Do You Ever Get Upset Because Of Soap MacTavish Sometimes Because I Do

Do you ever get upset because of Soap MacTavish sometimes because I do

CHAPTER 02 - once you go in, there's no turning back (hwang in ho x reader)

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----

The familiar scent of your apartment brought you back to your senses. The reality of being back to Seoul for good kicks you in day by day. Jun-ho placed your suitcase to the floor and looked around. Your studio apartment had a natural sunlight, as the glass door illuminated the light from the outside. Though the apartment still felt empty as you still lacked furnitures, but the memories it held was more than enough to say that you were indeed back home.

"Jun-ho, thank you so much for bringing my stuff back here," you patted his shoulder and smiled.

He smiled back. "No worries, noona. I'm so glad you're back. I wish we could talk more, but I got an errand to catch on."

You nodded, taking off your hand from his shoulder. "I see. Well, good luck and do good, alright?" Jun-ho nodded and grabbed his backpack. As he made his way to the door, you turned around and called out to him again. This time, you noticed how his body froze to your words, "If you ever see In-ho, let him know that I'm back, alright?"

His body stood still, much to your confusion. What was up with him? You understand how it might've been hard how In-ho had been missing for years, but your gut tells you that there was more to the story. As much as you wanted to ask, you knew In-ho preferred to always move and decide on his own. There's so much more in there, you knew it. But you were in no position to pry, at least for now.

Jun-ho looked back at you and only gave you a bow, then left. You turned your attention to the apartment, noting the stuff that you had to buy. A dining table, chairs, sofa, and a bed. Your wooden cabinet was still here, though it had built up dust already. You cleaned a bit inside before placing your clothes and other stuff there.

The sun was still out but it was setting already. You figured with little time you have left, you may as well shop for furnitures. You changed into another set of clothes, this time more casual and comfortable. You wore a black oversized shirt and grey sweatpants, slipping on some white sneakers. Once you felt ready, you grabbed your sling bag and went out, locking the door behind you.

As you walked down the road, you can't help but think of In-ho and how Jun-ho seemed to act strange whenever he was mentioned. You wondered why - did they fall out? Did something happen? Was In-ho gone for good? If yes, why would he leave his brother then? You tried to piece things together, but nothing made sense. It was out of character for In-ho to disappear without a trace, even if his wife passed.

It's impossible that he's gone for good, you thought. If his wife has passed, he would've made an effort to at least visit her in the cemetery. Though you didn't know where his wife was laid to rest, but in that case, maybe In-ho would've visited her at times. Guilt started to creep up to you, regretting every single second that you left here in the first place. As much as you knew it was for the best, you couldn't help but think that maybe you could've been there for In-ho when he was struggling. You could've helped him.

----

You swiped your credit card to the POS, confirming your payment for all the furnitures you bought. It would be deliver later, not later than 7pm at least. You needed a bed to sleep in for the night, and your apartment was more than empty except for the wooden cabinet you left years ago. You were surprised how it was still sturdy as ever. Kind of a blessing in disguise, actually.

You bowed to the cashier and proceeded to exit the store. You sighed as you felt the cold breeze hug you in. You looked for your vape inside your sling bag, inhaled it, and puffed a smoke. You didn't realize how tense your shoulders were as you exhaled. You thought the jetlag was getting on to you, adding up to the fact all the things you knew about the brothers.

You walked towards the subway, waiting for your train to arrive. This time, you didn't try hailing a cab as you missed riding the train. You wanted to savor the feeling of being in Seoul, finally back after long years.

You sat on one of the benches, minding your own business as you stared into space. You scrolled through your phone as you waited for the train, getting updated about your friends' life updates. You noticed an advertisement from a vlogger, MG Coin. It was the first time you stumbled upon this vlogger and read an article about them. Turns out he opened a new coin, Dalmatian, which he advertised to have everyone invest down to their last penny, guaranteeing instant investment. From the looks of it, if you weren't dumb enough, it was a scam for you. No one can get rich from truly investing, what more of getting a return of investment that fast.

"Dumb fucks," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief. You continued to scroll more until there was no news that was worth to read. You sighed and kept your phone inside your bag.

The sound of a tile being slammed shot you up, looking at the direction of the sound. There, you see a man in a fine suit, playing what seemed like ddakji. You adjusted your eyesight to see what was happening, and yes, it really was ddakji.

You chuckled, wondering what entered his mind to play such a kid's game in a random subway. He was playing with someone who seemed to be in... distressed? You looked at the man, seeing a hand imprint on his face. You furrowed your eyebrows, confused why he seemed so invested in the game.

You watched them as they played, earning a shock from you when you see the man with a suit slap the guy's face. Then, he started to speak. "Again, I'll give you 100,000 won if you beat me. If I win, you can pay with your body."

"So, he paid by slapping," you shook your head in disbelief, chuckling as you continued to watch them. When the guy finally won, you can see how happy he was but looked up to the man in a suit, seemingly wanting to slap him. As he bolted his hand to slap, the man in a suit grabbed the guy's hand, blocking the slap. It seemed like he gave him something, which the guy glanced at his hand as if he was reading something.

You averted your gaze when you see the man in a suit turn around, facing you. You tried to not meet his gaze, but to your surprise, a briefcase was right next to your seat. You were probably so invested in watching the game that you didn't notice the briefcase. Though it was a crazy idea, you wanted to try and play the game. Would you win the prize? Or would you try to spice things up a bit?

You faced the man in a suit, meeting your gaze. You gave him a smile and a nod, and surprisingly, he also did. He proceeded to place the ddakji papers but he stopped as you spoke, "May I?"

The man smirked, but you can see the confusion forming in his face. You had a feeling he was trying to keep up with a facade which boils your curiosity more. "You want to play ddakji?"

You nodded. "I heard that you can win 100,000 won if you win, right?" He nodded in agreement. You continued, "What if I give you 100,000 won instead if you win, and if you lose...?" You looked up to think, and see the man chuckling. He seemed to be enjoying this.

"If I lose, then you can slap me," the man said as he smirked, taking the papers away from the briefcase. This was it, it seemed that both of you reached to an agreement. You stood up, fixing your clothes as he hands you the red paper.

The blue paper sits on the ground, waiting for you to flip it. You took a deep breath as you motioned your hand up then aimed at the blue paper, flipping it perfectly. It was the man's turn, seeing as he fixed and unbuttoned his blazer before swinging his hand to flip the paper on the ground, only to fail.

You smirked when you see him realize that he lost. He straightened himself up and moved his face near you, a free aim for you to slap. You examined his features first, realizing how fine he looked. He looked like he might in his early 40s, with a strand of hair down his forehead. He seemed to brace to the impact as you motioned your hand for a slap, only to lightly tap his face, barely even a slap.

He looked at you confusingly to which you only chuckled. "Can't slap a pretty face like yours," you said.

He only looked at you coldly, then furrowed his eyebrows as if to examine you. You had a feeling that no one dared to do that to him before, and maybe no one ever gave him 100,000 won if he wins the game. His jaw clenched, but not the angry kind. He seemed to think and squinted his eyes, then proceeded to nod in defeat, chuckling to himself.

"I just wanted to try it anyway, see if I was still good at it," you fixed yourself, straightening your posture. He did the same, now placing the ddakji papers back in the suitcase.

You noticed his hand on your vision, giving you a brown card, like a calling card, with three shapes on it - triangle, square, and circle. You shot him a confused look but this time, he was smirking at you. "If you want to see if you're good at ddakji, then you may as well join more games."

You grabbed the card from him as he closed his briefcase, giving you a nod before turning away, seeing his back as he walked away up to the platform, leaving the subway. Your gaze turned to the card you were holding, its texture seemed... premium. You turned the card on the other side and saw a number, as if ready for you to call.

A rumbling noise of wheels echoed through the subway, indicating that the train has arrived. You tucked the card on your pocket as you waited for the doors to open, entering it and sat near the entrance. You picked the card again from your pocket, intently staring at it. There was something more in this card that you were curious about. What did he mean about having more games? Will there be a prize at the end?

There's no harm in doing so, you think?

----

"Lee Myung-gi ran a Youtube Channel named, 'MG Coin' promoted a new coin called, 'Dalmatian' that turned out to be a scam, losing over 15.2 billion won after promoting it to their subscribers," the salesman reported, a phone pressed on his ear.

In-ho continued working on his papers, a glass of whiskey sitting near his left desk lamp. His phone was placed near it, putting the call on loudspeaker. He went over the potential player's file, seeing more of the details of the scam. He shook his head in disbelief, wondering how did these people get themselves up to situations like this. "Trash. Pure trash."

"He fled to the Philippines to hide from those he scammed," the voice on the other line stated. "I also noticed someone calling his phone. Someone named Kim Jun-hee."

"What about this Jun-hee?"

"She's pregnant, sir," the salesman said. In-ho dropped the paper he was holding for a moment. A pause came in before the salesman continued again, "Not in debt. Just needed funds for her pregnancy."

In-ho sat back on his chair, placing his hand on his chin as if to think. Though he couldn't help but feel his heart drop for a moment, remembering his wife. He shook his head before his emotions take over, proceeding to speak again. "You played with her?"

"Yes," the salesman replied. "I didn't slap her, knowing how fragile she was." In-ho nodded, a sigh of relief escaping from him. He took a sip on his whiskey, but was caught off guard when the salesman started to speak again. "But someone else wanted to play voluntarily."

"That's a first," In-ho muttered. He wondered why someone wanted to play ddakji voluntarily. Then he scoffed, thinking how they probably heard about the prize. "Let them enter the games."

"Sir, with all due respect, are you sure?" The salesman asked, the shock evident in his voice. "She offered to pay 100,000 won if she loses the game."

In-ho nodded as his thoughts start to take him over, trying to decide if they would let this someone enter the games. In entering the games, one had to be in debt. By debt, as in bad debts. A debt that slowly kills you, feeling as though you were alive only to be taunted by your shitty financial decisions. In-ho proceeded to ask, "Do you know anything about this woman?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. My apologies," the salesman replied. "But she seemed to be carefree. I spotted her along a furniture store nearby the station, buying furnitures, like a lot of them. She beat me to playing ddakji, and said she just wanted to see if she was still good at it."

In-ho became more confused, trying to weigh if he was going to let this someone in. If he lets you in, then the games would be more interesting. That is, if you call the number. Maybe there was no harm in letting someone not in debt to play. Or maybe he can offer you something more than playing in a pool of humans drowned in their debts.

"I gave her a card in case she's interested," the salesman reported. "But you should know that someone's got a tail on me. Seong Gi-hun is after us."

In-ho nodded, rolling his eyes with the thought of Gi-hun. In-ho believed that Gi-hun wouldn't be able to take down the whole organization. If ever, he would let Gi-hun be, but it would all just be for show, just to make things interesting.

Make things interesting.

As if a light was shone on In-ho's face, his face brightened up with an idea. He could make Gi-hun come back to the games, and letting someone like you in the games to see the truth and evilness of this place. Will you regret ever being so curious? He smirked, finishing his glass of whiskey as he felt the booze heat his throat. "Let the furniture girl in, and let Gi-hun work on his delusions. This season's going to be far more interesting."

In-ho ended the call, holding his hands together. He stared into space, sinking away from his thoughts. It's time to level up the games, to let someone who isn't entirely in debt to enter the games. Additionally, it's time to let a previous winner back.

If Gi-hun's back, then so is he.

----

A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter! What did you think about the twist of ddakji? I wanted to at least express how attractive the salesman is, and how the reader couldn't slap his pretty face, catching him off guard. Now, we get a glimpse of In-ho before starting the games. It's also my first time to write a perspective of a villain, I hope I did some justice to it. Feel free to leave out your thoughts here, and I'll gladly interact with each and everyone of you. 🫶

Don't forget to leave a comment in this post to be tagged on the next chapter! ✨

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02 - a piece of me | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

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——

The room was cold. Not from temperature, but from design — sterile and steel-lined, walls pressed tight in perfect symmetry, not a single window to the world outside. You sat among dozens of other guards, each clad in the identical matte uniform, each face hidden behind a black visor with a single geometric shape. You were in a sea of circles - a hierarchy forged not in character, but in obedience.

You felt your breath fog slightly beneath the mask. Even now, after years of wearing it, there were moments it felt like a muzzle.

Then, the door at the far end hissed open, revealing the creator, host, and God of this hell.

Oh Il-nam.

His hair was thinner now, his skin clung tighter to the ridges of his skull, but his eyes — sharp, glinting like polished glass — scanned the room with that same quiet cruelty you remembered from the archives. He walked with a slight limp, supported by a black cane, his mask tucked beneath his arm like a crown he didn’t need to wear to remind you who he was. He was dressed in deep crimson — formal, commanding, and flawless. The color of blood dried into velvet.

He stood before the room of guards and overseers, calm and calculating, as if he were welcoming guests to a dinner party rather than orchestrating death. He spoke softly, but the room bent toward his words like blades of grass in the wind.

“Welcome to the 33rd Season of the Games,” Il-nam began, his voice low and controlled. “Do you know what that number means?”

Silence answered him.

“It means that the world hasn’t changed. The hunger still lives. That desperation is still the most powerful currency.”

He paced slowly before the first row, hearing his cane tap against the ground with every step.

“The rules remain the same. The games — Red Light, Green Light. Dalgona. Lights Out,” he paused at that, smiling faintly. “Yes, it’s officially part of the cycle now. Chaos has structure. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You remained still, but your stomach twisted. You remembered the screaming, the way the night didn’t hide the dying. You remembered the man bleeding out on the floor, who now sat behind black glass in a tower above, a Front Man forged from your mistake.

“Tug of War. Marbles. And most importantly, the Squid Game,” Il-nam continued. “You will uphold the structure. You will maintain the illusion of order. But most of all—“ he stopped now, facing the crowd directly— “you will not disobey.”

Murmurs didn’t follow — they weren’t allowed. But the tension thickened. Lights Out was once an unofficial chaos was now part of the rulebook. You felt it all rushing back, blood pooling across tiles, and a hand reaching up in the dark. His voice was breathless, shaking, whispering the words, “Why…?”

“Any form of aid to players, any deviation from assigned protocol, any mask that dares to feel… will be punished.”

You flinched, barely, but you knew the sting was meant for you.

“Some of you have already failed us before,” he said, eyes grazing across the room, almost like he could see behind the masks. “You’re here again because we believe in second chances… not forgiveness.”

The word struck like a lash. You didn’t move, but inside, the fire of the truth burned anew.

The punishment wasn’t execution, at least, not for you. It was service, a reassignment, and a demotion. A demotion that dragged you into night shifts, into silent bedrooms and glided masks, into the leering eyes of VIPs where no screams escaped and no names were spoken. And every morning, you returned to pink.

“Uniforms and role assignments are waiting in Hall B. You will report immediately. Any delay is noted.”

The square guards began barking orders immediately. Role assignments, room numbers, escort teams, firearm calibration checks — all familiar routines returned like a tidal wave. The masked figures rose, each moving with choreographed efficiency toward their fate.

Season 33 had begun, and you would do anything just to survive.

——

The metal platform groaned beneath your boots as you stood at the edge of the training hall, rows of pink-masked recruits stiffening under your gaze.

A row of red carpet unfurled like a fresh wound down the center of the pristine room — the designated “escort path.” Gold-painted chairs lined the simulated VIP lounge behind you, perfectly arranged for the demonstration. Surveillance cameras blinked red in the corners. Nothing here was ever unobserved.

“Position one,” you called sharply.

The recruits moved. The pink guard stepped forward to act as the "escort" was young, shorter than the rest, their voice still trembling. Their grip fumbled over the faux decanter meant to mimic luxury service.

They bowed to the mock VIP actor like a civilian would — too deeply, too slowly. You inhaled sharply through your mask. They tried again, offering a drink with both hands, their gloves shaking slightly.

“Wrong,” you snapped, voice cutting clean through the stale air.

The recruit flinched as you strode forward, the click of your boots like gunshots in the quiet room. In one swift motion, you snatched the decanter from their hands and slammed it down on the tray beside the lounge chair.

“You are not a servant,” you said coldly. “You are a symbol. A presence. A product of obedience, not emotion. The moment you show uncertainty, they will know. And they will take advantage.”

Your words hung heavy in the space between you and the trembling recruit. The rest of the class stood rigid, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Again,” you barked. “With your spine straight. Offer the drink like a machine, not a child.”

The recruit obeyed. This time, it was slower and more deliberate. You stood behind them, adjusting the tilt of their chin with the sharp edge of your gloved hand. Their mask tilted toward yours, questioning and fearful.

They reminded you of someone, more of yourself. When you were promoted to square, clean and hopeful, your eyes too bright beneath the black. Before your rank was stripped and your identity erased in silence, not because of failure, but because of mercy.

“Acceptable,” you said finally, though your voice was devoid of warmth.

Training resumed in silence. Hours blurred past drills — posture, presentation, calculated silence. The elite escort role required perfection. Anything less was an insult to the illusion these monsters paid to see.

Eventually, the session ended.

One by one, the pink guards filed out. The doors hissed open, and the cold concrete swallowed them. But one lingered. A square guard, standing by the door with his arms folded, watching you with quiet interest behind the black mask that once mirrored your own.

“They say you were once a square,” he said casually, his voice low and edged with something darker. “What did you do?”

You didn’t answer. He stepped closer. The distance between you was all surveillance and silence.

“Rumors say you saved someone. That you disobeyed for a dying player,” he added. “But they never say why you’re still alive.”

You turned your head, slow and measured. “I follow orders,” you replied flatly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Funny,” he said. “You train them like you’re trying to make them forget what it’s like to be human.”

You stared at him. “Because being human in here,” you said, “is the fastest way to die.”

You walked away, back into the corridors of steel and smoke, where ghosts wore masks and punishment was survival’s reward. The dim corridor buzzed faintly, the sound of fluorescent lights above flickering like a dying breath. You made your way down the path lined with identical metal doors, the living quarters for the pink guards.

Yours was the last door in the row. Room 427. You keyed in the code. The lock hissed open. Inside was stillness with barren walls, a single bed with starched sheets, and a metal table bolted to the floor. There was no mirror and belongings. Just silence, always silence.

You sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off your gloves like a second skin. Your pink suit was unzipped just enough to breathe. The metal walls echoed with distant footsteps, squares barking orders at newly recruited guards, the crackle of radios, the buzz of the elevator ferrying supplies to the upper floors. But here in your unit’s quarters, it was still.

There was no escort duty tonight. For once, your number wasn’t on the list. That relief was almost as painful as the duties themselves. You stared at your gloves on the bedside table, fingers curled stiff from wear. Blood had once soaked through them. Screams once filled your ears. But now? You were used to it.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

Before the games, you had a name. A life outside the games. You used to dance in the rain.

You lived in colors, not red, black and pink, but golden light from streetlamps, the warm blue of your favorite café, the soft lavender of your tiny rented apartment. You weren’t rich, but you were free. A literature student by day, part-time waitress by night. You wanted to write stories one day. Novels. Maybe even poetry. You dreamed of publishing your own book someday.

Your laughter used to come easily. Your smile wasn’t a mask. You believed in people. Yet in the end, you were the one who stayed.

In a neighborhood where everyone else was desperate to leave, you stayed behind. You watched your friends grow distant and your family grow smaller. It was only one funeral, then came another. Then another. Until the only voices left were the ones in your head.

You weren’t running from anything — there was just nowhere left to go. No final fight nor betrayal. Just… time, taking people from you, one by one. You stopped talking out loud because there was no one to hear you anyway.

So when the pink envelope arrived that was sealed tight, marked only by shapes, it felt like an accident. A glitch in the mail. A strange dream.

But you opened it.

And that’s how it started.

You didn’t become a player. You didn’t owe anything. But you were noticed — someone they could use. Someone who would not be missed. At first, you thought you’d break. But there was no one left to worry about you. No one left to remind you who you were.

Now, you rarely think about your name. It doesn’t come easily anymore.

And maybe that was the point.

——

The order comes like a slap to your already numb consciousness. A square guard, his uniform sharp and flawless, strides over to you in the dark hallway. His voice is cool, matter-of-fact, as if he’s never had to question a thing in his life.

"Fix the Front Man's quarters. Make sure every detail is perfect," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You simply nod, the sound of the mask moving as you lower your head in silent acknowledgment. You’ve been in this position long enough to know how things go. The Front Man’s quarters, as cold and sterile as everything else in the compound, require absolute precision. The slightest mistake, the smallest imperfection, could result in more than just a reprimand. You’ve seen what happens when others fail in front of the Front Man. There’s nothing kind or forgiving about his gaze.

The square guard watches you for a moment longer, as if ensuring you’ll comply, before turning away, leaving you to your task.

You stood in front of the door, taking in the quiet, lifeless hallway. Everything is perfectly still. No noise. No interruptions. The only sound you hear is the distant hum of ventilation systems and the pulse of your own heartbeat beneath the thick mask. You inhale deeply and push the door open.

Inside, the quarters were as pristine as always. It was cold, empty, and unyielding - not a single trace of humanity remains. The room was meticulously organized, the bed made to military standards, the furnishings aligned with an unnatural symmetry, a single chair in the corner, its back to the wall. Every surface gleams, as if the place is nothing but a shell, waiting for its occupant to step inside.

You walk in slowly, your eyes scanning over every inch, every corner. Your mind runs through the mental checklist: lighting, temperature, scent. Every detail is scrutinized until you’re certain it meets the Front Man’s standards. Your gloved hands trace over the desk, wiping away the faintest trace of dust. It’s almost too perfect. There’s nothing left to fix. The space is an extension of the man who occupies it — cold, flawless, untouchable.

You began to adjust the small things. The alignment of books on a shelf, the angle of the chair, the slight shift in the position of a painting on the wall. Every adjustment feels like an offering. Your body is numb to the motion, your mind detached and mechanical.

A sudden movement at the door catches your attention, and you freeze.

A shadow. A figure standing in the doorway, silent and imposing. You don’t need to look up to know it’s the square guard again. His eyes are cold, but there’s something else, a faint smile at the edge of his lips as he watches you.

“Is everything in order?” he asks, his voice like a dull blade scraping against metal.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Your eyes remain downcast, focusing on the smallest of details. The least of your concerns is his gaze, but you feel the weight of it pressing down on you nonetheless.

The square guard takes a step forward, glancing around the room. His eyes land on the smallest imperfection, a slight smudge on the glass of a picture frame. Without a word, he reaches out, wiping it away with a swipe of his gloved hand. His movements are sharp, deliberate.

“You’ve done well,” he says, his voice softening ever so slightly. But you know better. He’s not complimenting you. He’s simply acknowledging your obedience. The look in his eyes doesn’t change — still cold, still distant.

“Finish up,” he commands. “And make sure the Front Man doesn’t find anything out of place.”

The square guard leaves, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. As you turn to leave, your fingers brush against the edge of the desk, and something about the cold metal reminds you of the past. Of who you used to be. Of the girl who had dreams and laughter in her heart.

You barely register the sounds of the Front Man’s approaching footsteps — but you know they're coming. You can feel him before you see him, a presence that lingers in the room even as the door creaks open.

The Front Man walks inside with his usual poise, the cold mask covering his face, unreadable. His eyes scan the room like a predator sizing up its prey, each movement deliberate, precise, as if assessing not just the space but the person who prepared it. His footsteps echo softly against the polished floors, louder than they have any right to be.

You stand at attention in the corner, still and quiet, as he takes his time walking around the room. You don’t dare speak unless he orders you to.

His gaze flickers to the desk first. He takes a long pause, inspecting the alignment of the books, the sheen on the surface. His fingers brush lightly over the chair, just enough to feel the exact temperature of the room, the subtle pressure of the cushion. He moves with the kind of deliberate grace that you’ve come to associate with someone who knows their power, their dominance, their control over every detail.

For a split second, you hold your breath, wondering what he’s looking for. Is there something amiss? A trace of imperfection you might have missed in your hasty preparation?

But then his gaze shifts to the picture frame. It’s the smallest detail, the most trivial of things. His eyes narrow, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame with unsettling precision. There is a slight tremor in his hand. Just a hint. But it’s enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He simply looks at the picture frame for a few more seconds, as if contemplating something too deep to put into words. His gaze flickers toward the small smudge you couldn’t catch, and for the briefest of moments, you think he might actually speak. But no. His gaze sharpens, and he pulls his hand away.

Finally, he stands still. For a moment, you wonder if the air between you is thick with his thoughts, heavy and pressing. But then, he slowly exhales, a sound barely noticeable beneath the mask. He turns toward you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten, your breath stuttering.

"Good job," he said, his tone as cold as ever. "Everything is in order."

Your heart clenched at the lack of emotion in his words. It was a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. There was no warmth in his praise, no sign that he saw you as anything more than another tool—an instrument to be used and discarded when no longer needed.

"Thank you," you murmured, even though the words felt hollow on your tongue.

He turned his head slightly, his masked face remaining unreadable. "You may leave now."

With a stiff bow, you turned to leave, your footsteps echoing in the silence of the room. As you stepped out into the cold, sterile halls of the compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being forgotten.

You were nothing to him, and perhaps that was exactly what you deserved. After all, you weren’t a guard anymore, not truly. You were just a nameless face in the sea of masked figures, condemned to serve in the shadows for the rest of your days.

And yet, despite the cold dismissal, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder: would he ever look at you again? Would he ever realize that you were the one who had saved him when he had bled out during the chaos of lights out?

But the more you thought about it, the more you realized it didn’t matter. He was the Front Man. You were just a guard—nothing more. The distance between you was as vast as the abyss, and no amount of longing would ever change that.

——

A/N: HAS ANYONE WATCHED THE SQUID GAME TEASER? They just dropped the teaser for Season 3! I am SEATED (and also possibly traumatized) 😳 I think I'm going to be insufferable until June 27 because imagine the teaser making us feel like THAT, then what about the trailer 😨 What are your theories for the next season? I would love to hear about them!

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

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