Chapter Text

“We are not horses. We are humans.”

The words left his mouth, more like a breath than a declaration. He hesitated for a moment, the weight of silence in the audience room pressing down on his chest. He was aware that there was no sound in the VIPs' room — not a cough, not a shift of clothing, not even the mechanical whir of the ever-present cameras. Just the cold stillness of watching eyes. And he was sure they wouldn't care, even if he screamed.

But he wanted something — anything — to be said.

He didn’t want to die without a word.

His act will speak louder than any speech. It has to.

Still, a voice inside him begged: say something more, leave something behind. But what could he offer that hadn't already been crushed under boots and bloodshed?

His eyes shifted to the small bundle on the platform — swaddled in his and Jun-hee's tracksuits, barely moving, but alive. A baby. Innocent. Unmarked by the games, untouched by cruelty. A piece of life in a world ruled by death.

One last look.

It stabbed deeper than any wound. The thought of leaving her here — in this place, in their hands — made his stomach twist. But no, she would be safe. She had to be.

He clung to that thought like a man drowning.

The Frontman had given him that knife the night before. Not with a threat, not with mockery — as if honoring some contract. He wouldn’t have done that if he meant to harm her.

Gi-hun didn’t trust him — but he trusted his promises.

That was the only thing he knew for sure about that man: he kept his word.

And yet, the betrayal burned.

The man he'd known as Young-il — or whatever his real name was — had been with him since the first day. Laughing with him. Planning with him. Fighting alongside him. A friend. A brother-in-arms. Someone who understood.

But no. It was all a lie. He was the enemy.

Gi-hun clenched his jaw, breathing shallowly.

What was the purpose of it? Why pretend? Why befriend him only to lead him here? Was it a test? Was it a pity? Was it punishment?

He would never get the answer. It was too late for that.

His fingers tightened at his sides, trembling with the cold sweat of finality. 

Alright , he told himself. That's enough. You can't delay this forever.

“And humans are…”

He stopped. What exactly are they? Was there a word existing, to explain what humans truly are?

They are brave. Manipulative. Vulnerable. Nurturing. Greedy. Deceiving. Arrogant. Timid. Thoughtful. Independent. Reserved. Resilient. Selfish. Reckless. Intelligent. Strong. Stoic. Dominant.

Selfless.

He inhaled, once — deeply, sharply — and tilted forward, just a little. Just enough.

Gravity did the rest.

The air rushed past his ears as the floor disappeared.

But he did not scream. Not even a gasp. His heart didn’t skip. His body didn't resist. He let go, not because he wanted to die, but because he had no other choice.

As the fall stretched into weightlessness, he thought of Ga-yeong — her hand in his, the lightness of her laughter, the soft way she called his name. The memory wrapped around him, warm and unbearable.

He wanted — needed — to hold her one last time.

Goodbye, world. Goodbye, Player—  

Goodbye, Seong Gi-hun.

The strong headache was interrupted when Haydn's Trumpet Concerto in E-Flat Major was played around. He furrowed his eyebrows, feeling the heaviness of his eyelids, the shattered glass under them. He didn't want to wake up yet, he was still tired. Only five more minutes.

Wait.

He opened his eyes fast, unbothered with pale lighting. The light above him flickered in a way that felt almost mechanical, like the artificial heartbeat of some machine keeping him alive against his will. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but everything seemed slightly wrong — as if he were underwater, or stuck inside a photograph that hadn't finished developing.

Wasn't he about to die?

Gi-hun turned his head to the right and saw her. Laying on her side, hand under her head, looking at him acutely. He checked her number on a tracksuit — 044. He knows her, all of it happened before. He's back on the game.

His back creaked as he sat up, muscles stiff like he'd slept on stone. A metallic taste sat heavy in his mouth — blood, maybe. Or adrenaline. Or the lingering echo of death.

The woman next to him didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at him, half-curious, half-bored. Like she already knew what kind of man he was. Like she remembered him, even though she couldn’t.

But he remembered her.

He looked around —  remembered every face, every number, every death.

They were all alive again. And so was he.

His gaze swept across the room, heart hammering. The beds, the players, the grayish lighting — everything was identical . Yet it all felt fragile, like it would shatter if he moved too quickly.

He looked down at his green tracksuit with number 456 and velcro on the other side. He pinched himself. For five times. It was real.

He had to find Jung-bae.

As running down by the ladders. He noticed a familiar face. Stopped for a moment. Jun-hee was sitting on her bed, hand on her belly, really confused.

What kind of dream was it? How could he have predicted this? He would go to her, ask her if she's alright, but he was aware it would be really weird, because she doesn't know him at this point. Maybe her name wasn't Jun-hee at all?

He had to find Jung-bae.

He climbed down the last rung of the ladder, his joints protesting with every movement. The air in the dorm was thick — warm from too many bodies, stale from recycled breath. It smelled like sweat, nerves, and fear that hadn’t fully bloomed yet. He hated it.

Gi-hun moved through the aisles of bunk beds, dodging outstretched legs and sleepy murmurs. His eyes scanned the faces — some just waking, others already wide-eyed and trying to make sense of where they were.

He was trying to find numbers that started with number three, but everywhere he looked, the timeline clashed with his memories. People who should’ve been dead were here. Laughing. Stretching. Arguing about whether this was some kind of prank show. They hadn't seen the blood yet. Hadn’t heard the first gunshot. They were still blissfully ignorant — and he envied them.

Could that be really just a dream?

Maybe Jung-bae wasn't there. Maybe it was truly just a bad dream. Maybe he just imagined it all, and Jung-bae was actually safe at home.

Someone stepped on his foot.

“So sorry!” he heard. Raised his head and he forgot how to breathe. It was Kang Dae-ho standing there in front of him, apologising for stepping on his stupid foot. The same Dae-ho that he killed…

No, that couldn't be just a dream.

Dae-ho was truly confused with him, looking at him like he was a ghost. He just decided to just keep going.

“Player 456,” he heard another voice. Player 044 stood behind him, leaning on the metal beam of the bed. He already remembered this situation. He knew what she's going to say. “I sense you're holding on to many things. You can't leave or stay. It's your destiny. You can't fight it,” she stepped closer. “You have souls hovering over your head who are lingering in this world. You're not here of your own will. Those vengeful souls brought you.”

The woman smirked, stuttering her eyes with those thick, black lines underneath. She started talking about getting rid of bad karma after the games, but he didn't pay attention to it, as he already had heard that before.

Gi-hun started thinking about her words. Hearing them for the first time had made sense, but now… the meaning changed.

His throat went dry.

How the hell could she have said the same thing again — in the same tone, the same timing? Not similar. Identical.

His heart was racing again, but this time, not from confusion — from recognition.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He looked down at his hands. Pale, trembling. No scars. No blood. Nothing to show what he had already lived through.

Maybe he really has died, and he's just in hell now, stuck in a time loop. He doesn't believe in heaven and hell, but maybe it's time to start.

HE HAS TO FIND JUNG-BAE.

The thought screamed inside his skull, louder than the ringing in his ears, louder than the leftover hum of Haydn still echoing faintly through the speakers. His legs moved without thought now, driven by something beyond logic — survival, maybe, or guilt. Or fear of what would happen if he didn’t find him soon .

He moved faster through the rows of bunk beds, past whispering players and curious eyes. He pushed past arms, shoulders, someone cursing at him under their breath. He didn’t care. He needed to see him.

 “Gi-hun ah ?”

Chapter Text

He froze, when he heard his own name and familiar voice. It came from behind him, and it stopped time. He turned around.

And there he was — confused, a bit stressed and really shocked because of seeing his friend, he hasn't seen in years.

Gi-hun's knees nearly buckled.

“Jung-bae,” he breathed, like he’d been underwater and was just now surfacing. “You're here.”

He could not refrain from throwing himself on his neck. He was so happy that he could see him alive. He wasn't happy at all that he could see him here.

Confused, slightly angry, he freed himself from his friend's embrace.

“And you are,” he grunted. “No one's heard from you for three years! I heard your mom passed away. I had to hear about it from my wife! What kind of friend are you? Were you going to cut me out, because I didn't lend you money?”

He wanted to explain, but the door opened. Six, unarmed yet, pink guards entered the dorm.

“It's a long story,” Gi-hun sighed. “I'll tell you later.”

“You’re okay, though?” Jung-bae asked, glancing him over. “You look like hell.”

He just came back.

The square guard started talking about things Gi-hun heard two times already. He still focused, being curious if they added something new. They didn't.

And then it hit him. The Frontman. Young-il. Player 001.

Gi-hun started looking around, trying to find him, but there were too many people around to make that possible. He had to be here somewhere. Sooner or later, he would slit his throat, tear out both his kidneys.

He just had to kill him.

For Sang-woo. For Sae-byeok. For every person that died during last games, even if these were just a dream. And Gi-hun truly started to have a feeling, it wasn't just a dream.

He really was wondering if he should step out now. Last time he did it, he had to tell everyone that he had played these games before. That became a reason for the voting results and the fact that they couldn't manage to escape the game till the very end.

But maybe if he steps out now, he will save a few lives more.

As he expected, the tracker was no longer in his implant. Gi-hun felt as if he was watching the same movie a second time. If those memories weren't a dream, and they definitely weren't, it meant he was really stuck in time. It crossed his mind that he might have to play these games for so long until he could actually stop them. Would that mean he will never die peacefully?

Gi-hun sighed deeply and looked around. He really was too tired to keep playing this. He could just fail to stop when the doll said Red Light, and he'd be out of it. They would shoot him on the spot. It would be worse if he woke up to that cursed music again, forced to do it all over again.

“Everyone!” he finally yelled as he ran out of the crowd, leaving Jung-bae behind. “Everyone, listen up! Pay attention! Listen carefully! This is not just a game! If you lose the game… you die!”

“Pfft! What are you talking about?” some woman scoffed. “We're going to die playing Red Light, Green Light?”

“Yeah, that's right! If they catch you moving, they'll kill you!”

Everything was the same as he remembered. The expression on people's faces, the smirk on Player's 100 mouth. The look his friend gave him.

“They will shoot you from somewhere!” he continued. “Stay on your toes! That doll's eyes have motion detectors! Stay on your toes!”

Most of them looked at him like he was a lunatic, some of them laughed. They started accusing him of wanting to cheat, by scaring them, just to take all the money. Someone asked Jung-bae if he knows this crazy man , but he denied.

Gi-hun wanted to continue, but the noise of the doll turning backwards interrupted him. 

“Do not be alarmed or panic! No matter what happens, don't be…”

“Let the game begins.”

He freezes. That voice will always send shivers down his spine. But he doesn't have time for that. He has to save as many people as possible.

Green light!

He spread out his hands as if he wanted to reassure those four hundred people at the same time. His thoughts were slowly running to what he would do next, but he couldn't be bothered with that now. 'This is not the time for that, Gi-hun, focus.'

Red light!

They don't believe that they are actually going to die, but they don't dare to prove Gi-hun wrong. All the players are listening to him yelling 'freeze!', every time the doll is looking at them.

“Gi-hun ah , why aren't you moving?”

“Freeze!”

He knew Jung-bae was worried about him. He would rather go for a glass of soju together, instead of playing stupid Red Light, Green Light with this stupid doll.

Soju. He had forgotten about it. When Young-il has made him believe, that he was saving his life, he said Gi-hun can repay by buying him a bottle of soju. Oh, how dumb you were, Seong Gi-hun, you've fallen for his lies so easily.

Soju. That damned bottle.

He said it with a grin, with something like sincerity in his voice. And Gi-hun, like the fool he’s always been, believed it. Thought maybe, in the middle of all that death, he’d found someone who was trying to survive alongside him. Someone who had been broken, just like him. Who had nothing left but this game.

What a lie.

What a cruel, brilliant, calculated lie.

Red light!

“Freeze!” He tried not to tremble of anger.

He didn’t know how long Young-il had been playing him. Days? Weeks? Since the very beginning?

Did he laugh behind that mask when he saw Gi-hun break down over Sang-woo? Did he flinch at all when Sae-byeok bled out? Or was that just part of the structure — the entertainment — the illusion that he could play both roles: the shadow and the friend?

Green light!

They were half way there, and no one died yet. But Gi-hun remembered how was it the last time, and he cannot help it. As much as he cannot help thinking about this traitor. He desperately tries to find his number on some tracksuit, but there was no number 001. But he has to be there. He has to die.

Young-il had been beside him, all that time. Pretending to be just another desperate man. Pretending to care. Pretending to choose him .

And Gi-hun, so starved for connection, so goddamn lonely, had believed in him more than he should have.

But he should have known.

He should have seen it. The way Young-il never panicked, never froze, never really doubted anything. Blindly listened to him, adored him, trusted every single time. Like he had nothing to lose.

Gi-hun thought that was strength. Wisdom.

It was control. Arrogance. It was the calm of someone who already knew the ending.

And when Gi-hun was saying his final words as he was the last person standing there on the platform — thanks to the knife — the one Young-il had given him, handed over like it was a sacred task — he had seen it.

It wasn't real. It was just a memory. Young-il's — no, it was the Frontman's face, his for some reason teary and shivering eyes, asking him to kill the other finalists. Gi-hun then hadn't understood, why this man had been still pretending that he cares about him.

Just for a second.

That look.

Gi-hun will never forget that expression.

Not until the day he dies. Not even if he dies a thousand times over.

Red light!

He gritted his teeth. The command rang sharp and familiar, like a nail driven into his skull. He didn't even need to see the doll anymore to obey — his body stopped, like it was wired to freeze on cue. Around him, the others moved like children in a playground game, still clumsy, still amused, still oblivious to the rifle barrels mounted behind the fake trees.

But Gi-hun wasn't watching them. His eyes were sweeping the sea of bodies again. Scanning for someone who didn't belong, or rather — someone who belonged too much .

Green light!

He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

Young-il had to be here. He had to. Whether wearing the mask or the tracksuit, hiding behind mirrored glass or among the players again. Gi-hun didn’t care. He’d find him. Tear the mask off if he had to. Put his fist through the visor. Watch his face twist. Watch him beg.

Red light!

And, out of nowhere, he heard first gunshot.

“You must not move!” His voice is shaky. Too shaky to be loud enough.

“Player 196, eliminated.”

“Jung-bae, no matter what happens, don't move,” he whispered, covering his mouth and glancing an eye on his friend standing behind.

And then a scream. And another. And quick steps of running players. Then gunshots. A lot of them. Gi-hun is trying to yell louder, but he has a feeling like no one hears him anymore. 

“I'm begging you, stay still! If you run, you die!”

This went on for another couple of dozen seconds, during which Gi-hun spat out his lungs and tore his throat out, trying to stop the people fleeing in agony. Finally, the gunshots stopped. He could hear Jung-bae grinding his teeth in fear. Finally, a mechanical voice, spoke again.

“Let me repeat. You can move forward while the tagger shouts 'Red light, green light'. If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

Green light!

No one moved.

Red light!

Gi-hun gulped.

Green light!

He ran through the people. He had to stop in the exact same place he did in his memory. 

Red light!

He took some more steps and stopped, now being on a lead.

“You will also die if you don't make it there in time! That doll is a motion detector, but it can't detect motion that's not visible to it!” He demonstrates this by clasping and opening his hand behind his back. “Get behind someone bigger than you!”

The clock was ticking. They have just two minutes left.

“We're running out of time. We've got to move!”

Jung-bae followed his steps again. Once again, he promised, panting, he will stay close.

Green light!

They were moving together now, standing in lines. He hopes that Young-il sees that, or even is here now. He hopes it was pissing him off.

This time, he’s not going to fall for any of his lies.

This time, Young-il dies first.

Chapter Text

The dorm was silent. Silent like before, but not that silent like years ago when Gi-hun was sitting there with Sang-woo and Ali. Jung-bae didn't even want to talk anymore. He just covered his face with a hand, staring blankly at his feet.

Gi-hun could hear someone sobbing softly a few bunks away, muffled by thick sleeves and bitten lips. Someone else was breathing heavily, a hitch in every exhale like they couldn’t fully draw breath. Someone was praying. Someone was muttering. But no one was joking. No one laughed.

Too many cots were empty already. Beds untouched, blankets still perfectly folded. No one would lie there again.

He sat down on the edge of his own bunk, elbows on his knees, hands locked together, so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked at them — those same hands — and imagined them painted red. Again. And again. And again. No matter how many times he returned to this place, they always ended up the same. Stained.

Jung-bae put his head up. Looked at him carefully before he asked:

“Gi-hun ah. What the hell is that creepy doll? It shoots people with its eyes.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. He was scared. Gi-hun would do anything now, just to make them both escape.

His eyes were glassy, face pale under the buzzing lights. “It's not the doll,” he murmured. “There are shooters.”

“How do you know so much? Have you really been here before?”

Gi-hun was too exhausted to continue this conversation, he has already had it once. He forgot again, that Jung-bae cannot remember it, because he's not the one who, apparently, went back in time.

He actually wanted to reply, but he's interrupted with an alarm buzzing, lights going on and pink guards entering the dorm. Now they were harmed, and players started to hide under their beds, they're murmuring in fear.

The guards marched in rows of two, silent and soulless as ever, faces hidden behind those emotionless masks, rifles hanging at their sides — not raised, not aimed, not yet. Just a reminder. A promise. Gi-hun didn’t flinch, though he could feel Jung-bae shifting beside him, sucking in a sharp breath like he thought he’d be next.

The buzzing still rang in the metal of the bunk, reverberated in his chest. He could barely keep his head up.

“Congratulations on making it through the first game,” said the square guard, calm as always. “Here are the results of the first game.”

The digital numbers flickered on the huge glass orb suspended above them, just as they did before. As they did years ago. Just as they always did.

“Out of the 456 players…”

“…91 players have been eliminated,” Gi-hun continues quietly. 

“…91 players have been eliminated,” the guard repeated as he was his echo.

He remembered it right. The exact amount of people died before. Gi-hun couldn't be more assured — it wasn't just a dream.

“Had you counted gunshots?” Jung-bae asked him, because he heard his friend's whisper.

Gi-hun just sighed.

“Three hundred sixty-five players have completed the first game,” the guard continued.

He noticed how Geum-ja grabbed her son by his arm and started to cry, desperately begging guards for letting them go. He remembered it, but the only things that came to his mind at that moment was her monologue after the Hide and Seek game. Her voice trembling, eyes bursting in tears as she confessed that she'd killed her own son. The way she pleaded him to took care of Jun-hee and her child.

Right, Jun-hee. Is she alright?

He raised his head high, trying to find the girl with his eyes. He spotted Dae-ho, behind one of the beds Hyun-ju was hiding. Lastly, he even saw Myung-gi, at which his hands involuntarily clenched into fists. He had to remain calm. Jun-hee was safe, for sure.

More people started crying, crawling on the floor, begging for freedom. They didn't even listen to the guard saying that they don't intend to harm anyone. 'Bullshit' , Gi-hun thinks, acting like he didn't just hear it for the third time.

Okay, that's enough.

“Clause three of the consent form,” he yells, standing up. All the players went silent. He can sense Jung-bae also standing up behind him. “The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Am I correct?”

He just really hopes that this time they will escape safely. He just had to do something, he didn't do before… oh, his brain burns.

“That is correct.” The guard nodded as he replied to him.

“Then let us take a vote right now.”

All of them went silent. Even the guard seemed to be a little surprised. But Gi-hun knew, that he wasn't. They all planned it. That's why he had this velcro on his tracksuit.

“Of course. We respect your right to freedom of choice.”

'Like they respect anything, my ass' , he thought for a moment.

Players sighed in relief, which Gi-hun couldn't do. He had to quickly find some solution to successfully convince them to press the X button. Especially now, when they dragged that stupid piggy bank down and filled it with 9.1 billion won. These, who were crying, crawling on the floor, being so pathetic, were now looking at it, their mouths opened wide as they wanted that money for themselves quick. He remembered it. 

He had to come up with some idea, urgently!

“The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456.”

Gi-hun slowly walked through the crowd, thinking too hard to focus on not bumping into people. If he doesn't get some idea before the voting ends, it will be too late. All he can do right now, is to buy some time, by walking towards the buttons really slowly. He stopped when Player 044 started talking like she did before, but he didn't listen to her. Still, just buying some time for himself to think. It didn't help him much. 

He pressed the X button, and automatically pulls out the hand to take the patch. He surprises the circle guard because of it, because they for sure didn't expect him to know about patches. Shit, he should be more careful before he starts to look suspicious.

The circle guard hesitated for a split second before gently handing him a patch. A silent moment passed between them. Gi-hun kept his face still, unreadable, but behind his eyes, thoughts were flying. He had to play this smarter. If he gave too much away too soon, who knows what they'll do. He will never end these games.

He turned and walked on X side of the dorm. People parted for him now, watching him with a mixture of awe and caution. Some whispered, and he knew it wouldn’t take long until rumors started. The man who shouted. The man who knew the rules. The man who voted to leave.

He had to do something. Now.

Player 454 stepped up. She will press the circle.

Gi-hun bit the inside of his cheek. His thoughts were flying across his head so fast, but any of them was a good idea to stop all of this. He couldn't stop making up scenarios — no, he couldn't stop making up scenarios, that end up bad.

Red, red, blue again. The sounds of the clicked buttons were messing with his head. 'Think, Gi-hun, think!'

It's Jung-bae's turn. It's 29 votes to leave and 25 to stay. No, 26 to stay, because Dae-ho just clicked the O button. Jung-bae smiled to Gi-hun slightly, and he did too, but he started panicking, knowing he just MUST do something finally.

As Myung-gi voted, the console went blue. 'It hurts' , Gi-hun thought, ' knowing that he would do that again, even if he would know, how is this going to end' .

Some reds, but then blue, and blue, and blue. It's Player's 230 turn, Gi-hun knows how will it end. He had to do anything, but doesn't know what. He cannot just stand there.

“Wait a minute, everyone!” he yelled, stepping out of the crowd again. “You can't do that! Come to your senses! Don't you see? These aren't just any games. We will die if we keep playing! We have to get out of here now. With a majority vote, we can! We must stop here!”

“Who do you think you are? Why do you keep egging people on like that? You scared us by saying they'd shoot us before the game even began!”

“That's right! He was going on about how we'd die, and I almost did because I got so nervous!”

“How did you know they were going to shoot us? Are you one of them?”

“Are you conning us all by pretending to be a player? Who is this guy? Did you plant him to mess with our heads?”

Gi-hun wasn't listening anymore. It all had happened before. Yells, accusations, all of it. He was overwhelmed. Jung-bae started trying to defend him, but his words just weren't coming to Gi-hun's ears. He saw Geum-ja nodding her head to him, he did the same, but he had no idea what she was saying. He was exhausted. So, so exhausted.

The noise was so big, no one could hear their own words. Gi-hun closed his eyes.

“I've played these games before!” he shouted. The crowd went silent.

And then it hit him. He realized — he tried to improvise, but he didn't. He just said the same words as before. He didn't change anything.

He was thinking so hard on any idea to do something, and he did nothing.

Gi-hun raised his head. And then what happened, was unexpected. In a sea of faces, he finally noticed him.

Young-il was just standing there, waiting for his turn to vote. Gi-hun completely forgot about him.

His hands were tucked into his sleeves. His shoulders were relaxed. His face, however, was tight — not amused, not smug, but pale and unreadable. He knew Gi-hun had seen him. That much was clear. There was no flinch, no shame, no attempt to retreat. Just a tired stare exchanged across the dorm. 

Gi-hun’s heart leapt into his throat. The instinct to run at him, tackle him, tear into him — it swelled up in an instant. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. The vote wasn’t over.

And it was the shift he needed. His eyebrow flinched.

“I've played the games before,” he repeated, staring deeply into Young-il's eyes, just to know his reaction. “But they didn't give me any money.”

He saw this. The way Young-il clenched his jaw, was all he required now to be satisfied.

The dorm went quieter than before.

“What…?”

He took out Young-il of his sight. 

“It’s true,” Gi-hun said louder, drawing more attention now. “Four years ago I was playing these games and I won every single one. And still, they just dumped me on the street, without a single won to get the bus.”

He was slightly surprised he's able to lie that naturally, without even a blink of an eye. However, if it is what it takes to end this game, he can do it.

Murmurs began to spread like fire licking dry paper.

“Wait… what?”

“Is he serious?”

“That’s a lie. It has to be.”

“Why would they not give him the money?”

Gi-hun clenched his jaw. “Because the money doesn’t matter. It never did. The whole thing is a trap. A show. They’re watching us. Betting on us. Killing us for fun.”

Someone laughed nervously. “Oh, come on!”

But others weren’t laughing anymore. Some looked at the ceiling, as if trying to spot the eyes watching them. Others glanced toward the guards, the piggy bank, the voting console. Everything seemed more sinister now.

Someone else muttered, “Then why is he still here? If he won?”

“That's right!” Player 100 shouted. “If they didn't give you any money, why would you risk your life again?”

Gi-hun wasn't prepared for that. He did one step back.

“Well…”

Gi-hun hesitated. One step back, and it felt like the floor tipped under him. All those eyes — desperate, suspicious, angry — they burned holes through his skin. He hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t thought they’d push him so hard. And the worst part was… they were right to.

“Well…?” Player 100 pushed again, arms folded, tone biting. “You ‘survived’ the games, huh? And instead of running far away, you just happened to come back? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

A few heads nodded. The silence was starting to shift again — from stunned curiosity to dangerous doubt.

Gi-hun’s breath caught in his throat. “Because—” he started. “Because…”

He shouldn't be thinking that much. He is too sentimental, and it's always making him dirty.

“He's lying!” someone else snapped. 

“Yeah, he's making this up!”

“I’m not!” he shouted, a little too fast. “I’m not lying! They didn’t give me anything! I walked out with nothing but blood on my hands!”

“Then why would they let you go? They kill people who lose — why let you live?”

Gi-hun opened his mouth, heart hammering, mouth dry.

And nothing came out.

His eyes darted to the guards, to the piggy bank glinting above them like some twisted god, and finally — briefly — to Young-il, who was still watching. Not with triumph. Not with glee. Just quiet calculation. Cold.

The silence stretched too long.

Someone scoffed.

“Thought so.”

A ripple moved through the crowd — the doubt had turned. They were slipping away from him again, just like before.

Gi-hun’s fists curled at his sides.

“And even if it’s true —” said a man, staring up at the piggy bank, “— if this is all fake, then what the hell do we have to lose? At least in here, we have a shot.”

Gi-hun stepped forward. “A shot at what? Dying faster?”

“At dying for something,” someone muttered.

And that was the final nail. The silence broke again — louder this time. A low tide of disbelief, resentment, anger. Not directed at the guards. At him . He’d told them the truth — or close to it — and they hated him for it.

Before he felt a stab of cold metal rifle on his back, he heard the same words he had heard before.

We have a previous winner with us, so what do we have to worry about?

After all, it was some kind of shift. They couldn't even dream about a draw. Circles had won, and somehow, Young-il pressed the X button this time.

Chapter Text

“Man, I really thought we're going home,” sighed Jung-bae as he sat with his lunchbox. He opened it, seeing some rice, fried egg and three pieces of a sausage. “Oh! Just like my mom used to make. What's in yours?”

Gi-hun didn't reply. He was just sitting there with this box in his hand, thinking. His made-up-on-spot plan was rooting so well — even genius, he'd say, and for what? It turned to be worse than before. It was his fault.

If it was some higher power which decided Gi-hun's fate to go back in time and stop the games, it couldn't have chosen a worse person to do so.

“Aren't you going to eat?” he asks again. It's like it has been before. Gi-hun remembered it. 

Where'd the shift go? Everything is still the same. It shouldn't be! 

Jung-bae doesn't give up and tries again. “Look, you've got to eat. You know what they say: 'Eat up, even on your deathbed.' You'll do your thinking while you eat, or afterwards. Here. Ah. Aah.”

As his friend tried to press a tablespoon of rice to his mouth, he was looking across the dorm. He noticed him again — playing poor and innocent, pretending to be so scared and eating this cold rice with this cold egg and cold sausages. Gi-hun was pretty convinced, that the Frontman doesn't need to drink or eat real food. Yeah, he saw this whiskey carafe in his room, but he was sure that monsters like him don't need that. He probably just sips humans' fear and eat their naïveté for dessert.

Gi-hun’s stomach twisted. Not from hunger — that had faded hours ago — but from something far worse.

He stared at Young-il across the room, watching him with the kind of disgust that made his chest feel heavy and his breath come sharp. That same blank, calculating face. The careful posture. He even chewed like a liar — slow, steady, measured, as if to draw no attention.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it:

Young-il pressed X.

Why?

What was the play?

He should’ve chosen circle. He was the Frontman , after all. That whole show of indifference — of letting the vote happen — it was all part of the script, wasn’t it? But this?

This was off-script.

“Forget it, then,” Jung-bae said as eating his portion. “This might be for the best. I don't know about you, but that 20 million wouldn't even cover my interest,” he added, bringing his attention finally.

A that was on-script. Gi-hun didn't want to listen to this again. Not after he had seen him dying.

“Stop,” he interrupted him.

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking crap about things you don't have an idea about.”

Jung-bae scowled inwardly at this reprimand. Gi-hun himself no longer knew whether the gravity of the situation was getting to his friend or not. He simply straightened up, eager to get back to watching Young-il.

And he wasn't there. He had disappeared. A moment ago he was quietly eating his rice, and now he just wasn't there. Dammit, maybe he noticed the way Gi-hun was staring at him? Maybe he suspects something? Maybe he's planning something wicked? Is he going to kill him in his sleep?  Gi-hun really started to panic, feeling his residual sense of control just dissolve into thin air.

“Who are you looking for?” asked Jung-bae, but he didn't answer. He was still nervously searching the dormitory.

According to the 'script', Young-il should come to him with his little group of circles and ask him for help. But Young-il didn't have a circle on his chest this time, so it won't happen. Where is he?

“So,” he hears unexpectedly. “If you really have played these games before, you should help us.”

There was Player 100 standing in front of him. There was a shift.

Gi-hun just furrowed his eyebrows, putting his lunchbox down.

“We actually pressed the O button because of you,” added another man behind him.

“Yes, we were scared, but you made us think we can do this if you did.”

It was almost according to the script. He sighed again.

“I literally have told you I didn't get any money, even I was the last person standing,” he said harshly. “It's only your fault that you chose to stay.”

What should he do to make some another shift happen?

Player's 100 face twisted, his attempt at connection curdling instantly into resentment.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” he scoffed. “You think you’re better than us, huh? Just because you ‘won’ before?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer.

Another voice joined in — one of Player's 100 friends, taller, sharper-eyed. “Yeah, you act like you know everything, but all you’ve done is mess with people’s heads. Some hero.”

“You lied to us,” Player 100 snapped. “You stirred everyone up just to say ‘It’s your fault’? What kind of sick game are you playing?”

People were starting to gather again. Faces tightening, eyes narrowing. The earlier unease was returning — louder this time, uglier.

“You’re a coward,” said someone else behind them. “You voted to leave, and now you’re pissed it didn’t work. Boo hoo.”

Gi-hun was still sitting, trying not to care. It was hard.

“That's enough,” he heard as he saw the man that was laughing at him being pulled back by his collar.

Gi-hun squints his eyes. He might have expected it. Young-il, after all, will do anything to talk to him. He tries to restrain himself from jumping up to him and strangling him with his bare hands. For the first time that day, he was so close to him.

“Pfft!” the man pulls himself out of Young-il's grasp. “Another coward, right?”

“Stop wasting your strength on bullying those smarter than you. You'd better go and think about what the game is going to be like tomorrow, since you were so eager to keep playing,” Young-il taunts him, contemptuously grabbing him by his tracksuit with a blue patch with a white circle.

The man faltered for a second, clearly not expecting such a calm, scathing answer. His eyes flicked to the material of his tracksuit in Young-il’s hand, then back to his face — but Young-il’s expression was unchanged. Just cold disinterest, the kind that felt like being looked through rather than at.

“Tsk. Whatever,” the man muttered and backed off, dragging his pride with him as he disappeared into the forming crowd.

The tension hung for a breath longer, then broke like a snapped wire. Conversations resumed. The murmur of frustration, hopelessness, anxiety — all of it rushed back in like floodwater.

And in the middle of it, Gi-hun and Young-il stood, facing each other at last.

Gi-hun’s fists clenched at his sides. His lunchbox sat forgotten on the bench, rice drying in the corners. Every muscle in his body was wound tight.

Young-il didn’t speak. He was just standing there like he was waiting for some 'thank you' from Gi-hun. It wasn't going to come.

Even Jung-bae felt the tension between the two of them, but Young-il by himself seemed to be unbothered by it. Like he didn't even notice it. And there was Gi-hun, trying his best to just not kill him on the spot.

Jung-bae glanced at his friend being weird. He felt obligated to thank Young-il on his behalf, thinking he was off again. Gi-hun wasn't.

“Sorry, sir, he obviously wants to thank you, but he is a little—”

“I don't,” Gi-hun cut off his friend's words. “I didn't ask for help.”

“Gi-hun ah… ”

“No, that's okay,” he laughs softly, touching Jung-bae's hand just to stop him. Gi-hun quickly flinches. Hands off , he thinks. “I didn't do much. They were pissing me off, anyway.”

“Okay,” Gi-hun murmurs dismissively. “Do you need anything else?”

Young-il's shoulders slump slightly, and Gi-hun is pleased to see this unspoken, suppressed frustration. However, he doesn't show a smile — instead, he looks at him dismissively, and Jung-bae is embarrassed by his friend's behavior.

Young-il tilted his head slightly, like he was studying an insect on the ground — unthreatened, but faintly annoyed that it was still crawling.

“I didn’t come to collect anything,” he said evenly. “Just wanted to say that I believe you.”

Gi-hun gave him a slow blink. “About what?”

“Well,” he seems to be intimidated. That's fake. “You said you didn't get any money.”

'Motherfucker.'

He exactly knows Gi-hun had got that money, and now he's just teasing him.

“Because you really didn't get anything, right?”

Gi-hun's expression tightens. “I didn't.”

He noticed the way one of Young-il's eyebrows had furrowed. It wasn't even a whole millimeter, but he saw that perfectly.

“And I believe you.”

Gi-hun snorts. “That’s rich. Now you can leave.”

And again, something in Young-il’s expression flickered — not surprise, not offense, just the barest crack in his still mask. It was gone just for a millisecond, but Gi-hun got to catch it.

“Sorry, I didn't want to bother you” he said, almost too calmly.

“But you did.”

He started wondering if he's not too harsh on him. Actually, he should break his ribs right now, but he can't look too suspicious.

Jung-bae glanced between them, clearly out of his depth now. “You two… know each other?”

“No,” Gi-hun answered too quickly.

Young-il’s eyebrows lifted just a touch. “Not at all,” he echoed, gaze still locked with Gi-hun’s.

Jung-bae isn't too convinced, but decides to accept the denial. He looks at Young-il for a moment, then turns to his friend, still feeling Player's 001 gaze on him, and starts awkwardly, his voice quieter and softer. 

“Gi-hun ah , I don't know what's bitten you, but I don't think we should make enemies here. And he seems strong and intelligent…. maybe we should team up with him?”

“Team up?” he echoes in some kind of fury. If Young-il doesn't disappear from there in five minutes, he's going to beat him up. “You seriously wanna team up with some…” 

Scumbag. Traitor. Murderer. Monster.

“ …stranger?” he spitted, regretting he couldn't use stronger words.

Gi-hun couldn't understand why was Young-il smiling at him so stupidly.

“Oh Young-il.” He held out his palm in front of him. At first, he wanted to hold out his left hand. Was he left-handed? “Now, I am not a stranger.” And now he smiled again. More stupidly than before.

Gi-hun didn't shake his hand. He was just looking at Jung-bae being so desperate to do it.

“And your last name, Gi-hun ssi ?”

He was caught off guard by that. He stands up quickly, like he wants to defend himself.

“And how do you know my name?” he growls menacingly, convinced that he has caught the Frontman in a mistake.

But Young-il just let out a soft chuckle.

“Um,” he started awkwardly. “Your friend calls you that all the time, right?”

Right. But he's not about to apologize. 'Son of a bitch.'

He was stubborn and Gi-hun hated it. However, all of this was off-script. He should be happy, because there was a shift again.

Gi-hun didn’t sit back down. He stood there, pulse hammering behind his eyes, jaw locked so tight it ached. He wanted to say something that would slice through Young-il’s fake civility like a blade, something that would tear the mask right off. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

Young-il was still smiling, but it had taken on a different shape now — something a little more amused, a little more entertained, as though he enjoyed seeing Gi-hun squirm beneath the weight of unsaid things.

“See?” Young-il added lightly. “We’re not strangers. Even though I still don't know your last name. We're just… co-survivors. For now.”

Gi-hun wanted to laugh in his face. He wanted to scream. For now? The sheer audacity of it made his skin crawl.

Then Jung-bae dragged him by his arm down to sit. “Gi-hun ah … Young-il ssi is right. We should focus on tomorrow's game instead.”

He doesn't want to look at this traitor as he starts to smile even more stupidly than he ever did.

“Gi-hun ssi ,” Young-il starts quietly, “you've played before, so you must know what the second game is.”

“Right!” Realizes Jung-bae. “Gi-hun ah , what is the second game?”

Gi-hun gets an idea. He just wanted to tease him for the one last time today. To make him confused. To catch him clenching his jaw once again.

“You know… last time it was Dalgona ,” he said, tapping a finger against his thigh like he was counting off from memory. “But I have a hunch they’re switching things up.”

Young-il freezes, his jaw clenches, as Gi-hun expected, he sees that big gulp going down his throat. His shoulders stiffened, ever so slightly. That was all Gi-hun needed.

 Gi-hun continued, softer now, almost conspiratorial. “I think it’s going to be teams. Something… physical.”

Young-il was standing still. Listening carefully.

Jung-bae looked at him in confusion. “What? But how would you know that?”

“I don’t,” Gi-hun lied smoothly. “Just a gut feeling.”

“Then we should expect some game like that,” Jung-bae announced. Now he turned to Young-il. “You know, it wasn't always successful, but sometimes, when he bet on some horses, they unexpectedly won races.” He pointed to Gi-hun, who was wondering why this conversation was even being continued. “I think that's some kind of gift. So if he has that gut feeling, I am rooting for it.”

“Really?” Young-il really started to feel too comfortable. It shouldn't be like that, and it's all on Jung-bae now. “That's impressive, Gi-hun ssi .”

He gulped. “Betting on horses has nothing to do with people. We're not horses, as some individuals can assume.”

The tension came back as their eyes met again. They were talking about it in the car, after he won first games. Young-il was pretending that he heard these words for the first time.

“Anyway, we should stick together,” Jung-bae tried to calm the atmosphere again and Gi-hun was just two steps away from strangling him.

“Yes, he's right!” They heard the bright voice that Gi-hun already knew. It was Dae-ho. He didn't have the strength to look him in the eye, knowing he was the one that killed him. Even if he was standing there, smiling, lying about being a marine once again, just to be accepted in their so-called team.

Jung-bae was talking with Dae-ho, while he was looking thoroughly at Young-il's silhouette. He looked the same last time. This moment seemed familiar. 

And once again. No shift. No butterfly effect. Just the same faces, the same lies. Was it even a loop — or just a punishment?

Chapter Text

The look of these walls was too painful. They were holding too many memories. Kang Sae-byeok bleeding out. Sang-woo above her bed, holding a knife.

Dae-ho, being so scared, curled up in the corner. Geum-ja's body hanging unconsciously. The touch of the baby's soft skin while pressing to the wall, frightened those bastards will hurt her.

The memory of his first real conversation with Young-il. He came up to him, apologizing for going too far earlier. He has also apologized for blaming him. Then he told him about his wife. His stubborn wife, who wants to birth her child, no matter what. He felt so sorry for him.

Just to get to know, it all was just a lie.

When the Frontman put down his mask, Gi-hun felt just sadness. The feeling of betrayal was there also, but not as much, as he was sad.

It was because he has really bonded with Young-il. He felt the tension since their very first meeting. The way he talked about his feelings, his thoughts. The way he trusted him. He makes Gi-hun feel so special, that he even, just for a while, had inappropriate thoughts of them being something more than just friends.

Every time it came to his mind, he chastised himself for it and wondered — what was brewing in his mind in his old age. But every time Young-il was by his side again, Gi-hun sometimes wondered if he, by any chance, felt the same way.

That was the reason he gave him that ammo. That was the reason it hurt that bad when he found out.

He was sitting on his bed, hearing Jung-bae and Dae-ho snoring steadily. He sighed. How should he go to sleep now? With that baggage? With this feeling of failed mission?

Every breath he took felt wrong. Every exhale burned with the weight of being back . With the knowledge of what was to come — or what should have come. But he needed a shift, and it wasn’t there.

He should be grateful for the second chance. For the opportunity to stop it all. To change something. To save someone. But all it had done so far was reminding him how powerless he still was. No matter how many loops. No matter how much pain.

The lights were dimmed to the usual murky glow. Shadows stretched across the concrete floor like bruises. It was cold. He rubbed his palms together, not for warmth, but to focus on something real — something that didn’t involve masks or manipulation or déjà vu memories stitched with pain.

He didn’t notice the footsteps until they stopped in front of him.

Gi-hun’s head lifted slowly.

Young-il.

He wasn’t smiling this time. Just standing there, hands in the pockets of his tracksuit, like he was trying not to seem like he cared too much about being there.

“What?” Gi-hun muttered, not loud enough to wake anyone, but sharp enough to cut.

Young-il didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the others — sleeping bodies bundled in their misery — then sat down slowly on the edge of Gi-hun’s bed, leaving a careful space between them.

Gi-hun stiffened. He should’ve pushed him off. He should’ve told him to leave.

“I just couldn’t sleep,” Young-il said finally.

Gi-hun scoffed under his breath. “Poor you.”

Silence settled again. But not the peaceful kind. The kind that made the air feel tight.

“I am not sure why you treat me this way,” Young-il started quietly. “So I am sorry in advance. But honestly, it would be easier if you'd just tell me.”

Gi-hun was looking at him, being one hundred percent sure he would fall for his stupid behavior again if he didn't know that the man sitting in front of him was the Frontman.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and laced with something colder than anger. “Don’t try to befriend me. I am not doing that.”

“I’m not.”

Gi-hun was still looking directly at his face. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Young-il met his eyes, unwavering. “Trying not to feel alone here.”

He swallowed hard. It was too simple. Too honest. And that made it worse.

He clenched his fists. “You should try a different bed.”

Young-il didn’t move. “You’re the only one awake.”

Gi-hun stared at him. Oh, he would fall for this.

“Well, that's too bad,” Gi-hun muttered. “I was just about going to sleep.”

Young-il didn’t move. “You weren't.”

“And now I am.”

He turned his head away, then he hid under the blanket. He shouldn't be that trustful, he couldn't be sure the Frontman would not kill him, stabbing him in his back. Anyway, he did not care anymore. He would love to kill this man, but dying right now didn't sound like a bad idea either. He was trapped. And shifts, that happened to be there, weren't enough.

Young-il didn’t flinch. Gi-hun felt his stare on the back of his head. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Why did you come back?”

He was considering if he even wanted to answer this question. After a long minute, he turned to lay on his back. This gesture made Young-il smile.

Their eyes met again. Gi-hun has a thought that Young-il happened to have eyes too beautiful for his personality.

He has a thought it would be easier if he didn't know about his real identity.

Gi-hun exhaled slowly, the weight of the question settling deep inside him. He didn’t want to say the truth — not to Young-il, not now, not ever.

But silence dragged on, pressing heavier with every second.

Finally, he whispered, “I just don't want anyone else to have to lose their son or daughter because of these games.”

It was too deep and too honest. But Gi-hun didn't care. He was exhausted.

They both went silent.

“My wife is very sick.”

Not this again. Gi-hun sighed and clenched his fists, trying to mute Young-il's words. He knew perfectly well that it was all lies, but still, he sounded so sincere. So true.

No wonder he believed him last time.

“She has acute cirrhosis. She needs a liver transplant. But when she was going through the tests, we found out she was pregnant.”

Gi-hun was still laying down, without any respond. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, his face unreadable. Inside, though, he could feel the old grief stirring. The one that wasn’t his but felt like it had been. Because he had already lived through Young-il telling this story — exactly like this. Not even a small shift here.

“The doctor suggested a termination, but she won't listen.” Young-il went on, his voice steady, low. “Says she'll give birth even if it kills her. You see, my wife is stubborn. I've never been able to change her mind about anything.”

Gi-hun pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Every instinct told him to shut it down, to call it what it was: a recycled lie, fed to him again in a different loop. But he couldn’t. Not when Young-il looked like that — sitting forward now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held everything he had left.

“We were struggling to find a donor, and her condition was getting worse,” Young-il said, his eyes teary. “I borrowed as much money as I could, but it still wasn't enough.”

Gi-hun closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to see the raw, exposed version of someone he knew to be a monster. It made things too complicated. Too human.

He wished Young-il will think he's asleep, and go away. Cut this bullshit. But he didn't. He continued.

“I was desperate,” Young-il added. “Then one of my oldest vendors heard about my situation and offered to help. So I borrowed money from them. But people saw it as a bribe, and I got fired from my job. I had devoted my entire youth to it.”

Lies. Vile, disgusting lies.

Gi-hun turned his face slightly to the side, as if even that fraction of distance might shield him. He didn’t know what infuriated him more — the repetition or the fact that he still wanted to believe it. That a small, traitorous part of him wished this was the real version, the truth in this loop. That Young-il was just a man, broken and desperate, and not the Frontman behind a thousand deaths.

He could feel Young-il watching him now. His silence must’ve seemed like listening.

“These games were my last hope,” Young-il continued, quieter now, like admitting it pained him. 

Gi-hun opened his eyes, blinking slowly at the ceiling again. He wanted to scream. Wanted to sit up and spit the truth into Young-il’s face — You already told me this. And you were lying then too.

“I really need that money, but I don't want to die.”

And it was something new.

Young-il started crying. No, he was just pretending. But it looked so real, Gi-hun almost believed him again.

The sound of Young-il’s breath hitching was soft — almost too soft to be real. Gi-hun didn’t dare look at him. He knew what he’d see: slouched shoulders, shaking hands, the tear-tracked face of a man crumbling under the weight of his own desperation.

It was the same performance. Every beat in the same place. Every word like déjà vu carved into his brain.

But that one line…

I don’t want to die.

That was new.

And it wasn’t a line.

Or maybe it was. But it felt real. And that’s what made it dangerous.

Gi-hun swallowed thickly. He’d survived long enough to know when someone was bluffing — and when they weren’t sure if they were anymore. That’s what Young-il sounded like now. Like a man standing on the edge of a story he half believed himself.

There was a shift. But barely unnoticeable.

Gi-hun felt it — subtle, like the difference between a breath held and a breath released. Something in Young-il’s voice, his posture, maybe even in the silence that followed. It wasn’t a confession, not really. But it also wasn’t just a story anymore.

This time, he believed it.

Or wanted to.

That was the part that made Gi-hun’s stomach twist — not because Young-il might be telling the truth, but because Gi-hun no longer trusted his own instincts to tell the difference.

“You know,” Young-il said suddenly, voice barely audible, “sometimes I think… I would’ve made a good father.”

Gi-hun’s breath caught. He was careful not to show it.

“I used to dream about it,” Young-il went on, slowly. “The kind of father I’d be. The kind that shows up. The kind that never leaves.”

Gi-hun closed his eyes.

Stop.

Stop saying this.

“I even had a name picked out. For a girl, I mean. My wife hated it.” He let out a faint, broken laugh. “Said it sounded like a toothpaste brand.”

Gi-hun felt something flicker in his chest. A hollow ache, like a bruise you don’t remember earning.

The fact these words weren't according to the script, made him feel this is real. But it wasn't. Those were just more lies, just to make him feel sorry. But Young-il was a cold-blooded monster, there was nothing about him to feel sorry for!

And how brazen he was to talk about being a good father, when he himself had a newborn baby fighting for life like a regular player!

He should go to sleep now. But nevertheless, he asks:

“What was the name?”

Young-il opened his teary eyes wider. He was genuinely surprised that Gi-hun had decided to keep up the conversation with him.

He blinked slowly, caught off guard. For a second, it seemed like he didn’t know whether to answer — or whether he even remembered the name he claimed to have picked. But then something softened in his face. His lips parted, and he said quietly:

“Ha-eun.”

The syllables hung there, feather-light in the dark.

Gi-hun turned his head back toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

Ha-eun.

It was simple. A name a man like Young-il might’ve thought of late at night, tracing his wife’s belly with his fingertips, dreaming of a future that never came.

Or maybe it was something he pulled out of thin air. Something he practiced saying in front of a mirror until he could summon that glint of nostalgia behind his eyes.

Gi-hun didn’t know. And he hated that he didn’t know.

“What does it mean?”

Young-il hesitated. His lips pressed together, as if tasting the name again before answering.

“Grace,” he said. “Or mercy. Something like that.”

He gave a short breath, not quite a laugh. “My wife said it was ironic. That someone like me would want a daughter named after kindness.”

Gi-hun stared at the ceiling. His throat felt tight.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Because for the first time tonight, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. Not without giving something away.

Young-il went quiet too.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft snores of the others, the hum of the air vents, and the silence that stretched between them — no longer sharp, but brittle, like old glass.

Gi-hun’s mind raced — not with thoughts, but with feelings he couldn’t place. Anger. Sadness. Maybe even guilt. None of them made sense.

“I don’t talk about her much,” Young-il added after a while. “You’re the only one I ever told. You know, the name.”

Gi-hun almost flinched. But he stayed still.

He had no idea what to believe anymore. He was tired.

He shut his eyes again. “I—,” he started, dragging Young-il's attention, “I'd really like to go to sleep.”

Young-il didn’t argue. He didn’t move either.

He just nodded once, the smallest motion, almost invisible in the dim light. His eyes lingered on Gi-hun’s face for a second longer than they should’ve — as if trying to memorize something he wasn’t supposed to remember.

Then, quietly, he stood.

“All right,” he murmured. “Sleep well, Gi-hun ssi. ”

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He turned his head toward the wall and shut his eyes, jaw tight.

He heard the soft shuffle of Young-il’s steps retreating into the darkness. The absence of him felt immediate. Like pressure lifting off his chest, but not in a relieving way — more like a sudden drop in temperature. A missing weight that left the air hollow.

He exhaled again. Long. Shaky.

And finally, he let himself feel what he had been holding back since the very beginning of this new loop: fear. Not of the games. Not of dying. But of failing again. Of being tricked again. Of that look in Young-il’s eyes — the one that made it so hard to separate the mask from the man.

He turned onto his side, curling tighter beneath the blanket.

And despite everything — the exhaustion, the fury, the grief — he still didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time

Chapter Text

Gi-hun really didn't want to team up with him. He could see him, walking through the people, but not asking anyone if he can join them. This bastard will come to them in the last minute and ask, and Jung-bae will obviously let him.

If only Jung-bae knew…

“Gi-hun ah , I don't understand why can't we invite Young-il. He's strong.”

He will join them anyway, so Gi-hun decides he will not be even trying to stop all of this, but he also wasn't about to make it happen too easily. There are three of them. Him, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho. The youngest of them just entered the crowd to find someone for their team.

He noticed Jun-hee and Myung-gi arguing. Suddenly, she pulled out of his embrace and walked ahead with a confident step. She hangs her eye on Gi-hun. He's not sure if he should ask her to join them, or she will do it by herself.

Well, whatever. Everything was going according to the script, anyway. No shifts. Great.

Gi-hun was the worst 'hero' ever.

He stood there, watching Jun-hee walk up, arms crossed like she’d already made up her mind. He smiled, being so glad she's fine. He probably looked weird because of that.

“Excuse me. Can I join you?” she asked flatly.

Jung-bae wasn't so convinced that a small, young girl is a good teammate for a psychical game. “Um, sorry, we…”

“Please, help me. I'm pregnant.” She touched her belly, trying to prove her point.

Gi-hun was kinda disappointed that Young-il wasn't there now. He would like to see his reaction. He knew for sure, there's a pregnant woman, and he still let her join the games.

There was a beat of silence.

“She’s in,” Gi-hun said, tone final.

Dae-ho still wasn't there, obviously looking for someone. There were four minutes left.

Young-il continued to walk between the teams, avoiding confrontations with people. He was getting closer and closer to their group. It would be good if Dae-ho could find someone as soon as possible. It would be a shift.

Gi-hun was still looking at Jun-hee, happy to see her alive. His mind kept going back to the final showdown, to his sacrifice, to the silent cry of the baby.

Jun-hee gave Gi-hun a distrustful look, as she caught him, staring. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” he muttered.

She didn’t respond, just raised an eyebrow — skeptical, guarded. Like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk away. But then she sighed and looked off into the crowd, arms still crossed.

Gi-hun swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down at his hands. He was supposed to play this cool. Pretend like he didn’t know anything. And yet there he was, practically glowing with relief the moment she approached.

Peachy . What a joke.

Jung-bae was still glancing between them, visibly confused, but said nothing. Maybe he chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he sensed something strange but didn’t want to say it out loud.

The air around them felt thick, like it always did before a storm.

One minute gone.

Still no sign of Dae-ho.

“He better hurry up,” Jung-bae muttered, shifting on his feet. “If we don’t have five…”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence.

Gi-hun looked toward the edge of the group — and there he was. Dae-ho, jogging back toward them.

With Young-il behind him. Of course, it had to be him.

“I couldn’t find anyone else,” he called. “Everyone’s full. Sorry, Gi-hun ssi , I knew you didn't want—” 

“No, no, that's okay,” Jung-bae laughed, actually glad that Young-il got to join them.

Funny, he didn't like him last time. He was probably even jealous.

Gi-hun didn’t laugh.

He couldn’t.

There was something too bitter lodged in his throat — like swallowing glass while everyone else smiled and called it water.

Young-il stood just behind Dae-ho, perfectly composed, the corner of his mouth curved in that same calm, grateful smile. As if he didn’t already know he’d be welcomed. As if he hadn’t waited until the exact right moment to make his move.

“Thanks for having me,” he said softly.

Gi-hun didn’t respond.

He kept his eyes on the ground, fighting the sudden urge to lash out. Scream at Dae-ho for bringing him here. At Jung-bae for smiling. At the guards for standing by, faceless and unmoved, letting this monster walk in plain sight.

But mostly, he wanted to scream at himself — for not stopping it. For knowing exactly how this would play out and still letting it happen again.

Jun-hee gave Young-il a once-over, then looked at Gi-hun like this was what he’d been upset about. And it was. But she couldn’t know how deep it went. No one could.

“Do you not trust him?” she asked Gi-hun under her breath, making sure no one else will hear her.

Gi-hun’s jaw tensed. It was surprising. He didn’t answer right away.

How could he?

No, I don’t trust him. He’s the reason all of us ended dead. He’s the one pulling the strings. He’s the Frontman hiding in plain sight. He’s the man who let you die. The man who put your child in danger. And now I’m stuck pretending I don’t know any of that, while he smiles and pretends he’s one of us.

But none of that could be said. Not here. Not now. Not without ruining everything.

So instead, he glanced at her, eyes hollow and tired, and said:

“Well… I don’t know him.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

Jun-hee studied his face, then looked back at Young-il. He was chatting with Dae-ho, casual and pleasant, like they were about to go on a field trip and not face the next step in a death game.

“You don't know me as well,” she muttered. “And, you know… you don’t trust people because they are trustworthy. You do it because you have nothing else to rely on.”

Her words landed softly, but they cut sharper than she probably meant them to.

Gi-hun blinked. Someone must be pulling a prank on him, because it was all too improbable to be true. He remembered those words. But not from the time loop he was in. Those were his own words, spoken to Kang Sae-byeok when he was in his first games.

He turned toward her, just slightly, but her gaze was already fixed ahead — not angry, not hurt. Just matter-of-fact. Like she wasn’t accusing him of anything. Just stating a truth.

“Time for the team selection is up.”

Their group began to move.

Jung-bae gave Dae-ho a light slap on the back. Jun-hee stepped into formation just behind them. Young-il smiled, falling into step beside her.

Gi-hun watched them all walk ahead.

And then followed — one step behind. One second late. Not because he didn’t know the way.

There was a shift. But it didn't matter.

“Actually, I can play Gong-gi, ” Dae-ho muttered, being a little embarrassed by this.

“You? An ex-marine?” Jung-bae raised an eyebrow.

“I grew up with four older sisters,” he explained quickly. “I used to play it with them from time to time.”

Jung-bae smiled slightly. “That's right.” He slapped his back. “There's nothing a Marine can't do.”

“Everyone else, what game are you playing?” Gi-hun asked in exactly the same tone as before. He tried to ignore Young-il, who sat next to him and was staring into his soul.

“ Ddakji for me,” Jun-hee started, confidently. “At the subway station, I won more times than the guy.”

“Okay, then,” Jung-bae wheezed briefly, “Miss 222, you can play Ddakji . I'll play Flying Stone. I was a pitcher for my baseball team. I'm good at throwing,” he explained, looking directly at Young-il.

“That leaves Jegi and Spinning Top .”

According to the script, he should ask Young-il what is he good at. Then Young-il should reply with 'Whatever you chose for me, Gi-hun ssi'.

Yeah, not happening.

“I'll go with Jegi ,” he said, avoiding his gaze.

Young-il tilted his head slightly, a flicker of surprise passing over his face — brief, but noticeable. It was a subtle break from the pattern. Gi-hun saw it. He wanted him to see it.

There was a pause. Then Young-il smiled again, slower this time. Measured. His voice was calm as ever.

“ Spinning Top it is, then.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t question it. But the weight behind his words made Gi-hun’s shoulders stiffen. Like Young-il knew exactly what he was doing by not responding the way he was supposed to.

He needed some shift, but it wasn't there.

“Guys, bring your hands together,” Jung-bae said, throwing his hand in front of him.

Dae-ho placed his hand, then Jun-hee and then Young-il did so. It was only Gi-hun who sat next to them on the ground, wrapping his hands around his knees and not intending to put his palm on that murderer's.

Then the murderer looked at him expectantly.

“Oh, Gi-hun ah , stop sulking. We're a team now, and we have to stick together,” added Jung-bae.

He rolled his eyes, snorted, and rose from his sit to kneel to place his hand on their hands. He paused for a brief moment before doing so.

Gi-hun looked at Young-il's hand and noticed something he had noticed once before in this loop, but hadn't noticed in that previous one. And he didn't know why, but he felt under his skin that it mattered.

Young-il was left-handed.

Still thoughtful, he put up his palm, ignoring the next words of his friend, who was now coming up with a motto for their team.

The first two teams started the race. It was exactly like it had been before. The same people, the same number of attempts to complete each task. Ddakji , Flying Stone , Gong-gi . Then Spinning Top , and lastly — Jegi . The same gunshots, killing people who didn't make it to the finish line in time.

He could still feel Young-il's gaze on himself. He felt that the man wanted to chat, so he kept wandering his eyes over the people, pretending to watch the race he already knew by heart. He was happy when the teams reached the finish line, but he didn't want the enthusiasm and euphoria to cause him to break down in front of the Frontman. Time was rushing by, he didn't even notice when there were only four teams left. 

They were supposed to be the last one. Now, Gi-hun understood why. If something goes wrong, and they have to be eliminated, the Frontman will be safe and not suspicious, because there would be no one else to see them.

The sound of the gunshots was starting to lose its sharpness — or maybe Gi-hun was just getting used to it. That was worse. He was sitting cross-legged on the hard ground, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, trying to keep the hum of anxiety from crawling all over his skin.

He wasn’t nervous about the game.

Not really.

That part had long since faded into the background, like a memory from a childhood he didn’t quite believe in anymore. He wasn’t afraid of dying — not here, not now. What really haunted him was how familiar it all felt. The same sequence. The same faces. The same order. No shifts. The patterns clung to him like second skin.

Young-il… still being right there, no matter how bad Gi-hun was treating him.

Always the same slight smile, the same calm demeanor, the same strange, unsettling silence.

There was something about Young-il that seemed beyond the reach of memory, like a face he'd seen in a dream. Something in the way he acted. The sequence never broke. Unless he broke it himself.

His eyes flicked toward him. Young-il sat with his arms folded, expression unreadable. It was subtle, but there — he was preparing for his turn, not out of nerves, but because he knew what was coming.

Gi-hun’s gaze dropped again to his hands. That brief glimpse of Young-il’s left hand had unsettled something in him earlier. He tried to remember if the Frontman killed Jung-bae with his left or right hand.

Time was starting to unravel in his head like loose threads, pulling memories apart and stitching them back together in the wrong order. He pressed his forehead against his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look unsteady in front of the others — but worse, he didn’t want to look unsteady in front of him .

He could feel the gaze again. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just… there. Persistent. Curious. Like Young-il knew they shared a secret and was waiting for Gi-hun to admit it.

Their team was next.

He exhaled, long and slow, and stood. One by one, the others got to their feet beside him. Jung-bae slapped Dae-ho’s shoulder again with the same old confidence. Jun-hee took a deep breath and placed her hand on her belly. Young-il turned to face the arena, silent.

Gi-hun stared ahead.

“Just one shift,” he whispered under his breath, too soft for the others to hear. “Just one.”

Because even one was enough to change everything.

Chapter Text

Their legs were already tied up.

He couldn't stand the fact that his thigh was pressed against Young-il’s — too warm, too close, too familiar in a way that made his skin crawl now. In another loop, in another context, that contact might’ve meant something else. He remembered liking it.

Once.

But now it felt like his ankle was burning. Like Young-il’s very presence was branding him.

Gi-hun clenched his fists against his thighs and stared forward, trying to ignore the heat.

Focus on the race. Focus on the task.

The rules hadn’t changed. The pentathlon was the same — five old-school street games, one after another. One person from the team at a time. Finish all of them before the buzzer. One mistake, one hesitation, and the gun would speak for you.

“May I?” He heard a polite voice from his left. Young-il looked at him calmly, wanting to catch his waist with his arm so they could move more easily. He was studying Gi-hun's face, seemingly thoughtful enough not to touch him until he gave his consent.

Gi-hun swallowed hard. He felt like cutting off his hand, but in the end he knew he would have to agree. He only grunted in response and then felt a firm but still gentle grip on his body.

Before, it would have sent a warm shiver through his stomach, his cheeks would've flushed red. Now, he wanted to rip this monster's fingers from his green tracksuit.

“You should grab me, too. It will be easier to keep your balance,” Young-il pointed out to him kindly. Gi-hun furrowed his brow.

He would like to believe in his intentions.

The softness in Young-il’s voice, the concern etched into the lines of his face — it might have fooled someone else. Might have once fooled Gi-hun himself. But now it only made the distrust inside him squirm louder.

He couldn’t let himself believe in anything that man said. Not after what he’d seen. Not after what he knew .

Still, he hesitated.

The hand on his waist was steady, unfazed by Gi-hun’s silence. It wasn’t forceful, but it also wasn’t unsure. Like Young-il had done this before. In another loop, another timeline — maybe even in this one, before Gi-hun had remembered . That thought made his skin prickle with something colder than dread.

He looked down, jaw clenched. He should grab him back. For balance. For the rhythm of the run. For survival.

It was stupid not to. He knew that.

But part of him would rather fall.

“Gi-hun ssi ,” Young-il said gently.

It wasn’t a plea. Just a name, spoken so softly. Like he was reminding Gi-hun that he knew him. That he'd always known him.

And maybe that’s what finally made him move — not trust, but resignation.

He reached around stiffly, fingers curling over the edge of Young-il’s track jacket, careful not to touch the warm skin underneath. It was barely a grip at all, but Young-il didn’t comment.

Just nodded once, as if that was enough.

And then Gi-hun realized there was a damn shift, because the last time they were on the pentathlon they simply intertwined their elbows. And in this timeline, Young-il specifically forced that touch to get closer to him! To make him mad! 

And worst of all, he succeeded!

“Guys!” Jung-bae yelled to the second team. “We'll see you again at the finish line! Victory at all costs!”

“Yes! We'll see each other again!”

Gi-hun looked at the people in front of him, full of hope and wishing each other good luck, patting each other's shoulders, pawing each other's backs, and felt a dryness in his throat.

They will not succeed, he knew that perfectly well.

Young-il exhaled deeply, dragging everyone's attention, even Gi-hun's.

“I believe in you, guys,” he said, and trembled slightly, as if out of fear, as he looked at his team, and then at Gi-hun, who almost believed him again. “Plus, we have a previous winner with us.” He looked deeply into his eyes.

Oh, just fuck off, already!

And then, the gunshot.

They started going forward.

One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two.  

They stopped at first base. Ddakji.

Jung-bae bounced slightly on his toes, humming some chant under his breath about “concentration” and “teamwork.” Dae-ho’s jaw was tight, fists flexing at his sides. Jun-hee crouched a little, stretching her back, full of silent energy.

She took a blue piece of paper from the guard. He dropped the red one, and she, using all her strength, hurled hers at it. It flipped.

“Pass.”

“You did it!” Dae-ho cheered.

“Ready, go!” Gi-hun yelled loudly. As his adrenaline kicked in, he wasn't noticing Young-il's touch that much.

One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two. The second base.

The grab on Young-il's back was tighter now — instinct, necessity. Gi-hun wasn’t thinking about it anymore, not consciously. The heat of contact, the betrayal simmering beneath skin and fabric, all dulled for a moment beneath the weight of survival.

His breath came in bursts, fogging at the edges of his vision as they ran. The second base loomed, and with it — Flying Stone .

“Let's get this done the first time! I believe in you!” Dae-ho yelled proudly, as the men rolled his shoulders and approached the starting line.

Gi-hun's eyes flicked briefly to the Young-il, saw the focused set of his brow as he observed Jung-bae's stance. For once, no smirk, no double-layered expression — just quiet calculation.

Then he looked at his own hand, still curled around the man’s back. Clenched tighter… His fingers had moved without permission.

He immediately loosened the grip, but he didn’t let go.

He didn’t want to fall.

The rock flew.

Clink.

It struck down the stone.

“Pass.”

Another cheer. Dae-ho thumped Jung-bae on the back and they moved forward again.

One, two, one, two. Faster now. Legs strained against the rope tying them together, but the rhythm held. Gi-hun’s breaths were shallower. He didn’t realize he’d been holding onto Young-il’s track jacket like a lifeline.

“Let's stay calm!”

Four minutes and twenty seconds left.

The next game: Gong-gi. Gi-hun knew this man will ace this one. That's why he decided he rather wants to see the Frontman's reaction.

But when they crouched down, he was pressed by him. Young-il leaned toward him as much as he could, even though Dae-ho didn't need that much space. Maybe previously this would have moved Gi-hun in a good way, now it only annoyed him.

He forgot to notice his reaction because of it.

Dae-ho caught the final pebbles midair and looked at the guard with a grin. 

“Pass.”

Everyone roared with happiness, Young-il almost fell over from celebrating. Jung-bae yelled something in Dae-ho's ear, but Gi-hun felt as if something huge was stuck in his throat. He realized that now it was the time for Spinning Top . And he remembered perfectly what it had been like in that timeline.

Young-il failed a couple of times — then Gi-hun thought it was the fault of nerves. Now he understood that he did it on purpose.

“We've got plenty of time!” remarked Jung-bae. “Be careful, you're pregnant.” He looked at Jun-hee.

One, two, one, two.

The fourth base. Spinning Top .

Young-il was handed a spinner and a string. He gripped it tightly, and with trembling hands began winding the string around the corpus. Jung-bae and Dae-ho were yelling something and soothing Young-il, but Gi-hun wasn't listening. He stared as hypnotized at the hands of the man beside him, trying to catch him in some, even subtle act of sabotage. 

The string was already strung. Young-il threw it. 

He failed. 

There were exactly two seconds of silence.

“It’s okay,” Jung-bae reminded him, “we have time.”

They slowly moved ahead to pick up the spinner. Then they took steps backwards to get back behind the line while he wound the string again. He was trembling and breathing deeply, as if he was really scared.

'This bastard should be an actor.'

Gi-hun tried to remember what had happened in the previous timeline. And when he felt a pat on his stomach, suggesting that he should step back now and stand behind Young-il, it hit him.

Unbelievable.

He is now going to throw the spinner behind him to make them waste more time.

When he realized this, he decided to thwart him. He didn't even flinch, no matter how many times he felt his pat on his torso.

Young-il looked at him confused, but he didn't break. He gave him a hard stare. “Just throw it,” he growled. 

Gi-hun noticed his jaw clench again, in that peculiar way, but he didn't say anything.  

He threw it and failed again.

They went forward again to pick up the spinner once again. Young-il bent over, his left arm was reaching it. 

And then another thing hit Gi-hun.

He was left-handed.

He was left-handed, but he was sabotaging with his right hand now. And he was doing that before too. 

Gi-hun felt so stupid.

So incredibly, gut-wrenchingly stupid.

He was left-handed. Always had been. And now, what he was doing — it was a calculated sabotage.

Gi-hun's blood pounded in his ears, even louder than the ticking of the countdown clock.

His face was expressionless, but his insides felt like they were boiling.

Young-il stood up, feigning another slow breath, another tremble. As if he was scared. As if he needed comfort.

Gi-hun didn’t offer any.

He just stared — laser-focused, silent, furious — at the back of Young-il’s head, barely resisting the urge to call him out in front of everyone. But what would that do? Would he kill him on the spot?

Jung-bae was already yelling something encouraging again, like a coach in a sports drama. Dae-ho clapped his hands together, bouncing with energy. Even Jun-hee looked tense, but hopeful.

They believed him.

He had believed him. For far too long.

Gi-hun took a half-step back on his own, hands twitching with the need to grab the spinner and throw it himself. But that wasn’t his turn. That wasn’t how this worked.

Young-il wound the string again. Slower this time. Every little stutter of movement reeked of performance.

Gi-hun lowered his voice, just enough that only Young-il could hear it.

“You're using the wrong hand.”

That tiny pause. That infinitesimal delay in the tension of his fingers winding the string — it was everything Gi-hun needed to confirm it.

Young-il didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. But he had heard it.

Gi-hun leaned closer, and this time, the venom in his voice was ice-cold.

“You failed on purpose before. Don’t you dare do it again.”

Still no reply.

But Gi-hun saw the muscles in Young-il’s neck tighten. He changed hands. And then — with no preamble, no extra flair — the spinner flew.

It spun.

And spun.

And stayed in the circle.

“Pass.”

The team burst into cheers again, louder this time, more relieved. Jung-bae practically leaned over Dae-ho and grabbed Young-il’s shoulders, shaking him with joy. “I told you, you had it in you!”

Young-il did not cheer. Gi-hun didn't either.

He kept his eyes locked on Young-il’s, who had finally turned to face him — expression unreadable again, that same damn calm as always. But something in his gaze was different now.

He knew Gi-hun knew. But he didn't know what exactly Gi-hun knew. And it was making his insides turn upside down. Young-il wasn't showing it, but Gi-hun just felt that.

They moved to the last base. There was only one minute left.

The rest of the game was pretty quiet in Gi-hun's mind. He accepted the Jegi from the guard, shook off his hand, which he displayed in front of his face, indicating the number of raises he was to make. He did so. And this time he didn't need Young-il's leg, which had helped him before.

The cheering of the rest of his team was now quite deafening. They had reached the finish line. Time was up. The other team had been eliminated. Young-il measured him with an intense gaze.

It was a shift. A frightening one.

The guards began to untie their bound feet. All that could be heard in the huge hall were the relieved breaths of those who survived.

Then, the green gates opened with a bang. It was not forklifts carrying coffins. It was a guard who was much different from the rest. His square-mask was usual, but the uniform was all black.

Gi-hun had a feeling that it was his end. The Frontman surely had some kind of camera and microphone with him, so his helpers could save him in time. Maybe he had some kind of damn button, titled ‘Get down here and kill Seong Gi-hun immediately’ .

Oh, how stupid he was! Why the hell did he confront him like that! Young-il has been playing his role — he should have been doing that too!

The black-square guard was very quickly right in front of their team. No. More like, right in front of him and Young-il.

And then something happened that no one, probably not even Young-il expected, because Gi-hun noticed how, for a brief moment, he trembled. The guard pressed the revolver he had held at his belt earlier against the Frontman's chest.

This quite took Gi-hun out of his thoughts. He no longer had any idea what was going on here. There was a complete void in his mind.

Then Jung-bae's terrified stammering sounded. “No, it must be a mistake! Our team made it!”

“Yes, that's right! We passed all the games!” Dae-ho almost cried, and Jun-hee only hastily nodded her head.

The black-square guard didn’t respond. Not to Jung-bae, not to anyone.

He simply stood there, gun firm against Young-il’s chest, head tilted slightly as if listening to instructions through an earpiece. His presence radiated command — not like the others, who followed orders, but someone giving them. Someone with authority. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be down here.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched. His eyes darted between the gun, Young-il’s face, and the others — who were all frozen in place, too afraid to breathe, let alone move.

And then, the black-square has finally spoken. “Player 001. Player 456. Follow me.”

Chapter Text

They walked through purple corridors that Gi-hun has seen during the rebellion. No, he didn't only have seen them. Those were carved in his brain, haunting him every time he was closing his eyes.

Him. Empty magazines. The Frontman. Jung-bae shot in the heart.

Gi-hun walked in silence, heart thudding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The corridors stretched in front of them — familiar, sterile, humming with the same quiet dread as always. He remembered them too well. The weight of his dead teammates still clung to the walls like mold. The sting of gunpowder, the crunch of boots over fallen bodies, the metallic clang of bullets hitting concrete.

He could feel Young-il walking beside him. Neither of them spoke.

The guards behind them marched at a steady pace. Gi-hun didn’t dare look back.

The black-square led them forward with quiet precision. He didn’t glance at them, didn’t speak again. Not until they reached a dark steel door, Gi-hun also had passed through before — on his last night, when the Frontman had revealed his identity to him, when he had given him the dagger. The guard scanned his mask.

They entered the elevator, which stopped a few floors above.

A private lounge. Covered in black and gold. Luxurious. Yellow lights. Gi-hun recognized it instantly.

The Frontman’s office.

The black-square stepped inside, waited for them to enter, then pressed a button on the wall. He ordered the pink guards not to interrupt.

The door sealed shut behind them with a hiss.

“Sit.” He pointed them to two simple chairs facing each other. They also had subtle gold ornaments contrasting with the black wood, but they didn't look as comfortable as the quilted Frontman chair next to them.

Gi-hun couldn’t just pretend he wasn’t scared. His hands were shaky, and he felt like something was stuck in his lungs because it was hard to breathe. He looked at Young-il carefully, as if he wanted to read something from his face, but the only thing he could see was his a little too tight expression. Like he wasn’t scared, just confused, and as he didn't want to reveal that he actually is the Frontman in front of him yet.

He sat down first and looked at Gi-hun, like he was trying to convince him that he should sit as well. Gi-hun also sat down, but not because of Young-il's gaze. He was more focused on looking at the guard, but he was only staring at Young-il and not at him.

The weight of his silence made Gi-hun even more uneasy. He hadn’t taken off the mask. He hadn't moved since they entered.

Gi-hun swallowed. His throat was dry. “Why are we here?”

No answer.

Beside him, Young-il was sitting straight-backed, arms resting on his lap, fingers laced together too neatly. He wasn’t speaking, either. But Gi-hun could feel the tension in him. This wasn’t calm. This wasn’t composure. This was caution. Apprehension.

And beneath it — something else. Uncertainty?

That was the first red flag, because Gi-hun had never seen Young-il uncertain.

Then he gulped. Maybe he was about to start acting again?

“If I may,” Young-il began. “We managed to get through the whole game, so we should go back to the dormitory with our team. I think this is some kind of misunderstanding.”

The room was still silent for another two minutes. Black-square guard, still looking directly at Player's 001 face like he wanted to memorize it. Gi-hun noticed that Young-il started to get really irritated by it, and his acting became increasingly inept.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he snapped finally, stepping toward the black-square, jaw tense, voice taut with real authority now.

And only then did the guard finally move. He raised the revolver he held in his hand again, but this time he put it to Young-il's temple and it successfully seated him back in his chair.

Gi-hun trembled. Not because he was worried about the life of that monster sitting in front of him, and also not because he himself wanted to murder him. It simply occurred to him that if Player 001 was killed now, he might be next. After all, the black-square guard didn't bring him here for no reason. 

What was going on? Did someone want to get rid of the Frontman to take his place?

“It's over, In-ho,” the modulated voice rang in his ears loudly. They both froze.

Young-il — no, now In-ho, apparently — held his breath for a brief moment.

If this was still a role he was performing, someone should now come in here and hand him a fucking Oscar.

But no. This was real. That man really froze, and the look on his face indicated that he had just connected the dots.

Gi-hun watched it, though, but still didn't know what it was about. He should be glad that the Frontman was scared, but at the same time, the realization that the situation was even more out of control than before… that there was a shift there, more frightening than ever before…

It all made the hair on his neck rise, and his palms began to sweat. 

His brain was working at top speed, but he couldn't focus on any thought that came into his head. He felt that name: In-ho , sounded familiar, but he had no idea why.

The guard then raised his free gloved hand to his hood. He threw it off, then slowly reached for the mask. As he was unclipping it, Gi-hun held his breath.

And then, a huge exhalation of relief.

Jun-ho.

His face was drawn, shadowed with exhaustion, eyes locked on his brother. But it was unmistakably him — still wearing the tactical undersuit, damp with sweat under the collar, but his hand on the revolver was rock steady.

Gi-hun exhaled, hard. “Jun-ho—” he started. “How did you find the island? My tracker was thrown away!”

His voice was shaking as he did not understand what was happening, even though he was enormously relieved.

“This is thanks to Choi. He has distrusted Captain Park from the beginning. And rightfully so, because he was a snitch. Woo-seok implanted you with a second tracker in secret. I don't know when. He was the only one who knew about it.”

Jun-ho did not even look at him for half a second. His attention was fixed like a blade on the In-ho's face, still pressing the gun to his forehead.

Gi-hun looked at his own hands, as if trying to find the place on his skin where the implant could be. Choi was inconspicuous, but at the end of the day — he wasn't stupid.

And then he realized. He had been looking so desperately for some kind of shift all this time, while it was already there. It's just that he couldn't see it, because it wasn't a shift that he had made. It was made by Choi Woo-seok.

But would Woo-seok also be in the loop?

Nah, definitely not. Maybe there were just small changes in this timeline that he didn't notice because they were insignificant to him. Maybe in this timeline, Captain Park accidentally did something suspicious and this time, Choi noticed it.

“And what about the Captain?” Gi-hun asked slowly.

“Dead.”

Then he heard a short but deep, perhaps even slightly trembling sigh. It was In-ho. His eyes almost closed, as if he was simply waiting to die, not wanting to look at the gun pressed to his temple or at his executioner.

Only this reminded Gi-hun that the Frontman was still here. And then all the facts started to come together.

In-ho. This name so familiar.

In-ho.

Memories that happened only a few days ago in this timeline, but they were hidden much deeper in Gi-hun's memory.

Back then, when they were in his old pink motel. When the recruiter shot himself in the head, when Jun-ho sat in the bath, handcuffed to the faucet. When he told him everything he knew about the games.

“I snuck in there in disguise to find my brother.”

“How can I believe you?” he asked, his voice trembling, pointing his gun at him.

“One of the masked man asked you about someone named Hwang In-ho. That was me. Hwang In-ho is my brother.”

No. He didn't tell him everything. He forgot to tell him that his brother, Hwang In-ho — the same Hwang In-ho who was now sitting still with a gun to his head — was the Frontman.

Gi-hun's breath caught.

The words echoed in his skull, over and over — ‘Hwang In-ho is my brother.'

In-ho.

And now, with the gun still pressed to his temple, the man who had just been playing a role — Young-il , 001 , the clever, enigmatic wildcard — wasn’t acting anymore.

Had it not been for the fact that Gi-hun was already sitting up, his legs would have bent under him, and he would have fallen to the ground. It felt like a weight dropped through his chest. Like he’d been punched without warning.

“You…” His voice cracked. “He’s your brother?”

Jun-ho didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. His grip didn’t falter. But it was more than obvious now.

In-ho didn’t move either. He seemed smaller now, somehow. Reduced. Stripped of performance. The mask may not have been on his face, but Gi-hun saw, for the first time, the real man beneath it — and he didn’t look evil. He just looked… tired. Hollowed out by guilt. Like a man who had walked into a burning building and never came out.

Still a monster.

“You lied,” Gi-hun whispered, barely audible. “You lied to me.”

Only silence.

“You told me he was your brother. You didn’t tell me he was this .”

Jun-ho finally spoke, quiet and steady. “Would you have helped me if you knew?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth opened, then closed again.

Because the truth was: he didn’t know if he would.

Gi-hun stared at the floor for a long second, his mind spinning without traction. Somewhere deep in the distance, he could hear the faint whir of the island’s ventilation system — smooth, clinical, indifferent.

The air felt heavier now. Dense with what had been said — and what hadn’t.

In-ho lifted his eyelids, as if to look at his brother. As if to communicate to him that he was tired of waiting for the shot. That he wanted Jun-ho to pull the trigger finally. His lips parted slightly, then closed again, as though he didn’t trust himself to speak. The gun at his temple didn’t flinch, but a vein at his neck had started to pulse visibly. Jun-ho noticed. He adjusted his grip.

“Don’t try anything.”

“I won’t,” In-ho murmured in a faint voice.

The detective sighed heavily, trying to calm down and get back to implementing the plan. They had already come too far to argue now, to let their emotions take over.

“Gi-hun ssi ,” Jun-ho began, finally removing the revolver from his brother's head, but still aiming at him, now from a distance. “I know you're mad, but we must stick to the plan now.”

Gi-hun pulled his gaze from In-ho. He didn't think he could have felt even more betrayed since he learned that Young-il was the Frontman.

Now he looked at the detective dispassionately, his eyes even more tired than before.

“And what's your plan? Because I'm sure this bastard has already called for help in some way,” he snorted, then turned to In-ho again. “Someone's already on their way here, right?” he growled through clenched teeth, feeling anger and sorrow ripple through his chest.

In-ho didn’t answer.

The silence between them meant enough for Gi-hun — louder than any alarm. Louder than any gunshot.

He let out a short, hollow laugh and slowly stood up, leaving the silent chair behind him. “That’s what I thought.”

Jun-ho turned toward him, firm. “Even if he did signal someone, it doesn’t change what we have to do.”

In-ho sat motionless, but there was something fragile about him now. Like the weight of the situation was finally cracking the last layers of armor he had — not just the mask, but the justification he’d been wearing for years.

“I didn’t call for anyone,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t even have time.”

The detective looked at his elder brother with a strange expression of trust.

Gi-hun noticed that and scoffed. “You don't believe him, do you?”

Jun-ho’s jaw clenched. For some reason, he did believe him.

The silence landed awkwardly in the room again — too honest to be comfortable.

For a moment, no one moved.

Jun-ho kept his stance steady, the revolver still raised, but his expression was softer now. Gi-hun didn’t even look at him. He was pacing slowly, like he was trying to walk the emotion out of his body. But it wasn’t working. It was crawling deeper instead, digging in behind his ribs.

Then he raised his head immediately as it suddenly occurred to him that there might have been cameras in the room after all.

“There's no surveillance here,” said In-ho, who had noticed this.

“I don't believe a word you say.”

“There really isn't. I checked it,” Jun-ho assured him.

“This is the only room on this island that doesn’t have eyes,” In-ho continued. His voice was quieter now. He only looked down at his knees, hands loosely resting in his lap like they didn’t know what to do anymore.

Gi-hun finally stopped pacing. “So what now?” he asked, voice hard.

Jun-ho didn’t answer immediately. His silence, this time, was heavier than any argument.

“We're going to blow up the island,” he said at last. 

“How?”

The detective simply looked at his brother again. His gaze was telling — it was an answer by itself.

Gi-hun looked from him to In-ho and back again. Something twisted in his chest — revulsion, disgust… but also something else. The part of him that wanted to survive. That wanted to end it. That wanted someone to pay.

He ran a hand through his hair. After all he's been through, and, just to remind you — he literally died and went back to the past in another timeline, he must now trust the monster who destroyed his life hundreds of times.

'We're fucking going to die,' it crossed his mind.

Silence again.

“How can you be so sure that he will tell us anything at all?”

No answer. Gi-hun sat down again, heavier this time. Not just with exhaustion, but with the dawning realization that there were no good choices anymore. No moral clarity. No clean way out.

All of this, and they were still fucked.

Jun-ho finally spoke, dangerously waving the revolver in front of his face. “He will.”

In-ho didn’t even flinch. He looked like he was waiting for that shot. Almost welcoming it.

“I’ll talk,” he said. “Not because you threaten me. But because I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

That caught Gi-hun off guard. He looked at the man — the Frontman, the traitor, the liar — and for just a second, he looked human again.

But it didn’t matter.

It wasn't real.

Gi-hun snorted. “Such a noble.”

In-ho only squirmed slightly, but did not answer anything. In fact, since Jun-ho had taken off his mask, he had not dared to look Gi-hun in the eye.

“To run the self-destruct protocol, all you need is a key,” he said aloud, as if trying to sketch the plan into the air. “In the operations room, there is a console on the platform. You need to lift the flap and open it with the key. Then you will see a red button. That's it.”

Jun-ho blinked. “Where's the key?”

In-ho didn't even hesitate.

“You’ll find it in the archive vault. Behind the old server banks, there's a storage drawer marked RED96 . Inside it, under the false bottom.”

Jun-ho’s mind raced. “How secure?”

“You’ll need to get past the main hallway. You'll get there with your mask,” he said calmly, but then his jaw clenched as he just realized something.

“What?” Gi-hun furrowed his eyebrows, as he was very familiar with that expression on his face.

“They had seen me being dragged here. So if you don't want it to look suspicious, I should make some announcement, that the evacuation begins. And that the Officer… I mean, you are still in charge,” he looked at Jun-ho.

A pause.

“Wait… when you activate the button… will it explode right away?” Gi-hun asked sharply.

“When you trigger the button, you have thirty minutes to escape,” In-ho muttered. “To get away from the island to a safe distance, you need at least fifteen, using a speedboat,” he swallowed hard. “But with the ferry, it would take to last about twenty-five minutes.”

“Why the ferry?” he repeated, quite confused.

Then, for the first time in a long time, In-ho looked at him. “Aren't you going to save the players, Gi-hun ssi ?”

He raised his eyebrows. How could he have forgotten about that? He leaned back in his chair and lowered his head slightly.

The detective thought for a brief moment. “So, what do you propose? How long will this last?”

“Well,” he moved his head carefully, as the gun in Jun-ho was still pointed at him. “I will make an announcement, and you will find a key when the guards are evacuating the players. When they are at a safe distance, you will start the protocol. If we start now, we'll be sailing across the ocean in an hour and a half.”

Silence again. Just a couple of Jun-ho's nods.

Gi-hun leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, but what will we do with him? We can't leave him alone here.”

Jun-ho hesitated, then looked at him with a mix of apology and grim necessity.

“You’re staying,” Jun-ho said.

Gi-hun’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“You’re going to stay with him,” he repeated, nodding at In-ho. “We need someone here — someone who knows the room, who can manage the Frontman’s controls if something goes wrong. And someone who can make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

Gi-hun met his gaze. 

He looked back at In-ho. The man barely looked like a threat anymore. But Gi-hun knew better. Monsters didn’t always snarl. Some of them wore exhaustion like a second skin. Some of them said 'sorry' with their eyes and still kept the blood on their hands.

He exhaled.

“Fine. But if I even think he’s trying to screw us—”

“You shoot,” Jun-ho said, handing him the revolver, because he needed both hands free. No emotion.

A beat of silence passed between the three men. No one moved. No one blinked.

Gi-hun raised his gun at the Frontman.

Jun-ho’s hand dipped into his bag and produced a length of heavy-duty cable. Gi-hun’s eyes flicked from the cable to In-ho’s unmoving profile, then back to Jun-ho’s face, which was carved of stone.

“Hands,” Jun-ho said, voice low but firm.

In-ho lifted his arms without a word. 

Gi-hun watched it with a cold eye, saying nothing. Then he noticed a rifle sticking out of the bag. He pulled it out and checked the magazine. It was full. He gripped it tightly and wasn't going to let it go as long as In-ho was next to him.

When Jun-ho finished, In-ho flexed his bound hands experimentally, his gaze flicking briefly toward Gi-hun — an almost apologetic glance, if monsters could apologize.

He still didn't trust him, because the sudden change of his behavior was at least odd. 

“You’ll make the call,” he said. “Now.”

In-ho gave a faint nod. “You’ll need to unlock the communication panel.”

Gi-hun stared at him for a second longer than necessary, his fingers still tight around the rifle's grip, before finally shifting toward the control panel. The room hummed faintly, machines ticking, monitors glowing softly, like a slumbering beast unaware it was about to be put down.

With a sharp metallic click, he disengaged the lock.

Jun-ho grabbed his brother's arm and lifted him to the console. In-ho bent down to the microphone and cleared his throat, and just then heard the sound of a gun being reloaded right next to his ear.

He glanced to the side and saw Gi-hun. His face was already tired enough, but rage seemed to add to his adrenaline.

“No tricks, or I'll shoot.”

He just nodded slightly in response, feeling his brother's embrace on his forearm become tighter.

“Channel twelve,” In-ho muttered. “That’s the emergency override. All island personnel and surveillance staff will hear it.”

Gi-hun flicked the switch. The channel light glowed red.

In-ho took a long breath.

“Attention, all personnel. This is the Frontman speaking.”

The room stilled around him.

“We are initiating an unscheduled evacuation protocol due to critical infrastructure failure. Guards, you are to begin immediate escort of all active players to the shoreline. Each group will be directed toward Dock Three for offloading. Sector leaders, coordinate your teams for rapid mobilization. This is a Level Three order — you are to leave no personnel behind.”

He hesitated. The moment stretched thin. Then he added, quieter:

“The Officer is still in command for the duration of this evacuation. Any failure to comply will be considered treason against the Organization. You have forty-five minutes to clear the inner compound. No exceptions.”

He gulped. Took a quick glance at Gi-hun, still pointing at him with a rifle.

“Don't forget to split the money among all players.”

He hit the transmit key. The signal sent.

And then silence fell again.

Outside the room, barely audible at first, they could hear the alarm begin to sound — not the blaring panic siren of a failed game, but something deeper and more procedural. A long, low drone followed by pulsing guidance tones. The sound of order veiling chaos. The evacuation had begun.

Gi-hun was watching the main surveillance monitor — rows of guards appearing in the corridors, flashing lights along the evacuation routes, the herd of players ushered into motion. The machine of the island was moving, for the first time, not toward death — but away from it.

He tightened his grip on the rifle again. Why was In-ho doing all of this?

They tied him to the chair, so that he couldn't move, but Gi-hun noticed that even then, In-ho didn’t resist. No struggle. No words. Not even a sigh. Just silent compliance as Jun-ho wound the remaining length of cable around the back of the chair, securing his brother like a prisoner in his own kingdom.

The synthetic fibers scraped faintly against the wooden legs. A whisper of sound beneath the low pulse of the evacuation tone outside. In-ho stared straight ahead, as though through the wall — through time, maybe — while Gi-hun circled him with the rifle, each step slow, deliberate. Watching. Waiting for the mask to crack again, or maybe for himself to finally believe this wasn’t another trick.

“Is it done?” Gi-hun asked Jun-ho without looking away from In-ho.

Jun-ho double-checked the restraints and stepped back, letting out a breath through his nose. “It’s done. He’s not going anywhere.”

Outside the room, the rhythms of controlled chaos grew louder. The sound of boots. Barked commands. The occasional clang of a dropped weapon or equipment case. The guards were doing exactly as told — the voice of the Frontman still carried weight, even if it came from a man tied to a chair.

“You sure you don’t want backup?” Gi-hun asked, but the offer was hollow. They both knew he couldn’t leave the room now.

Jun-ho gave a wry half-smile. “I’ll manage.”

He walked to the door, paused, then turned slightly — not to his brother, but to Gi-hun. “Maybe don't kill each other too early.”

Gi-hun gave a short nod. “We'll try.”

The door hissed open. Jun-ho stepped through — and then he was gone, swallowed into the heartbeat of the island.

Chapter Text

The room was completely silent. The sounds of the evacuation alarm were piercing from above and below, but their ears were already accustomed to the sound. It came in slow, pulsing waves — a low tone rising and falling every few seconds, mechanical and clinical, like a heartbeat filtered through concrete. The speakers embedded in the walls had been designed for efficiency, not subtlety, and yet somehow the noise had already dulled into background texture. The mind adjusted. The body tuned it out. There was no panic in it anymore — just protocol.

It had only been seven minutes, and Gi-hun was already fed up with it.

He sat back in the heavy leather chair, legs spread slightly apart, elbows resting on his knees. The rifle never left his hands. It was aimed steadily in In-ho’s direction, but his arms were relaxed. He wasn’t tense. Not physically. His muscles were tired, his eyes heavier than he wanted to admit, and the adrenaline that had carried him through the past hour was starting to thin out. But mentally, he was still braced. Still watching. Still waiting.

In-ho was tied to the other chair — wrists secured, cable pulled around the backrest and under the seat, legs pressed flat to the floor. There was no room for him to shift, not even for comfort. He also hadn't spoken since Jun-ho left. He hadn’t struggled, either. At first, he'd kept his head still, gaze forward, posture eerily upright like someone still playing a role. But now he was turning his head slowly, almost curiously, looking around the room like someone entering it for the first time. Like the control centre of a death game wasn’t something he had once ruled over. As if it could surprise him.

Gi-hun didn’t speak. He didn’t move much, either. But he was staring. And In-ho couldn’t look him in the eye.

Gi-hun hated how much that still mattered.

He was so close to the end.

They all were.

Jung-bae. Dae-ho. Jun-hee. She and her baby will be safe now.

He didn’t feel anything, really. Just pressure behind his eyes and a knot in his stomach that had been there since the morning. Or maybe since the last loop. He couldn’t tell anymore.

He noticed that In-ho kept glancing at the monitors.

What he was looking for. A countdown? A last-minute rescue? Maybe just something to focus on, that wasn’t Gi-hun’s face.

Gi-hun also turned his gaze towards the monitors. He watched the pink guards, who were just hastily changing the dormant players from their bloodstained tracksuits into their regular clothes.

He watched this for a long moment. In doing so, he paid no attention to the fact that In-ho finally dared to look in his direction.

“You really don't have any questions?” asked with utter tranquillity.

Gi-hun didn’t react right away, but after a few seconds, he finally blinked, once. Then shifted his eyes — not to In-ho, but to the floor just beside him.

“I do,” he simply said. “I just don't want to talk with you.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Not just procedural. Not just from the evacuation system humming through the walls. This one sat between them like a loaded weapon, balanced on the arm of In-ho’s chair.

Gi-hun adjusted his grip on the rifle. Not aiming. Just holding. A reminder.

He shifted his weight in the chair, stiffening his back and flattening his feet against the cold floor. The leather creaked softly beneath him. The rifle’s weight settled into his hands, familiar and unforgiving. He stared at the floor again, deliberately avoiding In-ho’s gaze, but his mind was a storm of questions he didn’t want to voice.

He told himself he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to give In-ho the satisfaction. Not now. Not after everything.

But his body betrayed him in small ways — a slight lean forward, a tightening around the eyes, a barely perceptible hesitation before he shifted his grip.

In-ho’s breathing was slow but uneven. A quiet, deliberate rhythm, as if he were trying to steady himself against some unseen tide. He said nothing, but his fingers twitched at the edge of his seat, the bindings rubbing against taut skin.

Gi-hun swallowed and breathed out slowly, the sound barely audible in the thick silence. He fought the pull of curiosity, the impulse to break the dam he had built between them.

But it came anyway.

“Why the splitting money thing?” he finally asked, voice low, wary.

In-ho seemed baffled by the question. He expected anything but this.

“I thought it would be more entertaining for the VIPs,” he mouthed slowly, not believing his own words himself.

Gi-hun looked at him, his expression remaining unconcerned. He wasn't even angry, he just… was. “Stop lying already.”

The bound man sighed heavily and looked down at the bonds that were digging into his skin.

“I knew that this way it would be more difficult to terminate the game. If that had happened, I wouldn't have had the confidence that you would come back for the next rounds.”

Gi-hun's fingers tightened unconsciously on the rifle, but he did not pick it up. The words hung in the air between them, gentle but undeniable.

Was this man somehow obsessed with him?

In-ho glanced up slowly, eyes narrowed, not from anger but something murkier — calculation, confusion. His mouth opened slightly like he might say more, then closed again. He sat back, or tried to, though the bonds restricted any real movement. His breath hissed through his nose.

Gi-hun didn’t look away this time. He watched him closely now, not just for threats or deception, but for something deeper. Something in the eyes. A crack. A flicker of shame. A glimpse of something human that hadn’t been sanded off by years of death and power.

“You really thought I’d come back,” Gi-hun said quietly. “You were counting on it.”

“No,” In-ho quickly bounced back. “I truly wished you had gotten on that plane.”

Gi-hun couldn't listen to this any longer. He quickly raised his rifle, sprang from his seat, and aimed it in his direction. “I told you to stop fucking lying!”

In-ho didn’t flinch. Just sat there, gaze heavy, tired. The creases around his mouth deepened.

“I mean it.”

He didn’t lower the rifle. His finger hovered just beside the trigger, not pressing it, not even readying it — just there . Like a dare. His breath came faster now, shoulders rising with it. His jaw tightened.

“Then why make the game harder to end?” Gi-hun asked briefly. 

There was a long pause behind him. He could feel it. The silence pressing between them again — denser now, as if both of them knew they were brushing against something that couldn’t be unsaid.

“I thought maybe,” In-ho said finally, “since you were already so eager to join the game… I wanted to show you that you were fighting for the wrong cause. That people are not what you think they are.”

And then Gi-hun realized that his sacrifice, in that timeline, was needed. That instead of killing his opponents as they slept, using the dagger the Frontman gave him, he chose to sacrifice himself for a child. A symbol of life. Its substitute.

But In-ho couldn't remember that.

“Sang-woo died here so that I could live.”

“Cho Sang-woo killed himself because he did not want to go back to his life without the money. This is what people do here when they lose hope. When they're scared. This place changes them.”

Gi-hun felt like murdering him.

He moved towards it as fast as he could, almost crushing the metal handle of the rifle. His hands trembled, his eyes welled with tears. A sob choked his throat, and he clenched his teeth with nerves. He pressed the barrel to In-ho’s forehead, but he sat there still, quite unmoved. As if he really wanted to die.

He didn't laugh. He didn't sneer at him. His face was not the face of a person who wants to prove something. It was the face of a person who had come to terms with the truth he was now proclaiming. And this only agitated Gi-hun's rage, as he began to feel that this man might have been at least a little right.

So what was his sacrifice for? What value did he die for in that timeline?

“Do you really still have faith in people?”

Gi-hun froze when he heard the familiar words. The Frontman had asked him this before. In the same place. When Gi-hun had been leaving the room, he stopped him and asked him about it.

He did not answer him then.

He looked at In-ho's face, which was expecting an answer, yet seemed indifferent at the same time.

“I do.”

He moved the rifle away from his head and stepped back, only to slump back into the armchair a moment later. He was not going to speak to him again. Asking him that question was already too much of a stupidity.

Gi-hun closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. The barrel of the rifle rested across his lap, cold and heavy. He shut down everything he could — words, questions, compassion — but his heart still hammered in protest.

In-ho watched him, unblinking. The bindings chafed at his wrists, the cable bit into the back of the chair, but he didn’t move. He simply waited, as though whatever came next was inevitable.

Gi-hun drew a slow breath, tasting blood and sweat on his tongue. He should focus on escaping from there. Focus on seeing Ga-yeong again. But the silence pressed on him, relentless, a mirror reflecting every choice he’d ever made.

He shifted in the chair, eyes snapping open. He should stand up. He should walk away. He should leave the Frontman here to untangle himself whenever Jun-ho returned. That was the logical thing — no more words, no more tests. Yet even as he thought it, the need to understand gnawed at him.

Slowly, he raised his head. The monitor lights flickered across his face. In-ho’s steady breath was a challenge.

Silence settled again, thick and uncomfortable.

But then — in the distance — a new sound. Not the evacuation tone, but something sharper, closer: the crackle of a radio.

Gi-hun’s head snapped up. In-ho’s eyes followed, flicking toward the small intercom mounted on the wall. A red light blinked beneath it. Neither of them moved at first — both waiting to see if that crackle would resolve into orders, into normalcy, into something that didn’t feel like the end of the world.

The radio whispered again, this time a human voice: “The Frontman’s console, do you copy? Priority one override?”

In-ho’s chest rose and fell faster. Gi-hun shifted, rifle back in hand, but not raised.

He realized In-ho was watching him — calculating whether he would stand to answer, to intervene, or to ignore.

“Tell them to stand down,” Gi-hun said abruptly, voice husky. “No more interference.”

In-ho’s gaze flicked to him. There was a hesitation — an unexpected deference — before he leaned forward, and when Gi-hun tapped the intercom panel.

“Channel twelve,” he rasped into the mic. “Override canceled. Continue the evacuation.”

A brief moment of silence.

“Copy that.”

Gi-hun let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

In-ho leaned back into the chair as far as the cables would allow, the weight of the command still lingering in the air. For a moment, he didn’t look at Gi-hun. He stared past him, up at the flickering lights of the ceiling, like he was waiting for something else — maybe the collapse, maybe a miracle, maybe just silence.

Gi-hun sat in stillness, elbows on his knees again, fingers brushing the cold steel of the rifle across his lap. His body felt caught between exhaustion and adrenaline. Muscles twitching, thoughts sharp, but every breath felt heavier than the last.

He just wanted Jun-ho to be back already.

When he slowly looked at In-ho, he was still staring at the ceiling. The man grunted.

“You knew I was the Frontman. How?”

His question had no malice in it. It sounded more like the question of a curious five-year-old trying to understand how the world works.

Gi-hun had no intention of answering him at first. Aside from the fact that he was angry with him — what was he supposed to answer him? That he was stuck in a time loop?

It was true, but hard to believe. He himself would never have believed such a thing in his life if someone had told him.

“You wouldn't believe me anyway,” he replied briefly.

“Oh.” He raised his head, very surprised. “Why?”

It was that very short moment when he had the feeling that he wasn't talking to The Frontman. He felt as if he were talking to Young-il — the one from the first timeline, when the truth had not yet been discovered.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened at the question. He had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, to tell In-ho that some truths didn’t need explaining. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and met his gaze again.

And on the other hand? Who cares?

Gi-hun’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the oppressive silence like a blade.

“I’m stuck in a time loop.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze. Gi-hun braced himself for the predictable response — mockery, disbelief, maybe even anger. But none came. Instead, In-ho’s face held an almost eerie calm. He blinked slowly, then nodded, deliberately, like a man who had just heard a truth he had long suspected but never dared to acknowledge.

“That would explain why you knew so much.”

Gi-hun furrowed his brow, staring at the man in front of him — this figure of ruthless control and cold logic — who now looked almost… sincere.

“Wait. You believe me?”

In-ho’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Yes.” He nodded again, more firmly this time. “Why wouldn’t I?”

That simple acceptance unsettled Gi-hun more than any accusation ever could. No demand for proof, no sarcastic retort. Just quiet, unquestioning belief.

The room seemed to soften, the cold air less biting, the tension easing — if only slightly.

“So,” In-ho began again, his voice softer, almost curious, “what happened there?”

Gi-hun blinked, caught off guard by the genuine question.

“Where?”

“In that… previous timeline.”

Gi-hun’s mouth opened, then closed, as if the words were stuck in his throat. The way In-ho asked — patient, sincere, almost innocent — disarmed him. For a moment, he wasn’t the cold, calculating Frontman’s captive. He was just a man talking to another man, trying to make sense of impossible things.

He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his stubbled cheek, feeling the roughness beneath his fingertips, a small reminder of reality.

“The rules… they were the same. The players — the people — unchanged. The events played out just like they did now. Except then, you…” He paused, swallowing the bitterness in his throat. “You actually gained my trust.”

In-ho’s lips twitched into a brief, almost reluctant smile.

“Also as Young-il?”

Gi-hun let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah. That’s how I caught you messing with Spinning Top — same move, same hand.”

“What else?” In-ho asked, the eagerness in his voice making him seem like a curious child desperate for the next episode of a favorite cartoon.

Gi-hun’s voice sharpened.

“There was a rebellion. You killed Jung-bae. Betrayed us all. Jun-hee gave birth in the middle of Hide and Seek .”

In-ho’s slight smile vanished, his face hardening like stone.

“And then?”

“She died. During Jump Rope. ”

The weight of those words settled in the room, suffocating and final.

In-ho’s face lost all color, the faintest tremble shaking his bound hands.

“What happened to the baby?” His voice cracked, a fragile thread barely holding together.

Gi-hun swallowed, the memory cutting deeper than any wound. His throat tightened as he forced the words out, cold and steady.

“She won. I had to sacrifice myself for her, after the Frontman made her take her mother’s place.”

“As a player?”

Gi-hun’s eyes flickered with something dark, almost vindictive, as he watched In-ho’s trembling hands. He nodded once.

A long silence stretched between them.

“That's why your question about whether I still believe in humanity doesn't move me,” he continued. “You asked me that question then, after you gave me a dagger to kill my opponents while they were asleep. I still don't know why you did that. But I didn't kill them. Because I have not renounced my humanity.”

In-ho stared at him for a moment longer, his pupils quivering anxiously, yellow light reflecting in his glassy eyes. Then he lowered his head — he couldn't remember the events, but he looked as if he'd just remembered something.

And then he frowned and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

Gi-hun simply shook his head. “You're not sorry,” he replied, somehow keeping his voice calm. “Monsters aren't sorry.”

Gi-hun’s eyes narrowed, the familiar cold edge settling back over him like armor. He didn’t want to be dragged into pity or false remorse. This man — no, this monster — had spent years building a kingdom on fear and cruelty, and a few words of regret didn’t erase that.

But still, the unexpected apology unsettled him. It was almost… human. Like a crack in the mask In-ho wore so well.

He shifted his weight in the chair, fingers tightening briefly around the rifle’s grip, before loosening again. The weight of all their unsaid histories hung between them.

In-ho’s gaze met his steadily, the faintest flicker of something vulnerable hiding beneath the relentless control. For a moment, Gi-hun wondered if the man believed himself — if this was the closest thing to remorse he could reach.

He thought he should ask him what his motive was. Why did he take part in this and contribue to the death of all those people. But he knew what kind of answer he would get. Nothing specific, just more empty words about people doing it to themselves. He came to the conclusion that he didn't want to waste his leftover strength on getting upset with this man.

So he now looked at In-ho, who was strenuously trying to blow away a strand of his fringe that was currently falling into his eye. For some reason, even the thought that the Frontman might feel even such slight discomfort as a bothersome piece of hair satisfied him.

Gi-hun watched him — this man who had orchestrated so much death, now blinking rapidly to clear a single unruly strand of hair from his eye. The absurdity of it hit him like a wave: how human he looked at that moment. Not a tyrant, not a mask, or a monster — just a man bound to a chair, squinting and helpless against something so small.

He involuntarily snorted as he looked at this. Nothing that was going on here was funny, but he was probably too broken already, so a short, uncontrollable snort escaped his lips. “You look ridiculous.”

In-ho paused, the strand was still poking him in the eye. He looked at Gi-hun, who for the first time in a long time had something on his face that could be counted as at least a gentle smile.

There was a long, thick silence between them, the kind that waits for the next words. But now those words did not come. 

He grunted, readjusted his grip on his rifle, and looked towards the monitors, seeing the still unconscious players being carried into the vans.

In-ho’s presence, once so commanding, now felt oddly diminished. Not weak — no, not weak. But human. Fallible. Bound, like them all, to the rules and failures of this cruel place.

Gi-hun’s fingers brushed the rifle’s cold metal again, the physical weight grounding him against the swirl of thoughts. He wanted to hate In-ho, to crush him under the weight of all the suffering he’d caused. But what twisted him most was the glimpse of something raw and genuine beneath the Frontman’s carefully maintained mask.

He shifted his gaze back to In-ho, who was now watching the monitors as well, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, as if trying to piece together a puzzle only he could see.

And he thought of Sae-byeok. Then about Jun-hee. About her child — in this timeline, fortunately not born yet, having both of her parents.

Then he thought of Ga-yeong. Each of them reminded him only of her. He cared for each of them as if they were her.

And yet, his own daughter was the only one who could not feel the way he loved her.

He stared at In-ho, recalling the fear he felt, the exact way he pressed the baby to his chest as the guard had announced that she was taking her mother's place as a player. When other players had wanted to harm her.

He wondered — would In-ho make such a decision a second time? Would he expose this child to death once again?

And above all — why? Finally, the Frontman then gave him a knife to save himself and the baby.

It was some kind of fucked-up game by a fucked-up man. Because no one with common sense would even think of killing people for fun.

He remembered a story that In-ho — then still Young-il — had told him twice. About his wife, about his unborn daughter. How dared he came up with something like that? Just to gain his trust?

“Your fucking fake little story,” Gi-hun asked suddenly, voice low, cautious. “Why?”

In-ho blinked, his brows knitting faintly as if the question didn’t land right away. Then, slowly, something shifted in his expression — the recognition of a memory he hadn’t expected to be summoned. “What?”

“You told me about your wife and child. That you joined the games to save them. How are you not ashamed to make up such stories?”

His chest, previously calm, was now rising much slower, heavier. It looked as if his lungs had suddenly run out of oxygen. As if he was afraid of the answer. As if there was some dark story behind it all.

 “It's not made-up,” he started slowly, his head still low.  “It's real.”

This was driving Gi-hun crazy. This man — tied up, practically with a gun to his temple, the whole truth about him was exposed, and he still chose to lie.

He rose from his seat, aiming the rifle at him — it wasn't as fast as before, he was already too tired for that — but he still did it fast enough that this time In-ho twitched. For the first time, he was truly scared, even if only for a brief second. “Stop. Lying.”

“The only lie in that story was that they are still alive.”

Gi-hun froze.

The rifle remained trained on In-ho, his breath hitching mid-motion, but something in his chest shifted. Not relief. Not sympathy. Just… confusion. Raw and sudden.

“What?” he asked, his voice low, uncertain. “What did you just say?”

In-ho didn’t lift his head. He stared at the floor in front of him, shoulders tense, as if the act of speaking had physically hurt him. His voice, when it came again, was thinner now — not dramatic, not performative. Just small. Honest.

“My wife had died of acute cirrhosis almost ten years ago. Doctors were unable to save her or our child.” His voice was seemingly calm, but was actually slightly shaky.

Gi-hun didn’t lower the rifle, but his grip had slackened. His hands had begun to tremble again, though this time it wasn’t rage — it was the unwanted, infuriating whisper of something like understanding.

But he didn't want to understand In-ho. He didn't want to feel sorry for him.

“You're lying,” he coughed up.

“You can ask Jun-ho,” he replied dispassionately. “But I don't have any reasons to lie to you anymore.”

Gi-hun took a slow step back, the rifle was pointed loosely at the floor now. His mind was fighting itself — rage clawing against some bitter part of him that wanted to see a lie, that needed this man to still be a monster. Because if he wasn't, if even a small piece of him had once been decent, then what the hell did that make the world they lived in?

He was breathing heavily, staring at him, and In-ho still had his head down, not even looking pleadingly at him to believe him. He was broken, and his arms and legs were bound too tightly for him to escape and hide from here.

“So you’ve told me their tragic story just to manipulate me,” he croaked. “I hope you feel better.”

“I’ve told you that story,” In-ho said hoarsely, “because it was the last time I remembered being human.”

Gi-hun clenched his jaw. The rifle wavered in his hands. He hated him. He wanted to hate him. But that answer didn’t sound like an excuse. It sounded like a grave.

This man crumpled beneath a web of wires and lies, stripped now of his mask and menace. For a moment, the silence between them felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, where even breath threatened to send it all tumbling down.

He wanted to scream. To hit him. To drag him up and demand he look him in the eyes and bleed for all the pain he’d caused. But instead, his voice came out quiet, almost dull with exhaustion.

“Now I understand why you gave me the knife in that timeline. Why you ultimately wanted to save the baby.”

In-ho finally lifted his head. A pause.

He couldn't remember it, because after all, it was only Gi-hun who was stuck in the time loop. And yet, In-ho looked as if he remembered very well what happened that night before the final round.

“I probably gave you this knife because someone once did it for me, too.”

Gi-hun couldn't be more confused. His brows knit together sharply. That sentence — “someone once did it for me” — landed wrong. No, worse than wrong. He took another step back, as if physical distance might help him make sense of it.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Who gave you the knife?”

In-ho hesitated. His lips parted, then closed again. For a moment, he looked almost startled by his own words, like he'd said more than he meant to. 

Finally, he moistened his dry, chapped lips and slowly raised his eyes to him.

“Oh Il-nam.”

Chapter Text

Gi-hun's jaw was shaking, and his throat was clenched. He felt his eyes began to burn.

The name he had carved into his brain. Which he could not get rid of from his memory. Oh Il-nam. Player 001.

And it was all starting to make sense. The dots began to connect. He looked directly into In-ho's trembling pupils and slumped back in his chair.

“You were a player.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a statement of fact. 

In-ho didn’t answer at first.

He just sat there — frozen, as if the weight of that single sentence was enough to paralyze him. Only his eyes moved, flickering downward, then up again, searching for a response he hadn't prepared.

“I was.” 

Gi-hun stared. His breath caught in his throat.

Silence fell between them again. But now it wasn’t stillness — it was pressure. Thick, electric. Gi-hun was gripping the armrests, knuckles white.

“You… you went through that, and you decided to run it?”

“I didn’t decide,” In-ho said. “Not like that. Not at first.”

“Oh, so it just happened to you?” Gi-hun’s voice cracked. “They just gave you the mask and said ' congratulations, you're in charge now' ?”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, I don’t!” Gi-hun stood up so suddenly that even the heavy armchair scraped across the floor. “I don’t understand how anyone who lived through it — survived it — can desire to stay in this hell!”

The echo of his shouted words reverberated off the black walls, and only then did he hear what he had actually said. His brow twitched involuntarily when he realized that his words were a double-edged sword. 

What hypocrisy.

He didn't understand how someone who had gone through the games could want to stay here, while he had spent three years just trying to get back to the island. 

Gi-hun felt so small. He expected In-ho to start laughing mischievously now, to triumph despite his restrained body. And it would be logical, because this time he really was right and Gi-hun couldn't do anything about it.

But he heard no sound. No laughter. No malicious words. Just silence, which In-ho should’ve used to win this psychological war. Gi-hun was shocked that he didn't.

He raised his head and saw his face, on which there was no smile either, the corners of the man's mouth didn't even twitch upward.

In-ho didn't look like he was happy to be right. Rather, he gave the impression of being sad about it.

They sat in the room in complete stillness, looking silently into each other's eyes, and for a moment, Gi-hun didn't feel as if they were enemies. Rather, it was like two people close to each other, sharing trauma and trying to help each other cope with the demons of the past.

In-ho sighed heavily, watching as the man across from him sat down again in a leather chair. The rifle was loosely in his hand, lowered toward the ground.

“Once you survive the games, you already belong to them. Your brain will never stop going back to it. That trauma gets under your skin. Both of us know this very well.”

Gi-hun knew it was the truth. But he couldn't agree with it. He didn't want to admit he was right.

“We are not here for the same reasons.”

There was silence again. The vision that his and the Frontman's situation were comparable did not want to let him feel any peace. He did not want to be put next to this man, and yet, he saw more and more similarities.

He began to feel fear, of possibly becoming like him someday, or just that — maybe in another universe, maybe in another timeline — he could become someone like him.

Gi-hun didn't want to talk to him again, the sorrow was ripping his chest too much, but he had to find out. He had to find out what exactly happened in In-ho's life that he ended up like this. He had to find out what he shouldn't do to avoid ending up like him.

Gi-hun leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the rifle slack across his lap like an afterthought. His voice came out quieter this time, not from calm, but because his throat was raw.

“What happened after Oh Il-nam gave you that knife?”

In-ho’s head turned slightly, just enough for his profile to catch the sterile ceiling light. His lips parted like he was going to answer right away — but didn’t.

Gi-hun waited. No one rushed him. The world above was likely collapsing by now, but time had stretched here into something different.

In-ho’s jaw twitched. Then, finally:

“I killed them all.”

Gi-hun stared, silent.

In-ho’s words landed in the room with a dull thud, like a body hitting cold concrete.

Not poetic. Not cinematic. Just blunt. Honest.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, but his throat felt like sandpaper. “How many were there?”

“Five,” In-ho replied without hesitation. His voice was steady now — not proud, not ashamed. Just factual. As if he had repeated this number to himself a thousand times in the dark. “They were sleeping. One of them snored loud enough to cover most of the noise. The last one — he woke up halfway through. He was looking me in the eye while I—”

“Stop.” Gi-hun’s voice cracked as he cut him off. “I don’t want the details.”

In-ho didn’t push. He nodded slightly and cast his eyes down again.

Gi-hun wiped a hand over his face, exhausted by the images his own mind had already conjured. The idea of that — of making that choice — of watching the number on the screen dwindle down to one. The desperation it must have taken. The shame. The rage.

And the fear. 

He remembered exactly what that kind of fear felt like.

“So that’s when he chose you?” he asked after a long, brittle silence.

“No. That came later,” In-ho murmured. “First, I won.”

In-ho seemed to be waiting for some kind of reply, but it did not come. Gi-hun simply waited for the rest of the story. He still had the rifle in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten about it already.

“When I returned with the money, I immediately went to the hospital. I wanted to pay any amount right away so that a donor could be found as soon as possible, to shorten her pain. So that our daughter could be born healthy.” 

In-ho’s voice was quiet now, dulled like old glass. No emotion clung to the words anymore — no grief, no anger. Just weariness.

“But they had died during my third day here. I couldn't forgive myself for not being there for them until the end.”

Gi-hun didn’t speak.

He couldn’t. His mouth felt full of ash.

He imagined it — In-ho returning home, heavy with blood money, only to find the people he’d killed for already gone. The silence of that hospital room. The absence. The mockery of it all. What good was survival if everything you lived for was already dead?

He thought back to how he himself came home after winning the games and found his dead mother there.

In-ho took a shallow breath, one that sounded almost apologetic. “For the next year, I didn't leave the apartment. I only occasionally went out to a bar. I thought that if I started drinking, maybe my liver would fall apart too,” he paused for a moment and glanced at a bottle of whiskey standing on a small table. Gi-hun had only now noticed it, and yet it had been standing here all this time. “But my results were and are still unusually good. What an irony.”

Gi-hun was still looking at the bottle. The amber liquid caught the sterile ceiling light, glinting like it knew every terrible thing that had happened in its presence. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

In-ho gave a breathless chuckle, so faint it might’ve been just a shift in breath. “I kept thinking… maybe this was the punishment. To live. To carry it all.”

He looked down at the floor again, as if it had more answers than Gi-hun ever could.

“I was going to kill myself,” he added, voice flat. “I had it all planned out. Rope, chair, everything. Wrote the letter. Wrote two, actually. One for Jun-ho. One for… no one in particular. But the day I picked, Jun-ho came to bring me lunch and tell me that he got a new job. When he saw the rope, I thought he was the one who was going to kill me.”

A stifled sob could be heard in his voice. Gi-hun finally looked at him and saw him turn his head away, just to hide his tears.

In-ho was crying. He was really crying. Gi-hun had never seen him cry for real.

Gi-hun’s fingers tightened involuntarily around the rifle again, not from threat, but just to anchor himself. His arms felt like they didn’t belong to him. The air in the room had turned dense, like something invisible was pressing down on both of them — not guilt, not forgiveness, but the thing that lives between them when both are present and neither is welcome.

He wanted to hate In-ho again. He needed to. It was safer. It gave structure to all the things that had happened. But seeing him like this — not the Frontman, not the executioner, not the shadow behind the mask — but just a broken man with his head turned away, trying to keep his grief private — it shattered something.

Gi-hun sat back again, feeling the full gravity of what had just been shared.

The image of Jun-ho bringing lunch.

The image of that rope.

The image of almost — and the terrifying small things that could stop someone from going through with it.

It reminded him of all the times he also wanted to and his own suffering.

He clenched his teeth, trying to hold back his own tears. It was too much. 

In-ho grunted, trying to pretend he didn't just fall apart completely. “Sorry… could you give me a glass of water?”

Gi-hun looked at him for a brief moment as if the question had been asked in some foreign language. Only after a moment did the true meaning of the words reach him. He didn't know why, but he slowly stood up, casting a brief glance at the table with the bottle of whiskey again.

“Where is it?”

He moved his head slightly toward the left side of the room. “There's a tap behind that panel. And above there is a cabinet with glasses.”

Gi-hun walked over to the indicated place and selected one of the crystal clear, almost sterile glasses. How luxurious every item in the room was made him want to throw up.

In-ho hadn’t moved. He was sitting as before, his body strapped tightly to a chair. His face looked like he was annoyed at his own weakness. His posture had sunk in on itself, like all the strength that kept him upright had drained out with the tears.

Gi-hun walked back, careful not to spill the water, though his hands were shaking more now than when he’d first raised the rifle.

He stood in front of In-ho and stared at him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, silently, he leaned — not in reverence, not in sympathy, but because it felt like the only way to level himself again. To make them the same height. To strip the roles, the masks, the power away.

He held the glass up.

In-ho didn’t look at him. Just bowed forward slightly, and Gi-hun helped him drink. The water touched his lips, and for a moment, his whole body stilled — like even this act, this small mercy, was too much. When he finished, he coughed once, then leaned back again, breath shallow.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice still raw.

Gi-hun set the empty glass aside on the floor. He didn’t rise yet. He remained crouched, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, rifle hanging useless at his side. He was too close to him, he knew that. But he wasn't able to move.

In-ho’s breathing had slowed again, steadier now, though each inhale still sounded like it scraped against something sharp inside him. The water had done nothing to mend what was broken, but it seemed to have grounded him — just a little. Enough to return to the moment.

Gi-hun remained where he was, crouched in front of him like a man caught between decision and paralysis. The rifle hung at his side like dead weight, forgotten for now. His eyes searched In-ho’s face — the set of his jaw, the way his lips had cracked in the corners, the flicker of something behind his eyes that was not quite regret, not quite sorrow. Just wreckage.

“You should’ve died back then,” Gi-hun said softly, though there was no malice in the words. “It would’ve been cleaner.”

In-ho gave a slow, bitter nod. “I know.”

Silence bloomed again, but this time it felt… still. Not empty.

He stood up again and went back to the armchair. He sat there again and looked at him calmly. The quiet request for water diluted his emotion a little. His expression was serious again, but not callous.

“What was next?”

“I tried to kill myself for the second time. Pills. But then someone rang my doorbell,” he continued. “In front of the door was a black box with a pink bow. Inside was the card.”

Gi-hun leaned forward again, eyes sharp now. “And you made a call.”

“Just like you, I called to try to find peace. I had a lot of questions. And no purpose in life,” he replied.

Gi-hun snorted bitterly. “So they offered you a purpose. Death, destruction, mass manipulation — purpose .”

“I said no,” In-ho replied immediately, and for the first time, something like pain crept into his voice. “I turned them down. I told them I wanted to be forgotten. I told them I wanted to forget myself .”

“And yet here you are,” Gi-hun muttered. “Tied up in your own fucking circus.”

There was no retort. No defense. Just a long pause before In-ho added, “I received an invitation each subsequent year. And… a year before you joined the games, Oh Il-nam visited me personally. He told me that people like us… we don’t walk away. He said we’re broken in ways the outside world can’t use. But in his world, we could be useful again. Even… meaningful.”

Gi-hun stared at him, disgusted. “Death has taken so much from you. And yet, you still chose to take its side.”

In-ho’s eyes darkened at Gi-hun’s words, the accusation cutting deeper than any bullet could. He bowed his head, voice barely a whisper. “I just didn't believe that I was still human.”

Gi-hun’s lips curled in contempt. “That's why you kept asking me whether I still have faith in humanity.”

In-ho met his gaze, unwavering. “You don't know what it's like to become a cold-blooded killer,” he said, with his tone sincere. “When I was stabbing them, I didn't feel anything.”

Gi-hun swallowed hard. In front of his eyes, all he had was Dae-ho. Running away from him, like an antelope from a predator. His face, his mouth full of blood as he let out his last breath.

It was not in this timeline. It was in the previous one, in this one Dae-ho was, after all, alive and well. 

In-ho’s gaze softened, pain mirrored in those yellow-flecked eyes. He probably didn't notice the perplexity on Gi-hun's face. “How can I consider myself human, then?”

Gi-hun did not respond. Not at first.

And yet he felt it. The weight of it. The cost.

Lately, the notion of ‘humanity’ had been dragging at him incessantly. In fact, since Sang-woo killed himself in front of him four years ago, ‘humanity’ had been haunting him the whole time.

He wondered if he could still be human — feel like one. He didn't kill anyone, but he watched others die. He himself only survived because the rest of the players killed each other, or let him live.

He was no hero. Neither then, nor later, in the second games, nor now, when he returned in time after sacrificing himself for the baby.

Because humanity had nothing to do with being a hero. It had nothing to do with stopping the games. It wasn't something that just ‘happens’ to someone.

And now he began to wonder: was stopping the games really his mission?

Gi-hun leaned back in the chair, rifle balanced across his lap now like an afterthought. He looked at the man in front of him — maskless, shackled, and — ironically — human. More human than he’d ever looked when standing over that red-lit arena.

And he realized that for the first time he saw his eyes shining. Not from tears or happiness. It was a shine that every human being had. An usual shine that faded when a person died.

In-ho didn't have it until now, but now, it has suddenly appeared.

“When I got back here,” Gi-hun said simply, “I wanted to blow your brains out.”

“You still can,” In-ho said without hesitation, as if he really wanted it to happen. “I won’t stop you.”

“It would’ve been easier if you were just a monster,” he muttered. “It would’ve been clean. You, in that mask, hiding behind orders and red suits and corpses. That version of you — I could’ve ended him without blinking.”

In-ho’s lips parted slightly, not in relief, but surprise. His expression didn’t shift much — he looked too tired to react fully — but there was something in his eyes now. A flicker. Caution, maybe. Or worse: hope.

“And now?” he asked carefully.

Gi-hun leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, letting the weight of the rifle press against his thighs.

He stared at the floor for a long moment before answering. His jaw worked slightly, his teeth pressing together as if chewing the words before letting them out.

“And now,” he echoed, “I think that thanks to you, I believe in humanity much more than before.”

In-ho said nothing. The air between them felt brittle again.

“You’re not who I thought you were. And that makes this… clear for me now,” he said, his voice lower, tighter. “You are a human.”

In-ho furrowed his brows slowly. “So you're letting me live, just because I told you my story.”

“I’m not,” Gi-hun said, his voice tired but steady. “I’m letting me live. The kind of man I still want to be.” He stopped for a moment, looking directly in In-ho's trembling pupils. “And it's not because of the story you have told me. It's because you… somehow… still have humanity in you.”

In-ho didn't look like he was agreeing with him, but suddenly, he felt some strange warmth coming through his chest. Words he hadn't heard in so many years. Words that broke through all the hatred he felt for himself.

He couldn't forgive himself — he didn't know if he would ever be able to. But at the same time, the fact that someone who hates him is able to see at least a little of the human in him, made the hope that had seemingly been buried for a long time begin to shimmer. Maybe it was still buried somewhere deep and invisible to the eyes, but yet — it was there.

In-ho blinked slowly, as if his body was still deciding whether to cry again or simply collapse under the weight of what he’d just heard.

He didn’t say thank you . It would’ve sounded hollow, and he knew it. He didn’t try to justify himself further, either — didn’t make excuses, didn’t search for more pity. He just sat there, breathing like each inhale was a small act of defiance against the years of rot inside him.

Gi-hun sat back in the chair again, his gaze no longer sharp, but still alert. There was no mercy in his posture — just resolve. A different kind. One that had nothing to do with bullets or vengeance.

He looked back at the monitors — he almost forgot these were still there. His brow raised. The ferry was already slowly sailing away from the island, and on the second camera, Jun-ho was heading back, hopefully with the key.

The end was near. He'll see Ga-yeong again.

He looked at In-ho again. These were probably the last minutes they would ever see each other again. If he wanted to ask any other questions, he had to do it now.

Gi-hun’s eyes lingered on the monitors for another breath — two ferries now visible, one pulling farther from shore, the other drifting out in the distance, almost like it belonged to another world. He let that image sit with him for a moment: escape in motion.

He looked back at In-ho.

“Ha-eun,” Gi-hun muttered, voice low. “Was it real?”

In-ho blinked. “What?”

“Had you really wanted to name your daughter that? Or did you say it to be more believable?”

The bound man flinched — not visibly, not in the body — but something behind his eyes contracted. Like a nerve had been touched. He looked away instinctively, and Gi-hun could see the answer form even before the words came.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I really had.”

Gi-hun didn’t speak. Just nodded.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. The rifle still rested across his lap, but his hands were no longer touching it.

Another question. Short. Seemed simple, but it wasn't.

“What are you planning next?”

“Next?” In-ho looked at him in confusion.

“After we blow up the island,” he corrected. “I'm going to see my daughter,” he replied to himself, and then repeated his question. “And what are you planning to do?”

He looked as if he hadn't thought about it at all, but at the same time, he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Well, I don't know.” He moved slowly, and the bonds pressed tighter into his skin. “Dying, probably.”

Gi-hun was already so exhausted that he simply snorted with laughter, taking his words as a bad joke. Only after a few seconds did he realize that In-ho wasn't just kidding.

His smile faded slowly, dissolving into something more ambiguous — not quite pity, not quite empathy. Just an understanding too raw to name.

“That's why you're helping us,” he said finally, voice flat. 

“Actually, I planned it for this year. I wanted to show you what people are like, and then… Well, this was supposed to be my last year as the Frontman,” he added.

“So you decided to run away like a coward.”

In-ho didn’t answer right away. He lifted his eyes to Gi-hun, the weariness in them clearer now than any expression. “What else would I do?” he asked. “Now, the games are gone. The mask is gone. Jun-ho… I don’t even know if he’ll speak to me again. I have nobody to live for.”

Gi-hun sat very still, the words weighing on him like a second gravity. The silence between them wasn’t cold anymore. It had thickened, congealed into something that made it hard to move, even to speak.

“Then live for me,” Gi-hun said finally. In-ho instantly raised his head, and this time he was the one who thought the other was joking. “I don't want to live knowing that you managed to escape earlier than I did.”

It sounded like a foolish line to lighten the atmosphere. And maybe it even was that — Gi-hun himself didn't know anymore. But In-ho took it seriously. He looked him straight in the eye and nodded as if he had just made an eternal oath.

Silence followed again, but this time it was no longer so heavy. Just peaceful, maybe even warm.

They were merely waiting for Jun-ho to return. Gi-hun was still thinking if there were any more questions he needed to ask.

He looked around the room. It was the first time he had done so thoroughly.

There was a bar on the left, which attracted his attention the most. On the shelves stood bottles of disgustingly expensive types of alcohol, especially whiskey. In-ho must have really liked this drink.

On the other side was a fireplace, but there was currently no fire burning in it. Next to it stood a single black dresser, and on it was a landline phone. The matte black walls were not flat. Those had convex, geometric shapes.

Crystal chandeliers and lamps hung everywhere, giving off a warm, yellow light. It reflected off the very subtle gold furniture pieces. The gold upholstery of the cabinet, the handles, the barstool chair's leg. 

A strange model in the corner of the room. Gi-hun wasn't sure if he could see it correctly, but it probably depicted some kind of band.

The gold and glamour reminded him of something. His eyes returned to In-ho's silhouette.

“What will happen to VIPs?”

In-ho furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?” 

Gi-hun stood up from the chair slowly, pacing toward the bar as if the motion helped him think. His fingers brushed one of the bottles absently — not to drink, but as though the cold glass would help anchor him.

“I mean,” he said, eyes still on the amber liquid inside the bottle, “you've got one of the biggest networks of human scum ever assembled — people who fund the games, attend them, bet on them like it’s a horse race.”

He turned, now looking at In-ho again. “They’ll find out this place is gone. That the games are finished. What happens then?”

In-ho hesitated. For once, not because he was calculating, nor because he didn’t know how to lie to that question. It was because the truth was too difficult to say it just like that. He breathed in deeply, and the motion looked like it cost him.

“Nothing in particular,” he said. “It will simply be one less entertainment for them.”

Gi-hun did not understand. What did that mean — ‘one less entertainment’ ?

“Could you be a little clearer?” he asked, the irony in his voice got in there without his permission.

Gi-hun didn’t immediately respond. He just stared at him, waiting — not for an explanation, but for a correction. A crack in the statement. Something to show that it wasn’t as damning as it sounded.

But none came.

So he asked again, sharper this time:

“Explain.”

In-ho closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were somewhere far away. Not hiding — just tired of being the only one who knew the truth.

“The Korean games… they weren’t the only ones,” he said finally.

Gi-hun blinked, not quite comprehending.

“There are others,” In-ho went on. “Russia. The U.S. Mexico. South Africa. Even a few in Europe. This island, this version — it was just one. A franchise , if you want to call it that.”

Gi-hun stood in stunned silence.

The words fell like lead in the room, flattening every ounce of air between them. A franchise. He thought of all the blood spilled, all the lives shattered, all the ghosts he carried. And yet… it was just one branch . A cog in a much larger machine.

His hands curled into fists. Not out of rage, not yet — but because if he didn’t clench them, he wasn’t sure what he might do.

He took a few slow steps back toward the chair. Nothing could be read from his face. He sat down.

“So what was this all for?” he asked, the edge of something cracking in his voice.

This was not a question for In-ho. Gi-hun was directing it to himself. It was as if he regretted having wasted so many years. That he went back in time. That he risked his life. 

That he didn't get on that damn plane back then.

“You managed to stop the games. No one will die on this island again.” His words were sincere, even if said with a slightly distant tone.

It was strange that In-ho was now trying to comfort him, but he didn't pay attention at all. 

Suddenly, the monitors began flashing bright red. Gi-hun didn't even flinch. The timer began counting down thirty minutes until self-destruction, and he just stood there, quite dejected. Jun-ho has found the key and activated the button.

In-ho held his breath for a brief moment. He looked at him, not with a malicious grin, not mocking him. Rather, there was sincere compassion on his face. “Gi-hun ssi ,” he finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly, “you didn't think you were capable of stopping these games completely, did you?”

Something broke.

Chapter Text

The elevator rang a familiar bell, and then the black doors slid open.

26:18

Jun-ho stepped in, peeling back the mask with one hand. He looked toward the center of the room. Gi-hun and In-ho were still in their seats — silent, unmoving. As if nothing had shifted at all since he left.

He expected tension. He didn’t expect this kind of stillness.

“You didn’t kill each other,” he muttered, more to himself than them.

Neither answered.

Jun-ho wasn't going to waste time. He approached his brother, intending to untie him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Gi-hun, who was no longer aiming his rifle at In-ho. Jun-ho began to be genuinely curious about what had happened in his absence.

He crouched beside In-ho’s chair. His hands moved quickly, tugging at the knots that bound his brother’s wrists to the armrests. The rope had bitten into the skin — he could see faint abrasions, red and raw under the dim light.

Jun-ho risked another glance at Gi-hun. The man had set the rifle down gently at his feet. Not discarded it — just placed it with care, as if it were still a weight he might need to carry again.

“You all right, Gi-hun ssi ?” Jun-ho asked him.

He didn’t reply right away. He leaned back in his armchair, exhaling a breath that seemed to come from somewhere buried deep.

“Yeah,” he said at last, his voice cracking. “I think… yeah.”

The detective reached behind his brother’s chair, tugging free the cable that pinned him in place. With a quick motion, he slipped the restraints off. In-ho rubbed his wrists, crimson lines already forming, and then rose unsteadily to his feet. Jun-ho merely warned him, waving the revolver at him.

“Please, don't give me reasons.”

In response, In-ho only slowly raised his hands in the air.

Jun-ho nodded, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Let’s move before this place turns into rubble.”

He moved his weapon toward his brother to make him move. As he passed by Gi-hun, who was still sitting in his chair, he patted him lightly on the shoulder. “C'mon, let's go.”

 Gi-hun remained seated for a moment longer, gaze drifting to the flashing red monitors. The timer was mercilessly counting down, the seconds slipping away like grains of sand falling through an hourglass.

“You know,” Gi-hun began quietly, “I imagined this moment so many times. The escape, the explosion, the end. But I never thought it would feel like this.”

Both brothers stopped. They slowly turned around to observe the back of the man's head, who was still sitting in the leather armchair.

“Like… empty. Hollow. Like surviving the game was never the victory — just the beginning of something I don’t know how to handle.”

24:06

Jun-ho remained still for a few seconds, halfway turned, the muzzle of his gun pointed downward, but his attention was narrowing back onto Gi-hun. In-ho stood just behind him, his silhouette dim against the cold wash of emergency lighting. No one moved. Not because of fear — that part was long gone — but because something fragile had just been spoken aloud, and none of them knew how to respond.

Gi-hun still hadn't risen.

His fingers gently traced the edge of the leather armrest, like he was etching the moment into muscle memory. Or maybe grounding himself — because he wasn't sure what would happen once he stood up. Not to the world. To himself.

The room smelled like dust and ozone. Like overheating metal. There was a strange, sterile chill in the air — as if the ventilation systems were already starting to fail. Every red pulse of the countdown painted long shadows across the floors, across their faces. The facility was dying, and it wasn’t doing it quietly.

“We'll talk later, Gi-hun ssi ,” Jun-ho repeated, more gently this time. “Now, we have to get on that speedboat.”

Jun-ho’s booted foot shuffled once on the grated floor, the metal bars humming faintly under the weight. He glanced back at Gi-hun, hesitated, then returned his gaze forward. In-ho followed the detective’s line of sight, shifting uneasily on his feet. The corridor beyond the control room was a stark contrast: flickering white emergency lights, exposed pipes snaking along the ceiling, and vents that rattled like broken hearts in the draft. Every few steps, the distant groan of collapsing infrastructure whispered through the walls — an ominous reminder that the island itself was becoming unstable.

Gi-hun was still sitting, still with his back turned to them, still with his fingers clenched on the armrests. The leather chair beneath him was unbelievably soft, as if he were sinking into quicksand that he didn't want to get out of. His gaze wandered to the monitors — a red haze of countdown numbers, each flickering against the black glass.

His breath came in shallow bursts. He tasted metal and sweat at the back of his throat. Somewhere in the control room, an emergency siren chimed — a high, keening note that blended with the rushing of the ventilation fans. It was the sound of the island drawing its final breath.

The detective shifted the weight of the revolver to one hand and continued to stand, right next to his brother, feeling helplessness burst his chest. Unlike In-ho, who seemed quite confused, Jun-ho already comprehended.

“We have to move,” nevertheless, he howled through clenched teeth. “We have eight minutes to the speedboat. We can make it… if you stand up now.”

Gi-hun didn’t answer. His fingers unclenched the armrest and curled around the leather’s edge. He felt the stitching press into his palm. There was an echo of every scar he’d earned climbing up his arm. Every memory of cold metal, of falling, of pain. The chair represented more than comfort — it was the only solid ground he had left.

Gi-hun’s eyes traced the red digits flashing on the monitors: 23:01, 23:00, 22:59… Time slipping away in cruel increments. The numbers bled into each other, a relentless pulse counting down to oblivion.

He felt the leather chair cradle him — soft, warm, unforgiving — a cocoon that beckoned him to remain. The worn stitching under his fingers was an anchor to the present, a tactile thread connecting him to something real amid the chaos.

Around him, the control room’s sterile air hung heavy with dust and ozone, thick like fog through which the faint hum of failing electronics struggled to breathe. The scent of burnt circuitry mixed with stale sweat and the faint metallic tang of blood—somewhere in his mind, fragments of pain and fear from the games intertwined with the acrid atmosphere, indistinguishable.

The emergency siren wailed — a keening, desperate sound that vibrated in his chest and clawed at his nerves. It was a call to action, but his limbs felt leaden, his muscles unwilling to obey.

He imagined the explosion, the island swallowed in fire and smoke, the promise of freedom beyond the horizon. He knew the others depended on him to rise, to fight for their lives.

But a hollow ache settled in his chest, spreading like fire.

What was freedom without purpose? What was survival without hope?

His mind spiraled through memories — faces of those lost, of his daughter’s laugh echoing somewhere distant, the relentless echo of ‘why’ that haunted him.

He thought of the island itself, a twisted monument of greed and death, now crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide. Its end was inevitable, but his path remained uncertain.

The chair held him still, a paradoxical refuge and prison. His breath came shallow, each inhale a struggle against the weight pressing down on his ribs.

If what he was in was really a time loop…

And if his mission really was to stop the games…

He swallowed hard.

… then he would wake up again. In another loop. Games weren't completely stopped.

Or if, somehow, he had fulfilled his mission — then he could now die in peace.

He wouldn't want to survive now and live for another couple of dozen or so years, only to wake up in a green tracksuit after his death, with the number 456 on his chest again, in an accompaniment of this stupid Haydn's Trumpet Concerto .

If he has to go through this again, he wants to do it right away. He doesn't want to wait and give himself hope.

“Hyung,” Jun-ho said softly, grabbing his brother's arm, “we have to go. Now.”

In-ho's breath sounded quiet and raspy. “What? We're not leaving him here.” He didn't even notice when his hands and voice began to tremble. “Gi-hun ssi , stand up.” He took two small steps toward him. “ Please. ”

Gi-hun’s voice was barely audible when he finally spoke.

“I'm staying.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Jun-ho had expected these words, and yet, his lungs ran out of air for a second. 

In-ho had not expected these words. That's why he needed a brief moment for them to reach him.

All they were talking about. About the existence of humanity, about life and death. About how Gi-hun saw hope when he realized that the monster still remained human. 

About the promise that In-ho would stay alive, just for him. That they would be in this endless sea of trauma and memories — even if separately — together. That they could try to deal with it — even if separately — together.

And now, Gi-hun wanted to escape from this. He wanted to stay under the rubble of a place that had taken enough from him.

21:53

In-ho’s breath caught sharply, the trembling in his hands growing more frantic. His eyes widened, disbelief crashing against him like a sudden wave.

The man still stayed turned away, sitting motionless in the armchair. The same one In-ho had sat in for the past years, watching helpless people die in fear and panic.

Therefore, if anyone was going to die in that armchair, it was only he himself. But he had promised not to die as long as Gi-hun was alive. That's why he was going to get him off that armchair, even if only by force.

So he took a hesitant step forward, then another, closing the small distance between them, desperation breaking through his exhaustion.

“Gi-hun ssi … please,” In-ho said, voice urgent, reaching out to shake him gently at first, hoping to rouse the man from the numbness. “Stand up. We have to go.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. He just sat there, spine curved slightly forward, hands resting limply now against the chair’s arms — the way a man settles not into comfort, but surrender.

In-ho’s breath turned ragged. “You said the loop needed to end. That this was the end.” His voice cracked under the weight of disbelief. “You’re just going to sit here and wait for the explosion?”

He stepped in front of the chair now, forcing Gi-hun to see him. His movements were jerky, controlled only by some fragile leash keeping his panic from snapping. The island was groaning around them, tiles vibrating underfoot, cables above their heads beginning to sway like pendulums.

Time wasn’t just passing — it was crushing .

“You promised you’d see your daughter again,” In-ho said, voice rising. “You said that. You promised.”

The room went silent. Only a few heavy steps that Jun-ho did, just to grab his brother's arm, and try to drag him to the exit.

If it hadn't been for his exhaustion, if it hadn't been for his abandonment — if it hadn't been for his utter focus on Gi-hun — on trying to make him get up and run with them to that damn motorboat. Maybe then wouldn't have given up on his little brother. He was a little stronger than him, and a better fighter. But at that moment, Jun-ho's hands just pulled at him like he was a corpse. And only after a while, he had the strength to put up any resistance, which was ineffective anyway.

No. The man who restored at least some hope in him could not die now.

Jun-ho held him using all his strength, hooking the revolver on his belt so he could grab his brother with both hands. “He’s not going,” he hissed at In-ho. “We don’t have time for this. If we stay, we die. And if we die, this was all for nothing.”

In-ho struggled against his brother’s grip, rage boiling up in his chest like lava threatening to break through the cracks. He wasn’t ready to give up. Not like this.

Gi-hun wasn’t supposed to end this way.

Not seated in that stupid chair, with red digits flashing over his face like countdown candles on a funeral cake.

20:34

“Let me go,” In-ho snapped, his voice sharp, cracking. He twisted against Jun-ho’s arms, elbow jabbing backward. “I said—let go!”

Jun-ho didn’t. He hit the elevator button with his elbow. His grip tightened, digging into the fabric of his brother’s jacket. “Dammit, In-ho—”

At that moment, Gi-hun moved in his chair. He took a deep breath and slowly turned his head toward them, as if to see if what he heard from behind him was real and not just sounds made up by his mind.

In-ho fell silent. He simply stopped twittering. He waited for something to happen. For the first time in a very long time, he felt hope.

Those eyes.

They weren’t dead. That’s what made it worse.

There was no vacancy. No madness. Just peace. Resignation. Clarity.

“Please…” In-ho whispered. “I’m begging you. You don’t have to forgive the world. You don’t have to forgive me. Just don’t stay here.”

Gi-hun stared at him, his lips twitching faintly — not in cruelty, but in apology. In-ho could see it: that he meant it. That this was not an accident or a whim.

“I’m not afraid,” Gi-hun said softly.

The bell of the elevator that arrived was quiet, but rumbled in his ears like an explosion. Before he had time to realize it, Jun-ho seized the moment as he lowered his guard and pulled him inside the elevator. He immediately pressed the door lock button.

In-ho only let out a muffled scream. Gi-hun raised his eyebrow slightly, calmness still on his face, then turned back to the timer. 

20:15

“No!” In-ho cried as he saw that the door had begun to close. “You wanted me to live for you!” he growled, voice cracking, “And you can’t even live for yourself! Nor for your daughter!”

And the door closed.

Gi-hun did not cry. He thought that maybe in this situation he should, but still he couldn't get a single tear out of himself. 

He looked at the timer again and sighed. He sincerely hoped that In-ho and Jun-ho could make it to the speedboats in time to get away from the island to a safe distance.

Safety.

He hoped they would be safe.

That Jung-bae would be safe. That Jun-hee would safely give birth to his daughter and keep her safe as well. That Dae-ho would never again feel that he was not safe.

He wondered, however, if he actually stood in the doorway of his ex-wife's house, looked Ga-yeong straight in the eye — what would her reaction be?

Would she ever feel safe by his side again?

He stood up. Very slowly. His knees cracked loudly, as if he hadn't been sitting there for ten minutes, but hours.

Slow step forward, each footfall echoing slightly in the growing stillness. Outside, the wind howled louder than before, like the island itself knew the end was near.

He didn’t glance toward the elevator. He knew they were gone. He could almost see Jun-ho’s finger slamming the button for the lowest level, In-ho’s fists pounding at the door in a protest. He could almost hear Jun-ho yelling, trying to keep him sane.

He couldn't understand why In-ho cared so much. Why did he care at all.

Somewhere far above, a dull groan rippled through the metal frame of the island — beams protesting, walls sighing as pressure mounted. The countdown still blinked on the monitors in blood-red numerals, steadily descending into single-digit minutes. Every second felt heavier now, louder. Like time itself had grown teeth and was biting down.

Seong Gi-hun stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing.

The silence, after all of these spoken words, was unbearable.

And yet, it was also familiar — the kind of silence he’d lived with every day since the first game. The kind that stayed even when people spoke to him, even when he laughed, even when the world moved on. It was the quiet of someone who had already died once, and never fully come back.

He dragged in a breath. The air was warmer now. The server tower near the wall sparked suddenly — a little pop of static and then smoke curling into the air like incense. A quiet offering to the dead.

He slowly approached the bar. He looked at the bottles stacked on the cabinets. He hesitated. In just a moment, it would all splatter into a fine mess anyway.

He bent down, seeing a small black refrigerator, whose incessant buzzing he had not heard until now. Just above it, he spotted two glasses.

He opened it. Inside, there was only one bottle.

A bottle of soju with a pink bow on it.

He snorted.

Oh Il-nam was right. Someone who had once survived the games couldn't just walk away.

He took out the soju and grabbed both glasses. He returned to his chair and stopped at the table. He pulled down the whiskey decanter and set it on the ground. He moved the table so that it was now in front of the chair. He sat down, having previously placed the glasses on opposite sides.

He looked at them for a moment, as if assessing whether they stood evenly. He reached for the bottle.

14:51

Gi-hun hoped that Jun-ho and In-ho were already sailing away on a speedboat.

He poured alcohol into glasses. He did not drink. Just let them be.

He remembered the rebellion. When In-ho — no, then still Young-il, shot a guard in the head so Gi-hun could live. When he told him that, after all of it, Gi-hun, to repay him, could buy him a bottle of soju.

If someone had asked him even two hours ago if that man really cared about him, he would have laughed bitterly and said that monsters have no such feelings.

And now… he didn't know. The echoes in his head of In-ho's pleading with him to go with them prevented him from thinking straight.

Gi-hun knew that the end was near. This big, brightly red timer was reminding him of it. But he didn't feel like he had felt when he was standing on the platform, sacrificing for the baby. It was something else.

A shift.

Maybe it was because now, he felt that slight fear. Not of dying, which he had felt in that previous timeline. Of the possibility that when the timer reached zero, he'd wake up being in the games again.

He settled lower in his chair and sighed. If he had to choose, he would like to go back in time much earlier. He would have made many other decisions in his life.

He would have taken care of his mother. He would have been a better dad. A better man.

He would have found an honest job instead of trying to win lousy money in gambling.

He would never bet on any horse again.

He would not have gotten into debt. He would pay his alimony. He would take Ga-yeong for fried chicken.

He wouldn't have to join the games.

Starting over would be good.

A soft vibration rattled the floor. A shudder. Somewhere on the lower levels, the explosives must have triggered a tremor. The lights overhead flickered, the ceiling groaned. Dust fell like snow.

He didn't flinch.

He thought of Ga-yeong again.

Pictured her — maybe she had her black hair long now? Or maybe she cut it?

She probably hated him now. Or worse — didn’t think about him at all.

That was the price.

The ache of not knowing her — not knowing the woman she would become — cut deeper than anything he’d faced on that blood-soaked island.

“Ga-yeong ie,” he whispered into the empty room, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

He recalled In-ho's story. He had not had the opportunity to meet his daughter at all. Nor did he have a chance to say goodbye to her.

Gi-hun thought In-ho could be a good father. He didn't know why. He just hoped so.

Funny. That hope was like smoke — elusive, indistinct — and yet he clung to it like a man drowning.

Gi-hun hoped In-ho would not kill himself.

What hypocrisy.

And then he realized that he had forgotten to tell him that he no longer hated him.

05:20

He opened his eyes wider. He didn't even realize when almost ten minutes had passed.

Gi-hun sat in the chair with his hands resting on the arms, still not touching his soju. His breathing had slowed, matching the low tremor beneath the ground — like his heartbeat had synced with the dying island. Everything seemed to be fading now. Lights dimmed and sparked like failing stars. That sound of the sirens in the distance, of distant crumbling concrete — it was like a lullaby.

And yet, his mind wouldn’t stop.

Not now.

He looked at the bottle again. At the pink ribbon.

His throat tightened.

Why the fucking ribbon?

He wondered if Il-nam had planned it this way — to try making something so brutal, actually soft. Almost… tender.

It didn't work.

The sight of Sae-byeok bleeding out was not tender. 

The sight of Sang-woo stabbing himself in the throat was not soft.

The sight of Jung-bae shot in the heart was not peaceful.

The sight of Dae-ho choking on his blood was not soothing.

The sight of Jun-hee lying even on a floor full of flowers was not beautiful.

If Oh Il-nam thought it was, he was wrong.

He looked at the glass of soju. 

Recalled the first time he tried it.

He was sixteen at the time. He and Sang-woo told their mothers that they were going out to eat. They paid a homeless man who was sitting outside a store to buy them a bottle. They went to the beach and drank the whole thing.

They talked about plans for the future. Sang-woo said he wanted to get into Seoul University and become a huge investor. Gi-hun countered that he was just hoping to find a hot girlfriend.

Ahh, what a joke .

“I’m not drinking alone,” he murmured.

The words were hoarse, raw. He wasn’t even sure who he was saying them to. Maybe to In-ho. Maybe to Sang-woo. Maybe to all of them. Maybe just to himself.

The lights above flickered again. One of the overhead panels sparked and went black. The room darkened by a shade, as if even the island itself was dimming the lights for his final act.

02:18

He leaned back in the chair and exhaled, long and low. His bones ached. His chest ached. But more than anything, his heart ached — not in the poetic way people talk about. It was a dull, steady pressure, like a bruise he could never touch without wincing.

He pictured Ga-yeong again.

He imagined her at school. Maybe she speaks English better than Korean now. Maybe she had friends who didn’t even know her dad existed. Maybe she said his name sometimes, quietly, and didn’t know why it hurt so much.

Maybe she’d forget him completely.

Maybe that would be better.

01:32

He leaned forward slightly, rested his elbows on his knees, and pressed his hands together, fingers interlaced as if in prayer. His forehead touched his knuckles, breath trembling between them. The silence pressed in again, heavier this time. Almost final.

But in that silence, something cracked.

Not outside — not the metal or the concrete — but inside him.

A memory.

A voice.

It was soft, high-pitched, and echoing like a phantom across years and miles.

“Appa…”

 He froze.

“Appa, can I take my unicorn?”

It wasn’t a real memory. It was a blend — something he had made up, or half-dreamed once, a hundred times. Ga-yeong’s voice was younger than it should be now. Her Korean had that slight lilt that suggested she’d spoken English that day instead, but in his mind, she spoke to him in Korean.

“Can I take my unicorn? Last time you said you’d carry it if I got tired.”

He swallowed. Hard.

Maybe there was just some gas leaking out. Maybe it caused this hallucination.

But he wanted it to be real. He closed his eyes.

He smiled. Not a wide one — just a barely-there curve of his lips. But it was real. The first one in a long time that didn’t feel forced.

He tilted his head back and let his eyes fall closed.

There was a strange kind of peace in this. No more games. No more running. No more pretending to be okay for everyone else's sake.

In his mind, he imagined Ga-yeong again. Older, maybe. Taller. Smiling without fear. He pictured her standing under the sunlight, her hair caught by the breeze. A vision stitched together from the scraps of memory and the dreams he didn’t dare to have.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered to the image. “You’re stronger than me.”

And he believed it.

Two glasses of soju were still standing on the table, untouched. There was no one to share it with anymore.

00:01

He didn’t move.

Not even when the walls cracked.

Not even when the ceiling groaned louder than thunder.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

And yet — for a brief moment, his lips moved.

Just barely.

A whisper.

“Let it end.”

And it did.

Almost.

Chapter Text

A poke on the shoulder roused him from sleep. No, it was not sleep . More like a nap. A shallow, stiff doze in a place where sleep was the last thing anyone should feel safe doing.

The bed was narrow, hard. His back ached. He remembered sitting upright against the wall, suit collar digging into his neck. He had to be ready. Someone might come at the night. To kill him. To eliminate him. Whatever it was called here.

He blinked.

The first thing he saw was a dark figure standing at the foot of the bed. Tall. Unmoving. Almost shapeless against the dim pink glow coming from the hallway. His chest tightened.

Then — the shape shifted. A square on the mask caught the light. Just a guard.

“He wants to see you.”

He didn’t ask who. Didn’t ask why.

He stood up slowly, unsure whether his legs would cooperate. His mouth was dry. The air smelled of iron and plastic. He followed.

The door opened, but did not let in any light, nor did it cause any sound. Strange, it usually did. Apparently, someone didn't want anyone to know that he was now leaving the dormitory. That the meeting would remain a secret.

They walked in silence.

The corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel, bathed in dim pink light that flickered faintly with every footstep, as if the island itself disapproved of this meeting. The hum of ventilation was the only sound — a low, mechanical breath echoing through the concrete veins of the compound.

He didn’t know where they were going. But something in his bones told him he had been here before.

Or somewhere like it.

The footsteps of the guard were light, precise. His own were heavier. Slower. His legs still remembered the last round. The exhaustion clung to him like a second skin — invisible, but always there.

He passed one of the mirrored walls, the ones used for surveillance — or intimidation — and caught a glimpse of himself.

He paused.

It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize the man in the reflection. It was that he almost didn’t.

The eyes staring back at him were rimmed with red, hollow underneath. The suit hung too neatly on his frame, like it belonged to a different body. His fringe was sticking to his forehead from sweat. His face was unreadable — not blank, not tired, not scared. Just… stripped.

He kept walking.

Down another corridor. This one darker. The lights no longer pink, but deep red — as if descending into the belly of something alive.

They entered a matte black elevator. He swallowed hard. The guard clicked a button and the elevator moved upward.

The guard turned to face him. Said nothing.

Then the door hissed open.

He walked inside, carefully, as if stepping on cracked ice.

Who in their right senses even steps on cracked ice?

The room beyond was cold. Palatial in design, but empty. Black marble floor. Dark velvet curtains drawn across unseen windows. And in the center, a chair — throne-like, but not ornate. Clean. Minimal. As if the man who sat in it didn’t believe in extravagance, only control.

And there he was.

A mysterious man wearing a mask and a neat suit. In his hand, he held a glass half-filled with whiskey.

He couldn't see his eyes, but he knew he had them focused on him now.

He walked through the corridor, very slowly, patiently. He didn't know what would happen to him. His lungs were choked with fear.

Once he was right in front of him, he stopped at a wooden chair. He looked at the man, at the empty table between.

“Take a seat. This could take a while.”

He exhaled and then sat.

There was silence for a while. He looked at the mask as if it were the strangest thing he had ever seen. It probably was.

“Player 132,” he started. “I'm glad you made it so far.”

He held his breath.

The man behind the crystal mask, in the owl shape, didn’t speak again for a long time. He just swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking faintly — the only sound in that cavernous silence.

In-ho sat still. His spine was straight, palms resting on his thighs, fingers curled ever so slightly. Like he was trying to hold on to something invisible.

“Do you believe in fate?” the masked man finally asked.

In-ho blinked. The question didn’t feel like small talk. It felt like a test.

He considered lying. Saying yes. Or no. Or asking what the man wanted to hear. But something about the room — the chill, the stillness, the way the Host never truly looked away — made that feel dangerous.

So he decided to tell the truth.

“I don’t know.”

A pause. Then the masked man gave a slow nod, as if that answer satisfied him.

Another pause.

The Host leaned forward just a fraction. The golden mask caught the low light, flickering like molten metal.

“Do you want to win?” he asked.

That question hit differently. It wasn’t rhetorical. It wasn’t abstract.

In-ho swallowed. “Yes.”

The Host tilted his head. “Why?”

In-ho blinked once. Twice. He didn’t know how to answer — not in a way that would make sense to a man like this. The real answer was so simple it felt absurd.

“I want to live. And get back to my wife.”

The Host chuckled softly. It was dry. Empty. A sound that didn’t quite reach the room’s edges. It was as if he knew something more than In-ho and was laughing at him now.

“Of course,” he said. “But for this to happen… someone else must die.”

In-ho knew that this was the truth. But he didn't understand why this man was telling him this now.

“I have a proposition for you.”

The Host said nothing more. He simply pulled a black dagger from behind his back. Medium length, in a black, shiny case with silver ornaments.

He placed it on the table and let it be. He simply waited for some move from the player, as if the mere drawing of the knife was already a message.

In-ho was not stupid. He understood perfectly well what the knife was for. Why was he summoned here.

He understood where the question of fate came from. He understood that the Host, in summoning him, had decided to choose the path of fate for him. He decided to choose the path of fate for each of his five opponents, whom he decided not to summon. Who remained in the dormitory, sleeping, unaware. 

Who were now going to die by his hands.

But In-ho wasn’t a murderer.

He had won every previous game thanks to his cunning, his intelligence. He didn't kill anyone, strangle anyone, stab anyone in the back. He simply did whatever it took to survive using his brain.

He was afraid of the final round. Uncertainty, distrust — because what else was he supposed to feel? He wanted it to be over. He wanted to go back to Ji-ae, he wanted to pay for her transplant. He wanted to get out of this place, which was devoid of humanity, and that's what it was for.

And he has to kill to succeed?

Before all of this, he was a police detective. A good one. He had high decorations. Was so close to becoming the Chief of SMPA. He gave his wife, mother, and brother a reason to be proud of him.

How was he supposed to kill someone?

He didn't want to pretend that the games weren't war. They were, but even in war, cheating was still cheating.

Killing them in their sleep, with a knife he got secretly, was also cheating.

He just wanted to go home.

The Host put down his glass of whiskey.

“What's holding you back?”

He heard his words, but wasn't sure if they quite reached him. He simply stared at the knife, as if he were considering picking it up more and more with each passing second.

“Tomorrow they will come after you and kill you.”

He breathed deeply. Fear and desperation drowned out his thoughts.

“Kill the trash,” he continued. “That is the best choice you can make right now.”

He looked at the knife, then briefly at the man, at the knife again. He clenched his jaw.

Tears came to his eyes, his breathing became heavier and heavier, trembling. He didn't want to do it, but he had no other choice.

He tightened his hand on the handle of the dagger. He didn't know if he should, but he just got up anyway.

The Host didn’t stop him. Didn’t say another word. He just picked up his glass again, like this was all routine.

Like giving a man a knife before sending him into the dark was just another part of the job.

The elevator's door opened like it was already waiting for him. The pink guard was still there.

In-ho stepped in. He took one last look at the man in the mask.

Then a quiet ring and the door closed.

He returned to the dormitory through the same corridors as before. The metal door swung open again — no light, no sound. As if they were going to help him with what he was going to do now.

To not wake them up.

His breathing was deep, shaky. His legs bowed under him, he wasn't sure if he could keep going.

There was a silence in the room that blew his skull.

He was not a murderer.

He was not a murderer.

He was not a murderer.

Not yet.

He didn't head to his bed. He knew that if he went back there, he wouldn't get up again. He wouldn't dare.

And to live — to be sure he would survive — he had to do it.

The shine in his eyes slowly began to fade.

He stopped at one of the beds. Player 129. He and In-ho never talked. 

He was middle-aged. Slept so peacefully. Too peacefully for what was about to happen in a moment.

In-ho's hands began to tremble harder. He barely managed to pull the dagger out of its case.

The blade caught a glint of the overhead light.

It was too beautiful a weapon for something so ugly.

He gripped it tightly, his knuckles white. His stomach twisted violently, as if his body was trying to reject what his mind had almost committed to.

His hand hovered over the man’s throat.

It stayed there.

Trembling. Inches above the pulse that fluttered gently beneath the skin.

He could feel it — the heat of the man’s body, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath.

A breath that would stop the moment In-ho pushed the knife down.

One second. That was all it would take.

One second to ensure his survival.

One second to become something he could never undo.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Just do it.

The thought screamed in his head. But his muscles refused to listen.

He saw Ji-ae. His wife. On the hospital bed, frail and smiling at him with that impossibly soft, tired smile. “You’ll come back, right?”

His vision blurred with tears. 

He opened his eyes again. The knife shook.

Still, the man didn’t stir.

In-ho clenched his teeth, trying to force his arm to move.

Then…

A whisper.

Soft. Faint. From behind his ear.

“All that, and you want to do it again?”

What?

His eyes darted around.

No one.

Everyone in the dormitory was asleep. Still. Breathing.

The whisper had no source.

Perhaps it was his conscience that appealed to him.

Doesn't matter.

He turned back to player 129, ready to kill, and that's when he noticed the dark silhouette facing him, on the other side of the bed. His heart skipped a beat. He jumped back slightly. Didn't make a sound.

His face, which was all covered in sweat, started burning. His breaths were now short, anxious. He looked at the black figure, but could not see its face.

“Thanks to you, I believe in humanity much more than before. Don't try to prove me wrong.”

Something in his chest twitched. He remembered the words, but didn't know from where. The face of the person across from him was still invisible. He didn't know if it was even real.

“I can't die here,” he coughed quietly. “I have to go home.”

“Then do so.” He heard in reply. “But not this way.”

The person took a step back. Then another. And then its face became visible. A man.

He wasn't wearing a suit like the others. He was in a green tracksuit, the kind in which In-ho started the games. On his chest was the number 456, and across his chest, a red patch with an X.

And then, his face. Full of wrinkles, tired, he had a two-day stubble.

For the first split second, he didn't recognize him.

He stumbled backward, nearly dropping the knife. His hand flew to his temple as white-hot pain flared across his vision.

Images.

He remembered everything.

In-ho checked the fuel level in the tank. Since Jun-ho pulled him into the elevator, he hasn't said a word. He didn't even look at him.

On the one hand, Jun-ho was terribly sorry. Because of Gi-hun, but also because of his brother's sorrow. On the other hand, he was afraid of what In-ho would do when it finally got to him what had happened.

In-ho stood with his back to Jun-ho, breathing hard. His knuckles were still red where he’d slammed the metal door of the elevator. The sound still echoed in his ears.

“Do you even know how to drive it?” In-ho asked finally.

Jun-ho took a quick glance at it.

“I think, I do.” He has never sailed specifically in such a motorboat, but it probably shouldn't be that difficult. “Wait, you don't?” he asked quickly. He didn't want to believe that his brother wouldn't be able to, but he suddenly lost all certainty.

In-ho looked as if he were thinking hard about something. He didn't answer.

The explosion was sixteen minutes away. If they wanted to get a safe distance away, they had to leave within a minute.

Then, behind their backs, they heard a sound. The creaking of the floor.

Jun-ho snapped off and pointed his revolver in the direction of the noise.

Behind them stood a pink guard. A woman. She was still wearing the suit, but no mask. She raised her hands in a defensive gesture. She was not armed.

Sweat ran down her face, her bangs stuck to her forehead.

“Can I come with you?” she asked quietly.

There was fear in her eyes. Fear of dying.

Jun-ho lowered his weapon a little, still cautiously. He looked briefly at his brother, whose face was unmoved. He simply nodded.

“Yes, come on,” the detective exclaimed.

In-ho bent down into a compartment next to the seats, pretending to look for blankets. He palmed the pockets of the leather cover. Carefully and unobtrusively, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs from there and draped his hands over them, trying to hide them in the material of his tracksuit.

The woman slowly boarded the speedboat, Jun-ho clipped a gun in his belt, and smiled crookedly. Then he turned to his brother, slowly pulling his gaze from the woman. “Hey, hyung, it's time to go.”

In-ho, however, had somewhat different plans. With one hand, he fastened the handcuffs to the metal tube of the speedboat, and then hooked the other handcuff collar around his younger brother's wrist.

Before Jun-ho could react, he pulled the revolver from his belt.

“In-ho, what—”

Ignoring confused questions, he immediately approached the guard.

“What's your number?” he asked in a stony voice.

The woman stood up, straightened, and swallowed her saliva.

“Eleven, sir.”

Her voice barely rose above the wind. The metal of the boat groaned softly beneath their weight.

Jun-ho yanked at the handcuff on his wrist. “Hyung, what the hell are you doing?”

But In-ho didn’t look at him. He had his eyes fixed on the woman.

She looked young — maybe late twenties — but her eyes were older. Worn thin by fear.

“Number Eleven,” he started coldly. “Turn on the speedboat and take Detective Hwang back to the city. This is your last order.”

Jun-ho's eyes widened as he watched his brother step ashore.

“No—no, no, no, hyung, what are you doing?!” he shouted, yanking again at the cuff on his wrist. The steel bit into his skin.

In-ho didn’t turn around. His shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of the world had suddenly doubled.

“Take him,” he repeated, now without emotion. “Make sure he makes it.”

The woman hesitated. “Sir, but you—”

“That’s an order,” he barked, this time with such force that she instinctively jumped and dropped her hand to the engine controls. He left the boat.

The motor gave a low, angry rumble, then steadied.

Jun-ho looked at her, then at his brother’s silhouette, dark against the gray horizon.

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Hyung—what the hell are you thinking?! There’s still time!”

“I am so sorry, Jun-ho,” In-ho said, voice low but clear.

Jun-ho yanked at the cuffs again, screaming now. “Shut up! Get back here! We’ll all make it, just get in the damn boat! In-ho!”

But In-ho didn’t answer. His boots hit the metal of the dock again as he stepped away, farther from the boat, farther from escape. The wind kicked up against his coat. His knuckles tightened on the revolver.

He watched the speedboat, which was now sailing away toward the horizon. He could still hear his brother's screams for a while, but then even they quieted down.

He was left alone. Not quite, because a few floors above him, there was still Gi-hun, probably still sitting in the chair.

But In-ho didn't dare to go back there.

The explosion was nine minutes away. 

He sat down on the rocky shore of the island. He lay down on it. The rocks pounded into his back.

He closed his eyes.

He thought about Ji-ae. What did she feel when she was dying. She certainly thought he had left her. Maybe that he had stopped loving her.

And then, another thought. That if there really was such a thing as a time loop, and if he really had to go back in time, he would like it to happen.

He would want to go back to a time, before he made decisions that made him feel less human than he truly was.

And he got that opportunity.

He was still standing over the bed of Player 129. Gi-hun had already disappeared.

In-ho looked at his hands. At the knife. He didn't know if it was all a dream or if it was really that time loop.

Doesn't matter.

He was not a murderer.

He wasn't a monster.

He was a human.

The dagger was slipped into its case. He took a few shaky steps toward his bed. He lay down.

The fading shine in his eyes returned. This time it was stronger. More distinct.

His wife was already dead. So was his daughter. He was aware. He remembered everything.

His eyes closed, and tears flowed down his face.

But despite everything, this vision of Gi-hun once again brought him hope.

Hope.

If he really wanted to get out of here alive, he would have to fight for it. Without cheating.

Chapter Text

“Gi-hun ah , I made you breakfast. Eat it before I come back, please.”

The pleasant smell of fried eggs filled his nostrils and made his stomach gurgle. He slept so well, but the hunger was as strong as the soft pillow. The noises, the sound of footsteps, the smell — were so familiar. However, his eyelids seemed so heavy…

“Oh, and don't forget, you are meeting Ga-yeong today.” He heard the voice again, and this time its source was closer. “You have to pick her up at one o'clock.”

Damn it, can't he get just five more minutes of sleep?

Wait. What?

He opened his eyes quickly, and his heart skipped a beat. He rose to sit down, expecting pain in his poor, old back, but it was gone. 

He looked around the room, very quickly but carefully.

It was his old room, in his mother's apartment.

He swallowed his saliva, convinced that it was still a dream. He pinched his shoulder a few times.

Moments before, he was sitting in the armchair on the island. Waiting for the explosion.

He literally died!

Is it a loop again?

“Gi-hun, ya hear me?” His mother's face emerged from behind the door frame.

She was a few years younger. Alive.

'What the fuck is going on? Why am I not in the games again?'

Gi-hun’s lips parted, but no words came out. His throat felt dry, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks. His mother tilted her head slightly, eyebrows lifting in that familiar mix of impatience and concern.

“Don't make such a face,” she snorted. “I know it's a tough time for you, but you have to get yourself together. For your daughter.”

He nodded slowly, forcing himself to swallow.

She didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t push it. She just wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and disappeared down the hallway, muttering something about hoping her fish supplier wouldn't be late today.

Gi-hun swung his legs off the bed, staring down at them like they weren’t quite his. No scars. No bruises. His knees didn’t ache. His back didn’t throb. His skin didn’t feel like it had been scraped against stone and concrete. He had a little more mass. After the games, he lost weight drastically through lack of sleep and food.

It wasn’t just his surroundings. His body was younger.

He stumbled to the calendar hanging by the door. A cheap giveaway from his old car repair shop. He stared at the little red square.

August 25th, 2015.

His chest caved in for a moment.

This wasn’t just a reset. This was a full rewind. He had gone back years. Before the games. Before Sang-woo died. Before everything.

He recalled what he had wished for while sitting in the armchair on the island.

If I had to choose, I would want to go back in time much earlier. I would have made many other decisions in my life.

I would have taken care of my mother. I would have been a better dad. A better man.

I would have found an honest job instead of trying to win lousy money in gambling.

I would never bet on any horse again.

I wouldn't have gotten into debt. I would pay my alimony. I would take Ga-yeong for fried chicken.

I wouldn't have to join games.

It would be good to start over.

And he got that opportunity.

Ga-yeong.

He inhaled sharply and turned to the small photo on the dresser. His daughter, missing her front tooth, grinning proudly. His breath caught. 

He couldn't believe that today he was supposed to see her again.

He pressed his palms into his face and sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

What was this? A second chance? A punishment? A trap?

Because if it was a trap, it was a damn good one. Everything here felt real . Warm. Alive.

He opened the drawer, almost afraid of what he might find. Inside were a few scratched-up lotto tickets, some old receipts, and — his wallet. Still fat with his old driver’s license, some cash, a few loyalty cards from corner stores long gone.

He flipped it open.

His face smiled back at him from the ID. No red X. No number. Just him.

But the memories didn’t fade. They stayed . Sang-woo’s blood. Sae-byeok’s quiet death. His sacrifice for Jun-hee's baby. 

And In-ho. Not as a monster anymore.

Gi-hun hoped that he and Jun-ho had escaped the island in time, and that In-ho had settled his life again in that timeline.

He got out of bed and ran to the kitchen, hoping his mother hadn't left for the market yet.

He found her at the entrance, dressing her shoes.

There were so many things he wanted to tell her. That he missed her. That he was so happy to see her. That he would never let her down again.

He hugged her, and she pulled back only slightly, quite confused, but also embraced him, lightly patting his back.

“Umma,” he whispered only, as if it had only now occurred to him that he could see her. “I love you so much.”

He couldn't see her face, but his ear was tickled by her short breath as she burst into laughter. She wasn't used to this kind of behavior from her son, but it made her feel better.

“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Love you too, but I really have to go now.”

He didn't let her go.

“Gi-hun ah , I am serious! And go get a shower, you stink!”

Gi-hun finally let her go, watching as she shuffled out the door with her shopping bag swinging from her elbow. He stood in the doorway long after she disappeared down the stairwell, just staring at the space she'd left behind.

Alive.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, and for the first time in years — or at least what felt like years — he leaned back against it and smiled.

Then he sniffed himself. Ugh, she was right.

When he was in the shower, he tried to remember exactly where he was in life now.

He wasn’t 50 years old. He was 41 — no, not yet. Still 40. Any debts yet. He was still married, but separated — that's why he lived with his mother and was scheduled to meet Ga-yeong today. She's four years old.

He recalled why his mother seemed worried. After Eun-ji suggested they take a break from each other, he took time off work. He returned to his old room in his mother's apartment and just stayed there, resigned, depressed, until they fired him. 

Jung-bae then took him to their first horse races. He managed to bet and win a large sum. Money was starting to run out. So they came again. And another. And then he got addicted and went bankrupt. He started borrowing money. Eun-ji eventually divorced him. He had no money to pay alimony.

Then the games.

All this couldn’t happen again. The time loop moved him to the moment when he had the ability to stop it all.

Damn, he had already forgotten how hard it is to wash long hair.

Gi-hun stepped out of the shower and toweled off with mechanical movements, his thoughts spinning as fast as the fan humming above him. Steam clung to the mirror, fogging his reflection — but he didn’t need to see himself to know who he was.

Or rather, who he used to be.

He was at the starting line now. Back before the dominoes began to fall. And this time, he knew where each one would land.

He stepped into the hallway, rubbing his hair with a towel. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent, frying oil, and that old wooden floor scent he hadn’t noticed in years. He padded toward his dresser and opened the drawers with more purpose this time, tossing aside old shirts until he found jeans that fit and a simple button-up.

He got dressed and then stood there, staring out the window for a long moment. Seoul was buzzing outside — horns honking, vendors shouting in the distance, birds screeching from telephone wires. The world was so… normal .

It felt criminal how ordinary everything was.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table. He rushed over and saw a familiar name flash across the screen:

Eun-ji

He nearly dropped it. His chest squeezed. He hadn’t seen her in—Damn, how long was this? He answered too fast.

“Hello?” His voice cracked slightly.

There was a pause on the other end.

“Gi-hun? You okay?”

He shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. Her voice. It hadn’t changed. Still soft, still calm, still carrying that subtle edge of worry that had been there even during their last years together.

“Yeah,” he said. “I—I’m okay.”

Another pause.

“I was just calling to remind you. About Ga-yeong. You’re picking her up today at one, right?”

“Of course,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t forget.”

“I wasn’t sure,” she said. “When I called you yesterday, you seemed to be drunk.”

He sighed deeply. Right. His unconditional love for soju.

“I just…” He sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the phone tightly. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. But I’m good now. I’m really good.”

She didn’t reply right away. Then, softly, “Okay.”

They hung up after a few more awkward words, but Gi-hun kept staring at the phone in his hand, letting the silence settle.

He had another shot with her. Not to rekindle the marriage — he knew that ship had likely sailed — but to prove he could be better. To be a father Ga-yeong could count on.

No more excuses. No more running.

His stomach growled again. He was so hungry.

Gi-hun wandered into the kitchen, where the plate of fried eggs still waited, now lukewarm but untouched. He sat at the table and picked up his chopsticks like he hadn’t held a proper meal in years — and maybe he hadn’t. Not one made with love, not one eaten in peace. He ate slowly at first, savoring every bite. The saltiness of the yolk, the way the rice stuck just slightly to his lips — it was all so ordinary, and yet it felt like a miracle.

This wasn’t a feast. This was a memory come back to life.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

He cleaned the plate. Then the table. He even rinsed the dishes and stacked them neatly by the sink. 

He realized that it had been a long time since he had done something so ordinary.

In the last years in those timelines, he had just somehow survived. He ordered pizza, bought instant soups, drank coffee, soju, and water.

Coffee for a boost, soju to feel something, and water… when he didn't have the strength to leave the house to buy more.

He was tired — how could he not be? But the offer from fate to be able to fix his life filled him with energy. He didn't want to lose it.

For now, he tried not to think about games. Today, the most important thing was Ga-yeong.

His phone buzzed, reminding him of its existence. He slowly walked over to it, casually glancing at the time. It was reaching noon.

The notifications that appeared on his lock screen were messages from Jung-bae. His face instantly brightened when he saw them.

Jung-bae (11:48 a.m.):

are you insane!!!

where ar you

you havent been to work for almost a week

im coming for you

after work

😂

NO

😡*

are you even alive

Gi-hun laughed quietly.

Gi-hun (11:51 a.m.):

i am

let's go out tonight

7 pm

Jung-bae responded almost immediately.

Jung-bae (11:52 a.m.): 

holy shit

who are you and what did you do with soeng gahun

Gi-hun chuckled and typed back with a smile pulling at his lips.

Gi-hun (11:53 a.m.):
with whom?

There was a brief pause before another text popped up.

Jung-bae (11:55 a.m.): 

okay, the phone slipped out of my hand

A pause.

Jung-bae (11:56 a.m.):

and you're paying

Gi-hun (11:56 a.m.):
sure

He missed it.

Gi-hun started going through other messages on his phone so he could remember what had been going on in his life recently (in this timeline). Photos. Social media. If he wouldn't be at least a little up to date, it would seem suspicious.

He sat down on the edge of his bed again, the phone resting loosely in his palm, the faint blue light from the screencast shadows across his face. His heart was hammering from the simple act of typing Kang Sae-byeok .

He’d hoped — foolishly — that maybe she would show up. A profile photo. A post. Anything to tell him she was okay. That she was safe.

But there was nothing.

Of course not.

This was still 2015. She was likely still trapped in the North, or worse, hiding somewhere with her brother, scared and hunted. The realization hit him harder than he expected. For a moment, he just stared at the screen, trying to breathe through the strange weight in his chest.

He couldn't save her now. Not yet. But maybe… someday .

Cho Sang-woo

No profile picture — he never had one. No posts, no anything.

Gi-hun sighed before dialing his number. The last call he had made to him had been two years earlier.

He gritted his teeth, clutching his smartphone tightly.

Pick up, pick up, pick up.

“Hello?”

Gi-hun opened his mouth, but no sound left it. He didn't think it would affect him that much.

He didn't think he would ever hear that voice again.

“Hyung? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I’m here,” Gi-hun finally managed, voice hoarse. “Sang-woo… hey.”

There was a pause on the other end, as if Sang-woo was trying to place the weight behind those words.

“Sorry, I don't have much time. Did something happen? Is my mom okay?” he asked, skeptical but calm. “You don't usually call me.”

Tears streamed into his eyes.

“Naah, just checking on you. I was wondering when you would visit your mom. We would go to the bar, catch up a bit.”

Sang-woo was quiet for a second, and Gi-hun could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. Calculating. Weighing. As always.

“That’s… random,” he said finally. “You sure everything’s alright?”

Gi-hun smiled faintly through the tears still stinging his eyes. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. I just… I miss you, man.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Gi-hun ah, are you drunk?”

Gi-hun laughed — a real, sharp exhale that echoed slightly through the small room. Then he wiped at his face and stood, pacing a little. “Just think about it, alright? I’ll buy the first round.”

“I’m buried in work lately, hyung.”

“I know,” Gi-hun said gently. “And I know you’ve always worked harder than anyone else I’ve known. Just… don’t forget to live, too.”

He could hear Sang-woo blink on the other end of the line. “Seriously. Are you dying or something?”

“No,” Gi-hun said. “I think I’m just finally waking up.”

That earned a small, dry laugh from Sang-woo. “Okay. I'll contact you when you're sober, then.”

“Just don't get into any trouble,” he muttered. “Take care.”

He hung up before he could say more — before he could tell him how sorry he was.

But there would be time. He would make time.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and checked the time again. Almost 12:30.

Ga-yeong.

He grabbed his wallet and keys, then paused. On the shelf near the door was an old umbrella — faded pink, with tiny cartoon characters all around the edges. He smiled and picked it up.

You never knew with Seoul's weather. And Ga-yeong always hated getting wet.

The world outside buzzed, full of possibility. But in the back of his mind, something still pulsed — a memory of red light, green light, and a giant, unblinking eye.

He looked at his mirror reflection some more. Smiled. Fate has given him another chance, and he's about to take it.

Chapter Text

At 12:55 a.m., Gi-hun stopped in front of the apartment building where he once lived with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and his nerves twisted in his gut.

In his hand, he held a pink umbrella — and rightly so, as dark clouds were gathering over Seoul right now. And then he heard a melodious child's laughter, loud footsteps echoing from inside the building, and finally, a female's audible voice.

“Ga-yeong! Ga-yeong, leave that unicorn at home!”

“I don't wanna!”

“Ga-yeong!”

His hands were trembling, but he lifted his head slightly and took a few steps forward.

Then a girl ran down the stairs. She stopped for a moment, and when she realized she saw her dad, she laughed even more and quickly headed toward him.

“Appa!”

 Gi-hun felt his heart dissolve. She was still so small. Much smaller than the last time he saw her. He squatted down and spread out his hands to immediately wrap her in a hug.

He kissed her cheek and pressed her tightly to his chest, enjoying so much that he really has her by his side now. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Eun-ji standing in the distance.

The girl slipped out of his arms and waved a pink unicorn mascot in front of his face.

“Appa, can I take my unicorn?”

He paused. He looked at his daughter, then at the toy, and felt a strange sense of déjà vu. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember why the words were so familiar.

“Can I take my unicorn? Last time, you said you’d carry it if I got tired.”

He felt a heaviness in his chest that dragged him down.

These words. He had heard them as he sat in the armchair. When the island was falling apart.

He thought it was a gas leak. A hallucination.

It was real. The time loop was real, and although he had believed it for a long time, just now he believed it for sure.

“Appa?” Ga-yeong tilted her head curiously.

“Of course you can, baby.” He stroked her dark, long hair. He slowly rose from his squat and looked at his wife. “What time should we be back?”

Eun-ji gave him a tired, measured look. She was holding her phone in one hand and Ga-yeong’s backpack in the other. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, and a strand fell across her cheek as she checked the time.

“Before six,” she said. “And no sweets.”

Gi-hun nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “Got it. No sugar. Just… vegetables. Maybe some kimchi juice.”

Ga-yeong made a face. “Ew!”

Eun-ji rolled her eyes, but he noticed that, just for a millisecond, one corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “I’m serious, Gi-hun. Don’t try to win her over with chocolate and claw machines. She doesn’t need more of that.”

Gi-hun’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to win her over. I’m just happy I get to spend time with her.”

That caught Eun-ji off guard. She blinked. For a second, the years between them seemed to flicker — all the exhaustion, the disappointment, the fights. She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself.

Instead, she handed him the backpack.

Gi-hun forgot that she was in the middle of it. Two timelines before, the separation chained him to his bed, making him depressed. Now, thanks to the time loop, he had a clear head for it, having already managed to get through it and the divorce. He had managed to get over it. She had it all in real-time.

Gi-hun took the backpack gently, slinging it over one shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered — probably filled with snacks, crayons, wet wipes, and who knew what else. But he didn’t mind. He hadn’t carried anything for her in years.

“Thanks,” he said, meeting Eun-ji’s gaze again.

She only gave a curt nod, kissed Ga-yeong as a goodbye, and yet, her eyes were already scanning her phone, the way people do when they’re ready to be done with a moment.

Then she turned and walked back inside.

And just like that, it was just him and Ga-yeong.

The rain hadn’t started yet, but the clouds were getting closer, pressing low against the city skyline. Gi-hun opened the pink umbrella, holding it above both their heads as they started walking down the narrow street.

Ga-yeong bounced beside him, the unicorn clutched to her chest like it was sacred. “Appa, where are we going?”

He looked down at her and smiled. “Anywhere you want.”

“Hmm…” She scrunched her nose, thinking hard. “The park?”

“Good choice,” he said. “Park it is.”

She reached up with her free hand and grabbed his fingers. Her hand was tiny. Warm. Real. He squeezed gently and didn’t let go.

They walked in silence for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was so much, and none of it belonged to a four-year-old. Gi-hun kept glancing at her. She was humming something — some little tune from a cartoon — and every few seconds she would skip forward or stop to point at something completely ordinary like a puddle, or a dog on a leash, or a stack of watermelons outside a fruit stall.

He felt like he was rediscovering the world through her eyes. Like it had color again.

By the time they reached the park, the wind had picked up. Leaves danced across the pavement. The air smelled like summer rain just on the edge of falling.

Ga-yeong ran ahead toward the slide, and he sat down on the nearest bench. From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small candy. Just one. The tiniest strawberry-flavored hard candy.

He held it in his hand, staring at it like it was a weapon.

Then, as Ga-yeong turned toward him and yelled, “Appa! Watch me!”, he quickly popped it in his mouth and shoved the wrapper into his pocket. A tiny, harmless indulgence.

She climbed the jungle gym like she’d done it a hundred times. Maybe she had. In this timeline, maybe this was still a regular outing with him — or maybe not. He didn’t know. But she looked confident, fearless. Like she’d never had a reason to doubt the world yet.

For a brief moment, he thought about how strange it was. Yesterday, he was still sitting in the armchair, devastated, miserable, suicidal, without hope, and today he was the happiest man on earth.

In the back of his mind, he still had games. The fact that they are nearly unstoppable. Or completely unstoppable. The fact that In-ho would sooner or later become the Frontman. That Jun-ho is going to lose his brother again.

He didn't want that, but even more, he didn't want to get involved in all that. He was given the opportunity to put his life back together — he wanted to dedicate this time to Ga-yeong, not to chasing after people in masks playing children's games. He had already wasted three years that way once, and then, in the name of it, died twice.

He told himself that his mission was to stop the games, that this was the reason he was stuck in a time loop. The truth was that he didn't even know if that was really the case. And even if he were to live fifty more years and die, only to wake up again — he didn't care now. He's going to take his shot now. 

Enough is enough.

Ga-yeong dragged him out of his thoughts as she ran up to him, laughing. “Did you see me? Did you see I didn’t fall?”

“I saw everything,” he said, brushing a leaf out of her hair.

They played for a while. He pushed her on the swings. She tried to push him back and failed miserably, and then declared she was stronger than he was anyway. He bought her a banana milk from the convenience store nearby and sat cross-legged in the grass while she sipped it with both hands, completely content.

It started to drizzle. Soft, slow drops that barely made a sound. He opened the umbrella again and held it over her while she kept drinking, unfazed.

Soon it stopped sprinkling, and the sun came out again. The girl was already bored with the park.

They didn’t do anything extraordinary. Just walked. A small local market was buzzing with color nearby — food stalls, the smell of frying batter and roasted chestnuts curling in the air.

Gi-hun kept glancing at her when she wasn’t looking, trying to memorize every expression. She was wearing that slightly-too-big yellow hoodie. Her hair kept slipping into her eyes. She kicked every small pebble on the sidewalk and narrated her thoughts without pause — about a cat she saw last week, how boring school was, how the unicorn’s name was now “Pinkie-sama.”

“Pinkie-sama?” he repeated, rising his eyebrow.

“She’s royalty now,” Ga-yeong said very seriously.

“Ah. Of course.”

She pulled him toward a fried chicken stall. He bought her one and himself another, and they sat together at the table, eating in silence for a while.

Gi-hun watched people passing by — young couples, older women dragging carts, teenagers with loud voices and awkward limbs, enjoying the last days of summer break. It was just… life. That ordinary, beautiful thing he used to take for granted. 

Ga-yeong leaned against his shoulder as she chewed, and he kissed the top of her head, just briefly.

They spent the next few hours walking through the park, visiting a tiny bookstore that still had coloring books and cheap plastic puzzles, and even riding a small coin-powered carousel near the edge of the market.

The sun was slipping lower now, casting long shadows across the sidewalk as the sky turned gold behind the clouds. Gi-hun checked the time: 5:42 p.m.

“Time to head back,” he said softly.

Ga-yeong pouted. “Already?”

“We can do this again soon, I promise.”

She stood up reluctantly, brushing crumbs from her lap and tucking Pinkie-sama under her arm like a soldier reporting for duty. They walked for a while, but then Gi-hun had to take her on his shoulder because she was tired. The unicorn was under his arm now.

They stood at the entrance. Ga-yeong hugged him tightly without being asked.

“I’ll tell Pinkie-sama you carried her with honor,” she whispered, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“Thank you, your highness,” he said.

The apartment door opened. Eun-ji was there, phone still in hand.

She paused when she saw them — Gi-hun with his hair a mess from the wind, Ga-yeong slumped sleepily on his shoulder, and the ridiculous pink unicorn tucked under his arm like a battalion flag.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You're late.”

Gi-hun glanced at his watch. “By two minutes.”

“Still late.”

He grinned sheepishly, shifting Ga-yeong into a more upright position. “We had a noble mission to escort Princess Pinkie-sama through the city.”

At that, Ga-yeong perked up just enough to mumble, “Pinkie-sama says hi,” before yawning against his shoulder.

Eun-ji’s expression twitched — the smallest flicker of amusement, before she turned her gaze back to her daughter.

“Come here, baby.”

Gi-hun knelt to help Ga-yeong down, and the girl stumbled into her mother’s arms. Eun-ji crouched to brush her hair back and check her face like mothers do — a glance, a pat, a soft reprimand about something unspoken.

“She had a great day,” Gi-hun offered gently.

Eun-ji didn’t answer right away. She stood up with Ga-yeong’s small hand in hers, then looked at him again.

“She’s tired,” she said. “But okay. Thanks.”

He nodded. The air between them felt a little less tense than this morning. Not warm, not friendly — but easier.

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll call you if she asks again.”

“Please do.”

They stood there for a second too long. Then Eun-ji gave a nod that signaled the end of the moment, and Gi-hun stepped back.

As she turned inside with Ga-yeong, the little girl looked over her shoulder and gave him one last sleepy wave. He waved back. The door closed.

For a long time, Gi-hun just stood there.

The building’s hallway light buzzed faintly behind the glass. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm chirped. The city was still alive. And so was he.

He pulled the umbrella closed with a soft click, slung it under his arm, and began walking down the sidewalk again.

He didn’t know how many more days like this he’d get. Maybe none. Maybe the loop would crack again. Maybe someone in a golden mask would already be watching.

No. Not such a thing would happen. He'll find peace.

The sun dipped below the horizon outside, bleeding orange light into the room. Gi-hun closed his eyes for a second and let it fill him.

Tomorrow, he would wake up again in 2015 — and still remember everything. And tomorrow, he would choose this life again.

Like today.

He had carried the unicorn.

He had been a father.

And now, he will be forced to listen to Jung-bae complaining.

Chapter Text

“Man, I really thought something happened to you,” sighed Jung-bae as they were walking across the street.

Gi-hun focused more on the passing cars than on what his best friend was telling him. He did, however, nod from time to time to give the impression that he was listening after all.

“Gi-hun ah , don't ignore me! Tell me what happened that you disappeared just like that! Without a word!”

He lowered his head slightly, thinking about what he should say.

“It's just… it has been a bit tough lately. But I'm feeling better now. I'm going back to work on Friday.”

Jung-bae clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You should’ve called me. I was two seconds away from filing a missing persons report.”

Gi-hun gave him a faint smile. “Would you really go through the trouble?”

“Of course. Who else is going to buy me drinks I can't afford?”

They both laughed, but Gi-hun’s smile faded quicker. The noise of the city was louder than he remembered. The buildings looked cleaner. His skin even felt smoother. He still wasn’t used to it — being back here. Back before everything.

They walked on. Gi-hun kept watching the cars. People walking past them. Sitting in the gardens of restaurants. Coming out of the bar.

Some were running somewhere, as if in a hurry. Maybe to work the night shift? With a cigarette in their mouths, not looking under their feet.

And he and Jung-bae were walking. In no hurry to go anywhere. They talked quietly about nonsense, not having to worry about anything. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had done that. He was so happy.

They stopped at a crosswalk. The red light flickered above them. A man on a delivery bike weaved through cars like he didn’t care if he lived or died. They crossed the alley and found themselves on the main street.

Jung-bae talked about what he missed when he wasn't at work, and again, he just nodded, too focused on the reality of the world to be able to engage in the story. People. Trucks. A stray cat. Cars. A limousine.

He paused for a moment, leading his eyes behind the white, shiny vehicle. He had never seen it before, but he felt it was strangely familiar.

His mind involuntarily went back to that night, when the Frontman came to pick him up during the Halloween party and took him back to the games.

Nope, he's having some kind of paranoia. Not every limousine has to be bought with blood money.

“Nice, huh?” Jung-bae laughed. “Shiiit, it's not fair, we'll never be able to afford one.”

Gi-hun shook his head slightly and just snorted. “And where would you drive one? It's probably hard to turn.”

“Right.”

He tried not to think about it anymore. They walked on, returning to their conversation.

He knew it would be hard for him to forget the future. He will probably never be able to forget. But he will try to learn to live with it. Even if he will be awakened by nightmares from time to time. If he will be tormented by guilt.

They reached the place where cabs usually stopped. In the distance, a yellow light was shining. Inside the premises were ATMs.

Gi-hun had some cash on him, but he had no clue how much he had in his account. He preferred to check it, as they were already here anyway.

He asked Jung-bae to go in there for a while, and they were at the entrance right away. Gi-hun opened the glass door, only to be immediately bumped by a man in a dark sweatshirt, hood pulled over his eyes, bent over, holding his stomach as if he had a gunshot wound there. The stranger didn't apologize. He just walked on quickly, shakily.

Gi-hun didn't comment on it, only followed him for a moment with his eyes. However, Jung-bae got a little annoyed and shouted after him that it was rude to just bump into people like that without apologizing, but the man seemed to ignore it.

“Did you see that?” he snorted. “Probably some junkie.”

Gi-hun just shrugged his shoulders.

He had about 20 million won saved. It was indeed a considerable sum. He expected it to be much less. 

Now he remembered why the perspective of multiplying such an amount in gambling seemed so nice.

Never again.

“You're soooo paying today.” Jung-bae glanced over his shoulder.

They stepped back out into the night air, the glass door hissing closed behind them. The city was darker now — not just in light, but in texture. The kind of hour when the shine started to peel off, and the shadows felt a little heavier.

When they reached the bar, the city was already darker — not only in terms of light, but also in texture. It was about this time that the glow began to fade, and the shadows became a bit heavier.

They sat down, Gi-hun ordered them each a bottle and a fish cake. They ate, talking. About everything, they could think of.

Jung-bae talked more than he did. Gi-hun preferred to focus on listening to him and appreciating the moment. The fact that they could sit here together, no green tracksuits, no deadly games, and just drink strawberry soju.

“Hm, Gi-hun ah ?” finally asked Jung-bae, and in his voice, he could already feel a little that he was not sober. “Do you think it's quite over with you and Eun-ji? Wholly?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away. He knew that it was over. He just couldn't be too sure about it, so he wouldn't be suspicious.

He looked down at the label on his soju bottle, picking at it with his thumbnail. The paper curled under his touch, peeling slowly like skin off an old memory.

“Honestly?” he said finally. “Yeah. I think it is.”

Jung-bae frowned, blinking like he hadn’t expected that. 

Then there was silence. And then he felt a strong punch on his shoulder.

“Ouch!” he cried, grabbing his arm. “Why?!”

Jung-bae pointed at him with his chopsticks, nearly dropping a fish cake in the process. “Because you’re an idiot, you should’ve fought harder.”

Gi-hun rubbed his shoulder. “This was our decision. I think it's better for her and for Ga-yeong. We had too many fights. Kids shouldn't witness such things.”

Jung-bae snorted. “Still think it’s a dumb decision.”

“Maybe,” Gi-hun said, not looking up. “But dumb decisions are still decisions.”

They let that sit for a while, the air between them filled with the clinking of chopsticks and low music from inside the bar. The ajumma behind the counter was humming some old ballad under her breath while wiping glasses with a rag that looked older than both of them.

He caught himself constantly looking around. He looked at people suspiciously, as if he wanted to spot and outsmart any danger in time.

But there was no danger.

It was just a habit. But really, he was safe. No pink guards, no recruiters — not even any loan sharks. In 2015, his life was still overly normal, and the only thing he worried about at the time was separation.

He thought it would be much easier if he had someone who understood him. Someone who had gone through what he had, who had also fallen into a time loop, or at least was able to believe — really believe — that the loop existed.

Like In-ho.

He felt stupid again.

This man has done him so much harm, yet he still thinks of him as his best friend. Besides, maybe In-ho didn't believe him about the loop at all. Maybe he was just pretending so he wouldn't get shot in the head.

But he seemed truly convinced… It felt so real.

Gi-hun would do anything now to feel that real with someone. Even if it were In-ho.

Or especially if it were In-ho.

'You're fucked in the head,' he told himself. 

It was probably true.

The next round was supposed to be on Jung-bae, though he barely stood straight as he ordered. Gi-hun offered to go back home instead, but Jung-bae waved him off like a man on a mission. “I’m still functional, you lightweight,” he muttered, bumping into the edge of a stool.

Gi-hun took the chance — grabbed him by the arm, paid the bill, and then dragged him out of the bar.

He had drunk much less than his friend, so he decided to walk him home.

Jung-bae mumbled a protest at first, but didn’t really resist. His feet moved where Gi-hun led them. They cut through a quieter street now, past shuttered storefronts and dim apartment stairwells, the hum of neon signs the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing the road completely.

“You always get soft after a drink,” Gi-hun said, half to tease, half just to fill the air.

Jung-bae chuckled through his nose. “Soft? Me? I’m carrying this conversation.”

“You’re slurring it, more like.”

Jung-bae stumbled over a cracked patch of pavement, and Gi-hun reached out to steady him.

“Easy,” he said. “You good?”

“Never better,” Jung-bae slurred, waggling his fingers as if high-fiving the air. “Lead the way, wise one.”

They turned onto a quieter side street. A single streetlamp flickered overhead, casting long, uneven shadows that made every manhole cover look like a trapdoor. The air smelled faintly of rain-damp asphalt and last night’s barbecue smoke.

“You ever think about… I dunno, other lives you could have lived?” Jung-bae asked, voice softening.

Gi-hun frowned at his friend’s question. “Like what?”

“Like, if you’d never met Eun-ji. Or me. Or if you were a… teacher.”

He laughed, low and humorless. “You’re drunk, man.”

“Shhh,” Jung-bae almost spat on himself. “Hear me out. Maybe you’d be teaching math to a classroom full of bored kids right now. Instead of… this.” He waved at the street — the soju bottles, the neon signs, the empty stalls.

Gi-hun’s chest tightened. For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps he could tell his friend the truth.

But no. He shouldn't.

“Yeah,” Gi-hun said quietly. “I think I'd have been a shitty teacher. I'm terrible at math.”

Jung-bae just laughed and didn't say anything else. When they got to his apartment, his wife opened the door. Gi-hun hadn't seen her in so long.

She wasn't too pleasant with her completely drunk husband, but she thanked him coldly for bringing him home. When the door closed, he thought maybe he should keep a closer eye on him and make sure he didn't drink too much.

He headed toward the subway station.

He went down the stairs and headed toward an empty bench. He still had ten minutes before departure, so he decided to sit down because he was tired after a long day.

It was almost 11 p.m.

A strong feeling of déjà vu came over him. An unpleasant tightness in his stomach. He looked at the bench he was about to sit on.

It stood there, motionless, empty, waiting.

And then it struck him. It was the exact same bench where he had met the recruiter for the first time. Two timelines ago, in 2020.

He looked at it as if considering whether sitting on it would be a safe idea. He knew that no one would show up, that the recruiter would not suddenly appear out of nowhere. But something in his head told him that he should be more careful.

He stayed standing.

Just stared at the bench like it might suddenly come alive and open its jaws.

His heart was beating a little faster now. It was stupid — it was just a bench — but the memories were sticky, clinging to the edges of the present like mold on wallpaper.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a step back, and leaned against the cold tile wall instead.

Ten minutes. That was all.

His fingers curled into fists inside his coat pockets. He wasn’t afraid. Not really. But he was alert now — in that quiet, animal way, like prey remembering where the predator once stood.

'This is 2015,' he told himself again. 'The recruiter isn’t coming tonight. He will never come to me again.'

Still, his eyes scanned every person walking by.

A teenage couple, whispering and giggling near the vending machines. A middle-aged woman in business attire checking her phone. A janitor pushing a mop cart with tired arms.

None of them mattered.

And then—

Someone sat on the bench.

Gi-hun froze.

A man, slim, dressed neatly in a suit. Not the same face as before — different hair, different posture. But there was something about the gesture, the way he sat. Calm. Poised. Like he was waiting for someone.

Gi-hun stared.

The man looked up at the subway map and then down again at his watch. He didn’t seem to notice Gi-hun at all.

Just a commuter. A normal man waiting for a train.

Gi-hun exhaled, his breath shaky. His whole body was coiled tight, and he hadn’t even noticed.

He felt like a fool.

He shook his head, laughing under his breath — almost bitterly — and finally let himself sit, choosing the next bench over.

Not that one.

Not the recruiter’s bench.

The train screeched into the station five minutes later. Gi-hun boarded without looking back.

It was half past midnight when he finally got home.

He tiptoed in quietly, took off his coat, and moved into the kitchen. A kettle sat on the stove, already filled. He almost forgot she always did that, in case he wanted tea before bed.

He boiled the water, and in the meantime, he went to the bathroom. When he was back, he spooned in the powder for yujacha and leaned on the counter, breathing in the citrusy scent.

Safe.

Still safe.

He took the tea to his room. Closed the door. Sat on the floor with his back against the bed.

He took a sip of tea. It burned his tongue.

Good.

It meant he was still here.

He took his phone out of his pocket, but didn't turn it on. He just twirled it in his hand, as if trying to keep himself busy.

He was a little afraid to go to sleep. He was afraid that it would all disappear. And even though he kept telling himself that everything would be fine, that he was starting a new life, his thoughts were tormenting him.

The day had worn him out. He was tired. For the first time in a long time, he was truly tired from doing nice things.

And yet, he kept his eyelids open, and the hot tea in his hand was a weapon that kept him from falling asleep and spilling it on himself.

Anyway, that wasn't the only thing keeping him conscious. His thoughts did too. Unspoken thoughts that had accumulated just today, and he already felt overwhelmed by them. He would have to go through a lot before he learned to live with it. Without telling anyone. Without anyone who would understand him.

He sighed and got up to get his laptop from the drawer. He took it to bed with him, sat down with it on his lap, and waited for this old clunker to turn on.

When the browser opened, he sat for a long time staring at the white search bar. He wondered if there was any point in doing this at all. He didn't even realize that all this time he had been digging his fingernails deep into the skin of his hands.

Eventually, he typed.

time loop

The results were about sci-fi forums, role-playing games, anime fan theories. Nothing real. Nothing useful. Just pages filled with irony and fantasy, written by people who clearly never had to wake up knowing the future — or worse, knowing how many times they'd already lived through it.

He closed the tab.

Started another search. This time, he hesitated more.

hwang in-ho seoul

He stared at the screen while it loaded, his heart suddenly beating louder than the laptop fan. A list of articles appeared, most of them old, but the first three had been added about half a year ago.

He furrowed his brows, clicking on the first one.

Rising Star Falls from Grace?
Top Police Official Dismissed Amid Bribery Allegations

SEOUL, KOREA — In a shocking turn of events, Hwang In-ho , once considered a frontrunner for the prestigious position of Chief of the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency , has been abruptly dismissed from the force amid allegations of bribery.

Hwang In-ho (39 y.o.), a graduate of the Korean National Police University and a 14-year veteran of the force, had earned a sterling reputation for his high-profile casework and outstanding clearance rates. With multiple national honors under his belt and a growing list of political backers, many insiders believed it was only a matter of time before he would be named Seoul’s top cop.

But earlier this week, sources within the Ministry of the Interior confirmed that Hwang had been quietly removed from duty following an internal investigation into alleged misconduct. While officials have declined to release the full details, it's understood that the dismissal was related to suspicions of accepting a bribe during his time in a senior investigative role.

The exact nature of the alleged bribe — including who offered it and why — remains undisclosed . The National Police Agency has so far refused to comment, fueling speculation about a possible cover-up or pressure from higher up the chain of command.

“This came out of nowhere,” one anonymous source told us. “Everyone thought he was untouchable — he was the golden boy.”

Hwang has not made any public statements regarding the incident, and it remains unclear whether formal criminal charges will be filed.

Is this just the tip of the iceberg? And who stands to gain from his fall?

More as the story develops.

Then he read another article. And another. They all said the same thing.

Gi-hun sat in silence for a moment.

What In-ho had told him twice in the dormitory, back when he was still Young-il, began to become clear.

'We were struggling to find a donor, and her condition was getting worse.'

'I borrowed as much money as I could, but it still wasn't enough.'

'I was desperate. Then one of my oldest vendors heard about my situation and offered to help. So I borrowed money from them. But people saw it as a bribe, and I got fired from my job. I had devoted my entire youth to it.'

Gi-hun leaned back against the wall, the laptop still warm on his legs, the screen glowing in the otherwise dark room. His heart wasn’t racing anymore. It was something else now — a quiet ache. A low, spreading heaviness in his chest that made his limbs feel heavier, his breath feel shorter.

So it was true.

In-ho really hadn’t lied..

A wave of conflicting feelings washed over him. Relief that he wasn’t crazy. Frustration that it changed nothing. And most of all, confusion — confusion over what the hell he was supposed to do with this knowledge.

Because now he knew something no one else did. That a disgraced cop with a ruined career would one day become that man — the Frontman. The right hand of death. The one who oversaw the slaughter of hundreds with an unreadable face behind a black mask.

The one who killed, will kill, or was killing his five opponents in exactly that very moment.

The one whose wife died, will die, or is dying in exactly that very moment.

He began looking through the available photos. In-ho was in every one of them, wearing a police uniform covered in colorful badges. Smiling, happy. Younger than he remembered him. No wrinkles, no dark bags under his eyes.

Gi-hun’s fingers trembled as he scrolled through the images — snapshots of a life that seemed so far removed from the cold shadow looming over the present. There was the young In-ho, proud and sharp, posing with colleagues after a successful bust. Another, at a charity event, shaking hands with a child. In one photo, probably his wife was there too — smiling softly, her eyes bright with hope.

The contrast struck Gi-hun like a punch. How had someone so full of promise fallen so far? How had that bright future twisted into this nightmare — the mask, the power, the games?

He knew how. In-ho had told him. But Gi-hun still couldn't believe that.

He closed the laptop slowly, the screen fading to black. The room felt colder now. The weight of what he’d just read pressed down on him, heavier than any fear or anger.

He wanted to scream. To yell at the world for the cruelty of fate. But all that came out was a quiet breath, barely a whisper.

'What can I do?'

He ran a hand over his face and stood up, pacing the small room. The soft hum of the city outside seemed distant, almost unreal.

The awareness of being stuck in a time loop hung over him like a guillotine. He tried not to think about it, but it was impossible.

He didn't want to do it again, but the sense of duty, of this stupid mission, was still somewhere inside him.

Maybe he should at least try?

'You're fucked in the head,' the voice in his head repeated. 'You're getting a chance to live a normal life, and you want to waste it.'

It was true. But how painful.

Okay, but even if he'd take that shot. How could he do it? Alone? The people he had worked with before — Woo-seok, Jeong-rae, and the others — didn't do it because they believed him. They did it because Gi-hun offered them money. And now he didn't have enough money to convince anyone, or even to be able to find even a clue as to where the island was.

Secondly, even if they found it, it would be just a drop in the ocean. Just as In-ho had told him.

What was he supposed to do, travel across all continents and look for recruiters in the US, Russia, Europe, Africa, and fuck knows where else?

It was impossible to do. If it were that simple, no one would organize such games. No one would risk killing thousands of people every year just for entertainment if they knew it could be stopped so easily.

The question popped into his head again: was stopping the games actually his mission?

He had asked himself this question for the first time when he was sitting with In-ho in that room. But then he didn't have much time to think about it. Later, when that thought returned, Ga-yeong interrupted him.

Now he was alone in his room. No one was disturbing him, he had the whole night to think about it.

But he decided not to do so.

He will not think about it. He will not try to stop the games, nor will he plan, even hypothetically, how he could do it.

He will not wonder what In-ho is doing. Whether he became the Frontman or not.

Today, when he woke up in 2015, he started a new chapter in his life. The previous ones are forgotten.

And even if the price was that after his death, he would wake up again, it didn't matter.

Chapter Text

Life was good.

In the mornings, he ate breakfast with his mom, then took the subway, and went to work. He talked to Jung-bae as they were repairing cars, laughed with him on their breaks. In the afternoons, he was heading back home for dinner, sometimes he went to help his mother at her stall. In the evenings, he watched television, read newspapers, or played games on his phone. On Fridays, he and Jung-bae usually go out on the town. Saturdays were mainly for Ga-yeong. Sundays occasionally, too, because Eun-ji sometimes allowed her to stay at his place overnight. They went to the aquarium. She made him name every fish.

So, yeah. Life was good.

It wasn't like he forgot he was stuck in a loop. Like he forgot everything that happened before he got here. It's just that after two months, he learned to live with it. Or at least he felt okay and didn't stress about it.

That's why life was good.

But of course, life being good didn’t mean it was simple.

There were still the quiet moments. The ones when he’d stare at his ceiling too long before falling asleep. Or when he caught his reflection in a window and saw the wrong version of himself. The version that had killed, lost, betrayed, survived. Those were hard to shake. But he’d learned not to fight them. Just let the wave roll over and pass.

He was successfully trying to quit smoking! Since returning in 2015, he hasn't lit up once, and it was really difficult when all his colleagues at work always had cigarettes in their mouths. He was proud of himself. His mother was, too.

Gi-hun laughed more now. He noticed that. It wasn’t forced, either. It came out naturally, like air. Sometimes he caught himself mid-laugh and blinked. Like his own voice surprised him. Like he forgot he could still sound like that. But it was a good feeling.

There were moments — quick, silent ones — when he’d catch a sound or a phrase and his heart would stutter. A metal clank that reminded him of something else. A red light flashing from a nearby building. Even laughter could twist in his chest the wrong way. But he never flinched. Not on the outside. He just breathed through it.

After work, he went home the long way sometimes. There was a park he liked. It wasn’t pretty, but it had a decent bench and a vending machine that never ran out of drinks. He’d sit there and let the air cool down the sweat on his back. 

Once again — life was good.

So he wondered, why did he cling to this phrase like a man drowning.

Repetition. That's what helped him learn to keep living. To keep doing what he had planned. Every day, he repeated how he should behave, what he should say, whether what he was doing now had brought him to the bottom in that timeline.

Today was his 41st birthday. October 31, Saturday. They were walking to a café with Ga-yeong because Eun-ji had allowed her to eat something sweet on such an occasion.

After they went to the aquarium two weeks ago, she became overly obsessed with sea creatures. Two weeks of obsession were a bit long for a four-year-old, so he was very surprised. He then bought her a dolphin mascot that replaced her pink unicorn, aka Pinkie-sama.

“What was its name again?” he asked curiously, and then he observed her little brows furrowing.

“It's him , not it !” she shouted at her dad.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, pretending to be embarrassed. “So, what's his name?”

She raised the dolphin high above her head like she was presenting it to the gods.

“His name is Professor Splashington ,” she said with a completely straight face.

Gi-hun blinked. “ Professor ?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Because he knows everything about the ocean. Even more than you.”

“More than me?” he gasped, clutching his chest. “That’s impossible. I know at least ten fish names.”

“He knows all the fish names,” she said proudly, hugging the dolphin to her chest. “But today he will know them less, so that you won't feel bad.”

“Why's that?”

“Because today is Appa's birthday!”

He laughed as they stepped into the café. It was one of those cozy, slightly overpriced places with too much wood in the decor and indie music playing a little too quietly from hidden speakers. A place where the coffee was served with little sugar cubes and the cakes had names like Caramel Dream Cloud . Ga-yeong always picked the most ridiculous-looking dessert.

Today, she chose a mountain of strawberry shaved ice with whipped cream and candy fish on top.

“Because it looks like the Arctic!” she explained, placing Professor Splashington next to the bowl.

He ordered an americano and a slice of castella cake, mostly for show. He wasn’t all that hungry. The caffeine helped keep his mind steady, though. On days like this — quiet, warm, filled with the mundane — his thoughts sometimes wandered more than usual.

He watched her eat. She used the tiny spoon like a shovel, getting more whipped cream on her face than in her mouth. The sight made something in his chest ache and swell all at once.

As he wiped her face with a napkin, she suddenly froze and quickly grabbed her small backpack. Gi-hun raised his eyebrows in surprise, having no idea what was going on.

She rummaged around for a moment, then laughed briefly and pulled out some piece of paper.

“Aha!” she exclaimed with joy. “This is for you, Appa! I did it yesterday, the whole day after kindergarten!”

Before opening the card, he hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead, and then he had to thank Professor Splashington, because he had apparently helped create the card.

There was a large heart drawn on the cover. And when he opened it, he saw sea animals with too many eyes. Fish with eyebrows. “This one’s you,” she’d say, pointing at the weirdest-looking creature.

“You think I look like that?”

“Yeah, 'cause it’s silly.”

Underneath was written ‘HAPPY BIRTꓷAY’. He smiled slightly, imagining the concentration on her face, her tongue sticking out as she wrote it. She probably asked Eun-ji to show her exactly how to write it.

He turned the card over in his hands, studying each imperfect line and wobbly letter. Ga-yeong watched him, eyes wide.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I love it,” he said, and meant it. He slid the card into his pocket — next to the train pass — and picked up his spoon.

They finished their desserts, sticky fingers and all, then wandered out into the crisp October air. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. He hoisted Ga-yeong onto his shoulders, and she giggled every time his ear bumped against her little boots.

They passed a florist selling chrysanthemums — her favorite flower after sea creatures — so he bought a small bouquet. Ga-yeong insisted on carrying it herself until one of the blooms got stuck in her coat zipper, and she began to cry. He paused, knelt down, gently coaxed the flower free, and she threw her arms around his neck.

On the way home, they stopped by the corner convenience store so Ga-yeong could pick a snack. She chose grape jelly cups and a pack of strawberry Pocky. He paid without looking at the price; it was his birthday, after all.

They walked down Market Street to get to the subway. He carried her backpack on one shoulder and held her tiny hand with his other hand. They were returning to his house because Eun-ji had agreed to let Ga-yeong stay with him for the night. The girl was singing something about how she couldn't wait to see her grandmother.

It was almost 5 p.m., and as usual, there were a lot of people there. They mainly bought takeaway tteokbokki, kimbap, or corn dogs, dressed up in Halloween costumes.

 They walked calmly, looking for Gi-hun's mother, because they weren't sure if she had finished work for the day.

Instead, they saw Sang-woo's mother.

“Halmeoni!” Ga-yeong was delighted to see the familiar face of the woman. She pulled her hand out of his grip and ran towards her.

The woman looked around at first, a little confused, then laughed when she saw the girl. She reached out her hands toward her. “Ga-yeong, dear!”

He stood a little way off, just nodding politely to her when Ga-yeong showed her who had brought her here. His hands were deep in his pockets as he watched the girl tell the woman something with great excitement.

He knew that Sang-woo's mother had always wanted grandchildren, but he had never seemed interested in that, never bringing any girls home. He was more focused on his career. She treated Gi-hun a little as if he were a part of her son that she could keep with her, so she loved Ga-yeong like her own granddaughter.

“It's your birthday today, isn't it, Gi-hun?” she called out to him as he approached them, then opened a new, empty package. “I'll pack you some fish, hm?”

“Thank you very much.” Gi-hun smiled. “This young lady can't stop talking about fish and dolphins lately.” He pointed to his daughter.

“Alive ones.” The girl grimaced slightly.

The woman approached him and wished him well, hugging him tightly. Immediately afterward, she asked, “You haven't talked to Sang-woo lately, have you?”

“Unfortunately, not.” He smiled apologetically at her. “Two months ago, he said he's buried in work.”

“I see. But if he gets in touch, try asking him to come, even for a few days. Maybe he'll be more likely to listen to you.”

Gi-hun frowned slightly and sighed. He would also like Sang-woo to come here. He hoped he hadn't gotten into any trouble yet.

“He loves you very much. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he finds some time. But I'll ask him.”

The woman thanked him and continued talking to Ga-yeong, while he looked around a little. He took two steps back to get a better view of the street. There were lots of lights around, and people were dressed up in costumes. It was so peaceful.

Then someone bumped into his arm. He grimaced, feeling a slight pain, then turned his head to see whose fault it was.

A man in a black coat, slightly shorter than him. His hair was impeccably styled. Gi-hun's attention was drawn more to the phone in his hand — it was probably the reason the man ran into him.

The man didn’t look up at first. Still staring at his screen, thumbs tapping rapidly. Gi-hun almost brushed it off — just another distracted pedestrian in a crowd full of them. But there was something about the way the guy stood, the shape of his shoulders, the way his lips moved slightly as he read whatever was on his phone.

And then the man looked up.

Gi-hun’s breath hitched. For a split second, he thought it was In-ho. All in black, shorter, that hairstyle.

But it wasn't In-ho. Just a stranger. Young, clean-cut. Sharp jaw, probably a college student or a junior office worker. He bowed slightly, muttered an automatic, “Sorry,” and kept walking.

Gi-hun stood frozen for a second, heart still thudding faster than it should. Not because he was scared — just thrown. That flicker of recognition, the trick his mind played, made his skin feel too tight.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and rubbed his arm where the man had bumped into him. It barely hurt anymore.

“Appa, look!” Ga-yeong ran up to him, waving a small plastic packet in her hands. “Halmeoni gave me dried anchovies! For Professor Splashington!”

He blinked once, twice, pulled himself back to the moment. “Professor Splashington eats anchovies?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said with absolute seriousness, “but only the dried ones. The fresh ones are too fishy.”

“Of course.” He gave her a mock-stern nod. “Very refined taste.”

They said goodbye to Sang-woo’s mother, who packed him a small portion of grilled mackerel “just in case you forget to eat properly later.” He thanked her again, watching the soft wrinkles in her face fold warmly as she waved them off.

The walk to the apartment was quiet, save for Ga-yeong humming under her breath. He carried her for the last few blocks. She was getting heavier, but she still reached for him the same way when she got tired — arms raised, silent, trusting.

At home, his mom had made miyeok-guk.

“You always forget, so I made it myself this year,” she said, pointing at the pot with her chin while folding laundry on the floor.

“I didn’t forget,” Gi-hun protested. “I just didn’t plan ahead.”

His mother raised an eyebrow without looking up.

They sat down together, the three of them, the air smelling like seaweed and sesame oil. Ga-yeong spooned soup into her mouth with the kind of enthusiasm only kids could manage. He ate more slowly, letting the warmth settle in his chest.

After dinner, Ga-yeong helped him wash the dishes by splashing water everywhere. His mom told them both to go away before they flooded the kitchen, so they moved to the living room. He let her pick the cartoon — something loud and colorful and headache-inducing — while she curled up next to him on the floor with a blanket.

“You know what’s better than cake?” she said halfway through the show.

“What?”

“Soup,” she declared, tapping his knee. “It’s warm.”

He smiled, brushing a stray bit of hair from her face. “You’re weird.”

“You’re weird,” she replied immediately.

She drifted off halfway through the next episode, head in his lap, arms wrapped tightly around Professor Splashington. He stayed like that for a while. Not moving. Just staring at the TV without watching it, listening to her tiny breaths, the clock ticking faintly in the kitchen.

At some point, he shifted to carry her to the bedroom. She didn’t stir. Her grip on the dolphin toy loosened just enough that he could adjust the blanket over her shoulders.

He turned off the light and stood in the doorway for a while.

It was quiet again.

He sat down on the floor and rested his head on his knees. He couldn't get the man who bumped into him out of his head. Or rather, his own reaction.

He panicked too much. Because even if it was In-ho, what's wrong with that? In this timeline, theoretically, they shouldn't know each other.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and got up. Walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into it like it might hold answers. It didn’t. Just leftover soup, some tangerines, a half-finished bottle of barley tea.

The floor creaked behind him. He turned and saw his mother standing in the doorway, wearing her old cardigan and holding a cup of tea.

“You’re not sleeping yet?” she asked, keeping her voice soft.

“Just thinking.”

A pause.

“Soup was really good,” he added.

“Hmph. Of course it was. It’s your birthday.” She shuffled forward and patted his arm. “You look tired.”

He nodded. “It was a long day.”

She studied his face for a moment longer, then passed him the cup. “Warm tea with honey. I made it for Ga-yeong, but she fell asleep before I could give it to her.”

He took it with both hands. “Thanks.”

She yawned, muttered something about the laundry not folding itself, then padded off toward her room.

He brought the cup to his lips. It was still warm. Sweet. Familiar. So much about this timeline tasted softer. Like the bitterness couldn't reach him yet. Not fully .

After he finished the drink, he rinsed the cup, turned off the lights, and checked on Ga-yeong one more time before going to bed. She was drooling a little, hair stuck to her cheek, dolphin plush wedged under her chin.

He lay down on the thin mattress beside her and stared at the ceiling. Again. Just like every night. But tonight the ceiling felt more distant. The dark didn’t press down on him like it used to.

His mind wandered, trying to recall the last time he’d felt this settled. Not happy, not entirely — but steady. Not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Until, of course, someone brushed against his arm on a busy street and his whole system short-circuited.

It wasn’t In-ho. It wasn’t. But that look — the black coat, the quick apology, the face that was almost but not quite — it had triggered something buried deep. Not fear, exactly. Something knotted. Something half-healed.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“Just a stranger,” he muttered under his breath. “Just a fucking stranger.”

He rolled over onto his side, facing Ga-yeong. She mumbled something in her sleep and curled in closer. He wrapped an arm around her small frame and closed his eyes.

Well, after all, life was good.

Chapter Text

“M'kay, will do. Yes, you can bring it even now. We don't have any rush right now.”

Gi-hun heard Jung-bae muttering something under his breath and didn't know if his friend was talking to someone or if he was so bad already that he was babbling to himself.

He entered the workshop wearing work clothes that still had traces of grease and car paint on them, then stood next to his friend. Jung-bae held his work phone to his ear with one hand and a cigarette in the other.

He hung up and glanced over his shoulder, sensing that someone was watching him. He smiled when he saw Gi-hun. “Oh, just in time. A customer will be here soon. Quick job.”

“What is it?”

“Just touch up a scratch with some paint and change the tires. You like painting, you'll get it done quickly,” he joked.

Gi-hun nodded and rolled up his sleeves. The familiar smell of oil and rubber filled the workshop — comforting in its own way, grounding him in the ordinary.

“Alright, let’s see the car when it gets here,” Gi-hun said, wiping his hands on a rag.

Jung-bae took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the ashtray. “You still not smoking?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not a puff,” Gi-hun replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t say it’s easy, though.”

Jung-bae laughed. “Good for you. I’m impressed.”

He went to the small kitchen behind to make two coffees for them. He really liked that job. The pay wasn't bad, and they worked together with Jung-bae at the same workstation. 

He spooned instant coffee granules into two cups and poured boiling water over them. He sweetened his friend's coffee with two teaspoons of sugar, leaving his own black. He preferred it that way. He popped a sandwich wafer into his mouth, grabbed both coffees, and opened the kitchen door with his foot.

But as soon as he was back in their garage, he stopped, completely shocked, his mouth wide open, and the wafer from his mouth dropped and landed directly into his coffee.

Right next to Jung-bae stood a police officer. A rookie, maybe still on his internship. He was writing something down on a piece of paper.

And perhaps the sight of a police officer wasn't so surprising. The Mia-dong police station was located very close to their workshop, so police officers often repaired their patrol cars or their own private cars there.

But this time it wasn't just any police officer. 

It was Hwang Jun-ho. 

He may have looked much younger, his hair was messier, and his movements were still a little clumsy, untrained by years of service, but yes. It was undoubtedly him.

Gi-hun's performance with the wafer falling into his coffee, which splashed a little around, caught the attention of both Jun-ho and Jung-bae. They turned toward him in confusion, and he just swallowed and nodded politely.

He was acting unnecessarily — Jun-ho had no idea about any time loop — Gi-hun was just an ordinary civilian to him, like any other.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It will be just fine.

“So, I won’t pick up the car, my brother will,” Jun-ho was saying as Gi-hun forced himself to step forward, carefully placing the two mugs of coffee down on the table by the wall.

“Got it,” Jung-bae said, scribbling something on the clipboard. “We should have it ready by noon, but we'll call him. His name again?”

“Hwang In-ho.” Jun-ho handed him a small piece of paper with contact information on it.

Gi-hun blinked.

He didn’t hear the rest of what they said. Didn’t even really process that Jun-ho had already turned to leave. Just stood there staring at the paper as Jung-bae folded it and stuck it behind the workstation calendar.

Just two days ago, his brain was playing tricks on him when he was convinced that Hwang In-ho had run into him. And now it wasn't his brain, but fate that was actually going to cross their paths?!

It was all too unbelievable to be true.

But okay, he could deal with it. After all, in this timeline, In-ho had no idea who he was. Gi-hun was just a regular mechanic,repairing his car. Nothing would happen, because what could possibly happen? He was alone in this loop, and only he knew about everything that had happened in the previous timelines.

It would be okay.

“What happened to you again?” Jung-bae snorted, then picked up his coffee from the table. “Your wafer is falling apart,” he added, pointing to the bar, which was already drowned and melted in coffee.

“Thanks, I didn't notice,” he snorted, glancing at the drink. He sighed and raised the cup to his lips anyway. It wouldn't be the most pleasant drink of his life, but he needed a boost.

He had to shake it off eventually. After all, meeting Hwang In-ho wasn't the end of the world.

At least, he hoped so.

They didn't talk anymore, but got down to work. Jung-bae kept muttering under his breath that the car was almost luxurious and that he hoped the owner would give them a tip. When Gi-hun finished degreasing the slightly scratched door handle of the black sedan, his friend sighed loudly and announced that he would have to drive to the tire dealer because they didn't have that size in the workshop.

Painting really relaxed him. Most mechanics at his work didn't like it, so they usually sent customers to his station in the workshop, and he didn't complain.

Just like now — when he had some quiet time because Jung-bae wasn't around to talk to him nonstop, he could either get lost in his own thoughts or, on the contrary, listen to the music on the radio echoing off the metal walls of the workshop and think about nothing. Both options were enjoyable.

In general, applying varnish or polishing was very satisfying for him.

Gi-hun adjusted the position of the spray gun and took another slow pass along the crack on the door. The steady hiss of paint, the smell of chemicals, and the rhythm of his movements all helped him settle. He let the familiar repetition absorb him. Sweep left, pause, sweep right. His breathing fell into sync with it.

The sedan really was sleek — high-end, but not flashy. Definitely something someone like In-ho would drive. He tried not to think about that, but it was hard not to. The idea of seeing him again — actually seeing him, not just mistaking some stranger in the street — made his fingers itch.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal. In-ho would show up, pick up the car, perhaps nod politely, perhaps not. Gi-hun could hand him the keys like he would for anyone else. Or not, he will just send Jung-bae to do that! He felt like a genius.

Yeah, so there's no reason to overthink it. 

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

The workshop stayed quiet. Outside, traffic passed, the occasional horn or motorcycle breaking the stillness. The air smelled faintly of fried fish from a street stall nearby. He liked this time of day. Late morning, when the world hadn’t quite hit full speed yet.

Jung-bae was back, a cigarette in his mouth was back too. He felt a strange tightness in his stomach when he felt the smoke blow through his white anti-dust mask, but he held back. It was no longer quiet in the workshop. He was finishing painting, and Jung-bae was telling him about the conflict he was currently having with his wife over how they should raise their daughter.

Another twenty minutes later, the job was done. The tires were on, and the paint was almost dry. Jung-bae called In-ho to tell him he could pick up the car, and he replied that he would be there soon. Now they were sitting on their break, eating their boxed lunches. He had kimbap, and Jung-bae had rice with fried eggs and sausages.

Gi-hun tried not to let the thought in, but it reminded him of that first day in the games when they ate together from their lunch boxes and then Young-il approached them. In both timelines. His brain subconsciously compared the two versions of events, and Gi-hun felt like throwing up instead of eating.

In-ho could walk in at any moment.

“Okay, I need to go to the bathroom.” Jung-bae wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Gi-hun nodded at first, but then the true meaning of his friend's words broke through the storm of thoughts racing through his head. “What? You're leaving me here alone?”

Jung-bae COULDN'T go to the bathroom now. What if In-ho came at that moment? His plan to send his friend to him would be ruined.

“What are you talking about? You wanna come with me or what?” he snorted sarcastically.

“What—no! I just… just… just, please, wait for him with me.”

“For whom? For that client?” He squinted his eyes as he stood up.

Gi-hun swallowed hard, thinking of an excuse. “Well… you're better at extorting tips from people than I am.”

The man snorted in response. “Okay, okay, hold on. I’m not extorting anything from anyone, I just… have a gift for persuasion,” he replied, sitting back down. “But maybe you’re right, you wouldn’t have succeeded.”

Gi-hun breathed a sigh of relief and went back to eating his kimbap, which still tasted like rubber. It was definitely not his mother's fault, but rather that he was needlessly tormenting himself with problems he had invented himself.

Because Hwang In-ho in the workshop wasn’t his problem.

Hwang In-ho passing him on the street wasn't his problem.

Hwang In-ho killing five sleeping opponents in games wasn't his problem.

And even Hwang In-ho becoming the Frontman wasn't his problem either.

In this life — this timeline — his only problem was the dilemma of where to take Ga-yeong to make her happy. 

Not games, not recruiters, not masked guards.

And, once again, not Hwang In-ho.

Gi-hun forced himself to finish another bite of kimbap, even though every chew felt like junk scraping against his teeth. He kept his eyes on the rice paper, counting the grains in his mind, reminding himself that nothing weird was going to happen.

“Think of anything else,” he whispered under his breath. “Think of fish names.”

He listed them one by one in his head — flounder, grouper, mackerel, sea bass, Professor Splashington, tuna — until his pulse slowed.

Then he heard a couple of steps. And then, in the huge garage door, the silhouette of a man appeared. He almost choked on his food.

His heart thudded. He buried his chin into his shoulder and blinked at the table as if he’d never seen it before, and he was desperately trying to focus on the hum of the vending machine outside, the distant rumble of traffic.

Footsteps approached, slow, deliberate. Not many customers wore dress shoes to a garage.

Gi-hun set down his lunch box. He shaded his eyes and peered around the corner of the workstation.

In-ho stepped into view. Black coat, neat hair, the same angular jaw. He looked — ordinary, almost hesitant — like a man who’d forgotten something but wasn’t quite sure what.

Gi-hun’s lungs compressed. He wanted to breathe, but the air felt thick.

In-ho caught his eye for a moment. Polite nod. No recognition flickered across his face. Just a client waiting.

“Hwang In-ho nim ?” Jung-bae greeted, quickly going through the workshop. “Your car’s ready.”

In-ho glanced at Gi-hun, then at the black sedan parked inside. “Great. Thank you.”

He looked almost exactly like in the photos Gi-hun had found online. Younger, without as many wrinkles as in that previous timeline, but they were still there. Just like the bags under his eyes.

His expression wasn't as dark and serious as it was when he was the Frontman. There was a smile somewhere in the corners of his lips. His face was rather radiant, but composed. He wasn't as cheerful as Young-il in the loop, where he died for the first time.

He was most similar to Young-il from the second loop. Especially that version of him, that came to him at night to talk. He was smiling, but not too much. Quiet, but not silent.

Gi-hun tried to remember if In-ho had told him what year he was participating in the games. Probably not. So now he began to wonder if the In-ho he was looking at now was already a widower or still a hopeful married man. 

If he was already a murderer, or not yet.

Didn't matter. It’s none of his business.

In-ho bent down slightly, trying to find the scratch that had been there before, but now the car looked brand new.

“Wow. Great job. It's hard to tell where the scratch was.” He smiled slightly at Jung-bae, who just nodded in agreement.

“That's right. He handles scratches like no one else,” he pointed to Gi-hun, who didn't want the customer's attention on him at all. “He's a real pro, he should be working at the Hyundai factory or something.”

Gi-hun, whose throat was now tight with anxiety, only bowed slightly, glued to his seat. He knew Jung-bae was saying all these things just so In-ho would give them a good tip, but it was a little too much for him.

“I can tell,” he admitted. He had already started to take his wallet out of his pocket. 

‘Thank goodness, go away,’ Gi-hun thought.

Then suddenly, In-ho froze mid-motion, looking as if he had remembered something. “Oh, I almost forgot. What with the seat?”

Jung-bae frowned, afraid that he had forgotten to write something down.

“With the seat?” he muttered.

“Yes, something seems to be blocking the hinge in the front passenger seat, and it can't be tilted. Didn't my brother tell you?”

Jung-bae scratched the back of his head, flipping through the clipboard again. “He might’ve mentioned it, but I probably didn’t jot it down. Sorry about that. We were mostly focused on the paint job and tires.”

Gi-hun didn’t move. His brain was screaming at him to stand up, say something — or maybe leave — but his limbs stayed heavy, like they were bolted to the floor. All he could do was sit there, locked in place, as In-ho turned partially in his direction.

“It’s a minor thing,” In-ho said casually. “Might be something wedged under the hinge. I only noticed it this morning. If you’ve got time, maybe someone could take a quick look?”

'Do not look at me,' Gi-hun panicked in his head. 'Don't you dare make me do anything more for you. Just go away and don't interrupt my peace!'

Jung-bae cared about the tip more than anything else. He nodded vigorously and quickly opened the door to look for the problem with the chair.

In-ho glanced briefly at Gi-hun, as if he was upset that it wasn't him who had come to help him. Meanwhile, Gi-hun sat as stiffly as before and analyzed the peculiar clenching of his jaw. He knew it well — In-ho always did that when things didn't go his way.

But that couldn't be the case this time. In-ho couldn't be unhappy because, after all, they didn't know each other in this timeline. Gi-hun was probably seeing things and had seriously started considering whether he should still look for an ophthalmologist or already a psychiatrist.

“Gi-hun ah , come here and take a flashlight with ya!”

No. No, no, no.

He stood up, his knees popping slightly as he straightened. His legs trembled nervously. What the hell was he doing? Why was he getting so worked up about this? He'd been doing this for years, and the fact that today he had to deal with some idiot was driving him crazy?

This thought allowed him to relax a little, but he still didn't have the courage to even glance at In-ho. He took the flashlight lying on the metal toolbox, walked over to the car, and handed it to Jung-bae. Then he stood there, watching his best friend bent over under the seat, pretending not to notice In-ho glancing at him out of the corner of his eye from time to time.

Then Jung-bae stood up and looked at him. “You do it. You're not as blind as I am.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then, finally, a small, dry, “Yeah, sure.”

In-ho stepped aside, giving him room to approach the car. Their shoulders nearly brushed as Gi-hun passed him. Too close. Too damn close.

He crouched beside the passenger seat, carefully tugging it forward. There was a faint metallic grinding sound.

“Sounds like something got stuck in the track,” he mumbled, reaching underneath. “Probably a coin or button…”

His fingers brushed against something hard. Cold. He angled his wrist and fished it out.

A small pen cap.

He held it up between two fingers. “Here you are.”

He was about to pull his head out from under the seat when he suddenly saw a piece of paper sticking out from under the car mat. He pulled it out very slowly and carefully, and his stomach turned upside down.

A small, golden business card with a circle, triangle, and square printed on it. He discreetly turned the card over and saw a phone number there. He couldn't breathe.

Fucking Hwang In-ho.

And then suddenly a wave of indescribable anger washed over him. He guessed that In-ho was already done with the games. That he had already won all the rounds, killing his opponents, playing unfairly.

But that wasn't what Gi-hun was angry about.

How could this man, after all that, and on top of that, after the death of his wife, be so cheerful? How could he be concerned with such trivial matters as a scratch on the car, tires, or a stuck chair hinge?

Is this the Hwang In-ho who wanted to kill himself twice? 

He felt betrayed. Again.

He put the card back. He promised himself he would have nothing to do with it, and he didn't intend to.

“Did you find it?” In-ho asked from above, his voice low, polite, almost bored.

Gi-hun looked up, still crouched on the floor, and met In-ho’s gaze. Their eyes locked. And for a single heartbeat, he thought he saw something flicker behind In-ho’s eyes — something too sharp to be mere curiosity. It vanished quickly, but it was there.

He opened his hand and dropped the pen cap into the center console tray.

“That was it,” he said hoarsely. “It was jamming the track.”

In-ho now looked closely at his face, as if searching for something from his face. And with every passing second, it contorted more and more into a hateful, resentful expression.

His eyes had the shine. How? After unmercifully killing five people? After his wife’s death?

Finally, he made a face as if he had found something. He smiled wryly. “Thanks. How much do I pay?”

Jung-bae stepped in quickly, almost as if sensing the tension thickening between the two. “Oh, it's all on the bill already,” he said lightly, waving the clipboard. “Paint, tires, inspection. The seat thing, don’t worry about it — on the house.”

Gi-hun was already back to where he had eaten lunch earlier. He slumped heavily into his seat and looked at his half-eaten kimbap. He sighed.

In-ho paid, accepted the keys, exchanged a few more pleasantries with Jung-bae, and walked out to his car. They watched him go — the coat, the quiet confidence, the sleek black sedan.

Only when the car rolled out of the lot did Gi-hun finally exhale.

“See?” he said. “Told you he’d tip. Nice guy.” Jung-bae threw the money on the table, still smiling as if they had just won the lottery. “He may have looked inconspicuous, but he had an aura about him... you know, like a rich man. Classy.”

Gi-hun didn’t respond. He stared at the envelope, the white rectangle catching the dull light overhead. His head was swimming — with anger, with confusion, with something he didn’t want to name.

He rubbed at his temples. His hands still smelled faintly of engine grease and plastic. His stomach twisted again, not from hunger this time but from something closer to dread. Or guilt. Or both.

“Bastard,” he thought.

Then he met Jung-bae's confused look and realized he said that out loud.

“What? You knew that man?”

Gi-hun glanced at him briefly. He knew he couldn't tell him the truth, but he needed to vent his anger somehow. “I've heard about him on the news. He was fired from the police for taking bribes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He knew how things really were with those bribes, but he felt a slight satisfaction that this time he could cheat a little. Not only In-ho.

Jung-bae blinked, confused. Then he looked at the money lying on the table, with a considerable sense of guilt written all over his face. “You think this is also bribe money?”

He didn't answer. Just pushed away the rest of his lunch. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just needed air. Quiet. Distance.

“I’m taking a smoke break,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the hook, even though he hadn’t smoked in months.

Jung-bae frowned. “Wait, what? You said—”

“I’m not gonna light up,” Gi-hun snapped a little too harshly. “Just need some air.”

He left the garage, ignoring the way Jung-bae called his name behind him, and rounded the corner to the alley beside the shop. The air was cold and damp. He leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly.

The golden card burned in his memory like a brand.

He closed his eyes. For a brief, horrible moment, he imagined himself dialing that number again. Imagined the crisp voice on the other end. The offer. The train station. The slap. The red and blue tiles.

No. No. Not again.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes until they hurt. The paper was back in the car. He hadn’t taken it. He wasn’t going to get involved.

Let it go.

Let it go.

He heard footsteps crunching gravel near the back gate and quickly turned away, wiping his face. It was just some neighborhood kids passing by, chasing each other and laughing about something. The normalcy of it stung.

When he finally walked back inside, Jung-bae was already halfway through reorganizing the tools on the bench.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up.

Gi-hun hesitated in the doorway. His jacket still clung to the chill from outside, and his body felt as if it had just returned from somewhere much farther than the alley behind the garage.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Just needed a minute.”

Jung-bae glanced up, unconvinced. “Okay, I'm not asking anything else. But if you decide to say more, you know you can.”

“Thanks, man,” Gi-hun muttered.

He grabbed a rag and dried his hands. The silence between them wasn’t tense exactly — just full. Full of all the things Gi-hun couldn’t say. Not about the card. Not about the real story behind In-ho. Not about the games, the deaths, the debt, the blood.

After a few minutes, Jung-bae went back to humming some old trot tune while checking a parts inventory on his tablet. Gi-hun sat again, staring at the greasy tabletop.

That fucking card.

He didn’t even have it. He left it. He made that choice.

So why did it still feel like it was in his pocket, pressed against his chest like a curse?

Once again, he was struck by a sense of mission — duty.

No. His duty was to raise his daughter. To live a good life.

He thought about Ga-yeong — the thoughts about her were healing for him. Her tiny body curled up beside him on Saturday night. Her hands clenched around a plush dolphin. Her face when she said soup was better than cake.

He had to let it go.

Chapter Text

The next day was quiet.

He went to work, did the shopping, helped his mom with the stall. He watched TV — a bit more than usual, because it kept him busy and distracted him from thinking.

And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, there was still the golden business card under In-ho's car mat.

He was forcing himself not to think about it, but his brain wouldn't listen. His night was silent, full of questions and fear. Before he went to sleep, he was muttering under his breath that everything was fine. He's not involved in the games, he's safe, Ga-yeong was safe, everyone was safe. And all that In-ho did was his choice. And that he really was a human, but maybe just not a good one. Maybe this was the reason he was so unbothered at his workshop.

He tried to stop giving a damn, but curiosity was drooling a hole in his stomach, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

In-ho had that shine in his eyes. The one he didn't have all the time, and which only appeared during their conversation in the previous timeline.

It was a small detail, but Gi-hun noticed it.

'Shut up. SHUT UP!'

So, this was his Tuesday.

On Wednesday, he woke up feeling a little better. He still thought about the card and In-ho, but his thoughts were no longer as intrusive and exhausting. They sat in his mind like a background hum — like a fly in the room that he didn’t have the strength to swat anymore.

His mom didn’t say much during breakfast. She just stared at him, not sure why her son was so cut off from reality.

The air was heavy with fog. The sky was a solid gray sheet, sagging low above the rooftops, and the wind was slow and indifferent. He took the subway, stared out the window at his reflection flickering in the dark tunnels. 

The rest of his way to his car repair shop was usual, but this time, he stopped for a second or two when he was passing by the local police station. Like he wanted to meet someone.

When he realized what he was doing, he shook his head and quickened his pace. He felt like a maniac. 

He paused outside the workshop and looked through the glass. He was five minutes late again.

Inside, Jung-bae was wiping down a car hood, whistling something off-key. 

He didn’t go in right away. Instead, he took a long detour around the block, smoking half a cigarette before he remembered he was trying to quit again. Then he walked back to the workshop and stepped in, the little bell on the door jingling like something out of a happier life.

“Yo,” Jung-bae greeted him. “You look like crap.”

“Thanks,” Gi-hun replied flatly, hanging up his coat. “But your smell is worse, sorry.”

“That's just Eau de Radiator Fluid,” he said, feigning a French accent. “Very fashionable this season.”

They worked. Changed oil. Swapped a broken headlight. There was a weird rattle in one car’s axle that had them both arguing for twenty minutes over a bracket.

By lunchtime, Gi-hun had mostly forgotten to feel miserable. His hands were greasy, his back ached, and his mind was focused on things that had nothing to do with business cards or weird masks with triangles. Or any In-hos.

“You're smoking again?” Jung-bae asked casually as they were eating their lunches.

Gi-hun swallowed a bite of his tofu.

“No?” he said, then his friend grabbed his shirt to smell it, and he jumped back. “I'm sweaty! That's disgusting.”

“I smell cigarettes,” the man replied briefly, returning to his meal.

“Maybe you smell them on yourself. I said I quit.”

Jung-bae narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You said you quit.”

“I did quit,” Gi-hun repeated, a bit too quickly. “Half of a cigarette doesn’t count.”

“Ohhh,” Jung-bae said, leaning back with mock reverence. “ Half of a cigarette doesn’t count. Look at this guy. Must be some new science I haven’t heard about.”

Gi-hun shook his head and stared down at his lunchbox, nudging a limp piece of spinach with his chopsticks. “Look, I was stressed.”

“Stress is what causes smoking, genius.”

He looked at him, confused. “That’s what I’m saying.”

They ate in silence for a while, the kind that only exists between people who’ve known each other long enough not to force talk just to fill the air. The radio in the corner of the garage played a dull pop song, the kind that got rotated too often but somehow never stuck in memory. Tools clicked and chimed in the background as another mechanic worked in the adjoining bay.

“I have those days too,” Jung-bae said eventually, picking something out of his teeth with a toothpick. “Where your head just loops on one stupid thought, over and over again.”

Gi-hun glanced up.

“And what do you do then?”

Jung-bae scratched his neck, as if the question was too much for him. “Dunno. I guess I just think about the nice things that have happened to me. Like watching movies with my wife in the evenings, or reading Min-ji bedtime stories,” he continued. “I think to myself, it's good to have them.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Jung-bae sighed. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that to you in your situation. You're probably having problems with Eun-ji, right?”

And that hit Gi-hun even harder. And it was not because it reminded him that he was still not divorced, and it was weird between them every time he was there to pick up Ga-yeong.

It was because instead of thinking about that — about his separation from his wife and what to do next — he was thinking about some basically STRANGE man, who had been ruining his life in every timeline they had met.

'You're fucked in the head,' the voice in his head repeated once again. 

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away. He just stared down at his lunch like it was a difficult exam question. The spinach still sat there, limp and soggy, as if mocking him for his inability to live a clean, simple life.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “Problems.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the kind his friend was imagining.

Jung-bae nodded sympathetically, like any good friend would when they didn’t know the full story. “You don’t have to tell me. I get it. Sometimes crap just… sticks to your boots, no matter how careful you walk.”

That made Gi-hun smirk. “You get that from a movie or just your own wisdom?”

“My kid said it,” he replied. “Right before stepping in dog shit on the way to school.”

Gi-hun chuckled — a small, tired sound — but it felt good, even if just for a second.

They finished their meal quietly. The air in the garage grew warmer as the afternoon sun tried to break through the clouds outside. Someone came in with a van that had a busted exhaust, and the noise made everyone wince. For the next two hours, Gi-hun was busy under the lift, knuckles scraping metal, lungs full of grease and sweat and exhaustion.

And still, that damn golden card scratched at the edges of his thoughts like a splinter under the skin.

When he got home, he was so tired that he even tried to convince himself that he didn't need a shower, so he could just throw himself on the bed and go to sleep.

And it wasn't even four o'clock yet. He couldn't remember when work had ever worn him out so much.

However, sensing how unpleasant the odor was, he decided to place his clothes in the trash and take a quick shower. He proceeded to do so.

He stood under the hot stream for a long time, letting it hit his neck until his skin turned red. The water wasn't as hot as he would have liked, but it was enough. It washed away all the oil and sweat.

The only upside was that his exhaustion prevented him from thinking. His mind went blank, he couldn't even think about things that mattered to him now, like, for example, take the gel and a sponge and then wash it off. Eventually, his brain began listing car parts in alphabetical order. Alternator, battery, carburetor, gear shift… drive shaft. When he realized that they actually weren’t in alphabetical order, he got irritated.

Gi-hun turned off the water and stepped out, dragging a towel through his hair in lazy, unconnected movements. The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but he could still make out his outline. Hunched over, tired, older than he should be. He wiped the glass with his hand, and for a moment, the face staring back at him didn't look like his own. It was him, yes — but also not. A ghost with dark circles under his eyes and a permanently furrowed brow.

He sighed and walked out into the hallway in his pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt. His mother was out of the house — probably at the market again, gossiping with other vendors or bringing kimchi to someone, whether they wanted it or not. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Before falling onto the bed, completely exhausted, he ate what his mother had left him for dinner. The food wasn't very cold, but it still could be heated. But he wasn't about to do that. He had to lie down as soon as possible, otherwise he would collapse in the middle of the hallway. Kimchi and sausages in his budae jjigae were as good as always, but his ramyeon noodles were too soggy. The food was so delicious and filled his empty stomach so much that he didn't even notice it.

He lay on the bed sideways at first, then fully sprawled out, one arm over his face. The ceiling had nothing new to offer, but he stared anyway. Every scuff mark, every cobweb in the corner, every slight dip in the plaster had become a familiar landmark. Like a map of everywhere he’d already been — and nowhere he wanted to go again.

His limbs buzzed with that special kind of tired that didn’t come from exertion alone — but from holding something in all day. His muscles ached, but not as much as the space behind his ribs. That space felt hollowed out.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep. But at some point, the light through the window changed — turned gold, then gray again — and the shadows in the room shifted like restless thoughts.

He didn't dream of anything. He just had a strong, deep sleep, soothing after the last two barely slept nights, and the entire two days that tormented not only his body, but also his mind.

And yet, somehow just a knock was able to make him jerked awake, heart thudding once before his brain caught up. 

The kind of knock that wasn't loud, but deliberate. No one he knew ever knocked like that. His mother came in without knocking. Delivery guys rang the bell. Jung-bae didn't even go to the door — he just called him on his phone while standing in front of the gate.

He sat up slowly, sleep still heavy in his skull.

Another knock.

His brain went back to that memory, which was only his dream, but seemed real. When he was still living in the pink motel two timelines ago. When someone rang his doorbell. And then he saw Frontman with the severed heads of Sang-woo and Sae-byeok.

He was afraid that now he was still in the dream, too, and something similar would happen. And then, that memory would stay with him forever.

He stood, padding barefoot to the door. Hesitated.

Maybe it was a neighbor. A Jehovah's Witness. A surveyor. A salesman.

He hovered by the door, fingers grazing the knob but not turning it yet. The knock hadn’t come again, which somehow made it worse. Whoever it was — if they were still there — was waiting. Calm. Patient.

Like they knew he would open eventually.

He hated that.

Gi-hun took a breath through his nose. He told himself it was probably nothing. He told himself that normal people knock on doors at normal hours. But this wasn’t normal. He could feel it under his skin.

He opened the door slowly, leaving the chain on. His voice came out hoarser than he expected. “Who is it?”

There was a pause. Then:

“Seong Gi-hun ssi. Can we talk?”

Just it. Nothing more. No explanation. No introduction.

But he knew that voice. And it made his stomach tighten.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun’s heart sank and rose at the same time. He knew this voice instantly, that clipped but quiet tone, too formal for the average asshole and too familiar to be anyone else. It made his skin crawl with the memory of masked silence and death games and a single pair of eyes behind a cold black mask.

He shut the door instinctively.

“Nope,” he said aloud, turning away.

He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, and downed it in three gulps, even though he wasn't thirsty. Then he stood in the middle of the room, heart thumping in his ears, like it was trying to stomp out any thoughts before they formed.

What the fuck was he doing here?

He waited. Maybe the knock was a hallucination. Maybe his brain had just decided to pull a sick joke.

But then there was a knock again — soft. Less like a demand and more like a reminder.

He pinched his shoulder a few times. No, this was definitely not a dream. So why did he come here?

He had no idea about the time loop. He had no idea that Gi-hun knew him. The only contact they had in this timeline was two days earlier at the workshop.

What could he want, and how did he get his address?

He knew he had to play it smart. Pretend to be unimpressed by his visit. Clear him out of the door as quickly as possible.

He took a few cautious steps toward the exit and opened the door again, this time a little wider, although it was still blocked by the chain.

In-ho stood just outside the door, arms at his sides, coat zipped high against the evening chill. His posture was straight, still, too still — like someone who had rehearsed this visit and didn’t plan on leaving without at least saying his piece.

His eyes met Gi-hun’s through the narrow gap, unreadable as always. If he was surprised to see the chain still on, he didn’t show it.

Gi-hun exhaled slowly, holding the door with one hand, fingers curling tight around the edge of it like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He tilted his head, squinting slightly, like he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face.

“Oh,” he said. “You're the guy from Monday. If there is something wrong with the paint, you should make a complaint to my boss. Goodbye.”

He started to close the door, but then In-ho pressed his boot into the frame. Gi-hun began to panic slightly, but his face rather indicated irritation. 

“What are you doing? And how did you get my address?” 

In-ho did not respond. He simply looked at him, with the same unemotional gaze as before.

“Can I come in?” He simply asked after a while.

Gi-hun’s jaw tensed. “Are you out of your mind? I'm gonna call the police.”

In-ho didn’t flinch at the word police . His expression didn’t change, not even a twitch. It made Gi-hun angrier somehow.

“You can call them,” In-ho said quietly. “If you really want to. But I think I have something that will interest you more.”

The air in his lungs became thicker, his body froze. In-ho pulled his foot out of the door frame, but Gi-hun didn't even have the strength anymore to slam the door in front of his nose.

He drew something out of his coat pocket and handed it to him.

The card.

He swallowed hard, wobbling slightly backward.

And then he coughed, trying not to show his real emotions. “I'm not interested in that.” 

Oh, he was.

He wanted to grab the card, tear it to pieces, and then punch In-ho in his stupid face, asking what the hell all of this meant. Because what kind of shift had to happen in this timeline, that he ended up in such a situation?

'Calm down,' he said to himself, 'maybe it's nothing. Maybe he saw you pulling it out from under his car mat and noticed your shock. Maybe he just wants to ask you about it. Act stupid. Just pretend you don't know anything.'

In-ho stood there, arm extended, the golden card resting between his fingers like a dare. The soft porch light made it gleam — not too much, just enough to feel deliberate. Like everything else about him.

Gi-hun stared at it, then back at him. He forced a dry laugh, mostly through his nose.

“What is this, some kind of prank?” he said. “You tracked me down just to show me some weird business card? Do I look like I have time for that?”

Just silence.

“I told you,” he said again, voice low and dry, “I’m not interested.”

In-ho didn’t lower the card. He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning Gi-hun’s face. “You looked interested on Monday.”

Gi-hun hated how sure he sounded. That was enough.

“Leave me alone,” he replied shortly and slammed the door. 

He leaned his back against it, panting heavily and pressing his neck against the cold wood. He clenched his eyelids, praying not to hear another knock. 

Instead, a muffled, quiet voice from outside:

“I know you also remember what happened on the island. I want to talk.”

Gi-hun’s heart almost stopped.

What did he just say?

His breath hitched. His entire spine went rigid against the door. No. That didn’t make any sense. There was no way In-ho could know . No way he could remember.

Unless—

No. In-ho couldn't be in a loop, too, because he and Jun-ho escaped the island before the explosion. He didn’t die back then.

He was bluffing. He had to be. Just fishing, throwing a line into dark waters to see if Gi-hun would bite.

Gi-hun swallowed hard and let out a small, bitter laugh. He should walk away and go back to sleep, but some invisible force told him to turn around and open the door again — just a crack, enough to look at the man, but not enough to invite him in. There was still a chain, anyway.

He stared him down, eyes sharp, tired, but colder now.

In-ho stood exactly where Gi-hun had left him, unmoved by the door slam, as if he’d known it was only temporary. His face was still unreadable — too calm. That same chill ran down Gi-hun’s back, not from fear, exactly, but from the sense that he was being read like a manual. Like every page of him was already dog-eared and known.

“You're mistaken,” Gi-hun said flatly. “I don’t know anything about any island.”

The man didn't blink. “You do.”

That was it. No dramatic reveal, no accusations, no raised voice — just those two words, spoken like an observation. Like talking about the weather.

Gi-hun scoffed and shook his head slowly. “Man, if you’re filming a prank show, please, go knock on any other door. I’m tired after work, it's not funny for me.”

He started to close the door again, but In-ho spoke quickly this time, just before the wood could block his voice:

“And what about the time loop?”

That was it. That was the moment Gi-hun realized he wasn’t just bluffing. This wasn’t a fishing expedition. It wasn’t a guess.

In-ho knew.

But how?

How could he know?

There was no way. No way, except the one that Gi-hun had kept trying not to think about: that In-ho was also in the loop. That maybe he wasn’t just similar to the man behind the mask Gi-hun had faced — he was that man. Again.

But no. It was not possible.

“I think you should leave,” he said finally, flatly. Not loud. Not panicked. But empty in a way that didn’t invite negotiation.

In-ho didn’t budge.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “It's important.”

No.

He reached up to shut the door instead, but he stopped him with a quiet:

“Gi-hun ssi . Please. ”

Gi-hun’s hand hovered above it, unmoving. His breath was a soft rasp now, caught somewhere between denial and panic.

In-ho's expression was so familiar. The shine in his eyes — the same he saw appearing there, when they were on the island. When he told him, he didn't see him as a monster anymore.

All that he knew was too specific. Too vivid. No one — no one who wasn’t there could’ve known that.

That was memory.

Real. Personal.

He closed the door.

Then he pulled the chain and opened them again. Wider. He saw the man's face lighten up.

Gi-hun's voice, when it came, was rough with something unspoken. And then he just mumbled, more to himself than to him: 

“How?”

In-ho exhaled — slowly, for the first time. Like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“You have five minutes,” he added through gritted teeth. “Do not touch anything.”

In-ho gave the faintest nod and stepped inside like he’d just been waiting for permission. His eyes flicked once around the apartment — not curious, just cataloguing. And then he stood there in the middle of the corridor, not sitting, not asking where. Like he didn’t plan on staying long, either.

Gi-hun closed the door behind him and stood more confidently on trembling legs.

'You're fucked in the head,' the voice in his head said, for the thousandth time. It was true. 

Even if In-ho knew, even if he somehow was in the fucking loop — it didn't matter! He told himself that he would not think or deal with games, no matter what the price was. He was meant to focus only on Ga-yeong. He promised!

But still, he felt that if he didn't find out now what was going on, he would never sleep peacefully again. 

He didn't want his life to look like it had for the past two days. He didn't want to be able to fall asleep only when he was deathly exhausted. He didn't want the games to haunt him in his dreams, he didn't want the ghosts of people who were still alive in this timeline to haunt him. He was afraid of what In-ho would tell him, but he knew he wouldn't move on without it.

Gi-hun didn't offer him a seat or invite him to the living room. He simply rubbed his face, as if he wanted to reset – as if the still air in the apartment forced him to soften his attitude, if only a little. Not emotionally. Just tactically. This was somehow worse.

Then he quickly lifted his head from above his hands, catching himself that he had let his gaze drop for a second too long.

But In-ho did not make any dangerous move. He simply stood in front of him and watched.

'What an insane freak.'

“You’re not wrong to be cautious,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “I would be, too.”

Gi-hun just blinked at him. “You’ve got three and a half minutes left.”

In-ho nodded, not insulted. His eyes flicked once toward the framed photo of a little girl on the dresser — Ga-yeong — and lingered there for a breath too long.

That made Gi-hun clench his jaw.

“I am genuinely glad to see you,” he added, and his face was still unfazed.

His clenched teeth gritted. What game was he playing? He had been given the chance to enter his house, and now he was going to pretend to be sentimental?

What the hell was going on here?

He took a step forward. Not to intimidate — just to feel less like prey.

“Cut the crap. Start talking.”

In-ho looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, Gi-hun thought he saw something crack behind the eyes. Not regret. Not guilt. Just something human trying to push its way out from underneath layers of control. It made him uncomfortable because it meant the conversation was real. Not a performance. Not a hallucination. Real.

“At first, I wasn't sure if it was real,” In-ho said simply. “But now I am.”

He only gulped, his face was still. “Sure about what?”

“About the time loop. And about being in one. And now, that I'm not alone in it.”

Gi-hun did not expect any other words. In fact, those were the ones he was waiting for. And yet, when they finally came, he didn't want to believe them.

His eyebrows raised slightly, trembling, despite his will.

It was impossible. Because, for it to be possible, it would have to be that then, on that island, In-ho also…

“No.” He took a step backwards. “I was the only one left on the island when it exploded.”

For the first time since In-ho had arrived, a describable emotion appeared on his face. 

He seemed to be quite ashamed.

His eyes widened, eyebrows knitted together, and lips were pressed into a thin line. A large lump formed in his throat. He looked as if what he was about to say was almost humiliating to him.

“You were not the only one,” he said, trying to sound serious and keep his voice from shaking.

Gi-hun stared at him. The words felt like a slap to the face, too cold and too slow to make sense right away.

You were not the only one.

It echoed in his head, colliding with everything he thought he knew, everything he had forced himself to believe in order to keep functioning. His hands curled slightly at his sides.

“You escaped from there with Jun-ho,” he said, his voice quieter now, but sharper. “You two got on the speedboat.”

Just silence.

“I stayed.”

Gi-hun’s fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His breath hitched, eyes burning with a mixture of anger and betrayal. He didn't say anything, just stared.

“I remember waiting for the explosion, and then I woke up… in the games. In my games. That night, when Il-nam gave me the knife.”

Anger was now bursting out of his chest. He had already been angry on Monday when he realized that In-ho had his games behind, and that he had become a murderer. 

The fact that this man was standing here talking to him now proved that In-ho had killed again. And worst of all, he had killed deliberately, remembering what happened in the previous timeline. That was even worse.

Gi-hun couldn't remember exactly what was going through his mind when he simply lunged at him, wanting to scratch his eyes out. He swung his fist, aiming for the center of his face, but his hand slipped and hit his mouth instead. Meanwhile, he felt a stinging pain around his nose and quickly jumped back, cursing and clutching his face.

For a split second, he was stunned, and then he saw In-ho's frightened face with a badly cut lip. He stepped back slightly now and raised his hands quickly, as if to prove that the blow to Gi-hun’s face was not an attack, but a defensive reflex.

He felt a trickle of blood running down his nostrils and flowing down his jaw. He was even more furious than before, and the pain did not bother him, but only spurred him on.

In-ho’s hands kept hovering in the air, palms open, eyes wide. “I didn’t come here to fight you, Gi-hun ssi , I swear—”

He approached him again, but this time not to hit him, even though he felt like doing so. He simply grabbed him by the collar, and In-ho did not resist. He simply allowed him to push him onto the dresser, which shook from the impact. The framed photo of Ga-yeong standing on it fell.

“All that, and you did it again?” Gi-hun snarled, the pain in his nose making his voice sharper. His eyes watered, not just from the hit but from fury, grief, and the sudden vertigo of the truth. He grabbed the fabric of his coat more tightly.

He looked him straight in the eye, and for a brief moment, he had the impression that In-ho felt lost. And after a moment, he shook his head. His lip began to swell, but it didn't even twitch. “I didn't kill them this time.”

Gi-hun was too busy enjoying the sight of blood dripping from In-ho's lip to even register his words at first. But when it dawned on him, he pressed him harder against the dresser. “You're lying. All you do is lie!”

In-ho still didn’t flinch, just a painful grimace on his face. Even with Gi-hun’s breath on his chin, with blood on both of them, he held his ground. “I didn’t kill them this time,” he repeated, slower. Firmer. “You can believe what you want, but it’s the truth.”

Gi-hun’s breath was a ragged snarl. “You've told me. You've told me what you did in your game. Five people. The final night. You slit their throats while they slept.”

“Yes,” In-ho said quietly. “That happened in the previous timeline.”

Gi-hun shoved him again, the edge of the dresser biting into In-ho’s back.

“And now what? You want sympathy? Redemption? You’re not gonna get it here. You had a second chance to make a shift and not become a murderer, and you still —”

“I didn’t kill them this time!” In-ho snapped.

The volume cracked the air between them. For a second, neither of them moved.

“I didn’t,” he said again, lower now, strained, his voice fraying. “I didn’t kill them. I took the knife and went to bed. And the next day, I took part in the final, like the others. And won.”

Gi-hun stared at him like he was watching a magician perform a trick he already knew the secret to. Except now, the magician was claiming he never used the trick at all. Just real magic. It was nonsense. It had to be.

“You expect me to believe that?” he spat. “That what — Oh Il-nam splitted the money between you? That there were six winners?”

“I didn’t say they didn't die,” In-ho muttered.

Gi-hun pushed him once again. “You just said—”

“I said I didn’t kill them,” In-ho cut in, quieter. “That doesn’t mean no one died. You know the rules of the games.”

Gi-hun laughed bitterly. “Convenient.”

“I don’t care if it sounds convenient.” In-ho’s voice hardened again, no longer passive, no longer playing peacekeeper. He leaned forward slightly, not aggressive, but resolute. “I’m not asking you to absolve me, Gi-hun ssi . I didn’t come here to beg forgiveness.”

Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. His grip on the man's coat loosened a little, but he didn't let him go. “Then why the hell did you come here?”

In-ho hesitated. And when he finally opened his mouth to speak, the door handle moved. They froze in the positions they were in — In-ho reclined over the dresser, and Gi-hun grabbing him by the collar. Both had blood on their faces. They slowly turned their heads toward the entrance.

His mother was standing in the doorway.

She didn’t say anything at first.

The plastic grocery bag in her hand crinkled softly as she took in the scene: the stranger with the bleeding lip, her son’s nostrils streaked with red, the photo frame at their feet — and their frozen, snarling tension, like animals caught mid-fight.

Gi-hun’s hand dropped away from In-ho’s collar as if burned. He stumbled back two steps, rubbing at his face, smearing the blood across his skin like war paint. In-ho straightened, but didn’t move from the dresser. He only pressed a hand to his lip.

“Umma,” Gi-hun said, his voice hoarse, “it’s not what it looks like.”
She didn’t answer.

She simply looked at him, then at the photo of Ga-yeong on the floor. Her eyes lingered there the longest.

The silence thickened.

“What's going on here?” she finally spoke, measuring them both with a sharp gaze.

Gi-hun cleared his throat, angry and embarrassed at the same time.

“Nothing. He was just leaving,” he added firmly.

Her eyes locked onto In-ho specifically. And even he seemed to be slightly terrified of her.

“That's right. It's time for me to go,” he cleared his throat briefly, looking down. “I am very sorry for the trouble, ma'am.” He added, bowing to her before passing her in the doorway.

The apartment door stayed open behind him, letting in the echo of retreating steps and the far-off hum of the street. Gi-hun stood in the center of the room, still breathing hard, blood drying on his upper lip. He picked up a photo of his daughter, and then he slowly looked at his mother.

She just raised her eyebrows slightly and gave him a tired look before going to the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“Hyung, it looks bad.”

In-ho raised his brow and opened one eye to take a glance at his brother, who was trying to dress a small wound on his lips.

The purple bruise was bigger.

“I don't think it's that bad,” he replied.

“No, I don't mean the cut. I mean that—” he hesitated, looking like he was trying to phrase it properly. “Two months ago, you disappeared for a week, leaving Ji-ae alone in her last hours. When you came back, you had a stab wound in the abdomen. Today — someone punched you in the face. I tried to be respectful, we all did, we didn't ask too many questions. I know you are still grieving, but the hell, In-ho, what's going on with you?”

In-ho exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. He sat up straighter, wincing at the pull in his side. After Gi-hun pushed him onto the dresser several times, his still-healing wound worsened slightly, but he tried not to show it.

“Nothing’s going on,” he muttered, voice rough. “I just made some bad calls.”

Jun-ho paused for a moment.

“Are they loan sharks? Did you take out any loans for the transplant?”

“Come on.” He shook his head. “I didn't take out any loans you don't know about, and I already paid everything anyway.”

In-ho remembered the moment clearly — lying in his bed, the black case heavy in his hand, a knife inside, just like last time. Only this time, he made a different choice.

He didn't kill.

It was a gamble — the biggest he’d ever taken.

In the previous timeline, he had murdered every other player during the night to secure his victory before the final game. But now… he chose not to. He kept the knife beside him and lay down to sleep.

When morning came, he half expected to wake up alone again — blood everywhere, silence in the air. But that didn't happen.

The others were still alive.

They woke too, cautious and disoriented, but breathing. No overnight massacre. No automatic disqualification. Just a quiet summons for the final game.

It was then that everything shifted.

The final match was one he recognized — not because he had played it, but because he had seen it in the future . The so-called Sky Squid Game.

It was brutal. Three towers. No clear rules — only the last person standing could win.

He had no idea what to expect. He wasn’t sure if he was going to live.

Because in his original timeline, there had been no final game. He had killed everyone the night before, and the prize had simply been handed to him.

Oh Il-nam had told him once, during a rare unfiltered conversation on the island, that this was what his final match had been intended to be on his edition of games: chaos, survival, and spectacle. It's how it's always been in games. Only then, it was supposed to be hundreds of meters above the ground.

At that time, In-ho was terrified. He swore to himself that he would never use that idea when designing the games as the Frontman.

But when Gi-hun returned to the island — stubborn, furious, determined to tear it all down — something shifted.

Il-nam's old words came back to him.

So In-ho chose it.

Maybe to test him. Maybe to understand. Maybe, deep down, to punish himself.

And then fate turned on him. Because this time, he was the one playing.

Not observing from the mask. Not issuing orders from a glass office. But standing on one of those towers, surrounded by desperate people.

He tried to keep to the edges — not get drawn in. He observed. He analyzed. He waited.

But in these games, waiting doesn’t keep you alive.

They were animals — starving, panicked, determined to win. He'd seen it a hundred times from the other side of the mask. But now, it was too close.

Eventually, he made it to the final tower with two others. Tensions flared. One pushed the other. No hesitation. No guilt.

Just instinct.

The man fell screaming into the abyss.

And then there were two.

They fought. Harder than In-ho expected. He dropped his knife at one point. Got stabbed in the stomach. Nearly passed out. But in the end — he won.

Barely.

The other man didn’t fall. He just couldn’t stand.

When the timer reached its final seconds, the man looked at In-ho — not with anger, but with something like resignation.

“Please,” he had said. “Let it be you. Not them.”

He wanted a clean death. Not one-handed down by some distant authority.

But then, In-ho couldn't.

“Hyung, umma will be worried again.” Jun-ho pulled him out of his thoughts.

In-ho blinked and came back to the present.

His brother was crouched in front of him, still holding the gauze, eyes scanning his face like he was trying to find an answer beneath the skin. Maybe he was.

“Yeah,” In-ho muttered. “You’re right.”

His eyes were blindfolded. He could feel that they were traveling in a limousine.

It was ridiculous — he remembered the smell perfectly.

The wound on his stomach throbbed with fiery pain. The pain made him feel as if he were about to lose consciousness. The painkillers he had been given intravenously on the island were slowly wearing off. He wanted to press down on the wound through the gray fabric of his gray hoodie, but his hands were tied. He hissed.

“It will take a long time to heal.” He heard Il-nam's voice. “And you could have gotten away with it without even a bruise.”

He remained silent. He had no intention of talking to him.

“You know, I really thought you would do it. That you would take the knife and kill them all. I wonder why you didn't.”

Silence again, but this time only because In-ho was wondering how to choose his words. Finally, he simply said:

“I'm not a murderer.”

He was.

Maybe his 39-year-old body wasn't, but his soul had thousands of innocent people on its conscience, whom he had killed in the previous timeline. That couldn't be erased.

But maybe he could just fill the other side of the scale with good decisions.

The last time he had won, he’d vanished into the system — taken the Frontman’s mask and become a cog in the same machine he once despised. And from there, things had only gotten worse. He remembered that life in disturbing clarity. The years blurred together in quiet, methodical cruelty. Paperwork. Surveillance. Orders. Executions.

And through it all, the numbness. Like he had amputated his conscience.

Now, everything felt raw again. Real. And he didn’t know if he could carry it.

“I have to go home,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Il-nam turned to look at him fully. “Ah. You still have someone waiting.”

In-ho flinched almost imperceptibly.

“Yes,” he lied.

Ji-ae was gone. She had died while he was in the games, he remembered that well. It was a pain that never dies. But he just learned how to live with it.

And now, the time loop gave him a chance to keep making the right choices. He wanted it.

Il-nam sighed, settling back into the leather seat. “Well. I suppose you’re not quite as broken as I thought. That’s disappointing.”

In-ho finally turned his head in his direction. He still had a blindfold, but he swore he could see this old man's malicious grin.

“You were hoping I’d be?”

“Oh, no,” Il-nam said brightly. “I was just hoping you’d understand.”

The car slowed. A quiet signal that they were nearing Seoul. He felt smoke rising around him.

If the loop had really brought him back — then this was his chance to live differently.

Not as the mask.

Not as the system.

Not as Il-nam’s successor.

But, as Hwang In-ho.

Just a man.

A man trying — somehow — to do better.

“Just tell me what is going on.” Jun-ho kept pushing.“You're hiding something.”

It started to be annoying, but In-ho couldn't be mad. He knew how his younger brother was worried. How did he survive all those situations. His missing, Ji-ae's death, the wound in his hyung's stomach.

And — after all he did to him in that timeline, he just owed him that.

“If I were hiding something, I wouldn't move back in with you,” he answered slowly. 

Actually, he was forced to.

After returning home from the games and officially finding out that his wife was dead, he locked himself in his apartment. He had already had ten years to come to terms with it, but… it still hurt. Especially now, when all of it was so raw.

A week later, Jun-ho came to give him food. That's when he discovered that his brother had a stab wound in his abdomen, which had become infected due to very amateurish and careless bandage changes. He was hospitalized for two weeks. Fortunately or not — there were no complications.

His apartment was empty now, because Jun-ho and his mother had taken him in.

They didn't ask him any questions, even though they had plenty. They wanted to give him the space he needed so badly right now.

He thought about his wife. Especially her. But those thoughts were constantly drowned out by the realization that he was stuck in a time loop.

He went to the cemetery every day. He sat there for hours. He talked — to Ji-ae, to Ha-eun… mostly to himself.

The fact that they weren't there was a familiar feeling to him. But having to repeat it all, like penance, hurt in a differently.

Then he began to think about Gi-hun. Was he also in this loop? What was he doing? Would he recognize him if their paths crossed, and if he did, would he pretend otherwise?

Would he forgive him if he found out that he hadn't killed anyone this time?

Then came the realization — he was truly stuck in a time loop. And if he wanted to break it, he had to work with Gi-hun.

But he didn't even know if he was definitely in the loop.

So he started planning how to find out. He hired a detective who monitored his daily schedule for a few weeks, when he went out with his daughter, when he was at work. When he was helping his mother, in which shop he usually buys groceries, what specific station did he hold in his workshop.

Once he knew enough, he began to slowly walk to places where Gi-hun was supposed to appear. He didn't want to reveal himself right away — he preferred to just be somewhere nearby, wanting to be subtle so he could best observe his reaction. Once, on Gi-hun's birthday, he even went to Market Street, where he was returning with his daughter that evening. He wanted to walk past him, maybe brush shoulders with him, but some student beat him to it.

That evening, he was lying in bed, and when Jun-ho was changing his bandage, a perfect idea popped into his head.

He asked his younger brother to take his car to the repair shop before work on Monday morning. He told Jun-ho the exact number of the station where he was to leave the car. He was really lucky that Gi-hun and Jung-bae didn't have any rush that morning.

However, before he gave Jun-ho the keys, he searched all his pants pockets for the golden card the recruiter had given him. He was shocked that he hadn't thrown it away.

He hid the card under the car mat and waited.

Then he went to the workshop and saw how hard Gi-hun was trying to distance himself from him. That caught his attention. And when he found the card under the seat, In-ho knew everything.

They were in this loop together, and Gi-hun remembered everything perfectly.

The discovery didn’t come with relief — not exactly.

It came with dread.

Because knowing Gi-hun remembered meant the clock had already started ticking. Again.

It meant that this version of reality wasn’t just a second chance — it was a test. And if they were both here, carrying memories from that other life, then there had to be something they were meant to do. Or fix. Or end.

But what if their paths were meant to diverge, not align?

What if he was only meant to witness Gi-hun’s redemption — not take part in it?

That thought had haunted him ever since he watched Gi-hun put the card back under the car mat, jaw tight, eyes almost unreadable. That look in his face — quiet, cautious fury — was enough to tell In-ho that this man doesn't want to get involved anymore.

And trying to work with him will be hard.

Which left In-ho, once again, in the uncomfortable position of uncertainty. He really thought  that man would take that card. It would be much easier.

That night, after Jun-ho and his mom had gone to bed, In-ho sat alone in the kitchen. The cheap fluorescent light buzzed softly overhead. His tea had long gone cold.

He stared at the table.

Not really seeing it — just letting the thoughts flow.

What now?

He wanted to tell someone, scream it, maybe — that he wasn’t the same. That he had played fairly. That he had made different choices. That Ji-ae's death still crushed him, but this time he didn’t abandon her. Not willingly. Not for the games.

But none of that mattered if Gi-hun didn’t believe him.

And deep down, In-ho wasn’t sure if he deserved to be believed.

He just wanted to talk with someone who could understand him. Seong Gi-hun was the only person on this Earth who actually did. He hoped so.

“Hyung,” Jun-ho’s voice pulled him from his spiral.

He blinked and looked up. His brother stood in front of him, half-shrouded in the dim light, arms crossed. He looked like he hadn’t meant to interrupt — but yet, the inquisitiveness was eating him alive.

“Why did you ask me to take your car to that exact station?” he asked quietly.

In-ho’s mouth went dry.

Jun-ho didn’t sound too suspicious — more like curious. But curiosity from his brother always came with a razor edge.

He was smarter than In-ho gave him credit for. He always had been.

In-ho tried to deflect. “Because the other shop charged me too much last time.”

Jun-ho didn’t move. “You circled the exact name. Wrote the street. Even gave me a shortcut.”

In-ho said nothing.

“You were watching someone,” Jun-ho guessed.

In-ho flinched, just slightly.

Jun-ho came into the kitchen and leaned against the opposite counter. “Do you want to tell me who?”

The truth was, when he was still the Frontman in his original timeline, he was a little too obsessed with Seong Gi-hun. At first, he wanted him to get on that plane and live his life — do something, In-ho, couldn't do himself — but the man was pushing, trying to stop the games so badly. Then, he started playing a game with him (Gi-hun had no idea about it). Making him go insane for three whole years, leaving hints that were leading him to nothing in particular. His helpless desperation was satisfying to In-ho.

After months, he realized that apart from spending huge sums of money just to track him down and tease him. Also, he spent an unhealthy amount of time watching him on cameras and thinking up what else he could do to make Gi-hun feel that there was some invisible bond between him and the Frontman.

He liked it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

It had started as curiosity — the kind born from admiration, maybe even guilt. Gi-hun came through all that, and he still wasn't able to kill. He wasn't able to renounce his humanity. The shine in his eyes couldn't fade.

In-ho was looking for someone who could understand. Not even forgive. Just sit in front of him, and accept that what he did in his games was necessary. He didn't want to recruit Gi-hun into the organization. He just wanted to prove to him that he was wrong. Just to break him, but he didn't name it that way.

There was something about the way the man moved — not just his body, but the weight he carried. Like every choice scarred him. Like he was still bleeding , long after the wounds should’ve closed.

And In-ho found himself… wanting to know him.

All of him.

At first, it was about control. About strategy. He wanted to get inside Gi-hun’s head, to predict him, outmaneuver him. That was what he told himself. That was how he justified the files, the hours of surveillance footage, the folders with timestamps and photos and scribbled notes. Every glimpse of Gi-hun’s life catalogued — the way he bit the skin on his thumb when he was nervous, how he favored his right knee when he walked, how his whole face changed when he smiled at the photos of his daughter.

It was all data, he told himself.

Until it wasn’t.

That was the reason he finally let him into the games again. He even came to pick him up himself, ignoring the confusion of the guards.

That was also the reason why he later decided to return to the game as a player. He hoped to get closer to Gi-hun. To gain his trust, and then break his heart by putting on a mask.

He wanted to break his heart so that he could be the one to put it back together.

However, his plans fell apart faster than he expected. Gi-hun knew everything from the very beginning and kept him at a distance. He saw through his sabotage. Jun-ho did the rest.

He remembered sitting with him in the room. He was tied up, and Gi-hun was pointing a rifle at his forehead.

He appreciated his brother's efforts and skills, but the truth was that if he wanted to, he could easily defeat the two of them. There were many moments when Jun-ho lost his concentration, when he inadvertently gave him a chance to grab his revolver and call for help.

But he didn't. He gave up not because he had no choice, but because he chose to. He didn't want to hurt either of them anymore.

He sincerely hoped that Gi-hun would shoot him in the head. He waited for it and didn't even hide it. He would rather die than face the fact that the man he cared so much about hated him and saw him as a monster.

He knew that as soon as they untied him, he would kill himself. He would shoot himself or stay on the island to blow up with it. That was what he deserved. Then Gi-hun started asking questions. And In-ho's answers were honest.

So honest to the point that he broke down. That he started crying. That all his wounds, which had healed but become infected, hurt as if they were raw again. Scratched open.

He couldn't forget the moment when Gi-hun said that he saw humanity in him.

For the first time, he felt that a person did not have to be broken in order to understand him.

Then there was that promise. When Gi-hun told him to live for him. It wasn't kind of him — it couldn't be, because Gi-hun hated him. But it gave him hope. It gave him a purpose in life. He clung to it like a man drowning.

He really hoped they would leave together. He didn't expect Gi-hun to want anything to do with him, but he was glad they would be able to escape side by side.

But he decided to stay.

He sat in his armchair, destroying everything In-ho felt at that moment.

But he deserved that. Gi-hun didn't.

That's why he decided to stay on the island as well. But he no longer dared to look Gi-hun in the eye, even though he wanted to do so one last time. 

Because the truth was, thinking about Gi-hun eased the pain of losing Ji-ae. It wasn't about replacing her. Gi-hun had become something like… the reincarnation of his feelings for him.

And now, he was stuck in a loop. Together with him. And Gi-hun didn't want to see him.

“Jun-ho, I’m tired.”

He would have loved to tell his brother everything — where the wound came from, why he disappeared when Ji-ae was dying in the hospital. Jun-ho was his younger brother, and he had always wanted to help his hyung, always wanted to understand.

But it was impossible to explain, impossible to believe , unless you had lived it yourself. Unless time had bent around you and spat you back out into the past, heavy with memories no one else carried.

There was only one person who did. And that person hated him with passion.

He would have to see Gi-hun again.

Explain everything. Find a way to break the time loop. Maybe even ask for his help — not as the man who once tried to destroy him, but as the man who had come back trying to be something else.

And most importantly — he had to see his eyes again.

Just once more.

Chapter Text

Jung-bae raised both eyebrows, and his lips curled involuntarily.

“What?” grumbled Gi-hun, who had just entered the workshop, throwing his backpack off his shoulder.

It was Thursday.

“Gi-hun ah , I was really trying not to ask too much, but… I don't think I can ignore it now.”

He had no idea what his best friend meant, so he just furrowed his brows, and it made his bruised nose burn painfully.

Jung-bae pointed to his own face with two fingers.

“You’re purple under your left eye. Your nose looks like someone slammed a door into it. And you’re moving like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Gi-hun hissed as he bent to unzip his backpack. “I fell,” he muttered.

Jung-bae snorted. “Down a flight of fists?”

There was silence, thick and clumsy. The sounds of tools clinking in the background filled the gap, but Gi-hun didn’t answer. He just pulled out his work gloves and stood there for a moment, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

“Gi-hun ah ,” Jung-bae said more gently now. “Who did this to you?”

Gi-hun exhaled slowly through his nose — it hurt like hell. “I said, nothing happened.”

He paused for a moment. “Wait… you took out a loan, right? Did the loan sharks beat you up?”

Gi-hun shook his head. “No. I have enough money.”

“To pay it back, or—”

“Jung-bae, I didn't take out any loans, you understand?” His voice was sharper. He was so tired.

Jung-bae raised his hands in surrender, stepping back slightly. “Okay. Okay. I believe you.”

He didn’t — not entirely — but he could see Gi-hun’s shoulders twitch with irritation, or maybe pain. Either way, pressing wouldn’t get him anywhere now.

“Still,” he muttered, grabbing a wrench, “whoever did that to you, I hope you punched them back.”

Gi-hun didn’t reply. He moved stiffly to the other side of the car they were working on, pulling on his gloves. The silence between them wasn’t hostile, just… frayed.

They worked like that for a while. Wrenching, lifting, wiping grease from their hands onto their pants. Normal stuff. Except it wasn’t normal. Gi-hun kept spacing out. Dropping tools. Wincing every time he bent over.

Finally, Jung-bae couldn’t take it anymore.

“Was it someone you know?” he asked quietly.

Gi-hun’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look up. “You really can’t let it go, can you?”

“Not when you look like you lost a fight with a baseball bat, no.”

“I didn’t lose,” Gi-hun said before he could stop himself.

It was probably his mom who won that argument, actually.

Jung-bae blinked.

“I mean— I didn’t fight . I told you, I fell.”

After In-ho left his house, things seemed to get even worse.

The desire to finally feel peace, to completely cut himself off from games, seemed to have disappeared. He still didn't want to get involved, but he felt that this man would do anything to destroy his life once again, one way or another.

At night, he tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about the pink guards, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he could see Jung-bae on a human chandelier. Every time he fell asleep, he dreamed that he had to play Dalgona over and over again, and each subsequent shape to be cut out was more absurd than the previous one.

It all came back to him, and it was In-ho's fault.

On top of that, he still didn't know what this man really wanted from him.

Jung-bae didn’t ask again, but the silence that followed wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was charged — not angry, not cold, but full of unsaid things. The kind of silence that made you hyperaware of every breath, every scrape of metal on metal.

Gi-hun didn’t want to lie. Not to Jung-bae, not to anyone. But the truth? The truth wasn’t something he could put into words, even if he wanted to. It would make him sound insane. 

The deathly games, people in masks, he, winning it all. He didn't even have the money that could convince anyone that he was not crazy.

The time loop — that was even more unbelievable. The fact that he died twice, and each time went further and further back into the past. This weird feeling of having a mission, even if he still wasn't sure what the real mission was.

In-ho was the only one who knew the truth. The only one, he didn't have to lie to. But now, he didn't want to have him around. It was too painful. Too… against himself.

He could't be sure if In-ho was telling the truth. That he didn't kill his opponents in their sleep again. He really wanted to not believe him. He really wanted to hate him again.

But he couldn't.

Gi-hun rubbed a grease-smudged hand across his face and winced when his fingers brushed the tender skin beneath his eye. It stung — more than just physically. It was a reminder.

He hated that In-ho had gotten under his skin again.

Again.

But he couldn’t hate him — that was the problem.

Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the way In-ho looked at him. Not the cold, composed Frontman gaze behind the mask — but the man beneath. Raw. Unmasked. Terrified.

It made Gi-hun feel sick.

He remembered pointing the rifle at him, his finger on the trigger. How In-ho didn’t flinch. How he looked like he wanted it. Like the bullet would be a mercy.

And Gi-hun — stupid, soft, furious Gi-hun — lowered the gun.

He should’ve ended it then. He should’ve pulled the trigger and walked away. Maybe the whole thing would be over. The organization, the lies, the cycle. Done.

But instead, he gave him hope. Told him to live.

And now here they were again. Pulled back into each other’s orbit by whatever twisted gravity held them both in this loop.

Gi-hun gritted his teeth and grabbed the jack stand. His body screamed at the movement, and he hissed under his breath. Jung-bae looked up, concern flickering in his eyes, but said nothing.

He ducked beneath the hood of the car they were working on and started fiddling with the battery cables, even though they didn’t need fiddling. His hands weren’t steady — he noticed that now — and he hated it. The gloves clung to his damp palms, sticky with sweat, despite the fact that the garage was cool. His nose still burned.

But worse than the pain was the anxiety humming under his skin like a second pulse.

He tightened a bolt too hard. It snapped. He muttered a curse.

From the other side of the car, Jung-bae poked his head around. “Want me to take over?”

“I'm okay,” he muttered.

“Suit yourself.”

Jung-bae disappeared again behind the chassis, but the tension didn’t. It stayed lodged somewhere between them, heavy and invisible.

Gi-hun leaned against the hood, letting his eyes fall shut for a few seconds.

It was like his body was there, in the garage, among the oil stains and the scent of motor grease — but the rest of him, his mind, his soul, whatever was left of it — was stuck somewhere else entirely.

He wasn't sleeping. He was barely eating. Everything tasted like rubbish. And now, every time he passed a glass window or a side mirror, he half-expected to see that damned black mask staring back at him.

He bent down again to tighten the bolt. The wrench slipped out of his hand once again.

“Fuck!”

His cracking voice echoed off the tin walls. Then there was silence. He pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to clear his mind.

When he looked up, he saw his best friend, who looked even more worried than before. 

“Sorry.”

He grunted.

“You know,” Jung-bae’s voice came again, casually enough, “you’re allowed to take a few days off. Get a sick note from your doctor and rest.”

Gi-hun didn't respond. Just got back to work.

Friday was quieter. More peaceful.

Which, in Gi-hun’s current state, felt almost suspicious.

No strange men showed up at his door. No phone calls from numbers he didn’t recognize. No dreams of exploding glass bridges or pink uniforms or giant animatronic dolls counting down his breaths.

He woke up early, stretched stiff limbs with a wince, and made himself black coffee. He didn’t bother with food. It still tasted like ash.

The quiet wasn’t comforting. It was like standing in the eye of a storm — knowing the silence wouldn’t last, but not knowing which direction the winds would come from next.

He walked to work.

The sun was out, and the streets were bustling with the usual noise of late morning traffic. He kept his head down, hoodie up — just the illusion of privacy.

At the garage, Jung-bae didn’t say much. He handed him a coffee when he walked in — a peace offering, maybe, or perhaps just a routine expression of sympathy — and nodded toward the undercarriage of a Hyundai they’d been struggling with the day before.

Then he went home and went to bed. Before he could fall asleep, his mother yelled at him and dragged him to the kitchen for dinner. 

She also noticed the state her son was in, and her concern intensified since she found him fighting with a stranger in her house.

“That man from Wednesday,” she began, watching Gi-hun slowly pick vegetables out of his soup. “Was he Eun-ji's new partner?”

Gi-hun froze.

His spoon hovered above the bowl, pieces of radish clinging to it. He didn’t look up.

His mother watched him closely, arms crossed, apron still on. The TV buzzed faintly in the living room, some evening drama playing to no one.

“I said,” she repeated, “was that man from Wednesday Eun-ji’s new boyfriend?”

He finally lifted his gaze. “No,” he said flatly.

“Then who was he?” she asked, not missing a beat.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. What could he say?

“Just an old friend.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. She was no fool. “What kind of friends fight like that?”

He didn't respond. Instead, he set the spoon down carefully and rubbed his temples with both hands.

“Umma, please. I don't wanna talk about this right now.”

The next morning, he woke up at eleven o'clock, but he still felt tired. He rushed to catch the subway because he had to pick up Ga-yeong at 11:30.

Gi-hun had barely brushed his teeth before rushing out of the apartment, his hair a mess, his hoodie half-zipped. His mother yelled after him about breakfast, but he waved her off mid-sprint, already in the doorway.

The subway was packed. Bodies pressed together, swaying with the motion, but Gi-hun barely noticed. He held the metal pole with one hand and stared at his reflection in the glass window across from him. The bruises were fading, but still there. Still visible.

He pulled the hood up tighter and looked away.

He arrived at the meeting spot near the bookstore, slightly out of breath and five minutes late. Ga-yeong was already there, standing next to Eun-ji, clutching a small plush keychain. She looked up as he approached and broke into a smile that could have melted asphalt.

“Appa!”

Gi-hun crouched down with a wince and opened his arms. She ran into them.

Eun-ji didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes lingered a moment too long on the bruise under his eye.

“I told her you’d be here right on time,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t warm either.

“I’m only five minutes late,” Gi-hun muttered, standing back up.

“Six!” Ga-yeong corrected proudly, lifting her wristwatch, which made him smile. Then she noticed her dad's bruised face. She opened her mouth, but was overtaken by her mother.

“What happened to your face?” she asked, handing him the small backpack with Ga-yeong’s things.

He looked at her briefly, with a look on his face as if he wanted to dispose of the subject, especially in front of their daughter. 

Then he turned back to Ga-yeong. “Appa was repairing some gentleman's car and one part fell on his nose,” he said in a slightly joking tone, not wanting to worry the girl. “But it doesn't hurt a bit.”

Ga-yeong giggled. “You should wear a helmet next time!”

“I should, huh?” Gi-hun ruffled her hair, a brief flicker of warmth cracking through the exhaustion behind his eyes.

Eun-ji didn’t smile. She studied him in that way only someone who used to love you can — with distance, but not disinterest. Her arms were folded across her chest, fingers tapping against her elbow like she was debating whether to say something else. She didn’t.

Instead, she just said, “She has her sketchbook in the side pocket. There are snacks and a bottle of water in the main one. She ate a late breakfast.”

Gi-hun nodded, accepting the backpack.

“Be back by six,” Eun-ji added. 

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. He looked tired. She looked unconvinced. Then she leaned down to kiss Ga-yeong’s forehead and walked away without another word.

Gi-hun exhaled, low and shaky, and turned back to his daughter. She looked up at him, full of expectation.

“Where are we going?” she asked, swinging the small backpack onto her shoulders with practiced independence.

“Now, wherever you want. Later, we'll have dinner at halmeoni's.”

They set off down the street, Ga-yeong’s little feet padding confidently ahead of him. Gi-hun fell into step beside her, one hand on her backpack strap, the other rubbing the still-tender bruise beneath his eye.

“Appa,” she said after a few blocks, “can we go to the art shop? I want more colors.”

He glanced at the row of small storefronts — art supply, stationery, a tiny toy shop. Nodded. “Sure. Let’s do that.”

Inside, the shop smelled of wood and paper and fresh paint. Ga-yeong’s eyes lit up as she ran to the watercolor section, pulling out every shade of green she could find. He watched her carefully arrange tubes in a neat row, lost in her own world.

Apparently, her two-week phase for sea creatures has now been replaced by a phase for painting pictures.

Gi-hun stood a few feet away, letting her pick at the paints while he leaned against a display rack of sketchbooks. The soft classical music playing over the speakers was a strange contrast to the noise in his mind. He tried to focus on her, on the way her brows furrowed in concentration as she examined labels, on how she muttered to herself in decision-making tones that mimicked her mother.

He almost forgot the bruises. The time loop. In-ho.

Almost.

“Appa, which green do you like better?” Ga-yeong held up two tubes — one labeled Evergreen , the other Pine green .

Both could remind him only of the green tracksuit they wore in games. 

He sighed quietly.

“And what will you paint with them?” he asked, his voice calm.

“Grass!”

He blinked, forced a smile. “Hmm. So maybe, you should pick some brighter one, huh?” he said, pointing to some tube with Forest green .

She gave a thoughtful nod. “Mhm. You're right.”

They got on the subway and then walked from the station to Market Street. They found the food stall where his mother was working that afternoon. She saw them coming and waved them over with her ladle.

“Well, look who’s finally treating me to a visit,” she called out. “And you, little miss, look taller every time I see you.”

Ga-yeong grinned and held out her arms like airplane wings. “I’m growing fast because I eat spicy food!”

His mom laughed. “Is that right? Well then, we better go home to feed you more so you'll outgrow your dad soon.”

She sent him a glance. He caught the hint. What she meant was that he hadn't been eating much lately.

Mal-soon led her granddaughter by the hand while he pulled her stroller home.

At home, his mother fussed over them. She set out bowls of soup, steaming rice, and a platter of spicy fish cakes — all Ga-yeong’s favorites. Gi-hun ate slowly, paying careful attention to each bite, because he knew how much it meant to her when he ate well. He caught his mother’s eye once across the table — she gave him a small, approving smile before returning to her own meal.

Ga-yeong chattered about painting grass and trees, her spoon clattering against the bowl in excitement. Gi-hun reached over and tousled her hair.

“I’ll help you mix the colors later,” he promised. “We’ll set up a little art station right here.”

Her face lit up, and she bounced in her seat. “Really? Can we use the big paper?”

“Of course.”

After dinner, he carried her to the living room floor, spreading out newspapers and propping the sketchbook and paints on an old TV tray. Ga-yeong painted quietly, humming a little tune, while Mal-soon sat beside them, knitting silently. Gi-hun sank onto the couch, arms resting on his knees, watching.

Every so often, Mal-soon glanced at him, her knitting needles pausing mid-stitch. He could feel her worry, but she said nothing. Just sat there with him and the soft glow of the table lamp.

Ga-yeong finally looked up, wiping a smudge of green from her chin. “Appa, look!” She held up her painting: a bright meadow under a blue sky, with a small figure in the corner waving.

He smiled and sat beside her. “That’s beautiful. Who’s that little person?”

She pointed. “That’s me. And that’s you and umma! Ya like it?” She painted three stick figures — two tall, one small — holding hands.

He felt something tighten in his chest. He nodded, his voice thick. “I love it.”

It was half past five, so they still had about an hour to go. It was cold outside, so they decided to continue staying indoors. His mother, however, still had to return to the market. Before leaving, she hugged and kissed Ga-yeong goodbye.

The painting bored her already, so they cleaned up the mess and put her picture by the heater to dry.

Later, Gi-hun made her some sweet tea and brewed himself some bitter, and they sat together in the living room, slowly sipping their drinks.

After a while, he took a glance at the clock on the wall. They had twenty minutes to catch the subway.

“Okay, let’s get your stuff together. You ready to head back?”

She nodded and hopped off the couch, gathering her sketchbook, her crayons, the little plush keychain. She slung her backpack over her shoulder without being asked. Independent. Just like her mom.

They circled in the hallway for a while, Ga-yeong dressing inher purple coat. Gi-hun noticed that one of his shoes was missing somewhere. He thought that maybe his mother had accidentally pushed it under the dresser with her stroller, so he bent down to look there. The shoe was indeed there. He pulled it out from under the furniture and slowly picked it up. He opened his mouth to joke something to his daughter, but suddenly…

A knock.

The words bogged down in his throat. He slowly turned his head toward the door, not noticing how Ga-yeong quickly ran to it, shouting something that it was definitely her halmeoni.

“Ga-yeong, don't!” He only had time to call out before the girl struggled to reach for the handle and open the door, which Gi-hun had earlier unlocked. How stupid he was to do that!

The door swung open.

But it wasn’t Mal-soon.

It was In-ho.

Wearing the same black coat as on Wednesday, his cut lip had not yet healed. He stood in the doorway, hands held at his sides, and smiled slightly at the girl, who looked at him confused.

Gi-hun froze for a brief moment, and then he stood up from the floor. He stepped in front of his daughter, one arm instinctively out to shield her. He furrowed his brow, making his bruised face hurt again, but he ignored it.

The girl caught hold of her dad's leg and ducked from behind it, a little shy.

“You must be Ga-yeong, right?” In-ho looked briefly into Gi-hun's eyes, then he leaned a bit towards the girl, a soft smile didn't leave his mouth.

“Appa, is this your friend from work?” She slowly looked at her dad. Gi-hun had no idea how to act. “A part of the car seems to have fallen on his face, too,” she said, pointing to her lip in place, where In-ho had his cut.

When Gi-hun thought, nothing worse could possibly happen anymore, In-ho pulled out a small pink teddy bear from behind his back and, before handing it to the girl, looked briefly at her dad, as if asking permission. The man, however, stood there stunned and with his eyes bulging, unable to even twitch. 

“You're very clever,” he said. “This is a small gift for you.” 

Ga-yeong accepted the teddy bear, thanking him quietly.

Only this brought Gi-hun back to earth.

This bastard did it on purpose.

He for sure was monitoring his schedule and knew exactly when he was spending time with his daughter. That's why he brought this teddy with him. He decided to come up today, because he knew Gi-hun wouldn't fight with him in front of Ga-yeong.

What a sly dog. Fucking weirdo.

In-ho straightened up and now stood eye to eye with the man.

“Can we finish our conversation?”

“No,” he cut off. “We were just leaving.”

In-ho didn’t move from the doorway. “It’ll only take a moment.”

“I said no.” Gi-hun’s voice dropped low, the kind of calm that came before a storm. “Get out of my way.”

Ga-yeong looked between them, still confused. “Appa… is everything okay?”

Gi-hun forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Grab your scarf. We're about to miss the subway.”

She nodded and ran off to the coat rack. Gi-hun stepped closer to In-ho now, their shoulders nearly brushing. His jaw tightened. “I can give you a ride in my car—” 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he hissed quietly, so Ga-yeong couldn't hear him. “You thought you could use my daughter to get your foot in the door? Are you insane?”

Gi-hun’s words cut through the air like a blade. In-ho’s expression flickered — surprise, then something softer, almost wounded.

“No,” he said softly. “I brought her a gift. I didn’t think—”

Gi-hun’s fingers itched around the door frame. He wanted to shove In-ho out, slam the door on him, bury this whole nightmare. Instead, he forced himself to hold still.

“Don’t think,” he spat. “Just leave.”

Chapter Text

Gi-hun knew that their conversation would come eventually. He couldn't say, he didn't want it. Actually, if In-ho had come up when he was home alone, he would've given him a chance. Or if he at least pretended, he had no idea Ga-yeong would be there. Gi-hun wouldn't get that mad.

But he couldn't remain still, seeing with what audacity this man wanted to act. No one will do such a thing to his daughter.

Ga-yeong was asking him questions while they were sitting on the subway, but his answers were brief and evasive. Even for a four-year-old, it was quite a sufficient sign that she shouldn't ask more. So she changed the topic, and he was trying to force a smile.

He rang Eun-ji's doorbell at exactly six o'clock. Ga-yeong said goodbye to him and ran deeper into the apartment, and he only nodded, barely conscious, and wanted to avoid any small talk because he didn't feel like it. He wanted to go home.

“If you keep acting like this, she won't be meeting you,” his wife said.

He furrowed his brow, not understanding. “What are you—”

“Look at you,” she interrupted him. “Your whole face is bruised. And the way you behave is at least worrying.”

His expression twitched.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he said. “I’m not drinking. I’m not gambling. I’m not…”

 He stopped, as if the rest of the sentence hurt too much to say.

“I just need some time,” he added, with his voice much lower.

Eun-ji’s face softened, but only a little. “Time for what?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer. He met her eyes, then dipped his head slightly — not in shame, but in a plea for silence. Not here. Not now. She seemed to get the message.

“Fine,” she said. “But if I see her coming back upset again — even a little — I won’t wait for an explanation.”

She slammed the door.

The hallway felt colder now. Like the tension from earlier had followed him, wrapping around his neck like a scarf he couldn’t shake off.

He walked down the stairs, thinking deeply. This return to the past in this timeline was supposed to give him a second chance. He was already fine. And now, the games, In-ho, and everything he had in his memory haunted him.

He knew he couldn't pull this way much longer. He had to calm down.

He promised himself that the next time he met In-ho, he would be calm. Not yielding — just composed. No matter what the man wanted from him, he would remain calm and simply listen to him.

He had to do it. For Ga-yeong. For holy peace of mind.

When he descended the steps, the dark estate was empty. Almost empty. Only one person stood in the middle of the square. His stomach knotted.

It will be very difficult for him to remain calm.

He stopped and sighed. He remembered to be calm, and he was too tired to get angry anyway.

“Is there any timeline in which you're not spying on me?” he asked, his voice loud, as he stacked his hands in his pockets.

In-ho was a little surprised that this man didn't start running to strangle him or something. The slight banter in his voice was even stranger.

Finally, he smiled, almost invisibly, and shook his head negatively. “I'm sorry, but it really is important.”

Gi-hun let out a slow exhale, then walked toward him — not quickly, not with menace. Just with the weight of someone who had no energy left to waste on rage.

They stood facing each other under the dim yellow streetlight, their shadows long across the pavement. In-ho looked tired. More than tired. Haunted, even. The kind of haunted that Gi-hun saw in his own mirror every morning.

“Never ever try to use my child as your tool like you did today.” 

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. Just don't ever do it again.”

“Okay.”

“I should’ve punched you in the face today.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence, looking at each other. Finally, the cold began to annoy Gi-hun.

“Well?” Gi-hun said, voice flat. “You’ve got me here. Say what you wanna say.”

In-ho hesitated. “Not here.”

Gi-hun rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back toward the sky for a moment, like he might find patience somewhere up there. “ May I find patience. Then where?”

“I have a place. Nearby,” In-ho said. “Fifteen minutes. Just talk.”

Gi-hun hesitated. He could walk away. No one would blame him. But something gnawed at him — not curiosity, exactly, but the dread of not knowing. The feeling that not knowing would eat away at him more than anything In-ho might actually say.

He nodded once. He just wanted to get it over with already. “Lead the way.”

They walked in silence.

The path curved down streets and alleys until they reached a small, forgotten café tucked beneath a cracked concrete overhang. The sign was sun-faded, half the lights dead. Inside, it was warm and empty, save for a single elderly man at the counter watching a baseball game on a tiny TV. He didn’t look up as they entered.

The man slid into a booth. Gi-hun sat across from him stiffly, arms crossed.

They didn’t order anything. In-ho folded his hands on the table like he was bracing for surgery.

“I wanted to talk to you, because I want to break the time loop. But I don't know how,” he said. 

Gi-hun’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“And… I just wanted to talk with someone who would understand.”

Gi-hun stared at him, unmoving. The overhead light buzzed faintly above them, casting pale halos around their heads, like they were both ghosts stuck in purgatory.

“I don't know how to break it,” he answered. 

“Do you think it's about the games?”

He croaked, crossing his arms more firmly. “I don't know. I thought so at first. That I had to stop them. But the island exploded, and yet, I'm here again. Well, we are.”

In-ho pondered for a moment. His face finally bent in a grimace of mild horror mixed with disbelief. “But… completely stopping the games is impossible.”

Gi-hun's face remained indifferent. “I think so too. That's why I'm not going to do anything about it.”

The man sitting at the other side of the table blinked. “You’re not…?”

“I’m not playing a hero again,” Gi-hun said flatly. “Not this time. The first time, I tried. I thought I could bring the whole thing down — make the world wake up, expose the truth. But it didn’t change anything. The machine kept turning. And it was you who made me aware of it.”

In-ho stared at him, searching for something. “But you remember . That has to mean… anything.”

Gi-hun laughed, but there was no humor in it. “In-ho ssi , I'll tell you something.”

The man furrowed his brow, his eyes staring at him in anticipation.

“I died twice thinking, I have to stop the games that are unstoppable. Even if I were to blow up thousands of islands, these people won't stop. But you should know it better than I.”

In-ho nodded slightly, waiting for his next words to come.

“I get a second chance here, to fix my life before it started falling apart. And I am going to take that chance. You should do it too. I say this sincerely.”

In-ho looked down at his hands, fingers curling slightly on the table like they were grasping something invisible. His throat bobbed once as he swallowed. 

“But what about the loop?”

Gi-hun shrugged his shoulders. “If I can raise my daughter,” he muttered, “then I will gladly pay even that price.”

In-ho was silent for a long time.

The TV behind them crackled, the sound of the baseball commentator rising faintly between their words like static in the space of memory. The old man at the counter chuckled to himself, blissfully unaware that two men were negotiating with time and grief just a few feet away.

In-ho looked at him for a long time after that — truly looked. As if trying to memorize his face, or find the cracks in his armor. But there weren’t any. Not this time. Gi-hun wasn’t wearing armor.

He was just… tired.

And maybe that was worse.

“So that’s it?” In-ho finally asked. “You’re giving up?”

“No.” Gi-hun leaned back, expression unreadable. “I’m letting myself live.”

The distinction hit harder than In-ho expected. Because it wasn’t indifference — it wasn’t apathy. It was a surrender in the most painful, most honest way. A surrender to life. Not death. Not control. Just existence.

But then he remembered something.

“The last time you said that, you stayed on an exploding island,” he raised his eyebrows.

Not to make fun of him. Not to accuse him.

He said it because he wanted to make sure it would never happen again.

Gi-hun, however, was a bit struck by this. He knew In-ho was right. He swallowed his saliva hard, looking for some point of defense.

After a moment, his face lit up slightly, as if a coveted ace had just fallen out of his sleeve.

“You're probably the last person who should say that,” he snorted. “You promised me you would live, and thirty minutes later you killed yourself.”

In-ho flinched.

It was subtle — barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth — but Gi-hun caught it. The truth in those words had hit their mark, sharper than any accusation. For a moment, In-ho just sat there, staring down at his own hands as if he didn’t recognize them.

“I didn’t… plan to,” he finally murmured.

Gi-hun raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no? So the part where you stayed behind on a detonating island was what — a misunderstanding?”

“I meant to die,” In-ho said, his voice barely audible. “But not because I gave up. I just didn't want to live without you.”

Silence.

Heavy. Slow. Like time thickened around them.

Finally, Gi-hun let out a short laugh. As if he took it as a joke.

“You think this is a love story?” he laughed again. “I'm still a married man, y'know.”

In-ho did not laugh. He simply looked in his direction, his jaw clenched as if it had nothing to say. He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat and then lowered his head. He simply was embarrassed.

It took a while for Gi-hun to realize the other man's reaction. He furrowed his brow, as if trying to connect the dots in his head, but couldn't. It was as if he was trying to add two to two, but he kept coming up with five.

Gi-hun stared.

He had made the joke to break the tension — or maybe to push In-ho away again, to build a wall with humor before anything too real could settle between them. But the reaction he got wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t denial or discomfort. It was a shame. Embarrassment. A quiet admission without words.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

“… Wait,” he said, voice suddenly dry.

In-ho didn’t look up.

“You—” Gi-hun stopped himself. Cleared his throat. “You didn’t mean that. You couldn’t have.”

The man across from him stayed still, only his fingers moving — slowly curling into fists on the table, the knuckles pale.

“You didn’t… I mean…” Gi-hun’s voice dropped. “You’re not serious.”

Still nothing.

Gi-hun’s heart thudded in his chest — not from outrage, or embarrassment, but from something more disorienting. Something that slid beneath all the grief and exhaustion like a sharp knife under cloth. He leaned back in his seat, stunned. He rubbed a hand down his face, the silence between them now unbearably loud. He wasn’t angry — not in the way he expected to be. He wasn’t even disgusted. But he felt the floor shift under him anyway, like someone had moved the foundation of everything without warning.

“Say something,” Gi-hun whispered, but it came out like a breath, almost afraid to be heard.

In-ho still didn’t look up. He stared at the scratched surface of the old café table like it held the only truth he could bear to face. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and stripped bare:

“I didn’t come here to confess it.”

Gi-hun blinked, uncomprehending for a second.

“I didn’t even… know, really. Not at first,” In-ho continued, words falling like reluctant pebbles. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. You were just… someone I respected. Someone I envied. Someone I watched fall apart in every possible way, and still choose others over himself. And I hated you for that. Because I couldn’t do it.”

He swallowed hard.

“But then you came back. Over and over. And you didn’t give up, even when I did. And when you told me that you don't see me as a monster, but as a human being… that gave me hope. That maybe I'm not completely lost.”

Gi-hun’s throat was dry. A single breath made his lungs sting. He opened his mouth to say something — anything — but the words tangled in his chest.

“I didn’t know it was an affection until I was about to die,” In-ho added, almost in a whisper. “Not the kind, people write poems about. Not even the kind you’re supposed to talk about. Just… something deeper. Older. Like gravity.”

He finally looked up.

His eyes were glassy, tired. Not pleading. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

“I know I do not deserve you,” he said. “I never did. But I had to say it once. And now I have.”

Silence stretched between them again. Longer, colder this time. Even the old man at the counter turned the TV volume down, as if the air itself had thickened enough to notice.

Gi-hun leaned back again slowly, trying to process it all.

“You’re really fucking weird,” he finally muttered, rubbing a hand over his face again.

In-ho exhaled — something between a breath and a laugh. “Yeah.”

Gi-hun let his hands fall, slow and heavy. He looked at In-ho again — really looked — and for the first time in this loop, he saw the man beneath the mask. Not the cold strategist. Not the Frontman. But someone so tired of being alone, he was willing to fold time itself just to hold onto something that had already slipped through his fingers.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Gi-hun murmured.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” In-ho replied. “Just don’t hate me.”

That landed heavier than anything else.

Gi-hun exhaled, jaw tightening. Then, quietly:

“I don’t.”

In-ho’s shoulders dropped — not in relief, but in something closer to resignation. Like the thing he feared most didn’t come, but it didn’t change much either.

They sat like that for a while.
Two ghosts in a warm room.

Finally, Gi-hun broke the silence again. His voice was low, but steadier now.

“You said you didn't kill the other finalists in your game this time,” he decided to change the topic, which was quite embarrassing for him. “Why?”

In-ho's eyebrows trembled, and his lips parted slightly. Such a strange expression of mild amusement, in which there was really nothing funny. “This will sound stupid after what I just told you.”

Gi-hun's expression, however, was serious, as if to assure him that he wouldn't laugh. His eyebrows raised slightly. “So?”

In-ho let out a deep breath from his lungs. His face solidified, as if he was replaying the entire trauma in his mind. “When I woke up in that loop, I was in the games again. A guard took me to Il-nam. Then he gave me a knife,” he said slowly. “I went back to the dormitory. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't see any other option.”

Gi-hun swallowed his saliva. “So what was the reason you didn't do it eventually?”

“You.”

Silence. None of them dared to even breathe.

“You just showed up. Some kind of a hallucination, I believe. But you've told me, once again, that I'm a human. That I don't have to do that.”

Gi-hun snorted quietly under his breath.

He recalled when he himself faced a dilemma in the first timeline. He remembered holding the blade to the Player's 100 neck. When it was in his hands to decide whether he and the rest of his sleeping opponents would be able to wake up in the morning.

And then, before his eyes, Kang Sae-byeok appeared. In a suit, lying in bed, drenched in sweat. Her face was weak, like it was when he went with the knife to kill Sang-woo.

'Sir… don’t do it. That isn’t you. You’re a good person at heart.'

Gi-hun was glad he could be In-ho's Sae-byeok.

In-ho didn’t speak after that. He just let the moment settle between them like a soft blanket neither of them had the courage to touch.

Gi-hun leaned deeper into his seat, letting his shoulders rest against the cracked faux leather. His fingers fidgeted with a sugar packet, creasing and uncreasing it. He wasn’t sure what to say, what could be said — but the silence between them, for once, didn’t feel like a cage. It felt like air. Breathing space.

“You hallucinated me,” Gi-hun finally said, the corner of his mouth twitching with something not quite a smile. “That’s… pretty pathetic.”

In-ho let out a weak chuckle. “Yeah. I guess I am pathetic too.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Gi-hun pause. Something in his tone — not self-pitying, not ironic — just painfully plain. Honest. The kind of honesty that came at a cost.

Gi-hun studied him for a moment, really studied him — as if only now was he beginning to understand the depth of the man sitting across from him. Not just the deeds, not just the mask, not even the trauma. But the quiet, miserable truth beneath it all: that In-ho was a man who had spent too long living in the aftermath of his own decisions. A man who had lost the thread of who he used to be, and now clung to fragments of what could’ve been.

He recalled his original timeline. The one, when he didn't know yet, that Young-il was the Frontman. The one in which he felt the indescribable connection with him. Every moment, when he had a slight feeling, they could be something more than just friends. Than just co-survivors.

That memory hurt.

He was pathetic as well.

“Who was Young-il supposed to be?”

In-ho stiffened.

It was so subtle, it might’ve been missed by someone else — just the way his hand stopped moving, the faint narrowing of his eyes. But Gi-hun noticed. And he waited.

Because he knew the question had landed exactly where it was supposed to.

In-ho didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the table again, and his voice, when it finally emerged, sounded older than he looked. “I wanted him to be me before everything. When Ji-ae was still alive, before… you know, the games.”

“So he was real.”

The silence stretched, long and raw — the kind of silence that begged to be filled but punished you for speaking. His lips parted, then closed again. He seemed to be debating something, fighting some quiet war inside his chest.

“I think I liked Young-il the most,” Gi-hun said finally.

In-ho’s eyes flicked up sharply at that, a faint tremor betraying something beneath his calm exterior.

“But,” he started, voice low, “you knew he was the Frontman. You kept your distance.”

“I meant my original timeline. When I first met him.”

In-ho swallowed his saliva slowly, like he was scared to ask another question.

“Did you start to hate him when you found out the truth?”

“Never.”

The silence between them now pulsed with something more volatile. Not anger. Not pain. But memory — deep, submerged memory, rising to the surface like wreckage from a sunken ship. Both men were quiet, their gazes locked for the first time without challenge, without weaponry. Just recognition.

In-ho’s jaw tensed, then slackened. His voice cracked slightly when he next spoke, but it wasn’t weakness — it was something heavier, more restrained.

“I didn’t mean to bring the teddy bear today,” he said suddenly, softly. “I mean, I did — but not like that. I didn’t plan it to… manipulate you.”

Gi-hun looked at him with some kind of curiosity. He didn't say a word.

“It was supposed to be for Ha-eun. My wife and I had already bought it much earlier. I guess we truly had thought… ”

His voice cracked, gaze softened. He let out a long, trembling exhale.

“Having it was too painful, but I couldn't throw it away, just like that,” he continued. “I'm sure Ga-yeong will handle him best.”

Gi-hun smiled, but only on the inside. His face was still impassive, as if he was talking about something deadly serious and not a teddy bear. “Of course, she will. She's the best at babysitting stuffed animals. And naming them.”

In-ho just snorted. “I'm glad.”

Silence fell once again. Gi-hun glanced at his watch. It was getting to seven o'clock.

“I'll be getting going. It's been much more than fifteen minutes.”

“Oh. Right.”

They stood after that. Stepped out into the late autumn air, the night above them was dark. The city buzzed around them like a living organism — cars, people, the far-off sound of a train rattling over a bridge.

Gi-hun stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t follow me home,” he warned lightly.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t text me weird shit at 2 a.m. either.”

“I never do that.”

“I'm afraid you will.”

“I don't even have your phone number.”

“Oh, you do.”

In-ho smiled again. Softer now. “Okay.”

Gi-hun started walking, hands in his pockets. But just before the sidewalk curved toward the subway entrance, he turned his head slightly.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeated, quieter than before.

He left without another word.

And In-ho stood there, alone, in the fading hum of the fluorescent lights. It felt lighter.

Chapter Text

What the hell was that?

Gi-hun stood just inside the door of his mother’s house, keys still dangling from his fingers. The silence in the room was complete, broken only by the faint click of the door shutting behind him.

He stared blankly ahead.

“Gi-hun ah! ” He heard from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

Instead, he ran both hands down his face and exhaled through his fingers.

“Um, yeah. I'm coming.”

What was that? A confession? A breakdown? An ambush?

Affection , In-ho had called it.

Gi-hun kicked off his shoes and took off his jacket. He slowly walked toward the light coming from the kitchen. Somewhere deep inside his chest, a nerve was still twitching. Not with fear. Not with anger.

Just confusion.

Not because it was In-ho who had said those things. But because he heard them at all. And that scared him more than any of the other loops or memories they’d brought back with them.

He didn't think he would ever hear anything like that again.

He thought of the way In-ho had looked at him. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just… stripped down. Like he’d laid his soul out on the table and left it there, untouched.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered before he stepped into the kitchen.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come back, survive, be a decent father. He wasn’t supposed to get tangled up in… whatever this was. He wasn’t supposed to care that much about the man who once stood over him with a gun and orders and dead eyes.

But he did care. And he hated that he couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore.

He looked at his mother, who was watching him with curiosity. It was as if she sensed a slight change in his behavior and wondered where it came from.

She probably hoped that her son had returned so late because he was talking to his wife. That maybe they were trying to reconcile. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Gi-hun returned so late because…

He felt a strange pressure in his stomach.

“You have to eat,” the woman ordered, placing a plate on the table where he sat down. “And I don't care about any excuses.”

“I'll eat,” he replied shortly. “I was hungry, actually.”

Gi-hun chewed slower than usual. Not out of politeness — he never really had that kind of table manner — but because his brain hadn’t caught up with his body yet. It was like he was running three parallel simulations of the same memory, all trying to compute the same thing:

In-ho had confessed. The Frontman had confessed to him.

The words echoed, not just in his head, but in the space behind his ribs. Like an echo in a hollow room.

He couldn't have felt weirder.

“Did something happen?” his mother asked, watching him with mild suspicion.

Gi-hun looked up, startled. “What?”

“You're acting strange,” she said, squinting a little. “Your face is red.”

“No, it’s not,” he said immediately, a little too defensively.

She shrugged. “Have you and Eun-ji talked?”

He furrowed his brow and looked at her as if he had no clue who Eun-ji was. After a moment, he felt a pang of strong guilt for thinking about In-ho instead of thinking about really important things.

But how was he not supposed to think about him?

“What would I talk to her about?”

Mal-soon watched him for a moment, trying to scoop some leeks from his soup onto a spoon, and then she smacked him lightly with her hand on the top of his head, further disheveling them.

“Ouch!” He was offended. “What's that for?”

“You wrapped up a bit and finally started taking care of your daughter properly. It's good. Eun-ji sees this,” she said resentfully. “Instead of taking advantage of this and trying to get along with her, you're going around making a victim of yourself. You're forty years old, are you going to live with me for the rest of your life?”

Gi-hun narrowed his eyes and stared into the soup bowl like it had personally offended him. He stirred it once, twice, watching the bits of green swirl around. His mother’s words rang louder in his ears than the sound of his spoon scraping ceramic.

What should he tell her? That he wasn't thinking about his wife even for a split second?

“So you're kicking me out?”

Mal-soon rolled her eyes at his deflection, muttering something under her breath as she sat down opposite him. “Don’t be dramatic. I said take responsibility , not get out. ”

Gi-hun didn’t reply right away. He scooped some soup into his mouth, tasting nothing. He didn’t even blow on it first and let the scalding heat burn his tongue a little. The pain gave him a fleeting sense of presence, of gravity — something to anchor him before his mind started drifting again.

Because if he didn’t anchor himself, he’d fall right back into the door frame of his apartment — the sound of Ga-yeong’s laughter still echoing behind him, the stupid pink teddy bear in her arms, In-ho’s voice laced with something way too close to regret.

Affection , he’d said. Not manipulation. Not control. Not obsession. Just affection.

Gi-hun could still hear the word like it was stuck in his throat, too big to swallow and too dangerous to spit out.

He looked up at his mother. Her hands were already busy again — folding dish towels, fussing with the rice cooker even though it was turned off. She always found something to do when she was trying not to ask more questions.

“Umma,” he sighed, “between me and Eun-ji, it's really over.”

Mal-soon turned back around and sat down, folding her arms. She looked at him for a long moment, as if analyzing his expression. “You're seeing some other woman,” she simply said, as if she was simply stating a fact.

Gi-hun nearly choked on his soup.

“What? No!”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “That was fast.”

“Because it’s not true!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, almost spilling broth on his shirt. “I’m not seeing anyone. Why would you even think that?”

She didn’t answer right away. She just leaned in a little, resting her elbows on the table, like she used to when she caught him lying about his grades in school.

Mal-soon didn’t flinch. She just kept staring at him with that tired but sharp look — the kind only mothers had, like she was already five moves ahead of him on the chessboard of his own lies.

“You’re distracted,” she said simply. “You don't sleep, don't eat, and barely speak. And you refuse to fight for the mother of your child.”

Gi-hun groaned and rubbed his face again.

“There’s no woman,” he muttered.

“Then is it a man, or what?”

“Umma, no!” he said, a little too loudly.

All he could think about now were In-ho's words. His affection and hell knows what else.

Mal-soon didn’t look fazed.

Gi-hun stuffed a mouthful of rice in his mouth to end the conversation.

His mother was able to read him like an open book, seeing more than he saw himself.

To be honest, since he divorced Eun-ji in the original timeline, he has never thought about getting back into any relationship since then. Maybe it even suited him more. Freedom and peace, after so many years of arguing with his spouse.

Then there were the games, and after that, he still didn't feel the need. He was fixated on finding the island and stopping the system. He was fine on his own.

And now?

Maybe his body was only 41, but his mind was already 50. He never thought he would find anyone anymore. He didn't remember what it was like to be in a romantic relationship. To come home and be greeted by loving arms. To be kissed by warm, greedy lips. He couldn't remember the last time he had sex. He probably didn't even remember what it was like to be with another person in such an intimate situation anymore. What it felt like.

Not to mention being with a man?

Fuck.

He never thought about his sexuality because he didn't think it was necessary. That was simply the tradition — to find a wife and have a child. Even for such an irresponsible guy as he once was.

That's why, when he first met Young-il, he didn't know what was going on with him. He had cared about the men in his life before — Sang-woo, Jung-bae — but they were his friends. And Young-il? He didn't feel like a friend.

He allowed himself moments — very brief ones, because he quickly brushed them away — that he valued his opinion more than anyone else's. That some looks were too long, too intense. That the way Young-il put his hand on his shoulder made him feel a burning sensation on his skin.

Even though Gi-hun was sure that Young-il was married!!!

So yes, it actually could be said that being with a man had crossed his mind.

That's why the words he heard from In-ho stuck in his mind so much. Because if Young-il was supposed to be who In-ho was before he killed, then what did that mean for who this man was now?

It was naive. Even though their bodies were younger, the past didn't change. The memories remained. And what had happened in the earlier timelines was impossible to forget.

But was it impossible to forgive?

His stomach growled.

Gi-hun should be less naive. More sharp and harsh. Less inclined to forgive. But he couldn't. That's just who he was, always had been.

It wasn't that he felt the same way as In-ho. He didn't. Right now, it was hard to even forgive him.

But he wanted to give him a chance. Not necessarily in a romantic sense.

If they wanted to live, they both needed someone who would understand them. Someone they could be with in this trauma, in this loop. And they were left to fend for themselves. Practically doomed to each other.

It was already midnight, but the fact that he was still awake was his choice. He was calm. He wasn't dreaming about games, he wasn't afraid that he would wake up in the dormitory again. He was glad that he had finally talked with In-ho. If he hadn't been so stubborn on the first day when the man showed up at his door, maybe he would have saved himself so much stress and energy. Maybe he wouldn't have been so nervous all week.

Instead, he cursed his stupidity. He could have refrained from joking about any love story and continued to live in blissful ignorance. That would have been simpler.

Meanwhile, he was lying on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling and considering all possible scenarios. For a moment, he even tried to convince himself that In-ho was playing a joke on him. That he was doing it to torment him. Like the Frontman.

But no. His gaze was too real.

He began to wonder if he should really give him a chance. And after a few minutes of chasing his own thoughts, he grabbed his still bruised face and rolled over to the other end of the mattress when he realized that their conversation today was ALREADY giving him a chance. And the way it went, even more so.

Oh, it was bad, so bad.

He tried to focus on Ga-yeong. She must have been sleeping sweetly for a long time now. She was probably hugging her pink teddy bear to her chest and mumbling something under her breath.

Her pink teddy bear…

FUCKING HWANG IN-HO.

He kicked off the blanket and punched the pillow next to him, then realized he was acting like a teenage girl going through puberty.

He was so angry he could have kicked the wall.

Gi-hun flopped back onto the mattress with a long, guttural groan, dragging both hands over his face until they tangled in his hair. His scalp stung where his fingers gripped too tightly — but he didn’t stop. He welcomed the sensation. It was real. Unlike this feeling in his chest that kept growing claws.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear the humming of the fridge in the kitchen, the occasional passing car below, the faint buzz of the fluorescent streetlamp outside his window. And still — under all that — the persistent, invisible hum of him.

In-ho.

Gi-hun sat up again, unable to stay still, as if his own body was rejecting rest. He stood, paced twice across the small room, then leaned forward with his hands braced against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool plaster.

He tried to exhale it out. All of it — the confusion, the tension, the burn sitting just below his skin like a fever that refused to break.

He felt hot. Uncomfortably hot.

He yanked the window open with more force than necessary and shoved his head out into the night. The rush of humid air didn’t help. It clung to him like sweat-soaked fabric, heavy and breathless, but still cold somehow. Somewhere in the apartment complex across the street, a dog barked twice, then went silent again.

“What the hell is wrong with me,” he muttered, not for the first time.

The pink teddy bear. That’s where his mind had gone. Not to the games. Not to the trauma. Not even to Ga-yeong’s laughter, though that should have been enough. It had zeroed in on that ridiculous, soft, stupid bear.

Gi-hun slammed the window shut and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair again until it stuck up in wild tufts. He probably looked like hell. His knuckles still ached from the half-assed punch he’d thrown earlier. His cheek was swollen from where In-ho’s elbow had found him — ironically, while trying not to fight.

Affection. The word kept circling in his mind, heavy and strange, like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through every part of his being. Affection. Not love. Not obsession. Not a trap. Just… affection.

What the fuck does that mean?

The clock hanging on the wall was already pointing to almost one o'clock when his phone buzzed. He lifted his head from his hands, on which he had been resting it, and slowly looked in its direction. He squinted his eyes, which were not used to bright light.

He picked up his smartphone and looked at the notification.  

Unknown number (00:49 a.m.): 

Hello. I am sorry for texting you so late, but I just wanted to make sure you had my number.  

Hwang In-ho 

Gi-hun wasn't sure if he should start laughing or crying now.

He stared at the screen like it might blink first.

The message glowed in the dark, too casual, too polite for the hour — and for everything they had been through. The kind of message you send when you're not sure if you’re wanted. When you're trying not to be intrusive, but still reaching out. It sounded so… tame. 

He leaned back on the bed and held the phone up above his face, staring at the simple text, trying to decode every atom of subtext buried beneath that careful line.

Finally, he let out a short laugh. He took a deep breath and shook his head slightly, and his fingers moved to the keyboard on their own.

Gi-hun (00:52 a.m.):

i'm sure i've told you something about writing messages in the middle of the night

While waiting for a response, he saved his number in his phone, muttering to himself that he must have lost his mind.

Hwang In-ho (00:54 a.m.):

It's not 2 a.m. yet.

Gi-hun stared at that reply for a long time.

The audacity.

He could almost hear the tone In-ho would’ve used — that deadpan dryness soaked in smug amusement. That bastard. Even his texts were sarcastic. Gi-hun scowled at the screen like it owed him money, then let his head drop back against the pillow again.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, the pale glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face in the dark. Then, almost on a dare, he tapped out another reply.

Gi-hun (00:57 a.m.):

it’s late enough

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. Immediately, the bubble swirled, indicating the message was delivered. He tossed the phone beside him on the rumpled sheets and lay back, closing his eyes. The ceiling above him seemed to pulse, each second expanding and contracting with the beat of his pulse.

Two minutes passed. Then, finally:

Hwang In-ho (00:59 a.m.):

You are right. Goodnight, Gi-hun ssi.

The text carried an unspoken softness — an ease of formality tamed by genuine warmth. And for a moment, Gi-hun felt something like… comfort. Or at least, less suffocated.

He typed one last line, thumb hovering, then deleted it. He didn’t need to say goodbye. The silence became enough.

His eyes closed on their own, and he thought for a moment. Finally, he felt calm not only in his body, but also in his head.

Or maybe it was just tiredness.

Chapter Text

On Sunday, In-ho didn't text him. Gi-hun should be glad, but instead, it made him restless.

Every notification made him jump to his phone to check what it was as quickly as possible. His mother noticed this and now definitely thought that Gi-hun had someone.

It wasn't because he felt something. Because he cared. He was just curious about In-ho. Every new thing he did was unpredictable, which is why he was intrigued.

But when he once again jumped up to his smartphone to see a simple notification from the game and felt disappointed, he realized that something was wrong with him.

A constant feeling of connection with this man…

It was much easier before In-ho appeared in this loop, really.

He was happy that his appetite had returned and that he could sleep normally. Even if his thoughts still bothered him a little, they weren't as difficult and intrusive as those about games.

Jung-bae was also happy when, on Monday, he saw his friend, who was a few minutes late as usual, with a smile on his face.

“I see someone here has come back to life!” he shouted with genuine joy.

Gi-hun just snorted, dropping his backpack on the floor. “I've told you I was okay.” He rubbed his hands together, approaching the SUV standing in the middle of the workshop. “What do we have today?” 

Jung-bae just snorted, throwing a rag at Gi-hun’s chest, and whistled. “The boss's car. Be glad he was in a hurry, because if he caught you being late, you'd be screwed.”

Gi-hun caught the rag. “You would've covered for me anyway.”

“Pfft.”

Gi-hun chuckled under his breath and rolled up the sleeves of his work shirt. The early morning light streamed through the garage’s half-dusted windows, casting angled beams across the oil-stained floor. For once, the air didn’t feel suffocating — not even the bitter scent of engine grease and metal could weigh him down today. His limbs felt lighter. His thoughts — slightly less crowded.

He went into the break room to quickly put on his work suit.

A few minutes later, he joined Jung-bae by the vehicle, peering under the hood with practiced ease. “Engine’s been making a clicking noise,” his friend muttered, “probably the timing chain. If it wasn't the boss's, I'd say I’m too lazy to deal with that shit before lunch.”

Gi-hun smirked. “So you called in the specialist.”

“You’re barely qualified to be a mechanic, you ass.”

Gi-hun gave the side of the car a gentle pat. “Still better than you.”

They fell into their usual rhythm — tools passed without asking, jokes exchanged without thinking. It was grounding. Familiar. The kind of silence where everything didn’t need to be said aloud to be understood. But beneath the ease, Gi-hun still caught himself glancing toward his phone on the bench more than once.

No new messages.

Not that he was expecting one. Not that he should be expecting one.

Working together was enjoyable, but the engine problem was difficult. At some point, they simply stood in front of the open hood, hands on their hips, exchanging observations that were not at all accurate.

“Yeah, so I don't fucking know what's wrong anymore,” Jung-bae muttered.

They called a break and went to their co-workers at the neighboring station to ask them to come and take a look at their boss's car when they had a moment.

Gi-hun sat on a low stool near the back of the workshop and sipped lukewarm canned coffee from a vending machine. The bitter taste didn’t bother him — it was something to do, something to hold. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, but he didn’t move to wipe it.

He tapped the screen of his phone again, but there were still no notifications. He sighed.

Jung-bae wandered over, cracking open a soda. He gave Gi-hun a side glance. “You know, you keep checking that phone like it owes you money.”

Gi-hun didn’t answer immediately. He tapped the can against his knee, staring down at the concrete floor. “Do I?”

“Mm-hm. Is it Eun-ji? You made up with her?” Jung-bae took a sip. 

“No.”

He furrowed his brows, and his expression seemed confused. “Then who is she?”

“There’s no ' she',” Gi-hun muttered.

Jung-bae narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated.”

Gi-hun groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t. You're talking like my mother.”

Silence fell, and Gi-hun wondered how he could further clear himself of suspicion of dating someone. It was ridiculous — he wasn't having an affair, yet everyone suspected him of it.

“Do you really think I would get into a relationship with someone while I’m still not divorced from my wife?”

“Well, you know, it's not forbidden.”

He didn't reply.

There was a moment of silence again, then Jung-bae cleared his throat quietly. “So you and Eun-ji are really a lost cause?”

These questions were a bit tiresome, but completely understandable. Gi-hun kept forgetting that even though he himself had long since come to terms with his broken marriage, his wife and the others were still dealing with it on a daily basis.

“Yes. I've already told you.”

“Does Eun-ji know about it?”

Jung-bae was right. Gi-hun couldn't put off talking about divorce indefinitely. But at the same time, he didn't feel like thinking about it right now.

At that moment, two colleagues from the neighboring station entered the garage. Just a minute later, the four of them were standing over the open hood, and the two friends seemed to have forgotten about their conversation.

“Any ideas?” Gi-hun looked at the two employees, whose names he couldn't remember because of the loop.

The two men exchanged glances, their faces smudged with grease and sweat, eyes squinting as if the answer might suddenly materialize from the tangled mass of wires and metal before them. One scratched his head, the other pushed his safety goggles up onto his forehead, and sighed.

“Could be a tensioner,” one offered cautiously, “but if that was busted, it’d be making a louder racket.” He tapped the side of the engine with a wrench, then shrugged. “Might just be worn-out rollers.”

Gi-hun crouched down, peering deeper into the engine bay. The familiarity of the work — the cold metal tools, the smell of oil and rubber, the soft clinks and whirrs of machinery — grounded him. It was a welcome relief from the chaos that had been occupying his mind.

He and his best friend were left alone again, trying to come up with a solution to the problem, but it seemed to be slipping further and further away with each passing moment.

And just as Jung-bae was about to say that he didn't give a damn anymore, they heard a loud female scream coming from behind the tin door. A moment later, an enraged blonde woman appeared in the room, holding a brick in her hand.

He and Jung-bae looked at each other in horror, too frozen to even move.

“Is this that bastard's car?!” she shouted at them. “That idiot's, Woo-jin’s?!”

She didn't wait for their confirmation. She just glanced briefly at the registration plate and then swung the brick. The two friends quickly hid behind the car.

Then they heard the loud crash of tempered glass breaking, followed by the loud car alarm.

The woman spotted the surveillance camera and gave it the middle finger. Finally, she turned to the terrified mechanics. “Tell that fucker that I know about his affair! And that he can forget about coming home!”

Jung-bae and Gi-hun just nodded slowly, as if afraid of what would happen if they didn't. The blonde woman left, staggering on her feet, which were in terribly high heels.

Well, there were no such adventures in his previous timeline. He would definitely remember that.

Gi-hun stood frozen for a few more seconds, listening to the fading clack of the woman’s heels on the pavement outside and the wail of the car alarm blaring like a death knell in the background. A long, shaky exhale escaped his lips.

“Well,” he finally said, blinking slowly, “that happened.”

Jung-bae peeked over the hood, wide-eyed. “Did we just witness a felony?”

“Pretty sure we did.”

“Shit,” Jung-bae muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Boss is going to kill us.”

“Why us? We didn’t do it.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t stop her either!”

“What do you want me to do, take a brick to the head for Woo-jin’s sins?”

They both turned back toward the shattered side window, shards of glass scattered across the floor, glinting like broken ice under the garage lights.

Gi-hun grimaced. “Guess we’re fixing windows now, too.”

 “We have to call him,” Jung-bae sighed.

The boss got angry, but not at them. He simply told them to lock the garage and call the police. He said he would try to return as soon as possible. So Jung-bae made the call, and then they waited fifteen minutes.

Gi-hun quietly laughed out of sheer helplessness when he saw the rookie-on-internship: Hwang Jun-ho in the doorway, right behind the older police officer.

Whoever had decided his fate had to stop making fun of him.

The older officer, a squat man with a mustache too thick for his face, stepped forward, speaking in a bored tone like he’d seen one too many cheating-related rampages this summer.

“So. Property damage and trespassing?” He surveyed the mess. “That a brick?”

“No, officer,” Jung-bae deadpanned. “That was love.”

The officer didn’t laugh. He scribbled something on his pad. “Name of the car owner?”

Gi-hun gestured vaguely. “Lee Woo-jin, the shop manager. Not here right now.”

“And she was his…?”

“Wife or fiancée? We don't know,” Jung-bae added.

Jun-ho was just looking at them carefully, because he remembered them perfectly from last Monday, when he left In-ho's car here. He watched Gi-hun particularly closely — so closely that Gi-hun wondered for a moment if Jun-ho was also in the loop.

“Please show me your IDs,” Jun-ho finally spoke. “We will also need to write down your contact details, because you will have to report to the police station to make an official statement.”

“Isn't it enough that we're saying it now?” Jung-bae asked, not particularly pleased with the situation, and the older police officer shook his head. “If the boss doesn't give us a day off for this, there's no justice in this world,” he muttered.

Jun-ho handed back their ID cards without a word, and Gi-hun could feel his eyes lingering on him a beat too long. Not aggressive. Not suspicious. Just… curious. It made his stomach twist a little — not out of fear, but something more uncomfortable. Recognition, maybe. Like Jun-ho was trying to match him to something that didn’t make sense. Like the pieces didn’t add up.

He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that anymore. Not after everything had gone quiet again.

“You work here full-time?” Jun-ho finally asked, still looking at Gi-hun.

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?” He pointed to the bruises.

Gi-hun couldn't even imagine how funny it would be to tell him that it was his brother's fault. Maybe then he would at least find out if In-ho was still alive.

“Just an accident.”

“You don't want to report the assault?”

“There was no assault.”

Jun-ho didn't seem to be satisfied with those answers, but eventually nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something in his head, and then turned back to his notebook. 

The man with a mustache grunted. “We’ll call when we need you. Probably sometime this week. Try not to touch anything else — we’ll take photos of the scene and pass it to the forensics team. We also need the camera footage.”

“Forensics?” Jung-bae asked, raising a brow. “A woman went feral with a brick, not a chainsaw.”

Jun-ho glanced at him. “Protocol.”

They stepped outside for some air after the police started snapping photos. Gi-hun took a cigarette from his friend on impulse — forgetting for a second that he didn’t smoke anymore. He held it for a moment, fingers instinctively rotating the unlit stick between his knuckles. Then he sighed and handed it back to him. Old habits, like smoke, had a way of lingering even when you swore you'd left them behind.

Jung-bae dropped onto a low concrete step and lit it up with a grimace. “This fucking week, man.”

“It’s only Monday.”

“Exactly. And it turns out that everyone is having affairs. First you, now the boss… and me, as usual, left in the dark,” he joked bitterly.

Gi-hun just snorted, not even having the strength to argue again.

Still no notifications.

Chapter Text

When Gi-hun got off the subway on Thursday and looked at his phone, nothing had changed.

No notifications.

He wasn't checking it as impulsively as he had at the beginning of the week, but still — it was strange. A few times, he considered reaching out to In-ho, but he ended up deleting every message he started to write.

He still hadn't forgiven him.

Last night, it occurred to him that even though In-ho had been through this before, he had lost his wife. Again. Maybe that was why he hadn't been in touch. He was definitely going through a lot.

Gi-hun pretended not to care.

He didn't have work today. His boss had given him and Jung-bae the day off so they could go to the police station in the afternoon and give their testimonies.

It turned out that the woman who had smashed the car window with a brick was Woo-jin's fiancée. Indeed, he had cheated on her, and Gi-hun considered it insolence, but still — in the eyes of the law, she had committed a crime.

Gi-hun had left early. He didn’t like waiting around, even if he had nowhere to go.

The morning was a little warmer than the last few days, but it still had that edge of gray dampness that clung to the sidewalk and coated the railings on the stairs out of the subway. He zipped up his jacket and walked with his hands in his pockets, still feeling that restless energy in his spine — like there was something he should be doing, even if he couldn’t name it.

Maybe it was the police station thing. Or maybe it was the silence.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the quiet was louder than it had been all week.

Even when he wasn’t actively thinking about In-ho, something in his body was. A tension in his neck. A flick of his gaze to his phone when it buzzed — just a news notification. He’d muted most of the app alerts anyway. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t waiting when there wasn’t anything to wait for.

He walked a few blocks before he found a place with an open door and some light jazz playing faintly behind the hum of an espresso machine. It wasn’t the kind of café he usually went to — a little too neat, a little too curated — but it was open, and it had seats, and he didn’t feel like standing around anymore.

He ordered a black coffee and sat by the window. Watched people pass. Checked his phone again. Turned it over on the table.

He knew he shouldn’t have been this fixated. Knew it wasn’t fair — not to himself, not to In-ho. He was probably dealing with… with everything. The grief, the guilt. His own memories. His own past. Gi-hun had no reason to expect him to be available.

But still.

He turned the cup in his hands and stared into the liquid like it would tell him something. A fortune. A message. Anything.

HE SHOULDN'T CARE. HE HADN'T EVEN FORGIVEN HIM YET.

But still.

As 3:00 p.m. approached, he slowly made his way toward the police station in Mia-dong. They were supposed to meet Jung-bae in front of the entrance.

The police station wasn’t far, so he took his time getting there. Walked with no rush, like every step could stretch the hour a little more. He stopped at a convenience store halfway there and bought a pack of gum, then stood by the plastic trash bin outside peeling the foil open like it required precision. He put one piece in his mouth, the flavor bland and artificial, and tucked the rest into his jacket pocket like it was something valuable.

When he arrived at the station, Jung-bae was already there — crouched on the steps, staring at the asphalt like it owed him an apology.

“Don't make such a face,” Gi-hun said. “You've got your day off, after all.”

Jung-bae looked up at him with a scowl, brushing invisible dust from his jeans as he stood.

“Yeah, a day off just to get grilled about someone else's mess. Living the dream.”

“You’re too dramatic,” Gi-hun muttered, and opened the door with the kind of energy usually reserved for a dental appointment.

The station smelled like stale paper and wet umbrella handles. Inside, a fan rotated lazily on someone’s desk, doing nothing. The front desk officer — a woman with a bun so tight it looked like it hurt — gave them a nod, already knowing who they were.

“You’re here about the brick incident, right? You can wait over there.” She pointed toward a row of cracked plastic chairs, each one with a faint butt-print from the city’s collective patience.

Gi-hun didn’t sit. He paced. He didn’t want to — he just didn’t feel like stopping.

Jung-bae dropped into a seat with a sigh like he’d been shot. “You know, I kept thinking about that woman. Like, I get it. But also — brick? That’s some medieval shit.”

“She probably thought about it for a long time,” Gi-hun said, arms folded, leaning against the wall. “That kind of anger doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

Jung-bae glanced at him sideways. “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Gi-hun didn’t respond.

A young officer eventually stepped out into the hallway and waved them in. Not Jun-ho, thankfully — someone else, polite and disinterested, the perfect combination. They were to give their statements separately. Gi-hun was called first.

He sat under fluorescent lighting and told his version of events in a dull, practiced voice. The brick. The scream. The window. The middle finger to the camera.

The rookie who called him inside sat down next to an older officer, who just nodded his head without asking too many questions. He was probably halfway to retirement or just very good at not caring about anything.

Then Jung-bae was called. Gi-hun went out into the hallway, still pacing back and forth. Eventually, he just leaned against the wall and glanced at his phone.

Still nothing. 

He was startled out of his thoughts by loud laughter coming from the end of the hallway behind a closed door. After a moment, the door opened and two young police officers came out. Gi-hun wasn't even surprised when he saw that one of them was Jun-ho.

The younger man's brief but attentive glance alarmed him. He wasn't sure if he was just imagining that he was looking at him that way. For a moment, he even thought that maybe In-ho had told him something and that was why.

He felt hot, so he simply pushed himself off the wall and headed outside. As he descended the stairs, his hand instinctively reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, forgetting that he didn't have it with him.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He raised his head, glancing at the small parking lot in front of the station. Right in front of him was a black sedan that he remembered perfectly. His stomach clenched. His throat tightened even more when he saw the person sitting behind the wheel, fiddling with their phone.

For a moment, his body was motionless, but then he took a few quick steps toward the car. He didn't intend to approach the window, he just stood right in front of the hood and tapped it lightly, trying to get the driver's attention.

The man jerked slightly at the sound — he really seemed surprised, but Gi-hun didn't believe that. His eyes flicked up from his phone. The moment they met Gi-hun’s, his whole expression shifted — a quiet jolt behind his pupils, like something he’d been bracing for had finally arrived.

“Really, are you spying on me even here?” He shouted toward the windshield loud enough for the sound to carry inside the car.

In-ho didn’t get out right away. For a second or two, he just sat there with his fingers curled around the phone, knuckles pale, like he was deciding whether to open the door or just drive away.

Gi-hun didn’t move. He didn’t even cross his arms, didn’t put his hands in his pockets like he usually did when he felt exposed. He just stood there, planted on the concrete like an accusation. It would seem that he was angry, but at the same time not entirely.

Eventually, In-ho popped the door open. Slow. Careful. He stepped out with a slight grimace of pain on his face, but Gi-hun had no idea where it came from. He adjusted the sleeves of his coat like he had to fix something — anything — before he could speak.

When they stood face to face, there was silence. Gi-hun thought that the man would say something, but nothing came. So finally, he hissed, “You have a stalking problem.”

In-ho made a face as if he didn't want to deny it so as not to lie, but admitting that he was right was also too difficult. Finally, he nodded slightly. “True. But actually, I came here to pick up Jun-ho. He asked me to.”

The knot in his stomach tightened, this time not out of anger, but out of embarrassment. He felt pathetic. He acted as if he thought the whole world revolved around him. As if he thought In-ho had no life apart from him.

It was stupid. He was stupid.

“Oh. Right.”

He was a little embarrassed, so he looked away and didn't notice that In-ho had been watching him the entire time, an indescribable expression on his lips. It was as if he wanted to smile slightly at him, but refrained, considering the moment inappropriate for such gestures.

In-ho didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at him — not piercingly, not like the way he used to when he wanted to make Gi-hun uncomfortable or back him into a corner. It was softer than that. Quieter. Like he was trying to memorize something before it disappeared.

And Gi-hun hated that look. Hated how familiar it was. How it made his stomach twist like an old rag being wrung dry.

Finally, In-ho grunted quietly, dragging his attention. “And what are you doing at the police station? Are you in any trouble?”

That made Gi-hun snort quietly. He just recalled every glance that Jun-ho gave him in the last days. “I thought you already knew. Your brother's observing me so carefully every time we meet, I thought you'd told him to.”

He furrowed his brows, as if he didn't expect that. “Jun-ho's observing you?”

“That's the impression I got.”

In-ho looked genuinely confused, and for some reason, that made Gi-hun even more irritated. Or not irritated — unsettled. Because if In-ho wasn’t orchestrating something behind his back, then that meant Jun-ho’s sideways glances weren’t part of some plan. They were just… Jun-ho. And Gi-hun didn’t know what to do with that.

He shifted his weight and looked away, vaguely in the direction of the brick wall bordering the lot. “Forget it,” he muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. Not just Jun-ho — all of it. The silence. The message he never got. The fact that now, seeing In-ho standing there, breathing the same stale air outside the police station, didn’t bring him any of the clarity he was hoping for. Just more noise.

And now, once again, there was silence between them. Too much silence. Just their exchanged glances. In-ho opened his mouth to break it, but then, Gi-hun finally cleared his throat, feigning indifference.

“I thought you were already dead,” he said, and his voice was too calm for such words.

He could see the man's brows were quite trembling, just for a split second. “Why?”

They stood in a moment of mutual silence. Not the heavy, suffocating kind — not yet — but the kind that swells between people who know they can’t avoid something for much longer. Gi-hun shoved his hands in his pockets at last and tried not to stare at In-ho’s jaw, where the healing bruise was still visible beneath his skin.

“I don't know. You didn’t text,” he said quietly, shrugging his arms.

These words didn't make him surprised or shocked. Or, at least, he was hiding it perfectly. He just swallowed hard and shyly looked him in the eyes. “I thought you needed some space.”

His voice was too soft for the outside air, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. 

Gi-hun shifted again, weight sliding from one foot to the other, but didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Didn’t answer.

He wasn’t even angry at him. That was the worst part. If he had been angry, he could’ve yelled. Could’ve said something sharp and dramatic and satisfying. Then, he could've just walked away. But instead, he just stood there in front of this man — this absolutely ridiculous, infuriating, heartbreakingly familiar man — and all he felt was tired.

But he couldn't get too soft. He still remembered what that man had done to him. It was impossible to forget.

He rubbed the bridge of his still sore nose. “You thought correctly.”

In-ho nodded, as if this was fair. Like he’d already given himself that lecture.

He shifted his weight again, realizing he was cold. Or maybe just tired. The air had turned while they talked, wind slipping down the alley with a blade’s edge.

“You seeing anyone?” In-ho asked suddenly.

Gi-hun blinked at him. “What?”

“Professionally. I mean, like a therapist.”

The laugh that burst out of Gi-hun was more bark than humor. “No. I don’t need some stranger to waste my time.”

“You probably do.”

“I can't afford it, anyway. Besides, I wouldn't have anything to say. If I mentioned games or loops to anyone, they'd lock me up in an asylum.”

In-ho nodded like he didn’t disagree, but also didn’t approve. “I started seeing someone.”

Gi-hun’s gaze narrowed. “A therapist?”

“Yeah. Jun-ho made me. He didn't in the previous timeline.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. More like a report. But Gi-hun still didn’t know what to do with the information.

“And does it help?” he asked cautiously.

“Sometimes. Not always.” A shrug. “Sometimes it just makes the days less slippery.”

That phrase stuck with him. Less slippery. That was exactly what his days felt like — like trying to walk across a floor covered in oil, with socks on.

Gi-hun stared at a crack in the sidewalk. “Why are you telling me that?”

“I just want you to know,” In-ho said, “that I’m trying.”

He was about to ask what In-ho was trying for, but he didn't get a chance. A loud “Hyung!” rang out from the police station, and they flinched slightly, startled out of their conversation.

Jun-ho was jogging down the steps, his voice echoing like a slap across wet stone. His hair was slightly ruffled, uniform jacket half-zipped and flapping, like he’d come running the moment he realized someone was waiting. His eyes landed on In-ho first — a flicker of brotherly annoyance, something half-resentful and half-practiced — but when he spotted Gi-hun standing there too, he slowed. He didn't seem embarrassed that he had interrupted them. Rather, he seemed pleased that he had caught them together.

“Sorry,” Jun-ho said as he reached them, his breath a little quick. “I didn't know you were already out here.”

In-ho exhaled slowly, long fingers brushing back his hair. “It's okay. I didn't wait long.”

Gi-hun, who had been half-turned toward the road, now looked back at the two brothers. The way Jun-ho stood, weight slightly shifted toward In-ho, was familiar. Protective in a way that wasn't obvious. There was tension there — not unresolved, but built into the foundation. Like a house built crooked on purpose.

Gi-hun didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. He had nothing to say anyway.

“Sir.” The policeman turned toward him. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to remember his face. “It was you and your friend who called us about the brick incident, wasn't it?”

Gi-hun frowned slightly, seeing the surprise on In-ho's face out of the corner of his eye. He finally cleared his throat and nodded.

Jun-ho was slightly disappointed that no one else seemed eager to speak, so he looked at the two of them, thinking about what to say next.

“You two know each other?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away.

It wasn’t hesitation — not exactly. It was more like… calculation. His eyes flicked between Jun-ho and In-ho, and for a moment, his entire expression was unreadable, like he’d pulled a curtain down behind his face.

It was In-ho who responded first.

“He repaired my car. I recognized him and just wanted to thank him again,” he said simply, and Gi-hun glanced at him so fast, it was almost a reflex. His voice was level — neutral, almost deliberately empty — like he was trying not to leave fingerprints on the truth.

Jun-ho raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly unconvinced, but not about to press it. “Small, small world,” he muttered, his tone more observational than accusatory.

And before anyone could say anything else, Gi-hun turned toward the door, hearing Jung-bae. He breathed a sigh of relief, then nervously patted his pants pocket. “Well, I won't keep you any longer. Have a nice day.”

In-ho didn’t say anything as Gi-hun turned to leave. He just watched the slight twitch in his shoulder, the stiffness in the way his hand hovered near his pocket again, like he was still reaching for a pack of cigarettes that hadn’t existed in months.

They got into the car, and In-ho pretended that nothing was wrong. He pretended to be looking for something in the glove compartment when Jun-ho cleared his throat.

He gave him a short look, sharp as a nail head. “So it was the guy you got into a fight with, huh?” he asked, voice low, but not quiet enough.

In-ho pretended not to know what he meant. “Sorry?”

 “This is more than obvious,” he started. “First, you told me to leave the car exactly at his garage. Now your bruises are exactly the same color. I was lucky to catch you two talking.” He turned his head toward the window.

In-ho first frowned, then raised his eyebrows. He thought for a moment, as if connecting the dots, and when he realized what his brother had done, he couldn't help but snort. “You weren't lucky. You arranged it just to check. You never asked me to pick you up before, but you did so while he was giving his testimony.”

Jun-ho crossed his arms. He looked like someone who had been seen through, but at the same time, he was pleased that he had achieved his goal, at least partially. “You've been keeping secrets from me, so I had no choice. I had to conduct my own investigation.”

In-ho didn’t respond right away. He just sat there with his hand resting on the gear stick, head turned slightly toward the passenger window like he was contemplating whether it was worth it — all of it. The drive, the explanation, this whole strange game of partial truths.

Jun-ho was still watching him — not even trying to hide it anymore. That stern, unnerving cop stare he usually saved for suspects or reports, now turned fully on his older brother. If Gi-hun had been in the back seat, In-ho was sure Jun-ho would’ve thrown the rearview mirror off its hinges by now, just to keep it fixed on him.

“Hyung,” Jun-ho said eventually, not turning his head. “I just want you to trust me.”

The car wasn’t moving. It sat idle in the lot like it was trying to pretend it wasn’t a vehicle at all — just a box with four tires and too many truths inside it.

In-ho adjusted the AC dial even though the temperature was fine. His hand rested on the gear stick again, thumb pressing into the faux leather like it could give him something tactile to hold onto. He didn’t look at Jun-ho. He didn’t have to. The weight of his gaze was enough.

The silence between them wasn’t unfamiliar. It had teeth, though. Not the kind that bit, but the kind that hung open, waiting to chew on whatever came next.

“I do.”

“So, just tell me,” he snapped. “What's going on with you? Who is this man? Where were you when Ji-ae was in the hospital? Where did you get your wound?”

In-ho closed his eyes for just a second. The questions fell like dominoes, one after the other — pushed too neatly to be unintentional, too sharp to ignore. His fingers curled tighter on the gear stick.

He didn’t answer right away. Just turned the engine on, letting it hum beneath them like a second pulse. It didn’t mean they were leaving — it just meant he required something to anchor him, something mechanical and predictable to contrast everything that wasn’t.

Jun-ho waited. No interruption, no shift in tone. Just silence, held between them like a thin string strung too tight. If anyone breathed wrong, it would snap.

“I need more time. Please. ”

He knew that no matter how much time it would be, he would never be able to tell him the truth. Not about the games, nor the time loop.

In the previous timeline, it was easier. He was just at his own apartment all the time, and then at his small dorm room. He didn't have to answer questions. Now, he didn't want to be cutting him off, but it was hard to do if he couldn't tell him the truth.

Jun-ho’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time.

 “Look, hyung, I know you’re carrying a lot. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to help.”

His words felt genuine, but In-ho’s chest twisted like they were a trap.

Help. 

It sounded so simple. So easy.

But how could he explain that some things couldn’t be fixed with words or therapy or time? That there was a game inside his head that kept resetting, erasing the chances he’d barely had to begin with? That the past wasn’t linear — it was a loop, a prison?

He swallowed the lump in his throat and grabbed the steering wheel.

“Let's go,” he said heavily. “Umma is waiting with dinner.”

Chapter Text

Gi-hun couldn't stop thinking about what In-ho had said to him. 

He couldn't stop thinking about In-ho in general.

'I just want you to know that I’m trying.'

Trying — to do what? And for what?

For him?

This was the most logical thing Gi-hun could assume from his words. After that whole confession thing, it was making sense. It was just too cheesy and embarrassing not to make him blush every time he thought about it.

He was definitely out of his mind.

But In-ho, and his stupid neatly styled hair, as if he were still the Frontman…

Ugh.

Finally, he took a bite of his jumeokbap, sitting side by side with Jung-bae during their lunch break. He was glad it was Friday. Tomorrow he was going to meet Ga-yeong, so he couldn't wait. This week had been long and difficult. Not a single message from In-ho, just their brief, awkward meeting. And above all, that damn brick.

“Hey,” Jung-bae nudged him with his elbow, eyeing the half-eaten rice ball in Gi-hun’s hand. “You gonna eat that or just daydream it into dust?”

Gi-hun blinked, halfway through a bite. “What? No, I’m eating.” He chewed defiantly, like he had something to prove. The food was cold and dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth, but that wasn’t what made it hard to swallow.

“Yeah, I can see,” Jung-bae smirked. 

Gi-hun didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached for his thermos, took a sip of lukewarm barley tea, and sighed. The garage was quieter than usual — only two cars today, one of them a routine tire change — and the midday lull had given them too much time to sit still. Bad idea. He preferred motion. Preferred noise. Preferred grease under his nails and loud radios in the background, anything that drowned out the way his mind kept circling back to that damn In-ho .

Jung-bae looked like he was about to ask something. But now, he was rather searching for the right words to begin. “I didn't ask yesterday because I forgot. But I saw you with that bribe-taker in front of the police station. You two know each other?”

Gi-hun genuinely had no idea what his best friend was talking about. “What bribe-taker?”

“You were the one who told me about it. Y'know, this man whose car you painted two weeks ago. The one whose seat got stuck.”

He sighed heavily. This man would haunt him for the rest of his life. Or at least until the end of the loop. Or simply — he will haunt him forever. Gi-hun will really have to find a way to forgive him, because he was clearly doomed to him.

Gi-hun rubbed at his temple with his thumb and forefinger, feeling the onset of a headache that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the sound of Jung-bae’s voice. He stared at the half-eaten rice ball in his hand like it had personally betrayed him. 

He thought about In-ho and his wife. About how much he had to do for her, how desperate he was to get that money, at any cost. And that's why the words just slipped out of his mouth.

“Don’t call him that,” he muttered.

'Are you fucked in the head?'

Jung-bae raised an eyebrow. “Call who what?”

“That guy,” Gi-hun replied, more defensive than he meant to be. “The bribe-taker. Don’t call him that.”

'Hello?'

“But you said—”

“I was wrong. It wasn't about him. I confused people.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that starts as confusion and quickly shifts into something more suspicious. Gi-hun didn’t look up to see the way Jung-bae’s face shifted, but he felt it — like heat behind his skin. And then, predictably:

“… Are you serious?”

“What?”

Jung-bae just stared at him as if he felt disgust, shock, joy, and disbelief all at once.

“What?” Gi-hun groaned once again.

“Your face looks as if you know exactly what I mean,” he replied briefly.

“I literally have no idea.”

Jung-bae didn’t respond right away. He just blinked, stared at Gi-hun for a long, uncomfortable second, then made a face like he’d bitten into something rotten. “So this is the person whose message you've been waiting for all week, right?”

Gi-hun looked at him, eyes wide, the rice ball paused halfway back to his mouth. “What?”

“Relax, you know I'm not homophobic,” Jung-bae leaned back against the wall behind them like something enormous had just fallen into place. “I'm just surprised.”

Gi-hun almost choked. “Jung-bae, what the hell are you talking about?”

Jung-bae didn’t answer right away. He just gave him a slow, exaggerated blink, like, really? That kind of blink. Then he reached for his own lunch, unwrapping the kimbap like they weren’t on the brink of a life-defining conversation. Or maybe like they were.

Gi-hun kept staring. The silence was unbearable.

He dragged a hand over his jaw, looked at the ceiling like it might offer him divine intervention, then muttered, “You're actually crazy. Stop terrorizing me.”

Gi-hun noticed one thing. He probably has finally understood where that strange feeling inside him about In-ho came from. He didn't reciprocate his 'affection', but his mother and Jung-bae made such a big deal out of things they knew nothing about and implied some stupid, nonsensical ideas to him non-stop. That made him begin to feel like the main character in a romantic K-drama. A really bad one.

What connected him and In-ho was much more complicated. So much so that if he had to talk about it, he wouldn't know where to start.

It was probably impossible to start at all.

He brutally pulled the ends of his hair.

“Chill out, man,” Jung-bae added. “It’s not like you're breaking a law or something,” he kept saying. “You said that Eun-ji herself suggested you shouldn't close yourselves off to new relationships while you're separated.”

She did?

It made Gi-hun stop for a moment, his thoughts spun. Jung-bae was right. He completely forgot about that because of the loop.

He wondered if she had someone now. Would she admit it if he asked her? She would definitely admit it. She was a good person.

He wondered if she would ask him the same question. For a moment, he wondered what he would answer, and then he wanted to punch himself in the jaw, because the answer should have been obvious to him.

Gi-hun noticed another thing. When he was thinking about In-ho in that way, he had only Young-il in front of his eyes. No slicked-back hair, no suits. Just honesty.

The current version of In-ho mixed with the version of Young-il living in his head. He treated it like a memory card game — what In-ho gave him in the present was reflected in who Young-il was. Gi-hun collected these pieces and tried to put them together, no matter how difficult it was.

He didn't know when or if he would be able to forgive him, but he knew that if he wanted to live in peace, he would probably have to. The very fact that he no longer hated him should help him.

Neither of these versions — neither Young-il, who lingered with his gaze and sometimes touched his arm a fraction of a second too long, nor In-ho, who sat across from him in an empty café in the evening, completely embarrassed and lowering his head, saying that he had feelings for him.

Neither of these versions reminded him of the Frontman.

He realized that he didn't really know the Frontman. Not because he was behind a mask, but because most of the time he spent with him was spent looking for humanity in him. He didn't want to do that. But the Frontman had more humanity in him than anyone could have expected, so Gi-hun had to discover it against his will.

Sometimes Gi-hun felt like he understood him. Maybe not fully, but he understood why In-ho might have considered the path he once chose to be the only one possible.

He scolded himself for it, but he was really glad that In-ho was taking advantage of his second chance. That despite how broken he was inside, he had found the strength to make better decisions than he had made before.

They were both broken.

Sometimes, especially at night, it occurred to him that he should reach out to him — make a call or send a text message. He should ask how he was doing. In-ho was surely grieving the death of his wife and child.

But he quickly gave up on the idea. Not because he wanted to continue pretending to be apathetic towards him. He simply couldn't do it. He didn't know why, but some invisible force was holding him back.

He was really a little worried when he didn't hear from him for almost a week. To be honest, when he saw him in the car in front of the police station, he felt a relief that he couldn't show him.

Not yet. Gi-hun hoped that one day he would be able to.

He chewed slowly on the last bite of his lunch. The rice was dry and stuck in his throat, but he swallowed it anyway. His phone buzzed.

The screen was locked, but from a distance, both he and Jung-bae could see that it wasn't any stupid advertisement or a game asking him to come back and play. 

It was a message.

“I wonder who it is,” his friend muttered quietly, stifling a laugh.

Gi-hun rolled his eyes and grabbed his smartphone. Then he shifted in his seat so that Jung-bae couldn't look over his shoulder. He unlocked it.

Hwang In-ho (01:24 p.m.):

Hello. Would you be interested in going out for ramyeon tonight?

He stared at the message a little too long, so Jung-bae began to imagine the most absurd scenarios.

“We're going to the bar tonight, aren't we?” Gi-hun asked.

“Mhm. But if you prefer to go on a date, I'll sacrifice myself.”

“Shut up. We're going.” He typed out a message.

Gi-hun (01:26 p.m.):

sorry, but I already have plans for today

He sighed.

The message was already sent, but Gi-hun kept looking at it like it might evaporate if he blinked too long. He didn't regret it, exactly. But he didn’t not regret it, either.

It was one of those strange middle states. Like standing ankle-deep in the ocean and not knowing whether the wave would pull you forward or knock you down.

What was the ‘sorry’ for? He had NOTHING to be sorry for here.

A few long minutes passed.

Hwang In-ho (01:32 p.m.):

All right. Maybe another time. Have a nice day.

It really wasn't helping. 

He imagined the caution with which In-ho had written both messages. His tone was overly polite, which drove Gi-hun out of his mind even more.

He stared at the phone until the screen dimmed again. He didn’t turn it off. He just let it fade out on its own. Then slid it face-down on the table like it was a loaded gun he didn’t want to touch anymore.

His friend, thankfully, let it go. At least for now. They finished lunch without any more smart comments, though the glances didn’t stop. Gi-hun caught them — those curious, calculating little flicks of the eyes. He knew what they meant. He just pretended not to.

Jung-bae wasn't here yet.

It was already twenty past seven, and they had agreed to meet at seven. Gi-hun was the one who was usually late in this friendship.

He stood on the sidewalk and waited, crowds of people passing him by nonstop. Perfect conditions to get pickpocketed.

It had only happened to him once before, and that was Sae-byeok.

He took his phone out of his pocket, not only to have it handy, but mainly to call his friend. He searched through his contact list — a long list of names, some of which he didn't even remember because of the loop.

Jung-bae's name, as if to spite him, was right below In-ho's.

As he was about to press the button, a woman bumped into his hand. He rubbed his elbow while listening to the regular beeps.

Finally, they stopped.

“Hello? Where the hell are you?”

There was silence on the other end. Then a short cough.

“At home? Did you change your mind or something?” A calm voice answered him. 

And it clearly did not belong to Jung-bae.

Gi-hun quickly glanced at the display.

Hwang In-ho

Whatever is watching over him, it should stop mocking him like that.

“Gi-hun ssi? Are you there?”

He sighed deeply. The sigh was longer than it needed to be. Not just a breath, but a kind of exhale that scraped the ribs on the way out. He lowered the phone slightly and stared at the street in front of him, half-waiting for the ground to crack open and make the decision for him. When that didn’t happen, he lifted it back to his ear.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”

There was a pause. A silence that didn’t sound like static, didn’t even sound like confusion. Just… breath. 

“Ah,” In-ho said softly. “Understood.”

Gi-hun’s grip tightened on the phone. He thought about hanging up right there. About walking into the nearest convenience store and buying a bottle of soju just to give his hands something to do. But he didn’t hang up. And he didn’t walk away. He just stood there, watching a line of neon signs blink in and out across the street, like they were winking at him.

“I wasn’t trying to call you,” he said, finally.

“I figured.”

Another silence. One that wasn’t uncomfortable — not exactly — but dense. Like humidity before a storm.

“Are you free tomorrow evening?” Gi-hun asked, and immediately wanted to punch himself in the jaw.

He swore, he could've heard In-ho's brows raising.

“Yes,” he replied, voice even. 

Gi-hun tapped his head lightly with his fist a few times. He felt so awkward that he wanted to scratch his eyes out. Or at least throw a chair at In-ho.

He cleared his throat, trying to use the most apathetic tone of voice possible.

“You wanted ramyeon.” A pause. “Tomorrow, I'm dropping Ga-yeong off at 6 p.m. After that, I'm free.”

There was a pause on the other end, but not the kind that meant hesitation. Just processing. Or maybe quiet disbelief.

“But,” he added. “Don't try to show up at my house in front of my daughter to give us a ride. I won't go anywhere with you if you do.”

Silence.

“Noted.”

Gi-hun nodded to himself. He could picture it. The corners of In-ho’s mouth dipping slightly, his gaze pointed just below eye level, like always. That calm, overly measured tone he used when he didn’t want to say more than he had to. Gi-hun could see the whole thing like a photograph already printed in his head.

Except that, in his mind, his hair wasn't slicked back so stupidly.

Gi-hun wanted to hang up now. That seemed like the safest move. But something in him — some stubborn little tick buried under all the grief and exhaustion —wanted to say more .

He didn’t. Not yet. But it was there. A stone in the shoe.

“I’ll text you,” he muttered, and hung up before he could hear the answer.

He stood there on the sidewalk for another full minute, phone still in hand, screen black. Then he finally made the actual call to Jung-bae, who picked up with a loud, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”

“Outside the bar.”

“Well, I’m inside the bar. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He turned around and saw Jung-bae standing in the doorway. He let out a sigh, which echoed in his friend's phone.

The bar smelled like fried chicken and rice. The kind of place with enough noise to blur out most conversations, and just enough light to remind you how tired your eyes were.

Jung-bae already had a drink in front of him, one leg kicked up onto the edge of the booth like he was ready to stay there for the next five hours, no matter what happened to the world outside.

Gi-hun just sat there, quietly sipping soju. He knew he had to get up early the next morning so he wouldn't be late for his meeting with Ga-yeong.

The bar was louder than he remembered.

Not in a fun way. Not in a “people are drunk and laughing at nothing” way. In a grating way. Like everyone had collectively decided to talk over one another at once, and the air was too thick with noise to cut through. Someone dropped a glass across the room. A short round of cheering followed, as if that meant something. It didn’t. No one even knew who dropped it.

Gi-hun sat back in his seat and stared into his soju glass like it held secrets.

He felt like a bottle half-drunk, capped again too late, already stale.

Jung-bae was talking. Something about work. Something about Mr. Han from Busan, who accidentally painted over the license plate of a client’s car and blamed the intern. Or maybe it wasn’t Busan. Maybe it wasn’t a license plate. Maybe Gi-hun wasn’t listening.

He made a noise of acknowledgment. A short, vague grunt that could mean damn, that’s rough , or I wasn’t listening, but please continue anyway. Either way, it worked. Jung-bae kept talking.

At some point, fried chicken arrived.

They both leaned in, ripping pieces off like men who hadn't eaten since morning, even though they’d both had full lunches. Grease clung to his fingertips. It grounded him, a little.

But not enough.

“Gi-hun ah,” Jung-bae's quiet groan finally broke through the wall of thoughts in his head. “It's hard to talk to you when you're not here.”

He opened his eyes wider, clenching his fingers tighter around the glass bottle. “What? I'm listening.”

“Yeah, and I’m Park Hae-soo.”

Gi-hun burst out laughing. “You wish.”

Jung-bae laughed too, but immediately sighed softly as he looked at his face. He studied every wrinkle, every muscle tension, until Gi-hun felt uncomfortable. “What?”

“Nothing. It's just that since you came back from that time-off, I feel like you've aged a decade.”

He raised his eyebrows. His friend's observation was accurate — he was a fifty-year-old in a forty-year-old's body. In addition, everything he had experienced in his previous timelines — the games, the death, the trauma — had stayed with him and certainly affected how he behaved now. He was much more withdrawn, less inclined to joke around. It was definitely a change, especially for his mother and Jung-bae, who had watched this change happen practically day by day.

Instead of agreeing, however, he snorted. “Why are you picking on me so much lately? Let's gossip about you finally, huh?”

Jung-bae raised his eyebrows and shrugged, bringing the glass to his lips. “Sure, go on. But my life isn't as interesting as yours. I don't have any affairs, or…”

“You're unbelievable. I don't even wanna hear it.”

Jung-bae smiled into his drink, but didn’t deny it.

The bar’s noise continued behind them like a constant hum. A group near the front erupted into some kind of birthday chant. Someone clinked a fork against a glass, badly. The air smelled like too many side dishes and the unmistakable tang of old beer spilled on a table that never dried properly. Gi-hun liked places like this. Places where you could disappear.

He tore off another piece of chicken, chewed slowly. Then stopped.

“Do I really look older?”

Jung-bae shrugged again, but this time there was more weight to it. “Not older, exactly. Just…” he gestured vaguely toward his face. “It's more about your expression. And your behavior. As if you had experienced more in a week than in your entire life.”

Gi-hun picked up his glass and set it back down.

He wanted to say, You have no idea .

He wanted to say, I’ve watched you die in one timeline.

He wanted to say, Every version of you cares about me, and it breaks me every time.

Instead, he said, “Yeah, well. Life.”

Jung-bae rolled his eyes. “Don’t go philosophical on me now. You’ve had, what, only one bottle?”

“A half,” Gi-hun muttered. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Poorly.”

There was a lull in the conversation, the kind that usually meant someone was going to say something meaningful. But instead, Gi-hun reached for a napkin and wiped his hands with the slow deliberation of someone who didn’t want to get to the next moment too fast. He looked out toward the entrance. People came and went. The door kept opening like it wanted to blow in some cold air.

He thought about his planned ramyeon with In-ho tomorrow. Then immediately thought about throwing his phone into traffic.

Jung-bae didn’t miss the glance. “You know what I'm about to say.”

“Please don't.”

After a while, Gi-hun poured the last of the soju into his glass, didn’t toast, didn’t say anything, just drank it like medicine and set the cup down with a soft clink.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asked, surprising himself.

Jung-bae blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah. I need air.”

“Okay,” he said after a beat. “Sure.”

They paid and left the bar. The night outside had cooled slightly, but the humidity still clung to their necks and sleeves. The street buzzed with life — music leaking from second-story windows, the hiss of frying oil from a street vendor nearby, someone arguing two blocks over. Seoul didn’t believe in quiet nights.

They walked in the direction of nowhere. Just let their feet carry them past closed shops, neon-lit signs, a couple kissing against a wall like it was the last night before war.

“I'm bored,” grumbled Jung-bae.

Gi-hun glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry to bore you, I guess.”

“No, it's just… you've really aged. You were always the one with the strange ideas and silly jokes. You came up with the most outrageous plans,” he replied in a tone that seemed as if he didn't want to offend him, but at the same time wanted to vent his grievances.

He sighed briefly, then looked at him. “You come up with something.”

They stopped when they reached the top of Sinchanggyo Bridge. Gi-hun leaned over the railing, looking at the dark expanse of water below. He exhaled a puff of steam. Jung-bae leaned his back against the railing, holding a cigarette in his cold hand and thinking intensely.

“Hmm,” he muttered under his breath. “Maybe we should go to the casino.” 

A click sounded in Gi-hun's head. Strange feelings of déjà vu, even though he knew there had never been such a situation. Not exactly like this. Their first steps in gambling had a slightly different beginning in the original timeline.

He slowly raised his head from the railing. “What did you just say?”

“Casino.”

He swallowed quickly and took two steps toward his friend, then grabbed him by the collar and shook him slightly.

“Don't you ever think about going to a casino. Or betting on horses. Or anything else gambling related. Ya understand?”

Jung-bae blinked, cigarette hanging limp between his fingers. “Whoa, what the hell—?”

“I’m serious,” Gi-hun said, more force in his voice than intended. His hands tightened on the fabric of Jung-bae’s collar, as if he could squeeze the idea right out of his head.

“Okay, okay, I get it—dammit, let go, man.” He swatted Gi-hun’s hands off, patting his chest as if he had to realign something inside. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away. He stepped back, fingers flexing open and closed at his sides. His jaw locked up, and for a moment, he didn’t feel like himself. He felt like one of those alternate versions — the ones who had seen too much, lost too much, gambled away too much. All of them blurred together behind his eyes like ghosts leaning on his back.

Jung-bae was still watching him, more confused than angry now.

Gi-hun finally spoke. “Just promise me. No casino. No horses. No bets, no tickets, no lottery, nothing. Never.”

Jung-bae was silent. Then he dropped the cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of his boot. “It was just a casual offer.”

Gi-hun didn’t say anything. He just turned and started walking again. The bridge behind him glowed under pale lamps, and the water below caught the light in slow, pulsing ripples, like the city was breathing.

They walked for a while. Just their footsteps, the occasional honk, a cat darting between shadows.

Finally, Jung-bae muttered, as if it was bothering him, “You're acting like you're in gambling rehab.”

It was a bit like that.

Gi-hun shook his head. “You’re so lucky, I’m too tired to hit you.”

There was a pause. Then Jung-bae’s voice, a little quieter: “I won’t go. If it bugs you that much, I won’t.”

Gi-hun nodded. “Thanks.”

He meant it more than he could explain.

Chapter Text

“This is,” he began, choosing his words carefully and squinting his eyes, “something, definitely.”

Eun-ji looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows. “Don't laugh.”

“I'm not laughing.”

Between them stood Ga-yeong, looking very proud of herself. She appeared normal on the surface, but inside her head was a storm. Her hair was braided — or rather, tangled — into pigtails, and there were lots of colorful hair clips with bows, princesses, and hearts everywhere.

Eun-ji looked similar — as if they had both been attacked by the same hairdressing monster.

They were both wearing tiaras. Plastic ones, the kind that bend too easily and have little teeth on the inside that dig into your scalp if you’re not careful. Gi-hun could already see the red mark forming on Eun-ji’s temple where the thing had been shoved on a little too enthusiastically. Ga-yeong, on the other hand, wore hers like it was a crown passed down from some great matriarchal line of chaos gremlins.

“She's really into hairdressing lately,” she said, lips twitching with effort.

“Appa,” Ga-yeong said, very seriously, pointing her finger at him, “you’re next.”

“Oh no, no, I’m not,” he said, hands already raised in surrender.

He looked at Eun-ji, who was trying hard to hide her amusement. He smiled crookedly, as if he didn't want to cross some invisible line.

“You let her do this to you?”

“She said she’d cry if I didn’t.”

Ga-yeong chuckled ominously.

“… Ah.”

That made sense.

The woman finally decided to break the peculiar but surprisingly not awkward silence between them. She cleared her throat and, as always, handed him the pink backpack. “Please be back by six.”

“Sure.”

There was fatigue in her eyes. As if she were tired of the silence between them. The feeling of uncertainty that their separation had brought upon them was difficult. He didn't feel it now, but in the original timeline, that was exactly what had brought him to rock bottom.

He respected her, simply as a person. As the mother of his daughter. And he knew he had to act like an adult. It was clearly about time to discuss their divorce.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ga-yeong's tiny hand grasping his. He looked at the girl and her extraordinary hairstyle, and she smiled broadly.

They made their way down the sidewalk, past clusters of ajummas dragging wheeled baskets, old men setting up makeshift stalls with tupperware containers of fried snacks, and delivery boys speeding past on scooters. 

“What do you want to do today?” he asked, glancing down at her.

Ga-yeong swung their hands a little. “Hair salon.”

Despite the bad weather, she didn't have a hat, only a headband. This was probably the result of a compromise after a long argument with Eun-ji.

He blinked. “I don’t think they let kids run salons.”

“I am the salon.”

“… I see.”

They turned the corner and reached the subway station. Gi-hun dug into his pocket for his transit card, even though he knew it was still there. He always did that, ever since losing it once in 2010 and having to walk two hours home. Even after everything he had been through, when he was completely numb and barely functioning, it was a habit he couldn't shake in any timeline.

“Can I press the buttons?” Ga-yeong asked, already halfway climbing onto the ticket machine.

“You already have your pass,” he said, swiping her card against the reader.

“Pleeeease!”

The machine beeped. Her card registered.

Gi-hun looked at her hanging halfway off the edge of the kiosk like a raccoon trying to order snacks. A slightly sweaty, glitter-smeared raccoon. His raccoon.

“Fine,” he sighed. “You can press this button.”

She smacked it like it owed her money. The receipt popped out with a mechanical whir, and she snatched it up triumphantly, waving it like a winning lottery ticket.

“I have documentation,” she declared.

Gi-hun didn’t question it. They walked down the stairs into the belly of the station, her small shoes clacking rhythmically, one slightly out of sync with the other.

The platform was busy. As always. Students, couples, tourists, and a man holding an actual parrot. Gi-hun gave the bird a cautious glance, and the parrot glared back like it knew his sins.

Ga-yeong swung his arm. “Are we going to get jjinppang?”

“Only if the queen of the salon wants it.”

“She does!”

After she ate her steamed bun, they got on the subway. He sat her on his lap, gently rubbing her small arm with his thumb. She didn't seem to notice — she was rummaging through her backpack, trying to find something. Finally, she succeeded.

She pulled out a small pink teddy bear, which Gi-hun remembered perfectly. He raised his eyebrows slightly when he automatically remembered that he was going to meet In-ho today.

“Do you like him?” he asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the other passengers.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, stroking his soft, pink fur. “I did his hair too.” She pointed to the Snoopy hair clip pinned to his ear.

Gi-hun smiled slightly, and a brief thought crossed his mind that In-ho really couldn't have found a better person to entrust this teddy bear to. He would surely be happy if he could see this.

'How ironic,' said a voice in his head. 'A man who caused so much harm to others in all timelines would now be happy that a stuffed animal was wearing a hair clip.'

But that was how it was.

“What's his name?” he asked finally.

“Doctor Kimchi.”

He raised his brows.

“Really?”

“Do you not like it?”

Gi-hun considered the bear again, now anointed “Doctor Kimchi,” in all his pink, plush, royally hairstyled glory. There was something about the way Ga-yeong held him, not quite protectively — more like she was letting him tag along, graciously. As if Doctor Kimchi had been allowed into their inner circle, and had better not mess it up.

“No,” he said at last. “I like it. It’s a tasty name.”

Ga-yeong grinned and pressed the bear closer to her cheek, then absentmindedly started fiddling with her necklace — the little plastic one with the heart-shaped beads. He wasn’t sure when she’d gotten it. It was probably one of those impulse gifts from her mother, or maybe a friend at daycare. But she wore it almost every time she saw him lately, like it was part of the costume of seeing appa.

The subway rattled under their feet. They passed through a tunnel with a low screech, and the lights flickered briefly. A gust of warm air puffed in from somewhere, carrying the ghost of someone’s perfume. For a moment, Gi-hun just stared ahead — not at the passengers, not at the map, not even at his daughter. Just… ahead. Like he was watching the inside of his own skull.

They reached the next station. The doors hissed open, and a few people shuffled in. A man in a business suit holding a rolled-up newspaper. A woman balancing an Americano like her life depended on it. A middle-school couple who looked like they weren’t entirely sure whether they were dating or just awkwardly glued together by circumstance.

It was so normal. Painfully normal. And yet there was always something else — some flickering shadow just beyond the corner of his awareness. Like a thought half-formed, or a memory from a timeline he hadn't meant to recall.

He thought about In-ho. About how stupid this meeting would probably be. About how the last time they’d spoken face-to-face, he was talking about trying . That trying haunted him. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

“You’re being quiet,” Ga-yeong said, poking his cheek with one finger.

He blinked and turned to her. “Thinking.”

“'Bout what?”

“Doctor Kimchi.”

She giggled and gave the bear a little shake, as if to show him off. “He has a twin brother, you know. But he lives in Jeju.”

“Oh, yeah?” he played along. “Why’d he move?”

“He was tired of the city. And he wanted to grow carrots.”

Gi-hun nodded, somber. “Makes sense. Farming’s a nice job.”

“He has a tractor.”

“Well, of course he does.”

There was a brief silence, and Ga-yeong lowered her head, as if she had remembered something sad. She was only four years old, and her mood changed from one second to the next, but Gi-hun rarely saw her like this.

“What's wrong, baby?” he asked, gently turning her toward him and rubbing her soft cheek.

She looked at him, making puppy dog eyes. However, she didn't do it on purpose, as she always did when she wanted to get something from him. Now, her behavior was natural.

“When will you move back home?” she asked silently.

Gi-hun blinked.

It hit him like a cold splash of water, the kind that makes your heart hiccup. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn’t heard her — to say something dumb like “What home?” or “What did you say?” But she was looking at him so directly, so honestly, that he couldn’t deflect it. Couldn’t lie.

He swallowed.

The train rattled under them again. A mechanical cough echoed through the car as the speaker crackled with the name of the next station. Somewhere, a ringtone played — one of those old digital chirps that didn’t belong in this century anymore.

But he didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

“Sweetheart,” he said eventually, slowly, like he was chewing on the words to soften them, “why would you ask that?”

It was a stupid question, even for a four-year-old. But he had to say it, just to buy himself some time, to think about the real answer.

He couldn't quite remember what he'd say to her last time, in his original timeline. Anyway, it was terrible, probably.

She shrugged, eyes dropping to the bear in her lap. “Because I miss when I didn’t have to say bye.”

That was it. Plain and brutal.

He swallowed. “I miss it too.”

“You can sleep in my room,” she offered quietly. “I have space. Bunny Teacher moved to the bookshelf.”

He smiled a little — a crooked, helpless thing — but it felt brittle. “Bunny Teacher's a generous landlord.”

She nodded solemnly. “Mhm.”

He looked away briefly, toward the subway window, even though it was just dark concrete rushing past.

“It's not that simple,” he said finally, his voice very low. “Me and your mom… we’re figuring things out. Grown-up stuff. Complicated stuff.”

She nodded again, still serious. She didn’t understand, obviously — how could she? — but she understood enough to know it mattered.

Gi-hun ran a hand through his hair, sighing through his nose. “It’s not because of you, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong. I love being with you more than anything.”

Ga-yeong looked up again, her face a little scrunched. “But you love umma too, right?”

He paused.

He had no idea how to answer that. Not honestly, not in a way that wouldn’t confuse her. He respected Eun-ji. He cared about her. But love — the romantic kind, the kind that built families and burned down futures — he didn’t know where that had gone. Or if it had just… quietly dissolved one day while they weren’t paying attention. And the time loop only made it seem even more distant to him — that he didn't remember many things he probably should have remembered.

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. There were too many versions of the truth, and none of them fit in a child’s world.

So he reached out instead, tugged her gently toward him until her head rested against his chest again. He kissed the top of her head — plastic tiara and all — and closed his eyes for a moment.

“It’s complicated,” he said again, almost in a whisper. “But I promise, I’ll always be here for you. Umma will too. We love you so much.”

It wasn’t a satisfying answer. Not to her, not to himself. But it was the only one he had. And if he’d learned anything from the hundreds of regrets he’d collected across lifetimes, it was that sometimes you couldn’t make a wound disappear — you could only make it easier to carry.

She accepted that. Or at least she didn’t argue.

The subway pulled into another station. Gi-hun glanced at the digital signboard, not out of interest, just instinct. The usual beep echoed overhead, followed by a mechanical voice announcing something he didn’t hear.

More people got on. He adjusted Ga-yeong a little in his lap, so someone could squeeze in next to them. She leaned into his chest again, her head resting under his chin.

“Are you gonna live alone forever?” she asked, muffled.

Another weight. Different kind.

He hesitated. “I'm not living alone. I live just like you. With halmeoni. It's my umma.”

“But I am small. And you're a grown-up.”

Gi-hun snorted, then smiled sadly at her. “Great point.”

A group of teenagers was standing at their station. They were laughing, shouting, and pushing each other. One of them was holding a huge drink, seemingly out of place in the November weather — just a straw, ice cubes, and shiny stickers on the side. Another had headphones in his ears and was rapping loudly to a song that no one else could hear. It was the kind of energy that used to give Gi-hun a headache.

Now, he just watched them. Felt something almost like envy. Not for the chaos, but for the clarity. For the belief that everything still mattered — the lyrics, the stickers, the way your hair looked when you caught your reflection in the window.

Ga-yeong watched them too, then pulled him by the sleeve of his jacket and whispered, “Teenagers are loud.”

He grinned. “Yeah. They were loud in 1989, too. Nothing’s changed.”

She gasped. “Were you alive then?!”

“I’m older than dinosaurs.”

“Nooooo.”

“I was actually in school with a pterodactyl named Min-seok.”

She covered her mouth in horror, but her eyes were shining again. “Did he eat people?”

“No, he was vegan. Only ate vegetable kimchi.”

“Phew.”

He took her by the hand and they headed home. Ga-yeong seemed to have forgotten their earlier conversation and was now singing a song to herself. The ajummas from the neighborhood who passed them on the market street smiled at her and at him too, because they knew them well.

Mal-soon wasn't at the market. Neither was Sang-woo's mother. So, without stopping, he simply took his daughter home. It was a little too cold for walks today.

The girl burst into the house looking for her grandmother as if she were fleeing from a fire. She kicked off her shoes, forgetting to take off her coat, and all the hair clips and tiara in her hair bounced comically to the rhythm of her steps.

Gi-hun stayed at the entrance to undress. He took his phone out of his jacket pocket, noticing that he had received a text message some time ago. He raised an eyebrow.

Hwang In-ho (12:34 p.m.):

Hello. I hope you're having a good day. Where exactly are we going for ramyeon today?

Gi-hun rubbed his face and let out a heavy sigh. He wondered if In-ho was simply unable to communicate with people, or if the way he wrote messages was reserved only for him for some unspecified reason.

He thought for a moment about what he should write back, but ultimately nothing specific came to mind. So he just typed out a message:

Gi-hun (02:45 p.m.):

you came up with this meeting, so I assume you know a good place

He put his phone in the pocket of his loose jeans and headed for the kitchen. His mother was still making dinner, so Ga-yeong dragged him into the living room and sat him on the floor, picking up her backpack.

She ran ahead, the plastic tiara gleaming like a beacon of impending glitter doom. “Appa! Sit! This is the waiting area. The stylist will be with you shortly!”

He took a seat on the floor. Slumped a little. Closed his eyes for half a second longer than he meant to.

When he opened them again, she was already standing in front of him with a brush in one hand and a fistful of barrettes in the other. She looked like a medieval torturer with a Hello Kitty license.

“Don’t move,” she warned.

“Can I run away?”

“No.”

He stayed still. She went to work. 

First, she stood in front of him, biting her tongue, as if thinking what exactly she was going to do with his hair. After a moment, she began to rearrange his bangs. As a child, however, she had no sense of touch, so it wasn't the most pleasant experience. But he didn't dare complain.

“Whoa,” she muttered. “Appa's hair so long.”

“Is it really that long?” he laughed, brushing his bangs back to reveal his entire forehead to his daughter.

Ga-yeong first laughed at her dad, then looked at him again and grimaced slightly.

“No, put your hair back down.”

“Why?”

“You look more friendly then.”

Without stopping smiling, he raised his eyebrows slightly. Once again, his thoughts turned to In-ho without his consent. 

He also looked more friendly with his hair down.

He looked like Young-il.

Gi-hun sighed.

He sat there on the floor, half-slouched like a man accepting his fate, as Ga-yeong continued her relentless campaign to beautify him. She combed his bangs down again with both hands, flattening them across his forehead like she was icing a cake. The plastic brush didn’t do much — his hair had too much stubbornness in it — but she tried anyway, tongue sticking out a little as she concentrated.

He smiled to himself. She didn’t even know how much of the world she already carried in her tiny chest. The rules of it. The way things should be. She made her own logic and followed it with complete sincerity — a skill more adults should’ve held onto.

“Pink butterfly. Purple bow. Snoopy head.”

“Wait, how many Snoopy clips do you own?” Gi-hun asked.

“All of them,” Ga-yeong replied proudly.

Of course.

As she began tugging again at strands of his hair with more determination than technique, Gi-hun’s phone buzzed faintly in his pocket. He ignored it for a second, assuming it was just a delivery app or some automatic spam. But it buzzed again, and then a third time.

“Pause, stylist,” he muttered, fishing it out.

Three new messages from In-ho.

Hwang In-ho (03:26 p.m.):

I’ve narrowed it down to two. One near the Han River. And one in a basement with very bad lighting, but, apparently, excellent broth.

I’ll let you decide.

I’m not trying to manipulate you, for the record. I read that giving choices makes people feel more in control.

Gi-hun began to seriously consider throwing himself under a train.

He stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the screen, while his daughter shoved another glittery clip into his hair with a grunt of concentration.

He had a theory — not scientific, but deeply personal — that some people were born without the innate capacity for normal interaction. Not because they were cruel or broken. Just… built differently. As if someone upstairs had accidentally downloaded the wrong personality patch for them at birth.

But maybe In-ho was both.

“Appa,” Ga-yeong said, frowning. “Why do you look like you want to scream?”

“Do I?” he smiled tightly. “I always look like that, baby.”

She narrowed her eyes at him like a suspicious therapist, then returned to her styling. Another clip. A loud plastic clack. Her little hands fluttered like she was painting a masterpiece on his scalp.

Gi-hun finally tapped out a reply.

Gi-hun (03:29 p.m.):
whatever

He furrowed his brows for a moment. And then: 

Gi-hun (03:30 p.m.):
the han river one

He didn’t wait for a reply this time. Just slipped the phone back into his jeans and let his head tilt back, half surrendering to Ga-yeong’s enthusiastic styling, half watching the ceiling like it might start raining noodles and save him from his fate.

After about ten minutes, he couldn’t feel the top of his scalp anymore, and his self-esteem was somewhere under the coffee table. A single clip with Elsa’s face was positioned dead center on his forehead like some kind of cursed jewel. He didn’t even want to ask what he looked like.

“Done!” she announced, with the triumphant energy of a sculptor unveiling their masterpiece.

He sat up straighter and reached for the little hand mirror on the table. 

He looked—

“Oh wow,” he said softly.

There were at least one million clips on his head — pinks, purples, glittery plastic ones, two with cartoon fruit, one with a rotating ladybug — and somehow they were all strategically clamped onto strands of his hair that didn’t agree with the idea. One of his eyebrows had been caught in a rogue Snoopy clip. He decided not to touch anything. If he started unraveling, he might lose an eye.

He was forced to eat dinner with the whole thing on his head. Mal-soon laughed at him until he suggested that Ga-yeong should do halmeoni's hair as well. The woman said she had to hurry to the market before her fish got away. The girl laughed.

After 5 p.m., much to his daughter's displeasure, Gi-hun began removing the hair clips. It took him a while. He noticed that there was some pink and purple glitter in his hair that had fallen off the clips. He sighed.

At 5:30 p.m., they went to the subway.

They talked about braiding hair. That is, Ga-yeong talked about it. He listened.

Then, they made the walk to Eun-ji’s apartment. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

He adjusted her tiara once before they rang the bell.

Eun-ji opened the door a few seconds later. She didn’t look surprised to see them — but she did look tired. A different kind of tired. The kind that had settled into her muscles months ago and hadn’t left since.

“Hey,” she said. 

“Dropping off this little hairstylist,” he replied. 

Ga-yeong darted inside without another word, already kicking off her shoes in a trail behind her. Gi-hun bent down, picked them up, placed them neatly to the side — a small, silent ritual. He hesitated in the doorway, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

Eun-ji watched him, waiting.

It was six o'clock. He knew that In-ho was probably waiting for him somewhere in the car, lurking around the corner. But he wasn't going to rush. He had a thought in his head that had come to him a few hours ago.

“Ga-yeong asked me when I'm going back home,” he said. His tone was flat, as if he didn't want to suggest her answer by giving it some emotion.

Eun-ji gulped. “And what did you say?”

She leaned one shoulder against the door frame. Her arms were crossed, her fingers tucked under her elbows, and she shifted her weight just slightly — not in a way that suggested she was trying to run away, but not in a way that said “welcome,” either.

It was the kind of posture Gi-hun had seen a thousand times. From her. From other people. From mirrors. 

“I told her it’s complicated,” he said. “And that we love her.”

She sighed quietly. “She asks about you every day.”

Eun-ji didn’t say it accusingly — not exactly. Her voice was even, her face unreadable. But the sentence sat there between them like a paperweight on his chest. He nodded, slowly, as if that would help make it true in some way he didn’t fully understand.

They stood like that for a moment, two ghosts orbiting the same house, tethered only by the girl currently chatting to her dolls in the background. There were sounds of Velcro being undone, a plastic tiara clattering to the floor, the soft thump of her backpack hitting the couch. It was her kingdom again. And this — the hallway — was the border between their worlds.

Gi-hun looked at the floor. “I think we should start talking about divorce.”

His words hung in the air like an uncertain spark, fragile but impossible to ignore. Eun-ji didn't respond right away. Instead, she let the silence linger, as if checking to see if the ground beneath their feet was solid or about to collapse.

He swallowed hard, seeing the strange expression on her face. As if she were surprised by his words. “Don't tell me you weren't expecting this conversation.”

The woman shook her head, sighing heavily. “I was expecting it. Just not so soon.”

Another long moment of silence stretched between them.

“I need to think,” Eun-ji added, rubbing her temple. “Give me some time.”

Gi-hun nodded, understanding completely.

He remembered fragments of their first conversation about divorce in the original timeline. When he felt like a wreck, and drank to numb himself. It was different. Screams, insults, and grievances poured out after years of being kept inside. Words that hurt more than a knife from the lips he once kissed.

Today, it was peaceful.

Almost… thoughtful.

“We'll talk when you're ready. No rush.”

The lack of response suggested to him that he should leave. He nodded slightly, muttered a quiet goodbye, and walked down the hallway.

“Gi-hun.” He heard a quiet but confident voice behind him. “I'm sorry I said you are a terrible father to Ga-yeong.” 

He didn't know what hurt more. The fact that those words had ever been spoken, or that he didn't even remember them anymore?

Chapter Text

As he expected, the black sedan was parked in the neighborhood where Ga-yeong lived, in a spot where it wasn’t clearly visible.

Gi-hun took a few calming breaths, counted to ten, and muttered to himself that everything would be fine before walking over to the car. His steps felt heavier than usual, as if each one had to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken conversations.

The door unlocked with a soft click. In-ho slid out slowly, expression unreadable — but those sharp eyes flickered briefly, just enough to betray the tension underneath.

“Hey,” In-ho said, voice quiet but with an edge that could cut through steel. “Shall we go?”

Gi-hun just raised his eyebrow a little, trying hard to find any reason to offend him. He didn't want the atmosphere to be too comfortable. He didn't want to make In-ho think that they're friends.

“That was a very bold assumption that I would want to get into your car. You could've just sent me the address.”

In-ho didn’t flinch. He just stood there, holding the door open, one hand resting lightly on the roof of the sedan like it cost him nothing to wait. Like he had all the time in the world.

“We can walk there,” he started. “But you picked the Han River place, so it's a little far from here.” 

Gi-hun could only sigh heavily before walking toward the car to get in. He didn't like the way In-ho was playing it. It was as if he was actually plotting something, hiding behind the cloak of being so pathetic and submissive.

Wait, so is that why he asked him to choose the restaurant? So that he could now blame everything on him?

The door shut with a quiet, final thud behind him, and the cabin filled with a silence too dense to ignore. No music, no GPS, no idle chatter. Just the low hum of the engine as In-ho pulled away from the curb like he’d done this a thousand times.

Gi-hun pressed his back against the seat and stared out the window. He didn’t want to see the side of In-ho’s face — didn’t want to study the subtle lines of exhaustion around his eyes or the familiar way his fingers gripped the wheel at ten and two, like he still remembered what it was like to be a traffic cop fresh out of the academy.

He didn't intend to speak, and In-ho seemed to disregard his desire for silence, although he appeared ready to talk at any moment.

Gi-hun felt uncomfortable sitting in that chair, remembering that it was under it that he had found the golden card.

Wait a minute.

“Did you purposely put that card there?”

He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and his expression showed that the question had distracted him from the road.

“Sorry?”

“The golden card from the games. You put it there on purpose so that I would find it. Back then, in the garage.”

In-ho's chest rose and fell restlessly. Gi-hun could clearly see the huge lump going down his throat.

“I had to check if you remembered too,” he replied briefly. He didn't use an apologetic tone. He just said it normally. As if it was logical and there was something wrong with Gi-hun for not figuring it out earlier. And then a change of subject: “I'm glad you agreed to meet today.”

He didn't answer him. He just nodded, barely noticeably.

He felt his stomach rumbling. He couldn't wait to get there — not to sit across from In-ho, but to finally eat ramyeon.

They drove in silence for a while longer, weaving through late afternoon traffic that crawled like ants over the city’s ribs. The sky was already dark. It was one of those November nights that were neither too cold nor too warm. Gi-hun glanced occasionally out the window, catching glimpses of old storefronts, ajummas haggling over peaches in plastic crates, a schoolboy with a violin case bumping into a streetlamp and bowing to it in apology.

By the time they pulled into the narrow alley behind the restaurant, the sun had dipped low enough to throw long shadows across the street. The scent of boiling bone broth wafted from a nearby vent, immediately making Gi-hun’s mouth water. He was out of the car before In-ho turned off the engine. He probably thought that Gi-hun didn't want to spend any more seconds with him in such a small place. 

Meanwhile, he was just hungry. However, the elegantly dressed In-ho also irritated him.

He reminded him too much of the Frontman that way.

They sat in the corner booth — the one closest to the window. Gi-hun took the seat facing the wall. Then, they stared at the laminated menu between them as if it was an emergency protocol.

Without words. As if they didn't know each other — and yet — they sat at the same table.

Gi-hun looked at the menu, then glanced at In-ho, who seemed absorbed in reading. “It's quite expensive here,” he said. The price wasn't excessively high, but he paid less at the restaurants where he usually ate with Jung-bae.

The man across the table looked up slightly above the edge of the menu, but did not look him in the eye. “Is it?” he asked, and Gi-hun just shrugged his shoulders. “Don't worry about it, I'll pay.”

Once again, Gi-hun felt a strange sense of anger. In-ho's appearance, with his hair and probably expensive clothes. The way he spoke, as if he earned his money fairly. Not at the cost of spilled blood.

After a brief moment of silence, a short laugh escaped Gi-hun's chest. It wasn’t a laugh of amusement — more like mockery. “Sure. You certainly have a lot of blood money to spend.”

In-ho didn’t react the way Gi-hun expected. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stiffen. He didn’t even look away in guilt. He just laid the menu on the table with a kind of quiet ceremony, and folded his hands atop it.

“You’re right,” he said, calmly. “I do.”

Gi-hun’s lips parted slightly, as if he had more venom prepared, but the blunt honesty cut through it. Like there was no game to be played here — or worse, like the game had already been played, and Gi-hun had lost without realizing it.

The waitress came over before he could respond, notepad already in hand. “You ready to order?”

Gi-hun didn’t look at her. His eyes were still locked on In-ho. On his stupid hair. “Pork bone soup. Extra spicy.”

In-ho’s tone was almost soft when he added, “Same.”

The waitress gave them a confused glance, but then she just quickly nodded and padded away, already shouting the order over her shoulder toward the kitchen window.

They were alone again.

Gi-hun leaned back in the booth and let out a slow breath, resting one elbow on the edge of the table and pressing his knuckle against his cheek. The restaurant was warm and a little too brightly lit for his liking. Steam curled up from the nearby tables where couples hunched over bubbling pots, chopsticks darting like soldiers through their broth.

The fact that In-ho took the same thing as he did irritated him even more. He kept his eyes on him while the man looked around the restaurant with curiosity.

Gi-hun knew that he was only doing this so that he wouldn't have to look him in the face.

He sighed slightly as his eyes narrowed. That made In-ho look at him finally. He wanted to grab this man and shove him onto the wall from pure frustration, but instead, he just sat there, looking at his stupid Frontman hair.

The thought returned to his head that he looked friendlier with his hair down.

“I don't even have the strength to fight tonight,” he muttered finally, more to himself than to him.

“That's fine,” he replied. “I invited you to ramyeon, not to a fight.”

Gi-hun wasn't sure why this was even more annoying. He was thinking about what he should say more, to make the atmosphere actually bearable, but not comfortable. He couldn't afford it. Not now.

“Why ramyeon?”

“Hm?”

“Why would you choose ramyeon,” he repeated, his tone was sharper this time, “if you clearly don't enjoy it that much?”

In-ho paused for a moment, and a shadow of genuine surprise could be seen on his face. He shifted in his chair and leaned slightly over the table. His hands were probably on his lap now. “What makes you think that?”

Gi-hun stared. Not at the man, but through him — like if he squinted hard enough, he could read the fine print of whatever this little game was. But of course, there was no game. That was the most aggravating part.

“You ordered the same thing I did,” he said eventually, quiet but cutting. “You made me pick the place. And you don’t look convinced.”

In-ho blinked once, slow. Then let out a breath — not quite a sigh, more like a careful release of something he’d been holding in too long. He leaned back in his seat and tilted his head slightly, like he needed a better angle to understand Gi-hun’s expression. 

He looked like he wanted to lie, but for some reason, he couldn't.

“I thought you liked it,” he said simply. And when the other man opened his mouth to reply, he stopped him gently with his hand. “Not a stalking problem this time. Just an assumption.”

The food arrived much earlier than they thought it would. The waitress came to them with their bowls — she slid them across the table with a practiced smile, and the steam rose like smoke signals between them. Gi-hun thanked her. In-ho murmured something polite, too soft to be heard.

The broth was rich, red with spice, and smelled like the kind of heat that could scrape the pain off a bad day. Gi-hun picked up his spoon and gave the surface a gentle stir. He didn’t look up.

They said nothing more. It was as if they had forgotten good manners. They just started eating. Gi-hun a little more greedily, while In-ho slowly moved the leek and egg to get to the pork. His facial expression indicated that he had considerable doubts about whether he had done the right thing in ordering the same thing as the man across the table.

Finally, he grabbed a spoon and scooped some broth with it. Over a slightly extended period, looking at the red liquid, he got Gi-hun's attention. He began chewing more slowly on the noodles he had in his mouth, eager to catch In-ho's reaction.

He finally put the spoon in his mouth. He swallowed and breathed briefly. He grabbed his chopsticks to eat some noodles, and then his tongue began to burn with living fire, so he coughed, trying to play it cool in front of Gi-hun. The man, however, sat there with his chin resting on his hand and looked at him with pure pleasure.

After some time, In-ho found a napkin, and as he pressed it to his lips, he noticed a pair of attentive, amused eyes watching him.

Gi-hun scoffed. “Extra spicy's apparently too much for the Frontman.”

In-ho kept chewing slowly, blinking through the flames on his tongue like it was an endurance test — which, perhaps, it was. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth again with the napkin, as if the broth had done something offensive to his sense of dignity. And then he looked up, finally meeting Gi-hun's gaze.

“It's because of the cut on my lip,” he murmured, voice hoarse but measured, “it burns.”

Gi-hun let out something between a snort and a short laugh, a little puff of sound escaping before he could trap it. It surprised them both — and made the silence that followed feel just slightly less pointed. Not lighter, not warmer. But a fraction less suffocating.

Steam curled around them like a veil. The clatter of chopsticks from neighboring tables, the TV humming quietly from the far end of the restaurant — it all blended into a sort of underwater quiet. Two men submerged in something too heavy to name, eating soup that tasted like sharp memories.

In-ho blew on the next bite this time, determined not to give Gi-hun another show. His lips were already tinged a deeper red than before.

“So,” Gi-hun said, in a deceptively calm tone, after he swallowed some pickled leek. “If not ramyeon, then what is your favorite food? Probably caviar, or something equally exclusive, right?”

He didn't know why he asked. It just left his mouth, without asking his permission. He looked at his reflection in the surface of the broth, and the noodles above his face seemed to form the word 'idiot' . He bit his tongue, but it was too late. The question fell and landed on In-ho's chest a little heavier than it should have.

The man raised his eyebrows and then furrowed them. It was hard to tell whether his reaction was the result of Gi-hun breaking the uncomfortable atmosphere so abruptly or the fact that he couldn't find an answer to the question.

A question that was, after all, trivial.

“I don't think I have one.”

In-ho’s admission hung in the air, faint and elusive. The clink of ceramic bowls, the hiss of the kitchen exhaust, and the low murmur of nearby diners all seemed to recede, leaving the two of them alone in a pocket of charged silence.

Gi-hun stirred his broth absentmindedly, the spoon grazing the bowl’s edge with a muted scrape. Steam curled up like a restless spirit, carrying flecks of red chili oil that shimmered in the halogen glow. He watched In-ho across the table, trying to read the expression behind those calm eyes — a task as futile as deciphering smoke patterns.

“Are you trying to tell me that you've been eating high-end food for so many years,” Gi-hun repeated, tone softening. “And none of it has become your favorite?”

In-ho didn't answer at first.

His eyes flicked down to the bowl again, where the pork bones sat half-submerged like ancient relics. He moved one with his chopsticks, as if it might help him dig something out of himself — a memory, a flavor, anything that could qualify as an answer.

“No,” he said eventually, voice even. “Not really.”

Gi-hun leaned back in his seat, tapping his spoon once against the rim of the bowl. He wasn’t sure if he felt smug or sorry. Maybe both. Probably neither. Mostly just… tired.

“Bullshit,” he muttered, scooping up some broth and slurping it too loudly on purpose. “Everyone has a favorite. Even the Frontman.”

In-ho almost smiled at that. Almost. A shadow of it passed across his face, not quite reaching the corners of his mouth. It was the kind of smile that hadn’t been worn in a long time — maybe because it belonged to someone else, someone In-ho didn’t remember being anymore.

He didn’t say anything, just kept stirring the broth.

As he watched the look on In-ho's face, he realized something painful. Something that made him feel like crying, or screaming, or just crawling out of his own skin. It was, once again, a sense of understanding for In-ho. Another step toward the forgiveness that Gi-hun had so feared.

Did In-ho really feel he could have his favorite food if he didn't feel human?

Gi-hun then decided to soften his question.

“You liked something once,” he muttered. “Before all this.” He waved his spoon vaguely, as if ‘this’ could sum up years of blood and masks and poker-faced silence. “When you were younger.”

In-ho looked up now, eyes tired. Not offended. Just… weary.

“I used to like jjinppang they sold near the train station,” he admitted, very quietly, like it was something shameful. “When I was a kid.”

Gi-hun didn't interrupt. Just listened.

“They only cost 300 won back then. I used to save up coins. Ajumma always gave me the ones with the most filling because I looked skinny.”

It reminded him of how he went for jjinppang with Ga-yeong today.

A pause. Then In-ho laughed once, a short, breathy sound. “She probably pitied me.”

He didn't really know how to respond, so he just didn't. The silence was a better answer for all of that.

Gi-hun's thoughts were rushing through his mind at the speed of light. It happened every time In-ho was acting so human. Looking so human. But yet, his stupid hair.

They ate in silence for a bit. Slurping, sipping. The broth really was good, but In-ho still looked like he was fighting for his life — this time, quietly.

After a few minutes, he spoke again.

“You still haven’t asked why I wanted to meet.”

Gi-hun set down his spoon. “I figured it was either to talk nonsense or to ruin my day. Which is the same thing, basically.”

“ Did it ruin your day, Gi-hun ssi?”

“Not yet.”

In-ho gave a small nod at that, but his eyes drifted again — out the window this time, where neon signs blinked lazily across the slick, rain-speckled glass. People passed by like ghosts: bundled up, eyes on their phones, lives untouched by the two men inside. A world that kept turning, even when some of its gears were rusted through.

Gi-hun watched him. Watched him in the way someone watches the last seconds of a timer they can’t stop — dreading the sound, already hearing it in their head.

“So?” he asked finally, voice low, with something sharp and metallic lodged under the syllables. “Why did you want to meet?”

In-ho leaned forward a little, enough that the faint overhead lighting caught the sharp angles of his face. He looked older up close. And tired. That tiredness again — less like fatigue and more like erosion. As if the years had scraped something off him, grain by grain.

“I think,” he began, slowly, “I owe you half of my prize money.”

Gi-hun blinked. That wasn’t what he expected. Just sat here, his thoughts spinning inside his brain.

“Funny,” he muttered. “You effortlessly managed to ruin my day just now.”

In-ho let the insult roll over him like water off glass. His fingers twitched slightly around the chopsticks, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t react, not the way Gi-hun half-hoped he would — not with a snide remark, not with an apology, not with anything definitive enough to fight against. Just… that same damned stillness.

“If it wasn't for you,” In-ho finally said, “then I probably would have killed them that night.”

His voice dipped around that word, as if it didn't quite fit in his mouth.

“This is blood money.” Gi-hun scoffed, but it came out sounding more like a sigh. “I don't want it.”

In-ho tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if trying to gauge whether Gi-hun really meant it. But of course he did. That part was obvious.

Still, he answered carefully.

“I know you don’t want it.”

A beat.

“But I still think you deserve it.”

Gi-hun rubbed his temple with two fingers, leaning his elbow against the table. The fluorescent lights above them were too sharp, too honest. He felt like a pinned insect, dissected by a gaze he didn’t ask for.

“You probably think that makes you a philanthropist. It doesn't. That’s not how it works,” he muttered.

In-ho didn’t respond immediately. He glanced down again — always back to the bowl, like it was the safer of the two faces across the table. But there was a flicker in his eye that didn’t look like hesitation. It looked like grief, dressed up as logic.

“No,” he said, more to himself than to Gi-hun. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

The silence after that wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t combative either. It sat between them like a third person, listening, waiting, breathing its own heavy breath.

In-ho set down his chopsticks. Neatly. Like a ritual. Then folded his hands on the table in a way that looked rehearsed — like he’d sat in meetings doing exactly this, hundreds of times, and didn’t know any other posture anymore.

“I'm not telling you to use it,” he began, slowly. “I just think you could keep it. Maybe for your daughter's future. And maybe with them, one day, you'll be able to save someone else you care about.”

He snorted. “I wonder who.”

In-ho looked him straight in the eye. That pale, motionless face of his. His hair pulled back. His shirt collar buttoned up to his neck. He hadn't said anything yet, but Gi-hun could already feel how his next words would rip his insides out.

“Cho Sang-woo.”

He felt as if he didn't know something. The words bogged down in his throat, as did a huge gulp. The burning broth intensified in his mouth. 

“Are you spying on him, too? Is he already in trouble?” he muttered, feeling his stomach tighten into a tight knot.

In-ho was calm. Too calm for such a conversation.

“I checked on him lately. He doesn't have any debts yet. But you know it's a matter of time.”

Gi-hun stared at him. Really stared , as if he could physically reach across the table with his eyes alone and push In-ho back into the wall behind him. Push him out of the restaurant. Push him out of his life.

“You checked on him,” Gi-hun repeated flatly, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be angry or simply stunned. His voice, when it came again, was dry and full of gravel. “How considerate.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

Gi-hun looked furious, but he also seemed to reconsider the proposal. Eventually, he did not take up the subject again. Still, he did not abandon it. He simply postponed it. To another day. Another conversation.

They didn’t talk for a while after that.

The silence wasn’t the polite kind, or even the awkward kind. It was the type that arrived when something had been said that couldn’t be taken back — and wasn’t meant to be. A kind of verbal scar that no amount of noodles or broth could cover up.

Outside the window, a bus screeched to a halt. People got off. People got on. The neon sign across the street blinked with that same eternal slowness, as if it was trying to wink but had forgotten how. A couple walked past holding umbrellas like they were shields. The rain came down now in earnest — not a storm, just a steady, resigned kind of falling. The kind that seeps into your clothes and bones and doesn’t leave.

Gi-hun rubbed his fingers along the edge of the menu. His nails were chewed down. His hands looked older than he remembered them ever being — bones too close to the surface, like his skin had forgotten how to hold them.

In-ho sat opposite, not moving. Not even pretending to check his phone or drink the last of his broth. He just sat there like a bad memory that refused to dissolve.

Gi-hun just then remembered that he was supposed to ask something, as it had been bothering him for two days.

“Recently, you said you were going to therapy,” he finally said, his voice flat. “I asked why you were telling me this. You said you wanted to show me that you're trying. ”

He was a bit confused, but he nodded eventually. “What about it?”

Gi-hun shifted in his seat, frowning slightly.

“What are you trying for?”

In-ho raised his gaze to him, located it somewhere not much above his forehead, and squinted slightly. His focus seemed to float away somewhere for a split second. He swallowed his saliva, as if thinking, but his eyes were still fixed on the top of Gi-hun's head, who didn't notice it at all at first.

“I'm trying to be a better person,” he explained briefly. He tried to look him in the eye, but his gaze kept escaping to his hair.

Gi-hun nodded. It was a too short and too simple answer, to a too short, and too simple question.

“What's your motivation?”

In-ho took another glance at his hair before he answered.

“My wife. And Jun-ho. And mom.”

Gi-hun finally noticed the way In-ho was looking at his head. He instinctively started brushing his bangs with his fingers. He even took a glance in the window next to them, but he didn't see any reason to look at his head with such passion.

“And you, mostly.”

Gi-hun should've collapsed now, hearing his words, or at least blush and die eventually. Instead, he just sat there and didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because something about the way In-ho looked at him — or, rather, above him — made him feel like he had spinach in his teeth or a bloodstain on his temple. He reached up, reflexively patting at his hair as if he might smooth away whatever it was that made In-ho squint like that. His fingers came back damp with condensation from the air, and he made a low noise in his throat.

“What do you mean, 'me'? Do you still think this—okay, what the hell?” he hissed. “Do I have something in my hair that you can't stop looking at?”

In-ho blinked, the spell broken. “No—actually, yes. You have a Hello Kitty hair clip in your hair.”

Gi-hun froze.

The entire restaurant didn't fall silent, of course — the chopsticks clattered on, the noodles slurped, the weather report droned from the ancient wall-mounted TV — but in his head, there was a loud, echoing nothing. A thud of complete embarrassment that rang like a dropped gong.

“What,” he said, with a gravity usually reserved for funerals or betrayal or sudden car crashes, “did you just say.”

In-ho’s face, inexplicably, had softened. Not mockery — not quite — but something adjacent. Like amusement dressed in mourning clothes. A fond kind of condescension. The kind you’d offer a man who had just spilled kimchi on a white shirt and didn’t yet know.

“It’s… pink,” he added helpfully. “And glittery. With a little bow and everything.”

Gi-hun reached up again, this time with purpose. His fingers skimmed his bangs, but he couldn't find anything. “Ga-yeong is a hairstylist, lately.” He looked at his reflection in the window, but his fingers still didn't find it. “Okay, just take it off of me.” He leaned his head a little above his bowl.

He bent his head slightly over the table to give In-ho access to his hair. He didn't know what he was doing — he was punishing himself in his head for allowing him to shorten the distance like that. He shouldn't be doing that.

And yet, after just a moment, he felt a warm touch on his scalp, slowly dislodging the hairpin from his still somewhat tangled hair.

The hand stopped a little — not completely — just slowed down a bit. Because of this gesture, the whole situation became a little more… private. Almost intimate.

And again — in front of his eyes, he couldn't see anyone else but Young-il. He remembered his gentle but all too warm touch. The one that supported, that comforted, that calmed.

“I said I want to try for you. Because you are the only person who knows the whole truth and, at the same time, can not hate me. And because, you know what I feel.”

When In-ho pulled his warm hand out of his hair, Gi-hun thought he wished he could feel it again. But before that thought reached him for good, he rebuked himself sternly.

And then he saw his face. The same one, but... it wasn't Young-il. And that damn hair, which especially today couldn't give him a break.

In-ho sat up slowly, suppressing a gasp of pain and pawing on the left side of his stomach. Gi-hun noticed it, but didn't ask. His thoughts were chasing each other, too frantically to deal with down-to-earth matters right now.

He stared at him, stunned. Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in his gut. Not an anger or frustration anymore. Something worse. Something like almost hope.

And then, embarrassment.

Chapter Text

You are the only person who knows the whole truth and at the same time can not hate me. And because, you know what I feel.

Gi-hun was almost certain that his cheeks were red. Because how could it be otherwise? Who says such things in such a situation? Practically confessing (again) to the person whose hair you are holding your hand in at that very moment!

“How can you say all of this,” he mumbled, not daring to look him in the eye, “with such a serious face?”

In-ho blinked this time. But he didn’t flinch. 

“Because I mean it.”

Gi-hun swallowed and looked at him warily, as if trying to read his thoughts. When he realized what might be going on in In-ho's head right now, he blushed, but decided to play it cool. “Stop imagining things.”

In-ho seemed unbothered, but his face became a little more tense. “I'm not. Are you, Gi-hun ssi?”

“Oh, shut up!”

He felt like collapsing to the ground in shame, even though it was In-ho who should feel that way now. He was the one who was spouting all this foolishness as if there would be no tomorrow. Gi-hun was just a victim of all this.

In-ho finally set the glittery hair clip gently down beside the other man's bowl like it was a piece of evidence, or maybe a weapon, looking as if he had a cramp. Gi-hun took a quick glance at the hairpin. He was so embarrassed, he thought he would die. He shouldn't act like that. He should be the one to deal the cards, as he has so far.

And yet — he felt so much right now, but he couldn't feel anger. It annoyed him.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” In-ho said, after a while, so quietly it barely qualified as speech.

Gi-hun flinched — not visibly, but internally. The kind of flinch you feel in your ribs, in your bones. As if someone had reached inside and plucked a string that shouldn’t be touched anymore.

“Don't flatter yourself,” he lied, his voice hoarse.

In-ho nodded slowly. He didn’t argue. He didn’t press. That was almost worse.

The clip sat there, glittering smugly.

Gi-hun leaned back again, this time folding his arms across his chest, which made him feel marginally more protected — like his organs might be safe if he kept them shielded by bone and fabric and pure stubborn willpower.

He looked at In-ho now. Really looked. And not like he did during games, in the Frontman's office, or when they fight in the entrance of his house. This wasn’t suspicion or hatred anymore. This was different.

The man across from him wasn’t the Frontman now. Not Young-il. Not In-ho. Not even a former cop. Just a person — a tired, ruined person who had tried to say something kind and failed miserably at doing it without setting the room on fire.

He had no idea what to do with that.

In-ho adjusted in his seat again, his hand briefly clutching his side. Gi-hun furrowed his brows, still clueless, but once again, he chose not to ask.

In-ho's neatly combed hair attracted his attention once again. He felt like taking a razor and shaving it off if it was going to stop annoying him. Though he would rather have the man simply put them down.

He was afraid, however, that if that happened, forgiveness would come too quickly.

“I hate your hair,” he muttered, not quite consciously.

In-ho hissed quietly, still keeping his hand on the side of his stomach, before Gi-hun's words reached him.

His eyes flashed — first surprise, then something thinner, darker, like a flicker of wounded pride. He pressed a fingertip to the edge of his own hairline, as if Gi-hun’s offhand barb had become a real cut. The restaurant noise seemed to swell around them then: the chime of the door opening, the murmur of voices carrying in from the street.

Gi-hun felt the words hang between them, crude and oddly intimate. He swallowed hard, for some reason suddenly regretting the ease with which he’d flung that insult.

“Well, I don't hate yours.”

The answer was quick, but not sharp. Surprisingly soft, and somehow — it sounded sincere.

Gi-hun blinked. Something inside his chest jolted, like he'd swallowed a spark by accident.

He didn’t know what to say — didn’t even know what he was trying to do anymore, sitting here across from this man who had once worn a mask and broken people like twigs for the sake of balance and entertainment. This man, who now said things like I don’t hate your hair and I’m trying for you with a straight face.

In-ho looked like he was reconsidering Gi-hun's words, but couldn't quite focus. Droplets of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his hand was still clenched on his stomach. Gi-hun didn't notice this, as he currently lowered his gaze and stared into his now nearly empty bowl.

In-ho stammered a bit. “Why—why do you hate it?”

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away.

He kept his eyes fixed on the base of his bowl as if there was something left to examine there, some new universe swirling around in the last trace of broth and seaweed. The question had landed awkwardly — not sharp, but unbalanced. Wobbly. Like a chair missing a leg. And somehow, that made it worse.

He sighed through his nose.

“Because you look like the Frontman,” he muttered.

In-ho swallowed. Not hard, not dramatic. Just like it was something he had to do to keep breathing. He didn’t argue. He didn’t apologize, either. He just nodded.

“I see,” he said at last. His voice cracked on the second word, barely perceptible.

Gi-hun risked a glance up. In-ho was still pressing a palm lightly to his stomach, the other hand braced against the side of the table like he was grounding himself. His face was noticeably paler now, and something about the way he kept blinking — slowly, like the air was too heavy — started to feel off.

“You okay?” Gi-hun asked, before he could stop himself.

In-ho froze. Then he smiled painfully, pretending to be surprised by his question, but his jaw clenched. “Hm?”

Then tried very subtly to slide down in his chair, so that the place he was clinging to like a drowning man would no longer be so visible. Unsuccessfully.

“I saw that. You grabbed your side like someone stabbed you,” he replied. “And your face looks like you're about to pass out. You're hurt?”

“It’s nothing. Let's keep eating.”

Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “Move your hand.”

In-ho did not. He simply clamped his hand tighter on his stomach. 

“I'm fine.” A lie. A bad one.

Gi-hun swallowed his saliva. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen enough people lie through pain to know when someone was doing it badly. And In-ho, despite all his history as a detective and a liar and a man who had once orchestrated death behind a black mask, was doing it very badly now.

“Move your damn hand.”

His voice was lower than before, not louder — quieter, even — but sharper. Taut like a fishing line that could snap if tugged once more. His eyes didn’t leave In-ho’s face.

The younger man stared back for a beat too long, and for a moment Gi-hun saw the stubborn Frontman again. The set jaw. The unwillingness. The silent don’t tell me what to do. But then, the bravado gave way — and In-ho flinched, the muscles in his jaw twitching again — before he very slowly moved his hand away.

Gi-hun saw the dark stain almost instantly.

It wasn’t large — not yet — but it was there. Seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, just below the ribs on the left side. Not red — darker than that, almost black in the restaurant’s dim lighting. But fresh. Wet. Too fresh for something that was supposed to be “nothing.”

Gi-hun’s breath hitched in his chest.

“You’re bleeding.”

In-ho looked away. Then, with the same tone he might use to ask for more tea, he said, “I'd say it’s more like pus. I think I might've slightly reopened the stab wound while reaching for your hairpin.”

Gi-hun’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back. “Where—where did you even get the wound from? Who stabbed you?”

In-ho didn’t answer right away. He adjusted in his seat, but this time it looked more like a calculation than discomfort — like he was weighing how much to say, or how little. A thin line formed between his brows, and he didn’t lift his gaze when he finally spoke.

“It happened in the games,” he said vaguely. “Not important.”

“Are you insane?”

In-ho didn’t flinch. But he did start leaning forward, just a little, like the weight of his own body was suddenly betraying him.

“You should go to the hospital.”

“I did.”

“ When? ”

In-ho looked at him like a child caught cheating on a test. He wasn't so soft anymore. More like irritated. It was as if his patience was flowing out of the wound along with the blood or anything else that was. “Earlier. I got discharged. They said I could walk, so I walked. I’m walking. This is me walking.”

“You’re not walking ,” Gi-hun snapped, rising halfway from his chair. “You’re sitting . And barely.”

In-ho tilted his head back, looking up at the yellowing ceiling tiles. “Fine. Then this is me sitting. Happy?”

“No. I’m not happy, you jackass,” he hissed, already fed up with his stupidity and sudden, strange boldness. He pulled out his wallet and slammed down enough cash to cover both meals and a tip. 

In-ho’s eyes met his — this time level, finally, like whatever fog had been clouding them had burned off in Gi-hun’s frustration. Finally, Gi-hun stood up and went to pay, not listening to In-ho saying that, after all, he was the one who was going to pay.

When he returned to the man, who by this time had allowed himself to recoil from the pain a little more than he had done so far, he extended an open hand in front of him. “Your keys.”

In-ho looked at him in incomprehension. “What?”

“Give me the keys to your car. I'm driving you to the hospital.”

In-ho didn’t move. Just sat there, blankly, like Gi-hun had asked for his kidney instead of his car keys. And as he only had one already, this request was quite a big one.

That made Gi-hun even angrier.

“Dammit,” he muttered, grabbing his arm. “Don’t fucking collapse here. I’m not dealing with that paperwork.”

‘What are you doing?’ he was asking himself. ‘Just let him bleed out. You always wanted it. Your problems would be solved then.’

But he couldn't.

And In-ho didn’t resist this time. His body was stiff, though — too hot under the man’s hand.

Gi-hun grunted as he helped him up. The other customers didn’t look over. This was Seoul — a man helping another man stand up in a restaurant barely registered.

The street smelled like wet stone and exhaust. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, just enough to slick their hair and make everything feel colder than it was.

“I’m going to get pneumonia,” In-ho muttered faintly.

Gi-hun laughed, once — loud, and exasperated, and tired. “You’re bleeding out, and you’re worried about pneumonia? ”

“I’m just saying.”

They reached the car, and even though In-ho pressed that he wanted to sit in the front, Gi-hun told him to get in the back, only forbidding him to faint. He personally searched his coat pockets for the keys. 

“Let's not go to the hospital,” he said as Gi-hun got behind the wheel. “I'll go, I promise, just not with you.”

The man turned to him with a wry look on his face before he could fasten his seat belt. He didn't have time to tell him he was a moron, however, as In-ho continued.

“Jun-ho already suspects too much, and I can't tell him the truth. When he sees us together again, he'll be angry,” he explained, faintly. 

This did not please Gi-hun, but he understood. The time loop put them in situations that simply could not be explained to people. He thought for a brief moment, then sighed, wondering why he was even so concerned about all this.

Not long ago, he felt like tearing this man to shreds, putting a bullet in his head, and today? He strains his tired mind to save him as quickly as possible.

He may have been stupid, but he couldn't let In-ho leave him in this fucked-up loop alone.

He started the engine. “So we'll go to the pharmacy, and then I'll drive you home.”

And without waiting for his answer, he slowly drove out of the parking lot.

The ride was quiet for a while. 

Not silent — the car made noises, of course. The hum of the engine. Tires swishing over damp asphalt. The faint squeak of the windshield wipers. In-ho’s breathing was sharp and shallow, like he was trying not to let it become a problem. And Gi-hun’s hands on the wheel — clenching a little too hard. Not because he was angry. But because he needed something to do with himself.

He wasn’t used to this. Not anymore. Being responsible for someone. Not in games. Not in this way. Not someone like him.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Gi-hun muttered under his breath, eyes on the road.

In-ho didn’t respond.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. In-ho had his head tilted toward the window, the city lights casting soft reflections on his skin. His eyes were half-lidded, but not shut. He was awake. Barely. Probably pretending not to hear him.

“Bleeding like that, and you’re worried about your brother getting mad,” Gi-hun added. “Fucking priorities.”

Still no answer.

He almost said more. Something meaner. Something to knock the silence off its balance. But when he looked again, he saw the way In-ho’s hand was curled into his side, the other arm braced weakly against the door, his fingers twitching once like they were failing to hold onto something invisible.

Gi-hun pressed his lips together. Focused back on the road. The pharmacy was still a few blocks away, and the red lights in this part of town loved pretending they were eternal.

He sighed again. Out loud this time.

He didn't want to feel this. This reluctant, stupid concern. This weird mix of irritation and guilt and something warm and shameful that sat low in his gut like he'd swallowed a lighter. He didn’t want to see In-ho like this — fragile. Human. He preferred him angry, cold, unreachable. It was easier to hate someone who stood ten feet above you. To not forgive.

But now?

Now he was just a guy with damp hair, bleeding through his shirt, shaking quietly in the backseat of his black sedan. And Gi-hun was the one driving him to a 24-hour pharmacy because, apparently, this is who he was now.

They parked just outside the little shop on the corner. 

“I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare die,” he said, shoving the door open.

The lights inside the pharmacy were too bright. Blue-white and clinical. He blinked a few times as he stepped in, the warmth of the store clashing hard with the rain-soaked air outside.

He didn’t know what to ask for. Not exactly.

After a moment of internal debate, he grabbed a few packs of sterile gauze, alcohol wipes, antibacterial cream, latex gloves, and some over-the-counter pain meds. The pharmacist raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. Gi-hun didn’t give him a chance. Paid in cash, shoved everything into the little paper bag they offered, and turned on his heel.

Back outside, the car was still idling. The headlights looked weird in the fog — fuzzy, almost nostalgic. Like an old memory that hadn’t been played back in years.

He opened the passenger door instead of the driver’s.

In-ho raised his head slightly, confused.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“I'm trying my fucking best to make sure you don't die. Sit up.”

“No need. Just drive me—”

“Sit. Up.”

The tone in Gi-hun’s voice didn’t leave much room for negotiation.

Slowly — painfully — In-ho obeyed. He winced as he straightened his torso, his whole body moving like it had rusted in place.

“Move your coat back,” he said gruffly.

In-ho hesitated, but obeyed. He smelled like cologne, blood, sweat, and scented wipes for cleaning the car dashboard.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

“Getting bold, are we, Gi-hun ssi? You should invite me to dinner first.” In-ho muttered dryly, voice hoarse and a little shaky, as if this sudden boldness and the joke that had left his lips were the result of weakness or some kind of hallucination.

“I did,” he replied ironically, pulling out gauze and antiseptic. “And you bled into your soup.”

Gi-hun removed the old, soggy bandage and looked at the wound, trying not to pay attention to his glossy, sweat-slick abs. His throat caught for a moment, but he dismissed it as the sight of the wound. He grimaced hard. In-ho was right — the wound had opened up a bit.

The man flinched when the alcohol touched his skin. It wasn’t a dramatic reaction — not the way some people recoiled — just a tight inhale, like he didn’t want to give the pain the satisfaction of being acknowledged. His fingers twitched again at his sides.

“Hold still,” Gi-hun muttered, more to fill the silence than anything. The truth was, his hands were trembling more than he wanted to admit. He wasn't used to dressing people like that. And if it did happen to him, it wasn't a man who destroyed his life in every timeline they met.

It was the closest they had ever been. His breath smelled like the spiciness of ramyeon, landing on Gi-hun's cheek as if it was a reassurance.

The blood was sluggish now, but still there, seeping around the edges of the torn scar. Gi-hun wiped it away with a gentle swipe, trying not to let it show how badly it bothered him. The sight. The smell. The reality of what he was doing.

“When did you come back from the games?”

“More than two months ago.”

Gi-hun croaked slightly. “And that still looks so bad?” he asked, more to himself than to In-ho.

The man clenched his teeth, feeling a burning sensation, but eventually, he answered in a rather weak voice. “First, it was infected, and then you pressed me against your dresser a few times.”

His tone was unlikely to indicate that he wanted to blame it on Gi-hun. But still, the sense of guilt reached him.

And, before he had time to realize it, a brief slip of the tongue escaped his lips: “Sorry.”

And that quite surprised them both.

In-ho didn’t respond right away. For a moment, Gi-hun thought maybe he hadn’t heard him. Maybe the word got lost in the hush of the rain against the roof, or drowned under the blood pounding in his ears. But when he looked up — when he dared to glance at In-ho’s face — he caught something strange in his eyes.

Not shock. Not gratitude.

Something quieter.

Resignation, maybe.

Or worse — understanding.

“Don’t be,” In-ho said eventually. “I deserved that.”

Gi-hun didn’t answer.

He didn’t know how to. Instead, he simply grabbed a half-filled bottle of water that he had spotted under the seat earlier and gave him painkillers, telling him to drink. 

The inside of the car had gone quiet again. Not the comfortable kind — not the kind that meant nothing needed to be said — but the kind of silence that settled thick and slow over everything, like fog on glass. It blurred the edges of logic. Turned everything soft and hard at the same time.

He didn’t want to ask what exactly In-ho thought he deserved.

He didn’t want to ask what the hell he meant by that — if he was talking about the pain, the loop, the way the universe seemed to twist and snap every time they came too close. If he was talking about them — or whatever the fuck was left of that word.

As he slowly finished disinfecting, he noticed a long, pink line along his side. He tried to focus his eyes to see what it was, but the light was too faint, and he instinctively brushed it with his gloved fingers to feel its texture.

Only when he noticed In-ho's eyes staring at him, confused but also a little refreshed by the touch, did he clear his throat and move his hand away. 

“What is that scar?”

The man moved slightly with a short groan of pain.

“I gave my kidney to Jun-ho.”

Gi-hun felt another knot in his stomach. This man kept messing with his head.

He finished wrapping the gauze. Tight enough to hold. Not too tight to bruise. His hands worked with a kind of nervous efficiency, as if he focused hard enough on the mechanics, he wouldn’t have to process what any of it meant.

When he was done, he slowly pulled the shirt closed over In-ho’s chest again. Didn't button it this time. Just let it hang there. Damp and rumpled and clinging slightly to the bandages. He could feel the heat of In-ho’s skin still pulsing beneath it. Not a fever — not yet — but not right either.

“I’m taking you home,” Gi-hun said finally, rising from his crouch like someone standing after a funeral prayer. “Give me your address.” 

In-ho gave him a look — that same unreadable thing he always wore when deciding whether to speak or keep secrets — then leaned his head back against the seat and murmured the address like he was telling it to himself and not to Gi-hun.

He could have expected this, given that Jun-ho worked in Mia-dong, but it turned out that their apartment was in Nowon-gu, quite close to his home. The problem was that they were currently near the Han River — he had personally chosen a restaurant in this location — so they now had at least a 20-minute drive ahead of them. 

He didn't understand why he was so worried about him. Why was he constantly glancing in the mirror, making sure that this man was still conscious.

In-ho wasn't dying. He wasn't bleeding to death — it was more about keeping the wound from getting infected. Gi-hun could have just left him at the restaurant and gone home by subway, not caring how he got home or whether he would definitely go to the hospital. He didn't have to run to the pharmacy, he didn't have to clean his wound.

But he did. And he didn't know why he felt such compassion for him.

The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. Not like it usually did when he was alone behind the wheel. Not like it used to — when driving was freedom, movement, something simple and forward. No. Tonight, the wheel felt cold. Too solid. Like a tether. Like something keeping him here, at this moment, in this looping spiral of half-truths and a man who wouldn’t stop getting under his skin, even when he was half-unconscious.

They didn’t talk anymore.

And it was probably better that way.

Gi-hun parked the car slowly, when it was almost 10 p.m., almost hesitating before killing the engine. The street outside was nearly empty, just a stray cat weaving between shadows and the distant hum of evening traffic. The rain had finally stopped, leaving everything slick and shining under the dull orange streetlights.

He turned back toward In-ho, who lay back against the seat, eyes closed, breathing unevenly. A few strands of sweat-dampened hair stuck to his forehead, and droplets of water reflected the dim light like tiny stars.

Gi-hun slid out of the car and circled to the other side, opening the door wide. The cold night air hit him like a slap — sharp, real — and he inhaled deeply, trying to push back the tightness in his chest.

He unbuckled In-ho’s seatbelt slowly, careful not to jostle him. “Come on, get up. Are you waiting for me to carry you?” Gi-hun murmured, voice rough but low.

In-ho cracked one eye open, blinking blearily. “No,” he muttered, voice thick with pain and exhaustion.

“Then get up. Is Jun-ho home?”

In-ho just nodded slowly, looking at the way Gi-hun's face contorted into a thoughtful expression. “Now I owe you much more than just half of my prize. But you should go home now, Gi-hun ssi,” he said, faintly reaching for a pocket in his coat, to get his wallet. “Get yourself a cab.”

Gi-hun didn't feel like taking money from him or listening to his nonsense. He interrupted him, grabbing him by the shoulders and slowly helping him to his feet. “If you stop wasting time, I’ll still make it to the subway on time. Can you walk?”

He stood up straight, his jaw clenching once more as he tried to mask the pain. Gi-hun just sighed heavily, his eyebrows rising involuntarily.

“If you don't go to the hospital tonight, I'll tell Jun-ho the whole truth. You'll never be able to explain yourself to him. Understand?”

In-ho nodded obediently again.

“I'll be going now,” Gi-hun continued, carefully looking at his pale skin.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, half-leaned against the edge of the open car door, one hand gripping it tight like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His breath left him in a visible shudder, misting in the cold. He looked up — briefly — as if about to say something, but then thought better of it. His gaze dropped to the ground between them, and his fingers curled tighter around the metal frame.

Something about this moment had weight. A quiet heaviness that made the silence feel unbearable and necessary all at once. The kind of silence that comes right before something breaks — or something shifts.

But Gi-hun knew he shouldn't want any shifts.

'Why do I even give a damn about you?'

They stood there for another beat. The wind shifted. The air smelled like rust and old pavement, and the chill crept down the back of Gi-hun’s neck.

Then, like the spell had broken, he exhaled sharply and stepped away. His footsteps were loud in the quiet, purposeful, echoing between the buildings.

Then there was a cough behind him, which made him flinch, but he didn't stop. And then there was a voice, weak but trying to sound normal:

“Gi-hun ssi.”

Only then did he stop. He should be running to the subway. He shouldn't still be with him. He went into today's meeting with the attitude that he didn't want to close the distance. He didn't want the atmosphere to be too comfortable. He didn't want In-ho to think they were friends. To think that there could ever be anything between them. He didn't want to get close to forgiveness.

And yet he turned around.

In-ho was still standing by the open car door, his weight listing slightly to one side. His posture looked like it had been borrowed from someone steadier, someone stronger. The only thing holding him upright was pure spite and maybe that one damn hand still gripping the doorframe. His coat had slipped from one shoulder, the bandages visible again, already soaked through in one spot. But his eyes were sharp.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice ragged but steady.

Gi-hun looked at him for a moment but didn't respond. After a few more seconds, he simply nodded.

That was enough.

Gi-hun (00:34 a.m.):

i hope you're in the hospital right now.

Gi-hun (01:02 a.m.):

i didn't mean to offend you by saying i hate your hair. 

it's just that i liked young-il's hairstyle better. 

Chapter Text

That night, Gi-hun had a dream about Sang-woo.

It was a strange dream. It wasn't a pleasant one, but it didn't scare him either. It was just cold.

He remembered that he and Sang-woo were in a bar — Gi-hun wanted so badly for them to finally meet and talk.

Just to see him.

In the dream, it was a bar that looked like the one where he and In-ho had eaten ramyeon that day.

He and Sang-woo were sitting across from each other. They had glasses of soju in front of them. But they just sat there. Gi-hun remembered trying to say something to his friend, but he didn't respond. He just sat there with a serious expression, yet somewhere in the corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile lingered.

So they were sitting there without words. Gi-hun tried to drink his soju, but when he reached for his glass, it disappeared. And then he woke up.

He rubbed his face and rolled over to the other side of the mattress to unplug his phone from the charger. On the lock screen, he saw a message notification. He was convinced that it was In-ho replying to the messages he had sent him during the night, which he had sent on impulse and out of sheer stupidity, but he was wrong.

Sang-woo (07:46 a.m.):

Hey. Just letting you know, I'll be in Seoul after New Year's. We can go to a bar then.

Gi-hun sat up when he saw the message. He warmed up his fingers and typed a message back, telling him that he was very happy and couldn't wait to see him.

Then he lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and thinking, but he couldn't concentrate. The events of the previous evening came back to his mind. Ramyeon, In-ho, and the wound. And that Hello Kitty hair clip, which he had probably forgotten to take with him.

The lack of response to his messages not only made him feel embarrassed about himself, but also, for some reason, worried.

 He sat there on the mattress for a while, elbows on his knees, thumbs pressed to the edge of the phone, not typing anything else. Just watching the lock screen go dim. Then, lighting it up again. Like a fool waiting for a ghost to write back.

It wasn’t just the lack of reply. It was the way it echoed.

In-ho hadn’t said a word all night. No update. No “made it to the hospital,” not even “I'm dead”. Just absence. And Gi-hun wasn’t sure if that meant he was being ignored or if something had gone wrong.

He told himself not to care. Told himself to let it go. That he had done more than enough already. More than he should have.

So much was happening that he thought about everything at once, unable to focus on anything specific. He tried to sort it all out in his head, but everything lost its meaning and order, ultimately settling into the words 'forgiveness' and 'affection'.

He thought about In-ho, who was still with his wife, when he was a great cop. When he apparently donated his kidney to Jun-ho (this fact still didn't sink in for Gi-hun, because it made In-ho even more of a better person in his eyes).

He thought about In-ho, who was worried about his wife. Who was happy that he was going to have a daughter, while knowing that he might lose them both. Who, out of desperation, did everything he could to get money. Who probably broke down even more after being kicked out of the police force. Who went to the island to play Red Light, Green Light, hoping to finance the transplant that way.

He thought about In-ho, who murdered his opponents in their sleep on the final night. Who may have cried?

He definitely cried. Gi-hun could feel it under his skin.

In-ho, who returned home to find out that the two beings for whom he had staked everything — even his conscience — were dead. That it had all been for nothing.

He thought about In-ho, who probably couldn't look at himself in the mirror. Who was losing faith in his own humanity with each passing day. With each passing nightmare. Who was given a fake chance to feel important again, but in reality, became a demon.

He thought about In-ho, tied to a chair and crying in his own office. Who promised he would live for him. Who then killed himself anyway because he didn't want to live without him.

Then he thought about In-ho, who was leaning over his ramyeon and clenching his fist on the corner of the table. Who pretended that he was fine when in reality he was in pain.

Gi-hun couldn't forget everything In-ho had done as Frontman. It was unforgettable.

But Hwang In-ho wasn't just a man behind a mask. He was all of those things — a police officer, a husband, a brother, a widower, a victim of games, Young-il, a conductor of death, and a pathetic guy mumbling something about affection.

And then, Gi-hun realized that he didn't know who this man was.

It was a strange feeling, but Gi-hun, for the first time in his life, found himself… wanting to know him.

All of him.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and stood up. He moved around the apartment like he was still half-asleep. He showered — too hot, too fast. It made his skin pink and raw, but at least it pulled him back into his body. He towel-dried his hair and stared at his reflection for longer than he meant to, his own eyes looking oddly unfamiliar. Like he hadn’t worn this face in years. Like someone else had been driving it the night before.

He began to wonder when he had become so pathetic. That he really cared about some middle-aged guy whom, until recently, he had considered an enemy.

That feeling of connection, their shared trauma, the secret that bound them together. That In-ho wasn't a monster, that he really seemed to be trying to be a good person.

That he was trying for him...?

All of this made Gi-hun want to scream, tear his hair out, and crawl out of his own skin.

But instead, he just dressed slowly. Jeans. Shirt. That same jacket he wore last night. Still smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold car leather. He dug into the pockets — old receipts, a folded tissue, a breath mint — but no hair clip.

He paused. Checked again. Turned the jacket inside out. Nothing.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. He was almost sure he’d taken it back. Or meant to.

That tiny pink Hello Kitty clip. It shouldn’t matter. Ga-yeong has hundreds of them. It was stupid. But for some reason, it felt like it mattered now — like some weird little symbol of the night they hadn’t meant to have. Of all the cracks that had formed between who they were and what they kept pretending to be.

He should’ve thrown it away.

Instead, he grabbed his phone again. Still no messages.

He opened the thread anyway. Typed:

are you alive?

He stared at it, frowning his nose. He deleted it. Then, typed another one:

if you didn't go to the hospital, i'm going to get you

What was he — a sixteen-year-old? He deleted it again. Then he typed the final message and sent it with no hesitation.

Gi-hun (08:39 a.m.):
Let me know you’re okay.

Gi-hun had things to do — he must’ve had things to do — but he couldn’t remember a single one. He didn’t go to the market. He didn’t eat. He just moved from chair to couch to bed, back to chair, looping like a scratched record, like something broken that kept trying to run right. His mom went out early. It was Sunday, after all. He didn't have to worry about the work today.

And it was worse, because at work, Jung-bae would bother him with his weird stories, and maybe drag him out of his thoughts.

So he called him.

“Hello? Jung-bae?”

“Gi-hun ah, it's 9 a.m. on SUNDAY. Did something happen?”

“No, sorry. Just wanted to talk,” he murmured, more to himself than to his friend.

Jung-bae was quiet for a second on the other end of the line. Gi-hun could hear the rustle of blankets, the faint hum of his TV in the background, and what sounded like a very annoyed wife telling him to put the phone down.

“Are you okay?” he asked eventually, voice low but more alert now.

Gi-hun hesitated. Then he stood up and walked over to the window, the phone still pressed against his ear. His reflection floated faintly on the glass, layered over the gray buildings outside.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I just needed to talk to someone.”

He expected Jung-bae to offer some dumb joke to lighten the mood. Something about drinking too much makgeolli the night before, or dreaming of his lover, or how Gi-hun was slowly turning into one of those guys who talk to pigeons in the park. But instead, his friend just exhaled deeply and said, “You want to come over? We’re just making kimchi stew.”

Gi-hun let out a small breath through his nose. “No, it’s fine. Your wife would kill us both if I came. Just thanks for… picking up.”

He could hear Jung-bae scoffing on the other side, followed by a faint, “Is this idiot gonna cry?” whispered toward his spouse.

“Alright, I’m hanging up,” Gi-hun muttered.

“Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow.”

When the line went dead, the silence in his apartment came rushing back like a tide. He put the phone down, then picked it up again. Then set it down for good. He didn’t check his messages. He told himself he wouldn’t. He was stronger than that. (He wasn't.)

The day dragged.

At 11:12 a.m., he stood by the sink and stared down at a chipped bowl full of soggy rice he hadn’t finished three days ago. He stood there for twenty minutes before he actually dumped it out.

At 1:06 p.m., he opened the freezer and pulled out the ice cream that he and Ga-yeong had shared once when she came over. He opened the lid and saw that her tiny plastic spoon was still in it — crooked, sticky, pink. He threw it away.

At 2:55 p.m., he walked to the park. Not for fresh air, but because it was better than breathing the stillness of the apartment. He watched pigeons fight over half a kimbap and sat on a bench near the playground where a kid fell and started crying, and his dad pretended not to see. Gi-hun didn’t do anything. He just sat there until the light got dimmer.

He began to wonder what had happened to Jun-ho that he needed a kidney transplant. He tried to imagine it somehow. Jun-ho, as a teenager, lying critically ill in the hospital, In-ho, in his thirties, offering to donate his kidney if it could save his younger brother.

And then, years later, the two of them were standing on opposite sides — Jun-ho, desperate to see his hyung again, and In-ho, as the heartless Frontman. How did they end up like this? Gi-hun felt a strong urge to find out.

He wanted to know. He wanted to listen to these stories. He wanted to understand.

Then he went to Market Street. Talked to his mother about nothing in particular. Told Sang-woo's mom about the message he got that morning. She was so happy.

Gi-hun thought about his childhood friend again. He was the one he should think of — not In-ho. He had Hwang's words in the back of his mind again. He almost forgot about it.

Half of the prize money. And what In-ho said, he should spend it on.

According to his information, Sang-woo didn't have any debts or problems yet. He had a clean slate.

'You know it's a matter of time,' said In-ho. Gi-hun was aware of that. However, he didn't know what to do about it.

First of all, he didn't know exactly what problems his friend had in the original timeline. Were the 6 billion won debt and lost stocks his only problems?

Sang-woo was mysterious. Gi-hun knew that his friend didn't tell him many things because he knew he wouldn't understand anyway. The truth is, it wasn't until two years after his death that Gi-hun learned what futures contracts really were, which Sang-woo had told him about while they were sitting in the neighborhood after the first game, smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee.

How could he have helped? Now, in 2015? How could he have prevented something he didn't even know what it was?

When his mother and Sang-woo's started talking, he felt left out of the conversation. So he stood there, simply wrapping his hand around his waist, as if to comfort himself, and hunched over, looking at the dusty window of one of the nearby buildings.

His reflection trailed beside him like a ghost. His face was pale. Lips slightly cracked. Tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The kind that builds up behind your eyes and stays there, a dull hum in the back of your skull. It was hard to believe it was really him — Seong Gi-hun. The man who once was a ludopath, who once drank too much, who once believed he was the most unlucky bastard alive.

But now?

Now he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

When he returned to 2015 in the loop, the only thing he wanted to focus on was Ga-yeong. He believed — and still believes — that he owes her for all those years in previous timelines when he neglected her.

All he did was work and improving his relationship with his mother and Jung-bae — he owed them that, too. He didn't think about anything else. No games, no pleasures for himself — the fact that he could have all his loved ones back with him was reward enough.

When In-ho appeared at his door — when he explained everything to him, Gi-hun felt as if he was cheating. As if he was breaking the promise he had made to himself. That he had started to focus too much on himself. On what he himself felt.

Eun-ji's words made him realize this.

'If you keep acting like this, she won't be meeting you. Look at you. Your whole face is bruised. And the way you behave is at least worrying.'

Later, he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he had lived for himself.

'You wanted me to live for you! And you can’t even live for yourself!'

What should he do?

The fact that he didn’t recognize his own face — felt oddly similar to the way he thought about In-ho.

Because In-ho was a puzzle with too many corners, and none of them fit.

Because In-ho had done too many horrible things and still somehow made Gi-hun want to help him. Save him. Hold him.

Because In-ho had sat there last night and told him something so sincere that Gi-hun didn’t want to hear, but now couldn’t forget.

'I said I want to try for you. Because you are the only person who knows the whole truth and, at the same time, can not hate me. And because, you know what I feel.'

He really hoped that a car would run him over, because what on earth was going through that empty head of his?

In-ho leaning on the table, trying to hide the way he hurt. His daughter’s pink hair clip, forgotten. Sang-woo, in a dream, silent and smiling like a stranger. In-ho crying in his own office — in his office — not as the Frontman, but as someone lost.

Someone human.

It wasn’t that so-called affection, or anything like that.

It wasn’t hate.

It wasn’t forgiveness, either.

It was something more dangerous. More complicated. It was care .

It was this horrible, suffocating care that made his stomach twist and his chest feel full and empty at the same time.

He wanted to scream at In-ho.

He wanted to save him.

He wanted to punch him in the mouth and hold his hand.

He wanted to stop thinking about him, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t .

And that — that stupid fact — scared him more than anything else.

Because people like them shouldn't get to be vulnerable. Shouldn’t get to need things. Not anymore. They were the ones who’d already survived the worst and come out warped, and bitter, and broken.

So why did he suddenly feel like something fragile was building inside him? Something tender?

His mother asked him to help her. They walked home. And when he pulled her stroller behind him, the phone in his jeans buzzed. He stopped, and Mal-soon looked at him strangely. When the phone buzzed again, his hand immediately dove into his pocket.

He pulled it out, unlocked it, hoping it was finally In-ho.

Hwang In-ho (05:16 p.m.):

Sorry. Yes, Jun-ho drove me to the hospital yesterday.

I had a fever, and they gave me some painkillers, so I slept all day.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief before he could stop himself. And that's when he realized how he had wasted his entire day. Thinking about the man who kept ruining his life.

He sighed. It was so stupid.

Gi-hun (05:17 p.m.):

and your wound?

The stroller wheel clinked softly against the uneven sidewalk. His mother was chatting with a vendor behind them, her voice distant. But Gi-hun didn’t hear her. His entire world had folded down into a glowing rectangle in his palm.

Then another messages popped out.

In-ho (05:18 p.m.):

They stitched it. Nothing serious.

Just need to avoid ramyeon shops with sharp-edged tables from now on.

Gi-hun’s thumb hovered over the screen. The joke was bad. Stupid. And yet somehow — it worked. It lodged itself like a splinter of warmth in his otherwise frozen chest.

His mother glanced over at him then, eyebrows raised. “Who are you grinning at like a fool?”

“I’m not grinning,” he said reflexively, though he realized too late that he sort of was.

Mal-soon gave him a look. The kind that only mothers can master — that mix of suspicion and amusement, like she knew exactly who had caused the bad mood all day, and who had now apparently fixed it with a single message.

He didn’t explain. Just tucked his phone back into his pocket and helped her lift the grocery bag into the stroller. The world outside had shifted into early evening. A golden wash of light hung low on the buildings. The streets buzzed with life again — scooters weaving past pedestrians, street vendors shouting last-minute deals, the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air like a memory from another life.

The streets buzzed like they always did around this hour, but everything felt a step removed, like he was underwater. He walked beside his mother, not really hearing her when she talked about the price of radishes or how her knees were worse lately, especially in this weather. He nodded at the right places, even replied a few times, but in his chest, something kept knocking. Soft. Persistent. Like a bird trapped under his ribs.

He shouldn’t have smiled. It made everything worse. That dumb little grin that still lingered at the edge of his mouth even now, even after he’d wiped it away with the back of his hand and told himself, It’s nothing. It means nothing.