Chapter Text
I guess you never know, someone you think you know
Can't see the knife when you're too close, too close
It scars forever when someone you called your friend
Shows you the truth can be so cold, so cold
I'd wipe the dirt off your name with the shirt off my back
I thought that you'd do the same, but you didn't do that
“Burning Down” by Alex Warren
🖤
What a fucking mess.
And it’s In-ho’s own fault.
He didn’t have to join Seong Gi-hun’s little rebellion. He didn’t have to shoot his own guards. He didn’t have to come this far, let things progress this far.
But then. He never ever expected Seong Gi-hun to make it this far.
And something about that man makes him weak. Makes him stupid.
The submachine gun clatters where he throws it, skidding off into a corner of his bedroom as he tears his uniform from the closet. He doesn’t have very long. A minute or two, at most. It already took him at least ninety seconds to get here, even jogging, and Gi-hun came entirely too close to the command center for comfort already.
The Officer briefed him on the way in terse summary. Casualties. Damages.
The VIPs are displeased.
Displeased, and fascinated.
It’s a poisonous mix.
Something burns in his chest remembering what the Officer said, the punishment the gold-masked men had suggested for the rebellion’s leader. Not death. That would have been too merciful.
In-ho curses when he drops the mask, bending to snatch it up again as it stares, accusing, up at him.
Do we stand a chance?
We do if we catch them off guard.
Stupid. It was stupid of Gi-hun to think this was at all possible.
No - it was naive.
Naive and idealistic.
And yet, he made it so far. Further than In-ho had anticipated in his wildest contingency plans. He knew he should have accompanied Gi-hun instead of Player 390. He could have misled him, suggested faulty pathways, kept them busy until his guards could sweep up the mess. Instead, he let them go, watched them leave together with a sour clench in his stomach, the stench of copper and shit thick in his nostrils.
Death reeks.
If he hadn’t participated in the Games he could have handled this. If he had just kept out of the way, stayed in his viewing room like a good little soldier, he could have quashed this whole operation with a finger flick. Up here, it’s easier to forget. To compartmentalize. To numb. To do what needs to be done. Down there -
Flashes of white and teal, players jostling and shoving and screaming. The hot tang of blood on his lips, his tongue, where someone else’s insides splattered. Concrete and cleaning chemicals. The too-warm player jacket, that damned cheap fabric pulling up a prickling sweat from his back, his neck. Palms sticky. White numbers blazing on his chest -
Congratulations, Player 132 -
Player 001 -
132 -
Player 456 -
Put me in the game.
His coat smells right. Like his office. Bergamot and sandalwood. Incense. Cigarette smoke and whiskey. And his own scent, lingering still even after half a week, filling the linings of the thick fabric like a sigh -
Welcome home.
Welcome back.
Remember who you are.
If his hands are shaking when he yanks it over his arms, clumsy in haste, fingers turned to wood, no one has to know. The gloves cover the rust-smears on his hands. They cover the trembling. Putting on the mask is like breathing for the first time in days. He feels himself steady as he affixes the strap, feels his center of gravity return as he draws the hood and seals himself into the cocoon. Anonymous. Faceless. Voiceless. It feels like a bulletproof vest, after the naked vulnerability of the player uniform.
He strides back out without waiting for his pulse to slow, no time to waste, rejoining the Officer just in time to hear the last of the resistance surrender over the radios.
He only slows at the final corner, pausing for a moment so he can measure his steps.
“I surrender,” calls a familiar voice, but not the voice, not the one he’s listening for. His heart lurches into his throat for a moment - where is Gi-hun? He can’t have died, he can’t, In-ho gave explicit instructions for the guards to shoot at least ten centimeters wide of Player 456, he can’t be -
Alive.
He’s alive.
Kneeling, just dropping his own gun to the floor as In-ho descends the stairs before him.
It’s unfortunate, what must come next.
But the VIPs want blood. And In-ho will not, cannot, spill Seong Gi-hun’s. Not when they’ve both come so far.
“Player 456. Did you have fun playing the hero?”
Unfortunate.
But necessary.
Maybe one day, Gi-hun will understand why.
“Look closely at the consequences of your little hero game.”
Because he must understand. This world has rules. It has consequences.
The VIPs had requests. They wanted the rebels rounded up and paraded, naked, bleeding, objects to be spat upon and used as palettes for cigar burns and whatever other petty tortures the golden masks could conjure. And for the leaders of this little uprising...
Well. The VIPs had requests for them, too.
In-ho will be facing the consequences, later, for depriving them.
He moves the barrel of the gun aside, allows a moment for Player 390 to say goodbye, and squeezes the trigger.
He waits for the screaming to stop before Player 456 is brought to his office.
Some small time to mourn is only appropriate.
As expected, he makes a lunge for In-ho as soon as he sees him. Murderous intent in his eyes, in the careless disregard of his own safety, ignoring the four guns aimed at his skull. Just as before. But these guards are well-trained, trusted, and In-ho doesn’t have to worry about them letting Gi-hun hurt himself. Or his subject of furious vengeance.
Gi-hun’s face is wet with tears, with sweat, and he screams at In-ho, struggling against the sure grip of his captors as he calls him all the most horrible and vile things he can think of, spitting accusations and expletives. In-ho waits it out. Tunes it out. He has to think strategically. He has to prepare, arrange his thoughts, center himself.
He didn’t want to do this so soon.
He had so many more plans, so many more subtle strategies, ways of nudging his mirror image onto the correct path. Now all that is down the toilet, useless in the face of his absolute clusterfuck of a day. He takes a deep breath, hands clasped loosely behind him, hearing Gi-hun out impassively as he slowly tires. Safe behind the shield of his mask, In-ho waits, and he plans.
It has to be now.
This has to work.
They’re both running out of time.
The Officer’s flat tones ring in his ears. The VIPs are... displeased.
Eventually, when the man’s tirade slows to a grinding halt and he’s too tired to thrash anymore, In-ho orders his guards to bring Player 456 to the viewing chair, where they deposit him wordlessly. Gi-hun makes as if to stand as soon as the guards step back, but In-ho expected that.
“Kill me now and you’ll never get answers,” he says simply.
It works. He knew it would. Seong Gi-hun didn’t hunt him for three years, track him to his own car, volunteer for another round in the games just to toss aside the chance at real answers - even if it means postponing what he sees as justice.
Who are you? the man had demanded through the fumes, over and over until his consciousness slipped, Who are you? Who are you!?
Gi-hun, frozen halfway between sitting and standing, measures the room. Everything shows on his face. The fury. The hatred. The grief. The calculations as he glances around, counting guards, estimating his own chances. He sinks back down into the black leather with an expression of pure venom.
“Dismissed,” In-ho tells the guards, and he’s gratified to see that none of them pause before obeying. Surely they’re curious. Surely they have questions. But he trained them well. They know that the answers aren’t for them.
Gi-hun seems equally unbalanced, unsure - scared. He’s trying to hide it, his form rigid in the hard rectangle of the chair, his face contorted into a scowl. But In-ho saw the way his eyes flicked down to the gun and back. In-ho isn’t a fool. He knows how this place changes people. He knows better than to leave himself unarmed in a room with a player. Even sweet, forgiving Seong Gi-hun grew some fangs.
“Would you like a drink?”
It was meant to take Gi-hun by surprise, and judging by his face it did. His brows rearrange on his face. Such an open face. How did he get this far?
“You killed Jung-bae,” he says instead of answering. It’s like he can’t believe it, like he thinks if he says it enough times maybe it won’t be true anymore. In-ho remembers when death was that foreign.
Moving carefully, ready for Gi-hun to snap at any moment and go for the throat, he strides to the chair with false nonchalance and plucks the crystal cork from the whiskey decanter. Gi-hun shrinks back. Just a centimeter. Eyes hard and staring, fingers clawed into the leather armrests like it takes everything in him not to use them for violence. He’s a mess. Short hair glistening with grease and oil, voice raw and crackling, his player uniform smudged with red. He stinks of pungent fear-sweat. A dark stain gleams on his upper arm. In-ho noticed it immediately on the staircase. Just a graze, it looks like, but he’ll be reviewing the footage later, combing through until he finds the guard that shot him.
They’ll be dismissed.
Ten centimeters, he said.
How dare they.
The delicate slosh of liquid is the only noise in the soundproofed room. The smoky tang of whiskey rises to mingle with the scent of war.
“It was necessary.” His own voice is strange to him. Four days without the mask left him almost unaccustomed to the modulator.
A vein tics in Gi-hun’s temple. Leather creaks, almost imperceptibly, under the grip of his nails. “Necessary? Necessary? You -!”
“Someone had to die.” In-ho pours a second glass for himself, sore and shaking again. The uniform hides it well. His voice comes out smooth and firm through the mask. “Surely you must understand that. Someone must be held accountable. The VIPs wanted it to be you, naturally.” He picks up the glass, wondering if he could knock it back quickly enough to replace the mask without Gi-hun seeing. He shouldn’t risk it. He swirls the liquid amber instead. Still hovering near Gi-hun’s shoulder, keeping just out of arm’s reach, just close enough to step in if he becomes unreasonable. “It’s thanks to me you’re alive.”
The shout is strained, breaking over abused vocal cords. “It should have been me!” Gi-hun’s whole head, whole body moves with the statement. Always so demonstrative. His hair used to fly with the vigor of his convictions. “It should have been me!”
He needs a drink.
In-ho circles to the back of the chair, halting Gi-hun’s turn with a gun at his temple. The safety clicks. He watches gooseflesh rise on Gi-hun’s throat, feeling strangely cold himself. “Wait,” he orders shortly. “Unless you want our conversation to end now.”
It’s a test. Will Gi-hun turn? How badly does he want to know the answers to all his questions?
Pistol in his left hand, whiskey glass in his right, he tries to breathe evenly as he shoves the glass up underneath the mask, displacing it, knocking it askew for a few crucial moments so he can take his medicine. Gi-hun’s whole body twitches when he hears the click, glass on plastic, the rattle of materials jostling for the same space. But his head remains fixed. Eyes locked on the dark TV screen before him. A bead of sweat slides down the side of Gi-hun’s neck. In-ho wants a better look than the mask allows.
The warming burn of alcohol braces him, invigorates him like a slap to the face.
Mask re-affixed, he completes his circle, pacing around Gi-hun like a predator, taking some small snide pleasure in the way the man tenses and shifts. He lowers the gun once he’s back in front, even placing it conspicuously on a side table before picking up the second glass in a gloved hand. He can’t explain why it couldn’t have been Gi-hun. Why he can’t let this man go, can’t let him die. It’s something he can’t entirely explain to himself, let alone Gi-hun.
So instead, he offers the glass.
Gi-hun takes it and smashes it at their feet.
Unbothered, In-ho produces an identical glass from the drink cart and re-pours. He holds it out. Gi-hun looks at it.
“I have a lot of these,” In-ho says, dryly, as if to say, you want to smash this one too? You can. I can do this all day.
Gi-hun turns away. “I don’t want your gifts,” he mutters. In-ho watches his eyes track the gun in the corner. He watches the thoughts dance across those features, harder and sharper than they were three years ago, aged beyond his years.
In-ho places the glass down beside him.
“If you change your mind.”
Gi-hun considers going for the gun. In-ho watches it play out on his face. He glances to where it lies, looks away, looks around the rest of the room as if the glance was simply part of a casual perusal. He thinks. In-ho is between him and the gun. Could he leap from the chair, dodge or overpower the Front Man, get his hands on the pistol? What then? He was blindfolded on the way here. He wouldn’t even know where to go. And with one gun, what could he do against dozens of guards, even if he did manage to kill his adversary?
It’s all so clear, written in the gaunt man’s eyes.
In-ho will have to teach him how to wear a mask of a different kind. How to hide his true thoughts.
Those gray-brown eyes return to the Front Man’s mask, his jaw clenched. And finally, he sinks back. Not relaxing, no way in hell, but... accepting limitations. For now. In-ho feels a taut wire within himself loosen as Gi-hun leans a degree back in his chair, resentment etched in the planes of his face. Robotically, he moves one hand to pick up the whiskey glass.
It’s more progress than In-ho imagined. He sinks to a squat, elbows propped on knees, head tilting to study his captive at eye-level.
Unbidden, a wish tugs at the muscle in his chest.
He curses himself silently, angry at himself for such softness. Hwang In-ho is the Front Man. He’s not moved by pleas or tears anymore. He’s removed, aloof. He can’t be swayed by emotion when this job requires such exacting practicality. But this man, this nobody that cares so deeply for everybody, worms his way under In-ho’s skin without even trying.
There’s just one other person in the world who ever accomplished that.
He wants Gi-hun to smile at him. That’s the pit of it, small and sharp like the stone of a plum, cutting him from the inside out. He wants to see the stony expression washed away and replaced with something welcoming. Warm. Tentative. The way he used to look at In-ho.
No. The way he used to look at Young-il.
Gi-hun’s newly perpetual frown used to soften when he looked at Young-il, the lines around his eyes easing, the years stripping away like old paint and showing In-ho a glimpse of the man that grinned into the camera before his first games. Now when those charcoal-brown eyes turn to him, they’re cold and hard as flint. He looks old, sitting in that chair. Old and worn thin, worn out, all hard angles and callus. With his curls shorn he looks sterner, more serious. In-ho wants to see it grow out again. He wants to draw out those goofy expressions, study them, dissect them. He wants to bury his hands into Gi-hun’s chest until he finds what makes him tick. He wants to surround the man with luxury to make up for the horror, set him amongst fineries, see him dressed in black tie and gold. He wants to show him a new reality, his reality. This isn’t how things have to be.
You could be so much more, he thinks, suppressing the thrill that goes through him when he imagines those hands clenching around his throat instead of a whiskey glass. I could make you so much more.
That’s just it, isn’t it? The potential. In-ho thinks of himself as a man not easily flustered, and Seong Gi-hun never ceases to surprise him. There’s an unexpected depth to him, a strength, a tenacity. A fire.
I could drag you up from the mud of that place and make you something real. Something powerful.
Something magnificent.
His throat clicks, dry, as he swallows.
Carefully. Carefully.
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” he says as Front Man. He needs to keep Gi-hun talking, keep him engaged until he can chart their path through these woods and guide him out.
“I could say the same,” Gi-hun volleys back, but he’s lost his bite. The words are tired. Like he’s too drained to fight back anymore. How disappointing.
“You chose this,” he reminds him. “You asked me to bring you back here.”
“I told you not to give me that shit,” Gi-hun growls, and, oh, there it is, that fire. In-ho would warm his iced hands at that fire for the rest of his life if Gi-hun -
He cuts off the thought sharply. The rest of his life? He knows better than that. Why does this man make him stupid?
It’s fast. One moment In-ho is watching Gi-hun raise the glass for a sip. The next, there’s a flicker of motion and Gi-hun’s hand flashes towards In-ho’s face, glass and all, and In-ho can catch the glass but not the liquid, and his eyes burn where the alcohol splashed through the eyes of the mask. He can’t even sputter before Gi-hun is on him.
Blinded, cursing, eyes stinging and streaming in the now-wet confines of his mask, In-ho flips them. Left, away from the gun, rolling over shards and spilled whiskey.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for this. Hoping, maybe.
They roll, locked together, like stray cats in an alley. Gi-hun is a hot and heavy mass, unwieldy, flailing and grabbing and roaring.
The drink tray rattles as they crash against it, nearly overturning the whole assembly, and then In-ho is up, breathless and bruised and ready to catch the volley of sloppy punches Gi-hun is already throwing.
It’s exhilarating. For one glorious moment they’re evenly matched - Gi-hun, raw and untrained, and In-ho, spluttering and half-blind. Still, he matches Gi-hun strike-for-strike, catching his fists in gloved palms, blocking strikes to his head and kidney.
Gi-hun has learned a new trick or two since his first games. He knows how to stand, how to defend, how to strike. Like seeing him with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder, like a long swallow of whiskey, it lights a fire in In-ho’s belly.
There’s a ping in his earpiece. The guards outside heard the crash. They’re asking if they should come and deal with the problem.
“Do not interfere,” he hisses, thumbing the comm button just long enough to keep them at bay before neatly dodging another swing.
Gi-hun heard. His eyes narrow, dart down the long chrome hallway to the door, dart back.
For a heartbeat they’re frozen, both coiled in anticipation, breathing hard.
And then, like the grief and rage ripped a hole in his throat, Gi-hun snarls. And lunges.
It’s a close, sweat-damp, intimate affair. Mask twisted, unable to see, In-ho fights by touch, by sound, stumbling. Fingers bend backwards. Teeth sink into flesh. One especially well-aimed punch drives the side of the mask into his face and he feels the sharp plastic bite, cut. He meant to be a punching bag of sorts, one that punches back, to let Gi-hun work out his anger until the moment to put an end to this foolishness. In-ho is a much better fighter. That fact is irrefutable. He could end this whenever he wanted.
At least, he tells himself that when Gi-hun gets a good grip on the lapels of his gray coat and hurls him against a geometric hallway wall, crowding into his space to scream, “You killed them! YOU KILLED ALL OF THEM!”
“Strike me down, then,” In-ho goads, pulse throbbing in his fingertips, wasps swarming in his belly. He wants to see how much Gi-hun has changed. “Take your revenge.”
Again, there’s that pause. The turning of cogs behind Gi-hun’s eyes. Like when In-ho lifted his mask for a sip. Like when Gi-hun glanced at the door.
It hits In-ho, then, in a stomach-churning moment of icy realization.
He forgot about his reflection in the dark TV screen, when he took that sip.
He knows what’s coming a millisecond before it happens.
He’s slammed back against the uneven planes of the wall so hard he feels something in his spine misalign slightly, Gi-hun’s forearm driving into his clavicle just under his throat, and In-ho’s hands shoot up to grab the mask.
Too late.
Cool air washes over his still-wet face as the mask cracks away an inch. He strains, trying to force the piece of flimsy plastic back up, trying to press it over his face like a bandage, but his opponent has the upper hand here: In-ho cares if either of them gets hurt. Gi-hun doesn’t.
The crushing pressure of Gi-hun’s forearm disappears from his chest, only for the weight on the mask to double. In-ho’s arms shake, muscles screaming, like a twisted game of arm wrestling. It lasts only a moment, a heartbeat. A fierce and lightning-fast scuffle, grabbing at each other, bucking and tossing against the wall, and then it’s over.
His face is cold.
His arms ache.
Gi-hun stands before him with the Front Man’s mask gripped in one hand, trapped in a moment of utter shock, and In-ho pants where he leans against the wall, hair in his face, sweating bullets under the heavy coat.
The shock begins to crumble, betrayal bleeding through from underneath, and In-ho doesn’t care. He doesn’t, no matter what the stabbing ache in his chest says.
“Young-il,” murmurs Gi-hun. It’s halfway between a pant and a cough, blank and numb, and In-ho focuses on keeping his features set, his expression impassive.
He doesn’t know if it works.
Then comes the fury.
Gi-hun redoubles his attack.
And this time, In-ho isn’t a punching bag. This time, he can see clearly. He should have the upper hand. It should be easy.
Nothing is ever easy with Seong Gi-hun.
They circle the room together. Locking and separating, feinting and swiping. Like a dance. A feral, ruthless dance of dull impacts and thudding fists. In-ho does what he can, leads Gi-hun in circles, too caught up in handling the present moment to strategize any further. His head rings. He gets in a good hit to Gi-hun’s upper arm, his wounded arm, and he’s not proud of it but it bought him the precious seconds he needs to -
Then Gi-hun gets one sweat-slick hand around the neck of the whiskey decanter.
Real fear wells up, scorching hot and sudden, at the sound of that splintering bottle. He’s two places at once, in two times at once, facing the object of his fascinations and Player 048 at once, seeing double as he re-lives a moment he tried to bury at the worst possible time.
He still has the scar trailing up one arm from Player 048’s attempt to bleed him out, his third night in the dormitory all those years ago.
Maybe they’ll kill each other here, he thinks, and that idea sparks very little fear at all. It would be fitting.
He knows it’s over when his boot comes down on something small, hard, and round. The glass top of the decanter. Gravity yanks him to the floor in a split second, and just like that Gi-hun is on him, pinning him, one hand shooting out to get a fistful of his hair as the other shoves the jagged edge of the largest shard against his throat.
Even after all these years, the instinctual scream still rises in him when the glass begins to bite down. He freezes it in his chest. He won’t go out yelling or pleading. Just this is enough. Gi-hun’s sweat-damp weight on his chest, his face wild and his eyes sharp and intense, his improvised blade pressing sweetly, excruciatingly deeper into the flesh of his throat.
“You fought well,” he murmurs, proud, before the blade can reach his vocal cords.
It doesn’t.
Gi-hun isn’t forcing the blade. He stares down instead, not into In-ho’s face but at his left shoulder.
At the number 001 glaring out from underneath the Front Man coat, which came undone and split down the middle sometime during their scuffle.
Gi-hun hovers over him with the weapon clenched in a bleeding hand, cutting himself open just as he cuts In-ho. And under him, his friend, his friend who died -
The hand wavers. The glass blade slips. The fresh sting makes In-ho wince, just barely, one eye twitching as warm droplets begin to tickle the skin of his neck.
Two players, dressed in dark teal, fighting to the death on the glass-strewn floor. 001 and 456, bloody and beaten by each other.
Gi-hun flinches back. The razor edge of the glass knife withdraws, weapon lapsing back as Gi-hun traces In-ho’s sweaty and disheveled face.
The golden chandelier’s reflection glints in Gi-hun’s dark eyes like a yellow moon, and In-ho’s eyes dip, just a little, just for a moment, flicking to Gi-hun’s blood-flecked chin and mouth, then back up -
“Young-il,” Gi-hun says again, his voice thick as tar, “You’re...”
You’re alive. You’re one of them. You’re him. You killed my best friend. You’re not dead. You lied to me. How could you. How dare you.
In-ho licks his lips. “Lost your fight?” he jabs, but softly. More routine than anything.
There’s a moment where he wonders if that was it, if that’s what it’ll take for Gi-hun to kill him.
Instead, Gi-hun flings the glass knife away like it burned instead of cut. It shatters somewhere behind them.
“You’re not worth spending it on,” he growls, but he hasn’t moved. His knees pinch on either side of In-ho’s torso, keeping him pinned in place as if he has anywhere else to go. His eyes trace over his face, over and over and over, but all the bloodlust is gone from his gaze.
Player 456 wants to end the game.
Seong Gi-hun is not a killer.
The words come out of Gi-hun in one final, furious snarl. “Who are you?”
And this time, reclining on the glossy black floor in the pool of reflected gold light like he’s bleeding out twenty four karat instead of red, he answers.
“Hwang In-ho.”
And like they were magic words, like a spell is broken, Gi-hun stands, stares down at him, then looks at the cruel gash in his own palm like he just realized it’s there.
He looks guilty. Despite everything, he still regrets the spilling of blood.
Apparently, even his worst enemy’s.
Like he’s in a trance, like it’s all he can think to say, Gi-hun murmurs to the floor, “Your brother is looking for you.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He can hear all the pain in that why.
In-ho sits up, slowly, stiffly, boasting many more small injuries than he did yesterday. Gi-hun does nothing but watch him stand, a glassy look in his eyes. Shock, probably. His system is beginning to shut down from overwhelm, and they can’t have that. In-ho needs him here, present, cognizant. He needs him to understand. And this might be his last chance to try.
The VIPs want Gi-hun dead by tomorrow.
More specifically, they want him delivered to them like a stuck pig, naked and hog-tied with an apple in his mouth to do with what they please before disposing of him publicly.
In-ho saw red when he heard that.
Not his Gi-hun, who he spent so much time and effort on, who might actually understand him, be an equal, who is so damningly good despite everything, who has just been coming around to In-ho’s perspective. He can’t let that slip through his fingers.
He almost had him. He almost had it. He never would have allowed this to come this far, to waste so much unnecessary blood and bullets, if he didn’t see any chance of this working. Gi-hun. And he does. He does see it. The change. Subtle. Slow.
Seong Gi-hun is stubborn. Once he gets something in his head, you need a crowbar to get it out. But In-ho has been watching him. Carefully. Like a bird of prey, or a mother hen - either way, his little farce got him a front-row seat to exactly what he’s been hoping for: Gi-hun is starting to understand. To see the bigger picture.
Are you saying we need to sacrifice a few people for the greater good?
He’s almost there. If In-ho can just nudge him a bit further -
“Let’s talk.” He collects himself, hobbling with as much poise as he can to his desk, collecting the pistol on the way. He sinks gratefully into his own familiar chair. There’s another bottle of whiskey in the drawer. A better one. He pulls it out wearily. The adrenaline is fading, and in its place he feels the ever-present exhaustion beginning to drag at him.
Gi-hun is wary, wild, a feral animal ready to bite, but obviously and undeniably intrigued. After all, this is the man he came all this way for. The man he’s been hunting for three years, the man he spent all this effort to reach - first in collaboration with Sunshine Capital, then with the rebellion. The Front Man. And now, he gets a real chance at talking to him - no piggy bank speaker, no mask, and nothing in his way. They both know full well that Gi-hun will not turn away.
He doesn’t. He sits. Facing In-ho across the empty surface of the desk just as he faced the Recruiter not a week ago.
In-ho watched that footage live, and with unrepentant fixation.
Of course, the Recruiter’s hidden tie camera was active for that meeting. It always is. A security measure, in part, and useful for record-keeping, although its real purpose is humiliation. Showing each player getting slapped for a chance at money is a way of humbling them all, reminding them they’re all on the same playing field.
In-ho remembers the fiery surge of excitement, interest, and something else, as he watched Seong Gi-hun raise a revolver to his own temple. Once. Twice. An empty click, each time.
What’s the matter? Is your mind starting to race? Let me guess what you’re thinking right now. ‘The gun is in my hand. Screw the rules. Pull the trigger once or twice, and I can blow the guy’s face off.’ Isn’t that right?
Seong Gi-hun raised the muzzle of the gun to his own skull and pulled the trigger.
Ah, In-ho remembers thinking, something aflame in him, here’s someone who understands the rules.
They’re alike, the two of them. Three, maybe, but the Recruiter is dead - he sighs and mentally adds that to his tally of mopping up to do after all of this. And anyway, the Recruiter never could have understood either of them, not really. He wasn’t in the games. He didn’t win.
He didn’t come back.
In-ho takes the pistol from where he was about to stow it in a drawer. “Here.” Without ceremony, he puts it on the desk and slides it across to Gi-hun. “Ask me anything you like. If you find my answers unsatisfactory, kill me.”
Gi-hun’s glass face shifts, doubt and confusion thick in the set of his brows over those kicked-puppy eyes. Hesitantly, he picks up the gun. Checks it for bullets - lifting one brow when he actually finds them.
In-ho looks steadily back.
Gi-hun takes a long breath, as if to steady himself. “What’s happening downstairs?”
Of course. Of course that’s his first question.
“The guards are suppressing the last of the dissent.”
Gi-hun scrubs his free hand over his face miserably. “Who... who’s left?”
In-ho reaches for a monitor at the side of the desk, pausing when Gi-hun lifts the gun. He’s twitchy. Nervous. His face has gone pale, sweat darkening the fabric of his player uniform. He must be in pain. The arm. In-ho tilts a monitor screen so that Gi-hun can see, ignoring the weapon aimed at his forehead, and pulls up the relevant data.
Gi-hun scans over the numbers anxiously. His mouth presses into a hard line as he counts the deaths. Nearly everyone in the so-called rebellion died. Players 120 and 388, miraculously, made it back to the relative safety of the dormitory. On another screen, soldiers keep the remaining players under check, guns bared and ready for another altercation. No one will be sleeping tonight.
Gi-hun counts the players, and In-ho counts guards. As the reports come in, the number grows. He resists the urge to sigh again. Several of those deaths are on his own hands.
He’s more relieved than he’d care to admit when he spots Player 222, tiny and round-bellied, huddled next to Player 149.
Gi-hun’s eyes are despondent when he says, simply, bleakly, “Why?”
“I’ll need some more specifics.”
He isn’t amused. The barrel of the gun drifts back towards In-ho’s person. “Why pretend? Why trick m- us?”
In-ho lifts a brow. “You really think I would let you back into the game unsupervised? Knowing what you're capable of?”
“You supervise us from here.”
It’s true, and In-ho inclines his head. He’s considering that second whiskey, and after a moment he throws decorum to the wind and twists off the lid, lifting the heavy bottle to his lips. As the fiery liquid washes down his throat he grimaces appreciatively and slides the bottle, like the gun, across the desk.
“It wasn’t enough,” he says, and he hates that it sounds like an admission. I needed more. “I had to keep a closer eye on you. In case you tried something like this.”
But that’s not all, and they both know. Why risk so much, then? Why put himself in harm’s way? Why help the rebellion?
Gi-hun calls him on it. “And?” Giving in, he picks up the bottle with his non-dominant hand, lifting it a little unsteadily for a swig of his own. His eyes brighten just half a degree when it hits his tongue, brows twitching in surprise, and In-ho bites back a boast. It’s good. He knows.
You don’t have to drink corner-store soju anymore, he thinks. There’s so much more I can offer you. Just hear me out.
Gi-hun goes in for a second swig before sliding the bottle back. He leaves a smudge of red along the side of the glass. They’ll have to do something about that hand.
In-ho takes a long inhale, pretending to watch the monitors as he thinks. He didn’t think he’d have to explain this all so soon. It’s all too soon.
“And,” he admits slowly, “Because I wanted to meet you.”
Gi-hun blinks. “Me?”
A nod, another sip of whiskey. He’s starting to feel more like himself.
Gi-hun’s head shakes, like it’s so unthinkable that he would be the subject of interest. Like he doesn’t know how unusual, how special he is. “Why me?”
This pulls a dry huff of laughter from In-ho’s nose. “You think anyone else comes back, once they’ve won?” He leans forward a touch, holding Gi-hun’s bewildered gaze. “You want to know how many winners ever came back to the island? Two.”
A flicker of light in Gi-hun’s eyes. His head lifts from its thoughtful tilt. “There’s another?”
In-ho wants to laugh again. He’s surprised he hasn’t figured it out already.
“My number was 132,” he says. It comes out quiet.
The understanding that then sparks and blooms in Gi-hun’s eyes is a sight more beautiful than any piece of gold or crystal.
In-ho shrugs. He feels, all at once, all too vulnerable. Maybe it’s his bare face. Even after playing Young-il, he’s still not used to people seeing his expressions. “That’s why.”
The silence between them stretches, long and heavy.
Finally, Gi-hun swears. Swears again. Picks up the bottle and tosses back a slug like a shot.
He doesn’t seem intent on talking, and In-ho is all too aware of their invisible hourglass running out, so he pushes.
“You see? We’re the same.”
“No,” Gi-hun scoffs immediately. “I’m not like you.”
“All right.” He isn’t ready yet. But this is progress. In-ho sits back. “Any other questions?”
He takes a moment to think, then - “Why the act? The radio, the -” His breath catches and he leaves the sentence to dangle, giving the revolver a slight wave as if to say, you know. “Why not just...”
“I thought I’d have more time.” In-ho shrugs again, frowning down at the desk between them. “Your little stunt disrupted my plans, in short.”
He’s getting angry again, his breath coming faster. “And you let us do all that, just to, what? Just to prove a point?” By the end he’s yelling, half-standing from his seat to point with the gun at the door. At the carnage. “People died!”
“On both sides,” In-ho reminds him. “Because you broke the rules.”
“Oh, don’t -”
He holds up his hands to stop the fresh tirade. “Please. Hear me out. You’ve come all this way.”
Conflict rages behind his eyes. Eventually, he lowers himself once more to the seat. “Talk,” he says bluntly.
