The Light That Binds Us-Hwang Inho

Rae-a's eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion. A dull ache spread through her body, making every movement sluggish. She forced her eyes open, blinking against the harsh white glow of fluorescent lights overhead. Her vision swam for a moment before settling.

White walls. A metal IV stand. The sharp scent of antiseptic.

A medical room.

That didn't add up. Players didn't get medical care. If you were hurt, you either recovered on your own or died. No one got special treatment.

So why was she here?

She took a slow breath, forcing herself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn't help. What mattered was figuring out who had brought her here—and why. She replayed the last thing she could remember.

112.

She had killed him. The tension as she drove the knife through his neck. His body collapsing, aimlessly floating in the water. The way her mind had stayed sharp, focused, even when exhaustion clawed at her. No hesitation. No regret. Just survival.

Then Young-il.

Her jaw tightened.

Had someone figured out that she wasn't supposed to be here?

She had been careful. Never standing out too much. Never making a move that would draw suspicion. But if she was here, it meant someone had taken notice. Someone had pulled her out of the arena and put her in this sterile, controlled environment.

Her hands curled into fists, the IV tugging at her skin as she tried to move. Weakness wasn't an option. She ignored the pain and pushed herself upright, body protesting the effort.

Rae-a sat on the edge of the cot, her muscles coiled beneath the clean set of clothes they had given her. The dim lighting stretched her shadow long against the sterile walls, the sharp scent of antiseptic burning in her nose. Her damp hair clung to her skin, strands sticking against her temple, still carrying the phantom weight of the water that had nearly swallowed her whole. She kept her hands still. She didn't let them tremble.

The door opened.

Black-clad. Faceless. Unreadable. This man was a phantom in flesh, his presence alone enough to squeeze the air from the room. Unlike the guards, he didn't need weapons. He didn't need numbers. He had control.

His gaze swept over her, slow and assessing. He took in the bruises, the way her skin no longer held the sickly pallor of someone barely clinging to consciousness. She was healing. The sight settled something in him, a brief flicker of relief he refused to acknowledge. He forced it aside—irrelevant. What mattered now was what she represented.

She was a threat. Not to him, but to the order of the game itself.

And control was far more dangerous.

He stepped inside with deliberate ease, his movements efficient, unhurried. The air shifted as he entered, and though the room was already small, it felt suffocating now. Rae-a didn't react beyond a slow glance upward.

This is not a man who wastes time.

And right now, she was at his mercy.

She shifted slightly, testing her forearm, flexing her fingers in a display of nonchalance she wasn't sure he bought. She didn't have much power here—so she wielded the only thing she could: indifference.

"Player 089."

His voice, smooth and steady, slithered through the space between them, wrapping around her like a python, slow and suffocating. She forced herself to meet his masked gaze.

"You entered the games under… unusual circumstances," he said. "No records of your recruitment. No game of ddakji. No choice made."

The words settled heavily in her chest. He knows.

Rae-a's mind worked quickly, piecing things together. This wasn't just a man following orders—this was the man. The one pulling the strings, the one orchestrating every move within these walls. The realization tightened something in her chest. If he had the authority to question her so directly, to probe into the cracks of her existence, then he had the power to erase her just as easily.

The danger she was in became suffocatingly clear.

Rae-a didn't flinch. "Didn't realize that was a problem." Her voice wavered, just slightly. He would hear it. He would pick it apart. But she couldn't afford silence, couldn't let him believe he had more control than he already did.

A pause. Heavy. Measured. The air in the room thickened, the silence stretching long enough to make her pulse hammer against her ribs. His presence, oppressive before, became suffocating now. A weight pressing against her chest, against the very breath in her lungs.

"Tell me who you are."

Not a request. Not an invitation. A command.

She lifted her chin, meeting the abyss of his mask. "You tell me."

Silence stretched between them, taut and suffocating. Then, he took a step forward. Unhurried. Predatory. A man who knew there was no need to rush.

"You want to play games?"

The irony was not lost on either of them.

Another step. The distance between them shrank. The walls seemed closer now, the cot beneath her suddenly feeling too small. He knew it. He thrived on it. But she couldn't shrink back—couldn't give him that satisfaction. If she did, he would know, without a doubt, the power he had over her.

"You shouldn't exist."

His voice was calm, almost indifferent. But indifference could be more terrifying than rage. He wasn't angry. He was… curious.

"No records. No debt. No invitation." A pause. "A ghost."

She kept her face neutral, but she knew he was watching. Reading every flicker of movement, every breath. Looking for a crack in the facade.

"If you were to die," he murmured, "no one would know."

No weapon. No outright threat. He didn't need one. His presence was the weapon. And she felt it.

"Every player has a record. Financial debts. Family history. The game they played to get in." Another pause. "You have none of that."

Rae-a held his gaze. The loan sharks had made sure of that. Any traces of her past had been buried deep, left to rot beneath blood-stained ledgers and unmarked graves.

"Maybe your records aren't as thorough as you think," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. The tension in the room pressed in, her rationality wavering under its weight.

A quiet chuckle. Hollow. Calculated.

"No," he said simply. "We don't make mistakes."

The silence afterwards stretched, weighted, pressing in like an invisible force. The air felt heavier, thick with something unspoken, something oppressive. It wasn't just a lull in conversation—it was a calculated moment, a tightening of the noose around her throat.

"You played well in the last game." His voice remained even, but there was something beneath it. Something unreadable. "Almost too well."

Her jaw tightened, barely perceptible. He was baiting her, clearly suspicious of her background.

"You stepped in for someone. That much is clear."

A muscle in her shoulder tensed. He knew. Of course, he knew. How else could she be here?

"The last game should have broken you," he continued, his voice lowering. "And yet, here you are. Barely shaken."

She wasn't sure what was worse—the fact that he was probing her, or the fact that he was right. She had drowned in her fear of the water. And yet, she had thrown herself in, multiple times to save people that she didn't quite realise she cared about. She had fought her way out. He had no record of her past, but somehow, he knew her fear.

The cameras.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You fight like someone who's done this before."

She refused to fill the silence. He wouldn't get anything out of her. She wouldn't let him.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, studying her as if she were a puzzle missing a crucial piece.

Her fingers curled against the edge of the cot. He was looking for something—some confirmation of what he already suspected. She wouldn't give it to him.

"What does it matter?" she said, voice steady. "I'm just a player, aren't I?"

A beat of silence.

Then, a quiet chuckle. This time, it was thoughtful.

"For now."

The words crawled under her skin. She had his attention. That was dangerous.

His steel-toed boots echoed against the concrete as he moved, circling her, forcing her to remain still, aware of just how vulnerable she was. Just who was this man?

"These games are designed to bring out the worst in people," he said finally. "To break them. To kill them." A pause. "Not to turn them into heroes." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something sharper beneath the surface. "Self-sacrifice. Morality. Compassion. They have no place here."

Rae-a didn't move. The words struck a nerve, but she didn't let it show. She could still feel the icy water, still hear Hyun-ju retaliate as she pushed her down the tunnel, willing to sacrifice herself for her. Rae-a knew she did not save Hyun-ju or anyone else for herself, it was for them. The ones who deserved to live.

"You're not following the rules."

He stopped in front of her again. Close. Too close. The air between them thinned, suffused with an unspoken threat, his presence sinking into her bones like a weight she couldn't shake. There was nowhere to turn, no space to breathe—only him, looming, deliberate, and inescapable.

"You follow the rules," he murmured, "or you won't last long. Do you understand me?"

She met his gaze. Steady. Defiant. He didn't get to play God.

"Crystal clear."

For a moment, he simply watched her. Then, he nodded to the guards, presumably outside the door, and pulled away.

"Good," he said, warning etched in his voice. "I wont be repeating myself."

He turned, walking toward the door, his presence lingering even as he moved away. But just before stepping out, he paused.

"Careful, 089." He didn't look back. "If you stand out too much, you won't be a player for long."

The door shut behind him.

Rae-a exhaled slowly, only now realizing how rigid she had been.

She had his attention.

That was dangerous. Worse than she had initially thought. This wasn't just scrutiny—this was something deeper, something far more unsettling. He had been watching her, analyzing her, peeling back the layers of who she was without even needing to ask.

She forced her shoulders to relax, but the weight of his presence lingered, pressing against her skin like phantom hands. If he had doubts before, she had just confirmed them. The way he spoke, the way he circled her—it wasn't just curiosity. It was calculation.

And that meant he saw her as something more than just another player.

That was a problem.

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Rae-a sat there for what felt like hours, her mind an uneasy storm of thoughts that refused to settle. The room felt even smaller now, the air thick with something she couldn't shake—something left behind by him. The man in charge. The one who had pulled her apart piece by piece without even laying a hand on her.

Her fingers tapped soundlessly against her knee. She was restless. Antsy. Her mind kept circling back to her friends—Gi-hun, Jungbae, Dae-ho, Young-il, Hyun-ju. Were they okay? Had they made it out unscathed? She had no way of knowing. She was particularly worried about Hyun-ju. The last she had seen of her, she was still in the water, coughing, struggling. Had she been taken for medical attention too? She sure hoped so.

Her stomach twisted. The only reason she had been treated was because of him. The Frontman. That thought didn't sit right with her.

A knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts. She tensed as the door swung open, revealing two masked guards. Without a word, they gestured for her to stand. Her muscles protested as she pushed herself to her feet, still sore from everything, but she forced herself to move. The guards led her through the sterile halls, their footsteps eerily synchronized. The journey back to the bunk room was silent, but Rae-a's mind was anything but. She tried to shake the feeling of unseen eyes still watching her, the mans voice curling around her thoughts like smoke she couldn't clear.

The moment she stepped into the bunk room, everything hit her at once.

"Rae-a!" Gi-hun's voice was the first thing she registered before she was nearly engulfed by the others.

Jungbae, 149, and Junhee were at her side in an instant, bombarding her with relieved words and questions she barely processed. "What happened?" "Are you okay?" "How are you feeling?" The sheer concern in their voices almost startled her. She had never been fussed over like this before.

Before she could respond, a pair of arms wrapped around her. Dae-ho. It was sudden, unexpected—his embrace was warm, unrestrained, and entirely too much. She stiffened at the contact, her first instinct to pull away, but she forced herself to stay still. Slowly, she raised a hand and ruffled his hair, an awkward but sincere gesture. The action earned her an unimpressed look from Young-il, who crossed his arms, shaking his head as if to say, Seriously?

Then, Hyun-ju stepped forward, her movements more hesitant, more careful. She reached out and, for the first time, wrapped her arms around Rae-a in a gentle hug. There was nothing forceful about it—just warmth, soft and steady. Rae-a hesitated, caught off guard, before returning it, gripping Hyun-ju's sleeve lightly as she did.

But something wasn't right.

She pulled back just enough to look at Hyun-ju. "Did they treat you?"

Hyun-ju shook her head. "No," she said, a small, almost sheepish smile on her lips. "Didn't need it. Just a few minor bruises."

That didn't make sense. Rae-a had seen the way she had struggled, the way the water had nearly consumed her. Yet she hadn't been taken for medical attention? But Rae-a had?

The realization settled uneasily in her gut. It wasn't about my injuries. It was about him confronting me.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, a quiet tension gripping her. She didn't have time to dwell on it before Young-il jogged up from behind, his usual smirk in place. "You cause trouble everywhere you go," he remarked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He handed her a tray of food, from the earlier dinner she missed.

Rae-a glanced at him, grateful, exhaling through her nose. "And yet, I'm still here."

Young-il chuckled, his gaze flicking over her, scanning her like he was piecing something together. "Barely."

She caught the way his eyes lingered—on her salt ridden hair, the stiffness in her posture, the faint remnants of tension in her shoulders. He was perceptive, and she knew it.

"You sure know how to make people worried," he added, a slight tilt of his head. "Not that I was, of course. But the others? Whole different story."

She let out a soft huff, shifting the weight of the tray in her hands. She observed him, glad he was okay. "Didn't know you cared so much."

"I don't," he said easily, though the small flicker in his eyes betrayed the full truth. "But if you keep standing out like this, people are going to start asking questions."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the tray. "Is that so?"

Young-il stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. "You may have the others fooled, but I see it. You're playing something else, aren't you?"

For a brief moment, she considered lying. But instead, she met his gaze with quiet defiance. "And if I was?"

A pause. Then, a slow, knowing smirk. "Then you'd better be damn good at it."

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The group started walking back toward their spots, but Rae-a hesitated, turning her head toward Gi-hun. "Wait."

He glanced at her, puzzled. "Yeah?"

She shifted her weight slightly, glancing at the others before meeting his gaze again. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

The air shifted. The others exchanged glances, their curiosity clear, but no one said anything. Young-il, however, kept his gaze on her, unreadable.

Gi-hun frowned but nodded. "Alright."

She pulled him aside, away from the others. The bunk room was never truly private, but this was as close as they could get. Gi-hun crossed his arms. "What's going on?"

Rae-a hesitated for just a second before speaking. "I stepped in for someone. I was never officially enrolled in these games."

Gi-hun's eyes widened slightly. "What?"

She inhaled deeply, keeping her voice measured. "There was a family. If the mother went in- and their kid would've been left alone. I—" She exhaled through her nose. "I stopped that from happening."

Gi-hun's expression softened, but it was clear he was still processing. "So… you weren't recruited? No game of ddakji? No invitation?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. And I think that's why they took me. The man with the black mask—"

Gi-hun stiffened. "The Frontman."

The confirmation settled uncomfortably in her chest, hearing Gi-hun confirm the same name he discussed with her the first night. So, I was right.

Gi-hun ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "That's bad. If he's interested in you, that means you're on his radar now. You could be a target. Or…" He hesitated. "Or a way in."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "A way in?"

He met her gaze, something resolute behind his expression. "Think about it. You're already standing out. If he's watching you, that means you have a chance to watch him back. If we want to end this—if we want to take this thing down from the inside—then you might be our best shot."

She swallowed. The weight of it settled over her, heavy and suffocating, but she didn't waver. It made sense. She hated that it made sense.

She nodded once. "I understand."

Neither of them realized that just a few feet away, Young-il was leaning casually against one of the bunks, his face unreadable as he listened.

Rae-a wasn't playing by the rules.

And that made things all the more intriguing. Rae-a was an enigma, unpredictable and entirely unlike the others. Young-il found himself wanting to unravel every layer, to understand what made her tick, what drove her. She wasn't just another desperate player—she was something else entirely. Self-sacrificial. And that was dangerous. But damn, if it wasn't fascinating.

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As the dim light flickered overhead and the bunk room settled into an uneasy silence, Rae-a's mind refused to quiet. Her body ached, but it wasn't the physical pain that gnawed at her—it was the weight of what was to come. The thought of the Frontman's eyes on her lingered, suffocating her thoughts like a vice.

She lay on her side, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the hushed murmurs and restless movements of the others as they found their spots for the night. Everyone was worn out, physically and mentally, but for Rae-a, sleep felt distant, unreachable.

That's when she felt it—the subtle shift in the room, the way the air seemed to change. Young-il was standing near the edge of the room, his back against the wall, arms crossed in his usual nonchalant stance. He didn't look at her directly, but she could feel his gaze cutting through the darkness, resting just enough on her to make her skin prickle.

It wasn't a surprise; he had been watching her all night, ever since she'd come back into the room. He had a way of doing that—of making you feel like you were constantly under his scrutiny, but somehow, it felt comforting to know someone was making sure she was okay. 

Rae-a's eyes flicked toward him, her expression unreadable. He caught her gaze, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The room was too quiet, the air too thick with unspoken tension.

He finally pushed off the wall, stepping closer to her bunk. His footsteps were soft, deliberate, as if he didn't want to wake the others. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried an edge of something darker.

"You're not sleeping," he said, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't tell me you're not exhausted."

Rae-a didn't answer immediately, her gaze unwavering as she sat up slightly, her legs still curled beneath the blanket. Her fingers gripped the edge of the fabric tightly, the silence stretching between them like a tightrope. She didn't need to answer. Young-il didn't really care if she was tired or not—he just liked to poke at people, to get under their skin.

"I'm fine," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "Just thinking."

"Mm." He tilted his head, the small smirk remaining. "Thinking, huh? About what? How you're going survive this hellhole? Or... something else?"

She shot him a sidelong glance, her eyes narrow. "That none of your business."

"You sure about that?" he asked, stepping a little closer, his voice still light but laced with a rare tension. "I don't care if it's my business or not. You keep pushing yourself like this, you're gonna get hurt—and I don't want to see that. I want you to get through this, Rae-a. I want you to make it out of these games, and you're not going to do that if you keep acting like you're invincible."

His usual smirk flickered for a moment, but his eyes didn't lie. There was something else there, something that hinted at a genuine, almost protective desire to see her survive—though he wasn't about to admit it outright.

Rae-a's expression softened at the notion, though her words still held her biting fashion. "I don't need your help," she said flatly. "I'm doing just fine on my own."

He raised an eyebrow at that, an almost imperceptible flicker of something deeper passing through his gaze. "I don't recall offering any help," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm just saying—if you're gonna keep standing out, you might want to be careful. People are going to start paying attention. And not all attention is good attention."

Rae-a didn't respond immediately, faltering and recalling the Frontman's attention. She studied him for a moment, trying to gauge whether there was more to his words than just another of his usual jabs. But all she found was that familiar, unpredictable edge in his eyes—he wasn't trying to threaten her. He wasn't the Frontman.

"You care that much?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, a challenge tucked into her words.

Young-il's smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, but it was enough. His eyes softened just a fraction, the sharpness dissipating into something unreadable.

'You've got people watching you. You've got me watching you and your back. Just don't make it too interesting. Saving you from rash decisions sounds exhausting."

Rae-a held his gaze for a long beat, her lips pressed together in a tight line. She hasn't forgotten the fact he had tried to stop her going after Hyun-ju, her own friend, in the last game. Her thoughts were filled with unspoken questions wondering why he would care so much to go out of his own way. But somewhere along the way, she found herself oddly caring for him as much as her other friends. If not a little more.

"Don't worry," she said quietly, finally pulling the blanket up higher, as if to end the conversation. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Young-il let out a small, low chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. "That's what I'm worried about. Get some sleep."

With that, he turned, walking back to his corner of the room. Rae-a was left in the darkness, her thoughts racing, her body still refusing to surrender to sleep.

But now, it wasn't just the Frontman that occupied her mind. It was him—Young-il. The enigma that seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, even when she didn't. And that, more than anything, unsettled her and excited her.