𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄. 111

THE SOFT STRAINS OF CLASSICAL MUSIC floated through the air, a melody distant and haunting, as though it belonged to another world.

Yumi's eyes fluttered open, her gaze immediately colliding with the underside of a bunk above her. The faint metallic scent of iron hung in the air, mingled with something more human: sweat, breath, fear. For a moment, she lay motionless, her body heavy, her mind disoriented, as though she had been plucked from reality and dropped into a foreign dreamscape.

The ceiling of the bunk was close, the paint and streaked metal oppressive in its proximity. She blinked slowly, trying to anchor herself, her breath shallow as she took in her surroundings. The mattress beneath her was thin, the bottom of the bunk pressing uncomfortably against her back, and the sheet — if it could be called that — was coarse, its fibers scratching her skin.

Her head turned on the stiff pillow, the movement sluggish and reluctant, as though her body was resisting the act of waking. Her eyes landed on a figure on the adjacent bunk, someone else stirring, their breath uneven as they shifted, their confusion mirroring her own.

She didn't meet their eyes — she couldn't. It was too raw, too vulnerable, to acknowledge someone else in this shared, bewildering moment.

The room around her was vast, impossibly so. The dormitory seemed to stretch endlessly, rows upon rows of identical bunk beds stacked in haphazard towers that reached toward a high, shadowed ceiling. The walls were a stark, sterile white, the kind of white that offered no warmth or comfort, only the sterile indifference of a hospital ward or a prison.

The faint glow of fluorescent lights bathed the space, their cold illumination flattening every surface, every corner, until the room felt unreal, like a stage set for some macabre performance.

Bodies stirred all around her. People, in various states of wakefulness, blinked and shifted in their bunks. Some sat up abruptly, their movements jerky and panicked, while others remained still, their faces contorted in confusion or fear. The sound of rustling sheets and uneven breathing filled the space, a symphony of human uncertainty.

Yumi's senses sharpened gradually, piecing together fragments of her environment. She noticed the uniformity of the clothing: every person clad in the same dull green tracksuit, its fabric cheap and utilitarian. The numbers stitched onto each jacket were stark white, standing out against the muted green-like brands marking livestock.

Her own number was emblazoned on her chest, but she didn't look down to confirm it. She wasn't ready to know what it was, what it meant.

The bunk bed creaked as she shifted her weight, her muscles stiff and aching as if she'd been lying there for days. The mattress gave a muted groan under her, the sound blending with the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. She felt the roughness of the sheets against her palms, her fingers curling involuntarily as she tried to ground herself.

The world around her was too sharp, too vivid, yet entirely alien.

Her gaze traveled upward, toward the towering rows of bunks that loomed like monoliths. Each bed held a person, their bodies draped awkwardly over the thin mattresses. The arrangement was chaotic, the beds stacked and scattered with no discernible order, creating an almost claustrophobic labyrinth. The sheer number of them was staggering, a testament to the scale of whatever this was.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she turned her head slowly. Across the aisle, a man sat on the edge of his bunk, his hands clutching his head as if trying to ward off a splitting headache. His shoulders were hunched, his body language screaming disorientation. Beyond him, a woman stared blankly at the ceiling, her face pale and drawn, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

Yumi watched them without fully seeing, her own confusion mirrored in their postures, their expressions.

Yumi's gaze fell to the floor, a dull gray expanse of concrete that seemed to stretch endlessly. The coldness of it seeped into the air, a reminder of how exposed they all were in this cavernous space.

She let her head rest back against the thin pillow, her breath shallow as she tried to piece together the fragments of her memory. How had she gotten here? The details were slippery, and elusive, like trying to grasp smoke with her hands. There had been the park, the lottery ticket, the card with its strange symbols. The call. The voice on the other end, is clinical and detached. The instructions. And then... darkness. Her memory ended there, a void that offered no answers.

The weight of the situation pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. This place, this dormitory, was no accident. It was deliberate, calculated. The sterile precision of the environment, the orchestrated wakefulness of the occupants, the pervasive music — it all spoke of control, of design.

Someone had brought them here, and gathered them like pieces on a game board.

Yumi's fingers tightened around the edge of the mattress, her knuckles whitening. She felt the sharp edge of panic creeping in, threatening to overwhelm her. But she pushed it down, swallowing hard against the rising tide of fear. Panic wouldn't help her now. She needed to think, to observe, to understand.

Her gaze swept over the room again, taking in the details she had missed before. The walls, though sterile and featureless, were dotted with small, recessed speakers from which the music emanated. There were no windows, no visible doors except for a single, imposing set at the far end of the room. The doors were massive, and industrial, their surfaces painted a deep, impenetrable black.

The bunk above her creaked, and she glanced up instinctively, her heart skipping a beat. The occupant shifted slightly, their movements sluggish and disoriented. She caught a glimpse of their face, pale and drawn, their eyes wide and glassy as they stared into the middle distance.

The music began to fade, its final notes lingering in the air like ghosts. The sudden silence was deafening, amplifying every rustle of fabric, every shallow breath, every creak of the bunks.

She climbed down the metal rungs of the bunk bed with slow, deliberate movements, her fingers curling tightly around the cold, smooth bars. Each step down felt precarious, her legs unsteady from the disorientation that lingered in her body like an unwelcome guest.

Her white sneakers made contact with the floor, and she stood there for a moment, her weight settling into the soles of her feet. The surface was cool and hard beneath her, a grounding sensation that did little to quell the questions spiraling in her head.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their sterile glow casting sharp shadows across the room. Rows upon rows of bunk beds stretched out in every direction, their uniformity oppressive.

Everything felt too neat, too calculated. Her breath hitched when she glanced down, her eyes catching sight of the number stitched onto the chest of her uniform. 111. The digits were stark white against the pale teal of the fabric, an inescapable brand. Her fingers brushed against the embroidered threads, as though testing whether they were real.

A sharp, mechanical buzz shattered the quiet, slicing through the murmurs and groans of waking bodies. Yumi's head snapped toward the source of the sound. Massive doors towards the front of the room began to slide open with a metallic groan, their movement deliberate and methodical.

The air shifted as a line of figures emerged, their presence both startling and surreal. They moved with an eerie precision, their footsteps synchronizing with a practiced rhythm. Each wore a vivid pink jumpsuit that clashed violently against the drabness of the room. The color was almost garish, its brightness unsettling in the stark, industrial environment. Black belts cinched their waists, and their faces were obscured by smooth black masks, each adorned with a white geometric symbol — circle or square.

The one in front, marked by a square, stepped forward and raised a gloved hand. Even his gestures carried an air of control, as though every movement had been rehearsed. His voice emerged through the mask, distorted and metallic, further stripping him of any trace of humanity.

"I would like to extend a heartfelt welcome to you all," he began, the robotic cadence of his words amplifying the unnatural atmosphere. "Over the next six days, you will participate in six different games. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize."

For a moment, silence reigned, heavy and expectant. Then, like a dam breaking, the questions began.

A woman's voice cut through the noise first. "Excuse me. If we're just playing games here, then why'd you basically kidnap us? How can we trust you now?"

Yumi turned her head toward the speaker. Her eyes landed on the number stitched to the woman's uniform: 120. She was tall, her presence commanding, with a sharp, angular face framed by a bob haircut that brushed just past her shoulders. Her bangs were cut bluntly, emphasizing her piercing eyes, which were outlined with liquid liner. There was a trace of pink — almost red — on her lips, a touch of vanity preserved even in this bizarre situation.

Others murmured in agreement, their voices swelling into a low hum of unrest. The square-masked figure tilted his head slightly as if considering the question. His response came with the same measured tone. "My apologies. Please understand it was a necessary step taken to maintain the strict confidentiality of these games."

The explanation only fueled the agitation. Another voice, a woman's, cut through the din. "Is that right? Then what's the deal with the masks? That's a secret too, I'm guessing?"

Before the masked man could respond, a man's voice joined the fray. "Yeah. Why are you wearing those? Where the hell are we? Is this some kind of illegal casino, huh?"

"If this were one of those, you'd see the dealers' faces!" another woman added, her voice tinged with frustration. The murmurs grew louder, rippling through the crowd like an oncoming storm.

Yumi tuned them out. Their questions, while valid, seemed shallow, almost predictable. They weren't asking the right things. She turned her attention elsewhere, her gaze sweeping across the room. Her eyes settled on a girl perched on the edge of a bunk, gripping the railing with white-knuckled intensity. The girl's number was too far to make out, but her face was young, barely out of adolescence. Her dark hair hung limply around her face, framing eyes that darted nervously around the room. Her movements were tentative, like someone on the verge of collapse.

Yumi noticed the way the girl's hand brushed her stomach, the touch fleeting but protective. The gesture was quick, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes.

Yumi's chest tightened. She looked away, unwilling to linger too long. She had seen enough desperation to recognize it without staring.

"To ensure the fairness and confidentiality of the games," the masked man's voice broke through her thoughts, "it is our policy not to disclose the faces and identities of our staff to participants. We ask for your understanding."

The crowd erupted again, voices overlapping in a chaotic tangle. Accusations, demands, and speculations flew through the air, each louder than the last. Yumi rolled her eyes, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. The noise grated against her nerves, each word pulling her further into irritation.

The air in the room felt heavy, thick with tension and fear. Yumi took a slow breath, steadying herself. Her gaze drifted back to the masked figure, who remained unflinching under the barrage of questions. His posture was rigid, his presence an unyielding wall against the crowd's growing hostility.

A low, nervous laugh broke the tense silence that hung heavy in the room, punctuated only by the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. Yumi turned her head slowly toward the sound, her focus landing on a man who had stepped forward slightly, shifting from foot to foot as though the ground beneath him was unsteady. His uniform was crumpled, the fabric clinging awkwardly to his frame, and his hands twitched at his sides like he couldn't decide whether to clasp them together or let them hang loose.

She tried to catch the number emblazoned across his chest, but the dim light and his erratic movements made it difficult. Still, his voice carried clearly, laced with a nervous energy that set her teeth on edge.

"Uh, what about my phone?" he asked, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You took my phone and my wallet. What the hell's going on? When'll we get those back?"

The masked man standing at the forefront of the pink-clad figures turned his head slightly, the black square on his mask gleaming dully under the overhead lights. His response came in the same flat, robotic tone as before, devoid of inflection or warmth. "Your belongings are safe and being stored securely. We will return them to you once the games have ended."

The man scoffed, a harsh sound that echoed off the high metal walls of the dormitory. His agitation seemed to grow with every passing second, his movements becoming sharper, more erratic. "Can I please get my phone returned at least?" he demanded, his voice rising in pitch. "I need to see how my crypto is doing. Are you guys gonna compensate me if I can't trade my coins?"

Yumi rolled her eyes, unable to suppress the reaction. The irritation flared in her chest, sharp and hot, as his words grated against her nerves. Of all the concerns one might voice in a situation like this, his fixation on cryptocurrency struck her as not only absurd but painfully out of touch.

Her gaze flicked over to him again, taking in the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the way his fingers twitched, betraying his growing desperation.

The masked man's response was unwavering. "We will return your phone once the games have ended."

But the man was undeterred, his tone turning aggressive now, laced with a frantic edge. "I need to know if the market's going down," he insisted, his words rapid-fire. "Do you know how much money I've invested?"

The masked man tilted his head slightly, a motion so precise and deliberate it sent a chill down Yumi's spine. "Player 333, Lee Myung-gi," he intoned, his voice carrying over the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the room. Slowly, he raised a small remote, the gesture deliberate and calculated. A soft beep echoed in the cavernous space, and Yumi's eyes were drawn upward as the massive monitor above them flickered to life.

The screen displayed a grainy video, the sound of loud clacking accompanying the image of a game she immediately recognized: ddakji. The man in the video — Myung-gi — was laughing nervously as he crouched beside a suited figure holding a stack of red envelopes. His movements were jerky, his expression strained, and Yumi could almost feel the desperation emanating from the screen.

A voice began to narrate, cold and clinical, as if reciting from a dossier. "Age 30, former owner of the YouTube channel, MG Coin. Promoted Dalmatian, a new cryptocurrency, leading his subscribers to lose a combined 15.2 billion won. He then shut down his channel and disappeared. Currently wanted for fraud and violating multiple communication and investment laws. Total debt: 1.8 billion won."

The screen cut to another video, this one showing Myung-gi's face twisted in frustration as he slapped the ground with the ddakji tile, only to lose yet again. The humiliation was palpable, even through the grainy footage, and Yumi felt a strange, detached pity for him, though it was quickly eclipsed by her own simmering irritation.

More videos followed in quick succession, each one featuring a different participant playing the same game. Names and debts echoed across the room, a dizzying montage of desperation and ruin.

Some players flinched as they were slapped, their faces contorting in pain; others laughed nervously, masking their fear with forced bravado. Yumi's chest tightened as the sheer scale of the debt in the room became apparent. It was overwhelming, the numbers staggering, and yet she couldn't muster the energy to feel sorry for them.

After all, her own debt loomed just as large, a suffocating weight that had pressed down on her shoulders for years. She thought of her brother, of the endless medical bills that had drained every ounce of hope from her life, and her pity evaporated, replaced by a cold, bitter resolve.

The masked man's voice cut through the noise, pulling her focus back to him. "Every player standing in this room is living on the brink of financial ruin," he declared, his tone unwavering. "You're on the edge of a cliff, saddled with debts you cannot hope to pay off. When we first approached each of you, you understandably did not trust us. But as you know, we played a game, and true to our word, we gave you money when you won. Because of that, we earned your trust. You called and volunteered to participate in this game of your own free will."

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of his words settling over the crowd like a thick fog. Yumi's gaze drifted over the other participants, their faces a patchwork of emotions: fear, anger, desperation, resignation.

The masked man let the silence stretch for a moment longer before speaking again, his voice slicing through the tension like a knife. "So this is it. I'll give you one last chance to decide. Will you go back to living like useless trash, running from your creditors, or will you take action and seize the opportunity we're offering you?"

The pause that followed was deafening, the weight of the ultimatum pressing down on everyone in the room. Yumi's jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. The words echoed in her mind, taunting her with their brutal honesty.

She thought of the endless cycle of debt and despair that had defined her life, of the sleepless nights spent poring over bills she could never hope to pay. She thought of her brother, of the laughter that had once filled their tiny apartment, now replaced by an aching silence that she could never escape.

Her eyes flicked back to the screen, where another video was playing, this one featuring a woman's tear-streaked face as she clutched her left cheek. Yumi's chest burned with a mix of anger and resignation.

The masked man's words were harsh, cruel even, but they weren't wrong. Every person in this room was here because they had nothing left to lose.

The choice was no choice at all.

The ceiling groaned ominously, its mechanical innards stirring as if awakening from a long dormancy. A sharp grinding of gears echoed across the cavernous dormitory, drawing the collective gaze of the players upward. The sound resonated through the sterile, fluorescent-lit space, a cold counterpoint to the tension simmering among the assembled strangers. Yumi's heart quickened, the noise amplifying the anxiety that prickled her skin like static electricity.

From above, a panel retracted, revealing a massive object descending with an almost theatrical slowness. Suspended by thick, glinting wires, the object emerged fully into view: an oversized piggy bank, cartoonish in its proportions but imposing in its sheer scale. Its transparent surface gleamed under the lights, casting a faint, golden hue onto the faces of the bewildered players below.

Yumi's gaze fixed on the enormous figure. The yellow glow bathed her features, accentuating the sharp lines of her cheekbones and the weary circles beneath her eyes. For a fleeting moment, the light softened the fatigue etched into her expression, imbuing her face with an almost ethereal quality. Her eyes glimmered with a blend of awe and apprehension as she tilted her head back, transfixed by the floating symbol of promised wealth. The golden light seemed to pulsate gently, like the rhythmic beat of an unseen heart, casting shifting patterns across the glossy dormitory floor.

The masked man with the square insignia took a step forward, his voice cutting through the hypnotic silence. "If you look above you," he began, the cold monotone of his modulated voice devoid of inflection, "you will see the piggy bank where your prize money is going to be stored. As I said, you will play six games. After the conclusion of each game, more prize money will be added to the piggy bank."

The mechanical precision of his words seemed to jar some of the players from their trance. Yumi's attention was diverted as the man with curly hair, standing a few feet to her left, raised his voice. "What's the total prize money at the end?" he asked, his tone a mix of suspicion and nervous excitement.

A beat passed, and the masked man answered, his response unerring and immediate. "The total prize money is 45.6 billion won."

The collective gasp was almost tangible, a ripple of astonishment sweeping through the crowd. Yumi's breath caught in her throat, and despite herself, she felt the faint flutter of hope stir in her chest. The enormity of the sum made her pulse quicken.

For a brief, reckless moment, she allowed her mind to wander: debts erased, a life rebuilt from the wreckage, the crushing weight of her brother's medical expenses lifted. It was almost too much to comprehend, and her heart seemed to leap with the sheer possibility of it all.

The curly-haired man pressed on, his voice gaining a note of insistence. "And does just one person get it all?"

"More details on how the prize money gets divided will be shared after the first game has ended," the masked man replied, the cadence of his voice unwavering. "For these games, we will also be giving you a special option that we've never offered before."

The room buzzed with muted conversation, players whispering urgently among themselves. Yumi barely registered the voices around her, her thoughts swirling with a chaotic mixture of intrigue and unease. The masked man's deliberate pauses and the measured way he spoke only heightened the tension, each word seeming to hang in the air longer than it should.

A voice broke through the noise. "And what option's that?"

The masked man's gaze, or what passed for it behind his featureless square mask, swept across the room. "After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether you'd like to end the games there or if you want to keep playing. If the majority of you wish to stop, the games will be terminated. You can then take the prize money that has accumulated and leave."

The announcement hung in the air like a challenge, its implications settling heavily over the group. Yumi shifted uneasily, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to ward off the oppressive weight of the room's growing intensity. Her thoughts raced, the sheer absurdity of the situation tangling with the practical considerations of what lay ahead.

More murmuring rippled through the players, and Yumi's gaze flitted from one face to another. Some were alight with barely contained excitement, others darkened by skepticism or fear. The golden glow from the piggy bank above caught in their eyes, turning them into small, burning orbs of greed and desperation.

Yumi's own thoughts veered toward calculation. The premise seemed deceptively simple: play games, and win money. And yet, the ominous tone of the masked man's speech and the surreal nature of their surroundings suggested layers of complexity and danger that had yet to reveal themselves.

The players continued to murmur, some gesturing animatedly, others standing silent and still as they processed the revelation. Yumi's gaze lingered on the piggy bank once more, the promise of its glittering contents both tantalizing and terrifying. The golden light spilled over her face again, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the warmth of it seep into her thoughts.

From the back of the cavernous dormitory, a voice broke through the growing murmur of uncertainty, loud and straining to project over the din. "Hold on!" The speaker's voice carried the sharp edge of someone desperate to be heard. "After game one, if we vote to go, then the prize money gets divided among us?"

Yumi instinctively turned toward the sound, her head swiveling to locate the man who had taken the bold step to question their faceless hosts. Her eyes landed on him — a wiry figure leaning forward slightly, as if his words carried enough weight to tip him off balance. His expression struck her first. His face was etched with fear, the kind that wormed its way into the creases of his forehead and pulled taut the corners of his mouth.

Yet beneath the veneer of apprehension, there was something else — a glimmer of resolve, maybe even confidence, like someone standing at the precipice of something they'd already fallen from once before. His face glistened under the yellow glow of the piggy bank, sweat beading along his temples as though the oppressive air in the room had taken a personal vendetta against him.

She squinted at the number stitched onto his green tracksuit: 456.

The man's short hair was dark and slightly unkempt, as though he'd recently tried to smooth it down with his hands but failed to tame it entirely. His cheekbones were pronounced, the hollows beneath them adding to the weary yet determined cast of his features. He had a lean build, but not the kind that came from disciplined exercise — more like the kind shaped by hardship and neglect, the kind forged by someone running on fumes for longer than they should. His eyes, despite their wide, questioning look, held a faint trace of weariness as though he'd spent years staring into the void of debt, luck, and choices gone wrong.

The man shifted on his feet, his sneakers scuffing faintly against the floor, and he waited, jaw tightening as if bracing himself for the answer.

The masked man with the square emblem on his face didn't leave him in suspense for long. He inclined his head in a slight nod, the motion precise and devoid of warmth, before responding in that same monotone, synthetic voice that seemed to leech all emotion from the air.

"That is correct."

The answer, simple as it was, reverberated through the room like a ricochet.

It didn't take much longer for the masked man to deliver his final instructions, ushering the players toward the next phase of their unsettling ordeal. The explanation was brisk, efficient, and utterly devoid of empathy, as though recited from a script rehearsed countless times.

The consent form was easy enough.

1. A PLAYER IS NOT ALLOWED TO VOLUNTARILY QUIT.

2. A PLAYER WHO REFUSES TO PLAY WILL BE ELIMINATED.

3. THE GAMES MAY BE TERMINATED UPON A MAJORITY VOTE. IN CASE OF A TIE, PLAYERS WILL VOTE AGAIN.

4. IF THE GAMES ARE TERMINATED, PLAYERS WILL DIVIDE THE PRIZE EQUALLY.

She shrugged and signed her name in looping strokes, the pen feeling unnaturally cold in her hand. Her face remained impassive, though a faint flicker of disdain crossed her mind as she glanced at the paper.

The others followed suit, some signing with trembling hands, others with a resigned air that suggested this wasn't their first encounter with life-altering decisions. Yumi's gaze drifted momentarily to the man with the number 456, who signed with the same grim determination he'd carried in his voice earlier.

THE PINK-CLAD STAFF MOVED AMONG THEM, their footsteps echoing dully against the concrete floor, ushering the players toward a set of doors. Yumi followed without question, her movements mechanical. As they passed through the threshold, the room beyond unfolded into a kaleidoscope of unsettling color.

The corridor they entered was unlike anything she'd ever seen, its walls painted in shades of garish pink, yellow, and teal that clashed with each other like the fever dream of a deranged architect. The space was vast, but its design felt claustrophobic, a labyrinth of brightly colored staircases and doorways that seemed to fold in on themselves.

The sheer absurdity of the scene was almost nauseating. The colorful hues were clearly meant to evoke a childish innocence, but the longer Yumi stared, the more the colors seemed to vibrate with menace, like a child's toy left too long in the sun. The air smelled faintly of paint, as if the walls had been recently refreshed to maintain their unnatural brightness.

A woman's voice crackled through the PA system, crisp and monotone, repeating the same announcement on an endless loop. "Attention. The first game is about to begin. Attention. The first game is about to begin."

Yumi shuffled forward with the rest of the players, her white shoes scuffing against the polished floor as the line snaked through the disorienting maze of stairs and corridors.

The line slowed as they reached another checkpoint. Yumi glanced ahead and saw a small screen mounted on the wall, its surface smooth. One by one, players approached it, and the voice over the speaker instructed them with unsettling cheerfulness:

"Once your picture's been taken, please follow the nearby staff's instructions and proceed as directed toward the game hall."

When it was Yumi's turn, she stepped forward, the screen flickering to life as she approached. It displayed a smiley face, with the words smile on the top. "Please look into the camera," the voice instructed, its cheerful tone grating against Yumi's nerves. "Smile."

She blinked at her reflection, startled by the request. Smile? The thought of doing so felt almost comical. She couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled — a real one, at least. Not the kind you forced for politeness or the kind that hid exhaustion. But even as her thoughts protested, her body obeyed.

She curled her lips upward into a small, hollow expression that barely qualified as a smile. It was mechanical, just like everything else she'd done since entering this place. The camera clicked, capturing her empty expression in an instant, and the screen shifted back to its original state.

Yumi stepped aside, her movements wooden, and joined the rest of the players as they were funneled through another corridor.

The corridor opened abruptly, spilling Yumi and the others into an expansive field that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions. The sheer size of the space was overwhelming, and for a moment, she stood frozen, her senses assaulted by the surreal, artificial landscape that surrounded her.

The sky above was real — a soft blue expanse that stretched infinitely, with scattered wisps of white clouds drifting lazily across it. The sun hung high, casting warm light over everything, its rays sharp and clear in the crisp air. The warmth on her face was oddly reassuring, but it clashed with the disquieting atmosphere below.

The field itself was a perfect rectangle of dirt, its surface smooth and devoid of imperfections. The earth was dry, its reddish-brown hue almost too consistent, like it had been meticulously swept and leveled. The edges of the field were framed by walls that towered high above, painted to resemble a pastoral countryside. Rolling green hills stretched into the distance, dotted with trees and quaint little houses that never seemed to get any closer no matter how long you stared. The illusion was eerily convincing at first glance, but the longer Yumi looked, the more the flatness of the perspective betrayed its artificial nature.

At the far end of the field stood the most striking feature of all — a massive figure that dominated the space with its unnerving presence. It was a giant girl, easily three stories tall, standing with her back straight and her arms stiff at her sides. Her head was disproportionately large, with round, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare directly at Yumi, even from across the field. The figure's hair was styled into two pigtails, glossy and black, with blunt bangs that framed her porcelain-like face. She wore a simple orange pinafore dress over a yellow shirt, the bright colors clashing violently against the muted tones of the dirt field.

The girl's expression was blank, her mouth a thin line that gave away nothing. But there was something inherently unsettling about her gaze, a mechanical coldness that made Yumi's skin crawl. She could feel the weight of those artificial eyes bearing down on her, as though the giant figure were silently appraising each player who stood before it.

The players murmured uneasily among themselves, their voices hushed as though they feared drawing the attention of the giant girl. Yumi's heart thudded in her chest as her eyes darted around the field, searching for any clues about what was to come. The sense of foreboding was palpable, and the air seemed heavier with each passing second.

A loud chime echoed through the space, cutting through the murmurs and silencing the crowd. The PA system crackled to life, and the same monotone female voice from earlier spoke again, this time with an almost cheerful cadence.

"Welcome to the first game." it announced. "You will be playing Red Light, Green Light. Players who cross the finish line within the five-minute time limit without being eliminated will win this game."

And then, out of the stifling quiet, a man's voice erupted, sharp and desperate, cutting through the murmurs like a knife.

"Everyone! Everybody, you need to pay attention!" he yelled, his voice cracking under the strain of urgency. "Hey, listen up!"

Yumi turned instinctively towards the sound, her gaze zeroing in on the man as he pushed his way to the front of the group. She immediately recognized him from the few people who shouted earlier, sweat clung to his temples, dampening the strands. His face was pale, his eyes wide and darting, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. His numbered jacket, 456, was slightly askew, the zipper half-pulled, and his breathing came in short, shallow bursts.

The players around her stilled, drawn in by the sheer force of his panic. Yumi's heart thudded heavily in her chest, her arms brushing against her sides as she tried to keep still. The man's voice carried, echoing faintly off the towering walls surrounding the field.

"I'm gonna tell you something, and you gotta listen close!" His voice cracked again, and he jabbed a finger towards the doll at the far end. "This isn't just a game. It's more than that. If you move after 'Red Light,' you're going to be shot!"

A ripple of disbelief passed through the crowd, manifesting in nervous laughter and muffled scoffs. Yumi felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, though she tried to shake off the unease. The absurdity of his words was hard to ignore.

"What's this guy's deal?" Yumi muttered under her breath, though her voice was barely audible. Her eyes shifted to the player standing beside her, who she noted wore the number 333 stitched onto his teal jacket. She recognized him as the crypto scammer from earlier, a fact she'd gleaned from his overly loud chatter during the briefing.

He gave her a sidelong glance, his expression dismissive as if he thought the man's outburst beneath his notice.

"Excuse me, sir," a woman's voice rang out from somewhere in the crowd, cutting through the uneasy murmurs. It was sharp and biting, carrying an edge of sarcasm. "What exactly are you saying? That we're all gonna die playing Red Light, Green Light? Really?"

The man, 456, didn't falter. If anything, the challenge seemed to bolster his determination. He raised his voice, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.

"Yes, that's right! If they catch you moving, you're going to be killed! They're gonna shoot you." He pointed emphatically towards the walls. "There are guns in the walls!"

Yumi sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse quickening despite her attempts to stay calm. The man's words were outrageous, unhinged even, but there was something about the desperation in his tone that made it hard to dismiss outright. She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she glanced around at the other players, searching for signs of reassurance. Instead, she found only confusion and fear mirrored in their faces.

"Pay close attention!" the man continued, his voice cracking again. "You see that big doll thing there? Look at it! Its eyes are like motion-tracking sensors! Motion-tracking eyes. If it sees you move, you die!"

Beside her, the scammer let out a derisive snort, muttering something under his breath. Yumi didn't catch the exact words, but the condescension in his tone was clear. She shot him a sharp glare, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Player 456 pressed on, undeterred by the skepticism around him. "You gotta believe me," he pleaded, his voice raw with urgency. "I swear I'm not lying!"

Before anyone could respond, a faint whirring sound filled the air, drawing everyone's attention back to the doll. Its head swiveled with mechanical precision, the smooth motion accompanied by an unsettling creak.

"No matter what," he shouted, his voice cutting through the mounting tension, "you can't panic! You can't afford to! Remember everything I told you! Stay as still as you can! Don't try and run away!"

The PA system crackled to life again, the woman's voice smooth and monotone. "With that, let the game begin."

A chime sounded, and the doll's voice followed, light and singsong. "Green light."

Players hesitated, their steps tentative and uncertain as they began to move forward. The air was thick with tension, every sound amplified against the heavy silence. The crunch of dirt underfoot, the rustle of clothing, even the sharp intakes of breath all seemed to echo unnaturally, filling the space with an oppressive weight.

"Red light," the doll sang, its head snapping around abruptly. The players froze mid-step, their movements halting with a sharpness that spoke to the fear coursing through them. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the faint hum of the doll's mechanical parts.

Standing near the front, 456 held his hands out, palms facing the crowd as though trying to physically hold them back. "Now freeze! Good job! That's it, keep nice and calm, just like that," he instructed, his tone oddly steady despite the situation. "Move steady as you go, and then stop before 'red light.'"

Yumi cocked an eyebrow, her confusion mirrored by those around her. The man's sudden shift in tone was jarring, almost surreal. Still, something about his conviction made her pause, made her think twice about dismissing his warnings outright. She remained rooted to the spot, her breaths shallow as she took in the scene unfolding before her.

"If you do that, we'll make it out alive!" He called out, his voice carrying over the field.

The doll's head turned again, and Yumi's heart pounded in her chest as the game continued.

The tension in the air tightening with every step forward. The doll's head swiveled mechanically, a stark contrast to the organic way its childish voice rang out, "Green light. Red light." Each time the words "red light" left its mouth, the man at the front shouted, "Freeze!" His voice was rough, loud enough to cut through the thick atmosphere, though tinged with desperation.

"All right, good, just try to relax! Stay where you are!" he encouraged, his hands still raised in a plea for calm. "Speak with your mouth covered. It could be seen."

Yumi's eyebrow twitched, her skepticism growing. The whole scenario was absurd. No one had fallen yet, let alone been shot as Player 456 claimed. Surely someone had to have moved — she'd seen the little twitches.

She let her gaze wander cautiously, studying the players around her. That's when her eyes landed on Player 222, directly in front of her. The woman's walk was peculiar, a slow and deliberate shuffle, and each step was placed with calculated care.

And then Yumi recognized her. She was the same one she'd noticed earlier, the one clutching her belly before quickly releasing it.

It wasn't hard for Yumi to piece it together. Growing up practically living in the hospital, she'd seen that gait before, the careful way the body moved when trying to protect something fragile. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to keep her voice low and her words private.

"Keep your knees bent and walk heel to toe," Yumi murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "It'll help take the strain off."

Player 222 didn't respond and didn't even turn to acknowledge her. Yumi hadn't expected her to. Considering the wild man's words.

The doll's voice called out again: "Green light."

The players moved forward; some were quicker now, and others were still tentative. The field was alive with the sound of shuffling feet and nervous breaths. Yumi's own heart hammered in her chest, but her movements remained steady. She wasn't sure what she believed anymore, but it didn't hurt to play it safe.

Then it happened. A scream tore through the tense silence, sharp and raw, cutting into Yumi like a jagged knife.

"Red light," the doll sang.

The sound of a gunshot followed immediately, loud and jarring. It echoed across the vast field, bouncing off the artificial walls. Yumi's stomach dropped as she heard the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. Her eyes snapped shut instinctively, and her breath caught in her throat.

"Listen to me! Nobody moves! Don't turn your head, don't do anything!" His voice boomed again, the urgency in his tone more pronounced now.

The voice from the PA system followed, dispassionate and chilling: "Player 196, eliminated."

Yumi's pulse roared in her ears. Her mind raced, trying to process what she had just heard. Had this lunatic been right all along? Her body wanted to shiver, to recoil from the horrifying reality sets in, but she fought to keep herself utterly still. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, willing herself to be a statue, to blend into the stillness around her.

"Stay where you are! Don't move!" Player 456 screamed again, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.

Another scream erupted somewhere to her left. It was followed by another gunshot. And then another. And another. The staccato rhythm of the gunfire was relentless, each shot punctuated by the wet, sickening sound of bodies collapsing onto the dirt.

"Oh my God," someone muttered faintly, their voice trembling, before it was drowned out by the chaos.

The cries of terror spread like wildfire. Someone bolted, their footsteps pounding against the ground in a desperate attempt to flee. It was a mistake. The mechanical eyes of the doll swiveled sharply, locking onto the movement. Another shot rang out, and the footsteps ceased abruptly.

Yumi's nails dug into her palms. She could barely breathe, the air thick with the acrid scent of fear and gunpowder. Her ears rang from the cacophony of gunfire and screams, yet through it all, she could still hear Player 456's voice.

"If you run, you will die! I told you, you're gonna die if you don't stay still!" he shouted, his voice almost drowned out by the carnage around them.

Another barrage of shots. The doll's eyes whirred, tracking the chaotic movement that erupted in pockets across the field. Yumi dared to crack one eye open, just enough to see through her lashes. Bodies littered the ground, some crumpled in unnatural positions, others sprawled out like discarded marionettes.

The once vibrant, surreal field had become a nightmarish landscape of blood and stillness.

"Don't move! Don't react! Stay exactly where you are! Please don't run!" Player 456's voice came again, hoarse but unyielding.

The gunfire continued, rapid and merciless. The sound seemed to vibrate through Yumi's very bones. She forced herself to focus on her breathing, shallow and steady, careful not to let even a single muscle twitch. Her mind screamed at her to do something, anything, but her body refused to betray her survival instinct.

The doll's voice rang out again: "Green light."

The silence that followed was deafening. No one moved. No one dared. The air was thick with the tension of a hundred players frozen in terror, their fates hanging by a thread. Yumi's legs burned from holding her position, but she didn't dare shift even a fraction of an inch.

For the first time, she truly believed Player 456.

This wasn't just a game.

It was a massacre.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

filler kinda but it was over 7k words so i hope it was okay

but don't worry, this ch was much much longer bc i originally planned for it to be the whole ep 3 but i'd rather space it out so its not overwhelming!!

so next ch. very very soon!

obviously keeping the pregnancy plot bc u bet ur ass our lil yumi is gonna get on myunggi's ass when she finds out

especially bc she doesn't even fw him in the first place LMFAOOO

much love,