Chapter Text
Death isn’t a mystery. There is a science to it – formulas, equations, calculations, and even research. Hwang In-ho caught glimpses of its intricate, mathematical design when he was a participant in the games. It started to reveal itself to him when he was chosen to survive by Oh Il-nam. Now, it has become his job. He inherited his role from his predecessor, together with a whole team of engineers, designers, managers, recruiters and guards. They are the architects of death, working tirelessly to ensure the success of the games.
Death is an industry, and he is one of its executives. The final game’s color-scheme, the diameter of the platforms, and the location of the buzzer were designed to maximize the suspense for the audience. It took months of planning, and a lot of money was at stake, just for it to be over in a couple of days. The racehorse metaphor may not be far off, he thinks.
It's surprising how much of life and death can be calculated. Death, here, is calculated by the height of the platforms, the hardness of the ground, the velocity of the fall, and the failure to press the last buzzer. Blueprints flash before his inner eye. There are other constants he can rely on as if they were laws of physics: greed, desperation, and the human survival instinct. He didn’t offer the knife to Gi-hun on a whim, he knew exactly what would happen during the game. Of course, there are always variables, unpredictable surprises, like Seong Gi-hun himself. But even in a chaotic system, patterns can be found if one considers the big picture. Around Gi-hun, death spins its web, traps the other players in the inevitable, fatal flaws of their characters, and drags them into the depths. Not even Seong Gi-hun can escape the games’ deadly design.
That’s why his weak, raspy breath does not worry In-ho, as he walks past. Sometimes the body needs to realize it is already dead first. The eliminated players all die one way or another. They die on impact or are shot by guards. They die of heart attacks, organ failure, strokes, internal bleeding. Sometimes, they slowly choke on their own blood. And even the smallest cut can lead to sepsis when neglected.
It's a different feeling, actually standing on the platform. The perspective, the air. He looks down. You could almost mistake it for just a pile of laundry, if it wasn’t for the fussing and flailing. He picks up the little bundle. The baby feels strange in his arms, too small. He wonders if he simply isn’t used to this fragility, the complete trust it must have in him to survive. Most likely, it's ill. How couldn’t it be, after all the stress, the death of its mother, and the lack of food. He tries to remember the words parents-to-be are warned about: infant safety, failure to thrive. It feels like it happened in a different life, to a different person.
He barely registers his brother. He is nothing but a ghost unwilling to move on. He thinks about blueprints again, on his way down. Stress analysis reports, orders for materials. It’s a boring job, most of the year.
Against all odds, Gi-hun is still breathing when he walks past him the second time. In-ho crouches down. He doesn’t know why. It’s not easy with the infant in his arm and he has to shift his weight and untangle his grip on the baby to free an arm. Gi-hun’s skin is clammy. His pulse is stronger than expected, just like the man himself.
In-ho has seen countless men and women die. He knows what it looks like, recognizes that strange shift. Even if he doesn’t believe in it, he understands how people got the idea of souls and divine sparks – if only because he has seen the spark extinguished. It is the only mystery of death for him, that split-second moment. He has seen burst blood vessels from strangulation and unequal pupils from head trauma. But Gi-hun exhibits none of the dull, unfocused expression of someone on the brink of death. He is conscious and he is looking directly into his eyes.