Archive of Our Own

Youngjae hated travel. He hated crowded airports, security queues, and overbearing lights that made pit stains bleed through his turtleneck. He especially hated the way his suitcase rattled along behind him — its fourth wheel had snapped out of place a while back, causing it to randomly veer leftward and creak like Hell.

When his phone spat out its cropped rendition of Taeyeon’s chorus, he had half a mind not to answer it. He was already through security at that point, and had planned to leave all commitments at the last metal detector. When he saw the name on the caller ID, he had a second half a mind not to answer, which, put together, should have made a full mind, but evidently not because he sighed and picked up anyway.

“What.”

“…‘What’? What do you mean, ‘what’? Is that any way to greet your hyung?”

“I’m busy, what do you want?”

“I want a ‘hello, hyung,’ to start.”

Youngjae ground his teeth. “Hello, Jihoon hyung, what do you want? Now’s not a great time.”

Jihoon sighed shallowly. “I thought you'd outgrown your brat stage.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What’s got you so pressed? You on a date or something?” Jihoon’s teasing lilt quipped through the phone line. “You’ll need to stop scowling, Youngjae-ah, or you’ll scare her off.”

Despite himself, Youngjae softened his frown, grumbling, “It’s not a date.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re still with that one girl-”

“Guy.”

“-guy, right,” Jihoon snapped in recognition, “from Kwangdong, yeah? You two bootcamping together?”

Youngjae cleared his throat. “No. No, I’m bootcamping somewhere else, actually.”

“Whereabouts?” In the hesitant silence that followed, Jihoon formed a crunchy smile. “It’s not T1 or something, right?”

“No...”

“Didn’t think so. Don’t get me wrong, you had a good season, but it wasn’t that-”

“I’m going to Shanghai,” Youngjae blurted, voice cracking assertively. “Now. My plane leaves in an hour.”

“Youngjae…” Jihoon stalled. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would you train over there?”

Youngjae scoffed, “I don’t know, hyung. Why would I train over there?”

“It doesn’t make sense for you to train over there unless-”

“Yeah, unless what.” His voice was pure gravel. “You’re not stupid, hyung, you can figure it out.”

“Shit. Were you gonna tell us?”

Youngjae shrugged. “Once I got an offer, sure. Until then, it’s just scouting. Nothing that needs mentioning.”

“You’re leaving the country,” Jihoon pointed out huskily. “You didn’t think that needed mentioning?”

Youngjae huffed, escalating, “See, this is why I didn’t tell you. This-” His words died in a coughing fit, wheezing, hacking, choking. Through the phone, Jihoon muttered single, quiet words of encouragement, breathe, slow, stop.

Once Youngjae finally recovered, Jihoon spoke again, softly this time: “I wasn’t going to stop you. I mean, I think it’s a dumb idea-”

“Didn’t ask-”

“-but I think Siwoo hyung would want you to go.”

Youngjae exhaled through his nose to keep from sighing, lest that trigger another cough. “We both know I’m not doing this for Siwoo hyung.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

No longer able to conceal his exasperation, Youngjae whined a desperate plea, a heartbroken one:

“I can’t breathe here, hyung.”

Youngjae couldn’t see if Jihoon nodded. He liked to imagine that he did.

“I get it. I do.” At least that much was true enough; if anyone understood Youngjae’s predicament, it was Jihoon. “Good luck in the LPL, Youngjae-ah.”

“Hey, I'm not signed yet,” he half-heartedly reminded.

“BLG will make you an offer.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re a jungler with a pulse, right?” Jihoon drawled. “And a functional smite button?”

Youngjae rolled his eyes. “Why’d you even call?”

“Why d’you think?” Jihoon countered, “Siwoo called me.”

Youngjae stopped in his tracks, suitcase squealing to a halt behind him. “When?”

“I rang you as soon as he hung up.”

“Fuck.” Youngjae glanced up at the foreboding black-and-white clock hanging high on the wall. “Fuck, okay. Thanks, hyung.”

“How’re you gonna thank me?” Jihoon prompted, voice dipping into the familiar pattern of a frequent joke.

“I’ll give you another scarf for Christmas,” Youngjae informed evenly.

He could fully see the nod this time, could picture the slow, careful neck motion up and back. “You always do.”

It was the tenth reported encounter with the Jigsaw Killer, the third to involve multiple victims. The M.O. — choice of victim, abduction method, and, of course, the construction of a trap — was consistent with previous cases. The most notable irregularity was the large number of victims involved.

When Jeong Jihoon and Park Dohyun were reported missing from LoLPark at 7:58 pm following their match, officials suspected they had been selected as the next two victims to be “tested” by Jigsaw and launched a search party immediately. Security footage showed both Jeong and Park separately walking to and entering a break room near the back of the building, but the room was found empty with no trace of either pro, though there were some signs of a struggle.

Park Jaehyuk was recorded leaving LoLPark in his car at 8:53 pm after responding to police questions and assisting with the initial search. He did not return to the Gen.G base nor his personal apartment that night. His abduction was not reported until after the victims were discovered due to the focus on the search for the other missing pros, his tendency to spend the night away from his residences, and the fact that Park Jaehyuk had already undergone one of Jigsaw’s “tests” not two months prior (see: JS7-2). He was the first repeat victim in the extended Jigsaw Killings case.

Ko Youngjae was abducted while smoking in the parking lot of a convenience store at 9:08 pm. The abduction was captured on the lot’s security camera, although the vehicle blocked most of the offense. He was pulled into the backseat, where he was presumably rendered unconscious as the car drove off eastward. The plates and make of the vehicle were consistent with Park Jaehyuk’s car, and the lot was approximately a ten-minute drive from LoLPark.

Kim Suhwan was last seen by a coach around 9 pm at his team’s base. He had been informed of the disappearance of Jeong Jihoon and Park Dohyun and told to remain on alert.

Son Siwoo joined the initial search party and insisted on staying at LoLPark even after the police had dismissed all non-force members for the night. When the force moved its search elsewhere at 10:03 pm, he was offered an escort back to his team’s base, which he declined, stating he wanted every man possible on the search team. 

His phone was discovered about three blocks away from the scene. The last call he made was at 10:13 pm to Jeong Jihoon’s mother.

Youngjae canceled his flight. He sat in the lounge, head in hands, phone off silent, and waited.

If Siwoo was sleeping with Dohyun, it would be about ninety minutes. If Siwoo was sleeping with Dohyun and Jaehyuk knew about it, it could easily be two hundred.

Youngjae stopped smoking after the incident, more out of necessity than a change of heart, but frequently wished that he hadn’t, especially at times like these. It would kill the time, if not cut the tension. Maybe it would kill him, too, but maybe he’d be fine with that.

Forty minutes after Jihoon’s call, Youngjae’s phone rang. He took a shaky breath, and answered.

“Hi, hyung.”

“Youngjae-ah~!” Siwoo sang, voice as full and bright and bubbly as ever. “Hello, hi, how are ya?”

“I'm good. Fine. I'm actually out right now.” He left a pause in case Siwoo would offer to call back, but was bailed out by no such niceties. Surrendering, he confessed, “I'm at the airport. I'm going to bootcamp with the LPL teams, maybe go to a few tryouts.”

If the news surprised Siwoo, he showed no sign of it. “That's great! Did you already tell Jaehyuk? I'm sure he'll have food recs.”

“I'll pass. It’s a different part of China, anyway.”

“And Dongju knows? Not walking out on him without talking first, are you?”

Youngjae’s fingers found the rim of his turtleneck, tugging. “We talked.”

“I think Jinhyuk’s still over there, too! Hang on, let me text-”

“Hyung, please,” Youngjae protested, “You're worse than my mom.”

“Ah, Youngjae-ah…” Siwoo chastised. “You know it's because I care about you.”

Youngjae let the fabric slip from his fingers. He swallowed thickly. “I know.”

“You know it's because I love you.”

The words laced their frigid fingers around Youngjae’s throat and squeezed.

“You do know that, right, Youngjae? You know that I love you?”

Shivering, Youngjae squeezed his fingers around the handle of his suitcase. “Yes, hyung, I know.”

“Good.”

There was a faint pop from the other side of the line. Youngjae pretended he didn’t know what it was.

He wished he didn’t know what it was, just like he wished his Riot-prescribed therapist was actually helpful. Like he wished the tank meta would finally end. Like he wished he would reschedule his flight to China, rather than turning tail and trudging back to the old familiar cage he knew.

Impossibilities, all of them, but wishes nonetheless.

“Want to talk about it?” Siwoo offered sympathetically, as if he could read Youngjae’s thoughts. Siwoo had always been eerily good at that, at reading between Youngjae's lines. “Even when you’re overseas, you can always call.”

“I’ll come over,” Youngjae corrected. “Does Friday work? I’ll come over for dinner.”

“Oh!” Finally, Siwoo did sound surprised, though also shamefully pleased. “Great! No take-backs. You’d better show.”

“I will.”

“I’ll order extra spicy, just for you. Everyone else will be there, too.”

‘Everyone else’ meant the other survivors.

“Looking forward to it.”

“Great!” Siwoo echoed, repeating one more time to be sure: “Love you, Youngjae-ah.”

Youngjae didn’t respond. Siwoo didn’t expect him to.

After a deep exhale, the former support chirped, “Now it's just Suhwannie.”

Air fled from Youngjae’s lungs, “Hyung, Suhwan is-”

The line went dead.

Waking up from being drugged wasn’t too different from waking up with a bad hangover. In fact, it felt so miserably similar that Siwoo figured he’d blacked out and was waking up in the bed of a man or a hospital.

Consciousness came in waves. There was a persistent, obnoxious dripping sound drilling into his aching head like a slow woodpecker, but it was the violent mechanical rattle which finally forced him to crack open his eyes.

The barely-lit grey-green room was unfamiliar, as were the ominous silhouettes hanging behind the curtain, distorted beyond recognition. A pair of screens faced where Siwoo stood strapped upright, restrained with ties that he had no chance of breaking alone.

Siwoo recognized his predicament. If his rude awakening and the timer — one red minute primed on its unmoving display — weren’t enough of a hint, then the bizarre contraption hooked to his left hand, gripping his skin with unforgiving metal, was a dead giveaway.

He’d heard what happened to Wangho, to Sanghyuk, to Heo Su and Geonbu; Hell, he’d felt along the stitches on Jaehyuk’s chest personally, had touched his scars like a Doubting Thomas. He knew there was a well-connected psychopath kidnapping LCK players, forcing them into cruel, senseless games while claiming to be helping them.

He never expected to be the next victim, but he always hoped he would be.

See, the Jigsaw Killer was an idiot. He didn’t know the first thing about people, much less the ones he trapped. The idea that his sadistic tests were in any way to his victims’ benefit was laughable: the “new outlook on life” he gave them had a different name, an acronym even, and even that only applied to the survivors. The online incel echoes that “technically, Jigsaw has never killed anyone” enraged and sickened him; even in League, when someone died to a trap, kill credit went to the one who placed it.

Siwoo made his decision long before he woke up in that godforsaken room: he would play no such games. If the Jigsaw Killer called upon him, he would simply stand there and die, no attempt made. Maybe that would make the fool reconsider his actions, make him realize how useless his “help” was.

Well, that was just an excuse, anyway. The selfish truth was that Siwoo wanted to die on his own terms.

When the screen flickered on, revealing a grainy image of a puppet’s side profile, Siwoo didn’t spit in disgust. He blinked evenly, expression unimpressed to a point near boredom.

“Hello, Siwoo. I want to play a game.”

The recordings always started this way — no family name, no IGN, no honorific. Just an illusion of intimacy, a sense of personal entitlement that made Siwoo’s mouth twitch.

“Throughout your life, you have been loved by so many people. Now, you have the chance to show them you love them back.”

Siwoo didn’t understand the implication until the fabric dropped, and his stomach along with it. Then, he was swearing his breath out at the screens, crying out in rage, feeling panic flood his system for the first time since he awoke.

Stationed across the room were five bodies, similarly strung up, all facing Siwoo. Rather than their hands, the sinister contraption seized their throats, creating a block of metallic shadow parting their heads from their bodies.

Siwoo knew them from their faces, but he also knew their hands, hands he’d held, tugged, squeezed. He knew them from their frames, lanky, broad, thick, thin; he would recognize them anywhere, though he despaired to do so here.

Jihoon. Dohyun. Jaehyuk. Youngjae. Suhwan.

“Before you stand five people who, at some point, have told you that they love you. At each of those times, you failed to say it back. Now, they are unable to say anything at all.”

Siwoo let his first tear fall. He would save the screams in his throat for later use; he knew that once the recording started, his trap had commenced. There was no escape for any of them until it was complete. As easily as that, he was forced to play the game.

He wondered if, somewhere, Jigsaw was laughing at him.

“I am giving you the opportunity to repay their affection. For each person to survive, you must tell them that you love them, and sever one of the fingers on your left hand. The dial positioned under your right hand will assist you. If you fail …”

The screen flickered to a video of a mannequin strapped into the same device as each of the five men. The clock on the wall hit zero, and…

Snap.

“…their unrequited love will prove fatal.”

The screen faced only Siwoo, so the men across the room couldn’t see the sheer force with which the dummy’s head was flung from its body, empty brain smacking against the wall presently behind them, but they could certainly hear the sound. Suhwan was already crying. Jihoon’s eyes were closed.

“You have one minute to make your amends, after which, you are free to leave with however many loved ones remain. Now: make your choice.”

The timer commenced.

Siwoo cranked the dial, hard. He figured he’d knock the whole hand off in one turn, then spit out rapid-fire confessions before the pain kicked in.

The dial locked itself after just one tick.

With a sharp thwip, Siwoo’s pinky went flying off, rolling across the damp floor like a carrot flung in a child’s temper tantrum.

Pain shot up his arm and exploded in his brain, releasing in a scream he didn’t think to make. It felt like burning, though the trickle of blood dribbling from the lacerated stump made it look like something wet instead.

Across the room, Jihoon was almost peaceful, resting in his restraints as if in pre-match meditation. Maybe he was trying not to put any additional pressure on Siwoo. Maybe he was making his peace with the world.

It reminded Siwoo of all the other times he’d seen Jihoon like this, conked out against his side on a drive home from somewhere, sleepily cuddling him on the dormitory couch, scraggly limbs wrapped up all around him.

Siwoo wondered if this test was solely about romantic love. Of course he had never felt that way for Jihoonie, but back during their Griffin days, Siwoo had formed suspicions from the way Jihoon clung to him, giggled and glared and whined. It was a perfectly normal thing, for teenagers to have a crush on their older teammates, so he didn’t read that much into it at the time.

“I love you, Siwoo hyung,” Jihoon mumbled into his shoulder, nuzzling the place where Siwoo’s shirt met skin.

“Oh, Jihoonie,” Siwoo sighed, fondly tousling his hair. “You’ll grow out of it.”

Snap.

Jihoon. The pinky finger. Siwoo hadn’t expected the severance to hurt as much as it did.

With all the affection in his heart and the pain from his wound, he declared, “I love you, Jihoonie.” At those words, the collar on Jihoon’s throat clicked, then clattered to the floor.

A mark remained on his neck and his voice had not returned, but Siwoo could focus on that later, suppressing his sighs of relief until the trial was done. At least the pain had fully woken him up, the adrenaline coursing through his veins keeping him in high gear, reminding him to go, go, go.

Fifty seconds left.

Next was Dohyun, the ring finger, perhaps the only one in the line up for whom this retribution felt somewhat justified. Dohyun had never been secretive about his feelings for Siwoo, nor Siwoo about his dismissal. Still, there had been a time when he considered acting otherwise.

Back then, it was more than common for ADC-support pairings to stay together for the entirety of their careers: it was expected of them. Dohyun was Siwoo’s designated partner, his sole mate for his life as a pro-player. It was a good match, too; their synergy was undeniable, on and off the Rift, a perfect fit. Dohyun was skilled, and charming, and handsome, and oh-so-indulgent with Siwoo.

It helped that he and Siwoo were the same kind of crazy.

“Teemo?” Siwoo cackled ruthlessly.

“Why not? You play Singed support.”

“In solo queue, not pro play. What am I even supposed to pick with that?”

“Whatever you want,” Dohyun rolled his shoulders. “I carry, you support me. Just what we always do.”

Siwoo hissed through an ear-to-ear smile. “Fuck it. Sure. One Teemo botlane, coming right up.” When he turned to his left, Dohyun was staring at him. “What?”

“I love you,” he declared, voice honeyed, eyes glistening with devotion. If they had been alone, Dohyun would’ve kissed him. If they had been in the dorms, Siwoo would have kissed back.

Suddenly, he felt nauseous.

“Right, of course.” Siwoo pulled his headset into place. “Come on, let’s go.”

It was the sickness that called things off between them: not a physical illness, but a resident emotion that lurched in Siwoo whenever Dohyun called on him, kissed him, touched him so tenderly. It was something unsettling, something deeply wrong.

A feeling like he didn’t deserve it.

Snap.

The removal of his left ring finger, a death to commitment. Dohyun would have stayed forever if Siwoo asked him to, as his duo and as his lover. Siwoo would never ask, yet that didn’t mean that Siwoo didn’t care for him.

On the contrary, Siwoo meant every word of it when he professed, “I love you, Dohyun.” Dohyun met his gaze, and nodded with perfect understanding as his collar collapsed.

Dohyun had always understood him.

Blood spurted more violently from the second cut, though the physical pain was less severe. Maybe Siwoo was numb from shock, his brain working overdrive to concoct a soup of hormones that would get him through this.

That would explain why he laughed as his detached finger keeled over weakly, curling in on itself as it thumped against the floor. Maybe it was also due to the next finger-man pairing, and how fitting it seemed.

Siwoo had already given Park Jaehyuk his middle finger any number of times. What was one more?

Had Siwoo truly never said ‘I love you’ to Jaehyuk? Jaehyuk would know. Siwoo didn’t. There had been far too many close calls and almosts. What he shared with Jaehyuk was so much more than those words, anyway.

To say that Jaehyuk found him after Dohyun would be inaccurate. Jaehyuk found him despite Dohyun, was always there, waiting, lurking. Siwoo was never meant to be Jaehyuk’s, not in the way he was meant to be Dohyun’s, not in any way, frankly, and yet there was still an undeniable magnetism between them, constantly tugging them together.

Jaehyuk was none of the promises, all of the everything else. Their union was supposed to be fast, hard, and inconsequential, but it had left them both so badly battered that they couldn’t help crawling back, if only to compare who took the beating worse.

Jaehyuk left, and Siwoo hated him for it. Then, he came back, and Siwoo hated him even more. At least when Jaehyuk was gone, Siwoo could pretend things were fine, could fill the void however he saw fit. When Jaehyuk was right there, however, openly expecting, demanding that Siwoo be his again… How could he refuse?

He could try, at least.

“I love you, Son Siwoo.”

“Fuck you!”

Snap.

His middle finger, gone. Sacrificed for an emotion stronger than hatred.

Things had changed a few months back, when Jaehyuk had undergone his test, when Jigsaw had left him stranded on a table with his ribcage split open and a scalpel in hand. In that trap, the only timer had been Jaehyuk’s heart and how long he could keep it beating. He had to fish out pieces of metal from inside himself, all scraps from the trophies he’d won. To that day, there was a sliver of his Worlds trophy lodged inside his heart.

“That was the real test,” Jaehyuk told him, “to see if I was prideful enough to try to remove it. It would have killed me if I did.”

Siwoo silently pressed his hand against Jaehyuk’s stitched-up chest, listening as he finished, “It reminds me of you. It’s probably gonna kill me one day, but I’d still die without it.”

Siwoo grabbed Jaehyuk by his face and kissed him quiet. What he’d meant was…

“I love you, Park Jaehyuk.”

The collar fell. Thirty seconds left.

The words were followed by a retch as Siwoo fought to keep down vomit. The stench hit him fully; he didn’t think it was possible for flesh to rot that fast, but it certainly smelled like it. As he shifted his focus, his vision went blurry, then black. He rolled his head back upright to the sight of his companions panickedly fighting their restraints. Stomach flipping, he urged himself to stay conscious for just a bit longer. Two left. He could do this.

The boiling pain from his hand was fierce now, forcing him to cut his lip on his teeth as he blinked through the smudginess. Next up was Youngjae, his eyes wide with terror and tears. He was mouthing something to Siwoo. It looked like, “Don’t.”

Oh, Youngjae... Of course he’d value Siwoo’s fingers over his own life. In fact, when he’d first been abducted, he’d probably had a philosophy similar to Siwoo’s: ‘I’m just gonna die, that’ll show him’. Too petty to see his own significance. Siwoo saw so much of himself in that boy.

Their connection allowed Siwoo to see the fear lurking beneath Youngjae’s protests. Siwoo had spent so many late nights with him, on HLE, on Gen.G, listening to him talk about his dreams and desires. About how he was gonna be the next great jungler. Ambitious, that one, and yet so often stunted.

Youngjae hid his face in Siwoo’s side as his hyung patted him gently. “Come on, up. Let’s get you to bed.”

Youngjae groaned, then paused. Fists clinging tightly to familiar fabric, he betrayed a grumbled, “Love you, hyung.”

“What was that, Youngjae-ah?”

“…Forget it,” he said. “Nothing important.”

Snap.

The pointer finger, used to direct and reprimand. Used to ult in game. Used up.

“Love you, Youngjae-ah.”

Youngjae trembled as his collar collapsed, visibly sobbing from his perch, but unable to dry his tears just yet.

Siwoo smiled as he faced the last man. He felt like he needed to; Suhwan had looked so genuinely scared, so defeated. The least Siwoo could do was provide him that small comfort, a reassurance that it would be over soon.

“Love you, Suhwan.”

Fighting down bile, he turned the dial for the final time.

Click.

Nothing happened.

Quickly, Siwoo tried again, cranking the dial from four to five, jiggling it, pressing further just in case.

His thumb sat on its chopping block intact.

Twenty seconds left.

Floundering, Siwoo’s mind raced with options. He wanted to scream at Jigsaw to stop the trap, that it was clearly unfair that the dial was broken, as if any of this had been “fair” to begin with, but he didn’t want to voice his fears lest Suhwannie share them.

From the gaping mouth of horror on the boy's face, he already knew.

Fifteen seconds left.

Siwoo glanced downward. His frantic eyes noticed that, now that his first four fingers were cut cleanly at the knuckle, his entire left arm was bound only by the thumb: he could curl the rest of his hand out of its contraption, pull up, and-

He went for it. The dull edge of a blade hung on top of the thumbhold. With Siwoo’s first swing, it tore skin.

Ten seconds.

Again. A chunk of flesh went flailing outward. Again. Another gush of blood. Pain was not a concept at this point: he was left only with barbaric resolve.

Five.

Another tug. He hit bone.

Four.

He ground up against the blade, swearing.

Three.

Not even a crack. He jostled his position – maybe if he hit the joint right…

Two.

Siwoo couldn’t watch. He could say it one last time, though, in case those words meant anything at all:

“I love you, Suhwannie.”

Snap.

Jaehyuk knew something was amiss when he came home to quiet, and just like that, his rough day at work didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly, his petty arguments and minor grievances could wait, because somewhere in the house was a Siwoo who couldn’t.

Jaehyuk found him on the bed, fingers detached and sprawled out on the blanket in front of him. He was rubbing over his thumb with his good hand, popping the prosthetic tip out, then in, out, then in, on repeat for who knows how long, caught in his loop like a damaged record.

“Bad day?” Jaehyuk guessed, already unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Siwoo didn’t even look at him. “Suhwan isn’t answering his phone.”

“Siwoo...”

 “Do you think he’s okay?” Siwoo’s lips quivered violently. “I did it, right? I saved him?”

Calmly, Jaehyuk sat beside him on the bed. Siwoo raised his hands so they were cupped in front of him, one full of fingers, one fully without.

“I held his head in my hands, Jaehyuk,” he whispered, eyes glazed over from the memory. Expression twisting with the words, he repeated, “I held his head in my hands.”

Jaehyuk took Siwoo’s hands in his, grounding him in the present, planting a warm kiss onto the back of his still-intact digits. Once he had Siwoo’s attention, he smoothly stated, “Suhwan is in Japan with Wangho, remember?”

Siwoo’s eyes widened, then blinked. “Right,” he muttered. “Right, I forgot. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Siwoo turned his attention sheepishly downward, rushing to pop each of his fingers back into place. His prosthetics were custom-made, designed to be functional while still allowing each finger to be individually removed if so desired. It helped Siwoo a lot, to be able to take them out, to remind himself of what happened, of what he’d done. Jaehyuk reclined on the mattress, watching as Siwoo reassembled himself, scratching along his spine comfortingly.

Now whole again, Siwoo crawled over to rest his head on Jaehyuk’s bared chest, allowing his ceramic fingers to glide smoothly across his stitches. When Siwoo said nothing, Jaehyuk sucked in a breath.

“Would it help if Dohyun came over?” he offered, unable to conceal his resignation.

Smiling, Siwoo shook his head. “No, thank you.” He stretched up to kiss Jaehyuk on the cheek. “Love you, Hyuk-ah.”

“Mmm.” Jaehyuk returned the kiss on the top of Siwoo’s head, on his lips, then on the choker laced around his throat. Siwoo made a habit of wearing one ever since the incident. He claimed it was only fair that he also wore a mark, as if his fractured fingers weren’t enough.

Though they regained their speech, the survivors’ throats never did fully heal from the trap: marks from their collars wrung their necks even years later, emblazoning their trauma on their skin for all to see. Siwoo mimicked the brand with his chokers. He favored black, the color of trap metal.

Jaehyuk rolled the mesh fabric aside to kiss the pale, sensitive skin underneath. Siwoo moaned, tugging him back by the hair.

“Youngjae’s moving to the LPL,” he informed, since it was on his mind, and Jaehyuk snorted.

“Like Hell he is. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Siwoo gave him a pointed look. “He’s an adult. He can do what he wants.”

“Not if he wants to be selfish,” huffed Jaehyuk. When Siwoo held stern, he forcefully reminded, “He owes you his life!”

“And what kind of life will that be if I stop him? I want to support him, not hold him back.” Sillily, Siwoo cuddled up to Jaehyuk’s side. “I’ll be fine, Hyuk-ah, I will. I’ll have you here with me.”

“You will,” Jaehyuk confirmed tiredly, squeezing him tight.

“And Jihoonie, and Dohyun.”

“Yeah, let’s stick with me.”

“Now who’s being selfish?” Siwoo buried his face in Jaehyuk’s shoulder just long enough to feel the suffocation, then popped back up. “How was your day?”

Jaehyuk stretched into a yawn. “Honestly? It was shit.”

“Tell me about it.”

Their evening continued with their usual intimacies. They had already fallen asleep in each other’s arms when the text came in, Jaehyuk’s snoring concealing the ding of the phone:

Hi, hyung! Sorry I missed your calls. I am okay and having fun. Wangho hyung says hi. Here is a picture from today. Talk soon. Love you, too.

In the photo, the collar of Suhwan’s coat rested gently against his wounded neck. His expression was slightly awkward, but his lips were attempting a smile.

Posing beside a monument, he gave the camera a thumbs-up.

Snap.

The fifth collar came unlocked a second before the trap sprung back. All their binds detached, and Suhwan staggered forward, legs giving out before he could take a single step.

Siwoo closed the gap for him, rushing to his side, falling to his knees. Bawling, he cradled Suhwan’s face, leaving a gruesome imprint of bloody smudges against his right cheek. It was a wonder he didn’t faint from relief.

Dohyun intervened first. He had taken off his shirt, ignoring Jihoon’s look of skepticism, and wrapped and pressured Siwoo’s mangled hand with the cloth. Not to be outdone, Jihoon whisked off his shirt, too, offering a second layer and accepting the appreciative kiss on the cheek Siwoo gave them both.

Ducking down to join, Jaehyuk pressed his hands over Siwoo’s ears, filling his entire vision. Despite his continued inability to speak, his gaze spoke volumes, as did the passionate kiss he threw in thereafter.

A brief bang came from across the room. The group shot to attention, but it was simply Youngjae, gesturing that he had found the exit. Supporting each other, the squadron rose to their feet and staggered toward the door. Youngjae tried to stay apart, but as Siwoo passed, he caved, collapsing into his hyung’s arms in a needy hug as he broke down in silent tears.

They shuffled to the street together in one sullied, silent pack. Siwoo couldn’t help but laugh to himself.

He had been right. The Jigsaw Killer was an idiot.

The observation that Siwoo never said “I love you” was completely false. Jigsaw just hadn’t noticed. In fact, Siwoo had said those words a million times, in the dorms, on the Rift, in bed, in public, even. The way he said it was simply different.

Siwoo’s ‘I love you’s smelled like peeled fruits. They tasted like stolen kisses and sounded like off-key karaoke. It was the teasing – he was always picking fun – and it was the gentle touches that came after. Even though he wasn’t always there, it was the promise that he would be; that he would stop the world to be with you, if you were only bold enough to ask.

There had not been a single second where any of the five men lined up in that room had doubted that Siwoo loved them. Jigsaw had etched it into them regardless.

Siwoo would feel his love for them eternally in phantom pains in his fingers, and in turn, he could feel their love for him in the press of full, warm hands against his face, his arms, his neck, his ribs, his back.