Chapter Text
The first time he sees it is at the Pink Motel.
In-ho had made it off the island in time to avoid the effects of the explosion. The raging fire and crumbling foundations that swallowed everything whole were nothing but a fleeting moment in his peripherals as the helicopter soared away.
His feet had carried him to the final games room, with intentions to retrieve Jun-hee's baby as the Frontman's sole purpose.
But it was his, In-ho's heart that left him frozen at Gi-hun's side.
Those dark eyes, once so full of life, now fading, in the same way his hair was once fluffy and long, now short and dull.
Dead.
He is dead.
He had shown him his face once, revealed his betrayal to Gi-hun as he made his final offer to save his life.
And then, for the final time, he gazed down at the man that shook at his foundations, with his face, his real face as the last thing Gi-hun's dying eyes could see.
At least, that's what he tells himself, hoping that there was at least a small tick of life in his slowing heart to look up at In-ho, for his eyes to be the last he gazed into.
Was it a comfort of sorts?
Was he hoping his face, the face Gi-hun had associated with a friend at first, would be a comfort in his final moments?
Or was the comfort more for himself?
A final parting? A show of respect?
A show of remorse?
Had his mind conjured the thought on impulse, a subconscious need to show remorse for his sins.
Of course, under the mask, he had never seen Gi-hun as anything but a heretic to his faith. A man destined to challenge everything In-ho knows, everything he has believed for years.
But in those final moments, with his mask off and his eyes watching the life fade from Gi-huns, he had faced him as a man on his knees, praying for forgiveness, for understanding.
He could see the nails in the palms of Gi-hun's hands. He could see the crown of thorns.
He could feel his soul damned to hell, his redemption taken before it could ever have a chance to form.
With the final breath exhaled from Gi-hun's lungs, so had his own life ended.
There is no living when the one man who could ever change his view on humanity had died.
Sacrificial or not.
In-ho doesn't hold faith for ghosts, spirits, or heavenly bodies.
Though that sentiment wavers with a shake of his head, a double-take of sorts as he enters the Pink Motel and steps into the room Gi-hun had made his own, only to see the very man standing by his bed.
At least… he thought he saw him.
For a second, just a minute flash of the man with his back turned to In-ho, dressed in dark blue, hands down by his side.
A blink of the image, even shorter than a blink if he's being honest. Enough for him to forget the image as quickly as it formed.
A trick of the light.
A trick of his foolish mind.
But then, a creak down the hallway, a shadow that seems to deepen unnaturally at the end, draws In-ho's attention.
The light from his torch hovers over the mouldy floor, up the peeling wallpaper of the dirty hotel as he steps out of the room and faces the hallway that seems to call his name.
A feeling.
A sixth sense, maybe.
A shadow that feels strangely familiar, that almost takes the shape of a human form if he thought about it too much.
He makes his way down the hallway, hands shaking more than he'd ever admit, shoulders tight and knotting with every second that passes.
He blinks just as he's nearing the door at the end of the corridor.
Another trick of the light, surely.
His torch casting shadows at odd angles, the light from it reflecting off the doorknob.
Enough to form the semblance of a human form.
He swallows the shape down, refusing to admit how alike it was to the owner of the hotel.
The door feels larger than possible, like the room's contents will swallow him whole the moment he opens the door.
With a steadying breath, he raises his hand, only to be betrayed when it shakes as he shoots the door's locking mechanism.
He closes his eyes as his hand presses against the wooden door, holding his breath, suffocating the foolish hope that the man may be on the other side.
And when he opens the door, it's proven that hope was foolish, a waste of time, a betrayal of his logic.
No man.
Only money.
Stacks and stacks of it, a small corner of the large pile is all that is missing, the amount insignificant to the whole sum of it.
Gi-hun had refused to use the money fully, claiming it as blood money, seeing it as a burden, an amalgamation of the lives lost in his games, the souls that were his burden to carry.
And in the end, his life has joined them as just another stack of notes to add to the pile.
There have been no tricks of the light since that night at the Pink Motel, though the effect of it has remained with In-ho in his quiet apartment on the outskirts of Seoul.
He had bought the high-rise apartment years ago, intending to use it as a sort of safe house between games, whenever he was away from the island.
But he had always found his way back to his tiny, dingy room in the city when he'd return. Suffocating himself between the cramped walls, locking himself away with the remnants of his past to keep him company.
To keep him from forgetting who he once was.
To keep him from forgetting her.
There's a strange irony that In-ho has tried his best to ignore, to not let the thoughts come to fruition fully, to keep them from tainting his mind.
The last time he had stayed in that room was right before Gi-hun's first games.
Though he had no idea back then of the influence the man from Ssangmun-dong would have on him, he can't help but feel the tendrils of suggestion dig into his spine.
It's as if the moment Gi-hun entered his life, no matter how insignificant at first, that past, that life that has weighed him down with painful memories for years, was never meant to exist in the same world as Seong Gi-hun.
That's a dangerous thought, of course.
A betrayal to his past self. A betrayal to his wife.
And so, every time he feels the thought begin its slow incline, its formation bubbling up inside him, he quickly forces it back down into the depths of his mind, where it may never come to light fully.
And in the dark recesses of his mind, the memories all bleed into one. A time when he was innocent, a child, an older brother, then made to take charge of the household, left with no choice but to fill the role his father left behind.
A young officer with a bright future, a firm set of morals and laws he upheld with a firm belief in protecting society.
A beautiful woman who loved him, who cherished him and made each day brighter than the last.
An illness. Hospital beds. The incessant sound of beeping as his head lies on her hand, battling to stay awake by her side for yet another countless night.
The constricting confrontation of suspicion, doubt, and accusations of bribery, all while the debt adds up, forming an immeasurable pile of owing that he cannot afford.
An announcement, usually made with joy and excitement and hope for a future, instead said with sorrow, complications, a dilemma of one life or the other.
A trait he would come to hate—stubbornness.
A week that changed everything. The sharp rattle of dying breaths. Cracks of bones crumpling to the ground in lifeless heaps. A knife plunging into skin, slicing through muscle, snapping against bone over and over again.
A three-digit number etched into his ribs, a permanent piece of himself, a permanent reminder of his victory and the sacrifice that came with it.
All for nothing.
And then, seeping into those memories, filling the gaps in the nightmares he has become so accustomed to over the years—the number four hundred and fifty-six.
Most nights, it's a replay of his fall. A snapshot of his dying face. An echoing of his final words played on repeat over his usual nightmares—those final words now blaring like a radio over the nightmares that have tormented him for years.
Some nights it's a repeat of that night at the Pink Motel. A strange rerun of the ghostly figure he saw, as if his mind is attempting to dissect the memory in his sleep, to analyse it and test its authenticity.
A few nights, only once or twice, his sleep has been accompanied by dreams rather than nightmares. The memories clad in the quieter moments in the dormitory. Short hair that feels out of place, that feels like it should be longer. Wide eyes that scream of hope and innocence, filled with a love that only one man had ever possessed.
Small lips that no doubt forgot what a smile felt like. The surprising curve of them forming one because of something he said, plays in his dreams the most on the odd occasion he is blessed with one.
Though the pleasant dreams don't occur often, he holds onto the memory of them, the warm feeling that settles in his chest after, for as long as he can, knowing that reality will always hit him harshly when he wakes up.
Those lips that barely showed joy before—yet In-ho had made them curve into a smile—will never smile again.
He is dead.
Seong Gi-hun is dead.
Since leaving the island, his life has had very little purpose.
It's been a few weeks since he settled back into his Seoul apartment, and while he has mostly become accustomed to his new living space, his new household companion has not.
Player 222.
Or rather, Kim Jun-hee's daughter.
Every logical bone in his body had screamed for him to get rid of the baby. To place it in an orphanage. Leave it in foster care. Even dump it on the steps outside a church.
He had tracked down Jun-hee's family in the first week off the island, only to discover she had no living relatives.
Jun-ho had been an option as well, and still is, but… well, emotion is what won out against logic in the end.
The strange curiosity to experience fatherhood even if briefly, even if for someone else's child. It almost felt like he owed not only Player 222 but his wife as well. A part of himself felt like it would be a disservice to her memory not to care for a baby in place of the one they could have had.
And so, with his access to innumerable resources, he converted a spare room in the apartment into a nursery for the child. Every week, a personal nurse visits to check her health, as well as provide In-ho with the best advice for her care.
She had required urgent care upon arrival in Seoul, which he had provided at a private hospital he has shares in. She was malnourished, shaken, and weak.
But alive.
Somehow, alive.
Once she was safe to go home with him, he considered hiring a full-time carer for her, but the thought of having someone around him, in his living space, constantly, had him opting not to.
And so, here he is, for the third night in a row, struggling to get the wailing child to fall asleep.
Maybe fatherhood was never meant for him, is all he can think as he paces around the apartment, cradling her in his arms, bouncing her gently in his hold as he coos and calms her with reassuring whispers.
It never works quickly. It's never a simple pat on the back, and she's falling asleep.
No, it's always a struggle. It's always tears and flailing arms reaching out for the comfort from a mother she will never see again.
He's sure the alcohol on his breath isn't helping soothe her, but his reliance on the numbing drink has only intensified with the end of the games and endless days of nothing awaiting him.
That and the nightmares.
Well, more so, the sleep paralysis.
It helped at first, drowning himself in alcohol, drinking till his body was left as nothing but a heavy, exhausted mess—so tired he would pass out the second his body collapsed onto his bed in a crumpled heap.
He would be in a deep sleep in an instant. No dreams. No nightmares. No time for his body to slip into any half-awake, half-asleep state.
But lately, the far-too-many scotches before bed haven't been helping.
Almost every night this past week, he has been plagued by sleep paralysis.
It's always the same as well.
It starts off with awareness, a sense of lucidness, where he knows something is wrong. Then a presence. He can see his room in the dark, hazy, but well enough to know where he is—still in bed. It's always a dark corner, a shadow, a void in the corner of the room that feels larger and heavier than usual.
Then it's a feeling. A sensation that the presence is nearing, that it's approaching him even if he can't see it.
That's usually when he tries to move, only to realise he's frozen, body taught and stiff, pressed down into the mattress by some invisible force. He can usually move his head just enough to tilt his chin down, to look down at the end of the bed, as he can feel the dark, ominous presence nearing.
He can feel himself thrashing about, his muscles contracting and flexing as if they were moving frantically, but they never do.
His heart races, thunderous and dangerous in its speed, as muffled cries remain stuck in his closed mouth. No matter how he fights to open his mouth, to let the screams and cries rip from his throat, they never do.
He panics.
Every single time.
Until he snaps right out of it with a harsh and sudden inhale, slamming back into wakefulness with a gasp. His heart pounds so hard in his chest, he fears it may break through his ribs and flop on the floor like a fish out of water.
The effects always last long as well, painfully long as he fights against the panic to calm himself down.
He's tried a few techniques to work through those nights; sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. He's managed to calm his heart down enough during an episode to wake himself from it without panic, using the slight lucidity he has during the sleep paralysis to convince himself to breathe, to relax, to remember it's not real.
Most nights, he still wakes up covered in sweat, crying out for help he doesn't deserve.
Crying out to nobody, with the only people he ever cared about dead or better off without him.
When he isn't flooded with nightmares or sleep paralysis, the thoughts, the memories that plague him may as well leave him paralysed with their intensity.
Dark eyes, once so hopeful, innocent and gleaming with humanity, stare back at him in his memories, slowly fading, slowly losing their light.
It's getting harder to ignore the pain, to move on from the effects of Seong Gi-hun as the days pass. With each day that comes, the memories of him intensify; they grow and fill the gaps in both his waking and his sleeping life.
So much so, he swears at times he can feel the man in the room with him. Like his sleep paralysis episodes, he can sense a presence, a shift of air that feels heavier, colder, suddenly empty as if something is missing from that spot.
Tricks of his mind, he tells himself every time it happens.
And when the sensation of a presence shifts to a more visual presence, something almost real, almost human—he tells himself those are just tricks of the light, just like at the Motel.
It's his mind playing cruel tricks on him, forcing images of the man he ruined, reminding him of his sins.
All conjured up by his guilty conscience to punish him for his crimes.
It's all a trick.
That simple answer has become his mantra.
Even as the presence grows stronger.
Even when he catches a glimpse of the man in the mirror one night after a drunken, depressed shower.
Even when he swears he can smell him this morning in the nursery—a scent he hadn't even realised he knew, but he did. He recognises it immediately as distinctly Seong Gi-hun.
It hits him with a shudder. A shiver that rolls down his spine violently, rapidly, frightfully.
A trick of the mind. That's all it is.
He repeats the statement in his head as he feeds the baby. Reminding himself over and over again, now cradling her in his arms as he pats her back with eyes glazed over, distant, shutting out the smell that refuses to leave the room. As if the man was in the room with him, next to him, watching him.
When he settles the baby back into her crib, he closes his eyes and steps back.
He breathes it in, the scent curling inside his nose, tingling his senses as it fills him. It breaks him. It rips him apart at the seams, his heart cracking and aching with the cruel scent of the man he broke.
It's his punishment.
And he must accept it.
It's what he deserves, after all.