The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

TRIGGER WARNING- ATTEMPTED SA

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Rae-a trudged back to the dormitory in silence, her steps heavy, her mind weighed down by everything that had transpired. The others followed, exchanging glances laced with concern. Gi-hun, ever the observer, finally spoke up.

"You've been quiet," he said, his voice tentative. "More so then usual."

Rae-a barely acknowledged his words, her gaze locked on the floor. Jungbae shifted uncomfortably beside her, while Jun-hee rubbed her stomach absentmindedly, stealing worried glances at Rae-a. Even Dae-ho, normally brash, kept his mouth shut, sensing the weight of whatever was burdening her.

Young-il, however, didn't need to guess. He could feel it—the tension rolling off of her in waves, the way her fingers twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to lash out or break down. He had come to terms with what he already knew deep down. Rae-a was not just another player. There was more to her, something he couldn't quite place, but something he refused to lose.

The realization sent a jolt through him, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. He hated the way his chest tightened—hated even more the flicker of something almost unbearable when she looked at him with so much fear.

Without a word, Rae-a excused herself and slipped away towards the bathroom. The group watched her leave, uncertain, but Young-il knew exactly where she was going. His jaw clenched as realization settled deep in his gut. This was never just about surviving the game—it was about getting his attention. The very thing he had ordered her not to do.

His hands curled into fists, a sharp exhale flaring his nostrils as his mind replayed the risk she had taken, the way she had disregarded his warnings. The thought of her throwing herself into danger, all for the sake of drawing him out, made his blood boil. He had commanded her to stop playing hero. And she had defied him.

The moment she turned the corner, two guards were already waiting. They wasted no time. Blindfolds were slipped over her eyes before she could even react, strong hands gripping her arms as they led her away from the designated bathroom path. Rae-a didn't resist. This was exactly what she had intended. If she had done everything right, she was about to get exactly what she wanted.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, she was shoved into a room and left there. The blindfold remained on, but she was no fool. She knew she wasn't alone. The air in the room was thick, almost suffocating in its silence. Unmoving, she stayed where she was, unsure of what to expect.

Minutes passed. Then, carefully, she reached up and pulled the blindfold away.

The room was dimly lit, the darkness swallowing most of its details. A desk sat against the far wall, neatly arranged, and a decanter of liquor gleamed under the faint light. Rae-a took slow, cautious steps forward, her fingers running along the edge of the desk, feeling for anything out of place. Her eyes flickered over every surface, searching for any kind of detail—papers, notes, something that could give her insight into the man behind the mask. A misplaced object, a scratch on the desk, anything that could hint at his habits, his weaknesses. Her breath was steady, controlled, but her pulse quickened as she reached for a small, closed drawer, testing its handle. Locked. Of course. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled, frustration curling at the edges of her thoughts. There had to be something, some detail she could use against him.

The sound of footsteps made her stop dead in her tracks.

The Frontman entered steadily, his presence immediately filling the room. Rae-a froze, her body instinctively tensing. He moved with a grace that was almost unsettling, making his way to the decanter as if he had all the time in the world. With a fluid motion, he poured himself a drink, swirling the liquid inside the glass before sinking into a massive lounging chair.

For a long moment, he simply studied her. Rae-a could feel his gaze through the mask, heavy and assessing.

Then, he lifted his glass slightly, gesturing toward the chair across from him.

She hesitated. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to move. She sat stiffly, her hands clenched into fists on her lap. The silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable, until finally, he spoke.

"Did you find anything useful?" he asked, a touch of amusement in his tone.

She knew what he was implying. He had seen her rummaging. He had watched her.

Rae-a lifted her chin, meeting his masked gaze with deliberate defiance. "Nothing useful. No guns," she said, her voice clipped but unwavering.

The Frontman let the silence stretch, savoring the way it thickened the air between them. Then, with an exhale that was almost a laugh, he swirled the liquid in his glass. "Shame. I'd believe you'd know how to use one."

A guess he made.

Rae-a didn't respond, but the tightening of her jaw gave her away. He leaned forward slightly, his posture shifting, taking up even more of the space between them despite the table separating them.

"You rummaged through my things," he mused, tilting his head. "Did you really think you'd find something that could change anything? Or were you simply looking for an excuse to push boundaries?"

She stiffened but held her ground, her expression carefully neutral. "I didn't expect to find much. But knowing you were watching? That was valuable. And you stepped in at just the right moment."

The glass paused at his lips. She now knew there was valuable information in that locked drawer. Amusement flickered across his gaze, though the mask hid his expression. "Clever," he admitted, voice dropping lower, threading through the dimly lit room like a warning. "But reckless."

She swallowed, forcing herself to hold her ground. "That's why I'm here, isn't it? You don't like reckless."

"No," he murmured, resting his glass down. "But I do enjoy watching you squirm."

Her fingers twitched against her knee, a subtle betrayal of the tension coiling inside her. She forced herself to remain still, but the weight of his gaze burned into her.

He leaned forward suddenly, reaching out. Before she could react, his gloved fingers brushed against her wrist, the leather cold against her skin. A sharp inhale betrayed her reaction, her muscles locking up. He didn't pull away—if anything, he let the touch linger, just enough to exert control, just enough to remind her of the difference in their power.

His voice, smooth and deliberate, curled around her like smoke. "You're shaking."

Rae-a attempted to yank her arm back, the suddenness of the motion betraying her composure, but the Frontman's grip remained strong around her wrist. The phantom of too many hands forcing her down, drowning her, the man overpowering her earlier, resurfaced with startling clarity, but she crushed it down before it could consume her. Still, she knew he had seen it—the flicker of something raw in her eyes.

The Frontman merely chuckled, deep and amused. "Good," he murmured. "It means you understand."

Rae-a ripped her arm back, glaring. He chuckled softly, leaning back, entirely unbothered.

"Why am I here?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended, cutting through the suffocating silence.

The Frontman remained motionless for a moment, then exhaled, the sound almost a chuckle. "You wanted my attention. Now you have it. But tell me, was it worth it?"

He shifted again, standing this time. The movement made her instinctively tense, her body remembering the force of being overpowered in the game. He walked behind her, slow and deliberate, the presence of him looming over her as she refused to turn around.

"Your actions have consequences, Rae-a," he murmured from behind her, voice dangerously close. "You can handle threats to yourself—I know that. But what about your friends?"

Her breath hitched.

He wasn't threatening her. He was threatening them.

Her fists clenched. "You're a coward," she spat. "Hiding behind a mask, controlling a game that thrives on suffering. What do you even get out of this? What's the point?"

He regarded her for a moment before answering. "The world is overrun with filth," he said simply. "We are merely taking out the trash. Contributing to something greater."

Her jaw tightened, a pulse of frustration searing through her veins. "Some of these people never even had a chance," she said, the weight of those words settling heavily in her chest. Opportunity was never an option for some of these people.

He chuckled. "Like you, perhaps?"

She didn't answer. Her pulse pounded, a slow-building drum beneath her skin as the weight of his gaze pressed down on her. The way he could read her so easily made her skin crawl, made her fingers twitch with the urge to strike out or recoil—anything but sit in this unbearable stillness under his scrutiny.

The Frontman took a measured step closer, invading the space she had left between them. The air grew thinner. His gloved hand ghosted over the back of her chair, barely brushing the strands of her hair as he leaned forward. He wasn't touching her, not fully, but the proximity itself was a violation, a silent assertion of control. He was testing her limits, enjoying the way her body tensed, the way she forced herself not to react.

His voice was quieter now, low and deliberate, forcing her to listen. "You can fight me with words all you want, Rae-a. But you should ask yourself—how much of that fight do you truly have left?"

Her breath was shallow, her chest rising and falling with restrained fury. She clenched her jaw, willing her body to remain still, refusing to let him see any more of the fear lingering beneath her anger. But she couldn't stop the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her pulse pounded in her throat. The memory of too many hands pinning her down in the game resurfaced like a phantom, making her skin crawl. The Frontman's presence only made it worse—the way he loomed, deliberate and unhurried, savoring every ounce of unease she refused to show. Her restraint only seemed to amuse him. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to meet his unreadable gaze even as her muscles screamed at her to recoil. "I have more than enough fight left," she bit out, her voice laced with defiance, daring him to test her further.

The mask tilted slightly, as if he was drinking in every unspoken response. Then, almost lazily, his hand lifted, fingertips tracing the edge of her jaw—light, fleeting, yet commanding. A single brush of power disguised as something gentler. It sent ice crawling down her spine. He felt her flinch, just barely, and he exhaled a breath of satisfaction.

"Good," he murmured, the heat of his voice curling against her ear like smoke, deliberate and slow, savoring the power he held in this moment. "I would love to see what other tricks you have up your sleeve. And I wonder... how long you'll last before you run out of them." He let the silence hang, waiting, watching, feeding off the tension that coiled in her muscles. Then, with a final exhale of amusement, he leaned back, his hand retreating as if he had merely been toying with a curiosity. "Take her away."

The Frontman had hoped that the fear he had driven into Rae-a would be enough to put an end to her reckless self-sacrifice, to force her to finally prioritize her own survival. He wanted her to abandon whatever misguided allegiance she had to Gi-hun and his foolish crusade to dismantle the games. Because if she didn't—if she kept defying him, kept testing his patience—he wasn't sure how much longer he could afford to keep saving her.

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The bathroom was silent except for the slow drip of a leaking faucet, each drop echoing through the room like the beat of a heart long after it should have stopped. The night was heavy, pressing down on the compound like a damp cloth, suffocating in its stillness. Rae-a leaned over the sink, gripping the edges so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and strung out, the dim fluorescent light above flickering erratically, casting harsh shadows over her features. She had just learned something that was eating away at her from the inside, but she couldn't grasp it fully yet. Her mind was still reeling from the interaction earlier, from the weight of everything she'd uncovered—truths she wasn't sure she was ready to face. 
She had spent so long believing she was on her own, that survival was an individual battle, that attachments only led to weaknesses. But now, for the first time, she saw the people around her not as temporary allies but as something more—friends. The word felt foreign, strange in her mind, yet it settled into her chest with an unfamiliar weight. The thought of them suffering for her actions made something inside her twist violently. And with that came something fiercer, something primal. A need to protect them, not because of obligation or strategy, but because she wanted to. Because she knew she could. 

She exhaled sharply and turned the faucet on, letting the water pool in her hands before running it over her face. The cold stung against her heated skin, grounding her, or at least trying to. It wasn't enough. The burning ache in her chest refused to fade, the rush of adrenaline that had surged through her still lingering.

Her heart was still racing, pounding violently in her chest like it might explode, as her breath came in short bursts. The quiet that surrounded her was deafening, like the entire world had gone still to watch her fall apart. Her own reflection mocked her, a twisted version of herself that seemed to stand in judgment, every breath coming in jagged gasps. She couldn't understand why the noise in her head wouldn't stop. Why couldn't she just think clearly? 

Then, she felt it—the phantom weight of hands pinning her down, forcing her into the cold, hard floor of the game room. The sickening pressure against her frame, the suffocating panic that came with the realization that she had no control. She could still feel the fabric smothering her, the lights flickering, the sounds of panic, the cruel laughter echoing as she struggled in vain. Her body, even now, trembled with the aftershocks, muscles locked in the ghost of restraint.

And then there was him.

The memory of a different hand, gloved and deliberate, coiling around her wrist with an ease that sent a chill through her bones. The Frontman. He had felt her shaking, the tremor of exhaustion, of fear, and yet he had only tightened his grip—controlled, measured, amused. Unlike the others, he hadn't needed brute force to subdue her. His presence alone had been enough. A quiet reminder that, in the end, she was still at the mercy of someone else's control.

Her nails dug into the sink, chest rising and falling erratically. She had fought so hard to reclaim her own life, her own choices, yet time and time again, she found herself powerless beneath someone else's hand. And that… that was something she could never accept. 

uddenly, the world lurched, tilting violently beneath her.

A blinding pain exploded at the back of her skull as it slammed into the porcelain sink with a sickening crack. The impact sent a shockwave through her body, her vision erupting into static. The room twisted, warping around her in a nauseating blur of light and shadow. She barely had time to process the agony before rough fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her upright with brutal force.

Her neck wrenched back, exposing her throat, her pulse hammering beneath sweat-slicked skin. Then—a breath. Hot, putrid, seeping into her lungs like decay itself. It curled against her ear, slow, deliberate, dripping with malice.

"Did you miss me?"

The voice—grating, venomous—sent an icy shock of terror through her. Player 454. The bastard.

His grin was jagged, a grotesque mockery of amusement, his teeth bared like a feral dog. The reflection in the mirror showed his eyes—dark, gleaming with malice. She didn't have to see it to know what was coming.

And then, there was another figure behind him—a shadow, moving closer. His lackey, Player 221, a sneer on his lips as he stepped forward, eyes gleaming with amusement at her panic. Her heart skipped a beat, but there was no time to react, no time to fight back. 

The next slam sent her face-first into the mirror. Glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the jagged edges cutting into her skin, the sharp sting blooming across her cheek as she crumpled. Her legs gave out beneath her, but the hands dragging her across the cold, tiled floor weren't gentle. The pain from the glass sinking into her skin blurred, replaced by the crushing pressure of the world closing in on her. Her ears rang, her vision flickering in and out as her mind scrambled to process what was happening. The sensation of movement, of being dragged across the floor, barely registered in her mind.

They were hauling her into the showering area, the cold tiles beneath her scraping against her skin as she tried to move, to fight back. But her body was sluggish, her limbs feeling like lead. Everything was so cold. It was as if her senses were shutting down one by one.

Then—

Water.

The blast of ice-cold water hit her with brutal force, sending her gasping, struggling to breathe as it hit her face, her chest, her already soaked clothing clinging to her skin. She couldn't catch her breath, couldn't move fast enough to shield herself from the onslaught of liquid that seemed to come from all directions. Her throat constricted, and her lungs burned as she gasped for air. The fabric of her torn shirt clung to her body, soaking up the water, the weight of it suffocating her, mocking her helplessness.

Mocking her.

Laughter echoed above her, cruel and mocking, a sound that reverberated in her skull like a hammer. Their shadows loomed above her as they pressed down on her, one of them laughing as he kicked her shoulder, keeping her pinned against the cold tiles. The pressure of his boot on her shoulder was suffocating, a reminder that she was at their mercy, trapped in their cruelty.

"Not so tough now, huh?" One of them chuckled, his voice dripping with derision. "You think you're better than us? Untouchable? Well you have no knight-in-armour to save you this time."

Her stomach clenched, bile rising in her throat as she thrashed beneath them. Her shirt was torn open, fabric ripped away from her skin with ease, and the feeling of helplessness surged through her, overpowering her every sense as she felt the no-longer phantom hands trail over her. Her body reacted without thought—instinct taking over, the need to survive, to fight back, to escape.

But they were stronger. They held her down, and the laughter grew louder, feeding off her fear, her reaction.

And then—

Fabric.

Heavy, soaked fabric was forced over her face. The fabric from her torn clothes.

Her lungs burned as she choked, the cloth pressing into her mouth, sealing away any hope of air. It was all too familiar—too much like before.

It was cold, suffocating. The weight of it was unbearable, smothering her. She couldn't breathe. Her body bucked, her instincts screaming for air, for survival, but the hands holding her down didn't move, didn't loosen their grip.

She was suffocating.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't escape. The world around her closed in, and her mind spiraled back to that place—the one she had buried so deep inside, the one she'd spent years running from. The helpless child, trapped beneath unforgiving hands, unable to escape. Her lungs burned as she choked, the cloth pressing into her mouth, sealing away any hope of air. It was all too familiar—too much like before.

Then something just snapped.

There was no thought, no hesitation. Only raw, unfiltered survival.

Her body lunged, twisting violently against the hands that pinned her down. Her legs kicked out wildly, desperate to break free, to destroy, to hurt. But it wasn't enough—not nearly enough.

A feral sound tore from her throat as she lunged forward, her teeth sinking deep into the first patch of flesh she could reach—hot, pulsing, alive. Her jaw locked, grinding down with relentless pressure until she felt the wet pop of skin splitting, the sinew beneath tearing apart like overripe fruit.

A scream—no, a gurgle—erupted from the man's throat as she ripped away, her head jerking viciously to the side and spitting out the chunk of flesh and muscle. The flesh tore like paper, muscles shredding beneath her teeth with a sickening, wet schlurp. Blood—so much blood—spurted in thick, hot bursts, coating her tongue, her face, her hands. It poured over her in frantic, pulsing waves, mingling with the icy water that still rained down, staining everything in sight. The air filled with the scent of copper and filth, choking, drowning.

The man collapsed against her, his body convulsing as his hands clawed uselessly at his ruined throat. His fingers twitched, scraping weakly against his own slick, shredded flesh as if he could somehow hold himself together. His eyes—wild, uncomprehending—met hers for a fraction of a second before they rolled back, his pupils dilating into endless black voids. A ragged, wet gasp bubbled from his lips, his body spasming in its final, pitiful fight against death.

Then—stillness.

The corpse sagged against her, dead weight pressing her into the cold, blood-slicked tile. The warmth of his lifeblood seeped into her clothes, soaking through fabric, through skin, until it felt like it was becoming her.

And yet—her breathing was still too fast, her vision still too red.

One down.

She wasn't finished.

The second man froze in horror, but his hesitation was brief. She didn't give him the chance to flee.

Rae-a lunged. The blood on her hands only fueled her. The shard of broken glass still clutched in her fist, she drove it into the second man's chest—once, twice—no, it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to satisfy the rage, the fear, the helplessness she had buried for so long. Again. Again. Again.

The body beneath her twisted, spasmed, but she didn't stop. The glass bit into the flesh, tearing through the muscle, the bone, again and again, until there was nothing left to destroy. Until the body was unrecognizable, shredded beyond anything human. The sound of it was sickening, wet and slick, but it didn't matter. She couldn't hear it over the pounding in her ears, over the blood roaring in her veins, the white-hot fury and terror that consumed her entirely.

The door slammed open.

Young-il.

He stormed in, his breath ragged, panic seizing his chest as his gaze darted wildly around the room. The moment his eyes landed on her, his entire body locked up.

The stench of blood was thick—cloying. It mixed with the sharp tang of water, the acrid burn of fluorescent lights humming above, and something deeper, something rotting. The sound hit him next—a wet, nauseating squelch as her trembling hands drove the jagged shard of glass down again, and again, and again.

A corpse lay sprawled in front of her, its face unrecognizable—a gaping ruin of pulped flesh and shattered bone. What was once a man had been reduced to something unholy, something that barely resembled a body anymore. The pool of blood around him had turned dark, thick, coagulating in uneven patches where the water hadn't yet thinned it.

But it was the other body that made his stomach lurch.

The man lay slumped against the wall, his fingers twitching uselessly at his own throat—or what was left of it. A cavernous hole gaped where flesh should have been, tendrils of shredded muscle curling outward, slick and glistening. The wound was jagged, ripped open by teeth, not by blade or bullet. The exposed meat pulsed weakly, veins still trying to function even as his life leaked out in sickening, bubbling gasps. His eyes—wide, unfocused—were frozen in pure horror, mouth barely moving, as though trying to form a sound that would never come.

Young-il's stomach twisted.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She knelt in the middle of the destruction, her body shaking, drenched in red. Blood clung to her skin in thick, uneven streaks, smeared across her cheek, dripping from her chin. It soaked her clothes, the water pooling around her doing little to wash away the carnage.

But it wasn't just the blood that froze him.

It was the feral look in her eyes.

Wide. Animalistic. Unseeing.

Her fingers clenched around the shard of mirror, the sharp edge still buried in ruined flesh. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. The violence hadn't left her—it still coiled within her ribs, something raw, something that had been there all along, buried beneath layers of restraint and control.

She hadn't just killed them.

She had destroyed them.

Her breath was coming in shallow, erratic gasps, her hands twitching with the aftershocks of violence. Her entire body was trembling, spasming from the panic, the trauma, the horror. She was lost, somewhere inside herself, locked in the madness of it all.

"Rae-a," he called out cautiously, his voice thick with disbelief, like the word itself was foreign in his mouth.

No reaction. She didn't hear him. Or if she did, she didn't understand. Her eyes were glazed over, her movements jerky and disjointed, still locked in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

Her hand tightened around the jagged shard of glass, knuckles white as she brought it down again, and again, her breath coming in sharp, frantic gasps. The wet, fleshy squelch of the blade tearing through skin, muscle, and bone echoed in her skull, but she couldn't hear it—not over the deafening roar of panic and rage that consumed her mind. Her body moved on instinct, driven by something far beyond rational thought, beyond control. It was the primal urge to destroy, to erase the pain, to make it stop.

The glass cut deep, but she couldn't stop. She couldn't let go. Each slice, each movement, was another attempt to purge herself of the terror, the helplessness, the memories that threatened to drown her. The man beneath her, his chest now a mangled mess of shredded flesh, still twitched, but the struggle was fading. His whimpers barely reached her ears, lost in the cacophony of her thoughts.

"Rae-a."

The voice was low, calm, but it cut through the chaos of her mind like a knife. She froze. Her movements slowed, her breath catching in her throat as the sound of her name reverberated through her senses. Slowly, reluctantly, her gaze shifted. Her eyes—wide, dilated, and unseeing—locked onto him.

Young-il.

He was standing in the doorway, his gaze locked on her with an intensity that was both sharp and tender, raw with something she couldn't place. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, like he had been holding his breath this entire time. The room felt colder, the blood on her hands heavier. The silence that followed was suffocating.

His eyes didn't leave hers, but there was a flicker of something there—something vulnerable, something torn. His hands were raised, palms open, a silent plea for her to stop, to come back to him. 

The room around her shifted back into focus—and the horror of it crashed down like a tidal wave.

The first body, his throat torn out, lay slumped against the wall. The flesh was ragged, chewed through, the exposed meat raw and pulsing as if still trying to cling to life even in death.

The second… was barely a body at all.

Mangled. Ruined. The flesh of his face had been obliterated beneath the repeated strikes, skin and muscle peeled back to reveal splintered bone and pulped tissue. His chest-caved in, torn apart by the relentless assault—was nothing but a mess of jagged ribs jutting through the bloodied ruin of his torso. The water that pooled around her was thick with red, turning the floor into something slick, something tainted.

The air was suffocating. The coppery tang of blood clung to her throat, too thick, too heavy.

Somewhere in the distance, the shower was still running.

The water hissed against the tile, its steady rhythm warping the sound of Young-il's voice, distorting it, making it distant—warbled, drowned. He had spoken again, but she barely heard him, her mind slipping further into the horror of what she had done.

Her own breath felt foreign.

Too fast. Too shallow.

Young-il took another step, slow and cautious. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way every muscle in his body coiled, ready to react at a moment's notice. He was speaking, but it was muffled beneath the roaring in her ears, swallowed by the sound of the running shower, the dripping blood, the ghosts of their laughter.

She had sworn she would never go back to this.

She had promised herself.

She didn't know who she was anymore.

"Rae-a…" he murmured again, his voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. His feet moved cautiously, but she saw the way his body tensed, poised to react, ready to act if she did. His eyes never left her, his gaze steady but full of something she couldn't interpret—concern, fear, something darker.

She didn't know how to breathe anymore. Her chest heaved with erratic breaths, the air caught in her throat. The weight of the violence, the blood on her hands, was too much. She couldn't hold it in. She couldn't understand it. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

Finally, his voice softened even further, barely a whisper. "You're safe."

The words felt foreign. They were too soft, too gentle. His presence, so steady, was like a rock in the storm, and for a fleeting moment, she wanted to believe him. But the panic, the terror, the crushing realization of what had just happened… It was all too much.

But then—he was moving toward her, lowering himself to the ground in front of her. (Mention here how young-il threw his jacket over her, trying to preserve the dignity she had left). His arms stretched out, careful, unhurried. "You're safe, Rae-a. It's over."

Her body trembled violently, the adrenaline finally crashing, leaving her raw, exposed. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't stop shaking. Her heart was still racing, but this time, it was a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm, beating against the cage of her ribs like it might break free.

Young-il's arms were there, then, around her, pulling her into him. She didn't resist. She couldn't. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality, to some semblance of safety. Her face buried itself in his chest, the warmth of his body an anchor she didn't deserve. She didn't know how long she stayed like that, clutching him desperately, her breath coming in harsh, erratic gasps, her body wracked with sobs she couldn't suppress.

"Just breathe," he murmured softly, his voice raw but steady. "It's okay. You're safe. It's over."

The smell of blood was thick in the air, the weight of her actions sinking deeper into her bones. The panic that had once been so sharp began to dull, replaced by something heavier, something darker. The familiar feeling of numbness began to creep in, like a blanket smothering the fire inside of her.

But no matter how hard she tried to push it down, she couldn't escape it—the screams, the warmth of blood slick on her hands, the sharp, wet rip of flesh giving way beneath her grip. The moment she let go. The moment she stopped holding back.

And what terrified her most?

She hadn't hesitated. Not for a second. Not for a breath.

Because if this was what it took to survive—what it took to protect the people she refused to lose—then she would do it again.

And she wouldn't hesitate next time, either.