Chapter Text
The apartment felt smaller than Gi-hun remembered, though nothing had changed in the months he'd been gone. The same faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, the same cramped kitchen held dishes he'd left unwashed before his departure to that cursed island. But the silence was punishing. It pressed against his eardrums like water, heavy and suffocating.
"Mom?" His voice cracked as he called out, though he already knew. The stillness told him everything.
Mrs. Cho from next door was the one who had found her. Three days, she said, wringing her hands as she explained through the thin apartment wall. Three days his mother had lain there while he was playing children's games for blood money. Three days while he was surviving, winning, becoming the last man standing among four hundred and fifty-five corpses.
The funeral was small, attended by neighbors who whispered behind their hands about the son who'd disappeared and returned too late. Gi-hun sat in the front row of the modest ceremony hall, the weight of forty-five billion won in his bank account feeling like stones in his stomach. All that money, and he couldn't buy back a single day with her.
He'd won. He'd survived. And for what?
The days blurred together in a haze of grief and trauma. Gi-hun found himself unable to sleep in his own bed, so he curled up on the living room floor, where his mother used to watch her soap operas. Sometimes he'd wake up calling for her, forgetting for those precious few seconds between sleep and consciousness that she was gone. The remembering was always the worst part.
Gi-hun was haunted by visions of Sae-byeok, who was just a child. He replayed in his mind how he couldn’t protect her, how she reminded him too much of Ga-yeong. And then there was Sang-woo, who had taken his own life, sacrificing himself.
But he had promises to keep.
…..
"My name is Seong Gi-hun. I knew your sister."
"Cheol," Gi-hun said softly, crouching down to meet the young kid’s gaze.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The wariness in Cheol's eyes shifted to something sharper, more dangerous. "Knew? Past tense?"
Gi-hun's throat tightened. How do you tell a child that their sister died playing a game? How do you explain that she'd been murdered for the entertainment of wealthy men in masks?
"She talked about you," he said instead. "Every day. She said you were smart, that you were going to university someday."
"She's dead, isn't she?" Cheol's voice was flat at first, but the cracks seeped through, and he began to cry into Gi-hun’s jacket.
…
Sang-woo's mother lived in the same neighborhood where Gi-hun had grown up, in one of the small houses that had somehow survived Seoul's relentless modernization. She answered the door with flour on her hands and suspicion in her eyes, but her expression softened when she saw Gi-hun's face.
"You look terrible," she said, which was probably true. Gi-hun hadn't been sleeping well, and grief had carved hollows under his eyes that made him look older than his years.
"Mrs. Cho," he said, bowing deeply. "I need to talk to you about Sang-woo."
Her face went very still. "What about my son?"
"He's gone," Gi-hun said, the words feeling like glass in his throat. "But before he died, he asked me to take care of you."
She invited him in for tea, and Gi-hun found himself sitting at the same kitchen table where he and Sang-woo had done homework as children. The house smelled like baking bread and old memories, and for a moment Gi-hun could almost pretend they were kids again, that Sang-woo would come bounding down the stairs any moment to play.
"There's something else," Gi-hun said. "There's a boy who needs a home. His sister... she was with us, at the end. She asked me to take care of him, and I thought... I hoped..."
Mrs. Cho looked up from her tea, and Gi-hun saw something kindle in her eyes. Not quite hope, but something close to it.
"A boy?"
"His name is Kang Cheol. He's nine, smart, and courageous. His sister said he wanted to go to university."
"Like Sang-woo did," she murmured.
"Like Sang-woo did."
She was quiet again, but this time Gi-hun could see her thinking, weighing possibilities. Finally, she nodded.
"Bring him to me," she said. "This house has been too quiet since Sang-woo left for Seoul National University. Maybe it's time for it to be full of life again."
"Just promise me you'll use it," Gi-hun said as he handed Mrs. Cho bank information. "For yourself, for Cheol. Don't let it sit in an account gathering dust."
…..
The nightmares came every night now. Sometimes he was back in the dormitory, other times he was watching players get shot for moving during Red Light, Green Light. Sometimes he was in the honeycomb game, feeling the sugar crumble under his desperate fingers. Most often, it was the final game with Sang-woo, holding the knife and trying to decide which of them deserved to die.
He stopped sleeping in his bed altogether, instead spending his nights walking the streets of Seoul or sitting in 24-hour diners, nursing cups of coffee until dawn. The city felt different now, full of people who had no idea how close they might be to their own desperate games. Every person he passed could be a potential player. The businessman with gambling debts, the single mother struggling to pay rent, the college student drowning in debt. The salesman was out there somewhere, lurking, and that didn’t sit well with Gi-hun.
He tried giving it away at first. Anonymous donations to debt relief organizations, payments to cover medical bills for families he'd never met, scholarships for students who reminded him of Sang-woo's younger self. But no matter how much he gave away, there was always more, and the guilt never lessened.
…..
He needed help. Professional help. But more than that, he needed purpose. The money would always be tainted, but he could find a way to use it that honored the people who'd died to earn it.
The idea came to him slowly, taking shape over the course of weeks of therapy sessions and long walks through Seoul's quieter neighborhoods. He'd always loved animals, had begged his mother for a pet as a child, only to be told they couldn't afford to feed another mouth. Now he had more money than he could ever spend, and Seoul was full of abandoned animals who needed homes just as desperately as he'd once needed hope.
A cat café seemed almost absurdly simple after everything he'd been through. No death games, no impossible choices, just cats, sweets, coffee, and the quiet satisfaction of matching lonely animals with lonely people. It wouldn't bring back the dead or erase the trauma, but it might create something good in a world that had shown him far too much darkness.
Finding the right location took months of searching. Gi-hun wanted something close to the university, where students might have time to volunteer and hearts open enough to adopt. The space he finally settled on had once been a bookstore, with high ceilings and large windows that let in plenty of natural light. It needed work. A lot of work, including new flooring, custom cat furniture, and a complete kitchen area renovation. But Gi-hun found himself looking forward to the project with something that might have been enthusiasm.
The renovation became a kind of meditation. Gi-hun threw himself into every detail, from the color of the walls to the design of the climbing trees. He researched cat behavior and café regulations, interviewed contractors and veterinarians, and spent hours sketching layouts that would provide the cats with ample space to play while keeping customers comfortable.
The cats came from shelters across Seoul, each one with their own story of abandonment or abuse. There was Mochi, a fat orange tabby who'd been surrendered when his elderly owner moved to a nursing home. Luna, a sleek black cat who'd been found half-starved in an alley. A bonded pair of siblings named Salt and Pepper who'd been returned to the shelter three times because adopters hadn't realized they came as a package deal.
Gi-hun learned their personalities and preferences, their fears, and their favorite hiding spots. He discovered that Mochi was actually quite athletic, despite his bulk; that Luna had a purr like a tiny motor; and that Salt and Pepper would only eat if their bowls were placed exactly six inches apart. The knowledge felt precious in a way that surprised him, these small details of small lives that mattered to no one but him and the cats themselves.
The café opened on a rainy Thursday in October, almost exactly a year after Gi-hun's return from the island. He'd kept the marketing minimal. A simple website, some flyers in the neighborhood, and word of mouth from the local animal rescue community. He wasn't sure anyone would come, wasn't sure he wanted them to.
But they did come, university students seeking a study space with purring companions. Office workers are seeking a moment of peace during their lunch breaks. Families with children who begged to take every cat home. Elderly people who missed the pets they could no longer care for.
What Gi-hun didn't know was that he was being watched.
In an office building across the city, In-ho sat before a wall of monitors, his fingers clasped together as he observed the man who had won his games. The surveillance had been routine at first—a precaution to ensure that Player 456 wouldn't cause problems, wouldn't go to the authorities, or try to expose the games. But as the weeks turned to months, In-ho found himself watching for different reasons.
There was something fascinating about Seong Gi-hun's descent into darkness, the way trauma had changed him into a walking corpse. In-ho had seen it before, of course—winners who couldn't handle the weight of their survival, who crumbled under the knowledge of what they'd done to earn their prize. Most of them drank themselves to death or found other ways to self-destruct. But Gi-hun was different.
As he slowly began to rebuild something resembling a life. The cat café project intrigued him most of all—such a simple, almost childish response to trauma, and yet there was something profound in its simplicity. Where In-ho had chosen to embrace the darkness, to become the architect of others' suffering, Gi-hun was trying to create something gentle in the world.
It should have disgusted him. Instead, he found himself oddly compelled.
The first time In-ho visited the café in person, he told himself it was purely for surveillance purposes.
He chose a quiet Tuesday afternoon, when the café would be less crowded, and dressed in civilian clothes—jeans, a simple sweater, and glasses to change the shape of his face.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered, and the warmth of the space immediately struck In-ho. Soft jazz played in the background, mixing with the gentle sounds of purring and the quiet conversations of other customers. The walls were painted in soothing earth tones, and cat trees and perches created a vertical playground that the resident felines had claimed as their own.
"Welcome to Alley Cat Cafe," a young woman behind the counter said with a bright smile. "First time visiting?"
In-ho nodded, his eyes scanning the room for Gi-hun. He found him in the far corner, crouched beside a large orange cat that was sprawled across a sunny patch of floor. Gi-hun was speaking to the cat in soft, gentle tones, his face more peaceful than In-ho had ever seen it during the games.
"That's Mochi," the barista continued, following his gaze. "He's one of our longest residents. Very sweet, but he's a bit older, so people usually want the kittens instead."
"And the owner?" In-ho asked, keeping his voice casual.
"Gi-hun? He's wonderful. He wanted to create somewhere that lonely cats and lonely people could find each other."
In-ho ordered a coffee and found a table with a clear view of Gi-hun, pulling out a philosophy book as a prop while he observed.
This version of Gi-hun moved with quiet purpose, greeting customers by name, knowing exactly which cats would appeal to which visitors. When a young couple expressed interest in adopting one of the kittens, Gi-hun spent nearly an hour with them, asking thoughtful questions about their living situation and lifestyle, clearly more concerned with finding good homes than making sales.
A small gray cat approached In-ho's table, meowing softly. Without thinking, he reached down to pet it, and the cat immediately began purring, rubbing against his hand with shameless affection.
"That's Smokey," Gi-hun's voice said from beside him, and In-ho looked up to find the man himself standing there with a gentle smile.
Up close, In-ho could see the changes that trauma had wrought in Gi-hun's face. Some lines hadn't been there before, a weight in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and difficult memories.
"She's beautiful," In-ho said, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended. He cleared his throat. "How long has she been here?"
"About three months. She was found as a stray, but she's so friendly that we think she must have had a home at some point. Maybe her family moved and couldn't take her, or maybe she just got lost." Gi-hun crouched down to scratch behind Smokey's ears. "We may never know her story, but that's okay. What matters is finding her a new one."
There was something in the way Gi-hun said it that made In-ho's chest tighten unexpectedly. The idea that a past could be left behind, that new stories could be written—it was a luxury In-ho had never allowed himself to consider.
"I'm Young-il," he said impulsively, giving the first false name that came to mind.
"Gi-hun," came the reply, along with a warm smile that made something twist uncomfortably in In-ho's stomach. "Nice to meet you, Young-il. Is this your first time in a cat café?"
In-ho nodded, not trusting his voice. Gi-hun's smile widened.
"Well, you've certainly made a good impression on Smokey. She's usually more cautious with strangers." As if to prove his point, the gray cat had now climbed onto In-ho's lap and was kneading his thigh with her paws, purring loudly. "I think she likes you."
When In-ho finally left, he told himself it had been a successful reconnaissance mission. He'd confirmed that Gi-hun posed no threat to the games. The surveillance could be scaled back.
But three days later, he found himself returning.