Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ga-yeong had always known that the time moved too fast for some people.

She had learned it the hard way, watching life slip through her fingers like grains of sand. Yet, for her, time had a peculiar delicacy— a stretchiness only she could feel, a rhythm that seemed to bend at her touch.

It all began on the day Jihoon died.

The only other Korean girl in their high school, her friend.

She remembered it with unflinching clarity: the screech of tires against asphalt, the sudden flash of metal, the abrupt, impossible silence that followed. They were sixteen. Barely grown, and yet, in the instant the world ended for her, for her, it began. One heartbeat later, she was back. The intersection was empty. The car hadn’t arrived yet. Her hands shook uncontrollably, the taste of iron heavy on her tongue, and a sharp point of pain pressed against her temples: power always came at a price.

She could move through time. She could rewrite endings.

But each change left her weaker; her nose bled, her mind screamed against the unnatural rhythm of the universe.

Years passed.

She learned to hide it, to control it, to use it only for small mercies: stopping a fall, rescuing a stranger from a burning building, saying something different in a fleeting conversation.

It had been exactly thirteen years since she last saw her father, and ten years since a stranger handed her money and told her that he was dead.

He was gone, and she had grown. She had become a woman, studying law at a prestigious university to help people in a world that had shown her its cruelty. Though she had money, she never let herself think she could live like the other wealthy.

What was the point of money if it could never bring her father back?

How could she ever explain what had happened? The only things left of him were the money, a strange box covered in symbols she couldn’t decipher, and a tracksuit with the number 456 stitched on it. Her father had been tangled in something dangerous. Something dark. Something that got him killed.

And yet… one thought haunted her relentlessly. If she could turn back time for small things, could she do it for him?

For her father. The man who had given everything for her. The man she had left behind, believing that his absence would keep her safe while he carried the burden alone.

That night, in her small UCLA dorm room, she pressed her palms against her eyes. She felt the pulse of the past beneath her fingertips, a thin, delicate thread of possibilities.

She whispered his name. And the world shuddered.

Time opened like a wound. Light and shadow collided, and Ga-yeong found herself suspended between heartbeats, in a space without scent, sound, or shape—but one that knew her.

And there, in that floating, impossible silence, stood the girl she had once been, wide-eyed and curious, staring back.

“I… I think I can save him,” she said, her voice trembling with tentative hope.

Her younger self tilted her head, eyes wary yet shining with fragile trust. “But… what if we break everything?” Ga-yeong swallowed hard.

She didn’t know. She didn’t know how far back she could go, or what the cost would be.

She knew only one thing: she could not live in a world where he no longer existed.

And when they reached for each other, the fragile boundary between past and future shattered. One body remained, and the world waited—hungry, relentless, and unforgiving.

Ga-yeong fell. And as she did, the nightmare she had once only watched unfold before her eyes became her reality.

The city lights blurred into streaks of color, the air thickened with the scent of rain and asphalt. The roar of traffic grew louder, each sound magnified in the warped fabric of time. She could feel the moments stretching, twisting, and threatening to snap around her.

Every heartbeat was a hammer against her chest, a reminder that altering fate came with consequences she had yet to understand.

And in that dizzying descent, a single thought anchored her: she would not let him die again.

Chapter Text

She awoke in a strange place. The first thing she could hear was loud music. It sounded like classical music, although she didn’t recognize the tune.

Her head ached, throbbing painfully, yet no blood appeared on her nose. She looked at herself—yes, she was in her own twenty three years old body, but the clothes she wore were different.

It was the same jacket – green one with the number. Hers was number 067.

She looked down as others were waking up. Ga-yeong didn’t recognize this place. She was never supposed to be there.

If the timeline was correct, she should be thirteen and on the other side of the world.

Yet here she was, in a place that looked straight up like something from dreams or nightmares, she thought.

She had no time to dwell, no chance to search for her father’s face among the crowd. The music came to a stop, and a few seconds later, across the room, large metal doors slid open. About a dozen figures entered, dressed head to toe in pink uniforms.

Ga-yeong stared at them, wondering—who were these people? And what was this place?

“I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

Games? Prize? What was this?

Her mind raced. Was this what her father had been doing? Was this where the money came from? She had too many questions. And no answers.

It was strange, what the guard had said. If her father had truly won, then why was he dead? Were these games deadly? Was it a trap?

If so, she needed to stop it before it came to that. If there was real danger—then she could be in danger too. Gayeong had to be careful. She didn’t even know if her powers could bring her back if something happened. She had never tested that theory—and she sure as hell didn’t want to test it now.

She rose from the bed and looked around. There were about four hundred people here. Somewhere among them, her father had to be present.

The pink guards were speaking, though her head was still dizzy. It seemed the people were already gathering for something and were yelling something about getting kidnapped. She heard some woman yelling about what kind of clothes she was wearing and a man arguing about getting his phone back.

She didn't care about those people who's faces were displayed on the big screen getting slapped by someone and the pink figure telling them how much they were in dept.

She needed to get closer. To find him. Though she wasn’t sure what she would say if she did: that she was his daughter, only older? That he should already be dead, but wasn’t? That she had powers?

No—it was better to keep a low profile, at least for now. He wouldn’t believe her anyway. How could he?

Then she saw him. He had shorter hair, looked more tired and skinny, but it was him.

It was him.

He wore that damn tracksuit with number 456. So, that strange man who knew her father had been telling the truth. This was some sick game. A game where her father had died.

She tried to control her emotions. She couldn’t risk smiling at someone who thought she was a complete stranger.

But she realized something strange too. Her father was looking around, almost as if he already knew this place.

If he had won once before, why had he returned? Why would he risk his life again?

Ga-yeong had no answers.

"All of you in this room have crippling debts and are now on a cliff-edge. When we first came to you, you did not trust us either. But as you know, we played a game and gave you money as promised. And so you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will," pink figure continued. 

Ga-yeong was sure she didn't volunteer for this. She didn't play Ddakji. And she was certain she didn't trust those men either. She wondered how her father get there, when he already won a prize.

"You have one last chance to decide. Do you want to live like a piece of trash, running from creditors? Or will you seize the last opportunity we are offering?" 

What opportunity were they offering? To die in those games? Ga-yeong thought they were giving all of those people false hope.

 "What you see now is the piggy bank where your valuable prize money will be stored. After each of the six games you will play, the prize money will accumulate in this piggy bank." 

Ga-yeong just like others turned her head towards the empty piggy bank. Gold light shine on her face. Someone ask how much is the prize money.

"The prize money for the games is 45.6 billion won in total." That number was the same one like on her father tracksuit. There must have been 456 players. And only one of them is going to win.

Then another thought hit her—she remembered her mother saying her father had been in debt. Did he really win the first time? Was it the reason all of them were here?

Well, except her. In her previous life, she’d had money. She never had to struggle to survive.

"We will give you the details about the distribution of the prize money after the first game. For these games, you will be given a special new advantage." She tried to find her father's face but the crowd was too vast. What were they talking about?

"After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether to continue the games or not. If the majority votes to stop the games, you can leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point." 

They could leave after the first game? No, that was a lie. Just another trap. Because then her father would still be alive. Surely he would convince the others to leave?

But she didn't know the future or what was her father's plan in all of this. 

"Are you saying we'll still receive the money, even if we leave after the first game?" Her father spoken up towards the masked managers. She almost couldn't breath. Hearing his voice after all this years. 

Her head still felt dizzy and for a second she heared his voice echo thought this dorm. She closed her eyes and try to focused on situation before her. People already start to argue with each other, whenever to stay or leave. 

She didn't listen to them. If they could leave, her father would return home. She would seen him again but that didn't happen. They kidnapped all those people in dept to get rid of them. She wasn't even sure if the money were real or  if it was just another calculated trap. 

"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." Gayeong almost wanted to laugh. This sounded ridiculous. 

But at the same time she believed if she was desperated enough she would buy they words too. But she didn't came here for money or to play stupid children games.

Others were already gathering to sign consent form. When she got there, she didn't even look at the words. It was all lie anyway, wasn't it? 

Her father must have know  too as he signed it. 

Then after this manager gather them by their numbers. They were supposed to take picture. Automated voice said she should look in the camera and then in perfect english said she should smile.

She never liked smiling to the camera and she wouldn't smile for this either. She remained still with her face and camera taken her picture. 

The first game was starting. Red light, green light.

How could people die in such an easy children’s game? she thought.

She stood behind the others in the same green tracksuit. Her father was at the front, running to the front line of the crowd.

Ga-yeong noticed the creepy doll staring at them. The entire area was designed like a playground. That creepy doll started to welcome them and said they should remain on the field.

She wondered who was watching them. How would people die from failing? Did the doll have laser eyes? That was absurd, but everything about this situation was absurd.

People look confused too. But more of them looked amused thinking this is a joke. Really they kidnapped you and there is a creepy doll and you think this is a joke? Ga-yeong thought for herself.

“Everyone!” her father finally shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “Everyone, listen up! Pay attention! Listen carefully! This is not just a game! If you lose the game… you die!”

Her eyes stung with tears at the sound of his voice. Yet there was something haunting in it, something broken.

Ga-yeong wondered what had happened before. Had he really won the first time? And if he returned the second time, was it because he wanted to save others?

Was he successful? Did he die for them? Was that why he never came home?

“Pfft! What are you talking about?” some woman scoffed. “We’re going to die playing Red Light, Green Light?”

“Yeah, that’s right! If they catch you moving, they’ll kill you!” he insisted.

The way those people talked. She wanted to yell at them that her father was no liar. Ga-yeong had separated herself from the crowd, standing near him.

She wanted to say that she believed him, that they should shut their mouths and listen to what he says.

But he yelled again: “Yeah, that’s right! If they catch you moving, they’ll kill you!”

People were giving him strange looks. She noticed smirks on a few players and disbelief.

The crowd was vast, but she noticed another familiar face – she almost didn’t recognize him after all those years, but he was there too.

Jung-bae – if she remembered things right, he was her father’s old friend. Did he die too?

“They will shoot you from somewhere!” he continued. “Stay on your toes! That doll’s eyes have motion detectors! Stay on your toes!”

Most of them looked at him like he was a lunatic; some of them laughed. They started accusing him of wanting to cheat, by scaring them, just to take all the money. Someone asked Jung-bae if he knew this crazy man, but he denied it.

My dad is not crazy, you idiots! she wanted to yell at them. But the noise of the doll turning backwards interrupted both her and her father.

“Do not be alarmed or panic! No matter what happens, don’t be…”

“Let the game begin.” That voice sounded creepy. It reminded Ga-yeong of some twisted horror video game that her classmates always used to played.

It would be nicer if it was a video game, but unfortunately it was real. At least she didn’t have to worry about her father. It seemed like he knew what he was doing. Did he?

Green light!

He spread out his hands as if he wanted to reassure those four hundred people at the same time.

It was strange seeing him like this. Like he was some kind of hero.

Red light!

They didn’t believe that they were actually going to die, but they didn’t dare to prove him wrong. All the players were listening to him yelling “freeze!” every time the doll was looking at them.

She of course knew the rule of the game too. She used to play it when she was a child. Except without the snipers and death around the corner. 

“Gi-hun, why aren’t you moving?” said Jung-bae to him.

Red light!

“Freeze!” He seemed angry. The last time she saw her father angry was when her stepfather punched him.

She, among others, listened to him.

Green light!

They were halfway across the field. No one has died yet.

But no good thing lasts forever. Whoever was in charge would soon grow bored. No blood, no entertainment. If someone was watching, it would only be fun if they started to fail.

It reminded her of a gladiator arena; if blood wasn’t spilled, the emperor would turn his thumb downward.

If something happened, she could change it.

Red light!

Ga-yeong moved quickly. The others, though, shuffled like clumsy children, unaware of the truth.

But she saw the rifle barrels mounted behind the fake trees. In the US, weapons were normal, so she wasn’t shaken up by them like others would be.

She was sure that even shooting wouldn’t frighten her like it did the others.

What would shake her was the death. Cruel, brutal, senseless. Not the kind of death she had seen before. Not the kind you expected. This was slaughter.

She imagined this place as a war zone. Her father, the leader. They had to win this war.

Green light!

She was almost next to him. She could see that he was visibly shaken up, but there was determination in his eyes.

She wanted to tell him how brave he was, how she believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. But she swallowed the words. She would tell him—later. When they survived.

Red light!

And out of nowhere, they heard the first gunshot.

“You must not move!” His voice was shaky. Too shaky to be loud enough. Only she could hear him, but he didn’t pay attention to her – she was just another desperate player trying to survive in this hell.

“Player 188, eliminated.”

“Jung-bae, no matter what happens, don’t move,” he whispered, covering his mouth and glancing an eye at his friend standing behind.

And then a scream. And another. And quick steps of running players. Then gunshots. A lot of them. Her father was trying to yell louder, but it seemed like no one paid attention to him.

“I’m begging you, stay still! If you run, you die!”

She sighed. Guess it’s my turn.

She concentrated on that moment in which someone recklessly moved. She needed to go back to that past and stop it.

Red light!

The doll said it again – well, not again for everyone. Gayeong had to make sure all of them get out of this nightmare alive. That was what her father would have wanted.

But how could she stop this? Maybe by doing the same thing like he did? They could listen to more people, right? 

“Don’t move. The shooters will detect your movement!” she yelled to the crowd. Her voice didn’t seem shaky, and people seemed to actually listen this time.

This time player 188 didn’t move. Relief washed over her. She wished she could seen her father’s face, but he stood turned away, next to Jung-bae.

No exhaustion tugged at her body. The rewind had only been a few seconds.

But then chaos bloomed again.

She noticed a woman screaming – yelling there was a bee in her hair – and then a gunshot. The man with purple hair just laughed like a maniac and pushed someone near him, causing him to get shot too.

"Player 196 eliminated" "Player 144 eliminated" The doll spoken in mechanical voice announcing their elimination.

Others around her started to panic and run away, but the gunshots got them anyway.

They were so close! Almost at the finish line. Why did it have to get ruined?

Finally, a mechanical voice spoke again.

“Let me repeat. You can move forward while the tagger shouts ‘Red light, green light’. If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

Green light!

No one moved.

Red light!

Could she rewind again? Could she warn the woman about the bee? But how? If she shouted, she’d only create another distraction. More deaths.

The chaos stopped anyway. The bodies were left behind.  Gayeong didn’t know who they were, what their lives had been outside this place. But she had to leave them.

Her goal was to save her father. To get him out of here.

Green light!

Finally, her father was right at the finish line. But he didn’t cross. Why not? What was he waiting for?

Red light!

“You will also die if you don’t make it there in time! That doll is a motion detector, but it can’t detect motion that’s not visible to it!” He demonstrated this by clasping and opening his hand behind his back. “Get behind someone bigger than you!”

The clock ticked down. Only two minutes left.

People scrambled, sheltering behind each other. Ga-yeong shielded a young woman clutching her stomach. Behind her, an elderly woman leaned on young man.

“We’re running out of time. We’ve got to move!”

Jung-bae fell in step behind him.

Green light!

They were moving together now, standing in lines. Ga-yeong was the first to cross the line. Relief crashed through her, her hands trembling in fear.

The girl behind her tripped. Ga-yeong was quick to catch her and get her to the other side. Others were moving fast to the other side too. She noticed that the elderly woman was holding some younger man – her son?

Her father was still behind the line, waiting for others to cross. Almost everyone was safe. Almost.

Until some man tripped over, and the doll said Red light!

There were only thirty seconds left, and about twenty other people were still behind, some of them too far away to make it in time.

As the man fell, he was shot in the leg.

Green light!

Her father almost immediately rushed to him. “Someone help me!” he yelled. Some tall woman appeared next to him. “I will help you carry him to the other side,” player 120 said, and they both lifted his body and carried him across.

Ga-yeong remembered the same bravery soldiers had for their comrades. This almost felt the same.

Red light!

Her dad and player 120 crossed the line in time, carrying the injured player. Five others made it in time too.

But others weren’t so lucky. Time ran out, and they were shot where they were standing.

Ga-yeong clenched her fists. Could she have done something? Could she save them? Probably not, she thought, and watched their bodies fall to the ground.

And then another final shot. Near her father.

She turned as quickly as she could. Fear in her eyes as thoughts ran through her mind. Did they shoot him? Was this punishment because he saved someone?

But it was just the injured player. The bullet hit his head. Why? she wondered. He crossed the line like the rest of them, didn’t he?

It seemed like her father wondered the same thing, but his face quickly turned away. He looked more broken than at the start.

Ga-yeong wished she could tell him it was okay, it wasn’t his fault. The game was just not fair. But instead, she kept her silence.

The first game was over, and he was still alive.

She had to prepare for what was next. She had to do more than just talking.

She was going to kill those responsible for this nightmare that looked like a children’s playground. They will pay for this.

Chapter Text

The first game was over. Gi-hun felt a heavy wave of relief when the soldiers marched them back to the dormitory. Jung-bae walked beside him.

If they could leave after a vote, then he was going to make sure they would all go home.

Inside the dormitory, Jung-bae turned to him:
“Gi-hun. What the hell is that creepy doll? It shoots people with its eyes.”

“It’s not the doll. There are shooters,” he replied flatly.

“How do you know so much? Have you really been here before?” Jung-bae kept pressing, but Gi-hun didn’t have the time to answer.

An alarm blared, buzzing through the dorm. Pink soldiers marched in.

“Congratulations on making it through the first game. Here are the results of the first game,” a masked officer announced. Numbers flickered onto the large screen.

“Out of 456 players, 65 players have been eliminated. Three hundred ninety-one players have completed the first game. Congratulations again for making it through the first game.”

Gi-hun didn’t feel relieved. But it was still better than in his previous game—most of them were still alive. They had a chance. They could make it out.

“Sir! Please don’t kill us!” someone suddenly screamed.

“Please don’t kill us. I beg you! As for my son’s debt, I will do whatever it takes to pay you back!” an elderly woman cried out, her voice trembling.

He had seen this before. The same fear. The same pleading. But now, maybe—just maybe—he had a chance to stop it. This time they didn’t have to die.

“Please forgive us! Don’t just stand there—beg for his forgiveness!” the old woman continued, tears streaking her face as she clung to the young man beside her  who must have been her son.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” the younger man muttered desperately. “I promise I’ll pay it back!”

“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” the masked manager said calmly.

“Please don’t kill us!” the woman screamed again, falling to her knees. The man beside her joined her pleads. “Please don’t kill us!”

“Please spare us!” others shouted. Players were begging, voices overlapping in a panicked chorus.

Gi-hun clenched his jaw. It was just like before, as if nothing had changed.

“We are not trying to harm you. We are presenting you with an opportunity,” the masked officer reassured them calmly.

He couldn’t stand hearing those words again. He had to do something. Then, Sag-woo’s words came back to him—the same thing he had said back then.

“Clause Three of the consent form.”

The dorm fell silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward him.

“The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Correct?”

The masked manager replied: “That is correct.”

“Then let us take a vote right now,” Gi-hun said firmly. This could work, right?

“Of course. We respect your right to freedom of choice.”

That was bullshit, and he knew it. There was no freedom of choice in this place. But if they weren’t lying, then maybe—just maybe—they could still get out.

All around him, players exhaled in relief. But Gi-hun couldn’t. He knew what kind of announcement was coming. It couldn’t be stopped.

“But first, let me announce the amount that’s been accumulated.”

Above them, the giant piggy bank began to fill with glowing money, coins and bills spilling into the glass. All eyes turned upward, mesmerized by the shining prize.

“The number of players eliminated in the first game is 65. Therefore, a total of 6.5 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 391 of you can equally divide the 6.5 billion won and leave with your share.”

“And how much is that?” Gi-hun turned to the person who asked. A young woman—Player 067.

He remembered her. During Red Light, Green Light she had shouted toward the crowd, warning them that soldiers would shoot if they moved. He had thought no one would listen, that they would die there, but her voice had given them courage. She must have been terrified herself, yet she had been braver than most of them.

She reminded him of another brave girl with the same number. The short hair, the sharp eyes. He couldn’t let the same tragedy repeat. He couldn’t let people like Sae-byeok—or Sang-woo—die again. He had to save them.

The masked manager answered her: “Each person’s share would be 16,624,040 won.”

“Fuck. We almost died and they’re giving us 16 million? That’s fucking bullshit. Sixteen million? You said 45.6 billion!”

“The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game and more players are eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

“How much will it be if we survive until the end?” someone else asked.

“As I already told you, the total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won. Those who make it through all six games will equally divide the 45.6 billion won.”

“So if you’re the only one to survive, you get 45.6 billion?”

“That’s correct.”

Players began murmuring in approval. The greedy sparkle was back in their eyes. Gi-hun felt sick listening to them. How could they still want to continue, even after watching so many die?

“45.6 billion? Wow!” a woman cheered.

“So we can take a vote again and decide to leave after the next game?”

“As promised in the consent form, you can take a vote after each game and decide to leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point. We always prioritize your voluntary participation. Now, let’s begin the vote. If you wish to continue, press the O button. If you wish to end the games, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers,” explained the manager.

“Player 456.”

Gi-hun stepped forward. There were 391 people left. Surely majority of them wanted to leave right? 

Eyes turned to him—some curious, some suspicious.

“Once you finish voting, put the patch you are given on the right side of your chest and stand on the side you have chosen,” a soldier ordered.

Gi-hun pressed the X button. A single number lit up on the screen.

He took his patch and walked to the X side. He hoped others would follow.

“Player 454.”

O button.

“Player 453.”

X button.

The numbers began to line up on both sides: Xs and Os blinking on the board.

“Player 390.” Jung-bae pressed the O button and walked to the other side. Gi-hun looked at him. He wasn’t angry—just disappointed.

“Player 388.” Another O.

On it went. Some pressed X. Some pressed O.

“Player 230.” O button.

They were nearly split down the middle.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened. He had to act before it was too late. He couldn’t let them die. Not again. Not again.

“Wait a minute, everyone!” He stepped toward the crowd, his voice desperate. All eyes turned to him like he was some kind of lunatic.

“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!”

“Who do you think you are? Why do you keep edging people like that? You scared us by saying they’d shoot us before the games even began!”

“That’s right! He was going on about how we’d die, and I almost did because I got so nervous!” Player 245 snapped.

“How did you know they were going to shoot us? Are you one of them? Are you conning us by pretending to be a player?”

“Yeah, who is this guy? Did you plant him to mess with our heads?”

“That’s uncalled for. We wouldn’t have survived without him. You should all thank him.” Jung-bae defended him, his voice sharp.

“And who the hell are you? Are you conspiring with him?” Accusations flew, voices clashing.

Gi-hun felt exhausted. What more proof did they need?

“Please, don’t do this. Listen. None of us would be alive if it weren’t for this gentleman. So enough with the greed. Let’s put our lives first and get out of this place, okay?” Player 149, the older woman, spoke with trembling conviction.

“That’s right!” Jung-bae echoed.

“Let’s all get out of here!”

“No! We have to keep playing!” Player 100 shouted.

Chaos erupted. Players yelled at each other—some desperate to leave, others wanting to continue.

Gi-hun wanted to shout, to shake them until they understood—but then someone else’s voice cut through. Stealing his line.

“He played these games before! Can’t you see? He knew about the first game because he played it before! He’s alone here because everyone else died!” Player 067 shouted, eyes blazing.

Gi-hun was taken aback. Again, she surprised him. The other players stared at her, stunned.

“Maybe we should ask him, dont you think young woman?” Player 100 sneered. “Well? Did they all die? All of them?”

Gi-hun nodded grimly.

There was disbelief in their eyes, horror flickering in the silence. But it was true. He played these games before and he was the only one alive.

“But if they all died, that means… you were the sole winner?” Player 100 pressed.

“That’s right. I was the final winner,” Gi-hun admitted. He hoped they would finally understand.

Players started murmuring and whispers went though dorms. 

“If we continue, every single person here—just like everyone before—will die in the end,” Gi-hun pleaded. He searched their faces, desperate.

But instead of clarity, he saw suspicion.

“If you were the sole winner, that means you won the prize. Why would you come back here?”

“That’s right! He’s lying!” a woman shouted.

“He’s crazy!”

“If someone like you can win, so can we!” voices rose, feverish with excitement.

“If you really won, then give us some tips on how to beat these games!”

“That’s right! We have a previous winner with us. What’s there to worry about?” Player 100 cheered, riling them up.

“Did you lose your mind, old man? You think you can win?” Player 067 snapped back at him.

Player 100 chuckled. “You youngsters are always so ungrateful. Come on! We gotta get that money.” He waved her off, dismissive.

The crowd grew restless, voices rising in greedy cheers.

“Please, I’m begging you. We have to get out now! If we keep playing, more people will die. We have to stop this!” Gi-hun cried, nearly breaking.

But a pink soldier stepped forward, gun aimed at him.

“From here on, we will not tolerate actions that disrupt the voting process. Now, let’s resume the vote.”

Gi-hun froze. He couldn’t risk angering them further. He stepped back to the X side, trembling with frustration.

“Player 228,” the manager called.

The votes continued. X. O. X. O. The sides climbed almost evenly.

“Player 100.” He slammed the O button, of course. Others followed.

“Player 067.”

Gi-hun looked up. She stepped forward, her short bangs shadowing her eyes. She couldn’t have been more than in her twenties. Her caramel-brown eyes flickered between the screen and the piggy bank.

 He noticed something when she spoken up. She has a thick american accent when she spoken in korean. He wondered what this girl story was. But atleast she wasnt dumb like others. 

Girl look at the manager and her hand was above the X button. He didnt seen the expression on her face, but he could hear her.

"Can i ask you something?" she said to manager waiting for her vote. 

“Of course. If you need explanation, we will answer,” the manager nodded.

She studied the piggy bank, the board, then turned back.

“Okay. We aren’t playing this just for us, right? Is this being broadcasted somewhere?”

The question shocked the room. Players exchanged confused glances. Even the manager seemed caught off guard as no one else have that kind of question.

“No. These games are just for you,” he replied after a pause.

It was a lie. Gi-hun knew it. Junho had told him about the VIPs, about the Front Man watching their every move through the cameras. They were entertainment for monsters.

Player 067 said nothing more. She pressed the X button.

Time passed. More votes. More tension.

The screen flickered: 195 on both sides.

They just needed one more. One more vote and they could all go home.

Gi-hun clenched his fists. Hope burned inside him. They could do it. They could win their freedom.

“Lastly, Player 001.”

The final player stepped forward. He hesitated, staring at the buttons. Then, slowly, he pressed O.

It was 195 against 196. 

He failed. He failed.

The words echoed through his mind, spinning like broken glass. He hadn’t touched the food they gave him.

Jung-bae, sitting beside him, didn’t mind. He eaten his meal, speaking casually as if they weren’t all trapped in this nightmare. He told Gi-hun it tasted just like something his mother used to make.

"Aren’t you going to eat? You know what they say—eat up, even on your deathbed. Just do your thinking while you eat, or afterwards. Here." He tried to give him his food but Gi-hun turned away.

"Come on. Forget it then. This might be for the best. I don’t know about you, but that 16 million wouldn’t even cover my interest."

Gi-hun turned his head away, shutting Jung-bae out. He looked at the others scattered around the room. Half of them had chosen to stay. Half of them had chosen this death trap willingly. He searched the crowd for that girl—player 067—but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Last time I was here, someone said the exact same thing. And in the end, that person died here," Gi-hun muttered bitterly.

"Help us then, sir. You said you’ve played these games before. I pressed the O button because of you. Honestly, I was scared. I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game."

The voice came from somewhere nearby. Gi-hun lifted his head. The man speaking to him wore the number 001. He was the one who had voted last, the final one to choose to stay.

Others behind him nodded in agreement.

The man’s voice softened as he leaned closer. "Sir, you know which game is next, don’t you?" His gaze was steady, curious, almost pleading.

Gi-hun looked down.

"That’s right. You’re a previous winner, so you should know. What are we playing next?" Jung-bae added, pressing the point.

"The second game was Dalgona," Gi-hun said flatly. Memories rushed through his mind—sweaty palms, a racing heart, the unbearable tension of that moment.

"Dalgona? The sugar candy with a shape you can carve out?" asked player 001, tilting his head.

"That’s right. We had to choose one of four shapes and carve it out," Gi-hun explained. The man nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

"Four shapes? Which was the easiest one?"

"Triangle."

"And which was the hardest?"

"Umbrella."

"Umbrella? Some people actually chose umbrella? Those unlucky bastards must’ve bitten the dust. So that means we should all just pick triangle. Everyone could probably pass the round."

The others overheard and immediately began debating strategies, buzzing with energy, like gamblers who thought they’d found a sure thing.

Gi-hun didn’t stop them. He just sat there, silent, watching as they left.

When he finally lowered his gaze, he noticed that player 001 had stayed behind. And near him, a new face appeared. The girl. Player 067.

"Hello, sirs," she greeted, her eyes lingering on 001’s patch—the big O stitched on his chest.

"Hey, you’re that girl from before. Right—you’re the one that shouted during Red Light, Green Light, just like our hero here!" Jung-bae smiled, clapping Gihun on the shoulder with a kind of forced cheer.

Gi-hun saw the girl flinch, her expression stiff as she quickly looked away. The fear still lingered in her like smoke after a fire.

"That’s right. You’re a smart one, player 067," player 001 complimented her warmly. But she didn’t seem to take it.

001 turned back toward Gi-hun. "May I ask you something?"

Gi-hun met his eyes but said nothing.

"Why did you come back to this place? You said you won and made it out. Then you must have received 45.6 billion," he continued. Player 067 raised her brow, her sharp gaze cutting into him as if demanding the same answer.

"Did you spend it all? Did you bet on horses again?" Jung-bae pressed. But none of them understood. None of them could.

"That money doesn’t belong to me," Gi-hun whispered. It wasn’t a prize. It was a curse. A price written in the blood of the dead.

"Then who does it belong to?" player 067 asked.

"It’s blood money—for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there." His eyes flicked to the giant piggy bank that loomed above them, swollen with cash.

"You don’t have to think of it that way. It’s not like you killed those people. And saving that money won’t bring them back," player 001 said calmly. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. He hadn’t walked through hell the same way.

"If you had pressed the X button, we could all go home," player 067 snapped. Her voice was sharp, distrust flashing openly on her face. 001 looked surprised at her bluntness. Gi-hun noticed it again—the faint American accent that clung to her words, though he couldn’t place it.

"That’s right. I was the last to press O. But there were 195 more who wanted to stay. And 195 who wanted to leave. Let’s say I pressed X and we all left. Would everyone have been happy? If they ran into me later, would they thank me for saving their lives? Would they say they’re happy now?"

067 and 001 bickered like stubborn children. Their words clashed but went nowhere.

"There’s no point in blaming anyone now," Gi-hun cut in firmly. "He’s right—there were still 195 who wanted to stay."

The two fell silent, glaring, but the tension eased slightly. His refusal to point fingers steadied them.

Jung-bae, sensing the heaviness, tried to lighten the mood. "Let’s just focus on tomorrow’s game, okay? He’s won all these games before. If we stick together, we’ve got nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, he’s right. We have to stick together. I’ll be with you all the way," said a younger man from his bunk, still chewing on food. Gi-hun noticed his number: 388.

"Who are you?" Jung-bae asked.

"My good sir. I’m Dae-ho. Kang Dae-ho," he replied with almost comic pride.

"Oh, Mr. Dae-ho."

"Yes."

"Have we met?"

Dae-ho chuckled awkwardly. "Earlier during the game, Mr. 456 here shouted ‘Freeze!’ And I became his fan. I’d like to get to know you all. Please give me the chance! ‘Freeze!’—that was so cool."

Gi-hun tried to listen to their rambling about Marines and shared stories, but his eyes kept drifting back to players 067 and 001. They weren’t speaking anymore, yet something unspoken simmered between them—a silent battle of wills.

He cleared his throat to get their attention.  They both turn they heads to him and at the same time said "Yes?"

He couldnt explained it, maybe it was just the numbers but it felt like he already knew those people even before getting here.

But that was stupid. Except for Jung-bae all those people were strangers. It was just his mind mourning the dead and seeing the similarity between the numbers.

"If the next game is in teams… you could join," he suggested.

067 looked startled. 001 smiled gently. That smile, strange as it was, eased something in Gi-hun’s chest. For the first time, he picked up his food and forced himself to eat a bite.

After a while when they were all sitting down creating some kind of team, Gi-hun heard some men arguing loudly.

It reminded him of what happen when people started to take on fights in dormitory. They could be eliminated here too.

A purple-haired man—nicknamed Thanos of all ridiculous things—was screaming at another player, number 333, about some scam that had cost him money. Another man joined in, though Gi-hun couldn’t see his number. The fight escalated fast.

Almost as if reading his mind, 067 murmured, watching the scuffle too: "I think someone might get really hurt. Someone should stop them. Player 001, you look strong—could you?"

But he didn’t need her encouragement. 001 was already rising to his feet. His broad shoulders, thick arms, the way he carried himself—he wasn’t just some random man. He’d fought before.

"Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime? No fights during mealtime. There are elders present. Mind your manners. And two against one? Aren’t you embarrassed?" he scolded as he strode forward.

"You’re lecturing me? When you ended up in this shithole too? Dude, shut up and take care of your own damn kids."

"What did you just say?"

"I said save the lecture for your own damn kids."

Then fists flew.

"Player 001 is a really good fighter. It was smart to bring him into our team—even though he voted to stay," 067 remarked quietly.

Gi-hun couldn’t disagree. The man fought like a machine, taking down both men despite being older by decades. Soon, they were on the floor, pleading for mercy. 001 finally let them go.

The room erupted in cheers, and for the first time in days, a smile tugged at Gi-hun’s lips.

Later, the lights dimmed. The room sank into uneasy quiet. 067 curled up in her bunk, Jungbae sprawled across his, and young Dae-ho was already snoring softly.

But Gi-hun couldn’t sleep. His mind was restless, gnawed by tomorrow’s uncertainty.

"Excuse me. If you’re still awake, may we talk?"

Player 001 had approached, settling beside him.

"Sure," Gi-hun whispered.

"I think I was out of line before. I’d like to apologize. I’m sorry."

"No, that’s okay."

"I laid all the blame on you. I was out of line. The truth is… my wife is very sick. Acute cirrhosis. She needs a liver transplant. But during the tests, we found out she was pregnant. The doctor suggested a termination, but she refused. Said she’d give birth even if it killed her. She’s stubborn like that. I’ve never been able to change her mind.

We were struggling to find a donor, and her condition kept worsening. I borrowed as much as I could, but it wasn’t enough. Then an old vendor of mine offered help. I borrowed from them. People called it a bribe, and I lost my job. I gave my whole youth to that job, and now… nothing." 

"These games are my last hope. I understand now what you were saying, Mr. 456, about that money and what it represents. But I… I still need it. Even if it’s blood money. I need it to save my wife. And our child."

That word—child—struck Gi-hun harder than he expected.

He thought of his own daughter, Ga-yeong, far away in America. Safe. Protected. Unaware of her father’s fate.

He closed his eyes. One thought echoed through him like a prayer:

She is safe.

Chapter Text

Who are you?

I am someone who knows Mr. Seong...

I am sorry Mr. Seong has passed away...

Mr. Seong has passed away...

Passed away...

456. 456. 456. 

Dead. Dead. Dead.

That nightmare wouldn't stop.

She imagine all the ways he could have died: shot, stabbed, hanged, executed...

But before she could think of other terrible ways of her father’s future fate, that classical music woke her up.

Her head buzzed with that annoying sound.

But one thing stay n her mind. That voice, that man who said her father was gone.

She could never forget that moment. That line that was sealed in her mind.

That same man was here too – player 001. She wouldn’t forget his face, even though he looked a little bit different.

That man still had a spark in his eyes, not the expression of grief he carried when he looked at her last time.

Ga-yeong only had two theories: This player seemed like he cared about her father, enough that he visit her and told her the truth.
First was that her father must have died in one of those games, maybe player 001 tried to save him but failed, and then he became the sole winner.

Or he and her father were among the finalists. That would mean he betrayed him and killed him so he could win. Maybe he regretted it, maybe it was an accident.

But either way, this man couldn’t be trusted. She just had to make sure to keep an eye on him. He could be dangerous, even if he had his reasons, even if he didn’t want to do that.

In a place like this, friends could turn away from each other very quickly. Especially if they had reasons to live.

She got up from bed. She tried to sleep, but it felt like she was lying on pieces of knives.

This place was hell, and she needed to bring her father back, even if that meant fighting all the demons along the way.

Soldiers once again escorted them to the second game. She wondered what kind of game it would be. If it would be dalgona, it should be easier since her father played that and he knew what kind of shape he should take. But if something would happen she wouldn’t be able to protect him.

She hope it would be a team game so that they could stay close to each other.

The colorful walls were distracting, and the whole staircase looked like a maze. Her father was ahead of her, chatting with Jung-bae.

Player 001 was of course near them. She wish she had told her father the truth, so that she wouldn’t be just another stranger for him.

But she couldn’t. Not if she didn’t want her father to do something stupid to protect her back.

She didn’t need his protection.

Pink soldiers opened the metal door for them and they appeared to be on another playground. She noticed the walls were full of colored children’s drawings, and that on the floor there were running tracks.

She remembered similar tracks on the school field. Ga-yeong was sure this didn’t look like a place to play a cookies-carving game.

Would they have to do something physical? Outrun their opponents? Maybe something like a fitness test?

The mechanical voice announced: "Welcome to your second game."

Everyone was looking at the field confused too. She quickly walked towards her father, standing near player 001, Jung-bae and Dae-ho.

Her father was looking around confused too. Had the games changed because of him? Or maybe they just played them in different order this time?

Who was in charge of this hell anyway? Did her father know? Was someone really watching them other than those pink soldiers?

"This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes. I’ll repeat–” the mechanical voice continued.

Ga-yeong almost sighed in relief. Good, at least they wouldn’t get separated. They already had a team made of five people.

"Is Dalgona a team game?” Jung-bae innocently questioned from behind. She supposed Jung-bae wasn’t the smartest. That was her father’s other friend. What was his name? Cho Sang-woo? Father always told her that he graduated on top of his class in SNU. Whatever that meant.

Did something happen to his friend? Was he in father’s first game too? Was that another reason he joined again? To avenge his death?

Her father looked distressed; he didn’t reply to his friend’s question.

Others were also slowly realizing something was wrong with this game. They looked at her father with confusion. Then the group of O turned on him furiously, throwing accusing looks towards him. Like it was his fault.

Oh, dad, it’s not your fault. Stop blaming yourself. Ga-yeong thought.

One player in particular, Player 100, seemed distinctly offended. “Aren’t we playing the Dalgona game?" Ga-yeong wanted this old man to shut up already. He should be in retirement and not here, or maybe he should be six feet underground.

Her father’s voice broke down when he replied: "No... it doesn’t look like it."

"What are we playing then?” the man pressed.

"Figure it out yourself if you want to know it so badly." She was fed up with that man and his group of O sheep.

Player 100 looked at her, offended. "You are rude, kid. Don’t you have any respect for the elderly?"

She smiled at him, and if looks could kill he would already be gone.

"Maybe just stick to your group and leave us alone," she almost yelled at him. She wasn’t going to respect a man who wanted others dead so he could get all of the money for himself.

"Shut up, woman! We want an explanation on why player 456 was lying to us! He said he played that before!"

"Yeah! He was saying bullshit!"

"Will you take responsibility when we lose because of you?"

The O group was yelling at him, throwing one accusation after another. Her father seemed badly affected by their words. His body looked weaker than before.

"That’s enough." Player 001 cut their words, stepping forward in front of her father. He crossed his arms and glared menacingly at the man in front of him.
Player 100 shook his head furiously.

“No, aren’t you angry!? This man lied to you. He lied to all of us.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.” The man numbered 001 deadpanned. “He already made it perfectly clear this could happen, yet you still chose not to listen.” He then leaned closer and Player 100 and his group backed off, leaving them finally alone.

So her second theory must have been wrong. This man couldn’t be a bad person, and if he was, then he was a very good actor or a convincing liar.

Something else must have happened. Player 001 seemed to like her father. He wouldn’t turn his back on him, would he?

But she still should watch him carefully. Trust didn’t matter in a place like this, and because of the whole voting it could be much worse.

Was this the purpose? To divide them and then put them in team games?

Her father was still standing still, his shoulders slumped and he was looking at his feet.

She wondered what was going through his mind at that moment.

"I’m sorry." He began, tone unbearably solemn. “You guys were counting on me and I let you down.”

Jung-bae waved him off. “Nonsense, Gi-hun. It’s not your fault.”

From beside him, Dae-ho nodded rapidly. “Yes sir, he’s right. You couldn’t help the game being changed. Besides, I think we’d make a good team. If we stick together, then we can accomplish anything.”

"Please sir, you must not blame yourself for this," she said, her voice sharp although she couldn’t hide that American accent she got from California. In high school she had to relearn Korean, her father’s language. In a way she wanted to be closer to him that way, even though he was gone. But she never sounded the same again.

Her father nodded slightly and then looked at her and smiled. The last time she had seen her father smile was on the day of her birthday. It was the last good memory she had of him before it all fell into pieces.

Then he looked at player 001, who had come to his defence. "For what it’s worth, I still trust you and I know you were being sincere when you said you wanted to help others," 001 said and smiled at him reassuringly. Her father seemed to be calmed by his words.

See, dad? There are people who trust you, she wanted to say, but instead she looked into the crowd of people who were already forming teams.

She noticed some familiar faces. That elder mother and her son - player 149 and 007 holding on to each other, trying to find someone who could join them. 

Then there was player 120, that strong tall woman who tried to help the injured player in red light, green light. But right now she looked scared as people were looking at her with judgment. Why?

Then there was the group of that annoying rapper that got people killed in the first game. She was glad player 001 had put him and his clingy friend in their place. But she was afraid it wouldn’t be enough. It seemed like he was intoxicated. Did they really allow drugs here?

That was an unfair advantage, but maybe it depended on the type of drug. She just hoped his team was going to lose.

As her eyes were scanning the playground, she noticed another familiar face. Player 222 – that young woman who was always holding her stomach. Ga-yeong saved her in the first game. Now she was speaking to some man who was trying to convince her to something.

Wait, isn’t that the man with the crypto scam? Player 333? She wondered what was his deal.

"We already have a team made of five people so I think we should focus on our strategy for this game. If it’s a team game, then it could be several games at once. Ddakji, Tuho, spinning top... All of those can be played by one person." Player 001 interrupted her thoughts.

She looked at him. "I think it would be best if we just wait for the announcement, don’t you think 001?"

Player 001 almost seemed offended by her words but he didn’t say anything to it.

"She is right sir, we should just wait and relax. We still have five minutes and there are still more than a hundred people who haven’t decided yet," Dae-ho replied.

So they waited. Until another announcement went.

"Time for team selection is up. The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini-games. Number one, the Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gong-gi. Number four, Spinning Top. Number five, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide players for each mini-game." The mechanical voice said through the mic.

There were 78 teams and 391 people. Wait. That didn’t line up. Her father must have realized that too.

There was one player left who couldn’t form a team unless there would be six people in one. But the rules were clear on only five people in each team.

"Hey! What about me? I don’t have a team? What should I do?" She heard player 222 look around and plead to soldiers and players. Her voice sounded tearful as she looked at everyone and touched her stomach. 

But everyone had already formed teams. They were partnered with someone. She was alone.

Two pink soldiers were already next to her and it seemed that they wanted to take her out of this playground.

Were they going to kill her because she didn’t have anyone to play with?

Did she just save her in the first game only to doom her in the next? No, she couldn’t let that happen. Maybe if she rewind time, maybe then she could help her find a team. But then there would still be someone who would be left alone.

As the soldiers were taking her out, her father screamed at them: "Where are you taking her? Is she going to be eliminated?"

Two circle soldiers didn’t say anything and dragged her further toward the exit. Player 222 didn’t resist, but there were tears running down her face, like she was already done with her fate.

"Hey! Will she get eliminated? Will you kill her?" he shouted and his voice was breaking with every sentence.

"Please sirs, that’s unfair!" Player 149 pleaded. Ga-yeong remembered that player 149 was checking on her in dorms before the game started. She was a kind lady.

"Players will only be eliminated when they participate in the game. Player 222 is a spare player and according to the rules of the game won’t be eliminated," the triangle soldier informed them.

"But that’s not fair! Why can she just walk away like that while the rest of us need to play?" Player 100 shouted and his group started to argue about player 222’s fate.

"You have five minutes to decide players for each mini-game," Triangle soldier said.

"Are they really gonna spare her?" Jung-bae asked her father.

"They will. The same thing happened in my games. We were supposed to find a partner for marbles and there was one woman who didn’t find anyone." A haunted expression appeared on his face. That game must have been something horrible.

"So she is going to be fine?" Dae-ho asked.

"Yes. That woman was alive too after we finished that game," he said. Everyone was relieved by this news.

Ga-yeong thought that she hadn’t doomed that woman. Everything was okay. For now. She needed her team to make it. Needed to help her father as much as she could.

"So-" Jung-bae started, drawing the team’s focus to him. "I can do Flying Stone. What about you, Marine?" He asked Dae-ho, who was sitting next to him.

Dae-ho hesitantly raised a shaky hand. “I can do Gong-gi,” he said. “I grew up with older sisters and used to play it with them from time to time.”

Jung-bae blinked at him. “You, a Marine, can play Gong-gi?”

Dae-ho nodded, hesitantly. “…Yeah.”

Jung-bae threw an arm around the younger man, jostling him forcibly. “Of course. There is nothing a Marine can’t do.”

"Player 067, what game are you confident playing?" He turned to her. She was sitting between him and player 001, her father was sitting next to him.

She only had three choices left: ddakji, spinning top, and jegi.

Couldn’t they play Simon Says or something else? She had no idea what jegi was. Ddakji was that stupid game where the recruiter for the games slapped people if they lost. And then there was the spinning top.

"So what do you choose?" he asked her again as he saw she hesitated with an answer.

Think, Ga-yeong. Think! It didn’t really matter in the end what she would choose. If she messed up, she would rewind time again.

But it would be wiser to choose the first game, so then she could be focused on others. She could help them if they failed.

"Ddakji," she replied after a short pause. She hoped it would be a quick game. What would be hard about that?

"Okay, that leaves us on Jegi and Spinning Top. Which are you good at?" Her father asked player 001, who was next to him.

She wanted to see his expression but his whole back was turned away towards her father.

"I’ll play what you pick for me, Gi-hun." Player 001 said her father’s name like it was nothing. He of course didn’t know the future.

"I’m sorry Mr. Seong Gi-hun has passed away." His voice from the future echoed through her ears. How much did he know him? How much did he cared?

"You know my name?" Her father was surprised by 001’s words.

"Oh, your friend was calling you by your name, so I thought I’d try it. Does it bother you?" She couldn’t see his face, but she was sure he smirked. That was weird. But it made sense, she guessed. That man was always hanging around her dad and Jung-bae.

"No, it’s fine." Her father brushed it off.

"So, Gi-hun, which are you good at?" Player 001 asked him.

"I guess I’m better at Jegi." Was he? She had never seen her father play that game. Surely he must have played that like forty years ago when he was a child.

"Hmm. Then I’ll do Spinning Top," Player 001 noted.

"All right."

"Guys, bring your hands together. All together now! On three, we go, ‘Victory at all costs.’" Jung-bae insisted. All the men brought their hands together, waiting just for her.

She hesitantly touched her father’s palm. She hoped no one could seen her distress or the tears that were coming through her eyes. She quickly blinked to stop them but she could still feel that one tear run across her cheek. 

"One, two, three." Jung-bae counted.

"Victory at all costs!" They all said in unison. It reminded Ga-yeong of team games that children played in school. 

"Teams one and two, get ready," the mechanical voice said. Both teams went to opposite sides and the game begun.

Could she possibly help others if they messed up? Ga-yeong thought. Team two was doing relatively well. But team one was still struggling on the Flying Stone. But they eventually all passed to Gong-gi.

"For Gong-gi, you must pass all stages and catch all five stones at the end," the voice informed them.

They didn’t seem to be very good at it and they continuously failed. Jung-bae asked Dae-ho to practice the flip just in case.

Then team two made it through the finish line. Everyone cheered for them. She wasn’t into cheering. This wasn’t a sports event but she was happy for them. Her group was cheering loudly too.

She needed to be focused on helping them. She watched every team carefully. Some made it without a rewind. Some needed more time, so she gave it to them. Maybe it was just luck, but some actually made it.

But there were others who didn’t. She couldn’t help them even when she rewinded time. She was glad that the team made of that elderly woman, her son and three women - player 120,  player 095 and some weird shaman lady made it.

Unfortunately, a lot of Os along with player 100 made it too. And that stupid rapper called Thanos with player 124 who seemed to be his friend, player 256 who was his fan made it too. She wasnt sure on what to think of his team since there was also player 125 - who they seemed to bully and he voted to leave and then player 380 - young woman who had short hair and piercing in nose. But she looked like she didnt like Thanos. Why did she joined them?

As hours that felt like eternity passed, Ga-yeong’s head felt dizzy. She only used her powers a few times but felt that previous energy in her body slipping out. She just hoped she would have enough power to help her own team.

Because they were among the last. "Last teams, get ready," the voice announced, as if they were blind.

They got up from their seats. She almost fell down as the dizziness got worse. "Are you okay?" Player 001 touched her shoulder and it looked like he was really worried about her.

"If you’re nervous, that’s okay. We don’t have much audience, it would be easier to focus," her father reassured her as he also noticed her pale face.

Yes, that was an easy explanation for what was happening and not that she had just gone back in the past like ten times.

Other team cheered on them and said they would see each other at the finish line.

She needed to focus on the first game. She couldn’t faint or bleed from her nose. She had to get herself together.

I won’t fail you, dad. Not this time.

"I believe in you guys. Plus we have a previous winner with us," Player 001 tried to encourage them.

It was her turn. Circle soldier gave her a red ddakji tile. How exactly do you play this game? Do you just throw it or flip? Ga-yeong had no idea what she was doing. She should have chosen the spinning top. But that idea was already gone.

She did what the others did on the recruitment video. But the tile didn’t flip to the other side. Was that supposed to happen?

"Fail," Circle soldier handed her the red tile again.

"Don’t worry, we still have time, just be focused, okay?" Her father tried to motivate her. Right, focus. She had to concentrate her mind. Put all the thoughts behind her. She listened to the vibration of time. That always calmed her down.

She tried again, and this time it flipped. She smiled as the group cheered to her success.

Whew! That was close. If she had wasted more time, she would have had to rewind time again.

Jung-bae went next. He topped the stone with confident and steady aim. He wasn’t lying when he said he was good at it.

Then there was Dae-ho, that man from the marines. He was also very good at his game. He didn’t fail.

There were still around two minutes left and the last people to go were player 001 and her father.

"Look, we may just make it in time," Jung-bae commented as they went to the spinning top.

Now it was player 001’s turn. That should be quick. Spinning top was an easy game, maybe the easiest one there.

But he failed. Player 001 tossed the spinning top and it didn’t even spin.

"It’s okay, we’ve got enough time. Let’s go pick it up. Ready, go." Her father said, and player 001 apologized for failing.

"No fun passing everything without a hitch." Jung-bae commented as they went forward to the spinning top. It was just one time, Ga-yeong thought, they still had a lot of time.

"Now backwards. Ready, go." They went all the way back and 001 tossed it again, but it didn’t spin either.

Third time’s a charm, right? Just one more time. Hopefully he was going to pass now.

They picked it up again and player 001 apologized again. But then he threw it backwards.

Fail. Circle soldier showed them that they should return to it.

This wasn’t happening! They only had forty seconds. If they continued like this, they wouldn’t pass the next round in time.

"I’m sorry," Player 001 exclaimed, and he looked genuinely disappointed in himself.

That man might be a good fighter, but that was meaningless right now, if he couldn’t even pass this game. Was he an idiot? Or did he do it on purpose?

It didn’t matter anymore. Her father was saying something, but she had already started to rewind time. The whole place turned around and she could see flickers of light that looked like flying butterflies each with different color creating a  shade of rainbow.

She was right back at that moment when player 001 was supposed to throw it backwards.

"Wait!" she yelled. Her whole team looked at her, with confusion on their faces.

"What?" player 001 asked and raised his eyebrow as he wanted to know the reason she interrupted him.

"I’ve seen you struggle with your right hand. I think you should use the other one. Just breathe and calm down."

Player 001 listened to her advice and breathed heavily. His left hand wasn’t shaking anymore.

"Take your time, okay? We need you focused," her dad assured him as player 001 was holding onto him.

They would make it this time. Player 001 tossed the spinning top and it spun. Finally!

Everyone cheered and a smile appeared on his face. That was your fault, idiot.

Final game: Jegi. She didn’t take her eyes off her father. But he made it on the first try too.

They only had ten seconds to cross the finish line, so they moved fast, almost sprinting towards the end.

They all cheered when they crossed. Player 001 proudly said: "We did it! Well done!"

But that happiness was short like a flicker of light. They all heard the gunshot from the other side. The other team didn’t make it.

"The following players have been eliminated. Players 135, 239, 263, 415." That robotic voice sounded hollow.

Reality hit them like a truck. She didn’t know these people, but she felt sorry for them. There was nothing she could have done to prevent this.

Her father was more shaken by this than her. He looked like they had just shot him too.

And then she could feel the blood from her nose falling down onto her green tracksuit.

She didn’t mind, it was a small amount of blood. Not like the blood of everyone who died today.

Well, at least we made it, dad. I will make sure none of this happens to you. Ga-yeong thought and she try to get that blood from her nose. But it stayed there. 

Chapter Text

The dormitory swallowed them whole when they returned, the heavy steel doors clanging shut behind them. The air was thick—sour with sweat, damp clothes, and the faint metallic tang of blood that clung to their skin like a second layer. The humming fluorescent lights above cast a pallid glow across the cavernous room, flattening everyone’s faces into masks of exhaustion.

“I’m sorry about earlier, everyone,” Player 001 muttered, his voice trembling. His frail hands wrung the edge of his shirt as if he were a schoolboy caught misbehaving.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” Gi-hun reassured him, his own tone steady, though the words felt thin, flimsy against the weight of everything pressing down on them. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho, eager to patch the cracks in their fragile group, jumped in with words of comfort. They spoke quickly, too cheerfully, like people whistling in a graveyard, their voices bouncing hollowly against the concrete walls.

But Gi-hun wasn’t listening. His gaze was snagged elsewhere.

Player 067 lingered in the back, slightly apart from them all. Blood still streaked her pale face, dried into a dark, crusted smear that ran from her nose down toward her chin. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it fully away. The stain looked like a wound carved into her.

"067, are you feeling alright?" Gi-hun asked, his voice gentler now, almost tentative. His chest tightened—nosebleeds, stress, trauma. She looked so small under the sterile lights, her body taut as if a single touch might shatter her.

She didn’t say anything, her gaze wandering as if avoiding him. He stepped closer and laid his hand against her forehead. His skin met heat. She was burning—fever, maybe, or just the raw fever of nerves stretched past their breaking point. Fear pricked his spine.

“You should rest,” he said, pulling his hand back slowly. “And if the guards allow it, try to wash up. Clean yourself. Alright?”

She flinched when he touched her face. He wondered why she reacted that way. Perhaps she didn’t trust people easily, or maybe she disliked physical contact.

"Don't worry about me that much, sir," she whispered, her gaze pinned to the ground.

But he did worry. He couldn’t help it. She was clever, brave—but bravery hadn’t saved the corpses he’d stepped over today. Intelligence hadn’t kept bullets from tearing through the bodies of people just like her.

"I'm worried. Even though you are smart and brave, you could still get hurt," he said softly. 

She didnt said anything, her silence was heavy, a wall he couldn’t climb. He was sure she will open herself to him, but maybe not today.

Before he could say more, his eyes caught on another survivor across the room—Player 222. Relief rippled through him like water over parched lips. She was alive, seated with a small cluster of women: Player 149 speaking gently to her son, Players 120 and 095 chatting close by.

He should check on her too. 067 drifted away from him then, sliding back toward their group like a shadow. Gi-hun turned and crossed to 222, sinking down near her bed.

 "I am glad you are alive," he said as he approached her. She was sitting alone. Player 149 was talking with her son on the other side, while Player 120 and 095 were chatting on their beds.

She lifted her eyes, wide and wet, her voice breaking. "I was so scared... of what they would do to me. I’m glad you spoke up on my behalf. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve been terrified to death," she confessed.

He shook his head "No, it’s okay. It was nothing, really," he replied quickly.

"Mr. 456—"

“Please,” he interrupted gently. “Call me Seong Gi-hun.” She smiled faintly at that, a fragile expression fighting to survive on her face.

"Mr. Seong, then… is everything going to be fine? You’ll make sure we all go home today, right?"

"I will make sure of it, Player 222," he said, though doubt gnawed at his confidence. Could he really convince them again?

"Please call me Junhee, sir," she said her name softly. "I’m actually glad I could skip this game. I can’t handle this much stress anyway. It’s not good for the baby," she added, once again touching her stomach.

Gi-hun’s head spun. Baby? She was  in here pregnant, he realised.

"You have a baby?" The syllables cracked. His breath caught. His face betrayed the fear that surged inside him. He should have realized it sooner.

She nodded, her tone calm, almost casual. "Yes, but I’m fine, Mr. Seong. When we get out of here, I’ll see a doctor immediately and get checked," she reassured him.

He stared at her, the ground tilting under him. Pregnant. A child, trapped in this machine of blood and greed. His stomach twisted with dread. Too young, too fragile—both of them. He wanted to scream at the cruelty of it, at himself for not seeing sooner.

When he noticed Player 149 returning to Junhee, he left them to their conversation and returned to his own team.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho were talking about something enthusiastically their words tumbling over one another.

067 sat nearby, her jacket in her lap as she scrubbed at the bloodstains, frustration in the sharp jerks of her hands. 001 sat with a distant look, until his eyes caught Gi-hun.

“Gi-hun, you’re back,” he said with a smile, relief softening the deep lines in his face.

Gi-hun sat beside him and Player 067.

When Dae-ho saw him arrive, he immediately started a new conversation. "I think we should get to know each other better, don’t you think? Perhaps we should learn each other’s names. I still don’t know yours, gentlemen. Or yours, Miss. I’ll start. I’m Kang Dae-ho. 'Dae' means 'big,' 'ho' means 'tiger.'" He declared proudly.

"Wow. Big tiger. Cool name," Jung-bae chuckled. "I’m Park Jung-bae. 'Righteous' and 'twice.' My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous as everyone else."

"And you, Player 001?" Dae-ho asked the man sitting next to Gihun.

"Oh. Oh, Young-il," he replied with a sideways smirk. "Just like my number."

"Oh, that’s right," Dae-ho affirmed. "Your name really does match. Well, that’s easy to remember."

"And yours, sir?" Dae-ho asked him.

"Seong. Seong Gi-hun." 067 froze mid-motion, her hand stilling on her jacket. For the first time since they’d met, her eyes flickered up at him.

But then, out of nowhere, Young-il burst into laughter, slapping his knee. "‘Seong’ literally means 'last name.'"

The others looked at him strangely; Jung-bae glanced at Gi-hun questioningly. Gi-hun just shook his head, resisting the smile tugging at his lips.

They really were forming a solid team. These people, even though he knew them for such a short time started to grow on him. 

"Oh, I almost forgot about Miss 067. Will you tell us your name?" Dae-ho asked and looked at young woman curiously.

Player 067 looked at them but remained silent. Fear lingered in her eyes and it looked like she wanted to keep it for herself.

Did she really not trust them? They were a team. She had voluntarily joined, even approached him on her own, and seemed to tolerate their company.

But then he remembered her wary glances. He knew Jung-bae, Dae-ho, and Young-il had all chosen to stay. He understood her unease. Today, however, they would all vote to go home.

He didn’t want to press her, but he had to gain her trust somehow. "It’s okay if you don’t feel like sharing. But we all shared our names with you. I promise—you can trust us." Gi-hun said gently.

His words seemed to reassure her. The silence stretched. Then, finally, her lips parted. "Jihoon. My name is Jihoon," she replied. That suited for a brave girl like her.

But before he could respond, the steel doors boomed open. Guards marched in, their boots echoing, and the Pink Manager’s voice cut through the tension. "Congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game. Here are the results of the second game."

Golden light flooded the room. Money poured into the piggy bank above them like rainfall, clinking and echoing as if the sound itself was mocking the dead. To the others, it was wealth. To Gi-hun, it was blood raining from depths of hell.

"In the second game, 100 players were eliminated. The prize money accumulated up to this point is 10 billion won. Since there are 291 players remaining, each person's share is 35,482,759 won," Triangle informed them.

The room erupted at the news.

"Wait, what?"

"It’s still under 100 million?"

"It’s not even 80 million!"

They shouted over one another, voices desperate, angry. As if they hadn’t just watched one hundred human lives snuffed out. Their greed echoed louder than grief. Where was their sense of reality?

"Only 100 people died? Is that all?" "Did you count them correctly?" "That’s it?" "But you shot all those people!" 

The Os yelled over each other, relentless. Gi-hun sat still, drained, each shout striking him like static in his skull. Why couldn’t they stop?

"I completely understand your disappointment. However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not. Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner." the Pink Manager informed them.

The voting was about to start. Gi-hun was sure most people would wanted to leave, to abandon the games. 291 was a large number—they could have made a difference.

"Mr. Seong, I am sure we will go home. Surely, most people want that too," Jihoon said reassuringly, looking up at him from her seat.

"Jihoon is right. If we all vote X, we can end this," Young-il added from behind. Gi-hun turned to see him smiling. His lips lifted in a little smile too.

"I will help you guys when we get out," he declared, locking eyes with his team.

"Guys, huddle up again. On one, two, three: Victory at all costs!" Jung-bae said and they brought their hands together. This time, Player 067—Jihoon—didn’t hesitate. Gi-hun thought it was progress.

"Victory at all costs!" They all cheered. He silently hoped it would come true.

"This time, the vote will begin with Player 001. Player 001, please cast your vote." All eyes shifted to Young-il. He stood slowly, his frail body trembling under the harsh fluorescent lights, but his gaze was steady. His hand pressed the X button without hesitation. Relief flickered through Gi-hun’s chest like a fragile flame. One way from home.

Votes followed—some pressing X with trembling fingers, others slamming O as if the act itself could buy them freedom. The numbers teetered on a knife’s edge, split nearly in half.

But then the air shifted.

"We all agreed to play one more game, right?" a man from the O group shouted.

"Yeah!" others echoed, their voices swelling like a chant.  Gi-hun’s heart sank as he watched the tide turn. More and more players, uncertain at first, switched to O after hearing the shouts. The sound of buttons being pressed echoed like hammer strikes against his chest.

"Player 126," the manager called.

"Excuse me. Everyone!" Gi-hun yelled to the crowd as more people were choosing the Os. His voice cracked as he tried to rise above the noise.

Voting was almost over, but he could still convince the last players to change their minds so they could pick X.

“Listen to me! If we leave now, we can—”

But no one listened. His words dissolved into the storm of voices.

And then Young-il snapped.

He pushed himself up, his face contorted with fury. His voice cut through the chaos like a whip.

"Are you all out of your minds?" he bellowed, seizing everyone’s attention, including Gi-hun’s.  Atleast there were more people who could seen thing the same way.

“You still want to keep going after watching all those people die?” He started yelling at the blue team. “Who’s to say you wouldn’t die in the next game?” He looked at all of them disappointed. “This has to stop. We all die if we keep going!” He started moving around as he yelled, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Come to your senses and leave with that money. You’ve got to survive first, or there wouldn’t be a next step.”

For a moment, silence clung to the walls.

Then a voice broke it. Player 100, his face flushed with stubbornness.

“What can we do with a measly thirty million? Huh? For most of us, that doesn’t even scratch ten percent of our debts!”

"There’s no next step! That money won’t change anything!" someone else yelled.

“Yes! Exactly!” Player 043 shouted, stepping forward. His O badge caught the light. “It was sixteen million after the first game, now it’s thirty-five million! If it keeps tripling, the next will be over a hundred million!” His eyes gleamed feverishly. “Just one more game!”

"But I can’t do this anymore." Gi-hun noticed Player 095 pleading as she sobbed, recalling she was with Player 120 and Player 149. "Please. Please let me out of here. I really, I really want to go home. I don't want to die." Her voice cracked like glass. Her whole body trembling. She started to cry. 

“Girl, you’re young. You’ll get another chance at life,” an older man said dismissively, his O patch shining like a brand.

“But I won’t!” she sobbed, shaking. Her hands clutched at her chest as though her heart might shatter.

“I don’t have a future! My family is drowning in debt—half a billion won!” another man bellowed. His voice carried despair and determination in equal measure. “I need this money, or we’re done for good!”

The noise swelled again, argument piling upon argument. Desperation reeked in the air, a suffocating mix of sweat and panic.

Gi-hun felt exhausted by these arguments, which could only lead to more deaths. There was no fresh start for anyone—not if they stayed.

"What if you die? If you die here, your family won't even get your body. Then it'd be the end for you and your family! Don't you see?" Young-il shouted, his face red. His voice was ragged with pleading. He tried to make a reason to them. But it led nowhere. 

"Don't get fucking scared! Ddakji, Red Light, Green Light, Spinning Top! It's not like the games are that difficult. Look. There are still 291 players. Way more than half of us survived! We've made it this far, so let's do this one more time!" Player 226 who was standing next to player 100 said. Everyone from group O seemed to agreed. 

 "You make such a good point, young man." Player 100 complimented him and clapped his back.

"That's right! We've all played the games well and survived until now! Now, let's play one more game! Just one more, and that's it. Let's play just one more game!" He lifted a finger, hyping everyone. They echoed the line, their voices swelling.

Gi-hun sat frozen, despair gnawing at his bones. He had no power here. His words were dust in the storm. Hope felt like a cruel joke.

"Yeah, let's play one more!" player 223 yelled to the crowd of people who were cheering on this.

Will it ever stop? Will they stop?

Player 100 was chanting, "One more game! One more game! One more—" His words were abruptly cut off. A sharp crack shattered the chant.

A scream of pain rang out, followed by the sound of a breaking bone.

Gi-hun finally looked up. Player 100 was crumpling on the floor, clutching his nose that must have been broken from a punch. Blood was sprayed on his face.

Player 067—no, Jihoon—stood above him, her chest heaving. Her fists raised, ready for another punch. 

Then he realized what had happened. She had punched Player 100, knocking him down. She was almost the same height as Gi-hun but she had much younger athletic body. But still that punch must have hurted her too.

The other Os backed away, clearly afraid of what might happen next or that they might get attack too. 

Where did such a young girl learned how to fight? It reminded him on how Young-il handled Thanos. But this was more violent. More impulsive. Like she didn't even planned to do that.

"See? I told you X players are violent. They want us all dead," whispered a woman from the crowd.

Jihoon voice cracked like thunder.

“You want one more game, you greedy old asshole?! Does it satisfy you to watch us all die?” she screamed, pressing her foot against Player 100’s throat. His face turned purple, veins bulging as he clawed at her ankle. “You think your children will thank you for this?! You think they will happily welcomed their father as a murderer? You think blood will buy their happiness?!”

 Player 100 face turned red as he was grasping for air. 

“I—I didn’t kill anyone—” Player 100 gasped, his words barely audible as he was reaching for air. 

“Liar!” she snarled, pressing harder. His eyes bulged. The bruise bloomed quickly across his neck under her shoe.

A pink soldier appeared behind her, pressing a gun to her back. Jihoon froze. Her body shivered at the metal digging into her spine.

Gi-hun’s heart raced. What would they do? She was impulsive—dangerously so—and had already made countless enemies.

That girl was like a wild card - upredictable. 

"Player 067 stepped up from Player 100," the pink soldier informed her calmly, his voice cold and sharp and then he pushed her with gun to the back. She hissed at the hit.

Her fists trembled, rage buzzing through her like static. Slowly, she peeled her foot away. Player 100 coughed violently, dragging in desperate gulps of air as he rolled on the floor.

As she returned to her place, Gi-hun noticed that her fists remained clenched. 

"From this point on, we will not tolerate actions that disrupt the voting process. Now, let’s see the results," the Pink Manager announced. The screen flashed. A collective gasp rose.

"The results are 200 for O and 191 for X. Based on the majority vote, we will proceed to the third game tomorrow. Thank you."

They had lost. Again.

Food was brought in—metal trays clattering, the sour stench of boiled vegetables mixing with the stale air. People lined up, muttering, eyes hollow.

Gi-hun collected his tray and sat with his teammates. The rice was sticky, tasteless; the soup watery. He forced a bite down, though his stomach twisted.

He thought convincing others to leave would be a good strategy, but it seemed pointless. Perhaps he needed a different approach.

"What are you thinking about, Mr. Seong?" Jihoon asked. Jihoon’s voice startled him. He was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized she had sat next to him.

"About the next game," he replied. His voice was low, grim. But he couldnt give up now. Tommorow might get better. 

"The next game?" Jung-bae asked, hearing him speak.

“The next game—in the next game, we might have to kill each other,” Gi-hun said, finally looking directly at Jung-bae. He remembered the marble game—how everyone had betrayed one another.

“Gi-hun, that’s a bit much. There’s nothing we can do now, so let’s try to stay positive. We should eat, pull ourselves together, and do our best again,” Young-il said, trying to calm everyone down.

"I think it would be a good idea—we could kill the O players and then go home. End it that way," Jihoon said. Her words surprised him. Yes, she had violently attacked Player 100, but murder them?

Violence wasn't an answer to this. She was young, she couldn't understand. 

"No, that’s not a solution." He shut her down. That was exactly what the VIPs wanted. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let anyone become a killer.

The group fell silent, chewing quietly. Milk cartons sat beside each tray. Gi-hun’s remained untouched; he hated the chalky taste of plain milk.

Then Jihoon suddenly got up. He looked at her, wondering what went through this girl’s mind. She was similar to him, yet so different.

He noticed she hadn’t drunk her milk either, and that she was staring at a place where Junhee was.

"Where are you going?" he asked as she took a step down.

"I wanted to give Player 222 my milk. She’s pregnant and needs energy for the next game," she replied. He was surprised by her kindness. Gihun blinked. How could the same girl who had nearly strangled a man to death now show such quiet kindness?

He glanced at Junhee, who was talking to her group.

"That’s generous of you, but you should also get energy for tomorrow. You need strength too.” He pushed his own carton toward her. “Take mine.”

"That’s kind of you sir, but I don’t drink plain milk," she admitted, but she still accepted it. With both cartons in hand, she walked toward Junhee, who was laughing weakly with Players 120 and 149.

Gi-hun watched her go, her back straight, her tall figure framed by the harsh light. She bent slightly as she handed Junhee the milk, her lips moving with words he couldn’t hear. For a moment, the two girls smiled at each other.

Something twisted inside him. He thought of his daughter, far away in America. Did she have friends like this? Did she laugh freely, unburdened? Or was she just as alone as Jihoon, forced to survive in a world too cruel for her? 

He didn’t know if there were any Koreans there. Maybe it would be for the best if she forgotten about her country.

If she ever returned to Korea, the recruiters would find her. They knew everything about Gi-hun. If she ever returned to Korea, they could use her to hurt him even more. The Frontman could surely find new ways to torment him through her. They could use her, break her, just as they broke him.

He clenched his fists.

Behind him, Dae-ho’s voice broke the silence. “We did well as a team today, didn’t we? If we stick together, one more time, we’ll be fine.”

But Gi-hun didn’t answer. He only stared at his untouched food, the metal sweating under the heat of the room.

They still had to survive the night.

Chapter Text

Yesterday was one of the longest day Ga-yeong ever had in the twenty three years of her life.

She was too afraid to ask those pink soldiers if she could go to bathroom like her father advise her. She tried to clean up blood on her face but her face was still a little bit red.

Although four woman went there yesterday.

She finally learned their names - Junhee, that pregnant woman, she was the same age as her. Mrs. Jang - that woman who was there with her son Yongsik. Hyunju - she overheard that she was trans and was there to paid for her surgery and then Youngmi who pleaded to go home at the voting.

But still she couldn't go with them. Not after what happened.

Not after her father said they could kill them in night and it would count as elimination. 

She denied sitting with them at the night watch. But she watched her father and Jung-bae almost whole night until her mind forced her to close her eyes. She could only remembered one thing her father and Jung-bae were talking about, as she was secretly listening to them.

When Jung-bae said her father has changed, that he wasn't the same man he knew from Ssangmun-dong. That he has been acting like a completely different person.

But she could still recognized him under neat. The problem was he couldn't recognized her.

She couldn't stop thinking about yesterday. How her father was so sure they would all go home.

She was sure too. But that didn't happen.

And she did so many stupid mistakes on top of that.

First that whole blood coming though her nose. Her father was so concerned for her, although she was a mere stranger for him. She tried to avoid him as much as she could, so that looking at his broken expression wouldn't hurt her that much.

But her father wanted to be closed to her anyway because she joined his team, because she approached him first and offered herself up to them.

She didn't want that to come to the whole name think when they started to introduce each other like on the first day of school.

But they all introduce themselves to her, although she already knew her father's and Jung-bae's names.

She had to come up with something. Of course she couldn't said her real name. Although she was sure there were more then one Ga-yeong in the world. But that would be like putting knife thought her father's heart. He thought she was a little girl staying with her mom and stepfather in California. He thought she was safe somewhere else.

She also couldn't used her american name Jenny. First she rejected that name a long time ago and second she would have to made up a completely new story on why did she called herself that.

So she only had one choice. Use a Korea named that would not sound suspiscious. So she couldn't used k-drama actors names or names of idols.

She picked Jihoon - a pretty common name. Her friend who was always hanging around with her in L.A have that name. Atleast she didn't have to feel guilty about stealing her name. Surely she would just made joke about it.

Then there was another identity that was revealed.

Player 001 - Oh Young-il.

She still wasn't sure about him. Whenever to trust him or not.

But that name was for sure something. It could be a simple coincidence or he was really someone who couldn't be trusted. Well then in that case he was worse at picking fake names then her.

But then once again that man was acting too nice towards her father. He seemed to followed him everywhere and even voted to leave.

Maybe he wasn't the problem.

And then the whole voting which turn out to be completely utter disaster.

They could all go home if it werent for that bastard player 100 who somehow convinced others to stay for one more game.

And for what? So that her father would die? Jung-bae? Dae-ho? Junhee? Young-il? All of them?

She didn't think about what was she doing but she suddenly snap. Rage in her turn to burn like fire.

If it werent for the pink soldier who stopped her, she was sure that man would die.

Normally the thought about choking someone to their death didn't crossed her mind.

But this wasn't normal and she always hated bullies or people who thought they were above others so they could abuse people.

She thought she was doing this for her father, they didn't respected him or listened to him.

But the truth was she was just doing that for herself. She wanted to see that smug smile when he cheered for another game gone.

She wanted him to plead for mercy like every single person that he doomed. She wanted to hear him scream like every person did before their deaths.

But maybe she made everything worse. Now they seen her as an enemy, they seen the X players as dangerous and violent.

But she couldn't rewind the whole day back. That would have cost her a lot of energy. She did that one time and after few hours she couldn't even feel her legs. Power really came with price.

Her father was still alive and she had to prepare herself for the third game.

Classical music started to play. It was already morning. 

Everyone got up together as the guard came in to tell them to move out for the next game. They walk side by side, but no one had the energy to talk yet. Everyone made their way up the stairs to the next game—some players looked more alert than others.

"Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. Let me repeat." Mechanical voice announced.

They weren't on the playground anymore. No, that look like a huge carousel. It was almost like something from Wonderland. Deadly maze where Queen of Hearts trapped little Alice. She was an Alice that had followed a white rabbit and fallen though a rabbit hole that got her into a completely different world.

The room was circular and was filled with countless red doors. They just have to stay close to each other and they will be fine, Ga-yeong thought. 

"All players, please step onto the center platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds."

Automatic voice began with instructions.

It almost seemed like fate was on her side today. They could form teams again. And this time, she will make sure that team with her father would be together at each round. This way she would not let him out of her sight.

"Oh, we used to play something similar on school trips. We formed groups by hugging," Jung-bae said to them.

“Yeah. Except now, instead of hugging, we go into those rooms,” Dae-ho replied, pointing to the doors.

“If the number is bigger than five, we’ll need to find more people,” her father said. She could save more people like this but she was also risking losing a sight of her father. They need to be careful.

“But what if it’s smaller than five? Like three or four?” Dae-ho asked, concerned.

“No matter what happens, don’t panic. Let’s stay calm." Young-il told them. 

“Let’s trust each other. We’ll all make it out together. Here,” Jung-bae added, gesturing for them to put their hands in the middle like they had done before. Ga-yeong was the last to join as Jung-bae counted down, “3, 2, 1—go! Victory at all costs!”

They threw their hands in the air together. 

It was much easier this time for her. When she could pretend she was someone else.  

That she was just 'Jihoon' to them. And not someone who intervened with all of their fates. She wasn't even sure if some of them made it in an original timeline to this game. 

"Let the game begin." Automated voice said. 

Ga-yeong closed her eyes for a second. And for some reason now, she saw that one of that flickering butterflies have a damaged wings.

But before she could think of it any further, a song started to play : "Round and round. Round and round. Let’s go around in circles and dance."

High pitched children voice started singing. Whoever created this shithole must have a twisted sense of of humor.

Then, they stepped onto the round platform as it began to slowly spin. The music played as they were turned around and around, everyone looking around, confused, waiting.

What number of people will they announce? If it would be five they would be fine, but she wasn't so sure if not.

"Ten." Mechanical voice answered her question.

Great that was perfect, her's and Junhee group could team up.  

The room erupted into chaos. Lights began flashing.

She blinks and the colors turned from warm yellow to pinkish red like the uniforms those soldiers worn.

Her father immediately rushed into action. Looking around other five people they could get.

Everyone was looking around too. Yelling over each other and trying to find people too.

Her father asked Hyun-ju, who had been standing close to him, “How many are you?”

“Four,” Hyun-ju replied. There was Junhee with her and Ms. Jang and her son. Where was Youngmi? She must have been on the other side of carousel. There was no time to get to here. There were just too many people running over each other. She needed to focus on helping her father.

“That makes us nine,” Jung-bae said, panicking.

“We need to hurry!” Young-il said. “There’s no time, Gi-hun!” He grabbed her father's arm.

“We need one more!” Hyun-ju yelled, then grabbed the crazy lady—the same one that was praying in the six legged pentatlon.

“Room 44! Green door!” Hyunju shouted to everyone as she was running with that woman. 

But the carousel was moving to fast, colors were flashing at everyone faces that the only thing she could seen their O or X patched on their chest.

Hopefully they will make it in time. Otherwise she would have to do it all over again.

They all ran, barely making it in time, with Young-il being the last one to slip in and close the door. 

Those thirty seconds run out too quickly, but atleast she didn't have to waste her powers.

But then she looked from the tiny window to outside.

There were still people there. Pink soldiers aimed their guns at them and executed them like it was nothing despite they pleads to get spared. 

How could those pink soldiers done it every day? Kill innocent people like that? But maybe they always have been liked that. That why they were perfect for their job. Maybe that why they could just turn away from these screams.

"The following players have been eliminated. Players 013, 043, 049, 054, 060." 

I'm sorry i couldn't done something. I'm sorry i couldn't prevent it. But she was glad she didn't hear any familiar number.

She went away from the window and went to stand next to Junhee.

Her father was near Young-il. But he seen the glimses of others getting killed too. His expression was filled with pain and it look like he was experiencing PTSD like soldiers had from war.

Young-il was watching him closely. But she didn't know what to think of his expression. He was just staring at him not even blinking. What was this guy deal? 

Then player 044, that crazy lady shouted: "You are alive thanks to me!" Ga-yeong almost wanted to chuckle at what was this woman saying.

Sure they were alive thanks to her, but if she wasn't there in six legged pentatlon or red light green light, that woman may as well be dead.

And then player 044 look at her. She creepily smiled at Ga-yeong. What was her problem? 

After that weird interaction she turned to her father who was standing near the window, still looking at the killed players.

"So there is reason, you live longer then you were supposed to, there is a reason someone has returned to you," she declared and was smiling widely. Then she look at her again.

What was that supposed to mean? She could be talking about Jung-bae. He was in a game too. She couldn't possibly know that she wasn't supposed to be here. That shaman lady was just saying crazy things to confused them. 

She won't rewind time because of her. Her father seemed to be confused by this too. But then the door opened. 

They passed the first round succesfully. That eerie children song was playing again: “Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring. Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a. Ring-a, ring-a-ring.”

It buzzed in her head, that children voice repeating inside her mind.

Why was this happening when right now, she needed to stay focused on another round?

They were standing at the platform again. Although she wasn't next to her father - He was next to Young-il, she could still seen his broken expression clearly.

"Four," mechanical voice said the number.

She looked at her father who already started to grab Jung-bae. Dae-ho was next to them.

"Jihoon!" Father called her fake name. She appeared next to them.

But Young-il was the one who didn't have anyone.

Her father look like he realised that too and his face was filled with worried expression.

"No, you go. Go ahead, guys." He reassured them and started to yell that he need three more people.

They once again ran to the red door, this time even faster then before.

But her father stopped at the enter. It look like he was trying to find Young-il in the crowd. 

"Young-il," she heard her father called his name. There was an unusual softness when he said his name. Not the one when he said her's.

He stood there, the door were still open. He kept repeating his name that it almost sounded like yelling.

"Three people! I need three people!" She heard Young-il from outside. 

"Do you think Young-il will be okay?" Jung-bae asked inside.

Her father was still looking around. They only had few seconds left before they would need to closed the door. If they won't do it, they would die.

"Mr. Seong. Young-il is going to be fine," she told him and grab his arm. It was still so strange to call her father like that. Like he meant nothing. Like he was just another stranger.

That seemed to calm him down and he closed the red door in last seconds.

Why did he cared so much about Young-il anyway? He just met him three days ago. She wouldn't be so closed to someone who she barely know.

But her father seemed to be different at that.

It was true that after she learned about his passing, it was harder to open up to other people or trust them easily.

She lost that naivity a long time ago.

Then the timer run out again. She heard gunfire and mechanical voice was annoucing dead players. But she didn't catch any familiar number once again.

Hopefully everyone would be fine. Young-il must have survive too, since there was no mention of his number. 

After a while they could open the door again.

As they were outside, both Jung-bae and Dae-ho started to shout his name looking for him. Her father was searching the crowd to spot his face.

He looked almost sad as he couldn't find him.

“Gi-hun,” Young-il called, speed-walking toward them. Thank heavens he was alive, she couldn't stand that expression on her's fathers face anymore longer. 

“Oh, thank God,” Jung-bae said, walking up to hug him. “I knew you were gonna be okay. I knew it. You’re not just anybody.”

"I am glad you made it to the next round," Her father said. Young-il smiled at him. 

"Mr. Seong was so worried. I had to pull him from the door as he kept looking for you," Ga-yeong said to Young-il. Her dad look at her and just shaken his head in embarrassment like it was some big secret that no one was supposed to know about.

But her words just made Young-il smile even wider. Her father's face turned red and he couldn't even hide that smile that was forming on his lips.

Could these two get a room or something? 

But then she spotted Junhee, she was walking with Youngmi, Hyunju and other two players.

"Are you okay?" She came up to her and look at her stomach. For how long was she pregnant? 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re fine too Jihoon,” Jun-hee replied, smiling.

"All players, please step onto the center platform." She needed to return back. 

The music started, then stopped. This time: “Three.”

"The three of you go, we are going to find someone else," Jung-bae told them. 

Her father hesitate before he said: "Okay, hurry!" 

Jung-bae and Dae-ho started yelling for one more person, scanning the room. Then they saw the old lady standing alone in the center. They grabbed her and went into the blue room together.

She ran to another room with her father and Young-il. They close the door and waited. She hoped everyone was okay.

As they exited the room, everyone started looking for each other. Mrs.Jang who was with Jung-bae and Dae-ho spotted her son and ran up to hug him, relieved he was safe. He looked guilty, apologizing and crying for not having gone with her.

Ga-yeong seen Hyunju, Youngmi and some man who was with them - player 246. He must have saved them.

Junhee was with player 333. Ga-yeong remembered that this player was asking her something in six legged pentatlon. Then it clicked her - he wanted to form a team with her back then but she refused and that's why she became the spare player. 

It must have been because he voted to stay after the first game. What was his relationship with her? Did he knew her from outside perhaps?

But she couldn't think about it that much. Next round was about to start. 

"Six." Robotic woman announced. Ga-yeong wanted to go with her father again and his group. They only need one more person.

But this time it was different. She should have never expected things to go smoothly. That would be too nice for a place like this.

Before she could reach for him in the crowd, someone pushed her to the ground. "You and the Xs should just die." Some man said to her. It must have been someone from O group as she already made enemies of lot of them.

She hit her head and felt ringing in her ears. Ga-yeong quickly get up from the ground. She heard someone yelled her fake name - her father was already inside with everyone else there.

She heard robotic woman who said: "Ten." As the seconds already passed away.

She need to rewind time for the first time in this game. She would be more careful if she would know that someone from O group wanted to push her down. 

But then she seen it. Poor Youngmi was pushed by player 333 away who was rushing towards room when Junhee and Hyunju were. But she notice then in another room next to them were only 4 players. She could made it and Ga-yeong could too, if she wasn't slow down. If Youngmi wasn't push too.

It was all that damn O player and 333 fault. They would let others kill like that. 

Ga-yeong still wanted to run to them and stop that but it was already over. The last thing she could hear was "Unnie!" and then the soldier shot Youngmi and her dead body quickly collapsed to the ground. Only relieve Ga-yeong could felt in that moment was the fact that Youngmi didn't seemed to die in pain. 

She heard Hyunju scream her name. And then another pink soldier came up to Ga-yeong wanting to shoot her for failing too.

She wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Ga-yeong close her eyes and returned to that moment when it all fell apart.

She will undone that mistake.

Ga-yeong was right back in the moment when they announced the number of players. This time she move away from her place immediately.

This time that O player didn't push her to the ground as she wasn't near him.

Now she just needed to found Youngmi and player 333. Ga-yeong knew that in this round her father was safe, so she didn't look for him.

Then she spot player 333. He was already watching Junhee, Hyunju and Youngmi running towards the room with other three people.

She just need to stop him and save herself too.

Ga-yeong has reached player 333 arm. That man flinched at her touch and turned to face that person who stopped him from going to the room.

"Let go off me!" He screamed at her and wanted to brushed her hand off. 

She just need to convince him to go to the other room. 

"There is room with only four people in. Go with me!" She pleaded and hoped he would listen. It needed to work this time. She couldn't fail again.

Player 333 give a last look at the room with Junhee in it but he didn't complain as he seen that the room was already full.

They got in the next room just in time. She felt relieve washed over her body. But player 333 was glaring at her suspiciously.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her. He didn't know what would happen if he went his way. She needed to tell him something.

So Ga-yeong told him the closest thing to the truth, something anyone could understand: "I wanted to survive."

Player 333 was satisfied with her answer as he didn't said anything else. But she needed to asked him one last question before they start another round and she would focus herself on helping her father again.

She need to know why he wanted to do that. Was this just a pure survivor instinct or was he really worried that Junhee wouldn't made it? He didn't want to kill Youngmi right?

"Player 333, you care about Junhee right?" she asked him. He seemed to be suprised by her question but he gave her a short answer before the door opened to next round. "Yes."

Then why did you choose to stay? Why did you wanted to put her teammates in danger? 

But she let him go. He wasn't her priority. She hope he wouldn't do something stupid like that again. 

She went back to center platform. Song started to play again and carousel started to turn around. 

"What do you think it'll be this time?" Jung-bae asked their group.

"Two." Young-il replied. How did he know this? Ga-yeong wondered. 

"Why?" Jungbae asked. 

"There are 146 people left and there are 50 rooms. So there won't be enough rooms for everyone, only for 100 people. The rest will be killed." 

This couldn't be right. How were there so little left? More then half of them were gone. And now 46 more people were supposed to die too.

Could she prevent this? But how? She couldn't change the rules of the games and despite having powers it was impossible to be at more then one place at one time. 

She saved Youngmi. That woman wanted to go home. She was so broken by the voting. Hopefully she would leave after this game and so will her father. He won't have to watch more people to die. 

Now since they had to team up with only one person, she could save him one last time. 

Then the carousel went the other way and voice announced the exact number Young-il said.

But before she could have reach towards her father, he already grabbed Jung-bae and look at her like he wanted to say something, but then she lost him in the vast crowd.

What was she thinking? Of course he is going to choose his friend Jung-bae. She meant nothing to him as he seen her as another player. Just another woman like Junhee or Youngmi.

She stood frozen as he was getting closer and closer to the door. Everyone else was still running around trying to find a person to team up with.

But then someone grab her arm by behind and dragged her to the room. It was Young-il. 

When they ran to the door there were already two players. One was inside and one outside. Young-il let go off her and grabbed player 285 by jacket tossing him on the ground like his weight was nothing.

She hope he would find another room. 

"Get in!" he yelled at Ga-yeong.

Young-il went inside and she followed him. 

"Hey! Get out! We were here first!" he started yelling at them. He wasn't wrong but this way they would all die if he won't leave and find a room for himself. 

"Close the door!" Young-il yelled again. She didn't meant to listen to him as there was still time this player could find a place somewhere else.

But then she seen player 285 running towards her. Fuck! He will probably try to kicked her out of here like they did to him.

There was no time to think about what he would have done. His angry face was enough to tell her what he wanted to do. She close the door right in front of his face. She could hear him screaming about opening the door or that he would kill her.

But it was too late, when the door were close, they couldn't been open up again. Not until the round was finished.

They were trapped there and they would soon all die. Young-il is going to die. She couldn't let that happen but before she could close her eyes and go back, she heard someone scream.

Young-il! That player must have attacked him. She turn her head from door to them.

But Young-il wasn't the one who was attacked. No he was the one attacking.

"Let me go!" that player pleaded. Young-il was holding him tightly. His hands around his neck choking him out. That player try to fight back but before she could even blink, he snapped his neck. Bones were cracking and the player's dead body went to the ground.

Young-il collapsed against the wall. He look exhausted as it must take him great strength to crack someone body like that.

It reminded her of the sound of the cracked nose of the player 100 when she had punch him. 

He just killed someone right in front of her. How could that same charming and kind man done something like this? Was this place really turning even the most good hearted people into killers? 

She understand why Young-il did what he did. It was either him or them. She would have done the same thing if her father would be there instead. But that would happen only if she didn't have those powers. Powers to undo the fate of others, to change things.

No, she wouldn't allow Young-il or anyone on her team to become a killer. They were good people, they shouldn't been force into situations like this. Her father wouldn't want one of them to become like this. Especially Young-il who he liked.

She wouldn't let that happen again. Ga-yeong closed her eyes and think of the moment when they reach the room.

Player who was killed by Young-il was still inside and the other one dropped on the ground as this was the moment Young-il kicked him out.

Young-il was already turning to other player, thinking about killing him so that he could have save himself and her. But that didn't have to happen, he didn't have to had blood on his hands.

This time she didn't close the door as that player didn't got up from his place yet. Young-il could done that in any second. He was quick with his murder. She thought if he was perhaps in military or worked for police or something like that.

"Wait!" She yelled at Young-il. He stop mid way thought the room. That player was still out of reach. They couldn't convince him the first time as he wanted to stay and if Young-il didn't do what he did, he would probably attack them instead.

But there was an other way. She ran to that player and grabbed his jacket. "You need to go or you will die with us! Find another room!" She yelled at him. He try to fight back and push her to the wall. But then Young-il did something he didn't done before.

He grabbed that player and tossed him outside to the other player just like she wanted. She then closed the door after this.

Now both players were there and they could find another empty room. They could survive and won't be killed.

Both her and Young-il turned to the small window on the door. But then she realised she wasn't looking on how much time these men had. 

Because they didn't have any. She heard mechanical voice count last second. 

Two pink soldiers get to the both players. "Please!" "No, let me live!" They both pleaded with screams.

She was so sure they would manage to save themselves. That there could be a way to save them. But she didn't spare them from their fate. 

Pink soldiers shot both of them to chest. Their blood was slowly dripping from their bodies on the ground.

"Thank you for stopping me otherwise i could have done something terrible." Oh Young-il look at her. 

You did something terrible. But she kept that thought for herself. It would be best if he never learn on what he could have done.

He wasn't murderer in that moment but he still thought about doing that. 

It was just a self defense but still they didn't need to do that. Pink soldiers did that instead for them. She traded one death for another.

"I was sure, they would find a way." She said to him after a quiet pause. Young-il didn't blame her and just reassuringly touched her shoulder.

Then the game was over. The final round behind them. As she walk away from the room her eyes found her father with Jung-bae and Dae-ho.

She and Young-il went to them. Her father smile as he seen them coming. "You are both okay." He said. There was relieved in his voice.

Young-il smile back at his teammates. Then he said: "Yeah. I was able to catch Jihoon and we both made it in time."

"Well atleast our whole team is stil alive. The others-" Jung-bae said and he look at bloodied floor on which they walked on.

There was blood of these two players too somewhere. Blood of a hundred people that were doomed from start.

But atleast her team was still safed and everyone else she knew was too. 

Now they just had to make sure to go home. This will be the last day she will spent in this pit of hell. 

Chapter Text

The dormitory reeked of sweat and metal. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, throwing pale light across the concrete walls. Thin mats lined the floor, but no one ever looked comfortable—just restless bodies shifting, whispering, pretending not to be afraid. The air was thick with iron, like dried blood that never truly washed out of skin.

The third game had ended.

Everything was unfolding exactly as In-ho had planned. Only three days had passed, and he already had Seong Gi-hun wrapped tightly around his finger.

Of course he did. Seong Gi-hun was a fool—trusting, naive, hopelessly predictable.

In-ho had studied him for years, the way a hunter studies prey. He had watched hours of footage, rewinding every nervous laugh, every trembling word, every tiny mistake. He knew how Gi-hun chewed at his lip when nervous, how his gaze darted sideways before lying, how his hands shook when he wanted to look strong but felt weak.

He knew precisely how to step into that soft space—how to speak in tones that pulled sympathy from Gi-hun’s bones, how to shape himself into the friend Gi-hun thought he wanted.

But inside, In-ho didn’t want to be his friend. In-ho wanted to dissect him like a specimen under glass, split his skull, study the soft folds of his brain. He wanted to break him apart, piece by piece, and then mold him under his own touch—craft him into something new, something that belonged entirely to him.

Gi-hun was so easy to read. So was his friend Jung-bae. Predictable, loyal to a fault, another burden clinging to Gi-hun’s side. In-ho disliked him—hoped he would die in the next game. If not, Inho would do it himself.

Predictable, all of them.

All except one. Player 067. Jihoon.

In-ho had always trusted his instincts when it came to reading people—it was his craft, his power. A part of his job as the Frontman.

But this time, he was mistaken.

That young woman was a puzzle wrapped in shadow. Her presence was like static, prickling his skin.

 Unpredictable. Untamable. A wild card thrown into his carefully laid deck.

One moment, she was dangerous, nearly killing Player 100. The next, she was gentle, kind even, tending to Seong Gi-hun and others with quiet compassion.

Her kindness wasn’t softness—it was choice. And she didn’t trust him. She wasn’t gullible. She wasn’t naive like others.

In-ho had felt it from the first second their eyes met. She looked at him with suspicion, like someone who could see a crack in the mask he wore. She looked at him as though she could peel away the skin of his mask and see what rotted beneath.

The image of “Young-il” should have been perfect. Carefully crafted mannerisms, the weary sighs, the scars of a tragic past. He had even chosen player number 001 as a cruel joke, a mockery aimed at Gi-hun.

And yet—Jihoon wasn’t buying it. 

She wasn’t fooled. She was watching him. Constantly, like he was a bug on the ground to be stepped on.

Worse, she was clever. Sharper than he had assumed. During the Mingle, she had anticipated that he was about to kill a player—she had stopped him. Before that, she noticed his subtle switch of hands in the Six-legged pentathlon, when he intentionally used the wrong one to enrage Gi-hun, to watch how failure would fracture him. She had ruined that too.

He would need to tread carefully around her. He had ignored most of the other players, his focus narrowed entirely on Gi-hun. But now, Jihoon demanded his attention. He felt the itch to sneak away, steal her file, study her history. He needed to know who she really was.

He needed to get rid of her too.

Yet—her resemblance to Gi-hun gnawed at him. The slope of her cheekbones, the defiance in her stare—it was uncanny. Disturbing.

They sat together in the dormitory. The dormitory hummed with uneasy noise: whispers, the shuffle of feet, the occasional cough.

Gi-hun was close, so close that their legs brushed. In-ho regretted bringing up his wife earlier—now it placed a wall between them as he couldn't get closer. But he needed the story, needed the wound of it, because truth dripped heavier than lies. He had dangled his dead wife like bait, and it worked. Gi-hun’s sympathy clung to him. He trusted him more. 

His wife and child were already dead. His wife... He couldn't save her nor the child that didn't even get a name.

That reality always hit him.

He thought of her again—her still body on the hospital bed, coldness of her skin, lips pale, eyes closed forever. The smell of antiseptic. The silence of the machines when they shut them off.

She wasn't there anymore.

That was the day his last faith in humanity bled out of him. From then on, he would not have minded if the whole world burned to ash.

Across the room, Jung-bae and Dae-ho prowled like restless dogs, hunting for players who had voted to leave.

 Jihoon lingered by Player 222’s group, quiet, her shadow stretched by the harsh light.

In-ho and Gi-hun whispered about the next vote, about convincing others to leave. Gi-hun’s hopeful voice scratching like sandpaper against In-ho’s patience.

In-ho nearly laughed. The desperation that dragged these people through the third game would not simply vanish at the chance of escape. They were trapped by greed, and In-ho knew precisely what awaited them next: the special game.

The game that would peel away Gi-hun’s illusions about humanity, shred his misplaced trust. Soon, he would see the truth.

A shout cut through their conversation. In-ho’s head turned sharply from Gi-hun to see what is happening.

Thanos—the obnoxious rapper—and his pack of hyenas were causing a stir.

Jihoon was caught in their little circle, her timing was unfortunate as she walked past and wanted to get to her group.

“Look who survived! That bitch with the bloody nose. If she can survive this, so can you, my boy Min-su!” Thanos bellowed, shaking Jihoon’s body as if she was some rag doll.

Her eyes burned with murderous restraint as she stared back at him. Almost like she was already picturing his dead body on the floor.

“Yeah! Why do you got so much blood on your face anyway? You sick or something?” Player 256 sneered.

“She thinks she’s girlboss, beating up old people like that!” Player 124 jeered from beside Thanos. His laughter was ugly and hollow.

Jihoon said nothing. She stood like stone, her chest rose and fell, her gaze drifting elsewhere —toward In-ho and Gi-hun. Inho noticed Gi-hun stiffen, head lifted, eyes locked on her.

“Are you deaf or something? Did that blood get into your brain too?” Thanos pressed, his thick fingers grabbing her jaw, smearing her blood.

“Shit, don’t touch her, man—she probably got some virus!” Player 124 hissed.

Thanos recoiled like a child burned, wiping his hand frantically against his jacket. His eyes spat disgust. “Fucking bitch! Want to kill me too?”

“Hey, guys! Just leave her alone!” Player 380 snapped, standing protectively near Player 125, another frequent victim of the group’s bullying.

“Oh, so you wanna join this chick too? I thought we agreed to play one more game, didn’t we, Se-mi?” Thanos sneered, spittle flying.

Se-mi flinched, eyes down, lips trembling—but she said nothing.

In-ho noticed Gi-hun rise, shoulders tense, ready to step in. Always so protective, so infuriatingly heroic. Always so ready to play the hero, to throw himself into fists and chaos.
A schoolyard fight, nothing more—but Gi-hun’s heart pulled him forward.

In-ho reached quickly, curling his fingers around Gi-hun’s hand to hold him back. When their skin touched, when Gi-hun didn’t flinch, a flicker of satisfaction sparked in In-ho’s chest. Could he push this further?

Gi-hun turned, brow raised in silent question.

“She can take care of herself, Gi-hun,” In-ho said softly.

It worked. Gi-hun’s muscles eased. He let go. In-ho allowed himself to savor the warmth of his hand a moment longer before releasing. There was still time to draw him closer.

He sat back down, though his eyes still flicked anxiously toward Jihoon.

“I know. But I still care,” Gi-hun whispered, voice tight. “Even though she can protect herself. You can protect yourself too, and I’m still worried.”

In-ho studied him, lips quirking with the faintest relief. “I didn’t know you cared so much about me.”

Color bloomed across Gi-hun’s cheeks. He fumbled for composure. “It’s nothing, really. I care about everyone here too.”

“I just hope we’ll go home today. You must miss your wife, Young-il,” Gi-hun added, his voice gentle.

In-ho’s chest tightened. His wife was long gone, buried six feet deep, the soil heavy over her coffin. There was no home for him, only this endless cycle of games. Just his role as the Frontman.

But Gi-hun could still go home. He could still choose life, choose his daughter. If only he weren’t such a fool. He should just listen to him and went on that plane to see his family.

And yet he insisted on playing savior trying to help others. Fool. They will always die here. 

“Gi-hun, there are fourty - four people who voted in favor to leave,” Jung-bae’s voice cut in, his steps loud against the hollow floor.

“Are you sure?” Gi-hun asked.

“I counted them twice.”

“What about you? Did you include yourself?”

“It’s fourty-five then,” Jung-bae confirmed.

“But there are fifty-six people on other side, so we’re outnumbered by twelve,” Dae-ho sighed in disappointment.

“Shoot, that means we’re likely to lose again,” Jung-bae muttered.

“It may seem like a big difference, but if six of them change their minds, it’ll be fifty-fifty, all tied,” In-ho calculated.

“If seven change, we could win,” Gi-hun replied quickly.

“But those who pressed X might change their minds too.”

“Then we have to convince them to vote X, don’t you think?”

Her voice cut in like a knife—Jihoon, slipping in silent as a shadow.

“Yes, I think you’re right, Jihoon. They’d probably want to leave, especially with more money on the line,” Jung-bae said, nodding at her approvingly.

But something twisted in In-ho then. Jihoon’s eyes locked onto him, and a strange ripple ran through his mind. Suddenly, he heard a voice rang in his skull—his own voice.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Seong Gi-hun has passed away.”

His voice, but who was he speaking to? Why was he saying Gi-hun was dead when he was alive—breathing, standing right there? Next to him?

 It must have been his imagination. 

But then something even stranger happened.

The world tilted. His head spun. He stumbled, clutching at Gi-hun’s sleeve for balance, fingers digging into the fabric tightly.

“Young-il?” Gi-hun’s startled gasp was laced with concern. He caught In-ho as he nearly fell. Eyes turned.  This never happen to him before. It was awkward situation as everyone could seen him struggle.

“Are you alright?” Gi-hun’s voice pressed.

He notice Jihoon smirked at him. What was this girl problem? 

In-ho’s stomach burned with fury.

He was probably losing his mind. That wasn't funny. 

“Oh—it must be the stress from the previous game. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he lied smoothly. It was a lie but how else he would explain this?

But Gi-hun still watched him with worried eyes. In-ho pulled his hand away quickly, uncomfortable with the spotlight of concern, heart hammering too fast, too loud.

The sound of marching boots saved him. Pink soldiers filled the room. Relief washed over him as the moment shattered. Gihun couldn't ask him more question about that strange thing that just happened. Because he wouldn't be able to answer him.

"Congratulations to all of you for making it through the third game. Now, here are the results of the third game." the Pink Manager announced.

Inho ignored the tally and the swelling piggy bank. His gaze stayed locked on Gi-hun, drinking in every flicker of pain across his face.  Observing every one of his movement.

“The vote will once again be conducted in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456, please cast your vote.”

Before Gi-hun walk to vote, the manager’s voice cut sharp: “To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind.”

Then the voting began. 

"Lastly, Player 001. Please cast your vote." He was the last one to vote.

It was just like In-ho predicted. 50/50 on both sides. 

“The vote has ended,” the Manager said.

“Wait, it’s a tie. What happens now?” Player 100 demanded.

“Clause Three of the consent form: in the case of a tie, players will vote again,” the Manager explained.

“So when are we voting again?” someone else asked.

"To give you some time to think, the vote will be conducted tomorrow. Until then, please think carefully about your future." Manager replied and then him and soldiers walk away.

In-ho already knew what would happen. He knew exactly how the numbers would shift tomorrow.

There was one thing he couldn't get out of his mind. That damn voice of him that said Gi-hun is going to die.

Was he really losing his mind? Or was it guilt, a festering wound deep inside him?

But then what does Jihoon had to do with it? Why did it felt like she knew him somehow?

Chapter Text

Ga-yeong had messed up again. Her mistakes clung to her like ghosts, but this one was worse.

This time it was Thanos and his gang she had antagonized. They circled her like jackals, amused by her stumble, her bloodied nose, her silence. They mocked her because she was Player X, because she had dared to strike back once, and because weakness—real or imagined—was all the excuse they ever needed.

They were predators. Classic bullies, the kind she had met back in school—the kind who sniffed out softness, difference, fragility, and tore it apart. Once they smelled weakness, they had to destroy it. That was their law. Like poor Min-su. Another player in their group, but not really one of them—more like a chew toy. They beat him, ridiculed him, even forced him to vote O. His voice wasn’t his own.

And then there was the only girl in their group: Player 380, Se-mi. Ga-yeong guessed she only stayed close to Thanos and the others to shield Min-su, to soften the blows he couldn’t avoid. But she couldn’t be sure. Loyalty and survival often wore the same mask.

At least Se-mi had defended her earlier, when Ga-yeong couldn’t find her voice. Her throat had been frozen, her chest caved in by fear. One wrong word and the wolves might have gone for her throat, marked her for death in the next game.

But Ga-yeong whispered to herself: there wouldn’t be a next game.

It wasn’t over yet. It was still fifty-fifty. Tomorrow’s vote was the coin toss. And if it didn’t go their way, she would have to be ready. She would need another way out.

She couldn’t just sneak out with her father. He wouldn’t believe her—not the whole impossible truth—and even if he did, he wanted to save everyone there too. That was his burden. No, she would need something sharper, more cunning if voting doesn't work in their favor.

Her thoughts tangled around Young-il.

What was she supposed to make of him? He had risked himself once to save her during the Mingle, pulling her back from the brink. But the same man had also wanted to kill. His heart was a blade, cutting both ways.

He orbited her father like a restless satellite, drawn to him with a fire Ga-yeong could see too clearly. A moth burning toward a flame.

And then when they were just casually talking about voting,  Young-il nearly tripped, stumbling like a child, and would have fallen flat if her father hadn’t caught his arm.

Ga-yeong had smiled despite herself. It was laughable, the lengths this man went to just to draw her father’s gaze.

Stress because of the games? she thought bitterly. No—you’re the one stressing me out.

But she shouldn't be so focused on Young-il. If he does something suspicious again, she would know. She would know if he gets her father killed because he betrayed him in the games or if he just let him down and didn't help him.

The meal break ended.

Ga-yeong’s eyes fell on the fork. Small. Metallic. Too sharp for comfort. Its prongs caught the light from the overhead lamps like a whisper of violence. She felt its weight in her mind before she even touched it.

Could I kill someone with that if they came for me?

The thought shocked her. Her stomach turned.

What is she even thinking? Killing? She had already seen enough death. She had watched it unfold in front of her—the screams, the silence after, the eyes fixed open and unblinking. Why was her mind drifting into the same darkness that had consumed everyone else?

“No,” she whispered under her breath. “I won’t be like them.”

She pressed her palms against her knees until her nails dug into her skin. She would avoid conflict. She would not cross that line.

Around her, people shuffled toward the bathrooms. It was just the men. They formed a restless tide, muttering, bodies pressed together as they queued. Ga-yeong realized she should go too. Her face was sticky with dried blood. Sweat clung to her skin. She needed water, needed the ritual of washing away, of breathing, of proving to herself she was still human.

It wasn't night anyway so she should be safed.

She rose.

Her father didn’t even notice her leave. His eyes were fixed on the very same fork she had been staring at, holding it in his hand, turning it like a question. Was he thinking the same thing she was?

Her throat tightened as she approached a pink soldier by the door. He loomed there, faceless behind the mask, his body rigid, his silence suffocating. Speaking to him felt unnatural, like speaking to a statue. “Can I use the bathroom?” she asked. Her voice cracked slightly.

The soldier nodded without a word, leading her to the female bathroom. On the way, she caught sight of the men funneling into the male bathroom. Their laughter was jagged, their voices edged with tension.

The soldier closed the door behind her. The lock clicked shut.

The silence pressed against her.

Ga-yeong hurried to the sink, twisting the handle until cold water hissed out. She splashed her face. Each drop stung, sharp as needles against her bruised skin. The blood washed away, swirling pink in the porcelain basin, then deepening to red, then vanishing.

She leaned forward and looked into the mirror.

A stranger stared back at her. Her face was pale, ghostly, with hollows under her eyes. Her lips were cracked. Her hair stuck in uneven strands to her forehead. Sweat clung to her collar. Her shirt was stiff with grime, her pants dark with stains. She looked like a survivor from war.

At least her hair was short now, bangs hiding her forehead. She remembered how it had once been long, how it had framed her face. But in this place, long hair was a curse. A nest for lice. A handle for someone to drag you with.

She exhaled. The sound echoed in the tiled room.

But she didn’t let herself linger. She forced herself to look around. Instinct demanded it. Every surface. Every shadow. She checked the corners of the ceiling. No cameras. Relief shivered through her chest. At least here, now, she wasn’t being watched.  Maybe there could be something helpful as she was alone except that guard who could come here to check her in every second.

But there had to be a weakness. This place couldn’t be perfect.

The only thing she knew that they were on some hidden island because her father mention getting there on the boat.

Her breathing grew shallow as she searched. Her hands trembled. Any second the soldier could burst through the door. If he found her investigating… she bit her lip. She might get punished. Unless she rewind time. Unless she cheated fate again.

And then she saw it.

Above one of the toilet stalls: a vent. Or atleast it looked like some kind of ventilation system. Where did it led?

Her heart raced. She climbed onto the toilet lid, fingers curling against the cold metal of the grate. It was pinned shut. Of course it was. She should have expected that.

She bitten her lips and then realised she still had that sharp fork in her pocket. That may work.

She pulled it free, its prongs smeared faintly with her touch. Carefully, she worked it against the pins. Each squeak was a scream to her ears, but finally the vent gave way, opening into a throat of darkness.

She look out from her place, but the guard was still behind the door. 

She didn’t hesitate. She pulled herself inside. Her knees scraped against the edges, her palms pressed into dust and rust. The air smelled stale, metallic. But it was freedom, it was possibility.

It didn't matter that much if somebody is going to caught her. She will remember what happened anyway if she rewind time.

She quickly crawled herself forward ventilation until she reached another vent. She peered down through the slats.

Ga-yeong seen that she was looking at the male bathroom. She wanted to ignore it and move on as she didn't want to watch men relieving themselves.

But then she heard it.

Screams.

Her blood froze.

She looked down and her stomach dropped. The men were tearing into each other. Not arguing—fighting. X and O players colliding like rabid dogs. Forks jabbed and slashed. Bottles shattered into jagged weapons. Fists thudded against bone.

Blood sprayed across the tiles, smeared on mirrors, soaked into shirts.

Ga-yeong’s breath hitched. Her body shook.

Directly below, Thanos straddled MG Coin—Player 333—holding him down. His face twisted with rage. His fork raised like a knife.

Thanos was above him and it looked like he wanted to kill him. 

Ga-yeong backed away. She needed to leave, before the soldier outside realized she wasn’t in her stall.

And then—

Clang.

Her fork.

It slipped from her pocket, fell through the vent, and hit the tile with a metallic clatter.

Fuck! She should just leave it on the toilet. 

Her chest locked.

Both Thanos and MG Coin froze. They turned their heads. They had heard it.

Ga-yeong clamped her lips shut, her lungs screaming for air. She slid back silently, her heart battering her ribs.

Down below, MG Coin seized the chance, kicking Thanos off him. Their fight resumed, brutal and desperate.

By then, Ga-yeong was gone.

She crawled back through the vent, her hands shaking. She sealed the grate again, heart pounding.

And just then, the soldier burst into the women’s bathroom.

Ga-yeong didn’t flinch. She was already on the toilet, feigning a squat. Her voice came light, almost casual. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. I have intestinal problems from that food. I’m sure you understand.”

The soldier didn’t reply. He only stood there, silent and faceless, before escorting her back to the dormitory.

The robotic woman’s voice thundered through the hall:

“The following players have been eliminated: Players 268, 123, 299, 331, and 401.”

Ga-yeong’s stomach dropped. Thanos was still alive. His wolves still roamed.

And as she slowly walked back to her father, the mechanical door opened up. Those men from bathroom were back. Their clothes dripped with blood. Their eyes gleamed wild.  Some of them were behind those murders. 

“Listen, Team O!” Player 124 bellowed. “When we were in the bathroom, those fucking X bastards tried to kill all of us!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Thanos snarled beside him. “They attacked us first!”

The argument exploded. Accusations flew. Voices clashed like blades.

Ga-yeong didn’t listen. She didn’t need to. She had seen it all. She knew. They weren’t just bullies anymore. They were murderers. Every single one of them.

“So?” Player 100’s smug voice cut through the chaos. “Which side lost more people?”

Ga-yeong’s hands clenched. That fucker. She wished she still had her fork. She wished she could stab it into his throat.

But no. She wouldn’t. Not yet. She would not become like them. She would remain pure. She told herself that again and again.

That was the only way to get out of this hell. She only wanted to kill those demons  responsible for this anyway. But they weren't humans so killing them wouldn’t count.

The argument carried on, a storm of accusations crashing between the Xs and Os. Ga-yeong tuned it out. They were killers, all of them, and killers didn’t deserve her ears.

They began to count numbers—like the massacre had just been a math problem. As if corpses could be translated into arithmetic.

Was this hell? she wondered. If hell existed, it must look like this: people debating who had the “advantage” while blood was still drying on their clothes.

One of the men spoke above to the X players: “It’s forty-eight against forty-seven. So we could get out of here tomorrow.”

But Ga-yeong knew better. She saw the future lodged in her father’s bones. Even if the numbers favored them, even if the vote broke free, her father would not return home. In her future, he was dead.

The robotic voice rang out, steady and indifferent:

“Attention, please. Lights out in 30 minutes. All players, please return to your beds and prepare for bedtime.”

The sound chilled her spine.

How could anyone sleep after what she had just witnessed? The bathroom, the screams, the stabbing forks. Sleep was for people with peace. Sleep was for the innocent. She had neither.

No—she would stay awake. She would stay close to her father, guarding him like a shadow. She would not blink, not breathe wrong.

“All right. Let’s go to sleep now, shall we?” Jung-bae said, like a parent corralling children. But Ga-yeong knew sleep was an illusion tonight. She wasn’t tired. She was brimming with adrenaline, vibrating with unease.

If anything, it meant one thing: she could use her powers more. She would save her father, no matter what would happen.

“Lights out in 20 minutes. All players, please prepare for bedtime,” the robotic voice repeated.

But Ga-yeong’s mind was elsewhere. Already plotting. Already searching for cracks in this prison.

Could she use the ventilation again? Could she sneak further, maybe reach the guards’ quarters?

She pictured it: stealing a uniform, hiding her face behind one of their pink masks, moving unseen among them. It was a tempting fantasy.

But too many holes gaped in the plan. She didn’t know the layout, didn’t know where the guards live, didn’t know the timing. She had only been here three days. She was still learning the contours of this nightmare.

Jung-bae’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Those bastards are acting suspicious. It looks like they’re up to something.”

“Whatever those idiots do, once we win the vote tomorrow, it’ll all be over,” he said to Dae-ho.

“You think we’ll be okay?” Dae-ho’s voice cracked, fear spilling through. “They say things were really crazy in the bathroom earlier.”

A shiver ran down Ga-yeong’s back. Crazy wasn’t enough. It was carnage. She had seen worse than horror films. And unlike a film, she couldn’t close her eyes and feel safe.

At least she could still pretend: I’m the final girl in this slasher. She clung to that image. Final girls always survived. They wouldn't kill her that easily.

“Once the lights go out, people on the other side will attack us,” her father said gravely, his eyes scanning them.

"Really?” Jung-bae asked, his voice tight.

“Because if they kill us, they’ll win the vote and increase the prize,” her father explained. His tone was weary but steady, like he had already made peace with the blood logic of this place.

“So what do we do?” Dae-ho asked, almost begging.

Young-il leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Let’s attack them first. They’re probably thinking we’ll just wait for the second vote. We can use it to our advantage. We’ll attack them first once the lights go out.”

His voice was convincing. Calculated.

Ga-yeong’s heart thudded. It was smart. If they killed the leader—Player 100—fear might fracture the enemy. The Xs could dominate the vote. They could go home. It could work.

“That’s right,” Jung-bae agreed. “It’d be better to attack them first. We have more women and elderly on our side. If we get attacked, we’ll be at a disadvantage.”

“Attacking them first would give us a better chance of winning,” Dae-ho echoed, nodding quickly.

Ga-yeong felt her own mouth speak before her brain caught up: “I agree too. We should kill their leader first.”

So everyone agreed? They will be home by tommorow right? Then she will revealed herself to her father. Ga-yeong wasn't sure it was possible to return to her thirteen years old self as she erased her by the whole time travel thing. Because there could only be one version of her. 

For a moment, the group shared one current, one rhythm. They were united. This could be it.

But her father’s voice cut through, cold and final: “We can’t do that.”

Silence.

“But we have to get out of here!” Young-il snapped, frustration spilling out. “You said it yourself—staying calm won’t get us anywhere now.”

Exactly, Ga-yeong thought bitterly. Why couldn’t he see it? If they didn’t fight back, they would be attacked. It was a simple rule of nature. The strong devour the weak.

“That doesn’t mean we should kill each other,” her father said, voice tight with pain. “That’s exactly what they want us to do.” What did they force you to do in the first game dad? Ga-yeong thought.

“They?” Jung-bae asked, confused.

Her father’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Those who created this game. Those who watch us play. If we’re going to fight someone, it should be them.”

“Where are they?” Dae-ho asked, his voice small.

“Up there,” her father answered, pointing his chin at the ceiling.

“On the upper levels are the rooms where they control the games. The man in the black mask is their leader. Once we capture him, we’ll be able to win.”

Ga-yeong’s heart jolted. So that’s where she need to go.

“How are you going to fight them? They have guns,” Jung-bae countered, his voice edged with disbelief.

“We’ll fight them with guns too,” her father said.

“But we don’t have any,” Jung-bae shot back.

“We’ll take their guns,” her father said firmly.

“From those masked men?” Jung-bae asked, incredulous.

“That’s too dangerous,” Young-il argued. “Even if we manage to take a few guns, we’ll still be outnumbered.”

“What then? Are you going to kill each other all night and hope you survive? Is that what you want, Young-il?” her father snapped back.

Ga-yeong leaned forward. “Do we stand a chance?” she asked. Her voice shook. If they hadn’t won the first time, maybe her presence now—the rewinds, the second chances—could shift fate. She will rewrite her father's future fate.

And then she would find those responsible. She would hunt them. And she would make them pay.

Her mind spiraled darkly: bullets through hearts, throats slit, bodies burning, screams echoing until silence claimed them. She would peel their power away piece by piece.

They would pay.  Every single one of them are going to pay.

Her father’s voice cut through her vengeance. “We do, if we catch them off guard. Out of everyone, they’re the ones who would least expect us to attack first. This is our last chance to end these games once and for all.”

“How are you going to take their guns?” Young-il pressed.

“Once the fight begins tonight, we’ll have our chance,” her father said.

The robotic voice sliced through again:

“Lights out in five minutes.”

The room shifted. People readied themselves like animals before a storm. Another nightmare was about to start again.

Ga-yeong’s eyes caught Thanos and Player 124—Nam-something, Nam-gyu maybe—huddled together. Their hands trembled as they pulled tiny packets from Thanos’s necklace. Drugs. They swallowed them like candy. Their pupils dilated, their breath quickened. They would be more dangerous now.

Her gaze shifted. Junhee whispered with MG Coin, Player 333. His face was still streaked with dried blood. Did she even know what he had done in the bathroom? Did she know how close he had come to murdering?

“Lights out in ten seconds.”

The countdown rattled her chest.

“Once the lights go out, get under the bottom beds quietly. You must not get caught by those planning to attack us,” her father whispered. His voice was steady, but his eyes flickered with fear.

Then the world went black.

Darkness swallowed everything.

They slid under the bunks like mice, hearts hammering in unison. Ga-yeong pressed against the cold floor, squeezed between metal and wood. Dae-ho’s elbow brushed against hers. Their breaths mingled, shallow and frantic.

Her father was across from her, crouched beside Young-il. Their silhouettes almost touched.

She watched her father, her entire body taut. But Young-il watched him too. Too closely.  Will he protect him? Ga-yeong thought.

And then—screams.

Explosions of sound.

Chaos ripped the dormitory apart. The attacks started. 

Ga-yeong’s pulse surged like she was racing on the marathon. She pressed her palms against her ears, desperate to drown out the tearing shrieks, the clash of bodies, the wet crunch of forks stabbing flesh.

But her father said that they shouldn't fight with them because then they might end up dead or injured. He said they should hide until fight ends. 

He said that even if it take a sacrifice, they will put an end to this. He said that the fight won't take long and that sooner or later those pink soldier will intervened.

But the screams…

She tried to close her eyes so she wouldn't see it.

Then a cry pierced her soul.

A woman’s voice.

“No, please! Stop!” she was screaming in pain as someone was holding her and was trying to slit her throat with fork.

Youngmi. The same woman Ga-yeong had once saved during the Mingle.

“Youngmi!” Hyun-ju’s voice shrieked from across the room.  It seemed like she wanted to get to her, but was stop by player 246 who was holding her back and was saying something to her.

Ga-yeong’s body moved before her brain caught up. She crawled out from under the bed.

“What are you doing?” Dae-ho whispered, reaching for her arm. But she was gone—too fast, too determined.

Her eyes darted through the flickering dark. Light stuttered on, then off again, revealing flashes of carnage.

"Hey, you get yourself a bitch too? Look at mine!" She heard player 124 laugh as he was attacking someone.

And there: Thanos. His arm wrapped around Youngmi’s frail body, a fork pressed to her neck. Tears streamed down her face, silver in the brief light. She trembled in his grip, tiny and helpless.

"No, please don't do this!" Youngmi begged. She was on the other side of dormitory. Like five meters away from her.

Don't, worry i'm going to save you. You’ll go home. Ga-yeong thought as she watch that bastard and that poor woman.

But then another voice cut through the chaos. Player 124’s laughter.

"Se-mi. You fucking bitch." He said to a girl who was trying to get away from him. It was the same one from his group. But now its seemed like he wanted to murder her. She tried to fight back using the broken glass shard of a bottle but it didn't seemed to work.

Then—smash.

A bottle hit the ground near him, thrown from above. Ga-yeong’s eyes darted upward. It was that boy Minsu who was hiding in one of the beds above. He had thrown it as a distraction, his face pale with terror.

Se-mi had a chance.

But Youngmi didn’t.

Ga-yeong’s chest constricted. She turned back to her. Thanos still gripped her. The fork glinted, hovering. Tears carved paths down her cheeks. She was still alive.

And then—scream.

Se-mi’s.

Namgyu stabbed her. Again. Again. The glass plunged into her stomach, red blooming like a grotesque flower.

“You think you’re better than me?!” he roared, stabbing until her body went limp.

Dead.

Ga-yeong’s breath shattered.

And then another scream went throught dormitory. Youngmi screamed in pain as Thanos slit her throat open and push her to the ground.

Her dead body just lying on the floor. Still. Cold. Lifeless. She just wanted to go home. 

And Ga-yeong hesitated. And now they were both dead. She could feel tears ran throught her face. It was the first time she allowed herself to cry in those days.

No. No. She wouldn’t let this be the ending.

But then another even more shaterring thought hit her. She couldn't save both of them. She couldn’t be in two places at once.

Her curse—the gift of time—mocked her. Was this what the gods wanted? Was this the game inside the game? Choosing who to let die and who to let live?

How can she let someone die so she could save someone else? Was that something her father had to do? Was this the reason he was so broken?

She didn't have time to think about it anymore. Ga-yeong clenched her fists. She closed her eyes. And the fractured butterflies of time beat their wings.

She was back in the moment before that tragedy happened.

She was hidden under bottom of the beds next to Dae-ho. 

Ga-yeong had to make decision before she is going to let them both die. She have to save one of them. But who?

"Where are you going?" Dae-ho asked her again. She didn't replied to him even this time.

She crawl from bottom once again, almost like she was replaying some game. A very twisted and cruel game that some monster has created.

As she was crawling she was thinking on who she should save. It was one of the hardest decision in her life. Nearly impossible.

Should she save Youngmi? She didn't talk to her at all but she was always with Hyun-ju and Mrs. Jang. She seemed kind. She was scared and wanted to go home. She voted X. She didn't deserve to die like that.

And then there was Se-mi. Another young woman. She voted to stay but in the last vote changed her mind. She seemed smart and was protecting Minsu as that was probably the reason she was with Thanos group. She defended her from them. Althought her and Ga-yeong didn't talk after this, she was sure that if things could be different they could be friends.

Ga-yeong was already up. Watching as the events slowly unfold. Everything felt in slow motion. Like it was a movie she already seen but didn't like the ending.

She heard Youngmi desperate pleads, she heard Hyunju called her name and then player 246 stopping her.

She heard Se-mi frightened voice as she was yelling to player 124 to back off. 

Ga-yeong had to decide now. Because if she won't, she is just going to watch them die again. Again and again. Until she slowly loses her mind.

And then she heard a glass bottle fall on the ground. Right, that was Minsu poor effort on distraction. But he tried atleast.

Youngmi didn't have that advantage. Semi did. She had more chances to survive.

Ga-yeong had made her decision. She sprinted as fast as she could in that dark. The lights sometimes went on in flicker so she could see the shattered pieces of bottle. 

She was behind Namgyu who didn't hear her. This was the moment when he is going to gut Se-mi stomach. This was the moment when he is going to kill her.

Ga-yeong pick up one of the pieces of the glass and throw it to Namgyu head. Just in moment he turned to face whoever did that.

Ga-yeong screamed at Semi: "Run!" Se-mi didn't hesitated and listened to her as she quickly disappeared in the shadows of darkness.

Namgyu’s eyes locked on Ga-yeong. “You have a death wish?” he growled, glass still clutched in his bloody fist. Glass in which was Semi blood supposed to be. 

Then she heard Youngmi scream again. It felt like echo throught dormitory. 

Youngmi’s final cry as Thanos slit her throat.

Her body fell. Silent.

Ga-yeong’s chest tore open with grief. Tears blurred her sight. She had saved one, but lost the other.

And before Namgyu could attacked her too, the lights flickered back on. Soldiers stormed in, rifles raised, splitting the chaos apart.

And she was supposed to be at the bottom of the beds. She was supposed to pretend to be dead. 

But her father plan started anyway.

Chapter Text

“Hands up! Get back!” the Pink soldier shouted sharply at her and that bastard Namgyu. Ga-yeong obeyed immediately, her heart hammering in her chest. The soldier shoved her roughly with the barrel of his gun, forcing her to the other side.

From that vantage point, she saw her father and his group lying motionless on the floor, pretending to be dead so the soldiers would scan their trackers. Relief coursed through her. She wasn’t lying there with them. They wouldn’t discover that she didn’t have a tracker carved into her body.

Her father better know what he was doing. She had no idea how this plan would unfold.

Gods, if they existed, must be laughing at her again. How could a time traveler not know the future and yet be stuck in the past? Only she could find herself in a situation so absurd, so cruel.

Now she could only watch her father and his group from a distance. But she didn’t regret her choice. She had saved Semi’s life. That had to count for something. Still, she would have to monitor their every move, correcting mistakes that might otherwise lead to their deaths.

She wondered if this was around the time her father died. The rebellion had failed, and as leader, he had been killed by that man in the black mask. Maybe Young-il had been forced to surrender as he watched his friends die, clinging to life. Maybe it happened exactly like that. Or maybe it hadn’t.

Eventually, she saw the soldiers moving toward her father. Then another chaos bloomed.

As the soldiers bent down to scan the players, they left themselves open to attack. 

Jung-bae lunged at a soldier and seized his gun. Others followed suit. Gunfire erupted, echoing harshly through the room. It finally felt like war.

She closed her eyes briefly as a soldier near her fell to a bullet. Opening them, she saw his lifeless body next to her.

Jung-bae then pointed a gun at Player O, but he and her father began to argue. 

She stood there frozen, trying to figure out what her role in this was going to be. She had to convince her father somehow  so she could take a gun too. She would kill those soldiers, and then they would kill those watching them from above.

He already trusted her as Jihoon, so it should be easy. But her father was always too trusting for his own good.

"Everyone! Don’t be scared. Gather round, please!" her father said. He really did sound like a leader.

“It’s okay to come out. We’re not trying to hurt you!” Jung-bae added, trying to soothe the tension.

Then she noticed that Youngmi’s body was still lying on the floor, just like everyone else who had been attacked.

Hyunju was next to her. She was crying and closing Youngmi eyes so it would look like she was sleeping. Player 246—Gyeongseok—was next to her, comforting Hyunju quietly.

This was all her fault. Ga-yeong blamed herself. She was the one who caused Youngmi’s death by going somewhere she shouldn’t have and creating the chain of events she could have stopped but didn’t, because she thought it wasn’t important.

Thanos and Namgyu were watching all of this with smirks on their faces.

Another dark thought went through Ga-yeong’s head—she was going to kill them, avenge poor Youngmi.

But first, she had to protect her father and eliminate those orchestrating this chaos.

Hyunju rose, instructing her group, “Get the guns and ammo from the dead.”

“Everyone, we will now head up to the masked men’s headquarters. We’ll capture those who captured us, put an end to this game, and make them pay. Anyone who knows how to use a gun and wishes to join us, step forward. Hey, I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But this may be our last chance to survive. Fight with us so we can go home together. All together. I’ll fight with you. Come on!”

After her father’s speech, the others began to take up arms. Hyunju demonstrated how to load and operate submachine guns.

Ga-yeong picked up a weapon from a fallen pink soldier.

She knew how to shoot. In the future USA, everyone above twenty-one, regardless of gender, underwent mandatory military training. She had never fired on a real target, but now the stakes were life and death.

She would have to kill. Ga-yeong promised herself she wouldn’t harm anyone. She wasn’t going to turn herself into a murderer.

But she had already crossed that line, hadn’t she? The blood on Player 100 had once thrilled her, she even thought about killing him. She had just thought about killing Thanos and Namgyu. She imagined all the horrible ways she could kill the people responsible for this madness.

She didn’t mind killing these soldiers either.

They are all killers too. Why shouldn’t you be the same?

Right, but all of her killings would be justified. It wouldn’t count as cold-blooded murder. She just wanted justice and to avenge the fallen.

You think by killing murderers it’s less murder? You think justice is clothed in blood?

She shushed her thoughts away. Shouldn’t these people deserve the death penalty? Shouldn’t it be like in medieval times—an eye for an eye?

And a whole world is blind. She let one last thought slip.

She went to her father, who was standing there with his group, mostly made up of brave men—him, Jung-bae, Young-il, Dae-ho, Gyeongseok, and others holding guns.

Hyunju was there too. Ga-yeong overheard that she was in the military as she explained how to load a submachine gun.

They would make it work like this. Ga-yeong was sure that with her here now, it was going to work.

When her father noticed her with a gun, he asked, “You know how to shoot from these too?”

“Yes. I had basic military training, so I can go with you too,” she replied. She wondered how her father would react if he knew the truth. Would he be proud or terrified?

“You are from America, aren’t you? I heard they can own guns there,” Young-il said, standing beside her father.

Yes, that was true. Even with a different presidency, guns stayed in people’s hands.

She had a classmate who had a shooting range. Another whose family owned shotguns on a farm, mostly to shoot predators killing livestock but also thieves and uninvited guests.

"Yes, I am from the USA," she said to him.

You were there too, Young-il. You were in L.A. in the future. Ga-yeong thought.

Her father raised a brow, scrutinizing her. Then he asked the question she had always dreaded: “Then why did you come back to Korea?”

It was time for another lie, another story tale.

"My parents are immigrants. We came to the USA to look for better opportunities. But with the new presidency, we had to go back. Then my father got himself in debt and disappeared. I inherited all the debt and came here."

“I am sorry to hear that, Jihoon. It must be hard for you. You are so young,” her father sympathized.

It was hard, but she had learned that pity didn’t help, nor did crying. Now she only had revenge, which might ease that succumbing pain.

"Hey, when we get out of here, I’m inviting you to soju. What do you think?" Young-il asked, then looked at her father like he had just moved the stars, and her father looked at him like he had just seen the sun rise from the sky.

Ga-yeong quickly turned her head away, only to face Dae-ho, who also saw and raised his eyebrow in question.

She now wished she had a phone so she could take a picture of this and send it to her mom. Her mom would probably laugh so much at this.

She pictured her mom replying: "I didn’t know your father was into guys or that he had this type. Well Ga-yeong, now you’re stuck with another step-father."

But then her mother would realize that she was in deadly games and was conspiring murder. That her and her father were in a war.

What was going on outside anyway? It had been three or four days. And since only one version of her existed, that meant her younger self wasn’t home. Her mother, stepfather, and little stepbrother must think she went missing.

They must have alerted the police and were searching for her across the USA. A lot of children went missing there, especially if they were in nature or near caves.

She didn’t want to cause them trouble. But her father was important too.

"I could really use a soju now and cigarettes too," she replied after a while, hoping they wouldn’t read her worried expression.

After this, her father went up to one of the soldiers who was still alive. "Take it off," he said, as the soldier was wearing a mask.

Ga-yeong was curious about who the masked men were. When the soldier removed it, she saw he was young, far too young for this brutal place. Jung-bae remarked the same.

She thought about how the soldiers got there. Were they perhaps in the same situation as the players? Did they just choose the other side of the barricade?

“Take us to your captain,” her father demanded. They opened the door and stepped outside the dormitory.

“All players, it is bedtime. Return to your quarters immediately. Otherwise, you will be eliminated. Let me repeat. All players, it is bedtime,” a robotic female voice announced.

Gunfire erupted from the other side. They dove behind pink-colored walls as her father yelled, “Get down!” Ga-yeong hugged a pillar, witnessing a soldier take aim at her father. She shot him before he could fire. Others fell in quick succession.

“Hold fire!” her father and Hyunju yelled, trying to maintain control. Trembling, they were alive. First part of the plan—success. Now, they needed to find the control room.

They all followed her father, who was in front with the pink soldier he had taken hostage. Ga-yeong stayed near them. She was next to Young-il, who she saw protecting her father from one of the soldiers. Is that why they were looking at each other like that?

“How much farther? Is this the right way?” her father asked the pink soldier.

“The entrance to the management area is around that corner. The control room is right above it,” he replied.

“Move it, then,” her father commanded.

“Wait,” the soldier hesitated, reaching for something in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” her father demanded.

"I need my mask to pass security," were the soldier’s last words as someone shot him in the head.

Then gunfire started again. They hid behind walls. Cracks from previous bullets spider-webbed across the surfaces.

They tried to hold fire and shoot at them, but there were more and more coming.

"I’ll go look for the management area!" her father yelled to them through gunfire.

"Will you be able to find it?" Young-il asked. "Should I come?"

“I’ll go with Jung-bae. I need you to buy us some time. Jung-bae, let’s go,” her father ordered.

Ga-yeong was powerless to stop him from going with Jung-bae. How could she even convince him? Now he was in danger, and she wasn’t going to be there to save him. She wouldn’t know when he was in danger or not.

She bit her lips. If something happened, they would just start over. If her father made it out alive, then it would be fine.

Now she would just have to wait.

She and Young-il were shooting at pink soldiers, but others started yelling that they were running out of ammo.

“Young-il, we need to move forward! If we stay here, we’ll die!” she yelled.

“And what do you want to do?” he countered.

"This isn’t getting us anywhere! Let’s follow them to the upper level!" She had to get to her father. She would try over and over if needed.

"We might get surrounded if we move together without a plan!" a player next to her said.

"Let’s wait until they find the control room!" someone else yelled. But Ga-yeong wasn’t sure they would find it. She was sure their plan had failed. This was the moment her father died.

“Everyone! Check your magazines!” Player 004 shouted. Ga-yeong’s half-empty magazine worried her. They needed more ammo, more allies. You can’t win a war without them.

"Young-il, Dae-ho. Can you hear me?" a radio beeped. Ga-yeong felt relieved that they were still fine. They still had a chance.

"I think we’re right below the control room! But we need backup and more ammo," she heard her father’s voice from the radio.

"We’re running out of ammo too!" Dae-ho yelled.

"There should be spare magazines in the soldiers’ pockets in our quarters. Go get them!" her father commanded.

"Got it!" Dae-ho responded. Everything was going to work. As long as they all worked together, they could make it out. Ga-yeong thought.

"Did you hear that? They need backup! Three of us will go, and the rest will stay! Join us once you get the magazines!" Young-il instructed.

It was almost perfect. She would go with him and help her father. Then they would burn this place to the ground.

"Who wants to go with me?" Young-il asked. One player said he would go with him.

"I will go with you too," Ga-yeong said. Young-il nodded at her.

"I’ll go get the magazines! I’ll come back as soon as I can, so just hold on until then!" Hyunju said to them.

"Hyun-ju! I’ll go!" Dae-ho told her. That marine was a brave man. They were all brave people. Ga-yeong almost felt a strange camaraderie with them.

"I’m out of ammo," another informed her.

"Do you know the way?" she asked Dae-ho.

"Yes." His voice was shaking a little, but he seemed calmer now. Just be brave, Dae-ho, and then we’ll all go home, Ga-yeong wanted to tell him. But she said nothing.

She was thinking how far her father was and if something happened to him. She thought about all the ways she would kill those responsible for this.

"We destroyed the cameras on the way. Follow them," Hyunju informed him. Yes, that was smart. If no one could see them, they would be in less danger. Her father would be in less danger.

"Okay." His voice was still a little trembling but looked much calmer now.

"Take this. You might run into the masked men on the way." Hyunju instructed and gave him her magazines. Ga-yeong thought it was kind of her. She put herself in danger if she ran out of ammo, willingly taking the risk.

Dae-ho thanked her and ran, as they covered him from pink soldiers.

Then Ga-yeong, Young-il, and another man went toward her father and Jung-bae. They needed their help.

"Gi-hun! Did you find the control room?" Young-il said as they reached them. Ga-yeong couldn’t hide her smile.

"I think it’s right up there, but we can’t go this way. I want you to find another way. I did a quick scan of the layout here. I’m sure there’s a way to go around them. I want you guys to keep their focus on you. We’ll hit them from behind," her father explained.

It made sense. They needed more places covered, and if something happened to her father, she would know through the radio. She would know if he was in danger or dead. She could rewind time if needed.

"Okay," Young-il replied. She noticed that her father had been shot in the shoulder, but it was just a minor injury.

Young-il wanted to go, but then her father stopped him and touched his shoulder.

"Wait. Here, take this. You’re going to need it." He gave him his ammo.

"Are you sure?" Young-il asked, unsure whether to take it.

"Dae-ho will be back with more," her father reassured him. That was right; Dae-ho should be there any minute.

Then her father looked at her and said: "Just be careful, Jihoon. Keep an eye on her, Young-il." They both smiled at him.

"I will," Young-il promised, and then they went their way.

They were moving forward. Ga-yeong was looking around, pointing her gun at dead ends.

Where was the control room?

Young-il was behind her, searching everything just like her.

They surprisingly made a good team if they put their mistrust aside.

If something happened to her father, who was with Jung-bae, she would know through the radio. She would know if he was in danger. If he was dead, she could rewind time.

Gods gave her this power for a reason, and she wouldn’t waste it.

Finally, they reached a hall. Maybe this was it, Ga-yeong thought.

A pink soldier appeared and shot a man beside them in the head. He then aimed at Ga-yeong, firing before she could react.

Then he pointed a gun towards her. Ga-yeong held her own gun at him too.

But then he shot first. She didn’t have time to pull the trigger. He was quicker.

Then something else happened.

"Jihoon!" Young-il screamed and shielded her, but the bullet hit him instead.

She saw him bleeding through the stomach where the bullet caught him.

"Young-il!" she screamed as his body hit the ground.

No! No, she was in control. It wouldn’t matter if the soldier shot her; she could rewind time and strike first.

"Hey, Young-il!" she yelled at him. He was still breathing but heavily injured. He had wanted to save her life. He willingly put himself in risk. She wanted to scream, cry, fight—do anything—but he had already been hurt.

"Fuck! I was pointing at you, not him!" the pink soldier said, his voice shaking.

Why was he acting like it wasn’t his fault?

"Stay back!" Ga-yeong shouted at the soldier and pointed her gun at him as she checked Young-il’s pulse. He was still breathing, but barely. He wasn’t going to make it.

He shouldn’t protect her. He shouldn’t put his life on the line because of her. But he did.

He and her father weren’t that much different after all.

The soldier still held the gun, but his hands trembled. Was he serious right now? He must have killed a lot of people, so why was he acting like it was his first time?

"Remove your mask or I will shoot!" Ga-yeong demanded, pointing her gun as she checked Young-il.

The soldier listened and removed his mask. Underneath was a young man close to her age. What was he doing in a place like this?

"Now, put the gun down and toss it to me," she commanded again. The soldier complied. She could sense that he was afraid. He obeyed, trembling.

"Gihun, tell him that I’m—" Young-il tried to speak, but the words slipped from his tongue as he caught his breath, his lungs filling with blood.

"Stop talking, Young-il!" she screamed, her eyes already filled with tears as she watched the life drain from him.

Then she heard a gunshot. She looked up and saw that the soldier whose mask had been removed was lying on the floor, dead.

There was another soldier standing at the stairs, watching her.

She grabbed a gun from the ground and shot him, but he shot her first.

The bullet hit her chest. It was agonizing, pain unlike any she had felt before, even worse than when she once broke her leg.

Before collapsing to the ground, she screamed in pain.

Is this how dying feels? Ga-yeong thought as she lay next to Young-il. Their blood mingling. She could see his body clearly now. There was something in his post-mortem reaction she couldn’t decipher, but it almost felt like he made peace with death before realizing he was dying.

She was slowly bleeding out on the floor when she heard a voice through a transmitter. It was coming from Young-il’s pocket.

It was her father’s voice: "Young-il? Jihoon? Are you there? Copy."

She couldn’t answer. Blood had already filled her mouth.

She couldn’t even think as her mind clouded with pain.

Ga-yeong closed her eyes, and before it was too late, she saw fractured butterflies flying around her.

Don’t worry, dad. It’s not over yet, Ga-yeong thought—and then she rewind time.

When she opened her eyes, they were back in the hallway near the staircase. Then she saw that pink soldier again.

This time, she didn’t waste any time and shot him before he shot that man.

Young-il looked at her, surprised. He didn’t expect her to have such good aim.

Then he spoke to the radio to her father: "Gi-hun, we found it. Start attacking and draw their attention. Then we’ll hit them from behind."

This time it was going to work. No surprises. No failure.

"Okay, got it!" she heard her father before everything fell apart like pieces on a chessboard.

Because then someone hit her on the head with a gun from behind.

Before her mind went unconscious, she saw a player with them get shot.

She saw Young-il and thought—he was going to die again.

And it was all her fault.

Then her mind went blank, and the last thing she heard was her father’s voice through the radio. He was going to die here too.

Chapter Text

Hwang In-ho awake to the dim, flickering light of the dormitory filtering across his face, the kind of pale illumination that made every shadow seem sharper, every corner a potential threat.

He lay in one of the three coffins that had been returned, the wood pressing coldly against his back, the faint metallic scent of blood lingering faintly in his nostrils. Memories hit him like jagged shards: what he had done, what he had caused.

"I am sorry, Gi-hun. We failed," his goodbye to him, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

"Now witness the consequences of your little hero game, Player 456,"

"Gi-hun," Jung-bae’s last words towards his friend.

"No! No!" Seong Gi-hun’s painful, unbearable, heart-wrenching screams as In-ho’s hand closed around the gun, pulling the trigger at Jung-bae.

This was supposed to be the end. The end of Young-il. And now Inho was supposed to return as the Frontman, watching what he had done through cameras and screens. Watching how broken Gi-hun was. Drinking his aged whisky and seeing how much he had broken him. Each crack in Gi-hun’s spirit was supposed to be a personal triumph, a delicious proof of dominance.

How much damage he had done. How he had won.

But nothing unfolded as meticulously as he had imagined.

Everything had changed because of that damn voice of his saying Gi-hun was going to die. It was just an intrusive thought, an insistent voice in his head.

Why did he put such importance on that anyway? He shouldnt attached any meaning to it.  Letting some fragment of conscience or superstition steer him.

It was just his twisted imagination. But his heart had decided something else entirely.

That dumb soldier must have hit his head really hard, since he was still lying inside in the coffin while the other two were already emptied.

The incompetence made his jaw ache with frustration. If he found who was behind this incompetent job, he was going to fire him. But they already lacked staff—thanks to the rebellion that Gihun had started.

Dragging himself upright, his skull still heavy with disorientation, Inho rehearsed the fury he would unleash on that fool.

"Mr. Young-il!" He heard Jihoon’s voice as she was coming toward him.

He wanted to reply to her, but she was quicker.

She wrapped her hands around him and hugged him tightly, almost like he would disappear at any minute. She must have been scared as her grip was almost desperate.

He didn’t react in any way. He didn’t hug her back. In-ho was just standing there frozen like a statue, waiting for the moment she would let him go.

The last person who had hugged him was Jung-bae. And he was dead. In-ho had killed him to teach Gi-hun a lesson.

He had wanted to kill her too, right after that soldier knocked her out. He had wanted to kill her and then hang her body along side with the other rebels as a warning for the others not to try anything like that ever again.

If Gi-hun had lost her too, then there wouldn’t have been anything worth fighting for. Then Gi-hun would finally realize that the Frontman had won.

The Frontman always wins.

And then he would get Gi-hun out of the games and imprison him. Then he would bend under his will and he would become just like In-ho.

But when he had wanted to pull the trigger on Jihoon, he had been unable to do it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t wish her to be dead—he did.

But when he looked at her, he could only see him. And it also didn’t help that she was young—just like his brother Jun-ho had been.

In-ho’s mind must have been playing tricks on him.

This woman was a stranger. She was nothing like Gi-hun.

She wasn’t naive or too trusting. She was capable of killing people without remorse. She didn’t believe in idealism. She was an opportunist, always two steps ahead.

But she was kind, she was loyal. She offered others help and believed in them. She wasn’t a martyr, but she still put herself at risk to save someone’s life—like that girl Semi.

No, he had been unable to pull the trigger. Because she was a perfect blend between… him and Gi-hun.

"Young-il, you have no idea how much I was worried. I thought they were going to kill us all," she murmured, her voice trembling but relieved.

He allowed a thin smile, a mask of reassurance. "Don’t worry. I am fine." The words felt hollow, even to him.

"Jung-bae didn’t make it. He didn’t make it. He is dead. Others—" Her voice cracked, crimson traces lining her eyelids from the torrent of tears she had tried to hold back. She must have been crying before.

Jung-bae—well, Jung-bae had just been a liability standing in his way. Standing between him and Gi-hun. Always there like a bug you can’t get rid of. Annoying, loud, dumb…

But she is also standing in your way. She ruined many things. Why did you let her live?

It was the Frontman’s mechanical voice.

Because I will break her the same way I broke him. Because then I wouldn’t be alone.

His wife and child were dead. He had shot his own brother and betrayed him. There was no one—unless he forced them to care, whether through a fake identity or something else.

"Is Gi-hun okay?" Inho asked and put the mask of their friend Young-il back on. The familiar façade that allowed him to navigate the chaos without revealing the predator beneath.

Jihoon looked at Gi-hun, who was standing there with the others. Hyun-ju, Jun-hee, Mrs. Jang, and her son were talking to him.

But that expression on Gi-hun’s face didn’t give Inho the satisfaction he wanted. There was no more pain he could drink from. Now there was nothing.

Just a shell of numbness. Why wasn’t Gi-hun angry? Why wasn’t he fighting?

Then Yong-sik pointed at the place where Dae-ho was sitting and said something toward him.

Gi-hun looked at Dae-ho’s place, and there was finally something.

There was that spark that Gi-hun hadn’t lost. That Inho hadn’t broken yet.

"He isn’t doing well. The death of Jung-bae shattered him. I told him we would avenge his death, but he isn’t listening to me! He just kept staring at poor Dae-ho!"

A shiver went through Inho’s body. Was Gi-hun finally considering murdering the innocent? Was Gi-hun finally teetering toward the edge?

Was he considering murdering his fellow teammate? Someone who had willingly joined him?

In-ho tried not to smile. Dae-ho was a coward. He had never properly served in the marines.

Dae-ho was a loser, and he had let them all down.

If Gi-hun was going to make enemies of his people too, then there would be no one left for him.

And then the Frontman was going to step in and show him shelter. Show Gi-hun how much he had believed in this trash and that they all turned against him. Show Gi-hun that only he could understand him.

Maybe Jihoon was going to turn against him too, he thought.

But as he was studying her face, he heard Gi-hun’s cracked voice.

"Kill me! Just kill me already! You won! What do you want from me?"

He was screaming and trying to get himself shot by the pink soldiers.

But In-ho had ordered them not to harm him. And if he was going to harm himself, then they would handcuff him to one of the beds.

"Mr. Seong! Please stop, or you will hurt yourself! Stop, please!" Jihoon was screaming at him with pleas. But the soldiers got Gi-hun to the ground. He kept yelling, and tears ran down his face as they dragged him to one of the beds and handcuffed him there.

Are you finally satisfied?  The Frontman whispered.

But In-ho quickly turned away from that scene.

"That guy must have lost his mind!" he heard Player 124 say jokingly to Thanos.

"Yeah! Dude is on stronger drugs than we are!" Thanos replied, and they started to laugh.

But as he was watching these jackals, he lost sight of that girl Jihoon.

And then he heard her loudly: "Yong-sik! What were you saying to Gi-hun? Why were you pointing at Dae-ho?"

Yong-sik looked at her, startled. He was next to his mother. And then he looked at Dae-ho angrily.

"I was just saying that it’s all his fault. He was supposed to bring you ammo, right guys? But he stayed here and hid!" He started throwing accusations toward him.

In-ho couldn’t hide his smile anymore, but at least no one was watching him.

See, Gi-hun? Humans will always turn against each other. That’s our nature. Predator will always eat its prey. That’s the order of things.

Then Jihoon snapped back at Yong-sik. Her voice was filled with fury.

"Dae-ho’s fault? Everything is his fault, really? What would you do in his place? When you are watching your friends and allies die? What did you do to help us?"

When Yong-sik didn’t reply to her, she continued: "You did nothing! You didn’t see the bloodshed! You didn’t feel the pain! You were just hiding there behind your mom’s shadow! You think she’s going to wipe your ass till you’re sixty? You think she’s going to be here for you forever?"

"Stop! Stop talking to me or my son like that! I understand your anger, but this is no place to be putting blame on anyone!" Mrs. Jang intervened.

Jihoon continued her argument with Yong-sik and then walked away toward Dae-ho.

In-ho didn’t care about them. About anyone.

He needed to check Gi-hun. In what state he was. In what state he had left him.

"Gihun-ssi," Inho called his name as he leaned toward him. Gi-hun didn’t move.

Gi-hun was just staring at the floor, not even blinking. He wasn’t replying to his call.

Are you finally happy? Did you get what you wanted?  The Frontman’s voice said again, this time mockingly.

"Gi-hun, talk to me," Inho demanded and shook his shoulder. Gi-hun was injured there, but a few stitches had done the job before he sent him back here.

He wanted him mentally broken, not physically.

That was something Gi-hun had done to himself. He was thinner, and his cheeks were more shallow. His eyes were red. His face pale.

Almost like he was dead. A corpse.

"Mr. Seong Gi-hun has passed away." That damn echo again.

No, this wouldn’t happen. No matter what his mind said, Inho was going to keep him alive.

"Young-il?" He finally replied. His voice was just a whisper, but In-ho heard him clearly.

Only if he called me by my real name, In-ho thought bitterly.

"Yeah, I’m here, Gi-hun. I’m fine. Jihoon too," he reassured him and touched his shoulder gently.

I didn’t kill her, see? I did that for you, Gi-hun. You should be grateful that I didn’t put a bullet through her head like I wanted.

"It’s his fault," Gi-hun whispered again. He was looking at Dae-ho, who was talking with Jihoon right now.

She was holding his hand, and it looked like she was comforting him.

"You think he’s the reason for our failure?" In-ho asked him as he turned his head back to Gi-hun.

"It’s all Dae-ho’s fault," he whispered again.

"What do you want to do?" Inho asked him. Would Gi-hun be capable of murdering him? He knew exactly what game they were going to play next: hide and seek. When players would not work with teams but would be forced to kill each other.

If Gi-hun had a red vest, then he would be forced to kill. And In-ho would see that.

"It’s Dae-ho’s fault," Gi-hun replied in another whisper.

"Do you want to kill him?" Why didn’t Gi-hun blame the Frontman? Was it because Dae-ho was an easier target? He needed to blame someone for the failure anyway.

Gi-hun’s eyes widened when Inho asked. He looked paler than before.

He was glad Yong-sik had planted that idea inside his head. Inho didn’t even have to lift a finger.

Gi-hun had put too much trust into these people, people who in the end only cared about their own lives, like Dae-ho.

"It’s his fault," Gi-hun replied to him. Inho didn’t know whether it was yes or no. Well, he guessed he was going to find out tomorrow.

He left Gi-hun with his vengeful thoughts and went back to that girl Jihoon.

He was watching her closely. She was still talking to Dae-ho. He got closer to them to listen to their conversation.

"Please, Dae-ho. It doesn’t matter what others said about you. I know you are brave because there are a lot of people who wouldn’t even join in the first place. It’s not your fault. You were just scared," she said to him in a comforting voice.

"But they are blaming me. It doesn’t matter how I felt," Dae-ho replied to her. His voice was shaking as he was looking around the dorms.

"Look, it doesn’t matter if you lied about being in the marines. You just wanted to belong somewhere. That’s not a bad thing," she continued.

"You sound just like my sister," he said to her, and his voice eased. Jihoon smiled at him and then got out of the bed where Dae-ho was sitting.

When she saw that Inho was watching her and waiting for her, she said: "Is my f-friend okay?" She stuttered at her words.

"He will manage it by tomorrow," In-ho told her. And then you will turn against him too. He thought.

"Tomorrow… Another game, I guess?"

"Yes. We may be forced to kill each other there," He hadn’t meant to say that much. But he hadn’t revealed the truth—that they would be in two teams.

But she didnt reply, instead she said: "We should check on Jun-hee." Why was she suggesting this? And why did she suddenly start acting like she was in charge?

He would not take orders from such a young girl or anyone here.

But as Young-il, he listened to her and walked beside her.

"Jun-hee," Jihoon greeted her. That pregnant girl was sitting on the bed. When she spotted Jihoon, she smiled at her.

"You are okay?" she asked.

"I will manage it, Junhee. What about you and your baby?" Jihoon sat next to her. Inho was just standing nearby awkwardly.

What was he supposed to do? He just wanted to talk to Gi-hun again. And now he felt like some guard dog on watch.

So he just watched them talk. Both girls seemed to be becoming good friends with each other. Jihoon even touched Jun-hee’s stomach and jokingly asked if the baby was already kicking her.

In-ho couldn’t understand how that young girl managed to have such a normal human interaction when back then she had killed people mercilessly.

Jihoon then got up from her place and said goodbye to Jun-hee, who now seemed much calmer.

"Now, we should check Semi and Minsu," she said.

Wait. Was this girl serious? Did she really plan to check on all the players? In-ho didn’t want to walk around and talk to someone who might as well be dead by tomorrow.

"Why? Why are we going to meet with others?" he had to ask her. Even Gi-hun didn’t do something like that. He mostly kept his distance from others, unless they came to him.

"Well, you see, these people need hope. Especially after what happened. And since Gi-hun, who was our leader in this, is broken by Jung-bae’s death, then there’s gotta be someone who is still strong. Someone who will show people that nothing is lost yet. They need to see that despite all of this, there is someone who just wants to talk, you know, Young-il?" she explained as they were walking to the other side of the dormitory.

He didn’t reply to her because they had reached the place where Semi and Minsu were sitting. They were watching Thanos and Namgyu all this time, and when they heard their footsteps, they flinched. Mostly Minsu, who was shaking.

Why did she want to talk to these losers anyway? It felt like a waste of time, but he needed to hear what Jihoon was going to say.

"It’s okay. It’s just me," she started the conversation as she got close to them and saw their flinch.

"Right. You are 067. I should thank you for that with that asshole Nam-gyu," Semi said to her.

"That was nothing. And my name is Jihoon," she introduced herself.

Minsu looked up at her and said: "Jihoon, you are really a hero. Without you, Semi might have died. I tried—I really did, but, but—" He stuttered, and Semi had to hold his hand to calm him down.

"No, Minsu, it’s not your fault. You were really brave for doing that, and without you I could never have caused another distraction."

At that compliment, Minsu smiled shyly, and Semi chuckled at his reaction.

"Jihoon, you are really cool. I think I like you," Semi said after that. Then Jihoon left them alone as they started to chat together.

"Okay. We should check on Hyun-ju too. I heard Gyeong-seok died in the rebellion. She already lost Youngmi. I think she may need some words too. Don’t you think, Young-il?"

If this went on, they might spend the whole day just talking to people. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. But maybe if he didn’t complain and just let Jihoon do this, they would be done sooner. He needed to return to Gi-hun. He just needed to know his answer about whether he was going to kill Dae-ho or not.

He didn’t have time for this. But he just nodded at her and followed her lead.

"Hyun-ju," she greeted that military woman, who was sitting with Mrs. Jang and Yong-sik.

He wondered how Jihoon was going to fix it, since she had already antagonized them—especially Yong-sik, whom she had argued with.

"Hello Jihoon," Mrs. Jang said to her. Inho was once again just standing there like a shadow. It also irritated him that this girl was taller than him despite being half his age. Now he must have looked like an even bigger idiot, but he didn’t say anything. He was just waiting for what would come out of her mouth.

"Mrs. Jang. Yong-sik. I will apologize for earlier if your son Yongsik is going to apologize too. And to Dae-ho."

Mrs. Jang just smiled at her and then whispered something to her son. Yong-sik looked ashamed. Then he looked back at Jihoon.

"I—I am sorry. I was out of line, and you were right. I shouldn’t have acted like I was better than you. But to be honest, I didn’t go with you because I wanted to take care of my mother."

"I apologize too. Sometimes you can’t know what is going on in someone’s head, so you shouldn’t make assumptions about them," Jihoon said.

"You are such a nice girl, Jihoon. You must have great parents," Mrs. Jang told her. For some reason, that word parents made Jihoon’s happy look drop.

Right, Inho almost forgot what she had told him and Gi-hun. Her father had disappeared and left her with debt. Yet it didn’t seem like she blamed him for that.

"And Hyun-ju, I am sorry for what happened to Gyeong-seok and Youngmi. I know that they were your friends." She turned to Hyun-ju, who was shaken by grief but was trying to appear strong for the rest of them.

"Thank you. It’s my fault, I should have protected Youngmi. Maybe I should have gone to look for magazines instead of Dae-ho," Hyun-ju hid her face in her hands.

"No, don’t say that. We all tried our best. But life is hard." Jihoon tried to comfort Hyun-ju, who stopped hiding and smiled at her.

As they were leaving, In-ho noticed that Yong-sik was actually listening to her and was walking nervously toward Dae-ho.

"Where are you going now?" In-ho stopped her by grabbing her arm. Did she seriously want to talk to everyone? They didn’t have time for that. He didn’t have time for that.

Jihoon put his hand off her arm and said: "I just need to talk to one last person and then we will return to Gi-hun. Is that okay with you, Young-il?"

"Yes, I suppose." He just replied to her bitterly. At least it would be the last one. He was getting tired of these small talks.

And then Jihoon went straight to Player 333, MG Coin, or Lee Myung-gi. In-ho wasn’t sure what to call him, but she was already at his place.

In-ho was just behind her. Myung-gi was looking around, but he was mostly watching that girl Jun-hee on the other side.

"Hey! MG Coin!" she greeted him. It didn’t sound friendly like when she was meeting with others.

Myung-gi locked his eyes with her and raised his brow in question.

"What do you want from me, 067?" He didn’t even bother to sound nice.

But Jihoon didn’t mind his rudeness.

"I know you’re Kim Jun-hee’s ex and the father of her baby," she said to him with no further explanation. In-ho also raised his brow in question. He should have known that. He had read something about Jun-hee and Myung-gi, but he hadn’t cared that much. But then he remembered that he was in fact the father of her baby.

"So? What do you mean by that?" Myung-gi asked her another question, but it sounded like a spit at her.

Jihoon remained calm. She was not bothered by his reaction.

"Do you still want to be present in her life or not?" That question surprised both Myung-gi and In-ho. Where was she going with this?

"I—I am not sure if she wants me back," Myung-gi replied after a while.

"She told me about the scam. She told me how you wanted an abortion for her. You ruined her life, and you wanted to control her body. I think the least you can do is leave her alone."

Myung-gi stood up. He was furious. "Are you kidding me right now? Who the hell are you to tell me what to do with my life? If she wants to be left alone, she should just say that. Maybe next time, mind your own fucking business!" he yelled at her.

It seemed like Jihoon wanted to yell at him too. But In-ho didn’t want more arguments that could take the whole day.

"Jihoon, let’s go," In-ho told her. Jihoon brushed him off, but then she looked at Myung-gi furiously and left.

Finally! In-ho felt relieved that they could finally go to Gi-hun. He should never have signed up to go with Jihoon. If it had gone on any longer, he would have killed her in front of everybody.

"Mr. Seong," she greeted Gi-hun, who was still looking at Dae-ho without blinking.

"Gi-hun," In-ho said to him, hoping if he heard his voice it would wake him up.

"Mr. Seong. Come on. It’s not over yet. I am so sorry for what happened to Jung-bae. I know that you two were good friends." Jihoon said to Gi-hun and patted him gently on the shoulders.

But he didn’t react. He just kept staring into the void. Inho got closer to Jihoon and sat next to her.

"It’s Dae-ho’s fault," Gi-hun whispered those words again like he was in a trance. Inho should have felt good seeing him like this. But that feeling fled away.

"Stop saying that! It’s not anyone’s fault in this place!" She was wrong though. It was In-ho’s fault. He was behind all of this. But none of them knew. They still thought he was their friend and loyal ally.

"Stop touching me." Gi-hun finally whispered something else. In-ho felt relieved. That weird monotone in which he had said it was Dae-ho’s fault was getting boring.

"Oh. I am sorry. I just cared, you know. I really, really cared about you," Jihoon said, and she gave him space.

In-ho didn’t say anything. He just sat next to Gi-hun and Jihoon. He was curious on how their interaction would go.

"Why do you care so much?" Gi-hun asked, but it was more of a hiss.

"Because… because I love you," Jihoon said softly, and there were tears running down her cheeks. What the hell? In-ho raised his brow, confused.

Then he heard Gi-hun chuckle, but it was more like a cough. "You are too young for me, Jihoon," he just said to her.

Jihoon’s face turned green, and it looked like she wanted to puke.

"Ew! I didn’t mean it like that!" She looked horrified. In-ho was still so confused that he just looked back at her and Gi-hun, trying to find some logic in it.

"Then what do you mean?" Gi-hun asked her, and his voice already sounded tired.

"I mean that you are…" As she was saying it, she leaned closer to Gi-hun.

Then she whispered in his ear: "My father."

What the fuck? In-ho thought. Did he just mishear it, or was he really losing his mind? How hard had that soldier knocked him down? Did they give him the same drugs Thanos had?

But before he could ask her if he had heard that right, Gi-hun’s eyes widened, and he looked like a caught animal in a trap.

And then Gi-hun wrapped his hands around her neck and started strangling her.

Chapter Text

This was Frontman’s doing.

Gi-hun’s thoughts spiraled as his trembling hands closed around the woman’s thin, pale neck. Her skin felt fragile beneath his grip, as if it might snap under the pressure. Her eyes bulged with fear, her fingernails scraping against his arms in a desperate struggle.

This was all part of Frontman’s plan.

As the woman gagged and writhed, gasping for air, Gi-hun’s mind twisted around a single, poisoned idea: She’s a setup. They sent her to break me further. To drag my daughter into this nightmare.

Yes. That had to be it. They were using Ga-yeong against him. Not in the way he had expected, but crueler, more insidious. A reminder. A blade shoved into his heart just to make him remember why he was here in the first place. Like in his first games when he lost everyone and now it was happening again.

“Hey! Stop!” Young-il’s voice cracked through the haze. He rushed forward, prying Gi-hun’s fingers away and yanking the woman out of his grip.

The woman staggered back, trembling violently. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, her breaths ragged and broken. Red welts bloomed across her neck where his hands had been. She coughed, choking on the air she was finally able to swallow. Young-il wrapped an arm around her, murmuring words of comfort.

Gi-hun sit there, rigid, eyes wide and unblinking. His chest heaved. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

What does Frontman want from me?

Hadn’t killing Jung-bae been enough? What more could the bastard demand? Why send this woman, a stranger, as bait? Why weave her into his torment like this?

She had to be one of them. A soldier in disguise, maybe. Someone Frontman pulled from his staff, from the shadows of the games.

The signs had been there from the beginning—he realized that now. How conveniently she had approached him. How she had known, just like him, about the shooters during Red Light, Green Light. How she had been strong enough to take down Player 100 with a single punch, how she had joined the rebellion so quickly, how she shot down pink soldiers with cold, unerring precision. None of that had been normal.

He fixed his gaze on her. “Why did he send you?” His voice cracked, low and dangerous.

The woman—Jihoon, or whatever her real name was—still clutched her bruised throat, her breaths shallow. The tears had stopped, but her face was rigid, her jaw trembling as Young-il whispered something softly in her ear.

Is he buying into this too? Gi-hun thought bitterly. Young-il didn’t know his life outside these games. He didn’t know Ga-yeong’s age, or the little details that made her real. He could fall for her act easily.

But this was absurd. Frontman was mocking him. Making a spectacle of his suffering.

“I am sorry. This wasn’t the right time to tell you. But you wanted the truth.” Her voice was hoarse, strained, as if each word dragged across her throat like broken glass.

Truth? Was this a joke? Did they think he was so far gone he couldn’t see through their lies?

His daughter was thirteen, safe in America with his ex-wife Eun-ji. She had no idea about the games. No clue about the blood-soaked hell he was drowning in.

Gi-hun had no idea who this woman was or what she wanted. Torment him? Mock him? Made fun of his failures?

Gi-hun shook his head slowly. His laughter burst out, sharp and hollow, echoing in the room like something already broken. “Please. Just stop. I’m not that stupid.”

The woman’s eyes glistened. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I know you can’t recognize me. The last time you saw me… I was ten.”

The words pierced him like a knife. The memory surged back—the last day he had seen Ga-yeong. Her tenth birthday. The cheap restaurant. The recruiter lurking afterward in the subway, pulling him into this nightmare.

Of course they knew that. They knew everything about him.

“Get away from me,” Gi-hun muttered, staring at the ground because he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “I don’t know who you are. But don’t drag my daughter into this.” His voice cracked, almost breaking.

“Dad…” she whispered.

The word twisted his gut. She had no right to call him that. No right to put that poison in the air.

Why? Was she the same psycho as the Frontman? Was she just like the recruiter? Were the tears even real or just another act?

His fists clenched. “Why did he send you?” he demanded again.

“Who?” she asked, shaking her head. “I came here on my own. I can explain everything if you give me a chance.”

But Gi-hun was too exhausted. He had no energy left for lies. No strength for more manipulation.

“Gi-hun, let her talk,” Young-il urged gently.

Gi-hun’s stomach turned. Was she getting into his head too? Another one under her spell? How can he even believe a word coming from her mouth?

Still… maybe hearing her out was the only way to end this farce.

“Go on then,” he muttered.

Somehow, impossibly, the woman smiled. Her lips curved even though her neck was still raw from his grip. The smile unsettled him more than anything.

“My name is Seong Ga-yeong,” she began quietly, each word deliberate. “I was born on June 8, 2011, in Ssangmun-dong. I am your daughter.”

Gi-hun’s blood turned to ice.

No. Enough.

“Cut the crap,” he spat. “You’re not my daughter. Ga-yeong is across the world. She’s a child. How old are you?”

“You’re right,” she said, her voice trembling but steady. “The Ga-yeong you know should still be a child, in America. But… that girl doesn’t exist anymore.”

Wait. No, she didnt meant to say that, right?

Gi-hun’s breath caught. His chest tightened as the meaning sank in. Tears blurred his vision. His daughter—gone. Killed. Frontman had reached her. Snuffed her out like he had everything else Gi-hun cared about.

How? Why? Is that why she was tormenting him now? To tell him that the only person left to care about was gone?

The woman’s face twisted with panic. “Dad! Oh god, I didn’t mean it like that!” She reached out, touching his shoulder gently.

Gi-hun didn’t even flinch. He had no fight left. If this was mockery, it was complete.

“What are you talking about?” Young-il asked sharply, his brow furrowed.

The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I meant… the reason I look like this is because I’m from… the future.”

Gi-hun’s heart sank. His stomach turned.

From the future? What kind of nonsense was this? Another cruel story, another layer of lies. His temples throbbed as he pressed his eyes shut, wishing it all away. If only the Frontman would end it now. Just put a bullet through my skull and stop this madness.

“What do you mean?” Young-il asked her cautiously, his voice steady but laced with suspicion.

The woman’s gaze darted between the two men. Her voice trembled as she explained, “I have powers… powers to control time. That’s why I said the thirteen-year-old me doesn’t exist anymore. Because there can only be one me. My past self agreed—agreed to let me save you, too, dad.” Her last word came out softer, directed at Gi-hun like a plea, like she was desperate for him to believe.

Gi-hun groaned, covering his face with his hand. “Enough,” he muttered under his breath. Just stop with this absurdity. I can’t take more of this.

But Young-il wasn’t dismissing her. “Then tell us something from the future,” he said firmly, testing her.

The woman inhaled shakily, straightening her back as if preparing to bare her soul. “I came here from ten years ahead. That’s why I’m older than you remember me, dad. Because in my timeline… you’re already dead.”

The words clung to Gi-hun like frost, freezing him from the inside out.

She continued, her tone quiet, almost reverent. “I got these powers when I was sixteen, after my friend died. But I brought her back. I tried to live a normal life. I tried to forget about you, about my past. But there was always that voice inside me whispering: If you can save one person from their fate, why not your father? And so I did. Here I am. Maybe… maybe whoever gave me this gift wanted us to have a second chance. Maybe the gods themselves thought your story wasn’t finished yet.”

Gi-hun’s head spun. Her words tangled inside his skull like a fever dream. This was lunacy, the same kind of madness as that shaman woman he had met. He pressed his palms to his temples, wishing he could crush her voice out of existence.

“That sounds like something from The Matrix,” Young-il said, raising an eyebrow.

Gi-hun wanted to scream at him—not to fall for this, not to buy a single word from her—but no sound came out. He was tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to defend his sanity.

The woman looked back at Gi-hun, her eyes pleading. “It’s real. I’m sorry, dad. I don’t know how you died. I don’t know why. Young-il… didn’t tell me that.”

Gi-hun’s eyes narrowed. What?

“Wait,” he rasped. “What do you mean?”

Young-il shifted uncomfortably, his expression clouding. “So it’s true,” he whispered to himself, almost in disbelief.

Gi-hun’s pulse spiked. “What is true?” he demanded.

The woman leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

Young-il swallowed hard before answering. “A voice in my head… it told me Gi-hun had passed away. I thought it didn’t matter. I ignored it. But now…” His words trailed into the air like smoke.

The woman nodded solemnly. “That happens sometimes. Déjà vu. It’s what people feel when they cross paths with me. You came to me once—months from now, in Los Angeles. You told me you knew my father. You carried a box. Inside, there was his jumpsuit. Number 456. Stained with blood. I tested it. It was his. My dad’s. You also gave me a letter with a credit card in his name. It was the money he won the first time… wasn’t it?”

Her eyes flickered between them, desperate for confirmation.

Young-il’s jaw clenched. “Why are you asking me? How should I know what my future self did?”

She exhaled sharply, frustration cutting through her trembling voice. “I don’t know. It was rhetorical. But I remember how you looked—heartbroken, mourning. You wore black. Like a widower.”

Young-il’s face darkened. “What do you mean widower? There’s nothing between me and your father.”

The woman tilted her head, eyes narrowing as if reading his soul. “Are you serious right now? I see the way you look at him.”

“You’re wrong,” he snapped. “I have a… wife.”

Her lips curled into a half-smile, half-sneer. “You? A wife? She must be miserable. You know denial is...”

“You don’t even know me!” Young-il shot back, his voice sharp, defensive.

Gi-hun’s patience shattered. The two of them bickering above his crumbling sanity felt unbearable.

“Shut up! Both of you!” he roared, his voice echoing against the walls. “I’m losing my mind here!”

The woman flinched, then bowed her head. “Sorry, dad.” Her voice was soft, childlike. Young-il’s face burned with guilt, his eyes dropping to the floor.

Gi-hun’s chest heaved as he glared at her. “If you’re telling the truth, then prove it. Tell me something only Ga-yeong would know.”

Maybe then, finally, she would fail. Maybe then Frontman’s cruel game would end.

The woman’s face lit with fragile determination. “Okay. I’ll tell you something no one else could possibly know. Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Gi-hun muttered, his voice flat. “Go on. It can’t get worse.”

She took a deep breath. Her words came out slow, deliberate, as though each memory was a sacred relic.

“Before I was born, my mother collapsed in labor. She dragged herself to the hospital. You weren’t there when I entered this world, because the company you worked for was in the middle of violent strikes. A coworker was injured, and you stayed behind to help him. You missed my birth because you cared about someone else’s life. You and my mother divorced when I was six.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightened. His mouth went dry. Every detail… true. But still—

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he growled. “You could’ve found that out. From the hospital. From my old job. Anywhere.”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “So I’ll tell you something more. The last day I saw you, face-to-face. My tenth birthday. You took me to a cheap restaurant. You bought me tteokbokki for dinner, because my mother never let me eat street food. Then you gave me a toy gun with a lighter from some claw machine, probably. But it didn’t matter. I was just happy to be with you. Happy to spend time with you before moving to America with mom. After that, I only heard your voice one last time. You promised you’d come visit me. But you never did. I thought you abandoned me. That you didn’t care.”

Her eyes glistened. Her voice faltered as she pressed on.

Gi-hun remebered that day like it was yesterday. He was a different man back in there. He stolen his mother credit card and used it to gamble on horse races with Jung-bae. After he won he was pickpocketed by Sae-byeok while loan sharks chased him. Then he asked for the money he gave the teller back. With that money he did buy her tteokbokki.

How did she knew this? 

“But three years later… I got a call from Korea. October. Around Halloween. Mom was cooking dinner. I was watching TV. The phone rang. No one spoke on the other side, but… I knew. Somehow, I knew it was you, dad. You called me to say goodbye. Didn’t you?”

Gi-hun’s knees weakened, as if the ground itself had betrayed him. The memory clawed its way back into his mind—raw, vivid, undeniable. Just days ago, before returning to the games, he had picked up the phone. Just to hear her voice one more time. Just to tether himself, however briefly, to the fragile warmth of the life he had left behind.

But that single call—God, they could have traced it. They could have been watching him even then, on his daughter’s birthday, of all days. The possibility sliced through him. Yet the way she had spoken, the softness in her tone, the fragile honesty in her words—it had felt genuine. Too genuine.

Why was he letting himself fall into this? Why was he tumbling headfirst into the Frontman’s cruel tricks, into illusions designed to fracture him from the inside out?

His gaze flickered to the woman watching him closely. She sat just a few steps away, rigid but intent, as though she were holding her breath with him. Her hair was cropped short, the same dark shade as his own, and under the sterile light, it caught the faintest glimmer.

Her cheekbones mirrored his, high and pronounced, though hers were softened by youth, by vitality. She looked healthier, her skin firm, her stance unshaken. She carried the air of someone in her twenties, someone untouched by the slow erosion of despair.

Gi-hun’s mind spun, trying to piece together meaning where none seemed possible.

“Girl, can you get closer, please?” he asked, his voice trembling between command and plea.

She startled, flinching as though struck by a sudden current. Of course she would—he had lunged at her before, violently, convinced he was losing his grip on reality. Convinced she was another cruel shadow conjured to torment him.

But now… now he wasn’t so sure.

“I will not harm you. I swear.” His words came quieter, softer this time, desperation woven into every syllable.

She hesitated, but she listened. Slowly, cautiously, she leaned closer.

His hand rose, trembling but gentle, and for the first time he touched her face not with suspicion, but with reverence. The hardness in her expression eased, and she seemed calmer, her breaths steadying.

Then Gi-hun saw it. The truth pierced through him like a knife. Her eyes—caramel brown, the very same shade he had memorized years ago. They were sharper now, honed by suffering, ringed with exhaustion. But he could recognize those eyes anywhere, in any lifetime.

They were Ga-yeong’s eyes.

He should have realized sooner. It should have been so much clearer, carved into him from the moment he saw her.

Yet here she was. For some impossible reason, the woman in front of him was her.

Ga-yeong. His little sweet girl.

Tears spilled, hot and unrelenting, streaking down his face. His chest caved under the weight of it.

Why? Why had she come here? He had fought so hard to keep her far from this cursed place, far from the nightmare that had devoured him. He had never wished for her to find it. Never wished for her to carry even a fragment of its darkness.

But she had come anyway. Not as the child he once tucked into bed, not as the bright-eyed girl who had begged him to keep promises he could never keep. She was grown now. She had stepped into adulthood carrying powers he could barely comprehend, strengths that both terrified and humbled him.

It was her. And yet, it wasn’t the ten-year-old or the thirteen-year-old who used to cling to his arm. This Ga-yeong was older. Hardened. Changed.

Because the Ga-yeong he remembered was untouched, unbroken by life’s cruelty. She was supposed to have been okay. Safe. Untainted.

But this woman before him—she had hurt people. She had killed. She had seen horrors as brutal as his, maybe worse. She bore scars invisible yet undeniable.

“Ga-yeong… you shouldn’t come here,” he whispered, voice breaking, his soul unraveling in the quiet plea.

But she only smiled. A small, steady, defiant smile.

“You can’t get rid of me this easily, dad. I’m here to change your fate. I am here to save you,” she said, her voice calm but burning with resolve.

“She actually looks a lot like you, Gi-hun,” Young-il muttered from the side, his eyes fixed on the two of them, as if witnessing a vision he could barely believe.

"I am going to get you out of this place, dad. We will all go home," she promised him, her voice trembling but determined, like she was clinging to hope with both hands.

But then, for some reason, Ga-yeong closed her eyes, and the whole world went blank for Gi-hun.

When he opened eyes again, he was still handcuffed to the cold steel frame of the bed. His wrists ached from the restraint. Young-il was standing beside him, his face lined with worry.

Across the dormitory, Jihoon sat casually on the bed with Junhee, Semi, and Minsu. Their voices mingled together in low chatter, a strange bubble of normality that felt utterly out of place in the suffocating room.

Gi-hun’s head was spinning, a heavy dizziness pressing down on him as if hours had been stolen away in the span of a single blink.

"Gi-hun? Are you okay?" Young-il asked again, his voice strained with concern, the kind of tone people use when they’re afraid the answer will break them.

The last thing Gi-hun could remember was Jihoon’s voice—her mouth shaping some strange words he couldn’t recall. Words that had sliced through his mind and made him snap. He had lunged at her, lost control.

Why did he do that?

He turned his gaze to her. Her skin was marked now, dark bruises blooming around her neck where his hands had been. The sight twisted his stomach into knots. Guilt burned through him like acid. She was innocent. She had nothing to do with the madness that was consuming them. Not Jihoon, not Dae-ho, not any of them.

He should never have done it. He had crossed a line, and in doing so, he had shattered the fragile thread of trust between them. Now she would probably fear him, recoil from him, see him as nothing but a monster. He had lost her forever.

"Gi-hun?" Young-il pressed again, his tone sharper this time. Was he speaking to him, or was the voice just echoing inside his fractured head?

"Did I… fall asleep?" Gi-hun asked, his voice dry, hesitant. But even as he said it, a strange fog crept over him. Why did it feel like this conversation had already happened before, looping like a broken reel of film?

His gaze drifted back to Jihoon.

Something was different. A shiver of unease crawled over his skin as he studied her. Why did he feel this strange pull toward her, this uncanny recognition? What had she said to him that triggered that violent break? He couldn’t remember.

But her eyes—

Those eyes were impossible to ignore. Caramel brown, curious and wide, though now shadowed with sharpness, a hint of exhaustion lingering at the edges.

He knew them. He would know them anywhere.

"Gi-hun, what is wrong?" Young-il asked again, his voice tight, but it barely reached him now.

Because those eyes…

He had seen them before. Three years ago, shining in the face of a little girl. His little girl.

No. Impossible. His heart lurched violently, the room swaying around him.

And yet, he couldn’t deny it.

They were hers. They were Ga-yeong’s eyes. 

Chapter Text

Ga-yeong messed up again.

She should have rewind time the moment her father’s hands closed around her throat—the instant the pressure dug into her windpipe, when the blood roared in her ears like a drumbeat. She should have slipped away into the safety of a second chance, into that familiar, merciful rewinding blur that felt like falling backward through starlight.

But she didn’t.

Because she wanted to tell him the truth. Because she needed to see his reaction with her own eyes, no matter how much it hurt. The truth burned inside her chest like fire—better to scorch herself than to smother it.

And when recognition dawned on him, when his expression cracked with heartbreak, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t handle the wet sting of his tears, the way they clung to his lashes before sliding down.

So Ga-yeong rewind time. She erased the conversation like chalk wiped off a blackboard. She deleted that fragile moment and fled from her own confession, letting her father believe he had attacked Jihoon instead.

Let him think he had hurt someone he’d only known for a handful of days.

She didn’t blame him—not even for a heartbeat. It wasn’t his fault. Not really.

But now he wouldn’t remember anything. She would have to carry the weight alone.

The lights in the room were already extinguished, snuffed out one by one until the darkness swallowed everything whole. Everyone was preparing for sleep—restless bodies shifting on creaking mattresses, the occasional muffled cough, the faint rustle of blankets pulled tighter against cold. Shadows stretched across the walls like silent witnesses, thin and elongated, trembling with each flicker of dying candlelight from the corridor.

Ga-yeong sat alone on her bed, her mind drifting, unmoored. Her body sagged into the mattress, yet she felt weightless, as though her thoughts had detached and were circling like lost satellites. For some reason, the darkness reminded her of when she had been fourteen. Winter, the cold seeping through paper-thin walls that never kept the wind out.

She remembered lying curled on her mattress, the springs digging into her hip, tears sliding hot and steady down her face as she clutched that damned jumpsuit like it was a lifeline. On her phone screen, picture after picture of her father. His smile, his careless posture, even blurry photos where his face was half turned away—she devoured them all like they were scripture. She had stared at them until her eyes stung, until the brightness blurred into white and her vision dissolved into nothing but burning light.

Every night she repeated the ritual. Staring, memorizing, trying to hold onto the shape of his face, the curve of his smile, the rough outline of his hands. Afraid that forgetting would feel like losing him twice.

But memories are fragile things. They wear thin over time, fraying like cheap fabric. And as she grew older, the details began to blur—the tilt of his head, the lines near his eyes, the particular lilt of his laugh. It was natural. People forget. Life demands we live in the present, even if the past is screaming.

Because time moves on, whether you beg it to stop or not.

Until she was sixteen. Then, everything shifted. Time didn’t move the same way for her anymore. Suddenly she remembered things with unbearable clarity—small details others missed, shadows no one else noticed, the exact phrasing of words tossed away in passing. Memory became a curse, sharp-edged and endless.

That’s why she could recall Young-il’s mournful face with such precision. The way he refused to meet her eyes, his lips pressed tight, his expression carved with quiet grief that clung to him like smoke.

He must have seen something too. He must have seen those same eyes. Seong Gi-hun eyes.

“Ga-yeong? Is that your name?”

Young-il’s voice split the silence like thunder, sharp and echoing.

No. This wasn’t happening. She had rewind time. She had erased that mistake—like every other conversation she couldn’t stomach.

Her gaze snapped to him. The dim light carved his figure in shadows, outlining his shoulders and jaw in stark relief. He was watching her, always watching, his silence heavier than words, like a hawk circling its prey.

Her stomach twisted, a nauseous knot tightening inside her, bile threatening to rise.

When she didn’t answer, he went on, as if he hadn’t noticed her almost vomiting up the last scraps of meat she had eaten.

“Gi-hun said it’s your name. He also said you look like his daughter, only older. He’d like an explanation.”

No. No, this couldn’t be real.

She had deleted it—the conversation, the moment, everything. Her father was supposed to remain clueless, to keep seeing her only as Jihoon.

But she had underestimated him. He wasn’t a fool. Not as sharp as Sang-woo, not as calculating as Young-il, maybe not even as clever as herself—but still, he was smart.

He must have seen those same eyes.

And now there was no turning back. She couldn’t run from the truth again. She couldn’t keep rewinding time to shield him, not if he was going to piece it together anyway.

She would have to face him. She would have to walk straight into that heartbreak again, straight into his tears.

“I will talk to him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a brittle thread ready to snap.

She was exhausted—tired of lies, tired of weaving fragile stories, tired of this entire wretched place. Her soul felt frayed, scraped raw.

Young-il’s gaze dropped to her bruised neck, a silent accusation she could almost feel like a touch. She touched it reflexively, fingers grazing the dark marks blooming like shadows across her skin, remembering the grip of her father’s hands.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. It didn’t ache anymore. Not the way she ached for him, not the way she had hurt him.

And so Ga-yeong walked toward her father again. At least this time the darkness wrapped them both, cloaking his face from her view and hiding her eyes from him.

He was still chained to the bed. The iron cuffs bit into his wrists, dull metal glinting faintly whenever the corridor’s distant light shifted. His shoulders slumped, his posture weary, his head bowed low as though the weight of the world pressed him down, grinding him into the mattress. His gaze was locked on the floor, unmoving, as if he feared the truth might leap out from the shadows if he dared to look elsewhere.

She was relieved, at least, that he wasn’t glaring at Dae-ho, hurling blame at him like daggers. No one deserved blame for this. No one except herself.

“You wanted to see me,” she began, her voice cracked but steady, trembling with a tension she couldn’t entirely suppress. The words came out rough, as though dragged across gravel. She noticed Young-il lingering behind her like a silent shadow, his presence watchful. It should have unsettled her, but by now she had grown used to his constant vigilance—the way he stationed himself like a soldier at the edge of every moment.

At least she wasn’t walking into this alone.

Her father raised his head when he heard her. The faint darkness sharpened the hollows of his cheeks, glimmering faintly in the depths of his eyes. His reaction this time was different. Not fear. Not shock. Just confusion—a bewilderment that cut deeper than anger ever could.

“Why do you look like her?” he asked, his voice rough, gravel rasping against stone.

“Look like who?” she forced herself to ask, even though the answer burned in her lungs. She needed to hear the words, needed to know exactly what he saw—even though she already knew. Even though they had already had this conversation before.

“Like my daughter. But older. It doesn’t make any sense.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, as if it were a weight too heavy to carry.

Should she spin another lie? Another flimsy cover story? Another excuse stitched together from desperation and fear?

Or should she just rewind time once more and escape this unbearable moment?

But deep down she knew—it was over. There was no running anymore. The truth was inevitable, and the act of fleeing was meaningless.

She sat beside him, just like before. This time he didn’t look like a cornered animal, didn’t seem pale and terrified. He only looked tired. Confused. His chest rose and fell with heavy, uneven breaths, like each inhale threatened to collapse.

“We already had this conversation before,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a glass about to shatter. Could he handle it again? Could he survive the truth a second time, after what she had already put him through?

“What conversation?” Young-il’s voice cut through the air behind her, precise and sharp. Of course—he didn’t know. None of them did. His tone was cold curiosity, but beneath it, Ga-yeong thought she caught a flicker of something else—concern, or maybe dread.

Ga-yeong clenched her fists, nails biting crescents into her palms. She didn’t want to repeat herself. She didn’t want to say it again. But she had no choice.

“I am sorry, dad.”

The word slipped out, raw and fragile. When he heard it, his face shifted, confusion deepening, his mouth parting slightly as if he couldn’t believe the shape of the sound.

How could she tell him again? How could she make him live through it?

Maybe—maybe there was another way. Maybe she could fix this, somehow.

She leaned closer. He flinched at her nearness, his eyes snagging on the bruises around her neck, dark reminders etched into her skin.

“It’s okay. I forgive you,” she said, reaching out to hold his hand. Her fingers trembled against his skin, fragile against the roughness of his calloused palm.

She wasn’t sure if it would work. She had only tried this once before.

Closing her eyes, she saw them again—flickering butterflies, some whole, some shattered, wings painted in impossible shades of light. They darted and pulsed like living fragments of memory, fluttering in a dreamscape only she could reach.

But she wasn’t trying to rewind this time. She had something else in mind.

Her head spun, her thoughts a dizzy blur, as though the ground tilted beneath her. Warm blood trickled from her nose, hot and metallic, dripping onto the floor with a soft patter.

She grasped one butterfly between her palms, its wings vibrating with impossible warmth, and pressed it into her father’s memory.

When her eyes snapped open, his face was ashen, horrified. He looked like the ground had just vanished beneath him, like reality itself had betrayed him. His lips parted soundlessly, searching for words that refused to come.

Ga-yeong staggered to her feet, almost collapsing under the spinning in her head. Her knees buckled, the world tilting sideways, every breath too sharp. What would happen if she pushed it further? If she tried it again? Could she show Young-il, too?

But no—she couldn’t risk it now. She needed her strength for tomorrow.

“Ga-yeong…” Her father whispered her name, broken, as though the syllables themselves were fragile shards cutting his throat.

She wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve, muttering, “Now you know the truth. I’ll leave you alone.”

She walked back toward her bed, each step heavy, as though the air itself resisted her. Her father remained chained, pale, tears streaming silently as he stared into the void, lost in the chasm of what he now knew.

Young-il hovered near him, asking quietly what had happened, but her father didn’t answer. He just stared, as though his soul had fractured into too many pieces to gather.

Guilt coiled inside her chest, constricting, suffocating. She had destroyed him. He had already lost his closest friend, his grand plan had collapsed, most of his allies lay dead—and now he had discovered that the daughter he had sworn to protect wasn’t a little girl anymore. That child no longer existed.

Instead, standing before him was a grown woman. A stranger wearing her face.

Even she wouldn’t recognize her past self anymore.

She collapsed onto her bed and broke into tears. The sobs tore out of her throat, raw and unrestrained, shaking her entire body. No—she was still that girl. She was still clinging to her father’s memory like a ghost. Still lost. Still abandoned.

Would it ever get better? Could she ever stop feeling this way? Could she stop destroying everything she touched?

She pressed her hand to her bruised neck. He hadn’t embraced her. He had barely recognized her.

“Are you okay?”

It was Young-il again. He stood at the edge of her bed, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His silhouette loomed against the shadows, yet his eyes betrayed flickers of something unspoken. She wondered what he and her father had whispered about. She wondered who this man truly was beneath his composure, beneath the mask he always wore like armor.

But at least she knew one thing: in the future, she wouldn’t be the only one mourning. She wouldn’t be the only one broken.

“Can I sit here?” he asked softly, his voice careful, as though one wrong note might shatter her completely.

She didn’t answer with words. She only nodded, the small movement weighted with exhaustion.

He sat on the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight, the faint squeak of springs puncturing the silence. His body was motionless, as if the weight of the air around them had pressed him into stillness. He didn’t reach out, didn’t intrude—just sat there, solid and quiet.

The tears that had been running down her cheeks had dried, leaving faint, salty traces tight against her skin. Now there was nothing but an emptiness, a hollow feeling that made her chest ache with every breath.

Regret. That was what she felt—thick, suffocating regret that pressed down heavier than chains.

Did he feel the same? Did Young-il carry that same burden, or would he someday regret not being able to save her father the way she would regret her own failures? Her father had lived with regret too, and that thought carved even deeper into her, a generational curse etched into blood.

Her voice cracked through the silence before she could stop it.

“What do you want?” she snapped, the words sharper than she intended, flaring out like sparks. She hadn’t meant to sound so hostile, but exhaustion and grief had stripped her down to raw nerves. All she wanted was to be left alone. She couldn’t stand to bear the pitying looks on their faces anymore, couldn’t stand to be studied like a wound.

Young-il, however, didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised. Instead, he just studied her expression, his dark eyes quietly tracing the pain etched across her features. His gaze wasn’t invasive, but steady, patient, like someone trying to piece together a puzzle carved from broken glass. He seemed more curious than offended, as though he was peeling back layers to find what lay underneath her anger.

After a long moment, his voice broke the silence, soft but steady.

“You look just like him,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, a confession he hadn’t meant for her to hear.

Her jaw tightened. The words pierced her, stirring both pride and fury. Pride because she was her father’s daughter, no matter what. Fury because the resemblance was a knife she couldn’t set down, a constant reminder of the distance between them.

“It’s your fault too,” she shot back, her voice trembling but firm. He had to understand—he was part of this, whether he admitted it or not. He had pulled her into this world, into this storm.

“My fault?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His tone was calm, but there was something wary beneath it, like he already knew what she meant but wanted to hear her say it.

“You were the one who approached me,” she said, her throat tightening as the memories clawed their way back like nails under skin. “You were the one who told me my father died. You gave me his things… the stuff from the games.”

Young-il’s gaze flickered, a brief shift in his expression, before he answered evenly.

“Yes. Gi-hun told me what you showed him. What he saw.”

Her voice softened then, though the ache in her chest didn’t. “But I don’t blame you for telling me the truth. If you hadn’t told me, if you haven’t told me then I wouldn’t get here with my powers. I never would’ve been able to help him at all.” She paused, her hands tightening in her lap, fingers twisting together as if trying to keep herself from unraveling. “You helped me.”

He studied her quietly, his face unreadable, but his silence was thick with weight. Then he asked, “You think I was helping you?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, the words fragile but honest. She took in a slow breath, gathering herself before continuing. “But since we’re talking about my father… can I ask you something?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though not unkindly. “What?”

She turned her face toward him, her voice low, trembling with both desperation and tenderness.

“Can you stay with my father tonight? He needs company. He needs someone to hold on to. And I can’t be there for him now. I can’t be by his side today. But you can, Young-il. You can be there for him tonight. Can you do that for me, please?”

He wasn’t replying to her. Instead, his gaze drifted past her, settling on the corner of the room where her father lay. His eyes lingered there, shadowed and restless, and for the first time Ga-yeong saw Young-il’s composure crack. He looked conflicted—torn between duty and something far more personal, as though the chains on Seong Gi-hun bound him too in some invisible way.

She had never seen him like this. The mask of the strong, charming man he always wore—the man who never faltered, who always carried himself with a glint of untouchable confidence—was slipping. And underneath, she saw a flicker of vulnerability, raw and startling in its honesty.

“Please, sir. You need to help my father. He needs to be ready for tomorrow.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady, pleading, carrying the weight of someone who had nothing left but desperation.

Ga-yeong didn’t know how much Young-il actually cared about her father. Was it nothing more than a fleeting attraction? Was it bonding over the same trauma games gave them, the way two wounded souls sometimes collide in the same orbit? Or was it genuine care, something deeper that he had never admitted aloud?

Why had he been unable to save him before? Why had he let him die? The questions coiled in her chest, heavy and poisonous, digging hooks into her ribs. But she couldn’t let herself blame him—not now, not when the future was still a tangled thread waiting to unravel. She didn’t yet know how events would unfold, or what choices would ultimately destroy them.

“I will help him.” His answer came after a long pause, his voice low, weighed down with something unspoken, something dangerous.

He straightened then, looking back at her. “You should get some sleep too, Jihoon or Ga-yeong. I don’t know what to call you.” His words carried a strange gentleness, as though he was trying not to push too hard against her fragility.

“Jihoon. I don’t want to confuse anyone.” Her response was quiet but firm, a small act of control in a world slipping beyond her grasp.

“Okay.” He replied.

And before he could walk away, she told him, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“What?” He looked confused, his brow furrowing sharply. But she remembered how he had mentioned her once, the fleeting way the word “wife” had slipped from his lips. Now, though, his voice trembled when he said it, as if even he didn’t believe in the existence of those words anymore.

“You don’t want to admit it, don’t you?”

Ga-yeong knew too well how grief could warp a person, twist them from the inside out. How it could tear away pieces of themselves until only a hollow shell remained. She knew the way the loss of someone you loved could scar so deeply that nothing else seemed real, and emptiness took over like a slow, unrelenting tide.

That’s why people cling to false hope, why they grasp at the illusion that maybe, just maybe, their loved ones aren’t truly gone. They hang on to it like a fraying rope over a dark abyss, living in denial until life forces them to face the harsh, unyielding truth: sometimes, life doesn’t bend to your desires.

“What do I not want to admit?” he asked again, his voice quieter now, tinged with something fragile beneath the confusion.

“Your wife passed away, didn’t she?” she said softly. “I know the signs of loss. I felt the same way about my father. I couldn’t accept that he was gone. I clung to that hope, every single day, especially since there was no body left. But I had to accept it… until my powers returned, and then that denial came back, stronger than ever.”

Young-il’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. Ga-yeong didn’t want to hurt him. She never intended to. Why did she always seem to hurt people, even when she tried not to?

It was cruel, the way her words landed. She should have chosen them more carefully, softened the edges of her truth, wrapped it in gentleness rather than blunt honesty.

“Yes. She is dead,” he finally replied, his voice a brittle whisper that masked the raw ache beneath. And just like that, the mask of someone strong slid back into place, shielding him from the world. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps deliberate, each one carrying the weight of silence.

Ga-yeong buried her face in her hands. She felt the weight of failure press down on her chest, crushing, relentless. Everything she touched seemed to crumble. Why couldn’t she ever get anything right? Why was it always wrong, always messy?

But then she heard someone quietly crying on one of the beds. The sound was soft, muffled, yet it cut through her despair like a bell. Maybe she could make one thing right.

She looked up. It was that girl, Junhee. She lay curled on the bed just two meters away from Ga-yeong, her small frame trembling slightly. Her back was turned, so Ga-yeong couldn’t see her face.

Ga-yeong got up from her own bed, her steps careful against the cold floor. The room was pitch black, and she had to squint her eyes to make out any shapes, her hands brushing lightly against the air as if feeling her way through shadows.

"Jun-hee?” she whispered, the name barely escaping her lips as she stood above her.

At the sound of her own name, Jun-hee turned toward her. “I—I’m sorry, did I wake you up?” she said, immediately starting to apologize, her voice trembling like brittle glass.

Her eyes were red and puffy from hours of unstoppable crying, glistening faintly in the dim light that leaked from the corridor.

Ga-yeong sat on the edge of the bed. “No, I wasn’t sleeping. I just wanted to check if you’re okay,” she said softly, her hand hovering for a moment before resting on her knee, careful not to crowd her.

Jun-hee gave her a small, fragile smile as she shifted to sit up on the bed, hugging her knees like a child shielding herself from the cold.

“That’s nice of you. I was having a nightmare about yesterday… about how we all died,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, quivering in the stillness.

“I promise you that’s not going to happen. You will go home and be safe,” Ga-yeong said, her tone steady, almost protective, as she leaned slightly closer, hoping her words could offer some anchor in the storm.

Jun-hee’s lips curved into a faint grin. “You must be an angel sent here, Jihoon,” she said with a touch of awe, as if believing in that could somehow hold back the darkness.

Ga-yeong had to laugh softly, a warm sound in the cold, silent room. It seemed to make Jun-hee chuckle too, a delicate sound like glass ringing, brief but bright.

Then Jun-hee’s eyes caught the bruises on Ga-yeong’s neck. “I saw Mr. Seong attacking you. He shouldn’t have done that. No matter how much pain he is in, he shouldn’t take it out on others,” she said, her voice laced with both worry and indignation.

“Don’t worry. I said some hurtful words to him too,” Ga-yeong replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, though the ache lingered in her chest.

“But still…” Jun-hee’s voice faltered, her concern tangible in the way her shoulders tensed, her hands curling into fists against her knees.

Ga-yeong reached out and gently took her hand. Junhee was visibly distressed, and Ga-yeong couldn’t bear to see another hurt face. Her thumb brushed lightly over Junhee’s knuckles, a quiet gesture of reassurance, grounding both of them.

“Tell me about your child. Do you have a name for it yet?” Ga-yeong redirected the conversation, her voice soft but encouraging, wanting to lift the weight of fear from Junhee’s shoulders.

“It will be a girl,” Jun-hee said proudly, placing a hand tenderly on her stomach, her fingers tracing a protective circle over the small life within her.

“I think she should have some noble name. Like a princess one, don’t you think?” Ga-yeong suggested, smiling gently, her voice carrying a hint of lightness rare for her.

Jun-hee returned the smile, her eyes brightening slightly. “I want to name her Ji-ah,” she said, a hint of reverence in her voice, as though speaking the name already gave it power.

“And what does that mean? Beautiful? Grace? Kind?” Ga-yeong asked, leaning forward, curiosity mingled with tenderness as she tried to guess the meaning.

“It means beautiful purpose. Because she is my purpose, and I am hers. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted a family,” Jun-hee said, her voice trembling as tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails in the dark. She looked down at her stomach, as if her words could somehow protect the tiny life within.

“That’s a nice name,” Ga-yeong said, her voice soft but carrying a faint lilt of admiration, like she was blessing the name herself.

“I am scared of tomorrow, Jihoon,” Jun-hee admitted. Her hands twisted together in her lap, fingers restless, betraying the anxiety she tried to hide. The word tomorrow seemed to weigh heavily, like a storm cloud hanging just beyond the horizon.

“Don’t be. You have all those amazing people around you—Hyun-ju, Mrs. Jang, and even Mr. Seong,” Jihoon replied with steady reassurance, her words firm, as though willing them into truth.

“And you,” Jun-hee added quietly, almost as if the thought had slipped out before she could rein it back in.

“And me,” she confirmed, her tone carrying a warmth that lingered in the silence after. For a heartbeat, the room felt less heavy, the shadows less sharp.

After this, Ga-yeong left Junhee alone again. Her footsteps receded slowly, each one lighter than the last, echoing faintly in the corridor. Something inside her had shifted—like the first crack of dawn after a long, sleepless night.

Ga-yeong was in a much better mood. The day had been a tangled mess of emotions, a battlefield of grief and confession, but as she stepped into the hallway and drew a deep breath, she found herself believing—just barely—that maybe tomorrow… maybe tomorrow was going to be better.

Yes. It’s going to be better.

Chapter Text

This was, without a doubt, the strangest day of Hwang Inho’s life—and that was saying something, considering the number of bizarre days he had endured.

If someone asked him what had just happened, he wouldn’t be able to give them a clear answer. The events seemed to exist somewhere between dream and reality, and his mind wasn’t equipped to untangle them.

Seong Ga-yeong, Gi-hun’s daughter, was here. Yet according to all the information he had, she should have been thirteen, living halfway across the world.

But here she was. An adult, with powers—time powers, or something like that, as she claimed. Inho couldn’t yet decide whether he believed her or dismissed her as delusional.

The resemblance to Gi-hun was uncanny. Gi-hun himself said he believed her.

She had somehow discovered that his wife was dead, even though Inho had never spoken a word about it.

Yet one fact remained undeniable—his own memory wasn’t lying. Gi-hun had died in the future, or at least in the timeline Ga-yeong came from.

She explained it as some kind of déjà vu. That they had already met, that he was the one who had told her this.

Inho wrestled with the thought that he might have completely lost his mind—or that the pink soldiers had slipped something into his drink.

But both Ga-yeong and Gi-hun’s reactions felt genuine. He couldn’t argue with that.

Then another thought struck him—a horrifying one. He had wanted to kill Gi-hun’s daughter. He actually was concidering hanging her body with others for Gihun to see it. 

Now, he was relieved he hadn’t.

He still had countless questions, though he wasn’t sure that this girl could answer them. She was technically from the future, yet she didn’t know how Gi-hun died.

That realization terrified him. He would do anything to keep Gi-hun alive, and he wouldn’t allow him to die easily—in one of the games or a rebellion.

But then, why?

Nothing made sense anymore.

Still, that didn’t change anything. The only certainty now was that there was someone else who wanted to keep Gi-hun alive at any cost. Someone who had already broken him too.

Inho got out of bed, determined to keep his promise to this strange girl. She had seemed genuinely distressed by her father’s attack—but then she had forgiven him.

It reminded him of how he had shot his own brother. Could Junho forgive him the same way? Probably not. He had known exactly what he was doing, unlike Gi-hun, who had assumed it was some Frontman plot.

His head ached from the flood of confusing information. Among all the bizarre things that had occurred, the hardest to accept was this: gods were real, and time travel was real.

It could be like the Matrix, perhaps—but this was not a simulation. This was very much real.

The word “real” felt wrong, heavy. Like Gi-hun’s death, which was supposed to happen.

Now, it wouldn’t. He didn’t care who else might die here. Gi-hun wouldn’t, and neither would that girl.

He walked to Gi-hun, who was still staring at the floor. His eyes were already tired from so much staring.

Inho sat beside him. Gi-hun looked unwell, but that didn’t matter as long as he didn’t see his corpse.

Inho was determined to stay with him tonight. Sleep would evade him anyway—his mind was too entangled in its own chaos.

And all of this, he realized with a pang of near-hatred, was that girl’s fault. But at least now he understood why she was always two steps ahead.

He wondered how much she had seen that they hadn’t, how many conversations she had erased to change events. But that thought no longer mattered.

Gi-hun didn’t even glance at him as he sat down. Their shoulders brushed lightly.

Why were you listening to that girl anyway? the Frontman’s mechanical voice asked.

Inho didn’t know.

He studied Gi-hun’s face closely. He and the girl looked so similar, yet profoundly different. Every detail of his face—lines, dark circles, the weariness in his eyes—spoke of misery. Perhaps even more so now, knowing that his own child was here.

But you enjoyed that pain on his face, didn’t you? Frontman asked.

Inho wasn’t sure anymore. Yes, he had once wanted to see him suffer—but this was too much. Gi-hun had almost murdered his daughter. If Inho hadn’t intervened, she would probably be dead.

The tragedy should have satisfied him. For a fleeting moment, he had wanted to see Gi-hun’s horrified realization—that he had just killed his own child because he had assumed she was just another part of the game.

But then Gi-hun would likely kill himself in the next game. He would find a way somehow. 

Inho couldn’t allow that. He wasn’t sure he even wanted the girl dead anymore. 

“Gi-hun?” He whispered, almost tenderly.

Inho felt a pang of disappointment. Gi-hun no longer seemed intent on punishing Dae-ho, as he had stopped insisting it was his fault.

Yet Inho was already planning a way to make him kill, perhaps this time so it could be justified, so Gi-hun wouldn’t carry the weight of guilt. He didn’t want to harm the innocent anyway.

Don’t tell me you feel guilt about killing Jung-bae? Frontman’s voice probed again.

No, he didn’t. It was just part of the job—a meaningless death, like every soldier or player who disobeyed the rules.

But Gi-hun and Ga-yeong aren’t obeying rules. Are they exceptions for you?

Inho wasn’t sure anymore. He had already broken his own rules—for Gi-hun and even for that girl. Nothing was going according to plan.

“Young-il?” Gi-hun’s voice finally reached him, barely more than a whisper.

Inho leaned closer, listening to the rapid thump of his heartbeat, noticing the dark, red-rimmed circles around his eyes from exhaustion and crying.

It should have made him feel some satisfaction—but it didn’t.

You are growing weak. You are getting soft. Frontman mocked.

“Is she okay?” Gi-hun asked, glancing toward the bed where his daughter slept.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She didn’t seem shaken by what you did,” Inho replied.

It was a lie, of course. He had seen her cry, seen her drown in grief and regret.

Then why lie to him? Why not give him the harsh truth? Break him even more? Frontman demanded.

Because I’ll break him tomorrow. I will fake my own death. I will betray him. There’s no point in making it worse now.

“I’m glad you intervened, Young-il. I’m glad you were there,” Gi-hun said.

If only he knew what Inho had planned. If only he knew that behind that calm mask lay a monster.

“It was nothing,” Inho murmured.

“I’m not sure what I would have done without you. Everything felt like it was falling apart. I failed. I lost. But with you and her, I think we can make it through,” Gi-hun said.

Inho knew the truth. It was his fault they had failed. He had killed his best friend right before Gi-hun’s eyes—and he had been planning the same for that girl before learning the truth.

Don’t tell me you feel regret too? Frontman asked once more.

But Inho ignored the voice. He only wanted to be close to Gi-hun. This might be the last day he would ever be this close to him.

Then Gi-hun would lose Young-il as well. Then only Frontman would remain. Then only the part of him that Gi-hun hated would remain.

After that, they just sat there, silently, in complete darkness. The only sound was the faint, uneven rhythm of their breathing, each inhale a fragile thread in the oppressive quiet. Time seemed suspended, as if the world outside no longer existed.

Then, Inho did something very stupid. Something he shouldn’t have done.

Gihun’s hand lay limp on the floor, the other bound by chain to the bed. Inho’s eyes traced the bruises already darkening the skin of that chained hand. They were small, subtle, but they spoke volumes of the pain Gihun endured.

Slowly, hesitantly, Inho reached out and touched the palm of Gihun’s hand. A featherlight contact, barely there, but enough to bridge the silence. Gihun didn’t flinch, didn’t even twitch. It was as if the touch barely registered. Inho wasn’t even sure Gihun had noticed.

What are you doing? Is it part of the act? Or are you really trying to comfort him? the Frontman asked, his voice slicing through Inho’s thoughts like ice.

Inho didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure himself. His mind and heart seemed to be separate beings now, waging a quiet war within him. And in this moment, his heart wanted something entirely different from his mind.

Then, unexpectedly, Gihun entwined his fingers with Inho’s, tightening the grip with an almost desperate strength. He held on as though letting go might make Inho—or rather Young-il—vanish. Inho himself faded from the moment, erased by the intensity of Gihun’s need.

This is a bad idea. You know who you are, and yet you’ve done this. This isn’t going to lead anywhere. You know that, don’t you? the Frontman hissed in his mind, venomous and relentless.

Inho’s fingers did not release. He wanted to feel Gihun’s touch. He wanted Gihun to know, even if only for a fleeting instant, that he was truly there for him.

You are nothing then murderer. You think he would ever want you if he learned who you really are? You think he would ever forgive you? the Frontman taunted, each word a knife twisting in his chest.

Inho’s stomach churned violently. Of course, Gihun would never look at him this way. Of course, he would never hold his hand. Of course, he would never see anything but the enemy, the betrayer.

And yet, now it was different. Now, Inho could linger in that fragile illusion a little longer. He could still protect Gihun in the next game. He could still be there, even if only for a single night, even if it was just this stolen fragment of time.

Gihun’s gaze lifted to him. Inho saw his eyes clearly now—fragile, beautiful brown eyes, so full of unspoken sorrow. Eyes that had known suffering, that could spill tears capable of being painted into a masterpiece. Eyes that, if given to him, could undo him entirely.

Inho’s heart pounded in a deafening rhythm at the thought of those tears. Pain so tangible, so raw, it felt like it could swallow him whole.

His body betrayed him again. Against reason, against fear, he leaned closer. He could feel the warmth of Gihun’s breath brushing his face, a whisper against his skin. Every line of Gihun’s lips, dry and cracked yet stubbornly full, drew his gaze like a magnet.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He leaned further still, closing the gap until the air between them was electric. Confusion flickered in Gihun’s eyes, silent and profound, yet he spoke nothing, said nothing to push him away.

Their lips hovered almost centimeters apart. Just one more inch, one final movement, and everything would change.

Do you really want to do that? Do you really want to drive the knife in deeper, slicing open wounds that will never fully heal? Are you even aware of the destruction you’d leave in your wake?

Or is it something else? Something real? Do you really have feelings for him? Monsters don’t feel. You aren’t capable of love.

You aren’t good-hearted Young-il. You’re a murderer Inho. A liar. A manipulator. A traitor.

You’re not worthy of affection, of trust, of closeness. You are only capable of destruction.

Inho’s heart teetered on the brink of betrayal. He nearly committed a mistake that could never be undone.

And then, as though pulled back by some tether to reason, he recoiled. He stepped back, leaving space between them. He let go of Gihun’s hand, breaking the fragile connection. Gihun’s eyes followed him, confusion etched across his face.

Inho’s mind screamed relief. This—this was the correct choice. The feelings, suffocating and reckless, had to remain behind a locked door. They would only leave Gihun more damaged, more vulnerable.

“I am sorry. This was a mistake,” Inho said, his voice low, tentative, as though he feared the silence that might follow would consume them both.

"It’s okay. Just stay," Gihun said, his voice soft and steady in the quiet room.

Inho’s heart still beat fast, hammering against his ribs as if it wanted to escape. His eyes lingered on Gihun’s lips, tracing their shape almost involuntarily, before he quickly tore his gaze away.

He should just let Gihun be. He shouldn’t listen to that girl’s demand. He should walk away while he still had the chance. Just like he planned to tomorrow—he would walk away then, without hesitation.

But for now… he stayed. Despite his mind screaming at him to leave, to stop, to protect himself, he stayed.

Minutes passed in heavy silence. Gihun finally closed his eyes, surrendering to sleep, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic waves.

Inho watched him, memorizing the subtle movements, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. Tentatively, almost instinctively, he leaned his head onto Gihun’s shoulder.

He listened to the steady beat of his chest, almost as if it had merged with his own, a rhythm that pulsed through his veins and quieted the storm inside him.

Just as a fragile sense of peace began to settle over him, Frontman’s voice slithered into his mind:

He doesn’t know you. Not at all. You are his enemy. You aren’t Young-il. You are just another lie. Just another cut that will let him bleed out. You must be the reason he died.

Inho knew it was true. Of course he did. But that knowledge didn’t stop him from moving closer. It didn’t stop him from pressing his head against Gihun’s warmth.

Maybe… maybe parts of Young-il were real. Maybe fragments of himself had lingered here, pieces that weren’t meant to exist anymore but had somehow found refuge in this body.

You are still a traitor, Frontman whispered, harsh and accusing.

Inho didn’t care. Not anymore. It wasn’t a lie—not here, not in this moment.

But tomorrow… tomorrow it would be.

Chapter Text

"Wake up, dad," his daughter's voice awake him.

Seong Gi-hun opened his eyes. Classical music started playing again, the gentle strains curling through the air like smoke, bittersweet and haunting. Lights shone on his face, warm and artificial, reflecting off the sweat and grime of the previous day’s trials.

He remembered that Young-il was sleeping next to him, but he wasn't there anymore.

No— instead, Ga-yeong stood above him. She was watching him curiously. Her expression a mixture of innocence and determination, eyes shimmering under the fluorescent lights as if catching some secret spark only she could perceive.

And Gi-hun was strung with painful thought: she was really his child.

She used to be a baby he cradled in his arms, tiny fists curling against his chest, soft hair brushing his face. A small, fragile child who got scared because of thunderstorms and loud noises, hiding behind his shoulder, eyes wide with trust and fear.

Despite her appearance now—tall, poised, almost commanding—he could still see that child in her. He could still see that little girl wasn't gone, just layered beneath her courage, like a fragile core inside armor she had built herself.

And he had hurt her. She still had purple bruises on her neck from that attack.

"Are you ready for today?" she asked him. He saw that others were already getting up, preparing for the moment the pink soldiers arrived and escorted them to the next game.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry, Ga-yeong," he started apologizing. He always apologized, even when it wasn't really his fault, the words rolling off his tongue like a familiar, numbing ritual.

"Don't you remember? I already told you it's okay. I forgive you, dad," she just said and smiled at him brightly.

Yes, she was truly his child. Only Seongs could smile like that.

Gi-hun didn't say anything to that as a pink soldier removed the handcuffs from his hands that tied him to the bed.

"Hey, next time don't chain him, okay? He isn't going to hurt himself. Isn't that right, Mr. Seong?" she told that pink soldier and then smirked at Gi-hun as she called him Mr. Seong.

Gi-hun didn't reply. He got up from the ground as that soldier walked away.

Then he saw Young-il approaching them.

"Mr. Young-il. I am so glad you stayed with my father yesterday," Ga-yeong told him as he got closer, her voice carrying both relief and pride.

Wait. Young-il didn't come on his own? She demanded it?

Young-il just smiled at her and said, "It was nothing really."

"Dad, if the next game is in teams again, then we will stick together. Me and Young-il will help you."

Gi-hun almost wanted to tear up again. He never expected such bravery from her.

He just nodded at her.

Then soldiers escorted them to the next game. 

Gi-hun saw the hang rebels on the chandelier, the lifeless bodies swaying slightly with a mechanical hum. He saw Jung-bae's body there too.

But his biggest concern was Ga-yeong, who was walking ahead of him.

She was just casually chatting with Junhee, Hyunju, and Mrs. Jang.

It reminded him of how he used to talk to others in his first game, moments that now felt like echoes from a distant life.

But Ga-yeong didn't just talk to them. She encouraged them; she wasn't blaming them for their mistakes or faults. Her words carried an authority that was quiet but undeniable, a kind of innate leadership that rippled through the group.

No, he was the one who blamed Dae-ho for the rebellion failing.

It wasn't his fault, Gi-hun thought as he looked at Dae-ho, who was watching Jung-bae's dead body and looked scared.

It wasn't his fault.

"Everything alright?" Young-il asked as he showed up behind Gi-hun while they walked up the stairs to the fourth game. The metallic clang of their steps echoed down the stairwell.

Should they talk about yesterday? Young-il seemed different that night, his gaze lingering a moment too long, a subtle softness in his posture.

He wanted to kiss Gi-hun. He almost did. But wasn't he married? Gi-hun would never want to break someone's relationship like that.

But maybe he just misunderstood it. Young-il himself said it was a mistake.

Maybe they were just both sleep-deprived.

"I was just thinking," Gi-hun replied. He didn't want to talk about yesterday.

About anything that happened. Now he would just focus on the next game. Now he would just focus on protecting his daughter.

Although she didn't need his protection. That thought gnawed at him, bitter and sharp.

He wasn't there for her when she needed him. He wasn't there when she was growing up and becoming an adult.

In a future she came from, she was without him.

But now it would be different. They would be a family again, even if it meant meeting in a place like this, a hellish labyrinth of fear and despair.

"Gi-hun, if we are going to be split, then I promise I will find you," Young-il said, voice carrying weight and sincerity.

Gi-hun nodded at him. It did help him a lot to have something good in this place full of chaos and despair. He had been isolated and alone for years.

Although he really wished that he would have met Young-il under different circumstances—and Ga-yeong too.

“Players, welcome to the fourth game. For this game, you will be divided into two teams. Before we can begin, all players must first receive their team assignments. Please step forward one at a time and draw a ball from the machine in front of you,” a mechanical female voice said as they stepped into the room. Its tone was eerie, almost sterile, yet somehow hypnotic.

So it was true. They would be split. What game would they be playing this time?

"Player 001," the pink manager called Young-il.

He drew a red ball and stepped to the other side. The small metallic click of the ball hitting the tray sounded unnervingly loud in the cavernous, echoing room.

Others started to draw balls from the machine too.

Ga-yeong had a blue one. Her fingers lingered on it for a fraction of a second, as if testing its weight, then she held it with quiet determination.

Mrs. Jang, Dae-ho, and Hyunju had blue.

Junhee had red. Yongsik too.

It went on and on. Blue and red switching up. People moving with a tense shuffle, their shadows stretching unnaturally across the patterned floor, eyes darting nervously at each other.

And then lastly: "Player 456," the pink manager called.

Gi-hun got to the machine. It was pretty obvious what side he was going to be on since there was only one blue ball left.

Gi-hun drew it from the machine. For some reason it reminded him of that time when he tried to win a toy for Ga-yeong in one of the claw machines for her tenth birthday.

If they were going to play in two teams, then at least they could stick together. At least they would be close.

He got to his side and stood up next to Ga-yeong.

"We are on the same team. Isn't that great?" Ga-yeong said.

Gi-hun tried to stay as positive as her, but his dark thoughts spiraled again.

This game was a fourth one, just like marbles previously. Gi-hun had a bad feeling about this.

He looked at Young-il on the other side. He wasn't looking at him; he was watching those pink soldiers.

But Gi-hun couldn't hide the worried expression that showed on his face.

Ga-yeong must have noticed it too, as she patted him on the shoulder. Gi-hun turned to face her. The warmth of her touch was grounding, a fragile tether to something human amidst the mechanical horrors around them.

He was wondering what he would say to Eun-ji when they got out of here since Ga-yeong wasn't home for four days. His ex-wife must have gone insane in that time.

And Gi-hun was pretty sure he was going to ground his daughter for this. Although he couldn't blame her—she went here for him.

"Young-il has a secret, dad," she whispered to him.

A secret? Gi-hun raised his brow in a question. Why was Ga-yeong so amused by whatever secret Young-il had?

"What are you talking about?" Gi-hun asked her.

"Come on! Don't tell me you don't know," she said with a grin on her face, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Who raised this girl? Well… not him. He wasn't in her life for thirteen years, as she said herself.

Did Eun-ji raise her like this? Was this the reason Ga-yeong was so impulsive and rude?

No, he acted like that too when he was her age. When the weight of life didn't suffocate him. When he still could see a bright future before him.

"What do you mean?" he asked her again.

"Young-il has a not-so-secret crush on you, obviously," she replied with a smile on her face. Where was she going with this?

"He is married…," he murmured, a faint crimson blush creeping across his cheeks.

But before he could say anything else, another announcement came: “Players on the Red Team must find the members of the Blue Team hiding throughout the arena and kill them within 30 minutes.”

They were playing hide-and-seek—or some sick variation of it.

"Huh? Kill us?" Ga-yeong said, startled, as she looked over to the other side where the red team was.

"We have to kill them?”

“Did you say ‘kill’?”

Gi-hun heard others around ask him the same question, but all he could do was stare at Young-il. They were supposed to be on the same team, but now that possibility was gone.

"Don't worry," Ga-yeong spoke quietly, “we’ll figure it out."

He believed her. With Ga-yeong’s powers, they would be much safer. But he was still concerned about her frequent nosebleeds and dizziness.

He didn't know how the whole time powers worked. For how long could she use them?

The blue team was given keys, while the red got—

Knives.

A new rush of murmurs filled the room, and Gi-hun cursed quietly under his breath. They seemed eager for the game to start, and Gi-hun frowned a little before he hung his head, his pulse hammering in his ears.

"Before we begin today’s game, we would like to first give you an opportunity to change your fate. If any of you are not satisfied with your currently assigned role, you may instead choose to switch sides with someone from the opposing team before the game begins," the pink manager informed them.

"We can switch?" Ga-yeong asked as she looked up at the guard. Her voice was sharp with curiosity and determination, a gleaming spark of strategy in her tone.

“That is correct. As long as both parties agree, you may trade your vests and items with another player. However, once the game begins, removing your own vest or attempting to switch vests with any player is strictly prohibited. So please consider carefully before making your decision,” the pink soldier replied to her.

After Ga-yeong heard that, she said to Gi-hun: "I need a red vest."

"What? No. Ga-yeong, I thought we would stay together?" Gi-hun stopped her by grabbing her arm.

He noticed that some people were already coming to others and wanted to switch.

Like that girl Semi, who switched her blue vest with Minsu, who had originally had a red one.

"Dad, I can't protect others if I won't have a weapon. Besides, we will increase our chance of survival as Young-il also has a red vest," she reasoned with him.

"Ga-yeong, do you understand what that means? You will have to kill someone on the blue team to pass. Are you sure?"

"I understand. I am not a little girl anymore, dad. You don't have to worry about me," she said and walked toward people who had red vests, the click of her boots on the cold floor echoing behind her.

Gi-hun just sighed but didn't stop her.

He needed to find Young-il.

Gi-hun noticed Thanos and Namgyu smirking at the blue team as they looked up at their knives.

He remembered what those bastards did to Youngmi and planned to do to Semi.

Now he was glad his daughter wanted to swap. It would probably be for the best if she protected herself, like she said.

He finally reached Young-il as he walked past all those people. Young-il was watching others too.

When he saw him, he asked: "You didn't want to swap?"

"No. I think I will stay on the blue team. I'm not that eager to kill someone."

"And what about Ga-yeong?" he asked.

Both of them tried to find her in the vast group of people, the room now a chaotic mix of whispered deals, shuffling feet, and nervous breaths.

She was once again with Junhee, Hyunju, and Mrs. Jang.

Hyunju was trying to convince Junhee of something as Ga-yeong spoke to them.

After a while, Junhee gave her red vest to Ga-yeong, who gave her blue vest in return.

He overheard Mrs. Jang saying that the three of them would make a great team, a soft voice amidst the tense clamor.

Ga-yeong went back to Gi-hun and Inho, the confidence in her steps a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding them.

Then Myung-gi walked towards the three woman. He had a blue vest.

"Junhee, you already swapped? I thought you would wait for me," he started asking her, confusion running across his face.

"I already swapped with someone else, Myung-gi. But you can still swap with someone else too. Or you can stay in the blue vest. This way we could be on the same team," Junhee replied to him. He widened his eyes and stared at her.

"But I wanted to be on red! How else am I supposed to protect you if I'm not going to have a weapon?" Myung-gi asked again.

"I don't know, Myung-gi. But I am sure you can figure something out like you always do. Besides, I will stay with Mrs. Jang and Hyunju. They will keep an eye on me."

Myung-gi glared at the two women beside her and then furiously said: "You think they can protect you? Why didn't you just swap with me? Who did you swap with anyway?"

When he said that, Junhee looked at Ga-yeong. Myung-gi saw where she was looking and glared at them angrily.

Gi-hun thought it wasn't a good look. But since he was on the blue team, Ga-yeong was going to be safe from him.

Besides, Gi-hun thought Junhee's words made sense.

Then Myung-gi started to ask those with red vests if they wanted to switch, but no one seemed eager to do that.

"Gi-hun, don't worry. I will protect you," Young-il said to him.

Gi-hun just nodded. Maybe they could make it work this way.

He heard Myung-gi cursing as no one wanted his vest, but then the timer for change ran out.

After this, the blue team would get a head start in the arena.

"Ga-yeong, Young-il, promise me that you will be safe," Gi-hun said to them as he was supposed to leave. His voice trembled slightly, betraying the weight of his concern.

Ga-yeong reassured him that they would find him once they were in the arena too.

But as Gi-hun stepped inside, fear lingered.

“You now have two minutes. I repeat, two minutes until the Red Team enters the arena.” Hopefully, everything would be fine, Gi-hun thought.

The arena was intricate and quite pretty, if Gi-hun had ever let himself stop and look around. What he was noticing most was that there were so many doors, so many hallways, and he wasn’t at all sure what the layout was. How was he ever going to find them in here?

Gi-hun tried to open a door leading to another hallway, but it was closed. Then he noticed that the shape of the keyhole was the same as the one on the key around his neck. Triangle. Like the soldier masks.

He opened the door and went through. He noticed others from the blue team were doing the same thing as him. Some of them were running around as they tried to hide from the red team, which was supposed to arrive in any second.

But Gi-hun wasn't intending to hide himself. No—he had to find his daughter, who was on the red team. At least she was with Young-il, who could have protected her if they got into trouble.

And then, as he walked across the star-patterned floor, the sharp echo of his boots seemed impossibly loud. Then he heard screams, piercing, ragged, human—echoes bouncing off the walls and down the hallways.

The seekers were here. Gi-hun hid himself in one of the rooms as two seekers were maniacally laughing while they chased some poor woman of the blue team. In that flicker, he noticed purple hair and number 124. Of course, it was them.

But then someone else opened a door. A door he had been hiding behind. Gi-hun forgot to lock it as he thought he would leave immediately.

Now the seeker was watching him. He was holding a knife that already had blood on it, and he was pointing it at him.

Gi-hun looked around for another exit but seemed stuck in a dead end, as the only way out was through the door where the seeker was standing.

Could he possibly run away? Gi-hun thought.

He glanced at the man, who was preparing to attack. If he could be quick, he could make it out, but if not, he would have to fight back. And that would be unfortunate since he didn't have any weapon.

Now Ga-yeong's idea of switching to the red team didn't feel that stupid. Now he felt regret that he hadn't swapped.

As the man slowly approached him, Gi-hun’s legs started sprinting, but his plan didn’t work.

The man caught him by his vest and dropped him to the ground like he weighed nothing. The fall knocked the air out of Gi-hun's lungs.

"I need to pass," the man just said as he pinned him to the ground and held the knife near his stomach.

Gi-hun wasn’t going to die. He wouldn’t die. Not when he didn’t even know if Ga-yeong was okay.

The man above him had a wild, desperate look in his eyes. But that blade in his hands was already covered in someone else’s blood.

He had already killed someone. Then why target him?

Gi-hun didn't have time to think as the blade touched his stomach like a wasp sting. He grabbed the man’s knife and tried to push him away.

They were wrestling like animals, but the man had a stronger grip. Gi-hun was losing.

His struggling was stopped by someone else who emerged from behind. Someone grabbed that man and slit his throat.

That man’s blood spilled on Gi-hun’s face as the man fell next to him, dead.

Gi-hun was still shaking from the near-death experience.

"Gihun," he heard a familiar voice. Gi-hun opened his eyes. It was Young-il.

He was glad he arrived in time; otherwise, he would have been long gone.

Young-il was there standing alone, knife in hand, covered in the man’s spilled blood.

His first thought was: were red players even allowed to kill each other?

But then another thought hit him. Ga-yeong wasn’t with Young-il.

"Where is Ga-yeong?" Gi-hun asked, still lying on the bloodied floor.

"I lost her," Young-il replied. Gi-hun’s heart started beating faster.

"What do you mean you lost her?" he almost yelled. Young-il had one job. One simple task. And he failed?

"It’s not the way you think. She wanted to split. She said I should look for you, and she would look for the blue players and help them," Young-il replied.

"And you allowed her to go?" Gi-hun hissed. He should have just forced her to go with him.

"I tried to talk her out of it. But you see—she is stubborn just like you. It would take me hours to make her change her mind. And we don’t have that much time."

"We need to find her," Gi-hun mumbled as he tried to clean up the blood on his face.

"Okay. Then let's go," Young-il said and reached his hand toward Gi-hun. He took it without hesitation. Young-il’s grip was strong as he helped him back on his feet.

"Where was the last time you saw her?" Gi-hun asked as they walked away from that room and back into the hallway.

Young-il looked around the maze. Gi-hun wasn’t even sure which way was left or right. This place was like a walking dream—or nightmare.

"This way," Young-il pointed with a knife toward the way Gi-hun had previously seen seekers chasing people.

Young-il went first. Gi-hun was right behind him.

The arena was more chaotic now than it had been before. Players with blue vests were already lying on the starry floor, dead.

But thankfully, Gi-hun didn’t notice any familiar numbers as he took two differently-shaped keys from dead players and put them on his neck.

With Young-il by his side, he felt much safer. At least this time, when another attack happened, they would be armed.

Gi-hun kept looking around. He was opening different doors and peeking into different directions.

But she was nowhere to be seen.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Gi-hun asked him, unsure after a while. They still had around twenty minutes. If Gi-hun could find the exit, he was sure that with those three keys he could make it out.

Young-il just looked back at him, as if he wanted to say something, but then another voice interrupted both of them.

"Please! I am trying to help you!" It was Ga-yeong’s voice, screaming at someone, her voice raw, urgent, slicing through Gi-hun’s fear like a beacon.

Both Gi-hun and Young-il started to run toward her voice.

"I promise I will help you find those keys!" she screamed again. The desperation in her tone was unmistakable, her voice carrying above the chaos, fragile yet unbroken.

"Shut up! It’s all your fault! You were just trying to get me killed from the start, weren’t you?" It was Myung-gi’s voice coming from one of the rooms.

"No! No! I just wanted to help you and Junhee! You can both get out of here if you just listen!" Ga-yeong’s voice grew more painful with every plea, like she was suffocating.

"Just die already! I don’t need a woman’s help! Who do you think you are?" Myung-gi hissed at her aggressively.

Gi-hun finally found them. The doors to the room where they were arguing were open.

Myung-gi was pinning Ga-yeong to the wall. Her face was red as he was choking her with his hands. Her knife was tossed on the ground, too far away from her reach.

"Please! I swear I didn’t mean to harm you!" Ga-yeong’s voice shivered, breaking with every word. But Myung-gi didn’t listen. He didn’t stop.

Gi-hun had to intervene. He had to put an end to this. Otherwise, he would let her be killed.

He almost stepped into the room but was stopped by Young-il, who grabbed him by the arm.

Gi-hun tried to brush his hand off. He needed to get to his daughter before it was too late.

But Young-il just offered him his knife. Right—Gi-hun almost forgot it would be harder to fight without a weapon.

But did he mean to kill Myung-gi? Gi-hun had no choice. Time was running out. He needed to help her.

Gi-hun took Young-il’s knife from his palm. Young-il smiled at him reassuringly.

Then Gi-hun stepped into the room.

"Get away from her," he said to Myung-gi, who was still holding Ga-yeong furiously.

Myung-gi turned at the incoming voice. When he saw Gi-hun, his eyebrows rose in surprise.

Then he saw what Gi-hun was pointing with. He quickly let go of Ga-yeong’s neck. She started to struggle for breath as she gasped for air, and tears from pain ran down her face.

Myung-gi didn’t hesitate even for a moment. He picked up her knife from the ground and pointed it at Gi-hun.

"You are with her, aren’t you? Were you all planning to kill me or what?" He started to throw more accusations. It almost felt like he had lost his mind with how furious he sounded.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Gi-hun just replied. His voice was calm despite the situation.

"Or what? Will you kill me?" Myung-gi said. The knife in his hand was shaking.

Gi-hun wondered if he could convince him somehow. If this could go without bloodshed, without death.

But Myung-gi decided for him.

He lunged at him, and the knife in his hand brushed Gi-hun’s chest. Gi-hun lunged back. His knife was steady in his hand, pointed at Myung-gi’s body.

Although Gi-hun didn’t stab him, Myung-gi still flinched.

Maybe they could still walk away from this. He didn’t want to fight with him, despite what he did to Ga-yeong.

"Listen to me! I got the keys, take them!" Gi-hun tried to reason with him, pointing at the keys around his neck.

"You expect me to believe you?" Myung-gi asked.

"Why weren’t you with Junhee? She needed your help," Gi-hun asked back.

Myung-gi laughed at him bitterly and then yelled, "Shibal! I almost died as these lunatics—Thanos and Namgyu were trying to kill me! And then this bitch pointed a knife at me and almost killed me too!"

Gi-hun looked at Ga-yeong, who was still shaking in the hallway. No, his daughter had no role in this lunacy.

It needed to stop. Gi-hun lowered the knife, hoping Myung-gi would choose to walk away.

But he was mistaken. Myung-gi slammed him against the wall. He heard his daughter scream. He noticed Young-il still standing at the door, but he couldn’t help him now as he had no weapon on his own.

When Ga-yeong saw Young-il, she quickly moved to the other side.

Myung-gi had Gi-hun pinned to the wall. His face filled with fury as he pointed a knife at him.

But Gi-hun was holding a knife too.

And as Myung-gi wanted to strike toward Gi-hun’s throat, Gi-hun stabbed him in the stomach.

Myung-gi, surprised by the attack, moved away from him. Blood appeared on his blue vest.

Gi-hun was breathing heavily, exhausted from the fight.

Myung-gi held his bleeding stomach, but that didn’t stop him from striking again.

Now Gi-hun had the upper hand. He wasn’t injured.

And when Myung-gi wanted to stab him again, Gi-hun pointed a knife toward his throat.

And then stabbed him. Once. Twice. Thrice.

He wasn’t even sure how many times he had done that until Myung-gi’s body lay on the floor and Gi-hun was above him.

Gi-hun was filled with fury too. He tried to kill his daughter. He harmed her.

Gi-hun looked away from Myung-gi’s corpse toward Ga-yeong, who was standing in the hallway next to Young-il.

"Are you okay, dad?" she asked him as she saw he was still rapidly breathing and covered in blood.

"Yes. It’s okay now. You are safe," Gi-hun said to her, his voice shaken by exhaustion.

"We should go before this place turns us into lunatics like them," she replied.

"You are right, Ga-yeong. We should find others," Young-il said, his voice definitive.

Gi-hun got up from the ground. He grabbed both of the knives and gave them back to their rightful owners.

And then Young-il smiled at him and said, "I thought you said you weren’t going to kill anyone?"

That was true. Gi-hun never wanted things to go this way. But here they were, all of them covered in someone else’s blood.

He only replied, "I was just doing it for Ga-yeong, like you killed that man to save me. Now we just have to stick together and survive the rest of this."

At that, Young-il just nodded, and then they followed Ga-yeong’s lead.

This place was a dreamlike maze filled with blood.

But at least this time no one would get lost. Not again.

Chapter Text

She had almost died. Twice.

Ga-yeong was certain this was the worst week of her entire life. She had truly believed—foolishly—that Myung-gi might change, that there was a sliver of humanity left in him. That he might listen. That he might choose compassion.

But he didn’t.

He had wrapped his hands around her neck with ruthless intent, squeezing with the brutal certainty of someone who had no plan to ever let go. His fingers were iron shackles digging into her skin, pressing so deep she thought they might crush her windpipe to dust. The veins in his forearms bulged like ropes ready to snap, his jaw clenched with the cold focus of a predator.

For one terrible moment, she was sure this was the end—her final breath, her final heartbeat. The world had narrowed, her vision tunneling into darkness at the edges, flickering like a candle’s flame before the wind devours it. Her lungs spasmed violently, her throat burned raw, and her body thrashed like a fish on the deck—useless against the anchor of his strength. Her mind, in defense, went eerily blank, as though her brain itself had drawn a curtain to hide her from the horror. Her thoughts smeared, blurring like a half-remembered dream dissolving into mist.

And then—her father and Young-il had come.

They had found her. They had saved her.

She could still see the blood smeared across her father’s hands, glistening wet and vivid like ink freshly spilled on paper. The sight burned into her chest until it ached. This was her fault. All of it.

If only she had listened. If only she had gone with Young-il from the beginning. But Ga-yeong had always been stubborn to the bone, her will iron-clad, her defiance sharper than warnings ever spoken. She never bent easily—not even to fate itself.

Now the three of them ran through a maze of pale corridors, their footsteps pounding like war drums, ricocheting off sterile walls lit by a cold, star-pale glow. The air was thick, metallic, as though they were breathing fear distilled into vapor. They chased shadows, desperate, searching for Kim Junhee and her group.

And yet, amidst the chaos, a fragile pocket of safety clung to her when her father and Young-il were near. Their clothes were streaked and speckled with blood, yes, but she knew in her marrow that neither of them killed for pleasure. They weren’t like the others. Not like the ones who smiled when life slipped away.

Ga-yeong turned a corner too sharply, her shoulder colliding headlong into another body—a blue player. The man barreled into her with the blind force of prey running from an unseen predator. His eyes were wide, wild; he didn’t even recognize her as human, just another obstacle. He shoved her aside with desperate strength, sending her sprawling across the cold floor. Pain lanced up her spine as she slammed down, the air ripped from her lungs in a sharp, guttural groan.

“Jihoon!” a voice rang out, sharp, urgent, achingly familiar.

“You scare the shit out of me, Dae-ho!” Her own voice cracked with relief, thin and trembling. The absurdity of it nearly dragged a laugh from her—almost, but not quite.

But then a shadow fell across them. A red player stepped into their path, his figure slicing the hallway in two.

Dizziness still tugged at her from the fall, but Ga-yeong forced herself upright. Her grip clenched tighter around the knife’s hilt until her knuckles whitened, the steel gleaming faintly in the sterile light. Her body coiled like a spring, every muscle taut, every breath sharp. Beside her, Young-il moved as well, his stance lowering, shoulders set, ready to strike. His presence was protective, circling near her father, eyes narrowed and unblinking.

“Dae-ho, get behind me,” she whispered to the trembling man beside her, her tone steady despite the pounding in her chest.

The red player’s eyes darted wildly, skittering between the three of them. He saw it—the truth: two blades against one. His own knife quivered in his grip, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

“You want to get yourself killed?” Ga-yeong asked coldly, her blade raised, leveled precisely at his throat.

She didn’t want to kill him; there was no purpose in it. She needed a blue one to pass. A red would only be wasted blood.

The man’s courage broke like glass. Without a word, he spun on his heels and fled, footsteps vanishing into the labyrinth’s unending turns.

“Dae-ho, are you okay?” Ga-yeong asked, turning toward him. But her question was met not with words, but with his face draining of all color. His eyes weren’t on her. They were fixed on who stood just behind her.

Right. She had forgotten. Her father had once blamed Dae-ho for the failure of the rebellion.

Her father’s gaze settled on him now, unreadable as stone, his features blood-spattered and severe. Yet when he spoke, his voice came out steady—almost gentle—so different from the carnage that painted his hands.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Dae-ho,” her father said quietly.

“I am sorry, sir. It’s my fault that Jung-bae is dead. It’s all because of me,” Dae-ho whispered, guilt fracturing his voice like shattered glass.

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you. I know it’s not your fault.”

The words lifted some of the weight from his face, though fear still clung to him like a second skin he couldn’t shed.

“Dae-ho, do you know where Junhee is?” Ga-yeong asked.

“I don’t know. But she should be fine. Hyunju is with her.”

“We should find them,” her father decided.

They pushed forward again, footsteps echoing in time with the hammering of their hearts.

The corridors twisted and shifted until at last they reached a stairwell.

“I should go first,” Ga-yeong said. Both Dae-ho and her father nodded, while Young-il stayed behind, guarding their backs.

Step by step, she descended, knife raised. The blade caught the pale light and gleamed, ready to split shadow from flesh.

And then she saw her. Player 044—the shaman woman—stood at the bottom. Alone. Her usual entourage of fanatics was nowhere in sight.

She wore a blue vest.

Ga-yeong’s breath steadied, her body drawing taut. She advanced, the point of her knife hovering inches from the woman’s throat. 044 pressed against the wall, caged, cornered, trapped with no way out.

“Please don’t do this,” the woman whimpered, her voice trembling like brittle glass.

But Ga-yeong didn’t listen. The blade kissed her skin, a thin line of cold threat.

“You want to walk on the same blood path as him, child?” the shaman murmured, her eyes glimmering with a strange, unsettling light, like something otherworldly flickering behind them.

Ga-yeong froze, blade poised but not cutting. What was this woman even talking about? Clearly she was trying to weave nonsense, hoping confusion might buy her life.

“Please—” 044 begged again.

“Just go. I will find somebody else.” Ga-yeong stepped back, her voice clipped. She didn’t have the time for riddles.

Perhaps she could find a blue player already weakened, someone she could kill quickly to spare them out of the misery.

“It’s all clear,” she called up to the others. Her group followed her down.

Her father pressed forward, shouldering open the next door. Beyond stretched another hallway, splitting into three paths like the arms of a cruel choice.

Where should they go? Junhee could be anywhere.

And what is she going to say to her about Myung-gi? He was a father of her child.

Maybe it didn't really matter in end. He may as well be eliminated by one of the red ones. She shouldn't know that he try to kill her friends.

As her father, Young-il and Dae-ho went to hallway, she stayed behind in a case someone might followed them.

The three men stood before the three paths, silent, debating with their stares which way to turn.

But then—

Screams.

Nam-gyu appeared, flanked by two other red players, their bodies soaked in blood, their grins wolfish and merciless. Their eyes locked onto the three men like predators scenting cornered prey.

Ga-yeong’s pulse spiked. She needed to get to them—fast. With her blade, maybe they stood a chance.

But before she could move—

“Hello, señorita,” a voice coiled into her ear, mockingly tender, venom wrapped in silk.

It was Thanos.

 His arms coiled around her neck from behind, thick and crushing, and a knife pressed cold against her throat.

The memory of Youngmi’s death—her body skewered by his fork—flashed like lightning through her mind. Why did they always choose women?

“Now, watch your friends die,” he hissed against her skin, his breath hot, vile.

And she could do nothing but watch as the hallway erupted into violence.

Nam-gyu slammed Dae-ho to the ground, straddling him, blade poised to split open his face. Another attacker drove her father down, a knee grinding his chest, a knife hovering cruelly over his stomach. The last crashed Young-il against the wall, metal shrieking as knives clashed, sparks of steel and desperation flying with each strike.

The cold edge of Thanos’s knife bit into Ga-yeong’s skin, sharp enough to draw a bead of blood that slid warm down her neck.

And then—

Dae-ho screamed, his voice raw, tearing the air apart. Nam-gyu’s blade plunged into his throat, blood spraying in an arc across the floor as the man above him laughed like a beast gone mad.

Young-il managed to kill his opponent, plunging his knife deep into flesh, but it was already too late.

Her father groaned, guttural and broken, as steel carved into his stomach.

“Gi-hun!” Young-il’s shout cracked the corridor.

But her father was already gone.

No. I won’t let this happen.

Ga-yeong’s eyes snapped shut. The world twisted, folding in on itself like paper burning at the edges. A storm of butterflies erupted, wings thrumming like thunderclaps. Time itself shuddered.

She was back. Back in the moment before the attack.

This time, she would be ready. This time, no one would die.

Once again, Nam-gyu and his allies appeared.

Once again—

“Hello, señorita,” Thanos whispered yet again.

But before his arms could coil around her, before his knife could claim her throat, Ga-yeong struck.

Her blade shot forward, plunging straight into his chest with brutal, clean precision. His breath caught, his eyes wide with disbelief, and then all his strength dissolved in an instant. He crumpled, blood blooming darkly across his vest.

Ga-yeong swayed, nausea crawling through her gut, but forced herself upright.

Young-il was still locked in desperate combat, his back pinned against the wall, the red player’s knife arcing toward his ribs.

In the first version of this moment, she had been too late. Not now.

She would have to help him and then save her father.

She ran toward the two men as they fought.

She lunged, her knife plunging deep into the man’s back. He staggered, choking on blood, grip loosening just enough for Young-il to wrench free. With ruthless precision, Young-il finished him, blade cutting clean across his throat.

Her father was still entangled with the last attacker, knife flashing, bodies locked in deadly proximity. Every second bled precious time.

Ga-yeong and Young-il look at each other, thinking the same to thing.

They quickly got to that player. He stopped trying to stab her father as he heard they footsteps.

Her father tore free, stumbling back.

Together, she and Young-il closed in. The man lifted his knife to strike, but Young-il’s blade carved through his chest before the swing could land.

But then -

Ga-yeong heard scream. The same one she heard before.

“Player 388. Eliminated,” the robotic voice declared, merciless, cold.

Dae-ho.

Nam-gyu’s knife had already cut his throat, and blood gushed out in violent spurts. His laughter echoed, manic and merciless.

Ga-yeong froze. She had saved her father. She had saved Young-il. But Dae-ho—

Nam-gyu ripped his knife free and stood tall, flicking the blood away with a casual cruelty.

“Hey, Thanos! Let’s go!” he called out, voice sharp. No reply.

“Thanos?” His voice cracked, his eyes darted. And then he saw then that they are still alive.  Then he finally notice Thanos’s body sprawled lifeless at their feet.

He crouched down, trembling, fingers brushing the corpse. “Thanos?” he whispered, voice breaking.

"Thanos?" He calls him one last time. But now he sound frightened. His voice is shaking as he wants his friend to wake up.

Silence answered him. Then he look at Ga-yeong.

“You killed him! You killed him, you fucking bitch!” Nam-gyu roared, his knife shaking violently as he leveled it at her.

Ga-yeong said nothing. She only looked at Dae-ho.

I am sorry. I am so sorry, Dae-ho. You were really brave.

But there are no more tears running throught her face.

She notice that Young-il is holding her father who still look shaken up by the fight and his face is pale as he seen Dae-ho lifeless body too.

Nam-gyu let out a broken sound, half-sob, half-snarl. He tore Thanos’s necklace from the corpse and clutched it tight. Without another word, he turned and bolted, fleeing into the endless corridors. He had passed the round.

Ga-yeong didn’t chase. She was too tired, too fractured. Warm blood tickled at her nose again, dripping down her lips.

They had to move. They still had to find Junhee.

“We need to go,” Young-il said sharply, his voice a rope pulling them out of paralysis.

Her father still looked shaken—shaken by the attack, by the senselessness of Dae-ho’s death. His eyes were glassy, his movements stiff, as though the weight of loss had turned him into something less than alive. She was trembling inside too, her body taut as a bowstring. But she couldn’t afford to break now. If she broke, everything would splinter. She still hadn’t killed a blue player. She still had to help the others.

“Okay,” her father whispered, voice raw, every syllable sounding like it cut his throat to speak.

They left the corpses behind. The hallway smelled of iron and smoke, blood drying into dark stains on the floor. Her father walked beside her, steps unsteady, his shadow stretching long under the cold overhead lights. She kept searching for a way out of this star-gazed maze, this labyrinth that glittered cruelly, as if mocking them with beauty while death pressed close at every turn.

They searched on, their lungs burning, their feet dragging. Until—

She saw them.

Junhee, Hyunju, and Mrs. Jang stood near an open door, its heavy frame spilling light into the corridor, casting a glowing rectangle that seemed almost holy compared to the darkness pressing in from all sides. They were preparing to leave.

“Junhee!” Ga-yeong’s voice cracked, shattering from exhaustion and hope.

The girl turned at the sound, her face pale but determined. She was holding something close to her chest, hidden beneath her jacket. Hyunju’s face was streaked with blood—half-dried, half-fresh—splashed across her cheek like war paint. Mrs. Jang’s hair was loose and wild, strands clinging to her damp temples.

“You are here,” Hyunju said softly, relief melting the hardness in her tone.

Ga-yeong quickened her pace toward them, but then her breath caught. She noticed what Junhee was clutching so fiercely in her arms. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a baby. Small, fragile, trembling against her jacket.

It was Ji-ah.

Her father’s face twisted in shock at the sight, disbelief flickering in his eyes.

“Mr. Seong. We opened the door with keys. You can come with us,” Junhee said, her voice calm, steady despite the storm around them.

That was right—her father could go with them. Freedom was right there, within reach. But she and Young-il…

Wait.

He wasn’t with them.

“Mr. Seong. Where is Young-il?” Ga-yeong asked, her stomach dropping, panic rippling through her veins.

Her father looked around, frantic, scanning the dim hallway. But Young-il was nowhere to be seen.

He had been just behind them, hadn’t he? Just a step away, only a minute ago.

“Young-il?” her father called out, his voice cracking, echoing against the walls. But no one answered.

They had only five minutes left. Five minutes, and then the soldiers would came in and execute them. Then she remembered—Young-il hadn’t killed a blue player yet. Was that why he had slipped away?

“Hey, maybe he just—” Ga-yeong tried to reassure him, though the words felt thin in her mouth.

But then came the sound. The cold, unfeeling voice rang out through the speakers:

“Player 001 eliminated.”

Her father’s body seemed to collapse inward at the announcement, his grief so heavy it bent his spine.

Ga-yeong forced herself to remain upright, her fists clenching until her nails bit flesh. Young-il was gone. Dead. Another friend lost. Almost everyone who had fought in the rebellion was dead.

She could have helped him, if only he had asked. They could have killed blue players together—the ones already wounded, already slipping toward death. They could have granted them mercy, earned their passage. But now he was gone, and she wasn’t sure if she had the strength for another rewind. Not after all the battles, all the blood already staining her hands.

Her father stood frozen, staring into the endless hallway, his face carved into a jaded mask of grief. He didn’t cry—he had no tears left to shed.

Neither did she. Her chest was hollow, emptied out by exhaustion. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep tonight, or maybe any night again, because of this.

Young-il had been her friend. A good man. Always throwing himself between danger and others. Always caring, even for her—a stranger at first. He had protected her, sacrificed himself for her.

Young-il and Dae-ho. Both good men, undeserving of such brutal, senseless ends. Young-il had once promised her father a bottle of soju. That promise now lay buried with him forever.

“We are running out of time. We need to go,” Hyunju said sharply, breaking the silence.

“You can go. I still need to kill a blue player,” Ga-yeong replied, her voice hard with determination. Focusing on the task was the only way to keep the grief from crushing her.

She would grieve later, once survival was no longer in question.

“We still have five minutes. We will wait here for you, Jihoon,” Junhee said firmly, her jaw set.

“Okay. But if someone else tries to get to you, you will leave,” Ga-yeong warned, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“G-Jihoon. Be careful,” her father called after her. His voice was low, fragile, the same breaking sound he had made when they lost Jung-bae.

“Don’t worry about me. I will be right back. I promise.”

She smiled at them then—her father, Junhee, Hyunju, Mrs. Jang. A smile born not from happiness, but from defiance. A fragile flame against despair.

She would find them again.

Chapter Text

In-ho was back as the Frontman. The games were over, at least for now. He was out of the chaos and back in his room. The silence pressed against the walls like a heavy fog. He sat slouched in his armchair, the weight of his black mask gone but the shadow of it still clinging to him. A glass of whiskey lingered in his hand, amber liquid catching the dull light as he swirled it, slow and deliberate, before taking another burning sip.

He had dealt with the VIPs earlier. Their grotesque laughter still echoed in his head, the sound of predators amused by the spectacle of prey tearing each other apart. They were especially entertained by the fourth game. Smug, wide-eyed, giddy — like children discovering cruelty for the first time.

But In-ho himself wasn’t entirely sure what had unfolded in the final five minutes after he’d left Gi-hun. He hadn’t seen it directly. Now, alone, he turned to the footage. He needed to watch it. To study it. To replay the last shreds of humanity cracking under pressure.

The screen flickered to life. The recording began right after the announcement of the elimination — Young-il’s death.

At first, In-ho’s attention gravitated to Gi-hun. His face had collapsed into grief, every line etched with raw pain. His voice cracked, trembling as he cried out Young-il’s name.

That moment — the breaking point. The rebellion had already been torn apart, piece by piece. Almost all of Gi-hun’s allies were dead. The fragile spark of resistance snuffed out.

But Ga-yeong still remained. His daughter was by his side. If things continued along this path, it would come down to just the two of them. They would be the last ones standing, and they would walk out together.

In-ho would make sure of it.

Gi-hun would eventually shatter. He always did. And when the collapse came, when the guilt dug deep enough, perhaps he’d start to blame his daughter the same way he once blamed Dae-ho. That was the inevitability In-ho waited for. All he had to do was let time and grief work their poison. Two games left.

He replayed the footage. Again. But this time, his eyes slid away from Gi-hun. He had already memorized every twitch, every word, every fragile breath that man exhaled. Gi-hun’s silence spoke louder now. The wound of Young-il’s death had carved into him too deeply.

Good. Just as planned.

The screen shifted to player 044 — a fleeting figure, one Ga-yeong had once chosen not to kill. A choice that mattered little now. She was already dead, cut down by player 380 — that sharp, merciless girl Semi — as she aided player 125 in escaping. They had both slipped free, survivors for now.

But most weren’t so lucky.

In-ho paused on the moment that had electrified the VIPs. He let it play, watching their giddy fascination bleed back into his own awareness.

Near the exit, Gi-hun, Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, and the old woman huddled together. The door was open. Freedom was right there, a breath away. But they lingered. They waited for Ga-yeong.

That girl had five minutes to eliminate the blue player.

She ran like the wind itself, her movements sharper, more deliberate than before. Every turn of a hallway, every shadow, every sound — she scanned it with careful eyes. A stark contrast to her earlier recklessness, when player 333 — Lee Myung-gi — had fallen.

In-ho hadn’t expected Gi-hun to kill anyone. He had been on the blue team, after all. And hadn’t he spared Dae-ho?

Yet circumstances bent men into killers. And In-ho had given him the knife.

Gi-hun’s hands were now stained, his soul cracked open. It was self-defense, yes. Done to protect his daughter, yes. But blood was still blood. Murder was still murder.

Would anyone else have done the same? Perhaps. But Gi-hun had always styled himself as the hero, the martyr, the man who suffered for others. In-ho both admired and despised him for it. That kind of nobility was beautiful in theory but fatal in practice. Heroes were corpses waiting to happen.

Still, he had taken the first step. That was enough. For now.

But Ga-yeong — what about her? Would she mirror her father’s choices, or carve her own path? Could she be broken the way he had been?

No. She was too distant. She had no ties to the Frontman. In-ho couldn’t steer her the same way. Gi-hun was the only one who met him as the Frontman. The only one who had hunted him for three long years. What would his reaction be when he learned the truth? That the faceless monster he chased was also Young-il, his closest ally?

On the screen, Ga-yeong slowed. She scanned the floor littered with blue corpses, eyes sharp, desperate — as if she hoped one might still be alive.

Then she tripped.

The camera caught the stumble, her foot colliding with a figure whose face was caked in blood. In-ho leaned closer. He could see it in the subtle rise and fall of the man’s chest: he was still breathing.

Player 100. Im Jeong-dae.

Ga-yeong stepped on him, and his faint groan betrayed his disguise. She turned, glanced at the ticking timer — three minutes.

“You’re still alive?” she asked, her voice sharp with surprise.

He remained silent, playing dead, clinging to that pitiful ruse.

“Hey, are you breathing or not?” She pressed, irritation curling in her tone. Her foot jabbed into his side.

At last, player 100 broke. His eyes flew open. He scrambled to his feet in panic, legs pumping, but his age betrayed him. He couldn’t outrun her.

Ga-yeong was faster, stronger. She slammed him back onto the floor with ruthless force.

“Stop! Don’t kill me! I swear I’ll vote to leave in the next game! I swear!” His voice cracked into desperation as her knife hovered over him.

“I thought you said you wanted to play one more game?” she asked coldly.

His head shook violently. “No! No, I was wrong! If you let me live, I’ll give you half of my money. Half! Do you hear me, kid? Just let me go!”

The knife twisted in her hand, the blade glinting. For a moment, she looked as though she weighed his words.

Then her voice dropped, quieter, resolute. “I’m not here for money.”

Confusion washed across his face. “Then what are you here for? Are you a psychopath or something?”

Her expression didn’t waver. The words came again, softer still, almost broken: “I’m not here for money.”

The knife plunged. His scream choked off as steel met flesh, and the robotic voice announced his elimination. Blood spread across the ground as she rose, her face unreadable, and sprinted back toward her father.

The footage moved on, and In-ho felt the shift — the point where the game slid into nightmare, where the VIPs had leaned forward, salivating at the spectacle of human nature splintering.

Ga-yeong returned just in time. Two minutes remained. Her group still waited.

“Jihoon!” Hyun-ju cried out as she saw her.

“I pass. Now we can leave,” Ga-yeong replied, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

Gi-hun smiled. A fragile, fleeting smile. Perhaps the first since the rebellion had crumbled.

Hyun-ju and Jun-hee rushed through the door, securing their escape. Gi-hun lingered, waiting for his daughter.

But then another figure emerged.

Player 007. Yongsik. Jang Geumja’s son.

“Yongsik?” she called, her voice trembling as she recognized him.

His hands shook violently, knuckles white around the knife. His eyes were wide, terrified.

“I couldn’t do it,” Yongsik stammered. “I couldn’t kill anyone.”

Geumja’s breath caught. She stepped toward him, ignoring Ga-yeong’s warning cry. “Yongsik-ah, kill me then, okay? Stab me right here, it’s okay.” She wrapped her hands around his trembling fist, the blade pressed between them. “Just live and save yourself, okay? Please, Yongsik. Promise me that.”

Tears welled behind his broken glasses. “I can’t—” he whispered.

“Please. Yongsik. If you don’t do this, then you will die. And I can’t live with that.”

Thirty seconds left.

He looked at her, then down at the knife. His body shook with sobs. Ga-yeong and Gi-hun stood frozen, pale as ghosts.

“I’m not leaving without you, mom,” he cried.

Her hand cupped his face, gentle. “I’ve already lived enough, Yongsik. You can live longer. Please. For me.”

“I’m sorry, mom.” His voice cracked, childlike. And in the end, children always obeyed their parents.

The knife sank into her back as he hugged her. Blood gushed between them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, mom,” he sobbed, clutching her as if he could hold her life inside his hands.

Geumja wept too, whispering through her pain.

“Umma… I’m sorry,” Yongsik repeated, lowering her carefully to the ground. Her blood soaked into his trembling hands.

Ten seconds.

Gi-hun and Ga-yeong stared in horror. In-ho, however, only nodded. Parents killing children. Children killing parents. Just another cycle of unstopable violence. Just another part of human nature.

“Umma… I’m not leaving you. I’m sorry,” Yongsik whispered, collapsing beside her body, her hand locked in his.

Five seconds.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice hollow.

“Yongsik!” Gi-hun shouted, desperate, urging him to move, to escape. But the boy didn’t stir. His eyes were fixed on his mother, his world already ended.

Three seconds.

Gi-hun looked at the timer. Without a word, he seized Ga-yeong’s hand. Together, they crossed the threshold.

The timer struck zero.

Gunfire erupted. Yongsik crumpled beside his mother, both bodies lying together on the cold ground. Not at the hands of a VIP in disguise, but a regular soldier. Efficient. Merciless.

The footage ended before Gi-hun’s reaction could be seen.

In-ho leaned back into his armchair, the silence heavy once more. He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips, letting the burn of it drown the taste of blood lingering in his mind.

Now In-ho turned on the screen, the flickering glow cutting through the dimness of his private quarters. One by one, he switched through the dormitory camera angles.

His eyes eventually landed on Gi-hun. He wasn't handcuffed in place. There was no reason for him to be chained, as it seems he was not going to try to harm himself. His body was slumbed in a quiet despair now.

Jun-hee lay on one of the steel-framed bunks, her body curled protectively around the fragile life in her arms. The baby pressed against her chest with a small, instinctive grasp. Hyun-ju sat at her side, her fingers tightly holding Jun-hee’s hand

In-ho reminded himself that he should not feel bad. He repeated it like a mantra, trying to scrub away the faint pang in his chest. Jun-hee probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer if she had given birth outside the game. He knew her debts, knew the pitiful absence of family waiting for her in the outside world.

It will be winter soon.

Ga-yeong—she was the same age as Jun-hee. Yet she wasn’t beside her. In-ho’s brow furrowed. Where had she gone?

In-ho flicked through the camera angles again, and then he saw her. Ga-yeong was speaking with one of the pink soldiers—the one with the triangle mask. The stark, geometric symbol glowed faintly beneath the dim camera light.

Why was she talking to him?

Moments later, the triangle soldier pressed a button on his transmitter. The static-laced click cut through the surveillance feed. In-ho straightened in his chair, his curiosity ignited, and accepted the call.

“Captain, player 067 wants to speak to you,” the soldier’s muffled voice came through the speaker.

Ga-yeong… she wanted to speak to him? In-ho’s eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to the screen, studying her posture, her expression. Slowly, almost ritualistically, he lifted his Frontman mask. His lips curved downward as he adjusted the voice modulator, the machinery bending his tone into a cold, metallic resonance.

“Give her the transmitter,” he commanded, his voice distorted and robotic through the modulator.

He wanted to know what Gi-hun’s daughter could possibly need.

The soldier obeyed, handing her the device. Ga-yeong took it into her small hands, her fingers brushing over the buttons with a mixture of caution and awe. She lifted it tentatively to her lips.

“Hello?” Her voice slipped out—soft, uncertain, quivering with fear.

She sounded frightened, but she didn’t flinch when In-ho responded calmly, “Player 067.”

He scrutinized her through the camera lens, trying to peel back her layers, trying to glimpse the intentions hiding beneath her wide-eyed innocence. His gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, back toward Gi-hun.

The man now cradled Kim Jun-hee’s child, holding her as though she were sacred. The image was almost blasphemous—a broken gambler transformed into a figure that resembled a saint, Mother Mary reborn in male form, a fragile baby balanced against his chest.

Jun-hee, pale and gaunt, rested against her bunk. Hyun-ju still clutched her hand, their exhaustion mirrored in their hollow eyes and trembling fingers.

Then Ga-yeong’s voice burst through the transmitter with a force that shocked him: “Screw you!”

The words stabbed into the silence. They rang in his ears, sharp, unexpected.

In-ho blinked, momentarily disarmed.  He wasn’t sure how to respond.  Was that all she wanted? Just to curse him?

“What do you want, player 067?” he asked, trying to sound intimidating, though inwardly, he felt the stirrings of surprise.

She pressed on, voice taut with conviction: “Mr. Seong says that you are that man in the black mask. That you are in charge of this.”

“And what do you want?” His patience frayed, his voice dropping lower, darker. If she had been just another nameless player, he would have ended this already. A single command, and she’d vanish from the dorms forever.

Her reply came quickly, words trembling but resolute: “I am sure you know there is a baby now. She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t consent to be here like the rest of us.”

He tilted his head, curious about the direction she was taking.

In-ho stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

“But if she has to stay here until we can leave, then she should be treated as a human being. Mr. Seong and I demand that the baby should at least have clothes, food, and medicine,” she said firmly.

He blinked once, slowly. Was she serious? Where in this bleak fortress was he supposed to find a baby clothes? Formula? Medicine? Nothing in the history of the games had prepared them for this. Even the VIPs, with their grotesque delight in cruelty, had no answer. Some of them had suggested—half-joking, half-serious—that since the infant wasn’t technically a player, she should simply be eliminated. A piece of unfinished business. A problem erased.

But then something else she said caught his attention like a hook tearing through flesh: “Player 456. Does he want to speak to me?”

Could Gi-hun want to talk to him too?

After a brief pause, she said sharper this time: “Mr. Seong doesn’t want to talk to you. He thinks you are their bitch.”

Her words detonated like a grenade. Their what...? Was she talking about the VIPs? The insult vibrated in the hollow chamber of his skull.

Then In-ho recalled the conversation Gi-hun had with the recruiter during the Russian roulette game.

Gi-hun had called him a dog too. A servant on a leash.

In-ho didn’t respond. He wasn’t even sure what he would say. Then, without another word, he disconnected the call.

Through the cameras, he watched Ga-yeong’s confused face as she returned the transmitter back to the triangle soldier.

Then In-ho heard the soldier’s monotone voice again: “Captain.”

In-ho remained silent for a moment, his attention fixed on Gi-hun and the fragile infant clinging to him. Gi-hun whispered something into the baby’s ear, his lips curved into a smile that was both broken and radiant.

“Do it,” In-ho commanded coldly, knowing full well that the Officer who had been in charge during the time when he was in the Games would be furious at this situation. That Officer would have wanted him dead and his place taken immediately. He would kill that infant immediately.

In-ho removed his mask again, exhaling hard. He poured himself another glass of whiskey, amber liquid catching the low light, and swallowed. The burn scorched down his throat, a punishment and a balm. It didn’t matter anymore. He would watch. Watching was enough. For now.

On-screen, Ga-yeong approached her father and noticed him holding the baby. “Her name is Ji-ah,” she said softly.

Gi-hun looked at her, then at Jun-hee. “You gave her this name?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” Jun-hee replied, her voice weary but steady.

Gi-hun carefully placed the baby back into Jun-hee’s arms, his movements tender, reverent.

“You need to eat something,” Ga-yeong said, guiding Gi-hun’s hand toward the potato she had from dinner. In-ho knows that Gi-hun gave his food to Kim Jun-hee.

He hesitated, his eyes clouded with reluctance. But she smiled, her expression encouraging, almost radiant.

“You need strength,” she said, nudging his hand closer to his mouth.

“I am sorry for Young-il. I know you liked him,” she added after a pause.

Gi-hun’s eyes dropped to the floor, heavy with grief.

“You can’t give up now,” she said with unflinching firmness, pressing her hand onto his shoulder. Hyun-ju mirrored her with a small, quiet smile of support.

Finally, Gi-hun took the potato, bringing it to his mouth. Ga-yeong’s smile widened as he took a bite.

For a fleeting moment, In-ho felt something foreign twist inside him. A longing. A hunger to be there in person, to step out from behind the screen and stand close enough to see Gi-hun’s face without the veil of pixels.

But he couldn’t. Not now. He had to return to his role, to the mask, to the prison he had built for himself. Young-il wasn’t real anyway. Just another lie to destroy them . Another knife in their backs. To break them apart.

Jun-hee’s voice broke the stillness: “Myung-gi was eliminated.” Her words trembled. Hyun-ju squeezed her hand tighter, as if to shield her from the truth. “Yong-sik and Geum-ja didn’t make it either.”

“So it really is just us now, isn’t it?” Ga-yeong whispered, the weight of isolation pressing down on them. In-ho wonders why Gi-hun didn't tell her the truth about Myung-gi. He killed him. 

In-ho kept watching, silent, until the lights in the dormitory flickered out.

But he didn’t move. His eyes clung to the image of Gi-hun sitting alone on his bed. The memory slithered back: that night before hide and seek. He had gotten too close to Gi-hun. Too reckless. That was his mistake. And yet… he would do it again.

Gi-hun’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. In-ho leaned closer to the screen, aching to see that strange, aching beauty more clearly.

And then Ga-yeong came to Gi-hun. He looked up at her. She smiled at him and wrapped her arms around him, and held tight.

Gi-hun smiled back as he held his daughter in his arms.

And for some reason, the sight pierced something deep within In-ho, awakening memories long buried.

He thought of his little brother. He remembered a small boy who once clung to him with the same trust, the same unshakable love Ga-yeong now showed her father. He remembered how it felt to be someone’s protector. And he remembered how he betrayed that bond. How he shot his brother. How he left him almost to die.

Now, Ga-yeong was out there, risking everything to protect her father. She hadn’t turned away, not even after watching Gi-hun spill blood, watching him stumble through choices that broke others apart. She stayed.

Jun-ho would never forgive him. His brother would never want him again. He wants to get to the island to get revenge. In-ho is sure he wants nothing to do with him.

And In-ho… In-ho was certain he had lost him forever.

He watched Gi-hun and Ga-yeong a little longer, savoring the closeness he could never reclaim, before he finally switched off the monitors. Rising from the armchair, his steps heavy.

Before In-ho left the room, he thought: There was no turning back now. 

Chapter Text

All X players had voted to leave.

And yet, they lost the vote.

Ga-yeong woke slowly, dragged out of restless sleep as though surfacing from deep water. Her body was heavy, her head clouded. Exhaustion had finally claimed her, but it had offered no mercy —nightmares clung to her mind like cobwebs.

She saw again Myung-gi’s violent attack, Dae-ho’s last breath, Geumja’s hollow eyes, Yongsik’s final moment.

Every image replayed itself mercilessly. Too much. Far too much for one heart to endure.

And yet — at least her father was still beside her. That thought alone kept her tethered. They had stayed together that night, sharing the fragile comfort of one another’s presence. For a fleeting moment, it had almost felt like the old days, when she had been a little girl frightened by thunderstorms. Back then, she would crawl into her parents’ bed, burrow under the blanket, and her father would wrap his arms around her, cradling her as though she were still small enough to fit in his hands. She wasn’t a child anymore, but the way he had held her last night made her wish she could be.

Her body screamed when she tried to stand. Her legs ached as though weighted by stone, and fire burned in her muscles, every step another punishment.

She turned and saw her father still sleeping on the thin mattress. Relief washed over her—at least they hadn’t chained him to the bed again. He looked worn, older somehow, his face carved with grief.

Her eyes drifted across the others. Semi and Minsu had weathered the night without visible harm. Hyun-ju remained steady too, the very image of a brave woman who refused to bend no matter the storm.

And then there was Jun-hee, pale and trembling, clutching her newborn close. The child should have been in a hospital crib, not hidden beneath a bloodstained jacket. The baby needed medical care, warmth, clean cloth—not this nightmare.

Ga-yeong thought of the masked man she had spoken to. He had promised to listen, to do what she asked. But she knew better. His words had been empty, another lie to keep them docile. These people didn’t care. They had sent them here to die, and mercy was not part of their vocabulary. Still, Ga-yeong had clung to hope, foolishly believing that perhaps, at the very least, they would take pity on an infant.

But that was just her own naivety.

The truth was clear now: it would be best to leave. Escape was the only salvation. Yet the others thought otherwise, choosing to stay—even with a newborn among them, even with a mother whose body was still broken from childbirth.

Ga-yeong pressed her hands into fists. She had made a promise, and she would not break it. Too many times she had failed people who trusted her, but not this time. She would protect them. She would save them.

Her father stirred, slowly opening his eyes. His pain was silent but palpable, the kind that seeps from the soul itself. He had watched two of his friends—his allies—die yesterday. And yet, still, he endured.

No one else had to die. Not anymore. If they somehow reached the final game, then she would change it all. She would go back. She would rewind time again if it meant saving her father. Even if it cost her a thousand days trapped in this place, she would do it.

The air vibrated suddenly with the swell of classical music, sharp and alien in this sterile room. That sound would haunt her, she knew, for the rest of her life.

The Pink Soldiers marched in as they always did, boots striking the floor in perfect rhythm. One by one, the others stirred awake at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Ga-yeong glanced at her father again. His eyes were bloodshot, bruised shadows pooled beneath them, but he said nothing. He only watched the soldiers with silent dread.

Nearby, Hyun-ju was helping Jun-hee stand. Jun-hee’s ankle was badly broken, and her movements were strained. The baby was still hidden inside her jacket, though the fabric was stained dark with blood. The sight twisted Ga-yeong’s chest—this was no place for a child, no place for a mother still bleeding.

She approached them, her voice gentle despite the weight in her chest.

“How are you feeling today, are you better?”

Hyun-ju forced a reassuring smile. “I will be fine. Jun-hee’s ankle is a mess. But the baby is doing okay.”

That was enough to steel Ga-yeong’s resolve. They needed to survive. She would not let them down. Somehow, they would all go home today.

The intercom crackled, slicing through their fragile quiet.

“The next game will start momentarily.”

The words rattled through the room like a death sentence.

Ga-yeong felt footsteps behind her— her father moving to join them. She turned, her voice low but urgent.

“Mr. Seong. What was the fifth game that you played the first time?”

She didn’t know the sequence of games. But if her suspicion was right, the final one required only a handful of survivors. The fifth, then, had to be brutal, meant to thin the numbers.

“Glass bridge,” he replied at last. His voice carried weight, and his eyes darkened with memory. There was a mournful shadow in them, the look of a man who had watched someone he cared for fall. Someone he could not save.

Ga-yeong’s stomach clenched. She wondered what choices he had been forced to make, what regrets clung to him even now.

“Well, hopefully we won’t be playing that,” she said lightly, though her chest tightened when she saw Jun-hee’s face pale at his answer. The young mother clutched her baby tighter, trembling.

“I—I can’t leave her here. But I don’t want to bring her there either.” Her voice shook, raw with fear.

Hyun-ju rubbed her arm, steady and warm. “We will keep both of you safe.”

She turned her gaze to Ga-yeong and her father. Both of them nodded silently in agreement.

They were climbing the stairs, one uneven step after another. Her father carried Ji-ah close to his chest, the little girl bundled into the folds of Junhee jacket like a fragile bird hidden from the cold. Hyun-ju had Jun-hee slung against her side, supporting most of her weight. Jun-hee’s limp made every movement slow, every breath strained, and Ga-yeong could see the way pain flickered across her features even when she tried to suppress it. Hyun-ju herself looked exhausted too, though she wore her suffering like armor—silent, unspoken, but heavy all the same.

Ga-yeong pressed her lips together and forced herself to keep climbing. The steps seemed endless, spiraling upward into shadows. If this struggle was only physical, she wasn’t sure how they would survive it. Her own legs trembled, and fatigue clawed at her bones. Every time her eyes fluttered closed, she felt a strange trembling in the air around her, like the distant rumble of an approaching thunderstorm. In her mind’s eye, she saw butterflies with shattered wings falling into the void, but their meaning slipped from her grasp.

No. She couldn’t let herself drown in that vision. They would make it. They had to.

Jun-hee faltered on the step below, pausing as though her body had finally betrayed her. She stared down at the floor beneath them, her expression distant, vacant, as if she were already slipping away. Hyun-ju murmured something soft and urgent into her ear, but Jun-hee didn’t respond. Her eyes seemed lost somewhere far beyond these walls.

“Are you alright?” Ga-yeong asked, her voice breaking through the silence.

Jun-hee lifted her gaze slowly, first to Ga-yeong, then past her toward the steady back of Ga-yeong’s father, where her baby girl slept against his chest. Her lips trembled.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” she whispered.

“Don’t say that,” her father’s voice carried back immediately, steady but firm, as though he refused to let despair take root.

Jun-hee shook her head, and tears spilled freely down her cheeks. They gleamed in the dim light like molten glass. “I am only slowing you down. I kept her because I didn’t want to be alone anymore… but now I’m going to leave her on her own instead.” Her eyes returned to her daughter, her voice breaking with guilt and grief.

“I have a daughter too,” her father said suddenly, and Ga-yeong snapped her head toward him. His words cut through the heavy air.

“I was never a good father,” he continued, his voice raw, stripped of defenses. “I made a lot of mistakes. I hurt her. But she’s all grown up now. Your child is going to grow up too, Jun-hee.”

The honesty of it made Ga-yeong’s throat tighten. She almost broke into tears right there, because she knew the truth beneath his words: he would never see her as a child again. Time had already stolen that chance from him, and she was no longer the little girl who once reached for his hand.

“I just want her to have a bright future,” Jun-hee said, her head hanging, her shoulders trembling. “To get out of here. If I can’t—”

“You will,” he interrupted firmly, cutting off her despair before it could grow teeth. “Don’t give up before you’ve even started. Protect her.”

“You will make it, Jun-hee,” Hyun-ju said with quiet certainty, her voice soft but sharp as a blade of steel.

And so, step by step they began climbing the stairs again.

The first thing Ga-yeong saw was the massive back of the doll from Red Light, Green Light, looming at the far end of the hall. As she stepped inside, the others around her were already glancing about, just as confused and unsettled as she was.

Behind her, Hyun-ju gently helped Jun-hee toward a wooden bench. Jun-hee lowered herself down with effort, her face pale and drawn, every movement betraying her pain.

Ga-yeong’s eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat, then she turned back to the scene in front of them. Her pulse stuttered—then began to hammer violently in her chest.

It wasn’t the doll. It wasn’t a gun.

It was a jump rope.

The sight twisted her stomach. She remembered vividly: Jun-hee’s ankle was broken. Hyun-ju’s leg, too, had been injured badly in the fight. How could they possibly—

Her gaze slid to her father. He was standing a few steps away, little Ji-ah nestled in his arms. The baby was asleep, her tiny head lolling gently against his chest, oblivious to the nightmare around her.

Ga-yeong’s eyes flicked back to the setup of the game. Between their side and the far platform stretched a thin, fragile-looking bridge. It might have been crossable—if not for the thick rope whipping across it in dizzying arcs, rising and slamming down with brutal speed.

A loud CLANG signaled the start of the clock.

The rope hissed through the air in sweeping circles. Thwoosh. Thwoosh. Each pass was fast, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Ga-yeong bit her lip until she tasted the sharp sting of blood.

Her father and the baby—they would be fine. If anything happened, she could rewind time, reset the mistake. The others, too, she might still save.

But Jun-hee…

Ga-yeong hurried to the bench. Jun-hee was still seated, staring at the viciously spinning rope as though it might swallow her whole. Hyun-ju hovered at her side.

“I can’t stand on my ankle,” Jun-hee whispered, her voice trembling.

“Then Hyun-ju is going to carry you,” Ga-yeong said firmly, trying to make the words sound like fact, like certainty.

But Hyun-ju’s gaze dropped to the ground. She shook her head, her voice no louder than a broken confession. “I can’t… I can’t.”

Ga-yeong turned to her, horrified. Hyun-ju’s face was ashen, her jaw clenched. Then she admitted, “I’ve got a broken ankle from the fight. I’m not sure I’ll even make it across myself.”

Ga-yeong’s throat tightened. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. She had promised Jun-hee. She could not let her down.

“I’ll carry you,” Ga-yeong said. Her voice shook, but the determination in it was iron.

Jun-hee blinked, startled, her eyes wide. “No. Please, don’t put yourself in danger. Please—I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be the reason anyone dies here.” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, streaking her cheeks.

Her father appeared then, stepping close. His voice was steady, grave. “Are you going to make it across?”

Jun-hee wiped at her tears quickly, trying to compose herself. “Mr. Seong. Please… protect my daughter. She needs to live. But I…”

“I said I’ll carry you across. We can make it,” Ga-yeong interrupted, cutting off her despair. The danger was real. She was exhausted, her body screaming for rest, and she still needed to watch her father. But she would not stand by and let someone else die. Not again.

Her father crouched to her level, speaking softly. “Your baby is going to be safe here. We’ll make it to the other side, and then you can come get her when the game is over.” His hands were gentle, coaxing reassurance into his words.

Jun-hee’s fingers trembled as she placed the baby into the flowerbed of a painted window on the wall of the fake house behind them, cradled in the petals like a fragile offering.

“All players must make it across the bridge,” a cold voice announced behind them.

They turned. A masked guard stood there, rifle raised, the black mask tilted directly at Jun-hee—and the baby.

“That’s not a player. It’s a baby,” Hyun-ju snapped, her voice sharp despite her weakness.

“Everyone must make it across,” the guard repeated, monotone, the rifle’s barrel unwavering.

Her father stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between the weapon and the child. Around them, others were beginning to approach the bridge, eyes fixed on the swinging rope, but no one intervened.

“It’s a baby. It can’t go on it's own,” he hissed. His fury was a live wire beneath his skin.

The guard didn’t flinch. “All players must make it across the bridge.”

Ga-yeong’s heart sank. That man in the black mask—the one orchestrating this—he was behind this cruelty.

“She’s just a baby! She didn’t consent! She shouldn’t even be here! You can’t do this to her!” her father roared. The rage in him was raw, echoing the same words Ga-yeong herself had once hurled at their captain.

But the rifle never wavered.

“Mr. Seong. You have to take her,” Ga-yeong said quickly. Her chest ached, but she steadied her voice. “You have to make it across with her.” If he went first, she could control the situation. Then she and Jun-hee would follow.

Her father’s eyes searched hers, then shifted to Jun-hee, then the baby.

“Please, sir. We don’t seem to have any other choice,” Hyun-ju murmured.

He looked at her, then at the rope, then at the faceless guard. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. But you have to make it across too. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Jun-hee blinked rapidly, tears sliding down her face as she handed him her child.

He stripped off his jacket, twisted it into a makeshift sling, and tucked Ji-ah inside, wrapped snugly in Jun-hee’s own coat. He tied the fabric tightly across his chest, securing her as best he could.

Jun-hee rose shakily to her feet, supported by Hyun-ju. She bent down to press her face to the baby’s one last time. “See you on the other side,” she whispered.

Her father turned to the bridge. The rope sliced past him with a vicious hiss, and Ga-yeong saw his shoulders twitch at the near miss. She held her breath as he stepped forward.

The rope passed again. He jumped. Then again—step, jump, step. Every movement measured, his arms clutched tightly around the baby.

Ga-yeong bit down on her tongue, the metallic taste flooding her mouth. He has to make it.

But then—he froze. Her heart plummeted. A gap yawned in the bridge ahead.

How would she manage it with Jun-hee? Even her father had barely crossed, and he’d only been carrying a baby. She bit down harder, forcing back panic.

Then, with a grunt, he leapt the gap. And again.

And then—it was over. He stumbled off the bridge, legs trembling, but Ji-ah was still secure against his chest. Relief broke across his face like sunlight, and he lifted the baby gently, supporting her tiny head, smiling back at Ga-yeong. She managed a smile through the tears brimming in her eyes.

He placed the baby carefully in another flowerbed across the platform, safe for now.

Now it was Ga-yeong’s turn. She inhaled deeply, steadying her breath.

A commotion drew her gaze—the bridge was already occupied. Hyun-ju was halfway across, her movements clumsy and uneven, each jump a struggle. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead.

On the bench, Jun-hee stared, wide-eyed and terrified.

Hyun-ju reached the gap. Her leap was barely enough—she staggered, nearly falling, but somehow caught herself. Her entire body shook with exhaustion. She pressed forward, one shaky jump at a time.

At last, she collapsed onto the far side, gasping, her chest heaving. Ga-yeong saw her father drop to his knees to check on her. She was alive.

The clock ticked down. Others were now venturing onto the bridge as well—there were still twenty minutes left.

Across the platform, Ga-yeong noticed Semi locked in a furious argument with Nam-gyu. In a flash of defiance, Semi snatched his necklace and hurled it across the bridge.

Nam-gyu’s face turned crimson with rage. He lunged at her, his fist raised, but Minsu stepped in, taking the blow for her.

Snarling, Nam-gyu shoved past them, storming toward the bridge. In his fury, he grabbed another player and threw them violently off the edge, the scream echoing into the abyss.

Scrambling forward, he retrieved his necklace—but when he opened it, his eyes widened. Empty.

Semi stood back, the missing drugs clenched in her fist. She smirked at him, then crushed them beneath her heel.

Nam-gyu’s shout was drowned out by the rope’s hiss. He turned too late—the swing caught him, and with a flailing scream, he toppled off the bridge into the void.

Semi and Minsu exchanged a quick look, then stepped carefully onto the bridge together, moving in rhythm with the others.

Ga-yeong looks up the timer, they still have ten minutes. And there were others still waiting to cross.

All this time Jun-hee is quiet. Her whole body is shivering as they get closer.

"Okay. Jun-hee you need to get on my back and hold on to me. Can you do that?" Ga-yeong asks her. She notice that player 096 who kept pushing people off and her father are arguing.

Hopefully nothing bad is going to happen.

Ga-yeong leans down so Jun-hee could get on her back. She is glad that girl doesn't weight that much. But still carrying someone while jumping is going to be hard.

She will kept her promise.

She steps on the bridge. 

As the rope gets to her, Ga-yeong jumps. Jun-hee is holding her tightly and is breathing heavily. 

Ga-yeong is already sweating. And then she see on the other side 096 is strangling her father and no one around him does anything to help him. Hyun-ju is still laying on the floor. Semi and Minsu are at the gap. 

But she had to focus on getting to the other side. The rope whooshes past her. If she falls, Jun-hee falls with her.

Another whoosh comes faster than she expects. Ga-yeong flinches and jumps, but her foot slips; her ankle twists in a way that throws her off balance. The rope swings above her head, slicing the air in a high, predatory arc like a vulture circling its prey.

Jun-hee is barely holding on. Her breaths come ragged and loud in Ga-yeong’s ear, each one a small tremor against Ga-yeong’s neck. Ga-yeong’s nerves feel as though they’ve been frozen in place, each movement numbed by the panic beneath her skin. Still, she forces herself forward — she can’t let Jun-hee down.

She jumps again. Step, jump — step, jump. It starts to form a rhythm: a desperate staccato against the swaying bridge. Her mind narrows until it is a single, unblinking point on the other side, where her father waits. He must have pushed that player off. She clings to the image like a talisman: Ji-ah, Hyun-ju, dad — they are all waiting for them.

Sweat beads across Ga-yeong’s forehead, hot and stinging; it runs in thin rivers into her hairline. Her body trembles with exhaustion. Jun-hee clings to her back like a second heartbeat, tiny nails digging into Ga-yeong’s shoulders, knuckles whitening with the strain.

Ga-yeong jumps again. The weight of both of them feels like lead in her limbs, suffocating in it's insistence, but she keeps moving because there is no other choice. She had to.

They reach the gap. For one suspended second her breath stops and the world slows into a smear of sound: the slap of the rope, the grating groan of the bridge, the roaring in her ears. Her mind freezes. The distance yawns beneath her like an accusation. She almost loses her footing — the tremor of near-failure passing through her like a current.

Can she jump it? She almost didn’t make it through. How can she make it across now?

The rope whoops again, it's motion a whip of sound. Ga-yeong’s legs burn from ankles to thighs; every muscle shouts in agony as if set on fire. She feels limp, about to collapse at any instant.

If she rewind time now, in this state, they would never make it across. But she won’t allow that thought to take root. No — she won’t let Jun-hee down. Ji-ah is waiting on the other side. Hyun-ju. Dad. Everyone is waiting.

Ga-yeong looks at the timer: five minutes.

They can make it.

She jumps again. This time she clears the gap. They made it. But there’s a sudden, hollow realization — Jun-hee’s weight is gone from her back.

She turns, heart pounding so hard she thinks it will tear through her ribs. Jun-hee is on the other side. She must have slipped from Ga-yeong’s back.

Ga-yeong freezes and stares at her. Why did she do that? They could make it through.

“Jun-hee!” She calls her name. Jun-hee is crying again. Then Ga-yeong remembers what she said — that she doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone, that she doesn’t want to be the reason for someone’s death.

And then the rope swings again. Jun-hee looks at her baby on the other side and falls.

Ga-yeong’s scream rips out of her, raw and animal, but the rope takes her too. She had been too focused on Jun-hee to watch the world properly. The ground rushes upward to meet them; gravity seizes her body and drags it down in a cold, remorseless pull. Her father’s voice knives through the air — a distant, mangled syllable of her name. The universe tilts and spins.

No — she cannot die. Not like this. Not when the finish line is almost within reach. She cannot let Jun-hee die either.

Before her body meets the ground, she closes her eyes. Blue butterflies — impossible and luminous — flutter around her falling form, and the world rewinds: she is back on the bridge.

Back at the gap. Jun-hee is still on her back. Blood trickles from her nose, a hot line that tastes metallic in the back of her throat. Her head swims, but she is alive — given another chance.

She won’t let Jun-hee die. She won’t fail.

This time when she jumps, she doesn’t allow Jun-hee to slip. Not even when Jun-hee twists and squirms, trying to free herself as if the weight were a confession. Ga-yeong clutches tighter, a vice of determination.

They make it across. Just a few more meters and the safe ground of the opposite side will be under their feet.

She jumps again. Step. Another jump. It is like walking on a field of smoldering coals; every landing sends white-hot pain through her calves and up into her spine. She is a puppet of aching muscle and stubborn will.

Jun-hee must make it.

Then Ga-yeong trips. The exhaustion that has been creeping at the edges of her consciousness finally overwhelms her balance. Jun-hee slips from her back again.

They are nearly at the end now. This time, Jun-hee scrabbles and clutches the bridge’s edge. Ga-yeong stands above her, panting, watching.

Jun-hee’s hands shake as she hangs there, knuckles scraped and skin slick with sweat. The bridge creaks under their combined weight, and every second stretches taut with the possibility of catastrophe.

Ga-yeong jumps again. She has to reach her and haul her up. They have to make it.

She reaches toward Jun-hee’s small, desperate fingers and grasps them, nails biting into fleshy skin. For one miraculous beat it feels as though the world holds it's breath with them; Ga-yeong strains every tendon, muscles screaming, trying to pull Jun-hee up and over.

But the rope swings again, like a metronome of fate. She must jump. Her legs are like stone; motion is a labor that costs everything. She cannot both pull Jun-hee up and leap the rope at the same time.

Still, she tries. She refuses to choose between them. She presses her will into her hand, into the hold, a raw bargain with the world.

Jun-hee looks at her. Her face is drawn tight with pain. Tears trail down her cheeks in thin, incandescent lines.

"Take care of her," She whispers and then let go off Ga-yeong hand.

For a breathless instant Ga-yeong’s fingers remain linked to Jun-hee’s, warmth against warmth, the last thread between them. Then the grip loosens.

Then she falls into the abyss. Ga-yeong doesn’t even have time to react; she needs to jump before she dies too. It all happens in the blink of an eye.

She turns her head back toward the far end of the bridge. Her father’s scream—her name and Jun-hee's name—rips through the air, but for her it is only a distant, metallic ringing inside her skull.

She has only two minutes to cross. Just a few meters and she will be next to her father and Ji-ah.

As Ga-yeong takes another step and leaps, she looks down again. Jun-hee lies on the floor among scattered painted yellow flowers. Blood spreads outward from her like a dark halo, soaking the flowers and petals. Her body is still. Cold. Unmoving.

She is dead. Jun-hee is gone.

Ga-yeong cries as she jumps again. Nausea twists through her like a second heartbeat; the world tilts and she feels the acid rise in her throat. Her body threatens to give out.

But she jumps and forces another step.

Why did she even have these powers if she couldn’t save a single person? If she couldn’t do a goddamn thing?

Powerless, despite everything. Tired of this place, tired of the cruel geometry of choices and consequences.

One more jump. One more step, and she will be on the other side.

She could not keep her promise to Jun-hee. She could not bring her home. But she can keep one last promise: Ji-ah will be saved. She will take care of her.

Ga-yeong keeps crying; the tears blur the world into smears of light and shadow.

She takes another step and reaches the far side.

Her father grabs her by the jacket just as she almost collapses to the ground.

"Jun-hee!" Hyun-ju screams as she is watching Jun-hee dead body from the the edge. Her entire body shakes as she is overwhelmed with grief.

She hears her father sobbing. She cannot comfort him.

Ga-yeong vomits, retching up the last thing she ate.

Jun-hee. Another fallen friend. Another promise broken.

Her father’s arms are around her, asking if she is okay, cradling a trembling, hollow thing. She does not answer. Emptiness sits where words should be. Cursed. A disappointment. Hysterical and useless.

She let them down. She let Jung-bae, Young-il, Dae-ho, Geum-ja, Yong-sik, Young-mi… she cannot even remember all of their names.

But she let them down. She let them die.

Ga-yeong feels fragile in her father’s arms. Her sobs shake her limbs with a terrifying force; blood and vomit smear the side of her face. Her whole body convulses and rolls as the grief rips through her.

She feels crushed, beaten. She imagines the people watching them—cold faces in the crowd—mocking. She senses the captain’s smile, as if he watches their despair for sport.

And then the timer beeps.

“The game is over.” The intercom cheerfully announces.

Chapter Text

Only twelve people had survived the jump rope. Eleven players, if he didn’t count the baby.

Gi-hun carried Ji-ah in his arms, the tiny weight of her both grounding and haunting him. Ga-yeong trailed right behind him, her steps slow, her face pale as though all color had drained from her.

Jun-hee’s death wouldn’t leave his mind. The memory clung to him like smoke. How desperately his daughter had tried to save her. How close they had been—so close—to the end. Yet despite everything, despite the futility, Jun-hee had stayed brave. His daughter too. Both of them were brave in ways he wasn’t sure he ever could be.

Hyun-ju stumbled at the edge of his vision, barely conscious, her legs dragging. Semi and Minsu kept her upright, their arms locked around her shoulders, steadying her with quiet determination.

The dormitory felt gutted. Most of the beds had been cleared, leaving the space hollow and skeletal, echoes bouncing where voices once were. The emptiness gnawed at him.

He didn’t know how many exactly had died in jump rope. He hadn’t dared to count. He hadn’t paid attention, because every second of survival demanded everything he had. But he knew Jun-hee was gone, and that was more than enough.

And now, Gi-hun found himself wondering if this was enough. Was this blood enough? Was this pain enough? Would the players finally vote to leave, or would their greed carry them forward until they had wrung every last drop of life out of one another? Until there was nothing left to sell, no more suffering to bargain with?

There were so few left. Surely, surely the prize money would be enough for them all to walk away now.

He remembered the five who had voted to leave before: himself, Ga-yeong, Hyun-ju, Semi, and Minsu. But the others? He wasn’t sure. Six men he barely recognized. Only one face was familiar—Player 203. He had always clung to Player 100, part of his circle, his shadow. And now, it seemed, he had become their leader by default.

Gi-hun’s eyes drifted back to Hyun-ju. Semi helped her sit on one of the few beds left, lowering her down carefully. She looked hollowed out, crushed, her spirit fractured. The bold, defiant woman who had stood beside him in rebellion seemed a ghost now.

Ga-yeong wasn’t faring much better. She sat on the bed, staring blankly at a patch of wall wher some Latin words were scratched into the surface. Gi-hun had tried to comfort her, to reach her, but his words were useless. They slid off her grief like water on stone. He knew that nothing he could say would bring Jun-hee back.

They needed to leave. They needed to end this.

The heavy metal door groaned open, and a guard stepped inside. His voice was clipped, cold:

“There are twelve players remaining.”

Player 203’s head jerked up. “Twelve?” he demanded, confusion sharpening into suspicion. “What do you mean, twelve? There are only eleven of us.”

The guard began to list the numbers aloud, one by one. And in that list—

He included 222.

Gi-hun’s stomach dropped. His breath caught. They really had made the baby into a player.

“What?” someone shouted from across the room. The man’s voice was jagged with panic, his finger stabbing the air toward Ji-ah. “It’s an infant. It can’t play the games—it should be eliminated!”

Gi-hun froze. The word stabbed through him, leaving his chest raw, hollow. Eliminated?

She was a baby.

“Right!” another man snarled, seizing on the idea. “We shouldn’t have to share our money with that baby! She didn’t sign up for the games!”

Gi-hun turned on him, his vision narrowing, his world collapsing into a dark, suffocating tunnel where only that man existed.

Was this what the VIPs wanted? Was this what the Frontman wanted—to strip them of the last shred of humanity they had left?

Ga-yeong stared too, but she didn’t raise her voice, didn’t spit fire like she normally did. She said nothing.

Then, as if to mock them, the guards projected the prize money.

“Bullshit!” one of the men on the far side shouted. His voice cracked with rage, his fists trembling. “They’re giving our money to that child? We fought through these games—I’ve nearly died so many times! Fucking bullshit!”

Do they really want to continue? Gi-hun thought. Do they really want to walk willingly into more blood, more death?

But maybe, just maybe, if he could convince even one of them…

The guard interrupted his thoughts. “To congratulate you on making it through to the last game, we have prepared a gift.”

Boxes were carried in and handed out. Each contained the black suits of the finalists. Yet one extra, smaller box had been placed in Gi-hun’s hands.

He frowned, holding it up. “What’s in the second?” he asked, pointing at the smaller one.

The guard’s reply was curt. “You requested this from captain Player 456.” He handed the box forward.

Gi-hun carried both boxes to the bed where Ga-yeong sat with Ji-ah and Hyun-ju lay half-curled, her chest rising shallowly.

“How is she doing?” Gi-hun asked quietly, his eyes softening as they flicked to Hyun-ju. But Ga-yeong didn’t answer.

“Jun-hee—” Hyun-ju’s voice cracked like glass under strain, her grief spilling out.

Gi-hun set the boxes on the bed, breaking the moment gently. He opened the first. Inside lay the black suit and polished shoes, his player number stitched neatly into the fabric.

Around the dorm, the others began opening their boxes too. Some men disappeared into the bathroom to change.

Gi-hun turned to the smaller box, hands trembling slightly. He opened it—and froze.

Inside were baby clothes, a clean diaper, formula, and a small packet of pills.

His throat tightened. He looked at Ji-ah in Ga-yeong’s arms, still wrapped in dirty, ragged jackets.

Ga-yeong followed his gaze. “Is that for the baby?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gi-hun nodded slowly.

“So their captain really listened to me,” she murmured.

He blinked. She asked the Frontman for this?

“What do you mean?”

“I called, and I told him that we request this,” she said. “I didn’t know he would actually listen to me.”

It was strange. Strangely human. This was the same man who had executed Jung-bae without hesitation, the same man who had made a baby into a player. And yet… he had listened.

Why? Why did the Frontman did that?

“And did you say anything else to him?” Gi-hun asked.

“I told him he is a bitch.”

Gi-hun let out a short, shaky chuckle. Of course. Of course she would say that. All Seongs were the same.

Soon, the men who had gone to change returned, now dressed in black suits. The fabric fit them like coffins, stiff and sharp.

Another guard entered, stepping forward. “You will go and change now.”

Semi and Minsu stood, their boxes in hand.

Ga-yeong looked at Ji-ah, then at Hyun-ju.

“Dad, do you know how to change babies?” she asked.

Gi-hun raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think was changing you when you were little?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled. She placed Ji-ah into his arms, carefully, with trust.

Gi-hun cradled the baby with practiced ease. His hand supported her head, his arm folding her close to his chest. She fit into the crook of his elbow like she had always belonged there.

Ga-yeong gathered the three boxes, balancing them carefully in her arms. She looked back at Hyun-ju, who was still slumped on the bed.

“Hyun-ju, we need to go to the bathroom. You need to change clothes too,” Ga-yeong urged, shaking her arm gently.

Hyun-ju groaned but pushed herself upright, each movement stiff with pain. Sweat broke out across her forehead as she forced herself to stand. She looked fragile, but she was strong. Strong enough to keep moving.

The walk to the bathroom wasn’t far, yet by the time they reached the door, Hyun-ju’s skin gleamed with sweat, her breath uneven.

She disappeared slowly into the women’s bathroom.

But Ga-yeong didn’t follow her.

"I feel like a failure. I feel like I let everyone down," she whispers, her voice breaking like glass under too much pressure.

Gi-hun recognizes the heaviness in her tone — because he has carried it too. That raw, choking guilt, the kind that never lets you rest. He knows what it is to feel crushed by choices, by losses, by the gnawing weight of survival. But he also knows they can’t let it devour them now. Not here. Not while they still have breath.

They’re not alone. he tells himself. We’re not alone. We can get out of here. We have to.

He speaks softly, but with the firm edge of someone who refuses to give in: “Don’t say that. You tried your best. You did something no one else dared to do. You saved Semi. You saved someone.”

Her eyes flash with pain, anger finally uncoiling inside her.

“But that’s not enough! Out there, outside of this place, I did so much more!” Her voice rises, trembling, and then it cracks.

Ji-ah start to cry in his arms. Gi-hun try to comform her, trying to shoosh the baby.

He doesn’t know what his daughter becomes in the future. He doesn’t even know if he will live long enough to see that future. In fact, part of him already knows the truth: he was dead there. And Young-il told Ga-yeong this — his friend was gone too.

The thought twists inside him like a knife. What happened after his death? Did Young-il end up the winner? And if so, what became of Ji-ah? Of all of them? Did he die trying to save them? Did Jun-ho arrive in time, storming in like the hope they all needed? Or was that just another dream crushed by the island’s endless cruelty?

Gi-hun doesn’t know. But there is one truth clawing at him, one question he needs answered.

“What did you do in the future? With the money?” he asks her, almost afraid of the reply.

Her gaze steadies, just for a moment, as though pulling strength from memory.

“I spent that money to study law. I wanted to be a lawyer, and then a judge. I wanted to help people with justice — people who can’t fight for themselves.”

Gi-hun blinks, surprised, almost ashamed of how little he had expected from her. Noble. That was the word. He never imagined her life would curve toward something so fierce, so selfless. He was once just a mechanic. Her mother, a housewife. But his daughter — she was carving out a legacy of justice. His chest swells with pride at what she became.

“And the rest?” he asks, quietly curious.

“I used it to buy an apartment in L.A. I don’t live with my mother anymore. I still had a lot of money left, so I donate to charity. And I traveled… to Hawaii,” she adds, almost smiling at the memory.

“Hawaii?” Gi-hun tilts his head, puzzled. “Where? Is that like Jeju island?”

She nods through her tears. “Yeah. There are a lot of islands in America.”

For a second, they almost forget where they are. The thought of warm beaches and a life far away from this nightmare makes the silence less sharp, if only briefly. But reality claws back quickly.

“Well,” Gi-hun says, forcing his focus, “we should concentrate on getting off this island. I have a team outside. They were supposed to track me, but they discovered the tracker.”

“A team?” Ga-yeong raises her eyebrows, suspicion cutting through her exhaustion.

“Yes. Jun-ho is there. He snuck onto the island to find his brother,” Gi-hun explains.

Her breath catches. “And… did he find him?”

Gi-hun looks away, the truth heavy on his tongue.

“No. And I’m not sure what’s happening outside anymore.”

It has been five days. Five endless days. His mind spirals with worry — did something happen to Jun-ho? Were they caught? Or worse? He can’t reach them, can’t know for certain. All he has is faith that Woo-seok and the others were clever enough, determined enough, to still make it in time.

“I should go help Hyun-ju,” Ga-yeong says finally, her voice steadying with resolve.

Gi-hun nods, holding Ji-ah close, and together they walk toward the men’s bathroom.

When he returned, the atmosphere in the room had changed. The long tables were already arranged in the center, pushed together in a perfect circle beneath the looming piggy bank that glowed cruelly above them.

Ga-yeong spotted him and offered a small smile, waving lightly at Ji-ah cradled in his arms. Beside her, Hyun-ju sat stiffly. Her skin had gone pale, and even from across the room he could see the exhaustion dragging her down.

There was one empty chair left—beside Ga-yeong and Minsu. Before sitting, Gi-hun carefully placed Ji-ah in a small crib that had been set up near the tables. A pink-suited soldier already stood waiting with another bottle of formula, watching over the baby like a caretaker in a nightmare.

The whole scene made Gi-hun’s stomach turn. It was theater—another grotesque spectacle for the people above. Every detail was orchestrated, every moment a performance. He wanted to vomit.

“Please enjoy,” a guard said, his voice hollow beneath the mask. Servants carried in trays heavy with food: elaborate dishes, steaming and fragrant, an obscene abundance compared to the gnawing hunger in their bellies. Each place was set with a spoon and a pair of chopsticks, framing their plates with ritualistic precision.

Gi-hun froze for a moment, haunted by memory. He remembered sitting at a table like this before, sharing a final meal with Sang-woo and Sae-byeok. He remembered the knife in his hand, the boiling rage urging him to end Sang-woo’s life. But Sae-byeok had stopped him, reminding him that he wasn’t that kind of person.

Now, he felt different. He didn’t have the same fury, the same despair. Against all odds, there was a flicker of something else—hope.

He still didn’t know why the Frontman had spared him. He didn’t know why Ga-yeong’s demands had been listened to. And he certainly didn’t understand what her future held.

His gaze shifted to the circle guard, who gently warmed a bottle before feeding Ji-ah. The baby drank greedily, healthier now thanks to the medicine. Relief flickered through Gi-hun’s chest at the sight.

He glanced at Ga-yeong again, watching her eat slowly. She handled the chopsticks clumsily, almost unfamiliar with them—as though Korean food had long been a stranger to her.

He realized how empty his own stomach was. He hadn’t eaten properly since that miserable boiled potato two days ago. The hunger clawed at him. Slowly, reluctantly, he picked up his chopsticks and sampled one of the dishes. The flavor hit his tongue, rich and heavy, but nausea churned in him still—the jump rope had left his body weak, unsettled.

Across the circle, players with O patch on their suits devoured their meals with savage desperation. They scraped bowls clean, tore through meat with animal hunger. They ate like people who had slaughtered with their own hands—and pretended it never happened.

But Gi-hun had killed, too.  He couldn’t forget Myung-gi—the boy’s wide eyes, the fear, the confusion. He had thought the others turned against him and acted out of panic. But Myung-gi had only wanted to help Jun-hee. He tried to help her. He could if he could see things more clearly.

And now, both of them were gone.

He stared down at his plate, unsure if he could keep eating.

Then Ga-yeong spoke softly, her voice breaking the silence.

“I need to tell you something.”

Gi-hun lifted his head, catching her gaze, then flicked a glance toward Hyun-ju. She was picking at her rice, barely eating. Semi and Minsu did the same, each motion heavy with dread.

“Myung-gi was the father of Ji-ah,” Ga-yeong said suddenly.

The words slammed into him like a fist. He nearly choked on the food in his throat.

“What?” he croaked, his eyes wide with confusion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want it to come to this.”

Gi-hun stared at Ji-ah in the crib, her tiny face softened in sleep. He had killed her father. His hands—already so stained—were drenched with the blood of another parent.

Ga-yeong’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Don’t blame yourself for this. He chose to attack me. You chose to protect. Please… you need to eat.”

He nodded stiffly, forcing himself to chew another bite though the food tasted like ash. He couldn’t shake the weight of her words.

His eyes drifted back to Hyun-ju. She nibbled on a grain of rice, then another, every movement small and deliberate, as though her body could barely muster the strength.

“We will now take a vote on whether to play the next game,” the masked guard announced suddenly, his voice cutting through the room.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened.

Six men wearing O patches immediately turned their gazes upward, staring at the swollen piggy bank. Player 203’s lips curled into a greedy smile at the fortune glimmering above them.

“We will give you a hint about the next game,” the guard continued. “You will be deciding on players to be eliminated.”

“Is that it?” Player 203 sneered. “We just decide who gets eliminated? With a majority vote, we get to choose? How many players will need to be eliminated?”

“You will be choosing who will be eliminated,” the guard repeated flatly.

Would they be playing squid game this time? Or something worse?

“The baby can’t participate in the discussion, can it?” one of the players asked mockingly. “We would already have a majority.”

The truth struck Gi-hun like a blade. There were only five with X patches: himself, Ga-yeong, Hyun-ju, Semi, and Minsu. The others would have the numbers.

The targets were obvious: Ji-ah, because she was a baby; Hyun-ju, once the strongest but now injured and frail; and Minsu, trembling despite Semi’s presence at his side. Too weak to fight. Too vulnerable to survive.

They couldn’t win like this. Not like this. Gi-hun’s thoughts spun wildly. Even Ga-yeong, with her strange power, was weakening, her face drained of color. They would all be slaughtered unless there was some other way out. Unless Jun-ho’s team broke through. But what if the future Ga-yeong had seen was already too late? What if by then, most of them were dead?

The guards wheeled in the voting machine, cold and mechanical. Gi-hun went first. He cast his vote: to leave.

353: continue.
336: continue.

Ji-ah’s abstention hung in the air, meaningless but heavy.

Player 203 voted to stay, smug and certain. Two other O players followed his lead.

Hyun-ju voted to leave. Semi, then Minsu, followed her example.

It came down to two: Ga-yeong, and one more man from 203’s group.

Ga-yeong pressed the button to leave. The man immediately voted to stay.

The numbers sealed their fate. Five against six. They had lost.

“Please enjoy the rest of your meal, and let us know if you need a refill of anything,” the guard said coldly.

Gi-hun felt a sharp pain in his chest. They would be forced to play again. And he didn’t know if he could ask Ga-yeong to do it—to rewind everything, to erase this entire week. It would drain her, and he would forget everything. If they reset back to Red Light, Green Light, then she would once again be nothing but Player 067—Jihoon.

But Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Young-il, Geumja, Yongsik, Jun-hee…

They could still be alive.

The guards wheeled the voting machine away, while the O players erupted in cheers, voices clamoring with the ugly excitement of people who believed they had already won.

"We can surely win like this. They had majority of women there and a baby! That should be easy!" one of the O players yelled, his voice sharp with cruel certainty.

"That's right! They are so weak. Only have two men with them!" another grinned, a dark, predatory smile curling on his lips as he stared across the room.

Hyun-ju, wincing with each step, slowly pushed herself off the ground and limped back toward her bed, her face pale and strained. Gi-hun gathered Ji-ah in his arms, following Hyun-ju and Ga-yeong down the dimly lit corridor, the tension in the air pressing down like a heavy, wet blanket.

"We are going to be okay, dad," Ga-yeong murmured, her voice soft but resolute, as she climbed into bed. Gi-hun settled next to her, cradling little Ji-ah carefully, feeling the fragile warmth of the child against his chest.

He had to believe that the future could be different now. That hope could exist, even in the midst of this nightmare. Ji-ah and Ga-yeong—they were the fragile sparks he could cling to.

Hyun-ju had already drifted into uneasy sleep, her body slack, exhausted. Gi-hun studied her, worried about the pallor of her skin, silently praying that she would make it through the night. His gaze moved to Semi, fierce and unwavering, her sharp eyes fixed on the men across the room. Minsu lay beside her, shaking slightly, muttering fragments of words into the darkness.

"You should rest too, Ga-yeong," Gi-hun whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. Even as he spoke her real name, he felt it mattered little. They could be listening, always listening. The Frontman’s presence loomed, invisible yet undeniable.

"Dad, were you there with your friend before? Like Jung-bae?" Ga-yeong asked after a quiet pause, her voice tentative.

Gi-hun felt the weight of memory settle over him. He remembered sitting across from Sang-woo on that bed, the urge to stab him with a knife burning through his fingers, only to watch Sang-woo do it himself, sparing Gi-hun’s life.

"Yes. I was there with Sang-woo," he admitted, his voice low but steady, truth spilling out despite the lingering ache in his chest.

"I am sorry, dad," she whispered, quieter now, her words heavy with unspoken guilt. He had wanted to build a world where she could live freely, untouched by these cruel games. And yet here she was, trapped in the same merciless cycle he had endured.

Would things have been different if he had boarded that plane to America? Could anything have truly changed? Ga-yeong had grown up without him—she hadn’t starved, hadn’t suffered the relentless struggle. She had continued to live, thrived even, and yet… she had sought him out.

She came because she missed him. Because she wanted answers he could not give her.

He looked down at Ji-ah, small and innocent in his arms, and wondered if this little girl could have a future. Could he save her? Could he save Young-il, in another timeline, in another life?

He wasn’t sure. But one thing was certain: he would not let Ji-ah die. He could not fail her the way he had failed so many others.

He had failed Ga-yeong, and that failure was the reason she was here now. Though she carried the weight of guilt herself, he knew the truth: she had achieved more than he ever could. Children always outshine their parents. The young surpass the old.

And was there anything more undoing, more humbling, than a daughter?

"We are going to make it," Gi-hun said, his voice resolute, yet soft, carrying a flicker of warmth that barely kept the fear at bay.

She nodded, a small but determined gesture, and then the faint sound of approaching footsteps cut through the quiet. A masked guard stepped into the room, his presence sudden and chilling.

"He wants to see you," the guard said, his tone flat, leaving no room for negotiation.

He—the Frontman? Their commander, their captain?

"Who wants to see you?" Ga-yeong asked, confusion knitting her brow as she looked up at the pink guard figure.

Gi-hun remained silent, offering her no reassurance. The Frontman had requested a private meeting. Face to face. This could be the moment to change something, to bend the rules of fate in their favor. It had to be important.

He handed Ji-ah to Ga-yeong, who hugged her tightly against her chest, small arms wrapping protectively around the child.

"Protect her. I will be right back," Gi-hun said, determination hardening his features. Without waiting for a reply, he followed the soldier out of the room. Ga-yeong said nothing, her eyes locked on him as he disappeared into the door.

The doors slid open with a metallic sigh, and Gi-hun stepped into the room. The air inside felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were watching him. Behind him, the elevator doors sealed shut with a deep clang, and the last thing he glimpsed was the faceless pink soldier who had escorted him here, standing still as a statue in the elevator.

The room swallowed him whole.

Gi-hun turned his head slowly, his pulse hammering so loudly in his throat it felt as though his body itself was betraying him. The room was dimly lit, suffused with a cold, golden glow that seemed designed for intimidation rather than comfort.

There, in the middle of the room, sat the Frontman. He occupied a large armchair as though it were a throne, black mask gleaming faintly in the half-light. He was waiting for Gi-hun.

They were alone. No guards in sight, no cameras obvious to the eye. No sound beyond the faint hum of air vents.

Gi-hun’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. He could feel it echo in his ears, faster and faster. His hands trembled at his sides.

Every nerve in him screamed that he was prey trapped with a predator, but under that fear burned something fiercer: fury. Fury burned in his chest, so hot it felt like it would devour him.

That man. That masked demon. He had killed Jung-bae. He had forced Ji-ah into becoming a player.

Gi-hun could already picture it—his hands tightening around that masked throat, twisting until the life drained out of him. He could feel the urge in his fingertips.

But first, he needed to understand. Why was the Frontman keeping him alive? Why not snuff him out like all the others?

“Sit down,” the Frontman’s voice cut through the silence, calm and commanding. “This could take a while.”

Gi-hun obeyed, lowering himself onto a plain wooden chair positioned across from the armchair. His body sat, but his gaze did not. His eyes stayed locked onto the black mask, unblinking, unflinching.

“I have a proposition for you,” the Frontman continued.

Gi-hun remained silent. Not a word, not a twitch. His body was rigid, his stare burning like fire, waiting to hear what came next.

“It’s about your future. Your daughter’s. And the child’s.”

Gi-hun’s jaw clenched. Of course he knew. Of course this bastard had been watching, listening, always in the shadows. He knew Ga-yeong wasn’t Jihoon. He had been there, unseen, eavesdropping on every word.

“Why do you want to help us?” Gi-hun asked, his voice raw with suspicion.

The Frontman leaned forward slightly. “You’ve probably guessed that others will target you in the next game. Your team is weak. They’ll be easily eliminated. They’ll kill all of you.”

Gi-hun’s mouth curled into something like a snarl. “Isn’t that what you and the people above you want? Isn’t that why you put a newborn baby in the games? So you could watch those money-crazed men butcher her with your own eyes?”

He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t. Why had the Frontman cared enough about Ji-ah to pull her into this nightmare, only to turn her into a player? Why show concern for Ga-yeong’s life? 

Wouldn't that be perfect punishment for him to let her die too?  Why this twisted contradiction?

“I am trying to help you,” the Frontman said at last, his tone unnervingly flat.

Gi-hun laughed, bitter and broken. His shoulders shook with it. His face twitched as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, catching the cold light. “You’re trying to help us?” His voice cracked with disbelief, rage, grief.

Without a word, the Frontman leaned forward. Something clinked against the table between them.

Gi-hun lowered his eyes.

A knife. 

"Take the knife back to the dormitory and kill those nine people. Player 120 won't survive the night, you know that. You can spare her of the misery too. The final game cannot be played with two players," Frontman explained, his voice cold and measured, almost surgical in its precision.

"And what about the baby?" Gi-hun asked, his throat tight, his heart hammering.

"We can easily fake the baby's death. The hosts will believe it. The others are fast asleep after the meal. Slit their throats one by one; no one will notice," Frontman said

Gi-hun's gaze dropped to the knife lying on the table. Its blade caught the dim light, cold and gleaming, whispering promises of violence. He could kill those greedy men who voted to stay. But he couldn’t kill Semi and Minsu. He couldn’t let Hyun-ju die either.

"You haven't answered my question. Why are you trying to help me?" Gi-hun demanded, his voice raw with suspicion and confusion.

Frontman reached up and slowly pulled his hood down.

Gi-hun drew in a sharp breath.

Frontman peeled off his mask deliberately, almost as if he didn’t want to reveal his face.

Gi-hun stared in disbelief and horror as their eyes met.

"Gi-hun-ssi, I’m sorry about Jung-bae," he said quietly.

It was him. Young-il.

He was supposed to die in Hide and Seek. But Gi-hun had never seen his body. He just disappeared.

It had been the Frontman all along—the same man who met Ga-yeong in the future and told her Gi-hun had died. Of course it was him. He had probably killed Gi-hun himself and then met his daughter as part of some cruel, twisted joke.

Gi-hun felt utterly out of control. His fingers twitched toward the knife. He unsheathed it in one fluid motion, standing abruptly. His vision blurred; thoughts scattered like shards of glass in his mind. Hatred and affection clashed violently in his chest.

Young-il had cared for them. He had been his friend. He had a wife he longed to return to. He had saved him before.

He protected Ga-yeong. He cared about her. He cared about Jung-bae too.

But that had all been a lie. He had killed Jung-bae. Was he planning to kill Ga-yeong too?

"Do you want to kill me?" Young-il asked, voice eerily flat, stripped of emotion, more like the Frontman than Young-il.

Gi-hun is overwhelmed. The anger, the pure grief pulsing through him. Young-il’s face is so calm, and he hates it, he hates him.

Young-il had promised him soju once. They had been a team.

You could do it, Gi-hun thought. You could kill him. He had betrayed you. He had always been a traitor. He is the Frontman.

Yet… Young-il had cared. He had killed to save Gi-hun. Ga-yeong had liked him. She had seen him as a friend.

How could he have done this? He had just been using him. Toying with him. Gi-hun had fallen for it all. He had believed in everything Young-il had said. He was a fool.

Was this like in Ga-yeong’s future too? Had he always fallen for lies? Always liked Young-il? Had they already had this conversation before—in a different future?

The knife shook in Gi-hun’s hand.

"You can kill me. But the games will continue. I will be replaced by someone else. You will be forced to play tomorrow. I can't let you die," Young-il said, calm as ever.

He was right. The Frontman was nothing more than a dog on a leash. The VIPs were in charge. They orchestrated everything. They were the true puppeteers, and the Frontman merely moved their pieces across the board.

"I wonder if you offered me this before. If I took the knife to the dormitory, if I slit their throats… but I didn’t, did I?" Gi-hun asked, voice trembling slightly.

Young-il did not respond.

"I didn’t kill those people in Ga-yeong’s future. It must have been different that time. But Ji-ah was there too, wasn’t she? You wanted me to live. But I died, didn’t I?"

"Yes, you did, and that’s why I can’t let you die again," Young-il replied, his voice tinged with a fragility Gi-hun hadn’t expected.

Gi-hun sank back into the chair, heavy with thought. All this time, he had been watching him. He had seen Gi-hun kill Myung-gi in Hide and Seek. He had handed Gi-hun the knife. Myung-gi was Ji-ah’s father.

And Young-il—what of his wife and child? The reasons he had entered the games—were they all lies too? Yet his voice had sounded genuinely sorrowful as he spoke. Gi-hun had fallen for that lie as well.

But there had to be some humanity left in him. He had listened to Ga-yeong even when he didn’t have to. He had joined Gi-hun in rebellion when he could have stopped it before it even started. He hadn’t needed to be part of the fifth game at all.

"You think this is the only way?" Gi-hun asked, his voice rising, anger flickering. He didn’t want to spill more blood. He didn’t want more deaths on his hands.

"And do you suggest something else? It’s either kill them or they will kill you," Young-il answered, unflinching.

"Ga-yeong said I died in her future, which means I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t do what you said. There has to be another way. If you want me to live so much, you will find another way. Otherwise her future will become truth," Gi-hun insisted.

Young-il looked at him, eyes softening in a way Gi-hun had see before, almost as if they were the same eyes that had once discussed strategies, hopes, and survival. He almost look like Young-il. Almost.

"Why are you so stubborn? You want to get yourself killed? Just like that? You want your daughter to experience that again?" Young-il’s voice had an edge now, anger mixing with desperation. His fists clenched.

"Stop the games, Young-il. If you care, if there is something human in you, then you will do it," Gi-hun said, his voice rough with emotion. He hated how much it sounded like begging. Hated that he still liked him. Still cared.

He was his friend. He had felt less alone with him than with anyone else. Someone who understood him. Who valued his words…

Except he knew Young-il for three years. Or the Frontman. They already talked. They already seen each other. Hear each other voices.

He always knew him. Just differently.

"I can't stop this. If I try anything against them, they will kill me. It’s just like your daughter said. I am nothing more than a dog on a leash," Young-il said, voice low and defeated.

"Then why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?" Gi-hun pressed.

"There was nothing for me. I lost, and everything became pointless. When they offered me this position, it meant something. But I am not sure anymore," Young-il admitted.

Who offered him this? Was he… a player too?

"In a way, you have more power than me. You haven’t lost yet. You still have faith. I hate and admire you for that. That’s why I wanted to break you," Young-il continued.

"But you didn’t," Gi-hun said, quiet but firm.

"No. I didn’t. A part of me was hoping you would never break. You almost did. But you kept on fighting, Gi-hun-ssi," Young-il said softly, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"Is that why you want me to win?"

"I wanted you to have a good life," Young-il replied honestly.

Gi-hun remembered the call three years ago—Young-il had told him to board a plane and see his daughter. Maybe he should. But then Ji-ah would likely be dead. Then he wouldn’t have a chance to change anything. He couldn’t ignore all the deaths, all the suffering.

He couldn’t save everyone, but if he didn’t try, what was the point of living? He might as well have died on the streets. He was not that person.

Anger flared once again. He lifted the knife toward Young-il.

"It’s the truth," Young-il said calmly, his voice low and steady. "I want you to have a life. You should have never come here. You were supposed to forget about this. About everything."

His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, as Gi-hun watches him. Young-il’s posture is rigid, shoulders squared but tense, his gaze fixed somewhere on the cracked, pale tile of the floor. There’s a quiet authority in him, the kind born from countless experiences no one should ever endure.

"But you didn’t forget. You are here. You came back. Or were you always in the Games?" Gi-hun asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

That question seems to take Young-il by surprise. He flinches slightly, his eyes darting to the floor, shadowed beneath the harsh overhead lights. For a long moment, he says nothing, letting the silence speak louder than any reply could.

Gi-hun feels a cold wash of clarity. He’s had enough talking. This isn’t about truth anymore. Young-il was probably a soldier once, or maybe just another criminal conscripted into this nightmare. Just another killer, another pawn working to dance in the games’ cruel theater.

He needs to go back to Ga-yeong. They can form a plan, escape on their own. They don’t need a murderer. They don’t need someone like Young-il.

He doesn’t need Young-il’s help. He already let him die once. That man was just a coward—a wolf in sheep clothing, a dog tethered to someone else’s leash.

Gi-hun rises from his chair. The leather creaks under him, protesting his movement, and his hand brushes the knife at his belt. Even now, even after everything, a weapon could be useful.

He turns his back, feeling the chill of the room on his neck as he walks slowly toward the elevator.

Young-il doesn’t move to stop him. His voice, calm yet distant, drifts after him: "Do you still have faith in humanity?"

Gi-hun doesn’t look back. But he knows the black mask is back on Young-il’s face, hiding his emotions. He feels it.

He has faith. Faith in Ga-yeong, Ji-ah, Hyun-ju, Semi, and Minsu. Faith in the people who have long since vanished. Faith in himself. He had faith in Young-il once too.

He wanted to answer—but then—

The elevator door slid open with a soft beep. Gi-hun froze. He can hear that Young-il get from his seat as he heard beep sound of elevator too.

A black square soldier steps out, his polished boots clicking against the golden room’s floor.

And behind him… Jun-ho?

His heart skips. He can’t believe his eyes. Confusion ran through Gi-hun face. 

It’s Hwang Jun-ho.

They must have made it in time. There’s hope, real hope. But then, questions rise like shadows in the corners of his mind: why is he here? How?

"Jun-ho?" he calls, his voice breaking slightly, confusion thick in his voice.

"Player 456. Please step aside," the black square soldier commands, his voice mechanical through the mask, emotionless and sharp.

"What is going on?" Young-il asks, his voice trembling slightly as he steps forward, only to freeze as Jun-ho emerges from the elevator.

Of course—they had met before. The Frontman had shot Jun-ho off the cliff when he tried to escape from the island.

"Gi-hun," Jun-ho calls, scanning the room, his eyes sharp, searching. Young-il stands rigid, caught off guard, a flash of fear crossing his features.

"Captain," the black square addresses Young-il, stepping closer. Gi-hun notices Young-il instinctively recoil, taking a cautious step back as the figure approaches, glinting under the golden light.

"Hey, I thought you said you wanted to save Gi-hun. What are you doing now?" Jun-ho shouts at the black square, voice sharp and full of disbelief.

Gi-hun’s mind spins, trying to piece together the scene before him. He turns, trying to track the soldier’s movements—or is it a second-in-command? The one in charge of the games when Young-il was a player?

The black square pivots toward Jun-ho. "You are too trusting. I was lying, obviously," he says coldly, without hesitation.

Gi-hun and Jun-ho exchange wide-eyed stares. Jun-ho already has his gun drawn, hand trembling slightly with both fear and adrenaline.

"Officer, why is my—" Young-il starts, but his question dies in his throat.

And then-

Gi-hun hears the sharp, deafening crack of a gunshot.

Gi-hun hears a gunshot.

He turns toward Young-il just in time to see the bullet pierce his chest. One shot, perfectly aimed, precise. Just one bullet, wasted no more than necessary.

Young-il collapses, a dark, spreading stain blossoming on his clothing. Blood drips from his lips as he hits the floor with a hollow thud. The air fills with the metallic tang of it. His eyes wide with disbelief and pain.

The officer, the black square, stands unmoving, gun still trained on him.

Young-il is dead. He is dead. Just like that.

Gi-hun opens his mouth, words failing him. Panic and grief collide in a silent scream lodged in his throat.

And then—

Then he hears it—a scream cutting through the room, raw and jagged.

Jun-ho’s scream. A name. His long-lost brother’s name.

Chapter Text

After (in another time):

Her father had returned from the Frontman. She noticed immediately that he looked shaken, his posture stiff, hands trembling slightly as they hung by his sides. The encounter had clearly left it's mark, though she couldn't tell exactly how deep.

But it didn't matter what they talked about or what had happened.

Ga-yeong only cared about how long he had been gone.

Twenty five minutes.

That was all she needed for her plan.

If they wanted to get out of here, she needed to know this place intimately, every hallway, every guard post, every weak spot.

But she couldn’t sneak out—or execute her reckless plan—if her father remained present, shadowing her every move.

Ga-yeong braced herself for failure. If something went wrong, she would rewind time, retracing the fragile thread of reality until she got it right.

Even when she felt hollowed out to the bone, exhausted to the marrow.

She heard her father murmur something, the words lost to her already closed ears. She shut her eyes, letting the world fade.

Before:

Ga-yeong returned twenty five minutes earlier.

Her father was just leaving, escorted by one of the pink soldiers.

When the doors closed behind them with a dull thud, she sat up in bed, muscles stiff from tension.

Ji-ah was still in her arms. The baby’s face resembled Jun-hee’s so closely that it stabbed at her chest, a sharp pang she couldn’t ignore.

Ga-yeong glanced at Hyun-ju. Her friend looked pale, her skin sallow, dark circles etched beneath her eyes—but she was still alive. Others slept fitfully around them, murmuring in restless slumber.

She shushed the baby gently, pressing a fingertip to Ji-ah’s soft cheek, before settling her into the crib. The faint scent of baby powder mixed with the antiseptic tang of the room.

Ga-yeong wasn’t an actor. But soldiers were people too. They could be convinced, tricked, manipulated. They were as fallible as anyone else.

She moved slowly, deliberately, toward the soldier patrolling the dorms. Each step was calculated, quiet, a measured rhythm against the cold linoleum.

He did not look at her; she wasn’t even sure he had noticed her presence.

“Mister, I am not feeling so well. It must have been the food…,” she started, voice trembling ever so slightly, laced with vulnerability. When he heard her voice, he turned toward her, frowning.

“Please, sir. I think I am going to die,” her voice wavered, pitching higher as she staged the onset of sudden weakness, gripping her stomach as if every breath brought agony.

If he didn’t buy it, she would have to find another way.

The soldier opened his mouth to reply, but she collapsed to the floor, letting gravity take her body in a slow, controlled fall.

He bent down, checking her pulse. She forced herself to breathe heavily, chest rising and falling unevenly, but kept her eyes shut, eyelids fluttering against the world.

Then she heard the click of an intercom.

"Player 067 is dying, I think," he murmured into the transmitter, voice low and uncertain.

A robotic voice responded from the other side, crisp and impatient: "What do you mean? Is she still alive or not?"

“She looks healthy. But there is definitely something wrong with her,” he replied, cautious.

After a quiet pause, someone on the other side said in barely a whisper, "Bring her in." It sounded conspiratorial, like a secret being shared in shadowed corners, as if they feared being overheard.

The soldier answered quietly, "Okay."

A minute later, he lifted her body. Her head lolled forward, vision swimming from the unnatural angle; the world pitched and swung with every step he took. She stifled the urge to vomit.

But in the five minutes she played unconscious, carried through sterile corridors, she realized something vital: these soldiers didn’t answer to the Frontman—or at least some were acting behind his back.

Her body swung on his shoulder, the motion relentless, stomach twisting with each turn.

She still had fifteen minutes—maybe less. But it didn’t matter.

She was out of the dorms.

Someone opened a door. The soldier dropped her onto a cold, metallic table. She groaned softly, pain radiating through her spine, yet kept her act flawless.

"Player 067. She seems to have some reaction to the food. Maybe allergic or seizure. But she is still alive," the soldier reported to someone else in the room.

"It doesn't matter if she is alive or not. We will cut her open one way or another. The others will die too. But this player is important. She was with Player 456. And the boss weirdly cares about her. We will kill her and then we will kill him. The others will follow soon after," their leader replied, voice low but laced with cold precision.

They were going to kill her? Cut her body open while she was awake? Sell her organs?

Is that what it was about? She was young, healthy—her body must be priceless on the market.

And that robotic voice—it's owner clearly wanted to overthrow the Frontman? To seize power?

Ga-yeong told herself she would have to kill them both.

She heard a loud clang as something metallic was set beside her—a scalpel, cold and glinting under the harsh clinical light.

She instinctively opened her eyes. Her body tensed like a trapped animal, muscles taut yet almost useless under the net of fear.

She could see where she was: a dissection room, bright and merciless, fluorescent lights stabbing down like dental lamps. Shadows were sharp, corners cavernous and cold.

Their leader loomed over her, scalpel in hand, wearing a black square mask that hid every expression, every intention. Two pink soldiers flanked him like sentinels, silent and poised.

Black Square looked at her, his gaze unreadable behind the mask. Ga-yeong met it head-on, knowing that closing her eyes now would be pointless.

He was going to kill her. She was completely, utterly fucked.

Kang No-eul pushes herself through the air ducts. From the first day she joined the games, she had noticed the air ducts. She figured out the blind spots from the command console she had been assigned, then found pockets of time to slip away up here, figuring out their layouts, finding routes to an escape if she needed to.

Her plan had been laid down long before. She hadn’t meant to bring anyone else — the escape was supposed to be hers alone — but plans bend when violence intrudes. To get a boat, she’d had to improvise, coerce the masked Officer, and push a captive into being useful. In a place like this, the odds of dying are a constant pressure; she keeps multiple exits, contingencies braided into the margins of everything she does. She knows what needs to be done.

She opens the vent that should drop her into the Officer’s room.

The world below is wrong.

The vent spits her into a long, dim hallway where soldiers drag shrouded bodies and bury the dead players. The smell of disinfectant and rot hangs heavy; salt-stiff lips of ripped cloth and boot prints press into the tiled floor.

Damn. She must have taken a wrong turn.

She swore the route by heart. How did she miss a junction? Anger flares — hot, professional — then cools into calculation. She can’t go back into the ducts; time is a currency she no longer has. Gyeong-seok is waiting, and there isn’t a second to waste, especially now that the final game closes in tomorrow.

She will have to sneak to the Officer’s room the long way. Delete the players’ records herself if she has to.

Then she sees him: the Officer with the black square mask, moving with the brisk purpose of a man who believes rules apply to everyone but him. No-eul watches his shadow swallow a doorway. There are only two places he’d be headed: his office or the organ-harvesting room — the same room where Gyeong-seok was taken, the same place where she’d once killed pink soldiers.

She has to know his intentions. If she can catch him when he’s distracted, force him into his office, she can destroy Gyeong-seok’s records. She needs authorization to open those files; if she can’t get it, she’ll at least need his keys.

The Officer moves quickly, shoulders tense. No-eul follows, keeping to the dark as if the ducts had given her permission to belong to shadows. She’s grateful for the gun at her hip — a small bitter comfort. If someone attacks, she will kill them. That is what she does now: she chooses survival over civility.

His silhouette slips behind the double doors of the harvesting room. The doors close with a soft finality. No-eul edges closer, breath held like a held note.

She crouches, presses her eye to the keyhole, and sees the scene framed in a narrow sliver: two soldiers flanking the bent figure of the Officer, and a young woman on a table — dead, thin and pale. 

She must be another fallen player. Another one ready to be sell.

No-eul’s heart drums an animal rhythm in her chest; she can’t hear the Officer’s words through the door, but she catches fragments — three sentences, clipped and terrible: in charge, care for her, kill them all.

Of course. Exactly what she’d expected from him. From the beginning he had claimed not to answer to anyone, crowing about how he hated authority the way she did. She’d let him believe they shared an instinct for freedom; it was easier for both of them to pretend alignment. But his brand of superiority is corrosive — he wanted to be on top, not free.

She doesn’t care about who runs things. She doesn’t care about the people she once worked with.

She just doesn’t want that little girl, Gyeong-seok daughter to be without a family, the same way her little girl doesn’t have a family.

When she is thinking, she notice something.

The woman on the table stirs. Eyes blink open like someone surfacing from a drowning. The Officer pauses, scalpel raised, confusion creasing his posture — he hadn’t expected resistance from someone like her. The soldiers level their weapons.

No-eul cannot let it happen. He has crossed a line she won’t abide. He’s too far gone from the man she thought she knew.

She throws the door open as the scalpel drops. From behind him, No-eul raises her weapon and fires a clean, brutal shot into his head. The masked Officer slumps, toppling the theatrical authority he wore like armor.

Two soldiers spin toward the noise and raise their guns. No-eul shoots first — two quick responses into chests — and one by one they fall like props. A sharp hot pain flares in her shoulder as a bullet finds flesh; she grits a sound and sways but remains standing.

The woman who had been on the table scrambles upright. Fear and steel flicker across her face; there is a resolve there, as if she’s been waiting for this hinge all along. Without wasting time on modesty or hesitation, she drops to the floor beside the Officer and begins to undress him. No-eul trains her gun on the stranger and demands, "What are you doing?"

No-eul herself doesn't know what happen when she was away escaping with Gyeong-seok. But she knows players will participate in the final game tommorow. She wonders how many survivors are there left.

And what is this woman - player 067 attempting to do.

067 replies to her after a minute, when she is already dress up in the Officer clothes. She even got herself his gloves and mask that she put on her face immediately. She stole his gun too.

"He have a access to the captain. I need to get to him. I don't know who you are but thank you for helping," woman said throught mask. If No-eul didn't know she would almost think it's his voice.

No-eul had never imagined this possibility — that one of the players would turn the instruments of their control against them. She had faked Gyeong-seok’s death once and watched the rebellion sputter; she hadn’t hoped for another spark. Yet this woman is reckless and sharp.

No-eul lowers her gun just enough to let curiosity inhabit her expression. "I need his keys. They should be in his pocket."

Without a second thought woman toss a small metallic keys to her. No-eul caught them. 

The woman, now dressed up like her old boss, moves toward the door without looking back — every step a decision that wastes no time. She storms out as if she’s already calculated the minutes she has left to carry out her plan.

No-eul stands in the harvesting room, the Officer dead at her feet, keys warm and heavy in her palm.

No-eul is still confused who or what is that stranger planning. But she doesn't care.

Officer is dead. She have his keys. She helped someone else. Someone who will kill the captain. Maybe she will burn this place to the ground.

For now, that is more than enough.

Jun-ho emerges from the underground escape tunnel, dragging himself up onto the ledge with aching arms, lungs burning from the stagnant air. He forces his breath to slow, to stay calm, to focus.

There has to be enough time left.

Captain Park slow it all down but he is dead now. So is most of Jun-ho team. Jun-ho could not let that sacrifice be wasted.

He curses himself for trusting too easily. He should have known better, but how could he have predicted there was a traitor in their midst? The betrayal still burns, but regret is useless now. What matters is this: he is inside. His brother is close.

The scuba suits hanging on the damp concrete wall are untouched, stiff from disuse. Only two oxygen tanks are missing from the rack. Jun-ho frowns. That number doesn’t make sense. By now there should have been more bodies dissected, more empty tanks discarded. More signs of death.

Are the Games different this time?

The thought gnaws at him as he grips the waterproof bag at his side and withdraws his gun. To reach In-ho’s private rooms, he has to pass the organ-harvesting chamber. The thought of it chills him—cold steel tables, the smell of blood and antiseptic, masked butchers carving human beings like livestock. If the Games are over for the day, workers might still be inside, elbows-deep in someone’s ruined chest.

Jun-ho swallows down the bile rising in his throat and moves quickly, nerves coiling in his gut like snakes.

The room is to his right. Ahead, the branching corridors lead to the Frontman’s lair.

As he passes, he glances toward the harvesting room—and freezes. A shadow shifts in the dark close to him.

No time to hide.

Instinct snaps through him. He raises his gun. The figure steps forward, also raising a weapon. They wear a black mask marked with a square.

A soldier.

But before Jun-ho can pull the trigger, the masked figure speaks.

“You are Jun-ho, aren’t you?”

The words hit him like a slap. His finger tightens on the trigger, but confusion stops him. How do they know his name? His grip falters, the barrel dips slightly.

Who is this person? One of the Game’s guards—or someone disguised as one, the same way he had infiltrated three years ago?

The figure lowers their gun and pulls off the mask.

A young woman stares back at him. She looks close to his age, eyes sharp, face smeared with sweat and shadows.

“I am someone like you,” she says, voice steady. “I’m helping Seong Gi-hun.”

Jun-ho blinks. Her words should steady him, but suspicion keeps his pulse hammering.

“Do you know where he is?” he asks.

Her lips twitch in a grim smile. “If I tell you, you won’t kill me?”

So she doesn’t trust him either. That makes them even.

“I won’t kill you. I want to save Gi-hun too.”

Her shoulders ease a fraction, and she nods. Relief flickers in Jun-ho’s chest. If Gi-hun still has allies, maybe not all hope is gone. Maybe the others aren’t dead either.

“We don’t have enough time, so I’ll tell you this—Gi-hun is with the captain. I’m planning to capture him. But I don’t know the way to his room. Gi-hun said you were there before. Do you know the way?”

Jun-ho stiffens. Gi-hun with In-ho? And this woman wanted to capture his brother?  He wanted answers too. If he could get there in time, his brother is going to be overpowered. He will surrender. And Jun-ho is going to get his answers.

“Yes. I know the way,” he answers cautiously.

She nods, puts the mask back on, and in one fluid motion presses the barrel of her gun against his face.

“Act as a hostage and lead the way,” she whispers.

Hopefully she is not leading him to trap. What if she works for In-ho? Did he set it up? Was he expecting him?

Jun-ho told him he is going to get here no matter what. If she is bluffing, he is going to kill her.

They move quickly through the corridors, her pace urgent, as though she knows the clock is ticking.

“This way,” he whispers. An elevator should be nearby. They can’t climb the ladder as usual—not if she wants to pass as one of the soldiers.

Two guards in pink uniforms stand at the elevator, rifles resting loosely in their hands. Their heads snap toward Jun-ho and his captor. Eyes narrow.

Jun-ho’s stomach drops. How will she convince them to get inside the Frontman room?

Soldiers are still looking at them. They are mostly looking at Jun-ho but they aren't pointing their rifles at him.

“He’s an intruder, working with 456,” the woman says behind her mask, her voice filtered into a cold, mechanical monotone. “I’m taking him to the captain.”

The soldiers glance at Jun-ho, then back to her. And then—they nod.

Jun-ho stares. They obey her. Why? Is she disguised as someone higher in the rank? He always thought In-ho was in charge. Seems like some rules has changed.

She presses the gun into his back again, forcing him into the elevator.

Inside, she pauses, waiting. Of course—she doesn’t know which button to press. Jun-ho doesn’t either, but he points toward the highest floor. She presses it, and the cage rattles upward.

His heart hammers. He’s about to see his brother again. The thought terrifies him more than any bullet. And Gi-hun—if Gi-hun is truly with In-ho—what is waiting at the top?

What is In-ho planning?

The ride feels endless, the cables groaning above them like the slow pull of fate. Finally, the doors slide open with a shudder.

The woman shoves her gun toward him again. “Back off. I’ll go first.”

Jun-ho obeys her. She’s right. If she look like she has him under control, In-ho may believe her. Jun-ho lets her step forward, though every nerve screams to push past her.

But that didn't matter. He is finally going to talk to his brother. In-ho won't turn his back on him. Not again.

And then he sees Gi-hun.

Standing in the hallway, not in the familiar green tracksuit but in a black suit that makes him look older, hardened.

He look startled as he see that woman in the black square mask. He doesn't know who she is. He doesn't know who is behind the mask. And Jun-ho doesn't know either.

“Jun-ho?” Gi-hun’s voice cracks with shock.

Jun-ho is startled too—relief, disbelief, dread all crashing together.

“Player 456,” the woman orders flatly, voice mechanical, lacking any emotion. “Step aside.”

 Jun-ho can't tell what is she planning.

 Why is she acting like Gi-hun is nothing to her? Hadn’t she just claimed to be his ally?

“What is going on?” A deep, filtered voice cuts through the air.

Jun-ho’s head jerks up. The Frontman steps forward, his black mask reflecting the dim light. Even behind it, Jun-ho recognizes the shape of his brother’s body, the cadence of his movements.

"Gi-hun," Jun-ho calls towards Gi-hun first. He need to give him hint that they are here to get them out of here. That he is safe now. 

For a fleeting moment, despite the mask, Jun-ho sees something unfamiliar in his brother’s posture—fear. In-ho steps back.

Jun-ho wants to call out, to tell him he doesn’t want revenge, just answers. He just wants his hyung back. Despite everything.

But then -

The woman speaks first.

“Captain,” she says crisply, bowing her head slightly, as if to an employer. Of course she have to pretend to be his employee.

She is convincing. It seem like In-ho hasn't notice anything off about her. But his brother still take a step behind. 

Wait, something is off about this. Jun-ho’s eyes narrow. Why address In-ho? Why approach him first when she swore she came here to save Gi-hun?

Why did she put it in the way to seem like Gi-hun was in danger even thought he clearly wasn't as he was on his way to walk away?

He even had some knife with him.

“Hey!” Jun-ho shouts, voice raw. “I thought you said you wanted to save Gi-hun. What are you doing now?”

She doesn’t even glance back. “You’re too trusting. I was lying, obviously.” She says coldly. 

No, did he fall for yet another trick?

The words strike like a knife. Another betrayal. Just like Captain Park.

When will he ever learn from his mistakes?

Jun-ho looks at Gi-hun who is also staring in suprise. So he didn't know about this. She can't be his ally can she?

Jun-ho’s hands shake as he draws his gun, leveling it at her back. She had been right about one thing: he trusted her far too easily even thought he didn't even know her name, even thought she told him almost nothing.

All because he wanted—needed—to see his brother.

“Officer, why is my—” In-ho begins, but his question is cut short.

A gunshot cracks through the hallway.

Jun-ho flinches, ears ringing.

She shot him.

His brother staggers, clutching his chest where the bullet has torn through him. A dark stain blooms across the fabric, spreading like ink. His knees buckle. He falls hard, blood bubbling from his lips.

Jun-ho’s breath collapses in his throat.

He wanted to see his brother again—but not like this.

Not like this...

The woman stands over In-ho’s crumpled body, her gun steady, her mask hiding any flicker of remorse.

For a terrible moment, Jun-ho almost understands her. To her, the Frontman is just another faceless monster, another cog in a machine of cruelty. Maybe, in her eyes, she is doing the right thing.

And hadn’t Jun-ho killed the pink soldiers without hesitation, writing them off as complicit? Hadn’t he, too, chosen to see them only as enemies? Was he any different from her?

Or was he just a hypocrite?

She didn't know she killed his brother. She killed In-ho. A brother who raised him. A brother he look up to. He even become a police officer just like him. 

Now he was gone.

Hyung…

Jun-ho sinks, the shock hollowing him out.

“In-ho!” His scream tears through the hall, raw and desperate. But the name echoes uselessly. His brother does not answer. His body lies still, eyes glazed in pain and disbelief.

This is the last time they will ever see each other.

And Jun-ho, once again, was too late.

Now:

Gi-hun’s chest heaves as he stares at Jun-ho. He scream that name. Name of his brother. Gi-hun’s eyes dart down to the body sprawled on the cold floor.

He looks at Young-il body. Or is it not?

The truth crashes against him like a tide: the masked Officer had just pulled the trigger.

Jun-ho’s trembling hands aim a gun straight at the man in the black square mask.

But why did Jun-ho said that their come to save him?

Gi-hun can't breath. Its too much. Young-il is dead. Jun-ho is back. Masked soldier is in here.

Jun-ho voice shakes, cracking with fury. “What did you do?” Jun-ho roars, his gun hand trembling.

The soldier turns slowly, face hidden behind the glossy mask, and raises his own weapon with steady precision. His voice is low, sharp, and cold.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you… or you’ll end up like him.”

The words strike Gi-hun like a hammer. His mind, scattered with panic, finally locks into place.

He forces himself to look again at the Frontman body—the unmoving figure on the ground. His eyes widen, the truth unraveling before him.

It wasn’t Young-il.

It had never been Young-il.

The corpse at his feet was Hwang In-ho—Jun-ho’s older brother. The man who had vanished, the man Jun-ho had been searching for all this time. The one who had betrayed him, lied to him, hidden the truth behind the mask of the Frontman.

Jun-ho never told him truth. He kept it away from him.

In-ho.... 

The black square soldier stiffens at Jun-ho’s outburst. He seems to register the name Jun-ho called the Frontman before, the slip of truth hidden in that scream. His head tilts, voice hard.

“What did you call him?” he demands, weapon still aimed at Jun-ho.

Gi-hun feels hollow, like his lungs can no longer draw air. He should feel something sharp—relief at seeing In-ho’s body. Justice, maybe, knowing Jung-bae’s murderer was dead. Satisfaction, vengeance, something.

But he feels none of that.

Instead, the emptiness yawns wide inside him. The man’s death means nothing. It won’t stop the games. It won’t bring Jung-bae back.

And despite everything—the lies, the betrayals, the blood—Gi-hun still feels the thread of care for In-ho. Twisted, unwanted, but unbroken.

No, he doesn't feel happy. He just feel hollow. 

Jun-ho’s voice cracks through the silence like shattering glass. “You killed my brother! You killed him!” He shakes with rage, tears swelling, his gun quivering as though his grief alone might pull the trigger.

The black square soldier falters. Confusion cuts into his voice.

“That’s your brother?”

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the soldier reaches up and pulls the mask away.

The face revealed makes Gi-hun’s blood turn to ice.

It’s Ga-yeong. 

His lungs collapse in on themselves. He can’t breathe. How? How could she be here, wearing that mask? Did she slip away while he was distracted, while he was being dragged through these corridors? Twenty minutes—twenty minutes since he had arrived here, and somehow, in that span, she had killed him.

Killed the Frontman.

Killed Hwang In-ho.

Jun-ho’s voice breaks into a raw scream. “I trusted you!” His grief is uncontainable now, his hand tightening on the trigger like he wants to blow the world apart.

Gi-hun feels the horror rising like bile. It has all spun into chaos—brothers, masks, blood, betrayal. Would this be the end, the moment they turned on each other, no better than the animals the games had always tried to make them become?

Jun-ho steadies his gun on Ga-yeong. She mirrors him, her weapon lifted, her eyes blazing. One spark, one slip, and they’d tear each other apart.

“Wait!” Gi-hun stumbles forward, planting himself between their trembling barrels. His voice is ragged, desperate. The image of In-ho’s lifeless eyes still burns into him, and in that madness he clings to one fragile, impossible thought: maybe it can be undone.

She can undone this. 

“What?” Jun-ho snaps, fury raw in his throat.

“You lied to me,” Gi-hun spits at him, accusation heavy. His voice trembles with more than anger—it trembles with betrayal, with exhaustion. They all lied.

Jun-ho flinches. His eyes drop, guilt dragging them to the blood-soaked floor.

“I just wanted answers. But I guess you got what you wanted, Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun narrows his eyes, pushing. “Did you know all this time?”

Jun-ho shakes, tears sliding down his cheeks as he forces the words out. “I found out when he shot me off the cliff.” His voice cracks under the weight of memory, each syllable dripping sorrow.

The grief settles heavier on Gi-hun too. His chest aches. His breath stutters.

Ga-yeong lowers her weapon. Instead, she kneels beside the body and pulls the Frontman’s mask away completely. The cold face beneath—the face of In-ho—stares up at her.

Her skin drains of color. Her hands shake as though the mask burns her fingers. “Young-il?” Her voice rips apart into disbelief, almost a scream. She whirls toward Gi-hun and Jun-ho, eyes wide with shock.

“I don’t understand. Young-il or In-ho— is your brother? Dad, did you know this?”

Jun-ho’s head jerks up at the last word. His brows shoot upward in disbelief. “What did you call Gi-hun?”

Gi-hun breathes slowly, trying to keep his voice steady even as his face pales like death itself. “She is my daughter. I can explain everything if you stop pointing that gun at her.”

Jun-ho’s disbelief curdles into bitter confusion. “What? Isn’t she supposed to be, like… twelve?”

“She is from the future,” Gi-hun answers, the words tasting like absurdity even as he speaks them. He knows how it sounds. Impossible. Mad. But it is the truth.

Jun-ho lets out a jagged laugh, the sound breaking apart into sobs. Tears stream freely now. “You killed my brother, and you have time for jokes?”

Gi-hun looks down. The blood pools thick around his shoes. In-ho’s blood. The stain seeps into him, permanent. His tears spill too, without control, his chest heaving.

It isn’t her fault. He knows it. He cannot blame his daughter—she didn’t know. She did what any of them would’ve done if they would thought it just the faceless monster behind it.

“I was trying to kill the Frontman,” Ga-yeong mutters, her voice cracking though she tries to sound cold. “He killed Jung-bae. I killed him. It’s over.”

Gi-hun’s voice cuts through her trembling mask of steel. Quiet, resigned. “They will just replace him, Ga-yeong.”

Her eyes widen. The calm mask slips. Her hands quake, her face breaking apart.

Jun-ho says nothing now. Silence and grief consume him, swallowing him whole.

Ga-yeong’s voice rises again, frantic, brittle, breaking with sobs. “That doesn’t matter! His name doesn’t matter! He betrayed us! He is a murderer!”

Gi-hun sees it clearly—she had cared for Young-il. He had been her friend. His death cuts her too.

Jun-ho explodes, snapping back at her with fury sharpened by pain. “Does it make you feel righteous? Do you feel better?”

Her tears blaze into anger. “And you? You kept it away from my father! You let your own brother do all these terrible things, and you didn’t stop him!” Her voice is sharper with the pain.

“Enough! Both of you!” Gi-hun barked, his voice cracking through the thick air like a whip. His chest heaved, exhaustion dripping off every syllable. Arguing was pointless. Every scream, every drop of spilled blood—it was all pointless. Nothing they did could change what was already set in motion. 

His gaze fell on Ga-yeong, who stood trembling, torn between fury and despair. “Ga-yeong. Can you undo this?” Gi-hun asked, his tone breaking somewhere between pleading and demanding.

Her eyes flickered to In-ho’s corpse, sprawled lifeless on the floor, then back to her father. The weight of it pulled at her expression, a storm of hesitation brewing behind her stare.

She looked conflicted.

Jun-ho, still reeling, blinked in disbelief. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice sharp, confusion laced with dread, as he turned toward her.

Ga-yeong swallowed hard, her breath catching. “I can rewind time. I can bring him—your brother—back. But I—” She faltered, startled by her own confession, as if saying the words out loud had chained her to an unbearable choice.

Jun-ho stepped closer, desperate, his voice rough. “You can bring my brother back? How?”

Gi-hun’s eyes softened. He could see the cracks in her resolve, the same cracks he’d carried himself. “Ga-yeong. I know how you feel—I felt the same way. But you aren’t like them. You can be better,” he said, each word pushed through his grief.

But inside, a bitter truth gnawed at him. He didn’t want his daughter to be a murderer. And yet… she already was. She had killed two players. She had pulled the trigger on the soldiers. And he—he had blood on his hands too. None of them were innocent anymore.

Her voice trembled, breaking into something smaller. “He was my friend. I trusted him, dad. I thought we were close. But I should never have believed anything he said.” The words slipped into a whisper, almost definitive, like a sentence passed.

Her eyes darted toward Jun-ho now, fragile but unflinching. “Should I bring him back? Why should a murderer get to live while others suffer and die?”

Jun-ho’s face twisted, torn between rage and need. “I need answers. And I’m sure there are questions you have for him too… Ga-yeong.” He spoke her name like it burned his mouth, like a curse spat into the void.

Ga-yeong didn’t answer. She only closed her eyes, her lashes trembling against her cheeks.

Gi-hun felt it instantly—the air shifted. Heavy, electric, as if the world itself had taken a breath. It was as though someone had reached out and dragged them all across an unseen line.

When his own eyes opened again, Gi-hun’s stomach lurched. In-ho was alive. He stood before them, body intact, breath steady, mask still fixed over his face. And yet Gi-hun could still remember—vividly—how he had died.

Jun-ho’s gaze locked onto him as well, the same raw recognition burning in his stare. They both knew.

This time, Ga-yeong tore the mask from her own face, revealing herself in full. The motion was sharp, deliberate. In-ho flinched at the sight of her, as if struck by the impossibility of her presence. He had not expected this.

His eyes shifted—first to his brother, then to Gi-hun.

“What is going on?” he demanded, his voice muffled and metallic through the distortion of the mask.

But Ga-yeong was already raising the gun. The weapon gleamed in her shaking hands, deadly, uncompromising. In-ho didn’t recoil, not like he had when she wore the disguise of the Officer. 

“Remove your mask,” Ga-yeong ordered, her voice hard despite the quake in her chest. “You will tell us everything, In-ho.”

Chapter Text

“You will tell us everything, In-ho,” Ga-yeong says sharply, her voice slicing through the tense air. She points the gun at him, her small hands surprisingly steady. Her eyes are fiery, determined—an unflinching storm he cannot ignore.

In-ho freezes, his mind scrambling. He still doesn’t understand how she managed to get here—or why she’s wearing the Officer’s clothes.

And Jun-ho is here too, standing rigid and tense. His brother has arrived, and the sight of him sends a complicated jolt through In-ho—half relief, half dread.

Gi-hun’s face is pale, his expression twisted by a kind of shock In-ho can’t immediately decipher. There’s a weight there, a silent burden pressing down on him, and In-ho realizes he’s witnessing the ripple of a grief he doesn’t yet fully understand.

And then there’s the name. The one that makes In-ho flinch slightly because it carries a truth he wasn’t ready to confront. How does she know his real name?

Did Jun-ho tell her? How did they even meet?

“Remove the mask or I will kill you again,” Ga-yeong presses, her voice tight, controlled, but heavy with threat.

Kill him again? The words echo inside In-ho’s head like a chilling refrain.

He obeys. There’s no choice here. With a gun pressing coldly against his face, resistance would be suicidal. He lifts the mask, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet clatter.

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes scan him, settling on the face she now recognizes: Young-il.

“Will you answer any of my questions?” Jun-ho asks, his tone measured but tight with barely contained urgency.

“I will,” In-ho says. The words taste bitter. There is no path left to refuse. They caught him.

Why is it always Seongs that end up surprising him the most? Gi-hun with his refusal to kill, and Ga-yeong storming in here in his previous employee clothes and saying she killed him.

Did she use her powers? Had she really killed him? Or the Officer? The questions spiral in his mind like a storm he cannot calm.

In-ho has no answers. And he can’t ask questions either. Not now. Not when the tables have turned, and they hold the cards.

“You were a player. When did you join the Games?” Jun-ho asks, slicing through the thick tension with a sharp, controlled curiosity.

“2015,” In-ho replies. Ga-yeong’s gun never wavers, her gaze piercing. He wants to reassure her, to tell her he won’t harm her—but the words would be empty, and silence seems safer.

Gi-hun looks at him. In-ho can see unshed tears in his eyes. Like a tortured martyr. He would want to see those tears spilled.

So In-ho did die before Ga-yeong changed that.

And Gi-hun was upset about his death? Was he grieving him?

No, that Gi-hun’s pain isn’t for him—it's for Young-il. He realizes, with a pang, that in Gi-hun’s heart, Young-il had already replaced him. In-ho was nobody for him.

“When?” Gi-hun asks, voice low, fragile.

“October,” In-ho responds. The timing is cruelly precise. It aligns with Gi-hun’s entrance into the games, the death of his wife, the knife handed by Oh Ilnam—the very weapon Gi-hun now clutches. The same one In-ho had wielded in those grim, blood-stained games.

But it was all too late. The blood had already been spilled. The damage, irreversible.

“When did you start—being this?” Jun-ho probes, the question trembling with a mix of fear and need.

“I ran the games for the first time in 2021. That’s also when you found me,” In-ho says, his tone stripped of flourish. The truth is clinical, sharp, and void of the passion it once carried.

“And before?” Ga-yeong’s voice cuts in, impatient, sharp-edged.

“I was like the Masked Officer, working for the previous Frontman. Then Oh Ilnam offered me that position,” he says, recalling the ascent into power that still feels hollow. The title gave him authority over the Games, but obedience to the VIPs’ whims remained an unshakable chain.

“Why did you even join the games in the first place?” Jun-ho asks again, his voice laced with the hope that he might find a shred of humanity in In-ho.

“To have a chance like everyone else in here. She was dying—and if there was a chance that I could save her, then I took it.” His voice falters slightly, burdened by the weight of failure and the ghosts of the past.

“It was like in your first games, Gi-hun,” he turns to him. Gi-hun is silent, the words settling on him like stones. It seems like he is still processing In-ho’s true identity.

“I returned despite seeing all those people die. I thought it would be worth it. But it was too late,” In-ho continues, a cold, detached cadence masking the anguish beneath.

"Are you serious? So you just started killing four hundred people a year because you couldn’t save your wife? What are you, Darth Vader?” Ga-yeong snaps, incredulous. In-ho doesn’t understand the cultural reference, but the contempt is clear enough.

“I don’t kill them,” he says simply. “They enter the games, and then they lose. Or they kill each other. It’s up to each person, how much they want to keep going and how much blood they spill.”

“You killed Jung-bae,” Ga-yeong says sharply. The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. In-ho sees Gi-hun flinch at the name, a twitch of grief crossing his face. He already apologized once—what more is there to say?  What else is he supposed to do? It’s not like anything is going to bring anyone back. They’re dead anyway.

“What did you do in the games to make you think like that?” Jun-ho presses, relentless.

“Games gave people a chance. Something they wouldn’t get outside. If they win, then they can live freely,” he says. But the words feel hollow, stripped of conviction. It sounds like the Frontman speaking now, not In-ho.

“You call this a chance? You think any of this is fair?” Ga-yeong snaps, frustration raw in her voice.

She can’t understand. She is too young. She has never known struggle, never tasted desperation.

Besides, she never had trouble with money. In her future, he gave her Gi-hun’s money. That’s why he visited her, right?

So that it wouldn’t all be meaningless. She hadn’t suffered in life like those players in the games.

In-ho stays silent. He waits for another question, for his brother to cut into him again with the truth he refuses to face.

“Why didn’t you come home?” Jun-ho’s voice cracks, desperation threading through it.

He looks at him, his face a mask of restraint. The same mask he has worn for years, hiding every flicker of pain. He tells him the same words he said to Gi-hun minutes ago:

“There’s nothing there for me,” he says. Simple. Final.

Just this place. Just this island. This prison.

“You could have returned. You still have family, In-ho. You have me and my mom,” Jun-ho pleads, voice trembling with raw need.

“You wouldn’t understand. I can’t return to life after this,” In-ho says softly. How could he explain the nights spent in blood-soaked corridors, the horrors he had witnessed, the innocence slaughtered before his eyes? How could he confess to being a killer in the night, to having seen 455 people die?

“You couldn’t at least leave us a message? So that we would know that you are alive?” Jun-ho asks again.

In-ho looks at him directly. “I didn’t want to be involved in your lives anymore,” he says quietly. The words land like stones. Jun-ho stares at him, speechless, the weight of grief and disbelief pressing down.

In-ho poured himself into being a police officer, only to be dismissed. He had a wife, only to lose her and he couldn’t even say goodbye. He cannot go home. He is not the brother Jun-ho remembers.

There is nothing left for him. But they—Gi-hun, Jun-ho—they can leave. They can start over. Gi-hun can reclaim life.

“You want your brother back, but I’m not that person anymore,” In-ho murmurs, voice almost a whisper.

“So? You are still In-ho. I killed people too. We are all guilty of something. But we can start over,” Jun-ho counters, his desperation turning to resolve.

In-ho knows the truth. He is gone too far. Start over is impossible. He has seen too much. Done too much. Every day, he watched death. Every day, he administered misery. He killed Jung-bae. He almost killed Ga-yeong. He enjoyed the pain on Gi-hun’s face. He offered him a chance to kill nine people like it meant nothing.

“You can come home. I can’t lose you. Not again,” Jun-ho pleads.

He can’t. Jun-ho already lost him.

For some reason, Ga-yeong lowers the Officer’s gun slightly. 

“We will stop those games,” she says, her voice tight with resolve as she addresses Gi-hun.

Gi-hun nods, still shaken, still fragile, but willing to follow.

“You think you can stop these games?” In-ho asks, incredulous.

They can’t. The last game has to happen. The votes have been sealed already. He offered them the way out—a slim, fleeting chance. Four more people can make it out of this place.

He cannot let Gi-hun participate in the final game. He cannot let him die.

“Those people you serve—they’re just people. They aren’t gods. They aren’t untouchable. They may have power, but that never stopped anyone from dying. Everyone will die eventually,” Ga-yeong says, her voice icy, unwavering.

“We need to stop this. The final game can’t happen,” Gi-hun says, voice trembling but firm.

In-ho isn’t sure how they plan to overthrow the VIPs. How they want to kill them.

Wait. He looks back at Ga-yeong. She has the Masked Officer’s clothing. She can meet the VIPs and pretend she works for them.

She will beat them by pretending to be on their side. That was clever, but foolish. She won’t last long like this. The soldiers would see it and kill her.

“We can go home, hyung,” Jun-ho says, hope laced in every syllable.

In-ho says nothing. But he cannot let his brother die. He cannot let Gi-hun die. He cannot let Ga-yeong die.

He can’t stop them. They’re all too stubborn and would probably knock him down if he tried something.

In-ho was the one caged now—by his own decisions.

Even if he wanted to, he cannot pull the trigger on the VIPs. He is too far gone.

“Ga-yeong, are you sure about this?” Gi-hun asks, worry cutting through his voice.

“I am. I can do this, and if I fail, I will start over.” But In-ho can sense the change in her. She looks much paler, worn down, heavy bags under her eyes. Her voice sounds almost like she is forcing herself to breathe.

“Did you kill the Officer?” In-ho asks softly, cautiously.

“No. A soldier did. I gave her the keys to his room. I think we could use her as an ally,” Ga-yeong replies.

One of the soldiers helped her? In-ho suspects who that soldier might be—Soldier 11. That North Korean woman. The one working under the Officer.

He realizes something else too—he is no longer in control of things.

"We need to go. I will go to the VIPs. Dad, you and Jun-ho will help the players," Ga-yeong says decisively.

“And you—” she points at him, but before she can finish, the intercom buzzes, cutting through the thick tension.

They all turn their heads toward the sound.

In-ho comes to the table and picks it up. "Captain," the soldier addresses him.

"Yes?" Did something happen?

"Someone alerted cost guard. They know the location."

In-ho looks at his brother. His team outside must have done it. They had to call the coast guard.

"I will tell the VIPs," he says, hanging up the intercom.

The island will need to burn. Evidence must vanish. But in that moment, he realizes he doesn’t care. Not about the island. Not about the hosts. Not about the façade of control he once cherished.

Gi-hun’s life matters. His survival. The possibility of a new start. Jun-ho too—he cannot fix the past, but he can protect his brother now.

They can make it out of here. He is going to stay here, make sure it all works out.

Gi-hun is going to have his life back. He is going to be with his daughter, he is going to care for that baby.

And Jun-ho... He can't change what happened. But he can at least make sure that his brother is going to be okay too.

In-ho already made up his mind. If Gi-hun was the one to die in Ga-yeong's future, then it's only fitting it should be him this time.

He deserves it. For every death. For every failure. For the fact that he couldn't save Gi-hun the first time.

Hwang In-ho deserves to die. It's the only fitting punishment — to die in a place like this.

"Coast guard has been alerted. You wanted to burn this place, right?" he asks, confirming their resolve.

The three of them nod.

"Those bombs, right? You will set them up?" Jun-ho asks.

"Yes. You will have thirty minutes for your plan," he tells them. He doesn’t say he won’t join. He doesn’t stop them. Danger is inevitable. But survival is theirs to seize.

If something happens to them he can't stop it. But there is a chance for them. For him... it's already too late.

Ga-yeong vanishes without a word as she steps into the elevator.

"In-ho, we can still go home. You know that, right? It’s not too late," Jun-ho calls.

He doesn’t respond. He cannot. His end approaches. But this time, Jun-ho won’t witness it. He won’t endure it. He won't have to experience that pain again. He will never see him again. He will leave him again.

Then Jun-ho follows Ga-yeong to the elevator.

Gi-hun is the only one who stays longer. In-ho can't face him. He failed him. He let him die. He tried to help him the best way he knew.

But it wasn't enough. He will always refuse his help. He will always choose others before himself.

That's how he died in the future — he must have died for someone in the final game. He wonders who that person was.

It could be anyone who could possibly make it to the last game — Dae-ho, Hyun-ju, or that baby. Anyone.

Humans always choose themselves. But Gi-hun did not. Most humans were trash. Gi-hun wasn't.

"Y-In-ho, it will work out," Gi-hun says. His voice is still shaking as he looks at him.

In-ho doesn't reply. And when Gi-hun walks to the elevator and the doors close behind him, In-ho doesn't stop him. He lets him go.

Gi-hun calls him by his real name. Not the Frontman. Not Young-il. In-ho.

It almost feels like a blessing. Gi-hun will never forgive him. He will never forget all those horrible things.

But at least In-ho can die with the idea that Gi-hun knew who he really was.

At least he can die knowing something was worthy in the end.

It will be a fitting ending for him. To die with the people he served. He can die with the idea that Gi-hun in the end was too good to be corrupted like him.

In-ho picks up his mask again. Now it's time to be the Frontman again.

The island will burn. And he will burn with it.

Ga-yeong could hear the faint, insistent alarm echoing through the concrete maze of the building, each chime reverberating off the walls like a distant, metallic heartbeat. The sound was muffled, swallowed by the weight of the structure itself, yet it cut through the air with an almost clinical precision as she walked toward the room where the VIPs awaited, their laughter and murmurs of power suspended in the dim glow of gold and shadow.

“Please evacuate the island.” The intercom’s voice chimed again, unnervingly cheerful, its tone polite as if it were guiding them on a leisurely tour rather than signaling impending disaster. “Please evacuate the island.”

Ga-yeong noticed the guards filing out, shoulders slumped, murmuring about the VIPs’ disappointment that the last game would never be played. Their words drifted past her, meaningless fragments. They were abandoning this island, abandoning the chaos they had orchestrated.

She had only thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to act. Sweat prickled across her skin, dampening her hair and clinging to her neck, making her question if fever had taken hold. Her body felt foreign, heavy with exertion and fear.

And yet, a grim relief washed over her. They were leaving. Finally, they were leaving. This place—this cage of death and exploitation—would burn. Those who had watched, who had laughed at the suffering, who had bet on lives as if they were mere tokens, would face the same cruel reckoning.

Even their corpses would burn, mingling with the smoke and the ash of the place that had been a theater of torment. She forced herself to walk forward, each step measured, slower than her usual pace, as if dragging herself across molten glass. The mask obscured her face, hiding the pain twisting her expression beneath its cold plastic. Soldiers passed by, indifferent, mere shadows in the haze of alarms and flickering lights.

Her powers waned with every heartbeat. She could feel the familiar hum of energy, once vibrant, now dimming, faltering. Blue butterflies—once shimmering, alive with power—fluttered around her in a broken, fractured dance. Wings tore midair, some fluttering helplessly to the ground, lifeless. She had pushed too far, given too much, defied the natural order by resurrecting those who should have stayed in death’s embrace.

If this doesn't work out, if she loses her powers completely, then it really will be the end.

Ga-yeong thinks about what her father is doing right now with Jun-ho. He gave her that knife, which she carries in her pocket now.

The same knife In-ho gave him. That man is a monster. But he is also human. When he told them the truth, Ga-yeong could understand him.

He thought people were trash because he had seen the worst of humanity. Because there was no one who could offer him a chance to see things differently.

He had believed the world’s cruelty justified his own. He became this because he believed it gave him purpose. Because there was nothing else for him.

But that's not true for Ga-yeong. There is so much in this world for her.

Her father, her promise to Jun-hee, her friends, her mother waiting in America. Her dreams to make this world a better place. Her dream to keep helping people. To live another day to see the sun shine on her face. To see what the new future holds.

She knew she was not wholly good. She had killed, justified in the name of justice. Yet she was not wholly evil. The innocent had never suffered at her hands. She never acted greedy or selfish. 

She just wants to keep on living. She wants her father to keep on living too.

Even if it means that their lives will be soaked in blood.

The door to the VIPs’ room loomed ahead. She pressed her palm against the cool metal handle and inhaled, steadying the tremor in her body.

Inside, a tableau of absurdity and wealth awaited. One of the VIPs lounged on a velvet couch, a jeweled bear mask catching the dim golden light as he sipped champagne with languid elegance. Confusion and irritation tinged his voice as he spoke.

“Where is the Frontman?” he asked, squinting through the dim glow at Ga-yeong, impeccably dressed in the Masked Officer’s uniform. English flowed from his lips, and Ga-yeong silently thanked her years in America, the language now a shield and weapon.

Her heart pounded against the steel cage of her chest beneath the uniform, yet her face betrayed nothing. The voice modulator beneath her mask flattened the edges of her panic, giving her words a mechanical, unshakable authority—a small comfort in a room brimming with opulence and menace.

They were just people. Masks of power, gilded in animalistic grandeur, deluded in their belief of dominion over life itself. People who think they're above everyone else. People wearing silly animal masks and acting like they own the universe.

Every empire could crumble, every king could fall, every system could fracture.

They just have to have hope. Even if the cycle won't stop. Even if she can't stop the evil itself. All the wrongs of humanity.

She can't stop human nature. She is a killer too.

She straightened, biting back the tremor in her breath.

“You probably heard the alarms. The final game cannot happen,” she spoke in measured English. In-ho must have spoken to them in English too. When they met the first time in the future, he could understand her even when she spoke her second language.

Murmurs rippled across the room, the glint of masks catching light like trapped fireflies.

“Wait, why?” demanded an older man in a lion mask, his voice incredulous. Irony dripped from the comparison—beasts masquerading as predators, betting on humans like animals themselves.

They were all animals. It was just about who was stronger to survive in nature. These people wouldn't survive even a second in the forest or in a cage with real lion.

“Yes, what happened, Officer?” another asked, leaning forward with curiosity, a buffalo mask stretching his expression.

Ga-yeong counted five VIPs: four men, one woman with a sleek panther mask.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of her gun. She only had four bullets. She would have to kill one of them with that knife her father gave her.

Her modulated voice cut through their chatter, sharp and precise.

“I am sorry for the unpleasant surprise but someone alerted the coast guard. We will prepare the evacuation for you shortly.”

“But what is going to happen to the players? They have to play the last game!” demanded the woman with the panther mask, tilting her head with calculating poise. Her accent betrayed a foreign cadence, sharp and melodic.

What would In-ho have said to them? What rules apply in here? The VIPs can't tell she is not the Officer. But if she says something that would give her away, then they will send soldiers on her.

They still have that power. But she needs to wait a little longer. In-ho said he was going to shut down the cameras in the dorms. The VIPs aren't watching the screens now. Soldiers are already preparing to leave this place and they don't seem to care about hosts that much.

Ga-yeong’s gaze flicked to the window overlooking the arena where they were supposed to watch the final game.

It's set in the sky. Above the ground. There are pillars you need to jump on. There are some patterns she recognizes.

Squid game. Little kids used to play that on the streets. If you push someone off the line then you win.

Those pillars are high. If someone were to fall from them, they would be dead.

“Unfortunately, this year’s game will have no winner. The money will be sent to the families of the fallen players,” she replied after a deliberate pause, weighing each syllable.

"Wait, did that ever happen? A game with no winner? I was betting on 222 all this time!" a drunk long-haired man declares. He is wearing a bird mask.

“It’s all that player 456’s fault I am telling you!” Bear masked man barked, spilling his drink in fury.

“That’s right! We thought it would be fun to have a previous winner in here but then the whole rebellion and now this! Unbelievable!” snapped the panther woman, voice taut with irritation.  Ga-yeong notices that she is the only one with an accent. Chinese or something.

Who were those rich people anyway? She always thought there would be some big corporate heads, some famous politicians, celebrities...

Guess they hang on different islands. Their names didn't matter anyway. They didn't care about their names either.

For them they were just players. 456. 120. 222. 067...

They were just chess pieces. But the pieces moved. The puppeteer didn't control puppets anymore.

In her future people rebelled too. People stood up for others. People were successful in changing things.

The Buffalo mask, smug and unconcerned, added, “Well at least that player is going to be dead too. And it’s a nice change to have something different this time.”

Ga-yeong sensed their anger through the masks, a simmering disdain for events out of their control.

“I wanted to see player 456 win again. Now that would be a shocking twist!” Lion mask said, popping olives into his mouth with mock delight.

Ga-yeong notices something disturbing too as her eyes scanned the room. There were people in here as well, besides the VIPs.

Waitresses in black masks serving food and drinks to them. They were hiding in the background now as the hosts didn't need more.

And then those people who look like painted decorations. They were mostly women, half-naked, blending into the furniture.

What are those people doing here? Are they staff for those rich people?

If the island is going to burn down, she can't leave them here. Even if they work for people like them.

She was hoping that they at least get paid. That they aren't mere slaves.

But Ga-yeong knows the truth. If these people could watch others die for fun, they could surely make others into slaves too. They could force them to do things. They could be raping them...

Evil of humanity didn't have it's limits.

Lion mask sighed, “It doesn’t matter now. Our fun is ruined. We should leave. Helicopters are waiting.” He almost sound sad as he can no longer see his favorite toys perform.

Ga-yeong forced herself to speak, her stomach twisting in revolt, “Did you at least enjoy the games?” She wanted to hurl, scream, tear off the masks from their faces.

How could In-ho even talk to those people? How could he even sit in their presence?

Or did he become numb to the things around him? Did he really believe in this?

Or is it why he called humanity trash? Because he could only see the worst of the worst?

She couldn't. She knew the truth. These people were just few parts of billions different faces around the world.

They spoke as if these lives were performances, numbers in a ledger, tools for amusement. Bird mask laughed, “Yes. My favorite was the jump rope. What that player 067 was trying to do was insane! She almost saved 222 that I bet on!”

It makes Ga-yeong sick how they talk about them. Jun-hee wasn't their betting horse. She was kind and caring. She wanted to have a future. She wanted to get out of this place and raise her daughter. She wanted to have a family. She wanted to be a mother.

"My favorite was hide and seek! So many deaths! But the most shocking was probably when 007 killed 149. I mean that was his mom right guys? I sometimes want to kill my mom too, not gonna lie," Lion mask starts laughing.

“True Shakespearean tragedy!” Buffalo mask toasted, raising champagne. Others followed, clinking crystal in gleeful mockery.

Ga-yeong’s stomach churned. They were human beings, and yet they celebrated murder as art.

They spoke about them like it was just a performance. Like those people didn't have families outside waiting for them. Like they didn't have feelings too.

Yong-sik had lost his mother. Mrs. Jang had clung to life, praying for Jun-hee’s survival. Their humanity, their hope, their pain—they were invisible to these spectators.

They were not...

And then she heard something shift in the air.

She looked at the glass window. The VIPs were chatting about previous games behind her.

But she saw two figures standing at the last pillar. She looked back at the VIPs.

They hadn’t seen them. It didn’t make any sense. The games were supposed to start tomorrow. The island was going to blow in twenty minutes.

She got closer to the window, her face almost pressing against the glass.

And then she saw it. Those two figures were her father and Myung-gi.

Except Myung-gi was dead. Her father was down in the dorms with Jun-ho.

Then she finally understood. This was the future of her father. The one that was supposed to happen.

The one she had prevented.

Myung-gi was holding a jacket. He was holding a jacket in the air. He was holding his daughter Ji-ah.

He probably didn’t even know that Jun-hee had given her that name. Jun-hee must have died in jump rope too.

He must have watched her die.

Ga-yeong couldn’t breathe. Was he going to drop her? Was he going to kill his infant daughter for money? Was he this greedy?

She noticed there were a few bodies on the ground too. There had been more finalists that time too.

Myung-gi and her father were arguing. Then Myung-gi finally put Ji-ah back on the ground.

"Hey, Officer, so when are we leaving? I gotta catch a flight to Paris," Bear Mask said to her. She turned her head to him but didn’t reply.

She turned back to the window to the scene before her. She would finally get her answer to why her father never returned home. Why she had to come to him instead.

Myung-gi was already dead on the ground. But the button was still red. Ga-yeong didn’t know what that meant.

There was just her father and Ji-ah. Her father reached her and held her in his arms gently, just like he used to before laying her in the crib. She wondered if he was holding her the same way now. Ji-ah had more people who could take care of her now.

Then he walked up toward the window. He was looking at Ga-yeong. No—not her. The VIPs that watched in the future.

He was holding Ji-ah in his arms.

What was he going to do? What was going to happen to Ji-ah? But he just laid her on the ground again.

And then she heard his voice: "We are not horses, we are humans. And humans are..." He must have spoken to the VIPs. But could they understand him? They didn’t speak Korean clearly. Was he speaking to In-ho?

But his sentence remained unfinished. Because he...

Fell.

He let himself fall from the pillar. His body hit the ground. He killed himself.

Tears were running down Ga-yeong’s face, but she couldn’t wipe them off with the mask on.

She knew it wasn’t real. That his body lying there wasn’t really there. Not this time. Not today.

He had died for Kim Jun-hee’s child. He had killed himself for Ji-ah. So she could have a future. So she could have a life.

She tried to breathe. Tried to hold that grief in her.

But he could have lived in that future. He could have done something different couldn't he?

Or did he really lost all hope? What happened to Kim Jun-hee's daughter? 

Who even take her out of this place? Was it In-ho? 

But her father was alive. Ji-ah was alive. That was a different future now. Something that would not happen again.

But he never finished his sentence. Humans were too complicated to describe.

But now Ga-yeong could tell this to the VIPs directly. They could hear her words and understand. They could understand her father’s sacrifice. They will never break them again.

She turned to them.

One of them spoke: "I think we should pack it up. Without games there is nothing else we can do."

They would not walk away from this place. Ga-yeong promised herself that what they had done would not go unpunished.

These people needed to pay for what they did.

She removes her mask so she could talk without the modulator.

"We are not horses. We are humans," She said to them in english. They raised they heads in confusion.

Then Ga-yeong takes gun out and puts a bullet through bear masked man. He slumps into his chair. The blood appearing on his mask.

They all starts to scream. They would not run away. She walks towards them. Her head is still spinning from what she saw.

She can feel blood on her nose appearing. More dead butterflies falling on the ground.

"Humans are..." She says but it almost feel like whisper. She points a gun at that running panther masked woman and shot her throught heart.

Her own voice sounded like an echo of her father. It was him before. Now it's her. History repeats itself. Although now it's different.

There are still three men left. She only has two bullets. She can't miss now.

Lion mask and bird mask call the soldiers, the security, the Frontman. But no one is coming. No one is listening.

The servants and their slaves are hiding behind chairs, tables, and furniture. They are too afraid to run.

Ga‑yeong wants to tell them she's on their side, but she can't waste any more breath.

One of the VIPs — the buffalo‑masked man — is hidden somewhere; she can't see him.

She points at the bird‑masked man lying on the ground and he starts to beg. The other one runs, leaving his friend behind.

She's glad most of them are half‑drunk and acting clumsy. Like this one: he's panicking and frozen.

If she didn't know who he was, she would almost feel sorry for him. But she doesn't.

"Humans are brave like Hyun‑ju. Humans are greedy like Player 100. Humans are kind like Kim Jun‑hee, the one you bet on," she says to him. He's shivering on the ground like an animal caught in a trap.

She shoots him in the chest.

Then she turns to the lion‑masked man struggling to open the door, but someone has locked it. Ga‑yeong wonders if it was the soldier from before who killed the Officer — if she achieved what she wanted. Ga-yeong is glad there are people who want to help her. She would never achieve anything without them.

She aims her gun at him. One last bullet. One last shot.

The lion‑masked man turns to face her. He is screaming, trying to move through the door, trying to break it.

"Humans are cruel like Nam‑gyu. Humans try their best like Dae‑ho. Humans are friendly like Jung‑bae. Humans are caring like Mrs. Jang. Humans are flawed like Myung‑gi. Humans are scared like Minsu. Humans are protective like Semi," she continues.

The lion‑masked man doesn't say anything. He's still trying to open the door. She shoots him in the back. His body falls to the floor.

Now she needs to find the buffalo‑masked man — the one who's bald.

As she walks away from the door, she notices his silhouette. He has gotten up and is rushing toward the door too.

He knows he can't hide forever.

She speaks again; he has to hear her too: "Humans can be monsters like you. Humans are animals tearing each other apart to survive. Humans help each other. Humans have hope like my father. Humans can lose hope like In‑ho. Humans can be killers. Humans can be caring."

The buffalo‑masked man tries to run but trips in the pool of the Panther woman's blood.

"Humans are many things. Humans can be described with a million different words," she continues as if nothing happened.

He tries to get up and search for a weapon; then he sees the broken champagne glass the bird‑masked man drank from.

Before he can grab it, Ga‑yeong steps on it and tosses it aside.

"Even you are a human being. Even you are vulnerable. Even you are afraid," she says, pointing the gun at him even though the weapon can't harm him anymore.

He finally gets up; his mask slips from his face, revealing who he really is.

He rushes toward the exit, but Ga‑yeong stops him again. When he sees the pointed gun, he freezes.

He is near the glass window. From this angle, it almost seems like he is the one standing on the pillar.

"Please evacuate the island," she hears the robotic voice and the alarms. She hears footsteps. She glances back. The servants are coming out from their hiding places. They finally realize she's there to kill their masters.

"What do you want? Money? Power? I will give you anything!" the man pleads. His clothes are stained with blood. She already has a money. She have powers. There is nothing worthy he could give her.

"Get on your knees. Now," she commands coldly. He obeys. He has no choice if he doesn't want to end up dead.

No power or money will spare him the endless circle of life. No amount of time will grant him immortality.

Ga‑yeong gets an idea — a twisted one that surely came from the Frontman's mind.

But should he taste his own medicine? Should he know what it felt like down there in the games?

"I have a proposition for you," she tells him.

He raises a single eyebrow, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut.

"I want to play a game with you."

That sentence snaps him to attention like a whip crack. His spine stiffens, his chest rising sharply as though the air has grown heavier.

"What game?" he asks, his voice hoarse, betraying the anxiety pulsing inside him.

"The one where you can choose how to win or how to lose. There are no rules, and every decision is up to you," she explains with a cool steadiness that feels unnatural.

"I don’t know any game like that," he mutters back. His hands tremble, knuckles pale as though drained of blood.

"It’s my game. I’ll call it a choice. It’s very simple and easy. You will decide the fate of your humanity," she says coldly, as if stripping the word humanity of all comfort.

"So… you will ask me questions?" He asks.

"No. Nothing like that," she replies. Her hand slips into her pocket, and when it comes back out, there’s a knife glinting in the dim light.

His eyes widen with raw fear, his breathing ragged.

But instead of lunging forward, she drops the knife onto the floor. The metallic clang reverberates like a gunshot in the silence.

He stares at the blade, then back at her, confusion etched across his face.

In a rush, he grabs the knife and clenches it tightly, his fist trembling around the handle. But even with steel in his hand, he is still afraid—because she is holding a gun.

Ga-yeong almost forgets that the weapon is useless now. She tosses the gun to the far side of the room, its hollow clatter echoing against the walls.

The man’s eyes dart after it, then back at her. Slowly, uncertainly, he raises the knife, pointing it at her chest.

"What kind of test is this?" His voice cracks.

"I already told you," Ga-yeong replies. Her steps carry her toward the window, away from him. His knees dig into the cold floor as he watches her move, his body still trembling like a predator unsure if it should strike.

She knows he could get up. She knows he could stab her in the back, then vanish into the night.

Ga-yeong know all of this and  yet she leans closer to the glass, her black glove pressing faintly against the cold pane. It was a test after all. 

She wonders what he will choose. What path his trembling hand will take. Her game, at least, was fairer than theirs. They never offered them choices. Only illusions.

He has the advantage now. The knife gleams in his grip. He could spare her and leave. He could claim victory that way. But if he choose to attack, then he will lose.

Ga-yeong feels fear coiling deep in her chest. Maybe she shouldn’t have offered him this. Maybe she shouldn’t be playing games anymore.

Behind her, the faint rustle of his movements tells her he is rising. If he attacks, she still has one last trick. She can rewind time—one more time.

But then she thinks of her father. What if something happens to him? What if they’re in danger?

Her stomach twists violently, nausea washing over her. She can’t do anything now but wait.

Tears prick her eyes, streaking down her cheeks in silent rivers. She had just watched her father die. Even if it wasn’t real, it carved her apart.

But he remained himself, even in death. They tried to break him, grind him down to nothing—and still, he chose to help another. A helpless baby. A little girl who might one day grow.

Her gloved fingers trace the glass, trembling as she feels him moving closer and closer behind her.

"Was this worth it?" she whispers, voice heavy with despair. She needs to know. She needs to hear why. She knows history—wars, genocides, slavery. Humanity rotted in cycles of cruelty.

And yet, even in the blackest moments, flickers of good had survived. People helping strangers. There are people outside helping each other. There are people who can see the light despite the darkness.

"Could you send your own children here? Your own family? Could you watch your loved ones die?" she continues.

The man’s voice cuts like steel. "They are not here."

"No, they aren’t. You don’t care as long as it doesn’t affect you," she says, her voice trembling now. His shadow looms closer.

She turns to face him. He is leaning toward her, the knife pointing at inches from her throat.

Her breath hitches, her body flinches involuntarily. Alarms scream in her skull.

She will only rewind time if she is going to be near death. Not now. 

That man cannot kill her, even if he tries. 

But before that man can strike, her body slides from the glass.  He was aiming at her, but now his knife finds another target.  His knife misses flesh and instead bites into the pane with a sharp crack. The sound of steel against glass tears through the room.

That glass. The man yells as his body hits the window and his knife falls to the ground.

"You can still choose to walk away, you know," Ga-yeong says breathlessly.

Does he really want to lose? Does he really want death to claim him?

He turns toward her, laughter spilling from his lips, manic and jagged. "You will burn here. You are nothing more than another player."

Yes. She was just that. She wasn’t his equal. They could never stand on the same ground.

He lunges for the knife again, but Ga-yeong kicks it away, the blade skidding across the floor. Now both stand unarmed, stripped of their weapons, left only with their bare bodies and will.

He groans in rage and barrels toward her. Ga-yeong tries to push him away. But his hands grab her suit, shoving her back. Her body slams into the glass with a hollow crack.

Pain radiates through her ribs, but nothing is broken yet. She forces herself up, staggering.

He can still choose life. He can still choose to walk away and live. He doesn’t have to end up like the rest of them. 

But his eyes burn with only violence.

His fist swings forward. The punch explodes across her cheek, snapping her head sideways. A black bruise blooms instantly beneath her eye.

He swings again, but she ducks, his knuckles colliding with glass instead. It shatters in jagged shards, one piece slicing deep into her gloved hand. Blood seeps, hot and wet, under the black fabric.

"Fifteen minutes till explosion. I repeat, fifteen minutes till explosion," a robotic voice cheerfully announces overhead.

She prays her father and Jun-ho are getting the players out. She prays the soldier who helped her still breathes.

The man attacks her again. Another punch. This time in the jaw.  Pain ripples through her skull, her body staggering toward the gaping window.

He towers above her, pressing his weight down, fury etched into every muscle.  He is going to kill her. Some people won’t choose mercy. Some people want to be evil. Some are born to be monsters.

He grabs her by the jacket and tells her: "You really thought you could win? You really thought you could beat me at your made-up game? You said there are no rules, which only means I can win anytime."

He grips her jacket and hauls her upward, dangling her above the arena. Her body twists in the void, the drop yawning beneath her.

Her blood chills. She is frozen. Afraid to move.

Will she fall like her father before her?

If she does then it will be like in the jump rope game, she will close her eyes and uses her powers one last time.

This man could win in her game. But he already decide to lose when he attack her. When he look at that knife and think about murder rather then just walking away.

She made different choices then her father did. She saved him. She saved Ji-ah. Hyun-ju. Semi. Minsu.

He couldn’t save most of them before. He couldn’t kill the VIPs. He never got this far.

Even if she didn't have her powers, even if she had to really die then she would die for others.

In a way, she would win anyway. Even if she would fall. Even if her body hits the ground. They couldn't announce her elimination. They couldn't kill her like she would be just another player in their twisted game.

She would die like a human being. She would die like 23-year-old Seong Ga-yeong. Her life would be short. But so was the life of Jun-hee. So could be the life of everyone who died here.

That man is still holding her. But she can already feel his grip slipping. His hands are dirty with blood.

He won’t be able to hold her much longer.

And then—

Ga-yeong hears a click on the door. The man turns around. He takes a step back. Ga-yeong is closer to the ground now but still far away. She can still fall.

She sees a pink soldier. A woman with short black hair. She is pointing a rifle at her.

Of course she is. She is working for them. She is there to kill her.

Ga-yeong’s body twists helplessly in the man’s grasp, desperate to escape.

That man is smiling. He is pleased with his triumph.

Ga-yeong squeezes her eyes shut, bracing for the shot.

It comes. But she does not die.

Her eyes snap open. The man’s body jerks, then collapses, blood spreading fast across the floor.

And then—

Ga-yeong falls too.

Her hands scrabble desperately, catching the jagged edge of the window frame.

She hasn’t hit the ground yet. Her gloves betray her—slick, useless. One hand slips. Those goddamn gloves!

She dangles, teeth clenched, tongue bitten until she tastes iron.

She is hanging on the edge, her other hand slipping too.

That soldier won’t help her, obviously. Soldiers don’t care about players. They kill them and watch them die.

Tears stream down Ga-yeong’s face. She can feel the inevitable. 

She is about to fall.

Her grip breaks.

But then—

A bare hand seizes hers. Strong. Unyielding. Pulling her back.

The soldier isn’t wearing gloves. She drags Ga-yeong back into the room, helping her collapse to the ground.

Ga-yeong gasps for air, her lungs burning, her legs too weak to hold her.

"Are you Seong Ga-yeong? Seong’s daughter?" the soldier asks her as she is still trying to catch her breath. She can feel the agonizing pain in her face from those punches. That VIP is dead next to her. His blood is spreading across the floor.

Ga-yeong lifts her bloodied face. "Yes. And you are?"

"Kang No-eul. We met before. When I shot the Officer and you gave me keys to his room," Soldier - No-eul says to her.

So she was the one working for him previously. But why did she kill him? Why did she rebel?

"The island is going to blow up in ten minutes. We have to go to the boat," No-eul continues urgency flashing in her dark eyes.

"Is everyone okay? Did you met my father?" Ga-yeong asks, forcing herself to her feet. She notices the suitcase in No-eul’s hand, heavy and deliberate.

"Yes, I met Seong Gi-hun. There was a shootout in the dorms. The Officer still had some allies. Soldiers killed the O players, but the X ones got away safely. Those pink soldiers are dead. But those who fought them, some of them are injured. They should be fine," she informs her.

"Why are you doing this?" Ga-yeong presses. "You worked for them. Why now?"

She was working for the games, wasn’t she? Why would she turn against something she believed in? Or didn’t she?

"I was only doing this to have money to find my daughter. I helped another player, Gyeong-seok. He has a sick daughter waiting for him."

Gyeong-seok was alive? There was one more person alive. Relief flickers faintly in her chest. Hyun-ju would be glad to see her friend again.

Ga-yeong stoops, picking up the fallen knife. The VIP had lost the game.

"What's in the suitcase?" she points at what No-eul is holding.

"Officer’s computer. But I can’t get to it without authorization. It contains information about players," she replies.

"Don’t destroy it. When we get out, we’ll find a way to unlock it."

No-eul nods, then opens the door wider.

Ga-yeong limps after her, blood dripping from her nose, her body trembling from pain. Every muscle screams. They would all need to go to the hospital after this.

"I’m glad this place is going to burn," No-eul says, smiling grimly.

Ga-yeong can’t smile. She is in too much pain to express any emotion.

She just wants to go home. Take a very long vacation.

But she knows that won’t be possible. They need to find the families of the deceased. They need to inform the authorities about this.

They need to inform the public. They need to-

But her thoughts are stopped by a sound of thunder. Not the bombs. Not the fire.

Something entirely else.

"Did you hear that?" No-eul asks her.

It sounds like a storm outside. Something big.

Ga-yeong closes her eyes. That lonely blue butterfly is still flying around her.

What is going on?

"We need to get out of here," Ga-yeong says.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun and Jun-ho were back in the dormitories. In-ho should be in the control room, setting up the alarms. Most of the soldiers had already begun preparing to leave the island.

Gi-hun couldn’t see outside, but he guessed it was around midnight. If things had gone differently, they would have been playing the final game in about five hours.

But the games were over. They had done it. They had accomplished something no one had ever dared to do before.

Ga-yeong was meeting the VIPs. He hoped his daughter knew what she was doing, that she wouldn’t put herself in danger.

Those monsters—those cold, calculating beings—would burn in this place. They had never expected to be overthrown.

Not by the players, not by their betting horses, not by someone pretending to be on their side.

If Gi-hun was a spark, Ga-yeong was a wildfire—a blazing inferno that would consume them all, a fire that would destroy this place from the inside out.

He couldn’t be prouder of her. In a way, she was a better version of him—smarter to figure out how to beat them, braver with the courage to do the impossible, kinder as she never blamed or hurt the innocent, more hopeful as she could always see the light when he wasn’t sure there was one.

The dormitories were quiet now. Everyone was still asleep when Gi-hun opened the doors. No soldiers were in sight.

Jun-ho was right behind him, pointing his gun at the cameras. But no one stormed in. In-ho must have turned them off. No one was watching them anymore.

Gi-hun was still unsure what to think of him. He was no longer the Frontman—the man who had tormented him and killed Jung-bae.

He was no longer his friend Young-il—the one who had protected him, promised him soju, looked at him with warmth and affection.

He was Hwang In-ho. Still a murderer like the Frontman. Still a protector like Young-il.

Gi-hun had to believe that even in his worst moments, there was humanity in him—that Young-il wasn’t fake, but a part of him that had survived.

And then the alarms started to blare, piercing through the dormitories, rousing everyone from their sleep. Players sat up in confusion, looking around.

When they saw them, one of the Os asked, “What is going on?”

“Please evacuate the island. I repeat, evacuate the island,” a cheerful, robotic voice instructed.

“What do you mean? The last game won’t be played?” Player 203 exclaimed, standing up. Murmurs spread across the room—some furious, some confused.

Gi-hun walked toward the crib. Ji-ah was crying, startled by the loud noises. He scooped her into his arms, holding her tightly, trying to soothe her.

Semi and Minsu got out of their beds too. "Are we leaving?" the girl asked him.

"Yes. We are getting out of this place. There is a boat we have to get on," Jun-ho said to her.

“Are you fucking kidding me? And what about my money?” Player 203 shouted.

“Yes, what about our prize? Are we supposed to leave that behind too?” another player demanded.

Gi-hun ignored them and went to the bed where Hyun-ju lay. She was still breathing, her eyes open.

"Jun-ho! Can you help her?" Gi-hun called.

But then—

Three pink soldiers with rifles stormed in. What were they doing here? In-ho said no one would come here.

They aimed their weapons at them. No, In-ho had insisted he wanted Gi-hun alive. These soldiers must have been with that masked officer.

Jun-ho raised his gun, but the soldiers opened fire, killing the O players.

Gi-hun could barely breathe. Was this the moment they will all died?

Jun-ho returned fire, but the shooting continued. Semi took a bullet in the shoulder, Minsu in the leg.

Firearm was over by then.

Gi-hun looked up. Another soldier, unmasked, appeared. Jun-ho aimed at her.

“Wait! I’m here to help you. You need to get on the boat. There’s one at the docks,” she said. Gi-hun cradled Ji-ah tightly.

Hyun-ju got up from her place, breathing heavily, but she seemed to look better than before.

Jun-ho was still pointing the gun at her, unsure whether to trust her words. Why would a guard want to help them?

"We don’t have much time. We need to go," she said again.

"Do you know the way?" Jun-ho asked her.

"Yes."

"Who are you?" Semi asked.

"It doesn’t matter," she replied. "I don’t want you to die in there. That’s all you need to know about me."

Jun-ho lowered his gun. "We don’t have much time. If you’re lying, I will kill you."

The guard nodded.

Gi-hun tried to hold Hyun-ju as she limped, but it was hard when he was also holding Ji-ah in his arms.

"Let me help you, sir," Semi said as she looked at Ji-ah. Gi-hun handed her the baby. She clumsily held her in her arms.

Minsu was shot in the leg but did not limp. They were all moving from the dorms.

Gi-hun thought of Ga-yeong. He had never been a good father and had already lost the chance to be there for her as a child.

But now, he could be there for her, for the rest of his life. He could be the father she deserved, the one she needed.

He looked at Ji-ah. He could be there for her too. He didn’t have to be a hero, making big sacrifices. He just needed to be a father.

Maybe that was what he was always supposed to be.

It almost felt like a circle. He failed Sae-byeok. He failed Ga-yeong. He failed Jun-hee. He was sure he had failed Ji-ah too.

He never went on that plane to see Ga-yeong. He saved Ji-ah. His own daughter saved him because he saved another daughter.

They were following that guard through hallways and staircases.

In a better world, they could all live. They could all get out of here alive.

But life was no fairytale. It wasn’t a nightmare either.

Gi-hun had died previously. But he was going to live now. He was going to make changes outside. The games may be over, but the outside world was messed up too.

They could make this world a better place. It would be a long and hard fight, but they could fight together.

Maybe that was his first mistake. Maybe that was what doomed him in the end. Maybe that was what doomed them all in the end.

They stopped fighting together and instead kept fighting with each other, tearing each other apart instead of helping and lifting each other up.

Gi-hun was older. He already has scars from life. He already failed before.

But Ga-yeong was different. She was young. She was full of life. She was full of a fight that couldn’t be broken even by seeing all of that.

Gi-hun had been so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice they were already outside.

It was completely dark, but he saw a light on the boat. A flicker of hope.

Semi and Minsu were already boarding. He was relieved they were alive; they had futures ahead of them.

Gi-hun thought about how he was going to get those people money so they could pay off their debts. How they would have a second chance at life, something that had been stripped away from them the first time.

He didn’t go to the boat with them. He helped Hyun-ju on it.

Jun-ho and that guard stayed behind.

Gi-hun turned to that woman. She had helped them. He could ask her for another favor. They still had time and needed to wait here for Ga-yeong.

"Can I ask you for something?" he said to her. She turned her head to him. "Can you help my daughter Ga-yeong? She is with the VIPs. You need to help her if she is in danger. Please."

The guard nodded and rushed back inside.

Gi-hun turned to Jun-ho. He wasn’t boarding the boat; he was thinking of In-ho.

Gi-hun had expected In-ho to come with them. He had set the bombs, shut down the cameras.

Should he deserve a second chance too? Should a murderer get a second chance?

But they all became killers at some point, by their own choices or by force.

He killed Jung-bae. He lied and manipulated him.

He still missed Young-il. It was twisted how much he still cared about a ghost that didn’t even exist.

Young-il was a made-up trap that he fell into. He was never his friend.

But a part of Gi-hun knew that there were parts that must have been real—acts of In-ho, not Young-il.

When he told the truth about his wife, when he told them about his games, when he protected Gi-hun.

When he held his hand. That almost kiss. That look of affection. He cared. That was real, wasn’t it?

Gi-hun couldn’t sympathize with him nor forgive him, but he wanted to learn more about In-ho.

In a better world, they could have been friends from the start, without all that betrayal, without all that hurting. They could have been ordinary men who met outside of this hell.

But Hwang In-ho was as broken as Gi-hun. He just chose to walk a different path.

"Jun-ho?" he called.

"I need to get back to In-ho. I can’t leave without him. There is still time for Ga-yeong to make it out. When she reaches you, you will leave."

"But what about you? Will you find us again?" Gi-hun called.

"I will find you. Don’t worry," Jun-ho said, then ran back inside.

Gi-hun sat on the boat. Semi gave him Ji-ah back. He held that little girl in his hands carefully.

Ga-yeong never got a sister. He knew she only had a stepbrother in America.

He was looking at Ji-ah. In a better world, she would grow up with both of her parents. She would be held by Jun-hee instead.

If he and everyone else died in that different timeline, that meant Ji-ah was completely alone there.

But she had a new family now. She had a chance to grow up surrounded by love. He could tell her how much they sacrificed to build a better world.

Gi-hun finally understood. Sometimes sacrifice didn’t mean death; it didn’t mean leaving everyone behind and hoping someone else would continue the fight.

No, sacrifice meant living. Living despite all the terrible things, despite the pain and suffering.

He would live again.

Gi-hun looked at Hyun-ju. "It’s going to be okay," he said.

Hyun-ju didn’t reply. She was watching the sea. Ga-yeong should be there in a few minutes.

Semi and Minsu were shivering because of the cold. All of their clothes were stained with blood.

Jun-ho called the coast guard. When they moved with the boat, they would find them. They would go to a hospital.

They would finally leave this place behind.

Hwang In-ho was going to die. He had accepted it long ago. His plan had been simple: remain on the island and let the flames consume him along with everything else.

But fate always had other plans.

Even though the Masked Officer was dead, his allies were not finished with him. One of them had come after In-ho. Not Ga-yeong this time. No — just some nameless pink-suited soldier.

In-ho had shot him, but the bastard had managed to catch him by surprise. Now blood seeped hot and sticky through his clothing, staining the black fabric, dripping onto the polished floor.

He sat in his armchair, slouched like a man already halfway to the grave. A half-empty glass of whiskey trembled in his hand. Each sip was an attempt to dull the stabbing fire in his gut. The bottle rested beside him, its amber liquid glinting in the dim light. Near the elevator lay the corpse of the soldier he had killed, sprawled in a grotesque heap, helmet still on.

The room was quiet except for his ragged breathing and the occasional clink of glass.

The last time he had seen Gi-hun was when he had spoken his real name aloud. The last time he had seen Jun-ho was when his younger brother had begged him — no, demanded of him — the chance to return home. Both moments clung to him like ghosts.

But he would not go home. He would stay here. He would die here. The others — the ones who still had futures — were already making their way off this cursed island. Fifteen minutes remained until the end.

In-ho let his eyes slip shut, bracing himself for Death’s embrace. His chest rose slowly, painfully, as though each breath was being torn from him.

Then a voice shattered the silence.

“You can’t be fucking serious.”

That wasn’t Death’s voice.

In-ho’s eyes snapped open, and standing above him was Jun-ho. His little brother. Gun raised, face torn between fury and worry, eyes burning like fire.

Why had he come back? He should have been with Gi-hun and the others, helping them escape. Why here, why now?

“Leave me alone, Jun-ho,” In-ho rasped. His voice was hoarse, thin. Couldn’t his brother even let him die in peace? He didn’t want him to see this — the weakness, the blood, the decay.

Jun-ho should have left long ago. He had already uncovered the truth, already wrestled out his answers. He needed nothing more from In-ho.

“You are the worst brother in existence. Maybe I should have killed you myself,” Jun-ho spat, voice sharp as a blade.

Yes, he should have. End it now. Put a final bullet through his chest and leave his body here to rot in the ashes of the island.

“Do it then,” In-ho murmured, lips curling faintly in a humorless smile. “Leave. Get off this island with the others.”

“I really hate you right now, In-ho. You deserve to suffer.” Jun-ho’s words cracked like a whip.

In-ho couldn’t help but smile again, though the effort immediately tore pain through his body.

“Let me be. Just tell me — is Gi-hun alive?”

“Yes. He is. The others too. They’re just waiting for Ga-yeong to deal with the VIPs.”

In-ho hadn’t been watching the monitors anymore, but he knew Ga-yeong well enough. He could imagine her standing in front of the hosts, her words sharp as knives.

Then, without warning, Jun-ho’s fist crashed against his face. Pain exploded, white-hot, worse than the wound in his stomach. But he didn’t fight it. He deserved it. He always had.

When the haze cleared, Jun-ho was no longer pointing the gun at him.

“We need to get off this island. You shot me off a cliff, you set up Captain Park, and half of my team died because of you. You are the worst person I know. But…” His voice broke, if only for a heartbeat. “…you’re also my brother. I won’t let you bleed out here.”

“No,” In-ho groaned, trying weakly to push him away. His bloody hand trembled against Jun-ho’s shoulder. “I will only slow you down. You will die, Jun-ho.”

“We both had the chance to kill each other, but we didn’t. Hyung…” Jun-ho’s grip tightened, his strength unrelenting. “Let’s go home.”

Jun-ho pulled him up, slinging his brother’s arm over his shoulder. The younger man’s body was taller, sturdier. For the first time, In-ho felt small beside him, like a child being carried. His little brother no longer needed protecting.

“Wait,” In-ho hissed through the pain. “There’s another route to the docks. The VIPs use it when they come by boat. There should be one there.”

“Then let’s go,” Jun-ho said. “I hope the others will be fine too. One of the guards was helping them.”

“Guard Eleven?” In-ho asked, squinting, his mind fogged by blood loss.

“I don’t know her number. But she’s the one who killed the Officer. Gi-hun said she should help Ga-yeong with the VIPs.”

Jun-ho said no more. He focused only on moving them forward, step by brutal step through the dim corridors. Every drag of In-ho’s feet smeared blood across the floor. It took nearly ten minutes to reach the staircase, Jun-ho straining under his brother’s weight.

On one of the screens, the timer glowed: five minutes left. In the VIP chamber, the gunfire had gone silent.

In-ho prayed, silently, that Ga-yeong was still alive.

They descended the staircase, their pace quickening, urgency pressing them forward.

The intercom blared its metallic warning: two minutes left. Jun-ho pushed harder, half carrying his brother, who could barely lift his own legs. Every step dragged like iron chains.

If Jun-ho died here, In-ho thought bitterly, it would be his fault. Always his fault.

At last, the corridor spit them out into a cavernous cave, where the sea crashed softly against the stone walls. Three motorboats waited in the shadows like sleeping beasts.

“That one,” In-ho croaked, pointing weakly to the smallest boat.

Jun-ho hauled him inside, forcing him down onto one of the seats.

“The keys…” In-ho whispered, his voice faltering. He didn’t know how much time they had left, but he knew it wasn’t long.

Gi-hun and the others must already be out there, taking the larger boats to safety. Please, he thought, let them have made it.

Jun-ho shoved the boat off and climbed aboard. Just as the engine coughed to life, a deafening explosion tore through the night. The island roared behind them, a monstrous eruption of fire and smoke. The blast wave slammed the air around them, but they were far enough now, carried by the water into safety.

In-ho felt no relief yet. Not until he saw Gi-hun again. He had failed him once, in another life, in another timeline. He had always been the coward.

But maybe — just maybe — this time could be different. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it. But if he was to live, then he would try. He would try to be better. For Gi-hun.

“In-ho, where’s the nearest hospital?” Jun-ho’s voice cut through the haze.

“If we go this way, to the mainland…” In-ho forced the words past his cracked lips. “An hour. Maybe two.”

“Keep it together, In-ho.”

He tried. He truly did. But darkness crept into his vision, swallowing the world. Just before his consciousness gave way, he saw the thick black smoke rising high into the sky. The island — the nightmare — burning into nothingness.

They had made it.

Ga-yeong and No-eul finally made it outside. The sky loomed dark and gray, heavy with unspoken menace. Lightning forked across the clouds, illuminating the chaos in brief, blinding flashes.

Still, she could catch glimmers of light from the boats. That’s where her father and everyone else were waiting.

But she couldn’t reach them.

Because a storm had risen before them, wild and untamed.

Her hair whipped violently across her face, tangled by the merciless wind. Every step she forced herself to take felt like dragging her away from the place she needed to be.

Rain pelted down in relentless sheets. Her clothes clung to her body, soaked and heavy. Her skin burned from the cold, and her face felt like ice against the fury of the storm.

“What is going on?” No-eul yelled at her through the roar of wind. Ga-yeong could barely hear her.

Was this the moment her thirteen-year-old self had warned her about? Was this the instant where everything would shatter?

They were so close. They just needed to go down to the boat. They needed to reach her dad, Ji-ah in his arms.

But she had no idea how to make it happen. Maybe it was just normal weather—storms happened on the island all the time, didn’t they?

Ga-yeong couldn’t risk rewinding time—not with that last butterfly orbiting her, lonely. She had to hold on to those powers just a little longer.

But as she approached, she realized—the storm was far from ordinary. No-eul shouted behind her that it was dangerous, but Ga-yeong didn’t listen. They had only minutes before this place would burn down entirely.

Amid the chaos, the blue butterflies appeared. But when she reached out, they eluded her grasp, as if they had become invisible. Only the last one remained.

Then her hand found something else. She was no longer wearing gloves, and blood stained her fingers, her left hand cut by broken glass.

That injured hand caught another. She gripped it tightly, and a face emerged through the tempest.

Jun-hee. But… she was dead, wasn’t she?

Ga-yeong stared, frozen. Jun-hee’s eyes were closed, yet she was breathing. She seemed to float, suspended between past and present, caught in a liminal space where time no longer applied.

Ga-yeong tried to pull her closer. Her hand struggled, as if dragging someone up from the deepest ocean trenches.

She had made a promise. She promised Jun-hee that she would bring her home. That she would save her.

Her grip strained under the impossible weight. Then, another hand appeared. With her other hand, the one uninjured, she seized it.

Dae-ho. He appeared before her, another life to save. His sisters were waiting outside. But Ga-yeong’s body was breaking under the strain. Pulling someone from time itself was nearly impossible.

It was harder than rewinding time. The butterfly grew more fractured with every passing second. She could feel her powers slipping. She wasn’t strong enough. She would fail again.

She was going to fail Jun-hee again. She wasn’t good enough to save anyone. She couldn’t save all of them.

Her grip began to falter. She could feel the inevitable loss creeping in.

“No matter how you look at it, life is just unfair. People do bad things, but they blame others and go on to live in peace. Good people, on the other hand, beat themselves over the smallest things.”

Mrs. Jang’s voice pierced the storm.

She wanted Jun-hee to live, to see Ji-ah, to escape this place.

Ga-yeong’s body burned with a pain she had never known before, searing through every muscle and sinew. The storm’s rain mixed with her tears on her face.

No-eul remained behind, watching in awe and confusion. The island itself seemed on the verge of explosion. They all would be buried if she failed.

Water streamed down her face. She didn’t know if it was rain or tears.

Her legs trembled. The weight of two people was crushing. Blood ran from her nose.

The butterfly’s wings fragmented further, blue fading to gray.

She would never save them. Other hands reached for her, but she could not reach them. She only had two hands. She was running out of time. Exhaustion clawed at her. She felt useless again.

She couldn’t save everyone. She wasn’t a good person. She had hurt everyone around her. She had killed. She had let people down.

Her hands were stained with blood that no washing could remove. No matter how many times she tried, it would never come off.

“Mister. Don’t do it. You are not that kind of person.” A young girl’s voice. Mister? Was she speaking to Ga-yeong father? Had this girl played in his first games like Sang-woo?

Ga-yeong opened her eyes. The storm still raged. Faces reached for her, but she could not see them.

But there had to be Jung-bae somewhere too. He was a good person. He was her father’s friend. He—

“Gi-hun, when we get out of here, I am inviting you to soju,” Jung-bae’s voice echoed through the wind.

Ga-yeong wanted to scream until her lungs burned. Why must good people lose? Why was life so cruel?

In-ho had also promised her father soju. But that was impossible now too, wasn’t it? He had broken their trust. He had betrayed her father.

He had killed Jung-bae. And Ga-yeong had let his murderer live. Walk away freely.

And what about the others? Young-mi, who was just afraid and wanted to go home. Yongsik, who wanted to be a better son but failed. Myung-gi, a bad person—but could he have been someone else if given one more chance? He couldn’t even hold his daughter this time. He didn’t even know her name.

Ga-yeong didn’t want to say goodbye to them.

"Some goodbyes take time," another voice echoed. She knew it. Bird-masked VIP. The one who had bet on Jun-hee.

She didn’t want to say goodbye to her either. She kept pushing them through the storm. She kept trying, even though she felt like she could die at any minute.

She just wanted to go home. She wanted to sleep in her bed. She wanted to rest. She wanted to escape this place.

"When we get out of here, we should go to Jeju Island. Oh, sorry, I forgot…" another young girl said, laughing after her words. But it sounded sad, like she knew it was just a dream. Like she knew she was going to die.

Ga-yeong was going to get out. They would all get out. She could go to Jeju Island for them. She could give closure to those still alive. She could help them.

She kept grabbing. Jun-hee was almost out. Dae-ho was still in the storm. Both of her hands were shaking. She wasn’t sure she could hold on any longer.

If she lost her powers, she would never return to her child self. She would never be thirteen again—or ten. What would her mother think of that? How could she even face her? How would she explain what had happened?

"When we were kids, we would play just like this, and our moms would call us in for dinner. But no one calls us anymore," a male voice said, sounding defeated. Ga-yeong knew whose voice it was: Sang-woo. Her father’s childhood best friend. He was long gone now. He couldn’t go home. His mom would never call him again.

But her father could. Even if she would never be the same little girl again, one day Jun-hee’s child would grow up. She would play with her friends outside and be called in for dinner.

Ga-yeong’s body was breaking down. Every muscle was tense. Her head was dizzy. She couldn’t breathe.

Jun-hee had to see her daughter again. She had to see Ji-ah. Hold her in her arms. Care for her.

"Where is In-ho? I need to tell him that I have a name for our daughter. I need to tell him that I love him. He didn’t leave me, did he?" a tender female voice echoed. That must have been In-ho’s wife, the one who died when he won the games.

Could In-ho still have a chance to change? Could he see the light again, like she does? Like her father does?

Or was it really too late for change? She had killed him. Maybe if he had stayed dead, he could see his wife again. Maybe he would die for someone. Die knowing that in the end there was something worthy.

She was so close to getting both of them out. They were almost free of the storm.

But then her grip failed.

Their bodies slipped into the storm again. Ga-yeong wanted to scream. Why? Why did she keep failing?

She would never be like her father. He died protecting someone. She would die here, unable to save them. Her father would be completely devastated, never seeing her again because she burned here too.

"Hyung, I want to be like you when I grow up. I want to protect people like you," a child’s voice said—Jun-ho’s. He didn’t want his brother to die despite everything. He was still his family.

She wanted to protect those who were alive too. She wanted to save them. And she would keep trying, even if it hurt. Even if it was hard.

She was still holding them. With every ounce of strength she had, Ga-yeong pulled them closer. Her legs were slipping on the wet ground.

Alarms were still ringing. The boat was still waiting. She couldn’t see her father yet. But she kept watching as she held Jun-hee and Dae-ho.

"Doing something is always more fun than just watching," an old man’s voice echoed. What was he talking about?

Ga-yeong gritted her teeth. Blood had entered her mouth, a metallic taste on her tongue.

But what about the others? What about the other hands reaching for her? She couldn’t let them disappear. She couldn’t—

"You can only have one. Bread or lottery. You have to choose," a malicious male voice said, like he was playing a game with someone.

Life was unfair. Life was cruel. But there was hope. She couldn’t stop people from dying. She couldn’t stop cruelty.

But if she saved two more people, it would be more then enough. If she could get out, maybe they could all make changes. They could help more people.

Her stomach twisted. Her body fell to the ground. She twisted her ankle; she could feel bones cracking. Tears ran down her face uncontrollably, loud sobs mixing with the storm.

But she still held them. She wouldn’t stop holding them, even if they died. Even if she died with them.

"The game will not end unless the world changes," the Frontman’s robotic voice echoed. Ga-yeong wondered if there were more games around the world. If there were more islands like this.

She couldn’t change the whole world. What a foolish, childish dream. But she could change the lives of a few people. She could help them out.

"I’ll show you that the world doesn’t always go the way you want it to."

"Appa…" she whispered. Yes, they had shown those greedy, power-hungry people that they could be better than them. That they weren’t just their betting horses. That the system they had set up hadn’t broken them yet.

With the last strength her body had left, she screamed and pulled both Jun-hee and Dae-ho out of the storm.

The butterfly landed on the ground—black like ash. The storm disappeared, as if it had never been there. The hands of all those people and echoes vanished too.

Jun-hee and Dae-ho lay on the ground, beginning to wake up. Noe-ul came to them, checking them.

Ga-yeong collapsed on her knees. She couldn’t move. Tears and blood covered her face. She couldn’t feel her powers anymore. There was no butterfly left.

"Jihoon!" Jun-hee yelled, calling her by her fake name.

Ga-yeong could barely hear her over the ringing. She looked at the sky. It was still dark, but the thunder was gone. The moon shone on her face.

"Five minutes till explosion. I repeat: five minutes till explosion," a cheerful mechanical voice announced.

Ga-yeong closed her eyes, her body falling to the wet ground. She just wanted to go home. She wanted to hug her appa.

"Jihoon!" she heard Dae-ho’s voice before she lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun saw the storm dissolving into the horizon, its roar fading like a memory. What the hell had just happened?

He could still hear the alarm blaring in the distance. Did that mean they still had time? But then—where was Ga-yeong?

From the smoke and haze, two figures emerged. One of them was a guard. The second… Jun-hee?

No. That couldn’t be. His mind must have snapped. She was dead. She had died in the jump rope game.

And then—Dae-ho? Impossible. He had fallen in hide and seek. The last thing Gi-hun had said to him was that he didn’t blame him.

But there he was, carrying someone in his arms. He was carrying Ga-yeong. From where Gi-hun stood, his daughter looked unbearably small, fragile, almost like a child again.

If time travel was real, then maybe the dead could come back too.

He had seen too many strange things this week to dismiss the thought.

“We need to get on the boat, hurry!” the guard yelled at them.

Dae-ho climbed aboard with Ga-yeong still in his arms. Everyone froze for a moment, stunned by the impossible sight before them, but they didn’t have time to process it.

The guard helped Jun-hee onto the boat. Her ankle was still broken—the same injury that had doomed her in the jump rope game.

Gi-hun stared at her, his mouth dry, words lost in the storm of his mind.

"Jun-hee..?” Hyun-ju whispered, her voice trembling. Her face drained of color, as if she were staring at a ghost.

Gi-hun felt the same.

But before Jun-hee could respond, the guard leapt into the boat and started the engine. The vessel groaned, then surged away from the shore.

“We should avoid the coast guard,” the guard said firmly. “It would be best if we move quickly.”

Gi-hun didn’t complain. Yes, this would all be too hard to explain. They were all dressed oddly, with odd injuries, coming from a strange island that was currently exploding. They were all technically supposed to be dead—well, except for that guard, Ga-yeong, and maybe the baby.

If the authorities got hold of them, they’d be interrogated for weeks, maybe forever. They’d be branded lunatics. Or worse.

Gi-hun’s eyes flicked to Jun-hee, seated across from him, then to Dae-ho, who had laid Ga-yeong carefully on a seat. His daughter’s face was pale as snow. Blood dripped from her nose, and her ankle was bent at a sickening angle.

“She saved us,” Jun-hee whispered, her voice breaking. “You saved Ji-ah.” Her eyes softened as she gazed at her daughter, tender and trembling.

Gi-hun swallowed. “How? You were supposed to be gone. I thought…” He shook his head, unable to comprehend.  But he gave her Ji-ah back.

Jun-hee began to cry, clutching her baby to her chest. She looked at Hyun-ju, who lay unconscious, but said nothing more. She, too, must have been in shock.

Dae-ho sat hunched, shivering from the cold, still in the blue vest from hide and seek. His eyes locked on Gi-hun, filled with confusion and fear.

“Sir… what happened? The last thing I remember is hide and seek. And then nothing,” Dae-ho said.

Gi-hun’s heart twisted. What could he possibly say? That Dae-ho had died by Nam-gyu’s blade? That maybe he had always been fated to die there?

A terrible thought struck him like lightning. If Ga-yeong hadn’t been in the original timeline to stop him from blaming Dae-ho for the rebellion’s failure—for Jung-bae’s death—did that mean…

He had killed him? Had he failed him too?

Gi-hun was so tired. He hadn’t slept for days, hadn’t eaten much, and was injured too. All he could think about was getting off this island, getting them to the hospital, and making sure they didn’t die.

He wasn’t a natural liar. Yes, he had lied before, but always with regret. Yet now, the truth would destroy them. What they needed was something believable. Something normal.

Because nothing about the past six days had been normal.

He thought the first games had been insane.

But this was a different type of lunacy. That type that might as well have been a dream.

Except it wasn’t.

“You were sedated, Dae-ho,” Gi-hun said at last. His voice was steady, but it felt like glass shattering in his chest. “The soldiers took you out during hide and seek. They wanted to use your body for organ trafficking.”

Dae-ho recoiled, horrified. His gaze slid to Ga-yeong’s unconscious form. “Did she… did she carry me all this way?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He had no words left. He was simply grateful it was over.

Jun-hee stayed silent, rocking Ji-ah gently, watching the waves shimmer under the night. She was smiling through her tears.

Gi-hun’s own eyes stung. She was alive. She would raise her baby. She would have a future.

The games were finally over.

The police hadn’t helped when he had begged them before. And now, if the police learned of this—if they traced even a thread back to the island—he was certain they would pin everything on them. They would be silenced, punished, buried beneath lies.

“Hey, weren’t you the one who fell in the jump rope game?” Semi suddenly asked Jun-hee.

Jun-hee looked at her, lips parting, but no sound came. She was just as lost in confusion as the rest of them.

“She was with Dae-ho. Soldiers sometimes fake the deaths of players to take their organs,” the guard interrupted.

Minsu shivered. Semi opened her mouth again, but no words came.

Something about that woman unsettled Gi-hun. She knew the island too well. She had been part of it. She could have abandoned them, fled with the other guards, left them to die. But she hadn’t. She had risked her life to save them—and Ga-yeong.

And now she was covering for Gi-hun’s lie.

Jun-hee gazed down at Ji-ah in her arms, then back at the guard. Her lips trembled. “You saved me. I wouldn’t have made it out, not with this ankle. Thank you…” Tears streaked her face.

Gi-hun wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how.

“I’ll pay for your hospital treatment,” he said instead.

“I saved another player too. 246. Gyeong-seok,” the guard replied.

Gi-hun said nothing, but relief flickered inside him. At least someone else had lived.

The boat slowed, and silence settled over them. Everyone was lost in thought, trying to process the nightmare.

Gi-hun realized then—they had left the prize money behind.

But he still had what remained from the first games. He hoped it would be enough to pay their debts.

He wondered what had become of Jun-ho and In-ho. Surely they had escaped too? His eyes drifted to the guard’s suitcase, strapped tightly beside her rifle. He couldn’t tell what she was planning—or why she had saved Gyeong-seok, or them.

“Do you have anywhere to stay?” Gi-hun asked Jun-hee softly.

Her eyes widened. “I live alone, sir. I have nobody.”

He remembered how close she had been with Geum-ja. But Geum-ja was gone. She had wanted Jun-hee to live.

At least Hyun-ju was alive. Her friend had survived.

And then there was Myung-gi. Gi-hun didn’t know what relationship she had with him. He only knew that he was the father of her child. Gi-hun’s chest constricted with guilt. He had killed him. Killed the father of Ji-ah. Would she forgive him if she ever knew?

“You can stay with me,” he said. “I’ll make sure your debts are paid.”

Jun-hee’s lip trembled. She nodded shakily. “Alright. Ji-ah… she needs a better home anyway.”

Gi-hun smiled faintly, trying to reassure her. He had lost Sae-byeok, lost his best friends. But now he had Jun-hee—a sweet, caring girl with a baby who deserved a future. He would not fail her again.

“And what about Hyun-ju?” Jun-hee asked, glancing at the unconscious woman.

“She can stay with us too, if she wants. Ga-yeong will be there as well.”

Jun-hee’s brows furrowed.

“Who is Ga-yeong?” Dae-ho asked, overhearing.

“My daughter,” Gi-hun said quietly. “She’s the one who helped you.” His eyes lingered on her still body. Would she be okay? Somehow, he knew the strange powers she had carried were gone. A parent always knows.

“I thought her name was Jihoon,” Dae-ho said, puzzled.

Jun-hee’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you attack your own daughter?”

Gi-hun’s stomach churned. How many lies would he need to weave before this nightmare made sense? He almost felt like In-ho, hiding truth beneath layers of deception. Was that why In-ho saw him as an equal? Because they were too alike?

Gi-hun chose a half-truth. “I didn’t know it was her. We hadn’t seen each other for thirteen years. She went looking for me, and that’s why she created a false identity—because she wanted to get me out without revealing the truth.”

Jun-hee and Dae-ho both nodded. Gi-hun knew he would have to deal with Eun-ji soon. He would have to tell her the truth. He was afraid of what his ex-wife might have done in those six days when Ga-yeong disappeared.

He would need fake documents for Ga-yeong—an ID, a birth certificate, everything. Woo-seok could help.

“Sir, where do you live?” Jun-hee asked quietly.

He lived in that pink motel. But that was certainly not the place where Jun-hee could raise her baby. The motel was dirty, falling apart, and full of weapons, cigarette smoke, and blood.

But he had enough money. He could buy them a house. He could find a nice place for them. They could all have their own rooms. And when Ji-ah grew up, she would have her own room too.

"I will find a place where we can stay," He replied to her.

And what about In-ho? Did he have somewhere to go? Maybe to his brother. Though Gi-hun doubted Jun-ho wanted to share space with him again.

“And what about you?” Gi-hun turned to Dae-ho.

Dae-ho shook his head. He looked haunted, afraid. Gi-hun almost forgot—the last memory he should have was Nam-gyu’s blade.

“I have space for you too, if you want,” Gi-hun offered. Dae-ho had been a friend to both Jun-hee and Ga-yeong. But Gi-hun also remembered he had sisters waiting at home.

“I still have no money. The debtors… they’ll find me,” Dae-ho whispered.

“I’ll help you. I meant what I said,” Gi-hun replied.

Dae-ho blinked, stunned. He still looked terrified.

“I also meant what I said about the rebellion,” Gi-hun continued, his voice heavy with honesty. “I don’t blame you. I’m sorry if you feel like you let everyone down.”

“I was just scared. I really wanted to help you. I tried, I did. I really…” Dae-ho’s words faltered. He turned away, staring at the endless sea.

Gi-hun looked at Semi and Minsu. They were silent, gazing at the waves, their young faces already cracked with trauma. Their wounds hadn’t healed either.

“What about you two?” Gi-hun asked softly.

Semi met his gaze, sharp and unflinching. She reminded him of Ji-yeong, Sae-byeok’s friend who had died in marbles.

At least there had been no marbles this time.

“I need money too. I need to pay off my debtors,” Semi said, her voice tight. She winced, clutching her wounded shoulder.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I was planning to leave Seoul anyway. I want to get as far away as I can.”

He couldn’t blame her. After all this, who wouldn’t?

“And you?” he asked the boy, Minsu. His leg was injured, and he was bleeding. Gi-hun was sure he would never have made it out of this place without someone helping him.

“I’ll go back to my parents. But I need money too,” he whispered.

“So we are really the only ones to survive? And the baby? Is that yours, Jun-hee?” Dae-ho asked, trying to brighten the mood.

Jun-hee’s smile lit her face. “Yes. Her name is Ji-ah. Mrs. Jang helped me give birth during hide and seek, before…” Her words broke. She bit her lip.

“Did she—” Dae-ho’s voice faltered, eyes hollowing.

Geum-ja had died alongside her son Yongsik. At least, Gi-hun thought, they would not be separated now.

“She got to hold her. She told me Ji-ah is a beautiful name,” Jun-hee whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“You should both rest. You’ve been through a lot,” Gi-hun said gently. They nodded, and silence returned, heavy as the sea.

The weight of everything pressed down on Gi-hun. He was drowning in exhaustion. None of this felt real anymore. It was all like a fever dream—the kind where your mother makes tea while you burn in bed.

But his mother was gone. He had never even told Ga-yeong her grandmother had died.

Perhaps Ga-yeong already knew. Somehow.

He turned to look at her. She was still unconscious, her face streaked with dried blood, her body limp.

He prayed she would survive.

And in some twisted way, he prayed In-ho would survive too. Why did he only start to care for him at the moment he watched him die?

It took a long time before the shore came into view. With every passing minute, Gi-hun’s worry grew heavier, a storm inside his chest. Ga-yeong and Hyun-ju had been unconscious for so long, and though their bodies bore no visible wounds, the silence of their stillness gnawed at him.

His hands trembled as he cradled his daughter in his arms. The last time he had held her like this, she had been ten years old.

She would never be ten again. But that was alright. It didn’t matter how many years they had lost. It didn’t matter how different they looked now, how scarred and aged and broken. None of that mattered.

They were family again at last.

Then he saw Jun-ho. And In-ho. The latter was bleeding out, but an ambulance was already there, medics crouched over him, working with frantic precision to keep him alive.

Gi-hun felt a wave of relief. He shouldn’t feel that way—not for the man who had ordered Jung-bae’s death. But he did.

When Jun-ho spotted them, he rushed forward, his eyes wild. In the distance, Gi-hun caught a glimpse of Gyeong-seok being loaded into another ambulance.

“You made it! How many of you are there?” Jun-ho shouted, as survivors climbed down from the boat one by one.

“There are seven more survivors,” Gi-hun called back, his voice raw.

“Okay, we’ve been waiting for you. There’s no time to call for more backup—we’ll have to drive straight to the hospital,” Jun-ho said firmly.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Gi-hun smiled. They had made it.

“Are any of you critically injured?” Jun-ho asked.

Gi-hun glanced around. The paramedics had already taken Jun-hee, Ji-ah, Hyun-ju, and Dae-ho, leading them into the ambulance where Gyeong-seok lay.

“No. I don’t think so,” he answered.

“Good. Then let’s go.” Jun-ho guided him toward the second ambulance. Semi and Minsu followed closely behind, shadows of exhaustion etched into their faces.

“Put her here,” one of the paramedics ordered. Gi-hun carefully placed Ga-yeong into their waiting arms.

Inside, Gi-hun lowered himself into a seat beside In-ho. The man had been shot—one of the pink guards, surely. Gi-hun had already seen him bleed out twice before, but now, stripped of the Frontman’s mask and power, In-ho looked vulnerable. Mortal. Not the terrifying figure Gi-hun once knew.

Through the back doors, Gi-hun watched the first ambulance speed away. He prayed silently that its passengers would live.

When he looked back toward the harbor, the boat was gone. The guard had vanished with it. No trace remained.

Who was she? She had known Gyeong-seok. Did she have a life outside these games? Was it only a job to her?

The only one who might know was In-ho—and his eyes were barely open.

“Is that Young-il? I didn’t know he survived too,” Semi said softly, pointing at In-ho.

A paramedic bent over Gi-hun, checking him quickly. “Nothing visible. But you’ll need antibiotics.”

Then they moved on to Minsu, patching his injured leg with brisk hands.

Gi-hun’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say to that girl. So he kept lying. Was he doomed to lie for the rest of his life?

“Yes. He was with Jun-hee and Dae-ho,” he finally murmured.

Jun-ho’s eyebrow arched, suspicion flickering in his gaze. Of course he didn’t know where Jun-hee and Dae-ho had been—he didn’t know they were supposed to be dead.

“You need to go to a hospital. That wound requires surgery. There’s nothing more I can do for you here,” the paramedic told Semi, before turning to Ga-yeong. “That girl also needs hospitalization.”

She still hadn’t woken. Gi-hun brushed strands of hair from her pale face, dabbing gently at the blood on her skin with a napkin.

He would take care of her. He would never let something like this happen to her again. In the hospital, she would have warmth, food, a real bed. She could rest, finally.

“What happened to all of you?” the paramedic asked as the ambulance rumbled forward.

Jun-ho’s eyes met Gi-hun’s, but he said nothing. He only kept checking on his brother.

No one else spoke either. The ride passed in a heavy silence.

At the hospital, medics carried Ga-yeong and In-ho away, disappearing into the flurry of hallways and doors. Semi and Minsu were led inside too, nurses guiding them swiftly.

Suddenly, Gi-hun found himself standing alone with Jun-ho in the chaotic foyer.

“Hey, I’ll check on In-ho. You should see the others,” Jun-ho said, already turning to go.

Gi-hun nodded, then wandered the halls, searching for familiar faces. He was lost in the blur of white coats and rushing footsteps until a nurse with kind eyes approached him.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked gently.

“Kim Jun-hee,” he said.

She smiled at him with sympathy and guided him through a corridor. At a door, she paused.

“You should clean yourself before you talk to her. The bathroom is right here,” she said, pointing to the side.

He glanced down at his hands, sticky with dried blood. Right.

“Mr. Seong!” Jun-hee’s voice called from the hospital bed inside. A doctor was wrapping her ankle.

Ji-ah wasn’t with her—she must have been taken to obstetrics. Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok lay asleep in the other two beds.

Gi-hun smiled at Jun-hee and nodded before stepping back. He would be right there. The nurse closed the door behind him.

In the bathroom, he turned on the tap. The water ran over his hands, washing Ga-yeong’s blood from his skin. It seeped into the creases of his palms, stained the nailbeds, pooled pink in the basin as he scrubbed again and again, layer after layer of soap.

Jun-ho must have been doing the same, washing the blood of his brother, somewhere else in this building.

He needed to see Ga-yeong too—when she woke up. If she woke up.

No. He pushed the thought away. She would wake up. She had to.

It didn’t matter how long they had been apart. It didn’t matter that they had both been trapped in death games, both forced into killing. It didn’t matter that they were shattered people now.

What mattered was that they were family. Even if the world itself ended, even if they had to claw their way back from hell, nothing could tear them apart again.

He scrubbed harder until his hands were blushing pink from the force of washing. He didn’t try to get the blood out of his sleeves, tugging down his black jacket to cover the stains, and went back into the room the nurse had ushered him out of.

Inside, Jun-hee was smiling, Ji-ah cradled in her arms.

“Sir, you’re back. Are you this girl’s father?” the nurse asked when she saw him.

Gi-hun froze. What? Did she think the baby was his?

“No. The baby’s father is dead,” he said, still thrown off by the question. Jun-hee was Ga-yeong’s age.

The nurse chuckled. “No, I meant the young girl. The one who gave birth.”

“Oh. No. I’m not. But I have a daughter in here. She was unconscious—the one with me earlier. Can you tell me how she’s doing?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t share details with you right now. The doctor will call you when she wakes up. Sir—”

“Seong Gi-hun. Her name is Ga-yeong,” he cut in.

The nurse nodded. “Right. You don’t have any ID with you. I should warn you, the police may want to ask questions. You all look like you’ve been attacked.”

Gi-hun shook his head. What was he supposed to say? That they had been in death games? That his daughter used to be a time traveler? That more than half of them had clawed their way back from death?

“We were kidnapped by criminals because of our debts. We escaped,” he said. Close enough to the truth.

The nurse’s face went pale, horror flashing in her eyes. “That girl gave birth in that place? And you’re saying the father of the child is dead?”

“Yes,” Gi-hun said quietly. He had killed Myung-gi. That blood was on his hands.

The nurse left the room quickly, her face like carved stone.

Finally, he sat down beside Jun-hee. Ji-ah looked so small, so impossibly fragile. Ga-yeong had once been that tiny. Jun-hee too, once upon a time.

“I’m glad you and Ji-ah are okay,” Gi-hun said.

“Yes. The doctors said she’s healthy, despite… everything. And I’ll be fine too. But I’ll need a wheelchair for a while. You’ll have to take care of me, sir,” she said, smiling faintly.

“I will take care of you, Jun-hee. And I’ll help with Ji-ah,” he promised.

“Here. Hold her.” She placed the baby gently into his arms before reaching for a glass of water.

Ji-ah felt like porcelain in his hands. A miracle she had survived at all. A miracle she had even been born.

“When will Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok wake up?” he asked.

Jun-hee glanced at the beds, her brow furrowed.

“The doctors said tomorrow. Hyun-ju must be so exhausted. She made it across the jump rope with a broken ankle!” Pride shone in her eyes.

“We’ll need so many things for Ji-ah. I already bought a few, but she’ll need more,” she added.

Gi-hun looked down at the baby, his chest tightening. Yes. They would give her everything. Build a home worthy of her.

“I’ll make sure you have everything you need, Jun-hee,” he said.

Her eyes filled and she burst into tears. Gi-hun understood—mothers were vulnerable to tides of emotion after birth.

“You’re such a good person, Mr. Seong. You didn’t deserve any of this. You had to go through those games, find your daughter after thirteen years, only to have her trapped with you. You must have been terrified! And you had to watch your friends die. Jung-bae, then Young-il—”

“Young-il isn’t dead,” Gi-hun interrupted.

“What?” Her face twisted in confusion.

“He isn’t dead. But he isn’t Young-il either,” Gi-hun said, his voice low.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“He’s alive. But his name is In-ho,” Gi-hun explained.

Jun-hee blinked, shock rippling across her features. “But why did he lie about his name? He wasn’t a player, was he?”

“No. He wasn’t.”

A shadow of understanding passed over her face. “So he was like that female guard who helped us?”

“Something like that,” Gi-hun muttered. The truth was far darker—he had been the Frontman, the one pulling strings all along. And yet…

No. He forced the thought away. He should stop thinking about him. He is a murderer. He made Ji-ah into a player. 

“I should check on the others,” Gi-hun said, rising from the chair. “You should rest, Jun-hee.”

He stepped out of the room and made his way down the sterile corridor toward the emergency ward where Ga-yeong and In-ho had been taken. His chest felt heavy, torn between dread and hope. He prayed they weren’t placed in the same room—he couldn’t handle that kind of cruel irony.

Gi-hun’s mind kept circling back to his daughter. How did she truly feel about Young-il being In-ho? She had killed him once and then brought him back. But she had only done that for Jun-ho.

As he turned the corner, he spotted familiar faces in the hallway. Dae-ho, Semi, and Minsu sat slumped on wooden benches, their bodies patched together with bandages. They were hunched over trays of bland hospital food, eating in tired silence.

“Mr. Seong!” Dae-ho called out, his voice unnaturally cheerful given the circumstances. He gave a small wave, his lips curved into a shaky smile.

Gi-hun hurried over. “Are you all okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning their injuries. Semi and Minsu simply nodded, too drained to speak, their attention fixed on their food.

Dae-ho lifted his chin. “Those doctors gave me some pills. I feel so much better,” he said with a faint chuckle, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion.

Gi-hun managed a small smile for him, grateful they were alive at all. But his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere. At the far end of the hallway, just outside the doors of the emergency ward, Jun-ho sat hunched over. His gaze was locked on the chipped, dull-white paint of the wall in front of him, as if it held the answer to a question that was slowly consuming him. His leg bounced restlessly, betraying his nerves.

Gi-hun approached him quietly. “Any news?” he asked.

Jun-ho shook his head, his jaw tight. Then, after a moment, he muttered, “Ga-yeong is awake. The doctor said she was calling someone over the phone.”

Gi-hun bit his lower lip hard, his stomach twisting. Who had she called? Was it Eun-ji? And if it was, how could she have possibly explained all of this to her mother?

“I will visit her then,” Gi-hun said finally. He pushed the door open and stepped into the emergency room.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of disinfectant. In-ho lay on a bed, motionless, his face calm and untroubled in sleep. 

But Gi-hun’s eyes were drawn immediately to Ga-yeong. She was sitting up, but she looked like a ghost—her skin pale, her expression hollow, her eyes wide with shock as though she had seen something she could never unsee.

She didn’t even notice him when he crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. Up close, the damage was clearer, more brutal. She looked like a mess, but he told himself that in a few days, with rest, she would recover. She had to.

Carefully, he reached for her hand—the one not torn open by glass—and held it gently. He couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing over the bruises circling her neck, stark reminders of what had been done to her. The guilt in his chest tightened; he hated himself for the part he had played. A dark purple bruise blossomed under her eye, and her jaw was swollen. Her ankle, wrapped tightly in bandages, left her helpless to walk. She would be grounded for days, vulnerable. But he would take care of her. He swore it.

“Ga-yeong,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I heard you call someone. Did you call your mom?”

The sound of his voice seemed to break through her fog. Slowly, she turned her head toward him. Her eyes, rimmed red and swollen, told him she had been crying not long ago. His heart ached at the sight.

“Ga-yeong, did you explain this to her?” he asked again, more carefully this time. But she didn’t reply. She just stared past him, lost in her own silence. Fear stirred in him—fear that the trauma she carried might be deeper than he had imagined. It reminded him of himself after the rebellion, after Jung-bae… after he lost his best friend. That hollow, numb state where nothing could touch you anymore.

He didn’t want to push her, but he had to know. He had to be certain. If Eun-ji was here in Korea, if she had learned the truth, then everything could collapse around him. If his ex-wife had gone to the police—

“Ga-yeong, please,” Gi-hun begged, his voice cracking. “You need to tell me. Who did you call?”

For a long time, there was nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating.

And then, at last, she whispered. Her voice was so fragile it was almost carried away by the air, but it cut straight through him like glass.

The words were haunting. Gi-hun’s entire body trembled as they sank in. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Eomma is dead.”

Chapter Text

In-ho wakes up in a room so bright and white it almost hurts to open his eyes.

For a long moment, he wonders if this is death. He should be dead. He should have died back on that island, where blood and betrayal were supposed to claim him.

But no—he’s here. Alive.

Why? Why did his brother drag him out of there? Why did Jun-ho, of all people, risk his life to save the man who deserved the opposite?

His eyes slowly adjust to the harsh brightness, and he turns his head to the side.

Jun-ho isn’t here.

Instead, he sees Ga-yeong lying on the bed across from him. Beside her sits Gi-hun.

But something is wrong. Very wrong.

They look pale—both of them, so pale it’s almost ghostly. Their eyes are wet, and their shoulders tremble. They are crying.

In-ho’s head still spins from the blood loss, stitches tugging painfully with every small movement. But even through the haze he catches fragments of broken words:

“Eomma…”
“Car crash…”
“Airport…”
“Driver dead…”

The words clang together in his skull. What happened? Where are the others? He knows there should be more—Hyun-ju, Semi, Minsu, and Jun-hee’s baby.

Gi-hun wraps his arms around Ga-yeong, holding her so tightly that her sobs eventually falter.

“Gi-hun-ssi…” In-ho calls out, voice rasping. He sits up despite the fire burning in his side where the stitches strain. Does he even have the right to say Gi-hun’s name anymore? To ask for his attention? To want to talk to him after everything he’s done?

But he had promised himself—he would try to be better. This could be the first step. No more lies, no more manipulation. Honesty, even if it burns.

Ever since revealing himself as the Frontman, he’s tried, in his own broken way, to be honest with Gi-hun.

When Gi-hun hears his voice, he turns. He rises from Ga-yeong’s bedside and walks toward In-ho. He sits down next to him, close enough that In-ho can see every flicker of pain etched into his face.

In-ho searches his expression, desperate for answers. But Gi-hun’s eyes are haunted, unreadable.

“What happened?” In-ho asks quietly.

Gi-hun takes a long time to respond. He drags the back of his hand across his damp cheeks, breath shuddering.

And In-ho notices something. Those tears… once upon a time, they might have stirred a cruel satisfaction in him. Proof that he had control, that he could bend someone’s heart until it snapped. But now? No joy. Only emptiness left.

He can’t remember the last time he truly comforted anyone. Maybe he never has. He only knows how to break people.

“Ga-yeong’s mother is dead,” Gi-hun murmurs.

The words slam into In-ho’s chest. He hadn’t expected that. He turns his gaze toward Ga-yeong. Her face is frozen in the same shattered expression Gi-hun wore back when Jung-bae was killed.

Killed by him.

Jung-bae. His name echoes like a wound. For once, In-ho feels regret clawing at him. If only he could turn back time like Ga-yeong, replay it all, fix even one of his mistakes. But there is no turning back. Not for him.

“And how many survived the games?” In-ho presses, trying to push the conversation elsewhere, to steer Gi-hun away from drowning in grief. He can’t stand to see him like this—not now.

He already knows about Kang Eun-ji, Gi-hun’s ex-wife. Or rather, she was his ex-wife. Now, she was nothing but another body in the ledger of the dead.

“Hyun-ju, Semi, Minsu, Gyeong-seok, Dae-ho, Jun-hee, and her baby made it out. No one else,” Gi-hun replies in a low, heavy voice.

Dae-ho. Gyeong-seok. Jun-hee. The names swirl in In-ho’s mind. He glances back at Ga-yeong, but she has turned her face away from them. He can’t see her expression.

“What happened to her mother?” In-ho asks again, needing to make sense of it. Needing to keep Gi-hun’s mind busy with words rather than grief.

He doesn’t want him to break again. He would rather die than watch Gi-hun fall apart like this.

A part of him—dark, twisted—will always want to see Gi-hun cry. To see him bleed. But not today. Not like this.

Gi-hun shakes his head, then stares at the ceiling as if the truth is written there.

“She arrived to Korea,” he says softly. “She was searching for Ga-yeong, thinking she must have been with me. She got into a taxi from the airport. It was night. They were driving to Ssangmun-dong. But… they got hit by a drunk driver. None of them survived. It… it happened yesterday.”

In-ho feels the urge to reach out, to take Gi-hun’s hand, to pull him close and whisper apologies. To wipe the tears away and carry some of the weight.

But that’s what Young-il would have done. Young-il, the mask, the false friend. That person doesn’t exist anymore. They are no longer friends. And he isn't Young-il.

He is In-ho. And all he can do is watch Gi-hun the way one stares at a painting that refuses to let go of you.

Gi-hun lost his mother once too. He went into the games to try to save her, only to return to her lifeless body in their apartment. He buried her alone, and she had died thinking he had abandoned her.

The same thing is happening to Ga-yeong now.

In-ho cannot give comfort, but he can offer something else: a truth no one else knows - except Jun-ho and his stepmother.

“I never knew my mother,” he says at last, voice thin but steady. “She died giving birth to me. My father blamed me—said it was my fault she was gone.”

Relief washes through him, twisted and painful. Maybe if he had died at birth, she could have lived, could have had more children.

When Jun-ho was born and his mother survived, their father had been overjoyed. But five years later, the man was dead too.

When Gi-hun looks at him, his eyes soften up. He looks at him the same way like when In-ho was telling him about his wife. About Ae-shin. But he was Young-il back then too.

The door opens. A nurse steps in, carrying a tray with food and drinks.

“Good, they’re both awake,” she says brightly. “At this rate, you’ll be out in just a few days.” She smiles at them as she sets the tray down.

Gi-hun picks up the food and drinks. “You should drink something. You lost a lot of blood,” he tells In-ho.

Obedient, In-ho takes the glass of water. He doesn’t want to live, not really—but he will do what Gi-hun asks. The water is cool, soothing against his parched throat. Gi-hun gently takes the cup from him before he can gulp down too much.

In-ho feels wretched. He watches Gi-hun move back to Ga-yeong’s bed, coaxing her to eat. She hesitates but eventually sits up. Gi-hun carefully feeds her spoonfuls of soup, his movements slow, patient. She says something small, and it’s enough to pull a faint smile from Gi-hun.

In-ho knows it's selfish but he wants to be friend with Gi-hun again. He doesn't want to leave him even if he should. He doesn’t know how to ask for Gi-hun’s support, Gi-hun’s friendship. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t know how to make up for it. He knows Gi-hun hates him.

He should have leave Ga-yeong too. He never had a chance to have a daughter but if he could have one, she would be just like her. Brave, smart, ruthless and yet kind. 

Then, movement at the door catches his eye. His breath stalls.

Jun-ho stands there, watching.

“Jun-ho?” In-ho croaks. He doesn’t know what to do now. Doesn’t know how to justify anything anymore.

“You’re awake,” his brother says evenly. In-ho can’t find words to answer. Jun-ho has every right to drag him to the authorities, to lock him away forever.

But he knows his brother too well. He won’t. He can’t. None of them can speak to the authorities—not without risking everyone.

“Will you go back to the games?” Jun-ho asks. His voice is calm, but his eyes are sharp, like he already knows the answer. Like he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop In-ho if he tried.

In-ho is exhausted. He has spent years pushing people away, walling off his emotions, grinding himself into nothing. He thought death would be the only exit, the only peace.

He never imagined having a choice. The choice to walk away. To return—to life.

But he can’t picture a life without the games. And he can’t picture one without Gi-hun either.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.

Jun-ho nods once. “I’ll be away for a while. There are things I have to do. Don’t get yourself into danger again.” With that, he turns and leaves.

Of course, his younger brother still hates him.

“In-ho…” Ga-yeong’s small voice cuts through the silence. She looks a little steadier now, food in her stomach and color creeping back into her cheeks.

He doesn’t want to face her. He betrayed her too, same as Gi-hun. Now her mother is dead. Even if it wasn’t by his hand, guilt coils in his chest like it always does.

Everything is his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s all he can give. He knows she will never trust him again. They’ll never share those strange, fleeting moments of understanding they once had in the games. She’ll never hug him like she hugged Young-il. She’ll never look at him the way she looks at Gi-hun.

“You can stay with me if you don’t have a place,” Gi-hun says suddenly.

The words blindside him.

Oh. Gi-hun only means it out of kindness, out of responsibility. He doesn’t need In-ho—not the way In-ho needs him. But still, he is offering him shelter.

For In-ho, that’s enough.

“I can?” he asks, a fragile hope fluttering in his chest.

“You mean he can stay with us, with Jun-hee and Ji-ah? We’d need a bigger house. And a basement,” Ga-yeong says with surprising seriousness.

“A basement? What for?” Gi-hun asks, bewildered.

“For him, obviously. He’s too dangerous to be let out in public,” she replies, pointing directly at In-ho.

For a girl who just learned her mother is dead, Ga-yeong isn’t unraveling. She isn’t breaking. She isn’t running from the conversation.

She’s already too familiar with grief. With death. It’s become normal to her.

In-ho lets out a broken laugh, and his stitches ache with the motion. But he doesn’t mind. Not when Ga-yeong smiles back at him. Not when it’s the same smile Gi-hun used to give.

It’s twisted. She killed him once. He wanted to kill her. Both wore false names, false faces. Both spilled blood.

“Are you sure I’m the one who’s dangerous? You killed me. You killed those rich bastards. If you were evil, you’d be terrifying,” he tells her.

“Glad I’m nothing like you,” she replies, her voice cold as ice.

Regret sears him immediately. He forgot—forgot that they weren’t talking to Young-il anymore. They weren’t talking to a friend. They were talking to a murderer.

Ga-yeong hasn’t killed innocents, yet she still blames herself. She probably blames herself for her mother’s death too.

Why can’t he say one thing right? Why does everything he touches fracture and break?

“Ga-yeong. I’ll make sure she’s buried in Ssangmun-dong. You’ll be able to visit her,” Gi-hun promises gently.

But Ga-yeong looks away, already slipping into the dark silence of her own thoughts.

Gi-hun gives her space and returns to In-ho’s bed. He sits at the edge, leans forward, and his voice cuts through the heavy silence:

“Tell me what happened on the island.”

In-ho feels the walls closing in. There’s no escape now. He can either feign sleep like a coward or face the truth and spit it out.

Gi-hun won’t give him the same mercy he gave Ga-yeong. If she’s not asleep, then she will hear everything too, whether he wants it or not.

Gi-hun is still staring at him, his expression hard, his eyes brimming with distrust. In-ho knows, with a hollow ache, that Gi-hun will never look at him the way he once looked at Young-il. That kind of trust has been shattered.

His gaze drifts toward the untouched meal the nurse left earlier, resting on a tray table across from the bed. The food looks bland, unappetizing. He doesn’t feel hunger gnawing at him anyway.

But Gi-hun looks like he should eat. He always prioritizes others before himself—something In-ho has never been able to comprehend.

“Only if you eat,” In-ho tells him, his voice low.

Gi-hun rises, picks up the tray, and begins to eat with quiet determination. In-ho watches him for a moment, then takes a breath, trying to decide where to begin.

“Half of the VIPs wanted the baby eliminated. The other half wanted her to join the games. I had to make her a player so she wouldn’t die,” In-ho says finally. He knows it sounds like a flimsy excuse, but it is all he has. Could he ever say this to Jun-hee? How would she react?

He hadn’t wanted Jun-hee to die either. He had seen what Ga-yeong did during the jump rope, how she carried Jun-hee across the bridge. The VIPs had been impressed by that reckless bravery, even though she failed.

“The players wanted to eliminate her too,” Gi-hun replies.

In-ho already knows. He had watched that last vote closely. He had watched almost everything.

It had been six against five. Six men willing to kill an infant without hesitation. Those who voted to spare the baby were mostly women—less willing to destroy a child that wasn’t even theirs. And yet, In-ho is certain that if money had been placed before them, they would have chosen differently.

Most humans, he believes, are trash.

“The VIPs wanted to see how you’d react. But I knew you and Ga-yeong wouldn’t let her die. I heard the promise you both made to Jun-hee. I didn’t want her to die either—it’s just… the way the games were designed.”

But the truth is, Jun-hee and the baby are alive. Against all odds, they survived. So does it matter? Does the decision to make the baby a player still carry weight?

Almost everything turned out fine. Almost. Except Ga-yeong’s mother. She is dead. In-ho finds the irony cruel, almost unbearable.

The universe, it seems, works in mocking ways. Ga-yeong sacrificed her own powers to save another woman—a mother—so that her child could see her again.

And yet Ga-yeong’s own mother will never come back. She’ll never have that chance.

Gi-hun blinks, his voice sharp and trembling with anger:

“But you put Jun-hee in the games. You purposely selected her. You knew she was pregnant. You knew she would struggle, that she might give birth there. You had everything ready for a baby. Was that supposed to be fun for your hosts?”

Fury burns in his tone, and In-ho can feel it like a knife to his chest. There is no excuse, none at all. He knew the risks. He knew Jun-hee or the baby might die. He had gambled with their lives.

And not only theirs. He had thrown in a mother and son. He had put Jung-bae into there too. Like they were nothing more then sacrificial lambs.

The only person he hadn’t counted on was Ga-yeong. If he had known sooner that she was involved, he would have pulled her from the island immediately.

“I was prepared for any eventuality. I didn’t know if it would happen. The VIPs were bored these past years—they wanted change. They suggested it.”

He stares down at his hands, at the blood oxygen monitor clipped to his finger, at the IV piercing his skin.

Ga-yeong suddenly bursts, her voice raw:

“You sent Jun-hee there to die, you bastard! She is my friend and you let her suffer just for some sick fucks’ entertainment?”

In-ho can’t meet her eyes. He stares at the blanket instead, his vision blurring. He tells himself maybe Jun-hee had a chance, maybe she could survive. But deep down, he knows how little chance she truly had.

And the others—the players—they all knew she was pregnant. And still, almost no one spoke against it.

Humans, he thinks bitterly, are rotten to the core.

And who killed Ga-yeong’s mother? A reckless drunk, a selfish loser who didn’t care whose lives he stole. Two souls gone in an instant, without knowing their names, without meaning.

“Do you even fucking care? You call humanity trash, but the only trash here is you! You wanted to prove this all had some meaning, but there is no meaning in meaningless death! There is no meaning in killing people for your own personal gain!”

Her voice rasps, breaking under the strain, and she squeezes her eyes shut as the pain rakes through her throat.

In-ho still cannot meet her gaze. A part of him knows she’s right. He has no excuse strong enough to justify himself.

And in the silence that follows, the thoughts creep in. Maybe it would have been better if he had died alongside Ae-shin. Maybe it would have been better if he had perished in the games. If he had never taken Oh Il-nam’s knife, never chosen to kill.

But that isn’t true. He had known exactly what he was doing. He had wanted to. He had seen the worst of humanity, and he wanted to drag Gi-hun down into that same pit.

“Did the VIPs know you were in the games?” Gi-hun asks.

“No. They didn’t know my face. I was in the games only to get to you,” In-ho answers, still staring at his hands.

His plan had been clear: break Gi-hun’s trust in humanity from the very beginning. Show him that people always betray, always turn against each other. That trust and love are illusions.

He wanted Gi-hun to see that the games could never be stopped—that this was the truest reflection of the world.

And for a moment, he had almost succeeded. Gi-hun had blamed Dae-ho. In-ho had thought he saw the hope in Gi-hun flickering, breaking.

But then Ga-yeong appeared. She was like a glitch in the system, a fracture in his carefully constructed plan.

When Gi-hun learned his daughter had come for him, had risked everything to save him, it gave him strength again. It lit the old spark.

Together, she and her father became something he hadn’t counted on. They supported each other. They refused to turn against one another. They chose protection, compassion, even when it cost them.

Through the cameras, In-ho watched the glimpses of the old Gi-hun return. And in that moment, he realized he had already lost.

He had lost the moment he unmasked himself as the Front Man, expecting Gi-hun to kill him, expecting him to act like everyone else would.  But Gi-hun was different right? He nor his daughter were like the others.

“Why?” Gi-hun asks finally.

The truth slips out, bitter and bare:

“To prove you wrong. To prove that humans aren’t worth saving, and the games are the best solution to their problems. That they offer more opportunities than they take away. I wanted you to see that horses are best when they are running on the track, when they’re given an opportunity.”

Gi-hun leans back, his stare unwavering.

“We aren’t horses.”

“We are humans. Appa, you said that in your final game,” Ga-yeong murmurs, her voice cracking with memory.

Gi-hun doesn’t answer her. He just stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.

In-ho wonders if he ever said those words before his death—if he had been close enough to hear them.

“No. You aren’t horses,” In-ho admits quietly. He doesn’t even know if he means just Gi-hun and Ga-yeong, or people in general. He doesn’t know if humanity deserves that title.

But these people in here, the last survivors of the games, maybe they are worthy.

“Do you regret killing Jung-bae? Or was he just a horse to you too?” Gi-hun asks.

For the first time, In-ho’s eyes meet his. Gi-hun’s face is cold, distant.

“Yes. I liked Jung-bae. I thought I hated him, but that wasn’t true. If I could change it—”

He stops. He sees the shimmer of tears rising in Gi-hun’s eyes.

Ga-yeong says nothing. She curls into herself, hiding beneath her blanket as if the world has become unbearable.

In-ho remembers the aftermath of the rebellion. Ga-yeong had been shattered by Jung-bae’s death too. She had sought comfort in him—Young-il—because Gi-hun had been too broken to carry her pain.

“I thought Jung-bae’s death would break you. That you’d realize people aren’t worth it. That all life is just losing,” In-ho confesses, his voice fraying.

Loss is their shared language. He lost his wife and unborn child. Gi-hun lost his best friends, his parents, his comrades in the games. Ga-yeong lost her mother.

“It’s not. Life isn’t about losing,” Gi-hun says firmly. “Even if we lose people, we still have others. You have your brother. You can still meet new people, get to know them.”

In-ho shakes his head faintly. He doesn't understand how that would help. Even if he met some strangers, it wouldn't matter. He met those people in his games and they were all dead.

“It’s all I’ve experienced from life,” he admits softly. The unfortunate truth.

Gi-hun turns away, gazing at the pale morning light breaking through the window. He rises from the bed without another word.

Ga-yeong sits up again. Sleep doesn’t come to her anymore. She refuses to suffocate beneath the weight of her blanket.

In-ho stares at his hands. But he can already feel her eyes burning into him. She looks so much like Gi-hun that it hurts. Hurts to remember what he has done to them. What he continues to do.

“What number were you?” she asks suddenly. She wants to know what player he had been. He’d told them only about the year, about Ae-shin’s death. Never the details.

“132,” he replies quietly.

Gi-hun, still watching the window, speaks without turning:

“You said your wife died after you returned from the games. That she was already gone.”

It is almost cruel coincidence—or maybe fate—that each of them returned from their games only to find the ones they loved most already gone.

“Yes. I didn’t even go to her funeral. I just stayed in my apartment, trying to forget everything,” In-ho admits.

But of course he couldn't forget. He wanted Gi-hun to forget because he himself couldn't.

And then Oh Il-nam found him again at his lowest and pull him into the games again. Not as a player like In-ho did with Gi-hun. But as a worker. 

It was the only thing that kept him going. Only thing where he could think that maybe- maybe there was some purpose in it. 

“You killed Jung-bae to send me a message. And you kept the baby in the games because you knew I’d save her,” Gi-hun says.

“Yes. I knew you’d do anything for that child. I wanted to give you more reason to keep fighting,” In-ho replies.

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens at these words.

“Ga-yeong was lucky that the Masked Officer planned to overthrow you. She was lucky that a female guard helped her. Otherwise she and everyone else would be dead. Did you know about the organ harvesting?”

“Yes. But I didn’t get involved. I let them operate. I didn’t care what they did with the bodies after death. The corpses would burn otherwise. Maybe they saved lives—Jun-ho has my kidney. If I hadn’t given it to him, he would have died.”

Ga-yeong speak up again:

“You think that justifies you? They wanted to cut me open while I was still breathing! I overheard them saying they raped dead women! And you didn’t fucking care?”

There is no justification. Whether alive or dead, the players were treated as nothing but disposable waste.

“And you didn’t know about the guard?” Gi-hun asks.

“No. I didn’t know guard eleven saved player 246 during the rebellion. I don’t remember every single guard. The games weren’t about harvesting. I wanted to give players a chance. I only knew that if certain circle guards saw a player alive inside a coffin, they’d mark it with a cross and send it to the organ harvesting room. There are no cameras there. I don’t know what happens after that.”

For a moment, silence stretches. In-ho thinks of the hosts. Of the VIPs. If they are truly dead, what happens now?

The South Korean games are over. If word gets out, maybe fear will choke off the others for a time. Maybe the games will stop—for a few years, at least.

He doesn’t know. But he has to ask Ga-yeong. Even if she hates him, even if he can see the disgust in her eyes, he has to know.

“The VIPs… Ga-yeong, what happened to them?”

“I shot four of them. But with the last one, I played a game,” she says.

A game. Of course. The hosts loved games. He remembers Oh Il-nam’s final wager with Gi-hun—that no one would save the homeless man freezing on the street. Gi-hun had bet otherwise.

Gi-hun had been right. But Il-nam hadn’t lived to see it.

“It was simple. I gave him a choice. Spare me and walk away, and you win. Try to attack me, and you lose,” Ga-yeong explains.

In-ho can’t speak. It is the opposite of what Il-nam offered him, the opposite of what In-ho himself had offered Gi-hun.

He had always believed violence was the only way to live, the only solution.

He doesn’t ask how it ended. He already knows. He knows the VIP chose violence.

Almost everyone does.

Ga-yeong turns away, curling back into herself. The conversation is finished.

Gi-hun walked away from the window and sank back into the chair next to him. The room felt heavy with silence, thick and suffocating. In-ho didn’t know what Gi-hun was thinking. Was he replaying the memory of his last meeting with Oh Il-nam? Was he haunted by the memory of how he had bested Il-nam in his own twisted game? The shadows of the past seemed to hang between them, unspoken but deafening.

"You didn’t want to watch me die? Is that why you stayed up until the fourth game? Is that why you had that déjà vu? I mean that much to you?" Gi-hun’s voice cracked, breaking under the weight of his own emotions. His eyes glistened with tears that threatened to spill, trembling on the edge of his lashes.

In-ho froze. He didn’t know how to answer. Words would only betray him now. All he wanted was to leave, to disappear into the corners of the world where no one could pull him apart anymore. The luxury of lying was gone; it had been ripped away the moment Ga-yeong killed him.

He is thinking that maybe if Gi-hun would listen to him back then. If he went on that plane, that maybe- maybe Ga-yeong family could be full. But that would mean Jun-hee, Dae-ho, Hyun-ju... others. They would probably be all dead.

When In-ho didn’t answer, Gi-hun pressed again, the tremor in his voice betraying his desperation: "Did you change the format of the games for me? By adding the voting?"

"I wanted you to see how you would react to people dividing. People deciding to stay or leave. I wanted to show you that, despite people teaming up, they will always end up on opposite sides," In-ho admitted, his voice quiet but steady.

He remember his first games in 2015, the infamous Red Light, Green Light. He had watched hundreds die there. Everyone had watched, a mute audience to a massacre disguised as entertainment. The outcome had been predictable: the vote to leave was inevitable. He had voted to leave too. He wanted to spend more time with Ae-shin, to cling to the fragments of life that weren’t yet broken.

But desperation pulled them back. The world outside, with it's bleak promises and indifferent reality, offered nothing better. Returning to the game was not choice—it was survival, the only glimmer of something to grasp onto.

The voting just show the true nature of people. There were people that desperately wanted to continue, who take what was offered to them, solution that could fix their lives in instant.

And there were people who wanted to leave. Thinking that whatever waits for them outside is better then to die in the games.

"You’re wrong," Gi-hun said, voice low but unwavering.

In-ho looked up, eyes meeting Gi-hun’s. Silence stretched between them, heavy as the weight of unspoken truths. It reminded him of the conversation when he had revealed his identity as the Frontman.

"People who are desperate will do anything to save themselves. But people are worthy of saving. Killing each other happens because they don’t see any other choice. Because you haven’t given them any other choice and turned them into animals," Gi-hun said, the words cutting through the air like steel.

Right. Horses. That was what the players symbolized. That was what they were always supposed to be.

"You were saved. Your own brother got you off the island, even if you didn’t deserve saving after what you did to him. You have family that still cares about you. People that haven’t turned their back on you," Gi-hun continued, his voice threaded with conviction, almost pleading.

He was wrong. Jun-ho had only saved him to ensure he wouldn’t die twice. The act wasn’t forgiveness—it was a sentence of suffering, a punishment meant to last a lifetime.

A nurse came in again, moving with quiet efficiency, and went straight to the monitoring machine, turning off the incessant beeping. "Sir, you should let the patients rest," she said gently, her eyes briefly meeting Gi-hun’s before she checked the other readings. Then she looked down at In-ho. "Are you in pain? Your heart rate is high; this is set to alert if it goes too high."

"I am fine," In-ho murmured. The hospital made him uneasy—sterile smells, sharp lights, the constant hum of machines. He didn’t like hospitals. He didn’t like talking to nurses or doctors.

The nurse nodded, her expression patient but watchful, and moved on to check Ga-yeong’s monitors.

Gi-hun stepped back slightly, giving In-ho some space, avoiding his gaze. The tension between them was silent but thick.

The nurse administered some painkillers to Ga-yeong and then returned to In-ho’s side. "The doctor has given you a lower dose than usual due to your missing kidney, so you might be in a bit of pain. Let me know if it’s too much, and we’ll figure out some alternatives."

"I don’t need anything," In-ho said, trying to brush her off. He didn’t want anyone near him—not after the last time a nurse had told him that his wife had been dead for forty-eight hours. The memory made his chest tighten.

Gi-hun’s gaze sharpened, and the nurse blinked, surprised at In-ho’s blunt refusal. Couldn’t she just leave him alone?

"We are not meant to—" she started, but Gi-hun interrupted.

"Just lower them if you can, but don’t take him off of them," he instructed firmly.

She blinked again, then nodded. "Your friend is very caring," she said to In-ho. They weren’t friends, In-ho wanted to mutter, but exhaustion weighed too heavily on him to argue.

"When can I leave?" he asked instead, his voice quieter now.

"You’ve lost a lot of blood. It’ll probably take a few days or so," she said, checking his IV carefully.

Then she looked at Gi-hun. "Patients need to rest now, so if you would be so kind, sir—" She gestured toward the door.

Gi-hun gave one last glance toward Ga-yeong and In-ho before pushing the door open and stepping out into the hallway.

When Gi-hun stepped into the hospital hallway again, his eyes immediately found the female guard from before. She was sitting on a chair, her posture calm but deliberate, and she held a suitcase tightly on her lap. It seemed as though she had been waiting for him. Seeing her in regular clothes—casual, unassuming—felt almost surreal. The vibrant pink guard uniform, so ingrained in his memory, was gone, replaced by a quiet normalcy that made her seem more human, more approachable, yet still carrying an air of mystery.

“Mr. Seong,” she said softly as she stood and approached him.

“You’re the one who helped us,” Gi-hun replied, his voice tinged with surprise and gratitude.

“That was nothing, really. But I would like to thank you too,” she said, her tone steady, yet sincere.

“For what?” Gi-hun asked cautiously. He didn’t know what she wanted from him. He didn’t even know her name—or why she had helped them in the first place.

“You gave me hope to live again. And—you found your daughter after all those years. I am trying to find my own, too,” she said honestly, her eyes reflecting both pain and determination.

Gi-hun blinked, stunned. “I didn’t know that.” Her words hit him harder than he expected. He had never imagined that his actions could have affected someone so profoundly.

“Here. You can take it.” She handed him the suitcase.

Gi-hun took it, feeling the weight in his hands. “What’s in there?” he asked, curiosity mixing with caution.

“An Officer’s computer. But it needs authorization. There’s information about you—about the players. I heard from Jun-ho that you have people who can crack it open.”

Gi-hun’s mind immediately went to his team—the ones who had been working on finding the recruiter. But most of them had been killed because of Captain Park. Still, he could give Woo-seok another job.

“I am leaving now. I just wanted to see Gyeong-seok one last time. He will be okay by tomorrow. He will see his sick daughter, Na-yeon, again,” she said, a small, bittersweet smile touching her lips.

Was that why she had saved him? Because his daughter was sick? Or was there some deeper reason hidden beneath her calm exterior?

She began to turn away, her steps quiet on the linoleum floor. Just as she was about to disappear down the hallway, Gi-hun called out, a sudden urgency in his voice: “Where will you go?”

He didn’t know anything about her life—if her daughter was alive, or if she even had a chance to reunite with her. He only hoped, with everything in him, that another family could find their way back to each other.

“To find my daughter in North Korea,” she replied, her voice steady, almost like a promise, before she disappeared from view.

Gi-hun stared down at the suitcase in his hands, the cold metal pressing into his palms. He couldn’t tell the authorities anything—but he could find another way. A way to locate the families of the dead players.

There was so much work still to be done. He glanced at the clock: almost afternoon. Time was slipping by, yet there was still enough for him to act. He could only hope that by tomorrow, everyone would be safe, and that somehow, even in the midst of all this chaos, healing could begin.

He doesn’t run as he leaves, but only because he is too exhausted to do so. His body feels impossibly heavy, weighed down by fatigue, pain, and the lingering ache of both physical wounds and haunting memories. Each step is slow, deliberate, measured, echoing with the grim knowledge that every second spent away from the hospital is another second stolen from the people who matter most.

At the motel, he begins his grim task with mechanical precision. He pulls stacks upon stacks of money off the bed, letting the crisp notes rustle like dry leaves caught in a storm. The sound is sharp and unsettling in the quiet room. He snatches up a couple of his spare phones, grabs the keys to one of the cars parked outside, and then makes the most important decision he can conceive—he heads to a real estate agent.

There, he points at a four-bedroom house in Ssangmun-dong, demanding to move in the very next day. The agent stares at him, suspicion deepening in the lines of his face, sharpening when Gi-hun unzips the bag and reveals a fortune in raw cash. The weight of the bills lands on the table with a dull thud, as if echoing all the stakes involved. He pays the asking price—several hundred million won—without a trace of hesitation.

The staff scramble in panic, whispers slicing the air like knives as they question the authenticity of the cash, wonder if he’s laundering money, or consider any other reason to refuse him. They call the bank to authenticate it, run background checks, and bombard him with endless forms—contract after contract, a flood of bureaucratic ink and paper. He signs everything silently, barely lifting his eyes from the stacks.

They waste his time—precious, irretrievable time—as Ga-yeong waits at the hospital. If anything happens to Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, or his daughter, he won’t know because he is trapped in the mechanical rituals of ownership.

When they finally exhaust all excuses, producing nothing more for him to sign, they hand him the keys. He takes them with a quiet, detached stupor, the same fog he had lived inside during the games.

If they demand extra for expedited transfer, fine. He will pay it. He needs the house now.

Carrying the authenticated papers, he goes directly to the new house. A locksmith is already working on the doors, tools clinking and scraping against metal.

Gi-hun wanders slowly from room to room, each step swallowed by the hollow echo of the empty space. He has never lived in a house this big. His parents’ old home, the place with Eun-ji, his mother’s rented apartment—small, cramped boxes, barely enough to survive. This house feels foreign, intimidating, a hollow maze of walls.

There are more than four rooms on the ground floor alone. The emptiness hums around him, as though the house itself is breathing, alive in a silent, almost menacing way. But he doesn’t regret it. He needs space—space for anyone who might need it. A living room large enough for a fold-out sofa, bedrooms to shelter all the ghosts of his life.

Maybe he should have bought somewhere even bigger, but this is the largest place available in Ssangmun-dong, and he refuses to live anywhere else. Ssangmun-dong is his home.

The house is completely unfurnished. Most people carry the weight of their lives with them when they move—furniture, keepsakes, photos, trinkets, reminders of the past. Gi-hun has nothing but the clothes he left in the motel. He lost everything in the years following the first games, drifting across Seoul untethered, unmoored.

The locksmith hands him two pairs of keys and leaves. Gi-hun watches the van disappear down the street.

For the first time in his life, he owns a house. His daughter will finally have her own room. He never knew what her bedroom looked like in America, never saw the small details of her life there. But she won’t be returning. Here, at least, he can buy the things she needs.

He realizes, standing in the empty hallway, that he no longer has to prove himself a good father with money. Ga-yeong isn’t a child anymore, and Eun-ji—Eun-ji is gone.

He thinks of Jun-hee, of what she wanted for Ji-ah.

He leaves to buy a crib, enough formula, and diapers to last until the rest of the house can be furnished. Yet the thought of furniture gnaws at him; he cannot bear to waste time hunting through endless shops. Perhaps it can all be ordered directly.

And then he remembers Woo-seok. He needs fake documents for Ga-yeong, something believable enough to withstand scrutiny from the authorities. He calls Woo-seok’s number. It goes to voicemail.

So he calls Jun-ho.

“Any news?” Gi-hun asks.

“Not yet,” Jun-ho replies, voice taut with exhaustion. “In-ho is still recovering. They let Ga-yeong out—she’s in a wheelchair now, with Jun-hee. Gyeong-seok is still asleep. Semi, Min-su, and Dae-ho are fine. But Hyun-ju… she’s on aggressive antibiotics. She has a fever, and she might need multiple lines.”

“What does that mean?” Gi-hun presses, anxiety sharpening his tone.

“I’m not sure,” Jun-ho admits.

“It’s fine. I’ll come with some money. What about Woo-seok? I need his help.”

“I think he’s in jail,” Jun-ho says, his voice muffled by the chaotic sounds of the hospital in the background.

Gi-hun freezes. “In jail?”

“Yes. He was investigating Captain Park. I think they caught him breaking into Park’s house.”

“Captain Park?” Gi-hun exhales a plume of cigarette smoke, raising an eyebrow as he waits.

“He was working with the Frontman. With In-ho. That’s why we didn’t catch up to you until the fifth day. He’d be somewhere near Captain Park’s house.”

Oh.

Jun-ho had vouched for Park, insisting he was trustworthy, blind to the rot festering beside him.

“Where is that? I’ll see if I can pay a fine and get him out. I need a hand with something.” Gi-hun hangs up as soon as Jun-ho gives him the address.

At the jail, he pays enough cash to have Woo-seok released immediately.

Woo-seok stumbles out and grabs him in a hug so tight Gi-hun’s shoulder throbs with pain. He almost forgets he’d been shot—it feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’m so glad you got out of there,” Woo-seok breathes, pulling back slightly, eyes flicking over Gi-hun with a mix of concern and confusion. “Did Jun-ho find you? Did you stop it?”

“He did,” Gi-hun answers. “I need a favor. I’ve got a house. I need furniture—beds, tables, chairs, plates, pans, everything. And I need you to make an ID for my daughter. I’ll send you the information.”

Woo-seok’s eyes widen. “A house? What did you buy a house for? Don’t you have the motel? And you need an ID for your daughter?”

“Long story. I’ll pay for everything, and extra for your time. Can you do it?” Gi-hun hands him the keys to the house.

“Sure, sure,” Woo-seok says, already shifting into action. “I’ll go right away. After the house, I’ll text you about the ID so you can give me the details. But… Gi-hun, your daughter—she isn’t a criminal, is she?”

“We’re all criminals, Woo-seok.”

Woo-seok just smiles.

"And here," Gi-hun hands him the computer. Woo-seok raises an eyebrow. "What's that for?" he asks.

"I need you to open it. Call me when you do it."

"Okay. And... What kind of colors do you want?" he asks, hesitating.

Gi-hun blinks. He had always let Eun-ji decide on décor. His mother had only ever chosen the cheapest sets. He cannot think of anything. Finally, the only thought that comes to him is Eun-ji’s mantra:

“No patterns,” he says.

Her name hits him like a physical blow. Eun-ji. Another matter left unresolved. How many more people must he bury, how many losses still hang over his head? There had been no love between them for years—they weren’t even friends anymore. But she was Ga-yeong’s mother, her anchor, her world. She had raised her. For thirteen years, she had been the only one there.

But in this twisted version of time, she thought Ga-yeong was still a child.

He needs to bury her here in Ssangmun-dong, beside his own mother.

He never wanted Ga-yeong to endure what he did, never wanted her to taste the same rot of grief. But she was in the games. She lost her mother. She didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Was it the curse of the Seongs? A cycle of loss that refused to end?

At least Ga-yeong still had friends. At least she still had him.

“Got it,” Woo-seok says. “I’ll have some things ready for you by the end of the day. Thanks for getting me out, Seong Gi-hun-ssi.”

Gi-hun waves him off. “Do you need a car?”

Woo-seok accepts one of his cars, taking with him the baby supplies Gi-hun already bought and a small stack of cash. Gi-hun boards the subway back to the motel.

The ride is uncanny. At every stop, he expects to see the recruiter step through the doors—tall, unsettlingly handsome, smiling with predatory politeness. But no one comes.

Instead, he sees only ordinary people, flooding the train with laughter, chatter, yawns. People with lives untouched by the nightmare. They have no idea what happened to him, to the other people who bled and died over the last few days. They have no idea the games even existed.

It feels obscene. How can the world continue unbroken while everything inside him has cracked apart?

No one even looks twice at him, not even at the strange suit still emblazoned with his number. He had forgotten to change.

At the motel, he strips it off. Blood stains his arm where the bullet wound has reopened. He notes it absently, like one notes a leaking faucet, before heading to the bathroom. He digs the tracker from behind his ear, washes it down the drain, then scrubs the blood off his arms, neck, and hands.

The handcuff has left a deep ring around his wrist. The scar from Sang-woo’s knife still cuts across his palm. Sang-woo… his mother doesn’t even know he’s dead. Cheol, Sae-byeok’s brother, is still with her.

Because of the games, parents cannot bury their children. Children cannot bury their parents.

But Ga-yeong can. Her mother did not die in the games. She died the way ordinary people die—suddenly, because of ordinary things. Death comes whenever it chooses, even if you’ve already escaped it once.

Gi-hun pulls on a long-sleeved jacket, hiding the marks, and takes another car to the morgue.

Inside, they show him the body of his ex-wife. One leg is gone, but her face remains recognizable. His stomach twists at the sight, though he has grown accustomed to corpses.

Poor Eun-ji. Why must people die like this? But she wasn’t the only one. When Ga-yeong told him what happened—how she called her mother and no one answered, how she pretended to be Eun-ji’s friend when calling her stepfather—she had also mentioned the driver. Dead too. Another family left waiting at a table that will never be full again.

“You’re her ex-husband, right?” the coroner asks.

Gi-hun barely hears him. His ears ring with that song blue Danube from the games. But Eun-ji hadn’t been eliminated. She hadn’t even known the games existed. And now, the games are gone.

“Yes. I am,” he replies.

“Her current husband called. He’ll be here by tomorrow.”

“Can’t she be buried here? In Ssangmun-dong? Please. My daughter wants her mother to be buried here.”

The coroner hesitates. “But—”

Gi-hun pulls out a thick stack of cash and presses it into his hand. Money silences faster than threats; he knows people will always take bribes.

“Can you tell me where her personal belongings are?” he asks.

The coroner nods, slipping the money away. “Her purse was the only thing that wasn’t destroyed. Here.”

He hands it over.

Gi-hun walks away from the morgue. He doesn’t want to spend more time with the dead.

He opens Eun-ji’s purse. Her phone is destroyed in half; he tosses it into the trash. In her wallet, he finds her credit card, some money, and her ID, along with Ga-yeong’s.

He throws the purse into the trash as well, keeping only the essentials. Woo-seok hasn’t texted him yet.

Gi-hun takes a taxi to the hospital. On the way, he can only think about what happened to Eun-ji.

She had been sitting in the car too, thinking about Ga-yeong. She must have been wondering if she had failed her daughter. If she had run away because she wasn’t a good enough mother.

And then… she died. Suddenly, quickly. He hopes it was fast. He hopes she didn’t suffer. That she felt no pain.

That constant brush with death makes him sick. Death is part of life, yes, but still…

He goes straight to Ga-yeong as soon as he arrives. She is chatting with Jun-hee.

They smile when they see him.

“Appa, you were gone for a long time. I was worried,” Ga-yeong says. He has indeed been away from the hospital for nearly half a day.

“I needed to buy us a house and take care of other things,” he replies.

“And what about eomma? Did you see her?” She asks, eyes brimming with tears at the thought of her mother.

Gi-hun swallows hard. “Yes. The funeral is going to be in Ssangmun-dong. I have her stuff,” he says, handing her Eun-ji’s wallet. He cannot meet her eyes as she opens it.

She is so young. She shouldn’t have had to endure all this. It reminds him of images of children trapped in wars.

Eun-ji should be alive. She should have seen her daughter. She was supposed to be there for her. She was supposed to take her home.

She was…

“Thank you, appa,” Ga-yeong says, looking at her mother’s picture.

Gi-hun wonders if it’s enough. If she was the last person they had left.

The games are over. It has to be enough.

Chapter Text

He is back at the start. The gray sky hangs heavy, oppressive, and he is wearing the black finalist clothes again. The damp fabric clings to his skin as if it knows he has no choice. He is back in the games.

Rain pours down in relentless sheets. The familiar doll from Red Light, Green Light stares at him, unblinking, her wide eyes reflecting the storm. Gi-hun looks down at the slick, muddy ground, water pooling around his shoes.

He knows this moment too well. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to escape, but he cannot wake up.

“Hyung.” The voice is soft, familiar, yet it cuts through the downpour like a knife. Sang-woo.

Gi-hun lifts his eyes from the ground to meet the face of his childhood best friend.

No… Sang-woo’s neck is bleeding. Blood seeps through his jacket, dripping slowly onto the wet concrete.

Gi-hun’s eyes sting. They blur. He wants to wake up. He needs to wake up.

“You haven’t told my mom. Why haven’t you told her that I’m not coming home?” Sang-woo’s voice is calm, almost pleading, but the blood continues to pour, painting the ground crimson. Gi-hun’s shoes are stained with it.

It’s just a dream. Just a nightmare. He isn’t really here. He’s in the hospital with others. And Sang-woo… this isn’t real. He can’t meet his best friend’s eyes. He can’t. He is afraid to face him.

“Hyung… Why can’t you look at me?” Sang-woo asks again. Gi-hun finally dares to look.

Sae-byeok is there too. No, no, no…

Gi-hun’s tears start falling, heavy and relentless.

“I only did it to save you. I know you forgave me, Gi-hun.”

Sang-woo says this while his hand, holding a knife, stabs Sae-byeok. He is gutting her throat. She doesn’t fight. She’s already dead. She has been dead for a long time.

Gi-hun can’t look away now. He can only watch as her lifeless body collapses, her blood mixing with the rainwater, washing away into nothing.

“Please, hyung, tell me that you forgave me,” Sang-woo says again. The knife remains in his hand. The blood has vanished, leaving only the cold steel glinting ominously.

“I… I forgave you, Sang-woo. You know I never forgot about you. I am… I am sorry, hyung.”

Gi-hun collapses to his knees. Rain no longer touches him. He can’t feel anything anymore.

“Please, go home. I miss you. Please, let’s get out of here. Please,” he begs, his voice raw and broken.

A bitter laugh echoes through the storm.

Gi-hun looks up. Sang-woo is above him, holding a knife to his own throat.

“Did you forget, Gi-hun? There is no home. No one calls us anymore.”

And then Sang-woo slits his throat again.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, desperately trying to stop the tears from streaking his face.

And when he opens them again... There is Jung-bae.

"Gi-hun-ah." No, no, no...

Not him. Not again.

"You look like a mess, my friend. Why don't we get that soju? We can bet on horses after. I am sure that would cheer you up," Jung-bae says. He is smiling at him. Innocently. Oblivious to two corpses on the ground.

Gi-hun can't meet his eyes. He doesn't want to see anything. Why can't he just wake up?

"Gi-hun-ah, come on. How much did you lose when you were betting on the horses again?"

Gi-hun keeps on sobbing. And then... Another voice appears.

Robotic, unnatural when he says: "You bet on his life. Now let's see your horse fall."

The Frontman. It's him. 

He shoots Jung-bae.

Again. Again. Again. How many more bullets?

How many more falls until it's enough?

Gi-hun doesn't get up from the ground. Why should he?

Jung-bae is dead. It was his fault. He could have saved him if he had helped, if he had lent him money, if Jung-bae hadn’t trusted him. If they had never been friends. If they had never met.

Then he feels a touch. Cold metal presses against his jaw.

The Frontman looms over him. Gi-hun keeps on crying. He is tired, he doesn't want to fight. He hates that mask, he hates how powerless he feels. He hates him.

"You were always my favorite horse. My favorite number. 456. Always the last. Always the winner," the Frontman says proudly. Gi-hun doesn't know what his face looks like beneath the mask.

No... He knows. He knows his face too well. Too closely.

The Frontman removes his mask. The gun is no longer in his hand. His hands don't have gloves on.

Gi-hun looks up at him again. No... It's Young-il.

Young-il wearing the jacket with number 001, with his messy hair. With his bright smile and eyes giving only affection.

He isn't above him anymore. He is holding Gi-hun’s shoulders.

"Gi-hun-ssi. We are friends, right? We cared about each other, we protected each other. That's what friends are for, right?"

Then he pulls Gi-hun into a hug. Gi-hun doesn’t resist. He wants to hold him, hold him like he held Sang-woo, like Jung-bae.

But… wait. He isn’t—

“Did you fall for yet another lie? You know what they say: fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice, shame on you,” The Frontman’s voice rises again.

Gi-hun closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the mask. He only wants to feel Young-il’s warmth.

But… when he opens them, Young-il’s body is cold. Dead. Gi-hun lays him on the ground. He cannot feel a heartbeat. He couldn't feel Sang-woo’s heartbeat too.

The Frontman is nowhere to see. Instead it's just Hwang In-ho.

He is looking at his own dead face and closes Young-il’s eyes. Then he looks at Gi-hun.

"Enemy and friend are dead. What remains then?"

Gi-hun doesn’t respond.

“Gi-hun, it’s time to admit the truth. We are the same—you and I. You can’t get rid of your shadow,” In-ho says softly.

Gi-hun stares at him. In-ho wears the finalist clothes too. Number 132 adorns his jacket.

“We aren’t…” Gi-hun murmurs.

In-ho smiles, a different, unfamiliar kind of smile, only possible in imagination.

“No, you are right. We aren’t. You are more like—”

Before he can finish, the scene shifts.

He is no longer in the games. Gi-hun breathes easier. The nightmare seems to loosen its grip. He looks around. His mother’s old house.

A faint smile touches his lips. No more games, no more death. He can see eomma again, even if it’s only in his imagination.

But then… Eun-ji enters the room. Gi-hun swallows hard.

“Why? Why does it always have to be you? Why are you always winning?” she yells.

Gi-hun wants to look away. She’s wrong. He never won. They argue constantly—about his gambling, his debts, the divorce, how his mother had to pay for everything, how he still blames himself for his coworkers’ deaths. He isn’t a winner. He has lost too much. She can’t understand. She can’t—

“I didn’t fail. I was there for Ga-yeong. I was all alone when I gave birth to her. I wasn’t the one betting on horses. I spent time with her. I was the only one there for her while you were getting drunk with your colleagues. I was the only one with her in America when you couldn’t even call her. I haven’t failed her—unlike you.”

Gi-hun cannot cry anymore. Eun-ji should be alive. She should be alive. Not him. Not him. Not…

“You left her and put her through hell! She will never be okay again. You ruined my life! You ruined her life! You left your own mother to die! You weren’t a good enough son and an even worse father!”

Gi-hun can’t defend himself. He doesn’t know what to say. If only he could change it. If only he could start over…

“You killed me! You let everyone die or destroyed them! I am not your fucking bet!” she screams.

Gi-hun closes his eyes. The scene shifts again. They are back in the games. Eun-ji is still with him.

But... He is the one holding the knife. Eun-ji is bleeding on the ground in her finalist clothes. He can only see number 218 on her jacket.

He looks at his knife. Her blood is on it.

“Eun-ji! Eun-ji! No, no, no…!” he screams, falling to his knees. He cradles her bleeding neck. She still has a pulse. She’s alive.

“Please… Please, Eun-ji, you need to go home. Please, let’s go home. Ga-yeong… she wants you home. I will be better, I promise…” Gi-hun pleads, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold back the pain.

“Let’s go home, Eun-ji,” he whispers. If only she could get help, if only the blood would stop…

She looks at him, but her eyes glaze over. She is like a doll lying in his arms.

He cannot feel her pulse. He cannot…

“Player 456 passed,” he hears a robotic, cheerful voice. No. Not again. Not like this.

“Congratulations on your game, Player 456. You leave quite an impression. Two-time winner…” The Frontman’s voice echoes from somewhere, from a limo he cannot see. He cannot…

But before Gi-hun could hear more, he opened his eyes again.

The nightmares were finally over. He was lying in a hospital bed, drenched in sweat, every muscle tense and sore. A sharp pain throbbed in his shoulder, a stubborn reminder that his body had survived more than his mind could bear.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the early morning light filtering through the blinds.

They were leaving today. The move to the new house was happening. And Eun-ji… Eun-ji was being buried today. Her husband was coming, too.

How would he explain it to him? How could he even begin to explain Ga-yeong?

Gi-hun swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose slowly, testing his strength. He needed to check on Ga-yeong. He hadn’t spoken to her since he had handed her Eun-ji’s wallet, the weight of that gesture pressing down on him.

Woo-seok sent him a text message that Ga-yeong's new ID is going to be ready by the end of the week. He still hasn't gotten into that computer, and the house is almost ready to move in.

But Gi-hun didn’t care much about those details anymore.

Eun-ji… the guilt was crushing, relentless.

He wasn’t a winner. He wasn’t above anyone else. He was just a human being. He had made mistakes. He had failed. He wasn’t special. He was like every other patient in this hospital, like everyone outside.

He couldn’t save Eun-ji. How could he have prevented a car crash? How could he stop wars or disease? He couldn’t even end the games if they were happening worldwide.

He was just a human being. But if he could save even one person—if he could lift a group of people from despair and suffering—then he would pour every ounce of himself into saving more, into changing the lives of others.

Because being a good person wasn’t a pointless endeavor. Not for him. That was something In-ho could never understand, something In-ho no longer believed in.

And if Gi-hun couldn’t save anyone, he would still try. He would never give up on trying, even if it didn’t change the world completely, even if it couldn’t mend what was already broken.

It wouldn’t be a perfect world—but it could be a little kinder.

He wanted that world for Ga-yeong, for Jun-hee, for her baby. He wanted it for everyone.

Back in the games, he had wanted to save them all. Even the ones who voted to stay. He had been certain that almost all of them hadn’t truly meant to hurt or kill anyone. Desperation had led them, just as desperation had led him in his first games.

Humans were messy—but that didn’t mean they didn’t deserve saving.

Woo-seok’s message buzzed again: "How many beds did you wanted?"

Gi-hun had already bought three—for himself, Ga-yeong, and Jun-hee.

Should he buy one for In-ho? But he also needed one for Hyun-ju or Dae-ho if they decided to stay with him.

He had given Dae-ho, Semi, and Minsu the spare phones he had left from when he had been tracking the recruiter. Their belongings had been destroyed on the island too.

He still hadn’t transferred the money to pay off their debts. The hospital bills needed to be settled first. Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok should already be awake.

His thoughts lingered on Woo-seok’s message: Should he allow In-ho into his home?

He hadn’t had any issue sleeping next to Young-il. But In-ho still felt like a stranger, despite the fact that he had shared so much about himself just yesterday.

He can't say he sympathizes with him. In-ho was a bad person. But didn't he also deserve a second chance? Should people who don't want to change for themselves deserve a second chance? He still hated In-ho. He hated what he has done. 

Gi-hun wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of person under his roof. But he also couldn’t leave someone freezing on the streets with nowhere else to go.

He texted Woo-seok: “Buy two more beds.”

Changing out of the clothing he had gotten from the motel, he made his way to the room where Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, and Gyeong-seok were staying.

Jun-hee was cradling Ji-ah, gently feeding her. Hyun-ju sat on her bed, eating hospital food. Her hair, usually tied back, fell freely over her shoulders, making her look much healthier than she had yesterday.

Gyeong-seok was already up, dressed in regular clothes, seemingly ready to leave the hospital.

Gi-hun looked at him and asked, “You are leaving?”

Gyeong-seok turned toward him and replied, “Yes. I can’t stay any longer. I need to go back to my daughter.”

“And do you need any money? I can—”

Gyeong-seok interrupted him, a faint smile on his face. “I was never in the games because I was in debt. I have a job. I was just there to pay for my daughter’s treatment. But thank you anyway.”

He smiled at Hyun-ju and waved at Jun-hee before leaving the room.

Gi-hun wondered if he knew the woman who had saved him. If she had been a friend, a coworker from her job outside the games.  If he even saw her face.

Gi-hun sat next to Jun-hee. She held Ji-ah tenderly in her arms. At least one child had a mother. At least one family didn’t have to suffer.

He noticed a doctor’s report beside her bed and picked it up. Jun-hee was twenty-five—he had thought she was younger. The report also mentioned her parents: both deceased. She had no one else.

"I kept thinking about hide and seek. The walls here look similar," Jun-hee says to him. Gi-hun looks at the walls; he didn't notice before, but there were stars on the blue walls.

“When I close my eyes, it’s all I can think of,” she whispered. She had given birth there. So many people had died in that game.

Gi-hun barely remembered the walls from the “Keys and Knives” game. It felt like it had happened a lifetime ago, not just three days back.

“It takes a while to remember who you are outside the games,” Gi-hun said quietly.

“How long did it take you?” Hyun-ju asked from her bed. Her voice was gentle, reassuring.

He didn’t answer. He still didn’t know who he was without the games. The constant reminders followed him, haunting every corner of his mind. Nightmares consumed him. For three long years, they had been the only thing on his mind.

“I want to forget that place. But I know I can’t. I can’t forget what happened to Geum-ja, Yong-sik, Young-mi…” Hyun-ju shook her head, brushing away tears.

Gi-hun couldn’t forget either. None of them could.

“You can stay with us, Hyun-ju. I bought a place for us. I’ll pay for everything you need,” he said, trying to shift the conversation to something gentler.

Hyun-ju smiled at him. “I could stay with you for a while before I move to Thailand.”

“And what about Dae-ho? Is he going to stay with us too?” Jun-hee asked.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t talked about it with him. But he has sisters waiting for him at home. I’m sure he wants to return to them,” Gi-hun replied.

Both Jun-hee and Hyun-ju gave him small, sad smiles.

Gi-hun still felt as though the games hadn’t released him. He felt trapped in them. He still expected the Blue Danube to play at any moment, still imagined guards marching in to take them to the next game. Sometimes, when he looked at the nurses, he saw the circle soldiers. Doctors became triangles. Every patient could be a player. He waited, tense, for the elimination announcement, as if he were still the last man standing.

“Okay… I’m going to check on Ga-yeong,” he said and left them, each step heavy but determined.

He goes into the emergency room. The smell of antiseptic is sharp and sterile, mingling with the faint metallic scent of medical instruments. A doctor and a nurse are already there, their movements professional, precise, efficient.

“Will she be able to go home today?” Gi-hun asks the nurse, his voice tinged with cautious hope.

“Yes. But she will need assistance with her ankle. You don’t need a wheelchair anymore; a cane should be enough,” the nurse says, her tone gentle but firm. She hands him a small packet of pills. “And here…”

“What’s that for?” he asks, glancing down at the little bottles, while his daughter watches the doctor carefully adjust the bandages on her leg.

“Painkillers. Give her a dose of three every day to ease the pain in her leg,” the nurse explains.

“And what about him?” Gi-hun asks, glancing toward In-ho, who is lying on a hospital bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with a slow rhythm.

He is sleeping. Gi-hun studies his face. There’s something hauntingly ordinary about it now, stripped of the tension and menace that had colored his expression on the island. Is he having nightmares too? How could he even have slept in that place?

“His brother already came here to ask the same thing. If everything turns out fine, he should be out next week,” the nurse answers, offering a faint, polite smile.

Gi-hun waits until the doctor and nurse leave the room, the soft click of the door echoing behind them. He sits down on a chair next to Ga-yeong, who is sitting stiffly, still wrapped in the sterile smell of the hospital.

“Did you hear? We are going home today.”

Ga-yeong finally meets his eyes. She doesn’t smile, not the way she usually does when she sees him. Her expression is cold, distant, almost guarded.

“And eomma? Will she be buried today?” she asks, her voice clipped, devoid of warmth.

“You ruined her life!” Eun-ji’s voice rings in his head, a sharp sting of guilt.

He swallows hard. Yesterday, he had called a funeral service—the same one that had buried his mother. He had paid extra to make sure her grave could be arranged in Ssangmung-dong this afternoon.

“Yes. You will see her grave today,” he replies quietly. Ga-yeong just nods, silently, her eyes unfocused.

Why? Why did it have to go this way? If she had never returned to Ssangmung-dong, if Ga-yeong had never sought answers, if he had boarded that plane and left the games behind…

But those decisions were long past. Like a Pandora’s box, once opened, there was no going back.

“Ga-yeong, I am sorry. I am so sorry,” he begins again, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

He doesn’t even know what for. Because he was a failure? Because he couldn’t stop betting? Because he should have done things differently? Because he should never have gone to the games and refused the recruiter from the very beginning?

He doesn’t know.

Ga-yeong looks at him steadily and says, “It’s okay. It’s really not your fault. You aren’t responsible for how the world works. You aren’t responsible for the deaths of others. That’s just… something that happens.”

The world may be cruel and indifferent. But he doesn’t want to be like the world. People can be better. They can change.

“Here. I know you don’t have a phone.” He hands her his spare phone. She opens it and immediately navigates to the gallery, where pictures from her childhood await. Pictures of him, of her, of Eun-ji.

Gi-hun had put them there for her. Ga-yeong’s eyes soften as she gazes at her child self, and a small, nostalgic smile tugs at her lips.

“Was I really this small? And you looked different too. Do you still have that cap?” she asks, holding up a picture taken somewhere in a mall.

Gi-hun smiles faintly at the memory. She had been only seven in that photo.

"I think so. Somewhere in the pink motel."

“Is that where you spent the last three years? You didn’t want to live in your eomma’s house?”

“No. I wouldn’t have been able to put guns there. The motel had a huge space,” he answers matter-of-factly.

Ga-yeong closes the phone and places it on the table in front of her.

"I feel drained, appa. Nothing makes sense. Do you know about the myth of Sisyphus?" she asks. Her face looks so pale. He wants to hug her again.

He shakes his head. The name sounds biblical, but he has never read the Bible. Although he is sure Ga-yeong must have been more educated then him.

Ga-yeong continues: “Sisyphus was a man in Greek mythology. The gods cursed him to forever roll a massive boulder up a mountain, only for it to tumble back down every time he got close to the top. But he kept trying over and over. He knew he would fail, he knew the rock would keep tumbling down. But that didn’t stop him. He didn’t refuse to stop.”

“Maybe he keeps trying because he thinks one day the rock will finally reach the top. Maybe he’s trying because if he didn’t, the hope that it could work would vanish,” Gi-hun replies, quietly.

He feels the weight of that hope himself sometimes, like pushing a cycle that never ends. Yet, there’s still a faint glimmer of a better tomorrow.

They just have to give people a chance. He can’t turn his back on them, on society. He has to try. 

“Can we even fight back if we end up being crushed under a rock?” she asks, her voice fragile, yet still carrying that cold edge…like Eun-ji. She resembles her mother more with each passing moment.

Gi-hun takes her hand in his, warm, grounding.

"Ga-yeong, no rock is going to crush us if we keep on pushing it," he continues with her metaphor.

He thinks of the games, the endless cycles of violence and suffering.

“And the games… Did you hear something about them too, in the future?” he asks, needing to know what happened after his death in that divergent timeline.

“I’m not sure, really. They’re hidden. Maybe the rich found another game, another distraction. But…” She pauses, glancing at the sleeping In-ho.

Gi-hun wonders what became of him. What did he do after his death?

He’s certain that In-ho cared about him, in that twisted, complicated way a person like him could.

"What? Do you know what happened to In-ho in the future?"

"I am not sure, and it's been a long time. Well... It's not like it matters. The future is different now." Ga-yeong picks up the phone again and starts to search something on Google.

She doesn't pay any attention to him anymore. She is lost in her own thoughts again.

Gi-hun rises from the chair, his stomach grumbling in hunger. He should get breakfast, maybe meet the others.

“Alright. I will get myself something to eat,” he says, trying to shake off the heaviness in the room.

“Okay. You don’t have to worry about me. The nurses will get me some hospital food,” Ga-yeong replies, though her face remains cold, unreadable.

He misses the little girl she used to be—the one whose only worries were homework and bedtime.

He hates that life stole that innocence. He hates that people grow up too fast, that change is inevitable. He hates that this will all become just another painful memory.

But everyone grows. Everyone changes. Time stops for no one. Time is cruel, unstoppable.

Before opening the door to the hallway, he makes a quiet promise to himself: he is going to order fried chicken for dinner for her. She deserves that much, at least.

He gets boiled eggs and bacon in the cafeteria and a hot chocolate, the rich warmth of it contrasting with the sterile chill of the hospital around him.

Semi and Minsu are already there, sitting side by side at a small table. The air between them is heavy with silence, the kind that doesn’t quite feel comfortable but also doesn’t feel like it needs to be filled.

He sits down next to them. “Hi. Are you both okay?” Gi-hun starts the conversation, forcing a smile that feels almost foreign in this somber room.

Semi sets her coffee down sharply, her eyes flicking up with a sharp edge. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

Minsu shifts uncomfortably, a faint, awkward smile tugging at his lips. “I am fine, sir. And thank you for that phone. I called my parents to let them know I’m okay.”

Gi-hun’s chest lifts slightly at hearing that, relief brushing over him like a sudden breeze.

“Keep the phones. Send me the numbers of your bank accounts and tell me how much money you need. I’ll send you the money,” Gi-hun says, his tone calm, though his mind is elsewhere, wandering toward thoughts of Dae-ho. He needs to speak with him, too.

“Sir, you have to send me the money today. My debtors aren’t patient men,” Semi insists, leaning forward slightly, the frustration in her voice barely contained.

“Why were you in debt anyway?” he asks, curiosity mingling with concern. He barely knows this young woman.

“My father was a drug addict. He wasted everything on it, and I inherited it all,” she replies, her words heavy with unspoken resentment and exhaustion.

Gi-hun takes a slow sip from his cup, the sweetness of the chocolate a small comfort in a world that feels far too harsh. He misses his old house, the simplicity of it, the warmth it once offered.

“And what about you?” he asks the boy, Minsu, who lowers his gaze, cheeks tinged with shame. “Rental scam,” Minsu murmurs.

Gi-hun simply nods. “Like I said, I’ll pay off your debts today. You’ll be free of it.”

Semi and Minsu exchange a brief glance and a small smile before returning to their meals. Gi-hun watches them for a moment, hoping that the world will finally be kinder to them, that it won’t leave more damage behind.

He finishes his breakfast and chocolate and wanders through the hospital hallways again, the antiseptic smell lingering in the air, sharp and unyielding.

And then he hears a voice, frantic and filled with relief: “I can’t believe you’re alive, Dae-ho! Everyone was so scared! The police didn’t help us, we tried to find you everywhere!”

That must be one of Dae-ho’s sisters. Gi-hun wonders if Dae-ho called her. He follows the sound, his footsteps quiet against the linoleum floor, until he reaches one of the hospital rooms.

Inside, he sees a woman crying, her body shaking with relief, while her brother tries to comfort her. Gi-hun stands silently by the door, observing Dae-ho until he notices him. “Mr. Seong,” he says, startled by his presence.

Guilt tightens in Gi-hun’s chest. He had blamed Dae-ho and even planned to kill him. And for what? He didn’t kill Jung-bae. The true killer was lying somewhere else, in another room.

“Are you okay?” he asks the woman. She turns to him, a bright smile cutting through her tears. “You saved my brother! Sir, I don’t know what Dae-ho went through, but I’m so glad you were there. Dae-ho is a fighter, but he’s still our little tiger too.”

Dae-ho’s cheek curves with a fleeting smile at the nickname, but the moment he catches Gi-hun’s gaze, his expression becomes blank, stiff, and unreadable.

Gi-hun feels a pang of regret. He misses when Dae-ho had been excited to be on their team, chatting with Jung-bae about marines, full of life and laughter.

“Are you his sister?” he asks the woman instead, trying to avoid Dae-ho’s eyes. At least Dae-ho isn’t wearing the blue vest now—he has regular clothes, brought by his sister.

“Yes. My name is Mi-ra.” She offers her hand, which Gi-hun shakes firmly.

“Are you going home?” he asks, though his gaze drifts back toward Dae-ho, who keeps his eyes on the floor.

“Yes. Our father is very angry. And Dae-ho said you’ll pay off his debts and hospital bills. I don’t know who you are, sir, but you don’t have to do all that,” Mi-ra replies, a note of worry in her voice.

“How much are you in debt, Dae-ho?” Gi-hun asks directly.

“Ten million. My father will kill me if I go home like this,” Dae-ho confesses, his voice tight. Gi-hun knows nothing about his family or his father, but it’s clear the boy is terrified. Gi-hun could offer him a place to stay—there’s plenty of room in his own house for anyone who needs it.

“I will pay it,” Gi-hun says decisively. The money he won’t miss from the game’s winnings could finally serve a purpose he truly believes in: helping the survivors reclaim their lives, fulfilling promises he had long feared were impossible.

“Mr. Seong, I won’t be able to pay you back. What am I supposed to say to my father?” Dae-ho shakes his head, defeated. Mi-ra watches him, concerned.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Gi-hun answers firmly.

"Then what do you want from us if not money?" Mi-ra asks, and her eyes go wide. She looks similar to her brother now.

Gi-hun just wants Dae-ho to prove to him that, if he was given a second chance, if he was able to live without debt, he would have a better life. He would be able to be happy again.

“What do you want to do, Dae-ho?” he asks.

“I—what do you mean?” Dae-ho stammers.

“Did you have something you wanted to do with the money when you were there?”

“I wanted to move out of my parents’ house, if I could. My sisters—they all moved out. I just don’t want to be a burden to them forever, especially my father.” He looks almost guilty, embarrassed, glancing at his sister.

Gi-hun can understand that. He doesn't know how old Dae-ho is, but he had moved back in with his mother when his life got hard, when he was after divorce, when he lost his job.

He never wanted to be a burden for his mother. He wanted to be a better son, but he couldn't. Dae-ho can be a better son.

"Anything else? Did you do some work?" Gi-hun asks.

"I was discharged, I was part of the social service personnel." So he was never really in the marines.

"He got scared of gunshots. Our father trained him. Woke him in the midnight and Dae-ho had to run around our garden when father fired shots at him. He always said it would make him a better man like his father before him made our father into a great man," Mi-ra says.

Dae-ho glances up, fear flickering across his face again.

“After I was discharged, I went home and took out loans to help my parents keep the house. I worked as a cashier, in restaurants, I did deliveries…” Dae-ho trails off, as if counting the jobs he’s had, ashamed of how little stability he could claim.

“My brother is very hard-working. My sisters and I are all married and staying home to care for our children,” Mi-ra adds softly, pride and sorrow mingled in her tone.

“I worked a few part-time jobs as well. I was a chauffeur,” Gi-hun mentions casually. Mi-ra raises her eyebrow, skeptical but silent.

“I wanted to open my own place—a bakery or something. A place where I could work on my terms.”

That was a good dream. It's a dream Gi-hun had, once upon a time, when he was someone else.

“I opened a chicken shop with Jung-bae,” he adds, quietly.

Dae-ho blinks back tears, disbelief etched into his features. “You and Jung-bae owned a shop together?”

Gi-hun nods. He wishes he could turn back the clock to the simpler days, when worries about survival didn’t weigh on him so heavily.

“But it didn’t last long. We were bad at running it. His pub lasted longer. His wife had good business sense—she ran that pub with him,” Gi-hun says.

Dae-ho’s lips tremble. “He never mentioned that.”

“He had a daughter too. But he got divorced.”

“Are they going to be okay?” Dae-ho asks, voice small.

“Don’t worry. I will take care of Jung-bae’s debts. They will be alright.”

“Was Jung-bae your friend, Dae-ho? You never told me your friend passed away,” Mi-ra says softly.

Dae-ho’s eyes glisten with tears. “Yes. He was my friend. He was very nice.”

If only there had been more time. If Jung-bae had escaped, he could have met Dae-ho’s family, opened that shop together.

“Sir, why are you so nice to us? We’re strangers to you. Why do you care?” Mi-ra asks.

Gi-hun can't think of one simple reason. He looks out the window. Why does anyone help strangers? Why would anyone help someone passing on the street? Why would anyone care about nameless people?

He just smiles. “You have my number, Dae-ho. You can text me or call me whenever you want,” he says softly.

He hears Dae-ho sobbing. “Sir, if there’s one thing we can do for you, we could invite you for dinner. Whenever you have time,” Mi-ra says, trying to comfort her brother as tears stream down his face.

Gi-hun nods at her and gives them some space, leaving the room, turning to look at him one more time before he leaves. Dae-ho is trying to control himself, trying to look strong for his sister as his shoulders jump.

He stands outside the room and listens to his rasping sobs and Mi-ra's comforting voice telling him it's okay.

Gi-hun thinks about Sae-byeok and her little brother Cheol. They will never be reunited again.

He thinks about Geum-ja and Yong-sik who wanted to go home and instead died in that place together.

He thinks about Jung-bae. He thinks about him and misses him even more.

After a few hours, they were finally all out of the hospital. Gi-hun had paid off the hospital bills for each of them and sent the money to Dae-ho, Semi, and Minsu’s accounts.

Hyun-ju and Ga-yeong were walking slowly with the aid of canes. Jun-ho was carefully pushing Jun-hee in her wheelchair, while she cradled little Ji-ah gently in her arms. They were making their way into their new house. Woo-seok had truly done an exceptional job furnishing the place; it was warm and welcoming, filled with everything a family could need. Hyun-ju sank onto the couch, weary from the ordeal. The doctors had said it would take at least another week for a full recovery.

Jun-ho helped Jun-hee toward the dining table, easing her down onto a chair.

Ga-yeong also settled onto one of the chairs. She looked exhausted. He hoped that visiting Eun-ji’s grave wouldn’t break her entirely.

“Jun-hee, I’ll put Ji-ah in the crib if you don’t mind,” Gi-hun offered gently. She handed him Ji-ah without hesitation, and he placed the baby carefully in the crib, adjusting the blanket around her.

“You found a nice place, Gi-hun,” Jun-ho commented, glancing around.

Gi-hun allowed himself a brief smile as he looked at the cozy family home. It was even conveniently near a law university if Ga-yeong ever decided to continue her studies.

“Will you stay here with them, Jun-ho?” Gi-hun asked.

“Okay,” Jun-ho replied simply. “I’ll help Woo-seok when he comes here.”

“Appa, where are you going?” Ga-yeong asked, her voice hesitant.

“I need to meet some people,” he responded softly.

She nodded without another word.

Ga-yeong reminded Gi-hun of himself after his first games, when he returned to the cold, lifeless body of his mother and realized that everything he had endured felt meaningless.

But this time… this wasn’t for nothing.

As Gi-hun moved through the subway again, his mind returned to what Ga-yeong had said to him: about that man cursed by the gods to push a rock endlessly, never reaching the top. It was an impossible task; the rock would never stay there. The man must have known that—he was cursed, after all.

Yet Sisyphus, despite everything, still persisted.

It was an impossible task, but it gave his life meaning. If the rock crushed him, then everything would have been in vain. If he gave up on the task even as it continued to fall, then all of it would be for nothing.

Gi-hun looked at the strangers in the subway, each absorbed in their own worlds—reading newspapers, chatting, staring blankly ahead. Weren’t they all the same? Weren’t they all pushing their own rocks, striving for the impossible?

He had managed to save someone. He had changed the lives of ten people, maybe more. He had given young people a brighter future, one they weren’t meant to have. Ji-ah, Jun-hee’s baby, was living proof that the future could be better, that a kinder world was possible.

The endless cycle wouldn’t stop. The rock would keep tumbling, and the man would keep pushing. Gi-hun knew that even if he managed to stop the games somewhere else—maybe in the USA or Europe—it would never truly end.

But he would keep trying to make the world a little kinder. Perhaps Sisyphus became accustomed to his task, and maybe that brought him a strange, quiet happiness. To have something to fight for, to wonder if persistence could change the impossible—perhaps that, in itself, was victory.

Gi-hun went to the pink motel one last time. He had already texted Woo-seok about whether he wanted to keep the place. He collected the last sum of money there and placed it carefully into a bag, hoping it would be enough to pay off Jung-bae’s debts. He had the rest in his bank account.

He searched the wardrobe for his old cap—the one he had worn on Ga-yeong’s tenth birthday. When he found it, he smiled faintly, placing it on his head. But the smile quickly faded as the weight of what had to be done pressed down on him.

He was going to meet Jung-bae’s family. He had to tell them the truth.

Gi-hun paused at the bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. The man he had been before, the man he used to know… he was gone. How could he look them in the eye and tell them that Jung-bae was gone? How could he tell Jung-bae’s daughter that her father would never come home?

Did In-ho feel this way when he delivered news about Gi-hun’s death in that other timeline? Did he have to see Ga-yeong’s devastated eyes and tell her that the one she had been waiting for was gone?

Gi-hun washed his face, staring at the mirror once more. Thoughts of Jung-bae, Sang-woo, Sae-byeok, Ali, Geumja, Yong-sik, Young-mi, and Myung-gi swirled in his mind. He had killed Myung-gi—a man who could have been a father figure too. Myung-gi’s actions were evil and selfish, but Gi-hun had never believed in inherent evil. People were born good. They could be redeemed, given a choice, given a second chance.

He stopped the water, breathed deeply, and looked at himself in the mirror. Despite everything, it was still him.

Leaving the pink motel, he made his way to Jung-bae’s house. The encounter did not go well. When he gave Jung-bae’s ex-wife the money and told her Jung-bae was gone, she started yelling, punching him in the chest. Gi-hun did not flinch, even as the pain radiated through his already damaged body. He did not look away as she sobbed, as he saw her daughter’s devastated face. He did not look away as he walked away.

He entered the subway again, fighting tears, trying to memorize their devastated faces while recalling Jung-bae’s smile, his laugh, his silly jokes.

“Gi-hun-ah, come on. How much did you lose betting on horses again?” Jung-bae’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Too much… too much, Jung-bae. I am sorry. I’m so sorry,” Gi-hun whispered, stepping out of the subway toward the market where Sang-woo’s mother worked.

One more visit remained. He had to tell Sang-woo’s mother the truth.

As he approached her, she was busy cooking fish in her shop. Cheol was not there. Should he tell her the truth about Sae-byeok too?

“Gi-hun, is that you?” she called.

“You haven’t told my mom… why haven’t you told her that I’m not coming home?” Sang-woo’s voice whispered in his mind.

Gi-hun was already sobbing as he drew closer.

“Oh, Gi-hun… you look so pale… like a ghost,” she said softly as he approached her.

He has to look into her eyes. He has to tell her the truth. Another truth that will shatter him too. He can’t be a liar. He can’t keep running away from all of this.

“Did Sang-woo call you? Did something happen?” she asked, but he did not reply.

She gently touched his face as tears ran down his cheeks.

“Gi-hun-ah… please, tell me. What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

Gi-hun sobbed quietly but finally whispered, “I got… I got Ga-yeong back. But Eun-ji… she… she is… go-… gone.”

He struggled to swallow the words, to banish the image of her lifeless, broken body from his mind.

Mrs. Cho pulls him into a hug. "I am sorry. I didn’t know that. Oh, poor child, she is too young for this," she whispers.

Gi-hun keeps on sobbing. He is holding Sang-woo's mom tightly. He doesn’t even remember being hugged like this. Like he was still a little child.

She stepped back, returning to her work. She handed him some fresh fish. “Do you want some? Cheol always liked them.”

Gi-hun nodded, wiping away his tears. “Is Cheol doing fine?”

“Yes. They are still trying to find his mother. It’s been three years, but they say they are close. I just wish I knew what happened to his sister that went missing,” she replied.

"Sae-byeok?"

He shouldn’t say that. He shouldn’t say her name. Mrs. Cho look at him as she chops a fish head.

She raised her eyebrows, suspicious. “You know her?” she asked.

Gi-hun exhaled and replied quietly, “I was the one who sent Cheol to you.”

“Mister… I want to go home,” he heard Sae-byeok’s voice in his mind. He could not keep his promise. But perhaps Cheol would meet his mother again.

"Did you know what happened to her? Did you see her? Cheol misses her."

Gi-hun is trying not to break down, not to fall to his knees. He is trying to keep the memory of alive Sae-byeok.

That brave young girl. That girl who didn’t trust easily. That just wanted to return to her younger brother and find her mom.

"I am sorry, but Cheol’s sister is gone. Please tell him the truth. Tell him that I tried. That I wanted to keep my promise," Gi-hun’s voice almost breaks down.

Sae-byeok’s face flashes before his eyes. He imagines her alive, sitting next to her mother and brother. They are having dinner. Sae-byeok is telling them something, and they laugh.

There is no blood. Just warmth. He wants to remember that. He wants to remember her alive.

Mrs. Cho gasps in surprise. "Poor Cheol. He was telling me how his sister got involved with some gangsters. Don’t tell me, that they..." She doesn’t finish her sentence. Tears are filling her eyes too.

He can’t. He can’t tell her about Sang-woo. He could barely tell her the truth about Sae-byeok.

"Please, hyung. Tell her the truth," he can hear Sang-woo’s voice in his head.

She goes back to chopping fish. It would be best if he would leave now. If he walks away. He needs to go back to Ga-yeong and Jun-hee.

He can’t tell her the truth. He can’t tell her that Sang-woo killed himself. He can’t tell her that her son has died. That he has been dead for over three years.

He is turning away slowly, but then her voice stops him: "And do you know about Sang-woo? Did he call you?"

Gi-hun closes his eyes. He is trying to forget about dead Sang-woo who slit his own throat. Who says he can’t go home.

He is trying to remember him when they were both younger. When they were children and they used to play together and their moms called them over dinner. He is trying to remember the pride of Ssangmung-dong. He is trying to remember how happy Sang-woo was when he got into SNU.

He turns to Mrs. Cho. There are no tears in her eyes anymore. She is waiting for the answer.

He swallows again. He can’t run away from this. Sang-woo's mother should know. Maybe this way, Sang-woo is finally going to return home.

"Sang-woo..." he whispers his name softly.

"Did you call him? Does he not want to come home because the police is looking for him?" Sang-woo’s mom asks.

Gi-hun closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to say that, but he has to. He is the only one who can. The only one who remembers Sang-woo’s sacrifice for him.

“I am sorry… I am sorry, but your son… he is… he is—”

He could not force the words from his throat. He could not.

“Where is he, Gi-hun? Where is my son?” she asked again, her face full of worry.

He could not tell her. There was no grave. He was buried on that island with the rest of dead people. She could not even have his body.

He hesitated, feeling the weight of the silence, the enormity of truth.

“Hyung…” he heard Sang-woo’s young voice again, echoing in his mind.

Gi-hun met her eyes once more. Calmly now, he could do it.

“Sang-woo is gone too,” he said quietly, turning his back on her. The questions, the sobbing, the weight of truth—all followed him as he walked away.

Gi-hun is trying to keep himself upright. He is trying not to collapse onto the cold, unforgiving ground beneath him.

He walks through Sssangmung-dong, the familiar streets blurring past him. His gaze lands on a stray cat again, a small, flickering moment of connection. He tosses a fish toward her. The motion feels instinctive, almost ritualistic. He remembers doing the same thing after he returned from the games the first time after Red light Green light, before everything fell apart—the weight of loss still pressing on him.

He crouches slightly and pets the cat, feeling the roughness of her fur beneath his fingers. Perhaps he should adopt one. But doubt gnaws at him. Can cats tolerate babies? His new home is already crowded, already full of lives that demand attention.

He steps into the subway again, the air thick with the distant echo of trains. A call from the coroner reaches him: Eun-ji’s grave is ready. Gi-hun’s chest tightens. All he wants now is to bury Sang-woo, to bury Jung-bae, to have tangible places to return to when the memories threaten to consume him.

He returns home. Inside, Woo-seok and Jun-ho are rearranging furniture, moving pieces with careful precision. Hyun-ju and Jun-hee sit on the couch, immersed in quiet conversation. Hyun-ju smiles gently as she cradles Ji-ah in her arms, her warmth a fragile comfort in the house.

Ga-yeong is still perched on the edge of the table, phone pressed to her ear, oblivious to the activity around her.

Gi-hun approaches her. Ga-yeong finally looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s time already?” she asks.

Gi-hun forces a nod, steeling himself.

She rises quietly.

“Do you need help?” he asks, concern threading his voice.

“No. Just give me the cane,” she replies, her voice still stone cold. He hands it to her without hesitation.

Almost no one notices them leaving, except for Hyun-ju, who watches from the couch, a bittersweet sadness etched on her face.

They walk through the graveyard together, the air heavy with damp earth and the scent of candles. They stop at Gi-hun’s mother’s grave. He places the flowers he brought slowly, reverently, and lights the candles, their flames flickering against the gray stone.

“Do you miss eomma?” Ga-yeong asks softly.

“Every day,” he replies, the words hollow yet full of longing.

She stands beside her mother’s grave, her posture rigid but her eyes betraying the weight of her grief. She isn’t crying—yet—but Gi-hun can read her expression. She is trying to stay strong, trying not to shatter in the same way he has.

Gi-hun walks slowly toward her, placing the flowers down on the tombstone.

“Those weren’t her favorite,” Ga-yeong murmurs, tapping the flowers lightly with her cane. Gi-hun frowns, realizing he doesn’t remember what flowers his ex-wife liked. But he recalls her smile at Ga-yeong, Eun-ji tugging their daughter to bed when she was scared of loud noises.

He brought only one candle for her—just one—but it feels like enough for now. He lights it and sets it carefully on the grave.

Then he hears her quiet sobs.

“I never had a grave for you, appa. Only pictures on a phone and that stupid jacket with your number that didn’t even belong to me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

“And who did that jacket belong to?” he asks gently. He doesn’t hug her. She needs space, the room to let her grief flow. He feels it too, deeply, and knows the timing isn’t right.

“It was In-ho’s. There were his fingerprints all over it. He didn’t even wash the blood off. I guess he wanted to hold on to you a little longer. I think he did care. I think he mourned you, appa.”

Gi-hun doesn’t expect this. In-ho—a man who was meant to break him, who killed Jung-bae—had mourned? And yet, the way he speaks about his deceased wife, about his family, suggests that In-ho did care for those close to him.

Gi-hun says nothing, letting her words settle in the still air. He continues to gaze at Eun-ji’s grave, wondering where the driver is buried, whether his family places flowers on his tombstone, whether Sang-woo’s mother will create a grave for her son even without a body.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps, doesn’t hear Ga-yeong’s warning.

He turns, only to feel a fist crash into his face. Pain radiates through him, yet he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even groan. He’s used to it now.

He looks up at the man who struck him—Ga-yeong’s stepfather, Eun-ji’s widowed husband.

“You fucking bastard! You bribed a coroner to bury Eun-ji here! You kidnapped her daughter, and now my wife is fucking dead!” the man screams, gripping Gi-hun’s jacket. Gi-hun cap falls to the ground, forgotten. Ga-yeong stands behind them, silent and tense.

Gi-hun understands his anger. He, too, is steeped in grief.

“Who gave you the right for this? Who do you think you are, huh? You’re a fucking loser! Is that supposed to be some kind of sick revenge? Because you couldn’t be there for Ga-yeong? Because Eun-ji chose better?” he roars.

Gi-hun sobs, choking on the words: “No… please sir, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…”

Another punch lands. Blood seeps from his nose, painting his face red.

“I don’t care if you took her daughter. But you—Eun-ji was my wife! Do you understand?”

“Yes. I am sorry… I am…”

“Shut up! Eun-ji is dead because of you! She came to this town because of you!”

Gi-hun hears Eun-ji voice echoing in his mind: "You killed me! You let everyone die or destroy them! I am not your fucking bet!"

Tears run freely down his face. He can’t stop them, the blood, or the pain.

Finally, Ga-yeong’s stepfather releases him. “I could sue you over this. I could call the cops. But I won’t.”

Gi-hun looks up at him.

“If you have her daughter, if she asks you to do this, then her mother’s grave can stay here. But it doesn’t change the fact that you destroyed both of their lives. You are just a pathetic loser,” he says quietly, then turns to Eun-ji’s grave and walks away.

“Why? Why did it have to be you? Why are you always winning?” Eun-ji’s voice echoes in his head again. He can't get rid of those nightmares.

He isn’t a winner. Not really. He never was. He is just trying to survive, to live better than before.

“Appa, are you okay? He didn’t mean to do that. He loved her so much. He is grieving too,” Ga-yeong says softly, reaching for him.

Gi-hun wipes the blood from his face and picks up his cap from the ground.

“I know, Ga-yeong. Let’s go home now,” he says. He is exhausted. Sleep beckons. He wants the nightmares and pain to end.

Ga-yeong touches his face gently. “You should clean yourself, appa. You look like a mess.”

Despite everything, he manages a small, weary smile. He regrets not thinking about Eun-ji’s husband, forgetting that Ga-yeong is not the only one who lost her. It was selfish to imagine that only they could grieve. He wishes he could speak to him, but he is already gone—probably on the way back to America. Eun-ji had a stepson too. What will his father say about her?

Gi-hun exhales, heavy with all the grief, all the weight of this world.

“Okay. Let’s go home then.”

Chapter Text

In-ho hated being in the hospital. The walls felt like they were pressing in on him, sterile white and suffocating. He couldn’t even lock his door, which left him with the constant, gnawing sensation of being exposed. Powerless. 

Most days, he was alone. The only company he had were the doctors drifting in and out, checking his vitals with practiced detachment, and nurses carrying trays of food that tasted like nothing. He was allowed to walk only as far as the bathroom and then back again to his bed. That was his entire universe. Four walls, one door, a short walk.

Sometimes, Jun-ho came to visit. His younger brother never stayed long—he would just stand by the bed, watching silently, as if to confirm his older brother wasn’t about to die on him all over again. That was his way of caring, clipped and quiet.

He hasn't seen Gi-hun for three days. The thought pricked at him constantly. What was Gi-hun doing? He wonders if he is doing okay. Was he at home with Ga-yeong and Jun-hee? Was he helping take care of the baby?

Most nights, he couldn’t sleep. His body was exhausted, his bones heavy, but his mind refused to rest. He kept his eyes closed anyway, faking slumber just so the nurses would stop checking in on him.

Was this what Ae-shin had felt? Alone in a sterile waiting room, trapped in a body that betrayed her, the walls closing in? Did she also feel the same bone-deep loneliness, the same helplessness?

Ae-shin.

Every time he closed his eyes, her face appeared. He remembered the painful tension of sitting by her bedside, watching the rise and fall of her chest, wondering if each breath would be her last. He remembered the horrible, infuriating looks of pity from the doctors and nurses—the way they came in with their soft voices and sad eyes. That look carved at him deeper than a knife.

He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to be stuck in that endless loop of memories, dreams, and nightmares. But his body betrayed him. His eyes closed again, heavy as iron.

And then the voice came back.

"I am sorry, sir, but you don’t have enough money for her treatment." The doctor’s voice was cold, clinical. A sentence like a hammer.

No. No. Not this again...

He wanted to wake up, claw his way out of the dream, but his mind refused to listen. He was dragged back to the beginning. To the place where it all had started.

"Would you like to play a game with me?"

The recruiter’s voice cut through the noise of the subway station, slick and casual. In-ho could see him clearly: the sharp suit, the silver briefcase balanced neatly on his lap, his fingers tapping on the polished surface like a metronome.

That day, In-ho had already lost everything. Fired from the police force. His lifelong career—gone in a single, brutal moment.

At first, he wasn’t interested. He wanted nothing more than to disappear into himself. But then the man clicked open the suitcase, tilting it just enough to reveal stacks of money, neatly piled, gleaming under the station lights.

The sight hooked him. He nodded. He agreed to play the game.

When it ended, the man handed him a strange business card. The design was stark, unsettling. No words, only symbols. The recruiter told him that if he wanted the chance to win more money, all he had to do was call the number.

At first, In-ho told himself he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t. But when he returned to the hospital and saw Ae-shin—saw the way her body looked fragile under the blankets, saw the way her eyes still held hope despite the fear—he knew. He had to at least try.

Hands trembling, he dialed the number.

"Hello?" A voice on the other end answered, smooth and emotionless.

"Hello, um… we met earlier. At the subway?"

"Do you wish to participate in the game? If so, then please state your name and birth date."

His throat tightened. He wanted to hang up, to retreat, but then he heard her voice in his head.

"In-ho-ya, please tell me everything is going to be okay. Don’t get yourself in danger because of me."

His heart squeezed. He whispered back to the memory of her, to her ghost.

"Don’t worry, I will get us money. You will be healthy again," In-ho promised.

He drew a long, shaky breath. And then, into the phone, he spoke.

"Hwang In-ho. February 2nd, 1976."

"Red light!" he hears the robotic female voice. He doesn’t even remember that voice, he always listened to Fly Me to the Moon over it.

But now he remembers it all clearly.

“Green light!”

He remembers how lightly the players had taken it at the start. No one believed it was anything more than a harmless game. Neither did he. He had moved with the crowd, convinced that a simple children’s game would be an easy win. Convinced he could outsmart fate without breaking a sweat.

“Red light!”

The doll’s head jerked with a whirring grind, its painted face turning, scanning the field with lifeless eyes. The air filled with the panicked shuffling of players trying to stop too quickly, their shoes scraping against dirt. Several stumbled.

“Player 044. Eliminated.”

The words rang cold and final, followed by the sound that had etched itself into In-ho’s soul—the crack of a gunshot.

He didn’t need to look. He knew. Someone behind him had just died. That sound was too familiar, too sharp. Death itself didn’t scare him. What gnawed at his insides was the thought that he might never see Ae-shin again. That he might never live long enough to meet their unborn child.

Chaos broke loose. People started to scream as they realized that this wasn’t just a children’s game.

Instinctively, people started turning around and running, trying to make it back to the entrance. In-ho could only watch in horror as more gunshots rang out, like a chorus of thunder. People dropped dead left and right, and he could hear the metallic clang of the gates from behind him as they banged against them, begging to be let out. There were bodies and bodies and bodies. In-ho stayed still, trying to calm the thrum of his heart against his chest.

And then—just as suddenly as it had started—the gunfire ceased.

“Green light.”

The doll’s voice rang out again, flat and unconcerned, as if nothing had happened.

No one moved. The silence was unbearable.

“Red light.”

A single shot cracked through the air. Another body dropped.

"Green light." People started to move again, not wanting to end up like those corpses on the ground. In-ho didn’t flinch at the dead bodies.

He was focused on the doll and the fact he was halfway across from the finish line.

But that was his mistake.

"Red light."

He stopped, but his foot caught on a corpse. His balance faltered. His body tilted forward. He knew what was coming. The doll would see. He would fall. He would die.

But then—

A hand grabbed the back of his jacket, steadying him just before the doll’s head swiveled.

“Stay calm.”

The voice was male, steady, quiet.

In-ho didn’t dare turn around. His breath caught in his throat. He forced himself into stillness, his heart pounding so violently he thought the doll would hear it.

After what seemed like an eternity the doll said: "Green light." 

The grip released. In-ho stumbled and hit the ground hard. Dirt and dust coated his palms. He scrambled up as quickly as he could, eyes darting forward. The man who had saved him was already ahead, striding with determined calm. The number on his back read 001.

In-ho wanted to thank him but there was not much time left, he needed to keep moving. He couldn’t fail again.

"Red light."

The field was largely quiet now aside from the shuffling of feet and ragged breaths.

In-ho’s body stopped. He was so close, almost at the finish line. He couldn’t die. He needed to see Ae-shin. He needed to get out of here.

"Green light."

He advanced again. His eyes caught sight of another player—a woman, Player 228. She moved like a dancer, every step graceful, controlled, elegant. Small and thin, she never stopped moving, weaving across the killing field like a wisp of wind.

If she could do it, so could he.

In-ho mirrored her movements, each step deliberate, his body flowing in rhythm with hers.

"Red light."

And then—he was across. He crossed the finish line with mere seconds to spare. Relief surged through him, a flood that nearly buckled his knees. He turned just in time to see the woman collapse onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

Player 001, the man with the glasses, crouched beside her, comforting her with quiet words. In-ho wondered if they knew each other from before.

He didn’t know anyone in here.

The time counted down, with some people just barely leaping across the line. Then, there was a rain of bullets and the remaining players on the field were eliminated.

The game was over. Half of them didn’t make it out.

Guards showed them the winning prize. They gave them the opportunity to continue or leave.

More than half chose to leave. In-ho was considering staying, but the idea that he might die in the next game and never see Ae-shin or Jun-ho made him push the X button.

Voting didn’t matter that much in the end. They all chose to return. They all went back.

“Welcome back, players,” one of the pink soldiers announced. “We will process the second game shortly.”

In-ho clenched his fists. He had to win. At least two more games, maybe more. Then, maybe, the money would be enough to save Ae-shin. Enough to save their unborn child.

He scanned the crowd. Player 001 and Player 228 had returned as well. He didn’t want friends. But allies—yes, allies could mean survival. Especially if the next game required teams.

The guards handed out food: stale bread and bottles of water. Players huddled together in little clusters, whispering and speculating about what the second game might be.

In-ho approached 001 and 228. He sat down beside them, his voice low but steady.

"I should thank you for before, player 001," In-ho said to that man.

He seemed to be around his age. He was tall and wearing glasses. In-ho thought he could be smart too. He knew that man was already strong, as he held him by the jacket with only one hand.

But he wasn’t sure about the older woman or what her relation to that man was.

“Player 132, right?” the man asked.

In-ho nodded.

The three of them sat in silence for a while, until that woman asked him, "What is your name, good sir?"

Should he tell them his name? In this place, trust could be a fragile thing. But he needed allies to survive.

"Hwang In-ho."

She smiled faintly. “I am Soo-hee, and this is my younger brother, Soo-min.”

Brother?  In-ho’s gaze flicked between them. They did look alike, though he hadn’t noticed before. Why would both siblings go into a place like this?

He thought of Jun-ho, his younger brother. No matter what, he would never want Jun-ho to fall into a place like this. He’d do anything to protect him from it.

"What do you think the next game is going to be?" In-ho asked Soo-min.

"I don’t know honestly, there are so many options. If we continue playing children’s games, then it could be anything. Nuna, do you know some children’s games?" Soo-min asked his sister.

Soo-hee tilted her head. "Yutnori maybe? Or gonu? There is also gonggi or dalgona. Maybe it could be something physical like tug of war or maybe something in teams like pentathlon. And well, a lot more I’m missing. It’s been a while since I played those games with my son."

"You have children?" In-ho asked her. He thought about his unborn daughter. She still didn’t have a name. He hoped he and Ae-shin would find a beautiful name that would fit their child.

Soo-hee smiled at him brightly and said, "Yes, I have a son. I am here because of him. He is sick, and I am only a circus dancer, so you see, I don’t make that much money, sir."

“You should see nuna dancing on the rope,” Soo-min added proudly. “She outshines everyone there!”

"And what about you?" In-ho asked him.

“I used to be a school psychologist,” Soo-min said. “But then… financial problems. No children. And you?”

It felt right to be honest with them. They seemed like ordinary people, unlike some of the others he’d seen.

"I was fired from my job, I used to work as a detective. I am here to pay for my wife’s treatment," he replied to them.

“You were a cop?” Soo-hee’s eyes widened. “There must be a lot of criminals here, right? Do you know anyone?”

In-ho looked around but didn’t recognize those faces. If there was someone who had been in jail or whom In-ho had investigated, he couldn’t tell.

There were 453 more people. That’s a big number.

“Hey,” Soo-min said suddenly, leaning in. “If the next game is in teams, we should stick together. I’m smart. Soo-hee is strong. And you, In-ho—you seem both smart and strong.”

Soo-hee smiled warmly at her brother’s enthusiasm. “Yes. This way, we will definitely win.”

In-ho smiled back at them. At least he had some allies.

Soldiers escorted them to the next game. They seemed to be on some big children’s playground. In-ho looked around. Soldiers were standing around three shapes on the wall—heart, rabbit, and star.

Each shape had a table set beneath it, and on those tables sat small metal boxes, identical and ominous.

He wondered if the shapes represented teams, or perhaps some physical challenge.

“What do you think the shapes mean?” Soo-hee asked as she stepped closer, her voice laced with both curiosity and nerves.

In-ho didn’t answer right away. He scanned the room, trying to make sense of it. Other players had already begun pointing at the shapes, whispering hurried guesses.

"I am choosing star," a man next to them said. In-ho looked at his number—player 175.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you, 175," Soo-min said as he walked towards them.

"My name is Che-on. And why do you think that anyway? It’s not like you know what the next game is, don’t you?"

“No,” Soo-min admitted calmly, “but my guess is that it’s set by difficulty.”

In-ho thought about his words. It seemed logical. There were three shapes, three possible difficulties.

He thought about the star — it could be the hardest, but what if it was actually the easiest? Picking wrong might mean death. The rabbit felt safer, middle ground. Not too obvious, not too risky. Besides, rabbits had always been Ae-shin’s favorite animals — gentle, pure, innocent. It almost felt like a sign.

Soldiers called them by their numbers. Player 001 went first—he chose heart. He opened the box and smiled to himself.

One by one, others made their choices. Finally, it was In-ho’s turn. He stood firmly by the rabbit, stepping toward the table. His hands felt heavy when he picked up the cool metal box. A needle lay on top of it.

Once everyone had their boxes, a mechanical voice crackled overhead, dripping with artificial cheer:
“Welcome to the Dalgona game. You have ten minutes to carve your shape.”

The rules clicked into place instantly in In-ho’s mind. His stomach tightened. He sat down, lifted the lid, and stared at the fragile slab of sugar candy with the rabbit etched into it. The task demanded absolute precision.

He began slowly, carefully, guiding the needle along the outline of the rabbit. His breaths grew shallow. Every crack, every tiny fracture in the candy would mean death. Luckily, the rabbit’s design wasn’t sharp or overly complex. Still, his hand trembled as the seconds ticked by.

Six minutes later, relief washed through him — the rabbit popped out intact. He stood, walked to the nearest guard, and presented the shape. The guard glanced once, nodded silently. He had passed.

The others worked furiously, but not all were so fortunate. Gunshots erupted across the playground. Screams followed. Bodies dropped, lifeless on the bright, childlike floor. By the time the ten minutes ended, the air stank of sugar dust and blood.

In-ho swallowed hard, his body tense with both fear and relief. He wasn’t one of the dead. He had survived. Again.

He glanced around — Soo-hee and Soo-min had made it too.

“In-ho-ya, I’m glad you’re okay!” Soo-hee said with a shaky smile, rushing to him.

He nodded curtly. “Your brother was right,” he admitted.

Soo-hee turned her smile toward Soo-min, pride glimmering in her tired eyes. Then she asked softly, “Do you have a sibling too, In-ho-ya?”

His chest tightened. Jun-ho’s face came to mind. He prayed his younger brother wasn’t searching for him. That Ae-shin, his wife, had reassured him everything would be fine.

“I have a younger brother. Jun-ho,” he answered quietly.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. His body lay rigid on the thin mattress, mind consumed by Ae-shin. He prayed she was okay. He prayed her illness hadn’t worsened. He prayed that when — if — he returned, she would still be there, waiting, alive.

Just four more games. If he stayed alive, if he stuck with Soo-min and Soo-hee, maybe they could survive together. The 45.6 billion won prize would be enough for all of them. Enough to buy a new life. Enough to save Soo-hee’s sick son. Enough to fix everything.

The next day, the soldiers marched them to the third game.

“Players, welcome to the third game,” the voice announced.

Before them stretched a massive jungle of brightly painted monkey bars. Metal rungs crisscrossed into a sprawling web that glittered under the fluorescent lights. It looked harmless, almost cheerful, like a playground designed for children — except every step here could be fatal.

In-ho exhaled slowly. He had trained on bars like these back at the police academy. His body remembered the rhythm. He knew he could handle it. Soo-min was strong, he’d manage. Soo-hee was a dancer; her balance and grace would carry her through.

“The next game is Monkey Bars,” the announcer sang, her voice slicing through the tension. “Players will have five minutes to reach the other side. If you fail to cross in time, or if you fall, you will be eliminated.”

It was, indeed, as simple as it looked. In-ho swung across without difficulty, his muscles moving with practiced ease. Most players succeeded too. Those who didn’t fell — or froze halfway, unable to finish in time. Their bodies dropped, the dull thud echoing under the cheerful structure.

In-ho felt sorry for them, but they weren’t his friends. He barely knew them. He was only focused on surviving.

The only thing that mattered was that he was closer to winning. Just three more games.

It was night again. But something was different after the last game. The mood had shifted. In-ho remembered that in Monkey Bars, there was no rule about how to pass the game. He remembered seeing some players pushing others out of the way.

Something was going to happen tonight. Soo-min thought the same and said, "I think we should prepare to defend ourselves against some players. We saw what they did in the third game."

"If we can’t beat them physically, we will have to do something else," Che-on, who was sitting with them, posited. In-ho remembered he had helped some woman pick a shape in Dalgona—player 334, a young woman who died in Monkey Bars.

"But how?" Soo-hee frowned. "What are we supposed to do to outwit them in this room?"

In-ho liked Soo-hee. She was the only woman on their team, and yet she still appeared strong. She wasn’t the smartest, but she was kind and always joyful. She seemed to be the heart of their team.

"I think we should build barricades," In-ho suggested.

"But if we start building barricades, it will prove to other contestants that we distrust them. It might provoke them," Che-on said.

"And do you have a better idea?" In-ho asked him.

"I think for now we should wait until the lights go out, then move somewhere else quietly," Soo-min said. "We should hide near the corners so we have walls for support. That way, if anyone comes looking for us, we’re not there."

"Will we be able to navigate in the dark?" Soo-hee asked, stopping her fidgeting with bottles. In-ho found it infuriating that she always had to have something in her hands and couldn’t stay calm even for a second.

“They’ll struggle in the dark just as much as us,” In-ho said bluntly.

Soo-min forced a smile. “Let’s just hope nothing happens tonight.” But everyone knew that was a lie.

The moment the lights went dark, the four of them immediately slipped out of their beds, taking their bottles with them. They had only just made it to a different tower of beds when a scream rang out from across the room, accompanied by the sound of flesh being sliced. Then more screams, until the whole room was filled with noise. It was like Red Light, Green Light all over again, but this time there were no gunshots to mask the sheer terror.

They ran, footsteps clanging against the metal stairs. It took all their effort to bob and weave through the chaos, trying not to get caught. At one point, In-ho had to push a man running at them with a shattered bottle away. It was easy because the man immediately fell back.

They made it to the corner just as the lights started flashing, almost like a strobe. In-ho caught glimpses of the chaos before it went black again.

"Soo-hee, get under the bed," In-ho motioned. She would be practically invisible and far safer.

"No. I am sticking with you guys," she said, holding her bottle toward the dark. In-ho nodded at her.

The slaughter continued. If they stayed like this, they would all die. Now was the best time to pull the barricade.

The four of them began making a barricade in the back corner. Two walls, then bed frames extending at right angles to make a square. The area inside was where they would rest, pulling mattresses from the beds onto the ground. They could keep watch from the bed frames, with a few more layered in front. It wasn’t the safest, as there were still gaps, but it was better than being out in the open.

It was unlikely anything would happen for the rest of the night, especially considering the guards had been adamant about taking any possible weapons. Still, they decided to take watch just in case.

"I will take the first watch," In-ho volunteered.

"I will go with you," Soo-min said. In-ho nodded.

"I think that’s a good idea. But we have to switch to get some sleep," Che-on said.

“And maybe,” Soo-hee added with a tired smile, “we can use that time to actually get to know each other better.”

In-ho still felt adverse to it, but trust was important, and after what they had been through, it was only fair. He nodded, and the others followed.

During their conversation, In-ho learned the following:

Soo-hee introduced herself fully: Park Soo-hee, forty-three, a former circus performer who now trained dancers. She’d lived on the road since she was nineteen, performing alongside her husband. She spoke of her fifteen-year-old son, frail and sickly, and of a father who had forced her into things she never wanted. In-ho’s stomach twisted at the implication, but despite her past, she radiated kindness, still carrying joy in her smile.

Her brother, Yong Soo-min, was thirty-eight. Once a school psychologist, he’d fallen into crushing debt after his own private practice failed. The failure had cost him not only his livelihood, but his reputation and career.

Lee Che-on, forty-five, had been an electrician. Ordinary, hardworking, until a scam wiped out everything he owned. In-ho thought him the most average among them — and yet here he was, surviving.

"In-ho-ya," Soo-hee whispered. They were on their third watch now. Che-on and Soo-min were sleeping behind them.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked.

He turned to her, curious. “Of course.”

Her voice trembled, yet her eyes shone strangely bright. “I actually think… I don’t mind the games.”

He blinked. “Are you sure? Out of all of us, you’ve been the most afraid.”

She smiled faintly. “Dying is terrifying, yes. But… I can’t help seeing this as another performance. Look around — we’re in costumes, under bright lights, surrounded by music. It’s not so different from any show i did before." 

He frowned. “You really think this is a performance?”

She smiled. "Of course, In-ho-ya. I’ve always dreamed of performing for an audience. Here, the cameras are everywhere. If I die, at least I’ll die believing my final performance was… good.” She chuckled softly.

He leaned closer, his voice firm. “Let’s not think like that. We’ll make it out. The four of us will split the prize. It’ll be enough to save your son.”

Her smile softened. “I hope so, In-ho-ya. I truly do.”

“You will, Soo-hee-ya,” he promised.

The blood from last night was still there in the morning, dark and congealed on the cold concrete floor. It wasn’t exactly a welcome sight to wake up to. Neither was the lack of breakfast. The moment the overhead lights snapped on—blinding after the dimness of night—and the trumpet concerto began to echo off the walls, the woman’s voice returned, crisp and mechanical through the loudspeakers.

“Attention, players. The fourth game will begin momentarily.”

They didn’t even get water this time. But In-ho didn’t mind. He just hoped the next game wouldn’t be something physical like the last one.

They were escorted into a white room.

"Will we be playing here?" Che-on asked.

"Players, welcome to the fourth game. For this game, you need to find a partner," the female voice said as they were still filing in.

There was a collective murmur from the fifty players gathered inside. 

"All players, please divide to find a partner for the next game. Your time limit is ten minutes," she added.

The four of them looked at each other.

“What game will we be playing, Soo-min?” Soo-hee asked her brother quietly. He was cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt, an old habit. He only shrugged, eyes still hidden behind the smudged lenses. Even he didn’t know.

There were exactly fifty people in the room. That meant everyone would have to find someone. No exceptions.

"Soo-min—" In-ho called to him, but he was already walking away. Huh?

Did he not want to team with his sister? Or with him? In-ho thought they had started to become friends, at least in the way people trapped in a nightmare together become friends.

He had wanted to team up with Soo-min. The man had helped him during Red Light, Green Light and even during the dalgona challenge, when he’d suggested picking a shape other than the cursed star. But maybe Soo-min was just asking other players what they thought the next game would be. It could be anything.

“Che-on, do you want to team with me?” Soo-hee asked hopefully.

But Che-on immediately dismissed her, his expression cold. “You’ll be weaker. You’re a woman,” he muttered, brushing her off. Then he turned to In-ho. “You join me.” In-ho dismissed him.

He kept waiting for Soo-min to come back.

"In-ho, do you want to team up with me? I am sure we’ll make a great team," he heard Soo-hee next to him.

He turned just in time to see Soo-min shaking hands with another player—Number 79. His heart gave a small lurch. Why? Did Soo-min not trust him? In-ho couldn’t understand. They’d been together through the last three games. They were friends. Weren’t they?

But it didn’t matter now. If he was with Soo-hee, they could still win. She was right: they would make a great team.

“Okay,” he said, and he shook her hand without hesitation.

“Welcome, players, to the fourth game.” The robotic female voice cut through the room again as guards ushered them down another corridor and into the playing area.

The space opened up like a mirage: a sandy expanse dotted with stone walls and wooden fences, the ceiling painted to look like a sunny sky. The illusion of a beach.

“This place looks nice. Right, In-ho-ya?” Soo-hee said, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t answer. His eyes were scanning the area, heart pounding. What game were they going to play in pairs?

“The game you will be playing,” the voice finally answered, “is Marbles.”

They had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to make their partner lose all their marbles. No physical violence allowed.

Most of the time, In-ho had been winning. Soo-hee seemed slower with logical games, but in the last few rounds, she had surprised him—she’d beaten him twice.

He looked at the timer. Five minutes left. Somewhere nearby, he’d heard that both Soo-min and Che-on had passed. At least those two had made it out.

In-ho opened his palm. Only one marble left. His heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t lose.

"Soo-hee, do you have any marbles left?" She can’t win. She can’t—

Soo-hee opened her hand, revealing one marble in her palm too. In-ho exhaled in relief.

"We both have only one left. What should we do, In-ho-ya? Should we play again?" she asks him, desperation crawling on her tongue.

He didn’t want Soo-hee to die. She was in the games just to save her sick son. Similar reason like he was in there.

He looks at the timer. They can’t play again, it would take too much time.

He didn’t want Soo-hee to die.

But he had no choice. He needed to save Ae-shin. He needed the money. He needed to live.

“What do you say we play for one last minute? You can tell me more about yourself in that time,” In-ho proposed. His voice was steady, even warm.

If she becomes distracted, if she loses her focus, then he is going to win easily.

He didn’t want to do that. But if he and Soo-min could get out of here alive, then her brother is going to pay for her son’s treatment.

He had no other choice. There is no other choice left. It’s either him or her. He needs to save Ae-shin. He needs to go home.

"Oh. Okay. And what do you want to know about me? I think I told you almost everything," she says. She seems much calmer now as she knows there is still time left.

In-ho smiles at her reassuringly.

He doesn’t want to watch her die. He doesn’t want to watch her being eliminated. He doesn’t want Soo-min to find out his sister is gone.

She became his friend in the last four days.

But… Ae-shin matters more and he has a life too.

“Why did you become a circus performer?” he asked gently. He didn’t care, not really, but he had to let her focus slip.

He needs the money. She may die but her brother still has a chance. He always had more chance than his older sister.

She smiles at him and starts to tell him about her biggest dream. She speaks with so much joy that In-ho feels guilty about what’s going to happen to her in the three minutes.

She even told him the ugly parts of the story, how her father forced her to perform for his adult clients when she was just a teenager. How she was beaten up when she didn’t listen to his clients’ demands and how she and her younger brother eventually ran away.

But In-ho pushed those guilty thoughts away. He needed her to continue. He needed her to stay in that memory a little longer.

He told himself he was doing it for her. For Ae-shin. The only person who mattered now.

Soo-hee stopped and glanced at the timer, worry flickering across her face. In-ho nodded and forced a fake smile. “Continue,” he urged.

He used to work for the police. He knows exactly how to make someone talk. There are a lot of ways but he has chosen the more merciful one.

She exhaled and continued, telling him about her dancing, about her husband and her son, about the many towns she had visited.

Then Soo-hee stopped mid-sentence. She looked at the timer. One minute left. Her face had gone pale with fear.

In-ho had no choice. She was going to die. He knew only one of them would make it out alive. There was no choice left.

“We need to play now, Soo-hee,” In-ho said, his voice suddenly detached, bitter.

Another elimination echoed across the room—a sharp gunshot. Soo-hee flinched. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but In-ho’s body remained still.

“O-okay. Then—we’re going to toss a marble. Whose marble lands closer to the wall wins. What do you say, In-ho-ya?” she asked, standing and stepping toward the wall.

In-ho’s face remained cold. She’d only proposed this because it required something physical—she thought she’d have an advantage.

He couldn’t let her win. He couldn’t let Ae-shin die.

He told himself he was doing it for her. He had no choice.

No choice. It’s for her. It’s for her. For her. For…

He kept repeating the mantra as he stood next to Soo-hee.

“I will start,” In-ho said. He had to make her lose somehow. Otherwise, she’d win.

She nodded. In-ho tossed his last marble.

A small smile crept onto his lips as he saw it almost hit the wall. But she could still toss hers closer. He could still lose.

“Your turn now,” In-ho said.

Soo-hee stepped forward. Her arm stretched out, eyes locked on the wall.

He needed her confidence to break. He needed to say something that would make her hands tremble.

"You didn’t have to go to the games again. You could stay home with your son. Your brother could pay for his treatment. Why were you acting so selfish?" he asks her. The words slip off his tongue easily.

She froze slightly. He knew her past. She had been a prostitute, forced by her father and his clients. They were exactly the people In-ho had investigated when he was working for the police. The very type of predators In-ho had once put in prison.

Even Soo-hee wasn’t completely innocent.

He knows when people lie, he knows she wasn’t being completely honest with him. He knows that she sugarcoated it all to seem like she was the only victim. She had killed her own father. She may take the lives of more people to achieve her dreams.

Her hand began to shake. She turned her head toward him, eyes wide.

“In-ho-ya? What are you talking about? You know my brother can’t pay all of it.”

Her focus was already slipping. She turned back to the wall, but her hands were still trembling as she tossed the last marble.

He silently prayed that her marble wouldn’t reach his. He knew it was wrong to wish someone dead. But there was no other choice.

In-ho wasn’t killing her, not really. He hadn’t killed anyone here, even though he’d seen people kill each other during the lights-out, during the games. His hands weren’t dirty. They wouldn’t be.

In-ho wasn’t killing her. He wanted to live. He had no other choice.

Her marble didn’t reach his. He had won.

The guard stepped in as soon as the result was clear, his rifle already raised.

“Player 132 has passed,” the guard announced.

In-ho slowly turned away. He could hear Soo-hee’s quiet sobbing.

Then her voice rose behind him, soft and trembling. He knew she was looking at his back. He knew this would be the last time she spoke.

“Please get my brother out of here. Please let him save my son. Save your wife, In-ho-ya,” she called to him. She still sounded gentle despite knowing he had betrayed her, despite knowing she was about to die.

He didn’t turn to face her. He heard the guard pulling the trigger. Any second now.

“I really enjoyed spending time with you, In-ho-ya. I really did,” she said. Her last words.

The gunshot echoed like a hammer striking steel.

“Player 228 eliminated,” the mechanical voice announced.

As In-ho walked away, tear slid down his face, silent and hot.

He told himself he had no choice.

He barely remembers the events that happened after this. All he knows is that twenty-four more people survived when soldiers escorted them to the fifth game.

Almost the last one. Just one more and they will be out. He will make sure to keep his promise to Soo-hee. She can’t die for nothing.

Soo-min will get out of here and save her son. In-ho is going to save his wife. It will be fine.

"Welcome to the fifth game, players. Please pick a vest with a number," the voice welcomes them.

People start to pick up the numbers.

In-ho moves slower than usual. The marble game is still stuck in his head like shards of glass. After Soo-hee died, Soo-min didn’t even talk to him. In-ho wonders if he didn’t pick his sister because deep down he thought one of them was going to die.

In-ho doesn’t know and he doesn’t care anymore. She is dead. In-ho is still alive.

There are only two numbers left now: 17 and 18. Soo-min is already reaching for the vest marked 17, his fingers trembling slightly, so it doesn’t leave In-ho much choice. He picks up 18.

He hopes this choice isn’t going to get him killed.

“The game you will be playing now is Glass Bridge,” the voice explains, calm and devoid of emotion. “In order to pass, you must step on the correct glass. There are two glass panels in front of you—one real, one fake. To advance, you must step on the real one. You have ten minutes to cross.”

In-ho swallows hard. His throat feels dry as ash. This wasn’t like the games before. This one is pure luck. But he is among the last. If the players before him step on the right glass, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll pass.

Only eight people make it out to the last glass before them.

Soo-min only has to step on the last one. In-ho is this close to passing. Six other men stand behind him, waiting. If Soo-min steps on the right one, they all have a chance to win.

But Soo-min stops. He turns to In-ho, his eyes hollow. “Soo-min, we don’t have much time,” In-ho says, glancing up at the timer above the bridge. Only two minutes left.

But Soo-min stands frozen. “You killed her, In-ho. You murdered my sister.” His voice is cold, almost unrecognizable.

“I didn’t want her to die,” In-ho replies, his voice trembling. Why can’t he understand? He only wanted to survive. How was he supposed to know what game they would be playing?

Or was he supposed to just let her win? To let Ae-shin die in the hospital?

"You killed her. There is nothing left for me, In-ho. I won’t let you pass."

So that’s what this was about—he wanted them all dead. All seven of them. Even both of his former teammates.

“Move, Soo-min. Your sister wouldn’t want this. She wanted you to live,” In-ho pleads. They are running out of time. They will all die like this. He can’t let that happen.

“So? I didn’t say I will die—just that you will. I will wait here until the last five seconds and then I will pass. You won’t have time to cross, so you will all die.” Soo-min’s voice is different now. He sounds like a maniac.

In-ho can’t recognize this same man who once saved him before.

“Are you fucking insane?”
“He wants all the money for himself!”
“Bastard! Someone push him off!” the men behind In-ho start to yell, their voices echoing across the glass bridge.

In-ho doesn’t want to push Soo-min. “Please, just step on the glass and let us pass,” he tries to reason with him.

But this only makes Soo-min angrier. “Shibal! You think you are better than me? You think you can win this? I was the one to save you in Red Light, Green Light. I was the only one who knew that the star shape would get you eliminated. I win every single game and I will win this one too. I need the money! I deserve it!”

In-ho can’t say anything to him. He needs the money too. He had no choice in marbles. And didn’t Soo-min also kill someone in there too?

Who does he think he is, judging him like that? In-ho wasn’t the one who let his sibling get beaten up. He wasn’t the one covering crimes.

In-ho knows he isn’t really a good man, but those people are the lowest society can offer. Those are the people he would gladly put behind bars.

A man jumps to his place. In-ho’s heart starts beating fast. Should he prepare for an attack?

But no—the player jumps to Soo-min’s place instead and grabs him by the jacket.

Both men start to fight, their movements clumsy on the fragile glass, but then that player pushes Soo-min onto the last glass. The pane shatters instantly. Soo-min’s scream is cut short as he plummets into the abyss below.

“Player 001 eliminated,” the voice announces coldly.

In-ho doesn’t look down to see his dead body. He is only focused on his way out. Soo-min was worthless trash anyway.

He vaguely remembers what happened after. He was wearing a finalist suit with number 132. He barely ate, although the six other men ate like it would be their last meal.

It was their last meal.

He barely remembers the guard approaching him and escorting him into some strange golden room. He doesn’t understand why.

But there was a man under a glittering gold owl mask. In-ho could just barely make out his eyes from across the table.

"Player 132," the owl-masked man says. In-ho doesn’t understand what he wants from him as he sits down in the chair.

"You made this game an entertaining one. I was impressed about what you did in Marbles."

In-ho doesn’t care about what he has done anymore. It’s not like it matters. He just needs to find a way to win the last game.

“What do you want from me?” In-ho asks, but his voice trembles. He is exhausted. He has barely eaten or slept.

He just wants to see Ae-shin again.

The man laughs, a noise that sounds like it is rattling against his ribcage. "You are a fine candidate for a winner. I would like to offer you a chance."

What? In-ho looks up but he can’t really tell what the man thinks behind the mask. Does he want him to win? Why?

Because he betrayed his friend? He is sure those six men have the same chance as he does.

"What do you want from me?" In-ho asks again.

"I know about your life outside of the games. I know about everyone. You have a sick wife, don’t you, player 132?"

His heart drops to the pit of his chest at the mention of Ae-shin.

"Have you picked a name for your child yet?" the man asks him.

“I—I don’t understand,” In-ho stammers. “What do you want from me? If you hurt her, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

“Hurting your wife is not my intention,” says the man with the owl mask. “I want you to win, In-ho. I truly do. That’s all.”

"But why? It’s not like those men in the dorms don’t have a fair chance to win either," In-ho argues.

"Was it fair when you tricked player 228 so she would lose focus? Was it fair when player 001 turned against you?" He hears the supercilious smile in the man’s voice.

That man is right. Soo-min wanted to win that money for himself. He wasn’t thinking about the lives of others.

But—

"You made those games. You made Marbles so that only one of us could win," In-ho says.

"That’s true. But they were given a chance. They chose to stay here. They chose to play."

In-ho can understand that. He returned too, didn’t he?

“I have an offer for you,” the man says.

"Kill them all today. You won’t even have to play the last game. You can return to your wife earlier. Wouldn’t you like that?"

He leans forward, placing a knife on the table between them. The blade glints under the gold lights, sharp and thin. In-ho looks at it cautiously. Was this really his way out?

Could it all really be this easy?

“Kill the trash.”

In-ho’s gaze fixes on the knife. He thinks of the other six players—five of whom he doesn’t know the names or the stories of, only that they were his opponents.

The sixth was Che-on. But he barely knows him. He was nobody too. He didn’t even defend him against Soo-min or help him so Soo-min wouldn’t die.

He wanted to get out here with him. With Soo-hee too. But they were both dead. The rest doesn’t matter.

“What’s holding you back?” The owl mask sparkles in the glowing lights.

In-ho doesn’t reply and takes the knife. Ae-shin is going to live. He can’t keep his promise to Soo-hee when she asked him to make sure her brother made it out alive. But she also said that In-ho needs to save his wife.

That’s the only thing that matters now. Nothing else.

"If I do this then will I get the prize? Even without playing the last game?" In-ho is still suspicious about this situation.

"Yes. The prize will be yours. You will be out of the island after this."

In-ho looks at the knife in his hands and is escorted by guards back to the dorms.

If that man is lying then he is going to kill him. But first he needs to kill them.

Trash.

He hears that voice as the knife swings down into a man's chest. He knows this man killed Soo-min.

Trash.

He moves to another bed.

The knife glimmers as he lifts it, then stabs the man as he sleeps. Blood spatters against his face and suit, trickling down warm and sticky.

Just four more and it’s going to be over.

He doesn’t remember how he stabbed the other three. He knows his hands are covered in blood and that his whole body is sweating.

Last bed. Che-on lies in it like nothing is happening around him. In-ho remembers that he drank alcohol when they were having dinner.

He silently approaches him. Player 175—that’s what he was all this time. Just a racehorse. Just another loser.

Trash.

For just a moment, he watches him sleep. Watches his chest rise and fall.

He looks around the room.

The beds are full of corpses, full of dead meat. They’re all been sleeping, unaware that In-ho had come into the grand room brandishing a dagger and a mission. One last game that they weren’t told about. One just for him.

They hadn’t known and they couldn’t defend themselves, but it was alright because they were trash.

But if they were, then why does In-ho shake so badly? Why does he stare, and feel so very cold as the lights turn on and music plays on the speakers? Why is everything so loud and at the same time his ears are stuffed full of cotton?

No, he has to do it for her. He has to kill. He has to live. He has to get his old job back. He has to have a purpose.

He won’t tell Ae-shin what he did. She doesn’t need to know. She doesn’t need to know he became a killer.

But he isn’t like the rest of them. His life isn’t worthless. He is a good man. He is doing this for someone. Those men were doing this just for themselves.

He is going to win.

In-ho has hesitated for too long. Che-on opens his eyes.

In-ho doesn’t hesitate now. He stabs him—repeatedly.

"Congratulations, player 132 on your game," the Frontman says and gives him the credit card. They leave him on the streets.

He rushes to the hospital. Only to hear: "I am sorry, sir, but Hwang Ae-shin has been dead for forty-eight hours."

In-ho is outside. It’s a freezing October but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters anymore. He can’t return to his old work. Ae-shin has been buried for two months now.

His life doesn’t have any purpose, he thinks as he puts the gun towards his forehead and is ready to pull the trigger.

There is nothing in life, and when he pulls the trigger, there is going to be just darkness. Nothing.

He is ready to die, but then he hears a voice: “Player 132—Hwang In-ho. I have a job for you.” The old man says.

In-ho hesitates for a second, his finger still lingering over the trigger. That man seems familiar, but In-ho can’t tell if they have met before.

He wants to die. There is nothing else left for him. He can’t even face his brother Jun-ho and tell him what he did. It would be for the best if In-ho dies and no one ever finds out.

“You want to have purpose, don’t you? You can return to the games,” the old man continues. In-ho doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to play the games again.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

The old man smiles at him and says: “It will be similar to your old job. You can make a difference, Hwang In-ho.”

In-ho pulls his finger off the trigger. The old man walks away and leaves a card on the ground. In-ho picks it up and later calls back to the games and put the mask on.

"In-ho. In-ho. Wake up." He hears her voice. That sweet, innocent voice again.

In-ho opens his eyes. He expects Ae-shin looking down at him, but it is no one other than Seong Gi-hun.

Gi-hun is standing beside his bed, looking down at him. He holds a small bag containing clothes. In-ho notices that his posture seems more relaxed now, not tense like before.

In-ho blinks, disoriented. How long had he been asleep?

"Nurse said you can leave," Gi-hun informs him. 

Oh. Relief surges through In-ho. He sits up quickly, the walls of the hospital room suddenly feeling suffocating. This place had been gnawing at his sanity. Even a simple check by a nurse had triggered an urge to strangle her.

Freedom. He is finally getting out of here.

"You were talking in your sleep, by the way," Gi-hun says casually.

Huh? How long had Gi-hun been watching him? What had he heard?

In-ho should not be complaining—he had watched Gi-hun sleep too. He had done far worse things that Gi-hun probably isn’t even aware of.

"Did my brother send this?" he asks instead. Gi-hun nods.

In-ho is still in his hospital gown. The only clothes he owns are soaked in his own blood. The IV remains hooked into the back of his hand.

Gi-hun turns to leave the room. It only lasts a moment, then Gi-hun is back, a doctor at his side.

"Lie down. I need to check your healing. The nurse will re-dress your wound and give you instructions for care," the doctor says.

In-ho obediently lies back on the bed, letting the doctor examine him. The nurse comes in, taps an absorbent pad over his wound, and explains he will need to return for stitch removal. He nods silently, aware that this will happen at home.

Wait. Where will he live now? He cannot return to his brother; that much is clear. Jun-ho would probably have killed him himself.

Gi-hun had offered him a place—but In-ho knows it is out of pity, or a sense of duty, nothing more.

So much could have changed in these past three days. Gi-hun could have changed his mind. In-ho watches quietly as the doctor and nurse depart.

Gi-hun gives him the small bag. In-ho opens it. His old clothes. He hasn’t worn these in ages. He takes them, staring at the bag as he stands up.

There is a black shirt, some jeans, and some new boxers, still in their packaging.

He looks up at Gi-hun. Gi-hun offers a small smile. "Jun-hee went shopping. She bought a lot of things."

In-ho’s chest tightens. He hasn’t had anyone give him anything—not even something as small and insignificant as this—in years.

Jun-hee gave him this. She was always kind and caring—like Gi-hun. Like Ga-yeong.

He nods, and hesitates to take off the hospital gown. He is covered in scars, and he doesn’t really want Gi-hun to see him like that.

"Do you need help?" Gi-hun asks.

In-ho is taken aback by the question. Surprised to see Gi-hun smile again.

Something has changed. Gi-hun is casually speaking to him, even smiling and offering him help. Something he would only do for Young-il.

The last time they talked, Gi-hun was angry and glaring at In-ho with hatred.

Hatred isn’t in his eyes now.

"The tie," In-ho says, waving his hand at the back of his neck. He cannot bring his hand up to untie it without an uncomfortable tug on his stitches.

Oh, Il-nam must have been laughing from hell, watching this. If there is even an afterlife for a man like him.

Gi-hun stands behind him, and In-ho can feel the heat of his fingers as he undoes the gown. In-ho used to do the same for Ae-shin when she was too fragile to change clothes on her own.

When he looks at Gi-hun, sometimes he sees Ae-shin. But she has been gone for almost a decade. Gi-hun is someone else entirely.

Gi-hun’s fingers don’t touch In-ho’s skin. In-ho wants to feel that brush of warmth against his back. Like when he felt warmth when they held hands in games.

But that wasn’t In-ho. That was Young-il. Or was it him? He can no longer tell which parts of that fabricated persona were real, which were lies.

"There you go," Gi-hun says, stepping away. "I’ll turn away. Just tell me if you need my help."

Something has changed in Gi-hun. In-ho can tell a clear difference between the man he was in the games and the man he is talking to now.

He just doesn’t know what caused it.

Gi-hun turns, his back to In-ho. In-ho can clearly see that Gi-hun’s ears are flushed, and In-ho smiles a little.

Something has definitely changed.

He changes slowly, but he doesn’t need help. He doesn’t have any more pain. He only pauses when he tries to put on his shoes and realizes he only has the shoes from the island. One of them is encrusted with blood.

In-ho curses that soldier who tried to kill him. And the Masked Officer who was killed by Guard Eleven. He wonders where that North Korean woman is now. If she’s even alive.

He makes a soft noise, and Gi-hun turns around to see him surveying them.

"Oh. Do you need help?" Gi-hun asks. In-ho doesn’t think he can bend down to tie them without pain. He nods.

Gi-hun puts one knee on the floor and lifts In-ho’s foot onto his knee, then slips the shoe on and ties it.

His face is so focused. His hands are so gentle on In-ho’s ankles. In-ho feels something is definitely wrong.

Did Ga-yeong done something with the timeline again? Gi-hun should be making In-ho feel pain for killing Jung-bae. He should be killing him right now for causing so much suffering.

He shouldn’t be willing to kneel at his bedside, at his feet, and help him put his shoes on.

But maybe In-ho is putting too much onto that. Surely Gi-hun is doing the same for Ga-yeong and Jun-hee. For everyone.

He is just caring, that’s all.

Gi-hun puts the other one on, his hands hesitating over the blood-stiff laces.

In-ho knows what he is thinking about right now. He must be thinking about Jung-bae’s blood. About the blood that was on In-ho’s hands.

Gi-hun looks up at him, and slips a hand around his ankle, holding it firmly.

He is going to tell him how much he hates him. How much he despises his presence and that this was all an act.

But instead, Gi-hun asks: "Are you okay?"

In-ho nods. He doesn’t think he can speak. He wonders what the hell is wrong with Gi-hun. Did someone knock him out and he lose all of his memories?

Why is he acting this way? Is this some elaborate mind game? The one In-ho used as Young-il? Is this revenge?

Gi-hun lets his foot slip to the ground and stands up. "I’ll get you signed out. If anything feels wrong, I’ll go with you to the hospital. Jun-hee needs regular check-ups too."

"Alright." In-ho forces himself to speak. Who is this Gi-hun in front of him?

Gi-hun leads him to the desk, pays for him, and guides him through the hospital wings to the exit, where he pauses and looks at In-ho, at the short sleeves of the black shirt he is wearing.

And then—

Gi-hun takes off his jacket and holds it out for In-ho to slip his arms into.

This is getting weird. Too weird. In-ho stares, wide-eyed, noticing the red marks from the handcuffs on Gi-hun’s wrist.

“It’s cold out there,” Gi-hun says. Right, it’s the beginning of November already.  Winter was approaching.

"What are you doing? Are you playing some mind games with me, Gi-hun?" In-ho demands, furious.

Gi-hun just smiles at him and says: "No. I am just offering you help. That’s all, In-ho."

"But why?" In-ho cannot comprehend it.

Gi-hun’s answer leaves him even more perplexed: "Maybe I just took a red pill, you know?"

Huh? Did Seong Gi-hun just make a reference to The Matrix movie? The one they talked about in the limo?

Did he watch In-ho’s favorite movie or something? Why did Gi-hun suddenly take an interest in things he liked?

Before In-ho’s cheeks could burn red, he quickly puts the coat on. It’s surely nothing. Gi-hun is just offering him help. In-ho is looking way too much into it, that’s all.

The coat is tight around his shoulders, but as they leave the hospital, the chill of late autumn air bites him through the jacket.

Gi-hun tries to appear unaffected, but In-ho notices the subtle shiver. He guides In-ho to the car, watching closely as he climbs into the passenger seat. Gi-hun slides in behind the wheel, turning the heat to full.

"Alright?" Gi-hun asks him.

"It’s fine," In-ho lies. He feels a little faint from the walk, and he thinks he might start shivering. He is so weak, it’s infuriating.

But he refuses to return to the hospital.

In-ho smiles reassuringly at him, and Gi-hun looks away, starting the car.

He drives slowly, carefully. In-ho turns to look out the window, at the autumn-fading scenery, and realizes that the jacket has a warm scent clinging to it. It’s faint, smells like detergent and cigarettes from someone who hasn’t smoked in a while. Although In-ho has seen the cigarette box in Gi-hun’s car.

In-ho had never smelled Gi-hun’s scent before. It is comforting. He must somehow keep this jacket.

The house Gi-hun pulls up to looks like a nice, cozy family house, perfect for an ordinary family living in Ssangmun-dong.

He gets out of the car slowly, and Gi-hun hovers as he walks up the drive to the door.

In-ho goes behind him. And when In-ho is inside, it's strangely quiet. He knew Jun-ho was with his mother now. At least he wouldn’t have to confront his brother just yet—the very thought made his chest tighten. That was the last interaction he wanted right now.

He sits at the huge dining table. In-ho looks around. This place already looks lived in.

A sudden clattering from the stairs pulled their attention.

"Ajusshi? Is that you? Ji-ah is sleeping upstairs. I don't want to wake her—oh, Mr. In-ho," Jun-hee says.

She knew his name. Gi-hun hovered awkwardly in the kitchen. “Hi, Jun-hee. In-ho is going to stay here, if you don’t mind.”

Jun-hee looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Sure. We need more men in this house. There’s still so much to fix here.”

"Jun-hee, you should be only focusing on taking care of Ji-ah. You don't need to help us that much," Gi-hun says to her.

Jun-hee smiled at both of them and nodded again. “Oh, I forgot to thank you for helping us on that island,” she said.

In-ho feels a strange guilt spreading throughout him. She thinks he saved her life. But he knows the truth—he had watched her die with his hosts. He watched her die while those rich people were joking about her death.

What would happen when she discovered the truth? Would she aim her vengeance at him like Ga-yeong had? Would she despise him as Jun-ho did?

In-ho doesn't know, so he doesn't say anything.

"You must be hungry, sir. I will prepare food for you, and you need to eat something too, Gi-hun." Jun-hee goes to the refrigerator and starts to prepare food.

Gi-hun sat beside him at the kitchen table. In-ho couldn’t meet his eyes. He simply watched as Jun-hee laid out a selection of small dishes on the table.

In-ho took a few tentative bites, only to be interrupted by Jun-hee’s voice. “I should probably hate you for making my daughter a player, but I don’t.”

He almost choked on the food, swallowing slowly, ashamed. His gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding her eyes.

So Gi-hun—or Ga-yeong—had told her the truth.

"I know that you killed Jung-bae too and that you were the masked man behind the games."

In-ho couldn’t reply. Words failed him. He knew only that Gi-hun’s eyes were on him, observing. He pushed the untouched dishes away.

"Why did you then burn the whole island down if you watched us die?" Jun-hee asked finally.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, the apology sounding hollow even to his own ears. They should bury him alive. They should have left him to burn on the island with the others.

"Will you return to the games, sir?"

"No. I won't go back to the games. And—I made your daughter into a player so she could survive," In-ho admitted.

Jun-hee’s gaze sharpened. “I hope you regret everything, sir.” She stood, moving back upstairs to her daughter without another word.

In-ho watched her go, feeling the sting of betrayal reflected back at him. Another person whose trust he had shattered. Another person who hated him.

"Where are Hyun-ju and Ga-yeong?" In-ho asks after a while.

"Hyun-ju is sleeping upstairs, and Ga-yeong is with Woo-seok. They are working on something," Gi-hun replied.

In-ho suddenly feels every second he has not been able to sleep—the sheer exhaustion of moving around while he is replenishing so much blood.

"Can I— which room?" In-ho asks awkwardly.

Gi-hun guides him upstairs and shows him the room he has picked out for In-ho.

"It's nice in here," In-ho says softly. It didn’t resemble any place he had lived before.

“Woo-seok—one of my friends—decorated it,” Gi-hun explained. “I didn’t expect it to turn out this well.”

In-ho vaguely remembered someone named Woo-seok, a name Jun-ho had mentioned.

"Can I bring my own stuff here?" he asks Gi-hun.

Gi-hun looks at him. "Sure. It's your room after all. But I hope you don't mind sleeping next to Jun-hee's room. The baby might wake you up, Young-il."

Gi-hun stops as he says that name. In-ho's heart beats faster. He still sees Young-il in him. Young-il is still in his memories.

"I—I am sorry. I didn't mean to call you that, In-ho. I—" Gi-hun stammered. In-ho looked around the room, avoiding his eyes.

He doesn't want to remind himself that Gi-hun might be looking at someone else.

"You should sit down, In-ho. Rest as much as you need. The door locks if you want it to. There are two bathrooms—one downstairs and one upstairs if you want to wash up. If you need help with something, ask me or Jun-hee," Gi-hun said, hovering at the door.

In-ho could already feel the growing distance between them. He lowered himself onto the bed.

The room is large. It is so much larger than his room on the island or even his old apartment.

"Thank you." Gi-hun nods and leaves. He leaves the door open. In-ho could hear faint noises from the other room, Jun-hee soothing her baby.

In-ho is too tired. He pushes himself back on the bed, lies down with his head on the pillow, and stares at the ceiling, waiting for the little aches and pains to leave him. Waiting for the throbbing across the lower side of his body to fade.

If he were back on the island, injured, he would have taken a few strong pulls of whatever whiskey is closest to dull these annoying, jittery pains.

He thinks Gi-hun wouldn't like that. He will have to live without drinking for a while.

In-ho doesn't even know who he is anymore. Both the Frontman and Young-il died on that island. He closed his eyes and prayed there would be no nightmares.

He woke after the sun had set. The air was cold, and he had slept atop the covers, restless. Sounds floated from downstairs—three female voices and one male. The house was already alive with it's morning routines.

He pulled a jumper from the cupboard. It wasn’t his, but it smelled faintly of Gi-hun. He inhaled deeply and slid it on, feeling a strange comfort.

It smells like him. Like Gi-hun.

He puts it on.

Downstairs, Gi-hun was cooking. Hyun-ju sat on the sofa, watching something quietly on the low-lit TV. Ga-yeong scribbled notes, conversing with her father. Jun-hee tended to Ji-ah, breastfeeding her as Gi-hun moved around the kitchen.

"You are awake, traitor," Ga-yeong’s sharp voice greeted him. In-ho said nothing, taking a seat next to Gi-hun who drink a coffee.

"What are you writing?" he asked her instead.

"Just a list of ways to get rid of you without being caught," she replied. In-ho couldn’t help but smile at her sharp tongue.

"Hwang In-ho?" he hears Cho Hyun-ju calling him. In-ho's heart starts to beat fast. She knew too? Did Gi-hun say something to her?

He looks up to her place. She is glaring at him from the sofa. But he can't tell if she is mad or not.

"How long did you run the games for?" she asks him. In-ho’s throat tightened. In-ho wants to bury himself right now.

He will just be honest with her like the rest of them. It's not like he has many choices left.

He can't run away or hide. "Four years," he said.

"Why did you end the games in Korea?" she asked again.

"I didn't think they were worth it," he answered.

She stares at him, anger and grief passing over her face. In-ho knows she lost a lot of friends in there.

But if he is honest, he doesn't care that much about the corpses on the island. He is selfish. He cannot bring himself to regret all of it.

Gi-hun is alive. He didn't die like he was supposed to. He is home at last; that is all that matters to him.

"You're not going back?" she pressed.

"No," he says. Why does everyone keep asking him the same question?

She stares at him. "How much of Young-il was you?"

How much does Hyun-ju know about him as Young-il? He was helping them during mingle, and then he helped them in rebellion.

He can't reply to her. So he stays silent. He didn’t know anymore who he truly was.

Jun-hee came to put Ji-ah in her crib, glancing briefly at him and then at Gi-hun. “Do you trust him?”

Gi-hun makes eye contact with In-ho for a moment. In-ho feels the air leave his lungs; he feels the pressure of that question.

Gi-hun doesn't trust him. He trusted Young-il.

Gi-hun looks serious, his mouth curled in a frown. "I think I do," he says. "He can stay here as long as he wants."

"But—" Ga-yeong tries to complain, but Gi-hun stops her. "The games are gone. He has as much as we do."

In-ho tries to keep his breathing steady. Hyun-ju’s glare lingered before she finally nodded.

Jun-hee approached him, her tone firm but gentle. “But you will help us around the house when asked. You’ll try to be better, or else you’re out of the house.”

In-ho nods. He understands how they feel. He understands that they only take him in out of pity.

He feels like he is on thin ice with them, but at least they trust Gi-hun with this decision.

Ga-yeong glares at him again. In-ho is unsettled by that look. "What?" he asks her.

She replies: "You have so much free time now, In-ho-ya."

"Okay..and?" He doesn't really understand her question. She smiles at him and says, "We can use that time to get to know each other better. We can watch some movies if you want."

In-ho just nods. If it's only movies, then he can take it. If Gi-hun is going to like him better because he would be spending time with his family, then he will take it.

The quiet after this isn't comfortable, but it isn't uncomfortable. The TV keeps playing in the background, the news reporting the mysterious island that had an explosion on it still not having any updates. Excavation teams have only been able to find rubble of a building, like something was constructed on the island that has since been lost.

They suggest a billionaire's private island. They are also searching for five rich missing people that may be linked to the island.

They don't know how right they are.

Gi-hun cooks for them this time. It's dinner time. Jun-hee is feeding her baby as he prepares food. Hyun-ju disappeared into her room; she still seems tired.

He is sitting next to Ga-yeong, who keeps watching him cautiously.

"Can't you stop staring at me?" he snapped, irritation bubbling.

He isn't tired anymore; he had slept too much during the day despite the baby noises.

"Is there something between you and my father?" she asks seriously. In-ho glares at Gi-hun, who is fully focused on cooking.

In-ho knows his face is turning red. He can't even hide his reaction properly from her. He can already feel her lips parted into a grin.

"No. We aren't even friends," he replied truthfully.

"I wasn't asking that," Ga-yeong says. In-ho doesn't reply to her and goes outside. He stands in the freezing night air, feeling the breeze against his skin.

He hadn't had a chance to feel the air when he was living on the island; it is almost too strange to feel it now.

The door to the house opens, and Gi-hun's head peeking out. In-ho can feel his eyes turning away from him.

"What are you doing out here? You won't eat with us?"

"I just needed fresh air, that's all," In-ho says. This is all Ga-yeong's fault. He remembers Jun-ho used to be like that too, teasing him about Ae-shin. But this is different. He is different.

Gi-hun closes the door behind him and comes out to join In-ho.

"You didn't get much air on the island, did you? Where you were living, there were no windows," Gi-hun says.

"Mm. My place before didn’t have windows either." In the distance, he can see the city blocks of Seoul, the orange lights of millions of people going about their everyday lives with their everyday problems.

It feels so distant. He feels like an alien stepping into a place he doesn't belong anymore.

"It's sad that you made yourself a prisoner like that. Let's go inside," Gi-hun said and get up.

In-ho listens to him and, for the first time in years, is not alone while having dinner.

Gi-hun sits with him for a while. There is some sitcom running on TV at low volume, but In-ho barely pays attention. He is more focused on Gi-hun beside him.

Hyun-ju slept in her room, Jun-hee had gone upstairs, and Ga-yeong was bathing.

They were alone again, but In-ho feels like he doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong in this house.

He watches as Gi-hun sends messages on his phone, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

"Who are you texting?" In-ho asks him.

"Woo-seok. He and Ga-yeong are trying to crack the password to the Officer's computer. He is also taking over the Pink Motel," Gi-hun replies.

Oh. So that must have been why Ga-yeong was busy the whole day. He wondered if guard eleven gave them that computer. There was information about players. The rest burned on the island.

"The Pink Motel? Why?" In-ho asked. He obviously knows about Gi-hun's old place. He watched him too closely.

"He wants to remodel it and turn it into a real hotel. He thinks it could make some good money."

Gi-hun doesn't say anything anymore. He stops texting and looks at the gallery. In-ho noticed him linger on younger Ga-yeong and Eun-ji, zooming in on his ex-wife’s face.

"Do you miss her?" In-ho asks him.

Gi-hun looks at him. "I am going to bed." He doesn't answer his question. In-ho already knows he did something wrong.

Gi-hun puts a hand to his own forehead for a moment.

"Are you alright?" In-ho asks him. He doesn't mean to upset him. He wants to put his hand on Gi-hun's shoulder, wanting to offer comfort but keeping his distance.

"It's getting late. I will be better after some sleep." In-ho nods.

He watches Gi-hun go upstairs. In-ho stays lying on the sofa. As soon as Gi-hun leaves the room, In-ho feels lonely again, like he did on the island.

He doesn't go to check on Gi-hun. He doesn't want to say something wrong again. He stays in the room and sleeps there.

The next day, In-ho decided to visit his wife’s grave. He brought white flowers, fresh and fragrant.

He gets out of the taxi and walks through the cemetery.

He is not surprised to see Jun-ho there too.

“It’s strange to see you outside, In-ho,” Jun-ho says to him without greeting.

In-ho puts the flowers on Ae-shin’s grave. His eyes linger over her photo. She was always so happy.

He can feel that Jun-ho is staring at him. “You don’t have to stare at me like that,” In-ho says as he turns to face his brother.

“I am worried you will disappear again if I look away. You always disappear.”

“I won’t,” In-ho says. “I can’t run far with this.” He gestures at his side, where he was shot.

“It’s wrong to think that way, but I think I am glad you were in pain. I had to go through that too when you shot me in the shoulder.”

“I won’t shoot you again,” In-ho replied with a small smile.

“Are you ever going to tell me the whole story?” Jun-ho asks.

“I might,” In-ho said.

“Who is Young-il? Was that your fake identity or something?” Jun-ho asks.

“Yes. I entered the games to mess up Gi-hun’s plan,” In-ho says honestly. Jun-ho looks at him, surprised.

“Did you only end the games because I called the coastguard?” Jun-ho asks.

In-ho doesn’t know. He only knows that he wanted to get Gi-hun, his daughter, and Ji-ah out of there.

“I wanted you and Gi-hun to get off the island alive,” In-ho says shortly.

They don’t say anything for a while. Jun-ho seems like he has a million more questions ready for him, but he doesn’t know where to start.

He asks at last: “Are you ready to see my umma again?” “She misses you. She’s been blaming herself for you leaving,” he adds.

In-ho stares at Ae-shin’s grave. “I don’t know what I’d say to her,” he says.

“She just wants to know you’re alive and healthy.”

In-ho looks slowly at him and points at his stomach. “Healthy enough,” Jun-ho says.

“I don’t know. Let me recover some more, and then I will see her,” he says.

“You know I go to see Ae-shin every year. Why did you never show up?” Jun-ho says.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t face the truth. He grieved her alone in his silent room. He grieved her every time he drank whiskey.

He tried to remember the good times he had with her. How would she have felt about him wanting to die? About him destroying everything?

She would hate him. His face trembles as he looks at the photographs again, at her smiling face, at the faded, rain-damaged photo of them both.

His hand reaches out, and he traces her face. It’s been so long. He feels like Ae-shin belongs to someone else entirely.

That man next to her doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe he does, and In-ho just doesn’t want to admit the truth.

He is still that man. She loved him so much. Could she have loved the parts of him that were rotten? That were simply not parts of a good man?

Could Gi-hun done the same? He let him stay. He wanted him to live. But Gi-hun will take any stray into his home.

In-ho can promise Ae-shin one thing. He won’t never be the same man, but he will live. For her. For Gi-hun. And he will try to be better. 

“Let’s go,” In-ho says. Jun-ho nods, helps him down the stairs, and offers him a ride. In-ho sits in the passenger seat.

They don’t speak for a while. In-ho just stares out of the window, until he looks at Jun-ho. “I’ll see her. But it might take me a while.”

He is talking about Jun-ho’s umma. Jun-ho nods, relief flooding him. “I know. As long as you will see her eventually.”

In-ho nods and looks back out the window, his eyes watery.

Maybe this could be a new start.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since the Games, yet the echoes of that terrifying ordeal lingered.

Seong Gi-hun woke up. He blinked against the late morning light filtering through his window—it was already nearing half past ten on a cool November day. This time, thankfully, he hadn't been plagued by the usual waking nightmare, a reprieve afforded by the prescription sleeping pills the doctor had given him. Yet, his body was still slick with a nervous sweat, a persistent physiological relic of stress even as the late autumn chill settled outside.

Gi-hun forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face in an attempt to wash away the lingering anxiety.

Still clad in his simple pajamas, he padded downstairs to the kitchen. The house was strangely, unnervingly quiet. His eyes found his daughter, Ga-yeong, seated on the couch in the living room, engrossed in an American television show. Gi-hun, whose grasp of English remained rudimentary, watched as Ga-yeong's expression softened into a slight smile when a girl on the screen approached two boys, who he surmised were brothers.

He moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of chocolate milk and pouring the sweet, cool liquid into a ceramic mug.

Returning, he settled onto the couch next to Ga-yeong. He studied her face: she looked much healthier than she had two weeks ago, but the vibrant, healthy color she used to have hadn't quite returned to her cheeks.

Gi-hun took a slow sip from the mug, still acclimatizing to this strange, fragile normalcy. He was no longer living alone, haunted by debt and loss. He was here, sharing quiet moments with his only remaining family.

Ga-yeong didn't turn to acknowledge him. They sat in a prolonged silence, a quiet communion that Gi-hun, who usually disliked stillness, found oddly comforting with her. She had always been a cheerful, bright child. He could see that familiar flicker of happiness returning sometimes, a precious, fragile light. He had never wished for anything bad to happen to her, he thought, his heart sinking, but it already had.

After a long while, she finally shifted and looked at him, her voice low and direct. "Why did you allow him to stay?"

The question hung heavy in the air. She was talking about Hwang In-ho. Gi-hun didn't want to talk about him now.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, deflecting.

Ga-yeong didn't press the point immediately. "Jun-hee went to the doctor because Ji-ah has been sick," she reported. "Hyun-ju went to visit Gyeong-seok."

"And In-ho?" He hated bringing the conversation back to him, but there was no avoiding it. Gi-hun hadn't spoken much with In-ho these past few days, afraid of saying the wrong thing, afraid he might accidentally call him Young-il again. It felt safest to give him—and himself—some space.

"He's with Jun-ho, I think," Ga-yeong replied. Then, her eyes hardening, she repeated, "Why is he staying?"

"Ga-yeong, you know why I let him stay," Gi-hun explained, though the words tasted uncertain. "He has nowhere else to go." But was that true? In-ho wasn't a hostage. He had been the Frontman. He could do whatever he wanted, and he had chosen to stay, despite knowing he would have to share a house with the people he had hurted and tormented.

"He can leave," she shot back, a sudden spike of emotion in her voice. "Doesn't he have that winning money too? Why should we let a murderer into our home, appa?"

Gi-hun looked back at the blank television screen, feeling a painful conflict. He didn't want Ga-yeong to be hurt again; she had endured far too much already. But... a strange, irrational part of him wanted to be near In-ho. He longed to know more about the his past, about the person hiding behind that cold mask all this time. In that different timeline, he'd never gotten the chance.

"I know that, Ga-yeong," he conceded, sighing. "But half of us are murderers, too."

Ga-yeong turned to him, her expression furious. "But that’s different! You're not like him, appa! You didn't want to do that!"

"I killed Myung-gi," he murmured, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. Every time he looked at the little girl, Ji-ah, he saw the phantom blood on his hands. The guilt was a heavy stone, especially the fact that he still hadn't told Jun-hee what truly happened to her ex-partner and her child's father.

"You were forced to do that! In-ho gave you that knife! He planned that! Just like he planned everything! I became a killer because of him, too," she snapped, her hands clenching into fists. "But we aren't bad people. We were just trying to survive! He killed Jung-bae and he barely feels guilty!" Ga-yeong abruptly got up from the couch, her movements sharp.

Gi-hun looked up at her, noticing how much she resembled her mother, Eun-ji, when she was passionately arguing a point.

"I know," he said softly, looking at the black reflection of their faces on the screen. "The games—they made all of us do things we regret."

Ga-yeong grabbed the controller from the coffee table and switched off the TV completely. "I know. But just because In-ho killed all those people to save his wife in his games doesn't make his action less evil. He still took the lives of people who had families, who had futures! I took the lives of people in the games, people who may be completely different outside. I have nightmares too. But I am fully aware of my actions—In-ho isn't aware of the damage he has done!"

Gi-hun slowly placed his mug on the table. Ga-yeong didn't know In-ho well. Gi-hun did. He believed In-ho was fully aware of what he had done since their confrontation, maybe even long before. He must have been aware when he visited his wife's grave, when he tried to make amends with his brother and stepmother. He was human; he must have felt some guilt, some remorse.

"Ga-yeong, I know how you feel," Gi-hun said, trying to calm her tempestuous emotions. "But aiming your anger at him won't help. We were all supposed to be dead, and now—we have to live with the choices of what we did."

She sat back down, pulling a thick blanket up and tucking it around her body. When she looked up at Gi-hun, he could see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.

"I know how you die. I know what happened," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

"What happened?" Gi-hun asked, a surge of curiosity replacing his earlier defensiveness.

Ga-yeong exhaled slowly, her gaze fixed on a distant point. "You made it to the last game. You and other men. And—Ji-ah."

Gi-hun's eyebrow raised. He had managed to save Jun-hee's daughter until the very end, but then what became of her?

"I didn't see the whole thing. I only saw the ending. Your ending. You and Myung-gi were the last ones standing," she continued.

So, Myung-gi hadn't died in Hide-and-Seek. Whose team had Gi-hun been on? If he was on the red team, it would mean he had killed an ally. Had he killed Dae-ho, or someone else he was supposed to protect?

"And what happened? Did he make it out?" A desperate, hopeful part of Gi-hun wondered if Ji-ah's father had survived and raised her in that alternate timeline. But he already knew that was a fantasy. Myung-gi, like the six men who chose to stay, had become a monster.

"He died. You and Ji-ah were the only ones left. But you lost."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He knew, instinctively, what it meant. He had failed to save everyone; they had all ended up dead. All of them.

"You won and lost at the same time," she explained, her voice steadying as she articulated her deep understanding. "You showed the VIPs what it means to be a human being. You showed them that they couldn't break you, despite every effort they made. You showed In-ho that violence isn't the definitive answer. Even in complete darkness and despair, you still held Ji-ah and cared for her. You still held your hope. You—"

She stopped, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. She wiped them quickly and continued, a raw emotion powering her words: "You were a gambling addict, you failed as a father, you failed all the time. But your last act was a resistance to the expectation the VIPs had. You didn't let Ji-ah die. You kept your promise to Jun-hee, knowing that her daughter would live. You won because you didn't choose yourself."

Gi-hun looked at the black screen, finally understanding the full weight of what Ga-yeong had seen. It didn't surprise him as much as it should have. He knew the truth: he had died for Jun-hee's daughter. He had killed himself to ensure she was the sole winner. He must have been utterly suicidal if everyone else had died, especially if he had killed someone who trusted him.

The realization of his own death should have shattered him, but it didn't. Instead, it felt like the final, painful resolution of a life lived wrong.

"Thank you for telling me," he said to Ga-yeong, his voice thick with emotion.

He wasn't dead now. But his death had motivated Ga-yeong to search for him, pushing her to step into the same game, the same repeating cycle that had almost consumed her. Ironically, Gi-hun's death had created the conditions for him to become a better man. It had forced him to realize his past mistakes, his neglect of Ga-yeong. It made him realize that they could win without playing the game, that as long as they didn't blame each other and worked as a team, they could all survive.

His mother had been a Buddhist. He shared those foundational beliefs. He felt reborn, given a chance to start a new cycle, closer to salvation. This time, he would dedicate the rest of his life to being there for people, to helping them, and to seeing the change that could happen when they worked together.

Ga-yeong remained quiet, staring at the screen. Gi-hun gently touched her shoulder, a tender, grounding gesture. He truly wanted to be there for her, even if she wasn't a child anymore. He longed to see her happy again, to see her bright smile return. He hoped that wherever Eun-ji was, she was watching over their daughter. He hoped that whatever followed death would bring all the lost souls comfort. He hoped that, in a way, all of them could finally win.

She noticed his touch and pulled him into a hug. Gi-hun smiled into her hair. "What are your plans now, Ga-yeong?" he asked. He knew what she had done in her timeline, but now, he wasn't sure what his daughter wanted for her future.

When she pulled away, Gi-hun finally saw her bright, genuine smile. "I want to help people. I want to make a change. I want you to be proud of me."

"I am already proud of you," Gi-hun affirmed, smiling back, tears welling in his own eyes.

Ga-yeong looked down, then back up at him. "I know. Then I want to make eomma proud. I will visit her every day and tell her about my progress. I think you tried your best, appa. Even if it meant that little. You saved someone."

Gi-hun was relieved. Ga-yeong wasn't completely broken. He was glad that, despite everything, she hadn't given up hope.

They were quiet again for a moment, then Gi-hun heard his phone ringing from the kitchen. He must have left it on the counter. Ga-yeong nodded for him to go, and she switched the TV back on.

Gi-hun walked into the kitchen. The caller ID showed Dae-ho.

"Mr. Seong," Dae-ho greeted him warmly.

"Hi Dae-ho. Do you need something?" Gi-hun asked, a sudden lightness in his chest.

He knew Dae-ho was looking for properties for his shop—a coffee shop and bakery. Gi-hun thought it was a wonderful idea and had promised to help him with the management.

"You know about that dinner my sister wanted to invite you to?" Dae-ho asked. "Do you have time for that? My whole family is going to be there. Others can come too."

Gi-hun's smile widened. "Yeah. Sure, Dae-ho. I'm glad you called."

He was truly glad Dae-ho had his life back. He was glad all of them had their lives back. Just yesterday, Se-mi had called, confirming she'd safely left Seoul and was settling into an apartment in Seosan-si. Min-su was living with his parents and finding a new job. Gi-hun hadn't heard anything about the North Korean woman, the former pink guard who had helped them, but he deeply hoped her search for her daughter would be successful. Hyun-ju would be moving away, too, planning to spend a few months in Thailand, likely for that surgery she wanted, but she'd promised to return.

Gi-hun talked more with Dae-ho, asking how he was doing, and if his father was being too harsh on him. He said goodbye and hung up the call.

A sudden, unexpected emotion hit him, causing something in his heart to crumble.

Dae-ho was also supposed to be dead, likely by Gi-hun's hand or someone else's. He was never supposed to see his family again or open his shop. Gi-hun stepped back from the kitchen table and pressed his hand to his mouth. He didn't understand why he felt this way—this overwhelming, simultaneous flood of relief, grief, and fear. It was as if everything he had suppressed during the Games had struck him at once.

He looked back toward the living room. Ga-yeong was still watching the screen, and even from a distance, Gi-hun could still faintly see the purple bruises on her neck. That was his fault. In the games, he had almost turned into a monster, almost killing the only family he had left.

He tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but it shook through him, rasping in his lungs and trembling through his shoulders. He sobbed.

Gi-hun sank into a chair at the kitchen table, trying desperately to control his emotions, but he couldn't. He had failed so much, and tried for so long, and in his past life, he had been a total failure. He had to die to truly understand how to live better.

He no longer wished to die. He didn't want to fail again. He wanted to be here, with the people who cared for him. He wanted to be a better person—a better father not just for Ga-yeong, but for Jun-hee, whom he had failed previously, and for Ji-ah, who had been saved because of him.

He had survived where so many others had perished, and he would always carry that burden. But others had survived too. The Games had ended because they had finally managed to do something they hadn't done before: they lived. He sobbed, the crushing, beautiful reality hitting him all at once. They had survived. He didn't have to live with only the Games on his mind. He could rebuild his life. He could start over.

Gi-hun put his head down on the cool kitchen table and cried into his arms.

He was alive. He was certain he didn't deserve it after everything, but he was alive. They were all alive.

It took Gi-hun a long, blurry while to come back to himself. The house felt even quieter than before, the faint, distracting noise of the television now gone. The silence was thick and heavy, amplifying the raw feeling in his chest.

He slowly pulled his head away from his tear-soaked face and sleeve. He realized with a shock just how tightly he had been holding his body—a desperate, coiled tension he’d maintained for what felt like an eternity. The wet trails of tears still glistened on his cheeks.

A light touch on his arm startled him. He looked up quickly, expecting it to be Ga-yeong or Jun-hee, but it was In-ho.

In-ho was sitting close beside him, his hand a firm, grounding weight on Gi-hun's arm.

"Gi-hun?" In-ho asked, his voice low and concerned.

Gi-hun immediately pressed his face back into his sleeve, scrubbing fiercely at his eyes and cheeks to try and dry the tears. He was mortified; he didn't want In-ho to see him like this, to witness this display of such profound weakness.

"Sorry," he murmured, the word muffled.

"It's fine," In-ho reassured him softly. "You can feel however you want. You have every right."

Gi-hun turned his body slightly away, trying to regain some composure and hold himself together. They aren't friends. The thought was a sharp, baffling question in his mind. Then why does In-ho care?

"You should drink something," In-ho said, already moving with quiet purpose to retrieve a glass of water. "Here." He handed the cool glass to Gi-hun, who lifted it and drank the entire contents in one long, desperate gulp.

"Sorry," Gi-hun apologized again, the shame of his breakdown still stinging. "I don't know why I—"

"It's fine. Ga-yeong felt like that too, yesterday," In-ho interrupted gently.

"You talked to her?" Gi-hun asked, genuinely surprised. It had been clear to everyone that the two of them—Ga-yeong and In-ho—had not liked each other at all.

"Yes. We watched a movie," In-ho explained. "She said I am a stupid asshole. I think she is getting better."

Gi-hun couldn't help but smile at that, a genuine, small lift of his lips despite the lingering misery.

"Do you feel better?" In-ho asked him softly, his eyes searching Gi-hun’s face.

He didn’t. The pain was still a dull, persistent ache in his chest—a heavy, drowning weight of guilt. He was still tense, still half-expecting some danger, some immediate threat to emerge from the quiet corners of the house.

But he wasn't in danger anymore. The realization was both a comfort and a deep, agonizing sorrow.

He nodded, and immediately felt the wretched tears begin to roll down his cheeks again. It was so embarrassing. He was too old, too broken, to be crying like this.

"Come on," In-ho said, his tone decisive but gentle, and he pulled Gi-hun to his feet. Gi-hun felt the familiar, crushing weight of being a burden again, and he hated it. He hated that In-ho, of all people, was seeing him this exposed.

But he went, allowing In-ho to guide him up the stairs and toward the small, clean sanctuary of the bathroom.

"I will go and get you some fresh clothes. Have a shower," In-ho instructed. "You will feel better."

Before In-ho could walk away, Gi-hun’s hand shot out and stopped him, gripping his arm. "Why do you care?" He hadn't meant for it to sound so rude or ungrateful, but the question was essential, burning.

In-ho had initially thought Gi-hun was mocking him when he had offered help before. Was In-ho messing with him now?

"I just thought you needed help," In-ho replied, his gaze steady. "Maybe—maybe we can be friends again if you want?" In-ho's voice sounded vulnerable, almost uncertain, as if he wasn't quite sure how to initiate a simple offer of friendship anymore.

Gi-hun was profoundly surprised by the offer. He could only nod mutely, releasing In-ho's arm and letting him go.

Gi-hun went to the shower. Washing his face and body felt incredibly good, a physical cleansing that helped temper the emotional storm. He felt tender and bruised, but the feeling of being trapped in an inescapable pit of emotions had receded.

He thought about In-ho's offer. Could he really be friends with him? A friendship like the one he had shared with Young-il? The idea felt like a betrayal toward Jung-bae. But he had already offered In-ho a room in his house; In-ho had his own space and was even dining with his family.

Despite everything that had transpired between them, Gi-hun still had a compelling, inexplicable desire to know In-ho better. Was that so wrong?

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, feeling physically better but still deeply exhausted.

In-ho had already left a small, neatly folded pile of clothes—a fresh shirt and sweatpants—outside the bathroom door. Gi-hun put the soft, clean clothes on.

He went back downstairs. Hyun-ju and Jun-hee were still not in the kitchen. But In-ho and Ga-yeong were already sitting at the kitchen table.

Ga-yeong was showing In-ho something on her phone. In-ho was leaning in, looking intently at the screen, and seemed to be listening to her with genuine interest.

"You two are talking?" Gi-hun asked, raising an eyebrow. Both of them quickly pulled away from each other, a flicker of mutual embarrassment passing between them.

"What were you talking about?" Gi-hun pressed, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I was just showing In-ho reasons why The Matrix sucks," Ga-yeong retorted brightly. In-ho muttered something under his breath about how "she completely missed the plot."

Gi-hun remembered mentioning the 'red pill' to In-ho just to mess with him, only having searched for it while In-ho was asleep in the hospital.

Gi-hun smiled and took some food from the refrigerator, placing it on the table. Both Ga-yeong and In-ho immediately reached for the same piece of bread or pastry.

They looked at each other, and both frowned simultaneously. "I grabbed it first," Ga-yeong argued.

In-ho, surprisingly, nodded and let her have her piece, then looked over at Gi-hun and offered a soft, quiet smile.

He looked so much like Young-il in that moment.

Maybe Young-il really was him. Maybe that friendship, forged in the intense pressure of the game, hadn't been totally fake. Maybe they could have that back now.

A moment later, they all heard the front door opening. Jun-hee stepped into the kitchen, looking harried but relieved.

She addressed them quickly: "Can someone please take Ji-ah while I get her things from the car?"

Gi-hun’s hands were still dirty from the food. Ga-yeong's were, too. In-ho was the only one who hadn't started eating yet.

All eyes turned to In-ho as he slowly rose from his chair. Jun-hee was staring at him patiently, clearly expecting him to volunteer.

"Oh. You want me to hold her?" In-ho asked, his voice anxious, his gaze fixed on the small baby. His hands hung stiffly by his sides. He swallowed heavily and looked back at Gi-hun, clearly looking for reassurance.

Jun-hee was brave for wanting a man who had made her daughter to participated in the games to hold her, but she understood the complex reasons behind his actions. She didn’t want to hate him.

"I don't know how—" In-ho trailed off. The truth was, he had never held a child this young before. He hadn't held Ji-ah yet.

"Hold your arms like mine," Jun-hee instructed calmly, demonstrating a secure cradle position. In-ho carefully mimicked her posture.

She transferred Ji-ah into In-ho’s arms, gently adjusting his hands so he was holding the baby securely against his chest. Ji-ah's face was pressed into his shirt. She squirmed once, her tiny hand fisting in the fabric of In-ho’s shirt, and then she relaxed, beginning to mouth at the material.

"I think she likes you," Jun-hee said, offering him a tired but warm smile. The child, of course, didn't know anything about what In-ho had done; Ji-ah viewed everyone as a protector.

Jun-hee left Ji-ah safely nestled in his arms and went outside to retrieve the bags.

In-ho’s eyes were visibly teary, a small, incredulous smile on his face as he looked down at the baby.

"Jeez, will you cry like Ji-ah, too?" Ga-yeong ribbed him. In-ho didn't look offended. Gi-hun smiled, knowing that In-ho's room was right next to Jun-hee's, meaning he had to hear the baby noises every night.

In-ho looked back down at Ji-ah. He reached out a gentle, cautious hand and curved it around her soft cheek. "She looks so much like Jun-hee."

She did. Gi-hun felt a familiar ache every time he saw her. Jun-hee would get to raise her daughter. They would never be alone again.

One day, Ji-ah would grow up, and Jun-hee would tell her how much all the people who loved her had to endure.

How much Jun-hee herself had to go through to give her a future.

"Jun-hee should train her to become a better sleeper. I can barely sleep," In-ho remarked, trying to sound annoyed but failing.

Ga-yeong chuckled at this. "You can't train babies, idiot."

Gi-hun smiled, too. "I will tell Jun-hee to turn down the lights; that might help."

Ji-ah made some little noises and shifted slightly in In-ho’s arms.

"Ga-yeong was terrible at sleeping when she was this age," Gi-hun said softly, looking at his own daughter.

He wondered if she would have children one day, too. In the previous timeline, he had died when she was just a child.

Will he see a new generation of Seongs one day?

"I know. Eomma told me I could only sleep in her arms. She had a whole bedtime routine. It all took an hour," Ga-yeong said sadly, a nostalgic tone in her voice.

In-ho looked at her. His eyes were soft, and he looked sad, too. Gi-hun wondered if he was missing his wife, thinking of what he could have had with her.

Is he thinking about his unborn child as he is holding Ji-ah?

"I'm back," Jun-hee announced, re-entering the kitchen. She placed the bags on the table. "Let me help you," Ga-yeong offered immediately. Jun-hee nodded at her, and the two headed upstairs with the luggage.

Gi-hun washed his hands in the sink. "Do you want to hold her?" In-ho asked him quietly. Gi-hun silently nodded.

He cradled Ji-ah in his arms. In-ho watched him in silence.

"You are better at this than me, Gi-hun," In-ho said, a genuine note of admiration in his voice.

Gi-hun looked down at her. He had been holding her until his final moments in that different timeline.

He had only ever wanted that child to be safe. Now she could live in a world where the games weren't happening.

She could finally have a bright future.

"We can switch rooms if you want," Gi-hun offered, understanding the difficulty of sleeping next to a fussy baby.

"No. That's okay, Gi-hun. You don't have to."

"Okay. But if you have trouble sleeping, then just say it."

In-ho nodded. Jun-hee and Ga-yeong were back downstairs.

Gi-hun carefully handed Ji-ah back to Jun-hee, who took the baby and put her down in her crib to sleep.

"I think I am going for a walk," Ga-yeong announced. Gi-hun understood that she needed some time alone after the events of the previous days.

He nodded. "Be back on lunch."

She smiled at him and headed for the door.

"Mr. Seong, can you keep an eye on Ji-ah?" Jun-hee asked. Gi-hun noticed the dark circles under her eyes; he wondered if she had been able to sleep at all.

He felt sorry for Jun-hee. She shouldn't have gone through all of this alone. He promised himself again that he would help her.

"Don't worry, I will take care of her," he assured her. She gave him a tired but grateful smile and headed to her bedroom for some much-needed rest.

Gi-hun spent the rest of the morning with In-ho, in the quiet, shared space, watching over Ji-ah.

"Is that Young-mi?" Hyun-ju asked, her voice a soft, almost reverent whisper, as she leaned in towards the canvas. She was looking at Gyeong-seok, who was proudly showing her a collection of his paintings.

It had been a mere two weeks since the harrowing games had concluded, leaving an indelible mark on all who survived.

She was immensely relieved to have a safe place to stay—a haven that Gi-hun had generously offered her. A deep, quiet gratitude settled in her heart that at least some of them had managed to escape that nightmare island.

Her gaze was fixed on the painted likeness of Young-mi. Gyeong-seok had captured her essence with a fidelity that was almost unsettling, painting her nearly the same way Hyun-ju remembered her: young, fierce, and a little lost.

Young-mi had met her tragic end during lights out, a phrase that still sent a chill down Hyun-ju's spine. She could still hear, with unnerving clarity, Young-mi's agonizing screams as the rapper Choi Subong brutally stabbed her in neck.

Young-mi didn't deserve that fate. None of them did. The injustice of it all was a heavy, constant weight.

"You can keep it if you want," Gyeong-seok offered, his eyes kind. "Here, I have pictures of that old lady and her son. I think you were close to them too, right?" He reached into a nearby drawer and carefully handed her two more paintings.

Gyeong-seok's daughter, Na-yeon, was still recovering in the hospital, slowly but surely making progress with her treatment. He had already shown Hyun-ju the small, brightly decorated room he had prepared for the day Na-yeon would finally come home.

"That's Geumja and Yong-sik," Hyun-ju said, a flicker of warmth and pain crossing her face as she looked at the portraits. She had been planning to visit their homes, too, a pilgrimage of remembrance.

"What happened to them?" Gyeong-seok asked, his brow furrowed with genuine concern as he rummaged through his drawer for more pictures.

He hadn't been present after the rebellion; he didn't know the full extent of the carnage. She was glad he didn't know. The less he carried, the better.

"They died in the fourth game," she replied simply, the words feeling heavy and inadequate.

Gyeong-seok sighed softly and placed the remaining pictures on the table, a silent acknowledgment of the tragedy.

Hyun-ju thought that this act of painting—of preserving their images while they were alive—was his way of dealing with all that death, his unique manner of processing grief. He wanted to remember them alive. Hyun-ju desperately wanted to, too.

But she couldn't excise their final, brutal moments from her mind. It didn't help that for a whole week after escaping, she had been completely powerless and many of her memories from the games were frustratingly blurred. She had been unconscious for three long days before finally waking up in the hospital.

At least now she had a room of her own where she could find solitude. She certainly didn't want to see her parents again.

They probably didn't even care where she was. Perhaps they had already forgotten that their daughter had ever existed.

Young-mi was so young, Hyun-ju noticed again, looking closely at the painted image. Geum-ja and Yong-sik had just wanted to go home, to return to their ordinary lives. They were all supposed to leave.

"Is that—?" She pointed to a painting that bore a striking resemblance to Hwang In-ho.

She still didn't know how she truly felt about him. Her emotions were a tangled mess of gratitude and lingering resentment.

She couldn't blame him for the fact that she had entered the games and chosen to stay. The games would have continued either way, even if In-ho hadn't been there to sway the voting with his influence.

The only thing she knew for certain was that he was the reason she and the others had made it out of that hellish island. He hadn't tried to stop them when they took the boat, and he had ultimately ended the games by destroying the entire complex.

"That's Player 001. He was on Seong's team, wasn't he?" Gyeong-seok asked, observing the picture.

The man in the painting looked more like Young-il than the Frontman, In-ho. It was strange to see that man now, simply living like a normal person. Yet, he didn't seem to be dealing well with what had transpired, either.

Being a player was the hardest thing she had ever done; it had nearly killed her. She couldn't imagine organizing the games, being the architect of such horrors.

His brother, Jun-ho, had told her that he had been on the island too years ago, disguised as a masked soldier, desperately searching for In-ho. It was similar to Gi-hun's daughter, who had joined the games to find her father.

Hyun-ju couldn't imagine the agonizing burden they must have felt, trying to save their own family from that dreadful place. Geum-ja and Yong-sik must have felt that same profound, protective desperation when they found each other in there.

"Did he also make it out?" Gyeong-seok asked, breaking the silence.

Hyun-ju gave a small, weary nod. She couldn't bring herself to tell him that this was not really Young-il, that this man had been the feared Frontman, the orchestrator. What would Gyeong-seok think about that?

Only a few people knew the truth. Gi-hun had let him stay. She didn't fully understand why, though Gi-hun had simply told them that he trusted him. She didn't know what kind of complicated arrangement existed between the two men. Even Jun-hee didn't know, nor did Gi-hun's daughter.

Hyun-ju didn't think she would ever truly understand. She had witnessed the deep, complicated bond they shared during the games, and she had heard them talk as if a palpable history existed between them.

"So, how many of us made it out?" Gyeong-seok asked again, bringing the conversation back to the survivors.

Hyun-ju instinctively searched through the pile of paintings for more familiar faces, her hand landing on a picture of Dae-ho.

"Oh, that marine who was in the rebellion, too. He was close to Seong, wasn't he? I'm glad his friends made it out."

Hyun-ju wouldn't dare call any of them "friends." The relationship between Gi-hun and In-ho was too complex to be defined by any term she understood. If Young-mi, or anyone, had survived—it would have been the same. For her and Gi-hun, her and Dae-ho and Jun-hee, her and In-ho, the word friend felt shallow. Their connection was deeper, different, less and yet so much more. They barely knew each other, yet she trusted Gi-hun more than she thought she had trusted anyone in her entire life.

"I heard some soldier rescued you? Do you know who it was?" Hyun-ju deftly steered the conversation away from the treacherous topic of their relationships.

"No. I never saw their face. Do you know something?"

Gyeong-seok had been saved by the same mysterious woman who had helped them all escape. Hyun-ju had only glimpsed her face for a few minutes. She didn't remember much after the jump rope game; it all felt like a strange, disjointed fever dream.

Gi-hun had said the guard was a woman from the North, searching for her daughter. He had also admitted that she never told him her name.

"No. I don't know much," Hyun-ju told him, keeping her voice level.

"That's okay," Gyeong-seok said gently. "You must be shaken by this too. I could barely sleep at night, that's why I've spent my free time painting. It helps."

She understood completely. She wanted to deal with her own crushing grief, with her own traumatic experience, too. But she wanted to do it alone.

"You can take these paintings. I don't know what to do with them, and besides, you knew these people better than I did."

Gyeong-seok handed her the entire stack of portraits. The final one she looked at was of Gi-hun, pictured right before the rebellion, a rifle held determinedly in his hand.

He was the true catalyst for their escape from the island. Not just because of his daughter, but mostly because of In-ho. She had no idea what kind of profound effect Gi-hun could have had on him. Perhaps Gi-hun was the sole reason In-ho had joined as Young-il, willing to die on the island later on, and ultimately giving them a chance to escape.

The more she learned about Gi-hun, the more she saw him as kind, earnest, and completely, profoundly human. Gi-hun made her feel an almost earth-shatteringly guilty most days.

She had barely made it through one set of games, and she had killed people to survive and reach the end. She had barely trusted anyone. He had been through two. She didn't know if he had killed anyone, but if he had, it would only have been to protect someone else. If he did, he must be drowning himself in grief and regret.

She didn't know the whole story, but she knew that every time, in every crucial moment—Gi-hun chose to trust people.

Gi-hun had confided in her that In-ho had joined the games in 2015 to save his dying wife. Afterward, he was contacted and recruited to work for the organization. He had said he wanted to give people the same chance he had—an opportunity to change their own lives when they had no other options.

She could see the twisted logic: she herself had voted to continue in the games, having no other viable way to make money. She could see how the games might feel like the only option for a lot of desperate people. She could see how he might have genuinely believed he was giving people a chance.

But the further through the games she got, the more the sickening realization dawned: the games weren't an opportunity for the players at all. The way they were encouraged to make friends and then swiftly lose each other was entirely for the VIPs' entertainment.

He had designed those games. The thought still fueled a hot, bitter anger within her, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She had already accepted that he was no longer the Frontman, but she wasn't sure what his life would look like moving forward.

She stood up, carefully placing the paintings into her backpack.

"Thank you, Gyeong-seok. I will be on my way now," she said, managing a strained smile despite the persistent, dull ache she felt.

"It was really nice seeing you again, Hyun-ju," Gyeong-seok replied warmly.

"Say hi to Na-yeon for me. I will be away for a few months."

"Where will you be going?" he asked.

"Thailand. I want to finish my operation there," Hyun-ju explained.

"That's great. I hope it will all go well for you."

"I hope so too," Hyun-ju said, and with a final nod, she stepped out of his house and into the afternoon light.

She took public transport to the district Geum-ja had mentioned she lived in, and instantly wondered if she should have been more prepared—tried looking it up on the internet first, or something.

She walked along a long, bustling street lined with vendors setting up their stalls for the day. The air was filled with the sounds of commerce and casual chatter. There was a small group of older women huddled together, animatedly discussing something, almost arguing. Hyun-ju nearly walked directly past them, lost in her thoughts, but a snippet of conversation made her pause:

"—Geum-ja was going to run away, she would have told one of us! She’ll be back, just give her some time."

"But I went to her house and she wasn’t there! It must be that son of hers, maybe he came back."

"He wouldn’t have! Remember how torn up Geum-ja was when he nearly died? No, he wouldn’t have come back to put his debts on her, but his debtors might have found her again. Remember, that’s how we found out—"

"Excuse me, ahjumma," Hyun-ju interjected quietly.

Their heads swiveled in unison to look at her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and slight irritation. She was used to the looks: the quick once-over, the shock, the confusion at her expensive but slightly worn clothing. She tried to make her voice as gentle and non-threatening as possible.

"Are you talking about Jang Geum-ja and Park Yong-sik?" she asked, her heart beginning to pound.

"Why do you want to know? Are you here for their money?" one of the ladies, sharp-eyed, asked immediately.

"Geum-ja is gone! We don’t know where she is, there’s no use sniffing around, we have nothing for you!" another woman barked, her hand resting aggressively on her hip.

"No, I knew Jang Geum-ja. She was my friend. I only wanted to come and see if—" Tears suddenly welled up, blurring her vision, and she choked on the next word, unable to finish the thought.

Geum-ja had been kinder to her than her own mother had ever been. And now, Geum-ja was gone forever. Hyun-ju would never have the chance to get to know her better, to repay her warmth.

She was atleast glad that Geum-ja had died knowing that she and Jun-hee had made it out, that they were safe. She was glad Geum-ja had been able to hold Jun-hee's baby and know the little girl's name.

"Oh—" one of the ahjummas patted her arm awkwardly, her harsh demeanor softening instantly. "Are you alright?"

Hyun-ju wiped at her tears with a frustrated motion. She hated appearing so weak in front of these strangers. "Jang Geum-ja died a couple of days ago. I wanted to see where she lived, so I could pay my respects. I want to set up a memorial area for her and Park Yong-sik," she explained, clenching her jaw against the rising grief. It didn't help; another hot tear rolled down her cheek. She hoped Jun-hee would be able to visit that memorial, too, but she knew Jun-hee was busy with her child.

Hyun-ju thought that this constant activity must be Jun-hee's own way of coping with what had happened. Jun-hee needed to be busy so she could push those horrifying thoughts about the games away.

"Oh," the ahjumma with her hand on Hyun-ju’s arm looked truly shocked. She blinked rapidly, tears swelling in her own eyes, too. "She died?"

Hyun-ju nodded, pressing her lips together hard to maintain her composure. "She died. Her son is gone too."

She couldn't bring herself to tell them how they died. Hyun-ju knew Yong-sik had never wished to kill his own mother. Geum-ja had sacrificed her own life so he would have a chance to escape. But Yong-sik had chosen to stay. They died side by side.

"They’re both gone?" Another of the ahjummas gasped, her hand covering her mouth in genuine horror. "Oh, that poor family. They always had such bad luck."

It had been Hyun-ju’s luck to meet Geum-ja, and her profound bad luck to lose her so soon. Maybe she should have tried harder to stop her before Geum-ja went to Yong-sik. During the hide-and-seek game, Yong-sik already looked lost, defeated. He had already decided that he wouldn't leave that place without his mother.

She nodded again, pressing her hand to her mouth, a futile gesture against the wave of grief.

"How did she die?" Another of the women asked, the curiosity mixed with deep sadness.

Hyun-ju blinked hard, and the tears spilled down her cheeks again. She couldn't tell them. She wouldn't.

"Oh, come in, come sit down here," the first ahjumma said kindly, immediately taking charge. "Let me get you something to drink. You said you were Geum-ja’s friend? Ah, she did seem to know everyone. You know, once I told her my husband’s coworker was sick and she made her some soup! Didn’t know her well enough to recognize her on the street, but made sure to send soup to help her." The woman kept talking, pushing Hyun-ju down onto a small wooden stool and pulling out some hot instant coffee in a thin plastic cup, which she pressed into Hyun-ju’s grateful hands.

Hyun-ju smiled at her, pathetically grateful for the small gesture of comfort.

"She knew everyone in her neighborhood! Anyone had an issue, she loved to be the one to help solve it," another one of them shared, a fond smile on her face.

"She helped me fix my stall countless times. Didn’t matter what the issue was, she’d be helping," a third woman added.

"Always so busy, that one, always reaching out," the first ahjumma agreed. "Of course she’d help you, too."

Geum-ja had tried so hard to help her own son, and ultimately failed, but she had helped so many other people and left such a warm impact on their lives. Hyun-ju gave a small, genuine smile. If only she knew—Geum-ja had initially reacted to Hyun-ju with such confusion, but Yong-sik had been kind to her.

"How did you meet?" the woman who had given her coffee asked, a gentle probe.

Hyun-ju hesitated, unsure how to answer honestly. She hadn't expected to actually meet anyone Geum-ja knew; she hadn't particularly planned this encounter. She just wanted to feel closer to Geum-ja for a little while.

"I was looking for some work. We met in the same place, both picking up some extra shifts," Hyun-ju said, sticking close to a half-truth. "She was—she was so nice. She said she lived around here; she wanted me to join her for a meal sometime."

The ahjumma sitting beside her smiled and nodded, as if that was exactly the kind of thing Geum-ja would do.

Hyun-ju didn’t feel less special knowing that Geum-ja treated everyone with such kindness. Instead, it felt warm, comforting, to know that Geum-ja would have inevitably pulled her into her life and made sure she was treated well.

If only Yong-sik could have gotten out. He might have been there now, talking to these old ladies. But Hyun-ju knew that the guilt over what he had been forced to do would probably have killed him either way.

"She worked here? I didn’t know her for long, before—but it felt like I had known her a long time," Hyun-ju said softly.

The ahjumma beside her patted her arm and left her hand there, a comforting weight of shared sorrow. "Yes, yes. She started selling all kinds of things when her boy got into debt. She was around every day; she would usually be selling some greens."

They began to tell Hyun-ju stories about Geum-ja, sharing memories of what she was like, all the small, kind things she did. Hyun-ju settled in and let their memories settle in her heart.

It was some kind of connection to Geum-ja, a piece of her she could hold onto. It made her genuinely happy to know her friend was so loved.

A customer soon came to the half-set up stall, and the group seemed to collectively realize they should be working. There was a brief flurry of activity as they served him and split up to begin their day’s work in earnest. Hyun-ju stood up awkwardly, still holding her little cup of coffee.

"Where did Geum-ja live?" she asked the ahjumma who had given her the cup.

The woman gave Hyun-ju clear directions. "It’s not much, and it will probably be locked," she warned gently.

"I just want to see it. I’ll come back, to let you know when I have the memorial site set up, if you want. So you can all visit her. I don’t have any photos, only one painting. Do you—"

The ahjumma smiled warmly at her, her eyes reflecting that she understood how deeply Geum-ja had affected this young woman. "Of course, of course. You can come back here to talk with us any time. Let me give you my number, and I can see if I have any photos of her."

Hyun-ju held back the deep wave of emotion that threatened to choke her, quickly setting up the woman's number in her phone. She offered a wobbly smile to the old lady, who waved at her with the same easy familiarity Geum-ja used to show. Hyun-ju's smile turned shaky, and she had to turn away quickly, walking down the street before the tears could overwhelm her again.

She can’t get into Geum-ja’s house, but she slowly walks around the outside, taking in the small details, and tries to imagine Geum-ja living there. The worn paint on the door, the slightly overgrown flowerbeds—they were all silent testaments to a life cut tragically short.

She misses Geum-ja so much it feels like a physical amputation, like she gained and then abruptly lost a vital part of herself. A persistent, aching guilt settles in her chest. She feels like she should have done more for her, should have fought harder to protect her, but—Geum-ja was the kind of person who instinctively helped anyone she could, often at her own expense. Hyun-ju truly had helped her as much as she possibly could. Their bond was real, forged in the crucible of their shared nightmare.

They simply met at the wrong time, in the wrong, utterly horrific situation.

Hyun-ju offers a small, grim comfort to herself, a whisper of acceptance: at least she got to meet her. That precious, brief connection was worth the pain.

She continues her mournful pilgrimage, heading to Young-mi’s neighbourhood. The streets are bustling and anonymous, making her search feel hopeless. She walks block after block, but she can’t find any distinguishable sign of where Young-mi might have lived, no familiar landmark or worn path. Desperate, she goes into a small, dusty corner shop and asks if the owner knew her—showing him the picture Gyeong-seok made. The colours are vibrant, capturing Young-mi’s quiet, earnest intensity. She is profoundly glad he made those paintings. They are tangible anchors, keeping their fleeting memories vibrantly alive against the tide of grief.

The shopkeeper, an older man with shrewd eyes, looks at her with palpable suspicion, clearly unnerved by her strange request and the portrait. Sensing his distrust, she offers a quick, mumbled apology and leaves, the encounter leaving her feeling cold and exposed.

A terrible, hollow ache expands within her. She wishes she knew more about Young-mi’s life—the little joys, the everyday struggles that led her to the games. She wishes she knew more about them all: Geum-ja, Yong-sik, and the hundreds of others.

She heads back to Gi-hun’s house on foot, walking slowly through the dense, labyrinthine neighbourhoods of Seoul. The city’s noise and motion are a jarring contrast to the silence of her thoughts. Maybe this heavy, ever-present feeling of inadequacy and regret is precisely how Gi-hun feels too—this constant, pressing guilt and obligation that everyone didn’t make it out with him.

Only twelve people survived that mattered, if she counts Jun-ho and that guard—a tiny fraction out of four hundred and fifty-six players, plus even more staff and security. It feels like such a devastatingly low number compared to the sheer volume of those who died there.

She understands, with a chilling clarity, why Gi-hun went back. If she knew the games were still going on, inflicting their horror on new victims, she would want to go back too.

She has to figure out how to live again, how to build a life on this blood-soaked foundation. She resolves to create small, personal memorials for Geum-ja, Yong-sik, and Young-mi, and to remember them as well as she can, carrying their stories with her like sacred trusts.

She will ensure Jun-hee raises her daughter in peace, safe and loved. Little Ji-ah is going to visit them one day too, and Jun-hee is going to tell her, her voice thick with emotion, how Geum-ja was the very first person to hold her after she was born.

And Hyun-ju will try to live well, to make her survival meaningful. She will try to follow the dream she had, the deeply personal aspiration she held onto before she ever stepped into the hell of the games.

She has already made the decision, a quiet, firm commitment: she will go to Thailand to complete her transition. The idea of moving to Thailand permanently is less appealing; it feels too much like running away from everything she has now—a life, a makeshift family, a future. Maybe that fear of running stems from the fact that she didn’t feel like she had anything before. But she can’t let go of the dream entirely, the deeply felt need to finally align her physical self with her inner truth.

She looks up at the large, unfamiliar house Gi-hun bought, the house designed for a traditional family, which feels too big and empty even with all of them rattling around inside it. Yes, she will go to Thailand, she will see what life is like there, and she will get the surgery she has wanted for years. But she will come back. She feels instinctively that her life here, with the people she now loves, is not over.

She has important things to do before she goes, anyway.

Jun-hee felt an unsettling paradox: time seemed to flow swiftly and slowly all at once. It was as if everyone around her was finally finding their own unique rhythms, carving out their own lives, and truly beginning to live, having finally moved past the dark, sucking pit of the games.

For the past week, she had been focused only on a slow, deliberate recovery, her entire world revolving around the single, vital task of taking care of Ji-ah. She couldn't recall a single event after the terrifying blackout she suffered during the jump rope game.

She had been certain she had died, convinced it was all over—until she woke up outside the island. Then, Gi-hun told her the horrifying truth: she was supposed to have her organs harvested right before Ga-yeong and a compassionate guard rescued both her and Dae-ho. It felt nothing short of a miracle, as if the gods themselves had intervened to grant her a second, precious chance.

Gi-hun protected Ji-ah and ensured her safety through the jump rope game and the other terrifying events that remained mercifully unclear to Jun-hee.

She was now in her old, sparsely furnished apartment. She had left Ji-ah in Gi-hun’s capable care, a decision that brought a rare sense of peace; she knew, without a doubt, that he would look after her.

She was only there to collect her old belongings. Dae-ho had invited all of them to dinner—everyone, that is, except In-ho. Dae-ho didn't even know that the man who had mercilessly killed Jung-bae was still alive and living under the same roof as Gi-hun.

Strangely, Jun-hee harbored no hatred for In-ho. She was simply utterly tired of the games. Tired of all of it. The only thing that truly mattered was that Ji-ah was alive. Whatever horror had happened before that was irrelevant.

Jun-hee began placing her familiar, old clothes into a worn canvas bag. A wave of relief washed over her as she remembered Gi-hun had taken care of her crushing debt.

As she reached for a shelf that held her favorite, dog-eared book, her fingers brushed against an old, faded photograph. It was a picture of her and Myung-gi, taken several years back, before his disastrous foray into the murky world of cryptocurrency.

She remembered believing, with a young woman’s fervent hope, that Myung-gi was the one. She’d been convinced it was a true, destined love, that she would finally escape the loneliness and build a family of her own.

Of course, she had been wrong. She’d been a fool. Myung-gi had been nothing more than a selfish, ambitious loser. A small, cold part of her was glad he was gone, that he could no longer step into her or her daughter's life, contaminating their fragile new start.

Yet, a prickle of guilt lingered. Perhaps, if she had only listened to his desperate plea and switched the vests during the keys and knives game, he might still be alive. But the thought immediately dissolved into certainty. She would never have endangered Gi-hun’s daughter, Ga-yeong. She went into that place to rescue him. She was kind and caring like him.

Because of Gi-hun and Ga-yeong, Jun-hee had been granted more than she had ever dared to wish for: the foundation of what could become an actual family. She had also found a fiercely loyal friend in Hyun-ju, who had risked everything, even killing, to protect her and ensure her survival. And then there was Dae-ho. They were her friends now.

She wasn't alone, and she swore that her daughter would never feel the crushing weight of loneliness that Jun-hee had carried for so long.

Perhaps one day she would find someone better than Myung-gi, someone worthy. But for now, her entire purpose was simply to raise her daughter.

Jun-hee's heart ached with a single, sharp wish: that Geum-ja could be there. Geum-ja had been so gentle, so kind to her, and she was the one who had lovingly held Ji-ah for the first time. And then, like so many others, Geum-ja had died.

Jun-hee slowly put the picture down. She felt utterly unsure whether to take it with her. When Ji-ah grew up and inevitably asked why she didn't have a father like other children, what would Jun-hee say? She had no desire to remember Myung-gi, but Ji-ah should remember who her father was. She deserved to see the picture of him from a time before everything had shattered into irreparable pieces.

Quietly, Jun-hee left her old apartment. She had already sold it to a young couple who would be moving in the following week. She hoped they would find far more happiness within those walls than she and Myung-gi ever had.

Jun-hee was back at Gi-hun’s large, unfamiliar house. Living in such a big place with so many people still felt profoundly strange. The last time she had lived with so many people was in the orphanage, and that had been anything but a nice place. The girls had tormented each other, and the 'aunts' had constantly resorted to hitting them for misbehaving.

Clutching her daughter tenderly in her arms, she was deeply grateful that Ji-ah didn't have to endure that—that she was not an orphan.

Jun-hee, Hyun-ju, Gi-hun, and Ga-yeong prepared to leave for Dae-ho’s house to meet his family. In-ho was staying home to babysit. Jun-hee had to painstakingly instruct him on how to care for Ji-ah while they were out. In-ho still looked awkwardly stiff while holding the baby, and Jun-hee could sense his fear that he was doing something fundamentally wrong.

There was a profound, visible sadness in his eyes whenever he looked at Ji-ah. Jun-hee had overheard that both his wife and their unborn child had tragically died. She couldn't begin to imagine the crushing emotional damage—the hell of surviving the games only to return to a life already devastated. Jun-hee wasn't sure what she would have done if Ji-ah had been slightly older, perhaps needing a costly medical treatment, compelling Jun-hee to enter the games, only to return and find her daughter already gone.

When they arrived at Dae-ho's house, he proudly introduced all four of his sisters. Jun-hee barely registered their names; a restless, persistent ringing in her ears made it difficult to focus. It simply would not stop.

She tried desperately to remain present and focused as Dae-ho's mother spoke to her, lovingly showing off photo albums of a young Dae-ho. But Jun-hee could barely hear her. She just nodded and smiled, a practiced, vacant mask.

The house felt overcrowded and loud. A sudden, sickening wave of déjà vu washed over her: she felt as though she was back in the Mingle, Myung-gi forcefully grabbing her hand and leading her toward the door. In those dark moments, she had still held onto a foolish hope that maybe—just maybe—they would both make it out, that Myung-gi would start to care again and somehow change. But he never did.

They were all seated around a large dinner table. Dae-ho’s father, who sat at the head, looked like a stern war veteran. Jun-hee felt a deep unease around him, but the atmosphere subtly lightened when the father began to converse with Gi-hun. Gi-hun seemed to have a quiet, positive effect on everyone he encountered.

The ringing in Jun-hee’s ears persisted, and she could hear every tiny click of a fork against the porcelain plate, a sound that instantly triggered a terrible memory. Myung-gi had wanted to stab someone with a fork. He had nearly become a murderer during that horrific bathroom fight. She still wasn’t entirely certain he hadn't killed anyone in there. She had repeatedly asked him about the blood on his face, but he had dismissed her, swearing he hadn't hurt anyone. She knew it was a lie. Jun-hee could have forgiven him if he had hurt or killed someone who was trying to harm her, but she hadn't even been present when that brutal fight occurred. She had already known, even then, that she should stay far away from him.

She tried to close her eyes and take a slow, deep breath, but a sharp worry began to linger over her again. What was going on with Ji-ah? Had In-ho fed her and dressed her exactly the way she had instructed? Wasn’t she sick again? What if he had done something to her? She knew the fear was illogical. In-ho wasn’t a monster—not really. He was a murderer, yes, but he seemed to care enough. Yet, the paralyzing fear that Ji-ah might be...

"Are you okay?" Hyun-ju, who was sitting next to her, asked gently. Jun-hee looked at her friend, who wore a worried expression.

Jun-hee forced herself to breathe again. Ji-ah was fine. Staying away from her for just a few hours couldn't possibly hurt her. She could manage this. "I'm fine. I'm just not hungry. That's all," she lied, trying to brush off her distress. But when her eyes fell on a kitchen knife lying on the counter, fear surged through her body once more. What would have happened if Myung-gi had held a knife instead of a fork that day? What terrible thing would he have done?

She heard Dae-ho’s excited voice telling Gi-hun and Ga-yeong how he had finally chosen a shop location in Ssangmun-dong. He mentioned that it had an apartment flat above it so he could live there too. His father looked over at his son with a sudden, palpable pride, which seemed to startle Dae-ho. Jun-hee didn't know the nature of Dae-ho's relationship with his father. She didn't know how any parental relationships worked.

She glanced back at Gi-hun and Ga-yeong. She remembered the fierce way Gi-hun had protected his daughter, how he had repeatedly reassured her that everything would be okay. Jun-hee’s only wish was that she could be a great parent, a truly good mother for Ji-ah.

Dae-ho insisted that the shop should be partly Gi-hun's. One of Dae-ho’s sisters brightly suggested it should be named Twice Righteous Tiger. Dae-ho laughed heartily, declaring it a good idea.

Jun-hee felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. She had never had siblings. She had never truly felt welcomed anywhere. It felt as though her past life had systematically stripped everything from her. Maybe one day, Ji-ah could have a little sister or brother to play with.

Hyun-ju was watching her carefully, but Jun-hee reassured her again that everything was fine. It wasn't, but Hyun-ju shouldn't have to worry about her, too; she was dealing with her own grief and trauma.

Before, back at their house, Jun-hee burst into tears when she saw the painted pictures. Gyeong-seok had spent the previous days creating portraits of Geum-ja, Yong-sik, Young-mi, and many more of the players. She could barely breathe when Hyun-ju declared that she was going to build a proper memorial for them all.

But the moment also made her profoundly sad. Hyun-ju would soon be gone. She was planning her trip to Thailand, setting the date for her surgery and calculating the necessary recovery time. Jun-hee wasn't sure what she would do without her if she was away for too long. Maybe she could visit her and see her as she recovered. But that would mean leaving Ji-ah again, perhaps for an even longer period.

Yet, a small, hopeful glint appeared in Hyun-ju’s eyes every time she spoke about the trip. It made Jun-hee genuinely excited for her friend. Hyun-ju was her friend, and this surgery was her dream.

Hyun-ju would make an amazing aunt for Ji-ah. Jun-hee could already see it in the way Hyun-ju would grin at the baby, trying to make her smile, and how she would talk to her, constantly telling Ji-ah how truly amazing her mother was.

Jun-hee felt, with a clarity she hadn't known before, that someone had offered her a second chance. She knew it sounded selfish, but she truly felt like she had won. All those terrible things, all that bloodshed, hadn't been for nothing. Not when she could hold Ji-ah in her arms and be surrounded by people who cared and loved her as if she had always been a part of their family.

Jun-hee allowed herself a genuine smile. She had truly won.

A cold wave of terror washed over her as she peered into the empty crib, her mind instantly flashing to the worst possibilities. Crippling fear seized her body, a chilling, visceral dread that turned her limbs to lead. If In-ho had dared to harm her, she swore, a solemn, icy vow, she was going to murder that man.

Jun-hee moved with agonizing slowness, each step on the wooden stairs a muffled thud that seemed deafening in the silence. She reached the landing and saw Hyun-ju on the phone with Dae-ho, their conversation a low murmur as they discussed various ideas for the shop. Nearby, Gi-hun and Ga-yeong were settled on the worn living room couch. Ga-yeong was animatedly explaining to her father how she absolutely must teach him English.

Jun-hee barely registered any of it. Their normal, mundane world felt distant, irrelevant. All she cared about was the desperate, burning need to run and find Ji-ah.

A faint, unfamiliar noise reached her ears—it seemed to be coming from her own room. Heart pounding against her ribs, she crept closer and finally pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks, every muscle in her body tensing. It was a picture of such unexpected, bewildering tenderness that it completely startled her. In-ho stood in the middle of the room, gently cradling Ji-ah in his arms. He was hovering near the window, a quiet, soothing stream of music playing softly from his phone—something that sounded distinctly like jazz.

He looked up, a radiant, utterly genuine smile spreading across his face as he met her gaze. Ji-ah rested against his chest, completely still and peaceful. She seemed utterly safe, certainly not in any danger.

A ragged, shuddering exhale escaped Jun-hee. In-ho finally noticed her full presence and his smile instantly faltered, replaced by an expression of utter embarrassment and awkwardness. The sudden release of tension hit Jun-hee like a physical blow; she wanted both to laugh hysterically and burst into tears of relief.

How could a person who had done such terrible things—a monster, in her mind—be capable of such profound gentleness at the same time?

"Jun-hee, you're back," In-ho said, his voice quiet, still careful not to disturb the baby. Ji-ah appeared to be fast asleep, impossibly calm. Jun-hee couldn't begin to fathom what strange trick he had used to make her so still.

"In-ho... what were you doing?" she managed to ask, her voice laced with confusion. She had never considered that music might be the key to putting her daughter to sleep.

In-ho awkwardly shifted, gently handing Ji-ah back to her. He seemed strangely shy, his movements hesitant, as if he had never performed such a simple, loving act before.

He never did. A bitter truth resurfaced in her mind: if his story was true, he had never even gotten the chance to hold his own child.

A wave of profound sadness settled over Jun-hee's body once more, a heavy mantle of grief for a life he had lost.

She noticed he was wearing Gi-hun's jacket, a slightly oversized, dark piece of outerwear. She still couldn't grasp the nature of the strange, complicated relationship he had formed with Gi-hun.

"I was trying to do what you said," In-ho replied, his eyes dropping as he lowered the volume on his phone.

Jun-hee raised an eyebrow in question. Why, of all things, would he choose that kind of music for a baby?

"I tried everything, but she just kept on crying," he explained, running a hand nervously through his hair. "I searched on the internet, and it said sometimes babies can fall asleep with music. And well... that's the only music I know, so—" He offered her that same clumsy, awkward smile again.

"She likes it?" Jun-hee asked, genuinely unsure. It was jarring; she had never seen In-ho like this. Since he had started living under their roof, he had always seemed incredibly tense, constantly waiting for the moment they would inevitably tell him to leave.

But now, he looked strikingly like Young-il—that familiar, slight curve to his smile, the underlying awkwardness. Maybe those parts of him were real.

He let out a short, quiet chuckle. Jun-hee couldn't help but instinctively hold Ji-ah tighter, looking down at her daughter. She seemed well-fed, and he had even taken the time to change her clothes.

"Ji-ah has good taste," he said, a simple, dry statement. It was exactly the sort of light, self-deprecating comment Young-il would have made. Jun-hee hadn't spoken to him much during the games, but based on the stories Ga-yeong had shared, he was known for his bad, cheesy jokes.

Jun-hee slowly began to ease, though a thread of tension remained. "Thank you for taking care of her," she said, the words a subtle, gentle signal for In-ho to leave.

But he stayed. "How was the dinner?" he asked, attempting to keep the fragile conversation going. She had always thought of him as the quiet type, someone inherently unfriendly and distant, a person like Myung-gi.

"Good," she replied tersely. She could barely remember a thing about the meal. As soon as Gi-hun had driven them home, a paralyzing, irrational fear had gripped her. For a terrifying moment, she thought she was back in that limo again, that she would end up back at that place, doomed to never see her daughter again.

It had absolutely terrified her. But now she was home, with Ji-ah safe in her arms, and the man she had considered a monster had somehow found a way to lull her baby into a deep, calming sleep.

Jun-hee thought that perhaps tonight, she, too, would finally get some rest.

"Will you send me that music?" she asked, already feeling the heavy weight of fatigue settling over her body.

In-ho nodded, still wearing that faint, melancholic smile. Then, one last thought crossed her mind, a moment of startling clarity before the exhaustion took hold.

She walked to her bed, carefully placed Ji-ah into the crib, and turned back to In-ho, who was already at the door, poised to make his exit.

"In-ho?" she called out. He paused, turning back, silently waiting for her to voice whatever was truly on her heart.

"You have that winning money, right?" He gave a slight nod. She paused for a brief, weighty second before giving her reply: "If you really want to be better, then use them like Gi-hun."

In-ho looked at her, visibly surprised by her directness. He offered no verbal reply, but Jun-hee could clearly see that flicker of sadness cross his face again, a shadow of his past pain.

He left the room without another word. Jun-hee let out a long, slow exhale and immediately fell onto her bed, collapsing into a heavy sleep, still dressed in her clothes.

She desperately hoped it would be a quiet night.

It was now approaching midnight, the deep, quiet hours when the world outside the big house seemed to hold its breath. Inside, In-ho lay restlessly upon his bed. The sheets, typically a source of comfort, felt suffocating tonight, and sleep remained a frustrating, distant prospect. He couldn't find peace, despite the fact that Ji-ah, Jun-hee's baby daughter, had offered a miraculous, blissful night of complete silence.

He knew he was the reason for that silence. He had made it happen. A part of him remained utterly unsure about the task Jun-hee had entrusted him with; he knew nothing about caring for children. Yet, he had tried, focusing his entire, methodical self on the duty. He wanted, desperately, that when Jun-hee finally returned home, she would at least find a small measure of happiness in knowing her daughter was truly safe and sound.

Yet, thought everything—the quiet house, the sleeping baby, his own small, successful acts of service—In-ho still felt like he didn’t belong here. He was an interloper, an uninvited guest lingering in a home built on bonds he hadn't earned. He felt that every time someone looked at him with a flicker of distrust, he should simply leave. He should quietly disappear into the background, never to be seen again, erasing his unwelcome presence.

But Jun-hee was still kind to him. Even so, he couldn't erase the memory of the fear on her face when she’d first retreated to her room, a raw, protective instinct overriding her politeness. He couldn't blame her for it. He wasn't a trustworthy figure. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he wasn’t a good person. But Ji-ah was different; she was innocent, pure. She hadn’t yet been stained by life or burdened by the weight of a guilty past.

When he had held her, he had allowed himself to imagine, just for a few fleeting seconds, that she might be Ae-shin’s child. That somehow, impossibly, they both had survived and found a way to be together. But those were just dreams. They were gone, like smoke, leaving only the cold reality of the present.

At least he didn't have to be entirely lonely again. He had wanted so badly to rekindle his friendship with Gi-hun. He knew the immeasurable depth of the hurt he had inflicted upon him, the unforgivable betrayal. Despite this, he had tried to offer comfort and reassurance that Gi-hun wasn’t truly alone. But Gi-hun, still haunted by the past, could only look at him with fear and profound distrust, convinced that In-ho’s every action was part of some new, insidious game.

He had also tried to start a fresh dialogue with Ga-yeong. When she mentioned she liked science fiction, In-ho had latched onto the shared interest, thinking it would be a perfect starting point—they both liked the same things, they had something in common. In-ho, excited by the connection, showed her The Matrix. He figured since she enjoyed Star Wars, this movie might also resonate. But it didn't. Not when he began to explain the philosophical point of the film, and she quickly started talking about the games again, dismissing the depth he was trying to share. He didn't stop her when she finally began to insult him, flatly telling him he had let Gi-hun die. He knew that truth, felt it in his bones. He had wanted to die himself because of that very failure. Wasn’t that enough?

And then there was his last, crippling exchange with Jun-ho. In-ho had managed to ruin another fragile moment by pointing out that Jun-ho would be much happier if he had simply let him die on that island. He seemed to be stuck in a relentless loop: he only kept ruining things.

In-ho tried to close his eyes again, willing himself to surrender to sleep, but the darkness was no sanctuary. Every time he shut his lids, he could only see a relentless collage of death and failure.

Maybe it would help if he went to the bathroom. He could try to just breathe for a little while and escape the oppressive, suffocating weight of the sheets and his own thoughts.

He rose from the bed and walked through the dim hall. The door to Hyun-ju’s room, on the far side, was already closed. He moved past Jun-hee’s room; her door was also closed, and no noise at all came from within, reinforcing the heavy silence of the night.

The bathroom beckoned, a mere handful of steps away, but In-ho’s pace stalled. His eyes snagged on a thin, luminous sliver of light spilling across the opposite wall. Ga-yeong’s door stood ajar, and the steady, flickering glow was the unmistakable signature of a television screen. Of course. She always ended her nights with the low, murmuring company of a drama or a movie, letting the sounds lull her into sleep. He had tried to do the same, forcing himself to stare at his book until the letters swam, but the words had slipped through his concentration like water, his mind an unruly vessel dragging him relentlessly into dark, barricaded corners.

He reached the end of the corridor, where the staircase plunged into a well of deeper shadow. Just before it, another door waited, breathing out a sliver of air cooler than the rest of the hallway. It was Gi-hun’s room.

In-ho paused. A subtle, quiet gravity pulled at him, undeniable.

“Please don’t,” came a voice from within.

It was Gi-hun.

The words were low, broken, tangled in the thick static of sleep. In-ho froze instantly. The thought of intruding made his stomach clench, but his feet moved without his permission, carrying him closer until he hovered at the threshold, listening.

Who was he talking to? Was it just a dream?

He pushed the door inward with an aching, deliberate slowness, terrified of creating a sound that might startle Gi-hun awake.

The room was tiny—Gi-hun had chosen the smallest one, the space meagerly furnished. The bed seemed far too narrow for his long, lanky frame, yet he was curled into it anyway, his body hunched and facing the wall, trembling faintly.

Ga-yeong had mentioned the doctor-prescribed sleeping pills. Perhaps he had forgotten them tonight. Perhaps In-ho should have reminded him.

But they barely spoken together. In-ho didn't want to risk saying something wrong. He didn't want to hurt Gi-hun again.

“Please—just let me be better,” Gi-hun whispered into the dark, his voice catching on an unseen hook of despair.

So it was a dream, a private hell he was trapped inside.

The shadows made his features indistinct, but the sound of his voice—strained, heartbreakingly vulnerable—cut straight into In-ho’s chest.

“I am sorry. I am—” Gi-hun muttered, the apology dissolving into a series of tiny, hitching shivers.

In-ho found himself moving closer, drawn by an impossible force, until he stood at the edge of the bed, watching the ragged rise and fall of Gi-hun’s chest. His breaths were uneven, shallow, and in the scarce light filtering from the window, In-ho saw a wet shine on his cheeks. He was crying, even while trapped in the deep grip of sleep.

Jung-bae had once mentioned it, a casual observation back on the island: Gi-hun often talked in his sleep. That simple, devastating piece of knowledge settled heavy on In-ho’s heart.

He lowered himself onto the very edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle the frame. He knew he shouldn't be here, yet he couldn't bear to stand and simply watch this private unraveling.

“Gi-hun. Gi-hun. I’m here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, a soft anchor in the chaos.

Gi-hun shifted, his head turning just a fraction, though his eyes remained sealed. The tension in his brow eased, his features softening as if his body recognized the voice, as if some deep, unconscious part of him trusted it.

Maybe he thought it was Young-il. Maybe that’s why it worked.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll help you. You’re safe here,” In-ho murmured, forcing his tone into something steady, warm, a solid thread to guide Gi-hun out of whatever nightmare had him in its grip.

The lines of Gi-hun’s face loosened further, the knots of stress slackening, though his body stayed curled into a tight, small knot.

“Gi-hun, you’re safe here,” In-ho repeated, softly but with an undeniable conviction.

And it was true. He was safe now, surrounded by family, by friends. Safe even if In-ho himself remained an outsider. They had been living like this, navigating each other's habits and negotiating silences, for one tenuous week.

Suddenly, Gi-hun’s eyes snapped open, and he jerked upright. Raw fear burned in his wide expression as he took in the sight of In-ho sitting beside him.

Shame flooded In-ho immediately, rising hot into his neck and face. What had he been thinking? What right did he have to imagine he could be a source of comfort?

There was nothing comforting about their fractured relationship.

“Ah—Gi-hun—I’m sorry,” In-ho stammered, half-standing already. “You were talking in your sleep, I thought it might help if I—I’m sorry, I’ll leave—”

But before he could pull fully away, Gi-hun’s hand shot out, fingers locking tight around In-ho’s wrist. It was an almost painfully tight grip, a desperate, visceral tether.

“Don’t,” Gi-hun said, the word rough and immediate.

The fear was gone, replaced by a deep, startled surprise in his face.

In-ho stilled, staring down at the hand clamped around him. Gi-hun’s fingers were long, pale, gripping hard enough to bruise, yet they were anchoring him in place.

“Don’t go,” Gi-hun repeated, the second time much quieter, less of a command and more of a plea.

The wave of shame slid off In-ho like a heavy coat shrugged from his shoulders. He sat back down, and Gi-hun did not release his wrist.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Gi-hun admitted, his voice rough, threaded with a deep, systemic exhaustion. It sounded like more than a week’s worth of lack. Years. Decades. In the games, In-ho had seen it: Gi-hun waking violently from restless dreams, sleeping in desperate snatches of less than four hours, always poised to fight off ghosts.

“It helped, before I woke up,” Gi-hun continued. “I don’t know what you said, but I heard your voice.”

Oh.

A profound, tight feeling clenched in In-ho’s chest. He knew that sensation. Gi-hun’s voice had also pulled him from his own nightmares. They had already been tethered together in the dark, without even realizing it.

“I can stay. I can help you fall asleep,” In-ho offered.

Gi-hun looked at him then—eyes wide, heavy with sorrow and reluctance, hesitant to ask anything of anyone.

They weren’t friends. Not yet. But maybe this could be the genesis of something. Maybe neither of them wanted to keep drowning alone.

“Lie down,” In-ho said softly, a gentle command.

Gi-hun finally released his wrist, and the sudden absence of his touch ached like a lingering bruise.

“Come and sit more comfortably,” Gi-hun murmured in return, a gentle, reciprocal invitation.

So In-ho climbed up properly this time, swinging one leg onto the mattress. He sat facing the window, where the faintest suggestion of dawn was glowing at the edge of the sky. Gi-hun hadn’t drawn the blinds, leaving the horizon open to the coming light.

Gi-hun turned onto his side, his back facing In-ho. This positioning made things easier, somehow—no direct eye contact, just the curve of a cheek half-hidden, the narrow slope of his shoulder, the quiet outline of a man worn down by too many battles. He wasn’t curled tight anymore, though he still seemed to fold slightly inward, as if afraid to take up too much space.

“Go to sleep,” In-ho whispered. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything happen while you’re asleep.”

Gi-hun exhaled, slow and even, as if the simple words had loosened some tight spring inside him.

In-ho’s chest ached with an unexpected tenderness, a feeling he refused to fully name. His throat tightened, but he forced his voice to remain steady, an unwavering murmur.

“You’re safe here. Everyone is safe here. You can sleep. I’ll be here. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And Gi-hun trusted him. Trusted him enough to drift off with his back turned, a vulnerable gesture reminiscent of their time in the games, when they kept watch for one another. Trusted him to stand guard against the nightmares.

He would. In-ho swore to himself he would never let anything happen to Gi-hun. Maybe deep down, Gi-hun knew that too.

Gi-hun's sleep was a battlefield. The nightmares came again, a familiar, paralyzing horror. He had a brutal vision of the last game: he saw all the people he had known—all those he had loved and lost—falling from the precarious glass pillars, their cries echoing in the terrifying void. Their bodies eventually piled up so high and grotesquely below that the mound of them seemed to swell into a rising tide. It looked as if he could literally drown in the stacked, lifeless forms.

Then, somehow, a voice cut through the terror, a strange, grounding anchor in the deluge of his fear. It was Young-il's voice—no, In-ho's—calming him down. Gi-hun distinctly recalled that even back in the games, In-ho’s presence and voice had exerted a nearly identical, soothing effect whenever he was near.

But even with the fear momentarily suppressed, the unease lingered like a phantom pain. It still felt as though he was being lured by a predator, a sense of profound vulnerability that kept him suspended. He felt like he was walking on thin ice with In-ho, uncertain whether to wholly condemn him with hatred or to finally accept the tentative offer of peace and something like friendship. Gi-hun still wasn't sure what monumental thing he had done to earn this reprieve, this complicated second chance.

When Gi-hun finally woke again, the sunlight was a sharp, white blade, piercing through the room and slicing against his eyelids. He flinched away from the sudden brightness and raised a clumsy, heavy hand to shield his face. A wave of disorientation washed over him; he couldn't remember the last time he had been woken by the gentle warmth of the sun rather than by nightmares clawing him awake or the shrill, demanding shriek of an alarm ripping through the silence.

He rubbed at his eyes, feeling groggy but with an odd, unexpected sense of lightness. He rolled slowly onto his back, stretching the tight muscles in his shoulders and neck.

That's when he froze.

There was someone in bed with him.

His heart stopped, a jagged, panicked beat, until his gaze finally found the familiar, weary face: In-ho, lying flat on his back beside him, his brow furrowed deeply even in sleep. He must have drifted off while keeping his quiet vigil, his voice finally succeeding in lulling Gi-hun into the longest, deepest, most merciful rest he’d had in years.

As he slept, In-ho’s expression softened, the hard lines of the Front Man momentarily melting away, enough that he looked uncannily like the gentle Young-il Gi-hun remembered from the beginning of the games. The sight sent a potent shiver through Gi-hun—a tumultuous cocktail of lingering fear, nervous anticipation, and something far more fragile and complex than either.

Tentatively, Gi-hun reached out, pressing his fingertips with featherlight pressure against In-ho’s forehead. He didn’t trust In-ho to ever admit if he was unwell or in pain, so he checked for himself. No fever. Just a profound, almost bone-deep exhaustion etched into his features, a weariness that belied his outward strength. Still, sleeping exposed on top of the covers like that couldn’t have been comfortable.

With great care, Gi-hun tugged at the blanket beneath him, gradually unfolding and folding it over In-ho’s sleeping body. Half-asleep, In-ho’s hand came up automatically, a muscle memory of seeking comfort, catching the edge of the blanket and tucking it securely under his chin. He relaxed instantly into the offered warmth, a soft, involuntary sigh escaping his lips.

Something inside Gi-hun cracked wide open. A wave of tenderness so fierce, so protective, that it genuinely scared him.

In-ho had been trapped in the games too, caught in the intricate web of cruelty. Gi-hun didn't want to make excuses for his actions, but the reality was clear: just like Gi-hun, In-ho had been profoundly manipulated by Oh Il-nam, who was the true, monstrous puppet master pulling the strings of the entire deadly operation.

It still didn't make up for the blood on his hands and the terrible things In-ho had done, but now, he was trying. He was trying so hard—so painfully, visibly hard—to be different, to move past the monstrous role he had played.

He had been genuinely honest with Gi-hun and the rest of the people living in the house, holding nothing back. Crucially, he hadn’t turned his back on his own brother, Jun-ho. And just yesterday, when he was left alone in the house, he had actually taken gentle care of little Ji-ah. Gi-hun had witnessed the moment; In-ho had held that little girl like she was the closest thing to a blessing he had ever encountered.

Yes, there was blood on his hands. Yes, there were choices neither of them could ever erase or undo. But In-ho wanted to change, and if Gi-hun held him forever in the past, he would only fall back into the despair that had consumed him once before.

They had all been given second chances, fractured and messy as they were. Even Gi-hun, with all his goodwill, couldn't undo the past fully—he was still living with the consequences of his own choices.

Everything they regretted, every devastating loss, was behind them now, sealed in the past. The only thing left was to move forward, together, figuring out what kind of honest, salvaged lives they could build from the wreckage. They needed to figure out the "could have been" that they never had the chance to live.

Gi-hun’s chest trembled with something sharp and bright—fear, hope, longing all tangled into one overwhelming emotional knot. He couldn’t help himself. He trusted In-ho. He trusted that In-ho genuinely wanted a better life, and he trusted that he would fight for it with the same quiet, desperate intensity he'd shown in the games.

For the first time in years, the crushing weight he'd carried inside him eased. The iron grip he’d kept clenched around his own heart loosened, just a little, allowing a fragile breath of fresh air.

Maybe, just maybe, this was really a fresh start.