The air in the office was thick with unspoken tension, the dim light casting stark shadows over the cold, metallic surfaces. Y/n stood stiffly near the center of the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she met In-ho's gaze.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flickered with something raw—pain, guilt, perhaps a trace of longing. They stared at each other in silence, a battle of wills playing out in the quiet.

In-ho broke first, his voice unsteady but laced with an attempt at levity. "I guess congratulations are inorder," he said, his lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. "I saw the ring. So, you're engaged now."

Y/n didn't soften. Her face remained impassive as she glanced down at her hand, the small band on her finger glinting faintly in the low light. She didn't respond, didn't offer a smile or a word of thanks.

Instead, her voice came low, cutting through the fragile moment like a blade. "Why?"

In-ho blinked, his composure wavering.

"Why?" he repeated, as though the question itself had weight too heavy to bear. He looked away, his shoulders tensing as he searched for an answer.

"Because pain... pain changes people. It twists them. You think you know yourself until everything you've ever cared about is ripped away, and then... what's left?"

"You should've gone back," Y/n said quietly, her voice steady but firm. "To your mom. To Jun-ho. Told them what you were going through. The loss. The pain."

At that, In-ho's head snapped toward her, his jaw tightening.

"She's not even my real mom, Y/n! And Jun-ho? He's not my real brother!" His voice rose, sharp and brittle, anger and frustration spilling into the space between them.

Y/n didn't flinch. She didn't retreat. Instead, she stepped closer, her gaze unwavering.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent. "Do you honestly think that blood is what makes a family? That all these years, all the love, the care, just vanish because of biology?"

In-ho didn't answer. His silence was louder than his words, his eyes darting to the floor as his fists clenched at his sides.

Y/n continued, her tone unwavering. "If that's true, then I should've given up on my family a long time ago, too. Did you know? Did you know Sung-hoon was my father?"

In-ho nodded, the movement slight but unmistakable.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she looked at him not with anger but profound disappointment. "You knew. You knew, and you said nothing."

"I knew the pain of the truth," he said hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of his words. "Sometimes... sometimes it's better to lie."

Y/n's lips tightened, her eyes narrowing as she processed his words.

"Better for who?" she demanded, her voice sharper now, cutting through the tension like a blade. "For you? For me? Because all lying ever does is make everything worse, In-ho. You knew, and you left me to find out on my own."

He flinched, her words striking a nerve. His gaze flickered back to hers, raw and pleading, but she didn't relent.

"You could've told me," she continued, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. "You could've warned me—given me something to hold on to instead of letting it all come crashing down."

"I thought it would protect you," he snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his own justification. "You don't understand, Y/n. Knowing the truth... it destroys you. It changes everything. I didn't want to see you suffer like I did."

"You don't get to make that choice for me," she shot back, stepping closer, her voice rising with each word. "You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to decide what's best for me."

In-ho took a step back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"And what about me?" he spat, his voice raw with frustration. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To look in the mirror and see a stranger? To feel like every part of you that mattered is gone? I'm not who you think I am, Y/n. I'm not the person you want me to be."

Her gaze softened, but her resolve didn't waver.

"Then who are you, In-ho?" she asked, her tone quieter but no less piercing. "Because the man I knew—the man who cared about his family, who cared about Jun-ho, who cared about me—that man wouldn't have walked away."

"I don't know who I am anymore!" he shouted, the confession ripping out of him like a wound torn open. His voice echoed in the cold, sterile room, his chest rising and falling as though the weight of his words had drained him of air.

"I look at myself, and all I see is... nothing. Just emptiness."

Y/n's expression softened further, but there was no pity in her gaze—only understanding.

"You think I don't get it?" she whispered, stepping closer until there were only a few feet between them. "You think I haven't felt that emptiness? That I haven't looked at myself and wondered if any of it was worth it?"

In-ho's jaw tightened, his eyes glistening as he tried to hold himself together.

"Don't," he said, his voice shaky. "Don't act like you know me."

"I do know you," she countered, her voice firm but not unkind. "And I know you're scared. Scared to admit that you still care, because caring means risking more pain. But running from it—running from them—doesn't make it go away."

He didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. Instead, he stood there, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as Y/n stayed by his side, her presence a quiet reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was still a sliver of hope.

Y/n shook her head, her disappointment palpable. "Why are you here, In-ho? Why are you still part of this? After everything?"

He hesitated, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. "I have to take care of you. My... my going-to-be sister-in-law. It's what Jun-ho would've wanted. And I promised you once, years ago, that I'd protect you. I have to keep that promise."

Y/n's voice dropped to a whisper. "I thought you forgot."

In-ho's expression cracked, his mask slipping to reveal the turmoil beneath. He stepped forward, his voice trembling with desperation. "Please, Y/n. Go back to Jun-ho. I'll fake your death—tell Gi-hun, anyone—whatever it takes to get you out of this. Just stop trying to bring me home. Stop this obsession before it gets you killed."

But Y/n didn't waver. Her eyes locked onto his, fierce and unyielding.

"I'm not going back without you. If you're not coming home, then I'm not going home at all."

In-ho's voice rose, tinged with anger and desperation. "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you get it? I'll never be that me again! I'm not who you think I am anymore—I don't even know who I am."

"And yet you expect me to trust you?" Y/n snapped. "I trusted you before, In-ho. Why can't you trust me now?"

"Because I care about you, okay?" he yelled, his voice breaking as he turned away, his shoulders trembling. "Don't make me do this. Don't make me lose you too. Don't let Jun-ho feel the pain I did"

Y/n took a small step closer, her voice softening. "I don't pity you, In-ho."

"I don't want your pity," he spat, his voice low and bitter.

"Don't worry," she said calmly. "It's not pity. It's sympathy."

His breath hitched, his composure crumbling as tears welled in his eyes. Y/n moved closer, her movements cautious, as though approaching a wounded animal.

"You know I don't deserve that," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"We both know," she agreed gently. "But that doesn't mean you can't start over. Maybe all you need is a friend—someone to be there for you."

In-ho's tears fell silently, his hands shaking as he finally let the weight of it all crash over him. Y/n watched him, her own heart breaking as she saw the man she once knew buried under layers of pain and guilt.

"Don't you see, In-ho?" she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions in the room. "You can still come back. You just have to want it." But the silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken fears and shattered hopes neither could voice.

Y/n's voice broke through the silence like a lifeline, her tone trembling but unwavering. "In-ho, I know you think you're beyond saving—that you've burned every bridge and there's no way back. But that's not true. You haven't lost me, nor Jun-ho, and you haven't lost yourself. You're just... lost. And I'm here to help you find your way."

In-ho shook his head, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if he needed something to anchor him. "You don't understand, Y/n. I've done things—things I can't take back. I've hurt people. I've crossed lines."

"And do you think that erases everything else?" she countered, stepping closer, her eyes brimming with emotion. "Do you think one part of your story defines the whole of who you are? I don't believe that. I won't believe that."

He turned to her, his face etched with anguish, his voice raw. "It's not about what you believe. It's about what I've done. If I come back, if I let myself care again... what if I just hurt everyone all over again?"

Y/n's gaze softened, her voice turning gentle but resolute. "Then we deal with that. Because that's what people do, In-ho. They make mistakes, they fall, and they get back up. But they don't have to do it alone."

In-ho let out a bitter laugh, his tears streaking silently down his face. "You make it sound so easy."

"It's not easy," she admitted, her voice steady. "It's messy and painful, and it'll take time. But it's worth it. You're worth it, In-ho. You just have to let someone in."

He looked at her, his defenses cracking further, his voice trembling as he spoke. "You still care about me, after everything? But Jun-ho"

Y/n's eyes softened, and she nodded without hesitation. "We do. We care about the person you were, and We care about the person you are now, no matter how much you try to push me away. I'm not giving up on you, In-ho. And Jun-h certainly isn't. Not now. Not ever."

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around him like a warmth he hadn't felt in years. He turned his face away, his shoulders shaking with the force of his suppressed emotions. "I don't know if I can do it," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I don't know if I can be the person you two believe in."

Y/n knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "You're not alone," she whispered, her voice steady and unwavering. "Not anymore."

And in that moment, amidst the shattered pieces of their shared pain, In-ho allowed himself to believe—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, there was still a way back.

___________

Jun-ho sat on the edge of his bed, the soft rustle of cars audible through the thin walls of his apartment. His journal lay open in his lap, the faint scratching of his pen the only sound filling the stillness of the night.

The words poured out of him, raw and unfiltered, an endless letter to Y/n he would never send.

"Y/n," he wrote, his hand trembling slightly.

"Another day, another failure. The sea feels as empty as my life without you. I don't even know why I keep going out there. Maybe I think I'll find some kind of answer, but all I ever come back with is more questions. I miss you, every second, every breath. I don't even remember what my life felt like before you were a part of it, and now, without you, it feels like nothing at all."

His pen paused, hovering over the page as he swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He closed his eyes, her laugh echoing in his mind like a phantom. The way she used to poke fun at his seriousness, her hand warm against his arm as she teased him into cracking a smile. He pressed his fingers to the page as if it could bridge the chasm between them.

The next morning, Jun-ho found himself standing outside the police station, a place that once felt like a second home but now loomed before him like a relic of another lifetime.

The glossy black letters on the door gleamed in the sunlight, mocking him with their familiarity. His hand lingered on the door handle, his heart pounding as memories threatened to overwhelm him.

Back then, this place had been full of life.

He used to turn his head at his desk and find Y/n beside him, her nose buried in a case file, or catching his gaze with a sly grin as if she'd just uncovered some brilliant lead.

After late shifts, he'd drive her home, the silence in the car comfortable, filled with a sense of camaraderie that had grown into something deeper. Her dad had insisted he stay for dinner every time. It had been messy, chaotic, and perfect in its simplicity—a life that felt like a dream now.

"Hey, Hwang. It's been a while," a familiar voice broke through his haze as he stepped inside. One of his old colleagues gave him a nod, his tone light but tinged with curiosity.

Jun-ho nodded back faintly, unsure what to say. His throat felt dry, his words caught somewhere between apology and excuse.

"Jun-ho!" The chief's gruff voice cut through the chatter, and Jun-ho turned sharply. The older man stood in the doorway to his office, his expression unreadable but his tone commanding. "In here. Now."

The office hadn't changed—same cluttered desk, same old filing cabinets—but to Jun-ho, it felt foreign, like walking into someone else's memory. He sat stiffly in the chair opposite the chief, his heart pounding like a drum.

The chief slammed his hands on the desk, the sound reverberating through the room.

"Hwang Jun-ho!" he bellowed. "You and A-Yeong handed in your resignation without a word to me?"

Jun-ho flinched at the sound of her name, his breath hitching as if it physically struck him.

"Then you both went MIA. Where the hell have you been? Do you know how much I had to beg to change it to a leave of absence?"

The chief's words came in a flurry, each one hitting harder than the last. Jun-ho felt the weight of them, the shame and regret pressing down on him like a vice. He couldn't bring himself to meet the older man's eyes, his gaze fixed on the edge of the desk instead.

"I'm sorry," Jun-ho muttered finally, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"Sorry?" The chief's voice softened but still carried the weight of frustration and concern. "You and Y/n were some of the best officers this station's ever seen. Then you both disappeared like ghosts. Do you have any idea how many people asked about you? How many people cared?"

Jun-ho hesitated, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Because how could he explain what he didn't fully understand himself? How could he talk about the emptiness, the guilt, and the endless longing for someone who might already be lost?

The room hung heavy with tension as Jun-ho gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. The desperation in his voice cracked through the air, raw and unfiltered.

"Chief, are you finished?" Jun-ho asked, his tone a mix of irritation, anguish, and sheer exhaustion. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he'd been running for miles.

The chief narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "What?" he replied, confused by Jun-ho's abrupt shift.

Jun-ho's voice dropped, barely above a whisper but filled with an intensity that made the chief sit up straighter.

"Please help me," he begged, his tone trembling. "I need your help."

The chief scoffed, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss the moment. "What else could I possibly do for you? You want me to look for that damn island with you? That same ghost story you've been spinning for years?"

"Yes," Jun-ho responded firmly, his gaze unwavering. "That's exactly what I need."

The chief sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "For God's sake, Jun-ho. Let it go."

But Jun-ho wasn't backing down. He leaned forward, his voice growing louder, more urgent.

"We must start the search immediately," he pleaded, his words spilling out faster than he could control. "Otherwise..." He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

The chief raised an eyebrow, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Otherwise what?"

Jun-ho swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. "It's Y/n this time," he said, his tone cracking under the weight of her name. "She's in danger, Chief. Isn't it your duty to find her? To help her?"

The Chief froze for a moment, the gravity of Jun-ho's words sinking in. But before he could respond, another voice cut in from the hallway—the chief's boss muttering under his breath.

"What's gotten into him this time? I thought he was doing better."

"Chief," Jun-ho interrupted, ignoring the whispers. "It's not just her. Mr. Seong Gi-hun and everyone else there will be in danger. Don't you understand? If we don't stop them now, we may never get another chance!"

The chief slammed his hand on the desk, silencing the room. "Hwang Jun-ho, haven't we already finished discussing this? You came to me with this years ago, and it was nothing but dead ends!"

Jun-ho's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. "Things have changed," he argued, his voice desperate. "I have new information—details I didn't have before. Sir, please. If you won't do it for me, do it for them. Do it for her."

The chief's face twisted in frustration. "For her?" he snapped. "You think throwing A-Yeong's name around will change anything? We work with evidence, Jun-ho!"

Jun-ho's voice erupted, louder than he intended. "Are you really going to let those people die? Are you just going to sit back and do nothing?"

The chief's boss heard the commotion and slammed his hand, his own voice rising to match Jun-ho's.

"You've been talking about this for years now! Years! If it's true, then bring me evidence! Otherwise, stop wasting my time!"

"Sir," the chief interjected cautiously, "maybe we should—"

"Process his resignation," the chief's boss barked, cutting him off. "He's beyond help now."

Jun-ho's heart sank, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"Sir, please," he pleaded, his voice trembling. "Don't do this. Don't turn your back on them. Don't turn your back on her."

"Damn it, Jun-ho!" the chief roared, his frustration boiling over. "I told you this was a bad idea. You'll never be able to come back now."

"Chief!" Jun-ho shouted, his voice breaking. "I'll make sure you have evidence. I'll find her. Just give me one more chance. Please!"

The chief's expression softened for the briefest moment, but then he shook his head, his jaw tightening.

"Go back to therapy, Jun-ho," he said quietly, his voice weary. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. But you need help. This... obsession of yours—it's going to destroy you."

Jun-ho stood frozen, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the chief's words settled over him. Another officer grabbed his arm gently, trying to guide him out of the room, but Jun-ho pulled away, his voice hoarse and broken.

"You don't understand," he whispered. "If I don't do this, no one will."

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving the station and the life he once knew behind, his desperation burning brighter than ever.

_______

Jun-ho trudged into the dimly lit cabin where Woo-seok, Captain Park, and Kim were gathered. His face was pale, his movements jittery, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. He leaned against the doorframe, his hand trembling slightly as he wiped sweat off his brow.

"See? What did I tell you? Police are never helpful," Woo-seok scoffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "We'll do it ourselves. If we split into two teams, we might have a chance."

Jun-ho let out a dry laugh, devoid of humor, and nodded slightly.

"Yeah," Kim added, spreading a map over the table. "Captain Park got another boat for us, and we also got more men. We divided them into two search teams."

"Okay, good," Jun-ho replied flatly. But his tone was anything but reassuring. The weight in his voice made it clear he wasn't convinced. His eyes flicked over the map but didn't linger—he was too restless to focus. "If the games have begun, we only have five days at most. We've got to move fast."

"Got it. We're all set to go once the weather clears up," Kim assured him, though he cast a worried glance at Jun-ho, who seemed like he might collapse at any moment.

"I'll see you soon," Jun-ho said, giving a quick nod. He started toward the door, but his fidgeting hands and hurried steps betrayed his desperation.

The others exchanged uneasy glances, their concern etched across their faces. The tension was palpable, as if everyone in the room was holding their breath.

"Have a drink and relax," Captain Park suggested, his voice kind but firm. "We can't set sail today anyway."

But Jun-ho waved him off, muttering, "No time," before disappearing out the door, leaving them in an uneasy silence.

The captain sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Captain, are you sure we can go tomorrow?" Woo-seok asked hesitantly.

"Tomorrow's weather forecast isn't looking good either."

The captain let out a low chuckle. "Look, I've been sailing for 30 years. You think those guys sitting in front of their computers all day know the seas better than me?"

Woo-seok smirked faintly. "I'll blame you if we can't set sail tomorrow, then."

"What's the rush, anyway?" Captain Park muttered. "We've been trying to find that island for two years. What makes you think we'll find it now?"

Woo-seok hesitated, glancing at Kim, then leaned in slightly. "Well... this is a secret, so I can't really tell you in detail. But two of our friends were taken to that island."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "The one who was there before?"

"What? Wait, you know about Mr. Seong?" Woo-seok asked, surprised.

"Hwang gave me a rough idea," the captain admitted.

"All right, then," Woo-seok said, his tone dropping into a more serious register. "I can just tell you. His name is Seong Gi-hun. He's a previous winner of the game. He wanted to get back at those bastards, so he put a GPS tracker in his belongings and let them take him to the island. But somehow, the intel leaked. And now, they've taken Y/n too. That's why Jun-ho is... well, like this."

The captain leaned back in his chair, processing the information. "So everything Hwang told me before was true?" he murmured.

Kim nodded solemnly.

"And Y/n... I figured something was wrong with her. I've never seen that man more upset. Even if he were on the verge of death, I think he'd face it better than this."

Silence fell over the group for a moment, each of them lost in their thoughts.

The captain broke the quiet. "But, come on. I couldn't believe what he was saying before. About the games, the money, and—"

"Captain, I didn't believe it at first either," Woo-seok interrupted. "But they really do exist. Those masked men. I saw them. They zapped me with a stun gun at a club."

"Masked men with stun guns?" the captain repeated, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah!" Woo-seok exclaimed.

The captain gestured toward Kim and the reinforcements outside. "So that's why you brought all those men. Damn. They look intimidating, like a bunch of sharks."

"We're dealing with some brutal bastards here," Woo-seok muttered, rubbing his temples. "My boss was looking for them, and..." He trailed off, letting out a deep sigh. "Anyway, you're now in the same boat as us, okay? We live or die together."

"Nobody's going to die," the captain said confidently, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint grin. "I've been sailing that boat for ten years. Never seen any trouble. No one's even tripped once."

Woo-seok chuckled despite himself. "All right, Captain. I'll count on you, then."

The room settled into a nervous quiet once more, each man steeling himself for the storm—both literal and figurative—that was bound to come.

____________

Gi-hun found himself standing in the middle of a vast, cold expanse that felt both infinite and suffocating. The arena was eerily silent, save for the faint echo of a woman's voice over the PA system.

"Welcome to your second game," the voice chimed, cold and detached.

He turned his head, and suddenly, the silence broke into whispers. Players surrounded him, their faces twisted in anger and fear. Their accusatory murmurs grew louder, their eyes piercing into him like daggers.

"So the triangle is the easiest one?" someone whispered, but the question felt more like a sneer.

"Yes," came another voice, dripping with disbelief and contempt.

Gi-hun's heart sank as he looked down at his hands, trembling and slick with sweat. He felt a pang of dread as he glanced at the crude shapes carved into the honeycomb candies the players held.

One figure stepped forward—a Marine, his broad shoulders radiating fury.

"How's that a triangle? Even we Marines couldn't do that!" the man shouted.

"This is supposed to be the easiest one?" someone else yelled, their voice cracking with desperation.

Gi-hun stepped back, his chest tightening, but the crowd moved closer. Yells erupted, overlapping and echoing, becoming a cacophony of blame and panic.

"What the heck is that? This guy is going to get us all killed!"

"Hey!" another snapped, pointing a trembling finger at Gi-hun.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"You said you won! You said you've done it!" a woman screamed, and Gi-hun's heart froze when he recognized the voice—Y/n. She was standing among the crowd, her eyes blazing with betrayal.

"No, I..." Gi-hun stammered, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"What are you going to do?" Y/n demanded, stepping forward, her voice sharp and unrelenting.

"How will you take responsibility?" someone else shouted.

The voices grew louder, the players closing in on him, their faces contorted in fury.

"Do something!" they screamed, their cries hysterical and merciless.

Gi-hun's knees buckled, his vision spinning as their shouts filled his ears.

"I... I just..." he whispered, but no one heard him. The pressure was unbearable, the weight of their blame crushing him. His breathing quickened, each gasp sharper than the last.

And then, from above, classical music began to play. It was hauntingly serene, contrasting with the chaos below. The crowd grew silent, but their angry glares remained fixed on him.

Gi-hun jolted awake, gasping for air.

His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, and his body was drenched in cold sweat. He looked around the dimly lit room, his pulse racing as he struggled to distinguish reality from the dream.

The vividness of their accusations still lingered in his mind. Y/n's voice, filled with disappointment, echoed in his ears. He clenched his fists, his breathing uneven as he sat up.

The game was still on. And now, more than ever, Gi-hun realized how high the stakes were—and how much was resting on his already burdened shoulders.