𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄. tears dry on their own

THE AIR WAS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE OCCASIONAL rustle of blankets or a muffled cough from across the room. Rows of metal bunks stretched endlessly, their shadows jagged under the dim light that barely reached every corner. Yumi lay flat on her back, her blanket pulled up just past her chest. Above her, the cold steel of the bunk's underside was close enough to touch, a constant reminder of the cage she was trapped in.

If she turned her head slightly to the side, she could see it — the glass piggy bank suspended high above the room, glowing faintly as it reflected the meager light. Wads of money, stacked and crumpled, filled it almost to the brim. Each note represented a life lost, a sacrifice made for the promises of wealth and salvation. And yet, in the eerie silence of the night, it looked grotesque, more like a taunting specter than a beacon of hope.

Yumi's chest felt heavy as her gaze lingered on the piggy bank. She hated it. Hated how it dangled there, above them all, like a carrot on a stick. Hated how it turned human desperation into entertainment. Most of all, she hated how it influenced her to stay. She bit her lip, hard, as her throat began to tighten.

She let out a slow, shaky breath and rolled onto her back again, her gaze returning to the bunk above. The world felt so small here, so claustrophobic, as though the walls themselves were closing in around her. She wanted to believe that beyond the ceiling, beyond the layers of concrete and steel, there was a sky full of stars waiting for her. She wanted to believe that if she could just close her eyes and imagine it hard enough, she might see it.

She wished she could see the night sky instead. Wished that when she looked up, there would be stars — soft, brilliant specks of light scattered across a velvety black canvas. Her lips trembled as she imagined it, the constellations she and Yunho used to map out on clear summer nights.

Her twin brother's face came to her like a photograph burned into her memory, sharp and vivid in the center but blurred at the edges. She could still see the way his smile tugged at one corner of his mouth first, as though it took him a second to decide whether to share it with the world. She could hear his laugh, light and unguarded, the kind of laugh that made you feel like everything was going to be okay even when it wasn't.

A lump rose in her throat, and she bit down hard on her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. But it was no use. They spilled over anyway, warm and silent, tracing hot paths down the sides of her face. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs, her shoulders shaking as she cried. The pain was raw and jagged, a wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed.

She turned her head again, just enough to catch sight of the piggy bank. It glared back at her, a cruel reminder of the stakes. This money was supposed to mean something. But what kind of life was that, really, without Yunho? What was the point of surviving if the one person she wanted to share it with was already gone?

"Yunho," she whispered, the sound barely audible even to herself. She reached up and brushed the tears from her face, her fingers trembling. "I wish you were here. I wish... I wish I could talk to you, just for a little while. Just long enough to know what to do."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She turned her gaze upward again, toward the bunk above, and tried to imagine that it wasn't there. Somewhere in her mind, she clung to the hope — no, the desperate belief — that Yunho was watching over her. That one of the stars shining brighter than the rest was him, looking down, guiding her through the darkness.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Please tell me what to do. I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I'm strong enough."

The silence that followed was deafening. No comforting voice answered her, no sign from above reassured her. Just the faint hum of the ventilation system and the occasional shuffle of a restless player in a nearby bunk. Yumi's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she let the tears flow freely now.

She thought about home, about the small apartment they used to share. The late-night ramen sessions, the way Yunho would complain about her hogging the blankets, the stupid inside jokes that made no sense to anyone but them. Those memories felt like they belonged to another life, a life that was slipping further and further away with each passing day in this hellhole.

But then the memory faded, and she was left with nothing but the cold, unyielding reality of the dormitory. Her tears came harder now, her chest heaving as she tried to keep quiet. She didn't want anyone to hear her like this, didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much she was hurting.

"I miss you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's not fair."

The words caught in her throat, choking her. She pressed her face into her pillow, her tears soaking the fabric as she let herself cry. For once, she didn't try to hold it back. She let the pain consume her, let it wash over her like a tidal wave.

When the sobs finally subsided, she lay there in the silence, her body trembling with exhaustion. Her chest ached, her throat raw, but the weight in her heart felt a little lighter.

She wiped her face with the corner of her blanket, her fingers trembling as she tried to compose herself. The weight in her chest didn't lighten, but the tears slowed, leaving her feeling hollow and raw. She turned onto her side, facing the wall, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes remained open, unblinking, as she stared into the cold, empty space before her.

And above it all, the piggy bank continued to hover, its grotesque glow casting faint shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around the room. Yumi's breathing evened out, but sleep did not come. Instead, she lay there, trapped in the quiet torment of her own thoughts, waiting for the dawn that felt like it would never arrive.

Myung-gi lay on his side, his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, as though trying to hold himself together. But his ears were trained on the soft, muffled sobs coming from the bunk beside him.

He hadn't meant to hear her. He hadn't meant to stay awake. But the weight of the day — the fights, the game, the suffocating fear — had wrapped around his chest and refused to let go. And now, her quiet cries cut through the silence like shards of glass.

At first, he'd been annoyed. The dormitory was full of broken people; tears weren't a novelty. They were an inevitability. But as the seconds dragged into minutes, and the minutes stretched endlessly, annoyance gave way to something he couldn't quite name. Guilt, maybe. Shame. Empathy? It didn't matter. All he knew was that her sobs lodged themselves in his chest, twisting and pulling in ways he hadn't expected.

She'd been crying for someone. Yunho, she'd said. The name lingered in his mind, echoing like a ghostly refrain. Who was he to her? A brother? A lover? A friend? Myung-gi couldn't tell, but the rawness in her voice, the desperation with which she spoke, made it clear that Yunho had meant everything to her.

And he was gone. That much, Myung-gi could infer. Her sobs weren't the kind born of frustration or fleeting sadness. They were deeper, heavier — the kind of cries that came from a wound so profound it left a permanent scar.

He shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, his breath catching in his throat. The last thing he wanted was to make a noise, to let her know he was listening. She'd muffled her sobs for a reason, and he wasn't about to intrude. But the more he listened, the more his own chest ached.

He thought about earlier, the words he'd thrown at her like daggers. Sharp, cutting, designed to wound. At the time, it had felt justified. She'd pushed his buttons, and he'd pushed back. That's how things worked in a place like this. You had to stand your ground, show you weren't weak. But now, as he lay there listening to her whispered apologies to someone who wasn't there to hear them, he felt a knot of shame tighten in his gut.

What had he said to her? That she was reckless? That her big mouth was going to get her killed? He couldn't even remember the exact words now, only the bitterness in his tone and the way her eyes had narrowed in response. At the time, he'd been so sure of himself, so convinced that she needed to hear it. But now... now he wasn't so sure.

Now, he just felt like an asshole.

Myung-gi's fingers curled into fists, his knuckles pressing against his ribs. He didn't want to care. He didn't want to feel responsible for her pain. But the guilt gnawed at him anyway, relentless and unyielding. Who was he to judge her? Who was he to throw stones when he lived in a glass house of his own?

His mind wandered back to the name she'd spoken. Yunho. He turned it over in his mind, trying to piece together the fragments of her story with the little he knew. She'd cried for him like he was family, like he was a part of her soul that had been ripped away. A brother, then. That made the most sense. And if he'd meant that much to her, his absence had to be a fresh wound. It explained the rawness in her voice, the way she'd crumpled in on herself after lights out.

And yet, Myung-gi found himself wondering about the details. What had happened to him? Myung-gi's chest tightened at the thought. He didn't know her well, but he'd seen enough to recognize her strength. It wasn't the kind of strength born of privilege or ease. It was the kind forged in fire, tempered by loss.

Myung-gi shook his head, frustrated with himself. It wasn't his place to wonder. It wasn't his place to care. They were all here for their own reasons, carrying their own burdens. Her pain was hers, just as his was his. But even as he told himself that, he couldn't stop the questions from swirling in his mind. Couldn't stop the quiet ache that spread through his chest as her sobs grew quieter, more sporadic, until they faded into the heavy silence of exhaustion.

He wondered what it would feel like to have someone cry for him like that.

To be loved so fiercely, so unconditionally, that even in death, his memory could bring someone to their knees. The thought made his throat tighten, and he swallowed hard, turning onto his back and staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him.

For a long time, he lay there, his eyes wide open, listening to the sound of her breathing as it evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. And in the quiet, he made a silent promise to himself.

He wouldn't say anything.

He wouldn't let her know he'd heard.

But he would try — in his own imperfect way — to be better. To be less of an asshole. To not add to the weight she was already carrying.

THE GAME ARENA SPRAWLED LIKE A surreal childhood dream made sinister by context. The ground, an expanse of beige sand, seems to stretch endlessly, its warmth and texture contrasting the rigid geometry of the surrounding structures. Twin rainbows, vivid arcs of color, sweep symmetrically across the landscape, their playful hues of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet evoking memories of innocence.

The announcement came suddenly, piercing through the low murmur of conversation.

"Welcome to your second game," a woman's voice rang out from unseen speakers, crisp and detached. Yumi recognized it immediately. It was the same voice that had guided them through the horrors of Red Light, Green Light. "This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes. Let me repeat. This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes."

The room erupted into chaos. People surged forward, scrambling to form alliances, their desperation palpable. Groups began to coalesce like droplets of oil in water, driven together by sheer necessity and fear. Yumi sighed softly, her shoulders sinking. She didn't move, didn't rush into the fray.

It reminded her of elementary school — those dreaded moments during gym when teams were picked. She remembered standing there, small and awkward, while others were chosen one by one.

The unspoken hierarchy was always the same: the athletic kids first, then the popular ones, followed by the reluctant participants. And at the end, there was her — one of the leftovers, reluctantly absorbed into a team that didn't want her. The memory pricked at her, bitter and familiar.

She observed the crowd with a detached curiosity. The men gravitated toward one another, their postures stiff with unspoken calculations. Their eyes flickered over the women briefly, dismissively, before settling on each other. It was clear they were hedging their bets on strength. Teams of burly men began to form quickly, their laughter loud and forced, masking their terror.

Yumi's gaze landed on a woman, late-forties, perhaps early fifties. The woman's hair was matted with sweat, and her face was lined with exhaustion. She approached a group hesitantly, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.

"Please," the woman said, her voice trembling. "Let me join you. I'll pull my weight, I promise."

The group — two men and two younger women — exchanged glances. The men snickered, their sneers cruel and dismissive.

"We already have enough women," one of the men said, his tone sharp and cutting. "We don't need another liability."

The other man laughed, adding, "Yeah, we're not running a charity here. Go find someone else, grandma."

The older woman's face crumpled, her pleas dying in her throat. She turned away quickly, her shoulders hunched in defeat. Yumi felt a pang of something — pity, anger, maybe both. But she didn't move. She stayed where she was, watching, her face carefully blank.

It wasn't just the older woman being left out. Yumi noticed how others moved around the women in general, their gazes avoiding them like they carried some contagious disease. The men wanted strength, and they assumed the women couldn't provide it.

Yumi's thoughts drifted to herself. She was young — a fact that might have worked in her favor under different circumstances. But here, youth wasn't enough. She had made no connections, no alliances. In the chaos of the past day, she had kept to herself, maintaining a wary distance from everyone.

The only exceptions were a few brief interactions: the pregnant girl who had seemed too fragile for this nightmare; the kind old lady who reminded Yumi faintly of her grandmother; and, of course, Player 333, Lee Myung-gi, she remembered.

Her jaw tightened at the thought of him. Their argument earlier still lingered in her mind, sharp and raw. He probably wanted to stay as far away from her as possible now, and frankly, she felt the same about him.

And then there was Player 456, who had begged her to press 'X.' He wouldn't be asking her to join his team.

Yumi lingered in her spot, her mind churning as she scanned the chaotic room. The timer on the wall ticked down mercilessly, its numbers glowing blood-red. Her gaze fell on Player 222, Yumi remembered her calm, almost regal demeanor, a stark contrast to the desperation surrounding them.

Her eyes drifted toward the old woman, Player 149. The woman stood close to her son, Player 007, her frail frame dwarfed by his build. They looked like an unlikely pair, but the familial bond between them was unmistakable. Yumi hesitated. The son's stance was tense, protective, and unyielding. He glanced around, his gaze sharp and assessing, clearly appraising every person who dared come too close.

He wouldn't want me on their team, Yumi thought bitterly. His demeanor screamed practicality — he likely saw his mother as an unavoidable liability and wouldn't risk adding another woman to their team. Especially not one like her, with no connections or apparent strength to offer. The old woman, however, seemed kind. Yumi considered approaching her, but the fact that he was already saddled with his elderly mother was likely seen as enough of a disadvantage enough.

Her chest tightened with frustration. Why did it have to be this way? Why was strength always assumed to be the deciding factor? The thought made her stomach churn, and she tore her gaze away from the pair, scanning the crowd again until her eyes landed on Player 222.

The pregnant girl stood a few paces away, locked in what looked like a tense conversation with none other than Myung-gi. Yumi's brow furrowed as she observed them. 222 looked visibly irritated, her hands resting protectively over her belly as Myung-gi gestured sharply. His face was a mix of indifference, the kind of look that made Yumi's blood boil. She couldn't hear their words, but it wasn't hard to imagine what was happening. Myung-gi probably said something tactless, maybe even cruel, and Player 222 wasn't having it.

Good for her, Yumi thought, smirking a little despite herself. But the interaction ended abruptly, with 222 turning on her heel and walking away, leaving Myung-gi standing alone. For a moment, Yumi debated whether to approach him instead, but the idea soured quickly.

No, she'd rather gnaw off her own arm than grovel to Myung-gi for a spot on his team. Her focus shifted back to the pregnant girl, who was now weaving her way through the crowd.

Taking a deep breath, Yumi made her move. She walked briskly, slipping between clusters of players until she was at her side. Falling into step beside her, Yumi glanced sideways, her tone light but calculated. "You know, if anyone took you, they'd be getting two for the price of one." She nodded subtly toward Jun-hee's rounded belly, a playful grin tugging at her lips.

Jun-hee slowed, her guarded expression softening just enough to let a small, fleeting smile escape. It was gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual stoic demeanor. She said nothing, but the faintest quirk of her eyebrow suggested she wasn't entirely dismissive of the comment.

"Suk Yumi, by the way," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. She was tired of thinking of the girl as Player 222.

The girl paused, her dark eyes flickering toward Yumi with mild hesitation before she gave a curt nod. "Kim Jun-hee."

"Jun-hee," Yumi repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It suited her. Strong and unyielding, just like the girl herself.

Jun-hee didn't respond, her attention shifting back to the frantic movements of the other players. Yumi could almost see the wheels turning in her head, her thoughts likely mirroring Yumi's own — calculating risks, weighing options, searching for a sliver of hope in the sea of desperation.

Being on a team with Jun-hee felt... complicated. On one hand, Jun-hee seemed capable, her sharp eyes and calm demeanor suggesting she could hold her own. But the pregnancy was an undeniable factor, one that could turn into a liability if the next game required physical strength. Yumi's chest tightened at the thought.

Out of everyone in this godforsaken room, Jun-hee was the one person who needed to survive the most.

Yumi's lips curled into a mischievous grin as a plan began to take shape in her mind. Jun-hee noticed the change in her expression, her brow furrowing slightly. "What?" she asked warily.

Linking her arm with Jun-hee's, Yumi leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell me," she said, her tone dripping with mischief, "can you cry on cue?"

Jun-hee's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face. "Why?"

"I mean, can you cry?" Yumi pressed, her grin widening. "Like, full-on, sobbing, heart-wrenching tears. The kind that makes people uncomfortable."

Jun-hee stared at her, clearly trying to decide whether Yumi was joking or just plain insane. "Why would I do that?"

Yumi's voice dropped to a playful whisper. "Because we're going to use it to your advantage. Look around — there are groups forming everywhere. Most of them are men, and they all look like they think they're the heroes of some action movie. If you go up to them, all teary-eyed and desperate, they'll trip over themselves to protect you. They'll take you in without a second thought."

Jun-hee stared at her, her expression unreadable. Yumi held her gaze, unfazed. After a long pause, Jun-hee's lips twitched ever so slightly, as if suppressing a smile. "You're insane," she muttered.

"Insane works," Yumi quipped. "And if it doesn't, we can always fall back on Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" Jun-hee asked, genuinely curious.

Yumi shrugged. "I'll think of something."

Yumi watched from afar, Jun-hee moved with purpose, walking slowly yet deliberately toward a small group forming a short distance away. Her target was clear: a cluster of men standing near the center of the arena. Among them were Player 456, 001, and 390. It was a smart choice, Yumi thought. The men looked competent and confident but not so ruthless as to turn away someone in need.

As Jun-hee moved closer, another man entered the group — Player 388 — dragging along another contestant who seemed eager to join. For a moment, Yumi thought Jun-hee might falter, but instead, she pressed on, Yumi's earlier advice ringing in her head.

Yumi's lips quirked into a faint smile as she watched Jun-hee stop a few feet away from the group, her posture softening, her hand resting delicately on her belly. The scene unfolded like a carefully rehearsed play.

"Please," Jun-hee's voice was gentle yet tinged with urgency, carrying just enough emotion to catch the men's attention. "I don't want to be a burden, but I need a team. For my baby's sake...."

Their gazes dropped to Jun-hee's rounded belly, then darted to the other men as if weighing his options.

Player 390 muttered something under his breath, but before he could protest further, Jun-hee added, "I know it's a risk, and I understand if you don't want me... but this baby — this is all I have left. I can't do this alone."

It was a masterstroke, Yumi thought, her grin widening. The subtle quiver in Jun-hee's voice, the vulnerability in her expression — it was all calculated but undeniably effective.

The men exchanged glances, their resolve weakening under the weight of Jun-hee's plea. Even Player 388, who had initially seemed intent on solidifying the team with his own choice, stepped aside. He gave the contestant he had dragged over a slight shove, muttering, "Sorry, man."

Player 456 nodded finally, his face softening into a resigned smile. "Alright," he said, gesturing for Jun-hee to join them. "We'll take you."

Player 001 patted Jun-hee's back lightly, his frail hand lingering for a moment as though offering reassurance.

"Thank you," Jun-hee murmured, bowing her head slightly.

As the men turned their attention back to strategizing, Jun-hee glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes found Yumi instantly, and the corners of her lips curved upward in a fleeting smile that reached her eyes, creasing them slightly. Her hand moved subtly, just enough to give Yumi a quick thumbs-up from her side, hidden from the men's view.

Yumi let out a quiet chuckle, her lips curling into a smirk. She clapped her hands together softly, a sound lost in the noise of the arena but deeply satisfying to her nonetheless.

Yumi allowed herself a brief moment of pride before her gaze shifted back to the rest of the arena. Six minutes remained on the clock, the large digital numbers ticking down mercilessly.

Her own fate was still undecided.

As Yumi clapped softly to herself, a quiet, mischievous satisfaction curling her lips, she took a casual step back, still watching Jun-hee from a distance. It was then she felt it—a firm presence blocking her retreat. She stumbled slightly, turning sharply to face the obstacle.

"Oh, sorry —" The words left her mouth automatically before she saw who it was. Her eyes landed on him: Myung-gi. The apology froze halfway out of her throat, transforming into a long, exasperated sigh. "Nevermind," she muttered, taking a deliberate step back to put some space between them. She didn't get far. His hand shot out, grabbing her arm firmly, though not harshly, preventing her from leaving.

"Hold on," Myung-gi said, his lips quirking into a sly smirk. "Where's the fire?"

Yumi turned back to him, her eyebrow raised high enough to be sarcastic. "What do you want?" she asked, her tone dripping with impatience.

"Oh, nothing much," he replied smoothly. "Just wondering why you're standing here, clapping like a seal, while everyone else is forming teams."

She snorted. "Don't you have more important things to do? Like, I don't know, begging someone to take you in? Or are you still holding out hope that someone actually wants you?"

His smirk widened. "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. Haven't seen anyone lining up to join your team either."

Yumi narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's because I don't need to beg. I could get anyone I wanted to join me." Her tone was laced with confidence, though her heart pounded in her chest. She really didn't have anyone yet, but she'd be damned if she let Myung-gi know that.

"Oh, really?" he drawled, clearly skeptical. "And where are these magical teammates of yours? Are they invisible, or are they just really good at hiding?"

Without missing a beat, Yumi glanced around frantically. Her eyes landed on the first person walking past. Yumi strode forward and looped her arm through the stranger's before the girl could react. "Right here!" she announced loudly, plastering on her brightest smile. Yumi declared triumphantly, locking her arm and flashing a bright, overly confident smile. "My teammate."

Player 120 blinked, her confusion evident as she glanced down at their arms looped around each other. "Uh, what's happening?" she asked, her voice tinged with alarm.

Yumi turned to her, grinning like they were old friends. "We're teaming up, of course! Isn't that right?" She gave Player 120's arm a little squeeze, silently pleading for her to play along.

Player 120 blinked, glancing between Yumi and Myung-gi. She hesitated for a moment, then seemed to catch on. "Oh, absolutely," She said after a moment, her voice laced with enthusiasm. She gave Myung-gi a polite nod. "Teammates. That's us. Thick as thieves."

Yumi beamed at her, her grip tightening slightly in gratitude. "See? Told you I already had someone," she said, turning back to Myung-gi with a smug look.

Myung-gi looked between the two of them, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a soft scoff, shaking his head. "Right. Sure. I guess I'll leave you two to it, then." Yumi watched as he turned to walk away, but not before catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression. He paused briefly, glancing over his shoulder. "Good luck," he said, his tone unusually sincere. Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd to find his own team.

Yumi let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, finally releasing Player 120's arm. "Thank you," she said earnestly, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I needed that."

Player 120 tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "No problem," she said.

Yumi inspected the woman before her. She stood out amidst the sea of green tracksuits, her posture rigid yet unassuming, as though caught between resolve and hesitance. Her dark hair, cut in precise bob that brushes just above her shoulders, frames a face etched with quiet intensity. The blunt fringe reset evenly across her forehead, its imperfect symmetry lending her an air of unvarnished authenticity.

Her eyes, shadowed yet sharp, seem to take in everything and nothing all at once — wide and alert but guarded, as if fortified by countless unsaid words. There is something almost haunting about them, the way they reflect an unyielding determination wrapped in a fragile veneer of uncertainty. Her pale skin is untouched by makeup, allowing the natural contours of her face to emerge — high cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips set in a subtle, downward curve, betraying neither anger nor ease but something in between, like the calm before a storm.

Yumi remembered her face, or perhaps more accurately, her story. It had floated through whispers before, carried on the kind of hushed voices that claimed to be neutral but were always tinged with judgment. She was transgender — this woman whose name Yumi didn't know and whose existence, in any other context, should have been unremarkable. The detail struck Yumi not as a revelation but as one of those pieces of information people latch onto when they are too uncomfortable to confront the larger, messier truths about themselves.

It wasn't the kind of problem people admitted outright but it lingered in sidelong glances and whispered exchanges that stopped abruptly when she walked by. Yumi hated those glances, the way they shifted between cowardice and malice, as if the people behind them were unsure of whether to confront their own discomfort or blame her for it.

And the woman herself? She seemed acutely aware of it all, though she gave no outward sign. Her expression, that carefully composed neutrality, was a kind of armor that Yumi recognized instantly. It was the same mask Yumi herself had worn countless times when she felt the weight of expectations pressing down on her, expectations she had never agreed to shoulder.

For a moment, Yumi thought about saying something — something kind or reassuring, though she didn't know what.

She found herself standing awkwardly in front of Player 120, the silence between them thick and uncomfortable. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a cold, artificial glow over the room. Around them, players were already forming groups, the hum of hurried whispers and the clatter of nervous footsteps filling the air. But here they stood, the two of them, unsure how to start, unsure how to move.

She was the first to break the silence. "Hyun-ju, Cho Hyun-ju." She said finally, her voice low but firm, with just the faintest tremor of unease. She extended a hand and her dark eyes met Yumi's. "Looks like we're teammates now, huh?"

For a moment, Yumi simply stared at the offered hand, her mind fumbling for the right words. Then she smiled softly, her lips curving upward in a way that felt both natural and forced. "Yumi," she replied, taking Hyun-ju's hand in hers.

But then her gaze shifted to the room around them, to the groups already forming — clusters of three, four, five. The reality of their situation hit her like a cold wave. They were just two. Two wasn't enough. Two would get them killed.

Yumi bit her lip, the faintest flicker of regret bubbling to the surface. She thought of Myung-gi who she'd turned away earlier, too proud to ask for a partnership. And now, as she glanced at Hyun-ju and then back at the room, she wished she'd made a different choice.

As if the universe itself had heard her thoughts, a soft cough sounded from beside them. Yumi turned, startled, to see two figures standing a few feet away. The first was Player 149, the kind old lady Yumi had the chance of meeting during the first games, her weathered face lined with both exhaustion and quiet resolve. Beside her stood Player 007, her son, a lanky man with curly hair that darted nervously around the room.

For a moment, the four of them simply stared at each other, the silence heavy but not quite uncomfortable. Then Player 149 stepped forward, her movements slow but deliberate, and began to speak. "Would you two," she said, her voice raspy but kind, "mind if we joined your team?"

The words hung in the air for barely a second before Yumi and Hyun-ju both spoke at the same time. "Yes, of course," they said in unison, their voices overlapping in an almost comical way. The four of them exchanged a brief glance, and then, as if on cue, all burst into soft, nervous laughter.

They nodded in agreement, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Four was better than two. Four was almost enough.

But not quite.

It was then that they heard a voice — a sharp, cutting sound that sliced through the low murmur of the room like a blade. "You insolent fools!"

Yumi turned, her eyes widening slightly as Player 044 strode toward them. She was an odd figure, with bold black eyeliner that slashed across her lids like war paint and eyes that gleamed with a manic intensity. Everyone in the room knew who she was, or at least what she claimed to be — a shaman, a woman of mystic rites and rituals. But if anything, that knowledge only made her presence more unsettling.

"You made me come to you," she continued, her voice rising with each word, "when you should have come to me."

Yumi exchanged a glance with Hyun-ju, who raised a single eyebrow, her expression hovering somewhere between bemusement and alarm. Player 149 and her son seemed equally uncertain, their gazes darting between Player 044 and each other.

"I should just slay you with my knife," Player 044 declared dramatically, her hand twitching toward the makeshift sheath strapped to her side. There was no knife, of course but the gesture was enough to make Yumi take a half-step back.

The group of four side-eyed each other, an unspoken question passing between them: What now? There wasn't exactly a long line of players waiting to join their team, and while Player 044 was... intense, she was still one more person. And in this game, numbers mattered.

Finally, Hyun-ju broke the silence, her voice calm but edged with a hint of dry humor. "Well," she said, "I guess that makes five."

Player 044 grinned, a wide, unsettling smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. "Good," she said, her tone suddenly lighter, almost cheerful. "You've chosen wisely."

The world had never felt more artificial. The sand beneath Yumi's shoes crunched faintly as she stepped forward, joining the others to form neat, rigid rows.

Yumi scanned the room, her stomach twisting with unease, adjusting the hem of her tracksuit nervously. Everyone seemed smaller in this setting, dwarfed by the sheer absurdity of the room and the stakes that hung in the air.

Her gaze drifted upward to the outside of the rainbows, where masked guards in pink uniforms stood stoically, their faces obscured by black, expressionless masks. Some carried rifles slung across their chests. The players below tried not to look at them for too long, afraid that eye contact might be interpreted as a challenge.

The voice crackled through the PA system, sharp and clinical, sending a shiver down Yumi's spine. "The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the minigames. Number one, the Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gonggi. Number four, Spinning Top. Number five, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide players for each minigame."

A murmur of confusion and dread swept through the room as players turned to their teammates, voices rising as they tried to make sense of the instructions. Yumi's team immediately broke into an overlapping cacophony of suggestions and questions.

Her mind, however, drifted to a memory — a fragment of warmth tucked away in her heart, where the ache of loss could not yet reach.

She had come to the hospital from school that day, her bag bouncing on her shoulder, her pigtails swaying with every step. Excitement buzzed in her chest as she darted up the familiar hospital stairs, skipping two at a time despite the scolding nurse's half-hearted warnings.

Yunho, her twin brother, was waiting for her. He always was, in the same white hospital bed with its neatly tucked corners and the steady hum of machines.

"Yunho! Guess what!" she had chirped as she burst into the room. Her smile lit the sterile space like a beam of sunlight, instantly softening the lines of fatigue on Yunho's pale face.

"Hm?" he asked, his voice weak but eager. His brown eyes sparkled as he sat up slightly against the pillows, pushing back his thick-framed glasses.

"The girls at school taught me this new game!" she exclaimed, pulling a small pouch from her skirt pocket. The bright, colorful game pieces spilled onto the tray table as she carefully set them out.

Yunho watched her every move, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He loved these moments — hearing about her day, her antics, her stories. They allowed him to live vicariously through her, to escape the confines of his fragile body and roam the world beyond the hospital walls.

"You toss these little stones up, catch them in different ways. It's harder than it looks, but it's so much fun!" Yumi explained, her enthusiasm infectious as she demonstrated the first round. "Watch! I'll show you how it's done."

Her fingers were clumsy at first, the stones clattering against the plastic surface of the tray table. But Yunho laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Yumi laugh too. "You're terrible at this," he teased gently, though his eyes shone with pride.

"I just learned it today!" she retorted, feigning indignation. "I'll get better. You wait and see."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Yunho replied with a mock-serious tone, his lips twitching upward. "Let me try."

Yumi handed him the stones, her gaze intent as she coached him through the rules. His thin fingers worked with surprising dexterity, and within minutes, he was catching the stones with ease, outshining her entirely.

"No fair! You're a natural," Yumi huffed, crossing her arms.

"I guess I'm just better at everything," Yunho quipped, a grin spreading across his face. But beneath his playful teasing was a deep gratitude for his sister. Her presence, her energy, her determination to include him in everything — it filled his otherwise monotonous days with color and life.

"We'll see about that," Yumi declared, her competitive streak flaring. "Rematch tomorrow. And the day after that. Until I win."

"It's a deal," Yunho said softly. And so it became their ritual. Every day, she would bring the gonggi pieces, and they would play until visiting hours ended. Yunho's world might have been confined to four walls, but Yumi's laughter and stubborn spirit made those walls seem a little less suffocating.

"I'll do gonggi," Yumi's voice cut through the present, firm and steady. She turned to her team, her gaze unwavering.

The others looked at her, surprised by the sudden decisiveness. "Are you sure?" asked Player 149.

"I'm sure," Yumi replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I've got this."

Player 149 nodded, a flicker of respect in her eyes. "Alright, then. I'll take ddakji," she said with a chuckle. "My hands may be old, but they've still got some tricks left in them." She winked at her son, Player 007, who immediately frowned.

"Mom, no. Let me do it," he protested, his curly brown hair bouncing as he shook his head.

"Nonsense," Player 149 replied, waving him off. "I've been slapping paper tiles since before you were born."

"But —"

"No buts," she said firmly, and her son sighed, defeated.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll take Flying Stone, then."

Hyun-ju nodded. "I'll do jegi," she said. Her tone was calm, but there was a quiet confidence in her words.

That left only one game: Spinning Top. All eyes turned to Player 044, the shaman woman who had been sitting cross-legged, her hands pressed together in silent prayer. Her piercing eyes flickered open, and she regarded the group with an unreadable expression.

"You'll have to do it," Yumi said bluntly, breaking the silence.

Player 044 inclined her head, her movements deliberate. "If it is the will of the universe," she murmured cryptically.

"Great," Yumi muttered under her breath.

The atmosphere was suffocating, heavy with the weight of failure and impending doom as the sounds of gunshots was heard. Replays of the two team's failed attempts echoed in Yumi's mind: hands fumbling, knees buckling, faces contorting with frustration and terror. The sheer intensity of the games was palpable, every missed shot or fumbled move eating precious seconds until the timer mercilessly ran out.

When the final buzzer sounded, an ominous silence gripped the arena. The tension snapped only when the PA system crackled to life, and the same monotone voice echoed through the space.

"The following players have been eliminated. Players 016, 045, 178, 189, 198, 254, 286, 341, 395, and 416."

Gasps and muffled sobs rippled through the remaining players. One man, his voice cracking, shouted, "We should have left! We're all going to die now!" His panic spread like wildfire.

"We're all going to die because of those who voted to continue!" screamed a woman, her voice shrill with hysteria.

Nearby, a man's knees gave out as he fell to the ground, wailing, "What are you going to do now? What are you going to do now?" His words, though incoherent, struck a chord of despair in those around him.

Yumi's team stood silently amidst the chaos, absorbing the grim reality unfolding before them. But there was no time to dwell on the eliminated or the panicked — the PA system rang out again. "The next teams, please get ready."

Hyun-ju pulled her hair into a small ponytail with practiced efficiency, her movements steady despite the tension. Yumi's breaths came shallow at first, but she forced herself to close her eyes and take deep, measured inhalations. She counted to four with each breath, imagining the air filling her lungs like a balloon, then slowly deflating as she exhaled.

Hyun-ju noticed and leaned closer, her voice soft yet firm. "You're stronger than you think." Her hand came to rest gently on Yumi's back, rubbing small circles. "And don't forget, you're not alone."

Yumi glanced at her, her lips curling into a faint, appreciative smile. Hyun-ju's words stirred something within her — a faint echo of Yunho's reassuring voice. For a brief moment, she saw her brother in Hyun-ju: the same steady presence, the same unwavering belief in her capabilities.

She nodded, drawing strength from the parallel.

"That's right," Player 149 chimed in, her voice gruff but determined. "I, Jang Geum-ja, survived the Korean War. I will not die playing some kids' games." Her eyes sparkled with an unyielding fire. "Everyone, let's pull ourselves together and do this."

Her son, standing beside her, swallowed hard but managed a nod. "I'm the son of Ms. Jang Geum-ja, who survived the Korean War. I'm Park Yong-sik," he declared, his voice trembling slightly but gaining strength with each word.

Hyun-ju stepped forward next, her tone warm yet resolute. "And I'm Kim Hyun-ju. I believe in this team, and I believe we can win. Let's show everyone here that these games are no big deal."

Yumi felt the weight of expectation settle on her shoulders, but it wasn't oppressive. It was motivating. She straightened her posture, locking eyes with each of them. "I'm Suk Yumi. and I don't plan on losing."

Finally, all eyes turned to the shaman, who had been silent throughout. Her hands were clasped together in prayer, her lips moving soundlessly. Yong-sik cleared his throat nervously. "Ma'am, what's your name?"

The shaman opened her eyes slowly, her piercing gaze sweeping over them. "I'm Seon-nyeo, shaman of the sea," she said, her voice carrying an almost otherworldly cadence.

The PA system echoed once more as the pink-uniformed soldiers with their ominous circle masks approached. They moved with mechanical precision, crouching down to tie the team's legs together with thick metal locks. The tension ratcheted up as the woman's monotone voice rang out.

"Teams three and four, get ready."

Seon-nyeo trembled slightly, her hands clasped tightly together. Her whispered prayers grew louder. "Dear gods of heaven and earth... Dear gods of heaven and earth, please guide me through this trial..."

Hyun-ju exchanged a glance with Yumi, a flicker of amusement breaking through the tension. They each locked an arm around Seon-nyeo to steady her, creating a chain of solidarity. As they shuffled toward the starting line, Yumi's heart hammered against her ribcage, the rhythmic pounding echoing in her ears. Every nerve in her body screamed with anticipation.

The air grew still, almost suffocating in its intensity. The sharp crack of a gunshot rang out, jolting Yumi's senses. Their tied legs strained against the cord as they took their first synchronized step forward. Seon-nyeo's prayers melded with the sound of pounding footsteps, the tension spiraling as they crossed into the first zone.

The game had begun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

MORE BANTER THAT I REALLY LOVED

also the sad scene in the beginning and myunggi listening oh u know im gonna write a scene where he brings up her brother later

the urge to make it sad.................

yumi big brain telling jun-hee to cry LOL, i thought it was a cute way to have her go up to them like the show did. but also like, really shows yumi's character bc she's okay with being alone or even potentially losing as long as junhee lived.

not exactly foreshadow bc we don't know s3

but low-key hoping squid game writers are in my favor hehehhe

AND DONT WORRY YOUNGMI WILL HAVE THE RELATIONSHIP SHE DOES ON THE SHOW WITH HYUNJU, i already have my plan on how she'll show up!!! i just really wanted yumi to be in that group LOL

much love,