Work Text:
The acapella of traffic outside Hwang In-ho's apartment woke him up suddenly. It's a Monday morning, the sun hasn't even risen but his sheets clung heavily to his skin, another nightmare he couldn't remember, but haunted his every waking moment.
7 months.
It's been 7 months since he withdrew from the games.
It was a quiet exit, no one knew him outside of the games but he knew everyone who has been in it. Both in the sidelines, and those who actively participated. The games in Korea gained indefinite hiatus since his departure, but that doesn't mean they stopped everywhere else. All circle guards were executed, while he dismissed the squares and triangles. Then, he flew to the US to be a permanent resident of the state, delivering Player 456's clothes to his daughter in the process.
He rubbed a hand over his face, remembering the look on Seong Ga-yeong's face when he left. A mixture of realization, denial, and hatred, painfully similar to the one Gi-hun gave him when he slipped his mask off.
In-ho could feel the beginnings of a headache forming on one side of his skull. It's been 7 months and somehow, he could never forget about Gi-hun. He reached up and pressed down on the painful spot, hoping to stave the ache away, or maybe shut his mind up. Yet Gi-hun still lingered in his mind like cancer, spreading down his bones, into his bloodstream, consuming him.
Maybe it wasn't Gi-hun, maybe it was regret.
He knew he could’ve done more—should’ve done more—to save him. He could’ve ended the games right then and there. But every action carries its weight, and Gi-hun…
A thud rings in his skull, he was beginning to remember what he dreamt about, but he really wishes he didn't.
--
"Young-il."
They wore their jackets, green with numbers, mere pawns on a chessboard. They sat side by side on top of one of the bunkbeds in that wretched place, talking like In-ho hadn't betrayed him, like no one important has died, like Gi-hun was still alive.
"Gi-hun-ssi", he whispered back, just glad to see him in full detail. His last memory of Gi-hun was when he was staring up at him with glassy, watery eyes that shut eternally. But now, he was looking at In-ho calmly, and if In-ho looked really carefully, it's almost like the other man glowed. A soft, white light framing him, like a halo.
This must be a dream because, why would Gi-hun look at him like that after everything?
"I forgive you, you know?"
In-ho froze, in the dream.
"For?"
"What happened", In his peripheral, he saw Gi-hun look away, gazing at the huge screen above the wall that was currently powered off. "I know I should't but... You tried to save us didn't you?"
"What are you talking about?", In-ho's voice cracked. He fully stared at Gi-hun, afraid that the dream might be over too quick. "I didn't try, because if I did, you wouldn't have died."
"That was my choice", the man turns, their eyes meet, "I should've done as you said, for the baby's sake and mine. But you know me In-ho, you've been watching me. You know I couldn't do that."
"Still… you were holding on, weren’t you? Hoping—just barely—that I’d prove you wrong. That I’d take the out. But in the end, I was still the horse you bet on…"
In-ho grabbed Gi-hun's shoulders, if only to steady himself. The moment his hands made contact with his flesh, his eyes watered. He didn't think he'd be able to hold Gi-hun again, but his dreams were often more merciful than his reality, "That's not true! I- I didn't give you that knife because I was betting on you. I gave it to you because I lo-"
"Don't."
"Please", In-ho begged. This was definitely a dream, because he would never allow himself to act this way consciously. The reason Gi-hun died was because of his inaction. "Please let me say it."
"You don't deserve to", and wasn't that the cold, hard truth? "I knew, In-ho. I'm not insensitive to that sort of thing." He paused, looking at In-ho with longing, "Maybe I did like you like that too, back when I didn't know who you are. When you were just Young-il, the former police officer at the end of his rope. It just took me dying to realize it."
In-ho's grip on his shoulders trembled, "Then let me join you."
Gi-hun shook his head, smiling sadly.
"I have nothing to live for anymore," In-ho said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. He didn’t know why he was trying to convince this dream-version of Gi-hun—maybe it was guilt, maybe desperation. But Gi-hun felt so real. If he still believed in God, he might’ve thought this was his ghost, sent down to deliver some kind of judgment.
"I ended the Games," he continued, eyes unfocused. "Not all of them, just here. Just in Korea. The rest… they’re still out there. Still happening. All I did was cut one head off a hydra."
He let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"And I only did it after you died."
Gi-hun didn’t move. He just stood there, watching him, as if waiting for In-ho to run out of excuses.
"I'm sorry," In-ho whispered, his gaze dropping to the floor. He wasn’t looking at Gi-hun anymore—couldn’t. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to hold together what little remained. His voice was thin, brittle.
"I'm sorry. I know that's not good enough. I know it doesn’t change anything. Nothing I say or do will ever bring you back." He took a shaky breath. “But… at least, in this dream I- I just wanted to apologize. Even if it’s too late. Even if you never wanted to hear it.”
Silence.
Then Gi-hun stood up, and in a voice quieter than before, spoke. “It’s not too late.”
In-ho looked up, startled.
“It doesn’t fix it,” Gi-hun continued. “But it matters.”
Gi-hun bent his hand down, and the background behind him fell into nothingness. Just a white void that felt suffocating despite its spacious nature.
“Carry it,” he said. “Not just the guilt—but the apology too. Let it change you.”
In-ho nodded, slow, uncertain.
And Gi-hun smiled—just barely, but it's enough.
“Good,” he whispered. “Now… wake up.”
--
In-ho needed to get out of the house.
So he stood up on shaky legs, the headache from earlier hadn’t subsided. His mouth dry, and his chest hollow. A Gi-hun shaped hole that will never be filled. The dream still lingered, but fainter. Not enough to remember, but still enough to hurt.
He was about to head out the door when his phone buzzed.
—
From: Unsaved Number
Subject: Invitation
Message:
Underground Station, Baltimore. American branch is prepping for the 35th round. A black car will be waiting for you. Inside will be your new uniform, detached from your old one.
They do not know who you are. After this game, you may safely exit again if you so wish.
We respected your decision to leave, but order has slipped since you left.
We need you back in, the hosts are watching closely now.
Answer within 24 hours.
This is non-negotiable. You will fill in this role.
— End of message —
In-ho stared at the message, the headache he was nursing had dulled to an aching throb. He was about to tell the sender to go fuck themselves but paused.
“Carry it.. Let it change you.”
An opportunity to strike at the heart of the Hydra. To destroy the very head of the Game—or die trying.
Either way, he wins.
He closed his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he opened them and responded to the message.
⸻
“Confirmed. You may send the transportation at around 0800H.”
Send.
He tossed his phone onto the bed. He couldn’t undo what he’d done—but he could stop it from happening again.
Maybe that was enough.