Archive of Our Own ^beta

And I can go anywhere I want
Anywhere I want, just not home
And you can aim for my heart, go for blood
But you would still miss me in your bones

(Autumn, 2018)

The night shift was a relentless, monotonous cycle—a fluorescent blur of streetlights and the neon reflection of Seoul's sprawling energy. For Seong Gi-hun, a taxi driver it wasn't a living; it was a desperate, Sisyphean effort to outrun the interest of payments that always seemed one breath behind him. His small, dependable Kia K7 served as his universe: his office, his private confessional, and, on the leanest nights, his uncomfortable bedroom.

The first time he encountered the silent, unsettling passenger was in late October, around 1 AM, near a barely lit back alley in Jongno-gu.

The man was standing unnervingly still, not fidgeting or pacing, simply waiting—a human statue carved from the night. He wore an impeccably tailored black jacket, and his posture suggested a quiet, almost dangerous precision that Gi-hun, ever clumsy and dishevelled, found deeply unsettling.

“Where to?” Gi-hun asked, leaning back against the worn headrest and automatically reaching for his cigarette pack. He lit a cigarette, the brief flare illuminating the fatigue around his eyes.

The man slid into the back seat. The leather gave a minimal, almost discreet creak, like a quiet sigh of resignation. Gi-hun caught his reflection in the rearview mirror: a sharp, clean jawline, and eyes that were dark, deep, and looked as though they hadn't blinked since the last time the sun rose. They held the stillness of a deep, dark well.

“Hannam-dong. The main road near the UN Village entrance. No specific address,” the man said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, entirely devoid of the warmth or inflection Gi-hun was accustomed to hearing from tipsy fares or frantic commuters.

Gi-hun raised an eyebrow, extinguishing the cigarette stub with a practiced, economical flick into the roadside gutter. “Main road. Got it. Just dropping off near the intersection?”

“Just drop me when I tell you to stop.”

The ride became a pocket of absolute quiet, broken only by the low, soothing hum of the engine and the muffled pulse of the city life rushing past the windows. Gi-hun, a man who survived on the easy currency of conversation and small talk, found himself unusually tongue-tied. The man’s silence wasn't simply an absence of speech; it felt like a physical barrier, something dense, polished, and cold.

As they neared the exclusive area, the man spoke again, his voice cutting through the manufactured silence without any increase in volume. “Here. Pull over here.”

Gi-hun braked gently. The meter read 10,800 won.

The man reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a clean, crisp 50,000 won note. Gi-hun fumbled for the thick wad of small bills that served as his change.

“Keep it,” the man stated simply.

“Sir, that’s four times the fare,” Gi-hun protested, his working-class honesty overriding his desperation.

“I know.”

Gi-hun paused, clutching the hefty note. He could desperately use the money to stave off the next call from a loan shark. But the sheer ease with which this stranger gave it away felt wrong, almost like an insult to his own persistent struggle. “I need to give you your change, minimum. Call it 11,000 won. Here’s 39,000.”

The man looked up, finally meeting Gi-hun’s eyes in the mirror. It was the first time Gi-hun felt truly seen by him. The look wasn't hostile, only profoundly, terribly empty.

“Mr. Seong,” the man said, his eyes flicking briefly to the name on the driver card mounted on the dash. “I am not asking you to take a tip. I am paying for the time.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the damp, chill street air. The car immediately felt warmer and smaller without his presence.

“Wait, your name?” Gi-hun called out, clutching the thick note, a symbol of unexpected, bewildering fortune.

The man paused, his gloved hand resting momentarily on the frame of the door. “In-ho.”

Then he shut the door with that same minimal, quiet click and walked away, his silhouette moving toward the dark, expensive apartments lining the street. Gi-hun watched him for a full minute, half-expecting him to disintegrate into the fog. He didn't. He simply disappeared.

Gi-hun stared at the 50,000 won note. A hundred-won passenger, Gi-hun thought, using the cynical taxi driver's slang for someone who pays excessively—not for the service rendered, but in a vain attempt to feel like their own miserable existence still holds weight.

(October... November... 2018)

In-ho quickly became an unreliable but reliable fixture in Gi-hun’s chaotic schedule. He wasn't a daily customer, but he was reliably weekly. He always showed up late, always clad in the same dark, immaculate jacket, and always near a different upscale area of Seoul—the glittering spires of Gangnam, the chic boutiques of Cheongdam, or sometimes a quiet, sterile patch in the financial district.

The destinations were the only thing that changed, and they were consistently vague, never a person or a precise address:

"Guro-gu. Somewhere near the old tech market."

"Itaewon. Find a hill with a decent view."

"A quiet pier on the Han River."

Gi-hun began to notice the undeniable pattern: In-ho wasn't traveling to a destination or a person. He was just moving away from his starting point, and that starting point was always shrouded, somewhere Gi-hun never actually saw.

Gi-hun, who had mastered the delicate art of extracting a complete life story from a ten-minute fare, found he couldn't crack In-ho. The silence was absolute, a polished, impenetrable wall.

One night, somewhere outside a glowing sports stadium, Gi-hun tried to break the dam of silence.

“You know, In-ho-ssi,” Gi-hun started, gently adjusting the rearview mirror to finally catch the man's expression. “I’ve been driving you for three months now. You’re a very good passenger. Quiet. Pay well. But… you never seem to be going anywhere important.”

In-ho looked at him, his face unchanging, his stillness a subtle challenge. “Important, Mr. Seong? Define important.”

“You know. A job. A meeting. A woman. A friend. You have me drop you off at these places, and then you just… stand there. I see you in the mirror. You stand there until I drive away.”

In-ho’s lip twitched—a minuscule, almost imperceptible movement that Gi-hun nearly missed in the dim reflection. “Perhaps standing there is the important part of the journey.”

“It’s a very expensive part of the journey, then,” Gi-hun countered, trying for a friendly, teasing tone to lighten the mood.

“Money is not an obstacle,” In-ho stated, a simple, unarguable fact.

“No, I gathered that. But time is. We all only have so much. Are you running away from something?” Gi-hun pressed, his concern deepening.

In-ho finally took a slow, deep breath, pulling his shoulders back slightly beneath the expensive fabric of his jacket.

“No, mister. I’m waiting for something to run toward.”

Gi-hun drove for a few more blocks in silence, letting the profound weight of that statement settle over him. It wasn't the answer of a man running from the police or a debt collector. It was the answer of a man running from his own life.

“I get it,” Gi-hun murmured, nodding slowly. “Waiting for the next thing. The next big thing to save us.”

“No,” In-ho corrected, his voice flat, emotionless. “Waiting for the next thing that will make me feel.”

Gi-hun swallowed hard. That was a sentence he knew all too well—the desperate plea of the emotionally bankrupt.

He pulled over near a deserted, fog-shrouded bridge In-ho had indicated. “Your stop. 9,400 won.”

In-ho, as always, handed over a crisp 50,000 won note.

“Keep the change,” In-ho said, his hand already on the door.

This time, Gi-hun didn't argue about the change. He just nodded, a genuine wave of sadness washing over him. “Be safe, In-ho-ssi.”

In-ho gave him a curt nod in return—the closest he ever came to a wave—and disappeared into the cold, anonymous winter night.

(Winter, 2019)

The true moment of realization came during a bitter January cold snap. Gi-hun had picked In-ho up not far from a famous, quiet residential area—a place where the warm light of families living together seemed to spill from every window.

“Where tonight?” Gi-hun asked, the engine slowly warming the cabin against the frigid air.

“The harbor. Busan,” In-ho said.

Gi-hun slammed on the brakes slightly, shocked by the sheer absurdity of the request. “Busan? In-ho-ssi, that’s a six-hour drive. At least four hundred thousand won. You can take a train.”

“I hate trains. And I hate airports. I need to be driven. I will pay whatever the meter says, plus a significant gratuity.”

Gi-hun considered the offer. It was a massive fare, enough to cover the recent debts he'd racked up betting on horses. It was sheer madness, but Gi-hun was broke and utterly desperate.

“Busan it is,” Gi-hun sighed, making a U-turn toward the expressway entrance, the long, open road stretching out before them like a blank canvas.

The six-hour drive forced a strange, inescapable intimacy. With so much time ahead of them, the heavy silence became impossible to maintain. Gi-hun found himself talking first, sharing rambling, deeply personal anecdotes about his daughter, his elderly mother, his succesful best friend and the misery of his failed businesses.

In-ho listened, a perfect, silent audience. He didn't offer advice or sympathy, but he didn't interrupt. His presence was simply a steady, unmoving anchor.

Around 3 AM, Gi-hun pulled into a dimly lit rest stop for gas and much-needed coffee.

“Do you want anything? A water? Something to eat?” Gi-hun asked, turning back to check on his passenger.

In-ho was staring out the window, his head resting against the cold glass, eyes wide open. He looked like a man who hadn't slept, or truly rested, in years.

“No. I just want to keep moving.”

Gi-hun bought his coffee and, on an impulse, brought back a second one, placing it gently in the rear cup holder. “Just in case. It’s cold out there.”

Back on the road, Gi-hun tried a different tack, a gentler probe. “Busan… do you live there?”

A long, significant pause followed. The only sound was the rhythmic whir of the tires on the asphalt.

“No,” In-ho corrected, his voice slightly raspy from disuse. “I haven’t been back home in years.”

“You got friends there?”

“No. It's just… a place. I can't go home, I made mistakes.”

Gi-hun waited, hoping the rest stop break had softened the man's defenses.

“In-ho-ssi,” Gi-hun said gently, keeping his eyes on the lonely road ahead. “You’re wealthy. You wear nice clothes. You seem educated. Whatever mistake you made, you have the means to fix it. Why are you driving six hours just to look at a dock and drive six hours back?”

In-ho finally moved. He reached for the coffee Gi-hun had bought him, took a slow, deliberate sip, and set it down. The simple action felt monumental.

“The mistake was not being brave enough to stay what I was,” In-ho whispered. The words were so soft, so laced with self-pity, that Gi-hun almost thought the wind had carried them away.

“What were you?”

“A police officer,” In-ho confessed, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping him. “A very good one. I was a good brother. A good son. I had purpose. Now I am… a custodian of despair. I move things around. I manage things. And I feel nothing.”

Gi-hun’s heart thumped a heavy, empathetic rhythm against his ribs. In-ho wasn't talking about a simple mistake, but the profound grief of a lost identity.

And then Gi-hun understood the purpose of these nocturnal routes. They were a ritual of mourning. In-ho was paying Gi-hun a fortune to drive him through the night, to keep him company, a silent witness while he ran from his own reflection. He wasn't looking for a geographical destination; he was looking for a witness to his emptiness.

He looked in the rearview mirror. In-ho’s eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were glazed with unshed tears. He was looking at the coffee cup, but clearly seeing something much further away—a ghost of his former life. Gi-hun recognized that look. It was the look he himself wore when he thought about his daughter’s next birthday and the perpetually empty bank account.

Gi-hun turned off the radio, letting the immense quiet take over.

“In-ho-ssi,” Gi-hun said, his voice flat and rough with shared sadness. “If you’re running away from a job that makes you feel nothing, that’s not a mistake. That’s survival. We all do that. I’m a driver because I couldn’t keep my old job. My own mistakes cost me my wife and my daughter’s love. So I drive. I watch the neon lights pass, and I try not to think about it. And you know what?”

“What?” In-ho’s voice was barely audible, fragile.

“It helps a little bit, having someone else in the car, even a stranger, to watch the lights with. You’re not alone.”

In-ho said nothing for the next hour, a profound silence settling over the car. But when they finally reached the cold, windswept Busan port and Gi-hun pulled over to the curb, In-ho didn't immediately move to pay.

“Gi-hun-ssi,” In-ho said his name for first time, staring out at the dark, churning water of the harbor. “Thank you for the company.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll wait here. No need to look for another taxi.”

“You’ll wait?” In-ho asked, genuine surprise breaking through his composure.

“Six hours to get here, six hours back. I’m not leaving you here in the cold alone. I need to smoke anyway. I’ll be out here.”

Gi-hun got out and stood by the hood, lighting a cigarette, the icy wind whipping at his thin jacket. He didn't look back at the car. He just watched the dark, indifferent harbor, patiently waiting for his passenger.

In-ho stayed in the car for a full thirty minutes, a long, agonizing silence. When he finally emerged, his eyes were red-rimmed, but the heavy, suffocating cloak of silence he usually wore had lifted slightly, replaced by a raw vulnerability.

(Spring, 2019)

After the six-hour odyssey to Busan and back, the entire dynamic between them changed. Gi-hun stopped being just a driver. He became a silent partner in In-ho’s nightly despair.

In-ho’s destinations became less random—they were all places In-ho had clearly researched, spots known for being quiet, isolated, and surprisingly beautiful under the cloak of night.

Tonight, they were overlooking the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul from the top of Namsan. The city lights below were a shimmering, restless ocean.

In-ho finally spoke, unprompted, his voice laced with the melancholy of the quiet night.

“I lost someone, Gi-hun-ssi.”

Gi-hun kept his eyes on the city below, the distance providing a necessary shield. “A woman?”

In-ho shook his head slowly, a barely perceptible movement. “Yes. I had a wife. She was very lovely and kind.”

“What happened to her?”

In-ho took a long, deep drag from the cigarette Gi-hun had given him—In-ho had started accepting them since the Busan trip, saying they were 'necessary vices.' The glowing tip was a tiny, temporary star in the dark.

“She died over illness. She was pregnant with our child. I couldn't save her.”

Gi-hun felt a deep, wrenching sympathy for the man. He hadn't lost anyone like that, but he could easily imagine that pain must have been awful, a wound that would never fully close.

“I lost a brother too. He is alive but we don't talk with each other anymore,” In-ho continued, the quiet sadness in his voice now palpable, a heavy fog.

“You said you were a police officer. Is your brother a cop too?” Gi-hun asked carefully, treading lightly on the man's exposed nerves.

In-ho chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that contained no joy. “Yes, he is. He always look up to me. Always wanted to be like me. But I let him down. I can't see him again and tell him…” In-ho stopped, exhaling a plume of smoke into the cool night air.

Gi-hun reached over and tentatively placed his hand on the back of the passenger seat, his fingers close to In-ho’s shoulder. “You blame yourself.”

“I do not blame myself,” In-ho corrected, his voice hardening, suddenly steel. “I know it was my fault. Blame is an emotional luxury I cannot afford.”

Gi-hun turned in his seat, leaning slightly toward him. In-ho was looking directly at him, his face momentarily illuminated by the sweeping headlights of a passing car. He looked young and desperately lonely, stripped bare of the comforting armor of his tailored clothes and his wealth.

“In-ho-ssi,” Gi-hun began, his voice rough with sincerity. “I don't know about your past or what you did to feel like you let everyone down but you don't have to live miserably because you made one mistake or one choice you regret. You don't need to disqualify yourself from living a good life. That’s bullshit. You’re still breathing. You’re still helping me pay my bills with these ridiculous fares. You’re here. You matter.”

In-ho scoffed, turning abruptly back to the window, rejecting the lifeline Gi-hun offered. “You don’t understand the matter of my choices, Gi-hun-ssi. You don’t understand what I had to become to survive it.”

“I understand survival, In-ho-ssi. I’ve survived enough times to know it leaves a wound. But a wound can heal. You just need someone to stitch it up.”

Gi-hun slowly reached out and placed his hand on In-ho’s shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. He felt a sudden, powerful, protective need to pull this man close, to tell him that whatever hell he walked through, he was still profoundly human.

In-ho didn't flinch. He leaned into the touch, a small, involuntary movement of surrender and exhaustion. Gi-hun could feel the tension in his expensive jacket, the tightly coiled muscle beneath.

The car filled with a silence that wasn't empty like before, but taut, expectant, and heavy with unspoken desire.

(Late Spring, 2019)

The immense tension broke two weeks later. The late spring night was warm, the air thick with the mixed scent of wet asphalt and blooming rhododendrons.

Gi-hun was driving In-ho to a remote spot near the Bukhansan National Park, a dense, forested area far from the city's glow. The conversation had been minimal, mostly just small talk about the absurdity of local politics. But the energy between them was fundamentally different now—it was a charged, silent acknowledgment of the slow-burning intimacy that had been brewing for months.

They reached the pull-off point, a small clearing overlooking a dark valley. Gi-hun turn off the engine and the headlights, plunging the small cabin into deep shadow.

“Is this the place?” Gi-hun asked, his voice low, his throat inexplicably dry.

In-ho didn't answer right away. He turned in his seat, his elbow resting on the back of the passenger seat, his body angled fully toward Gi-hun.

“Gi-hun-ah,” In-ho finally said, his eyes darker than the night outside. “Do you ever just want to stop moving?”

“Every day,” Gi-hun admitted honestly, a raw confession. “Every day I want to park this car, sell it, pay off my debts, and sleep for a year.”

“I mean more than that,” In-ho said, leaning closer. The rich, woodsy, and expensive scent of his cologne filled the small, confined space of the cabin. “I mean stop moving forward. Stop planning. Stop running. Just… be anchored for five minutes.”

“You’re looking for an anchor in a taxi?” Gi-hun managed a weak, nervous smile.

“I'm just looking for a company. I am just looking for someone who could understand. You are kind, foolish… but you see me.”

Gi-hun’s hand was resting loosely on the central console. In-ho reached out, slowly, deliberately, and laid his hand over Gi-hun’s. In-ho’s skin was cool, his fingers strong and elegant, but there was a surprising, desperate pressure in his grip.

“You’re an attractive man, Gi-hun-ah,” In-ho murmured, his thumb stroking the rough stubble on Gi-hun’s knuckles.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched, suddenly trapped in his chest. This wasn't the usual conversation. This was a confession of desperate need.

“I am not. I am getting old. My life is a mess. I smell like stale cigarettes and cheap coffee,” Gi-hun protested, his voice a choked whisper.

“You smell like life, Gi-hun-ah. You smell like someone who hasn’t given up yet. That’s intoxicating.”

In-ho’s hand tightened, pulling Gi-hun’s hand closer, closing the final physical distance. Gi-hun felt a desperate, reckless excitement rise in his chest. He was lonely too. He was starved for touch, for genuine connection, for someone to see past his overwhelming failures.

Gi-hun moved first, no longer capable of waiting. He lifted his free hand, cupping In-ho’s sharp jaw, his thumb brushing the prominent line of his cheekbone.

“What do you want, In-ho-ya?” Gi-hun asked, his voice thick with unspent emotion.

“I want to be selfish.” In-ho answered, his eyes closing briefly, a flicker of pure vulnerability. “I want to forget the route. I want to forget the price. I want to forget who I am.”

Gi-hun leaned across the console, his body straining awkwardly against the confines of the seatbelt. He brought his lips down on In-ho’s, a sudden, fierce, clumsy kiss fueled by months of suppressed tension.

In-ho met him instantly, not with passion, but with a deep, consuming hunger. His lips were cool, but his mouth was warm, tasting faintly of cigarettes and something dark and complex, like aged whiskey. He didn’t kiss back; he took, drawing Gi-hun's breath from him.

Gi-hun tore his mouth away, panting, his head spinning with adrenaline. “We can’t do this here. Not in the front.”

In-ho’s dark eyes flashed with something akin to relief. “The back seat, then. The usual location for clandestine meetings. It’s what I paid for.”

It was messy, desperate, and completely silent. They somehow managed to climb over the seats into the small, confined back space, Gi-hun’s suit jacket and In-ho’s immaculate coat getting tangled in the process.

Gi-hun was clumsy, but his movements were fueled by a deep, almost protective instinct. In-ho was all sharp angles and utterly suppressed need. He didn't participate in the kiss so much as receive it, clinging to Gi-hun’s shoulder, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Gi-hun took control instantly. He was the one anchoring, the one comforting, the one giving. He needed In-ho to feel safe, to feel held, to feel the simple, brutal reality of another person's warmth and strength.

He pushed In-ho’s shoulders back against the cool leather seat, the cold glass of the window pressing against his temple. Gi-hun, older, softer, but stronger in his need to protect, was above him.

In-ho made no sound, his hands clutching Gi-hun’s hips with punishing, desperate strength. It wasn't about pleasure, not entirely. It was about being seen, being held accountable to nothing but the primal desire to escape the coldness of his own skin.

Gi-hun kissed him deeply, a possessive, consuming kiss that tasted of long-held grief and desperate release. He didn’t ask permission; he gave reassurance.

When it was over, the silence that followed was absolute, broken only by their ragged breathing. Gi-hun shifted awkwardly, his heart hammering against his ribs, sweat cooling on his forehead. In-ho lay beneath him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes still tightly closed.

Gi-hun gently pulled In-ho closer, wrapping his arms around him, resting his cheek against In-ho’s cool, damp hair. He felt In-ho shudder, then slowly, hesitantly, In-ho wrapped his arms around Gi-hun’s waist, burying his face in the warmth of Gi-hun’s neck.

And then, In-ho did the only thing that could have truly broken Gi-hun’s heart. He didn't cry. He didn't speak a word. He just held on, with the grip of a drowning man finally finding a piece of wreckage in the storm.

Gi-hun stroked his hair, the gesture simple, almost paternal, and profoundly intimate.

"You're safe," Gi-hun whispered into the dark, ignoring the crushing discomfort of the small space. "You're safe here, In-ho-ya. You don't have to be anything else."

(Summer, 2019)

The trysts became a part of the established routine. After the long, quiet rides to nowhere, they would find a discreet spot—a dead-end alley, a secluded park entrance, or a dark street near the river—and Gi-hun would simply hold In-ho together until the early morning hours.

It was never playful or light. It was always a raw, brutal exchange of loneliness for validation.

One humid night in July, Gi-hun was driving In-ho back from a ridge overlooking Incheon. Gi-hun was deeply exhausted, the late-night hours taking a severe toll on his body and mind.

“You need to find a way to live, In-ho-ya,” Gi-hun said, his voice flat with worry, the genuine concern of a friend.

In-ho was sitting closer than usual in the back, his knee brushing the back of Gi-hun’s seat. He was wearing a lighter jacket now, but the darkness in his eyes was unchanged, a constant shadow.

“I am living, Gi-hun-ah. I’m just living a life I despise.”

“The money. The power. You hate it?”

“It’s a prison,” In-ho admitted, the words heavy with disgust. “It’s the price of survival. The reward for betraying everything I was taught. I can't tell you what I did, I am sorry. But I am afraid if I tell you the true story, you will never want to see me again.”

Gi-hun chuckled, attempting to lighten the suffocating seriousness of the moment. “Are you a serial killer or something? Is that why you've taken those routes? To return to the crime scenes?”

Gi-hun only meant that as a dark, offhand joke, but the expression on In-ho’s face became instantly broken. “I am far worse than that Gi-hun. I am a monster.”

Gi-hun pulled over near a bridge where they always stopped, turning off the engine and the lights. He reached back and pulled In-ho’s face toward him with a firm, demanding hand.

“Listen to me,” Gi-hun said, his voice firm and unwavering. “You are not a monster. You are a man who is deeply, profoundly hurt. Don't let those thoughts consume you. Just tell me what you did.”

In-ho watched him, his expression one of agonizing, internal conflict.

“I did horrible things to get this money. I thought I was saving her but… I just became someone else.”

“What horrible things?” Gi-hun asked, the question a heavy lump in his throat. He was afraid of the answer. He enjoyed In-ho's company, their strange, deep connection. He didn't want to shatter it with a terrible truth.

“You don't need to know Gi-hun. I don't want to put you in danger. But… I work for dangerous people. They won't let me go.”

Gi-hun suddenly realized how little he knew about his passenger's personal life. They only ever saw each other when Gi-hun was driving. He didn't even know where In-ho lived or what he had been doing when they hadn't seen each other.

“Then run away,” Gi-hun pleaded, a desperate urge to save this lost man. “Sell everything. Disappear. Take a ferry to another country. Do something that isn’t this slow, silent suicide by luxury.”

In-ho shook his head, a single, definitive movement of absolute certainty. “I can’t. That's why I hired you. The route always leads back to the start, Gi-hun-ah. My role is inescapable.”

In-ho reached out, running his cold fingers over the stubble on Gi-hun’s cheek. “You, though. You are an escape. You are the brief moment of humanity I allow myself. You remind me of the man I used to be: simple, kind, and hopelessly optimistic.”

He pulled Gi-hun close, and the kiss that followed was desperate, the most demanding one they had ever shared. In-ho was seeking oblivion, a temporary void where his terrible responsibility couldn't touch him.

Gi-hun held him, protected him, and gave him the release he craved, deep in the dark, secluded back seat of his Kia K7.

(One year later - June 2020)

It was yet another summer. The air was starting to get hot, and the sun shone more brightly and fiercely than ever before.

Tomorrow was his daughter's birthday. Gi-hun had finally stopped gambling. He no longer lived with his mother, managing to get a small place of his own. His life was slowly, painfully coming back from the brink.

Then he met In-ho again.

In-ho was different. Not happy, not cured, but resolute. The aimlessness that had defined his routes was gone, replaced by the grim determination of a man who has finally made peace with a terrible, inevitable decision. His eyes were still dark and complex, but they were focused now, directed toward a final, singular goal.

Gi-hun picked him up outside the financial district. In-ho immediately slid into the front seat—the first time he had ever done so, signifying a definitive shift away from the secret, transactional nature of their back-seat encounters.

“To the docks, Gi-hun-ah,” In-ho said, his voice calm, but with an underlying current of finality.

Gi-hun’s hands tightened almost painfully on the steering wheel. This was it. The final destination.

“Going somewhere by boat?” Gi-hun managed, trying to keep his voice light and conversational.

“Yes. My work begins again soon. I have to go back to what I am,” In-ho said. Gi-hun noticed his voice still sounded heavy with a familiar, deep sadness, just like it did a year ago.

Gi-hun still didn't know what work he did or who he worked for.

The drive was the longest, most painful silence they had ever shared. Gi-hun wanted to argue, to beg him to stay and fight, but he knew it was pointless. In-ho wasn't just depressed anymore; he just looked utterly, completely defeated.

As they reached the sprawling, metal-clanging docks, In-ho spoke, his voice clear, cold, and devastatingly final.

“You saved me, Gi-hun-ah. For a time. You made me remember what it felt like to be a person who could be touched, who could be comforted. You are the kindest man I have ever met.”

Gi-hun pulled up to the curb, the finality of the destination crushing him. The meter read 30,000 won.

In-ho didn't pull out the familiar 50,000 won note. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, conspicuously heavy envelope.

“This is enough for you to pay your bills for a year. Maybe even start a small business again, Gi-hun-ah. Take it. It’s clean. It’s compensation for your time and your… company.”

Gi-hun pushed the envelope away, shaking his head fiercely, his eyes stinging. “No. I don’t want your charity, In-ho-ya. I’m not one of your hundred-won fares. I did it because I was lonely too.”

In-ho sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. He placed the envelope carefully on the dashboard, right next to Gi-hun’s driver card.

“Then keep it as a debt. Pay it forward someday, to someone who needs it more than you do right now. But take it. It’s necessary.”

He turned to Gi-hun, his eyes holding Gi-hun’s gaze one last time, a dark, complex blend of gratitude and sorrow.

“Don’t ever play a game in a subway, Gi-hun. Not one. Stay simple. Stay kind. Stay here.”

Gi-hun reached out, pulling In-ho to him for a rough, desperate, chaste kiss. It wasn't hungry like before; it was a desperate, final farewell.

“Don’t go, In-ho,” Gi-hun whispered against his mouth, his own desperation laid bare.

“I am sorry. Maybe… we will meet again. And if we do, then I will stay,” In-ho replied. He pulled away, reaching for the door handle with a decisive movement.

“Your name,” Gi-hun called out, tears finally stinging his eyes. “Your full name. If I’m ever dared to asked.”

In-ho paused, his hand on the door frame, his silhouette framed by the flashing, distant lights of the harbor.

He gave Gi-hun a small, almost painful smile.

“Hwang In-ho. Goodbye now, Gi-hun. Thank you for the company.”

And then he was gone. Gi-hun could only watch him walk away into the dark, labyrinthine maze of the shipping docks. Gi-hun watched him until he utterly vanished.

“See you later then,” Gi-hun whispered in his empty car, a small, stubborn promise.

Gi-hun sat there for five minutes, the engine idling, the air heavy with absence. He didn’t touch the envelope, which felt like a lead weight on his dash.

What game was In-ho talking about? What dangerous work did he do? Where was he going?

Gi-hun didn't know, but he hoped, against all reason, that In-ho would somehow come back. He hoped they would see each other again.

He finally put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb. He checked his rearview mirror out of habit. The back seat was empty. The ghost of In-ho’s cold, demanding touch was still on his neck.

Gi-hun turned his taxi toward the city, driving into the emerging dawn, ready to face another day alone, his wallet heavy, his heart inexplicably lighter.

Maybe he is going to meet his rich passenger again.

Gi-hun smiled a slow, sad smile at the reflection in the mirror as he held the envelope for the first time.

“Hwang In-ho,” He whispered his name, a secret vow, as he took another turn towards Ssangmun-dong, towards his home.