Chapter Text
✧
I’m catastrophically, cosmically fucked.
That thought looped on repeat in [Name]’s brain, as they crouched between two dumpsters that smelled like decay. Knees up to their chest. Hoodie drawn low. Back pressed flat against the graffiti-smeared wall behind them.
Footsteps slapped across the alley’s mouth. They held their breath.
"If I catch that little shit–!" one of them snarled.
BANG!
A crowbar slammed into the metal just inches from [Name]’s head, sending a deafening clang ringing through their skull. They barely flinched.
Another voice, panting, joined in. "Sir, it’s almost sunrise. This area’s crawling with patrols. We gotta bail.”
There was a pause. A spit of irritation. Then footsteps, retreating. The shadows peeled themselves off the alley walls and followed their boss out.
Silence.
[Name] exhaled like it was the first breath they’d earned in weeks, burying their face in their arms. That made... what? The fifth chase this month?
They were undefeated, if nothing else.
Haha. So cool of them. So terrifyingly unemployed and homeless.
Eventually, when the city’s buzz started rising again, [Name] peeled themself off the pavement and skulked out of the alley. They kept their hood low, their eyes lower, and made their way through the early morning blur of Gangnam.
The station was a blur of commuter chaos. Suits, students, families, all trying to outrun the clock. [Name] moved silently amongst them.
They found a bench and sat. And stayed.
People came and went. Time blurred. The morning rush turned into noon, then evening, then near midnight. [Name] hadn’t moved. Not even once. Not even to eat, because with what money? They just sat there, quietly disassociating.
Their last day replayed in their head like a cursed mixtape. Every mistake. Every stupid decision. Every single domino that led them here.
By the time the final train rolled in, the station had hollowed out. Just a few stragglers left, nodding off on benches. [Name] stood. Their knees cracked.
They drifted to the platform edge, staring into the tunnel. They weren’t nervous about this, the decision was made. They weren’t scared. They weren’t anything.
They were so fucking done.
The rumble of the train was still faint. But it was coming. It always came. Unlike hope.
And just as they began to lean forward, someone stepped up beside them.
Polished black dress shoes appeared in their vision. Not a speck of dirt on ‘em.
"[Name], is it?" a voice asked, smoothly. Calm, and unbothered. Which, given the context – bit of a red flag.
They turned, startled.
A man in a clean, tailored suit stood next to them, briefcase in hand. His face was a calm mask of politeness, but there was something unsettling about how he was just there. And also his freaky eyes.
“I couldn’t help but notice your...predicament,” he said, tilting his head. “Would you care for a game of ddakji? It’s quite therapeutic, I’ve found.”
[Name] blinked.
“Do you...just hang around train platforms waiting for depressed people?” they asked dryly.
He chuckled. "Only the special ones."
Creep.
Still. [Name] paused. Then shrugged.
Fuck it. If they were gonna die, might as well stall with a weird little paper game first. Maybe it’d make for a good last memory. Or at least a funny story for Hell.
“Fine,” they muttered.
The man smiled, wide and unsettling. “Excellent. Let’s find somewhere quieter.”
[Name] followed, half-curious, half-dead inside. Another day, another fuckaround. Time to find out.
The guy’s calm was unnerving. Not in the “oh he’s nice” way – in the “oh you definitely kill people with silk gloves on” way.
But despite the screaming red flags flapping in the wind, [Name] couldn’t help the twinge of curiosity curling in their gut.
Maybe he’s just a really fucking bold mugger, they thought, dry amusement flickering across their face.
From the briefcase came a neat little set of folded paper tiles – one red, one blue.
He began explaining, yapping their ears off. “It’s simple. Flip my tile with yours. If you win, I give you a hundred thousand won. If I win–” he paused, smile razor-sharp, “–you give me the same.”
[Name] didn’t respond. Their face gave nothing. Not interest or boredom. And certainly not trust. Just that stare of someone who’s heard too many scams in dark alleys by people with less teeth than sense.
The man extended both tiles toward them. “Choose one.”
[Name] shrugged and plucked the blue one from his hand. No thoughts, head empty.
They squared up, eyes flicking between the stranger and the red tile on the pavement.
Then–slap!–they slammed the blue tile down with a sharp flick of their wrist. It cracked through the air like a shot, and the red square flipped clean over.
The man's brows lifted ever so slightly, the tiniest hint of surprise in his expression, but that creepy retail-smile was still plastered on.
“Impressive,” he said, like he actually meant it.
He reached into his suitcase again and casually handed them a fat stack of bills, banded and fresh.
[Name] blinked.
Huh.
They took the money without a word, stuffing it in their pocket like they always did win money from strange, well-dressed businessmen at train stations after almost killing themself.
Totally normal day. Not suspicious at all.
The man smoothed out the red tile and took his turn with deliberate grace, almost like he’d done this a thousand times, and never once lost.
WHAP.
The tile cracked against the pavement, and [Name]’s poor blue square flipped traitorously into the air before landing face-down.
Damn.
“Ah,” the man said pleasantly, straightening up. “Looks like it’s your turn to pay.”
[Name] tilted their head, expression flat. “With what money?”
They pulled their pockets inside out, revealing absolutely nothing but lint, old gum foil, and raw contempt for capitalism.
The man’s smile widened, too cheerful. “Then… you’ll have to pay with your body.”
The air shifted.
Every alarm in [Name]’s skull lit up in red. Their muscles tensed. One hand slipped to the inside of their hoodie, fingertips brushing the worn handle of the pocketknife stashed there.
It wasn’t much, but it could bleed a man if it had to. Their eyes sharpened, narrowing at the man with creeping disgust.
But before they could say anything, the man reached forward–
And slapped them.
Sort of.
There was barely any force applied. Just a single, open-palm tap to their cheek. A touch. Skin to skin.
It echoed more in their brain than it did on their face.
[Name] blinked.
That was it?
No groping. No sleaze, or smirk of dominance or predatory leer. Just, that strange little pat.
“You’ve paid,” he said, as though that explained anything.
It didn’t.
[Name] stared at him for a beat longer, unsure if they should bolt, stab him, or just file this under "Top Ten Weirdest Moments of My Life" and move on.
But instead, without a word, they crouched down again, reached for the blue tile, and lined up their next throw.
The game continued.
Because really, what the fuck else were they supposed to do?
The last train of the night screeched into the station, all rusted metal groans and flickering lights. It didn’t matter. No one boarded. No one got off.
The station was a ghost town, and [Name] was the last soul dumb enough to haunt it. Along with this dude.
The man calmly gathered up the ddakji tiles, brushing invisible dust off them as if they were worth more than [Name]. His eyes lingered on them with something too sharp to be called admiration–interest, maybe.
Creep 2x.
“You’re quite good at this,” he said smoothly, his smile tight and closed-lipped. “I must say, I’m impressed. Would you be interested in more opportunities like this?”
He smiled with his eyes closed. That was who-knows-what-anymore red flag. People only do that when they’re either a psychopath or about to ask you to join a cult.
[Name] blinked at him, slowly. “What, you mean slapping paper and maybe getting a hundred won for it? Groundbreaking. Revolutionary.” They ran a hand through their hair, sighing. “Next you’ll tell me I get a free toaster.”
Was it suspicious? Absolutely. Did the man look like the kind of guy who’d harvest your kidneys and sell them on the dark web with a five-star review?
Also yes.
But you know what else was suspicious? Reality. Life. People.
And at this point, [Name] would’ve sold their spleen if it meant a warm bed and maybe a sandwich.
“Sure,” they said flatly, with all the enthusiasm of someone...just, someone. “Why not. I’ve made worse choices. I once trusted someone who said ‘no spoilers.’”
The man chuckles softly and produces a card from his breast pocket smoothly, practiced, and absolutely prepared in advance like this had always been the plan in approaching them.
The card was bitch basic. Matte. Three shapes on the front: a circle, triangle, and square. The back had a phone number. No explanation. Just a promise and a dream.
[Name] took it with a raised brow, flipping it between their fingers before side-eyeing him. “Wow. You just carry these around? Real spontaneous of you.”
His smile stretched wider. Somehow. He even tipped an imaginary hat at them. Then, he turned and walked away, cool as a cucumber with a body count.
[Name] stood there for a beat, watching the bastard vanish into the station’s shadows. Then they looked down at the card again.
“An opportunity,” they muttered with a sardonic snort. “Nothing culty about this at all...”
They turned the card over again, more thoughtful this time. This random man approaches me during my glorious suicide moment, gently slaps me in the face, gives me money, slaps me gently again, and now offers me a career upgrade?? They scoffed.
“He’s either a fucking idiot,” they muttered, pocketing the card, “or he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Which, let’s be honest, probably meant [Name] was the idiot here.
But their life was already a blazing trash fire. Why not lob in another Molotov cocktail? At least fire kept you warm.
“Fuck it,” they muttered, heading toward the stairs. “We ball.”
☆
It was well past 1 a.m. when [Name] finally left the station, shoving their hands deep in their hoodie pocket, fingers brushing against the still-crisp bills the ddakji man had given them.
They hadn’t even counted it. Just tucked it away like they were scared it would vanish if they acknowledged it too hard.
The streets of Gangnam had quieted to a soft buzz, just the occasional drunk couple, convenience store clerk closing up, taxi cruising past. The neon had dulled to a sleepy glow, flickering on puddles and concrete. And [Name], for once, didn’t have to immediately figure out which dumpster had the driest cardboard to sleep on.
Because they had cash. Legal tender. Rich bitch hours. It was giving temporary stability.
The first thing they did was get some damn food.
Not a gas station triangle kimbap or week-old convenience store bread. They went big. Convenience store microwaveable ramen and two onigiri big. They even grabbed a canned coffee.
Sitting on the curb with their feast spread out, [Name] devoured everything with the desperation of someone who hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. Because they hadn’t.
They didn’t cry.
Well.
They only teared up a little when they bit into the warm tuna mayo rice ball. But that didn’t count. Tuna mayo could bring a grown man to his knees.
After the meal (which they could've married), came the bigger issue: Where the hell were they sleeping?
Usually, the answer was “behind that one alley laundromat, next to the machine that makes scary sounds after midnight.”
But tonight, they actually had options.
[Name] wandered into a 24-hour motel district. The cheapest place still cost more than they wanted to pay, but they were riding the high of financial stability (read: not having exactly zero won), so they walked up to the front desk with fake confidence and dead eyes.
The receptionist side-eyed their hoodie, their messy hair, the bloodshot insomniac look in their eyes – but didn’t ask questions when [Name] slapped down the cash.
The room was small. It smelled like cigarette and air freshener that had given up on making a change. The sheets were clean(ish). The water ran lukewarm if you punched the faucet just right. The walls were thin enough to hear the couple next door fighting, then making up in the most uncomfortable way possible.
But to [Name], It was a goddamn palace.
They dropped onto the bed like a corpse, arms flopping out, hoodie still on. For a moment, just one small, tiny sliver of a moment, they let themselves feel safe.
Their brain tried to think. Tried to make sense of the strange man, the weird-ass card burning a hole in their pocket, the slap-to-pay system that was definitely not normal...
But they were too tired. Their body was too full. Their limbs too heavy.
So they let themselves sleep.
Not in an alley. Not on a bench. Not with one eye open and a knife in their hand.
But in a warm bed. For once.
—
The next morning cracked open.
It was Halloween.
Not that it mattered to [Name].
The streets were peppered with kids in cheap costumes and adults pretending to give a shit about candy and Instagram. Plastic pumpkins hung off store signs. Someone in a Frankenstein mask was blasting “Thriller” from a Bluetooth speaker like it was still culturally relevant.
[Name] zipped up their hoodie, slung their raggedy-ass backpack over one shoulder, and slipped out of the motel with all the stealth of someone who had 100% just pocketed the tiny shampoo bottle, hotel soap, and one of the complimentary coffee packets.
Survival tip #38: If it isn’t nailed down, it’s yours.
The streets felt familiar. The same cracked sidewalks. Same neon signs. Same convenience store clerk who always looked mildly alarmed whenever [Name] showed up.
Which was exactly where they headed next.
They still had money, plenty of it, actually. More than enough to last them a week if they budgeted like a monk and didn’t blow it all on overpriced comfort food.
So naturally, they bought buldak ramen. The nuclear one. The one that makes your soul leave your body and your intestines file a formal complaint. And because they were fancy now, they also grabbed a fat handful of shredded cheese from the topping bar.
It went in the microwave. The cheese melted into a gooey, lava-like mess of dairy. It smelled so fucking good.
[Name] grabbed it, didn’t even wait to sit down. They just walked out of the store casually slurping molten hell noodles straight from the container like the unbothered legend they were.
By the time they reached the old public phone booth, most of the ramen was gone, the broth halfway drank, the container half held together.
[Name] licked their lips, tossed the empty bowl in a nearby bin, and stared at the rusted metal door in front of them.
It looked like shit. But it worked. That’s all that mattered.
They slid the card out of their pocket. The matte surface still smooth, still anonymous. Just three shapes. Just a number.
They stared at it for a second longer, then snorted under their breath.
“This is such a bad idea,” they muttered, pushing open the booth door and stepping inside.
The metal creaked. The inside smelled like cigarettes. The phone hung there limply, dangling by a coiled cord like it wanted to be anywhere else.
[Name] picked it up and dialed.
One ring.
Two rings.
Then–click.
A calm, male voice answered. It sounded obnoxiously business-like. “Hello?”
[Name] inhaled slowly, leveling their tone into something flat and deadpan. “I was told to call this number.”
A pause.
Then the voice returned – measured, professional. “Are you interested in participating in the game?”
[Name] glanced down at the card again. The shapes stared back at them. Circle. Triangle. Square.
What did they even have to lose? Dignity? Hope? Internal organs? Those were probably already up for grabs.
“…Yeah,” they muttered, chewing the inside of their cheek. “I guess so.”
“If you wish to participate,” the voice continued, unfazed, “state your full name and date of birth.”
[Name] didn’t hesitate. They rattled off a fake birthday so fast it probably raised eyebrows in another dimension.
“Understood,” the voice said after a skeptical little moment. “Today at midnight. Be at the bus stop near XXXX. A vehicle will collect you. The password is ‘Red Light, Green Light.’”
[Name] opened their mouth to ask a question, but the line cut out before they could get a syllable out.
Just the hollow drone of a dead connection buzzed in their ear.
They slowly pulled the receiver away and stared at it blankly.
“…‘Red Light, Green Light?’” they raised an eyebrow. “What is this, kindergarten?”
With a sigh that carried the weight of lifetimes of disappointment, [Name] hung the phone and pushed the booth door open, stepping back into the crisp Halloween air.
The night had gotten colder. The city was louder with ongoing Halloween parties. But inside, something had shifted.
This was it. A detour off the endless, pointless loop of rot that plagued them
Whatever this game was, it couldn’t be worse than the constant, dragging misery of waking up every day just to figure out where to die. And fail.
And even if I was, they’d already been dying slowly.
Might as well make it more interesting then a pathetic suicide.
☆
[Name] stood alone under the busted-ass streetlamp, hoodie pulled up against the sharp bite of the wind. The sky was a flat void– no moon or stars, just a low-hanging blanket of clouds suffocating the city in darkness. Not even a stray cat dared to prowl tonight.
It was midnight exactly when the van rolled up. And this thing looked like it belonged to a cult with really good funding. Sleek, white, and spotless. The windows were tinted darker than [Name]’s sense of humor. This shit had "you’re gonna wake up in a ditch" written all over it.
The passenger window rolled down with a gentle hiss. Inside was someone in a full pink jumpsuit and a mask with a circle on it. Weird Halloween costume but okay.
“Password?” the masked figure asked, voice muffled, disoriented as if it was modified. Must be the mask.
[Name] didn’t blink. “Red light, green light,” they muttered, sounding like they were actively losing brain cells just saying it.
The van door slid open with an ominous hiss, and revealed a bougie-ass interior. Leather seats. And a handful of people already inside, slumped over. Every single one of them was asleep.
“Oh, cool. Drug bus,” [Name] deadpanned. “Definitely not getting human trafficked..”
But It was either this or sleeping under a bridge again, so in they went.
The door slid shut the moment they stepped in, sealing them in. [Name] barely had time to say “wait a fuckin–” before a soft puff of gas hissed from a vent above them. Their vision blurred instantly. Eyes heavy. Limbs heavier.
“Oh sick. Knockout gas..” they managed to grumble, sarcasm slurring as the world tilted sideways. “Ten outta ten... would not recommend…”
Then everything went black.
✧