Chapter Text
The first thing Seong Gihun heard was the sound of his own heartbeat.
Slow at first, echoing like distant footsteps down a hallway. Then faster. Louder. Like thunder rolling in from the edge of a storm he couldn’t yet see but felt it in his bones.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then came the sharp, unrelenting beeping of a heart monitor. Mechanical. Cold. Alive. That single realization hit him like a punch straight to the chest.
He was alive.
And yet, every part of him recoiled from the idea. His body tensed up as if rejecting the word, as if the notion itself was too cruel to be true. His lungs ached. His skin prickled with cold sweat. He wanted to scream but his voice was stuck somewhere beneath the weight of memory.
Because being alive wasn’t supposed to be the ending.
His mind clawed backward, frantically scrambling to find the last thing it remembered before everything had unraveled.
Then, antiseptic. The sterile smell flooded his senses, and something inside him snapped. His eyes flew open, wide and wild. The ceiling above him was white and the walls were unfamiliar. The hum of fluorescent lights crawled under his skin.
He sat up too fast. Pain shot through his ribs, sharp and immediate. Gihun’s arms thrashed instinctively, fists clenched, elbows knocking against the side rails of the hospital bed. He was trying to run. Or fight. Or claw his way out.
He didn’t know which. Maybe all three.
The electrodes attached to his arms and chest tightened, tugging like restraints. The adhesive stung against his sweat-slick skin, and the monitors shrieked in protest, the chaotic beeps and alerts that only fed his panic.
He was caged. Again.
His breath came in rapid, uneven gasps, each one catching at the bottom of his throat like broken glass. His chest heaved, ribs struggling to expand, like his lungs had forgotten how to fill. His heart slammed against his sternum like it was trying to break free. His eyes darted from corner to corner, too fast to register what he was seeing. The IV pole, the chart, and the closed door. None of it mattered.
Where the hell was he?
The lighting. The sounds. The smell of disinfectant and plastic and sterile sheets.
Was he back there?
Was this another room?
Another punishment?
A cold sweat broke over his back, seeping into the gown he hadn’t realized he was wearing. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Gihun… hey, hey, woah, calm down—”
The voice pierced through the panic. Not sharp. Not cruel. Familiar.
Real.
His head whipped toward the sound so fast his vision swam.
She stood by his bedside, her expression a delicate mix of concern and calm. Short black hair brushed her jaw, the same soft fringe partially veiling her eyes. Light freckles dusted her cheeks like constellations.
Saebyeok.
His throat closed up. He didn’t trust his own voice. Didn’t trust that she wasn’t some mirage conjured by a mind that had finally broken.
Because she had died.
He remembered every detail. The cold, damp floor of the dormitory. The awful, wet gurgle in her throat. The blood that spilled from her neck, too fast, too much. He had held her in his arms, felt the warmth drain from her skin, screamed her name until his voice broke, until his body gave out beneath the weight of loss.
He grieved her.
Buried her in the back of his mind, because remembering meant breaking apart again.
Yet she was here, arm’s length away. The only mark on her neck was the one she got from being a pickpocket.
“Saebyeok-ah…?” Gihun choked out, almost afraid saying her name would make her vanish.
She blinked. Her brows furrowed faintly, surprised at how fragile he sounded, “Uh… yeah? Last time I checked.”
But her small, gentle, and crooked smile was so achingly human it hurt. Gihun had never seen her smile like that. Not when she was alive, fighting for her and her brother’s future in those horrible Games. He stared at her, his breath caught halfway in his throat. His hand moved on its own, trembling as it reached forward, like he was reaching across a chasm between the dead and the living.
And she let him.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She let him touch her jacket, worn and soft beneath his fingers. He gripped onto it, as if trying to process it all at that moment.
Without warning, his body moved. Instinct overriding thought, heart leaping ahead of reason.
One moment he was staring at her like a man glimpsing a ghost. The next, his arms were around her, pulling her in with a force that bordered on frantic. He clung to her as though she were the only thing anchoring him to reality, as if loosening his grip by even an inch might cause her to dissolve like smoke between his fingers.
His face buried itself in the crook of her neck, drawn by some aching need to feel that she was real. Warm. Solid. Alive.
Saebyeok’s body yielded gently to his, arms folding around his back in quiet understanding. No questions. No resistance. There was only the steady rise and fall of her breath and the hand that lifted to rub slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.
Gihun squeezed his eyes shut. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven waves, like his lungs were still trying to catch up to the impossible. His throat tightened around something wordless. Something sharp.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t know what this was.
She had died.
He had held her body, cold and bleeding, cradled it like it would make any difference. He had felt her slipping away with every second. He had screamed her name until his voice cracked and there was nothing left but silence and blood.
And yet, here she was. Breathing. Standing. Her heart thrummed a steady rhythm against his own, quiet but undeniable.
Was this death? Was this what it felt like? Had he finally crossed some invisible threshold and stumbled into a version of the afterlife shaped by longing?
The memories before waking were cloudy. Fragments of violence and desperation, scattered like broken glass. He remembered staring at the pitch black one way glass, saying something that had lived in his chest too long.
We’re not horses. We are humans. Humans are... That’s what he had said. That’s the last thing he remembered. He never explained what humans are, what it means to be more than a pawn in someone else's spectacle. The darkness had taken him before the words could fall.
So maybe he had died.
And if this was the afterlife, then it was her heartbeat that proved it. The gentle rhythm against his chest. The faint scent of cheap shampoo in her hair. The warmth of her fingers brushing softly at his back, like she already knew he was falling apart and was holding him together piece by piece.
Saebyeok didn’t ask questions. She stayed there, letting him hold on as long as he needed.
She was here.
When he pulled back, his hands were still resting on her shoulders. Then something strange caught his eye. The scar on the back of his left hand…
Gone.
The pale, jagged reminder of the knife Sangwoo had driven through his flesh during that final, brutal fight was nowhere to be seen. Smooth skin. Untouched.
His stomach twisted.
“What… happened?” Gihun’s voice cracked as the question fell from his lips, barely more than a breath.
Saebyeok tilted her head slightly, studying him with quiet curiosity. Her expression softened as she reached out and gently swept a damp strand of hair from his forehead, her fingers light against his clammy skin.
“They’re not sure,” Her tone is somewhere between reassurance and exasperation. “Doctors think it might’ve been exhaustion. Maybe dehydration. You kind of… collapsed.”
The look she gave him was unexpected. It was half amused, half scolding, like a friend mildly annoyed but still concerned. It threw him off. This version of Saebyeok… smiled. Not wide, not dramatic, but enough to crease the corners of her eyes, to give her face a softness he didn’t remember her ever letting anyone see.
The Saebyeok he knew had been guarded, all sharp edges and narrow eyes, as if smiling was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Does she not remember? he thought, watching her in disbelief. Does she not remember what happened to her?
A flicker of something twisted deep in his chest. Grief, relief, confusion, they tangled in his ribs, impossible to separate. His gaze lingered on her face like it might vanish the moment he looked away.
Is this what the afterlife looks like?
Is this my reward? A place where the dead are returned, and no one carries the scars of what came before?
It felt too gentle. Too peaceful. Too unreal.
More importantly, he had no idea what she was talking about. Dehydration? Exhaustion? The pain pulsing at his temple throbbed harder as he tried to summon clarity, trying to make sense of a world that felt both familiar and foreign.
The door creaked open softly, and Gihun flinched at the sound. He braced himself without meaning to, muscles tight, breath caught in his throat. Instead of some faceless enforcer in a pink mask, a man in a white coat stepped in. He was calm, professional, and utterly human.
His presence didn’t invoke fear, but it struck Gihun like a slap to the face all the same.
Because he knew that face.
The man’s features were unmistakable, the slightly downturned eyes, the sharp jaw, the precise way his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His expression was focused, serene, like this was just another patient check-in. However, Gihun had seen him differently before.
Suspended.
Limp.
Dripping blood in the middle of a sickly pink corridor, his body a brutal reminder of what happened to those who broke the sacred “fairness” of the Games. And yet… here he was alive and unscarred, wearing a name badge instead of a numbered jumpsuit. There was no fear in his eyes nor sign of the carnage he once endured.
“Hello, Seong Gihun-ssi,” The man said gently. “My name is Byeonggi. I’m your primary care provider.”
Gihun’s jaw twitched, but no words came.
He wasn’t breathing.
This couldn’t be real.
This has to be the afterlife, he thought, not knowing if the realization comforted or terrified him. There’s no other way any of this makes sense.
Saebyeok sat quietly in the corner of the room with her posture relaxed. She gave Gihun a small, encouraging nod as Byeonggi stepped closer, tablet in hand. Gihun stared, his lips parting slightly but no words came out. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust himself.
Byeonggi began asking questions, standard ones, really. Simple. It was meant to assess coherence.
“Do you remember your full name?”
“...Seong Gihun.” He answered after a long pause. His voice sounded hoarse, like it had been buried under layers of dust.
“Birthday?”
“... October 31st, 1974.” He muttered.
“Any family?”
Gihun blinked, “A daughter, Gayeong. And… ex-wife Eunji?”
Byeonggi nodded, tapping notes onto the screen, “Good. Do you know what year it is?”
Gihun hesitated. He glanced toward Saebyeok as if the answer might be written on her face, but she gave no clues. His fingers twitched against the blanket, “...I don’t know.”
Byeonggi looked up and nodded, “It’s okay. You’re under no pressure.”
More questions followed, and each one chipped away at Gihun’s composure. He could recall vague facts about himself that felt more like lines memorized from a role he once played than truths he lived.
After several minutes, Byeonggi let out a quiet and thoughtful hum. He tapped something onto his screen while Saebyeok had remained silent in her chair, her arms folded tight across her chest.
“It may be retrograde amnesia,” Byeonggi glanced toward her, tucking the tablet under his arm. “It’s possible the trauma has disrupted his access to long-term memory. The details he does remember appear fragmented.”
Saebyeok’s brow furrowed, her skepticism immediate.
“Amnesia?” She echoed. “From collapsing. Is that even possible?”
Byeonggi lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug, “It’s uncommon, but not impossible. Especially if there’s existing psychological stress at play. The brain has strange ways of protecting itself. Repression, displacement, memory gaps…”
He trailed off, but the implication lingered in the room.
Gihun stared at the blanket pooled in his lap, jaw tight, hands curled into the fabric.
Amnesia.
It was too perfect. Clean. Scientific. A digestible reason for the confusion swirling around him. A label they could all nod at and accept. A way to explain why he didn’t know this version of his life.
Except... he did know.
Just not the version they thought.
He didn’t have amnesia. He hadn’t forgotten.
He remembered everything.
The cold sting of betrayal. Blood under his fingernails. The feeling of stepping over bodies. Friends, strangers, all alike in death. He remembered Saebyeok’s final breath. Sangwoo’s haunted eyes. Youngil’s voice after the mask fell. The rage. The blood trailing down his head.
And now, he was here. Alive and awake in a version of reality that felt too soft, too bright, too cruel in its unfamiliar kindness. People who weren’t supposed to be alive were smiling and safe. On top of it all, none of it made sense. None of it fit.
For a split moment, Gihun wished that he actually had amnesia, to forget the horror of the Games.
Yet they don’t know.
They have no idea Gihun did retain his memory.
But from a reality where they were all dead.
Gihun was discharged from the hospital that same afternoon, dressed in a borrowed hoodie and sweatpants that didn’t feel like his. When he had changed, he was able to get a good look at himself in the mirror.
After changing, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
He froze.
Long, unkempt hair curled just over his ears. A faint stubble dusted his chin, but it was neat. Trimmed, even. His skin looked clearer, fuller. The lines he remembered carving across his face from stress and age were softer now, smoothed out by something foreign: health.
He looked like someone who was… okay . Someone who was sleeping, eating, surviving without chaos clawing at his heels. It unsettled him because it wasn’t the face of the man who had walked through blood and betrayal. It wasn’t the man who had held dying bodies in his arms or dragged himself home with blood on his hands.
It was a stranger’s face wearing his eyes.
And he hated how easy it was to recognize it as his own.
When he stepped outside, the late afternoon light stung his eyes.
He didn’t go home.
Because the truth was, he had no idea where home even was.
The idea gnawed at him as the crisp air bit his skin. The streets were familiar in a broad, blurred way, like walking through a dream set in a city he used to know.
It felt unsettling, though.
Saebyeok had let him take his time, waiting with her arms folded, a knit scarf wrapped tight around her neck. She didn’t say much at first, offering him a coffee, and when he shook his head, they started walking in silence.
“We’re going to meet with the others for dinner.” She was typing something into her phone, perhaps a text. Gihun’s eyes were darting around, taking in the world around him.
He spoke slowly, “The others…?”
Saebyeok blinked, then she explained as they waited at a crosswalk, “Right, you probably don’t remember. You’ll meet some of them, but you moved in with Sangwoo and Jungbae a few years ago. The three of you have this sort of… weird roommate thing going on.”
The names dropped like stones in his stomach.
Sangwoo. Jungbae.
One had killed himself at Gihun’s feet. The other had died with a bullet in his chest, fired by the man Gihun still saw in his nightmares. Hearing that they were alive , let alone living together with him , made his skin crawl with dissonance.
Saebyeok didn’t seem to notice the way he flinched, too busy watching the crosswalk light change.
“Apparently, Inho was supposed to live with you guys too,” She said as they began to cross. “But in the end, he didn’t move in.”
The name hit him like a whisper through a locked door.
Inho.
Gihun blinked, and for a moment the name felt sharp yet elusive. His mind didn’t register it. He shook his head, trying to scatter the sensation. Whoever that was, he wasn’t ready to ask.
Not now. Not with Sangwoo and Jungbae’s names still heavy in his chest, not while his brain screamed that none of this should exist.
As they stepped off the curb, Gihun glanced up.
A massive LED screen on the side of a sleek glass building flickered with stock tickers and news blurbs. Then, the date appeared in bold white text. November 6th, 2024.
His breath hitched.
The same.
It was the exact same date as the world he came from. Down to the hour, if he had to guess.
He couldn’t help but think that if he was here in the afterlife, what else would have changed? What other ghosts were walking around with the same familiar names and gentle smiles?
They arrived at a cozy BBQ place tucked just far enough from the main road that it felt like a secret. Warm yellow lights glowed through fogged-up windows, and the smoky, savory scent of grilled meat and charcoal wrapped around Gihun.
He hadn’t even seen the restaurant yet, but the smell clung to the air like an invitation.
Saebyeok walked slightly ahead, glancing back and nodded approvingly, “This place is good. Not too expensive, and they don’t skimp on the side dishes.”
Gihun managed a nod, though his chest was tightening with each step. As they walked in, the scent deepened, mingling with laughter and the sizzle of meat. Saebyeok scanned the room, and her face lit up when she spotted their friends tucked into a corner booth near a wide metal grill.
“There.” She said, gesturing.
Gihun followed her gaze…
And his breath caught.
There they were.
Sangwoo, Jungbae, Jiyeong, and Ali. All clustered around the table, drinks in hand, plates piled high. Jiyeong was mid-laugh, Ali clapped Sangwoo on the back, and Jungbae was already reaching to flip something sizzling on the grill.
Alive.
Together. His heart thudded once, painfully.
They weren’t supposed to be here.
Not like this.
He couldn’t move, his throat going dry as he watched his friends chattering at the grill, interacting with each other. Having fun.
Saebyeok guided him forward. Gihun barely took a step, then another, legs heavy as iron. It was like he was walking through wet cement. Even if she noticed it, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, Saebyeok walked toward them easily, greeting everyone with a casual wave and grin.
“Look who I brought with me.” She announced.
They turned toward him in unison, faces brightening with recognition and relief.
“Gihun!”
“You’re out!”
“Are you okay?”
“Man, you scared us!”
Smiles. Warmth. Voices filled with genuine concern. Gihun tried to mirror their expressions, to swallow the panic rising in his throat like bile and pretend this moment wasn’t unraveling him from the inside out.
As they slid over to make room for him at the table, Jiyeong clinked a glass and said, “It’s a little welcome-back dinner. We figured you’d want something good after hospital food.”
“Where’s Minyeo and Deoksu?” Saebyeok asked casually as she slipped effortlessly into the rhythm of the table, her chopsticks already reaching for a sizzling slice of pork belly.
Sangwoo took a sip of his drink, “Baby troubles. Heard they were fighting over whose turn it was to change the diapers.”
Jungbae let out a bark of laughter as Ali smiled, chewing on his food. Jiyeong snickered and Saebyeok let out a small scoff. Meanwhile, Gihun stayed quiet. He hadn’t touched his chopsticks. He barely even moved, save for the slight shift in his jaw as he clenched it tighter.
Minyeo and Deoksu… here in the afterlife too?
His gaze lowered to his lap, suddenly feeling like the room was spinning.
And they have a baby?
His thoughts spiraled faster than he could stop them. He remembered Minyeo screaming in the Game, remembered the jagged intensity of her voice, the way it broke like glass before she grabbed Deoksu and hurled both of them off the glass bridge to their deaths.
Gone.
That was the last time he saw them. Their bodies hitting the ground. Final. Brutal.
But here?
They were fighting over diapers.
His stomach turned.
He sat in silence, hands knotted tightly in his lap beneath the table, feeling the pressure of his clenched fists. Around him, the laughter and chatter flowed easily, like warm air on a summer night. It was the kind of effortless joy that should’ve been comforting.
But to Gihun, it felt surreal. Disorienting. Wrong.
The people around this table… they shouldn’t have been here. Not like this.
Sangwoo, who had once carved betrayal into the shape of a friend, was now gently pouring drinks for Saebyeok, his expression soft and easy.
Saebyeok, who had cursed Deoksu’s name with venom, spoke about him with the casual fondness of a friend, even mentioning how fatherhood seemed to have softened him.
Ali, who had died clutching false hope and stolen marbles, sat across from him alive and glowing, his eyes crinkled with laughter.
Jiyeong was laughing too, a sound Gihun never heard during the Games. Not like this.
Then there’s Jungbae… who had died with a gunshot wound in chest and was now sitting here breathing with no wound at all.
It was like watching ghosts laugh through moving mouths.
He couldn’t look at them. Not a single one. Because all he could see was blood and in his ears were the sound of dying breaths. The weight of knowing what they had done to each other pressed down on him like a heavy stone.
Before his thoughts could spiral completely into that dark and suffocating place, a low and familiar voice cut through the haze and snapped him back to the present.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
The sound hit Gihun like ice water poured down his spine.
His head turned slowly, movements stiff and reluctant, as if his body already knew what his mind was too afraid to confirm.
“Oh, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!” Jungbae called out, grinning. “Hwang Inho-ssi!”
And then Gihun saw him.
He stood there beside the table, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of a navy jacket, shoulders relaxed like he belonged. His hair hung just above his brows, casually unkempt, catching in the light as he leaned slightly forward with interest.
And that smile…
That easy, familiar smile that could have disarmed a room, resting on his face like it had always lived there.
Gihun’s world narrowed to a pinpoint.
The softness, open gaze in his eyes, was a lie. It had to be. Because Gihun had seen those same eyes behind a black mask, except they were cold, calculating, and empty. Gihun couldn’t breathe, his throat clenched around nothing, lungs refusing to expand. His fingers curled slowly beneath the table edge.
Oh Youngil.
The name detonated in his mind, the recognition sinking in like a hook dragged through his gut.
Youngil wasn’t dead though. He had never died. Gihun remembered it with blistering clarity the way Youngil had offered him a knife without blinking. He told Gihun to slit the throats of the others to finish the Game. For the baby, he’d said, as if the promise of a future made murder easier to swallow.
The memory scratched at the inside of Gihun’s skull like broken glass.
Yet here he was standing under the warm restaurant lights. Smiling. Friendly. Human. There was no mask nor blood. Only laughter echoing from the rest of the table, his friends chatting with him like they knew him, trusted him.
They called him Inho.
That was what Jungbae had said. 'Hwang Inho'. As if he belonged here, as if he was one of them.
A deep, sour heat bloomed in Gihun’s chest. He didn’t know when the rage began, only that it was already roaring through his ribcage like a wildfire. Maybe it was the casual way Inho stood there, alive and clean, in a world that seemed to forget what he’d done.
Or maybe it was the part of Gihun that had clung to the idea that this place, this strange, quiet world, was some kind of afterlife. Now Inho’s presence shattered that illusion like a hammer to glass.
“Why,” Gihun said, voice trembling with the effort to hold it all in. “Why did you let me live?”
Inho blinked. His smile faltered, replaced by confusion, “What are you talking about?”
“I said,” Gihun was on his feet before he even realized it, the chair screeching across the floor as he lunged across the table. “Why did you let me live?!”
And then—
His fist connected with Inho’s jaw in a brutal, unrestrained arc. Inho staggered back as their friends gasped behind them. Gihun stood there, his hands trembling at his sides, breathing heavily like he was still in the Game. Still trying to survive.
The voices in his head started to echo deep in his skull…
This isn’t the afterlife.