"You weak piece of shit." His father's words slither through his mind, coiling around his neck like a noose.
Each breath is a serrated blade, slicing its way down his windpipe—merciless, unrelenting. He waits— waits to bleed out, or maybe to suffocate, gasping for air that refuses to come. His shaky hands clamp over his ears, nails digging into his scalp, desperate to drown out the chaos. The crackle of gunfire. The guttural screams. The wet, gurgling cries of another life getting taken away.
And another.
And another.
And another.
A-…And another.
And—
Oh God.
Make it stop.
No matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut, no matter how dark his vision gets, the bodies are still there—scattered like cracked dolls. The players. The guards. The one slumped over the banister, blood spilling from his stomach. The teammate who had stood beside him just moments ago—now gone, his blood still warm on Dae-Ho's face.
Oh God—
It's still on his face.
He's going to be sick.
His mind fractures. Thoughts spiral, disjointed and relentless. Who is he again?
He doesn't even know his own name.
Does he have a family? A wife? A child? Maybe he was planning on their wedding and needed the money for the venue? Or maybe he's living with his parents? Or maybe he's just another lonely soul, like him?
And the guards… The square-masked boy couldn't have been much older than twenty-five.
Are they all that young? Dae-Ho wonders, the thought claws at his chest.
Have they graduated? Found a place of their own?
Have they ever tasted soju? Or do they prefer beer?
Or sake? What do younger people even drink nowadays?
Have they ever been in love? Paid taxes? Gotten their driver's license?
Oh shit, what about their parents? Jesus… they must be worried sick.
Do they have pets waiting for them back home? A dog? Or maybe they prefer cats?
How does someone so young even end up here?
Dae-Ho doesn't know. But then again, who is he to judge? He's been drowning in debt since his father kicked him out at twenty-two. And he's also playing the games. He isn't much better than anyone else here.
His lungs ache, each breath more of a battle than a reflex. The walls close in fast, pressing tighter, as if they're seconds away from crushing him. He curls in on himself, knees pulled to his chest, head tucked down, silently pleading for mercy.
His skin burns hot, feverish, yet his hands are ice-cold. His surroundings blur, shrinking inward, crushing him beneath their weight. His ears throb, raw and on the verge of bleeding; no matter how tightly he clamps his hands over them, the gunfire still tears through, sharp and viscous. His bones feel brittle, fragile enough to shatter at the slightest touch.
Everything hurts.
Everything just fucking hurts.
His stomach twists at the thought of the yard filled with bodies—piled on top of each other, limp and motionless, their lifeless eyes staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Worse are the ones whose empty gazes land on him.
The air is thick with death—metallic, suffocating. It clings to his skin, his nails, his throat, like a sickness that won't leave. There is just so—so much blood.
So much blood.
So… So much——
Oh——Oh God...
He gags, forcing down the disgusting lump of vomit rising in his throat. The acidic taste burns like bile, but he swallows it back. The stench of iron and smoke only makes it worse, coating his lungs like poison.
A part of him feels ashamed. Shouldn't he be used to this by now?
A Marine.
That's what he used to be. It's ironic, isn't it?
Wasn't it supposed to make him "more of a man"? That's what his father always said.
"The thrill of battle would harden you into a real man!" He declared, his chest swelling with pride.
"You'll see," he adds, laughing, his voice filled with high expectation. "Once you taste it, you'll never be the same."
Well, he wasn't wrong.
It left him delicate, fragile, like glass thinned by too many cracks—one breath away from shattering completely.
All the blazing gunfire, the thick smoke— the weight of the weapon that was in his hands felt foreign, as if his own body never wanted to hold something so deadly.
He had enlisted to prove something, to hear his father say, "That's my boy!" with pride in his voice.
But that moment never came.
And the faces—he remembers them too clearly. The way their skin paled, how the life drained from their eyes, their bodies riddled with bullet wounds, red spreading beneath his boots.
Oh—Oh God.
He chokes back another gag.
He should really stop thinking of dead people.
He sucks in ragged breaths, his chest heaving in frantic bursts as sweat drips onto the sheets. Everything is too loud.
Too fucking loud.
A sharp, piercing ring digs into his skull, pain thrumming through his head. And—ohmygod—whose hand is that?
Don't hit me. Don't hit me. Please don't. Please.
DON'T HIT ME!
His body jolts, panic surging through him like a live wire. He flinches violently, his legs kicking out on instinct—
Shit. Did he just hit someone?
His memory blurs into mist—fractured, slipping through his fingers like smoke. He gasps, lungs seizing, yanked back into the present.
His breath stutters. His pulse pounds. The room is spinning. He doesn't dare look up—the wary stares burn into him.
Selfish jerk. You didn't even look. Didn't even apologize. God, what's wrong with you?
"S—S….Sorry… I-I'm sorry…" The words stumble out, barely above a whisper. He doesn't think they even heard him.
Somewhere nearby—so close, yet impossibly distant—voices blur together, slurred and indistinct. He hears words yet can't make sense of what they were, like a child struggling to follow along what the adults were talking about. A man-child, adrift in the depths of his own trauma.
How old was he again?
Christ, what kind of question is that?
Thirty-one. Jesus, thirty-one.
Old enough to have his life together. Old enough to be a grown man. And yet, here he is—curled up, trembling, sobbing like some helpless kid.
"Dae-Ho! DAE-HO!" A familiar voice yelled from a distance.
Is someone calling for him?
He isn't sure. The world feels distant, muffled, like he's in space, a whole different galaxy. His body is leaden, heavy with exhaustion, and his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. Maybe he's imagining it. Maybe it's just another trick of his fraying mind. Maybe it's——
"Dae-Ho."
A voice cuts through—loud and clear. As if they were…
Dae-Ho lifts his head slowly, but the moment his gaze settles, a violent shudder rips through him.
Hyun-Ju…
Fear coils in his gut, tight and suffocating.
What is she doing here? Wasn't she——
Oh shit. The magazines.
"What happened?" Her voice is sharp, but underneath—something else. A thread of concern.
His mouth is dry. His thoughts tangle, fraying at the edges.
Nothing happened. Nothing worth mentioning, anyway.
But that's a lie, isn't it?
He had them. The magazines. He had them. He had them wrapped in his arms, bundled in the green jacket.
Everyone was depending on him. Everyone's life was on the line. And he ran.
A pathetic coward. A useless, sniveling child.
"I—… I'm sorry…" The words scrape out, hoarse, barely above a whisper—like he's choking on his own shame.
"The magazines?"
She steps closer.
Too close.
Dae-Ho sucks in a sharp breath, his lungs straining. His lips part—aching to explain, to do something.
Say it. Point at it. Just look.
Just do something, damn it!
But the words won't come.
They're stuck. Tangled in his throat. Choking him before they can escape.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" A broken murmur. Fragile. Empty. As if an apology could ever be enough."I-I'm——"
Hyun-Ju moves.
Oh no.
What is she doing?
A tremor rips through him. His hands snap up, instinctive, defensive, shielding his face before he even registers the movement.
Don't hit me.
Please don't hit me.
I'm sorry! I really tried, please—
His pulse spikes, hammering against his ribs. His body folds in on itself, knees drawn tight, arms curled around his head. Small. He has to make himself small. Maybe then it won't hurt as much.
"I—I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I—…I'm sorry…," he chokes out, his voice raw, breaking apart.
Then—
The alarm blares.
A split second later—
Gunfire.
"GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" A voice roars, cutting through the chaos.
His breath snags in his throat. His body locks up, every muscle seizing. The sharp crack of bullets tears through the air.
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
He's spiraling, twisting, slipping into a deeper hole—plunging his mind back, back, back.
To a different room, a different time.
Not the rooms of these horror games nor his times in the Marines.
His fingers dig into the sheets beneath him—thin, wrinkled cotton, so familiar it stops his breath. They weren't like this before, right?
No, they were like this before. Unkempt, untouched, abandoned in a room that was once his.
The air changed.
It's not the acrid stench of blood and gunpowder anymore. It's dust.
Old, stagnant dust clinging to wooden furniture, filling his lungs with something stale, something rotting.
No screams. No crying.
Just muffled voices behind thin walls—arguing, sharp and jagged, cutting through the silence like a blade.
His stomach twists.
"M-Mom?" His voice barely makes a sound, fragile, lost.
Where is she? Is she fighting with dad again?
Is his sisters alright?
The thought of them getting hurt because of his stupid mistakes always make his chest hurt.
Where are they? Are they downstairs?
Is Su-Ho trying to stop dad again?
Is she okay?
Please be okay.
His ears ring.
Oh shit. What did he say?
Play football? Play like the other boys?
Play something more manly?
Stop playing gonggi. Stop playing dress-up. Stop playing with your sisters.
Join the Marines.
Be a man.
The words slam into him like a fist, echoing in his skull, reverberating through his bones.
Be a man.
A demand. A command. A destiny he has to fulfill. He must.
Be a man.
Heavy footsteps creep closer. Slow. Deliberate. Each one a hammer to his ribs.
Closer.
And closer.
And closer.
He jolts at the sudden shout, his pulse skittering, hands clamping over his head in a desperate vise.
Words are being thrown at him, loud aggressive words, but they don't seem to make sense.
He can't process them.
He won't look up.
He already knows what's waiting for him.
The rigid clench of his father's jaw. The cold-fury in his eyes. The deep anguish frown. The slight stench of alcohol from his breath. The way his fingers curl into impatient fists.
It's always the same.
The longer he hesitates, the worse it gets.
But his body won't move. His muscles lock, rigid with fear, with something deeper—something carved into him from years of failure.
Move. Move damn it! FUCKING MOVE!
Then—
A hand.
Too fast.
Fingers clamp down on his shoulder, searing through his jacket like molten iron.
A jolt of panic rockets through him.
Get out.
Run.
But it's useless.
The grip tightens.
And then—
Yanked.
His knees slam into the ground first, sending a sharp bolt of pain up his legs. His palms scraping against the cold floor. A strangled gasp catches in his throat as he writhes, struggling against the hold.
"LET GO!" he wails—high-pitched, trembling, his voice breaking into a desperate, childish whimper.
"PLEASE LET GO! LET GO!"
His breath is ragged, strangled. His hands clamp tighter over his head, his fingers curling against his scalp as hit tears stains tracks on his cheeks.
His grip locks around Dae-Ho's arm, dragging him upright with a force that rattles his bones.
His feet barely catch beneath him—his legs weak, unsteady. He doesn't let go. Doesn't give him time to balance.
Oh no.
Oh god.
What is he doing?
Is he going to choke him?
Suffocate him?
Slam his head to the ground?
Break his skull open?
Dae-Ho's breath stutters. He can't breathe.
Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me.
Oh god.
Please dont hurt me.
Please.
I tried.
I really tried my best.
"Please…" he chokes, his sobs getting caught in his throat. "I-I'm really sorry dad… please don't hurt me…"
And then—
Stillness.
His father doesn't move.
The air shifts—just slightly, a subtle hesitation. He can feel a pair of eyes locked on him, studying him.
Dae-Ho's chest heaves, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears that it drowns out everything else. But the grip on his arm doesn't tighten. It doesn't yank him up, doesn't strike him across the face, doesn't send a whip slicing through his skin.
There's no rage. No punishment.
Just… hesitation.
A beat of silence stretches between them, thick and unbearable.
He's confused. This has… never happened before.
Swallowing hard, Dae-Ho forces himself to lift his head, his movements slow and hesitant, bracing for what he expects to see.
But it's not his father staring down at him.
A bright pink uniform. A black triangle mask.
A guard.
Not home. Not the past.
Not his father.
Heat floods his face, a sickening wave of shame rising in his chest. His pulse skitters, his breath catching in his throat.
Oh. Oh shit.
"O-Oh… I…" The words barely scrape past his lips, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
His stomach drops.
Invisible stares cling to him, thick as smoke, refusing to let go. He doesn't have to look to know the other players are watching. Whispering. Judging.
Shit.
The guard releases him, but their unseen gaze lingers, heavy and unreadable. They don't question. But something in their silence unsettles him, as if they're seeing through him, peeling away the layers he desperately wants to keep hidden.
Somewhere in the chaos, orders are barked, footsteps shuffle, the world keeps moving.
But Dae-Ho stays frozen, his heart hammering, his breath unsteady.
Slowly, he drags a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky, exhausted sigh.
God… he really is that pathetic.
DAE-HOOOO MY SHAYLAAAAA:(((
(also not canon sister name.)