𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑. be glad i'm not god

THE RHYTHMIC CHANTING ECHOED ACROSS the rainbow track as the team moved forward, their voices uniting in a steady cadence. "One, two. One, two. One, two." The metal locks binding their legs clinked faintly with each synchronized step, the sound barely audible over the thudding of their shoes against the ground. The vivid colors of the twin rainbows below them seemed almost mocking in their cheerfulness, a stark contrast to the tension that hung heavily in the air.

They reached the first checkpoint, a small marked line in the sand, and where a soldier held a tray with a pair of ddakji tiles — one red and one blue — waited. Geum-ja, her weathered hands trembling slightly, stepped forward to face the challenge. She picked up the blue ddakji, her fingers curling around its edges, and positioned herself with a determined expression.

"You've got this," Yong-sik encouraged, though his tone betrayed his own nerves.

Geum-ja inhaled deeply, lifted the tile, and slammed it down onto the red one with all her might. The impact sent a puff of sand into the air, but the red ddakji remained stubbornly flat on the ground.

A collective groan escaped the group. Geum-ja pursed her lips, muttering something inaudible, and retrieved the blue tile for another attempt. She tried again, her arm swinging with renewed vigor, but the result was the same. On the third try, the ddakji slipped from her fingers before she could even throw it properly, landing with a pathetic flop.

Yumi's heart raced, the weight of their predicament settling heavily on her chest. If they failed here, it would be over. She could almost feel the cold barrel of inevitability pressing against her back. Her breaths grew shallow as panic threatened to take hold, but then Hyun-ju's calm voice cut through the tension.

"Wait a minute," she said gently, "Try with it flipped. Use the other side. Throw it the other way."

Geum-ja's eyes darted to Hyun-ju, then back to the tile in her hand. She nodded slowly, as if the suggestion had unlocked a new perspective.

"You can do it," Yumi added, her voice steadier now, joined by murmurs of encouragement from the others.

But it was Yong-sik who delivered the final push. His voice rang out with an almost comical earnestness: "Ma, think of it like this: Try to pretend it's Dad's mistress' face."

A visible change came over Geum-ja. Her back straightened, her grip on the tile tightened, and her jaw set in righteous fury. With a guttural yell that resonated with years of suppressed anger, she hurled the ddakji down.

"Disgusting, rotten whοre!"

The impact was explosive. The red tile flipped into the air before landing on its other side with a satisfying thud.

"Success," the monotone voice on the PA system announced.

Cheers erupted from the crowd. Yumi clapped her hands together, a genuine smile breaking through her usual stoicism. While Yong-sik looked like he might burst with pride.

"All right, everyone," Hyun-ju said, her voice brimming with renewed determination. "Let's go."

They resumed their chant as they moved forward. "One, two. One, two. One, two." The weight of their previous failure lifted slightly, though the next challenge loomed ahead like an unspoken threat.

The second checkpoint came into view: the Flying Stone. A single rock lay in the center. Yong-sik stepped forward, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath as he picked up the larger stone. The group fell silent, their collective hopes hinging on his aim.

He lined up his shot, his brow furrowed in concentration, and with a flick of his wrist, he let the stone fly. It arced through the air — and landed just shy of the target. Yong-sik groaned, his frustration evident.

"Damn it! Sorry, everyone."

Hyun-ju was quick to reassure him. "It's okay."

"I missed it."

"It's okay, now just listen. We're all gonna go pick up the rock." She gestured for the group to move as one. They chanted as they advanced to retrieve the stone. "One, two. One, two. One, two." When they reached it, she raised a hand to signal a pause. "Now, we go backwards," she instructed.

The group adjusted their movements, their chanting shifting in reverse. "One, two. One, two. One, two." Back at the line, Yong-sik held up the stone again, his determination renewed.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip. "Here we go."

Encouragement poured in from the team, but it was Geum-ja who delivered the killer motivation.

"Try to imagine that stone is the face of the conman who swindled you out of your money. All right?"

Yong-sik's grip tightened, his face darkening. "You destroyed my life, you fucker! You ruined everything!"

With a primal yell, he hurled the stone. It struck the smaller target dead-on, sending it skidding across the sand.

"Success," the PA voice confirmed.

Relief washed over the group, but there was no time to celebrate. Hyun-ju clapped her hands, rallying them once more. "Let's move!"

"One, two. One, two. One, two," they chanted, their steps quickening as they approached the next checkpoint. Yumi's heart pounded as her turn drew near. The weight of their survival now rested on her shoulders.

Yumi crouched on the sandy rainbow track, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. She could feel every grain of sand beneath her, rough and grounding, as if anchoring her to the moment. The gonggi pieces rested in her trembling hands, small and light, yet heavy with the weight of survival. Her teammates sat beside her, their breathless encouragement a faint echo against the roaring tide of her own thoughts.

The tray gleamed under the artificial lighting that mimicked daylight, its polished surface reflecting the rainbow hues of the surreal track. Yumi stared at it, her mind whirring like an overworked machine.

The gonggi pieces, familiar and nostalgic, suddenly felt alien. Her hands, steady from years of quiet determination, now quivered with the stakes of this moment. She inhaled deeply, forcing air into her lungs, willing herself to calm.

She knew this game. She knew it well. Her brother's laughter echoed in her memory, the sound crisp and clear as if he were standing beside her.

Gonggi had been their bond, their escape from hospital walls and tubes and the suffocating smell of antiseptic.

She clenched her jaw. She couldn't fail. Not for herself, not for her brother's memory, and certainly not for the teammates who now depended on her.

The first step was critical. Her fingers tightened around the small stones, the faint ridges and imperfections pressing into her skin. She bent forward, her face a mask of concentration, and tossed the first piece lightly into the air. It spun, a glinting arc of silver, as her hand shot down to grab the remaining pieces.

The movements were fluid, instinctual — a muscle memory etched into her very being.

She caught the first piece. Her hand shot up, snatching it mid-air, and she transitioned smoothly into the next round. One by one, she tossed the pieces into the air, her movements precise, her focus unbroken.

The tray, now her entire world, seemed to shrink and expand with each toss, its edges pulsating in her peripheral vision. The air around her felt thick, the murmurs of her teammates and the watching crowd muffled as if submerged underwater. Time stretched, each second elongating, every motion meticulously choreographed.

Each phase of the game demanded more precision. Her hands worked in perfect synchronization, darting to snatch pieces with the dexterity of a practiced musician plucking strings.

The gonggi pieces glinted under the lights, their trajectory arcing high, then dropping swiftly into her awaiting hands. Her heart surged with each successful catch, the rhythm steady but relentless.

The final challenge loomed — the stage her brother had always marveled at but she rarely succeeded in. The pieces were on the back of her hand, feeling their cool, reassuring weight. Slowly, deliberately, she flicked her wrist upward, sending the stones spinning into the air like scattered stars.

Her breath hitched as the world seemed to freeze. Her eyes followed the pieces, each one a fragment of her determination, her hope, her will to survive. Her hand darted upward, fingers outstretched, closing in on the descending stones.

She caught them. All of them. Her palm closed around the pieces as a collective gasp rippled through her teammates. For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The tray's surface reflected her wide eyes, her flushed cheeks.

She didn't hear the cheer of her teammates immediately; the world remained muted, her body locked in a suspended state of disbelief. Then the announcement came, stark and clinical, from the woman on the PA system.

"Success."

The word broke the spell. Her teammates erupted in jubilation, their shouts cutting through the oppressive atmosphere. Hyun-ju's voice was the first she recognized, a warm, grounding presence that anchored her in the chaos. "You did it!"

Yumi allowed herself a single breath, deep and cleansing, before rising to her feet. The gonggi pieces felt weightless in her hands now, their burden lifted. She turned, her gaze meeting Hyun-ju's, who nodded with a smile that held both relief and pride.

"One, two. One, two. One, two," they chanted, their voices steady, their movements synchronized as they advanced to the next challenge. The tension in Yumi's chest eased, replaced by a quiet determination.

The energy of the spectators, almost jubilant, created a surreal dissonance against the stark reality of their predicament. It was as if, for a moment, the danger had been forgotten, and they were merely players in a harmless, nostalgic game.

But Yumi's gaze didn't waver from the ground beneath her feet. She couldn't afford to be lulled into a false sense of safety. They had survived the previous challenges, and the applause was a fleeting mirage. Death still lingered at the edges of this game.

Seon-nyeo's movements were slow and deliberate as if each movement carried the weight of centuries. The spinning top — a simple toy of metal and string — sat in its designated place on the tray. It was deceptively innocent in appearance.

Yumi wondered briefly if this mundane object held any meaning for Seon-nyeo, the way gonggi had for her. But Seon-nyeo's face betrayed no nostalgia, only a taut mask of apprehension. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and took the top in her hands.

The shaman's hands faltered as she began to wrap the string around the top. Her movements were clumsy, and unsure, and Yumi felt a spike of tension rise within her. The string slipped, unraveling completely, and Seon-nyeo cursed under her breath. She glanced at Hyun-ju, her face tight with frustration, and muttered, "I know what I'm doing."

Hyun-ju's brow furrowed, but she held her tongue. The team stood in uneasy silence, watching as Seon-nyeo fumbled again with the string. The top slipped from her hands, clattering onto the platform with a hollow sound. The crowd groaned audibly, and Seon-nyeo let out a small gasp, quickly bending down to retrieve it. Her hands worked furiously, trying to re-wrap the string, but it continued to undo itself, mocking her efforts.

"No, no, wait," Hyun-ju said, her voice firm but not unkind. "You're wrapping it wrong. Start with the axle first."

Seon-nyeo's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Yeah, I know that," she snapped, her tone defensive and brittle. Her focus returned to the top, her hands shaking visibly now. The string refused to cooperate, slipping and tangling, as if imbued with a malevolent will of its own. Her frustration grew palpable, an almost tangible weight pressing on the air around them.

Yumi's gaze shifted to the large digital clock mounted above the platform. The numbers ticked down steadily, indifferent to their struggle. Her heart began to race again, a familiar rhythm of fear and urgency, but she forced herself to look away. There was still time, she reminded herself. There was always time — until there wasn't.

Seon-nyeo's breathing grew heavier, her movements more frantic. Yumi clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, but she remained silent. It was Geum-ja who finally broke the uneasy quiet.

"You do know how to play this, don't you?" Geum-ja's voice was sharp, her words cutting through the tension like a blade.

Seon-nyeo stiffened, her shoulders rising defensively. "Stop talking to me," she hissed through gritted teeth. Her hands fumbled again, the string slipping loose once more, and she let out a frustrated groan.

"Gently," Geum-ja whispered to herself, though the shaman's movements remained jerky and uneven.

"Can someone shut up Granny?"

Geum-ja opened her mouth to retort, but Yumi intervened, placing a calming hand on the older woman's arm. "Let her focus," Yumi said softly, her voice barely audible above the murmur of the crowd. Geum-ja huffed but relented, tightly holding on to her son's arm.

The seconds ticked by, and the weight of the clock seemed to press down on all of them. Seon-nyeo's whispered prayers began to fill the silence, her voice trembling with desperation. "Oh, gods of heaven and earth, have mercy on this poor soul. Oh, gods, hear this plea and help me. Have mercy on me, set me on the right path. Oh, gods of heaven and earth..." Her words became a mantra, an anchor to steady her shaking hands, but they soon faltered. She froze, staring at the spinning top in her hands, and her face crumpled as tears welled in her eyes.

"The gods of heaven and earth have abandoned us," she whispered, her voice breaking. "They've left us to die."

Geum-ja clicked her tongue in annoyance. "She's lost her mind," she muttered.

"She had to go crazy on us now?" Yong-sik added, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Seon-nyeo continued her words unraveling like the string in her hands. "We're all going to die," she said, her voice rising in pitch, her breaths coming faster and shallower.

The slap came so suddenly that it seemed to freeze the world for an instant. Hyun-ju's hand struck Seon-nyeo's cheek with a sharp crack, silencing her mid-sentence. The other players gasped in unison, their shock palpable. Hyun-ju grabbed Seon-nyeo by the collar, pulling her close, her face inches from hers, and the spinning top toy in a weapon position.

"If you give up now," she growled, her voice low and dangerous, "I'll kill you before any of your damn gods can."

Seon-nyeo's eyes widened, her breath hitching as she stared at her. For a moment, it seemed as though she might collapse under the weight of her words. But then, slowly, she nodded, her trembling hands clutching the spinning top like a lifeline.

Hyun-ju released her, his gaze unyielding. "Now do it. Hurry."

Seon-nyeo's breathing remained ragged, but she turned her focus back to the spinning top. Her fingers moved with newfound determination, wrapping the string tightly and carefully around the axle. The crowd watched in tense silence, their earlier applause forgotten, replaced by the weight of collective anticipation.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, Seon-nyeo stood upright. Her grip on the spinning top was firm now, her hands steady. She bent slightly, positioning the top on the platform, and with a flick of her wrist, she released it.

The spinning top wobbled for a fraction of a second, then found its balance. It spun smoothly, its motion mesmerizing, the string unraveling in a perfect spiral. The crowd erupted into cheers, their collective relief palpable. The woman's voice over the PA system rang out, clear and clinical.

"Success."

The room was eerily quiet as the announcement crackled through the speakers, the calm, detached voice of the woman on the PA echoing over the heads of the crowd. "For the final mini-game, you must kick the jegi five times to pass."

A simple challenge. Yet, its weight pressed down on them like an iron shroud. The small feathered shuttlecock, light and innocuous, lay waiting in the center of the tray, a symbol of salvation and doom in equal measure. Yumi could feel the crowd's collective breath hitch, a wave of tension rolling over the platform like an unseen tide.

They had come so far, endured so much, and now it all rested on this fragile moment.

Hyun-ju stepped forward, her jaw set, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her expression betrayed no fear, but Yumi could see the tightness in her shoulders, the subtle tremor in her fingers. She nodded curtly at the instructions, then turned to face the group.

"No one watches me, okay?" Her voice was steady but carried a brittle edge, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Geum-ja frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"Please." Hyun-ju's tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. She turned away, addressing the gathered spectators with a raised voice. "You too. Everybody turns. Turn around. Don't look!"

Yumi nodded immediately, understanding the vulnerability beneath Hyun-ju's words. Without hesitation, she grabbed Geum-ja's arm and gently turned the older woman around. Geum-ja did the same with Yong-sik, who followed her lead without complaint. Even the crowd seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, the rustling of clothes and shoes marking their compliance as they turned away from the team.

Hyun-ju took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she closed her eyes for a moment. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the clock ticking down. Yumi felt her heart hammering in her chest, each beat a reminder of how much was at stake.

The first kick came a sharp clap of Hyun-ju's shoe against the shuttlecock, sending it into the air. The sound was crisp and distinct, echoing through the stillness like a bell.

"One," Yong-sik counted aloud, his voice a mix of anticipation and relief.

The jegi descended, and Hyun-ju's foot met it with precision, sending it back up. The movement was fluid, almost graceful, despite the tension radiating from her body.

"Two," Geum-ja called, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

The third kick was higher, the jegi spinning briefly in the air before Hyun-ju caught it again with her foot. Yumi's breath caught in her throat, her hands clenching at her sides as she silently urged the shuttlecock to stay in motion.

"Three," Yumi said softly, her voice barely audible but filled with quiet encouragement.

Hyun-ju's movements grew steadier now, her confidence building with each successful kick. The fourth was clean and controlled, the jegi rising and falling like a perfectly timed heartbeat.

"Four," Seon-nyeo murmured, her eyes closed as if in prayer.

The final kick came with a burst of energy, Hyun-ju's foot striking the shuttlecock with a force that sent it soaring into the air. It hung there for a split second, suspended in time, before descending smoothly into her waiting hands.

"And five!" Geum-ja exclaimed, her voice breaking into a cheer. "You hit five!"

Yong-sik echoed her excitement. "I heard it! Five hits!"

The woman on the PA confirmed their victory, her monotone voice almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd. "Success."

The room erupted into cheers, the tension breaking like a dam as relief washed over them. Hyun-ju exhaled heavily, her hands resting on her chest as she steadied herself. She looked up, a small, almost sheepish smile breaking across her face as her teammates rushed to her side.

The five of them stood shoulder to shoulder, a makeshift family forged in the crucible of this deadly game.

"One, two," Hyun-ju began, her voice steady. The others picked up the chant, their voices rising in unison. "One, two. One, two. One, two."

With each step, their synchronized chant grew louder, filling the air with a sense of defiance. The crowd parted before them, their earlier applause giving way to a stunned silence. The spectators watched as the team moved forward, their unity an unspoken declaration of victory over the odds stacked against them.

They crossed the finish line.

"We did it!" Yumi exclaimed, her voice ringing with genuine joy. She threw her arms around Hyun-ju, pulling her into a tight hug. They jumped together, their laughter mingling with the cheers of the crowd. For a moment, the weight of their ordeal was forgotten, replaced by the simple, unrestrained celebration of survival.

In the crowd, Jun-hee clapped wildly, her face alight with happiness. She jumped up and down, her movements unrestrained despite her condition, her relief palpable.

On the opposite side of the crowd stood Myung-gi, his figure a quiet contrast to the animated spectators around him. His hands rested in his pockets, but his lips curved into a warm, genuine smile as his eyes followed Yumi.

She was radiant, her face flushed with exhilaration, her laughter ringing out like a melody. Myung-gi's chest tightened as he watched her, a mix of pride and longing swelling within him.

He hadn't seen her smile like that. It was a beautiful sight, a reminder that there was a Yumi that existed before this nightmare began. She had shown that she was strong, but seeing her at this moment, unguarded and alive, made his heartache. He wanted to hold onto this image, to freeze it in his mind and keep it safe from the harshness of their reality.

As the group left the room, returning to the dormitory, their victory cemented, Myung-gi lingered on the edge of the crowd, his gaze never leaving Yumi. And as she turned, her eyes briefly meeting his, he felt a flicker of warmth ignited within him.

SILENTLY SITTING ON THE STAIRS between the bunks, Yumi kept her eyes trained on the doors at the far end of the dormitory. The cold steel of the steps beneath her seeped through the thin fabric of her jumpsuit, grounding her, though not enough to dispel the restless energy coursing through her body.

The room was cavernous, and despite the murmured conversations scattered across the bunks, it felt eerily quiet. Her team had been the first to return, the adrenaline of their narrow victory still thrumming faintly in her veins, though the silence amplified the tension in her chest.

Each time the doors creaked open, Yumi's heart jumped. She leaned forward, her breath hitching as she scanned the faces coming through. She was hoping — no, willing — to see Jun-hee among them. But time and time again, her friend's face failed to appear.

Yumi tried not to let the thought weigh her down. There were dozens of teams, and maybe Jun-hee's turn hadn't come yet. Still, the worry gnawed at the edges of her composure.

The group's chatter around her hummed like white noise. Hyun-ju and Yong-sik were talking in low tones about the next game, speculating on its potential horrors, while Geum-ja fussed over her son's slightly torn sleeve. Seon-nyeo sat cross-legged on her bunk, far from them, mumbling to herself, the faint trace of a prayer forming on her lips.

Yumi's silence was a stark contrast, and the others left her to it.

When the doors swung open again, Yumi straightened, her attention snapping to the figure stepping inside. Myung-gi.

She didn't think much of it at first, but as his eyes swept the room, a flicker of recognition passed between them. His gaze searched purposefully, stopping when it found her. Yumi noticed the purplish bruises blooming on his cheekbone and along his jawline, remnants of the brawl from the previous night with Thanos and his lackey. The bruises weren't severe, but they were stark against the pale pallor of his skin.

Neither of them looked away for several moments, locked in a silent exchange that said everything and nothing. Finally, Yumi broke the gaze, shifting her focus to another face. Player 095. The girl was perched nervously on the edge of a lower bunk, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Her hair was slightly frizzy, and her large, doe-like eyes were rimmed with red. It was clear she'd been crying, though whether it was last night or this morning, Yumi couldn't tell.

The girl was staring down at her hands when she suddenly stood, crossing the short distance to where Hyun-ju sat. She hesitated, her fingers twisting around each other as if knotting invisible threads.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice trembling but audible.

Hyun-ju glanced up, her sharp brows raising slightly. "For what?" she asked, her voice calm and warm, though tinged with curiosity.

Player 095 swallowed, her gaze flitting nervously to the others before settling back on Hyun-ju. "For what you said. About the ddakji game." She took a breath, as if gathering courage. "I... I listened. And because of it, my team made it through. We... I won on the first try."

Hyun-ju's lips curved into a soft smile, the kind that lit up her whole face. "I'm glad it helped," she said, her voice sincere. "It's good to know someone was paying attention."

The girl's face brightened slightly, though her hands still worried at the hem of her jumpsuit. "You were right. About staying calm, about how to..." Her words faltered for a moment. "How to use the opposite side. I... I've never been good at stuff like that, but it worked."

Hyun-ju nodded, leaning forward slightly. "It's not easy," she said, her tone gentle. "But you did it."

The girl smiled hesitantly, her nerves easing under Hyun-ju's warmth. They continued to talk, their conversation a quiet exchange of gratitude and reassurance.

Yumi felt it before it happened — the presence lingering behind her, hesitant yet warm. She stiffened slightly, her senses sharpened as if the air had thickened around her. Before the expected tap on her shoulder could land, she turned, her movement fluid but wary. And there he was, standing with an almost sheepish expression. The harsh fluorescent lights above revealed the faint bruises decorating his face, remnants of the previous night's altercation with Thanos and his brute of a friend.

He blinked, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air, before lowering it. "You always this jumpy?" He said finally, his voice just loud enough to pierce the low hum of murmurs around the dormitory. His tone carried no trace of irony or condescension, only sincerity.

"Only when I feel like I'm being stalked," Yumi replied dryly, though there was no real bite in her words. Her eyes flickered to his bruises, and she tilted her head slightly. "Those look worse today."

Myung-gi chuckled, the sound low and rough, as if scraped from the bottom of a well. "You should see the other guy."

Yumi rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the faint smile tugging at her lips. Myung-gi seemed to notice because his own smile softened. "Congratulations," he said suddenly, his tone earnest. "You did good out there."

Yumi blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness. She hesitated, unsure whether to deflect or accept the compliment. Her instincts told her to retreat, but his earnest gaze made it difficult to brush aside. "You too," she said eventually, her voice quiet but steady. "Congrats on surviving another day." Her words were measured, almost clinical, but there was an undercurrent of genuine relief — an acknowledgment of the fragile truce they all shared in this unforgiving place.

Myung-gi's grin widened slightly, and without waiting for an invitation, he eased himself down onto the step beside her. He moved with the kind of casual familiarity that suggested he wasn't a stranger to sharing space with others, yet he left just enough room to respect her boundaries. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken thoughts.

"You were fast," he said, breaking the quiet. His tone was conversational, but his eyes betrayed a genuine curiosity. "At gonggi, I mean. It was like you'd done it a hundred times before."

Yumi's lips twitched, her expression softening into something that resembled a smile but didn't quite reach her eyes. "Maybe I have," she replied, her words deliberately cryptic. There was a flicker of something in her gaze — a memory, perhaps, or a shadow of someone who wasn't there. She lowered her eyes, as if the weight of that moment threatened to spill over.

Myung-gi tilted his head, studying her with quiet intensity. He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated, the question hanging in the space between them. Instead of blurting out the name, he took a more measured approach. "You... seem like you've had someone looking out for you," he said carefully, his voice low and even. "Someone who taught you to be that quick on your feet."

Yumi's eyes flickered up to meet his, her guarded expression shifting slightly. She hesitated, caught between the impulse to brush off his observation and the sudden ache to share. "Yeah," she said at last, her voice soft but distant. "I do."

"I..." Myung-gi hesitated again, as though walking a tightrope. "I think I've heard you talk about someone before. Late at night, when it's quiet." He glanced at her carefully, gauging her reaction. "Not a lot, just bits and pieces." He paused, letting his words settle before adding, "Was it... Yunho?"

The name hit Yumi like a jolt. Her eyes snapped to his, wide with a mixture of surprise and something deeper — grief, perhaps, though she quickly masked it. She hadn't heard that name spoken aloud by anyone but her, and yet, it felt like it had been whispered into the very marrow of her existence every day since. For a moment, she struggled to find her voice, her throat tight and dry.

"Yunho," she repeated as if tasting the name on her tongue, testing its weight. She nodded slowly, her movements deliberate. "He... taught me a lot." Her words were careful, almost reverent, as though speaking them aloud might shatter the fragile sanctuary she'd built around her memories. She smiled faintly, but it wasn't the kind of smile that brought light; it was tinged with sadness, like a faded photograph of a brighter time.

Myung-gi watched her, his expression unreadable. He didn't press, didn't demand more than she was willing to give. But his presence was steady, a quiet reassurance that she wasn't alone in the moment.

"He always said I was terrible at first," Yumi continued, her voice softer now, almost musing. "I couldn't get the timing right. Kept fumbling, dropping everything. But he never gave up on me. He... had this way of making it fun, even when I got frustrated. Like it wasn't about being perfect, just... trying." Her gaze grew distant, as if she were seeing something beyond the sterile walls of the dormitory.

"Sounds like he cared about you a lot," Myung-gi said, his tone gentle but not pitying. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, giving her the space to continue if she wanted.

Yumi's fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve, her movements absent-minded. "He'd probably laugh at me now," Yumi continued, her voice tinged with both warmth and sorrow. "Tell me I'm too good for these games. That I should just quit and let someone else win."

Her words carried an odd duality, a sense of present immediacy as though Yunho were still there, still alive. Myung-gi didn't notice. Instead, he let her speak, let her words fill the space between them like the melody of a sad, familiar song.

"You're lucky," he said after a pause, his voice low. "To have someone like that." He trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought. Instead, he looked away, his gaze fixed on the scuffed floor.

Myung-gi sat close enough to Yumi to feel the faint heat radiating from her, though not close enough for their shoulders to brush. She was quiet, her gaze fixed somewhere indeterminate, as though lost in a thought or a memory too fragile to disturb. Her posture was relaxed but guarded, a contradiction that fascinated him. She exuded a subtle strength, the kind that came from carrying too many burdens but refusing to bow under their weight.

Myung-gi's eyes traced her profile with an intensity he couldn't temper. He wasn't sure if it was admiration or something far more dangerous — a longing that threatened to take root.

Her features were soft yet etched with determination, a face that seemed to defy the ugliness surrounding them. He found himself captivated by the way her lips, though set in a neutral line, would twitch ever so slightly when her thoughts drifted, betraying some private amusement or sorrow. Her eyes, too, seemed to hold entire worlds, their dark depths reflecting a thousand unspoken truths he yearned to uncover.

As she shifted slightly, cracking her fingers one by one in a steady rhythm, Myung-gi caught the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hands were small but strong, her fingers deft as they moved — a testament to someone accustomed to fine motor work or perhaps someone who had learned patience through necessity.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, an unconscious gesture that seemed to soften her further, as though she were momentarily letting her guard down. The movement drew his attention to the curve of her neck, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. But his eyes betrayed him, returning to her as though magnetized.

Myung-gi was acutely aware of every small movement she made, from the way her chest rose and fell with each measured breath to the way her fingers now rested lightly against her thigh, tracing patterns only she could see. Even her stillness was dynamic, a quiet defiance against the storm of noise and violence that had brought them here.

He noticed how her expression softened when she thought no one was looking. Though she tried to maintain a stoic facade, there were moments when her guard slipped, and a hint of vulnerability peeked through. It wasn't weakness but something far more compelling: the raw, unfiltered humanity of someone who felt deeply but bore her emotions in solitude.

He found himself wondering what it would be like to be the one she trusted enough to share those burdens with.

But as much as he wanted to lose himself in this quiet admiration, something darker gnawed at him. Myung-gi's thoughts twisted, tangled with guilt that coiled tightly in his chest. He couldn't ignore the sharp pang of shame that struck every time his gaze lingered too long or his mind wandered to thoughts he had no right to entertain.

Jun-hee.

Her name rang like a warning bell in his mind, an anchor tethering him to the reality he could not escape.

He thought of Jun-hee as she had been when they first met, full of life and laughter, her presence as bright and warm as the sun. He thought of her now, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion, her body carrying the weight of a child neither of them had planned for.

His child.

He was the reason she was here, in this hellish place, where every day was a gamble against death. The realization cut him deeply, a wound that refused to heal.

How could he sit here, so close to Yumi, and allow himself to feel anything but remorse? How could he let his gaze linger on her hands, her lips, the curve of her shoulders, when Jun-hee was somewhere in this same building, carrying the life they had created?

The guilt was suffocating, a heavy fog that clouded his thoughts and made his chest tighten with self-loathing.

Yet, he couldn't stop himself from watching Yumi.

He hated himself for noticing it, for wanting to reach out and touch her hand, to feel the warmth of her skin against his. He hated himself for the way his heart seemed to betray him, quickening its pace whenever she smiled, even if the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Myung-gi wondered if Yumi knew about Jun-hee. He doubted it. She didn't look at him with judgment or suspicion, only with the kind of casual camaraderie born from shared survival. But the thought of her finding out filled him with dread. What would she think of him then? Would she see him as the coward he sometimes felt he was, a man who had failed to protect the woman he should have been devoted to? Or would she understand the complexities of his guilt, the way it tore at him from the inside out?

He clenched his fists, trying to steady the storm inside him. Yumi's presence was both a balm and a torment, a reminder of everything he could never have and everything he stood to lose.

He knew he couldn't let himself dwell on these feelings, couldn't let them take root and grow. But as much as he tried to push them away, they clung to him, stubborn and unyielding.

For now, he allowed himself one more stolen glance, taking in the way the light played off her hair, the way her lips parted slightly as she exhaled a quiet sigh. He then looked away, his jaw tightening with resolve.

He couldn't let himself falter. Not now. Not here. Not with so much at stake.

But even as he turned his attention elsewhere, the image of Yumi lingered in his mind, a ghost he knew would haunt him for as long as they both survived.

The quiet resolve that settled over him was interrupted by the sight of Yumi standing abruptly. The suddenness of her movement startled him, and his eyes followed her instinctively as she descended the stairs.

Her demeanor had shifted; the solemn veil that had hung around her like a shroud was momentarily lifted. A new smile played on her lips, soft but radiant, lighting her face with a quiet joy. Myung-gi's gaze trailed her as she moved gracefully but purposefully through the room. It was as if the oppressive air of the dormitory had no hold on her now, her steps lighter with each one she took. Her eyes locked on a figure near the entrance, and in that moment, Myung-gi saw the reason for her change: Jun-hee.

Jun-hee's face broke into a smile, wide and unabashed, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look younger, almost carefree despite the horrors they had endured. Yumi's pace quickened, and as the distance closed between them, they embraced. It wasn't a tentative hug or one borne out of obligation; it was tight, heartfelt, and overflowing with relief. The kind of embrace that spoke volumes without a single word exchanged.

Myung-gi felt his chest tighten, though whether it was from awe or something darker, he couldn't tell. The two women held onto each other as though they had found an anchor in the storm, a lifeline in the chaos of the games.

From across, Geum-ja's chuckle broke the moment. It was quiet but filled with knowing, the kind of laugh that didn't need to be explained. She didn't say a word but glanced knowingly at Myung-gi, who quickly averted his eyes, embarrassed by the transparency of his admiration. Geum-ja's amusement lingered, but she let it rest, turning her attention back to her son.

Yumi and Jun-hee, meanwhile, settled on the stairs with Jun-hee's group. Their camaraderie was evident, the easy way they shared the space and exchanged smiles. Jun-hee's group had formed a loose circle, their body language open but weary, the exhaustion of survival etched into their postures. Yumi fit seamlessly among them, her presence warm and unassuming. The group's mood seemed to lift slightly, as if her quiet strength and reassurance were infectious.

Player 390, a wiry man with a sharp grin and a mischievous glint in his eye, tilted his head and quipped, "Didn't think Player 222 had it in her to be so outgoing." His tone was light, teasing, but not unkind. It was a simple observation, though it carried the weight of an unspoken truth. In the games, connections were risky, alliances fragile, and trust a dangerous gamble.

Jun-hee shook her head, her smile tinged with a mix of amusement and humility. "I'm not," she said softly. Her voice, though quiet, carried a warmth that made it hard not to listen. "But..." She hesitated, her eyes flicking to Yumi. There was a pause, as though she were searching for the right words.

They didn't press or pry but instead accepted the dynamic with quiet respect. Player 001, an older man with a gentle demeanor, leaned forward slightly, his gaze settling on Jun-hee. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

Jun-hee nodded, her hand unconsciously resting on her stomach. "Yes," she replied. "Thank you. For letting me be part of your team." Her gratitude was earnest, her tone filled with a sincerity that made it clear how much it meant to her.

The group's acknowledgment was subtle but meaningful. A few nods, a murmured "Of course," and the atmosphere settled into a calm silence.

Across the room, Myung-gi's eyes lingered on Yumi a moment longer before he forced himself to look away. The sight of her, so at ease with Jun-hee, so present in the moment, filled him with a bittersweet ache. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was an outsider looking in, drawn to her light but unable to step into it without casting a shadow.

The atmosphere around the small group began to lighten, like the first hesitant rays of sun after a long, oppressive storm. The dormitory, with its cold, sterile walls and its constant hum of anxiety, was momentarily transformed by the simple camaraderie of shared stories and gentle laughter. Jun-hee's initial hesitance seemed to dissolve as her teammates continued to praise her, their words weaving a cocoon of warmth around her.

"Remember the first round?" Player 390 began, his voice carrying a mix of genuine admiration and playful energy. "The ddakji flipped, like, bam! Right on her first try. For a pregnant lady, you were fast too. Since she joined, she's been kinda like our good-luck charm, right?"

The group chuckled, a sound that echoed off the hard surfaces and settled like a soft hum in the space. Jun-hee's cheeks flushed a light pink, her smile bashful and small, though undeniably present. It wasn't often that she found herself at the center of such praise, and though her heart swelled with gratitude, it also carried the weight of her own self-doubt. Still, she nodded graciously, her hands resting protectively over her abdomen.

Player 388 leaned forward, his enthusiasm bubbling over. "And, sir," he said, gesturing to one of the older men in the group, "you were incredible at Flying Stone. You just lined it up and..." He mimicked a swift, fluid motion, punctuated by an exaggerated 'thwack.' "First try! And I saw, you threw it underhand, like... Bam! Like that."

The others laughed, the sound rich and genuine, though slightly muted by the ever-present undercurrent of tension that lingered in the room. Even in their laughter, there was a kind of restraint, as if they were aware that joy was fleeting here, a fragile thing that could shatter at the slightest provocation.

The older man waved off the compliment, but the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth betrayed his pleasure. "Me? What about you? You were a Gong-gi machine," Player 390 interjected, his hands mimicking the rapid, precise motions of the game. "Like..." He mimicked explosions, complete with grunts and sound effects. "All in one move. Like someone from a kung-fu movie."

The man who had been the focus of the praise laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Ah, it was nothing," he said, his tone self-deprecating. "I'm the only son for two generations. My mom only let me play at home with my sisters."

Player 390 clapped him on the back, his grin wide and teasing. "Yet she sent her precious little boy to the Marines. How'd that work?"

The man's expression shifted, a flicker of something deeper and more complex passing over his face. "That was my father's idea," he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "He wanted me to be more of a man. He fought over in Vietnam back when he was younger, actually."

Player 390's jovial expression softened, replaced by a look of respect. "Oh. He sounds like a great man."

The man nodded, his gaze distant as if he were looking back through time, seeing the shadow of his father in the memories that played in his mind. "Yeah," he said simply, the word heavy with unspoken emotion.

"So your father was a Marine too, then?" Player 390 asked, his tone curious but gentle, as if he were aware of the delicate balance of the conversation.

The man hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then, as if deciding to shift the focus away from himself, he straightened and turned to the group. "Uh... Hold on, sir. Sorry, but please excuse me a second," he said, his voice taking on a more formal tone. "I was thinking, perhaps we should learn each other's names. I still don't know your names, gentlemen." He glanced at the two women, his expression kind and open. "Or you two, misses."

The group fell silent for a moment, his suggestion hanging in the air. It was a simple request, but it carried with it the weight of something larger — a desire for connection, for humanity, in a place designed to strip them of both. Names were powerful here, a reminder of who they were beyond the numbers stitched onto their green tracksuits.

Jun-hee, still sitting close to Yumi, glanced around the circle, her expression thoughtful. Yumi, for her part, remained quiet, her gaze fixed on a spot just beyond the group. She was listening, though, her hands resting in her lap, fingers lightly tracing patterns against the fabric of her pants.

Player 388 raised his fist with an infectious energy, his voice cutting through the tense air of the dormitory. "I'll go first. Kang Dae-ho. 'Dae' as in 'big,' 'Ho' as in 'tiger.'" He grinned, his name echoing with a boldness that matched his presence. The confidence in his tone seemed to ease some of the heavy tension in the room, coaxing a chuckle out of Player 390, who gave an approving nod.

"Now that's a cool name right there," Jung-bae said, his lips curling into a smile. He shifted slightly, leaning forward as though he'd just remembered something. His hands gestured broadly as he added, "Alright, my turn. Park Jung-bae. Means 'righteous' and 'twice.'" His face flushed with a sheepish grin as he scratched the back of his head, an endearing nervousness peeking through his otherwise easy demeanor. "My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous, I guess."

The laughter lingered in the air, dissipating gently as their eyes turned toward Jun-hee. She seemed surprised by the sudden attention but cleared her throat softly, her voice steady when she finally spoke.

"My name is Kim Jun-hee. I don't think I know what it stands for, though," she admitted, her hands instinctively resting on her lap as she glanced down, as if embarrassed by the lack of knowledge. Her voice held a quiet strength that belied the vulnerability of her words.

The players nodded in acknowledgment, their expressions kind and understanding. When their gaze shifted to Yumi, she stiffened slightly, taken aback by the unspoken expectation in their eyes. They didn't know her and yet they waited patiently, as if her name mattered in this fleeting moment of camaraderie. Swallowing her hesitation, Yumi met their gazes with quiet determination.

"Suk Yumi," she said, her voice low but clear. "'Suk' means 'pure,' and 'Yumi' means 'beauty.'" A flicker of something passed through her eyes — a fleeting vulnerability that she quickly masked.

"That's a beautiful name," Dae-ho murmured, his sincerity cutting through the room like a balm. Yumi offered him a small, almost imperceptible smile, but her fingers betrayed her as they fidgeted in her lap.

Player 001 adjusted his posture, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Oh Young-il," he announced. "That's me."

Jung-bae's brow furrowed as he repeated the name. "Young-il?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice tinged with playful pride. "You know, like 'Yeong Il' — zero one in Korean. It's hard to forget, isn't it?" His chuckle was soft, but it carried a weight of wisdom, as if he understood the irony of his name aligning with his assigned number.

Dae-ho's eyes widened with surprise, his laughter booming through the dormitory. "Oh, that's crazy! Your name's the number you were given. What are the odds?"

The group's collective amusement faded into a moment of thoughtful silence before Young-il turned to Player 456, who had been quietly observing. "And what's your full name? I just know you as Gi-hun."

The man shifted uncomfortably, scratching his temple as he answered. "Oh, right, um... Seong Gi-hun's my full name."

Young-il's eyebrows lifted in recognition, and he let out a soft laugh. "Seong Gi-hun. Seong, as in your last name? Well, that's straightforward enough."

The atmosphere shifted immediately, tension snapping back into place like a taut wire. The doors swung open with an ominous creak, and the pink-clad soldiers filed in with their faces concealed behind featureless masks. Their presence was a stark contrast to the human connection that had just unfolded, their anonymity a chilling reminder of the stakes.

The players straightened instinctively, their camaraderie dissolving as survival instincts took over. The brief respite of names and laughter faded into the background, swallowed by the ever-present reality of the game. The soldiers' movements were precise and methodical, their authority unspoken but absolute.

Mr. Square man stepped forward, his posture rigid and commanding, the weight of his presence silencing the dormitory. His voice, amplified by the unseen speakers embedded in his mask, was calm yet impersonal, a calculated monotone that carried the gravity of the situation.

"You have made it through yet another game in the series. Congratulations to you all. Now, if I may please have your attention, I will announce the results of the second game."

He lifted a remote, pressing a button that elicited a sharp beep. The sound reverberated through the room, a harbinger of what was to come. The ceiling above them began to rumble ominously, and all eyes shifted upward. From the glass dome that encased the enormous golden piggy bank, a cascade of bills began to flow, each note drifting like a feather before settling into the transparent vessel. The players watched in awed silence as the money poured in, the mechanical chime of its collection echoing in the cavernous room.

Yumi tilted her head back, her dark eyes reflecting the glint of the cascading money. There was something detached in her gaze, as though she were looking through the spectacle rather than at it. Her expression, serene on the surface, masked a sea of turmoil beneath. For Yumi, the sight of the money felt less like a reward and more like a grim tally.

Beside her, Jun-hee remained still, her head bowed. She couldn't bring herself to look at the spectacle, the flow of money tainted by the memory of those who had fallen. Instead, her eyes scanned the room, taking in the expressions of those around her.

Most of the players were transfixed, their gazes locked on the piggy bank as though it were a deity descending to bless them. Greed, relief, desperation — it was all there, etched into the planes of their faces.

But not everyone was looking up. Across the room, Jun-hee's gaze landed on Myung-gi, and her breath hitched involuntarily. He wasn't watching the money. His eyes were fixed in her direction, his brow furrowed in what could only be described as thoughtfulness.

At first, Jun-hee felt a familiar flare of irritation — he was the last person she wanted noticing her. She had told him, time and time again, to stay away from her. Their entangled history, their mistakes, were weights she refused to carry any longer.

But as her annoyance simmered, she noticed something unusual in his gaze. He wasn't looking at her. His focus was slightly to the side, on the figure sitting next to her. Yumi.

The realization hit Jun-hee like a sudden gust of wind, both surprising and oddly amusing. Of course. She should have seen it earlier. The way Myung-gi's eyes lingered on Yumi during conversations, the subtle softening of his expression when she spoke. And yet, their interactions had seemed so antagonistic, laced with sharp words and defensive gestures. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all but managed to stifle the sound into a soft huff.

Yumi, oblivious to the observation, remained seated beside Jun-hee, her posture deceptively relaxed. Jun-hee glanced at her companion out of the corner of her eye, noting the quiet elegance with which Yumi carried herself.

There was something about her. Even Jun-hee, who often kept her guard up, had found herself drawn to Yumi's quiet resilience. Perhaps it was the way Yumi's kindness had extended to her, without expectation or judgment, when so few others had bothered.

Jun-hee's lips twitched into a faint smile, one laced with irony. It was almost laughable, the way connections formed in this place — this arena of death and desperation. Yet here she was, caught between a man she wanted nothing to do with and a girl who had somehow become her closest ally.

Across the room, Geum-ja stood with her arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes darted between Myung-gi and the two women, her sharp mind piecing together the dynamics at play. But she said nothing, her amusement tucked away like a card she'd play later, when the moment suited her. For now, she merely observed, her presence as steady and inscrutable as ever.

It was time for them to vote again. The masked man stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence with an unsettling calmness. "On that note, we will now begin the vote that will determine if you would like to continue to the next game. Whether you stay here and continue playing to increase your winnings or stop the games now and leave is a decision that we leave entirely up to you. We want you to feel empowered to exercise this right in a free and democratic manner."

Yumi's gaze drifted to the glowing number on the wall, the total amount pooled so far. 74 million won. It was a staggering amount, a fortune to some, but to her, it was only halfway to salvation. Half her debt was covered. And yet, she still owed more.

Her chest tightened as she stared at the blinking "O" and "X" buttons. The choice loomed over her, heavier than the debts that had brought her here. She'd pressed "O" last time, opting to stay in the game, her desperation outweighing her fear. But now, sitting in the harsh fluorescent light of the dormitory, her resolve wavered. The games were getting deadlier. Each step forward seemed to deepen the chasm between survival and her humanity.

Yumi's thoughts spiraled, she exhaled sharply, forcing herself back into the present. The money wasn't enough. Not yet. But was her life worth risking for more?

Then, faintly, from the other side of her ear, came the sound of muffled sobs. Her ears pricked, and she turned her head slightly, drawn to the quiet anguish that broke through the oppressive silence. A man was hunched over in his bunker, his shoulders shaking as he whispered to himself. Yumi strained to hear, her curiosity mingling with an unspoken need to connect.

"God," the man murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Please, just give me strength. My daughter needs me. She has... she has blood cancer. The doctors... they don't even..." He choked on the words, his breath hitching. "The tests alone, they're thousands. And treatment? More than I'll ever see in my life. And even if... even if I pay for it all, what if... what if it's not enough? What if she doesn't make it?"

The man's whispered prayers punctured the room's stillness, raw and unfiltered. "I've been debating all day," he continued, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. "Should I stay? Should I go? If I leave, 74 million won won't cover it all. Not the debt, not the treatments, not the future. But if I stay..." He trailed off, his silence speaking volumes.

Yumi's stomach churned as she listened, her chest tightening with a familiar ache. The man's desperation mirrored her own — a parent's love, a sibling's love, the kind of love that tore at your soul and drove you to the brink. She could almost see him in her mind, sitting beside a hospital bed, holding his daughter's frail hand as machines beeped rhythmically in the background. The image overlapped with her own memories, her twin's laughter echoing faintly in her ears. The hospital corridors. The sterile smell of antiseptic. The way her brother's voice had faltered in his final days, yet he'd still managed to smile for her.

It hit her like a punch to the gut. The weight of it all — her past, his present, the future they both desperately clung to — was suffocating. She tightened her grip on the edge of her tracksuit. She had been in his position, bargaining with the universe, promising anything and everything if it meant saving the one she loved.

She'd failed. Her brother had slipped away despite her sacrifices, leaving her with nothing but debt and guilt.

Her pulse quickened, her vision blurring as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away, forcing herself to focus. The man's whispered prayers continued, each word carving into her like a blade. She hated how much she understood him, hated the empathy that tied her to his pain.

The room seemed to close in on her, the walls pressing against her lungs. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, but her thoughts were relentless. If she stayed in the game, she could win enough to erase her debts, maybe even help someone like him. But at what cost? More lives would be lost, more blood spilled, and the odds of her survival grew slimmer with each round. If she left, she'd be walking away from the chance to change her fate. She'd be abandoning the possibility of redemption.

The man's sobs quieted, his whispered prayers fading into silence. She wondered what his choice would be. Would he stay, driven by the same desperation that fueled her? Or would he leave, hoping to salvage what little humanity he had left?

A single tear escaped down Yumi's cheek, and she swiped it away angrily. She hated this. Hated the game, the choices, the cruelty of it all. But most of all, she hated herself for not knowing what to do.

Yumi walked toward the buttons, her steps slow and deliberate, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a trapped bird. Unlike the first vote, there was a methodical progression this time. They began with Player 001. She watched, her vision tunneling as each player stepped forward to make their choice, their expressions unreadable in the cold, sterile light. Some lingered, their hands trembling over the buttons, while others pressed decisively, their faces masks of determination or despair.

When her turn came, Yumi's hands were slick with sweat. She took a shallow breath, stepping into the spotlight that seemed harsher than before. She stared at the buttons, their symbols glowing faintly against the console. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a cacophony of doubt and certainty battling within her. Her fingers hovered over the buttons, and unlike last time, she didn't hesitate. The decision was already made, etched into her bones, and burned into her mind.

She pressed the button, the blue light reflecting off her face, casting her features in an otherworldly glow.

Yumi stepped back without looking up, retreating into herself, a fortress of guilt and justification. She didn't dare glance at the ones who had helped her through the last game. Nor did she meet the eyes of the men from Jun-hee's team, who had extended alliances.

Their decisions were theirs alone, shaped by their own private hells. And hers? Hers was carved from debts and thoughts of those who needed it more than she. Until they asked her directly, she'd keep it locked away, allowing herself to be the villain in their eyes if that's what it took.

She only moved when a reassuring hand touched her shoulder, gentle but firm. Startled, Yumi glanced up and found herself meeting Hyun-ju's warm, steady gaze. The other woman's presence was a balm against the storm raging within her. Hyun-ju squeezed her shoulder briefly before intertwining their fingers, her grip grounding Yumi in the moment.

It wasn't long before the last vote was cast, the final player stepping back into the shadows. Yumi's eyes remained fixed on the ground, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The masked man's voice broke the stillness, calm and clinical as ever.

"One hundred and thirty-nine 'O's to one hundred and sixteen 'X's. Based on the majority's decision, all players will proceed to the third game tomorrow morning. Thank you for your cooperation."

A collective sigh rippled through the room, a mixture of relief and despair. Some players cheered softly, their voices tinged with weary triumph. Others collapsed, the weight of their choice manifesting in their slumped shoulders and vacant eyes. The air buzzed with an undercurrent of tension, the unspoken knowledge that the next game would claim more lives.

Yumi exhaled shakily, only then realizing she'd been holding her breath. The release was bittersweet, a temporary reprieve from the crushing uncertainty. She finally lifted her head, her gaze scanning the room instinctively.

And as if the universe had conspired against her, her eyes locked onto Myung-gi.

The sight of him was a punch to the gut. He was on the opposite side of the room, the red 'X' badge on his tracksuit unmistakable. He'd chosen to leave, his vote a desperate plea for freedom from the horrors of the game. Yet, here he was, still trapped alongside the rest of them, a cruel twist of fate neither could ignore. But what caught her off guard wasn't his choice — it was the way he looked at her.

His eyes weren't cold or accusing. If anything, they were soft, filled with something fragile and unspoken. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting as though he were about to speak, but no words came. He studied her, not with judgment but with an aching curiosity that seemed to pierce through the layers of armor she'd built around herself. The vulnerability in his gaze unsettled her. It was too open, too raw, and it made her feel exposed in a way she hadn't felt in years.

Myung-gi's expression held a weight that Yumi couldn't bear to confront. The room seemed to blur around them, the cacophony of voices fading into a distant hum. Myung-gi's posture shifted, his hand twitching slightly at his side as though he wanted to reach out to her but didn't dare.

For Myung-gi, the sight of Yumi standing there, resolute and unreachable, was both maddening and mesmerizing. He had seen it in the way she pressed the blue button without hesitation, her resolve unwavering despite the weight of her choice.

But now, as he looked at her, all he could think about was the choice she had made. The 'O' on her tracksuit felt like a barrier between them, a chasm he couldn't cross. He wanted to ask her, needed to ask her, why she had chosen to stay.

Was it desperation? Hope? Something else entirely? The questions churned in his mind, relentless and unyielding.

He'd chosen 'X,' believing it to be the moral choice, the right thing to do for Jun-hee and their unborn child. But standing there now, watching Yumi, he felt a pang of doubt. Had he made the wrong decision? Had he misjudged her, or worse, himself? The thought gnawed at him, leaving him restless and uneasy.

He took a small step forward, hesitated, and then stopped. The gap between them remained, filled with questions neither of them were ready to voice.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

this was 10k words y'all pls be kind i was literally up till 5am omg

HOW DO WE FEEL??

i added a lot of things in this ch. more myung-gi and yumi scenes, yumi and jun-hee, the game, etc. it was really fun to write!!

also im so used to writing excruciating slow burn that this is seriously messing with me, like i have to write them having feelings with each other at least before the season ends LOL

but can u tell i love he falls first trope

bc who doesnt

also really love the idea of junhee not really caring that myunggi has an obvious crush on yumi she's more like... ho... is u fr?

dw im planning on doing the baby daddy reveal next ch. !!

also i hope no one is mad she chose O, but its obvious she's thinking more of the people who deserve more money than herself, u know???

much love,