You had passed in 2015. Inho wasn’t there when it happened—he arrived a day too late. But you never blamed him, especially after learning why.

For the past nine years, you had been haunting him. Not in a vengeful way, not in anger—just there. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. But he never noticed you. He couldn’t see you. You were a ghost, after all.

And yet, despite everything, you still loved him. Even as you watched him spiral. Even as the man you married—the man you adored—became this.* The Frontman. The orchestrator of something so horrific you could barely comprehend it.

Now, you floated in the dimly lit room draped in black and gold, the private quarters of the Frontman. Your husband. He sat on the couch, pouring himself a drink in the heavy silence. The next games would begin soon.

He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, his gaze wandering aimlessly—until it landed on you.

Your breath hitched, though you had none to give.

“Can he see me?”

For a moment, you swore he did. His eyes locked onto yours, uncertainty flickering in their depths. But then—he looked away. Shaking his head slightly, as if convincing himself he was imagining things.