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Gi-hun's ears still rang with the echoes of gunfire. Stumbling in a daze, he barely registered the pink-clad guards dragging him through the hallways and up the stairs. Orders were being barked in the background, but the words blurred into meaningless noise. All he could hear was his ragged breathing and the haunting replay of that moment—the lifeless body of his friend sprawled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes.
The consequence of playing the hero.
Blood dripped from the wound in Gi-hun’s arm, leaving a crimson trail in their wake. He felt no pain, though. His body was numb, his senses dulled and overwhelmed by the far deeper ache in his chest.
They reached a doorway. Gi-hun finally looked up, alarmed that they were not escorting him back to the others. Instead, they’d brought him to the very place he’d been trying to reach before being so brutally defeated. At the end of the long hallway on the top floor stood a golden door.
Of course. He was a rebel, a bad example to the others. He would not be making it out of this alive.
The Frontman, silent until now, stepped forward. His hands rested calmly behind his back as a small camera scanned his mask.
Identity confirmed.
The door slid open. The Frontman nodded to the guards, who tossed Gi-hun inside without ceremony. He stumbled, collapsing to the floor in the darkness, his energy spent.
He didn't have much time to recover, however, before two of the guards grabbed him again roughly, forcing him to the ground. He struggled weakly as they cuffed him to the leg of a heavy table. Their task complete, they saluted the Frontman and quickly exited, leaving Gi-hun alone with him.
The lights came on suddenly, causing him to flinch. He lifted his head, surveying his surroundings. This wasn’t the control room. The decor was ornate—too lavish. A leather chair faced away from him, and in one corner, a music box adorned with golden figurines stood like an eerie centerpiece. In a moment, it dawned on him. This was the Frontman's private quarters.
Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. The Frontman knelt, his masked face level with Gi-hun's.
"Has the fight finally been knocked out of you?"
Gi-hun said nothing, glaring at him with pure hatred.
The Frontman gestured toward the wall behind them.
"Take a look."
He raised a remote Gi-hun hadn’t noticed and pressed a button. A monitor blinked to life, revealing his companions, all looking withdrawn as the guards flooded into their room.
Gi-hun sat up, watching in horror as Hyun-ju and the others were quickly surrounded. His breath hitched as Hyun-ju stepped forward. She stood firm, glaring at the guards even as she raised her hands in surrender. They swarmed her, yanking her weapon away and forcing her to the ground. She didn’t cry out, maintaining her defiance even as they restrained her.
Stop it!” Gi-hun screamed, his voice cracking. “Leave them alone!”
The Frontman remained silent, his gaze fixed not on the screen but on Gi-hun’s face.
On the monitor, the guards dragged Dae-ho from his bed and tossed him onto the floor. Gi-hun’s heart broke as he saw Geum-ja sobbing, her son holding her back with tears streaming down his face.
Gi-hun turned on the Frontman, desperation spilling from every word. “They’ve surrendered! They’re unarmed! You don’t have to kill them!”
The Frontman tilted his head. “Don’t I?”
“They don’t need to die!” Gi-hun whispered hoarsely. “Please. Haven’t you killed enough of us?”
The Frontman’s voice was cold, detached. “I told you. Your actions have consequences. This is what you’ve done, Player 456.”
Gi-hun shook his head frantically, refusing to accept it. “No… no, this isn’t my fault!”
The Frontman gestured to the screen again. Hyung-ju and Dae-ho were held down while the guards continued to search for any remaining weapons. Gi-hun continued to watch with bated breath. Pretty soon, the room fully inspected, the guards finally released his friends and withdrew, allowing them to return to the others unharmed. He let out a breath, relieved.
More guards entered the room with boxes wrapped in pink bows. They would be collecting the bodies, and soon the next vote would take place.
Nothing had changed.
The Frontman leaned closer, his voice low and cutting. “Do you see now? Your rebellion was meaningless. You accomplished nothing.”
Gi-hun turned his head away in anger, but the Frontman caught his chin and forced him to look back at him.
"Surely you understand by now. I entertained this little game of yours because it was fun. As you said, it was indeed more interesting this way." His voice was colored with amusement.
“But that’s all it ever was—a game. I let you join, even indulged your little hero fantasy, just so you could see for yourself how meaningless your presence here would be in the end.”
The Frontman roughly shoved Gi-hun's head to the side, forcing him to turn back to the screens. A camera had focused on the O group, their faces resolute. Player 100's expression stood out among them—he was determined, ready and waiting.
"Look at them." The Frontman demanded. "I told you before. As long as people like that exist, this will continue. Until the world changes, the games will never end."
Gi-hun jerked away, finally pulling out of the masked man's hold. The Frontman let him go, watching him carefully.
Gi-hun was shaking on his knees, head hanging low. The Frontman rose to his full height, staring down at him with apparent satisfaction. For a moment, there was a tense silence between them, only broken by Gi-hun's shuddering breaths. Then, he spoke up.
"No."
The Frontman tilted his head, intrigued. “No?”
Gi-hun raised his head, his face set with newfound conviction. “You’re wrong.”
He struggled to his feet as much as the cuffs allowed, glaring at the Frontman. “You talk like this is some noble philosophy. Like you’re above it all. But you’re the one pulling the strings. You’re the one killing these people.”
“I never forced anyone to kill,” the Frontman replied smoothly. “They always had a choice—”
"Bullshit!"
Gi-hun is closer now, leaning in towards the man's masked face.
"You gave them the illusion of choice, sure. But you manipulate them into thinking it's the only choice they have. You convince them that it's their decision, that they're not being forced, so that they'll want to stay. You make them play children's games, so they think they'll have a shot at winning. You place them in the perfect situation to turn on each other, plant the idea of murder in their heads, and hand them the weapons to carry it out. You trap them in this nightmare, then preach about fairness and equality. But that’s not what this is about, is it?”
Gi-hun reached forward suddenly and grabbed the lapels of the Frontman's coat with his free hand, dragging him even closer. The Frontman made no move to stop him.
"All you care about is entertainment. You kill us for your own amusement, then hide behind your lies and philosophical bullshit to help you sleep at night. But you’re nothing more than a murderer.”
The Frontman didn’t flinch. Instead, his tone turned almost amused. “Is that really what you think of me, Gi-hun?”
He pushed Gi-hun back with surprising force.
"You have no idea who I really am."
Gi-hun glared. “Then show me. Stop hiding behind that mask.”
The Frontman paused. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Gi-hun’s resolve was unshaken. He lifted his chin, his voice steady and defiant.
“If I’m going to die here, I’ll do it staring you in the eye, making you admit the truth—that you’re nothing more than a cowardly killer, rotting alone on a throne built from blood.”
The Frontman stared silently at him for a beat, as if intrigued. Then, slowly, he lifted a hand and removed his mask.
It took Gi-hun a moment to process what he was seeing. It couldn't be true—no. No, it wasn't possible.
Young-il stared back at him, his gaze as soft and unrelenting as ever.
Gi-hun trembled, shaking his head violently.
"You—no, it can't be. You're not- you were supposed to be dead. I heard you die!"
Young-il sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. "Always so naive, Gi-hun."
A horrible, creeping sensation crawled through Gi-hun, making his stomach churn.
"I told you," Young-il continued, his voice calm but cold. "You have no idea who I am, or what I've been through."
"Y-you-" Gi-hun stammered, his voice breaking. "You liar. I trusted you!"
"Gi-hun—"
"How could you do this!? You were my friend! You were—" His voice faltered. "You were Jung-bae's friend! Was all of that a lie?"
Young-il didn't reply, his silence damning.
"I believed in you." Gi-hun whispered, voice heavy with betrayal. "I- after the first game, I wanted so badly to believe." He shook his head. "What about everything you told me? What about your wife?"
Young-il's expression didn't change.
"She's dead."
Gi-hun stared at him, his eyes wide with shock. "Why... why!? You have to put a stop to these games! Please, Young-il-"
"Enough."
The Frontman’s voice turned sharp and commanding. He stepped closer, his hand brushing against Gi-hun’s face. Gi-hun flinched at the touch.
"My name," he said softly, "is In-ho. Hwang In-ho."
Gi-hun's eyes widened as the name sank in. "Jun-ho's brother."
Young-il—no, In-ho—smiled faintly.
"You wanted to know who I really am? No hiding behind the mask? Then I'll tell you why you were so wrong about me."
He leaned in, his voice a low whisper in Gi-hun's ear.
"I've played these games before."
In-ho pulled back, watching Gi-hun’s reaction. Gi-hun could only stare at him.
“You were a winner,” he whispered, piecing it together.
In-ho gave a slow nod.
"I'm nothing like those disgusting scum that call themselves VIPs." He said, his voice filled with quiet disdain. "I'm like you, Gi-hun. I was you, once."
Gi-hun trembled, his eyes filling with tears.
"Then... then why..."
In-ho’s hand moved gently, brushing through Gi-hun’s hair like a gesture of comfort, though it only made Gi-hun shudder.
"Because, like you, I came back." In-ho said, his voice hard and unyielding. "Like you, I couldn't bear the ugliness of the world. I couldn't get on that plane."
He sighed deeply, as though the weight of his words pressed on him.
“I’m not doing this for the VIPs,” he continued. “I’m not even doing it for myself.”
Gi-hun’s breath caught as he remained frozen, unable to respond.
“I’m doing it,” In-ho said, his voice quiet and deliberate, “for people like you, Gi-hun.”
"People... like me?"
The look on In-ho's face was so painfully fond and gentle.
“You’re special, Gi-hun. You’re different from them.” He gestured to the other players on the screen. “Don’t you see? You’re not like the other vermin that crawl their way in here. The unworthy are purged. The arrogant, the greedy—they destroy themselves. And the rest? They’re granted release from their misery. Freed from the cruel hand fate has dealt them.”
“And then there’s you,” In-ho continued, his voice softening. “A brave, naive little hero. Among all the filth, you’re a rare gem. Someone like you—someone truly deserving of victory—appears only once in a lifetime. You’re the reason these games go on, Gi-hun. You’re the reason I keep them alive.”
Gi-hun remained silent, trembling at the softness of his tone.
“Sacrifices are necessary,” In-ho went on, his tone steady. “You said that yourself before, didn’t you? People must be sacrificed for the greater good. The people who died—those you played a part in killing—were necessary for your survival. For you to thrive. Their loss made your light shine even brighter. You’re alive because of them, Gi-hun. And you came back because of them. Stronger. The unworthy exist only to elevate the worthy.”
Gi-hun’s world felt shaken. The man standing before him—his friend, his comrade—was gone. No, the person he knew had never existed to begin with. The betrayal carved into his chest, a wound deeper than any the games had left him with.
“You think this is about worth?” Gi-hun’s voice cracked, trembling with anger and something softer—something more fragile. “You tell yourself that to justify the blood on your hands?”
In-ho’s calm demeanor didn’t falter, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of regret that disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
“You misunderstand me,” In-ho replied, his voice low, deliberate. “This isn’t justification. It’s reality. Out there, the world chews people up and spits them out just the same. The difference here is we make them face it. We show them who they really are.”
Gi-hun shook his head, the tears in his eyes spilling freely. “No. You've turned this into something uglier than the world outside. You’ve taken everything—and for what? A throne of corpses?”
In-ho’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, the space between them now charged, like two magnets pushing against one another yet unable to pull apart.
“You think I wanted this?” he asked, his voice sharper, more vulnerable. “You think I had a choice?”
“You always had a choice!” Gi-hun shouted. “But you let it consume you. You let them consume you. The man I knew would never—”
“The man you knew,” In-ho cut in, his voice breaking just slightly, “died the moment he won.”
The words fell between them like stones sinking into a deep, dark ocean. Gi-hun’s breath hitched, the tears streaking his face faster now.
“Then what’s left of you, In-ho?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “What are you now?”
For a moment, the mask of indifference slipped. In-ho’s eyes softened, his gaze falling to the ground as though he couldn’t bear to meet Gi-hun’s.
“I’m what the world made me,” he said finally. “A survivor.”
Gi-hun let out a bitter, broken laugh. “A survivor? No. You’re a coward. You’re just another monster hiding behind a mask.”
In-ho’s expression hardened, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in, his face close to Gi-hun’s.
“Believe what you want,” he murmured. “But know this—there’s no escaping this game. Not for you. Not for me. We’re trapped in it, just like everyone else.”
Gi-hun’s breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t anger that burned in his chest. It was heartbreak, raw and unrelenting.
“No,” he said, quieter now but no less firm. “You’re trapped because you gave up. You’re afraid—afraid because you know I’m right. You know that even in this nightmare, there’s still hope. And that terrifies you.”
In-ho’s silence stretched on, his face just inches from Gi-hun’s, his hand brushing briefly against Gi-hun’s cheek. It wasn’t a rough touch. If anything, it was almost hesitant, almost tender.
“Hope,” Gi-hun whispered, leaning slightly into the touch before pulling himself back. “That’s what you’re afraid of. Because as long as I’m here, as long as even one of us believes in something better, you can never win.”
For a moment, In-ho’s breath seemed to catch. His hand lingered by Gi-hun’s face before dropping back to his side. His voice, when he spoke, was barely audible.
“You still don’t understand,” he said. “You think hope is enough to save you.”
“No,” Gi-hun replied, his gaze steady, unwavering. “But it’s enough to save you.”
In-ho froze. Their eyes locked, the tension between them more than just anger or betrayal. It was something neither of them dared name, something fragile and aching that neither could let go of.
Without another word, In-ho pulled away. He turned sharply and began to walk away, his footsteps echoing in the vast, golden room.
But just before the door slid shut behind him, Gi-hun’s voice rang out, clear and filled with quiet desperation:
“This isn’t over, In-ho. You can run from me, but you can’t run from yourself. I’ll make you see. I’ll make you remember.”
For the briefest of moments, In-ho hesitated.
Then the door closed between them with a resounding finality.