Chapter Text
Mingle was In-ho's personal addition to the games.
It was something of a tradition for a newly appointed Host -- certain games circulated every decade or so, after enough time went by that past VIPs lost interest in watching the scum of the earth murder each other in creative ways and a new circle of investors joined. Red light green light was a South Korean classic, of course. Premiered as the very first game in the very first games, iconic, untouchable, a prime setting for wealthy viewers to enjoy the terror and panic of their horses when the first shot was fired, the first splatter of red stained the deceptively innocent arena as Young-Hee looked on with a smile, smug that she had bested her 'friends' on the playground.
But to keep the idea of the games so attractive, so thrillingly forbidden, a new Host was expected to display his capability by developing a game to make the others pale in comparison. Some new horror that twisted the laws of morality and decency so completely that its creator could never go back. For the pink soldiers, leaving was an option, albeit one discouraged with threats and regulations. A single hint that a former employee intended to reveal the secrets of the games meant instant termination - and so the workers who left kept quiet, and in exchange received their payment and an opportunity to move on from their time spent exterminating the vermin. Even for the Front man, there was some form of escape - nothing so generous as offered to the soldiers, but In-ho had heard whispers of his predecessors fate. Found dead in his lavish apartment with his wrists slit, it could have easily been a quiet murder disguised as a suicide, but In-ho knew better. The Games didn't kill quietly, and they didn't kill without reason. This man had taken his own life - and in exchange for his years of service as Front man, Il-nam left the man's poorly-kept secret son unharmed. Death was the only route a Front man could take to voluntarily end his service.
The role of Host was different.
A Host's life was the games - there was none of the distinction In-ho had come to seek comfort in during his time as the Front man. No way to bury his one week every year spent as the commander of hell deep in the darkest parts of his mind, far away from the him he showed to Jun-ho in those rare moments on the mainland when he could ignore his guilt for long enough to call his little brother. As Host, In-ho didn't have the luxury of separating his two worlds. As Host, it was no longer possible for In-ho to delude himself into believing, even for a second, that he was deserving of Jun-ho's light, of his concern and sadness that burned a hole in In-ho's being. Oh, Jun-ho. Don't waste your time worrying for a dead man.
In-ho had known from his first day as Front man that he would become the Host one day. Not every Front man did -- like the man who killed himself, or the slew of others who were unwilling to take the final step into becoming creatures of the Games. But Il-nam had been weak, even then, and had made it clear to In-ho that his elevation from winner to Front man, skipping three ranks of pink soldiers, was conditional upon In-ho overseeing the Games until his natural demise. And In-ho had agreed, because there was no choice, not really. There hadn't been a choice from the moment he killed a man for the first time, in the flickering lights and chaos of the "special" game, when there was nothing but chaos and desperation and blood.
If a Host had been so weak as that Front man was who prematurely ended his service to the games through suicide, there would be no mercy for his family. And in a cruelly kind way, the creation of a new game was a way for the Games to prepare the incoming Host for these expectations. So as In-ho stood in Il-nam's hospital room beside the corpse that killed thousands, watching through the window as the snow slowly drifted to the ground before the night sky, he knew that there would be no going back. No pills, or guns, or nooses would save him now, because if new Host Hwang In-ho chose the fast road to hell, the games would slaughter his little brother soon after, and Jun-ho's mother with him. His little brother, who was still alive by a miracle despite what In-ho had done to him. No amount of dead players through In-ho's orchestrations would ever make him more of a monster in his own dead eyes than what he had been forced to put Jun-ho through to give him a small chance at survival. His hand trembled when he aimed the gun at Jun-ho - had his brother seen? Had he seen his brief moment of weakness, the flash of despair in his cold eyes as he looked upon the young man who was the entirety of his remaining family? Jun-ho had asked him, 'why?'
In-ho would never see his little brother again. The fact kept hitting him, in waves of grief -- he could keep tabs on Jun-ho, send men to keep him out of harms way, but he could never hug him, or laugh with him, or stand by his side at his wedding, or dote on his children.
The Host didn't have a family. The Host had only the Games, and the Games were everything.
A notebook, bound in black leather, lay beside Il-nam's bed, and In-ho reached for it. His hands didn't tremble anymore. A terrible game built itself in his mind, brick by brick, stuck together with a mortar made from blood and bone and a trowel fashioned from bitter, beautiful memories. He wrote down five numbers, one at a time with firm strokes, picturing groups of pathetic creatures clinging together for some false semblance of comfort. Hyung! He remembers a five-year-old Jun-ho run to him, fascinated with his new science class. Didya know that beavers mate for life? They form little groups and live in a hut of sticks and mud! He had laughed, and In-ho's heart had melted. They're always together, Hyung! Just like us! He wrinkled his nose. 'But we don't live in a mud hut. That would be awesome!'
With each number he thought of Jun-ho, the child beaming at In-ho as he proudly presented full marks on his test, the young man lying half-dead in the hospital with failing kidneys and his entire life ahead of him, the newborn infant wailing in In-ho's arms as his older brother vowed to protect him forever. He held each scene in his mind, basked in the warmth and innocence of the moment, before letting it crumble to pieces. He ripped the paper out of the notebook and placed it in Il-nam's dead hands where the Games would find it, letting cold fingers grasp the last step of In-ho's undoing. He left his mask lying on the ground, it's emotionless face mirroring Il-nam's as death twisted the old man's features into an expression of undeserved peace from the torments of the living.
Would the masses of fallen players meet him with vengeance at the gates of hell? In-ho hoped so.
He turned and walked away without a backwards glance.
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Mingle.
Mingle would ultimately appear in two Squid Games total. Once, in In-ho's first year as Host. Again, as a last-minute change to further manipulate returning winner Seong Gi-hun two years later.
The first time, it was a resounding success, a thrilling confirmation to the VIPs of In-ho's talent -- perhaps surpassing even that of the legend Oh-Il-nam.
The second time, In-ho nearly lost everything.