"Sang-woo!" Ali's voice cracked with urgency, scanning the empty courtyard.
No response. Just the distant, muffled sobs of other players grappling with despair.
He clutched the cloth pouch Sang-woo had handed him moments ago. It felt wrong—light in a way it shouldn't be. Trembling fingers untied the knot.
Pebbles.
Cold, smooth, utterly lifeless pebbles.
Ali stared down in disbelief, his mind refusing to catch up. For a second, he wondered if it was a mistake. A terrible accident. A misunderstanding.
But the truth settled like ice in his chest. Sang-woo had tricked him. Used his trust. Swapped the marbles while distracting him with false kindness.
Ali staggered backward, the pouch falling from his hand, spilling the pebbles across the dirt. His knees hit the ground. He couldn't even cry—he couldn't summon the strength.
He thought of his wife. His little boy. Back in Pakistan. He had imagined their faces every second in this nightmare, clung to the dream that he would see them again.
Now it was over.
He covered his face, whispering a prayer under his breath, a cry that only Allah would hear.
That was when he heard slow footsteps approaching from behind.
"Ali… is it?"
He turned, blinking away the blur of grief. It was Player 069—the older man with haunted eyes, the one who had played the marble game against his own wife. A game that ended with him winning. And her dying.
There was no victory in his face. Only ruin.
"I saw what he did," Player 069 said quietly, glancing at the scattered pebbles.
Ali opened his mouth but said nothing.
"I beat my wife," the man continued. "She begged me to win. Said I had a better chance out there. Said she'd rather it be her than me." He chuckled bitterly. "And now what? I go back to an empty home? No children. No future. Nothing."
Ali watched him carefully. There was something dangerous in his calm.
"I heard you talk about your boy. Your wife. The dreams you had. That picture you kept folded in your shoe, you thought no one saw."
Ali's heart clenched.
"I don't have anything left," the man said, slowly extending his hand. In it—his pouch. Still full. Still heavy.
"I'm giving them to you."
Ali stared at the marbles as though they were glowing.
"I can't…" he whispered.
"You must. One of us dies either way." His voice was steady, final. "And between the two of us, you're the one who still has something worth fighting for."
Ali hesitated. The weight of it crushed him. To accept this gift was to accept another's death in place of his own.
But to refuse it was to die pointlessly. To waste what had been offered with such sorrowful grace.
His lips trembled as he reached out and took the pouch.
It felt like a sin.
It felt like salvation.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Player 069 nodded once. "Win for me, yeah?"
Ali clutched the marbles to his chest, and as he was led away to safety, he didn't dare look back.
He could feel Allah watching.
And he silently swore—this second chance would not be wasted.
The dormitory was colder than usual.
Not in temperature—but in spirit.
Every shuffle of footsteps echoed like a whisper of the dead, and every player who returned carried the weight of someone they had once known, once trusted, once loved. The marble game had left them hollow. It had broken something sacred.
Gi-hun walked in silence, his hands balled into fists so tightly they trembled. His eyes were red, not just from tears but from the guilt clawing at his insides. The old man—Il-nam—had smiled at him before losing. Before dying. And he had walked away.
Sae-byeok kept her face forward, jaw tight, breath shallow. She had won by manipulating a girl who had only just begun to hope. Ji-yeong hadn't even fought her. She had given up everything—for her. That sacrifice rang in Sae-byeok's ears louder than any gunshot.
Even Sang-woo, cold and calculating as he had become, looked like a shell of himself. He hadn't spoken a word since returning, his eyes fixed on nothing, as if he were trying to erase what he had done—or maybe accept that he couldn't.
But then—
A collective pause.
Someone behind them.
Footsteps.
Gi-hun turned first.
He froze.
Sae-byeok's head jerked around, disbelief plain on her face.
Sang-woo turned last, slowly. His eyes widened, lips parting as if to say something—but no sound came.
It was Ali.
Still dressed in his numbered tracksuit, still with that slight limp, but alive.
Alive.
Gi-hun stepped forward, his expression breaking into stunned relief. "Ali… you— You made it?"
Ali nodded, his face solemn but calm. "Yes."
Gi-hun laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that broke apart mid-breath. "I can't believe it. I thought— I thought you were—" He couldn't finish.
Ali simply gave him a tired, grateful smile. "I thought so too."
Sae-byeok's lips parted, her eyes softening. She gave him a small nod, her voice quiet. "I'm glad you're still here."
Ali looked at her, then at Gi-hun, and nodded back.
Then his gaze drifted to Sang-woo.
Sang-woo didn't move. Couldn't.
His jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to the floor. He couldn't meet Ali's gaze. Wouldn't.
But Ali looked anyway.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't accuse. No fury. No vengeance. He was too tired for that. Too broken.
And yet there was clarity in his eyes.
"It seems," he said quietly, "you were right."
Sang-woo looked up then—slowly, as if dragged by shame.
Ali's expression didn't change.
"We both made it."
It was not forgiveness.
It was not anger.
It was simply truth. A truth heavier than anything either of them could carry.
And then Ali turned away, walking toward the corner of the dorm where he curled into himself, back to the wall, eyes closed—but sleep would not come.
The others watched him, the silence hanging like a shroud.
Sang-woo finally sat down, back stiff, hands trembling in his lap.
No one said anything more.
There was nothing left to say.