Gi-hun lay sprawled on the narrow bed, his body aching all over. He didn't move—couldn't move—but every muscle screamed in protest from the strain he had endured. Exhaustion pressed down on him like an anchor, draining him of every last ounce of strength.
Strangely, there were no restraints binding him—no handcuffs digging into his wrists, no ropes tying his limbs. They had simply tossed him in here and locked the door. Perhaps, deep down, they sensed his resignation—an unspoken understanding that he had nothing left to fight with and no will to resist. To them, he was already a defeated man.
His gaze wandered up to the ceiling of the tiny room, where whimsical and vibrant characters danced across the walls, creating an illusion of safety that felt almost taunting. The colours and shapes spun around in playful mockery as if the space meant to confine him delighted in his despair. Had he possessed even a shred of strength, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it all—it was as if he was in a child's room.
How many times had his mother sent him to his room for acting out? Maybe that's what they were doing to him now: locking him up here so he could think about what he had done.
"Did you have fun playing the hero?"
The voice echoed in the depths of his mind, haunting words he couldn't shake.
"Look closely at the consequences of your little hero game."
"Gi-hun…"
He felt a jolt as a haunting image invaded his mind—his friend's eyes wide with terror, pleading for help, anchoring onto him with a desperation that felt suffocating. This was the promise Gi-hun had made, wasn't it? To remain by his side and be his protector in this cruel game.
"Whatever happens from now on, stay close to me."
Gi-hun clenched his eyes tight, fatigue creeping into his bones. What a fool he had been to believe he could save anyone.
"Gi-hun…"
A bitter laugh tore from his lips as despair crashed over him, squeezing the breath from his chest and leaving him lightheaded. Just when the pressure behind his eyes threatened to burst forth, to wash away his composure in tears, a familiar melody sliced through the silence.
"Player 456, please cast your vote," echoed a bright, metallic voice from the speakers, heavy with insistent cheerfulness.
Gi-hun let the words wash over him, each digging deeper into his already fraying sanity. How many times had he heard this by now? Countless, surely, each one persistent and merciless.
Player 456, please cast your vote.
Player 456, please cast your vote.
Player 456, please cast your vote.
His gaze drifted to the podium at the center of the room—a stark and familiar sight. The cold platform adorned with two glaring buttons that seemed to taunt him: the green O and the red X.
"If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. Player 456, please cast your vote." The cheerful voice kept repeating, a twisted invitation to make a choice he desperately wanted to avoid.
Gi-hun turned his gaze back to the ceiling, where whimsical clouds and birds were painted, seemingly oblivious to the torment below. He remained still, transfixed. How many times had he pressed the red button? In this game, and in every game… what was the point? It all felt futile now; nothing he did seemed to change anything.
Taking a deep breath that trembled, he closed his eyes, trying to suppress the waves of regret crashing over him. How had he failed so completely? How could he have possibly let down so many people at once? Tears threatened to spill as memories flashed in his mind—a slideshow of moments he wished he could forget. Images of those he had come to know here—Yong-sik and Geum-ja, Dae-ho, and Jun-hee… that innocent girl cradling a tiny life beneath her heart. They had to be alive. They simply had to be. They couldn't all be gone…
Gi-hun swallowed hard, feeling the weight like a stone in his throat. They were alive. They absolutely were.
His eyes flicked back to the podium, anxiety twisting in his stomach. What if the others had already made their decisions? Was his vote pointless, just another layer of torment designed for the amusement of the sick pigs watching from above?
He squeezed his eyes shut, a new wave of exhaustion washing over him. All he wanted was a moment of peace.
"Player 456."
The new voice crackled through the speaker, sending an electric jolt through Gi-hun. His body stiffened with the weight of recognition, and he forced his eyes open, his heart thundering in his chest like a caged animal.
That voice—distorted and mechanical—yet hauntingly familiar.
"Did you have fun playing the hero?"
Gi-hun's jaw clenched, the grinding of his teeth igniting sharp waves of pain. His fists tightened into angry knots at his sides.
"Is your new goal to starve to death?" the voice echoed in the room.
He turned his gaze toward the little blue door on the opposite wall, his heart sinking as he saw a small tray of food pushed through the tiny window—sitting untouched, just like all the trays before it. Gi-hun had lost his sense of time in this place; there was no clock, no window, and no way to measure the passing hours. The only rhythm was the creaking of the slot as a gloved hand, clad in pink, delivered a meal he had never touched. Later, the same hand would return to collect the tray, only to replace it with another. How many meals had he let pass? The count had slipped away from him.
His gaze drifted to the corner, where an unblinking camera stared back like a vulture—always watching, always waiting. He knew all too well who lurked on the other side.
In a surge of defiance, he directed the most venomous glare he could summon at that intrusive lens, his voice a low, furious growl.
"Has it really been so long that starving to death is an option? How generous of you to pretend you care."
"You need to eat," the voice insisted, empty and cold.
"I'm not hungry."
A hollow ache gnawed at the pit of his stomach, but he could not summon even the faintest flicker of hunger. A deep void had settled inside him, leaving him barren and stripped of all sensation—no warmth, no desire, just an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
"Starvation is not an option. If you continue to refuse food, we will need to provide you with nutrition through an intravenous feed."
Gi-hun raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile creeping across his lips.
"Oh? Is that the thing where you shove a tube in and pump food into someone?" he asked, his voice dripping with irritation. "Yeah, go ahead and do that. Your army of pink bastards just love any excuse to poke and prod at us, don't they? Wouldn't want to take that away from them."
A heavy silence fell after his words. He knew he was going too far but could not muster the energy to stop.
"Player 456," a voice cut through the stillness, sharp and demanding. "What game are you playing now?"
Gi-hun felt a jolt of apprehension ripple down his spine. The Frontman's voice was laced with unmistakable annoyance. If he pushed too far, he had no doubt that the masked figures would have no issue with barging in here and silencing him once and for all. Yet, despite the fear clawing at him, Gi-hun felt a surge of anger rising within him, a welcome change from the crushing guilt and despair he had been drowning in. He took a breath, determined to shake off his instinct for self-preservation.
"I'm not playing anything," he shot back, his tone rife with petulance, as if he really were a rebellious child sulking in his room. "I'm merely contemplating the consequences of my hero game. Isn't that why you locked me in here? So I could think about what I've done?"
"You were placed here so we could have time to prepare for the next game," the voice replied coolly. "You've made quite a mess."
"Forgive me if I've tarnished the décor," he retorted, sarcasm dripping from his words. "You must have spent ages picking out this colour scheme for you to be so uptight about a splash of blood. Tell me, doesn't red go well with pink? It never seemed to bother you before."
His words poured out in a rush of rebellious energy, carefree and defiant. After all, what more could they take from him? What further punishment was left to endure?
"This behaviour won't help your cause, you know," echoed a weary voice, surprisingly showing exhaustion from the Frontman himself. It was as if even he was growing tired of this spectacle. "Whether you choose to cast your vote or remain silent, a decision will have to be reached. Your inaction accomplishes nothing."
Gi-hun ground his teeth. "Didn't you say my every action was meaningless? That my return here was pointless, my rebellion a joke? Isn't that what you were mocking me for?"
"Is this really the final act for you then? The closing chapter of your ambition?" The voice toyed with him, the taunt unmistakable.
"I didn't come back here because of ambition..."
"No," the voice interrupted, sharp. "It was your insatiable thirst for revenge. You couldn't let it rest, could you? You had everything you ever yearned for, yet you still craved more—just like all the others."
Gi-hun felt a fierce surge of anger bubbling up inside him, his breath hitching with each sharp inhalation.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he spat through gritted teeth.
"You should have boarded that plane," the Frontman continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "You could have been content with your life and your family, far away from here. But that wasn't enough for you, was it? It's a strange aspect of human nature—this insatiable desire for more. No matter the prize you obtain, nothing will ever truly fill the emptiness inside you. Instead, each of you finds yourselves caught in an endless cycle of wanting, getting, and then wanting again. That's why you didn't board that plane. That's why you came back here. That's why the games will always continue…"
"Shut the hell up!" Gi-hun bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.
He sprang to his feet, the chill of the floor sending a jolt through him. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips as his body protested, each ache and throb a reminder of what he had endured. Trembling with rage, his blazing gaze locked onto the unblinking camera lens in the corner as if it were the source of all his frustration.
"I am so sick of all of you! You always talk like you know everything! You act like you can study us like some lab rats. You can't even see that you are the same kind of messed up human beings as we are. Hell, you are worse than that!"
He edged closer to the camera, instinctively believing that reducing the distance would somehow bridge the gap between him and the man observing him from afar. The glow of the lens amplified his determination, and his gaze was locked in a confrontation as the world around him blurred into a distant haze. He was angry—so angry.
"You strut around all high and mighty, like you are above us like you're better! But you are nothing but a bunch of cowards hiding behind your masks. You make up your stupid, convoluted rules to pretend you're some highly ethical elite when you are nothing but ruthless animals. You flee to this island, seeking an escape from reality because you can't handle the real world. Even your precious Host!"
The thought of that man, that wretched bastard, ignited a new wave of fury within Gi-hun. Clenching his teeth, he felt the sting of betrayal pushing him further as he seethed angrily.
"Even Oh Il-nam—he couldn't confront the truth, could he? He knew... he knew I won in the end, but he couldn't admit it. Even in his final moments, lying on his deathbed, he clung to his convictions; he couldn't admit he was wrong. He died like a coward that he was! So I am just about done listening to you assholes talk like you know anything!"
Gi-hun stood before the camera, trembling with fury, his breath ragged. An oppressive silence descended, heavy and suffocating, making him wonder if this was it. Had he finally reached the breaking point of the Frontman's tolerance? Had he pushed the Frontman too far?
A tightening sensation gripped his chest as he braced himself for the fallout. The silence stretched uncomfortably, rendering him painfully aware of the rapid beat of his heart. The dread of the inevitable loomed over him—would the next words be the chilling declaration he feared: Player 456, eliminated…
"You still believe that, don't you?"
The question hit Gi-hun like a punch to the gut, leaving him momentarily disoriented. It wasn't the verdict he dreaded to hear, but the question left him gazing uncertainly at the camera.
"Believe what?" he retorted sharply, masking his confusion.
"Your victory. You still cling to the illusion that you triumphed over the Host."
Gi-hun frowned, his mind racing to grasp the meaning behind the taunting words. What exactly was this bastard trying to suggest?
"Someone came to help that man. I won."
"Did you?" the disembodied voice mused. Even through the static, Gi-hun felt the mocking edge slicing through. "You think you won your game, perched high in your ivory tower, watching the unfortunate soul below struggle for survival. Let me ask you, Player 456—if you truly wished to save the homeless man… why didn't you step in yourself?"
Gi-hun's body went rigid, frozen as if petrified by the weight of the question. His eyes widened, locked onto the camera, realization washing over him.
"I…" The words hung in the air, heavy and unformed.
"Instead of taking the chance to save him, you decided to play a game," the voice continued relentlessly. "I watched the footage. I saw the look on your face—the wave of satisfaction that washed over you when you realized you had won… enjoying the thrill of a gamble that determined a man's fate. At that moment, how were you any different from the VIPs? The spectators delighting in the cruel games you claim to despise?"
A shiver ran through Gi-hun. A realization gripped him tightly, and as he opened his mouth to respond, no sound emerged.
"You didn't win. You lost the moment you decided to play," intoned the Frontman, each word echoing with chilling finality, like a coffin lid slamming shut.
"Stop!" Gi-hun roared, desperation choking him. He felt like a cornered child, pressing his palms against his ears, trying to block out the venomous taunts slithering into his mind. "I know what you're trying to do! I can see through your lies! You're just trying to play with my head. You're worming your way into my thoughts, just like you did with the others. Just like you did to… to Sang-woo!" The moment his friend's name left his lips, it felt like a dagger twisting in his heart, tearing open old wounds that throbbed with painful intensity. "Sang-woo was," Gi-hun choked out, "he was a good person before you… before this place…"
Tears threatened to spill, but he fought them back, refusing to give this monster any satisfaction. As he rubbed at his eyes, a sharp pain shot through him—a harsh reminder of his injuries and the toll this place had taken on his body. God, he was exhausted—so utterly and completely drained.
"Just shut up! Stop it! Stop playing with my head!" he shouted, his voice cracking.
Silence fell in the room once more, broken only by Gi-hun's ragged breaths as he struggled to regain his composure. When he finally met the unblinking gaze of the camera, he had no idea how he must have looked. Whatever expression he wore prompted the Frontman to ask,
"Is this your decision, Player 456? Do you wish to end the game here and return home?"
The voice intoned each syllable, and with every word, Gi-hun felt his grip on reality falter. It seemed absurd, but he could almost detect a thread of gentleness in the Frontman's voice, a soft tone that suggested a hint of sympathy. As if he genuinely cared, as if he might actually grant Gi-hun his freedom.
Anger ignited within Gi-hun, and he shook his head vehemently. Surely, he was losing his mind. No, this was just another cruel game, another manipulation to lure him into a false sense of security. Rage boiled within him—he despised this man and this nightmarish place. He hated it; he loathed it.
"What I want…" he managed to get out in a raspy breath, "What I want is to rip off those stupid masks. I want to see the look in your eyes as you face the consequences of the twisted games you're playing here. Maybe then you'll understand what you are... maybe then you'll realize how despicable you all are… what you have done to people…" Gi-hun gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
"You need to tread carefully with your wishes," the Frontman said. "If you strip away the masks, that guilt crawling inside you could just as easily consume you."
"What guilt are you talking about?!" Gi-hun shot back.
"The lives of the guards you and your rebellious little uprising have taken. Wouldn't it tug at the conscience of a moral and righteous man like yourself to see the faces of those you've killed?"
"They weren't innocent! They chose to be part of this. They're complicit."
"Are they really? Do you know that for certain? Or could it be that they are just like you, caught in a web of circumstances beyond their control? They might be here for similar reasons as the players."
Gi-hun's only response was a sharp intake of breath, a creeping unease winding through his mind as the Frontman pressed on relentlessly.
"You are too naive, Player 456. I don't think you're prepared to look behind the mask," he said, his voice as cold as steel. "Anonymity has a way of dulling our humanity. It's easier to hate and destroy when the face of your enemy remains hidden."
Gi-hun felt a jolt of cold dread racing down his spine. Yet he stood firm, steeling himself against the creeping fear. He couldn't afford to show any sign of breaking—not to this man, not now.
"You and your VIPs don't seem to have any problem with watching us getting killed out there, with our faces on full display."
"I wasn't referring to them; my words were meant for you, Player 456."
Gi-hun let out an exasperated huff. "Do you honestly believe I'll hesitate at the sight of your face? Who's being naive here, huh? Whether you wear that mask or not, I hate you just the same. And whether I can see your face or not, I can kill you just the same."
"Are you certain?" a voice echoed, dripping with skepticism.
Gi-hun clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. "Why don't you step out from behind that camera and I can show you!" he shot back, the challenge hanging in the air.
Gi-hun wasn't sure what he was waiting for or what he was aiming to achieve, but he knew that something had to happen. This could very well be the moment when their strange power struggle reached its climax—the moment when Gi-hun's fate would finally be determined.
Then, just when he thought the silence would stretch on endlessly, the voice returned, this time laced with unexpected resignation.
"As you wish."
Gi-hun flinched as the door hissed open, revealing only shadows beyond the threshold. No pink guard poised menacingly with a weapon, no cold steel aimed at his face.
Confusion knitted his brow.
"What is happening?" he directed at the omnipresent camera, but the silence was his only reply.
Without warning, a bright, cheerful voice filled the room, sending chills down his spine.
"Player 456, please follow the luminescent line on the floor."
He glanced down as a glowing line materialized on the cold, sterile floor, snaking away into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded of the soulless camera, but once again, there was only silence.
Gi-hun stood frozen, confusion swirling within him. Was this yet another game? He looked at the podium in the center of the room; its buttons were extinguished, no longer glowing with the red and green that had taunted him. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Was he being manipulated? He couldn't press the button, so the choice now rested on whether he would dare to follow the glowing line?
Frustration surged as he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily on his shoulders. How had his life twisted into this surreal nightmare?
With a hesitant step forward, Gi-hun felt an eerie disconnection, like a marionette moving aimlessly through a twisted performance. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, yet he pushed onward, each footfall echoing in the silence.
As he proceeded down the corridor, his eyes darted around. Each corner he turned unveiled only more of the unwelcoming labyrinth—an endless, cold maze stripped of any memory or familiarity. There were no signs of struggle, no remnants of their rebellion. Was he somewhere new, or had they already cleaned everything up?
He walked and walked, each step heavy, until the winding line culminated at a door that stood apart from the others. It wasn't adorned with vibrant, playful colours but loomed dark and opulent. Gi-hun furrowed his brow, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. Was this the place? The control room? The last bastion of desperation they had fought so valiantly to reach—the room for which countless lives had been sacrificed? And now, here he was, guided to it by a stark fluorescent line that felt almost mocking.
Gi-hun hesitated at the threshold, his heart pounding. Would he finally confront the Frontman on the other side? Would it truly be face-to-face?
Summoning every shred of courage he could muster, Gi-hun inhaled deeply and pushed open the heavy door, its creak echoing through the silence. As he stepped inside, his eyes roamed the dimly lit room, finally landing on a solitary figure shrouded in shadow at the far end.
Gi-hun gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. Words fought to escape his lips—some brimming with the urgency to be expressed, while others clamoured to remain buried deep.
"What kind of game is this?" Gi-hun's voice shattered the stillness, shaky yet edged with defiance. He stood firm by the door, every muscle in his body coiled with tension, uncertain about taking that next step further.
The Frontman's voice sliced through the air with unsettling smoothness, a chilling contrast to the cold, mechanical tones that had become all too familiar to Gi-hun.
"What do you mean?"
Gi-hun exhaled a frustrated huff. "I want to know what kind of game you're playing with me. You… you took my friend's life, yet here I stand, alive. You locked me away only to drag me into this place... What kind of twisted game is this? Don't I have the right to understand the rules?"
Gi-hun steadied his breath, determined not to flinch as the Frontman advanced with deliberate, measured strides. Each footfall echoed in the silence.
Gi-hun's gaze darted around the room, searching for the invisible eyes that might be watching—perhaps cameras lurking in the shadows, chronicling every moment for someone's sick entertainment. Surely, the Frontman wouldn't risk being alone with him, would he?
Yet, as the man drew closer, a chilling thought gripped Gi-hun's mind. They were completely alone—no guards, no backup to intervene. And as the man came closer and closer, Gi-hun couldn't help but think…
How easy it would be to wrap his hands around the man's neck and strangle him to death...
Gi-hun felt an uncomfortable tension building in his hands, like a restless itch demanding to be scratched. He stood frozen, barely daring to breathe as the man loomed just a few feet away. Even behind the cold, expressionless mask, Gi-hun could sense the Frontman's intense gaze penetrating him, dissecting his very soul as if he were a specimen trapped under glass.
"You truly hate me, don't you?" The Frontman's voice was surprisingly gentle, laced with a hint of disappointment that caught Gi-hun off guard.
"What did you expect?" he replied, his voice sharper than he intended. "And why are you still wearing that ridiculous mask? I thought you would take it off. If you're just going to hide behind it, we might as well continue this conversation through the camera!"
"It would be difficult for you to kill me through the camera, Player 456. Or maybe that's no longer what you're after?"
Gi-hun shot him a fierce glare.
"What I'm after is stopping those sick games. If I have to kill you to do it, then so be it."
The other man let out a deep, amused chuckle that resonated in the tense air. Gi-hun raised an eyebrow, confusion washing over him. What the hell?
"You couldn't even get the players to bow out of the games. What makes you think you can persuade the spectators to stop watching?"
"I don't have to convince anyone. I just have to get rid of you."
"Do you really believe it's so simple? You think killing me will stop the games?" The man mused, his voice tinged with disappointment as he studied Gi-hun. "You see, Player 456, the truth is, I'm not the real obstacle standing in your way."
"Not an obstacle? Really?" Gi-hun shot back, his tone sharp and sarcastic.
"If the other players had chosen to end the games, I would have honoured that decision and put a stop to everything. But you were there—you saw it—they wanted to continue."
"Because they're desperate! They feel trapped, with no way out! I'm tired of listening to you act like you even begin to grasp what we endure. You'll never understand!"
"That's where you're mistaken once again," came the calm reply. "I may not know the hardships every player faces, but you? Your story? That's one I know all too well. I would go as far as to say I'm the only one who truly understands the pain you've endured. I've walked those very paths. I've lived through what you have."
Confusion washed over Gi-hun, and his frown deepened.
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you really want to see my face? If you plan to kill me, things would go a lot smoother for you if I just kept the mask on," the Frontman said, his voice almost teasing.
Gi-hun glared at him, his tone sharp and cutting. "What? You think I'll suddenly feel sympathy for you? I've told you—I don't care who you are; I care about what you did. You are nothing but a soulless monster in my eyes."
The Frontman leaned closer, his voice a low, menacing whisper that sent shivers down Gi-hun's spine. "What if I were to peel off this mask and show you that you're staring straight into your own reflection?"
Gi-hun's brows knitted together, a mixture of confusion and incredulity crossing his face. "You've lost it, haven't you? What are you even getting at?"
"I can't shake the thought... are you and I really so different?" The Frontman's voice was persistent, dripping with intensity as he leaned in even closer, invading Gi-hun's space.
A wave of panic crashed over Gi-hun, and every instinct screamed at him to step back, to escape. His heart raced, pounding like a drum in his chest. This man was truly unhinged, wasn't he? Clenching his fists to suppress his fear, Gi-hun felt a tremor run through him, igniting a fierce urge to flee.
But there was no turning back now. He inhaled sharply, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, and gritted his teeth.
"Stop playing these stupid mind games and just show your face, you sick bastard!"
The Frontman paused, regarding Gi-hun with a weary sigh.
Slowly, as if savouring the moment, his gloved hand moved to the back of the mask. Gi-hun's heart raced, anticipation twisting in his gut as he watched each clasp come undone with a soft, deliberate click. Time seemed to slow, stretching out between them as the mask began to peel away.
When the final piece slipped free, an icy wave washed over Gi-hun, freezing him in place. His breath caught in his throat. The face staring back at him was not the stranger he had expected; it was familiar. Those eyes—he knew them well.
Memories flooded back to him when their gazes met, stirring emotions that were anything but unpleasant; they filled him with a sharp sense of longing. As their eyes locked, a wave of familiar yearning surged within him, quickly followed by a crushing fear. The Frontman's intense gaze seemed to pierce Gi-hun's, as if he were probing the very depths of his soul. Gi-hun's breath quickened, and his heart raced in disbelief. This couldn't be… it just couldn't be…
"Now, Gi-hun, show me that unwavering hatred of yours," the Frontman commanded, his voice clear, unmistakable, and achingly familiar.
A jolt of fear shot through Gi-hun as his heart pounded in his chest. His lip trembled as he stammered, "Y-Young-il?"
The name slipping from his mouth, heavy with disbelief and a growing dread.