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I wrote ‘I was here’
I.D.S.T
On the bathroom mirror
I.D.S.T
In-ho kept the air conditioning stagnant in his room.
Twenty degrees Celsius. That’s how it had stayed for years and years. Unchanging and ritualistic. Uncanny, in a sense. A little breezy, but no trouble when wearing his suit and mask.
He hadn’t touched a single thermostat. He hadn’t even given it a second glance or thought since coming back upstairs.
And yet, under his outfit, his arms were riddled with goosebumps, infecting the areas down his shoulders, spine, thighs.
He was freezing. So gelid that one could even assume frostbite.
Then again, did he have the warmth for that in the first place?
In-ho couldn’t rip his eyes from the sight to behold—Player 456 (Gi-hun), writhing beneath pink soldiers, shrieking shrill as if he were half-human, and half-vulture.
His shrieks pierced through the chamber, sharp enough to peel the plaster from the walls. Almost sounding like a death rattle, like snakes when they’ve had enough of someone, buzzing in warning of self-destruction.
A death rattle.
But not quite dead.
His cries would have felt more ghastly, maybe, if there hadn’t been a real, actualized spirit hovering over him, haunting his every move, attached to him by the hip.
“Jung-bae-ssi.”
A beat.
The name sat in the air like detritus of grist.
It wasn’t an invocation. Just a fact. As if he’d been here the whole time, and he hadn’t even cared to name him until now.
(Because he hadn’t.)
The voice came from behind him, light as silk, dry as altar ash.
“Wow.”
The silence cracked like a joint out of place, snapping in half.
“Didn’t think I ranked a suffix anymore.”
In-ho kept his eyes fixated on the screen, paying no mind to his words. Gi-hun had been pinned down now, writhing in an unshatterable grasp, helpless.
Pathetic, or sympathetic? In-ho couldn’t quite grasp.
“Are you just going to ignore me? Earth to Young-il?”
He took another chug of his whiskey, drowning his tastebuds with the malt, burying himself alive in the peat.
Yes. He was going to do just that: acknowledge Jung-bae’s existence and move on with his day. Life. His ghost was a mere ringing in his ears.
(He’d heard that same ringing when he’d fired the gun, fingers trembling.)
One more sip of his whiskey. He was running low on drink to drink now. No ice made the drink rather unpleasant, yet he’d take what he could get.
In-ho blinked once, and there Jung-bae was—manifested right in front of him, like a nightmare transformed to flesh and bone.
Practically sitting in his manspread lap. ‘Hands’ resting on the armrests. Much too close for comfort, especially for a man who wasn’t truly there.
Jung-bae scoffed. Laughed, almost. “So, you’re the man who Gi-hun-ah spoke about. The man in the black mask.”
He sure was.
“You are such a coward. Young-il— is that even your name?”
A pause.
In-ho still didn’t move—he didn’t need to. Jung-bae was unraveling the math anyway. Smart boy.
(He swallowed an unkind breath, biting his tongue.)
Jung-bae was joining the dots. “Wait. No, wait. Hold on. Zero-zero-one. Oh-Young-Il. Oh my god. You fucking made that up, didn’t you?”
Another beat.
No answer.
“Do you think you’re funny?”
He did.
Not in that particular moment, no—but he’d considered himself to be rather hilarious, with his jokes that nobody laughed at (and never would).
“Of course you do. That’s so you. Joke’s only funny when no one else gets it. ‘We won’t need anyone else’ my ass. Hmph.”
And even then, somehow Jung-bae remembered that, over all things—his (very funny, thank you) jokes.
How romantic.
Finally, In-ho spoke. “You laughed, didn’t you?”
“Forcefully.”
The double standard was ridiculous. “If I’d been Young-il all along, you would have laughed.”
“I fucking doubt that.”
“And if we’re on the topic of names, Jung-bae means twice as righteous,” In-ho mused, finally looking into his eyes, “but you seem to be twice as stupid instead.”
For once, Jung-bae was speechless.
(No, he wasn’t—the telephone just began to ring, silencing them both before another quip could come out. But In-ho wanted to believe he was speechless; like he’d done something right.)
In-ho raised the phone to his ear before it could shrill again, cutting the rings off. And even though he could feel Jung-bae looming around his shoulder, he kept his eyes and ears focused on the sound of consequence, calling from across the sea.
I wrote ‘Mark for Jenny’
I.D.S.T
With a drawing compass
On the backseat
Captain Park to most.
Yeong-gil to In-ho.
One of his closest compatriots, In-ho had appointed Yeong-gil to keep an eye on his brother; make sure he wasn’t getting himself into trouble. Making sure he wasn’t finding the island, or finding him.
(Dongsaeng, why?)
In-ho had done everything right.
And even then, things had gone haywire.
Because Jun-ho was still searching for him. He was still on that boat, surfing island after island, handling loss after loss, refusing to wave a white flag.
(He should have known his baby brother, who’d refuse to ice his knees after scraping them, would be so persistent.)
The distant tussle of waves and the gull breeze were perceptible in the background, muffling Park’s words ever so faintly. In-ho could practically smell the ichthytic odor of the shoreline, the reek of mackerel in the fisherman’s breath. Or maybe he was just imagining things—imagining how Jun-ho was feeling out at sea.
“We’re back at the port for now,” Yeong-gil explained to him, voice secretive and husky. “The plan is to find another drone operator and head back out to sea.”
Of course.
He should have expected that.
Jun-ho was relentless. He wouldn’t quit until they found the island and shut it down for good. He’d almost done it the first time, a call far too close to home.
Righteous was Jun-ho, yet naïve was Jun-ho.
“Don’t let them find the island until the games are over.”
“Yes, sir,” he affirmed, his voice kicking up a semitone as he yelled to the crew. He could hear the faintest of faint mutters from his dongsaeng, and his chest tightened up.
“What should I do if things go south?” asked Yeong-gil, lower this time.
And at that, a bullet punctured through In-ho’s spine. The chills had come back. His lower lip dangled, unable to tighten.
Keep him alive, he wanted to say. Keep him alive at all costs.
But really, what were the chances of things turning around? Even slimmer, what were the chances of Jun-ho seeing him, and realizing he hadn’t done it to protect him?
Much slimmer than the odds of Jun-ho finding the island, that was for certain. There were only so many islands in the sea. And In-ho knew his brother was no idiot.
“Kill them all.”
He paused.
“Including the detective.”
He slammed the telephone down with a firm snap, then drew in a long, overturned breath.
I.D.S.T
I.D.S.T
I.D.S.T
In-ho had hoped the spirit behind him had fucked off—maybe faded, or at the very least wandered off elsewhere.
Nope.
Jung-bae was still standing behind him, almost observing him curiously. One could even say judging him. Jung-bae opened his mouth to speak again—
“Don’t.”
Jung-bae scowled, crossing his translucent arms. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were going to, weren’t you?”
“Whatever.” Jung-bae paused. Then came the real question, one he’d been withholding: “Why did you kill me, not-Young-il? Did you hate me? Was it because I saw you kill that man during Mingle? Aish— I should have trusted my gut all along. Scumbag.”
In-ho sighed, growing irritated at how this man didn’t know how to quiet himself. “You know, you remind me of him.”
“Who?”
“Gi-hun-ssi. Before he—” In-ho paused, doing his best not to scowl or seethe in disgust. “Before he won.”
“I just don’t understand. Why did you con us all? What was the point? Fun?”
Not fun.
He hadn’t joined for fun.
He’d entered to dismantle.
To take Gi-hun apart from the inside. To twist the man’s sense of righteousness into something jaded and feral. Break him, even. He needed to show him that goodness was fiction. That righteousness was just another losing hand. That a man like Gi-hun—naïve, idealistic, kind —would fold like ddakji paper when pushed far enough. That was the plan.
He’d told himself it was a lesson. A test. An act of mercy, even—better to shatter Gi-hun’s delusions early than let the world do it for him.
But it wasn’t mercy. It was malice. Envy. Spite.
Gi-hun had the one thing In-ho didn’t— hope.
And In-ho had spent every waking moment trying to kill it.
But throughout those days, Gi-hun never faltered.
Not once.
When In-ho lashed out, shrieking about how it was all his own fault when playing Spinning Top, Gi-hun grounded him.
When Jung-bae had voted O, as angry and distraught as he was, he didn’t rush to harass him or even blame him.
When the X’s rushed to slaughter the O’s when the lights came on, Gi-hun refused. Something about how they weren’t the real enemies. (In-ho was.)
And somewhere between the games, the blood, the sleepless nights, and the facade he upheld…
A sliver of him, albeit small, began to think—maybe Gi-hun was right.
No. No no no no. Gi-hun wasn’t refuting his beliefs. In-ho was the correct one; Gi-hun was silly and deluded. A notion otherwise angered him to no end.
Even worse, the others clung to him like parasites. In-ho had gotten attached.
Their allies—he knew them by name now. Dae-ho. Jun-hee. Jung-bae.
Fucking Jung-bae.
He shone like Gi-hun had, in a sense, with a distinct kick of fire that came out like passive aggression. He was caring, and sympathetic, and a good man (if you ignored the debt, that was. Not that In-ho had been eavesdropping.)
Adherence hadn’t been part of the plan. No wonder he’d been haunted.
But Jung-bae wasn’t finished talking him down. “And… and Jun-hee-ya— she’s pregnant! If you really do run things around here, then why would you allow that to happen? Do you even care?”
In-ho didn’t respond.
Not because he didn’t have an answer.
But because every answer sounded like an excuse.
And Jung-bae wasn’t asking for excuses. He was asking for humanity. A quality that In-ho had long since put out to sea.
(Or off a cliff.)
“So. If ‘Young-il’ isn’t your name, then what is it? Hm? Otherwise, I’m just going to call you mister ‘sucks at spinning top’.”
“You can call me the Frontman.”
Jung-bae folded his arms. “No. None of that shit, please. What’s your real name? Frontman isn’t a name.”
As In-ho ambled back to his chair, Jung-bae trailed after him, refusing to spend his time doing anything else.
In-ho let out a dry chuckle. “You’re creative, Jung-bae-ssi. I’ll give you that.” No wonder Gi-hun-ssi liked you so much. He grabbed his mask from the couchside table, readjusting it until it firmly snapped into place.
“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not finished with you.”
He nearly rolled his eyes. As if a ghost was going to tell him where to be. How ridiculous was that?
“I need to speak to the Officer.”
“Who?”
“A worker. I need to request damage control.” From under the mask, In-ho shot him a nasty glare. “If they found out I was talking to you like this, it’d look… weird.”
“I mean,” Jung-bae grumbled, “serves you right, huh? You shot me. BAM! Right in the heart. And you still never told me why.”
“Why do you think?”
“There’s a reason I’m asking you, asshole.”
In-ho’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Because you were a liability.”
Liability. Such a cold word. So clinical, so precise. But it wasn’t just about pragmatism. When the bullet left the barrel, a part of him recoiled. A pang buried beneath layers of cynicism and justification.
But when Jung-bae fell—when the light left his eyes—In-ho felt something unfamiliar flicker: regret, maybe. Or something darker.
A crack in the mask he’d so carefully created. Roots splitting in a soil of cynicism, watered by the hope Gi-hun had shown him.
Jung-bae’s translucent figure shifted closer, his voice quieter now, probing beneath the anger. “You didn’t have to do it like that. You could’ve just left me out. I didn’t do shit to you.”
In-ho’s gaze flickered. For a split second, the mask slipped—not physically, but in his eyes.
“Leaving you out wouldn’t have sent the right message.”
“But it hurt. And you saw Gi-hun, didn’t you?”
A silence hung between them, thick and suffocating. In-ho was drowning.
“Good. Maybe it should’ve.”
I.D.S.T
I.D.S.T
I.D.S.T
He clicked the elevator button, the sound sharp in the quiet, like a gunshot in a church. Letting out a sigh, he glanced back behind him.
Sweet Jesus, how much more of this man could he take? Jung-bae was dead, but nothing had changed. He was the same nuisance he’d been before.
The elevator doors creaked open, stale air rushing out like breath from a cadaver.
In-ho stepped in, and of course, of course, Jung-bae followed suit.
Ghosts didn’t respect boundaries.
“Consider it payback for murdering me,” he mused, crossing his arms once more. “I’ll try to keep quiet. I’m generous like that.”
What-fucking-ever.
In-ho pressed the lower level button, and felt the elevator rumble underneath him. Slowly going down, down, down, abandoning his balcony of schadenfreude.
As they made their descent, In-ho could hear Jung-bae sigh, whispering I hope Gi-hun’s okay, before the elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors slid open with a hiss.
They both held silent and still. Jung-bae lingered in the threshold, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.
A second skin that In-ho oh-so desperately wished he could peel off for good.
Alas.
The silence closed in again, heavier and colder, as he exited the elevator, slowly approaching the Officer.
The man in the black mask, who’d served as In-ho’s replacement— or something along those lines. A strange man indeed, yet one who’d succeeded to catch his attention with his nobility and dutiful manner.
The Officer turned to him, lifting his head, clearly trying to maintain respect.
“The casualties have been identified.”