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Everybody else is asleep. Gi-hun studies the way their bodies rise and fall as they breathe. Some rest peacefully, lying as still as stones, while others toss and turn as nightmares – doused and dripping with blood – haunt them. Thankfully, none of Gi-hun’s friends seem to be plagued by carmine dreams.
He listens (digging through the quiet snores and muffled whimpers) for any unusual movements, such as approaching footsteps that carry murderous intentions. There is nothing. All the other players are resting, gathering energy for the next dreadful day and the deadly game it brings.
Gi-hun dutifully keeps watch, sitting down with his friends sleeping safely behind him as he surveys the dormitory, ready to leap up and defend at the first flickering hint of danger. The threat could come from the pink-suited guards or – more likely – other players. Desperate ones who hunger for money, in the way a dehydrated man thirsts for a singular drop of water that is unable to properly cure his affliction, and are willing to do anything – even kill – for it.
Gi-hun won’t allow himself to relax. He has to protect his friends. More blood on his already scarlet-stained conscience would plunge him into unbearable grief and drag him down into his patiently waiting grave. He has to stop these games and the inhumane cruelty that festers within them like sticky maggots in a decaying corpse. He has to reunite with the Front Man and–
“Aren’t you tired?”
Young-il’s voice, deep and husky, startles Gi-hun and he suppresses the urge to flinch. Every move Young-il makes is elegant and purposeful; with that characteristic grace, he sits down next to Gi-hun and fixes him with an affectionate yet scrutinising stare. He’s close – their legs are touching (Gi-hun doesn’t mind it at all). Despite how warm Young-il is, Gi-hun wants to shiver at the physical contact.
Hanging from the ceiling, the huge piggy bank (filled with blood money) emits a weak golden glow and faintly illuminates the dark dormitory. Underneath the light, Young-il – a naturally handsome man – looks ethereal, like an angel that has fallen from heaven and landed on the devilish earth.
“I’m fine,” Gi-hun says with a gentle smile (that Young-il always manages to pull out of him), “You should go back to bed.”
He’s lying and his voice, tinged with exhaustion, betrays him.
Young-il is no fool. He sees clearly through Gi-hun’s obvious lie. Instead of calling him out, Young-il only makes a noise of consideration. Yet his gaze grows more intense. Gi-hun can’t tell if it’s meant to be a challenge or something else. Either way, he won’t back down; he stares right back and his smile fades away. For a short moment that feels like an immeasurable eternity, the two men observe each other as the rippling silence stretches beyond them.
Still maintaining eye contact, Young-il asks, “Why do you insist that someone keeps watch?”
Painful memories resurface in Gi-hun’s mind: flashing lights, terrified screams, grappling bodies and the acrid scent of blood. Briefly, he’s transported back to that awful event and his heart pounds erratically in his chest.
Choking down his fear and steadying his heartbeat, Gi-hun says, “When I played before, some players tried to kill others to increase the prize money. We keep watch to prevent that from happening again.”
“That’s terrible,” Young-il says. There is no revulsion in his tone. Only flat acceptance.
A small spark of irritation flares up in Gi-hun. How can Young-il not be outraged at all these atrocities? His vexation must show on his face because – for some reason – Young-il’s lips narrowly twitch with an unidentifiable emotion. Gi-hun watches the peculiar and borderline hypnotic movement with total captivation. Even after the time they’ve spent together, Young-il remains an enigma; Gi-hun wants to understand him.
“You want to protect everyone, right?” Young-il asks.
Slowly, Gi-hun nods. Of course he wants to save as many people as possible – whether it’s from their fatal greed or the barbarity of the games.
“Why? People who kill others just for more money are trash. It’s better to let them die,” Young-il harshly claims: an obvious attempt at provoking Gi-hun.
Irritation mutates into indignant rage. Gi-hun feels it, roaring like an insatiable wildfire, in every crevice and corner of his body; he clenches his fists until his nails stab into his palms and leans closer to Young-il, disrespecting his personal space. In response, Young-il’s lips upturn into an inappropriately amused smirk. Immediately, he tries to conceal it with a frown, but Gi-hun won’t be so easily deceived. His frustration and fascination with Young-il grows.
Containing his anger so that he doesn’t shout (waking the entire room), Gi-hun sternly whispers, “Don’t you dare say that. They’re human beings, just like you and me. No matter what they’ve done, they don’t deserve to be slaughtered here like animals.”
Young-il meekly says, “I’m sorry, Gi-hun. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to understand you.”
Gi-hun’s feelings are requited. Both of them yearn to peel back the outer layers of the other until the tender truth, waiting at the centre, is revealed. Like a pair of budding lovers, they want to understand each other.
With the revelation, Gi-hun’s blazing rage dissipates into black ash and delicate affection. He gives Young-il another gentle smile – a sign of his forgiveness.
A sudden urge to reach out and gingerly caress Young-il’s hair seizes him; Gi-hun frantically stamps it down. But that doesn’t stop his fingers from itching with the dazzling fantasy of running through Young-il’s velvety hair.
(An image runs unbidden through his mind: Young-il’s wife – with her sickly complexion and belly swollen with a baby – weeping as she wonders where her husband has disappeared to. She desperately prays, to whatever god she believes in, that he will come back to her and their child unharmed.)
Young-il unexpectedly asks, “What about your worst enemy?”
His interrogation has taken a strange turn. This is territory that Gi-hun is reluctant to broach with Young-il. He’s scared of vulnerability. Scared of opening the lonely cage of his heart – with its rusty bars, crumbling foundation and bloodstained walls – and admitting a new prisoner.
However, if he wants their relationship to be mutual, to understand Young-il and be understood in turn, he has to answer the abstract and invasive question. Despite knowing how terrible his love is, Gi-hun wants to do it; he wants to let Young-il in.
So, he swallows his trepidation and says, “What do you mean?”
“I’m assuming he’s the one in charge of these games. Every single year, hundreds die because of him. Does he deserve to be slaughtered like an animal?” Young-il rambles with a thinly veiled eagerness, an overwhelming desire (so much so that he – an apparent master at controlling his emotions – struggles to restrain it) to know. It’s as if Gi-hun’s response is as valuable to him as oxygen.
More than anything, Gi-hun wants to hurt the Front Man. He yearns to have him pinned underneath, squirming and writhing in agony, as Gi-hun ravages him with revenge and justice for all the people who have been wrongfully murdered in his abhorrent games. In his most deranged dreams, Gi-hun lifts his crimson hands – glistening with the Front Man’s beautiful blood – to his mouth and obscenely licks them clean. The taste is as sweet as dalgona.
But Gi-hun doesn’t want to kill the Front Man. It wouldn’t achieve his goal (his sole reason for living) of destroying the games; a new manager – perhaps one more sadistic and cruelly creative than their predecessor – would simply be appointed.
That’s not the same as the Front Man not deserving to die, though.
Breaking his intimate eye contact with Young-il, Gi-hun answers honestly, “I don’t know.”
Young-il’s disappointment, expressed with a deep sigh, makes Gi-hun feel a swell of shame. It vanishes, like a cloud of wispy smoke, as Gi-hun stares across the dormitory at the shifting shadows that linger on the other side. Within the darkness, Gi-hun imagines the Front Man – perfectly blending in with his sleek all-black attire – lurking there and staring back.
Gi-hun blinks and the Front Man is gone.
“I’ll find him. No matter what it takes, I’ll find him. I won’t rest until I do,” Gi-hun resolutely mumbles to himself.
“It sounds like you’re obsessed with him,” Young-il jests with a small chuckle.
Gi-hun scoffs at the ridiculous notion. Yet the idea stays with him; he takes it into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue – the taste is nauseating. Nevertheless, Gi-hun continues to chew and suck on the concept until he’s reached a distasteful conclusion.
“I suppose I am,” he quietly admits.
A heavy beat of silence passes and Gi-hun worries about Young-il’s reaction.
Suddenly, his strong, warm hands shoot out and trap Gi-hun’s face in a powerful grip. With much more force than necessary, Young-il turns Gi-hun’s head until their eyes are reunited in an all-consuming gaze. The unexpected action shakes Gi-hun to his core. Young-il seems similarly affected by Gi-hun’s sinful confession. His eyes are completely devoid of light – two voracious black holes embedded in his handsome face – and his expression is dangerously delighted.
Vulgar pangs of satisfaction flow through Gi-hun. Finally, Young-il’s mask is slipping and Gi-hun will get to witness what hides beneath.
One of Young-il’s sturdy hands comes to rest on Gi-hun’s thigh. Even through his clothes, he can feel the searing warmth. Young-il is a man on fire – a burning pyre in human form – and his heat is contagious. Gi-hun is set ablaze with their mutual passion.
All of Gi-hun’s attention is devoted to Young-il, an offering on his sacred altar.
“Say it again,” Young-il begs with the fervour of a dying man asking his god for more time, “Say you’re obsessed with him again. Please.”
This strange fixation he has on Gi-hun’s relationship with the Front Man is puzzling and incredibly suspicious. But those enchanting eyes and that sonorous voice leave Gi-hun with no other option but to grant Young-il’s prayer.
“I’m obsessed with him. I’m always thinking about him,” Gi-hun begins and the shameful truth uncontrollably bursts forth like a flood of cascading water, “Every night, when I’m trying to sleep, I see him standing in the corner of my room – watching me. When I finally fall asleep, he’s in my dreams as well. I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to hunting him down. After I’ve stopped him, I don’t know what I’ll do. I hate him and yet I’m utterly obsessed with him. I want to rip that hideous mask off and see the face that lies underneath. I want to understand him. I need to understand why does what he does and how he lives with the guilt.”
Just as he’s finished, Gi-hun is roughly shoved down to the cold, hard floor. Young-il crawls on top of him. Straddling him, Young-il traps Gi-hun beneath him like a wolf – salivating with hunger – pins a snow-white lamb underneath its sharp claws. Gi-hun makes no move to fight back – he willingly submits.
Young-il leans down until their ragged breaths mingle and intertwine into one intangible entity (Gi-hun wishes it was their bodies instead). On his face, Young-il wears a terrifyingly affectionate smile.
“You have no idea what you do to me. You’ve changed everything. I–” he cuts himself off with a choked noise as if he’s afraid of his own obsession.
Gi-hun is disappointed. He needs to know everything about Young-il; even the parts that the man perceives as rotten and crawling with flies.
With a shaky breath (that Gi-hun feels like an electric shock), Young-il desperately pleads, “You’ll be mine, right? I’m yours, all yours. So, in return, you’ll be mine. Promise?”
He already is. At this moment, there’s only Young-il and Young-il and Young-il. Everyone else – even the Front Man – has melted away into monotone insignificance.
“Yes,” Gi-hun promises.
Pure, unadulterated joy sparkles in Young-il’s black eyes – a radiant star within the infinite abyss. Gi-hun would happily drown in those gorgeous eyes.
Then, Young-il leans down further and captures him in a kiss. It’s desperate, frantic and disturbingly romantic. Both of them are trying to press into the other, to erase the pesky boundaries that separate them and fuse into one breathtakingly beautiful monster; they want to become one being so that they never have to part again. Never before has Gi-hun felt so loved and wanted.
Eventually, their lips part and Gi-hun aches.
“Come to bed,” Young-il whispers the command.
Previously, Young-il has only made requests or begged. Furthermore, he’s followed Gi-hun around like a little dog at the heels of its beloved master. Now Young-il is the one tugging on Gi-hun’s leash with a softly spoken command. Gi-hun doesn’t mind being the loyal dog or the loving master, as long as Young-il fulfils the other role.
So, he allows Young-il to pull him down onto an uncomfortable bed and cage him in a suffocating embrace.
Young-il is undeniably suspicious: eager to cheat on pregnant wife, unnaturally interested in Gi-hun’s opinion of the Front Man and obsessed with a man he’s only known for a few days (yet speaks as if they’ve known each other for years). But Gi-hun is a moth to the destructive flame. Unfortunately, he’s never lost his gambler’s fatal flaw – seduced easily by risk. Gi-hun wants to understand Young-il and all his bloodstained sins.
For the first time in years, Gi-hun isn’t haunted by nightmares of the Front Man parading around the mutilated corpses of his lost loved ones, their mouths screaming curses at him for killing them. Instead, he blissfully dreams of Young-il taking his hand and never ever letting go.