Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was here.

After three years of searching, of dead ends and blurred footage and sleepless nights, Gi-hun was finally sitting face-to-face with the Front Man. No distorted voice over a speaker. No grainy screens or surveillance feeds. He was there. Real. Solid. Masked still—but there, in the flesh. Sitting on the other end of the limo. And yet, neither of them spoke.

Gi-hun stared, and the Front Man stared back.

He could ask everything now. The questions that kept him up. The reasons. The lies. The truth. But Gi-hun’s mind went blank. Junho’s voice was still faintly buzzing in his ear—giving instructions, updates, something—but it all dissolved into static. The inside of the limo was silent. Hollow.

The car began to move, but Gi-hun barely registered it. They were being tracked. He knew that. And yet part of him feared they'd never make it. That he’d lose his chance before it began.

Finally, the silence broke.

“Why didn’t you get on the plane?” the Front Man asked, voice calm, muffled behind the mask’s modulator.

Gi-hun hesitated. He didn’t have a good answer. Not one that made sense.

He leaned forward, forcing eye contact through the lenses of that cold mask, studying him, almost mimicking him—like he was daring him to flinch.

“You,” Gi-hun said at last. “I wanted to see you again. You were wrong. I’m going to prove it. That’s why I’ve spent the last three years hunting you down. I’m going to stop the games.”

In-ho tilted his head, a subtle movement that could’ve meant anything. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and picked up a small box from beside him.

“You can’t stop it,” he said simply. “No one can. As long as there are people desperate enough to play, it’ll keep going. We both know there’s no shortage of them.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightened. The casual way he said it—like it was gravity or rain. Just how the world works.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Gi-hun snapped, lunging forward. The box slipped from the Front Man’s hand and hit the limo floor with a dull thud. Gi-hun shoved him backward, climbing over him, pinning his arms.

“YOU MANIPULATE PEOPLE WHO FEEL LIKE THEY’RE AT A DEAD END. YOU DRIVE THEM TO THEIR DEATHS AND YOU ENJOY IT. YOU THINK IF YOU JUST CALL IT THEIR CHOICE, THAT MAKES IT OKAY? THAT THIS FILTHY GAME BECOMES SOME KIND OF CHARITY PROJECT?”

He gripped the Front Man’s wrists tighter, but In-ho didn’t fight him. Not at first.

“They were losers,” the Front Man said coolly, voice close now. “They knew the consequences of their actions.”

With a sudden jerk, he ripped his right hand free and snatched the earpiece from Gi-hun’s ear. He crushed it between his fingers before Gi-hun could react. The pieces dropped to the floor.

“Don’t you want your birthday present?” he asked, smug.

That threw Gi-hun off long enough for In-ho to grab the box from the floor and thrust it toward him.

Gi-hun hesitated, then slowly released his grip, climbing off him. He sat back in his seat, still breathing heavily, eyes narrow.

“What?” he asked warily.

The Front Man didn’t answer. Just gestured again. Open it.

Gi-hun’s hands trembled as he lifted the lid.

Inside was a plane ticket. A one-way flight to California. To where Ga-yeong lived now. Where her mother had taken her. He hadn’t seen her in three years. Not once. Not since the day he turned around at the airport.

It hit him like a gut punch.

He was quiet for a long time, the ticket shaking in his hands. This wasn’t kindness. This was bait. A reminder of everything he’d given up for revenge. For this.

Rage burned in him, sharp and deep.

“You think this changes anything?”

In-ho didn’t answer. Just stared at him—silent, unreadable.

But the silence said everything. He wasn’t mocking him. He wasn’t gloating. He wanted Gi-hun to take the ticket. To go. To walk away.

He wanted him to be a father to his daughter—something In-ho had never gotten to be. That choice had been taken from him. The island had buried who he was. Years ago. He wasn’t In-ho anymore. He’d stopped trying to be. His soul had died there. But maybe Gi-hun’s didn’t have to.

Gi-hun stood, the ticket still crumpled in his fist.

“HOW DARE YOU BRING MY DAUGHTER INTO THIS?” he shouted. “DO YOU THINK I’LL JUST WALK AWAY? LET YOU KEEP DOING THIS?”

The Front Man’s voice was hardening now.

“Do you honestly think killing me would change anything?” he asked. “What do you plan to do? Kidnap me? Shoot me with that pistol you’re hiding? The games don’t end with me. You know that.”

Gi-hun didn’t argue. He placed the gun down on the seat beside him.

“Then put me back in.”

In-ho paused.

“You want back in?”

“Let’s give them what they want,” Gi-hun said. “You want the games to keep going? Fine. Let me be your main act.”

For a moment, the limo was still.

Then, softly—

“Fine.”

Gas hissed through the vents.

But Gi-hun was ready. He held his breath. Every muscle locked down. He wouldn’t lose consciousness this time. The tracker was hidden in his mouth, behind his back molars. They wouldn’t find it. He just had to stay still. Stay quiet.

His body began to sag. Eyes fluttered.

The last thing he heard was the shifting of leather. The sound of the mask being removed.

In-ho poured himself a drink.

Gi-hun could hear it—ice clinking in glass. The sound of whisky being poured. Every nerve in him screamed to look. To see. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He waited. Silent. Still.

In-ho watched him. He should’ve been triumphant. Should’ve felt power.

But all he felt was disappointment.

How foolish could this man be? he thought. You had your whole life waiting for you. A daughter. A second chance. And instead, you came back here—to die on an island no one remembers.

He swirled the glass, watching the liquid inside.

“If only you knew how similar we are,” he muttered to the unconscious man. “You go back to stop the game while your whole world waits for you. And I went back to be part of them.”

He doubted Gi-hun heard it. But part of him wished he did. Wished someone could understand what he carried. The weight of choices made when there were no right ones.

The limo rolled onto the ferry.

In-ho looked out the window, jaw clenched. A part of him wanted to toss Gi-hun’s body overboard. Spare him. Let him go out quietly, without suffering through the thing he couldn’t stop.

But it was too late. The choice had been made.

And he wouldn’t take that away from him.

The exam room was cold and sterile.

In-ho had given the order personally: no guards, no observers, no standard scans. He would handle the examination himself. If anyone found the tracker, the whole mission would fall apart.

He moved quietly, methodically, stripping Gi-hun of his clothes until only his boxers remained. He checked every seam, every pocket, every scar. Nothing.

Something was wrong.

He knew Gi-hun wouldn’t come without a tracker—not after what happened to Junho. They had been followed. He was sure of it. So where?

He stood there, hands on Gi-hun’s chest, scanning again, slower now.

Then it clicked.

He hadn’t checked the mouth.

It wasn’t usually his job. That was for the guards. Even when he had worn pink, it hadn’t been part of his duty.

In-ho’s eyes lingered on Gi-hun’s face. His lips were dry. Chapped. He found himself hesitating.

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the cracked skin.

He wondered, for just a second—what would it have been like, if they’d met outside this world? When he was still In-ho. When things made sense. Would they have been friends? Something more?

The thought passed like a shadow.

He pressed his fingers to Gi-hun’s mouth, gently prying it open—

And was punched.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun stayed still in the limo as it rode. He could hear the small movement the Front Man made—the drink being poured, him leaning back on the leather seats. All he wanted to do was move. It was taking everything in him to stay still. He could feel the Front Man’s eyes on him. It was silent for a while before he heard him start talking—so quiet at first, like he was mumbling to himself. But what he said left Gi-hun in shock:

“If only you knew how similar we are,” he whispered to himself. “You go back to stop the game while your whole world waits for you. And I went back to be part of them.”

Gi-hun’s mind went wild trying to make sense of what the man said. The Front Man had played the game before? What? How can someone do that and become the monster? He was a victim too, yet he couldn’t make sense of the man he was sitting in front of. What had happened to him that changed him? The questions consumed his mind the rest of the drive. He couldn’t stop making all the stories in his head about the Front Man being a player. He wondered how he was before the game. For the first time, he saw him as a man—a man with ideas—who inflicted the same fate he suffered. He wanted to know everything.

He stayed still in the car. He felt the brakes as they stopped, almost moving. He felt the Front Man come closer to him, trying to open the limo door, bending in front of him. He could feel his body heat—so close, yet so far. The Front Man got out of the car. He could hear him talking to the guards. The only words he could make out were about some room being ready.

Then almost instantly, he felt the Front Man look back in the limo. Before he could even think, his hands were on him, pulling him closer. He pulled him into his arms. He could feel his hand on his back, his knees—their bodies touched. He almost jolted for a second, then he remembered he had to play the part. His body went limp as he tried to fight every cell in his body being close to the man he hated—the man he wants to kill. Now he was in his arms, and he can’t do anything about it.

His hand felt bigger than he expected. Through the gloves, there wasn’t much he felt besides the firmness of them. It felt stupid being carried by the man. He hoped no one saw it. He could never tell anyone this embarrassing story—this moment he would take to the grave with him. His head felt so tired, hanging in the air. It felt so tempting to put it on the Front Man’s shoulder.

But finally, he was pulled out of his thoughts as they reached a room. He felt the Front Man put him down gently on the cold metal table—like one they used for autopsies. Then there were hands on him, slowly removing the layers he was wearing. He wanted to jerk up and stop him. He felt warm hands on his stomach, then chest—like the Front Man was running his hands through his body, like cherishing it. The man’s hands felt rough—not what he had expected.

He slowly took off his pants, and Gi-hun wanted so badly to stop this act right there. He swore, if he took off his boxers, he would. But he didn’t. He felt the man just stand there for a second before putting his hand back on his chest. He kept them firmly there, like he was lost in his thoughts. Then he felt them move to his lips, slowly tracing them. He started to wonder if the Front Man was obsessed with him—and not in just a curious way. Like he was trying to get something out of him.

He got so lost in his thoughts of the way his fingers felt on his lips, he had completely forgotten about the tracker in his teeth. He felt the Front Man instantly open his mouth and that made him react without even thinking—and he punched him. The mask felt hard on his hands, but he had managed to throw the man off enough. Opening his eyes, he sat up on the table, finally face-to-face with his enemy. They stared at each other for a second before the Front Man finally forced out everything that had been.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up. The gas was supposed to keep you asleep. What—how—did you not—what—were you awake this whole time? I—what—nooo no, this shit! What did you hear? Ughh…”

The Front Man started stumbling over his words, trying to make sense of the situation. He was moving unstably, his hands not knowing what to do with himself. Shit—the tracker. In-ho just remembered. How was he going to take it now that the man was awake? Shit, what had he heard? Did he know? Did he hear what he had said in the car? Oh god, he messed up. He should have known Gi-hun wouldn’t give up so easily.

He put his hands on the table behind him, trying to stabilize himself, to make sense of the situation—what to do next.

“Did you think I was gonna give in to your games so easily? I spent the last three years planning this,” Gi-hun spoke up, unsure what to do. He wasn’t meant to be found out like this. Neither of them knew what to do next. Neither could meet each other’s gaze. Gi-hun realized in that moment how cold he felt. He was wearing nothing but his boxers. He suddenly became conscious of his body, looking down.

The Front Man seemed to realize too. He finally moved, walking to his left to grab the tracksuit— the same one he had worn all those years ago. 456. It felt like a punch to Gi-hun.

The Front Man threw the suit over on Gi-hun’s lap, gesturing for him to get dressed. Gi-hun got off the table slowly, putting on the pants. In-ho’s eyes lingered. He couldn’t look away. He watched Gi-hun’s every movement as he put on the clothes. He didn’t care that the other man knew he was staring.

Gi-hun struggled a little to put his pants on, stumbling, losing balance almost. It put a little smirk on In-ho’s face behind the mask. In that moment, it felt like Gi-hun saw through the mask because the next thing he said was:

“Can you at least turn around until I’m done? Bad enough you undressed me first.”

Which made In-ho flustered, so he turned, looking at the wall, his hands gripping the table. Now was not the time to think about Gi-hun’s body. He can’t keep getting lost in his head. He needed a plan for what to do next.

Gi-hun finished getting dressed, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. His back hunched. He could feel the tension. He just watched him, trying to make sense of him—remembering his gentle hands, how big and rough they felt on his body. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t think about it right now.

After he finished dressing, he coughed slightly to get the Front Man’s attention. He seemed lost in his thoughts, not realizing Gi-hun was done. In-ho turned his head, hearing the cough, realizing he was fully dressed. He completely turned around. Without second-guessing himself, In-ho spoke again coldly:

“Give me the tracker.”

“What tracker?” Gi-hun looked back at him smugly, trying to hide his fear. He couldn’t lose now—not after everything. He needed to keep him long enough so Jun-ho could find him, so they could stop the games for good.

In-ho started moving fast. Before Gi-hun could process it, he was pushed against the wall, the Front Man completely blocking him with his body. The only thing he could feel was the hard wall behind him and the Front Man’s body completely on his—holding him hostage.

He thought he’d be more scared. Yet something about him just knew he wasn’t in real danger. Maybe something was wrong with his gut since the game. After all the death and games he experienced, maybe his fight or flight senses were just… fucked.

In-ho put Gi-hun in a chokehold, his arm on his neck, trying to keep him firmly pressed against the wall so he could use his right hand to try to open Gi-hun’s mouth—to get the tracker. He knew which tooth was fake—not that he could ever admit to anyone that he had even stalked his dental records. He had told himself it was for the file. It was important to have all the information on their players.

Gi-hun was fighting back as In-ho tried getting the tracker. Realizing the Front Man was too strong and he couldn’t fight him, he started biting the Front Man’s finger in his mouth, trying to stop him. In-ho flinched a little as Gi-hun’s teeth sharply bit into his fingers. He wondered if he was going to bleed. The man was trying so hard—it made him chuckle.

But he got the tracker and quickly moved back before Gi-hun bit a finger off.

“You know, you could’ve made that easier. First you want to kidnap me, then shoot me, now you wanna bite my finger off? It’s a little concerning,” In-ho spoke, trying to annoy the man. He took the tracker out from the tooth and threw it on the floor, crushing it with his fingers.

“Here, you can have your tooth back. You’re gonna need it to chew on the food. You’re getting old,” he said, trying to hand it back to Gi-hun.

But the man stood breathless in the corner, trying to process what happened. And then he tried attacking the Front Man, pushing him back on the metal table.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

In-ho had grown tired of their fights tonight. So instead of fighting back, he pushed Gi-hun off and ran out the door, locking it. Gi-hun started attacking the door, but it was locked. Then the gas was released into the room.

In-ho told the guards to wait and go back in a while to make sure the player—456—had fallen asleep. He hoped the gas worked this time.

**********************************

When Gi-hun woke up again, he was back in the game. In the bunks.

“Noooo…”

The memories flashed back—of the Front Man and the tracker. Shit. How was he gonna get out if they couldn’t find him? He was so mad at himself. He should have tried harder. He looked around. The room was full again—full of life. They didn’t know how soon their lives were gonna change.

The guards came, starting to give the same speech. People started questioning them. He didn’t pay attention much. He could see some of them fighting back.

Then he heard them. It wasn’t the same as last time.

If they voted to stop the game, they would get the prize money that had accumulated up to that point. The guard had spoken, leaving Gi-hun dazed and confused.

“Are you saying we’ll still receive the money if we leave after the first game?”

The guard had confirmed it was true, which left him more confused. What kind of game was the Front Man playing this time? Why had he changed the rules?

He stared at the camera behind him. He knew the Front Man would be watching.

He got so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the movement behind him. A warm body—right behind him.

Slowly, In-ho whispered:

“Looking for me?”

Chapter Text

The lights in the room suddenly felt like too much — harsh and blinding like someone had turned the sun on inside. Gi-hun could barely breathe. It was like the air had been sucked out, the sound of chatter around him fading into a dull echo, distant and meaningless. For a second, time stopped. Just him... and the Front Man.

He turned around slowly, almost mechanically, heart pounding so loud it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. There he was. The man who had haunted his thoughts for years. The man behind the mask.

All these years, Gi-hun had wondered what he looked like. He’d imagined something monstrous, something cold and cruel. But nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

His face was smug, sure. But also… familiar. Young. Almost pretty — no, not pretty, damn it — just too human. That was the part Gi-hun didn’t know how to handle. He looked like someone he could’ve known outside of this hell. Someone he might’ve shared a drink with, maybe sat next to on a train and made small talk about the weather. He was clean-cut, composed, and his expression was almost peaceful. Gentle, even. Trustworthy. Nothing like the shadowy figure Gi-hun had spent years hating.

And now… they were inches apart. Breathing the same air. Gi-hun stared at him, and for a moment, he forgot why he ever wanted to destroy this man.

Then his gaze dropped to the tracksuit.

Player 001.

That was when everything snapped back into focus — like glass shattering in his brain. Gi-hun’s body tensed. This wasn’t just the man behind the mask. He was wearing the suit. Posing as a player. Not just any player — that player. The one who had lied to him. Manipulated him. Betrayed him in the cruellest way possible. That number — 001 — wasn’t just a joke. It was a slap in the face. A sick performance.

Gi-hun felt frozen. His fists clenched at his sides, his entire body screaming to move — to punch him, scream at him, drag him down. But the room was full. Too many eyes. Too many people. No way to act without causing a scene, without ruining everything.

So he waited.

He stood still, staring hard at the man in front of him — and that man stared back, his expression unreadable, his eyes softer than they should’ve been. Like he knew how much this moment would sting. Like he regretted it.

No words came. Not from Gi-hun. His mouth was open slightly, but nothing would come out. He didn’t know how to speak. Didn’t know what to say. His throat felt like it was closing in.

Then the Front Man — no, In-ho — finally spoke.

“You know,” he said, “I expected a bigger reaction after all these years.”

It wasn’t smug. Not really. He didn’t say it like he was taunting him. There was disappointment in his voice. A kind of quiet sadness, like even he didn’t know what he was doing.

Gi-hun finally managed to speak — barely a whisper.

“Why?” he asked. “Why now?”

It was a simple question. Just one word, but it carried the weight of years. Years of pain. Of questions without answers.

In-ho looked like he was about to respond — but stopped himself. His shoulders tensed slightly. His fingers twitched at his sides. He looked down, shifting his weight awkwardly, and didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he just stood there.

Silent.

But inside his head, it was chaos.

I don’t know, he thought. I didn’t plan this. I never wanted to be part of the games again — not like this. Not as a player.

After everything that happened with you… it’s like I’ve been on autopilot. I didn’t even think. I just put on the suit. I didn’t mean to reveal myself. I didn’t come here for a confrontation. I just wanted to see you. Really see you. Not from behind a screen. Not as a statistic or a file. Face to face.

Gi-hun’s stare didn’t budge. It was sharp. Watching him too closely.

You fascinate me, In-ho thought. The way you think. The way you came back. No one does that — not by choice. I wanted to know why. What makes you different. Why didn’t the game break you like it broke the rest of us?

And maybe… maybe part of me wanted you to see me too. Not the mask. Not the Front Man. Just… me.

He almost laughed — but it came out more like a sharp exhale, dry and hollow.

But that’s stupid, right? Because I don’t even exist anymore. In-ho died during the first game. I let him die. Buried him. Replaced him with a role, with control, with rules and order. I don’t even know who I am anymore. But here I am… back in the room where I lost everything. And you — the one person I tried to forget — are standing here, looking at me like you might actually see through all of it.

And I don’t know what I’m hoping for.

His chest tightened.

His breathing changed.

It was like the walls were closing in. The weight of the room was suddenly too much. He couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn’t think . The heat pressed into his neck. His vision blurred slightly at the edges. He was spiraling.

Gi-hun noticed immediately.

He frowned, something shifting in his eyes as he took a step forward. In-ho’s face was pale, his posture off — he was unraveling. God, was he having a panic attack?

Him? The man who ordered mass killings like they were nothing? Now he was falling apart in front of Gi-hun, the very man he’d once hunted?

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Gi-hun didn’t know. He didn’t even know how to deal with regular people having panic attacks, let alone him .

But before he could think, he reached out. A reflex. One hand on In-ho’s shoulder, guiding him gently down to sit.

“Breathe,” Gi-hun said. “Just breathe, alright?”

In-ho looked up at him, dazed — like he wasn’t even sure where he was for a second. His breathing slowed gradually. His eyes locked on Gi-hun’s face.

He wasn’t sure what surprised him more — the fact that he’d spiraled like that… or the fact that Gi-hun had helped him through it.

What the hell was he supposed to say now?

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Gi-hun muttered after a moment. “Not right now, anyway. So stop panicking.”

In-ho scoffed weakly, his voice scratchy. “I wasn’t…”

He paused, collected himself.

“I just… haven’t been here like this since I played. I didn’t think it would affect me, but…” He shook his head. “I’m still in control of this operation. I just wanted to… switch things up. See the game from the inside.”

He hesitated again, then continued, like the words were slipping out before he could stop them.

“I don’t get why you came back. And I wanted to understand that. I wanted to prove to you that you’re wrong — that people aren’t inherently good. That what I’m doing here isn’t just cruelty for cruelty’s sake. That maybe… maybe this game is more honest than the world outside.”

It was too much. He knew he’d said too much. Let out too much. But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

Then the guards’ voices echoed from the hallway.

“Move out! Line up for the photo!”

It was time. The beginning was here. The first game was about to start.

Gi-hun and In-ho stared at each other — saying nothing, but everything passed in the glance. A silent agreement. They would move. They would play their parts. But this wasn’t over.

Still dazed, still confused, they stepped through the door together, shoulder to shoulder, as the crowd flowed around them like a tide.

Whatever came next, neither of them was ready.

But it had already begun.

Chapter Text

They started to move out in lines, Gi-hun following behind the Front Man. Neither of them spoke a word while they waited for their turn. When it came time for In-ho to take a photo, he simply stepped aside and gestured for Gi-hun to take it. With a confused look, Gi-hun stepped forward, a frown on his face.

"You know you're supposed to smile," In-ho said amusedly. Gi-hun just glared at him as the camera snapped the picture. "Last time you were here, you had the biggest smile on your face—like you won the lottery… well, I guess you did kinda win it," In-ho said casually. The words slipped out. He hadn’t meant to admit he remembered Gi-hun’s face that clearly. It was embedded in his memory—because it was the last time Gi-hun was still himself, before the games took that away.

As they kept moving up the stairs, Gi-hun asked, scowling, "Why didn’t you take a picture?" In-ho replied, "I didn’t need to. The guards know who I am. And it’s not like I’m actually playing the game. If I lose, I don’t die, so it doesn’t matter what I do." Gi-hun began to respond but stopped when he heard someone yelling his name.

"Gi-hun! Gi-hunnnn!" a voice called out. He turned around to see Jung-bae running up the stairs toward him. "Jung-bae," Gi-hun said in a low whisper. He hadn’t expected to see his old best friend again—especially not here. "Fuck, you were alive this whole time?" Jung-bae said, touching Gi-hun’s face, shoulder, and hands in disbelief—like he was touching a ghost. "What are you doing here?" Gi-hun asked, worried. "What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" Jung-bae replied, still holding Gi-hun’s hands with both of his.

Behind them, In-ho glared, but neither of them noticed—they were too caught up in the moment. "No one heard from you for three years. I heard your mom passed away. I had to find out from my wife! What kind of friend are you? Were you going to cut me out just because I didn’t lend you money?" Jung-bae’s voice started to rise. Gi-hun still stared, unsure how to explain. People behind them yelled to keep moving up the stairs.

Gi-hun turned around, remembering the Front Man was standing there. Their eyes met for a second, and In-ho turned and started walking again. Gi-hun touched Jung-bae’s back to guide him forward. They began walking together. "It’s not like that… it’s a long story," Gi-hun said. "Right. I can imagine, seeing as you're here. Still, you should’ve told me about your mom. You know how much she liked me," Jung-bae replied. That made In-ho pause and glance back briefly before continuing again.

"Why are you here?" Gi-hun asked, grabbing Jung-bae’s arm. "What about your wife?" "We got divorced," Jung-bae said simply. "Divorced? What about your kid?" Gi-hun asked, confused. "With my wife," Jung-bae replied. "Why? I thought you guys were doing okay. Did you have an affair?" Gi-hun pushed him, half-joking, half-serious. "Yeah, like I could manage one. Let’s not talk about it here. When we get out, let’s go for a drink and talk," Jung-bae offered.

Gi-hun stopped, pulling him aside and cornering him against the wall. That moment snapped Gi-hun back to reality—where they were. There was no guarantee they’d make it out of this place. In-ho stopped too, watching Gi-hun press Jung-bae against the wall. His expression was unreadable. "Jung-bae. Whatever happens from now on—stay close to me," Gi-hun said firmly, glancing back when he sensed the Front Man getting nearer. "Stay close? You’ve gotten melodramatic," Jung-bae joked. "Just do as I say!" Gi-hun snapped.

Before anything else could be said, Jung-bae pointed to In-ho. "Who’s that—your friend?" In-ho was finally noticed, and he hated it. He had started to feel invisible—and now was annoyed that Gi-hun had someone in this game. It would only make things more complicated. "Definitely not a friend…" Gi-hun muttered, unsure how to respond. In that moment, he realized he didn’t even know the Front Man’s name. "Ohhhhhh, I didn’t know you swing that way, Gi-hun," Jung-bae teased, misinterpreting the relationship the way he always used to when Gi-hun had a crush.

In-ho chuckled behind them, amused by the assumption. "What?... Huh?" Gi-hun was even more confused. "No, this is…" Gi-hun looked back at In-ho, trying to silently ask for help—he didn’t know his name. In-ho caught on and finally said, "In-ho. I’m Hwang In-ho." Gi-hun stared at him, expression shifting into shock. The realization hit him—Jun-ho’s brother.

In-ho smiled charmingly and extended his hand to Jung-bae. "Park Jung-bae. It’s nice to meet you. Longtime friend of Gi-hun, just so you know—if you hurt him, I will kill you and feed you to the stray cats he likes so much," Jung-bae said, completely serious. Gi-hun froze, stunned into silence. He wasn’t in a relationship with In-ho. Oh God… In-ho. Jun-ho’s missing brother. His mind was spinning.

In-ho cleared his throat. "Uh… okay? We should start moving," he said. He didn’t correct the boyfriend assumption, unsure why. He gave Gi-hun one last glance before turning to walk. Jung-bae tugged Gi-hun forward, and he followed, still trying to process everything.

They entered the game room, and Gi-hun’s eyes immediately locked onto the same creepy robotic doll from years ago. Its still, painted face stared blankly out at the players. Just seeing it made his stomach drop.

"What’s that thing?" Jung-bae asked, confused as he looked up at the doll towering over them.

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He was scanning everything, his senses heightened. Then his eyes lifted slowly to the sky. It was real—not painted, not a projection. The blue stretched overhead endlessly, and somewhere, faintly, birds were chirping. For a moment, it felt like he wasn’t trapped anymore. Like freedom was just within reach. If only their crew could locate them now, maybe there was still a chance.

In-ho, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at the sky. He was staring at Gi-hun, eyes narrowed. Watching his movements. Trying to read his mind. The intensity in Gi-hun’s expression unsettled him, made him anxious. Then, the doors slammed shut behind them with a heavy, echoing bang. Gi-hun flinched, but didn’t look back. His eyes stayed locked on the sky—his only escape.

“It’s about to start,” In-ho said quietly, leaning his head toward Gi-hun, his tone eerily calm—as if he were announcing the weather, not the beginning of a massacre. His eyes didn’t leave Gi-hun’s face.

But Gi-hun’s heart snapped to life. A jolt of terror surged through him like electricity. He didn’t think—he ran. Shoving through the confused crowd, panic tightening in his chest, he pushed himself to the front. His breath was shallow, the memory of the first shot from years ago echoing like a war drum in his skull. He had to stop this. He had to warn them.

“Shit, Gi-hun,” In-ho muttered under his breath, jaw clenching as he followed. He pushed forward too, more out of instinct than intention, frustration rising with every step. Why couldn’t Gi-hun just do what he was told?

“Everyone! Everyone, listen up! Pay attention! Listen carefully!” Gi-hun’s voice rose above the murmurs and chatter of the crowd. Dozens of heads turned toward him, puzzled expressions forming. Some were annoyed. A few chuckled. They thought he was being dramatic, maybe losing it under pressure.

“This is not just a game!” he shouted louder, voice cracking. “If you lose the game, you die!”

More laughter. A few people rolled their eyes. Some nudged each other, joking that he was probably just trying to psych out the others.

In-ho finally reached him, shoving past a few players. “STOP!!! What the fuck are you doing?!” he shouted, furious now. His voice boomed over the field. A few players stepped back, startled by the intensity.

Gi-hun turned, face burning with desperation. “If they catch you moving, they will ki—” But before he could finish, In-ho lunged forward, grabbing Gi-hun by the face and covering his mouth with one hand.

“Don’t listen to him!” In-ho barked to the crowd, voice commanding. His other arm wrestled Gi-hun’s shoulder, trying to keep him from struggling. “He’s not well. He’s confused.”

Gi-hun fought harder, biting down on In-ho’s fingers in frustration. “NO! Don’t listen to him, he wo—” he tried to scream again, muffled, until In-ho forcefully clamped his hand tighter. 

They grappled, stumbling backward. Then In-ho tripped, falling hard onto his back and pulling Gi-hun down with him. Gi-hun’s back pressed against In-ho’s front, In-ho’s hand still clamped firmly over Gi-hun’s mouth.

“If you tell them who I am, everyone in this room will die,” In-ho hissed, his voice low and deadly in Gi-hun’s ear. “So play along. Don’t be an idiot. You want to stop the games? Telling them will only get them killed. So shut the fuck up and play.”

The crowd watched, some wide-eyed, others whispering, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed by the chaotic fight on the ground. Gi-hun and In-ho writhed in a tangle of limbs, rolling over the dirt like wild animals. Gi-hun’s fists clenched tightly, his face flushed red with fury, while In-ho’s grip remained firm, one hand still covering Gi-hun’s mouth.

On the sidelines, the guards outside exchanged uneasy glances as they monitored the situation through their devices. Their leader—the Front Man—was sprawled on the ground, locked in a fierce struggle with one of the players. The tension rippled through the group.

Finally, the officer second in command, standing near the control panel, clenched his jaw in frustration. He tapped his earpiece and spoke sharply, “Separate them. We need to start the game.”

A voice responded quietly through the earpiece. Moments later, guards appeared and cautiously made their way into the room to intervene.

A guard cleared his throat. “Ahem…” No response.

The guard stepped closer, raising his weapon slightly. He was nervous. “Umm… sir… we need to start the game,” he said, voice shaking.

In-ho froze. He realized how ridiculous this must look—his mask off, metaphorically if not literally, and his grip tight on a man lying beneath him like a lover in a drunken fight. Slowly, he stood, still panting, and extended a hand to Gi-hun.

But Gi-hun slapped it away and got up on his own, brushing dirt from his clothes. His eyes were filled with something darker than rage—betrayal.

That’s when the doll’s head creaked and turned. Its eyes lit up. The mechanical whir began.

Gi-hun’s stomach dropped.

The game had started.

He turned away from In-ho and toward the players.

“Don’t be alarmed!” he shouted. “Don’t panic! No matter what happens, just stay calm!” His voice was hoarse but urgent.

In-ho didn’t move. He crossed his arms and watched. There was no point trying to stop him anymore. They wouldn’t listen. No one ever listened until it was too late.

The doll’s song began to play. A soft, haunting tune. The countdown was hidden in the silence between its syllables.

And the game began.

Everyone started walking, with Gi-hun guiding them when to stop. In-ho just stood still, staring at him, but Gi-hun wasn’t looking back—his attention was solely on the crowd. “Freeze! Well done! You just need to stay calm like this!” Gi-hun explained.

The next round started, and everyone began running away while Gi-hun kept yelling, “Cut it out! It’s you that’s scaring me!” Jung-bae whispered next to him, “Speak with your mouth covered. It’s dangerous.” Gi-hun yelled back, then turned around. Now the crowd was in front of him, and In-ho was still in the back. Gi-hun ignored him, covered his mouth, and started yelling again. This time, Gi-hun moved forward with Jung-bae following him.

Then finally, the first shot rang out—a player had moved because of a bee. In-ho relaxed, knowing this wouldn’t last long. The crowd began to move while Gi-hun kept yelling to stay calm, but no one was listening. In-ho watched, amused, then finally moved to try and reach Gi-hun. However, Gi-hun was running even farther away.

“You’ll also die if you don’t make it there in time! The doll is a motion detector! But it can’t detect motion that’s not visible to it! Get behind someone bigger than you!” Gi-hun shouted, trying to instruct them. In-ho rolled his eyes—of course Gi-hun was still trying to help. This time, they listened.

Unable to reach Gi-hun in time, In-ho wanted to get behind him to gloat and say, “I told you so,” that the plan wouldn’t work. But Jung-bae had already gotten behind him first, much to In-ho’s annoyance. The crowd began running, following Gi-hun, while the timer ticked down. They finally crossed the line.

Then, unexpectedly, Gi-hun ran back across the line to help a player who had been shot in the leg. In-ho watched, frozen in shock. What was he thinking? There were only 30 seconds left, and he was going back to save a dying man who had already lost. Another player started helping too, and together they made it back. But that player was shot again—he was supposed to be dead already.

Now Gi-hun looked furious. He stared directly at In-ho, as if blaming him for shooting that player. How was In-ho supposed to explain things to someone so naive? How could Gi-hun still be so good at heart? The more In-ho tried to understand him, the more confused he became. He didn’t know anyone who would have done what Gi-hun had just done. He wondered if Gi-hun was ever this good before the game, or if the games had simply brought out his true self.

Had Gi-hun never really been a good person all these years? In-ho blamed the world, the games, for how he had turned out and why he was the Front Man. But even after everything, Gi-hun was still a good person at heart.

The roof started closing. They returned to the room, but this time Gi-hun ignored In-ho, and In-ho didn’t try to follow. All the gloating he had wanted to do was gone. Gi-hun and Jung-bae sat on the floor talking, while In-ho stood across the room staring. Neither of them noticed him. He just watched until the guards started coming in, filling the room with fear.

He could remember this moment like it was yesterday from his own game. The guards began explaining the results: 365 players were left, 91 had died—a higher death toll than Gi-hun’s first game. In-ho was annoyed with himself. He knew Gi-hun’s plan wouldn’t work, but he felt disappointed too.

The crowd started begging to go home. Gi-hun yelled at them, asking about the vote so they could leave. Then everyone gathered to stare at the prize money they had won. Most were disappointed and angry, just as In-ho expected.

The voting began. Gi-hun voted first. In-ho stayed in the back, watching everyone—especially Gi-hun. He knew many of them wanted to stay because the money was nowhere near enough to pay off anyone’s debts.

Gi-hun yelled at them again, trying to make them come to their senses, but the players fought back. A part of In-ho wanted to defend Gi-hun, but before he could, Jung-bae said he should be relieved. That stopped In-ho from doing something stupid, though he was even more annoyed.

Then the whole room erupted into yelling. “I have played these games before!” Gi-hun shouted. In-ho hadn’t expected him to reveal that, but he did. He told his story—how everyone had died here.

In-ho just wanted to get out. He hated being here again. The room was full of arguing while Gi-hun tried to help. Then they turned on him, using his story as a reason to stay and fight for more money.

Gi-hun kept pleading with the crowd. Finally, In-ho told the guards to make him stop.

The voting continued. Each side cheered when someone voted for their team. Then it was In-ho’s turn. The entire room shouted for their sides as he stepped forward. He knew Gi-hun wasn’t yelling. He didn’t even have to look. He stood there, knowing what he had to do. He had to continue the game—but he couldn’t move his hands. The game was tied. They could go home right now if he voted no.

He was the Front Man. He couldn’t stop it.

But then he thought of the moment back in the game when Gi-hun had helped that man—how he cared, how he helped. In-ho knew people were bad. They would always do the wrong thing to get ahead if they could. Yet here he was, wondering who he really was.

He couldn’t be anything like Gi-hun. Was there any humanity left in him?

He looked at the red button to leave. All he could think of was Gi-hun. He wondered how Gi-hun would react. He knew how Gi-hun would react, but how would Gi-hun react toward him? Would it be like erasing his past mistakes?

Then he looked at the blue button.

No.

He was the Front Man. He couldn’t be thinking about leaving. He would get in trouble.

But Gi-hun—his broken face, his smile that In-ho hadn’t seen since the first game—he couldn’t let this be about Gi-hun.

He had to be the Front Man.

His hand trembling, he voted.

Chapter Text

The blue light flashed, half of the room cheering as In-ho had voted, the tie broken. He looked back, seeing everyone moving, going back to their beds, while Gi-hun stood still in the middle, not moving, with a disappointed look on his face. He looked really mad, staring back at In-ho, so In-ho decided before they broke into another fight he would just go to his side, the blue side, and stay there until Gi-hun could calm down so they could talk.

Gi-hun walked away after he noticed In-ho wasn’t trying to approach him, going back to the bunks with Jung-bae. He noticed Gi-hun was mostly zoned out; they didn’t seem to be talking. In-ho wasn’t interested in making an alliance with the blue team, so he stayed in his own corner until he heard them talking about Player 456. He didn’t like the blue team. He didn’t trust them. He knew their kind — every year it was the same people, even at his own game. He had never been in that group, even as the Front Man. He doesn’t like them, even if he is just as worse as them. Maybe he deserves this side.

He was worried they would try to harm Gi-hun after what happened, but they seemed to want to ask for his help. They wanted to use him to win the game. They stayed because of him, even though it was the opposite of what Gi-hun wanted, and In-ho knew he had a good excuse. He is literally the Front Man. He had to keep the games running.

The guards had started handing out food, but he noticed Gi-hun hadn’t gotten up. Jung-bae did leave him to get food. Maybe it would be a good time to talk to him. He wasn’t going to get food himself — he had eaten earlier before he came down because he hated the food here as a player. Maybe he will consider changing it in future games so more people would want to stay. Not because he cared — at least that’s what he told himself.

Gi-hun still seemed so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed In-ho staring still. In-ho really wanted him to eat, especially with the games. He didn’t want him to be weak. It was bad enough he was already so depressed — at this point, this man will get himself killed with starvation. In-ho was so annoyed with his ugh , it made him physically react, letting out a small frustrated scream to himself, which made the blue team notice him.

“Hey, you are the guy that was fighting Player 456 in the game. Do you know him? Are you guys friends?” one of the blue team players asked, while the others stared at him waiting for an answer.

Shit, he should have known people would have questions about it. He hadn’t even talked to the guards yet. He was sure they would be gossiping, but he couldn’t exactly just leave to be the Front Man again without people noticing. Well, Gi-hun would notice, but he seemed pretty lost right now.

Ugh , what was he supposed to answer? He couldn’t exactly tell the truth. Should he say he just knew him from before the game? But people would have too many questions, and he wasn’t sure what Gi-hun would be telling the others. They should probably get their stories straight, but how?

So instead, he just answered, “No, he is a complete stranger. Player 456 — never met him until today. He was just being annoying. He sounded like a crazy person. I thought I should stop him. I didn’t realize he was telling the truth.”

Which wasn’t a complete lie. He had only met him today as In-ho for the first time.

He noticed now Jung-bae was back at Gi-hun’s side with food. He seemed to be trying to feed Gi-hun, teasing him, but Gi-hun wasn’t budging. Of course, that stubborn idiot will never put himself first or do something to take care of himself. In-ho had no idea how Gi-hun had managed to survive this long being so selfless.

The blue team decided now would be a good time to talk to Player 456. In-ho followed behind in case Gi-hun was really mad so he wouldn’t attack him if he was behind the others.

Gi-hun had been slacking. He was slowly losing hope in this place, in people — their greed was blinding them. He didn’t know how to convince them to go home. He knew how desperate he was when he left and came back the first time. So many people had returned then. He knew the same would have happened here, but of course In-ho ruined the vote and they were stuck here. Maybe a few people could have been saved if they just went home now. A lot would have come back, he knew that — but that didn’t make him feel better.

Jung-bae had been trying to cheer him up, but it only made him worse because all he could think about was losing his friend.

Then:
“Oh! Just like my mom used to make,” Jung-bae said, opening his dinner. “What’s in yours? Aren’t you going to eat?”

Jung-bae had asked, but Gi-hun couldn’t eat, not now with everything going on.

“Look, you’ve got to eat,” Jung-bae said, trying to feed him like a child with the spoon. “You know what they say — ‘Eat up, even on your deathbed.’ Just do your thinking while you eat, or afterwards. Here. Open up. Come on.”

Gi-hun continued to ignore him as he turned his head.

“Forget it, then,” Jung-bae said, taking back the spoon. “This might be for the best. I don’t know about you, but that 20 million wouldn’t even cover my interest. If we play just one more game—”

Jung-bae started explaining, while Gi-hun glared at him.

“Jung-bae. Last time I was here, someone said the exact same thing. And in the end, they died here.”

Jung-bae looked at him, disappointed.

“Oh, look — it’s your boyfriend coming here. Maybe he can cheer you up. See, even he voted to stay,” Jung-bae teased him, bumping his shoulder with Gi-hun while they saw a group of people from the blue team approaching with In-ho behind them.

“What! He’s not my—” Gi-hun started to speak, but one of the blue team players interrupted them, saying:

“You have played these games before. We pressed the O because of you.”

Gi-hun looked at them like he had been punched in the gut. In-ho, in the back, giving him an “I told you so” look.

“I was honestly scared to play, but you made us believe we could play one more game,” the other player spoke again.

They all agreed with him, trying to convince Gi-hun to help them.

“You can tell us the next game, right?” they asked Gi-hun, who was only getting more annoyed.

Jung-bae joined them, asking him about it too.

“The second game was Dalgona,” Gi-hun told them, embarrassed, remembering what had happened when he played.

Dae-ho chimed in from the bed, joining the conversation.

“Dalgona? The sugar candy with shapes you can carve out?” Dae-ho had asked.

“That’s right. We had to choose one of four shapes and carve it out,” Gi-hun told them.

“Four shapes? Which was the easiest one?” Jung-bae asked him.

“Triangle,” Gi-hun answered, wishing he had picked it when they played.

“Which was the hardest one?” Jung-bae asked again.

“Umbrella.”

Then they heard a playful laugh. In-ho had moved to the side — now he was leaning against the bunk beds near Gi-hun.

“Umbrella? Some people chose umbrella?” In-ho teased him, though only the two of them knew what he really meant, letting out a small chuckle while Gi-hun was looking more embarrassed, remembering the point — oh shit, had In-ho watched him lick the umbrella? If he had, he thought that was a moment he wished to take to the grave. Now he was in the room with the only other person that knew — ughhh .

“Those unlucky bastards must have bitten the dust,” In-ho continued teasing him, scoffing. He was having a good time having something against Gi-hun for once. An inside joke just between them.

Well, Gi-hun didn’t find it funny — but still.

“So that means we should all just pick triangle. Everyone could probably pass the round,” Dae-ho said.

“Hushhh, hush now!” Player 100 said, trying to get their attention. “If all 365 of us survive, the prize money won’t go up at all. Then we’ll have risked our lives again for nothing,” Player 100 explained.

Gi-hun looked so disappointed. He felt like he was losing hope in humanity. The other players started agreeing with Player 100, wanting to keep the information between themselves.

In-ho just stared at Gi-hun, watching his reaction—every single expression like he was doing a study and Gi-hun was his subject.

“We can’t do that. I’m telling you this to save everyone’s lives. If it’s confirmed that the next game is Dalgona, I’m going to tell everyone what I know,” Gi-hun told them, which was enough to make the other players annoyed that they started walking away.

But In-ho stayed still, staring.

Jung-bae asked, “Which shape did you pick?” which made Gi-hun put his head down in embarrassment, staring at the ground instead of answering.

It made In-ho amused, so he decided to take a seat next to them. It didn’t look like Gi-hun was going to start attacking him, so he might as well stay.

“Umbrella,” Gi-hun whispered, low enough that almost no one would have heard—but they did, which made In-ho and Jung-bae burst out laughing.

“Whattt,” Jung-bae couldn’t believe his ears.

In-ho laughed for a few more seconds than he needed to. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like this—a real, genuinely loud laugh. It had to be almost a decade ago, before his wife was diagnosed, that he had laughed like that.

Gi-hun looked at him annoyed but not really mad. They were really having a good laugh at his poor choices. It reminded him of a time before the game when he would be out with friends and they would laugh at something he had done. It had been so long since then. A lifetime ago.

“What happened to the money you won? 45.6 billion?” In-ho asked Gi-hun, even though he knew the answer. He had been spending it stalking the Front Man, and he had bought a love motel—which was a first when it came to winners spending their money on something like that.

“Did you bet on horses again?” Jung-bae asked, worried.

“The money doesn’t belong to me. It’s blood money for the people who died here,” Gi-hun said, looking In-ho right in the eye so he knew he was speaking directly to him.

“You didn’t kill them, Gi-hun. And saving the money isn’t going to bring them back to life,” In-ho told Gi-hun, trying to take his guilt away.

“If you had pressed the X, everyone here would’ve made it out alive!” Gi-hun was now starting to show his anger again, even though he knew In-ho wouldn’t have voted to leave. A part of him hoped he would have though.

“That’s right. I was the last to press the O button. But there were 182 more people who wanted to stay,” In-ho said, trying to defend himself.

“And there were also 182 people who wanted to leave,” Gi-hun clashed back at him.

“Let’s say I pressed X and we all left. Would everyone be happy? Do you think if they ran into me later, they’d thank me for saving their lives and tell me they’re happy now?” In-ho said, which made Gi-hun go quiet.

“All right. There’s no point in placing blame now,” Jung-bae said, trying to break the tension. “You know they say, a widow understands a widower best. Let’s just focus on tomorrow’s game, okay?”

Jung-bae continued talking while In-ho and Gi-hun were still staring at each other—neither of them breaking eye contact. They probably didn’t blink in minutes.

Dae-ho joined in the conversation with Jung-bae, talking about sticking together, which led to Dae-ho introducing himself to the group, and Jung-bae and him started bonding over them both being in the navy before. They both started yelling, which eased the tension between In-ho and Gi-hun. Before, they were staring at each other—now Gi-hun looked a little amused, almost a smile, watching Jung-bae and Dae-ho.

A fight started breaking out, which made In-ho get up, getting in the middle, arguing with Thanos when he made a comment about a kid. In-ho got pissed, starting fighting them like it was nothing. He could’ve fought longer, but he stopped. The whole room clapped for him. He had put on a show—they knew now at least not to go after him.

Gi-hun watched him, realizing all the times they had fought, In-ho had been going easy on him because this was nowhere as violent as he could have been.

They didn’t talk again. In-ho went back to his bunk after the fight, and everyone else did too. Now they were trying to sleep, but Gi-hun sat on his bed, thinking. He heard the door open and slam closed—In-ho walked in. Gi-hun hadn’t even realized he had left in the first place.

He thought he would walk to his own bunk, but In-ho was walking towards him. Gi-hun assumed he probably went to be a Front Man for a while—that’s why he was absent—which made him more annoyed. What was he plotting?

As he was thinking, In-ho reached his bunk.

“Are you still up? Can we talk a little, just us now?” In-ho whispered quietly, trying to make sure no one else heard.

Gi-hun, too tired to reply, just nodded. In-ho took a seat on the stairs next to Gi-hun’s bed, handing him over something. Gi-hun hadn’t noticed In-ho holding.

“You must be hungry. You didn’t eat before. I sneaked one for you,” In-ho said, giving Gi-hun the lunch box.

“What, are you trying to poison me now?” Gi-hun asked suspiciously. He didn’t trust In-ho for a second. He had to have an ulterior motive. He wasn’t going to fall for it.

In-ho was a little annoyed by the suggestion. He had been just trying to do one nice thing. It wasn’t like he could apologize to Gi-hun about the vote — at least he could make sure he ate.

“No. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Just eat it. Not good to go to sleep on an empty stomach,” In-ho said, trying to convince him.

But Gi-hun still wasn’t. He shook his head.

“You sound like my mother,” he said.

So In-ho decided, “Gi-hun, do you ever make anything ever easy? How about we make a bet. While you eat, I will tell you about my first game. Why I joined.”

In-ho wasn’t sure why he said that — it just came out. But now he didn’t have a choice but to keep his word.

Gi-hun scoffed, not believing him. “Why would I believe a word you say? I don’t need to hear your life story. You are a monster. You feed off vulnerable people,” Gi-hun said, annoyed, putting the lunch box down, refusing to eat.

“My wife was sick. She had acute cirrhosis. She needed a liver transplant,” In-ho started telling the story without looking at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun, confused — it was so unexpected to hear — he decided to actually pick up the lunch box and start eating like In-ho had told him to, while he continued to tell the story.

“But when she was going through the test, we found out she was pregnant. The doctor suggested a termination, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she would give birth even if it killed her,” In-ho continued, in a sad whisper voice Gi-hun had never heard. He didn’t know how to respond to the man. He hadn’t expected In-ho to be so vulnerable, or his story to be so sad.

“She was always so stubborn. I had never been able to change her mind about anything.”

In-ho had his face down, getting teary. It was good Gi-hun wasn’t looking at him directly. He couldn’t.

“We were struggling to find a donor and her condition was getting worse. I was a match, but I had donated my kidney to my brother, so the doctors wouldn’t let me give my liver to her. It was too risky, they said. And she agreed with them, no matter how much we fought on it.”

In-ho wished he never started talking about it. It had been almost a decade and he didn’t talk about her or what happened to anyone. Now here he was, telling the story voluntarily.

“I borrowed as much money as possible, but it wasn’t enough.”

Gi-hun had stopped eating, just staring down, listening carefully to In-ho.

“I was desperate. Then one of my oldest vendors heard about my situation and offered to help.”

Gi-hun looked at him slowly with pity. He had no idea how to react.

“So I borrowed money from them. But people saw it as a bribe, and I got fired from my job.”

Gi-hun continued staring at the man — so vulnerable, something he never expected. When he had come back, he spent the past few years looking for answers, trying to know the Front Man — and here he was, just a broken man. Which made it worse.

“I had devoted my entire youth to it. The games were my last hope,” In-ho looked at him again, but Gi-hun had looked away. Now he was the one looking down.

“I get what you meant about the money. But then I really needed to save them. I didn’t care that it was blood money. It was my last hope. So I did what I had to do to win. When I got home, they both were dead. It wasn’t enough. I never was.”

In-ho looked down. He was getting too emotional. He had to get out of here.

“You should finish your food, then go to bed,” In-ho said to Gi-hun before getting up from the stairs. Without looking at him, he left and went to his bed on the other side.

Chapter Text

The morning music was playing, Gi-hun gasping as he woke up from a nightmare. The damn triangle that he made everyone choose turned out to be so difficult—he felt everyone's panic as they yelled at him. He saw In-ho's face staring at his; the nightmare felt so real. He was so relieved to wake up, realizing the game hadn’t even started, hoping it would be a different game this time so he wouldn’t have to deal with that again.

He sat up on his bed, looking around as everyone started to wake up. There—he saw In-ho sitting on his own bed, staring at him. He looked like he hadn’t slept the whole night. He seemed to freeze, realizing Gi-hun saw him staring, so Gi-hun moved his gaze, now trying to see who else had woken up.

The guards began to come in as the automatic voice told them the second game was going to start soon.

“Gi-hun,” Jung-bae said from his bed, trying to get his attention. “Triangle. I’m counting on you, buddy.”

Jung-bae made a triangle with his hand while talking to Gi-hun in his sleepy voice. All Gi-hun could do was nod. He wanted to pass out after that nightmare—he felt scared they would all count on him and he’d be wrong.

They started to walk out, with In-ho and Dae-ho joining them to walk together to the stairs. They made their way to the game together as a group.

They walked in as the automatic voice told them the game would require them to divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes. Gi-hun let out a sigh of relief, realizing the games were different this time. In-ho looked over, confused at him.

They hadn’t talked since last night—not a word—and neither of them were ready to talk about it.

The other players started to come up to Gi-hun, questioning him about them not playing Dalgona anymore, calling him a liar. They got mad at him for not knowing what they were playing.

Gi-hun apologized for leading them on with the wrong game. A part of him was still happy it wasn’t that stupid triangle from his dream. Anything would be better than that, and he could deal with others being mad at him right now.

In-ho stepped in as they started yelling at Gi-hun.

“That’s enough,” he said in a deep, cold voice—enough to scare the other players so they backed off.

It was enough for them to leave them alone so they could go get into their own groups as the timer started. Gi-hun was still looking down, defeated and disappointed in himself for the games being different.

“I’d like to play with you guys, if that’s okay,” In-ho asked the whole group, but only looked at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun finally looked up, surprised and a little annoyed. The bastard knew the game wasn’t going to be Dalgona, yet he let everyone believe it. Now he wanted to be on their team.

“Yeah, of course,” Jung-bae replied to him first. “All right. Let’s be real men and give it a shot. It’s a children’s game, right? We used to play games all the time.”

Jung-bae was trying to encourage them.

“That’s right, sir, I’ll join you,” Dae-ho said, still trusting Gi-hun.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho started talking, trying to be more positive about the game—that it was for the best and they’d figure it out.

They still needed to find one more person. Jung-bae and Dae-ho volunteered to look for one more person, which left Gi-hun and In-ho standing alone together.

In-ho looked at Gi-hun first. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say after their previous conversation.

Gi-hun spoke first. “You knew the games were different, but you let me lie to everyone.” He was, of course, annoyed with him.

“If I had told you what the next games were, you would have warned everyone. I couldn’t let that happen. Do you honestly believe that I would just tell you everything?”

In-ho tried defending himself, reminding both of them that he was still the Front Man. Ironically, he had told him everything—not about the game, but about himself. A late-night decision he regretted. He would blame it on the whiskey he had before he came back in the room. That’s what let him be vulnerable. He would be more careful now to not reveal anything more.

“The next games are pretty easy. We should be able to win them without a problem, but we’ll be the last team to play—because I’m on your team. It’ll be easier for the guards than having to fake kill me with the group in front of everyone.”

In-ho tried to explain, to give him some relief.

But Gi-hun just got more mad. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be on our team,” Gi-hun said coldly. He wasn’t going to let what happened last night change his opinion about the Front Man.

“Sure, if you wanna explain to them why, be my guest,” In-ho said. He was a little disappointed Gi-hun didn’t want to play together.

Gi-hun knew he couldn’t come up with a good reason to tell the others why In-ho shouldn’t be on their team—besides the truth, which he couldn’t tell anyone. He knew that would put everyone’s life in danger. So instead of responding, he just let out a scoff and they stood still in silence, waiting for Jung-bae and Dae-ho to return with someone.

When they finally came back, there were a few minutes left on the clock. They had found another former marine, which would have been perfect for their team.

But then Player 222 approached them.

“Excuse me, can I join you?” she asked them desperately.

“Sorry, we’ve already got five people,” Jung-bae tried to tell her.

“Please help me, I’m pregnant,” Player 222 said, putting a hand on her belly.

They all looked down in shock.

Shit, In-ho thought. How the hell did they miss this? He would have to talk to the guards later—whoever oversaw it let a pregnant woman into the games. That shouldn’t have been allowed. Even though there wasn’t a rule against it, it was basic understanding. He was going to have to be more careful in future games when they picked participants.

For now, since no one else spoke up, he said, “Yes, of course you can join us.”

In-ho couldn’t let the pregnant woman get stuck on some other team and die. So he replied for the whole group, and no one objected.

Gi-hun looked at him. He could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face, but he didn’t look at him. He knew what he was thinking about—he thought In-ho let Player 222 join because it reminded him of his pregnant wife. He hadn’t. Not completely.

They settled down, sitting together as the game announcement started: what they would be playing.

“It’s good that we got a woman. You can play Gong-gi, right?” Jung-bae spoke up, excitedly asking Player 222.

She just shook her head no.

“Don’t girls play Gong-gi anymore?” Jung-bae asked, while both In-ho and Gi-hun were looking over at them too.

“I’ve never played,” Player 222 told them in a quiet, scared voice.

“Actually, I can play Gong-gi,” Dae-ho spoke up, looking at them a little embarrassed.

“You? An ex-marine?” Jung-bae questioned him, a little suspicious.

“I grew up with four sisters,” Dae-ho explained himself.

“Everyone else, what game are you confident playing?” Gi-hun asked them.

“Ddakji for me,” Player 222 spoke with more confidence now. “At the subway station, I won more times than the guy.”

Everyone nodded in agreement to let her play it.

“Ms. 222, you can play Ddakji. I’ll play Flying Stone. I was a pitcher for my baseball team. I’m good at throwing,” Jung-bae told them.

Now that left Gi-hun and In-ho to decide their games.

“What are you good at?” Gi-hun asked. He finally talked to In-ho after what happened earlier.

“Well, I’ll play what you pick for me, Gi-hun,” In-ho answered, wanting to annoy him a little bit just for the hell of it.

Gi-hun did get annoyed by that and just gave him a look to pick instead of answering.

“So, Gi-hun, which game are you good at?” In-ho asked instead of choosing.

“I guess I’m better at Jegi,” Gi-hun told him in a way that he just picked for In-ho without realizing.

In-ho looked at him smugly, a little, but didn’t make a comment about it.

“Hmm… Then I will do the spinning top. I used to play it with my brother anyway,” In-ho told him.

They silently just looked at each other, their tension calming from the earlier disagreement.

“Guys, bring your hands together,” Jung-bae told them, and everyone followed. In-ho’s hand ended up being on top of Gi-hun’s, which took him back to the time when In-ho stripped him when he was supposed to be unconscious.

It was the first time he had felt his hands without gloves—how he had touched him and lingered.

He was pulled out of his thoughts while Jung-bae was talking. He counted down, and they all pulled their hands up.

Victory at all cost.

Now Gi-hun was sitting back in his original spot with In-ho next to him. He wondered if he had been thinking of the same moment.

He felt embarrassed again remembering what had happened between them before. He had to stop thinking about it so he didn’t get distracted while playing, so he started watching the game while the other two teams played instead, trying to think of strategy.

He started to worry—even if one person couldn’t do it right, they wouldn’t have enough time to finish.

In-ho at first hadn’t noticed Gi-hun being weird because he had gotten distracted talking to Jung-bae. When he looked over, Gi-hun was lost in his thoughts.

He assumed it was about the game, so he leaned over.

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” In-ho whispered, making sure only Gi-hun heard it.

“Even if one of us takes too long, we’ll lose. There has to be some way to ensure we win, right?” Gi-hun asked him as the first group got eliminated when the time ran out.

Then someone was yelling in the back about how they should have left.

He guessed that was good—maybe this time more people would vote right.

“I already told them to change the time a little bit if it looks like we’re losing, but they can’t do much without everyone noticing the difference,” In-ho whispered right in Gi-hun’s ear. He had leaned almost his whole body toward him so he didn’t accidentally let anyone else know.

“Isn’t that cheating? I thought this was supposed to be a fair chance for everyone,” Gi-hun said again, mad at him—even though In-ho was just helping.

“Would you rather just die and let Jung-bae and Dae-ho die too just to make it fair?” In-ho said. Gi-hun was getting on his nerves with this righteous act.

Gi-hun just scoffed and shook his head, watching the game again.

As the games continued, the energy in the room shifted. Everyone had started watching more closely, cheering loudly each time someone managed to win. During one of the rounds, the atmosphere was so joyful that players got up and hugged each other. Gi-hun and In-ho found themselves celebrating side by side, shouting in excitement. At one point, In-ho threw an arm around Gi-hun’s shoulder without thinking, and almost every win after that ended the same way—cheers, arms around one another, and the same rhythm between them like it had always been that way.

Their whole team stood together once, arms draped across shoulders, forming a brief circle of unity. For those few fleeting minutes, Gi-hun had completely forgotten In-ho was the Front Man. They screamed at the top of their lungs, not caring if their voices would be sore later. No one cared in that moment. They were just happy—genuinely and wildly happy. But as the rounds went on and teams began to fall, the cheering quieted. Eventually, only two teams remained. The circle they'd all stood in—the once-vibrant rainbow platform—was now stained red with the blood of those who had lost.

Standing there with their legs tied together, it was finally their turn. The joyful noise had vanished, leaving only tension behind. Jung-bae teased Dae-ho nervously, trying to lighten the mood.

As the shot rang out, signaling the start of their round, they took off as fast as they could, moving arm in arm. Player 222 was first and nailed her game on the first try. Jung-bae followed, also succeeding right away. Dae-ho delivered an incredible performance, winning on his first attempt too, and they still had plenty of time left on the clock.

Then came In-ho’s turn. For the first time since their team began, he failed.

“It’s okay. Just stay calm,” Gi-hun said quietly, trying to encourage him. But In-ho, clearly rattled, shoved him back, needing space. In his frustration, In-ho threw the top backward instead of forward, missing completely. He muttered apologies as they stepped back again, only to fail a second time.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Gi-hun asked, his voice sharper now. Suspicion was creeping in. Was In-ho sabotaging them?

In-ho whipped around and glared at him furiously. Then suddenly, he began yelling, slapping himself across the face again and again in a sudden, violent meltdown. “You goddamn idiot! You’re an idiot!” he screamed at himself, hitting harder each time. The others were frozen in shock.

Gi-hun rushed to stop him, grabbing onto In-ho’s shirt and jacket as they struggled. “No one is blaming you!” Gi-hun shouted, desperate to break through the panic. “Take a deep breath. Calm down.”

He spoke to him gently now, like calming a child. Dae-ho bent down and picked up the spinning top again as Gi-hun tried to steady In-ho with his voice. “Try to remember when you had fun playing this with Jun-ho. Breathe.”

At the mention of his brother, In-ho’s breath caught. He hadn’t even realized Gi-hun said Jun-ho’s name—he’d been too overwhelmed, but now he focused on steadying himself. After a few long inhales, he took the spinning top from Gi-hun’s hand, still trembling, but trying again. Gi-hun stayed close, whispering to him, keeping him grounded.

Finally, on his next try, In-ho got it. The top spun perfectly. Their team erupted in cheers.

They had made it to the next game, and their courage returned.

Now it was Gi-hun’s turn. He managed the first four stages, but the fifth was harder. He began to struggle until In-ho stepped forward and helped, extending his foot just enough to give Gi-hun an edge. Together, they won.

Their celebration was wild. They ran their victory lap, high on adrenaline, screaming and cheering again.

But their joy was ripped away in a second.

The other team was executed on the spot.

For a moment, they had all forgotten where they were. But now the truth was back in front of them. This was the Squid Game, and that was death. It came without ceremony, fast and final.

In-ho quietly observed Gi-hun’s reaction. He watched the way the light drained from his face as realization settled in. In-ho didn’t react. After all these years, he was too used to death. It didn’t shake him anymore.

They returned to the dorm room. The once-cheerful atmosphere they had shared as a team vanished. Everyone else glared at them now, bitter and jealous.

“They don’t seem so happy to see us,” In-ho muttered, breaking the heavy silence as they all sat down again.

“I’m sorry about earlier, everyone,” he added quietly. He looked exhausted, ashamed.

The others didn’t scold him. They offered comfort instead. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made the last kick,” Gi-hun said sincerely. He almost patted In-ho’s knee, but then caught himself—he noticed Jung-bae doing the same gesture, and it reminded him again that In-ho was the Front Man. He had to be careful not to let his guard down.

In-ho turned to Player 222. “Player 222, are you feeling all right?” he asked gently.

“Yes. Thank you all for including me on your team,” Jun-hee replied graciously.

“She smashed that ddakji. Flipped it on her first try,” Jung-bae chimed in with a grin.

“That was impressive. She’s great, even while carrying a baby,” Dae-ho said with admiration. “We were lucky she joined our team.”

For a rare moment, everyone smiled. They were genuinely happy again.

“What about your flying stone play?” Dae-ho continued, looking at Jung-bae. “You hit it with one shot. With an underhand pitch! Bam!”

The two started laughing, congratulating each other. Then Dae-ho shifted gears.

“Listen, perhaps we should learn each other’s names.” He stood up, scratching the back of his head. “I still don’t know yours, gentlemen—or yours, miss.”

Everyone agreed.

“I’ll start. I’m Kang Dae-ho. ‘Dae’ means ‘big’, and ‘ho’ means ‘tiger’,” he explained.

“Wow. Big Tiger. Cool name,” Jung-bae said with a chuckle.

“My name is Park Jung-bae,” he continued. “‘Righteous’ and ‘twice.’ My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous.” He scratched his head sheepishly.

Next was Player 222. “My name is Kim Jun-hee. I don’t know what it means though,” she admitted softly.

In-ho turned serious. “Jun-hee, when you get out of here, go see a doctor right away. You’ve been under a lot of stress. You need to get yourself checked out.”

Gi-hun nodded in agreement. He was still angry—after all, they were only still here because In-ho voted to keep the game going. But right now, there was no point in picking that fight again.

Then In-ho said, “I’m Hwang In-ho. I’m not sure what it means either.”

But that wasn’t true. He knew very well it meant “bright, great humanity.” He just didn’t believe in it. Not anymore. That name belonged to someone else—someone he used to be, before all of this.

Gi-hun looked over at him with a skeptical expression. In-ho just shrugged.

“So, Gi-hun, what’s your last name?” In-ho asked, even though he already knew the answer. He’d waited years to finally make this joke.

“Seong Gi-hun,” Gi-hun replied dryly, clearly not amused.

“‘Seong’ literally means ‘last name’,” In-ho burst out laughing. He was somehow the only one who laughed at it.

But he didn’t care. He’d waited years to say that line—ever since he first met Gi-hun in the limo. For a moment, he felt like his old self again. The guy who used to make terrible dad jokes that no one found funny.

His wife used to tease him for those jokes. Said they were one of the things that made her fall in love with him, even though he wasn’t a dad yet. Jun-ho used to groan when he told them, especially if friends were around. He’d pretend not to know In-ho. But In-ho missed those days. Terribly.

The guards came in explaining the results of the game which made people die. Apparently, not enough people had died for them. Gi-hun looked at Jung-bae worried as he stared at the money, then at Dae-ho who said he was going to change his vote. He didn’t look at In-ho because he thought it would be useless to ask him to change. But In-ho stared at him waiting for him to do something; he got annoyed he didn’t even get an angry stare this time. With one last glance at Gi-hun, who still didn’t look at him, he started walking to give the first vote. This time he pressed X with hesitation because he knew not enough people would—their greed was too big—so he thought it would be better to be on Gi-hun’s side for once. He decided not to look back at Gi-hun; he knew he would be staring at him, but he was going to give him the same treatment he got from him until he had voted.

As the votes went on, a lot of people switched from X to O. Of course they did; In-ho had expected that but Gi-hun hadn’t for some reason, so he got out of the crowd and began yelling, “Everyone!” In-ho decided he would have a little fun and defend him. He hadn’t gotten a chance to yell at anyone in a day since he couldn’t be the front man.

“Are you all out of your minds?” In-ho yelled, getting everyone’s attention including Gi-hun, but he still decided to avoid his gaze and came to the center of the room. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die?” He started acting crazy, yelling at the blue team. “Who’s to say you wouldn’t die in the next game?” He looked at all of them disappointed. “This has to stop. We all die if we keep going!” He started moving around as he yelled, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Come to your senses and leave with that money. You’ve got to survive first, or there wouldn’t be a next step.”

He wondered if someone had given this speech at his own game, what would have happened. Probably nothing would have changed.

“What do you think we do with a mere 70 million?” Player 100 started arguing with him. He really hated this bastard. He wouldn’t shut up about how that money was nothing, and he got others to agree with him, saying the money will triple next game. Then someone from the X team started begging to leave, but the O team was brutal; they didn’t care about anyone else so they ignored her.

“If you die here, your family wouldn’t even get your body. Then it’d be the end for you and your family!” In-ho tried explaining but it didn’t matter; he knew it wouldn’t. The blue team kept arguing, trying to convince others that staying was better, and they were able to convince more people to play one more game and started chanting it.

In-ho’s eyes finally met Gi-hun’s who looked worried but at least he wasn’t mad at him anymore over the vote. As the votes went on, Jung-bae had switched to the blue team, which no one had expected. When it came time for Gi-hun to vote, he was the last one. He looked so broken when he pressed X because he knew they had already lost. This time the vote wasn’t even near a tie. They would be playing the game again tomorrow.

Gi-hun stayed there standing; he couldn’t move. He just looked at the red and blue lights in sadness until they moved it. He eventually went to his bed; he didn’t want to face anyone, especially Jung-bae. But this time In-ho noticed him walking to his bed, so he followed. As Gi-hun sat down in despair, looking down at the stairs, In-ho walked up to his bed and sat next to him without saying a word. Gi-hun didn’t look up but he knew it was In-ho.

“You know I can still get you out of here. The games are right now if you want. You can go back, get on a plane, you never have to come back.” In-ho said as a whisper. He knew it would be hard and he would get in trouble if the guards found out, but he was willing to risk it.

Gi-hun looked at him in shock. “Why don’t you get everyone out?” he replied. He knew what the answer was.

“You know I can’t do that, but I can let you leave. You can see your daughter again. Just forget about this place and move on,” In-ho tried telling him.

“I’m not leaving until everyone else is,” Gi-hun said, staring him in the eye.

“Why do you hate being a father so much you would abandon her for a room full of stranger who don’t want to be saved?” In-ho said in a cold voice.

Gi-hun looked at him and got up from the bed angrily. “You don’t get to talk about my daughter. You have no idea what kind of father I am,” Gi-hun said definitely, even though he knew In-ho wasn’t wrong but he didn’t get to tell him that as the front man.

“You are a shit brother. You shot your own brother while all he did was look for you and wanted to save you, and he still is looking for you. He doesn’t even know you are the front man,” Gi-hun finally having the talk he wanted since he found out about his real name.

“Is that what he told you? He doesn’t know who the front man is because he knows for a fact it’s me. He saw me without the mask. I gave him a choice. I had no choice but to shoot him or one of the guards would have. I shot him in the shoulder so it wouldn’t hit an organ, and I had one of the captains I knew get him from the island and save his life. And for the record, he shot me too,” In-ho said before walking away.

Chapter Text

Jun-ho had lied to him—of course he had. All these years, he knew who the Front Man was, and he protected him. Now Gi-hun wasn’t sure he believed anything Jun-ho had ever said. Did he even want to find the island? Maybe he had already known where it was.

He was really starting to hate the Hwang brothers—both of them were deceivers and liars. Now he had no hope the games would be stopped. How could he have been so careless with who he trusted? And with the sound of it, Captain Park was part of the plan too. No wonder they only ever hit dead ends—everyone he knew had been working for the Front Man.

The guards had started rolling in with the food as people lined up. He decided to get some food too. He would need the energy to think about the next plan.

In-ho had been in the line too, but he hadn’t looked at Gi-hun. He seemed to be ignoring him. After they got their portions, they went back to the others where Dae-ho and Jun-hee were already sitting. They took the usual spot next to each other but didn’t talk at all—probably for the best.

Jung-bae sat in the corner alone with his food, which he hadn’t touched. So Dae-ho decided to go up to him, since the other didn’t care.

“Hey, just come back here,” he said.

“No, I’m good here,” Jung-bae replied without even glancing up.

“Oh, come on,” Dae said, starting to pull him up and drag him back to the group. “You should’ve gone farther away then. It bugs me seeing you sitting there all pathetic,” he added as they now stood in front of everyone.

“I’m sorry. Jun-hee, In-ho. I’m sorry. Gi-hun, I’m sorry,” Jung-bae began to apologize, but no one looked at him. They all ignored him.

“I borrowed some emergency cash, and the creditors are harassing my ex-wife and kid. If I play one more game, I think I’ll be able to settle my debt,” Jung-bae explained.

Then In-ho spoke up, “Jung-bae, you of all people shouldn’t have done it. It’s not twice as righteous,” he said, recalling their earlier conversation.

“But looking at the results, even if you had voted against, we still would’ve been outvoted,” In-ho added, still putting on a disappointed act.

“Right? It’s not entirely my fault,” Jung-bae said, pleading.

Dae-ho spoke next. “I understand why you did it. The money isn’t enough for me either, so when I went to vote, I did think about playing one more game.”

“You did?” Jung-bae asked, trying to hug him, while Dae-ho protested.

“I said I get it,” Dae-ho said, trying to push him back.

“Thank you for understanding,” Jung-bae said, finally sitting down.

“But I voted in favor partly because I feel confident. We did so well as a team, didn’t we? If we stick together one more time, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Jun-hee, I’ll make sure we survive the next game—”

Jung-bae continued speaking, but Gi-hun suddenly interrupted. He finally spoke after all the silence.

“The next game—in the next game, we might have to kill each other,” Gi-hun said, finally looking up right at Jung-bae. He remembered the marble game—how everyone had betrayed each other.

“Gi-hun, that’s a bit much. There’s nothing we can do now, so let’s try to stay positive. We should eat, pull ourselves together, and try our best again,” In-ho said, trying to calm everyone down.

“Here, Jun-hee. You can have mine too. Hang in there until the next game,” he added, trying to hand her his milk.

“No, it’s okay,” Jun-hee said, not accepting it at first.

“Take it. I don’t drink plain milk,” In-ho replied. After that, she took it, thanking him. He might be a monster, but he wasn’t going to let a pregnant woman starve in this place. Still, he couldn’t exactly improve their meal plans.

“Here, have my bread too. I don’t deserve to eat it,” Jung-bae told her, handing it over.

“Can I have your milk then?” Dae-ho asked him, as Jung-bae gave him a disappointed look.

They ate in silence for the rest of the time. Sometimes, In-ho would glance over at Gi-hun, who seemed to be in deep despair—an expression that only kept getting worse.

He probably shouldn’t have talked about Jun-ho. His idiot brother had strung along so many people into his plan—people who were now going to die in disappointment. He still had to talk to Captain Park about what was going on. He’d do that after the game tomorrow.

After they finished eating, Jung-bae, Dae-ho, and In-ho had gone to the restroom together to stick together as a group. Gi-hun wasn’t interested in joining them, so he just sat there and slacked off while waiting for them to come back.

They walked in to see Thanos threatening Player 333, who had been on their red team. So they decided to defend him—well, Jung-bae and Dae-ho did. In-ho just stood there and watched the interaction.

In-ho decided to take a shower in the restroom since he couldn’t go to his quarters long enough without someone noticing. He started thinking of possible things he could do in the upcoming game to help the team, but there wasn’t much he could pull off—unless he blew up the island, which was a crazy thought.

The VIPs would kill him unless he had a good reason why. Well... he could say the island was compromised if he let Jun-ho find it and called the coast guard. That would leave In-ho no choice but to blow it up. But he couldn’t do that. He was letting Gi-hun get into his head.

He had been spending too much time with him—it was starting to give him hope. That worn, buried hope inside him that he thought had died all those years ago. It was a crazy plan. He couldn’t do it... could he?

He turned the shower off and decided to go back to the others before he planned something insane like that. He needed sleep, to get those reckless thoughts out of his head.

When he got back, Gi-hun had been making everyone move the beds, and they were going to sleep under the bunks themselves for protection—so they wouldn’t get attacked. They would take turns keeping watch while the others slept.

He just stood there watching at first as Gi-hun explained the plan to everyone. They hadn’t noticed he had returned from the restroom. He wondered if he was part of this protection plan Gi-hun had come up with or if he would be sleeping outside the bunk with the others.

He knew Gi-hun didn’t care if he lived or died, so it shouldn’t matter what he thought of him. But he did. He couldn’t help but care what Gi-hun’s opinion of him was.

Maybe it was the past few years he had spent keeping an eye on him—it was the closest thing he had to human interest that didn’t include giving orders to the guards.

And the obsession had been mutual. Gi-hun had looked for him. He liked seeing him come up with all those theories, searching for him—it was a thrill he hadn’t had since he was fired from the force.

A job he loved. He loved the chase, finding the bad guys—it was the best part, even going undercover. But after he got married, she hadn’t liked him going undercover, so he had stopped and chose the safer route.

Now here he was—undercover as his old self that didn’t exist anymore outside these walls. And he wasn’t the good guy anymore. Yet here he was, understanding the same thrill the criminals had.

It was the same one he had as a cop. There was no difference, besides the side they were on. Now Gi-hun was the good guy who couldn’t find him, who had searched so long, following clues.

In-ho had left them on purpose—just for the thrill of it. After being on both sides of the coin, he knew there wasn’t a difference. Everybody just liked the feeling of being useful, finding that clue, solving a puzzle no one else could.

No matter how many rewards he had gotten, how perfect he had been at everything—it didn’t matter anymore. Because of the man he had become. And no matter how horrible Gi-hun had been before the games, a mess, someone who didn’t care who he was hurting—he now cared deeply for people who were just strangers.

And in the end, it wouldn’t matter either. The story would end one way or another, but neither of them would ever get what they truly wanted.

“Hey, your bed’s on the right. You can sleep there. I already explained the plan to the others, but we have to be careful now that the others might try to kill us to increase the prize money,” Gi-hun said, approaching In-ho while he had been lost in thought. He hadn’t even realized what had happened.

Gi-hun had made a bed for him with the others he cared about protecting. Was it just an act—or did he actually want In-ho to be safe? He couldn’t figure this man out. He gives shelter to his worst enemy while wanting to take him down. God, even a psychology expert would quit if they met him. He was the weirdest person he had ever known.

In-ho just nodded instead of responding, so Gi-hun continued, “We already picked the order for who’s going to keep watch. You’ll be last, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I can do that,” In-ho said with an unreadable expression. He wasn’t sure how to react, so he just followed Gi-hun back to the others. They talked about something he couldn’t care less about.

They stayed in their corner just making simple conversation about life. Dae-ho had asked Jun-hee if she had a name for the baby. She told them no—she didn’t even know the gender since she couldn’t go to a doctor. She didn’t have any money.

Jung-bae asked her if the father was in the picture, which she hesitantly shook her head to.

It made In-ho so angry—fathers who abandoned their own children. He could never understand it. He would’ve done anything to be part of his child’s life, but he never got the chance to.

He wished he could make sure Jun-hee would get out of this place alive with the baby. He even wanted Jung-bae to get out. He had grown to like him a bit—maybe because he was Gi-hun’s friend, so he hadn’t had much choice.

Even Dae-ho—he wanted him to live. He reminded him of Jun-ho when he was younger and carefree.

He wished he’d never joined the games. Now he was starting to get attached to these people, and he couldn’t stop himself.

When it had just been Gi-hun, he could handle it. He could say he didn’t care, that he just found him interesting. But he couldn’t use the same excuse for the rest of them.

Maybe he should consider letting everyone be free. Blowing up the island for good—it might not be the worst idea.

The problem would be keeping everyone quiet after the escape. The Blue Team, who he hated so much, definitely wouldn’t stay quiet. He knew the police didn’t listen to the survivors usually, but with so many people and so much evidence on the island... maybe he could come up with a different plan. Something less risky to save them.

After a while of them talking, it was time for lights out. They all got under their beds, besides Gi-hun, who was keeping the first watch while the rest tried to sleep.

But In-ho couldn’t sleep. All he could do was think of a plan, but nothing was coming to mind.

Maybe he should ask Gi-hun about it. He seemed to have thought a lot about stopping the game these last few years.

As he was about to move, he saw Jung-bae get out of bed and sit next to Gi-hun. So In-ho didn’t move a muscle, pretending to be asleep.

He swore—every time he wanted to have a conversation with Gi-hun, Jung-bae ruined it. He couldn’t believe himself—that he still wanted to save him.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Gi-hun, he wouldn’t mind leaving Jung-bae on the island, just because he could be so annoying sometimes.

“You should get some sleep. I’ll take over,” Jung-bae told Gi-hun, who still refused to look at him—still mad.

“I’m not that tired,” Gi-hun answered.

“Get some more sleep,” Gi-hun told him again.

“I’m sorry,” Jung-bae said, looking at him, though Gi-hun continued ignoring him.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Gi-hun told him, wanting to give him the silent treatment like he was a child.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Gi-hun said quietly, still caring about his friend. Who knew how much time they had left together now?

“No. It’s not about that. I’m sorry I didn’t lend you money when you came to my pub before,” Jung-bae said in a quiet voice that wasn’t like him. “If I had found some way to help you, your mom might still be alive,” he admitted.

He remembered the time before Gi-hun’s mother had died, when they were best friends. How much he loved her cooking, how she treated him like her own son—well, better than she treated Gi-hun, since she was usually just disappointed and mad at him.

“Man, I really didn’t have money then,” Jung-bae said.

Gi-hun still stayed silent. He understood. He remembered how hard it was when you didn’t come from money. He’d spent his whole life trying to be better and only got worse.

Now he had all the money in the world and none of it mattered. He had lost everyone that mattered. He hadn’t even fixed his relationship with his daughter. He broke all the promises he ever made—to her, and to himself.

“I know. I never resented you for it,” Gi-hun finally said. He did know all too well. He wished he could’ve been a better friend. That his friends hadn’t had to die the last time they played. He wished he could’ve saved them all. The money in the world couldn’t bring them back.

“Is that why you came here before? To pay for your mom’s treatment?” Jung-bae asked. Gi-hun nodded. He was starting to get emotional now, talking about his mother.

He remembered how he had found her dead. He wished so badly he could go back and save her—be a better son.

“Why did you come back? If I were you, I would’ve put everything behind me. Started a new life with the money,” Jung-bae asked him.

Gi-hun turned his head to look him in the eyes before asking, “If… if I die right before your eyes and you won all the money, how would you feel?”

He stuttered the words in a broken-down voice.

“Come on, don’t say that. We’ll make it out together,” Jung-bae told him, wanting to be optimistic.

“That’s why I came back. To make it out with everyone. To end this game... but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I can do here,” Gi-hun admitted. He felt like he was losing everything—everyone was slipping from his fingers.

“I ruined your plan by pressing the button,” Jung-bae sighed, mad at himself.

“I told you, it’s not your fault,” Gi-hun replied. So Jung-bae decided to drop it.

“Hey, do you remember when we went on strike? We were occupying the factory and management told us to come out. They said whoever came out would be let off the hook and receive more severance pay,” Jung-bae recalled.

“How could I forget?” Gi-hun said, looking forward.

“When I was on night watch, I wanted to get out. Guess why I didn’t?”

“You were sleeping beside me and talking in your sleep. ‘Mom, I’m so hungry. Give me food.’ You were sobbing in your sleep,” Jung-bae teased, pretending to cry.

“I cried in my sleep?” Gi-hun asked in an embarrassed voice.

Jung-bae nodded.

“Asking for food?” Gi-hun continued, incredulous.

Jung-bae nodded again.

“So you stayed because of me?” Gi-hun asked, confused. He was surprised he hadn’t heard this story sooner—maybe he had, but they were too drunk to remember it.

“Yeah. I was watching you. I thought, ‘Man, look at this poor wuss. If he wakes up and sees I’m gone, he’ll start crying and wouldn’t even be able to go to the bathroom.’ Then I knew I couldn’t leave you.”

“You are full of shit,” Gi-hun replied, sounding annoyed—but he really wasn’t.

“No, I swear on your mom,” Jung-bae said.

“Why on my mom? Swear on your own,” Gi-hun replied like they used to—teasing each other over drinks.

“Whoever’s mom it is, it’s true. I got fired and ended up like this because I stayed,” Jung-bae said, trying to annoy him.

“You always blame me for every bad thing that happens—losing money on the horses, your failed chicken shop. What else? Getting married?” Gi-hun said, trying to sound serious, but it was more playful, like a kid complaining about his friend to his mom.

“No, I got married because I wanted to. I got divorced because of you,” Jung-bae teased more. He was finally having fun—finally having his friend back after all these years.

“Hey, I got divorced because of you. Because you always invited me out for drinks. And you’re the one who got me into horse racing!” Gi-hun started talking faster and louder like he used to, grabbing Jung-bae’s arm in annoyance while Jung-bae laughed.

“You are finally acting like the Seong Gi-hun I know,” Jung-bae said, still laughing to himself, which made Gi-hun turn away from him, annoyed.

“You’ve been acting like a different person,” he added.

Gi-hun had tears rolling down his eyes as Jung-bae said that. He missed that person—the one he didn’t know how to be anymore. He wished he could go back to those times when he was a mess but could still find happiness in the small things.

“After the next game, let’s get out, okay? Let’s go get soju like old times,” Jung-bae said, smiling—the biggest one he had since they entered this place. The biggest in years.

“You’re buying,” Gi-hun told him.

“People really don’t change, huh? Seong Gi-hun, the cheapskate of Ssangmun-dong. The biggest cheapskate. The king of cheapskates,” Jung-bae laughed.

Gi-hun laughed too—finally a real one.

“Take that back!”

They continued teasing each other for a while, and then Gi-hun finally let Jung-bae take over and went to bed.

In-ho had been listening to everything. He heard every single thing they said.

He couldn’t believe his ears.

In-ho had been listening to everything. He heard every single thing they said.

He couldn’t believe his ears. He had never seen this side of Gi-hun—it had been buried under the torment of the games. But now he got a glimpse of what he used to be like, and he wanted more.

He wished they could’ve been regular friends. That they could talk over drinks, laugh, cry all night, never wanting to go home—not remembering anything the next day.

He wondered what it would be like if Gi-hun slept next to him. What would he say in his sleep? Did he have nightmares like In-ho did now, or would he say something sweeter?

He couldn’t talk to Gi-hun about the plan anymore. He didn’t want to give him hope—he might not be able to keep his word if he couldn’t go through with it.

He stayed up, his mind exhausted, replaying the way Gi-hun had laughed.

Somehow, they were both slowly finding the versions of themselves they’d lost in the game.

But would it be enough to make a real difference? Would they ever be anything but the broken results of the games?

He stayed up as Jung-bae finished his shift, and then Dae-ho took over.

He could probably get some sleep, but he couldn’t.

He hadn’t even had his whiskey tonight, which usually helped.

He waited for Dae-ho to finish his shift so he could take over. They obviously hadn’t included Jun-hee in the watch rotation—she needed all the rest she could get. So it was just the guys who would stay awake in turns.

After a while, he could hear snoring, so he got up and told Dae-ho to go to bed, and he would take over.

Not even five minutes later, he heard a bed shifting.

He looked back to see Gi-hun was up. He got out and sat next to him.

“You should sleep. It’s my turn to keep watch,” In-ho told him, confused about why he was up now.

“I’d rather not. I’m still not sure if you should be trusted with this. Even if you watch out for us, I doubt you’d care if they attacked anyone else. So I’m not sleeping until it’s over—and don’t try to argue with me,” Gi-hun said in a cold and calculated voice, making sure In-ho understood him.

In-ho was really disappointed that Gi-hun didn’t trust him with this. He’d been trying to prove himself, but somehow they always ended up like this—Gi-hun wanting nothing to do with him.

A part of him wanted to tell Gi-hun about the plan. Maybe then he would change his mind about him. But he held back. He needed to figure things out before that could happen.

“Whose plan was it to put the tracker in your teeth?” In-ho asked him in a quiet voice just for the two of them. He didn’t want to argue anymore—might as well make conversation.

“Jun-ho,” Gi-hun answered, still sounding irritated.

“Bastard couldn’t even come up with his own plans. He always steals my ideas. He’s such a brat. That was my trick when I was first undercover as a cop—it got me so much praise. Although I had to pull my real tooth out for the mission, which sucked.

“I kept them in perfect condition. Never had a cavity as a child, so it was annoying. But I made everyone love me early on the job, so it was worth it,” In-ho said, just wanting to gloat for a minute like he used to.

Gi-hun listened, then started laughing—similar to the laugh In-ho had heard earlier, but not quite the same.

“You got rid of a perfectly good tooth just so your coworkers would like you? Do you know how insane that sounds?” Gi-hun said, looking at him like he was analyzing him.

In-ho just shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised at all the things I did back in the day, trying to be the perfect child. I never even got a B, while Jun-ho used to fail geography—somehow mistook America for China once and called Hawaii ‘Japan.’”

In-ho remembered all the nights he spent helping Jun-ho with his homework, how frustrated he would get. He wanted to scream and cry himself sometimes, wondering how hopeless Jun-ho could be.

“What! Oh my god, I can’t believe I trusted that idiot to find the island. I can’t believe he used the same trick you came up with—trying to trick you. What the hell was he thinking?” Gi-hun scoffed. If he ever got out of this place, he was going to beat Jun-ho up himself.

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jun-ho believes the tracker story is his now. He always copied my ideas to tell his friends so he’d sound cool. He literally joined the force to copy me, but I think that was because he felt guilty about the kidney I gave him.

“He’s always been such an idiot. I wanted to stop him, but he joined the academy without telling me—and they loved him because they thought he’d be as great as me. He barely made it out. I had to pull strings. Now, looking back, I probably should’ve let him fail. Maybe he would’ve chosen a different career,” In-ho said. He had a lot of regrets—and most of them were about not being a better brother. He had let his pride ruin too much over the years.

“I wish you had. How is he even a detective now? Can’t believe I let him help me. I’ve even been paying him,” Gi-hun shook his head. God, he should’ve hired better people—maybe then he wouldn’t be in this mess.

In-ho didn’t say anything. He just let the conversation die as they both stared at the far side of the room. He wondered what Gi-hun was thinking about.

“Why did you crash out so bad in the game when you kept losing spinning top? Were you given a shot at acting? Because you scared the others enough to win an Oscar,” Gi-hun asked after a long silence.

“Oh, no, I wish. I’m just not good at being bad at something, I guess. I was always the golden child. I had a billion hobbies that I succeeded at, so I was just being a brat about it. I used to be great before, but I guess I lost my touch with spinning too,” In-ho replied.

It wasn’t the question he expected Gi-hun to ask after all the things he could have asked him.

“Why did you come back to the games?” Gi-hun asked next. Now that was something he had expected.

But right now, he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

“That’s a long story… for another time,” In-ho replied.

After that, they didn’t really talk. They just sat, waiting for the lights to come on.

They probably stayed next to each other for hours without another word.

It was the most peaceful they had been since they met.

Chapter Text

The classical music had begun as the lights turned on. In-ho turned his head to look up, his eyes tired after not sleeping all night. His expression was dead, unreadable. He had spent the rest of the night planning what he should do, and now he had an idea—but everything would have to go perfectly for it to work. So he decided he would go to his quarters after the game to finally set the plan in motion.

Then he felt Gi-hun begin to stir beside him, moving his head from In-ho’s shoulder, confused. He had fallen asleep a while back while they were sitting down. They had been so close that, inevitably, when his head started falling, it had landed on In-ho’s shoulder—and In-ho hadn’t moved a muscle since then, just so he wouldn’t wake him. Gi-hun was now awake, confused at how he had ended up sleeping on In-ho’s shoulder like someone who falls asleep on a subway and leans against a stranger. And he didn’t understand why In-ho hadn’t woken him up.

“You fell asleep. I figured you should get some rest before the next game, so I didn’t wake you,” In-ho said, still a little stiff from not moving for hours.

Gi-hun just nodded, a little embarrassed that he’d done that. He was relieved he’d gotten up before the others had noticed. Now, both In-ho and Gi-hun looked back to see everyone else getting up.

“God, why does it have to be classical music every morning? As if being in here isn’t torture enough, they can’t even pick a decent genre,” Gi-hun said, annoyed at having to hear it again. It haunted him after the last game—now, whenever he heard it, it triggered the past three years of trauma from the Games.

In-ho had a strange look on his face, like he wanted to say something, but held back. Instead, he just got up.

Jung-bae had given Gi-hun a suspicious glance, seeing him already up and sitting next to In-ho. Dae-ho and Jun-hee didn’t seem to notice or care, still not fully awake enough to register anything.

Everyone got up together as the guard came in to tell them to move out for the next game. They walked side by side, but no one had the energy to talk yet. Everyone made their way up the stairs to the next game—some players looked more alert than others.

They entered the circular room filled with countless doors as the automatic voice began to explain the next game. It told them to stand on the platform in the center, which would start moving. When they heard a number, they had to form a group of that size and go into one of the rooms, closing the door within thirty seconds.

“Oh, this game? We used to play something similar on school trips. We formed groups by hugging,” Jung-bae said to Dae-ho as they were walking in, while Gi-hun and In-ho entered together, not joining the conversation.

“Yeah. Except now, instead of hugging, we go into those rooms,” Dae-ho replied, pointing to the doors.

“If the number is bigger than five, we’ll need to find more people,” Gi-hun said, trying to prepare them with a plan before the game started.

“But what if it’s smaller than five? Like three or four?” Dae-ho asked, concerned.

“No matter what happens, don’t panic. Let’s stay calm,” In-ho told them—ironically, since he was the only one who had lost control in the last game.

“Let’s trust each other. We’ll all make it out together. Here,” In-ho added, gesturing for them to put their hands in the middle like they had done before. Gi-hun was the last to join as In-ho counted down, “3, 2, 1—go! Victory at all costs!”

They threw their hands in the air together. Then, they stepped onto the round platform as it began to slowly spin. The music played as they were turned around and around, everyone looking around, confused, waiting.

Then the music stopped, and the voice announced, “Ten.”

The room erupted into chaos. Lights began flashing. Gi-hun asked Hyun-ju, who had been standing close to him, “How many are you?”

“Four,” Hyun-ju replied.

“That makes us nine,” Jung-bae said, panicking.

“We need to hurry!” In-ho said. “There’s no time, Gi-hun!” He grabbed Gi-hun’s arm.

“We need one more!” Hyun-ju yelled, then grabbed the crazy lady—the same one they had played with before—from the middle.

“Room 44! Green door!” Gi-hun shouted to everyone.

They all ran, barely making it in time, with In-ho being the last one to slip in and close the door. Gi-hun watched through the tiny window, seeing the others get killed. His expression was pained and haunted. In-ho watched him closely, knowing how much Gi-hun took things to heart. Seeing more people die wouldn’t be easy for him. He hoped that once he told Gi-hun the plan later, it might help ease some of the despair.

Then Player 044—the crazy lady—started talking again, which irritated everyone.

The next round continued. They returned to the platform, now splattered with blood. The music started again, spinning them, then stopped—this time, the number was four.

“You four, go!” Gi-hun told them, but In-ho stopped him.

“No, you go. Go ahead,” In-ho said, walking away, yelling for three more people.

Jung-bae, Jun-hee, and Dae-ho started moving.

“We have no choice. Let’s go!” Jung-bae shouted as they ran to the door. Gi-hun stood there yelling In-ho’s name, then started running toward the door himself, having lost track of In-ho.

They had entered the room with thirteen seconds left. Gi-hun kept the door open, scanning for In-ho in the crowd, but with everyone running around, he couldn’t find him.

“Do you think In-ho will be okay?” Dae-ho asked, glancing through the tiny opening, while Gi-hun didn’t respond—only searched for In-ho as the timer ticked down.

Jung-bae yanked him inside, and the door slammed shut with just one second left.

Shit. Why had In-ho done that? Gi-hun could’ve figured something out. Now, even if the guards hadn’t killed him, he still might not see In-ho again. He still had so many questions. Shit. He wasn’t ready to lose In-ho. He had just started getting to know him, and now… he didn’t know if he was safe.

No one spoke in the room. Everyone silently tried to catch their breath. Gi-hun just stood there, tense and panicked, until the door finally opened and they stepped back out.

Then everyone started calling out for In-ho’s name, yelling it loudly in the crowd. Gi-hun stood silent, his heart pounding so fast he thought he might pass out.

Then—he heard it. That voice.

“Gi-hun,” In-ho called, speed-walking toward them.

“Oh, thank God,” Jung-bae said, walking up to hug him. “I knew you were gonna be okay. I knew it. You’re not just anybody.”

He didn’t let go, while everyone else smiled and sighed in relief. But if only he knew—he wasn’t just “anybody.” If only he understood how ironic his words were.

In-ho, happy, looked over at Gi-hun—who tried hard to hide his relief.

“Glad you made it to the next round,” Gi-hun said a little coldly, trying not to show he cared.

“Oh my god, Gi-hun was so worried,” Jung-bae said, laughing. “He wouldn’t close the door as the timer was running out—he just kept looking around the room. I had to pull him back in the last second or we would’ve been dead!”

Gi-hun gave Jung-bae a look like he was going to murder him later. Jung-bae realized maybe he had said too much.

In-ho watched them, amused and a little starstruck. He hadn’t expected Gi-hun to care that much. Maybe it was a good thing that he did. He was starting to get excited now—maybe the plan could work. Maybe they really could be friends. He was starting to like this group environment more than he wanted to admit.

“Are you feeling alright?” In-ho asked Jun-hee instead of commenting on what Jung-bae said. He’d save that conversation for later with Gi-hun.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re back,” Jun-hee replied, smiling.

“Wait a minute. If the next number is six, we wouldn’t need anyone else, right?” In-ho said, trying to crack a dad joke that had just come to him.

Except no one got it. They all just stared at him.

“Why not?” Dae-ho asked, almost worried.

“Oh, in her tummy?” Jung-bae said, the first one to get it.

“Right, that makes six,” Dae-ho finally realized.

Everyone burst out laughing. He had even made Gi-hun laugh. Out of all places, even in the game, they were finding little joys together.

“What if it’s twins? Does that make seven?” Jung-bae joked as everyone continued laughing.

Then they returned to the platform. Jung-bae patted Gi-hun’s shoulder as he stepped back on. In-ho watched. He wondered how Gi-hun would react to something small like that—like a friend’s gesture. Would he pull away? But the next game began before he could think more about it.

The music started, then stopped. This time: “Three.”

“The three of you, go,” Gi-hun told Dae-ho, Jun-hee, and Jung-bae.

“Yeah, go! Hurry!” In-ho agreed.

They started yelling for one more person, scanning the room. Then they saw the old lady standing alone in the center. They grabbed her and went into the blue room together.

“Are you alright?” Gi-hun asked her. She started thanking them for saving her.

In-ho asked about her son, wondering why he hadn’t gone with her. She made excuses, then yelled at In-ho for doubting her son would ever leave her.

As they exited the room, everyone started looking for each other. Then the old lady spotted her son and ran up to hug him, relieved he was safe. He looked guilty, apologizing and crying for not having gone with her.

In-ho and Gi-hun watched the interaction with matching expressions.

The next number was six.

This time, Jung-bae stayed behind with In-ho and Gi-hun while the others went into a room. Then they searched for the remaining people. They found just enough in time to enter a room. This time, everyone stayed quiet, waiting for the door to open.

They stepped out slowly, looking for the others. Young-mi hadn’t made it from their group. Now everyone was silent again as the next round began.

“What do you think it’ll be this time?” Jung-bae asked Gi-hun, who honestly had no idea.

“Two,” In-ho answered instead.

“Why?” Jung-bae asked him.

“There are 126 people left and 50 rooms. So there wouldn’t be enough rooms for everyone—only 100 people. The rest will be killed,” In-ho replied, not looking at anyone.

Gi-hun stared at him, angry. Of course he had known the numbers this whole time—and didn’t say anything to help them.

Then the music stopped. The voice said, “Two.”

In-ho grabbed Jung-bae since he was standing next to him, while Dae-ho went with Gi-hun. One of the other players shoved Jung-bae down, and In-ho ran back to get him. They had to fight others trying to force their way into the same room. When they finally got inside, there was already one person in the room.

Without even thinking, In-ho attacked him and choked him out, snapping his neck. Jung-bae just watched him—shocked and terrified.

In-ho collapsed against the wall, exhausted, until the doors opened. Then they regrouped and started walking back to the dormitory.

“When we get back, let’s count how many people are left,” Gi-hun said, breaking the silence as they walked up the stairs.

“Why?” In-ho asked, walking behind him.

“If we count the number of O’s and X’s, we’ll be able to guess who’s likely to win the next vote,” Gi-hun said.

“We’ll just have to hope more people from the other side died,” In-ho said, with almost a smirk, while Jung-bae stared at him like a hawk from behind—still shaken.

In-ho told them he needed to go to the restroom when they made it back to the room, so he had an excuse to go to his quarters. The others started saying he shouldn’t go alone, and he kept trying to brush them off. He gave a look to Gi-hun, hoping he would understand—that this was Front Man business—so he could help convince the others to let him go alone. Gi-hun did realize what the look meant, and finally, the others agreed to let him go, though still visibly worried.

In-ho quickly got out and told the guards not to let anyone else leave in case they still tried to look for him in the bathroom. He ran up to his quarters as fast as he could and instructed the guards to delay the vote until he returned. The moment he stepped out of the elevator and into the room, he went straight to the vintage green landline and tried to contact Captain Park. He poured himself his favorite whiskey while he waited for the captain to respond—he hadn’t been able to drink for a day, and he swore he was about to go into withdrawal. Or maybe it was just that he hadn’t slept either.

Captain Park finally picked up.

“I’m with them right now—this isn’t a good time.”

“Listen, I need to talk to Jun-ho tomorrow in the early morning. If I don’t pick up, wait for me before you start leading them the wrong way. I think the island might get blown up tomorrow, so I need you to have extra gear ready for us. I’ll be bringing some people on board, and I’ll tell you the exit point tomorrow—along with the rest of the information,” In-ho said quickly, trying to keep the call short.

“What do you mean, you’re going to blow up the island tomorrow? In-ho, what’s going on? You can’t just end the game. There’s no real danger—I’m handling the detective. Just keep the games going. Don’t be so reckless,” Captain Park replied, frustrated.

“No, you don’t understand. They have to end now. It’s too many people—too many lives at stake. So just follow my orders tomorrow. I have to go back now. Don’t call until morning,” In-ho said, ending the call.

Then he started rushing back down to the Games so the vote could begin. He hoped he hadn’t spent too much time away. If they got suspicious, he’d just say he had an upset stomach.

He had a plan—well, kind of a plan. He’d figure out the rest as it happened. Since there were only 100 players left, it wouldn’t be that hard to keep them quiet. He would offer to pay their debts himself if they never mentioned the Games to anyone. And if that didn’t work, he could use the fact that they were just as involved—if anyone found out the truth, they'd all be criminally liable.

In the morning, he would tell Jun-ho where the island was and ask him to call the Coast Guard. That would mean In-ho would have no choice but to blow up the island. The VIPs couldn’t suspect that he’d done it on purpose—he’d figure out a way to answer any of their questions. And then the Games here could end for good.

They would have thirty minutes to carry out the evacuation protocol, which the guards knew. The players would be the real challenge—but he’d figure that out. He’d take his friends—well, maybe they wouldn’t be friends anymore after tomorrow, when they all knew the truth about him—but for now, he could call them that. They would go with him to Captain Park’s boat, where he would finally tell them everything. They would figure the rest out once they got back to land.

It was a simple plan—one he needed to keep secret until tomorrow.

He still couldn’t believe he was doing this. It was the last thing he expected when he let Gi-hun back on the island—and now here he was, giving the man everything he wanted.

Now, In-ho couldn’t help but wonder how their relationship would change once they got out. Would Gi-hun want nothing to do with him? Forget him? Pretend he was a stranger if they crossed paths again? Maybe not. Right? There had to be some hope. Gi-hun had cared whether In-ho was safe or not in the last game—so it couldn’t be all hate. Maybe some part of him still cared about In-ho, just like In-ho cared about him.

He hoped that part stayed alive, even outside the island.

God, there was so much he wanted to do—so much he wanted to feel again. He hadn’t truly lived since his world ended a decade ago. He had spent so long on the island—even when the games weren’t happening—that he had forgotten what the world outside it was like. Now, he wanted to experience it all again.

He finally made it back to the room and told the guards to start the vote soon. The whole group turned around from the corner they were sitting in, noticing he had returned. He just smiled—not a fake one this time—and walked over to them.

They had been discussing the possible outcome of the vote and how it might go. They thought a tie might happen if enough of the blue side changed their minds, or if they got enough people to join them. Maybe they could actually win.

Gi-hun wanted to go over to the other side himself to try and convince them. But In-ho had to calm him down, remind him how badly that could go. He was being blinded by his desire to leave.

Honestly, In-ho didn’t care how the vote would go—since they’d all be leaving tomorrow anyway. But he couldn’t tell them that yet. That was for the morning, when the plan would be revealed.

Before Gi-hun could argue more, the guards entered the room to show the results of the previous game and start the vote. Gi-hun would be the first person to vote this time. He walked up, nervous—this vote would determine everything.

Jung-bae followed soon after, with Dae-ho right behind him. They both voted to leave. Slowly, they began getting a few people from the blue team to switch sides.

Maybe, just maybe, they would finally get to go home.

Gi-hun watched every player and every vote so carefully. This time, it was close. As the votes came in, it started to seem like a tie was truly possible. He just hoped people’s greed wouldn’t hold them back. With every person who switched teams to theirs, it felt like home was within reach—that by tomorrow, it would all be over.

Then, when the second-to-last person voted, Jung-bae suddenly turned to Gi-hun.

“Gi-hun… about In-ho—”

“What?” Gi-hun asked, not wanting to have this conversation in the middle of the final vote.

“Well, when I was in the room with him earlier—”

Beep.

Before Jung-bae could finish, the second-to-last player switched to the blue team, breaking the tie. That meant when In-ho voted, the game would officially end in favor of staying.

The whole blue team started cheering.

In-ho began walking up to vote. As he passed by, Dae-ho said, “Hyung, In-ho, let’s go,” raising his fist in support. “It’s going to be 50/50, so it’s still a tie, isn’t it?”

Gi-hun nodded, while Jung-bae stood frozen.

“In-ho scares me a little,” Jung-bae muttered.

“What do you mean?” Dae-ho asked, confused and worried.

“I don’t know how to put this… but when I was in the room with him in the last game, he—”

Beep.

The score changed: 49 to 51. The tie had been broken. The blue team had won.

While they cheered, the red team sat frozen in fear and disappointment. All of them were in shock.

In-ho had voted against them.

Even Gi-hun—God, he should’ve known better. He couldn’t believe he had been so naive. Of course In-ho would continue the games. He was the Front Man. But the more Gi-hun got to know him, the more he kept forgetting that.

Now, he had shown his true colors again.

In-ho didn’t even look back.

Gi-hun was glad he didn’t. He didn’t want to see that smug face—see him acting like he had won, like he had played Gi-hun for a fool. God, he hated that bastard so much. He wished he had killed him earlier.

No. He wasn’t going to accept this. They had been so close to leaving. He wasn’t going to let the others down. He would come up with a plan—he had to—before the next game, so no more people had to die.

They walked back in disappointment, sitting in their usual spots—only this time, without In-ho. He had disappeared from their view. He was still in the room, they knew that, but he had blended into the blue team, not wanting to be seen.

As they sat watching the guards set up the food, they got in line. In-ho didn’t.

“What were you going to tell me earlier?” Gi-hun finally asked Jung-bae—the first time he had spoken since the vote.

No one knew what to say. They were all angry at In-ho, but for different reasons. They wouldn’t understand what Gi-hun felt—it was different.

“In-ho… he killed someone in the last round. When we were in the room together, there was already someone inside. But there wasn’t enough time left, and we couldn’t open the door. So he snapped their neck—like it meant nothing. There was a cold, dark look in his eye. Like it didn’t affect him at all,” Jung-bae said quietly.

Dae-ho wasn’t near them at the moment—he was on the other side of the line with Jun-hee, talking about something else.

Gi-hun stayed silent for a few seconds, listening. He honestly didn’t know what to say. As much as he hated it, he understood why In-ho had done that. He didn’t like that he killed someone—but he had protected Jung-bae in that moment, and for that, he was grateful.

Still, he was furious. Really furious. All the rage he had buried for the last few years—he wanted to end him.

“Look, I don’t like him right now, and he’s not a good person. But what he did… it seemed like it was the only choice. But the vote—” Gi-hun stopped mid-sentence. He didn’t know how to explain why In-ho had voted to stay—besides the real reason: that he was the Front Man.

He wasn’t ready to reveal that truth to them yet. Not until he had a plan to stop him. If he said something, they’d react—and In-ho would figure out why.

So he stopped himself.

“I know. I can’t believe he voted like that either. God, I can’t believe that bastard. I don’t understand your relationship with him, either. One second you two act like you’ve known each other forever, and the next, you’re acting like strangers,” Jung-bae said as they grabbed their food and started heading back.

“It’s complicated,” Gi-hun replied. It was the only thing he could say.

How was he supposed to explain that In-ho was his greatest enemy—someone he had spent the last three years chasing—and yet, now that he got to know him, he saw the man In-ho used to be before the Games turned him into a monster. Gi-hun didn’t even know how he felt about him anymore.

He had shared things with Gi-hun—deep, personal things. Like he actually wanted Gi-hun to understand him. But maybe he was just using him.

Now, all of Gi-hun’s feelings were mixed up in the many different sides of the Front Man.

They sat down to eat, now quiet—none of them daring to mention In-ho or how he’d betrayed them. But all of them were watching where he sat—on a random bunk, hunched over, head down, hands gripping the edge of the bed.

The red and blue teams started arguing again about the vote, with everyone from both sides coming into the middle, wanting to fight each other. But for now, they just yelled and yelled—neither side willing to back down, yet neither crossing the line between them.

Gi-hun opened his food, only to find a silver fork tucked inside.
Shit.

The guards had given them this on purpose. So they would attack each other—to raise the prize money by increasing the body count.

God, he needed to think of a plan fast. He hoped the fact that there was still another game tomorrow would stop the blue team from attacking tonight. Maybe it being a tie really would have been the better outcome. But he couldn’t think about it like that. There was no way In-ho had cared enough to plan it that way. He wasn’t going to let In-ho get in his head. He was going to stop him.

Eventually, the teams settled down, going back to their own sides instead of starting an actual fight. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe no one would attack tonight.

They sat there, eating their food, as the voice came over the speakers and began to announce the names of the players who had been eliminated.
Shit.

It seemed like something had happened outside the main room. The money dropped into the large piggy bank—new fallen players added to the total—while people from both teams started gathering in the center, confused.

A fight had broken out in the restroom, leading to several deaths. But instead of arguing over whose side was at fault, both teams started worrying about how many of their people had died. Everyone began counting.

While they were distracted, Gi-hun noticed In-ho slip out of the room. No one else saw it—but he did.

Turned out, the blue team had lost one more person than the red. Which meant, if everyone on the red side survived the next game, they could win the vote and finally go home.

But Gi-hun wasn’t going to risk waiting for that.

He gathered as many people from the red team as he could and told them to meet him in the middle so they could discuss a plan.

“Once the lights go out,” Gi-hun told them, “the people on the other side might attack us. Because if they kill us, they’ll win the next vote. And the prize money goes up.”

Everyone listened in silence.

“But since they already won the vote today,” he continued, “they might wait until after the next game to attack.”

The group started murmuring to each other. Some began questioning Gi-hun’s theory. Others were suggesting that they should be the ones to attack first. One by one, more and more people started agreeing with that idea.

“We shouldn’t kill each other,” Gi-hun said, louder now, trying to push through their rising panic. “That’s exactly what they want.”

“They?” Jung-bae asked softly.

“Those who created this game. The ones who watch us play. If we’re going to fight someone… it should be them .”

He wasn’t going to let anyone stop him—not the blue team, not the guards, not even In-ho.

“Where are they?” Dae-ho asked.

Gi-hun looked up. “Up there.”

Everyone followed his gaze—even though there was just a ceiling above them.

“On the upper level are the rooms where they control the games. The man in the black mask is their leader. Once we capture him, we’ll be able to win.”

But Gi-hun wasn’t telling them the whole story. That man—the one in the black mask—he was in the room with them. He’d been here the whole time, pretending to be their friend. Pretending to care.

If Gi-hun told them the truth now, they’d get too emotional. They might not follow through with the plan. He couldn’t risk that. Not yet.

He had to get to the control room. He would take In-ho—one way or another—and make him end the games himself. The others could know the truth later.

For now, this was safer.

“But how are we supposed to fight them?” someone asked. “They have guns.”

“We’ll take the guns,” Gi-hun said. “Using the stuff they’ve given us. When the first two guards come to get us for the next game, we’ll ambush them. Then we’ll use their weapons against the others. We’ll make sure enough of us are armed to fight back.”

Still, some didn’t feel confident. They were afraid—afraid the guards would be too many, or that they’d be outnumbered.

“So what, you want to stay and just hope you survive the next game?” Gi-hun asked, looking at them.

He wished they could see it from his side. He needed them to believe in this.

“We’ll catch them off guard. Out of everyone, they’re the ones who’d least expect us to attack first. This is our last chance to end these games. Once and for all.”

At last, everyone agreed. They would do it.

That night, they all decided to sleep under the bunks, huddled together in pairs for protection. There wasn’t space for personal distance anymore.

Now that the plan was ready, Gi-hun had only one thing left to do.

Find In-ho.

Maybe he could catch him off guard, get to him while he was alone. He wanted to talk to him—one last time—before everything changed.

He wanted to say everything he could, just in case he never got the chance to again.

So he stood up from the floor and started walking.

Maybe In-ho would be in the bathroom.

Or maybe…

He would have the guards take him to him.

In-ho knew that when it came his turn to vote, he was screwed.

If he voted to leave, the teams would be tied, and tonight the players would be given weapons—things they could use to attack each other. That would put everyone he cared about in danger. What would be the point of his plan tomorrow if they couldn’t even make it out of tonight alive?

As he stepped up to the voting stand, his hand lingered—just like it had in the very first game. But this time, it was for a completely different reason.

He knew that if he voted to stay, it would keep the blue team calm. They’d think they were going to play again in the morning. They wouldn’t panic or start a fight tonight. He could catch them off guard tomorrow—when it really mattered.

But then he thought of Gi-hun.

He was going to hate him. Probably already did. He’d be furious. He would blame himself too, like he always did. Gi-hun would think that everything that had happened between them—every word, every look—had just been manipulation.

In-ho didn’t want that to happen.

But he also couldn’t let him get hurt. Not tonight. Not when they were so close to getting out.

So he pressed the blue button .

And without even glancing back at his friends, he moved to the blue side.

The blue team cheered behind him.

He couldn’t care less. He wished he could kill every single one of them.

If he looked back at Gi-hun right now—if he saw his broken, furious face—he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’d tell him everything. About tomorrow. About the plan. About how this was all for them. But he knew Gi-hun. He wouldn’t keep it to himself. He’d react. He’d shout. And In-ho couldn’t risk anyone finding out, especially the guards.

So he stayed in his corner, slouched and withdrawn, hiding his face.

He was so tired of this place. So tired of the people.

He just wanted to go home.

Not that he even had a home outside of this island.

But he wanted to find one.
He wanted to fix his relationships.
Earn back trust, the best he could.

He wanted everyone to move on with their lives. To forget this place even existed.

He wanted Gi-hun to do that too.

Even if it meant forgetting him.

He wanted Gi-hun to get on the plane and never come back—if that’s what it took to be happy.

But… he couldn’t lie to himself.
He wanted to be his friend.
Someone Gi-hun trusted.
Someone he could rely on.
Someone he could share a drink with. Talk all night with.

Maybe it was just a dream. But it was the dream that was keeping him going.

The two sides had started fighting—at first just with words, shouting across the room. No one had crossed the line into a physical fight yet. But then, a real fight broke out in the bathroom.

People died.

Now both teams were angry, panicking, scrambling to count how many players they had left.

In-ho used the chaos as an opportunity to slip out of the room.

He talked to the guards, asking about the fight. He scolded them for letting it happen, but he couldn’t really yell at them—because that’s what they had always done in the years before. Ignored the fights. Let the players kill each other.

Ugh.

Now he had to pretend to be okay with it.

He stepped into the restroom. A circle-masked guard had been cleaning up the mess, mop and bucket in hand. In-ho told him to stop, to go back to his quarters—since the mess was mostly taken care of.

He wanted to take a shower.

A long, hot one. Something to relax him before tomorrow—probably the biggest day of their lives.

He took off his clothes, tossing them over the curtain rod. Then he stepped in, closed the curtain, and let the warm water hit his skin.

Steam filled the room.

He liked his private shower better, but he didn’t feel like going all the way back to his quarters. It was easier to stay close, so he could return to the main room before lights out.

Even on the worst days, he looked forward to showers. They were one of the only relaxing things he had left.

Even as a cop, he used to look forward to coming home and stepping into the shower. It was like washing the whole day away.

Now, in the calm, he let himself think. He tried to focus on happy thoughts.

He wondered how Gi-hun would react tomorrow.
How Jun-ho would.
What they would say to him.
Would they still hate him?

Would they forgive him?

Could their relationships even be fixed?

Would he see his stepmother again?
Should he?

Maybe they were better off if he disappeared once more.

He started humming his favorite classical song—just like he used to do in his spare time. There was something so calming about those pieces. He’d loved them since he was young, even though most people had made fun of him for it.

He didn’t care.

He still loved it.

Tomorrow, he’d need to get everything important from his quarters before the island blew up.
He just hoped there’d be enough time.

There was so much to plan, so much to do—and not enough hours left.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the footsteps behind him.

Not until something slammed into his back.

He hit the wall with a sickening thud, pain searing through his side.

And then—

Whack.

He froze.

Someone had just hit him.

And they were not finished.

Gi-hun had decided to check the bathroom first for any signs of In-ho. When he walked in, the room was filled with hot steam, all the mirrors foggy. Someone was humming—music he couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded classical. God, he hated classical music so much.

As he walked deeper inside, he noticed the bloody mop and bucket sitting near the entrance. He picked up the mop and moved forward toward the showers.

It had to be In-ho.

Everyone else had been in the main room—he was the only one who had left.

Gi-hun got closer. Now he was standing right in front of the running shower, only the curtain separating them. He didn’t want to pull it open. Instead, he decided to use the mop to push In-ho—still with the curtain closed—so he could catch him off guard.

So he did.

He jabbed the side of the mop that had soaked up all the blood, felt In-ho’s body slam against the wall, then heard him fall backward on the shower floor. Gi-hun yanked the curtain open.

In-ho’s clothes, which had been resting on top, dropped onto the wet shower floor.

Now the naked In-ho was staring up at him in shock.

“What the fuck, Gi-hun?” he said from the floor, still unable to move, completely exposed.

Gi-hun just stared, trying hard not to look at his whole body, but his eyes were betraying him.
Shit.
Maybe he should have waited for In-ho to get dressed before attacking.
What the hell was he thinking?

“Why?! Why did you break the tie?!” he shouted, the bloody mop still pointed at In-ho like a weapon.

“Can you let me get dressed, or do you just like staring at me naked?” In-ho said in a frustrated voice—yet he was still teasing him a little.

“At least you’re fully conscious. You didn’t seem to mind stripping me when you thought I was unconscious,” Gi-hun replied, his tone almost playful.

Fuck.
He didn’t mean it to sound like that.
But it did.
And he didn’t deny what In-ho had accused him of.

Ugh. They had bigger problems to worry about than who liked seeing the other naked. He hadn’t intended for this to happen. Gi-hun told himself he wasn’t going to let In-ho get in his head.

“Can I at least put my pants on? And for the record—you weren’t completely naked, remember? Would you have rather had a random guard search you instead?” In-ho asked.

He started to get up, leaving Gi-hun frozen in place from the question. In-ho slipped into his boxers, then pulled his pants on while Gi-hun watched the entire time—still pointing the mop at him like it was a loaded gun.

Gi-hun didn’t answer him. He couldn’t . He wasn’t sure what he even wanted anymore. He didn’t care about what had happened before—in this moment, all he could do was watch as In-ho got dressed. It was more than he would have liked to see, but he didn’t want to turn away. In case In-ho attacked him, he had to stay alert.

So he looked.

Everywhere he probably shouldn’t have.

Once In-ho finished pulling on his pants, he stepped out of the shower, not bothering with a shirt. His pants were already soaked from falling on the wet floor, which was annoying, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

He stood in front of Gi-hun, staring back at him while the mop remained pointed at his chest.

“You know,” In-ho said, leaning his back against the wall, “if you’re going to attack me with that, I’d rather it be sharp than just bloody . Otherwise, I’m going to have to take another shower to wash it off. And this bathroom doesn’t even have body wash.”

“What?” Gi-hun asked, confused.

“Hand it over. I can make it sharp in seconds. Then you can get on with attacking me all you want.”

Gi-hun slowly lowered the mop to the ground, still gripping it—but now the end pointed at In-ho’s feet instead of his chest.

In-ho stepped forward and placed one bare foot on the stick, then pressed down with the other to snap it. The bloody soaked part broke off and landed on the floor.

Now it was more of a sharp stick than a mop.

He stepped backward, letting go, while Gi-hun just stood there, still gripping it—trying to process what had just happened.

“You’re insane,” Gi-hun said, stunned. What’s wrong with you? Were you dropped on your head as a child? Why would you make a weapon for me to attack you with? God, you’re an actual weirdo .

In-ho just tilted his head. “Hmm. Don’t you have any questions? Isn’t that why you came in here? Or was it just to catch me naked? If it’s the latter, I’m flattered, but now isn’t—”

Gi-hun pulled the stick back up, pointing it now at In-ho’s bare skin— almost touching.

It hovered dangerously close to a scar.

Well, shit . Looked like Gi-hun wanted him to be kidney-less.

“If you’re planning to stab me,” In-ho said, more amused than afraid, “could you pick a different spot? Having one kidney is bad enough. I’m pretty sure having none would be impossible.”

That’s when Gi-hun noticed the scars.

The closest one, where he had been pointing—he guessed it was from a kidney transplant. There were other smaller scars across In-ho’s abs, probably from the games or fights that hadn’t been serious.

Then Gi-hun’s eyes moved up to his shoulders. There, he saw that scar—the one In-ho had mentioned before. From when Jun-ho had shot him, and he had shot Jun-ho back in the exact same place.

God.

What was it with these brothers and matching scars ?

Wasn’t the transplant scar enough? They had to have a matching bullet wound too?

What next—matching tattoos?

He moved the sharp stick a little higher, now pressing lightly between In-ho’s chest. It was touching, but not breaking skin.

“Why didn’t you let it tie?” Gi-hun asked again, this time using a bit more force.

“You know why,” In-ho replied calmly. “If I hadn’t… if it was a tie… tonight, after dark, a fight would’ve broken out. People would’ve died. I was trying to help. You saw what happened in the restroom earlier. People are getting greedy. It was the only way to ensure everyone’s safety.”

Your safety.

In-ho didn’t say it aloud.
There was so much left unsaid.
Things he’d tell him tomorrow —but for now, this had to be enough.

“You expect me to believe you suddenly care about people? That you did that out of the goodness of your heart?” Gi-hun said, voice hard. He didn’t believe a single thing. He wasn’t going to be manipulated anymore. In-ho had a way with words—he could make you believe anything. But not anymore. Tomorrow, Gi-hun would put a stop to him.

“I care about you ,” In-ho admitted.

He didn’t care to hide it anymore. It would be obvious tomorrow anyway—when he gave Gi-hun everything he wanted since coming here. When he ended the game for him.

Then the door opened.

A triangle guard stepped inside. “Boss, you alright—” He paused, taking in the scene: his boss, half-naked, with a player pointing a stick at his chest.

“Uhh…”

In-ho blinked, trying to find words, glancing between the triangle guard and Gi-hun, who was still frozen.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he finally said. “I’ll be out in a minute. Tell them to start preparations for lights out.”

The triangle guard nodded and left.

Now it was just them again. Alone, behind closed doors.

Gi-hun lowered the stick, finally throwing it on the floor and clearing his throat.

“You should get dressed. I’m heading back,” Gi-hun muttered, not looking at him, before walking out of the room.

In-ho stood there for a few seconds, trying to process everything. Then he grabbed his soaked shirt and jacket, pulled them on, and left the room.

He told the guards to clean up the room and change the temperature—lower it to freezing if possible.
If people were cold, there’d be less chance of them attacking each other.
He was just taking extra precautions.

Gi-hun went back into the room. Everyone had been waiting for him. He told Jung-bae that he talked to In-ho. He still didn’t trust him—but he wanted In-ho to sleep on their side tonight so he could keep an eye on him. He’d share his bed under the bunk and told everyone not to mention the plan to In-ho—or to anyone else.

He kept the metal fork close, hiding it under his pillow for now as he waited for In-ho to return.

When In-ho finally came in, his shirt was see-through since it was still wet from earlier, and his hair was messy and damp. Gi-hun hadn’t noticed that before because, well... he’d been too busy looking at other parts of him.

In-ho approached with a grin on his face.

“You’ll be bunking with me tonight. You can have the other side. Since we still don’t know if they’ll attack us, we should sleep in groups of two. Just to be extra careful,” Gi-hun said, leaving no room for questions.

“Okay,” In-ho said, noticing Jung-bae’s stare. He was probably wondering why In-ho’s clothes were wet—or maybe he was just mad about the vote earlier but couldn’t say anything.

Whatever it was, In-ho ignored it and moved to the other side so he could climb under the bunk.

As the lights went out, Gi-hun joined him. Everyone else had already gotten into their beds.

There wasn’t much space under here, since the mattress was meant for one person. But Gi-hun wasn’t going to complain. The room had started to get colder and colder.

He lay on his stomach, watching the other side in case someone tried to attack. Meanwhile, In-ho just watched him .

Eventually, Gi-hun started shivering. “Why is it so much colder tonight?” he asked in a whisper, trying not to wake anyone up.

In-ho just shrugged.

“Come on—you ran this place. You’re telling me you don’t have control over the temperature?” Gi-hun muttered in the dark. He couldn’t see much, but with the faint blue and red lights from the center of the room, he could make out a few of In-ho’s features. He looked so soft —not like someone you’d expect to be running a place like this.

“Even if I had control over it, what do you expect me to do about it?” In-ho replied, yawning.

“Maybe stop torturing everyone for once and turn the heat up,” Gi-hun said, annoyed.

“How about this,” In-ho mumbled, barely thinking, “we make a deal. If I go and tell the guards to make it warmer, after this is all over… we go get soju sometime.”

He hadn’t even meant to ask it—it just slipped out. He was so sleepy and tired, and honestly, he liked the cold. He didn’t mind freezing right now. His mind had just blurred everything out. After what happened last night, he felt jealous Jung-bae got to enjoy Gi-hun over drinks. He wanted that now. And now that he’d said it, he hoped Gi-hun wouldn’t realize he’d been eavesdropping the night before.

“What makes you think I’ll make it out of here alive?” Gi-hun asked after a long pause, still stunned at the question. Why the hell would In-ho want to get drinks with him? It made no sense. Why would he even ask that?

“I’ll make sure of it,” In-ho said firmly.

Just wait, Gi-hun.
Just trust me.
That’s what he really meant, even if he didn’t say it out loud.

“Fine. I’ll get drinks with you. After all of this is over. Now go fix the temperature,” Gi-hun said quickly, like he wanted to be done with the conversation before In-ho got into his head again.

“Yes, sir,” In-ho said, getting out of the bed and leaving the room.

He came back a few minutes later—and the temperature had already started to rise. But then it didn’t stop . Now it felt like Gi-hun was lying on the face of the sun.

In-ho returned, lying on his side again.

“What the hell? I told you to make it normal ,” Gi-hun hissed, mad.

In-ho just relaxed. “No, you said warmer . You didn’t say how warm. A deal is a deal. Now you have to get drinks with me after this.”

After tomorrow, he wanted to say. But not yet. In the morning, when they woke up, he’d tell him— before they even got out of bed.

“You’re an asshole, In-ho,” Gi-hun muttered, hitting him lightly.

“Ugh, if you’ve got such a big problem with how hot it is, just take off your clothes—problem solved,” In-ho said, getting up again. He pulled off his soaked shirt and jacket. It was so hot, he would’ve slept naked if he could, but he kept his pants on.

He got back into bed, leaving Gi-hun speechless.

“Goodnight,” In-ho said, falling asleep right away. He hadn’t slept the night before, and the whiskey earlier helped.

Gi-hun just stared at him in the dark—half-naked.
There was no way in hell he was going to take off his shirt.
But that damn bastard was sleeping soundly, like it was the most comfortable bed in the world.

Gi-hun didn’t sleep all night.

He just kept watch—on the room, and on In-ho.
On the little noises he made while he slept.
He snored a little. But it wasn’t the loud, annoying kind—it was soft. Almost… cute .

Gi-hun stayed awake until the lights came on with that damn music he hated. He saw Jung-bae and the others start to move. The plan was being set in motion.

Everyone began getting ready to attack the guards.

Gi-hun turned to In-ho, the fork in his hand, ready.
In-ho was still sleeping, eyes closed.

“Five more minutes, Gi-hun,” In-ho mumbled sleepily, not even opening his eyes. He just snuggled deeper into the pillow.

And then—without hesitation, before he could overthink it —
Gi-hun stabbed him in the leg with the fork .

Chapter Text

Gi-hun rolled out of bed before In-ho had a chance to wake up and realize he had been stabbed. From under the bed, he heard a muffled grunt as In-ho stirred, the pain slow to register. Gi-hun stood up quickly, signaling his team to take down the first two guards who had just entered. “Search for ammo or any other weapons they might have,” he instructed, eyes sharp as they waited for more guards to arrive.

The team—most still without guns—started knocking out any visible cameras in the room, smashing them methodically. Suddenly, a hoarse voice called out from under the bed, “Gi-hun, what—” It was In-ho, his voice slow, strained, trying to process what had happened, the shock clear in his words.

Gi-hun quickly moved to the opposite side of the room, refusing to face In-ho as he struggled out from under the bed. He told the others to double-check for any cameras or hidden devices while some began dragging the bunk bed frames into the middle of the floor, creating a crude barricade for protection as more guards began to flood the room.

More guards came, but they were losing ground fast. Gi-hun’s plan was working. Now, most of the players had guns, and they were shooting recklessly, like it was a battlefield. And they were winning.

Gi-hun fired at every guard in sight, making sure each one stayed down. The rage that had been building inside him for years finally found release in every bullet. But then, in the chaos, Gi-hun was knocked off balance, falling backward, giving a guard the perfect chance to aim at him. The shot was almost fired, until a gunshot rang out from the side, and the guard fell.

Gi-hun’s eyes darted to In-ho, who was barely standing, limping, the metal fork still lodged in his leg. The gun in his hands had just taken down the guard to protect Gi-hun. Shit. He shot one of his own. Why would In-ho do that? They were on opposite sides, and Gi-hun had stabbed him. Yet here he was, barely able to move, still protecting him.

Their eyes met, and Gi-hun saw a fiery anger burning in In-ho’s gaze—resentment, fury, but also something deeper he’d never seen before. In-ho still hadn’t put on a shirt after last night; he stood half-naked, the gun heavy in his hands, his pants stained, his body bare and raw in the harsh light.

Then the automatic voice that started every day echoed again, but this time it told the guards to retreat. Gi-hun’s attention snapped away from In-ho to the gate as the guards began to pull back. One guard was left behind. Gi-hun ordered his team to hold fire, signaling them to force the guard’s surrender.

His focus shifted again when one of his players nearly fired on the blue team. Gi-hun had to yell, convincing them that the blue team wasn’t the enemy—that their rage should be saved for the real monster running this game. He warned the players who hadn’t been told the plan yet, making sure they knew who was on their side.

His gaze drifted back to In-ho, now half-sitting on one of the bunks in pain, clutching his injured leg. Even from across the room, Gi-hun could see him whimper, examining the wound with a grimace.

Gi-hun froze, torn. Should he go to him? What could he say? How could he help without medical supplies? The cold reality pressed down—he needed to act now, before the guards returned.

He looked between In-ho and the players, who were waiting for his orders. He stepped forward, resolute. Last night, he had made a choice—started this rebellion—and now he had to finish it.

“Search all the guns,” Gi-hun ordered. “Bring anything important to the middle.”

As his team spread out, Gi-hun turned his attention to the captured guard left kneeling, hands behind his head. “Take it off,” Gi-hun commanded, pointing his gun at the square-masked guard. Calmly, the guard pulled off his hood, then his mask.

Gi-hun stared at the young face beneath. The guard was just a kid—so young.

“Good God,” Jung-bae whispered behind him, visibly shaken.

“Do your parents know what you’re doing here?” Jung-bae asked the boy, his voice trembling with the weight of innocence confronted by cruelty.

Gi-hun forced himself to suppress any sympathy. He told himself the guard was just that—no more, no less. The kid had killed people here. He had chosen this path. Gi-hun wouldn’t let sentiment cloud his mission.

The guard said nothing, eyes locked on Gi-hun. Gi-hun raised his gun closer to the guard’s face. “You’re going to lead us to the headquarters,” he said firmly, voice cold and distant.

Meanwhile, the rest of the team finished searching the guards. All remaining guns and extra ammo were gathered in the middle of the room. Gi-hun rallied the players, explaining the plan: they would storm the headquarters and shut down the game for good. He called on anyone who knew how to use a gun to join them.

No one moved.

His words fell flat. Fear was thick in the air.

Then Jung-bae stepped forward, addressing the group with quiet conviction. “I understand you’re scared. I am, too. But this… this might be our only chance to make it out alive.”

One by one, more players began to step forward, persuaded by Jung-bae’s courage.

They prepared—teaching each other to use the guns, syncing radios on the same channel, coordinating their movements.

Then Gi-hun saw In-ho again. The injured man was trying to get up from the bed, limping painfully, barely able to stand. Now, his shirt was on, and the fork was gone from his leg, replaced by his jacket tied tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding. The gun he had used to save Gi-hun’s life was gripped tightly in his hands.

Jung-bae knew but the others didn’t know Gi-hun had been the one to stab In-ho. They couldn’t. There were too many questions Gi-hun wasn’t ready to answer—not until this was over

When they saw In-ho coming toward them, some urged him to take it easy, insisting he shouldn’t join—they could see he was already hurt.

But Gi-hun knew they had to take In-ho with them. He was the key to stopping the games.

“It’s alright. If he wants to come, he can,” Gi-hun said firmly, eyes locking with the shocked players. They didn’t agree, but said nothing more.

In-ho stared at Gi-hun again—disappointed, almost sad. Gi-hun understood that In-ho wouldn’t fully trust them now. He wouldn’t reveal himself—he was outnumbered. He would have to follow their lead silently.

Without a word, In-ho joined the group as they started moving out. Gi-hun stayed in front, the square-masked guard guiding them.

They barely made it to the stairs before gunfire erupted again, the automatic voice warning them to return to their quarters.

They pushed the guards out and hurried onward before reinforcements could arrive.

They moved through the pink hallway; the guard whispered that the control room was close but he needed his mask to pass security.

Then gunshots rang out again. The square-masked guard fell, and the players dropped to the floor for safety.

They fired back, hitting some guards, but the enemy numbers were overwhelming.

Now was the time.

Gi-hun had to take In-ho with him to finally stop the games.

“I’ll go look for the management area!” Gi-hun told the group.

When they offered to come, he cut them off. “I’ll take In-ho with me. The rest of you buy us time.”

They protested—In-ho was injured—but Gi-hun gave a look that silenced them. Without hesitation, he moved forward, signaling In-ho to follow.

In-ho stared back with a glare full of betrayal, but he rose silently.

Gi-hun used the dead man’s mask to open the door. Once inside, it closed behind them.

Gi-hun shoved In-ho forward, gun pointed at his back.

“Put the gun down!” Gi-hun ordered coldly.

In-ho, barely standing because of his injured legs, obeyed, pushing the gun’s strap over his shoulder and throwing it to the floor.

“Now take me to the control room. You’re going to stop the games. If you try anything, I will shoot you,” Gi-hun said firmly, the gun pressed to In-ho’s back as he led the way.

The corridor stretched long, walls bathed in a dull purple light.

“Settle down,” In-ho said calmly, stepping in front of the guards who raised their guns at Gi-hun.

“Go start wrapping things up,” In-ho ordered.

The guards nodded and dispersed.

“What the hell does that mean? What are you doing?” Gi-hun hissed from behind.

“Let’s go,” In-ho replied, his voice steady, confident—like he was speaking from a place of control, as if he’d spoken to these guards before.

“You better be taking me to the control room,” Gi-hun warned.

In-ho got in front of the elevator and used the mask to open it. They stepped inside, the tension thick.

Gi-hun kept his gun aimed at In-ho’s back, eyes flicking between him and the elevator doors.

In-ho stared straight ahead, ignoring him.

When the doors opened, they revealed a dark hallway lined with many rooms, a chair at the far end with a big screen. This wasn’t the control room. It looked lived-in, personal.

Gi-hun pushed In-ho against the wall, gun raised. “This isn’t the control room! I told you to take me to the control room!”

In-ho placed one hand on the gun, lowering it before Gi-hun could react.

“It’s over, Gi-hun,” In-ho said firmly.

Before Gi-hun could respond, his radio crackled with a message: they’d run out of ammo. They had to surrender.

Shit. No. Not now. They’d come so close. He was so close to getting everyone out. Now it was over.

“You can shoot me if you want,” In-ho said, beginning to move down the hallway, “but it’s not going to make a difference.”

In-ho opened one of the doors.

Gi-hun stood frozen, unable to move or speak, eyes fixed on the floor.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, gun trembling in his hand.

When In-ho returned, he wasn’t In-ho anymore.

He wore the Front Man’s costume and mask.

Gi-hun flinched, fear building inside him like a storm.

The Front Man stepped closer, forcibly grabbing Gi-hun’s arm and dragging him into a room before he could react.

The Front Man threw him onto the leather chair—the one he always sat in when watching the games.

Gi-hun sat there trembling, fear gripping him.

“Sit,” In-ho—now the Front Man—commanded, telling him not to move.

He grabbed a remote from the side table and turned on the screen.

There, all the players stood on their knees, guards surrounding them—his friends, back in the hall he had left them in.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened with guilt. He had led them there, all part of a plan to take over the Front Man.

Looking back now, he knew it would never work.

He hated himself for dragging them into this mess.

They were going to suffer because they trusted him.

He let hatred blind him.

Now he had to watch helplessly, unable to save anyone.

“Player 456,” the Front Man’s robotic voice intoned emotionlessly, “did you enjoy playing the hero?”

“Look closely,” the Front Man said, pointing to the screen.

“At the consequences of your little hero game.”

He started to move toward the elevator.

Gi-hun wanted to shoot him—but could only watch.

The Front Man stared at him as the elevator doors closed.

After a few moments watching his friends terrified on the ground, the Front Man appeared on screen again, pointing a gun at Jung-bae.

He looked up at the camera, knowing Gi-hun was watching.

Gi-hun’s heart raced.

Then—

Two gunshots.

And the screen went black.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun froze in the chair, staring at the black screen.

He had no idea what was happening. He’d seen the Front Man point a gun directly at the camera—and then the feed had cut out. All that followed were two sharp, unmistakable gunshots.

His heart stopped.

What the hell was going on?

Were his friends dead?

God—it was all his fault. He should be the one being punished right now. Not them. They had trusted him with their lives, followed him, believed in him. And he had been foolish enough to think he could make a difference. That he could win. That somehow he could fix what was already broken beyond repair.

Now they were going to die, and he couldn’t do anything. Not a damn thing.

He slumped in the leather chair, defeated, sinking deeper into its cold comfort. The room was still—eerily so. It was the first time since he’d returned to the island that he’d been in a place so silent. There were no screams. No alarms. No footsteps. Only his own heartbeat pounding against the walls of his skull.

The silence clawed at him.

His thoughts spun out of control. He couldn’t focus. Time slipped away from him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to die.

The dark walls of the room suddenly felt like they were closing in, surrounding him. Trapping him in this nightmare. He felt like a prisoner in a hell of his own making.

He wanted to run. Find a way out.

But there was no escape.

His eyes roamed the dimly lit room, desperate for something—anything—that could end his suffering. If he could just do it now, on his own terms, he wouldn’t have to face the Front Man again. Wouldn’t have to hear whatever twisted justification he had for what happened to his friends.

There weren’t many items in the room. Just a few strange decorative pieces—some kind of bizarre jazz music box that looked foreign, almost antique. On a small side table was a landline phone. An old, green rotary-style one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one in real life. Who even used those anymore?

Against the far wall, there was a sleek-looking bar. From the look of it, there was only whiskey—probably bottles that cost more than anything Gi-hun had ever made from a job in his entire life. More of the same whiskey bottles rested beside the armchair on a side table, catching the low light from the overhead fixtures.

He stared at everything, scouring the space for something sharp—something lethal. But there was nothing that looked like a weapon.

Then his eyes landed back on the bar.

The glass bottles.

Of course.

He could break one. Use the shards.

He stood abruptly, legs shaky beneath him as he hurried toward the bar. He had to move fast. He didn’t know how much time he had before the Front Man returned. And he wasn’t about to give that man the satisfaction of finishing him off.

Reaching for the first bottle, he hurled it against the counter. It shattered loudly, and a jagged piece remained in his palm.

Here it was.

After everything—this was how it ended.

He looked down at the shard. This wasn’t how he expected his story to close after the first game. He’d tried so hard. Fought so hard. For what?

Nothing.

All of it had been pointless.

His gaze flicked back up to the other bottles.

Without thinking, he dropped the shard in his hand and reached for two more. He threw them across the room. They exploded on the rug near the armchair, shards flying in every direction. Then he picked up another. Then another.

He kept going, smashing every bottle in sight. The sound echoed against the walls like screams. He didn’t stop until all of them were gone. Until the floor was littered with broken glass, sharp and glistening like a graveyard of shattered hopes.

Breathing hard, he looked back at the counter. Amid the mess was a tiny shard, small enough to fit in the center of his palm. He picked it up, holding it like a final decision.

It was now or never.

He had nothing left. No one left.

RING.

He nearly dropped the glass at the sudden, jarring sound.

The green landline was ringing.

He turned toward it, eyes wide, blood roaring in his ears.

Why was it ringing now?

Could the Front Man see him? Was he watching? Trying to stop him?

Gi-hun scanned the room for a camera, but there wasn’t one in sight. That didn’t mean it wasn’t hidden.

He staggered backward, bumping into the counter. His back pressed against it as his hand curled tighter around the shard. He squeezed it until it sliced into his skin, blood beginning to drip slowly onto the floor.

But he didn’t feel the pain.

He just stood there.

Frozen.

Should he answer it?

What could possibly be worse?

Maybe it wasn’t the Front Man.

Maybe it was someone else.

He needed to know.

He stepped forward carefully, glass crunching beneath his shoes. As he reached the table, he extended his uninjured hand—his right one—toward the receiver. It trembled so badly he could barely lift it, but eventually, he managed to bring it to his ear.

He said nothing.

He waited.

A voice came through the line:

“Jun-ho is about to get on board. I haven’t told him you want to speak to him yet. Are you sure you want to end the games? If you do this, there’s no coming back. In-ho, you need to carefully think— is blowing the island the best solution? After everything that’s happened… you know the VIPs will investigate. If they find out you planned it—it’s over.”

Gi-hun’s entire body went cold.

Captain Park.

He was talking to In-ho.

He was supposed to be talking to In-ho.

And he had just said that In-ho wanted to speak to Jun-ho. That he wanted to end the games. That he was going to blow up the island.

What the fuck?

No. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real.

Was he dead already?

Was this some twisted punishment?

Was he in hell?

He didn’t even believe in hell or heaven.

And yet, here he was—trapped in a pool of his own failures. His own betrayal. Like the world was laughing at him for being so unbelievably stupid.

What had he done?

What was In-ho planning?

Was it true?

Was he really going to stop the game?

And oh God—Gi-hun had stabbed him. Betrayed him. Ruined everything.

If In-ho had been trying to help—if he had really meant what he said in the bathroom—if that vote hadn’t been a trick—

OH GOD.

He wasn’t trying to play the next game.

He was trying to stop it.

And Gi-hun had ruined it.

GOD, WHAT WAS HE THINKING? WHY COULDN’T HE HAVE WAITED?

Why didn’t In-ho tell him?

Would Gi-hun even have believed him if he had?

Maybe… maybe he had been telling the truth the entire time.

Gi-hun’s thoughts spiraled, fast and loud.

Captain Park kept talking on the other end, waiting for a reply.

But Gi-hun couldn’t say anything.

He just gently set the receiver back in place. The soft click echoed in the silence.

He stood there, unmoving. His hand still gripped the phone. Blood still dripped from the shard buried in his other palm.

He felt dizzy. Lightheaded. His vision blurred.

He needed to sit.

He moved slowly back to the chair, legs threatening to buckle. He dropped into the seat, his body folding in on itself, too weak to hold him up. His breath came in shallow bursts. He couldn’t breathe. The air felt gone. Like it had been sucked out of the room.

His heart pounded wildly. So loud he could hear it.

His hand trembled. His body shook. He couldn’t stop it.

His vision faded in and out. The numbness took over.

His head fell back. His hand released the shard. His entire body went still.

He woke up to someone shaking him.

“Gi-hun, wake up.”

He heard In-ho’s voice.

He tried to open his eyes, but the light was blinding. Everything felt too bright. His eyelids were heavy, so he closed them again.

“Gi-hun, please,” In-ho said, still shaking his shoulders. Still trying.

Gi-hun opened his eyes fully this time.

In-ho was crouched over him, eyes wide and full of fear. He looked horrified—like he was looking at a ghost. He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away from Gi-hun’s shoulders once he realized he was conscious.

Without saying anything, In-ho reached for the glass on the side table and walked toward the bar. He turned on the sink and filled it with water.

Gi-hun followed him with his eyes. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t even move.

He was back.

In-ho was back.

He was still wearing the Front Man’s costume, but the mask was gone. His face was slick with sweat, messy, pale. Gi-hun could see it even from here.

When In-ho returned, he stood in front of him, holding the water out.

“Here. Drink.”

Gi-hun didn’t move. His arms were like dead weight.

In-ho noticed and stepped closer. He raised the glass with his gloved hand and gently brought it to Gi-hun’s mouth, waiting. Gi-hun looked up, meeting his eyes.

In-ho’s face had shifted now—he looked determined. Like he was telling Gi-hun to drink without saying a word.

Gi-hun opened his mouth, just enough.

In-ho tipped the glass.

The cold water hit his tongue. He drank slowly, watching In-ho. Their eyes never broke contact. In-ho tilted the glass higher, and Gi-hun kept drinking, one sip at a time.

Their knees touched.

In-ho hovered over him, close.

Gi-hun swallowed the last drop, throat dry and raw.

In-ho stepped back, set the glass on the table.

They just… stared at each other.

Like they were the only two people left in the world.

Then In-ho looked away first. He seemed disappointed. Like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

He walked toward one of the rooms.

Gi-hun stared at the space where he’d been standing.

When In-ho came back, he was already kneeling beside him before Gi-hun even realized it.

This time, he didn’t make eye contact. His gaze was locked on Gi-hun’s right hand.

The one that had held the shard.

Blood was still dripping.

Gi-hun hadn’t even noticed.

In-ho stared at it like Gi-hun had been stabbed. Like he was dying.

But it was just a cut.

Still, he reached out. His hand trembled. He held Gi-hun’s gently, then reached for a box on the floor with his other hand. He pulled out a wipe.

“This is going to sting,” he said quietly.

He began cleaning around the wound, starting with the dried blood. As the alcohol touched the cut, Gi-hun hissed. His thumb curled around In-ho’s gloved one, gripping tighter.

In-ho didn’t stop. He kept going—slower, gentler now.

“It’s not too deep. You won’t need stitches,” he muttered softly, just letting him know.

Then he let go.

Gi-hun felt the loss immediately.

In-ho moved around quickly, gathering supplies. Bandages. Scissors. His hands returned—this time wrapping the wound tightly, but not too tight.

When he tied it off and cut the bandage, he looked back up.

Their eyes met again.

Gi-hun stared at him.

He expected something. Anything.

But In-ho just looked… tired. So tired. And sad.

Like he hadn’t slept in days.

But he had—just hours ago, next to Gi-hun.

And that reminded him of everything.

The rebellion. The stabbing.

The Front Man.

His friends.

Oh God—were they dead?

Had In-ho killed them?

Please—please, no.

Then he remembered the phone call.

That had been real.

In-ho was going to help him.

He was going to blow up the island.

And Gi-hun had ruined everything.

Now he looked at the man still kneeling in front of him, unsure.

Was he still on his side?

“Are… are they dead?” Gi-hun asked, voice barely audible.

In-ho didn’t answer.

Instead, he asked, “Why did you hurt yourself, Gi-hun?”

“I—” Gi-hun’s voice broke. “I thought it’d be better than letting you kill me. I could at least have a little control over it.”

“You think I was going to kill you?” In-ho said, frustrated, almost angry, standing up quickly.

“I don’t know,” Gi-hun whispered. “I wished you would. I lost. I get it. I should be the one punished. Not them. It was all my plan…”

Suddenly, In-ho leaned down, hands planted on both sides of the armchair, his face inches from Gi-hun’s.

“Do you think I killed them, Gi-hun?” he whispered, voice low and smug.

They were so close, Gi-hun could feel his breath. Could barely see his whole face—only his eyes.

Searching.

Gi-hun hesitated.

Then, “No.”

It came fast, but firm.

In-ho stood upright, letting go of the chair. He almost looked relieved.

He picked up the remote and pressed a few buttons.

A screen flickered on.

It was the dorm cameras.

They were still working.

And there—on the screen—were his friends.

Jung-bae.

They were alive.

They were alive.

And for right now, that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

"Five more minutes," In-ho thought. He wasn’t ready for the day to start. His body was catching up on the exhaustion from the past few days, trapping him in sleep. He snuggled into the pillow—it was so soft, like sleeping on clouds. Or maybe he was just so tired that even the hard, horrible pillow felt amazing.

Then he felt it—like a pinch in his leg. At first, he didn’t realize he had been stabbed. He thought he was dreaming. For a few seconds, he stayed like that, motionless, until he opened his eyes. Looking down at his leg, he saw it—he had been stabbed. With a fork. In his thigh. Gi-hun had stabbed him.

What the hell? Why would he do that? How could he? Fuck. He was supposed to get them out today. He had been planning to tell Gi-hun once he was fully awake. But now what was he supposed to do? Why would Gi-hun stab him? After everything, he thought Gi-hun finally understood him. Why didn’t he stab him in the bathroom last night if he really wanted to hurt him? Why now? Had the heat pushed him into so much rage that he snapped?

In-ho tried to get out of bed—it wasn’t easy. He had to scoot backward until he reached the edge of the mattress and finally touched the floor. He slowly dragged his legs out too, wincing at the pain each movement caused. Oddly enough, with all the things he had endured before, being stabbed with a fork was somehow less painful than expected.

He could hear Gi-hun’s voice. In-ho turned, trying to locate him, and that’s when he noticed—all the players now had the guards’ guns. They were rebelling. Shit. Why couldn’t they have waited a few more minutes? He could’ve stopped them. They could’ve left—alive. He saw Gi-hun yelling, commanding the others. Of course he was the one leading the plan, and the players were actually listening to him. But they were so naive.

This wasn’t going to work. More guards were on the way. As the players fought back, In-ho spotted a gun tossed nearby. He half-crawled toward it, struggling. Then he saw Gi-hun fall backward—shit. A guard was about to shoot him. In-ho quickly grabbed the gun, forcing himself to stand, even though his legs were limp and unsteady. He nearly tripped, the ground tilting under him—not literally, just his balance off because of the wound. He loaded the gun and fired at the guard threatening Gi-hun.

Gi-hun looked up and saw him. His eyes widened in shock, almost like he was scared of In-ho—and that hurt more than the fork ever could. In-ho hadn’t realized he could still care this much. But Gi-hun had turned on him. Pretended to let him into his group, let him remember what it felt like to have friends again—and then took it all away. How could In-ho have been so foolish? He was supposed to be the Front Man. He had let Gi-hun trick him. Now he looked like a joke to the entire staff.

He needed to think—come up with a plan fast. Gi-hun’s recklessness was going to get everyone killed. The VIPs would be furious. Shit. He was in so much trouble. He needed to shut this rebellion down immediately.

Then he heard Gi-hun shouting, rallying the players to go after the masked man—after him. Gi-hun wanted to hurt In-ho. But he hadn’t figured out In-ho’s secret yet—he knew that. Otherwise, the players would’ve already exposed him. Why hadn’t he? Maybe Gi-hun was waiting to confront him in private, to get revenge on his own terms.

Maybe… maybe In-ho could still talk some sense into him. If he could get him alone.

But first, he had to deal with the fork in his leg. He couldn’t do anything if he couldn’t walk. He sat slowly on the bed, examining the wound. It wasn’t too deep—good. He could pull it out now. Hopefully it hadn’t hit anything major that would cause him to bleed out.

He needed something to wrap the wound—just enough until he could get real help. His jacket would work. Then he realized he wasn’t wearing it. Or his shirt. Shit. He remembered—he had taken them off last night to tease Gi-hun. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed him so much. Because now… well, here he was.

He got up again, limping over to the spot where he’d left his clothes. He grabbed his shirt and jacket, then sat back down. He focused on the leg. He had to make this quick before the pain got worse. He yanked the fork out fast, eyes shut, gritting his teeth through the sharp sting. Then he tied the jacket tightly around the wound. It hurt more now that it was exposed, but he could manage. He put the shirt back on and stood up.

Gi-hun was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by his little rebellion. In-ho swore—they were all idiots. Trusting Gi-hun to lead a suicidal plan. In-ho decided to walk over, just to see how Gi-hun would react. Would he tell them who In-ho really was? Or keep it to himself for some twisted reason?

As he approached, the others hesitated, telling him he was too injured, that he should rest. Then Gi-hun told them to let him come.

Even now, after everything, In-ho was still shocked. He couldn’t understand the man. He would risk the rebellion’s safety just to protect In-ho’s secret.

After they made their way up, one of the guards had told them where the control room was. That little shit. In-ho clenched his jaw. He needed to have better control over them—clearly, they were giving up information too easily. That was on him. He hadn't been doing a good enough job managing them. Once he got back into his role as Front Man, he’d have to get stricter. But first, he needed to survive this rebellion—and regain control.

The guard who was guiding them noticed him now. There was fear in the man’s eyes—he knew what was coming. But one of the other guards struck him before In-ho had the chance. The fighting resumed around them, and In-ho knew this was the moment. They were getting too close to the control room. He had to act.

Then Gi-hun said he was going with In-ho while the others created a distraction. Of course. He insisted on taking In-ho alone, even though it made no sense to the rest of the group. In-ho looked at him, still furious, but he followed. Gi-hun had used the dead guard’s mask to open the door, completely unbothered by the fact that the guard had been just a kid. It was like Gi-hun didn’t even see the guards as human anymore—like he didn’t see In-ho as one either.

And that stung. More than it should have.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Their very first conversation had been about how In-ho saw Gi-hun—as a horse. A bet. A number. But that had changed. After years of obsessing over him, trying to understand him, trying to reach him, In-ho didn’t feel that way anymore. Gi-hun wasn’t a horse to him. He wasn’t a number. He wasn’t anything anymore.

They weren’t friends. Not really enemies, either. Just two victims of circumstance. The games had twisted them into something unrecognizable, had built and broken them into what they were now. For a while, it had felt like they understood each other, like maybe they were the only two people who could. But In-ho knew now that wasn’t true. None of it had been. Nothing that had happened over the past few days had been real.

Gi-hun walked behind him, a gun pointed at In-ho’s back like he was ready to pull the trigger at the first misstep. He probably could have. But that didn’t matter anymore. It was too late.

As they got closer to his quarters, In-ho saw the guards waiting—ready to fire at Gi-hun on sight. But without hesitation, In-ho stepped in front of him, shielding him completely. He ordered the guards to go deal with the rebellious players instead. He knew they would run out of ammo soon. That would force them to surrender. It was just a matter of time now.

He made Gi-hun follow him to the elevator that led to his private quarters. Gi-hun still thought they were going to the control room. He could be so foolish sometimes.

In-ho had been three steps ahead of him for years while Gi-hun searched the globe trying to find him. But now… it was In-ho who had become blind. He hadn’t expected the rebellion. He hadn’t seen it coming. But this—this was his chance to take control again.

Gi-hun’s anger was obvious once they entered the room. Just like In-ho had expected. But he wasn’t scared of him. Not really. He didn’t think Gi-hun would shoot. The fork earlier had been surprising, but In-ho wasn’t seriously hurt. And truthfully, Gi-hun didn’t have it in him to kill. Just like In-ho couldn’t kill Gi-hun.

There was something inside both of them that prevented it. No matter how far gone they seemed, something always stopped them from fully destroying each other.

When Gi-hun realized the rebellion was falling apart—that the players would be forced to surrender—he was too stunned to react. In-ho used that moment to slip into his bedroom. He needed to get back into uniform. Time was running out.

He opened the closet and reached for his Front Man gear. There wasn’t time to properly change, so he pulled the long coat over his player’s shirt. He took off his jacket and grabbed the signature mask. He was trying to think—how could he clean up the mess Gi-hun had made?

Part of him considered the worst. Maybe he should just kill them all. It wasn’t like they had any way off the island anymore. Maybe it would be kinder. End it quickly.

But then he thought of Gi-hun. How devastated he would be. It would crush him. And In-ho didn’t want to do that. Not really. Even now.

Still, there had to be consequences. They couldn’t just get away with it. He had to make Gi-hun suffer a little. Just enough to make him understand. To make him feel the weight of what he’d done. But he didn’t need to decide that now. First, he needed to make sure Gi-hun didn’t try anything else.

In-ho stepped out of his bedroom to find Gi-hun still standing exactly where he’d left him, frozen in place. Without saying a word, In-ho crossed the room, grabbed Gi-hun’s arm with more force than necessary, and dragged him toward the chair he usually sat in. He flicked on the screen connected to the hallway’s security camera and made Gi-hun watch.

There they were—his team. On their knees. Surrounded by guards, guns raised.

He saw Gi-hun flinch. Saw the fear, the realization hit his face.

A few days ago, In-ho might have relished that. Seeing Gi-hun understand he had lost. That he couldn’t save the game. Couldn’t stop it. But now, all In-ho felt was disappointment.

Because it didn’t have to end this way. If Gi-hun had just waited—just trusted him a little longer—they could have had everything. But now, In-ho had no choice.

He had to become the Front Man again.

He started walking towards the elevator once he was sure Gi-hun wouldn’t try to follow him. He had told him he would see the consequences of his little hero act, but In-ho wasn’t even sure what he meant by that yet. It didn’t take him long before he was in the hallway he had been in a minute ago on their side. It was still hard for him to walk with his leg injury, but he hoped no one else would notice. It was hurting like hell, but at least with the mask, no one could see it.

When he entered the room, all the heads turned to him—the guards and players. The fear in their eyes as the players realized who he was, it was almost nice, being feared again. The power it gave him—they knew their lives were dangling in his hands. Some of these people he had gotten close to the past few days, but now they felt like strangers because they never truly knew him. Now they probably never would. He should probably kill them now, make a clear example out of them to make sure no one goes against them.

As he got closer, he watched as Jung-bae trembled with fear, begging for his life. The same man who had hugged him when he knew In-ho was alive—how it had felt like they were becoming friends. Now he was holding a gun to his head. He looked up at the camera. He knew Gi-hun was watching. He could pull the trigger right now, end it all. Then he looked back at Jung-bae. He had gotten to know him. He always knew the players—their backstories—but this time it was different. Actually hearing it in person made him human to him.

In-ho couldn’t do it. He wanted to kill him, but he couldn’t. He wanted Gi-hun to become like him. He knew with time he would, but right now all he wanted was to stop this. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life with regret, so he pulled up the gun, shooting the camera. Then he heard another gunshot go off in the distance. Guard 11 had shot Player 246.

What the fuck were they thinking? He had given orders to stand down—not to shoot. Now his own guards were going against him.

“What did you do?!” In-ho said in his robotic Front Man voice, walking toward Guard 11 as the other guards pushed themselves against the walls to give him space to walk.

“I’m sorry! I thought you wanted us to kill them,” Guard 11 said, voice trembling with fear, their hands shaking with the gun.

“I ordered you to keep them in order—not kill them! How dare you go against my orders!!” In-ho said, now angry, as he watched Player 246 struggle on the floor, slowly dying.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just… you haven’t been around. I didn’t understand. I promise I will follow orders from now on,” Guard 11 told him, begging not to be killed.

In-ho knew they weren’t completely wrong. He hadn’t been the Front Man much. He couldn’t completely blame them for not knowing what to do, but he needed to be strict so no one else went against him.

“Clean up the mess,” In-ho told the rest of the guards, meaning put the dead player’s body in the coffin. “And take the rest to the dormitory again and wait for my instructions.” In-ho said as he started walking back to his quarters. Then he turned one time. “And Guard 11— I want to see you in my office later. I will deal with you then.”

He started walking back now to see Gi-hun. He exhaled deeply before getting on the elevator. He knew the reaction would be bad. He would probably attack him again now that In-ho made him believe his friends were dead, but he needed Gi-hun to understand—to make him see that he wasn’t some hero in this story. He was a killer too. He was naive, blinded by his hate for the Front Man. He risked all those lives to stop him, and it was a stupid plan.

When the elevator door opened, something was wrong. He could instantly feel it. He saw Gi-hun lifelessly passed out on the couch. In-ho froze. What if he was dead? What if he had done it? Shit, no. This couldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t have left him alone—what was he thinking?

He walked up slowly and took off his mask. He needed to breathe, or he would pass out himself. In-ho slowly got his hand reaching for Gi-hun’s neck, gently touching him to check for a pulse. He exhaled. There was one. Thank God—he was alive. He had just passed out. Then he noticed the broken glass, his hands dripping in blood. He looked around the room. There was glass everywhere—all of his expensive whiskey bottles broken.

He quickly took the glass out of Gi-hun’s hand. He needed to wake him. He touched his face slowly. There was no movement. In-ho’s hands then went to his shoulders, trying to gently shake him to wake up.

“Gi-hun, wake up,” In-ho said with a quiet, fearful voice. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sounded like that.

He saw Gi-hun trying to open his eyelids, then closing them again.

“Gi-hun, please,” In-ho tried to plead with him. What was he thinking? Why would he hurt himself?

In-ho had come here to threaten Gi-hun. He was gonna be the Front Man—to show him what he had done, how horrible his plan had been. But now In-ho was hopelessly pleading to the man to hold on.

When he finally did open his eyes, they both stared at each other in shock. In-ho was so relieved—and angry—at Gi-hun for doing that. His mind was going crazy. He wanted to punish him for what he did. He wanted to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay—even if it wasn’t. Why did he have to make him so crazy?

In-ho decided instead he would get him some water—to hydrate and get energy to fully be conscious. He picked up the glass from the side table—In-ho’s glass, the one that was only ever used by him. He walked up to the now-broken bar, turning on the water on the island sink. He first checked the glass for any broken pieces that could have gotten in it before pouring water. He could feel Gi-hun’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. He feared his mind wouldn’t be able to think straight. Once the glass was full, he walked back to Gi-hun, still sitting.

“Here. Drink this,” In-ho told him, holding the glass out for him to take. But he looked too in shock to grab it, so In-ho decided to make the insane choice and put the rim of the glass against Gi-hun’s lips, waiting for him to open them.

Gi-hun looked up at him, confused, but In-ho— instead of using words—told him with his eyes to drink. It was strangely intimate. If anyone else saw this, they wouldn’t know what to think. It wasn’t normal to be feeding your enemy water. He watched Gi-hun as they both stared into each other’s eyes. He saw him sipping the water—the way he could see his gulp in his neck with each sip. He looked nervous.

After he finished, In-ho pulled back the glass, setting it on the side table. Then, without a word, he went to his room to get the first aid kit. His leg was still injured, but he needed to take care of Gi-hun’s hand first.

When he came back to the open area, Gi-hun hadn’t noticed him. In-ho got on his knees beside Gi-hun, taking out the alcohol wipe, then taking back Gi-hun’s hand in his grip firmly as he started cleaning the wound. He could feel Gi-hun flinch, but In-ho made his hand stay still firmly so he wouldn’t move too much.

“This is going to sting a little,” In-ho told him quietly, while his own mind was racing. Why had Gi-hun been so naive? Why did he hurt himself? He didn’t even seem concerned that he was bleeding, like it was an afterthought. He was a grown-ass man. He should be taking care of himself, but he couldn’t be left alone for five minutes without doing something stupid.

He examined the wound, trying to check if Gi-hun needed stitches. He was hoping that he wouldn’t, because he knew how hard it would be to keep Gi-hun still. It didn’t look too deep, thankfully, so a simple bandage should be enough.

“It’s not too deep. You won’t need stitches,” In-ho muttered softly, just letting him know. He was glad at least he wasn’t too hurt, but who knew—if he didn’t make it back in time, what would have happened? What would Gi-hun have done to himself? He hated the thought of it. He wished Gi-hun would just have listened to him. Why did he not get on the plane? He would never understand. Now here he was, just hurting himself and others, trying to foolishly stop something that was impossible. Maybe he had watched too many movies—that it got in his head that he could be the hero, that he would just win this easily and save everyone.

In-ho got the bandage and scissors from the box, letting go of Gi-hun’s hand fully. Then he touched it again, wrapping the bandage carefully but tight enough, then tying it off, finally letting go of the warm hand. They looked at each other again, staring like they always did. Gi-hun looked like he was trying to analyze his face. In-ho was exhausted after everything that had happened, and the day had just started. There was so much he had to figure out, and the VIPs would be arriving soon. He needed a plan to explain everything to them. He wished he had never taken the Frontman position. Now here he was, stuck making choices he didn’t know how to make. He wasn’t sure who he was, how to do what was needed.

Then—“Are… are they dead?” Gi-hun asked, voice barely audible.

Shit. In-ho forgot he shot the camera, so Gi-hun didn’t know what had happened. He had to do something to tell him, but he would need to explain why he let them live. It would make him look weak. So instead—

“Why did you hurt yourself, Gi-hun?” In-ho asked him. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear him say it, to believe it. He would need to keep a closer eye on him from now on, after everything that had happened.

“I—” Gi-hun’s voice broke. “I thought it’d be better than letting you kill me. I could at least have a little control over it.”

He watched Gi-hun’s face fill with fear, like he was afraid of In-ho—which made In-ho more mad.

“You think I was going to kill you?” In-ho said, frustrated, almost angry, standing up quickly. How could he think that? After he had saved him over and over again. He shot his own guard for Gi-hun—yet it wasn’t enough. Would anything ever be?

“I don’t know,” Gi-hun whispered. “I wished you would. I lost. I get it. I should be the one punished. Not them. It was all my plan…”

In-ho was going mad. Can Gi-hun, for once, act like he had a will to live? Why did he have to be so difficult?

Suddenly, In-ho leaned down, hands planted on both sides of the armchair, his face inches from Gi-hun’s. In-ho wanted to be more intimidating, to make Gi-hun take him seriously, understand what he was saying.

“Do you think I killed them, Gi-hun?” he whispered, voice low and smug.

In-ho hoped Gi-hun would know the answer—that he didn’t think of him as a complete monster, that there was hope. He looked in his eyes as Gi-hun nervously searched for an answer. They were so close, In-ho could feel his breath. Could barely see his whole face—only his eyes. They could easily feel each other’s body heat, how their hearts were racing in sync.

Gi-hun hesitated. Then, “No.”

It came fast, but firm. That was enough for In-ho to let go and stand up. He was still watching Gi-hun, every reaction, his confusion over what had just happened. In-ho moved again, going to the side table to pick up the remote. He pulled up one of the cameras in the dorms—it had a clear view of the players that had helped Gi-hun, that were still alive. He watched Gi-hun as he looked relieved, watched over him.

In-ho didn’t feel the same about the situation. What Gi-hun had done was just get people on both sides dead—and for what? It didn’t matter in the end. Now In-ho had to clean up the mess. It’s tiring. With Gi-hun, it never ends. At first, he liked it—their back and forth—but now he is getting tired of it. It feels like they’ve been doing this for years. And they had been.

“They are only alive because the VIPs would be bad—they couldn’t see him get punished,” In-ho told him.

It was a lie. They probably would have preferred if the Frontman had killed them. But he couldn’t. Not after knowing their stories. Well, he wouldn’t have minded if some of them died, but it would be too obvious if only the ones he wanted to live were alive. Too much suspicion by all parties.

The landline started ringing before Gi-hun had a chance to reply to In-ho. In-ho walked over. Shit—he had forgotten he had told Captain Park to call in the morning. He hoped he hadn’t told Jun-ho what was happening because the plan was canceled. In-ho picked up the phone.

“What the hell is going on? Why haven’t you been answering?” Captain Park started asking.

“Forget about it,” In-ho said, trying to whisper, not wanting Gi-hun to know about the plan that wasn’t gonna happen anymore.

“What? What do you mean ‘just forget about it’? Last night you were so determined to blow up the island, stop the game—now you’ve finally come to your senses? What happened?” Captain Park asked him, annoyed.

“Just do as I say. I have to take care of stuff, so unless it’s an emergency, don’t call again,” In-ho said, dropping the call before Captain Park could ask more questions—because he honestly had no idea what was gonna happen next.

He could feel Gi-hun shifting in the seat behind him. In-ho’s back was to him still, but he felt every movement.

“In-ho—” Gi-hun started to talk, but ding —the elevator door. Someone was here. In-ho quickly moved, grabbing his mask from the table. He had put it next to the landline before, so thank God he was close to it. He made his way to the middle of the room to see who was at the door.

It was Guard 11. Fuck. Why was the guard here now? Were they in some conspiracy to go against him, to get rid of him? Is that why they hadn’t followed orders before?

“Sir, you wanted to see me—you said earlier,” Guard 11 said nervously, stepping off the elevator into the hallway.

Right. Shit. In-ho had forgotten he did say that. He needed to stop going crazy with the conspiracy theories. After Gi-hun had betrayed him unexpectedly, he couldn’t help it.

“Right, umm… now isn’t a good time. I order you to—actually wait.”

In-ho was gonna let them go back, but he realized the time. He needed Gi-hun to go back to the dorms—and himself too—before the others started thinking they were dead. The longer they were gone, the more questions others would have. So they needed to go back now.

In-ho looked back at Gi-hun, who was standing frozen—not in the guard’s line of sight, but unsure what to do next. Then he looked back at the guard.

“Give me five minutes, then you will escort me and Player 456 to the dorms,” In-ho said, waving a hand for Gi-hun to follow him. And he did, after a minute of hesitation.

In-ho opened the door to his bedroom, taking off his mask, then closed the door as Gi-hun got inside.

“You will do as I say when we are back. If you make any sudden move or try anything again, they will be dead on the spot,” In-ho said firmly, making sure Gi-hun got it through his thick skull not to play the hero act again.

Gi-hun just nodded, staring at him a little scared. Then In-ho started taking off his Frontman clothes. Underneath, he was already wearing the Player 001 clothes—but then he remembered the stabbing. His bleeding had stopped, but his pants were soaked in blood still. The first aid kit was outside, and he didn’t want to go out there again and face the guard while he was injured. He looked up at Gi-hun, who had been watching him. He almost looked guilty—maybe he regretted stabbing In-ho. No. In-ho wasn’t gonna let him get in his head again. Gi-hun couldn’t care less about him—but he needed his help.

“Can you get the first aid kit from the couch?” In-ho requested. He hoped Gi-hun wouldn’t complain and just do it.

And he did. “Sure,” Gi-hun replied before reaching for the door hesitantly.

In-ho just nodded, telling him to open it. Then In-ho walked over to his bed, sitting down. He noticed his jacket had blood on it too, as he had previously used it for the wound. So he would have to replace it too. Good thing he had extras of all the clothes. Well—it was the only clothes he really had nowadays. He didn’t wear much besides it anymore, so it didn’t matter.

When Gi-hun returned with the box, he closed the door behind him, walked over to the bed where In-ho was sitting, and put down the first aid kit on the bed next to In-ho. Then In-ho quickly started working, opening it, getting out all the supplies he needed while Gi-hun stood in the corner, staring, unsure if he should be doing something.

Then suddenly, without caring, In-ho took off his pants. He had been wearing boxers, so it wasn’t like he was completely naked, and he still had his shirt on—but he could feel Gi-hun slightly shift. In-ho didn’t look up though. He didn’t have time to decipher whatever expression Gi-hun had right now.

He got working on his wound similar to how he had with Gi-hun’s hand, but there was so much dry blood on his thighs. He wished he could take a shower, but they didn’t have time. He would just smell like rotten blood for a while. He hated it so much. It reminded him of the time in the game. His last night. This wasn’t a time to bring those memories up. He needed to focus and hurry.

He quickly got the wound bandaged up, then he realized he hadn’t gotten out his new pair of pants and jacket from the closet. If he got up now, he would be half-naked, giving Gi-hun a full view. So instead, he looked up behind him to Gi-hun, whose eyes were weary, trying to almost pretend he hadn’t been staring. He knew Gi-hun had.

“Could you open my closet and grab a new tracksuit for me?” In-ho asked a little embarrassed.

Gi-hun looked around the room, then looked for the closet. Since they got in the room, his only focus had been In-ho. He hadn’t noticed much.

“So am I your personal chauffeur now?” Gi-hun said, a little playful with almost a smirk, then opened the closet. Then he paused.

In-ho now realized his closet seemed like an insane person owned it, with copies of the green tracksuit and a bunch of Frontman coats and a few different guard uniforms—black and pink ones. In-ho felt a little insecure about it now. No one else had been seeing his closet in recent years, so he hadn’t put much thought into it. But now he could see how crazy it looked.

“Don’t you have a life outside of this place?” Gi-hun asked. He kind of knew the answer. He knew In-ho had been missing for years, but this was just another level of crazy. The man had no normal clothes.

“Yeah, kinda. Well, in my defense, I stay here most of the year besides the game, so it doesn’t really matter what I wear. I’m usually alone anyways. The guards are only here when the game is running, mostly,” In-ho tried explaining himself, but it somehow made it sound worse.

They didn’t have time for this. They needed to get back.

“You know how insane you sound? You might as well lock yourself in a white room voluntarily,” Gi-hun teased him, grabbing the tracksuit and walking back to In-ho, who took it without saying another word. Taking the pants, he finally stood to put them on while he started talking.

“Well, if I’m insane, you aren’t any better looking yourself. Inside that pink motel, you might as well accompany me to the white room,” In-ho said, fully dressed, putting on his jacket, grinning like he had won this non-argument—because Gi-hun was now speechless.

So he just walked over to the other door, opening it, then using his gesture to tell Gi-hun to leave first, which he did, giving In-ho one last annoyed look.

As they made their way to the guard who was in the same position as last time, waiting for them, they nodded to In-ho a little shyly, turning around to call the elevator.

Shit. In-ho thought there would probably be rumors now that he had been alone with Player 456 and his clothes had changed when they came, like it wasn’t bad enough their previous interaction the guard had caught them in before—now this was just adding to the list.

This was also the test for Guard 11. In-ho was testing them to see if he could trust them after they had disobeyed him before. Right now, they were the ones with the weapon. If they had been working against him, they could overpower him easily—but they seemed to be holding their composure, not doing anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it had been a one-time fluke.

Then they got out the elevator with Gi-hun and In-ho walking side by side, though the guard was behind them. They walked through the same area they had been through before, but this time it had more blood—from the fallen players and guards—with bullet holes everywhere. Shit. He would have the guards fix as much as they could before the VIPs came.

They walked through the stairs and hallways in silence. He hoped Gi-hun had learned his lesson.

By the time they made it to the door, they gave each other one more look in agreement before the guards opened the door to the dorms.

Chapter Text

When they entered the room, every pair of eyes turned to them. The air shifted—thick with disbelief. Everyone stood frozen, unmoving, like time itself had paused. In-ho and Gi-hun both stopped at the entrance as the door shut behind them with a heavy thud.

Jung-bae was the first to move. He dashed across the room, straight to Gi-hun, and wrapped his arms around him in a crushing hug.

“I thought you were dead,” Jung-bae whispered, holding him tightly.

Gi-hun hesitated for a second, then returned the embrace. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been until his shoulders started to relax, melting into the hug. For the first time, Gi-hun let himself go—allowed the relief to show. His best friend was alive. Despite everything, he was still here. Gi-hun had been so sure they’d never see each other again. Now, he just wished they'd survive this place.

There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to apologize to everyone—for leading them into a failed plan, for risking their lives. He wanted to talk to Jung-bae, explain everything, confess it all. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when Jung-bae didn’t even know who In-ho really was.

And he wanted to talk to In-ho too—to tell him he knew about the escape plan, that he was sorry, and to ask him, if there was any part of him that still trusted Gi-hun, to please help them… to not let what Gi-hun had done ruin everything.

Jung-bae still hadn’t let go, like his life depended on it.

In-ho, who was still standing beside them, cleared his throat with a pointed cough, trying to cut the tension. It worked. Gi-hun and Jung-bae finally pulled apart and looked at him.

“Leave some of that hug for me too, Jung-bae. After all, I made it out alive as well,” In-ho said with a dry, joking tone.

He remembered the last time Jung-bae had hugged him—when they'd first found out he was alive. He’d expected something similar now. He wasn’t the most affectionate person, but having friends who cared... it meant something.

Gi-hun just rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly. In-ho sounded ridiculous. He was never really in danger, and they both knew it—but the other players didn’t. Gi-hun couldn’t even be mad about his plan falling apart. In-ho had gone easy on him. He could’ve punished him much worse as the Front Man.

But Jung-bae… he didn’t look happy to see In-ho. Not even a little. He didn’t laugh, didn’t acknowledge the joke, didn’t act like it mattered that In-ho was alive.

Instead, Jung-bae’s voice came out cold: “You should talk to the others, Gi-hun. They’re disappointed the plan didn’t work.”

He cast a sharp glare at In-ho, then a softer one at Gi-hun before walking back toward the rest of the group.

“Well, that was weird,” In-ho commented under his breath, clearly unsettled.

“Yeah… maybe he’s just adjusting to what happened. I’m sure it scared him,” Gi-hun replied, concern creeping into his voice. He made a mental note to talk to Jung-bae later—to check in on him.

He turned and started walking toward the players who had followed his plan. They were gathered in a loose group, whispering among themselves. Gi-hun felt dread settle in his stomach. He wasn’t ready for this. He knew they’d blame him. The plan had failed. People had died for it—died for nothing.

He wished he could skip the conversation entirely. He wished he were still in the Front Man’s quarters, far away from the pain in their faces.

In-ho trailed behind him silently, matching his pace, his footsteps hesitant like he was following Gi-hun’s lead.

As they approached, the group turned on them—on Gi-hun.

“HOW COULD YOU—”

“YOU SAID THE PLAN WOULD WORK!”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP THE FRONT MAN?”

“YOU SAID WE’D BE OUT OF HERE!”

“WE ALMOST DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!”

“WE LOST SO MANY PEOPLE—ALL FOR NOTHING!”

The shouts came at him like waves crashing over his head, too fast to process. Gi-hun stood frozen, unable to respond.

Then… he felt it.

A soft, warm touch on his wrist—firm and grounding. He turned and saw In-ho, holding him steady, eyes locked on his. There was something there in his gaze—a flicker of pity, or maybe understanding. And then it changed. In-ho’s face hardened. He stepped forward, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Gi-hun.

“Stop!” In-ho’s voice cut through the shouting like a blade.

The room fell silent.

“If you think all the blame is on Gi-hun, then you’re the fools here. You chose to go along with the plan. If you had doubts, you should’ve spoken up. No one forced you to risk your lives. You knew the consequences.”

They stared at him now, some of them visibly angry, but before they could respond, he kept going.

“Gi-hun tried to help you. You’re here because you were desperate—because of choices you made. That’s not his fault. Be grateful you’re still alive.”

His voice rose, sharp and cold. His glare could cut glass. No one dared argue. Slowly, they walked away, muttering under their breath, but they left him and Gi-hun alone.

Only Jung-bae lingered nearby.

Gi-hun turned to In-ho, eyes softening. There was almost a grateful smile tugging at his lips. He couldn’t have defended himself, not like that. He was thankful In-ho had done it for him.

Across the room, Jung-bae glanced over at Dae-ho, who was hovering in the corner, too nervous to approach. The two had spoken earlier, before Gi-hun and In-ho had returned. Dae-ho had told him the truth—that he had never been a Marine. He had served in the military, but only in social service. He’d never been in real danger.

It hadn’t taken Jung-bae long to forgive him. He was just glad they were alive. But Gi-hun and In-ho didn’t know the truth yet.

Before anyone could say more, guards entered the room.

They announced that the rebellion had disrupted the schedule. The next game would be postponed until tomorrow. And as punishment, no one would be given food.

The room exploded in chaos.

Shouts erupted, players yelling, pointing fingers at everyone involved in the rebellion. Then the blue team started yelling at Gi-hun.

In-ho quickly grabbed him and pulled him toward the back of the bunkroom.

“You’ve really made enemies out of everyone,” In-ho said, voice laced with concern.

Gi-hun glanced around the room. All the faces were turned toward him, full of rage. Even Jung-bae looked at him with disappointment.

“Why couldn’t you just give them food today? It’s going to make them angrier,” Gi-hun snapped. “You know how people get when they’re hungry.”

“Seriously? It’s bad enough I let them live. Now you want me to feed them too?” In-ho replied, getting frustrated. “There are consequences, Gi-hun. I should be doing worse.”

“Yet you were going to blow up the island—if I hadn’t started the rebellion,” Gi-hun said, voice quiet but pointed.

In-ho’s eyes widened. “What—”

He didn’t get to finish. Jung-bae approached quickly.

“Gi-hun, we should have a plan. In case they try to attack you.”

He didn’t acknowledge In-ho at all—pretended like he wasn’t even there.

“Right… I’m not sure I should be making any plans going forward,” Gi-hun muttered, eyes darting to In-ho.

In-ho’s mind was racing. He needed to talk to Gi-hun alone. There were things he had to say. Questions he needed answered. But Jung-bae wouldn’t leave.

“I’ll stay with Gi-hun. Like before,” Jung-bae said, offering a firm nod. “I want to make sure he’s safe.”

“No. I’ll bunk with Gi-hun. You stay with Dae-ho—like before,” In-ho cut in, voice steely.

“Well, no. I’ll stay with him. I’ve known him longer. He was my friend first,” Jung-bae shot back, possessive.

Gi-hun watched them, half-amused, half-annoyed. It was like children arguing over who got to pick their teammate. Fitting, really, for a place that made them play children’s games.

“You know I’m still here, right?” Gi-hun interrupted, waving a hand between them.

“There’s no reason to fight over me. Honestly, whoever bunks with me is probably in more danger. I should sleep alone.”

“NO!” both said at once. Finally—something they could agree on.

“You choose, Gi-hun,” Jung-bae said. “But you’re not sleeping alone.”

In-ho tensed. He assumed Gi-hun would choose Jung-bae. His best friend. But then—

“In-ho’s right. We’ll stick with how we bunked before,” Gi-hun said calmly.

Both looked surprised.

Jung-bae looked like he’d just been slapped. In-ho, shocked, met Gi-hun’s eyes. He understood. Gi-hun wanted to talk to him. Alone. Just like he did.

“What? You literally stabbed him last time you slept beside him—now you want to do it again?” Jung-bae said in disbelief.

In-ho and Gi-hun had forgotten about that for a moment. They exchanged a glance.

“We already cleared the air. It was a misunderstanding, right Gi-hun?” In-ho asked, nudging him to agree.

“Yeah. Just an accident. All good now,” Gi-hun added, trying to sound convincing.

Jung-bae scoffed. “An accident? Why do I even bother?”

He stormed off.

“I need to take care of some stuff. I’ll be back before lights out—we can talk then,” In-ho said, slipping back into his Front Man duties.

“Right… I’ll just tell them you went to the restroom if they ask,” Gi-hun replied.

In-ho turned to leave, then paused.

“I’ll tell the guards to lower the temperature again. Make it as cold as possible—less chance someone tries to attack if they’re freezing.”

“Is that why you did it before?” Gi-hun asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” In-ho said. He didn’t need to explain more.

Gi-hun realized he’d misjudged him. What he thought had been annoyance… had been concern.

“Oh. You could’ve told me last night.”

“Would you still have stabbed me this morning?” In-ho asked.

Gi-hun looked down. That was answer enough.

“I’ll be back soon. Prepare the beds,” In-ho said, walking off.

Gi-hun stood there for a moment longer. The room felt colder without him.

Gi-hun walked toward where Jung-bae and Dae-ho were. The others were watching him, whispering, but at least no one approached. Better than being attacked, he guessed.

“We should start preparing for lights out,” Gi-hun said casually, like everything hadn’t changed.

“Right. I’ll get the beds,” Dae-ho said, avoiding eye contact and walking off quickly.

Now it was just Jung-bae and Gi-hun again—awkward silence hanging between them.

“Why do you still trust him?” Jung-bae asked, voice low but firm. “Last night you said you couldn’t. Then you stabbed him. Then you brought him with you to the control room. And now… now you’re bunking with him again like everything’s fine.”

Gi-hun didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now.

“Look, he proved himself, okay? I can’t explain it all… you just have to trust me.”

“You sound insane,” Jung-bae shot back. “He’s manipulating you. You said it yourself—he voted to stay. He broke the tie. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“You don’t understand. He’s not who you think he is,” Gi-hun said, desperate, searching for a way to explain.

“He’s the Front Man… isn’t he?” Jung-bae said it without hesitation.

Gi-hun froze.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said quickly, grabbing Jung-bae and dragging him behind one of the bunk beds.

“Why are you covering for him?” Jung-bae snapped, yanking his arm free. “How… how do you know?”Gi-hun stammered,

“When the Front Man came into the hallway… he was limping. Just like In-ho was. Because I stabbed him.”

That wasn’t the only thing that tipped Jung-bae off. It was the way In-ho had killed during the last game—no hesitation, just cold precision. Then there was the vote. His absence from the rebellion. His mask. The limp only confirmed what he already suspected.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Gi-hun whispered. “You can’t tell anyone. If they find out… they’ll die. Please. Just act normal. Trust me.”

“Seriously, what the hell is going on with you?” Jung-bae paced, his voice barely under control. “You should’ve let us kill him when we had the chance!”

“I can’t tell you everything right now, okay? I’ll try to explain. But you need to keep it a secret. Please—don’t risk everyone else’s lives,” Gi-hun pleaded.

“Like you haven’t?” Jung-bae shot back. “You’re the one who put us at risk. People died because they trusted you! You told us the man in the mask was the enemy. That we’d find him. You knew he was among us and said nothing! How long, Gi-hun? HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN?”

“Keep your voice down!” Gi-hun hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth.

Jung-bae shoved it off, eyes burning. “How long?”

Gi-hun hesitated.

“Since the games began,” he finally admitted, voice barely a whisper.

Before Jung-bae could react, the door opened.

In-ho had returned.

He scanned the room and spotted them. His footsteps quickened as he approached. Even from a distance, he could sense something was wrong. Gi-hun looked shaken. Jung-bae looked furious.

As In-ho neared, Jung-bae shoved past him, shoulder slamming into In-ho’s as he stormed away.

“What happened?” In-ho asked, glancing between Jung-bae’s retreating figure and Gi-hun’s pale face.

“Nothing… it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed. Dae-ho should be done setting up,” Gi-hun said quietly, not meeting In-ho’s eyes.

In-ho didn’t believe a word of it.

When they got to the bunks, Dae-ho nodded. Everything was ready. Jung-bae was already lying on the opposite side of the room, not facing them, sitting on top of the bunk.

The guards called lights out soon after. This time, they didn’t leave. They stayed—standing between the red and blue teams, guns loaded.

Gi-hun figured In-ho had ordered that. Good. At least it meant he wouldn’t be attacked during the night. The guards weren’t happy about it, he could tell—he’d gotten some of their comrades killed during the rebellion—but orders were orders.

The lights dimmed. The room fell into shadow.

Gi-hun and In-ho crawled under the bunk. They lay on their backs, side by side, cold air biting at them from all sides.

“I shouldn’t have stabbed you,” Gi-hun said quietly. Not quite an apology. More like an admission.

“How did you know about the plan?” In-ho asked, turning to his side.

He didn’t need to clarify. Gi-hun understood what plan.

“The phone rang before you came back. Captain Park basically blurted it all out without realizing he wasn’t talking to you,” Gi-hun said, still staring at the ceiling.

“Idiot,” In-ho muttered under his breath.

Gi-hun turned to face him.

“What would happen… if another player found out your identity? Accidentally, I mean?”

In-ho didn’t flinch.

“Jung-bae knows,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. He already knew.

Gi-hun nodded. “He saw you limping. As the Front Man.”

“Shit. I should’ve known. I was worried someone would notice,” In-ho exhaled sharply. “You think anyone else knows?”

Gi-hun shook his head. “I don’t think so. And I told Jung-bae to keep quiet.”

“Alright. You should get some sleep. We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” In-ho said, rolling onto his back again.

Gi-hun followed suit. He was shivering but tried to rest. Eventually, he fell asleep, curled up tightly for warmth.

In-ho stayed awake.

He didn’t trust Gi-hun. Not completely. Not after being stabbed that morning. He’d stay alert all night, just in case. His eyes locked on the underside of the bunk above him, thoughts racing—about the players, the guards, the VIPs arriving soon. So many things to plan. So little time.

Then he felt it.

Gi-hun shifted in his sleep… and pressed against his side. Seeking warmth, unconsciously.

In-ho didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed still, letting Gi-hun rest against him.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun slowly began to wake up when he heard the classical music playing — the same music he hated. He groaned and tried to turn over, only to bump into a stiff, hard body beside him. He realized with a jolt that he had been sleeping on his stomach, pressed up against In-ho. Shit.

He looked up, hoping In-ho was still asleep, but he wasn’t. In-ho was wide awake, lying flat with his hands tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Well, this was awkward.

Gi-hun carefully turned onto his side, now laying on his back. He glanced at In-ho again, who still hadn’t said anything.

"Have you been up long?" Gi-hun asked him, then turned his head to glance at the opposite side of the room — where Dae-ho and Jung-bae were supposed to be sleeping. It was empty. They had already left. He had hoped to get a chance to speak to Jung-bae before the next game started, but that was already proving harder than he expected.

“Never slept,” In-ho replied, still not looking at him. Then he suddenly turned his head toward him. “Someone destroyed all my whiskey. I have it every night to sleep.”

He said it playfully, like it was a joke — but it wasn’t entirely a lie. He did drink whiskey every night to help him sleep. But last night, he hadn’t even tried. He just didn’t trust falling asleep beside Gi-hun anymore. Not after everything. He didn’t want to be strangled in his sleep if Gi-hun suddenly remembered just how much he hated him.

“Well, maybe someone did you a favor, considering you only have one kidney,” Gi-hun replied, turning to face In-ho with the beginnings of a grin on his lips.

“Oh, now you care about my health? First, you stab me, then you give me a health lecture? Gi-hun, you are the oddest person I’ve ever met — and I’ve met a lot of weird people,” In-ho teased, continuing to prod him.

“You should look in the mirror. You’ll find another weird person,” Gi-hun retorted. It was a dumb joke, way too overused — but In-ho actually laughed. A real laugh.

“At least I didn’t buy a pink love hotel. I mean, who does that? That’s straight-up weirdo behavior,” In-ho added, crossing his arms like he had just won an argument.

“Hey, it was a good lair. The whole point was that it would be the last place anyone would suspect.” Gi-hun trailed off, not finishing the sentence, but they both knew what he meant.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t that hard to find. Took less than a day's work,” In-ho replied. He could see Gi-hun get annoyed at that — knowing he had lost that point.

Then In-ho leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You know, I thought it would live up to its name. It was almost sad — you turned it into a headquarters just to locate me. So many rooms... unused.”

He watched as Gi-hun flushed slightly at that. Maybe a little too much. Gi-hun rolled back abruptly until he fell off the bed and hit the floor.

In-ho blinked, surprised that Gi-hun had just left like that. But then Gi-hun poked his head under the bunk.

“You coming? Or are you just gonna stay in bed for the whole game?”

In-ho stared at him in disbelief before glancing around. Most people had already left — they were among the last. He rolled onto his back and finally got up, joining Gi-hun as they made their way to the stairs.

That was when one of the guards approached In-ho, whispering something in his ear. They were the last ones in line, so no one else noticed, but Gi-hun gave In-ho a questioning look, wondering what that had been about.

When they entered the main area near the stairs, Gi-hun noticed it immediately — the human chandelier. Bodies of the players who had died in the rebellion were strung up above them.

His stomach turned. It was horrifying. Sick. He gasped and nearly threw up. He knew the people running this place were twisted, but this? This was inhuman. Another level of cruelty.

In-ho saw him freeze. He didn’t look up — he didn’t need to. He already knew what Gi-hun had seen. He hated it too. But he hadn’t had a choice.

A VIP had made the request last night. They said the bullet holes everywhere were ruining the “aesthetic,” and this would be a more "thematic" decoration. They wanted to see how people would react — as if it were some social experiment. Like the guy was Einstein with a brilliant idea.

In-ho had hated it. He’d hated the VIPs from the very beginning. They were the worst part of the job. Every time he was forced into a room with them, he imagined killing them — each and every one. They made his blood boil.

His thoughts returned to Gi-hun, who finally began to speak. “Did yo—”

“No!” In-ho cut him off immediately. He needed Gi-hun to believe him.

He knew he was already a monster for being the Front Man, but this… this was something else entirely. “The VIP requested it last night. I had no choice. They were furious I let the other players live, so they wanted this in return.”

His voice sounded hollow. Disappointed in himself. Disgusted.

“I thought you said they were the only reason you let the others live,” Gi-hun said, confused, as they continued walking.

Shit. In-ho had forgotten that was the excuse he’d given Gi-hun — he hadn’t wanted him to know the truth. That he had cared. That it was his choice to let the players live. Not the VIPs’.

So instead of explaining, In-ho said, “Um… I have to go. The VIPs are here. I’ll be back in time for the game.”

They reached the hallway that led to the management area. Gi-hun continued forward alone and entered the next room — and the first thing he noticed was a giant gumball machine. It was weird.

He looked around, trying to figure out what the next game would be. The automated voice had told them they’d be split into two teams, taking turns to grab a ball.

Players began moving slowly toward the gumball machine to draw their colors. Gi-hun scanned the room, hoping to spot Jung-bae, but he didn’t see him. For the first time since the games began, Gi-hun felt completely alone again — like no one else here could understand him. He started to regret coming back. It felt pointless. All he’d done was get more people killed.

Then he saw Dae-ho draw a blue ball and walk to his assigned side. Still no sign of Jung-bae. Gi-hun kept searching — and finally spotted him. Jung-bae stepped up, drew a red ball, and moved to the opposite side.

They didn’t know what it meant yet, but Gi-hun was curious which side he would end up on. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t choose.

He wondered when In-ho would return. There weren’t many players left to get their balls. Then, after a few more moments, In-ho entered the room. He looked out of breath — like he’d run the whole way, sweat clinging to his temples. He spotted Gi-hun quickly, since he had been standing near the entrance.

“You look like you just ran a marathon,” Gi-hun commented, scanning him with concern, noting how winded he looked.

“Yeah, well, the VIPs don’t know when to shut up. I thought I’d never be able to leave. It was endless,” In-ho replied, eyeing the remaining players. Only a few were left before their turn.

“They don’t know you’re playing the game again?” Gi-hun asked, confused.

In-ho shook his head. “No. They don’t really know me outside of the Front Man persona. They know I’ve played the games before, but I don’t think they’ve looked into my identity. They don’t care — unless I screw up. Which I haven’t. Plus, they think we all look the same. They didn’t even recognize me playing again. Same with you — they only noticed after you pulled that stunt in Red Light, Green Light.”

In-ho remembered that fight in front of everyone. It was embarrassing, but he hadn’t cared at the time.

Before they could continue, it was their turn to draw.

Gi-hun stepped up first and pulled out a red ball. He turned to look at In-ho, who nodded in acknowledgment. Then In-ho approached the machine and drew his — it was blue.

At first, In-ho tensed, but then relaxed slightly. Opposite teams. That could actually work in their favor. Maybe they could use this to their advantage.

Once all the players had drawn, the guards began explaining the rules. The game was hide-and-seek. Guards passed out boxes to the blue team — each one contained a key. Their goal was to either find an exit or stay hidden from the red team until the timer ran out.

Then the guard announced the twist — and the entire room gasped.

The red team’s objective was to find and kill members of the blue team. If a red team player didn’t kill at least one person, they would be eliminated.

The room erupted into chaos. Both sides began shouting, arguing, panicking.

Gi-hun and In-ho locked eyes across the space — both equally worried. This was going to be much harder than either of them had expected.

The blue team started asking what the keys were for. The guards explained: they unlocked certain rooms, but those doors could also be relocked after opening. This triggered a new wave of complaints from the red team, who shouted that the blue players could just hide and that they didn’t have any weapons.

In response, the guards began handing boxes to the red team. Inside each one was a knife. The guards explained that red team players could only attack blue team members — they were not allowed to harm anyone on their own side.

That set the blue team off. They were angry now too — upset they had no protection or weapons of their own.

The shouting escalated until the guards announced something new: it was possible to switch teams, but only before the game started — and only if both players agreed to the swap.

Once the game began, no more changes would be allowed.

They were left alone after that to find each other and decide what to do.

Gi-hun scanned the room. He knew In-ho would already be searching for him.

He spotted Jung-bae walking toward Dae-ho. Gi-hun wanted to go over, wanted to talk to Jung-bae — but they didn’t have time to get into another argument, not this close to the start.

“We should switch,” In-ho said suddenly, snapping Gi-hun out of his thoughts.

“What—?” Gi-hun turned to find In-ho standing close beside him.

“We both know you’re not going to kill anyone,” In-ho said, gesturing toward Gi-hun’s red vest. “Let me. You can hide. I’ll find you. I know where the exits are.”

“No,” Gi-hun said firmly, crossing his arms.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” In-ho asked, exasperated, checking the clock. “Gi-hun, you’re not going to be able to kill anyone. Why are you being so stubborn?”

“I’ll figure it out. I’m not switching, so drop it.” Gi-hun walked to a corner and sat down.

In-ho followed, muttering under his breath in annoyance. “Why do you have to be so difficult all the time, Gi-hun?”

But Gi-hun wasn’t even paying attention. He was watching the other side of the room, where Jung-bae still stood in his red vest — no sign of switching with Dae-ho, which surprised him a little.

Dae-ho noticed Gi-hun staring and glanced away. Gi-hun turned his focus back to Jung-bae.

In-ho noticed Gi-hun wasn’t listening to him anymore, still rambling about the switch. He followed Gi-hun’s gaze and realized who he was looking at.

Jung-bae.

In-ho muttered something under his breath — so quiet it was almost inaudible.

“I knew I should’ve killed him.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but Gi-hun heard it. He looked up, startled.

“What?” he asked, confused, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

In-ho looked at him, clearly irritated, and said, “Nothing.” Then he squatted in front of Gi-hun. “Just give it to me.” He reached for the knife Gi-hun had been issued.

Gi-hun yanked it away, fighting back. “If you ask me for it one more time, I swear I’ll make you my first kill in there,” he snapped, scolding In-ho like a frustrated parent.

“You wouldn’t,” In-ho pouted, like a child.

“You seriously want to test your luck right now?” Gi-hun replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Please, Gi-hun,” In-ho begged, trying to give him the most exaggerated puppy eyes he could muster.

It might have worked if Gi-hun weren’t so determined to win this particular argument.

Luckily — or maybe unluckily — the time was up. The game was about to begin.

In-ho got up with a frustrated scoff. “God, you’re stubborn.”

The blue team had to go first, which meant In-ho had to line up. He needed a new plan now that Gi-hun wouldn’t switch.

He turned back to Gi-hun before leaving. “Just wait for me, okay? I’ll find you once you’re inside. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll wait until the red team spreads out, then I’ll come to you. Got it?”

Gi-hun didn’t respond. He didn’t even acknowledge hearing him.

That irritated In-ho even more. Gi-hun never learned. He should’ve been more forceful with him before.

So instead, In-ho dropped down to one knee in front of Gi-hun, determined to make him listen. There wasn’t much time left.

“Look, the VIPs are watching, so please don’t pull anything. Just listen to me for once,” he pleaded, face to face with Gi-hun.

This time, Gi-hun finally looked up. He didn’t answer. He didn’t nod.

He just looked In-ho straight in the eyes and smirked.

Shit.

In-ho knew then: this wasn’t going to be easy. Now he had to keep him under control while the VIPs were watching.

Instead of arguing more, In-ho got up and joined the blue team line as they were led into the game room.

This place was like a maze, but In-ho had memorized it, so he was sure he would do fine. It would be the other players that would be the problem. He had told the guards to keep the camera off him — mostly for the VIP — but they would definitely want to watch Gi-hun. And he couldn’t leave Gi-hun alone, so now they would be watching both of them.

He had to act as natural as he could so they didn’t draw attention to him. He had made a file under a fake name, so if they asked about him, the guards would give them that information. Everyone on the blue team had separated, trying to find an exit. But he had gone into a room close to the entrance where he could wait for Gi-hun.

Then he looked in his pocket, pulling out two other keys that the guards had slipped in for him — so now, at least, he could open all the doors.

Two minutes faster than he liked, he heard the red team entering. Now he was just hoping they wouldn’t find him first before he could get to Gi-hun. He waited, listening as they moved through the halls. Then, after a few minutes, when he was sure no one else was around, he finally let himself out, walking back to the entrance — hoping Gi-hun would be there waiting for him.

And he was.

In-ho let out a sigh of relief when he saw Gi-hun. Gi-hun just looked at him, unbothered.

“Great. Let’s go — now we have to find someone for you to kill,” In-ho said, turning down the hallway.

“Anyone in particular you don’t like?” In-ho asked, glancing over his shoulder, assuming Gi-hun would be walking behind him. But he wasn’t.

He stood still where he had entered, showing no sign of movement.

“Gi-hun, come on, let’s go.” In-ho walked fast, grabbing Gi-hun to tug him forward — but he wouldn’t budge.

“No. No, I’m not gonna kill anyone,” Gi-hun told him calmly.

In-ho wanted to bang his head against the wall until it killed him. Why did he have to be stuck with the most insufferable bastard on the planet? He swore Gi-hun would put him in a psychiatric facility if he had to deal with his nonsense any longer.

“Seriously? Now you don’t want to kill? I offered to switch teams. You should’ve taken it,” In-ho said, throwing his hand over his face.

Gi-hun looked at him, unfazed, arms crossed.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to find out what happens if I don’t kill anyone,” Gi-hun told him with a smirk, like he knew he wasn’t in any real danger.

“Are you mad?! This was your whole plan. You think they’re gonna let you live if you don’t follow the rules?” In-ho snapped, trying to suppress a frustrated yell — other players might hear.

“No, but you will. I guess you’ll just have to plead with the VIP,” Gi-hun replied, like he was winning.

“God—GOD. STUPID FUCKING MORON,” In-ho shouted, hitting and kicking the wall in pure frustration.

“Wasn’t your last plan bad enough?! When will you learn your lesson, Gi-hun?! You know what— you might as well kill me now, ‘cause you’re gonna be the death of me!”

In-ho grabbed the hand holding Gi-hun’s knife and forcibly turned the blade toward his own chest.

For the first time, Gi-hun’s expression changed. It wasn’t something In-ho could read easily, but there was definitely surprise in it.

“Maybe I should,” Gi-hun told him, not making any move to fight In-ho’s grip.

He didn’t mean it. He really didn’t want to kill In-ho, no matter how much a part of him wished he could. He was still the Front Man, the one running this place. But the thought of something happening to In-ho actually scared him — even if he refused to admit it.

They stayed like that. In-ho’s hands tightened around Gi-hun’s. The knife almost touched his face. Both of them were staring into each other’s eyes, trying to find the truth — but it was filled with too many emotions neither of them could name.

Their breaths synced. Neither one pulled away.

There was so much screaming and yelling in the background — but it was like neither of them could hear anything but each other.

In-ho was the first to move. He loosened his grip on Gi-hun’s hand and let it go, backing up, breaking eye contact.

“Fine. I’ll tell them... they must’ve missed it on the live feed — that you actually killed someone,” In-ho said in defeat, looking down.

It would be hard to convince them. He hoped they would believe it. He hated talking to them, especially when he didn’t have to.

“Let’s just go find the exit,” In-ho told him quietly with a sigh. Without looking at him, he just started walking down the hallway.

He heard footsteps behind him. He knew Gi-hun had listened this time.

They walked quietly, In-ho trying to concentrate, trying to remember the path to the exit. There were a few close calls — other players almost found them, but they hid fast, and it worked.

This time, when In-ho heard soft footsteps coming their way, he guided Gi-hun to the nearest room. They entered quickly, both letting out a sigh of relief.

“Do you think they heard?” Gi-hun asked, leaning against the door, listening.

“Guess we’ll find out,” In-ho replied, already alert, ready to attack if anyone entered.

Then they heard footsteps stopping in front of the door.

Gi-hun quickly moved away from it and stood next to In-ho. Now they were side by side, waiting for the person outside to open it.

The door opened.

Their eyes widened — it was Jung-bae.

Gi-hun almost felt relief. In-ho, however, immediately tensed.

Gi-hun didn’t notice it, but In-ho saw the look in Jung-bae’s eyes. It was out for blood.

In-ho’s hand went to his waist. He had a pistol hidden under his jumpsuit, tucked into the waistband of his pants. He really didn’t want to use it right now.

“Jung-bae, are you alright? Did you kill anyone?” Gi-hun asked, loosening up.

“Not yet,” Jung-bae said, his eyes daring — aimed directly at In-ho, the grip on his knife tightening.

“Where’s Dae-ho?” Gi-hun asked. He assumed they’d stick together. Those two never left each other’s side.

Honestly, it felt like they had gotten closer than even he and Jung-bae were.

Jung-bae and Gi-hun had been friends for so many years, but it felt like they’d never be the same again — not since the games. Gi-hun had hoped for a while that maybe there was still something there, but now it felt like they were just too different. Like they didn’t know each other anymore.

“He’s looking for the exit,” Jung-bae replied coldly.

“Gi-hun… you said if we killed the Front Man, the games would stop.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widened. He finally realized what Jung-bae was about to do. He quickly stepped in front of In-ho, who looked ready to fight.

“Jung-bae, no — don’t do this. Not right now,” Gi-hun pleaded, afraid. He didn’t want to fight his best friend. Just being here, knife raised to protect In-ho, felt like betrayal.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Gi-hun? Come to your senses. What are you gonna do — kill me to protect him ? He’s the one running this! Did you not see what he did to the other players out there? Their bodies were hanging like chandeliers! He took away whatever dignity they had left!”

Jung-bae stepped into the room. Both Gi-hun and In-ho stepped back.

Gi-hun tried to speak, really tried, but nothing came out. His mind was blank. He understood Jung-bae’s anger — it was the same anger he had when he came back. He hated seeing his friend suffer the same fate. If only he had stopped it earlier…

Then In-ho spoke.

“Fine. If you want to kill me, go ahead,” he said, stepping to the side instead of hiding behind Gi-hun.

“But they’ll just replace me. And the games will go on.”

In-ho stood tall, shoulders pulled back, arms raised slightly.

Jung-bae turned the knife toward him, shocked.

“Jung-bae, this isn’t you. Don’t let this place turn you into someone you’re not,” Gi-hun told him, standing firm in his spot, really trying to make him hear it.

“You know, Gi-hun… I spent all these years wondering what happened to you. I was worried. Now I wish you had just died. Instead of the monster you are now.”

“You can tell yourself any excuse you want to defend this bastard. But deep down? You’re just as bad as him now. I can’t believe I ever thought you’d stop the game.”

Jung-bae’s voice was calm now, but the words cut deeper than any knife. Gi-hun swore being stabbed would’ve hurt less than this.

Then Jung-bae lowered his knife, turned around, and left — leaving Gi-hun to deal with the loss of his best friend alone.

The silence was unbearable. Even In-ho could feel it.

Gi-hun was stuck, frozen in place, on the verge of tears. He was done playing. He just wanted out.

It felt like the room was closing in around him. He hated this place. He hated the Front Man. In this moment, he wished he had killed In-ho himself.

He was so angry at him. He had destroyed the only relationship he had left.

All those years wasted — all for the Front Man, who destroyed everything he had. He had given up being a father just to stop him. And now, here he was — and he had just lost his best friend because of him.

In-ho coughed a little, trying to break the silence.

“We should move. Time is running out,” he said softly.

In-ho took a few steps forward, gesturing with his hand for Gi-hun to follow.

Gi-hun looked at him angrily, not moving at first. The grip on the knife tightened. Then he took a single step forward.

That was enough.

In-ho kept moving. They got back into the hallway, In-ho walking slowly, checking around corners for any signs of players.

Then he said, “You know, I’m sure he’ll forgive you once you’re out of this place.”

He didn’t know if he believed it himself, but he could feel how tense Gi-hun was behind him.

“You think he’ll make it out of here alive?” Gi-hun said coldly, resentment thick in his voice.

“You did. I would’ve never bet on that,” In-ho said.

Gi-hun stopped in his tracks and looked at In-ho.

“You make it sound like a fairytale. I had to kill my childhood best friend — because you wouldn’t stop the games,” he said, almost yelling.

He wanted to hit In-ho. Fight him. Make him remember what he had done — to him, to everyone.

“He killed himself, Gi-hun. He sacrificed himself. That was his choice. You can’t blame me for every death in this place. They chose to be here. They chose to kill. Because deep down... that’s who they are,” In-ho said quietly — only loud enough for Gi-hun to hear.

He said it like it was supposed to calm him down. But it only fueled Gi-hun more.

Gi-hun’s hands tightened. He couldn’t take it. He shoved In-ho back roughly, catching him off guard so that he fell onto his back.

“Shit, Gi-hun! We don’t have time for this!” In-ho said, trying to get up — but Gi-hun attacked him even more, wrapping his legs around In-ho’s waist to hold him down. He pointed the knife to In-ho’s chest.

“YOU KILLED THOSE PEOPLE! YOU ARE THE REASON THEY’RE ALL DEAD! YOU THINK YOU GAVE THEM A CHOICE?! THEY WERE DESPERATE! THEY NEEDED HELP! THEY DIDN’T NEED TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH FOR MONEY! FOR ENTERTAINMENT!” Gi-hun yelled, pressing the knife harder against In-ho’s chest — any more force and it would draw blood.

In-ho tried to lift his head from the ground, scanning around for other players. Someone had to have heard them. They needed to move now. He needed to say something, anything, that could stop Gi-hun — but his mind was blank. Everything he could think of would only make it worse.

He was also relieved that Gi-hun wasn’t fully sitting on him — if he was, he would have felt something hard. The pistol.

He needed to say something. Just something. Something that might make Gi-hun stop.

But what was he supposed to say? That he was sorry? That he didn’t mean to?

Then, without planning it, In-ho just started talking.

“I killed them,” In-ho said firmly. “I killed them all. The remaining players. When I played… Oh Il-nam gave me a knife. He told me if I was the only one left, I could go home quicker. I wouldn’t have to play the last game. He said my wife was getting sicker, that she didn’t have much time left. So I did it. I killed them all. And I would do it again… if it meant I could have saved her.”

He paused, the weight of it crashing over him.

“But she was already dead. She died the day before.”

His voice cracked.

“Oh Il-nam lied to me — just for his entertainment. To see what I could do.”

“When I came back… it was because it was the only choice I had left. It was the only place I knew that was familiar. I didn’t even ask to be the Front Man. He just gave it to me.”

“I changed the rules since then. I tried to make the game as fair as possible. I even tried to blow it all up — but you ruined it. God, Gi-hun… I’m still trying. Can’t you see?”

In-ho hadn’t expected that speech. He didn’t even know where it came from. He hadn’t planned it. He didn’t even know what he was saying until the words were already out.

But it was enough.

Enough for Gi-hun to loosen his grip.

In-ho saw the look in his eyes — it had been pure rage a second ago, but now it was something else. Despair. Gi-hun didn’t even look him in the eye. He just looked down.

Then, without saying a word, he got up. He let go of In-ho and stepped aside, eyes fixed ahead at the hallway.

In-ho lay on the ground for a second, catching his breath. Then he sat up slowly and stood, steadying himself.

“Right. It’s this way,” he muttered, starting to walk.

Neither of them said anything. They just walked silently, side by side, their steps slow and heavy.

They reached a hallway with no doors. That’s when they heard it — footsteps.

Both of them froze. They glanced at each other, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Then they saw them.

In-ho looked behind Gi-hun — three red team players were approaching, blocking the way.

Gi-hun turned around and looked behind In-ho — three more players, knives raised, cutting off the path.

They were trapped.

Six red team players surrounded them from both sides in the narrow hallway, all of them pointing their knives directly at Gi-hun and In-ho.

Chapter Text

“Hands up, both of you—make this easy and we’ll make it quick,” one of the red players said, their voice shaky as they stepped closer, eyes flicking between In-ho and Gi-hun, clearly waiting for one of them to snap or make a move.

In-ho glanced at them, then at Gi-hun, who was already looking at him, nervous—like he was about to shit himself. In-ho knew they had seconds to come up with a plan. There was no way the guards would reach them in time. If these bastards were going to kill them, they’d do it fast and sloppy.

His eyes darted to the nearby camera. He had arranged a signal with the guards: if he needed a camera shut off, they would do it. In-ho made the signal with his hands, praying they saw it—he couldn’t risk the VIPs accidentally seeing what he was about to do, especially because he had his pistol. But if he tried to pull it, they would definitely stab him before he had a chance.

So, he did the only thing he could.

“Can you at least let us say goodbye?” In-ho asked, voice steady. The red players paused, confused, still pointing their knives, still tense—but they didn’t move. That was all he needed.

In-ho turned and grabbed Gi-hun, kissing him hard. It wasn’t a soft or romantic kiss—it was raw, urgent, consuming. His lips landed on Gi-hun’s like a strike, claiming them without warning, holding them hostage. He pressed their bodies together roughly, Gi-hun’s back hitting the wall with a thud.

Gi-hun’s eyes fluttered shut the second their lips touched. He didn’t understand why In-ho was kissing him, but maybe it didn’t matter right now. All he could feel was In-ho—his body, his weight, the way he completely covered him. Every muscle in In-ho’s body was pressed to his, every inch of him radiating heat. Gi-hun could feel their chests moving together, feel the tension in the air, the danger, the closeness.

He started to move his lips, slowly trying to kiss back. In-ho’s lips were so big, so firm, he barely had space to respond—but he tried. In-ho’s nose dipped hard against Gi-hun’s cheek, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Gi-hun’s hands were frozen at first, stiff from shock. But slowly, he began to move, sliding one hand gently to In-ho’s back. His right hand still gripped the knife tightly, angled away from In-ho’s body. He clenched the back of In-ho’s jacket, pulling him closer, even though there wasn’t any space left between them.

Their legs tangled as they stood, pressed against each other from shoulder to knee.

Gi-hun kissed him harder now, finally moving with urgency. He tilted his head to get a better angle, lips parting just enough to suck on In-ho’s bottom lip. He could feel In-ho’s heavy breaths, feel the way In-ho gripped his waist tighter and tighter.

Their kiss turned hungry—like they were devouring each other, like they were trying to swallow the moment whole. Gi-hun bit at his lips, soft and damp and shockingly smooth. He hadn’t expected that. These weren’t the lips of a hard, bitter man. They were lips that had been cared for. Gi-hun was sure In-ho used some kind of fancy cream. No one’s lips were naturally this soft—not anyone he’d ever kissed. It was like biting into the perfect pastry—soft, creamy, like it was made just for him.

He couldn’t stop. He wanted more. He needed to know if the rest of In-ho’s body felt the same—if his skin was just as smooth, just as addicting. In-ho pushed into him again and again, hips rocking forward in small, insistent motions. Gi-hun could feel their crotches nearly aligned, could feel how stiff In-ho was—how not-soft he was down there.

It made him deepen the kiss even more, tilting his head again, lips moving desperately. He kissed In-ho like a man starved—like someone who hadn’t tasted real affection in years. Which, in truth, he hadn’t. Not since his marriage. He thought it would feel strange, foreign—but it didn’t. It felt good. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be wanted. To want someone back.

His wife had never kissed him like this. He had never kissed her like this either. He used to think kisses like this were fake—only found in movies or dramas. But this? This was real. The kind of kiss where two people couldn’t stop reaching for each other, couldn’t stop gasping for breath, like it was oxygen they needed to survive.

In-ho was trying—really trying—to get Gi-hun to feel the pistol against his waist, but Gi-hun wouldn’t stop kissing him. Not even for a second. And the red players? They were starting to get impatient. One of them muttered, “What the fuck are they doing?” Another barked, “Hey! Enough of that shit!” Their voices were getting louder, closer, but In-ho and Gi-hun didn’t stop. They could hear them, but they didn’t care. Not yet. The kiss felt too urgent, too vital.

In-ho rocked his hips again, trying to give Gi-hun a clue—to feel the layout of the pistol beneath his jacket. But it wasn’t working.

Gi-hun was gripping his jacket tightly, still lost in the kiss. In-ho had to act. He slid his right hand off Gi-hun’s waist—God, his waist was small, and now that he was touching it, it felt even smaller—and reached for Gi-hun’s left hand, tugging it gently but firmly. He guided Gi-hun’s arm down, feeling the muscle beneath his jacket as he slid along his forearm, then to the back of his hand. He moved Gi-hun’s hand to his waist, pressing it against the pistol. And he knew Gi-hun felt it—because he paused. The kiss broke for just a fraction of a second as the realization hit him.

Then In-ho moved his hand to Gi-hun’s shoulder, his other hand trailing from Gi-hun’s waist to his other shoulder, trying to keep him grounded. Gi-hun moved his hand under In-ho’s shirt now, raw skin to raw skin. He slid his palm along In-ho’s ribs, his abs, trying to feel for the pistol. In-ho reached for Gi-hun’s wrist, gently rubbing the back of his hand, signaling him—give me the knife. Gi-hun nodded against his lips, almost imperceptibly. They were still kissing, hands locked together.

In-ho closed his fingers around the handle of the knife, feeling it slide free of Gi-hun’s grip just as he felt Gi-hun close his other hand around the pistol.

For the first time, they understood each other completely—without a single word.

They opened their eyes at the same time, staring into each other, breathless. They nodded—small, subtle, just for them.

Then Gi-hun pulled the pistol from In-ho’s waist and fired—three shots in rapid succession. The red players on his left dropped before they even had time to react. At the same time, In-ho moved. He stabbed the first red player on the right with Gi-hun’s knife while grabbing the second man’s wrist, twisting it, forcing him to stab his own teammate. Blood sprayed. In-ho didn’t even flinch. He stabbed that same man in the neck a heartbeat later. He heard three more gunshots. Gi-hun had already taken out the rest.

The last red player was standing there, knife trembling in his hand, staring at them in terror. “P-please… please don’t,” he stammered, starting to cry, dropping the knife as he tried to back away. “I didn’t want to do this… they made me…”

But it was too late. In-ho stepped toward him, ready to strike—but before he could move, the red player’s body jerked violently. Gi-hun had shot him. One clean shot.

He didn’t even let In-ho get close.

In-ho lowered the knife slowly. Breathing hard.

They were alive.

And for a moment, there was only the echo of gunfire, the silence of understanding—and the ghost of that kiss still burning on their lips.

Neither of them knew how to look at each other.

In-ho stood with his back to Gi-hun, staring at the three dead bodies in front of them. The timer was still running out—they needed to move. But both of them remained frozen.

In-ho turned his head slightly, trying to get a glance at Gi-hun. Then he saw it: the blood. Gi-hun’s clothes were soaked in it. It stained his cheeks too. In-ho looked down at himself, realizing he was just as drenched.

“We should keep moving,” Gi-hun said, looking at him—surprisingly calm. In-ho had expected more awkwardness after what had just happened. They had basically made out. Then killed people together. And now Gi-hun was acting casual about it.

Somehow, In-ho felt like the insane one for thinking it was a bigger deal than it apparently was. So instead of making a comment about any of it, he just said, “Right. Yeah. This way.”

In-ho began walking ahead, guiding them down the hallway. He carefully stepped over the dead bodies, trying not to touch them or get any more blood on his shoes. Gi-hun followed behind, a little stunned that In-ho was just going to ignore what had happened. Of course he was going to pretend it didn’t matter, while Gi-hun’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the moment.

So much had happened, he didn’t know how to process it. He watched In-ho—how easily he moved, how naturally he avoided the corpses. He was already back to his composed self. Like nothing had occurred.

In-ho always seemed like he knew exactly what to do, where to go, who to be. Gi-hun, on the other hand, had spent his whole life without a plan.

They walked in silence through most of the corridor. They only stopped when they heard a noise. One of those times when they instinctively backed into the wall. Their eyes met.

It was strange—of all the times they had looked at each other, this one felt different. Off. They were both searching for something. Some kind of answer.

In-ho was the first to look away.

He kept walking like that moment hadn’t just passed. It was fine. Gi-hun told himself he didn’t care. He was glad they weren’t going to talk about it—because he didn’t want to admit that he had no idea what In-ho’s plan was. Or that he had kissed him back… because he wanted to.

He told himself it had only been stress. Emotion. That was the only reason. Gi-hun would never have kissed In-ho if he’d been in his right mind.

His thoughts were interrupted.

“Player 390 passed,” said the automatic voice.

Jung-bae had killed someone.

Gi-hun knew he should feel relieved that his friend made it. But it hurt—knowing he’d had to become a killer. He wasn’t even sure if Jung-bae was his friend anymore.

He noticed In-ho turn his head a little—not enough to look at him, just enough to acknowledge it. Gi-hun figured it was for the best. In-ho didn’t make a comment. He didn’t want to start another argument.

When they reached the door to the next room, Gi-hun froze again. It needed three keys. He started to worry—what if In-ho only had one? What if they were stuck?

But then In-ho casually reached into his pocket and pulled out the other two.

“I thought it was supposed to be fair for everyone. Having all the keys when others don’t… isn’t,” Gi-hun muttered as In-ho began unlocking the door.

“Yeah, well… that applies to players who are actually playing. Not me,” In-ho replied, not looking at him. He opened the door but didn’t go in. Instead, he held it open for Gi-hun.

“Well, I didn’t kill anyone on the blue team,” Gi-hun said, stepping toward the doorway. “So technically, it doesn’t apply to me either.”

Inside, congratulatory music played. The room was bright yellow—overwhelmingly so. Gi-hun wished it made him feel relaxed, but it didn’t.

Then the next announcement came.

“Player 456 passed. Player 001 passed.”

Of course they had. Without even following the rules.

Gi-hun let out a tired sigh. He wasn’t ready to go back. He didn’t want to face what was left of the players.

In-ho stepped inside behind him, closing the door.

“You should go back to the dorm. I have to go see the VIPs,” In-ho said in his usual voice, though it carried a trace of annoyance. He hated dealing with them, but he had to do what was necessary.

Gi-hun turned around to face him. “Can I go with you?”

He didn’t want to go back and face Jung-bae. Especially not alone.

In-ho looked at him like he’d just said something completely insane. “Did you hit your head too hard back there?” he asked, referring to when they were kissing—when Gi-hun had been pinned against the wall, maybe a little too forcefully.

“I’m not ready to go to the dorms. Can I just go with you… back to your place? Until you’re done?” Gi-hun asked, casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

In-ho put his head in his hands, exasperated. “Are you serious right now? My place is literally connected to the VIP suite.”

He swore—every time he thought Gi-hun couldn’t get any crazier, he proved him wrong. No wonder he lost so much gambling.

“Oh,” Gi-hun said, glancing down, trying to come up with something else. In-ho looked at the clock. Only fifteen minutes left. He needed to reach his quarters before then, clean off the blood, and change into the Front Man.

“Well, there are other rooms in there. I can just hide in one until you’re done,” Gi-hun said, looking back up hopefully.

In-ho sighed.

It would be easier to risk the VIPs seeing Gi-hun than waste time arguing with him. He knew how stubborn Gi-hun was—he wouldn’t give up easily.

“Fine. But don’t try anything. And you have to stay quiet,” In-ho warned, starting toward the stairs that led to the management area.

A nearby guard gave them a look but said nothing. They couldn’t. Not even if they wanted to.

The fact that In-ho was taking Gi-hun into his private quarters— in full view of everyone —was already a risk. But it was too late to care. In-ho was certain people had already made assumptions about their relationship… and he couldn’t easily deny them.

Gi-hun followed quietly, which was shocking—he usually never shut up.

Inside the elevator, it was silent. The last time they’d gone up like this, Gi-hun had a gun pointed at him. Technically, he still had a weapon—the knife from the game. But In-ho wasn’t worried about him trying anything.

Maybe he should’ve been.

They arrived, and In-ho didn’t stop until they were in the center of the room, near the armchair. Gi-hun noticed the shattered whiskey glasses were gone. The place had been cleaned up. Everything looked neat, like nothing had happened.

The bar shelves were still empty.

“I’m going to clean the blood off before seeing the VIPs. You can too. I can’t give you clean clothes, though—it would look too suspicious to the other players after the game,” In-ho said casually as he opened the bathroom door on the right.

Gi-hun stood there for a moment, watching him. In-ho walked in, leaving the door open.

An invitation.

So he followed.

Gi-hun walked in. The moment he stepped inside, the air felt heavier, like it was holding its breath. It was as dark as the rest of the quarters, shadows pooling along the walls like they were alive. The light in the room was soft, muted, mostly coming from dim overhead bulbs that barely cut through the gloom. The floating counter was a single slab of dark marble—sleek, almost black, its surface spotless and cold to the touch. It was modern. Unapologetically modern. Probably the fanciest bathroom Gi-hun had ever been in. It had the kind of clinical elegance that whispered wealth and secrecy at the same time.

He noticed a glass shower stall nestled in the corner, the kind that looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel. Next to it was a freestanding tub, deep and inviting, its smooth surface reflecting the limited light in a quiet glow. The whole room was bigger than most apartments he had lived in, but it was simple—almost too simple. Like someone had tried to strip every trace of personality out of it.

While Gi-hun was looking around, his voice echoed softly in the stone and tile. “What’s with the dark theme? You know there’s more than one color besides black, right?” he asked, half-teasing, though there was a real concern behind the words. Every inch of In-ho’s space was swallowed in black, slate, and charcoal, as if color itself had been exiled from this place. The dim lighting didn’t help—it was almost oppressive. He was starting to think In-ho had a light sensitivity problem or maybe a vendetta against overhead bulbs. Most of the rooms were lit only by lamps, leaving them shadowy, like they were trying to hide something.

“It was like this before I became the Front Man,” In-ho replied without looking at him, his voice flat as he stepped toward the sink.

In-ho started washing his hands and face, turning on the water and letting it run warm before splashing it against his skin. Gi-hun looked over at him. He noticed how the blood began to wash away from In-ho’s face, sliding off in soft red ribbons. His hair was wet now, sticking to his forehead, covering part of his face like a curtain. He didn’t look covered in blood anymore, but the image of it still lingered in Gi-hun’s mind.

Gi-hun’s eyes lingered. He didn’t mean to. There was just something captivating about seeing In-ho like this—unguarded, raw. He didn’t look up, didn’t comment. If he noticed Gi-hun’s stare, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just continued washing away any visible trace of what they had just been through.

When he was done, In-ho turned around and watched Gi-hun for a second—just a beat too long—before walking out of the room. He left the door open behind him, a silent invitation or maybe just habit.

He walked to his bedroom, quiet footsteps echoing on the polished floor. This time, he needed to change into the Front Man coat. His player’s clothes were soaked in blood, sticky and uncomfortable—he couldn't wear them any longer. He peeled them off one by one, movements efficient, detached, like a soldier suiting up.

Gi-hun watched him go into the room, and then slowly turned his attention back to his own reflection. He stared at his face in the mirror.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had really looked at himself. Not glanced. Not winced. But looked . Really looked. And what he saw startled him. He had aged—so much, and so quietly, without realizing. The last few years had been a blur, a fog of pain and survival and numb days stacked on top of each other like bricks in a crumbling wall.

And now here he was, standing in the Front Man’s bathroom, washing blood off his face like this was just another night.

It was a wild thought. One he couldn’t wrap his head around.

He would never have imagined this. Not in a thousand years. And yet, it wasn’t even his first time in these quarters.

What was even stranger—it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as the last time. Maybe because this time, he had chosen to come here. That made a difference.

He was startled by a sudden noise—the unmistakable click and hiss of the voice modulation.

In-ho had spoken again. But now, his tone was robotic. Chilling.

“You have to stay in my room until I’m done with the VIPs. Don’t leave, no matter what. I will come get you when I’m done.”

Gi-hun flinched at the sound of it. That voice. That voice Gi-hun hated—it made his skin crawl every time. It was too easy to forget who In-ho was when he was dressed like a player, acting like a man. But the moment he put on the Front Man’s mask—metaphorically or not—Gi-hun was forced to confront the truth.

He just nodded, silently turning off the faucet and walking toward the door.

“Why do you have to see them right now?” Gi-hun asked, his voice low. He didn’t expect an answer. Not a real one. But he decided to test his luck.

“I have prepared an activity for them,” the Front Man replied in his emotionless, modulated voice.

Gi-hun stopped in his tracks, his head turning slowly. “What kind of activity?” he asked, and there was a note of worry in his voice—one In-ho didn’t miss.

“They will dress up as the guards and go as disguise to kill the remaining red team players that lost.”

In-ho’s words dropped like stones into the silence. It was a simple plan—one he had come up with last night, during the hours he hadn’t been able to sleep. He needed something to distract the VIPs, to reel them back in after everything that had happened. Something brutal. Something that would prove his worth.

“I need to show them I’m the right man for the job,” he thought but didn’t say.

“What if they can’t kill them? Surely it’s not gonna be easy for them to just kill people in cold blood like that,” Gi-hun asked him. He knew those VIPs were monsters, but straight-up killing people for fun—that was just inhuman for anyone.

“Do you seriously have faith in them too, Gi-hun? They’re monsters. They literally ran in place. They don’t see the players as human. This is all just a game to them,” In-ho told him coldly. After all the years he had spent dealing with them, it never got easier. They were the real scum of the planet—a bunch of rich assholes who could get anything they wanted.

“I need to go. Just stay in the room,” In-ho said, starting to walk toward the sliding door.

Gi-hun walked silently over to the bedroom. Once he was inside, In-ho opened the door. He had to go guide them—teach them how to kill. He had already sent over guard uniforms in their sizes, ones they could dress up in. Now he just needed to tell them the plan and lead them to the hide-and-seek room. The guards would handle the rest.

Gi-hun walked into In-ho’s room, letting out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He looked around. The room was small, simple. There was a desk on the side with a computer, lamps, books, a globe. Just normal stuff. There was even a tissue box. His side table was simple too. Everything was kept clean and in order. The bed was a bed. There was a door in the corner he hadn’t noticed before. He wondered if he should go in. In-ho probably wouldn’t be happy with him snooping around, but he wouldn’t be back for a while—maybe Gi-hun could be quick.

But before going to open the door, Gi-hun looked back at the desk and noticed one of the drawers was slightly open, which was odd. In-ho kept everything in order. He walked over and slightly opened it. He noticed then there was a file with his name on it. Of course he kept it in here. Gi-hun shouldn’t be surprised.

He pulled the file out. Then he noticed a bunch of CDs. The top one was labeled Dalgona . Gi-hun let out a scoff. Of course In-ho had a personal copy of it in his office. He picked it up, looking at the other CDs. They were all from his first games, but that one had been on top—almost like it was mocking him on purpose.

He noticed a diary in the drawer next to the CDs and some other stuff he didn’t personally recognize. He pulled the diary out too, placing it on the table next to the Dalgona CD. Then he opened his file and started reading.

It had all of his personal information. Everything he had done—his mom, his ex-wife, his daughter. Their information was listed too.

His hand hovered over the chicken shop—the one he had named after his daughter. Jung-bae and he had opened it together after they were fired from Dragon Motors, a place he had worked for so long. But here on the paper, it said retirement after restructuring , which made him mad. He had spent 16 years there, only to be let go like it meant nothing. He hated it. Even after all this time, he was still mad about it. Because that had changed everything. It was when his life really went downhill. He never got it back.

He closed the file, tired of living in the past. The file just proved he had done nothing with his life. He was just the disappointment.

He opened the drawer again and put it back. Then he moved to the diary. When he opened it, he realized it had a bunch of random information—but it wasn’t random. It was information on him. It had everything he had done in the past three years. The addresses of the places he had been, every train ride recorded, the people he had been working with, their names listed. It showed every place he had visited, everyone he had talked to.

It made him a little sick. He had spent all this time thinking he was doing a good job hiding, yet here it was—everything out in the open.

He realized something else—it was all handwritten, which meant there was a good chance In-ho had been the one keeping track of everything. God, he knew the man was obsessive, but this was pretty insane. Couldn’t he have taken up a hobby or something and just left Gi-hun alone?

But no. He had spent all this time stalking him—just like Gi-hun had been trying to do. But Gi-hun had mostly been unsuccessful, hitting dead end after dead end.

He closed the notebook and put it back. He kept the CD on the table though—he wanted that gone. He’d try to get it later and destroy it.

Then Gi-hun turned his attention back to the door. He hesitated as he reached for it. Before he turned the door handle, he ducked his hand inside first.

There were stairs leading to a door at the end. It looked almost like a creepy basement, with the lights dim.

Gi-hun decided to risk it. What was the worst that could happen?

He started walking down slowly. As he reached the door, he got a little scared—but he decided to open it before he backed out.

The room was full of shelves. So many. Some files were labeled with different years. Gi-hun moved in, taking it all in. He guessed the games’ information was here—probably all the players.

He was surprised In-ho had let him stay in his room, knowing Gi-hun could easily access this place. But then again, even if Gi-hun found anything in here, it wouldn’t matter.

He moved around, looking at the different files and shelves until something caught his eye: a black box with a pink ribbon on it in a top drawer.

He opened it, taking the box out. He didn’t know what to expect. But when he opened it, he realized it was a list. A list of winners dating back to 1988.

It made him sick, realizing the games had been going on so long. Thousands of people had died in this place—all for some sick rich people’s entertainment.

He found his name on the page pretty quickly, under the 2020 games. Then he decided to look for In-ho, since he was the only previous winner he knew. But he didn’t know the year In-ho had played, so he just searched until he found it.

It was 2015.

He had been Player 132 back then.

It was weird trying to think of him as a player. Gi-hun wondered what games he had played that year.

He decided he could actually try to find the files from that game. He looked around until his gaze landed on 2015 . He walked over, taking the box from the shelf. He sat down on the floor next to it.

He opened it and started searching until he found In-ho’s file.

The first thing he noticed was the picture—the one taken as a player before the first game had probably started. In-ho looked younger, but his face was still sharp, almost stressed, like he always had something on his mind. He had a ridiculous haircut, the bangs covering his head. It was similar to what he had now sometimes, but it was a lot different. His hair was darker.

Gi-hun started looking at the other information. He noticed In-ho was two years younger than he was, which was a surprise. He would have guessed he was way older. His birthday was in February.

He looked at more stuff. Of course he had been to an elite police academy—the biggest one. Gi-hun knew it wasn’t an easy place to get into. He noticed how In-ho had worked for 14 years. He had been promoted a lot. He was a detective, of course. Probably would have run the place if he still worked there.

His hand lingered over the part that said fired . In-ho had told him before what had happened, but he hadn’t been able to process all that information then. He understood it all too well now—being let go from a job like that after so long, giving it everything.

Then his eyes caught the family section. His parents were dead. He had a stepmom who was still alive. Then he saw Jun-ho’s name and age.

He realized Jun-ho was 16 years younger, but he guessed that made sense. They were half-brothers, which he hadn’t known. It didn’t really matter if it was half—they were still brothers. They didn’t act any differently because of it.

He noticed then the part that mentioned the kidney transplant. In-ho had given it in 2011 to Jun-ho, which was ironically when the strike had happened—when he got fired. It was weird to think of In-ho then—normal, caring. He would have been 35 when he gave the kidney. Jun-ho was a lot younger. That must have been a hard year.

His eyes lingered to his wife’s name. The file must have been made before the games started, since it said she was still alive. It said her condition, even listed the hospital she was at. God, these games—the people. They really did stalk all the players. Knew their every weakness. Knew exactly where to get them.

Gi-hun had gotten so lost in his thoughts, he had completely forgotten he was supposed to make this quick—leave before In-ho realized.

But it was too late.

He heard the door click open.

In-ho was back.

Gi-hun thought of what to do. Should he quickly put the file back and pretend he got lost? That he hadn’t just been snooping on In-ho’s personal life?

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Gi-hun froze.

“Gi-hun, are you down here?” he heard In-ho call out his name.

Gi-hun sat on the ground and waited for him to find him, ready to get caught.

In-ho found him. He looked frustrated. The mask was off, but he was still wearing the Front Man’s coat.

“I didn’t give you permission to go snooping around. You were supposed to stay in the bedroom,” In-ho said firmly, like he was talking to one of his guards.

Gi-hun closed the file, placing it back on top of the box it came from, then stood up.

“Well, you should know by now I don’t follow the rules,” Gi-hun replied with a little smirk, now face to face with In-ho, who looked thoroughly annoyed.

“Why were you going through my file? How did you even know which year to look for?” In-ho asked, his eyes narrowing at the box behind Gi-hun on the floor.

“I have my sources. Not everyone needs to go to a fancy police academy to do a little detective work,” Gi-hun teased him lightly. He knew exactly where to hit a nerve.

“You have no idea what real detective work means,” In-ho snapped back, crossing his arms. “It was a waste of time, honestly. I spent years trying to impress them—it took them seconds to fire me without hearing my case.”

In-ho didn’t like bringing up the past. Anything related to the police force, he hated. He knew how corrupt they were. He’d thought he could make a difference when he started, make the place better—yet they kicked him to the curb, leaving him in debt he couldn’t repay.

“Yeah, well, I know a thing or two about being fired,” Gi-hun said. “I thought being part of that stupid strike would make a difference, but it just ruined everything.”

Gi-hun knew it was a risk when he had joined, but he had a newborn at home. He wanted to make a better living for her. His wife had fought him on it, told him not to be part of it, but he hadn’t listened. If he could go back, he would stop himself. Maybe he would’ve kept the job. Maybe he wouldn’t have come to this place. Maybe… he would never have met In-ho.

“We should go back to the dorms,” In-ho said, ignoring the comment.

He didn’t need to say anything more. They both understood each other at that level. They could relate to the same struggle.

“Right. Did the VIPs follow your plan?” Gi-hun asked, a little bitterness in his voice that In-ho definitely noticed.

“They’re there right now. We should leave before they come back,” In-ho answered.

He started walking up the stairs, and Gi-hun followed without another word.

When they got back into the room, In-ho noticed something different. There was a CD on his desk. He hadn’t left it out.

He got closer, reading the label. Dalgona.

He picked it up. He felt Gi-hun stiffen behind him.

“Oh, right. Can I please destroy that? I’d rather pretend it never existed,” Gi-hun told him. It was embarrassing enough to remember—he didn’t want there to be any evidence.

“Oh yeah, sure, go ahead,” In-ho said, handing it over like it was nothing.

Gi-hun looked at him, then at the CD, then back at In-ho. He was trying to understand what he was playing at. He saw a small smile tug at In-ho’s lips. He was definitely joking. But Gi-hun still took the CD.

“You’re just gonna let me destroy it? Just like that?” Gi-hun questioned him suspiciously, examining the CD in his hands.

Then In-ho stepped closer—closer than he needed to be.

“Oh, don’t worry. I have copies,” In-ho whispered, almost flirtatiously.

He looked straight at Gi-hun with a smirk so wide Gi-hun wanted to punch it off—or maybe kiss it off. Catch him off guard. Just to see what would happen.

Not because he wanted to kiss him. Just to get back at him.

And it seemed like In-ho was thinking the same, because his eyes were flickering from Gi-hun’s eyes to his lips.

They were close. Close enough to feel how each other’s body rose with every breath.

Gi-hun wondered what would happen if he just threw the CD away and closed the distance between them. Threw In-ho onto the table. Held him down.

Before he could think any further, In-ho stepped back.

“I need to change before we go back,” In-ho said, tension still in his voice.

Gi-hun blinked, a little confused how that moment had ended.

“You can watch the VIPs until then, if you want,” In-ho told him, opening the door and walking out.

Gi-hun stayed still for a few seconds before walking out too.

He followed In-ho to the center, where he was already turning on the screens to the cameras in the hide-and-seek hallways.

Gi-hun could see the VIPs shooting the players. Some of them had their masks off. They were joking around.

In-ho silently watched, held back an “I told you so.”

After a few seconds, In-ho moved, heading back into his room to change.

Gi-hun stood on the side as he watched the VIPs joke like they were playing a game—hunting animals in the woods, like it meant nothing.

He didn’t know what he expected. But this was so much worse than he could’ve imagined.

They didn’t care about a single life they were taking.

He heard the door open. He looked back and found In-ho now wearing the player tracksuit. It was still bloody.

In-ho didn’t say a word. Their eyes met for a second.

It was enough for them to understand each other.

Because the next thing In-ho did was walk over to the remote—and he turned it off.

“Ready?” In-ho asked him.

Gi-hun nodded.

They both silently walked toward the elevator together, having to face the reality of being in the game, going to the dormitory again.

Chapter Text

The walk back to the dorm was odd. Neither of them knew what to say. There was a lot they could talk about, but they weren’t ready to process any of it. They walked side by side, and since neither of them was in a rush to return, their pace slowed more than necessary.

Both dreaded being back in that room, but a part of In-ho still preferred that over having to face the VIPs.

Their hands brushed a little when they were walking down the stairs. It was brief—not something either of them had intended. But by the time they reached the bottom, In-ho had moved closer. There was enough space for him to walk further away, yet he didn’t; instead, his steps gradually closed the distance between them until their shoulders began brushing with every movement.

Gi-hun eyed him a little without turning his head. He was used to In-ho’s strangeness, so this wasn’t the weirdest thing. He was almost tempted to bump In-ho’s shoulder and push him slightly—just for fun, like he used to do with his friends before—but he didn’t.

Then suddenly, In-ho stopped and grabbed Gi-hun’s arm to stop him too. They were close to the dorms now. Gi-hun turned his head, confused.

“I forgot to tell you—Jun-hee had her baby,” In-ho said casually. The guards had informed him earlier, and he’d already ordered them to gather any baby supplies they could, as quickly as possible.

“What?” Gi-hun asked, stunned. He had hoped that wouldn’t happen—not here. He wished they had gotten out in time, so Jun-hee and the baby could have a normal life. Being born in a place like this—a place of horror—was unthinkable. There wasn’t even a real doctor around to ensure they were okay.

“Yeah,” In-ho said, “she apparently had the baby while they were still playing. I already told the guards to get stuff for the baby, but I’m not sure if it’ll arrive tonight.”

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if they’d get it by tomorrow. They always received supplies before the games, never during, because of how risky it could be.

“They shouldn’t be playing. That’s not fair. How is she supposed to compete if she just gave birth?” Gi-hun said, frustrated with the situation.

“I can’t do anything. The VIPs are here—they get to decide what happens to her and the baby.” In-ho hated being a puppet in their hands. Even back when he was a cop, he rarely got to make his own decisions. He had a plan for his life before the games—he thought he would’ve been chief by now. He tried not to think about the what-ifs, but he hated this.

“What do you mean, they get to decide what happens with the baby?” Gi-hun asked, stunned. There was no way they would make the baby participate. The games were supposed to be fair.

“They might make the baby a player. They haven’t said anything yet, so I’m not sure, but… it’s possible,” In-ho admitted, trying to stay calm. Deep down, he was hoping Gi-hun wouldn’t start fighting him on this, because honestly, there was nothing he could do.

“You have to stop them. The games are supposed to be fair—the baby didn’t consent to play,” Gi-hun pleaded.

He realized then that In-ho still hadn’t let go of his arm. They were standing close. Gi-hun noticed how tense In-ho was—his shoulders rigid, eyes exhausted, avoiding his gaze and just looking down.

“I can’t do anything. They won’t listen. It would only make it worse. Let’s just wait and see what happens,” In-ho said, making brief eye contact before releasing Gi-hun’s arm and turning to walk again.

Gi-hun didn’t respond. He just walked beside him in silence. But this time, he noticed how much more distant In-ho was in his head—his posture hunched, steps slower, expression blank.

They reached the dorms soon after. The guards standing outside didn’t say a word, simply allowing them inside.

No one was paying close attention to them. A few people looked up, acknowledging their return, but quickly looked away, returning to whatever they had been doing. No one seemed to care that they’d been late.

In-ho had the sudden urge to grab Gi-hun’s hand, just for some kind of support, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he moved his arm, pretending like he was about to run his hand through his hair—brushing the back of Gi-hun’s hand with his knuckles before actually slicking his hair back. It was still a little damp from earlier.

Gi-hun definitely noticed it—when In-ho glanced down, he saw Gi-hun’s hand curl into a tiny fist. Not in anger, but like someone trying to hold himself together.

In-ho sighed, already tired, but he had a long night ahead of him.

He walked in, going to the first bunk he saw and taking a seat on it. Gi-hun stood there still, looking around the room. He noticed Jun-hee holding the baby, the old lady trying to comfort her. She had a crowd around her. Hyun-ju was standing near them too, with the old lady’s son also there.

In the games, when Jun-hee had gotten the red team, instead of switching with Myung-gi, she decided to switch with Hyun-ju, which ended up working in their favor because Hyun-ju was able to protect them. Geum-ja had been helping and comforting her the whole way, as they were both on the blue team, and Yong-sik had joined the blue team too. He ended up being the one to switch with Myung-gi when offered because he didn’t believe he could be a killer. His mom had been proud of him for that decision.

Hyun-ju had led them most of the way. She killed anyone who got in their way. She had been slightly injured in one of the fights when she found the congratulations room but had survived thankfully. Jun-hee had twisted her ankle shortly before going into labor. They had helped her get out.

Now they were all cooing over the baby in awe, but also worried. Geum-ja tried to give her the best advice she could, but the situation was so unusual. They couldn’t just get the proper supplies the baby needed. She just hoped they would keep it warm tonight in the dorms so the baby didn’t freeze.

They all stayed near Jun-hee and the baby, taking turns holding her. Jun-hee didn’t even have time to think of names. Maybe after the games were over, she could name her properly. She noticed Myung-gi glaring at them, but she didn’t dare look back at him. Jun-hee was still mad at him for choosing to be on the red team. She honestly didn’t want him near her or the baby. She already had people she trusted.

Then the guards came in, congratulating them for surviving the game, showing the money added in. It was time for the voting to start. In-ho and Gi-hun walked over to line up together. Gi-hun saw Jung-bae on the other side with an angry glare, and Gi-hun just looked away, not wanting to bother dealing with it.

In-ho had gone first this time, voting X, switching from the blue last time. That gave Gi-hun the answer he needed. He didn’t need to wait until the vote was over—he knew they would be staying. In-ho wouldn’t vote to leave if he actually believed they would leave.

As the players slowly went up, there were some on both sides, but most of them were voting blue still. The old lady had started begging, yelling, pleading with everyone to leave—that she would give her share of the money to them. She even got on the floor, begging them, pleading to not let the baby and Jun-hee die in here.

But they didn’t care that the old lady was on her knees begging them to stop. She started crying on the floor as more people voted blue. Then In-ho decided to walk up to her, bending down, trying to get her up, comforting her.

Gi-hun watched him, surprised. He wondered if it was real, or was In-ho just playing a game again. Then the old lady’s son also went to her, trying to comfort her—on one side him, and In-ho on the other. Then they helped her walk to the bunks to help her sit down.

Gi-hun could see In-ho get on his knees too, saying something to her to comfort her. Gi-hun wondered what he said. Some lie that they would be okay maybe—it didn’t matter. The old lady seemed to be doing better. Her son sat next to her, holding his mom.

Once In-ho realized she was more calm now, he walked away, going back in the line-up of the X side. He didn’t look back at Gi-hun, but Gi-hun hadn’t looked away from him for even a second. He noticed how restless In-ho was, how he moved his shoulder trying to get the tension out.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho had voted to leave too, but they had been standing far as they got on the X side from In-ho. Gi-hun noticed the way Jung-bae would glare at In-ho occasionally while talking to Dae-ho. He wished Jung-bae would understand that it wasn’t that simple—that even though In-ho was the Front Man, he was also trying to help them.

Gi-hun wished he had realized that before the rebellion because so many people had died from the X team because of that. Now their chances of going home were worse.

When it came time to vote for Gi-hun, he walked over in disappointment. They had already lost. The blue team had almost more than half of what the red team had voted. His hand hovered over the red, pressing it slowly in disappointment.

The room didn’t react much—not like it used to. Then the baby started crying. Gi-hun turned around to see them trying to comfort the baby. It took him back to the time when Ga-yeong used to cry endlessly as a newborn. He remembered the sleepless nights. He used to go to work so tired, and it felt like it would never end.

But it did. Now he wasn’t even in his daughter’s life. She was across the globe from him, and he didn’t know a single detail about her life now.

A part of him wished he had listened to In-ho and just gone with the plan. In-ho had given him so many chances, but he kept choosing wrong. Now he wasn’t sure if he would even make it out of here.

The last time he would probably ever see the sun or hear the birds chirping would have been in Red Light, Green Light. So many people died here, not knowing it was the last time they would ever breathe fresh air, feel the breeze, the chill air.

Everyone had walked back at this point except In-ho, who was watching him, waiting for Gi-hun to move. When Gi-hun met his eyes, he felt exhausted. He could see In-ho with a similar expression. They both understood each other.

Gi-hun took a few steps towards In-ho, and In-ho met him halfway. Now Gi-hun was close enough that he had to look down to properly look at In-ho. He always forgets that In-ho is shorter than him until they are so close. In-ho was looking up slightly. Neither of them spoke yet.

Then the guards came back, announcing to everyone to line up for dinner. Both Gi-hun and In-ho backed away from each other like they had been caught. Their heads turned to the station behind them.

Gi-hun and In-ho lined up together. They were one of the first ones in line, so they got it pretty quickly. Then they walked back to the bunks in silence. They sat side by side.

Gi-hun sat criss-crossed on the bed, getting comfortable. He just stared at the sweet potato and the water bottle they had been given. Then he saw In-ho quickly putting his own sweet potato in Gi-hun’s box.

“You should eat up. You look exhausted. You’ll need the energy for tomorrow’s game, so try to get some sleep too,” In-ho told him as he put his own water on the box beside Gi-hun, giving it to him basically.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” Gi-hun asked, staring at the water and sweet potato In-ho had given him.

“I got dinner with the VIPs later, so eat up. Lights out will be sooner tonight because I have to leave,” In-ho told him. It was true, but not entirely. He hadn’t planned on eating the food they were gonna serve the VIPs. It was fancy shit he hated, but he wasn’t gonna tell Gi-hun that.

Then when he looked back at Gi-hun, he saw Gi-hun’s eyes lingered to Jun-hee and the baby. She was sitting with her usual group. They all seemed to be comforting each other.

It reminded him of the dinner they had when Jung-bae and Dae-ho were with them too. It had been nice. They had gotten to know each other, talked, made jokes—well, In-ho had made jokes. He remembered how Gi-hun almost had a smile tug on his face after In-ho had joked about his last name. It felt like forever ago now.

“The guards will give the baby formula as soon as it comes on the island, don’t worry,” In-ho told him like he had been reading Gi-hun’s mind, which shook him a little.

“Why didn’t you guys prepare beforehand if you were gonna let a pregnant woman on the island?” Gi-hun asked, a little annoyed. Newborns were so fragile, and this place wasn’t exactly equipped to take care of a baby.

“I didn’t know about her condition until we played together. I’m not sure why I wasn’t informed about it—maybe because there wasn’t a rule in the previous years against it,” In-ho told him, disappointedly. He wished he had a better answer, but it was the only one.

“Will there be a rule in the future?” Gi-hun asked him.

In-ho knew exactly what Gi-hun was asking him. It wasn’t about the rule. He was asking him if he would stay the Front Man after this—that the games would continue. And honestly, In-ho didn’t know the answer to that.

He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent for a while, looking at the empty box that had food in it previously, his hands fidgeting with it.

“I can’t answer that indefinitely,” In-ho said with a quiet voice, a whisper.

Gi-hun hadn’t touched his food yet. He looked at In-ho, how hunched over he was. He swore he looked like he was about to have a breakdown. But Gi-hun didn’t comment on it.

Honestly, Gi-hun didn’t feel hungry—not after everything. It felt wrong to eat.

They stayed like that for a while until In-ho realized Gi-hun hadn’t been eating. He turned to check and saw the food untouched, Gi-hun’s eyes lingering on his.

“Eat,” In-ho told him, like a command.

Gi-hun shifted, looking at him, daring not to touch his food still. God, In-ho swore Gi-hun was like a child sometimes—the way he refused to eat, like he’d been given vegetables he didn’t want to try.

He remembered when Jun-ho was little. His father had just died, and his stepmom was devastated, unable to take care of Jun-ho. So In-ho would make dinner every night after his shift. He had to feed Jun-ho, even if it took hours—make sure he got all the nutrients he needed.

He remembered one night when Jun-ho had refused to eat, and they’d argued back and forth until it was midnight. In-ho had finally given up and let him go to sleep hungry since he was going to be so stubborn.

Those days weren’t easy. Most people his age would’ve been going out drinking every night with their friends or coworkers, going on dates. But he had stayed home. He made sure the house was taken care of, read Jun-ho bedtime stories—sometimes stories about suspects he had caught.

Those days had seemed so hard back then, but now... now it was a dream compared to his life.

“You know you’re fifty, right? You should know how to feed yourself,” In-ho teased him a bit. He hadn’t known anyone this old and this incompetent at taking care of themselves.

Gi-hun scoffed in reply. “I can feed myself just fine. I’m just not hungry,” he said bitterly, like In-ho had offended him.

“Yeah, right,” In-ho said, not believing a word.

Then he picked up the sweet potato he had given Gi-hun and motioned it like an airplane, trying to feed him.

“Come on, open up,” In-ho teased, the sweet potato getting closer to Gi-hun’s mouth as he mimicked the motion again. “Say ahh,” he pushed further.

Gi-hun grabbed the sweet potato with his own hand, his fingers covering In-ho’s that were still holding it. He forcefully took it out of In-ho’s grip.

“Shut up,” Gi-hun said, flustered.

Then he finally took a bite of the sweet potato.

In-ho grinned like he had won the lottery—teeth and all.

Gi-hun scoffed, annoyed, as he ate it. In-ho didn’t dare say a word. He just watched him.

“What? Do you need to put how I eat a sweet potato in your diary later?” Gi-hun said bitterly, annoyed that In-ho wouldn’t stop staring at him.

In-ho stilled, his cheeks almost burning. Shit—Gi-hun had seen the diary he used to keep track of him over the last few years. It was way too detailed, with too much information he didn’t need—but In-ho had written it down anyway.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at him again. He just pretended to look around the room while Gi-hun finished his food.

Then he was thrown a water bottle.

In-ho looked down at his lap, catching the bottle before it fell. Then he looked up at Gi-hun.

“Drink. You look like you’re gonna pass out,” Gi-hun told him as he opened his own bottle to take a sip.

In-ho looked down at the water bottle. He had given it to Gi-hun earlier so he would stay hydrated—but Gi-hun wasn’t taking it back now. So In-ho had no choice but to listen and open it.

He took a few sips as Gi-hun watched him. Then a few more. When it looked like Gi-hun was about to make another comment, he ended up drinking it all without realizing it.

Gi-hun had been staring at him the whole time, not letting him stop—just with his eyes.

In-ho hadn’t even realized he was thirsty. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank water. He probably should’ve been drinking a lot more, especially with only one kidney, but he couldn’t get himself to care about his health.

He took the water bottles and the empty boxes, standing up now to go put them in the trash. Then he gave a nod to one of the guards standing by the door to start lights out.

When he got back, Gi-hun was more relaxed, laying back against the bunk.

They didn’t need to sleep under the bunks anymore. It didn’t seem like they were going to get attacked, and Jung-bae and Dae-ho were on the other side of the room, out of sight. They would probably stay there tonight.

In-ho and Gi-hun didn’t need to discuss the new sleeping arrangements. They both understood—they didn’t need to sleep next to each other anymore.

In-ho sat on the bed across from Gi-hun, waiting for lights out. Gi-hun looked at him silently, like he was analyzing him, but didn’t say anything.

In-ho sat there the whole time as the lights went out. He saw Gi-hun shift a bit, then he got up quietly after a few minutes and left.

The hallways felt dark and empty, like the presence of Gi-hun beside him was missing.

When he got back to his quarters, it felt quiet—but not peaceful, like it used to.

He quickly changed, sighing into the Front Man mask. He hated wearing it. It was so uncomfortable. He hated how cold it felt against his skin, how the straps pulled at his hair.

He sighed, walking toward the dining area.

He had told the VIPs that instead of watching the vote live, they should wash up after eliminating the player and relax for a bit. He said he’d push dinner, then they could all watch the recording later together.

At first, they didn’t agree—but they gave in after a little more convincing.

In-ho had lied to them, though. He needed to be at the vote, and he couldn’t be at dinner with the VIPs at the same time. So he had to change something.

He had been planning on not giving the players dinner again so they could have lights out even earlier. He would, of course, sneak some in for Gi-hun.

But then he found out Jun-hee had the baby. So he decided to let them have food and just leave a little later—like he had.

When he walked in, the VIPs were already sitting, chatting around the table.

“Sorry for the wait,” the Front Man mumbled in his robotic voice as he went to take his seat.

“I always enjoyed watching it from the outside, but it was completely new putting on the uniform and taking part. What can I even compare it to?” the VIP across from In-ho started speaking.

In-ho started humming his favorite jazz music in his head, trying to block out the man’s voice as he talked about killing the player like it was somehow eye-opening, an amazing experience.

The others agreed, saying how normal hunting didn’t even compare.

In-ho wanted to bang his head against the table until he passed out. Hearing them talk made his skin crawl.

“I see why Chairman Oh passed the reins to you. The work you’ve done here is top-notch—not only giving us the pleasure of watching the game but also letting us participate,” the one across from him said again, getting In-ho’s attention.

Well, now he had to reply.

“I’m just upholding Chairman Oh’s wishes—to better entertain my guests,” In-ho said bitterly, though they couldn’t hear that through the robotic noise.

“Shall we raise a glass to the memory of the legendary Chairman Oh,” one of the VIPs said. And they did, saying his name.

In-ho didn’t drink, though. He couldn’t really with the mask on anyway. He just played with the glass as they kept talking about stupid things, whining about unnecessary topics.

He tried to ignore them. He thought of something better: the kiss. How Gi-hun had kissed him back—without realizing it was part of the plan. He had just done it, so easily.

Not only that—he had pulled In-ho closer. He hadn’t stopped kissing him, even when he should have pulled back to take a breath.

In-ho hadn’t let himself think about that moment until now. It would’ve been too distracting.

But now, he could use a distraction.

He didn’t understand why Gi-hun would kiss him back like that. It made no sense—especially since minutes before that, he had wanted In-ho dead.

He was so confusing, always going back and forth. In-ho could never decide if he liked him. Maybe he tolerated him at most.

His lips had been so dry at first. In-ho wasn’t surprised—he had expected that.

Well, not that he had ever expected to kiss Gi-hun. Or thought of how his lips would feel.

He started daydreaming about the moment, shifting in his seat a little, relaxing. He closed his eyes under the mask. Tried picturing the moment. Remembering every detail. Picturing more moments—

Then the VIPs started talking about the vote.

Wouldn’t they want to stop here with that amount of money?

“The players down there have made it this far by killing each other. Most of them are thinking now, ‘If more people die, how much more money can I get?’ More than half are wearing circle patches already. After that riot in the dark, most of them will be nervous to vote against the majority.”

After all these years, he had spent—he knew the games too well. The people. It was all predictable. Didn’t take much thought.

When the voting finished, the VIPs spoke about it again.

“Well, our host was exactly right. There was a bigger split in the vote than I thought.”

In-ho knew there would be. He had been in the room. He saw everything that happened—but he had known before that it would happen. It always did.

The VIPs continued chatting.

“I almost cried when I heard that old lady’s speech. It was touching.”

It made In-ho mad. They could never understand it. They had no real feelings. These people never knew what it was like to be truly down there.

The reason he had gone to comfort Geum-ja was because she reminded him of his stepmom in that moment.

He couldn’t leave her on the floor like that, alone, while no one else seemed to care.

He didn’t remember his own mother much nowadays—she had died when he was so young. She had never made it to that old age.

But his stepmom had always been there. He hadn’t seen her in years. He couldn’t—not after what he had done.

He knew she would see right through him.

He wanted to leave her with the part of himself that didn’t exist anymore. It was better for her to remember him like that.

When he had been comforting the old lady, it hurt—knowing he had been hurting his stepmom, hiding all these years.

He told Geum-ja—no, he promised her—that they would all make it out of here alive. He tried comforting her with words.

He wasn’t sure he could keep that promise, though.

Then it hit him. He heard the VIPs.

“Bringing back 456 was the best idea. Maybe he should be next year.”

In-ho’s hands clenched the seat. He wanted to get up and throw it at the VIP’s face.

They all started talking about Player 456—making fun of him.

He wanted to shut them all up. Make sure they could never mention Gi-hun again.

He didn’t speak again for the rest of the time. He just stayed there, still—his hand gripping hard, trying to control himself.

Thankfully, they had called it a night soon, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take them before he did something stupid.

When he got back to his quarters, he took a second to sit down in his armchair to calm himself, trying to control his breathing.

He looked over to the side table at his usual glass he would pour whiskey into.

Instead, this time, he got up, took it to the sink, and poured himself water.

He remembered—the last person who had used it had been Gi-hun.

He sipped the water slowly. He couldn’t remember a time he had just gotten water—not poured himself some expensive whiskey.

It was weird. It felt like he was taking care of himself again. He hadn’t had a reason to in so long.

He put the glass down and went to change back into the player’s tracksuit, then quickly made his way back to the dorms—rushing this time.

When he got inside quietly, he figured Gi-hun would be asleep.

He was.

Gi-hun had stayed up for a good while, waiting for In-ho to come back. It felt strange not sleeping beside him. He had gotten so used to it—and their late-night conversations.

He used to take up the whole bed when he slept alone. Now he was in the corner.

He didn’t feel like taking up more space.

He didn’t mean to, but his eyes got heavy, and he let himself fall asleep.

In-ho stared at Gi-hun sleeping for a few minutes in his bunk before he got into his own, laying on his back. It was strange not sleeping close to Gi-hun. He had gotten so used to it. He missed the warmth next to him, the way Gi-hun’s breathing had become a white noise for him.

Then he heard it.

He didn’t realize Gi-hun was awake.

“In-ho,” Gi-hun said—his name.

So In-ho got out of bed to see him, but then realized Gi-hun was still sleeping. Maybe In-ho was too sleep deprived. He started imagining things.

Then he heard it again.

“In-ho.”

Chapter Text

In-ho froze. He realized Gi-hun had been saying his name in his sleep.

He remembered the time he had eavesdropped on a conversation between Gi-hun and Jung-bae—Jung-bae had revealed that Gi-hun sometimes talked in his sleep. But all those nights they had slept together, Gi-hun never had. Until now.

In-ho stood over him, watching as Gi-hun shifted restlessly on the bed. Shit. What if he was having a nightmare about him? Was that why he said his name?

In-ho debated whether he should wake Gi-hun, maybe save him from whatever bad dream was haunting him—or just let him sleep. His eyes stayed on Gi-hun as the man began tossing and turning more violently. That was it. It had to be a nightmare.

Quietly, In-ho climbed onto the edge of the bed, dipping the mattress slightly, and reached out a hand to shake him awake. But then he hesitated. Maybe… if Gi-hun had been having a nightmare about me… should I be the first face he sees when he wakes up?

His gaze flicked around the room. There was no one else who could help Gi-hun. So he gently, almost nervously, began shaking Gi-hun’s shoulder.

“Gi-hun… wake up,” In-ho whispered softly, careful not to wake anyone else.

It took a few moments. Gi-hun stirred, groaning, still halfway lost in sleep. He didn’t open his eyes right away, but when he finally did, he flinched—startled by the sight of In-ho so close.

Shit. In-ho’s stomach sank. He was right. Gi-hun definitely had a nightmare involving him. He probably saw the Front Man in it. And In-ho felt awful for that.

Gi-hun was back. Back in In-ho’s room, the conversation about the Dalgona CD playing in his mind. He watched that infuriating smirk spread across In-ho’s lips, the one that always seemed to mock him, and suddenly Gi-hun wanted nothing more than to wipe it away.

So he did.

He lunged forward, crashing his mouth against In-ho’s in a desperate, hungry kiss. In-ho stumbled back, caught off balance, and slammed into the desk—but Gi-hun didn’t care. He didn’t stop. His lips stayed locked on In-ho’s, giving him no time to process, no time to breathe.

He wanted this. He wanted him.

Gi-hun kissed him hard, biting at In-ho’s lip, his hands already fumbling to tear that damn black coat off his shoulders. Meanwhile, In-ho’s hands clutched at the desk, as if anchoring himself against the pull of Gi-hun’s body.

Gi-hun’s fingers slid up, threading into In-ho’s hair, gripping tight, yanking him closer. And that was it—that was the breaking point.

In-ho’s hands left the desk, finding Gi-hun’s waist, strong and urgent, dragging him forward until their bodies collided.

Gi-hun tore his lips away for a breath, panting against In-ho’s mouth. “In-ho…” he moaned, voice dripping with need. Then he crashed back in for another kiss, deeper, hungrier than the last. That single sound seemed to shatter In-ho’s control because suddenly he was surging forward, pushing Gi-hun back while pulling him closer at the same time.

They moved like fire—burning, consuming.

Gi-hun felt his back slam against the door, and In-ho’s mouth left his lips, traveling down to his neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.

“In-ho,” Gi-hun moaned again, louder this time, his body writhing helplessly against the other man’s. Teeth grazed his jawline, then lips returned to devour his mouth again.

He gasped when he felt In-ho’s hands slip under his shirt, fingers rough and warm against bare skin, gripping his waist so tight it hurt—but he didn’t care. He wanted more. He needed more. Gi-hun tugged hard at the coat, desperate to strip it away—

And then—

Everything shattered.

He was being shaken. Gi-hun groaned, blinking awake, disoriented, heart still pounding like it wanted to tear out of his chest.

And there was In-ho. Sitting beside him, concern etched into his face.

Reality hit like a bucket of ice water. That kiss, that heat—it had all been a dream.

“I thought you were having a nightmare,” In-ho said gently. “I figured it’d be best to wake you.”

Gi-hun exhaled a shaky breath, forcing himself upright. Thank God In-ho didn’t know the truth—that it wasn’t terror that had his body thrashing in bed, but something far more dangerous.

Something he couldn’t admit.

“You were saying my name in your sleep,” In-ho added, his voice low, cautious, like he was analyzing Gi-hun for answers he couldn’t find.

Gi-hun froze, heat flooding his face. Thank God it was dark—In-ho couldn’t see how red he was. He was glad In-ho didn’t realize he hadn’t just said his name. He had moaned it.

“Did… did I cause your nightmare?” In-ho’s voice trembled slightly, worried—maybe even scared. He didn’t meet Gi-hun’s eyes this time, staring down instead.

Shit. In-ho thought he was the reason. And technically, he was—but for the complete opposite reason.

Gi-hun forced a shaky laugh. “Um… no. Honestly, I don’t even remember the dream.”

A lie. He remembered everything. Every desperate kiss, every rough touch, every sound that tore from his throat.

In-ho nodded slowly. “Uh… okay. I should let you sleep.”

His voice was clipped, heavy. He didn’t believe Gi-hun. Not for a second. He stood, walked to his own bed, and lay down, his back turned.

But In-ho’s thoughts wouldn’t stop. Gi-hun was protecting my feelings… He didn’t want me to know I was the cause. The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. It killed him inside—knowing Gi-hun couldn’t even escape him in his dreams, that his presence haunted him like a curse.

Then, softly, Gi-hun’s voice broke through the dark. “Good night, In-ho.”

In-ho blinked, startled, and turned his head. Gi-hun’s face peeked from his bunk, faintly smiling.

“…Good night, Gi-hun.”

They’d never said that before. Not even on nights when they’d shared the same bed. It was new. Different.

Gi-hun tucked his head back, turning onto his side, stifling a laugh. He didn’t know why—he wasn’t some teenager with a crush. He didn’t like In-ho like that. Out of everyone in the world, In-ho would be the last person he’d ever fall for. Even if they were the only two people left alive.

He was the Front Man.

Gi-hun could never even like him—not as a friend. The only thing they had in common was the way they understood pain no one else could.

But as Gi-hun closed his eyes, part of him wished the dream would continue where it left off. He wouldn’t admit that, not even to himself.

In-ho had no plans to sleep again, but sleep took him without giving him a chance to fight it—probably because he hadn’t slept last night either. His body felt too heavy, his eyes even heavier.

Then it started. They were playing the next game—it was jump rope. He watched Gi-hun going across the bridge, jumping, then he lost balance as the swinging metal rope hit him. Gi-hun fell.

In-ho’s eyes widened. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to get out— no, Gi-hun, he could be dead. He walked over to the edge; he saw it—Gi-hun’s lifeless body, bleeding on the floor so far away.

Then he looked again and saw Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Jun-hee, the old lady Geum-ja and her son, and Hyun-ju—all on the trail-like bridge, going together in order as they jumped. The metal rope swung, then all of them fell to their death.

In-ho tried screaming, but his voice was dead inside him.

He opened his eyes—the bottom of the bunk above him staring back. There was classical music playing. He startled awake, sitting up quickly, trying to catch his breath. He looked around. The lights were on.

He looked over to where Gi-hun had been sleeping—he was still asleep on his side, his back to In-ho. In-ho sighed. He was okay. He was alive. Then he looked to the other side—everyone else was alive too. It had been a nightmare. A horrible one.

He needed to get out of bed and just forget about it. When his feet landed on the stairs, he debated on waking Gi-hun or letting him sleep for a few more minutes. He watched as other players started to wake up, making their way to line up at the door to go to the next game. Then, when more than half of the people had left to walk to the stairs, he decided to wake up Gi-hun.

Walking closer to the bed, he gently shook his shoulders again.

“Wake up. It’s time for the game.”

Gi-hun groaned again, laying on his stomach, grinding into the pillow, annoyed. It was a little funny to In-ho how much of a morning person Gi-hun wasn’t.

In-ho had always been waking up early—even as a child. He went to bed earlier than most people in his youth. Now at least he could use the excuse that he was getting old for doing that. Mornings were the best. They were easy.

In-ho had always made sure he woke up early before he had to go to school or his job—he would have time to relax and slowly do everything in the morning. In some ways, he still did that as the Front Man, but it wasn’t the same. Not anymore.

“Gi-hun, let’s go.” In-ho patted Gi-hun’s legs a little to get him to move.

Gi-hun looked up from the pillow a little, still buried half his face in it. “Ugh, alright,” Gi-hun said, starting to sit up.

In-ho swore he was a child sometimes. He didn’t know anyone this old who was this immature. Gi-hun hadn’t been like that the past three years—not that he had noticed—but recently the way he acted felt so childish. It felt new. Or maybe old—Gi-hun had been like that in the first games, but he seemed to mature pretty fast as the games went on. Now he was doing the opposite this time around.

Gi-hun started getting out of bed. In-ho moved down the steps. They walked together out the door. Behind them, Jun-hee and others had joined them with the baby. Then In-ho and Gi-hun noticed—she was limping. She must have gotten hurt in the last game.

They both looked at each other, worried, as Geum-ja took the baby from her, from Jun-hee, to make it easier—but Hyun-ju held her from the side, letting her lean on her to walk easier. They walked together on the stairs.

In-ho’s mind was racing. Jun-hee would not be able to play the next game with her ankle injured. He didn’t know how she would survive it. Everyone was thinking the same thing, it seemed like—but others still had hope since they didn’t know the next game yet.

It started to feel like his nightmare was coming true. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed to keep everyone safe. He needed to keep Gi-hun safe—but he couldn’t really. Not in this game. And it was killing him on the inside.

As they entered the room, everyone stared—scared—as they looked over at the next game, confused.

The automatic voice started to tell them: they would be playing jump rope. They had 20 minutes to make it to the other side.

The room was railroad-themed—a jump rope and a flower-themed abyss at the bottom of the arena. There were a boy and girl doll like the one in Red Light, Green Light. The robotic dolls were swinging the metal rope. Their timer started as the swing did.

Jun-hee sat on the bench with the baby beside her as they started to talk about a plan. They all wanted to help Jun-hee make it to the other side.

As they talked about leaving the baby on the bench while the rest played, a guard behind them spoke:
“All players must make it across the bridge within the time limit. Players who fail to cross the bridge within the time limit will be eliminated.”

Jun-hee quickly picked up the baby, holding her tight against her.

“My baby is not a player,” Jun-hee tried to plead with them.

“Everyone here is a player.”

Then the group erupted, arguing with the guard, letting them know it was ridiculous. The old lady begging them not to include the baby.

Gi-hun stayed silent. In-ho had warned him about the possibility of this happening, but he had hoped it wouldn’t. He looked at In-ho, who was now looking down at Jun-hee and the baby, worried.

The other guard pulled the gun on them, telling them to stop arguing about it. They did—looking back at Jun-hee now, all of them terrified for her and the baby.

“I will carry the baby across the bridge,” Hyun-ju offered, even though she was injured too from fighting the players in the last game. It wouldn’t be easy for her to make it across just on her own.

Then Yong-sik, the old lady’s son, offered—but his arm was injured in the last game. It wouldn’t be easy for him either, but he still said, “No, I can do it. You are still injured.”

Geum-ja looked proud of him, but also worried about her son in that moment.

Then Gi-hun spoke up:

“Let me. I have a daughter too. I will make sure she stays safe.”

They all looked at him, surprised. In-ho looked at him—scared. Then In-ho grabbed Gi-hun’s arm and dragged him to the other side of the room so they could talk alone.

“Are you crazy?! You could die?!” In-ho yelled at him. He didn’t care if the others heard.

“I don’t care. Someone has to protect the baby. I can do it—and I will. You can’t stop me. If you wanted to help, you shouldn’t have let the VIPs turn the baby into a player,” Gi-hun argued back. He wanted to call him a coward, but he held back from saying anything more insulting.

“Gi-hun, please. Don’t try to be the hero. Let one of the others do it,” In-ho pleaded this time, his voice quieter, scared.

“Can’t you see? They are all injured. They could die even if they go on their own. It’s too risky,” Gi-hun told him. Looking back as they all watched him and In-ho’s interaction, he saw the fear in Jun-hee’s eyes—the worry she had for her daughter, the same one Gi-hun had since the day his daughter was born.

He hadn’t been a good father, but watching his daughter grow up was the happiest time in his life. Even now that he hadn’t seen her in years, he would do anything now to get out of this place. He wanted to fix their relationship—to be a better father.

“I can’t help you, Gi-hun, if something goes wrong. You can’t die,” I can’t lose you, was what In-ho thought, but he didn’t say it. Not aloud.

“I don’t care. I’m doing this and you can’t stop me—so step aside,” Gi-hun said, pushing him aside so he could walk back to them.

He heard In-ho let out a frustrated sigh and follow him back to the others.

“I will do it, Jun-hee,” Gi-hun told her, bending a little to take the baby from her arms. She nodded, tearful. The old lady thanked him for doing it.

“I will come back for you. You can’t make it across with that leg,” Gi-hun told Jun-hee.

She looked up at him, surprised. “It’s okay. I can do it by myself,” Jun-hee replied, trying to be positive.

“You can’t with that leg. I promise I’ll come back.”

Jun-hee nodded.

Then Hyun-ju stepped in to help Gi-hun tie the jacket behind him to keep the baby secure, but In-ho spoke before she started:

“Here. Let me.”

In-ho stepped into Gi-hun’s personal space, his hands reaching gently for the arms of the jacket the baby was tied in. He began tying a knot at Gi-hun’s back, making sure it was as tight as possible. Every pull of the fabric was deliberate—he wanted the baby secured, safe. He wanted Gi-hun to have one less thing to worry about when he crossed. In-ho’s fingers trembled slightly as he tightened the knot. He hated this. He hated not being in control. Hated not being able to guarantee Gi-hun’s safety. That helplessness gnawed at him like a disease he couldn’t cure.

When he finished, he stood in front of Gi-hun, now facing him. His eyes dropped to the baby. She was so small—so unbelievably fragile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a baby this tiny. She looked like she’d barely just arrived in the world, and now here she was, caught in this nightmare. She was defenseless, oblivious to the horror around her. The twisted cruelty of it all made his stomach turn.

He hated the VIPs. He hated that they’d allowed her to become a player, just another pawn in their sadistic game. He stared down at her, her delicate face nestled against Gi-hun’s chest as she slept unaware. And he couldn’t blame Gi-hun for choosing this path—even if it had been foolish, it had also been brave. So brave it left In-ho speechless. The baby deserved someone like Gi-hun. Someone willing to throw himself into chaos for the sake of someone else.

His hand hovered briefly over the zipper of the jacket before pulling it up slowly, securing the baby tightly against Gi-hun. He made sure she was snug, protected from the chill in the air, from the eyes of the crowd, from everything he possibly could shield her from. When he stepped back, Gi-hun watched him closely. In-ho’s face had tensed, his jaw clenched tightly, but his eyes—they softened just slightly, enough to show what he couldn’t say out loud. He gave a subtle nod.

That was all the confirmation Gi-hun needed. There were no words left to say. Gi-hun took one last look at the group, then at In-ho. His gaze lingered a little longer this time, like he didn’t want to look away.

He turned toward the crowd gathered in front of the game. They were all watching the bridge and the swinging rope, yet none stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” Gi-hun said, holding the baby close.

The crowd turned, eyes wide at the sight of the baby wrapped tightly against his chest. Wordlessly, they moved aside, creating a path for him. Gi-hun stepped into the arena, now standing under the towering doll that overlooked the bridge. The metal rope swung ominously, slicing through the air with each pass.

Then came a tug at his arm.

Gi-hun turned, surprised to see Jung-bae and Dae-ho standing there. “Gi-hun, be careful,” Jung-bae told him. There was genuine concern in his voice, a flicker of something left over from the friendship they’d once had.

Gi-hun didn’t reply. He just nodded, because there was no time to reopen wounds or heal broken things.

He turned to face the bridge, heart hammering in his chest. He was terrified. But he stepped forward anyway. One trembling step after the next, the weight of the baby grounding him, reminding him why he was doing this.

Then he ran.

He started jumping between the panels, the rope slicing past with terrifying speed. The baby cried in his arms, but Gi-hun held her close, whispering soft comforts between gasps of breath. He reached the gap in the middle—hesitated—then jumped. He nearly lost his balance, his foot slipping on the edge, but he recovered, knees shaking as he continued forward.

In-ho never took his eyes off him. Every movement Gi-hun made felt like a blade across his own chest. His heart thundered violently with every jump. He wanted it to stop—wanted to freeze the rope, shut down the game, drag Gi-hun back into safety with his own hands.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was watch—watch as Gi-hun pushed forward until he finally made it to the other side. Gi-hun let out a shaky breath of relief, his fingers immediately moving to unzip the jacket. The baby was crying louder now, but she was safe. She was alive.

Gi-hun held her up so everyone could see.

Jun-hee’s face lit up with a mixture of relief and joy, tears welling in her eyes. “Jun-hee! I’ll come get you right away!” Gi-hun shouted across the bridge. She nodded, hugging herself tightly, waiting.

He turned to put the baby down gently on a bench nearby—but just as he did, more players entered the bridge. His stomach dropped.

He couldn’t go back. Not yet.

Then it began. One of the players who had crossed—Player 096—started shoving people off the bridge in a panic, trying to thin the numbers, pushing toward the end.

In-ho growled under his breath. Of course. Of course some coward would do this now. They were running out of time. He was relieved Gi-hun had made it, but now the chaos was risking everything again. A part of him was even thankful the players were blocking Gi-hun from returning—at least temporarily. It was too dangerous.

Players on both sides began pushing and shoving, turning the bridge into a chaotic battlefield. People clawed at each other, shouts and cries echoing through the arena as bodies were thrown off into the darkness below.Tension cut through the air like a knife.

Gi-hun approached one of the men aggressively throwing others off the bridge and spoke quietly, urgently. His words were muffled, but whatever he said worked. The man’s expression shifted, something hard in his eyes softening just enough to make him step back. He stopped shoving and let the others pass.

In-ho took that moment to motion for the rest of the group to start moving.

“Go, we’re running out of time.”

Geum-ja crossed first, clutching her son’s hand. He followed closely behind. Then came Hyun, who hesitated until In-ho spoke.

“I’ll stay behind with Jun-hee. You go.”

That was enough for her. She nodded and stepped onto the bridge.

But they weren’t safe yet. The line was still long, the players slow.

Then, something In-ho didn’t expect happened.

Player 333 walked up to them. “Jun-hee. Let’s go. We’ve got to move before it’s too late,” he said, reaching for her arm.

She shoved his hand away instantly.

“What are you going to do then?” he barked. “Just sit here and die?”

In-ho stepped between them immediately. “She clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you. Walk away,” he snapped, his voice low and threatening, his body tense.

Player 333 didn’t budge. “Hey man, this is between me and Jun-hee. Stay out of it,” he said, trying to shove past him.

In-ho didn’t move. His stare was sharp as steel. “Why did you do it?” Jun-hee said suddenly, eyes narrowing. “For the money? You killed players who didn’t even fight back—like they meant nothing.”

“I was trying to find you!” he yelled in frustration. “I wanted to protect you and the baby—I can help you, we can get out of here—together!”

Jun-hee stared at him with hollow eyes. Then she pulled her pant leg up to reveal her swollen, bruised ankle. “What will you do—carry me?” she snapped.

Player 333 looked at the ankle, then back up. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He wanted to say no—but he couldn’t. The truth was written all over his face.

“The baby is mine,” she finally said, voice cracking. “She has nothing to do with trash like you,” Jun-hee replied coldly. “We never want to see you again—not even in our dreams.”

Player 333 froze. The words struck something in him. Then, quietly, he turned and walked away—like a coward, his shoulders hunched, as if the weight of his shame had finally settled on him.

In-ho’s mind reeled. It all made sense now. He was the father. And yet he had never offered to help—not once. Not with the baby. Not with Jun-hee. He had only ever made things worse. It sickened him. Fathers like this were supposed to protect. Instead, he had become just another player hungry for survival, pretending to care when it suited him.

And then it happened.

Player 333 tried to cross the bridge—but the rope struck faster than he anticipated. One wrong jump. A scream. And then—

He fell.

A horrible thud echoed through the space, followed by gasps from the crowd. His body hit the pit below.

Jun-hee watched the whole thing. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her face was pale, frozen. Her hands trembled violently. Even though she had just banished him, the finality of what happened struck her like a blow to the chest. Tears filled her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they fell freely. She didn’t scream, didn’t collapse. She just stood there, rigid and hollow, as though someone had scooped out her insides. Jun-hee gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears streamed from her eyes even though she had wanted nothing to do with him. His death still cracked something in her.

In-ho placed a hand on her arm, grounding her gently.

She flinched, startled, then wiped her eyes quickly and looked away.

“It’s okay to feel something,” In-ho said quietly.

Jun-hee shook her head. “He did awful things. I still hate him. But… he was her father.”

The words barely left her lips before her voice cracked. “I didn’t want him to die.”

“I know,” In-ho replied. “But you didn’t kill him. The Game did.”

She nodded numbly. Her eyes searched the bridge again, now the bridge was clear.

Gi-hun held the baby close, watching everything unfold. The child stirred in his arms, as if sensing the tension in the air. Gi-hun looked ready to run back—but In-ho stepped forward. He had to do something.

“I’ll carry you,” he said to Jun-hee.

She looked up at him, stunned.

He continued, voice firm, “Gi-hun won’t make it back in time. It’ll be faster this way. Think about the baby. Focus on surviving—for her.”

Jun-hee swallowed hard and nodded. 

“You should get on my back,” he said. “It’ll be easier.” The odds of survival were slim if something went wrong, but In-ho was throwing himself into the fire.

She climbed on without another word.

Across the way, Gi-hun had stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide in shock as he saw them. In-ho gave a single nod.

That was all Gi-hun needed.

In-ho stepped onto the bridge, legs already aching. He couldn’t run—but he jumped. And jumped again. Every landing jarred his knees, but he didn’t stop. Jun-hee clung to him tightly. The seconds were slipping away. The bridge groaned beneath him. The rope above swung, its metal screech trailing like a ghost. In-ho grit his teeth. Every jump burned, every landing sent tremors up his spine. In-ho’s face tightened with concentration. His body ached, every muscle screaming, but he pushed himself forward, jumping, running, fighting against exhaustion and time.

Gi-hun couldn’t take his eyes off In-ho. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Why? Why would In-ho risk everything like this?

Maybe… maybe he really did care more than he let on.

In-ho kept going, his face twisted in pain, every jump fueled by sheer willpower. In-ho leapt the final gap, stumbling but catching his footing.

They made it.

Two seconds to spare.

He set Jun-hee down as his legs gave out slightly. He bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Gi-hun stood close, watching him in awe.

Jun-hee ran to the baby and took her, whispering soothing words as she cradled her again. She said something—probably to thank them—but neither of them really heard it, too lost in the moment. Then she quietly walked away, rejoining the group as gathered around.

Gi-hun couldn’t look away from In-ho.

He was still hunched over, his whole body trembling—not just from exertion but from everything he’d just done. Gi-hun stepped forward slowly, his footsteps quiet, reverent. He placed a hand on In-ho’s back, his palm warm against the fabric of his jacket.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and filled with a kind of raw emotion he wasn’t used to expressing. “Thank you for helping her.”

In-ho stood up, his movements stiff and strained, but he turned to face Gi-hun. He looked tired, older, like the weight of the whole game had finally settled on his shoulders. But he still managed a casual shrug, brushing it off like it was nothing.

“You would’ve done the same,” he said.

Gi-hun’s brows knit. He pulled his hand back. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It wasn’t about whether he would’ve done it—he knew he would’ve—but the point was that In-ho had. In-ho, who always kept himself separate from everyone else. In-ho, who always said things like this is survival, not sentiment . In-ho, who had once told him he was weak for caring too much.

And yet… he had risked everything. For Jun-hee. For the baby. For him .

Before Gi-hun could say anything more, Geum-ja approached them with tears glistening in her eyes. “Thank you so much, gentlemen, for helping Jun-hee and the baby,” she said, voice thick with gratitude. “You saved them. We all saw it.”

In-ho and Gi-hun both nodded wordlessly. Geum-ja gave them a small bow before turning back to the others, and soon everyone was huddled around Jun-hee and the baby. There was a palpable wave of relief sweeping through the group—smiles, teary eyes, quiet laughter that almost didn’t belong in a place like this. But it felt sacred. The baby had survived. Jun-hee had survived.

They had all survived—for now.

Gi-hun stood apart for a moment, just watching the people gather around the baby. The little girl had her eyes open now, blinking sleepily at the new faces surrounding her. She gripped Jun-hee’s pinky finger with surprising strength, and Jun-hee let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

Gi-hun’s heart swelled—and then broke just a little.

He turned to glance at In-ho again, still standing beside him. His face was unreadable beneath the mask, but Gi-hun didn’t need to see his eyes to know what he was feeling. He could tell from the way In-ho’s chest still rose and fell like he was catching his breath—not just physically, but emotionally.

Gi-hun stood beside In-ho. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His thoughts were too loud, too tangled. He could still feel the imprint of the baby’s weight in his arms. He could still feel In-ho’s hand brush his as they were right next to . And the silence between them now somehow said more than anything they could have spoken aloud.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Gi-hun saw Jung-bae.

He was standing just a few feet away, not part of the crowd, not really looking at the baby—his gaze was fixed on them. On Gi-hun and In-ho. His expression was hard to read—something between regret, confusion, and guilt. Maybe even a little hope. Gi-hun didn’t know what it meant, but it stuck with him.

He wondered, for a second, if now was the time. If he walked over—if he just said something—maybe they could fix their friendship. Maybe all that had fractured between them could start to heal.

But the thought drifted away just as quickly as it had come.

He didn’t want to do that. Not right now. Not after everything that had just happened.

He would rather stay beside In-ho—even if they weren’t talking, even if they were just breathing the same air in silence. Gi-hun had realized something that shook him to the core: in that moment, there was no one else in the room he’d rather be near. Not even an old friend.

Just In-ho.

That quiet choice lingered inside him like a weight pressing on his ribs—but it wasn’t heavy in a painful way. It just felt real.

In-ho hesitated, then asked softly, “Did you know Player 333 was the baby’s father?”

Gi-hun’s mouth fell open slightly, his voice catching. “What?” he said, unable to believe it.

In-ho looked over at him and let out a dry, tired laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Turned out to be a real asshole. Coward. He even refused to carry Jun-hee. He tried to act like he cared, but when it mattered most, he stood there with his hands empty and excuses in his mouth.” In-ho’s voice sounded far away now, like he was half-talking to himself.

Gi-hun frowned, staring down at the floor. He wanted to believe there was still room for redemption. “Maybe… maybe he could’ve changed, if he lived.”

In-ho paused for a long moment, then spoke in a voice so low it barely carried over the hum of the dorms. “Gi-hun, people don’t change for the better.”

It wasn’t cynical—it was haunted . Like he wasn’t talking about Player 333 anymore. Like he was talking about himself.

Gi-hun turned to look at him, but In-ho didn’t meet his eyes.

They walked in silence, side by side, their shoulders brushing as they made their way back toward the dorms. Neither of them said a word. There was something unspoken in the air between them now—something raw and intimate and painful. Gi-hun’s fingers twitched slightly as they walked, inching closer toward In-ho’s. For a brief second, he thought about reaching out, just to let him know he was there. Just to say thank you again without words.

But he stopped himself.

He didn’t want to make things awkward. Not now. Not after everything they’d just been through.

Once they entered the dorm, the mood had shifted. The baby was awake now, her eyes round and alert, blinking at the world like she was trying to understand what it was. The others had gathered around her again, smiling, speaking softly, all of them drawn together by this one fragile life that had somehow endured.

Gi-hun turned around, expecting to see In-ho walking in behind him—maybe standing near the wall with that usual aloof posture of his, maybe watching from a distance like he always did.

But he wasn’t there.

Gi-hun’s brow furrowed. He scanned the room.

No sign of him.

Gi-hun stepped out from the circle of people around the baby, quietly moving to check the corners of the dorm. Still nothing. He pushed open the door leading to the hallway—empty. He  stood frozen for a moment, his mind racing. He thought In-ho would’ve stayed. He thought maybe—after everything—they would’ve talked. Just for a little longer.

In-ho had disappeared.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened, a strange ache blooming in the pit of his stomach. He stood still, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. It didn’t make sense. After everything—in-ho had just vanished like it didn’t mean anything.

But it had meant everything. To Gi-hun.

And he wasn’t sure what hurt more—the relief that they’d survived… or the sudden, aching emptiness that followed when In-ho left without a word.

Chapter Text

In-ho’s mind was racing. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get out.

Without a word, he ran out of there—the dorm. He ignored the guards and went to his quarters. But it wasn’t helping. The elevator was closing in on him. He tried to hold on; it felt like it was going to fall. He stumbled into the hallway once the doors opened. He couldn’t walk right. He held onto the wall as he tried to walk, almost falling on it. His legs felt like they were giving out.

It was suffocating him. His choices. This place.

In-ho felt like his world was opening up and tearing apart. He had tried so hard to forget. It had been almost ten years, and even now, he couldn’t get her out of his mind—her voice. He was slowly forgetting, but he remembered the first time he made her laugh though.

He never let himself reminisce about the past. He tried forgetting, pretending that it didn’t affect him. But he couldn’t forget Seo-yeon.

Everything was coming back to him—their lives together, their future they never got.

It felt like everything was eating him from the inside. The ground was pulling him in. He was trying to hold on to the chair but he was falling. He let go of fighting. His body sat on the ground, pulling his knees in, trying to hold on.

The air in the room was gone. It was like he was choking. He had tears. He didn’t realize until he could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He had tears running down his face.

He hadn’t lost control like this since he found out she died. The night after the games, he had gone straight to the hospital. For miles he was so out of breath when he had made it. He stood outside. He looked up at the building. He remembered trying to look for her room from the outside, to see if the light was on, if she was awake. He saw it. He was sure it was her room on the fourth floor. It was the sixth room on the right. He had it memorized. Every hallway they had walked. He had tried to memorize every detail—how she moved, her eyes, how she smiled through the pain.

Yet here he was, after a decade. He had tried forgetting it.

He hated that he still tried to find her through the aisle in the grocery store. He had stopped going soon after. He stopped cooking. When he moved out of their place, he never had a kitchen afterwards.

When he had gone into the hospital full of hope, waiting to see her, he ran to the nearest elevator. There was a couple in it already. The wife was visibly pregnant. They seemed to be giggling over an ultrasound picture. It was like a stab in In-ho’s heart. He never got a chance to be fully happy about it with Seo-yeon.

He always argued with her about it. He wished he had just given them a moment to cherish the baby. Now he would.

He was going to go in there, ask her to forgive him, that he would let her down again. He would be the best husband and father he could be. He could get the money to the doctors in the morning. Tell them to find a donor as soon as possible. They would go home. He would build her the dream nursery she had been showing him.

He ran as soon as those elevator doors opened. He didn’t breathe until he had reached her door. His hand hesitated on the handle. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. How he was going to explain why he had disappeared for a week. How he got the money. She would never accept it if she knew.

Then he decided before going to see her, he walked to the gift shop at the end of the hall. He wanted to get her something. Maybe something for the baby too.

When he entered the store, it was way too bright. He walked in looking around. It wasn’t big. It had some clothes for kids in the back and snacks in the aisles.

Then In-ho’s eyes found a brown teddy bear with a red heart patch on its heart. It was sitting on the cashier’s counter. Above it, there was a shelf with a chocolate bar. It was his wife’s favorite bar. It was like a sign.

In-ho walked over, buying the chocolate bar and the teddy bear with the biggest smile on his face. He hadn’t had one in months. Everything was going to be alright.

Then he walked back to the room, ready.

He twisted the knob.

He would deal with the questions when the time came. Right now, he just wanted to see her.

In-ho’s eyes narrowed.

The room. The bed. It was empty.

A single white sheet covered the mattress. The room had no sign that belonged to someone. All the flowers she had gotten, their personal belongings—were gone.

He put the teddy bear and chocolate bar on the side table.

He looked at the door again to check if he got the right number. His eyes burning.

405 It read.

His heart—heartbreaking.

He stepped into the room looking for any signs of her.

The room was unused. Like she had never been in here. Like they hadn’t spent sleepless days in here trying to hold on as their world was ending.

In-ho was hyperventilating on the floor. His whole body was shaking, remembering that moment—his world had come crashing down.

He hadn’t thought of it in years. He erased it from his mind. He never let himself drown in it—in memory of her like everyone had.

They told him he needed to grieve, to talk about it.

But he never could. It wouldn’t bring them back.

In-ho’s eyes were blurry down. He could barely process where he was anymore. How did he end up here? How was this the only place he had left?

He had stayed in that hospital room. He didn’t know for how long. He had stood there for minutes, maybe hours, frozen in place of the place he had ever seen her.

Until a nurse had shaken him, trying to get his attention.

“Sir, are you alright? Do you need help?” the nurse asked.

Cornered, In-ho turned around to look at her with burning eyes barely holding on.

“I—where… what happened? Where is Seo-yeon?” In-ho asked, his words barely making sense as he stuttered.

Something changed on the nurse’s face. It was small, but In-ho noticed. Her expression gave him the answer before she spoke.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Jung Seo-yeon passed away yesterday around 5 in the morning,” the nurse told him in her professional voice like they were trained to.

In-ho stumbled backwards. His hand hanging on the frame of the hospital bed to keep him steady. His heart stopped. Everything came crashing down.

He couldn’t breathe.

No. It couldn’t be true. She couldn’t be gone.

He just got the money. He could finally help her. Be the husband she needed. He would. He had let her down again.

“What’s your relation with the patient, sir?” the nurse asked him, eyeing him as he was taken in her words from before.

The nurse didn’t know him because he had barely been at the hospital, always trying to find someone that could help. He reached out to anyone he had ever crossed paths with.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t find the words.

Then he tried again. His voice slow, shuttered.

He tried to remember her last words to him. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been paying attention. He was too focused on getting her help, finding a donor.

Any time he had spent with her in the hospital had been him.

She had argued with him for not paying attention to her. She had tried to prepare him for a time without her. She knew it was coming. He refused to see it.

“She’s my wife,” In-ho told her. The words barely a whisper.

He watched the nurse’s reaction. The flicker of disgust.

“Mrs. Seo-yeon waited for you. She asked about you every day. We even had to sedate her because she tried to leave the hospital to go look for you. I believe your brother was here with her before she passed,” the nurse told him, trying to keep a professional tone but her bitterness pouring through it with disappointment that her patient had such a selfish husband who couldn’t bother to be with her in her last days.

In-ho’s eyes blurred. He couldn’t see anything. Everything went white.

The last thing he felt was the tile floor. His body fell on it.

In-ho was shivering as he got flashbacks of that memory he had completely forgotten. That moment—it wasn’t the one he remembered when he found out about Seo-yeon. No, the one he remembered was much worse.

In-ho blinked.

The white bright light was blinding. It was like the one in the dormitory.

“No!” In-ho yelled as he sat up in a hurry, worried he was back in the games.

Then he saw them. His stepmom and Jun-ho sitting on both sides of the hospital bed.

“Hyung, calm down. You are in a hospital room,” Jun-ho spoke, trying to lay In-ho back on the bed.

“In-ho, are you alright?” his eomma asked, trying to get him a glass of water.

“Seo-yeon.” That’s all In-ho said, asking about her whereabouts.

He couldn’t remember anything but the last thing he remembered was the games.

He watched as their faces drew in horror, frozen in place.

“In-ho, she—” his stepmom started to speak.

“Where have you been, In-ho? YOU WERE MISSING FOR A WEEK. WE HAD NO IDEA WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO YOU OR IF YOU WERE ALIVE,” Jun-ho yelled, not being able to hold in his anger, frustration, and worry.

After the week, he had gone to the hospital every night to keep Seo-yeon waiting for In-ho to come back.

He had watched as she asked about him every time she was in and out of consciousness.

How he had given up telling the truth and just told her In-ho had stepped out of the room—it worked enough to calm her down.

But it hadn’t stopped her asking.

The night she passed, she had realized Jun-ho was lying. She cried and yelled that something was wrong. In-ho wasn’t alright. She begged Jun-ho to find him—and he left.

He drove around all night trying to find In-ho. He searched the whole city anywhere he knew In-ho could have gone.

He gave up when the sun started to rise and drove back to the hospital—but he knew the second he stepped inside it—she was gone.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor, he was already prepared for the horror that awaited him.

The room was open. All the machines off. The normal beeping noise from them gone.

Seo-yeon was gone.

In-ho never came.

“Jun-ho, stop. Let your brother get some rest,” his stepmom said, going across the bed to the side Jun-ho was on, trying to get him to calm down.

All In-ho could do was blink and try to understand what was going on. He couldn’t make sense of anyone.

Then his eomma sat on the bed, putting her hand on top of In-ho’s hand.

“In-ho,” she stayed quiet for a few seconds before trying to continue.

“Seo-yeon, she—she passed away.”

In-ho thought he had heard her wrong. He must have hit his head and had a concussion. He was imagining things.

“No,” In-ho said in a slow voice.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

Then his stepmom got up, getting closer, hugging him. He felt her arms tighter around him.

“In-ho, I’m so sorry,” she told him. Now she was sobbing too on his shoulder.

He lightly tried to hug her back.

He still wasn’t processing it. He couldn’t understand.

He looked over to Jun-ho, who had tears in his eyes too.

In-ho couldn’t cry.

He didn’t—not until now.

Nine years later, he was on the floor sobbing in the middle of the room.

He couldn’t keep running away from it. He felt it all. Everything he had been keeping in for so long was coming out now.

In-ho sat on the ground.

He didn’t know for how long—until he slowly started to calm down.

He tried to get up, now finally starting to get control of his body again.

He took the glass from the side table and walked over to the island, turning on the water as it poured.

In-ho remembered something else—

The apartment was dark when they stepped inside.

In-ho didn’t turn on the lights. The soft clink of his keys hitting the entry table was the only sound between them. The city buzzed distantly beyond the window—cars passing, horns occasionally blaring—but in here, everything felt muted. Smothered. Like grief had settled into the walls while they were gone.

He looked over his shoulder. Seo-yeon moved slowly, like her bones had turned to glass. She didn’t even glance at him as she walked past, her hospital wristband still clinging to her arm. She sat on the edge of the couch like she didn’t want to leave an imprint. Her shoulders curled inward.

In-ho stared at her. At the shape of her back. Her fingers resting in her lap, trembling faintly.

She looked like she was already disappearing.

He swallowed and said the only thing he could think of. “You should eat something.”

His voice came out hoarse.

She didn’t look at him. “I’m not hungry.”

He nodded slightly, like he accepted that. He didn’t. But he didn’t have the strength to argue over soup or rice. Not now.

Instead, he crossed the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He dropped onto the chair across from her. Leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. His hands came together tightly, knuckles white.

The silence dragged.

Long enough that it hurt.

Then the words ripped out of him before he could stop them. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Seo-yeon looked up, startled. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry—like she didn’t have the luxury of tears anymore.

“I didn’t know I was pregnant, In-ho,” she said softly. “I didn’t plan this.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he snapped. His voice cracked under the weight of it. “You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t talk to me. You just—told them. Like it was already decided.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “Because it was.”

“You’re dying, Seo-yeon.” His voice buckled on the last word.

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t lie. She just nodded. “I know.”

“Then why?!” he shouted. “Why would you do this to yourself— to me?!”

Her hands tightened in her lap. He could see her knuckles go pale too, but her voice stayed soft. “Because I wanted to give you something. In case I didn’t make it.”

His breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No,” he barked. “Don’t you dare talk like that. Don’t talk like you’re already gone.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “But I will be. We both know that.”

“No, we don’t,” he snapped. “They said there’s still time to find a donor.”

“Barely,” she said. “Weeks, In-ho. Weeks, not months. And we both know what the waiting list looks like. You’ve seen it.”

“If you end the pregnancy, you’ll have more time.”

“And then what?” Her voice broke. “I live a few more months? A year, if I’m lucky? You think that’s enough for me?”

“It’s enough for me!” he shouted. “I’d take that. I’d take anything! I’d rather have time with you than—than this. Than whatever this is!”

And god, it was true.

He wanted this baby. He wanted all of it. A future. A family. Waking up to Seo-yeon and hearing tiny footsteps on the floor someday. Laughter in their kitchen. Toys scattered across the floor. He had pictured it—he allowed himself to picture it, late at night when she was asleep beside him, when hope felt dangerous but irresistible. He had wanted to build something with her that wasn’t pain or appointments or prescriptions.

But not like this.

Not when the price was her life.

She stared at him then. Her eyes filled with something he couldn’t name—sorrow, maybe, or love, or both.

“I wanted this baby,” she said slowly. “Because it’s a part of you. A part of us. I wanted something to stay behind when I can’t. Something that matters.”

“You matter,” he snapped. “You. I don’t want a replacement.”

“I’m not trying to be replaced,” she said. “I’m trying to leave something behind.”

“You’re choosing the baby over yourself.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m choosing both of us.”

His fists clenched. “That’s not how this works. This isn’t a story where everyone gets what they want.”

“In-ho—”

“No,” he interrupted, standing up so fast the chair scraped loud across the floor. “You think you’re being selfless, but you’re not. You’re gambling with your life. With mine.”

He stared at her, breathing hard. His chest felt too tight.

“You think I can just sit here and watch you do this? Watch you carry a baby that might kill you?”

She didn’t answer.

He turned toward the door. His throat burned. “You didn’t even ask me. You didn’t give me a choice.”

“I didn’t think you’d want the baby,” she said quietly.

That stopped him.

He turned around slowly. “Don’t say that.”

“I thought you’d be scared.”

“I am scared!” he yelled. “I’m terrified, Seo-yeon! I’ve been scared every damn day since you got sick!”

He was trembling now. Hands clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms.

But she didn’t understand.

She didn’t understand that he did want this child. He did want to be a father— her child, their child. But not if it meant losing her. Not if it meant raising their baby alone, haunted by the memory of her choosing death to bring it into the world.

She stood up. “Then you understand.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “I don’t. I don’t understand anything right now.”

He grabbed his coat from the hook, yanked the door open.

“In-ho—wait—”

But he didn’t.

He slammed the door behind him so hard the hallway lights flickered.

He didn’t look back.

And as the elevator doors closed, his hands shaking in his pockets, all he could see was her sitting on that couch—fragile and stubborn and glowing with something that made his heart feel like it was breaking in slow motion.

He didn’t know if he’d ever forgive her for doing this.

But more than anything…

He didn’t know if he’d forgive himself for walking out.

In-ho looked down to see the water pouring out of the cup, and he quickly closed the faucet. He was just thinking—thinking about that day. He had been such an asshole then. It wasn’t the first time he had ever really argued with her. Whenever they had disagreements, he usually let her win. They had never fought about anything so serious before. But that day hit him like a brick—it was the first time he had walked out on her like that. And it wasn’t the last. It happened countless times after that. As her condition worsened, so did their arguments. 

The last time he walked out, he didn’t know it would be the last time he’d ever see her. He couldn’t even remember what she had said to him, and that haunted him. It killed him. He would do anything to go back and fix it—to stay with her through everything, to support her like he should have when she was still alive. He would stop himself from going to the games. Maybe, if he hadn’t put the stress of disappearing on her, she would have stayed alive longer. Just a little longer.

He stared at the water but didn’t drink it. He would rather have poured whiskey, but he didn’t have any. Then the landline rang.

Chapter Text

In-ho froze as the telephone rang. There was something wrong—he just knew it. Captain Park was calling him out of nowhere… Had Jun-ho gotten hurt? Or worse—had he found the island again?

In-ho didn’t know what he was supposed to do if it was the latter. How could he make sure Jun-ho would give up without coming here? He knew what the risk would be. He couldn’t spare his life again.

He put the glass down on the counter and walked over to the green landline as it rang, his hands trembling as he picked up the receiver.

On the other line, it wasn’t the voice he expected. It wasn’t Captain Park.

“In-ho,” Jun-ho said on the other side of the line, questionably.

In-ho felt fear build up inside him as he realized Jun-ho knew—Jun-ho knew now that In-ho had been working with Captain Park. That wasn’t supposed to happen. His brother was smart, he knew that, but he also trusted people too easily. That’s how In-ho knew Jun-ho would never figure out Captain Park was working for him.

In-ho couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say to him—especially after what had happened the last time they met. Especially after he had shot him.

It had haunted In-ho all these years—hurting Jun-ho like that. He used to freak out if Jun-ho got hurt riding his bicycle, yet In-ho had been the one to shoot his own brother. He hated himself for doing it.

In-ho knew he could never go back from what had happened. They would never be brothers again—not like they were. He had spent so many years letting go of any relationship he had left. It was easier that way.

In-ho didn’t know how to be around people after what he had done—how he had ruined his own family, how he had let his wife die. In-ho couldn’t even look their eomma in the eye in the following years. He had cut all contact with them over time.

Yet here Jun-ho was, still looking for In-ho. Looking for a brother that didn’t exist anymore.

In-ho would give his own heart if it meant Jun-ho would be okay. But he couldn’t give Jun-ho the one thing he wanted—his brother back. In-ho couldn’t let him see the monster. He couldn’t explain away all the horrible things he had done. No matter how much Jun-ho wanted answers, it was the one thing he couldn’t give him.

“Hyeong… why didn’t you let me die back then?” Jun-ho spoke again, yet In-ho still couldn’t form a reply.

It was a stupid question. Jun-ho knew exactly why. No matter how much of a monster In-ho was, he couldn’t let his brother die. He was one of the only people In-ho truly cared about.

“Where’s Captain Park?” In-ho asked instead, ignoring Jun-ho’s previous question. God, he swore he didn’t have one employee that did their job right.

“He’s dead. I killed him,” Jun-ho replied coldly.

Shit. Why did Jun-ho have to be so reckless? Captain Park could have helped them. Now In-ho didn’t have someone he could trust to keep an eye on Jun-ho.

“Jun-ho… he was just helping me. You shouldn’t have killed him. You can’t find the island without him,” In-ho told him, hoping it would scare him away.

“I already found it, hyeong. Surrender now, or I will tell the coast guard your identity,” Jun-ho told him, but In-ho knew it was a worthless threat. He would never actually let Jun-ho get caught—not until he had the answers. And In-ho wasn’t going to give them.

Jun-ho hadn’t even revealed In-ho’s identity to Gi-hun. There was no way he would tell anyone else.

“Go home, Jun-ho, or you will die if you come here.” In-ho knew it was pointless to say it, but he said it anyway. Jun-ho had always been stubborn when he was younger—but he always listened to In-ho. Maybe some part of that still would.

“Then you will have to kill me,” Jun-ho told him, then hung up.

In-ho was left standing there with the receiver in his hand.

Shit. He couldn’t let Jun-ho come here—not with the VIPs here again. It would be a disaster if they found out Jun-ho was his brother. They would kill him.

In-ho put the receiver back, dunking his head down, both hands gripping the table as panic started to set in. This wasn’t good. The last games were tomorrow. He couldn’t be the Front Man, a player, and a brother at the same time. He couldn’t control the situation—there were too many variables.

His heart was racing.

Then he heard the elevator ding. Someone was here.

But In-ho couldn’t move. He was frozen—in fear of everything.

Gi-hun was going mad.

He stumbled through the hallways, searching frantically for In-ho. His steps were uneven, his mind a blur of panic. He was scrubbing through every possible path in his memory, scanning for where In-ho could be.

He ran to the restroom, hoping—praying—that he would be there. His breath was harsh and shallow as he ignored the guards outside the door and pushed it open in a hurry. His eyes swept the room with urgent desperation.

But it was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no signs of him. The bathroom was empty.

Gi-hun’s heart sank hard in his chest. Something was wrong. It had to be. In-ho wouldn’t have left like this. He wouldn’t just vanish without a word.

What if the VIPs found out he was pretending to be a player? What if they hurt him for what happened in the last game… for helping Jun-hee?

Gi-hun’s mind wouldn’t stop spiraling to the worst possibilities. Every dark scenario felt more real than the last. His chest tightened until it ached.

Everything felt wrong since the second In-ho disappeared. Gi-hun felt sick, like he was going to throw up. There was something bad in the air—he could feel it, heavy and suffocating, like the calm before a storm.

He hadn’t felt this way in years. Maybe not ever.

And then, slowly, realization hit him like a punch: In-ho had been the one keeping his panic at bay. Somehow, just being near him had steadied Gi-hun—made him feel calm in a place where nothing was safe. With In-ho, it was like there was a small piece of certainty that everything would be okay.

Now that piece was gone. And Gi-hun felt like he was unraveling.

So he had to do something—anything. His gut screamed at him to act.

He stepped outside the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with more force than he intended. His eyes locked on the two guards stationed nearby. They stood like statues, unmoving, unreactive. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment in their posture. It was eerie, almost inhuman.

“Take me to him,” Gi-hun said firmly, forcing command into his voice as if he had the authority—even though he was just a player.

The guards didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t so much as tilt their heads.

Gi-hun’s frustration clawed at him. He wanted to scream, to hit them until they moved, to make them listen. His fists curled at his sides, itching to swing. But he bit down on the impulse. He had to stay controlled.

“You can’t start the next vote until he’s back,” Gi-hun said, voice sharp and cutting. “So if you don’t take me to him right now, you’ll only delay everything. That’ll make the other players suspicious—and the VIPs too.”

He didn’t even know how the words formed in his head. His brain was running on pure instinct. There were harsher things he wanted to say, but this—this sounded like leverage.

It worked.

The guards exchanged a silent glance. Then, without a word, one of them raised his gun and leveled it at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun froze, his stomach twisting. For a split second, fear paralyzed him. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe In-ho was right—he shouldn’t be making moves like this.

“Move,” the guard ordered flatly, the tone void of emotion.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. But he forced his legs to move, slow and steady. He walked like he knew where he was going—even though every step felt like walking into fire.

The guard stayed close, the barrel of the gun pressed against his back. But Gi-hun barely felt the fear anymore. The weapon didn’t matter. He knew In-ho wouldn’t let them hurt him. In-ho never said it out loud, but he had shown it—in small ways, subtle gestures that spoke louder than words.

Gi-hun’s heart slammed harder with every step. The corridors stretched endlessly before him, each one pulling him back into the horror of what happened during the rebellion. His gaze caught on a camera—the same one In-ho had shot out during the chaos. It had been replaced. Of course it had.

The blood was gone too—or mostly. But faint stains clung stubbornly to the floor and walls. Shadows of what had happened. Ghosts of the choices Gi-hun had made.

Regret burned through him like acid. If only he had waited. If he had just waited, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe things would be different.

But it was too late for that now.

The heavy gate loomed ahead—the entrance to the management area. The guard opened it with his mask, unlocking it with a low electronic beep.

“You can go now,” Gi-hun muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him.

“Not until the boss sees you. You’re not gonna pull anything,” the guard replied, monotone, gun still steady.

Gi-hun clenched his jaw and kept moving toward the elevator. He paused for a second, waiting for the guard to leave—but the man stepped inside with him.

The elevator doors closed, trapping them in an oppressive silence. The hum of the lift was the only sound.

Every second crawled by.

Gi-hun’s nerves frayed with each passing floor. He hated this—the not knowing. Not knowing what he would find, what had happened to In-ho, why he had left without a word.

Would In-ho even want to see him?

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should have stayed in the dorms like In-ho asked. He hadn’t told Gi-hun to follow. He probably didn’t want him here at all.

But it was too late to turn back now.

The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open.

Gi-hun stepped out—and immediately sensed it.

Something was wrong.

The air was dry, heavy, filled with an energy he couldn’t name. The lights seemed dimmer than usual, casting long shadows down the hallway. There was no sound. Not a single footstep.

It was unsettling. Almost terrifying.

Gi-hun had never been a fan of horror movies. He used to cry as a kid whenever his friends made him watch them, and they would laugh at him every time. That fear never fully left him. He never understood why characters in those movies walked down dark hallways when they knew something awful was waiting.

And yet, here he was—doing the same thing.

Walking into the unknown.

For In-ho.

Every step tightened the coil of fear in his chest. His breath hitched as he scanned the shadows. There wasn’t even a whisper of life here. Nothing but silence pressing against his ears.

Then—finally—he saw him.

In-ho was hunched over the table, both hands gripping its edge like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground. The green telephone sat between his arms, silent and accusing. His head hung low, hair falling forward in messy strands, damp and sticking to his skin.

Gi-hun froze in the doorway, his heart clenching painfully.

Before he could speak, the guard’s voice cut through the silence:

“Captain, he made me bring him here. We’ve been delaying the vote as long as we could, but we need to start soon.”

In-ho flinched at the sound—but didn’t look up. Didn’t even glance at Gi-hun.

That told Gi-hun everything. Something was very, very wrong.

“I’ll be there soon. Just make sure everything is prepared,” In-ho said finally. His voice was firm, but there was something under it—something cracked and hollow.

The guard nodded, though In-ho didn’t see it. He still hadn’t lifted his head.

Then the guard left, and the elevator doors slid shut behind him.

Leaving them alone.

The silence was suffocating. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Gi-hun stared, his chest aching as he watched In-ho’s fingers tighten around the table until his knuckles turned white. His head dropped even lower, as if he wanted to disappear.

He wasn’t going to move. He wasn’t going to speak.

So Gi-hun did.

“In-ho,” he said softly, almost afraid of breaking him.

The sound made In-ho’s shoulders stiffen. But he didn’t look up.

“Why did you disappear like that?” Gi-hun asked, his voice cautious, careful not to push too hard.

“Personal matter.” The words were flat, clipped, like they cost him everything.

He let go of the table slowly, his back still curved like a man carrying the weight of the world. One trembling hand ran through his damp hair before he finally turned toward Gi-hun.

And when he did, Gi-hun’s breath caught.

There were dry tear tracks on his face. His skin glistened with sweat. His expression was pure panic—stripped raw of the mask he always wore.

This wasn’t the In-ho Gi-hun knew. Not the controlled, calculating man behind the mask.

This was someone broken. Someone who had been shattered and barely pieced himself back together.

Gi-hun didn’t know how to handle that.

What the hell did he mean by personal matter ?

It made no sense. What could have possibly happened that left him like this?

Gi-hun’s eyes narrowed as suspicion clawed at his thoughts. His gaze swept over In-ho’s entire body. That’s when he saw it—his hands. They were trembling as he fidgeted with his jacket, trying to straighten the fabric as if he needed to keep his hands busy, to do something so they wouldn’t shake.

Gi-hun’s attention shifted to the table. The landline sat there, still and silent. He knew only one person ever called that phone—Captain Park. And In-ho had been clutching the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Something had happened. Something big.

So maybe… maybe it had to do with that call.

“Did Captain Park call back?” Gi-hun asked. His voice was low, steady, but his chest was tight. He wasn’t even sure if In-ho would answer truthfully—or if he was even capable of it right now. The man didn’t look like himself.

Gi-hun studied his face, searching for a crack, for something to tell him the truth. For the briefest second, In-ho’s eyes flickered, almost meeting Gi-hun’s. But then he dropped his gaze again, drowning in sorrow.

“Captain Park is dead.”

The words were flat, almost lifeless. In-ho’s voice was calm in the way people sound when they’ve been hit by something so devastating they can’t even process it anymore. “Jun-ho killed him.”

Then—finally—he looked up.

Gi-hun froze.

In-ho’s eyes scanned his face, like he was searching for something there—an answer, a reaction, anything.

But Gi-hun didn’t know how to react. The words rattled inside his skull, impossible to process. He couldn’t even figure out what the right thing to say would be.

Their eyes locked. For a moment, neither of them blinked.

“Jun-ho is close to finding the island,” In-ho said, his voice now laced with bitterness, his gaze hardening. “He’ll probably be here tomorrow. If it’s before the games end, he’ll call the coast guard. Which means you will have to evacuate the island.”

Gi-hun felt his breath falter. The reality of what In-ho was saying hit him like a tidal wave.

“What about you?” Gi-hun asked, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth. He hadn’t even processed what he’d just heard, but the question clawed its way out of him anyway.

In-ho scoffed, the sound sharp and hollow, before replying:

“I will have to blow up the island.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widened, disbelief flooding through him. Blow up the island?

The words echoed in his head, louder and louder, until all other thoughts drowned.

That meant the games… would end. For good.

“Don’t kid yourself, Gi-hun,” In-ho continued, his tone harsh now, almost cruel. “That’s not going to stop the games forever. They’re global. They’ll probably be back in Korea in a few years. There’s no shortage of desperate people willing to play them.”

Gi-hun barely heard the rest. His mind was still stuck on that one thing—blowing up the island.

His plan. His mission. Everything he came here for—it was happening.

After everything—every roadblock, every failure—it was finally going to end.

A smile tugged at the corner of Gi-hun’s lips, slow and uncontrollable, as if his body refused to hide the relief surging through him.

But In-ho saw it. And his eyes darkened with annoyance.

“You won,” he said coldly.

The words hit Gi-hun like ice water. His smile faltered. He stared at In-ho, trying to understand this sudden shift, the sharp edge in his tone. He’d seemed willing to help before. What changed?

“Don’t you want the same thing?” Gi-hun asked, the question heavier than it seemed. It wasn’t just about the games. It was about everything—about the side In-ho had chosen, about where he stood.

In-ho’s lips twisted in a bitter half-smile, but there was no humor in it.

“No. Things I want never happen,” he said flatly. “So you should be glad.”

And he meant it. Every word was a jagged shard of truth.

Nothing In-ho had ever wanted had come true.

He wanted his wife to live.
He wanted to never play the game.
He wanted to stay a detective.
He wanted a family.
He wanted to be a better brother. A better son.

But none of those wishes mattered. Because wishing was a weakness. Wishing got you killed. So he stopped.

He stopped dreaming. Stopped hoping. Stopped believing things could ever be different.

And now, even this—getting off the island—wasn’t about him. It was about survival. About minimizing disaster. If they had just finished the games tomorrow, the VIPs might have gone easy on him. But blowing up the island? With no declared winner? They’d come for him. They’d rip him apart for ending the show too soon.

“You don’t mean that,” Gi-hun snapped, his voice breaking the silence like glass. His eyes burned as he stared at In-ho, anger sparking in his chest. “You were going to help us before I started the rebellion!”

“You don’t know me, Gi-hun,” In-ho replied, his voice low, dangerous. His gaze dropped to the floor, almost like he was afraid—afraid that if Gi-hun saw his eyes now, he’d see the truth.

Gi-hun didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them.

“Yes, I do,” Gi-hun said firmly, his voice vibrating with emotion. “I understand you better than most people ever could. So stop pretending. Stop acting like an asshole just to push me away.”

Before he even realized it, Gi-hun’s hand reached out and landed on In-ho’s arm.

The contact was electric.

He’d wanted to do this since the second he walked into this room and saw how broken In-ho looked. He couldn’t stop himself now.

Gi-hun’s fingers slid up and down the fabric of In-ho’s sleeve in slow, comforting strokes. Through the jacket, he felt the firmness of In-ho’s muscles, the quiet strength coiled beneath his skin. Bigger than Gi-hun expected. Stronger.

Did he work out? Or was he just built like that?

In-ho’s head lifted, almost involuntarily. His eyes softened as they locked on Gi-hun’s.

Time slowed.

In-ho opened his mouth to say something—but no words came out.

Gi-hun’s gaze dipped, just slightly, to his lips… then back to his eyes.

And God—he looked so vulnerable. So painfully human. A man stripped of every mask, every wall, every pretense. His face still bore the dried tracks of tears, though Gi-hun wasn’t sure In-ho even realized it.

For a moment, Gi-hun couldn’t reconcile this man with the figure he’d spent years chasing. This wasn’t the Front Man. This wasn’t the monster behind the mask.

This was someone who had been to hell and back—and was still burning.

There was no mask between them now. No lies. No games.

Just raw, unguarded truth.

Gi-hun’s fingers tightened on In-ho’s arm, squeezing gently. He wanted to hold on. To pull him closer until their foreheads touched, until he could feel his heartbeat.

But he didn’t.

He stayed frozen, mere inches away.

Then—In-ho moved.

He leaned in slowly, cautiously, his eyes never leaving Gi-hun’s face, watching for the slightest sign of retreat.

But Gi-hun didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His chest rose and fell, shallow and quick. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Maybe—maybe In-ho was going to kiss him.

And maybe… Gi-hun would let him.

Gi-hun started to lean forward too, his head tilting ever so slightly to meet him—

“We should go back to the dorm,” In-ho said suddenly, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade.

Gi-hun blinked, stunned, as In-ho straightened abruptly, his posture snapping back into rigid control. The fragile closeness between them shattered like glass.

Gi-hun’s throat felt dry. He dropped his hand from In-ho’s arm, forcing out words that came out jagged and uneven:

“Right—um… we should—the…the voting and everything.”

He stumbled over the sentence like an idiot. And when he finally looked at In-ho, the bastard was smirking. That smug, amused smile that always made Gi-hun want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath.

He was flustered. Gi-hun was the only one who was flustered—and In-ho knew it.

So Gi-hun fought back the only way he could.

“You should probably wash your face. You look like you were hit by a train,” he teased, his tone sharp but playful, trying to claw back some control.

In-ho’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly in shock.

“I do not,” he shot back, crossing his arms defensively.

Gi-hun chuckled, the sound light and mocking. God, it was ridiculous—how In-ho looked right now. If only he could see himself. The man was pouting like a child, and the dry tear stains didn’t help his case.

“Are you sure about that?” Gi-hun said, a grin tugging at his lips. “Because it looks like you were crying. But hey—we can go like this if that’s how you wanna face everyone.”

“I was not crying,” In-ho snapped, even though they both knew it was a lie.

Before Gi-hun could throw another jab, In-ho turned sharply and strode to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with a loud thud .

Gi-hun laughed, unable to hold it in.

In-ho turned sharply, heading toward the bathroom before Gi-hun could get another word in. Behind him, Gi-hun’s laughter echoed softly, teasing and smug.

The sound made something twist in In-ho’s chest—irritation, embarrassment, something else he refused to name. He slammed the door shut with more force than necessary, the sharp thud cutting off the laughter.

Inside, he exhaled slowly, leaning over the sink. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, and for a moment he didn’t recognize the man in it.

Gi-hun was right. He looked like hell.

A mess.

It was obvious he’d been crying. His eyes were rimmed red, faint tracks of dried tears staining his cheeks. His hair clung damply to his forehead, slick with sweat. His skin looked pale under the harsh bathroom light.

And the realization hit him like a punch: he’d had that entire conversation looking like this.

Perfect. Just perfect. The universe was laughing at him now, too.

A groan slipped from his throat, low and frustrated. He let out a long sigh, turning on the faucet. Cool water gushed out, and he splashed it onto his face in hurried motions, trying to wash everything away—the sweat, the salt, the shame.

The water was cold against his skin, a small shock that brought him back to himself. He dragged wet palms over his cheeks, then ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back into its usual slicked style—the Front Man’s style. Not the unkempt, loose strands that belonged to the player he used to be.

He stared into the mirror one last time. His expression smoothed into something neutral, practiced. The mask was back in place.

Finally, he turned and opened the door.

When he stepped out, Gi-hun wasn’t where he’d left him.

Instead, he was leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand. In-ho’s glass—the one he’d poured water into earlier. He was drinking from it, lips pressed against the same rim.

For some reason, the sight rooted In-ho in place. Something about it felt… intimate. Almost poetic.

“That was fast,” Gi-hun said, setting the glass back on the island. He started walking toward In-ho just as In-ho moved forward to meet him halfway.

“Well,” In-ho added lightly, “we need to start preparations for tonight’s dinner. Can’t delay it any longer.”

Gi-hun’s eyes lingered on In-ho’s face, scanning it for any trace of emotion—something beyond that smooth, unreadable mask. Was there mockery? Weariness? Maybe even the same vulnerability Gi-hun had seen earlier?

But if it was there, it slipped away before he could catch it.

In-ho didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he turned his head, looking toward the end of the hallway where the elevator waited, his posture already straightened and composed as if nothing had happened between them.

“Right. Let’s go,” he said evenly, his tone clipped and distant, as though drawing a line in the sand.

Gi-hun nodded silently, following. Neither of them spoke as they walked. The quiet stretched long, heavy, until they reached the elevator and stepped inside.

The doors slid shut with a metallic whisper.

In-ho pressed the button.

And then Gi-hun’s voice broke the silence.

“Why were you crying?”

The question hit like a stone tossed into still water. Ripples spread through the air.

Gi-hun’s tone wasn’t mocking now—it was careful, curious. Honest. He didn’t know if it was because of Captain Park. Because of Jun-ho. Or… because of something else. But it looked like the tears had been there for a while, long before Gi-hun had walked in.

In-ho didn’t look at him. His face stayed turned forward, unreadable.

Instead, his voice came low and cool, laced with deflection:

“Why did you follow me here?”

Gi-hun blinked, caught off guard for a second—but then his lips pressed into a thin line.

He saw what In-ho was doing. Avoiding the question. Hiding behind another one.

Fine. Two could play that game.

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to give In-ho the satisfaction if In-ho wouldn’t give him his.

So they stood there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, both staring ahead like strangers.

When the doors slid open with a soft chime, they walked out together. The silence clung to them like static.

It was muscle memory, almost, walking back to the dorm. Their steps fell in sync.

Gi-hun finally tried again, voice breaking through the tension.

“So… the dinner.” His tone was lighter now, casual—though his stomach was grumbling after days of barely eating. “Is it gonna be like the one at my last game?”

He remembered that dinner—the long table, the warm glow, the food that tasted almost like freedom after starvation. It was the only decent thing they ever gave the players. He wouldn’t mind another taste of that.

“Mostly,” In-ho replied after a pause. “But I’ve made a few changes.”

That made Gi-hun stop mid-step. His brow furrowed as he turned to look at In-ho.

“What kind of changes?” His voice carried a note of suspicion, a thread of worry pulling tight.

In-ho stopped too, pivoting slightly to meet Gi-hun’s gaze with a look that was cool, almost detached.

“Just making sure the players vote to continue until the last round,” he said evenly, “so the VIPs aren’t… dissatisfied.”

The word left a bitter taste in Gi-hun’s mouth.

He stared at In-ho for a long second, then scoffed sharply.

“So you’re still their pet? Still giving a damn whether they’re satisfied?” Gi-hun’s voice dripped with anger now, the sound of his shoes stomping against the floor punctuating every word.

“I do,” In-ho said without hesitation. His tone was calm, almost clinical, but there was something cold and sharp under it. “If they’re happy, they’ll bother me less. And I can’t have them questioning where the Front Man is the whole time since I can’t join them to watch. So yes—I need to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

He said it like a plan he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head. Calculation layered over calculation, each word meant to keep things from spiraling out of his control.

Gi-hun shook his head, teeth clenched.

“Fine. If that’s what you tell yourself to sleep at night,” he spat, his voice low and biting. “But you’re still responsible for everyone who dies in that game. No matter how you word it.”

He didn’t look at In-ho when he said it. If he had, he would’ve seen the flicker—the subtle, fleeting crack of disappointment in In-ho’s eyes before the mask sealed it away again.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The tension was a living thing between them, heavy and unspoken.

When they reached the dorms, In-ho paused, glancing at Gi-hun for confirmation that he was ready.

Gi-hun nodded wordlessly.

In-ho pushed the door open.

Once they walked inside, it felt strange—almost unsettling. The room looked bigger now, emptier than before, with the bunk beds gone and only the single beds left for them. It was something Gi-hun hadn’t noticed the last time he entered.

His eyes swept across the space, taking in the sight of Jung-bae on the other side. Jung-bae glanced back at him, his gaze questioning, like he wanted to ask what had happened between Gi-hun and In-ho. Gi-hun ignored it, turning his attention to the group.

They were all gathered around Jun-hee and the baby, sitting on a nearby bed, talking quietly. Across the room were the remaining players, scattered on their own beds, keeping their distance.

Gi-hun’s eyes flicked back to In-ho—and froze. In-ho was already looking at him. His face was unreadable, but softer than before, his features shadowed by exhaustion. He didn’t look away, and Gi-hun didn’t either. For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither blinked. They stared into each other’s eyes like they were trying to peel back layers and see what was underneath.

The others noticed. They didn’t say anything, but the air shifted. It was impossible to ignore how intensely the two men were looking at each other, like no one else in the room existed.

In-ho’s thoughts were a storm behind his calm expression. He studied Gi-hun’s face as if trying to memorize every detail—the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes softened when he was calm. What if this was the last day they’d spend together? He didn’t know what would happen next, but if this was the end, he wanted to hold on to something. He wanted to give Gi-hun everything he asked for, to listen to every word like it mattered, so that even years from now, if the memories haunted him, he’d have this moment as comfort.

His mind drifted back to his wife—the last time he saw her. How the memory had slipped through his fingers like water. He barely remembered her face, and that thought gutted him. He wasn’t going to let that happen again. He wasn’t going to let Gi-hun become another regret. Another failure because he wasn’t strong enough.

Gi-hun looked at him like he was worth something, and it tore In-ho apart.

The buzz of the door shattered the moment. Guards walked in, their voices sharp as they congratulated the players for passing the game. The piggy bank above them filled with more cash, the sound of coins clinking like a cruel reminder of everything they’d lost.

“Eighteen players left,” one guard announced.

Eighteen—including the baby.

On the other side of the room, the players started arguing. “It should be seventeen! You didn’t count right!”

When the guards explained that the baby was considered a player, chaos broke out. Voices rose, echoing against the walls as the nine players from the other side shouted that it wasn’t fair.

“The baby hasn’t played the games! She doesn’t deserve a share!”

The argument escalated until one of them snapped, and then they all moved—charging toward Jun-hee and the baby.

Gi-hun and In-ho reacted instantly, moving toward them without a second thought. The group closed ranks, forming a protective circle around Jun-hee and the child as the others lunged forward.

The sharp crack of gunfire stopped everyone cold.

Guards fired warning shots into the ceiling, their voices booming through the panic.

“Physical violence between players will no longer be allowed. It is our intention to give every player a fair chance. Please cooperate.”

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air.

Then, more guards entered, carrying sleek black-and-pink-wrapped boxes in their arms.

“To congratulate you for reaching the final game, we have prepared a special gift.”

Gi-hun knew exactly what was inside before he even touched the box. The tuxedos. Just like last time.

As the guards handed out the boxes, the nine hostile players retreated, muttering under their breath. Gi-hun sat on the edge of a bed next to In-ho, the weight of the box resting on his knees. When he opened it, his suspicion was confirmed—it was the same tuxedo, pristine and cold, like a cruel joke.

Around them, voices rose in mixed reactions:

“This is ridiculous,” the old woman muttered from across the room.

Hyun-ju agreed, “It’s not even fair. They don’t have options for women?”

Dae-ho, on the other hand, grinned as he said, “Well, at least it’s something that isn’t this damn tracksuit. I’ve worn it for almost a week.”

Jung-bae chimed in, nodding in agreement, while Yong-sik cracked a joke about how the baby didn’t get one, adding that she would’ve looked cute in a tuxedo. The group laughed, even Gi-hun smiling a little despite the heaviness in the air.

His smile faded when he glanced at In-ho.

In-ho wasn’t laughing. He was staring at the suit like it held something more than fabric. His eyes were glassy, almost watery, and for a second, Gi-hun wondered if he was going to cry again. Twice in one day? What the hell was happening to him? This was the Front Man, the one person who never cracked.

“You alright?” Gi-hun whispered, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Yeah,” In-ho said quickly, blinking away any trace of tears before they could fall. He straightened his posture, forcing on that perfect, practiced mask, and even smiled—but it was the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Gi-hun didn’t buy it. But instead of pushing, he shifted the conversation. “Did they have the same tuxedos when you played?”

He wasn’t trying to dig too deep—just a casual question, something neutral they could both talk about.

In-ho looked at the suit for a long moment before answering. “Yeah. I don’t think they’ve changed it.” His tone was flat, the words clipped short.

Gi-hun nodded slowly, letting the subject drop.

Across the room, one of the players mentioned heading to the restroom to change. Before the others could speak, Gi-hun jumped in. “We should probably take turns to avoid trouble. Let the other nine players go first, just in case. But Geum-ja, Jun-hee, and Hyun-ju should go first from our side, and we’ll watch the baby.”

The plan seemed reasonable, and everyone agreed. The nine players left first, giving the group hateful glares as they passed.

Jun-hee walked over, handing the baby to Gi-hun. He adjusted his arms carefully, making sure to support her head, while Jun-hee and the other women headed to the bathroom.

Now it was just In-ho, Gi-hun, and the baby on one side, with Young-sik sitting nearby with his back turned, while Dae-ho and Jung-bae sat a little farther down, facing them.

The baby was asleep, her small face soft and peaceful against Gi-hun’s arm. He stared at her, heart tight with worry, when Dae-ho broke the silence.

“So… what do we do now?” His tone carried boredom, but the question was real.

“Wait,” In-ho answered simply, his voice even.

“Yeah, but do we need to do anything to protect ourselves tonight?” Dae-ho pressed, glancing between them.

Gi-hun looked at him, then at In-ho. He waited for In-ho’s response.

“No. The guards will make sure we’re safe tonight,” In-ho said calmly.

‘Right. The guards. Not the Front Man,’ Gi-hun thought. He knew what In-ho really meant—they’d be safe because of him. That should’ve comforted Gi-hun, but instead it made his chest feel heavy.

“Right, because the guards have been so concerned with our safety before. Now we should trust them on our last night here?” Jung-bae shot back, his voice sharp and biting.

Only Gi-hun and In-ho understood the real weight behind his words.

Gi-hun glared at Jung-bae, silently warning him to shut up, but In-ho responded first.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have started a rebellion if you wanted to stay in the guards’ good graces,” he said bitterly, the edge in his voice almost slipping too far.

“Maybe they shouldn’t be kidnapping people and mass-murdering them if they don’t want us to fight back,” Jung-bae snapped, angrier now.

“Everyone here chose to come. And they had the chance to vote to leave. It’s been as fair as it could be,” In-ho shot back.

His tone was colder now, sharper—too much like the Front Man. Gi-hun saw it instantly and knew he had to stop this before the others started piecing things together.

Without a word, he reached out, placing his free hand on In-ho’s wrist. It was a silent plea: stop.

In-ho looked at him. For a second, the anger drained from his face. His gaze dropped to Gi-hun’s hand resting against his skin, and then he exhaled slowly, pulling the fire back inside before it burned everything down.

Gi-hun withdrew his hand, holding the baby close again.

Jung-bae noticed. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes flicked between them, suspicious.

The room fell quiet again.

The door opened, breaking the tension as the nine players returned in their tuxedos, laughing among themselves. Gi-hun glanced down at the baby, still asleep, his chest tightening with dread. How was she going to survive the next game—especially when those players wanted her gone?

“It’s okay. We’ll protect her,” In-ho whispered suddenly, leaning in close like he’d read Gi-hun’s mind.

Gi-hun looked at him, startled. The certainty in In-ho’s voice eased something inside him, and he nodded.

The women returned soon after, dressed in their suits. Jun-hee came to take the baby back, nodding in thanks before settling on her bed.

“Alright,” In-ho said, looking toward the others. “You three should change next. We’ll stay behind and make sure those players don’t try anything.”

Young-sik nodded immediately. Dae-ho gave a short, “Yes, sir,” while Jung-bae just glared.

As they left, Geum-ja smiled warmly from her bed. “Thank you both for staying behind. You two have been like guardian angels.”

Gi-hun and In-ho exchanged a look, trying not to laugh at how wrong that was.

“Hmm,” Gi-hun hummed, smirking as he bumped In-ho’s shoulder. “You hear that? You’re a guardian angel now.”

In-ho looked at him, flustered. His cheeks burned as he looked away. He wasn’t a good person—he knew that. Somehow, though, he’d fooled these people into thinking he was. Only Gi-hun knew the truth. And somehow, Gi-hun was teasing him about it.

“Shut up. You don’t even believe in that stuff,” In-ho muttered. He knew Gi-hun wasn’t religious. It wasn’t in the file, but he’d also overheard conversations while spying.

Gi-hun blinked at him, shocked. “Stalker much?” he teased quietly, making sure the others didn’t hear.

In-ho actually grinned. “I’m not the one who went into a Halloween party at a club looking for the other.”

Gi-hun scoffed. “That’s what the damn invitation said! What was I supposed to think?”

In-ho smirked. “I don’t know—maybe be logical? I had to send guards to retrieve you from that club.”

Gi-hun groaned, remembering the overstimulation, the noise, the lights. He hated that club. He was too old for that crap. “Not everyone can be a smartass like you. Maybe next time, write the exact spot instead of expecting people to read your mind.”

“So there’ll be a next time?” In-ho leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing.

Gi-hun shoved him lightly in the chest. “Like hell. I’m never spending another birthday chasing you around.”

“Hm. So I should just pick one of the other 364 days, then?” In-ho replied smoothly, his smirk widening as Gi-hun grew more flustered.

Before Gi-hun could answer, the door opened again. Jung-bae walked in first, followed by Dae-ho and Young-sik, now fully dressed in tuxedos.

In-ho stood and, without thinking, offered his hand to Gi-hun. For a moment, Gi-hun stared at it—then ignored it, pushing himself up while holding the box in his other hand.

In-ho quickly dropped his hand to his side, masking the awkwardness. He followed as Gi-hun walked ahead, and together they headed out the door.

Once they stepped out the door, In-ho paused, turning slightly to say something to the guards. Gi-hun didn’t wait. He just kept walking down the hall, his strides purposeful.

A few moments later, In-ho caught up, his sharp eyes flicking toward Gi-hun, who was already disappearing into the bathroom in a hurry. Both of them set their boxes on the counter and began opening them.

In-ho hesitated, staring at his own box for a moment. The thought crept in—maybe he should take a quick shower. Wash off the blood. It would be better than having to scrub it away tomorrow in the communal bathroom back at his building. The thought of going home at all felt strange; he had barely been there these past few years, avoiding it like a shadow so Jun-ho wouldn’t find him. And Jun-ho… Jun-ho was still paying for it. That guilt gnawed at him, but what could he do? He couldn’t take over the payments again without risking exposure.

His eyes slid to Gi-hun, who was pulling the tuxedo from his own box, setting the lid aside on the sink.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” In-ho said abruptly, grabbing the small bottle of soap provided.

“Seriously? Now? We don’t have that much time,” Gi-hun shot back, his voice dripping with annoyance as he watched In-ho walk away.

“I’ll be quick,” In-ho replied before slipping behind the curtain and shutting it with a faint swish. He left his unopened box sitting right outside the stall.

Gi-hun sighed, muttering under his breath as he stared down at the tuxedo in his hands. He swore to himself—after his first Games, he’d promised he would never wear a suit like this again. Now here he was, in the exact same situation, surrounded by the very person who had kept the Games alive. And the worst part? He couldn’t hate In-ho. No matter how much he wanted to, he just… couldn’t.

Taking the clothes, Gi-hun slipped into one of the stalls to change. The tuxedo fit perfectly, just like the last time—and that irritated him even more. Why did they have to know everything about the players? Even their damn measurements. It made him feel like his privacy had never existed in the first place.

When he stepped out, the room was filled with steam from the shower. He walked to the mirror, swiping a hand across the fogged glass so he could see his reflection. The suit felt wrong on his body—tight in all the ways that didn’t feel like him. He hated it. Would never have picked something like this for himself. But he didn’t have a choice.

Glancing toward the shower, he realized In-ho was taking his sweet time. Gi-hun was ready to leave already.

“Hurry up, will you?” Gi-hun called out, raising his voice over the sound of running water.

In-ho hummed in acknowledgment. After a few seconds, Gi-hun saw a hand slip out from behind the curtain, grabbing the box. For the briefest moment, Gi-hun caught a glimpse of his arm—lean, sculpted muscle under droplets of water. Muscles that had taken years to build, maybe for his job as a cop… or maybe just out of habit. Gi-hun didn’t really want to think about why that mattered, but the image burned in his mind anyway.

And then came another image—an older one. The last time he barged into one of In-ho’s showers. The flash of his bare skin. The scars. He still remembered those scars vividly. They’d stayed with him, quietly gnawing at the back of his mind. How many of those marks came from In-ho’s first Games?

When In-ho finally stepped out, he was fully dressed in the tuxedo, the steam curling around him like smoke from a stage curtain. He looked… right in it. Like someone who belonged in a suit like that. And Gi-hun hated how good he looked. It was almost irritating. He bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything stupid.

In-ho walked toward him slowly, his gaze sweeping over Gi-hun in a way that made him hyper-aware of every detail. Then he stopped. A smirk tugged at his mouth—subtle at first, then sharper, more deliberate.

“What?” Gi-hun asked, his tone sharp with annoyance.

“Nothing,” In-ho said smoothly, shaking his head as the smirk deepened.

Before Gi-hun could respond, In-ho closed the distance between them, stepping into his space so suddenly that Gi-hun’s eyes widened. His hands moved without hesitation, reaching for Gi-hun’s collar.

“What the—” Gi-hun stiffened, heart kicking in his chest as In-ho’s fingers brushed against the bow tie, adjusting it with calm precision. His eyes stayed lowered, focused on the knot as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Gi-hun didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just watched him, his pulse hammering as In-ho straightened the tie like he had every right to.

Finally, In-ho stepped back. “It was crooked,” he said with a smirk—a lie, and they both knew it. It had been perfect. He just wanted an excuse. Wanted to see the reaction. And judging by Gi-hun’s face, he wasn’t disappointed.

“Let’s go,” In-ho added, turning for the door as if nothing had happened.

Gi-hun stood there for a beat, speechless. He only started moving when the door opened and In-ho glanced back, smirk still in place like a victory flag.

Gi-hun shot him a death glare, but In-ho didn’t falter. If anything, the smirk grew.

Gi-hun muttered under his breath as he followed, staying a few steps behind. When they reached the next room, In-ho held the door open for him.

Gi-hun eyed him suspiciously but said nothing, walking through first. In-ho trailed in after him.

The room had transformed. The same space that had felt so empty before now glowed under the soft flicker of candlelight. The tables, draped in white linen, filled the room. The largest table stood in the center, the towering piggy bank gleaming on the floor like a twisted centerpiece.

It was similar to the dinner Gi-hun remembered from his first Games—but bigger, more lavish. Separate tables touched at the edges, forming a loose circle with just enough space between them.

Guards instructed them to sit. Gi-hun slid into the first table, while In-ho took the seat beside him—close enough that it felt intentional, though not obvious. Geum-ja settled at the next table, her son beside her. Hyun-ju and Jun-hee followed, placing the baby in a cushioned spot at the center. On the opposite side, Dae-ho and Jung-bae took their seats, while the remaining nine players clustered together farther down.

“We have prepared as much food and drink as you need,” a guard announced. “If you require more, please let us know.”

When Gi-hun glanced at the spread up close, his breath caught. There was so much more than before—steak like last time, yes, but also bowls of rice, kimchi, japchae, galbi, oysters glistening on ice, and more. Wine and water shimmered in crystal glasses.

Some players dug in immediately, hunger overriding suspicion. Others hesitated, just staring at the plates like they didn’t trust it.

A circle guard prepared a bottle of formula for the baby, feeding her carefully while Jun-hee, reassured, began to eat. Dae-ho stuffed food into his mouth so fast that he started choking, and Jung-bae had to thump his back a few times while rolling his eyes.

Gi-hun took a few bites himself, chewing slowly. When he glanced sideways, he noticed In-ho hadn’t touched his food. His arms rested on the table, crossed, his expression distant as his gaze stayed fixed on the untouched plate in front of him.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Gi-hun asked, breaking the silence.

In-ho looked up, his face neutral. “Just not hungry.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. But the truth—there was too much on his mind. Tomorrow. Jun-ho. Things spiraling beyond his control. This was the first quiet moment he’d had in days, and it was suffocating.

“How are you not hungry after the day we had?” Gi-hun scoffed, shaking his head like In-ho was insane. This was the same man who had spent all week pushing him to eat, sneaking food when he could. And now, suddenly, In-ho was the one refusing?

“Just got a lot on my mind,” In-ho admitted finally, his voice low. His eyes stayed on the plate. He didn’t look up even when he felt Gi-hun move.

A shadow fell across his view. In-ho blinked—and found a piece of steak hovering in front of his lips, held by a pair of chopsticks. Gi-hun stood there, arm outstretched, eyes fixed on him.

“Come on,” Gi-hun said, his tone teasing but soft. “Eat. It’ll clear your head. Did your mom never tell you that?”

He pressed the chopsticks closer, nudging against In-ho’s mouth until his lips parted slightly.

“Do you need the airplane? Come on, eat. Stop being a baby.”

The corner of In-ho’s mouth twitched as a scoff slipped out. Offended, but not enough to resist, he leaned forward and let the steak slide past his lips.

“I’m not the baby,” he muttered under his breath as he chewed. “You’re the childish one.”

“Huh? What was that?” Gi-hun asked, feigning innocence even though he’d heard every word. He popped a piece of steak into his own mouth before picking up a strand of japchae and holding it out.

In-ho stared at him like he couldn’t believe this was happening. But Gi-hun’s stare didn’t waver. And eventually, In-ho leaned in and took the bite like he didn’t have a choice.

Gi-hun grinned, satisfied, and helped himself to some rice and a glass of water before setting the cup down. His eyes locked with In-ho’s again.

“So… are you gonna eat on your own, or do I have to feed you the entire time like a child?” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

In-ho broke eye contact, making a low sound of annoyance before picking up his own chopsticks. Gi-hun smirked as he watched him finally start eating.

Neither of them noticed Jung-bae watching from across the tables. His eyes burned with rage as he took in the scene—Gi-hun laughing, teasing, leaning in toward the psychopath who had orchestrated this nightmare. Acting like they were friends.

Then the guard stepped forward, placing the voting machine in the middle of the room, directly in front of the massive piggy bank.

“You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the game or not,” the square-masked guard announced, his voice echoing through the heavy silence that followed. “But before we begin, you will be given a hint about the final game.”

The sound of forks scraping against plates faded as everyone froze. Gi-hun’s head turned slowly toward In-ho, his chest tightening when he noticed the man had stopped eating altogether. His hands rested stiffly on the table, gaze lowered, jaw clenched.

“In the final game,” the guard continued, “you will each get to choose which player to eliminate.”

The entire room went still. The tension thickened instantly, almost suffocating. Chairs creaked as players shifted uneasily. Gi-hun’s stomach churned.

“We… we get to decide who gets eliminated?” Player 100 asked, his voice cracking slightly.

“That is correct,” the guard replied.

Gi-hun’s fists curled on the table. His eyes snapped back to In-ho, rage tightening his face. Of course. Of course this had been part of the plan. An insurance policy to keep players desperate enough to continue.

“If you can all agree on which three players should be eliminated,” the guard went on, “everyone else will make it through the game.”

A murmur broke out immediately. Questions were thrown at the guards like stones. Then, realization hit the other nine players at once—they could eliminate more than three people. Voices rose louder, sharp and ugly, as they questioned the rules, their words laced with greed.

The guard waited for the noise to die down, then gave the final instruction: “We will now begin the vote. Player 456, please cast your vote.”

Gi-hun froze for a moment. Horror gripped him as he stood slowly from his chair. His eyes met In-ho’s one last time, silently pleading for something—anything. But In-ho didn’t look back. His gaze stayed fixed on the table, expression unreadable.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, walked to the machine, and stared at the glowing buttons. X or O. He let out a long, heavy sigh. Then he pressed the X.

The sound of the machine beeped like a gunshot. It began—the endless voting cycle.

One by one, their group voted to leave, excluding the baby who, of course, couldn’t vote. Across from them, the nine players voted to stay. Geum-ja, the old lady, begged them to stop, to go home, her voice trembling as she pleaded for mercy before casting her vote. None of them listened.

Finally, the last player was called. In-ho.

His number rang out, and he rose silently, his face a mask as he walked to the machine. He didn’t glance at Gi-hun. Didn’t glance at anyone. His finger hovered for a fraction of a second before pressing the X. Vote to leave.

But it was useless. The final tally appeared on the screen: 8–9.

The Games would continue.

The nine players erupted into cheers, laughing and toasting their impending victory as they returned to their seats. Across from them, Gi-hun’s group sat in suffocating silence. The weight of the loss crushed down on them. Their hope—snuffed out like a candle.

Gi-hun’s stomach knotted until it hurt. His appetite was gone. The food in front of him now looked like poison. He stared blankly at the table, his mind blank, hands clenched in his lap. Beside him, In-ho sat just as still, lost in his thoughts, his food untouched.

It felt like hours before everyone finished eating, though barely any time had passed. When the last bite was taken, the guards ordered them to return to their beds. The players obeyed in silence.

The tables were cleared away, leaving only the piggy bank in the center, glowing ominously like a beacon of blood money.

Gi-hun walked to the first bed near the door and sank down. In-ho followed, taking the one next to him without a word. One by one, the others settled on their bunks.

Across the room, the nine players huddled together, whispering plans for tomorrow. Their voices carried just enough for everyone to hear. The laughter. The cruel snickers. The glances they threw at the opposite side like hunters sizing up prey.

The old lady stiffened. Fear creased her face as she clutched her son’s hand. He squeezed back, murmuring something soft. Hyun-ju moved closer to Jun-hee, helping her with the baby. The guards had supplied a onesie and diapers, so Jun-hee changed the baby quickly, her hands trembling. Dae-ho and Jung-bae kicked off their shoes, trying to relax—but their jaws were tight, eyes darting toward the other group every few seconds.

Eventually, the nine players drifted to their beds, laughing until the sound faded into the dark.

Gi-hun noticed Jun-hee still awake, hovering anxiously over the baby. He hesitated, then pushed up from his bed and walked over. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw In-ho glance up—just for a second—before looking down again.

“What’s wrong?” Gi-hun asked softly when he reached her.

Jun-hee looked up, eyes glistening. “I… I’m not sure if I burped her right.” Her voice shook like she was on the edge of tears.

Gi-hun exhaled in relief. For a second, he thought it was something serious. He remembered those early days—being a new parent, second-guessing every tiny thing, terrified of doing it wrong.

“Here,” Gi-hun said gently, stepping closer. “Let me try. I’m sure she’s fine. It’s normal to worry the first time.”

Jun-hee nodded quickly and passed the baby over. Gi-hun cradled her carefully, supporting her head as he lifted her against his shoulder. His hand rubbed slow circles over her back, patient and steady.

“Babies this young usually burp easily,” Gi-hun murmured, his voice calm as if speaking soothed both of them. “You just have to be gentle.”

After a few moments, the tiny sound came—a soft burp breaking through the tension. Gi-hun smiled faintly and pulled her back to check her little face. She had already begun drifting off again.

“See? She’s fine.” He nodded toward Jun-hee, handing the baby back carefully. “You should get some sleep tonight. You need it, especially since you’re still injured. If she wakes up during the night, I’ll look after her. The guards will probably give us another bottle if she needs it. So just rest.”

Jun-hee blinked at him, stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Gi-hun’s voice was firm but warm. “I’ve done this before. I know how restless babies can get. Better for you to get as much sleep as possible.”

Jun-hee’s shoulders eased as she nodded slowly. “Thank you. Really—thank you for everything you’ve done for her. I don’t know how we would have survived without you.”

Gi-hun shook his head lightly, glancing back at the bed where In-ho sat, lost in thought. “Well… In-ho helped too,” he said, almost reluctantly, then turned back to her with a small smile. “Get some rest, Jun-hee.”

She murmured another thanks as she placed the baby in the small cot near her bed—the one Gi-hun guessed had come from In-ho’s endless list of requests to the guards.

Everyone settled down after that. Silence stretched across the room like a suffocating blanket. Gi-hun returned to his bed, sitting on the edge, staring at the glowing piggy bank in the center of the room. The only light left flickered across his face as his thoughts spiraled.

What would happen tomorrow? How many ways could this end? He prayed Jun-ho would make it in time. And he prayed In-ho… would help him.

Time blurred. Minutes stretched into eternity.

Then he heard it—a soft cry.

Followed by a louder one.

The baby was awake.

Gi-hun rose instantly, padding over to the cot. He scooped her up, rocking gently, murmuring soft shushing sounds so she wouldn’t wake the others.

Then a voice startled him from behind.

“Why is she crying?”

Gi-hun spun around. In-ho stood there, his shadow stretching long across the floor. His voice was low but edged with something sharp.

“So now you’re talking to me,” Gi-hun muttered, his words clipped, anger simmering. Hours of silence—and now he decides to speak? Over this?

“We should leave the room before everyone wakes up,” In-ho said evenly, stepping closer as the baby’s cries grew louder.

Gi-hun hated to admit it, but he was right. He glanced toward Jun-hee, who was beginning to stir. Without another word, Gi-hun started walking toward the door, cradling the baby.

In-ho moved ahead, striding to the door first. He turned to the guards stationed there. “Open it,” he commanded.

The guards obeyed.

Gi-hun followed him out with the baby in his arms, still trying to calm her soft cries that were quickly growing louder.

“Where’s the rest of the baby’s supplies?” In-ho asked one of the guards sharply, his tone firm and commanding.

“Your quarters, Captain,” the square guard replied immediately.

In-ho gave a short nod before turning his attention to Gi-hun, who was still focused entirely on the baby. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching out to grab Gi-hun’s arm and pulling him forward to start walking.

Gi-hun let him for only a moment before shaking his arm free, his jaw tightening. He was still angry at him.

“She’s probably hungry,” Gi-hun muttered, not looking away from the tiny face pressed against his chest as they walked, his pace quickening slightly.

“We can make her a bottle in the room. The formula should be in the bag,” In-ho replied, striding beside him as they moved down the hall, his tone brisk but calm.

When they reached the elevator, both men stepped inside quickly. In-ho pressed the colored button for his floor, and then the silence between them grew heavy as the doors slid shut. The baby’s cries echoed softly in the enclosed space, the sound raw and desperate. Neither of them spoke as the elevator hummed its way up, each man lost in his own thoughts.

As soon as the doors opened, they stepped out and headed down the corridor toward In-ho’s quarters. Gi-hun followed close behind as In-ho walked ahead, his movements sharp and purposeful.

The moment they entered the room, In-ho strode over to a dark black backpack sitting outside his bedroom door and picked it up in one swift motion. Then, pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked the bedroom door. Gi-hun followed him inside silently, still rocking the baby gently as he tried to soothe her.

In-ho unzipped the bag and immediately began pulling items out: a bottle warmer, a glass baby bottle, placing them neatly on the bed next to the bag. Then he pulled out a gallon of distilled water, followed by a container of baby formula. Gi-hun watched him quietly, saying nothing as In-ho worked with precise, practiced movements, completely focused on the task.

After lining everything up on the desk and plugging in the bottle warmer, In-ho finally turned toward Gi-hun. His expression was unreadable, voice steady as he said, “I can hold her. You can make the bottle since you know how to.”

He extended his hands toward the baby.

Gi-hun hesitated for a second, then handed her over, mumbling, “Just make sure to support the head,” as he walked past him toward the desk.

“I’ve held a baby before, you know,” In-ho said with a scoff, clearly offended by the comment. He adjusted his arms, carefully supporting the baby’s fragile head as he looked down at her. She was even smaller than he expected, so tiny and delicate in his hold.

Deciding to make it easier, In-ho sat on the bed with the baby in his arms. It had been so long since he had held a baby—probably since one of his friends had a child, and even then, it was brief. He had held Jun-ho plenty of times as a baby, but that was so many years ago, and now the memory stung. He had forgotten how fragile babies were.

He kept rocking her gently, her small body shifting against his chest as her soft cries continued. He looked up toward Gi-hun to check on him—and froze for a moment.

Gi-hun wasn’t making the bottle. He was just standing there, scratching the side of his head with his index finger as he stared down at the items in front of him like he had no idea what to do.

“Why aren’t you making the bottle?” In-ho asked, frustration lacing his voice as the baby’s cries grew louder.

“Um… I’m not sure how to,” Gi-hun admitted, looking at In-ho with an awkward, pleading expression.

In-ho stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean you don’t know how? You have a daughter,” he said, confused as he rocked the baby gently to soothe her.

“Well… Eun-ji usually made them. I didn’t pay attention,” Gi-hun explained, sounding embarrassed as he looked away.

In-ho scoffed loudly, rising from the bed and striding toward the desk with the baby still in his arms. “No wonder your wife divorced you,” he muttered, picking up the formula and flipping the container to read the instructions.

“Hey! That happened way later, and it was for different reasons,” Gi-hun shot back, his voice louder than he intended as he tried to defend himself.

In-ho looked up from the container with a raised brow, his expression unreadable but filled with silent judgment. “That doesn’t help your case,” he said flatly before turning back to the instructions.

Gi-hun closed his mouth quickly, pouting a little as he glanced down at the baby in his arms before finally shifting to sit on the bed.

Meanwhile, In-ho focused on the task at hand, reading the instructions carefully before measuring out the formula with precise movements. He filled the bottle with water, mixed the formula, and placed it in the warmer. The hum of the machine filled the silence as both men fell quiet, each lost in thought.

When the bottle was ready, In-ho tested it on his hand, letting a few drops fall to check the temperature. Satisfied, he walked over to Gi-hun, who was now sitting with the baby.

“You know how to feed a baby, right?” In-ho asked, his voice tinged with teasing sarcasm, though there was a hint of genuine doubt there too.

“Yes,” Gi-hun muttered in an annoyed tone before snatching the bottle from In-ho’s hand.

An amused smile tugged at In-ho’s lips as he stepped back and watched Gi-hun begin to feed the baby. He didn’t say another word, just sat back in his chair, silently observing.

The baby was so tiny, drinking slowly, her small mouth working for every swallow. It took nearly twenty minutes for her to finish about half of the bottle, which was normal for a newborn this size.

When she finally stopped drinking, Gi-hun stood, placing the bottle on the desk. His arms were aching from holding her and the bottle at the right angle for so long. He turned toward In-ho, who was suddenly standing close to him—too close.

“Can you burp her?” Gi-hun asked, his voice quiet but tired.

In-ho nodded and reached for the baby. This time, Gi-hun didn’t hesitate.

He placed her gently against his shoulder, one hand supporting her head, the other patting her back softly but firmly. Gi-hun stepped back, watching silently.

Then it happened. A loud burp, followed by a small splatter of milk all over In-ho’s expensive black suit. The baby’s onesie was soaked too.

Gi-hun couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing.

“What? You have to admit that was funny,” Gi-hun said, trying to stifle his laughter but failing miserably. The sight of the frontman, sharp and stoic, now standing with baby vomit dripping down his shoulder was too much.

“It’s not funny,” In-ho said coldly, his jaw tight with irritation. “The perfectly good suit is ruined, and the baby needs to be changed.”

Still glaring, he walked over to Gi-hun and handed her back, careful not to get more milk on himself. Gi-hun took her gently, making sure his own clothes stayed clean. She was already asleep again, blissfully unaware of the mess she had caused.

In-ho turned back to the bag, searching through every pocket with growing frustration. His movements became more frantic.

“There’s no spare clothes,” he said finally, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“What do you mean there isn’t extra clothes? Babies go through at least ten a day,” Gi-hun said in disbelief, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself, glancing at the sleeping baby.

“I didn’t pack it. It was the guards—they bought what they could in the little time they had,” In-ho explained, still thinking through options. But there weren’t many. They couldn’t leave the baby in wet clothes.

Then it clicked. In-ho froze mid-thought, his chest tightening with dread. He knew what he had to do. He hated it—every second of the thought—but there was no other choice.

Gi-hun’s worried expression said everything: Do something.

In-ho sighed heavily and walked to the closet. He pulled out a suitcase, his fingers curling tightly around the handle as he placed it on the bed. He could feel Gi-hun’s eyes on him, questioning, but he ignored it.

He unzipped the suitcase slowly. The first things he saw were pictures—faces he had kept hidden away for years. He moved them aside quickly, not allowing himself to linger, even as his throat constricted.

Below that were his wife’s belongings from the hospital. Things he hadn’t known what to do with. Among them, two ring boxes with their wedding rings—boxes he could never bring himself to open.

And then, at the very bottom, he found it:

A striped blue-and-white onesie.

And a soft blue newborn jacket with tiny bear ears on the hood.

The sight made his chest ache, memories flooding back in vivid detail. His wife had bought these for their baby.

He remembered that day so clearly because it was the day he had been fired from the force—the day his life had shattered. He remembered the humiliation, the shame, walking into the hospital room trying to smile for her while everything inside him was breaking.

It was one of the worst days of his life.

In-ho walked into the hospital room with his head down, his steps heavy and slow. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes—not after what had happened earlier. He got fired.

Everything inside him felt hollow. He had given his whole life to the job, sacrificed years, relationships, his health… and in the end, they threw him out without even listening to his side of the story. They didn’t care that he hadn’t taken the bribe, that he was innocent. It didn’t matter. Everyone believed he had. The shame burned so deep he could barely breathe.

“Hey!” Seo-yeon’s voice broke through his thoughts, light and full of excitement as she spotted him. She had barely seen him these days, and her smile lit up her face—until she really looked at him. The joy faded quickly as worry filled her eyes. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

In-ho finally forced himself to meet her gaze, summoning a smile that felt like it might crack his face in two. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

It was a lie. Everything was falling apart, but he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t dump his burden on her when she was already fighting so much. She didn’t need his failures crushing her, too.

“How was work?” Seo-yeon asked softly, still watching him with suspicion. She didn’t believe him.

In-ho sat down in the chair next to her bed, his body stiff, trying to keep his face neutral so she wouldn’t see the storm raging inside him. “Fine,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper—tight, brittle, on the verge of breaking.

“Oh…” Seo-yeon tilted her head, her lips pressing together before she spoke again, her voice tinged with gentle teasing to lighten the mood. “Come on, you used to tell me every detail about your day. You wouldn’t shut up until you told me every single part of it. Now all I get is a ‘fine’?”

Her words pierced through him, and he looked up at her, guilt sinking like a weight in his chest. She looked weaker today—so much weaker than usual. She must have pushed herself again, even though the doctors had warned her to take it easy. He hated that. Hated seeing her like this.

“Nothing exciting happened,” he finally said, forcing the words out evenly. Nothing exciting—except that he no longer had a job. Except that he didn’t know how he was going to pay for her treatments now. Except that he was already drowning in debt with no way out.

Seo-yeon’s face fell slightly at his answer, disappointment flickering in her eyes, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she reached down beside the bed and pulled up a small bag.

“Look,” she said with a bright smile, her tone soft but full of warmth. “I got something today for the baby.”

She reached inside and slowly pulled out a tiny blue-and-white striped onesie, paired with a matching blue jacket—soft, with little bear ears on the hood.

“I made the nurse take me to the gift shop,” she said with a little laugh, pride and joy shining through her voice.

In-ho’s eyes widened in shock as the words sank in.

“Don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing his expression. “It was in a wheelchair anyway. It took me a while, but… I picked these out for the baby. Since we haven’t bought anything yet, I thought it was time to get him—or her—something.”

She held the tiny clothes up for him to see, her smile so pure, so hopeful it almost broke him in half.

But In-ho didn’t take them. He just sat there, frozen, staring at the soft blue fabric in her hands. His throat closed, and he could barely breathe as a bitter taste rose in his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said coldly, his voice sharper than he intended. “You know the baby probably won’t survive. You’re only hurting yourself in the long term—and me. There’s no point in buying stuff for it.”

Her happiness drained from her face in an instant. The glow in her eyes shattered as if he had slapped her.

“Don’t say that,” Seo-yeon whispered, tears welling in her eyes. Her voice trembled as she tried to hold on to hope. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

She reached out for his hand, the one resting on the arm of his chair, her fingers brushing against his skin, searching for any sign of reassurance.

But In-ho flinched.

He jerked his hand away and shot to his feet, anger and despair burning in his chest like fire. “There’s nothing to figure out. It’s already over,” he snapped, his voice like ice.

Then he turned and stormed out of the room without looking back.

Behind him, Seo-yeon’s cries filled the sterile white hallway as she called his name, begging him to come back.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

In-ho hated remembering that day. It had been the day he truly lost everything—the beginning of the end for him. After he stormed out of Seo-yeon’s hospital room, he ended up on the subway to go home. They had sold their car months ago, in the early stages of her treatment, to scrape together money for the bills. Ever since, he’d been riding the subway everywhere, something he hadn’t done since he was much younger.

That night, he missed his train.

And that was when the recruiter found him.

That was the night it all started.

Now, years later, that memory came rushing back like a wave as In-ho knelt in front of his open suitcase. His hands moved mechanically through its contents, digging deeper, searching.

Gi-hun noticed everything from where he stood across the room. He wasn’t close enough to see clearly, but he could make out enough—and every detail made his chest tighten with questions. He didn’t say anything, didn’t dare step forward and alert In-ho that he was looking, but his eyes stayed locked on the scene.

There were framed photos lying on top of the pile. Most of them were too far away to make out clearly, but one looked like a wedding picture. The woman beside In-ho must have been his late wife. Another photo showed a toddler with In-ho looking much younger—so that had to be Jun-ho. Then Gi-hun saw another one: In-ho in uniform, holding up a certificate, his arm around his mother and Jun-ho standing on the other side, older this time.

The rest of the items were packed tightly, some in those clear plastic hospital bags that usually carried a patient’s belongings. Gi-hun’s eyes landed on two small boxes—one black, one red, both velvet. Wedding rings, he realized instantly. His chest gave a small, involuntary ache as he thought about his own. He remembered pawning his ring—and, out of spite, pawning his ex-wife’s too—after she left him. He’d gambled the money away that same night with Jung-bae, losing everything like an idiot.

Gi-hun shook the bitter memory away just as In-ho’s hand stilled.

He was pulling out something from the bottom of the suitcase.

Baby clothes.

A tiny striped onesie with blue and white lines, and a soft blue jacket with little bear ears.

Gi-hun froze. Shit. Those weren’t just random baby clothes. They were his unborn child’s clothes—In-ho’s child. There was no other explanation.

Gi-hun’s throat tightened as he stared at In-ho’s face. The way his jaw locked. The way his hand lingered on the fabric, almost reverent, before he dragged in a breath and forced himself to move.

He didn’t cry.

Instead, he coughed—loud and fake—to break the tension. He knew Gi-hun was watching. He knew Gi-hun had probably figured it out. But there was no time for emotions, no room for weakness.

In-ho laid the clothes gently on the bed, then closed the suitcase and carried it back to the closet without saying a word. He shut the door a little harder than he meant to and turned back around, only to find Gi-hun’s eyes still on him.

He looked away immediately.

“You can change her,” In-ho said flatly, his voice tight as he stared at the floor, anywhere but Gi-hun’s face.

“Are you sure?” Gi-hun asked softly. But they both knew what he really meant: Are you sure you’re okay with this? Giving away the only clothes meant for your own child to someone else’s baby?

In-ho didn’t want to. God, he hated it. Those were the only damn things his wife had bought for their baby. The last thing connecting him to what could have been. And now he was handing them over like they meant nothing.

But they meant everything.

“Just do it,” he said firmly, his voice sharp as glass. It was the only answer he could give without his voice breaking.

Gi-hun nodded, saying nothing more. He laid the baby on the bed and started changing her into the tiny striped onesie and the soft bear-eared jacket.

In-ho couldn’t look. He turned away, busying himself with clearing the desk—unplugging the bottle warmer, putting everything neatly back into the bag. His movements were precise, controlled, almost obsessive. Anything to keep his hands busy, anything to avoid the image burned into the corner of his vision.

Because he saw it anyway.

The baby, snug in the bear jacket that wasn’t meant for her.

That image made something inside him snap.

He hated this. Hated that a part of him resented an innocent child for wearing what belonged to his. Hated that after years of shoving this pain into the darkest corners of his mind, it was clawing its way back out now, ripping through him like glass.

He zipped the bag and slung it over one shoulder, moving quickly, almost frantically, to get away from the sight.

Gi-hun stood then, the baby sleeping soundly in his arms, and In-ho felt him step closer behind him—but still, he didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low, clipped.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun replied after a beat.

In-ho started walking fast, heading for the door without another word, his stride purposeful, almost desperate to escape this room and everything it held. He reached out, his fingers brushing the elevator button—

And then the telephone rang.

Chapter Text

In-ho paused as the sharp ring of the telephone cut through the silence, his hand hovering inches above the elevator button. His fingers curled into a fist before he let his hand drop heavily to his side. He exhaled a slow, tense breath, dread clawing its way up his chest.

What could Jun-ho possibly want now? Hopefully… hopefully, he wasn’t here yet.

In-ho turned around, his eyes locking with Gi-hun’s. Gi-hun’s own eyes had widened at the sound of the ring, alarm written all over his face. In-ho didn’t let his gaze drift down to the baby—he couldn’t. Instead, his voice was low, controlled, but edged with something unspoken.

“It’s Jun-ho,” In-ho said, in case Gi-hun hadn’t realized.

His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the end of the hallway where the green landline waited like a curse. Every ring felt like torture. Still, he forced himself forward, each step heavier than the last, until he was standing eye-to-eye with the phone. For a moment, he froze, his chest rising and falling as the sound drilled into his head. Then he picked up the receiver slowly, as though it burned his hand.

“Jun-ho… what now?” In-ho’s voice came out low, strained, as he tried to keep himself together.

“I’ve been trying to call you for hours! Where the hell were you, In-ho?” Jun-ho’s voice on the other end was sharp with anger, frantic, almost breaking.

“Busy,” In-ho muttered. He ran his free hand over his face in frustration, his tone clipped as he continued, “You shouldn’t be calling. It’s reckless. What if someone else had picked up?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, hyeong,” Jun-ho shot back, his voice trembling with bitterness and something colder at the edges. “I’m not going to expose your identity. I wouldn’t do that to eomma—knowing what kind of monster you are.”

The last part landed like a knife. In-ho’s grip on the receiver tightened. He’d expected it—hell, he deserved it—but hearing it from Jun-ho still made his stomach twist.

“So you should leave the island tomorrow. Before they arrive,” Jun-ho continued, his tone softening slightly, but there was something unsaid lingering there, something In-ho could feel between the words. A plea. A desperate hope that maybe this time, In-ho wouldn’t disappear. That he would choose to come back.

But Jun-ho didn’t ask outright. Maybe… maybe he’d finally given up on him.

“I can’t do that, Jun-ho. Not until everyone is out,” In-ho said finally, his voice flat but heavy. “There’s still a lot of players left. The final game is tomorrow—” He paused, forcing the words out before his voice cracked. “Can you wait? Just a little longer? Let the game finish… then I’ll end this. For good. Please, Jun-ho.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, then an explosion of anger.

“Are you insane, In-ho? You want me to let you play your little games so more people can die?” Jun-ho’s voice rose, fury spilling over the line.

“You don’t understand who you’re messing with!” In-ho’s voice hardened, cold, but desperate underneath. “If the games end unfinished, the VIPs will come after you. If they’re satisfied, they might forget about it.”

His explanation sounded hollow even to himself, but it was the truth—the only way to keep Jun-ho alive. He didn’t have the time to make him understand, not completely.

From the corner of his eye, In-ho saw movement. Gi-hun had stepped into his line of sight, closer now, the baby still cradled carefully in his arms. His expression was unreadable but firm.

“Let me talk to him,” Gi-hun said suddenly, adjusting the baby with one arm so he could free his other hand. He held it out toward In-ho, silently demanding the receiver.

In-ho hesitated, his fingers lingering on the phone as his eyes met Gi-hun’s. For a moment, neither moved. Then slowly, In-ho placed the receiver in Gi-hun’s hand, their fingers brushing briefly—a fleeting, electric moment before it was gone.

Gi-hun hesitated for a second, then brought the phone to his ear.

“Jun-ho,” Gi-hun said first, testing the waters. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight.

In-ho let his eyes drop then, finally—down to the baby nestled in Gi-hun’s arm, her tiny frame wrapped in the blue bear jacket. The sight pierced something deep inside him. For the briefest second, it didn’t ache as much as before… but then it came back twice as sharp, pulling at every frayed string in his chest.

“Gi-hun? You’re still alive?” Jun-ho’s voice burst through the receiver, full of disbelief.

“Yeah, no thanks to your plan,” Gi-hun snapped back, his tone sharp, annoyance dripping from every syllable. “Look—”

“Gi-hun, we didn’t know they’d find the tracker so easily! Wait—what are you doing with my brother—shit, I mean the Front Man—” Jun-ho caught himself too late, the slip hanging heavy in the air.

Gi-hun clenched his jaw. He wanted to scream at him, to tear into him for lying, for dragging him into this mess—but he swallowed it down. It would have to wait until tomorrow. When they were face-to-face, then he’d let him have it. Maybe even punch him.

“Just do what he’s saying, Jun-ho. There’s a lot of lives depending on it,” Gi-hun said instead, voice firm, controlled.

He pulled the receiver away and held it out to In-ho again. Their eyes met as In-ho reached for it, fingers brushing lightly as he took it back with a weight in his chest that nearly crushed him. Gi-hun adjusted his hold on the baby, now resting her fully in both arms, her breathing soft and even as she slept through the tension crackling in the room.

“There’s an east exit,” In-ho said into the phone, his voice all business now. “It’s not obvious, but once I start the evacuation protocol, it’ll open. You need to meet us there. The other exits will be crawling with guards leaving the island.”

“Fine. I’ll figure it out. How will I know when to call the coast guard?” Jun-ho asked, his voice still sharp, but steadier now.

“Wait an hour after sunrise. We should finish the game by then. Don’t wait a second longer.”

“Right. I’ll get to the east side after calling them. Anything else?”

In-ho froze. For a split second, he wondered if Jun-ho meant the plan… or something more. Did Jun-ho want him to say the words? The words he used to say before every call ended? Stay safe. I love you.

But the words lodged in his throat. Too much time had passed. It felt impossible now. So instead, he said the only thing that could come out without breaking him:

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

He hoped Jun-ho could hear what he couldn’t say—that it was buried between the words, where it had always been.

Before Jun-ho could respond, In-ho hung up, the heavy click echoing louder than it should.

When he turned, Gi-hun was looking at him. Something in his expression twisted deep inside In-ho, making him feel exposed, vulnerable. He hated it. So he cleared his throat, forcing his voice into something hard and flat.

“Right. Let’s go.”

He brushed past Gi-hun quickly, heading for the hallway before Gi-hun could say anything else. He didn’t stop until he was at the elevator, jabbing the button with more force than necessary.

Behind him, he heard Gi-hun’s footsteps, steady, carrying the soft sound of a baby’s quiet breaths as he followed.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open with a metallic hum. In-ho’s eyes flicked toward the hallway beyond, but something heavy lingered in his chest—a decision he’d been holding back since the call.

“Wait here,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Gi-hun, standing just behind him with the baby in his arms, frowned in confusion. His gaze tracked In-ho as he stepped out of the elevator and strode past him, disappearing into his bedroom without another word.

Gi-hun stood frozen, clutching the baby closer. His mind buzzed with what had just happened—the phone call, Jun-ho’s voice, the way In-ho’s tone had shifted completely when he spoke to his brother. Gi-hun had expected something like that, but hearing it still felt strange. For the first time, In-ho hadn’t sounded like the cold, detached man he’d grown used to—he’d sounded like a real older brother, someone desperately holding himself together. Their conversation had been formal, tense, but underneath it, Gi-hun had heard something raw.

Before Gi-hun could dwell on it any longer, In-ho returned. And this time, his hand wasn’t empty.

Gi-hun’s eyes narrowed when he saw the glint of black and gold—a knife, sleek and menacing, its metal sheath catching the low light as In-ho gripped it tightly at his side. He almost looked like he was trying to hide it, but Gi-hun noticed immediately.

“What’s the knife for?” Gi-hun asked, stepping into the elevator as In-ho joined him. His voice was sharp, suspicion clear.

In-ho’s face hardened. He glanced down briefly, his jaw tightening before he muttered, cold and clipped, “It doesn’t concern you.”

Gi-hun scoffed, his grip on the baby tightening as he turned toward him. “What are you going to do with it, In-ho?” he pressed, not letting go of the question so easily.

“Do what has to be done,” In-ho replied roughly, his tone like steel. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to meet Gi-hun’s glare as the elevator doors slid open to the hallway below.

Neither of them moved. The air between them was taut, thrumming with tension.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Gi-hun snapped, his voice rising. “You obviously have a plan—so tell me!”

In-ho’s head snapped toward him, his eyes dark, glinting with something dangerous and pained. In a flash, his free hand shot out, gripping Gi-hun’s arm tightly.

“Are you willing to do what’s needed?” In-ho barked, his voice like a growl. “Are you going to kill whoever needs to die to get off this island? Because down there are people who will come after us if I don’t do something about it now.”

His grip tightened, fingers digging in, anger spilling over—but underneath, there was something else. Desperation. Fear.

Then, just as quickly, In-ho let go. His jaw clenched as he turned away, storming out of the elevator without another word.

Gi-hun stood stunned, his mind racing. Then the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. That look in In-ho’s eyes—it wasn’t just anger. It was something darker. Something final.

He’s going to do something stupid.

The thought ignited panic in Gi-hun’s chest. The man who had just walked away wasn’t the same one who had burp a baby twenty minutes ago. That was the Front Man—the man capable of unspeakable things.

“Damn it…” Gi-hun muttered under his breath. He adjusted the baby carefully, holding her tight as he bolted out of the elevator.

He ran as fast as he could, but with the baby in his arms, every movement was slower than he wanted. Once he reached the stairs, he freed one hand, gripping the railing to steady himself as he descended, the baby’s small cries bubbling up at the sudden rush of movement.

By the time Gi-hun made it halfway down, his heart plummeted—In-ho was already at the bottom, disappearing into the corridor leading to the dorms.

“Shit,” Gi-hun hissed, picking up his pace despite the weight in his arms.

When he finally reached the dorm hallway, he found two guards standing firm in front of the door.

“Move! Let me in!” Gi-hun demanded, his voice cracking with urgency. He shifted the baby in one arm and tried to push with his free hand, but the guards didn’t budge. Not an inch.

“In-ho!” Gi-hun shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway, but it sounded hollow against the cold walls.

The guards remained statues, expressionless behind their masks.

Gi-hun’s frustration boiled over. He started pounding on one guard’s chest with his free hand, the blows weak compared to the fury behind them. The baby stirred and then began to wail, her cries slicing through the air like sirens.

The guards didn’t react. Not even then.

And then—click. The door opened.

Inside, In-ho already knew what he was about to do. The moment he hung up on Jun-ho, the decision had formed like ice in his mind. If he wanted Gi-hun and the others to make it through tomorrow, he had to act now.

He’d done it before.

The knife in his hand wasn’t just any blade. It was the one given to him during his own game—the dagger meant for the “necessary” kill. The weapon that had sealed his fate. The moment that had haunted him for nine years.

He’d hoped Gi-hun wouldn’t notice it. Of course he had. But Gi-hun always pushed, always pried until he cracked. So In-ho had lashed out, thrown his anger like a shield—just enough to keep him from asking more.

Now, with the dorm door closing behind him, there was no one left to stop him.

Across the room, nine players slept in uneasy silence. Their bodies sprawled on thin mattress, faces slack with exhaustion. Easy targets. In-ho’s jaw hardened as his gaze swept over them.

Tomorrow, these men would overpower their group. He knew it. Their side was too fractured, too many wounded to fight back.

So he made the choice. The same choice he’d made years ago.

He would kill them.

Six of them, at least. Leave three alive for the game—the ones their side could easily take down. The rest? Gone.

He walked forward slowly, the knife heavy in his hand. The first one he approached was Player 100—the one he hated most. The man who had sneered at Gi-hun, spit venom in every word, a selfish parasite who gambled with innocent lives to pay for his own debts.

It should’ve felt easy. It should’ve felt satisfying.

But as In-ho lowered the blade to the man’s throat, his hand hesitated. The steel hovered over warm flesh, and his grip trembled.

Then—Gi-hun’s voice.

Muffled through the door, raw with desperation. The soft, broken cries of the baby outside.

In-ho froze. His breath caught, and something inside him twisted painfully.

He should do this. He had to do this. Gi-hun would never understand—would never forgive him—but if it kept him alive, it didn’t matter.

Did it?

His knuckles whitened around the handle. His vision blurred. Because all he could think about was Gi-hun. How he was good in a way In-ho had never been. How Gi-hun, even in this hell, would spare these bastards just to give them a fair chance.

Wasn’t that what In-ho wanted too?

Wasn’t that why he took this job—to make the games fair?

But what had he really changed? Nothing. He’d lied to himself for years, convinced himself he wasn’t the same as the men who came before him. That he was better.

But here he was. Knife in hand. About to slit a sleeping man’s throat, just like he had nine years ago.

Back then, he told himself it was survival. That it was necessary. And yet, he’d hated himself every single day since.

Because the truth was, if the games had been fair back then, he would’ve died. He should’ve died. Instead, he crawled out alive, only to go home and find the one reason he had left to live—gone.

People who still had wives waiting. Children waiting. Parents praying they’d come home.

People who had something to live for.

Unlike him. He had killed them.

He had nothing back then. No future. No second chance. He’d told himself that made it okay. That killing them was necessary because his life mattered just as much as theirs.

But deep down, he’d hated himself for it. Every breath since then had been punishment.

It wasn’t fair. None of it.

If the games had been fair, he wouldn’t have become this monster. He wouldn’t have spent years running the very nightmare that had destroyed him.

And now, even after all the rules he’d changed, all the illusions of fairness he’d built—nothing mattered.

Because he was standing here, holding the same knife, about to become that monster all over again.

His throat tightened. His chest burned. And finally—his grip loosened.

He couldn’t do it. Not again.

Tears blurred his vision as he pulled the blade away, breath shuddering. For a moment, everything inside him cracked wide open.

He turned toward the door. The one Gi-hun had been pounding on. The one separating him from the only person left who still believed there was something worth saving in him.

In-ho reached for the handle. His hand trembled as he pulled it open—before he could change his mind.

And then he saw him.

Gi-hun stood there, face flushed, chest heaving, the baby pressed against him like a shield. His eyes—God, his eyes—were full of something In-ho didn’t deserve. Relief.

In-ho stared back at him, his whole face softened in defeat, his hair a tangled mess that fell over his eyes like a curtain. He looked broken—utterly wrecked—teetering on the edge of tears. The knife rested on the bed beside him, its sheath missing, the blade untouched and clean. No blood. Thank God, no blood.

His posture was hunched forward, shoulders collapsing inward like the weight of every choice he had made was pressing him down into the mattress. The guards standing by the doorway silently shifted aside, their heads dipped, their faces deliberately turned away from their boss—as if giving him this moment of vulnerability in private. In-ho didn’t acknowledge them. He only stepped back, opening the door wider before turning without a word, walking slowly back into the dimly lit dorm.

Gi-hun stood frozen in the doorway, the baby still cradled tightly against his chest, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’d been ready to see something awful—blood, bodies, another side of In-ho he’d have to face—but instead… everyone was alive. Still sleeping. The soft, rhythmic breaths of nine oblivious players filled the silence.

Confusion washed over Gi-hun like cold water. He let out a shaky exhale, his grip tightening on the baby. After a moment, he forced his feet to move, stepping quietly inside. His eyes swept the room instinctively, landing on Jun-hee’s corner. Relief hit him like a tidal wave—she was safe, curled up under her thin blanket, the baby cot still in place.

Gi-hun lowered the baby gently into the cot, adjusting the blue jacket around her tiny body. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake. He lingered for a moment, brushing her hair back from her forehead with his fingertips before turning… to find In-ho again.

The Front Man sat at the edge of his bed now, his back slightly hunched, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world. He looked… small, somehow. Fragile. The knife lay on the bed beside him, gleaming faintly in the sickly glow of the piggy bank overhead—the only source of light, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow.

Gi-hun approached slowly, his steps quiet, his pulse loud in his ears. When he reached the foot of the bed, he hesitated. There wasn’t much space left—In-ho was in the middle, and the frame ate up what little room there was—so Gi-hun moved right in front of him instead, close enough that the tips of their shoes almost brushed.

In-ho didn’t look up. His face remained tilted toward the floor, dark hair falling forward to shield his expression. Gi-hun swallowed hard, searching for words he couldn’t find. His hand moved before his brain could stop it, fingers brushing through In-ho’s messy bangs, sweeping them back from his forehead, tucking them to the side so he could finally see his face.

In-ho’s head tilted up slowly, and their eyes locked. For one suspended moment, they just stayed like that, staring at each other in the dim glow, breaths quiet but uneven, like something fragile had cracked open between them.

“I did—” In-ho’s voice broke through the silence, so low it was barely audible. Then the words died in his throat.

“You don’t have to,” Gi-hun murmured softly, his hand still resting lightly in In-ho’s hair. He didn’t know if he meant In-ho didn’t have to speak… or if he meant the bigger thing—the thing they were both silently choking on—that In-ho didn’t have to carry this burden alone. Maybe both.

“You—” In-ho tried again, his voice splintering. He blinked hard, a tear threatening to spill. Then his breath hitched. “Why did you have to come back?” His voice cracked open on that sentence, raw and broken, but it wasn’t really a question.

Another tear slipped down his cheek. He let out a shaky exhale, words tumbling out in fragments:
“It was easier before… telling myself I did what I had to… even if it didn’t matter in the end. I thought it was the games… but it wasn’t. I read a billion books trying to justify my actions—every damn page—telling myself I was right, that there was no other choice. Then you came here… and you—” His voice fractured completely.

He dropped his face into his hands, as if trying to smother the sound of his own breathing, the trembling that wracked his body. Tears fell freely now, sliding through the gaps of his fingers. “You have faith in people who don’t deserve it, Gi-hun. People who would spit on you the moment you turned your back. And I can’t even—” His words broke, jagged and sharp. “I can’t even kill them now. Not like this. Even if it means everyone else might be safer tomorrow…”

His hands shook as they covered his face. Gi-hun stood there, silent for a beat, his chest heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Then, quietly:
“In-ho.”

The sound of his name made In-ho flinch, just barely, his breath catching.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay? Then we leave. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.” Gi-hun’s voice was steady, grounded in a way In-ho didn’t expect. “They’re not the ones I have faith in.” He stepped closer, his hand moving to In-ho’s shoulder, firm but gentle. “I have faith in you, In-ho. Just… have some in yourself, too.”

For the first time, Gi-hun didn’t care about masks or titles or the wreckage of who they had been. There was no Front Man here. Just In-ho—raw, bleeding, human.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Long enough for Gi-hun’s feet to ache from standing still, long enough for his own breath to grow uneven. Then he let his hand fall from In-ho’s shoulder, stepping back slightly.

In-ho exhaled shakily, forcing his hands down, scrubbing at his face with the heels of his palms. His eyes were red when he looked up again, but steadier. He reached for the dagger, sliding it into its sheath with a click before holding it out toward Gi-hun.

“You should take this. For tomorrow. If something happens to me… you’ll need it.”

Gi-hun’s jaw tightened. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m not taking it.”

“Gi-hun, please.” In-ho’s voice dropped, low and urgent. “If not for me, think of them. Don’t be stubborn about this, too.” His gaze softened for just a second, almost pleading.

Gi-hun glanced over his shoulder at the others, sprawled across their mats—vulnerable, unarmed, trusting him in ways they didn’t even understand. Damn it. He turned back, exhaling hard through his nose, then uncrossed his arms and took the dagger from In-ho’s hands.

“This doesn’t mean you get to pull something stupid tomorrow,” Gi-hun said, his tone sharp, his fingers curling tightly around the hilt. “If you get hurt, I’ll kill you myself.”

A breath of laughter—bitter, almost sweet—slipped past In-ho’s lips. “To die by your hands would be a privilege.” The smirk that tugged at his mouth wasn’t enough to hide the weight in his eyes, but it eased something sharp between them.

Gi-hun rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “Shut up, In-ho. Get some sleep.”

He turned, moving back toward his bed. In-ho watched him go, a small smile ghosting across his face—faint, but real—visible only in the glint of piggy bank light.

“Wait.”

Gi-hun stopped mid-step and turned. In-ho had risen to his feet, pulling something small from his pocket. A key. Black, sleek, cold metal glinting faintly in his palm.

“What’s that?” Gi-hun asked, frowning.

“If something happens to me…” In-ho’s voice was level now, but quiet, weighted. “This is the key to blow the island up. In the control room, there’s a hidden slot. It opens a drawer with a red button. If I don’t make it out of the game… find Jun-ho. Tell him to use this. Then blow it all to hell.”

Gi-hun’s eyes widened. “No—”

“Gi-hun, please.” In-ho cut him off sharply, stepping closer, pressing the key toward his hand. “Just take it. If not for that, then because if I lose it tomorrow while fighting, the whole plan falls apart.”

Gi-hun stared at the key, heart pounding. “You don’t have a copy?”

“No. This is the only one.”

“And you trust me with it?”

“Obviously.” The word came without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gi-hun stared at him for a beat longer before finally taking the key, sliding it into his pocket with slow, deliberate fingers. “…Okay.”

The quiet between them stretched, taut and heavy, but softer now—like a wound stitched loosely together. Gi-hun turned again, walking back to his bed. He lay flat on the thin mattress, exhaling hard. Through the bars of the bed frame, he could see In-ho lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers he had spent nine years searching for.

Then, suddenly, In-ho turned his head—and caught Gi-hun staring.

Gi-hun’s breath stuttered. He jerked his gaze away too fast, rolling onto his left side, facing away from him. His ears burned. He could feel the weight of In-ho’s gaze linger for a moment longer… then fade, replaced by the soft sound of a low hum, like quiet satisfaction.

Gi-hun squeezed his eyes shut, his pulse finally slowing as exhaustion clawed its way through him. Eventually, he drifted off—still facing away, fists clenched loosely around the knife under his pillow, the key pressed like a brand against his thigh.

Tomorrow would decide everything.

The music felt louder, pounding through the room like an unrelenting drum. The baby’s crying didn’t help; it made everything feel even noisier, adding to the chaos pressing against Gi-hun’s head. He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he could already feel the weight of the day ahead.

Gi-hun shifted in the bed with a tired groan. It was time for the next game. It felt like he had just fallen asleep moments ago, like the brief rest he managed to get was nothing more than a cruel illusion.

Finally, he sat up, rubbing at his face before glancing to his right. In-ho was already awake, standing on the far side of his own bed. Their eyes met for a few seconds, silent and unreadable, before both men looked away, scanning the room around them.

Everyone else was starting to get up. Yong-sik was carefully helping his mother out of bed. Hyun-ju held the baby gently, trying to soothe her. Jun-hee slowly sat up on the bed, moving cautiously as if every muscle in his body protested. Jung-bae was perched on his mattress, staring away from everyone, while Dae-ho still lay sprawled out, reluctant to leave the comfort of the thin blanket.

In-ho moved across the floor toward Gi-hun’s bed. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice soft, carrying a small smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes deeper than before, like he hadn’t slept a second all night. Gi-hun wondered if that was true.

The automatic voice echoed from the speakers, cold and mechanical, announcing that the next game was about to begin.

On the opposite side, the nine remaining players started moving first, getting to their feet and heading toward the door. Gi-hun swung his legs over the bed and stood up. The others in their group began to gather, walking toward him and In-ho. In-ho gave a slight nod and turned toward the door, walking ahead while Gi-hun and the rest followed behind.

“What do you think the next game will be?” Dae-ho asked nervously from the back of the line.

“Something sick and twisted… like these bastards’ souls,” Jung-bae muttered loud enough to be heard, his tone sharp and deliberate, clearly making sure In-ho caught it.

But In-ho didn’t react. He just kept walking like he hadn’t heard a word.

Gi-hun glanced back at Jung-bae, his glare sharp, warning him to stop. Jung-bae didn’t respond with anger, though—he just looked disappointed, and somehow that was worse than the fight Gi-hun had expected.

Hyun-ju made a quiet comment about being ready to leave this place, and Geum-ja responded with a warm smile. “When we all go home, you should come to my house. I’ll cook for all of you. I can’t promise it’ll be as fancy as last night, but I make lots of delicious traditional food.”

At that, In-ho turned his head slightly, his eyes finding Gi-hun’s like he was silently asking: Will that even happen?

Gi-hun gave him a small shrug as an answer. He had no idea how the others would react once they found out the truth. They probably wouldn’t invite In-ho to any dinner. They might not even speak to him again.

In-ho looked away quickly, his jaw tight. Deep down, he already knew. Once they found out who he was, they’d hate him. A part of him felt almost sad at the thought of missing that dinner. It had been so long since he’d had a real homemade meal. The last time had been years ago, back when his stepmother made Jun-ho drop off food outside his dorm room. That memory felt like a lifetime ago.

Finally, they reached the massive gates to the next arena. The doors slid open with a metallic groan, and the nine players from the other group stepped inside first.

Gi-hun followed behind In-ho, and his eyes immediately landed on three towering structures ahead. They were all different colors, rising high like ominous monuments. Too tall for anyone to climb without the platforms, they loomed over the empty space like guardians of death.

The automated voice spoke again:
“Enter the elevator on the first tower to begin the final game.”

The first tower—the yellow one—had an elevator at its base. There was a metal pole fixed in the middle of the platform above. Everyone entered and spread out as much as possible when they reached the top, but it wasn’t very big.

Geum-ja still held the baby close, while Jun-hee, weak from his injuries, leaned slightly on the railing for balance. The air was sharp with tension.

From this vantage point, it was clear the three towers were all shaped differently. The one they stood on was square. The next was a triangle, and the last was a circle.

The voice continued:
“The last game is Sky Squid Game. The rules are simple: You must push one player off in each round to proceed to the next platform. Press the red button in the center to start. Each round will last ten minutes. Failure to eliminate a player in time will result in elimination for all remaining players.”

A chilling silence followed. Before anyone could move, In-ho stepped forward and grabbed the pole. The motion shocked everyone. The nine players on the opposite side stared at him in disbelief, their faces twisting with anger. They began whispering among themselves in a harsh circle of murmurs.

In-ho ignored them. He pressed the button without hesitation, starting the timer for the first round. The sound of ticking filled the platform like a countdown to doom.

He turned back, his gaze brushing over the group but truly locking on Gi-hun.

“We need a plan,” Gi-hun whispered urgently to the others.

“You guys stay back. I’ll handle them,” In-ho said firmly. “If everyone starts fighting, it’ll be worse. Someone could fall by accident. I’ll keep them on their side.”

The group didn’t look convinced. Their faces were tight with worry.

“I’ll help,” Gi-hun said immediately, his hand moving instinctively toward the knife hidden at his back.

“No, you will not. Stay with the others,” In-ho shot back, his tone sharp like an order.

Gi-hun froze for a second, then his frustration snapped. “If you try to fight them alone, that’s a suicidal mission! You aren’t going to do that. We’ll help.”

“He’s right—we should work together,” Hyun-ju added, even though her body was still weak.

“Yeah, I’ll help,” Dae-ho volunteered, raising his hand like he was in class.

Jung-bae smacked it down. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t even know how to fight. If he wants to fight them alone, let him.” His eyes slid toward In-ho with a look that was sharp and spiteful.

“No!” Gi-hun argued, but the words barely left his mouth before the nine players on the other side started moving forward, making their move.

“Gi-hun, stay back!” In-ho barked, his voice cutting like a whip.

He turned to the advancing players, stepping closer to them, the pole gripped tight in his hands. His voice dropped low and dangerous. “So, who will it be? First come, choose one of your own, and I’ll go easy on you.”

They laughed, the sound cruel and mocking.

“Do you seriously think you can win against us with your team full of losers?” one player sneered as the others cackled.

In-ho flicked his gaze to the clock. Plenty of time left. Good. Because this wasn’t going to be easy.

The nine players began spreading out, circling like predators. In-ho shifted, moving the pole defensively as he tried to keep them from surrounding him, but there were too many.

“Come on, give us the old lady,” Player 100 taunted. “It’s not like she’s got many years left. We’ll make it quick.”

In-ho’s grip tightened until his knuckles whitened. He wished he had killed this bastard last night. God, why had he shown them mercy?

“Yeah,” Player 203 chimed in with a grin, “we’ll even let your boyfriend live till the last round if you just hand the others over.”

That was it. Rage burned hot through In-ho’s veins.

He lunged at 203, shoving him hard with the pole. But it was a bad move. 203 grabbed the other end, yanking it toward himself. The others swarmed like wolves, grabbing for In-ho as his grip slipped.

The pole tore from his hands. He hit the ground hard.

Gi-hun lunged forward with the knife, attacking Player 100. He stabbed him in the back as 100 was bent over, trying to keep In-ho pinned down.

The others noticed the knife instantly and let go of In-ho to fight Gi-hun instead. Gi-hun quickly stepped back, heart racing, as Player 336 and Player 039 started moving toward him.

In that moment, In-ho recovered fast. Now free, he pushed himself up from the floor and kicked Player 039 in the back. The man toppled forward, hitting the ground with a grunt. Player 336 spun around to face In-ho, but In-ho didn’t hesitate—he slammed a fist into his face, knocking him backward.

On the other side of the platform, Hyun-ju was locked in a struggle with Player 203, fighting to wrestle the pole back from his grip.

Meanwhile, In-ho forced Player 336 down to the ground and turned sharply—but three other players attacked him from behind. Two more rushed over to help Player 203 hold on to the pole.

In-ho fell again, this time on his knees. His eyes darted up and met Gi-hun’s. Gi-hun looked ready to jump in and help, but In-ho gave a quick, silent nod toward the knife—wordlessly asking him to throw it.

Gi-hun understood immediately. He slid the blade across the floor toward In-ho, and In-ho snatched it up in one swift movement. Without hesitation, he stabbed the player on his left side, the one trying to choke him. Blood spurted as the man collapsed.

In-ho got to his feet again, his expression fierce and unrelenting. He stabbed the next man in front of him, then spun and drove the knife into the third one who had attacked him.

Before he could catch his breath, the timer blared loudly—the first round had ended. Everyone froze, weapons in hand, their chests heaving from the fight.

“All right, no more need to fight. Let’s just all get to the next round,” Player 203 said with a smug smirk, still clutching the pole as the bridge extended, connecting to the next platform.

Now, only five players from the other group remained out of the nine, but Player 203 still had the pole.

In-ho shifted to the side, stepping away as Hyun-ju released her grip from trying to get the pole.

“You first,” In-ho told Player 203, his voice sharp.

203 glared at him but didn’t argue. He motioned for the other four players on his team to go first. They crossed the bridge cautiously.

Then 203 tried to step across with the pole—only for In-ho to tackle him to the ground suddenly. He pinned him down, fists slamming into his face with brutal force. Gi-hun rushed in, yanking the pole from 203’s hand as the man struggled beneath In-ho.

For a brief second, In-ho debated throwing 203 off right then and there—but decided against it. Better to wait until the next round. He released the half-beaten man and gave a quick nod to Gi-hun to go ahead with the pole.

Gi-hun moved fast across the bridge with the weapon. The rest of the group followed behind him in tense silence, one by one.

Finally, In-ho dragged Player 203 across the platform, shoving him hard to the ground on the next stage.

“Start the timer,” In-ho ordered coldly as he pressed his boot against 203’s chest, forcing his weight down like he was trying to break the man’s ribs.

Yong-sik scrambled to press the red button, and the timer restarted for the next round.

That was when the other four players attacked again, charging toward In-ho to save 203.

Gi-hun swung the pole hard, managing to knock one of them back. Hyun-ju darted toward the middle and grabbed the new pole from its stand, holding it tightly.

The fight turned brutal again. Gi-hun shoved one opponent hard, sending him stumbling toward the edge—and then over, screaming as he plummeted. That counted as their elimination for the round, but the chaos didn’t stop. The timer kept ticking, and the baby’s wails pierced through the air like a siren. Everyone who wasn’t fighting rushed to calm her down, but the sound made the scene even more frantic.

Hyun-ju managed to ram her pole into another player’s chest, forcing him back and over the edge as well. Blood splattered the platform floor.

Meanwhile, In-ho was fighting three men at once. He gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he pushed back against their combined strength. They had him dangerously close to the edge, their faces twisted with rage.

“Stop! We don’t have to kill each other! We already passed this round!” Gi-hun yelled desperately, trying to reason with them as he held the pole like a weapon.

The three men turned their heads to look at him—and laughed in his face like he was a fool.

One of them threw a punch at In-ho, but In-ho caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it sharply. With a roar, he shoved him hard, sending Player 336 flying off the tower into the abyss below.

The timer finally stopped, signaling the end of the second round.

Player 203 turned on Player 039 instantly, punching him in the ribs. His expression was manic now, wild and desperate. He realized he was outnumbered.

“Hey, come on! Let’s make a deal!” 203 yelled, his voice shaking. “We throw 039, and we can all go home happy with the rest of the prize money!”

As he spoke, he started kicking 039 viciously, trying to weaken him. Blood spilled from 039’s mouth as he curled on the floor.

In-ho’s eyes lifted across the triangle platform, locking with Gi-hun’s. He gave him a sharp nod— trust me.

“Fine,” In-ho said aloud to 203, while subtly shaking his head at Gi-hun so he wouldn’t argue or interfere.

The bridge opened to the final platform. Everyone crossed quickly, exhausted and stained with blood. Player 203 dragged 039 like dead weight, hauling his half-beaten body across.

“Now, see? This will be easy,” 203 said with a smug grin as they reached the circle. He yanked 039 up by the collar and shoved him toward the edge.

039’s body toppled over the side, disappearing into the endless drop below.

But as Player 203 turned around, triumphant, In-ho’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“You forgot something, idiot.”

203 froze, his eyes widening in sudden horror. The button. He hadn’t pressed the red button. And now he was the odd one out.

He spun around, panic overtaking his face. “Wait—no! No, listen—”

But it was too late.

In-ho walked to the center, calm and merciless. He grabbed the last pole, pressed the button, and turned slowly toward 203 as the man dropped to his knees, begging.

“Please! Please, don’t do this! We can—We can make a deal! There are others you can push off! Please, I’ll—”

The words cut off with a sharp cry as In-ho swung the pole and struck him hard, sending him flying backward. His body fell over the edge, disappearing into the void like all the rest.

Silence fell.

Everyone stood frozen for a long moment, the weight of what just happened pressing down on them. The game was finally over—but they still had to wait out the timer before the gates opened.

Seven minutes.

No one spoke a word. They stood in heavy silence, blood on their hands, sweat soaking their clothes, and the baby’s soft whimpering the only sound in the suffocating air.

When the timer finally ended, the elevator doors opened. Everyone rushed inside, relief washing over them like a fragile wave.

“Thank God we all made it out safely and alive,” Geum-ja said on the ride down, clutching the baby tight.

“I can’t believe we were able to beat them,” Dae-ho said, grinning weakly. “I was sure they would overpower us.”

Hyun-ju scoffed, glaring at him. “ We? In-ho did most of the work—and me and Gi-hun. What did you do to help, exactly?”

In-ho’s chest tightened at her words, something warm flickering inside him at the rare acknowledgment. Credit for saving their lives. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

“There’s no need to fight,” Gi-hun interjected quickly, his voice soft but steady. “We’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

In-ho let out a quiet chuckle at that—because of course Gi-hun would say something like that. He turned his head, his eyes finding Gi-hun’s for a lingering second. Gi-hun stared back, something unreadable in his gaze.

The elevator doors opened at last, and they stepped out into a massive room. Two guards stood waiting outside.

“We will now escort the winners out,” one of the square-masked guards announced.

The group stood together in tense silence as In-ho stepped forward, moving ahead of them, closer to the guards.

“No,” In-ho said flatly. “I will. You can go back to the control room.”

The guards stiffened, taken aback that he had just revealed his identity in front of the remaining players.

“Are you sur—” one began, but In-ho’s voice sliced through like ice.

“Don’t second-guess. You were given an order. Follow it—or else.”

That was the cold, commanding voice of the Front Man. The one that left no room for argument.

The guards hesitated, then obeyed, turning and leaving the room without another word.

Gasps rippled through the group behind him as realization hit. Shock. Betrayal. Confusion. Questions hung heavy in the air.

In-ho didn’t turn to face them. He didn’t want to see their expressions. Instead, he turned only toward Gi-hun, his voice low but firm.

“That’s the exit,” he said, pointing toward the tunnel ahead. “Follow it to the end. The door will open once I start the evacuation protocol. Just wait there for Jun-ho.”

Gi-hun ignored the others’ rising voices, the barrage of What the fuck is going on? He locked on In-ho instead.

“How are you gonna come back in time?” Gi-hun asked, his voice tight.

“Don’t wait for me. Just leave the second Jun-ho arrives,” In-ho replied quickly.

“How will you get out?” Gi-hun pressed, refusing to let it go.

“There are other ways.” In-ho extended his hand sharply. “Now give me the key.”

Gi-hun froze for a second, dumbfounded, completely forgetting that In-ho had given him the key to the island earlier. His hands fumbled in his pockets until he finally pulled it out and handed it over.

In-ho snatched it from his grasp without another word, then turned and walked away, his back cold and unyielding, leaving Gi-hun standing in a room full of people who wanted answers.

Chapter Text

Three years.

Three fucking years.

That was how long Gi-hun had waited—how long he’d carried the weight of blood-soaked memories, unanswered questions, and the crushing guilt of surviving when so many others didn’t. He’d endured sleepless nights and hollow mornings, wandering through life like a ghost, haunted by faces he could never forget.

And now—finally—he was here.

He should’ve felt victorious. Relieved. Vindicated.
He was finally doing what he set out to do.
End the games. For good.

But instead...

Nothing.

It felt empty.
Like standing in the eye of a storm and realizing the winds had never really stopped.

Behind him, voices began rising.

Questions were being thrown at him like knives, sharp and panicked, but Gi-hun couldn’t bring himself to answer. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. His mind was too full, his heart pounding, his body carrying him forward on pure instinct.

But in the middle of the chaos, something strange happened.

Something soft.

He felt.

For the first time in years, he felt something real. A thread of warmth cut through the numbness like light breaking through a crack in a door.

It was… him.
The old him.
The man who used to laugh. The man who used to care. The man who still believed life could be good, that people could be kind.

For a second, just a second, it felt like all of this—everything that had happened—had been a nightmare. And he’d finally woken up.

He felt the corners of his lips twitch, then pull.
His face resisted at first—unfamiliar with the movement—but he let it happen.

He smiled.

Not the tired, haunted kind. Not the hollow smirk he’d worn when trying to pretend he was okay.
No—this was a real smile. One that showed his teeth. One that reached his eyes.

He almost laughed from the sheer absurdity of it.

He wanted to fall to his knees and cry, maybe even scream, but instead, he took a long, slow breath and let it out through his nose.

Then, without turning, he simply said:
“Let’s go.”

The group behind him fell silent, stunned by the sudden shift in his demeanor. No one moved at first. They just watched him. Studied him like he was something fragile and dangerous all at once.

Gi-hun didn’t wait for them to catch up. He walked forward, steady and sure, to the rusted metal door In-ho had told him about.

He pressed a hand to it. The cold metal sent a chill up his spine. He turned the handle. It groaned in protest but gave way.

He stepped through.

They followed, one by one, their footsteps hesitant against the concrete floor.

The air changed immediately—damp and cold, thick with dust.

It was a cave. Rough-hewn and quiet, lit only by a few weak bulbs strung along the ceiling, flickering like dying stars. The walls were jagged stone, dripping in places with moisture that glistened in the dim light.

The only sound was the soft splash of their shoes against the shallow puddles forming in the uneven ground.

They walked in silence, the cave stretching ahead of them like a throat swallowing them whole. Shadows danced across the stone, twisting with every flicker of the light.

No one spoke. No one dared.

The tension was too thick. Every breath felt like it could be the last before something horrible happened. They all knew what this place represented. A promise—or a trap.

And then, after what felt like forever, they reached it.

A wall. Solid rock. A dead end.

They stopped, confusion washing over them.

“Wait… what is this?” one of them whispered.
“Is this it?”
“There’s nothing here...”

The panic started to creep back in. The murmurs returned, louder this time, edged with frustration and fear.

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink.

He stared at the wall, heart pounding, and whispered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else:

“This has to be it.”

The silence returned.

And they waited.

In-ho ran.
Fast—faster than he should’ve been able to at his age.
His chest was burning, every breath ragged, sharp. His legs felt like steel rods grinding bone. Muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The events of the last game looped in his head on repeat—the blood, the betrayal, the final decision that changed everything. His choices had led to this moment, and now, for better or worse, it was time to finish it.

His shoes slammed against the hallway floor, echoing off cold, metallic walls. His heartbeat pounded in his ears louder than the alarms going off around him.

He reached the management level—barely slowing as he approached the elevator.
It was splattered in blood.

He noticed.
But he didn’t care.

There wasn’t time to worry about what had happened here. Whatever it was, whoever it was—it was over now. He pressed the elevator button with a shaking hand. The doors opened sluggishly, as if protesting their own involvement in this madness.

He stepped in.

The elevator groaned to life, dragging him upward toward the control room.

When the doors parted again, the tension inside the room hit him like a wave.

Several guards and staff turned to look at him instantly. They were ready—armed, tense, braced for an intrusion.

"Sir," one of the managers said, face pale, voice urgent. "The Coast Guard is approaching the island."

In-ho didn’t even flinch.
"Begin evacuation," he ordered smoothly.

He hoped they didn’t notice how quickly he responded. How prepared he already was.
Of course, he had planned it—every minute detail.
But none of that mattered now.

Soon, this place would be gone.
Everyone would disappear back into their lives, erasing this island from memory.
And even if someone did suspect him… who would they tell? The VIPs?
He doubted anyone would ever reach them.

As the staff scrambled to follow his command, red lights began flashing across the console. The system began to shut down—the monitors displaying "GAME OVER" one by one in a silent cascade.

In-ho stood still, staring at the central panel.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single brass key.

He unlocked the panel drawer with a soft click.
Inside was a single red button.

His fingers hovered over it. He hesitated only for a breath.

Then he pressed it.

There was no fanfare. No dramatic music. No explosion.
Just a quiet, almost anticlimactic moment of peace.

It was done.
The games were over.

A strange wave of relief washed over him.
A feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine in years.
He never thought he’d get here. Never thought he’d want to.

But now that it was done... it was freeing.

Gi-hun had made it.
In-ho had brought him back into the game to prove he’d make the same choices.
But Gi-hun didn’t.

Gi-hun won.
Not just the prize—but the war.

And somehow, In-ho didn’t feel angry about it.
He felt... proud.

He turned and walked away, moving to the elevator that would take him to his private quarters. He still had a few things to collect before he left the island for good.

The elevator doors opened.

What greeted him made him stop dead in his tracks.
Blood. Smoke.

The hallway was wrecked. Furniture overturned. Walls scorched. It looked like a battle had taken place here—and maybe it had.

He muttered under his breath. "Shit."

He had no weapon. No backup.
All he could do was tread carefully.

He moved through the corridor, stepping over streaks of red and broken glass, careful not to let the blood soak into his shoes. He turned the corner and entered his room.

More smoke.
Something was burning.

The door to the records room was cracked open, flames licking out from inside.

Someone had done this.
Someone had wanted to destroy it all.

He didn’t have time to care.

He crossed the room quickly, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs. He opened the closet and retrieved his suitcase, already packed for emergency departure.

Next, he opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a small black box. Inside were rows of debit cards—one for each of the 456 players. Pre-loaded. Prepared. So the prize money could be instantly transferred.

He didn’t have time to sort through them.
Most of them were dead anyway.

He grabbed the entire box.

He opened the bottom drawer—Gi-hun’s drawer.

Inside, a few personal files, a CD labeled Dalgona, and a worn leather-bound notebook.

He picked up the CD and chuckled to himself, a soft, almost nostalgic sound.
Even now, this game haunted him.

He slid the CD into his coat pocket.

Then, he picked up the diary.
Page after page filled with observations, dates, photos.
Every move Gi-hun made, every change in his behavior. In-ho had stalked him like a man studying a wild animal—trying to understand what made him different. What made him survive.

He opened the suitcase slightly and tucked the diary inside.

The rest—the old game files, the other surveillance discs—he left behind.
They didn’t matter anymore.

The heat was rising.
The smoke was thick now.
Too thick.

He coughed—hard—and staggered back. His legs felt weak, his knees trembling.

Now’s not the time.
Move.

But his body didn’t listen.

The fatigue, the years, the guilt—it all weighed on him like chains.

His feet rooted to the floor. His joints locked up, muscles tightening with each breath. The room was spinning.

He needed to sit. Just for a second. Just enough to catch his breath.

He dragged the chair from his desk toward him, every movement like lifting iron.

He collapsed into it, legs folding beneath him.
He leaned his head back.

The firelight flickered on the ceiling.
The alarms had faded into background noise.
His eyes began to close.

And that was the last thing he saw.

The players were growing restless as Gi-hun refused to answer them, silently waiting for In-ho to start the evacuation. But it was taking too long. Far too long. Or maybe Gi-hun was being unreasonable—maybe he just needed patience.

Had he been wrong? What if In-ho changed his mind?
No. He couldn’t have… could he?

Gi-hun knew In-ho was the Front Man, but he wanted to have faith in him. Someone had to. The thought made him want to laugh out loud—faith in the same man he had once hated, the one he had been ready to kill if necessary. And now here he was, trusting him. How absurd.

But Gi-hun didn’t laugh. Not with the others so anxious around him. If he did, it would only make things worse. They would think he was mocking them, when in reality, he was laughing at himself. At how ridiculous this all was.

Then it started—the siren blaring, telling everyone to find an escape point. Moments later, the cave lit up as a secret door opened at the dead end where they stood. Everyone gasped. Gi-hun walked to the edge, trying to spot the boat. It was still too far.

Jun-ho must not have been able to see the exit from the outside until the door opened. On the boat, Gi-hun could make out Jun-ho and Kim standing near the deck. They had spotted the exit and were shouting something—too far away for Gi-hun to understand. Jun-ho rushed to pilot the ship closer.

Once the boat was near enough for them to board, Gi-hun finally turned to the others. “Start getting on,” he ordered, ignoring the annoyed, furious glares they threw at him as they passed.

When everyone was on board, Jun-ho came to fetch him. “Let’s go. Where’s In-ho?” Jun-ho asked, glancing around the empty cave with only Gi-hun left behind.

“He had to—He said we should leave without him,” Gi-hun said quickly, knowing there was no way Jun-ho would accept that.

“Like hell. He’s not getting away this easily. Get on the boat—I’ll go find him,” Jun-ho snapped, stepping back into the cave, frustration clear on his face.

“No. The island is going to blow soon. It’ll be faster if we both look,” Gi-hun countered, standing firm.

“Gi-hun, you don’t have to do this. He’s my brother. I’ll deal with his mess—just get on the boat,” Jun-ho said, confused why Gi-hun seemed so determined to find the Front Man himself.

“I’m not staying. So let’s go—we don’t have much time.” Gi-hun turned, already heading back the way they came.

“Wait.”

Gi-hun turned to see Jun-ho holding out a walkie-talkie. “Take this—so if one of us finds him first, we can alert the other,” Jun-ho said. Gi-hun took it and started walking as fast as his tired legs allowed, still worn out from the earlier game.

“He went to the management area. You should check the control room—I’ll head to his quarters,” Gi-hun said as they passed through the door into the game room, the floor littered with the bodies of fallen players.

“Gi-hun… why are you so determined to find him? Please—don’t kill him,” Jun-ho asked worriedly as they walked, watching Gi-hun open the door In-ho had gone through earlier.

Gi-hun paused, then met Jun-ho’s eyes. “That’s the last thing I want. I’m not going to harm him, Jun-ho,” Gi-hun said, his voice low, almost soft, with something that sounded like care.

Jun-ho stared at him, confused. What had changed between Gi-hun and his brother? He had been so certain Gi-hun hated him.

Unable to find words, Jun-ho nodded, and they continued in silence until they reached the elevator.

“Do you know which one is the control room?” Gi-hun asked as they stepped inside.

“No. I’ll check all the floors just in case,” Jun-ho said, pressing the first button. Gi-hun nodded, fidgeting anxiously as the elevator moved.

The doors opened quickly on the first floor, and Jun-ho stepped out, leaving Gi-hun alone. He immediately pressed the button for In-ho’s quarters, praying he would be there. His mind raced through every terrible possibility. The ride felt endless—longer than usual.

When the doors finally opened, Gi-hun instantly sensed something was wrong. Smoke filled the air, the doors to every room were flung open, and blood was everywhere.

Shit.

What had In-ho done? What happened? Was he hurt?

Gi-hun rushed out, scanning the smoke-choked rooms that made everything barely visible. “In-ho!” he called out, but there was no reply—just silence heavy with dread.

When he reached the bedroom, he finally saw him. In-ho was slumped unconscious on a chair behind the desk. Gi-hun sprinted to his side, nearly tripping over a suitcase he hadn’t noticed before—In-ho must have returned to grab it. Stupid In-ho.

Gi-hun quickly checked him for injuries—any sign of gunshots or stab wounds—but the only wounds were from the previous game. Running a hand down his chest, then his arms, Gi-hun tried again. In-ho was unresponsive.

“In-ho, wake up,” Gi-hun said urgently, shaking him. “Please—we have to leave now.” Both of Gi-hun’s hands cupped In-ho’s cheeks, trying to rouse him. Then he pressed his fingers to In-ho’s neck. The pulse was steady. He must have fainted.

Gi-hun coughed, finally registering the thick smoke clogging the room. Shit. There was fire. They were supposed to have more time before the island exploded. Something was very wrong.

He grabbed the radio. “Jun-ho, I found him. In-ho’s passed out—you need to get here now. We’re in his bedroom,” Gi-hun said, then set the device on the desk and turned back to In-ho, desperately trying to wake him.

“Copy—I’m coming,” Jun-ho’s voice replied through the static.

Gi-hun’s hands lingered on In-ho’s face, slowly brushing along his cheekbones, then his closed eyelids. “In-ho, please wake up,” he whispered. “I still owe you that drink, so you can’t die on me here.” A shaky laugh escaped him, fragile and hollow.

The elevator doors opened behind him. Gi-hun jerked his hands back like they had burned him as Jun-ho burst into the room.

“What happened?” Jun-ho demanded, rushing to In-ho’s side and unintentionally shoving Gi-hun aside.

“I don’t know. I found him like this,” Gi-hun answered nervously, watching as Jun-ho shook In-ho’s shoulders—then, shockingly, slapped him hard across the face.

“Ow,” In-ho groaned faintly as his head lolled to the side, slowly regaining consciousness.

“What was that for?” Gi-hun snapped, appalled by the violence.

“What? It worked,” Jun-ho said flatly as they both stared at In-ho, whose eyes were fluttering open, widening in shock as he realized where he was—and who he was with.

“What happened?” In-ho whispered hoarsely.

“You were passed out when I found you. We were hoping you’d know,” Gi-hun said, standing near the suitcase, fidgeting with the handle.

“Right… I came back for the bag, but I was so exhausted I sat down for a moment. I guess I blacked out,” In-ho muttered, rubbing his head.

Jun-ho said nothing, just glared.

“What about the mess in the hallway? And the fire? How did that start?” Gi-hun pressed.

“I’m not sure. It was like this when I got here. Someone must have broken in while I wasn’t here,” In-ho replied, still disoriented.

“Or you’re lying again,” Jun-ho scoffed bitterly.

“I never lied to you, Jun-ho,” In-ho said quietly, looking up at his brother.

“Yeah—only abandoned me and shot me,” Jun-ho snapped back, anger rising.

“You shouldn’t hav—” In-ho started, but Gi-hun cut him off sharply.

“Stop! We need to go. Now. We don’t have time for this.”

Both brothers looked at Gi-hun, then at each other, exchanging tense glares before Jun-ho exhaled heavily.

“Can you stand?” Jun-ho asked.

“Yeah,” In-ho muttered, attempting to get up. His legs buckled instantly, nearly sending him back into the chair, but Jun-ho caught him by the arm.

“Liar,” Jun-ho said coldly, hauling him upright.

Defeated, In-ho sighed and accepted the support. He reached for the suitcase handle, but Gi-hun was already holding it.

“I got it,” Gi-hun said, gripping the handle firmly and turning toward the door. In-ho didn’t protest. He didn’t have the heart to tell Gi-hun that holding the suitcase would make walking easier for him.

With Jun-ho steadying In-ho and Gi-hun carrying the suitcase, they moved toward the elevator in silence. Once inside, Gi-hun stood in one corner with the case at his side, In-ho on his left, and Jun-ho opposite him, still gripping his brother’s arm to keep him steady. All three faced the door as Jun-ho pressed the button.

And then, without a second thought—before doubt could stop him—Gi-hun reached out and took In-ho’s right hand in his own. One palm over the other, firm and grounding.

In-ho’s hand twitched at the sudden touch, then stilled. He didn’t dare look, afraid Gi-hun might let go if their eyes met. Instead, he held still… and then, slowly, he squeezed back. It felt like life flowing back into his limbs, like Gi-hun’s grip was anchoring him to the ground, giving him strength.

Gi-hun’s other hand stayed clenched on the suitcase handle.

When the elevator doors opened, Jun-ho quickly stepped out, dragging In-ho with him. Gi-hun was pulled forward too, refusing to let go of In-ho’s hand as he kept pace, suitcase dragging behind.

They moved fast through the game room and into the tunnel. At last, Jun-ho released In-ho’s arm to hurry them along, too focused to notice the hands still joined between the two men.

“Go first. I don’t trust you not to run,” Jun-ho ordered sharply when they reached the boat. He didn’t even glance at their hands, too angry at his brother to notice.

In-ho exhaled, looking back at Gi-hun with a faint nod before letting go. Then he stepped forward and climbed onto the boat near the captain’s station.

As Gi-hun approached, In-ho turned and held out a hand for him—but Gi-hun misunderstood, thinking he wanted the suitcase. So Gi-hun placed the handle in In-ho’s palm instead. In-ho stared at the suitcase in confusion as Gi-hun climbed aboard.

In-ho set the case down on the boat floor. Jun-ho stepped in behind them, his expression hard and unreadable.

“Move,” Jun-ho said as In-ho and Gi-hun’s eyes flicked toward the end of the boat where the other players were seated. Neither of them wanted to face them, but Jun-ho wasn’t giving them a choice.

Gi-hun moved first, In-ho following behind. For the first time, In-ho was glad he was shorter than Gi-hun—at least it meant the others wouldn’t see him immediately.

Everyone’s heads turned as Gi-hun stepped up, and then they noticed the man walking behind him. They sat scattered at the corners of the boat, their faces frozen in shock. Some gasped. Others recoiled in fear when their eyes landed on In-ho.

Gi-hun kept walking toward an empty space on the left side of the boat, where Jung-bae was sitting. In-ho trailed close behind.

“Who are you?” Hyun-ju was the first to find her voice, her question echoed by nods from the others—everyone except Jung-bae, who stayed silent. He already knew the answer, but he wanted them to say it out loud.

“I—” In-ho started, but he didn’t know what to say.

Jun-ho stepped forward, glaring. Before In-ho could speak, Jung-bae cut in, his voice sharp. “He’s the Front Man. He ran the games. And Gi-hun knew the whole time.”

The words hit like a slap. Everyone’s eyes widened. They had all suspected, but hearing confirmation was worse.

“I didn’t know the whole time!” Gi-hun shot back quickly. “And In-ho actually helped us.”

“He’s a mass murderer, Gi-hun,” Jung-bae spat.

In-ho exhaled slowly. He had expected this reaction. Honestly, he thought it might have been worse—maybe even a few punches thrown.

“I knew I should’ve shot you during the rebellion,” In-ho sneered, then ran a hand over his head.

“See? He’s a psychopath. We should throw him back on the island and let him blow up with it,” Jung-bae said—not entirely serious, but serious enough for Jun-ho to intervene.

“We’re not throwing anyone overboard. Calm down, or I’ll put everyone in handcuffs,” Jun-ho warned. It was a bluff—he didn’t have enough cuffs for all of them—but no one needed to know that.

“Who are you exactly?” Hyun-ju asked Jun-ho.

“I—” Now Jun-ho hesitated, suddenly at a loss. He didn’t want to admit he was In-ho’s brother.

“He’s a detective. He helped me find the island,” Gi-hun said, stepping forward and squaring off with Jun-ho. Then he looked the group in the eye, his next words like a spark thrown into dry grass. “Oh—and he’s In-ho’s brother.”

The tension shattered. Gi-hun lunged at Jun-ho before anyone could process what he said, his fist connecting hard enough to knock Jun-ho backward.

“Oh—that’s for lying, asshole,” Gi-hun said, breathing heavily.

Jun-ho stared at him from the floor, stunned. Before Gi-hun could throw another punch, In-ho’s hand shot out, closing around Gi-hun’s wrist. He didn’t like anyone hurting his little brother—not even Gi-hun—even though there had been plenty of times Jun-ho had driven him mad enough that he wanted to do the same.

Gi-hun stilled when he felt the pressure of In-ho’s hand, then slowly stepped back and let his arm fall to his side. In-ho released him at once.

Jun-ho got up, raising his hands in surrender. “Right. Can we just get out of here?”

Before anyone could respond, Kim appeared from the side, coming out of the captain’s room. He had been on the radio with the coast guard, trying to confirm their position. “Oh—you’re back. Good. We don’t have much time left,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the tense scene.

“So, Captain—where are we headed?”

The word made In-ho’s head snap up. Captain. For a second, he forgot this wasn’t one of his soldiers.

Gi-hun blinked, confused. Who was Kim talking to? He turned to Jun-ho, who was also looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“Boss—you alright?” Kim asked again, more clearly this time, directing it at Gi-hun.

Then it clicked. Gi-hun had forgotten—he was the one leading this team now. The past week inside the game had erased the feeling of normal life from his head.

“Right… let’s go home. Also, where’s the rest of the men I hired?” Gi-hun asked.

Kim and Jun-ho exchanged a heavy look before Jun-ho spoke. “Dead,” he said flatly. Then, after a pause: “But Choi Woo-seok is in jail. He’s the one who found out Captain Park was a traitor. I’ll explain later.”

Jun-ho’s eyes flicked toward In-ho when he said the name, and In-ho’s jaw tightened.

Gi-hun nodded, forcing himself to absorb everything.

“Right. Let’s go home,” he repeated.

Kim placed a hand on Jun-ho’s shoulder, guiding him back toward the captain’s room so they could navigate the boat together. Jun-ho gave one last glance toward Gi-hun and In-ho, then left without another word.

The group had gone quiet, still reeling from what they had just witnessed. Gi-hun turned, tugging lightly at the sleeve of In-ho’s jacket to signal him. He walked over to a spot on the side of the boat, about five feet away from Jung-bae, and sat down.

In-ho followed, suitcase in hand. He hesitated briefly, then settled beside Gi-hun—close enough that their body heat mingled. Setting the suitcase down next to him, he let go of the handle.

Gi-hun looked at him as the boat began to move, wind whipping through his hair. His face softened for a moment before his gaze drifted to In-ho’s blood-soaked tuxedo and the suitcase beside him. The sight almost made him laugh—In-ho looked both a mess and strangely put together at the same time.

“You know… you look like a businessman about to board his flight,” Gi-hun teased, his voice low, meant only for In-ho. The suitcase sealed the image in his mind.

But Jung-bae’s head jerked up, his expression suspicious, while Gi-hun stayed focused on In-ho.

“I would never wear a suit on a flight and be uncomfortable for eleven hours—unlike some people,” In-ho replied, smirking as he threw the tease back.

“Hey!” Gi-hun said louder than intended, drawing a few curious glances before lowering his voice again. “I just wanted to look nice for my daughter—show her that her appa had his life together.”

“Really?” In-ho’s voice dripped with sarcastic surprise. “Because the red hair was giving serious midlife crisis.”

Gi-hun glared, lips forming a pout. “Were you at the airport that day?” he asked suddenly.

He could swear he had felt In-ho’s presence there, watching him. He had even searched for him—but back then, he didn’t know the face.

In-ho froze. How could he answer without sounding like a fool? He couldn’t exactly admit he had bought a fake ticket just to sit in the terminal, hoping for one last glimpse of Gi-hun—one last chance to share a space with someone who understood what it meant to survive hell. Someone who had clawed their way back and tried to rebuild a life.

But Gi-hun had never been that person—not completely. He was still a mess, maybe even more broken now. And yet, here they were—talking, teasing. Somehow, against all reason, sharing something like warmth.

And In-ho knew, no matter how hard he studied him, no matter how much he tried to predict him, Gi-hun would always remain unpredictable. Maybe that was okay. Maybe Gi-hun could be the one thing in his life he could never control.

Gi-hun looked at him in that moment like everything was fine—even though their lives were still in pieces, even though five feet away sat people who hated them both.

And then they all heard it.

The explosion.

Every head turned toward the island as it lit up in flames.

Chapter Text

It was over.

The only place In-ho had known for almost a decade was gone. He should have felt relieved—but instead it felt as if something inside him had been ripped apart. Every ideology he’d built himself around, every reason he’d clung to for surviving this long, suddenly felt hollow. A lie. Everything he had been told… a lie.

Gi-hun had shattered his carefully constructed view of the world, proven how misleading his own perceptions could be.

When In-ho had first taken over, when he’d returned to the island, he had told himself he would treat it all like a dream—no, a nightmare—from which he could never wake. He’d decided to bury his past life and let himself slowly rot on the island until he died, one game at a time.

Because the Games had to continue. They were the only chance people had left. At least, that was what he’d convinced himself of.

He hadn’t even been one of those desperate people. All his life, In-ho had lived with structure. He’d built a career with steady hands and ruthless discipline, worked his way into a life he could be proud of—a life where he could change others for the better. And when he’d finally felt like he had done enough, he had let himself fall in love. God, he had fallen so hard.

And then it was all taken from him.

The week after had been nothing but rot—trapped among the worst humanity had to offer, watching them tear each other apart for a cash prize that would never be enough. And yet… he told himself the Games served a purpose: to erase the trash of the world.

He had been so sure Gi-hun was just like them. He had read the man’s file before the final game. The night before, he had stayed awake studying Gi-hun’s and Player 218’s files in meticulous detail. Oh Il-nam had once told him there was always a clear sign—always a predictable outcome. In-ho’s job was to keep the Games running predictably so the VIPs could enjoy them.

He hadn’t needed to bet. In his mind, the outcome was certain.

Until Gi-hun changed everything.

He’d been willing to give it all up.

In-ho understood why. His mother was sick—that much was in the file. And suddenly, there was a flicker of something in In-ho. He still hadn’t bet on him, because Gi-hun seemed… too kind. Too compassionate—especially toward Player 067. Caring that much in this place was a losing game.

In-ho had killed everyone in his own game, even allies, even people who had shared their struggles with him. Gi-hun couldn’t even kill one person to save himself and his mother. He had been utterly unpredictable.

In-ho had even asked Il-nam later if that kind of behavior was normal. It wasn’t.

From that day, Gi-hun was a mystery—impossible to read then, impossible to read now. In-ho knew Player 218 would never have given up the money, but he also knew Gi-hun might have gotten himself killed if their friendship hadn’t existed before the Games.

Gi-hun was different.

For years afterward, In-ho watched him make the “wrong” choice over and over, giving up any shot at his own happiness. In-ho told himself it was the same for him—that his own happiness had been ripped away long ago, and the Games were all he had left. His lifeline. The only thing giving him purpose.

Seeing the worst of humanity had convinced him he could make a difference—until it no longer could.

Still, he had watched Gi-hun closely, part of him drawn in, part of him hoping they might get closer. The chase itself was intoxicating. He’d been able to keep his identity secret for as long as he wanted… until he decided not to. He left the trail open for Gi-hun to find him.

Because he wanted to see him again.

He wanted to see how far he could push Gi-hun before he broke. And yet—somewhere deep down—he hoped Gi-hun never would.

In-ho had built a perfect version of Gi-hun in his mind: someone incorruptible, someone incapable of harming another. But it was a fantasy. He’d blinded himself to the truth—that Gi-hun was human, like everyone else. That he had ended up in the Games because he was like the people in them.

Still, In-ho let him exist above it all—above him, above the Games, above the VIPs. Gi-hun was the light at the end of a tunnel In-ho could never reach. So he stayed in the darkness, letting that unreachable light pull him forward.

Until Gi-hun rebelled.

And that rebellion shattered the perfect image.

In-ho hated that. He hated seeing Gi-hun willing to sacrifice others for what he saw as the greater good—just as In-ho had done. It made them the same, and In-ho had wanted to prove he was right about the Games, about people, about the world.

But Gi-hun kept proving him wrong.

In-ho had let himself get lost in Gi-hun’s beliefs, and now he wasn’t sure who he was anymore—or who he was supposed to be.

The island was gone, but In-ho knew it would never truly be over. He hoped, foolishly, that it might be enough for Gi-hun to finally live—to fix what he could, to dream again, to stop clinging to what couldn’t be changed.

Gi-hun had made a difference, even if In-ho couldn’t say exactly how.

There would always be hopeless people with no chances left. And now, without the Games, there was no fight for that last desperate chance.

A bitter part of him wished he could let it go. But he couldn’t.

Still—he wouldn’t ruin this moment for Gi-hun.

As the island disappeared into the fog, In-ho glanced at him. Gi-hun’s expression was softer than In-ho had ever seen. Relaxed. It made something in In-ho’s chest waver.

Then Gi-hun looked back at him. His expression shifted—falling slightly, as if he’d seen straight through In-ho.

In-ho hated that. Hated that Gi-hun could see it.

He tried to change his expression, but he wasn’t fast enough. Gi-hun frowned, clearly wanting to speak, but closing his mouth each time he tried.

Before Gi-hun could ask something In-ho didn’t want to answer, In-ho changed the subject—because he couldn’t lie to Gi-hun. Not when Gi-hun could see straight through him.

“What are you gonna do now?” In-ho asked. It was the only thing that came to mind. He hoped Gi-hun wouldn’t throw the question back at him—because the truth was, he didn’t know.

“I’m not sure… didn’t think this far ahead,” Gi-hun admitted, looking down at his hands, fingers fidgeting with each other.

“Well, for one, you should call your daughter,” In-ho replied. He’d wanted Gi-hun to do that for years—ever since he’d gotten to know him… by stalking him.

The first year had been brutal. He’d known it would be—for any winner. It had been for him. But when Gi-hun finally started turning his life around, getting closer to the man In-ho had once imagined he could be, In-ho had felt… satisfied. Ready to let him go. Forget about him. Move on to the next Games.

But then Gi-hun had called him—and everything had changed.

If someone had told In-ho, the day they met in the limo, that he would end up caring about the winner years later, he would have laughed in their face. And yet here they were—sitting side by side, no masks, talking while the island and the Games were gone.

Gi-hun scoffed. “Why do you care so much if I speak to her?”

In-ho was tired of this argument. He had hoped that now, with the island gone, Gi-hun would finally do the right thing. Be the better father.

“You spent hours looking at pictures of her, but you can’t answer her when she calls,” In-ho said flatly.

The words slipped out before he could consider what they revealed—that he’d been watching Gi-hun in his own room.

Gi-hun’s mouth fell open. “You were stalking me?”

“Well, you put up a security system that was ridiculously easy to access. You were basically asking to be watched,” In-ho replied, allowing a faint, shy smile to tug at his lips.

“You are a pervert—oh my god—why were you watching me in my bedroom? How long did you—” Gi-hun’s voice pitched higher with disbelief.

“Well, there was nothing good on TV,” In-ho said, amused. “All you did was sit there for hours staring at the cameras yourself.”

“Asshole,” Gi-hun scoffed, his glare sharp but not entirely serious.

“Stalker. Pervert. Asshole. Really, I thought you’d gotten better with your vocabulary, but you’re still pretty childish,” In-ho teased, bumping his shoulder into Gi-hun’s to irritate him.

“Oh, I’m Mister Sophisticated , I use fancy words and metaphors, and ride in limos sipping champagne,” Gi-hun mocked, throwing his hands in the air in exaggerated gestures, mimicking him.

In-ho fought the smile threatening to break free, then scoffed and pretended to be annoyed. “Sorry, not everyone can afford to act like a child. Some of us have to maintain professionalism. And the champagne was a one-time thing—to celebrate your win. I’m more of a whiskey guy.”

“I wasn’t offered the whiskey. I was the winner,” Gi-hun said, putting a hand dramatically to his chest.

“Well, it’s the thought that counts. Unless you would’ve preferred I feed you champagne blindfolded,” In-ho said with a smirk, enjoying the frustration building in Gi-hun’s expression.

“You can shove a card down my throat, but champagne is too much ?” Gi-hun threw his hands up.

“It was my first time. I wasn’t exactly instructed on where to put the card. Honestly, I thought it was clever,” In-ho said as he unzipped a bag and pulled out a small black box.

“Of course you did,” Gi-hun said in that exasperated tone reserved for the most absurd man he had ever met. His eyes flicked to the box. “What’s that?”

In-ho opened the lid, revealing the golden cards. “Didn’t have time to go through the names, so I’ll let them find their own. I’ll send your part of the winnings to your old account.”

“I don’t want it,” Gi-hun said firmly, irritation in his voice.

In-ho hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t argue. Instead, he walked to the center of the boat, where the others sat in silence, watching him warily. Without a word, he tossed the box onto the floor.

“Find your name. I’ll have your winnings transferred by tomorrow. Your PIN is your player number.”

Nobody moved. Some glared, others shrank back in fear. In-ho gave them one last look before returning to sit beside Gi-hun. Eventually, the others began rummaging through the cards.

“I’m sending the money,” In-ho told Gi-hun without looking at him. “I don’t care if you leave it in a motel room or on the sidewalk.”

“Give my part to the others,” Gi-hun said tiredly. Too tired to argue.

“Fine. They’ll each get six and a half billion. Happy?” In-ho exhaled heavily, looking down.

He didn’t notice Gi-hun’s eyes widen until the man spoke again. “You’re not keeping your part either?”

“I was never really a player,” In-ho said quietly. “I only joined to keep an eye on you. And I don’t need the money.”

Gi-hun studied him, searching his face for something, before murmuring, “Right.” He leaned back against the boat wall.

They didn’t speak after that. The others settled down, some staring at their cards, others at nothing. The baby made a few soft noises. The sun was rising now, brightening the sky, but home was still far off.

Gi-hun glanced at In-ho. His face was slack, eyes fixed on the horizon. He looked almost asleep with his eyes open, his breathing slow and even. Gi-hun’s gaze drifted down to his hands—caked with dried blood, streaks of red under his nails. Gi-hun looked at his own. They weren’t much better.

When he looked back, In-ho still hadn’t moved.

So Gi-hun, without thinking, poked him in the side.

In-ho jolted, his voice an octave higher than usual. “What was that?”

“Just testing a theory,” Gi-hun said with a small laugh. “So… you’re ticklish.”

“No, I’m not. You just caught me off guard,” In-ho protested, staring at him in disbelief before crossing his arms, pouting slightly.

“Sure. Whatever you tell yourself,” Gi-hun said, smiling faintly as he looked away.

Eventually, In-ho relaxed, his gaze returning to the sky.

There had been times over the years when Gi-hun would sit in his car for hours, staring up, wondering about the man behind the mask. Was the Front Man living a double life? Pretending not to be a monster? Did he have a family? People to go home to after washing blood from his hands?

The Games had always felt like they belonged to another world—a separate planet where morality was twisted beyond recognition.

Now here he was, sitting next to that man, both of them staring at the same sky. And Gi-hun knew he’d never see the world the same way again.

After a while, Jun-ho emerged from the cabin. Gi-hun spotted him on the other side of the boat, standing still, unsure if he should approach. In-ho remained seated, eyes fixed on the horizon, not sparing his brother a single glance.

Gi-hun looked between them. Neither moved.

“For God’s sake, just talk to him,” Gi-hun said, turning his body to face In-ho fully. “He’s spent so long looking for you.”

“No.” In-ho’s answer was flat, immediate.

Gi-hun sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jun-ho take a few hesitant steps forward until he was standing at In-ho’s feet, looking down at him.

“Are… are you gonna come back home?” Jun-ho asked, his voice breaking.

In-ho didn’t respond. His posture didn’t change, his eyes never left the horizon.

“Eomma still makes your favorite soup every Friday,” Jun-ho continued. “The one she always made for you after your shifts.” His hand trembled as he spoke.

That made In-ho shift—barely. His head tilted a fraction, his jaw tightened. For a moment, he almost said something about how much Jun-ho had hated that soup, how he’d always picked up fried chicken from somewhere else on Fridays to avoid it. But he didn’t. That would be personal, too personal. And personal would open doors that could never be shut again.

“She thinks you left because you hate us… because we didn’t help when she got sick,” Jun-ho pressed on.

“You should have just told her I was dead,” In-ho cut in, voice tight, still staring ahead as if the sky had the answers.