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The city was cold, dark, coated in a thick sheet of rain. A deep rumble erupted from the sky, signaling the next wave of rainfall. Heavy and unrelenting, the storm rolled in, smothering the streets with its weight. Neon signs flickered above his head, their dull glow more piercing in the gloom, almost suffocating the night with their glare. The city felt alive, but in a way that grated on the senses, like a headache that refused to ease.
It was well past midnight. Gihun had been walking for hours now, lost in his own thoughts, wandering without purpose. Somewhere along the way, he'd abandoned his car—forgotten where it was. The wet pavement beneath his feet seemed to stretch on endlessly, leading him further into the labyrinth of the city.
He didn’t care. Not tonight.
His only goal now was to return to the motel, to give up on the chase for the night. Tomorrow would come, and the search would continue. Another round of trying to find him. The recruiter.
All the people he’d hired to help had come up empty. He clicked on his phone, scrolling through the chat, and once again, there was nothing. The familiar weight of frustration pressed down on him, and his posture stiffened, a silent acknowledgment of the futility he could no longer ignore. He exhaled through his nose, a low, defeated sound that barely broke through the hum of the city around him.
Exhaustion crept in, gnawing at the edges of his resolve, but still, he wouldn’t stop. Not as long as he was still alive.
He ran a hand over his face, fingers dragging roughly over his tired eyes, a mix of exasperation and anger bubbling up as he felt the weight of these endless days settle deeper into his bones. Sleep had become a luxury, something he hadn’t had time for. When he wasn’t running through the subway tunnels searching for the recruiter, he was mentally mapping out every possible route, every escape, every move the man might make. And when his brain couldn’t take it anymore, he’d throw himself into training.
It was a cycle, one that didn’t stop, one that pushed him further off the rails but never quite let him fall.
There was a twisted sort of grounding in these maddening attempts to stop him—almost like the chaos itself had become his anchor. He knew how insane he looked, how unhinged he must appear to the men he employed. But they would stay. The money was good. And for now, it wouldn’t run out.
Gihun’s sole focus now was reaching a train. Fortunately, the city boasted an abundance of stations—almost laughably accessible gateways to escape. Leaving seemed so simple: hop on the nearest train, catch a flight, and see his daughter. Yet trains weren’t just vehicles of departure; they were liminal spaces, thresholds between here and there—a perfect mirror of his in-between existence.
Since the games, his mind had never truly settled. The carefree spark he once possessed had evaporated the moment he woke in that cold limo. For fleeting moments, he imagined escaping it all—leaving behind the terror that haunted him every day. But nothing was ever that easy. So he stayed, devoting himself to a single, relentless goal: killing the frontman.
Gihun now stood at a desolate station, where all he could hear was the low hum of the streetlights and the sterile buzz of fluorescent tubes. It felt as if he were the only soul there, suspended in a waiting void. He sank onto a bench, watching the platform, aware that it wouldn’t be long before something stirred it to life.
His hands rested on his knees as he stared down at the tracks—a siren call in the sea of emptiness. The pull was undeniable. How easy it would be to let go, to embrace an end that promised to be less brutal than the constant suffering he’d witnessed when his eyes closed. This thought was nothing new; it had haunted him every day. The only thing keeping him tethered was a promise he’d made to himself.
But now, as he sat there, a small voice of doubt crept in, whispering that the promise was hopeless, fruitless. He had no address, no face to latch onto—couldn’t even track someone at the bottom of the hierarchy. A bitter laugh escaped him. Moments later, the allure of the tracks intensified, and before he knew it, Gihun rose and began to move toward them, slowly and almost absentmindedly. As if not by choice, but as if something beyond him was guiding each step.
Then—
The train rushed past him, a gust of wind in its wake slapping his face and snapping him back to reality. He gasped, as if suddenly aware of the gravity of what he was about to do. He watched it come to a stop—a barrier between him and the brink of his final act. Just when he felt no escape was possible, when he was ready to surrender entirely to the darkness, the train’s passage offered an unexpected lifeline. The irony of it all lingered in his mind, a bitter reminder that even in his darkest moments, fate sometimes intervenes.
Fate left a bitter taste on his tongue. He questioned everything: Was it fate that forced him to face his estranged friend’s final moments, helplessly watching him fall? Or was it fate that brought him face-to-face with a guard who turned out to be an inside man? Fate was damning—a relentless, unyielding force. It wasn’t a savior that would halt the endless cycle of violence; it was a cold reminder that the recruiter, the frontman, and the daily tragedies were inevitable. Predetermined.
But then he wondered if it wasn’t fate at all, but faith. And that thought was even more disturbing. Because faith demanded an acceptance—not of healing, but of the unalterable, ruthless nature of what had occurred. Faith wasn’t a promise of redemption. It was an understanding of the reality of the world, where hope was fleeting. Faith requires forgiveness—but not in the gentle, redemptive way people are led to believe. It was cold and detached. The more he thought about it, the more he understood that holding onto hope didn’t erase what had happened. It commands an acknowledgment: that what had happened, what continued to happen, was part of an unbreakable cycle.
Fate and faith—ideals Gihun clung to, hoping they’ll shield from harm. Yet the grim reality was far more unsettling. That tragedy will never fully vanish. The truths settled into his bones and left him feeling empty.
The doors opened to the train with a soft creak, but it seemed to echo throughout the space. For some reason, taking the next step felt heavy. An uneasy draft crept in, unwelcome and cold. He peered down at the small gap between the train and the station, a sliver of an opening that revealed only the dark tracks below. Then he was confronted with a choice: to stay or to go. It had always come down to that, hadn’t it? Choices. He had come to hate them. Hated facing them, hated the act of choosing. And yet, as much as he resisted, he always made them. And never did he choose to leave. So, he stepped inside. The doors closed quietly behind him, swallowing the noise of the outside world, leaving him in silence.
He noticed how empty the space was, much like before, but someone sat near the middle. Their eyes were already fixed on him—knowing, calculated. It sent a shiver down his spine. He brushed it off; these days, there wasn’t much that didn’t unsettle him. But there was something about those eyes—the coldness, the darkness lurking behind them—that terrified him in a way he’d never known. Allure, intrigue, terror—all of it swirling in his mind. If anything were to happen, he was prepared; he always was. But something told him physical altercations weren’t what he needed to worry about with this man. The idea of a fight between them was laughable, a farce—easier than whatever words, whatever truths this man held. It was disturbing.
Then the train started to move—fast, forceful. Gihun knew he shouldn’t feel trapped on a train, but he did. No escapes. Not for right now. Fate was a bitch.
Gihun settled into a seat not too far from him, his gaze drawn to the moonlight. It was a beacon in the dark. The moon, a mirror of Gihun’s philosophy: when darkness prevailed, flickers of light were enough—to light up a path, a direction to something more. Better. Lighter.
Amidst the terror he felt towards the man, there was a slight pull in his chest, pushing them toward collision. Like long ago, they had both been placed on the same track at the same speed, and it was only a matter of time before they would crash and burn.
Gihun could feel the weight of the man’s eyes, how his gaze hadn’t moved since he sat down. Slowly, Gihun pulled out his phone and turned it on, just to glance at the time. Only five minutes had passed, but under the weight of those eyes, it felt like time had stopped.
Finally, Gihun mustered the courage to turn and send a silent warning with his eyes, hoping the man would look away, caught. But when he did, that didn’t happen. In fact, the man’s posture shifted—not more relaxed, but more assured.
Gihun sat back in his seat, trying to relax against the cold metal backrest. The quiet clatter of the train tracks beneath them did little to settle the knot forming in his chest. The longer he sat, the stronger the weight of the man’s gaze became, never wavering. He tried focusing on anything else—the shadows flickering across the walls, the rain running down the windows, the neon lights of the city flashing by as the train moved. But nothing could shake the intensity of that stare.
Gihun shifted slightly in his seat, glancing again at his phone. The time felt cruel. Only a few more minutes had passed, but in this silence, with the gaze heavy on him, time had slowed to a crawl.
He couldn’t keep avoiding it. With a deep breath, he turned to face the man, finally meeting his gaze for the first time since he’d boarded. A slight curl tugged at the man’s lips, not in the way of someone merely acknowledging him, but as if he’d been waiting for this moment. Not just for Gihun to notice him—but for Gihun to be ready to face whatever was to come.
Silence. But not just any silence. A lingering, deliberate kind, thick with meaning. They were at a standstill now, each waiting for the other to break it. And then—
“It’s quiet out there, isn’t it? The world just fades away when you’re on this train.”
A pause. Inho's gaze remained unwavering, as if he were waiting for something to snap. Then, his lips tugged into a small, almost dangerous smile. “Rough night?”
Gihun narrowed his gaze, studying the man—his posture, the way his presence seemed to press against the space between them. There was something in that smile, something menacing lurking behind it. Gihun knew he should pull back, keep to himself, maybe offer a noncommittal hum, but against his better judgment, he responded. He kept his voice low, guarded, “Something like that.”
Inho’s smile widened ever so slightly, it was a calculated move. Devoid of warmth, different from the friendly smile one would use to acknowledge a stranger. No, this smile was similar to someone caging in prey, trapping them before they knew they were trapped. “It’s always like that huh?”
He let out a small breath from his mouth, shifting back in his seat. Hands folding over his lap—seemingly casual, but there was nothing casual about it. “People never really tell the truth about their nights.”
Gihun's pulse quickened at the remark. It was subtle, but it felt like a punch to the gut. The kind of remark that landed too well, too true. His every word was laced with an undertone—something Gihun couldn’t name yet, but it was there. He tensed under the realization that there was nowhere to hide here. This man wasn’t just some stranger. He was a part of this game, and Gihun was already playing. He could feel it.
“And what’s your truth?” Gihun’s voice was sharp—maybe a little too sharp—as he asked, a challenge more than an inquiry.
The man tilted his head, as though amused by Gihun’s participation. “I don’t deal in truths. Not anymore.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into the air between them.
The lights above flickered, and they both instinctively turned toward them at the same time, in sync. Gihun would have chalked it up to the rain, but something about the timing felt off.
The man shifted back into his previous position, his movements smooth and deliberate. “See, truths are unreliable. You think you know something, and then it gets flipped on its head. Taken from you. What I believe in… are choices. There’s fairness in it.”
Gihun scoffed, his jaw tightening at the man’s words. Choices. Fairness. Of course, those ideas always seemed to find him, even when he tried to escape. “But is there?” he muttered, the skepticism hanging heavy in the air.
The man’s gaze flickered—slightly, but enough to be noticed—his posture unchanged, yet there was something in his eyes that betrayed a hint of distaste, maybe even disbelief at Gihun’s question. “Of course there is.” The words came out like a fact, as if that one statement was all the justification needed, unassailable and absolute.
On the surface, choices were fair.
The choice of what to wear every day, or how to get to work, or what to eat. These were simple, mundane decisions—fair because they lacked consequence. But fairness began to unravel the moment stakes were introduced. And when that happened, the illusion of fairness was exposed for what it was—just another weapon to disorient, to manipulate. To make you believe you were still in control, when you never were.
And Gihun? He had been made a victim of it.
Gihun’s lips resembled a bitter smile, his gaze meeting the man with the same intensity from earlier, “Fairness…” He turned his full body towards the man, and kept his voice firm, the weight of everything he’d been through laced in his response, “You really stand on fairness and choice?”
The glow of the neon lights in the city kept passing over Gihun’s features, illuminating him, “You give people choices, sure. But what happens when they become extreme? Kill or be killed…is that fair?”
He sat back against the chair, his hand gripping the side so tight his knuckles turned white. “People don’t get a choice when you’re backed up against a wall.”
The anger in his voice was clear, but what bothered him more was the nagging feeling that this man knew something—something he wasn’t saying outright. He wouldn’t ask, but it hung there, thick and suffocating. The scales were already tipped in the man's favor before Gihun could even acknowledge it.
The man’s jaw tightened, and Gihun caught the brief, subtle flex of his hand in his lap—like he was holding himself back from something. It was almost imperceptible, but Gihun noticed. Then, just as quickly, his posture returned to its neutral, unaffected stance. “Kill or be killed... I think that's the choice people have in real life. Except it’s more unpredictable, more chaotic, wouldn’t you say?”
Gihun's gaze sharpened, his voice steady but laced with skepticism. "Unpredictable?" he repeated, leaning forward slightly. "If life is truly unpredictable, then where's the fairness in that? Where's the choice? If everything's random, then nothing's fair. It's all just chaos pretending to be order."
He paused, locking eyes with him, his tone unwavering. "So, tell me, where's the fairness in that?"
As he spoke, the train began to slow, the sound of the tracks fading into a hollow echo. The overhead lights flickered, casting shadows that moved across the compartment. Outside, the world started to blur into darkness as the train entered a tunnel, the view from the windows replaced slowly by the black void.
In the growing darkness, Gihun's words felt heavier, the silence stretching between them, thick and unyielding. The tunnel swallowed the train whole, muting the world outside, muffling even the hum of the tracks beneath them.
A low hum of approval broke through the hush.
"Exactly," the man murmured. "So you design it. You create it."
Gihun stilled. When he first boarded, he was sure the man wouldn't resort to anything physical. But here, in the dark, with only that voice cutting through the void, he wasn't so certain. His fingers twitched, tightening around the grip of the gun tucked in his waistband.
He held his breath.
Waiting for the light.
Gihun’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. "And you think that's fair? Playing with people’s lives like that?"
The man’s voice came out steady, controlled. "Fairness is a construct. In the end, it’s about who survives and who doesn’t."
Gihun felt his pulse in his throat, the weight of his words settling in like a stone. "So, it’s all just a game to you?"
Gihun couldn’t see but he just knew that the man was amused.
"Isn’t it?" His voice was almost casual, but something in it coiled tight, deliberate. "Life itself is the ultimate game."
He exhaled slowly, controlled, like he was measuring the air between them.
"Tell me," the man continued, his voice dropping just slightly, "what’s the difference between a game where people’s lives hang in the balance... and God?"
A pause.
He shifted, his voice sounded closer, just enough to make the space between them smaller. "Doesn’t He play with people’s lives too?" His tone was smooth, almost thoughtful. "Religion might not word it as cruelly as that... but isn’t that exactly what He does?"
Then, the light returned. The train emerged from the tunnel, and in that brief flicker of clarity, Gihun noticed—the man had moved up a few seats. Not too close, but close enough to be felt. More than he already was.
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
Thrown.
Gihun exhaled slowly, steadying himself before shifting forward, slipping into the seat beside him. Not close,but near enough. Enough that the presence between them felt heavier.
Like something on the verge of collision.
But not yet.
Gihun let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “That isn’t the same.”
He kept his voice firm, steady. But inside, something twisted.
The man's words—it was reasoning he had heard before. From people who had lost too much. From the ones he knew back in his gambling days, the ones who stopped believing the tides would ever turn. It just is.
Gihun believed every word he was saying. He had to.
So why did it feel like he was losing? Like the scales were tipping too far, and he couldn’t pull them back?
Heat crept up his throat. “God doesn’t make people kill each other for sport. For fun.”
And then—
The man was sitting across from Gihun now. Separate sides of the train, yet directly in front of him.
Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across Gihun’s face. The man just watched. Stared.
Then, he leaned forward. Just slightly.
"But doesn’t He?"
The words were too sure. Like he knew something. Like he knew Gihun—personally, up close.
As if he had been watching him all along.
Gihun wanted to respond—to challenge, to push back. To tell the man he was wrong, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. That life wasn’t just a hopeless, black pit. That maybe—maybe—people were better than that.
And yet.
He also wanted to tell him that pushing a man already teetering on the edge wasn’t the smartest choice.
But didn’t that thought just prove his point?
And then he thought about Sangwoo. About how he killed Saebyeok—not because he had to, but because he chose to. He could have waited. He could have let the game play out. But he didn’t.
Then the recruiter came to mind, the way he enjoyed slapping desperate men across the face, passing judgment with every smack, as if their suffering was just another game.
And then—the worst thought of all.
Himself.
The army of men he sent out, day after day. Knowing exactly what the recruiters were willing to do to pull players in. Knowing what they’d be willing to do to stop people like him from digging too deep.
He knew those men could die.
One already had.
And that death was in his hands.
The hypocrisy of it all settled low in his stomach, thick and suffocating. His breath hitched. His face twisted, something raw and awful clawing its way to the surface.
Horror.
And the man?
He just sat there. Poised. Still. Watching.
A blatant smile stretched across his face as he took in the way Gihun unraveled, as if he were watching him cycle through the five stages of grief in real time.
Gihun scowled, his grip tightening around the gun. “It’s different.”
The words came fast, too fast—spat out like if he didn’t say them now, they’d slip away, swallowed whole by doubt.
Inho tilted his head back, considering him. Then, with infuriating ease—
"Is it?"
Then, Gihun moved.
Smooth. Fast.
Before he could think, he was there—right beside the man, gun drawn, pressing cold metal against his temple.
His own breath came in shaky gasps, his hands unsteady on the grip. He hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t decided to do it. His body had moved before his mind could catch up.
The man turned to face him, slow, deliberate. Their eyes met. He blinked once, unbothered. Then, without hesitation, he leaned into the gun.
"You think you're different from me," he murmured. "Above it all. But here you are—gambling with life."
A pause. His gaze narrowed, something almost amused flickering behind his eyes.
"Tell me… what’s the next move?"
Gihun was stunned. He wanted to reply—to tell the man he had no control here. That he wasn’t the one holding the gun.
But he didn’t.
Because the truth was sinking in, heavy and suffocating. He had already lost.
Maybe the moment he stepped onto the train.
Maybe long before that.
He was so caught in the thought, in the slow, creeping realization, that he didn’t notice the way his grip faltered. Didn’t register the moment he relented—just for a second.
But long enough.
Long enough for the tables to turn.
The man grabbed the gun, brushing his hand against Gihun’s in the process. The touch sent a shiver through him, a chill unlike any he had ever known.
Then, the gun was pressed to his head.
"Seems we’re at a standstill."
The man’s expression remained unreadable, and Gihun had no idea what to expect next.
The train screeched to a sudden halt, the harsh sound of the tracks splitting the moment. And in that instant, the man lowered the gun.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted the back of Gihun’s hand, positioning the gun in place. The barrel pointed toward Gihun. With his other hand, the man curled Gihun’s fingers around the grip, their hands locked together in a stillness that felt suffocating.
The doors opened with their familiar squeak, and the man rose, moving with an efficient pace. He made his way toward the exit, but just before stepping off, he turned his head. His gaze locked onto Gihun’s with unsettling calm.
For a brief moment, he said nothing, just watching him. Then, in a tone that felt too casual for the situation, he said,
"We’ll see each other again."
He paused, his gaze sharp, as if measuring the impact of the words.
"Gihun."
With that, he stepped off the train. The doors closed behind him with a soft whoosh, leaving Gihun alone in the sudden silence—a tight, anxious feeling settling deep in his chest, one that wouldn’t let go.
Gihun remained frozen in his seat, reeling from everything that had just unfolded. The way the man had touched him, the gun pressed to his head, the realization that he had sat face to face with the one person he hated most—and never even knew it.
Finally, he stood up, moving to the window. His breath caught when he looked out. There he was, standing outside, smiling, waiting.
The train doors had already sealed shut. The world outside was now a blur, and inside, the hum of the train was the only sound, suffocating in its emptiness.