Chapter Text
Sometimes, the threads of fate weave astonishing and unforeseen patterns across the map of life - and Gi-hun had become a living testament to the abrupt, violent knots fate had tied into the tapestry of his existence. The era of dizzying highs and crushing lows, of wins and losses, had drawn to a close, leaving him stranded on a day when the only sane option left was to run. Far from the neighborhood where he’d grown up. Far from the collectors hunting him. Far from the surgeon’s scalpel, poised to carve out his kidney and left eye to partially settle his debts with people far too powerful to defy. And far - very far - from the corpse from whom he’d stolen train tickets to a tiny village at the opposite end of the country just… When was it, two days ago? He couldn't tell.
Honestly speaking, this place was weird. Too… charming, for somewhere so remote and forgotten by God. Here, of course, there was no cell signal - not that he particularly wanted anyone to reach him, but still, one grows accustomed to the comforts of the internet, no matter how old-fashioned one pretends to be. He would love to watch some shows online.
At least no one would think to look for him here, he hopes.
He hesitated before an old, long-abandoned house, sighing as he glanced down at the key in his hand. Another gift, taken from the madman who’d shot himself after their deeply bizarre conversation in the subway. Gi-hun had no idea why this particular place had been chosen, but beggars can't be choosers. Hard to imagine a more perfect hideaway to vanish into for a while.
He stepped inside his new home - dusty, draped in cobwebs. He didn’t know what miracle had preserved it, but electricity and other essentials functioned flawlessly. It took him a full day to scrub, sweep, and make the place livable, but the result was worth it. He also spent hours sifting through belongings left behind by the previous owner, hoping to glean some understanding of this place, of why he’d ended up here. For a long time, his search yielded nothing - until suddenly, he found something he never expected to.
Old photographs. Faces hauntingly familiar - like half-remembered fragments from early childhood, half-invented later from stories told by others. His father’s family. Was his father from here? Gi-hun had no choice but to accept it as truth. The photos. The old jacket - the one tangible relic, his only memento of a lost parent, was here. Each small detail whispered a story that left him with more questions than answers, but it still talked to him.
He climbed to the attic, and there, hidden beneath a dusty sheet, he found the final, strangest discovery of his temporary refuge. Concealed from prying eyes by that tattered cloth lay something resembling a shrine, a place of worship. Not mourning for the dead, but rather a space for prayer. Old candles, half-melted; a wooden bowl filled with strangely beautiful, multicolored stones mingled with gold coins; and at the center of it all - a cracked bust, as if deliberately shattered in a fit of rage by someone with anger problems or religious delusion. Half the head was missing, yet Gi-hun could still make out the features of a man he did not recognize.
It was not what one typically envisions as an object of veneration - at least, not by any tradition he knew - but nothing else fit the vision.
Hesitantly, he reached out and brushed his fingers along the cracked, sun-baked clay, tracing the jagged fracture - and felt a strange tremor bloom in his chest.
Swallowing hard, he jerked his hand back, ready to cover the unknown deity with the sheet again… but at the last moment, he stopped himself.
He had come here to clean. Leaving the entire attic in this state would be wrong.
Sighing, he fetched a sack and began clearing away the clutter, setting the candles aside downstairs just in case the power went out. He wiped dust, swept cobwebs from corners and tabletops, tossed the filthy, torn sheet into the garbage pile. When he finished, he stood before the broken bust - still unable to find the missing half of the head amid the chaos - and faced the realization: he ought to throw this away, too.
Yet, for some reason… he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
It felt wrong. Gi-hun wasn’t religious, but some quiet, superstitious part of him still feared angering something - something his own family might once have revered. It was strange, certainly not anything his mother had ever mentioned… and yet.
With a heavy sigh, he stepped closer, pursed his lips, and ran a dry cloth over the bust’s surface.
“I wonder what my ancestors prayed to you for,” he murmured, thoughtful. Then his gaze fell to the stones and coins in the bowl.
Biting his lip, Gi-hun finally reached in and took a few coins and faded bills, deciding he needed them more.
Just in case, he made a guilty, awkward face at the bust. “Sorry. I promise I’ll pay you back when I'm at my better days. But I really need to buy some food”.
As if to soften the theft, he rubbed his thumb gently over the bust’s hardened clay cheek - then bolted from the attic, fleeing the house toward the little shop he’d spotted on his way in. Not that he was scared of that bust. Weirded out, maybe?..
It was a thirty-minute walk - his new house stood isolated, deep in the woods, and the path to even a semblance of civilization wound over rocky trails and through shadowed thickets. But neither the darkness nor the eerie rustles from the forest could stop him now. He was starving.
He hadn’t eaten properly in days, save for the single bun that suited stranger had handed him before their bizarre subway conversation. That moment already felt like another lifetime - and try as he might, he couldn’t recall a single feature of that man’s face.
He’d never been good with faces, too.
Darkness settled over the village like heavy fabric - slow, inevitable. An hour later, Gi-hun walked the narrow path back to his refuge, groceries in hand, and a stone in his pocket - warm, as if freshly pulled from sunlight. Smooth, emerald-green, with a character for “luck” carved into one side. The old shopkeeper, Oh Il-nam, had called it a “lucky charm,” and despite Gi-hun’s cynical nature, he hadn’t argued. He’d lived too long without luck to refuse even its ghost.
“You’re Seong Young-sik’s son,” Il-nam said as Gi-hun paid for rice, noodles, and a few cans of preserved food.
The sudden mention of the name - so calm, so knowing - froze him. He turned to the shopkeeper, bewildered. The old man nodded knowingly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Yes, I knew him. You look just like he did in his better days... He used to live deep in the forest, in that old house far from everyone. Many years have passed since anyone lived there… But I always knew someone would come back. Had a feeling”.
Gi-hun opened his mouth uncertainly, but no words came. He shifted, awkward, eyes lowered, waiting for his groceries to be bagged and payment taken.
Yet curiosity won. “I only found out about this place a few days ago. I didn’t even know it was mine… or that anyone here still remembered my father,” he offered a sheepish shrug, forcing a smile. “Even I don’t remember him, after all”.
The old man nodded slowly. “He… was a lucky man, your father,” he turned the coins over in his palm as if weighing memories, not money. A nostalgic chuckle escaped him. “He won at everything. Cards. Dice. Arguments about the weather. Guessing who’d return first from the hunt with the biggest catch. Some thought he was just blessed by fortune. But it was always more complicated than that, of course…”
“What do you mean?” Gi-hun asked quietly, though he already sensed where this was going.
The old man shook his head. “This is a quiet place. Things have never been quite the same here as out in the big world. Guests are rare. No one ever leaves. And it’s been that way for hundreds of years… My great-great-grandfather lived on the same patch of earth where I stand now. In places like this… well, people invent legends to explain the world around them. And sometimes, those legends become real - if enough people believe they are real. Like… Gwi-ma, for instance,” he sighed, turning away to rummage through drawers behind the counter. “Young-sik was obsessed with him. The God of Chance. The Lord who chooses who receives luck and who doesn’t. Your father always claimed he had a special connection with him. But the closer you get to a god, the easier it is to anger him”.
Gi-hun swallowed. He remembered the bust. The shattered face. The dust. The coins in the bowl. His own fingers tracing the crack in the clay - and that strange, almost electric tremor in his chest.
It made no sense. He didn’t believe in any of it… and yet, he couldn’t help himself but giving it a thought.
“Luck favored him for years. But then he met a woman. And so he wanted to leave with her and… their son. Needed one last big win to make it happen. But if he left, his bond with Gwi-ma would break. And Gwi-ma… well, gods can’t survive without those who believe in them. So that night, your father lost everything”.
Il-nam pulled out a small pouch, turning back to face him, his eyes distant, as if he weren’t looking at Gi-hun at all - but at a ghost he never expected to see, even beyond death.
“He lost only once. Just that one time. Lost everything he had… and he wasn’t upset - he was terrified. Because he knew what it meant. That he’d made an unforgivable mistake. He kept saying he’d done something wrong, searched for answers where none existed… drank himself numb, asking over and over if he’d forgotten an offering, if he’d failed to thank him… nearly wept. Then, in the middle of the night, he walked back home - and never returned. After a while, everyone just assumed he was dead. No one dared go check. Who knows what might have been waiting there”.
A cold, sticky dread pooled in Gi-hun’s chest.
He hadn’t found a body, of course. But the forest… the forest held countless places to disappear.
He exhaled, lips pressed tight. Looked uncertainly back at Il-nam.
So his father had lost his mind over a single loss. Blamed a god - and his own failure to worship that god properly - for everything. The thought left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.
“Here,” Il-nam said suddenly, pressing a small green stone into his palm. Smooth as river-worn pebble, yet threaded with fine veins - as if lightning had been frozen inside it. On one facet, the character for “luck” was carved with quiet precision. “He always carried stones like this. His lucky charms, used to say it was his god’s gifts. That night, he kept searching his pockets, frantic… couldn’t find one. I noticed it later lying on the floor, while sweeping after closing, hours after he left home. I meant to give it back to him if I ever saw him again… well,” he smiled faintly, “it should be yours now, I suppose. By bloodright”.
Gi-hun wanted to refuse - out of pride, out of fear, out of habit. He never took anything like this for free, he knew nothing in life came without a price. But his hand reached out anyway.
The stone settled into his palm - and Gi-hun flinched. It was warm. Not from the sun. Not from a pocket. Just… warm, despite the chill of the evening air.
“Thank you…” he murmured, still unsure, about to say more - when a young man stepped into the shop, announcing his presence with a loud closing of the door.
Tall. Sharp-eyed. Posture taut with tension. He looked straight at Il-nam, voice edged with reproach. “Father, we need to go. It’s almost night, and mother’s worried”.
“Ah, yes, yes,” the old man waved dismissively. “I’ll close up and come, Jun-ho, don’t fret… But look who’s here! This is the Seong family’s boy. Can you believe it? I told you about his father once, do you remember?”
Jun-ho froze. His gaze snapped to Gi-hun - and in it flickered not just surprise, but recognition. Alarm. Almost fear. The way children stare at corpses during their first funeral.
He said nothing. Just nodded - short, barely perceptible, out of politeness - and resumed urging his father to leave.
Gi-hun awkwardly gathered his grocery bag and followed them out. Outside, Il-nam turned to him one last time.
Looked Gi-hun straight in the eyes. And in that gaze lay warning, or… premonition. The earlier lightness, the playful spark - it was gone. And that absence forced Gi-hun, against his will, to listen closely.
“You’d better hurry back, too,” Il-nam said. “At night, things here… can be dangerous. Especially where you’re staying”.
Now, Gi-hun walked back alone. The forest whispered. Branches creaked - as if someone followed just behind. He didn’t turn. Stubbornly kept his eyes down, or fixed ahead. Halfway, he realized he should’ve grabbed a knife from the shop - or at least a flashlight. All he had were matches and cigarettes. He lit one, drew deep to steady his nerves, to quiet the storm in his head - until at last, he reached the old, groaning gate of his property.
The sky was deep black. Animal cries and bird calls drifted from the woods. He stamped out his cigarette with his heel, hurried inside, and flicked on the light. The bulb flickered - but held. He unpacked groceries, started dinner, humming an old tune to distract himself, yet his heart still ached with a strange, unfamiliar sorrow. He replayed the old man’s story in his mind - and after turning off the stove, pulled the stone from his pocket again. Turned it over. Traced the carved glyph with his fingertip.
He wasn’t hungry. Instead, Gi-hun climbed the stairs to the attic, to the motionless bust that now undeniably bore a name. He almost imagined the one surviving eye watching him - waiting - and the sensation made him shiver.
He coughed, chuckled at himself, amazed by his own suggestibility. Smiled awkwardly, placed the stone among the others in the bowl. “Something tells me this belongs to you, buddy,” he said - and only then realized what he’d done. He sighed, closing his eyes. “Shit. I am losing my mind…”
Gi-hun descended slowly, carefully. He didn’t believe in gods. Didn’t believe in fate. Didn’t believe coins and stones could change a thing. But the body knows what the mind stubbornly denies, and right now, his body was taut as an overstrung wire. His fingers still remembered the stone’s warmth. His chest - that strange jolt when he’d touched the crack on Gwi-ma’s face. He wondered what state his father had been in when it all happened. Did he go mad because luck abandoned him - or because it had clung to him too long, too stubborn? The lines blurred.
Still, he smirked. His mother hadn’t exaggerated when she said all his worst vices came from his father. They were both gamblers. That much was certain.
In the kitchen, he mechanically reheated the now-cold noodles. Ate without appetite, staring out the window where night had thickened to ink. The shopkeeper’s tale looped in his head - until, finally, Gi-hun pushed the bowl away.
The food wouldn’t go down. He drank water to soothe the odd tickle in his throat - not thirst, but foreboding. He chased the foolish thoughts from his mind, blaming the eerie atmosphere of this place, the stress of the past days. He’d been through hell in just one week. Definitely, he needed rest.
He washed the dishes. Carefully. Slowly. As if it were a ritual. As if, by doing everything just right, the world might not tip over - and tomorrow, he’d wake in his own bed, his mother still alive, scolding him for leaving dirty dishes again last night. And he’d whine like the terrible son she never deserved - but by evening, he’d return, guilty and repentant, as he had so many times before. And everything would be as it always was.
But the world had already tipped. She was gone - long gone - and he couldn’t go home, because death waited for him there.
All because of one bad bet. One wrong choice.
He shouldn’t have taken the money from that man.
But no one else had given him anything in so long - and he’d had such a good feeling about it…
Maybe he wasn’t so different from his lost, wayward father after all.
This house has no real rooms. After finishing the dishes, he dries his hands on a towel and walks to the bed tucked into the corner beside the attic stairs. It creaks under his weight as he climbs in, stripped down to a t-shirt and loose sweatpants. Staring at the ceiling, he burns his gaze into the outline of the attic hatch, body heavy with exhaustion after the long day.
He needs sleep before deciding what to do with any of this. His eyelids grow leaden. Too much today. Too much for one lifetime. He hadn’t truly slept in… how long? A week? A month? Ever since he started running. Long before he got the tickets here. Long before the bundle of rusted keys. Long before the stranger shot himself, whispering something about luck and a single bullet spinning in a revolver’s chamber. Luck had abandoned him too fast - and the raw shock frozen on that man’s face haunted Gi-hun now, keeping him awake, making him certain sleep wouldn’t come, not with every nerve in his body strung tight-
-until something warm seemed to settle over him. A blanket of calm.
His muscles loosened. His eyelids filled with molten weight.
He didn’t fight it. He let go.
On his backyard, something started crawling from under the ground.