Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

„Two"

When the words blared from the loudspeakers, you didn't hesitate. You grabbed the hand of the nearest person, the first one you could reach, clinging to them as if your life depended on it.

"Orange door ahead! Hurry, don't let go of my hand!" you shouted, your voice straining to cut through the chaos around you. You weren't sure if anyone could even hear you over the cacophony of screams and frantic footsteps.

The scene was pure mayhem. People collided, stumbling over each other in their rush to find a partner. You leaped off the platform, narrowly missing a player who slipped on a smear of blood and hit the floor with a sickening thud. You thought you had enough time to make it to the door together, but you knew better than to trust that. The rooms were limited, and not everyone would get one.

You were quick, and that's how you'd made it through the previous rounds. Unlike the others, you hadn't formed any alliances. It wasn’t that people were vying for your attention—no, you were invisible to most, just as you'd always been. So, you did what you did best: observe.

It didn’t take long to spot the patterns. Panicked players, driven by instinct or desperation, clung to each other, forming groups. You made sure to stay near the one with the highest odd number of participants. Ten was easy—everyone was just looking for a single partner. When the number four was called, you moved quickly. You’d already been eyeing a trio of girls, their hands clasped tightly. Three was a perfect fit. You let them go and shifted toward two groups of four standing close by. You suggested a split before the others had even realized the number that had been announced.

"Two" was the last round. The simplest split—but not everyone would make it through.

When you finally reached the door, you slammed into the opposite wall of the room, your breath sharp. For a moment, you stared at the bullet holes in the wall, their jagged edges still stained with fresh blood. The metallic scent filled your nostrils, making your stomach churn.

But the nausea was cut short by a scream from behind. It was player 345, the one you had just run with, holding hands. He was struggling to hold onto the doorframe as he was violently dragged out. The door crashed shut behind him with a deafening bang, shaking as if someone had thrown their entire body against it.

One heartbeat later, two men burst into the room.

Player 390 looked like a wild animal, his eyes darting between the ticking clock and your face, unable to decide what to focus on. He grabbed his sweaty hair, pulling it as though the action could stop whatever was coming.

"Get out of here! Now!" he barked, panic in his voice.

You didn’t move. Instead, you let your gaze drift to his silent companion.

Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

Before you stood Player 001.

Most people knew him as the man whose voice, just two days ago, had decided the fate of the bloody games.

But not you.

You remembered a different moment—when all eyes had been glued to the massive piggy bank. You watched the stunned faces of the players, caught in a trance, as the money fell from the sky like rain.

You were certain no one else had noticed the subtle movement to the left—the side door slightly ajar, the three-person escort ushering Player 001 inside. A tall, slender man in his forties slipped past the armed guards and casually leaned against a nearby wall. Not once did he glance at the piggy bank. Instead, he slowly scanned the faces of the survivors, who stared up in near-worship at the floating billions above them. He seemed to savor the moment, enjoying the awe-struck crowd.

And then, his eyes found yours. Satisfaction flickered, quickly replaced by a fleeting grimace of irritation. You didn’t look away, though. Your gaze had long since passed the boundaries of polite interaction. Let’s be honest, you were staring at each other—undeniably, unabashedly. You, with what you hoped was a look of bored indifference, and him, with a polite half-smile that never reached his eyes.

You couldn’t help wondering if Player 001 knew you had witnessed his arrival. If he did, could that get you into trouble? A small part of you wanted to make sure he understood that you had seen more than he thought. You raised an eyebrow slightly, letting a sly, almost mocking smile tug at the corner of your lips, silently daring him to acknowledge it.

Without breaking eye contact, he pushed off from the wall, hands buried deep in his sweatpants pockets, and began to circle the crowd. It was a perfect moment for a leisurely stroll, you thought, following his movement with your eyes until he disappeared into the maze of metal beds.

You had the distinct feeling that the man had found the perfect vantage point to observe the crowd. What you didn’t realize was that his gaze was now burning an invisible hole through the large “013” marked on your back.

Your thoughts on Player 001 were cut short by the voting. You hadn’t expected so many players to vote in favor of continuing the games after the first category. As the votes were tallied, and the counter showed a tie, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t going home tonight.

Chapter Text

The second day of the competition began with the soft strains of classical music drifting lazily through the stale air. You lay on your back, eyes half-closed, wondering why the organizers had chosen this piece. Haydn’s sonata felt totally out of place—like pearls scattered in the mud. Here, in this grim crowd of losers—crooks, debtors, petty thieves—it was hard to imagine elegance being anything more than a distant dream.

Your stomach growled, pulling you back to the present.

You thought of the roast chicken you’d bought with the winnings from your impromptu ddakji game. The taste of that bite—rich, savory, satisfying—still lingered, but it wasn’t just about the food. It was the look of surprise, the nervous twitch in the handsome man’s cheek when you flipped the tiles and won, that made it even sweeter.

It had been a fluke, that night at the metro station, just before midnight. You didn’t believe in coincidences. In fact, you prided yourself on never being caught off guard. Life had long since taught you not to expect anything. But there, standing frozen on the empty platform, something happened you couldn’t ignore.

A tall man in an expensive suit, probably worth more than your entire life’s savings, was crouching next to a homeless man, laughing—really laughing—as they played ddakji. He was winning and losing with equal joy. The contrast was so absurd you couldn’t look away. The homeless man’s ragged clothes and dirty hands only seemed to add to the businessman’s reckless joy, as if the disparity between their worlds didn’t matter at all.

You stepped closer, drawn by the strange energy between them. The man in the suit was completely focused on the game, each toss of the tile sharp and deliberate. Both tiles soared high before fluttering back down in a perfect, fleeting arc.

With a flick of his hand, he tousled his hair and flashed a wide, unguarded smile—like a moment plucked from a dream where nothing made sense, but somehow everything felt right.

“You lost,” he said, the words crisp and final, followed by the sharp crack of his hand striking the homeless man’s cheek. The sound echoed through the still air of the empty platform.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Loud, free, like something had broken loose inside you.

Both men turned toward you at once, as though your laughter had slapped them harder than anything that had come before.

"Sorry," you said quickly, hands raised in a mock surrender. "But this is too good." When no one reacted, you hesitated, then added, "Can I join?"

The homeless man blinked, bewildered, as if the words were in a language he hadn’t bothered to learn. He scratched his cheek, swollen and bruised, muttering, "I'm done. I’m outta here."

The businessman smiled, all sharp angles and polished teeth, and handed him a black card with deliberate grace.

"If you ever feel like playing again," he said, watching the man limp away in shoes too big for him.

The suit turned back to his briefcase without so much as a glance your way, and began to fold up the game with slow, meticulous movements. You stood there, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the irritation creeping in. He had given his time, his attention, to that man, but not a single word to you, the one who had been standing here the entire time, wearing a dress that wasn’t expensive but was at least neat.

After a long moment, he finally straightened up, adjusted his tie with a single, practiced motion, and looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time.

He tilted his head, like a cat watching a toy skitter across the floor, his gaze moving from the tips of your shoes to the crown of your head. After a long pause, he offered a smile that could have blinded the sun.

“Apologies, young lady,” he said, his voice warm, smooth as velvet. “But I’m afraid I don’t have time for another game.”

You nodded, a touch resigned. The magic of the moment had slipped away, like mist dissolving under a harsh light. You weren’t about to make a fool of yourself in front of some restless millionaire at this hour.

“It’s fine,” you said, half-smiling, though the words didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“But," he continued, his voice lingering, "if you’ll allow me, I’d be happy to play with you another time.”

Another time. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes inwardly. The same empty line—the one strangers toss out when they know they’ll never see each other again. The kind of promise people make when they say, “Let’s grab coffee sometime,” without meaning a word of it.

“Sure,” you replied, matching his smile with one of your own, wide but empty. “Good night.” And with that, you turned and walked toward the far end of the platform, heading for the empty bench.

You didn’t come here to play games. You came to think. The cold concrete pillar felt cool against your temple as you leaned your head back, eyes drifting upward to the flickering lamp overhead, a weak yellow light that couldn’t banish the shadows.

You hadn’t quite settled into the hard plastic of the bench when you heard the click of heels approaching.

The man in the suit was standing over you, his posture perfect, his head still slightly tilted, that smile still in place as he extended his hand.

“Let’s play,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were inviting you to dinner.

You couldn’t help the short, incredulous laugh that escaped you. This is ridiculous.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” you asked, unable to hide the skepticism in your voice.

“I’ve decided you need this game,” he said with an air of finality, his words light but oddly sure. “I have a feeling it’ll be... interesting. I’m rarely wrong about people.”

You didn’t know then that the prize for winning would be 100,000 won. You didn’t hesitate to take the money from his perfectly manicured hands. You won most of the games, even with the lingering ache from the two slaps he’d given you earlier. But as you left the metro station, your wallet significantly heavier, you realized you didn’t mind the sting in your cheek. It felt almost... worthwhile. Interesting, even. A strange kind of thrill pulsing under your skin, something that hadn’t been there in a long while.

The next morning, you rolled the elegant business card between your fingers, turning it over, your mind still replaying the odd, wild night. It was the funniest thing that had happened in months. And for the first time in ages, you felt something like life in your veins.

The door creaked open, snapping you out of your thoughts. A group of guards in pink filed in, their presence a clear signal that the next game was about to start.

After yesterday's whispers and the speed with which rumors spread, most players were expecting dalgona. But when you stepped into the room and saw the two narrow running tracks in the center, a sinking feeling hit you. The game had changed. Player 456, once the golden ticket to survival, was no longer the key to the door.

The crowd reacted immediately—shouts, curses, threats aimed at the former winner. But it wasn’t the chaos that shook you. It was the truth that hit harder: this was now a team game. You had spent your life avoiding situations where you had to rely on others, and now your fate was tied to a random group of people, each one a failure in their own way.

You scanned the room, looking for any sign, any clue that could make this mess a little clearer.

"Please form teams of five," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

The room exploded. People shouted, bargained, and even held impromptu auditions, all scrambling to build the perfect team.

You maneuvered through the crowd, eyes narrowing as you scanned faces and bodies. Could this be a test of endurance? A pentathlon of sorts? Among the players were the old and the young, the frail and the fit. Strength alone couldn’t possibly be enough to win this.

Then, a small elderly woman, supported by a plump man in glasses, shuffled towards you. You didn’t hesitate. You nodded in agreement, and soon, a tall player bearing the number 120 joined your group, followed by a woman muttering prayers under her breath.

There was an odd sense of hope in the diversity of your team. Each one of them—maybe, just maybe—had something to offer. 

When the rules were announced, you weren’t disappointed.

The games ahead would be Ddakji, Flying Stone, Gong-gi, Spinning Top, and Jegi.

Without a moment’s doubt, you raised your hand for the Ddakji round. You were confident—your aim was steady, and you’d never miss. Besides, the handsome man in the suit could always serve as a witness.

The player in glasses, number 007, chose Flying Stone, and his mother, the elderly woman beside him, picked Gong-ji. The wild-eyed shaman, with a grin that could curdle milk, volunteered for Spinning Top, and the task of Jegi was assigned to the tall woman with the number 120.

"I am..." began player 120, extending a hand in your direction.

"Please, no," you cut her off before the words could fully leave her mouth. "I’d rather wait until we’re out of here to know names."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. All eyes fell on you.

"That’s reasonable," the older woman said at last, nodding thoughtfully. The chubby man in glasses nodded eagerly, as though agreeing with her was his primary job.

You took your place along the track, eyes following the first teams as they prepared to compete. Ten players stood, ankles bound together, on two parallel tracks. A gunshot rang out, sharp and final, and the race began. 

At first, the scene seemed like a bizarre mockery—adults stumbling in a childish game, surrounded by pastel walls and infantile designs. Surely, a group of grown men could handle this with ease. But as the minutes ticked by, the reality unfolded in a mess of tangled limbs and frantic errors. Items slipped from shaking hands. Nervous glances were exchanged. The tension in the air grew thick as the clock began to mock them, counting down with relentless precision.

Frustration grew, and tempers flared. One man yelled at his teammate, and the mood shifted. The crowd’s excitement quickly faded, replaced by a heavy silence that hung in the air. Over three hundred eyes watched as the first round ended with no one crossing the finish line. In the stillness, the pink-clad guards began collecting the fallen players, their bodies dumped into coffins that looked eerily like oversized candy boxes.

A cold shiver ran down your spine.

When it was finally your turn, the pressure hit you. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping no one saw. The quiet words of encouragement from player 120 reached you, but they barely made an impact. You took a deep breath. This game wasn’t just about survival anymore—it was about endurance.

Your gaze drifted to player 388, his voice rising in loud cheers as he waved his arms frantically, rallying the other team.

Beside him stood player 456, arms crossed, unmoving.

And just behind, player 001.

Unlike the others, he seemed more focused on you than on the group of strong men nearby. His eyes flicked between your companions before resting on the elderly woman, gently calming her trembling son. Then, with a brief, deliberate pause, his gaze found you. A thin, cruel smile curled on his lips, and you felt it—deep in your gut—that it was meant for you, a silent mockery.

The sting of it cut deeper than any slap on a deserted subway platform. How could he get to you like this? Especially now, when everything was on the line.

You grabbed the chubby man by the elbows, urging your team forward the moment the shot rang out.

When you reached the ddakji, you imagined that smug grin of player 001 crushed beneath your feet. With a quick flick of your wrist, you hurled the paper toy, sending it straight toward his arrogant eyes with enough force to flip the blue twin. The crowd roared, but there was no time to enjoy it. Time wasn’t on your side, and you pushed forward, racing toward the next challenge.

As expected, player 007 was a mess, trembling like a leaf. His hands shook as he lined up his shot. You leaned in close and whispered, "Sir, I’m sure there’s someone in your life who deserves a good slap. Imagine their face."

It worked.

Everything that followed was a blur, a chaotic storm of movement and noise. By the time you crossed the finish line, the first team to do so that day, the hall exploded with cheers. You collapsed onto your back, gasping for air. The crowd roared, like a football game where the underdog had won. Their joy was intoxicating, a rush that overwhelmed you. In that moment, you knew you’d done more than just win. You’d given them something—hope. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you stood there, feeling seen. Proud. Alive.

As you exited the hall, your teammates continued waving at the remaining participants. You turned over your shoulder in a direction known only to you, and saw player 001 smiling warmly and clapping, saying something in the ear of a satisfied player 456. You thought that for some, the game didn’t end with a single day of competition.

Back in the hollow stillness of the hall, you offered a deep bow to each of your teammates, one by one, before slipping into your bunk. The games would stretch on through the day, and you had earned yourself this fleeting moment of rest.

As time drifted on, more players trickled into the room, and to everyone’s surprise, the number of victors was much higher than expected, especially given the grim start to today’s game. The clock had just struck 8 PM, but still, no announcement had come about its end. You hadn’t seen player 456 or his group yet, either.

A thought began to worm its way into the back of your mind, unwelcome but stubborn. You pictured player 001, awkwardly fumbling with his throws, the ddakji slipping from his fingers, while the electronic timer counted down to 00:00. And then—an explosion of gunfire, tearing through the air and his perfectly tailored tracksuit.

Not that you wished him harm, of course. You were merely contemplating the possibilities.

How would he meet his end? What would his face betray in the face of inevitable death? Could he even feel fear?

And, most troubling of all, why did his presence linger in your mind so often, creeping back into your thoughts like an unwelcome guest?

Your mind was growing foggy, and you blamed it on the gnawing hunger in your belly.

The creak of the door snapped you from your reverie. A sudden chill ran through you, a shiver tracing the spine of your thoughts, as there he was—player 001, the very man who had dominated your mind. Even from four stories up, you could see that his tracksuit remained unscathed, not a bullet hole in sight. A chorus of loud cheers erupted as the group of player 456 returned.

The team gathered on the stairs near the metal bunk tower where you lay, clutching your stomach, which groaned in protest.

"I’m sorry for how I played," you heard a quiet voice say. Player 001's apology brought a wry smile to your lips as you pictured him fumbling through every game, his failures a string of comical missteps. But somehow—against all odds—they had survived.

"If it weren’t for you," player 456 said, "I wouldn’t have hit it five times."

The others nodded eagerly, their eyes full of gratitude.

“Don’t forget about player 222, you threw that ddakji and won on your first try!” the corpulent friend of player 456 exclaimed with admiration. “You showed them all, and you’re pregnant!”

Now that was an interesting bit of information. You propped yourself up on your elbows for a better view of the woman sitting on the stairs. Her face had briefly flashed by in the crowd earlier, but her small frame and oversized hoodie had effectively hidden her condition. You regretted not having witnessed their performance; from the stories coming from below, it sounded like they’d played an incredibly emotional game.

“Shall we introduce ourselves?” suggested a tall, young man with number 388. “I’ll start. I’m Kant Dane-ho! It means Big Tiger.” He shouted his name, raising his hand in the air as if adding courage to his words.

“I’m Park Jung Bae” said a short, stocky man, friend of the former winner, unsure.

“Oh, Young-il,” came the smooth voice of player 001. The name “Zero One” echoed in your mind like the number he wore proudly on his back. It had to be a joke, you thought, though there was nothing amusing about it. You couldn’t piece the facts together properly, but the things you had learned about player 001 didn’t fit what you had seen. It was as though your eyes and ears were receiving information about two different people.

“Time to announce today’s results. 110 players have been eliminated, and the prize pool is 20.1 billion won.”

That was just over 78 million per person—money you’d never even dared to dream about. You had no idea what you could possibly do with that sum. Meanwhile, players with the 0 mark raised their voices in outrage.

“Is that all? Not even 100 million per head?”

“So many have died, and the prize is still this small? Count again!”

This didn’t bode well for the upcoming vote.

As if on cue, the pink-suited guards brought in the voting machine and invited participants to line up. Today, the order would be reversed, and all eyes focused on player 001, who pressed the large X without hesitation. As he swapped the sign on his chest, he sent player 456 a warm smile. That kind gesture, however, was quickly forgotten as the majority of votes began flowing toward the "zero" camp, increasing with each passing player. The final blow, as you noticed, came from player 390, a childhood friend of player 456, who, for reasons known only to him, pressed O. Then, without looking anyone in the eye, he quickly moved to a distant spot on the left side of the room.

The voting ended with a score of 139 to 116.

It seemed your corner had gained a new inhabitant. With a quiet unease, you watched as player 001 moved among the looming metal structures, his steps slow and deliberate as he searched for a place to settle.

"Mind if I take this bed?" he asked player 456, pointing to a mattress several levels below yours. "For safety’s sake, we should stick together. Things are getting tense—fights are brewing."

456 nodded without a word, but his eyes lingered on his friend's retreating form, the one who had cast his vote on the other side.

Great, you thought, dreading the awkwardness of crossing paths with this stranger every time you tried to leave your bed.

Unfortunately, player 001 had been right about one thing—the air in the room was thickening with hostility. The small meal in a plastic bag you’d received earlier that day certainly wasn’t helping. If you were being honest, you hadn’t even felt like eating.

The lights had long since flickered out, and sleep, the kind you desperately needed, remained elusive. Your stomach ached in its emptiness, and finally, with no better solution, you decided to try to fill the void with water. You moved as quietly as possible, though the metal stairs groaned under your weight. When your feet hit the ground, you hurried toward the door, hardly noticing the silent figures sprawled on their bunks.

You knocked once. Then twice. And again, a third time. Finally, the latch clicked open, and a triangular mask appeared in the gap.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No leaving at night,” came the curt reply, followed by the sharp slam of the latch.

A sharp pang of helplessness twisted in your chest, spreading like ice along the edges of your vision. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, and for a moment, it felt like the walls were closing in. If you really did need the bathroom, this would be the most humiliating thing imaginable. You hesitated, ready to try again, when suddenly a male arm shot out from behind, slamming three hard knocks against the door, each one forceful enough to rattle the frame.

The heat of his presence at your back prickled your skin, sending a chill down your spine. You clenched your fists, prepared to retreat, and that’s when the guard’s mask reappeared at the window, silent and unyielding.

The unmistakable click of the lock disengaging stunned you for a moment. Shock mixed with indignation surged through you. You spun around, already preparing to launch into a tirade about the ridiculousness of it all, about the sheer sexism of this twisted game. But your words died in your throat when you saw him.

There, standing in his usual aloof calm, was player 001. His expression was a blank slate, unreadable, as though you hadn’t been there at all. As though he hadn’t seen the desperation that had pushed you to this point. His gaze was fixed above your head, locked on something you couldn’t see, his stillness so absolute it almost seemed otherworldly. The only thing that proved he was real—the only sign he wasn’t some lifeless statue—was the faint rise and fall of his chest, each breath impossibly slow.

Why did it have to be him?

What was it about this man that made your mind spiral so—this strange obsession that had begun to feel like a curse? You’d catch him with your eyes, and once his gaze met yours, you’d be consumed by thoughts of conspiracies and hidden motives.

So why did it feel like you didn’t even exist in his world?

An impatient cough from the guard shattered your spiraling thoughts, and you forced yourself to move, praying your legs wouldn’t betray you, that you could make it to the bathroom without crumbling.

Under the harsh, sickly light of the fluorescent bulbs, your reflection was pale and gaunt, your skin unnaturally waxen. You drank deep, cold gulps of water, hoping to quench an emptiness you couldn’t quite place.

For the first time in three days, you were alone. Truly, achingly alone. And yet, no one seemed to notice.

The others were coping better than you, thriving even, or at least hiding it well. You stared at your trembling, damp hands, the thought gnawing at you—why was I still here? Not because you desperately clung to life, but because you’d fought in the game out of sheer momentum, swept up by the tide of others’ emotions. But now, standing alone in this sterile bathroom, you felt empty—like that night when you’d stood alone on the empty subway platform, waiting for a train that would never come. There was no fear, no desire to fight.

Just indifference.

You lifted your shirt slightly, staring at your flat, smooth belly in the mirror. You imagined the bullet holes. It was strange, the way the guards always seemed to aim for the stomach. That must really hurt, you thought absently.

It was then that two guards appeared in the doorway, their presence as unnerving as their weapons. Apparently, you'd taken too long. Behind them stood him again—hands casually stuffed in his pockets, his eyes flicking from your face to your hands with that familiar unreadable intensity.

He didn’t look at you, really. He was looking through you, as though you were nothing more than a shadow passing by.

"Young-il," you murmured to yourself, remembering his name like it had slipped through the cracks of your mind.

If you looked absurd, staring at your own reflection, lost in thoughts of death and indifference, then they—two guards in their garish pink suits, weapons gleaming at their sides, poised like predators with the air of someone far too comfortable in their power—were a mockery of the absurdity.

You laughed, a sound that was both loud and a little painful, as if it had caught in your throat.

"You look like you work here," you teased, your gaze settling on the laid-back figure of player 001, who seemed to fit the place all too well. Then, with a final glance that never quite met his, you passed him and the guards, your footsteps sure, your back to them all.

You didn’t care anymore.

Chapter Text

Recently, you’d made a series of bad choices, yet you couldn’t quite trace which one had led you here.

The third player in a game meant for only two winners.

Your back pressed against the cold wall, the fresh bloodstains on your hoodie a detail you weren’t sure you had the strength to care about. Your hands moved instinctively, searching for something to hold onto, but the room, save for the three of you and the relentless ticking clock, was barren.

It wasn’t the looming threat of death that unsettled you, but the cold, silent truth that you were here, alone, caught between two men whose lives you’d quietly observed for days—listening in on their private moments. You knew them like someone knows famous people on social media—full of facts, fleeting details, snippets of their existence, while they had no idea you were even there.

You had deliberately kept your distance, refused to get involved, yet here you were, facing death because of someone you almost knew. The bitter irony.

Player 001 moved past his companion, his breathing ragged from the battle with your temporary ally.

You stayed still, praying that if you didn’t provoke him, if you remained invisible enough, he’d ignore you like he had before, as if you were just another part of the air he breathed.

But no.

His gaze locked onto you, dark and intent, piercing right through the façade you tried to hold together. It made your legs tremble, a weight pressing down on your chest.

He saw you. Really saw you.

And in that moment, you were laid bare—judged, exposed, almost powerless.  

He was thinking.

So, you did what you'd been doing since the very first day in this twisted place.

You fixed your expression into something neutral, as calm as you could manage, and locked your gaze with his—like your survival depended on it.

He seemed to be searching for something in your face, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. You wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t beg. If he wanted to get rid of you, he'd have to carry you out himself.

Over his shoulder, the cold countdown blinked from the glass of the door.

29

28

"Young-il, we're all going to die." The stocky man clutched his companion's sleeve, his grip desperate, like a child seeking refuge in the safety of a mother’s arms.

Player 390—no, you knew his name all too well—Park Jung Bae.

A Marine.  

A hero.

The small gesture seemed to break the spell that had briefly held player 001 in its grip. With a soft exhale, his eyes fluttered shut, and for a split second, his face wore a quiet, almost nostalgic disappointment—as if he were contemplating the misfortune of someone spilling a glass of milk, only to find themselves left with the mess to clean. But just as quickly, the moment passed. A wide, easy smile spread across his face, and he brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead with a fluid motion.

It was the most relaxed, genuine thing you'd seen from him in days.

"Ah, fuck it," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, before spinning toward player 390 and landing a swift punch to his jaw.

The blow sent the man crumpling to the floor, but before he could even process the fall, player 001 was on him, pinning him effortlessly between his elbow and chest. For a brief moment, Jung Bae’s fingers clawed uselessly at the hand that held him, his feet scrabbling against the smooth linoleum, leaving pale scuff marks as he fought to break free.

In the stifling silence of the room, the only sounds that broke through were your shallow breaths and the harsh, strained rasping of 390's constricted throat.

In the days that had passed, many had fallen before your eyes, their deaths a blur of violence and finality. But never had the act of dying felt so drawn out, so agonizing, as it did now. Only thirty seconds had slipped by since the men arrived, yet pressed into the far corner of the orange room, it seemed as though hours had passed. Jung Bae’s face had darkened to an unsettling blue-purple, swelling grotesquely as his body fought its inevitable end. His erratic movements were frantic, like a fish pulled from water, writhing in blind desperation. A thin, short scar ran along his left finger, twitching spasmodically, and you wonder—was it a careless cut from a knife during a meal, or the kind of wound earned in a battle of a different sort, perhaps during his military service? His white sneakers, once spotless, now moved with a slow, almost imperceptible drag. One bore a patch of orange—kimchi from a meal two days ago, its stain almost comically matching the hue of the room’s walls. 

You couldn’t help but notice how player 001’s sneakers remained pristine, untouched by blood or grime, as if they had just been taken out of their box—as if they hadn’t borne witness to the deaths of over two hundred people in the last week.

Maybe you should have acted. But in that moment, what choice was there? To intervene could have meant your own death so you stood there, a silent witness, clinging to survival.

Young-il’s eyes locked with yours, his gaze sharp with accusation, as though you were responsible for the unfolding madness.

And then, with a sudden sharp crack, the fragile intimacy of the moment shattered. Jung Bae’s body collapsed limply into the arms of his so-called friend, and the click of the automatic lock sealed the fate of that fleeting time.

Silence descended.

Player 001 moved slowly, like a cat stretching awake from a long afternoon nap. 

Your eyes flicked between him and the body sprawled on the floor, a gnawing question in your mind: Were there two players now, or was it still three?

A sharp crack of gunfire echoed from behind the door, followed by terrifying shouts.

You froze. Part of you wanted to press your face against the glass, to see the chaos unfolding outside. The other part wanted to shrink into the shadows, to disappear into the walls themselves.

But neither option was granted to you. Instead, he—towering over you by a full head—stepped forward, trapping you in the corner. The orange walls, ugly and oppressive, seemed to close in, and the air felt like it was being sucked out of the room.

Player 001 didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. Without a word, he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath on your skin. For a moment, you could count every single lash of his eyelashes.

Panic surged in your throat, raw and unstoppable.

His bent arm rested above your head, his voice a low murmur somewhere near your hair.

“Y/N, right?”

It was the first time he’d said your name. You had no idea how he knew it. If you had a moment to think, if your mind weren’t drowning in panic, you might have realized that you’d only introduced yourself to one person during the game—and that person was already dead. But there was no time for clarity now. Fear slithered slowly down your spine, and you fought desperately to keep your face neutral, not letting him see how badly you didn’t want to die.

You nodded, wordlessly.

His other hand moved to trace the X on your badge, running his fingers over it as if the identical one on his own chest meant nothing.

“It’d be better for us…” he began, his voice warm, almost affectionate—as though this was just a conversation, not a matter of life and death.

Then a sound cut through the moment. A glass pane shifting. The Guards were watching.

Chapter Text

People began to disperse, yet you remained rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on the massive 50:50 sign glaring back at you—an announcement of the vote's split decision. Tomorrow, the game would replay, and you had the entire night to reconsider your choices. But truthfully, it seemed everyone had cast their votes with a certainty that bordered on cold conviction. Player 001 had wavered the longest. You couldn’t tell if he was deliberately drawing out the tension—once again positioning himself as the deciding force—or if he simply couldn’t make up his mind. Either way, his hand hovered in the air for far too long, betraying a hesitance unbefitting someone so certain of their purpose.

When it finally landed on the X, his gaze shifted, a reassuring smile flickering toward the dejected player 456, and his hand rose in a triumphant gesture. 

"Oh, if only you knew what that hand had done," you thought bitterly, the image of those vile orange walls seeping back into your memory.

Hours had passed since the last game ended, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief. Young-il seemed to have completely forgotten you, his attention now entirely fixated on player 456. You wondered, though, how much of that focus was genuine care, how much was curiosity, and whether any trace of guilt lingered beneath it all. A quiet voice whispered the truth, the one you tried to ignore. The way player 001 turned on someone who had seemed like his friend was a troubling sign. A clear one. He’d done it before. More than once.

The doors to the room swung open, and carts laden with food were wheeled in. Moments later, you were climbing to the fourth floor, holding a flimsy gimbap roll in one hand and a heavy glass bottle of cola in the other, silently cursing your clumsiness. When you finally sank onto the edge of the bed, legs dangling, a thought flickered through your mind—the kind that crosses your mind when you're standing at the edge of a bridge, phone in hand, staring down at the water. What if it fell?

What if the bottle slipped from your hands and crashed to the floor? You imagined the fizzing cola, a small flood of bubbles staining the ground, mingling with shards of broken glass. Glass is sharp, you thought, it could cut you. And then, a cleaning crew? Maybe a masked guard with a broom and dustpan would appear, sweeping it all away. But what if the stain stayed? What if it lingered all night, sticky and stubborn, leaving a mark by morning? You thought of player 001, just like the night before, getting out of bed and stepping on a shard—little revenge, from the universe, for the small, forgotten things.

Absentmindedly, you pulled at the napkin, distracted by the odd pairing of sliced gimbap and a fork in your hands. You glanced around, trying to find a sign—anything—that this wasn’t some mistake. But no one seemed to notice. People were eating, mostly with their hands, ignoring the strange utensil. Except for player 456, sitting at the edge of your solitude, idly twirling the fork, lost in thought.

“We just need one vote,” the chubby man with glasses said, his voice unsure.

“Just one, and tomorrow we’ll eat a proper meal at home,” the old woman added, a spark of hope in her voice.

Player 456 didn’t move, his eyes locked on the other side of the room, where the O players gathered in a group, speaking in hushed tones, glancing now and then at the scoreboard.

“Hey, don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself with that dry gimbap!” Player 007 suddenly called out, waving to people across the room. “When we all leave here tomorrow, we’ll celebrate. I’ll buy everyone beef!”

You shut your eyes for a moment, the hollow promise of a free meal stirring something deep inside—a quiet pity for the ones who still believed in it.

But you weren’t alone in feeling the absurdity of the moment. An older man, his chest marked with a blue O, shouted with sudden ferocity, “Tomorrow, when you all perish, the prize pool will grow! With that, we’ll buy ourselves a whole ranch!” 

Painful, but true. And soon, the tension snapped. Voices rose, fists clenched, and another argument broke out—men charging at each other, insults flying. You noticed player 109, his hand trembling around a fork, his eyes wild. You could feel how easily things could spiral out of control.

A cold unease crept up your spine.

The loudspeaker crackled again, a new announcement slicing through the tense silence. Five players had been eliminated. The air seemed to thicken as the numbers were read aloud. All players' eyes were fixed on the several bundles of extra cash added to the prize pool. The message was alarmingly clear, and even from afar, you could see the understanding that lit up the faces of the opposing team's players.

The doors burst open with a clang, and a group of bloodied figures staggered in, their footsteps unsteady. The room exploded into chaos. 

"Friends!" shouted player 124, voice rising above the din, "When we were in the bathroom, those with the „X” attacked us!"

"They wanted to eliminate us before the vote tomorrow!" another voice joined in, desperate.

"Lies!" a third voice shouted back. "You were the ones who started it!"

You didn't listen any longer, your eyes scanning the room frantically. Panic began to crawl under your skin as you realized—if a riot broke out, if the guards decided to stay out of it, you’d be trapped in this place with no way out. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Maybe the fourth floor would offer some reprieve, but who knew?

"Everyone, gather around!" Player 456’s voice cut through the turmoil, clear and commanding. "We need to do a headcount."

Reluctantly, you stepped down from the metal structure, your gaze flicking to the side where a tall woman stood. Player 120, you noted. She smiled at you, soft and kind, and you nodded back, trying to keep your nerves in check.

"We were fifty. Five are gone. We need to see if we still have the majority for the vote," Player 456 continued, his voice firm as he started to count.

One. Two. Three.

"How are you holding up?" Player 120 asked quietly, her voice laced with a calm boredom as she glanced at the ongoing count.

"I just want to go home," you admitted.

Her smile softened, almost tender. "Let’s stay positive. Just a few more hours, and everything will be clearer," she said. There was something about the combination of her strong presence and that gentle smile that made you feel... almost safe. Like, despite everything, you could make it through this.

"Forty-eight," Player 456 finally declared, his voice cutting through the tension. "Two are dead. That means the blues only have forty-seven."

A cheer erupted from the crowd. For a moment, you let yourself feel the weight of it—the small victory, the fleeting hope. If only life were that simple, that fair. If only tomorrow’s vote could be decided by such clear odds.

Yet the expressions of the blue players, watching the prize pool, weighed heavily on your mind. The joy of the moment quickly turned to unease.

And then, you felt it—a hand on your shoulder. You turned, and there she was again: player 120, her expression unreadable yet comforting.

"Come sit with us for a moment," she said, waving toward the metal stairs, where the older woman, her son, and the pregnant girl had already taken their seats. They all greeted you with a friendly wave.

You hesitated. Maybe there wouldn’t be another chance like this. Why not take it now?

"I can't wait to finally eat homemade pasta," the gray-haired woman murmured as you settled down beside her on the cold floor. "I'm so tired of these scraps."

Your gaze wandered across the group of "reds." Player 456 stood out, his focus fixed on a tight-knit group of acquaintances, speaking in hushed tones while his sharp eyes swept the room. They landed on Player 120, then lingered on the pregnant girl sitting near her. He exchanged a few words with the others, and suddenly, all their eyes were on you. Finally, his feet began to move, drawing his companions like a magnet.

"Listen,"he began in a low voice, "When the lights go out, the blue team will attack."

The older woman’s face went pale, and the pregnant girl’s hands trembled.

"We need to prepare," Player 456 continued, sitting down across from you. "This is the best place to talk."

The men gathered, forming a small circle that, in another context, might have looked like a simple game of childhood innocence. But it was anything but.

"What do we do now?" asked the chubby man in glasses.

"We’ll strike first," came a low voice from your right, sending a chill through you.

You froze. You hadn’t noticed him sit down beside you, but now you could feel the weight of his presence. Without shifting, you allowed your eyes to wander as far as your position allowed.

Yes, it was definitely him.

Legs bent at the knees, hands stretched out casually in front. A perfectly relaxed posture of someone who had just proposed mass murder.

"They'll probably think we're just waiting for the next vote," he continued, "We can use that to our advantage."

"Yes," Player 246 chimed in eagerly. "We should hit them hard! We have more women and elderly people—defending ourselves would put us at a disadvantage."

"We can't do that." Player 456 interjected firmly.

You noticed Young-il’s hand twitch, as if he might clench it into a fist, but the motion stopped just before it could take shape. He had beautiful hands—large, with slender fingers. Well-groomed. Your thoughts lingered on his perfectly trimmed nails. The smooth skin on the back of his hand was flawless, not a single blemish, not even the smallest imperfection that typically marks someone of his age.

How old could he be?

Certainly older than 40. Maybe somewhere in between? Yet those hands looked as though they had never known a day of hard labor. Who the hell is this man?

Player 001 ran a long finger over his knuckles, as if checking they were still there. His face remained unreadable, but the air around him grew heavier.

"Who are they?" Finally, the question broke the silence, sharp and curious.

"The ones watching us," Player 456 muttered, lowering his voice as he pointed a finger at the ceiling. "Up there."

A collective shiver seemed to run through the room, with nearly everyone lifting their gaze to the ceiling, waiting for some answer, some sign. Almost everyone—except for player 001, who sat straight, his eyes fixed on player 456. His expression was a study in calmness, but you could almost feel the tension in the air.  

Young-il didn’t like being challenged. That much was obvious.

"If we're going to fight," Player 456 continued, his voice trembling with barely contained anger, "it should be them we're fighting. The control room is on a higher floor. They’re the ones who oversee all of this. The man in the black mask... if we capture him, we win."

Young-il’s hands froze for a moment, and you couldn’t quite tell whether it was hesitation or something deeper.

"How do you plan to get to them?" he asked finally. "There are armed guards everywhere."

The question sounded reasonable.

"We’ll take their weapons," Player 456 said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"Too risky," Young-il replied without a second thought. "Even if you get a few weapons, they outnumber you."

"So what’s your plan then?" Player 456 shot back, anger bubbling over. "You want to stay here and kill each other, waiting for the vote? Is that your brilliant idea, Young-il?"

The room fell quiet. Something about the way player 456 spoke to him made you wonder—had anyone ever dared speak so boldly to Young-il? And if they had, did they live to tell the tale?

Player 001 didn’t seem bothered, though. His hand drifted back to his knuckles, gently rubbing them.

"I think everyone should have a say," he said, voice as smooth as ever. "It’s a big responsibility. We can’t just decide for others."

A murmur rippled through the group. It was an odd thing—something about his calmness, his control, made people want to follow.

Young-il, turned his gaze to you, his sharp eyes cutting through the tension. "What do you think, player 013?"

Your heart skipped. You blinked at him, confused, your mind scrambling to catch up.

"Don’t be afraid to speak," he added, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You’re among friends."

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that smile off his face. To see what was really lurking beneath.

You shifted your gaze to player 456, swallowing hard. The silence felt heavy now, oppressive.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you began, voice hesitant. "I heard you lost a friend in the last game. I was in the room with Young-il when..."

Before you could finish, a warm, firm hand wrapped around yours, cutting off all air from your lungs. You froze, eyes wide as player 001 held your fingers with surprising tenderness, his smile soft and reassuring. 

"It's true," he said, voice calm but heavy, his grip not loosening. "I'm sorry, Y/N. Don't get me wrong—I’m glad I could help today, but... I can't stop thinking if maybe, if I’d been with Jung-bae then..." His words trailed off, almost broken.

"Don't blame yourself," player 456 spoke, voice thick with emotion, eyes glossed with unshed tears. Only moments before, they'd been ready to tear each other apart, but now there was nothing but an understanding. "It wasn’t your fault."

“I’m sorry, please continue,” a genuine grimace of sadness flashed across Young-il’s face, though his eyes promised nothing but suffering.

You shot a quick, helpless glance around the room, but no one seemed to notice that 001 was still holding your hand, his thumb now moving in slow, soothing circles.

"What I wanted to say, sir…" you said, trying to steady your voice, "what I wanted to say is that while I can’t fully imagine what you're going through... I just ask that it doesn’t cloud your judgment now. Don’t let your grief push you toward vengeance."

The room went still, heavy with silence. The warmth from your hand slipped away as 001 slowly let go, leaving you with a strange mix of relief and emptiness. You flexed your fingers, trying to shake the numbness off.

"I don't know how to shoot, or fight," the girl whispered, clutching her stomach as though in physical pain. "Even if I could, I’m useless right now. I just... I just want to get out of here. And if the game is true to its rules, voting seems like the safest option."

Player 120, who had been standing silently nearby, gently placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, offering her a silent bit of comfort.

"Maybe we should focus on survival," the old woman said, holding her son’s arm with both hands as if to imply she wouldn’t let him go anywhere. "We have less than 15 minutes before the lights go out. We need to be ready."

Player 456 stared down at the rubber floor, his expression a mix of uncertainty and grim resolve. Finally, he lifted his head, his voice low but firm.

"I couldn’t live with myself if I asked you all to risk your lives for my plan. But... I honestly believe this could be our one shot to end this nightmare. I'm not asking anyone to fight, but if anyone is willing to help, I would be forever grateful."

A few men exchanged glances before nodding with quiet resolve.

"I’ll give it everything I have, Gi-hun," player 288 said, his voice full of fiery determination, as always.

"You can count on me," the sweet promise that left Young-il’s lips sounded like a carefully packaged lie to you.

Gi-hun stood tall, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Let's stay focused on surviving. We can’t let ourselves be dragged into a fight we don’t need. The priority now is to stay hidden, no matter what."

You helped move the beds, convincing yourself that tonight, being part of a group might just save your life.

Player 456 had planned three shelters, each in a different location to maximize safety, ensuring they couldn't catch all of you at once.

You returned to your bed just before the lights went out, to retrieve the fork hidden under your pillow. When the room fell dark and the only light came from the two neon floor lights separating Zone 0 from Zone X, you silently slid off the metal frame.

As soon as your feet hit the ground, a heavy hand covered your mouth, and a strong arm tightened around your shoulders like a vice.

"Not a word," you heard in your ear, and a wave of relief washed over you—it wasn’t an attack from the murderers in the blue camp. It was just him.

The hand left your mouth, and you were almost free, except for the crushing grip on your wrist.

He guided you along the wall to the very edge of Zone X, where clusters of metal scaffolding and empty beds from long-dead participants lay. It was the place where you had first seen him, leaning against the wall—this thought crossed your mind.

The pressure on your shoulder made your knees buckle.

"Get under the bed," his voice a command disguised as a whisper.

You fell to the ground, fumbling in the dark to find the space he meant, but you were never good at crawling. You hit your head on the metal frame, and the darkness before your eyes briefly flashed with the pain of a thousand stars. You didn’t make a sound, though—the bed reverberated with the impact, nervously shaking. You imagined his eyes burning with fury at your clumsy mistake.

"Lie flat on the floor," he whispered again, the hint of irritation clear in his simple command. You obeyed, feeling the cold vinyl of the floor beneath you. Then he grabbed your hand, pulling you under the bed like a blanket he had forgotten to take with him. Your tracksuit slid perfectly on the polished floor, and you believed that this action didn’t cost him much effort. You hadn’t eaten in three days.

He pulled you so close that your legs brushed against his. Though the space under the collapsed row of beds seemed vast, you felt claustrophobic. You turned from your stomach to your back, raising your hand and painfully realizing just how low the metal frame hung above you.

"Aren’t you supposed to be with 456?" you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t answer, even though he lay next to you. You could feel the warmth of his body along your entire left side. You wanted to say something more, something to break the tension, but then the air was suddenly pierced by screams.

It had begun.

Your right hand moves instinctively, fingers grazing your thigh, searching for the fork. It’s there. The cold metal feels like a brief, fragile shield.

The screams are louder than the chaos of an execution—more desperate, more raw. The thought of death, delivered by broken glass, a fork, or just hands, makes you shiver.

"Don't squirm," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. If you turn your head, your noses would touch.

He’s told you not to ask questions, but they keep clawing at you, pushing at the edges of your mind. Time is slipping away. 

"Who are you?" The question escapes before you can stop it.

His breath sharpens, a sigh through his nose—irritation simmering beneath the surface.

“You're a lie." You answer yourself, softly.

He doesn’t need to say anything; you're used to being ignored.

"Don't go down that road," he warns, voice low, and for a moment, the dizziness takes over. 

"Young-il," you push further, "That’s probably not even your real name."

A warm hand rests on your throat—just there. A quiet, lethal warning. 

But you can’t stop. The consequences—barely a thought in the back of your mind—mean nothing now.

"Are you one of them?"

His fingers tighten, just enough to make you feel it, but not enough to hurt—yet.

If you're right—will he kill you?  

You’re sure he feels your pulse racing. 

"Explain," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, hot against your skin. 

The chaos around you is drowning. People are screaming, gasping, choking on blood. The lights flicker, harsh and disorienting, flashing for a moment, only to vanish, leaving the room spinning around you.  

He presses harder, pulling you back to him, forcing you to focus.

You turn to face him. 

"You knew my name," you say slowly "I only told one person. Before the first game."

His eyes flicker with something dangerous, but it’s gone before you can grasp it. The lights dance around him, making it impossible to read his face. 

"I heard that conversation," he says smoothly, his breath brushing your cheek like a lie. 

You shake your head.

"You weren’t there," you whisper. "I saw them bring you in."

His gaze hardens, but the pressure on your throat fades, fingers trailing slowly, dangerously down your neck.

"Is that all?" he murmurs.

You try to piece it all together. There’s so much, but it’s a mess—scattered, broken. 

"You’re trying to be like them, but..." You stop, unsure how to say it. "The way you move, the way you speak. Even your hands. It’s all wrong. You're nothing like the others."

You swallow hard. 

"You’re not interested in money," you add, just to be sure.

"Only?" he asks, the word almost playful, a teasing challenge.

"Player 456," you whisper, "You pretend with him. You manipulate him, push him to see what happens."

Like a cat toying with its prey, your thoughts drift in and out, teasing and unsure.  

He threads his fingers through your hair, and you feel the warmth creep across your face, your cheeks burning.

"You thought I would tell him about what happened today. Now you’re watching me, making sure I don’t ruin your fun?"

You’re pushing him too far, testing limits you know you shouldn’t. You’ve seen what he’s capable of—one wrong move, and he could snap your neck without anyone ever knowing. But he’s still, silent, not a hint of violence.

"Answer me," you can’t force him to talk, but you can’t stop hoping he will.

"Ask the question," he murmurs, his breath a whisper against your ear.

"Why are you here?"

"Because I want to."

His answer is simple. But it opens a thousand doors of uncertainty. The question was vague, and so was his response. Every word between you feels like a delicate dance—blow for blow.

Then, the framework above creaks violently—someone’s climbing.  

You tense, but his hand leaves your hair, his body shifting, the instinct to keep watch taking over.  
Another noise, this time from the opposite side, and your pulse quickens.

"Stay here," he says, lips barely brushing your ear. You can't be sure if it's real or a trick your mind plays in the tense silence.

You grab at his hoodie, fingers desperate, but no words come. The tightness in your chest stops the sound before it even forms.  
His hands find yours, pulling them free, one finger at a time, methodical, like he's undoing a knot.

"Don’t do anything stupid," his voice is sharp "It’ll be over soon."

What does he mean? You don’t have time to ask. You scramble, shoving a metal fork into his palm, your thoughts racing between survival and instinct.  

He exhales, almost a sigh, but takes it. Then, before you can stop him, he pulls away, slipping toward the exit under the bed.

You close your eyes, hands pressed to your ears, trying to block out the mental image of Young-il fighting with your fork. It’s absurd, but it’s all you have.

Time seems to stretch, slow, unbearable. Then, the lights flicker on, harsh and blinding, and the room erupts into chaos. Gunshots ring out, voices shouting orders, and the unmistakable noise of the game falling apart. Guards rush in, chaos reigning as they try to control the fighters. 

You huddle deeper into the shadows, waiting, praying for a sign. Then, more gunfire. Another round. And another. The room shakes with the violence. You don’t see it all—just flashes of people running, shoes fleeing, but you know what’s happening. Gi-hun’s plan is in motion. The players are resisting. 

After what feels like an eternity, the silence hits. It's thick, oppressive. The gunfire stops. 

"Hey!" A shout rings through the stillness. "Everyone, come here! Don’t be afraid! You can leave now! We’re not going to hurt you!"

You crawl out from beneath the metal frames, squinting as your eyes adjust to the harsh light.  

The room... it’s a massacre. Bodies of both players and guards lie scattered, the metallic stench of blood thick in the air. 

You scan the room, and the realization hits—there are so few survivors. The players with the Xs? They could be counted on one hand. 

Gi-hun stands tall on the podium where the voting used to take place, a machine gun slung across his shoulder. Behind him, player 120, 288, and 246 stand with guns in hand, and there’s Young-il. Blood stains his tracksuit, but somehow, it doesn’t seem like he’s the one who bled.

"We’re going up to the control center," Gi-hun says, his voice raw with emotion. "We’ll take down the ones who trapped us here, end this madness for good."

But the survivors... they don’t share his fire.

"Anyone who wants to join us, step forward."

No one moves. Some avert their gazes, their bloodied sneakers suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating.

You take a breath, your mind sharp despite the chaos around you. The blue team holds the advantage. They’ve wiped out half of the X-marked players, and now they stand as the majority. The balance has shifted, and it’s clear they have the power. 

Your eyes flick to the broken surveillance cameras hanging like limp vines from their cables, useless now. No one outside will ever know what’s happening in here.

"This might be our last chance to get out of here alive," Player 456 calls, his voice cracking with desperation. "Fight with us. We can end this. We can go home."

His words are like a rope thrown to the drowning. There’s no guarantee, no promises, but it’s the only choice left. 

You step forward.

All eyes snap to you. You feel their weight, their judgment, but you don’t falter. You take another step, moving towards the men standing in the center, eyes fixed on Gi-hun. His face is a mix of hope and exhaustion.

"I’ll go with you," you say, the words steady, even as your heart hammers in your chest. "Though I’ve only shot a gun once in my life, and not one like that."

The words feel almost too bold. Too much.

Before you can even process the weight of what you’ve just committed to, player 120 rushes towards you, her arm sliding around you in a protective gesture.  

"I’ll show you everything," she says, her voice low and reassuring. Her words are casual, like teaching you how to ride a bike, as if handling a gun was the simplest thing in the world. 

You nod, though something in your gut twists. There’s a promise there, but also a sense of danger that you can’t shake.

You force yourself to ignore the lingering presence of player 001, the man who has watched it all unfold. His eyes are hard, unreadable. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking. Not now.

You don’t see how player 001’s lips tighten into a thin, hard line. But you feel the shift in the air.

The quiet warning you choose to ignore.

Chapter Text

"We're running out of ammo!" Player 120 shouted, ducking behind a raspberry-pink pillar. Fragments of plaster, riddled by a hail of bullets, whirled around him like snowflakes.

It had probably been about 30 minutes since you started climbing the maze of pastel stairs, and now you were stuck at the top, under the unending fire of the pink soldiers.

"The soldiers have spare mags in their pockets," Player 001 noted, leaning over the lifeless body of a fallen guard, tossing extra ammo into Player 456's hands.

"Y/N, can you make it back to the dormitory and empty the soldiers’ pockets?" Player 120 asked gently, then fired another round toward the advancing guards.

You gave a quick nod. As expected, shooting wasn’t exactly your forte, and you had a strong feeling someone else could make better use of your ammo. Yet, if you had to choose again, you would go with them without hesitation. The thought of being left alone in a room full of people you couldn't trust, without an ally, felt like a far worse scenario than hiding from the relentless gunfire.

With a flick of your wrist, you tossed your magazine to Gi-Hun.

"I’ll be back as soon as I can! Hold out!" you shouted, preparing to run.

"Got it, I’ll look for the command zone in the meantime!" Gi-Hun shouted, his voice barely audible over the gunfire.

“Will you find it? Should I come with you?" Young-il asked, a hint of worry in his voice. Gi-Hun nodded firmly, accepting the offer.

"Try to distract them. We'll call for you when we need backup!" You heard the last words as Player 456 disappeared through a door, followed by Player 001.

You moved swiftly, heading down the stairs, hands protecting your head. The descent felt almost too easy, especially compared to the grueling climb you’d made, weaving through the gunfire from the soldiers above.

The bodies on the ground were still there. You scrambled to search their pockets, eyes scanning for anything useful. As Young-il had said, a magazine was tucked away in a tiny Velcro-sealed pouch. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement—players peeking out from behind metal bunks, their gazes fixed on you. Worse, two blue team players, having noticed you, began to approach.

You darted toward the exit, clutching the magazines you'd scavenged. That should be enough, you thought. It had to be.

The climb back up felt harder than you expected, especially since, against every instinct, you were running straight toward the sound of gunfire. When you finally reached the men in the middle of the chaos, two of them lay motionless in pools of blood. Player 120 caught your eye, giving you a brief, thankful nod.

"I thought you weren’t coming back," she whispered as you handed her the magazines. "Thank you."

"There are more of them!" shouted Player 246. "They’ll try to surround us. Let’s hold our ground here."

Player 120’s hand gently landed on your shoulder.

"Y/N, take the rest of the magazines to Gi-Hun. We’ll be right behind you once we have things under control," she said, locking eyes with you.

You sprinted through the door where the others had vanished and found yourself in a hallway lined with pastel-colored doors, like something straight out of Alice in Wonderland—except with bullet holes scattered across the walls. At the end of the hallway, sliding doors stood, blocked by a rifle used as a makeshift barricade. You squeezed through the gap, bracing yourself for what lay beyond: more blood, and the lifeless bodies of pink soldiers.

You moved cautiously, each step deliberate, hoping you wouldn’t draw attention but your heart hammering in your chest, threatening to betray you with every erratic beat.

A short burst of gunfire echoed from around the corner, followed by another flurry of shots in response.

You froze. You were unarmed, just pockets full of ammo, completely useless to you. It hit you in that moment: your situation was hopeless.

Then, after a brief silence, a familiar voice pierced the air.

Player 456.

"Why were you left out?!"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," came another, calm voice—Young-il.

A flood of relief washed over you. Both of them were alive. You’d made it just in time.

You peeked around the corner, your senses on high alert, and what you saw wasn’t what you expected—at all.

Seong Gi-hun stood with his back to you, his weapon aimed directly at Player 001’s chest. Between them lay the stretched-out body of a pink soldier.

You were a few meters away, but even from this distance, you could see the state Player 456 was in. His breath came in jagged gasps, hands trembling so much that the rifle shook in his grip.

He was a mess.

Standing opposite him, as calm as ever, was Young-il, his weapon casually slung over his shoulder, an expression of mild surprise on his face.

"Answer me!" Gi-hun barked, his voice unsteady. "The soldier passed by you as if you weren’t even there?! Why didn’t he shoot you?!"

For a heartbeat, Player 001's eyes locked with yours. He knew you were there, yet he did nothing to betray your presence. As if it didn't matter that you were standing there.

“Gi-hun, my friend, lower your weapon…” Player 001 said calmly, raising both hands like he was trying to calm a skittish horse.

"Friend?! I know what I saw, Young-il!" Player 456 was starting to lose it. "What are you hiding from me?!"

Your gaze darted back and forth between them, trying to figure out what would happen next.

The voice in your head—a nasty, all-knowing whisper—was almost smug. Of course, you wanted to justify yourself.

You had made up your mind the second you saw Gi-hun with his weapon raised at Player 001. You were just looking for reassurance that what you were about to do even remotely made sense.

You willed your legs to move, taking three quick steps as if you’d just come around a corner.

"Hey! Gi-hun!" you called, trying to sound cheerful. "I’ve got the mags!"

It worked.

Player 456 whipped around, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. For a split second, you saw confusion flicker across his face, then recognition, then—pure terror.

Before he could do anything, Young-il pounced. With one fluid motion, he raised his weapon and slammed it into the back of Gi-hun’s head, sending him crashing to the ground.

The hallway went still.

You took a few more steps, your eyes fixed on the motionless Gi-hun, trying to look indifferent—like this was just another moment in a day full of strange ones.

Player 001 snatched the walkie-talkie from the fallen man’s hoodie pocket and twisted the dial, then looked up at you with the coldest expression you’d seen in days.

"Start wrapping things up," he said.

Oh, you thought smartly.

You were right.

No matter what happened now, you had just received the answer to the question that had been growing in you over the past few days. The corners of your lips twitched slightly, unsure whether they wanted to smile or twist into a sudden spasm of tears.

You tried to focus, but the weight of exhaustion was too much. Your legs felt like lead. It was like you’d reached the end of something, and you weren’t sure if it was relief or resignation.

Meanwhile, Player 001 moved with a practiced urgency. He disarmed the rifle. The radio followed, tossed onto Gi-hun’s unconscious body like a broken toy. He adjusted his hoodie sleeves, rolling them down carefully, as if he were preparing for something grand—like he was about to attend a meeting in a boardroom rather than a hallway littered with bodies and tension.

Without a glance in your direction, he turned and headed for the pastel-colored stairs, as though you didn’t even exist. You felt so small.

Your legs finally betrayed you, and you slid down the wall beside Gi-hun. There was nothing left to do, no escape, no plan. You didn’t want to go back to the dormitory. Just the thought of those bloodstained stairs made your stomach twist. You were numb with resignation, so you accepted with relief that the best option was simply to do nothing.

You had no idea how long you’d been sitting there, next to the unconscious Player 456, watching over him like a dog, overwhelmed by a rising sense of despair. But then, at some point, the door at the top of the stairs hissed open, and you heard the heavy thud of boots striking the floor, breaking the silence like an echo in the void.

A dozen pink soldiers marched out, rifles in hand.

Behind them was a man dressed in black from head to toe, his mask emblazoned with a square emblem. There was something important about him, but you couldn’t place it. Was this the one Gi-hun had mentioned?

The soldiers moved swiftly, two of them grabbing Player 456’s limp body by the arms and legs, dragging him toward the exit. The rest of them formed a protective barrier around him, guns raised, ready for anything.

You’d been expecting Player 456 to be eliminated right then and there. But, surprisingly, he wasn’t. Despite everything he had done, despite the mess he’d caused, he was still alive—for now.

"Get up," a voice called from above, and you barely had time to register what was happening before you were staring straight into the cold, dark barrel of a rifle.

Without missing a beat, you scrambled to your feet, the barrel pressing firmly into your back as you started to climb the pastel stairs.

"Sir," a man in a black jumpsuit nodded briefly as he entered the large room. "Player 013."

At that, you were shoved forward into the space in front of you, stumbling slightly.

“Leave us," a modulated voice rang out from the other side of the lounge, where a masked figure sat with their back turned to you. On the enormous TV screen in front of him, feeds from cameras mounted on the pink soldiers' suits flickered. It looked like most of the fighting players were already down.

You swallowed hard, and the door behind you clicked shut, sealing you in.

"Come here," the voice ordered again, the tone cold and precise, like a kidnapper on the other end of a phone call, demanding something you couldn't refuse.

You moved slowly toward him, the plush carpet beneath your feet muting every step.

When you reached the top of the rounded couch, you noticed the man’s mask was unlike the hockey-like ones the soldiers wore. This one was jagged, as if someone had hastily sculpted it from dark stone. The sharp angles and deep creases made it look like something pulled from a modern art exhibit—vague, yet strikingly familiar, though you couldn’t quite place it.

"Sit," he said, his finger pointing to the spot beside him, as if the luxurious upholstery was meant to accommodate your blood-streaked, sweat-soaked tracksuit.

You sank into the couch, keeping some distance between you and the still figure beside you. The cushions softened your fall, and for a moment, you let your muscles relax, aching with relief. You were beyond tired.

You stole a glance at him, noting his profile—perfectly still, his focus locked on the shifting images on the screen. On the coffee table in front of him, a crystal glass caught the light, half-filled with amber liquid. There was a faint trace of lips on the rim, almost unnoticed.

"Take off the mask," you said, breaking the silence that had settled awkwardly between you.

"As per the rules," he replied without shifting his posture, his voice flat, "employees are required to wear masks."

"I know it’s you."

For a moment, the black mask remained unmoving, but then it turned toward you, moving with a precision that felt almost mechanical. You had his attention now.

"Didn’t I show all of you that following the rules maintains order, brings us closer to our goal?" He said it slowly, like he was reciting some well-worn mantra. Then, his hands moved, and you saw the gloves on his fingers flex as he reached for the fastener at the back of his head. "And breaking the rules brings chaos. Unpredictable consequences."

With a small click, the mask came off.

And there he was, Player 001. The same one who had occupied your thoughts for the past few days.

His hair was styled differently now—slicked back, smooth at the sides. He wore a grey outfit that could have been a suit, though it felt too stiff, too formal, with the jacket fastened all the way up to the neck, a row of neat buttons keeping it together. The light above caught the shine of his polished shoes.

He looked exactly like the person you’d imagined, the one who’d been hiding for days in that awful green tracksuit.

He looked like power itself.

And you stared. 

He caught your gaze, his eyes intense, but there was something more beneath that focus—something heavy, as if the weight of everything that had happened lately had left a mark on him too.

With a single movement, he reached to peel off his gloves.

“Are you ready for the consequences?”

The words hung in the air, a question you didn’t want to answer. Consequences of what, exactly? Of going along with them? Of helping him? Of staying where he had left you, at the bottom of the stairs?

A bitter laugh escaped you, but when you glanced at him, you saw that his face had no trace of humor. This was no game.

“Do you face the consequences of your decisions?" You threw the words back at him, perhaps a little too quickly, trying to mask your own discomfort.

”I live with them every day,” he said, voice steady and unflinching.

The words hung between you.

"I’ve been wondering," he murmured, eyes narrowing as he studied you, "if I made the right choice, picking you over Player 390. Your curiosity, your disobedience—it could’ve thrown my plans off course."

His voice trailed off, the doubt lingering in the air like a low hum.

"Jung-bae would’ve given his life for Gi-hun," you responded, keeping your tone flat, though you knew he was already aware of this. Player 390, a man bound by duty, would always stand by his friend's side.

"And you?" His gaze sharpened, pressing deeper, "What would you give your life for?"

The question hit harder than expected. You stiffened, hiding the unease creeping into your chest. It was so simple, yet it cracked through you. You pushed yourself off the edge of the couch, needing to move, needing some space to think, but before you could go far, his grip seized your wrist, solid and unyielding.

"Sit down," he said, his tone casual, almost indifferent—like it wouldn’t matter if you were standing, sitting, or floating. But his hand tugged insistently, pulling you back down. You sank next to him, the tension between you now palpable, close like two people at the end of a long day, sharing a moment that was both familiar and strange. The only thing missing was the comfort of a shared silence, a casual touch.

Instead, he lifted the crystal glass slowly to his lips, his eyes still on you.

He was waiting.

You swallowed, then finally met his gaze.

"I’d rather just live," you replied, holding the weight of your words steady.

"Why?" he leaned in a fraction closer, and you caught the faint bite of whisky on his breath. "Why live like this?"

You could feel the offense on your face, but you couldn't stop it. So, this was how he saw you—a blip in his grand design, nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience. Just like he viewed every life in this building.

Almost every life.

"Would my life be more interesting to you if I had come here with a half-baked plan for revenge, ready to make a mess of your carefully curated empire?" you asked, struggling to keep your voice steady despite the fire raging inside you.

He smiled. It was a quiet thing, but it made something inside you tighten. And finally, you noticed the tiny wrinkles forming around his eyes. It was charming, in a way. Confidence in the hands of a man who knew exactly how much power he held was a dangerous thing.

"Player 456 spent most of his life relying on others, offering nothing in return. But this game gave his life purpose. Revenge. He had been preparing for this rematch for years, and I had let him. I appreciated that kind of determination." His fingers moved idly around the glass in his hand, his voice calm and almost reflective. "That same strength that had pushed him forward during his first games, when he fought for his life. His goal was clear. The consequences were clear, too."

You turned your attention to the screen, watching through the soldier’s perspective as Player 206 dropped. The whole thing felt like a video game, almost detached. Almost like you were the one pulling the trigger.

"You've been working really hard lately," you started, your gaze fixed on the TV screen. "You've given up so much—money, soldiers' lives, your time—all to prove something to one man... But, actually, what exactly? That his petty vendetta from the beginning was always bound to fail? That he wasted his chance at a new life?"

You heard the glass gently click against the table, and then you felt the subtle pressure of his hand on the back of your neck. His fingers weren’t firm enough to hurt, but just enough to make you turn your head in his direction.

"I showed him that he's no different from the rest of us,” he said quietly, as if he genuinely wanted you to believe him.

You didn’t do anything to confirm that you understood.

"So, if we’ve exhausted the topic of Player 456, let's move on to you. What I’m really interested in is, what was your goal?" his voice a low murmur that cut right through you.

The simplicity of the question stung. Because the truth was, your life hadn’t had a clear purpose for a long time.

And he knew it. He was toying with you now.

"Was it money?" he continued, his eyes scanning your face with a knowing gleam. "Or was it something more... emotional?"

You froze. He had hit the mark, hadn’t he? You felt exposed, desperate to escape the vulnerability he was drawing out of you. But his hand kept you in place, still, locked in this unmovable position.

Finally, you broke the silence.

"I was bored," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Shame washed over you in a hot wave, but it was the truth.

His hand drifted forward, a slow, deliberate motion as he tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. The touch was light, almost tender.

"So, are you enjoying the game?" he asked, his voice casual, but there was a weight beneath the words, a challenge you couldn’t quite place.

The question lingered in the air, innocent on the surface. You knew it was a test. A subtle push to see how far you’d bend.

For a moment, you felt as though you were in some kind of therapy session—where the gentle probing of simple questions opened doors you didn’t even know existed in your mind.

Do you enjoy it?

Your gaze faltered, losing its sharpness. You were staring through him now, lost in the haze of something deeper, something unsettling. You wondered, for a split second, if the thrill of it all was real—if it was the uncertainty, the constant proximity to death, that had your blood singing with life. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline, the rush of every moment hanging by a thread.

You tore your thoughts away, dragging your gaze back to his face, searching for something in the calm, dark depths of his eyes. There was nothing there, except patient expectation.

His finger wound a lock of your hair around his hand, slow and deliberate, before giving it a gentle tug—like a child teasing a toy, pulling just enough to make you react.

And then, with a jolt, the door inside your mind swung open, revealing the truth.

It was attention.

The kind you had never realized you craved, the kind you had tried to deny. The rollercoaster of it all—the highs when his eyes locked on yours, making you feel as though you were the only person in the world, followed by the crushing lows when he pulled away and you became invisible once more.

It was his fault.

You recoiled from him, your hand brushing his away from your hair, the sharp edge of your frustration cutting through the revelation. You felt exposed, as if he had stripped something raw from you. But the smile tugging at his lips—so knowing, so smug—told you that this was exactly what he had wanted.

"Well, well Y/N," he said, his voice casually leaning into the silence between you, "now we can get down to specifics."

You saw it in his eyes. He was pleased with himself, like a player who had just figured out the rules of a game too complicated to explain, and now he was ready to enjoy the challenge.

"I need a drink," you muttered, more to yourself than to him. You were so thrown off balance, your thoughts scattered like pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together.

He gestured toward the bar with a casual flick of his wrist.

Without waiting for another prompt, you made your way toward the drinks, the sound of his footsteps following close behind.

You placed both hands on the polished mahogany counter, eyes drifting over the perfect, symmetrical rows of crystal bottles. For a moment, you were paralyzed—unsure which one to choose, which poison might quiet the chaos in your mind. You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to gather yourself.

"Tell me about the consequences," you said, the words slipping out before you even realized you'd formed them. His presence loomed beside you, a head taller, his expensive suit making him appear even more imposing than usual.

He didn’t hesitate.

"Since the rules have been broken, the organizer will withdraw from the current arrangements. No more voting. The prize pool will stop increasing." His tone was level, but there was a cold finality to it.

You nodded, absorbing the information without allowing it to sink too deeply.

"That way, you’ll turn both the 0 and X camp players against Gi-hun. He’ll be alone."

Your words came out flat, detached, as if you were simply observing a chain of events unfolding before you. No emotion, no investment.

"Those are the consequences of his choices," he replied, pressing a glass half-filled with golden liquid into your hands. The chill of the crystal brought you back to earth, grounding you in the moment.

The alcohol burned its way down your throat, sharp and unforgiving, but you swallowed anyway. What’s one more drink in a world where everything felt so fleeting? It could be your last, and that thought, strangely, didn’t terrify you as much as it should.

"What about the consequences of my choices?" you asked, voice almost too casual as you brought the glass to your lips—like this was just another trivial exchange, not a question that could change the course of your future.

His gaze dropped to you, cold, calculating.

"You’re not the player this game was designed for. Yet somehow, my employee decided to hand you an invitation, and you took it. Since that moment, you’ve simply become one of the 456 players—equal, bound by the same set of rules, with the same chance of winning."

His fingers brushed the stained number on the front of your hoodie, a subtle touch that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

"But you surprised me today," he added, his voice lower now, almost softer—like a change in the weather, a shift you couldn’t quite predict.

You pushed his hand away from your chest, irritated by the constant invasion of your personal space. He was messing with your head again, making everything inside you slow, clouding your thoughts with a single touch. But your resistance only made things worse. He grabbed your wrist tighter, a sudden, possessive force that pushed you backward until you crashed into the polished counter. The glass in your hand shattered, the sharp sound of it slicing through the air, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, you felt something you hadn’t felt in years: a childlike fear.

It was a flash, a memory of childhood when you’d break something fragile—and the punishment that would follow. The terror of consequences that didn’t seem to care about your innocence. You shook it off, but the sting lingered.

Something flickered in his gaze, as if, for a fleeting moment, he had heard your thoughts and caught a glimpse of the buried nightmares lurking in your memory. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Y/N," he murmured your name, low and controlled, the sound of it a faint echo of something you couldn’t quite grasp. His other hand, warm but firm, gripped your chin, tilting your face up so that you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"What do you want?" he asked, the words deliberate, heavy. "Think carefully," he added, and in the pause that followed, your mind whirled.

What do you want?

His eyes locked onto yours, stern and unreadable, as if you were the one who didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you were trying to ignore it, to pretend none of this mattered, but that was getting harder with every second.

What do you want?

You wanted a purpose, something to make sense of all this chaos. But admitting it meant he could turn it into something darker—another game, another way to toy with your life. And you didn’t want that. You didn’t want to go back to the game. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t even be here. Twice, he had saved you. But if you stepped back into that world now, you knew you wouldn’t make it. No allies, no one to watch your back. The odds were so stacked against you that even hope felt like a forgotten dream. Survival? A fleeting idea. Purpose? A cruel joke.

Did you want money? The thought flickered through your mind. You'd imagined it—coming home with billions of won, living in opulence. But the image of yourself, alone behind the wheel of a crimson Porsche, felt... hollow. The more you pictured it, the more the luxury faded into an unbearable void, and you realized you couldn’t quite grasp how it would fill the emptiness you’d carried all along.

Maybe you just wanted to go home. But what was home? The small room where you slept, the flickering TV screen in the corner, the taste of instant noodles from the nearby supermarket. It was nothing. It was nothing at all.

His gaze never left you, and you could feel the weight of it, pressing down on you, making it impossible to think clearly. Even though you knew this was just a game, another form of manipulation, you couldn’t shake the feeling of intoxication—whether from the alcohol or the situation itself, you weren’t sure.

You took a deep breath, your voice soft but steady.

"I want to stay."

The words felt strange as they left your lips, as if they’d come from somewhere far deeper than you had expected. You felt as if you were lying once more beneath the cold, metal bed frames, the sounds of battle echoing around you, and you whispered secrets into his ear—secrets that were only meant for him alone.

I want to feel alive, a quiet, spiteful voice echoed in your head.

His brow twitched at your response. His fingers moved from your chin, sliding into the strands of your hair at the back of your neck. The touch was gentle, almost tender, but the control behind it was unmistakable.

"Here," you added, voice barely above a whisper.

You gestured toward the TV screen, where the game was still unfolding, still demanding attention. "Not there."

A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes scanning you with a predatory gleam. You weren’t sure if you were imagining the promise burning in them, or if it was something more real, something more dangerous.

"Good girl," he said, the words almost a purr as he pulled you closer, his grip on you tightening.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.