Chapter Text
The fragile hospitality that Sangwoo had so grudgingly extended to him was finally, unmistakably, coming to its end, especially with Inho’s unexpected appearance. In truth, Gihun had maybe a week left at most, if he was lucky. Sangwoo wasn’t going to throw him out onto the streets like a stray dog — that much Gihun could still trust — but even if he slowed down, even if for once the unending disasters that seemed magnetically attracted to him finally relented, even if he stopped dragging chaos, it didn’t matter anymore. Their friendship had been stretched too far, tested too cruelly, and though neither of them dared to say it outright, they were getting tired of each other.
He didn’t want to borrow money from Inho for rent. The thought alone left a sour taste in his mouth. Moving in together was even worse — or maybe it wasn’t. The infuriating truth was that some part of him did want to, desperately even, but the rational sliver of his mind screamed at him not to. It painted vivid images of the disaster it would become, two broken men colliding under one roof, dragging each other down into the undertow.
His dingy old house with peeling walls and a not-so-nice location, wasn't getting any takers. At least the debt collectors had stayed silent for now, though the interest kept ticking up in the background, gnawing away at whatever slim hope he still harboured for a fresh start. His bank account was a barren desert where even mirages didn’t bother appearing anymore.
As if all that wasn’t enough, through the haze of uneasy sleep, he felt it: a sharp, throbbing pain blossoming in one of his teeth. Fucking hell. Gihun wanted to hurl curses at the ceiling, at the couch he had crashed on, at the very world itself. Fuck. Maybe, he thought grimly, this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after all. If he was remembering correctly, Oh Ilnam had mentioned saying about making Inho take him to their family dentist. Maybe it was time to collect on some of those promises, to wring some privileges out of his man since everything had stopped falling apart.
The couch beneath him felt softer than usual, unnervingly so. Probably it was because he and Inho had finally talked, properly talked, like human beings instead of broken machines scraping against each other. Something inside him had unclenched since then, just enough to let him drift down into a deeper sleep, one not entirely guarded by tension and fear. Instinctively, Gihun reached out, groping across the sheets, expecting to find Inho’s solid presence there beside him, but his hand met only cold linen. His brow furrowed; a deep, uneasy frown pulled at his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, tried to shake off the sticky remnants of sleep, but they wouldn’t obey him. His eyelids felt glued shut, heavier than sandbags, as though sleep had wound itself around him like a python, refusing to let go.
He fought to blink, forcing his lashes to flutter against the oppressive weight, but no matter how many times he tried, the world stayed stubbornly dark. Panic began to unfurl inside him, slow and oily, like smoke filling a sealed room. Maybe this was all an elaborate ploy. Maybe Sangwoo had finally had enough. Maybe after learning that Gihun, against all logic and all pleading, had kept in contact with that asshole, had clung to the remnants of a toxic connection despite everything Sangwoo had done to pull him out, to give him even a sliver of a new life — maybe Sangwoo had called Inho. Maybe they had finally decided to do something about it.
It wasn't that far-fetched, when he really thought about it. Sangwoo had the ruthlessness for it, especially now, after all they had been through. Maybe he had asked Inho to drug Gihun while he slept, to get him out of the apartment without a scene, without one more confrontation that neither of them could survive. Maybe Inho had enthusiastically agreed, lured by Sangwoo’s grim sense of pragmatism, maybe even helped along by that damnable Saebyeok. Inho could have been baited Cheol easily enough; a few whispered promises about helping with homework.
But even as these paranoid fantasies spun faster and faster in his mind, even as he imagined betrayals and secret alliances forming behind his back, a tiny stubborn voice inside him refused to believe it. No. He was ninety-five percent sure they wouldn’t have done something like that.
Suddenly, as if right inside his ear, a deafening blast of classical music shattered the fragile boundary between sleep and wakefulness, and even with his eyes still squeezed shut, Gihun was assaulted by a blindingly harsh light that forced its way through his lids. He winced instinctively, his face scrunching up in discomfort, and after a few long seconds he finally managed to blink against the brightness. The first thing he planned to do was to grumble at Inho about what kind of deranged person set such a loud alarm, especially after the night they had had. Gihun’s mouth was already opening, the words forming clumsily on his dry tongue, but everything froze in his throat when his gaze lifted and landed not on the familiar ceiling of Sangwoo’s apartment, but on something utterly different, something colder, harsher, and terrifyingly unfamiliar.
This was definitely not Sangwoo’s place.
Gihun twisted his neck frantically, his heart already hammering against his ribs with a sickening urgency. All around him stood rows upon rows of cold metal bunk beds, stacked many levels high, the thin mattresses barely disguising their uncomfortable hardness. The room was massive, cavernous even, and packed to the brim with what must have been hundreds of people, all dressed in matching teal tracksuits emblazoned with numbers on their chests. The buzzing murmur of confusion was beginning to rise as more and more of them stirred, rubbing their eyes, craning their necks to make sense of their surroundings. Gihun, still lying flat on his back, felt a fresh surge of panic clawing up his spine as his eyes darted left and right. To his left was a heavyset man, snoring softly despite the cacophony, but when Gihun turned his head to the right, he caught sight of a woman lying across the narrow aisle from him, her gaze locked firmly onto his face with unsettling intensity.
"Do you need something, lady?" he asked gruffly, his voice cracking awkwardly as it struggled past his dry throat.
The woman in a tracksuit with the number 044, did not respond. Instead, she continued to stare at him with a strange, almost knowing look, her head resting nonchalantly against her palm as if she had all the time in the world. Gihun fought the urge to shudder. Something about her silent scrutiny made him feel exposed, as if she could see straight through the flimsy armor he wore to protect the battered mess of his soul.
Fine. Whatever. Deciding that he had enough to deal with already, Gihun pushed himself upright in bed, the thin blanket falling away to reveal his own tracksuit and the number 456 stitched neatly across his chest. Cute. Real cute. He brushed his hand over the patch as if that might make it disappear, but the patch stayed stubbornly under his palm. A dull, persistent ache in his jawline distracted him then, a nagging throb that he had been vaguely aware of even in sleep but now seemed to pulse more insistently with every heartbeat. Grimacing, Gihun slipped two fingers into his mouth, poking around gingerly until he found the source of the discomfort.
His fingertips brushed against a loose tooth.
A wave of nausea rolled through him as he prodded it carefully, horrified to feel it wobbling in its socket. Could things get any worse? Gihun scowled, his brows drawing together as he braced himself and nudged the tooth upwards. To his astonishment, it moved easily, painlessly, sliding out of his gums with barely a tug. Blinking rapidly, he pulled it free, his hand trembling as he stared at the thing cradled in his palm.
It was not just any tooth. It was a tooth with tiny metallic hooks curling from its base, and the inside was artificially hollow like he can store something really small in it.
What the actual hell.
Gihun glanced around. The music was still blaring, rattling his already frazzled nerves, but no one seemed to be paying him much attention. He tried once, twice, to jam the strange prosthetic back into his gum, but the sharp hooks scratched the inside of his cheek painfully, drawing a thin trickle of blood. With a frustrated grunt, he gave up, muttering a few choice curses under his breath. Fine. Fuck it. Maybe he would shove it under his pillow and hope the tooth fairy will come. He could use some cash.
Clutching the small, ridiculous thing tightly, he slid it under his thin, lumpy pillow, feeling absurdly childish but unwilling to leave it in the open. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, Gihun swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stood up. Around him, the sea of people wearing turquoise training suits was slowly gaining motion, people stumbling about in various stages of waking confusion, some wandering aimlessly, others grouping together in hushed, frantic conversations. It was a madhouse.
He took a few hesitant steps forward, weaving between the beds, trying to spot anything or anyone that might offer some explanation. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. A guard? A sign? Some official-looking asshole with a clipboard? Anything would have been better than this eerie, slow-motion panic fest.
"Player 456, I see you’re still clinging to so many things," said a voice, smooth and strange, almost musical in its cadence.
Gihun froze mid-step and turned sharply to see the same woman 044 from before standing there. Her dark eyes shimmered with an inscrutable glint, and there was a small, enigmatic smile playing about her lips.
"You cannot leave, but you cannot stay either," she continued, her tone as light as if she were commenting on the weather.
Gihun stared at her, incredulous. Was this some kind of elaborate prank? A psychological experiment? The words stung more than he cared to admit, hitting far too close to truths he wasn’t ready to face. Maybe a few days ago, it would have been an accurate accusation. Maybe even yesterday. But now? Now he had made choices, damn it. Even if those choices had left him half-blind and staggering into god-knew-what nightmare.
He opened his mouth to snap something back at her, but she only chuckled softly, the sound sending a chill crawling up his spine.
"Do not resist fate," she said, stepping closer until he could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the faint scar that slashed across her bottom lip. "Surrender yourself to it. The spirits of the lost hover around you, Player 456. They watch you. They weep for you. They yearn for the peace they were denied."
Gihun tilted his head slightly, the movement small but heavy with a burden he could not quite lift. The pain from losing his mother still gnawed at his insides with a vicious persistence. It was a hollow, festering ache that no amount of time would easily erase, and certainly not now, not in a place like this. For a moment, the words the woman had spoken about destiny resonated with him, their fatalistic tone fitting neatly into the puzzle of his battered life. After all, hadn't things just started to look up? Hadn't he believed, even briefly, that the worst was finally behind him? But now, here, her words took on a darker hue, souring into something bitter and cruel.
"You did not come here by your own will," the woman murmured, her voice weaving through the dense air like a whisper from some unseen grave. "Vengeful souls dragged you here..."
Gihun groaned aloud, throwing his head back as if appealing to whatever indifferent gods might be looking down on this absurd scene. "Fuck, is this seriously Sangwoo’s doing?" His voice cracked with disbelief and frustration, the name falling from his lips like an accusation. "We apologized, damn it! Wasn’t that enough for you?!"
The woman, still lounging casually on her cot with the ease of someone entirely detached from reality, tilted her head, smiling in a way that was neither comforting nor sane. "If we manage to escape," she said in a lilting tone that sent a cold shiver down Gihun’s spine, "I will perform a ceremony... to cleanse us."
"Hold on," Gihun barked, stepping closer, urgency knotting his muscles. "What do you mean 'if'?!" His voice rose above the restless murmur of the other captives. "Where the hell even are we?!"
But the woman only smiled again, that same maddening, cryptic curve of her lips, and without another word, she turned and disappeared into the aimless crowd. Gihun stood there, blinking after her, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer lunacy of it all. Chasing her down didn’t seem like the best idea. Not when she seemed more like a wandering schizophrenic than someone capable of providing real answers.
Instead, Gihun forced himself to focus on his surroundings. He was determined to get some bearings, to figure out if there was any logic—any clue—hidden within this place. slipped into the flow of people, his movements wary and uncertain. The entire room, cavernous and industrial, was a sea of metal bunks stacked like cages. Hundreds of people in matching tracksuits with numbered patches meandered around, their faces a mirror of Gihun's own confusion and barely contained fear.
The loud, grating classical music that had jolted them all awake cut off with a sharp, piercing tone, and in the sudden hush that followed, Gihun instinctively turned toward the massive steel doors embedded in the far wall. With a heavy, mechanical groan, they slid open. A new wave of dread rolled through the crowd as figures clad in identical pink jumpsuits and featureless black masks filed into the room. The one leading them bore a square symbol on his mask, while those following wore simple circles.
The square-masked figure stepped forward with mechanical precision and addressed them all in a voice so measured it sounded almost rehearsed.
"Allow me to warmly welcome you all. Over the next six days, you will participate in six games. Those who successfully complete all six games will receive a substantial monetary reward."
Games? What the hell kind of games could they be talking about?
Before Gihun could puzzle it out, a voice from somewhere in the crowd broke through the tense silence. It was an odd voice—too deep to belong comfortably to a woman, yet too soft and flexible to be fully masculine. It felt dissonant, strange enough that Gihun automatically turned to find the speaker, but the swarm of identical tracksuits offered no clarity.
"Excuse me," the voice said, firm but not aggressive. "You invited us to play a game, yet you practically kidnapped us. How are we supposed to trust you now?"
There was a slight pause. The masked figure bowed his head ever so slightly, a gesture so calculated it only increased Gihun’s unease. "We sincerely apologize. Please understand that it was a necessary measure to ensure the safety of the game."
Gihun's pulse eased, if only by a fraction. At least he wasn’t alone in being dragged here against his will. That meant there might be strength in numbers. Maybe they could figure something out together. That is, if this was actually some weird mass kidnapping and not a more personal vendetta targeted at him. A sudden, unwelcome thought wormed into his mind: could this be some twisted move by Inho’s enemies, trying to strike at him through Gihun?
As the thought took root, another voice chimed in from the crowd, sharper, tinged with suspicion. "And why are you all wearing masks? Are your faces supposed to be some big secret too?"
"Yeah," a man next to her added with a gruff snort. "What’s the point of hiding? Is this some underground gambling den or something?"
Underground gambling den? Now that sounded a hell of a lot more interesting. Gihun found himself perking up despite everything. He had never been to one before and it would at least make for a wild story to tell over drinks someday, assuming he made it out of here alive.
But the woman wasn’t finished. She jabbed a finger toward the masked men, her voice rising with every word. "Even underground casinos don't bother hiding their faces! What the hell are you trying to pull?"
The crowd, once a subdued mass of confusion, started to stir with growing agitation. Murmurs of agreement rose like a gathering storm, a low rumble of collective frustration. Gihun's stomach twisted. Was he seriously the only one here who hadn’t been to an underground casino before?
The masked figure didn't flinch at the increasing hostility. His voice remained eerily calm as he spoke again. "Please, everyone, remain calm. All your questions will be answered in due time. For now, we ask only that you trust in the process and prepare yourselves for the first game."
Trust. That was a hell of a thing to ask from a room full of terrified, kidnapped strangers.
Gihun shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling the hard concrete beneath his feet. There was no way out of this room that he could see—no windows, no ventilation shafts, nothing but the ominous steel doors through which the masked men had entered. The high ceiling loomed above, a skeletal network of girders and industrial lights casting a sterile, merciless glow over everything. They were trapped here, caged like animals, and whatever game these lunatics were planning, Gihun had the sinking feeling it was going to be far more dangerous than anything he could have imagined.
"To ensure a fair game and maintain confidentiality, the rules require all staff members to conceal their faces and identities. We ask for your understanding," explained the man with the square symbol firmly, his voice carrying an almost mechanical composure that only added to the surreal atmosphere. The Circles standing behind him remained utterly silent, their masked faces giving no hint of human emotion, like mannequins come to life for the sole purpose of enforcing obedience.
From somewhere in the restless crowd, a young girl raised her arm and shook the jacket of the tracksuit she wore, her expression a mix of indignation and disbelief. "Was it you who stripped me and dressed me in this crap?" she demanded, her voice sharp and high with outrage. "Give me back my own clothes! Or at least let me have one of those pink suits. This colour is a disaster on me."
Before the Square could respond, another voice chimed in, this one belonging to a boy with shockingly purple hair that looked almost neon under the artificial lights. He was brandishing a pair of cheap, plain sneakers like they were evidence in a court case. "And what the hell is this footwear?" he barked, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "Where are my limited edition sneakers? Those cost a fortune, man! You can’t find them anywhere anymore! What if you ruin them, huh?" His distress was so theatrical that even Gihun, in spite of the situation, couldn't help but wonder what brand of dye the kid used, because the purple saturation was so even compared to the red disaster he had endured when Saebyeok helped him dye his own hair.
The Square, however, remained unmoved. "Unfortunately, for the duration of the games, you are required to wear the provided uniform," he said, his tone clipped and final, leaving no room for negotiation. Gihun privately marveled at the level of preparation that had gone into this operation. Finding tracksuits that fit so well was no easy task for him; he usually had to hunt for hours just to find a set where the pant legs didn’t end awkwardly above his ankles. Maybe later he could figure out where they sourced these uniforms.
Meanwhile, another ripple of discontent was spreading through the crowd. A panicked-looking young man shoved his way to the front, practically tripping over his own feet in his urgency. "Where’s my phone?" he shouted hysterically, his voice cracking. "And my wallet? You took everything! Give them back right now!"
"Please remain calm. Your belongings are being kept safe," the Square answered with mechanical patience. "They will be returned to you after the conclusion of the games."
The boy, however, was beyond reasoning. "At least give me back my phone!" he cried, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I need to monitor the stock market...!"
Gihun, overhearing this, felt a pang of sympathy. He wouldn’t have minded having his own phone back either — not just to call Sangwoo and Inho, but also because he had daily quests to complete in his match-3 mobile game. He had only just clawed his way back into the Korean top rankings after months of obsessive playing. Even if he was barely clinging to the hundredth place, the competition was fierce, and missing a single day could send him plummeting.
Before the boy could launch into another tirade, the Square pressed a button on a sleek little remote in his hand. Immediately, the large screen behind him lit up with a video. On it, a grainy but recognizable scene played out: envelopes of ddakji clattered on the ground, and the very same boy was seen being slapped across the face, again and again, with grim persistence. The camera zoomed in on his bewildered, humiliated expression as the blows landed.
"Player 333, Lee Myunggi," the Square intoned, his voice cold and clinical as if reading from an indictment sheet. "Age: 30. Former video blogger operating under the channel name MG COIN. He persuaded his followers to invest heavily in a new cryptocurrency called Dalmatian, resulting in collective losses of over 15 billion won. Afterward, he vanished without a trace. Currently wanted for fraud and financial crimes. Outstanding debt: 1.8 billion won."
As the Square clicked through the remote again and again, more videos appeared on the screen, each showing a different participant enduring a similar barrage of slaps. Each new face was accompanied by a recitation of astronomical debts, shocking even to Gihun, who found himself whistling softly under his breath at the sheer magnitude of some of the numbers. They were, without a doubt, a collection of financial disasters — walking monuments to ruined lives and catastrophic bad luck.
Compared to them, Gihun thought grimly, he must look like a saint. Sure, he had debts too, but they probably only added up to around 40 million won by now, even factoring in the relentless interest. In this crowd of walking bankruptcies and broken promises, he was practically a dandelion puff blown about by fate, delicate and harmless.
Yet amidst the cascade of public shaming and the gnawing anxiety clawing at the back of his mind, a clearer picture began to form. This was no random kidnapping. It looked more and more like something orchestrated by loan sharks or collectors. Maybe it was even some bizarre form of enforcement by people who had long since given up on legal methods of debt recovery. Still, Gihun couldn't shake the lingering hope that Inho would not simply abandon him to such a fate.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Inho had tracked him down under "coincidental" circumstances. There had been the streetlamp incident, after all, where Inho had found him based solely on Gihun’s drunken, half-coherent description of a "light pole which is big, high and it has light."
And despite everything, despite the bruises left on his pride and the endless resentment tangled between them, Gihun couldn’t help but find a twisted kind of comfort in the thought. Because the alternative — that Inho might finally decide to "work on establishing healthy boundaries" after their late-night conversation — was too terrifying to contemplate right now. No, it would be better, infinitely better, if Inho stayed the obsessive, quietly stalking maniac he had always been. Just for a little while longer.
"When we first approached you, you didn't believe us either. But as you may recall, after playing a game with us and receiving the promised money..." the Square calmly continued, his voice even and unhurried, filling the tense air of the room.
"Can I get a video of me?" Gihun suddenly raised his hand high into the air, his voice cutting through the murmur like a blade. "I don't understand what you’re talking about."
A heavy silence fell over the room, thick and expectant. Even the restless shuffling of the players quieted as all eyes turned toward him. Some faces showed confusion, others thinly veiled irritation, but most simply stared in bafflement at the man who had dared to interrupt.
"You, Player 456, had a special round, and you know exactly what I’m referring to," the Square said after a beat, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I will not display that footage here, but rest assured, we have it."
Around him, many of the players began glancing at Gihun in open curiosity, some whispering behind their hands. Gihun felt his stomach tighten, a sour taste rising in his throat. His lips pressed into a thin line as he stared straight ahead, trying not to react too visibly. Was this some kind of delayed revenge for those forty-five million? He wouldn’t put it past Inho. Hell, he and Sangwoo might have cooked up something like this for sure.
"You have a video of that round?" Gihun practically spat the word "round," his voice rising into something close to scandalized outrage. "That asshole filmed it?!"
For a moment, his body thrummed with pure rage, a hand clenching into a tight fist at his side. If Inho had recorded anything without his consent, Gihun swore he would kill him. Wasn’t there a law about that? About filming people during sex without explicit permission? There had to be. His mind raced, searching for some legal ground to stand on even as dread curled coldly in his gut.
"Player 456, remain silent or you will be eliminated from the game," the Square said sharply, his voice cutting through Gihun’s spiraling thoughts like an axe. The warning wasn’t just procedural; there was a hard, almost personal edge to it that sent a shiver of unease down Gihun’s spine. A small, rebellious part of him wanted to keep talking, to hurl accusations and tear the entire charade apart. But a far more powerful, survival-driven part of him clenched his jaw shut. The idea that somewhere, somehow, someone might possess a gay porn starring him was enough to make Gihun reconsider every word before it left his mouth.
"Since all of you have voluntarily agreed to participate, we will give you one final chance to decide whether you wish to continue living like outcasts, constantly running from debt, or take advantage of this unique opportunity we are offering," the Square announced, his voice steady, his eyes sweeping across the gathered crowd with the dispassion of a judge handing down sentences. He pressed a button on the remote in his gloved hand, and a mechanical whir filled the room as something began to lower from the ceiling.
A massive, glass piggy bank descended slowly, catching the harsh lights and sending reflections skittering across the walls and floor. Gihun felt his breath catch in his throat. It was unmistakable — a giant, slightly ridiculous replica of the piggy bank Inho's father had given him for his eighteenth birthday Gihun stared up at it, his chest tightening with a flood of emotions he couldn't begin to sort out. Was this Inho’s idea of a joke for real?
"This is the piggy bank where your future winnings will be stored," the Square explained, his hand gesturing toward the giant glittering monstrosity as if unveiling a grand prize. "After each of the six games, the prize money inside will increase."
"How much will there be in the end?" asked a curly-haired man with glasses, pushing them up nervously as he spoke.
"The maximum winnings amount to forty-five billion six hundred million won," the Square replied without hesitation.
Around Gihun, the crowd buzzed, the low murmur of greed and hope intertwining with the sharper undercurrent of fear. But Gihun barely heard them. Every part of him was locked onto the notion that somehow, someway, this was orchestrated by Inho. That theory, as terrifying as it was, still brought him more comfort than the alternative — that he had been kidnapped by total strangers who knew him intimately enough to replicate tiny, deeply personal details from his life. The thought that it might really be Inho’s doing kept him grounded, gave him a sliver of hope, even as the rational part of his brain screamed at him that none of this was good.
Everything was tangled and complicated beyond belief. Gihun exhaled slowly, trying to steady the sudden trembling in his fingers. On top of everything else, the spot where he’d recently lost a tooth still ached miserably, a constant reminder of how far his life had spiraled out of control. He shoved a hand into his hair, seeking some familiar comfort in the gesture, only to freeze in horror. His fingers met nothing but the prickly, unfamiliar sensation of unfamiliar haircut.
His red hair he had painstakingly grown out and dyed with Saebyeok, splattering Sangwoo’s entire bathroom in the process — was gone. His heart lurched in his chest, a raw, helpless fury rising inside him at the casual violation.
All around him, the mass of players churned with restless energy, voices rising in overlapping waves of disbelief, anger, and frantic calculation. The Square's voice rose above them, crisp and commanding, detailing the structure of the games, the rules for distribution, and a surprising clause — after each game, the players would have a chance to vote whether they wished to continue. If the majority decided to quit, they would be released along with whatever money had been accumulated so far.
It was a strange, precarious system, and everything about it screamed danger. But hidden among the threats and promises, there were ways out if they played it right. If nothing else, the chance to vote suggested that they weren’t entirely powerless. That alone was something.
Gihun desperately clung to that fragile thread of hope, even as the ever-present sense of impending disaster gnawed at his insides. The wrongness of this place pressed against him from every direction, heavy and suffocating. But he shoved it down, shoved everything down — the fear, the anger, the overwhelming desire to scream and rip this entire setup apart with his bare hands. For now, he had to survive. For now, he had to play along. And if Inho really was behind this... well, they would be having a very, very long conversation once Gihun got his hands on him.
In the middle of the restless crowd, a commotion broke out as an elderly woman raised her voice, arguing animatedly with one of the guards. For a fleeting, painful second, Gihun’s chest tightened as he thought he saw his own mother standing there, frail but fierce, fighting against something she couldn't quite grasp. The illusion lasted only a moment before it shattered, and yet the echo of it lingered, gnawing at him with relentless sorrow. How many times had he disappointed her? How many times had she shouted at him in exasperation, only for Gihun to laugh it off or sulk like a child? Those days were over now. His mother would never scold him again. She was gone, and there was a gaping hole inside him that no amount of shouting or forgiveness could ever fill.
Inho had once spoken to him about addictions. In fact, they'd discussed it at length, far more than one would expect given how little actual time they had spent together when everything was counted up. And now, looking at the curly-haired man with thick glasses arguing heatedly near the front, Gihun felt a chill. He saw himself reflected there, all desperation and misplaced hope, and it terrified him. If this elaborate setup truly had Inho’s fingerprints on it—if this was some insane attempt to teach Gihun a lesson about money, about survival, about what people were willing to endure for even the smallest chance at a better life—then Gihun wasn't sure he could ever forgive him.
"If you wish to participate in the game, please sign the consent form. Those who do not wish to participate, please inform us now. We always provide a voluntary exit," came the calm but firm announcement from one of the Squares, his voice slicing cleanly through the murmur of the crowd.
Gihun tilted his head slightly and shuffled into one of the forming lines, the slow shuffle of resigned bodies all around him making the air feel heavier. The queues moved swiftly; most players barely glanced at the document before scrawling their signatures down with trembling hands. Some took a little longer, skimming the words with furrowed brows, but no one seemed brave enough to outright walk away.
When Gihun’s turn came, he refused to rush. He lowered his head and deliberately scanned the terms laid out before him, his fingers tightening instinctively around the pen.
- A player is not allowed to stop playing.
- A player who refuses to play will be eliminated.
- Games may be terminated if the majority agrees.
- If the majority players voted to end the game, they will receive equal shares of the current prize money.
At the bottom, there was a blank space left for the signature. Gihun’s eyes lingered there for a beat too long, his instincts screaming at him to run, to scream, to fight. On the surface, the rules didn't sound too horrifying, but the wrongness of it still gnawed at him, a rotting feeling in his gut he couldn’t shake off.
"Those who do not wish to participate, speak up now, and you will be eliminated from the game," the Square repeated, his voice level yet somehow brimming with unspoken threat. His gaze locked squarely onto Gihun, pinning him in place like a bug under glass.
Gihun’s rebellious spirit flared, as it always did when someone tried to box him into a corner. With a grimace, he pressed the pen harder against the paper and signed his name in a bold, defiant scrawl. Screw them. Let’s see if they could handle someone like him. And when he got out of here—because he would get out—he would sue the living hell out of them for this madness.
Once everyone had signed, they were led out of the massive hall in neat, controlled rows, moving like a human river through a labyrinth of colourful, dizzying staircases that seemed to twist and spiral into infinity. It was absurd. It was too much. No prank, no kidnapping operation could justify a place this grandiose and bizarre. Gihun tried not to think about it, focusing instead on following the silent instructions of the faceless staff that shepherded them along.
Soon they were funneled into a series of photo booths, pastel pinks and baby blues exploding in every direction, assaulting his senses with a sickly, saccharine cheerfulness. The words "Smile, please!" rang out again and again in mechanical, eerily pleasant tones. Gihun, blinking against the sudden brightness, forced a wide, hollow grin onto his face just as the flash went off, capturing him like an insect pinned inside a photo frame.
On the other side of the booths, where the already-photographed players were gathering into new lines, he re-joined the slow-moving tide of bodies. They were marched up another set of towering, winding staircases, each step sending a dull ache through his legs. Gihun glanced around, struggling to absorb it all—the surreal murals painted along the walls, the unnatural gleam of the banisters, the faintly chemical smell of the fresh paint.
"-Gihun!"
The sound of his name, called out with desperate familiarity, snapped him out of his daze. He turned sharply, his heart jumping into his throat. There, pushing through the line to reach him, was Park Jungbae, his old friend, his partner-in-crime during so many misspent years.
"Jungbae!" Gihun shouted back, unable to suppress a genuine smile. Relief, fleeting but powerful, rushed through him like a shot of adrenaline. He clapped Jungbae on the shoulder with a quick, affectionate pat, pulling him forward so they could continue moving without blocking the narrow staircase. It wasn't wide, but it was wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side.
"Where did you disappear to?" Jungbae asked, staring at him with disbelief, his gaze flickering across Gihun’s face as if trying to find something that might explain the sudden distance. Maybe Inho had spoiled Gihun's sense of comparison with his own unshakable charm, or maybe life had simply been too hard on Jungbae, but he looked worse for wear — paler and carrying an air of fatigue he hadn't worn before.
"Ah, I'm crashing at Sangwoo's place these days," Gihun said with a careless wave of his hand, trying to downplay it. "A lot piled up there... You know how it is. And... my mom..." At the mention of her, a lump suddenly rose in his throat, raw and heavy, making the words catch and stumble. He struggled for a moment, forcing a crooked smile as if that could smooth over the hurt. "And... I quit gambling too. For now, anyway. Successfully so far. What about you?"
Jungbae nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tightening in a show of sympathy. "Yeah... must've been rough," he said, his voice softening. He hesitated for a second, glancing away before meeting Gihun’s eyes again. "Still... it wasn’t great hearing all that from your ex-wife instead of you." His mouth pressed into a hard line, as if the words themselves had a bitter taste he couldn't quite spit out. "And how’s Sangwoo?"
"He's doing fine," Gihun answered quickly, eager to smooth over the awkwardness as he drifted along with the flow of people around them. "He even got married, can you believe it? You didn't hear?"
"Married? Our Sangwoo?" Jungbae's eyes widened so much it almost seemed comical, as if the idea alone was too outrageous to be real. "Who to?"
Gihun sighed and leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone. After all, Jungbae had been their mutual friend for so many years; he deserved to know, at least a part of it. "It's a complicated story," Gihun said, glancing around them before continuing. "She’s North Korean. Very young. And the marriage... well, it wasn’t exactly a love story. She needed to get her little brother out of the orphanage. That was the only way."
Jungbae blinked, looking genuinely thrown for a moment, before lightly slapping Gihun on the shoulder. "Wait a second. You mean Cheol?"
"You know about Cheol?" Gihun lifted an eyebrow, genuine surprise flashing across his face.
"Yeah, yeah," Jungbae said, laughing warmly, some of the tension easing from his features. "I've seen him around. Near Sangwoo’s mom’s stand. Smart little guy!"
"Really smart," Gihun said, smiling more naturally now. "Sangwoo enrolled him in some elite private school. One of those crazy places where the kids study everything under the sun. He’s doing great."
A short, cheerful laugh escaped Jungbae, the kind Gihun hadn't heard in what felt like forever, and for a moment it almost made him feel like they were back in simpler times, before everything got so tangled and heavy. "Honestly, Sangwoo got married… Can’t believe it. But now it sort of makes sense. I always thought he was... you know," Jungbae said, trailing off meaningfully, giving Gihun a look loaded with old, shared understandings. "One of those people."
Gihun narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but there was a teasing glint hidden underneath. "One of those people? What do you mean?"
"You know," Jungbae said, shrugging loosely as if it wasn't that big a deal. "Girls never seemed to interest him the way they did the rest of us. He was always thinking about money instead, dressing up all sharp like he was going somewhere important every damn day. We only put on a suit for weddings." He let out a small laugh and shook his head. "I mean, seriously, no real relationships, no marriage, nothing serious until he's nearly forty, and even now... this marriage sounds more like a formality."
Gihun laughed under his breath, but there was a sharp edge to it that he couldn’t quite smooth out. "You know," he said, a little too casually, "I'm one of those people too."
Jungbae stopped short for a second, looking at him with pure, unfiltered confusion. "What do you mean? By saying those people, I meant I think Sangwoo is gay."
"No, no. Well, no, of course I'm not gay. I'm bisexual." He stressed the last word, almost daring Jungbae to question it.
For a second, there was only the hum of the crowd around them. Gihun watched Jungbae closely, searching his face for any flicker of discomfort, anger, or rejection. After the careless, cruel way Inho had once thrown comments how he should not to expect tolerance even from places he thought were safe or from people he loved.
But Jungbae didn’t flinch. He didn’t glare. If anything, he just looked confused, maybe a little surprised, but not hateful.
"Bi, huh?" Jungbae repeated thoughtfully, more curious than judgmental, like he was simply updating a file in his head. He gave a small, accepting nod. "Well, alright then."
Gihun breathed out, the tension bleeding from his shoulders, and allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. I even kinda have a boyfriend. Well... it's complicated. We're not really dating, dating. It’s a messy situation, but... it’s something."
"Oh man, life really dragged you through the mud," Jungbae whistled, stunned, shaking his head slowly as if trying to absorb the sheer weight of what Gihun had gone through. His face twisted into a half-grimace, half-sympathetic frown, the kind of expression old friends shared when words weren't enough. "Me? I ended up divorcing my wife," he added after a beat, his voice oddly light, as if trying to make it sound less devastating than it clearly was.
"Shit," Gihun muttered under his breath, the word slipping out before he could think to soften it. He had known they fought, sure — but a full-on divorce? Somehow, he hadn’t expected that. Their bickering always seemed survivable, almost familiar, like background noise. "And your daughter? Who's she with?" Gihun asked, his voice lowering instinctively, as if afraid that even the question might bring more pain.
"With her," Jungbae exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging with a kind of quiet defeat that Gihun recognized all too well. It wasn't just the divorce that had worn him down. It was the loneliness that came after, the constant gnawing feeling of having lost a part of your life you thought was permanent.
"Well, at least she's not in the U.S.," Gihun said, offering a small, sad smile in an attempt to find a silver lining, no matter how thin. "And believe me, from my own experience — a wife is temporary, but an ex-wife is forever. You'll be fine. Really. And we absolutely have to grab a drink together sometime. It’s criminal we haven't already."
It was strange. They had only been out of touch for a few months —the last time they'd even laid eyes on each other had been at his mother’s funeral few months ago. Yet standing here now, talking like this, it felt like it had been years, like life had stretched and hardened them both in ways that were only visible now.
Their line shuffled forward slowly, the mass of people trudging ahead until they came to a halt at a set of green gates. Beyond the gates stretched what appeared to be a wide-open field, flat and unnervingly empty with a giant doll and trees on the other side along with pink masked people. Just as Gihun opened his mouth to comment, a robotic announcement crackled over hidden speakers, the voice oddly cheerful yet cold, like something you might hear at a train station. It instructed them to wait.
"This place is completely nuts," Gihun said, tilting his head back to squint at the sky. It was broad and blue overhead, the sun beaming down with an almost uncomfortable brightness. For February, it was bizarrely warm, the air carrying a faint, sticky heaviness that made his clothes cling awkwardly to his skin. Nothing about today felt normal, not the weather, not the field, not the strange tension crawling over the gathered crowd.
"Let’s stick together," Jungbae suggested, nudging him lightly in the side. There was something too casual in the way he said it, as if trying to mask the growing unease that Gihun could feel mirrored in himself.
"Of course!" Gihun said, flashing a grin that he hoped looked more confident than he felt. In truth, with everything that had happened lately, he had lost most of the connections he once took for granted. Friends, family, even casual acquaintances — they had all drifted away, like boats untethered in a storm. Having Jungbae here was a small anchor in a churning sea.
The gates slammed shut behind them with a metallic clang that was far louder than it needed to be, the sound jolting through Gihun’s bones. It seemed they were being kept there deliberately, standing in the open for far longer than was comfortable. No one offered explanations. No one came forward to greet them. Instead, murmurs started rising from the crowd, growing louder with each passing minute, frustration mixing with anxiety until it bubbled over into shouted demands for answers. But before the unrest could truly swell, the robotic voice returned, crackling back to life.
"Dear players," it began, the voice bright, almost chipper, "welcome to the first game. It is called Red Light, Green Light. The rules of this game are simple. You may move forward while the doll sings. Participants who continue moving after the song ends will be eliminated from the game. The game will last for five minutes. The winners will be the players who reach the finish line within this time."
Gihun blinked, frowning as the words sank in.
The rules were repeated once more, slower this time, almost patronizingly, as if they were children who might not understand without careful enunciation. Then came a sharp, mechanical click — a sound unmistakable as the start of a timer — and the announcement concluded in a slightly distorted voice:
"The game has begun!"
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the crowd began to move forward in unison, a strange, awkward migration across the barren field. Gihun found himself swept along with them, his legs moving almost automatically to the rhythm of a strange, childish song playing in the distance. It was absurd. Surreal. Like something out of a dream that would turn, at any moment, into a nightmare.
But it wasn't so bad at first. Gihun managed a steady pace, not rushing, not dragging behind, just moving with the current like everyone else. He could hear the faint hum of nervous laughter, the soft shuffling of hundreds of feet against the dry grass, and somewhere deep inside, he told himself this was all just a ridiculous stunt. A gimmick, maybe, to scare them a little and test their nerves. No one would actually get hurt.
"Player 066 eliminated," the robotic voice announced without ceremony, cutting through the lull of the second verse.
A sharp, unmistakable crack followed immediately after — the sound of a gunshot. Gihun flinched violently, instinctively half-ducking as he whipped his head around to find the source. His heart slammed against his ribs with bruising force, his stomach twisting itself into cold, hard knots. No, no, no. That couldn't be real. There was no way.
This had to be fake. It had to be.
His body trembled with the urge to bolt, to run for cover, but he forced himself to stay absolutely still. His legs locked in place, muscles screaming, every instinct in his body howling at him to move. Yet he didn't — not even as the song picked up again and the doll resumed its eerie melody.
He wasn't the only one struggling. All around him, people were starting to lose their nerve. Cries of panic pierced the air as a growing wave of players turned and bolted toward the gates, their terror infectious. Gihun watched, horrified and paralyzed, as dozens, maybe hundreds of people stampeded back the way they had come, their faces twisted in primal fear.
There was a gnawing sense inside Gihun that maybe, just maybe, this was all real after all. Either that, or the people surrounding him were the best damn actors he had ever encountered in his life. And that thought, more than anything, sent a chill racing down his spine. If there was anything good to cling to, anything remotely comforting in this nightmare, it was the certainty that his Inho would never, under any circumstances, have allowed something like this to happen.
But the flip side, the cruel and horrifying flip side, was that if Inho wasn’t the one orchestrating this, then Gihun was in an unbelievable amount of danger, stranded in a place where every move could be his last. Calm down. Calm the fuck down.
Inho had found him once, guided only by the vague description of a light pole. He wouldn’t let Gihun die here, in this hellhole. The thought was so fierce, so absolute, that it was almost ridiculous. Inho would find him again, would hunt down every last bastard responsible for this nightmare, would sue them into oblivion if he had to, and everything would be okay in the end. They would walk away from this. Sangwoo would help draw up the paperwork, the lawsuits, the charges. It would be messy, but Inho wouldn’t leave things like this.
Somewhere above, the announcement system crackled back to life, repeating the rules of the game as if they hadn't just been through hell. As if the air around them wasn't thick with blood and fear and something that stank even worse than death.
But there was no time to dwell on it. They had to move forward.
Gihun’s whole body was trembling, the tremors uncontrollable, and beside him, Jungbae was shaking just as badly. They edged forward step by painstaking step, each movement feeling like it might be their last. For a time, Gihun even found himself dragging along another player — 444 — who had taken a bullet to the leg and was half-collapsing with every staggered step. Gihun clenched his teeth and kept going, supporting the man as best he could. But it wasn’t enough. A sharp crack echoed in the air, and 444's head jerked violently before he crumpled like a rag doll. A clean shot, right through the skull. Gihun barely had time to register it before instinct forced him to let go, leaving the body sprawled grotesquely on the ground as they pressed forward.
They made it to the finish line with barely seconds to spare, the sensation of time folding in on itself, compressing until it felt like the very air was crushing their lungs. They stood there, gasping, heaving in desperate breaths, not even daring to look at one another. Gihun could feel the hysteria clawing its way up from his gut, desperate to escape in a scream.
What the fuck had Inho been thinking, letting him end up here?! They had slept right next to each other. They had been so close. How the fuck had they managed to steal him away right off the damn couch without waking him? What had he done to end up here? Were his miserable debts — forty million won that barely even felt real — really worth all this?
The survivors, every last one of them trembling and hollow-eyed, were herded back through the endless labyrinth of bright, colourful corridors. Except now, the colours seemed monstrous, the overwhelming scale of the place evoking not awe, but a deep, gut-churning terror. No one marvelled at the bright walls anymore. They walked in tight, hunched groups, flinching every time a worker in pink passed too close.
Once back in the communal dormitory, they dispersed like frightened animals, sprawling wherever they could find a corner, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the faceless enforcers in pink. Gihun and Jungbae collapsed near one of the metal beds, sitting shoulder to shoulder, seeking some kind of fragile comfort in proximity. Neither spoke. Words were too small, too hollow for what they had just witnessed.
Gihun, who had never before faced death this closely, could feel the numb coldness seeping into his chest, locking itself around his heart. He kept seeing the bodies fall, kept hearing the sharp cracks of gunfire. He knew it would haunt him forever, that those images were burned into the insides of his eyelids, waiting for him whenever he closed his eyes.
A shrill sound broke through the thick, suffocating silence — the familiar signal. The dim, muted lighting shifted abruptly, replaced by the harsh glare of overhead fluorescents that made everything look even more stark and brutal. Every player flinched as a line of soldiers entered the room: one Square and seven Triangles, all armed with rifles that gleamed under the pitiless lights. Instinctively, everyone shrank back, retreating a few steps, their bodies low and submissive.
"Dear players! Congratulations on completing the first game. Attention! We will now announce the current results," the Square’s amplified voice rang out, reverberating through the vast hall.
Gihun tried to convince himself that the masks were designed to make everyone feel like they were being stared at, that the unsettling illusion was a feature of their construction. But he couldn’t shake the deep feeling, crawling inside his bones, that someone among them truly was looking straight at him. That hidden behind one of those blank masks was a gaze burning holes through his skull.
On the massive screen overhead, the number 456 began to change, digits melting into smaller numbers with a mechanical inevitability.
"Out of 456 players, 244 have been eliminated. 212 have survived the first game. Allow us once again to congratulate you on completing the first game."
The words fell into the heavy silence like stones sinking into a bottomless pit. No one cheered. No one clapped. The room was a graveyard of stunned, breathing corpses.
Only one person moved. An elderly woman — player 149 — staggered forward, dragging her equally disoriented son, player 007, by the hand. She stumbled to the centre of the room and fell to her knees with a wail that pierced Gihun’s battered heart.
"Please, sir, don't kill us!" she cried, bowing her head so low that her forehead nearly slammed into the cold concrete floor. Her voice broke into desperate sobs. "My son’s debt... I will pay it! I promise, I will pay it all back, just please, let us go!"
Her son, a bewildered, helpless-looking man, stood there trembling beside her, his glasses slipping down his nose, until finally even he collapsed onto his knees beside her. Something inside Gihun cracked wide open at the sight. Without even thinking, Gihun lurched forward, stumbling into the open space, and dropped down beside them. He pressed his forehead to the floor in a deep, pleading bow.
"Please," he said, his voice ragged and raw, "I swear I’ll pay my debt. Just let us go. I’ll cover theirs too, just please, please let us leave."
He didn’t even know what specific debt the bespectacled young man had accumulated. It didn’t matter. Inho would fix it. For Inho, it would be no trouble at all. Gihun had once thought that prostituting oneself was the most degrading thing a person could do for money. That belief had now been firmly dethroned. Participating in deadly children's games — slaughtering each other for survival — had taken its place without contest.
Player 007 bowed his head too, the three of them forming a pitiful little cluster of supplication on the cold, uncaring floor. And one by one, other players began to trickle toward them, their faces desperate, their hands outstretched, voices rising in a broken chorus of pleas. It was a growing wave of panic, of human beings reduced to their most basic, raw survival instincts.
But before they could form a true crowd, the Square lifted a hand, and the Triangles moved, snapping into motion with mechanical precision. The players froze under the cold gaze of the rifles, the desperate tide halted before it could crest.
"It seems there has been a misunderstanding. We have no intention of harming you. We are merely providing you with an oppor–"
"The third clause of the agreement!" shouted player 333, cutting him off, his voice ringing sharp and desperate through the tense air. "The game can be terminated by majority decision. Let us vote!"
"Of course," the Square responded with that infuriatingly calm, almost patronizing tone, as if everything happening was a matter of bureaucratic procedure rather than life and death. "We respect your right to choose freely. However, before we proceed, allow me to announce the current prize amount." He pressed a button on a handheld remote with mechanical efficiency, and from the ceiling descended a piggy bank, grotesquely oversized and hauntingly familiar. From some hidden compartment above, heavy bundles of cash rained into the glass pig with a wet, slapping sound, slowly filling its belly until it bulged, almost half-full, glinting obscenely under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"The number of players eliminated in the first game is 244," the Square continued, his voice steady and unfeeling, "which means the accumulated prize pool is now 24.4 billion won. Should you choose to exit the game at this point, the prize money will be divided among the 212 survivors. Each participant would receive 115 million, 94 thousand, 400 won."
Gihun stood rooted in place, watching the obscene display with mounting disgust. Maybe he had lived too privileged a life, sheltered even in his miseries, because under no circumstances could he imagine agreeing to participate in something like this. Not for any amount of money. Not even for a hundred times that prize. Yet around him, the others shifted and murmured, faces crumpling in uncertainty, and Gihun wanted to scream. How could they even be hesitating?
"And after the next round," a voice from the crowd asked, strained and anxious, "will we still be able to vote again?"
Gihun’s vision blurred at the edges. He felt like he was suffocating inside a waking nightmare, the fluorescent lights buzzing painfully in his ears.
"As stipulated in the agreement," the Square confirmed, his words polished and precise, "you will have the right to vote after each game. If the majority chooses to end the game, you may leave with the accumulated prize money at that time. Your voluntary participation is, and always will be, our top priority."
It took every ounce of Gihun’s self-control not to step forward and punch that smugly masked man square in the face. Instead, he clenched his fists until his knuckles ached, swallowing down the burning bile rising in his throat as the Square concluded, "Well then, let us begin the voting process."
A pair of Circles entered the room, carrying a heavy voting stand between them, while another pair lugged in two large boxes. On the floor, illuminated zones lit up: one with a red cross and the other with a blue circle, separated by a narrow, ominous strip like a bridge between two opposing worlds.
"If you wish to continue participating in the games, press the blue button with the circle. If you wish to terminate the games, press the red button with the cross," the Square explained, his voice emotionless. "Voting will proceed in descending numerical order. Player 456, you may begin."
Gihun inhaled sharply and forced his legs to move. Each step felt heavy, as if the air itself resisted him, thick and poisonous. He had barely taken a few paces forward when a voice, familiar in its grating sharpness, sliced through the murmuring background.
"It is all meaningless," declared player 044, the same woman who had pestered him relentlessly before the first game even began. Her voice was shrill, laced with manic certainty. Gihun turned his head slightly to see her sitting on the top bunk bed over there, trembling with fervor. "You did not choose the moment of your birth. Nor will you choose the time of your death. The Gods decided all that when you took your first breath. No matter how you struggle, you cannot escape fate."
"Listen," Gihun snapped, not bothering to mask his contempt, "do me a favour and shut the hell up." His voice cut through the air like a blade, and without waiting for a reply, he marched toward the voting stand.
His hand did not waver as he pressed the red cross with deliberate finality, ignoring the hushed murmuring around him.
"After voting, please take a patch and attach it to the right side of your chest. Then proceed to the area corresponding to your choice," instructed the Circle stationed at the stand.
Gihun followed the instructions mechanically, fastening the badge onto his uniform with cold fingers, and then stepping over to the side marked for those who had voted to terminate the games. He stood there and watched, eyes unblinking, as the process continued. Player after player shuffled to the stand, some hesitating painfully long before making their choice, fingers trembling between the two buttons, faces contorted with fear and indecision.
On the display above them, the numbers beside each symbol crept upwards with almost agonizing slowness, nearly neck and neck. Whispers swirled around the room like mist: those who had voted to continue trying to persuade the undecided, urging them with trembling voices full of desperate hope. Then, as if by silent agreement, those who had voted for termination began their own counterattack, pleading and arguing in hushed, urgent tones. The room began to tilt toward chaos, arguments rising in volume, emotions fraying the edges of civility, until the soldiers stepped in.
Without ceremony, without a word wasted, they raised their rifles threateningly, barking sharp commands to restore silence. A heavy, oppressive hush fell over the room, stifling as a coffin lid.
Gihun stayed silent, his heart hammering so hard he could barely breathe, eyes glued to the flickering scoreboard. The votes were nearly even: 106 votes for termination, 105 for continuation. Only one player remained. One vote that would decide their collective fate.
Around him, the tension exploded into open shouting, each side screaming encouragement, trying to sway the last voter. For once, the soldiers made no move to intervene. They simply stood at attention, their guns ready, allowing the desperate chants to fill the suffocating space.
Gihun’s gaze locked onto the lone figure making their way forward. His breath caught in his throat. His body went rigid.
The last player was walking with a measured, almost painfully familiar pace. Gihun’s world spun. His stomach dropped.
Player 001 was Hwang Inho.