Chapter Text
His hands were sticky with dried blood. His breath was shallow and shaken. His eyelids were half-lidded and so barely able to stay open. Gi-hun would not fall asleep, not give in to the aching tire that thrummed in his bones. It would be weak – a quick escape to ignore the way the tears stung the corners of his eyes. Those triangle guards had thrown him in here, the dim, warm lights barely illuminating the grey room. Blearily, he took in its sight, wheezing from some hiss of pain he was too panicked to track. The couches, the coffee table, the whiskey set, it was too clean. His stomach churned, and Gi-hun recalled the final dinner of his first game – the presentation of it all. The green taste of horror spilled across his tongue, his hand coming to grasp his throat as he swallowed it down. Some remaining survival instinct called out to him, insisting he grab the glass paired with the whiskey. He could throw it straight at the hateful mask of the Front Man. Reaching out for it led only to the realization of the injury on his arm, and Gi-hun groaned, instead letting himself fall into the seat of the black couch. It looked better than it had felt; it was all some neat aesthetic rather than true comfort, but he couldn’t argue that it was certainly better than the hard mattresses of the bunks.
“Comfortable already, little hero ?” A voice called, and Gi-hun brought himself to stand even as a long hiss snuck out from between his teeth. His attempted capture of the rest was so quickly abandoned. Instead, traded for the heat of hatred that burned.
It was the Front Man, two guards flanking him. The man turned slightly to wave them off, the door closing behind them as they did so. It was just the two of them remaining. Enemy and enemy. The cat and the mouse. The watcher and the watched. Gi-hun turned up his chin. Would the light make his dried tears shine on his face? Would he see how much he had gotten to Gi-hun? See how big the loss of the gamble was? “ Get to it, ” he tried his best to sound stubbornly careless, but he knew the raspy tremble of his voice was prominent.
The Front Man came closer, and the urge to snatch up the whiskey glass was screaming in his mind. The man gestured to the couch before sidestepping and taking a seat in the armchair to Gi-hun’s right. “Let’s have a seat. Let’s talk- that’s what you want, isn’t it?” The voice filter ought to be checked, because Gi-hun’s eyebrows pulled at the almost genuine tone that sounded from the other. Reluctantly, he returned to the seat.
The Front Man was perfectly neat. The all-black ensemble matched with the unforgettable mask was free from any splatter of blood. Had there not been any when he had shot- Gi-hun’s mind stopped. His heart hammered a sudden thump, he thumbed the dried blood on his hands. It was all over him, all he had left of Jung-Bae, but no red on the killer. Had it never been there- or did he take the time to wipe it off? The sick wonder of how he might have cleaned himself up came to his mind. The contrast of meticulously and slowly wiping himself down, as if considerate of the unfair waste of life, versus (the thought that scared Gi-hun) that the Front Man had hurriedly wiped himself down, frustrated and eager to remove the traces.
“Seong Gi-hun,” the voice pulled him back. His hands shaking, the Front Man still. “This isn’t my fault, you know.”
It was like the air was sucked out of him. Gi-hun was a billow of rage and bitter, wet eyes. “Like hell, you orchestrated this,” he found himself leaning over, jabbing a swollen red finger at him. “You did this.”
“I just orchestrate the games,” he said coolly. He leaned forward and Gi-hun found himself glaring at the slits in the mask. “You took them out of the room, you rallied a rebellion, you walked them to their execution with the promise of what exactly? Getting out of this game? You could have waited for the vote; you could have rather rallied the group to protect themselves in the initial slaughter.”
Shame was prickly and cruel, and Gi-hun swallowed thickly. A wave of frustration crashed over him again and again, there was the urge to cry out, to bang his fists against something. It was too easy to get lost in the righteous plan to help others when he sought an eager revenge against the Front Man and his VIPs. He tried to shake away the thought, it had not been some half-thought-out revenge; it was truly his belief that it was the way to save the many. But in the end, despite the intentions, his plan had caused a true worse pain. A gloved hand pushed away his accusatory finger.
“I was more help to them than what you have provided,” the Front Man continued, tilting his head, and Gi-hun just knew he had raised eyebrows hidden beneath. Those gloved fingers came to hold Gi-hun’s chin, tipping it up slightly. “But maybe I can make you an offer, my little hero.”
He slapped away the hand, hating how his arm throbbed. “Asshole,” he grit out.
He thought of the others, the ones who had stayed back. Were they safe ? Had Gi-hun very well damned both those who joined him and those who didn’t, the possibilities were endless.
“It’s over, come work for me.”
Jun-hee, Jung-bae, Hyun-ju, Young-il , and all the others . He doomed them all. Now he was being asked to become the accomplice to the twisted gamemaster of future victims. He spluttered, shaking his head quickly. It was immeasurable the confusion such a statement brought. It was bizarre, unthinkable. Gi-hun could barely comprehend the ask.
“Oh, think it over, little hero,” the Front Man said, sounding brilliantly amused. He took the bottle of whiskey and did a mere half-pour into the glass. Delicately, he brought it to Gi-hun’s lips. They parted slightly, lips shaking as the Front Man tipped the glass. The liquor burned, drops of it spilling down his chin. It felt like acid inside, thrumming against his empty stomach and bubbling an addictive burn against his throat. “You’ll give them that fairness you think is missing. I offer equality, and you give the final touch.”
“I’d be a killer,” Gi-hun whispered, tongue unknowingly darting out to lick at his wet lips.
“You’re a killer anyways .”
A warm pause swept the room, Gi-hun’s shaky breath as he struggled to find any retort. The desire to tackle the Front Man, bang his head on the coffee table, and dump the whiskey under whatever he hid beneath the mask.
“I would let these contestants go, you like them very much, don’t you?”
That was- that was something. Gi-hun’s foot tapped hard against the floor. “You’d have me join you, that’s all you want?” It was some sick torture play. They were sworn enemies, but this was a different victory for the Front Man, to force Gi-hun to help him front the operation he vowed to take down.
“You won’t go home, not anytime soon, at least, you’ll work for me,” he paused. “And you’ll do your job well, no more playing the hero.”
“Then I want one thing,” Gi-hun snapped. He was cornered; he had no cards up his sleeve. Anything he said would be a desperate ask and not a truly respectable bargain, and he knew the Front Man knew that from the continued composure. “The injured, I know, they’re not always dead when you take them. You have to try your best to save them, they deserve it.”
“Most wouldn’t have survived their injuries by now.”
It could be a bluff, Gi-hun had to think so.
He tried to ground himself. The glass was suddenly pushed to his lips again, his nostrils flared from the daring smell. He grimaced. Gi-hun was not in any position to handle more alcohol, not with his weakened stature and empty stomach.
“Hyun-ju, Dae-ho,” Gi-hun carried on, the Front Man poured into his mouth. He spluttered, choking it down, a good amount trickling down his chin. The other gloved hand came up and wiped it away. It was infuriating. Gi-hun had the right mind to tell him that he was in no position to be so friendly. “Young-il, 001,” Gi-hun snapped, the last name he could rattle on from his group that he just needed the chance to see if he was truly gone. All the other men that had followed them, he barely knew them more than their numbers.
The Front Man pulled away. “You’re amusing,” he said, and that was all he said. Before standing. “But I’ll entertain this. I should make leave then.”
They both stood up, even if only for Gi-hun to glare at the other when he made his leave.
“Ah, of course.” A gloved hand wrapped around his arm, Gi-hun groaned as the limb convulsed with blooming pain. “I’ll take care of you.”
The tight pain was enough to distract him from the oddness of the sentence, where surely, he might correct him to saying, ‘I’ll take care of this,’ rather than Gi-hun as a whole.
When the man let go and walked off, Gi-hun nearly thought he wouldn’t return. But as all bad things do, the Front Man returned, medical kit in hand. It was not long before the terrifying man unzipped the green jacket and slowly pried it off Gi-hun, regardless of how spilt blood tried to keep it glued to warm skin. He gritted his teeth so hard he could hear the grind. His stomach flipped with nerves when he watched the other pull out a needle and thread. The worst was the terrible cold sting that came when he washed the wound and patted it dry with some scratchy towel.
“Fuck you,” Gi-hun found himself yelping when the needle first broke his skin. There was a huff of a laugh distorted by a voice filter.
“Drink if it’s so terrible,” the Front Man said. Perhaps the two drinks he had already had were toying with his rational thought, but he snatched up the bottle with his good arm. Bringing it to his lips as he suckered in one last tight breath of pain. He took a good gulp before shoving it into the chest of the Front Man, ‘take it,’ he seemed to say with no words. “Occupied,” he said as he nodded his head to the needle and thread that were currently being used to sew up Gi-hun’s worst wound.
Gi-hun huffed, then hiccupped, before clumsily plopping the bottle down. “You’re the worst,” he spat. “I don’t even like your games.” The Front Man finished up and put the needle down.
The silence was frustrating, and foolishly Gi-hun found himself pointing an accusatory finger. Jabbing it hard on his chest just for it to be caught in the fist of the other.
“You really are such a lightweight.”
He wanted to argue that he had consumed more than enough to get the average person going, but Gi-hun instead found himself shaking his head disapprovingly as if he were this man’s uncle. “Take that off, if you want to argue like some type of- punk,” he almost slurred the end of his sentence.
Slowly and surely, the Front Man, still holding his pointed hand tight in his fist, brought it to that wretched black geometric mask. He balanced Gi-hun’s finger on the mask’s edge.
“Go on, little hero.”
As if time slowed, as if every river rapidly running its course slowed into near-still bodies of water, Gi-hun brought his other (weaker) hand up. His fingers grasped underneath the mask, his thumbs on top, and pressed hard on the mask’s shell. His tongue caught in his throat. It was almost difficult; he had to maneuver the mask off, he took a step forward, and their chests were nearly touching. An arm came around and wrapped behind his back, steadying him. So much was racing, he had wanted this so much, needed it. The Front Man couldn’t hide from, could not be some mysterious threat that loomed, not when Gi-hun would unveil his stupid face. The mask was slipped off.
“No, you’re not-” Gi-hun could not steady his voice, it broke. His mind was racing. He could not connect the dots, stupidly he stared into dark eyes. Eyes alight with curious gleam.
Young-il leaned forward, a breath away, he could probably smell the thick scent of alcohol that lingered from his mouth. “How do I look, Seong Gi-hun?” A wide thin smile ripped across his face.
The wonderous nightmare spilled like honey across his heavy chest, begging that this was some confused afterlife. He felt his chin hit Young-il’s shoulder, and that arm around his back tightened, keeping him upright.
“Are you lying to me, Young-il? Bastard,” was all he got out before his eyelids gave up after their long, hard work. A black, dark confusion swept him away.
Most people fear waking up in a bed worse than their own – sometimes they worry they will be snatched up and wake on cold, hard concrete. Gi-hun could relate; after his first game, he would wake up gasping. He would have to grab and feel his pillow just to know he was not back on that hard, uncomfortable bunk. Now, he grabbed his pillow, felt its feathery softness, and he nearly let himself go back to sleep. A gentle silk sheet covered him, an all too warm duvet on top, and he had never slept in such luxury. And it all slipped back. Jung-bae’s death. His heart stuttered a beat. The failed rebellion, the Front Man- Young-il.
Gi-hun groaned, pressing his temple and pulling himself up. The whiskey had left him feeling sick and poorly, but at least it granted him the first deep sleep in a long time. He took in the room, squinting to take it in during the darkness. It was a larger-than-life bed, a frame that was surely made of black leather with dark grey bedding to accompany. An uncomfortable contrast to the bright, playful sets, Gi-hun had been fighting for his life in. The bedside tables and wardrobe all appeared locked and immovable. Although he was able to get some light through a lamp that he clumsily searched for a switch. He paced around the room was so empty . Though on closer inspection, the thinnest layer of dust gave the appearance that furniture had been very recently removed. Perhaps they could not risk having him snooping. He mused that these guards probably kept guns in every spare drawer.
One door led to an ensuite bathroom. Black tiles from floor to ceiling with gold accent taps and hinges. The thought of a shower seemed tempting, but when he looked down at himself – he had been cleaned and changed. A heat of shame flushed his neck as he studied his palms. They were well-washed, and not even blood could be seen caked beneath his nails. He was dressed in grey sweats and hoodie and although he was glad to be out of that damned tracksuit, he surely wondered who would think it was appropriate to dress him like he was their patient. Young-il flashed to mind, but he still could not comprehend his friend as also his enemy.
Stepping out of the bathroom, there was only one other door.
Young-il looked at him warmly, standing up from his armchair. “There you are, looking better,” he said, it felt so awfully similar to how he would speak to him in the bunks. As if they were so close. As if the trust and companionship had not been a fragile lie that bloomed because Gi-hun had been too naïve to push out others. His foolishness was a shot at a carefully constructed final gamble.
Gi-hun shot him a dirty look, too tired to speak to him, too cornered to fight.
“I’m glad to see you more docile.” Fuck you . “You seemed to understand that I’m willing to hold my end of the bargain, come here.” He waved him over to the couches. The same as earlier. Gi-hun did not take a seat, but he did stand a safe distance away, which seemed to only amuse the other man.
He lifted a remote, and the screen came on, its blaring blue light engulfing them both in its bright light. It was Jun-hee, rubbing her swollen belly. She was sitting in a tiny office. Her bright eyes flicked from side to side. A mist filled the room. Gi-hun had to bite his tongue, but couldn’t fight stepping closer to the screen. Jun-hee’s head lolled softly to the side, her eyelids fluttering shut.
“Jun-hee,” was all Gi-hun said.
“Going home, with her share of the prize,” Young-il answered, swirling a glass in his hand as two guards entered with a stretcher. Loading her on, before the room was quickly left empty.
Gi-hun’s heart flipped. She was getting out, they all were. Those who stayed back.
Young-il came up towards him. “I always keep my promise, I’d hope you will keep yours.”
Gi-hun wondered bitterly if this man just wanted to see him writhing. This Young-il, the same man who saved him in the six-legged race, was nothing more than a maniac. A maniac who wanted to see Gi-hun lose
Days later, with the certainty that every remaining contestant could leave and with their fair share, Gi-hun reluctantly agreed to meet his end of the deal. He could at least say he was quietly pleased when he was informed that three of the supposedly ‘executed’ contestants were currently receiving medical assistance and would be returned home when they pulled through.
Seong Gi-hun had to admit that Hwang In-ho had been more than honest albeit not a true show of human goodness. Hwang In-ho is what he had been taught was his real name and that Oh Young-il was nothing more than an accessory to his little trip into the competition.
“You’re so full of shit,” Gi-hun muttered angrily at the dinner table. Having eaten nothing off his plate, save a single fried egg. He wanted to carry on, rip into his ‘bargains’ and his speeches ,and call him out for being nothing more than a lie for days.
“You should eat, it’ll do you no good to travel tomorrow with nothing in your stomach.”
He wanted to fling the cutlery at the man - who always seemed to talk so softly to him, scolding him like a child.
“Travel? You said I wasn’t going home,” Gi-hun tapped his fingers anxiously against the table. Making a rhythmic sound to pace his thoughts as he waited for an answer to obstruct the nervous thoughts that always lay right below his angry front.
“Not to Seoul, but here, only limited staff stay. I’m not one for the cleanup and construction.” Gi-hun could barely keep himself nodding, feigning interest. “But there are places for people like us, people of our business, stature. I’ll be sure to keep you comfortable there, little hero.”
That’s what led to the most draining travel experience of his life, with a boat ride that led to a private chauffeur, all to still be in the lively city of Busan. He fought to wack the backside of In-ho’s head and tell him how there were many quicker ways to the city. But he kept his jaw clamped shut, even when the man came and stood right in front of him.
He steadied a solid glare at In-ho when the other’s hands came up to place a cap on his head and lift his hood. He felt more like a little child than a future business partner. Especially when In-ho then seemed to go the unnecessary step of wrapping a black scarf around him. He was sure none of the people here would recognise someone as unknown and forgettable as Seong Gi-hun, but In-ho seemed to do as he liked, as he walked him down a street so bustling he almost lost the man. Not before a hand wrapped around his wrist.
“Stay close,” In-ho said coolly, dark eyes glittering as if pleased to give him an instruction. What Gi-hun was soon led into was a brilliantly tall apartment building. If the lobby was a mountain of luxury, then the penthouse was an ocean. Its ceilings were certainly way higher than any of the houses in his hometown, and Gi-hun was sure to act casual over the fact that there was a staircase that led to an entire second floor. He was under the belief that only shitty loft apartments had those. There were windows from floor to ceiling against every outer wall, with electronic blinds that In-ho seemed to have on at all times. There was a dining room with a long glass table that surely could seat twelve guests (who even needs that?), but what was most obviously grabbing his attention was the grand piano situated in the middle of the entertainment area.
Gi-hun shrugged himself out of In-ho’s grip, muttering under his breath about how he wasn’t a dog that needed to be kept on a leash.
He was later shown that his bedroom was upstairs, the room next to In-ho’s, he swore his eye twitched. The room was simple but a sure display of that common minimalist luxurious look that In-ho seemed so in favour of. A queen-sized bed with all grey and black bedding. With two black bedside tables (this time without locks). A wardrobe that he moved forward to slide open, eyes widening at the sight.
“How did you get this?” The words fell out of his mouth in such quick succession. The sight was a question in itself, a particularly perplexing sight. It had a good chunk of his clothes, his nicest suit, his simple t-shirts, and a few jeans. It was like someone had snatched whatever had been hanging on the line. The weirdest, the part that gave him this terribly uncomfortable twist in his gut—all his money. All the cash. Packed into the wardrobe so tightly, and piling so high it was creasing the bottom inch of his hanging clothes. This couldn’t have been all of it, he wondered if he would find the rest stuffed in the bedside tables and elsewhere.
“Your things,” In-ho put simply, his gaze already burning into him when Gi-hun turned to face him. It was like being a text for studying, as if In-ho wished to pry him open and search him in his entirety. “I thought it best to make you comfortable.”
“Ah,” was all he could reply. He didn’t have much need for money, if only perhaps to use it to escape. That was a thought he would slip calmly and inconspicuously into his back pocket. But he still felt a chill. In-ho had been in his home – or he had directed his employees. They must have found everything . He wanted to hurl.
The only other interesting thing in the room was a mirror that covered the entirety of one of the walls. He could not bring it in himself to take in his reflection – to see his tired eyes and sunken cheeks, to see himself in the living flesh. So he stared at the only other thing to stare at. Hwang In-ho. In-ho was not looking in the mirror, no, he was doing what he was always doing. Gazing at Gi-hun. The man was in a more relaxed outfit than what he had worn as the Front Man, but arguably still fancied up. Black button-up and black trousers, shoes so polished they looked almost unworn, and a gold watch wrapping his wrist. He had abandoned his grey trench coat on the hooks by the entry, and of course, tied his stupid scarf around Gi-hun. His hair was nicely combed over. He looked normal. Not at all like the blackmailing punk psychopathic Front Man that was torturing him endlessly.
“It’s my room on the other side of this, you are free to come get me,” and In-ho sounded like he meant it, again grabbing Gi-hun’s wrist tightly. “Anytime truly.”
Gi-hun tried to wriggle out of his grip, but In-ho just led him out and down the hall. Carrying on with his tour. The floor was a shiny black oak hardwood, and if not for that, it would be a stunning display of large black tiles that he had spotted in both the kitchen and bathroom. There were many delicate, precise decorations, large ornate vases, crystal glass bowls holding gold statue fruit, and bookshelves against any wall without a window. He whistled lowly. When In-ho pointed to his study, he swore the man tightened his grip momentarily. It was the only door with a proper electronic lock. Gi-hun felt a weight. Getting the code to that would be sure trouble. Finally, he was shown the personal gym, which carried over the same colour palette that had been present in all the previous rooms.
“Now, let us go over the rules again,” In-ho smiled.