a glass of whiskey," Nam-gyu said, signaling the bartender, "and whatever the lady's having."
The words were delivered with a smirk, like he thought he'd already won something.She turned to him slowly, tilting her head, letting her hair fall slightly over one shoulder. Her lips curved into a soft, sweet smileâthe kind men like him mistook for submission.
"Ah, no, thank you," she said, her voice light, airy, just a little bit slurred. "One more tequila shot and I might not even find my way back home."
She giggled then, a sound that melted easily into the din of the club, and looked up at him through her lashes, eyes wide and guileless. Easy prey or so he would think.
"Nonsense," Nam-gyu drawled, leaning in, the scent of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes rolling off him in waves. "It's Friday night. Live a little, sweetcheeks. Come onâfor me?"
She let her laugh bubble up again, a little louder this time, drawing a few eyes from nearby tablesâjust enough to make him feel special. Wanted. Seen. She bit her lip, pretending to deliberate, fingers idly tracing the rim of her empty shot glass.
"Fine," she sighed, like heâd worn her down. "If you insist. But.." She pointed at him, playful, accusing "you're paying."
"Anything for you, gorgeous," he said with a wink that probably worked on easier prey.
The bartender poured two fresh shots of tequila, setting them down with slices of lemon. Nam-gyu lifted his glass toward her with a cocky grin. She mirrored him perfectly, glass poised between elegant fingers, her smile a mirror of hisâjust a little softer, a little more promising.The glasses clinked together, a sharp, hollow sound swallowed by the thudding bass of the club. They both threw back the shots.
She grimacedâoveracted the sharp burn she didn't actually feelâscrunching her nose adorably before grabbing for the lemon slice. Another tiny performance, another thread wound tighter around his neck.Nam-gyu laughed, pleased with himself, already leaning closer like a moth drawn to the flame he didnât know would burn him alive.
"I've seen you around," he said, voice thick with intent. "You like this place that much?"
She turned toward him, smile slow, syrupy, dripping with feigned shyness.
"Maybe," she said, plucking the words delicately from the air between them, "I just like the promoter."
His grin widenedâgreedy, victorious. Exactly the reaction she wanted. Exactly the trap she needed him to walk right into.
âHow about I take you upstairs to the VIP section? Much more quiet, only the best crowd. There is a pool table, I could teach you how to play.â he suggested.
Jackpot. If there was one thing she enjoyed was when made her job so much easier for her.Â
âOkay, but I warn you, I am shit at poolâ she said laughing.
As they made their way upstairs, his hand found the small of her back and she hid the repulsion she felt exceptionally well. She leaned into his touch and even blush slightly to make it all the more believable.
As promised, the VIP section upstairs was quieter but not cleaner.The lighting was dimmer here, filtered through red glass and cheap opulence, casting shadows that seemed to linger too long. The air was dense with cigarette smoke, stale cologne, and the chemical tang of synthetic perfume.A cluster of mismatched sofas and low tables lined the perimeter, all upholstered in faux leather that stuck to bare skin.
Pool tables sat beneath flickering light fixtures, most of them empty, save one, where a small group was hunched over the felt. She caught the flash of a credit card, the glint of glass, and the unmistakable sound of sniffing. A fine line of white powder vanished in seconds, followed by forced laughter and twitchy movements.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.This was the scene.This was the rot. Exactly where desperation bloomed.
Nam-gyu strutted ahead of her, moving like he owned the place, calling out greetings to a few familiar faces with performative charm. He stopped at the edge of the group, leaned in, exchanged a few words and just as quickly, the mood shifted.Voices dropped. Body language stiffened. She caught the tail end of what was clearly a hushed argumentâfast, clipped, full of veiled threats and paper-thin alliances.
She leaned one hip against a nearby table, crossing her legs slowly, watching him from across the room as if she had all the time in the world. Her body language screamed ease. But inside, her mind was already calculating. Drug debts. Bad deals.The web around Nam-gyu was woven tighter than sheâd even realized. Good.
He returned to her after a few minutes, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket like nothing had happened. But his jaw was tight, and his smile didnât quite reach his eyes.
"Sorry about that, sweetcheeks," he said casually. "Just some business partners."
She tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that didnât pretend to care.
âOf course,â she said lightly, stepping in beside him. âBusiness always comes first.â
They made their way over to one of the unoccupied pool tables. The wood was scuffed, the felt uneven, but it would do. She picked up a cue stick, weighing it idly in her hand.
âHow about a game, Nam-gyu?â she asked, her voice smooth as silk sliding over a blade.
He glanced at her, grin returning as his confidence crept back into place.But then he paused.
âWaitâhow do you know my name?â he asked, brows drawing together slightly. âI never told you.â
She didnât blink.
âAh,â she said with a small shrug, racking the balls with deliberate slowness. âHow and why are such boring questions, donât you think?â
He watched her, expression flickering between suspicion and intrigue. She turned to him, smile sweet and disarming.
âYou seem like the type who enjoys a little risk,â she added, chalking her cue tip. âSo hereâs the gameâŚâ Her eyes met his, gaze level.âFor every round you win, I give you 100,000 won.â
She let the number hang in the air, heavy with false generosity.âAnd if I win⌠well, I get to slap you.â
Nam-gyu blinked, taken aback, but intrigued.He laughed, a low, greasy sound.
âYou serious?â
Her smile widened, teeth white against the red of her lipstick.
âDeadly.â
She handed him the cue with a smile that promised mischief, stepping back with the kind of easy grace that only came from complete control.At first, she let him win. She missed shots just wide enough to seem real.Laughed lightly at her own âmistakes.â Bit her lip when he pocketed a ball, clapping with mock enthusiasm.
Each time he won, she handed over a crisp 100,000 won note without hesitationâplayful, generous, like she couldnât wait to lose more. He bought it.Every last inch of it. His chest puffed up.His swagger returned. The cocky smirk came out in full force, and his glances toward the table of drugged-out âbusiness partnersâ grew bolder, like he was showing her off.She let it ride.
Until she didnât.
Then came the turn.Subtle. Quiet. Deadly.She chalked her cue differently. Slower. Her eyes changedâno longer wide and playful, but focused. Cold.The next break cracked like a whip. And she didnât miss.
Not once.
She ran the table in silence, the click of balls and the thrum of bass beneath their feet the only sound.When the last ball dropped into the corner pocket, she looked up at himâexpression unreadableâthen stepped forward.
And slapped him.
Not hard enough to draw blood, but sharp. Clean.A sting meant to burn.His cheek snapped to the side, the sound of it turning a few heads.
He blinked.Eyes wide.Didnât speak.
She placed her palm against his cheek right after, a gentle press that only made it worse.
âOne-all,â she murmured, then moved back to rack the balls again.
Round two, she won faster. More brutally. Not even a pretense of mercy. Another slap.Harder this time.The sound cracked like a gunshot. His jaw tightened.She saw the twitch behind his eye, the way his hand curled into a fist.
Still, he didnât stop.
Because deep down, men like Nam-gyu would rather be owned than beaten.
Third round. Another win. Another slap.This time she smiled when she did itâsoft, slow, fingers brushing his cheek like an apology she didnât mean.
By the fourth, the whole room was watching. His business partners leaned back on their filthy couches, smirking. Not helping. Just enjoying the show.Nam-gyuâs face was flushed with humiliation, with something that wasnât just rage. She could feel itâunder his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The desire to dominate her had twisted. Now, he just wanted to earn her attention.By the fifth slap, his cheek was red and hot beneath her palm, the skin swelling faintly He hissed through his teeth.
âYou little cunt,â he muttered, breath ragged, voice trembling with fury, and something else heâd never admit.
She leaned in, mouth just an inch from his ear. And laughed. Then, without a word, she pulled a thick stack of won from her clutch, more than he deserved, and pressed it into his hand along with a business card.
Plain. Matte brown. One side engraved with the three black symbols: ⯠Ⳡâ. The other: a phone number.
âAww,â she cooed, mock-sweet, brushing her fingers across his sore cheek. âDonât pout. Youâll wrinkle that pretty face.â
She turned to leave, red heels clicking like a metronome of judgment.But just before she disappeared into the shadows of the stairs, she looked back over her shoulder.
âIf you want a real chance to win,â she said, voice like silk over broken glass, âcall the number. Itâll change your life.â
Then she was gone.
And Nam-gyu stood there, breathless and burning, his cheek stinging, his pride in pieces and the card in his hand like a curse he was already too tempted to resist.
