<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 10!>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 6.>
What little remained of the score took a nosedive all at once. He had said “I love you,” after all, so it wasn’t completely unexpected. Seon-woo, unfazed, ignored the system alert and kept his eyes fixed on Seung-hyeon.
Seung-hyeon’s face was pale as plaster, frozen stiff like a statue. You’d never guess he’d just been confessed to. But Seon-woo didn’t mistake his reaction for fear—he was staring straight into Seung-hyeon’s eyes.
A face he’d never imagined before, yet somehow felt familiar—as if he’d pictured it countless times in secret. An expression too complex to name, trembling with something between awe and disbelief.
And then, slowly, Seung-hyeon’s expression began to crack. His voice, trembling and unstable, was something Seon-woo never thought he’d hear from him.
“Are you serious?”
It wasn’t like him to ask something like that. That tone—so unsure, so anxious—it startled Seon-woo. And, strangely, made him happy. The fact that he was the one who could rattle Gwak Seung-hyeon like this.
“You won’t regret it?”
The absurd questions kept coming. Unlike Seung-hyeon, who looked like he was on the verge of unraveling, Seon-woo was more baffled than anything else. Internally, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he didn’t show it on his face. So Seung-hyeon went on.
“Even if you’re not being sincere, I don’t care. If someday you say it was a lie… or you regret it and say it was just a moment of confusion… by then, it’ll be too late.”
As if even now he couldn’t fully believe what he was saying, Seung-hyeon lowered his head. His voice faded out, small and drained.
“So if that’s how it’s going to be… say it now. While I can still handle it.”
Seon-woo stayed quiet for a moment, listening. Then he let out a soft exhale that almost sounded like air leaking from a balloon—before laughing. His reply came slow and mellow, laced with lazy ease.
“That’s a cocky thing to say…”
Seung-hyeon lifted his head, as if he’d expected that answer. He must’ve known his words sounded arrogant, too. Still, there was no real reason to accuse him of being full of himself. So Seon-woo continued, his tone firm.
“You know it’s not like that. So why even ask?”
“…”
“Who said it was okay to doubt me?”
Truthfully, Seon-woo understood that from Seung-hyeon’s perspective, not doubting him would’ve been weirder. He had no right to get indignant about it. But still, Seung-hyeon bowed his head slightly, as if accepting the scolding.
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t say that to make you apologize.”
The apology didn’t sound like it came from someone putting up a fight—it was utterly unguarded. And that made something in Seon-woo’s chest ache a little. His voice softened as he began to speak again, slowly and deliberately.
“There’s nothing to regret.”
“…”
“And I have no reason to lie about something like this.”
The look in Seung-hyeon’s eyes as he stared at Seon-woo’s face seemed to silently ask, ‘Can you swear to that?’ In return, Seon-woo met his gaze head-on, hoping his own eyes would clearly say, ‘Absolutely.’
“More than anything, I’m not so clueless that I don’t even understand my own feelings.”
Whatever the original Gwanggong might’ve been like, Seon-woo was different. Always cautious, never speaking without certainty. So what he’d said earlier hadn’t been a slip of impulse—it was a deliberate choice, one he made fully knowing his score would drop.
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 1.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 5.>
<Your Gwanggong Score has fallen below 5% of the total. Severe penalties may apply. Please recover your Gwanggong Score.>
Had it been the first time, the mention of a “severe penalty” might’ve rattled him. But now, Seon-woo remained composed. Even though the status-induced dizziness still lingered, he endured it without trouble. His voice carried a touch of bravado as he went on.
“Do I look like someone reckless enough to say something I might’ve just imagined?”
For a while, Seung-hyeon said nothing. But even in silence, his eyes never left Seon-woo’s. Then, after a long pause, his lips finally parted. His voice was barely hanging on.
“Can I…”
“Can you what?” Seon-woo responded instantly.
Seung-hyeon’s eyes trembled, barely hiding the storm underneath his seemingly calm expression. He continued.
“Be a little more selfish with you…?”
Is that okay…?
The final words were so soft, they were practically a whisper. At that moment, a choice window appeared before Seon-woo’s eyes—but he didn’t even bother to read it this time. He gave his answer right away.
“It’s okay.”
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 1.>
<Warning: You have deviated from the available choices. A critical system error may occur. Proceed with caution.>
Of course, Seon-woo had no intention of heeding that warning. He reached out and pulled Seung-hyeon’s hand into his own. As the distance between them closed, he could see Seung-hyeon’s eyes more clearly.
Seung-hyeon stared back in silence… then slowly leaned in. The movement was cautious, slow enough that Seon-woo could’ve pushed him away at any moment if he wanted to. But he didn’t. And so, Seung-hyeon gently rested his face against Seon-woo’s shoulder. His breathing was steady and calm. Amidst it, he spoke.
“Say it one more time.”
“Say what?”
“That you…”
“That I love you?”
Seon-woo’s answer came without hesitation. Of course, so did the system’s notification.
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 2.>
He could feel Seung-hyeon’s unsteady breathing against his shoulder. Gripping his hand more tightly, Seon-woo thought: the score would soon hit zero. Only 2 points remained—it could vanish with just a single word.
To say he wasn’t scared, or that he wasn’t worried, would’ve been a blatant lie. That vague terror of not knowing what would happen crept coldly down his spine.
But even so, he had no intention of staying silent. Because this—because Gwak Seung-hyeon wanted it. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Seon-woo spoke the words again.
“I love you.”
Seung-hyeon, his face now fully buried against Seon-woo’s shoulder, pulled him into a firm embrace. For a moment, a deathlike silence settled over them.
But from Seung-hyeon’s body—pressed against his—came the unmistakably fast, vivid beat of a living heart.
Slowly, Seon-woo wrapped his arms around Seung-hyeon’s back in return. The trembling in Seung-hyeon’s frame gradually began to ease. Still clinging to him, Seung-hyeon opened his mouth and replied.
“Me too.”
“I love you, Director.”
The words exchanged were so blunt, so plain, they might have seemed clumsy to anyone else. But in that moment, Seon-woo felt utterly fulfilled—as though there was nothing more he could possibly want. It was funny, and strangely moving.
Silence stretched on. It wasn’t just between Seon-woo and Seung-hyeon—even the system went quiet.
After a long, still pause, the system finally spoke again. And though it shouldn’t have emotions, it almost sounded reluctant.
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 0.>
Here it is, Seon-woo thought. The moment he’d been waiting for. Without realizing it, he tightened his grip on Seung-hyeon’s back. He could feel the wrinkles bunching in the fabric beneath his fingers.
Now, truly, anything could happen. He was prepared.
He’d put on bravado earlier, asking Seung-hyeon if he looked reckless—but in truth, even Seon-woo thought what he’d done was recklessly bold. So much so, he almost admired himself for it.
Maybe, just as the system had warned, he really would end up trapped in this game world forever.
But that would be the best-case scenario.
In reality, what he wanted wasn’t so different from that. And yet… the price could be eternal penalties. Or worse—he might meet the same miserable fate as those bad endings he’d once read about online.
If he’d stayed true to his usual cautious nature, he would’ve agonized over every possibility, let the system dictate his every move.
But he didn’t.
And that, without a doubt, was the most reckless thing he’d ever done.
The system’s mechanical voice continued, slow and deliberate.
<You have failed to evolve into a proper Gwanggong.>
Pulling Seung-hyeon even closer, Seon-woo shut his eyes tightly. It felt like time had frozen.
<Loading ending sequence…>
So it’s jumping straight to the ending? No penalty screen? No last-minute warning to raise his Gwanggong Score?
Even though he’d mentally prepared for a moment like this, his heart still dropped.
It has to be a bad ending.
Frustration surged through him—why now, only now, after finally managing to say the words out loud?
But that thought didn’t last long.
Because of what the system said next.
<Loading failed. Initiating system reset.>
Seon-woo froze in confusion. He’d imagined dozens of bad endings.
But not once had he ever considered a scenario where the system couldn’t even load the ending.
<Reset failed.>
As Seon-woo stood there stunned, the system—still churning dutifully—announced another failure.
Could this be related to what it had warned earlier, about a potential critical error?
Time still felt frozen. And in that stillness, Seon-woo waited, heart pounding, for what would come next.
<System malfunction detected. Game termination and mid-save are unavailable.>
<Loading…>
<……>
The silence was long—uncomfortably so.
Every nerve in Seon-woo’s body tensed.
That earlier sense of unease came rushing back all at once.
A frantic pressure rose inside him—he felt like he needed to say something, anything. Call Seung-hyeon’s name, pour his heart out even more desperately than before.
But just as he opened his mouth with great difficulty—
The system spoke.
In that same emotionless voice, yet now with the distinct tone of someone dragged into saying something they didn’t want to admit.
<Due to low Gwanggong Score, frequent status abnormalities, repeated choice deviations… and route divergence from the target capture character…>
It sounded like a prelude to a tragic ending.
But instead, what followed was—
<The hidden route has been unlocked.>
Just that one line.
