𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞

***

The gunfire had ceased several minutes ago. Soldiers were placing the bodies of the dead players into black square coffins with pink bows on the lids. While those who had managed to hide peered cautiously through cracks, watching the process, only two people in the far room paid it no mind. Gi-Hun sat on the floor, his back against the wall. His head rested on In-Ho’s shoulder. They both stared silently at a single point, breathing heavily, as if whatever was happening beyond the door had nothing to do with them. This was the first time they had been so close to each other — both physically and emotionally. Time seemed to have stopped. — You know, — Gi-Hun said quietly, — I had a dream today. — What was it about? — In-Ho asked with his usual calmness, but at player 456’s words, something in his chest tightened painfully. — I was in a long, dark hallway, and you were walking ahead of me. I tried to catch up, but with every step, the hallway grew longer, — Gi-Hun’s voice slowed, as if he were carefully recalling the details. — I called out to you and ran with all my strength. But just as I almost reached you, the floor beneath me gave way, and I fell into the void. In-Ho listened intently, holding his breath. A heavy, formless anxiety welled up in his chest — the same feeling as the tense stillness before a storm. Somewhere deep inside, a quiet resentment toward himself still lingered — for avoiding Gi-Hun. For keeping his distance, and almost losing him because of it. Tilting their heads slightly, they gently touched their foreheads. In-Ho felt something long-forgotten and a warm spark inside him, sending a wave of strange calm through his body. Why is my heart beating so loudly, as if it’s about to burst out? I always thought I could keep everything under control… but now something is making me change the rules. Could it be more than just fear of losing you? — I won’t disappear, — the Frontman said softly, his voice trembling slightly. — We’ll get out of that place, right? — Yes, you’re right… of course we’ll get out, — Gi-Hun smiled faintly. — We’ll stop the games and leave here. Together. In-Ho’s fingers brushed against his skin — slow, barely touching his wrist, but it was enough to send a light shiver through Gi-Hun’s body. He closed his eyes, holding his breath. In that tiny room, alone together, for the first time in years he felt not fear, but a heady, quiet peace. It was as if everything had frozen: no games, no noise beyond the door — only them, and this fragile, almost unreal moment. No one else but them. He heard In-Ho’s relaxed breathing, felt the warmth of his touch — as though it could chase away any cold or fear in seconds. — Yeong-Il…you know... — Gi-Hun lowered his voice to a whisper. — You have very mushy fingertips. In-Ho’s gaze lingered on player 456 for a moment, and a warm, almost bashful smile touched the corners of his lips. For the first time in a long while, he looked genuinely happy. — Is that a compliment? Gi-Hun just said nothing, staring off into the distance. His heart pounded so hard the pulse throbbed in his temples — like a reminder: this moment was real. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he knew for certain — he didn’t want to let go of this peace. A sharp click of opening doors pulled them both back to reality. In the hallway, the heavy footsteps of players echoed, mixed with the faint murmur of distant conversations. In-Ho was the first to step back, rising slowly, as if reluctant to return to the usual routine. He brushed off his clothes and, hesitating slightly, offered Gi-Hun his hand. Player 456 took it, and that rare warmth flared in his chest again — the kind that lasts longer than any physical touch. — Let’s go, — In-Ho said quietly. — It’s time we return to the others. Gi-Hun nodded silently, though inwardly he didn’t want to let go of that touch — it meant something between them had changed forever. They stepped out of the room, and almost immediately the silence was broken by a loud, anxious voice: — Damn it, Gi-Hun! — Jung-Bae rushed to his friend and pulled him into a tight embrace. — I was so scared when they knocked you down! And then they dragged me off somewhere… I swear, that guy over there saved me! He pointed into the crowd, toward player 246. Jun-Hee and Dae-Ho approached. The girl’s face lit up when she saw the Frontman among them again. — Mr. Yeong-Il… she said softly. — I’m glad you’re back with us. — Thank you, — In-Ho replied briefly, giving Jun-hee a faint nod in response to her smile. — We should head back to the dorm. Everyone began dispersing, and Gi-Hun felt that restless noise returning, everything once again seeming too sharp and loud. His eyes stayed fixed on In-Ho, who walked ahead with his usual composure, never slowing, as if that moment between them had never happened. Gi-Hun noticed the Frontman had returned to his distant self, as though what had passed between them was to remain unspoken and unseen. — Yes, let’s go, — player 456 said. — We all need to rest now. He touched his wrist again, where the faint trace of In-Ho’s fingers still lingered. It seemed like the only moment in which he’d truly felt safe. But now it was dissolving into the growing unease of everything around him. — Hey, buddy… are you okay? — Jun-Bae asked worriedly. — Did you hurt your arm? — No, I’m fine, I just bumped it a little, — Gi-Hun replied, slightly embarrassed, shoving his hands into his pockets. — Let’s hurry, if we don’t want to annoy the organizers. The players returned to the dormitory in complete silence. Almost everyone had only one thought — what would be the outcome of the next vote? Gi-Hun was just as anxious as the rest. A desperate hope for the games to end still flickered in him, but with each day, he understood less and less how to make the Frontman stop. How do you reach someone who seems to have cut himself off from all humanity? How do you change the mind of someone who sees people as “trash,” unworthy of a good life? What’s your weakness? What are you afraid of? Back in the dorm, the players were herded together by soldiers, waiting for the vote. — Congratulations on your victory, — a masked soldier said coldly. — Your prize fund has increased significantly. Before we begin the vote, we’d like to announce the results of the third game. Bundles of yellow bills began dropping into the piggy bank hanging from the ceiling. The loud rustle above made everyone look up. Everyone except... Gi-Hun stood motionless, scanning the faces around him — greedy, indifferent. No fear, no memories of the third game remained in their eyes — as if the brutal, bloody carnage and pleas for mercy were some distant past. As if it hadn’t even happened to them. No one thought of those left behind. The ones shoved away at the last second, dragged to the door, abandoned, betrayed — they no longer existed in this world. Every bill falling into the piggy bank was like the toll of a bell — a reminder that every life lost here had been reduced to a faceless commodity, and death had become a profitable transaction for others. Gi-Hun understood that this endless machine couldn’t be stopped with words or hope alone. And yet, somewhere deep inside, he clung to the thought that there had to be something in this world that could awaken humanity and compassion in the Frontman. In-Ho stood a short distance away, watching. Player 456 could feel his eyes tracking his every move — saw the frown, the pressed lips, and the way his gaze darted through the crowd, searching for a spark of truth and light. Do you see it now, Gi-Hun? Their eyes met for an instant. In that brief moment, Gi-Hun felt that In-ho might be the only one who could truly understand him. The feeling both warmed and frightened him — like a thin thread stretched between hope and despair, fraying with each passing day. — With the prize fund boosted like this, the number of circles will definitely go up, — the Frontman said quietly, stepping closer to player 456. — Damn, they don’t fully understand what they’re dealing with… — Gi-Hun muttered, staring at the floor. — Or maybe they just don’t want to. Those words lodged themselves firmly in Gi-Hun’s mind, feeding the fire of his doubts and uncertainty. He feared the day would come when he’d have to accept one bitter truth: no matter how much he believed in people, human nature could not be changed. And that thought scared him more than anything — because to accept it would mean letting go of the hope that had kept him afloat all this time. To let it go would mean losing. •••TO BE CONTINUED •••