Chapter Text
Late at night, inside the players' restroom.
The fluorescent light tube buzzed with a weak, flickering current. It cast a stark, sickly white glare onto the reflective ceramic tiles.
Seong Gi-hun pressed both hands flat against the freezing edge of the sink. His damp bangs clung messily to his forehead.
He had just splashed his face with ice-cold water. Yet, the bloody, gruesome images from the daytime still refused to leave his mind. They replayed on a relentless loop.
His body trembled violently under the extreme psychological stress. Beneath the green tracksuit, his spine was locked tight. Rigid. Like a wooden plank on the verge of snapping in two.
Click.
The sharp sound of the plastic restroom door swinging open and shutting fell heavily into the dead silence.
Gi-hun snapped his head around, raw alertness flashing in his eyes.
Yet, the exact millisecond he recognized the figure walking in, his defensive, resistant gaze shattered completely. It melted into sheer softness. Even his rigid, tight shoulders instantly sagged down in relief.
"Young-il-ah..."
Gi-hun let out a breathy whisper, his voice coarse and raspy.
The man stepping inside was "Oh Young-il," clad in the green tracksuit numbered 001.
He was slightly shorter than Gi-hun. Yet, his physique was built broad and solid, his face radiating a soft, gentle warmth.
Inside this literal living hell, Young-il was the only source of sanity. The only one who would ever look at Gi-hun with those steady, all-accepting eyes.
He was the one who would split his bread and share it during mealtimes. The one who would pat his rigid back, offering a solid anchor.
"Gi-hun-sii, it's alright. I'm right here with you."
"Gi-hun-sii, your face is awfully pale."
Young-il let out a soft sigh. He closed the distance with quick, steady strides.
His voice was a low, resonant baritone. It carried the distinct, grounded stability and profound gentleness of a mature man.
He extended his broad, warm palm. It settled gently over Gi-hun’s trembling shoulder. He squeezed. A slow, comforting rub.
"Did you have another nightmare?"
This raw, unconditional care made Gi-hun’s nose sting with a sudden prickle of tears.
Inside this game—a place completely stripped of human dignity, where death lurked at every turn—Young-il’s body heat was his solitary lifeline.
Gi-hun couldn't help himself. He leaned forward, surrendering entirely to the gentle pull. He rested his forehead dead against the crook of Young-il’s shoulder. Like a desperately exhausted traveler who had finally stumbled into a safe harbor.
"Young-il-ah... I don't know how much longer I can hold on..." Gi-hun mumbled, his voice muffled against the fabric. "I'm losing my mind. I really am..."
Driven by pure instinct, his hands reached out. Fingers clenching tight around the cloth at Young-il’s waist.
He had absolutely no idea.
At this exact second, "Oh Young-il"—the man who had been nothing but patient, tender, and deeply protective of him—was gone.
In his place stood an apex predator.
His eyes were a stark contrast. Freezing. Lethal. He stared down from his solid height, his dark gaze ruthlessly mapping out the smooth, completely defenseless curve of Gi-hun’s exposed neck.
Inspecting his prey. Unblinking.
The scent of a mature man's sweat—born from sheer terror and tremors—steeped heavily into the narrow space. It mixed with the sterile, chalky fragrance of the hand soap.
Fermenting. Tangible.
Gi-hun’s tall, 180cm frame was slumped helplessly into his embrace. Soft. Defenseless.
His green jacket collar had slitted slightly open. It exposed the stark lines of his neck—he was 51 years old, yet his flesh still carried a mature, stubborn resilience.
This exact sight completely tore through the floodgates of In-ho’s buried, maddening possessiveness.
He had watched this man. Countless times. Through the cold, pixelated screens of the monitoring room. He had memorized every shudder, every struggle.
Yet, none of those digital ghosts could ever compare to the violent, crushing reality of holding this living, breathing flesh solidly in his arms.
In-ho’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily.
His eyes plunged into a pitch-black abyss. Sudden. Consuming.
His breathing turned thick and ragged. The hand that had been offer comforting pats on Gi-hun’s back snapped out of its routine.
He slid his palm beneath the hem of the green tracksuit. Striking directly against bare skin.
He squeezed. Hard. Digging his large fingers deep into Gi-hun’s tight, scorching waist. Locking him dead in place.
"...Young-il?"
Startled by the bruising weight at his hips, Gi-hun froze. He lifted his head. Eyes blinking in complete, vulnerable confusion.
Yet, the gentle "teammate" didn't step back as he usually would.
He drove forward. One heavy stride.
Using his broad, solid physique, he pinned Gi-hun dead in place—trapping him mercilessly between the freezing edge of the sink and his own scorching chest.
"Gi-hun-sii."
Young-il leaned in. Too close. Their breaths instantly tangled into a messy, feverish knot.
His voice remained soft. Gentle. Yet, it carried a thick, raspy edge of naked aggression that made Gi-hun’s heart skip a terrified beat.
"The people who stay here... they can die at any second."
He leaned a fraction closer, dark eyes locking onto pale lips. "Before we die... Gi-hun-sii, help me. Right now, I want you. So badly."
Gi-hun’s eyes widened in sheer, utter disbelief.
Before his brain could even process the massive shock, his upper thigh was hit by a sudden, jarring sensation—a hard, terrifyingly hot length of stiffness was pressing dead against him. Intimate. Flush. Not a single millimeter of space left between them.
"W-Wait! Young-il, snap out of it! This place is—"
"There are no cameras here, Gi-hun-sii."
Young-il interrupted him softly, his voice dripping with gentle malice.
The cheap scent of bleach in the air evaporated rapidly under their soaring body heat.
Growing thick. Viscous. Cloying.
Gi-hun was forced flat against the freezing ceramic tiles, his arms roughly pinned and locked behind his back. Because of the humiliating posture, he had no choice but to arch his spine, his lean frame bending low.
His oversized green jacket was aggressively yanked down past his shoulders. It exposed those thin, still-sinewy shoulder blades—marked slightly by the cruel traces of time, yet hopelessly fragile.
"Young-il... w-wait... ah...!"
Before Gi-hun's gasp could even leave his lips, it was slammed into ragged pieces by the heavy body crashing violently from behind.
Yet, the expected brutality did not immediately rain down.
In-ho took a deep, lingering breath against Gi-hun’s neck, inhaling the heavy scent of mature sweat. Under the shield of his masterful acting, the madness in his eyes was instantly anchored. Hidden. It melted into a gaze overflowing with profound pity and deep affection.
He turned Gi-hun’s body around. Gently, he pulled the green jacket back up to cover those exposed shoulders.
Then, he lowered his head. And sealed his lips over those trembling, terrified ones.
It was a kiss of utter, suffocating gentleness. Not a single breath of air could escape.
In-ho’s tongue swept soothingly over Gi-hun’s gums, swallowing every last shard of those panicked whimpers directly into his own throat.
Beneath the fabric of the tracksuit, his hands snaked inside.
His calloused palms grazed slowly over Gi-hun’s chest muscles—slightly rigid from years of constant tension. With absolute precision, his large fingers locked onto the two nipples, already hard and peaking against the freezing air.
Squeezing. Rolling.
"Mph... ngh... ha-ah..."
Gi-hun let out a series of muffled, hazy whimpers into the heat of the kiss.
In-ho didn't relent. With his large fingers, he maliciously pinched, rolled, and tugged at the already swollen and reddened bud. At the same time, his mouth slid down from Gi-hun’s jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses all the way to his chest.
He opened his lips. Swallowing one side whole. He sucked and bit down with bruising force.
"Ah-ha! Young-il... don't bite... it feels too strange... ah-mph..."
Gi-hun snapped his head back, utterly losing his mind to the sensation. His physical body shuddered violently, thrown into a fierce primal tremor by a heavy, intense stimulation he had never experienced in all his years.
Weakly, he tried to push against In-ho’s massive shoulders. Yet, his resistance was futile—In-ho’s broad, iron-solid physique pinned him dead against the freezing edge of the sink, locking him in place.
In-ho lifted his head with agonizing slowness.
His eyes were a dark vortex, brimming with a viscous, heavy lust and a meticulously crafted look of fragile vulnerability.
He grabbed Gi-hun’s weak fingers. He guided them downward. Slowly. Deliberately.
He forced Gi-hun’s palm to press down flat against that massive, terrifyingly rigid length—already hard to the point of pain beneath the fabric.
"Gi-hun-sii... I'm so scared. I really am..."
He leaned a fraction closer, his deep, gravelly breath brushing hot against Gi-hun’s parted lips. "Help me. Please. Use your mouth... okay?"
That deep, middle-aged baritone—laced with a fragile sliver of pleading—sent a sudden, violent jolt through Gi-hun’s entire body.
Inside this place, where survival was a luxury from one day to the next, staring at his deeply anxious, distressed teammate was too much to bear. Gi-hun’s excessive, overflowing sympathy and profound sense of reliance instantly seized total control of his mind.
His cheeks burned a fierce crimson. Trembling, he sank to his knees on the freezing floor.
With heavy, unpracticed clumsiness, his shaking fingers unfastened the man’s trousers. He took that scorching, massive length of stiffness directly into his mouth.
"Mph... ghg... ha-ah... mph-ngh..."
Physiological tears welled up at the corners of Gi-hun’s eyes. He tried his best, clumsily using his tongue to wrap around the massive length, sucking desperately.
In-ho let out a heavy sigh of sheer, deep satisfaction.
His distinctively jointed hand settled over Gi-hun’s coarse, black hair. On the surface, it looked like a tender, comforting pet.
Reality differed. It carried an absolute, undeniable force. He pressed down. Slowly. Unyielding.
Drinking in the pure, absolute submission of Player 456 beneath his hips.
When Gi-hun was finally pulled up, his face was entirely mottled with messy red flushes, panting heavily for air. Before he could even catch his breath, In-ho roughly spun him around once more, slamming his front dead flat against the freezing edge of the sink.
"Gi-hun-sii, relax... don't be scared."
In-ho’s voice seemed to carry a hypnotic, dark magic.
His long, slender fingers swiped a dollop of the slick hand soap, using it as a crude substitute for lubricant. Slowly. Without a hint of hesitation. He pressed his fingertips directly into that tightly sealed, virgin entrance.
"Ah...! It hurts... ngh-ah... get out..."
One finger, then two...
Until three thick, heavy fingers were rhythmically inserted and withdrawn inside the entrance. Intimate. Flush.
The large fingers stretched the tight, rigid walls completely open.
Gi-hun pressed his face flat against the cold tiles in sheer agony. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.
Just when he braced himself, expecting the massive length to violently plunge inside, In-ho suddenly withdrew his fingers.
Then, a warm, wet sensation gently brushed against his aching, burning entrance.
In-ho had actually lowered his head. He pressed a kiss there. Utterly tender. Almost reverent.
Gi-hun’s entire body locked rigid.
A kiss like this—carrying an almost sacred, reverent gravity—was something Seong Gi-hun had never once endured from another man in all his life. It sent a profound, shattering tremor rippling straight from the depths of his soul.
Yet, a miracle followed.
The physical frame that had been wound tight from unknown terrors and absolute panic... completely dissolved under the warmth of that single kiss. Unwinding. Softening. Opening up entirely for him.
In-ho extended his large hand. He gently brushed a few stray, messy strands of hair behind Gi-hun’s ear.
His lips moved. Leaving a continuous trail of soft, pressing kisses along Gi-hun’s sweat-dampened profile. Whispering into his ear in a low, soothing hum:
"Gi-hun-sii... don't be scared. I'll be so gentle with you... Can you feel it? I only want you."
Under the hypnotic weight of such ultimate dirty talk and tender warmth, Gi-hun’s defensive walls collapsed into utter ruin.
Driven by a sudden, aching dependency, he even leaned his back a fraction closer, pressing into In-ho’s massive chest. He let out a coarse, raspy whimper:
"Ngh... Young-il-ah... come on... ah-ha..."
The exact millisecond Gi-hun let go of his last breath of worry, his body turning as soft and pliant as a pool of water—
In-ho’s eyes changed.
The profound gentleness evaporated instantly. Frozen solid. Replaced by the absolute, pitch-black coldness that belonged solely to the Front Man.
He clamped his large fingers brutally around Gi-hun’s hip bones. Locked them dead. Without a single fraction of hesitation, driven by a year's worth of manic, violent possessiveness—
He slammed his massive, rigid length all the way down, ramming it ruthlessly into the absolute deepest depths of that scorching, virgin entrance!
"Er-ah—! Ha-ah...! Wuh-ah..."
Gi-hun snapped his head back in pure, blinding agony. Thick, rigid veins bulged high across his strained neck.
"Gi-hun-sii, don't run away... Gi-hun-sii's inside is so hot... it's clamping down on me so tight..."
In-ho exhaled the most blunt, depraved filth directly into Gi-hun’s ear. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on him, overflowing with a gaze of the most profound, sickening affection.
Below his waist, there was no pause.
He drove forward. Over and over. Hitting harder, hammering cruelly into the absolute deepest depths.
"Ah-ha! D-Don't... don't say that... ngh-hm...! Young-il... be gentler... I'm going to break... I'm breaking apart... ah, ah-ha..."
Gi-hun’s face burned a fierce, shameful crimson.
Under the crashing waves of non-stop, overwhelming pleasure, his brain was rapidly turning numb. Utterly blank.
He had no choice. Helpless, he could only cling desperately to In-ho’s massive shoulders, letting out a stream of shattered, broken groans with every heavy, crushing thrust that rocked his body.
In-ho locked his fingers brutally around Gi-hun’s waist. It was slightly tan from years of hard labor, yet incredibly pliable and firm.
Every single thrust went deep. All the way to the hilt.
The narrow restroom filled with a heavy, dull sound of skin hitting skin. Relentless. Impactful.
He leaned in, lips pressing against Gi-hun’s flushed, burning earlobe. He continued to exhale the filthiest praises in a tone so gentle it was terrifying—a soft whisper that made the spine shiver:
"Gi-hun-sii... your inside is swallowing my cock so deep... ha-ah, look at you. Every time I fuck you inside, Gi-hun-sii makes such a beautiful sound."
He gave a sudden, wicked grind against the deepest walls. "Are you finding it comfortable too? Hm? Tell me, Gi-hun-sii..."
"Mph-ngh...! I... I don't know... ah-ha, stop asking... Young-il, ah, it's too deep... ngh-ah...!"
Driven by the violent impact of his thrusts, Gi-hun’s body kept sliding forward helplessly against the sink. His shaking hands could only claw desperately at the edge of the metal faucet.
Clank.
In his frantic, blind panic, his fingers accidentally knocked the valve open. Ice-cold water surged out, roaring from the spout.
Yet, the freezing torrent could do nothing to extinguish the madness. The scorching, violent heat continued to spread like a wildfire within the narrow stall.
"Gi-hun-sii... give yourself to me..."
In-ho’s voice was dark, heavy, and dripping with an intoxicating desperation.
"That way, even if we die tomorrow, we’ll die together. Right? This place of yours is so soft... it was made just for me to slide inside and fuck you... ah, Gi-hun-sii, clamp down on me tighter... yes, just like that..."
He gave a sudden, deeply buried thrust, grinding against the wet, sensitive walls.
"Good boy."
Those words—utterly tender, laced with a tragic, desperate dependency—pounded into Gi-hun’s chaotic, melting mind. Stroke after stroke. Sentence by sentence.
Mixed with the fierce, aggressive onslaught below his waist that felt as though it might actually kill him.
He stopped trying to run.
Instead, driven by a sudden, helpless surrender, he willingly arched his hips lower, offering himself up completely.
Trembling. Sobbing. Welcoming the heavy, near-brutal fucking deep into his core.
"Young-il-ah... ah, ha-ah...! We... we will live... mph-ngh, ah... slow down... I'm going to cum... I'm cumming... ah-ha...!"
Gi-hun cried out in a ragged, hoarse weep, his tears slipping down and tracing messy lines across the cold ceramic tiles.
He was utterly, hopelessly lost inside this near-brutal onslaught wrapped in a shell of velvet gentleness.
His mind fractured. His body broke. The sheer, terrifying volume of pleasure launched him directly over the peak of the climax.
Gasping for oxygen, his lungs burning, he could only take in the final, crazed strokes—In-ho’s merciless, lightning-fast jackhammering that felt as though it might shatter his entire being into dust.
Yet, he remained entirely blind to the truth.
Behind him, watching Gi-hun’s complete, broken surrender—a posture that had even degraded into a desperate form of indulgence—In-ho’s eyes flashed with nothing but a cold, haughty sneer. Amused. Detached.
The storm finally subsided, In-ho began to back down. He slowly withdrew his now-softened cock, pulling it out from the entrance of Gi-hun's swollen and moist opening.
Gi-hun collapsed flat against the sink, his strength entirely spent.
His oversized green tracksuit was a ruined, chaotic mess. Below his waist, his long, still-sturdy legs were trembling uncontrollably in a lingering, helpless tremor.
Oh Young-il was already fully dressed. Intact. Proper.
That terrifying, hair-raising aggression in his eyes had vanished without a trace. In its place, that soft, guilt-ridden, and aching tenderness had crawled right back into his gaze.
With meticulous care, he began to wipe away the heavy sheen of sweat clinging to Gi-hun’s inner thighs and flushed cheeks.
His touch was incredibly light. Reverent.
It was as if the roaring beast who had just relentlessly fucked him against the sink, smashing inside until he cried and begged for mercy, had never even existed.
"I'm so sorry... because I was just... I was so terrified that I would lose Gi-hun-sii tomorrow... I couldn't stop myself..."
Young-il lowered his eyes, keeping his gaze dead on the floor. His tone carried a meticulously measured sliver of vulnerability and self-blame. Perfectly executed.
Hearing those words, the thick walls of shame and chaos in Gi-hun’s chest instantly collapsed. Replaced entirely by a soft, aching tenderness.
Propping up his sore, aching body, he managed to sit straight against the sink.
With a mixture of helpless resignation and deep, indulgent fondness, he pulled his ruined, torn tracksuit jacket slightly back together.
He opened his mouth, his voice coarse and raspy:
"Really, you... how could you be so rough... Don't you dare do it again..."
"Okay. Everything goes by Gi-hun-sii’s words."
Young-il offered a submissive, gentle smile.
With ultimate tenderness, he supported Gi-hun’s weak frame, helping him stand straight. He even thoughtfully smoothed out Gi-hun’s messy, tangled black hair, stroking it into place.
"Then... Gi-hun-sii, head back to the dormitory first. I’ll stay behind to clean up the traces here. We can't let anyone discover what happened."
Young-il leaned in. He pressed a light, feather-soft kiss onto Gi-hun’s forehead. Overflowing with pure, deep devotion.
"Mm... then come back quickly."
Gi-hun averted his gaze in sheer bashfulness. Supporting his sore, aching waist with one hand, he pushed open the restroom door and limped his way out into the dark hallway.
Thud.
The exact millisecond the plastic door swung shut and clicked locked once more—
The gentle, guilt-ridden smile on Oh Young-il’s face, along with every single trace of the "good teammate," vanished completely.
Evaporated into nothingness.
In-ho walked to the sink. Slow. Deliberate.
He stared into the glass, locking eyes with his own reflection. A pair of eyes that were cold. Deep. Completely devoid of any ripple.
With absolute elegance, he turned the metal faucet handle. He watched the running water rinse away the lingering, sticky fluids of Seong Gi-hun from his hands. Inch by inch. Fluid by fluid.
A playward, haughty arc curled at the corner of his lips. Amused. Cruel.
What an obedient, gullible Player 456.
Tomorrow, what kind of game should he orchestrate for him... just to see that face again? That beautiful face, twisted in that exact blend of absolute despair and helpless dependency.