“I… I…”
Seon-woo mumbled in a dazed voice, then suddenly lowered his head. The words he wanted to say just wouldn’t come out. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the fear and anxiety lodged deep in his heart, or if it was the system’s last-ditch resistance. Unease and resentment toward that unease tangled within him.
Before he realized it, Seon-woo muttered in a lifeless voice.
“If I really did play with you… what would you say?”
The moment the words left his mouth, no one was more shocked than Seon-woo himself. That hadn’t been what he meant to say. Yes, he had worried about Seung-hyeon’s feelings and thoughts. From Seung-hyeon’s point of view, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d been toyed with. But even so, there were other words that should’ve come first before that question.
Yet, as if to render Seon-woo’s regret meaningless, Seung-hyeon replied calmly.
“While looking at me like that?”
Instead of asking what kind of look he meant, Seon-woo slowly lifted his head again and met Seung-hyeon’s gaze. His eyes were like cold flames—sharp and piercing as they met Seon-woo’s.
“Am I just imagining it?”
Whatever “it” was, it didn’t seem like Seung-hyeon was mistaken. Rather, it was likely Seon-woo who had failed to hide his feelings from showing in his eyes. Seung-hyeon continued in a firm tone.
“I’m not an idiot, Director. I’m not foolish enough to accept that excuse and just walk away.”
What would Seung-hyeon say if he knew that, in a way, Seon-woo was relieved by that? Would he sneer? Or would he, like now, take it in stride with that same calm?
With eyes sharp enough to pierce through him, Seung-hyeon stared and spoke.
“If you tell me to leave, I will. If you say I have no right to be angry, I’ll endure that too. But don’t think you can push me away with words like that.”
Seon-woo remained silent for a long while. A thick tension filled the air. To an outsider, the two might have looked like they were seconds away from a fight. But inside Seon-woo’s heart, there was no hostility—only a different kind of weight, a solemn resolve.
Seung-hyeon quietly waited for Seon-woo to speak. His expression was calm but resolute. After taking one last look at him, Seon-woo averted his gaze once more. Strangely, he couldn’t bring himself to speak while looking Seung-hyeon in the eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just the system’s interference—maybe, somewhere along the way, he had become so deeply entangled with the Gwanggong archetype that his pride didn’t want to let him be vulnerable.
In a low voice, Seon-woo murmured. It wasn’t loud, but in this space where only the two of them existed, it rang out all too clearly.
“How could I ever hate you?”
Not why, but how—that was the more accurate sentiment. Even if he were the original Gwanggong, Seon-woo could no longer hate Gwak Seung-hyeon for the same reasons he once had. No—he shouldn’t. Besides, the person he was now wasn’t the same Seon-woo from before. Harboring resentment toward Gwak Seung-hyeon now was nearly impossible.
“There are no inappropriate feelings between me and Seo Eun-jae. I created a situation that led to misunderstanding…”
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 1.>
As if it had sensed what was about to be said, the system issued a warning. But Seon-woo pressed on without hesitation.
“I’m sorry. But nothing happened.”
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 1.>
No doubt, the system wanted to throw out its usual line: Gwanggong never apologizes. But Seon-woo ignored both the voice stirring in his mind and the system’s alerts, forcing himself to speak immediately.
“I…”
Yet it still wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. He found himself repeating the same words like a broken record.
“I…”
His voice was barely a whisper, ready to flicker out, but finally, as if resolving himself, Seon-woo raised his head and met Seung-hyeon’s eyes. Until just moments ago, the fear had been too overwhelming for him to look directly at that face.
But what greeted him wasn’t what he expected. He thought he’d see the same composed, unreadable expression he’d caught before lowering his head—but instead, Seung-hyeon looked more tense than ever.
His gaze brimmed with emotion, eyes shimmering as if waves of feeling were crashing just beneath the surface. The once-impenetrable face now flickered with an array of expressions Seon-woo had never seen before.
Why? Was it just because he said he couldn’t hate him? Because of a simple apology for causing a misunderstanding? Seon-woo was someone who had hesitated, unable to speak even a single word without fear, anxiety, and overanalyzing everything. From Seung-hyeon’s perspective—who knew nothing of the system’s interference—he must’ve seemed utterly selfish.
And yet, Gwak Seung-hyeon was making that face. A face that looked as if he might be cut open by the very emotions flooding his gaze. That was why the chaos in Seon-woo’s mind abruptly fell silent. The doubts and worries that had swirled just moments ago now seemed utterly meaningless.
In a voice barely louder than a whisper, Seung-hyeon murmured,
“Really…”
Even without the rest of the sentence, it was clear it was a question.
▶“Of course it’s all a lie. I’ll hate you forever.”
▶“Don’t tell me you actually believe this? Wipe that pathetic look off your face.”
The system frantically threw up response options. But none of them had any power left to sway Seon-woo’s heart.
Without looking away, he spoke.
“I came because I couldn’t just let you go.”
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 20>
<Warning: You have deviated from preset options. Maintaining a low Gwanggong Score in this scenario may result in a critical error.>
The unfamiliar warning made Seon-woo freeze for a moment. The system, in its cold mechanical voice, continued delivering its alerts.
<If a critical system error occurs, the game may be forcefully terminated, and automatic synchronization may become permanently impossible. Once disconnection occurs, the player’s safety can no longer be guaranteed.>
It sounded more like a threat than a warning. The idea that the game might not be able to end—meant Seon-woo could be trapped in this world forever. Not that it was anything new. The system had never once guaranteed that clearing the game would actually allow him to escape. So why now?
Even as he listened to the system’s words, Seon-woo felt no hope that he’d be able to finish the game and return to reality. It wasn’t logic, but a deep-seated intuition. And even if that possibility did exist… he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore.
But how long would this conviction last? After cutting the final rope that might have led him out of the game, would a day come when he bitterly regretted it?
Could he truly rid himself of his long-standing emotions toward Gwak Seung-hyeon? Could Seung-hyeon really be as innocent as he claimed, as pure as the words coming from his own lips? Was there any guarantee that he wasn’t deceiving him? Was the system’s warning—we cannot ensure your safety—really just a bluff? Or would he end up walking straight into the kind of bad ending he’d once read about?
Doubts frothed and bubbled up like boiling foam. Suspicion and uncertainty surged endlessly. If even this wellspring of unease came from the system, then its stubbornness—its refusal to ever let go of the Gwanggong—was almost impressive.
▶ “I was just momentarily confused. I thought maybe we could make it work. But I can’t take this nightmare anymore.”
▶ “Don’t twist this into your narrative. It was all your delusion and your issue from the start.”
The silence stretched longer than Seon-woo had originally intended. He knew all of it was manufactured—planted deliberately by the system—but even so, the resulting disarray and the short moment of hesitation felt excruciatingly long.
Just then, Seung-hyeon, who had been quietly watching Seon-woo, slowly reached out his hand. Seon-woo blinked as he stared at the hand drawing closer. It looked as if it were piercing straight through the floating dialogue options in front of him—like it was distorting the very edges of the text. The letters shimmered and blurred, as though the screen itself were bending. No one had ever approached this closely while the system’s options were still up. It was the first time he’d seen something like this, and without a comparison, it was a truly unprecedented sight.
That hand was what finally made Seon-woo speak. Seung-hyeon’s fingers, hesitating slightly, gently clasped his arm. Staring down at the hand gripping him, Seon-woo opened his mouth, trying to form words that hadn’t yet taken shape. But his lips refused to move as he wanted. Still, he had to say it.
“I just… didn’t want to leave it like that.”
<Gwanggong Score has decreased by 4.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 16. Status effect triggered: Dizziness.>
Now even the timing of the effects seemed entirely at the system’s whim. A sudden wave of vertigo crashed over him, and his legs gave out beneath him without warning.
Seung-hyeon abruptly stopped speaking and, startled, reached out to steady Seon-woo as he stumbled. His eyes were filled with confusion, worry… and guilt, all tangled together.
Seon-woo let out a faint, hollow laugh.
“Don’t look at me like that. Weren’t you the one who told me to be honest about how I feel?”
“Is it… because of me?”
Seung-hyeon asked in a low voice. Was he asking if the sudden dizziness was his fault? If so, that was almost laughable.
He had no idea, and yet he still said something like that. How could he so readily blame himself?
Is it because of you that I’m willing to endure everything?
Seon-woo didn’t say it out loud. He only repeated the words in his mind. It was a question directed at himself. The answer came quickly. As soon as the conclusion formed, he slowly shook his head.
“If you really want to talk about reasons… then it’s because of me. I…”
“……”
Seung-hyeon stood frozen, his face stiff and unreadable. Seon-woo, wearing the faintest of smiles, whispered softly—barely audible, but with crystal clarity.
“Because I love you.”
