The torturer or the tormented?

I sat in the painfully familiar car, pouring champagne, and it seemed the whole world around me had shrunk to the dimensions of this confined space. The finale, which I had not expected in the least, turned out to be not just unpredictable, but truly absurd. This player, so interesting to me at the beginning, now stood before me like a pathetic trinket, lost in his own illusions. "Congratulations on your victory! It was an excellent game!" I said, trying to maintain composure, and raised my glass of champagne. A sip of this sparkling drink was nothing more than a mockery, and I couldn't help but realize how ridiculous this scene looked. The winner, this filthy trash, sat blindfolded, crushed and lost, while I, like some madman, congratulated him on his triumph. The champagne wasn't here because of any festive atmosphere—it was merely a way to drown my own torment, as if alcohol could wash away all the filth I had accumulated over the years. "For what... did you do all this? For what?" rasped the voice of Player 456, and his question held not only pain but also deep bewilderment. "You like horse racing. People are the same as horses, horses at the races," I uttered, and this mantra, familiar to the point of pain, tore out of me like something I hated but could not reject. "I didn't expect you to run this far." Remembering when I first noticed Player 456, back in the dormitory when he tried to rally others to justice, when Player 101 mercilessly killed that poor soul, I couldn't help but smirk. How naive he was then, how blind I was! And now, with the finale being what it was, maybe he really was special? Mr. Oh Il-nam had spared his life intentionally, and there was something about this player that made me think. Player 456 slowly turned his head towards me. His eyes were covered, but a reflex compelled him to seek me out. "Who are you?Who are you?" he asked, and his voice held not only fatigue but also a sincere desire to understand. "Consider it a dream, and not the worst one... For you," I said, although in reality, this nightmare was repeating for the fourth time. But this time was special: I had become the Front Man for the first time, and everything obeyed me. My brother had infiltrated the island, and I, without a second thought, shot him. I existed in a society where no morality or principles mattered, and I forced myself to watch the first game as a punishment, as a way to atone for my cowardice. Maybe I was pushing myself towards the end? With the offer of the Front Man position, I felt that I could no longer communicate with my mom and brother, even if I tried my hardest. It was better to let them think I had gone missing or died. My brother, of course, would have done everything to find me. When I stood on that cliff, he could have killed me at any moment. I gave in to weakness, suggesting he come with me, not expecting that I would ever have to see my brother in the context of this monstrous place. I suggested he come with me, not thinking about the consequences; his life was the priority then. He refused, unwilling to believe what was happening. The only way out was to wound him and order him to save the person closest to him in this hell. I took a wild risk then, letting him fall into the water. But there was no other way, or so I thought at the time. "Who are you? Who... are you?" he asked again, and I myself no longer knew who I was. I silently put on the mask, and gas filled the interior of the expensive limousine. He hysterically asked about my identity until he fell asleep. I took off the mask, drank half the bottle to ease my own condition. Pulling the winner's prize card from my pocket, I wondered where to put it. I looked at Player 456, at his bloodied bandages, skillfully applied by the staff. My body and soul were filled only with pain, and a sense of guilt from which there was no hiding tormented me. I felt guilty towards everyone, and especially towards my brother. I consoled myself as best I could, keeping everything inside, allowing no outlet for emotions. I was angry at Player 456. He, like a fallen Christ, an angel, was a symbol of everything I had lost. In a surge of long-forgotten feelings, I took the card, sat on Player 456, pried his mouth open with my gloved hand, squeezing his bloodied cheeks. My face contorted in a spasm. I shoved the card down his throat, and, standing up, gave the order to stop. The limousine halted. I laid the player across my knees, opened the door, and threw him out of the car, just as I wanted to throw out of my life everything that tormented me. These games were finally over. I, as before, remained alone, and it seemed the whole world around me had shrunk to the dimensions of this grim limousine in which I now found myself. I used to live in a homeless shelter, and, strangely enough, that was the only place where I felt somewhat protected from the cruelty of the surrounding reality. I couldn't explain to my mother and brother where the sum in my account came from, a sum that, like a shadow, haunted me. They had to keep believing that I was a beggar, that I was incapable of anything more than a wretched existence on the fringes of society. The debts I took on for my wife's treatment remained unpaid, and this thought was unpleasant to me, but it hardly troubled me anymore. Mom worried about me a lot; she must have been afraid I would do something to myself. I sometimes thought about it too, but I lacked the courage to take that decisive step into the abyss. I read a lot, immersed myself in art, dreaming of becoming an "Overman," as Nietzsche once said. But no matter how I tried to numb the guilt, justifying myself with the morality of masters and slaves, my condition didn't improve. I remained a prisoner of my own thoughts, like in a dark room with no exit. Now I had nowhere to go. Breathing heavily, I sprawled on the limousine seat, and it seemed this moment was the culmination of everything I had experienced. My eyes, full of weariness and hopelessness, longed to close, to not see this interior, but I forced myself to keep them open, as if my last hope for salvation—and simultaneously my punishment—lay in that. I couldn't allow myself to fade into the shadows, couldn't allow myself to forget that this was merely a temporary lull before the storm that, as always, awaited me outside this car. I ordered the car to stop, and without waiting for it to come to a complete halt, I got out onto the street. I found myself in the Yeouido area, where the night lights, glittering in the height of summer, seemed misplaced to me, like fake smiles on people's faces. An atmosphere of celebration reigned around, but for me, it was just a reminder of how I had lost myself. My head was spinning, and I don't remember how I got to the nearest motel. Every step was difficult, as if I were dragging a heavy burden I couldn't shed. Thoughts darted in my head like birds in a cage, and I could find no peace. I felt the darkness enveloping my soul, squeezing me in its embrace. 'I am no longer Hwang In-ho,' I firmly decided, as if saying it out loud could free me from the shackles that bound me. 'Nothing ties me to this name, to this life anymore.' I was ready to leave everything behind, as if that could rid me of the feelings of guilt and fear that tormented me. 'Then who am I?' Suddenly, amidst the bright lights and noisy streets, I stumbled upon a man who seemed beside himself. He stood on a corner, his voice ringing out loud and insistent: "Believe in Jesus! He is your savior!" His words, full of passion, cut through the air like a knife, and I involuntarily stopped to listen. 'Savior?' I thought, smiling ironically. 'What savior? Where was He when I needed help? Where was He when I was losing everything I had?' I looked at this man; his eyes burned like stars, full of hope, and at the same time, I felt how his faith was his only consolation in this mad world. I couldn't understand how one could believe in anything when life itself was so cruel and unfair. But at the same time, deep down, I envied him. Envied his ability to find solace in faith, in the fact that he could turn to something greater than himself. "Believe in Jesus!" he continued, and his voice sounded like a call, like a mantra that could save me if only I allowed myself to believe. But I couldn't. I was too immersed in my own torment to hear his words. I turned away and, without waiting for an answer, walked on, leaving him behind, just as I left everything else in my life.