Chapter Text
“Mu-gung-hwa kko-chi pi-oet-sum-ni-da”
The haunting melody drifted through the air, a child’s voice—high and sweet, yet eerily empty as it echoed around him.
The tune crawled under Gi-hun’s skin.
He stood frozen, every muscle tense and every nerve on edge. Cold sweat trickled down his temple, his legs trembled beneath him. But he wouldn’t move. He couldn’t. There was an unshakable instinct deep within him that forbade it, though he couldn’t grasp why.
He had no idea where he was.
He stared ahead. Something was there, far off in the fog—an outline he couldn’t quite make out.
“Mu-gung-hwa kko-chi pi-oet-sum-ni-da”
The voice chimed again, now closer. The shape ahead shifted.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through him—Move. Now.
His feet burst into motion before his mind could catch up, his lungs gasping for air as he sprinted blindly.
“Mu-gung-hwa kko-chi pi-oet-sum-ni-da”
The voice echoed once more.
The shape shifted again.
Gi-hun froze.
He squinted his eyes, the shape in front almost visible now. It was strange, so out of place. It looked like... like a doll? Yes, a large doll with pigtails and a pretty dress. Looking so innocent, harmless, almost endearing.
But Gi-hun was terrified of it.
Fear coursed through his veins, a primal dread that dug deeper than rational thought. It was as if his very bones held memories of a danger his mind couldn’t comprehend.
He didn’t know exactly what that thing was. But every instinct screamed the same warning: Don’t move.
Because if he did—
If he so much as twitched—
He would die.
“...and then I got even closer, and it was definitely a doll. Like a big—biiiig—doll, in a dress and everything. And her eyes were just crazy, I’m telling you, they were going all directions—like whip, whip, whip!” he animatedly gestured, moving his hands to mimic the crazy eyes of a doll from his dream.
But his lively performance caught little attention. Across from him, Dr. Yun was busy scribbling in his leather-bound notebook. The sound of pen scratching against paper was the only response Gi-hun received for several long seconds.
“I see,” the doctor finally said, lifting his gaze. His left eyebrow arched slightly. It was… perfectly shaped, almost sculpted.
What kind of man takes the time to groom his eyebrows like that?, Gi-hun thought, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
“This is the seventh time you’ve had this particular dream, correct?”
Gi-hun blinked. “How should I know? I’m not counting. You’re the one writing things down like a madman.” He shrugged, still a bit breathless from his earlier demonstration. “But I do know this was the first time I saw those crazy eyes. Before, everything was just... foggy.”
“Interesting,” Dr. Yun murmured, immediately jotting that down.
Gi-hun hated that sound. That little "hmm" followed by those scribbles made him feel like he was just a case study.
“What do you think that means, Gi-hun?” the doctor asked without looking up.
Gi-hun stared at him. “What do I think? I thought you’re the one who’s supposed to tell me. Isn't that your job or something?” He waved a hand toward the framed diplomas on the wall. “You’ve got the fancy paper.”
Dr. Yun smiled politely—too politely. That expression reminded Gi-hun of the doll’s painted-on face. Calm. Unreadable... Unsettling.
He didn’t like this guy.
But switching psychiatrists after four months felt rude. And besides, Dr. Yun was the only Korean-speaking shrink available when his English still sucked.
“My job,” Dr. Yun said smoothly, “is to help you find answers. Not hand them to you.”
Gi-hun rolled his eyes. “No, no, but I have the answer, I just want to make sure my answer is the right one.”
“There is no ‘right’ answer. Dream interpretation is subjective—”
“See?” Gi-hun threw up both hands. “This is why I don’t want to go first! You just say vague stuff like that. You go first, then I’ll tell you if you’re wrong.”
Dr. Yun sighed. This wasn’t the first time they’d danced this dance. Resistance, he knew by now, was futile.
“Very well,” he replied, placing his pen down with exaggerated care. “Hypothetically speaking, I’d say your subconscious is constructing a hostile yet familiar scenario—a child’s game twisted into something sinister. It may reflect trauma that your conscious mind struggles to access. Perhaps a loss of control... a yearning for agency.”
Gi-hun nodded slowly, mouth slightly open like he was absorbing every word. “Yeah, sure, that sounds... smart.”
Dr. Yun raised an eyebrow. “So, that’s what you were thinking too?”
“Oh. Nah. I just thought... Red Light, Green Light.”
“Pardon?” The doctor blinked, momentarily taken aback.
“You know, the game?” Gi-hun leaned forward, eager to clarify. “When it’s red light, you have to stand still, and when it’s green light, you run? I think that’s what I was playing.”
Dr. Yun cleared his throat. “Yes... that’s a possibility. But what the game in your dream represents—”
“I think it’s a memory.”
That made Dr. Yun pause. “A memory?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say I might start getting them back? This one felt real. Not just dream-real. Real-real.”
Dr. Yun regarded him thoughtfully, jotting down notes once more. Gi-hun leaned in to catch a glimpse, but pain shot through him almost immediately. His leg spasmed, prompting a low hiss as he quickly pulled back, rubbing his thigh with his jaw clenched tight. The nerves in that area had never fully healed— now a landmine of agony, dulled only when the meds kicked in; which they hadn’t yet.
“What’s that you’re writing now?” he snapped, irritation creeping into his voice.
“Just some observations,” Dr. Yun replied calmly. “Why do you believe it was a... memory?”
“I told you. It felt really real. Like I was there.”
The doctor nodded slowly. “Didn’t you say, you had this feeling in your dream that... ‘if you moved, you would die?’” He quoted from his notes.
“Yeah.” Gi-hun said with a shrug.
Dr. Yun gave a small, knowing smile. “Well, I don’t think a game of Red Light, Green Light is usually that serious.”
“Felt pretty serious to me” he muttered, defensively. It came out smaller than he’d intended.
“Which suggests to me that it wasn’t a real memory... don’t you think so?” the doctor added, his tone dripping with that infuriating smugness.
Gi-hun huffed. “Just because I’m dreaming about kids’ stuff doesn’t mean you can talk down to me,” he complained, crossing his arms in a petulant gesture that probably didn’t help his case.
“My apologies.” doctor said, in a tone that was distinctly unapologetic. “Perhaps we should shift the focus for now,” he suggested. “How are you feeling physically?”
Gi-hun squirmed, and sure enough, a jolt of pain shot through his leg.
“Same,” he replied flatly.
“Really, no change at all?” Dr. Yun leaned in, searching his face.
“Nope.”
Silence fell between them. Dr. Yun stared patiently, pen poised and ready. Gi-hun stared back, unsure what the hell he was supposed to say next.
Finally, the doctor broke the quiet.
“You know, physical symptoms can be just as important for a psychiatrist as mental ones. Just as mental symptoms can be crucial for a physician when assessing physical outcomes,” Dr. Yun explained.
Gi-hun blinked. “Alright?”
“That means we work together, sharing insights and comparing notes."
Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “So... you gossip about me?”
Dr. Yun chuckled. “We exchange findings.”
They totally gossip about me, Gi-hun thought.
“And according to your physical therapy notes,” Dr. Yun continued, “you’ve shown improvement. Progress with mobility.”
“Yeah, walking’s getting easier,” Gi-hun conceded, a hint of pride poking through. “I can bend down without feeling like I might die right after—on good days, anyway.”
“That’s a meaningful step,” the doctor affirmed with a nod. “But I also noticed you’ve reported increased pain.”
“Yeah, that part’s worse.” Gi-hun rubbed his leg absentmindedly.
“Have you heard of psychosomatic pain?”
Gi-hun blinked in confusion. “Look, even if I did go to doctor school, I wouldn’t remember it. So, no.”
Dr. Yun offered a faint smile before delving into his explanation—how trauma could manifest in physical ways, how unresolved psychological distress might amplify the body’s perception of pain. That sometimes, the brain redirected emotional pain into something tangible.
And though parts of it flew over Gi-hun's head, one point struck him clearly.
“So you think I'm just making this up?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, not at all. Given your injuries, I’d be surprised if you didn’t experience any pain,” Dr. Yun reassured him. “But I’m concerned about how the intensity seems to be increasing.”
“It hurts, alright? It hurts a lot more than before!”
“Or,” Dr. Yun replied gently, “your brain might be interpreting that pain as worse than it actually is—perhaps as a way to distract you from something deeper. The mind can protect us in curious ways.”
“Protect us from what?” Gi-hun shot back, defensiveness creeping into his voice.
“From real life, perhaps. The unbearable... the unresolved. Speaking of which—how are things with your daughter?”
Gi-hun’s fingers tightened on his knee, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake.
“It’s… I mean, she’s great. Smart. Sweet. Funny in a way that’s not mean, you know? I was probably the proudest dad out there.”
“‘Was’?” Dr. Yun pressed gently.
Gi-hun shifted uncomfortably in his seat, that familiar sense of unease washing over him. He didn’t like this topic. His daughter’s face brought a mix of warmth and guilt. She looked at him as if she expected something, but he didn’t know what she wanted. He couldn’t fake it. He couldn’t even remember what to fake.
“It’s just... hard. I don’t remember her. She looks at me like I should, and I can’t. I don’t remember anything about her.”
He swallowed hard, feeling a knot forming in his throat.
“Not that remembering would help much, I think. From what I gather, I wasn’t exactly a good dad. Or husband... Or person, really. They don’t say much about it. I think they’re afraid of upsetting me. But I can tell things weren’t good.”
He hesitated, then added, “And even if I wanted to make things right... it’s tough to atone for sins you don’t even remember committing. So, yeah, it all just kind of sucks.”
“Maybe your mind is protecting you by burying those memories? Instead, it could be creating new images to distract you from the truth,” Dr. Yun suggested, watching him closely.
Gi-hun gave him a puzzled look. “What?”
“Think about your nightmares—the people in pink jumpsuits and those twisted children’s games that should be innocent but aren't. Those clearly aren’t real memories. They could be your subconscious trying to cope with trauma, speaking to you in metaphor.”
Gi-hun stayed silent, biting his lower lip to suppress an annoyed sigh. The doctor's words always sounded so smart, so irritatingly logical, but...
Every part of Gi-hun's gut screamed at him that those dreams were real. They were too sharp, too vivid, and too loud in his chest to be mere imagination.
The pink jumpsuits. The gunshots. The red that splashed on the colourful walls... The smell of blood wasn’t metaphor—it was real. His body remembered. When he woke up in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and shaking, he could swear he could feel that pain all over again.
The feeling that if he moved—just once, just wrong—he’d be blown apart. Not symbolically. Not metaphorically. Just... dead.
Dr. Yun, misreading the silence, offered a gentle smile.
“Gi-hun, it’s completely normal for your mind to create strange images as a way to cope with trauma. You’ve been through some harrowing experiences—more than one, it seems. Your medical records indicate signs of long-term abuse; years of it. Some instances are as serious as knife wounds and blunt force trauma. Someone has hurt you—deeply. It’s possible that whatever you can’t remember is the very thing that broke you, and your mind is simply trying to protect you from experiencing it again.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “But you’re in a safe place now. You have access to medical support, and your daughter cares about you, even if things feel awkward right now. Try not to get lost in your attempts to escape the past, Gi-hun. There’s no need for fear. Just because you move forward... doesn’t mean you’ll die.”
Gi-hun blinked at that. Was he... referring to the doll?
“Oh—no, no, wait,” he said hastily. “When the doll’s not watching, I can move. I was running like hell, actually.”
Dr. Yun raised an eyebrow. “And who do you think the doll represents? Could it be... your daughter?”
Gi-hun recoiled, incredulous. “What? No! My daughter isn’t some creepy, twitchy murder doll!”
“So, you think the doll would be the one to harm you if you attempted to move forward?”
“I—” he faltered. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what you mean!”
“I’m referring to the deeper implications of your dream, Gi-hun. To be blunt, it seems you might be depending too much on medication.”
Gi-hun stiffened immediately. “What? No, I’m not!”
“Your daughter mentioned that you've been taking more than what was prescribed.”
“She said that?” he asked, taken aback.
“Yes.”
Gi-hun scoffed. “Well, I have to—because it hurts more now.”
Dr. Yun simply folded his hands, calm as ever. “Or perhaps it feels more painful because of your state of mind...”
“It’s not in my head!”
“I never claimed it was,” Dr. Yun replied evenly. “But even real pain can be twisted by perception. And that perception is shaped by fear, stress... guilt. You need to be careful, Gi-hun. These medications can be dangerous. Especially for someone with a history like yours.”
“History like mine?” Gi-hun frowned.
“You were addicted to gambling,” Dr. Yun said gently. “Your ex-wife mentioned it. So did your daughter.”
“Yeah, but that was about horses or something—races, I think? What does that have to do with anything now?”
“It’s not the specific addiction that matters. The object itself isn’t crucial—it's the compulsion, the dependency. You show signs of an addiction-prone personality.”
Gi-hun let out a bitter laugh. “And how would you know that? I can’t even remember my own personality.”
Dr. Yun remained unfazed. “Personality is simply behaviour we repeat. Our actions over time shape who we become. You concealed your gambling from your family, and now it seems you’re hiding how many pills you take. Perhaps deep down, you believe you can only function when the medication kicks in. And maybe you think you can only take them when the doll is turned away—when she’s not watching.”
Gi-hun sat in stunned silence, his mouth moving like a fish out of water. The doctor observed him eagerly, waiting for a response. But all Gi-hun could manage was a confused, “Huh?”
“Playing a child’s game won’t harm you, Gi-hun. And neither will moving forward while your daughter is watching.”
Dr. Yun flashed that enigmatic, serene smile again—as if he had just revealed a profound insight, waiting for Gi-hun to uncover the inspiration hidden within.
Gi-hun responded with a small, awkward smile but said nothing. He felt no sense of revelation—only a sinking feeling of being misunderstood.
The train jolted, groaning like it hated the tracks as much as Gi-hun hated being on it. He gripped the cold metal pole, his fingers white-knuckled, careful not to lean too heavily on his bad leg. Each jolt sent a familiar throb pulsing through his thigh.
God, he hated it here.
It was too loud. Too bright. Too overwhelming in every conceivable way.
In Korea—well, he thinks in Korea —things had been simpler. Gentler. He remembered... warmth, maybe. People laughing... Holding hands...
Oh, who was he kidding? He didn’t remember shit.
Gi-hun rubbed his temple in frustration. This amnesia thing sucked.
Waking up in a hospital bed with his bones rearranged and no clue how it happened? He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. No name, no family, no history—just pain and no one around who spoke a language he could understand.
Los Angeles. What the hell was he doing here, anyway?
Best anyone could guess was that he had come to visit his daughter, but then—bam—an accident. A serious one, with no witnesses and no explanations. Just metal pins in his leg and a neurologist telling him he was lucky to be alive.
Lucky.
Yeah, right.
He reached into his coat pocket, fingers fumbling for his bottle of pills—only four pathetic tablets left. Disappointment washed over him as he glared at the container, sliding it back into his pocket. “No refills until next week,” Dr. Yun had scolded, waving a finger and lecturing him about “dependency risk” and his “addiction-prone personality.”
Addiction-prone. That term dripped with condescension, as if the doctor truly understood who Gi-hun was. Hell, he didn’t even know who he was anymore. Behavioral patterns, my ass.
The only constants in his life now were the limp and waking up screaming once or twice a week. All he had were flashes of pain and endless list of personal goals from a therapist who smiled like everything was sunshine and rainbows.
Today’s assignment? Find a job.
Gi-hun rolled his eyes so hard he thought his neck might crack.
Find a job? With a wretched limp and no idea what skills he could offer? His resume would consist of blank pages! All he remembered was the past year, and the past year had been spent in hospital beds and physical therapy and limping through a life that made no damn sense.
But, hell, he didn’t even need a job. His ex-wife had begrudgingly helped him apply for government assistance—enough to cover rent and groceries, a meagre lifeline to keep him afloat.
And then there was the other thing.
The Suit.
The mystery donor.
Some anonymous stranger in a sleek black suit who had shown up at the hospital. Gi-hun didn’t remember it, but his daughter swore it happened. Said the man found her, gave her a name, and promised, “Everything will be covered.” And it was. Still was. Money dropped into Gi-hun’s account every month like clockwork. No name. No message. Just numbers—always the exact amount needed to cover the medical bills.
How did he know the total? Gi-hun had no idea.
Not that he dared to complain. Not that he could afford to complain.
But still... It didn’t sit right with him. Free kindness didn’t exist. Even without his memories, Gi-hun knew that much. Sometimes he wondered if the Suit was somehow involved in his accident and now felt guilty—though if that were the case, he sure as hell should be paying Gi-hun's bills!
The train screeched to a halt, a robotic voice announcing the next stop—yet another L.A. name that felt awkward on his tongue. With a reluctant grunt, Gi-hun pushed himself to stand, immediately regretting it as pain shot through his leg. He hissed and gritted his teeth.
“Just in your head,” he muttered bitterly, echoing the doctor’s patronizing words. “Sure.”
He limped off the train, each step sending shockwaves of agony through his leg. The crowd moved past him, oblivious to his presence, yet he felt them all around him like a swarm of bees—every accidental brush.
He couldn't remember what he had survived, but his body sure did.
Loud noises made him flinch. Certain colours turned his stomach. He always seemed to be on edge—waiting for something. An attack? He wasn’t sure. But this life felt off—an unsettling mix of anxiety and emptiness. He couldn’t remember the life he had lived, but he somehow knew it was anything but ordinary.
As he passed a line of bundled bodies along the wall, his heart sank. Homeless, likely. Human shapes swallowed in blankets and dirt.
No one seemed to notice. No one ever looked. People streamed by like they were part of the station’s infrastructure—pillars, trash cans... people. It all blended together, mere scenery.
But Gi-hun always looked. He wasn’t sure why—was it empathy? An instinct? Perhaps something deeper, buried beneath the blanks in his mind. Sometimes he even wondered—maybe I used to be one of them.
Yet, he kept moving. He might slow down for a moment, but he never came to a complete stop. His heart tugged at him while his feet carried him forward.
He wanted to help. Offer water. Maybe a sandwich. But... could he truly? He barely had enough for himself. He could buy one meal, but how could he choose who to help? Just thinking about it brought on a headache.
So he walked on, pretending not to see, convincing himself it wasn’t his problem. Let someone with fewer burdens step in.
Instead, he found himself gravitating toward the newsstand, his eyes drawn to the glossy covers of celebrity magazines. Wealth radiated from the pages—models flaunting handbags likely costing more than his medical bills, articles on penthouse yoga and luxury pet spas.
He stared, letting the images wash over him... then turned. Just a little. Just enough to glimpse a man curled up beside the kiosk trash can, skin ashen and mottled with dirt.
The contrast twisted Gi-hun’s stomach, scraping against something deep and unexplainable inside him.
He needed a distraction.
He bought a lottery ticket—the scratch-off kind, his routine indulgence. Just one. Not gambling, at least not really.
He just... liked the feeling. He craved that fleeting rush—the tantalizing thought that everything could change in a heartbeat.
He fished a coin from his pocket and swept it across the silver strip. Nothing.
“Figures,” he muttered to himself.
He crumpled the ticket and buried it in his pocket.
But his frustration was muted.
Truth was, he wasn’t desperate for money. Not the way he should’ve been—not the way one ought to be. There was a recoil in him, as if money had once scorched him in a way he couldn’t rationalize. The mere thought of cash left a strange, bitter tang on his tongue.
Still, a part of him often mused—what if, one day, he did hit the jackpot? A few million dollars. Not for him. For her. His daughter, who visited weekly, always patient and kind, even when he struggled to remember her face. And some part of him lit up at the thought of giving her something—a life free from bills, tuition, rent. No fear. No chance of ending up poor or, God forbid, on the street.
And if he had enough… maybe he could help the others too. The ones he walked past every day. He’d buy them sandwiches. Real ones. Not vending machine garbage.
It was just... nice to imagine.
Gi-hun let out a deep sigh, placing three dollars on the counter as he thanked the clerk before starting his walk home. His tiny studio apartment was just fifteen minutes away—twice that if his body chose to rebel.
His mind was already wandering, pondering over jobs, therapy, that annoying scratch card, or what scraps he might find for dinner.
Then—
SLAP.
A sudden, sharp sound cut through the monotony.
Gi-hun froze. His heart jumped. And for a second—just one second—he wasn’t in L.A. anymore. He was somewhere else. He was somewhere... he didn’t know, somewhere with screaming and blood and —
The sound struck again—SLAP, followed by a guttural groan.
Before he could fully process what was happening, his body sprang into action, driven by instinct like a dog chasing a scent it didn’t recognize but needed to follow.
He turned into a narrow alley.
The air was thick with the stench of trash bins. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his feet.
That's where he saw her.
A woman in a sleek black suit with her sleeves rolled up. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight, pristine ponytail. She looked like a high-powered CEO on lunch break, not someone who was—SLAP—smacking a homeless man across the face?
Gi-hun stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.
The man stumbled back, a trickle of blood staining his lip, yet there was no trace of fear on his face. Instead, a wild glimmer of excitement danced in his eyes.
And there, on the cracked pavement between them, lay two vivid squares of paper—red and blue—folded neatly.
Gi-hun's breath caught in his throat.
Ddakji.
He didn’t know how he knew the word. Didn’t remember learning it. His heart began to race not with fear, but with a recognition, an echo inside him that he couldn't quite place.
Something about this scene felt familiar.
Another slap rang out. The man winced but laughed, handing over a crumpled bill.
The woman smiled.
She knelt, smoothed the blue ddakji, and let him try again. The paper snapped. Failed to flip. Another slap.
Money exchanged hands. Blood smeared the man's chin, yet he looked... hopeful.
Gi-hun remained rooted in place, his head swirling with sensations—distant memories without images, just feelings: desperation, risk.
He watched as the woman handed the man something—a card.
Suddenly, Gi-hun felt a sudden and inexplicable urge to rush forward and rip it from the man’s hand.
But the man accepted the card with a reverence, like he had just won something. And despite the blood trickling down his face, he stumbled away with a smile that seemed almost triumphant.
Gi-hun watched as the man slipped into the shadows of the alley, a growing urge to chase after him brewing within. But just as he was about to move, his attention shifted to the woman, and he nearly gasped at the sight.
She was staring straight at him now, their eyes locked, and Gi-hun immediately felt an uncomfortable chill creeping down his spine.
To his surprise, she seemed completely unfazed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. There was no trace of shock on her face, no embarrassment at what had just happened—only a cold, calculated expression that unsettled something deep within him.
The woman wasn’t in a hurry; she took her time, her cool, inscrutable gaze running over him as she smoothly adjusted her sleeves and straightened her jacket. Then, a flicker of determination crossed her face, and she began walking toward Gi-hun, unhurried and composed, as if she already knew he wouldn’t take a step back.
“Good evening, sir,” she said smoothly.
“Uh… hi?” Gi-hun managed to stammer, blinking in confusion.
She tilted her head, studying him closely. Then, in perfect Korean, she asked, “영어를 할 수 있나요?”
Gi-hun’s eyes widened. “Oh! No—I mean, yes! I can speak English! Sort of. Still learning. You should’ve heard me a few months ago; it was a total mess. My daughter tried to be sweet about it, smiling and nodding, but I could tell she didn’t get a single word I was saying—” He suddenly stopped, heat rushing to his cheeks. Why was he rambling on like this?
“There’s no need to be flustered,” she said in a calm tone. “I just wanted to make sure we were speaking a language you understand, to avoid any… miscommunication.”
“Right... so we’re talking now?” he asked, blinking as if to clear his thoughts.
She smiled—almost warmly. “If you’d like to, yes.”
Her gaze shifted, as if she were examining him from a different angle. “Do you know the game we were just playing?”
Gi-hun glanced at the paper squares still scattered on the pavement. “Oh, the... ddakji. Right. It’s, um, Korean, I think? Pretty popular? I feel like I’ve played it before.”
“You seem a bit unsure.”
“Oh yeah, sorry, weird thing—uh, I kind of have amnesia.” He let out a chuckle that felt forced, like a joke that had long lost its punchline. “I don’t remember my life, you know? It’s, uh, confusing. Awkward. A bit like living in someone else’s body, to be honest...” He scratched the back of his head, wondering why he was sharing so much. “Anyway, yeah. Memory issues.”
The woman’s eyes bore into him, that analytical look returning. “That’s... quite the predicament,” she said softly. “Rare.”
She scanned him again, this time with keen interest—his worn sneakers, stained pants, the small tear in his shirt... and how he was leaning on his uninjured leg.
“And it’s clear life hasn’t been particularly kind to you,” she added.
Gi-hun felt his cheeks burn. “Oh, I mean, I’m getting by,” he replied quickly. “It’s not ideal, but, uh, my ex-wife helped get me on some assistance. There’s this disability thing, and my medical bills are… covered, sort of. And I don’t want to burden my daughter, you know? She has her own life, her own... everything. So I do my best not to make it worse. It’s not that bad, really...” He cut himself off, noticing the blank expression on the woman's face.
“As I said,” she continued, as if Gi-hun hadn't spoken at all, “life hasn’t been kind to you. That’s a lot to carry—especially for someone already... unmoored.”
Gi-hun blinked, processing her words. Unmoored. He wasn’t sure if he had come across that word yet, but he nodded as if he understood.
“Yes, yes. Very... unmoored,” he echoed, feeling a bit foolish.
A knowing smile danced on her lips, sharp and sly. But what exactly she knew escaped him.
"What..." he started, clearing his throat nervously, "What were you doing with that man?" he asked, gesturing toward the alley where the stranger had disappeared. The woman didn’t even glance back.
"Oh, that? We were just... playing a little game," she replied, her voice sweet. "He needed a distraction, and I was happy to oblige."
Gi-hun blinked, a sense of discomfort prickling at the back of his mind as her eyes swept over him. "Right, that’s... very kind of you?" he managed to say.
Her lips curled ever so slightly, a glint of amusement lighting her eyes. “You seem like someone who could use a distraction too,” she murmured, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just a few precious moments when the weight of reality disappears.”
Gi-hun opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him. All he could stammer was, “W-what?”
She stepped closer, invading his personal space with one confident stride. Before he could react, her hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out not just the crumpled lottery ticket from today, but the old ones he had neglected to toss away.
“Tell me,” she said, holding the tickets like they were evidence of a greater truth, “do you play to win... or are you just longing to feel something when everything else has gone numb?”
Another half-step forward brought her dangerously close. Gi-hun felt rooted to the spot, unable to move away.
“You can’t breathe, can you?” she whispered. “Not properly. The stillness of life can be suffocating.”
His heart raced as her words wrapped around him, turning the air icy and thin.
“Tell me,” she purred, her demeanour shifting to something more enticing, “would you like to play a game?”
“T-The ddakji?” he stammered.
She let out a soft chuckle.
“No,” she replied, her smile widening, “A different game.”