Chapter Text
Break free and leave us in ruins
Took this dagger in me and removed it
Gain the weight of you then lose it
Believe me, I could do it
If it's all in my head tell me now
Tell me I've got it wrong somehow
(June 9th 2020)
It had been four agonizing years since Jun-ho’s own flesh and blood—his elder brother—had leveled a barrel at him and sent him plummeting off the jagged edge of a cliff. For two of those years, Jun-ho had been a ghost, a man possessed by a single, jagged purpose: finding that cursed island again.
Even now, the memories of the summer of 2020 remained searingly vivid, etched into his mind with the clarity of a fresh wound. It felt as though only yesterday the world had still made sense. In-ho had been missing for years by then, leaving his small apartment to gather dust. The space was still cluttered with the intimate debris of a life interrupted—personal trinkets, books, and clothes that still carried the faint, fading scent of him.
At the time, In-ho hadn't even bothered to call. He had simply vanished into the ether one day, leaving no trail. Initially, Jun-ho had rationalized the disappearance, attributing it to the suffocating grief following the passing of In-ho’s wife. He figured his brother just needed to be alone.
But then, he stumbled upon the truth. It was a truth that began with a strange, trembling young woman in the middle of a sterile police station.
Jun-ho had been adjusting his jacket, preparing to head out into the humid evening air, when her voice sliced through the mundane chatter of the precinct.
"I am telling you, they kidnapped us and killed people when we played Red Light, Green Light!" she screamed. Her voice was raw, a jagged edge of hysteria and desperation directed at the officer slumped behind the intake desk.
The officer didn't look up immediately. He tapped a pen against his palm with agonizing rhythm. "And can you tell us where they took you?" he asked, his voice dripping with a practiced, condescending patience.
Behind him, a few other officers exchanged smirks, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. To them, she was just another soul broken by the city, or perhaps a bored girl looking for a thrill.
Jun-ho couldn't see her face from his vantage point, but he watched her posture. At the officer’s question, she froze. Her spine went rigid, a physical manifestation of the realization that she was lost; she had been transported in darkness, and the location was a secret she didn't possess. The silence stretched, heavy and condemning. They didn't believe a word.
"But I have proof! Here!" she said, her hand slamming a small card onto the wooden desk.
The officer picked it up with two fingers, flipping it over curiously. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a string of digits on the back. Without a word, he reached for the desk phone and dialed. Jun-ho stayed rooted to the spot, his instincts as a detective buzzing under his skin. He watched, breathless, as the line connected.
"Hello?" the officer said into the receiver.
"Hi! Who is this? Why are you calling?" a woman’s voice filtered through the speaker, sounding mundane and annoyed, like a shopkeeper interrupted during dinner.
The officer looked back at the young woman, raising a skeptical eyebrow as if to say, 'Satisfied?'
"I am sorry, wrong number," he muttered into the phone and slammed the receiver back onto the cradle.
The young woman’s posture shattered. She sagged for a moment before spinning around, and Jun-ho finally saw her face. She looked to be in her early twenties, her hair a short, dark, messy thicket that looked like it had been hacked off in a hurry. Her features were sharp, her eyes burning with a mix of terror and righteous fury.
"Lady, aren't you too old for jokes like this?" the officer sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Look, I don't know if your friends made you do it, but it’s not funny. We have more important things to do."
"But—but—you must have dialed a wrong number! I am telling you the truth! Try again!" she yelled, her voice cracking as she leaned over the desk, her knuckles white.
Jun-ho felt a flicker of doubt. He had seen countless pranks played on the force by bored youths; it was a common enough occurrence. But there was something in her eyes—a haunted, thousand-yard stare—that didn't fit a prank.
"Hey, young lady," the officer barked, his patience finally snapping. He stood up, towering over her. "If you do not get out of this station right now, you will be in big trouble. Do you understand?"
"You seriously don’t care? People went missing! They’re dead!" She continued to scream, her voice echoing off the cold linoleum walls, a lone cry for justice in a room full of deaf ears.
"Are you by any chance from the North?" one of the officers in the back called out mockingly.
The girl froze. Her mouth snapped shut, her expression hardening into a mask of cold, silent resentment. She didn't offer them the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, she reached out and snatched the card back from the desk.
It was in that fleeting second, as the card flipped through the air, that Jun-ho saw them.
A triangle. A square. A circle.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. They were the exact same cryptic symbols he had found on the card hidden in In-ho’s apartment.
The woman was already storming toward the exit. Just before she disappeared into the night, she turned back, thrusting her middle finger high in the air in a final gesture of defiance. The heavy door slammed behind her with a thud that vibrated in Jun-ho’s chest, leaving him standing in the sudden, ringing silence of the station.
Desperate for answers, Jun-ho trailed her through the damp, labyrinthine alleys. The flickering streetlights cast long, jagged shadows against the brick, and the only sound was the rhythmic scuff of his shoes—a sound he realized, too late, was far too loud.
As she rounded a sharp corner, Jun-ho quickened his pace, only to find the space empty. Before he could process her disappearance, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows.
Desperate for answers, Jun-ho trailed her through the damp, labyrinthine alleys. The flickering streetlights cast long, jagged shadows against the brick, and the only sound was the rhythmic scuff of his shoes—a sound he realized, too late, was far too loud.
As she rounded a sharp corner, Jun-ho quickened his pace, only to find the space empty. Before he could process her disappearance, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows.
She didn't just catch him; she ambushed him with the precision of a predator. A hand gripped his shoulder, spinning him around. Jun-ho reacted instinctively, throwing a desperate forearm block to deflect her initial strike, but she was faster. She ducked under his guard, drove her shoulder into his chest, and slammed his body against the cold, grime-encrusted wall.
The air left his lungs in a painful wheeze. He tried to grab her wrist, but she pinned his arm with her elbow, and in a flash of cold steel, a knife was pressed firmly against the soft skin of his throat.
Jun-ho froze. He felt the sting of the blade’s edge, a terrifying reminder that he was completely unarmed. He hadn't even brought his service weapon. He thought, for a heartbeat, that this was where his search would end—in a dark alley, forgotten.
"I won't arrest you!" he managed to choke out, his voice trembling as he struggled to draw air against the pressure on his windpipe. "My brother has been missing and the card you have... he have the same one."
The woman’s eyes were like flint, searching his face for a lie. The pressure didn't let up, but she didn't cut.
"Stop following me or I swear that knife is the last thing you will see," she warned, her voice a low, dangerous rasp that vibrated against his skin.
Despite the lethality of the situation, a flicker of his detective’s intuition kicked in. He watched her grip, the way she carried herself—she was dangerous, certainly, but he sensed a shared desperation. To him, she could still be just a petty criminal caught in something larger than herself.
Finally, she pulled the blade back and shoved him away. Jun-ho slumped against the wall, clutching his throat and gasping for oxygen as she turned on her heel. She walked away with a predatory grace, the knife still gripped tightly in her hand, glinting under the pale yellow streetlamps.
But the image of his brother’s face flashed in his mind. He couldn't let his only lead vanish into the night.
"Wait! Please, I believe you!" he yelled, his voice echoing off the narrow walls. "What you said about that island... I don't think you are crazy."
The woman stopped dead. She turned around slowly, her silhouette framed by the mist. Jun-ho still thought she was a little bit insane—the fire in her eyes was far from stable—but he needed to stop her by any means necessary.
"I told you stop following me around or I swear I will gut you alive," she said quietly. The lack of volume made the threat feel even more certain. She didn't wait for a rebuttal this time; she vanished into the darkness of the main road.
Jun-ho stood paralyzed, the adrenaline slowly draining from his limbs. He didn't dare follow her again; he knew a third encounter would likely end in bloodshed. He leaned his head back against the brick, staring up at the sliver of moon above.
Then, something caught the light near his feet.
A small, rectangular silhouette lay on the rain-slicked pavement. It must have fallen from her pocket during the struggle when she slammed him against the wall. Jun-ho knelt, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked it up.
It was the card. It was identical to the one he had found in his brother’s room. He traced the symbols with his thumb, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air.
This wasn't the end. It was only the start.
(November 26th 2024)
Jun-ho stared out the window, his reflection ghostly against the dark, rain-streaked glass. The downpour had been relentless all day, a steady, rhythmic drumming that echoed the frantic heartbeat he’d felt during his last encounter with In-ho. Every heavy drop that lashed against the pane served as a cold reminder of the salt spray and the storm that had nearly claimed his life.
Those days spent on the island were a blur of adrenaline and horror, etched into his mind like a recurring nightmare.
It had started with a desperate pursuit. He had followed that woman, Kang Sae-byeok, through the shadows of the city. He remembered her sharp gaze and the lethal edge in her voice when she threatened him, but her warnings had meant nothing. She was a means to an end; the only thing that occupied his mind, his soul, was finding his brother.
When the windowless trucks arrived to collect the "players," Jun-ho didn't hesitate. He watched Sae-byeok being loaded into the back and trailed the convoy closely, his engine a low hum against the silent docks.
In the chaos of the boarding process, he had moved like a shadow. He managed to sneak toward the transport, but a masked soldier—a Circle—spotted him. The struggle was brief and brutal. Jun-ho overpowered the man, stripping the pink jumpsuit from his body and assuming his identity. He knew his best chance was to blend in, to become just another cog in the machine of the workers.
The rest was a descent into a hell he could never have imagined.
The memories flickered through his mind like broken film strips. He remembered the cold dampness of the vents and the suffocating pressure of his mask. He remembered finding Sae-byeok in the the game halls.
"Did you see anyone here named Hwang In-ho?" he had asked her, his voice a frantic whisper. Even then, bruised and exhausted, she looked at him as if she wanted to murder him.
Then came the voices—the sounds of the island's masters.
"It’s the Captain speaking," the Frontman’s voice had boomed over the intercoms, authoritative and chillingly calm.
And the VIPs... the memory of the host’s predatory tone made Jun-ho’s skin crawl. "If you can satisfy me in five minutes," the man had purred. Jun-ho felt the phantom weight of the service pistol in his hand; he was lucky he had been armed.
But the final confrontation on the cliffside was what haunted him most. The wind had been howling, mirroring the chaos in his chest as the black-masked figure stepped forward.
Then, the mask was removed. The geometric, metallic face gave way to the weary, familiar features of his brother.
"Hyung, why?" Jun-ho’s own voice sounded small and broken in his memory.
"I am sorry, Jun-ho," In-ho had said. The words sounded genuine—heavy with a grief that Jun-ho wanted to believe in. For a split second, he allowed himself to hope.
That hope was shattered by the deafening crack of a gunshot. In-ho had raised his weapon and fired, the bullet tearing through Jun-ho’s shoulder. Jun-ho fired too.
The force of the impact and the betrayal sent him reeling backward, plunging off the cliff and into the churning, hungry sea below.
He had expected the darkness of the water to be the end. He thought it was a cruel irony: the one person he had spent years searching for would be the one to finish him.
But the sea hadn't claimed him. A local fisherman, captain Park, had been out in the rough waters and pulled his broken body from the waves. The months that followed were a haze of a long, deep coma and agonizing physical therapy, but he had survived.
The search for Hwang In-ho had become a slow, rhythmic torture. For two years, Jun-ho had lived on the salt-stained deck of Captain Park’s trawler, his world reduced to the endless horizon and the hypnotic hum of the engine. Hundreds of jagged rocks and nameless landmasses littered the sea, each one a false promise.
It was like searching for a single silver thread in a mountain of hay. Even Captain Park, a man whose skin was as leathery as the sea itself, had reached his limit. He had begun to mutter about "ghost chasing" and "wasted years," urging Jun-ho to let the dead stay buried.
But Jun-ho couldn't. Not until the 5th—or perhaps the 6th—of November. The date was a blur, swallowed by the gray monotony of the ocean.
"Jun-ho, I think we should just head back. It’s getting late," Park shouted over the wind. He wasn't just tired; he was wary. The sky was bruising into shades of violet and charcoal, and the swell was beginning to rise in a way that signaled a coming fury.
Jun-ho didn't answer. He was frozen, leaning over the dim green glow of the radar console. The boat pitched violently, forcing him to brace himself against the cold metal edge. Normally, the screen was a mess of flickering static and the soft, blooming smears of rain clouds. But this was different.
The radar blip was sharp. Defined. A solid, unmoving return that cut through the interference.
“That’s not storm,” Jun-ho murmured, his voice barely audible against the creaking timber of the hull.
Captain Park glanced over, his heavy brow furrowing in irritation. “What?”
“That signal,” Jun-ho pointed, his finger trembling slightly. "It doesn't look like storm.”
"It’s a malfunction," Park snapped, his patience finally fraying like an old rope under tension. "The salt air eats these electronics for breakfast. I’m turning us around before the sea does it for us."
Jun-ho didn’t budge. The blip pulsed with agonizing consistency. Slow. Deliberate. Like a heartbeat calling from the dark.
“What if it’s land?” Jun-ho asked.
Park turned the helm sharply. “That area’s nothing but uncharted rock, Jun-ho. No harbors. No lights. We’ve been over this a thousand times. We move now, or the storm hits us broadside."
"No!" Jun-ho stood up, the command in his voice cutting through the cabin like a blade. "Captain, I’ve spent two years on this deck. I’ve paid you every won I have. We go to those coordinates. Just for ten minutes."
"We can check it tomorrow! Now is not the time!" Park yelled, his voice cracking as the wind began to howl through the radio mast.
But Jun-ho was already hovering over the paper charts, his mind racing through the math of the distance. "It’s there. I can feel it."
Reluctantly, Park shoved the throttle forward. The boat groaned, its bow slamming into a massive, white-capped swell that sent spray flying over the windows. They punched through a wall of thick, low-hanging fog—and the world on the other side was terrifying.
The horizon wasn't dark; it was hemorrhaging light.
A massive plume of oily, black smoke billowed into the sky, lit from beneath by a violent, orange glare. A jagged silhouette of rock rose from the waves, wreathed in a massive conflagration. It didn't look like an island anymore; it looked like a funeral pyre built in the center of the world.
“We turn back,” Park said, his voice flat with terror. “Now.”
Jun-ho straightened, his eyes fixed on the fire. “No.”
He snatched his binoculars, his knuckles white. Through the lenses, he saw the inferno devouring the structures. Was In-ho in that fire? Who had done this? Who had planted the bombs to erase this place from existence?
"We have to get closer!" Jun-ho shouted over the roar of the burning land. "There might be survivors!"
Park stared at him, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something darker than fear in his eyes. “Jun-ho—”
Jun-ho turned to grab his gear, his back to the Captain for a split second. He expected the roar of the engine to surge; instead, the world tilted into a sickening kaleidoscope. Something heavy—a fist or a metal tool—connected with the back of his head.
His knees buckled. The cabin lights smeared into long, burning streaks as he hit the floorboards. He tasted copper.
Jun-ho tried to reach for the holster at his hip, but his fingers felt like lead weights. He looked up, his vision swimming, to see Captain Park standing over him, silhouetted by the orange glow of the burning island.
Through the deafening ringing in his ears, he heard Park’s voice.
"He told me to stop you, if you reach the island. And you can't reach the island," Park whispered.
Jun-ho tried to lung forward, but his body refused to obey. A second blow descended, and the black smoke of the dying island merged with the darkness rising in Jun-ho’s mind.
When Jun-ho finally woke, it was days later. He was slumped in the backseat of his own car, parked in a deserted, rain-slicked lot on the mainland. The world felt thin and cold.
The news followed shortly after: Captain Park’s boat had been found drifting empty a mile offshore. Two days later, they found the Captain himself—swinging from a rafter in his own gear shed, a man who had taken his secrets to the grave.
Two months had passed since that night. Jun-ho had returned to the sea again and again, but the island was gone. No coordinates matched. No radar blips returned. It had been destroyed, scrubbed from the face of the earth. No survivors. No trace of In-ho.
Maybe he was alive. Maybe he was gone. But Jun-ho hadn't seen his brother's face since that final, horrific moment on the cliff.
"Jun-ho? Jun-ho, dear, are you listening?"
The voice shattered the memory like a hammer through ice. Jun-ho blinked, finding himself back in the present, staring at the raindrops racing down his windowpane.
"The door," his mother said, her voice laced with a gentle, nagging concern. Her eyes searched his face, constantly hunting for the son she used to know before he went missing. "Someone has been ringing it for a minute. Are you feeling alright? You've gone all distant again."
"I'm fine, eomma. I'll get it."
He stood up, shaking off the phantom smell of salt and smoke. He adjusted his posture, pulling the mask of the stoic detective back over his weary features. He expected a delivery man or a neighbor complaining about the rain.
He opened the door.
Standing in the hallway, dripping wet and looking like a man who had just climbed out of a fresh grave, was a stranger. His hair was a dark, matted mess, and his jacket was worn thin.
"Hwang Jun-ho?" the man asked. His voice was a desperate, gravelly rasp.
Jun-ho stiffened, his instincts flaring. His eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" He was not expecting a visitor at this late hour.
The man stepped forward, ignoring the boundaries of personal space.
"My name is Seong Gi-hun," the man said, his eyes wide and haunting. "I was... I was a friend of your brother's. Of In-ho."
The rain continued to lash against the small house, a rhythmic drumming that underscored the heavy silence between the two men. Gi-hun felt the weight of Jun-ho’s gaze—a stare fueled by a sharp, jagged suspicion. Jun-ho stood firm in the doorway, his body a deliberate physical barrier that barred entry.
"You know my brother?" Jun-ho pressed. His eyebrows furrowed, creating a deep crease of skepticism. It was as if the very idea of his older brother having a friend was a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.
Gi-hun felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t claim to truly know Hwang In-ho—not the man’s secrets or the shadowed corners of his soul. But he cared. He cared enough that In-ho’s ghost had haunted his thoughts for years, a lingering presence he couldn't shake.
"Yes, I knew your brother. Can we talk?" Gi-hun asked, his voice steady despite the chill seeping into his bones.
A long, assessing silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions. Finally, with a reluctant shift of his shoulders, Jun-ho stepped aside and allowed him into the warmth of the home.
Gi-hun stepped into the hallway, shedding his muddy shoes. They hit the floor with a wet thud, leaving a dark puddle on the linoleum. He followed Jun-ho through a short, narrow passage that opened into a modest kitchen. The transition was jarring; the air here was thick and golden, scented with the mouth-watering aroma of simmering spices and toasted sesame oil.
At the stove, an elderly woman moved with practiced grace, her back to them as she stirred a pot. This was Mal-soon—the mother In-ho had left behind.
"I didn't know we had a visitor!" she called out cheerfully. She turned with a genuine, beaming smile that momentarily made Gi-hun forget the storm outside.
"Me neither, but he knows In-ho," Jun-ho said. His tone remained flat and clinical, a sharp contrast to his mother’s warmth.
"Hello, I apologize for bothering you at this hour," Gi-hun said, bowing his head politely.
Mal-soon waved off his apology with a flick of her hand. "It's okay, you can stay here if you're In-ho's friend. Are you hungry? I can cook kimchi if you want."
"Oh, okay. Thanks," Gi-hun replied. The words felt awkward in his mouth. It felt like a lifetime ago—another version of himself entirely—since his own mother had stood over a stove making him a meal. A wave of grief, sharp and sudden, threatened to break through his composure. If only his mother had known the depths of the trouble he had willingly waded into.
He stole a glance at Jun-ho. The younger man hadn't moved his eyes, watching Gi-hun’s every micro-expression for a slip-up. Gi-hun offered a small, tentative smile, hoping to soften the tension, but Jun-ho’s face remained a mask of stone.
"Sit, sit," Mal-soon insisted, her voice a gentle melody that rose above the low rumble of thunder echoing in the distance. "Any friend of In-ho’s is a friend of this house."
As she turned back to her cooking, Gi-hun’s chest tightened. He wondered if she had any idea of what had truly become of her eldest son. He wondered, with a dark flicker of dread, if he himself would simply disappear one day, leaving no one behind to search for him.
Gi-hun sank into a chair at the modest wooden table. His damp clothes felt like lead against his skin, pulling at his shoulders. Across from him, Jun-ho remained upright, leaning against the doorframe like a sentry. Those sharp, observant eyes continued to scour Gi-hun’s face, searching for a lie that Gi-hun hadn't even told yet.
"I'm sorry to intrude," Gi-hun managed to say. To his own ears, his voice sounded thin, echoing with a hollow exhaustion. "I didn't mean to come so late."
"It's okay! We don’t mind company, do we Jun-ho-ya?" Mal-soon didn’t look up from her work, even as Jun-ho finally moved, pulling out the chair opposite Gi-hun.
He sat down quietly, leaning forward into Gi-hun's personal space. "You said you were his friend," Jun-ho said, his voice low. "When did you meet him?"
Gi-hun cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "We met in 2018. I was... I was his driver. For around two years. We talked. A lot."
In truth, Gi-hun had done most of the talking—endless, nervous rambling about his debts, his daughter, and his bad luck. But he remembered In-ho as a patient listener, a man who sat in the back of the car and absorbed Gi-hun’s chaos with a quiet, steady presence.
Jun-ho’s expression didn't soften. If anything, he looked more skeptical. "In-ho didn't talk to anyone. Not after his wife died. He barely talked to me."
Gi-hun looked down at the table. He knew precious little about the woman who had been In-ho’s wife. He didn't even know her name—only that her death had been the catalyst that broke In-ho, changing him into something unrecognizable. It was her sickness, the crushing weight of medical bills and desperation, that had driven him to that place the first time.
Gi-hun could understand the desperation of a man trying to save someone he loved. What he couldn't wrap his mind around—what kept him up at night—was why In-ho had gone back. Why, after winning, would anyone ever choose to return to that hell?
"I think he was really lonely," Gi-hun said, his voice dropping an octave, gaining a sudden, quiet strength that seemed to surprise even him. He stared at his reflection in the dark surface of the table. "I guess I can’t say I knew him all that well. But he mentioned you—not by name, but he told me he couldn’t see you again."
The room went deathly still. The only sound was the low hum of a distant refrigerator. Gi-hun noticed Mal-soon’s hand falter, the wooden spoon knocking against the side of the pot with a hollow clack before she forced herself to resume stirring. Opposite him, Jun-ho’s posture shifted. The sharp, jagged suspicion in the younger man’s eyes flickered, softening into a complex mosaic of emotion—curiosity, perhaps, or a grief so deep it had no bottom.
"When did you last see him?" Jun-ho asked, his voice steady but strained.
"In 2020. Beginning of June, I think," Gi-hun replied. His fingers moved restlessly, shredding a paper napkin into a pile of white confetti beneath the table. "Oh, I remember... it was a few days before my daughter’s birthday."
He didn’t know why he felt the need to mention Ga-yeong. Perhaps it was the sentimentality of a man who had lost everything, or perhaps it was the guilt. When In-ho had handed him that money, it had been a lifeline; at the very least, it meant he could buy her a decent gift instead of showing up empty-handed yet again.
"And the last time you saw him, where was he?" Jun-ho pressed.
"He told me to drive him to the docks. That’s when he said goodbye, and I haven’t seen him since. I thought..." Gi-hun’s voice trailed off, his eyes searching Jun-ho’s face. "I thought maybe he came home to you."
Jun-ho’s eyebrows shot up, a bitter shadow crossing his features. "He didn’t come home. He’s been gone for years."
"I think I know where he is," Gi-hun whispered.
Jun-ho raised an eyebrow but remained silent as his mother approached, carefully placing steaming bowls of stew onto the table. The conversation died instantly. They ate in a heavy, suffocating silence. Gi-hun stared into his bowl, wondering if Jun-ho already knew more than he let on—if he understood exactly what In-ho’s role was in that nightmare.
The warmth of the kimchi, usually a comfort, made a sharp pang of bile rise in Gi-hun’s throat. The silence was eventually broken by Mal-soon, who began to speak of her eldest son with a heartbreaking lightness, as if he were merely a successful businessman away on a long, lucrative trip. Jun-ho remained a statue, saying nothing, waiting with calculated patience for his mother to finish her meal and gather the laundry.
As she finally walked away, the air in the room seemed to change. Jun-ho leaned forward, his entire demeanor hardening. He looked Gi-hun directly in the eye.
"I was there."
At first, Gi-hun’s mind blanked, unable to process the confession. Then, the realization hit him like a physical blow. The island.
"How did you get there?" Gi-hun asked, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a chill go down his spine. Could both brothers be involved in those sick games? Was Jun-ho working for them, too? He looked at the man's disciplined frame and felt a flicker of dread, not daring to ask more.
"I have a question for you too, Mr. Seong," Jun-ho countered, his gaze piercing. "How much do you know?"
"Your brother... he told me not to play a game in the subway station," Gi-hun explained, the words tumbling out. "But I wanted to find out. Around October, I saw a man playing ddakji with a woman. He gave her a card—the symbols: a triangle, a square, and a circle. I tried to call the number, but there was no response."
"Is that how you got on the island? Did you play a game?"
Jun-ho let out a short, sharp chuckle. It was an unnatural sound that didn't reach his eyes. "There was a woman screaming about games where people were being murdered at police station. She had the same card. No one believed her, of course. They thought she was mad. I followed her, and she led me straight to the docks."
"What was her name?"
"Kang Sae-byeok, I think. She’s a North Korean defector."
The name hung in the air. Gi-hun wondered how many people had been that desperate. Had In-ho been the one to recruit them? No, he would have recognized In-ho at the station.
"Is she still alive?" Gi-hun asked, his voice trembling. He wasn't sure of the rules—if they only let one person survive, or if a group could share the prize.
"I don't know. I didn't spend much time with the players," Jun-ho replied coldly.
"Then where were you? What were you doing there?"
"As I was saying, I followed Sae-byeok. Her lead got me onto the ferry at the docks. There were pink soldiers—workers taking care of the players. I sneaked aboard, and I had to become one of them."
Gi-hun didn't ask for details. He didn't want to hear about the blood that must have been shed for Jun-ho to acquire that mask and jumpsuit.
"I was pretending to be a worker just so I could find out whether In-ho was alive or dead."
"And is he? Is he alive?" Gi-hun’s breath hitched. He needed the truth, even if it was a blade to the heart.
Jun-ho seemed to look right through him, avoiding the question as he continued his grim recitation. "There were 456 players. They were all there to play for the money. If they failed, they were 'eliminated' by those pink soldiers."
The confirmation made the room feel smaller. They were killing people like livestock for sport.
"And the players?" Gi-hun asked, recalling In-ho’s stories about the darkness of human nature. "Could they eliminated each other too?"
"There was an event while I was there," Jun-ho said, his jaw tightening. "They were allowed to kill one another to lower the numbers for the next game."
"What games were they playing?"
"Children's games. For around six days, I think," Jun-ho replied with a terrifying detachment. Gi-hun flinched. The perversion of innocence was almost too much to stomach.
"And the people in charge? Did you see them?" Gi-hun pressed.
Jun-ho nodded slowly. "I saw them. I posed as a waiter for the VIPs. Rich clients who came to watch the slaughter. I couldn't see their faces; they wore golden animal masks. They sat there drinking expensive wine and betting on human lives."
"Did they control the games?"
"No," Jun-ho said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "There was a man in charge. They called him the Front Man. He wore a black mask and had access to everything. I managed to sneak into his quarters and found the archives—the player files."
Gi-hun leaned in, the air between them thick with the scent of old paper and death. "And did you find In-ho in them?"
"He was in the files," Jun-ho said, his eyes darkening with a pain he couldn't hide. "He won the games in 2015."
"And was he on the island when you were there?" Gi-hun asked, his mind racing. "Was he a worker too?"
The thought of In-ho hidden behind one of those faceless pink masks, watching the carnage he had once survived, sent a shiver through Gi-hun that he knew would never truly leave.
“No. I never found him.”
The words fell flat, heavy with a finality that Jun-ho seemed to have practiced. He didn’t offer anything else—no theories, no leads, just a hollow silence. It left Gi-hun suspended in a cruel limbo; he still didn’t know if Jun-ho’s brother was a corpse rotting in the sea or a ghost walking the earth.
“And how did you get off of the island?” Gi-hun asked, his voice tight. A flicker of desperate hope ignited in his chest. If Jun-ho had made it out, maybe In-ho could too. Maybe there was a way to escape that hell, provided In-ho still possessed a shred of a human heart.
“After the Frontman shot me, I… I called the coast guard,” Jun-ho replied.
Gi-hun searched the younger man's face. The explanation felt thin, almost brittle, but he had no proof to shatter the lie. He forced himself to accept the words. Those 'Hosts'—or whatever Jun-ho called the masters of that island—must be terrifyingly powerful. Powerful enough to keep the police at bay, or perhaps powerful enough to own them.
“So you don't… you don't know where In-ho is?” Gi-hun pressed, the question hanging like a plea between them.
Jun-ho didn’t answer. Instead, he fixed Gi-hun with a heavy, unreadable gaze that seemed to weigh the older man’s soul. “Why are you really here, Mr. Seong? After four years… why now?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” Gi-hun snapped, the frustration he’d been simmering in finally bubbling over. “Your own brother went missing, and he may be dead. Don’t you want to find him again?”
“No,” Jun-ho replied simply.
The word was a guillotine. It seemed as though Jun-ho had finally surrendered to the grief, or perhaps to a truth too dark to utter. Gi-hun stared at him, his mind racing. Was In-ho one of those pink-clad soldiers executing players with mechanical indifference? Or was he something far worse?
“Could I ask you something?” Gi-hun said, softening his tone.
Jun-ho’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting into a wary, defensive stance. “About what?”
“Could I see… some of his things?”
Jun-ho hesitated. The air in the room grew thick as he debated the request. For a long, agonizing moment, Gi-hun was certain he would be shown the door.
Finally, Jun-ho gave a stiff, solemn nod. “Come with me.”
They moved down a narrow, claustrophobic hallway toward Jun-ho’s bedroom. The space was unsettlingly sparse and orderly—too tidy for a man living alone, or perhaps exactly the kind of order one maintains when their internal world is in ruins. It was a room for someone living with ghosts.
Jun-ho crouched by the closet, reaching into the shadows to pull out a cardboard box. Its corners were softened and grey with age. “These were from his apartment,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Before I sold it.”
He slid the box across the floor toward Gi-hun.
Kneeling, Gi-hun felt his hands tremble as he reached for the lid. He pulled it open, expecting… what? Evidence of a monster? Instead, he found the debris of a quiet life: a few well-worn books, art supplies, and a stack of vinyl records. It was all so ordinary. Far too ordinary for a man like In-ho. Yet, looking at the titles, Gi-hun wondered if the man he knew was still buried somewhere under the weight of the Games.
“He always liked these,” Jun-ho remarked, nodding toward a painting Gi-hun had pulled out.
Gi-hun looked up. Jun-ho was wearing a sad, ghost of a smile. It was the look of a man mourning someone who wasn't just missing, but who had ceased to exist entirely, leaving only these relics behind.
Then, Gi-hun’s fingers brushed against something cold and glossy. He reached into the bottom of the box and lifted a dusty photograph.
He lifted it gently.
A young woman smiled back at him from the glossy surface. Her hair was pulled back, eyes bright, expression soft. Happy.
"That’s In-ho’s wife," Jun-ho said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room.
Gi-hun stood frozen, his fingers tracing the edge of a weathered, silver-framed photograph. The woman in the picture possessed a radiant, effortless grace; she looked like the kind of person who could fill a cold, empty room with warmth just by existing. Her smile was a direct contrast to the grim reality Gi-hun currently inhabited.
"What was her name?" Gi-hun asked quietly. The question felt heavy in his mouth. He realized then that he had never actually asked In-ho about her. There were so many things he hadn’t asked—details he had bypassed, questions he should have probably raised months ago.
But back then, he hadn’t dared. He had walked on eggshells, terrified that a single prying question would push In-ho away or shatter the fragile bond they shared. Now, standing amidst the wreckage of their lives, none of that caution mattered anymore. He might as well invade his friend's privacy; there was nothing left to protect.
Jun-ho glanced down at the photo, his jaw tightening as his expression softened for a fleeting fraction of a second. "Hae-in," he whispered. "She had acute liver cirrhosis. In-ho entered the Games specifically to fund her treatment. But..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the window. "She passed away before In-ho ever came back."
Gi-hun’s heart sank. He remembered a detail that made the tragedy even more suffocating. "And the child?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "In-ho’s wife... she was supposed to be pregnant."
"They were expecting a daughter," Jun-ho replied, his voice thick with a sorrow he couldn't quite mask. "But no. Neither of them made it."
Gi-hun felt a chill settle in his bones. "And you said you haven’t seen him since the Games ended?"
Jun-ho gave a solemn nod, refusing to meet Gi-hun's eyes. Gi-hun looked back at the photograph. In-ho had once confessed to him that he had done "horrible things" to save his family. But if they were both gone—if the very reason for his sacrifice had vanished—why would he still be working for them? Why stay in that hell?
He knew Jun-ho was withholding parts of the truth. There was a gap in the story, a missing piece regarding what had actually transpired on that godforsaken island and exactly what role In-ho played in the hierarchy of the masked men.
"You said their leader, the Frontman, shot you," Gi-hun prompted, testing the waters. "Did you see his face?"
"He was wearing a mask," Jun-ho answered flatly.
A mask. The word felt like a wall. If the man was masked, there was no definitive way to prove it was Jun-ho’s brother, and Jun-ho seemed adamant that he hadn't seen the face behind the black chrome. Gi-hun found it impossible to believe that the In-ho he knew would be capable of pulling a trigger on his own younger brother. Then again, Gi-hun wasn’t sure of anything these days. The world had turned into a kaleidoscope of betrayals.
His thoughts drifted to Young-il, the "friend" he had made recently. Young-il was always vague, speaking in riddles about an "important job." He had recently sent Gi-hun a location for a meeting—a secluded, private spot far from prying eyes. It was the perfect place for a disappearance.
Was Young-il a trap? Was he merely another cog in the machine—one of those pink-suited soldiers hidden in plain sight? Perhaps the hosts of the Games wanted to tie up their last loose end.
The uncertainty was a physical weight, but Gi-hun knew he wouldn’t extract another drop of information from Jun-ho tonight.
"So you don't know if this girl, Sae-byeok... if she's still alive?" Gi-hun asked, one last desperate hope flickering in his chest.
"No," Jun-ho said. "But she made it to the fifth game, as far as I can remember."
The fifth game. If she had made it that far, what about Sang-woo? Was it possible he had survived too? Had he won, taken the blood-soaked prize money, and vanished without a single word to Gi-hun or his own grieving mother?
"Well, it’s getting late. I should probably head out," Gi-hun said, carefully placing the photograph back into its box as if handling a relic. "Thanks for the information... and the dinner."
"Oh, okay," Jun-ho said, standing up and regaining his composure. "I'll go tell my mother you're leaving, Mr. Seong."
Gi-hun did not say anything else to him anymore and let himself out of house.
Before leaving outside, where the rain poured endlessly, he look at Jun-ho once more.
"I am sorry about your brother," he said. Jun-ho didn't look at him as Gi-hun stepped outside.
Gi-hun was still unsure whetever the answers he get were enough.
But he still had to chase one last ghost and meet a potencial serial killer.
It will for sure be a long week.