𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞

***

Carefully holding two modest portions of breakfast in his hands, In-ho slowly walked toward Gi-Hun. What would they talk about once they sat down together? In recent years, In-Ho had barely interacted with people, hardly had a real, friendly conversation with anyone. He had perhaps even forgotten how to start one. Here, surrounded by the "faceless" staff, he couldn’t possibly have made any real friends. All these people were like pawns on a chessboard — nothing more than expendable resources. They had no names, only numbers. They had no gender; the mask nearly completely altered their voices, making it hard to tell whether the person in front of you was a man or a woman. In-Ho spent each day in solitude. With time, his emotions grew more and more muted. It had been that way until he came along—a new meaning in life, a source of both anxiety and hope, a renewed belief in kindness and humanity. His greatest enemy... and perhaps his only friend. Because only one person in the world could make In-Ho feel both irritation and ridicule at their behavior, and at the same time stir up strangely warm, almost familiar emotions. And now that person was waiting for him — with a breakfast of his own. Alive. The restless Gi-Hun, who wouldn’t stop until he achieved his goal. So deep in thought, In-Ho didn’t even notice the two people approach him. — Hey, man, preaching to us and then sneaking off with a second portion? Isn’t that a bit much for you, bro?? — a voice with a hint of sass instantly pulled In-ho out of his thoughts. Standing in front of him was Thanos, player number 230, with bright purple hair, staring in disbelief at both the overseer and the breakfast in his hands. His arms, adorned with colorful nail polish, were crossed over his chest. — Yo, listen, man! That breakfast belongs to one of those other losers, but definitely not to you! — Thanos sneered and gestured wildly with his hands. From the opposite side, someone chuckled quietly and tapped In-ho on the shoulder. It was player 124, Nam-Gyu. An unusually unpleasant guy, constantly trailing behind that other one and clearly lacking a mind of his own — that was Frontman's first impression of him. Nam-Gyu squinted slightly, glancing at his buddy. — Dude, just chill out... he already kicked your ass once, remember? Just don’t piss him off. In-Ho just sighed indifferently, locking his cold gaze on the two young men. — And it wouldn’t be difficult for me to do it again, if you gentlemen don’t step aside. I thought I made myself clear last time. Thanos had nothing left to say except to curse in his usual way: "You’re driving me crazy, man!" He was gradually growing irritated by In-Ho’s complete calmness, as if they weren’t being shot at here for losing a children's game, as if this wasn’t a place where players were stripped of freedom and forced to risk their lives. — Damn, you think you’re in charge here? One crazy guy who thinks he’s a past squid games winner is already enough. So quit pretending to be someone important! — Nam-Gyu swallowed nervously and, with trembling hands, gave In-Ho a slight shove. Frontman didn’t budge, only tightened his grip on the packaged food. Today's breakfast consisted of a simple round bun in a cheap transparent wrapper and a cardboard pack of milk. Not nearly enough to satisfy true hunger, but still far better than an empty stomach. Suddenly, soldiers approached with raised weapons. — Players are not to initiate conflict. This will be stopped immediately. In-Ho lowered his gaze to the food. Perfect timing. Thanos and Nam-Gyu stepped back nervously, raising their hands. They didn’t want to argue with the staff — those guys wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, even if just to fire into the air. Loud enough to deafen nearby players, loud enough to stir up anxiety again. To spread fear. No one wanted neither more trouble nor attracting extra attention. But today, only one player truly stood out. Today, he took the first step. He didn’t just stand on the sidelines. Today, he did something new. Today, he helped someone — someone desperately trying to find him and put an end to these games. In-Ho silently turned and continued walking toward Gi-Hun. As he approached, he sat down next to the player, handing him the breakfast portion and addressing him more softly now, less formally: — Gi-Hun… take it. Player 456 glanced at him, nodding gratefully and accepting the meal with trembling hands. The closer it got to the start of the next game, the more nervous he became. — Thanks... but I don’t drink milk. Never could, not since I was a kid. I’ll give it to one of the others— there's no point in wasting it. Of course, In-Ho knew that he didn’t drink milk. Frontman knew far more about him than Gi-Hun could ever imagine. But right now, he had to be cautious, deliberate with his actions — not to raise suspicions. Not to push Gi-Hun further away. Gi-Hun. You still keep thinking of others… you’re tearing yourself apart inside. The Frontman silently watched him — how player 456 slowly unwrapped the bun, how he took a tense bite. His eyes were empty and sad; they no longer held the light or passion for life that he once carried into this place. Even the strongest people — those who hold onto their ideals until the end — eventually break under the weight of guilt and sorrow. They blame themselves for not saving others. They blame themselves for surviving this nightmare. They blame themselves for the fact that this organization still exists. But Gi-Hun was still holding on, still moving toward his goal. And that madly fascinated In-Ho. Gi-Hun sighed, looking down at the bun as if trying to find something in it. — Yeong-Il… He slowly turned his gaze to In-Ho. — ...Why are you here? Why are you here? Those words made the Frontman visibly tense. — Well, once made a mistake... and now I’m paying for it. This time, I’ll do things differently. Gi-Hun didn’t reply, but a faint warmth flickered in his eyes — something approving, something kind. Suddenly, a loud female voice rang out, announcing the start of the second game... •••TO BE CONTINUED•••