Chapter 25

The dim glow of moonlight seeped through the blinds, casting eerie shadows across the rows of filing cabinets that lined the walls. Rae-a slipped inside, the soft click of the lock sliding into place barely audible over the pounding in her chest. She stood still for a moment, listening—nothing but the distant murmur of the night shift officers beyond the heavy door. She didn't have much time.

She moved swiftly, pulling a slim tool from the depths of her jacket pocket. Kneeling before a locked file cabinet, she worked quickly, fingers steady despite the risk. The mechanism gave way with a faint snick, the sound almost deafening in the silence. Exhaling softly, she yanked the drawer open and began flipping through folders, her eyes darting over the tabs.

Missing persons, missing persons...

She barely noticed the tremor in her fingers as she scanned the names, trying to find someone. Gi-hun. Hyun-ju. Myung-gi. Dae-ho. Jun-hee. The weight of their absence settled heavier in her chest. There had to be something—some trace of them buried in these files, some sign that they hadn't just vanished into nothing.

She flipped through the files with sharp, methodical movements, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Page after page, name after name—none of them the ones she was searching for. The dim glow of the monitor cast long shadows over the cluttered desk, illuminating the furrow in her brow, the tight press of her lips. She was running out of time.

Then, she found them.

Her breath hitched as her eyes locked onto the familiar names typed across the tabbed folders. Jun-hee. Dae-ho. Jungbae. Gi-hun. Myung-gi. Relief surged through her for a fleeting second—until she opened them.

Empty.

She rifled through each folder, fingers tightening with each turn of a blank page. Not a single record. No reports, no personal details, no last known locations. It was as if they had been scrubbed clean. Erased.

Her mind reeled. Why would they be missing? Who had taken them—and more importantly, why?

A cold realization coiled in her gut. Someone else was looking for the Squid Games.

Her jaw clenched. That could mean a number of things, none of them good. If someone had deliberately removed these files, then either they wanted to bury all traces of the Games—or they were hunting for survivors, just as she was.

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to push aside the gnawing unease. She couldn't afford to dwell on the implications now.

Among the scattered papers, she caught sight of a small stack of photographs. She recognized the faces immediately. Their faces.

Without hesitation, she gathered them, slipping them into the inner pocket of her jacket. If she needed to confirm their identities to anyone later, these would be proof. Evidence that they existed. Evidence that someone had wanted them to disappear.

Then—

Footsteps.

Paced. Getting closer—too close.

Her blood turned to ice. With practiced speed, she slid the drawer shut, grabbing a file of interest and retreating behind a tall shelf just as a shadow passed beneath the doorframe. Her breath stilled. The knob turned, slow and deliberate. The hinges groaned as the door eased open.

A dark silhouette filled the space. Rae-a pressed herself further into the shadows, barely daring to breathe. The room was plunged into near-total darkness, the only illumination a faint silver gleam from the moonlight streaking through the blinds. But that wouldn't stop him. He had seen something—a flicker of movement, a glint of metal.

His stance was tense, his sharp gaze scanning the room with the precision of a predator who knew his prey was nearby. He stood near the door for a moment, assessing, his body still but charged with awareness.

"Who's in here?"

His voice was calm, level. No threats, no unnecessary aggression. But there was no mistaking the underlying authority in his tone. He didn't need to see her to know she was here.

Rae-a remained frozen, counting her breaths. If she moved now, she'd give herself away. If she stayed too long, he'd find her anyway. Her mind raced, calculating every possibility, every potential escape.

He took a step forward, eyes narrowing. His gaze flicked toward the cabinets—one drawer, slightly ajar. The detail was minute, but not to him.

"I know someone's here," he said again, his tone edged with quiet certainty. "Come out."

She clenched her jaw. Running was a risk, but so was waiting. Her muscles tensed, coiling like a spring, preparing to move the second an opening presented itself.

The man advanced further, his fingers twitching toward his holster. He wasn't reckless—he wasn't about to shoot an unknown intruder without cause—but he wasn't taking chances, either. His gaze lingered on the open cabinet, lips pressing into a thin line.

"Something's off..." he murmured to himself, a flicker of suspicion flashing in his eyes.

Rae-a shifted the weight in her heels, every movement calculated. If she could reach the door before he turned—

His head snapped up.

The air in the room changed, thick with the kind of tension that made every second stretch unbearably long. His voice was sharper now, cutting through the silence like a knife. "I don't have time for games. I know you're here."

There was no more waiting. She moved.

Like a shadow, she shot out from behind the shelves, making a break for the door. She was quick, a blur in the darkness, but he had been expecting it. His reflexes were too sharp, his instincts honed from years of training. He shifted, blocking her path with ease, his frame a solid wall between her and escape.

Rae-a skidded to a halt, her eyes flashing as she calculated her next move. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but her face remained unreadable, her expression cool and detached.

His eyes locked onto hers, confusion flickering across his face in the dim light. His voice came low, unwavering. "Not so fast."

His gaze swept over her, quickly. "You're in trouble now."

She didn't move, didn't flinch. If she showed even the slightest hesitation, he'd have the upper hand. Instead, she lifted her chin, her voice controlled, even. "I'm not here to cause trouble,' she looked down at his name tag before smirking lightly, 'Jun-ho.'

Jun-ho let out a quiet scoff, his eyes narrowing, yet ignoring the comment. "Then why are you breaking into a police records room in the middle of the night?"

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension. Rae-a's mind worked at lightning speed, scanning for a way out. A lie. A distraction. A way to slip past him before things escalated any further.

Rae-a held her breath, forcing her expression to remain unreadable even as her pulse pounded against her ribs. Every muscle in her body coiled with tension, but she knew she couldn't afford to make the first move. Any sudden action could tip the situation against her. And if any police officer was to know her identity it could cause problems. Instead, she stepped back slowly, her eyes locked onto Jun-ho's, measuring his every shift, every flicker of suspicion in his gaze.

"I'm just looking for information on someone who's missing," she said evenly, her voice carefully controlled. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Jun-ho didn't move at first, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied her. The dim light from the hallway cast deep shadows over his face, but she could still see the skepticism in his expression. His stance remained rigid, his shoulders squared, blocking her exit with an air of quiet authority. He wasn't buying her excuse.

"I don't think so," he murmured, his voice low but firm. "You're after something specific. And you're in the wrong place if you're looking for answers. Anything that would be of public value you could get asking the police."

Rae-a's mind raced, running through every possible scenario. If she tried to force her way past him, he'd stop her. If she stayed, the risk of him uncovering too much only grew. She needed to tip the balance in her favor, to find an opening—any opening—that would let her escape without drawing further suspicion.

Her voice remained level, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of warning in her tone. "Let me go. I don't have time for this."

Jun-ho, unshaken, took a measured step closer. "I'm not letting you leave until you explain yourself." His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. "Now tell me, what are you really after?"

She clenched her jaw, her mind working at lightning speed. How much could she reveal without giving herself away? The wrong words could make her a suspect. The right ones might give her just enough leeway to slip past him. She met his gaze, careful to keep her expression neutral, devoid of anything he could use against her.

"I don't owe you an explanation," she said, her voice cold and controlled.

Jun-ho raised an eyebrow. If anything she owed an explanation now more than ever. He was trained to pick apart lies, to catch the smallest tremor of uncertainty. He stepped forward again, closing the space between them, his presence a silent challenge. "You're in a lot more trouble than you think if you don't come clean," he said quietly, his tone edged with warning.

Rae-a's eyes flickered briefly to the door, then back to him. He was standing too close, his stance unwavering, his body a barrier she wasn't sure she could breach without escalating the situation. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then she exhaled slowly, shaking her head just slightly. "You don't know what I'm after," she said, her voice quieter now, but laced with something unreadable. "You don't want to know."

Jun-ho's eyes darkened slightly, but he didn't speak. She could see the gears turning in his mind, the way he was weighing his options, assessing whether it was worth pushing her further. Something in the way she spoke—the certainty, the edge of something almost dangerous—made him pause. His instincts told him there was more to this woman than what she was letting on.

He held her gaze for another moment, his fingers twitching at his side, but eventually, he took a step back, barely perceptible but enough. He wasn't letting her off the hook, not completely, but he was letting her go—at least for now.

"You're making a mistake," he said, his voice quieter this time, almost as if it were a warning rather than an accusation.

Rae-a didn't hesitate. She slipped past him, her movements swift but controlled, never showing the urgency clawing at her insides. As she reached the door, she cast a glance over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

"I already know, but it won't stop me."

Then she was gone, vanishing into the night like a ghost, leaving Jun-ho standing there, the silence pressing in around him. His jaw tightened as he turned back toward the dimly lit room, his mind racing with questions he didn't yet have answers to.

His gaze drifted to the file cabinet she had been searching through, a sliver of a clue in the middle of an ever-growing mystery. A name, perhaps? A missing person? Whatever it was, it wasn't random.

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared at the door she had disappeared through.

"Who the hell was that?"

The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the quiet shuffle of papers as Jun-ho sifted through the open drawer. His fingers traced over the worn edges of the missing persons files, his mind piecing together the timeline. The names on the pages stared back at him—people who had vanished without a trace, all within a disturbingly short period.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. Rae-a had been looking for something specific. Not just a missing person, but multiple—people who had all disappeared on the same day, at the same time, under the same inexplicable circumstances. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as he recognized a pattern, one that had haunted him for months. These were the same cases he had been investigating in secret. The ones tied to the whispers of something far more sinister.

The Squid Games.

Jun-ho straightened, his hands braced against the edge of the desk as realization washed over him. Rae-a had been looking for the same people he had. But why? How did she know about them? Was she connected to them, or was she trying to uncover the truth just like he was? His instincts told him it wasn't a coincidence. No one breaks into a police records office for casual curiosity.

His gaze flickered toward the door she had slipped through moments ago, his mind already working through the possibilities. The way she had moved—calculated, silent, completely aware of her surroundings—she wasn't just some concerned citizen. She was trained. Experienced. Dangerous.

And if he hadn't stayed late tonight, he never would have known she had been here at all.

A chill ran through him. How many times had she done this before? How many times had she slipped in and out of places unnoticed, leaving no trace behind? He had caught her this time, but only by chance. That meant she was good. Very good.

Jun-ho's hand curled into a fist as he stepped away from the desk. If she was tied to the Squid Games, then she was either part of the people responsible—or she was after them. Either way, she had leads. And he needed to know what they were.

Tailing her was the only option.

He moved quickly, shutting the file drawer and smoothing out the papers to leave everything just as it was. He needed to make sure no one else suspected anything was off. If Rae-a had gotten in without alerting security, then the last thing he needed was someone checking the records and realizing something had been disturbed.

His eyes flicked to the security cameras in the corners of the room. He would have to erase the footage of her being here. If she was smart—and he suspected she was—she had already taken precautions, but he couldn't take the risk. If someone else was looking for her, or if she was on someone's radar, this break-in could put her in even more danger. He wasn't sure why he cared about that, but something about her told him she wasn't working for the enemy. Not directly, at least.

No. She was searching for something. Just like he was.

Jun-ho grabbed his coat, slipping it over his shoulders as he made his way toward the door, his mind made up. He had to find out who Rae-a really was, what she knew, and—most importantly—how deep her connection to the Squid Games went. Because if she had answers, then she was the key to everything he had been chasing for years.

And he wasn't about to let her slip away again.

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The scent of aged leather and polished mahogany lingered in the air as Hwang In-ho stepped into the grand foyer of the luxury high-rise. The sheer scale of the space exuded wealth, from the towering ceilings adorned with intricate gold-trimmed moldings to the grand chandelier that cascaded warm, golden light across the marble floors. Each step he took sent a crisp echo through the vast chamber, the sharp clack of his leather shoes cutting through the heavy silence. The atmosphere was almost suffocating in its refinement, every detail meticulously curated to display power and prestige.

A butler stood at attention near the sweeping staircase, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable beneath the veneer of professional composure. His tailored suit was immaculate, not a single crease out of place, a silent testament to the level of discipline expected in an establishment like this. Despite the outward calm, there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze as he met In-ho's eyes—a flicker that quickly vanished as he bowed slightly in greeting.

In-ho didn't need introductions here. His presence alone carried weight, an unspoken authority that commanded the room without effort. He took a slow breath, letting the rich scent of luxury settle in his lungs. This was a world built on control, on power wielded with precision and cruelty. Precisely where he would fit in.

"Mr. Hwang," the butler greeted with a deep bow, his tone polished and professional.

In-ho offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable, the slight tilt of his chin exuding quiet authority. His tailored black suit fit him perfectly, a vision of precision and power. Though his hair was slicked back, a few loose strands fell effortlessly forward, an almost calculated imperfection that made him appear both composed and untamed.

Before another word could be exchanged, another man approached. Unlike the butler, this one was rough around the edges, though clearly well-dressed and carrying an air of importance. He had the physique of a man accustomed to power, not just wealth. His dark eyes assessed In-ho, sizing him up, but there was no attempt to mask his begrudging respect.

"You're expected," he stated in a gravelly voice, offering a single nod before turning. "Follow me."

In-ho did not hesitate. His stride remained unrushed yet commanding as he followed, his presence forcing a clear path down the long corridor. The silence between them was comfortable—neither needed pleasantries. The only sound was the rhythmic click of his heels against the floor, a quiet yet deliberate declaration of dominance.

As they approached the set of towering double doors, the man escorting Hwang In-ho pushed them open without a moment's hesitation. The polished wood groaned slightly on its hinges, revealing the vast chamber beyond—a room that radiated wealth, power, and something more dangerous lurking beneath. The air inside carried a different weight, thick with unspoken tension and the sharp undercurrent of control. A subtle shift rippled through the occupants as In-ho stepped inside. Conversations stilled. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy tendrils toward the gilded ceiling. Glasses of aged whiskey paused halfway to their lips.

Several pairs of eyes turned toward him—calculating, assessing. These were men who did not deal in trivialities, their tailored suits and measured gazes masking the ruthless ambition that had brought them to this table. Each carried their own influence, their own grip over a piece of the world outside these walls. Yet none of them commanded the room. None of them held the effortless gravity of the man seated at the head of the long, obsidian conference table.

He leaned back in his chair, draped in a tailored three-piece suit that looked as though it had never known a wrinkle. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, a casual movement at odds with the razor-sharp glint in his dark eyes. He exuded control—not the kind that needed to be declared, but the kind that was understood without question. The kind that made men hesitate before speaking in his presence. His expression was one of mild amusement, yet not a single muscle in his body betrayed a moment of true relaxation. This was a man who never let his guard down, because he never needed to.

When he finally spoke, his voice was as smooth as finely aged whiskey, carrying an edge of intrigue beneath the civility.

"Hwang In-ho."

It wasn't a question. It was an acknowledgment. A recognition. A test.

"I've heard much about you."

In-ho met his gaze without hesitation, stepping forward with slow, deliberate ease, his every movement measured yet unhurried. He had long mastered the art of control—not just in action, but in presence. No hesitation. No wasted movement. His polished shoes barely made a sound against the sleek marble floor, yet the weight of his approach filled the room like an approaching storm. He was neither submissive nor boastful. He was an equal, and every single person in that room knew it.

His lips curved into a faint smirk as he neared the table, his tone carrying just enough weight to match the man before him.

"And I, you..." A beat passed, deliberate, knowing.

"Kang Chul-soo."

The name settled into the air like the final move in a game of strategy. The moment of quiet that followed wasn't hesitation—it was anticipation, thick and charged. The other men in the room exhaled, some subtly adjusting in their seats, as though the balance of power had just shifted, or perhaps settled.

Kang Chul-soo's fingers stilled against the armrest. Then, with a flick of his wrist—so effortless it barely seemed intentional—the room refocused. Conversations picked up again, though more measured now. The air of casual camaraderie remained, but something had changed.

In-ho pulled out his chair and took his seat with the same steady confidence, exuding the silent message that he was not an outsider, not a subordinate. He was something else entirely.

And they all knew it.

Chul-soo steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable as he regarded In-ho with quiet intrigue. "Your Squid Games... a fascinating spectacle," he mused, his tone light, yet carrying the weight of someone who recognized something valuable when he saw it.

In-ho met his gaze without hesitation. "It is more than that," he corrected, his voice even, deliberate. There was no arrogance in his words, only certainty. "It is control. Desperation is the most effective leash. When men have nothing, they will gamble everything."

A quiet chuckle came from one of the men seated nearby, a low sound of amusement mixed with something closer to admiration. "And you? What do you gain from this, Mr. Hwang?"

In-ho's smirk widened ever so slightly. "A well-played game is its own reward."

Chul-soo let out a small laugh, entertained rather than challenged. "I like the way you think," he admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the polished table. "There are people in my circle who would be very interested in this... enterprise of yours. I see potential—greater reach, stronger investments. Opportunities to turn something already powerful into something unstoppable."

He wasn't pressing him. Not yet. This wasn't a demand, but an offer wrapped in curiosity. The way a man might study a blade before deciding whether to wield it.

In-ho let his fingers tap idly against the surface of the table, as if considering. 

In truth, he had already anticipated a conversation like this. These men—especially Chul-soo—were never content to be observers. Power, to them, was not something to admire from afar; it was something to seize, to mold, to control.

"A global expansion," Chul-soo continued, his tone measured, inviting. "There are markets beyond Korea. People with the means to make this something far greater. Imagine what you could do with even more resources at your disposal."

In-ho tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "You assume I am in need of assistance."

Chul-soo gave a slow shake of his head, his smirk barely visible. "Not assistance," he clarified. "Expansion. Even the most calculated endeavors benefit from the right allies."

It was an invitation, not a challenge. A carefully extended hand, rather than a grip around his throat. But the meaning behind it remained clear—power did not exist in isolation.

Silence settled between them, stretching just long enough for the other men in the room to shift in their seats, waiting. In-ho could feel the weight of their gazes, measuring his reaction, gauging whether he would take the bait.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Power is necessary," he conceded, his voice calm, unwavering. "But the difference between a king and a warlord is patience. The Games are already expanding. The question is whether you are willing to wait for the inevitable or if you would rather watch from the sidelines."

A beat passed. Then, Chul-soo chuckled—a quiet, knowing sound. "Spoken like a man who understands exactly where he stands."

"Not above," In-ho corrected smoothly. "Simply ahead."

Chul-soo studied him for a moment longer, then gestured to one of his men. A sleek black envelope was placed onto the table and slid toward In-ho with a careful precision, its weight deliberate.

"I'm hosting a gathering soon," Chul-soo said. "A masquerade ball. Exclusive, of course. The best of the underground world—those who truly run things."

In-ho picked up the invitation, his fingers gliding over the embossed lettering. The craftsmanship was meticulous. It wasn't just an invitation; it was recognition. A test.

"You want me there," he mused, betraying nothing in his tone.

Chul-soo's smile was slow, unreadable. "I do."

Before In-ho could respond, the heavy wooden door to the meeting room swung open with a force that shattered the silence, and a guard hurried inside. His hasty entrance was like a stone dropped into still water, disrupting the carefully crafted atmosphere of control and power.

Chul-soo's eyes flashed with a cold, unblinking intensity, the smile that had lingered moments before slipping away in an instant. His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto the intruding guard. "This better be important," he growled, his voice a controlled venom, betraying the ruthlessness lurking beneath his calm exterior.

The guard hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering nervously, before leaning in close, whispering into Chul-soo's ear. In-ho didn't need to hear the words to understand the shift that occurred. The transformation in Chul-soo's demeanor was immediate and unmistakable.

In an instant, the man who had moments ago exuded an almost charming confidence, now resembled a predator with an unnerving calmness. His fingers curled tightly against the smooth surface of the table, knuckles white, as if the very idea of what he had just heard clawed at his composure.

"Bring her here," Chul-soo's voice dropped, colder than before, ice coating every syllable. "Alive."

The words hit In-ho like a shockwave. Her. His mind registered the implication immediately, sharp as a blade cutting through the fog of his thoughts. There was only one person who could prompt such a reaction, one person who mattered enough to elicit this kind of order from Kang Chul-soo. 

Rae-a.

A familiar tension sparked through his veins, but In-ho's expression never wavered. He remained perfectly still, an unreadable mask of calm. His mind, however, began to race. Rae-a—of course, it would be her. She was the one he couldn't keep up with, the one who always eluded him, no matter how many strings he pulled or how carefully he orchestrated his plans.

And now, she was in Chul-soo's sights, after evading him so well previously.

A flicker of something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest—worry. It was an emotion he had no use for, yet it sank its claws into him before he could shake it off. Rae-a was reckless, brilliant but reckless, and Chul-soo was the last person she needed to be in sight of.

He clenched his jaw, though his face remained impassive. The fact that Chul-soo had his sights on her after being hidden from him for so long, left an uneasy feeling in his chest.

Despite the fire that was beginning to burn beneath his composed exterior, In-ho leaned back in his chair, his hands folding neatly in front of him, a picture of detached observation. The sudden urgency in Chul-soo's demeanor didn't escape him, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. Rae-a had always been a source of constant tension, that he was familiar with. She was a force neither could quite control, yet both were drawn to in one way or another.

The guard turned and rushed off, a flurry of motion that Chul-soo watched with narrowed eyes, his mind clearly elsewhere now, locked onto whatever information he had just received. His gaze flicked back to In-ho, now expectantly waiting for a response, as though challenging In-ho to acknowledge the situation and, perhaps, even agree to his role in it.

In-ho met his gaze with unflinching steadiness, his lips curving into a smirk that was equal parts amusement and calculation. His voice, smooth and casual, broke the silence that had descended. "Then I suppose I'll have the pleasure of witnessing your hospitality firsthand."

Chul-soo's lips parted, a hearty laugh rumbling from deep within his chest. There was something almost delighted in his expression now, quick to hide his previous annoyance, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as if the situation had just become a new game to be played. "Everything you need is on the card," he said, his tone rich with excitement, every word dripping with an implication that only In-ho would understand. The weight of the statement hung in the air like a promise—or a threat—something more than just a simple exchange. It was a declaration of trust, an invitation to take a step deeper into his dangerous world.

In-ho allowed himself a soft hum of acknowledgment, fingers grazing the edge of the black envelope Chul-soo had handed him earlier. He had no intention of using the card, not yet, but the gesture was one of respect. The others in the room rose to their feet as well, following the unspoken etiquette, all eyes on In-ho as if waiting for some sign of what would come next.

"I really must be going," In-ho said, his voice remaining calm and composed, even as his mind churned with the thought of Rae-a and the complications she had introduced into the picture. "I have other preparations to attend to. The VIP members of the Squid Games require my attention."

Chul-soo nodded, though the satisfaction still lingered in his expression, reluctant to let the moment slip away. "Of course, of course," he said, stepping forward as if to personally escort In-ho to the door. "There will be plenty of time to discuss the future. For now, let's keep things interesting."

As they neared the exit, In-ho paused, then turned slightly, a casual gesture that belied the sharpness of his thoughts. His voice was smooth, almost too smooth, as he spoke. "Mind if I use a restroom before I go?"

Chul-soo, his smile still lingering, waved a hand dismissively, his eyes never leaving In-ho's face. "Take him," he said, ordering one of the guards near the door to escort In-ho. The guard, stiff and attentive, gestured for In-ho to follow, and without a word, In-ho stood, his gaze still fixed on Chul-soo.

As he followed the guard, the weight of the black card in his hand, the conversation lingering in his mind, In-ho couldn't shake the thought of Rae-a. She had become something far more than an asset. Now, she was a challenge, a puzzle he couldn't solve, and that, above all, made her dangerous to both him and Chul-soo.

As they walked down the long, dimly lit hallway, In-ho's mind raced, calculations spinning like clockwork behind his composed exterior. His thoughts drifted away from the masquerade ball, away from Chul-soo's proposition. Instead, they centered on something far more pressing.

Rae-a.

She was in danger. He knew it the moment the guard whispered into Chul-soo's ear and saw the way the man's expression hardened. The order was given swiftly—"Bring her here. Alive." That alone was enough to send warning signals through his mind. Knowing that Chul-soo now intended to keep her alive meant that she was much more valuable to him than even he expected. Chul-soo wanted her back as his puppet and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit to himself. 

That man would break her in ways that he would never be able to reverse.

The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hallway, and though the guard remained silent, In-ho was aware of his presence, of the way his sharp gaze subtly flicked toward him every so often. There was always the possibility that his communications were being monitored, that even now, Chul-soo's men were watching him more closely than usual. It was a game within a game, and In-ho had spent years perfecting the art of staying several moves ahead.

The restroom was a polished, marble-lined space, pristine and empty. As soon as he stepped inside, he locked the door behind him and pulled out his phone. His fingers moved with precision, sending a message to one of his square-masked guards back at the Squid Game compound.

Hold the VIP meeting. I will be late.

It was a simple message. One that, on the surface, held no significance. But to the right recipient, it meant something entirely different.

A code. A directive.

He knew his guard would understand. That message wasn't meant to inform them of his delay—it was an order to initiate a secondary line of communication, a ripple that would set off a chain reaction beyond the reach of Chul-soo's eyes and ears. Within moments, his message would be relayed to another party, one far removed from the underground dealings of this place.

Running a hand through his hair, In-ho exhaled slowly, allowing a fleeting moment of concern to surface. He rarely permitted himself this indulgence, but Rae-a had a way of dismantling his carefully built control. His grip on the phone tightened for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to release the tension.

She was capable. He knew that. But this was different. This wasn't a game of survival within the controlled walls of the Squid Game, where he had the power. This was Kang Chul-soo's world now—ruthless, unpredictable, and merciless.

He has no doubt she is aware of this. But he pondered if she was being too careless.

Though he had no intention of leaving her to face it alone.

With one last glance at his phone screen, he tucked it away and straightened his suit. By the time he unlocked the restroom door and stepped back into the dim hallway, his face was a mask of composed indifference once more.

"Let's go," he said to the waiting guard, his voice void of anything but cool professionalism.

But beneath that, the clock was already ticking.