Chapter Text
The wind howled in Gi-Hun’s ears as he plummeted from the high stage, the world a blur of lights and screams. He’d closed his eyes, bracing for the impact that would end it all—for the searing pain, the darkness, the finality of it. But instead of cold concrete or the blackness of nothingness, there was… silence. A soft, all-encompassing quiet that settled over him like a blanket.
He blinked, then blinked again, squinting against the brightness. He wasn’t falling anymore. He was standing, feet firmly planted on a surface that felt neither solid nor soft, like walking on a cloud. The space around him stretched endlessly, a vast expanse of pure, unbroken white—no walls, no ceiling, no floor, just light. It was disorienting, like being adrift in a snow globe that stretched to infinity.
There was no pain. No ache in his joints from years of working odd jobs, no burn from the last cigarette he’d smoked before the games, no throb in his chest from the fear that had clawed at him for weeks. He lifted his hands, staring at them. They looked the same—calloused, a little scarred from old wounds—but they felt… light. As if the weight of his life, all the regrets and failures, had been stripped away.
“Where…?” he started to say, but his voice came out as a whisper, swallowed by the emptiness. He turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign of something familiar—anything to ground him. But there was nothing. Just white.
Then, a voice cut through the silence. A voice he’d thought he’d never hear again, rough around the edges, like sandpaper on wood.
“Gi-Hun?”
His breath caught. That voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even after all this time, even in a place as strange as this. He whipped around, his heart hammering in his chest.
And there he was. Sang-woo. Standing a few feet away, wearing the same gray tracksuit he’d had on during the games, his hair a little messy, his eyes wide with shock. But he was alive. No blood, no wounds, no hint of the desperation that had twisted his face in their final moments. Just Sang-woo.
Gi-Hun took a step forward, then another, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Sang-woo?” he said, his voice cracking. “Is that… is that really you?”
Sang-woo didn’t answer. He just stared, as if he was seeing a ghost. Then, movement from the corner of Gi-Hun’s eye made him turn again.
There was Sae-byeok, her arms crossed, a faint scowl on her face that softened when she saw him. Ali, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled, his hands clasped together like he was praying. Jung-bae, his usual gruff expression replaced by something like awe.
Dae-ho, his body tensing as their gazes met, a flicker of terror crossing his face before he schooled it into a blank stare. Hyun-ju, her mouth hanging open in surprise.
All of them. All the faces from the games. Alive. Unharmed. Standing in this endless white void as if they’d never left.
Gi-Hun’s throat tightened, and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’d watched so many of them die—seen the life leave their eyes, heard their final screams. To see them here, whole and breathing, was more than he could process. It was like a dream. A cruel, beautiful dream.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken questions and emotions. Then, Jung-bae broke it, his voice loud and rough, cutting through the stillness.
“Why are you here?” he barked, taking a step toward Gi-Hun. “That bastard kill you too?”
Dae-ho reacted instantly, stepping between them with a speed that surprised everyone. His hands shook at his sides, but his voice was steady, almost fierce. “Back off, Jung-bae.” His jaw tightened, and for a second, Gi-Hun saw a flash of the man who’d once covered his back during the rebellion—before everything went wrong. “He didn’t choose this. None of us did.”
Jung-bae scowled. “You got no right—”
“I got every right,” Dae-ho snapped, his voice cracking. “We’re all dead, remember? Whatever grudges you got, they don’t matter here.” He glanced at Gi-Hun, his eyes darting away as if the sight of him burned, then added, quieter, “He’s… he’s one of us. Still.”
The others fell silent. Jung-bae let out a huff but stepped back. Gi-Hun stared at Dae-ho, his chest aching. Defense. From the man he’d killed. The memory crashed over him—the smoke, the screams, Dae-ho’s hands raised in surrender as Gi-Hun’s finger tightened on the trigger. “It was you,” he’d shouted, delirious with fear. “You sold us out.” But it hadn’t been him. Never him.
Dae-ho turned away abruptly, his shoulders hunched. He walked to the far corner of the void, sitting with his back to them, knees drawn to his chest. Gi-Hun watched as his body began to shake. At first, he thought it was anger—then he saw the way Dae-ho’s hand clamped over his mouth, muffling a sob. Tears seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the white surface beneath him.
Gi-Hun’s breath hitched. PTSD. The sound of a gunshot. The feel of a bullet tearing through flesh. Dae-ho was reliving it. Because of him.
The others leaned in, their eyes wide with confusion. Gi-Hun could see the questions in their faces—How did you die? What happened after we left? Why are we all here?
He opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. How could he explain? How could he tell them about the baby, about Jun-hee’s little girl, about the promise he’d made to keep her safe? How could he make them understand why he’d jumped?
He took a deep breath, his chest feeling tight. “There was a baby,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Jun-hee’s little one. I… I had to make sure she’s alive. So I jumped.”
Hyun-ju’s eyes widened. “The authorities let a baby join the game?” she asked, her voice filled with shock. “How could they? That’s… that’s inhumane.”
Sae-byeok nodded slowly, as if it made perfect sense. “You’d do anything for family,” she said quietly. “Even this.”
Sang-woo stepped forward, his gaze intense. “So you joined the game again?” he asked.
Gi-Hun nodded. “To stop the games,” he said. “I had to. They were never going to end on their own. Someone had to put a stop to it.”
A murmur rippled through the group—shock, then something like quiet respect. Jung-bae’s scowl softened a little, and Ali gave him a small, sad smile.
Then, without warning, they rushed toward him, pulling him into awkward, tearful embraces. Jung-bae clapped him on the back so hard it would have hurt if he could feel pain, muttering something about him being an idiot. Ali wrapped him in a bear hug, his shoulders shaking. Sae-byeok pressed a quick, firm hand to his arm, her eyes saying more than words ever could.
Gi-Hun glanced over at Dae-ho. He hadn’t moved, but his sobs had quieted to ragged breaths. Every so often, his body would jerk, as if reacting to a sound only he could hear. Gi-Hun’s guilt coiled around his heart, squeezing until it hurt. He wanted to go to him, to say something—sorry, anything—but he knew it wouldn’t help. Not now. Maybe not ever.
For the first time in months, Gi-Hun felt a semblance of peace, but it was fragile, shattered by the sound of Dae-ho’s quiet suffering. The weight of the games, the guilt over the lives lost—especially Dae-ho’s—the fear for the baby—all of it lingered, a shadow over the moment. He was with his friends. They were alive. But some wounds, it seemed, followed you even beyond death.
After a while, the others pulled away, wiping at their eyes and trying to compose themselves. Hyun-ju looked around at the endless white space, her brow furrowed. “Where are we?” she asked. “Does anyone know?”
No one answered. They all looked around, but there was no clue—no signs, no landmarks, nothing to indicate where they were or how they’d gotten here. But for some reason, it didn’t matter. The uncertainty didn’t feel scary. It felt… calm.
Then, without warning, a massive screen flickered to life in the center of the void. It was huge, stretching high into the white expanse, its surface dark at first, then illuminating with a familiar face.
Hwang In-Ho. The Frontman.
He was wearing his usual black mask and suit, standing in a dark, empty room. His posture was straight, his movements precise, as if he was performing for an audience.
Jung-bae let out a snarl. “What the fuck?” he said, taking a step toward the screen. “What is he doing here? Is he going to control us even after the afterlive? ”
The others stared, their faces a mix of fear, anger, and confusion. Gi-Hun felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This was the man who’d overseen their deaths, who’d watched them fight and bleed and die for his amusement. Why was he here? Why were they being forced to look at him?
The screen glowed, silent. Hwang didn’t move. He just stood there, his masked face staring back at them as if he could see them, as if he knew they were watching.
No one spoke. No one moved. They just stood there, frozen, staring at the screen.