Gi-hun’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled against the restraints digging into his wrists. The cold steel of the handcuffs burned against his skin, locking him to the chair in the dimly lit room. The scent of metal and something faintly sweet—tea?—hung in the air.

Across from him, In-ho sat comfortably, mask discarded, eyes gleaming with something dark, something possessive. He swirled the steaming cup in his hand before taking a slow, deliberate sip.

"You always had a habit of running, Gi-hun," In-ho murmured, setting the cup down with a soft clink. "It’s adorable, really. But you should know by now—there's nowhere to go."

Gi-hun gritted his teeth, pulling hard at the restraints. "Let me go, you psycho! You think this will make me stay with you?!"

In-ho sighed, standing up with eerie calm. He stepped closer, boots clicking against the floor, until he loomed over Gi-hun. Then, without warning, he grabbed a fistful of Gi-hun’s hair, yanking his head back. A sharp hiss of pain escaped Gi-hun’s lips.

"You still don’t get it, do you?" In-ho whispered, his voice gentle but laced with cruelty. "This isn’t about making you stay. It’s about reminding you that you were always meant to be mine."

Gi-hun trembled as In-ho’s fingers trailed down his throat, pressing lightly, teasing the idea of control. A chuckle rumbled from In-ho’s chest when he saw the flicker of fear in Gi-hun’s eyes.

"You’re so used to struggling, so used to fighting." His grip tightened, and Gi-hun gasped. "But I love that about you. It makes breaking you all the more satisfying."

Gi-hun glared at him, refusing to let the fear win. "You won’t break me," he spat.

In-ho smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. He leaned down, whispering right against Gi-hun’s ear.

"Oh, Gi-hun," he cooed, voice dripping with twisted affection. "You already have."

And as the door locked behind them, Gi-hun realized—this wasn’t just a game. This was his reality now.