Chapter Text
The following night, Jeongin waited by the curb, standing in front of a lazy twenty-four hour convenience store. He had everything sorted out for his mom and Yoon while he was going to be gone. San agreed to check in with them every day and to take care of them in Jeongin’s absence. Apparently, he felt a little bad after Jeongin’s horrible Poker luck from the night before.
To all three of them, Jeongin said he had already secured a job interview in Busan. He would be gone only a week, just to be sure he can leave the best impression and to see if the job was truly for him.
A lie, of course. Jeongin wasn’t going to Busan. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going at all.
“Please state your name and birthday if you wish to participate,” the automated voice had said when Jeongin called the mysterious number.
Jeongin had hesitated only a second. “Yang Jeongin. February eighteenth, two-thousand-one.”
“Welcome, Mr. Yang,” the voice had said. “Please report to this address at midnight tonight.”
It rattled off an address and left Jeongin to wonder what was so important about a convenience store.
Now, he shifted his weight, unsure. Was this something he should really do? Would being away for however long be worth it? Well… if they’re children’s games like Ddakji, how bad can they really be?
Jeongin rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. He’s been in his head for too long. They’re games. He’d win a few, tap out, and then go home. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything else going for him at the moment.
The roar of a car dragged Jeongin from his thoughts, and he glanced up from the ground, squinting as the headlights of an oncoming car blinded him. It pulled up to the curb, and, after blinking furiously, Jeongin could see that it was an unassuming, gray minivan.
Jeongin hesitated, even as the door opened and the passenger window rolled down.
“Mr. Yang?” asked the driver. His voice had a strange, metallic quality.
Jeongin stooped, peering through the window as the driver, who was dressed in a pink suit and had on a black mask with a white triangle painted on it.
Alarm pulsed through Jeongin’s body. Either these people were really dedicated to their logo or he was about to become a part of a true crime case.
“Please take your seat,” continued the driver.
Jeongin cleared his throat, shaking off his suspicion. These were just supposed to be games. How bad can they be?
The window rolled back up, and he climbed into the car, buckling in as the door rolled shut. Jeongin glanced around, noting with no small amount of surprise the four sleeping people in the car with him. The boy directly next to him had his head resting on the window, wispy blonde hair curling over his forehead and around his ears.
“Uh, sir?” Jeongin said, tearing his eyes from the beautiful boy to the driver. “These people, are they–”
A strange hissing filled the van, cutting off his words.
Something was blowing in Jeongin’s face, and, as if on instinct, he took a deep breath. Exhaustion hit him like a train, and his eyelids drooped.
The hissing continued.
Jeongin lost strength in his muscles; his heart slowed; his breathing became deeper.
Through his blurry eyes, he glanced at the driver watching him through the rearview mirror. Nonsensically, Jeongin wanted to laugh at how strange it was that he wore a triangle over his face. Like, who does that?
He slumped against the blonde-haired boy, and everything went black.
+O△□+
Jeongin came to in a tall, white, and insultingly bright room. Music – was that classical? – was blasting from speakers that he could not see. His head pounded, and he groaned as he sat up in his bed–
A bed.
Alarmed, Jeongin scrambled out, all grogginess forgotten. It was a thin, uncomfortable bed with a metal frame and hospital-issue blankets and a pillow.
His lips parted, eyes feeling like they could pop out of his skull. “What the…”
He looked down at himself, startled to see that his clothes had changed. Instead of the black hoodie and sweatpants he blurrily recalled wearing the night before, he had on a green sweatsuit with white stripes down his arms and legs. And right over his heart were the numbers one-four-three.
Jeongin’s head throbbed, and white noise filled his ears. Somebody changed his clothes, who knew what else happened!
His heart rate kicked up, and, ever so slowly, Jeongin turned around, noticing, for the first time, that his bed was not the only one in the huge room. Beds were stacked against three walls of the room, some of them barely missing the ceiling by two or three feet. One stack was eleven beds high, leaving the person at the top nearly pressed against the white-washed light.
The other people also climbed out of their beds, eyeing each other with various degrees of wary and curious. They all slowly began congregating in the middle of the room, beneath what looked like a huge, glass piggy bank.
Jeongin blinked hard, convinced it was an illusion. He was always feeling the effects of a night out with San for at least three days.
He tried again, and again, but the piggy bank remained stubbornly there.
“Whoa…”
Jeongin turned at the sound of the deep, smooth voice. He vaguely recognized the blonde-haired boy from the van last night. He was climbing down from the bed above Jeongin’s, dark eyes wide and full lips parted.
He caught Jeongin’s gaze and blew out a breath that ended with a laugh. “Would you look at this place? Escape room looking ass.”
Jeongin’s brows furrowed. “You’re not… weirded out by this?”
“Oh, no, I definitely am,” the boy – three-zero-three – replied. He put his hands on his hips and quirked a smile at Jeongin. “Better to worry about the present than the past, yeah?”
“Tell me about it,” Jeongin murmured, gaze sliding away. He happened to worry too much about both.
303 slid back into his view, tilting his head curiously. His eyes seemed to sparkle with life. “What’s your name?”
Jeongin frowned, gesturing to his number. “143. Nice to meet you.”
303 rolled his eyes, unaffected by Jeongin’s snippiness. “I mean, your real name.”
“I don’t want you to know my real name. I don’t want you tracking me down when we get out of here. Are you insane?”
303’s eyes widened innocently, and Jeongin’s first thought was He has the most beautiful doe eyes I have ever seen.
“Why don’t you want me finding you?” 303 asked, looking strangely crestfallen. “They’re just games. We’re not actually opponents.”
“Games that we win for money,” Jeongin said sternly. He lowered his voice. “Look around. How many of these people do you think are drug addicts or involved with gangs? If you share your real name, what’s stopping them from finding you and taking your winnings?”
303 gawked at him. “You have serious issues. How old are you?”
Jeongin sighed, side-eyeing 303. “Twenty-two.”
303 crowed with laughter. “Twenty-two! Oh, you’re just a baby. You should be thinking of romance and whimsy instead of who might back-stab you.” He slung an arm around Jeongin’s shoulders, leading him toward the crowded players just as an automated voice instructs: “All players stand in the middle of the floor. All players stand in the middle of the floor.”
“But if you insist on secrecy, I won’t ruin it for you,” 303 continues, still wearing an undimmable smile. His words were fluid but stilted by an accent Jeongin had never heard before.
He glanced at 303, curious despite himself. “Are you foreign?”
“Shh.” 303 placed a finger to his mouth with a twinkle in his eye and laughter creasing his mouth. “You’ll blow my cover.”
Jeongin blew out a laugh. “Yeah, okay, ha-ha.”
Someone a little way in front of him caught his eye, and Jeongin promptly choked on his next breath. He was tall and lean, brushing a hand through silky, black hair. Round, thin glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and Jeongin could see the sparkle of his trademark earrings from across the room.
He, quite simply, could not believe his eyes.
He tapped 303’s arm. “Hey, I’ll– I’ll catch up with you later.”
303 grinned. “Had a change of heart? Going to make friends now?” Nevertheless, he let Jeongin go. “Make sure you don’t bring a scary gangster home.”
Jeongin waved him off and immediately made a beeline for the young man.
He grasped his shoulder, turning him around, and, for a moment, neither of them could say anything. They stared at each other in mutual shock that, to Jeongin, was bordering on hysterical.
“Hyunjinie?” Jeongin whispered in disbelief.
“Jeongin.” Hyunjin’s brows creased. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I suspect.” Then his brows shot up. “Same as– Hwang Hyunjin. What are you doing here?”
Guilt slid across Hyunjin’s dark eyes. “I need money.”
Jeongin gawked at him. “What?”
“I encouraged my client to lie under oath. She sued me when she was caught. And… I need money. She took all of it. On top of that, my firm rescinded my internship. They ousted me.”
“Ya.” Jeongin shoved Hyunjin’s shoulder, scolding. “That was stupid.”
Hyunjin could only shrug. “No one wants to vouch for the guilty ones. She was too guilty. I took a risk, and here I am.”
“Ah, Hyunjinie.” Jeongin shook his head, suddenly sad. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’m fixing it, so.” Hyunjin gave a haughty nod of his head. “How’s your mother?”
Jeongin winced, remembering his call to Hyunjin from a couple of nights ago. Something told him that Hyunjin never got his voicemail. “Struggling,” he said truthfully, “but that’s why I’m here, so…”
And there it was: the bone-dry conversation of people who had once been best friends. Was it out of obligation or remaining love that Hyunjin spoke to him now? Jeongin supposed he needed to make his peace with not knowing.
Hyunjin sighed. “Look, Jeonginie–”
The doors to the room burst open, and thunderous footsteps cut off his words. Masked, pink triangle soldiers walked in, led by one square-masked man. He stopped at the top of the stairs leading into the den while the four triangle soldiers rolled four podiums down, placing stacks of paper on each.
“Welcome, players,” the masked man said, his voice ringing and metallic. “Today is the day of your first game. Before we proceed, let me recount the rules to you.” He paused until the echo rang off into nothing. “There is a total of six games, all taking place over the course of this week. The rules are quite simple: successfully finish the game within the time limit, and you will move to the next round. Anybody who fails the game will be eliminated. For each elimination, ten million dollars will be added to the prize money. There are five hundred of you; this means that the prize money will be five billion dollars.”
A ripple of astonished whispering broke through the crowd. Jeongin glanced around, stunned at the amount, and watched as people’s eyes started gleaming with greed. For what felt like the thousandth time, Jeongin wondered if he really should be here.
Five billion dollars, man. He could practically hear San’s voice. You could set your grandchildren up for life. Don’t fuck this up.
Hyunjin cussed. “What would I even do with money like that?”
Jeongin shook his head. “I think you mean what couldn’t you do with money like that?”
“After each game,” continued the masked man, ignoring the murmuring, “you will see the money accumulate in the bank above your heads.”
Jeongin and Hyunjin looked up at the overbearing glass piggy bank that swayed precariously from the ceiling. Jeongin wasn’t sure how much he trusted whatever was holding it up; the thing was one thunderstorm away from shattering.
Hyunjin’s gaze trailed up the stacked beds, and he tilted his head. “What’s stopping us from breaking it and running off with the money?”
“The promise of a lesser prize than what you could have had.”
Hyunjin glanced at Jeongin with some surprise. “That’s certainly not the same Jeonginie I was friends with.”
When Jeongin spoke next, he tried to keep any ice from his voice. “That’s because the last we spoke was at my father’s funeral. Four years ago.”
It was a fact, and Jeongin said it as such. He didn’t hold a grudge; he didn’t foster any hopes; he didn’t acknowledge any pain. Him and Hyunjin simply grew apart; there was nothing wrong with that.
Then why was there guilt flickering in Hyunjin’s gaze?
“So for each elimination,” someone from the front called out, “ten million dollars is added to the sum?”
“That is correct,” said the masked man. “The winner will bring home five billion.”
“Ya!” shouted another. “What if there’s more than one winner?”
The man paused, chin tilting. “The prize will be split evenly.”
“And if there are no winners?”
“Then no one will get the money.”
Someone in the middle of the crowd spluttered. “All of that money would go to waste?” The masked man did not answer, and the person went on. “We should still get a percentage for participating!”
“Yeah!” Someone agreed. “I don’t care if its just one percent. That would pay debts!”
“Anyone who fails the game,” repeated the masked man politely, “will be eliminated.”
“But that money–”
“Will be saved for someone with more potential, ambition, and bearing.” The masked man’s words rang through the room, stifling what was left of the whispering. “Are there any more questions? The first game awaits.”
Silence.
Jeongin shifted uncomfortably. Something about this place was unsettling.
“Please form four lines,” instructed the masked man. “You will now sign the player contract. Upon placing your name on the line, you have agreed to be a player in these games and are thus bound by the three main clauses. Players are not allowed to stop playing. Players who refuse to play will be eliminated. The games may be terminated if the majority agrees.”
Slowly but surely, people began to form four lines.
“I will now repeat the clauses…”
Jeongin tuned him out as him and Hyunjin joined the middle line.
“Hm.”
Jeongin glanced at Hyunjin, finding the other boy studying his number. “What?”
“You’re Player one-four-three.”
“Yeah. And?”
“I’m Player three-four-one.”
Jeongin’s gaze dipped to the number over Hyunjin’s heart. “So you are. Must be fate. Opposites attract and such.”
Hyunjin’s lips quirked into a familiar smile. “I’m not sure they’re complete opposites. They’re just reversed.”
“The same, but different.”
“Maybe too different.”
“Difference is good. It’s… unique. It makes patterns, but things that are similar” – Jeongin made a doubtful sound – “tend to be a bit boring.”
Jeongin wasn’t sure they were talking about their player numbers anymore.
Hyunjin’s chest rose with a deep breath, and he stubbornly averted his gaze toward the front, where people signed their contracts one by one. “Boring isn’t bad,” he whispered, and Jeongin nearly missed his words. “Boring is… comfortable… It’s simple.”
He gazed down at Jeongin, and Jeongin found that he had nothing to say to that. There was no way to verbalize the disappointment in his heart, the tearing in his soul.
Well.
That was that.
+O△□+
One contract signature and picture later, Jeongin was following Player 303 through a maze of stairs, trying to resist bashing his head into the wall as they blasted “The Blue Danube” over the speakers.
In front of him, Player 303 swayed gracefully to the music, turning around to grin unabashedly at Jeongin. “Man, I didn’t think they’d be playing bangers here!”
Jeongin stifled a sigh. “You’re a fan of classical music?”
“A fan? My dear 143, I could start a fucking mosh pit to this song!”
“A bit slow, isn’t it?”
303 leveled a serious stare at him. “Never underestimate my influence, 143.” Then he turned around, jauntily skipping away, the small ponytail at the nape of his neck bouncing happily.
Jeongin followed in silence, his mind still far away on his conversation with Hyunjin. The other boy had disappeared after signing the contract and having his picture taken, and Jeongin had half a mind to believe he was deliberately avoiding him. Why though? What had Jeongin done that was so wrong?
He shook his head. There was no sense speculating. If Hyunjin had a real problem, he should be able to talk to Jeongin. There was no sense in ignoring each other like school children.
A large door up ahead slid open, admitting people into a long, bright room. Jeongin and 303 entered together, and Jeongin couldn’t stop his jaw from slacking at the sight of the tall, automated girl in an orange dress. She stood stockstill on the other side of the room; her beady eyes stared at them, and her eerie smile sent chills down Jeongin’s spine.
“What is that?” 303 demanded, looking like he wanted to laugh.
Jeongin wished he had an answer.
The doors shuddered closed as the last of the players trickled in. On the opposite end of the field, just behind the robotic doll, triangle soldiers stood at attention.
The speakers crackled, and a cheerful female voice filled the room.
“Welcome, players, to the first game: Red Light, Green Light.”
303 muttered, “Oh, Red Light, Green Light, I killed this game as a kid.”
“You will move with the doll says green light,” continued the voice, “and stop when she says red light. Any players who move after red light will be eliminated. You will have five minutes to complete the game.”
As if on a cue, a timer flicked on above the doll’s head, and she began turning around, bringing her robotic hands up to hide her face.
“Begin,” finished the female voice.
The timer started with an ominous click.
“Green light,” sang the doll.
With a wild grin, Player 303 grabbed Jeongin’s hand and dragged him over the starting line, practically skipping with glee. The room bustled with activity as the players – running, walking, or jogging – crossed the line.
“Red light!” cried the doll.
Player 303 and Jeongin froze as she robotically turned around. Her eyes – cameras, maybe? – flicked over the crowd. Thick silence descended. No one was willing to do so much as speak, minds stuck on the promise of the coveted prize money. How far would some of these people go? What drives them in the first place?
The doll whirled back around and brought her hands up to her face, singing, “Green light!”
The sound of five hundred people running thundered against the walls.
“Red light!”
Jeongin froze and was surprised to realize he was still clinging to Player 303’s hand.
The doll’s eyes whirred. The person in front of Jeongin, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, swayed, losing his balance but regaining it within a second.
There was a loud crack, and something sprayed Jeongin’s face.
The man collapsed, dark blood seeping from the hole in the back of his head.
From the corner of his eye, Jeongin watched Player 303’s smile drop for the first time.
People startled away from the body, crying out in shock and horror, grasping onto those closest to them. In the wake of tragedy, many things can be forgotten: they were still playing the game.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
People were screaming now, running back toward the door, pounding on it, shouting and yelling to please, please let them out!
Crack!
The person to the left of Jeongin dropped, and brain matter sprayed onto his sweatsuit. Jeongin felt sick watching the blood seep across the floor. It stained the toe of his white shoe.
Crack!
Crack!
Player 303 trembled, clinging to Jeongin’s hand so tightly he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. Tears dripped down his face, and his lips parted–
“No,” whispered someone behind Jeongin. The word was little more than a breath. “Do not speak.”
Player 303 pressed his lips together.
Gunshots rattled for a while more, and then–
Silence.
The clock ticked on. They had a little more than three minutes to finish the game.
The female voice crackled from the speaker. “I will repeat the rules. Move when the doll says green light, and stop when she says red light. Any player moving after red light will be eliminated.”
Eliminated.
A word so innocently said before was now dripping with blood and horror.
The doll turned back around, singing, “Green light!”
Nobody moved. Jeongin and Player 303 spared each other a glance, trembling and shuddering with uneven gasps, and came to a mutual understanding: they would not leave each other behind.
“Red light!”
The clock ticked on.
Nobody moved.
“Green light!”
The first to move was a tall man with the numbers zero-zero-one on his chest. He jogged forward with a pep to his step, not bothering to glance at the dead bodies at his feet.
“Red light!”
The man stopped, a broad smile on his face.
“Green light!”
Jeongin felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward. He looked behind himself and saw that the man behind him, who told 303 not to speak, was urging him along. He had intense eyes that were alight with both fear and anger.
“Move,” he ordered, gaze flicking apprehensively toward the clock.
Jeongin didn’t need to be told twice. Grasping 303’s hand tighter, he tugged him forward, trying to ignore the nauseating sqelch of brain matter as they maneuvered around the bodies.
303 was taking deep, measured breaths, even as tears steadily fell down his cheeks.
“Red light!”
Crack!
Crack!
Bodies fell in quick succession.
Jeongin squeezed his eyes shut.
“Green light!”
The man’s hand urged him forward. Jeongin obeyed, his movements stilted and automatic; his brain pulsed with the need to live, to survive.
“Halfway,” whispered the man, whose voice was becoming strangely comforting.
“Red light!”
Jeongin slipped in a slick spot of blood and lost his balance. He let go of 303’s hand; even as he fell, he knew he would never forgive himself for causing the death of someone else.
303 choked on a gasp.
The comforting man seized a handful of Jeongin’s sweatsuit, holding him still midfall just as the doll finished turning around. Jeongin trembled, fighting to keep his arms and legs still, fighting to survive.
The man holding him trembled with effort, but his movements did not become more than minuscule muscle tremors as he exerted himself to save Jeongin’s life.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
The woman in front of 303 exploded in a shower of blood, spraying 303 with brain matter and blood that gleamed like red gems in the harsh light.
He gave a strangled whimper.
“Sh,” hissed the man.
“Green light!”
The man grasped Jeongin by his arm and hauled him up, pushing him forward. Jeongin stumbled, and he surprised himself by reaching for 303’s hand, who held on like a vise.
They passed the halfway point. People were starting to cross the finish line, collapsing in exhaustion. Some were even brought to tears, staring up at the robotic girl before turning pleading gazes onto the triangle soldiers.
A minute left on the clock.
“Red light!”
Jeongin froze, huffing for breath. He felt dirty, like no amount of bathing and scrubbing could take the feel of blood off his skin.
Crack!
“Green light!”
“Run!” shouted the man, pushing both Jeongin and 303 forward.
Forty seconds.
Jeongin burst into a sprint, hauling 303 with him.
“Red light!”
He skidded to a stop, huffing when 303 ran into him. He felt more than saw the other man gently grasp 303’s arm, making soft shushing sounds as if to calm down a child.
Crack!
Crack!
Jeongin’s gaze was glued to the clock, watching as it counted down the seconds.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-two.
Then, finally, “Green light!”
“Go!” barked the comforting man, shoving Jeongin and 303 forward.
Jeongin ran faster than he ever had in his life; Player 303 kept pace, glancing over his shoulder and paling at the people tripping and stumbling behind them. Jeongin never looked back. He was scared of what he might see.
Player 303 yelped as his ankle twisted, and he let go of Jeongin’s hand.
He whirled around, eyes wide, only to have the comforting man – the strange third member of their party – shove him toward the finish line.
“Don’t stop! Keep going!”
“But–”
“MOVE!”
Jeongin stumbled over the finish line just as the doll sang, “Red light!”
He whirled around, expecting the other man to have abandoned 303. He choked on his own tongue when he saw the pair of them – 303 curled over his ankle, and the other man, number three-twenty-five, with his hands on 303’s arm and back, sharp gaze never leaving the doll. 325 didn’t abandon 303.
Why didn’t he abandon 303? Anybody else in this room would have. It would have meant another ten million to the prize money.
The clock ticked.
Twelve.
Eleven.
Ten.
“Green light!”
325 hauled 303 up, whose face crumpled with pain. They staggered together, and Jeongin shouted for them to hurry, shouted even as the ticking of the clock drowned his thoughts.
Five.
Four.
Three.
325 pushed 303 over the line first before stumbling over it. He collapsed on the ground, breathing hard and covering his face with his hands, muttering something in a language Jeongin did not understand.
303 collapsed too, face strained and red, sprayed with dirt and blood.
The clock ran out, and the doll turned back around. There was a small crowd of people who had failed to cross the finish line. A couple at the front started crying, faces crumpling as they realized what failure would mean for them.
Anybody who fails the game will be eliminated.
“Death,” Jeongin whispered softly, hands clenching.
Gunfire rattled off the walls, and the remaining players began to drop. Jeongin had to look away, unwilling to bear the burden of seeing so many lives stolen. 303 was sobbing, his contagious smile from just five minutes ago forgotten and foreign. 325 was tense, face still covered; he didn’t say anything.
What was there to say?
They had been tricked; all of them.
+O△□+
They were all allowed back into their room from before, which Jeongin was beginning to understand was their dorm. Only now, they were significantly short of some people, which meant that a lot of beds would remain empty.
Jeongin felt sick; a persistent nausea that made him want to curl up into a ball and stay there forever.
Why did he ever think it was a good idea to leave home?
Why did he allow himself to be lured in with the promise of money he was probably not ever going to see?
Yoon and Mama needed him, not money. And now Jeongin might have just robbed them of both.
“Innie!”
Numbly, Jeongin turned around, prickling slightly at the nickname.
Hyunjin came running, relief and fear clear on his face. He had lost his glasses at some point during the first game, and his clothes were stained with blood.
Jeongin felt something in his chest crumple and, before he knew it, he was running toward Hyunjin, allowing himself to be suffocated by a tight hug that he, under normal circumstances, would be trying to avoid.
Hyunjin buried his face in Jeongin’s neck, repeating over and over, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Jeongin heard himself ask. The words sounded as if they were coming from a stranger. His voice was weird and wrong, strangled too tight in some places.
“I’m okay.” Hyunjin’s words were watery. “You?”
“Fine,” Jeongin breathed, fisting onto the fabric of Hyunjin’s sweatsuit. “I’m fine.”
“Heads up,” warned 325, and Jeongin promptly remembered this nightmare did not just encompass himself and Hyunjin. 325 was looking grim as always, staring at the front of the room, even as he crouched beside 303, checking the tenderness of his wounded ankle. 325 caught Jeongin’s questioning gaze and jerked his head toward the door, just as it burst open.
The square-masked man was back with his triangle soldiers, though now they were all armed. Jeongin didn’t know guns; he never had a reason to learn about them, so all he knew was that these weapons were scary – big, long, black, clunky things that gleamed dully in the white-washed light.
Jeongin felt himself shaking with terror. Did they mean to kill more of them?
“Come here,” 325 said sternly. “Stay with the group.”
Group? When had they become a group?
Sometime between stepping over the start line and crossing the finish line. Five measly minutes and they were bound.
Hyunjin, despite not knowing 325, dragged Jeongin over, never straying too far. He seemed intent on hovering, all the distance and ice between them forgotten now that the circumstances have turned deadly.
“Congratulations on making it through the first game,” said the man with the square mask. “There were a total of thirty-three eliminations in the first round, bringing the prize money to three hundred thirty million. That’s approximately seven-hundred-seven thousand each.”
He pointed a remote at the glass bank, and music shimmered as blocks of cash began falling inside. Jeongin watched it pile up numbly. The money looked stained red, and vaguely, he wondered if they had first dipped it in the blood of the eliminated.
When the money finished piling, it didn’t look nearly enough to compensate for the thirty-three innocent lives lost.
“Don’t kill me, sirs!” shouted a woman, and Jeongin watched as she fell to her knees, bowing with tears falling down her face. Her sweatsuit proclaimed the number four-seven-seven. “Please, have mercy! I have a son at home; he needs me!”
“Let us go!” shouted another woman, who was shaking with anger. “You can’t keep us here! We didn’t ask to be kidnapped!”
The man with the square mask looked at her. “Every player consented to participate.”
“And we signed a contract…” murmured Hyunjin, looking sick.
“Please, sirs!” cried the first woman. “Let me leave, even without money! Let me live!”
“Whether you are eliminated or not,” said Square Man, “relies completely on your skill.”
This caused an uproar, and players started shouting and pushing toward the front. Many looked angry, but they all were scared.
Player 325 looked grim. “These people will get themselves killed.”
Player 303 gasped as he moved his ankle, brow creasing with pain. For the first time, he drew Hyunjin’s attention, whose eyes widened with something unreadable and soft.
A triangle soldier shot a round into the air. Everyone screamed, dropping to the floor.
“That’s enough of that,” Square Man said to the players. “Allow me to direct your attention to the third clause of your contract: the games may be terminated if the majority agrees.” He paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in. “If put to a democratic vote, the games will cease. You will all be sent home. No one will claim the money.”
Stunned silence.
Player 325 huffed in agitation, shouting, “Let’s put it to a vote!”
“Yeah!” Player 303 yelled. “Let’s vote, and then go home!”
Gradually, murmurs of assent broke out over the room.
Square Man was silent as he turned to his soldiers. “They’ve chosen to put it to a vote.”
+O△□+
The vote was nearly unanimous: four-fifty-five chose to terminate the games, and twelve chose to continue them.
They were allowed to go home, safe albeit for some unease.
Jeongin sat, bound and gagged, in a van between Player 303 and Hyunjin. He could hear the two masked soldiers up front muttering to each other even as the hiss of the sleeping gas took over the car.
Player 303 dropped almost immediately, as if eager to escape this nightmare.
Jeongin and Hyunjin fought it for a while, but Jeongin was losing. He could feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier; his head drooped onto Hyunjin’s shoulder.
“Jeonginie,” he heard his friend mutter, worried, but Jeongin’s tongue was too thick and dry to respond.
Before he dropped over the precipice and into darkness, Jeongin could swear he heard one of the soldiers sneer, “You’ll be back.”
Then everything went dark.