Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before life even knew to fear its end, death was already waiting. It was not a curse, nor was it a punishment, rather a necessity— woven into the fabric of existence in the same fashion of darkness following dust. Stars collapsed into black voids, great beasts roamed only to crumble into dust, and mother earth herself swallowed bones as greedily as she bore new creatures. To many, death was an enemy, a punishment for Eve eating the forbidden fruit, death was faceless and feared. But in truth? It was nothing personal. He— if one could even assign him something as limiting as gender was there from the beginning, ushering the fallen across the threshold. He had walked with the mighty, his presence unnoticed as the last breath left their bodies. He had cradled the ancient and the young alike, bearing witness to every end. And for a time, he had enjoyed it.

████ Nam-gyu, as he would later call himself, recalled fond memories of the dinosaurs for they did not weep nor did they beg for mercy. When the sky darkened, when the air burned and the earth split, they did what they had always done best; ran, fought, and devoured each other. Their final moments were spent in the only way they knew how, and when they fell, he was there, walking beside them, watching the firelight reflect in their dulling eyes, and most importantly? Guiding them to the other side. Death sometimes found himself missing them for they had not wasted time questioning what came next, they simply lied on their sides and embraced the darkness.

The next dominant lifeform was different, in addition to having less variety and being smaller, they also wept and bargained. They built monuments to gods who had never answered them, clinging to the pathetic idea that there was something beyond the void, something waiting to embrace them. They were nothing short of exhausting, Nam-gyu had walked across battlefields soaked in blood, had stepped over shattered helmets and bodies torn open by steel and lead. The Korean war had been a particularly amusing affair— brother against brother, torn apart by men in far-off rooms who would never touch the dirt they bled into. They had all looked into his eyes the same way in the end, whether they wore the dull green of the South or the gray of the North. “Is there something after this?” He recalled one soldier had croaked, lungs drowning in his own blood. Death had actually laughed at that, a gesture he picked up from escorting so many humans to the other side. “Do you remember before you were born?” He shot back, his smile fading as the familiar pause followed, the soldier closing his eyes as he took his final breath. Nam-gyu had walked them all across the path, whether they wanted to go or not— the old, the young, the fanatics who screamed of paradise, the cowards who had soiled themselves in their final moments. He took them all the same way, watching as their bodies rotted beneath the foreign sky. His ‘sibling,’ Life often suggested he comforted them in their last moments, Death supposed he could have given them reassurance, could have lied, but what was the point?

And yet, despite all the humans' knowledge, their history, their endless cycles of destruction and rebirth, humans refused to accept the one truth that bound them all: there was nothing waiting for them, and the longer Death walked among them, the more he realized something— they were getting boring. The souls that passed through him lacked the raw, animalistic fear of the early days. The human world had made death something distant, something impersonal— hospital beds with their respective beeping machines, prayers to imaginary gods whispered over cooling flesh. And worse, they had tried to defang him. He had watched them paint him into a skeleton with a scythe, a robed specter lurking in the shadows, a benevolent guide leading souls to the light. Some had depicted him a demon, others an angel, though none of them had gotten it right. Nam-gyu had always despised fiction.

So, for the first time in eternity, he decided to try something new. He stepped through the veil, shedding the void like a snake shedding its skin. Flesh stitched itself around him as if it had always been there, breath filled borrowed lungs, and for the first time, he was among them, not as a force of nature, but as one of their own. It was a strange feeling, standing on solid ground. The air stank of gasoline and sweat, neon lights flickering like electric fireflies above the city streets. His new body felt light and almost fragile, but he dismissed it due to taking a fondness for the way his pulse thrummed in his ears, the sensation of a cigarette between his fingers, and the burn of liquor down his stolen throat. “Nam-gyu,” He muttered the assigned name to himself, testing the weight of it, it was nothing special, but he wasn’t trying to stand out, it would do.

And where better to linger than among the damned?

Club Pentagon was a pit of filth and excess, a temple to all things self-destructive. Here, men and women burned themselves out in bursts of synthetic euphoria, choking down poisons in the name of pleasure and temporary highs. They danced, they laughed, and most importantly, they wasted what little time they had left. Nam-gyu fit right in, he went on to become a club promoter, a man whose name was spoken in hushed tones among those looking to lose themselves. He had tried nearly everything— pills, powders, liquids that scorched his throat and sent his mind spiraling into places even he had never seen. He let himself decay, let his body weaken and his senses dull, just to see what it felt like. As pointless and human as it was, he revelled in it because for the first time, he had something new. He had a concept new to him the humans called procrasanting, and if humans wanted to drown themselves in their own filth, who was he to stop them? After all, he had always been patient.

Smoke belonging to cigarettes and who-knows-what-else curled like ghosts above the dance floor, the bass thumping like the familiar sound of a dying heartbeat. Girls with glassy eyes and men with twitching jaws clung to one another in the neon haze, their bodies moving with the sluggish desperation of those trying to outrun their own realities. Nam-gyu sat in the VIP section, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching it all with mild amusement. This was where decay thrived— sweat-slicked bodies, bloodshot eyes, and the sweet scent of excess clinging to the walls. And then there was him— Thanos. Choi Su-bong swaggered onto the stage like he owned the world, high enough to believe it. A bottle of Hennessy in one hand, a mic in the other, he was the self-proclaimed king of this kingdom of rot. His voice slithered through the speakers, his flow effortless even through his intoxicated haze. Nam-gyu exhaled smoke through his nose, watching the way Thanos commanded the room. He could already read him— late twenties, reckless, burdened by the weight of ₩1.19 billion in debt. Destined for an unceremonious self-inflicted end off the Han River bridge, but none of that was Nam-gyu’s concern, his job wasn’t to interfere with the inevitable, only to be present when it arrived and escort the individual to the other side. Thanos’ set ended in a mess of applause and shouting, afterwards, he staggered offstage, pushing through the crowd, eyes glassy but with a certain fire to them. When he spotted Nam-gyu lounging in his booth without a care in the world, he grinned like he’d just won first place at Rap Battlegrounds instead of fucking up and placing second. “Nam-suuuuuu,” Thanos slurred, collapsing into the seat next to Nam-gyu. “You see that shit? I still got it, man. Even while tripping balls, I still kill it.” He trailed off as if it were something to be proud of, “Nam-gyu.” Nam-gyu briefly corrected, sounding out the syllables as if Thanos were a child, before a smirk spread across his face. “Yeah? Thought you forgot your lyrics last time.” He added, flicking ash into a glass tray. Thanos scowled in response to this, giving him a playful shove. “Man, fuck you. That was one time. You always gotta kill my mood and bring up old shit?” Thanos grumbled, “History repeats itself.” Nam-gyu simply put, a fact he knew all too well. Thanos let out a scoff, swiping Nam-gyu’s cigarette straight from his lips and taking a drag. He let out a sharp exhale, glossy eyes fluttering shut as if he could feel himself sinking deeper into the night. “You ever think about probability?” He asked out of the blue, Nam-gyu arched a brow, admittedly taken aback. “That's a weird transition.” He noted, “No, listen. Probability, man.” Thanos elaborated, waving his hands in the air and nearly smacking a waitress. “Like… odds. Destiny, shit like that.” Thanos trailed off, “I don’t believe in destiny.” Nam-gyu admitted, “That’s cause you’re a buzzkill,” Thanos shot back, leaning in conspiratorially. “But check this— what are the fucking odds, huh? That I, Choi Su-bong, the motherfucking lyrical genius, the future of Korean hip-hop, would get completely fucked over by some YouTube loser?”” Thanos rambled on and on, Nam-gyu didn’t answer, he already knew the tiresome story: the blind, reckless faith in a scam, the ₩500 million thrown into the abyss, the sleepless nights staring at a plummeting graph, waiting for a miracle that never came. He had found it entertaining, honestly, it showed how fragile and predictable humans were. But then, curiosity had gotten the best of him. “You’re an idiot for trusting MG Coin.” Nam-gyu pointed out, “But I guess I’m an idiot too, I bought into that Dalmatian shit.” He begrudgingly added, ready to hear it from Thanos. “Wait— you lost money too?” Thanos pried, his head snapping up to meet Nam-gyu’s gaze. “Didn’t think I’d experience debt in this lifetime, but here we are..” Nam-gyu grumbled with a shrug. For a moment, Thanos just stared, and then out of nowhere, he tossed his head back and laughed— a loud, unhinged laugh, the kind of laughter that sounded a tad too close to histeria. “Bro. BRO. This is the funniest shit ever,” he wheezed. “You, fucking Nam-su, got scammed? Oh, this is the best day of my lifeeee!” Thanos exclaimed in a sing-song-like tone as if he wanted the whole world to know Nam-gyu had gotten scammed. “Nam-gyu.” He corrected once more, rolling his eyes, but he could admit there was something oddly amusing about it all, it was a cosmic joke— Death itself, caught up in a petty, human scam. Thanos draped an arm around his shoulders, still giggling like a man on the verge of collapse. “Shit, man. I guess we’re both fucked, huh?” He muttered, Nam-gyu let out a noncommittal hum, knowing deep down only one of them were truly fucked.

See, Thanos was supposed to be dead, but for some reason, the Han River bridge had not seen him that night, that was the part that intrigued Nam-gyu the most and motivated him to stay in Su-bong’s orbit.

It happened on a Thursday, or possibly a Friday, days blurred together in Club Pentagon. Regardless, the girl had been dead for at least ten minutes before anyone batted an eye. She was slumped in the corner of the VIP lounge, glassy eyes wide open with blue tinged lips. The uncaring music pounded on as people laughed and drank around her, assuming she had just passed out from the heavy drugs, however, Nam-gyu knew better, the second he laid eyes on her, he felt it— the cold weight of inevitability. With a sigh, he rose from his seat, brushing past the bodies packed into the room. No one noticed him as he crouched beside her, fingers brushing up against her cold forehead. “Time to go.” He muttered, watching as her soul shuddered free, invisible to all but him, he took her hand, guiding her away, away, away— “…Yo.” A voice muttered, Nam-gyu’s head snapped toward the direction of the voice. Unfortunately, the voice belonged to Thanos, who stood a few feet away, holding a half-empty bottle, pupils blown wide from whatever cocktail of drugs he’d swallowed that night. But his gaze wasn’t on Nam-gyu, it was on her. “She—” Thanos stammered, his voice faltering. “She just— she just stood up! What the fuck?” He rambled, frantically glancing from left to right to see if anyone else had witnessed such an event. Nam-gyu felt something tighten in his chest, this was a crack in the natural order and his progenitors would be furious if they found out, as all members of the natural order knew a mere mortal such as Thanos should not be able to see this. Slowly, Nam-gyu rose to his feet, it was upsetting to see Thanos stumble back, shaking his head as his breath came faster. “What the fuck, man?” Thanos croaked, Nam-gyu had never quite heard Thanos sound so uncertain and quiet, the way voice cracked when the fear creeped in.. “I—I thought I was tripping, but I saw that, I saw..” Thanos trailed off, though Nam-gyu didn’t let him finish. “Su-bong.” He began, letting out a sharp exhale, Thanos flinched at his real naw, but Nam-gyu only stepped closer. “You shouldn’t have seen that.” He pointed out, the air between them took an electric charge, Thanos’ hands curled into fists, chest rising and falling too quickly— even for an intoxicated individual. “Am I dead?” He whispered, “Not yet.” Nam-gyu replied, shaking his head in the most reassuring manner he could muster. “But I will be.” Thanos alleged, licking his lips. “Yeah.” Nam-gyu confirmed in a deadpan, “Shit, man. You’re really Death, huh?” Thanos jeered with a shaky laugh, “I liked it better when you were too high to think.” Nam-gyu sighed, rubbing his temples as he let a wave of relief wash over him, his progenitors wouldn’t find out as long as he resolved this quickly and effectively. “So.. What now?” Thanos muttered, shoulders trembling. Much to his own surprise, Nam-gyu hesitated, he had a job, a duty, but for the first time, he found himself hesitating and even stalling. He knew the natural order had already been disturbed and he needed to fix it before it bit him in the ass, so here goes nothing. “Don’t worry,” Nam-gyu muttered reassuringly, taking a step closer to the point where the gap between them was closed, extending his fingers to cup Thanos’ face, his immortal thumb brushing over the mortal's cheekbone. Thanos barely had time to react before Nam-gyu leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. It was not a kiss of love as Death itself could not feel love, rather a kiss of promise, of farewell, of reset. When he pulled away, Thanos blinked rapidly, and just like that— he forgot, forgot the overdose, forgot the girl, and what pained Nam-gyu the most was Su-bong forgot him as he stepped back into the shadows, reassuring himself they would meet again, just not yet.

The business card was still warm in Nam-gyu’s hand when he made the call. He already knew the outcome— of course, he did, he was Death. The moment he’d flicked his wrist and sent the red ddakji slamming into the blue, flipping it clean, the recruiter's fate was sealed. A man with an expiration date so near, it was already curling at the edges. Nam-gyu had read him before accepting the game, three weeks, three days, and four hours left. His demise wouldn’t be spectacular— just the click of an empty chamber followed by the thunderclap of a loaded one. Russian roulette, played out in some dim-lit bathroom with the scent of rot coiling like ghosts around men. The salesman wouldn’t even flinch, not until the very end. Nam-gyu would be there to walk him to the other side, but first— firstly, there was a game to play.

The ride to the games was a lullaby of machinery and bodies, the van itself reeked of sweat and sedatives, human heat mixing with the patronization of the drug they’d been dosed with. Nam-gyu remained awake, feigning unconsciousness with the ease of something that did not need to breathe. With nothing else to do, he listened to the uneven yet familiar sound of heartbeats, the soft whistles of dream-heavy exhalations. When he opened his eyes in the facility, he came to discover they’d changed himself and the other players' clothes to turquoise jumpsuits, complete with numbers rather than names. Not that numbers mattered to him, every player here had an expiration date, written in the fine print of their veins. He could smell it in the iron tang of desperation and in the resigned slumped shoulders. They were all walking corpses, their pulses nothing more than mere echoes of borrowed time. That was what he was here for: the bodies, the inevitable bloodshed, for someone had to guide them through the door when it came. And yet, despite everything, something was wrong. It was faint, just a whisper at the edge of his senses, but he recognized it immediately. His least favorite sibling was here— Life.

Nam-gyu’s lip curled at the thought, when he came to think about it, it came as no surprise that Life would do this— They were meddlesome and insufferable, always basking in the adoration of humanity while he was cast in shadow. No one feared Life, no one cursed its name, no one wept at its arrival. Death had spent millennia watching the living pray for Life, beg for Life, praise Life. On the contrary, when they saw him— despite being the ying to lights yang, they called him cruel, they called him merciless, they sobbed and cursed and blamed him for doing what must be done. And now Life was here, in his domain, where desperate people had accepted their fates, where the final tally was supposed to be his alone. It wasn’t right nor was it far. And so, as he crawled out of his assigned bunk, Nam-gyu vowed to do what Death did best— hunt. His sibling could only be one of two things— a player, or a guard. It would take time to narrow it down, but he would find them. And when he did? He’d remind them that no matter how much humans loved them, no matter how much they worshiped and glorified Life— in the end, Death was the last thing they saw.

Chapter Text

Whilst scanning the sea of players to list out potential candidates of what mask Life was hiding behind, Nam-gyu noticed Thanos almost immediately, his plum-colored hair making him stick out like a sore thumb standing in the sea of identical green tracksuits, looking as miserable as ever. He didn’t know why the idiot hadn't jumped yet— he had been certain of it. The Han River was there, waiting. Maybe some final flicker of self-preservation had kept him clinging to life, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Either way, Nam-gyu had bigger concerns— Life was here, he could feel it. The presence made his temporary mortal skin crawl, a warmth that pressed against him in all directions, Life’s presence was suffocating and too close for comfort. They were never supposed to be this close, the only time they ever crossed paths was when one twin left the womb cold and as purple as Thanos’ hair while the other screamed its first breath. But here, in this fluorescent-lit warehouse of desperate and dead men walking, Life had stepped onto his domain. It was an insult, it was a challenge, and it was surely going to make things messy.

Nam-gyu turned back to the room, the petty grievances of the players momentarily grounding him. “God damn it,” Thanos hissed, holding up a pair of white slip-ons. “That pair was fucking limitied edition.. They don’t even make those anymore. What the hell? How are you gonna fix it if it got ruined?” Thanos demanded, wow, poor baby. A woman not too far from him, Kang Mi-na, if his memory served him correctly, let out a dramatic sigh. “These don’t fit, and the color sucks. Can I have what you’re wearing instead? I like pink.” She sneered, flashing the guards a flirtatious smile, but Nam-gyu could already see the clock ticking above her head. An hour left, maybe a little more. She wasn’t Life, just another soon-to-be-corpse. “That’s not possible. All players must be in uniform for the games.” The guard replied without missing a beat, “What about my phone?” Another voice pried, Nam-gyu immediately recognized him as Lee Myung-gi, better known as MG Coin. “Why’d you take my phone and wallet? Give them back.” Myung-gi spat, though the guard remained impassive. “We’re keeping your belongings safe. They will be returned once the games are over.” The guard simply put, “At least give me my phone,” Myung-gi attempted to compromise, his voice rising. “I need to check the crypto market. If I lose money, will you compensate me?” He added in a press, Nam-gyu rolled his eyes, Myung-gi was stupidly human, fat chance he was Life. “We will return them once the games are over.” The guard repeated, though there was no sign of growing frustration in his tone. “I need to monitor the real-time prices! Do you know how much I’ve invested?” Myung-gu protested, as if reading his thoughts, the screen behind the guards soon flickered to life, displaying a video of Myung-gi getting slapped by the recruiter at a train station played, the echo of the hit sealing the silence. “Player 333, Lee Myung-gi,” The guard began, “Age 30. Used to run a YouTube channel called MG Coin. After convincing subscribers to invest in a new cryptocurrency called Dalmatian, causing losses of approximately 15.2 billion won, you shut down and disappeared. You’re wanted for fraud and for violating telecom and financial investment laws. Current debt level: 1.8 billion won.” The guard announced, pausing to allow the room to erupt in a few scattered laughs, for Myung-gi’s face to twist in anger, and for Nam-gyu to smirk before the screen shifted to Kang Mi-na. “Player 196, Kang Mi-na. 45 million won in debt.” The guard continued, then another. “Player 120, Cho Hyun-ju. 330 million won in debt.” The guard went on and on, Nam-gyu barely paid attention until the screen changed again, this time it displayed Thanos on the bridge, clad in a neon-green graphic shirt depicting a gangster children's cartoon character, of course, he couldn’t forget the cyan vape practically hot glued to his hand. “Player 230, Choi Su-bong. 1.19 billion won in debt.” The guard announced, Nam-gyu’s gaze zeroed in on Thanos as he gritted his teeth, gazing upon the floor as if it had personally wronged him. He looked small in a sea of people, but Nam-gyu had known him too well to fall for it, he wasn’t fragile, he was a cockroach. Nam-gyu tuned the guard out as he droned more names, more faces, all expressions etched in desperation only humans carried. “Player 100, Im Jeong-dae. 10 billion won in debt.” Despite focusing on literally any other sound to prevent hearing the guard, Nam-gyu still caught that announcement from the guard, and based on the gasps ripping through the other players, they had heard too. However, Nam-gyu only chuckled at the idea of a human letting himself drown that deep in debt, the idea was so hilariously human he ruled him out instantly. Someone did a brief jump up and down in the air, glancing around to get a better look. Jeong-dae, middle-aged, probably some businessman who got too cocky or too greedy— probably both, raised his hand. “Do you think it’s easy to get a ten-billion-won loan?” He scoffed as if it were their fault he had dug such a hole for himself, “They don’t lend that kind of money to just anyone! Only those who are capable of paying it back!” He attempted to defend himself, the room ultimately falling silent.

The guard took a step forward, voice calm. “All of you in this room have crippling debt and are now on a cliff’s edge. When we first came to you, you did not trust us either. But as you know, we played a game and gave you money as promised. And so, you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will. You have one last chance to decide— do you want to live like a piece of trash running from creditors, or will you seize the last opportunity we are offering?” The guard pondered, with his closing statement, a golden piggy bank began to descend from the ceiling, reflecting the harsh ivory lights. “This is where your valuable prize money will be stored. After each of the six games, the prize money will accumulate in this piggy bank.” The guard explained, retro video-game music playing as the piggy bank settled above them. “How much is the prize money?” Player 007, a man with curly hair and glasses spoke up. “The prize money for the games is 45.6 billion won in total.” The guard replied, sending the room into another wave of gasps. “45.6 billion won?”, “And one of us will get it?” Several other voices gave their inputs, but Nam-gyu barely listened, his gaze flicking between the players, feeling the heat of Life’s presence pressing in on him. “For these games, you will be given a special new advantage.” The guard continued, “What is it?” Jeong-dae was quick to make a demand, “After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether to continue the games or not. If the majority votes to stop the games, you can leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point.” The guard added, a man who had been silent by the bunks, Player 456 finally spoke up. “So you’re saying we’ll still receive the money even if we leave after the first game?” He alleged, “That is correct.” The guard confirmed.

Before Nam-gyu could return to his search, a commotion just in front of him broke out. “Good heavens, excuse me! You idiot!” An old woman scolded someone, shoving through the crowd. “Mom.. What.. What are you doing?” The younger man groaned, frantically shushing her by dragging his index finger to his lips, glancing around in embarrassment. “That’s what I wanted to ask you! What are you doing here?” The older woman demanded, “You’re embarrassing me.” Her son muttered, Nam-gyu pressed a hand to his mouth, biting back laughter. “Embarrassing? If you knew what was embarrassing, you wouldn't be here!” Player 007’s mother shot back, a snicker slipped out of Nam-gyu’s lips, forcing his smile to fade by reminding himself he had to focus— Life. He had to find Life, but the mother wasn’t done. “You’re leaving now, okay?” She spat in the kind of tone that suggested it wasn’t up for discussion, tugging at her son’s sleeve. “What are you doing here? Do you realize where you are? This is no place for an old lady!” Player 007 protested, “I came to pay off your debt, of course, you fool!” She spat, the son didn’t seem to have a rebuttal, turning to the guards in clear desperation of searching for someone to blame. “Why would you bring a naive old woman here?” Player 007 demanded, “Will you take responsibility if my mom collapses?” He continued, Nam-gyu let out a shaky breath that insisted he was holding in a laugh, he guessed if he let out the laugh he’d be getting scolded alongside Player 007. “Yong-sik, I’ll stay and do this. You go home.” The mother concluded, so his name was Yong-sik and he had a ██████ amount of time left— at least for someone playing these games, he had a lot of time left. “Stop it, I’m already here, and I can’t just leave!” Yong-sik protested, they were directly in Nam-gyu’s line of vision now, he tucked his hair behind his ears, struggling to keep his composure. “But you promised me! You promised to never gamble again!” Yong-sik’s mother exclaimed, Yong-sil gripped his mother’s shoulders in response. “No, this isn’t gambling. We’re just playing games..” Yong-sik insisted, “Be quiet, that’s enough.” He added, Nam-gyu sucked in a breath, willing himself to focus. “If you wish to participate in the games, please sign the player consent form. Those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now.” The guard cut in through the chaos, Nam-gyu let out a slow exhale, reminding himself Life was here and he would find them.

The line to sign the consent form moved like a funeral procession, the weight of desperation clinging in the air— thick as smog, pressing against the skin of the soon-to-be players. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their patronizing glow bleaching the color out of the room, out of the people in it. The scent of sweat, cheap cologne, and faint traces of cigarette smoke blended into something unmistakably human— fear masked as resolved. Nam-gyu watched from the side, arms crossed, head slightly tilted as if sizing up a piece of meat in the butcher’s window, he’s been patient, but when Myung-gi finally stepped away from the table, his signature still fresh on the consent form, Nam-gyu made his move. “The amazing Myung-gi from MG Coin? Is that you?” Nam-gyu snarked, his voice carrying a smoothness of someone who already knew damn well but enjoyed the performance of asking. Myung-gi tensed up, fingers twitching against his sides as if he wanted to shove his hands into his pockets but knew better than to show nerves. “Who are you?” He muttered lowly, eyes flicking toward the nearest guard, weighing his options— clearly, Nam-gyu wasn’t the first angry subscriber to corner him.. Nor was he the last, as before he could respond, Thanos materialized at his side, like a ghost called forth by rage. He jerked a thumb between himself and Myung-gi, lips curling into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You may not know me, but I know you, MG Coin. I was subscribed to your channel and lost a shitload of money, asshole.” He snapped, “So did I.” Nam-gyu casually tossed in to the conversation, because why not? The scam had been fasinicaitng, it was a rare moment where he’d experienced uncertainty— real, stomach-turning doubt, he had almost admired it. Myung-gi let out a sharp exhale, trying to slip past them. “You’ve got the wrong person.” He muttered half-heartedly, but the way his voice tightened at the end betrayed him. Despite his attempts to escape, Thanos was faster, sending a sharp shove to Myung-gi’s chest that sent him staggering backward, his identical slip-ons to Thanos’ and Nam-gyu’s squeaking against the polished floor. “I watched your content all day, every day. Now, I even see you in my dreams, motherfucker.” Thanos spat, his tone almost reverted, the kind of twisted devotion reserved for men who had ruined lives. Then, out of nowhere, Thanos’ head briefly snapped toward Nam-gyu’s direction. “Was your name Nam-su?” He asked, Nam-gyu stiffened, for a second, it felt like a scratch on the record, he shouldn’t have heard that, he shouldn’t remember that, however, he smoothed it over in an instant. “It’s Nam-gyu. From Club Pentagon.” He corrected with a disarming chuckle, “Ah, right.” Thanos uttered as if it weren’t worth thinking about, whirling around to look back at Myung-gi. “Thanks to you, I bonded quickly with Nam-gyu here. Because we shared the same pin.” Thanos jeered, letting out a laugh at his own joke, but it was hollow and empty, implying it was more of a threat than a joke. Thanos paced around the perimeter near them, but Nam-gyu wasn’t done, leaning in slightly. “I thought the sons of bitches who made that coin fled to the Philippines with the money. So why are you here? Did they cut you loose?” Nam-gyu pried, lowering his voice just enough to make Myung-gi feel like prey, a flicker of something— possibly anger or shame passed through Myung-gi’s pathetic gaze before it settled on irritation. “What do you want from me?” Myung-gi grumbled begrudgingly, Thanos, who had only taken a few steps away, swung his way back into the conversation like a wrecking ball, grabbing Myung-gi by the throat, fingers curling around his collarbone. A collective gasp rippled through the other players, their bodies shifting like dominoes teetering on the edge of falling. “What do you think? Give me my money.” Thanos demanded, Myung-gi proved himself to not be entirely helpless, clawing at Thanos’ hand and yanking it away with a growl. “Did I force you to buy that coin?” Myung-gi shot back, tilting his head in a condescending manner. “You told us to bet it all, you fucker. You swore it’d shoot up.” Thanos spat, his face twisting with a voice sharp enough to slice through bone. Myung-gi shrugged with feigned nonchalance, calm as a priest at confession. “You are responsible for the final decision on your investment. Didn’t you hear me say that at the end?” He pried, Thanos’ lips pulled back, showing teeth. “You said we’d be fucking idiots if we didn’t buy it!” He barked, shoving Myung-gi once more, eyes dark with something deeper than rage as the look in his eyes was betrayal, they do say never meet your idols. Myung-gi tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “You said you watched me every day.” He simply stated, that did it for Thanos, who clenched his fists around the fabric of Myung-gi’s zip-up, his other hand curled into a fist, muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap— “Hey, calm down, you assbole.” Nam-gyu muttered, his voice sliding into the space between them in a tone as smooth as oil in an attempt to defuse the situation. “All right now.” Nam-gyu grumbled, his hand wrapping around Thanos’ arm, gently but keeping a firm pressure. Myung-gi jerked away, “Get off me! Let go of me!” Myung-gi spat out venomously, Nam-gyu rubbed slow circles into Thanos’ shoulder, his touch light but grounding. “People are watching,” He whispered into Thanos’ ear, as it was for Thanos’ ears only. “You don’t want to be on the news.” He added, it took a moment, but Thanos exhaled through his nose, stepping backward. He cast one last, lingering look at Myung-gi, “You’d better do well, because I’m coming to get my money back.” Thanos vowed, his voice dropping all pretense of humor. Nam-gyu let out a chuckle, his amusement a sharp contrast to the tension in the room. “Come on.” He uttered, as they made their exit, Nam-gyu casted one last gaze at Myung-gi, committing his unease to memory. Meanwhile, Thanos tossed a flirty gaze at a girl in the line— Mi-na, was it? As if he hadn’t just been two seconds from throwing a punch. “Those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now.” The guard spoke up, breaking his silence and casting a long and hollow stretched silence upon the players, swallowing any last chance of escape. Nam-gyu felt a smile twitch at the sides of his lips, the bodies were going to start to pile up, much to Life’s dismay.

The next room was an assault to the senses— pastel pink, yellow, and blue walls clashing under the fluorescent lights, casting an artificial glow that made everyone look like mannequins. The air was thick and heavy with anticipation, a collective breath held in the lungs of the desperate. “The games will begin momentarily.” The intercom crackled to life, the voice was clinical, detached, as if were a butcher calling livestock to the slaughter. “Smile.” The voice commanded, the command was spoken as if joy is something that could be summoned on demand. Nam-gyu stood behind Thanos, absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair, he watched as Thanos, for once, didn’t bother introducing himself. That was unusual, normally, he’d already have declared his name to the room. Nam-gyu pondered that he could be holding back for dramatic effect, or maybe he’d simply realized fame doesn’t mean much when one is in a prison for the desperate disguised as a game. “You’re Thanos, the rapper— oh, shit.” As if on cue, a voice rang out. Player 256, no older than twenty-seven (wow, twenty-seven was a popular age), eyes wide with a mix of awe and desperation that made Nam-gyu’s stomach turn, he already knew this one wasn’t life— he was too human, too eager, too pathetic. “Smile.” The intercom repeated, Player 256 didn’t even hear it, too busy reenacting Thanos’ lyrics with an embarrassing gun gesture to his own head, foreshadowing as he had around 48 hours to live, give or take. “I’m gonna kill half of humanity with my raps, bam.” He recited, Nam-gyu couldn’t suppress the quiet chuckle that left his lips, interested in seeing how long Player 256 could embarrass himself. “The runner-up of the Rap Battleground final,” Player 256– Gyeong-su, apparently, was unable to catch the hint and continued. “I’ve been to several of your concerts! Please, take a picture with me.” Gyeong-su pleaded, he even went as far as to doing prayer hands as he got all up in Thanos’ face, Nam-gyu almost felt sorry for him— almost. Then, like moths to a flame, nore fans swarmed in— Nam-gyu wasn’t sure how many of them were fans and how many of them just saw an alleged celebrity and jumped onto a train, “Me too! Me too!” The mixture of fans and posers cried out, Nam-gyu watched it unfold with amusement, then decided he may as well take advantage of it, if Thanos is an idol in here, that means protection. It means influence, so, he played mediator, stepping in with an easy, practiced charm. “Hang on, guys, let’s make this easier on Thanos and take one picture together.” He suggested, turning to look at Thanos. “Would that be okay?” He cleared up with Thanos, who finally acknowledged them, giving a lazy ‘come here’ gesture. “All right, let’s get together.” Nam-gyu announced, already losing interest. “It’s Thanos!” A shriek cut through the noise, Thanos hardly paid any mind to the shriek, turning his gaze on a lone figure in the crowd. “Hey, I don’t mind one more person. Come on.” He commanded, doing a ‘come here’ gesture to Mi-Na, though Mi-na didn’t even hesitate, she let out a scoff and walked away, leaving Thanos’ outstretched hand lingering in the air, ouch. Before the fans could start snapping photos, a guard finally stepped in. “You are not allowed to do this.” The guard simply stated, Thanos was always one to challenge rules and tilted his head. “You want to be in the picture? Come on.” He offered, though the guard was unamused and didn’t budge. “You must take your photos one by one.” The guard repeated, “Come on, can’t you make an exception? You took our phones, and we can’t take any pictures.” A female fan protested, the guard still didn’t budge, raising his hands in an ‘X’ gesture. “No.” The guard deadpanned, Thanos took a final look at the crowd, “When we get out of here, I’ll take a picture with each of you.” Thanos offered, the fans let out a childish squeal, their faith unwavering. Nam-gyu barely held back his laugh, chalking all these idiots up to the ‘definitely not Life’ category as Life wouldn’t be caught dead acting this dumb. Regardless, the photos began.

Thanos flipped the camera off, Nam-gyu, however, didn’t bother, staring blankly into the screen, his gaze as empty as the promises made in this room. The pink, yellow, and blue slowly yet surely dissolved into a cold, sterile stairwell. No more pastel illusions, just chipped paint and footsteps echoing into the void. Nam-gyu walked beside Thanos with Gyeong-su trailing not too far behind them, still amused by the little fan club moment. Then, suddenly, Thanos shoved past him, causing Nam-gyu to stumble slightly, blinking, what the fuck? His first instinct is irritation— no one shoves past Death, but then he followed Thanos’ gaze to Mi-n, ah, that made sense. Nam-gyu watched as Thanos moved towards her with that dame reckless abandon he once reserved for Club Pentagon— for him. Nam-gyu exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It wasn’t jealousy, no, it’s just.. Familiarity. Thanos used to be like this with him, cutting through crowds, making a beeline, tunnel-visioned. Now, he’s doing it for someone else. Nam-gyu clicked his tongue with an incredibly delayed reaction, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What?” He muttered, making awkward eye contact with Gyeong-su.

Chapter Text

The doors groaned open, revealing a blinding stretch of painted-on grass under an equally painted and fake blue sky: cyan walls, cartoonish clouds, and a massive doll standing at the far end, clad in a bright yellow shirt with orange overalls. Nam-gyu took a step inside, letting his eyes wander to the mixed reactions rippling through the crowd, some players gawked like kids at an amusement park whilst others glanced around uneasily, he spotted Thanos immediately, sliding up to Mi-na, flashing that practiced half-smirk that used to work wonders back at Club Pentagon. Five minutes, maybe a little more, possibly a little less, but definitely less than six.

A sharp exhale left Nam-gyu’s lips, already feeling the weight of his real job pressing against his ribs. He knew he’d have to take off the Nam-gyu hat in due time, shed the human act, and do what he was made for— escort Mi-na to the other side. Before he could dwell on it, a loud and certain voice cut through the muttered mixed reactions. “EVERYONE! Everyone, listen up, pay attention!” A man— Player 456, exclaimed, rushing to the front, arms flailing in a voice high with urgency. “Listen carefully! This is not just a game! If you lose the game, you die!” He desperately added, despite his desperation, the players reacted just as expected— some chuckled nervously, others exchanged puzzled gazes, a few outright scoffed.

But Nam-gyu? He didn’t laugh, because Player 456 was right. He instead directed his attention to the crowd, watching with interest, scanning faces, noting expressions. Who else wasn’t laughing? Who else already knew? If Life is here, they wouldn’t find this funny either. “Hey, what are you talking about? We’re going to die from playing Red Light, Green Light?” A woman scoffed, arms crossed. Player 456 ignored her, continuing his madman ramblings. “If they catch you moving, they will kill you! They will shoot you from somewhere! Stay on your toes! If you get caught, you die! That doll’s eyes are motion detectors! Stay on your toes!” He pressed forward, Nam-gyu flicked his gaze to the doll, its head still for now, the eerie quiet before the storm. “Let the game begin.” The intercom crackled.

With that, Player 456 froze, arms spreading as if he could shield the whole crowd with his body. The doll whirred to life, gears shifting with a mechanical groan. “Green light… Red light..~” The doll sang, Nam-gyu didn’t even blink, the moment the singing stopped.. “FREEZE!” Of course, Player 456 was there to yell out, a few players obeyed on instinct, most didn’t. The doll’s head jerked, her red camera pupils scanning the crowd, no gunfire, yet. Player 456 let out a sharp exhale, “Well done! You just need to stay calm like this! We just have to move and stop at the right time!” He announced, Nam-gyu barely listened, he didn’t need instructions for he has been around long enough to know when someone is about to die. And right now, his focus is elsewhere— on Thanos, specifically, who is moving at a steady pace beside Mi-na. He was too casual, too at ease, like this is just another stupid game show. From afar, Nam-gyu watched him closely, checking for any sign of trouble. However, the doll did not spare his feelings, “Green light… Red light.” The doll sang once more, “FREEZE! Don’t move and stay still! Just relax!” Player 456 had kept up his desperate coaching, yelling about. Nam-gyu didn’t feel the need to pretend to be tense, shifting on his weight and allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of time moving around him. There was something oddly poetic about it— the controlled chaos, the moment between life and death stretched out like a rubber band. The cycle repeated for a little while, move, stop. Move, stop. The gunfire had yet to start, but it will. Nam-gyu could feel it in his bones, in the way the universe hummed when someone is on the brink.

As if on cue, a frantic scream belonging to Mi-na rang out, Nam-gyu didn’t need to turn his head to know it was her, but he did anyway, watching as she flailed wildly, hands flying to her neck. “Shit! A bee! It’s on me—!” She cried, Nam-gyu didn’t move, didn’t speak, he just watched as the inevitable happened. Mi-na slapped at her skin, recoiling, her eyes widening as the realization dawned on her. “Crap, I just moved, didn’t I?” She whispered, followed by a sharp, clean shot right between the eyes. Mi-na crumpled to the ground, the sound was dull and unremarkable— possibly due to how used to it Nam-gyu was.. One moment there was a living, breathing person, the next, a body. Nam-gyu let out a sigh, there it is. The first death always hit differently, it sends a ripple through the air, a shift in the energy of the room, the gunshot echoed off the painted walls, and for a second, everything was still. However, it was a mere second, as shortly after, the screaming started. Nam-gyu didn’t react, he already knew, he’s been well aware for the past five minutes. And now, it was time to do his job. He let out one final exhale, rolling his shoulders, and mentally shedding the last of Nam-gyu, the club promoter. Now, he is Death, and he has a body to collect.

The task was easy enough, as the moment the bullet hit Mi-na’s skull, Nam-gyu had stopped paying attention to the physical world. His body— Nam-gyu’s body remained frozen in the game, standing among the living and almost acting as if he were on auto pilot, but his mind shifted elsewhere, peeling away the thin layer of reality that most people never got to see. He stepped forward, pressing two fingers to Mi-na’s forehead. The moment he made contact, her soul separated from her body, slipping out like a silk ribbon being pulled from a tight knot. It happened fast and effortlessly, lacking any struggle or any gasping, just a quiet, almost graceful unraveling. Mi-na blinked, looking down at herself— the herself that was slumped over, blood pooling beneath her temple, a good death— quick and painless, as far as these things go. She tilted her head, inspecting the bullet wound like a customer inspecting a cracked phone screen. Then, to Nam-gyu’s mild amusement, she actually smiled. “Well, I guess that guy wasn’t high after all.” She jeered, “Yeah, turns out dumb luck occasionally spits out a prophet.” Nam-gyu cut in. Mi-na let out an exhale, but it wasn’t a sad sound, more like.. Relief— acceptance. There was no begging, no tears, none of the desperate: ‘I can’t be dead! I have so much left to do!’ monologue Nam-gyu had heard more often than not, instead, there was just a quiet understanding, the way an old drunk finally slides into bed after a long night at the bar. “So,” Mi-na began, stretching her arms as if waking up from a nap. “What now?” She pondered, Nam-gyu pointed a finger to the light in the otherwise dark void ahead, turning to Mi-na and doing a ‘come along’ gesture with his index finger. “You walk with me.” He simply put, the transition was seamless, the deathtrap for the poor and desperate dissolving behind them as they took a step onto a different path, one that didn’t exist in the waking world. It was a narrow stretch of dark nothingness, stretching toward a dark glow in the distance. The light is neither warm nor cold, neither inviting nor foreboding, it simply is. Mi-na walked beside him, barefoot now, Nam-gyu had never figured out why they always seemed to lose their shoes in the end, he would not ask his progenitors. “I really thought I’d be more upset.” She admitted, casting him a sideways glance. “Shouldn’t I be freaking out? Crying? Bargaining?” She voiced, Nam-gyu shrugged. “Some people do, but deep down, most already know when their time’s up. The body might flinch, but the soul? The soul is always prepared.” Nam-gyu trailed off, Mi-na hummed in acknowledgement, considering his statement. They walked the majority of the path in silence, the only sound the whisper of their steps against the void as the light grew closer, stretching higher, reaching for them with unseen hands. “Guess this is it..” Mi-na muttered, glancing at the light with uncertainty. “Guess so.” Nam-gyu uttered, Mi-na turned on her heel to meet his gaze one last time. “What happens to the rest of them?” Mi-na pondered, “They run, they scream, they die, in the end, they all come to me.” Nam-gyu simply stated, “Brutal.” Mi-na scoffed, taking a step forward into the light— and just like that, she was gone. Nam-gyu didn’t watch her leave, he never watched any of his escorts leave. Istead, he opted to turn, retracing his steps as several of the humans' fight-or-flights had kicked in and they’d tried running away upon seeing someone die.

By the time Nam-gyu had finished escorting the last straggler to the other side, the game was over. His body snapped back into place just in time to hear the robotic voice announce their survival, and like clockwork, the surviving players were corralled back into the dormitory. The room was dead silent, no one uttered a word, not even the ones who had been sobbing just minutes earlier. A heavy and suffocating shock hung over them like a thick fog, the image of blood stains on the floor, smeared in placed by shaking hands that had tried to crawl to safety likely etched in their minds, Nam-gyu could see it all, but his attention shifted to the weight beside him: Thanos. He was slumped, looking paler than usual, blood still on his cheek— from Mi-na, maybe, or one of the others he shoved in his panic. He wasn’t shaming, not crying, but Nam-gyu knew the look in his eyes, the quiet kind of horror— the kind that doesn’t hit all at once but seeped in slowly, effectively poisoning every thought and every breath. Nam-gyu leaned forward, “You’re not feeling well?” He whispered, voice a low murmur. For a second, Thanos just gazed ahead as if he’d somehow dissociated in all this. “Don’t worry.” He muttered in English, Nam-gyu blinked, taken aback. “What?” He grumbled, Thanos finally shifted, dragging a hand down his face and effectively smearing the blood. “I said don’t worry. I’m fine.” Thanos assured, not about to let a mortal have him admit he was wrong, Nam-gyu tilted his head. “Mm, sure you are.” He huffed, before he could further poke around, the guards entered. The shift in the room was immediate, players flinched, cowered, shrunk back into themselves as if curling into small, pathetic shapes will make them less visible. Incase Life was one of the guards and searching for him just as hard as he was for Life, Nam-gyu played along, stiffening just enough to seem afraid but not quivering in his slides. He could feel the raw, animalistic fear in the room, the room lingering with the thick scent of sweat, blood, and stress.

A guard took a step forward, the white square on his mask standing stark against the black. “Congratulations for making it through the first game.” He appalled, though his voice was in a practiced tone devoid of any emotion. “Here are the results of the first game: Out of 456 players, 91 players have been eliminated. 365 players have completed the first game, congratulations again for making it through the first game.” The guard announced, before the weight of that number could even settle, someone collapsed: the mother from earlier, the one who put up quite the show alongside her son, fell to her knees, hands clasped in frantic desperation. “Sir, please do not kill me! Do not kill us, I beg of you! As for my son’s debt, I will do whatever it takes to pay you back! Please forgive us!” She pleaded, turning to face her son, urging him to join in a panicked whisper. He hesitated at first, his face contorted in shame, before he finally sank down beside her, pressing his hands together in prayer. “I’m sorry, please forgive me! I promise I’ll pay it back!” He begged and begged, Nam-gyu was unable to help himself and let out a sharp chuckle— it wasn’t loud, but it was enough to break the already fragile silence, enough to draw a few horrified glances. He didn’t care, there it is again.. Mortals, groveling, praying to gods that don’t exist. He had witnessed this a thousand times before— on battlefields, in hospitals, in back-alleys where the smell of rot clung to the air like a second skin. it was always the same: ‘Please, not me. Please, not yet.’ No one ever seemed to learn. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.” The guard deadpanned, showing just how unfazed he was as he tilted his head. Despite his statement, more players joined in on the begging, voices overlapping, drowning each other out. “Please, I have a family—,” “I swear I won’t say anything, just let me go!,” “I don’t want to die, please!” The guard didn’t do so much as shift, “We are not trying to harm you. We are presenting you with an opportunity.” The guard cleared up, that’s when Player 456 spoke up. “Clause of the consent form,” He began, stepping forward, in contrast to his madman ramblings, his voice was steadier than expected. “The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Correct?” He added, in which the guard nodded. “That is correct.” The guard confirmed, “Then let’s vote. Right now.” Player 456 demanded without missing a beat. A ripple moved through the players, hope— weak, but desperate clung to them like lifelines, the guard matched Player 456’s lack of hesitation. “Of course, we respect your right to freedom of choice.” He intentionally paused, letting it sink in. “But first, let me announce the prize amount that’s been accumulated.” He announced, lifting a hand with a click. The room shifted, bathed in a gold hue as the piggy bank above ascended, filling with crisp bills. Nam-gyu pushed himself up, watching alongside Thanos— and maybe Gyeong-su if he hadn’t wandered off, feigning curiosity he didn’t have. “The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.” The guard explained, “How much is that?” A player was quick to ask the obvious, “Each player’s share would be 24,931,500 won.” The guard was quick to reply, Nam-gyu snorted in faux disbelief, running a hand down his face. “Fuck, we almost died, and they’re giving us 24 million? That’s fucking bullshit.” He grumbled, beside him, Thanos held up two fingers, dazed eyes narrowing. “24 million? You said 45.6 billion!” He protested, obviously, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. “The rule is a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly.” The guard corrected, “How much will it be if you survive until the end?” Jeong-dae was quick to speak up, “As I already told you,” The guard began, “The total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won. Those who make it through all six games will equally divide the 45.6 billion won.” The guard explained, a murmur spread across the room, the weight of those numbers sinking in. “So if you’re the only one to survive,” Another player began, voice hushed with something close to awe. “You get 45.6 billion?” The player alleged, “That is corrected.” The guard confirmed with a nod. The room erupted, not in screams, not in fear, but in whispers, in shifting eyes and calculating thoughts: 45.6 billion, the kind of money that could wipe away every debt, every mistake, every last wrong decision. “So we can take a vote again and decide to leave after the next game?” A player hesitantly asked, the guard was quick to nod once more. “As stated in the consent form, you can take a vote after each game.” The guard declared. Taking in the reactions of the others in the room, Nam-gyu smirked— it’s always the same, they begged for their lives one second, and the very moment money dangled in front of them, the fear faded.. Not entirely, but just enough, just enough to make them stay, just enough to make them gamble their lives for the chance at something more. Humans, predictable as ever.

The guard droned on, calling out numbers in a voice so devoid of inflection it might as well belong to a machine. Nam-gyu allowed the words to slip past him, his mind drifting elsewhere. The air was thick— sweat, nerves, and desperation hanging heavily like the stench of unwashed bodies. Above the restless murmuring, a woman perched atop her bunk like a crow on a telephone wire began spewing nonsense. “It’s all pointless! You didn't decide when to come into this world, and you can’t decide when you leave it either. When and where you die were already decided by the gods the moment you were born, no matter how hard you try, you can never escape it!” She declared, glaring at no one in particular. Nam-gyu tossed his head back and let out a sharp laugh, earning a few side-eyes from nearby player. The shaman lady was close, so very close until she went and ruined it with gods. He shook his head, amused. He has been reaping souls since the first amoeba twitched to life in a primordial ocean, and not once has he met a god. Humans, though— they love their fairy tales, anything to pretend death is something they can bargain with. The vote continued, names were being called, choices being made, lives decided with the press of a button. Nam-gyu watched as Thanos approached the panel, rolling his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring. His palm lands on ‘O’ without hesitation, of course, Thanos is the kind of man who had seen too much and lost too much to back down now. “Wait a minute, everyone wait!” Player 456’s voice cut in through the whispers like a siren, stepping forward, face flushed with desperation leaking from every pore. “You can’t do this, come to your senses! Don’t you see? These aren’t just any games! We will all die if we keep playing! We have to get out of here now. With a majority vote, we can! We must stop here!” He exclaimed, Nam-gyu and Gyeong-su exchanged a gaze, snark from Nam-gyu, pity from Gyeong-su. Jeong-dae let out a scoff, stepping up with the swagger of a man who loved the sound of his own voice. “Who the hell do you think you are, huh? You keep egging people on, running your mouth like you know everything! First, you scare the shit out of saying they’d shoot us right before the game started—” He accused, “That’s right! You kept saying we’d die, and I almost did ‘cause I got so damn nervous!” A woman chimed in, her voice shrill. Another player took a step forward, eyes sharp with suspicion. “Yeah.. How did you know?” He pried, voice lowering to an accusatory tone. “You knew exactly what was gonna happen. You knew it was Red Light, Green Light. What if you’re one of them, what then?” The same player pondered, more voices piled on, accusations and demands rippling through the room like a fire catching dry grass. Nam-gyu tuned them out, stretching his arms with a lazy sigh, the only thing he really noted was how predictable the whole thing was. Fear always turned into paranoia. Give them a few minutes and the real interesting stuff will start. “I have done this before!” Player 456 exclaimed, Nam-gyu’s attention snapped back, his gaze sharpening. Player 456 stood his ground, shoulders tense with labored breathing. “I knew about the first game because I played it before! I played the games here three years ago! And everyone who was with me died here!” He added, at his words, a shiver ran through the crowd. Nam-gyu, however, only came to the realization that was why he had sensed something about Player 456 the moment his gaze zeroed in on him— a faint scent of death clinging to him like stale smoke. Now, it all made sense. Three years ago, Nam-gyu had reaped the souls from that game himself, he recalled the blood, the terror, the sheer volume of the dead. And Gi-hun? He remembered the name, he remembered the way death hovered around him, always just a breath away but never quite touching. Though, the others were reeling. Thanos waltzed toward the scene, his expression unreadable. “If you really won, that actually works better for us.” He pointed out, “You can give us some tips on how to beat these games.” He jeered, Jeong-dae was quick to catch on, nodding along eagerly. “That’s right! We have a previous winner here. What do we have to worry about? Come on, let’s do this.” He announced.

The shift was immediate. Where there was doubt, now there was something else— a mixture of greed, hope, and ambition. Humans, always so quick to cling to whatever gave them the illusion of control. A guard stepped forward, and silence fell over the room, leaving the vote to resume. Nam-gyu stretched leisurely before making his way up once his number was called, he lingered at the panel, dragging the moment out just for fun. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, he pressed ‘O.’ The numbers tallied, the votes were cast, the results were final— it was confirmed, the game will continue.

Chapter Text

Lee Myung-gi sat hunched atop his bunk, shoveling spoonfuls of rice into his mouth like a man who’s never had a decent meal in his life. His shoulders were tense in addition to his movements being quick as if he expected someone to snatch the food from his hands.

If Nam-gyu absolutely had to give him credit, he’d note he was right to be wary. Regardless, himself and Thanos had no intentions of leaving Myung-gi to his devices as they approached the scene, cutting through the scattered conversations and quiet chewing of the other players. Their steps were deliberately slow and predatory, Myung-gi seemed to try his best to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight of their presence pressing in on him. Nam-gyu came to a halt just beside him, tilting his head. “Enjoying your food?” He asked in a tone that showed he lacked any real interest in such, his real interest sat in the way Myung-gi hesitated, his spoon hovering mid-air.. Like Nam-gyu had noted before, he was right to be wary, he was staring Death in the face. “I couldn’t eat.. After seeing everyone get shot dead, you still have a damn appetite?” Nam-gyu sneered, once again, the words were a flimsy excuse— he couldn’t care less about the massacre earlier, he’s just here to make Mying-gi squirm. “That crypto ruined my life too,” Myung-gi sighed through his nose, forcing down another bite to mask his irritation. “That’s why I’m here, to make money.” Myung-gi attempted to get through to the pair.

Myung-gi’s attempts proved to be useless as a sharp crack echoed throughout the dormitory as Thanos made his presence known by gripping the base of Myung-gi’s bunk, his tattoo-tinged knuckles turning white. He leaned in nice and close, enough for Myung-gi to get a whiff of the lingering scent of nicotine and whatever cheap cologne Thanos had drowned himself in before arriving at the games. “That’s right,” Thanos cut in, his voice sickly sweet with venom. “You’d better make a lot of money, because of that damn coin, I lost over 500 million won— the money I earned from busting my ass rapping.” He added through gritted teeth, but Myung-gi barely had any reaction to offer, shrugging and shoving another spoonful of rice into his mouth. “I lost 300 million.” Myung-gi deadpanned as though it were a competition.

For once in his life, Thanos wasn’t amused— his eyes darkening alongside his jaw tightening. “You’d better win the games and make a load of money to pay us back.” Thanos spat, in response to this, Myung-gi let out a sharp, exhausted exhale. “I get it, can you go away now? I’m trying to eat—” He began, setting his food container down with a dull thud, causing Nam-gyu to seize the opportunity to snatch the box from his grasp. “You little shit,” Nam-gyu scoffed, inspecting the rice with sheer distaste. “Eating like a fucking pig.” Nam-gyu added, picking the food idly. “Give it back!” Myung-gi demanded, however, Nam-gyu wasn’t phased. “No.” He deadpanned, Thanos chimed in with a low chuckle, with an exaggerated gentleness, he plucked the box from Nam-gyu’s hands. “You want to eat this so badly?” Thanos affirmed, grin widening as he made a quick pause for dramatic effect. “Then Thanos will feed you!” Thanos declared, before Myung-gi could react, Thanos grabbed a handful of rice and unapologetically smashed it into his face. Myung-gi yelped, recoiling, grains of rice sticking to his skin as he furiously shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear the mess. “Good, isn’t it?” Thanos cackled, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

Nam-gyu burst into laughter, doubling over— he hadn’t had this much fun in ages, but Myung-gi was done playing. With a guttural snarl, he lunged, tackling Thanos off his feet and slamming him onto the dormitory floor. “You motherfucker!” Myung-gi spat, “Son of a bitch—” Nam-gyu’s laughter abruptly cut off, rushing forward and grabbing Myung-gi by the shoulders, effectively yanking the crypto-bro off Thanos. “Knock it off, asshole!” Nam-gyu demanded, paying no mind to how Thanos barely missed a beat.

The moment Thanos found himself free from Myung-gi’s grip, he swung a rage-filled punch, his fist connecting with Myung-gi’s face with a sickening crack. Ouch, he'd hate to be Myung-gi right now.

A chorus of “Oooooooh!” rose from the other players, eyes lighting up with amusement and morbid curiosity. No one, not even the guards, bothered to step in.

Myung-gi stumbled back in a daze, but Thanos didn’t give him a chance to recover. He threw another punch, then another, tattoo-tinged fists fueled by weeks— months— of pent-up rage. “You son of a bitch!” Thanos spat, Myung-gi fell to his knees, groaning, trying his hardest to crawl away, but Thanos was far from finished.

There was a sharp thud as his foot collided with Myung-gu’s ribs, “I lost all that money because of you, fucker.” Thanos hissed following another kick, sending Myung-gi curling in on himself, arms shielding his head. “Piece of shit.” Thanos added, Nam-gyu watched with a grin, unhappy with his role as a referee and took a sharp, possibly overconfident step forward. “Let me get in there.” Nam-gyu muttered, swinging his leg back and against all odds, slipping.

The floor was slick— whether from sweat, blood, or spilled food, Nam-gyu wasn’t sure, all he knew was he shouldn’t have fucked with Probability all those years ago, and one second, he was about to land a satisfiying kick, and the next, he was on the ground. “Hey, step aside.” Thanos snickered, Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched as he quickly rose to his feet, brushing himself off like nothing happened.

Death itself should be better at this, he had watched countless wars, he should know how to throw a goddamn kick.

Thanos, meanwhile, resumed his assault. “Be grateful and eat what you’re given!” Thanos snarked with another kick, sending Myung-hi sprawling.

“Boys, what are you doing in the middle of mealtime?” The chaos came to a halt as the voice— a calm and deliberate one with just enough authority to command attention, made such a demand, a man— Player 001 stepped forward, his presence somehow heavier than the guards’ silent judgment. He was an older man, probably late forties, but there’s something about him that made even Thanos pause. Nam-gyu, as Death, could see in 001’s eyes— this was a man who had lost nearly everything. He surveyed the scene, unimpressed. “No fights during mealtime, there are elders present. Mind your manners.” He scolded, “And two against one? Aren’t you embarrassed?” Player 001 pondered, Nam-gyu scowled, why would he be embarrassed? He flicked his gaze toward Thanos, who finally stepped back when satisfied with his handiwork, Myung-gi groaned, still curled on the floor, the odd combination of rice and bruises smeared across his face.

For the first time since the game started, Nam-gyu actually felt something akin to annoyance at the fact some random old bastard just managed to make him feel called out.

Thanos’ assault on Myung-gi came to a halt, shaking the pain from his knuckles before turning his attention to Player 001. Nam-gyu watched with his arms clasped behind his back, observing the shift in focus like a spectator at an underground fight. Thanos wasn’t done, that much was clear— he was just changing targets. “You’re lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” Thanos alleged in disbelief, spreading his arms in exaggerated disbelief. He strides toward Player 001 with dramatic hand gestures, practically performing for the other players. “Dude, stop running your mouth.” Thanos grumbled, making a ‘talk-talk’ gesture with his left hand— or maybe it was Nam-gyu’s left? At the end of the day, Nam-gyu didn’t care to know, just watching with a neutral expression. Thanos reached the bunk and leaned his right arm against it, resting his weight like he’s lounging at a bar instead of instigating a fight. “And take care of your own damn kids.” Thanos snapped.

The shift in the air was immediate— any divine being in the room could recognize it with a blindfold on.

Player 001’s expression darkened, his body stiffening just enough for Nam-gyu to notice. “What did you just say?” Player 001 spat as if daring Thanos to continue. Thanos, who was oblivious as ever and couldn't even read a room while sober— tilted his head, “I said save the lecture for your own damn kids.” Thanos repeated himself with the cockiness of a man who had absolutely no clue he was about to get his ass handed to him. Nam-gyu thought about pretending not to know Thanos, but before a decision could be made, Player 001’s hand shot out and seized Thanos by the throat. Thanos let out a startled groan, his bravado momentarily cut short, sending the dorm erupting with an echoing chorus of “Oooooh!” From the watching players.

Upon fully taking in the sight, Nam-gyu’s amusement soured instantly, he didn’t like this, not because he particularly cares if Thanos gets roughed up (God knows he needs the reality check,) but because Player 001 had already embarrassed him in front of everyone once tonight, and now he’s insisting on making Thanos look weak too.

And weakness is something Nam-gyu despises, so, no, this ordeal wasn’t okay.

Before Nam-gyu could intervene, pain exploded in his ankle. His vision flared white as he stumbled, clutching his leg. He glared down at Myung-gi, who was rightfully still curled on the floor, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who was just having dirt shoved down his throat. “You son of a bitch.” Nam-gyu spat, he was so pissed off that for a brief moment, he considered liberating both Myung-gi and Player 001’s souls, no one would question it, accidents happened, after all.

Death straightened, about to act, when his thoughts skidded to a halt.

Life is here.

His sibling— and who knows who else is watching.

And even worse, his progenitors would be pissed if he started disrupting the natural order over some petty grudge.

Fucking consquences, Nam-gyu hated how his posistion as a divine being didn’t grant him immunity from such human concepts.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have dwelled too deeply in thought as in the span of a heartbeat, he was knocked off his feet completely. Myung-gi’s foot connected again, sending Nam-gyu sprawling to the cold floor.

The impact rattled through his bones, his ego taking a bigger hit than his pathetic body, his anger boiling over.

He is death, he has watched civilizations crumble, escorted emperors and warlords into the afterlife, presided over mass extinctions— and despite all of that, here he was, on the fucking ground, because of a crypto bro.

Meanwhile, Thanos broke free from the chokehold, staggering back before attempting to throw a punch. Player 001’s fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Thanos doubled over, wheezing. “Wait—” He rasped, but Player 001 didn’t wait. With fluid ease, he twisted Thanos’ fingers, forcing him down before driving a kick straight into his chest. Thanos collapsed to the ground, his breath leaving him in a sharp, ragged exhale. Nam-gyu pushed himself up, brushing off the humiliation of being floored as he watched Player 001 grab Thanos by the collar. He cocked a fist, ready to dive it straight into Thanos’ face.

Nam-gyu tensed up.

“Please.”

It’s quiet, almost swallowed by the noise, but it was there.

Thanos was pleading.

Nam-gyu felt something unpleasant stirr in his chest.

Thanos might be an idiot, but he was far from spineless. The fact that he was resorting to begging meant he knew he was about to lose, that this is a fight he can’t win. And Nam-gyu, for all his sadism, found no joy in watching someone so pathetically outmatched. “Let me go,” Thanos rasped, leading Player 001 to finally release him, ultimately resulting in sending the dormitory into another writ of applause.

“Great, you’re the man!”

“Nice!”

Thanos was still on the ground, chest heaving.

Myung-gi was a bruised mess but looked somewhat content that someone got humiliated too.

And Player 001? He stood there like some self-righteous hero, basking in the praise of idiots.

Nam-gyu wanted to laugh, they loved him for what? Teaching a lesson?

How pathetic, humans are so easily entertained, Death missed the dinosaurs, at least their fights were worth his while.

But as much as Nam-gyu wanted to snap Player 001’s neck just to silence the cheers, he forced himself to smile, rolling his shoulders as if none of this fazed him.

Because he is still in control, and no matter how the game unfolds, Death always gets the last laugh.

The applause faded, the excitement died down, the guards didn’t intervene, and neither did Nam-gyu. He watched Player 001 bask in his brief moment of glory, surrounded by idiots who eat up every second of it. Humans loved a spectacle, loved a hero, loved anything that distracts them from the fact that they are one mistake away from lying in a pool of their own blood.

But Death? He got over it, for egos bruise, bones break, pride gets swallowed. That’s life, that’s death.. And Player 001, for all his arrogance, will die here sooner or later— just like the rest of them, just like everyone. Nam-gyu sighed, rolling his shoulders before turning to where Thanos was still hunched over the floor, one arm curled around his ribs, the other propping him up. “You alove?” Nam-gyu asked, tone lighter than before. “Barely.” Thanos coughed, laughing weakly through the pain. Nam-gyu smirked, reaching down, Thanos hesitated before taking his hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His palm is warm— too warm, like he’s burning up from the inside out. “Come on, let’s get back to our bunks before you embarrass yourself again.” Nam-gyu insisted, Thanos grumbled something inaudible under his breath but reluctantly followed, still moving stiffly from the beating. Nam-gyu kept his pace slow, matching his steps as they weaved through the dormitory.

The air was thick with sweat, blood, and tension. Some players watched them, others were busy whispering amongst themselves, already making plans for alliances, betrayals, and whatever pathetic schemes they thought would save them.

At the end of the day, none of it will.

Because he’s here.

And no matter what they did, no matter how desperately they clung to life, they will all walk with him in the end.

Except…

Nam-gyu glanced at Thanos out of the corner of his eye.

There’s something off about him, he should be insignificant, just another mortal in a long, unbroken chain of people Nam-gyu has watched live and die. Despite this self-reassurance, something nagged at him, an ache just beneath his ribs, like a memory trying to claw its way back to the surface.

This wasn’t the first time.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did, this wasn’t the first time Thanos walked this earth.

And it isn’t the first time he’s found his way back to him.

In due time, the pair reached their bunks, Gyeong-su’s perky self shot up at the sight of them, barely containing his curiosity. “Yo, what the hell was that? I saw that guy toss you around like a ragdoll!” Gyeong-su exclaimed, “Don’t remind me.” Thanos groaned while flopping onto his bunk, meanwhile, Nam-gyu leaned against the metal frame, watching as Thanos rubbed at his sore ribs— his movements were sluggish, but there was no real anger in him, no resentment— just that same reckless, half-drunk carelessness that made him so human. “You okay?” Nam-gyu pondered before he could stop himself, “Huh?” Thanos paused, blinking up at him. “You heard me.” Nam-gyu simply put, following a beat of silence, allowing time for a smirk to tug at the corner of Thanos’ mouth. “What, you worried about me?” Thanos sneered, “No, if you get yourself killed, I'll have to carry your dumbass to the other side, and I’d rather not put in that kind of effort.” Nam-gyu scoffed, looking away to hide the half-truth. Thanos tilted his head to the side as he studied Nam-gyu, “You’re weird, Nam-su.” He jeered, “Nam-gyu.” Nam-gyu grudgingly corrected.

Despite all, the moment lingered— sending the air between them into a nameless shift, something that existed long before this moment— before this life.

Nam-gyu didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain— Thanos has died before, and every time, his soul found its way back to him. Nam-gyu let out a slow exhale, shaking the thought away, it didn’t matter— Thanos was still mortal, still temporary, and when his time ran out, Nam-gyu would be there, just as he always has been.

Because in the end, Death is the only thing that bothered to stick around.

The music started up once more— a bright, cheerful melody that clashed horribly with the miasma of sweat, unwashed bodies, and the lingering traces of blood. “Attention, please, the second game will begin momentarily. Please follow the instructions from our staff. Let me repeat, the second game will begin momentarily, please follow the instructions from our staff.” The monotone and sterile voice crackled through the intercom, as if they were a hivemind— the dormitory stirred, bodies shifting under thin blankets, groggy murmurs filling the space as reality settled in. Some players sat up too fast, gasping as if they were just awoken from a near death expierence, whilist others moved slolwy, as if trying to delay the inevitable.

Of course, Nam-gyu hadn’t slept, his body was merely on autopilot while he collected the thousands of souls across the world who managed to get themselves killed in all sorts of ways.

Death doesn’t rest, Death doesn’t dream, Death simply is.

But now, Death’s attention was drawn to a single finger— Thanos, still stretched out on his bunk, lifting a small cross necklace to his lips. Nam-gyu leaned against the cold metal stairs nearby, his gaze narrowing. Thanos never struck him for the religious type, but then— Thanos tilted the necklace to an angle, revealing a hidden compartment inside.

How could Nam-gyu have missed that? He wasn’t praying, it was drugs. He kept his silent gaze locked on Thanos as he popped a tiny pill into his mouth, he didn’t even swallow right away, allowing it to sit under his tongue, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he let out a slow and deep exhale. Nam-gyu knocked on the stairs beside him, the ‘clang’ ringing sharp against the morning noise. “What’s that?” Nam-gyu asked in the most casual tone he could muster, he already knew, he just wanted to hear what bullshit excuse Thanos would come up with. The man in question met his gaze, expression momentarily unreadable before breaking into an easy smirk. He rolled onto his side, dangling his legs off the bunk as he stretched, shaking out his shoulders. “You don’t need to know, it’s time to play the game.” Thanos replied in a smooth, teasing voice.

And with that, Thanos practically jumped off the bunk, landing with the careless grace of someone who’s too used to floating outside reality. Nam-gyu watched him go with a tight jaw, teeth grinding together before he forced himself to move, convincing himself it didn’t matter that Thanos numbed himself before each game, it didn’t matter that Nam-gyu knew exactly what he was doing, for in the end— it was all the same, Thanos could run, he could drown himself in drugs, distractions, and whatever else numbed the weight of being alive. But when the time came, he would still have to walk with Nam-gyu to the other side, just like he always had.

The pastel-pink stairwell twisted and turned, a literal maze of unsettling brightness. The cheery, artificial music played, clashing horribly with the tension thrumming through the human players bodies.

Nam-gyu moved with the crowd, flanked by Thanos and Gyeong-su. The air was thick with quiet murmurs, paranoia laced into every conversation. The guards herded them like cattle, leading them into a room where the floor was covered in artificial sand, the aroma of plastic and rubber stinging Nam-gyu’s nose. Two massive rainbow circles dominated the space, looking more adjacent to a children’s play area than the setting for whatever hellish game was about to unfold.

“Welcome to your second game, this game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five within the next ten minutes. Let me repeat: This game will be played in teams, please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes.” The intercom announced, Nam-gyu had seen this phenomenon in many wars before, forcing them to form bonds before ripping them apart. As promised, the voice gave them five minutes, allowing the players to scramble, whispering hurriedly, evaluating each other with quick, suspicious glances. He caught the calculations behind their eyes— who looked strong, who looked smart, who looked disposable. “Please divide into teams now.” The voice added, officially starting the clock.

Nam-gyu had expected Thanos to stay close, maybe at least pretend to strategize, but instead, he watched him make a beeline for a girl covered in piercings despite her already being deep in conversation with some skinny, nervous-looking young man. “Señorita, excuse me.” Thanos crooned in a voice dripped with playful arrogance, “Let’s play the game together.” Thanos offered while leaning in with a grin and dramatic hand gesture. Upon laying sight on dumb and dumber, Nam-gyu’s lips pursed into a thin line, glancing at Gyeong-su to ensure they saw the same tomfoolery. In an attempt to get Thanos’ attention and tell him it was a bad idea, Nam-gyu opted to exhale sharply through his nose, running a hand down Thanos’ arm, however, Thanos ignored him. “Why should I?” The girl— Player 380 asked while raising an unimpressed brow. Before Nam-gyu could cut in and tell her they really didn’t want her anyway— “Don’t you know who he is? He’s Thanos the rapper!” Gyeong-su eagerly chimed in, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m gonna kill half of humanity with my raps—” As if on cue, Gyeong-su had started rapping, and Nam-gyu felt the need to emphasize that he was rapping badly.

Thanos— with a grin, made quick, exaggerated rap gestures with his hands, nodding along like a hype man. Nam-gyu twitched, his patience wearing thin. “Hang on, a girl? We don’t know what the game is.” Nam-gyu cut in, though Thanos didn’t even acknowledge him.. It was almost like he wanted to die, which at one point, he did. Regardless, Nam-gyu’s annoyance sharpened into something uglier, he didn’t care if Thanos wanted to flirt his way through the games, but what he did care about is the fact that they don’t know what they’re waltzing their way into, and if this were a game of strength— he didn’t need dead weight, let alone dead weight with an attitude. “I, Thanos the Great, will protect you.” Thanos smugly jeered, leaning in closer to Player 380. “Right, Thanos. So, have you got all the Infinity Stones?” Player 380 snorted, in response, Thanos’ grin widened, flexing his fingers dramatically. Nam-gyu watched— utterly unamused as Thanos revealed his nails, each one painted a different color: green thumb, purple index finger, blue middle finger, red ring finger, and an orange pinky. “Of course,” Thanos purred in English, before switching back to Korean with a cocky glint in his eye. “I’m going to destroy anyone who gets in my way!” He went on to announce, though just as quickly, his tone shifted to something with an edge of sincerity. “Just stick with me, and you’ll be safe, okay?” Thanos assured, Nam-gyu clenched his jaw.

The worst part? It wasn’t even bullshit, Thanos meant it, he said it with the same reckless confidence he said everything, but there was an underlying truth to it— an unspoken promise, like he’s done this before, like he always does this.

It’s infuriating.

“But I already have someone with me.” Player 380 mumbled, crossing her arms and unknowingly pulling Nam-gyu out of his own head. “No problem, who is it?” Thanos asked with a wave of his hand, Player 380 took a step back, revealing Player 125. Nam-gyu let out a slow exhale, trying to steady his irritation.

As much as Nam-gyu disliked it, Thanos would always be like this— careless, impulsive, too quick to attach himself to people who would only slow him down, it was so painfully human of him.

And yet—

Nam-gyu already knew how this would end, no matter how many times Thanos reincarnated, no matter how many lifetimes passed, he would always find his way back to Nam-gyu.. And Nam-gyu against all logic, against everything, would always let him out of a desire to rebel against his progenitors.

However, the moment Nam-gyu settled his gaze on Player 125, he knew.

Park Min-su, otherwise known to Nam-gyu as Life itself.

Death stiffened, his entire being recoiling at the mere presence of his sibling— his cosmic opposite, the only thing in existence he truly despised. And Life recognized him too based on the way he tensed, the way his breath hitched, and the flicker of unease in his eyes— it was all there, it was all a silent acknowledgement, no words were exchanged because there was nothing to say, for they have existed far too long for words to hold any meaning between them. Nam-gyu scoffed, gazing down at the sand-coated floor beneath them. Of course— of-fucking-course Life would be in the same prison for the desperate as him, as if things weren’t already unbearable enough.

Thanos, oblivious and human as ever, tilted his head while eyeing Min-su curiously. “What’s your name?” He pondered, his tone implying he genuinely wanted to know. “It’s Min-su.” Min-su muttered, hesitating for only a second before managing to spit it out in a quiet ass voice. Nam-gyu immediately took a step forward, eager to steer Thanos away. “He looks like a freaking dork.” Nam-gyu grumbled in a sharp and dismissive tone, making a vague gesture at Min-su as though he were some random inconvenience instead of a literal embodiment of everything he loathed. But before he could continue with actual logic, Thanos raised a hand in a lazy thoughtless gesture— no, a command.

Nam-gyu wasn’t sure if it was because of the audacity or the sheer shock that a mortal would dare to order him around that caused him to fall silent, but nonetheless, his teeth grinded together, the irritation crawling up his spine like something alive and ugly. That hand, that simple fucking gesture— it made him feel beneath Thanos, as though he’d been reduced to some bothersome little servant who needed to shut up and obey.

And Death is a servant to none.

Thanos, still utterly unaware of the war raging inside Nam-gyu, stepped closer to Min-su instead. “What’s up? Nice to meet you, my brother. Welcome to the Thanos world.” Thanos greeted. Nam-gyu could only watch— seething while Thanos reached out and shook Min-su’s hand, gripping it like they’d been best friends forever. “You’re cute, come on.” Thanos advised, Nam-gyu let out a slow exhale, forcing himself to remain still, reassuring himself that this was fine, that it had to be fine, because it didn’t matter how many times Life and Death crossed paths, it didn’t matter many times they pretended to play mortal games for in the end, everything dies..

And no matter how much Life clung to a false reality, no matter how much it fought, Death always won.

However, Nam-gyu’s silence didn’t mean he didn’t have words for Min-su.

At his command, the waking world vanished— the pastel stairwells, the artificial sand, the bodies swarming to form their teams— all of it dissolved into a cold, endless black.

A void untouched by time, where only two beings remained— Nam-gyu and Min-su, otherwise known as Death and Life.

Min-su stood before him, his small, timid presence grating against the very fabric of this space. He didn’t belong here, he never had. “What the hell are you doing here?” Nam-gyu demanded, Min-su flinched while his fingers twitched at his sides, he didn’t answer immediately, his lips parting but no words dared to leave his mouth. Nam-gyu took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “Your presence is screwing with my abilities, do you think I don’t notice?” Nam-gyu spat, his voice dripping with irritation. “People are lingering longer than they should, the natural order is bending, and I don’t like it. So tell me, what are you actually doing here?” Nam-gyu pried, Min-su swallowed hard, gaze darting downward—- what a fucking coward. “I—” Min-su stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a woman playing. She’s pregnant. I have to make sure the baby is delivered safely.” Min-su finally managed to muster the courage to say, was that so fucking hard to spit out? One would think Life itself could uphold a conversation. “Bullshit.” Nam-gyu deadpanned, letting out a sharp, humorless laugh. Min-su winced, shifting uncomfortably, luckily for him, Nam-gyu was far from finished. “I know when you lie, Min-su. You’re terrible at it.” Nam-gyu snapped, crossing his arms. “What else is being kept from me? Who else from our wretched family is watching this little game?” Nam-gyu demanded, Min-su had no answer— he never did. Nam-gyu clicked his tongue, exhaling through his nkss.

It was infuriating, but it was also boring. Min-su was spineless, too timid to ever challenge him, too weak to be any real threat.. Nam-gyu had to remind himself Min-su wasn’t worth the effort just to keep himself sane.

So, Nam-gyu let him go. “Stay in your lane, Life.” Nam-gyu spat in a cutting and final tone that left no room for argument. “You and I both know how this ends, don’t make it harder than it has to be.” Nam-gyu added, “Did you find him again?” Min-su pondered after some hesitation, Nam-gyu actually stiffened at this in the form of his fingers curling slightly and his jaw tightening. Min-su didn’t elaborate, he didn’t have to, they both knew who he meant— the mortal soul that always came back, the one cursed to be reborn, again and again, only to fall for Death himself. Nam-gyu’s expression didn’t change, but something ugly churned inside him. “None of your damn business.” Nam-gyu spat, dragging a hand down his face before forcing a smirk.

And with that, the void collapsed, sending the waking world rushing back in.

The next time Nam-gyu blinked, the void was gone— the cold, endless blackness of his and Min-su’s domain was replaced by garish, suffocating color— the rainbow circles beneath him, the artificial sand pressing uncomfortably against his legs, the pastel playground of whatever cruel joke this game had in store for them.

And worst of all? Time had moved without them.

Nam-gyu came back to the mortal world to find he was already sitting, his legs crossed and tied together with the others, their bodies tangled in an awkward six-legged formation. He exhaled sharply through his nose in frustration, fucking Life, even when they do so little as exist, Min-su’s mere presence distorted reality. “Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini games: Number one, Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gong-gi. Number four, Spinning Top Number Five, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line in five minutes.” The voice on the intercom crackled, however, Nam-gyu barely listened— his irritation still simmering from their brief conversation (if one would even call it such) and now he had to sit there, tied to the one thing in existence he wanted nothing to do with. And to make matters even worse, Thanos seemed completely unbothered. “All right, my people.. Pick your game.” Thanos announced, rocking a little where he sat.

Nam-gyu didn’t answer, Min-su didn't either— Gyeong-su at least looked like he was trying to think. In the midst of their respective train of thoughts, the first team went up— there was movement, some mild excitement sprinkled in, but Nam-gyu tuned most of it out, until he heard Thanos’ voice again, this time in an obnoxiously cheerful tone. “Let’s get it!” Thanos exclaimed, Nam-gyu snapped his head toward him, blinking in disbelief. Thanos was actually cheering for the other team, figuring he had to appear human in case there were somehow cryptid hunters in this place, Nam-gyu reluctantly joined in and cheered along, despite the fact they were tied together in some ridiculous, childish setup, forced to play along with whatever sadistic rules this game has laid out, and Thanos was acting like he was at a fucking festival.

Some time had passed, and Nam-gyu watched as Thanos slipped a pill between his fingers, rolling it absentmindedly before popping it into his mouth. That’s all it took. No hesitation, no consideration— just a thoughtless little motion. It was like breathing or blinking.. Like running from reality before it inevitably caught up.

Nam-gyu wanted in, not because he needed it, not because he’s nervous, but because if he has to be sober while dragging a handful of corpses to the other side by the end of this game, he’s going to rip his own damn hair out. With that, Nam-gyu opted to reach over and tap Thanos’ shoulder. In response, Thanos barely looked at him, swaying a little, his body still moving to the beat of whatever song must’ve been playing in that empty skull of his. “What?” Thanos muttered, Nam-gyu closed his eyes briefly, feeling like an idiot for asking, but he did it anyway. “Can you.. Can you please give me one of those?” Nam-gyu asked, already feeling like an idiot for asking, but he did it regardless. Thanos stopped moving for half a second, just to be a little shit, he tilted his head. “Those?” He alleged, Nam-gyu opened his eyes, unimpressed. “The thing you took, you’re keeping them inside your cross.” Nam-gyu pointed out, however, despite all of Nam-gyu’s evidence, Thanos flashed him a grin while playing dumb. “I don’t know what the fuck are you talking about.” Thanos protested, his English was clunky, but the cockiness translated just fine. He did finger guns, the high already creeping in, and Nam-gyu rolled his eyes. “If I get nervous and lose the game, we’ll all die.” Nam-gyu deadpanned, despite his deadpan, that managed to get Thanos’ attention, he stopped playing around long enough to actually look at Nam-gyu, taking in the slight tremor in his ring-covered fingers.

“Attention, players—” The voice on the intercom droned, however Nam-gyu tuned the voice out in favor of getting drugs. “Nam-su,” Thanos began, “Nam-gyu.” Nam-gyu corrected, his irritation briefly spiking to an all-time high. Thanos barely acknowledged the correction, just humming as he unzipped his near-identical jacket, revealing the cross necklace dangling against his chest. “Do you know what this is?” He pondered, tapping it. Nam-gyu tilted his head, playing along. “Ecstasy? Ketamine?” He listed off his brief guesses, much to Thanos’ amusement. “It’s a new mind, it’s fucking crazy, man. You can’t handle it.” Thanos shot back, Nam-gyu almost laughed at this— can’t handle it? There wasn’t a drug in the world he couldn’t handle, it was just another form of decay, another thing he’d seen ruin people from the inside out. Instead, he just opted for a: “Hey.” Soon after, he rolled up his sleeve, showing Thanos the proof- tattoos, old track marks, a fresh bruise blooming purple on his arm, all evidence of every substance that’s passed through his veins. “I did all kinds of stuff while I was working at the club, I even brought you some when you came to the club.” Nam-gyu pointed out, Thanos hesitated, glancing around as if checking for guards before exhaling and popping the cross open. With a smirk, he pressed a pill into Nam-gyu’s palm. “You junkie,” He muttered, Nam-gyu just smirked as he swallowed it dry.

Chapter Text

Nam-gyu sat hunched on the concrete steps of the dormitory, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders slouched in a way that made him look more skeletal than human. The cold seeped through his thin jacket, but he hardly noticed— he was too busy seething.

Surrounding him, the others were scattered like fallen chess pieces. Leaning back on his elbows, Thanos sprawled beside him, lazily pressing a hand to his forehead and flicking his wrist like he was manning a nonexistent DJ booth. Gyeong-su nursed a bruised knee a few steps down, wincing every time he shifted— annoyingly, he shifted quite often. What served as even more of an irritation was Min-su sat close by, knees drawn up to his chest, shivering even though the room was warm. As if she was too good for them, Se-mi perched a little apart from them all, arms crossed tightly, her jaw working like she was chewing over a thousand private grudges. To make his disappointment extremely known, Nam-gyu let out a long, guttural groan, dragging his hands down his face, his rings clinking against his cheekbones. “Fuck, way too many are still alive..” Nam-gyu muttered in a voice scratchy with disappointment.

Nam-gyu grinded his slides against the edge of the step, glaring daggers at the cluster of survivors still milling like dumb livestock across the dormitory floor. There were still too many— faces he didn’t know, names he couldn’t be bothered to remember, all of which meant less prize money stacked under his human alias. Worse, it meant he didn’t even get the satisfaction of doing his real job. Ultimately, the frustration needed a target, Nam-gyu’s eyes slid from side to side, landing on Min-su like a hawk spotting a crippled noise. “Hey,” Nam-gyu sharply began, Min-su flinched but didn’t move a muscle. “Hey.” Nam-gyu repeated himself, clicking his tongue. This time around, Min-su startled upright, blinking like he’d just been slapped awake. “Y-yeah?” He pathetically stammered, watching as Nam-gyu tilted his head. “How many do you think are left?” He asked— more so demanded in a falsely casual tone, the undertones of his demand edged like broken glass. “Sorry?” Min-su fumbled, in which Nam-gyu flashed him a thin smile— the kind that didn’t reach his eyes and vowed cruelty. “How many roaches do you think we’ve got crawling around in here?” This time around, Nam-gyu didn’t bother disguising his demand, encouraged by the fact Thanos gave a snort beside him, not even sparing a gaze from his invisible DJ set, he was far too high to care about any existential insect comparisons. Min-su darted glances around the room, eyes wide and counting in desperate little flicks. “A-about… two hundred?” He guessed, voice cracking at the end. Nam-gyu arched an eyebrow, to say he was unimpressed would be an understatement. “How do you know? What are you, an AI bot?” Nam-gyu spat, gesturing lazily out at the crowd. “Go count ‘em.” He demanded. Min-su— stupidly enough, looked like a deer in headlights. “Now?” He affirmed, Nam-gyu gave an exaggerated nod, rings glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Yeah. Now.” He deadpanned, Min-su, cornered, stood up on wobbly legs, about to slink away and start his miserable counting task—

— When Se’mi’s hand shot out, grabbing Min-su by his pathetic shoulder and yanking him back down. “Sit the fuck down.” She snapped, her voice cutting clean through the thick dormitory air. Nam-gyu blinked, genuinely taken aback for a moment— it wasn’t everyday someone spoke to Death like that. His head swiveled slowly to stare at her, however, Se-mi didn’t do so much as flinch, she just tossed her hair over her shoulder like she was brushing off a bug. “What do you even want to count them for? Are you stupid or something?” She asked in a tone that was all sharpness and scorn, as if explaining something to a particularly dim child. “The masked guys are gonna come in and tell us soon anyway.” Se-mi added with a roll of her eyes, Nam-gyu leaned back on his shadows, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth like a worm wriggling from the dirt. His blood— or whatever mockery of blood ran through him, boiled as Se-mi’s sharp and insolent voice cut through the air, like a goddamn mosquito buzz in his ear. He didn’t know if it was because he came from a time when women stitched silk and died quietly or because somewhere in the rotten back alleys of his soul he resented anything that reminded him of tenderness— but either way, the black and putrid feeling curled inside him. “Shut up, bitch.” Nam-gyu snapped in a voice low and rotten with contempt. Se-mi glared at him like she was about to lunge, but before the air could split open between them, Thanos suddenly sat upright, raising both hands in a lazy peacekeeping gesture like a drunk referee. “Stop it.” Thanos demanded in a casual, almost bored voice— but firm enough that the tension shifted. Lowering his hands, Thanos pointed lazily at Min-su, who jumped slightly when the attention swung his way. “What’s your name again?” Thanos asked, “It’s Min-su.” Min-su replied in a soft and thin voice, fidgeting. Thanos nodded sagely, like this information had slotted into some important place in his brain, though his eyes— already starting to glaze, gave him away. “How old are you?” He went on to ask.

Nam-gyu watched the exchange with a growing sneer— ‘how old are you?’ He almost barked out a laugh, both himself and Min-su were older than Thanos’ gods, older than his sins, as old as time. Still, Nam-gyu knew he wouldn't say it, not even the brightest human mind could process it, and as fond as Nam-gyu was of Thanos, Thanos was far from the sharpest tool in the shed. Sure enough, Min-su smiled nervously, “I’m twenty-seven.” He simply put, Thanos leaned back, gazing thoughtfully into the distance like he was trying to calculate the meaning of life from scratch. “So you were born in… 1997.” Thanos trailed off, Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched, but Thanos, oblivious to the black storm beginning to churn just a few feet away, swung a finger toward Nam-gyu. “So why are you treating him like he’s your boss? He’s the same age as you.” Thanos pointed out, the words hitting Nam-gyu like the slaps across the mouth his father, War, used to give him.

In one clean, unthinking motion, white-hot rage flared so brightly behind Nam-gyu’s eyes that he saw red. He hated being compared to Life— to the soft, stupid babble of blood and breath, being told he was the ‘same’ as them was like being told he was nothing more than rot in human skin. And then, like a final insult, Thanos tilted his head, brow furrowed slightly in that thoughtless, stoned way of his. “Nam-su, isn’t that right?” Thanos alleged, Nam-gyu’s fists curled in his lip so tightly he could hear the silver of his cheap rings pressed against his knuckles, undoubtedly turning his fingers green. It stung more than he wanted to admit despite the fact he made Thanos forget— he had wiped Thanos’ memory so he wouldn't remember witnessing Nam-gyu’s true nature.. And yet, somehow, it still rankled that Thanos didn’t even know his fucking name. “It’s Nam-gyu.” Nam-gyu deadpanned, swallowing the acid rising in his throat. “Yeah, yeah, Nam-gyu.” Thanos scoffed, brushing the mistake away like dust. “Isn’t that right?” He sneered, “Yes.” Nam-gyu muttered curtly despite feeling every atom in his body scream to kill anything breathing. Oblivious to the active volcano right next to him, Thanos grinned lazily, clearly under the impression he was some wise old sensei making peace between warring students. “You’re the same age. Treat him like a friend, yeah? We’ll work better as a team that way, okay?” Thanos pointed out, flicking his painted fingers in a vague circle. Nam-gyu ran a slow, shaking hand down his face, smearing the frustration across his skin like dirt. In a desperate attempt to hold himself and his human guise together, he breathed in through his gritted teeth. By contrast, Thanos turned to Gyeong-su next with the easy authority of someone used to commanding attention. “How old are you?” He pondered, Gyeong-su, who had been sitting quietly, practically snapped to attention like a gold retriever offered a treat.. Fitting, considering he wasn’t even a snake in the grass. “Born in 1998!” Gyeong-su brightly announced.

Nam-gyu tilted his head slightly in the way a vulture might examine a corpse before poking and pruding at it. For a brief moment, he peeled back the veil— the sight he was granted as Death, the truth silthering under skin and smiles. He tasted the edges of Gyeong-su’s fate, Gyeong-su, who was stupid, bright-eyed, the personification of the statement: ‘Never meet your idols..’ Lastly, bleeedinf with mortality.. No less than forty-eight hours left, and that was a high estimate, Nam-gyu expected less since this was really no place for someone like Gyeong-su whom had absoluetly no bite. “You?” Thanos asked, pointing directly at Se-mi. “Born in ‘96.” Se-mi replied, crossing her arms tighter. Unable to help himself, Nam-gyu flicked open the gates of truth— and again, he was hit with the stench of dishonesty.. She was younger than Min-su (well, obviously, but Nam-gyu meant younger than Min-su’s human age.) Still, this skank was lying throuth her teeth, that much twisted something ugly in Death, but not enough to bother lashing out— not yet, Nam-gyu thought as he briefly glanced at how much time Se-mi had left.

Thanos gave a board, triumphant gesture— as if he’d just completed some ancient ritual. “It’s settled, Gyeong-su’s the youngest, you two—“ He paused, pointing between Min-su and Nam-gyu. “—are the same age, and you’re the oldest.” He concluded, pointing to Se-mi, whom flashed a little smirk, tilting her chin upwards in smug triumph. Nam-gyu caught it and felt an old, familar, welcome urge rise in him— the urge to snap all things delicate and ungrateful. “Hey,” Thanos started, leaning toward Nam-gyu with a teasing glint in his eye— such a glint washed an unfamilar and unwelcome feeling upon Death, not the persona of Nam-gyu. “Call her noona since she’s older.” Thanos dictated, Nam-gyu stared at him for a second, blank and dumbfounded before a hollow laugh that cracked sharp as breaking ice followed, Nam-gyu leaned back against the steps and let it roll out of him, it was so absurd it was almost funny.. Noonas? Older siblings? He and his siblings were born in the same heartbeat— the first shiver of the universe splitting open like an egg. There were no ‘noonas.’ There was only Beginning.. There was only Death. Thanos, not amused by Nam-gyu’s laughter, narrowed his eyes. “Do it.” He demanded, voice flattening out, no longer a request. Nam-gyu wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, killing the last echoes of laughter and ensuring his eyes were dead and gold when they lifted to meet Thanos’.. But, he said nothing, not just yet. Thanos would get over it, he always did.

The air inside the dormitory hung heavy, buzzing faintly with fluorescent lighting and the low, wet sound of blood-and-piss-covered slides sticking to linoleum floors. After the tense exchange, a fragile, awkward silence had settled between them, as brittle as spun glass considering the majority of them were too stubborn to break the ice. Luckily, Thanos— the bridge between friction and camaraderie, broke it first. “So..” He began, letting the word hang as he gazed around the mismatched faces fate had comically stitched together. “Where’s everyone from?” He pondered, “Seoul. Born and raised.” Gyeong-su answered first in a soft but steady voice, perched like a loyal shadow next to Thanos. “I used to go to all your shadows, hyung.. Big fan.” Gyeong-su marveled, flashing a sheepish grin to disguise the fact he had shifted a little and scratched the back of his neck. Nam-gyu had only noticed because while sulking against the wall, he was regarding Gyeong-su with a narrowed gaze that saw straight through flesh and bone, deep into the crumbling hourglass of his soul.. Forty-three hours, maybe less, he could smell the faint rot already. “I knew you looked familiar.” Nam-gyu muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face in order to feign awe. “I promoted half the nights you worked at.. Might’ve even sold you some of your worst bighs.” Nam-gyu added despite knowing good and well, “Small fuckin’ world.” Thanos jeered, shooting him a smirk. Meanwhile, Min-su— like the useless prick he was, watched with the wide, empty-eyes fascination of someone who didn’t entirely understand the conversation but felt it was important to nod along. Se-mi, who had finally uncrossed her arms and quit pretending she was higher than them, leaned back on her heels with an unreadable gaze— like stones carved by careful hands. “Boseong.” She offered curtly upon the attention shifting to her, Thanos cocked his head, grinning like he was waiting for a story. “Boseong? That’s like.. Tea fields and shit, right? What brought you here?” He asked, seeming genuinely curious. “There’s something worse waiting for me back home.” Se-mi grumbled with a shrug.

A brittle crackle moved through the group like dry leaves underfoot, even Gyeong-su glanced up from where he was fiddling with a loose thread on his pants. Nam-gyu tilted his head, studying her, the machinery behind his eye sockets grinding in suspicion.. Boseong— when he thought of that place, he thought of dark forests, old magic, places where women still whispered in languages older than stone. He narrowed his eyes, scraping over her every detail: the hard line of her jaw, the slight crook of her nose, the hideous abundance of piercings that made her look like a wild bull. He briefly wondered if she was a Gumiho, though he dismissed it when he remembered that Gumihos tended to be ‘beautiful women’ (Nam-gyu would argue no women were beautiful..) Regardless, no fox spirit would waste the energy.. But a witch? Yeah, he could believe that, he could practically smell the hex dust clinging to her.. She was bound ass-by-dick to that fool Min-su, too.. So, she must’ve fucked with a spell she couldn’t control because who in their right mind would willingly spend time with Min-su? His lip curled slightly at the thought. Thanos, as per usual was oblivious to the churn in Nam-gyu’s head, broke the silence once more. “Alright, so we got Seoul, Seoul, and Boseong. Not bad, what about you two?” Thanos asked, gesturing toward Min-su and Nam-gyu. “I’m from Suwon.. Not far from Seoul.” Min-su stammered, Nam-gyu rolled his eyes so hard it was truly a wonder they stayed in his skull. He didn’t bother to answer right away, instead opting to let the silence stretch until it grew uncomfortable. “Same circle as him, different paycheck.” He reiterated, jerking his chin toward Thanos. “Damn, man. You really were everywhere, I should’ve put you on payroll.” Thanos quipped, followed by a deep, raw laugh that bounced off the walls. Nam-gyu shot him a thin smirk but said nothing, inside, bile coiled and festered. Se-mi’s eyes flickered between the two, catching the strange tension she couldn’t name.. The way Nam-gyu kept his body loose but his jaw tight, the way Thanos treated him like a familiar stray rather than the snarling animal he truly was. “So,” Thanos began, stretching his tattoo-specked arms above his head until his joints popped like cracking branches. “We work together, right? That’s the deal?” He alleged, Gyeong-su nodded eagerly, nearly vibrating with loyalty, Min-su offered a nervous smile, Se-mi opted for a curt nod, and Nam-gyu didn’t move, he sat there, arms crossed, a storm trapped in human flesh, calculating every way this could— and would inevitably go wrong.. But he smiled anyway, a slow, hagrid smile that showed too many teeth and didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, teamwork.” He sneered, voice like dead leaves crunching underfoot.

With that, they sat huddled together— Thanos, Gyeong-su, Se-mi, Min-su, and Nam-gyu, all like a ragged pack around a dying campfire, wary and half-broken but still burning. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, stretching long and thin, as if trying to listen in. “So, Se-mi..” Nam-gyu started in a low and lazy voice, dragging her stupid name out like a blade over stone. He turned his head toward her with a slow, deliberate weight, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t anywhere near a smile. “Do you believe in divine shit?” Nam-gyu pressed, Se-mi lifted her chin, suspicion flickering in her dark eyes. “Maybe.. Why?” She asked, Nam-gyu’s grin widened, stretching across his face like a crack in porcelain, tapping his chest with two slow and deliberate fingers. “‘Cause if there’s a God..” Nam-gyu began, leaning forward slightly in order to ensure the shadows carved his face into a skull. “Then there’s gotta be something waiting on the other side too, someone to pick up the trash..” He pointed out, watching with satisfaction as she stared at him, her mouth tightening into a thin, uneasy line. “I’m just saying..” Nam-gyu drawled, voice dropping into a mockery of casualness to function as a safety net. “If you start smelling rot, or feeling the back of your neck itch for no reason, it’s me— clocking in.” Nam-gyu concluded, tapping his temple twice. Like a puppy learning to bark, Min-su chuckled awkwardly, clearly not understanding the depths he was playing at.. Gyeong-su shifted uncomfortably, gaze darting to Thanos like a loyal dog looking for clues. Thanos, however, grinned wide, thinking it was just another one of Nam-gyu’s edgy jokes. “Relax, bro’s tryna scare you— Halloween was just a few days ago.” He assured, waving a dismissive hand.. His reassurance did little as Se-mi didn’t laugh, fine by Nam-gyu, maybe she’d finally leave them the hell alone now.

For a moment, the five of them sat frozen in a tableau of unease, the silence sticky and unpleasant— just as Nam-gyu liked it. It didn’t last very long, as the crack of the dormitory door swung open, followed by the faint shuffle of new arrivals. Nam-gyu’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing into twin slits. Gi-hun stepped in first, his face weary, shadowed by grim knowledge— like a prophet who knew damn well his warnings would be ignored. Behind him trailed Player 001, the one who attacked himself and Thanos without bothering to learn the attack had been extremely warranted, his face twisted into a near-constant sneer. Player 388, 390, and 222 filtered in shortly after, a sorry collection of survivors clinging to pride like a threadbare coat. Nam-gyu heard it clear as a gunshot: “They don’t look very happy to see us,” Player 001 observed under his breath, on the other hand, there was Player 390– overweight and about as oblivious as a kicked puppy, opted to raise his hand and give a stiff, awkward wave.

None of the five bothered to wave back, instead, they turned almost in unison— backs half-turned, shoulders tense, as if the newcomers were a foul odor they could simply ignore. “Anywayyyyy,” Thanos began in a sing-song tone, loudly enough to make a point, pivoting back to their dark little conversation. “Where were we?” He pondered, his stoned mind already forgetting. Nam-gyu didn’t miss a beat, turning his eyes back to Se-mi, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost fond— if the fondness was the sort that predates funerals. “If Death was a person, like a real breathing motherfucker, you think he’d look like a skeleton in a robe?” Nam-gyu paused to chuckle at his own statement, the sound rattling out of his throat like dry bones shaking in a box. Se-mi said nothing, but her hand twitched slightly where it rested against her knee. “Or maybe,” Nam-gyu continued, voice deliberately syrupy-slow. “He’s just some washed-up club promoter..” Nam-gyu trailed off, Gyeong-su swallowed thickly, even Min-su seemed to sense the chill now, the hair at the back of his neck rising. Thanos clapped Nam-gyu on the shoulder, laughing loudly and easily, trying to brush off the growing dread. “Fuck, man, you’re dark as hell.” He sneered, Nam-gyu just flashed him a rare genuine smile, teeth flashing white and mean. “Yeah, I guess I am.” Nam-gyu stated in a voice soft as a caress, but poisonous as a hemlock.

Across the room, the remaining survivors huddled together, whispering among themselves, casting uneasy glances toward the group that seemed less like humans and more like wolves circling a dying fire. This didn’t last very long, as the conversations soon crumbled into silence as the guards swept into the room like a winter gust— sharp and unwelcome. Their black masks glinted under the cold, flickering lights, and their boots struck the floor in practiced mechanical unison, cutting through the players’ muttered words like knives through meat. One stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game,” He began in a formal and indifferent tone, as though announcing the weather. “Here are the results of the second game.” With that, the room darkened instantly, swallowed whole by a heavy, unnatural blackness, leaving only the glowing blue circles and sharp red Xs embedded in the floor, casting eerie reflections on wide, stricken eyes. The players watched, suddenly frozen and mute as the great glass piggy bank suspended above them rumbled— and thick and gleaming cash began pouring into it with a sound like a summer storm against tin rooftops. It filled, and filled, and filled, growing heavier by the second. “In the second game, 110 players were eliminated. The prize money accumulated up to this point is 20.1 billion won.” The guard paused to let the number hang there like a noose before continuing, “Since there are 255 players remaining, each person’s share is 78,823,520 won.” The guard announced, almost like a band director based on the way a low chorus of groans from the players erupted, it was the all-too-familiar sound of tired hope deflating like a punctured balloon. The guard waited for the noise to crest before speaking again, almost kindly: “I completely understand your disappointment. However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities.” He simply put, making way for the massive door at the end of the dormitory to groan open, two more guards rolling in with a familiar machine— the vote box, humming and waiting like some terrible god. “You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not, whether to continue the games for a bigger prize— or to stop here, is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.” The lead guard spoke again, his voice dripping with rehearsed neutrality. “Democratic..” Nam-gyu muttered under his breath, despite his complaints, he pushed himself off the wall and shuffled into the forming line with the others.

One by one, players were called forward, standing beneath the gaze of every living soul in the room. Player 001 stepped up, his hand hovered over the buttons, the O and X blinking in the heartbeat of something cruel. Without fanfare, he pressed X. Nam-gyu’s lip curled in mild disgust, what a coward— voting to leave before Nam-gyu could properly punish him. Next was Player 007, who hesitated at the buttons, evident by the way his hands trembled. Nam-gyu squinted, remembering the hilarious moment that was Player 007 and his mother bickering in the beginning of the games. After a long, painful moment, 007 jammed his feet down on the O. With that, the room began a mess of restless feet and darting eyes, everyone shifting like cattle sensing the butcher. Nam-gyu stood stiff, arms crossed lazily over his chest, while Min-su beside him bounced nervously on the balls of his feet— his wide eyes flicked between players and the looming machine like a kid caught stealing at a candy shop. Upon glancing sideways, turning around slightly, and ensuring his voice was low enough to the point where only Min-su could hear.. “Don’t betray us.” Nam-gyu simply (and vaguely) put, “What?” Min-su stammered, blinking. Nam-gyu scoffed, simply gesturing to the X stitched on his jumpsuit like it was a mark of shame, his slow and deliberate fingers tapping it twice, like knocking on a coffin lid. “We all agreed to play one more game, right?” Nam-gyu alleged in a voice flat as stone, Min-su swallowed hard and nodded, but it was a shaky, miserable gesture that seemed to shiver right down to his knees. Nam-gyu turned back toward the front without another word, ignoring the parade of faces that went by: some defiant, others blank-eyed, others already halfway dead.. In all honesty, he didn’t really pay attention again until they called it:

“Player 124.”

That’s his cue! Nam-gyu stepped up to the machine, feeling the heavy stares pressing against his back, his hand hovered for less than a second before slamming down on the O with casual violence— no hesitation, no apology. He turned as he stepped away, just in time to watch Min-su stepping forward, fidgeting with the hem of his jumpsuit, his stupid face pale enough to glow. Nam-gyu smiled— not wide, not warm— but sharp. He locked eyes with Min-su and made a slow, deliberate O shape with his hands, holding it steady in front of his chest like a priest offering communion before bowing, it wasn’t deep, but it was enough: a mocking little nod of the head, an unspoken threat wrapped up in something that looked, at first glance, like respect. Min-su hesitated, his hand visibly shaking as it hovered between the buttons. Finally, with the twitchy resolve of a cornered rat, he slammed his hand down on the O. Nam-gyu smiled wider, his smile bordering on wolfish as Min-su glanced back at him, seeking approval like a child desperate to be patted on the head.

As the voting line trudged along, a sudden voice cracked the air like a whip. “Wait! Stop!” The voice exclaimed, it was Gi-hun— voice raw and desperate, his face twisted with something too primal to be called hope. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die?!” He shouted, turning to the crowd, eyes wide with disbelief. “Who’s to say you won't die in the next game?!” He spat, his words seemed to be effective to the mortals as the line faltered, players froze mid-shuffle. Player 001, the man with a secret larger than Nam-gyu’s, stumbled forward too, hand raised like a preacher mid-sermon. “We have to stop!” He urged, cutting across the line with slow, aching steps. “We’ll all die if we keep going, come to your senses! Leave with that money— you’ve got to survive first, or there won’t be a next step!” He insisted in a heavy voice, dragging itself through the air like chains on stone. For a moment, the room seemed to sway, hundreds of battered souls teetering on the knife’s edge between hope and hopelessness. “What do you think we can do with a mere seventy million?” Player 100– the failed businessman snarled loud enough for all to hear, pointing a shaking finger at 001, venom dripping from his words. “I don’t know how much you owe, old man, but for most of us, that doesn’t even scratch ten percent of our debt! Am I right?” He pondered, glancing around the crowd for confirmation. To his credit, a scattered rumble of agreement consisting of: “Yes, he’s right!”, “That’s right!”, and “We can’t live on crumbs!” rippled through the crowd.

Nam-gyu leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely against his chest, a smirk curled lazily at the corner of his mouth. The whole scene reeked of the same cycle he’d seen since the dawn of humanity; pleading, fighting, and dying. He turned his head slightly toward Min-su, raising an eyebrow in a slow, theatrical way— a clear ‘get a load of this shit’ without even needing to speak. Min-su gave a nervous half-laugh, but Nam-gyu’s stare lingered a little too long— a little too heavy. The screaming and shouting around them melted into static as Nam-gyu leaned closer, voice low and velvet-smooth, dripping with what seemed to be mock curiosity. “So.. Besides our poor souls, who else is wandering this little circus?” Nam-gyu pondered, watching with glee as Min-su stiffened, his body practically vibrating with nerves.. He licked his dry lips, voice so small it could have been meant for ghosts. “Our.. Our brother’s here..” He stammered, Nam-gyu tilted his head, feigning polite interest even as his smile grew wider and crueler. “Which one?” He asked, Min-su shivered, glancing around like he expected the shadows themselves to lunge at him. “Greed,” He breathed out, eyes darting toward the ceiling as if in prayer, but it was really just to avoid Nam-gyu’s gaze. “They sent Greed.. He’s one of them now. Our mother and father were here once too, but.. I can’t feel them anymore.” Min-su replied honestly, Nam-gyu let out a small, genuine chuckle— a rare thing usually only Thanos brought out. “Greed, huh?” He mused, straightening up and brushing dust from his sleeve. “Fitting. This place stinks of him.” Nam-gyu sneered, he wasn’t worried— far from it.. If anything, the news settled something deep and cold inside his chest. Greed was a familiar companion, they met often in places where death bloomed fastest— war fields, massacres, boardrooms, etcetera.. This game apparently wasn’t just a human bloodbath, it was now a family reunion. The players’ bickering hit a fever pitch, as the ones who had chosen O began chanting, throats raw and eyes burning.

“One more game!”

“One more game!”

Hell, it wasn’t even words anymore— it was a primitive roar, a death march beating from a thousand desperate hearts. Nam-gyu watched them through half-lidded eyes, as if watching rats drown each other in a barrel. The machine finished its slow, whirring tally, the guard standing at the front clicked the results into place, his voice as gold and clinical as a scalpel: “The results are 139 for O and 116 for X.” He paused, letting the number hang there like a funeral bell. “Based on the majority vote, we’ll proceed to the third game tomorrow. Thank you.” He concluded, sending the players either into a sag of despair or howl in victiprious rage, a few collapsed on the floor, sobbing while others gripped their fists tighter, faces set like stone. As for Nam-gyu? He didn’t move at all, he just smiled, shoving a sliver of teeth, “Good.” He whispered under his breath.. Another game, another slaughter, another chance to see who broke first— the humans, or his siblings.. Either way, Death would be waiting, and this time, he wasn’t in any rush.

Morning oozed into the dormitory like a sickly syrup, coating the stale air with the heavy scent of metal and old sweat. The players lined up in single file, an assembly of bruised bodies and hollow stares, waiting for their daily ration like prisoners before execution. At the front of the line, there was Thanos, his plum hair messy, eyes shadowed by sleeplessness— trudged forward. His slides scuffed against the concrete as he received his meal from the faceless guard: a sad, lukework breakfast sandwich sagging inside a waxy wrapper and a dented milk carton so thin it looked like a decaying animal. He blinked down on it with open disappointment, lips curling into a frown. “..Tsk,” Thanos muttered under his breath, shooting the guard a look that said everything without needing words: This? Really? But he said nothing more, stuffing the meal under his arm with the defeated air of someone too tired to fight about it, and shuffled away like a wounded stray. Behind him, Nam-gyu stepped forward, movements easy and unhurried, like a man with all the time in the world. He accepted his meal with a flash of a grin, tipping his head slightly. “Thanks.” He muttered, his voice velvet smooth, the kind of gratefulness that dripped sarcasm like melting wax but still somehow sounded polite enough to pass. The guard barely nodded, they never spoke more than necessary, Nam-gyu liked that about them— Death rarely needed conversation either. As he turned to follow after Thanos, a ripple passed through the stagnant air— a pulse he felt deep in the marrow of his faux bones.

Greed.. Close, right next to him. Without moving his head much, Nam-gyu allowed his eyes to flicker sideways, through the corners of his lashes. There— standing just off to his right, was Player 226: Kim Yeong-sam, hair parted crisply down the middle, a scowl perpetually etched into his face like it had been carved with a dull knife, his body language was restless, always slightly leaning forward as if he was moments away from lunging for something he didn’t yet have. He was the kind of man who followed behind bigger predators, in this case, Player 100, smiling when he smiled, snapping when he snapped. But, Nam-gyu saw past the human skin, saw the glint in Yeong-sam’s eyes— a glint no mortal desperation could forge, it was a hunger deeper than any debt or poverty, it was insatiable, and it was old. Their gazes met for half a second— no longer, no less, and in that sliver of silence, something ancient and mutual passed between them: a confirmation, an acknowledgment, a grin without teeth. Yeong-sam gave the slightest tilt of his head, so slight anyone else would have missed it— before turning his attention back to the food line, still wearing the casual sneer of a thug in someone else’s war.. Nam-gyu allowed himself to exhale, amused, he could trust his favorite brother would align himself with the most vile and hostile group in the games.

With that, Nam-gyu turned his attention back to Thanos, who by now had found an empty patch of floor and sat cross-legged, peeling open his sandwich with all the enthusiasm of a man disarming a bomb. Nam-gyu trotted after him, balancing his sandwich and milk carton with a theatrical kind of grace. His ivory slides made soft thuds against the cold ground, each step unnervingly light, like he was floating a few inches above the consequences that weighed everyone else down. He plopped down across from Thanos with a sigh loud enough to rattle the dust that moved through the air. “If I get salmonella and die, I want you to write ‘MG Coins fault’ on my coffin.” Thanos muttered without looking up, Nam-gyu chuckled, unwrapping his sandwich with the deliberate care of a jeweler holding a rare gem. “Come now, what’s life without a little food poisoning to spice things up?” Nam-gyu sneered, despite his sneer, his tone held an air of rare genuine care. Thanos gave a low grunt, biting into his sandwich like it had personally wronged him, the sour milk carton sat untouched by his side, sweating in the dim light. Nam-gyu merely smiled, chewing thoughtfully as he watched the other players slump to the floor around them like rats in a sinking ship, clinging to whatever scraps they could still swallow.

The bathroom stank of bleach and sour breath, dimly lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb that buzzed like a trapped fly. Cracked tiles spiderwebbed across the walls, and the grimy mirrors reflected the haggard faces of men who hadn’t seen hope in days.

Thanos stood at the doorway, chewing the inside of his cheek, when he spotted him— Myung-gi, slipping into the bathroom with the subtlety of a man trying very hard not to get noticed. The sight electrified Thanos, his lip curled into a grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Oi, Nam-su, Gyeong-su,” He hissed, jerking his head toward the door like a scheming schoolboy. “Come on, time to teach the little scammer some manners.” He declared, Nam-gyu, who had been lazily inspecting a loose thread on his jacket, flicked his gaze up and followed with a careless saunter, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Nam-gyu.” He corrected under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Bathrooms.. Nam-gyu had always found them.. Strange. He mused, absentmindedly, how he’d never actually used one— never felt the need to piss, shit, or as he’d overheard countless drunken clubbers howling behind thin walls: masturbate. The last time he had even been in a bathroom, a girl had died from an overdose in a stall, crumpled like a broken marionette.. And Thanos had caught him— caught him escorting her soul, and Nam-gyu had pressed a kiss to his forehead, wiping away the memory like dust from a shelf. His lips twitched at the thought as he trailed after Thanos into the restroom.

The trio found Myung-gi at the urinal, shoulders hunched, head down, trying his best to disappear into the wall. Unfortunately for Myung-gi, Thanos was on him instantly, leaning against the left side of the urinal, one hand grabbing a fistful of Myung-gi’s jacket and yanking him back slightly, enough to mess up his arm. “You traitor. How can you take a piss under these circumstances?” Thanos sneered, voice thick with contempt. Nam-gyu mirrored him on the right side, lounging with a predatory gaze, shoulders pressed to the crack tiles, his gaze glittering with amusement.. And there was Gyeong-su, hovering behind Thanos like a shadow. Myung-gi said nothing, focusing stoically on his business, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.. He zipped up and tried to walk off, but Nam-gyu’s hands were already there, slipping over his shoulders, smugly rubbing them like he was soothing a prize pony. “Just finish, you’ll get an infection if you stop mid-stream.” Nam-gyu purred, Myung-gi jerked away, shoving Nam-gyu’s hands off with a sharp grunt of disgust. Nam-gyu only groaned theatricially, throwing his head back against the wall with a thud, he didn’t pursue— not yet..

They had every intention of trailing Myung-gi to the sinks, the trio moving like a pack of hyenas smelling blood. Myung-gi reached for the faucet, but Thanos beat him to the punch, slapping the tap shut just as the water began to flow. Myung-gi’s lips pursed into a thin line, glaring at Thanos, who tilted his head. “Were you really trying to get out? What can you even do with seventy million, huh? That’s not even enough to pay me back. You need to pay me back and compensate for the damage you did to my soul.” Thanos pointed out, despite the jest in his statement, his tone was all seriousness, and Nam-gyu was pleasantly surprised to see the word ‘compensate’ wasn’t too big of a word for him. “How many times do I have to tell you? The coin’s price did go up, you just held out for more cash and didn’t sell in time. And guess what? I have the freedom to decide if I want to leave.” Myung-gi shot back, Nam-gyu’s lazy smile slowly slipped, opting to step forward, voice snapping as sharply as broken glass. “I don’t care for your fucking tone.” Nam-gyu seethed, without hesitation, he reached for Myung-gi’s throat, tingers curling tightly against his skin, overgrown and chewed-up nails pricking slightly. “Hey,” Nam-gyu growled, dangerously low. “Should I just rip his mouth off?” He pondered, glancing toward Thanos, who didn’t even blink, only smirked, pale teeth flashing. “You have the freedom?” Thanos repeated in a mocking tone, his voice rising an octave. He leaned in close, breath hot against Myung-gi’s face to the point where Nam-gyu nearly envied the crypto bro. “You don’t have such a thing, you’re my slave until you pay me back.” Thanos snapped, Nam-gyu cursed under his breath, pacing a circle around the room, hands flexing at his sides like he was holding back from tearing out Myung-gi’s spine right then and there. “Goddamnit,” He hissed under his breath, “My slave.” Thanos, savoring the moment, switched to English for emphasis, his voice curling around the words like a noose, then right back to Korean. “So you have to keep playing the games until the end, and who knows? You might win the entire prize alone.” Thanos sneered, Myung-gi stared at them as if they were Moe, Curly, and Larry. “If I win the prize money alone, that’d mean you’re dead, why would I pay you back if you’re dead?” He paused, “Besides, how do you even remember your lyrics? Oh, right. You forgot the lyrics in the final.” Myung-gi deadpanned, the deadpan was like a gunshot— Thanos had always hated being reminded of how much of a has-been he was, on the other hand, Gyeong-su burst out laughing, trying, (and failing) to smother it behind his hand. Thanos’ face twisted into wounded pride flashing like a storm across his features, without a second thought, he seized Myung-gi by the neck and slammed him against the nearest wall, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder in the mostly empty bathroom. “You son of a bitch, got a death wish?” Thanos demanded, Myung-gi grunted but didn’t look afraid— rather just bored, Nam-gyu had a million different ways to scare him shitless, but he let Thanos have it. Before the situation could further escalate, the door creaked open and in came Player 001, Player 390, and Player 388, the next trio paused, blinking into the scene: Thanos with his fist full of Myung-gi’s jacket, Nam-gyu prowling nearby like a caged animal, and Gyeong-su snickering behind his knuckles. Thanos exhaled sharply, jaw working— at the sight of Player 001, he let go of Myung-gi, ensuring to give him a little shove for good measure. “I’m watching you.” He muttered darkly, jerking his head at Nam-gyu and Gyeong-su, rounding them up like wayward kids, and the trio slunked out of the bathroom— but not without Nam-gyu flashing Myung-gi and Player 001 a smirk that promised: next time, there won’t be an audience to save either of their asses.. They would pay for inconveniencing himself and Thanos.

Chapter Text

Night pressed down like a heavy velvet curtain over the dormitory, draping every cracked tile and rust-bitten cot in silence. An overwhelming majority of the players had curled beneath their paper-thin blankets, either unconscious or pretending to be, though all of their bodies had been spread thin from the psychological carnage of the day. But for three figures who happened to be older than the concept of sleep itself, the veil of night was an invitation to slip out of the skin of their human costumes and breathe.

Nam-gyu’s true shape stood crooked in the darkness like a shadow painted in reverse, his skeletal frame was draped in a scorched black coat that flickered like soot, jagged and shifting with each breath. Crimson threaded throughout his figure, consisting of blood-like slashes along his spine, a red thread around his throat, and a seeping warmth in the sockets of his hollow eyes. His appearance was not unlike the traditional Death often depicted in tarot cards, yet reimagined through the red-tinted lens of Korean folklore, where red ink marked the names of the dead.. Of course, one couldn’t forget the rusted scythe floating a few inches off his back, quietly singing like a tuning fork out of time.

Much to Nam-gyu’s dismay, beside him sat Min-su, glowing like morning mist. His spectral body lit up with a soft blue-white light, his limbs almost translucent, trailing light like water droplets suspended in thin air. He was curled up like a pathetic boy by a campfire, hugging his knees, blinking nervously (and annoyingly) between Nam-gyu and Yeong-sam.

Speaking of Yeong-sam, his much more bearable brother was made up of gold that had begun to crack.. Not that he minded, he lounged with his limbs stretched like a cat, the molten golden luster of his true form dimmed by streaks of oil-black grime leaking from his joints. He wore a permanent grin, his eyes enormous and slick with mischief to the point where his jaws distended unnaturally wide when he smiled, like a python preparing to unhinge. “Remember that triceratops we chased for like, what, fifty years? The guy thought he was fast.. You cried when he fell into that tar pit.” Yeong-sam sneered, pointing an accusatory finger in Nam-gyu’s way. “I didn’t cry, it was raining inside me.” Nam-gyu snapped, recalling the moment in a significantly less fonder light than Yeong-sam did, as their father had reprimanded Nam-gyu for being a sissy. Min-su smiled faintly, looking down at his fingers— which were slowly fading and reforming like a violin on the Titanic. “I liked the little ones— the ones that chirped, they cuddled under the ferns..” Min-su trailed off, Nam-gyu would’ve laughed in his face for being such a wuss if Yeong-sam hadn’t cut him off. “You always go soft for the newborns, that’s why you got stuck with all the nurturing crap, feeding baby frogs and patching leper wounds. Disgusting.” Yeong-sam jeered, spitting on the ground in distaste. Normally, Nam-gyu would have jumped at the chance to kick Min-su, but he was irritated with Yeong-sam for indirectly bringing up their father. “You’re just mad Fate didn’t give you a real job.” Nam-gyu snarked, what was left of his lip curling. “Hey! I manage portfolios, hopes, expectations, desperation, I make these games worth playing.” Yeong-sam exaggerated, pointing a glowing, corrupted finger. If Nam-gyu currently had eyeballs instead of dark eyesockets, best believe he would’ve rolled his eyes. “How could I forget? You embezzle.” Nam-gyu grumbled.

It wasn’t long before they fell into a familiar rhythm, the same one they had since time unzipped itself.. Between shared memories of asteroid collisions and swarms of locusts, the conversation inevitably turned. “Remember Balance? She was an ass-kisser, always whining about cosmic order.” Nam-gyu voiced, he knew it was rich coming from him when discussing ass-kissers, but he never prided himself as someone who wasn’t hypocritical. “Balance can suck both sides of a scale,” Yeong-sam spat, crossing his arms. “Stuck-up little brat, never fun at the reuinons.” Yeong-sam recalled, “She said I killed too many people during the Black Plague, all I did was open the door.” Nam-gyu scoffed, of course, Min-su had a different opinion. “Genorisity.. She always made you look so small.” Min-su stammered, Nam-gyu told himself he was talking to Yeong-sam for two reasons: for one, Generosity was Greed’s direct counterpart, and for two, Min-su wouldn’t dare talk to Nam-gyu like that. “Ugh, her.. All smiles and handouts, I bet she’s here, you know, somewhere in the dorms.. All that ‘hope’ stench in the air? That’s her doing.” Yeong-sam gagged theatricially, Nam-gyu raised a brow bone. “Wouldn’t surprise me, maybe your geezer pal, Player 100 is harboring her.” Nam-gyu snorted. “Ugh, Jeong-dae.” Yeong-sam groaned, snapping his fingers and making a tiny, spectral model of the man appear before them. He animated it into a silly jig, its arms flipping like a drunken uncle. “Yaps too much, I had to tell him it’d be an honor to team with him in the last game, you know what’s the real honor? That he’s in my presence.” Yeong-sam scoffed, Min-su giggled softly, then immediately clammed up upon feeling Nam-gyu’s distasteful glare. “You should hear how he talks about his secretary, thinks she’s a real angel. What if that’s her? What if Generosity is disguising herself as the secretary to spread her shitty legs and homemade soup?” Yeong-sam pondered, “If she is, I swear, I'll piss in her soup.” Nam-gyu snorted, the sound like oil being turned over a grave.

If Nam-gyu had a heart, it would’ve sunk to his legs when Yeong-sam suddenly leaned in sideways, peering across the room. “Look, look,” He whisper-yelled, nudging Nam-gyu. “Thanos snores like a broken chainsaw.” He postulated, Nam-gyu turned his head lazily and indeed, there Thanos was— sprawled out on his bed, arm over his face, mouth slightly open. His breath was ragged and shallow, like someone chewing through gravel.. Nam-gyu’s skeletal jaw curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, moreso a look of longing.. Yeong-sam good and well what he was enunciating considering he’d helped Nam-gyu cover up his endeavors with a previous incarnation of Thanos in 1945, days before Japan’s surrender but before the formal division of Korea, though he’d only agreed to help Nam-gyu since he also broke the rule when he’d decided to fancy himself a harem. “Oooohhh~ Would it be the rapper who courted the reaper or the other way around?” Yeong-sam sneered, further proving Nam-gyu’s point. “Don’t.” Nam-gyu snapped, his smirk dropping into a deadpan frown. “Oh, come on,” Yeong-sam pressed, “You kissed him on the forehead, you two literally inspired Thanos and Lady Death.” Yeong-sam pointed out, Nam-gyu didn’t need to be reminded most popular media had depicted him as a woman just so their fat, cheeto-dust fingered, neckbearded western audience could get off to the idea that Death was a skeleton with tits, sorry to dissapoint..! “I erased his memory.” Nam-gyu corrected, “That makes it hotter.” Yeong-sam jeered, Nam-gyu’s patience was nearly gone, turning to Min-su. “He’s insufferable.” He grumbled, “A little..” Min-su muttered, nodding timidly— he probably didn’t even agree, he just didn’t want to be on Nam-gyu’s list. “Let’s change the subject.” Nam-gyu declared, Yeong-sam surprisingly didn’t press the issue, instead snapping his fingers, a delighted glint in his fractured gold eyes. “Let’s bully Min-su again.. It’s been what? Two hours?” He snarked, “Why me?” Min-su pondered with a small, strangled noise. “You’re the weakest link.” Yeong-sam pointed out, Nam-gyu couldn’t have said it any better himself. “Please don’t..” Min-su stammered, “Don’t worry, if we push you too far, you’ll just dissolve like wet tissue and make my time here a hell of a lot easier.” Nam-gyu added dryly.

Two out of three of them laughed in whispers, their real voices lost in the flicker of dreams, like phantoms rehearing the end of the world just beneath the sleeping breaths of mortals.

Meanwhile, the dormitory remained heavy with the breath of sleeping bodies, their dreams like vines curling in unseen directions. Muffled snores rose and fell like gentle tides, but in the far corner of the bunk-lined chamber, one player kept her eyes firmly shut and her breath expertly even. Kim Young-mi was laying statue-still on the thin mattress, arms tucked beneath her blanket, pretending the world didn’t exist outside her closed eyelids.. But the voices did, they always did— consisting of low murmurs in the dark, distant and close all at once— voices not quite human, not quite earthly, voices that couldn’t belong to anyone else but her brothers.

Okay, they weren’t really her brothers in the way others might think, none of them shared blood, but they were born of the same origin.. She heard Death first, she supposed he was calling himself Nam-gyu now, his true form stripped away of pretense.. No longer flesh, instead, there was someone made up of obsidian armor and marrow-deep red, a towering skeleton cloaked in a frayed hanbok tinged with blood-colored dye. His skull was crowned with a wilted chrysanthemum, the flower of funerals, and in his sockets glowed a low, tired flame— flickering but constant. He spoke with that same jaded curl to his voice, the one he used when speaking to mortals and monsters alike, the tone he used with everyone except for one lucky mortal.

“Is Karma still in Thailand?” Nam-gyu mused, his voice like molasses dragged over gravel. “I heard she got a man pregnant..” He scoffed, Yeong-sam chuckled at this, eyes aglow with gold and green. He sat cross-legged in midair, his outline rippling and shimmering with coins, rings and the faint rustle of silk. “I used to bet on Karma’s victims like trilobites, she had taste.” Yeong-sam sneered, Nam-gyu tilted his head toward the dormitory’s far wall, where his spectral form hovered like a dark stain. “There’s plenty of she-males in Thailand, that playboy will be fine.. That was when Fate still thought it was ‘educational.’ I think she just wanted us to stop asking questions.” Nam-gyu trailed off, “You did ask a lot of questions back then.” Came another voice, softer, tremulous, echoing like wind through spring leaves. Min-su— or as Young-mi knew him— Life, spoke as if unsure whether he belonged in the conversation, or in the room, or existence itself. His form was an outline of pollen and morning dew, almost transparent— like a jellyfish with little blooms sprouting along his limbs and vanishing again with every breath. “About Mother.. About why we’re here..” Min-su trailed off, “She’s Nature, namby-pampy.. She makes things, it’s not her job to explain them.” Yeong-sam pointed out, jamming his elbow into Min-su’s gut.

Despite all being forces of nature in their own right, they talked like men betting over horses.. Young-mi didn’t know when exactly they had begun to suspect her identity, but after enough sleepless nights and unexplained luck, she started seeing the strings and the way they looked at her sometimes despite their circles never interacting.. Nam-gyu’s narrowed glare, Yeong-sam’s sidelong grin, even Min-su’s awkward, tense glances— all like people studying an old family photograph and trying to remember where the last sibling went. She swallowed dryly, listening closer. “I think I saw Generosity earlier,” Yeong-sam suddenly cut in, mouth twitching with its usual amusement. “D’you think she’s still pretending to be that little crybaby? The one with the soft eyes?” Yeong-sam pondered, balling his hands into a fist and bringing them to his eyes, mocking a crying gesture. “That ‘little crybaby’ is brave..” Min-su protested, his tone like a leaf landing on still water. “She’s naïve, too soft for this place. If she were smart, she’d die tomorrow and go tell Eomma we’re still playing.” Nam-gyu countered in a cold tone that struck a nerve in her chest, curling tighter into herself to hide how it hurt.. Too soft, too slow, too sentimental.

Maybe she was, maybe that was the point, had Death ever considered that? Young-mi thought about her mother— not just the world that breathed through every tree and tide, but the way it felt to have dirt under her nails and air in her lungs. Nature wasn’t cruel, she just came off as careless at times.. She couldn’t say the same about their father, War, who was rather indifferent about her but was always hard on the more ‘negative’ forces such as Nam-gyu, especially Nam-gyu.. Sometimes, she considered both of them just very hard-headed, narrow-minded individuals who were deaf to reason.. But Generosity? She didn’t do forward, she stayed, she gave, she forgave.. That’s why she stayed with Hyun-ju, with her quiet strength and trembling hands.. Hyun-ju, who let herself cry, dream, rage, and still wanted to live.. Hyun-ju, who was occasionally ashamed of who she was, but she shouldn’t be ashamed, Young-mi knew those who should be ashamed— her brothers, at least two of them, should be ashamed of themselves.. Not Hyun-ju, Young-mi had joined these games with the idea of spreading hope, she’d wanted to go home, she’d voted X— twice, she wanted the sky about Sillim-dong and the warm smell of barely tea.. But if she died tomorrow, it wouldn’t be to escape, it would be to warn them— to tell Nature and War that Death hadn’t learned a thing, Life was scared, and Greed was smirking while the world bled out beneath him.

“I’m betraying Jeong-dae the moment he outlives his usefulness, he snores like a dragon with a hangover.. Didn’t all the dragons go into hiding? Why’s he still here?” Yeong-sam snorted, “Dragon’s aren’t cowards, he’s not a dragon, he’s just a moron. We could torment him by being kind, that always rattles the crusty ones.” Nam-gyu cut in with a grunt, “You would suggest kindness as a punishement.” Min-su sighed.

Young-mi’s fingers trembled under her pillow, just barely concealing the storm brewing behind her closed lids, made up of grief, love, guilt, fear, and a strange sort of courage.. She wasn’t sure what she’d do tomorrow, maybe she’d find a way to die in front of Hyun-ju, so she wouldn’t be alone.. Maybe she’d hold her hand, maybe she’d smile as she’d vanish.. Or maybe, she’d surprise them all like the morning sun after a long, long night.. And yet, she was laying still, a wet shih tzu in the jaws of fate, listening as her brothers laughed like myths on the other side of sleep.

Chapter Text

The bunk was damp with breath and sleep, a low fog of sweat and dreams hanging in the tense dormitory air. The soft rustle of polyester blankets was nearly drowned by the murmur of thirty-some exhausted lungs. At the edge of one lower bunk, Thanos sat with his legs sprawled out, back to the room, fiddling quietly with the silver cross necklace he wore around his neck.

The clasp popped open with a practiced flick, revealing its secret: a perfect little pharmacy tucked inside, a handful of pills cushioned like tiny gemstones. Su-bong plucked one between his painted fingers, letting it catch the glint of a far-off light, then rolled onto his back to take it—

— Only to be greeted by a shadow slithering up the side of his bed like a cat that had learned the shape of death. “Hey, hyung,” Nam-gyu whispered, his voice curling with smoke and sleep. Despite the early morning, he was full of energy, curling onto Thanos’ mattress like it was theirs to share. His lengthy hair was s try ck to his temple in thin strands, lips a touch too red, eyes a touch too awake. “Can I have one too?” He asked, lazily gesturing to the open cross, his fingers close enough to touch it.

There was no warning in Thanos’ smirk, simply resignation. He handed one of the candy-colored pills over and then took one himself, letting it dissolve under his tongue.. In an attempt to impress Thanos, Nam-gyu bit his pill clean in half with a dramatic crunch, just to choke a little. “Ugh. It tastes like sidewalk chalk.” Nam-gyu grumbled, “You would know.” Thanos quipped, “I do know. I invented sidewalk chalk in Babylon, it was made of powdered bones.” Nam-gyu vouched, playing it up for irony. Thanos chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re such a freak.” He sneered, watching as Nam-gyu slumped against him like a puppet with tangled strings, eyes fluttering. “And you’re pretty, isn’t that worse?” Nam-gyu observed.

They stayed like that for a while— talking nonsense, trading old slang, stupid jokes, war stories from lives they never lived. Outside, the overhead siren purred, and the guards banged on steel walls like it was an alarm clock. “Line up.” Someone barked, marking it time to go.

The five of them ascended the pastel stairwell like a dream-half remembered, Nam-gyu and Thanos up front, with Gyeong-su, Min-su, and Se-mi trailing behind like commas at the end of a sentence nobody finished. As per usual, the walls were painted in cotton-candy hues, blue-pink-yellow-pink again, each staircase curled into the next like a child’s drawing of heaven. The silence was broken by the squeak of rubber soles and Se-mi’s quiet murmuring of prayers she’d forgotten halfway through, further backing Nam-gyu’s theory. Speaking of Nam-gyu, he walked beside Thanos, one arm slung over his hyung’s shoulder like he was guiding him into a dance, the other curling into a loose fist. He raised it to Thanos’ face and held it there, trembling with fake aggression. “You ever think about dying from a punch so powerful, it unmoors your soul from your body?” He whispered, eyes wide with mock-seriousness. Thanos didn’t flinch, he just looked at the fist with amusement, before Nam-gyu could drop it, Thanos threw his head back dramatically and stumbled forward a few steps, skipping his way up the stairs like a musical theater ghost. “Wow.” Nam-gyu awed, “Yeah.” Thanos bragged without turning. Behind them, Gyeong-su mumbled some yes-man shit about how drugs were bad, Min-su tripped over his own foot out of his own sheer cowardice, and Se-mi sighed like she was walking toward hell with a bunch of circus rejects.

The stairwell pulsed around them with sterile color, too bright to be holy, too artificial to be safe.. As they climbed, the scent of iron crept into their lungs again, marking the next game was waiting— and so was the blood.

The door slid open with a groan like a tired god awakening— revealing a room soaked in pale yellow and nostalgia. The walls looked like softened butter, sickly sweet under the flicking overhead lights. Rich, dramatic, velvet red curtains framed each corner, like the wings of a theater before a tragic act. The ceiling above stretched like a circus tent: candy-striped in red and white, with a rusted horse model dangling crookedly in the middle. The air reeked of talcum powder, burnt sugar, and something metallic underneath— blood trying to hide behind perfume.

The players’ footsteps echoed as the five of them entered, the floor was rubbery underfoot— likely by design to make players slip while running, the kind found in old gyms or children’s play areas, masking the thud of fear in every step. “Welcome to your third game, the game you will be playing is Mingle.” A familiar voice crackled through the intercom, remaining smooth, sterile, and far too calm. In the center of the room stood a scarlet platform, slightly raised, as if waiting for a sacrificial dance. Around the edges were doors in every color like a sick child’s fever dream— turquoise, peach, lime green, bubblegum blue, etcetera. “Let me repeat.. The game you will be playing is Mingle.” The intercom repeated itself, Thanos let out a low gasp, spinning slowly in place like a stoned ballerina in a padded madhouse, his dark eyes traced the ceiling, the lights, and the platform. He turned on his heel to face the group with a grin that split his whole face, “Hey, we’ll be mingling together!” He exclaimed brightly, his voice cracking just slightly. “Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?” He jeered, clapping once as if summoning the energy to keep breathing. Only Nam-gyu matched his energy, bouncing forward like a bat with no radar, arms swinging, head tilted to the side. His eyes were sharp behind the mess of black hair, absorbing everything— the platform, the way the red curtains rustled despite the absence of wind, and he couldn’t possibly forget the barely perceptible tightening in Gyeong-su’s jaw.. Nam-gyu sniffed it once, it was subtle, but there— fear, He could taste it on Gyeong-su like secondhand smoke.. The human’s breath was clipped, his muscles tight, maybe he didn’t know he was dying soon— but his body sure did.

Nam-gyu paused in his tracks, flashing Gyeong-su a smile with all his teeth. “Looks like someone pissed out their breakfast,” He pointed out lazily, watching Gyeong-su from the corner of his eye. “How you feeling, Gyeong-su-yah? Ready to dance?” Nam-gyu pressed, Gyeong-su didn’t answer, but his hand did start trembling over his hip.. Good enough for Nam-gyu, he redirected his gaze to Thanos, who was still euphoric— had begun hopping around the red platform like it was a stage built just for him. He spun once, pointing at random people with a rapid-fire rhythm. “Duck! Duck! Duck!” He sang in English, his voice high and playful. “Duck!” He exclaimed once more, tapping Se-mi’s shoulder, who flinched, unamused. “Goose!” He jeered, slapping Min-su’s back with a playful thud, nearly knocking him forward. “You’re it, bro! Run or die!” Thanos jested, collapsing onto the floor, laughing in a high-pitched wheeze, eyes glassy with leftover joy and whatever drug was now chewing on his spine. Nam-gyu grinned as he followed, stepping over a sprawled Thanos, looking every bit like a dog waiting to bite the mailman.

The red platform was slick underfoot, as if polished with the palms of the dead. The players moved forward like moths toward a flame they already knew would kill them.. Seventy-something feet in slow, uncertain procession, each body shivering under the pretense of a calm. The pastel-yellow room hummed behind them like a candy-coated trap, its air just a bit too sweet— like rot in a sugar jar. “All players, please step onto the center platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within thirty seconds.” The intercom voice returned, announcing in the brightest tone a robotic voice could muster, as if it were smiling.

What followed was a chorus of small gasps, murmurs, and one stifled sob.. Seriously? Get a goddamn helmet. Thanos cracked his neck on both sides and strutted up like the platform owed him rent. “You hear that?” He began, swinging around to face the others. “It’s like high school gym class, except if you don’t get picked..” He paused, dragging a finger across his throat like some Total Drama villain. “You fucking die.” He concluded, Nam-gyu snickered, following with a lazy stroll, one hand stuffed in his jumpsuit pocket. He stepped up beside Thanos like he was returning to his favorite barstool, eyes flickering with detached curiosity. “You’ve got the energy of a kid on Pixy Stix.” He observed, Thanos shot him a wink. “Speaking of which, do you want a Pixy Stix?” Thanos snarked, “My Eomma says those turn you into a whore.” Nam-gyu jeered, “Probably!” Thanos exclaimed in English, the duo's conversation cut off by a: “Let the game begin.” Followed by music not music, really, more accurately, it was a nightmare covered in pastels, something from a children’s store, from a broken birthday party, from a memory one would chew out of their head if they could.

The platform lit up in a spinning wash of lights, candyfloss-pink and custard-yellow. “Round and round, let’s go around in circles and dance—” The voice began to sing, Thanos whopped, of course, he was already dancing— entangling himself in some sort of loose cowboy jig, swinging his left arm in the air like it held a lasso only he could see.. His slides clunked and shuffled with every step, “We will clap our hands and sing, la-la-la, let’s have fun dancing!” Thanos even mouthed along, causing Nam-gyu to roll his eyes, noting the song wasn’t for joy, but rather psychological warfare. Upon meeting Thanos’ gaze and seeing the way the idiot was twirling, arm still lassoing the air, grinning with such childlike chaos that Nam-gyu couldn’t help the twitch of his lips, a rare, reluctant smile crawling across his face like a lazy spider. “Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a, ring-a-ring—” The voice continued to sing, players spun, some laughed nervously while others whimpered, clutching at strangers like lifeboats on a sinking cruise ship. “We will go hand in hand and have fun jumping around—” The voice would have continued to sing, but the music cut, sending the platform into a jerk not unlike an earthquake.

A mechanical groan erupted like the start of an earthquake, some idiot shrieked as the lights shifted to dark pink— like the inside of a vein. A countdown started above the stage in harsh ruby numbers: 30.

“Ten.” The robotic voice on the intercom declared in a cold and final voice.

Nam-gyu didn’t hesitate for a moment, he grabbed Thanos’ arm with a firm, death grip he usually reserved for well.. His duties as Death. “Let’s go.” Nam-gyu started, his voice was calm— unnervingly so, like how he knew how this would all end.. And of course, he did. “Yo, party of ten!” Thanos called out, waving his hands like his frequently intoxicated father. “Best party on this bitch-ass platform! Get your VIP wristbands, now!” Thanos shrieked, thanks to Thanos’ charisma, they didn’t even need to beg, people flooded toward them.. Consisting of Gyeong-su, breathing hard but staying close, Min-su, wide-eyed and stumbling, Se-mi, glaring but not stupid enough to seperate.. And five more— the desperate, the reckless, and the unlucky. Nam-gyu didn’t see any of them complain, they were safe, and they knew it.

The ten of them stormed toward a turquoise door marked with a gold lock, Thanos kicked it open with a flourish, tossing a: “Enter the Thanos world!” Over his shoulder. Inside, the room was sterile, lined with white vinyl walls and a single glowing overhead bulb that buzzed like a particularly irritating mosquito swarm. As the door hissed shut, sealing them in, the tension dropped for just a moment— like lungs exhaling all at once. Silently, Nam-gyu opted to lean back against the wall, his fingers absently brushing the four silver rings on his hand, one was thicker than the others, blackened with ornate carvings.. He tapped it twice with his thumb, the ring was none other than his scythe, hidden in plain sight— sleeping. He gazed around the room complete with nine souls, nine stories, nine bodies too slow to escape what was coming. Thanos stood in the center of the room, basking in the attention like a cat in the sun. “What do you think the next number’ll be?” He asked Nam-gyu with a lazy smirk, “I’m guessing four, that’s the death number, right? Sa. Like, saaaaaah..” Thanos trailed off, Nam-gyu just flashed him a grin. “Wouldn’t that be fun.” He snarked.

The platform slowed like a music box winding down, creaking back into place as the ten returned to the Mingle lobby. The pastel yellow now looked jaundiced under the lights— sickly, as if the room itself were rotting. As for the red curtain, they no longer looked whimsical, but theatricial, like they were hiding the set for a nightmare opera.. One couldn't possibly forget the new addition of blood, Nam-gyu’s slides squelched faintly as he stepped out of the room. Thin, arterial trails streaked the floor like brushstrokes on a canvas painted in panic. Though, there were no bodies, not a single corpse, and that.. Intrigued him. In a place like this, it was odd there were suddenly no souls to escort, no final breaths to catch in his palm like falling feathers, no parting whispers.. Where were they? What were the guards doing with them? Better yet, why hadn’t he been summoned?

“Yo,” The voice of Thanos muttered, elbowing him and effectively pulling him out of his train of thought. “You’re zoning out like we’re on a fucking mushroom bender, man. C’mon, up and at ‘em.” Thanos urged, Nam-gyu blinked once— slowly, and then he smirked as he and Thanos hooked elbows like children at recess— one death incarnate, the other chaos incarnate— and began spinning in a half-drunk circle, their free arms waving wildly like deranged parade floats. “Round and round, let’s go in circles and dance— we will clap our hands and sing, la-la-la-la—” The mechanical, practiced voice returned to singing. Nam-gyu twirled without care, nearly tripping on a smear of blood that glistened beneath his heel, Thanos howled a laugh, lassoing the air again with his invisible rope. They didn’t care, not about the music, not about the game, not even about death.. It was a nice change of pace to be careless for once.

“Ring-a, ring-a, ring-a, ring-a.. We will go hand in hand and have fun jumping around—” The voice sang, before stopping abruptly alongside the music, sending the room into yet another unneeded shake. “Four.” The intercom declared in a dead, flat voice. Just like that, the carousel cracked, the light shifted once more, now into a redder hue— more like rust than rose, a wound-colored glow.

Thanos’ group stood in a tense, uneven circle, they were five, meaning one of them had to get the axe, please be Min-su or Se-mi.. Gyeong-su’s breath caught in his throat, he looked at Thanos with a pleading look on his face, his smile small, trembling, and a little bit knowing. “Please..” He begged, voice quaking with the weight of knowing he was the least liked. Thanos’ dark eyes were wide, lips parted slightly— “Gyeong-su, you’re out!” He barked with a sudden jolt of energy, punctuating it with a hard kick to the chest, sending Gyeong-su stumbling back, sprawled out on the red platform. Nam-gyu didn’t hesitate, his slides were already moving, trotting after Thanos with casual finality for Death didn’t mourn, Death moved forward. “Let’s go!” Thanos exclaimed, beckoning with a maniac grin. Min-su stood frozen, his hands limp at his sides. “Gyeong-su..!” He stammered, voice soft as a prayer, Se-mi pulled him by the arm, and instinct overrode sympathy, the two of them trotting after Thanos and Nam-gyu.

A reddish-orange door blinked open like a wound, Thanos threw it wide, holding it like a gentleman at a funeral. As Nam-gyu passed him, their fingers briefly brushed against one another's, a near-intimacy cut off by the door slamming shut. The lock clicked like a final heartbeat, inside, the room buzzed with an orange light, the vinyl walls glowed like a dying sun. Nam-gyu stood at the door, peering through the reinforced glass slit, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Nam-gyu, what happened to Gyeong-su?” Min-su stammered from behind him, Nam-gyu whirled around just as Min-su touched his back— bad move. Nam-gyu spun, shoving Min-su with both hands. “Min-su, you fucker.” He spat in a voice low and venomous, glaring daggers at Min-su. “Talk to me like I'm your friend again, and I'll leave you out there next time.” He vowed, looming closer, his face inches from Min-su’s, eyes black as a void that remembered every war, every plague, and every last breath. Despite such, Min-su didn’t flinch, there was something quiet in his state, not fear, something else, something older, something that knew Nam-gyu, something that remembered him before he ever had a name.

Without knowing, Thanos broke the tension like a bottle to a skull. “Wait—” He paused, turning in a slow, confused circle. “Where the fuck didnyou leave my boy Gyeong-su?” He demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Nam-gyu, as if just now realizing the weight of what happened.. Nam-gyu blinked, relatively taken aback to see Thanos was that high. “You kicked him, dumbass.” Nam-gyu deadpanned in a matter-of-fact tone. “What?” Thanos stammered, his voice cracking. “No—I didn’t—did I—? Shit..” Thanos trailed off, clutching his head, painted fingers clawing at his temples. “Fuck… Fuck..” He rambled, stumbling past Nam-gyu, shoving him out of the way. He peered through the same window slit Nam-gyu had stood at moments ago, “GYEONG-SUUUUUUUU!” Thanos screamed, genuinely devastated. Nam-gyu turned just in time to see it too: through the glass, the guards raised their rifles in perfectly practiced synchronicity, followed by a bang, bang, bang!

Gyeong-su’s body jerked like a marionette with cut strings, the third bullet hitting his heart.

why does it feel cold why does it feel cold from the inside like he swallowed winter can’t move can’t breathe— was he even breathing? they kicked him they kicked him he didn't even mean to do anything just tired to please Thanos

was that really it?

that’s how it ends?

for real?

no no no no no no no
not like this his body is still here he is still here
he didn’t even get to— fuck, he didn’t even say goodbye to—
hyung
he’s probably laughing
no
not laughing
he’s probably high
probably forgot he even came here
probably never knew

he thought this would make him into someone
mom and sister would see him on tv and say “That’s Gyeong-su, that’s our kid from Hongdae, he made it”
but there’s no tv here
no cameras in.. death?
please dont be death
he wants to do more with his life
much more
but theres just this emptiness

…his back hurts
not, not his back
his everything
hurts

why did he listen to that guy why did he follow him like a puppy
Thanos said it’d be “fun”
Nam-gyu said nothing but his eyes said run
and he didnt
he didnt

he wanted a family
is that so stupid?
just wanted to feel safe in a room with people who’d wait for him
someone to ask where he went
someone to care if he never came back

eomma..
her hands were so small when he held them last them
she smelled like fabric softener and instant noodles and iron and the blood
there was so much blood
he cleaned it
like it would make a difference
like it would make her come back if the bathroom was spotless

he was supposed to do better
he promised eomma and appa and jamae he’d do better
they said “make it out of this place”
they meant the apartment
..not the world
so why is he leaving the world?

hes sorry
he didn’t know the world was just another kind of trap
with kids game and guns behind masks
kids games
did he ever really grow up?

he didn’t mean to die today

it’s too soon
it’s too soon

is someone crying?

..is that him?

..no its not him
cant cry without a throat
cant cry without a face
what does he even look like right now
does he look scared
does he look dumb
does he look like someone who shouldve never come here

maybe theyll step over him
like hes just another prop
like the red guys’ll zip him up and toss him in a box
they wont even say his name
Gyeong-su
thats his name
say it
say it before hes gone

Thanos wont
hell just do that half-smile thing like “damn, man”
Nam-gyu might
hes weird
doesnt like women
weirdly agonistic
but he thinks— hopes he felt sorry for him
not in a bad way
not like pity
like.. like he knew this was coming

did he know this was coming?
why didnt he save him if he did?
he would save Nam-gyu
they were friends
thats what friends do

was he always meant to die here?
was he just a background character in someone elses game?

he shouldve stayed home
shouldve never called that number
shouldve never trusted men in suits with perfect teeth

what was he trying to prove?
that he wasnt a loser?
that he wasnt soft?

hes not soft
he just doesnt like hurting people
is that soft?
they act like thats weakness
but he didnt come here to kill anyone
he only voted O because hes a people pleaser who hasnt thought for himself ever since he learned the basics of life
he came to win
fair and square
like in a video game
like in a rap battle
you spit your verse and you earn your spot
nobody dies in a cypher

nobody dies—

he didnt even get to hear the next round
he didnt get to show them what he could do
he had bars
he had dreams
he had plans

shit
he was gonna take the money
open a studio
get kids off the street
maybe
maybe even find her again
tell her he forgives her
not because she deserves it
but because he doesnt want to carry her around anymore

he just wanted to be free

not like this
not like this
not zipped up in a body bag
not just another number on a list
not a footnote in someone elses story

he wasnt Player 256
he was ██ Gyeong-su
he was a guy who liked hip-hop and tteokbokki and skating by the river
he used to rap into shampoo bottles pretending he was having a concert in the shower
he used to make eomma and appa and jamae laugh

somebody remember that
somebody remember him

please..

What once was Gyeong-su lay still, the last vibrations of pain faded into nothing, like a song ending mid-chorus— abrupt and unresolved, followed by cold.. Not the kind meant to touch human skin, but the kind that crept through marrow, through memory, through the space behind the heart where hope used to live.. Lastly, there was touch, drawn by a skeletal hand, cold and dry as ash, skimmed across the cooling curve of his shoulder.

Gyeong-su stood up, not by choice, not with effort, he simply stood— as if gravity had reversed, and the ground no longer claimed him. His breath— could he even still breathe? Regardless, it caught at the sight across from him, the thing across from him was Nam-gyu.. Or, something wearing his skin like an old hoodie.. Out of every religion, none of them said something with the same smug eyes as Nam-gyu, but darker would be waiting on the other side. “It’s time to go.” The thing simply put, tone as calm and casual as a waiter announcing the daily special. Gyeong-su’s lips trembled, he felt smaller than himself, he felt twelve again, at his father’s funeral, wondering if ghosts wore cologne. “W-where?” Gyeong-su stammered, voice cracking, brittle as ice. Nam-gyu didn’t answer, he just pointed a skeletal hand, as much as Gyeong-su didn’t want to look— he whirled around.. And there he was, crumbled on the floor, his face slack, still twitching slightly from residual nerve spasms.. His eyes were open, yet he wasn’t looking anywhere, his right slide had fallen half-off in his attempt to crawl backwards away from the inevitable bullet. He forced himself to tear his gaze away, looking back at Nam-gyu— or what looked disturbingly like Nam-gyu. “That’s it?” He croaked, “That’s all—all the time I get?” He stammered, unable to come to terms with such a thing.

To add insult to injury, the thing chuckled— it wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. “If I had a nickel…” The thing trailed off, Gyeong-su shook his head, hands gripping the sides of it as if he could hold in what he was unraveling, going as far as to pinching himself with the hopes this was all a bad dream and he would wake up in a hospital bed, the doctors saying he had another skating accident. “No, no—no! I just met him! I just got close! We were vibing! I was gonna ask him for pointers, maybe.. Maybe he’d connect me with a label, or like— give me a shoutout or something! I finally had a shot!” Gyeong-su protested, his voice cracking on shot— bitter irony coating the word. “You’re his fan.” Nam-gyu simply put, cloaked head tilting. Gyeong-su blinked, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “..Y-yeah.” Gyeong-su confirmed, followed by a brief, tense pause. “You died alongside your idol.” Nam-gyu pointed out, saying it like a fact already carved into stone.

What followed was silence falling like snow, Gyeong-su stopped breathing— not that he needed to, he just looked at the ground in dismay, his arms dropping to his sides, his shoulders sagging like all the light had left them. Nam-gyu turned toward a pinprick of light in the far distance, it didn’t glow, it pulled— a gravity for the dead, singing to the marrow and humming a lullaby for the soul. Nam-gyu didn’t ensure Gyeong-su was following him, he just started walking. Despite his nerves screaming at him not to, Gyeong-su took one final look over his shoulder, glancing at his body laying where it fell, no one came for it— not even Thanos.. “Are you ready?” Nam-gyu asked, his voice breaking the quiet.. Gyeong-su’s gaze was locked on the light, it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t cold, it just— was.. He wiped at his cheeks, sniffling softly. “No..” He whimpered, but he walked anyway, each step lighter than the last, off to the void he went, where music stopped, where time ended, where nothing hurt anymore.

The door slid open with a hiss like a snake exhaling, blood pooling out past the threshold in a slow, syrupy wave— thick and metallic, smelling like old iron and burnt meat.

Nam-gyu stepped out in his mortal skin, the mortal weight settling over him like wet clothes. Thanos walked ahead, loose-limbed and light-hearted, as if he hadn’t just sentenced a very upset fan to death and screamed his name like a punchline.. Nam-gyu followed silently behind him, deep eyes trailing over the slick bloodstains on the floor, they were darker now, almost black, and shaped like question marks and apologies. Behind them, Min-su knelt down, eyes fixated on the blood, not moving. There was something almost reverent in his posture, or maybe it was guilt, or worse— recognition. Nam-gyu turned around, glancing at him with a sharp, narrowed gaze.. He was silently daring Min-su to move, he better stay there, stay in the grief, stay in an appropriate distance where Nam-gyu’s abilities wouldn’t act up..

But, Nam-gyu’s hopes were immediately dashed like bones on concrete when Thanos spun around, grinning like a DJ mid-set. “Hey, Min-su! Come on my boy, come on!” Thanos called out, Nam-gyu didn’t say anything— his jaw flexed so tightly the muscle ticked, but his mind spat curses like shrapnel. Why couldn’t he leave Min-su? Let him rot in his conscience? Let the blood speak to him. “All players, please step onto the center platform.” The mechanical voice stated in a cold and clean tone, effectively putting Nam-gyu’s train of thought to an end.

Nam-gyu sighed through his nose, watching as the spotlight flickered on, that cursed carousel of the damned, and the room began to spin— slow at first, then smooth like a record coming to life. Of course, the goddamn music followed: “Round and round, let’s go around in circles and dance.. We will clap our hands and sing, we will clap our hands and sing, la-la-la..” The voice trailed off, Nam-gyu was distracted by the walls. The walls bloomed in a bouquet of neon red and blue, strobed like Club Pentagon during Friday-night coke binges.. Nam-gyu’s pupils dilated— not from the lights, but from the memory, he could only close his eyes briefly before being interrupted once again. “Three.” The robotic voice deadpanned, Nam-gyu was quick to open his eyes, gaze snapping to Min-su, come on Thanos, leave the weakest link— speaking of Thanos, he scratched his chin and spun like he was onstage. “Who should we take?!” Thanos paused, then without warning— “ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS!” Thanos exclaimed as if he’d found the perfect solution, Se-mi stepped forward toward Min-su with quiet grace, hand outstretched like a white flag. “Come with me.” She urged, Nam-gyu could smell the tension on her and scoffed at her desperation, “WINNER COMES WITH US! ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS!!” Thanos laughed and screamed again, completely and utterly unaware, however.. “MIN-SU—SISSY, LET’S SEE WHAT YOU GOT!” Nam-gyu joined in despite absolutely knowing what he was doing, he didn’t miss how Min-su’s hand trembled, didn’t miss how his jaw clenched when Nam-gyu said sissy, didn't miss the hesitation, but in the end— he threw scissors, god fucking damnit. Thanos clapped like a drunk uncle at karaoke, “MIN-SU THREW SCISSORS! MIN-SU, YOU WIN!” He cheered, grabbing him with a sloppy arm-around-the-shoulders. “COME ON, MY BOY!” Thanos exclaimed, “Min-su is with us, let’s go.” Nam-gyu’s voice was ice wrapped in cotton.

The door closed behind them with a clean ‘shhk.’ The room glowed in oranges and burgundy tones like a motel bathroom light left on too long, Nam-gyu leaned against the wall with a sharp and cold gaze. “She won’t find anyone.” Nam-gyu deadpanned, tilting his head toward Min-su. “Not someone as generous as us, especially not with her mouth.” He snarked, revelling in the way Min-su swallowed hard, jumping at the opportunity to lean in. “If she dies out there, it’ll be your fault, you know.” Nam-gyu whispered, smiling with a smile that had no intention of reaching his eyes. “Though, with a personality like hers, she was bound to die alone, unagreeable little whore.” Nam-gyu snarked, satisfied with the silence that followed, it was thick enough to drown in, just the way Nam-gyu liked it.

As if on cue, the door hissed open, the lights went strobe-white. Thanos bounded out like a victorious linebacker, throwing his hands into an exaggerated pose. “Welcome back, my friends!” He exclaimed in English, complete with double finger guns. Nam-gyu slinked out after him, flicking his fingers like he was tossing invisible dice. “Skrrrt.” He muttered, back on the platform, the world spun again, music lifted somewhere far away, bleeding like speakers like water through cracked glass. Nam-gyu’s eyes scanned the crowd, frowning when his gaze settled on Skanky-Se-mi, head bowed, breathing hard, having unfortunately made it.

The platform spun again like a child’s toy losing control— jerky and gleaming under the seizure of colored lights. “Round and round, let’s go around in circles and dance!” The voice chirped in a saccharine and sterile tone, dragging its giddy tune like a skipping record in hell. Nam-gyu didn’t stumble this time when it stopped, his slides hit the ground hard, solid. He didn’t need balance when he had intention. Thanos let out a short bark of a laugh, hands in the air like he was still at some outdoor music festival, coated in sweat and MDMA.. The red and blue strobes colored the sweat on his neck like war paint. Nam-gyu caught a glimpse of his expression, it was ecstasy, not from the drugs, nor the game, but from the lights, from the stage-show drama, he must have been under the impression this was another concert.. Another crowd to dominate. “Six.” The voice over the intercom cut in a sharp and final tone, there was no real chaos this round— no begging, no betrayal, instead it was like cattle with numbers on their ribs, the players found each other and herded themselves. Thanos and Nam-gyu didn’t need to lift a finger, their group formed like shadows at dusk, ultimately— it was nothing of note.

The room swallowed them and spat them back out. “Now, the final round will begin.” The voice on the intercom announced, the tune that followed tried to stay cheery— operative word being tried. “La-la-la— let’s have fun dancing..” The voice sang, but the lights cut through it like razors, the shaking returned, now paired with theater-grade strobes that painted everyone in sweat and panic. “Two.” The voice deadpanned, a hush fell— followed by a sharp and collective inhale from the crowd, Thanos turned toward Nam-gyu, eyebrows up. The pair nodded in sync, then puffed their cheeks and shook their heads, letting out obnoxious motorboat noises despite the panic around them. “Prrrrrrrr!” Thanos blurted, “Brrrrrrtt.” Nam-gyu shot back, Thanos tossed his head back with a laugh, tugging at Nam-gyu’s arm. “Let’s bounce!” He chuckled, Nam-gyu let himself be pulled, his hand flexing briefly, brushing against Thanos’ as they jogged. He turned around, scanning the crowd behind him with a predator’s precision, Min-su— still fucking kicking, and worse— running with some stranger, half his face lit up with hope. “Disgusting, fucking embodiment of Life pulling out divine cheats again.” Nam-gyu muttered to himself.

Himself and Thanos sprinted toward the last door painted in glowing, pulsing red— the kind of red one would see behind their eyelids when they're about to black out. Two players were already ahead— a man and a woman, running fast, just fast enough to think they had a shot. Nam-gyu’s expression flattened, he didn’t blink, opting to instead move. Thanos shoulder-checked the guy like a linebacker, sending him sprawling into a puddle of someone else’s blood. Nam-gyu took pleasure in reaching for the woman— Player 251, and caught her by the back of her head, consisting of a fistful of knotted hair and sweat-drenched roots. She yelped, though Nam-gyu didn’t stop, opting to yank her back by the hair like she was a broken marionette and didn’t feel a shred of remorse. “Out of the way, battle-axe.” Nam-gyu hissed in a low and casual tone, stepping past her as she crumpled, dazed.

The red door loomed in front of them like an emergency exit out of hell, Thanos wrenched it open, Nam-gyu was right behind him, their hands brushed again— knuckles against knuckles, a whisper of warmth under all that brutality. The room pulsed like a dying heart, the red door shutting behind them with a thick, hydraulic clang. As far as Nam-gyu knew, no cameras here, screaming masses, just warm lighting smeared like butter across concrete walls, too soft for what they’d done to get here.

Nam-gyu’s breath fogged slightly in the chill, glancing at his blood-slick fingers, but he didn’t properly process them. He was busy watching Thanos— his breath still ragged and his eyes uncharacteristically bright. “Holy shit, we made it.” Thanos panted, followed by a loud and genuine laugh, like they weren’t killers elbow-deep in survival. Nam-gyu turned, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “No thanks to Min-su, the parasite found someone, of course.” Nam-gyu grumbled, Thanos didn’t answer, he was still staring at Nam-gyu, leaving a rare moment of silence from Thanos, stretching elastically.

Then, without warning— without any goddamn warning, Thanos stepped forward, cupped Nam-gyu’s face like a secret he wasn’t supposed to touch (which in some ways, it was) and kissed him.. It wasn’t a sloppy, drunk-kid kiss, not a joke or dare— but a real kiss.. Warm, slow, and certain, like Thanos knew where his mouth belonged.. Nam-gyu didn’t move, hell, he couldn’t.

Nam-gyu’s eyes stayed open the entire time, there was no poetry or fairytale to it, just shock— pure, scalding shock. He’d felt blood on his skin before, bone break, death rattle, the list went on,, but nothing ever punched through his armor the way this did.

Thanos’ hands were still on his cheeks, thumbs ghosting under his eyes. Nam-gyu’s whole body froze up, like the kiss was a pin pulled from a grenade lodged behind his ribs. His mind was shrieking, reprimanding himself to not feel this, he better not fucking dare, it’s just adrenaline, just his stupidty— just a joke. He couldn’t entirely blame Thanos, Nam-gyu also knew he wasn’t a newbie and hadn’t been for more than half the universe's day, he’s not his pet ghost, he’s not—

Thanos pulled back with a low chuckle, breathing warm on Nam-gyu’s skin. “Fuck. That was.. Hah, I don’t even know. Adrenaline or somethin’. Shit.” He snarked, grinning. “Sorry, man. That was wild, right?” Thanos excused. Nam-gyu said nothing— no words left his mouth, he couldn’t speak, his tongue had turned to ash.. And Thanos’ hands— why weren’t they gone yet? Why were they still cradling him like Nam-gyu was some kind of answer— some kind of person. “You’re… High.” Nam-gyu muttered in an uncharacteristically quiet tone, his voice finally clawing its way up to his throat. “Probably. Shit, this room feels like a church.” Thanos laughed again, of course, it was funny to him because he didn’t have to worry about consequences.

Nam-gyu wanted to shove him, punch him, scream.. But more than that, he wanted Thanos to remember the river, the pills, the ferry crossing, the time they touched foreheads on a rooftop in the Joseon era, both human-shaped for a day and pretending it meant nothing.. But worst of all— he wanted this moment to last, and that’s what made him furious. Fuck him in the ass for having these feelings, none of his siblings ever had this same struggle, it was just him.. He saw War’s face behind his eye, saw his father dragging him out of a silk-draped bed by the hair in some Mongolian palace in 1275. “You sissy, you absolute embarrassment, Death does not love.” War had reprimanded him that night, Nam-gyu clenched his jaw, trying to push the memory out, trying to push everything out, but Thanos’ hands were still on his face, and he hated how good it felt. “Don’t look at me like that.” Nam-gyu finally snapped, voice sharp but cracked at the edges. “Like what?” Thanos pondered, blinking in puzzlement but didn’t pull back. “Like I'm real.” Nam-gyu hissed through his teeth, achieving the rare task that was shutting Choi Su-bong up, even for a second. Nam-gyu stared into his eyes, wondering— did he remember? Did he know who he was, who he always was? Thanos didn’t answer, he just gave one last sloppy yet sincere smile and finally dropped his hands, Nam-gyu was quick to turn away, scrubbing at his face like he was trying to erase the moment.

The room was too still, the distant echo of mechanized doors and contestant chatter had faded behind concrete and steel, a thick silence hung in the air like incense after a ritual, heavy and lingering.

Nam-gyu’s fingers twitched at his sides, his chest felt like it was caving in. Every nerve was a live wire, every thought clawing at the next like a panic spiral. His lips still tinged from the kiss Thanos had given him, and his heartbeat was off, like it didn't know whether to race or stop altogether. He shouldn’t want this, he wasn’t created to want anything.. And yet— Thanos had just walked a few paces away, laughing to himself, brushing his thumb across his mouth like he was wiping away a joke. Nam-gyu’s eyes locked on him, on the way he moved, on the warm buzz in his laugh, on the space between them— a space Nam-gyu didn’t want.. And when Death wanted something, he got it.

With that being said, Nam-gyu stepped forward, taking a ragged breath. “Hey.” Nam-gyu greeted, his voice came out raw, like it’d been dragged over gravel. Thanos just barely turned, but Nam-gyu seized the chance to grab him by the front of his jumpsuit and yank him back— bringing their bodies to a collide with a soft thud, and before Thanos could speak, Nam-gyu’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, leaving no distance or breath.. Nam-gyu’s lips crashed against Thanos’, not gentle this time, but desperate— like he was starving for it, like something in him had broken and spilled. Thanos stiffened, his breath itching in startlement and uncertainty, but he didn't pull away.

Thanos’ hands found Nam-gyu’s shoulders, then trailed upward cautiously, as if testing the temperature of water too warm to be safe. His lips moved slowly at first, then gradually melted into sync with Nam-gyu’s, a quiet sigh slipping from him, chest pressed to chest. Nam-gyu felt his fingers tremble when they clutched at Thanos’ jumpsuit, the fabric bunched between them. He hated the way he noticed the way Thanos smelled— sweet chemical sweat and fake strawberries from those goddamn candy-colored drugs. “You’re..” Thanos muttered against his lips, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper: “I didn’t know you swung that way, man.” Nam-gyu’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw tightening, he almost laughed, hell— he almost screamed.. Did he? Or did he just want to fuck everything his father hated? Did he want Thanos or did he want to watch the world that refused to let him love choke on its own blood? The cruel and tangled thoughts buzzed, crashing into one another like cars in a tunnel.. But despite that, his hands didn’t leave Thanos’ waist, he even went as far as to pressing their foreheads together, breathing hard. “You’re high, you’ll forget.” He muttered in a low voice, moreso trying to reassure himself of such. “Maybe.” Thanos sneered, blinking in a slow daze.. Nam-gyu swallowed, gaze flickering with something colder and darker. If he didn’t forget, he’d erase his memories again.. He told himself that, repeated it, grounded it into his skull like a mantra, he had done it before, he could do it again, because if Thanos remembered the ferry rides, the old languages, the promises made under collapsing heavens— then he’d remember everything, and Nam-gyu wasn’t ready for that. So instead, he leaned in again, kissing him slower and softer this time, like an apology for something he hadn’t yet done. Thanos was carefree, after all, ignorance was bliss, he was kissing back, less dazed now, maybe even.. Curious.

The sound of mechanical clicks echoed off the walls like a countdown to reality— the doors were unlocking. Thanos pulled back, the warmth of his hands finally leaving Nam-gyu’s face, his grin lazy and lopsided like someone who’d just stuck their head out of a car window during a thunderstorm. “Guess that’s our cue, huh?” Thanos cooed, Nam-gyu didn’t respond, didn’t look back, he just turned on his heel and exited first, the chill of the corridor instantly settling on his neck like a cold reminder. Thanos followed, a few beats behind, then with a grin and a casual air of mischief, gave Nam-gyu’s ass a light smack.

“Skrrrt—!” Thanos chuckled under his breath. Nam-gyu’s stride didn’t falter, didn’t acknowledge it, but the tips of his ears burned traitorously red. He acted like it hadn’t happened, hands in his pockets, posture loose and untouchable as they descended into the pink stairwell, which remained fluorescent and candy-colored, the scent of industrial cleaning fluid wafting off the walls. The madness of the Mingle faded behind them, swallowed by bubblegum-toned architecture.

In due time, the dormitory greeted them like a concrete crypt, still drenched in silence and half-light. The fluorescent overheads buzzed softly, no one bothered cheering, no one clapped. The survivors simply existed— draped over bunks, slouched against walls, their eyes hollowed like peeled grapes. Before Nam-gyu had a chance to relax, Thanos’ gaze zeroed in on the foul creature who called himself Min-su. “My little boy, Min-su!” He called out, practically sprinting across the dormitory like a golden retriever on uppers. His arms flung wide and wrapped around the smaller player like he’d just found a long-lost brother. Nam-gyu paused mid-step, jaw tightening slightly, watching as Min-su gave an awkward laugh, patting Thanos weakly on the back. Thanos pulled away just enough to cup Min-su’s face dramatically. “Do you know how worried I was?! I thought I was running with you, bro— but it turns out I was with this douchebag.” He sneered, jerking a thumb toward Nam-gyu without looking. Nam-gyu snorted, approaching reluctantly with the swagger of someone pretending not to feel second best. “Hey now,” Nam-gyu cut in, voice thick with that dangerous sing-song edge. “I told you he wouldn’t die easily. You saw what he did, right?” He cut in, extending one flat hand, palm like a sheet of paper. “When Se-mi stuck out her hand like this,” He started, holding the pose like a stage magician. “He just.. Took a second— like a total fucking king- and then went..” Nam-gyu trailed off, snapping his other hand into a sharp scissors motion, grinning. “Book. Scissors. Cold-blooded. I got chills, Min-su.. Chills.” Nam-gyu snarked, “Let’s play one more game, okay?” Thanos beamed, sliding up to Min-su’s other side. Nam-gyu nodded slowly, almost threateningly close now, eyes flickering between them. “You’ll play one more game, right?” Nam-gyu alleged, flashing Min-su a barely-hidden death glare. Min-su blinked rapidly, caught between their orbit like a moth between twin neon signs. “Uh.. Yeah. Sure.” Min-su stammered, Thanos might’ve bought it, but Nam-gyu didn’t— not even for a second, he’d seen the way Min-su was ready to trot after Se-mi before Thanos and Nam-gyu caught up to him first.

The trio walked back toward the bunk beds like a lopsided royal court: Thanos whistling, Nam-gyu smirking to himself, Min-su blinking like he’d just walked into the wrong classroom. Thanos dropped heavily onto one of the staircases, bouncing once. “Min-su, Nam-su, Gyeong-su… So many ‘su’s—” Thanos started rapping to himself under his breath, tapping a rhythm against his thigh. Nam-gyu didn’t even correct his time, no snide jab, no annoyed grunt, instead, he pointed lazily across the room with two fingers, like a bored prophet. “Yo, yo, look at those two.” Nam-gyu pointed out, gesturing towards the room where Myung-gi and Player 222 were locked in a quiet, visibly tense exchange. Myung-gi, with that greasy salesman charm that had convinced Thanos and Nam-gyu to buy into his shitty coin— was holding 222’s hand like he was selling her a timeshare.. She was clearly smarter than Thanos and Nam-gyu, since she looked seconds away from snapping it in half. Thanos leaned forward, arm still slung around Min-su’s shoulders, squinting. “What’s going on?” He pondered, Nam-gyu crossed his arms, the jealousy pricking under his skin like static. “Maybe they’re a thing.” Nam-gyu guessed, “That bastard sure is lucky.. Even in a place like this.” Thanos scoffed, tilting his head. Nam-gyu didn’t say anything, he just stared— not at Myung-gi, not at 222, rather at Thanos’ arm around Min-su. Then, he sighed, rolling his eyes like it didn’t matter, even though it kind of did.. But PDA wasn’t his thing anyway, so he instead opted to lean back on his hands. “Well, guess miracles happen in hell, too.” Nam-gyu muttered to himself, voice low and sarcastic as always.

The iron doors creaked open like the gates of some ancient, mechanical hell. The guards filed in, made up of a procession of black masks and emotionless stares. The air shifted, even the dust in the room seemed to pause midair. A new guard stepped forward, led by posture alone, his voice filtered and firm behind the mask. “Congratluations to all of you for making it through the third games.” The guard announced, holding up a remote, thumb poised. “Now, here are the results of the third game.” With a click, the dormitory lights dimmed with a low ‘whum,’ plunging the concrete tomb into shadow as the towering piggy bank ignited above, its golden glow bleeding across the cold walls. The numbers ticked into place, the six zeroes like eyes, watching. “The vote will once again be conducted in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 455, please cast your vote.” The guard commanded, the room stilling like prey sensing a predator in the brush. “To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind.” The guard added, likely directed towards Gi-hun, Nam-gyu barely heard it.

Gi-hun’s footsteps echoed like a man walking towards a gallows, his silhouette slumping as he reached the booth. His hand didn’t hover, he pressed X without hesitation. Nam-gyu rolled his eyes and tuned out the rest— that tedious see-saw of hope and cowardice. He pulled a folded strip of linen from beneath his waistband and wiped a smudge from the back of his hand, revealing an ancient, barely-glowing rune beneath the skin. Names whispered through the air, names already marked. His fingers danced with subtle gestures no naked human eye would track, just enough to usher a soul across the divide, some idiot who’d died during Mingle and whose body hadn’t even been found yet.. Death waited for no tally.. However, Nam-gyu was pulled out of his train of thought when he heard it:

“Player 380.”

At her cue, Se-mi approached the booth, holding her head high. Nam-gyu looked up, watching as she pressed X without hesitation. “That fucking bitch.” He hissed under his breath, voice sharp enough to slice tile. Beside him, Thanos crossed his arms in a wide arc, raising two fingers to his own eyes, and pointed them at Se-mi in an exaggerated ‘I’m watching you’ motion. “Mmmmhm,” he grumbled, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Bold for someone who almost died three times.” Thanos snarked, Nam-gyu chuckled darkly, shaking his head as the next few votes blurred into monotony until he heard a—

“Player 230.”

Thanos immediately perked up, eyes sparkling. He clapped his hands once, then skipped— Nam-gyu wasn’t kidding, Thanos actually skipped to the booth like it was a stage and he was its star.. Maybe in his mind, that was the case. The room watched as he opted to kiss the O button instead of pressing it like a normal person, and spun around with jazz hands before forming a circle above his head like he was auditioning for a cereal commercial. “Circle! Let’s goooo!” Thanos called out, a few contestants snorted, Nam-gyu full-on snickered, his amusement genuine for once.

“Player 226.”

Yeong-sam— the ever-slick embodiment of Greed strolled up next, his heinous eyebags even more prominent, the left eyebag catching the light. Without making a show out of it, he pressed O with a smug nod, licking his bottom lip like the prize was already in his pocket.

As soon as the machine dinged, Thanos shoved his way through the crowd of voters, grabbing Nam-gyu and Min-su by the sleeves. “Min-su, just one more game.” He reiterated, holding up one finger in a childlike gesture. Nam-gyu tilted his head toward him, eyes narrow but his posture overall relaxed. “I already talked to him.” He assured, giving Min-su a light pat. “We agreed to play one more game and leave with one billion.” Nam-gyu added, Thanos grinned and held up his arms again in the wide circle motion, Nam-gyu went out of his way to return it, the corners of his mouth twitching into something dangerously close to affection.

“Player 125.”

Min-su froze when his name was called, Nam-gyu’s fingers tightened around his shoulders, harder than necessary— less encouragement, more command. “Come on, Min-su.. Come on.” Nam-gyu snarked, his voice was low, nearly growling, as if he could will the boy forward by force alone. Across the room, Se-mi caught Nam-gyu’s gaze, she didn’t hesitate to flip him off— clean, slow, middle finger high like she was saluting him with hate. Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched, a storm of barely-hidden bitter misogyny brewing just behind his teeth, he didn’t speak, but if thoughts were weapons, Se-mi would’ve dropped dead.. The stupid self-righteous heretic hag thought she was too good for a team but now she was just clutching that X like a Bible.. She was nothing, just a hideous corpse-in-waiting. He folded his arms, biting the inside of his cheek until the metallic tang of mortal blood grounded him. Meanwhile, Min-su hovered at the booth. “Come on, bro.. Circle up..” Thanos urged like a gambler praying at the roulette table.

Min-su stood frozen in front of the voting booth like a child before a beast, his hand trembling over the buttons. The red X glowed like an open wound, while the blue O pulsed softly, under the guise of being inviting. His lips parted, breath stuttering. The dormitory was dead silent now, save for the low electric hum of the piggy bank above.. Nam-gyu’s eyes locked on Min-su's back, laser-focused, jaw clenched like a vice.. Min-su hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat and pressing X, the red light blinking with finality.

Nam-gyu’s nostrils flared, “Fucking coward..” He hissed under his breath, “Player 124.” Even as the intercom buzzed overhead, he didn’t move, he just stood there, glaring daggers into the space where Min-su had stood, breathing slowly and venomously. Realizing he couldn’t stand like a spoiled child who didn’t get what he wanted forever, he began to walk, each step was a deliberate grind of cheap soles against concrete. He let the silence stretch as long as it could, everyone in the room watched him— the boy with the ink-black hair and hollowed-out eyes, walking like he was dragging a body behind him. At the booth, he didn't hesitate. No theatrics, no commentary.. Just a gritted groan as his hand slapped the O, the blue light flaring like a defibrillator trying to shock the game back to life. He turned on his heel, retracing his steps, and joining Thanos at the back.

Thanos tilted his head at him, something unreadable flickering behind those slightly bloodshot eyes. A small frown, brows drawn, mouth open a little as if something was on the tip of his tongue. Nam-gyu was quick to notice— was he remembering? That faint static in the brain, like a skidded beat in a broken tape.. A familiar twitch in Thanos’ gaze, a whisper threading itself between neurons. Nam-gyu made a note to fix it later— erase it clean, but before he could make any conversation such as what he and Thanos are to eachother.. “Y’all getting real close lately.” Yeong-sam observed, slithering into their orbit, flashing a toothy grin like a snake testing its jaw. “What?” Thanos muttered, blinking with puzzlement. “Don’t mind me, i’m just noticing a lot of tension.. Are you guys dating? I saw you two dancing in Mingle.” Yeong-sam pressed, Nam-gyu stared flatly at him— part of him wanting to say: ‘Yeah, Thanos, are we dating?’ But ultimately opting to raise a brow to make Yeong-sam look like a fool. “I think he’s naturally this annoying, maybe he wears old band shirts outside of this shithole so old people will high five him.” Nam-gyu snarked, “Man, shut the hell up, go rub gilf cock.” Thanos snorted, half-laughing, half-wincing. Yeong-sam clicked his tongue, but backed off with his usual slasher smile when nothing was that funny. “The fuck was he talking about?” Thanos asked, turning to Nam-gyu with a genuine look of puzzlement.. Nam-gyu didn’t answer, not vocally, anyway, just lifted a hand and flicked his fingers towards his temple— a dismissive crackhead gesture.. That was enough for Thanos.

The room tensed as the last few players cast their votes, the piggy bank above held its breath like a god watching a coin flip. The final count appeared on the walls in glowing digits: 50 for X, 50 for O, leaving it a razor-thin split. The lead guard stepped forward again, “According to clause three of the consent form, in the event of a tie, players will vote again.” The guard announced, a low murmur stirring among the players like rats scratching in the walls. “To give you time to think, the vote will be conducted tomorrow.. Until then, please think carefully about your future.” The guard concluded, the lights returning with a sterile whine— harsh, white, and merciless. Nam-gyu stood still, blinking slowly, lips pursed in a thin line. He could feel Thanos beside him fidgeting, confused but trying to act like it was all part of the show.. Min-su was already scurrying off to the bathroom, Se-mi smirked from her X side, victorious for now.

To think Nam-gyu and Thanos wouldn’t follow Min-su was absurd, with that being said, the fluorescent lights above the blue-gray tiled bathroom flickered weakly, casting sickly halos onto the cracked floor. Somewhere in the pipes, water groaned— an old beast in the walls, and the air reeked faintly of industrial soap and something more human: fear.

Min-su had scurried into one of the stalls like a wounded animal, slamming the door shut and sitting on the toilet lid with his knees drawn to his chest, breathing as if he’d just escaped a fire. “I know you’re upset with me,” Thanos started from the other side, his voice theatrical through the thin pink-painted door. “I’m sorry, bot!” He added in a mock-sincere American accent, dragging the word out as if it were a punchline. “But still, you shouldn’t have betrayed me. That really hurt. Open the door.” Thanos demanded, switching back to Korean, dropping the playfulness but not the pressure. He gently thunked his forehead against the stall door repeatedly, like a disappointed dog.

Meanwhile, Nam-gyu had climbed onto the toilet in the neighboring stall, placing one pristine slide on the porcelain lid and hoisting himself up like a ghoul out of a crypt. He peeked over the partition, resting his forearms casually against the top edge, gaze steady and cold. Min-su flinched back against the wall, startled to find Death peering down at him like a gargoyle. Nam-gyu tilted his head, a cruel little smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Hey, Min-su,” He began lightly as if he wasn’t breaking every law of privacy and dignity imaginable. “Didn’t you say you got scammed out of a rental deal? That you don’t have a place to go anyway?” Nam-gyu alleged, “Open the doooooorrrrr, Min-su! Don’t make me sing!” Thanos let out a dramatic wail from outside the door, Nam-gyu, still peering down, laughed softly under his breath. “We’ll protect you, I swear.” He ensured with a syrupy tone so fake it almost shimmered in the air. “So tomorrow, when we vote again— press O, okay? C’mon.. Come here..” Nam-gyu muttered, his fingers swinging over the partition, gesturing lazily like a predator luring prey. “Don’t be a little bitch.” Nam-gyu snapped, his tone losing all pretense of charm, slamming his hand down on the divider and nearly vaulted his way into Min-su’s stall. Min-su yelped, scrambling toward the door, but as soon as it opened a crack— “Whoa, boy. Sit the fuck down.” Thanos was already there, making demands, blocking the exit like a lion at the den's mouth. He leaned in with that lazy charisma of his, hands up, not threatening— but his eyes were locked.. He knelt down slowly, deliberately, until he was at level with Min-su, who was now backed into the corner like a moth under a magnifying glass. “Look, Min-su.” Thanos started, his voice taking a softer edge yet deepening with sincerity. “Before I came here, I went to the Han River Bridge, I was gonna jump.” Thanos admitted, Nam-gyu was still watching from the side, went eerily still.. His black eyes narrowed— calculating and silent. “But then this guy showed up. In a suit. Said he had a game. Gave me that card..” Thanos trailed off, tapping his chest. “You got one too, right?” He alleged, “…Yeah.” Min-su confirmed in a whisper, his voice cracking. Thanos smiled sadly, “I don’t have a religion, I don’t even believe in fate, but it felt like..” He paused, spreading his arms in a slow, solemn circle, head tilting upward. “Divine intervention." Thanos concluded, Nam-gyu’s mouth twitched, noting the irony of the situation considering himself and Min-su were the divine intervention. “It felt like I was being given a shot, a real chance to make my mom proud.” Thanos continued, both hands now pressed over his heart.. Nam-gyu felt the truth in his words like a tremor through the floor, he wasn’t faking. Thanos had always been the man of the house— taking the brunt of his father’s drunken rages, standing in front of his mother with clenched fists and a bleeding lip.. That kid hadn’t gone away, he’d just dyed his hair purple and called himself ‘Thanos.’ “But you’re stopping me from doing that, it makes me fucking furious.” Thanos shouted, gritting his teeth. “I’m so fucking angry, man!” Thanos switched back to English to exclaim this, the walls trembled with the force of it, silence falling for a moment since nobody really knew what to say.

“Knock it off.” A voice demanded, all three of them turning as Myung-gu appeared in the doorway, hands balled into fists, his perfectly parted hair harboring a smug shadow beneath it. Thanos stood up slowly, eyes burning with rare genuine rage. “Mind your own damn business and fuck off.” Thanos spat, Myung-gi didn't flinch. “You’re interfering with the vote, that’s against the rules.” He pointed out.. Hopefully before Thanos could say or do something he’d regret, Nam-gyu stepped out of the stall like a shadow peeled off a wall, brushing his jumpsuit sleeves. “The amazing Myung-gi,” He sneered, “Tell me, who the hell do you think you are?” Nam-gyu pressed, Myung-gi’s eyes narrowed, posture stiff as a blade.

The blue-grey tiled bathroom felt like it had swallowed a thunderstorm, the flickering light above them spasmed as if it were trying to blink away the tension rising like steam off the cracked floor. The pipes groaned again, as if even the walls were exhausted by what they were hearing. Nam-gyu’s smile curled into something razor-thin and venomous. “The election commissioner?” He echoed mockingly, shoving his palms together with a dry, ‘clap, clap, clap,’ feigning reverence. “MG Coin,” Thanos snorted, stepping beside him. “You’re next, so just take a piss and get out.” Thanos spat, punctuating his words by jabbing his index finger onto Myung-gi’s forehead, shoving him back with casual disrespect— like flicking lint off a jacket. Myung-gi stumbled back a step, color rushing to his face. “Everyone on Team X!” He shouted, jabbing his own finger outward like a courtroom prosecutor. “Thrse guys are threatening one of us!” He echoed, voice cracking slightly but he doubled down, pointing now at both Thanos and Nam-gyu. “They’re forcing him to vote O next time!” Myung-gi exclaimed.

Nam-gyu rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve passed for a seizure, he began pacing the tiles with the smooth gait of a fox in a henhouse, pretending not to know Myung-gi from a stray dog on the street. “Is that true?” Someone from the gathering crowd of X’s called, “Hey, that’s cheating.” Another chimed in, “You kids are still so young.. Who taught you to do something so nasty?” A third older man muttered with a shake of his head. Nam-gyu nearly laughed, who taught him to be nasty? Humanity, over and over again. From war profiteers to fathers who beat their own children for being born, to every soul he’d ever collected from the ruins of their own ambition.. If only they knew what he had witnessed. “Hey! Hey!” Thanos broke the mourning tension with a shout in English, “These X’s are about to attack us!” Thanos exclaimed, shifting back to Korean, raising his arms above his head and forming a perfect O shape with his hands like a team mascot.. Nam-gyu was about to smirk when something caught his eye— Min-su, the little bastard scurried out from the stall like a cockroach fleeing light, ducking behind Myung-gi and the swelling herd of X’s. “Min-su..” Thanos started, holding a hand out like a father coaxing a child back home. “Come here..” He urged, turning to Myung-gi, brows scrunched like a man trying to understand a foreign language. “MG Coin, are you high? Have you lost your mind?” Thanos pondered, waving a hand in front of Myung-gi's face slowly, like he was scanning for brain activity. “It’s because of her, isn't it?” Nam-gyu joined in, voice bright with manufactured revelation. He leaned into Thanos, pressing his hand against his cheek in a fake whisper that in all actuality, everyone could hear. “We saw him earlier with some bitch. It looked like they were a thing, remember?” Nam-gyu snarked, Thanos gasped and wagged a finger at Nam-gyu’s nose. “Smooth little shit,” He jeered with mock scolding, “You had time to fool around with a girl?” Thanos marveled, Nam-gyu shrugged, tilting his head. “I’ve been watching her carefully..” He paused, pointing lazily toward the door. “She was walking funny, and her belly looked—” He didn’t get a chance to finish.

“Leave her alone, you bastards!” Myung-gi cut in, his voice cracking like glass under pressure. Thanos turned back, two fingers finding Myung-gi’s forehead again with surgical precision. “You’re getting all worked up,” He started, tone suddenly low and knowing. “So there is something going on.” He concluded, Nam-gyu smiled, his teeth a row of white knives. “I’m telling you,” He began, hands raised in innocent surrender. “Something’s going on.” Nam-gyu enunciated, Thanos stepped forward, eyes locked in. “MG Coin, if you vote X again.. I’m going to cut off your finger, give it to her..” Thanos paused, leaning in closer— close enough to count Myung-gi’s exhales. “…And make her my bitch.” Thanos vowed, leaning back with a devilish grin, switching tongues once more: “She’ll love it.” Thanos sneered, Myung-gi’s fist came fast, but it was clumsy— fueled by blind rage and desperation more than accuracy, it missed clean.. However, Thanos didn’t, with a crack! His fist landed squarely on Myung-gi’s jaw, spinning him back into the sink with a grunt of pain. The crowd of X’s gasped, some recoiling, others stepping forward, ultimately, the bathroom erupted into chaos— shouts, footsteps slapping tile, a faucet rattled from someone crashing against it.

It wasn’t long before Nam-gyu was no longer watching the fight, rather he was involved in the fight. But he wasn’t good at it— he hated that. His body moved like a malfunctioning puppet, arms flailing in stiff, disconnected arcs. He got hit in the shoulder— hard, and spun like a dancer who had forgotten their choreography. Three or four X’s had cornered him near the dinks, backing him into a narrow pace where the stench of urine and pink soaped mixed into a suffocating fog. The cracked mirror reflected his disheveled state back at him: sweat-matted hair, blood on his lips, jaw clenched in disbelief at the fact that Death was getting his ass kicked by mortals who still had crust in their eyes from sleeping on concrete floors.

Nam-gyu raised his fists, albeit clumsily. “You motherfucker! Fuck!” Nam-gyu let out a furious, raspy shout as he lunged at the nearest figure. His punch missed by a clean, humiliating six inches and he followed it with another— an uppercut that barely grazed the man’s chin. “Motherfucker! Fucking X bastard!” Nam-gyu hissed in fury, the return punch landed square in his nose, a sudden snap and a wash of red.. Pain pulsed through his skull like an alarm. His head jerked back, balance gone, vision swimming. He fell against the ground, blinking tears and blood out of his eyes.

That’s when his gaze settled on the last thing he ever wanted to lay eyes on.

Thanos— crumbled against the floor like a discarded jacket, a metal fork— one in Western houses jutted up the soft underside of his chin and the roof of his mouth like a crude flagpole. Nam-gyu froze, for a split second, the chaos dimmed into silence.. The bathroom warped around him— walls caving inward, light dimming like a dying campfire, grime on the tiles blurred into soft shapes, his breath hitched. Thanos’ body was twitching slightly, but his eyes— those brash, wild, alive eyes— were already glass. “No,” Nam-gyu stammered, “No—NO!” He yelled this time around, in a louder, angrier tone, voice cracking.

Anger surged in his gut like acid boiling through steel. He didn't cry, he couldn't, but he snarled through bared teeth as he staggered toward the body, dropping to his knees. With trembling hands, he reached for the cross necklace hanging off Thanos’ neck. It shimmered slightly, the divine glow dull now, as if even the pills inside mourned the soul they were meant to hold.

Nam-gyu opened the locket, gazed inside, concluding the soul was still there— he could feel it. “You idiot,” He whispered, cradling the necklace like it was something alive. “You fucking idiot.. Why did you stay human for so long?” Nam-gyu reprimanded himself, he had the choice, Nam-gyu could’ve guided Thanos’ soul, could’ve pulled it out, whispered something sarcastic and soft as he always did with the good ones.. But he didn’t, he couldn’t.

Instead, he made the most un-Death decision possible— he kept it, a selfish preservation, but regardless, he closed the locket and shoved it in his own pocket.

A slide crashed into his ribs, then another. Nam-gyu grunted, curling like a fist on the floor, it was the X who had punched him earlier— Player 331, a reedy man with too much jaw and not enough restraint, his foot slammed into Nam-gyu’s hip again, and again. “FUCK YOU!” Nam-gyu screamed, “You fucking loser!” Nam-gyu spat, his hand finding the fork and his brain effectively shutting off. He spun on the slick tile and plunged the bloodied utensil into 331’s leg, the man shrieked and stumbled, crashing onto his back.

Nam-gyu wasted no time to pounce, he straddled him, knee pinning his ribs, and stabbed downward— into the man’s chest. Metal fork tines bent and snapped, but it didn’t matter, the sound was grotesque; wet, crackling, soft. He did it again, and again, and again. Nam-gyu said some not-so-colorful language, even for his vocaublary, consisting of: “FUCKING ASSHOLE!”, “DIE!” and his personal favorite, “DIE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

The man beneath him gurgled something that didn’t resemble a word— just a wet, useless whimper. Blood spilled onto Nam-gyu’s knuckles, hot and sticky, staining the grooves of his fingers. The last jab landed in the hollow of the man’s neck, just above his collarbone, and the fight beneath him went limp.

Nam-gyu sat there panting, fork handle jutting from the corpse beneath him, his own body trembling like a fuse ready to blow.

The times around him were smeared with red, the shouting had moved on, but Death— Death had just made a mess he couldn’t clean.

And for the first time in a long time, Nam-gyu felt truly, stupidly human.

Chapter Text

d e a t h

fuck it hurts but not like youd think not the stabbing not even the gurgling wet fire in his throat its the humilation the loss of control damnit he wanted to out on his own terms on a bridge in the rain looking up at the grey sky tears or drizzle it didnt fucking matter but he just knew he didnt want to die in a piss-stained bathroom stall with blood pooling out from under his chin and MG Coin holding a goddamn fork like hes at dinner hes choking not on a decision not on his life but his own blood how fucking poetic

he always thought hed choose it something cinematic like the marvel cinematic universe maybe leave a note with a beat drop and a verse: “to my haters and debt collectors: kiss my dead ass” but nah this is what he gets he knew he wasnt a saint but he thought he deserved to at least be in a marked grave

he cant believe he used to stan that greasy son of a bitch watched every video bought every lie “DALMATION TO THE MOON” he scammed him ruined him and now he gets to kill him for what some game hes not even gonna win

maybe he shouldve let the han river take him hell it felt peaceful that night coiled rail trembling fingers thinking about eomma but then that recruiter came with his little briefcase and that stupid red card like he was god or something and he bought it he thought it was fate thought hed be forgiven thought maybe if he won shed be proud instead of everytime she looked at him she saw his old man

but somewhere deep under the coke and the comedowns and the withdrawals and the clown makeup of being “Thanos” he wanted to die he dreamed of it not nightmares just that skele-stud him

hed stand at the edge of his bed in some of the worst highs a shadow in skin wearing death like it was tailored black pits for eyes a skeleton for a face and that smirk like he already knew the ending hed say his name sometimes not out loud just inside like a whisper trapped in a bone “Choi Su-bong” hed hum and hed feel warm

he never told him not to die never stopped him but he was there the only one whos in all his dreams even the dreams about beating MG Coin to a pulp he would be there with his scythe

so yeah hes pissed at MG Coin at this game at himself but a part of him the part that started dying long before he entered this hellhole that part its almost relieved

maybe hell see him again maybe hell finally get his stupid verse right maybe this time he wont forget the words maybe this time hell remember him too

f a m i l y

eomma and appa got married because of him no rings no flowers no first dances just a piss-smelling courthouse and a baby growing too fast in eommas belly they told him once “you werent a mistake just a surprise" but even as a kid he could taste the bullshit in that he was a weight neither of them wanted to carry a rusted anchor tied to ankles that already hated the water they resented each other and he was the mirror that reflected everything they couldnt stand

appa worked in a warehouse boxes and sweat and back pain and a boss who never remembered his name when he came home he didnt speak he shouted yelled about the chip in his brain the government tracking his thoughts his dreams his dick hed scream about the fridge light being “too fucking bright” and how eomma was poisoning him by buying margraine instead of butter he used to laugh at it quietly when he was little thinking it was some weird grown-up joke but then came the fists the belt the bottles and they didnt land in punchlines

eomma took the hits most of the time shed pull him away like she was trying to drag a wolf off a dying deer hed spit on her sometimes call her a "cheap whore” “sky slut” “you smile for passengers, but you cant smile for me?” and shed never fight back just wipe the blood off her lip and tuck him into bed like nothing happened told him to keep his head down be invisible

but one night he couldnt he didnt even remember what started it maybe the way he grabbed her wrist maybe the way she didnt scream hell if he knows he just remembers seeing red and screaming at him a twelve-year-old punk yelling at a man whose hands were calloused from lifting crates and crushing necks he laughed then he grabbed the green soju bottle the one with the chipped neck he never cleaned cracked it over his head like he was trying to open him up and see what was inside glass and blood in his eye he couldnt hear shit for a minute everything was buzzing like a concert

he said, “you aint got no brain, boy, so i didnt break shit” then he laughed like it was a joke thatd make him famous but jokes on him the brainless boy was the only one out of that house to get famous the brainless boy didnt cry not then not while eomma picked him up and shoved tissues into his scalp and whispered, “just stay quiet, just sleep, just sleep.”

it got worse after Ji-ae was born his baby sister her cries were soft like she didnt want to be a burden eomma started working double shifts international flights said she liked being 30,000 feet in the air said it felt like freedom what she meant was: “if im not there, he cant hit me”

so he hit the next best thing: him every dent in the wall had his shape every bruise was a story he couldnt even tell to save his life he just took them all so Ji-ae wouldnt have to told her dad was just tired told her boys bruise easier told her stories to make it okay but she knew she always knew

he started fighting back when he was fifteen didnt care if appa broke his ribs he wanted to feel something other than shame sometimes he would punch the walls in his room just to see the skin split just to know he was alive hed stare at the wall like it was art like it meant something like maybe if enough of it spilled hed become someone new

then came the pills tiny chalky things from whats-his-face he doesnt remember his name he just knows his brother worked at a pharmacy then came the powder then came the haze and in the haze he found silence no screams no fists just music in his ears and clouds in his brain

drugs became family they never asked him to be someone he wasnt never called him stupid never hit him never left his side

he used to dream of a home that didnt smell like sweat and regret one where eomma smiled because she meant it where Ji-ae didnt flinch when a door slammed where he wasnt a ghost in his own house but dreams are for people who had a future all he had was survival and rap and rage

he built “Thanos” out of the pieces they broke louder than appa colder than eomma stronger than the kid who bled on the kitchen tiles

but under all of it under the flex the flow the drugs the cold teeth the english cuss words he was still Su-bong still the boy who wanted someone to say “im proud of you” or “i love you” or “you did good, kid”

he never heard it not once not even when he died

t h a n o s

he didnt pick thanos because he was cool he picked him because he was right

everyone laughed when he snapped made memes called him a purple chin dildo but they didnt get it he was calm he had a plan he never raised his voice unless he had to and when he spoke the avengers listened he wiped out half the universe and still had time to watch the sunset peaceful unbothered balanced

and he wanted that to burn everything that hurt him and then just rest rest his fists rest his brain rest the weight of being Su-bong the dissapointment the punchinf bag the bastard mistake he wanted to be inevitable unavoidable a force not a fuck-up

and so “Thanos” was born first on SoundCloud then open mics then underground clubs with sticky floors from spilled soju and and molly hed spit pain into a mic so cheap it crackled every other syllable and people would cheer he still remembers the first time a girl in the front row mouthed his lyrics back to him like he knew him like he got it like she wasnt hearing a song she was hearing him

rap battlegrounds was where it cracked open hundreds of us packed into that tiny-ass hall all sweating all hungry every one of us had pain in our past and bars in our notebooks but he had fire and fire climbs

round after round he spit like it was survival told the world about his dad his mom his debt his self hate rhymes so raw judges winced they said he was “too much” too aggressive too broken too real what the hell do they know

he made it to the finals the last fucking round him vs some preppy seoul uni brat with a buzzcut and bars about philosophy and he choked he forgot a line stood there blinking like an idiot sweat running into his eyes like it wanted to blind him on purpose the crowd went silent a void opened up in his chest like someone pressed pause on his whole life and then it was over silver medal a partifipation ribbon for the almosts

but people remembered not the stumble the rage the scars theyd DM’d him they reposted his clips and god the high of it not the drug kind the applause the scream when he walked onstage the way his name “Thanos” echoed in clubs down alleys in vape smoke fogged basements where everyone was dying a little slower than him

he had fans people who saw him not as a mistake but as a movement girls with dyed hair quoting his lyrics on their stories guys copying his tattoos like it made them feel tougher everyone wanted a piece of Thanos the Great

and in that noise that roar of strangers who finally gave a shit he thought maybe he could live not just survive not just hide behind pills and punchlines but exist like he mattered like he was finally more than a bruised kid with a broken name

Thanos was his armor his alter his revenge because if he couldnt have peace hed settle for power if he couldnt make them love Su-bong hed make them fear Thanos and for like three seconds that was enough until fucking MG Coin all his problems could be traced back to that fucker with a shitty pullout game and even shittier coin value

l o v e

he was never much of a commitment guy well sure he committed to rhymes and hitting on whats-her-face hes gonna do himself a favor and call her bee girl but yeah he was committed to getting high to being loud to fucking his life sideways but to people nahh people leave people change people break their own rules when theyre scared and blame someone for the mess

he stuck his dick in too many regrets to count bathroom stalls club couches a few beds never his mouths that moaned his name but never meant it fingernails in his back promises in his ear lies spilling faster than coke off the goddamn counter they wanted Thanos not Su-bong wanted the game not the fuck-up

but then there was skele-stud the dream guy showed up in his sleep like clockwork hollow endless black pits for eyes clammy hands always reaching for him with a grin too wide sometimes they danced sometimes they kissed sometimes he watched him die over and over and smiled like hed waited eons for it he didnt know who he was he just knew he made his chest hurt in a good way not a bad way it was a ghost he wanted to kiss

then came nam-su we met at club pentagon with loud lights and even louder lies he remembers being mid-set shirt half-off shouting rhymes at a crowd already too high to remember their own names and there he was leaning by the vip bar like he owned it face like he didnt give a shit about anything but the burn in his throat eyes like he knew him way before they first met

shit how did they first meet oh yeah “you rap like you’re trying to kill yourself” he said when we met props to him that was funny he laughed but he didnt laugh at his own joke for some reason maybe he didnt want to bruise his aura or some shit didnt stop us from passing a joint then a bottle then a line then hours

he didnt know why he kept touching him his shoulders his hips fingers grazing the back of his neck like it was an accident if it were anyone else he wouldve punched them but because it was Nam-su he didnt he lit him he was grounded in that way only someone completely fucked could be

he thought he was bad but he was a sinkhole and he dove in nose first lungs open first time they kissed was in the mingle room during that stupid game with the shouting and screaming he had a lot of adrenaline and he was all smug from leaving Min-su behind we were alone he kissed him first but after he looked at him like the world was already over and probably thought “fuck it” and they kissed for the second time fast hungry and desperate

they never talked about it but it wasnt new for him to do something out of adrenaline so he thought it didnt matter they went to suck up to Min-su after they werent lovers they werent even friends they were two beautoful burning chemical accidents

and now hes dead throat split open by MG Coin’s fucking fork choked on blood that tasted like broken dreams and debt and Nam-su hes still alive still playing but not for long

a selfish part of him the broken shaking already decaying part he carried from his father is glad because hell die soon too and when he does maybe the skele-stud will show up again maybe theyll kiss again when no one has to pretend they dont care

shit

fuck

his name isn’t Nam-su is it

he he told him a hundred times nah more he shouldnt sell himself short it was more like a thousand “It’s not Nam-su, it’s Nam-gyu” he said once with that flat tone he used when he was this close to shoving a lit cigarette into his eyeball

Nam-gyu

Nam-GYOO

GYOO like GYOO

weird-ass name not ugly kinda soft now that he thinks about it gentle like soap bubbles or some or that sappy shit but he never struck him as someone who wanted to be seen anyway nah Nam-gyu was the kind of guy who blended in until it was too late like mold or rot if that made sense like he was quiet and growing and fucking everywhere before one noticed the rancid ass smell he means the mold by the way not Nam-gyu he doesnt stink

but the name it sticks in his brain like a splinter now Nam-gyu he says it in his head and it lands like a coin in the water ripples out makes him feel things old things stupid things

he wonders what the name means he means in korean names its all in the hanja right hell if he knows he was high throughout school he hasnt learned his lesson from being a betting man and he bets every sounds got a dozen meanings depending on the strokes and shit like that “Nam” thats south he thinks like geography warmth where the sun runs when its tired of being all up in his face “Southern” yeah the part of a compass that always feels like summer even if winter he was never warm though but he wanted to be he thinks maybe he was soft on him underneath all that pale skin and silence and ashtrays

and “Gyu” fuck him in the ass that could mean anything standard fortune health even spirtituality

standard he hated being seen as average but lived like he was afraid of being anything else fortune well he lost his just like him see they have something in common what about health pfft thats funny he coughed like he was eighty years old and smoked embalming fluid but spiritually maybeeee hes just guessing at this point

he moved like someone who wasnt all there like half of him was somewhere else always watching listening waiting for the curtain to drop he once told him “Death aint scary. Pretending to be alive? That’s the real horror” he chuckled like he was high but looking back maybe he was just honest

so what the hell are you Nam-gyu southern standard model of decay spiritual rot good fortune headed south was he ever real to begin with or was he just another dream he stuck his soul inside and lost the receipt for

Nam-gyu

Nam-gyu

he says it out loud now even though no ones listening the blood in his throat gurgles he tastes blood and regret but it still comes out clean

Nam
Gyu

fuckkkkkkkkk he wishes he got it right the first time wishes he called him by the name when he first kissed him in that reddish room wishes he wasnt so high all the time so afraid of remembering wishes he said something anything

Nam-gyu will be here soon he knows it the games chewing him up and spitting bones and hes the kind of guy whod laugh while drowning

when he shows up maybe just maybe cant promise anything but maybe hell say his name right maybe this time hell kiss him and stay

….

When the blood finally stopped bubbling in his throat and the darkness didn’t deepen any further, Choi Su-Bong— ‘Thanos’ on stage, in the games, and in the back-alley whispers of Club Pentagon expected something— anything.. Maybe the flickering glow of hellfire, the cold indifference of pearly gates would also be fine, a long tunnel, a voice, his grandma, he didn’t know, he wasn’t picky.

But what he got instead was a bit more toppings on the nothing-burger, until there was finally cold, clinical light, buzzing like a withdrawn headache. His eyes adjusted to a world shaped like a cross, complete with one long and sterile hallway down the center with two dead ends on each side, no windows, no end, no goddamn exit.. But, there were doors, color-coded like a raver’s nightmare— pastel yellow, arterial red, and turquoise-sick blue. Thanos had seen a lot of trippy things, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this Twilight Zone shit. “..The fuck?” Thanos blurted out, sitting up with a dry cough. He hesitantly reached up to touch his throat— no blood, pressed his ribs— no wound, but when his fingers rose to his neck, they met nothing when they should’ve met his chain, his cross— his pills! “No. No, no, nonononono—!” Thanos rambled, scrambling to his feet and nearly slipping on the polished floor. He knew this was rich coming from him as an admittedly loud person, but everything felt too loud— from the hum of the lights, to the thud of his pulse, to somehow the silence.. There were no shadows, even when he moved, there was no echo, no wait to the air, just plain, eery emptiness. “Alright, alright, oooo-kay..” He muttered, clutching his elbows. “It’s fine, it’s cool.. Just a dream, probably.. I mean, I wouldn’t die by MG Coin, so fuck yeah it’s a dream, like the one with the flaming pigeons and Nam-su—-” Thanos cut himself off, he didn’t laugh, not even a scoff, because nothing about this was funny.. This wasn’t a dream, this wasn’t a high, this was reality, and for the first time in years, he was completely and utterly sober— truly, fully, terrifyingly sober, and there was nowhere to run, no pills to pop, no vapes to hit.

The doors watched him, ironically enough, each one was painted like a pill.

The pastel yellow door buzzed faintly, like something inside was waiting.

The red one pulsed— more like a wound than a door.

And the turquoise, well.. That one felt cold, the kind of cold that one thinks of after being rejected a tad too hard. Like, damn, a no would've worked just fine— that kind of stone-cold rejection.. Not icy, not refreshing, just wrong.

Thanos stared at them, pacing like a tiger in a cage. “Okay, Thanos.. Think. You’re dead. You OD’d— no. Wait. No, MG Coin forked your fucking neck.. Okay. Murdered.. Dead. Classic.” Thanos spat, letting out a laugh, but it came out cracked. “Motherfucker couldn’t even let me win a game, had to go full Chuck Norris with a goddamn utensil, I shoulda’ known from the crypto shit, man..” Thanos rambled to no one, evident by the silence, sheer lack of a retort, snide jab from Nam-su, mumbles from Min-su, voice in the distance calling: “Player 230.” Instead, it was just him, not even just Thanos, just Su-bong.. And for the first time in a hot ass minute, he was alone. At this realization, his knees buckled, not from pain, from a rare moment of clarity. All the voices he’d drowned out with syrup-colored pills and bone-thin blunts came creeping back, every scream in the games, Bee-Girl’s flailing around, Gyeong-su’s pleas to be spared, the sound of his own laughter after pushing people in death games, the feel of Myung-gi’s blood on his knuckles.. He curled forward, head between knees, rocking like a child on a floor that reeked of antiseptic and limbo. “I didn’t mean to,” He whispered even if no one could hear anyway. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to, it was the drugs, it was always the drugs—” He tried to reassure himself, but that voice inside? The one he always ignored— he figured it was called his subconscious but don’t take his word for it, it said: “You chose them.”

After what felt like hours— or seconds, hell if he knew, all he knew was time was a joke here.. Su-bong rose, wobbled, wiped his face— not his tears, just the cold and clinging sweat. He eyed the turquoise door, then the red, and finally the yellow.. Three sins, three chances, three versions of himself: past, violence, and numbness. Initially, he reached for the red only to pause before his painted fingers even touched the knob. “…Nam-su would call me a dumbass for picking the big red door in a shithole like this.” Thanos noted, “Nam-gyu.” He quickly corrected himself, the name setting heavy in his tongue now, like it finally belonged there. “Where are you, Nam-gyu?” He pondered, closing his eyes. His voice was a whisper, not a cry— more prayer than plea. “You better be on your way, man.. ‘Cause I ain’t doing this shit alone.” Thanos grumbled, turning the knob and stepping into the red.

The red door creaked open on rusted fingers that didn’t match the pristine hallway behind him, the sound like a scream caught in its throat. A coppery haze poured out as if the light itself had been dipped in dried blood, and when Thanos stepped through, the air hit him like a memory soaked in liquor and old sweat.

It reeked like spilled soju and the iron tang of cheap meat, the floor beneath him wasn’t tile anymore, rather cracked linoleum, scuffed from years of boots and broken things. The kitchen was small— smaller than he remembered, or maybe it had always been that size and he just grew out of it. And there, right at the kitchen table— sat him, a twelve year old, skinny, bruised mouth, clad in mismatched socks, but still him. He wasn’t crying, not yet— if his shitty, drugged-up memory served him correctly. Across from him stood Appa, bigger than life, somehow taller than he ever was in reality, like the memory made him a monster just to keep the fear fresh. He had warehouse grime on his fingers, bottle in hand, one eye squinting with rage, the other glazed with that soju sheen, what really caught his eye was the chipped neck-green soju bottle was the same one.

Modern Thanos: the legend, the killer, the performer, the junkie— stood silently in the corner, watching, reduced to a ghost in his own hell. It played out like a scene he’d memorized but tried to forget.

“You think you’re a man now?” Appa had demanded, spit trailing from his lip like a leashed animal. “You think you can raise your voice at me?” He pressed, the boy— himself stood between the man and his mother. Eomma trembled behind him, her wrist already red, already swelling. She didn’t cry either, she never did. “Don’t touch her again.” The kid spat, voice cracking like a firework that went off too early. “Touch her again and i’ll—i’ll—!” He tried to vow, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence, cut off by the crack of glass on skull echoed like a gunshot, blood spattered against the rarely-cleaned cabinet, tiny shards scattered like stars across the linoleum.

Thanos let out a rare wince, watching his younger self crumple sideways and swearing he could feel the pain all over again.

His father’s laugh— raspy and full of phlegm had bounced off the walls like a cruel song. “Ain’t got no brain, boy, so I didn’t break shit!” He jeered, followed by another laugh, this one almost jovial— like it was a fucking punchline, like the boy’s pain was part of the act. Eomma was already grabbing the child’s face, tugging his chin upward, trying to stop the blood from getting in his eye. “Just sleep. Just sleep, baby, just sleep.” She reiterated, her voice coming out soft with barely-hidden panic, repeating like a mantra.

The modern Su-bong— Thanos the Great swallowed something jagged, his hand instinctively went to his temple, phantom pain tingling where the bottle landed. He stared down at the kid, blood in his lashes, lips trembling but teeth clenched tight, there were tears in his eyes but they never fell— not then, not ever. For the first time in a long time, Thanos felt something worse than rage, worse than the cold silence of that cross-shaped hallway.. Instead, he felt pity for himself, though not the junkie he’d become, not the murderer, not the liar, the crypto-clown, the bullet magnet, he really could keep talking but he didn’t want to look like a total failure in front of his mother.. He felt pity for the boy who got told he had no brain and believed it for fifteen fucking years. Thanos stepped forward, but the moment froze like a paused tape— his kid-self stayed locked in the haze of trauma, the kitchen caught mid-breath. With a shaky sigh, he knelt beside the boy. “You’re gonna make it out.” He assured in a voice rough from all the yelling he did. “You’re gonna make it out and you’re gonna hate yourself for it. But you’re gonna make people laugh. And cry. And dance to your words. You’re gonna walk into fire with a smile and a pill under your tongue, you’ll fuck it up and do it again and again until you finally fall.” He paused, hesitating when his gaze met the mother frozen in mid-reach. “But you’ll make it out of this room, and maybe that’s the closest thing we ever get to a miracle.” Thanos assured as the kitchen light began to flicker, the haze thickened, and the blood-red and wide open door behind him began to close. Thanos didn’t flinch, he let the kitchen vanish because he knew now: that room never left him, it was in every bar fight, every broken line in every freestyle, every pill under his tongue and every time he kissed someone just to forget what it felt like to bleed.

The red door sealed behind him with a hollow ‘clunk’ sound, and Thanos was alone again— alone in that sterile hallway shaped like a cross. He glanced upwards, noting the lights above him buzzed faintly, a cold fluorescent hum that reminded him of hospitals and rehab clinics. He leaned against the nearest wall and let out a long and slow exhale, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye like it might stop the memory from replaying in his skull. No pills, no necklace, no Nam-su to give him a push in the right direction.. Just him, well, him and these goddamn doors. He stared at the next one in the row— pale yellow, soft as old teeth and aging walls.. It didn’t glow like the red one had. It just was, dull and watchful— quiet in a way that made his chest itch. “This is some Backrooms shit, huh?” Thanos muttered under his breath, blinking rapidly.. Despite the lighthearted tone, it was far from a joke, it was only stated out of a need to say something— anything because the silence felt like it was studying him, and the last time he felt that kind of tension, he was five tabs deep at some club and convinced the mirrors were winking at him. He’d read about the backrooms before— some TikTok on his For You Page years ago, probably while high.. All he knew was it was some endless liminal space with flickering lights, the sound of buzzing electricity, and something just around the corner that never quite showed up.. That was the part that stuck with him— the almost, the not-quite, that itch in the back of his skull that screamed “Wrong.” “Except in the Backrooms I had a vape pen and Partygoers.” He grumbled, fingers twitching like they still expected to hold something, but with no real ceremony, he reached for the yellow door and pushed.

The lights changed instantly, washing over him like a warning— not the saturated, blinding yellow of sunshine or taxi cabs, but something muted, sickly— like the old egg yolks, like cigarette stains on wallpaper. The air was dense and humid, like breath caught in someone else’s lungs. The smell of incense lingered, not in a spiritual way, but the way it does at a funeral that’s lasted too long. Thanos stepped into the school hallway— not his, but it might as well have been. Yellow paper butterflies fluttered lazily from strings taped to the ceiling, the walls were plastered with drawings, club fliers, and old homework, every corner tacked down and long-since yellowed with rage. A class photo hung crookedly at the end of the corridor, glass cracked down the middle like a scar. The overhead lights flickered with that familiar buzz, an electric mosquito that burrowed straight into his temples. Ahead of him, the scene played out without fanfare.. A boy, probably thirteen or maybe fourteen, but fifteen and beyond was pushing it— stood stiffly at the front of the classroom, fists clenched, eyes lowered.

The almighty Thanos squinted.. Oh! Oh shit!

It was him, again.. Only this time, in the secondhand uniform that never quite fit right, with a math textbook tucked under his arm like it might protect him from the world. He remembered the teacher very vividly, Mr. Song, standing across from him with his arms crossed, disdain oozing from every insult he said, his mouth curled into that judgmental little smirk that made every insult sound polite. “Late again, Choi Su-bong. That makes— what? Five times this month? Do you think the world will give you a pass because you cry about your homelife?” Mr. Song barked, doing nothing about the few kids laughing yet having the audacity to get mad at Thanos the Great for hitting them later down the line. “You’re not stupid,” Mr. Song continued, pacing back and forth around his classroom. “You’re lazy, that's objectively worse. Your sister manages just fine, your mother works night shifts, and your father— well, no need to discuss your family drama. This is a school, not a soap opera.” Mr. Song felt the need to say, effectively humiliating Su-bong. “You want to be a rapper, don’t you?” Mr. Song pondered, even though Su-bong was never the brightest bulb in the hardware store— he knew there was no genuine curiosity behind this question. “With what words? You can’t even write a coherent essay.” He added with a snort, see? SEE! He swore up and down it wasn’t genuine, and here they were.

Thanos stared at the scene with clenched fists that mirrored his past selves, heat crawling up his spine.. Of course it was yellow, not vibrant, not joyful— just enough to make sure one didn’t forget to be ashamed. This wasn’t the red violence of his childhood, this was the quiet erosion (Fuck him, that was a big word.) the kind that wore him down in pieces, one snarky comment at a time. It was being told he could be something, but wasn’t. That he was seen. That he was always watched. Not worthy of punishment— but not worthy of pride either. And damn, that stung more than a glass bottle to the head. “Fuck this.” Thanos declared in a low voice, he’d always hated being reminded of his failures, with that closing thought in his mind, he turned on his heel and shut the door behind him.

But even back in the hallway, the yellow stuck to his skin like pollen— like caution tape, like a memory that never quite stopped buzzing. The next door— the turquoise one, pulsed faintly, the light behind its seams humming in sync with his heartbeat. It was a low, steady blue, not unlike breath held underwater. Thanos didn’t want to open it, didn’t want to see what memory this color would toss in his face, but he was running out of options, out of exits, and fresh out of the narcotics that used to shield him from the consequences of his own actions like bulletproof glass. His painted fingers shook as he reached for the knob, this one was cold metal, a little greasy, like it hadn’t been touched in a long time. The hallway behind him was watching— he swore it was, but the door gave way easily and silently as if it wanted him to remember.

The crisp and unapologetic wind hit first, slicing through the city's night like boxcutter blades. The glow of Seoul behind him was distant and uninterested, bouncing off the rippling navy water below. The Han River stretched like an ink spill beneath the sky in the sense it was endless and uncaring, the kind of darkness that swallowed one whole and didn’t even burp after.. And in the flesh was himself, perched on the edge of the rail like a gargoyle that never made it to church. The real Thanos— the now version, stood a few feet behind, watching the scene play out in vivid, stomach-turning detail. It was like stepping into a memory soaked in menthol and regret, which when he really put his two brain cells together, that sounded about right. Thanos from a few days ago wore that neon green three-eyed Spongebob shirt because it made him look gangster and hardcore, a pair of ripped black jeans clung to his skinny frame, more hole than fabric. Rings glinted on nearly every finger— cheap ones, street vendor junk, but he wore them like they were made of gold. Around his neck hung the cross necklace, heavy with both meaning and pills, but what the hell did that matter if it was gone now? And in his hand? A cyan Elfbar, glowing like a firefly. Watching as his past self took a long drag, he tried to remember the flavor— blue raspberry? No, maybe something icier.. Menthol mint? Yeah, that sounded about right, it was sharp and cold, just enough to remind him he still had a throat to burn. FUCKKK! He missed that vape like he missed the warmth on a cold day.

The version on the bridge didn’t cry, didn’t scream, he just stared at the water like it had answers. “Thirty seconds,” He muttered, exhaling a cloud of vapor so dense it almost looked holy in the streetlight. “Jump in, don’t scream, just hit the surface like glass, crack it like a mirror. Head first, maybe. Or feet? Wait— fuck, does it hurt more that way?” He rambled in a thin voice, laced with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights and too many maxed out cards.. The tone of a man who had stopped asking for help long ago. “Eomma’s gonna be pissed if I didn’t leave a note..” He noted under his breath. The true and honest Thanos stepped closer, heart rattling. His own voice echoed in his ears like it was ricochetting off his skull, he wanted to say something— Maybe a “Don’t do it!” or “You were so close..” So fucking close— but this wasn’t a scene he could rewrite, he was cursed to be stuck as a spectator. That version of him adjusted the rings on his fingers, like he wanted to look good when the cops found him bloated and blue. He took another hit of the cape, holding it until his lungs begged. “Damn, that’s smooth.” He whispered, then came the rhythmic and casual footsteps, like the scene had invited company.

A man in a clean gray suit stepped into view, shoes tapping against the pavement like a metronome. His face was familiar, but not important. The kind of man who needed to be special, not unlike Thanos himself. “Interesting choice of location, very cinematic.” The man started, Thanos on the rail blinked. “Huh?” He muttered, the recruiter flashed him what Thanos now recognized as a viper smile. “I’d say something dramatic, but you look like you’ve heard enough bullshit for one lifetime. You like games?” He asked, pausing and opting for a new approach upon Thanos exhibiting a rare moment of silence. “I don’t mean Xbox. I mean games you can win money over.” The recruiter continued, “You tryna sell me pyramid schemes? Been there, done that.” Bridge Thanos scoffed, “No scheme.” The man assured, pulling out the familiar red and blue ddakji tiles. “Just a chance." He added, “A chance?” Bridge Thanos pondered, “To make all your money back, maybe more. You’ve got guts, that’s gotta count for something, hm?” The recruiter buttered him up, it had clearly worked otherwise Thanos wouldn’t be in this odd prison. “..This some kinda divine intervention? God doesn’t usually come in business casual.” Then-Thanos had muttered as he glanced at the card, the recruiter didn’t have a reply.

The memory blurred after that, Thanos recalled the slap after losing the first round clear as day, he remembered the adrenaline, the fucking hope. Back in the doorway, the real almighty Thanos leaned against the frame and felt something hot burn behind his eyes. He didn't cry, though, not really, he just breathed.. Because that was the moment, the one people never talk about, not the games, not the deaths, but the second a guy decides to live, just because some stranger in a suit offers him a chance at redemption, or in Thanos’ case— money. And maybe, again, don't take his word for it, that’s why this door was turquoise, not because of peace, not because of heaven, but because for one brief second, standing on that bridge, he felt free.. The only time in his life he got to choose what came next, and he chose the game, chose the chaos, he liked to think he chose to try.. But he wouldn’t have ended up here if that were the case.. He shut the door gently behind him without a word, feeling he didn’t need to say anything.

The red door burned this time.. It didn’t hum or pulse like the others, it seethed, like it knew he’d already entered it, like it had been waiting, just aching for his return. Its frame dripped red— not blood, but something more symbolic, like anger had turned physical, like violence had been melted down and painted over the wood, layer by layer. Thanos stood in front of it, jaw tight, hand flexing like it wanted to punch the door instead of open it, but he did..! He opened it.

The miasma of straight death hit first, okay, he was being a little dramatic, it was cheap metal and sterilized tile, the kind of scent that never quite scrubbed clean. He couldn’t forget the sound of low buzzing, droning like a wasp trapped inside a light fixture. The whole bathroom was a seasick sort of gray— tiles the color of concrete, grout stained with time and filth, the kind of place one pissed quickly and got the hell out of. Except in Thanos’ case, he was still there.. Still dead, still sprawled across the floor like a discarded mannequin with blood pouring out of his chin, his once-turquoise jumpsuit now drenched in arterial red. The purple dye in his hair made a sickening contrast to the red slicked across his jawline. His sealed shut— like he’d tried to mutter another gritted-teeth curse in MG Coin’s way, but all that came out was blood and nothing. Thanos blinked, slowly, but the images didn’t fade. His corpse was lying next to the stall, his finger still curled inward, like he’d tried to grab something— someone before everything went black. “Son of a fucking bitch.” He heard his own voice echo, scratchy and raw from memory.. ..That was what he said, wasn’t it? To MG Coin, over something extremely justified, a jab, a glare, a twitch of attitude, and then— stab, right in the submentum, right beneath the chin, he remembered choking, gurgling, still pinning MG Coin down with all the rage in his fucked-up little body even as the blood sprayed hot and fast, like a fountain from hell.. The second stab had been messier, angled wrong, it didn’t silence him instantly, and he remembered that— the brutal irony of still being alive enough to try and grab him by the ankle only to die mad, to die trying.

The real Thanos watched himself die from the far corner of the room, fists clenched, jaw locked. “Shiiiiit… That’s how I go?” He whispered, it wasn’t as heroic or glorious as he would've liked it to be, it was just petty, ugly, and stupid.. But what was even pettier, uglier, and stupider? The sight of Nam-gyu, just a blur at first— clothes identical to his besides the numbers, wild eyes— crawling across the tiles like a shadow with teeth. He collapsed beside Thanos’ corpse, punched down, stunned. For a moment, it almost looked like grief in his expression, but no, it wasn’t grief, it was need— and not the kind of need Thanos would’ve wanted Nam-gyu to need him for, if one caught his drift. Nam-gyu’s hand darted out and unclasped the cross necklace from Thanos’ cold, sticky throat. The chain was slick with blood, but that didn’t matter, not to Nam-gyu— he needed what was inside.. And damn, he got it, took it, didn’t even hesitate. With the same fork still jammed in his neck, he pulled it out and plunged it into another player, a savage and fluid move, no pause, not even a flicker of hesitation. Thanos staggered back, breath caught in his throat. “You bitch, you fucking bitch, Nam-su..” He muttered, no, not Nam-su, Nam-gyu, Nam-GYOO.. But, did he really deserve to have the almighty Thanos address him properly if THAT’S how he was going to get treated in return? His hand went to his throat again, forgetting it was already gone— the necklace, the pills, the last thing he had that made him feel life himself. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from his own dead body, how small and breakable it looked, and how fast Nam-gyu looted it like it— like whatever they had didn’t mean shit. The real Thanos sat hard on the cold tile, glaring at the vision of his ex-something slinking away like a ghost that only ever needed chemicals to be whole. “Did you ever give a fuck?” He asked the empty room, voice shaking with grief and leftover drug rage. “Did you ever care about me, or did you just care about the fucking pills?” Thanos found himself asking and wanting the genuine answer to, “You played me. Goddamn. You played me so good.” He grumbled, letting out a laugh, but it didn’t sound like a laugh, more like something dying in his chest. “So, this is how those girls I fucked over felt, huh? The ones who actually wanted something from me that wasn’t a hit? Guess the joke’s on me..” He observed, no one answered, of-fucking-cpurse no one answered, unless he was desperate enough to count the buzzing light above.. He stayed there for a while, next to the ghost of his own corpse, next to the bloodied fork that still reeked of desperation— desperation like his beloved Marvel Cinematic Universe trying to bring back Robert Downey Jr. to play Dr. Doom, like what the fuck? And now Thanos would never get to see that movie! With a groan, he got up and slammed the red door shut behind him.

The hallway didn’t echo, but it should’ve.. Like every breath, every dragged inhale, every scrape of Thanos’ knees on cold tile should’ve bounced off the walls and come back sharper, louder, angrier! But instead of that, it was quiet— the kind of silence that waited and stalked, like it knew when one was about to fall apart and wanted front row seats. Thanos slumped against the wall, knees hitting the ground like they’d long given up before he did. His back slid against the cool stone and the breath left him in a long, tired exhale that rattled like a dying fridge. “Fucking stupid-ass door..” He muttered in a hoarse voice, but he didn’t mean just the red one, he meant all of them, he meant this shit— this nowhere, this corridor of regrets, this long-ass limbo with candy-colored trauma waiting behind every door. His whole body was shaking, but not from fear, not anymore.. It was the crash, the void that came after the high, no pills, no vape, no Nam-gyu, just him, just Thanos.. But, Thanos won, he didn’t, so he was really just Su-bong.

The silence cracked, “Thanos, that fucking asshole. That son of a bitch treated me like a fucking idiot.” The voice echoed down the hallway like it had been waiting there the whole time— coiled and hissing behind one of the colored doors, just biding its time until it could lunge. Thanos blinked, sat up straighter, spine stiffening like a dog catching the scent of something familiar but wrong.. Hell, he knew that voice, could hear it clear as day, like the bite in it had teeth. That slow-burn rage Nam-gyu had when he thought no one was listening. “Nam-su?” He blurted out by habit, but the second it left his lips he cringed. “Shit—nah, it’s Nam-gyu.. Nam-GYOO. Right.” He grumbled, “Nam-GYOO..” He muttered it again, slower, tasting the syllables like they were wine; he had no business even smelling because he knew he couldn’t afford it.. It was a nice name, nothing flashy, no gold teeth or Instagram handles in it, just simple and clean.. Didn’t suit him at all considering Nam-gyu had a worse addiction than he did, was more aggressive than he was, and yet.. The name always felt like it came from someone else’s mouth, like it belonged to some quiet countryside boy who grew up sketching birds and counting clouds, not snorting coke in club bathrooms with blood on his knuckles.

Out of nowhere, the red door vanished into thin air, not opened, not slammed, just.. Gone, like it blinked out of existence. Thanos scrambled to his feet, palms catching the wall for balance. “Yoo— what the fuck?” He stammered, but before could even process it, a blue door disappeared next, then he heard it— sniffling: a shaky inhale, wet, raw, and real belonging to none other than Nam-gyu. “..What the fuck, bro..” Thanos whispered, spinning around like the sound might just be hiding in the walls. “You crying? What the hell is going on? Is this some freaky-ass spiritual Bluetooth shit?” He thought aloud, staggering a bit, palms up now like he was trying to balance himself on the weight of his own confusion. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed— hell, to say he was the tool was pushing it, he was more like the rust at the bottom of it. He didn’t know jack about souls or purgatories or waht the fuck dimension this was, but.. He knew what it meant when two doors vanished like that, one red and one blue.. His chest tightened like someone was winging it out. “Damn, you saw it.. Didn’t you? My body, the bathroom..” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, I told you not to take more than one pill, dumbass fein.” He grumbled, pressing his palm to the wall, forehead resting against the cool stone. “Why’d you take it, man?” He whispered. “The necklace? You coulda left it. You hated my guys. You said I treated you like you were stupid. Maybe I did. Shit, I don’t know how to do this feeling shit..” He pondered, followed by the unmistakable sound of another sniffle. God, that sound was killing him, it was like a crack in a speaker playing only heartbreak. He wasn’t good at feelings, never had been, he expressed love by slapping people upside the head or handing them the last vape hit, not this soul-baring, cry-me-a-river garbage.. But the doors were disappearing, Nam-gyu was watching, and Nam-gyu was hurting.

Even in death, even across whatever hell-pocket reality this was, they were still tied up in each other's shit. “So, this is it, huh? My unfinished business ain’t MG Coin, it ain’t the game, it’s you.” Thanos exhaled shakily, running his thumb across his jaw. “You played me, man.. Like all those girls I played. Made me feel like I was worth a damn one second, then left me bleeding the next.” He chuckled bitterly. “You really were better at the game.” He muttered more to himself than whatever version of Nam-gyu might be listening.. But he wasn’t mad anymore, not really, just.. Lost, grieving something that never got a chance to live. “Maybe this is hell, but it’s not the forks or screams that make it suck.. It’s you not being here." He noted aloud, turning his head aloud.

Chapter Text

The intercom buzzed like static in a coffin: “The following players have been eliminated: Player 230, 268, 331, and 401. End of list.” The voice concluded in a robotic and unfeeling tone, a perfect eulogy for someone like Thanos.

Nam-gyu burst into the dormitory like a rapid animal— arms flailing, blood splattered across his jaw, jumpsuit, and clenched fists. His slides skidded across the cold tiled floor, the sound of his arrival cutting through the murmurs of exhausted players like a razor through flesh. “Listen, Team O!” He gasped, coughing hard enough to spit red across the floor. “We— we—” He stammered, he wasn’t even sick, he didn’t know why he was coughing, but he was, splatter hitting his knuckles like ink from a cracked pen. He staggered to a stop, right in the center of the room. His dark eyes were wild, glowing with something not quite human. The blood across his face hadn’t dried yet, his chest heaving like a machine overheating.

“When we were in the bathroom, those fucking X bastards tried to kill all of us!” Nam-gyu exclaimed, his voice cracking from the force, from rage that hadn’t found a proper outlet yet. “They killed some of us! Including my friends—” He began, being cut off by a: “Bullshit.” Barked by Player 047, stepping forward with all the self-righteous heat of a small man given a megaphone. He pointed a finger at Nam-gyu like a bayonet, though didn’t dare to leave the security of the X’s side of the dormitory. “You’re the ones who started it.” He added.

That something struck Nam-gyu— his pupils narrowing, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. He could feel it just beneath his skin, that version of him, the skeletal shadow that stood behind the mask of human flesh and arrogance.

The end, Death at its purest and most cosmic, begging to be let out.

Let them see who they were fucking with.

Let them see what Thanos’ death had awakened.

Nam-gyu’s fingers twitched at his side.. A dozen deaths, two dozen, a hundred— it didn’t matter, he could easily say ‘screw that pregnant bitch, screw these games, and screw the money’ and turn this dorm into a mausoleum in thirty seconds, paint the fucking dorm red.. But instead, he exhaled once, just once. “Damn it..” He muttered, his voice dropping like a guillotine. He turned and walked to the O side of the room, every footstep echoing like a war drum. He didn’t turn when Player 047 and co pushed it further:

“They threatened one of the people on our side!”

“They attacked us to win the second vote!”

Nam-gyu could care less if any of the other X’s had chimed in, making note of how the room trembled— not from an explosion, but from the tension of fifty or so frying tempers rubbing together like old wires. That’s when Player 192, clad in a buzz-cut and battle scars, rose from the O corner with a grunt. “Hey, hey.” He began, holding his hands up. “Let’s not pretend you’re innocent. You killed one of us first. You were trying to win the vote by killing us, don’t play holy now.” Player 192 spat, despite him technically jumping to Nam-gyu’s defense, Nam-gyu didn’t throw the bone back and instead opted to just stand there like an idiot, blood drying on his fingers, staring down at the tile like he could still see Thanos’ shadow burned into the tile. Truth be told, his mind wasn’t in the dorm, it was still in the bathroom— knees on the floor, cross necklace in hand, and a fork jabbed in someone else's flesh. He pondered screaming, grabbing one of the guards’ rifles and turning the dorm into an altar dedicated to Death.

But, he didn’t. Instead, Nam-gyu listened to the voices spiral into argument— both the X’s and O’s blurring into sound, his mind too busy being cluttered with Thanos’ stupid grin, his idiot ‘circle’ gesture, his stupidly contagious laugh, and beneath it all, Nam-gyu felt something disgusting rise up in his chest— something himself, Yeong-sam, and their father would all deem sour and pathetic: grief. But even now, he refused to call it that. He just told himself he was pissed, and next time, someone else would pay.

From across the dormitory, past the metallic miasma of blood and ozone, past the nervous muttering of the undedicated, a single voice heavy with nerve cut through the tension like a blade made of petty conviction. “So?” Jeong-dae’s voice rang out, nasally and self assured. Without a care in the world, he pointed like a prosecutor on caffeine. “Which side lost more people?” He demanded, Nam-gyu blinked, slowly and hatefully, like a lizard staring at prey it didn’t have the appetite to finish. His gaze didn’t zero in on Jeong-dae, they were drawn past that old bastard, instead drawn to his minion: Kim Yeong-sam, standing just a little behind Jeong-dae, arms folded like a spoiled prince who didn’t have to speak to rule. His uniform still looked clean, of course. Pristine. Greed didn’t bleed, it just watched. Yeong-sam’s gaze flicked toward Nam-gyu, his expression neutral and unbothered, but there was something behind those flat eyes, a sparkle, the kind of subtle smirk that said: “You fucked up again, brother of mine.” Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched, his temple pulsed.. Say something, fucking say something, stupid spineless, smug, coin-counting cockroach.. That was his fucking team too—

A flicker of rage sparked behind Nam-gyu’s eyes, electric and bitter, hot enough to char his throat. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come, he just.. Exhaled, one slow, tremorless breath. A concession, a kill shot retracted.. Across the room, both X’s and O’s stood frozen, each watching and waiting for further confirmation. The silence stretched, like that of a rubber band over a minefield.

Jeong-dae clapped for the O’s attention just once, “All right, everyone!” He barked in a faux-friendly tone. “Let’s count the numbers! O team, let’s go!” He demanded, turning on his heel like he ran the place, his mouth already moving with calculations no one asked for. Nam-gyu’s deadly (quite literally) gaze stayed locked on Yeong-sam, who hadn’t moved, remaining silent, smug, and content with being Jeong-dae’s golden boy. Nam-gyu’s point was further proven when all Yeong-sam did was give a single nod, no words, not even a twitch of sympathy, (not that Nam-gyu wanted his sympathy) it wasn't approval, it was worse, it was indifference. Nam-gyu stared, watching the back of Yeong-sam’s head as he joined the counting group, what a stupid motherfucker.. Did he think he was better than Death itself just because he didn’t get his slimy hands dirty? Because he watched from his little corner while he killed for them? That little bitch, Greed was nowhere near the level Death was when it came to importance in the natural order, he was a calculator with a heartbeat compared to Nam-gyu.

Still, Nam-gyu followed the crowd with slow, deliberate steps, his fingers brushed against the silver cross necklace hidden beneath his shirt, reminding himself whether Thanos liked it or not, he was right there whenever he needed him.. It burned like guilt, it hummed like power, it throbbed like a secret. As the O’s began lining up for the count, Nam-gyu’s thoughts drifted to the next vote.. And this time? He wouldn’t leave a damn thing to chance.

The O’s stood in a stiff line, like inmates about to be processed. The sterile dorm lights hummed overhead— too bright and artificial even for Death’s taste, shearing everyone’s shadows into nothing. From a few paces ahead, Nam-gyu caught the familiar hiss of Jeong-dae’s smug whisper: “Forty seven.” A beat, then a whisper turned suspicion: “Three dead.” Jeong-dae concluded, “Are you sure?” Yeong-sam alleged, “I counted three times..!” Jeong-dae snapped, the kind of snarl only made by insecure men with temporary power. Nam-gyu rolled his eyes, three times, wowww!! Did this old geezer want a gold star, did he want him to carve it into his fucking forehead?

But their voices faded as the robotic intercom droned overhead: “Attention, please. Lights out in 30 minutes. All players, please return to your beds and prepare for bedtime.” The voice stated in a flat tone, the phrase “prepare for bedtime” made Nam-gyu snort bitterly.. As if there’s any preparation for that in a place like this, one either sleeps or they don’t, they either wake up, or someone drags their corpse into the incinerator.

Regardless, the crowd dispersed like startled rats, drifting toward their bunks with exhaustion heavy in their limbs. Nam-gyu moved in the opposite way he always did— slowly and reluctantly, like the divine being trying to appear human he was. He stood before Thanos’ bunk, eyes catching on the bloodstain on the floor beside it.. A messy red halo, dried at the edges like rust. With a shaky sigh, Nam-gyu slumped onto the bottom bunk, the bunk letting out a groan beneath his weight. He let his back hit the cold metal wall, neck tilted back, bones heavy, every inhale like dragging knives through velvet. With one hand, he reached into his jumpsuit, fingers trembling faintly as they pulled out the cross necklace. He held it right there, between both hands like a prayer he didn’t believe in. “…Thanos,” he began, voice rough. “That fucking asshole.. That son of a bitch treated me like an idiot..” He grumbled, his thumb flicked open the cross. Inside, like candy in a cursed locket, the pills glinted in the dim light. Nam-gyu did the same song and dance he’d usually do with Thanos: he took one, let it melt bitterly on his tongue, and then took another, lips parting like a man feeding himself lies. His-ring covered hand dragged down his face, leaving streaks of blood across his chin and cheeks like warpaint. He let out a slow exhale, staring down at the blood-covered fork lying across his thighs. His free hand idly twirled it like a fidget spinner crafted in hell.

The fork still smelled like throat and copper, Nam-gyu came to discover he liked that, he liked watching the light go out of that bastard’s eyes, he liked the way his body stuttered under his, trying to crawl away.. He liked it too much.

Nam-gyu dragged a finger across the fork’s edge, not sharp enough, but it was the feeling that mattered.. Anything to distract himself from the fact he kept telling himself he didn’t care, that if he didn’t give a shit about living or dying, he couldn't get hurt. But, he did care, fuck he cared so much, he just didn’t know what to do with it. In order to distract himself, he stared out across the bunk room.. All those stupid humans, clinging to each other like children lost in the dark, they had nothing, no power, no idea what came after.. And yet, they held hands, whispered stories, and hugged when they cried.. What Nam-gyu envied the most about humanity was they all got love, even the worst ones. As for him? He’d escorted every soul that’s ever bled red and drawn breath— black, white, poor, rich, gay, straight, trans, devout, faithless, pure, evil— and he’s still never been loved.. They all met him in the end, but they looked right through him, no one fucking rememebred, not unless he forced them to. His hands curled tight around the fork now, that’s why he remembered the dinosaurs so well, maybe. They were dumb, loud, but they didn’t pretend to be anything else, they saw him and knew what he was.. They didn’t cry or scream, they just ran. They respected him, humans just wrote poems about him, and then spit in his face when he came for them.

Nam-gyu’s throat was tightened into a knot now, his gaze wandering downwards to the mattress he was sitting on.. The mattress belongs to Thanos’ bed, the sheets still messy, still carrying the warmth of a body that shouldn’t have gone cold. Everytime Nam-gyu got him back, he lost him again, like the universe was playing chicken with his sanity.. And his father.. Fuck, he wasn’t ready for that beating when he got out of here and returned home for a family gathering. His father had Nature, that soft, green little wisp he pretended he didn’t love, he thought he didn’t see them holding hands behind closed doors, as if the rest of them forgot to want. Nam-gyu squeezed his eyes shut, but himself? Death? He got a fork and a necklace.

A single tear ran down the curve of Nam-gyu’s cheek, though he was quick to wipe it away like it had insulted him, because in a lot of ways, it had. “…Pathetic.” Nam-gyu muttered bitterly, chuckling as the lights dimmed above him. Even as the lights dimmed, Nam-gyu didn’t move a muscle, sitting motionless on the cold slab of the bottom bunk, hands loosely clasped around Thanos’ cross necklace like it meant something. The mattress beneath him was still faintly warm, mockingly so, as if the ghost of Thanos’ body hadn’t gotten the fucking memo he was dead.

The overall dormitory hummed with the quiet murmur of human exhaustion— people shifting, whispering, some sobbing. Grief moved through the air like dust, settling in the corners and folds of every jumpsuit. Not that he’d accept their help, but no one came to check on him, no one asked if he was okay, of course they didn’t.. He was Nam-gyu, he was Death. Naturally, they would only look at Death when it was too late.. They saw him and screamed, they never stopped to ask if he was tired too. Nam-gyu turned the necklace over in his palm, the metal left little divots on his skin, and he liked the way it bit. He remembered once— long ago, before memory was even a concept, asking his father why he couldn’t have what the others had. War had scoffed, said to quit being sappy because the End doesn’t get to be soft. Hypocritically so, because War had Nature. That was the unspoken truth that scraped at Nam-gyu like a rusted blade, all those nights he’d seen them standing side by side— War with his blood-wet hands and Nature blooming at his side like a vine curling around a weapon.. And what did Nam-gyu have? He had the dead, he had the shadows, he had nothing. He wanted what his mother and father had, he wanted what the humans had.. Fuck, he wanted it so bad he felt like he was splitting apart.

Unwillingly, Nam-gyu’s thoughts drifted to Thanos once more.

The way he laughed like he hadn’t been suicidal just days ago, the way he rapped his dumb little verses like the world hadn’t cracked him open and pissed on his dreams. The way he touched— so casually, like it hadn’t meant anything. Fuck, Nam-gyu hated how much he liked it, hated how warm it felt when Thanos’ hand brished his.. He wondered if it was love, or was it just rebellion? Just another middle finger to the universe? He didn’t know, he didn’t know if he wanted to know. Because love? Love was forbidden, love was for mortals, for dreamers, for the ones who died in their sleep holding hands.. Not for him, never for him.

Nam-gyu sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands— covered in dried blood, the fork still sticky from the guy he’d stabbed. “I like it.” He admitted in a flat voice, “I liked the way his ribs gave in.. The way he looked at me. Like he knew me..” Nam-gyu trailed off, as sadistic as it sounded, he liked it because people only saw him in their last breath, that’s when they screamed his name— not in love, not in longing, but in fear.. He was quite literally the most known being in existence, however he had never been formally known. He clenched the necklace so tight it cut into his skin, he let out a laugh— a sharp, tired thing. All he’d ever wanted was someone to look at him like he wasn’t the end, like he could be the middle of someone’s story.. Or fuck it— just the beginning of one good night. But no one ever did, and Thanos was gone again, and Nam-gyu was just so fucking tired.. Tired of carrying the weight of eternity in a form that craved drugs just to feel normal, tired of watching people connect, even as they bled.. Tired of being unloved, unneeded, and unseen until the very last second.

Out of seemingly nowhere, Yeong-sam suddenly approached like a shadow with a grin— a serpent in a youth’s skin, all teeth and tension, flickering with a charisma that reeked of coins and contracts. He knelt beside Nam-gyu, their heads now level. “Time.” Yeong-sam simply whispered, his voice dipped in molasses and malice. “The dumb ones are starting to think they’ll wake up tomorrow.” He snarked, Nam-gyu tilted his head slightly. “They won’t.” He pointed out.

There was a beat. They didn’t need more than that.

Yeong-sam nodded toward the eastern edge of the room, where his handpicked were already waiting in the dark like hyenas. “Let’s go. They’re ready. Just needed you.” Yeong-sam simply put, that was all that was needed to pull Nam-gyu’s head out of the gutter and have him rise in one fluid motion, albeit lean and slowly, like a man savoring the moment before a storm.

While they were on their walk, the intercom buzzed alive.

“Lights out in ten seconds.”

The words had echoed like a prayer turned threat.

“Ten. Nine.”

Yeong-sam brushed nonexistent dust from his near-identical zipup, tapping a finger against his neck— where a single vein pulsed like a metronome.

“Eight. Seven. Six.”

Nam-gyu gave a dry chuckle, a sound more bone than breath.

“Five. Four.”

The rather frequent duo of Death and Greed walked side by side now, acting as predators in plain sight.

“Three. Two. One.”

Darkness.

Pitch black, but to Nam-gyu, it was a cathedral. In the dark, the divine and humans alike tended to show one their truest selves. In the dark, every scream was a song and every death was a release. “Did you like it?” Yeong-sam asked suddenly, his tone uncharacteristically curious. Nam-gyu cocked his head with a half-lidded gaze, “Liked what?” He pondered, “Killing people.” Yeong-sam simply put, a slow grin peeled across Nam-gyu’s face like paint chipping off a coffin. “You’ll find out for yourself.” Was all he had to say in regards to if he liked killing people.

Soon enough, they reached the central aisle— bunks stacked like coffins, Team X scattered in exhausted piles of meat and breath. Yeong-sam threw up a sharp hand: silence. Leading the way, Nam-gyu crouched low, fork glinting once as it caught the thin silver of the red ‘X’ glowing on the tiled ground like an open wound. He stalked forward like a creature unburdened by bones, slithering more than walking. Beside him, Yeong-sam’s face stretched into a slasher’s grin, really fucking excited to be let off his divine leash and start murdering, Nam-gyu could see where he was coming from.

With that in mind, Nam-gyu surged forward toward the X bunks, fork clenched like a relic, each step a drumbeat of inevitability.. The rebellion had begun, and Death was leading it, as he always should have been.

The dark swallowed everything— faces, names, histories, Nam-gyu would say the list went on but he was drunk on the adrenaline of leading a rebellion. He moved through it like a rat through rot, familiar and unflinching. Each breath was fire, each heartbeat a snare drum in his ears. The fork in his hand didn’t feel like a utensil anymore, it felt like truth, the cold bent kind of truth with rusted edges. He found her on the top bunk: Player 185, an old woman.

Player 185 was curled beneath a thin woolen blanket, her knees drawn up like a child, hands tucked near her chest. She was whispering to someone— maybe one of humanity’s imaginary gods, maybe a memory.. Didn’t matter, her mouth moved, that was enough for him. Her eyes blinked open as his shadow swallowed her, fear blooming instantly, like blood under snow. “No, no— please, I’m just—” She stammered, her voice was too soft for a place like this. “Shut up.” Nam-gyu snapped, he couldn't be convinced to back off anyway, he was already on top of her, knees grinding into brittle ribs. She let out a breathless and raw screech, but that only served as more encouragement for Nam-gyu. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Nam-gyu reiterated, his voice cracking with something deeper than anger, it wasn’t about her, it was never about her.

The fork plunged once— into her neck just below the ear, where the skin was paper thin and warm.

Then again.

And again.

..And again.

Did he really have to list how many times he stabbed this old hag? Okay, fine. Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t because she was a woman. He didn’t like them, sure. Never did. Too soft, too loud, always needing something.. He wouldn’t call himself a misogynist considering he had the free will to appear as a woman, but this? This was just silence therapy. “SHUT UP!” He screamed it like a gospel, each word punctuated by the wet shlick of metal meeting cartilage. Her mouth opened wider than seemed possible, but he had seen crazier shit thanks to his status as Death itself.. Not to speak, just to scream. His hand was slick now, the fork kept slipping. So, naturally, he gripped tighter, drove the fork deeper into the nape of her neck. Blood pumped from her neck like a fountain in slow motion— thick, syrupy, beautifully, pointlessly. It coated his forearm, painted her face, soaked the mattress beneath them until it groaned like it, too, was dying. “DIE!” Nam-gyu exclaimed, it wasn’t a command, it was a manifesto of sorts given the hag's current state. His face was inches from hers, eyes bulging wide, mouth twisted into something primal, not rage or revenge, rather relief.

This was the closest he’d come to breathing since Thanos died. Her limbs jerked once, then again, then.. Nothing. Nam-gyu sat there for a moment, straddling her, panting like a man who’d just finish something deeply intimate— ew, not that kind of intimacy, that was reserved for Thanos whenever Nam-gyu found the right time to visit the cross necklace he’d bound Thanos’ soul to. He tilted his head, watched the way the blood pooled at the corner of her lips, oddly enough, it didn’t disgust him, it calmed him. He could hear Yeong-sam cackling from across the barracks, the others hadn’t even stirred yet, but they would, soon. The darkness didn’t hide what he did— it celebrated it. Nam-gyu stood slowly, fork still cluthched in a red-dripping hand. He didn’t bother wiping it off, the tasye of death hung in the air like perfume, and he was luckily only getting started.

The darkness was no longer just darkness, Nam-gyu would actually call it a stage where he was the only one dancing. Bodies stirred in their bunks like worms under a flipped rock, trying not to be noticed, trying not to breathe too loudly. His arm still throbbed from the last kill, but his breath felt cleaner now.. Strangely sharper, the blood still hot on his skin, still wet between his fingers.

He wasn’t done, he wouldn’t take a breather until skanky Se-mi was dead.

Luckily, Nam-gyu’s divine gaze zeroed in on her through the blur of moving bodies, backlit by the faint red and blue lights of the respective X and O’s overhead. Her jaw was clenched, dark eyes scanning the chaos, but what really motivated Nam-gyu to make a beeline for her was her hands were empty— no fork, no pipe, no blade, just her fists. Good. He wanted her that way— defenseless, like the little skank she always pretended not to be. Nam-gyu moved like low, fast, and hungrily like smoke, the drugs surging in his bloodstream, muting fear, dulling logic, setting fire to every insult he’d ever swallowed. She’d bruised his ego back in the Six-Legged Pentathlon, laughed at him when he fell, said something about how he wasn’t pulling his weight. The only reason he hadn’t liberated her soul back then was Thanos told him to let it go, to call her ‘noona.’ To have respect, but Thanos wasn’t there to keep him on a leash anymore, and respect was currency, and Nam-gyu didn’t pay bitches. He raised his fork with a grunt, slashing downward.

CLANG.

He missed.

The metal prongs sparked against the bunk’s support beam, the vibration running up his arm like a scream. Se-mi darted back, her shoulders colliding with the frame behind her. Nam-gyu snarled, stumbling slightly as the impact knocked his own balance loose. She could’ve run, she could’ve, but she didn’t. She instead stood, wide-eyed, fists raised like they were worth something. He staggered for a moment, the taste of metal in his mouth. Blood? Or adrenaline? Then he allowed a low and cracked laugh to leave his lips, not because it was funny, but because this was it— the moment before the release, the build-up before the crescendo. “Se-mi noona,” He began in a mockingly sweet tone, a cruel twist of his lips, though he made sure to spit the word noona like it tasted rotten in his mouth.

Nam-gyu was quick to drop the facade if it could even be called such a thing, his face contorting— mock affection melting into pure contempt, he raised the fork as if raising a glass to give a toast. “You fucking bitch!” He seethed, lunging toward her. This wasn’t about strategy, this wasn’t about survival, this was quite personal. Her voice was still in his skull, that scolding tone she took, the way Thanos looked at her like she was better than him— like she had worth, as if she wasn’t just another mouth to shut. She swung her arm— caught his jaw, half-turned his head— but it wasn't enough, not tonight, not ever. He surged forward like a stormfront, the fork was raised again, and this time, he wouldn’t miss. His vow was further proven when her back hit the wall, effectively eliminating any room to run. He grinned, delirious. Every ounce of rage, inferiority, and shame turned liquid in his veins. This was what they’d all overlooked.. Thanos, Gyeong-su, Se-mi, even Min-su. They thought he was a guarddog, but no, he was the pit, and tonight? He was off the leash.

There was heat in Nam-gyu’s blood now— the centuries of rage and disrespect boiling over. Rage curled in his gut, tightening around his spine like wire. He lunged for Se-mi, fork raised, lips peeled back into something that used to be a grin but now looked more like a skull.

CRASH.

A glass bottle shattered at his feet, shards skipping across the concrete like sharp little screams. It nearly sliced his ankle. He flinched, whipped his head up only to be greeted to the sight of an empty bunk, so nothing to be done there.. The shadows gave nothing back, he turned— only a tad too late. “FUCK!” Se-mi grunted, her coicd was a cannon blast, her silhouette a blur of motion. She lunged, glass glinting in her grip like a broken truth, she slammed into him, eyes wide and wild— feral with fury, and suddenly she didn’t look like some player in a tracksuit anymore. She looked like wrath itself, coiled in a skank's body.

Nam-gyu was lucky enough to catch her wrists mid-swing— hands shaking, both from effort and ecstasy. He laughed again, but it was breathless and cracked. “You gonna cry now, noona?” Nam-gyu snarked, “Fuck you!” She shot back with a bam! Her knee effectively connected with his ribs, hard enough for him to choke, stumble backward, and smash into the edge of a bunk frame. His spine barked in pain. “You fucking bastard!” She roared, like it was all she’d ever wanted to say. Good for her, say it, scream it, let it all out before her throat’s too full of blood to speak.

All of a sudden, two players, locked in a struggle of their own, stumbled into their space— colliding, grunting, dragging their violence like thunderclouds behind them. Se-mi turned to dodge, but Nam-gyu was already on his feet, moving like lightning. He tackled her, slamming her back against the support beam— that black, cold metal column that had taken his first strike. It rang like a bell on impact, her breath leaving her lungs in a crack. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait for another bottle nor for another knee, he pinned her wrists with one hand. And with the other? He drove the fork into her throat, reveling in the way her eyes went wide.

“You fucking bitch.” Nam-gyu hissed in a low and soft tone, like his own twisted version of a lullaby.

The prongs didn’t go in clean, they caught on sinew, crunched cartilage. Blood fountained out in pulses, gushing over his knuckles, over her collarbone, slicking the frame behind her like graffiti in red.

Se-mi gargled— twitched— tried to push back. But Nam-gyu leaned in, breathing hard against her cheek. “I told you,” He whispered. “I’m not your fucking dog, I’m not calling you noona, you’re nothing.” He spat, Nam-gyu remained locked in— targeted. His whole body was humming like a live wire, fork poised like the hand of a clock just before midnight.

Nam-gyu plunged the fork into her neck, just beneath her jawline, between muscle and vein. The prongs sank halfway in— not exactly clean. The cartilage caught, the tissue resisted. It didn’t go deep enough to kill, but Nam-gyu had every intention of savoring this kill. But it bled— a thick stream, black-red, beautiful, pouring down over her collarbone, soaking the neckline of her zipup. Her hands reached for the fork, shaking. Her mouth opened— but no words came, just air and pain.

The fork stuck in Se-mi’s neck twitched with every heartbeat. Her hands clutched it, choking on blood, spit, and silence— but still alive, still looking at him like she had something left to say, like she ever had any power to begin with, like she ever mattered all.

Nam-gyu saw red. Not rage— just the color, splashing down her throat, dripping off her chin, comparable to a slow, sacred rainfall.

“You think you’re better than me?” Nam-gyu seethed.

He didn’t wait for an answer, he didn’t need it

He yanked the fork free— shlup!— and the blood came harder now, thick and pulsing, like her body was trying to scream through her veins.

He climbed on top of her, straddling her stomach, pinning her in place. Her fingers scratched at his sides, weak and frail just as Nam-gyu told Thanos they always were. “Look at you.. Still fighting.” He breathed, half-laughing.

He raised the fork again.

And again.

And again.

Each plunge was deeper than the last.

Each stab broke the skin with a wet crunch, spraying his arms, his chest, her face. The fork was dull now, bent and warped, he didn't care.

He stabbed her until her hands stopped moving.

He stabbed until the twitching stopped.

He stabbed her until her face wasn’t a face anymore— just a canvas of red, smeared with hate and history.

“Not better.”

Stab.

“Never were.”

Stab.

“NEVER FUCKING WILL BE.”

Stab.

Nam-gyu’s breathing came ragged now, chest heaving like a dying animal. Blood soaked his pants, his hands, his throat.. His hair clung to his face, sweat and gore braided together. He sat there, panting. His heart finally skidded to a stop.

She was still.

Gone.

Fina-fucking-lly.

And in that silence— that brutal, earned silence— Nam-gyu felt it. The weight lifted, the scream inside him falling silent.. Like something had been scraped out of his ribs and left to rot in her corpse. For the first time since Thanos died— Nam-gyu smiled.

Se-mi’s vision didn't clear so much as it unfolded, like fabric being peeled from her eyes or like fog retreating out of respect. She let out a sharp gasp, but there was no breath. Her body was light and wrong, like something remembered, not worn. And when she looked down.. She wasn’t
bleeding anymore, her neck wasn’t torn, her hands were clean, but she was still dead.. She knew that much.

The air around her pulsed red, not fire-truck red or cherry red, but that deep, unsettling crimson of dried blood and unwritten warnings— the kind mothers didn’t explain and children instinctively feared. Se-mi turned slowly, taking in the world around her, noting the way it stretched outward in shades of black and red, everything still and pulsing like a wound. The sky had no stars, just an oily and slow swirling void.

Something Se-mi felt was worth noting was the number 4 painted over and over on rusted pillars that held up nothing, it hung above nonexistent doors, stamped onto the floor beneath her feet in repeating, decaying patterns: dead, dead, dead, dead. “Okay,” She muttered in a hoarse voice. “Guess this is it..” Se-mi trailed off, a dry and brittle laugh escaping her throat, there was no comfort in it, just acceptance.

With nothing better to do, Se-mi ventured forward. The ground beneath her was flat, but it echoed with every step— like she was walking on memory instead of concrete. And in the distance, perched along an endless fence made of charred wood and ash were dozens of crows, silent and watching. Their eyes weren’t beady and black, they were human in the sense they were wide and knowing. “Oh, great.. Creepy birds..” Se-mi observed, one hopped closer, tilted its head like it recognized her, then another flew overhead— letting out a low and slow caw, dragging its cry like a funeral bell. She looked ahead, her gaze zeroing in on a threshold.. A door— half open, half shut— its frame carved from black lacquered wood. She stepped toward it, but hesitated before crossing. After she’d crossed, the reality of it hit her— threshold, old women in her childhood neighborhood used to mutter about it: “Don’t step on the door threshold.” They'd say, “It’s a place where the dead pass through.” She’d roll her eyes back then.. Now? She stepped over it carefully. “I’m not sorry.” She told the silence, “For fighting. For staying. For voting X..” Her voice didn’t echo, but it felt like something out there heard her. Further proving her point, the crowd rose all at once behind her, flapping their wings in slow, deliberate circles, black shapes against crimson nothings. Se-mi didn’t look back, she instead walked forward, toward whatever was waiting.

As she continued her walk, the path narrowed. The red bled into black the further Se-mi walked— colors no longer just colors but thick and watchful intentions, the silence wasn’t just stillness anymore, it was pressure— a presence.

Ahead, in the distance, a figure emerged from the haze like a secret too heavy to stay hidden. It was a singular being, standing still as stone, wrapped in a cloak darker than even this void— black with streaks of deep blood-red, like arteries sewn into the night.

The figure stood at the end of the threshold path, where it dropped onto nothing. As if beyond them, the world ended. Se-mi stopped dead in her tracks, unsure if a figure in a place like this was a good or bad thing. “Who.. Is that?” She murmured, the figure didn't move— the scythe came first, a crescent of metal that gleamed wrong, catching light from a source that didn’t exist. Its curve was slow and cruel, not a farmer’s blade but an executioner's lullaby. Then, he turned and the hood fell back just enough—

The lower half of the face was pure bone— exposed jaw, no lips, teeth like pale knives locked in a half-smile. But the eyes.. The eyes were wrong, the eyes were too human.. She knew those eyes.

Of all goddamn people to turn out to be Death, it had to be the bear she was constantly poking. “Don’t you recognize me, Se-mi?” The voice pondered, it scraped down her spine like wire, like a joke retold in a coffin.. Nam-gyu, her breath caught as she came to the realization, though her lungs didn’t work like they used to. Her fingers curled reflexively, but there was nothing to fight with, not this time. Se-mi took a sharp step back, watching as Nam-gyu’s cloak dragged behind him like a bleeding shadow. The bones of his face grinned wider as he moved forward, slowly and purposefully. The scythe in his hand wasn’t resting, it was posed, held just like the figure on the Death card from a tarot deck: tilted, confident, and inevitable. She shook her head in sheer disbelief, “What the fuck are you doing here?” She demanded, Nam-gyu tilted his head, the bones clicked softly, like teeth biting back laughter. “I told you, I'm not done with you.” He simply put.

However, Se-mi didn’t flinch, not when Nam-gyu’s skeletal sneer drew closer, not when his breath curled in the air like frostbitten steam, not even when the gleam of the scythe caught in her periphery like a coming storm. Se-mi crossed her arms, straightening her spine. “You’re still pathetic.” She deadpanned, loud and clear, voice cutting like glass. “I don’t care what mask you wear or how much red you paint around you. You’re still just a weak, miserable junkie who got lucky stabbing a girl in the dark.” Se-mi snarked, noting the way Nam-gyu’s brow twitched— barely, but she saw right through him. “That’s what this is, right?” She went on, heat in her chest, heat in her words. “You couldn’t beat me when it mattered, so now you’re throwing a tantrum in the afterlife. Poor little death-boy with his toy scythe." She snapped, Nam-gyu’s hand gripped the scythe tighter, the jaw of his skull-face clenched, those human eyes— far from ghostly or divine and closer to petty — began to boil. “You want me scared?” She spat, stepping toward him. “You want me begging? You’ll wait forever. You’ll never get it, you’ll never be more than a child playing god in a sandbox of bones.” She snapped.

All of a sudden, Nam-gyu moved, his scythe’s curved blade whipping through the air with a howl, catching the space between her neck and shoulder like a shepherd's hook. Se-mi gasped, her body jerking with the impact, feet dragging against the void-stitched ground. “Enough.” Nam-gyu demanded in the low and gentle tone he reserved for holding Thanos back from choking whats-his-face.. However, he didn’t say anything else, instead he pulled. Se-mi’s breath hitched as she was dragged— choked— not strangled, but anchored. Her vision warped as the world around her bled from red into blue, into gray, into— cold.

The warmth of Death’s earlier domain drained away like blood from a dying vein. Frost spread underfoot in widening tendrils, splitting the cracked earth with spiderweb fractures. Her lungs— if she still had lungs ached like hell. They were now standing in a cavern of black ice, no walls, just walls of frozen mist, the mind of cold that didn’t just freeze skin, but sank into thought. Nam-gyu allowed her to slump forward, releasing the scythe from her throat with a slow, deliberate motion. Her knees hit the frost-bitten ground, and he knelt beside her. “See, I could’ve just slit your throat again.” He trailed off, she looked up, defiant despite the blue bleeding into her lips. “But I don’t get mad once, Se-mi, I get mad forever.” He concluded, standing up and motioning around them like a realtor introducing a premium feature. “I’ll freeze you here, lock your muscles, still your breath. Let your thoughts race and never finish..” He trailed off, a cruel smile tugging at his skull face. “Every time I feel pissed, I’ll come back. Thaw you out, kill you again, properly..” Nam-gyu sneered, watching as her body had already begun to stiffen, her knees locked and her fingertips blued. “You’re a fucking coward.” She hissed, Nam-gyu didn’t deny it, he just lifted the scythe, twirled it once in that skeletal grip. “Cowards don’t get kingdoms, noona.” He simply put.

And with a flick of the blade— Nam-gyu tapped it to the frost beneath her, crack, snap, stillness..

Se-mi’s eyes froze open— defiant to the end, reduced to a statue of rage and refusal.

Nam-gyu stood there for a moment longer, admiring his work like an artist before an unfinished canvas. “See you soon.” He whispered, making a show of dragging his cloak elsewhere.

Chapter Text

The door opened like a wound.

At first, Thanos was under the impression it was another memory waiting to slap him across the face — maybe that time he puked on a backup dancer mid-performance, or when he cried in his manager’s car after blowing his first ₩10 million on impusilvely bought limited edition shoes and Dalmation Coin.

But that would’ve been the better alternative, whatever this was — it wasn’t nostalgia, it was closer to hell than anything else, the real-deal, full-send, scorched-earth hell. As somewhat expected, there was black and red everywhere.

The sky — or what should’ve been the sky — was a rolling mass of smoke and crimson veins, like someone had cracked the atmosphere open and spilled blood into its lungs. The ground pulsed under his feet, not solid, not liquid, but wrong. It was like he was running on burnt rubber or some kind of fleshy trampoline, there were no stars, just chasms overhead, like the heavens had been clawed open and left to rot.

Hoping it was some ball-tripping hallucination, Thanos blinked furiously, those types of hallucinations tended to leave after a few blinks. “What the fuck is this?” He blurted out, tensing up when he suddenly heard a growl.

The growl was wet, jagged, and ancient.. A noise that didn’t belong in any realm he’d ever wandered — not in his worst trips, not even in that one time he mixed cough syrup with molly and thought his dusting toaster was reciting Shakespeare.

With a shaky sigh, he turned, only to immediately meet the gaze of (if his childhood dinosaur phase served him correctly) a Baryonyx — one that was towering, scaled, black as coal and streaked with crimson along its claws and face like it had murdered fire itself. Eyes the color of seething coals. Breath fogging out in thick plumes, reeking of rot and rage. Its nostrils flared, locking onto Thanos like it had been waiting for him.

Thanos took one step back, only for the dinosaur to take five forward. “NAH. NAH-NOPE. NO THANK YOU.” Thanos exclaimed, spinning and bolting like his soul had just remembered it had legs.

The floor squished beneath him, but he didn’t dare think of stopping. The walls around him warped — black spires spiraling up like the ribcage of some forgotten god. Shadows screamed in languages that had never touched human throats. Behind him, claws pounded into the ground like thunder married to a war drum. “Nam-su, if this is your fucking pet, I swear to God—!” Thanos panted, ducking under a jutting stone shaped like a crucifix dipped in tar, skidding past a glowing red lake that hissed with boiling souls, and nearly tripped on a pile of skulls suspiciously shaped like those creepy dolls from Red Light, Green Light.

To his dismay, the Baryonyx let out a roar that sounded significantly closer than before, meaning it was gaining on him. “OH, COME ON!” Thanos screamed, “I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING THIS TIME! I BEEN SOBER FOR LIKE — TEN WHOLE MINUTES! THAT SHOULD COUNT FOR SOMETHING!” Thanos insisted, darting through a narrow crevice between two obsidian pillars, only for a glowing rune to flash above it and slam the patch behind him. He nearly smacked into a floating chunk of marble etched with scenes of death — plagues, war, and one very specific carving of himself getting stabbed with a fork. “Okay,” He gasped, slamming his hands on his knees. “Okay. Think. Think. What the hell is this?! Why’s there a fucking dinosaur chasing me?” Thanos damn near demanded, his rant coming to a forced halt when he heard another roar, closer this time.

The Baryonyx burst through the red mist like a demon with a death metal visualizer, teeth snapping, claws raised, tail swinging like a goddamn wrecking ball.

Thanos let out a scream that was less boyish than he’d like for it to be, hurling the only thing he had — a rock, a fist-sized chunk of regret.

Of course, there was no effect, it bounced off the creature's face. The dinosaur blinked, unimpressed.

“Yeah, I figured,” Thanos wheezed, turning to run again when suddenly — the ground opened, cracked wide like a faultline of despair, and he dropped while screaming and falling into a place with no sky, no ground, just red lightning and black noise swallowing him whole. “NA-NAM-GYU!!” He exclaimed as if his situationship could save him, “BRO, CALL OF YOUR DEMON LIZARD! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE AFTERLIFE?! I THOUGHT YOU LIKED ME—!!” Thanos demanded, being greeted by darkness and silence, the weightless kind.. Like being buried in velvet, or regret. Truth be told, Thanos had no idea where he was now.. He didn't have a clue where he was since.. Joining the games, really.

All of a sudden there was a SLAM!

The heavy obsidian door behind him shut like a judge’s gavel, sealing off the howling roar of the demon-dinosaur-thing still snapping through the mist. Thanos leaned against it, panting like he’d just crowd-surfed through Satan’s mosh pit. His heart was still doing trap beats in his chest. “Yo..” He wheezed, trying to swallow the panic. “The fuck.. was that?” He pondered, turning to press his palms to his knees, trying to breathe. It was difficult considering the air tasted like burnt cinnamon and copper — spicy and sharp, with something odd beneath it, not exactly rot, but time-rot if one got the gist.

The room he was in wasn’t screaming at him, that was already an upgrade, he wasn’t boujee and could be grateful with what he was given, unlike MG Coin.. Though, that didn’t mean it wasn’t weird as hell.

Like most of the Death Dimension (or whatever the hell he was calling it in his head now), the walls were draped in black silk and deep arterial red, veined like they were deep and breathing slowly. The ceiling arched high above him, vanishing into a shadow so thick it felt like something was perched up there, watching.

..But instead of bones, blood, or other typical reaper shit, the place looked like a pawn designed by a time-traveling junkie. Complete with silver rings. Hundreds — maybe thousands — scattered across an old lacquered table like confetti at a wedding no one showed up to. Some were new and shiny, with perfect bands. Others were ancient — cursed with age, bent, and etched with runes Thanos couldn’t and wouldn’t read. He blinked, mouth twitching. “Damn.. What is this?” He wandered aloud, reaching out and flicking one of the rings off the edge. It clinked to the floor, spun; and then — poof disappeared like it had never existed in the first place. “..Okay, that’s not sketchy or anything.” Thanos observed, his gaze zeroed in on a shelf nearby, where needles sat cracked inside glass jars. Some clean, most used. Some were huge, as long as his forearm. Others still had faint drops of some red shit at the tips — definitely not ink. Oddly enough, they were neatly arranged like trophies.

Thanos curled his lip, tilting his head. “Who the hell keeps needles like collector’s vinyl’s?” He muttered, stepping away. “This place is sick. Like.. fucked up funeral sick.” He trailed off, his eyes widening almost comically when a room past the back wall caught his eye.. It was encased in glass, fogged at the edges like a forgotten greenhouse. He took a step closer, drawn by something.. warm. Something familiar in a way he couldn’t explain, but he quickly dismissed the thought when the glass door creaked open like it wanted him to come in.. And by all means!

When Thanos entered, he was greeted to the sight of weed plants, but not the typical green he saw in American movies, instead, deep, gorgeous crimson marijuana, growing in clusters beneath heat lamps that pulsed like artificial hearts. Their leaves shimmered slightly, metallic at the edges, and the buds looked so dense they could stop time. The scent hit him like a wave of nostalgia and poor decisions. Thanos’ eyes went wide, his mouth dropping open. “No.. way.” He stammered, stumbling forward like he’d just walked into a brothel made of his fantasies. Hands hovering, almost trembling with awe. “Y’all got demon weed up in here? In the middle of hell?! This is so fucking scandalous — oh my God.” Thanos swooned, turning in a slow circle, laughing to himself, giddy and disbelieving. “Yo, they’d lock you up forever for half of this in Seoul. Like — gone, no trial. Just boom, straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect shit..” Thanos trailed off, pressing his nose against a particularly fat red bud, inhaling like it could replace oxygen "Smells like rebellion, bro. Smells like freedom dipped in sin..” Thanos observed.

For a brief moment, it all fell away — the games, the betrayal and blood in them.. The cross necklace, MG Coin, even Nam-su-gyu.

Thanos allowed a grin, teeth flashing. “Okay. Okay, maybe this is hell. But this? This little room?” He paused, running his hand lovingly down the stem of a shimmering plant. “This is heaven’s grow-op.” Thanos declared, and just for a second, he was seventeen again, high off his ass on a rooftop, beatboxing under the stars, dreaming about being somebody.

However, the moment Thanos stumbled upon the grinder, it was over. Half-cackling, half-gasping at his own audacity, he held up one of the bleeding red buds between his fingers like it was contraband sent from another galaxy. The nug felt dense — spongy like a heart, and faintly sticky like it was sweating syrup. It glistened under the crimson glow lights. “Bro,” he muttered, eyes wide. “You could roll a whole personality outta this.” He observed, setting to work like a stoned apothecary, fingers expertly breaking the bud down, crimson flakes sticking to his thumbs like dried blood. He stumbled upon a grinder tucked beneath a black velvet cloth near the base of a pedestal — elegant, baroque, too fancy for weed, but he didn’t care. The teeth inside it turned with a whispering scrape, almost a purr.

snick-snack-snick—

The smoke room filled with the scent of toasted spice and sacrilege. Something between cinnamon, clove, and danger. If red could have a smell, it would be this. He fished out a rolling paper from what might’ve been a centuries-old spell book, “Shit, even in hell I roll better joints than the rest of Seoul…” Thanos observed, perching himself on a throne he hadn’t noticed before — Death’s throne, made of black bone and obsidian, with clawed arms and a high back, it sat beneath a broken halo of red light that flickered like a dying star.

Thanos just flopped onto it like he’d been born there, sprawled, his shirt half-open, legs wide, smirk cocked. “Now this is more my style..” He trailed off, lighting the joint, inhaling deep, held for a little while, and coughed like he got hit by a divine truck. “Hily shit—!” He wheezed, waving the smoke like it was trying to mug him. “That’s illegal-illegal. I’m talkin’ ‘they execute-you-on-TV’ level.” Thanos trailed off, but he was already grinning through the coughing fit.. High already, so fast, so deep, like it didn’t just hit his lungs — it skipped the bloodstream and went straight to his soul. Then, he melted right into that throne like it was wax on velvet. He took another drag this time, slow this time, the cherry glowing like an angry eye. Smoke curled from his lips in tendrils, dancing into the red-tinted air like phantoms released from his ribs. His brain floated, his thoughts scattered, and somewhere in that haze, he forgot about the dinosaur, forgot about the screaming, forgot he was dead.

The red haze inside the greenhouse throne room swirled like vape smoke caught in a windless rave. Thanos — still sunk sideways in Death’s chair like he paid rent — was halfway into the joint, eyes lazy, grin glued on crookedly. His fingers played absently with a silver ring he’d swiped from one of the tables, spinning it along his knuckle like a fidget toy. He exhaled a slow dragon puff, a cloud of disobedience if one were to go there. “Hell ain’t so bad,” he muttered to himself, stretching. “Good weed. A throne. No girls screamin’ about betrayal. No Nam-su and Se-mi at each other's throats..” Thanos trailed off, flinching when he heard a:

KRNNNCH!

The air twisted.

The warmth shattered.

A void opened behind him like a yawning, carnivorous star. Thanos jolted — nearly falling off the throne when the greenhouse lights died all at once, sending the temperature dropping several numbers down.

His breath steamed in front of him.

The plants wilted, color leeching from their leaves.

The walls bled black down the red silk.

Then came the sound — the scrape of metal over stone, dragging like a sword being pulled across concrete.

Thanos turned slowly, low and behold, there he was: the Skele-Stud, cloaked in black and crimson, face obscured by shadow and bone. The fabric of his robes flowed like ink in water. A massive scythe hung from his shoulder — serrated, old, and sharp enough to split a thought in half.

Thanos blinked, stoned and starstruck, then he quickly burst into laughter. “Yo, what the fuck, my dream man just pulled up for a smoke check?” He quipped, leaning back with his legs draped over the arm of the throne. “Took you long enough, Skeletor. You missed the party.” He sneered. The reaper didn’t move at first, opting to just stare with those empty pits for eyes, the air around it humming like it was alive, vibrating with static fury. Then it stepped forward, the tip of the scythe dragging with a hiss.

“You’re in my seat.”

The voice was familiar.

Low,

Nasal,

Dangerous.

It crawled across the walls like fungus and fire.

Thanos squinted, grin twitching. “Wait.. wait, I know that voice..” He declared, the figure tilted its head, its scythe twitching along with the head tilt. “You’re not supposed to be here like this. High. Stupid. Wearing my ring.” Death snapped, Thanos frowned, sitting up slightly “..You, wait. What the fuck, are you mad? For real?” He asked, gesturing toward the joint like it was an olive branch. “Bro, I’m dead. I got murked with a fucking fork. You don’t get to tell me where to sit.” Thanos snapped, paying little to no mind when the figure moved in one slow, fluid step, now inches from the throne. “You have no idea where you are, do you, Su-bong?” The reaper pondered, his voice cracking on the name like a whip. Thanos flinched upon taking in that tone, that exact way of saying his name — the deadpan contempt, the familiar rasp laced with exhaustion. It cut through the thigh like a needle to the vein. “..Nam-su..?” He blurted out, blinking. “Is that — nah, wait..” Thanos trailed off.

His brain hiccuped.

“Nam-gyu?”

The figure didn’t respond, just stood there, the edges of his cloak whispering against the stone floor.

Thanos coughed. Sat up straighter, palms on his knees. “Yo, hold up. You’re mad at me? What, for sitting on your spooky death chair? I thought we shared shit. We used to share cigarettes. And — accidentally — tongue.” Thanos pointed out in an attempt to lighten up the mood, Nam-gyu — Death, whatever he was now — didn’t blink nor did he move. “You call this comfortable,” He sneered, gesturing to the throne like a carcass. “You think this is yours to lounge in like it’s a greenhouse couch? You died. You lost. And now you mock what you don’t understand.” Death spat, Thanos scowled, rolling his neck like a boxer prepping for round two. “Nah. Nah, see, you’re the one tripping. I don’t mock nothin’. I vibe. There’s a difference.” He protested, smugly waving smoke toward Nam-gyu. “You show up looking like a Final Boss with that edgy-ass scythe and expect me to what? Cry? Bow down? Nah, man. I earned this seat.” Thanos sneered, patting the throne. “You think just ‘cause you stole my necklace, you own me?” Thanos pressed, “The dead don’t own jack shit.” Nam-gyu shot back, his voice coming out in a lower, almost pitiful tone. “…What?” Thanos stammered — actually stammered, Nam-gyu leaned in slightly, the shadows receding just enough to show a flash of his not quite human face. “You died, Thanos. You died bleeding and alone. I held your soul in my hands and tucked it in that cross like it was mine. Because it was. Because you wanted it to be.” Nam-gyu deadpanned, Thanos actually stared — his fingers twitching and his breath catching in his throat.

“..The fuck are you talking about?” Thanos asked in an uncharacteristically quiet tone, “You didn’t even cry. You took the fork outta my neck and stabbed someone else with it.” Thanos shot back.

“You didn't cry when you kicked Gyeong-su out, either. I escorted him to the other side, he still thinks you hung the moon.”

That hit where it hurts.

Thanos flinched like he’d been smacked, silence spilling into the space between them like oil.

“..So what now?” Thanos began, irritated. “You came to judge me, or you just came to rub it in? That I’m dead. That you’re better. That you’re the Grim-Fucking-Gyu.” Thanos pointed out.

Nam-gyu stared for a beat longer, then tilted his head. “I came to see if you were ready.” He simply put.

“…For what?”

“To stop pretending you were ever in control.”

And with that, Nam-gyu raised his hand.

The throne began to rot beneath Thanos — flesh pink tendrils crawling up his thighs like ivy, the stone flaking into ash. Smoke coiled tighter around him like a noose.

Thanos scrambled off it, stoned mind screaming, but he didn’t scream out loud. He did what he always did when panicked, laughed it off with a panicked and guttural laugh. “Bro, you really don’t know how to have a chill reunion, do you?” Thanos quipped, Nam-gyu lowered his hand, watching Thanos fall to his knees like it was just heavily reclaiming its prize. “You wanted answers,” Nam-gyu began in an uncharacteristically soft tone that Thanos assumed was reserved for him, feeling some pride in that assumption. “Let’s start with the truth.” Nam-gyu added, moving the base of his scythe from one hand to the next.

The throne was ash behind him now, crumbling like burnt pages, but Thanos — still high as a cathedral ceiling, was too busy gawking at the cloaked reaper looming over him to give any shits. His hands braced on his thighs, knees sunk into the cold, red-lit ground, heartbeat slowing again as the initial terror wore off.

In its place came something.. else. A twitch of heat, a tingle down his spine, not fear — not exactly, anyway. “You look.. taller in this form,” Thanos observed, squinting up with a crooked grin, eyes trailing up Nam-gyu’s looming figure. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie. You, uh.. always dress like this when you’re mad at me, Nam-su?” Thanos attempted to quip, only to be met by the kind of silence that makes one wish they hadn’t spoken up in the first place, hell, not even the room dared to laugh.

Nam-gyu’s jaw tightened — or at least, the top half of his still-human face did. The bottom was all bone, a grinning, ivory maw gleaming under the flickering red light. No lips. Just sharp teeth and shadow. “It’s Nam-gyu.” He snapped, Thanos blinked. “Huh?” He muttered. “Nam-GYU.” Nam-gyu reiterated, his voice cracking like thunder over his skull. “How fucking hard is it, Su-bong?” He pressed.

The high foggued up Thanos' thoughts like condensation on glass. He blinked again, then snorted a laugh. “Okay, damn. Chill, Nam-s—Nam-gyu. Don’t gotta full name me like we’re fighting in a daycare.” Thanos jeered, watching as Nam-gyu stepped forward, robes trailing behind him like a blood tide. Thanos didn’t flinch — he leaned back a little, grin still lazy, eyes dragging over the strange paradox of a face.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

That hood cast shadows over sunken human eyes — eyes he’d only seen bloodshot and glittering in the strobe lights of Club Pentagon. They were still in the same shape, framed by those lashes he used to tease him for. But everything else —

The cheekbones were gone, eaten by the bone beneath. Skin peeled away into skull around the mouth. The lips were gone, and with them any softness Thanos used to catch himself watching too long when they spoke.

Thanos stared now, fascinated into rare silence. “Fuck, you got eyes and bone? That’s hot and terrifying." Thanos sneered, tilting his head while studying Nam-gyu like art. “Shame about the lips, though. Not like I was tryna kiss you or anything—” Thanos trailed off, thinking back to Mingle. He was jolted out of his thoughts when Nam-gyu’s scythe hit the floor again with a clang, echoing like a church ball cracked in half. “You’re stoned out of your skull and you're sitting in my realm.. You don’t even know what you gave me when you died.” Nam-gyu seethed, Thanos smirked, squinting up again. “Fuck yeah I do! My charming company and excellent taste in accesories?” Thanos pondered.

Nam-gyu stepped closer, now barely a breath between them. “Your soul, you moron.” He corrected, Thanos blinked slowly. “Oh.. word?” He muttered, Nam-gyu’s eye twitched with rage, grief, and something deeper beneath the skeletal calm. “And you can’t even say my name right.” He grumbled, that actually stopped Thanos for a moment, a genuine frown spreading across his face. “..Is that what you’re mad about?” He dared to ask, “You remember the color of the pills, the songs you rapped at 4AM, the way Mi-na died screaming. But you still call me Nam-su like I'm just another drug haze in your head.” Nam-gyu snapped.

Thanos licked his lips, mouth dry, stoked brain trying to form a reply — but it stalled, caught in the way those red eyes stared him down, mesmerized by the way they were human and hollow all at once. “Hey.. I didn’t mean it like that, okay?” Thanos reassured, “I just thought it was funny. Like… a nickname.” He reiterated, Nam-gyu’s face didn’t move, but something shifted behind the eyes — possibly an ache. Thanos took this as the cue Nam-gyu had calmed down, leaning back again, trying to lighten the mood with a lazy grin, but his eyes wandered again — down the sharp angles of Nam-gyu’s skeletal jaw, to the tightness around his remaining human feature. “…Man,” he whispered, dazed. “I can’t believe you finally went full skeleton on me. That's like, the final evolution.” Thanos observed, “You’re high and stupid and I should leave you here forever.” Nam-gyu grumbled, his voice coming hoarse this time. Thanos tilted his head, weighing out his options. “But you won’t.” Thanos pointed out, flashing Nam-gyu a smile. Nam-gyu’s red eyes narrowed, “And why’s that?” He pondered. Thanos’ grin softened, just for a second. “Because you’re mad I forgot your name.. which means you wanted me to remember.” Thanos sneered.

There was a brief silence, the scythe trembling just slightly — a fracture in the fury. Thanos, half-leaning, half-failing — rested his hand on Nam-gyu’s cloak, looked right up into those eyes. “And for what it’s worth, Nam-gyu.. You look good like this. Still can’t kiss you though, no lips.” Thanos observed with a quiet smirk, clicking his tongue. “Tragic.” He muttered with a forced frown, leaving the realm of Death, if it could be called that, falling quiet in the wake of Thanos’ flippant remark about kissing skulls. The eerie hush stretched long and uncomfortably, the black and red that bled from the skyless ceiling throbbing like a heartbeat with an arrhythmia — uneven, raw, and too real.

Nam-gyu didn’t move at first, opting to just stand there, hood casting shadows over his eyes, that skeletal lower jaw clenched like he was grinding dust instead of teeth.

Thanos, still cross-legged on the steps of the crumbled throne, chewed on the end of a dried stem from the weed he’d rolled, exhaling another lazy plume of smoke. “Are you done ranting yet?” Thanos asked, pretty used to this song-and-dance from the several times he’d told different girls he wasn’t looking for a relationship. “‘Cause if you’re gonna yell at me for getting your name again, I swear to God, Nam-gyu — Nam-GYOO — I get it, okay? I’m not smart. That’s, like, my whole brand. Move on.” Thanos grumbled, Nam-gyu’s head turned slightly, the red gleam in his sunken eyes taking a noticeable dull — even for someone as stoned as Thanos. “I watched you die.” He muttered, his voice was lower now. Not like a threat, more like a confession buried beneath miles of concrete. Thanos furrowed a brow. “Yeah, well. Me too, man. Kinda hard not to when you’re the one getting forked in the neck like a side dish.” He paused, lips twitching. “Wait. That came out wrong.” Thanos added, Nam-gyu didn’t laugh, hell, he didn’t even blink. “I kept you alive.” He simply put, Thanos blinked, taken aback. “Huh?” He alleged, “Twice.” Nam-gyu added, not answering Thanos’ question at all.

That got his attention. Thanos sat up straighter, brows furrowing through the haze. “The fuck do you mean twice?” Thanos blurted out, Nam-gyu took a simple step forward, his cloak shifting like shadows made silk. The scythe he carried — taller than both of them, with an edge that shimmered like a scream — lowered just slightly, the blade no longer pointed at Thanos but toward the ground between them. “The first time was when you overdosed behind Club Pentagon,” Nam-gyu continued, “You think some security guard found you in the alley, called an ambulance, and there somehow wasn’t a single post about Thanos the rapper overdosing?” He let out a quiet and bitter snort. “It was me. I kept your soul suspended long enough for your lungs to remember how to breathe.” Nam-gyu snapped, Thanos frowned. “No.. No, I was fine. I just passed out for a bit.” He attempted to reassure himself, Nam-gyu’s gaze sharpened — clearly fed up with being ignored and dismissed his whole life, but Thanos couldn’t see that, further fueling his rage. “You were blue.” Nam-gyu seethed, that word cut deeper than anything else had. Thanos opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. “And this time? After the fork? I shouldn’t have interfered.. My protegenitors — what humans would call gods, I guess — they’ll be pissed if they find out I’ve bent the rules again.” Nam-gyu trailed off, running his hands through his hair in visible distress.

Thanos squinted, still trying to keep up.. In his defense, this was A LOT to process. “Okay, time out. Again? What the hell is a progenitor? You’re telling me you got like, Death Parents?” He pondered, shaking his head. “Man, what the fuck kind of Final Fantasy shit is this—” Thanos began,

“Shut up.” Nam-gyu cut in, his voice dropping and his tone shifting to a heavy, hollow, and absolute one. Thanos recalled never being able to sit still or shut up for the life of him, but for once, he didn’t need to be told twice and shut up.

For a second, nothing passed between them but the flickering static of the air, the hum of nothingness, the echo of bones never buried.

Then, Nam-gyu tilted his scythe. Extended it — not to threaten, but to offer. It was a silent gesture, but the weapon’s shadow seemed to stretch like it recognized Thanos’ shape, wrapping around his silhouette like a fitted glove. “If I give you this,” Nam-gyu began, his gaze narrowing. “you’ll be able to do the responsible part of being Death. The collecting. The escorting. Not the judgment — just the passage.” Nam-gyu clarified, Thanos blinked, taken aback. “You want me to.. what? Uber souls to the afterlife?” Thanos clarified, Nam-gyu didn’t answer the sarcasm, he just nodded once. “I can’t focus on the games and manage this realm at the same time. The equilibrium’s off. There’s too much death happening all at once — too fast, too messy. I just need time.” Nam-gyu grumbled, “So you’re gonna trust me? With that?” Thanos alleged, jerking his chin toward the scythe. “You serious, Nam-gyu? I’m a dude who mixed Adderall with pixie sticks once just to see what would happen.” Thanos trailed off, “You also just so happen to be the only person I’ve kept alive.” Nam-gyu shot back, Thanos stared at him, tried to laugh, but ultimately failed when push came to shove. “So what, I just.. take the scythe and start playing Grim Reaper while you go back to slicing throats in the bathroom?” Thanos clarified, Nam-gyu’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, but something near the idea of one. “Something like that.” Nam-gyu replied.

Thanos glanced down at the scythe. The metal still shimmered, soft as a whisper but thrumming with weight, like a heartbeat against his bones. “If I do this,” he began, “Do I get a cool cloak? ‘Cause I’m not doing this without it.” Thanos sneered, Nam-gyu exhaled slowly, it might’ve been a laugh but it just as easily could’ve been a sigh. “Just take it before I change my mind.” Nam-gyu grumbled, and despite everything — his high, his confusion, the gaping void in his chest where his soul used to sit unclaimed — Thanos reached out, painted fingers finding their way to the base of the scythe.

Admittedly, the scythe was heavier than Thanos expected.

Not in weight — its balance was strangely perfect, humming in his hand like it belonged there — but in presence. Holding it felt like clutching a secret too big for his chest, like if he let his grip slip for even a second, he’d forget his own name and become a whisper in someone else’s funeral prayer.

The blade shimmered — not silver, not steel. It was red, almost like it was still wet. The red of sunset outside clouds, the red of dried blood under fingernails, the red of Nam-gyu’s realm, the kind that clung to the back of one's throat and made them think about sins they hadn’t even committed yet.

Thanos admired the way it pulsed like a living thing, it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before. With a cocky grin tugging at his lips, he turned and tilted the blade upward in a lazy flourish, like he was wielding a microphone before a sold-out show. “Alright,” he drawled. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your creepy little errand boy for the dead.” He declared, Nam-gyu tilted his head. His hood shifted, revealing more of the skeletal jawline, the cracks in the bone like old lightning strikes. Those human eyes — buried deep in darkness, narrowed with suspicion. “But,” Thanos added, lifting his free hand and wiggling his fingers with vague, theatrical flair, “I’m gonna need something from you first.” He sneered, following a pause, Nam-gyu’s cloak rippled around him like smoke catching from wind that didn’t exist. “What..” He grumbled, not a question, rather a warning.

Thanos bit his lower lip and did a slow, dramatic pelvic thrust toward the scythe.. Wiggled his eyebrows, raised his hand, slowly drew an invisible heart in the air, broke it, licked the air between his fingers, and finally winked.

Nam-gyu replied with a hard, silent, and unmoving stare. For one long beat, the Realm of Death itself seemed to still, even the scarlet shadows stilled their waltz, then there was a soft, unfitting, and real snort. Nam-gyu’s skull couldn't smile, but it was there in the twitch of his brow, the slight narrowing of his eye — those little movements betrayed something dangerously close to amusement. A smirk one would see on someone seconds before they set a building on fire. “You’re insufferable,” he observed. “And you,” Thanos pointed out, twirling the scythe like it was a stripper pole, “are kinda into to.” He concluded, Nam-gyu surprisingly didn’t deny it. Instead, he opted to take one slow step forward, skeletal limbs echoing against the crimson-veined obsidian floor. His shadow stretched long and black behind him, like wings that could shatter heavens. He stood inches from Thanos now, tall and cloaked, eyes burning like coals behind a skeletal mask. “If you’re going to be a Disciple of Death,” Nam-gyu began in a lower, intimate voice, like the air between two people right before they did something reckless — “you’ll have to learn how to shut the fuck up..” Nam-gyu trailed off, Thanos flashed him a grin. “And here I thought the reaper didn’t do foreplay..” Thanos quipped, Nam-gyu stepped back without another word, but Thanos didn’t miss the faintest twitch in the corner of his eye — a half smile in hell.

The scythe hit the floor with a soft clang — not discarded, but offered.

Surrendered.

Thanos knelt before it, the black-red shadows of the Death realm dancing along the curves of his back, catching in the dip of his collarbone and the silver glint of his rings. His breath was still sweet with the remnants of red-tinged smoke, his eyes glassy but locked onto Nam-gyu with full awareness now.

A hush fell over the domain.. Even down to the walls — those shifting, endless veins of shadow and bone, seemed to hold their breath.

Thanos looked up at him with a playful gaze, “So what now, Nam-GYOO?” He asked, smirking through the syllables like they were flavored with honey and mischief.

Nam-gyu didn’t answer right away, his skeletal silhouette continued to loom like judgment itself, cloak trailing behind him like living ash. And yet, with those human eyes, burning from the hollows, narrowed with something that wasn’t anger — it wasn’t really something Thanos’ stoned out self could name. He took a slow and deliberate step toward the kneeling Thanos, one skeletal hand came down to cup his jaw, the other removing the hood that had long shadowed his face. His fingers were colder and clammier than death itself — but they did their job in steading Thanos like an anchor in a rolling tide. “I’m not letting you slip away again.” Nam-gyu seemed to vow, Thanos opened his mouth to crack another joke — but didn’t. Not when Nam-gyu tilted his chin up, thumb brushing his lower lip with bone-deep intent. Not when the air around them thickened with something weightier than smoke.

The kiss was not gentle.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was a kiss that stemmed from years of fury, Thanos could tell as much.

Nam-gyu’s mouth, for all its skeletal edges, moved like fire over ice — urgent and domineering, dragging a shuddering breath from Thanos as fingers slipped into his plum hair and pulled. Not enough to hurt — just to remind him who he knelt before.

Despite what would’ve been an ego bruise, Thanos had no issue and melted into it, kneeling with more pride than shake, his hands gripping the edges of Nam-gyu’s cloak like it could keep him from falling apart. His teeth clicked softly against Nam-gyu’s, and he gasped a little when skeletal hands slid down his throat, over his chest, slow but firm, like Nam-gyu was learning the shape of him by touch alone. “Fuck..” Thanos groaned against his mouth, “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” Thanos pondered, Nam-gyu didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled him up — not roughly, but with force and authority. The kind of touch that didn’t ask for permission because it already owned the right. Their bodies met, chest to chest, like an oath forged in heat and pressure.

The throne of Death waited behind them.

Nam-gyu walked him back toward it, breath hot against Thanos’ neck. “You want a crown?” He murmured, “Then wear the weight of mine.” He offered, and Thanos — flushed, panting, and marked in bruises that hadn’t bloomed yet actually smiled at this. “You know I’ve always liked a little pressure.” He sneered.

The domain didn’t fade to black, not quite. But the shadows folded in, respectfully. Like curtains drawn around a sacred ritual.. And the next time Thanks sat the throne, well, he wasn’t just lounging anymore.

Chapter Text

The snoring was unbearable.

For crying out loud, it wasn’t even rhythmic. No, Player 100 — Im Jeong-dae snored like he owed the world a debt and was coughing it up in his sleep one gravel-choked breath at a time. Each inhale was a dragging, phlegmy protest; each exhale, a dying wheeze that sounded too stubborn to die.

Yeong-sam was laying on the mattress that may as well have been made of the bones of the dead players, wide awake, eyes wide open in the pitch black. He didn’t sleep, he rested, sure, but never fully let go. Sleep was a poor man’s luxury, a waste of time considering Yeong-sam was above men. He turned on his side, averting his eyes from the ceiling above where mold spread like bruises. Hours later, the air still stank of sweat and old blood from the rebellion — hell, the failed rebellion. With a scoff, Yeong-sam thought about what idiots Gi-hun and his merry little band of martyrs were. What did they think would happen? That the system would collapse just because a few desperate nobodies screamed loud enough? That the gods in masks would just hand over the vault key? Predictably, only three of them survived. Gi-hun, that woman — Hyun-ju, and that wide-dyed Marine freak, Dae-ho. The fourth survivor — ‘Young-il’ — Yeong-sam knew something was off about him from the start when his stench radiated more than anyone else's, Yeong-sam had tried to enunciate there was a plant way back after Red Light, Green Light, however he’d gotten the wrong guy and earned himself an unsteady reputation in the process.. Turns out he was the Front Man all along, the mole.

In a way, Yeong-sam respected that.. A proper rat among fools, wearing the right face at the right time, just like Yeong-sam had done.. Only better. He rolled onto his back again, trying to ignore the way Jeong-dae let out another gurgle beside him, practically vibrating the bunk. “Shut up..” Yeong-sam hissed, jabbing his elbow against the paper-thin mattress divider. Of course, the old man didn’t budge, probably dreaming about money, or power, or whatever dying tyrants dream of. Truth be told, Yeong-sam only stuck around Jeong-dae because he reeked of greed. Hell, the old man radiated it — like an oil spill in human form, the type who’d trade in his grandchildren if it meant another vote for ‘O.’

But tonight, a new feeling gnawed under Yeong-sam’s skin. Not guilt or fear, don’t make him laugh, it was restlessness. His fingers twitched, his thoughts wandering to Nam-gyu, or as Yeong-sam knew him, his homosexual brother, Death! To the way he smiled when he killed, to the shriek of the fork plunging into that girl’s throat, to the rush that rippled through the dorm when the lights went out and order collapsed.. Death was a freak — sure, but he was right.. Killing wasn’t just survival of the fittest, especially for individuals like themselves who were taught: “You can look, but don’t touch.” When it comes to humanity.. Killing was also fun, no, not in the moral sense, morals were for humans with nothing to lose. In those moments, when blood spilled like confetti and the screaming started to sound like music, Yeong-sam felt something close to peace. Like money made flesh, like his whole body turning gold inside.

SNRKKKKHT—HHHHHHHHHHRRRRKKKK..

Oh, would you look at that? Another one! The old man’s face was buried so deep in the mattress above, Yeong-sam was sure it’d fused into the cheap foam by now. Yet still, somehow, his nostrils waged war with the silence.

Yeong-sam pressed his knuckles into his temples, massaging the dull headache growing there like mold. “He’s not even breathing,” He muttered. “He’s fighting demons in his dreams..” Yeong-sam grumbled, glancing around to see if the fellow members of Jeong-dae’s faction were bothered, of course, they weren’t.. This left Yeong-sam to lay still, eyes fixated on the cracked ceiling, the flickering bulb above like a dying sun.. And then, it came creeping back — the family.. Not the kind with hand-me-downs and birthday cake, the original kind, the actual first family that came long before the Fantastic Four, the kind of family that existed before Time had a name, the kind of family that defined things — breathed them into being with blood, will, and fury.

His father, War, was the worst of them all, a goddamn ticking time bomb in a father’s body. Yeong-sam could still picture the way War paced — every step like a tremor, every word fired like a bullet that had lessons carved into the shell casing. He’d say things along the lines of: “Conflict builds character, you don't learn from peace, you learn from pain, if your brother falls, let him.” Yeong-sam snorted, likely leaving any of his new pals to think he was a nutjob. Even back then, he knew how to play the game, he’d throw Death under the bus, under the table, under a fucking avalanche if it got War off his back. “You said it, not me.” He’d whisper behind War’s shoulder, eyes wide, innocence fake and weaponized. Death, with a bloodied lip and twitching fingers, would glare.. But never deny it, never defend himself.. Because that's what Death does, isn’t it? Takes the fall, carries the bodies, and gets buried under the weight of what nobody else wants to admit.

Yeong-sam allowed a lazy smile in the dark, musing how Nam-gyu never really learned. The others weren’t better, the light brood, those gleaming little halos fitting around Mother like houseflies pretending they weren’t born from the same rot. Generosity to be specific, she was insufferable.. She’d walk into the battlefield after War scorched the earth, trying to quote “heal the wounds.”

“You have so much, Yeong-sam,” She once told him, placing her hand over his chest. “You don’t need to take everything." He remembered blinking slowly, then asking: “Do you hear yourself when you speak, or do you just vomit wisdom and hope it sticks?” Her hand pulled back and they’d never formally met after that despite being in these games together, she’d disappeared the moment himself and Death became aware of her presence.. So much for generosity, right?

SNNNNNRRRRRKHHHHH—CHHHHH.

Once again pulled out of his train of thought by Jeong-dae’s bear snoring, Yeong-sam shot a glance up toward the sleeping geezer.. If that old man didn’t choke on his own tongue, he was going to leave it on his conscience. Not that he’d kill him — not yet, Jeong-dae was valuable in the sense he was greedy as hell. A kindred spirit, minus the charm, though useful nonetheless. Full of influence and fear, with just enough senile bravado to keep the rest of the idiots in check.

Yeong-sam rolled onto his side, elbow pressed into the cot, staring at nothing in particular.. He continued to think about Death, that freak had always been worse than the rest, hadn’t he? Death with a temper, Death who held grudges, Death who never forgot being thrown to War like a lamb. Even now, after slaughtering half the X’s like it was therapy, Nam-gyu probably still thought Yeong-sam owed him something.. News flash, he didn’t because Nam-gyu made the mistake of feeling things, letting his skin bruise, letting his eyes burn.. And Yeong-sam? He watched, he counted, he took notes, names, and took the goddamn winnings.. Always had, always would —

SKRKKKKKKHHHHRHRHRHHHHH.

Yeong-sam had never known a sound that felt both visceral and spiritual at the same goddamn time, yet here he was.

It was like Jeong-dae was trying to ascend to a higher plane of existence via sinus implosion.. Yeong-sam swore on his own existence, that man’s nose was full of broken flutes. He tossed and turned, rolling on his side, arms crossed, eyes staring into the deep blackness of the dormitory. The void of the blackness made him think about Death — Nam-gyu, his closest brother, obvious drug user, knife collector, fork enthusiast, professional grudge-holder. They used to cross paths all the time, Death and Greed always intersected whether it was in hospitals, casinos, warzones, even stock trading floors.. They had an unspoken agreement, Death would come for the body, Greed for the wallet. But, Nam-gyu never let it go — not the childhood slights, not the betrayals, not the time Yeong-sam told War it was Nam-gyu who shattered the warhammer displayer out of spite, conveniently leaving out the fact Nam-gyu only did it because Yeong-sam dared him to. Nam-gyu had never stopped glaring at him with those hollow eyes, cold like a gutter in winter. Yeong-sam had initially found it creepy and butthurt, but he shrugged it off and told Death not to be such a corpse about it as if it was the funniest thing ever. Still, if one asked him — and no one ever could without being lectured or slapped, War had always hated Death more than any of them.

Yeong-sam had a theory, he didn’t dwell on it because hey, better Death than Greed, but it circled sometimes, like a shark of idle cruelty. “Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s not into girls.” He mused to himself, watching the darkness overhead.. War loved conquest, loved claiming things, land, glory, wives — who weren’t Yeong-sam’s mother, might he add.. Ahem, regardless, Death never cared about any of that unless one counted that Thanos kid, the one who constantly reappeared every fifty or so years, Yeong-sam mainly knew him as the Groom of Death but the humans knew him as the one with the cross necklace and that weird pouty lip thing like he was permanently annoyed and seducing someone at the same time. Nam-gyu was all sweet on him, and their father would’ve hated that more than anything.

Notice how none of that had anything to do with Yeong-sam? Duh, because none of that was his problem, Yeong-sam had bigger things to think about, like Yeong-sam. He had been one of the first of his family to slip into human skin, while the others were bickering over balance or snuffing candles in the void, Yeong-sam was walking into kingdoms dressed in silk and gold. He had whispered into the ears of emperors, loaned coins to kings, owned ports, poisoned economies with a smile, etcetera. He’d never cared about thrones — just the vaults. It was so easy, as Jeong-dae would say: “Back in my day..” All one needed was a name and a few threats, humans didn’t ask for proof, they just asked for confidence and a place to sign. Then, came Yeong-sam’s worst enemy: modernity, electricity, paper trails, cameras, birth certificates, social security numbers, and data.. And suddenly, he couldn’t even open a damn bank account without someone asking where his mother was born, hell if he knew where she was born. Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end and his cover began to fray in the late ‘90s.

Yeong-sam blamed the blurry photographs on internet forums, people swearing he looked identical to a man from 1981, or 1946, or the Joseon Dynasty. One idiot blogged that he was a vampire, posted a side-by-side photo of him from ‘87 and one from a black-and-white gambling ad in the ‘60s. It went semi-viral. And suddenly, Yeong-sam had to disappear… Again! With no other options, he settled into obscurity, slipped into human labor — ugh, he was well aware.. A normal job in South Korea, some windowless and repetitive accounting office, paper pushing disguised as capitalism. He played his part, claimed a late birth, said his family died in a fire, said he didn’t like cameras, nobody cared enough to press since he’d fancied himself a nobody.

All that power had been reduced to company potlucks and expired printer toner.

Yeong-sam was starting to rot in that skin when the invitation came around: the card, the stamp, the number: 456-034.. He couldn’t shake off the feeling it looked familiar, he never bothered to press on it until he found himself — a sleepless entity, in the dead of night with several hours to let his mind wander to figure out why it looked familiar. He sat up slowly in the poor excuse of a cot, eyes narrowing. “..Shit.” He muttered, realizing he’d been here before, not as a player, but as a VIP way back in 1987.. Clad in a gold mask, white gloves, it was one of the early shows, if not the earliest show. He remembered the taste of the whiskey, remembered the slow death of a man during one of the later games as something funny was said about his weight, remembered the screaming, remembered feeling nothing.. And now, here he was, back as a ‘contestant,’ pretending to be mortal, wearing meat like a jacket.

SSHHHHHHNNNNNNNNKKKKKFGHHHHHHHHH

Yeong-sam dragged a hand down his face and let out a sharp and laugh dry, wondering if Jeong-dae was trying to summon a damn earthquake deity. However, despite the thunderous snoring, the room was still — or it would’ve been.

SNNNNRRRRAAKKHHHTTHHKKK.

Yeong-sam’s eye twitched, deliberately making a slow turn of his head, his neck growing stiff with irritation. Jeong-dae hadn’t just fallen asleep, he had ascended into a state of otherworldly noise, it was like his nasal passages had given up and merged into some kind of wheezing tunnel of wind.. And this guy had not one, not two, but three ex wives? No wonder he couldn't keep a damn marriage, Yeong-sam wouldn't want to sleep on the same mattress as that every day of the year. Yeong-sam tried his best to lay there, teeth grinding behind a practiced smirk in case any other player was awake and wanted to get creeped out by his smirking, until the next snore sounded like someone dragging a chair across a broken tile.. Mother Nature, the man’s face was a goddamn leafblower.

Doing anything to distract himself from the snoring, Yeong-sam’s dark eyes darted around the room and that’s when he finally heard the faint glint of metal — a cuff coming from across the room. Yeong-sam shot up, sitting on his hands as he finally noticed Gi-hun, shackled to the bottom rung of a bunk bed like a sullen beast, his once determined gaze reduced to a motionless one, his eyes were open but nobody seemed to be home.

Another thing worth noting was Gi-hun wasn’t looking at Yeong-sam despite their ruins, Gi-hun’s gaze had settled a few feet across the X’s side of the room, landing on a fast-asleep Kang Dae-ho.. For a place like this, he looked peaceful, one hand behind his head like he was on a beach instead of a murder island. Yeong-sam’s Cheshire grin curled, “Oh.. So that’s how it is..” He mused, the pieces in his head snapping into place — the failed rebellion, the desperation, the betrayal, and now the man who led it all was bolted to a bunk while the marine-boy snored like nothing had happened.. He could almost taste the tension from here, and his acknowledgement of Dae-ho led to a memory surfacing.

“Oh yeah? If you’re a Marine, then I’m fucking Special Forces, you lying sack of shit!” Yeong-sam had spat, the line was still crisp in his head even after a day or so of blood and chaos.

Dae-ho had puffed his chest, arm out, bearing the ink of his past like a medal.

And Yeong-Sam? Duh, he stood in front of the whole damn room and laughed. Mocked him, goaded him, mimicked him.. Did what he did best: throw gasoline on a fire and dared someone to light the match.

Now, here they were — again.. One chained, one sleeping, and Yeong-sam? Perfectly in the middle because he hadn’t been dumb enough to join the rebellion. “Well,” he muttered, sitting up slowly, dusting imaginary lint from his jumpsuit, “If I can’t kill Jeong-dae in his sleep, I might as well go poke a bear.” Yeong-sam declared.

The dorm floor was cold under his white slides, concrete kissed by iron. The stink of sweat, blood, and old fear lingered like a ghost that refused to leave. He walked like he owned the place — because in his mind, he always did. To him, every room was a stock portfolio and every person an asset of liability. Overall, he crossed the space in silence, slip-ons soft against the ground, all the way until he stood at the edge of the scene.

Gi-hun’s head didn’t move, but Yeong-sam could both feel and revel in the way those eyes cut sideways. Yeong-sam leaned downwards, elbows on the top rail of Gi-hun's bunk. “You know,” he began in a rarely soft tone, like a friend slipping secrets in a bar, “He looks pretty peaceful for someone who got your whole crew slaughtered.” Yeong-sam pointed out, Gi-hun didn’t answer — not in the form of a blink, not in his breath hitching, nothing.

Yeong-sam smirked, taking this as a green light to continue. “I mean, if I were you — which I’m relieved to be very much not — I’d be thinking about how one little push in the wrong direction got all those X wussies turned into putty.. Kinda funny, huh? The rebellion failed. X marks the corpses." Yeong-sam jeered.. Still, nothing. He decided to do some instigating in addition to poking the bear, his eyes sliding over to Dae-ho with a curl of his lips. “Bet that fucking wussie told you some noble bullshit, Too.. ‘We can win this.’ ‘We stick together.’ ‘I used to be a Marine.” Yeong-sam snickered, shaking his head. “That one never gets old.” He quipped, shifting his tone to a more serious one. “You know, I used to think you’d make it far since you’ve already done this.. Now look at you, shackled like a dog while he drools in his sleep.. Doesn’t it bother you?” Yeong-sam pressed, deciding he’d done enough and standing up again, stretching lazily, back crackling in the dark. Even if Gi-hun had said nothing, Yeong-sam could still see the tightness in his jaw, clear as day, it was the coil of hatred wrapped around his silence.. That was enough for him. “Get some rest, nutjob.” Yeong-sam jeered over his shoulder, already walking away. “Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, they’ll let you vote again.” Yeong-sam added, not expecting a reply and predictably so, didn’t get one.

Yeong-sam moved like smoke through the room, weaving past bunks with a half-grin already stretching across his face. He stopped beside Dae-ho’s bunk, crouching down slowly, elbows on his knees like he was about to tell a bedtime story. “Hey.” He whispered, voice syrupy and too soft to be genuine. “Hey, marine boy.” He snapped, losing patience and nudging Dae-ho.

Dae-ho stirred in the form of a little twitch and then a heavy blink, his eyes never quite adjusted to the darkness and zeroed in on Yeong-sam.. Upon meeting his haze, Dae-ho flinched — just a twitch, barely perceptible, but Yeong-sam caught it and loved it. “Aw, come on now. You act like I’m the one who stormed out on a rebellion halfway through, I’m just saying hi.. You looked like you could use a friend.” Yeong-sam sneered, Dae-ho finally sat up — albeit halfway, rubbing his face. “What do you want?” He dared to ask, “Conversation.” Yeong-sam simply put, leaning in. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna rat you out for being a lousy revolutionary. Honestly, I get it. Dead bodies tend to put a damper on morale.” Yeong-sam added, Dae-ho’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t rise to it. Yeong-sam squinted at him like he was inspecting a painting, “You know what the real punchline is? You flinched.” Yeong-sam pointed out, Dae-ho didn’t deny it, actually silently proving it when he tensed. “Just now when you looked at me.. Like you were expecting me to hit you or something, that means something, I don’t just miss stuff like that.” He added, followed by a long pause.

Yeong-sam’s voice dropped to a lower, more intimate tone, like he was letting Dae-ho in on some ugly secret. “Let me guess.. Daddy Dearest liked to teach lessons the old-fashioned way? Knuckles. Buckle. Maybe a belt, if you were really out of line?” Yeong-sam ventured, Dae-ho didn’t respond, but something in his shoulders gave a twitch — just a little, but a little goes a long way. This was especially true when something folded up inside Dae-ho, too tightly pressed between bone and memory.

Yeong-sam’s smirk didn’t fade, but his tone shifted, taking on a cold kind of warmth. “Mine wasn’t any better. You know what he’d do?” He paused, chuckling bitterly. “He’d line me and my brother up, guess who got punished more?” Yeong-sam pondered, not waiting for an answer. “I figured it out pretty quick.. If I just —” He trailed off, softly snapping his fingers. “ — shifted the blame a little? My brother took the hit. Every. Time.. He used to look at me like I was the one gutting him alive.” Yeong-sam noted, shaking his head, eyes sharp now, teeth barely showing through his grin. “But you know what? I never felt guilty, not once. Because that’s what survivors do, you dodge the bullet, you throw someone else in the way if you have to.” Yeong-sam paused, noting the way Dae-ho wouldn’t meet his eyes, staring somewhere over Yeong-sam’s shoulder, maybe at the dark, maybe at some old memory trying to claw its way back to the surface.

That was fine by him.

Yeong-sam actually preferred when they didn’t look at him, it made the hits land harder. “You remind me of someone.” He mused, his tone bordering on lazy. Dae-ho blinked, taken aback. “Me?” He asked, genuinely curious. “No,” Yeong-sam snapped, like the idea offended him. “God, no. Not you, I meant my brother before he got nasty.” Yeong-sam clarified, Dae-ho turned his head slightly at that, but Yeong-sam wasn’t waiting for approval, he was already back in the past, eyes glassy with memory. “He was like you, always flinching when our father raised his voice.. Heh, thought if he just obeyed hard enough, he’d be loved.” Yeong-sam let out a low and dry laugh. “I used to hate how easy it was to throw him under the bus.” He jeered, licking his lips as if saving a list he’d memorized long ago. “Once, our father caught me sneaking off when he was training us. I blamed him, said he dared me, said he planned it.. Another time, I stole from a merchan — bleh, I mean the marketer our father was watching, I dropped the bag into my brother’s bed and called the guar — cops myself.” Yeong-sam sneered, his fingers drumming against his knee. “Got extra rice for that one, you ever eat warm rice while someone else’s mouth bled from the punishment stick? Tastes like winning..” Yeong-sam trailed off, of course, the rice part wasn’t true, he didn’t have to eat nor did his brother bleed.

Dae-ho shifted uncomfortably, finally meeting his gaze — but it wasn’t anger, it was a look of disgust. Yeong-sam saw it and only took it as encouragement, leaning closer. “Don’t look at me like that, boy scout. You would’ve done the same. We all learn to survive in different ways. You flinch and obey, I point the finger.” Yeong-sam paused, cocking his head. “Funny thing is, that brother of mine? He never broke, not really anyway, he just changed, got real quiet, then cold, then meaner than anything I’d ever seen, even myself..!” Yeong-sam chuckled at his own jab, his grin faltering for just a flicker, then it returned — albeit far too wide and sharp. “Maybe you’ll end up like him, huh? Wouldn’t that be something? The flinching little liar who gets so sick of being scared, he starts becoming someone worse.” Yeong-sam trailed off, Dae-ho’s lips pursed into a thin like, clearly not in the mood to hear any of it. “Were you really in the special forces?” Dae-ho blurted out, his voice cutting through the still dorm — small, yet sharp.

The question hung in the air like a half-dissolved pill, Yeong-sam wouldn’t know, but his brother sure would. “What?” Yeong-sam muttered, blinking a beat too long. Dae-ho looked up at him, bushy brows drawn. “You said you were.. Earlier..” He trailed off, Yeong-sam’s grin returned in a slow bloom, like a bloodstain in water. “Ah. That.. Of course I was.” He confirmed, his voice carrying that same theatrical belief, like he couldn’t believe Dae-ho would even ask. “Top of my class. Stealth, recon, high-value extraction.. You name it, I've lied about it.” He trailed off, the last part came out too fast, slipping out right before he caught it. Luckily, Dae-ho just stared, watching as Yeong-sam’s smile faltered, for a second, then came back stronger and iron smooth. “Kidding, of course I was.. You think they let this face dodge a draftt?” He quipped, knocking lightly on the side of Dae-ho’s bunk, but the mortal man had gone quiet again.

Something in the tension of his posture suggested the question wasn’t about military service anymore.

Something in Dae-ho wanted to believe him, Yeong-sam could smell it — that faint, lingering ache for validation, certainty, and for someone older, louder, and meaner to tell him who he was or wasn’t.

He was in luck because Yeong-sam? He’d been doing that since before mortals crawled from caves. He let his hand drift lazily down to the dusty floor beneath the bed.

The blood at his knuckle from earlier — the gash he’d picked open during the riot had dried, but not fully.

His index finger smeared a rust-colored trail across the tile, just enough to darken it.

He pressed that same finger into the grime beside Dae-ho’s wrist — not touching his skin, just near it.

With two fingers, he drew something in the dust, not a recognizable shape, not a letter, just a curve, a tail, a swirl..

A spiral of hunger.

“You know,” Yeong-sam quietly mused, almost more to himself than Dae-ho. “my sister used to say I left fingerprints on souls..” Yeong-sam trailed off, Dae-ho glanced down, more oblivious than alarmed. “What?” He muttered, Yeong-sam gave a shrug, like it meant nothing. “Metaphors, right? She was into that poetic shit.. Said once I touched someone, they’d start thinking like me — wanting things.” He continued, his fingers hovering over Dae-ho’s wrist, deliberately pressing the blood and dust mixture against his vein. “Wanting everything.” Yeong-sam concluded, and just like that, he stood. “Anyway. Sweet dreams, jarhead.” Yeong-sam sneered, turning and slithering — like the snake he was, back toward his bunk, weaving around snoring bodies and spilled fear, the whisper of dust still clinging to his fingers.

SNRRRHRHRRHHHHAWWWKKKKK

“I swear on my own reflection,” He hissed as he passed Jeong-dae’s bunk, “I’m gonna invent a new sin just for you.” He vowed, climbing into hisbbed without ceremony, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

Behind him, the mark in the dust pressed against Dae-ho’s wrist remained.

Small.

But growing.

Chapter Text

The dorm was quieter now.. Not peaceful, just emptier in the sense everyone was too afraid to speak.

There were fewer bodies, fewer heartbeats, less hope flinging to the steel bunks, plastic trays, and crumpled remains of the rebellion that had flared and snuffed out like a wet match.

Slowly, Dae-ho blinked awake, his body sore but — strangely — rested. His neck popped when he sat up, and there was a faint metallic scent in the air. Blood, maybe.. Or Sweat, or burnt ozone from gunpowder, hard to say anymore. He rubbed at his eyes, then his chest.

That same pit hadn’t gone anywhere — heavy and familiar guilt sitting on his sternum like a brick someone had left behind.. It wasn’t his fault, was it? He didn’t know he’d fail, he didn’t —

Dae-ho suddenly felt a pair of eyes on him, strange considering he was never one to notice watchful eyes but regardless, he dared to look up and that’s when he saw him: Gi-hun, handcuffed to the lower bunk not far from his, posture stiff and eyes burning holes into his soul. The lines in his face were sharper in the low light, like someone had etched his resentment with a razor.

Dae-ho froze in his tracks. No words were exchanged, but the look did all the talking for them. It was a silent, dare he say baseless accusation, one Dae-ho had been dreading since the gunfire sopped.. The kind that said: “You ran. You let them die.” His stomach did a backflip, not in that sharp, bile-rising way, but something lower — like shame carving its initials into his spine. “Hyung.. I — I didn’t think —” Dae-ho stammered in a voice barely above a whisper, hoping it was because he couldn’t hear him, Gi-hun didn’t answer, didn’t blink, just stared at Dae-ho like he was some shit stain he couldn’t scrub out of history.. And God, maybe he was — for crying out loud, he stood in the corner while they were slaughtered, he flinched, hid, let the weight fall on someone else, just like —

In a poor attempt to calm himself down, Dae-ho let out a shaky breath, his hand twitching as the guilt ran cold. He’d had dreams last night, or maybe not dreams, all he could confidently say was it was something strange. He couldn’t remember details, but he remembered him — the man with the eyebags and Cheshire grin he’d gone back and forth with just a day or so prior, with the words that slithered like oil through his brain: Yeong-sam.

Dae-ho gazed down at his wrist, where the man had knelt beside him last night.

There was a smear of something faint — dust, maybe, or just as easily the simple memory of it. He rubbed it clean and suddenly felt.. exposed. Like something was missing, or something had just started growing.

Dae-ho swallowed hard and turned away, he didn’t have it in him to fight, not yet.. Not after watching hope bleed out of people with names and faces, not numbers. Not when he wasn't sure who he was more afraid of now — Gi-hun, or himself.

Min-su hadn’t blinked in a while.

His eyes stung like hell, he would know. Something in them — not dust, not sweat, something worse and heavier.

Se-mi’s last breath still rang behind his ears like the high whine of an old television left on too long.. From her voice, to her scream, and finally that fucking fork.

His hands were still clutched around the rails of the bunk above, knuckles drained white, fingers long since gone cold. Below him, the stain where she’d bled out had already begun to darken the floor. The guards hadn’t even bothered to clean it, why would they? It was fertilizer in a hellhole like this.

The room around him hadn’t really slept. Instead, the survivors twitched, mumbled, and snored, but no one rested. Not after the rebellion, not after watching their friends, enemies, and strangers torn apart with bullets, forks, and fists. And now? She’s gone.. Because Park Min-su — the embodiment of Life, somehow couldn't move.

Min-su let out a short and tight exhale, it wasn’t even a sob, instead just a failed breath. He couldn't even grieve properly before the mechanical clinks came, the dorm doors hissed and opened like they always did: clean, controlled, and indifferent. The guards marched in, those candy-pink suits betraying no emotion, as if the carnage of last night was a blip, a glitch in an otherwise perfectly functioning machine. “The fourth game will begin momentarily. Please follow the instructions from our staff.” The voice on the intercom announced in a calm, almost gentle tone, it was like hearing a lullaby at a funeral.

Min-su flinched as one of the guards passed close to him, the faint antiseptic scent of their uniform mixing with blood, breath. and whatever the hell else had soaked into the concrete from the night before. With a gulp, he dared to look sideways, eyes drifting toward the others. Yeong-sam was still smirking, like the slaughter had been a well-executed chess match, Min-su wouldn’t be at all shocked if Yeong-sam and Nam-gyu had planned it, speaking of Nam-gyu.. No, don’t look at him.. Not after what he did, not after what he took.

Min-su gritted his teeth — or tried to, they were clattering. He pulled his knees to his chest and held them there like a child trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable and less responsible despite his mind yelling at him that he was supposed to go with Se-mi, he was supposed to take her hand —

The image came back so fast it nearly knocked him sideways.

Her hand, outstretched.

His, too slow.

Too fucking wcarred.

“Come with me,” Se-mi had urged, and he didn’t.

Now there was no one left between him and Death, quite literally, considering Nam-gyu stood somewhere across the room, still and watching.. He always watched with those human-shaped eyes and that animal-shaped harder. Against all odds, Min-su trembled harder — he wasn’t playing for money, that never mattered, what mattered was ensuring a pregnant woman was safe but here he was, mostly surviving out of his own cowardice.

The guards began to corral them into lines, barking in low, rehearsed commands. One of them gestured to Min-su — firmly, not cruelly. He stood, but he staggered, one foot in front of the other, that’s how to fake bravery, that’s how an immortal, yet cowardly individual walked into a game designed to kill them. Unwillingly, a flash of something warm trickled down his temple — he briefly pondered if it were sweat or tears before deducing that both were pathetic so it didn’t really matter anyway.

As the line began to shuffle toward the pastel stairway, Min-su cast one last gaze back at the spot Se-mi had died. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, voice too small to carry. He knew for a fact she wouldn’t hear it, but maybe something would.. Maybe that part of him that used to be more than scared — that part of him once called Life — would wake the hell up.

The pastel pinks of the staircase room had always felt wrong, even on his first day.

Maybe it was because Min-su knew good and well what he was getting into, but he always found it too cheerful, too soft, it was like being handed a cupcake at a firing squad. But today — today wasn’t only wrong. today was sick.

There were scattered bullet holes like freckles across the bubblegum walls, pockmarked reminders of panic and bloodlust. Some high, some low. Some.. painted with red. A smear of something dried and dark dragged diagonally up a stair rail, like someone had tried to crawl their way out, or up, or anywhere.

Min-su’s train of thought came to an abrupt end when alongside the remaining players, his gaze settled on it. While a gasp rippled through the players, Min-su’s legs stopped moving. His feet planted like roots, but his soul threatened to lift clean out of his skin.

Hanging from the iron framework at the heart of the staircase was a macabre chandelier. A lattice of limbs and cooling bodies, twisted together with wire and torn fabric, corpses knotted and dangled like butchered bodies.

They had made art of the deceased rebellion — they made.. decoration.

Min-su’s stomach curdled, he didn’t cry — he couldn’t, his body had stopped making tears.

“You are witnessing the fate of those who refused the democratic process of voting and instead attempted to stop the game using violent means.” The voice came like a sermon, echoing cold and clean from speakers hidden somewhere in the pastel eaves. There was no emotion, not even any malice, just sterile instruction, like reading microwave directions.

One of the players ahead — he didn’t know the number — collapsed to their knees, sobbing. Another vomited off the stairway rail. The pink caught the bile in high contrast.

Min-su blinked slowly, still frozen, as if time itself would stall long enough for him to understand this. He didn’t have to look, he felt that familiar chill — that void with a heartbeat.. Wherever Nam-gyu stood, he was smiling at the deaths.. “This is hell..” Min-su dared to whisper, startled by a hand behind him — a stranger’s — but compassionate enough to gently nudge him forward, not cruelly, not kindly, just to keep the line moving.

With a shaky sigh, Min-su stepped forward, one foot, then the other, then again, his mind screaming at him not to look up — not again, but he did, of course he did. He looked up to discover Se-mi wasn’t there, figuring they must’ve kept her for something else and that terrified him more than seeing her hung, because maybe she wasn’t being displayed, maybe she was being punished.

And whatever awaited them next — the fourth game, the fifth, the finale — he couldn’t stop the nagging truth burning at the edge of his thoughts: he should be up there, he should’ve called it quits and died with her, and maybe.. maybe she’d still be alive if he had.

The intercom's voice cut through the air like a blade across skin in the sense it was sharp, sterile, and merciless. It echoed against the walls in that mechanical cadence, bouncing off the corpse-draped stairwell and directly into Dae-ho’s skull.

“Irrational behavior.”

What did they mean? Screaming? Running? Crying? Or was it just.. being human?

Dae-ho’s throat closed, a dry sting catching behind his palate and clawing its way downward. He tried to swallow, but he couldn’t, the bile had already caught at the base of his tongue, and he bent forward with a choking gasp and coughed. It started as one cough, but soon chalked up to three, and finally settled at five dry and raspy coughs. It was the kind of cough that hurt — the kind that scraped at his ribs like guilt itself had grown claws.

A few players turned toward the sound, flinching instinctively like he was contagious, as if grief was something one could catch. Dae-ho covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow, trying to muffle it, but it kept coming. Each cough was more violent than the last, until he was shuddering forward like a glitching marionette. His knees buckled slightly, he reached for the wall — pastel pink, cracked with bullet holes — and steadied himself with a trembling palm, internally scolding himself to get it together, get it together, get it —

Dae-ho turned, breathless, trembling, and met eyes with Gi-hun.. Or rather — Gi-hun’s dagger glare, even grieving, he looked more dangerous than any guard. Well aware it was pathetic, Dae-ho couldn’t even hold the stare for longer than a few seconds. He visibly and shamefully flinched, his gaze dropping like a coin down a drain, landing somewhere near Gi-hun’s identical slip-ons. He screamed at himself to say something — apologize, beg, lie, anything.. But he suddenly couldn’t do anything, he suddenly became acutely aware of how his mouth tasted like metal and ash, his tongue sitting heavily on his jaw like it didn’t belong to him. Finally, he managed a simple, shallow breath, then looked away — slowly and shamefully, like a child caught stealing. He knew he should’ve helped, knew he should’ve stayed, knew he should’ve died with him, at least then it’d be honorable.. But he hadn’t, and now they were hanging above him like wind chimes made of flesh, and the only thing that kept Dae-ho from vomiting was the dry, hot knot in his throat, yelling that he’d deserved this.

But even then — even now — he wasn’t sure which part he deserved:

The shame?

Or the fact that he was still alive and Jung-bae, alongside others, weren’t?

The walls to the fourth game lobby were black — not the matte of chalkboard or coal, but the lacquered void of obsidian. Every inch of them reflected the players like distorted ghosts, tall and twitching, fractured at the edges. It was like stepping inside a coffin meant for sixty. No windows, no clocks, just a gold floor beneath their feet, the bright, gleaming color of false promises — as cold as metal left out in the rain.

At the center of the room, a knife-shaped archway carved a violent silhouette into the far wall. Two guards stood at attention on either side, bright pink suits taking up a slight dull under the fluorescents, their masks deliberately unreadable and impassive. They might as well have been mannequins — murderous mannequins. “Welcome to your fourth game. This game will be played between two teams. Before we start the game, you will divide into teams. Please take turns drawing a ball from the gumball machine in front of you.” The mechanical, monotone, and meaningless voice came from above.

Surely enough, the gumball machine stood there innocently and comically, like something snatched from a forgotten arcade. Complete with clear plastic, a chrome handle, and gleaming like a bullet, the only difference separating this machine from typical arcade ones was that instead of giving out candy, it decided one's fate.

Min-su stood near the back, heart jackhammering in his ribs, hands twitching nonstop. He watched the line slowly move forward, each player stepping up, turning the knob, and catching a ball in their trembling palms.

Blue. Red. Red. Blue.

Min-su barely registered the others until him — Nam-gyu slowly and deliberately stepped up, like he was entitled to the machine. His ring-covered knuckles were still crusted with dried blood — Se-mi’s blood, it sent Min-su’s stomach into a series of nervous curls — her screaming, her choking, her dying.. All of it, and Nam-gyu had smiled.. His bastard brother smiled. Min-su’s fingers clenched into fists so tight, his nails bit into his palms. He watched as Nam-gyu turned the knot with that lazy confidence only monsters could afford, the ball dropped into his hand and Min-su had to shift his position ever-so-slightly to deduce Nam-gyu had gotten red.. Min-su kept his gaze on Nam-gyu, watching as he looked down at it, then looked up — as if he knew.

Not in the mood to be in even murkier waters with Nam-gyu than he already was, Min-su looked away before their eyes could meet. He couldn’t stop pondering — Why? Why did it have to be him? Why is he still here? He didn’t know when he’d started shaking again, his legs felt like scaffolding made from paper straws. He tried to breathe — in through the nose, out through the mouth — but it just came out like static. His fingers furiously twitched.

He didn’t want to go.

Didn’t want to step forward.

Didn’t want to be seen.

But the line was moving and the machine was waiting.

By the time it was Min-su’s turn, he felt like a puppet moving through molasses. Step. Step. Step. His hand hovered above the knob like it might bite him.. He was pleading with the universe: don’t be red, don’t be red, please don’t —

He turned it.

The ball dropped.

Low and behold, red.

Min-su stared at it like it had betrayed him, because in a lot of ways, it had. His fingers curled around the rubber, warm from the friction of the machine. He didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or vomit.. All he knew was they had got to be kidding him. Across the room, Nam-gyu stood in line with the rest of the reds, holding his red ball and waiting.

The space between them felt shorter than it should’ve.

Min-su’s thumb trembled over the seam of his ball, and somewhere behind the panic, the resentment boiled over like oil on fire. He’d killed Se-mi, the one mortal Min-su developed a friendship with — and Nam-gyu should know what such a thing was like, yet he still did it.. And now they were on the same team? No.. not a team. The same slaughterhouse queue. He didn’t know what the fourth game was, but he knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t survive if he let Nam-gyu be the one to write the ending again.

The air in the room thickened as the final players took their places, the pastel-horror of earlier replaced now by something cleaner, sharper, and colder.

The guards moved in swift choreography, ensuring the red and blue players were divided into two sides — reds to the left, blues to the right — slapping stiff, neoprene vests over their chests like tags on livestock. Min-su’s fingers trembled as he slipped the red vest over his shoulders, the color bleeding down his body like guilt — like shame. Across the room, the Blue Team stood bathed in the opposite glow.. Blue like bruises, blue like gasping lungs, blue like the veins in Se-mi’s neck when she — stop it, don’t think about her now, don’t think about her now.

A guard mounted the narrow staircase that coiled into the black ceiling, they looked down like a hanging judge surveying a pit of sinners. “The game you will be playing is hide and seek.” The guard declared, that alone sent a ripple through the crowd — consisting of twitches of curiosity, confusion, and before Min-su could fully place every emotion.. “The Blue Team must either find the exit and escape within thirty minutes or stay hidden from the Red Team until the time is up.” The guard added, Min-su’s gut flipped.. Exit? There was an exit? He was yanked out of his train of thought by Yeong-sam, grinning like the cat that broke the canary’s neck, holding up his vest with a lazy smirk. “Wait, what about the taggers? Just like when we played this as kids, right? We find the ones hiding?” He alleged. Min-su blinked.. No, they never played together, they were never kids. He knew that for a fact — because he’d watched Greed squirm into humanity the same way Nam-gyu slithered through grief. Yeong-sam only wore the memory of childhood like a cheap jacket, it was something he’d only picked up for appearances. However, the guard didn’t miss a beat. “The Red Team, otherwise known as the taggers, must find members of the Blue Team within thirty minutes.” The guard announced, the words briefly hanging in the air like a dropped chandelier, silence cracking open.

Soon enough, the room erupted into a cacophony of disbelief, anger, and questions that buzzed like hornets. Someone near Min-su gasped while another cussed, one man started to cry, all of it blurred. Min-su sort of just.. disassociated, staring straight ahead, chest rising falling too fast and too hard. Kill them?.. Kill them? “If you fail to kill any opposing players,” the guard continued, “you will be eliminated.” They concluded. By this point, Min-su’s knees nearly buckled when he realized it was a game of murder tag. All of a sudden, the walls felt smaller now, the black surface closing in like a coffin slamming shut. The golden floor mocked them, looking much more like a red carpet for slaughter.

And worse — worse — somewhere in that electric room of fear and chaos, Min-su had the thought.. The thought that burned his throat and stomach with bole. Was it wrong that he sort of — definitely — wished Nam-gyu was on the Blue Team? So he could kill him.. Even if he was immortal and would just come back with a genuine reason to hate Min-su, not that he ever needed one.. Min-su shook the thoughts out of his head, gritting his teeth. What kind of thought was that? What kind of Life thinks that? He saw what he did, he saw her die, and he still didn’t do anything.. And now he wanted to pretend he could — that he would? Min-su clutched at the hem of his vest, red stretching between his fingers like dried blood. He glanced across the room, locking eyes — if only for a second — with Nam-gyu, who was already stretching his shoulders, flexing his wrists, as if warming up for a job interview. The job in question? Death. His resume? Eternal. Min-su looked away — too fast for a supposed accidental glance, he was the embodiment of Life, he was supposed to save people, not.. want this. Not even when the person — being just a few feet away had murdered Se-mi like she was a thing — like she was disposable.. Not even when that person deserved it. And yet, the red vest clung to his shoulders like a curse.

The announcement sliced through both the tension and Min-su’s distasteful thoughts like a blade pressed to skin: “You have been given keys to doors in the arena. You can use that key to go through the doors, but once a door is unlocked, it cannot be relocked.” Around him, the Red Team shifted on their feet. Already, the anxiety had mutated — no longer fear of death, but fear of disadvantage. He could hear the change in their voices, taste it in the air like iron and rot. Yeong-sam didn’t wait a second, “So they can hide somewhere and lock us out? What the hell is that? They have it so much easier!” Yeong-sam exclaimed, his voice echoing with a greasy accusation as he jabbed an accusatory finger toward the blues as if it was their fault.

“Yeah!”

“That’s not fair —”

“They can just barricade themselves!”

While the room rumbled with a chorus of agreement, Min-su shrank back as the fury swelled like a red tide, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of it. He knew this part of humanity too well — the way fear twisted into envy, and envy into violence. Greed had always known how to stir the water until it foamed. Min-su didn’t have to look his way to know Yeong-sam turned, lips pulling into a smirk like a wolf who’d spotted meat. “What’s the point of a tag game if the people hiding get to build bunkers?” Yeong-sam pressed, clearly he was already envisioning it — not the challenge, but the excuse. A future failure, already justified. The kind of man who tripped a competitor in a race and blamed the track. Min-su’s gaze flicked across the red team. Many of them nodded, some clenching their fists like they were about to snap them in protest. Speaking of snapping, the tension was seconds away from snapping.

Luckily and unluckily, the guards moved — efficiently as ever, they wheeled in a box.. Not large, rather rectangular, wrapped in deep velvet with red brass hinges. “We understand your concerns. That’s why we prepared a small gift for the Red Team. Please open the box and check.” The guard assured, Min-su found his breath catching in his throat once again. Nothing good ever came in boxes here, he remembered the last “gifts.” A bottle, a fork, and finally a corpse.

One of the players — someone too brave or too stupid to hesitate — opened the box.. The lid creaked open, slowly and theatricially, inside: knives, dozens of them.. Long blades, curved and mean-looking. Not the sort one would use in a kitchen — the kind one would use when they either never cared or stopped caring what the end looked like, just as long as it bled.

Murmurs fell into silence, even Yeong-sam was quiet for a moment, however, operative word being moment. “Now that’s what I call a party favor.” He whistled, reaching in and picking one up, testing its weight in his palm like he’d done it a hundred times before. Knowing him, he had. “Each Red Team player will receive one. Please use them responsibly." The guard continued with hollow cheer, in which a few of the red players laughed — a kind of manic, helpless laugh. Like there was anything responsible about what they were about to do.

Min-su stared down at the knife they handed him. It felt so wrong in his hands.. Hot, even though it was metal. Wrong, even though it was real. He reminded himself he was Life, he wasn’t supposed to hold this. Despite this reminder, the weight didn’t leave his hand, neither did the rest vest, and neither did the guilt.

Across the room, some of the Blue Team clutched their keys like prayers while others backed up instinctively, and finally, some seemed to have given up and just stared.

Min-su closed his eyes for a moment.

He thought about Se-mi’s laugh, about the way she always looked forward.

And now here he was, armed even if he shouldn’t be.

Nam-gyu liked when things were quiet — not in the peaceful sense, but the aftermath kind of quiet. Like the post-explosion hush, the still air right after someone’s last breath, the soft hum in his head when responsibility left the room.

He hadn’t felt this light in.. well, ever.

No scythe, no ledger, no names to memorize, no progenitors above pestering him about the “natural order.” He’d given all that crap to Thanos, who was probably still holding onto the scythe like a good little corpse. “Sucker.” Nam-gyu sneered, a smile tugging at his lips. Despite everything, he still missed the bastard, even if Thanos always acted like he was smarter, smoother, better with people. Even if Thanos constantly told him to shut the hell up in front of girls and stop making the team look bad. Even if he never once called Nam-gyu by his actual name, always just “Nam-su.” Still, he missed him. But now? Nam-gyu had the best of both worlds, no more rules, no more records, just him, a crowd of mortals, and blood to be spilled like a bottle of wine no one could afford.

Nam-gyu was still smiling when the red box was passed to him. Don’t get him wrong, it wasn't out of curiosity — he’d already seen it, already felt the hum of violence inside, the little whisper of intention in every blade. Like they were alive, like they wanted to cut, like they were waiting for him. Nam-gyu opened it with casual grace, humming a low, mocking tune as he lifted the lid. Inside sat a knife far too pretty for the company it’d soon keep, complete with a pink handle wrapped in swirling turquoise, like bubblegum daydreams — the kind a kid might fantasize about before someone like Nam-gyu ruined their life. The blade was thin and eager, it was the kind of weapon that didn’t ask to be used, rather demanded. “Aww, they do know my taste.” He mused with an intoxicated grin, picking it up, turning it over like he was admiring a trinket in a boutique window, and finally, without hesitation, he drew the edge across his own index finger. It wasn’t deep or fatal, just enough to open the skin and let memory out.

The blood was warm, sweet-smelling — and Nam-gyu could hear someone gasp behind him, good, he liked when people watched. “Ohhhhh!” Nam-gyu spun, holding the blade like a magician revealing the final card. He waved it front of the Blue Team, just a few feet away from Myung-gi and sole man-lady, he didn’t know what she was supposed to be, he’d watched his beloved dinosaurs gradually evolve into lame-ass birds so he supposed one changing their gender wasn’t out of the cards, however, both of which recoiled instantly. He couldn’t believe they were scared of a little pink, he’d seen nastier things come out of a kids birthday cake.

Nam-gyu barked a loud and off-beat laugh — like something was broken in the music box that ran through his thoughts. The players nearby shifted away, some wide-eyed, others averting their gaze entirely. One muttered something like “Hophead,” but Nam-gyu didn’t care, why would he? He was having the time of his death. He wiped the blood across his vest like war paint, then licked a finger out of pure habit. His own, this time. He wasn’t feeling generous. “This is gonna be fun,” he whispered, tapping the blade to his temple. Whether he meant it literally or not — even Nam-gyu wasn’t sure, but wasn’t that the beauty of being free?

The knife continued to sit warmly in his hand like it belonged there, like it was an old friend who’d missed him.

“The Red Team can use knives to attack the Blue Team. However, members of the Red Team are not allowed to attack each other.” From above, the intercom’s voice slithered through the black-walled room like a sermon echoing through a mausoleum.

Nam-gyu’s grin faltered for the briefest second, how boring. However, his attention was redirected across the blood-gold floor, Jeong-dae — that leathery old fuck who smelled like dying stock options and 1980s cologone, raised a trembling, self-important hand like this was a shareholder meeting. “Shouldn’t you give us a shield or something?” He called out, mouth twitching like a dying fish. “You give them knives and expect us to just run around unarmed?" He spat, Nam-gyu rolled his eyes so hard his vision went white for half a second. When would this old man realize he already had a shield? It was called Yeong-sam's spine, and he’d been hiding behind it since Red Light, Green Light. “Just hide somewhere. It should be a piece of cake!” Yeong-sam piped up like clockwork, his voice lacquered in mockery, the sarcasm dripping down his words like motor oil.

Nam-gyu tilted his head, watching the power dynamic from afar with the interest of a cat watching mice organize a revolution. But it wasn’t the old man’s plea or even the guard’s answer he was listening for, it was Yeong-sam’s tone. “Brother,” Yeong-sam mused, through a jaw clenched so tight one could hear the enamel scream. “That’s what you’re good at.. hiding like a rat.” Yeong-sam spat through gritted teeth, he even pointed the knife. Not in a dramatic flourish, not as a joke — but with intention, like he was already rehearsing the final thrust in his head. Nam-gyu had seen this coming, he remembered Yeong-sam whispering in between teasing him about Thanos that as soon as he got the chance, he was cutting the old man loose and usurping his influence amongst the O’s for himself. Now the moment was here, and Nam-gyu was anything but surprised. Greed had always been a patient predator, he’d watched his brother devour empires from the inside out without ever getting his hands dirty. But Jeong-dae must’ve hit his expiration date, rich men always eventually did.

“We will give you one last chance to change your fate. If any of you are not happy with your roles, you may switch roles with someone on the opposing team before the game starts. You can swap your items and vests upon mutual agreement. But once the game starts, removing or trading your vests will be strictly prohibited. Please make your choice carefully.” The voice advised again, tone clean and cold — like a knife freshly pulled from ice.

That caused a ripple of noise consisting of shuffling feet, whispers, and hopeful eyes darting toward friends and strangers alike. A couple of people on the Blue Team looked around nervously, clutching their keys like talismans.

Nam-gyu had no intention of moving, he didn't need to switch. He liked the way the red vest clung to him like a second skin — red was the color of arterial spray, the color of rage, of endings, of fun, of death. He looked down at the knife in his hand, admiring how perfect it was. “Why would I trade in Christmas morning?” He muttered, catching wind of across the room, Min-su staring at him again — all big ol’ bug eyes and guilt, like a dog too scared to bite but too proud to look away. Nam-gyu gave him a wink and drew a slow, imaginary line across his throat with the edge of the blade. He could already taste the chase, and man, was he hungry.

The black-walled chamber buzzed with anxious breath and damp palms, the heavy scent of rubber soles against gold-polished floors mingling with the sour, anxious tang of anticipation.

“None of you can get out of here alive,” the voice of that psychic bitch exclaimed, voice light and laced with ceremonial certainty. “Only I, shaman of the sea, can guide you to the path of life.” She declared, Nam-gyu raised a brow, not needing to glance toward the sound to feel the absurdity ripple through the room like a tide hitting stone. Sure enough, there she stood — Player 044, her near-identical jumpsuit sleeves fluttering like ghost banners, her hair pinned up with talismans that probably reeked of incense and delusion. Around her, a trembling huddle of blue-vested followers dropped to their knees, some clasping their hands in prayer, others bowing their heads as if she might personally levitate them out of this deathbox.

Unable to help himself, Nam-gyu let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, this is rich,” he muttered to no one in particular, spinning his knife by the tip of its pink handle. He watched as she raised a single trembling arm like a conductor invoking the heavens. “Dear gods of heaven and earth,” she called, eyes rolling back so far it looked like her brain had left the building. “I can see all the paths in that place from here.. It is not with my eyes that I see! The gods of heaven and earth are leading me by the hand!” She exclaimed, that was the nail in the coffin for Nam-gyu. Unable to take it anymore, he doubled over with laughter, straightening up mid-cackle, wiping an nonexistent tear from beneath his eye with the same hand that held the blade. “Lady,” he wheezed, catching his breath, earning a few snorts from the Red Team members behind him. Even some of the blues shifted awkwardly in their places, unsure whether to stay loyal to the gods or their instinct to survive. Nam-gyu shot Min-su a sideways glance as if to say: “Can you believe this crap?” But the embodiment of Life didn’t meet his eye, good. Nam-gyu wasn’t in the mood for any divine moralizing, he wasn’t here to talk to gods, he was here to play tag, and he was it.

Speaking of Min-su, Nam-gyu noticed the way he sat with his back flush against the cold obsidian wall, knees drawn to his chest like a child at the bottom of a deep wall, and made an immediate beeline for him. “Min-su.” Nam-gyu started in a soft and crooked tone, coated in sugar, like a treat meant to rot from the inside out.

Min-su’s eyes lifted before his head did, and there he was — Nam-gyu, crouching in front of him like a specter dressed in flesh, the pink-handled knife twirling lazily in his ring-covered fingers. “Have you ever killed anyone?” Nam-gyu asked, knowing good and well. “Hey, there’s no time. If you can’t do it, switch teams.” Nam-gyu sneered, waiting to pounce at the opportunity to take out Min-su even if he knew he couldn't get rid of him for good. Min-su didn’t answer, his throat was all sandpaper and shame, but he did look around — anywhere but at the man in front of him, the guards, vests, and doors were apparently super interesting all of a sudden.

Nam-gyu seized the opportunity to lean closer, voice lowering to a poisonous whisper. “You’re damn good at hiding… Min-su, I looked everywhere for you last night, but I couldn’t find you. Where were you hiding?” Nam-gyu paused, his smile widening. “Were you that scared of me?” He snarked, reveling in the way Min-su said nothing, but his body gave him away, visibly shrinking. Nam-gyu grinned, proud of the reaction and moreso, proud of the power. “It’s good that you hid yourself. Well done.” He snarked, his tone suddenly turning venomous without warning. “That fucking bitch —” he hissed, “— Thought she was Wonder Woman or something. That goddamn bitch treated me like a fucking idiot, and she..” He trailed off, pupils shrinking as he locked eyes with Min-su, who finally met his gaze.

Life and Death stared at each other for a rare moment, the world narrowed to that sliver of space between them, time bent strangely in that breath.

Nam-gyu’s chest lifted with a deep breath, letting out a soft, hissing chuckle that curdled in the air. “Did you see it?” he asked, head cocked like a dog listening for ghosts. “Damn.. you saw it, didn’t you?” Nam-gyu observed, noting how Min-su’s silence was a scream. “But you stayed hidden. Like a fucking rat.” He spat, his voice dropping an octave, bordering on a growl. “Just watched?” Nam-gyu laughed again, louder this time, shoulders shaking like he was high off the memory. “You should’ve helped her,” he purred in a sing-song like tone. “That fucking bitch liked you.” Nam-gyu pointed out, leaning in, eyes flickering with delighted cruelty. “Min-su.. I like that look in your eyes. Keep that lock when you go in there. And just go for it..” Nam-gyu trailed off, setting the knife between them — its turquoise twirls glinting in the gold light, and pulled something from around his neck: a cross necklace, the chain glimmering with blood that had dried in its grooves.

Nam-gyu stared down at Min-su, crouched like a culture sizing up a half-dead animal. There was glee in his eyes, sure, but not joy — more like the sharp glint of a blade catching a light that was meant to blind rather than illuminate. “Thanos, that fuckkg bastard, is dead.” Nam-gyu managed to say without wincing, adding a sigh so casual it could’ve been mistaken for grief if it wasn’t slaughtered in mockery. “So is everyone else in our group..” He added, tilting his head, lips curving into an expression resembling a pout. “I’ll be really lonely if you die too..” Nam-gyu snarked, hardly being able to take such a statement seriously, even behind his eyes, the truth twisted like a worm in an apple — he hoped Min-su would die, or at least crack, or maybe.. both. He didn’t care which came first. He reached forward without warning and grabbed Min-su’s cheeks, squeezing them roughly as if he was shaping clay, fingers digging in just enough to hurt without leaving marks. “So be a man for once in your life, okay? Think you can do it?” Nam-gyu sneered, watching as Min-su winced beneath his grip, lips pressed into a thin, white line. His body didn’t move nor did it breathe, seemingly under the impression that if he stayed still enough, maybe Nam-gyu would vanish.

Min-su’s impression led to something close enough, Nam-gyu grew bored with his lack of reaction and released him with a sharp little shove, picked the knife up from where it glinted on the floor, and stood. “You can do it, my bro, Min-su.. You can do ittt~! My brooo~!” Nam-gyu jeered, switching his voice to a syrupy and ridiculous one, mimicking Thanos’ broken English with cartoonish enthusiasm. “Min-su~! See you again, Min-su~!” He snorted like a piglet, waving the knife around like a barton.

The impression was so exaggerated it bordered on insulting — but Nam-gyu didn’t care, the way Min-su looked at him with that bruised little stare made it allworth it. He turned away with a grin so wide it pulled at the corners of his lips like stitches.

For the first time in his eternal, bone-tired existience, Nam-gyu didn’t feel the weight of the dead pressing on his shoulders. No scythe, no soul count, no ancient responsibilities he’d known his entire life. “This must be why Thanos was so chill all the time..” He mused to himself, almost thoughtfully, as he twirled the knife between his ring-covered fingers. “Being high and having no responsibilities? Shit..” He trailed off, throwing his head back and letting out a little laugh. “It feels great.” He noted. And with that, he finally strolled away from Min-su, whistling a tune that didn’t belong to any real song — just something hollow and off-key, like the tune a dying music box might croak before it gave out.

Nam-gyu’s white slides dragged across the gold-tiled floor as he wandered away from Min-su, trailing the scent of iron and apathy behind him. The polished surface mirrored everything above — blue vests, red vests, trembling hands cluching keys, and distorted it into funhouse reflections, as if mocking the idea of choice itself.

Nam-gyu passed by a cluster of players caught mid-debate, a pair worth noting was Myung-gi and his little pregnant girlfriend, a girl who looked like her spine would snap from stress before labor even got a chance. They were speaking in whispers, both clutching their vests like it would keep them afloat in a sea of blood. Nam-gyu cocked his head, taking in the way Myung-gi looked at her, desperate and cracked around the edges, it was almost touching — operative word being almost, considering it wasn’t enough to move Nam-gyu, he merely clicked his tongue, amused.

And with that, Nam-gyu kept moving, eyes landing next on the giggle twins: the mother and her adult son from earlier, arguing quietly in the corner, vests two different colors. But the real circus was just a few feet further — Yeong-sam, surronded by his usual pack of degenerates, standing with his chest puffed out like a rooster in heat. He was swinging his knife though the air in wide arcs, slicing at invisible enemies, tongue clicking with satisfaction after every slash. He could practically taste the pure hreed bleeding off Yeong-sam — arrogant, loud, and empty. The same flavor he’d choked on during their countless lives together, the kind of taste that clung to ones teeth and wouldn’t come out no matter how much blood you washed it down with. Nam-gyu knew he needed to team up with someone incase that shaman lady really was legit and could sense his presence, he’d like to disguise his divine scent by hiding behind anothers.. But Yeong-sam was a pass, he’d had enough servings of his brother to last ten eternities. His eyes drifted back toward the edge of the room, where the quieter ones were waiting, fidgeting, hoping no one would look at them too long. Nam-gyu’s gaze slid across a thin boy hugging himself, to a girl with glasses praying under her breath, and finally a player so still he looked like human furniture.

Nam-gyu licked his lips, deciding he was in the rare mood to corrupt a mortal. And with that, he sauntered off, whistling low through his teeth, eyes scanning for cracks to wedge his soul into.

“The game will begin momentarily. Blue Team, please get ready to enter the arena. Let me repeat —” The announcement crackled overhead, it likely said more as it usually did, but Nam-gyu tuned it out in favor of something more worthy of his attention.

Nam-gyu didn’t listen to the rest, he’d already made up his mond.

His white slip-ons echoed against the polished gold floor as he scanned the dispersing sea of red and blue. With a sharp gaze and a mouth twisted in thought, his gaze darted around the room before his eyes finally settled on Myung-gi.

Still close to that girlfriend of his — the now Blue Team traitor. Tch. Romance. He hated the smellcof it, especially lately. Romance in HIS wake? No. If he couldn’t be happy, no one could. Not Myung-gi, not that girl, not even Thanos’ ghost. Nam-gyu moved like a wave crashing toward the shote, he brushed his considerably long hair out of his face with one ring-covered hand and cocked his head, putting on the sweetest tone he could muster. “Want to do this together?” Nam-gyu vaguely asked, Myung-gi tensed up, brows drawing together like clouds before a storm. “Do what..?” He grumbled, likely under the impression Nam-gyu was going to give him shit, but Nam-gyu was no mindreader. “You think the blue vests are just gonna let you kill them? Please. They’ll scream, they’ll run, they’ll kick and cry. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier if we do it together.” Nam-gyu pointed out with a chuckle, his breath as sharp as razors.

Myung-gi’s gaze moved up and down Nam-gyu’s frame, taking in the maniac grin, the blood-lusted eyes, the pink-and-turqoise knife that didn’t belong in a warzone but looked damn good in Nam-gyu’s hand. He didn’t speak, not at first, anyway. Nam-gyu rolled his eyes and grinned wider, “Relax. I’m not trying to take you out on a candlelit date. This isn’t about a relationship, just a one night stand —” He paused to lean in slightly, voice dropping. “— So to speak.” He added, however, still nothing from Myung-gi, he looked like he was pondering pivoting, bailing, or choosing a new corner of hell to sit in just to get away from Nam-gyu, who clicked his tongue — tch, fine.

Time to dangle the bait.

“When you stanbed Thanos,” Nam-gyu began, letting his sentence hang in the air like a noose, “you were fucking awesome.” Nam-gyu raved, there was no time for sentiment, no pause for any rebuttal.

BEEP.

The digitial timer began its count.

“Red Team, please enter the arena.”

“Come on..” Nam-gyu urged under his breath with the patience of a saint being denied his last cigarette. Myung-gi finally nodded in the form of a small, tired, knowing nod. Nam-gyu’s brow shot up, he’d seen a lot of unpredictable things that taught him to expect the unexpected, but he hadn’t expected that. A bark of laughter ripped from his chest even if nothing was funny, running his hands through his hair again — Thanos’ old tell, his fingers even flexed like him. “Let’s get it!” He exclaimed with mock enthuiasim, dropping his voice into a butchered American accent. He laughed ahain, it felt too damn good — too free, no souls to ferry, no Thanos to impress, no cosmic weight around his neck, just a knife, a game, and someone to help make it hurt.

Skies above, he could almost cry from the sheer joy he felt.

But instead, he grinned and waltzed into the arena.

Chapter Text

The green doors creaked open with a hiss like a dragon exhaling stale breath, spilling the Red Team into the mouth of the maze.

Yeong-sam was among the first to step through, his knife gripped in a hand slick with anticipation rather than sweat. The air was cool, not damp or sterile like the dorms, but if he had to choose a word for it, it’d be crisp, theatricial, and almost holy if he hadn’t known better. As for the walls? They were a gray black, painted with streaks of white inked Korean proverbs he didn’t bother translating, curled high like the ribs of some long-dead beast. But it was the ceiling that made him freeze in his tracks, swirling above like Mother Nature herself had lost her mind with a paintbrush: The Starry Night, it was no replica, not some dumb projection, it was alive, with brushstrokes shimmering with a liquid pulse, deep indigos and bruised purples dancing across the ceiling like ghosts that forgot how to rest. “Damn.” Yeong-sam whispered, tilting his head back.

And for once, even the bloodlusted stopped. The Red Team — a pack of desperate people with matching red vests, all stilled in reverence, heads craned skyward like they’d wandered into church with knives in their hands.

Yeong-sam scratched his temple with the blunt side of his blade, “What is this supposed to be?” He muttered under his breath, cut off by the loudspeaker crackling above like a devil humming into a child’s toy: “Ready or not.. Here I come..!” His eyes snapped forward, his gaze shifting to take in the way the room fractured into hallways like arteries feeding a beating, bleeding heart. Shadows curled in the corners like ink in water. “Ah, hell yes!” Yeong-sam exclaimed, with little-to-no hesitation, he bolted down the hallway. Yeong-sam found himself running like a rat through a feast, knife dancing between his fingers, Cheshire’s grin stretched like old gum. He didn’t know what the hell was waiting at the end of the maze, but it had a heartbeat and legs, it could die — and that meant the pot would grow, that meant he’d win. And winning, well, it was always worth the body count. He skidded around a corner, nearly clipping a Red Team straggler still gazing up at Van Gogh’s divine ceiling. “Get moving, dumbass! This isn't a gallery!” Yeong-sam barked without looking back, his footsteps echoing like laughter in a cathedral. The maze was alive now — blood would christen its halls soon enough, and Yeong-sam planned to be the one who painted it.

The narrow corridor stretched before Nam-gyu like a wound in the labyrinth, complete with gray black walls etched with faint, peeling Korean characters that whispered forgotten secrets. Above, the ceiling swirled in violent blues and yellows, a clear chaotic homage to The Starry Night, Van Gogh’s turbulent masterpiece mirrored in the cold, calculated chaos of the game. He’d long since tuned out the hum of the intercom, his fingers tracing the familiar weight of the cross necklace tangled at his throat.

Death fished the pendant free, watching it glint under the dim lighting of the maze. The chain was cold, but the memories attached still burned hot, stabbing sharper than any blade. His lips curled into a bitter smirk as he pulled a pill from a hidden compartment beneath the pendant— something Nam-gyu considered a little shot of borrowed courage to steady his restless mind. “Thanos,” he muttered under his breath in a low, almost reverent voice, yet laced with venom. “That fucking asshole.” He managed to say even if the words tasted like poison on his tongue, but not quite the truth he felt deep down. See, Thanos was the only one who ever mattered. He was the one Nam-gyu loved, in the twisted way Death understood love — he saw it as half rage, half desperate attachment, yet the bastard treated him like dirt.

He went on to stab the cross necklace lightly with the blade of the knife, puncturing the tarnished metal again and again. “After all those free drinks at the club.. That bastard always called me ‘Nam-su.’ ‘Hey, Nam-su.’ No, it’s Nam-gyu. ‘Nam-su.’ I told him so many times his ears must have bled. Fucking idiot.” Nam-gyu hissed, a bitter laugh escaping from him as his gaze flicked to Myung-gi, who stood stiff and guarded a few feet ahead. The other man’s eyes calculated his movements, suspicious and guarded as ever. “Why are you doing that?” Myung-gi pondered in a sharp and cautious voice. Nam-gyu popped the pill into his mouth, humming softly as it slid down his throat. The warmth crept through his veins almost instantly, melting the edge of his anxiety, dulling the gnawing fear that had plagued him since Thanos’ ‘death.’ “It’s just a little something to boost my confidence in strength,” He simply put, voice dripping with false casualness that obviously clashed with Myung-gi’s wariness. “Not that I need it, but you know, a little extra kick never hurt anyone.” Nam-gyu clarified, despite his chill exterior —

— Death couldn't stop his thoughts from tumbling like shattered glass, thinking about how Thanos would hate this. If he found out Nam-gyu was working with Myung-gi.. The sharp and unwelcome thought flickered through his mind, but then Nam-gyu shrugged it off. Thanos would get over it, after all, what was a crypto scam compared to the divinity Nam-gyu had granted him? The power to transcend death itself, that was the true gift — the ultimate corruption, and Nam-gyu was its unholy architect.

Besides, the only reason he’d agreed to this alliance was simple: to corrupt a mortal. Myung-gi’s sharp mind, his desperation, his constant calculation for survival — he was the perfect candidate for Nam-gyu’s twisted influence.

Nam-gyu shot Myung-gi a wicked and cold smile, “The Amazing Myung-gi,” he began in a low and mocking voice, implying he didn’t see Myung-gi as special at all. “Want one?” He offered.

Myung-gi’s eyes narrowed, face hardening. “No.” He snapped, his voice firm.

Nam-gyu’s grin widened, bordering on triumphant. “I’m being generous, you bumped off Thanos, after all.” He settled on ego-stroking.

“No.” Myung-gi reiterated, his irritation cracking the tension as he raised his voice a few notches.

Nam-gyu chuckled darkly, snapping the pill between his teeth with exaggerated crunching. “Don’t beg me for later.” He teased, licking the powdery dust from his lips. He reveled in the way his body tingled as the drug surged through him, a rush of reckless energy, a temporary escape from the crushing weight of responsibility — or maybe just the freedom of it. No more escorting souls, no more endings. Just the raw, brutal thrill of chaos and control. “Follow me,” Nam-gyu commanded in a sharp voice, eyes gleaming with malicious intent. “Let’s go kill half of humanity.” He declared, throwing his hands in an exaggerated screech, mock joy bursting from him like a wild animal uncaged. Myung-gi hesitated only for a moment, then fell into step behind him, a reluctant shadow in Nam-gyu’s merciless storm.

As they moved deeper into the maze, Nam-gyu’s mind drifted, swirling with memories of Thanos — their fights, their fragile camaraderie, the strange, unspoken bond that even the morality barrier could not sever. The thought of Thanos hating Nam-gyu for this returned, stubbornly and unyielding, but Nam-gyu didn’t care, not anymore. For crying out loud, he had given Thanos divinity, that was power beyond mortal squabbles, and if Myung-gi was the key to spreading corruption, then so be it.

Nam-gyu continued his soft laughs, a dark hymn to the void inside him, and vanished into the shadows with a reluctant companion.

Yeong-sam barreled down the stairs, the rubber soles of his shoes squealing against the concrete like rats scurrying from floodwater. He was behind a small pack of red-vested players — younger, dumber ones. They split at the landing, scattering like cockroaches when the intercom’s voice crooned: “Ready or not..”

The Cheshire grin had never quite left Yeong-sam’s lips, “…here I come.” He finished singing alongside the intercom, shoving past the last player on the stairs, sending them careening into a wall without so much as a glance back. Ahead, the hall fractured into a maze of forest green doors and angular corridors, a modern rat cage scrawled with ink-black graffiti in Hangul — prayers, curses, and confessions from players long turned into corpses. Every footstep echoed like a coin dropped in an empty vault.

Yeong-sam came to a stop, panting, the knife slick with sweat in his hand despite not getting any action yet. He glanced from hallway to hallway, running mental calculations like a gambler with only one chip left. His mind ran through scenarios, mentally checking off the ones that were too open, too long, too obvious.. Then, with a grim chuckle, his mind wandered to Jeong-dae, that old snake. “Wouldn’t take much, would it?” He muttered aloud, wiping sweat from his temple. “He’s brittle. One stab in the gut and it’s game over..” He trailed off, but despite the obvious choice, his mind wandered upward — elsewhere.. He couldn’t help but wonder if one of his many sisters, Generosity, was watching him. He clicked his tongue and muttered several curses under his breath — not modern ones, don’t be silly, but older, heavier ones from a time where language still carried weight like stones. They hissed in his throat like steam escaping a gold pot, words only entities remembered, not men. Yeong-sam’s head nearly turned all the way around when he heard a thin, wavering sob, stifled but not enough for him to remain oblivious. Behind one of the doors to the left, a green door, the fourth one down, right side, that was the sound of meat trying to stay alive. “Fuck it.” Yeong-sam simply put, not even whispering.

And in that moment, something invisible twisted beneath his skin. Yeong-sam’s pupils dilated just slightly — too subtly for the naked human guy. This was none other than Yeong-sam activating his desire manipulation abilities, not that he hadn’t subtly been using his abilities to steer the game his way, but he was amplifying them by a significant amount. His voice softened, yet deepened with silked gravity, he didn’t need theatrics, he didn’t need ritual, all he needed was want. Desire spilled out of him like sweet poison, an unseen fog that wormed through the cracks beneath the door, it didn’t knock, it whispered to those willing to hear.

Don’t you want to be safe?
Don’t you want to be found?
You’ll be okay if someone finds you.
You’re too scared to be alone.

The sobbing behind the door came to a sudden hitch, a sharp and confused breath was drawn.

Yeong-sam grinned and advanced, his footsteps feather-light now, not out of mercy, but because predators tended to walk quietly when they’re close enough to pounce. The hunger inside him swelled — not for food, gold, or sex, but for that moment, that beautiful moment when someone gave themselves away for a little comfort. Desire manipulation, it didn't scream, it just leaned in. He stood behind the door, placed his palm flat against the wood. He could feel the ache in the person beyond it. He ensured it wasn’t just fear, rather yearning, a bone-deep wish to be anywhere else, to be held, to be strong, to be rich, to be saved.

Instead of knocking, Yeong-sam opted to breathe. “Hey,” he began in a low and syrupy voice. “You’re scared. That’s okay, I’m here.” He sneered, hardly able to keep up the act. “I won’t hurt you, I've got a key, I can take you out of here. I know a way.” He assured, he didn’t have a key, he had a knife. But the hunger on the other side of the door didn’t care, the want had already started to rot the logic. Good, like a rat sniffing cheese in a trap. His train of thought ended when he felt movement behind the door now, someone fumbling, a hesitant hand on the knob. Yeong-sam’s grip on his knife tightened.

However, Yeong-sam soon realized the man behind the door had bolted and he took off again, the echo of the green door clicking shut behind him like a trigger. The maze sucked him in deeper, its corridor twisting like intestines — gray brick slick with condensation and graffiti that looked less like writing now and more like scratches made by someone trying to escape.

Each breath steamed from his nose like a bull in heat, his footsteps fast, sharp, and methodical. The knife gleamed in his palm, ensuring his posture was ready, hungry, and humming with the memory of that almost-kill. His ears turned to every noise: green doors creaking, footsteps fading, someone sniffling in the dark, and finally — panicked, fast, wet, nearby breathing.

Yeong-sam didn’t think — he reacted, instincts snapping like a slingshot. He barreled down the narrow left corridor, his slip-ons kicking up dust and paint chips. He turned a corner sharp enough to scrape his shoulder against the brick, knife up and ready to plunge —

— Only to stop short..

Yeong-sam’s gaze met a pale face staring back at him, round glasses, wide-eyed, terrified, breathless. It was Player 007, that glassy-eyed mama’s boy, always sticking to his mother like some overgrown leech in a polyester vest. He looked like a turtle caught without its shell, his knife trembling in his hand like it weighed eighty pounds. “Fuck.” Yeong-sam exhaled in one loud gust through his nose, more annoyed than relieved. He watched as the man flinched, making a vague guess he was older than how old Yeong-sam had made his human mask, “You gonna stab me or sob on me?” Yeong-sam barked, his voice low but acidic. He held up his traffic-light red vest for proof, his knife pointed half-heartedly toward the ceiling. “Tagger, dumbass. Red Team. Like you.” He snapped.

Player 007 took several ragged breaths, his knife still pointed at Yeong-sam, his knuckles white and twitchy. “Calm down.” Yeong-sam settled on saying, annoyed that his voice still echoed even when he whispered. “Unless you want your mom to see your guts spill before hers.” Yeong-sam pointed out, earning a shudder from him, but not quite a reply. He watched the man for a moment longer, his lip curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

Of course, Yeong-sam didn’t mean it. He had never loved his own mother, not even a little. To him, she was a shadow, a chore, a face that sighed more than she spoke. If this human had been born of his mother, Yeong-sam would’ve already killed her just to shut her up. Yet here was this grown man, sobbing in corners for some milk-lipped hag with arthritis and good intentions. How disgusting.

The two stood like that for a few seconds — blades pointed, tension thick enough to hang laundry on, before Yeong-sam ultimately let out a scoff, shook his head, and turned away. “You’re a waste of time.” He determined, and with that, he bolted. He left the trembling red-vest behind, knife still up but too slow, too stupid to use it. Yeong-sam’s breath regained a steady pattern as his slides slapped against the tile, a steady beat that made his mind buzz. Every corridor fed into another, the blue ceiling swirling and swimming, watching like some divine eye, just out of reach.

The walls blurred around him as Nam-gyu sprinted down the corridor, his breath coming out in erratic bursts of steam. Every surface of the maze seemed to pulse with electric urgency, the painted bricks vibrating like the inside of the pinball machine. Behind him, Myung-gi thundered with labored footsteps, still chasing, still panting, his face red and damp under the dim lights strung along the ceiling like crooked constellations.

Ahead of them, Player 235 ran like a startled marionette, limbs jerking wildly, breath ragged, identical shoes scraping rubbery tile. To Nam-gyu’s stoned mind, he didn’t even look human anymore, all he saw was a ceramic wind-up doll, arms flailing as he stumbled, paint cracking with each movement.

They reached a fork in the hallway, Nam-gyu had no intention of stopping, he skidded to the left, “Split up!” He shouted, as Myung-gi veered tight without question.

Nam-gyu darted through a low archway, slip-ons slapping the floor, his eyes wide and bloodshot, pupils dilated like black suns. The world had turned vibrant, even the air felt too saturated, he could taste color on his tongue. Everything felt like it was made of candy glass. He crashed through another hallway, entering a small black room, walls scrawled with pastel rainbow trees that looked drawn by kindergartners on LSD. Myung-gi had gotten there first, Player 235 had his back to the wall, fists trembling like a puppet’s needle.

When Nam-gyu burst in, Player 235’s eyes flared with recognition — hate, like the kind one reserved for monsters in their child’s closet. “Fucking bastard!” Player 235 barked as he lunged forward, the impact sent Nam-gyu sprawling, the cold floor jolting his spine. His vision warped — stars spun overhead as the doll-boy pinned him down, using one cracked porcelain wrist to block Nam-gyu’s blade with shaky strength. Nam-gyu snarled, writhing, the high drowning his instincts in glittery syrup, it was exhilarating. “What the fuck are you doing?!” Nam-gyu bellowed up at Myung-gi, who was frozen a few feet away, still holding his blade like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Stab him!”

There was no response, Nam-gyu couldn't even hear the crickets, leading him to believe he was speaking some long-forgotten ancient language.

“I said stab him!”

And finally, Myung-gi moved.

The sound was dull — like a knife pushed through fabric and clay. The doll twitched, a marionette string snapped. His mouth opened in a silent, stunned gasp as Myung-gi’s blade sank into his back, and the entire room seemed to exhale. Paintings on the walls pulsed like they were breathing.

The doll whimpered.

Nam-gyu broke free with a grin so wide it almost cracked his face in half. “Come here, fucker!” He hissed, crawling toward the broken puppet, grabbing its synthetic ankle and slamming his knife into the leg like he was slicing through wax fruit.

The marionette thrashed and kicked, letting out soundless and desperate sobs, face twitching in half-real animation. “Please — Please don’t —” the puppet cried, “I have a wife and kid..” He pleaded, that gave Nam-gyu pause, though not out of sympathy the doll was hoping for. He only paused for a second, the words ringing with false bells, distant and irrelevant. He heard a foghorn in his blood, this wasn’t real, those weren’t people.. They were dolls, mechanical playthings stuffed with hollowed-out fear and cheap stuffing. “I hear you.” Nam-gyu muttered, raising the blade again, eyes gleaming like shattered rubies. Before he could swing, a hand equipped with a tight and tense grip seized his wrist. “Don’t.” Myung-gi snapped, Nam-gyu whirled around, confused. “What, are you getting sentimental now?” Nam-gyu scoffed, “Does this guy remind you of your pregnant girlfriend?” Nam-gyu snarked, but Myung-gi didn’t flinch. “If you kill him, you’ll pass. And I won’t.” He pointed out, Nam-gyu blinked once, then twice.

The haze swirled like whipped clouds inside his skull. “So what?” Nam-gyu grumbled, “How can I be sure,” Myung-gi paused, “you’ll help me with the next one?” He snapped, Nam-gyu opened his mouth to argue — only to freeze, a trippy chuckle building in his throat. “You think I’ll just leave you hanging, huh? I mean..” He trailed off, wiping a hand over his face, smeared with sweat and nonexistent glitter dust, “You don’t trust me?” He grumbled, “You’ll be done already.” Myung-gi hissed, Nam-gyu followed his gaze to the pitiful mess on the floor.

The doll in question was twitching, blinking, making gurgling clockwork sounds.

“What do we do then?” Nam-gyu sighed.

“We do it at the same time." Myung-gi simply put.

Nam-gyu tilted his head, amused. “Stab him at the same time?” He alleged.

Myung-gi gave one small nod, in which Nam-gyu chuckled. “Wow. What a sensible shit.” Nam-gyu sneered.

The pair circled the broken puppet like vultures, shadows long and twitching on the cartoon trees behind them. “On three?” Nam-gyu asked, lifting his blade. In typical Myung-gi fashion, he didn’t give Nam-gyu a verbal reply and nodded.

“One..”
“Two..”
“Three.”

Their knives descended in tandem — not into flesh, but into porcelain. The puppet’s head lolled to the side, limbs splayed like a toy dropped from a child’s hand.

Nam-gyu stared down, blood singing in his ears.

It wasn’t a person, never a person.

Just a doll.

Just another kill.

And now? He had passed.

Death grinned to himself, “Thanos would hate this.” He whispered, almost sweetly. However, he quickly got over himself, turning to Myung-gi. “Let’s go find another.” He declared.

Yeong-sam’s lungs burned with every gulp of air, his knife glinting with sweat and menace as he darted through another bend in the gray labyrinth. His slip-ons scraped the painted floor beneath him, his legs carried him with a predator’s speed — sharp, practiced, and shameless. He was Greed incarnate, and Greed never slowed down. Yeong-sam’s gaze settled on them, three figures up ahead, blurry at first but sharpening like prey slipping through the haze of hunger. They moved as one unit, not quite running, more like hurrying with purpose.

The trio consisted of an elderly woman, back hunched and fingers gripping her jumpsuit jacket like it could rewrite her fate. Alongside her was a young, heavily pregnant woman, one arm bracing her belly while the other clung tightly to the wall for balance. And finally there was a tall figure, Yeong-sam didn’t know much about her but he vaguely recalled her barking something about special forces, her voice slicing through the chaos like she had rank to back it. For a second, something like hesitation ghosted across his mind, then his pride returned in a loud, violent, and boiling manner. “Tch. Sergeant my ass.” He muttered under his breath, so what if she was military? He was Greed. She could’ve fought in six wars and she’d still never have more than him.

With that, Yeong-sam tightened his grip on the knife, watched them retreat — faster now, sensing pursuit. His mouth twisted into that familiar Cheshire’s grin. “Why you..!” He howled, voice echoing down the blue-starred ceiling like a wolf howling into a Van Gogh sky. After foolishly letting the trio know they were being chased, he bolted, knife slashing through the air behind him like punctuation to his rage, charging after the trio like judgment day wearing cheap, identical slip-ons and a sneer.

The room still stank of copper, sweat, and peeled paint, the kind of decay that clung to one's teeth and gum like moldy velvet. The only color left was red — smears of it over the rainbow-painted trees on the concrete walls, like someone tried to repaint a kindergarten with a scream.

Nam-gyu crouched low over the doll-corpse, squatting like a gargoyle above a cathedral of ruin, his shadow grotesquely sprawled behind him. The high still sang through his ruins, warping the world into wax and stitches. Everything was too soft and too loud at the same time, even the fallen doll’s fingers looked like loose seams waiting to unravel. “Myung-gi,” Nam-gyu rasped, not turning, his eyes glassy and electric. “Did you see the look in his eyes as he died?” Nam-gyu pondered.

As per usual, Myung-gi didn’t dignify him with a response, he just stood there, mouth clenched, fists white-knuckling the knife he hadn’t let go of. His breath was shallow, like someone trying not to vomit in church. The body at his feet wasn't a doll, it was a man.. was. Regardless, still beneath Nam-gyu.

Speaking of Nam-gyu, he slowly peeled his hands away from the sides of his head and made a quiet psshhhh sound, mimicking an explosion with his fingers spread wide like a firework. “That moment — right when the light leaves? That pop. That blink.” Nam-gyu trailed off, his fingers twisted through the air, catching invisible sparks. “Turning into doll eyes.. Just like that bitch Se-mi.” Nam-gyu went on to say, spinning his knife lazily between his fingers, then stabbed it upward toward the ceiling like he was casting a spell. Myung-gi flinched when the blade flashed too close to his line of sight. Nam-gyu tilted his head toward the corpse, still in a squat, eyes wild with childlike awe. “Fucking fascinating, isn’t it?” He sneered, Myung-gi dropped into a crouch without replying. His face was set in stone now — tight lines, clenched jaw, trembling somewhere behind his eyes. He reached toward the man’s chest and unclasped the string around his neck, a key sliding free. Nam-gyu blinked at it like it was a rabbit pulled from a hat. “What are you doing?” He asked, “We can open the doors with this.” Myung-gi simply put in a flat tone as he slipped the cord over his own head, as if the act of survival itself was a tax he was too tired to file. Nam-gyu barked a laugh, dropping backward onto the floor with a dull thump, palms spread out like he was sunbathing in hell. “Ohhhh, you’re one of those people.” Nam-gyu noted, “What people?” Myung-gi muttered, seemingly unsure whether it was a compliment or not. Nam-gyu grinned wide enough to show all of his teeth, not that he looked particularly intimidating right now. “The sensible kind.” He pointed out, however, Myung-gi didn’t stay to listen, he was already walking away — quickly and quietly, like he didn't want the room to notice he’d ever been there. But Nam-gyu’s voice followed him like gum or dog shit on a shoe. “Hey. Heyyy. Wait for me!” He called out, bounding to his feet with a skip in his step, twirling his knife like it was a candy cane. “Don’t walk too fast! I already killed half a doll for you!” He protested, Myung-gi didn’t respond, he just kept walking, faster now, shoulders tense, eyes sharp. But, Nam-gyu trotted after him anyway, high off his ass and humming an off-key pop tune, dragging chaos behind him like a shredded velvet cloak.

The room was quiet now.

The kind of quiet that came only after screaming — thick, stunned, and humming with leftover fear. The smeared rainbow trees on the wall looked like they were weeping, their colors bleeding downward in oily tears under the dim lights. The body on the floor was still. The scent of sweat, iron, and divinity only Min-su could smell clinging to the air like perfume on a funeral coat.

Min-su stepped inside, he didn’t make a single sound, his white slip-ons barely scuffing the concrete, his trembling fingers curling around the doorway like a boy peeking into a haunted house. But this — this wasn't fear, it was ancient, a glacier behind his ribs.

And, there it was — half-hidden near the corpse, glinting like a coin from the underworld: the necklace containing Nam-gyu’s stash. The silver cross was laying crooked on the floor, almost innocent in how it caught the light. But Min-su knew it was anything but. That cross was a reliquary of sins, a pillbox for monsters. Nam-gyu had worn it like a crown — like a joke, it reeked of smoke, sweat, and Thanos’ ghost.

With trembling hands, Min-su scooped it up in his hands. It was warm despite sitting in the dim room, there were two pills inside. His heart thudded once — he swore it was only once, like a warning knock. Despite witnessing what drugs had done to Death, Life couldn’t tear his gaze away from the pastel capsules — the same ones his brother popped like candy, laughing with blood in his teeth, spewing madness from his mouth like poetry.

Min-su's lips parted, but he said nothing, not a single prayer or curse, just breath.. He remembered the last time he had to take a breath like that. Back then, Nam-gyu had been dragging him through centuries. Immortal twins, cursed to play opposite ends of the human tragedy — Life and Death. Nam-gyu had always treated their identities like they had to be enemies. “Min-su,” Nam-gyu had said, that crooked grin across his face. “If the humans saw how much of a wimp you were, they’d stop worshiping the ground you walk on. If they actually liked Life, why are so many of them suffering?” And most recently — Se-mi, the only one who had seen Min-su as more than a cosmic concept, more than an abstract sigh. Her smile, her fire, her death - all at his hands, directly or not. Min-su’s knuckles whitened around the necklace, his hands continuing to tremble. He knew this wasn’t strategy, wisdom, or anything his parents had taught him.. It was something his less favorable siblings would typically act on: impulse, wrath wearing a gentle face. Instead of his thoughts forming words, they came as flashes: Nam-gyu, drunk on cruelty, giggling with a fork in his fist, Nam-gyu continuously mocking Se-mi’s corpse, Nam-gyu always above him, always louder, always crueler —

— In an attempt to drown out the thoughts, Min-su opened the cross, taking in the way the pill looked up at him like an invitation. He told himself that if Nam-gyu wanted Life as a monster to justify his Freudian excuse, fine, he could have one. And without a breath more — he popped it into his mouth, the swallow burned.. Not like fire, but like memory. A thousand lifetimes of restraint bubbling up inside him, breaking through the dam. Min-su’s hands dropped to his sides, his pupils widening when the room suddenly tilted.

The ceiling spun above him — those rainbow trees shuddering and twisting into something grotesque, dripping colors like blood from a severed spectrum. The floor rippled, his heart slowing and speeding up in turns. He felt like there was a second-self blooming inside his chest, finally becoming what everyone expected Life to be — divine, easygoing, and laughing. It wasn’t possession, it was permission, Min-su realized such a thing with a sharp gasp. “..Nam-gyu.” He whispered, for once, not with fear — with clarity.

Slowly, a smile crept across his face, one that didn’t belong to life. “This time, you should be scared of me.” He vowed, and then he walked out of the room, no longer quiet, no longer kind, just coming.

The sound of their scattered and desperate footsteps was sweet music to his ears, it was like the echo of survival bouncing off the damp, concrete maze, and he was the wolf, finally close enough to smell their fear.

Three of them.

Three bodies, ripe for the taking, consisting of a granny, a hormone-bloated mama, and the other one — Hyun-ju, or whatever she called herself. The sergeant, the butch, the wooooooo-man, the one who fought like a beast, she was the one he was somewhat worried about.

Yeong-sam barreled forward, tongue running over his teeth, knee tight in his grip.

In an attempt to escape, the pregnant one faltered, one shaky step down the concrete stairwell and thud — She tumbled forward, body folding like a lawn chair, the key necklace swinging wildly from her throat before she hit the floor.

Yeong-sam skidded to a stop, nearly slipping himself. His identical slip-ons squealed against the ground. He hadn’t stopped because he felt bad, but because the universe had gifted him an opportunity. “Well, well,” he panted, catching his breath as he lifted the knife like a conductor’s baton. “Look at that.” He sneered, taken aback when his gaze zeroed in on Hyun-ju standing protectively in front of the hag and the woman who was ready to pop. Yeong-sam approached slowly, arms wide, voice syrupy with mock desperation. “C’mon,” he began, knife still in one hand, the other held in a mock-plea. “I’m not greedy. I just need to kill that damn bitch. Just her.” Yeong-sam spay, pointing the tip of his knife at the pregnant woman’s curled-up frame, though Hyun-ju didn’t flinch. Yeong-sam rolled his eyes, not bothering to disguise his impatience. “Then give me the old hag.” He sneered, nodding up at the woman behind her. “She’s practically expired already.” He attempted to bargain.

Instead of getting a response, Hyun-ju’s brows lowered. The key around her neck disappeared beneath her zipped-up jumpsuit as she adjusted her collar with a sharp tug, leaving Yeong-sam to conclude she wasn’t giving up anything, leading to him letting out a bitter laugh. “You don’t even know them. Why’re you protecting them like you’re their hero or something?” He paused to spit on the floor, “If my mother tripped down those stairs, I’d probably help push her the rest of the way.” Yeong-sam trailed off, still, no answer. Hyun-ju’s eyes flicked toward the pregnant woman, who groaned in pain — then back to Yeong-sam, her stance shifted. Weight over her toes, ready. “Tch.” Yeong-sam scoffed, twisting the knife in his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.” He grumbled, under the impression this would be a piece of cake.

With that, he lunged.

There was a blur of movement, his blade singing a silver arc.

But Hyun-ju was already in motion, she ducked the first slash, parried the second with her forearm — then delivered a brutal elbow into his ribs that made Yeong-sam choke on air. He stumbled sideways, eyes wide, swinging the knife wildly as if he could cut the wind itself.

Hyun-ju caught his wrist, twisted —

SNAP.

Yeong-sam let out a strangled yelp as the knife clattered to the floor. “Fuck!” he barked, trying to rear back, but she drove her knee into his gut and slammed him into the wall, pinning him with one forearm against his throat.

As much as Yeong-sam tried to kick his legs or flail his arms, all his attempts were fruitless and came to no avail. “You..” He gasped, eyes bulging. “You’re gonna die in here too, bitch..” He vowed, however, Hyun-ju’s expression hadn’t changed, not once, not when he attempted to swing, not when he cursed, not when he called her a freak under his breath, and it infuriated him. He couldn't help but notice there was something in the shape of her eyes, the disciplined way she moved, the unshakable calm she radiated even now as his wrists bruised under her grip. “…You,” he rasped, the realization striking like cold lightning. “You’re the one — the one she hid behind.” He breathed, the corners of his mouth twitching into a cruel Cheshire’s smirk, even as his breath hitched. “My sister,” he said slowly, as if chewing glass, “Generosity.” He concluded, likely under the impression Yeong-sam was bullshitting, Hyun-ju’s grip didn’t tighten, didn’t loosen, she simply kept staring.

“Unnie,” he whispered.

Once again, his attempts were completely fruitless, so he repeated it, like a child learning a curse word for the first time.

“Unnie.. unnie.. unnie..”

He leaned in closer, eyes wide and wild, pupils pinpricked.

“UNNIE!” He sang, in a mockingly high tone, a twisted parody of sincerity.

Still — Hyun-ju didn’t do so much as flinch, it was infurturitating.

Yeong-sam gritted his teeth together and twisted violently, yanking a fistful of her tightly coiled hair, trying to provoke something — any-fucking-thing, but she didn’t wince, she moved with the same mechanical precison of a thousand trained hours, Hyun-ju rotated on one heel, using his own weight against him — then lifted him clean off the ground and slammed his body into the floor like dead weight.

CRACK.

Air burst from Yeong-sam’s lungs in the form of a brittle gasp as the back of his head bounced against the unforgiving cement. His world spun, static gnawing at the edges of his vision. “No —!” he croaked, his hand shooting out for the knife — only to have it kicked away.

Hyun-ju was already on him, kneeling with soldier-like form, pinning his torso down with one knee as she wrestled the blade from his flailing hands.

“NO!” He embarrassingly shrieked this time around, voice tearing at the seams.

Yeong-sam scrabbled, twisted, did everything he could he could to shift the blade from its inevitable course, but Hyun-ju’s grip was iron. Her muscles barely trembled under the weight of his panic.

“You — you don’t know who I am!” he wheezed, saliva foaming at the edges of his mouth as he clawed at her arms. “You idiots, all of you — I’m not like you! I’m not like them!” He exclaimed.

She said nothing.

“I-I’m one of them!” he sputtered, eyes wild, as if he could bargain with the truth. “You think the Frontman’s name is Young-il?! It’s not even his real name! It’s — In-ho!” Yeong-sam let out a short and ugly laugh, bordering on desperate.

“I’m above you stupid little flesh-bags! You’re insects! I’m div —”

But Hyun-ju didn’t wait for him to finish, instead, she plunged the knife straight through his sternum.

There was a crunch — nothing cinematic, not clean — just raw, ruptured meat and cracking cartilage. Yeong-sam’s eyes went wide, his mouth stretching into a silent O as blood gurgled up between his teeth.

His hands twitched, jerked, then stopped.

The hallway went quiet again, the flickering lights above casting sharp, angular shadows across his sprawled limbs.

Hyun-ju let out a slow exhale, not out of relief — but as discipline, like she’d been trained to regulate her breath after a kill. She rose to her feet, wiped the blade on his jumpsuit, then stepped over his body to return to the two women behind her.

The Frontman’s quarters consisted of cool, unyielding metal beneath the monitor’s glow. Soft electrical sounds crackled in the wires snaking across the ceiling like veins. In-ho sat at the helm of it all, immovable, draped in his obsidian trenchcoat like a silent sovereign at court. Only the breath behind his mask gave him away — though his breath was measured and calm, even as the island churned with blood.

In-ho’s gaze was locked on the central monitor: Seong Gi-hun, Player 456, creeping down a corridor, his eyes sharp, movements feline, hunting for Blue Team’s Kang Dae-ho. His red vest clung to him like a second skin soaked in tension, the faintest nick on his collar already crusted with dried blood.

In-ho’s gloved finger traced the screen lazily, “Always meddling where he shouldn’t,” he muttered under his breath in a low and gravely amused voice. “Still fighting for trash.” He trailed off, adjusting his posture, glancing toward the auxiliary feeds flickering in his peripheral.

That’s when he heard the worst thing he’d want to hear in this place: his name.

“Young-il is the Frontman! That’s not even his real name — it’s In-ho!”

It was faint at first, over the hiss of faulty hallway speakers and the whir of surveillance drones. Then, it came again, sharper this time, laced with venom and what In-ho really hoped was an absurd level of delusion.

“I’m above you stupid humans!”

In-ho’s hand paused mid-air. Slowly, he directed his gaze toward the feed, a new window bloomed across the screen: Camera 47-B. The image shook slightly as though the lens itself recoiled in horror.

There was Player 226, real name Kim Yeong-sam, Red Team tagger, pinned against the wall. His knife hand trembled, slick with desperation. His eyes gleamed not just with terror but with something ancient and unnatural, In-ho recalled receiving a call from his days as a police officer, and upon arriving at the scene, it looked like a worship summoning of sorts, and those who hadn’t gotten away had the same looks in their eyes. “..What are you?” In-ho pondered, tilting his head.

The question was not rhetorical, it was clear something was off in the cadence of Yeong-sam’s voice. Not the arrogance — in In-ho’s line of work, arrogance was more common than oxygen, but it was something that sat beneath it, a resonance of sorts.

On screen, Yeong-sam writhed beneath Hyun-ju’s grip. If memory served correctly, Hyun-ju was the rebellious one, the tactician, the one who risked everything during the failed coup. Her arms, corded with muscle, held Yeong-sam like he weighed nothing.

Click.

The Frontman tapped a key, at the keys command, the audio clarity sharpened. Yeong-sam’s ragged breathing spilled into the control room, punctuated by the shrill desperation and the thrum of his something not entirely human.

In-ho’s brow furrowed, his mouth tightening behind the mask. He watched as Hyun-ju executed a precise judo slam, her body moving with the certainty of decades of discipline. The knife flew from Yeong-sam’s hand, a scream tore from his throat, and then came the confession: “Young-il is the Frontman! That’s not even his real name — It’s In-ho!”

The room seemed to still, the rain stopped tapping, even the monitors flickered in eerie synchronicity, like the island itself had paused to listen.

He stood.

Behind him, the door hissed open automatically. Two guards waited in the hallway beyond, stiff and faceless. But In-ho remained still, hands folded behind his back as he stared at the screen — at this.. thing masquerading as a man. “Pity, I had hoped he was merely a lunatic.” In-ho settled on saying, tone controlled and distant, like he was discussing the weather. “But it’s worse than that.” In-ho observed, watching as Yeong-sam thrashed under Hyun-ju’s weight, attempting to pull the knife away from his own chest, spewing blasphemy, dehumanizing everyone in sight.

“I’m above you stupid humans!”

And then —

Shhk.

The knife plunged into his heart.

Yeong-sam’s body stiffened once — like a puppet cut from its strings, and then sagged with finality.

The Frontman watched in silence, the screen still locked on the fallen cryptid. He tapped a few keys, zooming in on the body. There was no pixelation error, no video distortion, the blood was real, and the death was real, but what wasn’t… was him. “A cryptid.” In-ho muttered, “That disturbs the balance.” In-ho concluded, there was venom in the word. No contempt for the creature itself — he had seen monsters before, he had hosted them quite frequently, fed them, toasted their wins with fine cognac. No, the contempt was for what it represented: a disruption to the equation. The one inviolable law of the game —

— Equality.

One last chance for the discarded and forgotten to rise or fall — together, by their own hands. However, a cryptid among them turned it into a farce. In-ho reached for the intercom mic beside him, his gloved fingers resting on the ‘Priority Alert’ switch.

“Wake the Virologist,” he said coldly.

A beat came in the moment of static.

“…Sir?” Came the uncertain voice on the other end.

"There's a breach in Player uniformity. A Class-X entity made it into the Game. I want autopsy reports, sooner rather than later. Spiritual, biological, metaphysical — whatever applies. And find out if any more of his kind slipped through. If this island becomes a circus, I’ll burn it to the ground.”

A pause, and finally —

— “Understood, sir.”

He cut the line.

In-ho leaned forward, resting his elbows on the console, eyes still fixated on the corpse. “Rest well, Kim Yeong-sam,” he murmured, voice taking a soft and almost mocking tone. “Whatever you were..” He paused, behind the mask, his lips forming a grim smile. “..you weren’t one of us.” He concluded.

The shadows in the corridor clung like pitch to the mildewed walls, thick with the scent of rusted steel and expired humanity. The dim light continued to hum overhead, faltering and flickering, casting spasmodic light upon the chipped floors that bore too many stories in dried claret and scattered shoe-scuffs. Nam-gyu’s slip-ons clicked faintly against the floor, one toe turned slightly outward like he’d lost track of his own gait, and maybe he had — he was high, but not gently high. Nah, this was the kind of high that turned pupils into tunnels and reality into felt. His fingers twitched with a playful reverence, considering every joint a puppet string guided by something ancient and grotesquely amused.

Death turned a corner with the grin of someone expecting an old friend and found him: Player 411, the man with shaggy, ash-streaked hair that curled behind his ears like weathered silk threads, standing at the end of the hall. The doll stood still — too still, as though he’d always been there, as though he’d never been alive at all. “Ah,” Nam-gyu exhaled, dragging the syllable like silk across a blade. “There you are, Grandpa Doll.” Nam-gyu sneered.

Beside him, Myung-gi gave no ceremony. His steps were quick and sharp, clinical and efficient. His jumpsuit was zipped all the way up, as if to cordon himself off from what he was about to do. No words, not even an insult. He just stepped forward and stabbed. It was precise and surgical, like a craftsman inserting a wind-up key into the back of a tin soldier.

Player 411 didn’t scream, not like humans do.. Nah, to Nam-gyu’s eyes — burning red-rimmed, swimming in psychotropics — he tipped back like a marionette whose string had been snipped at the spine. With the lightness of someone at a museum display, he knelt, letting his fingertips drift along the zipper of the man’s bloodstained jumpsuit. “Your turn.” Myung-gi muttered, already checking down the corridor for witnesses.

Without a word, Nam-gyu obliged, driving the knife in — not into flesh, not to his mind — but into cloth. Into the peach-colored seam of the man’s stomach, just beneath the fourth button, which Nam-gyu saw now was stitched. Not sewn by a tailor, but threaded like a childhood plush — black cord tied off at the corners like a smile. “Do you see it?” he whispered to no one and everyone, eyes wide, pupils expanding like ink spilled on snow. “That sound.” He muttered in awe.

In all actuality, there was no sound, just wetness. But in Nam-gyu’s dazed ears? It was the hiss of deflating fabric, the squeal of stuffing being drawn out through torn stitches. The blade made a squish sound to others, but to him? It was the scrape of a wind-up toy winding down. “Look, Myung-gi,” he urged, tilting the doll’s face up by the chin, which lolled too easily, as though on a ball point. “That’s it. There, look!” Nam-gyu exclaimed, his ring-covered finger hovering just in front of the man’s glazed-over eyes — glassy, pale, and gone. “Those eyes. Doll eyes. Just like the glassy kind you get in old department stores, the kind that stare right past you but know everything anyway.” Nam-gyu rambled on and on, contrasting against Myung-gi’s usual silence, who was still standing behind Nam-gyu, still holding the bloody knife but looking.. Unnerved now. The corner of his mouth twitched, his usual bravado peeled back under the weight of whatever Nam-gyu was seeing.

Fortunately and Unfortunately for Myung-gi, Nam-gyu didn’t care, he was enraptured. “It’s so freaking fascinating, man,” he murmured in awe, as though they were admiring a sculpture or a miracle. “You don’t get it. He’s not a man. He was built. He was placed. Like us. Just standing there, waiting. Waiting for alllllllllllll the little boys and girls to stop crying and go to sleep. The kind that only blink when you’re not looking, the kind they made before plastics took over.” Nam-gyu continued his rambling, reverently reaching forward, ring-covered fingers brushing the blood-slick key on a chain around the man’s neck. The metal glinted under the dim maze lights, impossibly clean in contrast to the congealed mess around it. “Now that,” Nam-gyu began, grinning as he slipped the necklace over his own head, allowing the cool weight of the key settle against his chest, “that makes me the toymaker..!” Nam-gyu proudly declared, taking in the way the corpse was sprawled out like a ragdoll, limbs bent at unnatural angles. The corpse had no dignity and no poetry, but to Nam-gyu — Death itself? He might as well have dismantled an heirloom, the limited kind, a collectors item!

From behind him, Myung-gi wiped the blade with his sleeve and reminded Nam-gyu he was there. “You said we weren't gonna go this far yet.” Myung-gi pointed out, bold of him to assume Nam-gyu would be honest with him. Nam-gyu blinked slowly, still admiring the glint of the key against his pale skin. “We didn’t, we unlocked something, that’s wayyyyyyy different.” Nam-gyu protested, stepping over the ragdoll-man without a second glance, humming something tuneless and soft under his breath, not unlike something a child might hum while cradling a favorite toy.

The maze hallway continued to stretch out before them like a throat — narrow, swallowing, and dimly lit by the greenish buzz of the green doors that creaked just enough to keep the shadows dancing. Nam-gyu’s bloodstained slip-ons slapped against the linoleum with a lightness unbecoming of someone covered head-to-toe in blood, the key around his neck clinking in tune with his lazy gait. He had that unbothered sway to him, the kind one only saw in people who’d never feared consequences, who’d never bled out without resurrecting the next day just fine.

Nam-gyu trotted after Myung-gi, his grin as crooked as the hallway. “The Amazing Myung-gi, where are you going?” Nam-gyu cooed, his voice trailing behind him like perfume — honeyed and sharp.

At first, Myung-gi didn’t answer. He was ahead, at one of the green childish doors lining the hallway like tombs. The blood-slick key clicked against the lock as he twisted it, jaw tight, gaze frantic but contained — like he didn’t want to seem like he cared as much as he did, Nam-gyu could relate to that.

Nam-gyu stopped short behind him, tilting his head. “That bitch you have a thing with?” He pondered, it was a question said so lightly it barely registered as an offense, but Myung-gi froze, it was just one second of stillness, but Nam-gyu saw the twitch in his shoulder — that pause, that was the one thing about emotional creatures — they had tells, even when they thought they didn’t. Nam-gyu clicked his tongue thoughtfully, “Ooh.. Thought so.” Nam-gyu cooed, leaning in just slightly, enough to see the corners of Myung-gi’s eyes narrowing, and with all the mocking theater of a vaudeville mime, Nam-gyu pushed out his vest with both hands, pacing in a small circle to mimic a pregnant stomach. “What are you gonna do if you find her, huh? Protect her?” Nam-gyu sneered, stopping and smirking. “I’ll protect that bitch with you.” Nam-gyu offered.

That did it.

In a flash of motion, Myung-gi slammed Nam-gyu against the wall so hard the metal key around Nam-gyu’s neck rang like a little bell. A knife was instantly at his cheek, the tip nicking his skin, drawing a thin red line like a cracked smile. “If you lay a finger on her,” Myung-gi hissed through his teeth, his face inches from Nam-gyu’s, man, he wished Myung-gi was Thanos. “I’ll kill you.” He vowed, Nam-gyu blinked slowly, though the pulse in his neck didn’t quicken, his breath didn’t hitch, of course it didn’t. He was Death, after all. What was the threat of dying to someone who remembered the first death in the cosmos like it was a family heirloom?

But still, he played along. That was always the fun part.

With all the smug fluidity of someone lounging in a grave, Nam-gyu reached up, two fingers gently brushing the blade away from his cheek. “You’ve been so sensible, but now you're a total drama queen.” Nam-gyu purred, Myung-gi yanked himself backward, knife still raised, still aimed, and still ready. His stance had changed — less about defense now, more about warning. Nam-gyu saw the slight tremor in his wrist, though. The one Myung-gi didn’t know was there, the fury trembling out of love.

Nam-gyu licked the blood off his own knife like it was icing on a spoon, eyes never leaving Myung-gi. He couldn’t help but see himself in Myung-gi, he would’ve burned the sky for Thanos, would’ve walked into a landmine holding his hand, Myung-gi got the gist considering he’d do the same for whats-her-face. “It’s not just a fling.” Nam-gyu sneered, stepping closer, just by one beat, knife lowered now. “You’re in love.” Nam-gyu concluded, when he didn’t get a reply, he leaned in. “You smooth little shit. You’re in love with her.” Nam-gyu whispered, tilting his head, delighted by the silence between them. “You do fucking love her.” Nam-gyu teased in a sing-song tone, letting it land like a curse.

“We were in love, we met and became an unforgettable memory like sad romantic dra~mas..”

Nam-gyu sang between erratic chuckles in a ready and theatrical voice, like a washed-up idol returning from rehab for one last encore. He trailed off into a hum, swinging his arms and skipping with the joy of a lunatic at sunrise. With a sudden burst of movement, he lunged forward to wrap his arms around Myung-gi’s back. “The Amazing Myung-gi~!” Nam-gyu sneered, only for Myung-gi to jerk forward and fling him off with the disgust of someone brushing away something sticky and sentient.

Nam-gyu stumbled, caught himself, then grinned wide, blood still smeared across his teeth like cheap lipstick. “Alright, alright, I get it.” Nam-gyu grumbled, dusting himself off dramatically. “I’ll help you find her.” Nam-gyu assured, Myung-gi didn’t even look back. “I don’t need your help.” He deadpanned in an almost robotic voice. Nam-gyu furrowed his brows, undeterred, and began walking sideways beside him, practically moonwalking to match Myung-gi’s forward pace. “What if you run into a Blue while you’re trying to find her? Hmm?” Nam-gyu pondered, clicking his tongue, flicking the air with his knife like he was carving punctuation into the stale, blood-stained air. “What’re you gonna do, Mister Unbothered? Ask them nicely to die?” He sneered, as expected, Myung-gi didn’t answer, just shoved open another green door with a shoulder, revealing yet another dim hallway that smelled like sweat, metal, and the beginning of panic. He walked with the resolve of a man who’d decided he was already dead. “Who cares? I’ve already passed.” Myung-gi grumbled, unable to see the bigger picture.

That stopped Nam-gyu cold. He blinked once, then narrowed his eyes. The air around him cooled slightly, the sound of screaming and pleading Blue Team’s sounding more like buzzing flies now. “No.” Nam-gyu snapped, his voice sharpening. “You’re too damn soft!” Nam-gyu exclaimed, pointing the knife at him, not close enough to threaten, just enough to irritate. “The Amazing Myung-gi of MG Coin..” Nam-gyu jeered, his voice shifting to a familiar taunting one, but this time it was angrier — more cutting than coy, if one will. “This is why you went bust. All those spreadsheets, all that crypto swagger — just to get outplayed by your own damn feelings.” Nam-gyu sneers, whirling the knife in the air once like a baton, imagining he was Nightwing with the batons. However, Nam-gyu’s fun little fantasy was cut off by the rather irritating screaming of:

“Jun-hee! Jun-hee!!”

Myung-gi bolted, voice cracked raw with panic, legs scrambling faster than thought. Nam-gyu didn’t follow, not right away — he instead opted to stand in the open doorway, backlit by dim light, the key around his neck clinking like a windchime in the breeze of loss.

Myung-gi had reached the end of the hallway, panting, frantic, only to skid to a stop — his eyes landing on a crumpled Blue player lying motionless, their limbs bent at the wrong angles. It wasn’t her. He didn’t scream, but his mouth opened like he wanted to.

Nam-gyu finally took a slow and steady step forward, leaning against the concrete wall just outside the doorframe. One slip-on crossed over the other, knife slack at his side. Through his eyes — hazy with whatever remained of the pill’s slow burn and the unfiltered perception of Death itself — the player didn’t die, they fell like a doll knocked from a high shelf. Limbs floppy, head light, eyes flat and forever open, the body made no sense now — just the limbs in fabric, seams split, stuffing bleeding out where flesh should’ve been. Nam-gyu tilted his head, mesmerized. “Another doll down,” he whispered, tone laced with reverence.

With that, the duo moved like blood through a clogged artery — erratic, desperate, and unstoppable.

Nam-gyu danced behind Myung-gi like a shadow trying too hard to be a man. “The Amazing Myung-gi,” he crooned, waving his knife above his head like a flag in a parade no one had asked for. “we’ve got to kill every member of the Blue Team we see.” Nam-gyu declared, his voice bouncing off the walls, high-pitched and bordering on singsong, like a preschool teacher suggesting genocide.

Myung-gi kept walking, fists clenched at his sides.

Nam-gyu didn’t mind the silence, he was used to it, he filled it anyway. “It’s not about the money,” he sneered with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, I like shiny things —” Nam-gyu paused, wiggling his fingers so the rings caught the childish lighting overhead. “but this is better.” Nam-gyu snickered, a grin spreading slowly across his face, curling like smoke. “Think about it.” Nam-gyu began, his tone taking an edge of seriousness. He tapped his blade gently against Myung-gi’s shoulder like a conductor guiding a very private orchestra. “The rule was: kill one person to pass, they didn’t say we couldn’t kill more than one.” Nam-gyu pointed out, taking in the way the hallway curved, doors repeating like a dream that wouldn’t wake up, so Nam-gyu took it as a sign to keep talking. “So if we kill more of those assholes, there won’t be enough for the Reds to kill.. Which means for every Blue we waste —” Nam-gyu paused, now holding up two fingers, wagging them in front of Myung-gi’s face like a bad magician doing fractions. “— We’re eliminating a Red too. Two birds. One bloody-ass stone.” Nam-gyu clarified, twirling once — giddy. “That’ll increase the prize. You know how this works, their shares go proof.” Nam-gyu quipped, clapping his hands once, the echo snapping through the air like a whip. “All that money. Fewer players. And we did it together. You and me.” Nam-gyu added, trying his absolute best to corrupt this mortal.

His absolute best seemed to work considering just like that, Myung-gi had stopped walking, one foot forward, the other planted, leaving him frozen in that posture that said something between “wait” and “fuck.” His shoulders tensed up, he didn’t turn, didn’t breathe for a beat too long.

Nam-gyu’s smile sharpened the moment he felt it — the flicker, that itty-bitty crack in the dam, the first drop of oil in an otherwise clean bowl of water. “Got it?” Nam-gyu asked, eyes glittering with madness. “What do you fucking think? Pretty goddamn sensible, right?” Nam-gyu pondered, even the dim lights above seemed to brighten, as if they, too, were waiting for Myung-gi’s response. Slowly, Myung-gi turned his head — just enough to be heard. “..If I do this..” Myung-gi paused, swallowing any bile leftover in his throat. “It won’t be because of you.” He clarified, and just like that, he started walking again. Not that he could see it, but Nam-gyu’s grin curled crueler now, eyes gleaming as he followed.

The seed had been planted, now? All it needed was blood.

The green door gave way with the soft sigh of rusted hinges, and the two of them stumbled through like drunks on borrowed time.

The hall beyond was narrow and made of gray brick, damp and sweating like the belly of a ship.

They didn’t get very far considering waiting just outside the threshold, as though summoned by ritual, stood the Shaman lady — tall and as gaunt as a wish one picked clean, her fingers trembling over her key necklace, the kind that clacked when she moved. Behind her stood her loyal little dolls: a cult of frightened, wide eyed followers in matching vests, all blue, all branded, all silly believers.

The Shaman’s eyes locked onto Nam-gyu like she’d seen a ghost. “He is here,” she breathed in a gravel-rasp voice. “Death walks among us. Death wears skin like silk and smiles like a liar. Flee, you fools! Flee!” She exclaimed, suddenly vanishing into a side hall in a flutter of cloth and prayer beads, reeking of incense smoke and panic.

For a moment, Nam-gyu stood there, frozen, wide-eyed and trembling before he immediately started laughing. It started as a mere giggle, turned into a hiccup, then bloomed into a bellyful of howling joy. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, a knife in hand. “You see that?!” He gasped between laughs, “They think I'm real!” Nam-gyu jeered despite nobody in the space having a clue what he was talking about, however, his head snapped up and there she was: Player 006, still standing in the wake of her prophet, too stunned or too devoted to run. She looked somewhere between sixty to seventy, the way dolls do when the paint’s been scratched from their cheeks and the light bulbs behind their eyes start to dim.

Nam-gyu’s pupil dilated. In his mind, she was porcelain — not in the good way, in the sense of her hair being sewn in silk thread, eyes glassy and hollow, fixated on some distant, broken dream. Lips like painted rosebuds, cracks beneath her ears.

She tried to scream.

He moved fast — not unlike a child picking out a toy he didn’t deserve.

The knife slipped into her chest with a soft pop — like pulling a cork out of a bottle of something expensive.

She gasped, her mouth forming an O so perfect he imagined it winding a key in the back of her head and hearing lullaby music.

“That’s it,” Nam-gyu whispered, eyes wide as saucers, of course the only time his gay, misogynistic ass would ever cup a woman by the cheeks was to watch the light leave her doll eyes. “There, look! Those eyes. Doll eyes.” Nam-gyu pointed out, mesmerized by the way the light was leaving the dollies eyes, flickering like a bad battery. He tilted her head, fascinated and obsessed with watching the glow fade like sunset behind fogged-up glass. “Isn’t it so freaking fascinating?” he whispered, entranced, taking in the way his breath fogged on her plastic sheen. “They always go dark the same way. Always..” He trailed off, gently setting her down like a broken ornament. Wouldn’t want the porcelain doll to crack, after all.

As for Myung-gi? In his usual mayor of frown-town fashion, he didn’t speak nor did he laugh, he simply moved through the rest of the cultists like a ghost through paper. One dropped to his knees — praying and pleading, only for Myung-gi to slit his throat so fast the man looked contused before falling, mouth still forming the first syllable of “why.”

Another rushed him with a jagged pipe, screaming about salvation. Myung-gi ducked, shoving the knife under his chin — and when the blood sprayed across the gray brick wall, it looked like crimson graffiti spelling “repent.”

Nam-gyu had long since started humming — a nursery rhyme, something soft and stupid since he’d never gotten a chance to be either of the above. He was watching a woman crawl away, nails cracking on the concrete, eyes wide like plastic marbles. He caught her ankle, dragging her back. “Don’t break the set.” Nam-gyu muttered, reveling in the way her scream was the sound of fabric tearing.

The hallway reeked of blood and copper prayers.

Seon-nyeo’s feet slapped the concrete floor, every hurried step echoing with the shrill rasp of her breath. Her fingers, covered in ash and dried blood, clutched the prayer beads clinking around her wrist like chains. “Dokkaebi’s breath..” She muttered, voice trembling. “I’ve seen Death. I’ve spoken to him.” She observed, despite such, she didn’t stop.

She had vowed not to die here, not when her gods had promised glory, not when she, the great Seon-nueo: Shaman of the Sea, had survived debt, divorce, exile, humiliation, and the Ministry of Culture dragging her name through dirt. Not when she had finally seen the eyes of Death, wearing the face of a junkie who’d missed out on sleep, and that smile — like a child dragging a blade through sand.

Blindsided, Seon-nyeo stumbled into another hallway, and then — Gi-hun, witty, twitchy, dressed in red, looking at her like she was a puzzle made of rot. After collecting her thoughts, Seon-nyeo smiled. “You’re looking for Player 388, aren’t you?” Seon-nyeo alleged, he said nothing, but she saw the flickering question behind his eyes. “Dae-ho. That’s his name.” Seon-nyeo confirmed, licking her lips to savor the weight of her next words. “He’s been touched, you know. Tainted with Greed. Not just the sin — the thing itself.” Seon-nyeo advised, Gi-hun’s jaw tensed, she could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “You’re lying..” He grumbled, she tilted her head. “I don’t lie. I foresee.” Seon-nyeo snapped, “He’s changed. The gods don’t want him anymore. I presume you do.” Seon-nyeo added, followed by a long silence before Gi-hun moved to leave, and she smiled, she was still alive.

Later.

Seon-nyeo found herself running again, scrambling down another stairwell like a rat in robes. The beads at her wrist had snapped — again, scattering across the floor like broken teeth.

Well aware that such a thing occurring repeatedly was a sign of bad karma, Seon-nyeo bent down to pick up the scattered beads, only to slam into him rounding a corner, nearly toppling into his chest. Seon-nyeo froze, taking in the way his eyes were wrong. Not like Death’s, no. His were worse — kind, though not innocent, his set of orbs were still shining like wet paint, but rimmed with sickness. He swayed, pupils blooming like oil spills, leading Seon-nyeo to conclude the drug had bloomed in him. “Oh, gods..” Seon-nyeo muttered, stepping back, her whole body curling like a dead leaf in the wind. “Two brothers, one life — one rot. A kiss, a pill, a fall from the top. Life will scream, Death will weep, and the exit opens to only the thief.” Seon-nyeo’s voice had caught in her throat, but she forced it out — croaked it like a sermon from the bottom of a well.

Min-su blinked at her, letting out a low, drunken, off-balance chuckle.

Seon-nyeo didn’t waste the chance, she bolted, turning the next corner, praying to every god she could name — from Gwan-eum to Guan Yu to whoever ran this carnival of corpses. Her prayers proved to be of use, considering the next room she stumbled upon was the exit room. She nearly fell through the door, breathless, hair soaked into her scalp. Her relief was short-lived when her gaze zeroed in on the door — the promise, and three locks, three stupid glowing keyholes. After some screaming, cursing, and crying. She ripped open corpses in search of keys, clawing through blood and pocket lint, grumbling into the torn jacket of Player 009 — Mi-hwa’s brother in devotion. Her fingers found a worn metal key on his corpse, just one. “You were loyal,” She whispered, then tossed the body aside like trash.

Nam-gyu skipped, limbs loose and euphoric as if his skeleton were borrowed, which wasn’t super far off.

“When we were in love,” he sang, half-whisper, half-giggle, “we met and became an un-for-get-ta-blllleeee..” He trailed off, spinning a lazy circle in the hallway’s dead air, arms out like a wind-up ballerina. The concrete underfoot throbbed green and red under Nam-gyu’s stoned mind.

Behind him, Myung-gi trudged in silence, his jumpsuit slicking into his neck with sweat, face set in stone. His footfalls were the only punctuation to Nam-gyu’s song. “And became an —” Nam-gyu hummed, rounding a corner, his voice stalling mid-note.

There, slumped against the brick wall like a forgotten toy, was Player 414. His head lolled to the side, mouth parted slightly like he’d died mid-sentence. Blood had dried on his chin like melted jam, but Nam-gyu didn’t see that, he saw a doll complete with big eyes, still eyelashes, painted lips — silent. “Oh..” Nam-gyu breathed, delighted. “Hey, are you asleep?” He cooed, dropping to his knees, poking the player’s cheek, gently at first. “Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.” Nam-gyu sneered, leaning in, nose to the corpse’s though miraculously unbothered by the stench. “Let’s play, I’m bored." Nam-gyu groaned, grabbing the player’s head and jiggling it side-to-side like a joystick. When it lolled back in protest, Nam-gyu frowned. “I said wake up.” He snapped, his blade coming down quickly and annoyedly in protest, plunging into the player’s stomach with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed up his forearm, misting his cheek like bad cologne.

Nam-gyu smiled, well, at least the doll was leaking. He turned to Myung-gi, who was pacing a few steps away, fingers twitching like he wanted to light a cigarette with his bare hands. “The Amazing Myung-gi,” Nam-gyu beamed, motioning to the corpse like he’d made it himself. “He doesn’t want to play.” Nam-gyu groaned, “Let’s go.” Myung-gi snapped, still never quite at ease. Nam-gyu blinked, then tilted his head, suddenly hyper-aware of Player 100, Jeong-dae — lying on his side, arms out, still not-so-quietly breathing — pretending.

Nam-gyu padded toward him, crouching again. “Hey. Are you pretending to be asleep?” Nam-gyu pondered, leaning close to Jeong-dae’s ear. “You’re not a very good doll, you know. Real dolls don’t fake it.” Nam-gyu grumbled, “I said let’s go.” Myung-gi reiterated from behind him, Nam-gyu huffed, annoyed. His fingers twitched on the handle of the knife still sick with red, but something stayed in his hand. A glimmer of thought — Yeong-sam, even though his brother had screwed him over and tossed him under the bus constantly, Nam-gyu supposed he owed him the honor of killing Jeong-dae after putting up with his yapping for so long.

With that, Nam-gyu licked his lips and stood up. “You aren’t gonna let me wake him up first?” Nam-gyu sighed, Myung-gi didn’t even turn around this time around. “Whatever.” He grumbled, Nam-gyu clapped, delighted. “You’re the best,” he chimed. “That’s why you’re The Amazing Myung-gi.. Does whatever a uh.. Monkey can?” Nam-gyu trailed off, twirling like a drunk child, then sprinted after Myung-gi like a wind-up toy with cracked porcelain skin. “Play with me, play with me~!” he called down the hallway.

The hallway had never quite stopped reeking of rot and rusted metal, dim lights above her head crackling with a feeble buzz like dying insects. Seon-nyeo’s footsteps faltered as she crept through the stagnant dark, one hand clutching the rust-worn circle key tight enough to leave crescent indents on her palm.

As discreetly as she could, she was following Death — that is, the thing she knew to be Death. The man with the serpentine eyes and voice like velvet rot — Nam-gyu, now that she’d gotten a good look at him, she’d seen who he really was. It was all in the way blood stuck to his skin like it belonged there, and like a moth trailing behind smoke, she’d followed. She needed a clearer reading — a sign, something, anything.

But what she found instead was worse.

Sprawled at the edge of the hall, crumpled like a discarded ragdoll, was Player 100 — Jeong-dae.

Seon-nyeo gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Aigo.. Just in time.” She whispered, bending down quietly, eyeing his pockets. Blood was still damp on his shoulder, her pulse quickened when his eyes suddenly flew open, Seon-nyeo screeched and stumbled back, almost tripping over her own hem. “Y-You —! You’re alive!?” Seon-nyeo whisper-yelled in disbelief, Jeong-dae sat up with a grimace. “Not for long if you keep screaming like that.” Jeong-dae groaned, rubbing his temples and blinking up at her. “You..” He paused, squinting, “You’re that shaman lady. The loud one.” He observed, Seon-nyeo gasped again — this time offended. “I am Seon-nyeo, Shaman of the Sea!” She hissed, “And the gods clearly aren’t done with you.” Seon-nyeo observed, pulling him to his feet, brushing off the dust from his sleeves more for her sake than his.

With that, they began to walk, shaky at first, side by side down the dim corridor. The silence between them stretched, interrupted only by distant thuds and the low mechanical breathing of the walls. Eventually, Jeong-dae just had to break it. “…There really is an exit?” He clarified, Seon-nyeo smugly lifted her chin. “The gods of heaven and earth led me to it.” She simply put, in which Jeong-dae frowned, unconvinced. “Then why didn’t you use it?” He grumbled, “You need all three keys to open it.” Seon-nyeo pointed out, raising the circle pendant like proof from Olympus. “I have the circle. You have the other two. Now we can open it.” Seon-nyeo added, “How do you know I —” Jeong-dae asked, “I just do.” Seon-nyeo snapped, her tone slamming the door shut without further questions.

They came upon a hallway intersection, where the dim lights cast long shadows like skeletal fingers pointing nowhere. Of course, Jeong-dae hesitated. “Are you sure?” He asked, stopping at the split. Seon-nyeo scowled and turned to him, bristling like a cornered cat. “Why else would I bring you with me? To hold hands? Don’t flatter yourself.” She snapped, leaving them standing in the middle, lost in a maze of blood-stained tikes and suffocating sameness. Jeong-dae looked around again, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly unsettled. “Wait.. How do you know the way, though? Everything looks the same to me.” He trailed off, in which Seon-nueo turned on him with a snarl. “You idiot. I see why Greed chose to stick with you — you’re up his alley. Clueless and easy to sway.” Seon-nyeo seethed, her breath coming hot and fast, but then she suddenly stilled. The anger in her face softened into an eerie and far-off expression, like she was tuning to a different frequency. “I don’t see the way.” She settled on saying, her eyes fluttering closed. “I listen to the voices of the gods of heaven and earth.” She corrected, raising her arms like a conductor before an unseen orchestra, letting the air hum through her open palms. Her chest expanded as she took a long breath in, then exhaled through her nose.

The corridor spat them out into a strange silence.

The exit room looked nothing like the game’s cold, industrial maze. Instead, the walls were painted blue — a shade too soft and innocent, almost babyish. Childlike sketches of trees and smiling bugs looped around them, their cartoonish eyes wide and oblivious. The room smelled faintly of glue and powdered milk, like an abandoned preschool. A place where the paint never died, where time stopped in a tantrum and never resumed.

“There really was an exit..” Jeong-dae breathed, fumbling into his zip-up pocket and retrieving two small objects: the triangle and the square keys, one trembling hand after the other, he slid them into the indents on the door ahead, as he turned them both with a satisfying ka-chunk — “You fool.” Seon-nyeo snapped, her voice whipped over his shoulder. He barely had time to blink before she shoved him aside with the force of a woman possessed, “I already told you. You need all three keys to open it.” She grumbled, holding up the circle key, glimmering in the dim light like a final puzzle piece. Jeong-dae stumbled backward, watching in stunned silence as he inserted the last key.

A heavy click echoed through the painted door like a heartbeat returning after death, as the door split down the middle, fresh, crisp air spilled into the room. Not the suffocating, recycled air of the maze, but the outside. Seon-nyeo stepped through slowly, “Dear gods of heaven and earth, thank you.” She whispered, her face bathed in the silver-white light beyond the threshold. However, she paused — her eyes, like still ponds, turned back to Jeong-dae, but they weren’t soft, there was no pity, no warmth, just calculation. “You know,” she began, voice rising like steam off boiling broth. “Greed wanted you dead.” She pointed out, Jeong-dae flinched at such a statement. “What?” He spat, Seon-nyeo tilted her head, stepping fully through the doorframe. She placed a single foot outside — freedom pressing against her back. “Greed marked you the moment you walked into this place, it was in your aura — the stains on your soul, the way you begged to win without knowing the cost..” She trailed off, leaning in slightly. “You were never meant to leave.” She concluded, and with that, she yanked the triangle key out of the door with a violent twist and slammed it shut behind her.

CLANG.

The door reverberated with a finality that made Jeong-dae’s ears ring. He was left standing in the painted room with the dumb smiling bugs, one hand outstretched, jaw slack. “You — you bitch!” He exclaimed, pounding on the door. “SHAMAN SKANK!” He called out, but there was no answer, just the breeze gone.

However, Jeong-dae was rather used to the world catering to him and his knuckles remained raw, slamming his fists into the door again, again, and again.

“SHAMAN SKANK!”

A punch.

“YOU CRAZY BITCH!”

Another.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

Jeong-dae’s voice cracked like old vinyl, a needle dragging across his throat. He was sweating into the painted bugs and trees now, the cartoon smiles peeling away into mockery under the flickering light. The baby-blue walls pulsed with the warmth of the outside just beyond, but he could smell the cold metal locking him in. “I gave you that key, you whore! You think you’re better than me?! YOU WOULDN’T HAVE FOUND THE EXIT—” Jeong-dae was bound to continue his rambling until he heard it:

“Excuse me.” The voice cut in from behind him, meek and feather-light, cutting through his tantrum like a child tugging on a grown man’s sleeve.

Jeong-dae whirled around, taking in the sight of Min-su standing there, arms dangling at his sides like willing stems. His eyes were cloudy, pale moons bobbing in bloodshot water. His lips twitched with the remnants of a smile, the kind people wore in sleep or psychosis. The front of his jumpsuit was stained with something — vomit? blood? And he swayed with the fragile grace of a man too far gone to care. “Have.. Have you seen Se-mi?” Min-su mumbled, for one stupid second, Jeong-dae thought of his own children, the younger ones, how they’d throw up in the middle of the night, crying. He’d nudge his first or second wife with a grunt, roll over, and let her clean it up. He’d doze off to the sound of her cooing and gagging into wet towels. That was parenting, wasn’t it?

“What?” Jeong-dae snapped, sneering. “No, I haven’t seen your junkie girlfriend. She went behind this door with the rest of the cult freaks. If you want her back, go ahead — stab the damn thing open.” Jeong-dae demanded, jabbing a finger toward the thick steel door like it was a chalkboard and he was teaching an idiot. His idiot assumption was further proven when Min-su just blinked, “I have it covered..” He assured in a whisper, Jeong-dae’s smirk collapsed when something — something sharp — entered beneath his ribs. Not like a punch or a stab, not even pain at first. Just cold, sudden, and intimate, like someone whispering in his ear with a mouth full of ice. He looked down to see Min-su’s hand pulling away, holding something slick and metallic, he couldn’t tell since his vision was blurring. “Hey —” Jeong-dae croaked, then nothing.. Quite literally nothing, no dramatic fall, no scream, just a sudden absence of everything. No breath, no warmth, no time.

The pain came late — a delayed guest at his own funeral. But when it came, it surged, then dulled. He felt his blood running out of him, like someone pouring wine down a drain. His fingers twitched and his vision swam as he stumbled back against the blue wall. The painted and dumb tree next to him had a smiling owl on its branch, it looked so damn happy, he hated it. He wanted to say something cruel, something biting, something about how Min-su was nothing, how none of this meant anything, how —

But when his mouth opened, nothing came out. His knees hit the floor, one by one. He slumped like a broken chair.

In that final moment, Jeong-dae felt nothing heroic — no montage, no memories, only a flicker of anger, useless greed, and a very stupid, very human thought: “That bitch took my key.” Then came the dark, then came the cold, then came nothing at all.

Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe — oh god it hurts it hurts IT HURTS his hands on his neck his neck his neck his neck he’s going to kill him he’s going to die he’s going to die not like this not like this NOT LIKE THIS he was supposed to — fuck — he was supposed to keep his promise — he was supposed to prove it he was supposed to prove he’s strong enough strong enough for the Marines strong enough for his dad to say just once that he’s proud proud of him but all he ever did was raise his hand and he flinched he flinched and he — don’t let them see you cry, Dae-ho be a man be a man but his sisters said he was enough they always said he was enough he remembers the way they held his hands when they played gongi in the summer dust he remembers they told him he was better than any boy in the neighborhood he remembers he was happy once he remmebers he laughed once gos he wants to laugh again HE WANTS TO BREATHE AGAIN HE’S KILLING HIM HES KILLING HIM HESKILLINGHIM and he’s not stoppinf and his eyes are fire and guilt and something twisted in the middle and he was trying he swears he was trying he was so scared he couldn’t even grab the magazines he couldn’t breathe then either he was scared and now he’s scared again he’s always scared isn’t he just a scared little boy in a grown man’s skinwith a fake tattoo and a fake story and a fake life but the pain is real the air is leaving the colors are blurring pleasepleasepleasePLEASEPLEASEEEE let him go hes sorry hes sorry hessorry for everythinf for being weak for hiding for failing them for lying about the Marines for believing in anything — Gi-hun hyung why wont you stop why wont he see he looked up to him he followed him he was supposed to lead us he was supposed to protect us not this not this notthisNOTTHISNOTTHISNOTTHIS stupid soft little boy scream like you did when he snapped your actuon figure cry your tears, girlboy, he’ll love you if you just stop crying

why is the world spinning why does it feel like his mind is leaking out of his ears is this death is this what dying feels like or is this just terror or is this just —

t̵̺̜̫͚̤͖̯̫̫̀̏̈̂̂̔̍̚̕͝h̶̨̡͈̼̼͉̗̳̠̤̆͂͌͌̔̋̓è̴͔͙̺̓͋̎̑̈́̚͜͜ ̸̯͔̰͖̝̙́̎̽o̸̲̝̝͖̳̜͓̰͚̅̑̄͌͝ț̸̨̡̡̞̞̻̣̓̿̂̍͊̈́̑͗̎̔̚͠͝h̷̢̢̘̟̼̼̖̰̯̼͔̼̘̱͖͊̎́͋͋̏̾͗̐̌̔̀͜ȩ̶̡̰̺̑̽̔̾͗̅͋̏̓̎͗̈́̉͗́͐̌r̷̢͙̦͇̝̹̜̘̹̖̘͕͑̈͐͠ͅm̵̖̅̏̕ȉ̶͓͇̰̞̫̟̈́̉́̌̍̓̊́̐̋̈́̌͆̇͋͜͝͠n̶̦̥͖͘͜d̶̨͕͇͎̪͎̫̜̥̀ͅ ̵̧̱̮̭͙͌̋̑̅͜s̶̨̼̟͖̠͓͑ą̸̨̧̜̦̬͓̤̲̺͔͎̰̐͌̋̑̑̒̀̍̋̿̃̍͌̈́̕͝y̵̢̛̯̆̐͊̍͛̒̓͊̌̔̌̈́̕͘͠s̴̢̭̩̞͍̱̮̥̟̟̝͕̯̻̼̽͐̅͒̉̓̿̋̓͠ ̶̨̧̥̾̎́͜ͅf̷̗̖͚̟̬̥̘̙̹̩̤̔̑̂̆͐̕͜͜e̷̡̛̤̮̪̻͙̥̤̟͇̯͓̍̿͆̉̂͑̈̌̇̉̂͘̕͠͠e̶̡̢̧̯̖̹̹̫̣͖̬̠̥̽̇̿͂̿͆͂̀̇͌͋̃̄͘͝͠͝ͅl̶̘̥̬͓͐̒͆̐̔͊͗͊́̎̓̿̚͝ ̵̳̣̲̪̠̼̪͈͎͙̜̀̋͜͝͝h̶̡̡͙̝̯̬̲͙̟̪̬̿i̸̡̢͎͕͖̦̻͊͑̏̄͘͘ͅm̷̨̨͈̰̟̗̺̥͗̉̔̐̈́͒̎ ̴̢͔͔̘̱̩̜͈̍́̃̂̎́̄̅̾

ņ̴̧̙͉͈̥̻̜̝̫̏͒̎͗̅͐̈͝ǫ̴̨̳͈̠̲̻̹̠̮̲͖̫̔́̌̈̓̿̋ͅw̸̺̳̫̺̪̱̓̈́̅̊͊̄͑̉̒̽͂̓̇̔̉̂̽͂ ̵̡̢̝̭̻̯̲̩̭͇̰̊́̿̓̀̇̓̕͘̚n̴̨͖̝͈͓̮̹̞͖̮͕̻̠͙̙̒̑͌̋̎͊̔̈͊͜o̸̘͎̎̈́̎͊̈́͐͑́̕̕͜͝w̴̧̞̦̜͙̭̝̩̌̎̐͠ ̴̨̢̭̮͓̭̹̱̳͈̻͚̯̮̅́͛͐̎͒͑̓̾̅͜ͅń̴̢̛́͋̓̿̿̃ơ̷̜̹̭͋̔̓̇̒̄̆̈́̆͛͆͗̈́͘͝w̸͖̥͌̈̿̏͆̂̆̑͒͂̑́͒͒͝ ̵̛̯͙̦̳̍̋̀̐̏̓̾̀͊͌̍͊̚͠ͅn̵̨͇̻̻͚̗̥̬͖̠̉̅̈́̀̂͑̒̾͂̇̊̏̐͘̕͜͝ͅơ̵̳͖̝̭͔͕̞͊́̐̾̀͂̓̉͝͠w̵̟̥͗̒͛̅̊̕̚͝ņ̷̘̺͍̩̬̝̣̳̦̺͖̫́͋͂̓̒̉ͅờ̷̟̣͇̝͙̈́̄̇̓͌͌̈̈́ẇ̴̡̼̙̖̟̯̱̬̦͋̽̐͑͂̃̎̋̽̀̑̒͘͝n̸̛̟̘͖͔̫̯͔̺͓̟͍̤̭̽͆̐̅̆̋͒̓̋͐̾̀́̀͠ǫ̵͇͎̟͍̲̼̠͉͖͇̲͚̤̮̘̂͌̓̔͋͒̆̑̏̎̏́͌̑̌̃͠ͅẅ̶͍̲̭͚̲͕͇̲͚́͛̈́̄̅͌̿̈́̀̄̿̊͆͊̕̕̚ͅń̵̨͉̲͇̐̇͑̾̈̽͝ǫ̴̯̙͇͖͉͖͚͇̦̙͇̅͐̀͝w̵̢̢̨͉̭̞̅́͆̂̏̓͒̐̾̃̔̚͘͝n̸͇͍͕̘̱̿̂̀͂̾͋̾̑͒̏̊ǫ̷̛͖͚̞͐̇̔̃̏͝ͅw̷̠̪͍͓̐̔̂̉͗̋͒̑̔̂͝Ṇ̷̢̡̨̪̰̆̓̈͆̈́̈́͌̆̎̕͜͠Ỏ̵̩̭̺͇̬͎͋̒͌̆̏͝͠W̴̢̲̉́̈́̒̿̑̆͒̎́͛̚͝N̷̢̛͇͔͈͙͙͎̳̳̳̤͍͍̤͕̉͊͋̕͜O̴̢̢̝̫̩̞͖͌̑̿́̉̀͘W̴̭̼̣͍̻̦͚̲̘̄̋̔̇͛ͅN̷̡͑́̉́O̴̧̰̤̊͐͂̈̈́̂̑̉̑̉̈͑͗̒̈́͘̕W̵̢̧̨͇̭̫͚͈̪͓͎̟̪͉̬̒̌͋̊̽̊̄̏̓̊̄̎̓̊̓͂͜ͅ

he — he is not alone in here

he’s — the othermind is in him

he let him in — he was dying he was dead he walked past his corpse he watched him crumple he watched the light go out but he whispered he whispered in the dark and he thought it was just fear but he — he smeared his blood on him on his wrist in his neck like a curse like a sacrifice and he thought it was revenge but it was a vessel he made him a vessel he made him a shell and now —

D̷̨̡̛̠̭͎̯͖̃͒̉͐͛̿́͒̀̆̂̔͘͝ͅO̸̠̦͓̘̻̗̻͎̣̫̟̞̱̟̠̓̒͐̂̈́̈́ ̵̢̨̧͙̞̰͚̳̲͎͖́̈́͆͊̓̿́̕͝͝Y̷̨̹̫̝̪̳̋Ọ̵̫̬̮̞̤̄̊̍̋͌̿̍͗̀̓̒̾̌͝͝͝U̸͑̔ͅ ̶̢̨̻̘̱̬̝͙͎͈͋͗͆͜͝W̶̡̳̱̲̦̗̉̈́̌̃̽̏̔̈͠A̷̛̛̝̞͔̥̺̭̹̯͉̟͑̃̈͌͋̉͂́N̶̛̼͐̾͗̅̎͊T̸͇̭̹̩͆͛͋̿͗̓͘͝ ̸̛̱̀̓̈́͊̽́̄̅̉̅̏̉̚T̷̻͍̩͚̬̲̙̠̫̝̮͛̍̕ͅO̵̳̻͂́̓̌ ̷̨̖̙̭̥̲̱̦̫̬͈̬͗͌L̷̗̰̲̃̄̓͐͒͜Į̴̬̙̣̤̹͎͗́̋͐̈́͋̐̿͑̏̆̈́͝V̴̯͎̈́̔̽̈́̄͐͌͝E̷̥͇͒̎̾́̓͂͘͝ ̵̮̑́̒͌͌́́͛̉̒̇͘O̴͙̯͚̣̹͚͛̌̓̄̍̾̄̅̽̾͋̚͠R̷̡̂͒͠ ̸̧̡̯̩͔̫͖̰̭̈́̂͊̄͋͗͐̈́͑̆N̸̛̠͍̻̋̈́͋̿̃̎͌̑͊͐͋̃̿͝Ǭ̶̽̌͂͑̏̔̽͛̀̍͋̆͠Ṭ̵̢̨̰̹̦͇͙̣̜̼̃͗͌͗̎ͅͅ ̵̹̞͇̺̰̪̬̒̄͐͂͗̅͋̀͛̄̑̓̃̇͝L̴̡̼̹̠̼̳̭̝͓̪̾͌̉̂̔͝E̵̛̛̖̙͉̪͈̯̲̥̣̬̲̤̓̏̿̈́̊̋͊̿ͅͅT̷͓̂̄͐̋̄͑̈́͗̿͗͘̕͝ ̶̧̳͓͇̱̔̆̆̋̀̓͂͊̀͗̑͝T̵̢̨̡̡̢͙̭͔̯̘̗̞̼̬͇̆̀͗͜͠H̵͖̞̝̩͖̓̑͛̉̄̑͆̓̅͆͛̈́̐͝ͅͅÈ̷̹̠̋͝ ̸̨͍͙͇̓̐͒̃̀̇͒̊̋̓͆̃̌͆̔͝O̴͕͊̎T̷̡̢̼̤̥̟̭͈̻̣̀̿̏̆̈́̇̊͑̀͊̉ͅḦ̶̤̭̙͓̪͙͉̬́̑̋̏̑͗̈́͘͠Ė̵̳̳͎̮̤̜̻̻͉̣̙̙̝̊̇̊̍͝R̵̡̖̫̘̱̱͖̺͚̿̇̽͝M̷̡̧̡̝͙̯̀͘I̸̧̨̨̠͚̩̥͍̥̠̠̩̜̰͌̍̍̑̈́͗͑̀̇̓́̓̕̚N̵̢̜̼͓̬͖͉͈̟̣͖̟̂̀̏̄̈͂̓̓͑͂̃D̷̞̝̺̼̟̜̠͇̩̩̗͆̓̋̃͐͗̑̐́̑͂̅̌̑̈́͜ ̴̧̢̗͎̝̹̭̮̫̘̟̺̭͉̜͋̂̀̍͌͆̀̄̈́́͊̆̓̆͌͘Ì̸̧̨͎̣̣̬̝̤͇͚̘̤̮͂͐͗̍͜Ṇ̷̲̲̈͑̑͝

let me drive the othermind says
let me steer
you want to live, don’t you?

he does he does he does want to live he doesnt want to die not here not like this and —

he let the othermind
he let him
God forgive him
he let him in
he let him
be Kang Dae-ho

It had been, in Thanos’ own words, “longer than a fucking 9-to-5 with overtime, plus emotional labor, and I ain’t even unironized.” Escorting the dead wasn’t what he expected — he thought it’d be more poetic, more “Reaper shit,” like gliding silently with a cloak or whispering final words into the void. Instead, it was a soul conga line that never stopped, like a cosmic DMV line with no snacks. He was getting the hang of the weight of the scythe, but the heaviness wasn’t just physical — it was emotional, spiritual, existential, the list could truly go on. Every pair of eyes he met had stories etched into their death, and most weren’t pretty.

Today, it was Park Yong-sik.

Despite never interacting in the games, Thanos recognized him instantly — he was slumped in a crouch at the edge of the void like a soggy rice cake left out
too long. The fog of the in-between curled around his white slip-ons, and above them loomed that looming, aurora-streaked sky that didn’t look like anything Earth had ever hosted. Stars blinked in abstract Morse code, and the air smelled faintly of pennies and mothballs.

Thanos approached in slow steps, swinging the scythe across his shoulders like a mic stand. He squinted, beatboxed a couple warm-up bars into the cold emptiness, and broke into rhyme:

“Yo, Player 007, meet the beat of your end,
Another soul lost ‘cause your luck couldn’t bend.
You tried to kill, couldn’t even fake it —
Your mama saw through you, and your fate? She ain’t patient.”

Yong-sik raised his head, his eyes looked like milk-glass — still wet with regret. “I couldn’t kill anyone,” he croaked. “Player 124 and Player 333 were teaming up and killing all of the Blues.” Yong-sik stammered. Upon hearing those two numbers together, the rhyme died in Thanos’ throat. His shoulders tensed, his knuckles whitened around the scythe. That number — 333 — chimed like a rusted bell in the back of his brain, dragging up memories he thought he’d smothered under Nam-gyu’s endless supply of drugs.

Lee Myung-gi — MG Coin, the YouTuber, the smiling snake who peddled digital gold that turned to blood in Thanos’ hands. The man who sold him delusion in a livestream and left him standing on a bridge railing with nothing but ₩1.19 billion in debt and a note in his pocket that just said: “I tried.”

Thanos’ lip curled back, he could taste battery acid on his tongue. He wanted to snap the scythe in half and throw it into the abyss, then dig Myung-gi up from wherever the bastard was hiding and drive it through his gut like a mic drop from hell. “Player 124.” He whispered — Nam-gyu, it made a sick kind of sense, of course Death wouldn’t give a shit about crypto fraud, ruined dreams, or broken people — he had no real debt, no parents to disappoint, no future to salvage. In Thanos’ eyes, Nam-gyu had always floated above without consequences, skating through reality like nothing could bruise him. Why wouldn’t he team up with a conman? Why wouldn’t he side with the very ruin Thanos bled under? He didn’t say anything out loud, he didn’t curse Nam-gyu or Yong-sik, just stared past the fog and into that pulsing, infinite dark, jaw clenched so tight his molars sparked. He had kissed Nam-gyu, had dropped to his knees for him — literally and metaphysically, let Death make him his stand-in, his little experiment, his temporary throne-sitter.

And now he realized what it was: a favor, not a coronation. A task, not a bond.. Thanos was doing Nam-gyu’s bidding while Nam-gyu budded elbows with the goddamn enemy. “Fucking tracks,” he muttered. Yong-sik blinked, tilting his head. “..Am I in trouble?” He dared to ask, unknowingly snapping Thanos out of his daze, eyes flicking down to the quivering soul at his feet. He exhaled hard through his nose, the fog shifting like a bull ready to charge. “Nah, man. You’re just the echo. The real problem’s still breathing.” Thanos assured, reaching a hand down toward Yong-sik, like a reluctant bouncer showing mercy to a drunk VIP guest. “C’mon. Let’s get you through the doors before I change my mind.” Thanos quipped as he helped the soul rise and fade into the shimmering threshold, Thanos gripped the scythe tighter.

When Nam-gyu came back for it, he wasn’t giving it back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Upon returning to the dormitory, Nam-gyu was hit with the miasma of sweat, rust, and lingering blood — it wasn’t enough to make a person gag, a conclusion came Nam-gyu came to upon looking at Myung-gi and noting he wasn’t the slightest bit disturbed, leading Nam-gyu to believe rather, it was just enough to make the air feel sticky when it settled in the throat. As per usual, the metal bunks lined the walls like silent sentinels, stripped of all but a few linen-colored sheets and crumpled memories. Most of the players were already filing out, some stiff and silent, others murmuring low prayers or last-minute superstitions to whichever god they still believed hadn’t abandoned them.

Nam-gyu took a seat, perched on the lower steps of the staircase like a child sulking on a playground slide, bracelet and tattoo tinged arms draped lazily over his knees, his eyes glassy with the glaze of withdrawal. His jacket, once a nice turquoise, was now ragged and spotted with several mortal's blood, hung off one shoulder like a dying bird. Myung-gi stood just below him, leaned with quiet tension against the metal bars of the staircase. He had one nearly identical slip-on braced against the beds support beam, arms crossed, and his eyes — ever darting, ever calculating — flickered toward the door that the players were shuffling through one by one.

On the other hand, Nam-gyu was mid-ramble, chewing on the inside of his cheek like it might keep the tremors at bay. “Okay, so there’s two more games, right? They said six days..” He trailed off, more to himself than Myung-gi. “I’ll take one pill for each. One for the penultimate. One for the finale. That way I don’t peak too early, i’m not a fucking idiot.” Nam-gyu continued, tugging on the front of his zip-up, patting his pockets like a man searching for his phone while drunk, then yanked the thing off entirely and gave it a theatrical shake… Nothing. Unless one counted the few lint corpses and the flutter of his frayed sanity.

Nam-gyu’s brow furrowed, panic setting into his stomach. “Where is it?” He muttered, his mouth hanging slightly open. Nam-gyu’s gaze zeroed in on Myung-gi, who was shifting slightly, his own gaze glued to the narrowing gap in the dormitory doors, his jaw was clenched. Nam-gyu followed the line of his stare — ah, the pregnant skank, the source to the gnawing parasite called love. Nam-gyu almost made a snide remark, he damn near did, it sat on his tongue like a lozenge soaked in acid — it was awesome, cruel, and perfect, something like: “What, is the cuck chair really that warm and cozy?” But there was something about the slope of Myung-gi’s shoulders and the rawness of his focus that made Nam-gyu swallow it.

Instead, Nam-gyu opted to slide off the steps and landed with a small thud, approaching Myung-gi with genuine urgency. “Hey. Have you seen my necklace?” He asked, voice pitcher higher than usual, bordering on sing-song in its desperation. He gestured with his fingers, miming a cross dangling from a chain. Myung-gi didn’t even spare him a glance, which normally would’ve angered Nam-gyu, but he had bigger concerns. “Huh?” He muttered, pulled out of his trance. “The cross,” Nam-gyu reiterated, more forceful this time, stepping closer. “C’mon, don’t play dumb. It has my medication, alright? I need it.” Nam-gyu pleaded, which was a half-truth, because he wasn’t sure he could hold a human shape without proper focus.

Myung-gi’s mouth curled with mild annoyance, oh, Nam-gyu was so sorry he interrupted Myung-gi from staring off into space. “No.” Myung-gi said curtly, still not looking at him. “You sure?” Nam-gyu asked, voice sharp and suspicious. His eyes narrowed as if he could sniff guilt from Myung-gi like a drug dog.

When Myung-gi didn’t answer, Nam-gyu took that as confirmation and lunged, reaching for the inside of Myung-gi’s jacket. Such an action proved to be a bad move, as before Nam-gyu’s hand could breach the inner lining, Myung-gi shoved him — roughly.

Nam-gyu stumbled back, arms flailing slightly, eyes wide with outrage. “You fucking cuck.” Nam-gyu hissed, smoothing his hair down with shaking fingers, a bitter curl twisting his lips. “You would steal from me. Fucking pathetic.” Nam-gyu seethed, licking his dry lips. “I haven’t seen it,” Myung-gi snapped, finally making eye contact, his stare was like a blade — cold, precise, and unwilling to bend. Nam-gyu let out a deep groan, running both hands through his scalp like he could scrape the stress out of his skull. “Where did I lose it?” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it..” He hissed, Nam-gyu wasn’t just fiending, he could quit anytime he wanted, did one seriously believe Death was an addict? The real reason was that the necklace had meant something. It wasn’t just a stash; it was Thanos’ last fingerprint, the only remnant of a moment so brief it burned.

With one last glance at Myung-gi, who had already turned his focus back to the door, Nam-gyu bolted toward the guards standing by the exit like statues, assault rifles slung across their chests, faces hidden behind their black masks. But Nam-gyu didn’t care, he darted toward them, weaving through the thinning line of departing players, shoving past arms and elbows like a man on fire. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey! I need to go back! I dropped something —” Nam-gyu stammered, losing his train of thought as he took in the guards. They were two obelisks in pink, triangles stamped onto their masks like symbols in a dead language. They didn’t breathe, didn’t twitch, didn’t even acknowledge anything unless it was a direct command from the gods above (little did they know,) — or from whatever algorithm whats-his-face had wet-wired into their lobotomized little skulls. Their rifles hung across their chests with that same dead gravity, the muzzles pointed forward like snakes sleeping.

Nam-gyu continued his sprint toward them, heels scraping the floor, footsteps slapping concrete like desperation made audible. “I left something in the arena!” he called out as he approached, waving his hand in circles like he was trying to swat flies or conjure sympathy from the faceless. “I — I have to find it.” Nam-gyu stammered, trying to ignore how he looked haggard. His skin was pale beneath the flickering fluorescent light, and sweat clung to his brow like it was auditioning to be blood. His jacket, already unzipped and sagging, slipped off his shoulder, then dropped entirely. He didn’t even notice, his body reduced to a bag of skin possessed by panic. “Let me just —” he paused, choking on his words and slapping himself in the forehead with the flat of his palm, hard enough that it cracked. “Fuck. I need — I’d like to look for it real quick.” Nam-gyu blurted out, his eyes frantically darting between the pair of guards, one of which shifted slightly, more out of procedure than concern. As for the other? It, yes, It didn’t budge at all, leading to Nam-gyu’s rash decision to lurch forward to shove past the nearest one, proving to be a grave mistake.

The guard lifted an arm and shoved Nam-gyu sideways without any effort, like a bouncer swatting a drunk off a velvet rope. Nam-gyu staggered back, feet scrambling for purchase, and damn nearly fell on his ass. “No.” The triangle-masked one simply put with the tonal range of a microwave. “You can’t go back in there.” It added. Nam-gyu gripped his forehead, pressing his palm in hard like he could force clarity into his skull by way of pressure. It didn’t help, the only thing that came to him was that aching, echoing lack — the emptiness where Thanos’ necklace had been. “Come onnnnnn,” Nam-gyu groaned, voice rising, dragging out his sentence, arms flapping like a baby bird trying to take flight. “Just — please, okay? I can’t do anything without it. I need it. You don’t understand what that fucking necklace is, alright?” Nam-gyu attempted to resonate with the things, rich coming from him, he was well aware, but fuck it. He was right, see the way they didn’t move? Of-fucking-course they didn’t, they were nothing but mannequins with license to kill. “Don’t just stand there!” Nam-gyu snapped, stepping up again. His hand hovered near the rifle strap on the nearest one. “Say something! Say anything! Be human for for one fucking second!” Nam-gyu demanded, he knew it was rich coming from him but he wanted anything other than silence, and that’s when the thread snapped..

Nam-gyu lunged, grabbing at the gun like a starving man might grab a load of bread through a locked window. “FUCK!” he shrieked, voice raw now, lips peeling back over his teeth. “I HAVE TO GO FIND IT!” He pleaded, for one second — just one, the rifle came loose. However, the guard was quick to pivot, sharply and practiced, driving its knee into Nam-gyu’s gut like he was hammering a nail into the floor. Nam-gyu dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, coughing spit and bile onto the cold ground, arms limp.

The triangle stood above him, weapon raised, the barrel was leveled at his face.

Nam-gyu stared up, eyes wide, heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears. The black hole of the rifle’s muzzle looked so small, so stupid, and so theatricial. He knew it couldn’t hurt him, not really, not if he didn’t let it. But playing immortal in front of cameras and guards was dangerous, so he opted to raise his hands slowly, not in surrender, rather in performance. “I’m not doing anything.” He began through clenched teeth, eyes still sharp. “I’m not resisting. I’m — fine. I’m fucking calm.” Nam-gyu stammered.

Inside, though?

Inside, he was rotting.

That goddamn necklace was the only thing tethering him, it was the last remnant of Thanos — of his Thanos, the one person who had seen Death and hadn’t turned away in fear — but had leaned in, touched it, even agreed to carry his scythe, and now the only connection to him was lost in a game of children’s carnage, leaving Thanos and his scythe somewhere in the endless void.

Nam-gyu trembled on the floor, not from fear — but from need, the need to find that sliver of meaning, of identity, of himself — before it was buried forever beneath another layer of blood-soaked sand.

The guards didn’t move — the triangle remained motionless, gun still pointed at Nam-gyu’s skull, and the dormitory door closed behind the last player with a hiss. It was a low, mechanical finality, as if to say: “you’re not going back. And it’s not coming back, either.”

Myung-gi’s breath hitched mid-step, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t looking at Jun-hee.. Not when that sound rang out — thin, crackling through the damp corridor like a radio signal from a better life, it was a baby crying. No, not a metaphor, not a hallucination, not a warped moral gut-punch from his subconscious.. It was a real goddamn baby, complete with real sobs, real spit, tears, and need.

Myung-gi’s gaze snapped left, heart sinking through his spine.

There, silhouetted in the jaundiced flicker of the hallway light, was an elderly woman Jun-hee frequently flanked, her arms were shaking, trying to cradle the red-faced infant against her brittle bones. Her graying hair stuck to her sweat-shined face, her mouth wrinkled into an expression of pure, nauseating grief, it was as if she wasn’t holding a child, but mourning it in advance. And behind her? Jun-hee.

Kim Jun-hee — his Jun-hee, his once. Her lips were pale, chewed raw. Her shoulder hooked around Hyun-ju for balance, one foot dragging behind her like she’d stepped on a landmine made of glass and tendon. The angle of Jun-hee’s angle was wrong, wrong enough to make him feel it in his own bones.

Hyun-ju, generous as ever, supported her without comment — always the martyr, always the mother hen with a steel spine. A part of Myung-gi was glad she was so generous, otherwise those who relied on slipping through the crevices, such as himself wouldn’t have a chance.

Myung-gi swallowed hard, his body ached, sticky with dried sweat and powdered blood. His heart felt too heavy now, like it belonged to a version of him that had never seen her limp. He knew he had no right to call out to her, no right to apologize, but still — his mouth twitched, yearning to shape her name: Jun.. Instead, Myung-gi blinked and looked down, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted pennies.

Get out of here.. That’s what he told himself. Make it out. Just once. Just enough.

And then he’d enlist, he’d do his damn mandatory service, fold his debt-ridden ass into a uniform, maybe shave his head and let the state slap the scam out of him. Maybe if he got lucky, a military trial would mean fewer years behind bars than a civilian one..

At least then, he’d be able to say: “I faced it.”

At least he’d be able to say: “I didn’t run forever.”

Myung-gi shifted back into motion, slowly, heart still snagged on the moment like a loose thread caught in a doorframe.

And the baby kept crying, echoing behind him like a punishment — or maybe a promise.

With that, the iron doors hissed open with a mechanical groan, like some ancient beast exhaling from its maw. Out marched a line of triangle-faced guards in pink, guns cradled like afterthoughts in their arms. Their boots hit the concrete floor in crisp, rehearsed rhythm — one-two, one-two, militant and menacing.

They parted like a tide of colorless soldiers for the square-faced figure in the center, he stepped forward with that unshakeable bureaucratic pause, neither enthusiastic nor angry. Nothing but the voice of the system, wearing a face it didn’t deserve. “Congratulations to all of you for making it through the fourth game.” The square manager intoned, his voice wasn’t loud, but it rippled through the tense dormitory like a cold wind through an empty church.

Nam-gyu, now slumped against the wall with his jacket bunched in his lap, didn’t bother standing. His knuckles were scraped from the earlier scuffle, his stare hollowed-out and twitchy. Still no necklace, no pills, he licked his lips raw and sniffed once, hard.

Myung-gi had retreated further into the background, eyes flicking between the guards and the piggy bank, sweat glistening at his collarbones.

Jun-hee, seated and pale, didn’t look up.

The square raised a black remote, and with a whirring groan and a golden dim of artificial sunlight, the massive glass piggy bank descended from the ceiling like some cruel deity. Its grotesque belly shimmered with weight and promise, coins clinking against glass like applause from the dead. “In the fourth game,” the square continued, “thirty-five players were eliminated. We now have twenty-five players remaining.” The guard came to a deliberate pause, just long enough for the gravity to settle in. “The prize money accumulated up to this point is 43.1 billion won. Each person’s share is 1.724 billion won.” The guard concluded, followed by a few gasps, murmurs of disbelief, someone even choked on their spit. Overall, the mood shifted like a tide — hopeful greed blooming like mold on old bread, only for..

“Unfortuneatly,” the square started, his tone tightening, “it has come to our intention that there are potential individuals who are under the impression the equality rule does not apply to them.” The guard simply put, sending the air into a chilling freeze. His gloved finger hovered above the remote. “Until they make themselves known and are escorted out — without a single cent, the games will not continue.” He concluded, sending the room into an uproar consisting of:

“What the fuck does that mean?!”

“Who the hell broke the rules?!”

“Is this shit some kinda trick? Trying to make us rat each other out? We all played the games!”

“What can’t possibly be equal about this shithole? You made us kill each other! How is that unequal?!"

“Someone cheated.. They must’ve got.. extra help.”

Dae-ho stood still at the edge of the chaos, barely breathing, his arms stiff at his sides as accusations flew like daggers around him. His gaze darted from the guards, to the glowing belly of the piggy bank, and finally the players lunging at ghosts only they could name.

Are they talking about me, Yeong-sam?

There was a beat in the form of a long pause, then that voice — cocky and venom-laced, answered.

Ḓ̸̢̔o̵͓͋n̷̥̈́’̸̢̬̆t̸̲̒ ̷̻̗̓f̷̺̉l̵̯͠a̵̫̗͝t̷̢͎͛̋ẗ̶̯́è̵̘͝r̷̀͜ ̷̛͓̫̾y̵̖̰̔ö̵̥́ǘ̴͖ȓ̵̝͌s̵̙̩̀e̷̻̺̍̀l̴͈͊̉f̸̩͑,̷̨͛ ̵̝̑D̸̤̀̊a̷̯̍͊ͅe̸̺̺͆-̵͎͋h̵̨͇̀̎ò̸̩.̸̢̞̑ ̴̙͑Y̵̩̗͗ơ̴̭̓ǘ̷̜͘’̷̗͆r̴͈̉̉ḙ̵̓ͅ ̴̙͖̀̔ń̷̡̹̓ò̵̮t̷̝̕ ̸͕̇i̴̦̺̒̀m̵͝ͅp̸͕̈́̚ȫ̵̞̺r̵̛̘̊ẗ̶̹́ã̷̛̞̻n̶̠̋͛t̴̩͐͝ ̸̪̫̅͒e̸̤͍̽n̷̨͕̈o̴̮͛u̶̱͖͝ģ̶͛̾h̸̤́ ̴̮͍̽f̸͚͎̀ȯ̸̲r̵̪͖̄ ̷̦̀̈́ẗ̴̠̹́h̴̯́̇ĕ̸̙͗m̷̢͖͊ ̴̫͋̆ͅt̶͖͋ò̶̼͊ ̸̖͒͐n̶̡̊̐o̵̞̐͛t̵͖̱̄i̴̙͍̅̒c̷̘͒̀e̵̛̹̺ ̴̡́͆ǎ̷͙ͅņ̶̄y̶͚͔̓m̵͍͓̍õ̵̠͇r̸̨͚͆é̷̝́.̵͖̦͋..

Dae-ho’s eyes darted toward the corner of the room where the rest of his the X’s lingered — his team, his friends. Except now, they barely looked his way.. They only looked at his way to glare in Gi-hun’s case, or look with pity in Hyun-ju’s case.. Their gazes were cold, like they already buried him, as if he was already dead. He swallowed back that old rusted panic of being dismissed — of being unloved, the same feeling that crept in whenever his father raised his voice — or worse, didn’t.

T̴͈͗̊ͅh̸͙̍e̶̖͝y̸͔͐̑ ̵̻͚͊̕t̵͍̟͗h̵̲͗̒i̴̥̬͒ņ̵͍̎̍k̷̖͑ ̶̹̪͆͘ȳ̵̨͠ó̵̭̖u̵̘̮̐̓’̸̛̙͔r̴͇̭̅e̵̻͆̓ ̴̨́s̸̙̃ŏ̴̜̣f̶̗̾̌t̵͍̞͒͌,̷̙̭̈́̓ ̴̘͋ÿ̸͈́o̵͚̭͝u̵͙̒ ̵͈̱͊̈́f̵̥̈́͝l̴̪̉i̶͕̋ͅn̴͖̕ċ̷̭h̵̻͐e̴̘̟͗̀d̵̝̔̈ ̶̡̅̂d̶̨̹́u̷͛ͅr̵̩͛i̸̘̥̔̎n̸̝̽̏g̸̮͎͂̽ ̴̗̏t̴͍̉h̵͆̅͜e̴͍͖̓̕ ̶͎͙͝r̶̻̋̌è̵̯̳͝v̶̼̔ȍ̶͔ͅl̸̮̗̏ẗ̶̫͖́͠,̵̯͍̽̓ ̷̛̥͠n̴̘̔͛ơ̸͋͜ ̴̝̈́ọ̶͉͠ṇ̶͛ë̷̥́͜͠ ̸̰͝w̶̪̟̄́a̵̹̓n̴̙̠̔t̵̝͂͗s̴̝͈͊̃ ̵̨̫͛a̸̞͐ ̷̘̔b̵̳͑͊ḻ̶̗̆ē̵̜̖ḛ̵̛̈d̷̢̠̿̉i̵̱͐n̶̗̎̓g̴̫͓͝ ̴̥̼̿h̴̭̪̃e̷̻̭̐ä̴̡́r̷͙̍̔t̶̳́͘ ̴͔̺̾̿ȃ̵͉͑n̸̖̲͑ŷ̸̥̫m̷̨͈̔ó̶̡̼r̷̪͛e̶̩̥̊͘.̵̬̙̔

Shut up..

Y̶o̸u̴ ̵s̶h̸u̵t̷ ̸u̷p̶ ̶a̵n̸d̷ ̸l̸i̶s̸t̶e̸n̸.̴ ̸J̵e̴o̶n̵g̴-̶d̴a̶e̴’̸s̵ ̴g̷o̴n̴e̶,̷ ̶I̴’̴m̷ ̵g̶o̷n̵e̸,̶ ̴w̵h̶i̶c̶h̴ ̷m̷e̸a̷n̵s̷ ̸G̶i̵-̴m̵i̷n̶ ̵i̴s̸ ̴t̴h̵e̶ ̵n̴e̴w̴ ̷s̴p̷i̶n̶e̴ ̷o̸f̶ ̶T̴e̴a̸m̶ ̴O̷,̷ ̴l̴i̴k̵e̵ ̴i̴t̶ ̸o̸r̸ ̸n̷o̵t̷.̷ ̶Y̵o̶u̵ ̶w̷a̷n̶t̵ ̴t̶o̵ ̸s̸u̵r̷v̴i̵v̴e̷?̶ ̸V̷o̸t̷e̵ ̷O̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̸t̸h̶e̸ ̸n̶e̴x̴t̵ ̷b̸a̷l̸l̶o̷t̵,̶ ̵b̵u̷d̵ ̵e̶l̷b̶o̸w̸s̸ ̷w̷i̸t̴h̴ ̸G̸i̴-̵m̵i̵n̴.̵ ̵G̷e̵t̵ ̶b̸a̴c̷k̶ ̷i̸n̵.̴ ̵O̶r̴ ̶y̷o̶u̸’̵l̴l̷ ̵b̶e̴ ̷n̷e̵x̸t̷ ̷t̴o̵ ̵r̴o̸t̶ ̶i̸n̵ ̸t̷h̷e̵ ̴d̵a̴r̵k̶ ̸w̷i̸t̵h̷ ̷t̵h̶e̵ ̵r̷e̴s̵t̴ ̵o̷f̶ ̵t̶h̸e̶ ̵i̸n̶d̶e̴c̵i̶s̸i̶v̴e̴s̸.̵ ̶

Dae-ho clenched his jaw, stomach-eating guilt scraping his insides. Gi-min — quiet, watchful Gi-min wasn’t like Yeong-sam or Jeong-dae, he didn’t bark orders or gut people for fun, but he did survive, and that made him dangerous. From Yeong-sam playing shoulder devil to the dorm around Dae-ho continuously pulsing like a migraine, he couldn’t focus.

“It’s rigged!”

“They planted someone, I know it!”

“This is some rich bastard’s sick joke!"

“Who broke the rule? WHO?!”

Fists slammed into metal bunks, a woman screamed something incoherent and slapped another player, though the guards didn’t move.. Nor did Dae-ho, he just stood there, heart thudding in his ears, Yeong-sam’s voice curling inside his skull like a parasite:

M̸a̵k̷e̶ ̴a̵ ̸c̶h̸o̷i̴c̴e̸,̴ ̴D̷a̴e̵-̶h̷o̶.̶ ̶P̸l̴a̶y̸ ̷s̶o̸f̴t̶ ̴a̴n̵d̸ ̸d̸i̴e̵.̵ ̴O̷r̴ ̷p̸l̸a̶y̵ ̶s̵m̷a̶r̵t̸ ̴a̴n̷d̸ ̷l̷i̸v̶e̴.̴ ̶Y̵o̶u̸ ̸t̵h̴i̸n̴k̷ ̵m̶o̷r̶a̸l̵i̴t̷y̸ ̶m̸a̸t̸t̷e̶r̸s̶?̶ ̸H̵e̶r̶e̵?̴

And though he wanted to scream yes, he said nothing.

The green velvet carpeting cushioned each heavy footstep, muffling the decadent obscenity of the world’s most secret elite chambers. At the center of the chamber sat a hexagonal green table, all the edges sharp like the irony of the setting — held scattered crystal tumblers, ivory betting slips, gold-plated tablets, and a silver tray of Cuban cigars.

Around the tables, the VIPs lounged like apex predators, their animal masks glinting under the antique chandelier. The masks were fitting to this analogy, consisting of lion, panther, eagle, etcetera.. Each mask was chosen less for symbolism and more for showmanship, all except one.

In-ho, seated at the head, wore his monolithic black mask, his gloved hand tapping once on the green felt as they spoke, his silence belying a thousand calculating thoughts. “He doesn’t age.” Richard, the one who’d flown in all the way from somewhere in Britain, now dawning a lion mask — pointed out, swirling his whiskey lazily. “That boy. Player 226. The one with the.. How do I put this? Heinous eyebags. He’s been in the footage since the sixties. I thought DiCapiro was bad.” Richard sneered.

John, the buffoonish one glad in the eagle mask, reclined half-out of his seat. “Leonardo?” He paused to chuckle, “I heard he bathed in the blood of Instagram models. That’s why he kneels ‘em young.” John quipped, In-ho’s eyes narrowed from beneath the mask, concluding this one was a nepo-baby of sorts given his demeanor.

The token woman in the panther mask had something to say, lighting a cigar without asking. “Please.” Jennifer snarked, rolling her eyes beneath the mask. “If that worked, I’d have tried it in Monaco.” She added, exhaling the smoke. “But he’s not wrong, I noticed the same thing about 226, he doesn’t even blink like a human.” Jennifer cut in, “He blinks. Just not when you’re watching.” In-ho finally cut in, taking in the way most of them laughed, but this wasn’t really a joke, proven when the hexagonal silence afterward was heavier than smoke.

However, the silence was quickly shattered when Jennifer leaned in after another inhale. “So what is he, then? A vampire? A botched experiment? Some North Korean prototype gone rogue?” She trailed off, lips pursed into a thin line when she was cut off by Kevin, the bald one in the buffalo mask. “I heard he made a deal with one of the old gods. The kind we burned altars to before skyscrapers replaced shrines.” Kevin piped in. “Pfft.. Don’t tell me you actually believe in that shit.. I’d expect such a thing from eagle, not you. We made those stories up to scare kids into behaving, I figured that out at seven, but to each their own.” Jack snarked, picking caviar from his teeth. “Maybe he just got good plastic surgery, nothing bewildering.” Jack added.

Meanwhile, In-ho said nothing, a part of him genuinely worried the divine had been sent to set him straight after nine years of indirectly killing people. But whatever, time to get shit done. With that thought in mind, In-ho slid a leather folder across the table, its edges already well-worn.

One by one, they pulled out grainy black-and-white photos, each dated from various years that went all the way back to 1950.. Each showed Kim Yeong-sam — or something identical, standing in the background of protests, funerals, fires, and festivals. Though the clothes changed, the expression never did. “After some digging, my staff concluded he’s immortal, given he spent his time hovering over other players and his kind tends to travel in packs, it can be assumed he is not the only one.” In-ho explained, “And always chooses O.. How poetic." Jennifer snarked, exhaling. “That’s because X is final.. O is a circle — a loop, a cycle, if you will.. The snake eating its own tail.” In-ho trailed off, “Then what master does serve? There’s always a bigger snake.” Richard pointed out, “Maybe no one.” In-ho simply put, paranoia etching into his nerves when the conversation about the cryptid continued. “Maybe he was abandoned, maybe society failed him — so utterly, so repeatedly, that he keeps reappearing here, where the rules are simpler, where the monsters are more honest..” In-ho concluded, was he projecting? Possibly, but it was the only reason that would ease his nerves. “And the not-humans?” Jennifer pondered, “They don’t thrive out there.” In-ho pointed out, “Society isn’t made for them anymore. It’s been sterilized, humans tend to get suspicious when someone doesn’t age, even more so, they feel threatened by something potentially above them, leading them to hunt, institutionalize, or prescribe until they vanish, but here, in the games..” In-ho paused, raising one photo of Yeong-sam and passing it around.

“Ohhh,” John whined, slamming his drink. “Stop dancing around it, host. Are we getting more blood today or not?” John demanded, further backing In-ho’s theory of him simply being a manchild born into hefty amounts of wealth. “Hold on.” Jennifer cut in, her tone becoming razor sharp. “You’re all focused on Player 226. But I saw something else from my monitor, before Hide and seek.” She paused, flicking her manicured nail against her tumbler. “Player 230. That rapper — Thanos.” Jennifer pointed out, “That sucicide boy? Tried to jump off a bridge?” Richard recalled, “Mm.” Jennifer confirmed with a nod. “Marvel got one thing right. In the comics, Thanos is in love with Lady Death. He worships her, dies for her, wipes out half the universe for her affections.” Jennifer continued, “And what are you suggesting?” Kevin asked, his voice slowing down for once. “That 230 isn’t just some failed SoundCloud addict,” she began, exhaling another puff of smoke. “He was talking to someone.. Right before he died. And after? The cameras glitched.” Jennifer finally fully voiced her theory, glancing around for approval.

In-ho’s fingers paused at the edge of the table, how had he missed that? There was only one player attached by the hip of Player 230, further proven by the Mingle camera footage, and he was no lady at all.

“Is he connected to 226?” Jack asked, “Or to Death herself?” Jack clarified, Jennifer simply shrugged in response. “If we’re betting on deities, might as well go all in.” Jennifer sneered.

“Then let the next round start.” In-ho finally said once he had a good idea as to who Player 226’s friends could be, he couldn’t help but wonder if the individual who could potentially be Death might have it out for him considering he broke up the fight in the dormitory, but he didn’t want to dwell on it.

The dormitory still reeked of blood, piss, and other synthetic polyester — the kind used to upholster the bunk mattresses that no longer held dreams, rather the phantom weight of the dead. Most of the players had retreated to whatever corners they still felt they were safe, trading uneasy glances like prisoners waiting for a verdict that had already been declined.

With all his allies dead or bridges burned, Nam-gyu sat alone with his spine pressed against the cold cement wall, head lolled to the side, sweat slicking his matted hair to his temple. He was suddenly acutely aware of how the lights overhead buzzed like mosquitoes — a fluorescent whine that matched the jittering tremors in his jaw. He tugged the collar of his uniform with one hand, the other preoccupied with clawing against the skin beneath as if something were trying to crawl out from under it. “God, I’m — fuck —” He stammered, his breath rattling like an old drawer being yanked open, each inhale more shallow than the last.

Nam-gyu’s entire body twitched involuntarily, like a broken marionette manipulated by a drunk puppeteer. He kept muttering to himself, syllables stitched together with spit and fragmented thought. “Nothin’… left, nothing left, fucking rationied it — I would’ve thinned it with toothpaste, with — whatever — fuckin’ dumbass — shoulda killed that big-eyed girl, she had that stash, I know it —” Nam-gyu rambled, his pupils quaking in their sockets.

— he knew he was watching him, that fuckin’ square mask is eyein’ him from the cameras — fucking vultures, no more, no more to snort, nothing to eat, except air — air tastes like bleach — need more — can’t hold it in — gotta keep it down…!

Nam-gyu’s stomach lurched. The dry heaves came in waves, his abs convulsing violently until his body folded over his knees. Saliva hung from his lips like webbing, strands swaying from the twitching of his jaw. When it passed, he slumped backward and tried to blink the lights out of his vision, but even the shadows started vibrating.

Desperate to distract himself, Nam-gyu turned his hand over, frustrated to see his rings were slipping — first the chunky silver stuff on his index, then the onyx band Thanos used to wear, which he’d acquired after he died, rattled off his fingers like coins from a vending machine. Since his hands were trembling too badly to catch them, he scrambled on all floors, searching the floor like a junkie looking for crumbs. His knees scraped against concrete, nails splintered as he pawed at shadows, then his gaze settled on it —

His fingertip.

Not skin.

Bone, exposed and pearled like polished ivory. The finger was there — still functioning, still moving, though the flesh had vanished. It twitched like a spider leg as it wrapped around the fallen ring. “No.. no, no, not now, fuck — not here —” Nam-gyu stammered, since he was the most unlucky fucker in the world, another ring clattered to the ground. When he snatched it, two more fingers came away skeletal — no muscle, no fat, no tissue to bind the illusion he wore. The charade was unraveling. “I’m leaking, i’m fucking — fucking shedding —” Nam-gyu hissed, curling into himself like a dying animal, his breath coming in hiccups, forehead slicked with a freezing sweat.

Around him, the dormitory continued its restless silence — twenty-five players left, and every last one of them could smell the iron panic in the air.

The guards had noticed, he was sure of it.

Square Mask had lingered longer than usual near his bunk earlier. Triangle had handed him his meal tray with a gloved hand that hovered just a second too long. They knew. Or they suspected. Hell if he fucking knew, he needed to be high right now.

Nam-gyu rocked against the floor, tapping his forehead into the mattress base again and again like a metronome trying to hold time. “Shit.. shitshitshit. You’re fucking falling apart, you idiot. Shoulda rationed it better. Shoulda cut his fuckin’ throat.. You had it all — you’re Death, for fuck’s sake — and now you can’t even stay put together. Look at you. You’re see-through. You’re rotting like you’re on the other side already.” Nam-gyu hissed through his teeth and bit into his wrist — hard, but pain was grounding, pain reminded him of flesh. He needed something, anything to anchor him back inside his meat.

But the bone didn’t bleed.

And that’s what broke him.

Nam-gyu dragged himself upright against the bunk frame, slumped like a doll left in a gutter. “I need it. I need it, I need it, I — fuck, I’ll kill someone, I swear — i’ll gut the next fucker who blinks wtong at me — just gimme — gimme anything — a hit, a line, a fuckin’ Tylenol, I’ll snort it raw —” Nam-gyu’s voice cracked into the open air, however, no one answered. He reached for the blanket, nearly knocking over a crumpled paper cup filled with rice. The smell made his stomach churn. He shoved it aside. What he needed couldn’t be found in food or water, it was inside the high, inside the numb, inside the whisper that came when the buzz hit the brain. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, not for warmth, but to hide the bones that were beginning to surface across his collar, to bury the curve of vertebrae that pressed too sharply against his skin. “You gotta pull it together, man,” he whispered to himself, mimicking Thanos’ voice and trying to close his eyes and imagine it was Thanos giving him a pep-talk. “They’re looking for you, you slip again and they’ll carve you open just to see what you’re made of. And you know what’s inside. You know..” Nam-gyu trailed off, clenching his hands into fists, two fingers flesh, three fingers bone.

With a shaky sigh, Nam-gyu continued to sit hunched on the lower bunk, spine curled like a dying shrimp, his fists pressed into his temples as if he could physically squeeze the pain out of his skull. His shirt clung to him with the dampness only withdrawal sweat could provide, and the heat in the dormitory — the goddamn heat was normally ignorable, but it now felt personal and punitive, like the building itself wanted him to suffer, he was sure he wasn’t too far off in that regard.

Every part of him was buzzing with discomfort, Nam-gyu couldn’t sit still for the life of him. His jaw ached from clenching it, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, so much so that his silver rings had started to slip from his fingers like loose teeth. One after the other, they hit the tile with quiet clinks, glinting mockingly as they rolled beneath nearby bunks. Nam-gyu gritted his teeth and scrambled after them, muttering curses under his breath.

As Nam-gyu crouched, he came to discover another one of his fingers bent at an unnatural angle. The skin had peeled back like an old fruit rind, and beneath it was not flesh — no tendons, no veins, just polished bone, smooth and ivory-white, one fingertip, then another. “Shit.” He whispered, eyes widening and breath catching in his throat. His heart skittered against his ribs, that wasn’t supposed to happen — the mask was slipping, the mask that concealed Nam-gyu being Death himself.

If the guards noticed.. if even one player got curious, he’d be dragged out like a defective product and erased by the system that pretended to serve order. He didn’t come here to die, he came here to watch them die, totally different.

The agony made him salivate and gag in the same breath. Every cell in his body screamed for the pills, they pinned him down to his grotesque meat shell, he wasn’t exaggerating when he pleaded to the guards that he couldn't do anything without the pills, without them, he was leaking between dimensions. His human shape was coming apart like paper in rain, Nam-gyu tensed up when he heard shuffling, unsure whether to be relieved or alarmed when it turned out to be Seon-nyeo: the self-proclaimed Shaman of the Sea, appearing as though conjured by the stench of desperation. She had her palms tucked into her near-identical jumpsuit sleeves, floating like some cheap drama exorcist as she approached him. Her eyes were wild with religious ecstasy, or maybe madness — it was often hard to tell the difference. And beside her was her pathetic remnant of a follower, Player 306, who looked like a funeral portrait brought to life. “How may I serve you, ‘O Keeper of the Final Threshold?” Seon-nyeo asked, her voice barely above a hiss, sharp as salt. Nam-gyu flinched, grimacing, gaze darting toward Player 306. “Can you shut up? Or better yet — can you shut up louder?” Nam-gyu spat, Seon-nyeo giggled like a clogged drain, hand fluttering to her chest. “I knew it. I knew I sensed it in you. You reek of endings. You’re drenched in it. You smell like a mass grave at a low tide. You must be —” Seon-nyeo trailed off, Nam-gyu knew he had to cut her off before she kept
hooting and hollering. “Yeah, yeah. Congrats. You saw through my human Halloween costume. What, do you want a reward?" Nam-gyu cut in, eyes scanning the dormitory like a thief casing a church. The guards were watchinf — always fucking watching, he didn’t even need to tap into his sixth sense to feel the not-so-silent cameras blinking from the walls like flies with metal wings.

Seon-nyeo swayed beside him, lips curling into something akin to reverence. “The heavens sing your name in reverse, you know. I can feel it in my gums.” Seon-nyeo sneered, Nam-gyu turned to meet her gaze, finally sitting up in the bunk, rubbing at his forehead like he could grind the migraine away. “You want to be of service?” He asked slowly, it’d been a long time since anyone worshipped Death, but he’d take what he could get.

Seon-nyeo straightened like a soldier being knighted. “It would be my honor, Gatekeeper.” Seon-nyeo simply put, “Then cause a scene.” Nam-gyu snapped, eyes flicking toward the hallway that led to the bathrooms. “Right now. As loud as your ancestors will allow.” Nam-gyu demanded, her lips curled into a decaying scroll. “You don’t want to know how loud my ancestors get.” She sneered, but she obeyed, throwing her arms into the air, eyes rolling back.. “THE MOUTHS OF THE WHALES HAVE OPENED!" She let out a loose shriek that could’ve been mistaken for a murder. “THE GODS OF THE SEA DEMAND YOUR ATTENTION! DROP TO YOUR KNEES, UNWORTHY ONES — THE TIDE IS COMING TO DROWN THE WICKED!” Seon-nyeo exclaimed, paying no mind to when her follower, 306, instinctively ducked and backed away, clutching the edge of a bunk for dear life.

Nam-gyu didn’t wait a single second, he slipped from the bunk like liquid shadow and moved quickly across the dormitory floor, his feet silent despite the chaos. Other players turned to look, some snickering, others muttering that “The crazy Shaman bitch is at it again." It was all Nam-gyu needed, he slipped into the hallway, hunched like a hyena. The air smelled faintly of mold and sweat — the narrow corridor toward the bathroom lit with flickering fluorescents that buzzed like insects mating. The soap, he thought.

It was true, though, the soap was chemical — floral, so artificial it burned the back of his throat. He could smash it into paste between his fingers, press it to his nostrils and inhale until the scent flooded his sinuses and drowned the trembling parts of him that couldn’t hold steady. Or — Toilet tank water. Industrial cleaner, it could chew through rust, why not him? Either way, both options involved the bathroom.

The fluorescent flickers made the bone in his hands visible under the skin again. Though Nam-gyu's palms were still trembling, he clenched them shut as he pushed the doors open, staggering inside. Nam-gyu slumped down by the sink, clutching the soap bar like it was sacred. He scraped at it with his thumb, then brought it to his face.

One sniff, then two.

The world tilted, good enough.

Nam-gyu inhaled again, his skull buzzing.. It was better than nothing. For the first time in hours, the trembling slowed — not stopped, but slowed. Okay, he could keep his shape, for now. With that reassurance in mind, he sank lower to the tile, breathing in shallow bursts, knees folded under him like a prayer gone wrong. There was blood under his finger nails, though he hadn’t bled.

Nam-gyu pressed the soap bar harder to his face, grinding the edge against the bridge of his nose until it burned. His nostrils flared as he inhaled again — deep and ravenous like a dying man breathing in the last perfume of paradise. But the scent was flat. It hit the back of his throat like cheap cologne and artificial roses, there was no elevation, no hum, no break in the veil. Out of sheer desperation, Nam-gyu opened his mouth and bit into it. The soap cracked like chalk between his teeth, powdering across his tongue with the taste of embalmed flowers and industrial despair. His face twisted in visible disdain. “Fucking useless piece of shit.” He pissed, spitting foam into the sink, lips frothing like a rabid dog, then turned on the faucet and splashed his face with water so cold it stabbed him. He blinked once. Twice. Still here. Still flesh. Still nothing. No high, no spiral, not even a blur. Nam-gyu slapped the soap against the porcelain, “DO SOMETHING.” He demanded, echoed off the tiles, bouncing back at him like a child mocking its parents.

Nam-gyu gritted his teeth, throat tight, eyes wild. He tore open the wall-mounted dispenser and clawed out the remaining pink sludge inside — it was thick and sticky, like melted dolls. He smeared it across his lips, his jaw, even his temples. “Let me rot, let me go, let me float —” Nam-gyu rambled, catching wind of his reflection in the mirror watching with blank contempt — that dull human meat-face, that piss-poor disguise. The bags under his eyes like bruised fruit, cheekbones sharp as blame. His lips, cracked from both desperation and dehydration, gnawed at from the stress.

Nam-gyu seethed, he hated it — hated all of it. “You’re not real.” He hissed to his own reflection, voice low and shaking. “You’re a costume. You’re a joke.” He spat, when the mirror stared instead of arguing, Nam-gyu slammed his fist into it. Predictably so, the glass cracked, spidering out from the center in a glittering web. Tiny shards fell into the sink like starlight, a splinter lodged into his knuckle, blood blooming out dark and slow. Finally, color. But, the high still wouldn’t come. What the fuck?! “Come on, come on, come on —” Nam-gyu hissed, rocking slightly, forehead pressed to the cold sink rim. The soap scent had faded. Now, it only smelled of metal and mildew — it was a bathroom in purgatory. From the hallway beyond the door, muffled footsteps echoed — a guard? Another player? Maybe Seon-nyeo, coming to check on her deity like a yappy church wife. At the end of the day, Nam-gyu didn’t care, backing into a stall and letting himself slide to the floor, knees pulled up, the soap bar still in one hand like a religious relic. One eye was half-lidded in exhaustion, the other narrowed to a pinprick of rage. His cheekbone twitched, blood dotting his knuckles like ugly freckles. His hands, normally so precise, were trembling. The withdrawal was crawling over him — tightening tendons, making his jaw clench so hard his gums ached. The soap hadn’t worked. He needed the necklace. Needed that; again. That silence. That stillness. That —

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open with the sheepish confidence of someone not yet used to standing on their own two feet. Nam-gyu tensed up, though he didn’t look up, ignoring the soft steps, the hesitation, until he heard a voice lighter than wind through a cracked window: “Nam-gyu?” Min-su stammered, “Unless you’re a goddamn syringe, get the fuck out.” Nam-gyu spat to the side, a mix of soap scum and saliva leaving his lips. However, Min-su didn’t leave, Nam-gyu’s eyes twitched again, lifting his head with the intention of tearing Min-su a new one, only to freeze when his gaze zeroed in on Min-su holding the cross, the silver chain dangled between two fingers, gleaming like a fish above water. And inside the cross’s hollowed-out belly — one pill, pressed in the hollow cross like a sleeping infant. Nam-gyu’s mouth went dry, then just as quickly, flooded with saliva. Min-su tilted the necklace slightly, and Nam-gyu’s gaze followed the swing, slowly and hypnotically. “Boom. You looking for this?” Min-su snarked, in which Nam-gyu’s entire body locked up, he tried to stand, but his knees buckled. He soon braced himself on the stall wall, “Give it to me.” Nam-gyu wheezed through gritted teeth as a sudden wave of nausea broke over him. Min-su stepped closer, then jerked the necklace back, sending Nam-gyu’s fingers to graze the air. “Don’t fuck with me.” Nam-gyu swathed, a snarl rising from his throat like static.

Min-su flinched, but didn’t back away. Not this time, his shoulders shook, possibly from fear or adrenaline, but he held the cross tighter and drew it to his chest. “You don’t walk all over me anymore.” Min-su spat, his voice cracked, but the words were steady.

Nam-gyu blinked, the insult he was preparing curled back down his throat.

Min-su stepped further into the fluorescent ring of light, that ugly yellow bulb overhead casting sick halos on the grime-streaked tile. His eyes were wide, but not watering. His lips, usually quivering, were set tight. “Everytime you’ve looked at me, I've seen it,” he spat, voice shaking but rising. “Like I was a squishable bug, you laughed when Se-mi died, you mocked me when I cried, you told me to ‘be a man’ like it was a curse.” Min-su seethed, Nam-gyu tried again to stand, his hand lashing out like a snake, but Min-su moved quicker — stepping back, laughing nervously, high-pitched and panicked but somehow real. “Look at you.” Min-su observed, holding up the cross like a charm to ward off evil. “Death, right? Embodiment of decay. All-powerful reaper. And you can’t even walk straight without your little pacifier.” Min-su pointed out, Nam-gyu froze, caught mid-lurch. “Shut your mouth.” Nam-gyu managed to snap, “Or what?” Min-su shot back, his voice cracked again, but he steadied it. “You’ll put me down like Se-mi?” He winced at the word ‘Se-mi,’ the name hitting the air like a dropped anvil, Min-su took a deep breath, his knuckles going white around the ankles. “Why her?” Mn-su demanded, “You think I care about what you think?” Nam-gyu sneered, finally managing to stagger to his feet, his chest heaved with the effort. His pupils were pinpricks, fingers twitching at his sides. “You’re a fucking joke, Min-su. A prop. That’s all you’ve ever been.” Nam-gyu seethed, “And yet, I’m still the one with the pills.” Min-su snarked, smiling a real smile, it didn’t suit his face, and that’s what made it terrifying, it wasn’t smug, not evil, just.. free.

Nam-gyu lunged, but Min-su stepped back, tossing the necklace in the air — Nam-gyu’s hands caught nothing but the shimmer of metal and the echo of laughter. Min-su caught the cross again with clumsy fingers, still trembling, and backed toward the bathroom door. “You need this?” he asked, turning it over in his hand. “Then come and get it.” Min-su offered, the necklace clicking shut with a cold snap, and Min-su’s hand trembled — but he didn’t leave, not this time, his back was halfway turned, foot inching toward the threshold, when he heard a change in the air — not the scent, though the scent was nothing short of rancid, laced with soap scum and rot — but the pressure. Like the eye of the storm suddenly breathing in.

Min-su turned just in time to see Nam-gyu lunging, but there was no human movement. The thing that launched itself from the shadowed stall was skeletal-fast, slamming into the tile wall and rebounding with a grace so unnatural it almost looked broken — like someone puppeteering a corpse through the wire.

His pupils were gone, leaving his eyes a void.

“YOU LITTLE SHIT —”

Min-su screamed on instinct but didn’t run.

Nam-gyu’s fingers warped mid-air, stretching like smoke as they clawed toward the cross in Min-su’s hand. Where they touched, paint on the walls peeled. Tiles hissed. Time itself seemed to stutter. “You don’t get to walk away!” Nam-gyu vowed, his voice crawling with dead tongues. “What makes you think you can throw a temper tantrum?" Nam-gyu snarked, Min-su’s back hit the stall door with a hollow bang. His hand went out — not in defense, but instinct, and suddenly the air shifted to warmth and light.

Nam-gyu struck — and rebounded just as quickly, the crack of contact wasn’t bones, rather energy. Sparks fizzled between their palms, the bathroom shook. The lights popped overhead, one by one, plunging them into strobing darkness. “You’re pathetic!” Nam-gyu snarled, pushing again. “A pathetic excuse for life!” He added.

Min-su gritted his teeth — and pushed back, this time, Nam-gyu damn near flew, he smashed into the sink row with enough force to crack porcelain. A shard of mirror embedded in his shoulder, water burst from one faucet and spilled like blood from a jugular. Min-su stared at his hands like he didn’t recognize them, but Nam-gyu rose, slowly and twitching, soaked from ankle to neck, limbs cocked at odd angles like a wet marionette. “You don’t get powers.” Nam-gyu grumbled, his voice dropping into a hushed snarl. Min-su blinked, taken aback. “I am Life, dumbass.” Min-su pointed out, “No, you’re backup.” Nam-gyu hissed, circling now. “You’re the apology letter. I’m the goddamn original draft.” Nam-gyu began to say, but Min-su cut him off to swing a fist, only for Nam-gyu to catch it, but the second one came fast and buried into Nam-gyu’s gut, blasting him through a stall door and into the toilet like a ragdoll hurled by the wind. “You killed Se-mi!” Min-su exclaimed, “I didn't make her trust you!” Nam-gyu shouted back, scrambling up, soaking and shaking. “That was your betrayal, wimp.” Nam-gyu snarked, Min-su leapt onto the counter. Tiles crumbled under his feet, his hoodie billowed like wind was coiling beneath it. “You never stopped crying into your sleeves.” Nam-gyu pointed out, that did it for Min-su, he kicked off the wall, sailing midair with fists cocked back like cannonballs. Nam-gyu dodged just in time, landing a spin-kick to Min-su’s ribs — but Min-su didn't budge. He absorbed the blow with a grunt and hurled Nam-gyu into the mirror, glass raining down like confetti at a funeral. “You pussy, you think I don’t know what it’s like?! Being hated? Blamed? Thrown aside?” Min-su seethed, “You don’t carry rot on your tongue, Min-su!” Nam-gyu barked, crawling through the broken sink. “You’re the golden child! You’re the sunrise! They love you without knowing why!” Nam-gyu barked, “And you kill them for loving anything!” Min-su shot back.

With that, their bodies collided, it wasn’t just a flesh, it was a centuries-old riot in flesh. Min-su’s glow flared at every blow — crackling with solar energy that made the tile pulse like skin. Nam-gyu’s presence rotted where he walked — pipes shriveled, soap turned black, the air warping and growing thinner. Min-su managed to land a knee to Nam-gyu’s chin, sending him sprawling back onto the wet floor. Blood spilled from Nam-gyu’s lip, glistening red like polished cherries.

Nam-gyu coughed, his lips quivering. “You think you’re brave now,” he rasped, “but deep down — you’re still the bitch who picked scissors.” Nam-gyu snarked. Min-su’s whole body froze save for his trembling eyes and twitching mouth, once he got out of his brief trance, he reached down, grabbing Nam-gyu by the collar and punched him so hard, the plaster cracked behind his skull. Nam-gyu fell silent, but Min-su towered over him, fists still clenched, panting. “You don't scare me anymore.” He hissed, “B..Bullshit.” Nam-gyu wheezed, lip dripping with blood. “You’re shaking.” He pointed out, Min-su looked down at his hands and just as Nam-gyu had pointed out, he was. “..So are you.” Min-su pointed out, sending another fist curdling toward Nam-gyu.

Nam-gyu’s spine crunched against the wall with a force that made the grout scream, his head ricocheted sideways, dragging a bloody smudge down the pastel wall like a dirty fingerprint on porcelain. His knees buckled, palms splayed to catch himself on the wet floor, but all he caught was a fist — Min-su’s fist, slamming down across the back of his skull.

Another blow. Another. The tile wept from impact.

“This is what’s left of your precious Thanos, asshole!” Min-su seethed, his hand wrapped around the drug-laced cross necklace like it was a holy weapon. With each slam of it against Nam-gyu’s ribs, the chain bit into his fingers, drawing his own blood. “You wanna worship the corpse?! Here! Take it! Smell it! Choke on it!” Min-su demanded, Nam-gyu gagged as the chain was shoved down his throat — half symbolic, half real, metal clinking against the back of his tongue. He clawed at Min-su’s wrist with trembling fingers, his nails blackened, too dull and slow to leave a mark. “You little —” Nam-gyu hissed through clenched teeth, voice bubbling up like it came from a grave. “You think — owww, fuck! — you think beating my ass with the necklace makes you righteous?!” Nam-gyu spat, “It makes me right.” Min-su shot back, wild-eyed and trembling. “You tortured him — don’t even lie. You never loved him, you just wanted someone to drag down with you.” Min-su seethed, this struck something in Nam-gyu, because what the hell did Min-su know?

With that in mind, Nam-gyu surged forward with sudden force — shoulder checking Min-su into the sinks, but it was sloppy due to withdrawals gnawing at his joints, robbing him of his reflexes. His signature elegance, the sinuous glide of Death — was gone, now moving like a wet wasp trying to fly.

Min-su grunted at the impact but stayed upright, “You’re nothing but a junkie ghost!" Min-su barked, spitting hair from his mouth. “A parasite!” Min-su seethed, Nam-gyu flailed with one hand and hissed — his fingers momentarily warping, elongating like shadows stretching at dusk. They wrapped around Min-su’s throat, not quite tight enough to crush, but enough to make the air burn cold. For a second, Min-su choked, the light in the room dimmed, the mirrors blackened, one of the urinals cracking down the middle.

Nam-gyu seized the opportunity to lean in close, forehead to forehead, “You’ll never know what it means to be feared.” Nam-gyu vowed, his voice a literal death rattle.

Min-su glared at him, and managed a rare grin through gritted teeth. “And you’ll never know what it’s like to be loved.” Min-su shot back, bringing the cross necklace down like a mace.

It smashed across Nam-gyu’s temple with a metallic crack, blood and spit flying from his mouth like a busted pipe.

Nam-gyu reeled backward, crashing against the stall door, which swung inward and dumped him into a puddle of stale piss water. His ribs spasmed, his right leg twitched like it was trying to detach itself from his body. “You.. fucking.. worm,” Nam-gyu groaned, dragging himself upright using the stall divider. His arms shivered under the weight of his own bones.

Min-su stood in the center of the bathroom like a pulsing star, blood running down his nose, lip split, but glowing from within with the fury of someone who had finally had enough. “I’m not the one who smells like mildew.” Min-su seethed, motivating Nam-gyu to lurch forward — more out of instinct than strategy, trying to swipe at Min-su with another flare of his Death-bone strength, fingers splaying like talons.

But, it was like trying to punch sunlight. Min-su moved through it. Not dodging — absorbing, where a furious Nam-gyu’s touch would’ve disintegrated any other body, Min-su’s burned brighter, a counterweight to death’s erasure.

Light clashed with rot, life screamed against decay.

The mirror behind them shattered, spiderweb cracks blooming outward in slow motion. “Come on, hit me again!” Min-su spat, chest heaving. “You’re Death, aren’t you? Almighty! Infinite! Can’t you even throw a punch without trembling like a junkie?!” Min-su seethed.<

Nam-gyu shrieked in frustration, the sound scraping through the air like steel dragged across bone. “I carried empires into extinction! I wiped out dinosaurs! I ended fucking stars! I will eat your fucking heart like communion bread!” Nam-gyu vowed, “Yeah?” Min-su sneered, swinging this cross and this time catching Nam-gyu in the gut, folding him like a cardboard cutout. “Then why do you keep losing to me in a bathroom?!” Min-su demanded.

Nam-gyu collapsed to one knee, vomiting bile and blood. His pupils swam, and a long string of drool slipped from his lip. His body shook, as if his own nerves were trying to eject him. Withdrawal wasn’t just in his veins anymore — it was spiritual, the absence of Thanos, the void of substance, the lack of worship, it all clung to him like a second skin of filth

As if daring Nam-gyu to fish for it, the cross necklace clinked to the floor.

The silence that followed was not peace — it was the eye of a typhoon, a breath between screams, the part of the heartbeat right before the spike.

Nam-gyu moved first, his spine arching up from the piss-soaked tiles, and his hands lunged like vipers. One around Min-su’s ankle, the other slipping behind his knee. He yanked — a sharp, practiced twice, and Min-su let out a startled grunt as his balance betrayed him.

SLAM.

Min-su hit the floor hard, his shoulder ricocheting off the base of the urinal. Bone met ceramic, the crack echoing like a starter pistol.

Nam-gyu was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, hair dangling in wet ropes over his own face. His cheek was smeared with blood, spit, and tile dust. As for his eyes? They were too dark — inky and bottomless like oil-slick puddles after a fire. “You should’ve fucking killed me.” Nam-gyu snarled, slamming his palm against Min-su’s chest, then again — using what little withdrawal hadn’t been stolen from him. “You had me. But you’re too soft. That’s why everyone dies around you!” Nam-gyu seethed, Min-su coughed, one leg twitching beneath Nam-gyu’s knee. “That’s rich coming from you.” He rasped, Nam-gyu lunged forward with his teeth gritted, but —

Min-su twisted, like water over rock, he slipped from underneath, tolled, and used Nam-gyu’s own momentum to flip him onto his back. With a grunt, he pinned Nam-gyu’s arms above his head and slammed him into the tile wall behind the sink. His forearm jammed into Nam-gyu’s throat with just enough pressure to silence him without knocking him out cold.

Nam-gyu gasped, windpipe flexing. His stained slip-ons scrabbled against the wet tile, heels squeaking.

Min-su hovered above him, chest rising and falling like a bellows. “I’m not scared of you anymore." Min-su growled, words hot against Nam-gyu’s blood smeared face. “You don’t get to be Death and pitiful, pick one, bitch boy.” Min-su snapped, “Let me go.” Nam-gyu rasped, saliva stringing from his lip to Min-su’s jumpsuit. “You’re not gonna kill me.” He pointed out, “No, I'm gonna let you rot, and I’m gonna make sure you feel every second of it.” Min-su vowed, slamming Nam-gyu’s shoulder into the rust-stained tile as Min-su pinned him harder into the wall, breathing shallow and acidic with blood and bile.

Nam-gyu could barely feel his knuckles anymore, he felt three of the emotions he hated most: scraped, pulsing, and powerless. His limbs twitched like a dying insect as he tried to manifest something, anything resembling Death’s raw dominion. But all that came was the stale crackle of phantom smoke and the insufferable weight of withdrawals curling tight around his bones like barbed wite

Min-su’s eyes were ablaze with something Nam-gyu would’ve never expected to find behind those lashes — righteous rage and a goddamn spine. “Is this what you wanted?” he seethed, voice trembling. “You want your precious Thanos back? Then come take him.” Min-su mockingly offered, the cross necklace whipping across Nam-gyu’s cheek again, searing the heat of metal infused with grief and holy. Nam-gyu spat blood to the side, his vision tunneling into feverish red. “You little backstabbing bitch —” Nam-gyu panted.

Min-su raised the necklace again.

But before it could land, the air shifted, an invisible force seemingly pulling them off each other.

An unnaturally warm hand wrapped gently around Nam-gyu’s shoulder.

He blinked.

The hand didn’t force, it invited.

Pulled him closer..

Nam-gyu gritted his teeth, ready to bite. “Get the fuck off me, Min-su, I swear i’ll —” Nam-gyu tried to vow, hoqever he froze upon realizing it wasn’t Min-su.

The scent that hit him wasn't Min-su’s sour panic, it was the smell of summer rain drenching earth, of trees bending in typhoons and flowers blooming after a wildfire. It was an old but not familiar scent, it made his spine go cold.

Her voice arrived like vines growing up the walls, swallowing sound, quieting every living thing in the bathroom in one terrible, sacred breath.