When Seo-hyun was seventeen, she had her first boyfriend. She had been too eager to finally date, too excited to have someone call her theirs to see the red flags waving in front of her face. Sang-chul was twenty-six. He was too old for her. He was bad in all the ways that mattered.

But back then, she hadn't seen it like that.

She thought his possessiveness meant love. That the way his fingers dug into her wrist when another man so much as looked her way meant she was special. He told her she was different, that no one had ever understood him the way she did, that girls his age were shallow, immature, not like her. And she believed him.

She was just a kid who had never been wanted quite like that before. Who mistook control for attention. Who thought the way he demanded to know where she was, who she was with, what she was doing, was care instead of control. That the way he pulled her away from her friends, from the people who might've seen through him, was protection instead of isolation.

And so she stayed.

By the time she turned twenty, she had learned to live with the weight of it. She had convinced herself that love meant sacrifice, that real devotion required endurance. That if she just tried harder, gave more, bent further, she could make him happy. She ignored the part of her that still felt hollow, the quiet whisper of something isn't right, because leaving felt impossible.

Because she didn't know who she was without him.

Then she got pregnant.

She barely had time to sit with it, to let the weight of two pink lines sink in, before Sang-chul found out. He didn't ask what she wanted. He told her what she was going to do. Get rid of it.

His voice had turned cold. He barely even looked at her. The softness she had spent years chasing, breaking herself for, was gone. When she hesitated, when tears welled in her eyes, his jaw tightened, his patience fraying. And then he made it clear—if she kept it, he was done with her.

For the first time in years, something inside Seo-hyun cracked. A quiet, fragile part of her that had spent too long smothered under his control suddenly gasped for air. A clarity she hadn't had since she was seventeen and desperate to be loved.

"Then leave."

She still remembered the look on his face, the sheer disbelief. He had spent years making her believe she couldn't live without him. But in that moment, she realized she already had something more important to live for. A baby.

And just like that, it was over.

The following year was the hardest of her life. She lost him. She lost the baby. She lost everything she had fought so hard to hold onto, only to realize, too late, that none of it had ever really been hers.

But she gained something too.

She learned what she was worth. Learned that she would never settle for someone like Sang-chul again.

And yet, there were nights when sleep wouldn't come, when the ghosts of her past curled up beside her in the dark. Nights when she thought about it—about a version of herself that stayed, that never let go, that got to keep her baby. She wondered if there was a world where she got to be happy. A world where she wasn't hardened by grief, where she hadn't had to carve her survival out of blood and desperation.

Maybe that was why Jun-hee's story struck a nerve. Because once, Seo-hyun had been that girl too—too young, too hopeful, too powerless. And she was desperate for Jun-hee's life to turn out better than her own.

The vote begins with Young-il. He steps forward, presses the red button, and steps back. Simple. Clean. Final.

Seo-hyun barely registers it. She already knows how she'll vote, and the rest doesn't matter. She stares past the sea of players as they move one by one, the dull clicks of buttons blending together into something distant, unimportant.

But when the votes begin tipping in favor of staying—when the choice to continue becomes more real with every passing second—Gi-hun stirs beside her. His breath shudders in his chest, his hands twitch at his sides, and before she can stop him, he moves.

He steps forward, expression raw with urgency, ready to plead, to reason, to throw himself into the fight again—

Only for Young-il to beat him to it.

"Are you all out of your minds?" Young-il's voice slices through the silence, sharp and unrestrained. His voice cuts through the tension like a blade, sharp and demanding. Seo-hyun reacts instinctively, grabbing onto Gi-hun's forearm and tugging him back beside their group. He stiffens but doesn't resist. "You still want to keep going after watching all of those people die?" Young-il's voice rises, daring someone to answer him, to justify their decision. "Who's to say you won't be next? We have to stop. We'll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses and take the money. Survive first, or there won't be a next step."

Predictably, Player 100 steps forward, pushing back against Young-il with his own conviction, his own desperation. He tries to rally the others, make them believe that staying is the right choice, the only choice.

Seo-hyun's grip tightens on Gi-hun's arm—half to stop him from throwing himself into the argument, half to steady herself. The man turns his head slightly, his eyes catching hers, and for a split second, something flickers across his face.

It shouldn't mean anything. Just a glance. Just a moment.

But somehow, it does.

Another girl from the red side speaks up, her voice trembling, thick with tears. She begs for the games to stop, for the killing to end. Her desperation spreads through the room, settling into the cracks of those still undecided. But not all of them. Some roll their eyes, unmoved, unimpressed.

Seo-hyun tries to block it out, tries not to let it reach her. Tries to remind herself of who she was while the rest played the first game—the version of herself that pulled the trigger without hesitation, that took out eliminated players because that was the job, the task, the only thing that mattered.

That woman didn't flinch. Didn't let emotions get in the way.

But that woman hadn't looked them in the eyes. Hadn't seen the way their fear twisted into quiet acceptance, hadn't thought about what they left behind, who they were before this place.

Maybe that had made it easier. Maybe it had to be that way.

She exhales slowly, her jaw locking, forcing herself to focus. It doesn't matter now. It can't matter.

All she has to do is survive—follow orders, make it through the next games. Push forward. Endure.

Then, when it's all over—when the mask peels from her skin and she's left with nothing but raw nerve and hollow breath—then she can fall apart. She can sit in the quiet of her apartment, sit with the wreckage of herself. She can pick apart the pieces with bloodied hands, trace the edges of her ruin, and decide if she can live with what she's done.

If she wants to come back next year.

Jun-hee presses the red button. Dae-ho does as well. Jung-bae, however, chooses blue, prompting Gi-hun to inhale sharply beside Seo-hyun, shoulders hunched at his friend's betrayal.

When it's her turn, she steps forward, pressing the red button without hesitation. The dull click echoes in her ears, final and absolute.

With Gi-hun's press of the red button, their fate is sealed. "The results are 139 for 'O' and 116 for 'X'. Based on the majority vote, we'll proceed to the third game tomorrow. Thank you."

A loud click echoes through the room as the overhead light turn back on, signaling the end of the vote. Some people linger, their gazes bouncing between one another, processing. Others leave the floor quickly, like moving away from the symbols on the floor will somehow change the results.

"We'll be fine," Seo-hyun says, but the words feel weightless, barely holding up against the silence pressing in around them. Jun-hee and Dae-ho don't react, their gazes fixed on the glowing vote results like they might change if they just keep staring. Blank faces, distant eyes, unreadable.

"Hey." She steps in front of them, forcing them to see her, to focus on something other than the numbers on the wall. When their eyes finally meet hers, she doesn't wait—she takes their hands, one in each of hers, fingers curling around their cold, unsteady grips. She squeezes, grounding herself as much as them. "We'll get through the next game. We're a team. We stick together. No matter what."

Dae-ho's jaw flexes, his lips parting like he's about to speak, but it takes a moment before the words come out. "Jung-bae chose blue," he says suddenly, voice tight with something between anger and disbelief. His head snaps toward the man in question, watching him walk away with hunched shoulders, head low. "How could he?"

Jun-hee stays quiet, but Seo-hyun feels her fingers twitch against her palm. She smooths her thumb over Jun-hee's knuckles, a small, silent attempt at reassurance.

"I don't know," she admits, her voice softer now, almost reluctant. Her gaze shifts to where Gi-hun and Young-il are making their way back to the steps. "I thought we were all voting red."

Dae-ho exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair, the movement restless. "He lied to us," he mutters, shaking his head, his grip tightening around Seo-hyun's fingers before he abruptly lets go, shoving his hands into his pockets like he can't trust himself not to do something reckless.

"He made his choice," Seo-hyun says, not sure if it's meant to justify or condemn. Maybe both. Maybe neither. She hesitates, glancing between them. "Come on. Let's sit down."

They move together, slipping into the current of players heading for the bunks.

Dae-ho walks on her left, the tallest of the three, his shoulders squared, frustration radiating off of him in waves. Seo-hyun keeps pace in the middle, her stride quick, steady—but careful, always careful, matching Jun-hee's slower steps beside her. Jun-hee, the shortest, moves like she wants to take up as little space as possible, arms tucked in close, head ducked slightly, trying to fold in on herself.

They don't match. Not in height, not in build, not in anything. But as they walk, their figures slot together, uneven edges pressing against one another, shaping something imperfect, something unbalanced—something unbreakable all the same.

i love dae-ho with all my heartt

this is just a lil smt smt while i work on bigger better cooler stuff