Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind howled in Gi-Hun’s ears as he plummeted from the high stage, the world a blur of lights and screams. He’d closed his eyes, bracing for the impact that would end it all—for the searing pain, the darkness, the finality of it. But instead of cold concrete or the blackness of nothingness, there was… silence. A soft, all-encompassing quiet that settled over him like a blanket.

He blinked, then blinked again, squinting against the brightness. He wasn’t falling anymore. He was standing, feet firmly planted on a surface that felt neither solid nor soft, like walking on a cloud. The space around him stretched endlessly, a vast expanse of pure, unbroken white—no walls, no ceiling, no floor, just light. It was disorienting, like being adrift in a snow globe that stretched to infinity.

There was no pain. No ache in his joints from years of working odd jobs, no burn from the last cigarette he’d smoked before the games, no throb in his chest from the fear that had clawed at him for weeks. He lifted his hands, staring at them. They looked the same—calloused, a little scarred from old wounds—but they felt… light. As if the weight of his life, all the regrets and failures, had been stripped away.

“Where…?” he started to say, but his voice came out as a whisper, swallowed by the emptiness. He turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign of something familiar—anything to ground him. But there was nothing. Just white.

Then, a voice cut through the silence. A voice he’d thought he’d never hear again, rough around the edges, like sandpaper on wood.

“Gi-Hun?”

His breath caught. That voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even after all this time, even in a place as strange as this. He whipped around, his heart hammering in his chest.

And there he was. Sang-woo. Standing a few feet away, wearing the same gray tracksuit he’d had on during the games, his hair a little messy, his eyes wide with shock. But he was alive. No blood, no wounds, no hint of the desperation that had twisted his face in their final moments. Just Sang-woo.

Gi-Hun took a step forward, then another, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Sang-woo?” he said, his voice cracking. “Is that… is that really you?”

Sang-woo didn’t answer. He just stared, as if he was seeing a ghost. Then, movement from the corner of Gi-Hun’s eye made him turn again.

There was Sae-byeok, her arms crossed, a faint scowl on her face that softened when she saw him. Ali, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled, his hands clasped together like he was praying. Jung-bae, his usual gruff expression replaced by something like awe.

Dae-ho, his body tensing as their gazes met, a flicker of terror crossing his face before he schooled it into a blank stare. Hyun-ju, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

All of them. All the faces from the games. Alive. Unharmed. Standing in this endless white void as if they’d never left.

Gi-Hun’s throat tightened, and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’d watched so many of them die—seen the life leave their eyes, heard their final screams. To see them here, whole and breathing, was more than he could process. It was like a dream. A cruel, beautiful dream.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken questions and emotions. Then, Jung-bae broke it, his voice loud and rough, cutting through the stillness.

“Why are you here?” he barked, taking a step toward Gi-Hun. “That bastard kill you too?”

Dae-ho reacted instantly, stepping between them with a speed that surprised everyone. His hands shook at his sides, but his voice was steady, almost fierce. “Back off, Jung-bae.” His jaw tightened, and for a second, Gi-Hun saw a flash of the man who’d once covered his back during the rebellion—before everything went wrong. “He didn’t choose this. None of us did.”

Jung-bae scowled. “You got no right—”

“I got every right,” Dae-ho snapped, his voice cracking. “We’re all dead, remember? Whatever grudges you got, they don’t matter here.” He glanced at Gi-Hun, his eyes darting away as if the sight of him burned, then added, quieter, “He’s… he’s one of us. Still.”

The others fell silent. Jung-bae let out a huff but stepped back. Gi-Hun stared at Dae-ho, his chest aching. Defense. From the man he’d killed. The memory crashed over him—the smoke, the screams, Dae-ho’s hands raised in surrender as Gi-Hun’s finger tightened on the trigger. “It was you,” he’d shouted, delirious with fear. “You sold us out.” But it hadn’t been him. Never him.

Dae-ho turned away abruptly, his shoulders hunched. He walked to the far corner of the void, sitting with his back to them, knees drawn to his chest. Gi-Hun watched as his body began to shake. At first, he thought it was anger—then he saw the way Dae-ho’s hand clamped over his mouth, muffling a sob. Tears seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the white surface beneath him.

Gi-Hun’s breath hitched. PTSD. The sound of a gunshot. The feel of a bullet tearing through flesh. Dae-ho was reliving it. Because of him.

The others leaned in, their eyes wide with confusion. Gi-Hun could see the questions in their faces—How did you die? What happened after we left? Why are we all here?

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. How could he explain? How could he tell them about the baby, about Jun-hee’s little girl, about the promise he’d made to keep her safe? How could he make them understand why he’d jumped?

He took a deep breath, his chest feeling tight. “There was a baby,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Jun-hee’s little one. I… I had to make sure she’s alive. So I jumped.”

Hyun-ju’s eyes widened. “The authorities let a baby join the game?” she asked, her voice filled with shock. “How could they? That’s… that’s inhumane.”

Sae-byeok nodded slowly, as if it made perfect sense. “You’d do anything for family,” she said quietly. “Even this.”

Sang-woo stepped forward, his gaze intense. “So you joined the game again?” he asked.

Gi-Hun nodded. “To stop the games,” he said. “I had to. They were never going to end on their own. Someone had to put a stop to it.”

A murmur rippled through the group—shock, then something like quiet respect. Jung-bae’s scowl softened a little, and Ali gave him a small, sad smile.

Then, without warning, they rushed toward him, pulling him into awkward, tearful embraces. Jung-bae clapped him on the back so hard it would have hurt if he could feel pain, muttering something about him being an idiot. Ali wrapped him in a bear hug, his shoulders shaking. Sae-byeok pressed a quick, firm hand to his arm, her eyes saying more than words ever could.

Gi-Hun glanced over at Dae-ho. He hadn’t moved, but his sobs had quieted to ragged breaths. Every so often, his body would jerk, as if reacting to a sound only he could hear. Gi-Hun’s guilt coiled around his heart, squeezing until it hurt. He wanted to go to him, to say something—sorry, anything—but he knew it wouldn’t help. Not now. Maybe not ever.

For the first time in months, Gi-Hun felt a semblance of peace, but it was fragile, shattered by the sound of Dae-ho’s quiet suffering. The weight of the games, the guilt over the lives lost—especially Dae-ho’s—the fear for the baby—all of it lingered, a shadow over the moment. He was with his friends. They were alive. But some wounds, it seemed, followed you even beyond death.

After a while, the others pulled away, wiping at their eyes and trying to compose themselves. Hyun-ju looked around at the endless white space, her brow furrowed. “Where are we?” she asked. “Does anyone know?”

No one answered. They all looked around, but there was no clue—no signs, no landmarks, nothing to indicate where they were or how they’d gotten here. But for some reason, it didn’t matter. The uncertainty didn’t feel scary. It felt… calm.

Then, without warning, a massive screen flickered to life in the center of the void. It was huge, stretching high into the white expanse, its surface dark at first, then illuminating with a familiar face.

Hwang In-Ho. The Frontman.

He was wearing his usual black mask and suit, standing in a dark, empty room. His posture was straight, his movements precise, as if he was performing for an audience.

Jung-bae let out a snarl. “What the fuck?” he said, taking a step toward the screen. “What is he doing here? Is he going to control us even after the afterlive? ”

The others stared, their faces a mix of fear, anger, and confusion. Gi-Hun felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This was the man who’d overseen their deaths, who’d watched them fight and bleed and die for his amusement. Why was he here? Why were they being forced to look at him?

The screen glowed, silent. Hwang didn’t move. He just stood there, his masked face staring back at them as if he could see them, as if he knew they were watching.

No one spoke. No one moved. They just stood there, frozen, staring at the screen.

Chapter Text

Time warps in the white void. What feels like hours might be days, or maybe the other way around—there’s no sun to track, no clocks to tick, just the endless hum of silence broken only by their ragged breaths and the occasional murmur. The screen dominates the space now, a monolith of light that none of them can ignore. They hover around it like moths drawn to a flame, their bodies tense, their eyes locked on the still image of Hwang In-Ho in his black mask.

Jung-bae paces back and forth, his boots making soft thudding sounds against the cloud-like surface. “Why him?” he growls, stopping to jab a finger at the screen. “Why show us him ?”

Hyun-ju wraps her arms around herself, shivering even though there’s no cold. “Maybe it’s a trick,” she says, her voice small. “Maybe he’s watching us . Testing us. Like the games all over again.”

Jung-bae snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “What’s the point? We’re already dead.” He tilts his head, studying the screen. “He looks… different. Not the one who gave me a shot. Here—” he pauses, squinting. “He looks still . Too still.”

Gi-Hun says nothing. He can’t take his eyes off the mask. The black material, smooth and unyielding, hides everything—the eyes that had watched them die, the mouth that had ordered their deaths, the face that had haunted his nightmares long before he’d jumped from that stage. He vividly recalls the moment the Frontman peeled off his masks, revealing himself as Young-il. With a solemn expression, Young-il pressed a knife into his hand, insisting that he was there to aid both him and the child. He pushes the memory away, jaw tightening.

Sang-woo notices, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

Gi-Hun shakes him off. “No,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “No, I’m not okay. Because that man—” he points at the screen, his arm trembling “—isn’t who you think he is.”

The group falls silent. Jung-bae stops pacing. Ali’s smile fades. “What do you mean?” Hyun-ju asks.

Gi-Hun takes a deep breath, the words burning in his throat. “His name isn’t Frontman. It’s Hwang In-Ho. And he’s the one who lied to us. Pretended to be Young-il, that poor old man who ‘accidentally’ got caught up in the games. Remember him? The one who helped me, who acted like he cared?” He laughs, bitter. “It was all a lie. He’s been watching us from the start. Pulling the strings. Letting us die for his sick entertainment.”

Jung-bae’s eyes widen. “That bastard,” he mutters. “I knew there was something off about that old man. Too calm. Like he’d seen it all before.” He pauses, then adds, his voice thick with something like regret, “I wanted to tell you, Gi-Hun. Back during the Mingle game. I saw him—Young-il, In-Ho, whatever the fuck his name is—kill a guy. Snapped his neck like it was nothing. I thought… I thought you should know. But then the lights went out, and we got separated, and….” He trails off, shrugging. “Never got the chance.”

Gi-Hun’s chest aches. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Sorry I didn’t… I didn’t protect you. Any of you.” He turns to Dae-ho, who’s still sitting in the corner, his back to them. “Especially you.”

Dae-ho tenses but doesn’t turn around. “Don’t,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Just… don’t.”

“I blamed you,” Gi-Hun says, ignoring him. “For everything. For the rebellion, for the deaths. But it wasn’t you. It was him.” He nods at the screen. “He set us up. Made us turn on each other. And I fell for it. I killed you, Dae-ho. For nothing.”

Dae-ho’s shoulders shake. For a long moment, no one speaks. Then, he stands up, slowly, and turns around. His eyes are red, but there’s no anger in them—just exhaustion. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’re all dead, right? Past is past.”

But it does matter. Gi-Hun can see it in the way Dae-ho avoids his gaze, in the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. Some wounds don’t heal, even in death.

The screen flickers, jolting them all out of their thoughts. In-ho moves—slowly, as if he’s in pain—reaching up to his mask. His fingers curl around the edge, and for a heartbeat, Gi-Hun thinks he’s going to look directly at them, to acknowledge their presence. Then, he pulls it off.

The group gasps.

It’s not the face of a monster. It’s not even the face of the cold, calculating Frontman they’d imagined. It’s a man’s face—tired, hollow, with dark circles under his eyes and a scar that runs from his left eyebrow to his jawline. His hair is messy, sticking up in places, and his lips are chapped, like he’s been biting them. He looks… human.

Sae-byeok's voice dripped with disdain as she hissed, "So this is the imposter who wormed his way into the game?" Her companion nodded grimly. "Every word out of his mouth was a carefully crafted deception. He was playing the long con, using them to build trust before striking."

“This isn’t an office,” Sang-woo says, his voice sharp, squinting at the background. “That leather couch, the framed photos on the wall—looks like a house. A living room.” He scoffs. “Footage. He's not just showing us recorded footage—this could be live .”

“Of what?” Ali asks, his voice small.

“Of him,” Gi-Hun says, staring at the screen. “After I made the jump, the game concluded. He evacuated the island and is likely on his way back to wherever he calls home.”

In-ho crosses the room, his movements unsteady, and sinks onto the edge of the couch. In his hands, something crumples softly—a familiar shade of green. Gi-Hun’s breath catches. It’s a sportsuit. Number 456. His sportsuit.

In-ho holds it gently, as if it’s a fragile thing, his fingers brushing over the faded number stitched into the chest. As his fingertips graze the fabric, his eyes flutter shut, and the screen ripples, as if dipping into a memory.

The scene shifts: a dimly lit room on the island, the air thick with the sweet stench of sleeping gas. Gi-Hun lies unconscious on a cot, his old clothes crumpled beside him. In-ho—still in his Frontman mask, but with his gloves off—kneels beside him, carefully lifting Gi-Hun’s arm to slip the green sportsuit over his head. His movements are surprisingly gentle, as if handling a fragile artifact. When he tucks the fabric around Gi-Hun’s shoulders, his voice is low, barely audible, a whisper meant only for himself: “Why didn’t you go to America? Why didn’t you run to your daughter and never look back? This place… it’s a grave. I never wanted to see you here again. Never.”

The memory fades, and In-ho is back in his living room, pressing the sportsuit to his face, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. The group stares, stunned.

“What the hell was that?” Jung-bae sputters. “He… he helped you put it on? After you got gassed?”

Gi-Hun’s hands shake. He’d forgotten that part—the fuzzy memory of waking up in the sportsuit, confused, assuming the guards had dressed him. But now, seeing In-ho there, murmuring those words… it unspools something in his chest. “He’s talking about when I came back,” he says, his voice rough. “Three years. Three years after I won.”

He pauses, swallowing hard, and the others lean in, sensing the weight of what’s coming. “When I left the games, that money felt like blood money. I couldn’t touch it, not for months. The trauma gnawed at me—every face, every scream, every second I survived while you all didn’t. In the first year, I was a ghost. Then I went to Seoul Sky Tower. Il-nam was there. The man I thought was the player 001, the one who’d laughed and played marbles with me… he told me everything. That he was the mastermind. That this was all his sick game. When he died, something in me broke—and then it hardened.”

He meets Sang-woo’s eyes, his voice cracking. “I changed. Cut my hair, got rid of the old clothes. Tried to be someone worth the second chance you all never got. I found Sae-byeok’s little brother—” he glances at her, and her eyes widen “—took him to your mother, Sang-woo. Gave her a chunk of the prize money, told her it was from you. Thought… thought that was the least I could do.”

He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “I was going to America. Bought the ticket, everything. Ga-yeong was waiting. But then I saw him—the salesman. The one who handed me that card in the first place, playing ddakji in the subway. Same suit, same smile. And I knew. The games weren’t over. They never stopped.”

He leans forward, his voice raw with urgency. “So I tore up that ticket. Spent most of the money tracking them down. Hired people, followed leads, chased every shadow. Tried to find the organizers, make them stop. But they’re everywhere. Like a disease. And when every lead hit a wall… I had no choice. I had to come back. To end this from the inside. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I let them gas me, let them put that suit on me again. To burn it all down.”

Sang-woo wraps his arms tightly around Gi-hun, his grip conveying a mixture of relief and exhaustion. Sae-byeok joins in, her usually guarded demeanor softened as she pressed close, their combined warmth a stark contrast to the frigid trials they'd endured.

The screen flickers again, and In-ho looks up, his eyes red and bloodshot. He stares at the camera, as if he knows they’re watching, and whispers something. Too quiet to hear.

Then, the screen goes black.

"Gi-hun"

Chapter Text

The screen flickers back to life, bathing the white void in a harsh, artificial glow. Hwang In-Ho is still in his living room, but now he’s standing in front of a bank of monitors, each one displaying grainy footage of the games. His posture is rigid, his hands clenched at his sides as he stares at the screen in the center—the one showing Gi-Hun on that high stage, the wind whipping his hair, the baby clutched tightly in his arms. The light from the screens casts deep shadows across his face, making the lines of his jaw look sharper, the hollows under his eyes more pronounced. It’s as if the weight of every life lost in those games is etched into his features, a permanent reminder of the monster he’s become.

He hits a button, and the footage rewinds, then plays again. Gi-Hun jumps. The screen freezes. In-Ho’s fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach through the screen and pull Gi-Hun back. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at the image, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“Stupid,” In-Ho mutters, his voice breaking. It’s not the cold, commanding tone they’d heard during the games. This is raw, ragged, like he’s in physical pain. “Why didn’t you just walk away? Use the knife I gave you to kill all of them, who wanted you and the baby dead?” His words hang in the air, heavy with frustration and something else—something that sounds a lot like fear. Fear that he’d lost Gi-Hun forever, even though he’d been the one to put him in that position in the first place.

The group in the void exchanges uneasy glances. Jung-bae snorts, crossing his arms, but there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes. “What’s he on about? The knife? That old man act was really something, huh? Pretending to be some harmless grandpa while he’s probably got a body count higher than the game itself.” He tries to sound tough, but his voice wavers a little, like he’s not sure if he’s convincing anyone—least of all himself.

Dae-ho scoffs, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Acting like he cares. Like he wasn’t the one pulling the strings the whole time. Remember when he ‘accidentally’ failed during the six-legged pentagon? Then slap. All part of his little show, I bet.” He shakes his head, but his gaze lingers on the screen, as if he’s trying to find a flaw in In-Ho’s performance, some sign that it’s all an act.

But Gi-Hun can’t look away. There’s something in In-Ho’s face—something in the way his shoulders slump, the way he runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to tear it out—that feels too real to be an act. Grief. Regret. Emotions he knows all too well. He thinks back to the night his mother died, how he’d sat alone in his home, pulling at his hair and screaming at the walls, wishing he could go back and change things. That’s the same look on In-Ho’s face now. And it scares him. Because if In-Ho is capable of feeling regret, then maybe there’s more to him than the monster they’d all thought he was.

In-Ho hits another button, and the monitors shift, displaying a montage of footage—all of Gi-Hun. Him smiling when taking the player photo. Him arguing with Sang-woo in the dormitory, their voices raised, but neither one really meaning the harsh words they’re saying. Him telling Jung-bae to follow him, their heads close together, smiles on their faces as they swap stories about their childhoods. Him during the dalgona game, his body contorted in that ridiculous, over-the-top pose, trying to lick the candy even as the timer counts down.

The void erupts in snickers. Jung-bae elbows Gi-Hun, grinning. “Wow, I didn’t know you had it in you, pretty boy. That’s a hell of a sexy pose. Bet you were showing off for someone, huh?” He winks, but his smile fades a little when Gi-Hun doesn’t laugh.

Sae-byeok smirks, raising an eyebrow. “I wonder if he wanted to fuck you hard after seeing that. All that wiggling around, acting like a fool—probably had him hard as a rock under those fancy suits of his.” She tries to keep her voice light, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like she’s angry at herself for even suggesting it.

Gi-Hun’s face burns. He ducks his head, muttering, “Shut up,” but there’s no real heat in it. He can feel the others’ eyes on him, and he’s suddenly grateful for the endless white void—no walls to close in on him, no mirrors to show how flustered he is. He thinks back to that day, how scared he’d been, how he’d just wanted to make the others smile to forget their fear for a second. He hadn’t been thinking about In-Ho, or anyone else. But now, seeing In-Ho’s reaction, he can’t help but wonder.

On the screen, In-Ho pauses the footage before the dalgona game starts, his thumb brushing over the image of Gi-Hun’s face. “Idiot,” he says, but his voice is soft now, almost tender. “Always trying to encourage others, even when you’re scared.” He leans forward, his forehead resting against the cool glass of the monitor, as if he’s trying to get as close to Gi-Hun as possible. “Just like you were the savior”

The group falls into a deathly silence. Gone are the mocking sneers and sarcastic quips; all that remains is In-Ho's ragged, labored breathing, crackling through the screen like a tangible presence.​

"Everyone freeze!!" Ali's voice rings out, laced with thinly veiled contempt. "Oh, how brave you are, standing there ordering others around. A true hero, aren't you?"​

Gi-hun's thoughts spiral as he begins to question his own motives. Was he just a naive fool, blindly clinging to optimism in a hopeless situation?

In-Ho scrolls through more footage—this time, of himself as Young-il. Him sitting next to Gi-Hun during the group chat, their shoulders touching during the six-legged pentagon, a faint smile on his face as he made jokes  at Gi-Hun’s surname. Him lingering in the background during the Mingle game, his eyes never leaving Gi-Hun’s form, even as he talks to other players.

“I wish I was the one who could drink soju with Gi-Hun,” In-Ho says, his voice low, like he’s confessing a secret. “Instead of him being with Jung-bae.” He sounds like a little kid, jealous of his best friend playing with someone else, and it’s so unexpected that the group can’t help but stare.

“Whoa,” Ali says, his eyes wide. “Is he… jealous?” He looks around at the others, as if checking to see if he’s the only one who heard that. “But why? They barely knew each other, right?”

Gi-Hun scowls, crossing his arms. “How delusional is he? Thinking I’d choose him over my childhood friend? Over any of you? He’s a liar. A murderer. I’d never—” He stops, his throat suddenly tight. Because that’s not entirely true, is it? There had been moments, brief flashes, when he’d felt something for Young-il. A connection, maybe. A spark.

Hyun-ju cuts him off, her voice quiet but firm. “I think, at that time, you had real feelings for him. Even if you didn’t want to admit it.” She looks at Gi-Hun, her eyes soft. “I saw the way you looked at him. Like you were trying to figure him out, but also… like you wanted to get closer. There’s no shame in that, you know. He was good at pretending to be someone worth liking.”

Gi-Hun opens his mouth to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe there was a moment—just a moment—when he’d looked at Young-il and seen something more than a fellow player. When he’d laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones, when he’d leaned in a little too close when they were talking, when he’d felt a flutter in his chest that he couldn’t explain. He’d brushed it off as just relief, finding someone to trust in a place where trust was a luxury. But now, seeing In-Ho’s reaction, he’s not so sure.

But that was before he knew the truth. Before he knew Young-il was Hwang In-Ho. Before he knew he’d been playing them all along. That changes everything, doesn’t it? Those feelings—whatever they were—were based on a lie. And Gi-Hun can’t afford to believe in lies, not after everything he’s been through.

On the screen, In-Ho closes his eyes, his hand still resting on the monitor. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly they almost don’t hear him. “I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks, and for a second, he looks like he might cry. “If I'd known you'd sacrifice yourself in the end, I would've plunged that knife into every last one of those bastards,” he whispers, eyes wide with a desperation that makes In-ho's chest ache. His voice cracks on the confession, a raw wound exposed. “But I screwed up. Just like always.”

The admission hangs heavy between them. Images flash through In-ho's mind—the rumors about a wife, the veiled references in hushed conversations. He crosses the room, fingers trembling as he retrieves a faded photograph from the back of his closet. In the picture, a young couple beams at the camera, their smiles untouched by the sorrows that would come a decade later.

“Ha-eun,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of her face with a finger. “I lost you after I won the game ten years ago, and ever since then, I've stopped believing in humanity. I built walls around myself, convinced that caring only led to pain. But just when I started to feel human again, everyone I care about... leaves me behind.” His voice breaks, the weight of his grief threatening to shatter him.

The void falls silent. No one knows what to say. No one knows what to think. Because this isn’t the Frontman they knew. This is a man—broken, regretful, human. A man who’s made terrible mistakes, but who seems to genuinely care about Gi-Hun, in his own twisted way.

And Gi-Hun? He’s more confused than ever. He hates In-Ho for what he’s done, for the lives he’s destroyed, for the pain he’s caused. But he can’t deny the way his heart races when he sees In-Ho’s soft, tender side, the way he finds himself wanting to understand him, to figure out what makes him tick. It’s a dangerous feeling, one that could get him hurt. But he can’t seem to shake it.

As the screen fades to black, Gi-Hun knows one thing for sure: whatever happens next, his life will never be the same. Because Hwang In-Ho has gotten under his skin, in a way no one else ever has. And he’s not sure if he wants him to leave.

In the silence of the void, Jung-bae claps a hand on Gi-Hun’s shoulder, his usual smirk replaced with a look of concern. “You okay, man? This whole thing is fucked up. But you don’t have to go through it alone. We’re here for you.”

Gi-Hun nods, a lump forming in his throat. He’s lucky to have friends like them, friends who will stand by him no matter what. But even their support can’t erase the confusion in his heart, the way he’s torn between hating In-Ho and… something else.

As the others start to talk among themselves, trying to make sense of what they’ve just seen, Gi-Hun stares at the blank screen, his mind racing. What does In-Ho want from him? Why is he showing them this? And most importantly, can he ever really trust him?

He doesn’t have the answers. But he knows he’ll do whatever it takes to find them. Because his life, and the lives of the people he cares about, might just depend on it.

Chapter Text

The screen blinks back to life with a soft hum, casting a blue-tinged glow over the white void. In-Ho is hunched over his desk again, the leather journal spread open before him like a sacred text. The air smells of cedar and old paper, a scent that tugs at Gi-Hun’s memory—like the secondhand bookstore he used to frequent with his mother, back when rent money stretched far enough for impulse purchases of dog-eared novels. In-Ho’s fingers trace the faded ink of his own handwriting, and when he speaks, his voice is so low it’s almost a prayer.

“Gi-hun, I keep every promise.” He pauses, swallowing hard, as if the words physically hurt. The Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, a rare display of vulnerability that makes Sang-woo’s lips thin with skepticism. “After you died, the game ended when I say. The whole island exploded. No more blood. Not like before.”

Sang-woo snorts, but it lacks conviction. “Convenient, isn’t it? Blowing up the evidence.” He crosses his arms, but his gaze lingers on In-Ho’s trembling hand—how it hovers over the journal as if afraid to touch the words.

“But what the brutal truth is, how can I tell you that even I am able to stop the game in Korea, there are many in other countries too.” His laugh is bitter, hollow. The chrysanthemum crumples slightly under his thumb as he closes his fist around it. “You thought you were fighting a monster, Gi-hun? You were fighting a shadow. The real beast has tentacles everywhere.”

Hyun-ju gasps, covering his mouth. “Other countries? How many more games…?”

“Too many,” Ali mutters. He’s been quiet until now, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, but his voice carries the weight of a man who’s seen too much. “My cousin’s husband vanished in Vietnam. Said he was going to work on a fishing boat. Never came back.”

Jung-bae slams a fist into his palm, the sound echoing sharp in the void. “That’s why he let us die. Why he let you die. Because it didn’t matter. Just one drop in the bucket.”

Gi-Hun says nothing. He’s staring at In-Ho’s hands—how they tremble as they close the journal, how the scar on his wrist (from a knife? A bullet?) glints in the lamplight. It’s a jagged thing, not like the clean surgical scars from his time as a policeman. This is a wound that was torn open, then stitched in a hurry. This isn’t the man who’d ordered their deaths. This is a man drowning in a truth too big to bear.

The scene shifts with a static crackle, like a radio tuning to a new station. Suddenly, In-Ho is sitting at a rickety kitchen table in what looks like a shabby apartment, the kind with water stains on the ceiling and linoleum that curls at the edges. A bottle of soju sits between his hands instead of the usual crystal decanter of whiskey, its label peeling. He knocks back a shot, grimacing like he’s drinking vinegar, then pours another. The apartment smells of kimchi jjigae, a faint, stale scent that makes Gi-Hun’s stomach growl—his mother’s specialty, the one dish he’d failed to replicate no matter how many times he’d followed her recipe.

“I wish you were in front of me,” he mutters, swirling the clear liquid. “We could drink soju together, Gi-hun. Like normal people.”

Jung-bae scoffs. “Cheap stuff. Probably never touched the stuff before he wanted to play at being one of us.” He reaches for the bottle Sae-byeok conjured, taking a long pull. The corner of his mouth twitches—Gi-Hun recognizes that look, the one he gets when he’s trying not to admit something.

But Sae-byeok is already rummaging in the air beside her, her fingers curling around something invisible. With a flick of her wrist, a green bottle materializes in her hand—soju, the same brand from the corner store near Gi-Hun’s old apartment, the one that gave him a splitting headache after his divorce. She grins, popping the cap with a satisfying crack . “Afterlife rules: if you miss it hard enough, it appears.” She passes it to Gi-Hun, who takes it numbly, then tosses one to Jung-bae. “Drink. It’s better than watching him mope.”

They pass the bottle around as the screen shows In-Ho draining his glass. Dae-ho even takes a tentative sip, his shoulders relaxing a fraction when the familiar burn hits his throat. For a moment, they’re not dead men and women in a white void—just friends sharing a drink, watching a stranger fall apart. Gi-Hun closes his eyes, and for a second, he can almost hear the traffic outside his old apartment, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of his daughter’s laughter from the other room.

Night falls on the screen. In-Ho leaves the apartment, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, and walks to an alley behind a convenience store. The neon sign flickers, casting pink and green shadows over the garbage bags stacked by the door. A cluster of stray cats bolts toward him, their tails flicking, and he squats down, pulling a handful of dried fish from his pocket. They’re the expensive kind, the ones Gi-Hun could never afford—he’d fed them tteokbokki leftovers instead, much to the convenience store owner’s chagrin.

“Hey, guys.” His voice is soft, softer than Gi-Hun has ever heard it. “Remember him? The guy who used to feed you tteokbokki leftovers? Always had sauce on his fingers.”

The cats rub against his legs, purring loud enough to echo through the void. One, a tabby with a mangled ear, climbs into his lap, kneading at his coat with its claws. In-Ho laughs—a real laugh, short and surprised—and it’s like watching a glacier crack. “I wonder if the stray cats miss Gi-hun like how much I miss him.” He pauses, plucking a flea from the tabby’s ear with careful fingers. “He’d probably scold me for giving you junk food. ‘They need proper meals, In-ho,’” he mimics, and Gi-Hun’s breath catches at how well he nails the irritated lilt in his voice, the way he’d sounded when Gi-Hun caught him smoking behind the dormitory. “But he’d sneak you meat from his plate anyway. Could never say no to a pretty face. Human or feline.”

Sae-byeok nudges Gi-Hun, her elbow digging into his ribs. “He remembers the little things. That’s….” She trails off, not sure what to call it. Fondness? Obsession? It’s a thin line, especially here.

“Creepy,” Jung-bae says, but he’s smiling. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, but still counts.

The strangest part comes hours later. In-Ho is sitting on that chipped plastic chair at the metro station, the one where Gi-Hun had played ddakji with the salesman. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows over the empty platform. He’s not moving, just staring at the scuff mark on the floor where Gi-Hun had knelt, laughing as he’d begged for one more try. A homeless man shuffles past, muttering to himself, and In-Ho wordlessly hands him a wad of bills. The man gapes, then scurries off, clutching the money like a lifeline.

The salesman’s dead, so do I,  Gi-Hun thinks. And now In-Ho is here, lying across the chair like a drunkard, his coat spread out as if saving a spot for someone. As if Gi-Hun might wander in at any moment, grinning like an idiot, and ask for a rematch.

Sang-woo’s voice is gentle when he speaks, a rarity. “He’s doing what you used to do. Visiting the places that mattered.”

“Stalking,” Jung-bae corrects, but he sounds tired. Defeated. Like even he’s starting to see the cracks in his anger.

The next morning, In-Ho is in a taxi, clutching a plain brown envelope. The driver talks nonstop, rambling about the weather, the traffic, the rising cost of kimchi, but In-Ho doesn’t respond. He just stares out the window at the familiar neighborhood—Jung-bae’s old stomping grounds, with its narrow alleys and laundry strung between buildings like colorful flags. When he gets out, he lingers outside a small apartment building, his hand hovering over the doorbell. The paint is peeling, the numbers “407” hanging askew.

Jung-bae leans forward, his breath catching. “That’s… that’s my place.” His voice is raw, like he’s seeing it for the first time. “My daughter’s room is the one with the Hello Kitty curtains. She begged me for months for those.”

The door opens, and a woman with Jung-bae’s eyes stands there, her hair pulled back in a tired ponytail. A little girl peeks out from behind her legs, clutching a teddy bear with one eye missing. Jung-bae’s breath hitches—she’s wearing the yellow dress he’d bought her for her sixth birthday, the one he’d hidden under his bed because he couldn’t afford to give it to her until he’d won the games. In-Ho holds out the envelope, his voice steady but his hands shaking. “For you. From Gi-hun.”

The woman hesitates, then takes it. Her fingers are calloused, the nails chewed to the quick. When she opens it, her gasp echoes through the void. Stacks of bills—more than enough to pay off the loan sharks, to send the kid to college, to breathe easy. The little girl tugs at her skirt, whispering something, and the woman bends down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, baby. We’re okay now.”

“Who are you?” she asks, turning back to In-Ho.

In-Ho’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “A man who owes him.”

Jung-bae makes a strangled sound, pressing a hand to his mouth. His shoulders shake, and for a moment, he looks like the scared kid he’d been when they first met, fresh off the boat and too trusting for his own good. “That’s… that’s the money from 2015. His game winnings.” He turns to Gi-Hun, his eyes shiny. “He gave it to my family. As you.”

Hyun-ju’s voice is soft. She reaches out, placing a hand on Jung-bae’s arm—a motherly gesture, instinctive. “Why would he do that?”

The screen cuts to In-Ho walking away, his shoulders hunched. The camera lingers on his face, and for a second, they see it—the raw, unguarded guilt. It’s the same look Gi-Hun had seen on his own face in the mirror after he’d lied to his daughter about why he’d missed her recital, the same look Sang-woo had worn when he’d admitted to stealing the money from his clients.

I killed him because he made you laugh, his eyes scream. Because when you high-fived him, when you shared your soju, when you called him ‘my best friend’—I hated him for it. Hated that you chose him over the lie I was telling.

He stops at a payphone, dialing a number with trembling fingers. The receiver is grimey, but he doesn’t seem to care. When someone answers, he says, “It’s me. Send more. To the address I texted. For the little girl’s education. And tell them… tell them it’s from her father’s friend.” He pauses, listening, then adds, “No. Don’t mention me. Ever.”

Jung-bae sinks onto the floor of the void, his head in his hands. “I forgive him,” he mumbles, so quiet they almost don’t hear. “Fucking hell. I forgive him.”

Gi-Hun thinks of In-Ho’s face when he’d said those words about other countries—how small he’d looked, how defeated. Maybe monsters aren’t born. Maybe they’re made, one choice at a time. And maybe, just maybe, they can unmake themselves too.

The screen fades to black, but none of them move. The taste of soju lingers on Gi-Hun’s tongue, bitter and sweet, like regret.

Chapter Text

Time warps again in the white void. What feels like weeks blur into minutes, and minutes stretch into what might as well be months. The screen has become their strange anchor, a window into a world they’ve left behind but can’t seem to escape. They gather around it daily, their routines settling into a grim rhythm: laughing at In-Ho’s clumsy attempts to cook (he burns kimchi jjigae so badly the smoke alarm wails), arguing over whether his late-night mutterings count as penance, and falling silent when the footage turns raw—when he hugs Gi-Hun’s sportsuit like a lifeline, when he screams Gi-Hun’s name in the throes of a nightmare, when he drinks until he collapses onto the floor, the empty soju bottles rolling around him like broken promises.

But the void isn’t all grim. Some mornings, Gi-Hun wakes to find Sae-byeok teaching Dae-ho how to fold paper cranes, their fingers moving in sync as if they’ve done this a hundred times. The cranes pile up in a corner, a rainbow of makeshift colors—Sae-byeok insists they’re made from the memories of their favorite shirts, and no one has the heart to contradict her. One afternoon, Jung-bae produces a deck of cards from nowhere, and they spend hours playing go-stop, Sang-woo cheating so blatantly that Gi-Hun tackles him to the floor, the two rolling around in a mess of laughter until Sae-byeok whacks them both with a paper crane (it somehow hurts more than it should).

Jung-bae snorts every time In-Ho stumbles, but there’s less venom in it now. “Karma,” he mutters, but his eyes linger on the screen a beat too long, as if he’s trying to reconcile the man on display with the one who’d ordered his death. Even Dae-ho, who’d spent weeks avoiding the group, has started edging closer, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but no longer hostile. He brings them “snacks” sometimes—imagined ones, but vivid: honey biscuits that melt on the tongue, tteokbokki with just the right kick of gochujang. Gi-Hun pretends to bite into an invisible rice cake, and Dae-ho grins, a rare, bright thing.

Sang-woo, ever the skeptic, rolls his eyes at In-Ho’s more dramatic moments—like when he rearranges the photos on his wall so that Gi-Hun’s player ID photo is front and center—but even he falls quiet when the screen cuts to In-Ho visiting the grave. It’s a small plot in a quiet cemetery, the headstone simple: Seong Gi-Hun, 456. A man who tried. In-Ho kneels, placing a bouquet of chrysanthemums (Gi-Hun’s mother’s favorite) at the base, and stays there for hours, his back straight, his head bowed. He doesn’t speak. He just sits, as if the silence is a language only he and the dead can understand.

“Creepy,” Jung-bae says, but it’s half-hearted. Later, he’ll teach Gi-Hun a silly dance he’d learned as a kid, spinning him around until they’re both dizzy, the void echoing with their whoops.

Sae-byeok nudges Gi-Hun with her elbow, a smirk playing on her lips. “He’s not… over you. Not even close.” She’s sitting cross-legged, braiding a strand of Gi-Hun’s hair out of boredom, her fingers gentle. Earlier, she’d confided that in her old neighborhood, there was a stray cat she’d fed every night. Now, she swears she can hear it mewling in the void, and Gi-Hun swears he can hear it too.

Gi-Hun’s face flushes, and he looks away, pretending to study the endless white expanse. “He’s guilty,” he says, but his voice is weak, even to his own ears. “That’s all this is. Guilt.”

“Guilty people don’t visit graves at 3 a.m.,” Sae-byeok says, raising an eyebrow. “They don’t talk to headstones like they’re having a conversation. They don’t….” She trails off, nodding at the screen, where In-Ho is brushing a leaf off the headstone, his movements gentle, almost reverent. “This is more than guilt, Gi-Hun. Whether you like it or not.” She tugs lightly on his braid, a playful gesture, and Gi-Hun huffs, but he’s smiling.

Gi-Hun’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want it to be more. Hwang In-Ho is a liar, a murderer, a man who’d watched them bleed for sport. But the footage keeps chipping away at his resolve—In-Ho’s shaking hands when he holds the sportsuit, the way he winces at the sound of a gunshot in a movie, the nights he sits by the window, staring at the street where Gi-Hun used to live, as if waiting for him to come home. In the quieter moments, though, Gi-Hun can almost forget. He and Sang-woo rehash old arguments about soccer, Sang-woo still insisting that Gi-Hun’s favorite team is “a bunch of amateurs.” Jung-bae tells stories about his little sister, the way she used to steal his shoes and hide them in the closet. Dae-ho hums old folk songs, his voice rough but warm.

Then, one night, the screen shifts to In-Ho’s living room. He’s drunk, more so than usual, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Empty soju bottles litter the coffee table, and the air reeks of alcohol. He’s pacing, muttering to himself, his movements erratic. Suddenly, he slams his fist against the wall, hard enough that the framed photos rattle.

“Stupid,” he growls, his voice thick with rage. “Fucking stupid.” He slams his fist again, and again, until his knuckles are bloodied. “Why didn’t you stay? Why didn’t you let me….” He trails off, gasping for breath, his shoulders heaving.

The group leans in, silent. Even Jung-bae’s mocking smirk has vanished. Just hours before, they’d been sharing imaginary soju, passing an invisible bottle around, Sang-woo pretending to get drunk and slurring his words until they’d all collapsed into giggles. Now, the mood sours, the lightness draining away.

In-Ho sinks to his knees, his back against the wall, and buries his face in his hands. For a long moment, all they can hear is his ragged breathing. Then, he looks up, his eyes red and bloodshot, his face streaked with tears.

“I loved you,” he shouts, the words echoing through the void. “You idiot. I loved you.”

Gi-Hun’s breath catches. He feels the others staring at him, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. Sae-byeok’s hand finds his, squeezing gently—a silent offer of solidarity.

“Not as a friend,” In-Ho says, his voice breaking. “Not as a memory. You. I loved you .”

The screen cuts to black for a heartbeat, as if even the footage can’t bear the weight of that confession. When it flickers back on, In-Ho is crumpled on the floor, sobbing, his body wracked with grief. He’s repeating Gi-Hun’s name, over and over, like a prayer.

The white void is silent. No one moves. No one speaks. Gi-Hun’s heart is pounding so loudly he’s sure everyone can hear it. He’d never considered… that. Not once. He’d thought In-Ho’s obsession was about control, about power, about the game. But love? That’s a different beast entirely. A dangerous one.

Sang-woo, ever the pragmatist, is the first to break the silence. He claps Gi-Hun on the back, awkwardly, like he’s not sure how to handle the moment. “Guess he’s not all bad,” he says, his voice gruff. He pauses, then adds, “C’mon. I’ll teach you that card trick I was talking about. Bet you can’t figure it out.” It’s a peace offering, clumsy but sincere.

Gi-Hun doesn’t respond. He’s still staring at the screen, where In-Ho has curled into a ball, his hands clutching at the carpet as if it’s Gi-Hun’s shirt. The confession hangs in the air, thick and heavy, changing everything. But beneath it, there’s a undercurrent of warmth—the memory of Sae-byeok’s braid in his hair, Jung-bae’s silly dance, Dae-ho’s humming. They’re here, with him. That has to count for something.

Jung-bae lets out a low whistle. “Well. That’s… something.” He looks at Gi-Hun, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “You okay, man?” He nudges a imaginary honey biscuit toward Gi-Hun with his foot, a silent reminder that they’re not alone.

Gi-Hun nods, but he’s not sure. His mind is racing, a jumble of emotions—shock, confusion, anger, and something else, something he can’t quite name. He hates In-Ho for what he’s done. But he can’t deny the way his chest aches at the sight of In-Ho’s raw, unguarded grief. And he can’t deny the way his heart swells when he glances at his friends, their faces etched with concern, with solidarity, with the quiet, unshakable bond of those who’ve survived hell together.

As the screen fades to black, Gi-Hun knows one thing for certain: nothing will ever be the same. The game is over, but the consequences are just beginning. And he’s not sure if he’s ready to face them. But when Sae-byeok grins and tosses him a paper crane, and Jung-bae starts humming off-key, and Sang-woo mutters about how “stupid” the whole situation is (but his eyes are kind), Gi-Hun thinks maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to face it alone.