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It wasn’t easy. And In-ho knew it wouldn’t be. But he was fine with that. And he didn’t feel bad about it.
He was risking a lot by throwing himself into the literal line of fire. All of these people had been handpicked for the games - most by him, some by his recruiter. But he oversaw the entrance of every single contestant, every single soul who entered the games, knowing that only one would come out. And now, he was back in it.
It had been almost ten years since he’d won his own game, but it felt longer somehow. Being the Front Man was now second nature to him. Once the games actually began, it was like slipping into your favorite pair of shoes. It was so easy, watching it all go down. The preparation was the only part he didn’t care for. It took a lot of effort to make sure everything went smoothly and their operation wouldn’t be at risk. But as the years of his tenure went by, In-ho felt more and more confident that it would be a breeze, and the VIPs would walk away satisfied.
But once Gi-hun reentered the picture, he knew things would be different.
At first, he was angry. He thought he had squashed that bug years ago, and that Gi-hun’s little ‘mission’ to find him and end the games would amount to no more than a dog barking up a tree. But as the former winner continued in his pursuit, In-ho found that he was surprisingly starting to enjoy their little cat-and-mouse game. Every action had an equal, opposite reaction. Gi-hun would step to the left, In-ho would step to the right. Gi-hun would make it a step forward, but In-ho was always ten steps ahead. It was unfortunate that he had eventually kicked it into high gear and managed to get the best of the recruiter, but once Gi-hun was in the limo, he had to have known that he was cornered.
Which was why it was a little bit of a surprise when Gi-hun asked to be put back in the games. But who was In-ho to complain about the perfect opportunity to achieve his goals?
Of course, he wasn’t going to let Gi-hun pull any tricks. The tracking device embedded in his tooth was clever, but In-ho wasn’t stupid. He was well aware that his brother was now involved in Gi-hun’s little motley scheme, but there were multiple traps put in place so that Jun-ho would never even get close. From what In-ho had heard from one of his sources before the game started, Captain Park was playing his part quite well. A good bang for his buck.
But Gi-hun was still unpredictable in a few ways, like a ticking time bomb. That was why In-ho decided that it would be best to get hands on in the situation. After Red Light, Green Light (Il-nam may have felt adept enough to participate, but In-ho thought it too big of a risk), he donned the jumpsuit and slipped in unnoticed as the survivors were being escorted back to their quarters.
Sure, the control freak in him was a little irritated at not being able to run things the way he was used to, but the square guard he had put in charge seemed to have operations well in hand before In-ho left. And this would be a new way, a much more fun way to be in charge of things. Gi-hun could play the role of the fearless leader all he wanted, but he would only ever be In-ho’s puppet. And those strings could be yanked up at any moment.
What he didn’t expect was the way it would make him feel.
The adrenaline rush of being the final vote that tipped the scales in his favor was beyond anything In-ho had felt in a while. Even without being in the control room, the games still bent to his whim. He couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his face after he pressed the ‘O’ button. It was delicious, seeing the fallen faces of everyone who had voted to end the games, including Gi-hun. Especially Gi-hun.
The next step was to get closer. It was easier to control the dancing puppet the shorter the strings were. And Gi-hun’s brave naivety fell for In-ho’s act of admiration, hook, line, and sinker. It was like the swooning princess thanking the brave prince who rescued her, if the princess had a knife behind her back the whole time.
An odd metaphor, sure. But it was simply the first that came to mind. No need to look into it.
When the six-legged pentathlon started, that was the first moment that In-ho knew he would be risking it all. His life was in the hands of his own skill at whatever game he was assigned to, but also everyone else in his group. This must’ve been how Il-nam felt during tug-of-war - the thrill and fear of the unknown, mixing together in a strong cocktail. The players having to depend on each other in team games always brought a little delight to In-ho; you could be the strongest, the smartest, the best strategist, but if you got paired up with an unlucky loser, you were out. It evened the field and maintained the equality that In-ho wanted to enforce in his games.
In-ho didn’t expect to feel much other than sick amusement while he watched the other teams play (going last was the optimal choice and put you in the best position for success - you had the opportunity to see where others had failed so you could avoid mimicking their mistakes). But, much to his chagrin, something about Gi-hun’s hope and faith in people became slightly infectious. To In-ho’s surprise, he found himself shouting with glee when a team succeeded at one of the games on their first try, and reeling back in somber silence when another group was eliminated. He fell to the whims of the crowd. He couldn’t resist the shared energy, and maybe, it was fine if he didn’t try. Maybe this was all just part of the fresh experience, just like Il-nam had said years ago. In-ho was beginning to see what he meant.
For a moment, even, In-ho began to forget himself. Maybe it was the familiar setting bringing back old emotions, but he started to become swept up in the feelings of a contestant. The fear of death, the relief of success, and the terrified curiosity for what came next (despite the fact that In-ho knew exactly what each of the rounds would be). It was just like old times.
Even his relationships with the fellow players were beginning to come to familiar dynamics. As he watched the way they bonded and shared in their fear or hope together, In-ho couldn’t help but want to be a part of that again. That’s why it was so easy for him to ingratiate himself into Gi-hun’s friend group. Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Jun-hee - the lot of them reminded him so much of some of the friends he had made back during his game. (Some of the faces he still saw at night, in his dreams.)
But Gi-hun was special, more so than all the rest. His leadership skills were impressive, his hope in the face of despair was admirable, his charm was easy to get swept away in, his good looks were-
No.
In-ho was the Front Man. He was not a player. He was the mastermind in disguise. He knew things the other players didn’t. He couldn’t fully lose himself and forget his place. These people were trash, scum, the lowest of the low. There was no reason to form attachments to them. All they’d ever amount to would be bodies in the incinerator.
(When he imagined Gi-hun’s body being carried by the circle guards, laid into his gift-wrapped coffin, and carried off to be reduced to ashes, something in In-ho’s stomach twisted. A feeling of glee, but a feeling of something else, something he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt.)
It wasn’t until Mingle when he noticed that something dangerous had happened.
“I was so worried about you,” Gi-hun said, after they had had to split up. For a moment, the former winner’s eyes flicked downward, and In-ho couldn’t tell what he was looking at. His body, not riddled with bullet holes from losing? His facsimile of a smile? What did Gi-hun see, or what was he looking for?
Interestingly, In-ho realized they had been looking at each other’s mouths often. That was something he didn’t understand - either why Gi-hun was doing it, or why he himself was caught up in it as well.
Never before had he craved a stiff drink as strongly as he did now.
And never in his life did he expect he would be fighting to save the man who was trying to take him down.
It would’ve been so easy during the gunfight. There were plenty of opportunities for one of the triangle guards to get a clear shot at Gi-hun. That would’ve ended it all right then and there. But there was no fun in that, was there? In-ho wasn’t just trying to get rid of Gi-hun once and for all, he was trying to break his spirit and turn him into someone just like him; jaded and well-aware of the way the world really worked.
There was no other reason he sniped the guards who had Gi-hun in their sights. (No other reason, no other reason, no other reason.)
But it didn’t take long for the right place and time for it to end to present itself. In fact, Gi-hun set the stage for his own betrayal, as if Jesus had called the guards to Gethsemane himself.
Gi-hun handed In-ho the extra magazine. “Wait, take this with you. You’ll need it.”
It was all right there in front of In-ho, wrapped in a pretty little bow. “Are you sure?”
And Gi-hun, brave little Gi-hun, insisted on it. He sealed his own fate.
So when In-ho took out the players who went with him to infiltrate the control room, when he radioed Gi-hun a final time, when he held the walkie-talkie up to the mouth of the gurgling contestant, he didn’t feel bad.
He didn’t feel bad when he returned to the control room and put his Front Man outfit on again. He didn’t feel bad when he gathered his guards and marched off to confront the misguided martyr. He didn’t feel bad when he held a gun to his head and asked if he had fun playing the hero. And he didn’t feel bad in the slightest when he shot Jung-bae in the chest.
He could’ve shot Gi-hun. But he didn’t want to.
Of course he had a reason. It was for the sake of continuing to break his spirit. It was for the sake of his endgame, his ultimate plan. It was for the sake of the games.
So In-ho didn’t feel bad. He didn’t feel any unreasonable emotions during the games, in fact. He didn’t feel afraid for Gi-hun, he didn’t feel relief at his continued survival, he didn’t feel a deep bond between them unlike any he had felt with any other man.
And once his plan was complete and Gi-hun was gone, he would(n’t) be fine.