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The moment he presented the knife to Gihun, he had been absolutely sure of the outcome of the games; they would repeat. Seeking repetition is human nature, no more out of place than the need to sleep or eat or seek satisfaction. He had assumed that the baby would be killed and Gihun would be the victor, the first in history to win the Squid Games twice and perhaps the first to attend the Squid Games thrice. A freedom-seeker, a justice warrior, willing to do whatever it takes for the betterment of the people and to soothe his obsessions. Most of all, he had assumed that Gihun would continue to be a constant in his life, whether that was through the games, watching him tirelessly search for another salesman, or with him lounging in the VIP section beside him.
Despite this assumption, he stood there, looming over the gaunt figure of the most impressive Squid Games participant ever seen. He was still and unmoving, bent awkwardly in places with his jaw still set and eyebrows furrowed. His eyes were dark and empty, with nothing but blank contempt and a wetness that made Inho’s chest tight. They sat perfectly in his face, irises ’quivering and endless with long straight lashes. Their shape was small enough to highlight the jut of his cheekbones and the sharpness of his chin but wide enough to display his every thought and emotion as clearly as a cloudless sky.
Inho dragged a finger along Gihun’s jaw, shivering as though he could feel the cold skin and rough facial hair through his leather glove. The last time he had truly run his hands over Gihun’s bare skin had been in his first game, the six-legged pentathlon, where the overwhelming shock of comraddery flowing within him practically forced him to clasp Gihun’s hand in bliss and victory. He ran hot, almost too hot, with jagged fingernails and dirty palms. Gihun smelling like he hadn’t showered in weeks and being covered in grime and blood was overridden by the sheer exhilaration he felt. The spark that flared in his chest and the genuine smile plastered across his face were new. It was real. It was Gihun.
The timer on his watch was blinking away, a caution and a warning that he would become nothing more than a pile of ash in only a few minutes, but he couldn’t move his eyes from the body on the floor, not even if he tried. The silent and unmoving body draped across the concrete was like some kind of compulsion, forcing him to stare, to notice. The ache in his knees and the strain on his ankles were lost on him. The silence wasn’t unlike him; leading up to the final challenge, he had been remarkably docile, simply following directions when asked. What was unlike him, though, was the lack of fire in his eyes. Even at his lowest point in the games, when he had set his target onto 388 after the failed rebellion, he was filled with conviction, hate, and need. It had been compelling. Every side of Gihun that was brought out into the spotlight as the games progressed was compelling.
Admiring Gihun’s form was easy, he thought, as his eyes trailed up to the man’s hair. The short strands were knotted and matted deeply with blood and brains from the force of the impact, though Inho was certain that it didn't all belong to him. Despite it all, it still looked rather soft, like he could rake his fingers through it.
Through all his observation of the collapsed man in front of him, Inho still couldn't decide which hairstyle suited him better. His long, unkempt hair at the beginning of the games made Gihun carry a youthful and innocent air about him, not quite childlike, but childish in nature. It framed his face nicely, but it was wrong; Gihun was no longer the immature man that entered the games; that had been stamped out of him long ago. His fiery red hair gave the illusion of danger, his willingness to fight, but also his consistent choice to leave the game and reach peace beyond financial freedom, not just for him but for everyone in the games regardless of their flaws. It signified his sacrifice; his hair, now dyed red with blood, was rather symbolic. The hair he sported now, it was him: ragged and imperfect, but practical. It made his eyebrows stand out rather nicely.
Inho worried his lip, glancing at the watch.
Finally, he reached down for the label sewn delicately to Gihun’s dress shirt, the stitches created with perfect precision but with the unremarkable structure of all mass-produced clothing. Inho clasped the edges of Gihun’s defining label before he hesitated, pulled back, and tore off his gloves. His time was running out; there was no use in being delicate now. His bare fingers grazed across the cheap dress shirt, somewhat revelling in the feeling, before grasping the edges of the sewn patch. As he pulled, the stitches popped one by one, Gihun's back lifting slightly from the ground, and he tore until there was no fabric left. The edges were ragged with sections of fabric clinging where they shouldn’t. It was stained and imperfect, but he tucked it into his pocket.
His eyes dragged up and down along the man’s body before reaching for the bow tie that had met the same fate as Gihun and was resting beside his head. He tugged the collar of his shirt together, delicately slotting the buttons into their corresponding holes and occasionally brushing against the exposed skin underneath. Having grasped the bow tie in one hand, Inho gently cradled Gihun’s bloody and cracked head, unbothered by the gore and wetness, and secured it around his neck.
His knees popped as he rose, giving Gihun one last look before he turned towards the centre stage.
——
Since his late wife’s passing, Inho had never been particularly fond of children, let alone raising them. Caring for a child was possibly the hardest undertaking that he had willingly signed himself up for. It was a loud, smelly, useless creature that made no impact on the people or communities around it. Despite this, Gihun had somehow, some way, decided that this infant's survival was worthy of the prize fund, of his life. Inho harboured a lifetime's worth of hatred and resentment towards the child and the idea that it could have possibly been considered a player. What an inane, stupid, idiotic idea. Whoever suggested it should be drawn and quartered for their idiocy.
For every bottle feed, every sleepless night, Inho simply grew more and more restless for the day that Junho was scheduled to arrive back home. Some nights, when the clock struck three and the child still wouldn’t rest, he considered dropping it off in his younger brother’s apartment and leaving without a backward glance, regardless of his absence. Days where he would hover over the bassinet with a pillow clutched between his fingers and genuinely consider the consequences of suffocating the thing of all its breath.
There were times, though, when the child would smile. It would laugh and spit bubbles and reach its chubby fingers towards him, as though if it tugged at the air hard enough, he would be dragged closer by its sheer want. Those were the only times he allowed himself to reminisce, to pretend. In another lifetime this could have been his life, raising a child. Cradling his own creation, nurturing and providing. Maybe he’d have a wife, a husband, or a partner—a second hand cradling the child’s crown and shushing it to sleep on those difficult nights. Fingers to interlock with his own as they stood in the doorway, watching down on the consequence of their connection, someone to be proud with, someone to love.
Those times, he would stare at the child in his arms, and he would understand, with such a brief thought that it would be gone in a blink, that selfishness was learnt, not bred. This baby had no karma, no sin; it was a blank slate with only the base needs and wants of a human. The only inherent selfishness it held was the desire to live, but didn't they all?
——
The shoes on his feet felt too tight and the tie around his neck too suffocating as he stood there. The gentle breeze of the open air caressed the skin of his cheeks, but it did nothing to quell the mild apprehension he was feeling. He shuffled the black box under his left arm as he reached forward to press the doorbell, almost startled by the speed in which the door flung open. There, right in front of him, was a carbon copy, smiling with a mouth that wasn't hers.
He could hardly hear his own words as they fell out of his mouth, mostly unpracticed English falling from his lips in a slurred mumble.
“Is this the residence of Ms. Seong Gayeong?”
Her smile immediately fell as she looked over him, someone she clearly didn't recognise knowing her name and seeking her out. Her words seemed hesitant, restrained.
”That’s me. Who are you?”
His face twitched slightly; she sounded exactly like him. “I’m someone who knows Mr. Seong Gihun.”
She reeled back slightly before her face dropped, eyes immediately falling to the concrete below them, lips pursed, and head bowed.
”I’m here to deliver something to you.” He untucked the box from underneath his arm; the pristine folds of his dress suit crinkled as he held the package out to her.
Her lips parted once, twice, before giving up and simply staring at the box in his arms. Arms crossed over her chest, Gayeong gestured to the package with a tilt of her head. Her short, punctuated words flew out in perfect Korean, as though realising the severity of the situation. “Is it from my dad? Did he ask you to give me this to see how I was doing?”
With twitching lips and harsh brows, she spat, “You can go tell him that I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if he tries to contact me.” The cracking of her voice and the subtle twitch in her cheek betrayed how she was actually feeling. He suddenly found it very hard to meet her eyes.
Gayeong’s voice grew harsher and colder the more she spoke, her voice wavering and fists clenching white. “I’m going to live my life and pretend he doesn’t exist.” Her hand suddenly reached for the door, but not before she growled out her final words, “Tell him to not bother getting in touch. I don't want him in my life. Not anymore.”
Inho could feel his own voice waver, weakening slightly in the face of the young woman’s vitriol. “These are Mr. Seong Gihun’s belongings.”
Gayeong paused, almost having slammed the door on his face and returning to her mother. Her fingers grew slack on the side of the door as she turned to face him once more.
“Mr. Seong has passed away.”
The moment those words fell from his lips, she froze completely, rigid like stone, unblinking. Her eyes suddenly looked very tired and sad but not surprised. It was as though she knew, well aware that her naive, gambler, trouble-magnet of a father couldn't last long in a world this harsh. Her eyes flickered back down to the box.
It wasn't just hard to meet her eyes now; it was near impossible. The tears gathered at the corners, and the sheer despair laid across her features sent him back, back to a time he didn't want to relive anywhere but in his office over a bottle of whisky.
“He left these to you, Gayeong.”
His own throat felt raw with emotion, and suddenly he had to leave. Inho glared at the box, unable to look at anything else, unable to look at her. She had his eyes: dark, stubborn, and so filled with some emotion Inho couldn't find the words to describe. Her nose was slightly crooked to the left, and her lips had the same defined cupid's bow. She was him, and he couldn't bear to look at her for any longer than he already had. He imagined that she had the same convictions, that if given the chance she would do exactly as he did. God, he didn't want to see the day.
His step backwards was shaky, only catching the step below with the very tip of his shoe before he turned and fled back to the car. That's certainly what it felt like: fleeing. Running from the idea that she might know it was him. That he carried the weight of Gihun’s untimely death like a ball and chain around his wrist, that she would be able to see Gihun’s ghost with its hands around his neck. That her tearful face, so different but so similar to his, could turn to him in anger, scold and cry, and blame him.
His untrimmed nails uncaringly scratched along the paint of the car door's handle for a moment, waiting, considering. Once he opened this door, that was it. He was right back where he’d started all those years ago. Nothing would have changed, not really, the only difference being that he was no longer the Frontman, but a VIP, taking Mr. Oh’s place. But whether he was the centre of the operation or a mere observer from the sidelines, the games would all be the same and would all have the same outcome: hundreds would die painful, gruesome, unjust deaths, and the VIPs would be entertained for two days out of the year.
They weren’t meaningless, the games; they had purpose. They showed the line, the divide between rich and poor, fortune and misfortune, and the worthy and the unworthy. The VIPs, though, didn’t see the games in that light; they saw them as meaningless entertainment, no more out of place than buying a scratch card or betting on horses. They just didn't understand the irony in how they acted. It wasn’t Inho’s job to be entertained, though; his job was to plan, observe, and prepare.
The handle clicked open slowly, revealing the pristine leather and low ambient lighting within. He sat slowly, knees creaking, and slammed the door shut, the driver pulling away immediately without a word. It had been preorganised, the chauffeur already making his way to the newest location that held the games. The silence clammed his hands and clogged his throat, the clean purified air of the car not helping his breathing.
A small podium sat in front of his seat, indicating the true cost of the mostly unassuming vehicle; on it, a mask. Small, shimmering diamonds refracting the low light brilliantly across the velvet interior, its shape a vague caricature of a chameleon's head. He supposed there was some irony in that, too.
.