The black mask was suffocating, but Seong Gi-hun had learned to tolerate it. The weight of the long, leather coat, the way it restricted his movements—it all felt unnatural. Yet here he stood, a Front Man. Not by choice, never by choice, but fate had been cruel enough to twist his path until he ended up here, beside the only man who truly knew the burden of this role.

Hwang In-ho.

Gi-hun could feel his presence before he even turned his head. In-ho was always watching, always close, his obsession so palpable it clung to the air like a thick fog. Gi-hun didn’t know when it started, only that ever since he had been pulled into this nightmare, In-ho had treated him as if he were something sacred—something fragile that needed to be protected, even here, in a place where men died like ants beneath the weight of a boot.

"In-ho," Gi-hun muttered, exhaling. He didn't need to ask if he was being watched. He already knew.

"You seem tired," In-ho said softly, stepping closer. His voice was deep, calm, yet something about it always made Gi-hun’s skin prickle. "You should rest. I'll handle the next game."

Gi-hun scoffed, tugging at his gloves. "And let you do everything yourself? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

"Yes." In-ho didn’t hesitate. His gloved fingers brushed against Gi-hun’s arm, a touch so fleeting it almost felt accidental—but it wasn’t. Nothing In-ho did was ever accidental when it came to him. "You don’t belong in this filth, Gi-hun. You never did. I won’t let it taint you more than it already has."

Gi-hun pulled away, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name. "I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?"

Silence.

In-ho never liked when Gi-hun spoke like that, when he acknowledged what they had become.