Chapter Text
Classical music played softly in the background. To be honest, this was nothing like the way he usually woke up.
Gihun opened his eyes, blinking at the metallic frame of the bunk above him. The sight sent a strange jolt through his memory—cold, impersonal, like something from his military days. He turned his head, immediately spotting a man in a green tracksuit lying nearby. His breath hitched. Slowly, he sat up, scanning the vast, unfamiliar room, a creeping sense of unease settling in his chest. Something felt wrong. Off.
His gaze dropped to his own chest, where a familiar yet utterly foreign patch was sewn onto the fabric of his tracksuit. 456.
A chill ran down his spine. He had seen these uniforms before. He has seen those green tracksuits, stark white numbers. A game. A nightmare. His fingers twitched as if his body already knew what his mind refused to accept. Was he really here back then?
Gihun swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements careful, controlled. His pulse drummed in his ears as he made his way down the metal stairs, eyes scanning the sea of people below. The sheer number of them only deepened the pit in his stomach. Where was he?
But more urgently... Was he here alone?
His mind latched onto a single number, desperate. 132. That was the number he needed to find. If there was even the smallest chance he is here after all this time… He had to check.
As he descended, his gaze landed on the massive screen at the front of the room. He expected, hoped even, to see a date, a time, something to anchor him to reality. Instead, a bold number stared back at him, stark and unyielding:
456
Above it, a single phrase: "Number of Players" in both Korean and English.
Gihun exhaled slowly, looking at the crowd of faces. A strange sense of déjà vu wrapped around him like an iron chain, pulling him deeper into memories he wasn’t ready to relive. The only thing keeping him from outright panic was that unlike the last time he saw the same tracksuits, they were clean and unharmed now. No blood, no imperfections, just plain, brand new, numbered green tracksuits.
But if this was what he thought it was… He was so screwed.
"…fifty-seven, fifty-eigh—"
A frail yet oddly determined voice carried up from the lower bunks. Gihun turned his head, spotting an old man sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, his bony finger extended as he meticulously counted the players one by one.
Gihun’s throat tightened.
"Grandpa," he called gently, stepping closer. The old man stood out in a way that made Gihun’s chest ache. Too thin. Too fragile.
"You see that big screen over there?" Gihun gestured toward the display. "It says there are 456 of us. You don’t have to count."
The old man didn’t even glance up, his face wrinkling in mild irritation. "Don’t distract me, kid," he grumbled, waving him off. "Now, where was I…?"
"Fifty-eight," Gihun supplied, suppressing the urge to sigh.
"Ah, right. Fifty-nine—"
"You really should be at home, old man," Gihun pressed, his voice softer now. "You don’t look well. This isn’t the kind of place for someone your age."
The old man finally turned, squinting at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "What a rude young man," he huffed. "I can take care of myself just fine."
Gihun exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You don’t understand. This place—" he hesitated, lowering his voice. "It could get dangerous."
"Dangerous?" The old man’s counting faltered as his cloudy eyes finally lifted to meet Gihun’s. "What do you mean?"
Gihun hesitated. How was he supposed to explain this? He barely understood it himself.
"My soulmate was probably here," he admitted, his voice carrying an edge of uncertainty. "Or at least… it looks like they were." He exhaled, glancing around at the pristine bunkers, the fresh-faced players who had no idea what awaited them. "It… didn’t look good."
The old man tilted his head, genuinely intrigued now. "And what did you see?"
Gihun studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "I don’t want to scare you. At your age, it’s not good to get worked up."
The old man scoffed, a huff of amusement escaping him as he tapped a knobby finger against his temple. "I've got a tumor in my brain, kid." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were talking about the weather. "Doctors say I don’t have much time left. So don’t think you can scare me with some children’s games."
Gihun’s breath hitched. He had suspected the man wasn’t in the best shape, but hearing it so plainly struck something deep inside him. Cancer. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew all too well what that meant, how cruel and unforgiving all of it was, especially when money was involved.
His mind flashed back to the hospital, to the cold plastic chairs in the waiting room, the stacks of medical bills he had flipped through while visiting Haneul. He could still remember the hushed whispers of desperate families, the quiet weeping of those who had already lost their loved ones to a system that cared more about money than human lives. That was five years ago. He doubted anything had changed.
Before he could respond, a sharp yell sliced through the air.
"You are a fucking bitch!"
The shout came from somewhere within the crowd, but the sea of bodies made it impossible to see who was involved. A ripple of movement spread as people turned to gawk at the commotion.
Gihun shot the old man one last look before stepping away, curiosity and unease warring within him. He pushed through the growing crowd, weaving between strangers until he reached the source of the disturbance.
At the center of the chaos stood a massive, muscular man, with the patch 101 on his tracksuit. His hand was twisted tightly in a young woman’s hair, dragging her toward him as she struggled against his grip.
No one moved to help her.
Including Gihun.
For a split second, he was just like the rest. Gihun was standing frozen, watching. And honestly, he might have stayed frozen, might have ignored the entire situation, if not for the moment the girl lifted her head, revealing her face.
A sharp memory snapped into place.
The pickpocket.
"Hey, hey, it’s you!" The recognition jolted him into action, and before he fully thought it through, he was shoving his way forward, forcing himself between the girl and 101. His hands shot out, pushing the brute back just enough to break his grip on her. "Look at that, the scar on your neck! You’re that damn pickpocket!"
He grabbed the front of her tracksuit, his frustration bursting past whatever common sense he had left. "Give me back my money!"
A sudden, blinding crack landed against the side of his head. Pain exploded through his skull, and the next thing he knew, the world was tilting. His vision blurred as he tumbled, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. A ringing filled his ears.
Shit.
He barely had time to react before the brute was coming for him now, the violent gleam in his eyes shifting targets.
Gihun scrambled backward, his brain firing off nonsense in an effort to stall. "Whoa, hey, let’s not... let’s not be hasty here, big guy," he stammered, hands raised in mock surrender. "When someone your age goes to beat the young girl like that—"
Before things could escalate further, a sudden metallic clang echoed through the massive hall.
The doors swung open. And then men in bright pink jumpsuits, faces obscured by featureless black masks, marched inside with eerie precision.
Yes, his soulmate had definitely been here.
And yes, Gihun was completely, utterly screwed.
He was still catching his breath, his head pounding from the earlier blow, when a voice rang out through the hall, calm and composed, carrying a quiet authority that demanded attention.
"I would like to extend my warmest welcome to all of you."
Gihun tensed. At the front of the room stood a man in a black mask, its design simple but intimidating, marked with a white outline of a square. His stance was firm, unwavering, like a judge about to deliver a sentence. Around him stood others, dressed identically in pink jumpsuits, their faces completely concealed by the black visors of their masks. The facelessness of it all sent a shiver down Gihun’s spine.
"Each of you will participate in six different games over the course of six days," the masked man continued, his voice level, as if he were simply reading instructions off a sheet of paper. "The player who successfully wins all six will receive a substantial cash prize."
Gihun’s stomach twisted. This was new information. When he had swapped bodies with his soulmate, he hadn’t known the full scope of the situation. But now, standing here, listening to the words being spoken, his mind was beginning to put the pieces together. This was why it had started.
A voice broke through the tense silence, loud and skeptical. "And why the hell should we trust you?"
It was a younger man, his tone laced with anger, his words sharp with accusation. "You drugged us, stole our phones and wallets, dragged us to god-knows-where, and now you’re telling us we’ll be well-compensated for playing a few games? And we’re just supposed to take your word for it?"
The masked man remained completely unfazed. "These measures were taken to ensure your arrival remained completely confidential. Once the games conclude, everything will return to normal."
"Then why are you hiding your faces?" someone else demanded. This time, it was a woman, probably in her early thirties, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"We do not reveal the identities of staff members to players, just as we do not disclose information about the players to staff. This ensures fairness and confidentiality," the square-masked man responded without hesitation, as if the explanation had been rehearsed countless times.
A scoff echoed from somewhere in the crowd, followed by a quiet, humorless chuckle. "I don’t believe a single word you’re saying."
Gihun felt his entire body lock up at the sound of that voice.
It couldn’t be.
His eyes darted frantically through the sea of faces, searching, scanning for the source. He caught only glimpses—a neatly combed head, the faint glint of thin-rimmed glasses reflecting the overhead lights. His heart began to pound. The longer the man spoke, his words sharp, methodical, cutting through the masked figure’s carefully crafted authority with that same calm, logical precision, the more certain Gihun became.
It probably was him. Cho Sangwoo.
For a brief moment, Gihun felt genuine shock. This place, this nightmarish arena where desperate people were gathered like livestock, seemed tailor-made for the reckless, the irresponsible, the criminals, the gamblers, the thieves. People like him. People like the tattooed thug or the pickpocket girl. People who had made every wrong decision possible and had nowhere left to turn.
But Sangwoo? Sangwoo wasn’t supposed to be here. Sangwoo had always been the best of them, the one who had made it out. The success story. The living proof that if you worked hard enough, if you were smart enough, you could escape the kind of life they had all been born into.
So why?
"Player 218, Cho Sangwoo."
The entire hall fell silent as the masked man pressed something on a small remote. A large digital display flickered to life behind him.
Gihun swallowed hard. It really was him.
"Forty six years old," the masked figure stated in the same neutral, detached tone. "Former head of the second department at Joy Investments. Embezzled money from his clients, which he funneled into stocks and futures, ultimately leading to his downfall. Debt: 650 million won."
Gihun barely paid attention as the masked man continued addressing other players who had spoken up. His mind was stuck on that number. Six hundred and fifty million won. It sounded enormous, a crushing amount of debt. But then again, considering what he knew about people in high financial circles—people like Sangwoo and Julie—it wasn’t an impossible sum for someone of their caliber and it sounded like something they could still repay.
"Every single person in this room is living on the edge of poverty," the masked man declared, moving on from the video clips of people being slapped across the face for a few bills, like in some kind of twisted social experiment. His voice remained eerily calm, as if he were stating an undeniable fact rather than delivering a sales pitch for something far more sinister. "You are drowning in debts that you cannot repay. When we first approached you, none of you believed us. But as you all know, we played a game, and you were compensated exactly as promised. That is why you stand here now. You chose to participate of your own free will."
Gihun felt an unpleasant weight settle in his chest. The way the masked man spoke, it was almost convincing. Almost. But no amount of rhetoric could erase the simple truth: none of them had come here because they had real choices left. They were here because they were desperate.
"I will now give you one final chance," the masked man continued. "Decide whether you wish to stay or leave. Do you want to return to your miserable lives and continue running endlessly from your creditors? Or will you seize the opportunity that has been placed before you?"
The silence stretched heavy in the air. Gihun swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The weight of so many eyes on him made his skin prickle, but he forced himself to speak.
"You said the winner will get a cash prize," he said, his voice rough, hoarse from both nerves and the dull pain still throbbing at the back of his head. "What happens to the losers?"
He would have liked to say that he met the masked man’s gaze with defiance, that he stood tall, demanding an answer without fear. But in truth, fear was creeping under his skin like ice, cold and paralyzing, pressing into his ribs, curling into the hollow space behind his heart.
"Players who lose will be eliminated from the game without receiving the prize," the masked man stated, his tone final, devoid of any emotion.
Gihun parted his lips, ready to push further, ready to demand real answers despite the thick sense of dread settling in his stomach. This man was being deliberately vague, carefully avoiding specifics, sidestepping the truth with words that sounded logical but meant nothing. But before he could speak, another voice cut through the tension.
"And what exactly are these games we’ll be playing?"
The speaker had a faint accent, one Gihun couldn’t immediately place. He turned his head slightly but couldn’t pick the man out from the sea of anxious faces.
"For fairness," the masked man replied smoothly, "we cannot disclose the details of each game until it begins."
A beat of silence.
"And how much money are we talking about?"
This time, it was Sangwoo who spoke. His voice held no trace of uncertainty, only measured and calculating skepticism as though he were still a businessman negotiating terms rather than a man trapped in a situation far beyond his control.
The masked man pressed a button on his remote.
From the ceiling, something began to descend. A massive, glowing piggy bank, illuminated by a warm golden light, hanging like a chandelier above their heads. At the same time, an upbeat, almost cheerful tune played through unseen speakers. Gihun had heard something similar before, in casino that few times his friends dragged him to try it.
Yeah. Whoever designed this had a very specific target audience in mind.
"After each game, the prize money will be deposited into this piggy bank," the masked man continued. "We will announce the current amount after the first game." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, "If you do not wish to participate, state it now." Gihun swore the masked man was looking straight at him.
Gihun didn’t want to play these games.
Three hundred and thirty million won in debt. A daughter flying off to America. A sick, aging mother waiting for him at home.
Gihun signed the contract which contained three simple clauses.
***
Gihun looked around with growing unease, trying to suppress the overwhelming urge to shout, I changed my mind! Not that he really changed his mind. But the deeper they walked into this maze of vibrant corridors, surrounded by faceless pink-clad guards, the more a creeping anxiety settled over him. There was also this irking desire—something restless, something impulsive—to do something. What exactly, he wasn’t sure.
They arrived at a checkpoint lined with screens and cameras. One by one, they were asked to step forward and follow the instructions displayed on the monitors.
The screen read "Smile!" in both Korean and English. A mechanical voice echoed the command at regular intervals, instructing each participant to look directly into the camera and to smile.
When it was his turn, Gihun forced a mild smile, listening for the click of the shutter. The small act of compliance helped him center himself. It helped him to pretend, if only for a moment, that this was nothing more than a routine procedure.
"Did you have a soulmate here too?" a woman’s whisper broke through the tense silence.
Player 306.
"Oh… yeah," Gihun answered hesitantly, glancing at her. "And you? What… what happened to yours?"
"I'm not sure. It was a field, and there was this giant doll… and all these people in the same suits." Her voice trembled, thick with something raw. "He died because of me. I didn’t even understand what was happening until it was too late."
Gihun swallowed, unsure how to respond.
"There are five other players," she continued, her voice low but urgent. "We all saw the same thing."
Gihun hesitated before replying. "Mine was… different." He shifted awkwardly. "I didn’t really grasp what was going on at first either, but it was Daksaum."
The second time Gihun had swapped bodies—the first time because of his soulmate—he had landed in an unfamiliar place. In front of him was a detached-looking woman in a bloodstained tracksuit, marked with the number 259. He had been crouched down, one hand gripping his own numb leg, though he barely registered it at first. Then the announcement came. It was a calm, dispassionate reminder of the rules of the Game. Gihun stood there, frozen in shock, his grip on the leg unconsciously tightening.
He had won completely by accident.
It was only in hindsight that he understood, that the swap wouldn't have happened if there hadn’t been something seriously wrong. Because he understood that the girl in front of him had been smaller than the body he was in, ans she was clearly unprepared for whatever this was.
She had fallen because he had shoved her.
And the moment she hit the floor, a pink-clad enforcer put a bullet through her head.
There had been no time to react. No time to scream, no time to lunge forward, no time to do anything before the announcement rang out: "Player 259 eliminated. Player 132 wins."
After those words Gihun was back.
Back in his own body, gasping, heart hammering, the phantom sensation of a dead girl's blood still clinging to his hands.
"Thank you for the information," she whispers gratefully, giving a small bow.
"You're welcome!" Gihun responds, stepping back into line, ready to continue toward the area where the first game will take place.
Gihun had no way of knowing if Inho was alive, but up until this moment, he had seriously suspected that, despite the horrors he had witnessed, Inho was still out there somewhere. But perhaps Inho really had died in 2015.
Gihun had heard from the stories of poor widows and widowers that the death of a soulmate, no matter what, leaves a deep wound in the soul. It was a feeling that lingered, even without the exchange. People described it in various ways: some spoke of a burning, itching sensation deep inside, others described it as a constant chill, but all mentioned the same overwhelming sense of emptiness, an emptiness that never faded.
Gihun thought that perhaps because they had never made a true connection in real life despite the exchanges, even after Inho’s death, he wouldn’t feel that profound sense of loss that others described. But somewhere deep inside, he knew Inho was alive, despite the absence of any evidence to support this after Hanuel's death.
They were led to green gates, which the soldiers opened for them, inviting them to step inside. Beyond the gates lay an enormous field with a giant doll standing in the distance. Thanks, Player 306.
Gihun slowly moved forward, careful not to slow the people behind him, when suddenly he spotted Player 218. Picking up the pace, he hurried toward him.
"Hey, Sangwoo!" he called out, raising his voice slightly as he approached. "I went to your mom’s store yesterday. She said everything’s fine with you and Julie, and that you two are in Iceland! What are you doing here? Is Julie okay?"
Sangwoo didn’t answer, avoiding Gihun's gaze, which only made Gihun press on. "You really got yourself into debt?" he asked, his voice rising slightly with concern.
"Let’s talk later," Sangwoo said, pursing his lips, clearly not wanting to be recognized or run into anyone he knew here.
"Speaking of that," Gihun leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "This place is dangerous. The losers get killed."
"What? How do you know that?" Sangwoo frowned, suddenly tense.
"My soulmate was here," Gihun grimaced. "Well, I think so. And not just mine."
Sangwoo's eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded cautiously, his gaze sweeping over the field with a new sense of wariness.
"Welcome to the first game!" a cheerful mechanical voice suddenly announced, and the gates slammed shut behind them with a loud bang. It felt as though a trap had been sprung. "The first game is called 'The Hibiscus Flower Blooms.' You may move forward while the doll sings. Participants who continue moving after the song ends will be eliminated from the game."
A whisper ripples through the crowd of players, the mechanical voice repeating the rules of the children's game once again.
"The game will last for five minutes. The winners will be the players who reach the finish line within this time," the voice announces, followed by the sharp click of a timer starting its countdown. "The game has begun!"
A cheerful children's song begins to play, and the crowd slowly starts moving forward. Gihun takes his first steps carefully, not rushing, moving with as much caution as he can muster. Two young men, barely over twenty judging by their looks, sprint ahead far too quickly, their eagerness to finish visible in their reckless pace. As the song comes to an end, the giant doll turns its head, and one of the young men, unable to stop in time, continues charging forward.
"Player 324 is eliminated," the mechanical voice announces.
A gunshot rings out, sharp and final. The crowd freezes, confusion and disbelief rippling through the group as they watch the player fall. Even the young man who had been closest to him, by his frantic shouting, doesn’t fully grasp what has just happened. The song begins again, and Gihun carefully steps forward, his legs stiff and trembling.
The music stops, and the Player 250, who had been leaning over the fallen body, starts to back away. A few seconds later, he bolts toward the gates in a desperate run. The tension is unbearable as everyone watches in horror, and then a shot rings out again. The fleeing player drops to the ground, his body limp.
Panic erupts across the field, the air thick with chaos, but still, they can’t move. Gihun stands frozen, fear rooting him to the spot, terrified that even the slightest movement might get him noticed. The mass of running bodies slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his heart pounds violently in his chest. The terrifying realization of his inevitable death floods over him, and suddenly, everything goes dark for a short yet eternally long second.
And just in a moment he is no longer on the field. He finds himself sitting on a soft couch, staring up at a massive screen in front of him. The same gates from the game are visible on the screen, and players in their green tracksuits are rushing toward them, desperately trying to escape the looming threat. The sound of gunfire comes into the room through the speaker.