Chapter Text
2006
Lee Jeong-ha is 24 years old when they recruit him for the Games.
It’s one of the worst days of his life- at least, it feels like that at the time. Earlier that day, he learned that his application to business school had been rejected.
Years of struggle had culminated in this moment: finally breaking all contact with his estranged father, working his ass off to get his bachelor’s, learning English, barely making enough money to keep the lights on. The few friends that he kept in contact with had drifted away as he buried himself in his studies. All of that for a single-page, impersonal rejection letter. The letter that’s now torn into shreds and shoved beneath all the other trash in his bin.
Jeong-ha has no backup plan. His advisors told him that he was a shoo-in, that they had no doubts about him being accepted. Turns out that this year had a record number of applicants. He’s been aimlessly wandering around the city all afternoon, feeling like a ship that’s come loose from its moorings. He can’t bring himself to go back to his shithole of an apartment with all the business textbooks and pathetic hopeful application materials reminding him of his failure.
He thinks about his father. How he’d probably gloat over the news that he didn’t get in. Remind him that he wasn’t as special as he thought. He pictures his father the last time he saw him: the sly drunkard’s smile on his face, one hand clutching a near-empty bottle of liquor, the other jabbing an accusatory finger into Jeong-ha’s chest. His breath reeked of alcohol. “You think you’re so much better than all of us,” his father had said. “One day life is gonna kick you on your ass, and then you’ll realize you’re no smarter than your old man.”
Jeong-ha is walking down a street lined with retail shops, eyes unfocused on the ground in front of him, not registering anything but his feet mindlessly carrying him forward. He pauses in front of a clothing store and catches a glimpse of himself reflected in the window display. His face is pale, drawn. His hair is getting too long, flopping in his face. He’s cheaply dressed in a pair of old jeans and a workman’s jacket because he can’t afford anything better.
Disgusted by his own pitiful reflection, Jeong-ha keeps walking. He hears the cries of seagulls above and realizes that he’s getting close to the Han River. He walks parallel to the water for a while, thinking of nothing. Thankfully, there’s hardly anyone around. It’s mid-afternoon on a weekday and the weather is foul.
He ends up standing in the middle of the Hangang bridge, watching the dark water briskly flow below. The sky is grey and overcast, and there’s a chill in the air that cuts right through his jacket. He shivers and turns up the collar, hugging himself to stay warm. The water must be freezing. It probably wouldn’t take too long for hypothermia to set in, he thinks. If I jumped.
He finds himself inching closer to the guardrails. Not too high. Wouldn’t be too hard to climb over them and just let go.
Drowning is supposed to be a peaceful death. He thinks he read that somewhere. That once the initial struggle to breathe diminishes, the fear goes away, and a deep sense of relaxation takes over before you go unconscious.
Yes, that wouldn’t be so bad.
His mother had died a few years back. Metastatic lung cancer. She wasn’t even a smoker, but he always thought that his father drove her to an early grave. Jeong-ha isn’t sure he believes in the afterlife, but the slim possibility of seeing her again is comforting. He pictures her pale hands reaching out to him as he sinks deeper into the freezing water, guiding him home.
Jeong-ha is sweating despite the cold. His pulse is through the roof and his hands are shaking. He shoves them deep in his pockets. Stop it, you fucking coward.
He’s working up the courage to jump when his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you all right?”
Jeong-ha whips around, breathing hard, furious at the interruption. There’s a tall man standing in front of him. He’s dressed formally in a dark blue suit, trench coat and dress shoes. He’s holding a black leather briefcase. He looks… expensive. The man bows curtly as Jeong-ha gapes at him.
“I hope you aren’t planning to jump,” says the man, corners of his lips twitching up in a smile. He’s blandly handsome, but there’s a cold look behind his eyes. “Money troubles?” he adds, looking Jeong-ha up and down.
Who does this fucker think he is?
“That’s none of your business,” Jeong-ha snaps, feeling his face get red. “Please, just leave me the fuck alone.”
The guy looks amused by his rudeness. “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be on my way shortly. But I have some information that might interest you.”
Jeong-ha furrows his brow, confused. He stays quiet, his silence an unspoken invitation for the man to continue.
The man smiles. “It’s a business opportunity. We are recruiting people of all backgrounds to help organize an event,” he says vaguely. “Forgive me for presuming this, but if you are in a difficult spot financially, I can assure you that you’ll never have to worry about money again. If you accept this offer.”
“Um… okay,” Jeong-ha says slowly. “Can you be more specific? What does this entail?”
The guy pulls a thick black business card out of his pocket. It’s embossed with gold lettering. Just a phone number, actually.
“I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give you right now,” the man says. “If you’re interested, just call this number, and we’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Jeong-ha just stares at the card, running his fingers over the gold numbers. A drop of water suddenly stains the black paper. He looks up and realizes that it’s starting to rain.
The tall man bows again. “Just think about it, Mr. Lee,” he says. “But don’t wait too long. Spots have been filling up quickly.” With that, he starts to walk away. “It’s never too late to turn things around,” the man calls over his shoulder.
Jeong-ha watches at the man’s figure gets farther away, crossing to the opposite side of the river. “Wait, how do you know my name?!” he shouts, but the man doesn’t reply. The brisk clicking of his dress shoes fades away until he’s left in silence again.
Jeong-ha sighs and tucks the card deep in his jacket pocket. Fuck. He looks down at the water again. The rain’s picking up now, plastering his black hair to his scalp, and it’s colder than ever.
He walks back home.
---
2008
He’s been in the Games for two years now. The time has gone by quickly.
Jeong-ha is initially part of the clean-up crew. One of the anonymous workers who disposes of the bodies after each round, packing them neatly in pink-bowed coffins and hauling them to the incinerator. Or delivering them to the organ harvesters. It’s mindless work. He comes in after the violence is over and the bodies of the slain players are cooling on the ground. It’s easy to compartmentalize things as he and his coworkers heft the corpses from where they lie in the dirt, reduced to an ID number and an Eliminated label on the ever-present screens.
The pay is good, as the mysterious recruiter had promised. But the work grows tedious after a while. In his second year of employment, his supervisor offers him a promotion. He would rise in the ranks of the Pink Soldiers and start dispatching the losing players after the conclusion of each game. Jeong-ha accepts eagerly. He’s getting bored, and willing to do anything as long as it breaks up the monotony.
Jeong-ha excels in his new responsibilities. He earns a reputation for being ruthless, unhesitating as he eliminates players at the end of each round. For the first time in his life, he feels appreciated. Respected. And it feels really fucking good to have a gun in his hands.
---
The 2008 Games are nearly over. There are only two challenges remaining. The current challenge involves the players in a complex version of hopscotch. It should be easy enough, but the players are anxious and erratic. They make mistake after mistake. Fifty people are eliminated, and then a buzzer sounds. The Game has ended.
Time to take out the trash.
Jeong-ha systematically eliminates the losers, ignoring the screams from the remaining players as he guns them down. He’s naturally a good shot, rarely wasting any bullets.
Then, his earpiece crackles to life. “Player 232 is trying to escape,” his supervisor warns. “Take care of it, 15.” Jeong-ha quickly pivots, his eyes sweeping the field. He sees an older man running towards the perimeter, a slight limp in his step. He’s not fast, but he’s weaving side to side enough that getting an accurate shot will be challenging. Jeong-ha easily catches up to him, firing a warning bullet that kicks up dirt in front of the old man as he tries to escape. The man spins around to confront him, his eyes wide with panic…
Wait.
Jeong-ha’s eyes search the man’s face, and then the recognition hits him. His unkempt grey hair is falling over his brow, but his eyes and the shape of his crooked nose are unmistakable.
Father, he thinks.
The old man drops to his knees, raising his hands beseechingly. “Please,” he begs. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I have a family,” he cries. His face is wretched: tears streaking his ruddy cheeks, snot bubbling under his nose. Jeong-ha’s mouth twists into a grimace under his mask. Typical, he thinks. A fucking family, huh? Manipulative until the very end.
He raises his arm, pointing the gun at his father’s head. The old man’s rheumy eyes widen and he starts to blabber. “No, no, please please please --”
The pathetic words barely register. Without hesitation, Jeong-ha pulls the trigger. A visceral grunt escapes his father’s lips as the bullet makes contact with his head, causing him to jerk to the left as his temporal bone explodes into bloody fragments. His father staggers forwards, then collapses to the ground. His chest still rises and falls, but his breathing is agonal, secretions gurgling in his throat. Jeong-ha steps forward and watches him impassively. Dark blood and brain matter are leaking from his skull. He presses a finger to the old man’s throat and notices that his pulse is weak; heart rate slowing. From experience he knows that death is near.
He makes a hand signal for the clean-up crew to bring the coffin. His father is still alive as they load him into the rectangular box, but barely. Might still be salvageable for organ harvest. Jeong-ha dips his finger in the old man’s blood and smears the shape of a cross onto the coffin.
Then they carry him away.
---
The Games conclude two days later, and Jeong-ha is released from the island. He has a few months of freedom ahead of him before they bring him and the other soldiers back to start preparing the arenas for the next round of players.
The boat ride back to the mainland is long and quiet. Some of his coworkers are holding muted conversations with each other, but for the most part, people are silent. Contemplating what they’ve done, maybe.
Jeong-ha isn’t very good with free time. He’s got a better apartment now, in a more expensive part of town, but spending too many hours there makes him feel uneasy. The door creaks from disuse as he enters the apartment, and the air has a stale smell after being unoccupied for so many months. He drops his duffel bag on the floor and sits down heavily on the edge of his bed. His days are normally so tightly regimented as a soldier that it feels unnatural to have no plans for the evening.
He tries watching TV, but he’s unable to stay focused on the screen. Unwanted memories from the island are constantly threatening at the edges of his thoughts. He’s fighting to chase away the images of his father’s death that are starting to play like an infernal highlight reel in his mind.
Jeong-ha needs a distraction.
It’s getting late, so he settles on going out drinking. He quickly changes out of his traveling clothes into a pair of dark slacks and a grey sweater before leaving his apartment, resisting the urge to slam the door as he leaves.
He wanders through Seoul’s nightlife district for a while before ending up in a dive bar down a winding side-street. It’s a seedy place; the kind of joint that still has a smoking section. The air is dark and hazy inside, and the drinks are cheap. The perfect sort of place to anonymously drink yourself into oblivion.
He starts with beer but quickly transitions to whiskey. With each drink, the memories of the Games get a little quieter. He’s lost track of how long he’s been sitting at the bar, but a pleasant warmth is starting to settle over his body. At some point he buys a half-empty pack of cigarettes from the guy sitting next to him and starts smoking, the buzz from the nicotine enhancing the mind-numbing effect of the booze. The neon lights are getting blurry now, and he’s feeling good.
The bartender finally cuts him off, which is annoying but not entirely unexpected. “Take it easy, son,” he chides as Jeong-ha slaps a wad of cash onto the bar.
The room spins a little as he steps off the barstool, but he’ll be all right. “Yeah, yeah… I’m not that drunk,” he slurs at the bartender, who raises an eyebrow.
---
I’m drunk as fuck, he realizes, laughing to himself as he unsteadily walks down the sidewalk outside the bar. Drunker than he’s been in a long time. He lights another cigarette, steadying himself against the wall as he smokes. This time, it makes his stomach turn. He’s hungry.
Narrowing his eyes, he tries to blink away his double vision and read the shopfront signs. Any hot food would do at this point. His eyes settle on a fried chicken shop at the end of the street. Yes, that sounds good. He can smell the grease from here. Weaving slightly, he heads towards the beckoning neon lights. The shop is small - a local place, not a chain. A little bell tinkles as he lurches in the door. The place is nearly empty, save for the guy manning the cash register who’s talking with a customer who’s casually leaning against the counter. The guy up front meets his eye and nods in greeting. “Welcome,” he says. “We officially close at 1:00, but feel free to order something. I’m not in a rush.”
Jeong-ha looks at his watch. It’s 12:45. “Yeah, thanks,” he mumbles and walks up to the counter. The one other customer gives him the side-eye but politely moves aside. “Um, can I get the #2 combo?” he asks, trying not to slur his words. “And a water.” Yeah, he should probably drink water.
The cashier (owner?) jots down his order on a scrap of paper, which he tapes up to the little kitchen window behind him, yelling something unintelligible to the chef in the back. “That’ll be 10,000 ₩,” he says cheerily, turning back to face him. The guy has a baby face but looks a little older than Jeong-ha based on the lines that crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He’s got thick wavy hair, long enough that it’s bordering on sloppy, and a friendly smile.
Jeong-ha realizes that it’s been a minute since someone smiled at him like that. How pathetic. He’s being self-indulgent at this point. He shakes the thought from his mind and produces a crumpled bill from his jacket, fingers brushing against the guy’s warm palm as he hands him the money. “Give me 10 minutes and I’ll have your food out,” the cashier says.
Jeong-ha slumps down in a booth and waits on his food, half-listening to the conversation between the cashier and the other customer. From the casual tone, they must be old friends. They’re talking about betting, from what he can gather. The cashier is gesturing animatedly as he talks, while the other guy is more reserved, a permanent furrow between his brows.
“Gi-hun, you need to be more careful with your money,” the friend says peevishly. “You’re nearly in the red with the shop this month. You don’t have extra cash to go throwing around at the racetrack.” The cashier groans. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re a genius, Sang-woo. But if I need your advice, I’ll ask for it. Everything is fine,” he says. The friend frowns at him. “If you say so.”
“I swear,” says the cashier. “Listen, Sang-woo, I know you’re the one who went to business school. But I’m not totally naïve.” Jeong-ha bristles as he eavesdrops. Fucking business school. This asshole. He realizes that he’s clenching his fists, fingernails digging sharp grooves into his palms. He wills himself to relax and tries to tune out their conversation.
Thankfully, this Sang-woo guy finally leaves. “Take care of yourself, Gi-hun,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks out into the streets, disappearing into the darkness.
A minute later his food is ready. The cashier brings it to his table, hovering at his side as if waiting for approval. Spicy fried chicken and potatoes. “Thanks. This looks amazing,” he says, deciding to throw the guy a bone. The cashier beams as if he made the food himself. “Thank you. Enjoy,” he says, returning to his post behind the register.
Jeong-ha eats quickly, feeling ravenous. The food is surprisingly good. It’s the first actual meal he’s had since breakfast on the island earlier that day, if you don’t count the calories from booze.
He finishes the potatoes. He’s starting to sober up, unfortunately. His mind is starting to turn back to the events from two days ago. The look on his father’s face right before he pulled the trigger -- nope, not going back there. Time for more alcohol. He gets up abruptly, startling the cashier as his chair scrapes across the tiled floor.
“Hey, do you have any beer?” he says as he approaches the counter again. The cashier looks at him up and down and scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Um, yes, but… well, are you sure you should have any more? You’re pretty drunk already, man,” he says, ears turning red. Jeong-ha realizes he’s swaying on his feet a bit and steadies himself on the counter. “I’m fine,” he snaps. The cashier’s eyes widen, and Jeong-ha realizes he’s scaring him. He softens his voice. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a rough day. Just a beer, please?” The cashier nods reluctantly. “Well, okay. Don’t make me regret this,” he says, grabbing a bottle from the refrigerator and cracking open the cap. “On the house. Since it’s been a rough day.” Their eyes meet as he hands over the beer, and again, Jeong-ha is startled by the look of kindness that he sees there. This guy doesn’t owe me anything. Why would he be nice?
“Thanks,” Jeong-ha says, feeling a little unnerved. He goes back to his booth and takes a long swig of the beer, barely tasting it.
He finishes his food over the next few minutes and is nearly done with the beer, but it’s not working. He’s still drunk, but his brain keeps cycling back to the Games. Back to his father. “Fuck,” he whispers, running his hands through his hair. He slides down in the booth until he’s level with the table and buries his face in the arms. Just don’t think about it. Forget about it.
He’s been like this for a few minutes when he hears hesitant footsteps approach his table. Someone clears their throat awkwardly. “Um. Are you okay?” a voice comes from above him.
He reluctantly lifts his head up and sees the cashier standing next to his table, peering down at him worriedly. Jesus, this guy is nosy as hell. But his misplaced concern is touching, somehow.
To his horror, Jeong-ha feels his eyes get moist. He angrily wipes at his face, chasing away the unwelcome emotion. “I’m good,” he replies, hating how his voice sounds brittle. The cashier is unconvinced, furrowing his brows. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he says uncertainly.
“My father died today,” he blurts. Fuck, where did that come from? He bites his tongue, feeling mortified that he let that slip.
The cashier’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh. I… I’m so sorry,” he stammers. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking…”
Jeong-ha pauses. “He was murdered,” he says eventually. He leaves it at that.
“That’s awful,” says the cashier. His face is red, and he looks like he’s nearly ready to cry himself. “Do you… do you want me to sit with you for a bit?”
Jeong-ha laughs bitterly. “Fuck, I guess. Why not.”
The cashier gingerly sits down across from him. They sit in silence for a minute, Jeong-ha looking down at his shoes, the cashier glancing at him anxiously. “My name’s Seong Gi-hun,” the cashier says finally, extending a hand across the table. Jeong-ha stares at the guy’s hand for a beat before shaking it, noticing how warm and soft his skin is. Must be the alcohol, he thinks, resisting the urge to hold on to his fingers. “Lee Jeong-ha,” he replies. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to disturb you like this. I’ll get going in just a minute.”
Gi-hun looks at him alarmedly. “Where do you live?” he asks, sounding worried.
“Uh, probably about 45 minutes if I take the subway,” Jeong-ha replies.
“Do you want to stay here for a bit and sober up?” Gi-hun asks. “People have been getting jumped around here lately. I worry that… well, you’re not really in any shape to go walking around here right now. You could get hurt,” he says.
The guy is so fucking earnest that it makes it hard for Jeong-ha to meet his eyes. “That’s very kind of you,” he says. “I guess I could wait here for a little bit. Maybe drink something that’s not beer.”
Gi-hun smiles, relieved. “I think that would be best. I actually live in the flat upstairs. You could come up while you wait,” he says. Jeong-ha raises his eyebrows. “Only if you want to,” Gi-hun adds hurriedly.
Jeong-ha looks at Gi-hun. He’s got an appealingly hopeful expression on his face, leaning forwards and mirroring Jeong-ha’s body language with his hands clasped in front of him.
“Okay,” he says.