Chapter Text
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Hwang In-ho had never been in a lawyer’s office as the client before.
He’d interrogated lawyers, argued with them in court corridors, even traded information when it suited him. But to actually be sitting on the other side of the desk? It felt wrong.
The office was surprisingly ordinary, with no glitzy view of the city skyline or wall of glass trophies.
It had a desk, two chairs, a potted plant that was actually taken care of, and a shelf of law books that were clearly used instead of displayed for ego. The only indulgence was a record player in the corner, faintly spinning something slow and instrumental.
Han Yeon-u sat behind the desk, writing in the margins of a file.
They didn’t look up when he stepped in, let alone say hello or please sit. They just kept on writing, the scratch of their pen loud enough to feel deliberate.
In-ho stood there, unsure if he was supposed to announce himself.
“Detective Hwang,” they said finally, without looking up. Their voice was smooth and clear, but monotone. “You’re late.”
He glanced at his watch. “By three minutes.”
“Four,” they corrected, setting the pen down.
He tried not to bristle and exhaled. “I had to deal with reporters on the way in.”
“Mm.” They leaned back in their chair, folding their hands. “You’ll need to get used to them. Scandals attract a certain ecosystem.”
He frowned. “I’m not here for a lecture. I’m here to discuss my case.”
“That’s what we’re doing.” They gestured at the empty chair in front of them. “Sit.”
He did, though it felt like a concession.
“I’ve read your file,” Yeon-u began, picking it up with two fingers. “A highly respected detective accused of accepting a bribe from an ex-convict you arrested years ago. Your record before this was spotless. Commendations, a high clearance rate. Not a hint of corruption – until now.”
“I didn’t take a bribe,” he said flatly, fists clenched on his lap.
“You took money.”
“It was for my wife's hospital bills. It wasn’t–”
“–illegal?” they finished for him, their tone maddeningly neutral. “That’s debatable. But I’m not the moral police. My job is to keep you out of prison and preferably employed.”
His jaw tightened. “If you already think I’m guilty–”
“I didn’t say that.” They set the file down and finally met his eyes. “I said it’s debatable. Which means we can win. But only if you’re honest with me.”
“I am being honest.”
“Detective,” they said, leaning forward slightly, “I am going to know everything about you before this is over. Every debt, every favor, every phone call you’ve made in the last six months. If there’s something you’re hiding, I will find it. And if I find it before you tell me, we’re done. Understood?”
There was something unnerving about the way they said it. It wasn't a threat, exactly. But just a complete certainty that unnerved him.
In-ho sighed and unclenched his fists. “…Understood.”
“Good.” They sat back again, expression unreadable. “Now. The man who gave you the money, how do you know him?”
“I arrested him seven years ago. Armed robbery.”
“And why would a man you put in prison hand you cash now?”
“He said it was repayment. I helped keep his sentence lighter when he cooperated.”
Yeon-u tilted their head, filing that away. “And you believed him?”
“I didn’t see a reason not to.”
“I see several,” they said lightly. “We’ll start with him. I want to meet him.”
In-ho frowned. “He’s not part of the case–”
“Everyone is part of the case,” they cut in. “The moment your name touched his money, you became connected. And I need to know exactly what kind of man I’m defending you against, because make no mistake, Detective, you are not only defending yourself. You are defending his intentions.”
Something about that phrasing made him lean back, arms crossed. “You don’t talk like a lawyer.”
Yeon-u’s mouth curved faintly, but it wasn't quite a smile. “I talk like someone who wins.”
For the first time since walking in, In-ho felt his own curiosity cut through his irritation.
He wasn’t sure yet if hiring them was a brilliant idea... or a mistake he’d remember for the rest of his life.
☆
Han Yeon-u opened their eyes.
For a moment, the ceiling above them didn’t quite make sense – it was flat black metal, freshly dried paint, with a faint layer of dust that never seemed to shift no matter the number of times they’d seen it. Then recognition, as usual, slid into place forcefully. It was the underside of a bunk bed.
They’d woken here before.
Many times before.
The number of loops they’d endured had stopped being something they could count after the first few dozen. Or was it the first few hundred? Even that was slipping from them now.
Once, they might have remembered the exact shape of the fear in their chest during the first loop, the ugly panic that had clawed at their ribs.
Now, it was nothing but a smudge in their mind, a memory blurred beyond repair.
The room was alive with noise. There were murmurs, sharp questions, and confused voices that tangled together until the sound became a single restless hum.
Four hundred and fifty-six people, all alive, asking the same questions as every other time. The air carried the scent of metal, sweat, and the faint tang of recycled air that seemed to cling to this rotten place.
They didn’t look around, let alone sit up.
Yeon-u already knew that each person was dressed in the same teal tracksuit, crisp enough to suggest newness, marked with a number that meant more to the system than to the person wearing it.
They didn’t need to glance down to know theirs. 218.
A number as unremarkable as the person it was assigned to – at least, that’s what they used to think.
There had been a time when they searched for meaning in it, for the reason they were here, trapped in this endless cycle of death and return.
Aside from being the number of a certain loser, it held no meaning. To them, at least.
They’d told themselves it was for those two, continuing on. That if they suffered long enough, endured enough, they could keep them alive.
But that was a fairytale they no longer believed in.
It had rotted away somewhere between the fiftieth and the hundredth reset. Now, the purpose was gone, leaving only the motions.
So they stayed lying down, eyes on the bunk above, watching the edge of the metal frame instead of whatever bullshit was unfolding below.
The chatter rose and fell in uneven waves, breaking against the moment the heavy steel doors hissed open, and the classical music stopped.
Boots entered – the Guards, always the same, faceless and machine-like – moved into position. The eight Workers were flanking each side of Manager 005.
They began the speech.
Word for word, syllable for syllable. The same one Yeon-u had heard so many times that it now slid past their ears without catching.
They didn’t listen.
Until they heard his voice, of course.
“–Are you saying we’ll still receive the money, even if we leave after the first game?”
That same voice, familiar now as their own heartbeat, cutting into their meaningless thoughts.
They turned their head just slightly, eyes catching the movement of him descending the stairs between the beds.
Seong Gi-hun.
The Manager took a moment before answering. “That is correct.”
They didn’t bother tracking the Guards’ words afterwards, there was no need, but their mind was not empty.
No, it was full. Uncomfortably full.
Of him.
Seong Gi-hun.
The man who never makes it.
His name pressed against the inside of their skull, over and over and over. Seong Gi-hun, Seong Gi-hun, Seong Gi-hun, Seong Gi-hun. They’d whispered it in their head so many times it felt like a desperate prayer to a helpless, ruined god – though they’d long since stopped believing in such things.
Once, at the start of all this, they’d look at him and think, I’ll save you this time.
Now, after so long, that thought felt almost comedic. Not because they didn’t mean it, but because they’d learned, over and over, that wanting something was not the same as getting it.
Gi-hun always died.
No matter the choices made or the risks taken. It was the fixed point in every cycle, the one variable they couldn’t change.
Still, that had never stopped them from repeating them.
They had been everything the loops allowed them to be: just another player, a hidden observer, a guard in a mask, even, once, someone with a seat high enough to glimpse the shape of the system that ran this hell.
They’d stayed long enough in certain loops to map the island, to learn the system's hierarchy, to know who held power and who was simply allowed to believe they did.
The cycle only reset when they died or left the island after the six days were over. That meant, theoretically, they could stay in the island forever.
And once, they did.
They'd spent years, in one loop. If it could even be considered that. They'd simply started calling this hell a ‘time loop’, even with its strange rules.
They’d almost convinced themselves it was better that way, staying in that loop – until they died stupidly, slipping off a cliff during a storm, the wind ripping their balance from under.
And then, of course, they were back here. What was that, the 33rd loop? Most embarrassing death yet.
The cue to finally move came when the Manager’s voice sliced clean through the noise, drowning out the argument of a familiar son-and-mother duo.
“If you wish to participate in the games, please sign the player consent form. Those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now. We always give you a chance to leave the games.”
Yeon-u had once taken them up on that offer. Only once. They walked out without signing anything. Surprisingly, they were allowed to, though drugged through the whole process.
Six days later, when the games should've been over on that island, they went to sleep in their own bed, at home, cold but safe.
And then.they blinked the next day, and they were right back here in the same bunk.
They should’ve known better, they did know better. They just didn’t want to admit it. After all, taking the easy way out was simply out of the picture, as it didn't bring enough suffering.
Climbing down from their bunk, their feet touched the cold floor without a sound. They wore the standard white slip-ons, the ones that never squeaked and never aged.
Around them, others stumbled through the same motions, confused and wary. Yeon-u slipped into one of the forming lines, just another sheep waiting for their turn at the slaughter. Except they were a little special sheep.
When they reached the front, a paper and pen were handed over by a Worker.
At the top:
PLAYER CONSENT FORM.
The vague rules followed, printed like the commandments.
They didn’t read them. They hadn’t read them for… well, for ages. They could recite them in their sleep.
They signed their name, not even looking at their handwriting, and stepped aside.
They would’ve forgotten everything about themselves, including their own name, long ago, if it wasn't for–
“Yeon-u..?!”
Ah. That voice. What an early meeting, how lucky.
They turned their head, and there he was.
Seong Gi-hun.
They thought, It’s been forever. It had, in reality, been exactly one loop since they last saw him. Dead beside them on the same patch of dirt, limp arm brushing theirs.
Still, the sentiment was there.
He looked different from the man they'd known all those years ago (why do they remember?), but not in ways that mattered. His hair was cropped short, not that messy fluff. They preferred the old style, it made him look softer, but this one didn’t offend them either.
His eyes carried a hollowness that mirrored their own, except his came with the heavy drag of guilt he clung to as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“It’s been a while, Mr. Seong.”
Their voice was flat. Their brain, meanwhile, was screaming, you were dead not thirty minutes ago to me.
Gi-hun stared at them like they’d crawled straight out of his worst nightmare. And knowing what he'd been through, they did.
His eyes snapped from their number to their face, swallowing down his words. Though they could already tell the name he almost called out.
He had always been terrible at hiding his expressions, absolutely useless and shit at it. Every thought, every pang of guilt or joy or regret, written plainly across his face for anyone to read.
It was almost embarrassing. It would’ve made them genuinely smile if they were the sort of person who could still do that kind of thing.
He glanced quickly at the other players, still hunched over their papers or waiting in line to sign their life away without realizing it.
Then, without warning, his warm, familiar hands landed on their shoulders. He dragged them into a gap between bunks, the noise of the room dimming just enough to make his gaze the loudest thing in the world.
Fear.
Guilt.
And there, at the very bottom of his stupidly expressive eyes, was a flicker of joy at seeing them.
It was pitiful how giddy that tiny scrap of joy made them, absolutely pathetic. Their face didn’t move a millimeter, however.
Nobody here knew where they were yet. This was just a "mysterious place" with terrible fashion sense they've been kidnapped to.
Nobody except Gi-hun. And them.
Of course, Gi-hun didn’t know they knew. Which meant they had to play The-what-of-the-what-of-the-who game.
Yeon-u glanced away, professional pro, by the way.
“What are you doing here!?” His voice was sharp, clearly panicked. “I thought your law firm was doing well.”
Ah. That.
They probably would’ve forgotten their old job entirely if Gi-hun didn’t bring it up so often. They were a lawyer – probably a good one, based on the way he always talked about them with that mix of pride and surprise, as if he still couldn’t believe they’d once been real people in the real world.
They didn’t remember it well. They see a desk, papers, coffee that was always too cold, and their name on a little plaque. It all felt like something that had happened to someone else.
“Are you doing well?” Yeon-u asked, voice plain.
Gi-hun’s hands were still on their shoulders. It was almost as if he'd thought if he let go, they might evaporate. He searched their face, desperate for anything that might tell him they were alright.
Guess he wanted an answer for his question first.
“I…” They tilted their head just slightly. “suppose I decided to take a vacation.”
Yes, my favorite vacation spot, shared mass trauma island. Five stars, no sunscreen required.
Gi-hun didn’t laugh. “This… this isn’t the kind of place you should be in.” His voice had softened, like he was trying not to scare them. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, clearly thinking better of whatever he was about to say.
Yeon-u didn’t push. Not because they were giving him space, but because the game was far more entertaining when he thought they were clueless.
“I could say the same about you,” they replied, tone completely even.
Though it was the kind of place he'd be in. Three years ago, at least.
And there it was, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was too small to be called a smile, but something adjacent. Probably the kind of thing that might’ve happened back at Jung-bae’s bar, years ago. Back when they’d walk in half-dead from work, still wearing their suit blazer, order something too strong for their own good, and start talking.
They’d talk until the words stopped making sense. Until they were just stringing together half-thoughts about impossible cases, stupid clients, and whatever ache in their chest wouldn’t go away.
Fluffy-hair Gi-hun would sit there and listen, he didn't give advice – mostly because he wasn't good at giving any. But he also didn't tell them they were being ridiculous. He'd just sit there, and listen.
The only thing he was good at, they used to think back then.
They remembered it only because he’d told them about it so many times, as if he'd been holding onto it for the both of them.
“Well… I’m fine,” Gi-hun said now, with the same voice people use when they’re definitely not fine.
They gave him a slow blink. Liar.
But aloud: “Then I’m fine too.”
Somewhere across the room, the last of the papers hit the stack. The guards started moving again. Gi-hun’s grip loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let go.
They were led into another part of the facility, though “led” was perhaps too deliberate a word. The guards didn’t so much guide them as funnel them forward, like water down a series of narrowing pipes, until the world around them abruptly changed.
Some of the players stopped to gawk. The colors were bright, the walls strange, and the stairs didn’t seem to care about the concept of destination. They went nowhere, then somewhere, then nowhere again.
Yeon-u did not stop to look. They had walked these halls more times than they could recall, and memory had long since replaced wonder. At first, the place had been dizzying, even infuriating – but that was many loops ago.
Infuriation took energy. Energy that they'd rather waste just standing still.
They knew each corner like the back of their hand. Though, lately, even their own hand felt unfamiliar in places. Sometimes it felt like the skin was changing when they weren’t paying attention.
That probably wasn’t a good sign.
Gi-hun was behind them. They didn’t need to turn to feel his gaze; they had learned its weight long ago.
They suspected he was trying to read them, though the truth was simpler, because he didn’t need to. Maybe it was the “connection” they liked to think they had. The same tether that tied them to him tied him to them, whether he recognized it or not.
It had taken years to realize the price of that knowledge. The line between “saving” and “obsessing” had blurred, until they could no longer tell the difference.
The ID booth was waiting for them. They stepped forward, the camera ready. It told to “Smile!” while flashing up a smiling face. Yeon-u stared straight ahead until the click came, then stepped aside without looking at the result.
Gi-hun took their place. His expression was heavier than theirs, something closer to defiance than resignation. The camera clicked, and he stepped aside without bothering to glance at the screen.
“What happened to your firm…?” he asked at last, falling into step beside them. The question sounded almost rehearsed, as though he had been practicing it since the moment he saw them.
Yeon-u blinked. The question was expected, and repetitive. Though to him, it was his first time asking.
The truth, however, was hazy. They couldn’t seem to recall exactly how they had ended up here – in this game, in this body that no longer felt entirely their own.
One loop, long ago, they had told Him everything. They told him about the cycles, and in return, He reminded them of the reason why they were here.
A stupid rivalry with another law firm bankrupting, and burying them in debt, and the pride that had kept them from walking away with what they had. That confession had been years ago.
Just what kind of person were they before this, to fall so low, because of petty ego?
“Went bankrupt,” they said, voice even, eyes forward. It was the simplest version of the truth.
Gi-hun’s reaction was the same. “You– your firm? You?” The disbelief in his voice carried the faint echo of the man they had known years ago.
They didn’t answer.
Instead, they stepped forward in the slow crawl of the line, letting the silence fold itself between them.
Gi-hun hesitated, then moved with them, close enough that the brush of his sleeve against theirs felt deliberate.
By the time they turned another corner, his tone had shifted into a softer, but urgent one. “Stay near me,” he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
Yeon-u glanced at him at last, and found his eyes fixed firmly on theirs. He gripped their arm, not roughly. Letting go had not yet occurred to him.
“I mean it,” he added, quieter this time.
They didn’t tell him that they had survived far worse than whatever this place could throw at them anymore. They didn’t tell him they already knew where this was going, or that they had no intention of needing his protection.
They only nodded once. Letting him believe it was easier.
The trek up to the arena would’ve been silent between them afterwards, If it wasn’t for–
“GI-HUN! Gi-hun!”
–Park Jung-bae.
A slightly overweight man shoved his way up the narrow staircase, bulldozing between other players until he reached them. His face was red, both relieved and furious.
“Jung-bae..?” Gi-hun muttered, stunned.
The man immediately slapped both palms against Gi-hun’s cheeks, then gripped his shoulders, making sure he was real. “Fuck! You were alive this whole time?!”
Gi-hun’s eyes flicked over him, from belly to face, the same as he remembered. Then back up, wide. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Jung-bae nearly shrieked. “What are you doing here?! No one’s heard from you in three years! Your mother passed away, and I had to hear about it from my wife! What kind of friend are you?!”
He kept babbling, hands waving, voice cracking.
Yeon-u quietly debated throwing him off the railing – though last time they did that, Gi-hun hadn’t exactly approved.
“Hey! Stop blocking the way!” someone shouted from the back.
Gi-hun grabbed Jung-bae by the collar, and pushed him forward so the line could keep moving. “It’s not like that. It’s a long story...”
“Right.” Jung-bae gave him a once-over. “I can imagine, seeing as you’re here–”
“So am I.”
Yeon-u’s voice brushed the back of his neck, making their ghostlike presence finally known.
“AACK–!” Jung-bae spun, nearly tripping down the steps. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, and pointed at them shakily. “Y-Yeon-u?! You’re here too?!”
They looked at him. Then at their own hands, very much solid, and very much right-here. They looked back at him. “…I guess I am.”
“Wow…you're still the exact same.” Jung-bae murmured, still in shock.
Yeon-u looked down.
It was always that sentence.
Every loop, every time, Jung-bae said it eventually. Sometimes through laughter. Sometimes through sobbing. And sometimes at his tragic end, when he was bleeding out and they were the last thing he saw.
And it was the only way they knew.
The only proof that they hadn’t dissolved into something unrecognizable, that they hadn’t lost themselves completely.
They didn’t remember who they were before this. What their smile looked like. How their voice sounded when it wasn’t hollow. They didn’t remember themself.
But if Jung-bae always said it, then maybe they were still here.
Whoever “they” was.
Yeon-u’s mouth twitched into a ghost of something. “I'm glad.”
Gi-hun glanced between them, brow furrowed. He could feel it, a feeling as if he just walked into a conversation ten years old and still unfinished.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked them.
They didn't answer.
Gi-hun turned back to his old friend, nudging his arm, but he hadn't brushed Yeon-u's oddness off yet. “And you, huh? Why are you even here? What about your wife?”
Jung-bae looked at him, then looked away. “We divorced.” His tone was flat, but not careless. He was pretending it doesn’t hurt, and failing.
Gi-hun stumbled after him, wide-eyed. “Divorced? What about your kid?”
“With my wife.”
“What? Why? I thought you guys were alright!” Gi-hun smacked his back, leaning close. “Don’t tell me– you had an affair?”
Jung-bae scoffed. “Yeah, like I could pull that off.”
Yeon-u trailed silently behind, half-there, half-gone. They were already dissociating.
“Drop it,” Jung-bae sighed. “When we get out of here, let's buy drinks, then we’ll talk.”
That’s when Gi-hun suddenly stopped. He grabbed Jung-bae, shoved him against the wall. One arm shot out, catching Yeon-u before they could just casually pass by.
“Listen.” His voice low. “Whatever happens, you two stay close to me.” His eyes flicked between them, dead serious.
Jung-bae and Yeon-u shared a look.
Jung-bae arched a brow. “‘Stay close’? I'm not Yeon-u, don’t tell me you’re crushing on me too–”
Gi-hun grabbed his collar tightly. “Just do it! Both of you. Stay behind me, always.” His grip shifted at Yeon-u’s jacket, gentler.
Jung-bae blinked, thrown off for a second. Then chuckled, refusing to take him seriously. “Alright, man. Got it.” He spun Gi-hun around, hands heavy on his shoulders, laughing. “Like this? Like Follow the Leader?”
Yeon-u watched them blankly, their hands itching.
Jung-bae always touched Gi-hun so easily and naturally. If he was the one stuck in this hell loop, perhaps he could’ve made Gi-hun trust him much easier.
Would they have left this place earlier if so?
What does he have that I don't?
Yeon-u tuned them out after that. It was better for their nerves and faux peace of mind.
By the time they reached the top of the stairwell, the gates opened up to reveal a wide, rectangular field with wallpapered skies and painted houses. There was no ceiling, just the real sky, stretching overhead in all its cruel indifference.
A few birds flew past.
Yeon-u tilted their head back, soaking in the sunlight. This was the only game that offered fresh air. They always made the most of it.
“Welcome to the first game,” the PA system chimed. “All players, please wait on the field. Let me repeat. All players, please wait on the field.”
Yeon-u peeled away from Gi-hun and Jung-bae, drifting to the far edge. They’d been shoved into bullets enough times by the panicking crowd to know better.
A metallic CLANG echoed as the gates slammed shut behind them, causing the crowd to jump. Yeon-u’s eyes slowly slid forward, to her.
The doll at the end of the arena, flanked by two Workers. Ugly as always, Young-hee.
“The first game is Red Light, Green Light,” the A.I declared.
The worst game, no debate, aside from the fresh air. Its only function was to slash numbers down and shock the players awake to their damning predicament.
And Yeon-u just really really hated physical activities. Even if they were good at them.
“Red Light, Green Light?” someone near them scoffed, still in denial.
“Cross the finish line in five minutes without getting caught,” the A.I droned. “If you do, you pass.”
Before the words even settled, Gi-hun bolted to the front of the crowd, passing the line. He was flapping his arms, voice cracking. “Everyone! Everyone, listen to me!”
Yeon-u stared. They would've groaned if this was only the tenth time they’d seen this circus.
Every loop, with no exceptions (if they didn't bite their tongue the moment they woke up again), Gi-hun just had to play town crier.
“Listen carefully!” he yelled. “This isn’t just a game! If you lose, you die!”
Yeon-u stared into the distance. They always failed to understand why Gi-hun would believe anyone would listen to him.
He wouldn't have either, if some lunatic jumped around about people dying in a children's game – if this was three years ago.
They sighed and let the rest of his frantic sermon wash over them. They'd rather not listen to that again.
Yeon-u tipped their head back just in time for the mechanical whir to slice through the chatter. The sound shut everyone up.
At the far end, Young-hee twisted around with the slow click-click-click of gears locking into place.
“Do not panic!” Gi-hun was still yelling, voice cracking. He spun toward the crowd, eyes wide. “No matter what happens, don’t panic! Don’t run!”
But everyone was too busy clutching their nerves, too locked onto the looming doll to give him an answer. Whatever insults they had loaded in their throats died off uselessly.
The A.I’s voice dropped from the speakers again. “Let the game begin.”
Young-hee’s sing-song voice chimed across the field. Bodies surged forward immediately – some sprinting like overeager idiots desperate to win, others half-jogging, not taking this too seriously.
Both categories were already corpses walking.
Yeon-u, hypocrite that they were, ignored their own eternal warning and started strolling leisurely, putting just enough distance to keep the chaos ahead of them from crashing back.
They knew the exact rhythm by now anyway. How many steps, how fast to pace, which patch of ground to stop on.
They went through this particular game too many times to count. It was practically engraved into their brain.
“Red light!”
The doll's head snapped around.
“FREEZE!!” Gi-hun bellowed, his inner elbow pressed over his mouth.
The first person to move and get gunned down is always different in each loop – though often, it’s player 196, Kang Mi-na. A rather good-looking woman buried under 45 million won of debt.
Yeon-u had seen her die in every possible way this game had to offer.
Sometimes, she would trip over her own feet and fall forward during Red Light, dragging player 230 with her. Other times, she would panic and shift just a fraction after the doll’s head clicked toward the players.
But the most common, the one Yeon-u had committed to memory, was this one.
After the fifth Red Light, right when most players were holding their breath, waiting for Green Light, a bee landed on Kang Mi-na’s neck.
The woman would screech, flailing her arms, smacking at the insect in a blind panic. Yeon-u had seen it happen countless times, from countless angles.
The slap of her hand against her neck, her relaxation since she didn't know the gravity of what she had done, and then the sharp ringing of the gunshot.
This time, Yeon-u wasn’t even in the vicinity. They stood several meters away, head slightly tilted, watching the scene unfold, a play they already knew the ending to.
Kang Mi-na’s scream echoed across the field, panicked, just as always.
The bullet hit her cleanly in the head. Her body crumpled to the ground, her face frozen, blood pooling beneath her.
The crowd erupted into utter chaos after a few seconds.
Screams rose, drowning out the eerie silence left in the wake of the gunfire. Some players froze, their legs trembling, while others bolted without thinking, the sound of their shoes thudding against the dirt mixing with the shrieking.
Yeon-u didn’t flinch.
They stayed exactly where they were, eyes fixed forward, stepping only when the Young-hee's sing-song voice gave them permission.
They didn’t need to see the panic to know what was happening. They’d memorized it all. The frantic cries, the desperate scrambling, the way people shoved each other in their blind effort to survive.
And, of course, Gi-hun’s voice cutting through the chaos, raw and desperate.
“STOP MOVING! JUST STOP!” he shouted, mouth covered by his bent elbow, as he tried to herd the panicking players back into stillness. “YOU’LL DIE IF YOU RUN!”
His voice cracked on the last word, and Yeon-u resisted the urge to sigh.
It was always the same.
For all his effort, for all his heart, Gi-hun never managed to save anyone here, though his 'freeze' commands did help a few. His words fell on mostly deaf ears, drowned out by fear and hysteria.
He doesn’t understand yet.
He doesn’t understand that these people don’t deserve to be saved.
Yeon-u’s gaze flickered briefly to Kang Mi-na’s corpse, now half-trampled by the stampeding players. They thought of her life, or what little they knew of it.
When she survived once, they’d spoken to her out of boredom, filling the emptiness between games with meaningless conversation.
Kang Mi-na had been in the makeup industry, they’d learned, before getting tangled in a scam that left her drowning in debt. She hated cats, hated her mother, and hated everything, really.
Her mother had been sick, “sucking money” from her, as Mi-na put it. Yeon-u had listened to her bitter complaints, her words tinged with narcissistic self-pity and resentment, and had felt... absolutely nothing.
They’d long stopped feeling anything for these people.
Pity and empathy, all emotions they couldn't spare for them. Not even anger.
Everyone here was some kind of trash – liars, thieves, addicts, gamblers, abusers. Kang Mi-na was no different.
Yeon-u had spent their emptier loops learning almost every player’s story, only to find that none of them were worth saving.
That’s what they told themselves, anyway.
The truth, beneath their apathy, was much simpler: it was easier to not care for these people than to mourn them. To see them as obstacles instead of lives.
They were all just bodies waiting to fall, clearing the path for Yeon-u to do what they had to do.
Another shot rang out, then another, and another, and another–
Yeon-u didn’t bother to see who had been hit.
That mentality and thought process, of course, never applied when it came to Seong Gi-hun.
He was the one exemption, the only variable who did not belong in the column of “replaceable.” At the next green light, Yeon-u’s head tilted just slightly, eyes looking over their shoulder.
There he was, still barking instructions at strangers like they would actually listen. He had already told the others to hide behind taller players, to use their bodies like shields, as if it was a clever strategy.
In theory, it was. In practice, it was a line of dominos waiting for the first idiot to stumble, or trip. One mistake and the whole line would be fucked.
Yeon-u didn’t bother watching those rats. Their eyes latched onto him.
Gi-hun was staring back, his relief was palpable and almost physical.
It was relief that Yeon-u had survived. But layered over that relief was something far more inconvenient: dread. Because now that Yeon-u had lived through a few Red Lights, his worry doubled. And he would keep worrying, endlessly, all the way across the field.
Yeon-u could almost laugh at it. Baseless. Stupid. Irrational. They’d call his fear all of those things, if it weren’t for the embarrassing fact that they had died here more times than they could count. Shot, trampled, or dragged down by someone else’s flailing body.
It was utterly humiliating to recall.
So they couldn’t really dismiss his concern.
The doll’s head twisted away again.
“Green light.”
Yeon-u faced the front. Their body carried them into the motions they had rehearsed a hundred, a thousand times. Step, plant, calculate. Step, plant, calculate. By now their pace was muscle memory.
They crossed the finish line first.
That has been happening more often lately, winning this particular game before anyone else. It wasn’t intentional, only the efficiency of repetition. Each loop added to their performance, until Young-hee's song and their own steps felt like two halves of the same metronome.
In the safe zone, Yeon-u finally stilled.
The sunlight pressed down on their face, and for a fraction of a second, they allowed themselves to feel the warmth, the open air. Then it was gone, pushed aside. Their head turned, eyes back on the field.
Zeroed directly on him.
Seong Gi-hun was still out there among the crowd of vermin scrambling for their lives. He looked even more unsteady now, the relief of Yeon-u’s survival replaced by a nervous agitation, as though they were the one about to be shot if he made a wrong move.
His shoulders hunched, his mouth moving, urging, begging players near him to keep calm and listen.
Yeon-u’s gaze didn’t waver and tunneled through bodies until only one man existed on that field. Seong Gi-hun.
The loop had taught them one irrefutable law: there were certain people you had to save. People with strong, pulsing, unignorable strings that tethered them to the cycle itself.
Severing those strings, losing those people, always hurt in ways that nothing else did. It was not optional.
And Gi-hun’s string was thicker than all the rest.
Yeon-u watched him stumble, then freeze perfectly still as the doll turned again. They knew his rhythm by now, the way his hands shook but his feet locked down solid. The way his eyes darted sideways for others even when his own life was hanging by a thread.
Pathetic, and so indispensable.
Their blank expression betrayed nothing, but internally there was a fast, dangerous current that ran obsessive.
He could not die here again. Not like the last loops, where Yeon-u had ended up crawling beside his body, blood soaking into their knees and palms.
Those images replayed over and over at the back of their mind. The way his face slackened, the way his last breath sounded, the way something in them tore, painfully, as though the loop itself reached into their chest and ripped a vein free.
The dorms reeked of many unrecognizable scents, then.
Silence pressed in all around them, unlike a few minutes ago.
Yeon-u dragged their body forward, nails scraping the floor, palms slipping on something wet – blood, never-ending pools of it.
The world swam in red, blurry, because they had no eyes left to see with anymore. Nothing but two wet sockets, burning with the ghost of fingers that had been shoved in deep, tearing, ripping until all went dark.
But they didn’t need sight. Their memory filled in the outlines of corpses around them – the finalists, the last ones stupid enough to think they could take Gi-hun from them. Their grating laughter was still in Yeon-u’s ears, the sound of knives sinking in meat, and then Gi-hun’s voice breaking mid-scream.
There was only stillness, now. No more, no more, no more… Yeon-u’s breath dragged out of their lungs forcefully as they crawled.
He was slumped against the wall in his tux, black-and-white soaked through with a dark maroon sheen. Their hand trembled as it found him, slipping, fumbling up his chest until it rested where his heart should have been beating.
Their head limply dropped, cheek pressing into him, blood painting their face, sticking to their ruined skin. There was no music of life left in him.
Yeon-u’s jaw clenched. The world tilted further away, silent, and void of all that held purpose. No heartbeat. No heartbeat.
…Ah.
They had killed for him. Torn through skin, teeth cracking in their jaws, nails splitting, knuckles shattered, they did it all for him, him, him–
It always hurt more when it was him.
Yeon-u’s hands curled at their sides now, almost imperceptible. Their body had already arrived at safety, but their mind hadn’t. It stayed tethered out there, tangled around him, pulling with each step he took.
Obsession was too simple and ugly a word. This was compulsion. If Gi-hun fell, they would fall with him. The loop made sure of that, and so did their mind.
Their gaze sharpened, boring into him with soulless eyes.
Keep breathing. If not for yourself, then for me. I’ll drag you across if I have to.
And so Yeon-u stood there in the sunlight, surrounded by the screams of strangers, and watched only him.
They then blinked, and suddenly, the scene had shifted. How long had I been staring?
The players were closer to the finish line now, stumbling forward in disorganized clusters. The timer ticked down, there was only a minute left.
The air felt heavier, the field littered with bodies, blood soaking into the dirt like a dark, spreading disease.
Gi-hun’s voice cut through anyway.
“RUN!” he shouted, his voice hoarse from screaming. He stood near the finish line, his arm waving at the players behind him. “RUN, NOW!”
With the doll’s head swiveled away, the players broke formation.
They scrambled, sprinting with a tangle of limbs and wild, terrified expressions, some players colliding with each other in their desperation to reach safety.
Some crossed the line, collapsing in a heap of relief. While others tripped, stumbled, or froze midway, their bodies locked up with fear.
Gi-hun made it just in time.
He crossed the line a split second before Young-hee's head clicked back toward the crowd. The tension in his shoulders released as he stumbled forward, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Yeon-u watched him silently, their expression unreadable. Their gaze never wavered from him, not even as the screams continued behind him, the guttural cries of those who hadn’t been fast enough.
Gi-hun’s chest heaved as he tried to steady himself. Just as quickly, though, his head snapped up. His eyes darted to Yeon-u, scanning them frantically without giving Jung-bae a glance, who was panting beside him.
He was checking for injuries.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping toward them. His voice was breathless, worried.
It made their chest a little warm, if they were allowed to feel that.
Yeon-u didn’t answer. They simply stood there, their arms hanging at their sides.
It was obvious they weren’t hurt. Gi-hun knew that, but the concern in his eyes didn’t dull. He studied their face now, searching for any hint of distress, and finding utterly none.
He frowned.
“Yeon-u…”
His voice faded as another sound tore through the air.
A gunshot.
Then a scream.
Both their heads turned toward the noise.
A man near the front of the field had been shot, not in the head or chest, but in the thigh. He collapsed immediately, clutching the wound as blood poured from it in thick rivulets.
He wasn’t dead just yet.
The man writhed on the ground, his voice rising in desperate, choked pleas. “...Help me..! Please..! Help!"
Yeon-u’s gaze flicked to Gi-hun instantly.
They already knew what was coming. They’d seen it too many times before, this exact scenario, this exact moment. He died here more times than they'd ever allow.
Gi-hun’s expression shifted, his exhaustion evaporating in an instant. His body tensed, instincts taking over. He took one step forward, then another, his hand outstretched as if he could pull the man to safety.
“Mr. Seong,” Yeon-u called.
Gi-hun ignored them.
“Mr. Seong,” they repeated, louder this time, and their hand shot out, grabbing the hem of his jacket before he could take another step.
“Let go!” Gi-hun snapped, spinning around to face them. His eyes were wide with anger, his voice laced with desperation. “We have to help him! He’s not dead!”
Yeon-u’s grip didn’t falter.
“No,” they said flatly.
“What do you mean, no?!” Gi-hun’s voice rose, disbelief painting his tone. He yanked against their grip, but they held firm. “He’s alive! We can still save him!”
Yeon-u’s expression didn’t change.
“He was shot because he moved,” they said coldly, their voice as calm as it was unyielding. “He won’t stay alive for long.”
Gi-hun froze, his anger faltering for a moment.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “He’s hurt, but he can make it if we–”
Yeon-u cut him off, their words pointed. They couldn't stand his naivety sometimes.
“Even if you get to him, what will you do? Carry him through every game? Risk your life for someone you don’t even know?” They took a step closer, their grip still firm on his jacket. “And what happens when the next game is physical? Are you going to treat his leg? Are you going to hold him up while everyone else fights to survive?”
Gi-hun stared at them, stunned into silence.
“You can’t save him,” Yeon-u continued, eyes half-lidded and tired. “You’ll just get yourself killed trying. And then what? Do you think he’ll make it without you? Do you think anyone will?”
Do you think I will? They didn't add.
Gi-hun’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
The man on the ground continued to beg, his voice growing weaker. Blood pooled beneath him, his hands shaking as they pressed against the wound.
Gi-hun’s shoulders slumped, his fists clenching at his sides.
The timer ran out.
The PA system chimed overhead, its cheerful tone at odds with the carnage below. “The game has ended. All players who did not cross the finish line will be eliminated.”
The man’s pleas turned into a scream as the guns fired again, silencing him instantly.
Gi-hun flinched, his head snapping toward the sound. He stared, wide-eyed, as the remaining bodies were gunned down in rapid succession.
Yeon-u felt his jacket go slack in their hand.
They released him, stepping back as he staggered forward, his eyes fixed on the blood-soaked field.
For a long moment, there was only silence, broken only by the sound of the heavy breathing and sobbing around them.
Gi-hun’s voice was faint when he finally spoke. “You… didn’t even try.”
Yeon-u’s eyes didn’t waver.
“No,” they said simply. “I didn’t.”
Gi-hun turned to look at them, his expression a mixture of anger and grief.
Yeon-u didn’t look away.
Gi-hun was taken aback by the look in Yeon-u’s eyes.
Those eyes.
Once, back in simpler days, he’d thought them serene. Beautiful, too. They had that quiet depth that made it seem like nothing could touch the person behind them, able to see through every lie and deceit.
But now... those same eyes looked so hollow. A hollowness he had only ever seen in corpses.
His stomach twisted, and he looked away, unable to hold their gaze any longer. His thoughts betrayed him, dragging him somewhere else, to someone else.
Sang-woo.
He remembered the rain, cold and unrelenting, soaking through that suit as his childhood friend faded in his arms. The way Sang-woo’s eyes had stared up at him in those final moments – or more accurately, through him. Their light was already gone, long before his heart had stopped.
That same emptiness now stared back at him through Yeon-u, as if death had already claimed them, even though their body still drew breath.
Gi-hun’s throat clenched, and his eyes flickered involuntarily to the number on their tracksuit once again, 218.
What a cruel joke.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening against the wave of bitterness rising in his chest.
Did the Frontman think this was funny?
Did he sit in his cushy little room, laughing at Gi-hun’s misery? Giving yet another competent friend of his that cursed number, knowing full well what it meant?
Gi-hun’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say, not when the air between them felt so fragile after...that.
Yeon-u wasn’t like Sang-woo.
They weren’t apathetic or selfish… They were just a little tired. Worn down in a way that scared him, because he didn’t know if it was something he could fix.
And yet, he still felt that same old pull, a desperate need to protect them and keep them alive no matter what.
I can fix them, Gi-hun thought grimly to himself.
The sound of grinding metal snapped him out of his thoughts. Above them, the ceiling began to close, cutting off the sunlight inch by inch.
Shadows stretched across the field, swallowing the blood-soaked ground and the bodies that littered it. The light disappeared so slowly it felt cruel.
Gi-hun’s jaw tightened further.
He hated this. The darkness, the way the games stripped away every shred of humanity in people with no place to go, leaving nothing but a desperate need for survival and despair in their wake.
But most of all, he hated that he had no choice but to endure it. Though, that doesn't necessarily have to last for long if his plan works.
The ceiling locked into place with a resounding clang, plunging the world into darkness. The field was now nothing more than a lifeless, blood-stained box, and the air felt heavier for it.
Gi-hun forced himself to breathe.
He looked at Yeon-u again, his eyes searching their face for any sign of… something.
They were still staring at him, their expression impassive.
It unnerved him.
He didn’t know what had happened to them, what had hollowed them out so completely.
It couldn't have been because of what happened to their firm, right? He didn’t know why they seemed so unshakable, like they’d already resigned themselves to whatever hell awaited them.
But he knew one thing, is that he wasn’t going to let them die here.
Yeon-u blinked slowly, their gaze sliding away from him as if the conversation – if it could even be called that – was already over.
Gi-hun frowned, his lips parting as if to say something, but no words came.
What could he say?
That he was sorry? That he understood what they meant? That he’d make sure they at least got out of this alive, even if it killed him?
It all sounded empty in his head, meaningless against the weight of the silence between them.
So instead, he did what he could.
He stepped closer, his movements hesitant. “Yeon-u…” He started, his voice catching slightly. “Stay close to me, alright?”
Yeon-u didn’t respond immediately.
For a moment, he thought they might ignore him entirely. But then their head tilted slightly, and their gaze flickered toward him, just for a second.
“You keep saying that. Why?” they asked, their tone devoid of curiosity.
Gi-hun hesitated.
Because I can’t lose you, too.
Because I don’t know if I can survive this without you.
You and Jung-bae are the only ones I have left from that life.
He didn’t say any of that shit, though.
Instead, he forced a faint, almost bitter smile and said, “Because someone has to make sure you see the sun again.”
Yeon-u blinked, their lips parting slightly, before they turned away.
The PA system crackled overhead, announcing the return to the dorms.
And as the guards began herding the remaining players away, Gi-hun stayed close to Yeon-u.
The dorms reeked of sweat, blood, and fear.
No one spoke above a whisper. The players clustered together like frightened animals, huddling into the corners of the massive room. Some sat behind the skeletal frames of bunk beds, others crouched beneath them, their bodies trembling after what they had just witnessed.
Yeon-u remained standing, their arms crossed loosely.
The stench was unbearable, a nauseating mix of metallic blood and stale air, but the guards hadn’t yet given permission to leave freely. They wanted to go to the bathroom and escape this atmosphere.
They thought they'll get used to it, but it never gets better being a clean freak in this place. For now though, they stayed close to Gi-hun.
He was seated at the edge of a staircase, slouched forward with his elbows on his knees.
Jung-bae sat beside him, talking in a hushed tone. Gi-hun spoke occasionally, but his responses were short, his focus elsewhere– or rather, nowhere.
Yeon-u didn’t care about their conversation, whatever Jung-bae was saying didn’t matter.
Their attention was entirely consumed by him. And really, they didn’t mean to stare, but their eyes had a will of their own it seems.
Every detail of him was carved into their memory, and yet, they couldn’t stop cataloging him anew.
Seong Gi-hun had a rather nice looking face.
His lips were slightly chapped, the lower one fuller than the upper, marked by a faint line where he must have bitten it in frustration or fear.
His nose wasn’t perfect, having a slight bump along the bridge, probably having been broken once and never fully healed. But it suited him, adding to his ruggedness.
His eyes were dark, almost impossibly so, as though they held the weight of the entire world within them. Even when they were lowered, half-lidded in thought, they seemed to glimmer faintly in the dim light of the dorms.
His short hair, disheveled and damp with sweat, clung to his forehead in uneven strands. It made him look older than he was.
Yeon-u’s gaze lingered on the curve of his neck, where a vein pulsed faintly just beneath the skin. The rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. The way his fingers curled loosely together, knuckles bruised. And a scar of a stab wound on his palm.
They could have stood there forever, memorizing him all over again.
But then Gi-hun shifted slightly, his head tilting just enough to catch Yeon-u’s horrifically intense stare.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Yeon-u froze, their face blank but their mind scrambling for an excuse.
Gi-hun’s brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering in his expression. “Is.. something wrong, Yeon-u?” he asked softly, his voice low.
Yes, what you make me feel.
Yeon-u immediately broke their gaze, turning their head away like they hadn’t been doing anything at all.
They crossed their arms tighter over their chest, their posture stiff, and stared at the empty space beside the bunk bed like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Gi-hun blinked, watching them for a moment longer before shaking his head, as if deciding whatever he thought he had seen wasn’t worth pursuing.
He turned back toward Jung-bae, who was still rambling about something Yeon-u hadn’t bothered to register.
They didn’t look at him again.
BEEEEP–
The dorm lights snapped on, flooding the room with harsh, clinical brightness that made the bloodstains on the players’ clothes look more vivid. The double doors slid open with a hiss, and a group of guards marched in.
Eight armed Soldiers, and one Manager at the front.
The panic spread instantly at the sight. The players scrambled wildly, diving under bunks or pressing themselves against walls as though it might make a difference. Some clutched one another, trembling in silence, while others muttered incoherent prayers.
The Manager ignored it all.
“Congratulations on surviving the first game. Here are the results,” he announced flatly.
A screen above them lit up, the counter dropping from 456 to 365.
Yeon-u barely glanced at it.
It never seemed to change, that number. Not unless they made a deliberate effort to interfere, something they hadn’t bothered with in countless loops.
Save a few extra players? Kill a few more? It hardly mattered. The result remained the same unless Gi-hun, by some miracle, kept his mouth shut during the first game. And that was about as rare as a blue moon.
That number always remained so high.
“91 players have been eliminated in the first game,” the Manager added. “365 players have successfully completed the round. Congratulations again on surviving.”
Yeon-u closed their eyes, blocking off the noise of the circus show that happens next.
The players would get on their knees and start begging for mercy. It was always the same. They’d seen it loop after loop, and it never changed.
Mercy.
What a strange thing to ask for, especially here. When have any of them ever received mercy in their lives? Wasn’t that the reason they were here in the first place? Because the world outside had no room for grace, second chances, or saving hands?
Yeon-u’s lips twitched faintly, a near imperceptible reaction to the thought.
As the noise of the players hollering went to the back of their mind, one voice broke them out of their dissociation session.
“Clause three of the consent form!” Gi-hun yelled out.
Heads turned. Silence befalling the dorm. He stepped forward, his expression serious.
“The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Correct?”
The Manager gave a curt nod after a moment of silence. “That is correct.”
“Then let us take a vote right now,” Gi-hun demanded.
“Of course,” the Manager replied. “We respect your right to freedom of choice.”
It was a little funny how easily they used that phrase, “freedom of choice,” as if it meant anything here. As if the players’ decisions weren’t ultimately just another form of spectacle for the VIPs.
They’d seen it happen before, countless times. Whenever the VIPs decided something wasn’t entertaining enough, the illusion of equality crumbled in an instant.
Even he, with all his obsession with fairness, couldn’t stand against them.
Their thoughts lingered on that man for a moment.
Yeon-u pitied him, or… they used to?
They didn't know what to feel when thinking of his predicament anymore. Perhaps it was nothing, ‘nowadays’.
"But first.. let me announce the prize amount accumulated." The Manager interrupted their thoughts and pulled out a remote, the dorm lights dimming for the very special occasion to come.
The massive piggy bank above them flickered to life, glowing faintly. It seemed duller than Yeon-u remembered, but they’d long since learned to take their memories with a grain of salt.
Time, or rather, the loops, had a way of blurring the smaller details of things they once thought they knew.
With a mechanical whir, the chute above the piggy bank opened, and bills began to rain down relentlessly.
The players watched with their eyes as round as saucers, jaws parted. No one spoke a word or breathed too loudly.
It was almost reverent, this moment.
"The number of players eliminated in the game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated.” The Manager spoke, but no one paid attention to him.
Their eyes were all fixed upward, glued to the piggy bank as though it was some divine entity descending from the heavens.
For them, it was a god.
A god that promised salvation.
The Manager continued anyway, "If you quit now, the remaining people can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share."
Yeon-u had quickly tired from watching hope morph to greed in these people’s faces.
The change was subtle at first, starting with a tightening of jaws, and a faint glint in their eyes, but it spread, consuming a bit of their humanity.
And it will continue doing so, as the money piles on, until none of that so-called ‘humanity’ is left in the remaining ones.
Yeon-u didn’t feel much.
They’d seen this too many times to care.
They leaned back against the nearest bunk, their gaze straying afar as the players complained and complained.
The sight of the others clinging to their newfound god should have stirred something in them, perhaps it used to be disgust, but all they felt was indifference now.
They were tired.
They were so tired of watching, remembering. They were tired of it all.
When will this–
“Now, let’s begin the voting process,” the Manager announced.
On cue, two Workers broke formation and silently rolled in a sleek machine to the front of the room. The floor lit up in response, dividing the space into two glowing sections: left for X, right for O.
Seeing that machine again felt almost absurd after what Yeon-u had done to it the last loop. They glanced at it briefly, then away, utterly unashamed.
They’d fucked that thing up so badly in a fit, that the staff had been forced to resort to verbal voting for the remainder of that cycle.
It was a little funny.
The players lingered at the back of the hall, clustered together. Their eyes darted between the machine and the Manager as he continued.
“If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. Voting will proceed in reverse order of your player numbers.”
He started with Yeon-u's favorite number, “Player 456.”
Gi-hun didn’t move at first. Instead, he glanced at Yeon-u for some damn reason, his expression unreadable.
Yeon-u met his gaze evenly, their face impassive.
He held their eyes for a moment longer, as if searching for something. But whatever it was, he didn’t find it.
He let out a heavy breath, breaking the connection, and began walking forward.
The players parted instinctively, stepping aside to let him through. Yeon-u watched him silently. They didn’t need to wonder what his choice would be.
They had tried before, in countless loops, to change his mind about the vote. Sometimes they reasoned with him, other times they pushed and prodded. It never worked.
His decision was always the same, and they know better to think he'll willingly change it.
After all, no one knew Gi-hun better than they did.
His stride was then interrupted, as it always was, by her.
“This is all pointless!” That woman shouted from her perch on a high bunk. “You didn’t decide when to come into this world, and you can’t decide when you leave it either. When and where you die were already decided by the gods the moment you were born! No matter how hard you try, you can never escape it!”
Gi-hun, as always, ignored her completely and continued on to the voting counter to press X.
Player 044.
The so-called “shaman.”
Yeon-u’s lips twitched in irritation as they listened to her voice dripping with that same fervent conviction they’d heard a hundred times before.
She always managed to pull in a few desperate players, the ones on the edge of hopelessness who needed anything to cling to. Her words were a lifeline to them, even if they were nothing more than hollow, fraudulent bullshit.
The only thing sacred about her is the miracle that maggots would still bother consuming her rotting body.
But that wasn’t the reason Yeon-u hated her.
The actual reason was far more personal and petty.
It was the way 044 always seemed to target Gi-hun in her bullshitting campaigns.
Her so-called prophecies always revolved around him, adding him into her fabricated visions as though he were some figure destined to fall– or whatever nonsense she decided to spew that loop.
And every time, without fail, it filled Yeon-u with a burning, seething rage. So much for feeling 'nothing' about these players...
They’d learned to live with most things in the loops. The despair, the death, the endless repetition, it all felt like background noise now, completely meaningless.
But the rage they felt for her (and someone else) was something they hadn’t been able to smother, no matter how hard they tried.
Their nails dug into their palms, enough to sting and leave crescent shapes, as they stared up at her with empty eyes.
They couldn’t believe they were still capable of feeling this way.
Even after killing her in every loop.
After stabbing, strangling, shooting, sabotaging, and watching her lifeless body crumple in countless creative (as creative as this place allowed), gruesome ways.
But even after all that, the sight of her perched above the others, spewing her nonsense, still made them want to rip her apart till they were dripping with gore.
Their mind began to wander far again. Was it worth making this loop’s death slower? More painful? Should they let her believe she had power before crushing her completely?
The thought brought an almost imperceptible smile to their lips, a ghost of an expression that faded as quickly as it appeared.
While Yeon-u entertained their completely sane train of thoughts, the voting continued.
One by one, players were called forward, their eyes darting between the glowing X and O as though the right choice might suddenly reveal itself.
It wouldn’t be long now before Gi-hun did what he always did.
He’d try to convince the others to vote for X, just like he had. He’d plead with them to leave, end the games, and return to the broken lives they’d left behind.
He always fought so hard for people who didn’t deserve it.
Yeon-u’s eyes flicked to him.
He was standing near the edge of the X zone, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t speaking yet, but his body language was practically vibrating.
They knew him well.
So also knew he would fail to do anything unless they helped him.
What would he do without me?
But that wouldn’t stop him from trying anyway. Perhaps it's something they both liked and disliked about him, that stubbornness.
It was then that Player 230 stepped up to the counter, practically bouncing, and pressed O with enthusiasm.
That enthusiasm set Gi-hun off, apparently.
“Wait a minute, everyone! Wait!”
His voice carried through the hall, drawing every head in his direction.
Yeon-u’s expression remained the same, but their chest tightened slightly.
Gi-hun stepped out of the X zone, positioning himself in the very center, between the glowing sides of the floor.
Facing the crowd of players who had yet to vote, he raised his voice again.
“You can’t do this. Come to your senses! Don’t you see? These aren’t just any games. We will all die if we keep playing! We have to get out of here now. With a majority vote, we can! We must stop here!”
The words hung in the air, but before they could settle, he burst out of the crowd.
“Who do you think you are?! Why do you keep egging people on like that?!”
Yeon-u’s eyes shifted.
Player 100.
The pig.
The man shoved his way forward, puffing out his chest like some self-important fool. His face was twisted, his voice loud and angry as he jabbed a finger in Gi-hun’s direction.
“You scared us by saying they’d shoot us before the game even began!” he barked. “You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since we got here!”
Yeon-u watched as the man’s grating voice hurt their ears like forks to a board.
This one was worse than Player 044.
Yeon-u’s empty stare stayed fixed on him, their hands curling into tight fists at their sides.
It was always him.
The piggish, slimy fucking coward. The man who had caused Gi-hun’s death countless times, indirectly or otherwise. A man who had gotten Yeon-u killed too, more than once, through his selfish, bumbling actions.
And now here he was again, spouting his usual nonsense as though he wasn’t just another dead man walking.
Yeon-u’s nails dug so deeply into their palms they broke the skin.
Every muscle in their body tensed with the desire to lunge across the room and wrap their hands around his meaty throat. Right then, right then and now.
In front of all these players.
In front of Gi-hun.
In front of In-ho.
For a moment, they could see it so clearly – his face turning red, his eyes bulging, his pathetic squeals fading into silence as they squeezed the life out of him.
But they didn’t move and stayed planted where they were alongside the undecided party.
Because they were calm.
They were collected.
They were a calm, composed individual.
That’s how Gi-hun remembered them, wasn’t it?
He didn't remember them as someone consumed by rage, someone who let their emotions dictate their actions.
So, they didn’t lunge and tear Player 100 apart like their body ached to do.
Instead, they simply watched as the shouting continued, back and forth, back and forth.
They watched as Player 100 puffed himself up like he mattered, as though his bluster might actually convince someone of anything.
And unfortunately, his words did convince many.
Yeon-u realized too late that they’d let their focus slip.
The noise of the crowd had grown louder and louder, disorienting Gi-hun, and they hadn’t noticed in time.
By the time they registered what was happening, the players' frantic voices were overlapping and pressing down on him like a suffocating weight.
Yeon-u tried to push forward, weaving through the sea of bodies. But they were too far back, too many people in their way.
They had to stop him. Now.
Before he–
“I played these games before!” Gi-hun bellowed.
–exposes himself.
Too late.
The dorm fell into a suffocating silence.
The players turned to him in unison, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and confusion.
“I said I played these games before!” Gi-hun repeated in case anyone didn't hear him scream his lungs out a second ago. “I knew about the first game because I played it three years ago! Everyone who was with me back then… they all died!”
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the undecided crowd. When his eyes met Yeon-u’s, he paused.
They stared back at him, their face carefully blank except for their slightly raised eyebrows, as if they were surprised by his groundbreaking confession.
But internally, Yeon-u felt something different entirely.
Disappointment.
They had planned this. They had said that this time, they would stop him from exposing himself.
Because they knew what was coming his way now.
At first, the players would look to him with wonder, hope glimmering in their eyes. They’d see him as a lifeline, a ticket to an easy win. Someone who knew the games and could guide them.
And for a moment, Gi-hun would believe it too. He would try to help them and to use his knowledge to save them.
But then the next game would arrive.
And it wouldn’t be the same.
And suddenly, Gi-hun’s knowledge would mean nothing.
The same people who had clung to him, who had begged for his guidance, would turn on him without hesitation. They’d call him a liar, a fraud, a manipulative bastard who had led them astray.
They would point fingers, desperate to shift the blame for their failures onto someone else instead of looking at the obvious bigger picture.
Yeon-u hated how predictable it was. How stupidly, disgustingly human it was.
This place wasn’t built for saints like Seong Gi-hun.
But even after everyone stomped all over him, twisted his words, and threw his pleas back in his face, he still turned to the undecided players.
“Please, I’m begging you. We have to get out now! If we stay, people will die.”
He clutched at the shoulders of a random man, shaking him lightly. “It could be you! We can stop this. Right now.”
Yeon-u sighed quietly, stepping forward just as the Soldier moved.
They simply hated this part.
The Soldier’s gun was already half-raised, the cold black barrel a silent warning towards Gi-hun's back.
Without a word, Yeon-u grabbed Gi-hun’s forearm, their grip firm but not harsh, and yanked him back beside them just far enough to avoid the weapon entirely.
The Soldier’s mask turned toward them.
They couldn’t see his face, but they could feel his gaze, lingering on them longer than it needed to.
Maybe it was the fact that Gi-hun wasn’t resisting anymore, standing frozen and quiet under Yeon-u’s grip.
Or maybe it was the soulless look in Yeon-u’s eyes, the way they stared back at him as if nothing in this place could faze them.
Whatever the reason, the Soldier lowered his gun slightly, turned and walked back to his spot.
The Manager’s voice broke the silence.
“From here on, we will not tolerate actions that disrupt the voting process.”
His tone left no room for argument. Not that anyone would dare.
“Now, let’s resume the vote. Player 228.”
The crowd stirred again, but Yeon-u wasn’t paying attention to them.
Gi-hun muttered a quiet, “Thank you…” under his breath, his voice low enough that only Yeon-u could hear.
They didn’t respond. He remained silent after that, his gaze fixed on the floor.
But Yeon-u noticed the way his shoulders sagged slightly, in guilt.
They knew what he was thinking.
He thought they were upset.
He thought they were angry that he’d kept his big bad secret from them, that he hadn’t told them he’d been here before.
They wouldn't have known if he hadn't said so himself, in each loop after either exposing himself or telling them privately.
Gi-hun was such a fool.
Yeon-u felt a small flicker of giddiness, however, that he'd think about their own meager feelings.
But they didn’t soothe his worries.
It wasn't because they didn’t care, but because they quite literally didn't know how to.
They had lost all normal social skills a long time ago.
They don't even recall if they were ever able to do something like offering reassurance without it sounding like a death threat.
So they simply stood beside him, their grip on his forearm loosening until they let go entirely. I want to feel his skin beneath this fabric.
Gi-hun didn’t move away. He just stayed there, sulking, unaware that Yeon-u wasn’t upset with him at all.
If anything, they were annoyed with themselves.
They’d acted on impulse again.
Pulling Gi-hun away had been the right thing to do, but it had also been reckless. If the Manager had decided to make an example of them, things could have ended very differently.
Though they doubt he'd allow it.
They then looked at Gi-hun out of the corner of their eye, and they couldn’t bring themselves to regret it.
He was a fool.
But maybe they were a fool too.
As even in this place, after everything, they still couldn’t stop themselves from stepping in when it came to him.
“Player 218.”
It was finally their turn.
Yeon-u didn’t miss the slight flinch from Gi-hun at the mention of that number.
It was subtle as a small twitch in the corner of his mouth, and the faint tightening of his jaw. Yeon-u caught it anyway.
They could feel their lip threatening to curl downward, a twinge of irritation bubbling up at the thought of the person who used to be tied to that number.
The one Gi-hun remembers.
Does he see him when he looks at me?
The thought made Yeon-u’s chest tighten, their emotions stirring in a way they didn’t care to analyze.
They sure knew how to rile themselves up over nothing unprompted.
With a slow exhale, Yeon-u forced the thought to the back of their mind.
Calmly, they stepped forward, their strides unhurried as they made their way down the path to the voting machine.
The whispers started almost immediately, as they remembered them.
They were faint at first, barely audible. But as Yeon-u approached the counter, the murmurs grew louder, from both sides of the room.
“Wow, they’re so...???”
“Are they a model or something?”
“Don’t they look like someone famous?”
"Damn."
Yeon-u’s ears caught bits and pieces of the comments, their sharp hearing picking out the words even amidst the low din of the room.
Their blank expression didn’t change. They wouldn’t say their appearance was all that remarkable, to be honest.
Though, judging by the way some people were gawking at them, it seemed not everyone would agree.
To some, they were more than remarkable.
How baseless.
The idea struck Yeon-u as absurd. They didn’t carry themselves with the grace of a model, nor did they seek the attention their appearance seemed to attract.
But no matter how detached they tried to be, they could never quite ignore the way people stared.
It didn’t bother them, exactly.
But it did somehow remind them of a time when they had cared about things like that. When they’d taken time to fix their appearance, to enjoy the attention thrown all over them.
That version of Han Yeon-u was long gone.
Reaching the machine, Yeon-u stopped, their eyes shifting between the glowing red X button and the glowing blue O button.
The decision was obvious, to press X and stand by Gi-hun’s side.
They’d made the mistake of pressing O in a few loops before, just to see what would happen. All for science and research of course.
The betrayal and hurt in Gi-hun’s eyes when they'd looked at him afterward…
It was something Yeon-u didn’t want to see ever again.
So, without hesitation, they lifted their hand and decisively pressed the X button. The machine dinged, and they were handed the stupid red patch that marked their choice.
Yeon-u took it wordlessly, putting it in place, and moved to the X zone.
Gi-hun was already waiting.
The moment they stepped into the zone, he immediately moved to their side, his face softening with relief.
For a moment, Yeon-u thought he might say something. But he didn’t.
Instead, he looked at them, his expression quietly grateful, as if he’d been afraid they might have chosen something else.
Did he really think they’d betray him?
…His worries weren't exactly misplaced.
It took what felt like forever, but finally, the votes sat at a perfect tie: 182 to 182.
For some reason, no matter what Yeon-u tried, a tie always happened.
It was an unchanging constant in the loops, leaving the final decision to always be his. This time was no different.
The Manager’s voice echoed as he called for the final player. “Player 001.”
Every single head turned toward the last man. Yeon-u’s gaze slowly followed.
Hwang In-ho.
The man who always makes it.
Maybe that’s why Yeon-u wasn’t as desperate for him as they were for Gi-hun.
In-ho didn’t need their help.
But apparently, he’d beg to differ.
Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, Yeon-u felt the weight of his gaze settle on them.
It wasn’t the first time.
In-ho’s eyes lingered longer than they should have as he began his steady walk down the path to the voting counter.
His calmness was unshaken by the shouting around him.
“Everyone shout, O!”
“O!!”
“No, press X!”
"X!!"
The players were desperate, their voices rising to feverish heights as they screamed and pleaded, trying to sway him.
But In-ho ignored them. And so did Yeon-u.
Their attention remained locked on each other, as though the chaos surrounding them didn’t exist.
In-ho’s lips curled up ever so slightly, a faint spark flickering in his eyes as he kept eye contact for a while longer before looking forward.
Yeon-u tilted their head.
In-ho had never once pressed X in any of their previous loops. And Yeon-u had no reason to believe this time would be any different.
They hadn’t tried to persuade him before to know, though. They had an idea that it wouldn’t work. It wasn't because he wouldn’t listen to them, either– they knew that weirdly enough, he would.
None of it mattered anyway.
The players would return regardless. And so would Gi-hun, trying again and again to stop the games and save everyone all at once.
It was inevitable.
So, Yeon-u simply watched as In-ho reached the counter. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the glowing buttons.
And then, as expected, he pressed the O button.
The machine dinged, and the dorm erupted into loud cheers from the O zone.
The players who had voted to continue the games celebrated wildly, their cries of victory echoing off the walls, completely forgetting that they'd willingly thrown themselves into a bottomless pit.
Meanwhile, the X zone was a dismal contrast. Groans of despair filled the air as players slumped, covering their faces in defeat.
Yeon-u didn’t react to either side.
The players began to slowly disperse, their energy dwindling as reality finally sank into both sides. One by one, they returned to their bunks, their voices lowering to defeated murmurs or exhausted silence.
But Gi-hun stayed where he was, staring blankly at the ground.
His shoulders slumped, his head hanging low as if the weight of his failure was too much to bear.
He had failed to persuade enough people to leave.
Worse, Yeon-u could tell he was finally beginning to realize that his desperation, and exposing himself, had done the exact opposite.
Instead of convincing the undecided players to vote X, he might have encouraged them to press O.
He also didn’t notice the staring contest happening around him.
In-ho still stood by the counter, his sharp eyes flicking between Gi-hun and Yeon-u.
But mostly Yeon-u.
There was something in his gaze, as if he were trying to communicate something only they could understand. A faint smile was still tugging at the corner of his lips, barely visible but undeniably there.
Yeon-u didn’t acknowledge it.
They didn’t care to figure out what the look meant, nor did they want to.
They ignored him entirely.
Instead, they thought to themselves for moment while the lights turned back on.
They thought of the potential existence of an entity. Of something that lived outside the loop’s rhythm, perched somewhere in the walls, or behind their eyelids.
An entity that could watch.
Something that remembered every single version of them, every mistake and death. Every time their bones were shattered into something unrecognizable.
Someone who saw their triumphs and their worst, pitiful, crawling moments. Who knew when they hesitated before saving Gi-hun, who noticed the tremor in their hands after the first loops.
Someone who didn’t forget what they themselves could no longer recall.
The thought slithered around their skull all over again as it usually did. Perhaps now, they had an answer to it.
Yeon-u turned their head in terrible slowness.
To everyone else, it looked as if they were pivoting their gaze toward an empty corner. A glitch of interest, perhaps.
Han Yeon-u stared.
Straight. At. You.
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