the corridors were narrow, metallic, smelling of rust and gunpowder. he’d trained for years to handle pressure, but never imagined walking in a place where human life was worth less than a disposable game piece.

the first death he saw was sharp and quick. a tired man stumbled on way back from a test. before he could compose himself, the leader of guards placed his gun against the back of his neck and fired. the sound echoed through the corridor, and the body fell without resistance, blood spreading quickly across the gray floor. no one reacted. no one cried. was part of the system.

that night, jun ho lay on the narrow bed in his barracks, but sleep wouldn't come. he closed his eyes and saw the fallen man's face, saw the blood, heard the dry sound. the voices of other guards were muffled, distant, and even when his body tried to rest, his mind whirled, trapped in the replay of the scene.

as the days passed, the routine became dirtier. he transported bodies. cleaned the floor of blood-covered evidence. followed orders to separate groups that didn't obey quickly enough — and sometimes, separating them meant pushing one of them to their execution. he was mechanical, cold, and at the same time, every gesture left its mark on him. the mask hid his face, but couldn't hide his gaze. he knew he was changing.

but in his head, memories of life outside the island grew increasingly distant. he remembered you. — his girlfriendwho had no idea where he was. remembered their laughter, their banal conversations, how you said he was the kinda man who didn't give up. now, he wondered if he was still that man. every time he thought of you, a knot tightened in his chest, along with the fear he would never see you again. until, weeks later, when it all ended.

gi hun died.

the game fell.

and with that, his mission was over. but there was no relief. only silence. and the silence weighed more heavily than any scream.

then he returned to city. the world seemed smaller, streets were alive. but for him, everything’s dead like him.

he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize himself. his face hardened, his gaze was dull. and his breathing was heavy even without effort. was as if his soul remained on the island, and his body had returned alone. and the guilt — the guilt was in everything. hands, the smell that never left his clothes, in the dreams that turned into nightmares. and he didn't try to see you. thought he shouldn't. thought you’d be better without him. and, in the darkest days, he thought maybe it’d be better end it all once and for all. that there’s nothing left for him in this world. but one night, walking alone through the empty streets, something pulled him away from that thought.

the cold wind was biting, and he wore a soft, long-sleeved black cotton shirt and dark blue jeans. he walked slowly, aimlessly, his gaze lost and heavy, as if each step cost more than it had. the yellowish streetlights blended with long shadows on the asphalt, and the sounds of the sleeping city sounded distant. his breathing was deep, irregular, almost a warning that his body could give out at any moment.

then he saw you.

from afar, the figure seemed like a snapshot of the life he had lost. you was standing on opposite sidewalk, distracted, looking at your phone, hair blowing in the light wind. he stopped. didn't know if was real. he didn't know if was another image concocted by his tired mind. but you lifted your face. their eyes met. and in that instant, time seemed to stand still.

in your vision, the shock was immediate. wasn't the same jun ho she knew. the body was the same, but the look... was different. empty, cold, as if everything inside him had been ripped out. the way he walked, his posture, even his breathing — everything about him screamed he’d crossed a place which no one returns the same.