“There’s still a lot left to confirm, you know.”
The moment those words came out of Eun-jae’s mouth, Seon-woo pulled his head back. It was an instinctive attempt to put some distance between them, however slight. Maybe he could’ve asked if everything had been confirmed, playing it cool. But he had no desire to pretend. His face contorted openly with displeasure.
“Step aside. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“And what if I say no?”
Eun-jae asked in a mock-innocent tone. His gaze felt particularly awkward and unsettling, and Seon-woo turned his head firmly to the side. If he said no, what else could Seon-woo do? He’d raise his voice and demand someone come in and throw this man out immediately. If only his body were in its usual condition, it would’ve been easy to overpower this clingy bastard. But as someone currently hooked up to an IV, it wasn’t exactly an ideal time to act out. A sudden pang of frustration struck him—what use was having a body if he couldn’t even wield it properly?
Perhaps noticing the chill in Seon-woo’s expression, Eun-jae slowly straightened his posture and spoke.
“I was joking. You can relax.”
Unbelievable. Seon-woo scoffed out loud without bothering to mask his disdain. Eun-jae, still calm, followed up with a question. That calmness, ironically, only made the whole thing feel even more off-putting.
“Seems like you’ve handed the matter over to your aunt.”
Seon-woo grew increasingly confused. On the surface, Eun-jae looked composed, but his behavior didn’t match someone truly in control. Instead of replying, Seon-woo studied his expression. At some point, Eun-jae dropped his head slightly as he continued.
“You weren’t like this before. Director, I mean.”
Seon-woo couldn’t hide his boredom for a moment. In his head flashed a mental dialogue: ‘That’s not like you!’ followed by ‘And what exactly is “like me,” huh?’ But Eun-jae was dead serious.
“You handled this yourself. You tracked down the evidence, and then went directly to confront them.”
Was it really such a strange thing to ask Gwak Sang-hwa to get the evidence? Seon-woo couldn’t quite understand why Eun-jae was bringing this up with such bitterness.
“I’m curious why you didn’t do it this time.”
At that, Seon-woo tilted his head ever so slightly. The reason he’d asked Sang-hwa for help wasn’t anything complicated. If he were a true Gwanggong, things might’ve been different. But Gwak Seon-woo had never been someone who snooped into others’ affairs or went digging for criminal evidence. A Gwanggong would probably be well-versed in orchestrating background checks through others, but Seon-woo still had plenty of rough edges when it came to that kind of thing. Even so, he had no intention of dumping the task on Gwak Seung-hyeon.
Besides, between Seon-woo—who had little connection to Nam Jeong-dong—and Seung-hyeon, it was clear that Sang-hwa, his spouse, was in a better position to investigate. And she had already stated clearly, in her own words, that she would deal with the matter firmly no matter who the culprit was.
Of course, that didn’t mean he intended to leave everything up to her. Knowing Sang-hwa’s meticulous personality, she wouldn’t cover anything up just because it involved her husband. But still, there was always that what if. What if she failed to uncover the evidence, or chose to bury it…
Giving everything up and disappearing with Seung-hyeon didn’t sound like the worst idea—but becoming a fugitive was, at best, a last resort. It made more sense to strike first before Nam Jeong-dong had the chance to pull another stunt. The real question was how best to deal with it. Since he wasn’t exactly creative when it came to shady tactics, he’d need to compensate with time—careful research and planning. And with that in mind, this moment with Eun-jae felt like a complete waste of time.
But there was no reason to share any of that with Seo Eun-jae. Not wanting to waste another second, Seon-woo pushed the thoughts aside and replied.
“Why take the long way when there’s a faster path right in front of you?”
“But… you don’t trust anyone.”
Eun-jae responded with a voice filled with helplessness. Seon-woo was taken aback—Eun-jae was calling out the Gwanggong’s deep-seated mistrust so suddenly, he was momentarily speechless.
“You’re always handling everything on your own because you never know who might betray you.”
As Seon-woo stood there stunned, he noticed a subtle tremble in Eun-jae’s voice. And in that instant, he realized why Eun-jae had been acting so strangely—what it was that he so desperately wanted to confirm.
Narrowing his eyes, Seon-woo studied Eun-jae’s expression closely to test his own suspicion.
He was lost.
The framework of his life—something he’d believed to be inescapable—had been abruptly dismantled. Like a marionette with its strings cut, Eun-jae was flailing, incapable of moving forward or retreating. And now, confronted with a Seon-woo who behaved entirely unlike the one he used to know, he couldn’t accept or reject it—just clung to it with mounting obsession and regret.
Moments ago, Seon-woo had mostly felt irritation, but now that frustration cooled into something quieter. He still didn’t understand Eun-jae. He didn’t want to understand him. Even if he did, it wasn’t going to make him any more willing to soothe or comfort him.
But how could he hold on to that irritation and contempt when the same man who had aided in his abduction was now sneaking into his hospital room, asking in visible confusion what had gone wrong?
Seon-woo knew what it felt like to be trapped, restrained. He had once told himself he should simply accept his situation, and because of that, he could at least comprehend the turmoil Eun-jae was now facing.
It was a sort of moral guilt—an inconvenient pang of sympathy.
Seon-woo realized the situation needed clarity. Breaking his silence, he looked down at the back of Eun-jae’s bowed head with calm, rational eyes.
“Seo Eun-jae.”
“Yes…”
He replied weakly.
“None of the things you believed to be true actually happened.”
<Gwanggong Score decreases by 2.>
The system chimed in the moment Seon-woo spoke in a firm tone, as if it had predicted exactly what he was about to say. His chest clenched instinctively—he braced himself, wary of whatever new status ailment might come with the loss of points. But even so, Seon-woo didn’t stop.
“I never fell in love with you.”
<Gwanggong Score decreases by 4.>
“Which means, because of you, nothing ever went wrong for me. I never broke down emotionally, either.”
<Gwanggong Score decreases by 5.>
The system’s voice almost sounded… resentful. But of course, that was only an illusion. The notifications always came with the same cold, mechanical tone. The one looking at him with blame in his eyes wasn’t the system—it was Seo Eun-jae, sitting right there in front of him. Seon-woo murmured, his face a blank slate.
“Seo Eun-jae, I’m sorry… but I’m not the person you thought I was.”
Eun-jae covered his eyes with one hand. He didn’t seem to want to look at Seon-woo. His reply came out as a whisper.
“I know.”
His voice was drained, utterly lifeless. He might’ve known, but he clearly hadn’t accepted it. Seon-woo himself didn’t have a clear grasp on everything in his head, yet the words kept coming.
“The one you met at the café that day—that was me. And the one making this decision here and now—that’s also me. So…”
And yet, the more he spoke, the more certain he became of what he was saying. Eun-jae seemed to wish he’d just stop talking, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“Trying to find some reason for why I’m not behaving the way you expect—it’s meaningless.”
<Gwanggong Score decreases by 3.>
A long silence fell between them. Eun-jae didn’t respond again. He wouldn’t even look in Seon-woo’s direction, just sat there with his face buried in his hand, lost in thought. And as Seon-woo watched him, a heavy weight settled naturally in his chest. It took him a long moment before he managed to speak again.
“I didn’t like being forced to follow a script either. It wasn’t easy to break away from it the way I wanted… But somewhere along the line, things started to veer off-course. And here I am.”
<Gwanggong Score decreases by 3.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 48. Status Ailment: Paralysis – Right Arm>
Given how fast the score had been dropping, it was a miracle he’d held out this long. This status ailment was a new one. He tried wiggling the fingers on his right hand as a test, but his hand had already stiffened and wouldn’t move at all.
Honestly, it scared him a little. But more than fear, there was anxiety—was what he was saying right now just emotional stubbornness? A foolish act of pride?
Still, Seon-woo spoke.
“Stop trying to reason it out. I’m not some pre-programmed fiction stuck moving along a path you know by heart. I’m not a made-up character from some imaginary world. I exist.”
But did he, really? Could he call this reality—being a character in a game, subject to the system’s control—real?
“And so do you.”
To keep his uncertainty from being exposed, he spoke with even more force.
Eun-jae still didn’t show his face, maintaining his silence. After a long pause, his voice slipped out like a dying flame.
“What if I really am that kind of thing?”
The unease in Seon-woo’s gut twisted—he felt as if his own doubts had just been dragged into the light. Eun-jae continued, his voice anything but composed.
“What if I am just a virtual character… moved by something I can’t resist?”
Maybe Eun-jae had wrestled with these thoughts too. Maybe he’d been doing so for much longer than Seon-woo had. His voice gradually began to tremble with anguish.
“If I weren’t… then why couldn’t I avoid any of it? Why—why couldn’t I stop myself from being drawn to you, even when I wanted to?”
Seon-woo paused, considering.
Maybe this was the last chance. The final window to accept Seo Eun-jae and “conquer” the game—to reach an ending.
And if he let this moment slip past… if from now on he was dragged through endless interference from the system and status effects, would he still be able to say the same thing then?
But Gwak Seung-hyeon and Seo Eun-jae no longer felt like fictional characters trapped in a game.
The Gwanggong no longer felt like a stranger. How could he possibly dismiss someone who carried these worries—as if they weren’t real?
How could he reduce someone, who breathed and suffered right in front of him, to nothing more than a target to be pursued and toyed with?
His mind cleared. It had been a long, tangled confusion, but he could tell now that whatever pressure or chaos the system threw at him, it wouldn’t sway him in the moments that truly mattered.
Because—
“People’s hearts never really follow their will.”
His words were firm, like a verdict. And then, Seon-woo let out a breathless laugh.
Eun-jae turned to face him, eyes clouded with a storm of unreadable emotion.
The darkness lingering in his gaze hadn’t lightened in the slightest. It was like looking in a mirror—and that reflection made Seon-woo uneasy.
But even so, something deep inside his chest finally felt light.
