“That’s just… that’s nonsense. Say something that actually makes sense.”
Seon-woo, who had been silent all this time, finally managed to speak. His voice sounded drained, as if his spirit had been sapped. He tried to read Seo Eun-jae’s expression to figure out what he was really thinking, but aside from those strangely unfocused eyes, there was nothing to glean.
Was Seo Eun-jae seriously saying that’s what he wanted? That it would be okay with him? Seon-woo was completely thrown off. It didn’t feel like Eun-jae was fishing for a single, empty confession of love. It was more accurate to say he genuinely wanted Gwak Seon-woo’s love.
But even if he kept pushing like this, love couldn’t just be forced into existence. And Seon-woo couldn’t understand why Eun-jae would go to such lengths just to earn his love.
Seo Eun-jae had said himself that he didn’t want to meet the Gwanggong. In a way, Seon-woo interfering had erased the Gwanggong who had fixated on and raped Eun-jae, so that should’ve been a good thing for him. So then why the hell was he doing this?
Seon-woo feigned calm as he asked,
“Do you think something will magically change if I say I love you? ‘The power of love’? It’s not some kind of superpower…”
His words trailed off with disbelief. He looked at Eun-jae, who sat there listening without any expression, and opened his mouth again.
“Things are already different from what you knew, aren’t they? Obsessing over something that should’ve happened but didn’t… it’s meaningless now.”
His tone was resolute. But Eun-jae nonchalantly shot back with a question.
“Is that what you really think?”
Seon-woo neither answered out loud nor nodded. That alone was enough to convey his stance.
“Then how do you plan to fix this?”
Eun-jae showed no sign of backing down, even in the face of Seon-woo’s silent confirmation. Instead, he pressed forward with another question. This time, even Seon-woo found himself at a loss. He’d dismissed Seo Eun-jae’s proposal as pointless, but it was also true that he didn’t have any better alternatives. That was something he’d have to start figuring out now. As Seon-woo furrowed his brow and said nothing, Eun-jae gave a slight nod, as if he’d expected that all along.
A short silence followed, then Eun-jae spoke.
“Knowing your life is already set in stone… it’s a horrible feeling.”
The opening line seemed completely unrelated to the conversation they’d just been having. Seon-woo frowned, puzzled, but Eun-jae’s gaze wasn’t on him. He glanced briefly toward the container door—likely checking whether they had enough time to talk or if someone might interrupt. Thankfully, it was quiet outside. Eun-jae finally turned his eyes back to Seon-woo and continued.
“At first, I thought it was just a prank. Some ridiculous joke someone played. I didn’t think much of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I never imagined the things written there would actually come true.”
Even when Seon-woo questioned him, Eun-jae only continued to say what he needed to say. Seon-woo realized that he was suddenly about to spill the story of his life. It was a strange and unexpected kind of self-introduction.
But it seemed somehow connected to why he knew the original work, so Seon-woo kept his mouth shut.
The things that were written down, he’d said. That meant Eun-jae had come across some kind of record tied to the source material.
“But then all these little, insignificant events started lining up… and that’s when the doubt hit. I started getting chills.”
If things that had been written somewhere were happening in real life, of course it would give someone chills. The way he was talking, almost like muttering to himself, made it hard to follow—but Seon-woo did his best to interpret and keep up with the flow of his words.
“From that point on, I did everything I could.”
Eun-jae, lost in reminiscence, turned to Seon-woo with a faint, wistful smile.
“When I was in high school, it was predetermined that my parents’ business would go under.”
It felt uncomfortably intimate, like he was being given an unsolicited peek into Eun-jae’s most personal memories. Seon-woo felt awkward, but even clearing his throat didn’t stop Eun-jae from continuing.
“So when my parents met that con artist, I clung to their pant legs and begged them not to hand over the money, not to sign anything. I was so desperate, they had no choice but to listen to me. And thanks to that, we avoided that scammer.”
Seon-woo hesitated, unsure if he was supposed to say, Well, that’s a relief, or So what’s your point? Before he could decide, Eun-jae tacked on another line, completely nonchalant.
“Of course, they ended up meeting a different scammer, and the business still went under.”
The remark hit hard despite his casual tone. Left speechless, Seon-woo simply gave up and listened more seriously.
“In college, one of my closest friends was fated to die in an accident. I wanted to avoid that more than anything, so I stuck to him like glue. And because I was with him, he didn’t get run over by that truck.”
Eun-jae’s face was calm—so calm it was hard to believe he was recounting such a traumatic part of his past. Seon-woo said nothing, and Eun-jae continued on without pause.
“But then he got caught up in a string of serial killings nearby… and ended up dead anyway. Just unlucky.”
Listening to someone else’s tragedy was never pleasant. Seon-woo felt a heavy weight in his chest. He wanted to tell him to stop, but it didn’t feel like the right time.
“It’s not like I got complacent after the truck thing. After what happened with my parents, I kept being careful—thinking maybe something else would go wrong. I was on edge the whole time. But even that wasn’t enough.”
He let out a hollow laugh and met Seon-woo’s eyes.
“Director, do you get what I’m saying? In my life, nothing changed just because I tried to avoid it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape any of it.”
Seon-woo had never been the type of person who could stay cold after hearing something like that. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. All he could do was furrow his brow and stare at Eun-jae’s face.
“I hated the feeling that everything about me had been decided by someone else. So I tried to change even the smallest things—my taste in food, my preferences. It wasn’t perfect, but I got to a point where I could start liking things the old me never would’ve, and I became indifferent to the things I was supposed to like. But none of that mattered… all those little changes didn’t mean anything.”
“Even when things started shifting, even when they began to go off course little by little, in the end, it all flowed back to the original path.”
Eun-jae, who had been speaking rapidly, finally paused to take a breath. Then, locking eyes with Seon-woo, his voice dropped, heavy with conviction.
“It’ll be the same this time too, Director. A lot of things might’ve gone off-script so far, but once the core, the most crucial parts, fall into place… everything will snap right back to how it’s supposed to be.”
But apparently, Seon-woo’s expression wasn’t what Eun-jae had been hoping for. Maybe without realizing it, he’d let his reluctance show too clearly on his face. The moment Eun-jae saw him, his voice suddenly rose in agitation.
“Don’t you get it? What’s wrong with you? The ending is already decided! This isn’t something you or I can change!”
Seon-woo let out a deep sigh. He felt it was time to be absolutely clear.
He did understand where Eun-jae was coming from. He remembered how it had felt when he first got dragged into the game world—being controlled, losing autonomy, feeling like he was going insane. Eun-jae had lived trapped in a similarly twisted scenario, just of a different kind. The fact that he’d held himself together for this long was almost miraculous.
But still, that didn’t mean Seon-woo could lie about love.
If Seo Eun-jae were just a game character, maybe he could have gone through the motions. But the moment he chose to see him as a person—with feelings, dignity, and his own agency—that stopped being an option. A love that wasn’t real would bring no happiness to either of them. Eun-jae seemed furious now that things weren’t following the script he’d been shackled to his entire life.
“Seo Eun-jae.”
Seon-woo spoke his name with a heavy sigh, intending to offer both rejection and comfort at once. But right then—
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 5.>
His heart dropped like a stone.
It was a shock, plain and simple. The system, which had stayed silent all this time, had to pipe up now of all moments. While Seon-woo stood there, struck speechless by the blow, the system’s cold, mechanical voice continued.
A set of choices he hadn’t seen in a long time—ones that felt disturbingly unfamiliar—appeared before him.
▶ Accept Seo Eun-jae’s proposal.
▶ Confess your love to Seo Eun-jae.
No matter which one he picked, the only path forward was a love confession.
Seon-woo’s mind went blank. A wave of despair surged over him—crushing, suffocating. Was he supposed to go back to a life ruled by the system?
He’d assumed the system had gone quiet because it had lost its hold on the Gwanggong narrative—or that maybe the Gwanggong framework itself had collapsed. He’d found it strange that it had disappeared without so much as a warning, but he’d convinced himself it was a good thing and refused to consider any other possibility.
With his head bowed, Seon-woo recalled the string of eerily well-timed events that had occurred—as if everything had been carefully orchestrated. The chairman’s sudden collapse, Seo Eun-jae’s unexpected phone call… Could it all have been the system’s subtle meddling?
The more he thought about it, the deeper he sank into that abyss.
If this was how they’d cornered him, pushed him into such an extreme situation—And if now, the system was finally ready to tighten its grip again—
Was he supposed to smile, pretend to love Seo Eun-jae, defeat the villain, and live happily ever after?
Then what about his feelings?
What about Gwak Seung-hyeon?
The overwhelming despair didn’t last long. Soon enough, it was replaced by a surge of anger and irritation.
So Seon-woo didn’t choose. He refused to follow the options presented. He clenched his jaw and held firm, because he didn’t want to pick either of them.
The system’s dry, mechanical voice rained down on him in response.
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 6.>
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 5.>
<Gwanggong Score is…>
The Gwanggong Score was being shaved away with clear intent, and yet, strangely, Seon-woo felt his head growing colder—sharper. The despair that had been crushing him just moments ago began to lift.
Even though he hadn’t followed the options, his mouth didn’t move on its own. In the past, whenever the choices appeared, if he didn’t say what was prompted, his mouth would be forced open against his will. But now, all that happened was the Gwanggong Score dropping—no more, no less.
That meant the system had its reasons for pushing Seon-woo like this. Maybe it had laid a trap while pretending to vanish, waiting for the perfect moment to strike from behind? Sure, that could be it. But more likely—it had to do things this way. It didn’t have a choice.
One thing was clear now: the more control Gwak Seon-woo gained over the Gwanggong’s body, the weaker the system’s influence had become. So instead of direct interference, it was trying to back him into a corner through sheer circumstance.
But Seon-woo wasn’t the kind of man who’d crumble and despair at every little push anymore.
Which meant… Seo Eun-jae’s path wasn’t the only answer after all.
Seon-woo suddenly jerked his head up. Just then, the system’s voice thundered in his ear like a lightning strike.
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 4. Current Gwanggong Score: 47.>
<When Gwanggong Score falls below 50, ‘Status Effect: Headache’ is triggered.>
A stabbing headache surged through his skull. As Seon-woo gasped, trying to suck in air, the system shoved the choices at him once more.
▶ Accept Seo Eun-jae’s proposal.
▶ Confess your love to Seo Eun-jae.
The pounding in his head left him dazed. It was hard to even keep his chin up.
But it was still bearable—more than before.
With effort, Seon-woo forced a smile. Cold sweat trickled down his face, and the grin he wore had a disturbing edge to it.
“Seo Eun-jae. I…”
He looked straight into Seo Eun-jae’s twisted, tormented expression. A face full of irritation, pity, and aching desperation. But it wasn’t a face he could call lovable.
Gwak Seon-woo let out a bitter smile. Gritting through the pain of the headache, he finally opened his mouth.
“I will never love you.”
