Chapter Text
Five rounds.
Five rounds of this relentless torment.
The brief pauses between rounds offer no respite for her roiling stomach. Her breakfast, barely digested, sits heavily, threatening revolt. The nauseating routine of spinning aimlessly, running for her life, and witnessing the brutal execution of countless others overwhelms her senses.
Nope, no reason to feel sick at all.
As she steps onto the podium, silently pleading for this to be the final round, a strange sense of relief washes over her when the announcer confirms it. The knots in her stomach loosen slightly, though the adrenaline still hums. Just one more round of this wretched game.
She instinctively sticks close to the makeshift family she’s found in this nightmare. Though not a central figure in their group, Gi-hun’s kindness has been a rare comfort. In a game where alliances can mean the difference between life and death, their fragile camaraderie feels like a lifeline.
“How many do you think it’ll be next?” Jung-bae’s voice cuts through the murmurs, prompting the group to exchange uneasy glances. The podium vibrates beneath them, twisting her stomach anew. No one answers immediately—what’s the point of speculation when death’s hand moves with such arbitrary cruelty?
“Two,” Young-il mutters, barely lifting his gaze from his scuffed shoes. There’s no room for debate; the truth will reveal itself soon enough.
“What makes you say that?” Gi-hun asks, his brow furrowed. Young-il meets his gaze. His logic is grim but sound: with so few left, pairing up makes the most sense. The others? Expendable.
Everyone else will die.
She swallows hard, a silent prayer slipping through her thoughts. Glancing around, the weight of isolation presses down on her, even in the presence of her “friends.” Gi-hun has others he cares for; Player 120 clings to that handsome man, and that odd fellow dotes on his mother. She stands alone in the truest sense. The podium jolts to a halt, the cloying tune fades, and the flickering lights signal the next trial.
The game makers’ cruelty knows no limits; even the lighting is designed to torment.
As expected, the group fractures into pairs. She hesitates, her heartbeat a frantic drum in her chest. In the face of death, what else is there to do but falter? Watching the others pair off, desperation claws at her. Her brief hesitation might cost her everything. How does one react to life slipping so mercilessly through their fingers?
She makes her first move—if it can even be called that—and that is simply moving. Directionless, instinctual, driven by the primal urge to survive. She doesn’t know where she’s going or who she should follow, but moving feels infinitely better than standing still, waiting for death to come knocking. Her breath comes in jagged bursts as she watches the first pairs lock themselves into safety. Their eyes peer out from the narrow gaps in the doors, gleaming with a cruel sort of satisfaction, as if mocking her helplessness.
And then there’s Gi-hun. His eyes pierce through her. The look he gives her—pleading, sorrowful, drenched in desperation—boils her blood. It makes her furious. She can almost hear him through the tiny window, urging her to run. Run? To where? The rooms are nearly full, each selfishly claimed. Her so-called friends are safe, tucked away in their fortresses. She almost laughs, a bitter sound threatening to escape her lips. She had clawed her way through this hell, fought tooth and nail to stay alive. And now, of all times, she hesitates. Her first misstep. Her last.
Her gaze tears away from Gi-hun, anchoring itself to the cold, unforgiving timer. 42 seconds. She glances over her shoulder, catching sight of Thanos—a man so vile he barely deserves the air he breathes—securing his place behind a locked door. Her lips curl into a sneer. The world is unjust, and here she stands, the embodiment of its cruelty.
Her eyes drift toward one of the guards, standing rigid and unfeeling. A dark thought crosses her mind—a plea for the weapon slung across his shoulder and almost considers asking them to have the mercy to just shoot them now. If she’s going to die, she might as well have the dignity of doing it on her own terms. But the world tilts, reality slipping as a dry, calloused hand clamps around her wrist, yanking her forward with startling force. She stumbles, barely catching herself. Any other time, she would’ve fought back, lashed out with everything she had. But then she sees it, the number etched into the fabric of his uniform. 001. Young-il.
Young-il doesn’t falter. His grip is iron as he drags her toward a room, the last haven of safety rapidly becoming a battleground. Another pair is converging on it, but Young-il doesn’t hesitate. With a surge of strength, he throws the door open and all but shoves her inside. “Stay there!” he barks, the command sharp, slamming the door behind him. She can hear the struggle outside—the grunts, the sharp crack of fists meeting flesh.
23 seconds.
The urge to help him surges within her, momentarily eclipsing her fear. She stumbles toward the door, only to be thrown back as it bursts open. Young-il stands there, knuckles bloodied, chest heaving. There’s a wildness in his eyes. He’s about to ask if she’s okay, but something—no, someone —behind her catches his attention.
She turns, too slow to process the threat. Young-il doesn’t miss a beat. He moves quickly, his arm locking around the intruder’s neck. The man thrashes, screaming about how the room was his first. His protests fade, his struggles weaken, and she watches, horrified, as the light in his eyes dims to nothingness.
5 seconds.
She could do nothing but lock eyes with Young-il, a silent battle of wills suspended between them. Oh, how she longed to scream, to rail against the universe—or perhaps just throttle the stranger herself since Young-il seemed to be taking an eternity to crush the man’s windpipe. Patience, however, was a virtue, and eventually, Young-il found strength. The crunch of bone beneath his hands is sickening, and the man goes limp in his lap. Yet, Young-il hasn't looked away from her, nor she from him.
The lock mechanism clicks, sealing them both inside the room. The air feels heavy, laden with the echoes of their ragged breaths. Young-il shoves the warm corpse into the corner with a level of nonchalance that makes her stomach churn. In this cruel game, there are no heroes. Only survivors.
And they had done just that.
Overcome with emotion, she pulls herself away from the scene, opting instead to watch the horrors unfold through the gap of the door, unwilling to deal with what had just transpired in front of her.
She tells herself she is not scared. Young-il had proven himself a nice man—always helping others, always watching. Maddeningly intelligent, his actions were, in her mind, an extension of that intelligence. Merely another facet of his brilliance, naturally. He had the strength to kill, the smarts to save them. That is something she didn’t possess. Not today, anyway.
In-ho slowly stands, his breath finally calming, his pulse steadying. She can’t bear to turn around, to say anything. She knows she isn’t scared, but her body betrays her; it feels cold, as if fear has seeped into her bones.
He watches the back of her head, straightening out his tracksuit and lazily nudging the body further into the corner with his foot. She was already on his radar, a floating member of Gi-hun's little gang of would-be heroes. But now, he wonders, would she fear him after witnessing his brutality?
He suspects she might. He had observed her, like he observed everyone else. Strong, willing, kind even. But deep down, like the rest of them, her heroics would only carry her so far. People were funny that way, all morality and pretense until the façade cracked—a good person, in the abstract. But goodness had its limits here. Even she had unwittingly contributed to others’ demise, with her innocent gestures and well-meaning advice. He almost chuckled, remembering how her strategy in ddakji had spectacularly doomed another group. Ah, the irony. He finds it amusing, how unaware she is of the blood on her hands.
His gaze shifts as she fiddles with her sleeve. Would seeing someone—not a guard, not some villain, but a friend (if he even qualifies as such)—kill, terrify her? He watches her closely as she slowly turns back to face him.
Her face is hard, resolute. He notes the clenching of her jaw beneath its skin and sinew, the fluttering of her lashes as she forces a grateful smile.
"Thank you," she finally chokes out.
In-ho tilts his head, curious. "For what?" he asks, softly, sincerely, a benign smile playing on his lips. He knows what, but he wants to hear her say it.
"Saving us," she replies, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. He hums in acknowledgment, letting her turn back to watch the guards clean up the stage area.
Saving them? Hardly. He hadn’t saved them, not really. The kill was more for his own amusement.
He had saved her, sure. The guards wouldn’t dare shoot him. Killing that man was just a thrill, a way to keep her in the dark about his true nature. If he hadn't killed that man, they'd come in here and shoot her, and snuck In-ho out later. Let her think he was a kind soul, a benevolent protector. The guards were under strict orders not to interfere with his game unless he was genuinely eliminated. And he wasn’t done playing. There was more to learn, more to do. Gi-hun had more lessons to learn, and In-ho wasn’t about to let sentimentality ruin the fun.
She turns to him again. "Forgive me, 01, I never formally got to ask your name?" She knows it's Young-il, but Koreans had such peculiar customs about respect.
He meets her gaze. How quaint. She clearly knows his name, so why the coyness? It irks him, this false modesty. She had fought fiercely, defended their friends, and yet here she is, acting like a polite little lamb. He remembers the details of her file—a once-promising academic, turned to scams after a family tragedy. Tragic, really, but not without its charm. He wonders why someone so hardened by life is trembling now. "Ah, that's quite alright," he says with a quiet laugh. "Oh Young-il."
She hums, bowing her head politely. In-ho nearly scoffs. He scans her for signs of fear and sees it in the tension of her shoulders, the darting of her eyes. Yes, fear is there, no doubt.
"And yourself?" he prompts.
"Ah, my name is—"
The doors unlock, and cheery music fills the room. She doesn’t even look at him as she throws the door open, stepping out. She’s quickly swept into a hug by someone he can’t see, her face shifting from shock to relief.
No matter. He already knew her name. But her number suited her better—404. An error.
Yes, an error. He sees Gi-hun in her, a little hero, too scared to face the animalistic truth of their existence. Animals kill.
He follows the group as they shuffle back to the dormitories, Gi-hun slinging an arm around his shoulders, prattling on about their survival. In-ho keeps an ear on 404’s conversation with Player 222. She seems more relaxed, comforted by another woman’s presence. Fascinating.
Back in the dormitory, she reclined in a corner, crafting an origami flower. He watched her from a distance, musing on the irony. Here she was, lost in her own world, oblivious to the grander game unfolding around her. But there would be time for revelations later. For now, she was content, and that suited him just fine.
As the afternoon meandered on, In-ho found himself—much to his own bemusement—bored of Gi-hun. A momentary lapse, surely. Gi-hun had provided ample amusement over these long, monotonous years, always under his watchful gaze, squirming delightfully. Yet today, the man's tales of misfortune and bumbling heroics failed to stir even a flicker of interest.
Perhaps the problem lay not with Gi-hun, but with the curious attachments In-ho had formed to the rest of this ragtag ensemble. Take Jun-hee, for instance—Player 222, the expectant mother with a quiet fierceness that belied her gentle demeanor. There was something endearing about her. It wasn’t just the pregnancy, though that certainly softened her edges; it was her uncanny ability to remain kind amidst the chaos. In-ho couldn't help but favor her. Then there was Jung-bae, the lumbering oaf who constantly invaded his periphery with his clumsy antics. A necessary annoyance, if only to highlight the comparative charm of his more disciplined companion—the Navy boy, whose obedience and decorum were a balm to In-ho’s patience.
As Gi-hun droned on, In-ho’s attention flicked to a faint noise behind him. A delicate gasp from Jun-hee, not meant for others but caught by his ever-attuned ears. His interest piqued at her quiet thanks and the light-hearted giggle that followed. Something about a flower missing a petal and... something stained with blood?
Ah, 404’s handiwork. She had bestowed her mangled little origami gift upon Jun-hee. How sweet.
“Well, if you don’t want it, give it back,” came 404’s teasing voice, punctuated by the playful thwack of Jun-hee’s hand on her knee, followed by a soft “ouch.” This petty exchange finally warranted his attention, and he turned, arching a brow at their sudden silence, their smiles hastily masked by neutrality.
“May I see?” The question slipped out before he could ponder why he bothered. Perhaps sheer ennui. Jun-hee hesitated but handed him the flower. He held it delicately, examining it with an air of seriousness.
“What happened to the other petal?” he inquired thoughtfully, though his eyes betrayed the flicker of amusement.
404’s initial wide-eyed stare melted into a knowing roll of her eyes as she caught the faint curve of his lip. “Oh, sure, when you stumble upon a treasure trove of paper scraps around here, do let me know,” she quipped, “A little gratitude or a ‘well done’ wouldn’t hurt, you know.”
In-ho chuckled softly through his nose, the sound more amusement than warmth. He handed the flower back to Jun-hee, who accepted it with a timid “thank you” before announcing her intention to keep it safe at her cot. As she moved toward the stairs, In-ho’s hand instinctively hovered near the small of her back, a silent offer of support that never quite materialized into contact.
404 watched this peculiar scene unfold with a mix of fascination and wariness. The man who had so effortlessly snapped another's life away mere hours ago, now gently guiding a pregnant woman down the stairs? It was a contradiction, an unsettling blend of predator and protector. When Jun-hee disappeared down the steps, In-ho’s gaze returned to 404, the buffer of camaraderie now gone. The weight of his attention fell solely on her, and the cold prickle of fear slithered up her spine once more. His eyes held hers, a silent promise that the game was far from over, and she, whether she liked it or not, was still very much a part of it.
When In-ho shuffled over to take the seat 222 had just vacated, 404’s wariness spiked. Her fingers moved to tie up her hair, a nervous distraction, while he groaned theatrically about his aching bones, settling into the step with a sigh. His eyes, however, betrayed no sign of frailty—hooded, calculating, always watching. She knew that look well. It spoke volumes beyond words, hinting at thoughts too layered to be voiced.
“Are you okay after today?” His voice was soft, deceptively gentle, a far cry from the harshness etched into his features.
She stiffened, forcing her hands into her lap after securing the messy bun. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Feigning surprise—or was it offense?—he dipped his head slightly, his gaze dropping just enough to seem considerate, even remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” he murmured, watching her closely as she began to pick at the skin around her nails. “I just noticed you’ve been rather quiet since the last games.”
“Nobody’s exactly chatty after the games,” she scoffed, eyes narrowing.
He conceded with a slow nod. True, the oppressive atmosphere had muted them all. Yet her silence, particularly, had caught his attention—more than annoyance, it was a puzzle he now itched to solve.
“I suppose what I’m trying to say is,” he sighed, letting his head droop slightly in a display of humility, “I’m sorry if my actions earlier upset you. If they scared you.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“I never said I did.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Damn it. He had her there, cornered by his own slippery rhetoric.
“I was just trying to keep us alive, by any means necessary.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His question hung in the air, loaded and insinuating. What was his game? Her eyes darted to his, narrowing in suspicion. “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Young-il. I’ve thanked you for saving us, and you’ve apologized. What more do you expect?”
Ah, but that was precisely it. He didn’t expect her to say anything. Not overtly, at least. No, he was after the unspoken, the subtle cues she couldn’t help but reveal. She was his entertainment tonight, whether she realized it or not.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” he assured her, trying his best with sincerity. “I’m just checking on you.”
Bullshit. The word hovered on her tongue, dangerously close to spilling out.
His gaze lingered on her, his mind quietly piecing together the puzzle of 404. She played the role of the timid participant well—too well, perhaps. But In-ho saw the cracks, the moments when her eyes darkened, when her quietness seemed more a shield than a flaw. Was she truly the hero she wanted the others to see? Or was there something else beneath that surface, a kindred spirit, perhaps?
He leaned back slightly, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She wasn’t afraid of him, she claimed, but her body language betrayed her. No, it wasn’t fear. It was recognition. She knew what he was because she saw a reflection of herself.
“I think you’re stronger than you let on,” he said, almost as an afterthought, his eyes never leaving hers. “Stronger than most here, even.”
Her brows furrowed, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or a veiled threat.
In-ho’s smile widened just a fraction. Yes, there was more to her, and he would enjoy unearthing every hidden layer. She might not be a hero, after all. No, she might be something far more interesting. 404’s eyes remained locked on In-ho, her suspicion simmering beneath the surface. She wasn’t sure if his words were meant to soothe or provoke, but she wasn’t about to let her guard down. Not with him.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she replied cautiously, her fingers still nervously toying with the edge of her thumb.
In-ho leaned forward just a little, his posture relaxed. “Oh, nothing profound,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Just an observation. You seem... adaptable.”
“Adaptable?” Her tone carried a hint of incredulity, masking the discomfort creeping up her spine.
He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, knowing smile. “It’s a rare quality. Survival often demands it.”
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “Survival doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”
“True,” he murmured, “But it’s not just about surviving, is it? It’s about understanding.”
“Understanding what?”
“The nature of things. The people around you. Yourself.”
404 frowned, her fingers moving to the fabric of her sleeve. “And what do you think you’ve understood about me?”
In-ho’s smile was disarming. “Enough to see that you carry more than you show.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t respond.
“In a place like this, it’s often the quiet ones who are the most dangerous. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She scoffs, “I think it depends on what you mean by ‘dangerous.’”
“Of course,” he agreed smoothly, as if conceding a point in a friendly debate. “Danger takes many forms. Sometimes it’s loud, brash, easy to spot,” he uses his chin to point to Thanos, who's dancing around on the other side of the room. “Other times, it’s subtle, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The ones who survive aren’t always the strongest, but the smartest, the most patient.”
404 shifted slightly, feeling the weight of his gaze as if it were a physical pressure. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing at all,” he said with a soft chuckle, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m merely... appreciating the company. It’s rare to find someone who understands the value of restraint. So many rush in, teeth bared, only to fall because they couldn’t see past their own bravado.”
There was a pause. She studied him, his face a mask of calm, but she knew better. There was calculation behind those eyes, a predator measuring its prey, or perhaps, another predator.
“Funny,” she said finally, “You don’t strike me as the type who values restraint.”
That makes him bristle. Had his actions earlier shown just that? He could have caved that man's head in with his boot, torn out his eyes with his bare hands, slammed his face into the wall until it was a bloodied mess. He was restraint manifest. His smile was slow, indulgent. “I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes the best move is no move at all. Let others reveal their hands first. It’s quite enlightening.”
404 nodded slowly, understanding the subtext. They were circling each other, both aware of the game being played but unwilling to lay their cards on the table just yet. “And what do you think you’ve learned about me?”
In-ho tilted his head, his smile never wavering. “I think you’re very good at keeping your cards close. But every now and then, even the best players let something slip. A flicker of the eyes, a hesitation. It’s fascinating.”
“And what have I let slip?” she challenged.
He leaned back, as if considering her question. “Not much. Not yet. But there’s time.”
Her breath hitched, just for a fraction of a second. He saw it, of course. He saw everything.
“I think you’re overestimating me,” she said, her voice calm but her grip on her sleeve tightening.
“Perhaps,” In-ho hummed. “Or perhaps you’re not as different from me as you might wish.”
“I’m nothing like you,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Maybe,” he allowed, his tone neither challenging nor dismissive. “Or maybe you’ve just been better at hiding it.”
Before she can muster a response, the call to vote interrupts her thoughts. Voting—a ritual imbued with the usual flair of melodrama—erupts into f chanting, shouting, and swelling egos. The scene, always predictably theatrical, feels oddly distant this time. Yet, amidst the chaos, her gaze keeps drifting back to In-ho, an involuntary pull she resents and cannot resist. Each time their eyes meet, a strange and embarrassing inevitability unfurls within her.
When the votes are cast and the dust settles, dinner arrives, fleeting and unsatisfying. She tries to savor the moment, but exhaustion claws at her relentlessly.
A cigarette would be heavenly right now.
Her mind drifts to a conversation she had overheard between In-ho and Gi-hun. He had confessed—almost nonchalantly—about his past as a police officer. A sob story, complete with the grim details of taking a bribe to fund his wife’s cancer treatment, only to be dismissed without a shred of mercy. Tragic, yes, but with a touch of that weary inevitability that life seemed to dole out in spades. She had felt a twinge of sympathy, fleeting but genuine. It explained a lot—his unsettling demeanor, the way he carried himself. He embodied the archetype of a cop: intimidating, yet capable of a well-timed softening to coax confessions out of criminals. Good cop, bad cop, seamlessly rolled into one disconcertingly efficient package.
That must be it, she convinces herself. His unnerving aura is just residual police training. Surely, it’s nothing more. She only has to endure his presence until the games are over—or until one of them meets an untimely end. No need to overthink it.
And yet, she does.
The memory of his probing questions, his carefully crafted words, lingers. She can’t shake the feeling of being dissected, examined under the guise of harmless conversation. As she rolls onto her cot, a dry chuckle escapes her lips. Maybe they are alike—two morally ambiguous schemers with more family baggage than they care to admit, each willing to do whatever it takes to secure their prize.
The lights dim, casting the room in a somber gloom. The familiar murmur of her friends bidding each other goodnight wraps around her like a comforting blanket.
“Goodnight, 404!” Gi-hun’s voice echoes.
She almost ignores him, but finally relents. “Yeah, night,” she murmurs, too soft for him to hear. The warmth of camaraderie soothes her briefly, but sleep remains elusive.
The cold seeps into her bones, the cot as welcoming as a slab of concrete. Sleep, once a refuge, now feels like a distant memory. She stares into the darkness, snores and murmured conversations providing a strange backdrop to her restless thoughts.
She needs air. Just a moment of reprieve from the stifling confines of the room.
Lucky for her, tonight’s guard—a familiar guard with a penchant for subtle bribes—is standing by the door. With a knowing smirk, she gathers herself. A little negotiation should buy her the escape she craves, however fleeting it might be. After the room has settled into the hushed rhythm of sleep, she cracks her eyes open from her feigned slumber. Moving with stealth, she slips from her cot and pads softly toward the left door. She knows it's the guard she's looking for, the subtle chip in the upper left corner of the mask is her tell.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, she whispers, "Look, I'll be real with you." Her tone is conspiratorial with just a hint of urgency. "I need a bath. Badly. I came on my period," she lies, "And I can tell you're a girl's girl. If the roles were reversed, I’d let you through." She watches the guard for any sign of a reaction, but is met with stoic silence.
With a resigned sigh, she shifts tactics. "Alright, fine. Let’s cut to the chase. I need a bath, and you need your peace." Her voice drops to a softer, persuasive tone. "How about this—you can take 10 million won from my prize pot if you let me shower, just tonight."
The guard finally speaks, her voice distorted by the modulator, giving her a mechanical edge. "And what if you die?"
She shrugs, running a hand through her hair with an air of casual defiance. "I don’t know. Take the keys to my apartment, have my car. Hell, take it all. I just need a moment in some warm water. That bed's killing me." she pleads, "I’ll beg you if I have to."
For a moment, the silence stretches between them. But just as she begins to lower herself to her knees in a display of desperation, she hears the satisfying click of the door unlocking. A grin spreads across her face as she steps through, her hand slapping the guard's shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.
"Don’t suppose you have a smoke on you, too?" she quips, looking over her shoulder as she begins her walk to the bathroom.
"Don’t push your luck," the guard responds curtly, though there's a faint hint of amusement in her voice.
"Yes, ma’am," she replies, her grin widening as she disappears down the dimly lit corridor, savoring her small victory.