Eun-jae walked straight toward Seon-woo. His unhurried, deliberate steps somehow felt even slower than they actually were. Seon-woo, tense and on edge, stared at Eun-jae’s feet.
When Eun-jae finally closed the distance, he clasped Seon-woo’s hands tightly in both of his and locked eyes with him.
“Are you hesitating? I’m okay with it.”
He tilted his head slightly, lowering his gaze even further—despite already being shorter than Seon-woo. The discomfort made Seon-woo want to look away, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from those brown eyes. His mind, which had been cold and sharp just moments ago, was slowly growing hazy, as if it were draining of energy.
Even so, he didn’t want to give the answer Seo Eun-jae—or the system—was hoping for. Similar choices kept flashing before his eyes just like earlier, but Seon-woo clenched his teeth and endured in silence for as long as he could.
He feared the system might force his mouth open again and make him speak the choices out loud like before, but it merely presented the options like a nagging prompt. Nothing else happened.
As the long silence stretched on without a single word from Seon-woo, Eun-jae’s expression gradually hardened into something unreadable. Soon, Eun-jae slowly lowered his head. A slight tremor began to run through their interlocked hands—he was starting to shake, as if tense.
“Yeah… I think I get what the problem is.”
His voice, too, trembled with unease. Seon-woo thought it was more urgent to get out of here than to sort out his thoughts. But Eun-jae spoke again—faster than Seon-woo could react.
“I’ll go on top, then. That works, right?”
He suddenly lifted his head with a snap. Seon-woo, who had assumed the trembling was due to nerves or anxiety, was taken aback. The expression on Eun-jae’s face didn’t match any of those emotions.
Caught off guard, Seon-woo instinctively took a step back. It took him a moment to fully grasp what he’d just heard.
“…What?”
<Gwanggong Score has dropped by 3!>
Seon-woo’s dazed echo and the system alert happened almost simultaneously. Seo Eun-jae looked up at him with an unshakably confident expression, as if to confirm Seon-woo hadn’t misheard a thing.
His eyes quivered faintly. Looking more closely, the trembling wasn’t from anxiety at all… But what emotion was that supposed to be? How was he supposed to describe this?
Saying he’d “go on top” clearly wasn’t referring to their physical positions. The original work’s main su had just declared he would top the Gwanggong.
Seon-woo had never even imagined this kind of scenario, nor had he ever thought he’d need to. He was so stunned, he couldn’t speak for a long moment.
So… Seo Eun-jae thought the reason Gwak Seon-woo was hesitating… was because of their position?
“I’m confident I’ll do a good job!”
Eun-jae declared it like a final blow. His voice was so loud and spirited, it practically stung Seon-woo’s ears.
<A Gwanggong does not go under a main su! Gwanggong Score has dropped by 2!>
The system, apparently unsatisfied with just one penalty, dropped the Gwanggong Score again. Seon-woo hadn’t even agreed to bottom yet, and he couldn’t help but feel wronged.
“This isn’t about whether you’ll do well or not…!”
▶ (Angrily forces himself on Seo Eun-jae)
▶ (Scoffs, then forces himself on Seo Eun-jae)
The options popped up again, as if trying to help restore the Gwanggong’s wounded pride after Eun-jae’s explosive declaration. Seon-woo honestly couldn’t understand the logic behind this. How exactly was a Gwanggong’s thought process wired, if this kind of violent, aggressive reaction was the only “solution” it could come up with?
At first, he’d been too stunned to speak, completely frozen. But now, he felt oddly calm. And with that calm came clarity—he knew exactly what he needed to do.
“I’m sorry. This really isn’t it.”
Seon-woo murmured in a low, steady voice, as natural as breathing. He watched as Eun-jae’s expression visibly crumbled. Even though he told himself that this was just a game character, it didn’t make the weight in his chest any lighter.
As lucidity returned all at once, guilt flooded in right after. Seon-woo tried to speak as sincerely as he could.
“I’ll leave. You can stay here until you calm down.”
He gave a small nod in place of a bow, then really did turn and open the door. System prompts, warning tones, and Gwanggong Score notifications rang in his ears, but he ignored them all. He was so relieved that he could ignore them.
“Director!”
Seo Eun-jae’s voice rang out from behind him, but Seon-woo only quickened his pace and fled the house.
The cool air outside hit him like a breath of sanity. Afraid Eun-jae might come after him, Seon-woo found a secluded spot and sat down on a roughly placed bench.
His head was still a mess, but one thing was absolutely clear.
Even if it was inside a game, some things were still off-limits.
Maybe to someone else, it would seem silly—making such a fuss over a fictional character. But when those characters looked and breathed and spoke so vividly in front of him, it didn’t feel right to treat them like they weren’t real.
So, if something felt wrong, then not doing it was the right call.
Now that his head had cleared, the person he’d been just a short while ago felt more and more like a stranger. He realized again—just like moments ago—that he’d been moving like a man possessed, constantly reacting to the system as if he were being hunted.
Maybe it had been the fear of death, implanted by the system, that had blinded him all along.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice how much time had passed. Eventually, he felt a small vibration in his pocket. Seon-woo pulled out his phone and checked the text.
[I just left. I’m heading home, so you can go back in now.]
It was from Eun-jae.
Right after he read it, the system chimed in with another alert.
<Gwanggong Score has dropped by 1.>
How many points had he lost today?
If his Gwanggong Score kept dropping like this, and he ended up suffering another status effect severe enough to threaten his life—what was he supposed to do then?
That thought had always terrified him until now.
But at this moment, even thinking about it didn’t strike the same fear. Instead, there was a strange sense of calm in his heart.
“I’ll deal with it when it happens.”
Suddenly, Seung-hyeon came to mind. When Seon-woo had a hyperventilation episode due to a status condition, Seung-hyeon had immediately attempted CPR without even a second of hesitation. Even as Seon-woo pushed him away, Seung-hyeon had said he’d continue until Seon-woo was okay. When Seon-woo warned him that CPR alone might not be enough if he lost consciousness, Seung-hyeon simply replied that it didn’t matter.
What would’ve happened if he hadn’t punched Seung-hyeon back then? Would he really have kept going until Seon-woo was on the verge of passing out? It sounded ridiculous, and yet… knowing Seung-hyeon, it felt entirely possible.
Unlike Seon-woo—who found comfort in adapting and settling into reality—Seung-hyeon was, at times, recklessly bold. That boldness usually only surfaced in front of Seon-woo. Back then, Seon-woo had believed people like Seung-hyeon were fundamentally different from him. That someone like that was beyond his comprehension.
But now, strangely enough, Seung-hyeon kept coming to mind. He had an overwhelming urge to see his face in person—like doing so might finally give him the certainty he’d been missing all this time.
As if the thought itself had summoned him, Seon-woo’s phone began to vibrate. Startled, he glanced at the screen and froze when he saw Seung-hyeon’s name flash across it. He hesitated—should he answer it or not?
But for some reason, he didn’t want to. It felt like if he picked up, Seung-hyeon would see right through him with just a word.
So instead, he just sat there, staring silently at the vibrating phone.
More missed calls followed. When the screen showed three missed calls in total, a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“So you really were ignoring me on purpose.”
Seon-woo couldn’t quite describe why, but even though it was a situation that should’ve shocked him, he didn’t feel surprised. He slowly turned toward the voice.
And there he was—Seung-hyeon, standing right there, as if he’d known exactly where to go.
Now that he thought about it, Seung-hyeon had never failed to meet those kinds of expectations. Whenever Seon-woo wondered maybe he’ll show up now, Seung-hyeon would appear. Whenever Seon-woo hoped I wish he’d come now, he somehow always did.
Suppressing the uneasy stir in his gut, Seon-woo asked,
“…Why are you here?”
But the question was heavier than just asking why he’d come. Given how Seung-hyeon had last seen him, it would’ve made more sense if he hadn’t shown up. And even if he had, he should’ve been far angrier than this.
Seung-hyeon calmly slid his phone back into his pocket, his gaze dropping sharply, landing squarely on Seon-woo’s face.
“Because I couldn’t get your face out of my head.”
The fact that he could say something like that without the slightest tremble in his voice was astonishing. Seon-woo let out a hollow laugh and turned his eyes to the ground.
“I just couldn’t not come.”
“…Don’t tell me you’re going to talk about my expression again.”
Because he couldn’t come up with an appropriate answer, Seon-woo responded with a deliberately calm tone, pretending to be unfazed. Seung-hyeon continued speaking right away, but Seon-woo couldn’t tell whether he was responding to what had just been said or simply continuing with what he wanted to say.
“If you were me, Director… maybe you wouldn’t have come.”
Seon-woo quietly lifted his gaze and met his eyes again. Seung-hyeon was smiling faintly—a look that somehow both fit and didn’t fit the moment.
“I told you before, didn’t I? I wouldn’t have done the same thing.”
Seon-woo felt like he should look away. But he didn’t. He stayed. Seung-hyeon’s smile deepened ever so slightly.
Seon-woo had thought that if he saw Seung-hyeon’s face, he’d finally find the certainty he’d been lacking. But looking at him now, it seemed like the one who had gained that certainty… was Seung-hyeon.
Slowly, Seung-hyeon bent down. Without hesitation, he knelt on the ground and looked up at Seon-woo’s face.
“We can talk about what’s going on later… For now, I want to ask you something else instead.”
“……What is it?”
The smile faded from Seung-hyeon’s face as he stared straight into Seon-woo’s eyes.
“How much have you thought about me?”
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