The night's events were still fresh, thick with tension. Joon-ho, Hae-won, and Director Hye-su had ventured deep into Ebonveil Highlands, hoping to ambush the elusive Jin-ho. Their plan was simple but bold: confront him within NexaRealm and lock him down. If successful, they could have restrained his movements—something no ordinary player could endure, but Jin-ho wasn't ordinary.
Everything seemed aligned. Joon-ho played his part, guiding the women to where he often met Jin-ho in the game. The teleportation to Ebonveil was risky, and the mission was steeped in uncertainty, but Director Hye-su's determination was unrelenting. They were so close. Close enough that when they finally materialized in the Highlands, Jin-ho had been standing right there.
But when their avatars took form, Jin-ho was gone—or so it seemed. The frustration that followed was immediate. Director Hye-su erupted, swearing as she demanded answers from Hae-won, who diligently searched the logs for any trace of him. But nothing appeared.
Unknown to them, Jin-ho had been watching silently all along, hidden just out of reach, wrapped in the power of the Nova Reverie—a legendary item that let him rewrite the rules of the game to his will. With it, he masked his presence, making himself invisible to both players and system logs.
The air had grown thick with frustration and suspicion. Joon-ho stood helpless, guilt eating at him, unsure whether he'd done the right thing by trying to warn Jin-ho. Meanwhile, the two women paced and searched, knowing that Jin-ho had slipped through their fingers just moments before.
Now, the ambush had ended without resolution, leaving more questions than answers. Jin-ho remained a ghost—out of sight, out of reach, and out of control.
The frustration weighed heavily on Director Hye-su. She stood still for a moment, fists clenched, her breath fogging in the cold air of Ebonveil Highlands. No sign of Jin-ho in the game logs, no evidence in the code, and certainly no victory in their ambush.
"This was a bust," she muttered bitterly. "If Jin-ho knows we tried this, he's not logging in again anytime soon."
Hae-won, fingers still gliding through the UI's interface, gave a quiet sigh.
"Yeah… We're back to square one. And now that Joon-ho's position is compromised, we've lost our edge."
The words hit Joon-ho hard. He stood quietly, biting the inside of his cheek, feeling like he had failed both sides. The sense of accomplishment he once felt—thinking he'd successfully navigated between his old friend Jin-ho and Director Hye-su's expectations—was shattered. He didn't know whose trust he had betrayed more.
"Well," Director Hye-su continued with a resigned sigh, her voice tinged with disappointment. "There's nothing more we can do tonight."
She tapped her UI to initiate the log-out sequence. Hae-won followed her lead, reluctantly beginning the same process.
Just as the avatars began to dim, the pixels around their forms blurring to signal their departure from the game, a low whisper slid into Director Hye-su's ear.
"You're giving up already? That's not the Hye-su I know," the voice teased softly.
It was a voice she knew all too well—Jin-ho's.
Her entire body tensed. She spun on instinct, her eyes narrowing.
"No…" she muttered in disbelief. "You little—"
Without thinking, she swung her arm through the thin air. And jackpot—her hand collided with something. Not pixels or lag artefacts—flesh. She could feel the soft give of a shoulder, followed by the shift of someone trying to pull away.
"Gotcha."
In a flash, Hye-su dropped into a low stance, using all the agility her avatar granted her. With a quick movement, she twisted her arm, caught the invisible figure, and yanked him into a flawless shoulder throw.
Whoomph!
The figure hit the snow, a puff of white exploding into the air. A groan followed, and as the figure rolled onto his side, the veil of invisibility flickered away, revealing Jin-ho.
He lay sprawled in the snow, rubbing the small of his back with a wince, grinning through the pain.
"Damn, you've been practising, Hye-su."
Director Hye-su towered over him, breathing heavily, fists clenched tight. Her expression was somewhere between fury and triumph.
"You shouldn't have provoked me, Jin-ho."
He gave her a wry smile, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah… figured that out the hard way."
Jin-ho shifted in the snow, still rubbing his sore back, then tilted his head to Hae-won with a half-smile.
"Don't bother putting any restrictions on me," he said casually, cutting straight through any pleasantries. "I'm not running. No need to go through all that hassle."
Hae-won blinked, her hand hovering over the UI interface mid-command. Suspicion flickered across her face.
"You noticed?"
Jin-ho tapped the air in front of him, the faintest ripple of holographic UI screens visible only to his eyes.
"There've been… changes," he said, vague but certain. "It gotta be you that done something to my profile, virtually speaking. Probably backdoors you two slipped in."
Hae-won and Director Hye-su exchanged glances, a shadow of unease passing between them. It was true—they had taken certain liberties with NexaRealm's architecture to monitor Jin-ho, just in case. Jin-ho's grin broadened slightly as if savouring the fact that he had outed their precautions, but he didn't seem angry or resentful.
"Anyway," he said with a shrug, dusting snow off his avatar's shoulders. "I'm here now. I'm not planning to run. So, what now?"
The air between the three old friends grew heavy, thicker than the chill of the Ebonveil Highlands around them. They stood still, avatars outlined against the twilight snowfield, unsure of how to bridge the years of conflict and unresolved misunderstandings. Words failed them, the weight of their shared history pressing on their chests.
For once, even Hye-su—known for her sharp tongue—couldn't find the right thing to say. Her anger fizzled, replaced by something deeper: the realization that they were standing face-to-face again, after all these years. But instead of relief, they found themselves tongue-tied, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of emotions they had buried for too long.
Jin-ho knew that if they stood in silence any longer, the awkward tension would strangle them all. He scratched the back of his head, then offered a wry smile.
"Alright. Let's get this out of the way—I know saying sorry won't change anything. But still, I am sorry."
Director Hye-su raised an eyebrow, her lips pressed into a thin line. Jin-ho noticed her scepticism and, as always, redirected with a bit of playful deflection.
"But hey… you two look good," he added, casting a glance between them. "Hae-won, NexaCorp's still standing, so you've been doing an amazing job assisting Hye-su. And Hye-su... haven't lost your killer instincts, I'll give you that."
He rubbed his back again, smirking.
Hye-su's rigid stance softened, and Hae-won's usual stern expression melted into a small, reluctant smile. For all the frustration, betrayal, and lost time, it hit them both—Jin-ho hadn't changed much at all. He was still the same sly, slippery bastard they remembered. And somehow, that familiarity brought a strange kind of comfort.
A moment passed, and with it, the lingering tension dissipated like frost in the morning sun.
"Damn you, Jin-ho," Hye-su muttered under her breath, though there was no malice left in her words.
"Missed me, didn't you?" Jin-ho grinned, his expression full of mischief.
"It's good to see you, you idiot," Hae-won exhaled a laugh.
"Same here," Jin-ho said, his smile turning softer for just a moment. "Same here."
Joon-ho stood off to the side, arms crossed, feeling utterly out of place. The reunion between Jin-ho, Director Hye-su, and Hae-won had unfolded in front of him, layered with emotions he couldn't quite grasp. He watched as the three exchanged words—some sharp, some teasing—and slowly melted into a familiarity that seemed both fragile and genuine. It was a world he didn't belong to, and he felt like an intruder in a moment that wasn't his to witness.
The casual shift in their tones, the sudden breaking of long-standing tension... Joon-ho knew something important had just happened between the three of them, but he couldn't tell if it was closure or just another beginning. Whatever it was, it wasn't meant for him. He could feel it in every word exchanged between them.
His eyes drifted over the snowy expanse of the Ebonveil Highlands, where the stars shimmered faintly above. The weight of their reunion was palpable in the air, and yet Joon-ho felt like a distant observer in a play he didn't understand. Should he say something? Should he try to leave quietly?
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to figure out what to do next. Staying felt awkward, like he was third-wheeling in an intimate moment between old friends. Leaving felt wrong, as if walking away would somehow shatter the delicate reunion taking place. He didn't know where he fits in this strange equation.
For the first time in a long while, Joon-ho—usually sharp and quick on his feet—was completely unsure of what to do. His mind scrambled for a solution, but there wasn't one. He was stuck between staying and leaving, between being part of this moment and not belonging to it at all.
And so, he stayed still, hovering in the uncomfortable in-between, as the voices of the reunited friends continued to fill the cold, digital air around him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he adjusted his stance, and for now, he did nothing. Just… waiting.
Waiting to see what came next.