Chapter Text
What is it to regret?
It begins in the constant thoughts that burrow inside you, like a termite in the brain, the ones that start with if only… or what if…
Regret is a loop you can’t escape. A scene you replay in your mind over and over, knowing exactly what you should have done, yet forever denied the chance to do it.
In-ho has known regret. He had felt the cold hand of it slap him across the face the day he learned his wife and unborn child had died, while he was too far away, too buried in decisions he thought would protect them. Before he could make things right. Before he could say goodbye. Before he could justify what he had done when trying to save them.
Regret is losing your humanity, only to find it again in the cold unblinking eyes of a man who did not deserve his fate. It’s knowing a better man is dead, and that you’re the one still breathing in his place.
In-ho regrets. It coils around his body like barbed wire, tightening with every inhale and exhale, digging past skin into the sinew of his muscle, and scraping the bone beneath.
We are humans… and humans are…
Humans are what? He thought he knew. He was so sure of it too.
Humans are greedy, selfish, naive, and mindless. Humans are animals in the rawest terms.
Now humans are… open to interpretation, he supposes.
Humans are cruel, that is definitely true. But humans are also good. Humans can be both… mostly they're always both. Desperation can make monsters of us all. But it can also make martyrs. Humans are contradictions. Complex and terrible and beautiful.
And In-ho should have known that more than anyone.
Still, after witnessing the game continuing in the US. He knew he was right when he told Gi-hun that if the world doesn't change, the game doesn't end. People can still be trash, and trash is born every minute of every day.
He steps onto the plane. The flight attendant greets him with a bright smile that he doesn't return. She checks his boarding pass, then gestures toward first class.
“Have a nice flight,” she says cheerfully.
He nods once and moves wordlessly to his seat.
He stores his bag overhead, then sinks down with a quiet grunt. Turning to the window, the tarmac blurs with the heat of the sun though he doesn't see beyond that. His mind is elsewhere. Replaying the moment he saw Gi-hun’s daughter. The tightness in his chest hasn't eased since then. It lingers with the edge of a panic attack. His fingers tingle with pins and needles. His heart beats with an unpredictable rhythm against his ribs. His head pulses, and his face burns with heat he can’t shake. He rubs his eyes, trying to blink the memories away.
It's what his life will be now.
It’s been like this for the last six months, a slow, corrosive deterioration. A pit of anxiety in his stomach that food doesn’t touch. And underneath it all, there is a simmering heat of despair.
It feels like grief. It feels like guilt. But mostly, it's just exhaustion. Bone-deep and endless.
There are moments where he pretends he still has something left. That maybe doing the right thing had meaning. That giving Gihun's only memory to his daughter and letting go of the baby, of all the ties to the blood and rot, had been a small act of redemption.
But those moments never last.
The truth is, you don’t get to come back from the things he’s done. The world doesn’t stop turning just because his has. The games don’t end just because he blew his up. And people don’t learn. Not unless they’re forced to, and even then, it’s often too late.
He rubs a hand over his face and exhales slowly, pressing the back of his skull against the cold airplane window.
His limbs feel heavy. His mind, slow. He shuts his eyes against the headache starting to bloom. Sleep finds him like it always does now, not peacefully, but out of sheer weariness. Like a man falling hard, instead of drifting slowly.
*
The first jolt tears him out of his sleep.
A quake in his seat that makes him snap upright. He barely has a moment to register what's happening when a violent jolt throws the plane sideways. The cabin lights flicker. A few passengers cry out. Something heavy hits the floor and the aisle becomes chaotic.
Oxygen masks drop with a hiss. The plane dips again making his his stomach lurch, and that's when the screams start properly.
In-ho doesn’t scream.
His hands clench the armrests as if his body still believes in survival. But his mind is already peeling away from the moment, going somewhere quieter. Somewhere far away from panic.
A voice crackles from the overhead intercom but In-ho can't hear it over the shrieks of the passengers.
The plane gives another shuddering groan, metal screaming as it tilts. Wind howls through the cabin now. A panel somewhere rips free. Someone is praying loudly. Someone else sobs. Time slows down, not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the way that everything feels just slightly unreal. Everything is too loud, too bright, too overpowering.
In-ho leans back in his seat and exhales, slow and steady. He thinks of the sea outside. How quiet it must be beneath the surface. How still.
He supposes this is his karma. Though, c ould it even be called karma if death was to be quick? If this plane simply fell from the sky, and the darkness swallowed him whole before he could truly feel it, was that really what he has earned?
No .
Living, that would have been the punishment. Surviving and carrying every consequence on his back, and he was ready to do that.
But this… This feels like grace. And grace was not something he deserves.
Still, he would take it. He was selfish, after all. Even now.
He closes his eyes and tries to think of his wife. Of the sound of her laughter in some life that seemed very distant, not even real now. Then, inevitably, he thinks of Gi-hun. Of the way Gi-hun had looked in those final moments, calm and clear and ready.
Would he see either of them in the afterlife?
Probably not. They were destined for heaven.
In-ho? No. He knows exactly where he will wake.
He braces for fire. For eternal screaming. For some ironic punishment crafted to mirror his sins.
And in a way…
He is right.
*
What In-ho sees first when he wakes, is really the absence of sight, because everything around him is black.
He wonders if he’s in an abyss. Maybe in limbo, with God deciding his fate and making him sit in a dark waiting room. Nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. It feels fitting.
While he's contemplating this he hears something beside him that sounds like whispered conversation, then quiet laughter.
In-ho shoots up before he can even get his bearings, only to have his face collide, full force, with cold metal. A loud clang rings out, and he drops back down like a puppet whose strings have been cut. He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches at his face. His head rings like a bell, and he’s pretty sure he’s just broken his nose. If this is limbo, it’s pretty unfair that he can still feel pain.
“What the hell was that?” someone whispers. At the same time, In-ho hisses, “Ah, fuck!”
“Young-il?”
In-ho doesn't even register the voice. His whole focus is on the lightning bolt of pain zigzagging across his skull.
“Young-il, are you okay?”
The voice is closer now, right beside his ear. He cracks one eye open. His face is screaming. Blood drips freely from his nose. He tries to sit up again, but he’s crammed under something.
“Gi-hun, just pull him out!” another voice mutters nearby.
In-ho goes stock-still. A hand grips his arm firmly and tries to tug at him.
“Young-il! You need to help me here, you’re as heavy as a sack of potatoes!”
In-ho starts to squirm, letting himself be pulled out from under wherever he is. Faint light from the centre of the room spills across his vision, low and warm, and slowly the room begins to take shape. Metal bunk beds, white tiled walls, silhouettes of sleeping bodies scattered around him.
“What the hell happened?”
“He hit his face, obviously. Maybe it was a dumb idea to sleep under the frames, look what it did to poor Young-il!”
“Shut up, Jung-bae! I’d rather hit my face than get stabbed in my sleep. Wouldn’t you?”
In-ho’s head throbs like a drum. He groans as he sits up, prying his eyes fully open against the pain. He's too disoriented and confused to really grasp what is happening, or to understand who is talking. He knows the voice, has heard it numerous times in his head for the past six months, but it isn't until the blurry face in front of him shifts into a clearer picture that all the pain comes to an abrupt halt, his breath catches and he wonders whether he’s in a dream, because it can’t be. It can’t be Gi-hun. And yet, it is. Looking right at him, his expression drawn, eyes flicking anxiously over In-ho’s face trying to map out the damage.
“Hey,” Gi-hun says gently. “Are you okay?”
In-ho doesn’t reply, he's in too much shock. Well, shock doesn't even cover it. Relief is probably the most overwhelming emotion, and it slams into him like a sledgehammer to the chest. It hurts worse than the broken nose.
Gi-hun is here… how? How is he here?
And now In-ho is just… staring at him in disbelief, his mouth agape, and Gi-hun is looking back with confused amusement in his eyes. They must have been like that for too long, because Jung-bae clears his throat beside them, and the spell is momentarily broken, making In-ho blink rapidly.
“Okay, this is getting weird,” Jung-bae mutters. “Did he forget how to speak?”
“He must have hit his head pretty hard.” Gi-hun answers him.
“Are you real?” In-ho whispers, eyes still locked on Gi-hun.
Gi-hun’s face scrunches up in confusion. “What?”
In-ho’s hand drops from his face and he reaches out towards Gi-hun, he needs to touch him. Touch him, and see if he is really there.
“His nose, Gi-hun ah!” Jung-bae cuts in. “Less whatever this is, and more first aid!”
Gi-hun pulls his eyes away from In-ho’s and looks down to his nose. “Oh, shit,” Gi-hun says, snapping out of it. He yanks off his jacket, pauses, then clearly decides it’s too big to use as a makeshift rag. He grabs the hem of his shirt, tearing a strip off with a dramatic rip .
“Well, that was unnecessary,” Jung-bae says dryly. “We should ask a guard to take him to the bathrooms.”
“Shut up,” Gi-hun mutters, rolling the fabric into a ball. "It's not the most sanitary but it's all i have."
He hesitates before using one hand to gently cup In-ho’s chin, the other pressing the fabric against his nose.
In-ho’s breath hitches. He's real. The warmth of Gi-hun’s hand sends something aching and electric down his spine. He wants to close his eyes, to lean in, to just feel him, but he can’t look away from Gi-hun’s face. He blinks slowly like a cat, and tries not to sigh into the touch.
Gi-hun dabs gently, he's careful and his brows are furrowed in concentration. In-ho wants to reach out and glide his finger over the creases between them, smooth them out. Gi-hun’s eyes flick up to meet In-ho’s briefly, something unreadable swimming in the darkness there, then back to the mess on his face. He places the blooded rag on the floor and tentatively presses on the bridge of In-ho's nose. In-ho hisses, and flinches back.
“You might not have broken it, I can't feel anything dramatic,” he picks up the rag and hands it to In-ho, “either way, put your head back and use this to help with any flow. I wish I had something to clean you up but, you know.” he shrugs.
“I could use my spit?” Jung-bae says unhelpfully.
Gi-hun rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores him. “You really did a number on yourself.”
“Yeah, man,” Jung-bae adds, crouching beside them. “You okay? You shot up like someone shoved a taser up your ass. Scared the shit outta me. I nearly peed.”
In-ho lets out a quiet, involuntary laugh. He supposes he's glad Jung-bae isn't dead right now. He shouldn't have shot him in the first place, there was always another way, a better way. That was another regret that echoed in his head for months on end.
“How am I here?” he asks, breathless.
“Dont tell me you've lost your memory too!” Jung-bae says.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun says carefully. “You know who you are, right?”
Of course he does. But Young-il isn’t who he is at all. Still, In-ho nods.
“And you know we’re in the games?” Gi-hun asks.
He had a pretty good idea. Yet knowing where he is doesn't really help with understanding how he got here. In-ho nods again because what else could he say without sounding like a madman.
Gi-hun sags in relief. “Oh, that’s good.”
“What was the last game?” In-ho asks, he drops his head down and throws the rag away from him, the pain is fading to a dull ache and his nose feels blocked with drying blood.
“The six-legged pentathlon.” Jungbae answers.
“That means the next is mingle,” Inho whispers to himself.
“What?” Gihun asks.
Inho looks up wide eyed, “nothing. I think I'm still a bit disoriented.”
Gi-hun eyes him, but nods anyway. “Try and get some more sleep. We're still on watch, and it's probably better if you sleep that off anyway.” He gestures towards In-ho's face.
Inho nods, he doesn't want to be away from Gi-hun but he can't exactly act clingy now, that would be weird... and creepy. He reluctantly lies back down under the bed feeling a bit dazed.
So… he's gone back in time? Or been given another chance? Is this some kind of test? In-ho doesn’t know. All he can do is move forward with whatever this is. Maybe he died on that plane. Maybe it was all a dream, a very very vivid dream. A dream real enough to rattle something loose inside him, to shift his perspective just enough for him to see things differently.
Whatever the truth is, one thing is clear. He has a chance to undo his regrets, the ones that matter to him anyway. To stop Gi-hun from losing himself, and killing himself in turn.
And he needs to act. Fast.
Before this second chance slips through his fingers like the first one did.