The carousel platform spun like a slow, merciless clock. Dozens of players circled in tight formation, eyes wide and frantic, arms brushing past strangers and allies alike. The platform groaned under the tension of panic and sweat, a carousel of desperation spinning beneath the sterile lights.

Y/n stood wedged between In-ho and Se-mi. Her breath came in shallow bursts, chest tightening with every rotation.

In-ho's presence at her side was rigid and calculating, like a wire pulled too tight.

Se-mi was fidgeting nervously, glancing around like prey scanning the brush for predators.

Y/n's palms were clammy. She could barely hear her heartbeat over the whir of the machinery and the growing panic of the crowd.

"Ten players," the audio called out.

Chaos erupted instantly.

"We need two people!" someone shouted.

In-ho grabbed Y/n's arm without hesitation, anchoring her like a lifeline. Without thinking, Y/n's hand shot out and latched onto Se-mi's wrist.

Their group had seven: In-ho, Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Y/n, Se-mi, and Jun-hee.

"We need three!" In-ho bellowed, voice cutting through the spinning noise.

Player 120 turned with a snap, her group of four alert and listening.

"How many are with you?" Se-mi yelled.

"There's four!" Player 120 called back.

"So that would get us to eleven!" Dae-ho said, voice urgent.

"Too many!" Y/n gasped. But Se-mi was already moving, yanking Min-su from the group as Player 333 and Player 246 darted over, following Gi-hun's waving arms.

Player 120, with surprising calm, looped her arm around the shaman woman and nodded toward them.

"I see it! The light-green one!" Dae-ho screamed as the room markers slid past their field of vision.

"Go, 44! Room 44!" Gi-hun shouted.

The ten of them ran—sprinting, crashing into one another—until the light-green door loomed ahead. Gi-hun shoved through first, pushing bodies into the cramped room.

The timer beeped, high-pitched and merciless.

Clack. The latch sealed behind them.

Silence.

Then—
Gunshots.

Distant but unmistakable. Muffled thuds. Screams. Someone crying out,
"Please! No! Wait—"

Then nothing.

The walls of Room 44 vibrated with the violence outside. Everyone inside stood frozen, chests rising and falling with ragged breaths. Jun-hee was sobbing quietly into Se-mi's shoulder. Gi-hun leaned against the wall, knuckles white. Even In-ho's jaw was clenched tight, as if trying not to flinch at the echo of each shot.

Y/n's hands trembled, her stomach sick. She hadn't even realized she was still holding onto Se-mi.

A long pause.

Then, the chilling monotone of the PA returned:

"The following players have been eliminated: Player 013, Player 043, Player 049, Player 054, Player 060, Player 068..."

One by one, the names rang like funeral bells. Y/n closed her eyes.

She'd made it through this round. But how many more would there be?

The carousel was spinning again—faster this time, or maybe it just felt that way. The lights flickered overhead in rhythmic pulses, a cruel parody of a carnival ride. Sweat clung to skin, breaths came in gasps, and feet shuffled nervously as players tried not to look too desperate.

"Four players," the PA voice echoed coldly.

Y/n's heart dropped. Four? That number was too small. Too dangerous.

"Gyeong-su, you're out!" Thanos yelled across the chaos.

Before Y/n could react, Min-su lunged—his hand clamping tightly around Se-mi's wrist.

"No!" Se-mi cried out, resisting. Her feet scraped against the platform as she was dragged, her eyes locking onto Y/n's in a silent plea. "Please—"

But Min-su's grip was iron. Thanos was already sprinting.

"Let's go!" Namgyu barked, voice cracking.

Y/n didn't even have time to reach for her—Gi-hun's hand caught her elbow, yanking her and Jun-hee toward Jung-bae and Dae-ho.

"You four go now!" Gi-hun shouted.

"No!" Y/n protested, panic flaring in her chest as Jung-bae grabbed her arm. "We stay together!"

"It's okay! You four go!" Gi-hun called again, his face pale but firm.

Behind him, In-ho nodded. "We'll be okay. You guys go!"

"Hurry!" Y/n choked out, turning with Jun-hee.

They ran. Y/n shoved the others toward the nearest room—Room 18—eyes flicking back to see In-ho and Gi-hun already scanning the crowd for two more players.

"We don't have a choice, Y/n—shut the door!" Jung-bae ordered.

With a final, desperate glance, Y/n pulled the door shut.

Click.

Dae-ho's voice was barely above a whisper. "Young-il and Gi-hun are gonna be okay, right?"

Y/n didn't answer. She just stared at the wall, listening.

Woman on PA:
"Ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... Here!"

Then came the shots. Thuds. Screams. A brief, agonizing silence. Then one final bang.

They all stood still, holding their breath. Jung-bae gripped the wall. Jun-hee's lip trembled. Dae-ho looked down at his shoes.

The door unlatched.

They stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the corridor.

"Mr. Young-il!" Dae-ho suddenly exclaimed.

Y/n's head whipped around—and there they were. In-ho and Gi-hun, walking toward them. Unscathed.

She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Oh, thank God! There you are," Jung-bae said, clapping a hand to his chest.

Gi-hun gave Y/n a silent nod. She smiled faintly. Alive. That was enough.

"I knew you'd make it, man. It's good to see you," Dae-ho grinned.

"This guy was something special," In-ho said, tilting his head toward Gi-hun.

"I was worried for a second," Gi-hun admitted.

"Glad you made it," Y/n murmured.

"People say I'm pretty friendly, so, you know, I do all right in these kind of games," In-ho shrugged.

Y/n raised a skeptical brow. Friendly? Since when? Even back in elementary school, he'd been more ice than warmth. But she let it pass.

"How are you feeling, Jun-hee?" In-ho asked.

"I'm all right, thank you. We're all really glad to see you."

"Hold on, I just realized... if we have to form groups of seven next round, we won't need anyone else."

"Why?" Dae-ho blinked.

"Oh, 'cause the baby?" Jung-bae guessed, chuckling

"Ah! That's a good point," he added.

As they laughed, the tension began to ease. Y/n's eyes flicked over the crowd—and her heart lifted as she saw Se-mi jogging toward her, face flushed, eyes glossy.

"Se-mi!" she called, relief coloring her tone.

Se-mi slowed, guilt painted across her face. "Y/n, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to leave you. He just—he grabbed me, and I—"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Y/n said, pulling her into a hug. "You don't need to explain. In here... in this place... sometimes you just have to survive. And I get that.

If it ever comes down to it again—look out for yourself first. That's not selfish. That's human. I'll do the same. We'll both keep looking out for each other, even if from afar."

Se-mi nodded, sniffling. "Thank you..."

"You're right. But wait—what if it's twins?" Dae-ho suddenly asked.

"Then we'd be eight," Jung-bae deadpanned.

They all groaned and laughed, shaking their heads, their laughter echoing into the hollow walls of the game. Just for a moment, they were people again—not players. Just survivors, hanging on. Together.

A voice, cold and mechanical, echoed through the cavernous arena:

"Attention, all players. Please step onto the platform in the center of the arena."

There was a pause. Then, the number—

"Three players."

Panic detonated like a silent bomb.

Gi-hun didn't hesitate. He shoved Jun-hee, Dae-ho, and Jung-bae forward, his voice urgent:

"You three—GO! Now!"

They stumbled, startled but obeying, feet pounding against the metal floor as they sprinted toward the nearest lit room.

Y/n turned her head—her breath hitched. Across the chaos, she saw Player 007 struggling against two strangers dragging him backward.

"What are you doing? Let go!" he screamed.

"That's my mom! MOM!"

His cries stabbed the air, raw and cracking. Y/n felt her throat tighten.

Eyes scanning—she spotted Player 246, alone, terrified. And beyond him, a glowing, empty room.

Without thinking, she lunged—grabbing Se-mi's hand with one and Player 246's sleeve with the other. She yanked hard, nearly falling with them into the safety of the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

Through the tiny peephole, Y/n exhaled—no sign of Gi-hun, In-ho, or the old woman.

"Thank you," panted Player 246.

"Don't mention it," Y/n replied, heart hammering.

Then—the gunshots.

Ringing. Deafening.

The grotesque finality of it all.

The PA voice resumed, clinical and calm over a sound of a forklift's reverse beep:

"The following players have been eliminated: Player 034, Player 038, Player 104, Player 109, Player 291, Player 309, Player 335... Player 345, Player 347..."

Later, in the eerie stillness, the old woman stood blinking in the aftermath.

"Are you doing all right?" Gi-hun asked gently.

"Oh. Oh yes," she nodded. "Thank you both. I would've died if it weren't for you gentlemen."

In-ho tilted his head. "Do you know where your son went?" he asked, tone sharp.

"Sorry?"

"Wasn't he with you?"

She blinked, chuckled awkwardly.

"Ah! Oh, right. We got separated early. Needed one more, so I waited. Got mixed up, I guess."

In-ho narrowed his eyes. "He didn't come get you?"

The old woman straightened, voice rising.

"How dare you, sir! He wouldn't leave me. Not my son. He never hit back, even when he was bullied. He's a good boy—don't you badmouth him!"

In-ho sighed, softened.

"Forgive me. I didn't know what I was talking about."

Then—

From across the corridor, a broken voice:

"Mom... it's okay. I'm alive. I made it..." Yong-sik fell into her arms, sobbing.

"Are you hurt? I'm sorry—I didn't mean to... I didn't—how could I leave you?"

"Honey, no. It's okay. We're both here. That's what matters."

The two clung to each other in the blood-soaked quiet—one voice trembling, the other soothing, until all that remained was the sound of grief finally, finally finding its way out.

The carousel spun again, this time slower—like a predator circling its prey. The platform rotated beneath their feet with a cold, deliberate hum, lights pulsing in a sick rhythm, shadows of the players rippling across the walls.

"Six players," the PA announced, voice crisp and unfeeling.

Player 120 acted swiftly—she grabbed Player 007, his trembling mother, Young-mi, and Player 246, holding them close like pieces on a chessboard. Eyes darting, pulse racing, she waited for a sixth.

Se-mi was closest. She hesitated for a heartbeat—but Y/n didn't. With a firm push, she shoved Se-mi toward the group. Their eyes met—no time for words. Just trust.

Then Y/n turned, grabbing Jun-hee by the shoulder.

"Run," she whispered, already moving.

Across the room, Dae-ho and Jung-bae were calling out:
"This one is empty!" Jung-bae's voice cracked with urgency.

In-ho waved frantically, "Hurry!"

"Come on!" he yelled again, reaching as Y/n dragged Jun-hee behind her, nearly stumbling over her own steps.

Just as she crossed the threshold, In-ho slammed the door shut.

It didn't muffle the sound.

The woman on the PA began her countdown:
"...eight, seven, six..."

Then hesitation.

A small child like voice broke through—small and panicked:
"Unnie!"

The countdown resumed:
"...four, three..."

"Young-mi!"

"...two, one."

Outside, chaos.

"Unnie! Young-mi! Young-mi!" Player 120 screamed over the whir of rotating machinery.

Y/n's eyes clenched shut.

Then came the sound—the inevitable sound.

Gunfire.
Sharp, relentless.

Screams, torn from lungs like confessions.

Thuds of bodies hitting steel floors.

The dull clang of bullet casings skipping across concrete.

Somewhere—someone begged.

Somewhere—someone ran too late.

And inside the room, Y/n turned away from the door.

There was nothing left to see.

Only the echo of a name screamed into oblivion.

Only the blood that would never be cleaned.

The PA crackled to life like the breath of something ancient and merciless.

"Attention, players. The final round will now begin."

The carousel of fate began to turn once more, its soft mechanical whir underscored by the thudding of hearts. The arena spun, rotating slowly under the players' feet like the dial of a safe, searching for the fatal combination.

"What number do you think we're gonna get next?" Jung-bae asked.

Y/n and In-ho answered in unison:
"Two."

They looked at each other, something eerie in the synchronicity.

"Wait, why?" Dae-ho asked, eyebrows knitted.

Y/n's eyes sharpened like glass beneath a microscope. Her mind worked with surgical precision.

"We're at 126 people, and there are only 50 rooms," she began, voice steady even as panic laced the edges.

"Even if there's two in every room, that's still just 100 players max."

In-ho picked up the thought midstream:
"If you don't find one fast, you're done for."

The PA confirmed their worst fear:
"Two players."

Chaos exploded instantly.

"Gi-hun!" Jung-bae shouted.

But Y/n had no time to process. In-ho's hand locked around her elbow, dragging her forward as the world blurred into streaks of color and breathless urgency. The floor rushed beneath their feet. Y/n's head turned once, just once, to look back.

Se-mi. Jun-hee. Gi-hun. Would they make it?

Jung-bae's voice chased them:
"Come on, Gi-hun. Let's go!"

In-ho barreled through the threshold of a half-open room.

Y/n followed, heartbeat a war drum.

But they weren't alone.

"Close it!" In-ho snapped.

"Hey! No!" a man already inside shouted, throwing his arms wide like a barricade.

"Out," In-ho said, his voice cold and stripped of humanity.

"But we were here before—"

"In-ho," Y/n pleaded, desperate, eyes darting between the man and the timer blinking down from the ceiling.

But In-ho wasn't listening. He had already lunged.

The fight was raw and intimate—a ballet of desperation. Fists collided with flesh. In-ho's jaw clenched as he landed blow after blow. The man resisted, screaming, clawing, trying to stay alive. His blood smeared the white wall like a signature of terror.

"Open the fսcking door! I was here first!" the man outside shouted, pounding from the hall.

Y/n held the handle shut, her knuckles bloodless. Tears gathered in her lashes. Was she helping In-ho murder someone?

Was she becoming like him?

"Nine... eight... seven..." the woman's voice counted down.

"Six... five... four..."

The man gasped beneath In-ho's arm, his eyes bulging as fingers closed around his throat.

"Three... two..."

Y/n wanted to look away. She couldn't.

"...one."

A sickening crack rang out as In-ho twisted.

The man's body jerked once, then slumped.
Still.

Lifeless.

In-ho dropped him like trash. The room suddenly felt too small, too silent.

"The final round is now over," the PA said.

Y/n stared at In-ho in horror. Her breath came short, clipped by the weight of realization: he hadn't changed.

The man she'd tried to redeem... was still the same one who'd clawed his way to the top with blood on his hands.

In-ho reached out to touch her shoulder—gentle, almost sheepish, like he could erase what had just happened.

Y/n flinched.

Didn't look at him.

Didn't speak.

How could she keep risking herself for someone who couldn't even see the worth in a stranger's life?

How do you change a man who doesn't want to be saved?

Back with the others, Gi-hun's voice drifted like smoke.

"Once we all get back, somebody should go around and do a head count."

He noticed Y/n's silence. But he didn't ask.

"Why?" Dae-ho asked.

"If we figure out what the X and O split is, then we'll know which side has the edge for the next vote," Gi-hun explained.

In-ho, ever pragmatic, replied with a shrug:
"Guess we have to hope more Os died than we did."

Y/n barely heard him.

She could still feel the warmth of the dead man's blood in the air.

And she couldn't help but wonder—when this was all over—who she'd become.

__________

Jun-ho stood at the edge of the deck like a statue carved from sorrow, one gloved hand gripping the frost-laced rail, the other tucked deep in his coat pocket to hide its tremble. The boat cut through the sea with a hush, the bow whispering against the water as it carved a soft V into the glassy surface. Above the waves, a spectral mist drifted low—like the breath of something long dead and waiting to be reborn.

The gray of dawn bled into the sea and sky until the world felt suspended, colorless, timeless.

But within him, a storm churned.

Guilt swirled like undertow.

Would it have changed anything if I told Gi-hun the truth?

Could mercy take the shape of a lie? Or was silence simply another form of betrayal?

The questions had nested deep inside him, lined their walls with doubt, and refused to leave. In-ho—his brother, once his beacon—was now a shadow he could no longer follow. He'd stopped trying.

There was only her now.

Y/n.

She had become the heartbeat behind every action, the ghost threaded through every breath. He hadn't meant to let her in so deeply, and yet—how could he not? Even when he pushed her memory down, she rose again, soft and stubborn as tide.

Her laugh echoed in the drone's faint hum. Her voice whispered between the ocean winds. Even the bitter tang of instant coffee brought back the way she'd wrinkled her nose at his terrible brewing skills.

Sometimes, she appeared to him—barefoot, hair dancing in the wind, hands curled on the rail beside him.

He would reach for her.

Blink.

Gone.

And the dreams... oh, the dreams were merciless.

They painted her in those hellish arenas, her face twisted in fear, her hands bloodied, her voice calling out to him—always too far to reach. He'd jolt awake, sweat-drenched, heart thrashing like a fish in a net.

He no longer feared death.

Only the idea that she might already be gone.

"By the way," Captain Park's voice cracked through the fog, dragging Jun-ho violently back to the surface. "What was this contraption called again?"

Jun-ho didn't turn.

"...It's a drone," he said, his voice distant, like it had traveled a long way to reach his lips.

"Drome?" Park chuckled. "Ain't that something! Back in the day, we had to scale cliffs with binoculars, pray the glass didn't fog up. This? This makes everything easier."

Jun-ho's jaw clenched. "Get us lower," he ordered the operator. "They'll be hiding better than last time."

"Got it," came the reply.

"But still," Park muttered, hands on his hips, "you've searched two years. What makes this time any different?"

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, the breath leaving like smoke. "If we eliminate every failed lead, we narrow the search. We'll find it—if the weather doesn't screw us."

"That's right," Park said, but there was a dismissive tone in his voice, like this was a game. Jun-ho's shoulders stiffened.

Y/n had warned him.

"He smiles too much," she had murmured once as they watched the man from the pier.

"And never with his eyes."

"He's ex-military," Jun-ho had said.

"Exactly," she'd answered, sliding her hand into his. "Men like him only stay loyal to survival. Not to people."

And now, hearing Park again—

"We've got Ko's boat too. And this fancy drome thing," the man grinned.

Jun-ho turned, sharp. "Drone. Not drome."

His tone cut like sleet.

He turned back to the ocean, eyes scanning, but not seeing. Not really.

He didn't care about the tech, or the mission, or even In-ho anymore.

All that mattered was her.

Not vengeance.

Not justice.

Her.

The sea before him was endless, indifferent, a vast cathedral of water and silence. But he searched it as if it might give her back. He watched the horizon like a man awaiting a miracle, like if he stared hard enough, he could summon her from the salt and mist and memory.

And in that moment, with the waves breaking against the hull and the wind teasing his coat, Jun-ho whispered—not aloud, but in the language only grief understands:

Please... just let me find her.

Not her body.

Not her name on a list.

Her.

Alive.

Still whole.

Still his.