Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I wake up - from a blinding light and a shrieking alarm that feels personal, like it’s aimed straight at my skull.

My head aches in a deep, existential sort of way.
Nothing makes sense. My thoughts feel like they’re trying to escape out my ears.

The bed beneath me is all wrong—too stiff, too scratchy, like someone tried to build “uncomfortable” on purpose. Everything else? Just shapes. Blurred edges. Like the world forgot to finish rendering.

I imagine this is what it feels like to wake up after a long night of drinking—hungover, with blurred memories.

But I don’t drink. I’ve never—well, except for that one glass of champagne after graduation.

So.
What happened to me?

Sliding off the blanket, I push myself up onto my elbows and look around.

The room is massive—cavernous, actually—with rows of multi-tiered bunk beds stacked along the walls like someone took dorm life and dialed it up to dystopian. Down below, there’s a sunken square in the center, slowly filling with people wearing identical green tracksuits.

It’s surreal. I’ve just woken up, so my brain’s still buffering.

The crowd murmurs at first, restless. Then voices start rising, sharp enough to reach me from the top bunk:

"What the hell is this?!"
"Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t just drug people and—"
“This isn’t what I signed up for! You said games! Fun games! For money!”
"Say something! What is this place?!"

Suddenly, the memories of the past few days flood back.
It crashes into me so hard I can’t breathe.
My heart drops straight through the mattress.

I remember now.

Ddakji. A man in a designer suit with a salesman’s smile, waving colorful paper squares like it was completely normal to challenge strangers to schoolyard games in public spaces.

Back in primary school, I used to play Ddakji with friends during recess. Once I figured out the trick, I was unstoppable—or at least ten-year-old me thought so. Eventually, everyone else got bored, probably tired of losing, and we moved on to something involving more yelling and fewer rules.

But standing in front of that man, all those years later, the trick didn’t exactly come rushing back. I hesitated. Overthought it.

The first two tries were disasters—textbook flops. Each one earned me a slap across the face so sharp I nearly fell over. I’d never been slapped before. It was, somehow, even worse than I’d imagined. Not just the pain—though, ouch—but the sheer embarrassment.

Still, on the third try, something in me clicked. Muscle memory kicked in. I hit the tile clean. Then again. And again.

And just like that, I was winning. Over and over. Until I’d somehow managed to rack up several hundred million won—because apparently my most valuable adult skill is being really good at flipping pieces of paper.

The mechanical voice on the phone said I’d be participating in a “series of games.” That was the entire pitch—vague, impersonal, and almost certainly a scam.

But the deadline for my college tuition was closing in fast, and the money I’d won from the Salesman had come disturbingly easily. It felt like I’d discovered some hidden cheat code for adulthood—one that involved flipping paper tiles instead of building a resume.

So, in a moment of what I generously labeled “strategic risk-taking,” I said yes.

I glance down. Same green tracksuit as everyone else—no surprises there. A patch with 034 is stitched over my chest, like I’m part of some very grim sports team.

Someone dressed me while I was unconscious. Or undressed me first, which is worse.

Oh god, what a fool I've been.

These stupid children’s games—flipping tiles, whatever this is—it never made sense. Why would anyone hand out money for this crap?
Of course it was a trap. Of course.

Bait for the desperate: dangle cash in front of someone with no options, get them alone, knock them out, drag them somewhere even more remote, and then—

Oh god.

I’ve read the stories. Heard the rumors. Illegal organ trade. Black-market surgery. People vanishing without a trace. Is that what this is?

I grip the edge of the bed like it might anchor me, but my hands are slick with sweat. My heart’s slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out.

I need to get out of here. Now.
Except—I have no idea where here even is.

Panic tightens around my throat as I hurry down the stairs, eyes locked on the door at the far end of the massive room. Nothing else registers.

Just the door. Just escape.
Just get out before whatever’s about to happen, happens.

Suddenly, a man steps right into my path. I try to stop, but it’s too late—momentum takes over and I crash straight into him.

He’s wearing the same green tracksuit as the rest of us, a large 001 stitched across the chest. He must have turned at the last second, because I slip past his side and stumble forward, still falling.

My hands shoot out instinctively, bracing for impact. The floor meets me hard. My palms burn, and my knees scream in protest.

I don’t even get a full breath in before someone grabs me under the arms and hauls me upright.

Then he turns me around—firm but careful—and suddenly I’m facing him.

An older man. His hands rest on my shoulders as he looks me over, concerned.

"Are you alright?"

Under normal circumstances, I’d be mortified. But right now, all I care about is the exit.

“Yes—just, uh... gravity. Sorry,” I mumble automatically.

I turn toward the doors, eyes locked on the only plan that makes sense: get out.

But I don’t make it far. A hand clamps around my forearm—firm, certain.

I’m spun around, fast and without warning, and suddenly I’m no longer facing the exit.

He’s in front of me now, standing one step higher. It’s barely a difference, but it makes everything feel tilted—off.

His grip doesn’t hurt, but it stays. Unmoving. Intentional.

People don’t usually hold you in place during a conversation.
Not unless they’ve already decided you’re not going anywhere.

And clearly, he has.

I exhale through my nose, frustration edging past the panic.

So that’s it, then. Say what he wants to hear, nod politely and move on.

- “I’m so sorry for running into you like that, sir”, - I say, trying for polite and landing somewhere between nervous and barely functional.

"You don’t need to apologize for that,” he replies calmly. “I was the one who knocked you down—I shouldn’t have let you fall".

Then, without warning, he reaches for my hand. It’s not exactly aggressive, but it’s definitely not optional. He takes it gently, studying it like I’m part of a lab report.

“You’re bleeding”, he says flatly.

I blink down at my hand. Fair enough. It’s only now, through the fog of adrenaline, that I register the dull throb in my palm. I must’ve scraped it on the edge of the steps.

Not ideal, but not exactly headline material either.

I’m terrible at guessing ages, but he looks like he’s in his forties—serious, focused, with the quiet authority of a teacher dealing with a student mid-meltdown.

God. Could he have picked a worse moment to go full school nurse? Especially when I’m still half convinced this place is an organ farm.

"It’s just a small cut. I’m fine—"

I try to glance toward the door, searching for a way out, but I can’t. He has me locked in place—one hand gripping my forearm, the other wrapped around my hand, holding it firmly in his.

Frustration rises. I’m wasting precious time, stuck in this bizarre check-in when I should be figuring out how to escape.

"Sir… I’m sure this cut is very interesting, but I don’t think whoever brought us here is planning to let us walk out alive."

He blinks, steady but surprised. “I see,” he says carefully. “But surely there’s no need to panic just yet.”

His voice is calm, deliberate—measured in the way people speak when they’re trying to keep the peace.

“We were told we’d be playing games. There’s no reason to believe anyone intends to harm us.”

I press on. “No one would go through this much trouble—drugging people, dragging them here—just to hand out prize money.”

He studies me, unreadable. Calm. Like this is a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having in a giant concrete bunker.

I glance at the number stitched on his chest: 001. Still no name. Just that.

Mr. 001, I decide. It fits—formal, composed, like he’s about to take attendance instead of acknowledge the slow, creeping horror of our situation.

“What do you think they’re going to do?”

“I don’t know”, I snap, more defensive than I mean to be. “Harvest our organs? Sell us on the black market? Leave us to die? Something along those lines.”

He exhales softly—almost amused.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s what’s happening here”.

"Why do you ..."

A sudden, sharp sound cuts me off mid-sentence. Both our heads snap toward it, instinctive and fast.
Mr. 001’s hand loosens, then drops from my arm.

I turn—and freeze.

Three figures emerge, dressed in pink jumpsuits and black masks, each marked with a different shape. But it’s not their appearance that makes my breath catch— it’s the rifles slung across their chests.

Mr. 001 held me in place. Kept me still. Like that was safe. Like anything about this is safe. And now there are rifles. God, what the hell is this place?

The figure in the center, marked with a square on his mask, steps forward. When he speaks, the voice is mechanical, distorted:

"I would like to extend a heartfelt welcome to all of you. You will be playing six games over the next six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize. The player who stops playing the games will be eliminated.
Once each of the games has concluded, you may call for a vote.
If the majority agrees, you may take the accumulated prize money and leave"

That sounds... vague. But oddly, I feel a flicker of relief.

They have guns. We’re trapped. And yet, they’re still sticking to this story about games. However ridiculous it sounds now, part of me wants to believe it—because the alternative is so much worse.

The Square announces that the first game will begin shortly—but first, they’ll be taking a photo of each player. For the memories, I guess.

The crowd shifts, confused murmurs rising. People ask questions—loud, urgent—but the Square doesn’t acknowledge a single one.

I glance toward Mr. 001. He’s standing there, calm as ever, like this all makes perfect sense.
What is wrong with him?

One by one, we fall into line. My legs move before my brain does. I follow the pink shapes like it’s a field trip I forgot I signed up for.

I curse my luck. My knees and hand ache with every step—not sharp pain, just that dull, annoying kind that makes sure you don’t forget it’s there. Great. The first game hasn’t even started, and I’ve already managed to make it harder for myself.

We move through a maze of staircases, climbing and descending without any clear direction. The walls are painted in bright pinks and yellows—like something out of a children’s playground.

As a kid, I probably would’ve loved it.
Now, it makes my skin crawl.
Who builds something like this… for adults?

I stand in line behind the man wearing patch 456, watching as the pink-suited guard calls each person by number to step up to a large photo booth and have their picture taken.

The line moves steadily—until it doesn’t.

Everything stalls when we get to a guy with bright purple hair. Huh. I actually recognize him. What was his name again?
Right—Thanos.

A small crowd has gathered around him, trying to take selfies. Apparently, that’s against the rules. One of the pink guards—rifle slung casually over his shoulder—steps in to explain this, calmly but firmly.

"Jesus, are they for real?", I mutter, half to myself.

The old lady behind me leans forward and asks,
“Do you know who he is, darling?”

It’s a strange time for small talk, but we’re clearly not going anywhere. And maybe a little conversation will make this all feel less like a slow-motion breakdown. I nod.

"Yeah. That’s Thanos. He’s a rapper. Was pretty big on YouTube—maybe a year ago".

“Recognized him right away. You must be next in line for a selfie” - comes a familiar voice from behind me.

I turn, startled. Mr. 001. How long has he been standing so close—and how did I not notice?

“I only know who he is because my classmates used to watch his videos on repeat”, I say.

Well… I watched them too. Guilty pleasure. And no one here needs to know that.

456 turns around, and I’m caught off guard by the seriousness in his expression. It makes me blurt the rest without thinking:

"And besides, call me old-fashioned, but when I see a gun, my first thought isn’t, ‘Wow, what a great selfie opportunity!'"

Mr. 001’s mouth twitches—just barely. The old woman lets out a soft, uncertain chuckle.
It’s nothing. And yet, not nothing.

For a moment, I feel something flicker back into place—not confidence, not control. Just... a small reminder that I'm still me.

Maybe if I can still make someone smile, I’m not entirely out of my depth.

"You said ‘classmates’—are you still in school?", Mr. 001 asks, his tone casual.

It’s only then that I really look at him. He’s older, yes—but unexpectedly handsome.
Annoying. But handsome.

The memory of him pulling me up from the stairs flashes across my mind, and my face warms despite myself.

"Oh—no. I’ve graduated".

"How old are you if you don't mind me asking?"

I flash a smile that’s more reflex than friendly.

"Old enough to legally ruin my life. Why?".

I don't add “I’m eighteen”, because saying it out loud makes people assume things—too young, too reckless, not serious enough.

He doesn’t push it. Just watches the line ahead of us shuffle forward.

"You seem young"

I shrug. “I get that a lot”.

He considers that for a moment, then nods—like he’s cataloging the answer, not judging it.

"And how does someone like you end up in a place like this?"

I keep my tone casual. “KAIST. Computer science. Got accepted, didn’t get a scholarship. They gave me ten days to come up with the tuition.”

He nods once.

“You must have scored high. Not an easy school to get into.”

"Easier than affording it, apparently."

"And your family?"

I keep my eyes on the floor ahead. “Not thrilled about the college thing.”

"They don’t support it?"

"They think I should aim lower. Something stable. Filing reports, answering phones. That kind of life."

He tilts his head slightly.

"Seems like you’re aiming at more than that".

I pause, then add, “My mom says I have a habit of overreaching. Bad judgment, basically”.

That hangs there a second longer than I’d like.
“She’s probably not wrong”, I say. “But still.”

"Hope it works out for you," he says.

There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough to make me shift my weight.

Then he nods towards... whatever that thing is.
“I think it’s your turn.”

I glance up—and freeze. The pink guards are staring right at me.
Shit. Did they already call my number?

I must’ve missed it. Too caught up in the conversation. Of course I was. Smooth move—losing focus in a place like this, just because someone was being... oddly civil.

They don’t react. No shouting, no guns raised. Just... waiting.

So either they’re patient, or I haven’t crossed whatever invisible line gets you in trouble.

The camera locks on. A light blinks overhead.
I keep my expression neutral. Still.
At the last second, I look away.
The shutter snaps.
My face flashes on the screen—blank, off-center, unreadable.

I hope they don’t post it on Instagram.
I don’t think it’s my best angle.

Chapter Text

After the photo is taken, I follow the Circle-masked guard up another flight of stairs and emerge into a wide, open-air arena.

Sunlight catches me off guard. I squint, blinking against the sudden brightness, and take a second to steady myself.

The field stretches out in all directions—vast, flat, empty. Except for the doll.

It stands alone at the far end, massive and impossibly still. Its plastic skin gleams in the light, and its wide, painted eyes seem fixed on the middle distance—but it’s hard to shake the feeling that it’s watching. Waiting.

There’s nothing else out here. No obstacles. No cover. Just open space and that thing. Which means it matters.

I feel the nerves rise. Familiar, unwelcome. A pressure behind my ribs, a quickness in my breath.
I tell myself it’s not fear. Just uncertainty. I don’t know the rules yet. I don’t know what I’m meant to do. But once I do—once the game starts—this will pass.

I just hope it’s not something like a summer camp talent show—the kind where you’re expected to perform something, and I never could. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, and somehow those were always the only options.

Back then, at least, I could just choose not to go on stage. This time, I don’t get to sit it out.

I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Mr. 001 standing not far behind me. Calm. Detached. Distractingly good-looking.

Am I really noticing that again? Now?

I shut it down immediately. I’ve already let that face cost me one lapse in focus. I don’t have room for another.

A robotic female voice crackles to life, making me jump:

"Attention players. You're going to play 'Red light, green light'. When the light turns green, move toward the finish. When it's red, freeze - no movement. Any movement after 'Red light', and you're eliminated. Your goal is to reach the finish not being detected moving during Red light. Players who don't cross the finish line after 10 minutes will be eliminated"

Okay, it sounds simple enough.
Move on green. Stop on red. Not the other way around—good to clarify. Ten minutes to cross the field. Just follow instructions.

That’s it. That’s all I need to do.

456 pushes his way to the front of the crowd, shouting over the rising noise.

- “It’s not just a game!”, - he yells, loud enough to cut through the confusion. - “They’ll shoot you if you move during red light!”

He keeps going, voice cracking but steady enough.
“But listen—if you just follow the rules, you’re fine. Green light: move. Red light: freeze. That’s it. Don’t panic. Just don’t move when it’s red.”

People look around, murmuring. Some shake their heads. A few laugh—nervous, dismissive.
Someone mutters, “He’s messing with us.”
Another says, “They wouldn’t actually…”

I quickly weigh two hypotheses against each other, my thoughts racing.

One: this is just a scare tactic. A ruse to confuse us, mess with our heads, make us panic. Maybe he’s working for them. Maybe he just wants to cause chaos.

Two: he is telling the truth—and people are actually going to die.

I want to believe the first one. Desperately. But what if I’m wrong?

If there’s even the smallest chance he’s right… I can’t afford to ignore it.

Better to assume the worst.
Better to feel stupid than end up dead.
Better to freeze too soon than too late.

My hands are trembling. The scrape in my palm stings as I curl my fingers, but I shove them into my pockets anyway—just to be safe. Just so they won’t be seen moving.

The robotic voice chirps: “Green light.”

The crowd surges forward.

I don’t sprint like the others. I take careful, measured strides—long enough to cover ground, slow enough to stop mid-step if I have to. Eyes forward. Muscles braced. Every part of me alert.

"Red light", The voice cuts through the air.

“Freeze!” 456 shouts somewhere to my left.
The massive doll's head spins with a soft mechanical whir. A beat of perfect silence.

Then—gunfire.

People drop mid-step. Some fold where they stand, others are thrown sideways. Limbs jerk. Bodies hit the dirt. Blood spreads fast, soaking into the dry earth. The air fills with the sharp, metallic smell of it.

And I just... stare.

This can’t be real.

I know what I’m seeing—but my brain won’t make sense of it. It feels staged. Wrong. Like I’m watching a movie without sound.

Oh my god.
456 was telling the truth.
They’re actually shooting people—for losing a children’s game.

Some people scream and bolt toward the entrance, shoving past anyone in their way.
I feel the air shift as they rush by—shoulders brushing close, footsteps pounding the ground beside me. Too close.

But I stay still. I don’t turn. I don’t breathe.
One wrong movement, and I’m next.

Behind me, I hear fists pounding on the doors. Desperate voices begging to be let out.

Then more gunshots.
The screams cut off.

 

“Green light”, The voice returns, cold and mechanical, like none of it just happened.

456 shouts, “MOVE!”—but no one does.

Me included.

I’m still stuck in that strange, weightless state—like I’ve been watching someone else’s nightmare through my own eyes.

But I can’t stay there.

Get a hold of yourself.
The rules are simple. Move on green. Stop on red. That’s it.

What makes it terrifying isn’t the doll—it’s the consequence. The penalty is death.
And the real threat isn’t the game. It’s fear.

Fear makes people hesitate. Panic. Trip.
Fear gets people killed.

I’ve felt this kind of pressure before.

Not like this—not life and death—but still sharp enough to rattle you if you let it.

Back at school, I competed on the debate team. And sometimes, I won against people who were objectively better—more prepared, more articulate—just because I held my nerve and they didn’t.

I saw it happen over and over: someone blanking mid-sentence, derailed by a single question they weren’t expecting.

It wasn’t always about knowing more. It was about staying steady when it counted.

And this is just another version of that.
A competition with strict rules, a ticking clock, and no room for mistakes.

All of a sudden, I know exactly what I need to do.
I’ll pretend it’s the final round of a school tournament—judges watching, the air too warm, my favorite teacher sitting in the front row.

Someone I wanted to impress.
Something I needed to win—not for survival, but for a smile. A nod. A quiet “well done.”
Not life. Just approval.

I lock my eyes on the finish line.
When the giant doll turns away, I brace—then move.

Each movement is deliberate—confident, but careful.

Not too fast. Not too slow.
Just steady. Just enough.

Everything else fades—except the finish line and the doll.

I don’t see the bodies. I don’t hear the screams.

Just the voice, calm and mechanical: “Red light. Green light.” Over and over.

I tell myself the gunshots are just sound effects.
That the eliminated players are just… sent home.

That this is still a game. A twisted one, sure—but a game all the same.
With rules. With structure. With an audience, maybe, watching from somewhere unseen.

I watch the back of someone’s head in front of me—close. Closer than before.
I’m catching up.
I didn’t realize I was moving that quickly.

My strides grow longer. More confident. I’m not thinking about each step anymore—I just move when the voice says to move. I stop when it says stop. It’s like something clicked.

Some of them glance at me, like they’re surprised I’m ahead.

Like I’ve stepped out of line. Like I wasn’t supposed to be up here.

What—didn’t expect to see me in front?

 

Crossing the finish line feels like stepping into another dimension.

The voice still drones behind me—“Red light. Green light.”
Gunshots crack through the air. People scream. Feet pound the dirt.

But it all feels distant. Muted. Like I’m watching it through thick glass.

I stagger forward, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the line—like it might snap closed behind me, like a trap.
Then I turn. Slowly.

The field stretches back in silence.

Some people are still moving—carefully, slowly, locked into the rhythm I know too well now.
Others are frozen mid-step, waiting for the next green light.
And the rest...
I don’t let myself count them.
I could watch.
I could keep watching.

Instead, I turn away from the field and lift my eyes to the countdown timer above the gate.

00:01:17.

I focus on the numbers.
I don’t look back.

I hear the last of the screams. I hear the final crack of gunfire when the time runs out.
But I never see who didn’t make it.

Chapter Text

We walk in a line, back toward the dorms. No one speaks.

People around me are dazed—shell-shocked, stumbling, counting breaths. Some are crying. Quietly, like they’re afraid to draw attention.
Others just stare straight ahead.

I keep walking.

My legs haven’t fully caught up to my brain yet, or maybe it’s the other way around.
Either way, forward seems like the only available direction.

Mr. 001 falls into step beside me. Close enough that I can hear the soft tread of his shoes over the floor.

He walks like nothing happened. Like we didn't just walk out of mass execution.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.
Then, out of nowhere:

“Were you scared?”

I don’t have trouble hearing, but for a second, I genuinely wonder if I misheard him.

Then he adds, just as calmly:
“When the shooting started.”

I glance at him.
Of all the things he could’ve said… that’s what he wants to know?

It sounds like a trap question.
If I say yes, I'm a coward.
If I say no, I'm a sociopath.

So instead, I deflect:

"Does it matter?"

He turns his head to me.

“That wasn’t quite what I asked.”

Oh, I’m sorry—was I supposed to give you a tidy answer? A clean little label you can file away?

He’s the one who asked the weirdly calm question after a literal massacre. And now he’s disappointed I didn’t hand him a thesis on my emotional state?

"And I asked for them not to shoot people. But not everyone gets what they want".

He raises his eyebrows slightly. Just that. No comment. No follow-up.

Maybe I didn’t need to say it like that.
Maybe I did.

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

I head toward the stairs that lead to the top bunks—not because I have the energy to climb them, but because they’re there. Out of the way. Higher than the ground.

I make it halfway up before my legs give out.
I sit on the step.
The metal stair bites into the back of my legs. The railing is cold under my arm.

Somehow, this is the most comfortable place in the world right now.
If I could spend the next five days right here, I would.

Suddenly, I see her.

A girl—maybe a few years older than me—sprawled on the ground like she’d been dropped there from a height. Her eyes were open. Her mouth too, like she’d died mid-sentence.
And the blood—God, the blood—had soaked straight through the dirt beneath her, dark and thick, like the ground was drinking it.

I blink.

Why didn’t I remember this earlier?

I was there. I stepped past people.
But this girl—I don’t remember seeing her. Not exactly.

Did it actually happen? Or am I making it up?

Someone definitely died in front of me. I know that. But her—this face, this pose, this pool of blood...

I try to pin it to a specific moment and can’t.

Which is... unsettling.
If I can’t even trust my own memory, how the hell am I supposed to survive this?

Surviving the first game already felt like a miracle.
Can I really do this five more times?
What are the odds?

I’m so fucked.
And it’s my own fault.

Why did I play that stupid little game with the Salesman?
Why didn’t I throw out that card the second I saw it?
The whole thing reeked from the start—his tailored suit, that fake-smile voice, like he already knew I’d say yes.

Why didn’t I walk away?

I thought I was desperate.
I told myself that’s what it was—desperation. For tuition, for time, for a future.

But looking back… it wasn’t desperation.
It was greed.

I wanted a shortcut. A smarter way. A win.

I could’ve worked. Waitressed. Saved for a few years. Or taken out loans, like everyone else. Graduated in debt, like a normal person.

But no.
I didn't want to end up like them - stuck in a survival mode.

And look where that got me.
What an irony.

The doors slide open, and I tense—reflex, not thought.

The pink guards step in like they’re on schedule. No blood on them. No urgency. Just business as usual.

The one with the square mask makes an announcement.
Results of the game.
Survivor count. Casualties. Delivered like weather.

And then a man near the front drops to his knees. Hard.

“Please”, he blurts, already mid-beg, like he’s been waiting for his moment.
“I can pay. I’ll pay it all. Just give me time, give me a chance, I have a job, I have people, I can sell the apartment, I’ll sign anything—please—please—just let me go—”

His hands are raised, palms up, trembling. Offering… nothing. Offering himself.

“I’ve got a daughter,” he says quickly, like it’s proof of value. “She’s five. I can show you pictures. I’m not useless—I work, I’ve always worked, I pay things back—”

It’s awful to listen to.
Something about it. The way it keeps going. The way it doesn’t stop.

“I’ll do anything. Clean, cook, sign anything. I can be useful—just don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. I know you don’t have to—this was just the first round, right? There’s still a way out? There has to be a way out—”

Finally, the Square-masked guard interrupts him.

"There appears to be a misunderstanding.
This facility is not involved in debt collection.

You are currently participating in the games—
a voluntary opportunity to resolve your financial difficulties through fair competition.

Participation is optional.
As outlined in the rules, a democratic vote will now be held.

If a majority chooses to end the games, they will conclude immediately, and all remaining players will be released.

Before the vote begins, please be advised of the current prize pool:

₩9.1 billion.
If the games are terminated at this stage, the full amount will be divided equally among surviving participants.
This results in an individual payout of approximately ₩25 million per person.
Please consider this information carefully before casting your vote."

₩25 million.
Before I can stop it, my brain starts filling in the blanks.

One semester’s tuition, if I’m careful. A dorm bed. A half-decent used laptop. The essentials. Just enough to get through the door.

KAIST.
I picture the campus—glass buildings, narrow study rooms, sunlight cutting across whiteboards scribbled with half-solved problems.

Coffee-fueled coding marathons.
Late walks back to the dorms with cold air in my lungs and algorithms still running through my head.

Getting lost in lectures, then staying after to argue with the professor.
Just to keep the conversation going. Just to be heard.

A life built around ideas.
Around earning something with your brain.

If I can make it through one semester, I can apply for the scholarship.
Not guaranteed, but possible. And if I earn it—if I prove I belong—it could carry me the rest of the way.

I’ve never wanted anything this badly.

"It’s not even serious money!" someone shouts, loud and bitter.

The voice cuts through my thoughts like a crack through glass.

Another joins in, harsher:
"That won’t even cover the interest on what I owe".

More shouting now. Snapping voices. Mocking laughter.
The whole room seems to turn on the number—₩25 million—like it’s an insult.

I don’t move. Don’t say anything.
For me, it’s enough. Just barely. Enough to start something.

But if that number’s a joke to them—
if they’re already too far gone—
they’ll vote to keep going. To win more. No matter the cost.

They’re loud, but it’s not everyone, I tell myself.
There have to be others like me.

People who saw that number and felt hope.
They’ll vote to leave.
I still have a chance.

The guards bring in a tall metal stand — waist height, matte black, two glowing buttons set into its surface.
X in red.
O is blue.

They repeat the instructions — not that we need them.

O means you want more games. More death.
X means you’ve had enough.

Majority rules.

The order goes from highest number to lowest.
So I’ll be stuck waiting near the end, watching everyone else tip the scale before I even get a say.

456 presses X, takes the red patch, and walks off without a word.

It doesn’t surprise me that he wants out. After what we saw, wanting to leave feels like the only sane response.

But it still gets under my skin. Not the choice itself — but the gap it opens.

He warned us. He knew people were going to die. So he didn’t come into this blind.

And now — after surviving one round — he’s done?

If you already knew the cost, why pay it at all?
And if you were willing to pay it once, why back out now?

There’s something I’m missing.
And I don’t like the way that feels.

Then 455 steps up and presses O without blinking.
Blue light. One vote to stay.

Just like that, the balance resets.
And the whole thing starts to feel like a coin flipping in slow motion — except it’s not a coin, it’s our lives.

I can’t tell what’s worse — the dread of not knowing how this ends, or having to stand still and watch the same sequence on repeat.

Step up. Think. Press. Take a patch.
Again and again.

Normally, I’d get through a long wait with a phone in my hand — reading Twitter drama between people I don’t know, watching video essays about the shows I never finished, stalking the Instagram pages of people I stopped talking to years ago.

Useless stuff.
But it evaporated the time.

Now there’s nothing to tap, nothing to scroll.
Just the next person in line.
And the minutes, stretching out like they’re doing it on purpose.

I don’t believe in anything, not really.
But somewhere between one vote and the next, I catch myself praying - for a vote, for a way out, for the future I almost let myself want.

It’s finally my turn.
I step forward, legs stiff, throat dry. Only a few of us left. My vote might actually change something.

I’m focused on the stand—on getting there, pressing the button, being done.

And then, suddenly, there’s a body in front of me.
I stop hard.

456.
Standing directly in my way.

He raises a hand—not touching me, just enough to block the space between us—and says, loud and clear:
“Wait.”

Why is it always men who feel the need to physically insert themselves between me and wherever I’m trying to go?

I stop.
There’s a pause — not just in my steps, but in my brain.

“They want people like you to keep going.”

People like me?
What exactly is that supposed to mean?

He continues.

"You were calm. You didn’t hide behind anyone. You crossed the line early. Now you think that means you can win. That it’s going to be like that every time. But it won't. The first game is the easy one".

Are you fucking serious right now?

I was already walking to the button. I was going to vote red. Quietly. Decisively. No hesitation, no spectacle.
And now I’m frozen in the middle of the room, being called out like I’m some reckless, cold-blooded idiot who needs to be warned — not because I’m a threat, but because I’m clearly not going to make it.

Before I can deny everything he just accused me of, a voice cuts in from somewhere behind me — flat, sharp:
“So that’s your move. Go for the quiet ones.”

Then another, fast, pissed:
“She was halfway there. You wait until she’s mid-step to pull this shit?”

And then it snowballs — voices climbing, cracking open into something hotter, messier.

“You knew the first game.”
“You didn’t warn us, you distracted us!”
“And now you’re blocking voters?”

Someone gestures at me — not subtle.
“She didn’t even flinch out there. That’s who you pick to scare off?”

I flinch now. I didn’t ask for any of this. Not the attention. Not the drama. Definitely not the part where strangers shout things about me like I’m not standing right here.

The room keeps unraveling.
“He’s messing with the count.”
“They send him in when the pot gets too high.”
“You think we don’t see what this is?”
“His hands were too clean. I don’t trust people with clean hands.”

456 doesn’t try to defend himself.

He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders locked. He keeps blinking, fast and shallow, like there’s something in his eye or he forgot how to stop..

His lips part. Then close. Then stretch into something that’s not a smile, not a grimace — just wrong.
A tremor runs down one arm. One hand curls in on itself. Then the other. His shoulders rise too high, and stay there.

And then he screams it.
“I PLAYED THESE GAMES BEFORE!”

That gets everyone’s attention.

The noise cuts off like someone hit a switch.
He swallows. Breathes hard. Then says it again — lower this time, bitter and hoarse:

“I played these games before.”
A pause.
“Three years ago.”

His eyes scan the room now, but he’s not looking at anyone.
“Everyone who was here with me... died.”

Another beat.
“Every single one of them.”

Oh god.
He was the only one? The only one?
Everyone else — dead? Just—dead?
How many people? Dozens? Hundreds? All of them?

What the hell am I doing here?

What the fuck am I doing here?

This isn’t a choice, this isn’t strategy, I’m not clever, I’m not special, I’m not—
Oh my god.

This is a death sentence.
I signed a goddamn death sentence.
For what? For tuition? For a laptop?

And now I’m center stage in a game I didn’t know had rules and everyone keeps dying and I’m just standing here like an idiot, like a target, like a—

I haven’t even voted.

“Suppose he’s right.”
The voice cuts through everything — smooth, steady, just loud enough to take control. Number 100.
He’s already walking forward, like this is his stage now.

“Everyone dies in the end. Tragic, sure. But let’s not get dramatic. We don’t have to stay until the end.”

His eyes flick toward 456, then land — deliberately — on me.

“First game was easy. Some of us handled it just fine. Kept our cool. Crossed the line.”

My mouth goes dry.

“And now we’ve got an expert in the room. Mr. I played these games before.”

He smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“So here’s the plan: we win one more. Just one. Grow the pot. Then we take a vote, walk out richer, smarter, and very much alive.”

He turns back to the group, spreading his hands like a closing argument.

He turns slightly, opening the pitch to the room.
“One more game. That’s all. Then we walk.”

A pause.
“Sound good?”

A murmur rises. Then a shout.
“One more game!”
Another picks it up—louder, sharper:
“One more game! One more game!”

Voices rise. People are grinning.

No. No, this is—this is insane.

“Are you kidding me?”, I snap. “Are you—did anyone actually listen to what he just said?"
No one hears me. Or they pretend not to.

“That’s not how it works!”, I shout. “The prize doesn’t just show up! It doesn’t grow because you want it to—it grows because someone gets shot in the head and doesn’t get back up!”

My voice is shaking. I don’t stop.

“You want more money? Then more people have to fucking die! That’s it! That’s the rule! That’s the whole goddamn game—don’t lose, or you die!”

And right in front of me, Thanos — eyes wide, weird little smile like he’s not even fully here — says:
“Then don’t lose.” and a few people laugh.

They are laughing.

Jesus Christ.

I knew they weren’t going to listen. I knew. The second they started chanting, I felt it — they were already gone. They didn’t want logic. They didn’t want truth. They wanted blood and noise and a bigger prize.

And I just—
What the hell was that?

And it wasn’t an argument, it wasn’t even close, it was a breakdown in public. Just raw noise and shaking hands and whatever the hell I thought I was doing. I broke all the rules. All of them. I didn’t lead. I didn’t read the room. I didn’t build a thing. I just yelled until someone shut me up with a four-word punchline.

God, that was so bad. That was so bad.

I gave him the joke.
“Don’t lose, or you die.”
Jesus. I might as well have handed him the mic.

I glance at 456.

He doesn’t say anything.
Just meets my eyes for a second — steady, quiet — then pats my shoulder. Once. Light. Barely pressure at all.

I know what that means.
"That was pathetic. I feel sorry for you. But hey, thanks for trying anyway."

The chant only grows louder.
“One more game! One more game! One more game!”

The square-masked guard finally speaks — calm, bored, like none of what just happened was worth interrupting.

“From this moment on, any interference with the democratic process will not be tolerated.
Any player who breaks this rule will be eliminated. Player 34 — please cast your vote.”

The room goes queit.

Of course.

They didn’t step in when 456 blocked my path.
Or when the crowd started shouting.
Or when I lost it.

Because none of that disrupted the process. It was the process. They waited—let the momentum shift, let the blue side take the room.

And now that it's done—now they call it interference.

My vote won’t change anything now.

But I still have to walk up there.
Still have to press red. After all of that.

I wish I could press blue. Just lower my head, fall in line, not be the girl who yelled. Not be the one they’ll remember. Just another vote. Nothing special. Nothing loud.

But I can’t.
Because I still want out.
Because voting blue would be a lie.
Because if I don’t vote red — if I flinch now — maybe no one else will.

Someone has to say no. Even if it’s too late. Even if it doesn’t count.

I walk to the stand.
It’s not far, but it feels like it is. Like the distance is stretching under me — step by step — turning this into something slow and staged.

I hover my hand over the red button. It's shaking.
Damn, is it my thing now? I'm too young for this bullshit.

I press the button with a hand that wouldn't listen to me. The light blinks. There’s a soft mechanical click.
And then—nothing.

So I turn to go.

“Player 34”, the square-masked guard says behind me. “Please complete your vote properly.”

I freeze. Glance back.
Right. The patch.

I grab it and walk off like that didn’t just happen in front of everyone.

Which it did.
Obviously.

Damn, it was a simple two-step job. Press the button. Take the patch.
That’s it. That was the whole thing.
And I still screwed it up.

Can I do anything right? Like—literally anything?

I walk toward the back of the red column, clutching the patch like it means something now.
I keep my head down. I don’t want to know what they think of me.
I don’t look at the screen anymore. I can’t take it.
Instead, I watch the people still waiting in the middle column.

Five still waiting.
Then four.
Three.
Two.

Now only one.
Mr. 001.

He walks to the stand like it’s a stroll in the park —
unhurried, almost graceful, like none of this touches him.

He glances to the blue column, then the red —
like he’s taking in the scenery.

I think back to earlier.

The soft steps beside me.
That voice, calm and curious, like we weren’t walking away from a massacre.
“Were you scared?”

I finally let myself look at the screen.
182 to 182.

Tied.

And I have a bad feeling about it.

He presses blue.
For a moment, the room is silent.
Then the screen updates.
183 to 182.

I don't think I'm surprised.

The blue side erupts in cheers.
People shout, laugh, throw their hands in the air like they just conquered something.

And then he looks at me.
Just for a moment. Same calm and unreadable expression.

I swear—
if he’d been a little closer,
I would’ve said it right to his face:

"I hope you choke on that vote, you smug, dickless artifact of someone else’s mistake"

Chapter Text

Oh dear God.
Did I really want to say that?
To his face? Out loud? In front of everyone?

If I’d said that—
Jesus.

That’s the kind of line that naturally ends with someone getting punched in the face.

Like I’m not already standing in a room full of people who voted — enthusiastically — for more death. For more blood. For the next round.

And I almost said it like it was nothing.

I’m not okay.
I am not okay, and I am dangerous to myself right now.

I need to get away.
From them, from him, from me.

I need to sit down. I need to not exist. I need to disappear.

I don’t choose the stairs. They’re just there. Like the exit sign in a burning building.

I sit down like that’ll help.
It doesn’t.

I feel it clawing up my throat — not a scream, not crying, just… this heat, this sharp, awful pressure like my body’s trying to explode without making a sound.

We were so close. So damn close.
One vote. That’s all it would’ve taken. One person doing the obvious, sane thing.

And now there’s going to be another game.

I’m going to die here.

That’s not drama, not exaggeration. It’s math.

 

What did 456 say?

He’s played before. Four hundred fifty-six players.
One survivor.
So — one in 456.

Roughly 0.2%.

How do you even get odds like that from coin tosses?
And before I even mean to, I’m starting to do the math.

One flip: 1 in 2.
Two flips: 1 in 4.
Three: 1 in 8.

I take the log base 2 of 456.
Why do I even remember that? Why is that still in my head when everything else is on fire?

It’s 8.83. Which means—what?
Nine.
You round up.

Nine perfect coin flips.
That’s what one-in-456 means.
That’s what survival looks like here.

These odds are so small they might as well be zero. So what’s the point?

I could walk up to a guard right now, refuse the next game, and let them put a bullet in my head. Just end it. Save everyone the trouble.

Wait—what?
Since when do I think like this?

Jimin used to say it all the time — that I didn’t know how to accept defeat.
“You’re the kind of idiot who’ll keep playing after checkmate, just to see what happens.”

If she’s right—if I’m really that person—
then why am I just... accepting this?
Why am I ready to give up because some random guy said everyone died?

Maybe it wasn’t everyone.
Maybe it was less, and he just exaggerated to make his argument hit harder.
Honestly, that would’ve been smart —
cut out the qualifiers, drop the stats, go for the absolute.

The thing is, I don’t actually know.
It might not be that final, that absolute.
Which means I might still have a chance.

So why am I sitting here like it’s already over?
What the hell am I doing, sulking like it’s going to change anything?

456 said he played these games.
I should be questioning him on everything he knows about the next one.

He owes me that much after putting every set of eyes in the room on me for no reason.

I scan the room and spot him downstairs, perched on the bottom two steps beside the player with 399 on his back, their shoulders almost touching.

I make my way down, slow enough that I can pretend I’m just passing through if I change my mind.
When I reach them, I stop a step higher so I’m looking down at both.

“Hey”, I say, aiming it at 456, keeping it neutral.
390 glances up before he can answer.

“You're here to ask him about the next game too?”

No, I came here to ask what do you think of the facility. But apparently I'm not the only one who had the idea.

"Next game is dalgona", throws 456 without looking at me.

The word drops like a rock in my brain, but doesn’t land anywhere useful. Dalgona. I know it’s a candy. I don’t know why that would kill anyone.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate.

Mr. 001 is simply there at the bottom of the stairs, as if he’d been standing there all along.

His hands folded loosely behind his back, eyes on 456.
“Sir,” he says, polite like they’re meeting at a dinner party, “I wanted you to know… I voted to stay because of you. You’ve survived these games before. That gave me hope.”

I want to stop myself, but I can’t. He’s practically begging for it.

"I had hope too. And then you voted and kept us all stuck here".

He turns his head toward me, calm as glass.

 

"One hundred and eighty people voted the same way I did. I just happened to be the last one".

"That’s what they said after Milgram’s experiment", I shoot back, looking him dead in the eye.

"Who's Milgram?", 390 whispers to 456.

Fantastic. Outsmarted the room.

Mr. 001’s gaze doesn’t waver. His voice is gentle, almost cordial, like we’re discussing the weather.

"It won’t do us any good to turn against one another."

And there it is — he skips right over what I just implied, like he didn’t even hear it. Which works perfectly, because 390 and 456 clearly didn’t get the reference either.

He turns back to 456 and continues with the same polite warmth:

“I’m sure our chances will be better, sir, if you’d be willing to tell us about the next game.”

I could push it. Spell it out until they understand.
But I also need to know about the next game. And so far, "dalgona" is not very helpful.

456 meets my eye for half a second, then says quietly:

“They’re counting on us to tear each other apart. I’m helping anyone who asks.”

A beat, then he adds:

“Like I said earlier… dalgona. We had to choose a shape before the game. Then carve it out of the candy without breaking it.”

I forget about mr. 001 altogether.

"What was the easiest shape?"
"Triangle... maybe circle"
"And the others?"
"Star and umbrella"

Umbrella? Mr. 001 lifts an eyebrow. Some people chose umbrella?

456 stays silent.

Mr. 001’s smile widens, slow and deliberate.

"Those unlucky bastards must have bitten dust".

I just want to wipe that smug look off his face.

"I hope they give you the umbrella… and make you carve every raindrop. I wonder if you’ll still think it’s funny".

390 smirks, a short, amused huff escaping him.

Mr. 001’s eyes flick to him for a heartbeat before settling on me.

"You’ll have to stay close if you want to find out".

Then his gaze shifts to 456 — not even bothering to see how I take it. Does he think playing nice will get him extra intel?
Well. At least he’s not smiling anymore.

390 glances between us, tone easy.

"Looks like you two are getting along"

Shit. Did he think we were having a moment?
No — this is just mr. 001 twisting everything I say until it works in his favor.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

Before I can decide whether to answer, the door swings open and two circle-masked guards step inside, a metal tray balanced between them. It’s stacked with plastic boxes and plastic bottles that knock dully against each other with every step.

456 gets to his feet.

“If you want my advice, don’t wait too long to get dinner. They might not have enough for everyone.”

390 stands too, brushing off his knees.
"Haven't eaten since forever. What do they usually serve here?"

456 doesn’t even look at him.
"Nothing you’d like."

They move to the trays, not caring to ask if anyone would like to join.

I’m not hungry — but rule number one: never eat alone. I remember it from that book I read back when I didn’t know any better. Unfortunately, I still don’t.

And I don’t want to be left alone with Mr. 001 — who knows what he’ll say once there’s no need to keep 456 on his side — so I follow 456 and 390, invitation or not.

390 opens his container right there, as soon as the guard hands it to him.

"Is this a joke?", he asks.

The guard says nothing.

"What's wrong?", I ask.

He tilts the container toward me. Right. Same question here—only I wouldn’t put it to someone holding a gun.

"You telling me this scrap of bread counts as dinner?", 390 presses.

Someone behind us shouts to keep the line moving, and the guard might as well be miles away for all the notice he takes.

"You won't get anything from him", says 456, already stepping out of the queue with his container.

A voice behind me, smooth and almost amused:
“Looks like they’re counting on us to be light eaters. Shame we’re not."

I turn — 001’s there, faint smile aimed at 390 like it’s just their conversation now. When did he even get his container?

"So... what is your idea of proper dinner?"

“Meat”, - 390 says, like the word alone is enough. “The kind you can smell before you see it—”

I fall in behind them, a few steps back, close enough to follow but not close enough to join, watching as 001 has 390 talking like they’ve known each other more than ten minutes. He could probably get the guard to smile — and I’m not sure which of them I’d dislike more if he did.
I drop onto the steps beside 456 and stare at the piece of bread. Why did they even bother with a container for that?

"Do you think it’s just cost-cutting, or they do it on purpose?", I ask him.

- "On purpose", he says, and leaves it there. I’m no Mr. 001 — I can’t turn bread into a conversation.

We chew the bread in silence. It tastes like cardboard, and not the fresh kind.
Two steps below, 001 and 390 are bent toward each other, their words breaking apart in the space between us — “marinade,” “slow roast,” “bone in” — scraps of some meat dish complicated enough to need a manual.

The noise pulls me upright — a sharp crack of plastic on the floor, voices cutting through the general din. From the stairs, I can see it all: 124 yanks the dinner container out of 333’s hands. He lunges to get it back, stepping in too close, fingers clawing at the air. “Give it back,” he snaps, the edge of his voice too thin to scare anyone.

Thanos is on him instantly, grinning like this is recess and he’s found the day’s target. He plucks the bread from the container and shoves it straight into 333’s face, grinding it against his cheek and mouth. 333 twists his head away, lips clamped shut, but Thanos follows the movement, pressing harder. “You want it so bad? I’ll feed you myself.”

333 tries to swing, but Thanos’s henchman, 124, hooks him from behind, locking his arms. Thanos hammers a fist into his ribs — a deep, dull thud — then another into his stomach. The air bursts out of 333 in a sharp grunt. A third blow crashes into his mouth, snapping his head sideways. Then another. And another.

I glance toward the guards. They’re close enough to see every second of it — and they don’t care.

124 lets go and 333 crumples to the floor. They start kicking — hard, fast, the sound of boots on flesh carrying over the room.

“Is no one going to stop this?”, I ask.

456’s voice is low. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
390 adds, almost apologetic, “We’d just end up like him.”

I look back at 333, curled on the floor, boots slamming into his side.
It’s the same rhythm I’ve heard before — schoolyard, locker row, any place big enough for a crowd to watch. The bigger ones keeping him down, the others laughing, no one stepping in.

My chest feels tight, my legs ready to move in the opposite direction — but I know this is one of those moments I’d replay later, over and over, wishing I’d done something. And someone should do something — even if it doesn’t work, even if all it gets me is a place on the floor next to him.

I don’t think — I just step in, wedging myself between them and 333. My hands go up automatically, palms out, like I can hold them off by sheer will.
“Alright, you’ve made your point”, I manage, aiming for steady but hearing the shake underneath.

Thanos pauses, just long enough for me to think maybe — maybe — this will work.

Then his grin spreads, and both hands knot into the front of my shirt, pulling me half a step forward. “What, you gonna stop me?”

The shove comes a split-second later — all weight and muscle behind it — spinning me sideways before my feet can catch up. My heel skids on the concrete, the other foot tangles, and then the floor slams my hip and elbow at the same time. The pain is white-hot, deep enough to steal my breath.
My eyes sting and blur.

For a second I can’t move at all, the shock of it locking every muscle.

Footsteps approach — soft, deliberate.

“Gentlemen.”

Mr. 001 steps into the space between us, unhurried, his shadow falling over me.

“This is hardly the way to treat a lady,” he says, the words slow, measured. “Two of you, no less. I’m sure you can see how… unsightly that looks.”

A pause, almost kindly. “And if you can’t, I’d be happy to explain it to you.”

I stay on my side, cheek pressed against the concrete, hip throbbing in time with my pulse. The air tastes like dust and metal, and every shallow breath drags the ache in my ribs a little deeper. I should get up. I don’t.

“Don’t act like you’re better than us. You ended up in the same shithole. Go lecture your own kids.”

From down here, I catch enough of Thanos’s face to see it — eyes too wide, jittery. I’d been ready to hate Mr. 001 forever, but right now he’s the only thing between me and them.

I push up on my elbows to see more, but pain spikes through my hip and ribs. My body just folds, dumping me back onto the floor before I can breathe.

All I can see is the line of his back, steady and still.

“What did you just say?”, The politeness is gone, replaced by something low and sharp that cuts through the noise.

“I said, take care of your own damn kids!” Thanos snarls.

In the same breath, 001’s hand snaps to his throat.

Movement flickers at the edge of my vision — one of Thanos’s guys circling from the side. 001 pivots, barely glancing his way, and drives the heel of his foot into the man’s knee. The crack of impact is sharp, and my own hip throbs in answer, as if my body’s bracing for the blow. He drops with a strangled cry.

How the hell do you land a strike like that — so fast, so exact — while holding another man by the neck?

Thanos claws at his arm, face reddening, but 001 holds him there for a long, still moment before finally shoving him away like he’s nothing.

The room is silent for a moment. Then a few hands start clapping. More join in.

My ribs throb with every beat of it, my face hot, eyes still stinging. They wouldn’t move when I asked — and now they’re clapping.

Mr. 001 turns toward me. His steps are unhurried, breathing steady, as if none of that took anything out of him. He stops beside me, gaze sweeping over the mess I must look like.

“Think you can get up?” The tone is mild, almost soft.

I nod, though it’s probably not convincing. He crouches, extends his hand, palm open, waiting.

When I take it, his grip is warm and unshakable, pulling me up in one smooth motion that feels closer than it should. Pain flares through my hip and ribs, sharp enough to make me falter — but his other hand is already on my elbow, steadying me until I’m fully upright.

His gaze skims over me. “Are you alright?”

I didn’t think it would be that hard. I didn’t think it would be that painful. I didn’t think “ending up on the floor” would mean not being able to get up without help.

"I'm fine", I say, and even I can hear the edge of it.

His mouth tilts. “If you were trying to make friends, there are better methods.”

My chest still feels tight, my legs unsteady. The first thing out of my mouth isn’t what I mean, but it’s easier. "Didn’t think a networking event could turn that violent.”

He smiles. “Violent? You should see my family get-togethers — they’re much worse.”

I huff out a short laugh despite the ache in my ribs. It feels strange, knowing what I’ve said to him today — and what I’ve thought.
And now he is the only reason I'm not still on the floor, which is... awkward.

“Thanks… for stepping in”.

“You’re welcome.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “Just remember — here, wanting to stop something isn’t the same as being able to.”

My arm throbs where it hit the floor. I will.

Chapter Text

Now that we’re standing still, the throb in my arm feels sharper, more insistent.

I glance down — there’s a small, round hole in the jacket at my elbow, the dark fabric wet around it.

“You might want to clean that before it gets worse”, Mr. 001 says, pleasant as an ad for toothpaste.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a small brown bottle, and holds it out. Peroxide.

I take it without thinking, then pause, looking at him.
Where on earth did he get this?

“I asked one of the guards,” he says like I’d said it out loud without realizing. “After you scraped your hand this morning — I thought you might want it.”

Morning — the fall — my hand. Right. That. I hadn’t even thought about it since. But he had. Long enough to… what? Ask a guard? Get this? Why? I mean, I know why — the scrape — but also, why?

"You thought I might want it?", I repeat, stupidly.

He studies me for a moment, the corner of his mouth almost tipping up. “But you were… not in the mood to take anything from me at the time.”

So he definitely didn’t forget the jabs I threw at him.

My mouth moves before my brain catches up. "And this is... the part where I apologize?"

Not sure if I’m joking or actually asking for instructions.

He doesn’t even pause.

"I don't recall you doing anything that would require it".

I nod.

Is this him accepting the apology I didn’t give, or acting like there’s nothing to apologize for — the way he slid right past the Milgram thing, like it wasn’t even worth acknowledging?
Does he think ignoring me makes him look above it, or does he actually not care?

And why the hell do I care so much?

I need to clean my elbow.

I look toward the door. There’s a guard posted there, still as furniture. I don’t even know if this place has a bathroom, and if it does, whether I’m allowed to use it without being shot for the privilege.

“They won’t stop you”, Mr. 001 says, answering so exactly it’s like he’s plugged straight into my head. "The bathroom will be to the right".

I guess it makes sense — feed a hundred people and don’t give them a bathroom—
No. I don’t want to picture that.

I start toward the door.
A few heads lift.

125 glances up, meets my eyes for maybe three seconds — long enough for the corners of his mouth to pull tight and his brows to pinch in — before he drops his gaze like I caught him at something.

Two steps later, 198 keeps his focus locked on the floor, arms crossed, making a whole performance out of not seeing me at all.
It’s the same look people give when they pass someone limping down the street — or the effort they make not to look at it.

By then, I’m watching the floor too.
Guess it’s contagious.

When I reach the door, the guard pulls it open toward me. He stays behind it as it swings, leaving just enough space between the edge of the door and his body for me to squeeze through. I turn sideways, chest brushing the coarse fabric of his jumpsuit for a fraction of a second, the cold edge of the metal frame pressing along my back. It’s nothing — just geometry and bad angles — but it still leaves the smell of gun oil and something sharper in my head.

The moment I’m through, the door swings back into place with a heavy, final-sounding click, shutting me into the hallway.

A second door waits to the right, another guard beside it — still in the exact same way as the first, as if they’d been printed from the same template.

I walk toward the bathroom door, a bottle of peroxide in my hand. Neither of them says anything about it.

These guards do not exactly give off “how can I help you today?” vibe, so getting a bottle of peroxide out of them can’t be that simple.

I can picture it, though — the same calm, deliberate walk he used with Thanos, voice just polite enough to make "no" sound like a social faux pas.

The bathroom smells faintly of bleach, the tiles cold even through my shoes. Empty. Just the echo of my own steps and the faint hum of a vent somewhere overhead.

I set the bottle on the sink and tug at my sleeve. The fabric has glued itself to the blood around my elbow, and peeling it back sends a thin, hot line of pain racing up my arm. I have to work the rest of the jacket off slow, careful, like it might bite again.

When it finally comes free, the scrape underneath is small — skin rasped off in a rough oval, the surface shiny and wet in spots, dark grit still caught in the torn edges. The kind of scrape that burns more than it bleeds.

And I know the grit is going to make the peroxide hurt twice as much.

I turn on the tap and let the water run cold, then hold my elbow under it. The grit stings as it washes out, tiny dark flecks circling the drain. Each pass of water feels like it’s sanding the skin even thinner.

For a moment I consider pretending it’s enough. That it’s clean. That peroxide will only make it worse — which I know isn’t true. But mr. 001 went out of his way to get it for me — and the last thing I need is him finding out I didn’t use it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I twist the cap and pour. The fizz blooms white against the scrape, sharp and biting, the smell climbing straight up my nose. I hate how much I flinch — over something this small.

And it is small. No breaks, no real damage — just a scraped elbow and a dull ache in my hip. When I hit the the ground, it felt like every nerve lit up at once, like I’d splintered something inside. But standing here now, it’s… not much.

Not what I pictured when I couldn’t move. God, I must’ve looked pathetic — folding from a single shove.
And everyone saw that.

It flashes back without warning — the fists in my shirt, knuckles grinding the seams into my collarbone. The yank forward tipping me onto my toes. Eyes too wide, whites sharp under the lights. Something warm at my cheek — breath, maybe. My shoes scuff for grip — that could’ve been the moment, right there, if I’d done… something. That slow lean—

—then the floor.

Flash — the fists again, harder this time. Collarbone in a vice. His eyes bulging, wet at the edges. A vein at his temple twitching — or maybe I’m making that part up, but it’s there now and I can’t get rid of it. Heat at my cheek turns damp. My shoes slip instead of scuff and I want to freeze it there, wedge myself back into that second, find some version of me that doesn’t just go along with gravity. Breath tastes like metal. The lean comes faster—
—and the floor hits harder.

I’m already sitting before I realize I’ve moved, back against the bathroom wall, the cold of the tile climbing up my spine. If that’s all it took to put me here, why the hell was I in the middle of it? I’m not a fighter. Never have been. Except for the Salesman’s slaps, I’ve never taken a hit in my life. So what exactly did I think was going to happen?

I remember when Min-ji got cornered in the back hallway — three of them against her, laughing, blocking every way out. I stood there, telling myself I didn’t know what to say, telling myself someone else would.
And then it was over, and I’d done nothing.

Maybe that’s what I was trying to fix this time.
I told myself it didn’t matter that I can’t fight. That what mattered was the indifference — that if I just broke it, if I stood there and told them to stop, they would.

And if they didn’t? Fine. Even if it didn’t work, even if all it earned me was a place on the floor, at least I’d have tried. That’s what I told myself.

I just didn’t picture the place on the floor like this.
In my head, it came with dignity — steady, unflinching, the kind of loss you can carry without shame. Not tears in my eyes before I’d even caught my breath. Not lying there so long that when he walked over, I hadn’t even started to get up.

And then I’m back there — concrete cold against my cheek, the line of his leg right in front of me, close enough to see the crease in the fabric. His shadow slides over my shoulder. He’s right there, above me. Not saying anything.
And I’m still not moving.

What if he hadn’t been there?
I couldn’t get up — not then. Would they have just kept kicking until something broke? Until I stopped moving altogether?
Would anyone have cared?

How stupid do you have to be to play the hero in a place like this? This isn’t a schoolyard. This is a place where they shoot people for losing a game.

I want to live. God, I want to live.

KAIST — not just the name, but the work it could lead to, the kind that pays enough for more than rent and groceries. Enough for a life where I can build things that matter and have the money to go farther.

Italy — the canals of Venice catching the last streaks of sun, water turning gold;
Florence, a red-tiled dome and marble bell tower so beautiful they feel like the city’s signature on its own masterpiece — with Jimin next to me, rolling her eyes and telling me to stop acting like I invented the Renaissance.

I want that. I want all of it.
Maybe I’d never actually get there. But dead here, I definitely won’t.

The hum of the vent is still there when I open my eyes. I push myself to my feet, knees stiff from the cold floor. The peroxide bottle waits on the sink. I cap it, tug my sleeve back down over the scrape, and straighten.

Everyone saw me writhing on the floor, and that’s not something I can undo. It is going to make my chances worse, and I have no idea how to fix it. But I am still here, and until someone drags me out feet-first, I am not quitting. However bad the odds are, you keep playing until the very end, and then you make them check the clock twice.

I leave the bathroom with the peroxide still warm in my hand. The guards are still in the hallway, standing in the exact same spots as when I went in. Neither says anything as I pass between them, not even a glance. The silence follows me to the dorm door.

When I push it open, the lights are already out. Pitch-dark. I freeze in the doorway, blinking like that’ll help. I must have missed something — an announcement, a signal — because the whole place has already gone under.

I step inside. The door shuts behind me with a dull click. No one says anything.

A few metres in, the floor is still level — then my toe clips the edge of a step I didn’t see. The tap of rubber on concrete is too sharp in the quiet, and I slow down, taking the rest of the drop one step at a time, placing my feet like the sound might follow me.

At the bottom is open space, a big square I can sense more than see. I cross it the same way I took the stairs — slow, measured, toes finding the ground before my heel comes down. Every whisper of my shoes feels loud. On the bright side, I don’t have to worry about anyone watching me — or looking at me at all.

It’s a long moment before my toes nudge the leg of a bunk’s metal stairs.

I could climb — nothing stopping me. But then what? Up there, the beds split left and right, and the only way to know which one’s free is to… check. By hand. Which basically means groping a stranger in the dark.

Or I could not. I could sleep on the floor and hope no one steps on me. Find a corner and sit. Stand here until morning and let exhaustion make the choice for me. None of them good — but at least they don’t involve waking someone up with my hand on their face.

Then I notice — my eyes have adjusted. Not enough for faces, but enough to pick out shapes: lumps under blankets, shadows where legs hang over the edge. Which means I can avoid touching anyone at all. Pity, in a way — I almost want to know how Mr. 001 would react to being grabbed in the dark.

I spot what looks like an empty bed two rows over — a shadow without another shadow above it. Close enough. I climb before someone else decides it’s theirs.

The mattress sighs under me and I just lie there, staring into the dark.

What a day.
I think I’ve hit a new personal best in bad judgment.

Bumped straight into Mr. 001 like I was auditioning for his personal nuisance of the day.

Let 456 turn me into a sideshow.

Yelled at people who did not care.

Played human shield for 333 — only to discover I’m more of a human doormat.

Needed Mr. 001 to scrape me off the floor.

Took his peroxide.

And that’s just the highlights.
Guess I’ll try again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The cold wakes me first — the kind that slips in while you sleep and leaves you curling in on yourself. Hunger follows, a slow, hollow pull that’s been gnawing at me for hours, dragging a dull, muzzy weight across my forehead that makes my thoughts stick.

It’s still dark. No clue what time it is or how long I’ve been out.

I never got under the blanket — just passed out in my tracksuit with my shoes still on. My mom always said only drunks and vagrants sleep in yesterday’s clothes. Cold, hungry, and twitching at every sound, I can already hear her: “Look at you — both at once, and not even the kind that anyone feels sorry for.”

I push myself upright, the thin warmth trapped under me leaking away all at once. My stomach growls, and the headache gives a little throb in agreement.

Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about how they’d look at me after what happened. Now it’s like that thought belongs to someone else. It’s still there, but blurred at the edges, not sharp enough to hurt. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m too hungry to care, or because the next game is bigger in my head than their stares could ever be. Or maybe I’m just too tired to hold both at once. The kind of tired that makes everything feel slow, like I’m thinking through water.

456 said it will be dalgona, and in the moment it eased my anxiety.

But now, sitting here in the dark, it doesn’t feel solid at all. What if they change the shapes? Drop the simple ones, the way exam boards strip the easy questions every year so last year’s papers won’t save you. Keep everyone off-balance. Make sure no one gets too comfortable.

I think about the girl from the first game. Limbs loose, bent at angles that didn’t look possible. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open like she’d been caught mid-breath. Blood spreading into the dirt until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. I might be her by tonight.

I stay still, listening to the quiet stretch. The air feels too heavy to breathe deep. Somewhere, fabric shifts. A bunk creaks. A short cough breaks the stillness, then nothing again. My headache pulses in time with my heartbeat.

Then the lights slam on, flooding the room white, and a bright, too-pleasant voice booms from the speakers: “Good morning, players!”.

I squint against the glare as the dorm stirs all at once — blankets rustling, metal frames groaning, low voices breaking the silence. Feet hit the floor, uneven and hurried.

The stairs are only a few steps away. I take them without thinking, lowering myself onto the bottom step. The metal is cold against the backs of my legs, and the floor around me is scattered with yesterday’s bottles and containers.

They’re not dirty, just used and left behind — forgotten things that no one bothered to clear away. Sitting among them feels right in a way I wish it didn’t, like the surroundings finally match the inside of my head: picked over, emptied out, waiting for whatever comes next.

I’m not expecting company, so the scrape of rubber on metal makes me tense. Then 456 drops down beside me, close enough that I feel the shift in the step.

“Where were you yesterday?” he asks, not looking at me. His tone isn’t sharp, but it’s not casual either. "I waited for you until curfew".

I blink at him.

“Curfew?” I echo. “And… why were you waiting for me?”

“Because you weren’t here.”

“I was in the bathroom,” I offer cautiously.

He turns his head, finally looking at me. “After lights out?”

“No. I went before the lights went out.”

Why is this turning into an interrogation?

“Then why didn’t you come back before curfew?”

“I didn’t know there was a curfew" I say, because what else can I say? “And it’s the bathroom, not a weekend trip.”

“And you stayed all that time there?”

The memory spikes hot — him stepping in front of me.Talking over me, deciding what I was thinking, why I was doing it, like I couldn’t possibly know for myself. Yesterday it was voting. Today it’s the bathroom. What is wrong with him?

“Yes," I snap. “I cleaned my elbow and had an existential crisis. I counted tiles and tried not to think of how much I don’t want to die here. Do you want to know what else I’ve been doing? Please, just ask now, so we can get it over with, before you decide to make a whole show of it again like yesterday”

That shuts him up. His mouth opens, then closes again.

I wish I’d just answered his question instead of turning it into… whatever that was. Maybe it’s the hunger, twisting things before I can stop them.

He glances away, jaw working, and when he finally speaks his voice has lost its edge.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… worried”.

Another pause.
“I was waiting for you to apologize”.

I don't understand.
"Apologize for what?"

“For yesterday,” he says, words coming out uneven. “When you asked if anyone was going to stop it, I thought you were just… saying it. So I said it wouldn’t change anything. I didn’t think you’d actually go in. And I just… let you. I should’ve moved. I should’ve done something. Anything”.

“I don’t blame you”

Which isn’t exactly true — I sort of blame everyone who just stood there and watched. But an apology isn’t just pity. It’s a door. And doors are worth leaving open.

He continues, like he didn’t hear me.

"I came here to try to save everyone. But this place… it changes people. Brings out the worst in them. I’ve seen fights like this before and… I don’t know. I’m sorry".

"Thank you for saying it. Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would want to talk to me after yesterday”

It’s true. And that alone should tell me I’m trying to get him on my side — I don’t say things like this otherwise.

He hesitates.
"It wasn’t that bad".

I’m not sure I believe him, but I smile anyway.

"I’ll take that. Could’ve been worse, right?"

“Yes," he says. “It could be".

I get a crawling suspicion that someone died in the fights he’s seen before. I don’t want to ask.

The door bangs open. Two guards step in, each carrying a stack of trays — same as yesterday, with sealed containers and bottled water.

Breakfast. Thank God — I was about five minutes from chewing on my shoelaces.

I glance at 456.
“Come on," I say. “Let’s go see what gourmet surprise they’ve got for us today”.

He doesn’t answer, just falls into step beside me as we head toward the queue already starting to form.

When his turn comes, he takes his container but doesn’t walk away — he waits, standing off to the side until I’ve got mine too.

Mr. 001 told me there are better ways to make friends. Maybe so — but this one worked, didn’t it?

And just like that — think of the sun and it shows up to ruin your nap — there he is in the middle of the line. Standing straight, clothes unrumpled, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His hair is neatly combed, every strand in place, like the mess in here takes one look at him and shuffles off to bother someone else.

He’s watching us with that small, polite smile, like he’s just arrived for a pleasant social call rather than stepped out of the same sleepless, cold room I woke up in.

We go back to where we were sitting, his picture-perfect posture lodged in my head like it paid rent.

When I glance back, mr. 001 and 390 are already at the start of the queue. A moment later, they step away with their containers and bottles, another player I don’t recognize — 388 — falling into step with them as they head in our direction.

Of course he’s got company. Nothing builds a fan base like assault with style.

“I thought I might find you here,” Mr. 001 says when they reach the stairs, his tone as calm and polite as if this were a planned meeting.
His gaze moves between me and 456, but he stays planted in front of me, shadow long across the step. 388 stands just behind his shoulder, watchful. “Mind if we join?”

390 slips past without hesitation, a loose shake to 456’s shoulder on the way, then folds himself down onto the step just behind him. “Of course he doesn’t mind.”

I guess my opinion is optional.

Mr. 001 is still standing over me, his gaze fixed like he’s waiting for something.

“Seems like you already joined.”
I can’t tell if I’m annoyed at him, at 390 for acting like I'm invisible, or at my stomach for growling loud enough to hear it.

“I can leave, if that’s your preference,” he says it evenly, as though the decision really is mine to make.

"Why, it would be my absolute pleasure," I answer grudgingly — because my other option is social suicide, and I’m not that ambitious today.

He lowers himself onto the step just behind me, the metal creaking under his weight, while 388 settles one step further up, directly behind him.

The space at my back feels too full, so I angle myself toward 456 — which also lets me keep mr. 001 in view.

I open the container — no surprises, just the same sad piece of bread. I tear off a corner and bite down. The bread’s dry, plain, the kind of thing you’d forget halfway through chewing. Still, each bite feels like plugging myself back into a charger.

I keep chewing in silence. 390, meanwhile, goes straight into rant mode.

"This? This isn’t food. This is what you give birds in a park. You starve people, break them down, and then throw scraps at them like it’s mercy. A bottle of water and a crust of bread — that’s not breakfast. That’s humiliation in plastic wrap".

Pretty sure I heard this one yesterday. But I feel generous — softened by the fact I’ve actually got food in my stomach.

“You’re not wrong. But at least it’s something. And right now, something feels a whole lot better than nothing”.

390 shoots me a look. "Easy for you to say. You’re half my size — your body doesn’t burn through it the way mine does".

Half his size. Let’s call it a stretch — still a gap, just not the canyon he’s selling.

“Don’t worry,” I answer, tearing off another piece of bread. “I’m not exactly thriving over here either”.

Mr. 001 tilts his head slightly, eyes settling on me.
"Then perhaps we’ll be lucky, and the next game will be an eating contest — a long table, too much food, and only the clock to beat."

He’s joking about us being shot for not eating fast enough. It is not funny. So why am I smiling?

“I’d like to formally request pasta for that round,” I say.

390 snorts. “I’ve been training my whole life for that one”.

388 speaks up for the first time, his voice lower, less guarded.

“I don’t even care what the food would be. I’d just eat until it hurt.”

456 murmurs, “Wouldn’t be the worst game I’ve had here”.

For a second, it’s almost like we are a group of students waiting for an exam to start — filling the silence with bad jokes, as if that could make what’s coming any easier.

But the moment passes, leaving behind a quiet, restless emptiness. My brain scrambles for something to throw into it and comes up blank.

390 drums his fingers against his empty container.

388 shifts, folds his arms, then unfolds them again, his fingers worrying at the seam of his sleeve.

456 keeps turning his water bottle in his hands, over and over, the plastic creaking under his grip.

And mr. 001 — utterly still, eyes resting on 456.

The quiet breaks when the speakers snap on, the same pleasant voice spilling into the dorm:

"Attention, players: follow personnel to proceed to the next game".

My stomach lurches hard enough I almost stay seated. I force myself up anyway, knees tight, steps unsteady. It's just a game, I tell myself. Just a game.

My math teacher once told me, "You get distracted too easily — but when you focus, there’s nothing you can’t solve".

He was exaggerating. I know he was.

But as we file out of the dorm, I tell myself it has to be true. That I’m smart enough, quick enough. That if I can just hold on to my focus, I’ll get through this.

I fix my eyes on the back of 456 as we move through the same pink and yellow stairwells as yesterday. The colors looked strange then. Now they just feel like a warning I couldn’t read.

My chest tightens, breath catching on every step. I need to think of something, anything, to hold on to. The words come without asking.

If it’s dalgona, just pick the triangle. If it’s dalgona, just pick the triangle.

Please, let it be dalgona.

We reach the next room before I’m ready. The air shifts as soon as I step inside — cooler, wide, heavy with space.

The first thing I do is look for the shapes. My eyes go straight to the walls, the floor, the ceiling — anywhere a triangle, circle, star, or umbrella could be waiting. But there’s nothing. There are only wide rainbow tracks on the sand ground.

I glance at 456. He’s staring too, eyes moving like mine, searching for something that isn’t there. The same baffled, hollow look spreads across his face.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

I’ve told myself there are no guarantees it would be dalgona. I knew that. Said it to myself like a warning. But I must not have believed it—because now that the shapes aren’t here, it feels like the ground’s been kicked out from under me.

I’m not moving, but it feels like I’m dropping anyway — down and down — the room spinning faster with every breath.

“Surprising, isn’t it?”
The voice glides in, smooth, polite. Mr. 001 — suddenly at my shoulder, as though I’ve fallen straight to where he’s been waiting all along.

- “No shapes… it hardly feels like dalgona at first glance".

He doesn’t look at me. The smile is aimed at 456, standing beside me, pale.

“But perhaps it still is. They might have hidden the shapes somehow. We wouldn’t want to rule anything out too soon, would we?”

456 looks like he might throw up right there in the sand. I feel the same.

The words make sense. We expected dalgona and it is not. But it is wrong. This half-smile. What is wrong with him? I want to dissappear, not to see him, not now when I am about to hear what sick game is going to kill me.

“Attention, players. This game will be played in teams. Please form groups of five.”

It takes me a second to process. Teams. I know how that part goes.

PE class, I can see it, the wall, the captains calling names one by one and mine never coming, last pick, always, too small, too slow, too nothing, and here it's worse, it’s not just embarrassment, it’s death, it’s me standing here while they all—
shitshitshit.

“You lied to us!”

Player 100 shoves forward, face red, finger stabbing the air —at 456, it seems, though for a moment it feels like he’s accusing all of us.

“You said it would be dalgona! You had everyone thinking we knew what was coming, and now look!”

456 says nothing, and it only drives 100 harder.

“What else are you hiding? How do you know anything about these games, huh? You feeding us bullshit so we’ll trust you and then you get us all killed?”

100 pushes in as he shouts, every word dragging him a step closer, two others flanking tight at his shoulders. They are close, uncomfortably close.

456 stumbles back — and I jolt with him.

“Shall we continue this conversation together?” Mr. 001. Polite, composed, deliberate. And I feel sick with déjà vu, bracing for the snap of violence that never comes.

100 halts mid-step, eyes flashing, then swallows the rest of his words. He forces a thin smile, voice careful, almost courtly:
“I wouldn’t want to bother you with something so small”.

The smile is gone when he turns to his men, words clipped and blunt:
“Come on. Not worth our time. We need a team.”

It’s over as fast as it started.
456 can’t lift his eyes, I can’t stop bracing for a hit that never comes, and mr. 001 doesn’t have a hair out of place.

"It seems this game is not quite what you expected. But I believe you spoke in good faith, and I would like to be on your team, if you allow it, sir"

He says it at the perfect moment — when 456 is too rattled to argue, too humiliated to refuse. Mr. Freaking 001, ignoring me completely, watching 456 with that expectant calm. And 456 just nods, quick and jerky.

A clean maneuver, and I don’t care.

If it works for him, maybe it can work for me. No one else will want me after yesterday, and if I don’t find a way in here, I’m screwed.

“I guess it makes the three of us"
I make it sound easy, casual — but it’s the closest thing to a plea I’ve ever said out loud.

I look at him, waiting. But Mr. 001’s attention tilts away, pulled to something just behind me.

I turn around and I see them — 390, with 388 right behind him. Where the hell have they been?

“Finally — we’ve been trying to find you" says 390, offering a timid smile to mr. 001. Did I look like that just now? Pathetic.

Mr. 001 receives it like a gracious host accepting guests into his home.
“How fortunate — if you are willing to join us, we will be a team of five.”

390 lights up, nodding too fast.
“Yes, absolutely — we’d want no one else.”

388’s reply is short, crisp.
“Count me it, sir”.

Then Mr. 001 finally looks at me and I wish he didn't. A slight smile, nothing more — but it’s enough. I know what you did. I know that you know that I know.

A girl drifts toward us, quick little steps, shoulders hunched, eyes darting from face to face. Her jacket reads 222. For half a heartbeat I think she’s going to stop, but then she counts us — five already — and veers away without a word, searching for another group that hasn’t closed itself yet. My stomach twists. That could’ve been me.

Beside me, 390 tilts his head, tapping two fingers against his thigh in a quick, uneven rhythm. “So,” he says over the noise, “any ideas what it’ll be this time?”

“Do you think an eating contest would be held in teams?” the words slip out before I can stop them — first thing in my head, because we’d only just joked about it. But it sounds different now, heavier, like a bad echo. 390 turns to me, his mouth tightening.

“It’s not a joke”

Heat spikes in my face. God, I don’t understand — am I trying to die clever? Why on earth did I say that?

“I know” I force myself to slow down, make it sound like I’m actually thinking. "Teams of five means it’s got to be something that needs coordination. Something one person can’t handle alone. Tug-of-war fits. Or maybe a race, where each of us has to do a leg. Puzzles too — something with too many pieces, or different parts that have to come together at once".

They just stare at me. 390, Mr. 001, 388. No reaction, no reply. The words feel too loud in my head, like I’ve just said them into a vacuum.

“It’s not tug-of-war” 456 says. He’s not even looking at us — his eyes are locked somewhere past the sand, distant, unfocused, like he’s watching something the rest of us can’t see.

The question rises in my throat — why not? — but I don’t get to ask. The noise dies all at once as the speakers crackle back to life, the same too-pleasant voice flooding the room.

“Players, take your positions. Sit in straight lines inside the rainbow tracks.”

Cold metal taps my shoulder. I flinch so hard my teeth clack. The triangle guard is right there, the barrel of his rifle nudging me, sharp and certain. Then it swings, pointing — somewhere, I can’t tell where. Left? Forward? My brain stalls. He touched me with a gun. Actually touched me. What does that mean? What am I supposed to do? I can’t—

Mr. 001 leans in, close enough that I catch his breath by my ear.
"Move to the farthest end of the left circle"

I grab onto the words like a rope. My legs stumble forward before I can think, desperate to be anywhere but under that barrel.
The guard looms at my side the whole way, rifle heavy and close — but he never stops me, never corrects. Mr. 001 keeps pace beside me, until we reach the far strip at the rim of the circle and halt.

Only then do I notice the others behind us, falling into place as if I’d been leading them all along.

I sink onto the sand, legs folding awkwardly under me, heart still thrashing against my ribs. For a few breaths I can’t stop watching the guard, waiting for the barrel to swing back toward me.

But it doesn’t. He’s already moved on, tapping another shoulder, herding someone else forward like it’s nothing.

I panicked early. My hand won’t stop trembling.
Again. Damn it. Is this really my thing now? This useless shaking?
At this pace, I’m not even sure I’ll even make it to the part where they explain the rules.

I need to get it together. God, I need to get it together.

I look at mr. 001. Sitting like this is a Sunday picnic, like rifles and rules don’t apply to him.

I want to steal it, whatever that trick is. If he can sit through this circus looking like a guest of honor, then I should be able to fake it for five minutes.

Maybe it’s breathing. Slow, steady. I try it — in through the nose, out through the mouth. My chest still catches, but the rhythm feels steadier than it is.

Maybe it’s posture. I pull my spine straight, roll my shoulders back, flatten my hands on my knees. The tremor’s still there, but tucked away, harder to see.

Maybe it’s just lying to yourself until your body buys it. I run the words through my head — gracious, elegant, unbothered, thank-you-for-having-me— it feels like a bad joke, like table manners at an execution.

But my hand stops. My breath smooths out. God help me, it’s actually working.

When the voice finally comes through the speakers — pleasant, practiced — I hear it without flinching.

"The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini-games:
Number one, the Ddakji."

I suddenly want to laugh. Ddakji. Out of all things.

The voice continues.

"Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gonggi. Number four, Spinning Top. Number five, Jegi".

Relief sours fast. I don’t even know what Flying Stone is. I’ve never played Gonggi. Jegi. Spinning Top? No idea. So Ddakji is it. My one shot. If someone else wants it, I’m screwed.

"Your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line in five minutes."

I'm waiting for something else, but it doesn’t come. That’s it. Five games, five minutes. Legs tied. Figure it out.

“I’ll take Ddakji" I throw it out hard and fast, not leaving space for anyone else to claim it. “I’m the best at it”.

"Shouldn’t a girl take gonggi?" 390 cuts in.

He doesn’t even bother looking at me — just pitches it at mr. 001. Like if he decides it, I’ll just… what? Magically know how to play? Grow the muscle memory on command?

I have to say it out loud or they’ll shove me into the wrong game. God, don't let them kick me out for this.

“I've never played gonggi before. You really want to bet all our lives on me picking up playground tricks on the fly?”

390 throws his hands up "Then we’re already dead. If you can’t do it, who the hell can? There’s no other girl here!"

388 clears his throat. "I can take Gonggi. I used to play with my sisters — there were four of them. They never let me off the hook".

390 freezes a beat, then laughs — loud, too quick. “See? There we go. I was talking shit too soon. Nothing a marine can’t do, right? We’ve got this covered”.

388 lifts his head this time, voice steady, clipped: “Yes, sir.”
390 grins and claps him on the shoulder. I almost want to join in. Seems I'm keeping Ddakji after all.

Meanwhile, the guards are already moving along the rainbow tracks, setting down small metal tables with boxes on top of them. We’re still talking like we’ve got all day.

"Jung-bae, you played baseball. You should take the flying stone" suddenly drops 456.

…Who the hell is Jung-bae?

"Yeah, I suppose it should be the same" 390 answers without missing a beat. So he is Jung-bae. And apparently they know each other. Guess I've missed the introductions.

456 nods once, then looks at Mr. 001.

“You choose, Gi-hun. I’ll take whatever is left”

Gi-hun. So we’re all on first-name basis now? And of course he says it like he’s equally brilliant at everything. Must be nice, living in that head.

456 stiffens — Gi-hun now, I guess. “How do you know my name?”

"I heard your friend say it. I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to be too familiar”.

At the front, the guards have already pulled two teams into the rainbow tracks, tying their ankles even as the players are still snapping at each other — “I’m not doing gonggi, you do it!” — “No, I told you, I can’t!”

If we don’t focus, we’ll be the ones tied up still yelling about who does what.

Gi-hun frowns at 390. “Jung-bae, did you—”

I snap before we waste one more second on this detective act. “He just told you. Mystery solved. Credits roll. Now can we please talk about the games — before it’s our turn, preferably?"

Gi-hun meets my eyes for half a second. “Sorry. You’re right.” He looks away quickly. “I think I’ll be better at Jegi”.

Mr. 001 nods.
"Then it is settled. I shall take the spinning top".

Jung-bae tips his chin at me, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Look at that — all sorted. No need to get yourself worked up”.

I do not dignify it with a response - coming from a guy who declared us dead five seconds ago.

A guard’s whistle slices through the air. That’s it — the game’s begun.

The teams start forward along the rainbow tracks, ankles bound tight. The sound of sand scuffing under them is messy, frantic — five people trying to move as one, scrambling for the rhyme.

One of them finds it — a voice barking out, “One-two, one-two!” — and the rest pick it up, a ragged chant to drag their legs into sync.

The other team copies right away, but I watch the first. They’re closer, easier to see — five men lurching as one, ugly but effective.

And then I spot him in the middle. 198. It takes a second to place why he looks familiar — the way he kept his eyes pinned to the floor, arms folded tight, like he was making a point of not seeing me. Or maybe that’s just how it felt.

The ragged one-two carries them all the way to the first table. A guard is waiting, neat as a dealer at a card game. He opens the box, plucks out two envelopes, hands one over — and sets the other flat on the sand in front of them.

Ddakji.

The player next to 198 takes the envelope. He slaps it down hard, and the target doesn’t move. Maybe the angle was wrong. Or maybe too much sand under it. I can’t tell — all I know is nothing flips, and now both envelopes are lying there together. The guard crosses his arms in front of his chest: fail.

The player bends for his envelope, yanking the others forward with him. He straightens, brings his arm down in a blur, and smacks the sand a hand’s width off the target. A total miss. His teammates groan in unison.

Beside me, Jung-bae leans down. “You’re sure you actually know how to play this?”

I want to tell him I’ll flip it on the first try, just to shut him up. But I don’t know if I can, not with everyone watching, not with my legs tied to strangers. So instead I grind it out through my teeth, "I already told you”.

By the time I look back, the player has already picked up the envelope. His movements are steadier now, more controlled. He sets himself, slaps it down clean — and the target flips. The guard raises his arms in a circle: pass. They move on.

I glance across at the other team. Still stuck on Ddakji. Their guy’s hands shake as he lines up, just enough to notice. Maybe he’s hopeless at the game. Or maybe that’s just what happens when your life depends on flipping a piece of paper.

The first team has already shuffled down to their second station, where the box is waiting on the table.
A guard lifts the lid, takes out two stones. He sets one on the sand, maybe four meters from the line, and offers the other to the team.

It looks simple: throw one, hit the other. But I remember struggling to land a shot even with tennis balls in PE, and those were bigger. With stones this small, missing must be even easier.

198 steps forward to take the stone. He winds his arm back and sends the stone flying. It lands with a dull thud in the sand, nowhere near the target.

The guard crosses his arms in front of his chest.

198 fidgets, then clears his throat. “...Can I have another one?”
The guard doesn’t bother answering. He only points to the stone lying useless in the sand.

Oh God. They have to get it. They actually have to walk over there and pick it up and—

Mr. 001 leans in, his head sliding right into my view as he angles across me toward Jung-bae. He’s close enough that I catch the smell of his shampoo — sharp and woody. Too close.

“Every miss in this game will cost a great deal of time”.

As he eases back, his hand lands lightly on my shoulder, a light, careful touch.
“Sorry for that” he says, and I just stare, that faint wood still in my nose.

Whatever I’d been thinking a second ago is just… gone.

The first team shuffles up to the stone, and the guy on the end tries to pivot them one by one. He manages his turn, and the Ddakji guy stumbles through after him, dragging the rope tight.

198 tries to follow, but his body gets caught between both sides. One leg yanks forward with the Ddakji guy, the other stuck fast behind the fourth man who hasn’t moved yet. The rope jerks tight around his ankles, holding him there. For a moment he’s twisted in half — hips one way, shoulders another, spine wrenched like it might give if anyone pulled harder.

“Fuck—fuck, wait—shit!” he yelps, voice cracking as he jerks uselessly against the rope.

The middle. The shittiest place to be — no control, nowhere to go, just shoved whichever way they force you.

Then the fourth man barrels into him, knocking him through the pivot with a violent jolt. The last man stumbles after, and somehow they’re all facing the right way again.

They limp their way back, 198 bent in the middle.

The next pivot comes quicker, and this time it actually works. The man on the end doesn’t just twist and hope the others follow — he calls it, jerks the line with him, and they all move at once. Even 198 stumbles through without getting trapped.

198 has the stone in his hand. They’ve made it through two pivots now, somehow still on their feet. Okay. Maybe this time.

He throws the stone and misses wide — nowhere near the target.

The line erupts — “Are you blind?” “Christ, aim!” — but only for a second. Then they bite it back, groaning as one, and shuffle forward again to fetch the same damned stone.

They’ve already burned more than a minute just turning themselves around. At this pace, they’ll never finish.

I glance at Jung-bae.

“Don’t look at me like that” he mutters, a rough edge in his voice. Then, softer, almost grudging. “I’ll land mine when it’s my turn”.

Another shuffle, another stumble, another pivot — curses snapping through clenched teeth. It’s slow, grinding, unbearable, and all I can think is that sooner or later, it’ll be us out there.

And then they’re in place again — 198 in the middle, stone in his hand, shoulders tight.

The guard waits, patient as a wall.

198 raises his arm.

The stone flies straight and true, striking the target with a sharp, satisfying crack.

Thank god, it's actually possible. They can do it. We can do it.

They cheer, and shout, and laugh, and for the first time they almost look like a team.

The guard crosses his arms in front of his chest.

What? No. That doesn’t make sense. He hit the stone. I heard it. I saw it. The target rocked in the sand — it was a clean throw. How can that not count?

The guard points down.
198’s foot is planted squarely over the line.

The cheering snaps into rage.

“Motherfucker!”
“You blind piece of shit!
“Do you want us all to die?”

198 flinches like each word is a blow. His face twists, and he throws his free hand out as if he could shove the blame away.
“I didn’t—! I wasn’t—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t even realize, I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“They’re wasting so much time on arguing” mr. 001 murmurs. For a second I think I hear concern in it — or maybe I’m just imagining that part.

But he’s right — the time is running out, it’s slipping, it’s almost gone, and just to think one tiny mistake could ruin it all—God, what a mess.

I need to look anywhere else. The other team—

They’ve already made it to the next station, five heads bent, hands flashing quick over the table, little pebbles clattering on the metal. Gonggi.

For a moment I can’t make sense of their faces — twisted with something, but is it relief? Dread? Panic? I can’t tell. The guard shows a circle with his arms.

A flicker of relief, but it doesn’t hold — there’s barely time for it. They’re already wrenching themselves into motion, lurching for the next station.

What is the next game? Spinning top? Okay, sure, spin the top, I get that part, but how? With what? How long does it have to stay up? What if it falls right away? Damn, what a way to die.

The guard hands the player a small wooden top and a coil of rope.

“Have you ever played it?” mr. 001 asks. Is it a question to me?

The player fumbles with the rope, winding it around the top in stiff, clumsy circles.

"No” I answer automatically, the way you say fine when someone asks how you are. "And you?"

Why did I say that?

"Also no"

My heart does a wild flip — no fucking way.
He said he’d take whatever was left, so why this? Why, just to drag us all down with him?

He smiles. "Just kidding. I played it"

God, I hate him. Hate him for smiling like that, for being calm, for getting to me. Fuck.

I make my voice flat, almost casual, like I’m not two seconds from shaking apart. "Please tell me you’re not going to fake a seizure when it’s our turn just to see me lose my shit".

The player throws the top, but it just wobbles once and collapses flat on its side without spinning at all.

“You wanted to see me struggle during this game, remember? I only hoped the image might ease your nerves”.

God yes, I want to see you fall on your face. Just not while I’m lashed to the same fucking rope.

But I don't say it. The implication in his words makes me shudder. He hasn’t forgotten my stupid little jab — and he’s not shying away from reminding me of it.

I bring my eyes back to the first team — and nearly choke. The timer above the rainbow track is glowing red. Twenty seconds left.

And they’re still at the second station. Still stuck on Flying Stone, dragging each other forward and back like it’ll make a difference. Two out of five. Not even halfway. Twenty seconds left.

It’s like watching a trainwreck in slow motion — the screech of metal already in my teeth, the lurch of bodies bracing for a hit that hasn’t come yet. I feel it in my chest like the air’s been punched out of me, even though I’m not the one on the tracks. Not yet.

198 finally hits the target, the stone smacking hard against the one in the sand.

But it’s too late. The timer’s burning down — five seconds, only five — and their faces, Jesus, their faces, it’s like they’re already corpses standing there.

198 giggles. A sharp, ugly sound that bursts out of him and won’t stop. “I did it,” he gasps between breaths, wild-eyed, "I hit it, I did it, we can go, we can go further—”

The dark stain spreads down his pants.

I never actually… I never got what “grotesque” meant. Always thought it was just some fancy word for ugly. But this—God, this—this is it, this is grotesque.

The triangle guards are moving, rifles coming up, black barrels pointed steady. They’re walking toward the teams and I know what that means, I know, and still— still a part of me thinks maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll just… I don’t know, escort them out, lead them away, anything.

Two of them stumble to their knees and the rope yanks the rest down with them, a whole line of bodies collapsing in the sand. They’re clutching at each other, voices cracking apart: “No—please, no, please, please, don’t—”

The begging cuts off under the gunfire.

All I see is 198. His shirt darkens fast, the stain spreading wide across his chest. He jerks with the impact, a wet grunt tearing out of him, then a rattle as he tries to breathe. Blood bubbles in his mouth and dribbles over his chin, running down his neck into the fabric.

He falls hard onto his back, arms thrown out, legs kicking once before they go slack. His mouth is still open when he hits the sand, another broken gasp tearing out before everything goes still.

The blood spreads. Spreads out from him, from all of them, thick and dark and too much. It keeps going, wider, pooling under their backs, sliding over the bright paint. I can’t look away. It’s still moving. It won’t stop.

It doesn’t matter if I do everything right.
It doesn’t matter if I play my part perfectly.

They’ll still shoot me.
One mistake, one teammate breaking, and I am lying in this pool of blood.

My stomach lurches, bile burning up the back of my throat. I slap a hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut.

Darkness drops over me, but it doesn’t help. The blood is still there behind my lids, spreading wider and wider.

I need it to stop. If I’m about to die, I don’t want to end like 198 — grimacing, crying, my own body turning against me. This is the only thing left I can control in the madness: keeping my composure, being myself to the very end.

“You’re the kind of idiot who’ll keep playing after checkmate, just to see what happens”.

Jimin’s face flashes before me — wide smile, eyes lit up, as if she’s right here.

I imagine Jimin's face as she is telling me this right now, smiling widely, her eyes twinkling.

"You always laughed at boys throwing tantrums after losing a debate. I can’t imagine you ever doing that."

But it’s different when losing means death. When there’s no trying again.

"I’ve never seen you cry or whine after a loss. Just that tragic-hero face of yours. Is this really the time to change your habits?"

Oh dear Jimin, I wish you were really here.

"You can open your eyes. They've removed the bodies". My eyes snap open and dart left. Damn it, Jung-bae.

"How did you even get through the first round? Kept your eyes shut the whole time?"

"I —"
I don't know how I got through the first round. The girl in the pool of blood. I saw her. I don’t know why I wasn't so rattled yesterday. I don’t know why does it shake me now.

God, I can’t even think of a comeback for this asshole Jung-bae.

I see the next group step forward, and I can’t fathom where they find the strength.

There’s the girl who passed us earlier, searching for a team — 222. So this is where she ended up.
Beside her, the old lady, 149, arms wrapped around her shoulders like it’ll help. Yesterday she asked me about Thanos.

My elbow throbs, sudden and dull.

Hands fisting in my shirt. Eyes bulging. "Are you going to stop us?"
No. Not now. Fucking Thanos, get out of my head. I force myself to look at the rest of the team.

044 is praying, too loud, begging some merciful gods to hear her. If any gods are watching this, they’re the old ones — the ones who liked their offerings bloody and screaming.

007 winces at every word, glasses slipping down his nose.

And 120. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a man — but the face is too soft, too gentle, pulling the other way. Even the hair won’t decide, hanging somewhere between short and long.

“They don’t even look like they can tie their own shoes” Jung-bae mutters.

Does he have to mock everyone just to feel better about himself?
"Good thing tying shoes isn’t on the list of games, then."

They’ll probably die in five minutes, but God, at least let them keep a little dignity before the gunfire.

They employ the same tactic as the groups before, ragged breaths counting “one-two” as they shuffle toward their doom. And there’s nothing I can do — only watch.

I’ll watch every game, every second; I need to squeeze out whatever scraps of intel I can before it’s our turn. But when the time runs out, I’ll shut my eyes. The marine assholes can laugh themselves hoarse — I don’t care. It’s the only way I’m getting through this.

I blink when 222 flips the Ddakji envelope on her first try. 120 bends forward to give her a high five, and all of them start moving towards the next station.

It was... not what I expected. But it's the easiest game, the quickest to get through. The worst is still waiting.

The flying stone — the thing that killed 198. I shake my head, trying to shove away the image of his face.

The man in glasses, 007, throws the stone. He misses — of course he does. Just like before, just like 198. Nothing changes. I drop my eyes to the sand, but force them back up to the group. I said I’d watch.

They walk up to retrieve the stone, but once 007 picks it up, they don’t turn around — they start walking backwards instead.

"Simple, but clever," says mr. 001.
"Efficient," echoes Jung-bae.
388 only nods.
"It might save them a bit of time" I agree. Maybe even give them a real chance — but that part I keep to myself.

007 places his feet with care, making sure not to overstep the line. He lifts his arm but doesn’t throw — just stands there, frozen in place.

The old lady tells him to picture someone — I can’t quite hear who — and somehow, it works. His face twists with anger as he hurls the stone, and it strikes the target clean.

People around us clap and rise to their feet for a better look. I stand too, just to keep watching. Maybe it was luck. But maybe they actually know what they’re doing — and who knows what other tricks they’ve got up their sleeves.

Next up is gonggi. I didn’t get a chance to see what this game was last time. A guard hands the old lady a set of small, colorful pieces, and her teammates huddle around as she settles in front of a low table.
She starts a sequence of throws with the pebbles that I don’t quite follow yet. First, she tosses one into the air, snatches another from the table, and catches the first. Then she tries with two pebbles, reaching for a third — but the first two fall. The guard signals a fail.

She tries again — and fails at the very same step. Her hands are trembling.

“Mom, remember how you told me you played gonggi with bullets during the war?” 007 asks. So he is her son. God. However bad I’ve got it right now, at least I don’t have to do this with my mother — I’d rather take a bullet than sit through her gasps and exclaims for five minutes straight.

The war comment seems to strike something in the old lady. She straightens, steadies her hands, and begins again. One pebble up, another snatched, the first caught. Then two in the air, the third scooped, all of them caught clean. She moves through the sequence without a single flinch, every throw sharp, every catch certain.

The guard signals a pass.
A ripple of quiet applause spreads through the crowd. Even 456 lifts his hands.

But it’s too early to feel hopeful.

“If they make it past the spinning top, I’m buying everyone a beer when we’re out of here,” says Jung-bae.

"I don't drink beer" I say.

“Then don’t come,” Jung-bae snaps back.

"What do you drink?" asks mr. 001.

Damn. What do I say? Water? Blood of my enemies? Vodka shots? Better stick with the truth — just package it carefully.

"I don't drink. It blurs the focus"

"It blurs the focus," repeats mr. 001.
I don’t know what’s wrong with that line, but something is — and I wish I hadn’t said it.

044 finishes winding the rope around the top and throws it. I can’t tell from here if it spins. The guard crosses his arms. Apparently not.

"Did you learn that firsthand, or on a page somewhere?" mr. 001 adds.

"I bet she read it in a book" laughs Jung-bae.

Fucking sycophant. I smile at him.

"I see how you ended up here — making bets without the right information."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, and I see how you ended up here - thinking you’re smarter than everyone else."

That’s not far from the truth — but like hell I’m telling him that.

388 clears his throat.

"Sir, miss — with all due respect — arguing won’t help us win"

With all due respect, I wasn’t the one who started this.

"You're damn right," says Jung-bae. "We need to save our strength for the game, not waste it here"

“I suppose we do,” I answer through clenched teeth.

The team returns to the line, 044 winding the rope again. Halfway through, it slips from her fingers and she sinks to her knees, palms pressed together, a desperate prayer spilling out.

Oh shit. To make it this far and lose — all because they wound up with a nutcase on their team.

Player 120 slaps her hard across the face, cutting the prayer short.

“Get up and do your part, or I’ll kill you myself — and no god will help you.”

Harsh… but effective. 044 rises and winds the rope again, her hands suddenly steady. The whole crowd seems to hold its breath as she throws. I can’t see the top, but in the silence that follows, I hear it spinning.

The guard signals a pass, and I can’t believe my eyes. My god, they actually have a chance at making it through.

"Thank god" exhales 388.
"Just one game left!" shouts Jung-bae.
The crowd swells with noise, and I catch Player 100’s voice rising above it: “Come on, we believe in you!”

As the team stumbles to the next station, the crowd takes up their rhythm, chanting with them “one-two, one-two.”

“One-two,” Jung-bae echoes, nudging me lightly with his elbow. “Come on, join in.”

And I do, because it's better than just watching. It feels like actually making a difference.

"One-two!"
"One-two!"

They reach the final station, where the guard hands 120 something small — a bundle of cloth or paper knotted into a stubby little tail.

“What’s he supposed to do with that?” I ask, not really aiming it at anyone.

“Kick it five times in a row without letting it fall,” Mr. 001 replies. His voice is calm, but his hand slips to his sleeve, tugging it straight even though it’s already perfect. His eyes never leave 120. For once, it seems like he actually cares.

The time is almost up and 120 does not have a room for error. I hold my breath.

"One"
God, just let them pass. Let them pass.

"Two"
If they pass, then it’s possible.

"Three"
If it’s possible, then we can survive.

"Four"
We will all survive—if only they can pass.

"Five!"
It bursts from every side — Mr. 001, Gi-hun, Jung-bae, 388 — their voices tangling into the wild roar of the crowd.

"One-two! One-two!"

They’re so close — they just have to make it to the finish line. And I shout with everyone, not hearing my voice anymore.

"One-two! One-two!"

My throat burns, my head spins, but I can’t stop. If I keep going, they will make it.

"One-two! One-two!"

And then— they cross. For a heartbeat I don’t believe it, can’t believe it, but their bound legs stumble over the painted line all the same. The timer blazes red above them, frozen at the final second.

A roar surges up from every side, feet stomping, hands clapping, voices spilling into one another until the air itself vibrates with it. They actually made it.

Mr. 001 pulls me and Gi-hun into a tight embrace, drawing us flush against him on either side. His arm hooks firmly around my back, steady and unyielding, his body radiating a solid, almost startling warmth.

I can’t stop smiling. I can’t stop shaking. We’re all safe. We’re going to survive. We are. We have to. And I believe it with everything in me, so hard it almost hurts.

In that moment it feels like we’ve already won.

Chapter Text

Mr. 001 holds me so close I can see his pupils widen as he laughs at Gi-hun — and for a second they look like different people, happy and human.

Then the spell breaks, shattered as 120, the old lady, and the rest of their team leave the room.

Mr. 001’s arm relaxes, and I pull myself free, stumbling back a step, the warmth gone all at once.

The guards drag the next teams from the front of the crowd. If the pattern holds, we’ll be the last ones to go.

Four teams already went. Sixty-nine left. Two at a time — thirty-four rounds. Thirty-four times five — a hundred and seventy minutes. Plus delays — call it three hours.

Three hours of waiting.
If there’s a hell, it has to look like this.

Ddakji, flying stone, gonggi, spinning top — the games start to blur into one sickening loop.

Holding still this long makes my legs scream, calves tight and knees grinding like bad gears.

I cheer at every success, but there’s no joy in it anymore.

Mr. 001 watches each round calmly, clapping with that faintly regal air — as if he hadn’t just been glued to my side, screaming like we’d won the World Cup.

When the triangle guards raise their rifles, I shut my eyes hard. It’s not real. It’s not real. The words just run in my head, automatic, like a switch I can’t stop flipping.

120 made it. The old lady and her son made it. 222 made it. Even 044, out of her mind, made it. They did it — so I can do it. They did it. They did it.

Jung-bae doesn’t mock me anymore. I don’t know if he’s finally given up on provoking me, or if the waiting has just worn him down.

Gi-hun stayed silent for ages, but 120’s win hit him like caffeine. I leaned in at first — yeah, the timing, the stance, all of that matters. Then he keeps going: how their shoulders stayed level even when their legs shifted, how the paper slapped sharper against the floor, how they stuck to the right edge of the track.

It’s strategy until it isn’t, and the moment it turns into geometry and acoustics, I let him monologue alone. 388 keeps it alive anyway, nodding, adding his own theories.

Mr. 001 smiles, amused, as if the babble about shoulders and paper slaps were a clever joke told only for him.

Maybe it’s the waiting that brings it back — the same stomach-deep dread I felt in the park with Jimin, ice lattes sweating in our hands as we waited for my exam results, just days ago.
Jimin had nothing to worry about — her parents had paid for ETH Zurich, spring exams behind her, Switzerland waiting on the other side. I’d always known the difference between us, but with Jimin, it never felt real.

She grumbled about how uncomfortable the “bark pench” was, then froze when she realized what she’d said. I laughed until my stomach hurt, until the fear backed off.

Waiting felt endless then, but I didn’t know it for what it was — a kind of happiness, coffee and sunlight and Jimin’s laughter, the whole day ours with nowhere else to be.

When it’s finally our turn, there is no one left to cheer. The silence is deafening. The rainbow tracks are covered in blood. It's not real. It’s not.

My head swims, vision pulsing at the edges, stomach twisting in on itself — nerves or hunger, impossible to tell.

As we move to the start line, Gi-hun tries to cram every scrap of our plan into the last five seconds.

"If someone slips, no blaming — it only works against us. If we have to fetch the stone or the top, don’t turn around, walk backwards. Always start on the same leg — and stay on my count. And whatever happens, we keep moving — no freezing, not for a second".

We’ve spent hours dissecting this like it’s holy scripture, but sure, say it one more time in case someone suddenly forgot how legs work.

But we never settled who stood where — and I didn’t push it. Why argue early when I might still snatch a good spot in the scramble?

I edge toward the far left, angling for the end of the rope. If I’m stuck in this death march, at least I want one side free. But Mr. 001 notices. Of course he does. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder, gentle but immovable, turning me back toward the center. “Here,” he says, soft as a suggestion but leaving no room to refuse.

Fine. Then the right side. I pivot that way, trying to slip around — but Jung-bae is waiting. His grip clamps hard around my arm. “Middle’s yours,” he mutters, dragging me between them.

The guard ties the rope before I can spit a word out — one knot, then another — and suddenly I’m lashed tight. They hook their arms under my elbows, locking me in place so completely I couldn’t fall forward even if I wanted to.

Perfect teamwork, assholes. One smiles, one shoves, and I get nailed right here, dead fucking center. God forbid I pick my own spot — better let the men handle it, they always know best.

“See you on the other side,” Jung-bae yells to another team, breath hot and damp against my ear.

The anger tingles through my fingers and I let it, because why trade it for panic or numbness, both of which are useless, when anger has a job to do—and the job is flipping goddamn envelope on the first try. And when it does, do your best not to gag on your disbelief, boys — though I’d love to see you turn purple trying.

“Three, two, one, go,” Gi-hun calls, and I step forward. Or maybe Mr. 001 and Jung-bae do.

The rope at our ankles tugs me forward, their grips under my arms steer the rest, and squeezed between them I’m not so much walking as being carried.

"One-two, one-two"

Envelope. Just keep thinking about the envelope.

"One-two, one-two"

When we reach the first station, Mr. 001 and Jung-bae finally unhook their arms from mine. The guard steps forward, and I blurt, “Envelope?” like I’m not sure if I’m allowed to ask. He presses the blue thing into my hand without a word, then crouches to lay a red envelope at my feet.

I take a breath and settle into my usual stance for this game — right leg out, left hand ready. Mr. 001 adjusts instantly, his left leg moving to match. Because of course he would.

I make myself keep it casual — no overthinking, no angles, no math. Just the move. Blue in my hand, down in one clean snap, muscle memory doing the work. The red envelope jumps and flips over, as if it always supposed to. The guard signals a pass, and the world tilts for a second.

Good lord — I did my part. If this goes south now, it’s not on me.

For all my bravado, I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off. My mind blanks so hard I forget to even check Jung-bae’s or Mr. 001’s faces.

“Great job,” Gi-hun says, and before I can breathe they’ve already got my arms again. My legs move on autopilot as he counts, one-two, one-two, and I don’t even look where we’re going.

It feels like every bit of brainpower went into flipping that envelope, and now I’m running on five percent battery, screen dimming.

Five percent doesn’t mean I get to switch off. I’ve still got the bare minimum to cover: don’t trip, don’t stall, don’t fuck it up. One-two. One-two.

When Jung-bae takes the stone, 198’s face flickers in my mind, and I force it away. I have to believe they’re not the same. I step as he steps, shifting closer into Mr. 001’s shoulder so there’s enough room on my other side for Jung-bae to throw.

His face stays utterly blank as he lifts his arm and lets the stone fly. I’m too scared to watch, but the soft, satisfying thud tells me enough.

His blankness splits into a grin as he turns to me, fist raised, and mine meets it before I’ve even thought, knuckles knocking solid.

"A pitcher’s throw—clean and true," nods Mr. 001, and I let myself believe it.

I’m not going to die like 198—at least not like this, trapped in that cursed loop, chasing the same stone again and again.

We move to the next station, and this time I can even hear my own voice join the chant of "One-two".

388 drops to his knees at the low table, setting out the pebbles in a neat row. The rope forces the rest of us down with him, an awkward cluster around the board. I blink at Mr. 001 folding beside me — for a second I was sure he’d stay upright, laws of physics be damned.

388 snatches up one pebble, tosses two, scoops four… too fast for me to follow. All that waiting and I never learned the sequence. But when he flips all five off the back of his hand and catches them clean, I know exactly what it means.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mr. 001’s jaw drop — and that alone makes me giggle. We’ve passed another game on the first try.

"You put a Marine on it, it gets done!” Jung-bae says, slinging an arm around 388’s shoulders and giving him a shake that rattles the pebbles on the table. 388 only smiles — shy, but with a quiet pride he can’t hide.

“We’re making good progress, let’s keep it up,” Gi-hun says, and I almost feel kind enough not to roll my eyes at the obvious.

Mr. 001 brushes the dust from his knees before taking my elbow. Take your time, sir. It’s not like we’re on a clock.

We’re walking again, one-two echoing like sounds with no meaning left. Three whole minutes remain. Could it really be this simple? Win on the first try, laugh, move on — like it's a game with no consequences. And I know, I know it's stupid, but who cares? If my head is ready to sell me this lie, I’ll buy it, I’ll pay full price, I’ll frame the receipt — whatever keeps me walking.

Mr. 001 winds the rope around the top, slow and steady. He passes it from his left hand to his right, then back again — at this rate, the top is going to need a boarding pass before taking off.
My lips twitch before I realize it, and Mr. 001 is already looking.

His lips pull into a smile of his own, and the air in my chest stalls. My God—what have I done? Does he think I was laughing at him? Again? Damn it, I—

He throws the top in one fluid sweep, wrist loose, motion clean — like someone who’s done it a thousand times. The top spins, flawless, and when his smile catches mine, I can’t stop the answering curve tugging at my mouth. Maybe I’m overthinking all of this. Maybe it really is that simple.

Jung-bae whoops so loud it echoes. “Four straight! Who can stop us?”

“No one, sir!” 388 answers, grinning wide.

Gi-hun shakes his head, though he’s smiling too. “Let’s not jinx it.”

“Shall we?” Mr. 001 offers his elbow like a gentleman — forgetting all the times he never bothered to ask. And I take it, like it’s a walk in the park, like I have a choice, like I really want to go where he is going — because in his world losing doesn’t even exist as an idea.

We march to the last station, where Gi-hun has to kick the jegi — or whatever this feathered scrap is supposed to be. From what I’ve seen, teams that reach this point usually make it through. It looks so simple I almost believe I could do it myself with the time we’ve got left. Easy to think, of course, when it isn’t me out there, when it isn’t my turn—thank God it isn’t my turn.

"Come on, man," Jung-bae calls. "Show these bastards—show ’em how we do it!"

"Jung-bae," Gi-hun says, like the name alone should mean something.

"I know you can nail it first try," Jung-bae keeps pushing, won't shut up. Gi-hun’s hand starts to rise, then sinks back down.

"For God's sake," I snap. "Quit stalling and kick the damn thing already".

And it works better than any encouragement, because maybe he’s wired like me—praise ties you in knots, but a shove flips a switch: fuck it, I’ll show you, and there it is.

Jegi lifts in the air, and I count under my breath—one, two, three, four—until five detonates and rings in my ears.

“I told you! I told you he could do it! That’s my machine! That’s my unstoppable beast right there!” Jung-bae shouts, throwing his arms around me and 388, and we burst out laughing.

"If anyone here’s unstoppable, it’s your mouth, Jung-bae," Gi-hun says, half-laughing through it, and that only makes us crack harder — 388 doubled over, me breathless and even Mr. 001 gives in, shoulders shaking, the sound spilling out of him. For a moment our eyes catch through it, and I don’t even know why it’s funny, but it is—and we’re in it together, swept the same way, and God, it feels so good to be alive.

We shuffle on, half-grinning, half-broken, toward the finish line, and the clock might as well not exist.

It’s so smooth it makes me dizzy—like I stumbled onto the secret code by accident, said the magic words without knowing, and now the universe is spinning itself inside out just to please me.
No one speaks as we cross the finish line. All eyes go to the guards, the question hanging between us—is that it? Is it a pass? I don’t let myself breathe until the circle guard steps forward and slices through the rope binding us.

It feels so strange to walk on my own that I stumble, and Mr. 001’s hand catches my forearm—firm, steady, then gone before I can react.

“They’re still on gonggi,” 388 says flatly. I almost ask "who", but then I look back—the other team, hunched at the table, the girl’s tears sliding soundless down her face.

The relief still hums in me, bright and giddy, but it feels obscene next to their silence, like I’ve gorged myself on it—sweet at first, then heavy and sickening.

She keeps trying, over and over, but her hands shake so badly she can’t even make it past the first throw. The woman beside her whispers, “We still have time,” but it’s a lie, and they know it as well as I do.

"Are you sure you want to see it?" Mr. 001 asks, and I’m startled to find the space around me empty—Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and 388 already gone.

“No,” I say quietly, forcing myself not to glance at the gonggi table, fixing on his face instead. He only gives the slightest nod.

"Then we should leave," he says, already turning toward the doors. I match his pace, clinging to the rhythm of our steps. The gunshots follow us, but I don’t turn.

There's nothing I can do for them.

It might just as well have been us. But it isn't.
We played, we won, we survived.

Chapter Text

"We haven’t had the chance to properly introduce ourselves, have we?" says Mr. 001 as we trail the guard down the corridor, the dim ceiling lights buzzing faintly above us, like the halls of a school after everyone’s gone home.

The silence feels wrong, gunfire still rattling in my head, a throb blooming at my temples from clenching my teeth until it hurt. And introductions? He might as well ask if I care about ballet.

"I'm afraid not"

"Then allow me to set that right. I'm Oh In-ho. I’d offer you a business card, but I seem to have left them in my other jacket."

"Business card," I repeat, and it’s so absurd it makes me smile. "And what line of business are you in, Mr. Oh?"

I don’t mean it seriously—just the kind of line Jimin and I tossed around when someone started acting important. But the second it’s out, I realize that in the adult world it’s a valid question.

"In-ho, if you don’t mind. And I’ll tell you—once you tell me your name. That’s only fair, don’t you think?"

He pauses at the door, holding it open and waiting for me to pass.

"Alright, In-ho," It feels strange, but I don’t let that show. Shame, really—I’d just gotten used to Mr. 001. "I'm Lee Ji-won".

The air shifts cooler on the stairwell, the echo of our steps bouncing back in a hollow rhythm.

"Ji-won… of course it is. Why am I not surprised?"

Great. Now I have to wonder if he thinks my name’s too common or too fitting.

We start the climb—up, then down, then up again—the stairwell still pink, still bright, still pointless.

"As for your question.. let's call it security management. I supervise teams, handle risk-assessments, ensure compliance — nothing too exciting."

No one’s ever talked to me about their job like this before — like an actual grown-up exchange — and I scramble for something to say that won't come out mocking. Because honestly, that just sounds like a bunch of important-sounding words put together.

"So… is it like an office job?"

"Sometimes it is—policies, schedules, reports. But when there’s a breach or an incident, it becomes hands-on, and I step in personally"

Okay, that I can see. He looks like exactly the kind of man you’d want to call in the middle of a crisis.

"What kind of incident?"

"There was a hacker once—he breached multiple layers of security, set off alarms across the network, and almost exfiltrated sensitive data. I had to coordinate the lockdown."

It flickers—the line of his shoulders, the strain in his grip, Thanos on his toes, choking, scrabbling at the floor for balance.

"What happened to the hacker?"

"In corporate security identifying the intruder can cause more damage than the breach itself—lawsuits, reputational harm, a mess no one needs. The vulnerabilities he exploited were patched, and no client data was compromised. That’s what matters in the end."

Corporate this, corporate that—sounds like money. Right? …Except I wouldn’t actually know. Still, it feels expensive, the kind of thing that should keep him far from here. Bad investment, like Thanos and his henchmen? Maybe. But he doesn’t look desperate. Not even close.

"And this is what you call ‘nothing too exciting,’"

"You’d be surprised what starts to feel ordinary after a while"

A cold draft brushes across my nose, and my shoulders shiver before I can stop them.

"And here—still ordinary, or are we finally in the ‘exciting’ column?"

He lets out a small laugh, low, like I’d told a clever joke without realizing it.

"You have a very radical scale—no middle ground between routine and life-or-death"

"You know what I mean," I toss it back at him, Mr. "That’s not what I asked", when it suits him.

“Perhaps. But it’s not the question you truly mean. I wonder why you hold it back.”

The words knock the breath out of me. What the hell—how did he see that?

We’re already on the landing. He catches the door, holding it open, expectant, saying nothing.

I’m not ready for that. The opening is right there, the words burning to get out—and dying in my throat. Anyway, asking would only prove how easy I am to read.

"There is one thing I truly want to know,” I say as I step into the too-familiar dorm corridor. I’m not even amused myself, but it’s easier this way. "What’s for dinner? Because if it’s bread again, I’m calling the authorities"

He glances at me, and the smile is there instantly—faint, soft, impossible to ignore—and I nearly stumble into the guard as he halts in front of the door.

"Bread again? You’ll have my full support in court," he says, nodding toward the guard, who already holds the door wide for us.

I enter the dorm, and the sound bursts around me so loud it makes me wince. People crowd together in fives, the same teams from the game, their voices frantic, overlapping, buzzing like a swarm. And why is it still so freaking cold? Wait—no, I know why. Keep the food scarce, the air cold, every detail designed to make us weaker.

The flash of purple hair catches my eye: Thanos. He sneers when he sees me, but the expression vanishes as his gaze shifts past my shoulder—Mr. 001. In-ho.

Yeah, that was my top-tier strategy—picking up enemies in a place like this, with the combat ability of a door handle. And the plan—what is the plan, exactly? Hide behind Mr. 001—damn it, In-ho—and pray he never calls me out?

Apparently, yes, because I follow him without thinking, all the way to the place where we had breakfast this morning. God, that feels like a lifetime ago.

Jung-bae, Gi-hun, and 388 are settled on the lower steps, mid-conversation as we head their way. Jung-bae’s gesturing animatedly.

“…won’t even let me see my own kids. Like I’m the bad guy. Bitch,” he shakes his head.

“Women,” Gi-hun mutters, as if that explains everything, and 388 smirks beside him.
At our approach, all three of them lift their heads.

“See? I told you they’d be fine,” Jung-bae says, giving 388 a jab with his elbow.

“We tried waiting at the exit, but the guards didn’t let us,” 388 adds, looking more at In-ho than at me.

“Didn’t even let us explain,” Jung-bae throws his arms wide, pure disbelief. “Just smashed me with a rifle and forced us along.”

"Jung-bae, come on," Gi-hun says with a half-smile. "That was after you called them cock-sucking motherfuckers"

"You actually said that?" In-ho asks, lifting his brows.

Jung-bae shrugs, grin spreading. “They acted deaf. How else was I supposed to know they actually heard me?”

They burst out laughing all at once, mouths open wide, shoulders shaking with the force of it—and I know I need to join, laugh, ask something, but it feels far away, like I’m watching from underwater. I just want to lie down somewhere dark and forget all of this until I stop existing.

“Anyway,” Jung-bae says with a long exhale. “Dae-ho was worried you’d die before we even learned your names.”

"I appreciate the concern, but that wasn't necessary, " In-ho says, slipping a hand from his pocket. “Name’s Oh In-ho.” He offers his hand, and Jung-bae is on his feet in an instant, gripping it too eagerly. “Park Jung-bae.”

Gi-hun and 388 rise right after him, almost in unison. Gi-hun takes the handshake next. “Seong Gi-hun.” Then 388, tilting his head slightly as he clasps In-ho’s hand. “Khan Dae-ho.”

If I ever became a man for a day, I’d probably spend it just shaking hands, over and over—just to know what it feels like to belong without question.

I remember when a graduate came back to give a talk about getting into KAIST. He crossed paths with the principal in the hall, and without even pausing they shook hands, quick, natural. The kind of thing that says: you’re one of us now. I watched and thought maybe one day… though I already knew, probably not.

I flinch when Jung-bae snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hello? We talking to a wall here?”

"What?" I blink at him, the word slipping out before I catch up.

"You back with us, or still off in la-la land? I asked your name."

Goddammit, I hate this brain—fluttering off, sabotaging me, laughing in my face.

"Lee Ji-won, " I say, because what else—apologize myself into dust?

Jung-bae nudges Gi-hun and Dae-ho. "Lee Ji-won, our resident ddakji champion"

They nod. "Hi Ji-won". "Nice to meet you, Ji-won"

I should roll my eyes at the champion bit, but the “our” attached to my name hits me like that one glass of champagne—unexpected, intoxicating, and a little humiliating in how fast it went to my head.

"Names make things feel different, don’t they?" says In-ho.

"Amen to that. Screw these numbers crap," responds Jung-bae.
"Yes, I —" Dae-ho starts, but the speakers crackle to life, cutting him off.

I turn my head and see them—the square guard, ringed by triangle guards with rifles on the elevation in front of the doors. It was so loud in here I didn’t even notice them enter.

"Attention, players. The Six-Legged Pentathlon has officially concluded.

110 players have been eliminated, so the prize pool now stands at 20.1 billion won. "

“That’s seventy-eight million won each!” a voice shouts from the crowd.

"Seventy-eight million? I don’t believe it"

Seventy-eight million. I don’t want to think about it, but it pushes in anyway. That’s all the years at university paid for, every single one.

"Did I really risk my life for just seventy-eight million?"

Tuition, rent, pastel cardigans and shiny MacBooks. Color-coded notes and textbooks bought in print even when the PDF was free. The luxury of studying hard and not thinking about bills.

"You killed all those people — did you even count them properly?"

It burns at the back of my eyes, the kind of ache that wants to spill into tears. Because I know this life exists but can’t picture myself in it. Because some useless piece of shit racked up debts this fortune wouldn’t cover. Because they don’t care who dies. Because the vote hasn’t even started and I’m already a wreck. Because when I look up at the prize, and I see a pool of blood, and I’m the one in it.

"We’re done now, right?"

I wish we were, but we aren't, and it makes me want to scream until my throat rips.

“I’ve seen enough of this place.”

Good to say, In-ho — like this is some concert you can just walk out of, not a slaughterhouse we’re still standing in, not a goddamn graveyard still warm.

"You think the others are gonna walk away now?"

What’s the point of even asking? Seriously, what’s the fucking point? Like anyone knows. Like it matters. God, I wish I could just drop off the edge of the world and never hear this shit again.

“You’ve been through this before, Gi-hun. What’s your read?”

What’s your read. What’s your read. Like it means anything. Like the game won’t twist itself again, change the rules just to watch us choke. Fuck — I’m actually almost crying. I blink hard and drop my head, letting my hair slide forward to partly cover my face.

"The first game tricked them into thinking it wasn’t so bad. I should’ve known — I was fooled the same way once"

There’s blood on my shoes. A thick, dried stain spread across the toe. How? I didn’t step in it — I would’ve noticed, I should’ve noticed.

"But today? The danger’s real, and the money’s good enough. They’ve got every reason to leave."

And I can’t even pretend it’s not real, because it’s right there, proof that it happened, proof I can’t wash off.

My head swims, my body so heavy it pulls at my knees. What if I just fall right here, hit the floor, black out, stop caring about anything? If I’m really lucky, I won’t even know when they shoot me.

I stare down at the stain on my shoe. Dark. Dried. Cracked at the edges. The longer I look, the less it looks like blood at all. It starts to spread in my mind, widening, deepening, turning into a pit — and I want to fall straight through it, no sound, no light, just gone.

"Player 34, please cast your vote," mechanical voice makes me flinch.

That's me. I need to move. Faces blur past as I push through the crowd, shoulders knocking into mine, the floor tilting under my feet.

One-two, one-two—until I’m standing at the same black stand with the same two buttons. Red glowers at me—bright, swollen, hungry—and if this were Alice in Wonderland it would have a note: PRESS ME, PRESS ME, PRESS ME.
The click is too loud, sharp as a crack, echoing inside my skull like splintering glass.

I turn around and realize I have no idea what to do next. I thought I’d be one of the last, but the crowd’s still here, all of them packed together—red patches, blue patches, pressed side by side until it’s just noise and color.

And then—him. In-ho. The red patch on his chest glows the same as the button, and for a second I think I pressed him instead. He smiles, tilting his head toward the space beside him, and the whole room bends with it, pulling me closer.

One moment I’m nowhere, the next I’m right beside him.

"Ji-won"

His hair sticks wet against his forehead, skin shining beneath. How did I not see that before? It’s so clear, so plain—he’s human, just like the rest of us.

"When this is over, what’s the first thing you want to do?"

"I don't know," My mouth is dry, like I’ve swallowed sand. "And I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t get to do it anyway"

The noise dies as a player stalls at the stand, frozen. In-ho leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter if you never do.”

The crowd erupts in cheers when the player presses blue.

"Why?"

“Because the real thing never lives up to the picture in your head. The idea’s better—and it’s already yours. You can have it now.”

Feels like there should be a catch, but if there is, it keeps slipping out of sight. My head throbs, the ache pressing at the bridge of my nose and sitting heavy behind my eyes.

Sometimes I wake up exhausted, rotten mood before the day even starts, but one cup of my usual coffee and the sky feels clear again. I haven’t had one in two days. Maybe that’s why I’m falling apart.

"First thing... I would have some coffee. Somewhere quiet."

One of those cafés with tall windows and clean light, people bent over their laptops. A place where being alone feels ordinary, where you can stretch one cup into forever and no one cares.

"Just coffee, nothing else?"

"Maybe not. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a croissant. Black coffee’s always better with something sweet."

He gives a faint smile. “I’d suggest you try an Irish coffee, but you won’t like it.”

“I like everything that has the word coffee in it,” I say, even though I have no idea what an Irish coffee actually is.

“Do you?” His brow lifts. “It’s coffee with whiskey, topped with cream. Sweet, bitter, strong… and it would blur your focus.”

Wait, does he really just—? Oh my god, he’s throwing my own words back at me. Why did I even say it so pretentiously, like I’ve got some grand focus worth protecting? Ridiculous. Still.. I kind of want to try it now.

"You make it sound tempting,"

He doesn’t say a word, and all I can do is watch another man with a blue patch stall at the stand. Seconds stretch, nothing moves. Unbearable.

I want to go back to the land of croissants and coffee, to anything real, anything but this performance of blood and death.

"And you, what would you do?" Suddenly I actually want to know. What’s it going to be — "see my family"? Or "ring up my friend the president to blow the whistle on this place"?

His eyes go distant, as if he’s already there.

"Drink whiskey. Listen to old jazz records."

“I like the jazz part," I don’t know much about it, but it suits him. Not obnoxious like opera, not mindless like the video games my classmates disappear into for hours. Something in between. Sophisticated. "Do you have a favorite artist? Or, uh… I don’t know. A record?”

"I listen to Coltrane more than anyone else. He doesn’t just play, he searches. Every recording sounds as if he’s chasing something he may never reach."

I know passion when I hear it, even if I don’t understand the thing itself. Doesn’t matter. I just want him to keep speaking, keep that voice going, because I need to hear it again, need it.

“If you could only keep one record, what would it be?”

"Each recording has its place, its purpose. Some preserve the tradition he came from, others point to where jazz was headed. But if I had to keep only one record — it would be My Favorite Things."

"Isn't it like...?" I can’t finish. Damn headache scatters it, tearing the thought in half.

"Yes and no. Coltrane and Tyner start with a melody everyone knows — simple, recognizable. But they don’t leave it there. They circle it, repeat it, keep reshaping it until it becomes something else entirely. They say Coltrane found his voice there, but what really makes it work is the piano."

“Hey.” Dae-ho appears at my side, out of nowhere. "What are you talking about?"

"Just wondering what we’d do first, when all of this is over," In-ho says, eyes on the stand.

I want to ask why the piano makes it work, but it’s Jung-bae’s turn and any second he’ll jump in, make it louder, drown it out — and that’s it, moment gone.

“I’ll call my mom,” Dae-ho says quickly. “Tell her I’m alright. She must be worried sick. I never skip a day.”

Aha. What the hell is taking him so long up there?
He stands and stands and stands, and the number on his back swims, melts, breaks apart every time I blink.

And then — the button. A shrill, blue crack that rings in my teeth and rattles down my spine.

Jung-bae turns, throws us a quick look, and drifts off to the other column, where Thanos smacks him on the shoulder like they’re old friends. His henchmen cheer, sneer, laugh too loud — like they’re not just winning the vote but the whole goddamn prize already.

"That can't be right," says Dae-ho. "He said he wanted to leave — he said it, remember?" Like if we line up our memories just right, the vote will magically flip back.

“How don’t they understand?” His voice cracks on it, as yet another smug asshole slams blue without hesitation.

I’m not the crazy one. I saw it already, I kept myself from hoping, and still… it’s such a cold comfort. Fuck, I’m so tired. My eyes sting under the neon glare of the stand, and I let them close, just for a second.

"Not feeling well?" In-ho asks.

I grind my teeth. Idiot. Idiot. Do I want to look like I'm losing it? Like I have so many advantages already. Just hold it a little longer, just until the vote ends. Then I’ll sit, I’ll breathe, I’ll rest—and it will be fine, it will, it has to be.

"No, I’m good. I’m great. I could run a marathon right now." I even smile at him—God knows why—because it doesn’t make me sound more convincing. He isn’t convinced either, I can tell, but maybe it was only a polite question.

In one smooth motion, In-ho presses the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch is cool, startling, stealing my breath before I can even think to pull away.

"You have fever, Ji-won. Your face is burning," He says it with such calm competence, like he’s delivering news of a dead relative—sad, inevitable, and beyond anything I can change.

“It's hot here,” I manage, the excuse so flimsy it barely counts, but I need to say something.

Gi-hun is the last to vote, and he presses red, deliberate, stubborn — even though by now it doesn’t mean a thing.

I didn’t think it was possible to be more afraid than I already was, but the moment In-ho names it, it’s like falling off a cliff. Fever. The fast track to death. I feel it in my head, in my eyes, in my legs. And I know it’s true, because I’m not even hungry, though all I’ve eaten today is a piece of bread. How am I supposed to survive the next game like this?

I don’t know what’s ahead. I reach for possibilities, but there’s nothing—only the pounding in my skull, the burn behind my eyes, the heat crawling under my skin. I don’t know what comes next. But I know this: I have to stand, I have to move, I have to keep playing—even after checkmate.

Chapter Text

The guards say something—the vote’s done, who cares. My body tells me it’s a final warning. If I stay upright another second, I’ll drop, I’ll melt, I’ll hit the floor and stay there.

One step, then another. One-two, one-two. The stairs cut through the sea of green, a lighthouse in a storm. All I know is I need to sit down, and somehow that will fix everything. The heat under my skin, the cold in my fingers, the throb in my head that won’t stop pulsing with the crowd.

I sink onto the stairs, and for one beautiful second it’s pure relief — my body sighs, weight gone, blood settling— until the hammer finds my skull again, patient, smug, like it was only waiting. Even sitting hurts; the lights press too hard, and I bend, cover my face, and breathe what little I can.

Maybe I already died back in that stupid van. Maybe this is just the afterimage—something that starts as me, then glitches, shifts, repeats until it isn’t anymore.
Maybe I’m just the echo of who she was, left here to want the same things until it burns out of me.

"You don't look well" Gi-hun’s voice, close on my right. Metal screams as he sits.

I force my eyes open. The room swims for a moment — faces, light, motion all bleeding together — and then sharpens around him.

He’s scanning the crowd, head twitching in short bursts, eyes flashing from the guards to the walls to the players pressed too close together.

"Don't make it obvious"

“I—” My throat aches. I don’t even know what I was going to say. Everything feels loud—the lights, his breathing, my pulse in my ears. I’m trying, I’m trying, can’t he see that?

“Should we talk to the guards?” Dae-ho says on my left. “Maybe they’d let her see a doctor or something.”

Gi-hun's gaze keeps snapping—guards, walls, players, guards again—as if something’s about to happen and only he can see it.

Where’s In-ho? He was right here, talking about jazz, saying it doesn’t work without piano. Or did I imagine it?

“No. That will only draw attention. If they know she’s like this…” Gi-hun pauses, eyes darting again. “They’ll come for her first.”

They’ll come for her first.

The words echo, twist, multiply. They stop sounding like speech and start sounding like boots — hard, certain, closing in. I try to ask who, but my tongue won’t move. The question keeps collapsing in my mouth.

“Jung-bae,” The name dissolves quietly into the blur of faces, into the noise and motion, into the absence of meaning. By the time I find him, he’s already in front of us.

"There they are! My dream team — admit it, you missed me already!"

His grin wobbles under the lights, and the blue patch keeps flashing like a signal—blue for stay, blue for play again, blue for keep killing. My head throbs with the color.

“You voted to continue,” says Dae-ho, and it sounds blue too—cold blue, dead blue, the same calm violence disguised as light.

“Come on, we owned the last game! You saw it, we were unstoppable. We just do the same thing, work as a team, and we don’t just survive — we walk out rich!”

“Ji-won’s sick.”

It explodes in my head.

“What? No — we’re all just tired. Right, Ji-won?”

He said it so loud. Too loud. Made it obvious. Everyone heard. They’ll come for me now—but who? Who?

"Ji-won?"

“Yeah, totally,” I try to smile, but my face forgets how, twisting into something that hurts. Don’t make it obvious. Whatever it is—just don’t make it obvious.

“That’s the spirit.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I shudder; the touch feels like needles. “Let’s not get dramatic.”

His hand is gone, but my skin keeps crawling. Someone’s still talking, maybe Dae-ho, maybe not. Maybe I should say something, but I can’t, I just can’t anymore, and would they even care?

I used to have this embarrassing fantasy—that I’d get sick, really sick, but still drag myself to school. Pale, shaking, maybe even collapsing over my desk, and still managing the perfect answer when called on. Everyone would stare, thinking, how is she still moving, still doing things? They’d be impressed.

And then what?
They’d love me for it?
See who I really am, just because I suffered well?

Everyone here suffers, and it’s not admirable—it’s the kind of thing you look away from.

What holds attention isn’t pain. It’s control.

Maybe that’s why this fantasy stayed alive, because I didn’t have anything else to show. No real skills, no power, nothing that could shift the air when I walked into a room.

I could control pain, or thought I could. But that’s not the same as control that matters. The kind that can walk into noise and make it stop.

"Remember, wanting to stop something isn’t the same as being able to"

In-ho. I see him saying it—hair slipping across his forehead, faint circles under his eyes, that calm that keeps everything else still. It’s so real I almost smile back. Is this what my fever brain came up with to comfort me?

I'm waiting for him to dissolve, but instead he takes my hand and folds my fingers around something small and hard. The corners press into my skin. His hand—warm, impossibly real— lingers just long enough to make sure I don’t drop it.

I blink, and he’s still there. The thing in my palm… what’s the word? Why is it so hard to think? A box—light and dry, barely there.

My fingers move before I know what they’re doing; the lid snaps open, and four large white pills gleam against the dull, scratched case—too white, sharp enough to sting my eyes.

They speak at the same time—left, right—voices colliding in my head, a single piercing sound that splits apart a moment later.

“What’s this?”
“Where did you get it?”

“Excedrin,” he says, clear and careful, every syllable neat as a folded napkin. He keeps explaining—migraines, everywhere, not ideal for fever—and it all sounds elegant, fluent, another language entirely.

Voices blur around me, words overlapping and tumbling until I can’t tell who’s speaking anymore.

The air feels lighter now, almost kind, and for some reason that makes it harder to listen.

"…can’t bring anything… they check everything…
What did you try to bring, Gi-hun?...
…tooth… tracker… took it…"

A burst of laughter from left and right, raucous and crackling, but it doesn’t hurt. I look at the lamps above In-ho’s head; they’re dim now, muted. When did it stop being so bright here?

He’s speaking again, so even, so smooth, and whatever he means is right there, close enough to touch, but I can’t reach it. "Direct threat… of course they’d take it… painkillers... ordinary things..."

"...you’re very kind sir..."

I don’t know how it happened—somewhere in that smoothness the pain took French leave, vanished before I even noticed. I’m back, thinking straight, breathing easy. Thank God. It’s going to be alright.

The pills stare back at me—white against the old, scratched case. It’s still warm from his hand, and suddenly I understand what kept slipping away from me.

They’re his pills.

“You’re very kind, sir,” echoes in my head, an extra piece after the puzzle’s already done. Why are you so kind, sir? What are you getting out of it?

"Is this the part where I apologize?"
"You wanted to see me struggle during this game, remember?"

I was angry. I didn’t realize where I was or who I was talking to. I said things that would justify a grudge, but he’s helping me anyway, giving up the only four pills he has. What if this is revenge at its most sophisticated—forgiving me so gracefully I can’t even hate him for it?

Dae-ho and Gi-hun stand, and I hear dinner, so I push myself up too. The world dips, blackens for a second, then steadies. My legs aren’t cooperating, but that’s fine, that’s normal, that’s circulation or gravity or something boring.

The fever’s gone, I can tell. Everything feels light and organized and possible. I don’t need the pills anymore. I just need to give them back before someone gets the wrong idea that I actually needed them. Where’s In-ho?

There’s already a queue forming, and I remember standing behind Gi-hun, but he’s gone now. Maybe there’s another line, a faster one. That’s alright, I can wait. I’m not the needy type.

“They’re gone for now. But that’s how it’s supposed to be. You and I were always going to meet this way.”

I turn and jerk back. It’s 044—the woman who was praying to the gods last time—standing inches away, her eyes dark tunnels, hollow and endless, fixed on mine. What the hell?

“Excuse me… are you talking to me?”

“You know the answer, and still you ask. Why?"

God, it’s like when some creep starts talking to you on the subway.

"Because you can’t let go of the hope that effort means something. You want to believe fate rewards the ones who keep fighting. It never does"

This word—why does it sound so… blue?

"I don’t believe in fate"

"It doesn’t matter whether you believe. Fate doesn’t vanish because you look away. You’re here because it wanted you here"

To be honest, I sort of... want to blame someone else for all of this, call it fate or not. It would be so easy. But easy isn’t right.

“I’m here because I made bad choices. That’s all there is to it.”

The line’s moving like death. I’m so done with standing—why is it always standing? Always, always standing.

"You may think there’s such a thing as free will, but all it gives you is confusion. You still end up where you were always meant to be—only slower, and in pain. But it doesn’t have to hurt. Learn to accept it, and the suffering ends."

How can something be so airtight, so stupidly sound, and still—batshit, absolutely batshit. There’s a flaw, there has to be, it’s right there—no, not there—whatever, somewhere. My debate club would send condolences.

“Okay, so what is my fate? What do I need to accept?”

“Fate’s not a book you read. It’s a pattern you learn to see. I can show you how.”

“How convenient,” I say, and finally it’s my turn to collect the dinner box and water bottle—thank you so much, sir—and I make a clean exit, using what’s left of my free will to escape this conversation before she convinces me I never had any to begin with.

I go back to where we were sitting. Except—where was that again? Oof. Bad idea. Moved too fast. The whole room swims.

I stare at my hands in search of something that would anchor me. But they don’t belong to me anymore. The bottle slips, slow as a dream, and I watch it burst open, shards scattering—no, that’s wrong. It’s plastic. It just bounces once and rolls away. Good thing I put the pills in my pocket. I need to give them back to In-ho.

In-ho.

"You should have stayed where you were," That calm tone again, half-serious and half-amused. His hand catches my forearm, firm and familiar, always there when I’m thinking of him. I turn toward it, and for a second everything sharpens: light, air, him.

The only anesthetically pleasing face in the whole place.
Or… what was the word again?

His hand slides to the inside of my elbow, warm through the thin fabric. He gives the slightest pull, and somehow I move with him.

“I don’t need your painkillers,” I tell him. “You can take them.” He has to know that before he disappears again.

“Sure you don’t.”

I smile. One less problem to worry about.

The next thing I know, the steps are under me, and Gi-hun and Jung-bae’s backs fill my view. No idea how I got there. My eyes close on their own. I could stay like this for a while, just listening to their voices, everything suddenly clear and weirdly fascinating.

"Gi-hun, please, you have to understand"

“Understand what, Jung-bae? What am I supposed to understand?”

“They’re threatening my ex-wife. If I play just one more game, I can pay it off, all of it.”

“You could’ve asked me for help. I would’ve given you the money.”

“How was I to know? Last time I saw you, you were broke — didn’t even have cash for your own cigarette.”

"When are you going to take the pills?"

For God's sake. Can we not? Just five minutes without words. That’s all I want.

"I told you, I'm fine"

Maybe if I stay still long enough, he’ll take the hint and drop it.

“I could leave you to it,” he says after a beat, “but first I want to understand something.”

The tone shifts — he doesn’t ask, he searches, and I can almost hear it: sound folding in on itself, tugging me toward it like a current.

He’s sitting beside me, elbows on his knees, turning the water bottle slowly in his hands, eyes fixed somewhere far away. Then he turns to me.

"Do you value your life?"

“What?" My voice barely makes it past the pulse in my throat. "Why wouldn't I?”

“Good," he says it softly, almost pleased. "Then do what I tell you, Ji-won. Or look me in the eye and say you’re ready to die tomorrow, because that’s where this is heading.”

I want to say something clever, or just anything, but my brain—die, die, die—and I don’t— I don’t want to die.

“You never cared about anyone but yourself,” Gi-hun’s voice, maybe close, maybe far. Jung-bae saying something back, the words tumbling. And over it all—the quiet snap of plastic.

In-ho moves like the conversation’s over, like whatever chance I had to say something is already gone, slipped right past me while I was still trying to think.

He opens the container and arranges bread and cheese neatly on the lid. Cheese? That’s new.

“Start with this.” He holds the box out, tone even. “You won’t last long running on nothing.”
I take it automatically.

The bread tastes numb, texture without meaning.
The cheese clings to the roof of my mouth, too soft, too heavy, too warm. And if I went along hoping that would shut him up, it didn’t work.

“You might think you’re better. That’s what happens at the peak of a fever."

I’m already doing what he wants. Why does he get to gloat about it?

"Your body releases adrenaline and endorphins; the pulse quickens, and it feels like your head clears — but it doesn’t. That’s stress chemistry, not recovery.”

He’s right. About something. “Stress chemistry”—whatever that means, when I can barely chew. Everything’s already muddy; he just keeps stirring, making sure nothing clears.

“Now take two of the pills,” he says the moment I swallow the last bite. “One wouldn’t be enough, considering the state you’re in.”

I take out the case and stare at the huge pills.

A soft click, the cap turning, and he’s already holding out the bottle. He manages even this—every step mapped out for me. Since when do I do what I’m told?
Ah. Right.

Swallowing these guys takes more nerve than I’ve got, so I crush them between my teeth. Chalk, acid, dust — all of it at once, then sweet rot when I gulp the water. It clings, heavy and chemical, the smell of sickness in hospitals that never really leaves.

“That’s all for today," he picks at non-existing dust on his knees. "Go to bed, Ji-won.”

Heat rises to my face. I can’t believe what I'm hearing.

"It's not curfew yet," I say, though what I mean is, why are you talking to me like I’m five?

"Then you'll get some sleep before everyone else."

Everyone else keeps talking; no one’s watching, but somehow it feels like they all are. I want to be everyone else so badly.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t repeat himself. It’s ridiculous, being treated like this. I tell myself I’ll wait him out, but every second upright burns through my head, my spine, behind my eyes.

Obeying him is the easiest thing I can do, and I don’t have the strength to wonder if it’s the right one.

I stand with no plan and no direction, and maybe there's a hand at my elbow and maybe that’s just echo, and it feels not like I approach the bed, but the bed approaches me, a meteor falling to earth.

By the time my head hits the pillow, darkness is all that's left in my mind, the darkness of not existing.

Chapter Text

The pillow is soft, the blanket perfectly warm. I feel so comfortable I don’t even remember what I was supposed to wake up for— if there was anything at all.

Still half-dreaming, I reach for my phone — that familiar weight on the nightstand — and close my hand on nothing.

No table where it should be. Subdued voices, footsteps passing, the brief screech of metal.

"Cops are useless. Don’t even know what they’re for. Never around when it matters."

I open my eyes, and wish I hadn’t.
The ceiling stretches impossibly high above me, and the black metal bunk beds rise toward it like scaffolding in a half-built world.

“To be fair, they don’t have your resources,” says a quiet voice from somewhere ahead, low and close.

Okay, I understand where I am — unfortunately. But how did I get here?

Delirious hugging with In-ho and Gi-hun. Pools of blood around us. The press of bodies, breathless laughter, In-ho’s widening pupils, gunfire.

“And they didn’t believe a word I said.”

In-ho, holding a door for me. The wooden scent of shampoo, his low voice near my ear. Security risk management. Irish coffee and jazz. A sea of blue patches.

“You don’t have to convince the police. You have to convince the people they answer to.”

044, preaching about fate and surrender. The warm hand closing my fingers around the pillcase. Do you value your life?
Oh. Nonono—

I jolt upright, the blanket sliding off. Cold sweat clings to my neck; the last traces of a headache hum behind my eyes.

In-ho and Gi-hun are sitting on the lowest step of the stairs, faces turned toward the open floor, so from my angle I get their profiles lit sharp by the overhead glare. The moment I move, both heads snap toward me in perfect sync.

I want to get out of bed as fast as possible, but then, to my quiet horror, I realize I’m not wearing shoes. I don’t remember getting under the blanket. Who took them off?

“Under the bed,” says In-ho.
Gi-hun looks at him, a small, tilted smile on his face — like they’re sharing a private joke, probably at my expense.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I focus on the shoes instead. Under the bed, right.
I lean down, and there they are — the dark red stain almost reassuring, until I notice the laces, tied in a neat, unfamiliar knot I wouldn’t know how to make even on a good day.

I feel sick. No, don’t start. Not now. Just put on the shoes. If I’m going to freak out, I’ll do it with shoes on.
My fingers tremble as I untie the knots. And I hear his voice in my head anyway.

“Do what I tell you, Ji-won.”

Ugh. Gross. Patronizing. But also... I was half-cooked, sweating through a fever, insisting I didn’t need help. He probably did me a favor.

I tie the shoes tighter than necessary, like that’ll keep the thought out.

Jesus. Why didn’t I just take the pills while I still had enough brain left to know I wasn’t fine?
No — I had to make it a scene, make sure everyone saw I only accept rational decisions when delivered in the do-what-I-tell-you tone.

Alright, shoes done. Let’s see how bad the damage is.

Across the stairs, on the opposite bed, Jung-bae and Dae-ho sit side by side, elbows on their knees, heads lowered, not looking my way.

Gi-hun and In-ho watch me in this strange way, maybe expecting me to say something or collapse right here.

What do I even say? Good morning? It looks like morning, but who knows. I sit next to Gi-hun, trying for casual, but what does casual even mean for hands? Pockets? Knees? Prayer?

“Don’t tell me you’ve been on these stairs the whole time.”

In-ho's face gives nothing away.

“And ‘whole time’ is… how long, exactly?”

My hand starts shaking again, small jerks I press flat against my thigh.
Deadpan is my best strategy.

“Hard to say. I don’t have a watch on me, must’ve left it in my other jacket.”

His mouth shift into a smile. Deliberate or genuine?

“Good to see you better, Ji-won,” Gi-hun says, standing up and leaving before I can answer.
And suddenly I find myself next to In-ho, somehow too close, despite the space between us.

"You pay attention, but to the wrong things"

Dingy concrete floor. Shoes. Don't think about shoes. Plastic containers everywhere. So many it looks deliberate, like an art installation called Consequences.

"Everything is wrong here," I say, managing a shrug.

The containers blur, then snap back into focus. Mine hits the floor again in my head, splinters of glass spinning out. Shit. Whose dinner did I even eat yesterday?

“If everything’s wrong, why do you think people still vote to stay?”

He wants to pretend yesterday didn’t happen, and honestly, I get it — if I could edit out the shoes, the dinner, the whole pathetic performance, I would too. Just play along, keep the tone neutral, answer the question like a normal person. Whatever that means anymore.

"I don’t know..."

Because they’re dumb, useless assholes? No. Lazy. There's always a reason.

Jung-bae shows up in my head, confident, the smile of a Cheshire cat, fading and returning in the blue light.

"Survivorship bias, maybe? You get through once, start thinking it's skill or destiny or... whatever. And the people who figured out it’s random are, uh—not available for comment.”

Yeah, that holds up. Not bad, considering the fever damage.

“Close enough. Technically, though, survivorship bias is about drawing conclusions from incomplete evidence"

Like there’s a correct answer to any of this.

"Same thing, no?"

The space between us has shrunk. I can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw, the rise of breath at his throat. Did he move closer, or did I?

"Not quite. In this case, the evidence couldn’t have been clearer. They saw everything you did—and voted anyway.”

"And your point being?"

He tilts his head, the faintest curve of a smile.
“They think this place is better than whatever’s waiting for them back in their lives.”

My mouth feels like sandpaper. Stupid dehydration.

"Says something about their lives"

“It does,” he sounds almost pleased, as if we’ve agreed on something important.

The pause stretches, and it hits me only now—
should I give him the pillcase back? It’s certainly the right thing to do, but it means bringing up yesterday—and I’d rather not bring up yesterday.

Before I can decide, the door opens, voices rise, and the guards push in the familiar trays.

For one desperate second I think that if I stare hard enough they might reverse the motion, the trays sliding back through the doors, and I can sit here and catch up.
But no. Time isn’t suspended anymore. It has to tick, it has to serve breakfast, it has to mean next game.

I stand up, and In-ho stands up. Or maybe he stands first and I just follow. Statistically, the second is more likely.

By the time I look up, the queue has appeared out of nowhere, bodies lining up like it was always there. In-ho's already talking to Jung-bae as we walk toward it, voice steady, mid-sentence, like nothing happened in between.

"... you said you trained with the K2. What did they use for close-quarters?"

Jung-bae’s face lights up.

“K1A mostly. The thing jammed if you looked at it wrong, but you could drag it through mud and it’d still fire once.”

Guns are a sensitive topic here, but Gi-hun slides closer anyway, a flicker of interest on his tired face.

“My instructor told me to stay away from the K1A — said it behaves until you actually need it.”

“What did he have you train with, then?” In-ho asks.
Guns. What do I know about them, except that they turn people into pools of blood?

“AR types. Civilian range work. He used to call it ‘practical, not tactical.’”

Dae-ho steps in with an easy nod, like he’s been part of this all along.

“Guess it still comes down to how you handle it, right?

They lean in together, the four of them, heads tilted close, trading words that sound like guns or maybe parts of them, or complete nonsense for all I know.

Stovepipe, double-feed, chamber, gas port.

I stare at the line of their shoulders, the slight inward tilt that says "this conversation isn’t yours".

“You’d be surprised what a little strobe and tracer discipline does to a shooter under stress,” Jung-bae says to In-ho, not even pausing as the guard hands him his container.

I doubt In-ho would be surprised by a gun to his face, but he’s nodding along, eyes on Jung-bae, like nothing else in the room’s worth noticing.

“So it’s not about the weapon anymore. Fascinating. Surely you have some tricks to handle it?”

The guard’s pocket shifts, metal pushing against the fabric until the shape’s clear. A real gun — not theory, not a clever anecdote, not a thing to sound competent about, but cold weight whispering, yeah, this is happening. Might be your last meal, so enjoy.

The guard gives me a container, and somehow I manage, “Thank you, sir,” because it doesn’t hurt to be polite to a man with a gun.

I follow Jung-bae and In-ho, and Dae-ho moves up beside me, deliberate enough that I know what he’s going to ask before he says it.

"Are you feeling better?"

“I’m fine, thank you,”

"Good," he nods, as if I gave him something real.

It’s not like I could tell the truth anyway. I don’t know if I feel better. I don’t know if I feel anything at all — except this sticky fear in my chest, thick and sour, not mine, but something that crawled out of a dentist’s waiting room and came looking for me.

In-ho, Jung-bae, and Gi-hun sit halfway up the stairs, deep in their favorite subject — guns and strategy. There’s no room beside them, so I take a step lower.

I try to keep up, but it's so irrelevant — their little war-club comfort zone, sacred and stupid. Maybe I get it. Maybe I'm so angry just because I don't have anyone to talk to about weird things I'm disgustingly educated in.

There is bread and cheese in the container.
Leftovers from yesterday I guess.

And... wasn't water usually a part of the package? I glance at the trays, except there are no trays anymore. Maybe not.

I eat my sandwich and try not to think about yesterday’s, but I can’t get rid of In-ho’s face — calm, quiet, waiting for me the whole time I chewed, like he didn’t trust me to do it without supervision.

And it doesn’t help that I can hear his voice behind my back, saying smart words like “suppressive fire” or “optimal position”.

I need a distraction, something normal, something that doesn’t involve guns. Dae-ho’s sitting next to me, finishing his sandwich.

“What do you think — Michelin star, or just a solid three-star review?”

He stares like I’ve spoken another language.

"It's better than nothing," he says after a pause.

"Right," I nod, and he doesn’t say anything else.

So much for the normal conversation. But it's fine. Nobody signed up to keep me entertained. I just have to keep it together, stay sane, make it to whatever’s next.

When things got hard at school, or I had one of those stupid fights with my parents, I used to think of suicide. It helped somehow, just knowing there was an exit, a way to make everything stop.

But now, with gunpowder smell in my nose, metallic taste of blood in my mouth, fear tingling in my fingers, the idea of death seems ludicrous.

I can’t die when I haven’t seen Venice or Florence. I can’t die when I’ve never had a real job. I can’t die when I haven’t even tried Irish coffee.

And I'm a fool who doesn't just give up, right, Jimin?

“You’re impossible to argue with,” she says at the back of my head, laughing like she’s here — so clear I turn before I can stop myself.

But it isn’t Jimin. It’s In-ho, a couple of steps above me, smiling at something Gi-hun said, his laugh so soft I shouldn’t have noticed it at all.

“You have terrible priorities, you know that?” Dae-ho says suddenly.

What?

"Strange, I thought survival was a solid pick"

He doesn’t answer, but "terrible priorities" keeps echoing in my head.

What does he even know about my priorities, to say things like that? And by the way, looking at people isn’t a crime. God, killing people isn’t a crime here, so I cope how I can.

The closed doors stare at me, ready to burst open any moment. I have no idea what’s waiting behind them, and in this brief uncertainty I can almost see myself in the future — older by minutes, hours, days, who knows — looking back at this version of me, trying to hold on to what not knowing feels like.

The doors open and the female voice hits the speakers and blood starts pounding in my temples all at once, people already moving, plastic containers skidding, bottles rolling, everything shifting at a speed my head can’t match. Something in me objects — too soon, too soon, can’t be already — while another part yells back, focus, you idiot, move.

It’s the third time we’ve done this drill, and you’d think repetition would make it easier, make you numb. But it doesn’t. If anything, it’s worse. Every time it’s harder to stand up, harder to leave the thin illusion of safety this room still has.

First time, I didn’t know people died here. Second time, I thought that staying sharp and focused was enough to win.

Blissful ignorance — I wish I could erase it all, dive into the game with the confidence of a debate contestant. Better chances that way. If I keep paying attention to the wrong things, maybe all it takes is swapping right and wrong to get through this.

“Nervous?” In-ho walks up beside me.

“No.” I pronounce every letter through clenched teeth. “And you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him smiling at what, in any other circumstance, wouldn’t be a joke. Shouldn’t he be somewhere else, discussing guns or whatever people who have nothing to worry about find interesting?

“Everything will turn out right. The world is built on that.”

I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember where.

The pink-and-yellow staircase winds from nowhere to nowhere, looping and twisting, reshaping itself with every step until there’s nothing left but death, death, death.

And In-ho beside me, head tipped back as he looks around, as if we’ve wandered into a Catholic church with a frescoed ceiling opening into heaven — the kind that makes you think there never was a God, only beauty — beauty created by control.

“Do you want to ask me something?” He gives me a short, sideways look.

Damn, I stared too hard and for no reason at all. Lucky for me, he misread it.

“Yes.” I lift my brows in that how-did-you-know kind of way.

“Then better do it now. We’re on a tight schedule.”

Maybe this is the moment to get him to promise we’ll be on the same team if it comes to that. He’s seen me at my lowest — so what’s one more humiliation? But I don’t want to beg. No, I don’t want to beg.

And since I’ve already said yes —

“Why’s piano so important in jazz?”

His eyebrows rise just slightly, and I don’t even know why it’s so funny, how anything can be funny now. I do have terrible priorities, after all.

“That’s—” a pause, barely there. “A good question. A shame there’s no time to answer it properly.”

"Right, because we're on such a tight schedule"

I hate how resentful it sounds.

“Remind me later, if you still wish to know.”

The light from the staircase fades behind us. In the dim corridor, I can’t tell whether he’s smiling.

There might not be a later, but pretending there will be feels almost like hope.

The crowd of players streams down the corridor, and ahead, the open doors blaze with white light.

I try to think about the piano, about the tone of his voice when he said “remind me later,” but the thought slides away, and my heart only beats harder.

I step into the room and the light burns through everything—too bright, too fast. It takes a few seconds before the world returns in pieces: a circular arena, walls painted in faded red and white stripes, like an old circus tent.

Along the perimeter runs a ring of identical doors, every one of them closed. Maybe one leads out, maybe none do, maybe we’re meant to choose.

A round platform stands at the center, still and spotless—until the first shot.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho are looking around, eyes darting, fear painted over their faces. But maybe I’m just seeing my own reflection.

The female voice comes on again, and it doesn’t even surprise me this time. I just catch myself wondering if it’s real or generated, and if somewhere there’s a woman who once stood in a booth, read the script, and never asked what it was for.

“The game you will be playing is Mingle. All players, please step onto the central platform.
When the game begins, the platform will start to rotate, and a number will be announced.
You must form groups of that size, enter a room, and close the door within thirty seconds.”

My heart does a double somersault.

This game isn’t about skill—it’s about speed, clarity, and timing. All those things I used to be good at.

“You think too fast.” “Wait for everyone to catch up.”
Too smart for this group, the teacher would say, like it was praise when it really meant I didn’t belong. But now it could save my life.

Please, mind, stay coherent.

“It’s like that game we played on field trips, where they called a number and we formed groups by hugging.” I hear Jung-bae’s voice as we shuffle toward the platform.

A harmless memory, repurposed into something that could kill you—
I don’t have time for this. Focus, damn it, self-acclaimed prodigy.

I have to listen carefully, find the group quickly, and move without a second thought.

Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Dae-ho, In-ho — a tight crowd on the platform. Can I trust any of them, when it’s every man for himself now?

A children’s song starts up, off-key and cheerful in the worst way, just as the platform begins to rotate beneath our feet.
I’ll be fine.

Find the group. Make it to the door. Get inside.

The movement is slow, just enough to make me dizzy. Doesn’t matter — I just need to—

Find the group. Make it to the door. Get inside.

The song cuts off mid-note. The platform stops with a heavy grind.

“Ten,” the voice says, bright and mechanical.

And I already know what to do.

"We need five more, right?"

"Right," In-ho nods.

A quick look around, and I spot 120 towering above the rest, searching too.
“One-twenty,” I reach out for my debate voice, high and loud. “We’re five. How many are you?”

“Four,” 120 cries, already moving closer.

“Good. That leaves just one more,” low and even, In-ho’s words cut clean through the noise.

The noise is everywhere, people shouting, calling out numbers, clusters forming — but what I need is something else. Someone hesitating. Unsure. Lost.

And there she is: a missing piece, a girl hovering nearby, eyes darting, not knowing where to go.

“Ninety-five!” My own voice again — I haven’t heard it in so long. Clear, ringing, almost intoxicating. “You’re with us!”

She stares at me for a second, then rushes over.

Two. Four. Eight.

“We’re complete! Room number eight!”
120 grabs the old lady’s and 222’s hands, pulling them toward the door.

I start after them without thinking.
The edge of the platform. The concrete floor. 120 holds the door open, counting everyone who passes.

The room barely has space for ten people, and I have to press myself against the wall to make everyone fit.

In-ho steps in last, hand on the handle, drawing the door toward him until it seals with a quiet click.

Through the square window, I see the chaos outside — bodies moving, hands waving, no sound reaching through the glass.

“Such good people to be with,” the old lady says, shaking her head and looking past me at 222. “We’re lucky, Jun-hee.” So that’s Jun-hee, the one with the hunched shoulders, a gentle round face, eyes fixed on her shoes.

“As we Marines say, the right squad has no bad days.”
Jung-bae winks — fucking winks — right before the gunfire starts.

I look away from the window. I don’t want to watch. I know exactly what’s happening out there — it’s loud enough. I don’t need proof, I don’t need more evidence. If I see it, I’ll lose it. And if I lose it, that’s it.

The air’s gone stale, dense with sweat and recycled breath.

Jung-bae had the decency to drop the grin. Dae-ho's face is somewhere between white and gray. The old lady whispers something that sounds like a prayer. Jun-hee stands beside me, still staring at her shoes.

The noise cuts off, leaving only the throb of blood in my ears.

We start toward the door, but In-ho lifts a hand, a small motion that stops everyone.

“They’re removing the bodies”

He watches through the window, his profile sharp against the light. Beyond the glass, pink shapes move in silence.

“Taking their time.” He sighs quietly, like someone waiting too long for dessert in a nice restaurant.

No one says anything, though I can see the old lady’s lips trembling.

After what feels like forever, the mechanical voice erupts right behind me, too sudden to brace for.

“Congratulations. You have passed the first round. Please proceed to the platform to continue the game.”

Jesus. I didn’t expect the speaker to be in this room. And some stupid part of me hoped that was the end of it. But honestly, who am I trying to fool — do I even have any smart parts left?

In-ho opens the door and steps out, and the rest follow.
Alright. I did it once; I can do it again.

There are no bodies on the floor. The red stains on the wooden panels are the only sign that some people didn’t make it.

Those who survived the first round stay in tight groups of ten, reluctant to leave the circle that just saved them. I get it, I feel it, but I doubt the number will be ten again.

Whatever it is — find the group. Make it to the door. Get inside. Stay near In-ho and Gi-hun, the only ones who’ve shown the slightest interest in my continued existence.

The platform starts rotating, the same horrible song droning on. Out of the corner of my eye, Thanos is dancing with his henchmen. It’s so surreal it takes my brain a moment to catch up.

Wild red eyes flash in front of me. Apparently you can smuggle whatever you want in here. I know drugs are a road to nowhere, but hell, I want whatever they’re having right now.

The music cuts off. A beat of silence. Then the voice: “Four.”

A cold chill runs through me.
120, the old lady, her son, and Jun-hee will stick together. That leaves the five of us.

Gi-hun with his knowledge of previous games.
Jung-bae, his childhood friend.
Dae-ho, sharing the Marine background.
And In-ho, who can tilt a whole room in his direction with nothing more than a lifted finger.

They’ll leave me out.
And I need to accept that — sooner rather than later.

“You guys go find a room,” I force the words out. “I’ll—uh—I’ll try to find someone else.”

I take off before they can say anything. At least I can pretend it was my own decision.

So — four here, two there, but that’s too risky. Three players, perfect. I just need to reach them fast enou—

My foot catches on something and I’m down, hitting the floor hard, right on my already wrecked hands, the pain ripping the breath out of me.

I try to get up, but something hard presses into my back, the unmistakable weight of a boot even though I can’t see it.

“Aww, baby, your boyfriend left you behind. Rough day, huh?” A high, jittery voice that can belong to only one person. God, I’m such a fool. Thinking I could make it alone. Thanos will keep me down until it’s too late.

The weight lifts abruptly, and I pull in a few deep, shaky breaths.

“No offense, man! N-no offense! We were just vibing! Viii—”
His voice goes squeaky at the end, then disappears into the noise.

I jump to my feet and face In-ho. Of course — who else could scare off Thanos?
And he looks at me with absolutely no urgency, like the clock isn’t at ten seconds, like we’re not about to die right fucking now.

“Ji-won,” In-ho says. “I have a plan. But you need to trust me.”

I nod before I even know what I’m agreeing to.
His fingers close around my hand and he pulls me into motion.

“What are you—” I gasp, stumbling after him.

He drags me toward the room, lights above flashing, the countdown slamming toward zero.

“We didn’t— we didn’t find anyone!” I choke out, my voice cracking apart. “It’s just us, do you hear me, it’s just us—”

“I know,” he replies, still moving.

He’s lost his mind he’s actually lost it and I’m going to die for nothing, for nothing, oh God, this is how it ends, this is really how it ends—

His grip tightens on my wrist as he hauls me through the door.

“Corner. Sit. Now.” He’s already steering me toward it.

I drop fast, back to the wall, legs folding, feet flat.
I hope this is what he meant, because for all I know I misheard every word.

In-ho kneels and slides forward between my thighs, bracing his hands against the wall on either side of me, and my brain just evacuates—gone, shocked out of my skull by this turn of events.

His chest hovers just in front of mine. His face is inches away, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath.

“What—what are we doing?” I whisper.

“Camera blind spot,” he says, looking upward. “As long as we stay close, we’re out of view.”

Gunfire cracks in the distance.

“They can still see through the window,” I say under my breath, knowing full well I should really just shut up. “What if they check the rooms? What if they count manually?”

“They don’t. Last round they went straight to the room with the wrong number. They rely on the cameras.”

Another burst of shots. Rapid. Clean.

In-ho doesn’t move. I don’t dare.

Three more shots, and then silence, long and hollow.

“They’re done,” he says. I stare at him.

We’re too close. An inch and I’d be kissing him—Jesus, why is that the first thing I think?
Stop. Stop. Get a grip.

“How do you know there’s a blind spot in the camera?”

“I’ve installed this model before. Tested it. Reviewed the footage. I know where it fails.”
“Is that what a security manager does?”

“My job is to find the blind spots.” A thin smile curves at the corner of his mouth. “So no one else can use them."

Chapter Text

“Congratulations. You have passed the second round. Please proceed to the platform to continue the game.”

I can’t believe it worked.

In-ho shifts back and rises smoothly, then offers me his hand.
I take it, and he pulls me up with effortless steadiness.

His hand stays wrapped around mine.
He doesn’t let go.

“May I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.” As if I’d tell him no, after… all of that.

“Don’t mention the blind spot to anyone.”

"Why?" He’s still holding my hand, keeping me anchored, and the favor starts to feel more like a conversation I’m not allowed to leave.

"It proves the system can be outsmarted. And you know what confidence does to judgment."

Jung-bae, voting blue after second game.
We’d done too well, too easily, and he’d started to believe we were untouchable.

"They will vote to stay," it dawns on me, slow and sickening. God, I want out of this place. And I'll do everything I can to make it happen.
"Okay. I won’t tell anyone"

“Good. Thank you.” He releases my hand. "Shall we?"

In silence, we make our way back to the platform.
My thoughts scatter in all directions.

I kept telling myself focus would save me. Just stay sharp, stay aware, stay alive. But I must’ve screwed up somewhere. Separating from the group was stupid. Provoking Thanos was stupid. Not looking where I was going was top-notch stupid.

In the end, I’m only alive because In-ho made the right call. Not me.
He could’ve left me, used the blind spot himself. That would’ve been smarter, safer.
And I didn’t even thank him.

“You made it,” Dae-ho says with a tired smile.

"But how?" Jung-bae cuts in. Here we go. “I saw you from our window maybe five seconds before the timer. Thought you were done for.”

He’s fishing. He wants a story.
Alright, then. He’ll get one.

"I thought so too,"
Because it’s true, and truth is the easiest place to start.

“It was too late to find anyone, so we went straight to the door. And right in front of it, we ran into another couple.”

I can see them clearly: a man and a woman, fingers intertwined, all of us laughing with relief once we are inside.

This is almost not a lie. It’s a possibility. Without In-ho’s plan, we would have tried something like this, and with a bit of luck, it might even have worked.

And because I can see it, I can believe it. And if I believe it, everyone else will.

“Apparently they were just blindly sprinting for it, same as us.”

I don’t look at In-ho. Even a glance might suggest coordination. He’s not stupid; he asked for that himself.

A few steps away, 120 and her group are watching us. They smile, and I smile back. When you tell the truth, you don’t worry about how it lands.

"You lucky bastards," Jung-bae laughs.
"Looking for people right at the door? Genius"

I nod, like yeah, crazy timing, lucky us.

The music starts, the platform turns, and a wave of nausea rises from under my ribs, slow and sour.

The illusion of control I had is gone, replaced by the memory of a boot at my back, a pressure that won’t lift, tightening my breath.

“Three.” The platform halts.

“Ji-won, stay where you are,” In-ho says.
Excuse me?
"Gi-hun, take Jung-bae and Dae-ho.”

My mind tries to catch up, tries hard, but something in it just isn’t working.

"Hyun-ju?" In-ho calls out. Who is Hyun-ju? "We need one of you. Decide quickly."

007 steps forward. “I’ll go.” Then he glances back. “Hyun-ju, please… look after them.”
120 gives a short nod.

“Come on,” In-ho says, and running is easy, because everything has already been figured out.

We’re three steps from the door when a group lunges in ahead of us and slams it shut.

I pivot to the next door, but there’s already a man there, hand clamped on the handle.

In-ho drifts into the space in front of me, blocking my view of the man.

“Sir?” he calls, rolling his left sleeve to the elbow in one smooth motion.
God knows what the man sees in his face, but he backs away.

“Let’s find something else,” The other two in his group groan, but they don’t try anything as we step into the room.

“Wow,” 007 murmurs. “I picked the right team.”

Gunfire rattles behind the glass, and I try to look at something normal, anything normal, and instead I get a fresh pool of blood, still wet in the center, and my stomach twists up on itself, so I look at In-ho because I absolutely cannot look at that.

He’s looking straight at me, dark eyes clear and fixed, his face held perfectly still.

"I could almost believe it myself"

A jittery smile starts creeping up, and I bite it back until it hurts. Terrible timing. Horrible timing. People are getting shot.

“You do that often?” he adds, almost lightly, and I know I can’t leave that hanging.

"Actually no," I deadpan. “Beginner's luck.”

"Must be natural talent," he deadpans back. I doubt he’ll believe anything I say now.
007 looks up, very invested in the ceiling.

Lying isn’t a skill to be proud of. I know I should feel bad about it—but I don’t.

I lied to my parents so much it turned into muscle memory. When it came to my freedom—my choices—I’ve always been willing to say whatever I needed to, and say it boldly. I lied about applying to KAIST. I lied about the camping trip I claimed I’d be on this week.

It feels far away, but the fake preparation plays in my head like a real one. Jimin and me borrowing her cousin’s tent. Her brother asking their parents for the car. The campground reviews complaining about no signal. The sleeping bag I packed with no intention of using.

In some other universe, my mom would’ve called Jimin’s parents, found out Jimin was already headed to Switzerland, and I probably wouldn’t be standing here at all.

But she was so relieved I’d finally dropped the KAIST idea that she didn’t probe—just told me to enjoy the trip before the job search and the bills became my responsibility.

Can’t say I’m enjoying myself now, waiting for the bodies to be removed and doing my best not to look at the window.

“Congratulations. You have passed the third round. Please proceed to the platform to continue the game.”

In-ho walks out the door, and 007 hurries after him.

“Can I go with you next round” he asks, voice small. "If… uh… you know..." He gestures vaguely.

“Let’s see what the next round looks like.”
In-ho rolls his sleeve back down, smoothing out the creases.

The old lady moves to 007 with surprising speed and pulls him into a fierce, uneven hug, the way only mothers do.

“Yong-sik! Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Thank God she didn’t hear him trying to negotiate better odds for himself. Pleading looks every bit as pathetic as I expected. And worse, it doesn’t get you anything.

“Here!” Jung-bae calls, waving. “No last-minute saves this time?”

Jung-bae. Gi-hun. Dae-ho. They’re all alive.

120—Hyun-ju—leans close to Jun-hee, hand half-covering her mouth as she whispers. Jun-hee bites her lip but still lets out a quiet laugh.

There’s light in their eyes, hope on their faces, that bitter kind that tugs at me, and at the same time something in me whispers that they’ll think it was too easy, that they never felt the boot on their backs, never thought it was over for them, and they’ll want to keep going.

Just like before, the platform begins to move. That same hideous song starts up again.

It gets worse every time, my eyes aching, my head going light, nausea edging up on me, and I’m almost out of whatever kept me steady, but it’s just one last round, just one.

The platform jerks to a stop, and I tip forward, almost falling, but I catch myself, because I’m not that useless yet, no matter how it feels.

“Two,” announced in a polite, indifferent voice.

The number snaps on in my head like a lone bulb in a dark room, and suddenly I’m thinking what if he doesn’t choose me, and the way that fear hits harder than death itself tells me I’ve lost it, finally and completely.

In-ho stretches out his hand, fingers curling in this absurdly Sistine Chapel way that shouldn’t look natural but does on him.

“Whenever you’re ready. I trust that’s soon.” he offers with a quiet smile. And I know I'll be fine.

His hand is as warm and steady as ever, pulling me toward the room. I don’t look back.

In-ho crosses the threshold first, and I follow, reaching back to close the door, but the instant it clicks shut, it yanks back.

Before I realize what's happening, In-ho’s hand comes down hard over mine, hauling the door as it snaps in violent jerks, his strength grinding my fingers into the metal handle.

I’m trapped between him and the window, catching flashes of a young man throwing his weight at the door, face fever-red, eyes blown wide and desperate, shaking so hard his features blur, and In-ho doesn’t give an inch.

His face is right there in the window—fixed in that last, brutal instant.

The first bullet punches through his forehead.
The skull cracks, caves inward. A mist of blood erupts across the glass. Then the second shot hits lower, tearing through his jaw.

Teeth scatter like broken glass. A smear of brain matter sticks to the window, thick and gray and horrible.
The rest slides down in a slow, awful trail.
What’s left of him collapses, leaving nothing but the red-streaked pane behind.

My stomach convulses, everything inside me trying to flip. Acid and bile creep up my throat.

I stagger back, hand over my mouth, as far from the window as I can get, as far from In-ho as I can, until my free hand hits the cold wall.

In-ho doesn’t say anything. He just watches, and I can’t throw up in front of him. I’d rather choke.

Focus on the cold surface. Force a slow breath through my nose, then another. Swallow it down. Keep swallowing.

I didn’t just stand there. I held the door. I looked him in the eye. And I was ready to let him die so I could live.

I feel that boot on my back again, pressing down, tightening my lungs until I can’t breathe.

My eyes go strange —
It starts at the edges, the way it does when you’ve stood too long in the heat. A darkness creeping in, swallowing the corners of everything.

I blink, hoping it’s gone. I blink again and it only gets worse. My eyes are open. I know they’re open. But everything around me is going dark anyway.
The most terrifying part is that I’m still awake. Still here. I’m watching the world vanish around me, and I’m completely conscious as it happens.

I know if I don’t sit down I’m going to fall, so I let myself drop right where I’m standing, awkward and fast because my legs have nothing left. And the second I hit the floor, the black closes in.

And in that black stillness the only thoughts left are:

Please. Let it be over.
I know I don’t deserve it.
But please. Just stop.

Chapter Text

Maybe someone up there actually heard my prayers, because the darkness retreats, and the shapes ease back into focus.

In-ho lowered himself beside me. He looks worried, unless that’s just the lighting playing games. The darkness was the same, some ugly trick my own head pulled on me.

"Are you hurt?" he asks evenly.

I can’t explain this, can’t put it into a neat definition, not when breathing is so hard.

"I don’t," it comes out as a whisper. "feel well."

"I can see that," he says, black eyes steady and bottomless. The feeling of his hand on mine. We held the door together. "Shall we skip the obvious?"

My stomach lurches like I’m staring over the edge of a drop. He will not let it go.

"It just went dark," my voice wobbles despite my best efforts. "Hard to breathe"

The announcement breaks somewhere above my head, sparing us all from my pathetic attempt at cohesive speech.

“Congratulations, players. You have passed the final round. The game is now complete. Please follow the personnel to the exit.”

Something cold slides down my spine. I can’t stand up. Not now. That horrible black void clings to me, waiting for one wrong move. I will collapse. It wants me to.

“We should go,” In-ho's hand settling on my shoulder in an almost weightless touch that makes me shiver.

Just a little more time. I just need to breathe, but with him watching so closely I can’t seem to remember how, and I hate myself for being stuck on this goddamn floor.

“Go without me,” I say, and I don’t know why I’m saying it, except it feels like something I’m supposed to. “I just need a moment.”

He sighs.

“You’re not staying here. If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you.”

No warning. His arm comes around my back, the other under my arm, and when he pulls me up the world swings hard and sudden, and I grab at his jacket without meaning to.

I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already shifting, his arm sliding lower, tightening around my waist, and then my feet go light—

“Wait, Jesus, no, I can walk,” I shove at him, my hand sliding off his ribs without moving him at all, but he stops, easing his weight back until I feel the floor under me again.

His eyes flick down to my feet, then back to my face. “Then do it.”

My pulse spikes, ripping through the fog in my head. What right does he have to toss me around like that? And why do I keep letting him— the floor tilts as I take the first step.

If I faint, that’s on him. He’s the one making me do this. But I am not getting carried out of here in front of everyone like some dying swan. Absolutely not.

The dark creeps at the edges again, but I breathe and force myself toward the door.

In-ho stays at my shoulder, his hand on my elbow like he expects me to topple any second.
I reach for the handle and shake his hand off.

“I’m fine,” I say through the clenched teeth, forcing the door open.

“If you say so,” comes his voice behind me, polite in that way that isn’t.

The platform is empty now, nothing left but blood on the floor and the sound of a crowd clustered at the doors, laughing and pushing through.

A metallic scent I’ve learned to recognize as gunpowder invades my nose, mixing with blood and sweat.

I look back at the window, blood still splashed across it, but the body I expect isn’t there. They’ve already removed it, naturally. This is what death is here. You make a splash, and then you’re erased. In-ho steps over the threshold as if the stain means nothing, as if no one died there. And I have to keep moving if I don’t want to be next.

"Is it too much to ask that you warn me if it happens again?” The look he gives me is still all sharp edges, but at least he’s not right in my face anymore. Thank God for small mercies.

With each step the tilt eases, the blur backs off. I told him I just needed a minute. He didn’t have to turn it into a whole thing.

"No,"

“You would?” no surprise in his voice.

“I’ll send you a letter.” I smile, since I can’t exactly say "fuck you" to the man who’s saved my life more than once.

"Make it a good one. I have a soft spot for fiction.”

Oh, look at him — clever as hell. Giving his already-zipped jacket that extra, unnecessary pull like he’s adjusting a crown. Absolutely pleased with himself.

I wish I were less exhausted and could manage something witty in response. Well. At least the conversation has moved on from the fact that my body can’t be trusted.

By the way. What the hell was that?
I genuinely thought that was my own last judgment, like my eyes had been taken for everything I’ve done.

Was it shock? Am I suddenly a Regency-era girl, constitution too delicate for ill news?

No, emotional breakdowns are not my thing. I feel things, and it hurts, but I don’t let it show, not like this, not when it actually counts.

There’s a commotion at the door. Jung-bae, yeah, who else could it be, lunges forward, his voice climbing as he talks to the guard.

"We’re waiting for our people, all right? What’s the rush?"

The guard stays perfectly still.

“Player 390, this is your final warning to leave the area.”

“Jung-bae, please, let’s go,” Gi-hun urges, tugging at his arm.

“What is the difficulty here?” In-ho asks, not raising his voice, and yet every head snaps toward him. He doesn’t bother to specify who he expects an answer from.

“There you are. Fucking hell,” Jung-bae looks between us. “You seen Dae-ho?”

"I’m afraid not", In-ho frowns. "But he may already be ahead."

“I watched everyone walk out of that door. None of them was Dae-ho. None,” Jung-bae’s eyes dart between the guard and In-ho.

The room is empty except for us.
The guard says nothing, his head tipped toward In-ho as though awaiting direction.
So much for the final warnings.

“Is Player 388 still in the area?” In-ho asks.

Area. Such a strange word. Is this how he gets what he wants, by using their language?

The guard taps at his watch, entering something I can’t see.

"Player 388 was eliminated"

Does it mean that Dae-ho is... gone? No.

“Eliminated? What the fuck do you mean eliminated?” Jung-bae snaps. “Check again.”

"Jung-bae, " Gi-hun says quietly. “I don’t think there’s another answer.”

But not necessarily.

“It could be a mistake,” I say. “They don’t really know who’s who behind the numbers. Dae-ho might already be at the dorm.”

Mistakes happen all the time. That’s what our math teacher used to say about exam results. With hundreds of identical papers, someone always gets scored wrong. Nothing is final until you double-check.

“Yeah, damn right,” Jung-bae nods a few times, as if locking it in. “He’s probably back there, wondering where the fuck we are.”

Gi-hun nods along with him, a beat behind. "Right. Let’s check the dorm"

Something buzzes in my head, like a broken antenna, not pain, just interference I can’t tune out, and the corridor opens up ahead, lights flickering over red walls I don’t remember.

Jung-bae quickens his steps, In-ho and Gi-hun falling in beside him. I hurry to keep just behind them, a step ahead of the guard.

Jung-bae starts talking, and it doesn’t sound like him, his voice low, intonation uncertain.

“We were running out of time, couldn’t find a fourth, and Dae-ho—he said take the room, said he’d try your thing, wait at the door, catch someone.”

I feel sick.

“It worked for you. You got through. Same thing. Same move. It should’ve worked for him. You and Ji-won made it, right? Right?”

“There was an element of luck,” In-ho says, after a pause. “Ji-won thinks quickly.”

It lands like a twist of a knife.

When I made up the door story, I meant there was no way to win without luck, that this whole thing was chance piled on chance, not that it was a strategy, not something you’re meant to bet your life on.

But it might work, it could, and I didn’t give them a fantasy, I gave them the idea I’d try if it really came down to that.

No one saw the body. Dae-ho might have been lucky, too full of adrenaline to slow down and wait for us. Just went with the crowd. One-two. One-two. One-two.
Jesus Christ, I need help.

Jung-bae jerks the door open, and In-ho and Gi-hun follow him onto the landing.
I reach for the door, but a flash of pink sleeve and black glove fills my vision, close enough to make me flinch.

I cross the threshold quickly, trying to get as far from the guard as possible.

In-ho, Jung-bae, and Gi-hun are already moving up the stairs behind another guard. I have no choice but to catch up.

The staircase is a tall, empty well, our steps echoing in the hollow silence. The climb makes my lungs burn, but the guard at my back won’t let me slow down.

I wish I’d tried harder in P.E. class. Collapsing on the stairs feels like an embarrassing way to go.

A guard stands on every landing, faces hidden behind triangles, rifles ready in their hands. Had there always been so many?

They won’t use the guns as long as we follow orders. There’s no imminent danger, so why do I feel more afraid than I ever did during the game?

We reach another landing and start down, the geometry of this place defying all logic. No one attempts conversation.

My heart is pounding, my thoughts slipping through the sieve of my mind.

We’ll enter the dorm, and Dae-ho will be there. I’ll say, damn, you had us worried, and he’ll ask what I mean, and I’ll say they told us you were eliminated, insane, right? And he’ll go, seriously? And I’ll say, no, I made it up as an icebreaker. Of course I’m serious. And then In-ho will point out that I absolutely would make something like that up as an icebreaker, and I’ll tell him to shut up. Respectfully.

At the next landing, the lead guard turns right and opens the door, holding it as Jung-bae, In-ho, and Gi-hun pass through without him.

When I reach the corridor, Jung-bae is already halfway down, half-running, the way people do in the subway when they’re late and trying not to wrinkle a suit.

Gi-hun catches up and speaks quietly to him. In-ho walks behind them, unhurried, hands clasped behind his back, his footsteps soft and soundless, while my shoes squeak against the concrete floor.

I follow him through the door to the dorm, where he stops at the platform.

I scan the crowd for familiar faces. The old lady, Jun-hee, 120, 007—sitting together, laughing about something. Jung-bae and Gi-hun heading up the stairs. Crazy priestess from yesterday, preaching fate or whatever it was to a small knot of players around her. A flash of purple hair. I stop looking and turn to In-ho.

“He’s not here,” he says, as if to the room rather than to me.

Everything points in one direction, and still I ask, “Does that mean—?”
I can’t finish it.

"He didn't pass the final round"

No room for interpretation.

Oh God. I needed to hear it from him to believe what I already knew was real.

Dae-ho’s gone. I knew it all the way here. I just didn’t want to look too closely at my part in it.

I didn’t just keep a secret. I lied and I was convincing.

"If we told them about the blind spot, Gi-hun and Jung-bae could have saved Dae-ho. He didn’t have to—"
The word "die" sticks somewhere in my throat.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps? Doesn’t it bother you a little?"

“Someone gets eliminated every game. I’d think you’d have noticed by now.”

I hate how calm he is, how confident, how effortlessly rational.

"Dae-ho wasn't just one of them. He was one of us."

He was part of the squad. Quiet, but present—stepping in when Jung-bae and I were bickering during the second game. Asking how I felt this morning.

And he trusted me. It never occurred to him that I might not tell him the truth.

“You’re a good liar. Just don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t care about him the way you think you did. And he didn’t care about you.”

My eyes sting.

I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I did care about Dae-ho. But even in my head, it doesn’t ring true.

I didn’t know him well. I knew he was a marine, that he grew up with his sisters, that he was freakishly good at gonggi. And now there’s no chance to know him beyond that. To ask something real. To actually listen.

Maybe I couldn’t have saved him. But what I did is still mine, and it can’t be undone. There’s no one to make amends with, no one to forgive me.

“It’s not right” doesn’t capture it, but it’s all I can get through without my voice breaking.

And of course it’s too small to crack In-ho’s composure.

“Thinking in terms of right and wrong will slow you down. That’s dangerous here.”

He talks like being a good person doesn’t mean a thing to him, but when the countdown was almost over, he chose to save me anyway.

“Dangerous,” I repeat. “If you’re avoiding danger, why did you help me? Why risk your life?”

In other words, how am I any different from Dae-ho?

"Honestly?" his eyes meet mine.

"Yes?" A question mark the size of my face.

“You reminded me of my favorite stapler. Reliable. Sharp. Always jamming at the worst possible time.”

I stare at him.
What the fuck.

“Unbelievable,” I say, in what I hope is a flat tone, and take a few steps away from the platform, as if walking off might wipe out the absurdity of what just happened.

So much death. Blood on my hands. Guilt I can’t place. And a goddamn stapler? Jamming at the worst possible moment?

I turn back.

"You know what? You need better office supplies".

He smiles, just barely.

I hate him.

Chapter Text

I walk and reel. In-ho’s half-smile. Dae-ho’s voice, quiet and disappointed. Terrible priorities. The boot on my back. His favorite stapler. Oddly personal. Unbearably condescending. It’s too much, too much, and I just want—

I wish I could be alone, close my eyes and dissociate into oblivion, but being alone is asking for trouble, and I'm done with that.

Jung-bae and Gi-hun sit on the stairs, side by side, not moving, not talking.

I drop next to Gi-hun. There’s no reaction, not even from Jung-bae, who looks like a shadow of himself, staring at the floor between his feet.

The momentary relief of sitting down gives way to a steady throb behind my eyes.

Apparently, In-ho didn’t follow me. He’s still where I left him, already deep in conversation with 120, who seemed to have materialized the moment I walked away. Didn’t realize I was monopolizing a celebrity.

The room buzzes somewhere outside the bubble we’re in. Here, it’s quiet, and each breath comes out heavy and loud.

Silence feels too safe, too comfortable, more than I deserve.

"I'm sorry"

Gi-hun gives me a brief look. "Not your fault"

Knowing he wouldn’t be saying that if he knew what I did leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Would I feel better if I forced myself to confess? No. It's a lose-lose. They would blame me for what happened, and In-ho… I don’t let myself think how he would react if I broke my promise.

His pill case is still in my pocket, solid and familiar against my palm. I don’t know if I should. The pain feels fair. And it’s not bad enough to spend one of the last two pills.

Jung-bae shifts on the steps. “He wanted to leave. I told him we’d be fine. I said we weren’t gonna lose anyone.” His voice is rough, almost breaking.

“And you voted to continue,” slips out before I can stop it. Jung-bae lifts his head and looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.

Of all people, I should get it, but—men like him. Short-sighted, reckless, self-absorbed. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t be playing mingle. I wouldn’t be sitting here with blood on my hands.

“This isn’t on you. On either of you.” Gi-hun looks between us. “They want us blaming each other.” He lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely upward. “Makes it funnier for them.”

“I’d put them in these games and see how funny it is then." Jung-bae mutters. "Bet they’d stop laughing.”

Wait.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Who are they?”

"Here we go again," Jung-bae sighs. Gi-hun ignores him.

“A bunch of rich, sadistic pieces of shit. Sitting in their golden rooms, drinking expensive wine, placing bets while we bleed. They don’t care who dies. They just want a better show.”

I glance at the cameras in the corners of the ceiling, and the thought sits wrong. This level of violence can’t be random. But the wine, the bets? Is that real knowledge or vivid imagination?

I try for more. "So you know who’s behind all this?"

"They hide their faces so they don’t have to answer for it." Gi-hun says grimly. "They sit back, spend their money and let the Frontman get his hands dirty."

"Frontman?" I cling to the only thing that isn't the vague, sticky "they".

“He runs the whole circus for them. The guards report to him, and when they arrive, he keeps them… entertained.” Gi-hun puts special disdain on the last word.

The guards always follow invisible orders, but I've never seen who issues them.
"Have you met him?"

“I was in the car with him. Blindfolded. He didn’t have the nerve to look me in the face.”

“That’s new,” Jung-bae says. “He talked to you?”

Gi-hun huffs, a dull, humorless sound.

“Told me to forget it. Like a bad dream. Told me to enjoy life, enjoy the money. As if you can, after seeing this.”

Jung-bae nods slowly. “You’ve got some guts coming back here.”

Something feels off. I almost have it—no, my head throbs harder and I think, absurdly, if the Front Man told me to forget all this, I’d say yes, sir, and run as far as I could.

The announcement cuts off whatever else was forming at the edge of my mind.

"A total of 100 players have successfully completed the game. 155 players have been eliminated. The total accumulated prize money at the end of this round is ₩35.6 billion."

The noise swells, voices overlapping. At least this time no one asks if they counted the dead correctly.

Gi-hun and Jung-bae stay quiet. I don’t even try to calculate my share. Anyone greedy enough to care can do the math. Maybe the money’s good this time. Or maybe it never is.

The voice drones on about the voting procedure, same as yesterday, same as the time before, in excruciating detail, like it’s not a yes or no but a whole page of trigonometric identities you're expected to memorize before you can solve anything.

Just the thought of watching a hundred people try to make a decision exhausts me to the bone.
How am I supposed to stand through it? What if I black out again, like earlier?

Time is a slippery concept here, existing only when they need it for a game, but it’s definitely been more than twelve hours since the first pill. The unpleasant episode could be a sign of fever rising again. Or hunger, for all I know. What is it, day three of bread and water?

Bread. Water. Pills. Do you value your life—do what I tell you—go to bed. Damn it, stop replaying this. That was top-notch stupid, not taking the pill on my own, and if I let that happen again, how would it look? Like I wanted that kind of treatment.

This is not the kind of attention I want.

Stop, what the hell?

Attention I want, here, in this slaughterhouse? Seriously?

I take out the pill before I can display further evidence of brain damage.

“You okay?” Gi-hun asks, right as I start chewing, as if on purpose.

The pill crumbles into chalk and chemicals, bitter and sour, and I swallow against the urge to gag. It feels so wrong in my mouth I could cry.

“I’m fine.” Face still, don’t let it show. “A precaution, really.”

Gi-hun nods absently. "Okay, sure."

He accepts it so quickly I wonder if it was a genuine question at all. Anyway. I don’t want them to see the real me. I want them to see someone who isn’t a liability.

“Look, that thing’s up.” Jung-bae points at the voting stand the guards just installed. “Come on. I can’t wait to get rid of this blue shit.”

Gi-hun and Jung-bae rise to their feet, and for a second I don’t. Bad idea. This is not a place to lag behind, not when everyone is energized and moving. Sitting would look wrong. Weak. So I get up. I fucking get up.

Gi-hun moves down the stairs, and I follow without thinking. Left shoe down, right shoe down, white flashing past, dark stains pressed into the soles.

Where’s In-ho? Never mind. No vantage point here, only heads packed together. I’ll see him when I see him. For now, blend in. Do your time. Don’t black out.

The screen over the platform lights up with 0:0.

"Player 456, cast your vote"

Gi-hun pushes through the crowd and presses red. No hesitation. Something stable in this world.

As the vote goes, I keep my eyes off the screen. Like in a boring class, watching the clock only makes it worse.

This stupid process, slow and ritualized, like a samurai duel where everyone bows forever before the blade comes out.

Do people ever look that dignified when they die in real life? Or is it a collective fantasy we all want to be real? I wasn’t that afraid of death before I saw what it looks like. Awkward angles. Grimaced faces. Urine. Shattered teeth.

I feel dizzy. Not the kind of imagery that lifts the mood.

The guard calls Jung-bae’s number, and he switches his patch to red. No backstabbing this time.

A strange apathy settles over me, heavy and immovable, like no change of heart could possibly fix this. Even if we win the vote, would they let us go if they want the show?

Thanos puts on a show, dancing to the stand in a few uncoordinated steps and kissing the blue button. I’m not surprised. I can’t even judge him wholeheartedly. This vote could bore anyone out of their mind.

My mind is a fragile Jenga tower. Every step forward means pulling out another piece and hoping the whole thing doesn’t collapse.

Collapsing starts to sound appealing. Dropping this weight, stopping the worry about the inevitability of death, embracing it? Learn to accept it and the suffering ends. No. That’s exhaustion talking.

What is Jimin doing now? She’s probably already settled into her new apartment near campus. Her parents paid for it without hesitation, even though she chose nuclear physics over business school, even though the scholarship committee said no.

She complained about how they never took her passion seriously, how they were convinced she’d just burn time and money before giving up and going to business school like all the kids of their friends.

“But they’re still going to pay for Zurich?” I’d ask again, already knowing they would, and still failing to understand how that worked.

My mother made it clear she’d pay if only I picked something real: Excel, accounting basics, office administration. A night course. Certificate in a month. Job offer guaranteed.

“You should’ve heard them,” Jimin would laugh. “My dad actually asked if nuclear physics was basically art history with equations. I had to promise business school as a backup.”

I used to wonder how it feels to make an inconvenient choice and know support won’t disappear. Not to hear, "then you’re on your own".

Being friends with Jimin showed me a life I was never meant to have, and I hate myself for wishing I hadn’t seen it, for thinking maybe—if I hadn’t— I wouldn’t have squandered what little I had.

But I did what I did, and now it’s too late.

“You might have your coffee tomorrow.”
My heart stutters. In-ho is at my side, as if he’s always been there. His hair falls loose over his forehead, almost in his eyes. No longer perfect, and somehow better for it.

“And a croissant, if you’re lucky.” he adds.

Annoying, how he keeps handing my words back to me when I least expect that.

"Have you always been an optimist?"

"Optimist? No," a near-smile. "I find it reassuring to be prepared, whichever way it goes."

And he is always prepared. I wish I were the same.

“Speaking of which.” He pauses. “I know a quiet place with decent coffee.”

I blank out and echo him. "You do?"

“Basement café, not far from Anguk Station. No sign out front. Green door beside an old stationery shop. It stays quiet because most people don’t know it’s there.”

Is it… an invitation? No. There was no "we", no hint of going together. A recommendation, then. But why offer one at all, after that pointed "speaking of which"?

He’s looking at me, but his expression gives me no clues.

“Thanks for the tip, I would—”

"Player 34, please cast your vote,"

I would keep that in mind—that’s what I was about to say. For once, the interruption is welcome. In-ho can think I was on the verge of saying something meaningful, when I wasn’t.

My shoes squeak against the floor in the sudden quiet. One-two. One-two. I keep my back straight, knowing In-ho is watching.

Someone coughs, the sound echoing across the dorm. The stand glows expectantly with red and blue, and somewhere beyond it, the numbers I’d managed to ignore until now.

I reach for the numbness that carried me through the vote, but it’s gone, replaced by the image of a green door — the idea that something good might still happen, something small enough to feel possible.

And the notion of possible is very much quantifiable now, up there on the screen.

48:46. Red is leading. Really? Or is it the other way around?

49:46, when I press the button, when the noise erupts behind my back. The red side is applauding, Jung-bae and Gi-hun at the front of the crowd, tired smiles pulled across their faces.

"Ready to go home?" Jung-bae says as I join them. "Because we are damn going home".

“Yeah. Just this tiny bit of unfinished business.” It sounds skeptical, but hope has already gotten to me, because only two votes stand between me and that nameless café.

The next player is already at the voting box, number twenty bent across his hunched back, his balding head catching a dull shine from the lights.

Anguk station. Stationary shop. Green door.

He lowers his hand on the blue button, and I want the green door to disappear, to stop existing in my head, but it only grows more vivid, more painful to hold.

The screen updates to 49:47.

"It's fine. It's still fine," Jung-bae insists quickly.

Part of me already knows where this is going, but I nod anyway. "We don't need a huge margin to win."

007 and In-ho are side by side, red patches on their jackets. Two votes. That’s all it takes.

Player 012 steps forward. A middle-aged woman with a ghoulish little smile, red smudged around her mouth. She looks straight at me and winks.

The air gets knocked out of me. She’s just a psycho, like everyone else who voted to continue, and I’m not surprised she does too, but the way she unsettled me runs deeper than that, my heart refusing to slow down.

Was that blood on her mouth? I try to catch her face again, but she’s already turning away, a curtain of hair closing it off.

That smile. That wink. That ease. Like death itself looked back at me and said, "Fate doesn’t change when you refuse to face it"
I feel sick, and everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.

007 drifts toward the stand, slow, guarded, arms folded in. Head too low, chin nearly against it, glasses tipped down, step after step, step after step—
—and that horrid smile still there, sticking, faint and deliberate, a smile I’ve only ever seen on In-ho’s face.

A shrill click—
blue roaring somewhere distant—
the space around me hollow, thinning—
and behind my back—
"Yong-sik"
A weak, rasping voice.

The disbelief in it makes me turn, old lady's face twisted and stuck in the sound, that I’m-so-disappointed-I’m-shocked-how-could-you look, my mother’s look, the one that always makes my skin crawl.

“Yong-sik!” she calls louder, and he moves faster, not stopping, not turning, not looking.

“What a pig,” Jung-bae announces. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He throws a theatrical bow toward the old lady.

“You don’t apply the same standards to yourself, do you?” I’m so tired I can’t tell the difference between honesty and self-sabotage.

"I'm doing the right thing now, " he says it slowly, like I’m stupid, like switching sides is all it takes to wash the blood off, the sheer hypocrisy of it makes me nauseous.

“How… commendable.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping low and quiet. “You’re an angry little thing. I don’t care if In-ho gets a kick out of it—don’t pull that shit on me.”

I recoil. Nobody gets to talk to me like that. Nobody.
“Oh yeah? I bet you’re speaking from experience, because you’d lick his boots if only he’d let you—”

Gi-hun inserts himself between us, palms brushing our arms as he gently pushes us to either side, filling the space. "Ji-won, let's cool down, okay?"

Jung-bae is smirking behind Gi-hun, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stay still.

“I need to cool down? You think it’s fine, what he told me?”

“Look, everyone’s upset,” his eyes already fixed elsewhere. “Uh—what do the rules say about a tie?”

I blink. Rage swallowed me so fast I didn’t even notice In-ho vote. Heat still buzzes under my skin as he comes over, wearing that polite, composed look, like we’re in a conference room waiting for a presentation to start.

“There was no provision for a tie” he supplies helpfully.

I couldn’t care less about the tie. I just—
God, I hope he didn’t hear any of it. It turned me into something cheap, ugly, existing to please, and I can’t stand the idea of him seeing me like that.

“What happens now?” Player 100’s nasal whine rises over the room. “Do we round it up?”

No, he was too far away. At worst he heard Gi-hun telling me to calm down, which is insulting, yes, but I can live with that.

"They’re stalling, waiting for the orders from upstairs," Gi-hun mutters contemptuously.

The three guards stand in a small huddle, quietly conferring, indifferent to the noise building around them.

“Upstairs seems to enjoy a long pause,” In-ho remarks. Jung-bae and Gi-hun give little huffs, though I’m sure neither of them finds it funny.

The square guard steps forward, voice flat through the speaker in his mask. “The vote is inconclusive. A new vote will be held tomorrow. Use the time to reflect on your choice”.

“All of this, again?” someone yells from the blue side. Questions follow, overlapping, but the guards ignore the follow-up, already dismantling the stand.

"All good?" In-ho asks, mild and distant.

"Yeah," The word lands dry and dead on my tongue.

A smooth nod, and he's turning away, his attention gone before I can hold onto it.

“So, Gi-hun—how do we swing it our way?”

I wish he said he didn’t believe me.

And then what?

It’s not so bad. The headache has faded. Jung-bae isn’t throwing filth with In-ho nearby. The vote isn’t lost.

An angry little thing.

I guess it's just another way of saying "you reminded me of my favorite stapler".

There's nothing new about it, but my eyes get watery with tears, and I feel lightheaded from the effort of holding them back.

Failure, guilt, despair—hope is the vilest of them all, making you relearn the same truths again and again, no matter how many times they’ve already broken you.

I’m on my own.
Wanting someone to care never made it real.

Chapter Text

The thought pulses in my head with the intensity of a star on the verge of collapse.

I'm going to die here, and no one will care.

“We can try talking to them one by one. See who’s shaky,” Jung-bae suggests casually, like whatever happened a few minutes ago is already filed under "resolved", and I’m the only one who didn’t move on.

“Won’t work. When you mess up, you don’t want to hear about right and wrong. They know. Deep down, they know. Pushing them just—”

Ji-won, silly girl. Don't you understand?
You’re a nuisance they tolerate because In-ho glanced your way a second too long. Why are you still hanging around?

Take a step back—one, two, one, two. See?
Gi-hun is rambling, In-ho listening, his dark eyes barely blinking, absorbed in strategy. They don’t notice. Of course they don’t.

The stink of sweat invades my nose, sour and nauseating, closing in, faces drift past, a pit of bodies already decomposing, and I'm stuck, in this room, this reality, this skin.

It follows me to the stairs — a touch of the familiar, the closest I’ve come to safety here. Where we had breakfast. A school corridor before an exam: scared, buzzing, and somehow still full of possibility.

When I didn’t know how chaotic it would be, how I’d keep making mistake after mistake, when Dae-ho was alive and—
No. I go higher, to the steps without memories, my nose is running—shit. I didn’t cry. I'm positive I didn’t cry.

The moment I stop, my legs give out and I’m down on the steps, a quiet clang, everything going blurry.

Faceless green shapes downstairs. That’s good. If I don’t see them, they don’t see me. Ha. I know it doesn’t work like this, but you don’t argue with a sick person when placebo is all they have.

I rest my head against the cold metal of the railing and close my eyes.

In-ho’s face in front of mine. His hands braced on either side of my head, leaving no room to move, the heat of his body pressing in.

His arm around my back, warm and strong, lifting me before I could argue. The breathless moment when I realized he’d already moved me where he wanted, and there was nothing I could do.

And then his voice, soft and hopeful.

"I know a quiet place with decent coffee"

Anguk Station. An old stationery shop. The green door, already opening in my mind, the stairs descending into the basement, inviting me to see what waits below.

One step after another, and somewhere along the way, the stairs become the café.

It's dim and muted, wrapped in a gentle stillness, and there’s only one table in the whole place. In-ho’s there already, hands around a cup, two croissants on the plate between us.

“Sit.” He nods toward the chair opposite him. And I sit, relieved not to think about what it means or what I’m supposed to do.

He smiles. "I was waiting for you"

"Why?" I ask quietly.

"I wanted to see you again"

He says something else—something I can’t quite catch—and laughs. I laugh too, because this is happiness: knowing that I matter to him, that life will finally be simple, that I'm not alone anymore.

“Ji-won,” a flat voice calls, and I turn automatically.

Where the stairs should be, there’s a window instead, its fogged glass mesmerizing, almost whispering. I know something is off before it happens.

Dae-ho’s face is in the frame, gray and expressionless.

I freeze.

A dull, heavy sound, and the bullet is already through his head. His face doesn’t shift. Blood spreads across the glass in a thin red mist.

Then another shot, lower. His jaw bursts apart, fragments of tooth and bone rattling against the glass.
I want to be back at the coffee table, but it’s gone now, replaced by darkness, and In-ho is far away, leaving.

“Wait!” I try to run after him, but my limbs are heavy, the floor tilting slowly upward, more and more, until my footing slips and I slide down before it ever quite becomes a wall.

The boot presses me into the ground. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Please. I can’t breathe.

“Ji-won?” My name pulls me back, releasing the pressure and dropping me into free fall until I manage to open my eyes.

A hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. A face with large features, hair in a bob that keeps shifting as I try to focus.

Somewhere in the background, voices overlap in quick, animated bursts.

“Your dinner is getting cold,” the face offers, and I finally recognize her as Player 120 — head of the underdogs, carrier of hope, living proof you can win if you slap your teammates hard enough.

"Dinner?" My throat is dry, the word barely makes it out. I touch my face. My skin is sore, marked with the sharp lines of the railing.

“Hyun-ju, I think she needs water first.” Jun-hee is on my right, her voice clearer than her face.

“You’re right.” 120 again, big dark eyes scanning me with a doctor’s calm appraisal.

Soft giggle. "You know I'm always right"

A bottle settles into my hands.
“Take a moment. It’s okay.” 120’s fingers linger, warm and careful, until I realize I’m supposed to hold it myself, my body floating in an after-dream suspension.

I drink in short sips, trying to piece things together.

None of it was real. Not the boot. Not the shooting. Not the café.

In-ho said he wanted to see me again. My heart stutters. Real or not? Not real. Of course not.

I spot him behind 120, a few steps down, beside Gi-hun. He turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the clean contour of his profile, and then it’s his back again — 001 perfectly centered, posture straight, the edge of his haircut drawn in a single exact line.

"Okay, and now dinner," 120 is holding out a plastic container. I don’t understand what's happening.

They abandoned me, and 120 felt bad and took pity on me? Or. 120 took pity on me first, and that made it easier for everyone else to abandon me without feeling bad?

Hyun-ju. What a nasty habit. Her name is Hyun-ju.

"Eat while it’s warm, dear," comes an elderly voice from behind me. "I’ve told my boy all his life—you don’t think straight when you’re hungry. Haven’t I, Yong-sik?”

I turn to see the old lady and 007. So that’s Yong-sik.

“You should listen to Mom,” he smiles sheepishly, blue patch on his chest, the look of a scolded dog on his face.

Okay, I passed out and woke up on the wrong side of the mirror, where everything looks the same and nothing feels right.

"Right. Wow... Thank you." I hurry to open the container as if to prove I appreciate the kindness, even if it came out of nowhere and makes no sense.

It really is warm. Rice, small pieces of chicken, steamed vegetables—the kind of meal I once aspired to during my dieting era, but here it feels luxurious. There’s even a real fork inside.

I glance at Jun-hee. She beams at me.
“Go on. We already ate.”

It’s starting to feel uncanny. How much encouragement does it take to eat my own food?

But it bothers me less and less with every forkful. Never in my life had anything tasted this divine. So simple, so warm, so rich in texture. I don’t think I’m chewing anymore. I just want more.

“We should have woken you up earlier,” Jun-hee shakes her head. As if they were obligated.

"We couldn't, Jun-hee" Hyun-ju says. "You know it."

"Yeah, In-ho gave us a whole lecture on why we absolutely had to let you rest, though I'm not convinced sleeping like this"—Jun-hee points to her cheek—“necessarily helps.”

"In-ho?" I echo his name, short-circuiting on the fact that he is somehow involved.

“Oh yes, In-ho,” the old lady raises her voice, clearly pleased to contribute. “Such a good boy. Very respectful.”

I almost choke on the rice.

“We didn’t think it was allowed to take a second portion,” she goes on. “But he went to the staff and explained it—so politely—that it was for you. Didn’t make a fuss at all. That goes a long way.”

Good boy? Didn't make a fuss?
She says it like he’s someone’s nephew behaving well at a family gathering.

In-ho.

The kind of man a SWAT team would report to without needing to ask who he is.
If the apocalypse broke out mid-lunch, he’d be assigning tasks before dessert—and now that I think about it, that’s more or less what he did. Just… with my dinner.

A silly smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.

"Huh," Jun-hee says, head tipped to the side.

"What?" I fix my attention on the food, doing my best to pretend I don’t care who got it for me.

Hyun-ju leans closer, voice low. “Oh boy… she’s connecting the dots.”

I use the edge of the fork to split the carrot pieces into smaller and smaller bits, far smaller than necessary.

“I thought he was one of those people. You know, attentive to detail.”

Carrots melt in my mouth. Attentive to detail. She's not wrong. This is just who he is.

"But?" Hyun-ju prompts.

“But that smile,” Jun-hee pauses, and I feel my lips tremble again. “You weren’t surprised he’d do that for you.”

Oh fuck. Rewind. Rewind.

"Maybe it wasn’t a detail after all?" she’s waiting for my reaction. I can feel it without looking.

I want to point out that her logic is skewed, that my groundless hopes don’t prove anything about him—but saying that out loud would mean admitting I have them at all.

My face burns, but I keep my voice even. “I’m not sure I understand.” Deniability is everything.

Jun-hee shrugs, unfazed by the brush-off. "I guess I’m starving for something good to happen here. To anyone."

Something about it makes me feel strangely uneasy, like a mask cracked and I saw myself in the gap.

“You young people are never satisfied with what you’ve got,” the old lady sighs. “Mind you, I was the same.”

The digits on In-ho’s back don’t shift. I pray to God he didn’t hear Jun-hee’s insinuations. And at the same time, I can’t help wondering what he would say if she asked him. Probably something very polite and noncommittal.

The old lady speaks again. “At my age, children get busy and forget you. So what is a good life? A good meal and someone to share it with.”

"Mom, stop it," Yong-sik groans.

"Ah," she waves him off like a fly, her tone turning brisk and businesslike. "This Sunday, you all come eat at our place. It’s only right. I’ll make galbi-jjim—properly."

“Galbi-jjim?” Jun-hee’s face lights up. “Miss Jang, that’s my favorite. My mom always made it for the holidays.”

“Then it’s decided,” Miss Jang nods. “Yong-sik, you’ll go to Mr. Kim and get the good ribs—the ones in the back. You remember. If the meat is wrong, the rest won’t behave.”

A real plan, with a real date. For a second, I let myself pretend I’m part of it, even if it’s wildly optimistic to think they’d include someone they’ve known for five minutes.

“I actually tried making galbi-jjim once,” Hyun-ju shifts on the steps, angling toward Jun-hee.

"You tried? How did it go?"

God, I don’t know them either. It would be awkward as hell. Why does it sound so appealing?

"Well, it was Christmas, and my unit wanted something special. One of the seniors said he remembered the recipe—"

Maybe it’s the idea of being invited somewhere.

Like that one time, long before the exams, Jimin said, “You should come to our place in Gangwon this summer. You’re amazing—everyone would like you.”

Jun-hee laughs.

"We kept adding water because it looked wrong, and at some point it turned into soup. But we still ate all of it.”

"That still counts. Honestly, maybe it counts more."

It felt like passing a test, like winning, like a fairytale. I had worked hard to be fun, and this was my reward.

Miss Jang makes a small tsk sound. “You can’t make galbi-jjim anywhere. It works best at home.”

The trip never happened, but the memory stayed.
For a brief moment, she wanted me there.

Maybe In-ho is right. An idea can be enough. Sometimes it has to be.

“I won’t argue with that. But for us, that day, barracks were home.”

Home. Is it still the word if you don’t want to go back?

Without warning, a voice cuts through the air, mechanical, cheerful, and familiar in the worst possible way.

"Player 230—eliminated"

The room falls quiet. Hyun-ju and Jun-hee exchange a worried look.

I don’t want to think about what it means, not when everything was so normal. But I already know.

Somewhere in another aisle, the mad priestess cries out to the surrounding crowd, “And this—this is what happens when you defy the Design!”

In the stunned silence, she continues. "I warned him. He didn’t listen. Arrogance killed him."