Ji Ah curled up on the thin mattress on the floor, the stripped bed looming like a silent monument to her restless search for escape.

The remnants of her breakfast—a hollow loaf of bread, a bruised orange, and eggs she hadn't the energy to peel—lay on the desk. Hunger gnawed at her, but exhaustion pressed harder, pulling her into an uneasy sleep.

Her dreams were fractured and fleeting—Jun Ho's face, the Frontman's mask, and the sound of gunfire echoing through the darkness. She woke in fits, her chest heaving, the weight of her captivity pressing against her ribs like a vice.

It felt like mere moments later when the sound of the door unlocking jolted her fully awake.

Ji Ah shot up, her pulse hammering in her ears. She rubbed her eyes, her body stiff and aching, and turned toward the door.

She expected to see the Frontman's imposing figure, his mask gleaming in the dim light. Instead, a square guard stood in his place, the dark void of his mask staring back at her.

"Come with me," he said, his voice flat and mechanical.

Ji Ah hesitated, her mind racing. 'This is it' she thought, dread settling in her chest like a stone. 'I've crossed the line, and he's done with me.'

Her breath quickened as she rose to her feet, her legs trembling slightly beneath her.

She followed the square guard into the hallway, her steps slow and uncertain. Another guard flanked her, boxing her in on either side.

The familiar corridor of the frontman's quarters, stretched endlessly in her mind, the soft hum of their boots againstJi Ah's heart pounded, every step feeling like it carried her closer to something final, something irreversible.

After what felt like an eternity - but in reality was a few doors down - they stopped in front of a dark wooden door, identical to the one she had left behind. Ji Ah stared at it, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her mind spiraled with possibilities—interrogation, punishment, or worse.

The square guard in front of her reached for the handle and pushed the door open. Ji Ah braced herself, her body tense and ready to fight.

But instead of the cold, sterile emptiness she had feared, she was greeted by warmth.

Her breath caught as she took in the room. Dark green tiles covered the walls, their glossy surfaces catching the soft golden light from the fixtures above. A marble sink sat to one side, polished to a gleaming finish, and a large shower spanned the far wall, separated from the rest of the room by a sleek glass panel.

The air was faintly scented with something clean and floral, a stark contrast to the stale air of her room.

Before she could process the sight, the square guard behind her gave a firm push between her shoulder blades, forcing her to step inside.

"You have one hour," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound of the lock turning echoing in the quiet space.

Ji Ah stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, her heart still racing as the door clicked shut behind her. The silence pressed against her ears, louder than the hum of her pulse. Slowly, her gaze swept over the dark green tiles and the golden fixtures, the room's understated luxury feeling utterly alien.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the sink, tracing the smooth marble as if to reassure herself it was real. The folded black towel and clothes sat neatly on the counter.

For a moment, she stayed still, unsure of what to do next. Then her shoulder throbbed, sharp and insistent, pulling her back into the moment. She exhaled shakily, her hands reaching for the hem of her oversized grey T-shirt.

She peeled the shirt over her head, wincing as the movement tugged at her injured shoulder.

The bandage clung to her skin, stiffened with dried blood, and she hesitated before pulling it away. The adhesive stung as it peeled off, and Ji Ah hissed through her teeth, her fingers trembling slightly.

Her breath hitched as she turned her back to the mirror, craning her neck to see the long, angry mark that stretched across her shoulder blade. The bullet hadn't penetrated, but the graze had torn into her flesh, leaving behind a jagged red wound that would scar her for life.

Her fingers hovered over the injury, careful not to touch. This is what I get for trying to run.

Ji Ah swallowed hard, her chest tightening as the memory of the escape flooded her mind—Jun Ho's face, the gunfire, the cold weight of the Frontman's gloves pulling her back into the abyss.

With a deep breath, she pushed the thoughts away and stepped toward the shower. The warm spray hit her skin, and Ji Ah flinched, the sudden heat shocking her tense muscles. She stepped fully into the stream, letting the water cascade over her, washing away the grime and blood that clung to her.

She closed her eyes, the warmth enveloping her like a fragile embrace. For a fleeting moment, she could almost pretend she was back home, standing in her own shower.

Home, she thought, a pang of longing squeezing her chest. How far away it felt now. Her hands reached for the small shelf built into the shower wall, where an array of neatly arranged bottles awaited her. Shampoo, soap, and other products were lined up with precision, their labels unfamiliar but inviting.

Ji Ah picked up a bottle, pouring a dollop of soap into her palm. She worked it into a lather, letting the scent rise around her. Her movements stilled as the fragrance hit her nose—woody and rich, with a faint spiced undertone.

Her stomach twisted. She knew this scent. It had lingered faintly whenever he was near, masked by leather but unmistakably present.

The Frontman.

The realization was like a weight dropping into her chest. Her hands faltered, the soap slipping between her fingers as her mind raced. He was everywhere, even here, seeping into her senses like an invisible claim.

Her jaw tightened, she would not let him win.

With renewed determination, she scrubbed her skin, as if trying to rid herself of the scent that clung to her like a second skin. She worked the shampoo into her hair, scrubbing out the blood, sea salt, and the lingering memories of her escape.

When she finally stepped out of the shower, the air was cool against her damp skin. She reached for the black towel on the counter, wrapping it tightly around herself. The fabric was surprisingly soft and warm.

She dabbed at her wound gently, letting the cool air dry the rest as she turned to the pile of clothes. The bra and underwear were simple, practical. She refused to think about how they got her size. The black V-neck dress was modest yet slightly fitted, its fabric soft against her fingertips.

Ji Ah dressed slowly, her movements careful as she worked around her injury. The dress fell to her calves, and as she combed her fingers through her damp hair, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back at her looked both familiar and foreign.

Her gaze dropped to her bare feet. No shoes. Of course. She let out a hollow laugh, bitterness curling in her chest. 'Another way to keep me from running.'

Ji Ah was pulled from her thoughts by a sharp knock at the door. Her heart leapt into her throat, her body freezing as the sound echoed through the bathroom.

"You're done," came the square guard's flat voice.

Her jaw tightened, the brief illusion of normalcy shattered. Ji Ah squared her shoulders, ignoring the tremor in her hands as she reached for the door handle.

The knob didn't turn. Of course, it was locked from the outside.

Ji ah waited, but the guard did not enter, instead she heard the scuffle of shoes and a soft second knock

She moved cautiously toward the door, her bare feet brushing against the cool tiles.

The lock clicked softly, and the door opened.

It wasn't the guard this time.

The Frontman stood in the doorway, his towering frame filling the space, his dark coat falling perfectly around him. The flickering light from the corridor played across his mask, emphasizing the gleaming, faceless void staring back at her.

Ji Ah's breath caught, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare. He said nothing at first, his head tilting slightly as if to study her.

Clean, dressed, her damp hair falling softly around her face—she felt exposed under his gaze, his silence more suffocating than words.

"Good," he said finally, his voice low and deliberate. "You look presentable."

Ji Ah's jaw tightened, heat rising in her cheeks at his choice of words. "Is that what this is about?" she asked, forcing defiance into her voice. "Making me fit your standards?"

The Frontman didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor with a gloved hand. "Join me for dinner"

Ji Ah hesitated, her mind racing. Dinner? The word felt absurd, foreign in the context of her captivity.

Her gaze darted down the hallway, then back to the Frontman, whose stance was impossibly calm. "Why?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended.

He tilted his head slightly, as though amused by her question. "Why not?"

His non-answer gnawed at her, but she knew there was no point in arguing. With a deep breath, Ji Ah stepped past him into the hallway, her bare feet making soft sounds against the polished floor.

The walk was silent, his presence a heavy shadow at her back. When they reached the lounge, Ji Ah's eyes widened slightly.

The space had been subtly transformed. A small round table sat in the center of the room, set with two chairs and a single, elegant place setting. A dim golden light illuminated the space, casting the dark furniture in a warm glow.

The Frontman gestured for her to sit, and she hesitated again, her gaze darting between him and the table. "What's the point of this?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Instead, he moved to stand behind one of the chairs, his hand resting lightly on the back as he waited for her.

Her stomach churned with unease, but hunger gnawed at her, refusing to be ignored. With careful steps, she approached the table and lowered herself into the seat.

He lingered behind her as Ji Ah's heart rate rose, acutely aware of his presence.

Then she felt it, his fingers brushed against the side of her neck, gathering her damp hair and tucking it gently behind her ear. The motion was slow, almost thoughtful, as though he were committing the texture of her hair to memory.

Ji Ah froze, her breath catching in her throat. His hands lingered for a moment, barely grazing the side of her face before retreating.

The action wasn't forceful, nor was it casual. It felt deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. For the briefest second, she thought—No, imagined—that he leaned in slightly, as if catching her scent.

Her stomach twisted, a mix of unease and something she couldn't name crawling up her spine.

"Better," he murmured, stepping back as if nothing had happened.

Ji Ah sank into the chair stiffly, her fingers gripping the armrests as she willed her breathing to steady. Her skin still burned where he touched.

As the front man took his seat opposite, The Frontman stepped back as a square guard entered silently, carrying a covered tray. Ji Ah's gaze followed the guard as he placed the tray in front of her, lifting the lid to reveal a steaming plate of food.

A perfectly cooked sliced steak sat beside a mound of rice and crisp vegetables, the aroma making her stomach twist painfully with hunger.

The guard stepped away, leaving the room as silently as he had entered.

The room was silent. Just her and the frontman.

She couldn't bring herself to look at him, her focus glued to the plate of food now steaming in front of her. But the memory of his touch lingered, replaying in her mind like a cruel echo.

Why did he do that? she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. What does he want from me?

The gesture wasn't violent, but it was far from benign. It felt like a test—or worse, a claim.

Her fingers tightened around the chopsticks, her appetite battling the knot of tension twisting in her stomach.

"You haven't been eating," the Frontman said, his voice breaking the quiet.

Ji Ah glanced up at him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "I didn't feel much like dining," she said, her tone clipped.

He leaned slightly against the back of the chair across from her, his gloved hands resting on the top. "That's a shame," he said, his voice calm but pointed. "You'll need your strength."

Her eyes narrowed. "For what?"

He didn't answer, his silence a calculated reminder of who held the power. Instead, he gestured toward the plate. "Eat."

Ji Ah hesitated for a moment, her defiance flickering. But the smell of the food was overwhelming, her hunger clawing at her resolve. She picked up a piece of steak taking a large bite.

The first bite melted in her mouth, rich and flavorful, and she couldn't stop herself from taking another.

As she ate, the Frontman watched her, his presence a constant weight on her senses.

He didn't move to join her, no food sat in front of him.

"You're not eating?" she asked, pausing mid-bite to glance at him.

His head tilted slightly, his mask gleaming in the soft light. "I'm not hungry," he said simply.

Ji Ah's gaze lingered on him, her mind racing with questions. Because of the mask, she realized. He wouldn't remove it, not even now. The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Ji Ah swallowed a bite of rice, face thoughtful as she chewed, deciding to shift tactics. "The games," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet. "How did they start?"

The Frontman tilted his head slightly, the firelight reflecting off the smooth surface of his mask. "That's a broad question, my little detective," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Could you be more specific?"

Ji Ah's jaw clenched. "The first game. The very first. Who decided it should happen?"

He leaned back in his chair, his gloved hands resting on the armrests. "Ah, now we're digging into history," he murmured, his voice carrying a trace of amusement. "Why does it matter to you?"

Ji Ah set her fork down, her gaze narrowing. "Because you keep trying to justify it. All of this. As if there's a reason that makes it okay."

The Frontman chuckled softly, the sound low and unsettling. "You think I'm trying to justify it?" he asked, his voice almost amused. "No, Ji Ah. The games don't need justification. They simply... are."

As his words settled over her, Ji Ah's gaze flicked to his hands. His gloves—sleek and black, as much a part of his identity as the mask—had never once been removed in her presence.

But now, as she watched, he moved slowly, deliberately. Her breath hitched as his gloved fingers curled around the edge of one hand, pulling it free in a smooth motion.

For the first time, she saw his skin.

His hands were pale but strong, the veins faintly visible beneath the surface. The movement was unhurried, purposeful, as if he meant for her to see it.

Ji Ah's thoughts faltered, her mind momentarily blank as she stared at the bare hand resting casually on the armrest.

"Distracted?" he asked, his voice breaking the spell.

Her head snapped up, heat rising to her cheeks as she forced herself to meet his gaze—or where his gaze might be behind the mask. "No," she said sharply, though the word came out weaker than she intended.

His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, his other hand still gloved. "You were saying something about justification?"

Ji Ah's lips pressed into a thin line, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You do this a lot, don't you?" she said, her tone biting. "Change the subject when it gets too uncomfortable."

He chuckled again, soft and almost mocking. "And you do this a lot—ask questions when you already know the answer."

Ji Ah leaned forward, her palms resting on the table as she pushed past the strange intimacy of the moment. "What's the point of the games?" she asked, her voice hard. "What do you get out of it? What does anyone get out of it?"

The Frontman's bare fingers drummed lightly against the chair's armrest. "The players get a chance," he said smoothly. "A chance to change their lives. To rewrite their stories. Isn't that what everyone wants?"

"At the cost of their lives," Ji Ah snapped. "That's not change. That's desperation. You prey on it."

His head tilted slightly, as though considering her words. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "That we force them into this? That they don't walk willingly into the fire?"

Her chest tightened, her thoughts flashing back to the desperation in Jun Ho's voice, the cold efficiency of the guards, the way players were herded like cattle. "It's not willing if there's no real choice," she said.

The Frontman leaned forward slightly, his mask gleaming in the firelight. "And yet you made a choice, didn't you?" he said softly. "You chose to come here. You chose to put yourself in my hands. Was that desperation, or was it something else?"

Ji Ah's breath caught, his words cutting too close to the truth. "That's not the same," she said, though her voice faltered.

He didn't respond immediately, his gloved hand now pulling at the second glove, slipping it free. Both of his hands were bare now, resting lightly on the armrests as he studied her.

"No," he said finally, his tone contemplative. "It's not the same. But it's closer than you'd like to admit."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Ji Ah's gaze flicked to his bare hands again, her thoughts racing. The sight of his skin felt intimate, as though he'd shown her a piece of himself he rarely revealed.

"Why did you take off your gloves?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

The Frontman tilted his head, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "Does it bother you?" he asked, his voice calm.

Ji Ah hesitated, her pulse quickening. "No," she said finally, though the lie felt hollow.

"Good," he murmured, leaning back once more. "You should get used to it."

She swallowed hard, her mind spinning with the implications of his words. Before she could press further, the Frontman rose to his feet, his imposing frame casting a shadow across the table.

"This has been... enlightening," he said, his voice smooth. "But it's time for you to rest."

Ji Ah opened her mouth to argue, but the sharp click of the door unlocking cut her off.

Two square guards stepped into the room, their silent presence a clear signal.

The Frontman turned, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he walked toward the door. He paused in the threshold, glancing back at her. "Until next time, my little detective."

And then he was gone, leaving Ji Ah with her racing thoughts and the lingering memory of his touch—and his bare hands.