And let me see what spring is like

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ℍ𝔸ℕ𝔸 hugged her jacket tighter around her body, her arms wrapped across her chest as the cool night wind bit at her skin. The street was nearly silent, save for the distant hum of a passing train and the occasional flicker of a faulty streetlamp overhead.

Then—headlights.

Her heart skipped a beat as beams of light cut through the darkness, growing brighter, closer. A vehicle slowed as it approached, its tires crunching against the gravel. It came to a stop in front of her with mechanical precision.

The window rolled down. A figure sat inside, their face hidden behind a mask painted with a single, stark white circle. Their body was clad in a pink jumpsuit that looked almost too clean, too sterile.

"Ms. Kang Hana?" the masked man asked, his voice muffled yet steady.

Hana swallowed, forcing herself to nod. "Yes."

The figure tilted his head slightly. "Password?"

For a moment, her mind went blank. Then the words came back to her, the ones the man on the phone had told her earlier. Her lips were dry as she whispered them aloud.

"Red light, green light. That's the password."

The man gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. A sharp click sounded, and the side door slid open with an eerie smoothness. Hana hesitated, her pulse quickening, but her legs moved anyway.

She climbed in.

Inside, the air was strangely heavy. She paused, blinking at the rows of figures slumped in their seats. Men and women, all dressed in their everyday clothes, their heads tilted forward or pressed against the windows, unmoving.

"Asleep?" Hana muttered under her breath. "I guess... everyone is tired."

She slipped into an empty seat near the back, still clutching her jacket around her. Forcing her voice to stay calm, she leaned slightly toward the driver. "Excuse me, but how long will it take to the—"

She cut herself off.

A faint hissing noise filled the space, low and sinister. A thin mist began to seep from the vents above, curling lazily through the air. Hana's eyes widened as realization hit. She yanked her sleeve up over her nose and mouth, pressing it tight against her face, but the gas was relentless. It burned in her lungs, seeping past her feeble defence.

Her vision blurred. The world tilted, the masked driver splitting into two, then three as her focus slipped. She tried to hold on, tried to fight it, but her body betrayed her. Her muscles grew heavy, her strength drained, and at last she collapsed sideways against the seat.

Her last flicker of awareness was of the circle-masked man. He reached up with deliberate calm and fixed a black gas mask over his already-masked face. Without a word, he shifted gears, the vehicle rolling forward into the night.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━

A faint melody stirred in Hana's ears. Strings and piano—classical music, muffled and distant, as though drifting from another world.

She grunted softly, her body heavy, and forced her eyes open. Blinding white light stabbed at her vision, and for a moment she had to squeeze them shut again. Slowly, carefully, she blinked until the blur sharpened into focus.

Her breath caught.

Rows upon rows of metal bunk beds stretched across a cavernous room, stacked like scaffolding, each occupied by people who, like her, were beginning to stir from a heavy sleep. Confusion lingered on every face, strangers rubbing their eyes, stretching stiff muscles, muttering questions with no answers.

Hana sat up abruptly. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she glanced down at herself—gone were her clothes from last night. Instead, she wore a plain blue jumpsuit, white stripes running along the seams. A square patch was stitched onto her chest, and in neat, bold numbers it read: 455.

She stared at it in silence, her mouth dry. What was this? Where was she?

Sliding out of the bunk, she felt the chill of the concrete floor seep through the thin soles of her shoes. The upbeat music swelled, echoing off the walls, unnervingly cheerful against the bleak sterility of the room. Hana had no idea that every move she and the others made was being watched—eyes from behind security cameras studying them as though they were nothing more than pieces in a game.

She followed the flow of people as they descended narrow stairs toward the floor below, her mind racing to piece together fragments of memory: the card, the van, the gas... Then, a voice cut through her thoughts.

"Ah, you must be trying to count how many of us there are, is that right?"

Hana turned her head. An elderly man with thinning grey hair, the number 001 stitched onto his chest, stood nearby. Beside him was another man, younger, restless, wearing the number 456.

"That's right," the old man said cheerfully, though his tone carried an edge. "So, could you stop talking to me please? And then... huh?"

Hana's voice broke in before she could stop herself. "Up on the board, sir." She pointed toward the massive digital display above them, glowing against the sterile white walls. "There are four hundred and fifty-six here. That's how many players are here."

Both men turned to her.

"She's right," the younger one muttered, squinting up at the board. Then he glanced down at his jacket, rubbing his number patch with disbelief. "Look at that. You were given the first number... and I'm the last."

The old man scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know. I'm just counting. My doctor said counting's good for me—prevents dementia."

Hana frowned, studying the lines in the man's face, the fragility in his posture. "Dementia? Then... what are you doing here?" Her voice softened, though it carried a note of sorrow. "Shouldn't you be at home, resting? Having your loved ones take care of you?"

The old man's eyes twinkled with something that wasn't quite sadness, nor humour—just a quiet acceptance. "You think so? What about your parents? Do they take care of you? Cook your meals?"

Hana's lips parted, but no sound came. She thought of her mother lying pale in a hospital bed, and shame knotted in her stomach. She said nothing.

The old man sighed and looked past them both, his gaze somewhere far away. "I don't have much time left now."

"Huh?" The younger man tilted his head, brows furrowed.

The old man chuckled softly, as if amused by his own misfortune. "The doctor said there's a lump inside my head. Keeps getting bigger." Hana's breath caught. She knew the word before he said it, her voice spilling out without thought. "A brain tumour?" 

"That's right." The old man nodded, a small smile on his face—as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The sudden roar of a voice cut through the murmurs in the dormitory.

"You fucking bitch!"

Every head turned. Hana did too, her body stiffening as she spotted the source—a stocky man with a snake tattoo curling up his neck. His jumpsuit read 101. Standing across from him or rather picking herself up from the floor where he'd thrown her, was a woman with short, dark hair and an expression like stone: 067.

The man grinned wide, his teeth bared as if enjoying the spectacle of an audience.
"Hey! Wow. It really is a small world." His words slithered out as he loomed closer. He tapped his knuckles against his chest. "Look at this bitch's eyes. Still the same, huh? No one's broken you in yet. You know how to take a punch—I taught you that. I fed you, took you in when you had nothing. This is what I get?"

The woman's voice was steady, but the sharpness in it was unmistakable.
"You already took more from me than I owe."

The man's laugh was harsh and jagged.
"Okay. If that's true, how come you ran then?"

"I didn't run," 067 said, holding his gaze. "I went independent."

That broke his grin. His lip curled. "'Went independent,' huh?"

He swung a punch at her face, but she was quicker, slipping out of its path. Gasps rippled through the watching players. Rage flared in 101's eyes, his movements clumsy now with humiliation. He grabbed her collar, tripped her hard, and slammed her against the floor. As she tried to stand, he dragged her up by the hair and hurled her back down. Then he charged, boot slamming viciously into her stomach.

Something snapped inside Hana.

Before the man could land another blow, she stormed through the ring of bodies, her fist connecting with his jaw so sharply that the crack echoed. 101 toppled sideways, stunned. Hana didn't hesitate—her boot came down on his stomach with a sharp, brutal thud.

The crowd recoiled.

Breathing hard, Hana bent down to 067, offering her hand.
"You okay?" she asked.

The woman's eyes flicked up, guarded but grateful. She nodded as Hana helped her to her feet. Hana's own gaze darkened, narrowing back onto 101.

The man groaned, rising slowly, clutching his side. His face twisted with fury.
"Who the hell are you?" he snarled. "What do you think you're doing?"

Hana's voice was low, edged with steel.
"Me? What about you? Hitting women like that—what's your problem with her, 101?"

He spat at the floor. "That's none of your business, bitch."

Hana stepped in front of 067, her stance wide, shoulders squared, like a shield. She glared at him, unflinching.
"The only bitch I see around here... is you."

101 lunged, arm swinging back for another hit. Hana braced herself, ready to throw him down again—

—but the shrill blare of an alarm tore through the room.

Every player froze.

Nine figures marched in, their steps synchronized, pink jumpsuits crisp and faceless masks gleaming under the lights. Eight bore circles on their masks. The one in the centre wore a square. The crowd's fear shifted instantly toward them. The square-masked figure stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

"I would like to extend a heartfelt welcome to you all. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize."

Murmurs spread.

"And why should we believe that?" a man called out from the crowd, voice cracking with both anger and fear. "You—you took our stuff, knocked us out, dragged us to this... this warehouse. Now you're saying you'll pay us if we play? You expect us to buy that?"

The square-masked man didn't flinch.
"We reluctantly took those measures to maintain confidentiality. Your belongings will be returned once the games are over."

The tension hung, thick and heavy, until another voice rose—a woman's this time.
"You all... you all wear masks. Why? Why hide your faces?"

"To ensure fairness," the masked man replied smoothly. "And confidentiality. Please understand."

But someone else wasn't convinced.

"I don't trust a damn word you've said!" A man in glasses pushed forward, anger trembling in his tone. "You tricked us. Kidnapped us. Imprisoned us. Now you hide behind masks. Give us one reason why we should believe anything!"

The square mask turned toward him slowly.
"Player 218. Cho Sang-woo."

The man froze.

The masked figure lifted a remote, pressing a button. The lights dimmed. The massive monitor overhead blinked to life, displaying 218's face.

"Age, forty-six. Former team leader at Joy Investments. Siphoned money from his clients' balances, then invested in futures options... and failed. Current loss: six hundred and fifty million won."

Gasps scattered across the dorm. 218's face burned as he bowed his head.

The masked man's voice rolled on, and the screen shifted to another player.
"Player 107. Kim Mi-Ok. Five hundred and forty million in debt."

The air in the room grew heavier. Hana's eyes flicked from the screen to the guards, her jaw tight. Somewhere in her chest, her heartbeat echoed the thought pounding in her head: What the hell have I walked into?

"118, Oh Yeong-Uk, 1.02 billion in debt. 332, Jung Min-tae, 880 million in debt. 119, No Sang-hun, 1.39 billion in debt. 369, Park Ju-un, 900 million in debt."

The voice of the square-masked man carried easily across the vast, echoing room, slicing through the hushed silence. Each number he called was followed by a figure of staggering weight, numbers that seemed to hang in the air like chains binding every person in the room.

"Every person standing here," he continued, tone clipped and sharp, "is living on the brink of financial ruin. You all have debts that you cannot pay off. When we first went to see each of you, not a single one of you trusted us. But as you all know—we played a game. And as we promised, we gave you money when you won. And suddenly, everyone here trusted us."

A ripple of unease spread through the players as the truth rang out. Murmurs stirred in the crowd. Hana glanced around, seeing faces—some pale, some hardened, others downcast in shame.

"You called," the masked man said, pausing for emphasis, "and volunteered to participate in this game of your own free will. So, this is it. I'll give you one last chance to choose. Will you go back to living your old and depressing lives, chased endlessly by your creditors? Or..." his voice deepened, weight pressing on every word, "will you act, and seize this last opportunity we're offering here?"

Silence. The kind of silence heavy enough that Hana could hear her own heartbeat. Everyone was thinking—calculating—drowning in the image of their own debts.

Finally, a voice broke through, rough and desperate. Player 199 raised his hand. "Hey! Which games are we playing here?"

The square-masked figure tilted his head slightly. "In order to play fair, we cannot disclose any information about the games ahead of time."

Another voice followed, hesitant yet carrying a thread of defiance. Player 456 lifted his hand. "One question. If we win... just how much do we get?"

For a moment, the masked man said nothing. Then, in a slow, deliberate gesture, he raised a remote and pressed a button.

The sound of grinding gears filled the air as a section of the ceiling shifted and opened. Bright lights swept downward, accompanied by jaunty, almost mocking music. All heads tilted upward as a massive glass piggy bank descended, gleaming in the glow. Its transparent belly was empty for now, but its very presence screamed promise—and threat.

"Your prize money," the masked man said, "will be accumulated in there after every game. We will disclose the amount to everyone after the first game is over. If you do not wish to participate, then please let us know at this time."

The room filled with tense murmurs again. Eyes flicked to the piggy bank, to one another, to the masked guards lining the walls. Hana stood still among the sea of uncertainty, her jaw tightening. She stared up at the piggy's bloated shape under the lights, and the absurd cheer of the music grated against the reality of the situation.

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By: SilverMist707

I hope you like the story <3