Chapter Text
Gi-hun
The ground where they’d dropped him was freezing.
There was a potent ache in every joint in his body, pinning him to the ground he once would’ve leaped back from. Everything felt heavy. It was worse than being drunk, because even when he was stumbling around in the dead of night, soju bottle grasped tightly in white-coloured knuckles, he had chosen that. He didn’t choose to be stabbed, beaten and trampled in the dirt of the Red Light, Green Light playground. And he certainly didn’t choose to be avenging a deceased Sae-byeok from the man he had once trusted with every fibre of his body.
Gi-hun moaned pathetically, feeling a crisp and burning sensation in his cheek. The ground was attacking his body, roasting him with its frigid texture. Despite the ache that wouldn’t back down, he rolled himself onto his back, and found that he was no longer wearing the luxury tux the Pink Soldiers had thrusted on him– instead he was wearing his worn and ancient clothes, softened by years of reuse and less-than-ideal washing conditions.
He thought he would’ve been comforted to be back in his own clothes, in clothes he didn’t kill anyone in, but they seemed to weigh him down even more than the crippling ache in his bones. Gi-hun didn’t know why. But he hated it. He hated everything about the place he’d been for the past five days. “You people are horses; horses at a racetrack. We bet on you.” He withered on the frosty gravel, trying to shake the material off his eyes, with little success.
He felt dizzy and shaky but aware. He didn’t know how he knew, but he could sense Sang-woo’s presence beside him. Gi-hun swallowed at the memory of seeing his childhood best friend slathered in blood, rain and sand, large, swollen purple bruises growing out of his face and tears running down his cheeks. “Let’s go. Let’s go together.” Gi-hun bristled and rolled himself over to his other side, the harsh chill of the gravel exploded on his other cheek, but his head also collided with something warm, some form of limb.
Sang-woo. He was correct. Had he bumped into the hand that had cut Sae-byeok’s neck? Had he bumped into the hand that had pushed the glassmaker to his death? Had he bumped into the hand that had clasped Ali’s in the Marbles game? Gi-hun swallowed and nudged his forehead against Sang-woo’s still fingers.
“S-Sang-woo-ah.” He called, his voice hoarse and thick. His mouth was dry, as if the Soldiers had dropped a bucket of sand down his throat before letting him go. “Sang-woo-ah, can you… can you take the blind fold off?” He asked, feeling a lump form in the back of his throat. Gi-hun could imagine the positions they were in, shivering against the ground, in their clothes, feet and hands bound, eyes covered with a thick and heavy material. He thought of Sae-byeok, and her brother. He’d promised to help him with the money, should he win. But now he was back to where he’d started; no money. Not a cent. And the loan sharks were still coming for his kidney.
If he could, he would hang his head in shame.
He’d failed her when she needed him the most. Not only could he not help her ten-year-old brother – Ga-yeong’s age, too – but he’d spared her murderer. He could’ve killed Sang-woo, escaped with the large sum of blood money and made a better life for himself. He could’ve helped the others’ families; Ali had a kid, didn’t he? He’d failed him too. His angel was dead and he didn’t even register it for the first few minutes after the game. He’d been too consumed with grief over the old– over Il-nam and too happy that Sang-woo was still alive, still breathing. It didn’t feel all that long ago, when he was still praying his best friend would make it out of the games alive. And now? A couple of hours ago he could’ve ended him with the same knife he’d used to eat his food. He still could.
Gi-hun shook his head against Sang-woo’s fingers again, desperately trying to rid himself of those self-depleting thoughts. He’d made a choice. He’d ended the games; he’d saved Sang-woo’s life. He couldn’t let him die now. “Don’t do it. You’re not that kind of person.” He swallowed, the image of a sweat-musted, unruly, scared, dying Sae-byeok invaded his vision, her voice trembling with the pull of death just seconds away.
Fingers roamed over his face, and Gi-hun had to forcefully halt himself so he didn’t flinch. Sang-woo’s fingers were shaky as they searched for the blind fold, but eventually, he dug his fingers underneath the material and ripped it off Gi-hun’s eyes. He blinked, suddenly invited back to the world of sight. He could see Sang-woo’s curled up form in front of him, his grey suit soaked by the downpour raining down all around them. Gi-hun raised his head, his neck shaking in agony as he moved too quickly, and found that the storm from the last game had followed them all the way back to the mainland.
Dirty liquid pooled in the crevices of his face, in his eye sockets and his dimples. Gi-hun shook his head like a dog, his water-logged hair flying this way and that. It smacked him in the face one too many times for his liking, but he couldn’t be bothered to mind. Sang-woo was still in front of him, and the both of them were still bound. Gi-hun rubbed his wrists together; the rough material scraped across his skin, agitating the wound the exploding glass had caused. Gi-hun swallowed, feeling the soaked bandage around his hand fray off at the friction.
Despite what he thought, there was no pain. Not after Sang-woo had driven the steak knife through his hand and not now. It was oddly numb; staticky, like the way his television would get after a windstorm knocked out their electricity cable. Gi-hun wasn’t sure how well the Soldiers had tended to the wound, but he wasn’t thrilled by the lack of feeling he had. Whatever.
Similarly to that night when he and Sae-byeok had been thrown onto the street, he lunged forward and attacked Sang-woo’s bounds with his teeth, gnawing on the rope until its structure gave way. He spat out several pieces of thread as the rope collapsed, letting Sang-woo’s arms fall to the ground below them. Gi-hun used his shoulders to inch himself up the length of road they were laying on, attempting to turn around so Sang-woo could free him next. But his friend didn’t move. Not even an inch.
Worry coursed upwards through him, pooling in his chest until he felt sick with anxiety. Had the Soldiers not treated him? Why was he so still? Gi-hun swallowed down the itchy dryness of his throat, “Sang-woo-ah? Sang-woo-ah, can you free me?” He asked. He didn’t get a response. Icy fear wrapped her fingers around his heart and clenched. Sang-woo wasn’t dead, was he? No, impossible, he’d just taken Gi-hun’s blind fold off. But his friend wasn’t moving. Gi-hun couldn’t even see the small rise and fall of his chest; any indications of Sang-woo’s life were hidden from view, or drenched in rain.
Gi-hun blinked up at the jet black sky, and the sheets of water that glinted yellow in the presence of the sheet lamps hanging above them. He opened his mouth. Small beads of rain splattered inside his mouth, some around the edges, and some nowhere near him. The tiny amount of water inside of his desert-mouth washed away the initial dryness, but there was still a lingering feeling of discomfort, even as he snapped his mouth closed. He coughed and twisted onto his side again, before twisting his body left, right, left, right, until he could wiggle his arms to the front of his body.
The ache in his shoulders became a blossoming firework of pain and anguish. Gi-hun groaned as he pulled his wrists to his mouth and gnawed down on the rope again. The rope gave way as easily as Sang-woo’s bonds had before and he started working on the rope around his ankles next. With himself free, he went to stand, to get to Sang-woo and free him, check if he was still alive, but his legs gave out beneath him, like an unseen force had knocked any stability right out from under him. Gi-hun landed against the gravel on his shoulder. He hissed, rolling onto his back as his right hand grasped his left shoulder, as if that would contain his pain.
He wriggled against the wet puddles beginning to form beneath him, biting so hard down against his lips that he wasn’t surprised when the metallic taste of fresh blood pulsed inside his mouth. He remembered the small, pulsating glob of blood that seeped from the cut in Sae-byeok’s neck, the remaining blood that stained her white shirt, her bed, Sang-woo’s face. Swallowing, Gi-hun planted his palms against the soaked gravel and raised himself up to his knees. The gravel churned against his pants as he waddled his way over to Sang-woo.
He didn’t dare check his throat for a pulse, not trusting himself enough.
Gi-hun grasped his friends shoulders and rolled him onto his back, pulling his arms out from under him before his weight ultimately crushed them. Sang-woo made no response. His limbs moved easily, as if they’d been severed from the brain stem. Gi-hun swallowed again, and moved to untie the binds around Sang-woo’s ankles. By the time he pulled the rope back, he came to realise the white material was stained red– more than stained, it was soaked with blood, like it’d been dropped in a bucket of it.
He grasped at Sang-woo’s shoe and tore it off with trembling hands. There was no sock, just the irritated, red blotch surrounding the large, oozing bite mark. The bite mark he’d put there. Gi-hun sat back on his feet, feeling his mouth go dry once more, at the sight. There were large chunks of skin missing, freshly oozing bright scarlet blood, and there were deeper inflictions within the ring of imprinted teeth. His teeth. The area around the ankle was swelling purple and yellow, bloating the skin in a sickly way. Gi-hun had to clamp down on his tongue to keep his liver in check.
He pressed his palm against the laceration, trying to stop the blood flow. Sang-woo didn’t react, his knee only jerked slightly, but no protest was made. Gi-hun cast his eyes over to his friend’s face, of which was masked with rain and the shadows of the charcoal-like clouds above. “Sang-woo-ah.” He called. Was he asleep? Gi-hun wobbled his pierced bottom lip with his teeth, watching Sang-woo for any indication of life. He kept his palm clamped down on his friend’s ankle, but he could still feel the steady pulse of blood beat through the broken skin.
Then Sang-woo made a noise. It wasn’t an intelligent noise, like a string of words, but rather a choked gurgle. Gi-hun inhaled sharply and fled towards Sang-woo’s head, where his throat muscles drenched with sweat and rain were now spasming. “Sang-woo-ah!” He clasped Sang-woo’s cheeks with his bloodied palms, trying to shake his friend back to the waking world. Instead, Sang-woo’s head collided with the road underneath him as his mouth ejected two rectangular objects. Gi-hun’s eyes widened considerably and he snatched the objects from his friend’s mouth. Sang-woo made a singular cough, before his head lulled against the gravel, eyelids flickering.
Gi-hun stared at the objects in his fingers. More accurately, he stared at the two nearly identical golden debit cards. His mind was roaring, raging through all the possibilities as to why they had this, why it was in Sang-woo’s mouth and– Gi-hun stashed the both of him in the pocket of his worn blazer and reached for Sang-woo again. “Yah, yah, Sang-woo-ah.” He slapped his friend’s cheek with a little more force than necessary. “It was you that killed them! You… you killed everyone! You killed them. You’re the one that killed them!” Gi-hun didn’t touch the uncharacteristic purple lumps that broke through Sang-woo’s skin, knowing he’d put them there himself.
“Sang-woo-ah…” he wailed, almost pitifully. It didn’t matter. There was no one here, now. “Sang-woo-ah, wake up.” He begged, watching as the downpour washed away the bloodied handprints he’d left just moments ago. It ran down the length of Sang-woo’s neck, trickling and soaking his shirt. His friend’s eyes were twitching, like a ghost had possessed him. Gi-hun reached forward and gently tapped his cheek. “Sang-woo-ah.” He whispered, forcing the words out as the muscles of his throat swelled over his voice box.
Sang-woo’s head jerked to the side, and his eyelids retracting into their sockets. Gi-hun would’ve smiled if his muscles weren’t so exhausted, if his body wasn’t one wrong move away from collapsing, if he hadn’t gotten himself stabbed in an array of locations, if he hadn’t watched Sae-byeok die, if he hadn’t ever signed up for the games in the first place. “Sang-woo-ah.” He called, once more, and reached forwards, tightening his grip under his friend’s armpits before hauling them both to their feet.
Gi-hun nearly dropped both himself and Sang-woo as his left leg tremoured violently. He staggered forwards, gripping onto Sang-woo as tightly as he could. His friend made no protest, his eyes just lazily searched the environment around them, as if it was nothing but a boring commercial that came over his favourite show. “Sang-woo-ah, you need to stand up.” Gi-hun instructed through his teeth, wincing as his friend’s weight was slowly dragging him back down to the water soaked gravel.
He bent down to readjust his grip but Sang-woo slipped from his grasp, painfully smashing his back against the road. Gi-hun stared, unable to move. Sang-woo’s head lulled against the road once more, his arms hanging out to the side, like gravity was unsure what to do with them. Gi-hun grabbed his left leg and held his palm over the jumping muscles. He could feel the bandages underneath his pant leg, as well as the knife wound Sang-woo had inflicted. He staggered to the side, trying to put as little pressure as he possibly could on the bouncing and unstable leg.
He hobbled back over to Sang-woo, whose eyes gazed upwards, glazed over, like he truly was dead. Gi-hun sniffed and wiped some of the rain out of his eyes before reaching down once more and with an agonising drawl, pulled Sang-woo to his feet and shrugged him onto his back, mindful of his bleeding ankle. He nearly tumbled over with the sudden new weight he had to carry. His leg tremoured under the addition of Sang-woo’s weight on top of his own. Gi-hun limped forwards, feeling a sickly bile turn his facial muscles sour rotten.
His body surged forward in a choked sob, but no tears came from it. It was as if everything had shrivelled up inside of him, no moisture remaining. A vast contrast to the environment around him, grey streets flooded with the thick, dirty tears of God from the Heavens above. Did Gi-hun even believe in Heaven anymore? When that Hell filled with unremorseful devils existed? Betting on humans as if they were horses? The idea of gambling how filled him with disgust; not even the words of his ailing mother or a disappointed Ga-yeong had ever caused such a feeling before.
Sang-woo’s breath rasped in his ear, small and choked, how he’d felt all those hours ago. Had it really been only a few hours since they’d been beating beating each other with the prospect of a reward at the end of the line? He recalled the jacket around his neck, cutting off his water-clogged air ways as Sang-woo screamed. Oh, how easily he could choke Sang-woo now. Gi-hun shuddered; repulsed by himself and his thoughts. Had he lost that much of himself to that place? That undeserving place?
He staggered on, the downpour adding unnecessary weight to his load. He hooked his forearms underneath Sang-woo’s thighs and instructed his friend to hold around his neck. Sang-woo did not. Over the course of the next few minutes, Gi-hun had lost count of the number of times Sang-woo had almost slipped off his back, sending them both to the slippery and rough terrain of the water gushing streets. He grit his teeth, feeling a bubble form inside his chest, a tightness, constricting his airways and lungs. His face felt hot, despite being drenched in gross, wet rain.
“Sunbaenim!”
Gi-hun stopped in his tracks, the groan of tires over wet ground stilled behind him, and the faint yellow glow from the front lights illuminated a few metres in front of him. “Sunbaenim!” The same call from before was followed by the slam of a car door. A woman entered his field of vision, holding an umbrella over her head. She was fairly young, and Gi-hun couldn’t help but think of Sae-byeok. “Sunbaenim– gwaen-chan-a-yo?” She peered over Gi-hun’s shoulder to look at Sang-woo’s injured face. “Oh my…” She looked back up to Gi-hun, and he couldn’t help but stare. Where had she come from?
“Where are you both heading?” Without waiting for a response, she rushed back over to her car, of which was a few feat away, and stepped into the driver’s seat before driving it forwards so it stopped right beside him. She patted the side of her door from where she sat, one hand on the wheel. “I’ll drive you two back home, okay?” Gi-hun just stared forward, feeling rain trickle through his hardened hair and run down the length of his face. His eyes hurt, his shoulders hurt, his arms hurt, his back hurt, his abdomen hurt, his hands hurt, his legs hurt, his feet hurt. Everything was aching dully. He jumped upwards to get Sang-woo’s weight firmly on his back before turning around and heading towards the woman’s car.
On a good day, he would have gladly accepted, feeling like the world was finally on his side to offer him a free trip home. On a bad day, he would have refused her, saying he was well enough to get home on his own, wallowing in his self-made misery. This was neither a good day, nor a bad day. With the help of the woman – who had stepped out of the car once more – he got Sang-woo in the tan-coloured chair, his head lulling against the headrest, eyes wide but unseeing. He bowed to her a full ninety degrees, but couldn’t think of a word to say. She opened the car door on the other side of the car and he sat down, buckling himself in as she got back in her own chair.
He watched as water pooled underneath himself and Sang-woo. He should’ve apologised. “Where do you both live, sunbaenim?” The woman was asking. Gi-hun raised his gaze tiredly, exhaustion seeping into the nooks and crannies of his joints and bones. He must’ve stared too long, because she turned in her chair to look at him, her nice eyes crinkled with concern. “Your address, sunbaenim? Where do you live?” What was his address? Gi-hun frowned, the action making him feel dizzy with desperation. His address. Where did he live?
“S… Ssangmun-dong.” He muttered weakly. That was where he lived. He glanced at Sang-woo, whose eyes hadn’t left the rain-covered window. The pride and genius of Ssangmun-dong. The man who got into SNU and had a wealthy future ahead of him. How had they ended up here? “Ah, Ssangmun-dong? That’s not too far.” The woman was saying to herself, before pressing on the accelerator and driving off.
Gi-hun could feel the weight of the debit cards in his pocket, dragging him down to the chair he’d stained with dirty water. He shifted his back against the backrest, trying to sit himself up so he didn’t pass out. He glanced over to Sang-woo, who hadn’t moved an inch, not even to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. Gi-hun stared at him. This man, his best friend, had killed Sae-byeok, the glassmaker, Ali…
“No one’s calling anymore.”
Gi-hun tore his gaze away and stuck his hand in his pocket, fishing out the two golden cards.
They were near identical, even in the new lighting. Gi-hun thumbed the imprinted names on the cards; one was Seong Gi-hun and the other was Cho Sang-woo. The golden colour made him sick to his stomach. His hand spasmed and clutched the cards with a newfound vigour. Sae-byeok deserved this. Not him. Not Sang-woo. Her brother was all alone, no sister, no parents, no hope. He thought of Ga-yeong, of Eun-ji, of the man he punched because he dared to take his daughter away from him, of his mum, of Sang-woo’s mum. His eyes roamed over the cards. Were these a mockery? What they could’ve had, if they’d just fought harder, lost their humanity?
Gi-hun’s hands trembled. Had he already lost his humanity? Had Sang-woo? Were they nothing more than the horses he had once bet on? Was he nothing more than the winning horse, who kept running and running until they died? What would he have done if Sae-byeok hadn’t stopped him from driving a knife into a defenceless, sleeping Sang-woo? Could he have lived with himself? Knowing his best friend’s blood was on his hands? Knowing his humanity had been bent and distorted into nothing resembling himself? Could he have lived with himself? Could he live with the trauma of Sang-woo’s mother, the woman who had basically raised him alongside his own mum, of telling her that her son was never returning home– because he’d killed him?
Could he have murdered Sang-woo?
Could he have murdered his best friend, the skinny, little kid with glasses and no friends? Could he have murdered his pride and other half of himself? Could he have murdered the kid he trusted with his life? Could he have murdered the kid he’d protected for years from ruthless bullies? Could he have murdered his study mate, the kid that always helped him with his work, even if he was a year below him in school? Could he have murdered the boy he ate dinners with more than his ex-wife? Could he have murdered the pride and joy of Ssangmun-dong? Could he have murdered his potential best-man? Could he have murdered the golden child, the one person doing something valuable with his existence, rather than messing up his daughter’s life, his ex-wife’s and his mother’s? Could he have murdered the one constant throughout most of his life?
Could he have murdered Sang-woo?
Gi-hun’s eyes were flooded with unshed tears. He pocketed the cards and looked out the window, looked out on the buildings of Seoul, on the trees and playgrounds, once filled with youthful innocence and excited screams. All Gi-hun could hear were gunshots, all he could see was blood, all he could feel was prickly dread. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, feeling the ghost of rain thundering over him, forcing him into the ground and beating him to a pulp. His throat felt like it was filled his knives. The same weapon he’d nearly ended Sang-woo’s life with. The same weapon Sae-byeok had lost her life to.
After a duration of time Gi-hun was unsure of passed, the car rolled to a stop. “Ssangmun-dong, as requested.” The woman piped up, turning around in her chair once again. Gi-hun didn’t meet her gaze as he pulled the handle of the door and let himself out. He rounded the car and opened Sang-woo’s door before undoing his seat belt and hauling him out of the vehicle, wrapping his arm over his shoulders whilst doing so.
“Do you need any help?” The woman asked, having also gotten out of the vehicle. She reached forward to help right Sang-woo, but before she could, Sang-woo reeled backwards, slamming himself against Gi-hun. Gi-hun almost lost his footing as he was slammed against the side of the car. He stared at the woman before wrapping his right hand around Sang-woo’s waist, keeping him steady and on his feet. He just bowed towards her, Sang-woo following suit.
“Ah… alright.” The woman retracted her hand and stepped back towards her chair. “Please get home safe, sunbaenim!” She called. Gi-hun bowed once more before turning away. It was still raining as they trudged down the familiar streets of Ssangmun-dong; convenient stores were shut for the night, and the cloud of downpour had followed them still, washing down the grit and dirt of the previous day down the drains. Gi-hun felt his shoulders curl forwards under the pressure from an invisible hand. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream and shout and apologise profusely to his mum for all he’d put her through.
He supported Sang-woo as they made their way down the familiar street behind the convenient stores and towards his and his mum’s shared apartment. Gi-hun didn’t want Sang-woo’s mother to run into him like this; half dead, beaten to a pulp, a half bitten out ankle and various broken bones. To her, Sang-woo was still the golden child; the pride of Ssangmun-dong that was off in America at a famous company making millions. Gi-hun didn’t want to ruin that image. He didn’t have the heart to. Sang-woo may be a murderer, but he was still the best thing that had happened to his mother. To Gi-hun too, he supposed.
By the time they reached the door to Gi-hun’s apartment, he was more dragging Sang-woo along than he was carrying him. Hoisting his friend up one final time, he pushed on the door handle, knowing full well that the keys were not in his pocket. To his surprise, the door swung open, inviting him to the dark chasm of an apartment he had left five days ago. Hauling Sang-woo inside, he dropped his friend beside the small table Gi-hun typically ate his meals at, if his mother wasn’t angry at him– rightfully so. He was an awful son.
Gi-hun heaved and coughed, shaking himself off. The water from his hair dripped across the flooring as he made his way over to the light switch. Amber light flooded the apartment’s main room, highlighting the messy dishes that hadn’t been soaked and washed in what looked like days, the uncleaned floor, the oxidising food left on the table, and the small build up of mould in the corner above the cupboards. Gi-hun swallowed the sour rot in his mouth down.
The slow drum of rain against the apartment window mixed with the silence engulfing the place he called home gave it a haunted feel, immediately making his legs grow numb with apprehension. “Eomma!” He called hoarsely, sounding foreign to his own ears. Sang-woo didn’t react to his voice; he sat slumped over, rain draining from his hair, his limbs slack without movement. Gi-hun recognised the need to take them both to the hospital. He wasn’t sure why he came home instead. He would just be disturbing his sleeping mum– and she needed all the sleep she could get. She worked more than he did, and she was double his age. He winced.
“I’m home.”
Still, he hadn’t been home in over five days, she would be worried– although she ought not to be. When didn’t he come home? The thought made him shiver; on many occasions he could’ve been prevented from coming back. First the games, and now his kidneys would be taken from him. The police were coming for Sang-woo, he remembered faintly, because of financial fraud. ₩6,000,000,000 in debt. He couldn’t imagine it. His mother would kill him before any loan sharks or creepy dolls could.
Gi-hun felt like he was five seconds away from toppling over; but his mother had to know. She had to know he’d come back, that he didn’t abandon her. “Eomma?” He called again, hearing nothing outside of the pitter patter of rain and the heavy heaves from Sang-woo and himself. Gi-hun moved himself forward, his leg jerking its protest, and towards her room. The door was closed. Not unusual, she was sleeping after all. He should be too. He peered his head in, the dim light from the main room fell over his mother’s bedroom; creeping over her dusty old futon and her still, straight form.
“Eomma, are you asleep?” A warning string was strung inside his chest, even though she was asleep, a cold dread was squeezing his throat closed. “Eomma?” He pushed himself into the room, letting the door swing open in his wake, allowing the amber lighting to coat the room. Gi-hun fell to his knees rather loudly in an attempt to kneel beside her; his thighs burned their protest but he didn’t listen. The feeling inside his chest now amounted to a ton of iron, pulling him down towards the ground. “Eomma, I’m home.” He whispered, eyes searching her slumbering face. She was oddly still.
“Eomma?” He reached out with his uninjured hand and cupped the left side of her face; she was cold. He remembered Sae-byeok and despite himself, he glanced down at her throat, but there was no mark, no beating ball of crimson liquid, no slow pull of death reflected in her eyes. “I came home, eomma.” He whispered again, hunching over her, cutting off the amber light supply. Her face was shiny and wrinkled, like she’d washed herself recently. But then, why was she cold? Had the water bill run out? Gi-hun swallowed.
“Eomma?” The weight of dread and crippling anticipation spiralled out from inside him, making his hands go weak and shaky. “Just… just open your eyes. Eomma.” But she didn’t. She was colder than cold; chilled to the touch and unresponsive. “I’m home now, eomma.” Gi-hun forced out, feeling his voice box weld shut. She didn’t respond. There was a dull purple hue to her wrinkled skin, and her eyes were squeezed shut with effort. Gi-hun shuddered, his lips feeling swollen and dry.
Still, he couldn’t produce a single tear. His face was tired, and his eyes were burning with a vigour. He dropped himself beside her, feeling the sobs shake his body, but didn’t feel the satisfaction of steamy tears slip down his cheeks. Gi-hun clung to his mum, her body moving along with him every time he moved too much. He sniffled. Still no tears. “Eomma…” he whispered pathetically, before his throat let out a small whine. His lungs were flaming inside his constricted chest; he could feel the feverish beat of his heart throughout his skin, hammering with a fury.
Gi-hun pushed himself up and scrambled away, unable to bear the thunder inside his own body. He slammed his back into the wall of her room, eyes locked on her deceased body. His chest shook with sobs, his limbs shook with shame. He’d abandoned her. And he didn’t even get any money. He’d left her when she needed him the most. God– he was an awful son. Gi-hun sucked in a panicked breath, his lungs were too full, feeling like they’d burst through the skin of his chest, protruding outwards in macabre horror.
Gi-hun grappled at his throat in an attempt to tear it open, access more oxygen, or to join her. Could he do that? After everything he’d been through? His nails scratched and scratched. His skin felt aflame with ruthless agitation. Gi-hun sucked in and in and in, pleading to cry, pleading to join her, pleading to atone for his horrendously lived life, pleading to die.
There was a noise behind him.
He whipped around with such haste he almost left his head behind. Sang-woo was still hunched over, shielding his face from the bleedingly bright light shining from above. But some other form of liquid was leaking from his face. Not rain. Not blood. But tears. Fury swelled up inside of Gi-hun, and he couldn’t even feel ashamed for it; what gave that bastard the right to cry over his mother’s death? He surged upwards and clung to the door handle, nearly tearing it off with his weight before he slammed the door shut. Rage shook his brittle organs as he slumped against the door, he felt physically ill, like he could collapse at any given moment.
It would be for the better.
---------------------------------
He watched with swollen eyes as the paramedics zipped his mum’s body up in a black, shiny body bag. Someone was speaking with him, but the words were fuzzy and incoherent, making no sense inside his exhausted and crippled brain. Gi-hun stood, shoulders hunched, hair fuzzed and clothes rumpled as the 119 vehicle drove off, likely to the morgue. He’d have to have a funeral. Who would he even invite? He was going to be gutted like a fish tomorrow, the police would find Sang-woo and everything they went through on that island would have been for nothing.
His wounds itched in agony, a poignant stream of thought swimming through his conscience. Gi-hun could feel the feverish rush of blood against the haphazardly tied bandages around his abdomen, leg, hand and arm. He could feel the swelling of bruises around his ribs and the crunch of colliding bones shattered by Sang-woo’s attacks. He gulped, excess rain from his hair leaking down his forehead.
“Mr Seong?” The social worker waved her hand in front of Gi-hun’s eyes. He jerked backwards, the dim light of night reminded him of the night Deok-su and his gang of measly thugs attacked them. Sae-byeok. Gi-hun clenched his fists, waving off whatever the worker had been explaining to him. Police lights disappeared down the street, followed by the paramedics and his mum. Dead. In a body bag. He couldn’t afford to give her a proper send off; he hadn’t even been here with her when she needed him the most.
He’d lived off her like a leech, stealing her money and making her work when she should be retired. And when she got sick and collapsed? He’d been off on a murder island playing children's games whilst people betted on him and all the four hundred and fifty five other people who’d been trapped. He ignored the social worker as he trudged back inside his apartment. Rain from the gutters leaked down on him as he walked. His leg had grown numb, same as his hand, and no longer bothered him as he moved. Maybe he was finally dying?
He stumbled through the door, still unlocked. The light was still on. Gi-hun wiped the rain out of his eyes and shut the door behind him. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. “I think I’d like to go home now.” He sniffled, recalling how warm Sae-byeok had been, even in death. His eyes itched, and yet, no tears could come from them. Gi-hun pressed his palms against his face before his knees buckled under him, sending him falling to the base of the door. He didn’t move, his legs screaming from underneath him. “Let’s go. Let’s go together.” What could he hope to achieve now? He had to go to the hospital, get himself and Sang-woo treated– but with what money? The second he admitted them to the white, alight building the police and thugs would be on them, sneering for judgement to end them finally.
Gi-hun had wanted so desperately to save his friend; but at the cost of everything else? Would he even have used the money? He remembered the cheery music that played as Sae-byeok was announced eliminated, a few stacks of ₩50,000 was all she was now. That was all she was worth. That’s all anyone was worth, in the end. Just a sum of money to be exploited for one’s own needs. Once he would’ve gambled that money away, simultaneously making his and his mum’s life style that much worse, and because why? Because this time he might win?
He let his hands fall, staring dismally ahead of him.
Gi-hun went rigid in shock at the sight he hadn’t noticed. He scrambled to his feet, throwing himself over to the kitchen cabinets, not having time to comprehend before he was flailing for a rug and pressing it against the slit along Sang-woo’s left wrist. He gasped, in and in and in, feeling the oxygen bloat him from the inside out. “S-Sang-woo-ah–” he pushed against the slit as hard as he could, staring in utter disbelief at his friend’s slumped form, at his hung head and his hunched shoulders. Once standing so tall and firm and filled with pride.
Gi-hun scrambled over to the telephone, punching in the 119 digits with panicked inaccuracy and hollering to the person on the other end. Distantly he could hear sirens. He held his fist against Sang-woo’s wrist, panicked breaths not leaving his mouth. No, no, not after everything. It wouldn’t end here. “Sang-woo-ah…” he wailed, resting his forehead against Sang-woo’s dishevelled hair, matted with rain and sweat and unwashed blood. Sae-byeok’s blood. His own blood. Gi-hun’s blood.
------------------------------------
Gi-hun sat slumped in a cheaply made clear, plastic chair beside Sang-woo’s much fancier hospital bed, adorned with beeping machines, IV and other things Gi-hun didn’t have a name for. He felt sickly numb on the inside as he stared downwards, at the neatly placed titles reflecting the blue curtain surrounding the two of them.
Whilst Sang-woo was rushed away to get a blood transfusion – in his haze of panic, Gi-hun had offered, and the nurses had politely told him that he had lost a lot of his own blood as well – Gi-hun had been taken to a separate room to get himself treated. The doctors had cleaned his various stab wounds and rubbed some form of ointment on his ribs, which somehow hurt more than when Sang-woo was pounding on him in the wet sandy field of the Red Light, Green Light room.
They’d made sure the bandages were tight to help with recovery, but all they did was give him an insane itch and make his blistering wounds feel moist and soggy. Gi-hun itched at them sub-consciously. They were so constricting that he feared his skin would bloat an ugly purple and explode into mush that one would bravely call skin. His wrist and hand were some of the more painful ones, and he almost missed the staticky numbness he’d been accustomed to over the last few hours. The clock in the room said it was around 4:56 in the morning yet it meant nothing to him, given he had no idea when they’d played Squid Game or when they arrived back in Seoul or when they had gotten back to his apartment–
Gi-hun took a breath and pried his eyes away from the floor.
Sang-woo was unconscious in the bed, his chest rising and falling properly now, thanks to medical attention, and some of the colour had returned to his cheeks, even though it was vastly overshadowed by the bulging purple bruises. Gi-hun stared at the large, cast-like bandages over his friend’s left wrist, and the small, almost unnoticeable line of scarlet liquid running along the length of the bandage. He couldn’t take his eyes away, knowing that if he’d been outside with the social worker longer, or hadn’t taken his hands off his eyes in time, that Sang-woo would’ve likely died from blood loss. Just like Sae-byeok had originally been.
Gi-hun swallowed down the thick saliva and glanced back down at the floor; his skull was pounding with a reason unknown to him. He hadn’t slept in what felt like hours and now the only true thing he had left was Sang-woo, his unconscious, injured friend who had a warrant out for his arrest. And that didn’t even matter; Gi-hun had only managed to cause him more debt by taking them to the hospital because neither of them could pay back the hospital funds of their treatment.
He took the debit cards from his pocket once more; they’d been sitting there for hours, unheeded and unneeded. He stared at them for longer than he likely should’ve but he couldn’t help it. This is what he could’ve had. What he could’ve used to help Sae-byeok’s brother, Ali’s family, Sang-woo’s mum if he’d just listened and let Sang-woo plunge that knife into his own neck. Gi-hun could feel the spiral of uncertainty from before simmer inside of him and he stowed the cards away inside his blazer pocket before standing to his shaky feet.
He shouldn’t be walking, but he also shouldn’t be sitting in the chair he had been, so he’d take his chances. Gi-hun staggered his way out of the curtains, down the several matching hallways before riding the elevator down to the ground floor. He pushed himself lazily through the door his mother had left through, and he’d followed, attempting to persuade her to stay, and she’d reminded him of how much of a bad son he was. What like of person cancelled their insurance and gambled away much needed rent money?
Gi-hun shook the fog building up inside his head away as he jerked his way down the streets to the nearby ATM building. It was still open, blinding white lights shining too enthusiastically. Gi-hun stared at the door, whispers inside his mind telling him it was useless; both he and Sang-woo had terminated the games, why would either of them have received any money? Part of him wanted to turn around, walk down the street and curl up in a large rain puddle, let the loan sharks find him and gut him, let the police find Sang-woo and send him for jail for fraud, rather than murder.
The lights stung his eyes, making them water more than the death of his own mum did. Gi-hun swallowed and shoved the glass door open, clenching his jaw in vehemence as he stalked over to the ATM and shoved his named debit card into the receiver. The pin code blinked on the screen and he glared down at the digital keyboard. It was useless. He didn’t know the code. Had he won properly, they likely would’ve told him, so he could access his money. But because he didn’t… it was just taunting him. Like holding lollies out for babies to reach. It was always too far. On purpose. “Player 456 wishes to end the games.”
Remorse crippled him like a plague and he reached forward to take the card from the machine– before his hand stilled. Player 456. 456. 0456. His eyes widened and he hastily punched in the numbers to the keyboard. Gi-hun stared, waiting with baited breath as three dots loaded on the screen. His heart was beating furiously, perhaps faster than it had ever before. Not even in the work strikes had he been filled with so much antici–
Counting the bills. Counting, please wait a moment.
The machine cranked with life, machinery whirring as coins bounced about.
Please select the amount you would like to withdraw.
Gi-hun’s hand floated over the digital keyboard, not recognising happiness in the moment. His finger landed on ₩10,000 and the machine whirred once more. It felt like a fever dream, hearing the familiar churn of the ATM as his mum’s cash was being exploited for his own selfish addiction. The hatch opened, and inside was a crisp, green ₩10,000 note.
Please take your cash.
He reached in, slow, with hesitation, as if the bill would disappear if he moved too quickly. But it was real; the familiar smoothness to the paper, the indents of decoration, the fresh press smell. It was real. Gi-hun crushed it in a fist, feeling it crumple and wave with the tremours of his hand.
Balance: ₩22,749,990,000
Gi-hun ripped his card out of the machine and jammed Sang-woo’s inside, through the same process, putting in 0218 and withdrawing the same amount. He crumpled both bills in his hand, steadily becoming apoplectic with rage at the sight of the exact same sum, sitting in both their accounts. The money had been split. Why? That wasn’t in the rules of the game. They terminated it; no one won.
He looked down at the crumpled bills in his hand, and released his grip. The bills unfurled themselves, staring up at him with heinous mockery. He was holding a person in his hand. Blood. Their blood was on his hands, in his account. Was Sae-byeok’s only remnant a sum of money inside a digital account? Was Ali’s? Was Il-nam’s? All those people. Gi-hun dropped the cash, watched as it flittered towards the titled ground.
Sang-woo’s card slid out of the slit and he ripped it out, stashing it inside his pocket before turning on his heel and stalking out of the building.