That was one of the first things they told you at the Junior Stylist Academy. Apprentices are seen, not heard — and preferably not even seen. A pair of hands. A silent helper. A shadow at the shoulder of brilliance.
Your mentors, Prosperina and Vitus, were brilliance. At least, that’s what everyone at the Capitol told them. Prosperina was all sweeping gestures and metallic shrieks of genius. Vitus nodded solemnly beside her, fingers twitching with caffeine and habit as he adjusted seams and sighed at lesser fabrics. The two of them were in perfect sync, bonded by years of pageantry and cruelty — and now, at the 50th Hunger Games, they were preparing to dazzle the nation with the same tired spectacle of fire, smoke, and sorrow.
You were their intern. Which meant you were there to iron coal-dust tunics, conceal bruises, apply gloss to cracked lips. Your hands moved as they ordered, steady and precise, while your mouth stayed shut.
Until the boy from District 12 looked into the mirror.
He didn’t belong in this room. That much was obvious. The others were trembling, some crying, some glass-eyed and silent. But he… he sat still, wrists limp in his lap, watching Prosperina flutter about with a look of bare disinterest.
“How stupid is this,” he muttered.
Quiet. Barely above the din of Prosperina’s breathless monologue on “peasant coal-glamour” and “erotic soot.”
Your fingers paused at his collar.
It would’ve been smarter to ignore him. Let the silence settle. Let his words die like all the others do.
But something in the way he said it — weary, dry, disbelieving — felt real in a city built on performance.
So you whispered, “Don’t let them see you break.”
His gaze flicked toward you in the mirror.
Not surprised. Not grateful. Just… still.
A pause like a held breath passed between you. No smile. No thank you. But something in his jaw shifted, like steel being set into place.
You pressed the tunic flat against his shoulder, fingers brushing the skin. It was warm, the slightest tremor beneath. Or maybe it was yours.
He didn’t speak again. Neither did you.
But when you pinned the symbolic scrap of cloth to his sleeve — the one Prosperina insisted would “evoke the struggle of the working class” — his eyes met yours in the reflection again. Like he knew. Like he saw you. Not the glittered Capitol girl with soft hands and big eyes, but the one beneath.
You didn’t know his name yet. But that didn’t stop you from wanting him to live.
———————
Later, when the Parade ended and Prosperina was drunk on praise, you lingered near the costume rack, checking clasps, repairing frayed seams, pretending to be too busy to leave.
You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Just that he would be here. That he might pass by.
He did.
He was still in costume, eyes ringed in fake soot. The tunic hung looser now, like it didn’t want to cling to a dead man walking. He stopped beside you.
“You always whisper advice to strangers?” he asked.
You looked up. “Only the ones who might listen.”
Something passed between you. That same silence. That same flicker of awareness.
He gave you a nod. Just once. “Thanks.”
Then he walked away.
———————
That night, you sat at the edge of your cot in the Stylist Dormitories, legs drawn up, your fingers still tingling where they’d touched his collarbone. You told yourself it was nerves, or Capitol pressure, or stress.
You told yourself you were being foolish.
He wouldn’t remember you tomorrow.
But he did.
———————
It started small. You passed each other in the halls of the Training Center. Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes not. But every time, he looked. Really looked. Like he was taking in the world in snapshots, deciding what to keep.
One evening, Prosperina sent you down to the costume prep vaults to retrieve a pack of lashes. On your way back, you saw him crouched near a ventilation grate, slipping something into the panel.
You didn’t stop. Didn’t ask.
But later, when Beetee’s name came up in hushed whispers — when the rebellion was still more rumor than plan — you understood. You became the extra pair of hands Beetee mentioned in his letters to “the boy who doesn’t smile.” The girl in the seams.
Soon, you were hiding messages in lining hems, smuggling wire components in brush kits, folding blueprints into powder palettes. The prep teams never questioned you. You were quiet. Obedient. Forgettable.
But to him — to Haymitch Abernathy — you were something else.
———————
You watched him win.
Not just survive — win. Outthink the Capitol. Outlast every lie they told. Use the arena like a weapon and the terrain like a blade.
You watched them punish him, too.
The Capitol smiled while they stripped his dignity. Sent “visitors” to his quarters. Killed his family. Broke his bones in ways that didn’t show on camera.
He never cried.
But the day he returned home, you saw him at the train station. Alone. A victor. Untouchable. And for a moment, as the crowd screamed and the cameras flashed, he looked like a boy again — lost in the noise.
You stood just inside the gates, dressed in Capitol blue, your fingers clutching the scarf you’d once wrapped around his neck as part of a costume.
He saw you.
Just for a second.
Then he turned and disappeared down the platform.
———————
In the years that followed, your name stopped appearing on intern rosters. Your name was instead appearing on lists of top stylists and your hands never stopped working. But your name got ever quieter in the underground, too important.
You became the contact Beetee trusted. The one who knew which engineers could be bought, which Avoxes passed notes under food trays, which cameras looped. You learned to braid wire into corset boning. How to hide explosives inside cosmetic cases. You never raised your voice, never sought the spotlight.
And yet: your name passed like a shadow through the underground. Quiet. Vital.
To the Capitol, you were nobody. A junior stylist who had vanished before her prime.
To the rebellion, you were the knife behind the curtain.
To Haymitch, you were the whisper that never left his head.
You moved into the old cottage at the edge of the village for the quiet. After years of city noise, sirens, and watching people disappear behind doors they never opened again, you wanted stillness. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was necessary.
The cottage had stood since before anyone could remember, a lopsided stone thing draped in ivy and secrets. People in the village called it “The Widow’s Rest.” When you asked why, they only offered vague nods and something about “a soldier who never came back.”
You didn’t care. Not then.
———————
At first, the signs were small. A bootprint in the dust by the back door when you hadn’t gone near it. A teacup, moved from the cupboard to the counter overnight. Cold patches, even when the fire roared.
You told yourself it was an old house. Drafts. Settling foundations. Maybe your mind playing tricks.
Until the voice.
It came softly, late one night, just as you were falling asleep.
“Not safe like this.”
You shot upright, heart racing, but the room was empty. Only the low crackle of the fireplace answered.
You didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
———————
The next few days, you heard him more. Not every night. But enough. Always quiet. Always urgent.
“Close the latch.”
“Watch the road.”
“They’re looking.”
And sometimes…
“You shouldn’t be here.”
You started talking back. Quietly, at first. Half a joke, half a dare.
“You sound like my conscience.”
“Who’s looking?”
“Why aren’t I safe?”
You didn’t expect answers. But one night, standing in the kitchen with a mug of tea, you caught your reflection in the window—and someone else’s behind you.
A man.
Tall. Broad. Masked.
You turned around so fast you dropped your mug. It shattered.
But the kitchen was empty.
Your breath caught. You weren’t scared, exactly—more like… watched. Not in a predatory way. Just… studied. Like someone trying to remember.
———————
The next day, you left out paper and a pencil on the table.
“If you can speak, can you write?” you scribbled at the top.
You left the room. Gave it time. Told yourself you were ridiculous.
But when you returned, a single word had been written beneath yours:
“Ghost.”
———————
You talked more after that. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes on paper. You asked who he was. What he remembered.
Not much, he said.
“War.”
“Blood.”
“Betrayal.”
“They left me.”
You asked why he stayed. He never answered.
But your things were always locked at night now, even when you forgot. The fire never went out. One evening, you tripped carrying firewood—and hands, real and strong, caught your arms. You turned—
Nothing there.
But the bruises bloomed in the shape of fingers.
You should have been afraid. But you weren’t.
———————
Winter deepened. The village grew colder. Stranger. People began to look at you differently, whisper behind cupped hands when you passed.
You started hearing footsteps outside the cottage at night. More than one set.
One night, you found the word “RUN” scratched into the frost on your window.
———————
You confronted him.
“I deserve to know the truth.”
The fire flickered low. The air thickened.
Then, for the first time, he answered—not in writing, not in whispers, but with his full voice, low and sharp as gravel:
“You were never meant to be part of this.”
You stood your ground. “Then why protect me?”
A long silence.
Then: “Because I remember what it felt like. Being alive. Being seen.”
He hesitated.
“You look at me like I’m still real.”
Your throat tightened. “You are.”
———————
That night, you dreamed of him.
No mask. Just weary eyes. Scars on his face, hands clenched tight like he’d forgotten how to relax. He stood in the middle of a battlefield, soaked in ash and rain, and looked at you like you were the first peace he’d seen in years.
You woke with a name on your lips.
Simon.
———————
They came two nights later. Men. Not from the village. Quiet, trained. You only saw the glint of their rifles under the moonlight.
Ghost was already there.
He didn’t speak. Just stood at your door, his outline half-shadow, half-man, head turned toward the approaching threat.
You didn’t question. You locked the door. Hid.
Outside, there was shouting. Gunfire. Silence.
When you emerged, the snow was red.
Ghost stood motionless in the center of it. The bodies were gone. Like they’d never been.
You looked at him, and for the first time, he looked back with something like grief.
“I can’t stay.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll come again. They don’t stop. Not for me. Not for anyone close to me.”
You stepped closer, aching.
“Then let me go with you.”
His form shimmered, flickered like candlelight.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do,” you whispered. “You’ve been more real to me than anyone.”
Silence stretched.
Then he took off the mask.
———————
When you woke, the house was warm. Your fire crackled. A folded piece of paper sat on your nightstand.
You opened it.
“Thank you. For seeing me.”
Beneath the words, a fingerprint in ash.
You never saw him again.
But sometimes—when you leave a cup out, when you forget to lock the back door—it’s locked for you. And when the wind howls too hard, the fire lights itself.
The cable car creaked, swaying slightly as it glided across the snow-covered gorge. You shifted uncomfortably on the bench, arms folded across your chest for warmth and maybe a bit of self-comfort. Next to you, Mike was tapping his fingers on his thigh, glancing out the frosted window with a forced smirk.
“Gotta admit,” he said, “this place still gives me the creeps.”
You smirked faintly. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Winter getaway with just the right amount of horror movie vibes.”
“Yeah, well, next time I vote we go to Cancun.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Mike had always been like this—loud, charming, a little cocky, but always making the tension feel lighter than it should. Especially tonight.
It had been a year since Beth and Hannah disappeared. A year since everything had fallen apart.
Coming back to Blackwood Mountain was Josh’s idea. “Closure,” he’d called it. But the air in your chest was heavy the moment your boots hit the snow. Something about the mountain felt different now. Colder. Less welcoming.
Inside the lodge, things weren’t much better. The electricity was spotty, the place colder than you remembered, and the sense of unease never quite went away.
Still, the night trudged on. Laughter echoed through the halls again—Chris and Ashley bickering, Jess clinging to Mike’s arm like she was auditioning for a B-movie. You kept your distance. You and Mike had never dated, not really. Just something unspoken. A handful of moments during last year’s trip, glances that lasted a little too long, quiet words that lingered after everyone else had gone to bed.
And then Hannah was gone. Everything between you two vanished with her.
By the time the prank on Sam was set in motion, you were ready to disappear to your room and call the whole trip a loss. But then Jess stormed off into the night, Mike went after her, and everything began to unravel.
You volunteered to help search, partly because you were worried about Jess, and partly—maybe mostly—because you didn’t want Mike going off alone. You were halfway down the path when the first scream echoed through the trees.
It wasn’t Jess.
Mike spun toward the noise instantly, flashlight in hand. “That came from back near the lodge.”
You didn’t have time to respond before he was grabbing your wrist, pulling you into a sprint through the snow. The cold bit at your lungs, branches scraped your coat, and the night swallowed sound like it was hungry.
Back at the lodge, Josh was gone. Blood on the floor. No one knew what had happened.
That was when the fear took root.
The group splintered quickly—Chris and Ashley searching the basement, Matt and Emily heading toward the tower for help. Mike looked at you.
“We need to go after whoever did this,” he said. “We can’t wait around and let them pick us off.”
You hesitated, heart thudding, but nodded. “Okay. I’m with you.”
And so you went. Into the woods. Into the dark.
You followed Mike through the winding forest trails, into the depths of the sanatorium. The deeper you went, the more the horror began to take shape—not just a killer on the loose, but something else. Something… wrong. The shadows moved differently here. And Mike wasn’t cracking jokes anymore.
You saw the burned cages. The claw marks. The footage of something inhuman. That was when Mike stopped calling it a “psycho.” He looked at you with that hardened expression, the one he usually hid behind a grin.
“We’re dealing with something else,” he said quietly. “Something not human.”
You didn’t ask how he knew. You already agreed.
In that place, in the silence between screams, something shifted between you two. It wasn’t just adrenaline. It was the way Mike started standing slightly in front of you every time you entered a new room. How he whispered, “Hey, you okay?” every time your breath caught. How his hand brushed yours when he helped you over a broken step, and didn’t pull away.
By the time you made it back to the lodge, the wind had picked up again and the Wendigo was no longer just a rumor. You had seen it.
You were both different now—grimy, exhausted, shaking—but alive.
Chris and Ashley were holed up in the basement when you got back. Sam had made it in too. But the lodge no longer felt like a haven. It felt like a trap.
Mike went to board up the windows, and you followed. No one argued. Your hands trembled as you held the wood while he nailed it into place.
After a while, the others slipped into a quiet sleep—if not real sleep, then something close enough. But you stayed up, sitting near the window with your knees hugged to your chest. Watching. Waiting.
Mike came over, finally sitting beside you. The fire had died, and the only light came from the moon spilling across the floor. You could see the edge of his profile, tense and worn.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked at him, meeting those eyes that still burned despite everything. “No. Not really.”
He nodded, not surprised. “Me neither.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick, sure. Heavy. But it felt necessary. You’d both seen too much, lost too much, to fill the quiet with pointless noise.
You turned to him fully. “How do we make it to morning?”
His jaw clenched. “We survive. We stay quiet. And we won't give up.”
You studied him in the dim light. The bravado from earlier that night had faded, but what remained was something sturdier. Steadier.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said.
Mike gave a tired smile. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“I mean it.” You hesitated. “You held it together when the rest of us were falling apart. You—”
He cut you off gently, voice low. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t flash that grin he usually did when things got too sincere. He just meant it.
You felt the cold less when he looked at you like that.
“I need you to stay with me,” he said, his voice suddenly softer. “Not just… alive, but with me. After this. If there’s an after.”
You blinked. The fear, the trauma, the cold—it all cracked, just a little, at the edges. “Mike…”
He leaned in, hesitant, and for once not sure of himself. You met him halfway.
The kiss was quiet and slow and nothing like the horror around you. It was human. Real. A reminder that there was still something to hold on to.
When you pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.
“Come morning,” he whispered, “we’re getting off this mountain.”
You nodded. “Together.”
“Together.”
Outside, the wind howled and monsters waited in the trees.
But in that moment, in the stillness of a ruined lodge, you weren’t afraid.
Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader | Zombie apocalypse AU
———————
The first thing Ghost noticed was the smell.
Hospitals had their own brand of decay — chemical and copper, disinfectant layered over death. But this one… this one still carried something alive.
Or close enough to it.
“Clear the lobby,” Price ordered through the comms. “Eyes open. Could be stragglers.”
“Copy,” Ghost muttered, sweeping his rifle across an overturned gurney. Blood smears, dry. Nothing fresh. Soap’s boots scuffed behind him as they advanced through the main corridor.
The hospital was ancient now. Nature had begun to claim it — vines pressing through shattered windows, sunlight filtering through dust like it had forgotten how to reach this place. Most of the doors were ajar, some blocked with stretchers or wheelchairs like someone had tried to barricade them from the inside.
It was far too quiet.
Until the humming started.
Low, tuneless. Coming from a wing marked ISOLATION.
Soap tensed. “You hear that?”
Ghost was already moving. “Yeah.”
They stacked on the door. Ghost gave a quick count — three fingers, two, one — and pushed in.
There were five beds in the room. Three of them were occupied.
By infected.
Strapped down.
And next to one of them — adjusting an IV, hand steady as if the world hadn’t ended — was a nurse.
You.
You didn’t even flinch when the guns came up. You only turned, surgical mask tucked under your chin, and calmly raised your hands.
“Please don’t shoot,” you said softly. “They’re stable. I sedated them this morning.”
Ghost stared at you like you’d grown another head. “You’re… treating them?”
“They’re sick,” you said, more firmly this time. “You think I don’t know what fever looks like? What neurological collapse does to the body?” You glanced down at the creature under your care — its mouth gently gnashing, wrists twitching under restraints — and gently pulled a blanket up to its chest. “They just need help.”
Ghost didn’t lower his rifle.
He was trying to place you. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, blood-spattered scrubs, a clipboard tucked under one arm like any other day on the job. Like the world outside hadn’t ended. Like this was routine.
“How long’ve you been here?” he asked.
You hesitated. “Since the start.”
Price’s voice crackled in: “Report.”
Ghost tapped his comms. “Found a live one. Med staff. Says she’s been here since it began. Claims she’s… treating the infected.”
A pause.
“Is she armed?”
“No.”
“Compromised?”
Ghost looked at you. Really looked. The circles under your eyes. The paleness. The quiet.
“No,” he said slowly. “Not in the way you mean.”
Price sighed. “Copy. Secure her. Clear the building. We’ll extract at 0600.”
———————
They didn’t kill your patients, but they wanted to.
“You’re wasting your time,” Soap muttered as he shoved a cabinet across the hallway door. “They’re already gone. That one in the corner? No eyes left. Rotting from the inside.”
You sat on the floor beside one of the beds, knees pulled to your chest.
“You’ve seen what they do,” Ghost added. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You can’t talk to them. They’re not in there anymore.”
You didn’t speak.
You just stared down at your hands — pale, trembling, smeared with blood that wasn’t your own. You were still wearing your ID badge. Still keeping charts. Still administering morphine like it would change anything.
“They’re people,” you said quietly.
Ghost exhaled. He wasn’t here to argue morality. He wasn’t sure he even had any left.
“No one’s judging you,” he said after a moment. “You did what you had to. To survive.”
You turned your head. “That’s not what I mean.”
The silence pressed in.
“You don’t understand,” you whispered. “They’re… they weren’t always like this. There’s still something left. Sometimes…”
Ghost tilted his head. “Sometimes what?”
You paused.
Your eyes lingered on the closest patient — a woman whose fingers twitched in her sleep, whose mouth wasn’t snarling but slightly parted, breath slow and shallow.
“Sometimes they… come back.”
No one spoke.
Your voice had dropped to a whisper. “Not for long. Not always. But it happens.”
Ghost said nothing.
Soap scoffed, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”
But Ghost didn’t laugh.
Because he’d seen that pause in your eyes. Not hope.
Memory.
———————
Let me know if you like this and would want to see more of it! Thanks! :)
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 40
Series Masterlist
!!COMPLETE!!
The morning sun had barely begun to filter through the gauzy curtains when the world around you faded into a distant hum. In that suspended moment, In-ho’s lips found yours with an urgency that both startled and comforted you. It wasn’t a tentative meeting of lips as before—this kiss was raw, decisive, and saturated with every unspoken emotion that had long simmered between you. The soft glow of dawn illuminated his face, revealing a tenderness that belied the fierce hunger in his eyes. Every touch, every caress, spoke of a deep yearning that had finally found its voice.
For years, you had danced around the edges of this moment: stolen glances across crowded rooms, whispered secrets in the dark, and fleeting touches that hinted at what might be. But now, there was no holding back. With every beat of your hearts, the dam of restraint shattered, and what emerged was a torrent of passion—a merging of souls as raw as it was exquisite. In-ho’s hand cradled your face, his thumb caressing your skin as if he were memorizing every contour, every delicate line, every secret. His eyes, dark and earnest, silently pleaded: “Are you ready?” And with a single, trembling whisper, you answered, “I want you.”
His lips crashed against yours in return, deep and insistent. The kiss became a language of its own—a slow, fervent dance where every sigh, every brush of his tongue, every gentle caress spoke volumes. His hand slid into your hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as his other hand slid down the curve of your waist. The sensation of his touch sparked tiny fires along your skin, igniting a passion that you had guarded for so long.
In the quiet intimacy of that sunlit room, every sense was heightened. You could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the rhythmic thump of his heart echoing against your ear, and the whispered promises that punctuated the silence between kisses. With every tender stroke, every whispered word, the invisible walls that had once separated you crumbled away. There was only the exquisite vulnerability of this moment and the unyielding certainty that you belonged together.
In-ho’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his fingers daring to explore the smooth expanse of your skin. His touch was both reverent and possessive—a declaration that every hidden part of you was now open, exposed, and cherished. The contrast of the cool morning air against the warmth of his skin heightened each sensation until the line between reality and the dreamlike realm of desire blurred completely. You shivered as his lips trailed tenderly down your neck, leaving a path of gentle kisses that set your heart racing and your breath shallow.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion as his eyes searched yours for affirmation beyond the physical—a plea for the surrender of every guarded part of your soul.
“I want you,” you whispered, the words trembling with a mix of anticipation and relief. In that single phrase lay every secret hope, every hidden dream, and every fear you had ever dared to overcome.
With your words still echoing in the silent room, he gathered you into his arms and shifted your weight onto the soft, rumpled sheets. His kisses deepened, growing more insistent as his fingers deftly unbuttoned your shirt. Each discarded piece of clothing revealed more of your true self: the graceful line of your collarbone, the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the tender vulnerability of your bare skin. His gaze roamed over you in quiet awe, as though he were drinking in every detail—each soft curve, each subtle tremor of longing.
His hands roamed with a delicate confidence, each touch a silent sonnet of adoration. When his lips brushed over your collarbone, the sensation was electric—a mingling of fire and feather-light caresses that sent shivers cascading down your spine. You reached up, fingers tangling in his dark hair, anchoring yourself to the tangible promise that he was here, with you, completely. His other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your pants with a measured tenderness, and the cool contrast of the air against your heated skin only amplified the thrill of each daring touch.
Gently, deliberately, In-ho guided you onto your back, his movements a careful choreography of passion and care. The sheets whispered around your skin as he knelt beside you, his eyes never leaving yours. He paused, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment—a suspended breath before the plunge into uncharted depths of passion. His hand, firm yet gentle, brushed along your inner thigh, igniting sparks that raced upward until they lit every fiber of your being. In that sanctum of shared desire, the world beyond the walls ceased to exist. There was only the two of you—a pair of souls merging as one, bound together by an affection that had been forged through hardship and hope.
His lips resumed their journey along the tender curve of your neck, leaving a trail of feathery kisses that made your heart flutter. Every kiss, every gentle caress, was an affirmation—a declaration that every secret, every scar, every hidden fear was being lovingly accepted. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate strokes, echoing the rhythm of your own heart as he explored the landscape of your desire. With every sigh, every whispered breath, the passion between you deepened, intertwining your hearts and bodies in a dance as old as time.
As he moved closer, his every thrust and gentle caress became a symphony of shared longing and exquisite vulnerability. The cadence of his movements was slow at first, a careful exploration that allowed you both to savor each moment. But as the intensity grew, so did the fervor in his eyes, the urgency in his touch. You clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders, as your hearts beat in perfect unison. The connection was almost palpable—a fusion of past sorrows, present ecstasies, and future promises that all converged in this one breathtaking instant.
“In-ho…” your name escaped your lips like a prayer, a plea for him to understand the depth of your need and the immeasurable love that had blossomed between you. His gaze held yours, tender yet fierce, as he whispered, “I need you—let go.” And so you did. Every inhibition melted away beneath his tender yet relentless insistence until nothing remained but the pure, unadulterated essence of your passion.
The pleasure built gradually, a rising tide that swept you both away. His lips, now fervent and insistent, roamed over your skin in a loving yet unyielding manner. Each thrust, every gentle push of his hips, was a quiet testament to the union of two souls who had overcome unspoken doubts and fought through their own inner storms. You could feel his heart pounding against yours as the intensity of your shared desire reached a fever pitch—a crescendo that burst forth in a shimmering explosion of emotion and ecstasy.
At the moment of climax, time seemed to stand still. In that one breathtaking instant, as your bodies merged and the world outside faded into a soft, indistinct murmur, every fear, every moment of pain, every trial you had endured together evaporated into nothingness. All that remained was the brilliant, undeniable truth of your love—a radiant flame that burned brighter than anything you had ever known.
For what felt like an eternity, you lay entwined, your bodies still trembling with the aftershocks of passion. In-ho’s fingers traced tender patterns along your skin, his gaze soft as it drifted over your features. The golden light of morning bathed the room, yet it was the quiet glow of your shared intimacy that filled every corner of your world. Slowly, he rolled onto his side, drawing you close until you were cocooned in the safety of his embrace. His arm wrapped around you protectively, his hand gently cradling your cheek as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, his voice imbued with a promise that resonated deep within you. You could still feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your hand—a reminder that you were no longer alone in this vast, unpredictable world.
“Stay with me,” you murmured, your voice soft with the weight of your shared dreams and unspoken vows. In his eyes, you saw every hope for a future painted in the vibrant hues of love and resilience—a future that stretched out before you like an endless horizon filled with endless possibilities.
As the hours slipped by, you both remained locked in a gentle embrace. The intensity of the morning’s passion gave way to a tender quietude—a space where whispered confessions and shared laughter filled the void. You talked softly, recounting the memories that had led you to this moment, the hardships you had endured, and the triumphs that had defined your journey. Every word was imbued with meaning, every glance a silent vow to stand together against whatever storms might come.
Outside, the world continued its relentless pace, unaware of the small universe you had created within those tangled sheets. Yet in that sacred space, time seemed to slow. Every shared smile, every gentle touch was a promise that the journey was far from over. In fact, it was only just beginning. There was a sense of finality in the air—a culmination of years of struggle and longing that now gave way to a hopeful, radiant future.
In the quiet aftermath, as the sun dipped low and cast long, soft shadows across the room, you felt an overwhelming sense of closure and renewal. The series of twists and turns that had defined your life together—the trials that had tested your resolve, the moments of despair that had threatened to tear you apart, and the innumerable glimmers of hope that had brought you back to each other time and again—had all led to this singular, transcendent moment of unity. It was as if every chapter, every challenge, every tear and every smile had been a stepping stone leading you to this ultimate, irrevocable truth: you were meant to be together.
“Promise me,” you said quietly, your voice trembling with both vulnerability and strength, “that we’ll face every uncharted tomorrow together.” His eyes, filled with a deep and abiding love, met yours. “I promise,” he replied, his voice steady and full of conviction as he entwined his fingers with yours. “Always.”
In that final, lingering moment before the night embraced the day, the world outside ceased to matter. All that existed was the soft cadence of shared breaths, the quiet murmur of two hearts beating in synchrony, and the promise of a future forged in the fires of passion and tempered by trust. The uncharted territory that once intimidated you now beckoned like a vast, unexplored landscape—a place where every step forward was a discovery, every challenge a testament to the strength of your bond.
As darkness settled over the room, the embers of the day’s passion still glowed warmly between you, a constant reminder of the transformative power of love. In the quiet dark, as you drifted into a tender, peaceful slumber cradled by his embrace, you felt a serene certainty that every sunrise would bring a new beginning and every sunset whispered of dreams yet to be fulfilled.
And in that final embrace—a culmination of a journey long and winding—you knew that this was not an ending but a promise. A promise that your story, with all its passion, trials, and victories, would continue to unfold in endless chapters. A promise that the love you had found in one another would guide you through every uncharted tomorrow.
As the series of your lives reached its final page, the echoes of your shared passion lingered like a gentle refrain in the cool night air. In-ho’s hand remained warm in yours as you both stared out at the starlit sky, where every glimmer of light seemed to carry a message of hope and endless possibility. In that moment, it was clear: the journey had been long, the terrain sometimes treacherous, but together you had discovered a love that transcended every boundary, healed every wound, and transformed every fear into a promise of tomorrow.
This was your ending—a beautiful, resonant conclusion to a story that had been written in whispers and passions, in tears and laughter, in every heartache and every triumph. And as the final star blinked in the quiet heavens, you smiled softly, knowing that the love you shared was not just the conclusion of a tale but the everlasting beginning of all your uncharted tomorrows.
———————
THE END!!!! Sorry for taking so long to get it out… I was stuck on how I wanted to end it. Lemme know what you think!!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 39 | next
Series Masterlist
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long, gentle shadows across the room. The quiet was almost suffocating, yet somehow, it felt safe. You could hear the faint hum of the world outside, distant, like it was trying to remind you that life was still moving—whether you were ready for it or not. But in this moment, with In-ho still beside you, the rest of the world felt distant. Irrelevant.
His fingers, still intertwined with yours, twitched slightly. A soft breath escaped his lips, and a moment later, he shifted closer, his chest brushing against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a promise.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said quietly, his voice thick with sleep, low and gravelly.
“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, like the words were difficult to form, as though they were trapped behind a barrier he’d spent years building. His gaze dropped to your hand, still resting in his.
“You,” he said finally, his voice rougher than usual, but there was no hardness behind it. “I didn’t expect to let anyone this close again.”
You blinked, caught off guard. The vulnerability in his words settled like a weight in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if you even had to. His admission left you speechless, but there was a warmth growing between you both, a connection that went beyond mere words.
“In-ho…” you started, your voice soft, but the words faltered as you saw the rawness in his eyes.
He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his mind, but his gaze never left yours. He took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. And then, he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours with a tenderness that made your heart stutter in your chest.
But when he kissed you again, it was different—softer, but filled with a need that was undeniable. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every moment. His hand drifted to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, a soft caress that made you melt into him.
Your pulse quickened, every nerve in your body awake to the feel of him. You responded, your hand finding its way to his hair, threading your fingers through the dark strands. There was a hunger in the kiss now, an unspoken promise that this was only the beginning.
His body shifted closer, pressing against you, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. Your breath hitched as his lips moved from your mouth down to your jaw, trailing kisses that left a fire in their wake. When his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a shiver ran through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice raw with honesty.
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “We don’t have to figure it out right now.”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he gazed at you, his dark eyes searching yours. And then, slowly, as if he was giving himself permission, he nodded, his hand slipping to the small of your back, pulling you closer.
“Alright,” he murmured. “One step at a time.”
And when his lips met yours again, this time slower, more deliberate, you could feel the weight of it—the connection, the trust, the tenderness—and it made every part of you ache for more. This was no longer just about the need to feel close. This was about something deeper, something that neither of you had fully realized until now.
His touch was soft but insistent as his hands moved to your waist, his body pressing closer, almost as if to erase the space between you. And when he kissed you again, this time it was a kiss that spoke of everything unsaid, everything that had been building up to this moment. It was the kiss of two people finding solace in each other, taking one step closer to something they didn’t yet fully understand—but it felt right.
———————
39! Sorry for it being late… 😬 hope you enjoy! Lemme know what you think!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 38 | next
Series Masterlist
When you woke the next morning, you weren’t sure when you had fallen asleep.
All you knew was warmth.
In-ho was still beside you.
His hand was still tangled with yours.
At some point during the night, the space between you had disappeared entirely. Your body was pressed against his, your head resting near his shoulder, his fingers still curled loosely around yours. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a quiet reassurance that he was still there, still real.
You didn’t dare move at first.
Instead, you let yourself take it in—the rare stillness of him, the way his mask was discarded on the nightstand, the faint shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of exhaustion even in sleep.
He looked younger like this. Softer.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, just watching him, feeling the quiet weight of him beside you. But eventually, his breathing shifted. His grip on your hand flexed slightly, fingers twitching as he began to stir.
You held your breath.
His eyes fluttered open, dark and unreadable as they focused on you. For a moment, he just stared.
Then, slowly, his thumb brushed over the back of your hand.
“You’re still here,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.
A small smile tugged at your lips. “So are you.”
He exhaled softly, his gaze drifting down to where your hands were still joined. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
Instead, something shifted.
His fingers slid between yours more deliberately now, his touch firmer, as if testing the weight of it. As if deciding whether he was allowed to hold on.
You let him.
A quiet understanding settled between you, unspoken but undeniable.
Neither of you were quite ready to name it.
But you both felt it.
And for now, that was enough.
But the moment didn’t last forever.
In-ho’s gaze darkened, his jaw tensing as a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Regret? Hesitation? You weren’t sure.
Then, barely above a whisper—
“This is dangerous.”
Your chest tightened. “I know.”
His fingers flexed around yours, like he was trying to ground himself, like he was already bracing for the inevitable. “I shouldn’t let you this close.”
“But you have,” you pointed out, your voice softer now, steadier.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He turned his head slightly, his gaze searching yours, and for a moment, it felt like he was waiting for you to pull away—to make this easier for him.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you held on.
“I know what this means to you,” you whispered. “I know you don’t take things like this lightly. And I’m not asking you to change overnight, In-ho. I just…” You hesitated, gathering your thoughts, then continued. “I just want you to know that you don’t have to do this alone.”
His breath hitched slightly, just for a second. Then, he exhaled, his grip tightening around yours, just enough for you to feel it.
A quiet promise.
A silent acknowledgment.
And then, before you could think too hard about it, you leaned in.
His breath caught.
But he didn’t pull away.
Your lips brushed against his, tentative at first, testing. He was frozen beneath you for a moment, but then his grip on your hand tightened, his other hand lifting to cup the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair.
The second kiss wasn’t tentative.
It was deeper, warmer, his lips parting slightly as he let himself give in. A low sigh left him as he tilted his head, pressing closer. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him against you, and his hand slid down to rest at your waist, his touch burning even through the thin material.
For a moment, it was just this.
Just the warmth of him, the way he tasted, the way he kissed like he was starved for it, like he was letting himself drown just this once.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled back.
His forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.
“This is dangerous,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse.
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 37 | next
Series Masterlist
The air between you felt different.
Lying in the dark, In-ho’s hand loosely curled around yours, you felt something shift—something neither of you dared to name just yet. It was subtle, unspoken, yet undeniable. The weight of everything that had led you both to this moment lingered between you, but for once, it wasn’t suffocating.
He hadn’t pulled away. That alone was enough to make your pulse quicken.
His fingers were warm against yours, his grip firm yet cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold on. Like he was still deciding whether or not he should let himself have this—have you.
You weren’t sure what possessed you to tighten your hold, just slightly, but when you did, his thumb brushed over the back of your hand in response. The movement was subtle, barely even intentional, but it sent a shiver down your spine.
“In-ho…” you whispered, unsure of what you wanted to say, only knowing that you wanted to keep this moment from slipping away.
He turned onto his side, shifting closer, and suddenly you weren’t just holding hands anymore—his knee brushed against yours, his warmth bleeding into the space between you.
“You should be sleeping,” he murmured, his voice lower now, quieter.
You managed a small, breathy laugh. “So should you.”
His lips twitched—just barely, but you saw it.
It was strange, the way this moment felt so… normal. As if he weren’t the cold, calculating man who commanded an entire operation built on death and control. As if you weren’t the woman who had been fighting to survive every second since arriving here.
But here, in the dark, none of that mattered.
For the first time, it was just you and him.
“In-ho,” you said again, softer this time. “Why did you save me?”
His eyes, dark and steady, locked onto yours. “What do you mean?”
“The night I… fought back,” you said carefully. “You didn’t have to step in. You didn’t have to protect me.”
His fingers flexed around yours. His silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then—
“You reminded me of her.”
Your breath caught.
“Haneul?”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. The weight of her name lingered in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting.
You weren’t sure what to say to that. You weren’t sure how to feel about it.
But before you could fully process his words, he continued—
“But you’re not her.” His voice was quiet but firm, and something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. “You’re different. Stronger, in a way she never got the chance to be.”
Your lips parted slightly, stunned by the weight of those words.
He still loved her. You could see it in the way his gaze softened, in the way his fingers trembled slightly against yours. She had been his first love, a piece of his heart he would never truly let go of.
But here he was. Holding your hand. Letting you in.
Your grip on his hand tightened. “You don’t have to be alone, you know.”
His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admitted.
Your heart twisted.
Carefully, you shifted closer, your bodies nearly touching now, your hand still tangled in his. “Then let me show you.”
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 36 | next
Series Masterlist
Sleep never came.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of In-ho moving through the room. The soft rustling of fabric as he removed his uniform, the faint clink of his belt being set aside, the measured way he moved, like every action was calculated.
When he finally settled on his side of the bed, the space between you felt vast.
You wondered if he was asleep. If he had the ability to shut off his mind so easily, to compartmentalize his pain and lock it away like he did everything else.
Or if he was lying there, just as restless as you.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.
Then—
“You’re awake.”
His voice was quiet in the dark, almost cautious.
You turned your head slightly, finding his silhouette barely visible in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “So are you.”
A soft exhale. “I don’t sleep much.”
You hesitated. “Because of them?”
A beat of silence. Then—
“I suppose.”
You could tell he wasn’t used to admitting things like that. Maybe he wasn’t even sure why he was saying it now.
Your fingers curled slightly against the blanket. “Do you dream about them?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yes.”
The honesty in his answer sent a strange ache through you.
You turned fully toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow. Even in the near-darkness, you could make out the shape of his face, the way he was staring up at the ceiling, lost in whatever thoughts he refused to voice.
“In-ho…” You hesitated before continuing, your voice softer. “What were their names?”
For the first time, his body tensed.
You weren’t sure he would answer.
Then—
“My wife’s name was Haneul.” His voice was quieter than before, almost reverent. “My daughter never had a name.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Never had a name.
Something inside you twisted painfully.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes—half-lidded, unreadable—held something different tonight. Something more fragile than you had ever seen before.
“You shouldn’t be.”
You swallowed hard, wanting to say something—anything—to make the heaviness in his voice lessen, but you knew words weren’t enough.
Not for this.
Instead, you reached out, hesitating for only a second before your fingers found his hand resting against the sheets. You didn’t grab it, didn’t push, just… touched.
A simple connection.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
———————
Alright two in one day!! Yippee! Let me know what you think! Thank you!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 35 | next
Series Masterlist
The door shut behind you with a soft click, but even as you stepped away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that In-ho was still there, standing rigid behind his desk, staring at nothing.
You should have gone to bed. You should have let it go.
But how could you?
Sleep wouldn’t come—not after what you had seen, not after what had just happened. The weight of those photographs, those ultrasound images, the unspoken grief in his voice… it was all pressing down on you, suffocating in a way that no amount of deep breaths could fix.
Your shared quarters were dimly lit, the soft glow from the bathroom vanity spilling into the bedroom. You sat at the edge of the bed, running your fingers over your temples, trying to piece together everything you had just uncovered.
In-ho had lost everything.
You knew loss. You had been running from your own ghosts for so long, trying to escape the weight of your past, trying to prove that you weren’t just a victim of the things that had happened to you.
But this… this was different.
You had never seen a man so carefully build walls around himself, only for the cracks to show when no one was supposed to be looking.
And you had seen them now.
The soft creak of the office door pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up just as In-ho stepped into the room. He had removed his gloves, his hands flexing at his sides, tension coiled in every muscle. His mask was still on, but his shoulders were stiff, his movements slower than usual, like he was carrying something too heavy for even him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, he exhaled. “You’re still awake.”
You swallowed. “Couldn’t sleep.”
His mask tilted slightly, as if he had expected that.
Without another word, he walked past you, heading toward the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed, the faucet turning on as he washed his hands.
You sat still, watching the doorway.
You should have left it alone. Let the night end.
But something inside you refused to let him just walk away like this.
“In-ho.”
The water shut off. A beat of silence.
Then, slowly, he stepped back into view, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
His mask obscured his expression, but you could feel the weight of his stare.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “For going through your things.”
Another pause. Then—
“You shouldn’t have seen that.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “I know.”
His fingers flexed again. He took a slow step forward.
“I don’t talk about them.” His voice was low, rougher than before. “I don’t think about them. Not anymore.”
You knew that wasn’t true. No one kept photos like that—tucked away yet carefully preserved—if they didn’t think about them.
“You loved them,” you murmured. “Didn’t you?”
A breath. Then another.
When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
Your chest tightened. You had expected resistance, for him to shut down completely, but instead, he was standing here, answering you, even if it was just a single word.
Carefully, you stood up, closing some of the distance between you. “What happened to them?”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then—
“They died.”
Two words. Heavy. Final.
You swallowed hard. “How?”
His shoulders tensed. “A long time ago.”
That wasn’t an answer, and you both knew it. But you didn’t push.
Not yet.
Instead, you took another step toward him, watching the way his posture remained rigid, the way he kept his mask on even now.
“You don’t have to tell me,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.”
He let out a breath, something barely audible but sharp, controlled. “I’ve carried it alone for years. One more lifetime won’t make a difference.”
You frowned, your chest aching for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.
He started to turn away, but before he could retreat completely, you reached out—just enough to let your fingers graze against his wrist.
It wasn’t much.
But he stopped.
The silence between you was heavy, charged with something unspoken.
Then, after a long moment, he pulled away—not harshly, not coldly. Just… gently.
“You should sleep,” he murmured.
You hesitated, watching him as he stepped past you and toward the closet, unfastening the top clasp of his uniform.
You knew the conversation was over.
But something about the way he lingered just slightly, the way his movements weren’t as sharp as usual…
Maybe—just maybe—tonight had made a difference after all.
———————
35!! May do 36 today as well… we’ll see lol. Let me know what you think! Thank you!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 34 | next
Series Masterlist
The silence between you stretched, thick and suffocating.
In-ho didn’t move from the doorway. He stood there, his mask betraying nothing, but the weight of his gaze felt heavier than ever. His gloved hands flexed slightly at his sides, a barely perceptible movement, but you caught it.
He knew.
He knew you had seen.
You swallowed hard, willing yourself to keep your expression neutral, though your pulse was a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The drawer was closed now, the photos tucked away as if they had never been disturbed. But that didn’t matter.
He knew.
A long moment passed before he finally stepped forward, his movements slow, calculated. The door shut behind him with a soft click, locking you both inside.
Your fingers curled against the sides of your thighs as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “You took too long.”
His head tilted slightly, as if weighing your words. “And you got impatient.”
You exhaled through your nose, trying to steady yourself. “I wanted to understand you.”
“Did you?” His voice was quiet, dangerously unreadable.
You hesitated. “I think so.”
Another beat of silence. Then, he stepped closer, until there was barely a foot of space between you. His presence was suffocating, demanding, but you refused to back down.
“Then tell me,” he murmured. “What exactly do you think you understand?”
Your throat went dry. He was challenging you, pushing you to say it out loud.
You clenched your jaw. “That you had a wife.” Your voice was steadier than you expected. “A child.”
Something in the air shifted.
He didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it. But he also didn’t look away.
Your chest tightened. “That you had a brother.”
This time, the silence was longer. His gloved fingers twitched at his sides.
Still, no confirmation.
But he didn’t have to say it.
You had seen the truth written in the way he kept those pictures—hidden yet untouched, as if moving them would make them feel less real.
“In-ho…” You hesitated before continuing, your voice softer. “What happened to them?”
His shoulders tensed.
For a long time, he said nothing. Then—
“They’re gone.”
His tone was flat. Final.
And yet, beneath those two words, you heard everything.
The pain. The loss. The guilt.
Gone.
You didn’t ask how. You weren’t sure if you were ready to hear the answer.
He exhaled slowly, tilting his head at you. “You crossed a line.”
Your pulse quickened. “Maybe.”
His fingers twitched again. “And what should I do about that?”
You held your ground. “Whatever you want.”
The words hung between you, charged with something unspoken. His mask tilted slightly, as if he were studying you, searching for something.
And then, he did something unexpected.
He turned away.
Without another word, he walked past you, toward his desk. The tension in the room remained, but he didn’t touch you, didn’t lash out. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey he had abandoned earlier and took a slow sip.
His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You should go to bed.”
Your heart twisted. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even lashing out.
He was retreating.
Shutting down.
Because talking about them—acknowledging them—made them real again.
You watched him for a moment before sighing. “You can’t avoid this forever.”
He didn’t look at you. “Go to bed, Y/N.”
You hesitated. Then, finally, you turned and walked toward the door.
Just before you stepped out, you glanced back.
He was still standing by the desk, staring down at his glass like it held all the answers.
But you knew the truth.
Nothing in this place could bring back what he lost.
And nothing could fix the parts of him that were still breaking.
———————
Chapter thirty four!! Let me know what you think! Thank you!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 33 | next
Series Masterlist
The office was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the antique clock on the far wall. You had been sitting on the couch for what felt like hours, waiting for In-ho to return. The leather beneath you had long since warmed to your body, but no matter how you shifted, you couldn’t get comfortable.
He was taking too long.
You sighed, rubbing your hands over your face before letting them fall into your lap. This had been a mistake. You weren’t sure what you had expected—maybe for him to walk in, see you waiting for him, and actually talk.
But that wasn’t who he was.
You glanced toward his desk, its dark wood polished to perfection. Everything about it, from the neatly stacked papers to the carefully placed books, was perfectly arranged—controlled.
You thought about what the Square Guard had told you.
“If you really want to know him, stop looking for him here.”
But the thing was, you weren’t looking for the Front Man. You were looking for In-ho. The man beneath the mask. The man you weren’t sure even existed anymore.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stood.
Your fingers hesitated over the desk before you reached for the first drawer. It slid open with ease, revealing neatly organized documents. You skimmed over them, quickly realizing they were related to the games—reports, lists, schedules. Nothing personal.
The second drawer was more interesting. A pack of cigarettes, a lighter with an intricate engraving, an old wristwatch with a cracked leather strap. Your fingers brushed over the watch, feeling the worn edges. It looked well-used, kept, even if it no longer worked.
Then, you reached the third drawer.
It stuck at first, but with a gentle pull, it slid open.
And there, nestled beneath a stack of old papers, were photographs.
Your breath hitched as you picked up the first one.
In-ho.
But not the man you knew now.
This version of him was younger, his expression softer, lacking the hardened, unreadable mask he wore now. And beside him—
A woman.
She was smiling, her eyes bright with happiness as she leaned into him. He wasn’t smiling in the traditional sense, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something alive.
Your fingers trembled as you set it aside and reached for the next.
More photos. The same woman, sometimes alone, sometimes in candid moments with In-ho. Then—
An ultrasound.
Your stomach twisted.
The date. The details. The name scrawled in the corner.
She had been pregnant.
Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. There was no sign of them here—no photographs displayed, no belongings, no trace of their existence. Which could only mean one thing.
They were gone.
You swallowed against the lump forming in your throat, setting the ultrasound aside as you reached for the next set of photos.
These were different.
In-ho stood beside another man, their resemblance undeniable. The younger one—his brother, you realized—was smiling, his eyes bright with mischief. In-ho, even then, looked more serious, but his posture was relaxed.
Jun-ho.
You had never heard In-ho mention him, but the way he kept these photos—hidden yet carefully preserved—told you everything you needed to know.
He had loved them.
His wife. His unborn child. His brother.
And now, they were all gone.
Your hands shook as you carefully placed the photos back in the drawer. Your mind spun, trying to piece together the fragments of a past he had never spoken about.
No wonder he kept people at a distance.
No wonder he buried himself in the mask of the Front Man.
Because the last time he let people in…
He lost everything.
The door handle clicked.
You spun around, heart pounding, as the door creaked open.
In-ho stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate. His mask obscured his face, but you could feel his eyes on you, his gaze flickering between you and the desk.
His posture was stiff. Controlled.
But beneath it—
You had seen something crack.
And you weren’t sure if he would ever forgive you for it.
———————
Here’s chapter 33! Idk how long I want to keep this going… the hate I’ve been getting is crazy, never really expected that lol
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 32 | next
Series Masterlist
The tension in the room lingered long after In-ho had left, settling into the very air you breathed. You stood there, staring at the empty space where he had just been, frustration burning beneath your skin.
We’ll see.
Those two words gnawed at you, an infuriating mix of dismissal and challenge. You weren’t sure what he expected—to scare you away? To make you question everything that had happened between you? If that was his goal, he was failing spectacularly.
Because the more he pulled away, the more determined you became.
With a sharp breath, you turned on your heel and left the lounge, your mind already racing. You needed answers—needed to understand what was happening beneath the surface of In-ho’s carefully constructed exterior.
And there was only one place you might find them.
The control center was quieter than usual, but the guards stationed near the entrance barely acknowledged your presence as you walked through the doors. By now, they had grown accustomed to seeing you move freely through the compound—something that, at first, had been met with stiff resistance but now had become an unspoken allowance.
You spotted the surveillance screens first, a wall of flickering monitors displaying every inch of the facility. Your gaze skimmed over them until you found what you were looking for—In-ho, standing at the main observation deck, arms crossed as he overlooked the arena below.
Typical.
He buried himself in his work when things got too complicated, retreating into the one thing he could control.
“Looking for something?”
The voice startled you. You turned sharply, finding a familiar figure leaning casually against the console. The Square Guard. The same one who had led the charge against the Panther Mask.
His uniform was the same as the others, but there was something different about him—an air of authority that set him apart.
You hesitated before answering. “Just looking.”
His head tilted slightly, studying you. “You won’t find what you’re looking for on those screens.”
Your brows furrowed. “And what exactly am I looking for?”
The Square Guard didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushed off the console, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you uneasy. “You want to understand him. But you won’t—not by watching.”
Your stomach tightened. “And you think you understand him?”
A low chuckle. “I understand the way he works. He keeps people at a distance for a reason.”
You crossed your arms. “And what reason is that?”
The guard studied you for a long moment before finally answering. “Because getting close to him is dangerous. For both of you.”
Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.
You swallowed hard. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“No,” the guard agreed. “But you should be afraid of what being close to him will cost you.”
A beat of silence passed between you before he nodded toward the screens. “If you really want to know him, stop looking for him here.” Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the hallway.
You stood there for a long moment, his words weighing heavy in your mind.
Stop looking for him here.
You exhaled sharply, your decision made.
If In-ho thought shutting you out would keep you away, he was wrong.
And if there was a cost to getting close to him…
Then you were willing to pay it.
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32!!!! Lemme know what you guys think!!! Thank you!
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 31 | next
Series Masterlist
The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, pressing into the space like an unseen force. You could feel it in the way In-ho’s fingers tightened around his cup, in the way his body remained unnaturally still, as if movement would shatter something fragile between you.
You should have let it go. Should have walked away.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you stepped closer, closing the space between you and him. “You can keep telling yourself that pushing me away is for my own good,” you said, voice measured. “But we both know that’s a lie.”
In-ho’s jaw tensed. “It’s not a lie.”
You studied him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the porcelain cup. He was so controlled, so disciplined—always. But there were cracks in the foundation, you could see them now.
“You think I don’t understand what you are,” you murmured. “But I do.”
His head tilted slightly, the mask giving nothing away, but you could feel the shift in him. “And what is that, exactly?”
You inhaled slowly. “A man who has spent so long convincing himself he doesn’t need anyone that he believes it.”
Something flickered in his posture, barely noticeable, but you caught it. A hesitation.
You pressed forward. “If you wanted me gone, you would’ve let Panther Mask do what he wanted.” Your voice lowered, steady and firm. “But you didn’t.”
Silence.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, with deliberate slowness, he set his coffee cup down on the table beside him. “I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, voice quiet but heavy. “You don’t need to understand. You just need to listen.”
You crossed your arms, refusing to back down. “And if I don’t?”
In-ho finally moved then, pushing himself to stand, his presence towering over you. The air between you shifted, electric and dangerous.
He took a step closer. “Then you’ll regret it.”
You lifted your chin, refusing to be intimidated. “No, I won’t.”
The silence stretched again, but this time, it was different. Charged.
Then, without warning, he reached up, fingers curling around your jaw—not roughly, but firmly. His grip wasn’t painful, but it demanded your attention.
His voice was a whisper, but it felt like a command. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
Your heart pounded, but not with fear. You searched his eyes through the mask, searching for something—anything—that told you he didn’t mean the words he was saying.
But there was something else there. Something deeper.
“In-ho,” you murmured.
His fingers flexed slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a fleeting moment of hesitation.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away. The distance between you felt colder than before.
“This conversation is over,” he said, turning his back to you.
You exhaled sharply, frustration flaring. “No, it’s not.”
He stilled.
You hesitated before pressing on, voice softer now. “I’m still here, In-ho. And I’m not leaving just because you think it’s what’s best.”
A long pause.
Then, finally, without turning around, he spoke.
“We’ll see.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving you standing there—confused, frustrated, and yet, more determined than ever.
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I might post some more chapters today if I have the time… let me know what you think! Thank you!! :)
Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?
previous | 30 | next
Series Masterlist
The room felt emptier without him.
You sat still for a moment, staring at the closed door as if willing In-ho to come back, as if that soft click of the latch hadn’t been the final word in a conversation you weren’t sure how to continue.
But he wasn’t coming back—not yet, at least.
With a slow breath, you pushed yourself out of bed, feeling the ache in your muscles from the tension of the night before. The bathroom was dimly lit, the glow from the vanity lights casting soft shadows across the marble countertop. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, studying the way your face seemed different, like something had shifted inside of you overnight.
Maybe it had.
The Panther Mask was gone. And you knew better than to ask how.
The thought should have unsettled you more than it did. Instead, it felt like an unspoken answer to a question you hadn’t dared to voice. A reminder that In-ho wasn’t just the man who shared this space with you—he was something much more dangerous.
And yet, you weren’t afraid of him.
You turned on the faucet, splashing cool water onto your face, letting it ground you. The morning was already creeping in, and soon, the world outside this room would demand something from you. A performance. A role to play.
And you weren’t sure if you had the strength to play it today.
By the time you left the bedroom, the halls were already buzzing with quiet activity. Guards moved in disciplined formations, their masked faces unreadable as they passed by. The air smelled of something rich—breakfast, maybe—but you weren’t hungry.
You expected to find In-ho in his usual place: standing at the main observation deck, overseeing everything with that same unreadable expression. Instead, you found him where you least expected—alone, in the lounge.
He was seated on one of the leather chairs, one hand resting against his temple, his other gripping a steaming cup of coffee. His mask was back in place.
For a second, you considered walking away. Giving him the space he so clearly wanted. But instead, your feet carried you forward.
“In-ho,” you said, your voice careful, testing the distance between you.
He didn’t look up at first, just took a slow sip of his coffee before finally acknowledging you. “You’re awake.”
“You left.”
His fingers tensed around the cup. “There was work to do.”
You exhaled through your nose, stepping closer. “That’s not why you left.”
A beat of silence stretched between you.
“I warned you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “That it’s better this way.”
Better for who? You wanted to ask. Instead, you crossed your arms. “You think shutting me out is some kind of protection?”
In-ho didn’t answer, but you could see it in the way his jaw tightened.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you pressed. “Letting me in one second and shutting me out the next.”
Still, no response.
Your frustration simmered. “I’m not afraid of you.”
At that, his gaze snapped up to meet yours, something sharp and unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You should be.”
You shook your head. “I’m not.”
The tension in the air was suffocating, charged with something unsaid, something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.
And yet, despite everything—despite the walls he built around himself, despite the violence that lurked just beneath his calm exterior—you couldn’t bring yourself to step away.
Because, in some way, you knew this was as close as he could come to protecting you.
And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to stop.
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30!!!!! We’re getting up there in numbers! I think I might drag the burn on a little bit more, I once read a slow burn that took 80 chapters for them to hold hands, I won’t make it that extreme tho lmao. Lemme know what you think!! :)
