Seo Eun-jae turned his head with an unreadable expression. Just when Seon-woo began to suspect there might really be something he was hiding, Eun-jae raised his head and met Seon-woo’s gaze squarely. His face wasn’t expressionless, but it was difficult to decipher what exactly he was feeling. It wasn’t something as simple as anger or embarrassment—it was a subtle, ambiguous look. Seon-woo wondered if perhaps he was suppressing a sense of resentment.
A short silence settled between them. With patience and quiet persistence, Seon-woo waited until Eun-jae finally opened his mouth.
“What exactly are you asking me out of curiosity?”
His tone was rather sharp. Gwak Seon-woo couldn’t answer right away. What he was truly curious about was whether Seo Eun-jae actually knew how the original story would unfold.
Up until now, Seon-woo had believed he was the only one pulled into the game, and that Seo Eun-jae was simply a character from within it. But the way Eun-jae behaved—it was as if he already knew what was going to happen. If Seon-woo wasn’t mistaken, then the most reasonable conclusion was that Seo Eun-jae either knew the original story… or was a spy.
Could Seo Eun-jae be a player in the game too? But from the beginning, Seon-woo had been playing from the perspective of the Gwanggong. Even the junior developer who had made the game never mentioned the possibility of playing as the main su, Seo Eun-jae. More importantly, Eun-jae showed none of the behavioral limitations that Seon-woo himself experienced. That was why he had never seriously entertained such doubts until now, before everything started to go off track.
If Eun-jae wasn’t a player, then how the hell did he know the original storyline? Or maybe… was Seon-woo just imagining it all? The confusion was overwhelming, but he couldn’t ask the question outright. He didn’t even know what exactly Eun-jae was, and admitting that he himself had been pulled into a game wasn’t something he could do lightly. If he was wrong, Eun-jae might think he’d lost his mind—and even if he was right, it didn’t mean he could fully trust him.
So in the end, instead of being blunt, Seon-woo decided to approach it obliquely.
“Did you know something was going to happen to Aunt today?”
Once again, Seo Eun-jae was silent. While Seon-woo was debating whether to press harder, Eun-jae responded in a firm, unwavering voice.
“Yes.”
This time, it was Seon-woo who was at a loss for words. He quickly worked his brain to find the next thing to say. What came out was nearly a fastball of a question.
“Seo Eun-jae, who planted you here?”
The question could be taken two ways: he was either asking who had assigned him as a spy—or asking whether he was even planted by someone to begin with.
Seo Eun-jae responded calmly, just as he had before.
“No.”
It was an answer Seon-woo hadn’t seen coming.
<His concise, laser-focused answers are quite fitting for a Gwanggong. Definitely something to emulate as a fellow Gwanggong.>
While Seon-woo’s mind froze for a split second in confusion, the system’s voice abruptly cut in. It had stayed completely silent until now with no interference whatsoever, so the sudden interruption at this exact moment felt absurd. Even though it was unmistakably a cold, emotionless mechanical voice, somehow it sounded almost sarcastic. Like it was sulking over not being able to meddle. The system, which was beginning to feel more and more like a sentient being, was puzzling in its own right—but for now, Seo Eun-jae was the more urgent issue.
“Then—”
The moment Seon-woo began to speak in a flat tone, Eun-jae cut him off.
“Why do you keep doing this, Director?”
His voice was sharp, and he sounded almost exhausted. Truthfully, Seon-woo had his own share of guilt, so it wasn’t easy to shoot back shamelessly. Only after confirming that Seo Eun-jae wasn’t looking directly at him did Seon-woo finally open his mouth.
“What do you mean by this?”
Fortunately, his voice sounded calm. That detached tone seemed to push Eun-jae over the edge, and he snapped back, his voice more agitated than before.
“It didn’t have to come to this, did it? You could’ve just…”
The words tumbled out as if his emotions were bubbling over while he spoke. He seemed to realize too late what he was saying and faltered, his expression flashing with hesitation. Seon-woo immediately seized on it.
“Just?”
Eun-jae appeared unsure, but the hesitation didn’t last long. With a voice that sounded almost resigned, as if he’d given up, he said,
“You could’ve just… kept going as you were. Was that so hard?”
It was a moment that strengthened Seon-woo’s suspicion that Eun-jae knew something. He did his best to hide any reaction and responded in a consistently calm tone.
“What exactly do you mean by as I was?”
This time, the silence stretched on. It took Eun-jae a long while before he finally opened his mouth—and even then, his response didn’t answer the question at all.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
His voice was deliberately composed, but there was a thread of resentment woven through it. Seon-woo flinched at the words but still didn’t show his emotions outwardly.
“What kind of look are you talking about now?”
Even to his own ears, his voice sounded disturbingly calm—cold, even. Eun-jae glanced at his face and muttered like a sigh.
“…When did things start going wrong?”
To reply with a clueless What do you mean something went wrong? felt too cruel. So Seon-woo quietly held his tongue. Eun-jae’s lament opened the floodgates, and once the first word escaped, the rest spilled out in a torrent.
“I hated it too.”
This time, Seon-woo really wanted to ask what exactly he had hated. But Eun-jae seemed to be talking to himself, like he was venting alone, and Seon-woo felt that if he interrupted now, he might lose the chance to hear the rest. So he pressed his lips together and endured it in silence. As expected, Eun-jae continued on his own. His voice was charged with fury.
“I didn’t want to see you either, Director. I didn’t want to meet you!”
Seo Eun-jae’s angry voice gradually rose in volume. In a way, this was exactly the kind of clue Seon-woo had been waiting for. But hearing Eun-jae’s voice, filled with what sounded like misery, weighed heavily on him. Eun-jae, who had been shouting, eventually fell silent and tried to steady his breathing. Meanwhile, Seon-woo just stood there quietly, looking down at him. His eyes betrayed none of the heaviness he felt inside.
Eun-jae muttered, his voice hoarse.
“Even before you knew me… it was always like that.”
It was a rambling, context-less confession, and Seon-woo couldn’t understand all of it. But what was clear—unmistakably so—was that despite saying he hadn’t wanted to meet Seon-woo, Eun-jae’s voice was drenched in regret. Seon-woo forced himself to push past the heaviness in his chest and focused on listening to him.
“But why…? When I didn’t want any of it, when I just wanted to push everything away… back then, everything went according to script like it was set in stone. So why…”
Eun-jae, who had kept his head lowered, finally looked up and met Seon-woo’s eyes. There was something almost pitiful in that gaze—it stabbed into Seon-woo like a knife. He had to try hard not to look away.
“Why is it… now…”
His words sounded like a soliloquy—something not meant to be heard. And precisely because of that, Seon-woo found himself unable to respond, even though he heard every word.
“…Did I do something wrong?”
Watching Eun-jae mutter like he was talking to himself, Seon-woo almost instinctively reached out a hand before he could finish organizing his thoughts. It was to comfort him.
In a way, Seon-woo couldn’t say he was entirely blameless. Even without knowing exactly what had happened, just from piecing together what Eun-jae had said, one thing was certain—Eun-jae had likely known for a long time how things were supposed to unfold. And if that was true, then surely… he also realized that something had gone off-script.
And the one who had caused it to go off-script… was Gwak Seon-woo himself.
Above all, Seo Eun-jae now looked like the most pitiful person in the world. It was impossible not to feel guilty. The sense that he should comfort Eun-jae weighed heavily on him. But the hand he had lifted—stopped in midair.
▶ Comfort Seo Eun-jae.
▶ Ignore Seo Eun-jae.
Because the choices had appeared before his eyes.
Comforting him, really, wasn’t that difficult. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what came after. If he extended a warm hand to Eun-jae, there was no telling what thoughts might form in Eun-jae’s mind—or how the system, which had been quiet until now, might react.
Maybe this was the true branching point. Seon-woo withdrew his outstretched hand. At that moment, Eun-jae lifted his head. He spoke in a quiet voice.
“You said… you didn’t hate me.”
Seon-woo replied with an oddly calm heart.
“I meant that.”
“But—”
“That’s all it was. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Watching Eun-jae suffer because things weren’t following the set script, Seon-woo thought: of all the sides of Eun-jae he had seen so far… this moment, right now—was the most he had ever felt like a real person, not a game character.
And the more that truth sank in, the more vividly a certain face surfaced in his mind.
Most likely, that person was waiting for Seon-woo.
