Chapter Text
The more that you say
The less I know
Wherever you stray
I follow
I'm begging for you to take my hand
Wreck my plans
That's my man
(October 29th, 2024)
It all started with an unknown number. With a simple, innocuous notification that pinged on his worn phone screen.
It had been four long, agonizing years since he had last laid eyes on his rich passenger. Four years since he’d offered his final, strained goodbye to Hwang In-ho.
Four years since In-ho promised, with an unsettling intensity, that he would see him again.
Gi-hun hadn't been able to stop thinking about him since that day. The memory of In-ho was a persistent, vivid film reel playing in the back of his mind.
He was constantly dreaming about Hwang In-ho.
He dreamt of his sad, dark eyes that looked at him with such a profound, almost desperate intensity, an unspoken history trapped behind the pupils.
His lips, which so rarely, yet so beautifully, curled into a genuine smile just for Gi-hun. Those very lips that had tasted sharply of whiskey in his mouth, a memory that still made his breath catch.
His broad shoulders that always seemed to shrink, to make himself feel even smaller then he was, every time he stepped into Gi-hun's cab.
Those dark strands of hair that invariably fell across his forehead, those black, soft strands that Gi-hun had so often, so instinctively, brushed away with his fingers.
He couldn't stop thinking about him. He had never felt anything for anyone—not with Eun-ji, not with any other women or men—what he felt for In-ho. In-ho had been his passenger, his confidant.
His beautiful, terrifying secret.
But he hadn't seen him since then. And as the days bled into weeks and weeks into years, Gi-hun was growing tragically sure he would never see him again.
He knew, logically, that he needed to move on somehow. He needed to find a way to stop searching for that sharp, familiar profile in every corner, every crowd.
He needed to stop looking for him like he had for the last four agonizing years, a fruitless, heartbreaking quest.
But he needed to know if he was okay, if he was still alive. The uncertainty was a slow poison.
He needed to know what terrible things he had done, what dangerous people he worked for, and where he went after their final meeting.
For one year, he tried to heed In-ho's vague warning about the subway—the one where In-ho said he couldn't play any game there.
He hadn't meant to become obsessed, but In-ho's warning was his only connection to the man. A connection, however tenuous, to those dangerous people and to whatever colossal secrets In-ho carried.
But Gi-hun always seemed to be at the subway at the wrong time, never seeing anything out of the ordinary.
Besides, he didn't have as much time anymore. Not since he opened up his small fried chicken shop.
Not since he finally had court-ordered custody of his daughter, Ga-yeong.
The money that In-ho had given him did turn out to be useful, but not in the way Gi-hun had envisioned. His mother passed away just two years ago.
Sang-woo has dissapeared from Earth too four years ago. Police was looking for him but he simply vanished. Police that went looking for him said he had troubles with law and was in dept.
Gi-hun didn't know Sang-woo needed money. Sang-woo never asked for help. And then he was gone. And just like with In-ho, Gi-hun didn't know whether he was alive or not.
And just like with In-ho, there was no way to reach him.
Now, the only things truly holding Gi-hun in life were his small, fragrant fried chicken shop in Ssangmung-dong and his thirteen-year-old daughter, Ga-yeong, whom he could spend weekends with.
And Hwang In-ho. In-ho, who was most likely dead too, a fact Gi-hun refused to fully acknowledge.
Gi-hun was desperately hoping for even a small chance of knowing his fate. But In-ho was like a ghost, a figure perpetually fading, never to be seen again.
He was wiping down a table, taking care of a customer's finished tray, when an unknown number appeared on his phone screen, vibrating silently on the counter.
He ignored it for a moment, focused on serving a fresh batch of food to a waiting customer.
When he finally looked back at the screen, another notification had appeared.
"New message. Unknown Number." the plain text read on the screen.
Maybe Eun-ji had gotten a new number, he thought, a fleeting possibility. He swiped to unlock his phone, opening the text app, his finger clicking on the most recent message.
Unknown: "Hyung! Are you there yet? I am waiting at you at bar, had couple of drinks now!"
The text was simple enough, common language, but Gi-hun didn't know who it could be. He didn't really speak to anyone other than his friend Jung-bae, and Jung-bae wouldn't be texting Gi-hun like that. Not even Sang-woo who used to call him hyung would not text him like that.
Sang-woo never texted him first. It must have been a mistake.
A moment later, another message came through, the phone lighting up again.
Unknown: "I can see you read my message. Sorry to bother, must have gotten a wrong number."
Gi-hun decided it would be best to reply. That stranger had already apologized, and it would be rude not to at least respond to the unknown caller, a small moment of politeness in his lonely life.
He glanced out of his shop; the street was quiet, and it seemed like no customer was coming in. He still had a few minutes of downtime.
Gi-hun: "Who is this?"
He wrote, and instantly got another message back.
Unknown: "Oh Young-il. Sorry to bother you again."
Gi-hun: "No. Its okay. I am Seong Gi-hun by the way."
Unknown: "Well, good night Gi-hun."
Gi-hun rolled his eyes, a small, involuntary smile touching his lips as he looked at the concise message. He typed out a quick reply: "Good night Oh Young-il." Then, he put his phone back in his apron pocket and returned to his work, wiping down the deep fryer.
(October 30th)
Next morning, Gi-hun woke alone, like he always did. He lived in his small, functional apartment above the shop. The only company there was his cat, Miru, curled into a furry, dark comma at the foot of his bed. He was still lying down, tired from the previous day's evening shift. He pet the cat's smooth head and thought about the unknown number again. Oh Young-il. That was a nice name.
He wondered who was behind the screen; the man seemed polite, even in his tipsy mistake. With a heavy sigh, he reached for his phone. He unlocked it and found those messages again, pausing for a moment, glancing over them. He hoped Oh Young-il had gotten home safe in the end.
Maybe he should have offered to help him? He already failed Sang-woo. He already failed In-ho. He didn't even know who this stranger was, and yet he already felt that familiar, heavy weight of guilt and his own self-pity creeping up on him.
Those thoughts—that deep-seated need to save someone, anyone—led him to write out a message and hit send.
Gi-hun: "Hi Young-il, just wanted to make sure you got home okay, sorry if this is sound weird."
He didn't really expect a reply. That man had probably already deleted the number, or blocked it. But Gi-hun needed to be polite. He needed to know this person's fate.
Unlike In-ho. Only if In-ho had left him a number. Gi-hun regretted never asking him for a number. He regretted that now he couldn't even call him and hear his voice. He regretted that he didn't even take a picture them together. Something, anything, to memorize him by.
After five minutes of staring at the ceiling, Gi-hun got up from bed. By midday, he had almost forgotten about the strange messages.
Gi-hun had left his small apartment and went straight to the subway station, watching the platform and the commuters for one solid hour—but no strange game had been played, no odd people lingered.
He was already losing his hope, a familiar, sinking feeling. But he didn't want to go to the police station and sound like a maniac asking if they had seen some strange activities in the subway station.
He thought about calling Jung-bae, but he figured his friend would be busy with the pub. He and his wife opened it years ago, long before Gi-hun's chicken shop, and he had seen they were usually swamped, having quickly become one of the most popular bars in the town.
He was already turning away from the subway station, feeling like he was wasting his time, when his phone pinged, vibrating loudly in his pocket to alert him to a new message.
He thought about ignoring it. He thought maybe it was Eun-ji reminding him to pick up Ga-yeong that weekend for his birthday and Halloween party, or Jung-bae maybe checking in, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped it was Oh Young-il.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers slightly numb from the cold air of the station as he grabbed the device, slipping it out and tapping the screen. One notification. New message.
Oh Young-il: "Got home safe. Thanks, Gi-hun. I apologies once again for disturbing your night."
His chest fluttered, a genuine, warm grin spreading across his lips, the cold disappointment of the subway station momentarily forgotten. The man was okay.
He thought for a moment about if he should text back again, but before he could fully decide, his thumbs were already moving, typing out a quick, if poorly worded, reply.
Gi-hun: "Glad to hear it. Dont worry about disturbing me, just wanted to make sure you arent dead."
He hit send, and then froze. Didn't that sound too depressing? What was he even thinking? He couldn't send that to someone he barely met!
He mentally yelled at himself, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment in mortification. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He wanted to leave the subway station entirely, but then he heard it.
It sounded like some strange, rhythmic slapping. Gi-hun followed that sound through the station, his steps quickening. He ignored the new notification on his phone, the text message forgotten as his focus narrowed.
Because what he saw before him sent old, chilling memories rushing back. There it was—what he was looking for all along, what In-ho had warned him about.
A man dressed in an immaculate business casual suit and a young woman who was getting slapped by that man. They were playing ddakji, the children's game now played with grim intensity.
Gi-hun froze midway in his stride. They were playing a strange, violent game right there in the subway station, the man's red envelope against the woman's blue one. He watched them, unable to say or do anything, a feeling of deep dread mixed with strange recognition washing over him.
Then the man, stood, smiled a thin, polite smile, and left, leaving the woman alone with the stack of money she had won. Gi-hun quickly walked over to her.
She was looking at some kind of card curiously, turning it over in her hand. Gi-hun's focus was laser-sharp. He needed to know what that was about; he needed to know if this would bring him to In-ho or towards something that would finally give him answers.
When the woman saw him approaching, she looked at him curiously, and then angry, as he snatched the card from her hand. "Hey! That's mine!" she yelled at him, scrambling to her feet.
Gi-hun looked at the geometric pattern on the card and remembered In-ho's precise words. "You shouldn't be playing games in a subway," Gi-hun told her, his voice low and serious, before he turned and quickly left. That woman kept on yelling and swearing at him, but she didn't chase him as he stepped onto the waiting subway train.
Gi-hun looked at the card in his hands. It had some weird, interlocking geometric symbols on the front—a circle, a triangle, a square—and a number, a call number, printed on the back.
He needed answers, more than he needed anything else in the world. With a quiet, nervous sigh, he took his phone out again, seeing the message sent a few minutes ago.
Gi-hun ignored that message for now; he would reply to Young-il later. Instead, he called that odd number on the card.
"Hello." A strange, robotic voice replied immediately. Gi-hun didn't know what to think about that. What was he supposed to reply to get an answer?
"Um...hello? We played a game?" Gi-hun felt profoundly unsure about this. What if In-ho was talking about something else? What if it was some other game?
But, no, this had to be it. This was the moment he had been waiting for so long.
"Do you wish to participate in the game? If so, then please state your name and birth date."
Huh? What was he talking about? What games? Like the simple ddakji one? People made money on that? Could Sang-woo possibly go there too?
He wasn't in a hurry to get money; he was having a job, and he didn't need to get rich. But if he could get there and find out more about what this was, what In-ho was involved in...
Gi-hun exhaled, taking a deep breath of the subway's stale air, and replied: "Seong—" But then he was interrupted by a strange, abrupt sound. It seemed like the number had been disconnected.
"Hello?" Gi-hun called into the phone, but no reply came anymore. He looked at his phone screen. He tried to call that number again, but it told him it didn't exist anymore.
Gi-hun had an urge to scream, to lash out at the frustrating, immediate end to his pursuit, but he just remained calmly on his seat. He couldn't reach that number again, and he wasn't getting any closer to the answer.
He just knew In-ho was right. He must have been working for those people. But what was so dangerous about children's games? And why was In-ho so hostile about that, seemingly risking his life to deliver the warning?
Gi-hun didn't know. With a sigh, he gripped his phone a little tighter, noticing the notification blinking on the screen. He still hadn't replied to his new friend, Young-il.
Gi-hun: "Sorry to bother you again, something strange happened to me now. Someone was playing ddjaki in subway for money. Do you know anything about that?"
He wasn't sure if Young-il was local, he wasn't even sure if Young-il still cared about their bizarre conversation. Gi-hun pressed his fingers against his forehead, rubbing slow, circular motions for a moment to ease the tension.
Everything felt so overwhelming, and in the relentless noise of the subway, Gi-hun felt even worse. Before the next message came, he got out of the subway car, clutching that weird card in his pocket.
Young-il didn't seem to reply immediately, and Gi-hun was getting hungry; he needed to eat before his work shift started.
He glanced over at the kwabaegi stand on the corner, the sweet, comforting smell of the twisted, sugared doughnuts wafting from the snacks and filling the air around them. The scent triggered a painful memory in his chest, the thought of his own father—a baker—seeing him now causing his heart to ache with old loss.
It was that sudden, intense memory that had him rising to his feet and walking over to the stand, ordering two kwabaegi, along with a warm, spicy portion of tteokbokki.
"It'll just be a moment, sir. I'll shout you when it's ready." The seller spoke, a warm, practiced smile on their face as they turned and began to prepare his portions. He stepped to the side, leaning against the corner of the stand, his head slightly down, his baseball cap covering his face almost completely, hiding him from view, as his phone pinged with a new message.
Young-il: "No, sorry dont know anything about that. So.. Do you always text strangers like this?"
Gi-hun felt a slight disappointment that no one seemed to know about those games. That no one knew about Hwang In-ho. But maybe that was okay. Hwang In-ho was his passenger, after all. He was always supposed to remain a secret.
Gi-hun couldn't help but genuinely smile at Young-il's question. He needed someone who could cheer him up, someone who could be an anchor, and right now, that was the stranger, Young-il.
Gi-hun: "No. Usually i dont text random numbers."
"Sir, your food is ready!" The seller called down to him a moment later, holding out a clear plastic bag with the steaming containers inside.
"Oh! Uh, thank you! Thank you." He said, handing over the money, and retrieving the bag.
There was a line of public picnic benches to the side, mostly empty, and Gi-hun wandered over, picking the furthest one away, and tucking himself into the corner. He tried to make himself seem as small and inconspicuous as possible, taking out the containers and placing them in front of himself. The food was still piping hot, steam rising from the spicy sauce as he opened the tteokbokki, taking his chopsticks in hand.
He retrieved his phone again, scrolling through some of the apps he had loaded, hoping it would busy his mind, as Young-il once again popped up on the screen.
Young-il: "In my defense i mistaken the last digit of my friends number."
That would explain it, Gi-hun thought, and shook his head with a private chuckle. But that strange number, that tiny coincidence, had suddenly made his day better, less lonely. He didn't want to let go of that number.
Of Oh Young-il.
Gi-hun: "I must be lucky then, right?"
This time the response came almost instantly, a quick burst of light on the screen.
Young-il: "Huh? How is that?"
Gi-hun: "Well it meant i made a new friend."
The moment he sent it, he felt his cheeks heat up, a deep red blush spreading as he realized how incredibly embarrassing he sounded. Of course, they weren't friends! They only knew each other's names, and even then, who was to say Young-il was his real name?
His mortifying thoughts were cut off with a ping.
Young-il: "I guess that makes me lucky too, friend."
Gi-hun’s heart swelled. "Friend..." That simple word, sent via text, resonated deep within him, burying its warmth into his chest. He felt a silly, almost giddy connection to this stranger, Oh Young-il, an immediate and intense bond that felt strangely right.
(October 31st - November 1st)
The air still held the crisp chill of late October 31st, a festive tension buzzing in the city. It was Seong Gi-hun's fiftieth birthday, a milestone he marked first with his daughter, Ga-yeong, sharing a quiet joy. Later that night, the celebration moved to Jung-bae’s pub, which was currently transformed for a bustling Halloween party.
It was morning again on November 1st. The pale sunlight filtered through his apartment window as Gi-hun lay in bed, the comforting weight of his cat, Miru, resting on his chest, purring its usual morning rhythm. He was finally getting around to replying to the birthday messages from Jung-bae and Eun-ji—messages he’d completely forgotten about in the rush of the previous day, especially after the distraction of Young-il's sudden silence.
After a simple, solitary breakfast, he checked his phone for messages from Young-il. There were no new notifications. The last time Young-il had been online was yesterday evening. Gi-hun tried to rationalize the silence, telling himself that Young-il was probably just busy with work, friends, or family. It was a hollow thought, given how little he truly knew about the man beyond his name.
Before heading out to pick up Ga-yeong for a post-birthday outing, Gi-hun sent a quick, casual message. It was just enough to show he cared, but not enough to seem needy: "Hope you enjoy the holidays."
(November 10th)
Ten agonizing days had passed, and Young-il had been utterly silent. A heavy, persistent sadness settled in Gi-hun’s chest. He knew it was illogical to feel this depth of concern for someone who was, technically, nothing more than words on a screen—a digital acquaintance. Yet an overwhelming need to know whether Young-il was okay, whether he was alive, consumed him. He desperately didn’t want him to become another ghost, another presence like Hwang In-ho who would simply vanish and leave him behind.
He was sitting at a lively restaurant with Ga-yeong. She was animatedly recounting stories about her school day and her friends when a new notification pinged on his phone, the sudden sound cutting through the ambient chatter. Gi-hun tried to ignore it, telling himself it was almost certainly Jung-bae or Eun-ji, as it usually was. But the desperate, hopeful what if echoed in his mind. What if it was Young-il? Maybe he was simply on vacation, he mused, grasping at explanations.
He finally reached for his phone and looked at the screen. A new message had appeared, bold and central. It was from Young-il: “Sorry to leave you hanging like that. How are you doing?”
A huge, unrestrained smile spread across Gi-hun’s face, so radiant that Ga-yeong chuckled at the sight. “What made you so happy, Appa?” she asked, her voice laced with childish curiosity.
“Just my new friend,” Gi-hun replied, nodding happily. He quickly fired off a response to Young-il before turning his full attention back to his food and his daughter.
(November 11th - 23rd)
Once resumed, the conversation had no pause. They kept texting again and again and again. Their digital exchange flowed effortlessly, like a river finding its path, blurring the lines between days and weeks.
Gi-hun hadn’t forgotten the strange, pivotal encounter in the subway. He still kept the card, and sometimes, in a moment of lingering obsession, he still dialed the number. But just like always, it went nowhere. He was finally starting to give up, forcing himself to focus on his old life and to stop chasing ghosts, as he’d told himself he would.
Now, Gi-hun was at his shop, the scent of printing ink and old paper filling the small space. A small knot of worry tightened in his stomach: Young-il hadn’t texted him last night, a highly unusual break in their new routine.
Gi-hun was genuinely worried. He had grown to like texting with him immensely. Together they had begun to weave a rich tapestry of shared life: Gi-hun poured out the mundane details of his day, confessed his deepest hopes and most troubling nightmares, and spoke openly about his family and friends. He told Young-il everything that came from his heart.
Young-il reciprocated, sharing many details in return. Yet Gi-hun still felt a persistent sense that his new friend was somehow less open than he was.
One evening, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Gi-hun found himself making an absurd comparison: he was mentally placing Oh Young-il and Hwang In-ho side by side. He knew it made no sense to compare his long-lost, tragic love with a new online friend, yet he couldn’t stop the internal exercise.
In-ho had been reserved and quiet; Young-il, though polite, sounded loud and vibrant through his messages.
In-ho had kept secrets and only opened up after several agonizing months. Young-il was like an open book; any question Gi-hun posed was met with an immediate, candid reply.
In-ho had been perpetually sad, requiring Gi-hun to constantly be the source of comfort and support. Young-il was the comfort giver. He was genuinely funny, always ready with some silly joke that made Gi-hun laugh out loud—a sound he realized he had never made when he was with In-ho.
In-ho had been lonely, having lost his wife and child to illness and severed ties with his younger brother. He had seemed to have nobody left.
Young-il seemed to be surrounded by people. He spoke of a warm, growing circle of friends: a woman named Hyun-ju, who sounded as kind as he was, and others—Kang No-eul and Gyeong-seok. Young-il’s friend group was huge; Gi-hun had never enjoyed such a large network.
Young-il also mentioned that he was now raising an infant named Mi-rae. The child belonged to a relative who had tragically passed away just a few weeks prior. He explained that he had even quit his “super important job” to care for her—a fact that made Gi-hun muse that it couldn’t have been that important if he could walk away so quickly.
Gi-hun was constantly surprised by Young-il’s kindness and could understand why his response times were sometimes slow. His friends were important, and his child—a tiny infant—was paramount. Gi-hun had important people in his own life, too, like his daughter, Ga-yeong.
Despite this understanding, he felt a sudden, sharp wave of jealousy. He couldn’t stand the thought of being second in Young-il’s life. It was absurd; they had only known each other for a few weeks, while Young-il must have known his friends for a lifetime.
(November 24th)
As Gi-hun was carefully closing up his small shop for the day, the quiet space was broken by the familiar chime of a text message. He immediately snatched his phone, his mind racing with hopeful anticipation. Maybe it was Eun-ji or Jung-bae, but he was truly hoping for Young-il. He was always hoping for him now.
Because of Young-il, he had finally stopped the fruitless search for In-ho. He didn’t want to waste his time chasing a ghost, even if his heart ached with a familiar, dull throb every time he pictured those beautiful, dark eyes that had once looked so warmly at him.
The message was from Young-il: “Sorry for not replying to you. I was at the bar and I forgot.”
Oh, so that was the reason. Young-il must have been out with his friends. Gi-hun took a steadying breath, trying to control a sudden, illogical flash of anger, and steered the conversation back to their usual lighthearted terrain.
Gi-hun: "Don’t worry. Hope you enjoyed the night. What’s your favorite drink anyway?"
This was part of the “getting to know you” game they had played for the past week—a steady stream of simple questions. They had exhausted almost every topic: favorite colors, food, animals, places, destinations, embarrassing childhood memories, movies, books, music, and more.
Young-il was clearly a huge nerd, constantly talking about complex action and sci-fi films, long book series, and deep philosophies that Gi-hun barely grasped. He even spoke of art that Gi-hun always had to quickly search online. Young-il’s choices in art were beautiful, though Gi-hun didn’t understand why he gravitated toward such depressing meanings.
They had talked a lot, but Gi-hun had never wanted their conversation to land on the topic of alcohol. He was trying to put all of that, like his gambling addiction, firmly behind him. He still had money, but the temptation lingered. He’d recently given away small amounts on something called online betting, which allowed him to watch horse racing in real time without leaving his home. He could even see the amounts of bets and the number of people online—it all seemed to point to a future dominated by digital things.
Young-il: "Whiskey. Yours?"
Gi-hun knew he should be truthful. Young-il was always honest with him.
Gi-hun: "I don’t drink anymore."
Young-il: "Sorry, I didn’t know about that. I wasn’t trying to sound insensitive."
Gi-hun knew Young-il wasn’t being insensitive; he was always kind. He found himself imagining a face-to-face meeting. He was sure Young-il would become friends with Jung-bae, and he yearned to meet Young-il’s daughter. It was truly a coincidence that they both had daughters. He also wanted Young-il to meet his Ga-yeong, who was thirteen now and growing into a wonderful girl.
Gi-hun: "No, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about that."
Gi-hun started typing, "It was worse before— "but he quickly stopped and deleted the text. He didn’t want to burden Young-il with his problems, his history of losing people, or his life troubles.
Instead, he changed the subject with a simple question:
Gi-hun: "I didn’t even ask you where you live. You aren’t from Seoul, right?"
Perhaps this was why Young-il couldn’t visit him—maybe he lived on the opposite side of South Korea.
Young-il: "I can’t really leave Mi-rae alone. She can’t travel while she’s a baby. And besides, I’m not doing well now, too. It’s all hospital visits. I hate needles."
Gi-hun laughed softly, but he now wondered what important job Young-il had quit. Was he a soldier, perhaps?
Young-il sent another message, more positive than the previous: “Maybe I could see you around Christmas?”
Gi-hun smiled, feeling a rush of warmth. That would be perfect; Christmas was only one month away. He realized his cheeks had turned red as he kept looking at the last message.
Was he falling in love with another mysterious stranger? How could he even have feelings for someone he had never really met?
But they would meet anyway. He wasn’t even sure if Young-il was into guys—maybe he liked both, like Gi-hun, or maybe not. Gi-hun wasn’t sure how to ask without sounding too weird.
But he had a whole month before he would see his online, long-distance friend and, somehow, a strange crush.
Gi-hun: "Yeah, sure. I will be happy to see you."
Young-il: "That’s amazing. Sorry, gotta go, Mi-rae is crying."
Gi-hun put the phone down, a sense of quiet anticipation settling over him. He was excited to see his own daughter, too.
He still couldn’t stop thinking about Hwang In-ho. That night, he fell asleep on his bed, tucked beneath the blanket, and In-ho’s image entered his dreams.
“Gi-hun, are you also waiting for something to run toward?” In-ho asked him in the dream, and in that ethereal space, he gently touched Gi-hun’s hand. Gi-hun could see his sad, deep brown eyes.
Yes, he thought, he was always running toward something.
Bets. A new job. A mystery of the games. The mystery of that recruiter. The mystery of Hwang In-ho—his dangerous job, his secrets.
He was looking for Young-il, Christmas, New Year.
He didn’t feel like a failure anymore; he just felt like there would be more ghosts. More people who would eventually leave.
He couldn’t stand that. That’s why he fought so hard to get Ga-yeong back. That’s why he was hoping Young-il would choose to stay.
Yet… Gi-hun still needed to know who In-ho truly was.
“I haven’t been home in years.”
“I move things around. I manage things. And I feel nothing.”
“I can’t see him again and tell him…” Gi-hun remembered that pause—the tone In-ho had used.
He lay in his bed, Miru curled beside him, trying to pick up the pieces that might give him a full picture, or at least something that felt like the beginning of an answer.
“You don’t understand what I had to become to survive it.”
“It’s a prison. It’s the price of survival. The reward for betraying everything I was taught… I am a monster.”
Gi-hun’s head spun as he tried to recall the exact words, to find meaning in them.
In-ho had run away from his home for some reason. He was managing things for dangerous people. He felt nothing doing that.
He couldn’t visit his brother and tell him something horrible he had done. He thought Gi-hun wouldn’t understand what he had become to survive something.
He believed his work was a prison. He believed he was a monster.
And then Gi-hun remembered something else:
“I did horrible things to get this money. I thought I was saving her… but I just became someone else.”
And then Gi-hun realized—or at least had an idea—of what was really going on.
It sounded absurd in his mind, like one of the action movies Young-il liked.
But it was the only possibility so far, until he found out more. He had time until Christmas. Then his new friend might help him with it, too.
That ddakji.
That recruiter.
That card.
That strange voice asking him if he wanted to play a game, and then he could never reach the number again.
In-ho had played those games before they met. He had played those “children’s games” when he was desperate for money to save his dying wife and unborn child.
And then Gi-hun realized something horrible: those weren’t innocent children’s games. No, it was a dangerous trap. In-ho had been forced to do something terrible. He had been forced to kill in those games.
It definitely sounded like a stretch, but it had to be the truth.
But… In-ho couldn’t save his wife, and afterward he had worked for those people. Their last ride together had been to the docks. In-ho had said he was going somewhere by boat.
He hadn’t wanted Gi-hun to play a game in the subway; he hadn’t wanted him to follow.
But Gi-hun was always too stubborn for his own good. He needed to find the island. He needed to find the recruiter.
He needed to find Hwang In-ho.
He needed to find the answers that would lead him to everything: what dangerous things were happening, what had happened to his best friend Sang-woo, and finally, who In-ho truly was.