𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞

***

The organizers finally announced the rules of the next game. A team of five, each with one leg tied to their neighbor’s by a special harness, had to move carefully together, holding onto each other. They were to play five mini-games in five minutes: ttakchi, biseokchigi, Gonggi, the spinning top, and jegi. Although the games themselves were simple, the constant pressure, time limit, and fear of elimination made focus nearly impossible. Many of the "fives" didn’t even reach the last mini-game. Teams watching the players cheered them on loudly, shouting and clapping. They waited for their turn. When one team crossed the finish line at the very last moment, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Someone even teared up — not from joy, but from relief. In that moment, everyone genuinely celebrated their rivals as though it were a contest, not a deadly game. In‑Ho felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned — and saw Gi‑Hun standing there, giving a slight smile as he watched the survivors. — Do you think… we have a chance to make it? — player 456 whispered, glancing at the Frontman. — Well...as long as we stay together and don’t panic, we sure can do this, — In‑Ho answered softly. — The most important thing for now is not to let fear take over our minds. Gi‑Hun smiled quietly and pressed closer to In‑Ho’s shoulder. Their eyes met and held each other just a bit longer than usual. For a second, In‑Ho froze. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly alive. Here. Now. Together with him. The game room gradually emptied, participants dwindling until only the last two teams remained. — "Attention! The last two teams, please prepare for the game round!" — a loud female voice boomed over the speakers, echoing through the room. Gi‑Hun’s team consisted of his best friend, Jung‑Bae, and others he’d met here: Dae‑Ho, Jun‑Hee, and Yeong‑Il. The timer began its countdown. The game commenced. Mini-game 1 — Ttakchi. Despite her position, Chun‑Hi skillfully hit the paper square on the floor on her first try — the square neatly flipped and made a loud clap. Cheering joyfully, the team moved on to the next mini-game without losing time. Mini-game 2 — Biseokchigi. Jung‑Bae had to hit a small "tombstone" from a short distance to knock it down. He took a breath and stepped forward, holding a flat stone. He squinted as he aimed for several seconds. Beside him, Dae‑Ho watched every movement with bated breath, mentally cheering him on. The throw. The stone hit the target dead center. The "tombstone" clattered and fell. Another victory! In‑Ho watched Gi‑Hun’s reaction closely — how he celebrated each success, how he cared about every member of the team. Player 456’s fate now depended entirely on his friends’ luck. Gi‑Hun… but what if one of them messed up?... Mini-game 3 — Gonggi. Dae‑Ho was the only boy in his family, raised by sisters. They taught him how to play gonggi. Now, years later, that skill could save his life. On a low table in front of him lay five colorful patterned stones. He took a deep breath, focused, then tossed one up — and deftly caught another. Then two, three… until all five were in play. Jun‑Hee and Jung-Bae watched the rapid, precise movements of player 388’s hands, holding their breath. Final toss — the stones all landed in his hands. Dae‑Ho extended his palm to the masked soldier in approval, then beamed as the masked figure nodded approvingly, signaling "pass." Mini-game 4 — The spinning top. In‑Ho carefully picked up the metal top and began winding the string around it. His fingers trembled ever so slightly — only he could feel it. With each wrap of string, his chest tightened further with tension. From the outside, In‑Ho seemed calm as ever. But his heart pounded louder and faster. It felt like it would burst through his chest. He knew — Gi‑Hun was directly behind him, more worried about the result than the host himself. Frontman looked ahead at the rainbow line, which by the end of the trials had turned red. It was just a simple children’s game. But inside his head, a different voice echoed. Cold. Harsh. Merciless. You can’t lose. Not now. Not in front of him. He was about to let the top go when something soft touched his elbow. Turning, In‑Ho met Gi‑Hun’s eyes. You mustn’t see how scared I am. — Yeong‑Il, we can do this. We still have time, — player 456 whispered, calm and unwavering. — I believe in you. In‑Ho silently nodded. He knew exactly who he needed to do this for. But...if we fail these trials — they’ll kill everyone but me. I can’t… lose you. Taking a deep breath, the host clenched the top, gritted his teeth. It’s time. He threw it. The toy landed squarely on the floor and spun along the rainbow line. — Sir… you did it! — Jun‑Hee cried out loudly, sighing with relief. Only one trial remained—and they would reach the finish. Together. Mini-game 5 — Jegi. The objective: kick a small bag-like shuttlecock five times with your foot. Gi‑Hun tossed the jegi into the air. One. Two. Three. Four. On the fifth kick, the shuttlecock clipped the edge of his sneaker and dropped to the floor. Silence descended upon the arena. Gi‑Hun swallowed and looked at the masked soldier. — Attempt is not counted, — the soldier announced, crossing his arms in an "X". — But he touched it. In‑Ho stood beside him, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the officials. — This is a precision game, — the soldier responded steadily. — The player didn’t kick the jegi. — The rules don’t say each touch must include a deliberate kick, — In‑Ho continued, carefully watching reactions. — Player 456 completed all five touches. — Mr. soldier… he’s right, — Jung‑Bae nodded. Silence held for a moment, the soldier hesitated, then raised his hands into a circle. — Result counted. The timer began to run out. The players grabbed each other’s hands and dashed for the finish line — just in time. They crossed it. They had won. Jung‑Bae cried out with joy and embraced Dae‑Ho, patting him on the shoulder: — Geez, nothing's impossible for a true marine! — Yes, sir! — Dae‑Ho responded energetically. Jun‑Hee gently rubbed her belly, smiling beamingly. Gi‑Hun exhaled in relief and instinctively turned to look at In‑Ho — but he remained with his gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding his eyes. He just couldn’t. Inside him, everything convulsed. Emotions stormed like a hurricane. He tried to look calm as always, but holding that facade was getting harder. Just one wrong step — and you’ll disappear from my life. Again. In‑Ho clearly remembered that day when he had lost Gi‑Hun in the final game. The pain, the despair, the loud cries — all of it resurfaced in his memory like a submerged boulder tearing him apart from within. But now Gi‑Hun was here, next to him. Standing and smiling. And if he disappears again… In‑Ho won’t survive it. Gi‑Hun just stepped closer, still smiling. — Yeong‑Il… — he said softly. — You saved me again. In‑Ho lifted his eyes to him for a moment and nodded. Words failed him. They lodged in his throat like a burr. Gi‑Hun. He hadn’t realized it at first — not on day one, not even after traveling back in time. But right now — just after the final jegi trial, after arguing with the officials, after that look —everything snapped into place. The puzzle was complete. He isn’t afraid to lose. He isn’t afraid to sacrifice any other player. He’s afraid of losing Gi‑Hun. Afraid of losing more than mere admiration. More than the person who restored his faith in humanity. You’re closing the distance now. You look at me with a smile. You trust me. And I can no longer pretend that this… means nothing. •••TO BE CONTINUED•••