C  H  A  P  T  E  R   T  H  I  R  T  Y - S  I  X :
"For some of you, it is your last supper."
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The glass storm had ended, but the air still carried its aftermath. A thick tension, suffocating and heavy, hung between the survivors as the last shards of glass clattered to the ground. The arena was eerily silent now, save for the ragged breathing of those who had barely escaped.

Yi-Seo's hands trembled as she instinctively reached for her face. The sharp sting of her wound forced her back into reality. When she pulled her fingers away, they were smeared with blood.

She exhaled shakily. It wasn't deep. It wasn't fatal. But it was enough to remind her just how close she had been to death—again.

Her gaze lifted, and she froze.

Sang-woo stood in front of her, his body still tensed from the chaos. Blood dripped down his face, tracing jagged paths from the cuts decorating his skin. But none of that seemed to matter to him.

He wasn't looking at himself. He was looking at her.

His dark eyes roamed over her face, his brows drawing together in worry. He ignored the cuts on his own skin, the pain that should've been coursing through his body. His only concern was her.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was hoarse, almost desperate.

Yi-Seo swallowed hard.

"I'm fine," she whispered, forcing herself to hold his gaze.

It was a lie. She wasn't fine. None of them were. But what else could she say? That she was terrified? That she wasn't sure how much more of this she could take? That every time she survived, it only felt like she was delaying the inevitable?

Sang-woo didn't respond immediately. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but before he could, the doors opened.

The guard led the last four remaining players down the same mesmerizing staircase.

By the time they reached the game room, exhaustion clung to them like a second skin.

The room was emptier now. The once-crowded bunks were reduced to only a handful of beds, eerie reminders of those who hadn't made it this far. The silence was suffocating. Even Gi-hun, who always seemed to have something to say, sat down without a word, his eyes dark with exhaustion.

Yi-Seo dropped onto one of the beds, her body heavy with fatigue. She hadn't fully processed what had just happened. Her mind kept replaying the glass bridge, the feeling of stepping onto those fragile tiles, the terror of knowing one wrong move could send her plummeting to her death.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tearing fabric.

She looked up—only to find Sang-woo kneeling in front of her, a strip of cloth in his hands.

Before she could protest, he reached forward and pressed it against her cheek.

Yi-Seo winced at the sting, but what truly caught her off guard wasn't the pain—it was the way he touched her. His fingers were careful, almost tender, as if she were something delicate, something he couldn't bear to see broken.

"What are you doing?" she murmured.

"Cleaning the wound." His voice was low, focused. "It's still bleeding."

She exhaled sharply, trying to move his hand away. "You should be worrying about yourself. You're covered in cuts, Sang-woo—"

"I don't care."

The quiet intensity in his voice made her pause.

She looked at him, really looked at him. His face was hardened with the same determination she had seen so many times before, but beneath it, there was something else. Something raw.

"You always do this," she whispered. "Act like nothing's wrong even when you're hurting. Even when—"

She stopped herself, biting her lip. She didn't want to finish that sentence. She didn't want to say what was really on her mind.

Sang-woo's hand stilled for a moment before he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll be fine," he said. "But you—" He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the cloth. "You scared me back there."

Yi-Seo's throat tightened.

She didn't know what to say.

Suddenly, a loud blare filled the room. Five guards walked out the door, only four of them had a black gift box in their hands. Once they settled into their positions, the square masked guard spoke up.

"We sincerely congratulate and commend you for successfully making it through the five game," The guard congratulated.

"You've now become the finalists, and we've prepared a special gift for you. Before we reveal the gift, please change into the outfit we've prepared." They finished off.

The four guards behind the leader stepped out their positions, heading to the players and giving them their box.

——

The bathroom was dimly lit, the mirror above the sink reflecting her face.

Yi-Seo let out a slow breath, gripping the sink as she stared at herself for what felt like the first time in years.

Her reflection was almost unrecognizable.

The dark circles under her eyes had deepened, making her look older than she was. The sharpness of her features was more pronounced, the once soft glow of youth replaced by exhaustion and hardship. Her skin was paler, stretched thin over the sharp edges of her cheekbones. And then—

Silver strands.

Her breath hitched as she reached up, brushing her fingers over the small streaks of gray that had begun to weave through her dark hair.

When had this happened? When had the years caught up to her?

Yi-Seo let out a bitter laugh, one that barely made a sound. She had aged more in these past few weeks than she had in years. The weight of survival did that to a person.

She shook her thoughts off before opening the gift that waited in front of her.

It was suit with the same number as the track suit.
Number four hundred thirty-five.

Yi-Seo placed the box on the ground, to keep it from getting bloody. She took a deep breath before pulling her hair back and washing the wounds on her face.

Just as she was about to remove her old clothes. A quiet, pained sound made her pause.

She turned her head and froze.

Sae-byeok was struggling.

The young girl was hunched over, her breathing shallow, her hands shaking as she tried to pull her shirt over her head. That's when Yi-Seo saw it—the deep, bloody wound stretching across her stomach.

Her chest tightened.

Sae-byeok swayed slightly, barely managing to keep herself upright.

Before she could collapse, Yi-Seo was at her side.

"Stop," she ordered, her voice firmer than she intended. "Don't move."

Sae-byeok winced but didn't argue. She was too weak to fight back.

Yi-Seo took off her old shirt and coat, pressing them firmly against the wound.

Sae-byeok let out a sharp gasp, her body tensing in pain.

"You should've said something," Yi-Seo muttered, adjusting her grip to keep the pressure steady. "You're losing too much blood."

"It's nothing," Sae-byeok mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yi-Seo clenched her jaw. "This isn't 'nothing.' You need help."

Sae-byeok's gaze softened, but there was something distant in her eyes. A quiet resignation. Like she already knew how this was going to end.

Yi-Seo refused to accept that.

"You're not dying here," she whispered, pressing down harder. "Not like this."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Yi-Seo just held the pressure on the wound, hoping—praying—that morning would come before death did.

——

Yi-Seo sat at the cold table, its polished surface reflecting the dim light above. The room was cavernous yet suffocating, the air thick with tension. The overhead lamps cast long, eerie shadows across the squared table where she and the others sat—three other players, each one visibly exhausted, their bodies hunched over from fatigue and starvation. It was the end, or at least it felt like it.

The table was set with a cruel elegance. A single plate sat before each of them, along with silverware. A thick,
of steak laid on each plate. Yi-Seo stared at it, hunger gnawing at her insides as if she hadn't eaten a proper meal in years. The scent of iron filled her nostrils, metallic and primal.

A masked guard stood by the entrance, watching. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, his boots echoing ominously against the concrete floor. His voice was monotone, rehearsed, but every syllable rang with an underlying menace.

"We have prepared this feast as a token of gratitude for the sacrifice and effort you finalists have made. We're certain you'll give us a splendid performance in the final game.

"In a few hours, the final game will commence. This meal is not just for nourishment—For some of you, it is your last supper. Please enjoy the feast without any concerns."

The Last Supper.

It was an execution disguised as a meal, a mockery of something sacred. They were the condemned, their fates already sealed, just as the disciples had been on the eve of betrayal. But who among them was the betrayer? Who would make the first move?

She barely hesitated before cutting into the meat, her hands gripping the knife tightly. The blade sliced through, revealing the cold, sinewy texture underneath. Her stomach churned. The meat was barely cooked, its insides raw and slick with blood. She grimaced, but she didn't care. She was starving.

She shoved the first bite into her mouth, chewing quickly, trying to suppress the nausea rising in her throat. The texture was unbearable, the blood coating her tongue with a sickening warmth. She forced herself to swallow.

Across from her, Gi-hun hesitated, his fingers twitching around the handle of his knife.

Sang-woo, on the other hand, ate methodically, his face blank, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

Yi-Seo's grip on her knife tightened. She swallowed another bite, her stomach twisting, though not just from the food.

The walls surrounding them loomed tall and cold, and for the first time, she truly saw them. Her gaze traced the patterns on the dark stone, the carvings embedded deep into the surface. They were oddly familiar. A glass bridge. The outline of a tug-of-war rope. Her breath hitched. It had been there all along—etched into the walls, a silent prophecy of their suffering.

These were the games. Their deaths had been scripted from the start.

Her hands trembled slightly as she set down her knife. She glanced at the others, wondering if they saw it too, if they realized that every trial had been decided before they even stepped into the arena. But no one spoke.

Sang-woo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His knife remained in his grasp, unmoving, but the way his fingers curled around it sent a chill down Yi-Seo's spine.

Gi-hun's breathing was slow and heavy, his gaze flickering between them all, calculating, waiting.

Eventually, all the players finished their meals. The guards collected their dishes, only leaving a knife behind.

Yi-Seo stared at the knife, realizing that they would have to go against each other. She would have to go against the most important people in her life.

words from the author:
This book is coming to an ending 😢😢

So sorry that I haven't been updating like I usually do. 🙏🏻