Chapter Text
Gi-hun’s phone buzzes late one night. It’s an encrypted message from an unknown number—one he hasn’t seen before. His heart skips a beat when he opens it. There’s a video attached. His fingers tremble as he clicks it open.
The screen is dark at first. A heavy silence hangs in the air. Then, slowly, In-ho’s face comes into view. His features are bruised, cut, and his eyes—those deep, guarded eyes—are filled with a silent desperation.
In-ho speaks, his voice raw and strained but still unmistakably his.
In-ho’s Message (Video Transcript):
“Gi-hun…”
In-ho’s voice cracks before he continues, his breath ragged.
“Gi-hun, please. I... I don’t know how long I have. If you're seeing this... it means they’re watching you. They know you're looking for me. They want you to. They want you to make a move.”
His eyes flicker down, as if to catch his breath. There’s a visible wince as he shifts his position.
“Do not search for me. If you do, they’ll kill you. I’ll never see you again.”
His voice breaks, but he forces himself to continue, his hands trembling.
“I can’t—I can’t lose you, Gi-hun. You’re the only thing that matters. I need you to hear me now, more than anything: please, stop. Stop searching for me. Don’t be a hero, Gi-hun.”
The camera shakes slightly, and In-ho’s lips tremble as if he’s about to break. He clenches his jaw and looks directly into the lens, his gaze fierce but filled with sorrow.
“This—this is more than the game”
He pulls back slightly, his face more distorted from the pain now, the faintest hint of a sob threatening to spill.
“I love you. And that’s why I’m asking you... don’t search for me. I can’t lose you too. Please.”
The video cuts off abruptly. Gi-hun stares at the screen, paralyzed. His fingers are frozen on the screen, unable to process the words. His breath catches in his throat. The pleading in In-ho’s eyes... it’s too much. Too much.
He knows In-ho. For him to beg, to make a sacrifice this big—it made Gi-hun’s blood drain from his heart.
But Gi-hun’s instinct is to fight. He knows the games, knows the lengths they’ll go to. And the instinctive reaction is there: He can’t leave In-ho. He won’t leave him.
Torture
Gi-hun starts preparing, gathering information. He’s going to find him. He has to. In-ho’s warnings might weigh on him, but they won’t stop him.
But then, in the middle of his search, another encrypted file drops into his inbox. He opens it without thinking. The video starts.
This time, the scene is different. It’s dark. There are sounds—faint, muffled cries in the background. And then, the unmistakable sound of In-ho’s voice . Weak, breathless, painful.
In-ho is tied to a chair, his body bloodied and battered, but it’s his eyes—those eyes that had always been fierce and strong—that shatter Gi-hun’s heart. They’re wide in agony, but the moment he sees the camera, he tries to steady himself.
“Gi-hun…” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Don’t… I… please. Don’t do look for me. It’s not worth it.”
The sound of a sharp slap echoes through the video, and In-ho grits his teeth, refusing to make a sound. But his face twists in pain, and Gi-hun’s heart fractures.
“Stop. Don’t search. Please …”
Another blow lands, and this time In-ho can’t hold back the sharp intake of breath, his body jerking in the chair.
“If you keep going—if you keep looking—they won’t stop. Please… I love you. Stop .”
The camera zooms in on his bruised face, his lip trembling with the effort to hold back tears.
“I... I can't. Don’t... don’t do this.”
Gi-hun drops the phone, his hands shaking violently. His legs give out, and he crashes to the floor, the image of In-ho’s tortured face burned into his mind. He can’t breathe. His chest is tight with a suffocating weight.
He thought he could do this—he thought he could fight for him, for them. But this... this is different. This isn’t just a game anymore. It’s a battle of survival, and In-ho’s already paying the price.
He pulls his knees to his chest, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. His hand instinctively reaches for the phone again, but he stops.
In-ho’s words echo in his mind. This is more than the game.
Gi-hun can feel the weight of the decision pressing on him, the crushing reality that if he doesn’t stop, it’ll all be over. He can’t lose In-ho. Not like this.
Slowly, he wipes his eyes. The pain cuts so deeply that he can’t breathe properly, but he knows what he has to do.
He takes a long, shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I swear I’ll find a way to get you back. You’re not alone. I’ll never leave you alone.”
Gi-hun shuts his eyes, the decision suffocating him with its weight. He stares at the message on his screen. In-ho’s words, his love, his sacrifice.
The only thing Gi-hun can do now is try to keep them both alive, even if it means holding back the urge to search, to fight, to fix it . The most difficult thing he’s ever done is sitting still. But he’ll do it, because he loves In-ho. And if it means In-ho’s safety, then that’s the price he’ll pay.
YEARS
The passage of time has eroded Gi-hun, left him hollow and worn, as though he’s been carved out by years of suffering and the absence of the man he loved. His body moves through the days like a shadow—he wakes, he eats, he exists, but there’s no spark left in him. He holds onto the routines of the found family he’s managed to rebuild after the game, but even their presence feels like a distant echo, a life that’s not his own anymore. Jung-bae and Dae-ho come by often, always checking in on him, pushing him to eat, to smile, to be part of their lives in whatever way he can. Geum-ja, ever nurturing, fusses over him like a mother would, coaxing him into joining her for dinners, taking him out for walks even when he’s barely speaking.
He’s samchong to Jun-hee’s daughter, a soft, lingering reminder of the bond he and In-ho shared with her during the game, In-ho especially favored her as she reminded him of his later wife, though even that feels like a weight he can’t bear.
He’s still appa to Ga-yeong, who holds onto him from afar as she starts university. She was one of In-ho’s biggest fans, and her confusion at his absence has only numbed him more over time. For years, she begged to know what had happened to In-ho, finally deciding to accept Gi-hun’s explanation that he had joined the Korean military as an officer and been stationed somewhere with high national security clearance. Ga-yeong knew their separation broke her fathers heart, but she doesn’t know the depth of his grief—none of them do. They know he’s broken, but they don’t know how deep it runs.
Every day, he wakes up, and the first thought that gnaws at him is In-ho. His name is like a prayer, a whispered hope, a curse. What is he doing now? Is he alive? Is he still suffering? Or has it all ended? Has In-ho found some peace, some way to survive the silence, the years of torment? Gi-hun doesn’t know. But the silence— that silence—has become a cruel comfort. For years now, there’s been nothing, no more messages, no more files, no more screams. And that... that is enough for Gi-hun, for now. It means In-ho is alive. That’s all he allows himself to believe.
The moments he spends with their found family are a blur. His smile is gone, replaced by a distant, hollow stare. But they keep pulling him back in, pulling him out of the fog just enough to keep him tethered. He’s not alone, not really. Not physically. But emotionally? Emotionally, he’s dead. Every day is a blur of fleeting memories of a life that feels out of reach.
He feels a pang in his chest—an ache that never goes away. He tells himself that In-ho would have wanted him to keep going, to live, to care for these people who need him. But it’s a struggle. Every morning, it feels like it’s just a bit harder to put one foot in front of the other. The days stretch on, empty and lonely, and he wonders if this is what it means to keep living after you’ve lost everything.
It’s late, and Gi-hun is sitting alone at his small kitchen table, staring at the cup of cold tea in front of him. His hands tremble slightly, the only sign of life left in him. His eyes flicker toward the stack of unopened letters on the counter, the bills and messages that are all so meaningless now. They were just things —things he no longer had the energy to deal with.
The silence presses in. The house feels emptier than it should, even though it’s full of life. He can hear Geum-ja laughing with Jung-bae in the other room, their voices a distant comfort. But even their presence can’t bridge the gap between him and the world. Between him and the man who should be beside him.
He hasn’t heard from In-ho in so long. Years. The thought still catches him off guard sometimes, like it hasn’t quite sunk in that there’s been no word, no message, no indication of what’s been happening in that dark world where In-ho was trapped.
Gi-hun clenches his fists around the teacup. His heart aches with a quiet desperation, a hollow feeling in his chest that he’s carried for so long it’s become part of him now.
“Please…” He whispers, though he doesn’t know who he’s asking. Himself? The universe? “Just… let him be okay.”
A quiet, almost imperceptible noise at the door startles him. His head jerks up, as it always does when there’s a knock at the door, his heart racing for a brief moment as his body tenses. Could it be? Could it possibly be...?
No. The reality crashes back in before he can even rise from his seat. It’s just the wind outside. A distant car passing by.
Gi-hun drops his head back to his chest, closing his eyes. The tears come without warning, trickling down his face in a silent, heavy stream. It feels like a release, but also like another wound opening up. How much longer can he live like this? How much longer can he keep pretending that silence means safety, that the lack of messages means the pain has stopped?
In his heart, he knows it’s a lie. He knows the silence doesn’t mean peace—it only means they’ve stopped playing the game. But the ache, the unanswered questions, are like chains that weigh him down, make it harder and harder to keep moving forward.
Another Threat
Gi-hun is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, mindlessly tracing the contours of the old scar on his arm from the games. His phone is on the nightstand, still silent. He hasn’t checked it in days.
But then, unexpectedly, the screen lights up.
His breath catches as he sees it. Another encrypted file. His fingers move almost of their own accord, trembling, as he opens it.
The video starts. It’s a man—someone wearing a black mask, their voice altered.
And then, a soft, familiar sound that nearly stops his heart.
In-ho’s voice.
Gi-hun's breath hitches. The warmth of hope sparks in his chest. But the words—In-ho’s words—are not the ones Gi-hun has longed for.
It’s a command. A plea. A final message.
The video cuts off just as quickly as it began. Gi-hun doesn’t have to watch any longer to know. The words burn into him:
“ Do not look for me. Do not come. I need you to live. ”
The silence falls again.