𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄. tender is the night

KANASHIBARI IS A TERM USED IN JAPAN FOR sleep paralysis — metal-binding, it was translated to. The term conjured the image of an unyielding force, cold and suffocating, pinning a person down with an unrelenting grip. When you wake up in the middle of the night and can't move, it's like some gigantically big evil spirit is sitting on your chest, pressing the breath out of your lungs.

Yumi would occasionally wake with the chilling thought that her parents, wherever they were, had perched themselves there on her chest. As if, in some metaphysical revolt, they were tormenting her for her failures — or perhaps hers was the crime of living when they could not.

She would lie there, unable to scream, unable to even twitch a finger, imagining the worst. That her parents, dead or missing or worse, were hovering just out of sight, their spirits warped by disappointment, their faces twisted in malice.

She envisioned their hands — her mother's once delicate fingers, her father's calloused palms — reaching out to ensnare her, to punish her for everything she had done wrong. For abandoning the hope they might come back. For daring to forget their voices. For being here, alive, when they weren't. When Yunho wasn't.

But then reality, cruel and blunt, would cut through the haze. They weren't dead. Not as far as she knew. They had left her long ago, walked out of her life and her memories as if their departure was the natural order of things. And it didn't matter if they were alive or not because they were gone, and she was alone.

Still, the suffocating weight didn't lift. The phantom sensation pressed harder against her ribs, wrapping its tendrils around her chest and squeezing like a vise. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and she could feel the chill of the dormitory air on her sweat-dampened skin. She knew it wasn't ghosts; it wasn't her parents or demons. It was metal-binding.

She opened her eyes and stared into the suffocating darkness. Above her, the bottom of the bunk above loomed faintly. Around her, the sounds of restless sleepers filled the vast space: the soft rustle of blankets, the occasional groan, the rhythmic breathing of dozens of people packed into the room. But she could make no noise herself. Her throat was locked as tightly as her limbs, her voice swallowed by the oppressive stillness that bound her.

Her body felt both unbearably heavy and strangely weightless, as if the very essence of her being was trying to separate itself from her flesh. The sensation of drifting grew stronger the longer she lay there. She was a feather caught in a breeze, a leaf floating on the surface of a dark and bottomless lake. The longer she remained still, the more she felt her sense of self slipping away, dissolving into the thick, impenetrable night.

She'd always been prone to it, even as a child. Back then, it had been dismissed as nightmares, her tearful recounting of shadowy figures and unseen hands met with tired reassurances from adults who didn't understand. "It's just a bad dream," they would say, brushing off her fear as the overactive imagination of a child. But it wasn't dreams. It had never been dreams. It was real — as real as the dormitory she lay in now, as real as the desperate, broken people who filled it.

That's what was happening now, in her bunk.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the suffocating silence of Yumi's paralysis. It was low and rough, the kind of voice that sounded like it had been weathered by too many sleepless nights. "It helps to count your breaths," Myung-gi mumbled from his resting position in the bunk beside her.

His voice carried the weight of half-dreams and lingering exhaustion, yet it felt strangely grounding — an anchor in the abyss Yumi found herself sinking into.

"It's not like you're thinking about breathing," he continued, his words trailing off as though he were contemplating the mechanics of the act himself. "But you're not not thinking about it either. It's kind of like..." He paused, the quiet stretching between them, filled only by the faint hum of distant snores and the muted creak of metal bunks shifting under restless bodies. "Well, like you're sitting on the beach and watching the waves lapping up on the sand," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost as if the imagery itself were lulling him closer to sleep. "Or watching some little kids you don't know playing in the distance. You're just noticing everything that's going on, both inside you and outside you — the breathing, the kids, the waves, the sand."

Yumi blinked into the darkness, the weight on her chest still pressing down but somehow feeling lighter now, as if Myung-gi's voice had softened the edges of the invisible burden. She listened intently, not daring to interrupt him. The steady rhythm of his voice, though tired, carried a sincerity that felt like a small light flickering in the vast, cold dormitory.

It sounded simple enough, this idea of counting breaths, and so she tried. But the moment she began, her mind flooded with all the thoughts she had tried to suppress: memories of her brother's final moments, the guilt of her choices, the dread of what tomorrow's game might bring. Her body began to itch, a maddening sensation like millipedes crawling over her skin, and she wanted to scream but couldn't. The paralysis held her captive.

"It's not working," she wanted to say, but her voice remained trapped inside her.

As if sensing her struggle, Myung-gi spoke again, his tone shifting to one of patient guidance. "When you're distracted, just start over. Count like this: Breathe in, breathe out... One. Breathe in, breathe out... Two." His voice wrapped around her like a thread pulling her back from the edge. "Just go up to ten. Then start over. That's all. No pressure."

She followed his instructions, her breaths shallow at first, catching on the fear lodged deep in her chest. But as she counted, the millipedes receded, the suffocating weight eased.

One. Two. Three. Four.

She focused on the rhythm, the numbers filling her mind like stepping stones across a turbulent river. It wasn't perfect — her thoughts still flitted back to dark corners of her memories, and her body tensed at times — but she clung to Myung-gi's words, using them as a lifeline.

After what felt like an eternity, her voice finally returned, trembling but audible. "What if I travel so far away in my dream that I can't get back in time to wake up?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and raw. It wasn't just about the dream — it was about the fear of losing herself, of being unable to return to the person she was, or even the person she wanted to be. The memory of her mother's face flashed in her mind, the way it had crumpled under the weight of Yumi's question when she was just a child. Back then, she'd asked the same thing, hoping for reassurance. Instead, her mother's silence had answered her with a despair that had left an indelible mark.

Would Myung-gi react the same way? She braced herself for the possibility, her anxiety rising like a tide.

His response, when it came, was simple and steady. "Remind yourself it's just a dream," he said. "And then wake up."

"But what if I can't get back in time?" Her voice cracked, the vulnerability spilling out like a wound she could no longer hide.

There was a pause, and she feared the worst — the same distant, disheartening silence her mother had given her. But then he spoke, and his words were a balm she hadn't known she needed.

"Then I'll come and get you," he said.

The tenderness in his voice was startling, cutting through the layers of fear and self-doubt that had wrapped around her like a shroud. It wasn't a grand promise, nor was it something he could guarantee. But it was enough. Enough to make her feel seen, even in the oppressive darkness of the dormitory.

She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of him in the faint light that filtered through the gaps in the bunks. Her gaze shifted, and for the first time, she truly looked at him.

Myung-gi had turned to face her, the faint light casting soft shadows across his features. His eyes, though heavy with exhaustion, held a quiet resolve. There was something about the way he looked — unguarded, almost boyish in his vulnerability — that made her chest tighten. She hadn't noticed before how the sharpness of his features softened when he wasn't scowling or spitting out some sarcastic remark. She hadn't noticed the slight curve of his mouth or the way his lashes curled just enough to catch the light. At that moment, he wasn't the insufferable man who got on her nerves; he was just Myung-gi.

Something shifted within her, a quiet realization that she had been wrong about him — or perhaps not wrong, but blind to the parts of him he didn't readily show. He was still insufferable, of course, but there was more to him than that. There was this — this moment of unfiltered kindness that she didn't know how to process.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words felt strange in her mouth like they didn't quite belong to her. She couldn't remember the last time she had said them to anyone, much less to someone like Myung-gi.

He blinked, startled by the sudden shift in her tone. For a moment, he looked like he might say something sarcastic, but then he simply nodded, his expression softening further. "Don't mention it," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were afraid of breaking the fragile thread of connection between them.

But Yumi wasn't done. She hesitated, the words catching in her throat, but then she forced them out. "I mean it. For not making me feel stupid."

Myung-gi's lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. "You're welcome," he said simply. He then shifted slightly, the creak of his bunk breaking the stillness as he adjusted his position to face her more fully. "Why did you do it?" he asked suddenly, his voice low but carrying the weight of genuine inquiry.

Yumi blinked at him, caught off guard. "Do what?" she asked, even though she had a sinking feeling she already knew.

"Stay," he clarified. "Why did you choose to stay? To keep playing?"

The question hung in the air like smoke, curling around her thoughts and stirring up embers she'd hoped had burned out. Her lips parted, but no words came immediately. Myung-gi's gaze didn't waver, though there was no pressure in it — just an openness that was both unnerving and disarming.

"I..." Yumi began, but her voice faltered. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat refusing to dissolve. "I don't know."

Myung-gi raised an eyebrow, skepticism flickering across his face. "You don't know," he repeated, his tone light but probing.

She sighed, a sound that carried the weight of everything she hadn't said. "I needed the money," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Two months ago, that was all it was about. I needed it more than I'd ever needed anything in my life. But now..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes drifting to the ceiling as if the words she needed were scrawled somewhere in the peeling paint. "Now, I'm just in debt. I've lost more than I've gained. And the truth is, there's no one waiting for me on the outside. No one who would even notice if I didn't make it back."

Her words hung heavy between them, like a confession she hadn't intended to make. She chanced a glance at Myung-gi, half-expecting him to look away or dismiss her. Instead, his expression softened, his brows furrowing in a way that suggested her words had unsettled him.

"No one?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "What about Yunho?"

The name hit her like a stone, sharp and unexpected. For a moment, she couldn't speak, her throat tightening as the memories she'd spent so long suppressing surged to the surface. She let out a shaky breath, her lips curving into a small, bitter smile.

"Yunho is my twin brother," she said finally, the words tasting strange and heavy on her tongue. "But he's gone."

Myung-gi's eyes widened slightly, the revelation catching him off guard. He shifted again, leaning his weight on one elbow as he faced her fully. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, his voice low and earnest.

Yumi shrugged, though the motion felt hollow. "That was two months ago."

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a bridge. But Myung-gi refused to let it rest. "That can't be the whole reason," he said, his tone gentle but insistent. "Most people didn't decide to stay just because they think no one would miss them."

"How much do you know about the people here?" Yumi countered, her voice sharpening slightly as she turned the question back on him. "What they've been through? What brought them here?"

Myung-gi hesitated, the intensity in her gaze pinning him in place. He opened his mouth to respond but stopped short when she continued.

"There's a man here whose daughter has blood cancer," she said, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of anger. "He's playing for her treatment. There's a woman who needs the money to move overseas because her sister has a mental illness and no one else can take care of her. Another one, her husband is dying. I don't know from what, but it doesn't matter, does it?"

She paused, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. "There are people here who need this money more than I do. People whose lives depend on it. And if my death means they have a better chance, then... that's enough for me. Even if they'd never admit it, even if they'd rather leave than play another round, they'll be thankful in the end. They'll take the money and live their lives."

Myung-gi's expression darkened, a storm of emotions brewing in his eyes. "You think that's all you're worth?" he asked, his voice low but edged with frustration. "Just a stepping stone for someone else's survival?"

Yumi let out a soft, humorless laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. "Who would miss me?" she asked, the question rhetorical but heavy nonetheless.

Myung-gi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he shifted closer, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her heart stumble in her chest. "Jun-hee would," he said quietly.

Yumi froze, and the mention of the girl's name sent a jolt through her. Her throat tightened, and she tried to look away, but Myung-gi's gaze held her in place.

"I've seen the way you are with her," he continued, his voice soft but steady. "You keep her company. You look out for her. That's not nothing."

Her chest ached the weight of his words pressing down on her in a way that felt both comforting and suffocating. She bit her lip, her mind racing as she searched for a response. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I pressed the button for her, too." she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. Her eyes darted to Myung-gi's face, searching for his reaction.

Her words lingered, reverberating in Myung-gi's chest like the echo of a struck gong. The revelation landed with a weight he hadn't expected, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

The child she hadn't named, the life she'd unwittingly included in her sacrifice, was all he could think about.

His gaze dropped to the threadbare blanket pooled around his knees. Should he tell her? The thought curled around his mind, tempting and dangerous. But as quickly as it came, he dismissed it. Their conversation had been...nice. He wasn't sure he wanted to ruin that.

Instead, he looked at her, his brow furrowing as he spoke. "You shouldn't be so willing to throw yourself away like that."

Yumi's lips curled into a faint smile, and she chuckled softly, careful not to disturb the others sleeping nearby. "It's not about throwing myself away," she said, her voice low but tinged with amusement. "It's about knowing what I'm worth. And in here, my death is worth more than my life."

Her words unsettled him, not because of the logic, but because of the calm certainty with which she delivered them. "You talk like you're not afraid of dying," he said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

"I'm not," Yumi replied, and there was a strange poetry to the way she said it, as if the words themselves had been shaped by years of contemplation. "Dying is easy. It's living that's hard. You have to carry everything — your choices, your regrets, your failures. Death... it's just the release. The letting go. And I've been holding on for so long."

Her eyes met his, and he saw something there that he hadn't noticed before. Not resignation, but acceptance. It wasn't that she wanted to die; it was that she wasn't afraid to. She had made her peace with the idea, and that frightened him more than anything else.

"You shouldn't think like that," he said, the words coming out more forcefully than he intended. "You're worth more than that. To someone, somewhere, you're worth everything."

She scoffed softly, but it wasn't unkind. It was the kind of sound someone made when they were too tired to argue but didn't believe a word you were saying. "You think I don't know how this works? Everyone in here is fighting for something — or someone. But me? I'm just here because... because there's nowhere else for me to be."

He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the words caught in his throat. She wasn't entirely wrong, and that was the part that stung the most. Still, he couldn't let it go. "What about Jun-hee?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "You're kind to her. You keep her company. That's something, isn't it?"

Yumi's expression softened, and for a moment, she looked almost vulnerable. "She's... different," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because she's carrying a life inside her, and that life deserves a chance."

"I just... I don't get it," he said finally, his voice tinged with frustration. "How can you be so okay with sacrificing yourself for people you barely know?"

Yumi's smile returned, faint but genuine. "Because someone has to," she said simply. "And if it's me, then so be it." She tilted her head, studying him. Her expression was thoughtful as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle that didn't quite fit. "Why do you care if I live or die?" she asked quietly.

The question caught him off guard, and for a moment, he couldn't find the words to answer her. Instead, he said, "Because you matter."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, and for a moment, she looked like she might laugh. But then her expression softened, and she nodded, almost to herself. "Well," she said, her voice light but tinged with a hint of sadness, "I'll try to keep that in mind."

The room fell silent again, the weight of her words hanging between them. Myung-gi wanted to say more, to argue, to make her see that she was worth more than she thought. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, he watched her, this woman who carried so much pain and yet seemed so at peace with her choices.

THE SOFT STRAINS OF CLASSICAL MUSIC wafted through the dormitory, gentle yet insistent, pulling Yumi from the edges of sleep. She blinked her eyes open. Her body felt heavy, as if still tethered to the remnants of her dreams, but she registered the warmth of the blanket tangled around her legs and the quiet sound of breathing just in front of her.

He was still there, lying on his side, facing her. His hand dangled off the edge of the bunk, fingers slightly curled. His mouth was parted, soft snores escaping in uneven intervals. In the light, his face was unguarded, stripped of the sharp edges that usually accompanied his sass or tired bravado. Lines of exhaustion carved deeply into his skin seemed less pronounced, replaced by an almost boyish softness. His dark hair was mussed, the strands falling across his forehead as if swept there by the restless tide of sleep.

Yumi turned her head slightly, trying not to disturb the stillness of the moment. Myung-gi's breathing was steady, rhythmic in a way that lulled her, and for a fleeting second, she considered letting him stay like that a little longer. But the voice on the PA system shattered the fragile peace, mechanical and direct.

"Your attention, please. The third game will begin momentarily. All players, please wake up and prepare to move to the game hall."

The announcement echoed through the room, cutting through the haze of morning. Around her, she could hear the shifting of bodies, the groan of metal bunks as players stirred to life. Yumi sighed and pushed herself up, stretching her stiff limbs. The cold air nipped at her skin as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to wake him.

"Yumi."

The voice startled her, and she turned quickly to find Jun-hee standing beside her, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the bunk. Jun-hee's other hand reached out, taking Yumi's in a gentle but firm grip. Her face was calm, though her usual composure seemed undercut by something unreadable in her gaze.

Yumi's lips curved into a soft smile. "Good morning," she said, her voice low, mindful of the players still stirring awake.

Jun-hee didn't return the smile. Instead, she said plainly, "I need to talk to you."

Yumi blinked, surprised, but nodded. "Okay." She stood, brushing the wrinkles from her pants and motioning Jun-hee to follow. As they made their way through the narrow rows of bunks, Yumi glanced at her, noting the slight heaviness in Jun-hee's gait. She reached out instinctively, her hand hovering near Jun-hee's elbow. "Careful," Yumi murmured. "Walk slow, okay? I'll keep pace with you."

Jun-hee's expression softened, and she gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Together, they found a quiet corner near the edge of the dormitory, away from the hurried footsteps and murmured conversations. Yumi leaned against the wall, crossing her arms loosely as she waited for Jun-hee to speak.

"You and Myung-gi," Jun-hee began, her voice light but carrying an edge of curiosity. "You've gotten close, haven't you?"

Yumi blinked, caught off guard. "What? No." She shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. "We just talk sometimes. It's nothing."

Jun-hee let out a soft laugh, a sound so light it barely registered, yet it carried an edge that made Yumi's skin prickle. "He's obvious, you know. More than he probably realizes."

Yumi opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came. She didn't know what to say. Instead, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, as though shielding herself from something unseen. "Why does it matter?" Yumi felt a flicker of something — interest, confusion, maybe even discomfort — but she brushed it off.

Jun-hee laughed softly, the sound surprisingly warm. She took a breath, steadying herself. "It doesn't. Not to me. But it should matter to you. And that's why I need to tell you something." Her expression shifted, the amusement fading to something more serious.

Yumi's stomach tightened. The air between them felt suddenly heavier, as though charged with an unspoken weight. She watched as Jun-hee's hand drifted to her abdomen, the gesture so subtle it could have been missed. Yumi's eyes followed the movement, and realization struck her like a cold wind.

"It's his," Jun-hee said softly. "The baby. Myung-gi is the father."

For a moment, Yumi couldn't breathe. Her mind raced, tripping over thoughts that wouldn't cohere. She stared at Jun-hee, searching her face for something — a sign, an explanation, anything to make sense of the revelation. But Jun-hee's expression remained calm, almost detached, as though she'd already made peace with the truth she had just shared.

"I..." Yumi began, her voice faltering. "Why are you telling me this?"

Jun-hee's gaze was steady, unflinching. "Because you're kind. And because you need to know who he really is. Myung-gi is... complicated. He doesn't run from things, but he doesn't face them, either. He's stuck somewhere in between. And I don't want you to get stuck there with him."

Yumi felt her chest tighten with an anger she couldn't quite name. "And he's not here for you," she said, the words escaping before she could stop them. "Or for the baby. He... he should be here for you."

Jun-hee's lips curved into a small, wry smile. "I stopped expecting him to be there for me a long time ago." Her voice was soft, almost gentle, but the resignation in it cut deeper than any anger could. "But that's not the point. The point is that you're here. And you care more than you probably want to admit. That's why I'm telling you."

Yumi didn't know what to say. She felt a swirl of emotions all colliding in her chest. She wanted to defend herself, to argue, to say that she didn't care as much as Jun-hee thought she did. But the truth was, she didn't know how she felt. Not yet.

All she knew was that the thought of Myung-gi not being there for Jun-hee, for the baby, made her feel something close to fury.

The night before, he'd listened to her pour out everything she'd kept locked away — the unspoken acceptance that she wasn't afraid to die here if it meant someone else could live better. And he'd listened, hadn't he? Listened and reassured her, made her feel, for one fleeting moment, like she wasn't just another body in this godforsaken game.

She'd let herself believe, foolishly, that maybe he understood her, that maybe they were the same.

But they weren't, were they?

For years, she had lived with the burden of someone else's survival on her shoulders. The hospital bills, the endless nights spent at his bedside, the steady drip of medicine and rot in the air — she had carried all of it without complaint, because what else could she do? He was her twin, her other half, the one person in the world she couldn't bear to lose.

She had given everything for him, sacrificed everything, and when he'd died — when his thin, frail body had finally given up — she hadn't even allowed herself the luxury of falling apart.

There hadn't been time for grief. Only debt.

It had followed her into every sleepless night, every desperate attempt to keep her head above water. And through it all, she had never once resented her brother. Because she had done what she was supposed to do. She had protected him. She had tried.

And now, here was Myung-gi, who couldn't even do that much.

The thought stung, a bitter, ugly thing that wrapped around her anger and fanned it into something sharper, something unbearable. He hadn't protected Jun-hee. He hadn't cared enough to even try. And worse, he was here now, playing this game, while Jun-hee carried the weight of his choices.

Yumi wanted to scream at him. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know how he could live with himself, how he could look her in the eye after everything.

But that wasn't who she was. Yumi didn't scream. She didn't demand. She held it all inside, where no one could see it, where it couldn't hurt anyone but herself.

Still, the disappointment lingered, heavier than the anger. She had thought, stupidly, that there was something good in him. Something worth trusting. She had let herself believe, for a moment, that he might be different from the rest of the world that had only ever taken from her.

But he wasn't, was he? He was just like everyone else. Selfish.

But now she wondered if it had all been a lie. Not in the overt, malicious sense — she didn't think Myung-gi was that calculated — but in the quieter, subtler way that people lied to themselves about who they were. Maybe he had convinced himself that he was still a good man, that his reasons for being here were justified, even noble. But how could they be? How could any of it be noble when Jun-hee was here, risking her life, while their child waited for a parent who might never come back?

The thought struck Yumi like a blow.

A child.

She didn't know much about Junhee's life outside of this game but she knew enough to understand what a weight that was to carry.

Yumi shook her head, as if the motion might clear the thoughts away, and looked at Jun-hee again. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was apologizing for. For Myung-gi? For herself? For the world that had forced them into this impossible situation?

Junhee's expression softened, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "You don't have to be."

But Yumi did. She had to be sorry for something, because if she wasn't, then what was left? Just anger and grief and the hollow, empty feeling that none of this would ever get better.

THE ROOM WAS A GROTESQUE CARICATURE of joy, an unsettling blend of childhood nostalgia and deadly intent. As the players stepped inside, their footsteps echoed off the glossy, red floors, the sound bouncing back with an eerie resonance that heightened the tension in the air.

At the center of the cavernous space stood a grand carousel, its painted horses frozen mid-gallop, their ornate saddles and bridles gleaming under the harsh, artificial light. The carousel's base was a pristine white, trimmed with gold filigree, giving it the appearance of an extravagant wedding cake. The horses, with their glassy eyes and wide, almost manic grins, seemed to mock the players who dared to glance at them too long. The platform was stationary, and its stillness was almost more unsettling than if it had been spinning.

Above, the ceiling arched high like a circus tent, alternating bands of red and white creating a hypnotic pattern that seemed to draw the players' eyes upward whether they wanted to look or not. The fabric was heavy and taut, as if it were trying to suffocate the space below, trapping the players in this surreal nightmare. Strings of yellow bulbs crisscrossed the ceiling, their warm glow at odds with the cold reality of the game, giving the entire room the air of a carnival gone horribly wrong.

Lining the circular walls were a series of brightly colored doors, each painted in a bold, solid hue: red, blue, yellow, green, purple. The doors were identical in size and shape, their vibrant colors standing out sharply against the white walls trimmed with decorative ribbons and bows. These ribbons, oversized and cartoonish, felt like the cruelest touch of all — festive, celebratory, entirely inappropriate for what lay ahead. Above each door, a small plaque bore a number in delicate gold script, as if to suggest order and elegance.

The players, clad in their identical green tracksuits, huddled together in tense clusters. Their faces, etched with fear and suspicion, reflected the grotesque light of the room, making them look pale and waxen. Some whispered to each other in hurried, frantic tones, their words lost in the cavernous space, while others stood silent, their eyes darting from one detail to the next as if trying to decipher the logic of this strange place. A few stared straight ahead, their expressions blank, as if the effort to process their surroundings had simply overwhelmed them.

As the players shuffled uneasily, the faint hum of the room's sound system crackled to life. The noise was sharp, sudden, slicing through the ambient murmurs like a knife. The players froze, their collective breath held as the voice of the announcer, mechanical and devoid of any human warmth, filled the space.

"Players, welcome to the third game. We will begin momentarily." The voice said, its tone infuriatingly calm, as though it were announcing a train schedule rather than the start of a deadly contest. "The game you will be playing today is Mingle."

She stood with the remnants of her team from the second game, a loose cluster of faces she had grown reluctantly familiar with. Geum-ja, the older woman who had become something of a maternal figure to their group, turned to face them. Her sharp eyes scanned the others, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Okay, I know this one," she declared, her tone firm enough to cut through the murmurs.

Yong-sik nodded earnestly, his youthful face pinched with worry. "Uh, what do we need to do? Is there a strategy? What's the plan?"

Player 095, who had introduced herself as Young-mi, spoke up, her voice measured but tinged with nervous energy. "If the number is five, we can all stay grouped together. And if the number's two..." She trailed off, glancing at Hyun-ju, the woman she had gravitated towards since the last game.

Young-mi's hesitation was palpable. Her lips parted as if to continue, but her gaze flickered to Yumi, who stood silently at the edge of the group. Before Young-mi could finish her thought, a figure stepped forward and broke the silence.

"Then I'll stick with her," Myung-gi's voice cut in, his tone casual yet resolute. He stood beside her, his presence solid and unyielding.

Yumi stiffened, her body betraying no outward reaction beyond the slight tightening of her jaw. She didn't meet his gaze, her eyes fixed instead on the carousel's grotesque horses. She refused to acknowledge him, but her silence spoke volumes. Myung-gi's statement lingered in the air, unchallenged by the others. Whether they noticed her pointed avoidance or chose to ignore it was unclear.

Young-mi's lips quirked into a forced smile as she turned back to Hyun-ju. "Then you and me pair up," she said, her voice softening. "And if they call out a number higher than six, we grab all the people we need as soon as we can."

Yumi took a cautious step forward, her voice cutting through the fragile quiet. "Uh, and what if we accidentally get separated from the group... then what?"

The question hung heavily in the air. Young-mi's hand twitched slightly, a subtle tremor that betrayed her unease.

Hyun-ju's expression faltered for a moment before she shook her head, steadying herself. "In that case, we'll figure it out as we go," she said firmly, her voice regaining its composure. "The really crucial thing for us to do is to stay calm and don't panic."

Hyun-ju lifted her hand in a confident thumbs-up, the gesture meant to inspire unity. Young-mi's lips curled into a small smile as she reached out to grasp Hyun-ju's thumb, the two women creating a fragile link of solidarity. Geum-ja's wrinkled hand joined theirs, followed by Yong-sik's, the young man hesitating only briefly before his resolve solidified.

Myung-gi hesitated, his hand hovering awkwardly before Geum-ja patted his back with a reassuring smile. He relented, his hand joining the others, his grip firm but cautious. Yumi lingered for a moment, the weight of her own reluctance pressing down on her. Finally, with an awkwardness that felt almost palpable, she placed her hand atop his thumb, completing the tower.

"Fighting!" they shouted in unison, their voices mingling in a fragile harmony.

As the circle broke, Yumi's hand brushed against Myung-gi's, and she recoiled instinctively, the contact leaving a lingering warmth on her skin. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, his expression unreadable.

She moved to the platform with the weight of uncertainty pressing against her chest. She took careful, deliberate steps, her shoes scuffing slightly against the polished floor as if reluctant to carry her forward. The platform loomed before her, its opulent design an unsettling contrast to the grim reality of their situation. She stepped onto it, feeling the faint give beneath her weight, the sensation almost nauseating in its wrongness.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering briefly on the faces she recognized. Most were pale and drawn, their fear palpable. Then her gaze found Jun-hee, standing off to the side with her team from the second game.

Jun-hee was safe, Yumi reminded herself, her hand instinctively brushing against her side as if to reassure her heart to steady its relentless pace. She was relieved for her but the relief felt like a foreign weight, heavy and awkward, resting beside the burden she already bore.

"Hey," a voice called softly, almost hesitant. Myung-gi. He stood beside her, his shoulders hunched as though bracing for something. His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching like he was trying to grasp an answer that wasn't there. "Are you okay?"

Yumi didn't meet his gaze. She stared straight ahead, her face impassive, but her eyes betrayed her weariness. "Fine." The word was clipped, distant, as if it had been forced out against her will.

Myung-gi shifted on his feet, the soles of his shoes squeaking faintly against the platform. He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit she'd come to recognize over the past few days. "Look, if I said something last night..." He trailed off, his voice faltering. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just... I don't know. Talking. I didn't mean anything by it."

Still, Yumi didn't look at him. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white from the pressure. "It's not that," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what is it?" Myung-gi asked, his tone tinged with frustration. "You've been... different since this morning."

"It's nothing," Yumi replied sharply, a thin edge to her voice that made Myung-gi flinch. She regretted it immediately but didn't soften her tone.

Myung-gi took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "If it's nothing, then why won't you look to me?"

Yumi turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his reflection in the polished surface of the platform. His face was etched with concern, his brows drawn together, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked as though he'd been carrying the weight of his guilt since the moment he woke up, and it annoyed her that he thought this was about him. "I said it's nothing," she repeated, her tone firmer this time.

Myung-gi's frustration boiled over. "Why are you being like this?" he demanded, his voice rising just enough to draw a few curious glances from the other players. He lowered it again quickly, glancing around nervously. "I thought we were... I don't know. Friends, or something."

"Friends?" Yumi echoed, finally turning to face him. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes dark and guarded. "Do you even know what that word means?"

The question hit him like a slap, and he recoiled slightly, his lips parting as though to respond, but no words came out. He searched her face for some hint of what she was feeling, but she'd built her walls too high, too quickly.

"Yumi," he said softly, almost pleading. "Please."

She shook her head, her gaze shifting back to the crowd. Her eyes found Jun-hee again, standing still, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. Yumi felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name. It didn't matter. "Just let it go," she murmured.

Myung-gi opened his mouth to press further, but before he could, the first strains of music drifted through the air, soft and eerie. The speakers crackled slightly, and then the unmistakable melody of "Round and Round" began to play, its haunting cheerfulness sending a shiver down Yumi's spine.

She stepped away from him, moving closer to the center of the platform as it began to hum softly beneath their feet. Myung-gi hesitated, his chest tight with a mix of frustration and regret. He wanted to say something more, to bridge the growing distance between them, but the platform gave a sudden lurch, and he stumbled slightly, forced to steady himself.

The carousel began to move, its painted horses coming to life in a slow, deliberate spin. The players murmured nervously, their voices blending with the music in a discordant symphony of fear and anticipation.

Myung-gi glanced at Yumi one last time, her back to him now, her posture stiff and unyielding. He wanted to believe there was still time to fix whatever had gone wrong, but for now, all he could do was follow the rhythm of the game and hope they both made it through.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

SURPRISE!!!!!!

double update is crazy but this is basically filler so ???

it's 5 am again

but 7k words! the crowd cheers! ⸂⸂⸜(രᴗര๑)⸝⸃⸃

i think i made so much progress! yumi realized she might be in like, then it shattered, and now myunggi has no idea why she's being distant. and junhee still dgaf. but i think everything was healthy?? idk u tell me

never experienced my crush's ex telling me she was actually the baby mama of said crush so u know

LMFAO

don't worry, i stopped right before the next game started for a reason

i mean, it takes a lot of time getting those bodies out right?? a lot of time in the rooms to talk....

lol

oh! im curious to know how y'all felt about the late night conversation with myunggi and yumi though, because while i thought it was cute and really really sad, i do want to hear ur thoughts on their dynamic but like more specifically yumi's personality and morals if that makes sense??

much love,