5: (THE VANISHING GAME)
Seungbae never lost.
Not to petty criminals. Not to corrupt officers. Not to the system that tried to silence him.
And he sure as hell wasn't going to lose to a dead man.
But right now, Oh Sangwoo—or whoever was playing this sick joke—was winning.
And Seungbae was on the edge of snapping.
—
The moment the video cut out, he was already moving.
He grabbed his gun, his badge, and stormed out of the station, ignoring the looks from his colleagues.
Someone was behind this.
Someone had been watching him, taunting him, playing mind games with him like he was some kind of prey.
That was a mistake.
Because Yang Seungbae was no one's prey.
—
The moment he stepped into his car, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
He answered without a word.
Static.
Then—laughter.
That goddamn laugh.
Low, slow, condescending.
Like Sangwoo was right beside him, whispering in his ear.
"You always were slow, Detective."
Seungbae's fingers twitched against his gun.
The anger in his chest was turning into something sharp. Something deadly.
"Where the hell are you?" he growled.
The voice hummed, amused.
"Now, now… is that any way to ask for a favor?"
Seungbae's breath came out in short bursts.
Every muscle in his body screamed for action.
A location. A lead. A face to punch until it wasn't smiling anymore.
But instead—
The voice chuckled.
"You're fun when you're mad."
Then—click.
The call cut.
And Seungbae?
Seungbae lost it.
—
His fist slammed into the dashboard, hard enough to crack the plastic.
His vision blurred. His breath was ragged.
Everything inside him was burning.
This wasn't fear.
This wasn't frustration.
This was pure, unfiltered rage.
He was being mocked. Played with.
Whoever this was—whoever was behind this—thought they could pull his strings and make him dance.
They were wrong.
—
Seungbae turned the key in the ignition, his car roaring to life.
He didn't know where he was going yet.
But he'd find out.
He'd tear through the streets, kick down doors, break bones if he had to—
But one thing was certain.
This game?
It was ending tonight.
ー
Yoonbum sat curled up on the old mattress, the air in Sangwoo's empty house thick with dust and the scent of something long gone—but never truly gone.
His fingers trembled as he clutched at the fabric of Sangwoo's old sweater, the one he had stolen from the closet before the fire swallowed everything. The scent had faded, replaced by something stale, something rotting. But in his mind—it was still Sangwoo.
Still warm. Still real.
Still his.
—
The house should have been empty.
Sangwoo was dead.
Yoonbum had seen his body, had felt the flames as they swallowed him whole.
And yet—
He was still here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Just beyond the edges of Yoonbum's vision.
—
A shadow flickered in the corner of the room.
Yoonbum's breath hitched. His heart stuttered.
He squeezed his eyes shut, whispering under his breath.
"It's not real, it's not real, it's not real—"
But then—
A voice.
Low. Mocking. So familiar.
"Did you miss me, Bum?"
His body went rigid. His fingers dug into the fabric of the sweater, knuckles turning white.
No.
No, this wasn't happening.
It was in his head.
It had to be.
—
But then—
A hand.
A slow, deliberate touch, dragging cold fingers along the back of his neck.
Yoonbum gasped, his body jolting, his skin breaking out in goosebumps.
His breath came in short, desperate pants, his pulse thrumming in his throat.
He didn't turn around.
Couldn't.
Because if he did—
If he looked—
He would see him.
And if he saw him—
He wouldn't be able to stop himself.
—
"Look at you," the voice purred, amusement laced with something darker. "Still so desperate. Still waiting for me."
Yoonbum swallowed hard, his entire body trembling.
He should run.
Should scream, should pray, should fight—
But instead—
He stayed.
He let the voice coil around him like smoke.
He let the hands—real or imagined—ghost over his skin.
Because the truth was—
He wanted this.
The fear. The pain. The sick, twisted pleasure of knowing Sangwoo would always own him.
Even in death.
Especially in death.
—
Yoonbum let his forehead drop against the mattress, his breath shaky, his hands clenching the sheets.
He felt disgusting.
He felt alive.
He felt owned.
And no matter how much his rational mind screamed at him—
No matter how much he whispered to himself that this wasn't real—
His body knew the truth.
Sangwoo wasn't gone.
He would never be gone.
And Yoonbum?
He would always belong to him.
Even if it killed him.
ー
Seungbae gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles bone-white as he sped down the dimly lit streets. His pulse was hammering in his throat, but his mind was razor-sharp. The rage hadn't faded—it had settled, coiling in his gut like a loaded gun.
The call was a warning. A taunt. A game.
And he was sick of playing by someone else's rules.
—
His phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
This time, he put it on speaker.
"Who the hell are you?" he snapped.
A low chuckle. Smooth. Almost bored.
"I'm disappointed, Detective. I thought you were smarter than this."
Seungbae's jaw locked. He forced his grip to relax—don't let him see you flinch.
"You're just some lowlife playing dress-up with a dead man's name," he said coolly. "You're not Sangwoo."
Silence.
Then—
"Are you sure?"
A cold chill crawled down Seungbae's spine.
And then—a ping.
A message.
A video.
Seungbae's hands clenched as he glanced at the screen.
The footage was grainy, a street cam's perspective. A man walking down an alley, his silhouette sharp against the flickering streetlights.
180cm. Lean frame. Hair, dark and tousled.
And the way he moved—effortless.
Seungbae's blood turned to ice.
Because he had seen that walk before.
Oh Sangwoo.
—
His breath was steady, but his heart was a war drum in his chest.
"This is fake," he said. Had to be.
A low hum from the other end of the line.
"You sound nervous, Detective."
Seungbae ignored the bait. "Deepfake technology has improved, but you made a mistake." He exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the wheel. "Sangwoo is dead. His remains were confirmed. I was there."
"Were you?" the voice mused. "You saw the fire. You saw the ashes. But did you ever see a body?"
Seungbae's breath caught.
And the bastard knew it.
Another low chuckle.
Checkmate.
—
Seungbae's mind was racing. His instincts screamed trap, trap, trap.
He had been so sure.
He had watched the flames devour Sangwoo's house, had seen the reports confirm his death.
And yet.
Something felt wrong.
Like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
The case had been too easy to close. The remains too damaged for proper identification.
What if…?
No.
No, it was impossible.
Wasn't it?
—
A slow inhale. A measured exhale.
Then, Seungbae spoke.
"Where do we meet?"
The voice on the other end smiled.
And the game began again.
(Fill something here)
But before he could push himself up, a boot pressed hard against his chest.
Seungbae gritted his teeth, muscles tensing as he fought against the weight. His ribs screamed in protest.
The man crouched down, gaze sharp, predatory. The smirk on his lips was wrong—it was Sangwoo's, but it wasn't.
"You still don't get it, do you?" His voice was soft, mocking. His fingers brushed against Seungbae's jaw.
Seungbae's skin crawled. He jerked his head away, breath sharp.
The man only chuckled. "Poor, stubborn detective."
Seungbae inhaled through his nose.
Think. Find an opening.
His eyes flicked toward the gun—too far. But his knife—his knife was still strapped to his ankle.
His fingers twitched, waiting for the right moment.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Fragile.
"…Sangwoo?"
Bum's voice.
Seungbae froze.
The man above him did too.
Then, slowly, his gaze slid toward Bum.
And the smirk widened.
"There you are," he murmured, voice almost tender.
Seungbae's stomach twisted.
Bum was trembling, curled in on himself, but he wasn't looking away. His lips were slightly parted, his breath uneven, his fingers clutching at his own arms—like he was holding himself together.
Seungbae could see it.
The doubt. The fear. The hope.
No.
Not again.
Seungbae moved.
In one swift motion, he grabbed his knife and swung.
The blade slashed through the air—
But the man was gone.
Seungbae barely had time to react before something slammed into his back, knocking him forward.
His vision blurred. His hands caught the ground, barely keeping himself from face-planting.
He turned.
And the man was there again, standing by Bum now, fingers brushing his cheek.
Seungbae's heart stopped.
Bum flinched but didn't move away. His body was trembling, eyes locked onto the man's face—staring.
Seungbae could see it. The way Bum's breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched, wanting to reach forward.
Seungbae's chest ached.
"Bum," he said, voice low, controlled.
"Don't."
Bum's gaze flickered toward him.
But before he could say anything—
The man leaned in.
And whispered, right against his ear—
"Come home."
Seungbae lunged.
But before he could reach them—
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Seungbae lunged.
Too slow.
A brutal strike slammed into the back of his skull, and for a split second, his vision fractured—white-hot pain splintering across his senses. His body pitched forward, his knees crashing to the ground. His hands grasped at nothing but stale air, muscles screaming, instincts roaring—
Then—black.
—
When he came to, the silence was wrong.
Not the natural hush of an empty room. Not the stillness of the dead.
This was the kind of silence that hissed in his ears. That coiled around his ribs like a vise. That told him, before his vision had even fully cleared, that something was missing.
That someone was missing.
Seungbae sucked in a breath. Bum.
He pushed up on trembling arms, his skull pounding, his pulse a violent drumbeat against his ribs. A metallic taste—blood. His head was spinning, but he shoved the pain down, forced himself up. His body screamed at him to stop, to breathe, to recover.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
Because Bum was gone.
So was he.
His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. His breath left him in shaky exhales, but it wasn't fear. It wasn't pain.
It was rage.
It clawed at his chest, raw and ravenous, an open wound that refused to close.
He had been so close.
Too slow. Again.
He forced his legs to move, staggering upright. The room spun for half a second before he locked his knees, planting himself firmly on the ground. His vision sharpened. The world snapped into focus.
He wasn't in Sangwoo's old house anymore.
He was in somewhere new.
A warehouse? A basement? The walls were cracked concrete, the air damp with the scent of rot and time. Stale dust clung to the back of his throat, thick and suffocating.
And beneath it all—
The faintest trace of smoke.
Not the kind that clung to burnt buildings, not the kind that rose from a fire already reduced to embers.
This was different.
Cigarette smoke.
Lingering. Recent.
Seungbae's hands twitched at his sides.
Not real. It couldn't be real.
But his gut told him otherwise.
His gut told him that the past wasn't as dead as he thought it was.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, forcing his breathing under control. His mind was racing, replaying everything he remembered—every second, every movement, every damn mistake.
Bum.
The way he had stood there, frozen.
The way his breath had hitched, fingers trembling at his sides.
The way his eyes had locked onto that man's face.
Like he recognized him.
Like he wanted to believe it.
Seungbae's stomach twisted.
The bastard had whispered to him. Had brushed fingers against his cheek. Had leaned in so close, had said—
"Come home."
And Bum had listened.
Seungbae gritted his teeth.
Bum wasn't stupid. He wasn't weak. He had survived too much to be either of those things.
But survival wasn't the same as escape.
It never had been.
And whatever hold Sangwoo had on him in life—
It hadn't died with him.
Seungbae felt it like poison in his veins.
Bum had left with him.
Bum had let himself be taken.
And that—that burned in a way Seungbae couldn't explain.
His fist slammed into the nearest wall.
A sharp, splitting crack echoed through the space. His knuckles stung, the skin breaking, but he didn't care.
He needed to move.
He needed to find them.
He needed to end this—now.
He turned sharply, eyes scanning the space, searching for any sign of where they had gone.
His phone—where was his phone?
He checked his pockets. Empty.
Of course.
Whoever had knocked him out had made sure he wouldn't be calling for backup.
Didn't matter.
Seungbae had never been one to wait for backup.
He moved toward the door—unlocked.
Another mistake.
They hadn't even bothered to keep him locked in.
Which meant either they were long gone—or they wanted him to follow.
He didn't care which.
His jaw set. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
His entire body was bristling with a single, undeniable truth—
He wasn't letting Bum disappear again.
Not this time.
Not ever.
And whatever game this bastard thought he was playing—
It was ending.
ー
Seungbae moved.
Every muscle was taut, every nerve wired, his pulse a steady drumbeat of rage and focus. He didn't hesitate—he stormed through the door, into the unknown, into whatever trap had been laid for him.
The hallway beyond was dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the walls. His boots struck the ground hard, a sharp rhythm echoing in the silence.
No hesitation. No fear. Only purpose.
He didn't have time to think. To doubt.
Bum was out there. Somewhere.
And he had him.
The thought made his teeth clench, his fingers twitching at his sides. His gun was gone, his phone missing, but none of that mattered.
Seungbae had spent his whole life chasing criminals. He didn't need weapons.
He was the weapon.
—
The hallway led to a stairwell, the air growing colder, the scent of damp concrete mixing with something sharper.
Blood.
Faint, but there.
He descended the steps fast, two at a time, his body burning with a single need—
Find them.
The moment his foot hit the final step, he heard it.
A soft sound.
Fragile. Unsteady.
Breathing.
His body went rigid. His head snapped to the side—
And there, at the far end of the hall—
Bum.
Slumped against the wall.
Seungbae's pulse spiked.
For a split second, all he saw was blood.
His mind lurched back—to a memory, to a nightmare, to the first time he had found Bum like this—broken, battered, barely breathing.
But this time—
He wasn't alone.
He was crouched in front of him, fingers curled under Bum's chin, tilting his face up—
And that smile.
That same sick, mocking smirk.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Like he knew that Seungbae was watching.
Like he was waiting for him.
Seungbae's breath left him in a sharp, dangerous exhale.
A familiar face. A dead face.
But that wasn't possible.
It couldn't be.
Seungbae had seen the reports. Had seen the flames. Had seen the body.
Hadn't he?
His grip tightened.
It didn't matter.
Real or not. Ghost or imposter.
He was going to tear him apart.
He took a step forward—
And the bastard moved.
Not away. Toward Bum.
His fingers brushed against Bum's throat, light, casual—
Like he was claiming him.
Like he was reminding Seungbae that this—all of this—
Belonged to him.
Seungbae snapped.
He surged forward, his body a blur of motion—
But before he could reach them—
The lights went out.
—
A sharp crack.
A door slamming shut.
Darkness swallowing everything whole.
Seungbae skidded to a stop, his breath coming fast, sharp. His fists curled so tight his nails dug into his palms.
Gone.
Again.
His chest heaved. The world tilted.
He had been right there.
Right there.
And still—
Still, he was too damn slow.
—
For a moment, just a moment, the weight of it nearly crushed him.
The failure. The cycle. The never-ending, sickening loop of too late, too late, too late—
But he swallowed it down. Forced it back.
There was no time for that.
No time for regret.
No time for anything but getting him back.
No matter what it took.
—
His breath evened. His vision sharpened.
His head lifted.
And then, softly—softer than it should have been, softer than it had any right to be—
A voice.
From the darkness.
"You never learn, do you, Detective?"
A whisper. A taunt.
A challenge.
Seungbae smiled.
It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't sane.
It was sharp, wild, dangerous.
"You're right," he murmured.
Then he stepped forward.
And the hunt continued.