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At first, he didn’t understand.
After so many years supervising the games, watching the players turn their misery into determination and violence, seeing the scum of humanity ruthlessly fight each other for the prize, forgetting ethics, morals, and social norms, Hwang In-ho was convinced that nothing could surprise him anymore.
Because people wouldn’t change unless the world changed. The players would play the game, kill or be killed, and in the end, the winner would take the prize home and never look back. That was human nature, after all. And every year, the story would repeat itself, like an eternal loop, full of violence and blood. In-ho wouldn’t say he liked the games, but it was good to know he was right: that when placed in extreme situations, humans would act according to their instincts, and that deep down, all people are selfish enough to sacrifice others for their own gain.
The games helped reaffirm everything he knew about humanity, and that alone brought him satisfaction. But as time went on, this unchanging law became so predictable that his so-called satisfaction was quickly replaced by boredom. Sure, he could still savor the expression of betrayal from certain people during the marble games or the quiet sadness of the player who chose number 1 in the glass bridge order. But none of that excited him, nothing made his heart "race," as some would say. So, In-ho resigned himself to believing that this was the natural order of things, and nothing would ever change. Never.
That is, until he met Seong Gi-hun, and finally tasted the sweet flavor of obsession.
Running the games wasn’t a burdensome task. Sitting comfortably in his room, he supervised both the players and the guards through the cameras to ensure everything went according to plan. There were rarely any major issues among the players, most adhered to the chronological order of events: sleep, wake up, eat, play, and repeat, that is, if they managed to survive. Additionally, the few necessary interventions, when fights among players became excessively violent, always proved effective, after all, fists could never win against firearms.
Larger problems arose among the guards themselves, with some engaging in illegal operations of harvesting and selling organs from the game’s losers on the black market. Even though he was aware of the operation happening under his watch, he pretended ignorance, knowing that those very people dying for their own greed were becoming the source of someone else’s greed. And once again, knowing he was right in his assumptions about people brought comfort to his hollow heart.
However, that edition of the game was destined to be special, because Seong Gi-hun was one of the participants. The first time he noticed the man, he was shouting—something In-ho realized he tended to do a lot—directly at a camera, as if expecting to speak with him. It was some silly speech about how money wasn’t everything and how this was all wrong. In-ho hadn’t paid it much attention at the time, having heard those same words thousands of times from other people who, in the end, would do far worse for the final prize. Looking back, it must have been some sort of premonition or warning for what was to come.
There was nothing remarkable about the man; he was just another individual like any of the others who had been there before. The only unique thing about him was being the last person selected to participate in the games, as proven by the number 456 stitched onto his uniform. Yet something about him caught In-ho’s attention, making him watch Gi-hun more closely than the other participants. Something dark, from the depths of his soul, wanted to see Gi-hun fall.
With each game Gi-hun won, drawing closer to the sixth, In-ho found himself increasingly interested in seeing his "good Samaritan" facade crumble. He built connections, helped and saved people who would never return the favor, and put others ahead of himself. At first, this deeply irritated In-ho. When Sang-woo—the person Gi-hun trusted most in there, a friendship formed outside the game, as In-ho later discovered—killed Sae-byeok in cold blood after their final supper, In-ho was certain Gi-hun would lose his sanity. He believed Gi-hun would finally reveal his true nature and kill Sang-woo, not just for the prize but for revenge.
He was wrong.
Because, in the end, it was never about the money for Gi-hun. His only wish was to leave that place with the people he cared about. And even though his wish didn’t come true, and he walked away with 45.6 billion won, he would never turn his back on what had happened. He wouldn’t follow the natural order of events; he wouldn’t content himself with the money and pretend none of it had occurred.
The VIP clients didn’t care about Player 456’s lack of ambition—they had been entertained enough by the other participants and left satisfied, eagerly anticipating the next edition of the games.
In-ho, however, was not satisfied. He had relished the murderous look in Gi-hun’s eyes during that final game. The splatters of blood formed a macabre masterpiece on the arena’s dirt floor, and his heart skipped a beat every time a punch landed on Sang-woo’s once-pristine face—the man who had driven Gi-hun to that depraved state. In-ho would never admit to feeling jealous of Player 218, but a hidden part of his mind, buried deep within, wished to have been there to witness Gi-hun’s unrestrained rage in its full force.
And yet, in the end, when everything seemed to be over – or rather, was already over – the bastard chose to give it all up.
With Sang-woo’s suicide, that hypnotic spell seemed to dissipate, taking with it all of Gi-hun’s murderous intent. He quickly reverted to his emotional, compassionate persona. No matter how many times In-ho rewatched the footage of that scene, the feeling of disappointment was always present. But it was always preceded by the rush of adrenaline that came from watching Player 456 unleash all his fury on 218.
Together in the car, looking at Gi-hun’s withdrawn figure, In-ho followed the scripted routine he used with all the winners. He congratulated them and urged them to forget everything that had happened, to take the money and live a happy life. But even before they entered the route back to Seoul, In-ho already knew Gi-hun wouldn’t do any of those things—he was too much of a stubborn fool for that. The winner seemed obsessed with knowing who he was and why he did this, and In-ho gave him simple, straightforward answers, leaving Gi-hun with no room to argue.
After knocking him out once again and leaving him in the place they had taken him from, the Front Man knew he had won. He had stripped Gi-hun of all hope, all happiness, and every friend he had made during that bloody game. But then, why did a sense of defeat still linger in his mind? As if the other man’s refusal to finish the game at the last second was proof that not all humans were as he believed them to be.
He hated that thought.
And before he realized it, that feeling consumed his mind entirely. Even months later, after Gi-hun refused to board the plane and vanished off the map, leaving his tracker abandoned in some random bathroom. Even after two more editions of the games passed without any complications or unlikely heroes, reaffirming his belief that people would never change, a nagging voice in the back of his mind always said otherwise.
People can change—just as Gi-hun had changed, and as he believed others could change too.
In this way, Hwang In-ho would never be satisfied until he could prove the opposite to Gi-hun.
And oh, he couldn’t wait to do so.
- 001 -
He couldn’t claim to truly know Seong Gi-hun; after all, they had exchanged only a few words, and most of what he knew came from watching the man’s actions on a screen. Yet, he could say with certainty that it wouldn’t take long before he saw him again. Knowing Gi-hun’s convictions, he was sure the man had spent the last few years trying to find a way to end the games, stop more deaths, and save others. Even though In-ho was aware of the risks this posed to the organization, he made no attempts to stop him, didn’t look for him, and didn’t offer any help. Gi-hun would come to him willingly—and this time, In-ho would be ready to receive him.
It took only as long as necessary. It was the best Gi-hun could manage over the past three years without drawing the police’s suspicion. Regardless, In-ho waited patiently – impatiently – through this period until he got what he wanted: Gi-hun back in his orbit.
Sitting in a luxurious car surrounded by hidden cameras, the Front Man observed the determined look of the former winner. He had changed significantly since the last time In-ho had seen him – there was no longer that innocent gaze or downcast eyes. His upright posture and serious expression revealed a man unshaken by the obvious imbalance of power. As Gi-hun tried to counter every truth In-ho held and believed, the only thing the Front Man could do was struggle to keep his face impassive in the presence of such a spectacle.
With every affront Gi-hun hurled his way, a growing desire to end it all and lock the man away in a cage where no one else could see that indescribable look but him surged within In-ho. It was all new to him; he had never felt anything like it for anyone else in his life. Yet he knew he had to restrain himself – he couldn’t spoil the fun before the game even began.
As the sedative gas began circulating through the car’s interior, In-ho watched from the front seat, observing the last conscious moments of Gi-hun before he collapsed into unconsciousness. He was already mentally preparing himself for what would come next.
No one ever truly knows the outcome of the games. Most results are a combination of luck and skill, making it difficult to bet on a winner right away. Even so, In-ho knew that this particular game between them could only have one outcome: Gi-hun would come to accept In-ho’s truths as absolute. And when that happened, he would be his and his alone.
- 001 -
To be honest, In-ho had an entire plan formulated for when he discreetly entered the games as Player 001. He avoided participating in the first game—not out of fear, but because he knew he could be eliminated due to someone else’s sheer incompetence. This was proven even more true when he witnessed Player 230 push three other players to their deaths.
Even so, he devoted most of his attention to Player 456, who seemed wary but confident at the start of the game. However, the moment Gi-hun reached for the false tooth in his mouth and realized that the tracking chip he had discreetly tried to bring was no longer there, his demeanor changed drastically.
It was obvious that In-ho would never let him return to the games without conducting a thorough search for GPS devices or bugs. In the car, Gi-hun had probably thought his hidden tool was safe while making empty threats about the small piggy bank. In-ho had nearly laughed at the look of terror that overtook Gi-hun's face.
With his hero complex in full force, Gi-hun led most of the players to victory, shouting tips and explaining the rules as best he could. Cute, In-ho thought. Of course, many players still lost as they came to understand what “losing” in this game truly meant. Once the first death occurred, a herd mentality took over the participants, causing many to panic, move, and subsequently die in the process. Yet, compared to other editions In-ho had been part of, significantly more players survived the motion sensor of the doll.
Upon returning to the dormitories, In-ho blended in with the despondent and traumatized players. Given the state of shock most participants were in, it was easy to see that no one had noticed there had been no Player 001 until then. By mimicking their sad, downcast expressions, it became clear to anyone observing that he, too, had survived the first game.
Before his absence, In-ho had left specific instructions for his second-in-command regarding how to proceed with the plan. While explaining the course of action, he noticed that his subordinate didn’t seem to understand why his superior would voluntarily participate in this deadly game. However, like a good subordinate, he didn’t question the orders or press further about the motive.
As expected, panic and fear consumed the participants after the end of the first round. They all sat in silence, huddled together and trembling like animals in the rain, as if those same people begging for mercy from the masked figures wouldn’t soon be fated to kill each other. Pathetic. Gi-hun was the one to propose the vote—to play or not to play, to stay or flee, X or O. With his unwavering faith in others, Gi-hun seemed certain that everyone would vote against continuing the games after witnessing the horror they entailed. But as always, the allure of money and humanity’s unchanging greed clouded their judgment.
Soon, the number of players wearing an O on their uniforms increased exponentially compared to those with an X. The revelation that Player 456 had already participated in the games and won only amplified this effect, prompting the players to clamor for another round—all while In-ho awaited his turn to vote with anticipation.
As if by divine intervention, his vote would be the tiebreaker, and he could hardly wait to see the look of disappointment on Gi-hun’s face when he realized he would be trapped for another round. As In-ho fastened the blue badge to his uniform, the cheers of joy from the other players drowned out the defeated sighs of those with an X on their chests.
When he turned around, his gaze was immediately drawn to Gi-hun, standing still and utterly despondent, looking so very, very small. In-ho had to suppress a smile as he drank in that wonderful expression. One of his strongest motivations for entering the games was the desire to witness firsthand just how broken Gi-hun could become and how far he would cling to his convictions before being forced to admit he was wrong.
In-ho wanted to be the only one to see it—away from the predatory gazes of the VIPs and everyone else in this room who might sway Gi-hun’s mind again.
In-ho wanted to be both the cause and the consequence of Gi-hun’s downfall. The cause that would force him to reveal his violent, animalistic side once more, and part of the consequence of his irrational actions. He wanted to give him a taste of hope in this hopeless world only to snatch it away just as it drew near.
The red and blue lights mingled, casting a purplish hue over the room where they stood. Disgruntled participants returned to their beds, preparing to sleep and awaiting the inevitable end that the next day would bring. Gi-hun remained frozen at the intersection of red and blue light, and in that moment, In-ho had never found him more beautiful.
- 001 -
“You were the reason I ended up voting to stay.”
Gi-hun looked him up and down, pain evident in his eyes. If he had any recollection of what the number 001 might mean or symbolize, he chose not to comment on it. Yet the weight of having dragged so many people into another round of the game seemed almost too much to bear. For now, In-ho would play at being friendly with Gi-hun. He might not be the same person who once trusted others so blindly, but given the circumstances of the game, it was better to have allies than enemies.
While offering hints about the next game to the group gathering around him, In-ho had to keep his expression neutral as he agreed with the other participants to choose the triangle in dalgona. Knowing Gi-hun’s presence, however, In-ho had already ordered changes to the standard games. "Red Light, Green Light" was a classic that couldn’t be left out. And while he would have loved to see the object of his obsession desperately licking honeycomb candy to save his life again, things needed to change.
As the group dispersed, In-ho stayed where he was. There wasn’t much time for socializing before the next game, and he wanted to leave a memorable impression. Just as he anticipated, watching Gi-hun spew his hatred for the system in person was far better than observing it through a camera. Debating with him was even better.
He knew Gi-hun was upset that he had voted O and would vent his frustration on him, but with every argument In-ho countered, Player 456 grew more speechless. In-ho had to suppress more than one satisfied sigh as he watched Gi-hun reluctantly agree with the undeniable truths in his words—until Player 390 decided to interject.
Player 390, or Park Jung-bae, was a long-time friend of Gi-hun. The recruiters likely hadn’t realized this fact when extending the invitation, and his presence posed an obstacle to In-ho’s perfect plan. But no matter; dealing with unforeseen challenges was part of the job.
As he observed the closeness between the two out of the corner of his eye, In-ho couldn’t help but feel a pang of possessiveness. However, he dismissed the thought the moment it crossed his mind. This wasn’t the time—at least, not yet.
And the plan would be perfect, no matter the cost.
- 001 -
"If you're not going to sleep, can we talk for a bit?"
Gi-hun adjusted himself on the bed when he heard In-ho's voice. Alone, with the lights off, player 456 seemed lost in thought. For a moment, In-ho thought he might be reflecting on their earlier conversation, but he didn't allow himself to hope too much. However, as soon as Gi-hun nodded, his posture shifted again, taking on a defensive and distrustful air, sitting upright on the hard mattress of the metal beds.
In-ho had to admit to himself: maybe his previous words had been a bit too harsh. He just couldn’t help it; there was something incredibly satisfying about leaving Gi-hun speechless. He hadn’t cared much for that before, but he couldn’t deny how enjoyable it was to watch the other’s lips curl downward while he struggled to find a response.
His more severe and provoking side, admittedly, might have left the wrong impression. However, he simply couldn’t restrain himself when he heard those venomous words coming from player 230's mouth. That was more than enough to test his patience.
Now it was time for damage control.
In-ho didn’t like to brag — or perhaps, he liked it a little. One thing his years as an undercover police officer had taught him was that he was great at manipulating people. This skill, combined with his indifference and timely charisma, was what had gotten him so far in this line of work, along with his indifference and timely charisma.
As soon as he began telling the sad story of his pregnant wife in the hospital, he could feel each of Gi-hun's defensive barriers falling one by one. Given the circumstances, Gi-hun knew that just as there were people who would do anything for the prize money, even when they didn’t need it, there were others who stayed for more noble reasons, even though they understood the consequences of remaining in that place.
He no longer knew where the truth ended, and the lies began. It was an old story; one he had intentionally tried to forget but had revived in an attempt to make Gi-hun see him in a different light. He omitted important details like his profession — he knew that Jun-ho had contacted Gi-hun, so he couldn’t leave room for suspicion — and transformed his past into his present. He never revealed many details of his situation when his wife was still alive, because he hated the pitying looks people gave him. He hated his 'mother’s' tears and the comforting words of his brother, because he knew that in the end, nothing would ever be okay.
However, Gi-hun didn’t look at him with pity. Player 456 remained silent throughout the entire story, not trying to comfort him or offer empty apologies. He seemed to relax while listening to such a personal story being entrusted to him, a complete stranger, and his expression appeared sad, yet determined. Was it because he believed he could help him with the money he had once they left this place, just as he had helped Sae-byeok’s family until today? In-ho would call it touching, but none of that mattered now, not anymore at least.
In-ho entrusted his old story to Gi-hun, who accepted it without saying a word. And even though his convictions hadn’t changed, he was grateful for that.
- 001 -
The next game wasn’t Dalgona.
"I still believe in you."
Gi-hun’s desolate gaze was absolutely wonderful, just as expected, but the silent gratitude that was directed back at him shortly after was priceless. With every small fragment of trust that Player 456 placed in him, the more delicious his expression would be when he discovered the truth.
The victory in the six-legged game was collective, as was the defeat. Despite knowing this, it didn’t stop him from trying to make Gi-hun suffer.
In-ho placed his choice in Gi-hun’s hands – now he could finally call him by name freely – who naively placed himself as the last of the five mini-games to be won. And as a twist of fate, they would also be one of the last groups to play.
When the first groups failed, the hope of the other teams seemed to turn more and more into fear and helplessness. A single individual mistake could cost the lives of all five participants, and observing how bad one of the competitors from the first group had been at Biseokchigi, he hoped that Jung-bae wouldn’t ruin the whole plan he had built so far and that the warning he gave him would be enough to make him succeed.
However, from the moment the following groups started completing the circuit – with the first to actually win the game being the most unlikely group of all – it was possible to feel determination slowly returning to the participants. As the incurable emotional person he was, Gi-hun was the one who cheered the loudest and shouted words of encouragement to the chosen players. Getting into the spirit of things, In-ho also allowed himself to cheer and get excited by the players' displays of perseverance in the face of trials. He wasn't sure exactly when Gi-hun embraced him and celebrated the victory of a team with him, but for at least two or three minutes, he allowed himself to enjoy the physical contact and pretend that he still wanted to destroy the mind of the same man who touched him.
In-ho wasn’t someone who was easily surprised – even if Gi-hun had been proving him wrong for the last three years – so it was a huge surprise when all three members of his group won their games on the first attempt. He would have liked to stay a bit longer with his arm around Gi-hun, keeping him away from the other participants like a bridge between him and the rest. However, that would give him enough time to toy with everyone’s nerves without completely sabotaging the group.
The truth is, he knew how to play the pawn, perhaps better than anyone in that room, but he wanted to see what Gi-hun would do when he saw that time was running out. Would he shout and get angry? Would he hit him in frustration, just like player 120 hit 044? Deep down, In-ho had a feeling he already knew the answer, and as soon as he began pretending to lose his cool and panic, Gi-hun was the only one who stopped him from quitting and got him back on track. Just as expected. He had already seen Gi-hun encourage and help thousands of participants in various situations, but he didn’t expect the impact of his words to be genuinely effective in any way. Honestly, his Gi-hun was truly something special.
With less than a minute on the clock, he finally lands the top in the perfect position, which spins gracefully on the rainbow-colored floor of the room. Celebrating the victory briefly, they move on to jegi, where Gi-hun would have just one chance to hit the five required touches. In-ho hoped that Gi-hun’s nerves would be on edge, since his life and the lives of all his companions depended on this victory, but as always, his spirit was too hard to break. While everyone watched Gi-hun's foot and silently hoped, In-ho cast brief glances at the profile of the man beside him, magnified by his unflappable demeanor in the face of imminent death.
Having gone through the same stress so many times before, it was no surprise that the games no longer destabilized him as much as they had before. Still, Gi-hun's focused look was still something incredible to witness up close. Even though he hadn’t been able to make the other man panic as he had planned, In-ho still considered it a victory. Helping Gi-hun with the final touch was nothing less than a reflex, but it allowed them to complete the game on time and made Gi-hun grateful for his help.
He could hardly wait for the “Thank you” Gi-hun would give to the same man who had put him through this hell twice. It was just too much fun.
- 001 -
"Gi-hun, don't you think you've been stressed out since earlier?"
Gi-hun stares at him with wide eyes, not out of anger, but desperation. With the result of the second vote forcing them to play another game, Gi-hun proposed that they build a fort to pass the night without incidents. In-ho knew that in every game, sooner or later, this moment would come, when rivalry and greed corrupted the participants' minds to the point that the so-called 'special game' was triggered. Personally, this was the part he liked most about watching the games. It was the peak of human selfishness, the pinnacle of individualism.
Sacrificing people in the game was easy. Prioritizing oneself over others was simply natural. But the act of voluntarily taking someone else's life for personal gain? That was true art. In a world without rules, detached from society and its norms, people showed their true nature. Those who preached that killing was wrong, that people who hurt and mistreat others should be imprisoned, would shove shards of glass and other non-lethal objects into those they deemed weaker.
What he wanted to show Gi-hun was that he couldn’t win against this system, and that this weak attempt to protect them from the other participants wouldn’t matter much when faced with the real fight. However, Gi-hun wouldn’t give up on the idea, so In-ho would settle for agreeing, even though the idea of sleeping under the beds didn’t seem so comfortable.
As he rested, looking up at the low ceiling that almost touched his forehead, it was in moments like these that he missed his central room. His comfortable sofa and a glass of whiskey were the best he could ask for at that moment—along with all the cameras focused solely on Gi-hun, of course—but having put himself in this situation, he wasn’t in much of a position to complain.
Before he could fall asleep, the casual conversation between the other two players kept him awake. Gi-hun had been awake since the bedtime announcement, and Jung-bae seemed to prefer staying up with him rather than resting for the game the next day. In-ho cursed himself mentally. He should’ve had this idea first. He should’ve been the one staying by Gi-hun’s side in the dead of the night, whispering half-truths until the other trusted him fully, not Jung-bae, the same one who had left him hanging during the last vote.
Still, this didn’t seem to bother Gi-hun the way In-ho had expected. The two continued exchanging stories and reminiscing about old times. He thought he heard a brief laugh escape Gi-hun’s lips, a sound he hadn’t heard in over two years, and it was followed by a violent surge of emotion. The other man hadn’t laughed at the joke he had purposely crafted with his name – Seong means surname, get it? – but he would laugh at any lame thing Jung-bae, of all people, had said? His hands were tied, but at that moment, more than any other, he wished he had a weapon to end Jung-bae’s life once and for all.
He imagined the face Gi-hun would make. Would he get angry or cry? Would he gather all the pain and keep moving forward as he always did? Imagining those scenarios brought comfort to his restless mind, but since he had tasted the real thing, nothing else compared. Thankfully, at some point, this thought would come true, so for now In-ho would let him breathe a little longer.
- 001 -
"I was worried. Glad you made it."
The third game, Socializing, was treacherous.
It seemed simple when the rules were explained, but with a limited number of doors and a player limit, things got complicated. Splitting off from the group wasn’t initially what he wanted, since he preferred not to risk his luck with other strangers, but when he heard the number four, he knew that even choosing one person to be left out would take up much of the time they didn’t have. Whether they were together or apart, In-ho knew he would survive, no matter the cost.
He had to suppress the urge to shove Jung-bae as soon as he embraced him. With each passing second, his hatred for the man only grew, but with the other players from his small group watching, he did his best to hold it in. Gi-hun’s concern seemed genuine, and under normal circumstances, he would have laughed at the irony, but now he felt moved by how easily he could convince Gi-hun to trust him.
The rest of the game seemed to go smoothly for him and his companions. Well, that was until the last round. Fifty doors, one hundred and twenty-six players, and the chosen number was...
Two!
Without time to think, In-ho grabbed the person closest to him, who—unfortunately—ended up being Jung-bae. Along the way, another player grabbed 390 out of the way, forcing 001 to stop running and help him. As much as he wanted to just leave him there, blame time and desperation, and say it was all he could do, that wouldn’t bring any comfort to his soul. One thing was clear: In-ho needed to kill Jung-bae in front of Gi-hun; only then would he be truly satisfied.
Upon finding one of the few rooms with open doors, he grabbed the participant about to enter and held the door open for Jung-bae, throwing the other player to the ground and shutting the door. By the time he realized the mistake, it was too late to backtrack. With little time and three players in the room, he had to make a choice. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be killed—he had instructed the second-in-command to shoot him in the leg or shoulder in case of elimination—he couldn’t let it end like this.
Strangling someone to death was easier than it seemed, especially if your victim doesn’t expect it. The lack of oxygen to the brain affects not only cognitive but also motor functions. The problem was that it took time for the victim to suffocate, and that was time he didn’t have. So, with a quick movement of his hands and the right force, the sound of bones cracking could be heard, even through the neighboring rooms. The door clicked shut, and Jung-bae stared at him, terrified, but didn’t say a word to the man who had just saved his life.
In-ho honestly didn’t care about Jung-bae’s opinion of him; what he couldn’t let happen was for Gi-hun to find out what he had done before the grand finale. After all the work he put into building his charismatic and obedient persona, one that fits perfectly with Gi-hun’s determined and trustworthy side, he wouldn’t let anyone, absolutely anyone, erase the image that number 456 had of him—at least not for now.
Now, In-ho had to keep an eye on him, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t have to do so for much longer.
- 001 -
The next vote resulted in a tie.
In-ho was the last to vote, and for a moment, he almost thought he would have to vote for the circle again. He simply could not allow the game to end like that and knowing that in the second vote it was obvious the X would lose; it was no problem to go with the flow to please Gi-hun. However, if his vote were the deciding factor in determining whether the games would continue, he would have to do his best to justify his choice without blowing his cover.
Fortunately for him, player 044 played her part in convincing someone who had previously voted for X to stay in the game. This allowed In-ho to keep his red band on his chest for a little longer. The players were divided evenly, half and half. As per the rules, a new vote would be held in the morning among the remaining players — that is, those who survived the night.
The purpose of the mandatory vote wasn’t just to give the participants an illusion of freedom but also to divide them into factions. This way, tensions between them would reach an irreversible breaking point, forcing people to kill one another. Of course, most would blame the system, claiming they wanted to stay in the game and that the others were holding them back. But deep down, everyone knew the truth—because the moment you take someone’s life for your own benefit, you are nothing but a monster.
In-ho had already come to terms with the idea of being a monster. And even though Gi-hun had yet to embrace the notion of becoming a monster himself, In-ho was close behind, ready to put him the right way.
He remained vigilant of Jung-bae’s actions, knowing he couldn’t afford to be careless again. However, the older man seemed so terrified—fearing that if he revealed anything to anyone, he would have to face the consequences—that he kept his mouth shut. There were moments when he seemed to try speaking to Gi-hun when they were alone, but overall, he appeared to understand what was best for him. Who would have thought pigs could think like that?
With the looming threat of losing the new vote, the plan to persuade someone from the other side to choose red gained renewed momentum. This time, In-ho agreed—not because he thought it would have any effect on convincing them, as those people were already beyond salvation and only death could cleanse their souls—but because he knew it would heighten the discord between the two groups.
An argument almost immediately broke the uncomfortable silence that hung over the dormitories. Divided by the lines on the floor, it was obvious to anyone that this would not be a peaceful night. Everything In-ho had planned for the games was well thought out, including even the choice of meals, which were decided in advance. Therefore, it was no surprise that tonight’s dinner included a gift for each player: a sharp metal fork.
From the corner of his eye, In-ho noticed Gi-hun staring at his utensil. It was likely stirring up memories—the knife deliberately left on the table after the gala dinner the finalists of his edition had received. The same knife that had taken both Sae-byeok’s and Sang-woo’s lives. Gi-hun’s expression was unreadable, but In-ho could sense the implications of his thoughts.
After some time, the robotic female voice announced the eliminated players, and everyone watched more money drop into the suspended piggy bank above them. Most seemed confused at first, but when the men returning from the bathroom bore wide-eyed expressions and bloodstains, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.
The number of remaining participants was announced: 48 X’s to 47 O’s, a result favoring those who wanted to leave in tomorrow’s vote. In-ho suggested that they strike first. The confrontation was inevitable, but with the element of surprise, they could minimize their losses. Most seemed to agree with the plan, tired of being played for fools and risking their lives in yet another game. Gi-hun, as always, was the first to disagree.
As soon as the plan to start a revolution was put on the table, In-ho had to do his best not to show any reaction at all. While Gi-hun explained that, to end the game, they needed to reach the man in the black mask, In-ho felt utterly captivated. This was the chance he had been waiting for – his one opportunity not only to put an end to 456’s foolish ideals but also to steal him away from the world and keep him all to himself.
Listening to him now, In-ho was sure Gi-hun would never expect such betrayal from him, and that only made the thought of the revelation more tantalizing.
For now, he would help Gi-hun with his crazy plan. He would kill his own subordinates if it meant satisfying him, and he would do the best he could until the moment Young-il finally met his death.
- 001 -
"Take this. You’ll need it."
In-ho stared at the last remaining clip of Gi-hun’s bullets with silent grace.
While trying to locate the control room, Gi-hun had chosen Jung-bae to accompany him, refusing In-ho’s help even after he’d offered. In-ho silently thanked his luck that Jung-bae’s last moments were approaching because, at that point, he could feel jealousy threatening to consume his actions. No matter—he would have plenty of time to teach Gi-hun never to consider him a second option again.
Player 001 knew that neither 456 nor 390 had any ammunition left; it was only a matter of time before the masked guards realized this and closed in on them. Gi-hun seemed certain that Young-il would need those bullets if he wanted to ambush them from behind, and how could In-ho deny something Gi-hun so willingly handed over?
He and his team maneuvered through the narrow, irregular corridors. Once their backs were to the pink-suited guards, In-ho sent the other two participants ahead, placing them squarely in his sights. With both distracted, he pulled the trigger, dropping them to the ground before they even had the chance to understand what had happened.
And finally, his mask had fallen—or rather, returned to where it truly belonged. As he was about to end player 015’s suffering, he realized his weapon was empty. It wasn’t much of a problem, easily solved with the spare clip Gi-hun had insisted he take.
The radio crackled audibly just as he finished loading his MP5. He could have left it unanswered, leaving Gi-hun to wonder about Young-il and his team’s fate. But hearing his voice, In-ho decided that Gi-hun at least deserved to hear his final words.
"I'm sorry. It's over—they got us."
As Gi-hun’s desperate pleas echoed through the purple-walled room, In-ho made sure he could hear the agonizing gasps of player 015 before aiming at his head. How ironic that the very clip Gi-hun had insisted he take would be the one to end the lives of his teammates and his precious Young-il.
The emotion in Gi-hun’s voice as he screamed his name over the radio was touching, though next time they met, In-ho hoped he’d call him by his real name.
The final shot needed to be audible through the transmitter, like the final nail sealing a coffin that would bury Young-il forever, along with all his lies and false dreams. In-ho expected Gi-hun to grieve, but he knew the damage couldn’t compare to the pain of losing someone more important to him—his only friend in there, Park Jung-bae.
Switching the radio frequency, In-ho sent an alert signal. No acknowledgment sound came through, but he was sure the person on the other end heard it.
He headed toward his room to prepare for the final showdown.
It was time to end this.
- 001 -
"Player 456. Did you enjoy playing the hero?"
Kneeling before him, Gi-hun held his gaze, his face full of nothing but anger. Since the moment In-ho began his journey infiltrating the games and drawing closer to Gi-hun, he had known this would be the conclusion. He had dreamed of this since the first night he laid eyes on him. But, as always, reality far surpassed imagination.
If himself from three years ago could see him now, he would probably be shocked at the turn his life had taken. He never would have thought he was capable of pursuing someone so obsessively. Not even the love he felt for his wife had managed to awaken emotions as profound as the ones he felt now.
Love? But what was love to him? It wasn’t the home-cooked meals his mother made every Friday. It wasn’t the weekends playing soccer with his brother in the late afternoon. And it definitely wasn’t the passionate nights he spent with his wife while she was alive. None of that was love to him, because now he knew better.
Love was the way Gi-hun’s expressions changed under stress. It was the way his mouth moved when he cursed the game’s creators—and, consequently, In-ho. It was the way his back arched perfectly during the dalgona challenge, his hips lifting as if begging In-ho to take him then and there. It was the way his face twisted with hatred and sorrow when a bullet struck Jung-bae’s chest.
Shooting someone had never felt so satisfying, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Jung-bae’s existence meant nothing to the world, but his death allowed Gi-hun to unleash all his pent-up animosity over the years and lunge at the Front Man. Of course, he was restrained, but part of In-ho wished he had let Gi-hun reach him, pin him down, and show him exactly who he was. But they had time. Plenty of time.
As In-ho walked away, he instructed one of the guards to take his new guest to the special room prepared for him. He had already made all the necessary adjustments to ensure they could coexist comfortably. Once they dragged Gi-hun into the room, it would mark the beginning of a new life for him, even as he thrashed and wept behind In-ho.
It was a shame that Gi-hun still didn’t understand.
Because now, In-ho finally did.
And soon, so would he.
- 457 -