Chapter Text
It had been a long journey to get here. To be in a place in his life where he considers himself safe– physically and financially.
Gyeongseok recalls crying painfully loud into the cot of his daughter's hospital bed. He was battered and bruised while his body ached in areas he never knew could hurt. Every hiccup was a sharp pain to his chest– the rapid inhale and exhale of his crying sent white hot stabs into his vision. Gyeongseok was in pain but it didn't matter as his daughter was still alive and breathing albeit faintly.
He whispered apologies into the crown of Nayeon’s head, asking forgiveness for ever leaving her side, for risking her to live a life without her father. Nayeon would merely bat at her father's tight arms around her with annoyance in her little features, disgruntled with her father's clinginess.
One thing he's grateful for is the fact that his daughter was not aware that he'd been gone. Her body was weak enough for her to sleep in long periods of time with intervals to eat or to potty when she's able.
Gyeongseok was told by the bewildered nurses who tended to her that she was so weak that she would flit in and out of sleep, barely calling out for her father before falling back to sleep. He had broken down on the floor once they left the room. They didn't ask him where he'd been or why he was dirty and weak, for that he'd be thankful.
On some days, he would try his best to work again in the amusement park, shakily sketching portraits as he tried not to be unnerved that he's not by his daughter's side again. He would chat with some of his fellow park employees and smile meekly whenever they ask how Nayeon is doing. His boss even stopped him one time for a chat in his office.
“Thank you for the talk, sir.” Gyeongseok said as he put his mug of lukewarm tea down. “I appreciate you checking up on me and my daughter.”
His boss waves away his words as he rummages around the bag beside him. “It's the least I can do, Gyeongseok-ssi. Your daughter was sorely missed around here, y’know? She's quite the strong and special girl.”
Gyeongseok chuckled, his heart aching with fondness, “Yes, she is. She's stronger than I'll ever be. She's still in the hospital but she never fails to smile at me whenever she's awake. I–”
He looked down, taken aback from the weight of an envelope that snuck into his grasp. It was rather heavy and thick enough to test the strength of the envelope’s folds.
“W-What is…” Gyeongseok gasps, hands shaking as he flips the tab open to see a thick wad of bills. Disbelief sinks into his body slowly until he finally looks up with tears obscuring his vision, “Sir… is this?”
“It's money that the park employees accumulated for your daughter's treatment. You've been working here for a while now and your daughter practically grew up here, it's the least her family could do for her.”
Gyeongseok cried again that day, kowtowing to his frazzled boss, body shaking as his forehead met the cold floor.
Despite how busy and emotional his life was, he never missed a day without thinking of them. Without thinking of her.
It didn't matter if the day had been good or not, his thoughts would always bring him back to her.
Whenever it's time for Nayeon to sleep, Gyeongseok would lay down next to her in the hospital bed, humming lullabies as he combs his fingers through her longer hair.
She was getting better, slowly but surely, thanks to the efforts of the amusement park staff. The thought of it makes him emotional, that Nayeon has touched the hearts of many kind people.
He remembers tearing up when Nayeon had decided to trade her little strawberry hat for a headband laden with crocheted strawberries once her hair started to grow out. It was a gift from the parade mascots who had missed her toddling after them.
The green of its leaves are a shade too familiar for comfort.
He kisses her forehead once her breath evens out to a peaceful slumber and turns to look at the stars outside the window.
In the stillness of the nights, Gyeongseok wonders how the rest of them are doing. He tries not to think about if their lives had ended since he knows they're all strong individuals who chose to stick together. Rather, he hopes their lives have finally started, free of burden and debt.
Sometimes he counts the stars in the sky and wonders if player 120 sees more stars whenever she looks up at the night sky of Thailand.
Gyeongseok regrets never asking for her name.
A few months after he escaped from the games, he and Nayeon finally returned home. The quaint house was the same as they left it, a messy living room full of toys and a dish rack by the kitchen sink occupied with a couple of plates, all covered in a layer of dust.
All of a sudden he felt claustrophobic and overwhelmed, the four walls of his home closing in on him. It was so silent. Too silent. The lack of a hundred other people milling around unnerves him. His quaint house feels so different from the wide room filled with bed structures tall enough to tower over him.
The mere notion of being safe raptures within him as he looks around. He feels out of place in his own home, unnatural and strung up in his movements, as if expecting faceless guards to break down his door.
“Appa? Are you okay?” Nayeon asks as she tugs on his pants. He snaps out of his panic to smile down at her.
“Yes, sweetheart. I just… I just really missed home. It’s been so long.” Was the best answer he could come up with before briskly walking to throw up in the toilet.
The next day, Gyeongseok practically fills the room with portraits. Faces of people that he met in the games harboring scars and dark circles. However, he also makes sure to draw them smiling, even with just a quirk of the lips. He wanted to capture the glimmers of hope they tightly held onto and highlight the small moments of vulnerability they shared with each other.
He had drawn the sweet old lady with a sharp tongue, her son with his glasses askew, the two marines whose laughs could be heard from a mile away. The petite girl who was determined to secure a better life for her baby that's yet to come.
The tall foreboding man– Player 001 he believes, who would follow player 456 like a shadow. Gyeongseok remembers feeling in awe of player 456 who he observed to look after others instead of himself. He dedicated three pages for his array of expressions. Kindness and leadership prevailing in every one.
The young girl who called him Prince Charming. Gyeongseok made sure to capture her smile full of innocence and the endearing way her hair stuck up in different places.
He drew them all.
But most importantly, he drew Player 120. Who possessed delicate and gentle features. Doe eyes framed by dainty eyeliner and a prominent cupid's bow sat atop plush narrow lips. He made sure to even include the tiny scars on her cheek and by her lip. Despite her deceivingly soft demeanor, she wore valor and loyalty like a second skin. Gyeongseok wishes to capture it all and commit it to memory.
She was the first person that Gyeongseok drew, before everyone else– with his hands shaking as he tried to sketch her underneath the dim lights of Nayeon’s hospital room on the very night he came back.
She graces the majority of pages in his notebook. She was the first to be painted on a canvas, lacking the twinkle in her eye that he could never get right. He was frantic to put her likeness into something tangible. Something he could hold and look at in case his memory fails him.
He didn't want to forget her, his muse that he could never name.
Time passed quickly and life finally started to look up. Gyeongseok had ultimately quit his job at the amusement park (he still visits once every month) and started teaching art classes at a local elementary school. His pay leaves much to be desired but it was more stable than his previous job. The fact that its building was close to Nayeon's preschool was an added benefit.
He also had a side hustle as a live wedding painter which would give him a sizable bonus for him to save and still have enough left over to treat Nayeon. She had recently developed a phase for fruit themed hair accessories and would squeal in delight whenever he gifted them.
Gyeongseok relishes in their new morning routine of him adding cute fruit clips into her hair after brushing her hair. Nayeon would turn to smile up at him while swaying in excitement to start her school day. The motion never fails to mess up her bangs as it's thrown in different directions. He always smoothes them back down with a smile.
His life was finally as peaceful as he could hope for.
Until one day Nayeon cries to him after he picks her up from class. “What's wrong, sweetheart?” Gyeongseok worriedly asks.
She wipes her tears with her chubby fists and answers with quivering lips, “Why do I have no eomma? Is she missing?”
Gyeongseok sighs, defeated. “Nayeon, you know that your eomma is no longer with us–”
“Then why do you always draw her?!” She shrieks, garnering dirty looks from passerbys. “The lady you always draw in your room! Is that her?!”
Ice cold dread immediately washes over him. He exhales shakily, devastated at the misunderstanding. “Nayeon, she's not… she's not your eomma.”
“Then why does she have the same hair as me?! Why do I look like her if she's not my eomma?” She stomps her foot on the pavement, sobs wracking her tiny body in waves. “Who is she? Appa…”
Nayeon finally quiets down and sniffles. The sight of her flushed and tear streaked face fills him with anguish and heartache. She's a little child who is merely making connections through observations. She doesn't know what any of this means. But neither does Gyeongseok.
Later that night, Gyeongseok gathers his sketches and tucks them away in a box under his bed. His chest felt heavy throughout the whole process as if protesting against leaving them the second time.
He turns to look at the unfinished painting of Player 120 and sighs. He could never blame Nayeon for thinking the way she did. Looking at his painting again, he could see the similarities in their hair and understand why she made such connections.
It hurt to see his daughter struggle without a mother and to watch her wonder why she's not like the other kids who have a complete set of parents.
It hurt that he couldn't bring himself to put himself out there. It's unfair that even until now wherever he goes or whatever he does, he's followed by what happened in the games. He's haunted by the people he's left behind.
“I…I'm sorry I couldn't go back for you. I'm sorry I left.” Gyeongseok chokes out, tracing the painted numbers on Player 120’s jacket. “I was a coward, I'm not brave like you. This is a regret I will bring to my grave.”
He looks up, tears clouding his vision, until the painting in front of him warps into blurry nothingness. “I left you all behind and yet you have never left my mind. When I walk the street I think I see you in the corner of my eye. I think of you whenever I see bottles of nail polish in the store! I– I always wonder where you are, if you're living your life in Thailand or if you're living at all–”
Pain shoots up his hands and he belatedly realizes he's been gripping the painting’s sides too tightly.
“No, that's impossible. I've seen you in action and admired you throughout the games– you're incredible. There's no player who deserves to win more than you.”
Gyeongseok opens his eyes and exhales shakily. “It's been almost a year and you continue to haunt me. It's been almost a year and yet… I continue to chase your ghost.”
The eyes of Player 120 merely stare back at him, unmoving.
Gyeongseok wakes up one day with a sense of dread. He stares up the ceiling and watches shadows dance across the surface. A mere distraction in a useless attempt to take his mind off the fact that it has officially been one year.
One year since Gyeongseok had escaped from the games.
One year since he's been shot, was on the brink of death, saved by a faceless officer, and then sailed away with his heart in his throat.
One year since he's last seen the faces of the kind people who've helped him survive. Since he's seen the faces of those who succumbed to death.
One year since he's last seen player 120.
Gyeongseok’s heart beats faster, in anticipation or in agony, he doesn't know. He throws his hand over to the bedside table, palming around until he manages to secure his phone.
He opens his contact list.
…Is he really doing this?
Uprooting a chance of normalcy for something that will most likely unravel him again?
Just to find something that he shouldn't be looking for in the first place?
Gyeongseok swallows thickly and taps on a contact he never thought he'd touch again. His pulse skyrockets once he hears the ringback tone and briefly considers giving up while he's still ahead.
Before he could continue to second guess himself, someone picks up. He winces guiltily when he hears the muffled cries of a child in the background.
A clearer voice cuts in, sounding hoarse and tired. “Hello? Who's this?”
“Detective Hwang, it's… it's me. Park Gyeongseok.”