Chapter Text
The realization — the real gravity of what happened, what they did — didn't hit all at once.
It came slowly. Starting with his card getting declined when he tried to make a purchase. It'd begun with a slight inconvenience, an annoyance on In-ho's end. Then came the confusion when all his following attempts to withdraw from his account, or do anything at all, had been fruitless.
He hadn't realized it then. Not yet. What really happened. Thought it was just some errors. Until he made a call to the bank, expecting the issues to be solved swiftly.
What he learned made him momentarily forget how to breathe. They took it all — the VIPs — not just his winnings but his savings, too. Everything.
Somehow they did that. No, not 'somehow', they could do anything they wanted. And In-ho knew they were furious with the stunt he pulled back on the island, stabbing them each in the back before walking (running) away from the game once and for all.
In-ho's mistake was that he kept all his money in his account, instead of withdrawing it all like Gi-hun did when he could, when he had the chance.
And this... this was the VIPs saying if you no longer wish to be our dog, you will be a stray with nothing left.
Nothing.
Not even enough money in his wallet to buy himself food, let alone cover his rent.
In-ho knew he couldn't ask Jun-ho for help, couldn't even tell what was going on, his... struggle.
Besides In-ho's own remaining pride, Jun-ho had made it clear, after he dropped In-ho off at In-ho's old apartment, he wanted nothing to do with In-ho. Not anymore. Not after what In-ho did. And In-ho couldn't blame him. Even if Jun-ho's cutting him off and In-ho's having gone bankrupt meant he was homeless with nothing left.
Even if a small part of him, a childlike and terrified part, whispered go to Jun-ho, ask for his help, get on your knees and beg, before you either starve or freeze to death out here.
Jun-ho said he wanted nothing to do with you anymore. He was very clear about that the last time you saw him.
But Jun-ho doesn't know. He thinks you still live in that apartment.
Jun-ho doesn't know how pathetic you actually are. Are you going to let him know, just so he can laugh at you?
He wouldn't laugh. He wouldn't laugh at me. He's a good kid. He's kind. He's —
Everybody would laugh at you now, In-ho. After what you've done, everyone would be glad to see you fall.
Or. Worse. They would pity you. The former police officer and former Front Man. Reduced to worthless trash. No food or shelter.
Il-nam used to enjoy watching, from his penthouse, people like you freezing to death on the street.
They would either laugh at you, or pity you.
Someone shouted. No, someone was yelling at him. The noise pulled In-ho out of his thoughts. Too close. In-ho flinched, full-body jerking and scurrying away, knocking over a trash can with his back and making a mess in the process. It seemed to only anger the man more, the restaurant's employee who very clearly was not happy with a dirty, homeless man taking shelter at the alley behind the building. "Get out of here," something, an empty bottle of alcohol, was thrown his way. In-ho ducked, just in time for him to not take the full impact but not in time for him to have avoided it altogether. It hit his head, drawing blood, but it could be worse. In-ho knew it could be worse. Had been through it. The worse part of what happened to a homeless man, the type of man Il-nam called trash, the same kind of man In-ho used to watch struggle and suffer out in the open during winter from the penthouse he lived in as the Front Man, all the while sipping on his whiskey. He was that man now. The trash. And he knew, had since learned from firsthand experiences, what happened to people like him. To them, to most people (and they didn't even have to be as wealthy as Il-nam or the VIPs, just most normal, ordinary people who could afford basic things like food and housing), poverty and homelessness — the situation In-ho found himself in, what became of his life now — was an ugly rot, a disease plaguing humankind.
People like him shouldn't exist. Not in society. Not in this world.
He'd barely escaped his last assault with his life. There were four or five of them, the men who attacked him last week when they found him rifling through a dumpster behind their apartment for some leftovers, some expired food, anything to keep him from starvation. In-ho really believed, back then, he would die when they were punching, kicking, beating the very life out of him as he lay on the floor in that alleyway.
Actually, he didn't escape. His attackers simply stopped when he went still and limp. When they thought he was dead. And he knew they hoped he was dead. No law was going to protect the homeless, nothing was going to be done when a random homeless person went missing. No one cared or knew when they went missing, and if their body was found, then no investigation would ever take place. Another John Doe. Another carcass that, once taken care of, was a memory remembered by none. In-ho knew that because he was the cop who took care of it when a homeless person was found dead in a shady neighborhood. There never was an investigation, never was an actual case. They always ruled substance abuse or terminal illnesses as the cause of death. It was fitting, wasn't it? They were homeless. Didn't matter if there was clear evidence of foul play. They never mattered. That was how the world worked. How the world saw them, saw In-ho.
You are one of them now. One of the trash.
He was limping, and he didn't even remember what exactly happened to his leg. It was hard to keep track of his body, bruises and wounds when beating and assault became part of his daily life. People either want to beat you, or they are disgusted by you. But at least... at least he managed to make it to the other alley, someplace quiet and secluded, before he collapsed.
It was snowing tonight. The rag of the clothes he was wearing did nothing at keeping the cold away, so if he was lucky... if In-ho was lucky enough, he'd go in his sleep tonight — then there would be no more pain, no more suffering.
If there was anything In-ho learned from the tragedy that was his life, he never was lucky.
He woke again, the next morning, to the same pain and hunger gnawing at his bones.
In-ho started to fear it would never end.