Chapter Text
“Loving is to give what one does not have to someone who does not want it.”
- Jacques Lacan, Seminar XII
Heavy rain cascaded down the hospital room window, blurring the view of the city skyline. As Inho stood in front of it, he could only see his reflection staring back at him. It was uncertain how long he had been in the room before he finally turned away from the window and approached the bed.
His little brother lay there in a comatose state, his expression gentle underneath the breathing apparatuses, as if his mind was at peace. His chest rose and fell in shallow swells, his lips were chapped, and his facial hair was growing in.
It had been two months.
Inho knew he shouldn’t have come here, only because it put Junho at risk. But he had been summoned to this hospital by somebody else, and knowing his brother was here alone, on a rare night when their mother wasn’t crying and praying by his bedside, was unbearable. Inho took a deep breath and sat next to the bed, reaching out to hold Junho’s hand.
“Live,” he pleaded softly, squeezing his hand tighter. “Please, live. For Mom.”
He wouldn’t ask Junho to do anything for him; he was the one who put him here, after all. His little brother who would have followed him to the ends of the earth–and did–until Inho had shown him who he really was. Inho knew he could never see him again; he just needed him to be okay.
Inho didn’t stay there long. He sucked back the tears that formed in his eyes and took a last look at his brother before departing. He took the elevator up to the 18th floor–the radiation unit–and was escorted to one of the private rooms by invitation. Once inside, he set his umbrella in the holder and hung up his trenchcoat.
The room was like a hotel suite. Well decorated, a large window overlooking the city, a wide-screen TV mounted on the wall. Inho had never known these kind of rooms existed in any hospital, before all of this. People like him weren’t supposed to know.
A frail old man was sitting up in his plush bed, hands folded neatly on his lap, fixated on the window. Inho bowed to him anyway.
“Are you well?” he asked in a gentle voice.
Oh Ilnam continued to stare out the window from his bed as he spoke in a shaky voice. “Pity. The rain is blocking my view.”
Inho cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Would you like me to turn on the TV?”
“No, no,” Ilnam said. He gestured toward the antique chair beside his bed, turning away from the window finally to look at Inho. He took a seat, leaning forward, waiting for Ilnam to speak.
“I’ve decided to stop my treatment. All it does is make me dizzy, more forgetful.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Inho felt robotic as he answered. As if he were still in the mask back on the island, soulless. “Do you need anything?”
Ilnam studied his face, shaking his head. “I’ll be moving to palliative care tomorrow, back in one of my estates. Apparently I will be lucky to see another spring.”
Inho nodded rigidly. He was stumped on what to say. Someone like Ilnam did not need comfort from him; this man was just his boss, after all.
“Why did you summon me here, Sir?”
Ilnam blinked at him slowly. “Have you been keeping an eye on our most recent winner, like I requested?”
Inho slowly sat up, smoothing the fabric of his pants. “I check his location occasionally.”
He had not. However tempting it always was. It felt wrong.
Ilnam narrowed his eyes at him. “Hm. I thought you were a better liar than that.”
“The man is grieving,” Inho blurted. “I don’t feel comfortable watching it.”
The old man chuckled. “You’ve watched hundreds of people kill each other for money. I chose you to be the Front Man because you were suited for this. Now you tell me you can’t watch a man grieve?”
Inho clenched his jaw. “You know it’s different.”
“Is it because he reminds you of yourself?”
Inho stood abruptly, the chair legs scratching loudly on the floor. The heels of his leather shoes clicked in the heavy silence as he paced a few times, stopping by the window. “Why do you want me to watch him?”
“Last I heard, he hasn’t touched any of his prize money. I want to understand what’s stopping him.” A long sigh filled the short silence. “And I suppose I became fond of him.”
Inho’s left eye twitched. He was back to staring at his own reflection in the dark window as the rain came down harder, hammering against the glass. “Sir, I understand he treated you well during the game, but with all due respect–isn’t he only another piece of trash in your eyes? Why should he be your concern just because he made it out alive?”
“Inho.” Ilnam spoke his name softly. “I know you understand why.”
Inho’s hands closed into fists at his sides; if he wasn’t wearing gloves, his fingernails would’ve drawn blood from his palms. He closed his eyes, and images flashed rapidly through his mind. Images from the past two months that Inho spent on the island in isolation, floating through each day, unable to distinguish morning from night as he scrolled through the camera footage from the 33rd games. Finding every moment of Seong Gihun, from when he was first recruited, being slapped at the subway station until the blood-vessels broke in his face, to when he stood over his childhood friend, drenched in blood, with his hand out-stretched saying “Let’s go home.”
It had been raining like it was tonight.
“He was just a winner of the game.” Inho turned back to face Ilnam. “I know you keep the trackers on all the winners and on anyone who was recruited to work for the games. It shouldn’t be my job to watch Gihun–” He pressed his lips together. “Player 456.”
Ilnam was staring in another direction, and Inho wondered if he had even been listening.
“I’m tired,” he said weakly, leaning back into his pillows. He furrowed his brow, blinking in confusion. “Is my son here?”
Inho rubbed his temples, sighing. “I…I should go.”
The old man just looked at him like he had never seen him before. Inho began to head for the door.
“You don’t need to live on the island, Inho. Buy yourself a nice property. You’re allowed to exist outside your role in the games.”
It took everything within Inho not to strangle the old man. He knew damn well Inho had nothing left to live for–or at least, no real, normal life left to live.
Inho didn’t want to constantly watch Gihun, because Inho knew first-hand how violating it felt. Ilnam could never understand–and he could never know how much Inho struggled to resist checking Gihun’s whereabouts, or calling him just to see if he was still alive. He already hated himself for spending so many of his waking hours studying every moment that Gihun spent on the island, every little interaction he had, every naive choice he made, every time he was bewilderingly intelligent. The way he trusted people to a fault. The way he made it out of the game alive without killing a single soul on his own.
Still, a morbid curiosity pulled at Inho, yearning to know if Gihun would suffer the same way he did after winning his games. If Gihun had lost his hope in humanity, if his soul had been crushed beyond repair. Maybe then, Inho could finally be at peace with his decision.
He remembered choosing to accompany Gihun in the limo ride back to Seoul, sitting across from the man who had begun to make Inho question everything–everything he thought he had already answered in his mind when he decided to leave his life behind and become the Front Man. He remembered watching the threads of all the damage he had done unravel and spill across the floor, stretching far beyond his feet as Gihun sat there in his worn, wrinkled clothes, blindfolded, hands bound, his head lolled to the side as if he had no strength left to carry himself. And Inho sat there knowing he was part of the reason this man was so broken; he couldn’t lay all the blame on people like Ilnam and his clients. Inho let it happen to Gihun, because it was his job. Because he was supposed to think these games should go on and on, that all humans are trash, nothing but horses in a race running and running until they die. Some just reach the end faster than others.
Inho grabbed his coat and umbrella and left without looking back.
The rain beat down on him, floods of it washing through the streets. The white limo waited for him just ahead, ready to take him back to the island. He strapped his black mask over his face.
Inho paused for a moment before stepping in; as if he had a choice. As if he had anywhere else to go. He thought of his stepmother, facing all of this alone. He thought of all the evil he had done, and knew he wasn’t deserving of her love.
He thought of Seong Gihun, who had somehow managed to crack the impenetrable walls Inho had built around himself, challenging everything he had convinced himself to be true.
Inho got in the limo and watched the world go by out his window in muted blurs. This was for the best. Staying away.
Then his phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number.
We know about your brother.
“You can’t sleep here, Sir.”
Gihun woke up with a throbbing head and a burning sensation in his throat, remnants of soju on his tongue.
“Mom?” The word rolled out of his mouth before he could stop it, as if he had been saying it in his sleep.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, a sharp breeze rattling his bones; two police officers stood above him. It was dawn; there was a faint orange glow along the skyline that reflected in the river.
“Think we should take him to the station?” One of them said to the other.
“I think he’s just a drunk, let’s send him on his way.”
“I’m right here!” Gihun shouted hoarsely, startling them. “Stop talking about me as if I can’t understand.”
The older officer cleared his throat. “Sure. Get off the bench then, Sir, and be on your way.”
Gihun scoffed. “Excuse me? Can’t a tax-paying citizen take a nap in the park?”
The officer took out his notepad and began writing.
“There’s no need for that,” Gihun sputtered. He stood up too quickly and the frosted grass immediately came up to meet his face.
“Player 456, congratulations. Your prize money will be given to you on a bank card upon your return to Seoul.” The monotonous voice from behind the guard’s mask was speaking to Gihun, but he couldn’t process a single word. Two guards had to pry him away from Sangwoo’s body and help him limp off the muddy field. He strayed in and out of consciousness as he was led to a room and stripped out of his suit so they could treat and bandage up his wounds.
Gihun flinched when the door opened and a crate holding his belongings was dropped into the room. Even through the stench of blood on his body, he could smell his mom’s kitchen on his hoodie.
They led him further down the dug-out tunnel and into some sort of parking garage, a white limo standing out amongst the black vans and trucks. Gihun’s eyes were swollen from crying, and he could hardly carry his own weight, yet the guards continued to hold his arms as if he would still try and fight or escape.
“Captain?” One of the guards spoke in surprise.
Heeled boots clicked across the cement floor; Gihun raised his head as much as he could manage, seeing a dark figure approaching him, its face concealed by a black geometrical mask that was very distinct from the others.
For a moment, Gihun thought this was death coming to deliver its final blow. He was frozen in place, unable to look away from the lifeless face in front of him.
“I am the Front Man, the overseer of the games. I will join you on your ride back to Seoul.” The voice that came from the mask was altered to sound deep and inhuman, even more than what came from the guards.
Gihun’s stomach twisted, a burning sensation rising in his throat in disgust, but all he could do was stare in disbelief and utter confusion. He should have done something. He should have at least tried to kill the monster responsible for all of this.
A dark veil blinded Gihun’s vision; he was blindfolded and his hands were bound before he was shoved into the limo. He wasn’t even scared. Just so numb, so weak and lifeless, he could hardly hold his head up.
He could feel the Front Man’s presence; he could smell his cologne. It made Gihun nauseous. He didn’t want to think of this bastard as a human at all.
It only got worse when the next voice he heard was no longer altered behind a mask; it was low and eerily calm as the man congratulated Gihun on his win. A chill ran through Gihun’s spine as the smell of champagne hung in the air.
“Why did you do it?”
His voice was hoarse from all the screaming and crying; it was painful to speak. He waited for the man’s answer.
The limo came to a jolting halt and Gihun’s head lolled back, his vision returning to him; he was handcuffed in the backseat of a police car. One of the cops was swearing about a bad driver, and flicked on their siren.
As the car slowed to a halt along the curb, Gihun’s eyes went dark again. The Front Man loomed over him, two glowing red dots behind the black eyes of the geometrical mask. A scream caught in Gihun’s throat as he tried to thrash against his restraints, the Front Man’s gloved hand coming up to hold his face roughly between his fingers, now forcing him to look at the view outside of the limo: the bodies of everyone he cared about hanging over a river of bloodstained cash.
“I didn’t expect you’d run this far,” the distorted voice taunted him until his voice surrounded Gihun like a cage.
He woke up thrashing his arms and covering his ears, the voice still vivid enough that Gihun was afraid to open his eyes, thinking he would see the mask or his dead loved ones again. A dull pain prodded at his back; he was laying on a hard, unfamiliar surface, taking in laboured breaths and reorienting himself.
Gihun couldn’t remember the last time he had a peaceful sleep; he also hardly remembered the last time he woke up sober. His hands trembled as he searched his jacket and pockets for cigarettes, and his panic rose as the memory of waking up in a sterile bed in a huge dormitory room, his belongings stripped from him against his will, flashed through his mind.
Thankfully, he hadn’t woken up in that place. After finally sitting up and taking in his surroundings, Gihun realized he was being kept in a cell at the police station.
Of course he had been locked up. He was one of those people now–a person who was not really seen as a human, but rather a ghost, wandering the streets as a dead man. A ghost who drank soju at the park until he passed out, a nuisance to decent society, a ghost with nowhere else to go. No home to return to, no one to take care of him.
He was a ghost who had 45.6 billion won sitting in the bank, and 456 souls lingering over him–the 455 who died for him to get that money, and his mother. Hell, he deserved to be treated worse.
Footsteps approached down the hall and stopped in front of Gihun’s cell door, followed by the clinking of keys. Gihun jumped slightly when there was a light knock before the door opened, his hand coming up to shield himself.
“You feeling okay, Mr. Seong?” The cop asked.
Gihun remained silent; he swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. The cop held out a bottle of water but Gihun just waved it away.
“Come with me please, we just need to do a blood test before letting you go.”
Every part of his body ached; he stretched his limbs, wincing as he stood to follow the cop.
On the way, he stopped in front of the bathroom, waiting for the cop to notice and nod curtly at him. He followed Gihun inside and stood by the door while Gihun took a long piss.
Gihun was forced to see his reflection in the sink mirror; he expected to see a mess, but it was still jarring. The skin under his eyes was thin and discoloured, his cheeks were flecked with red, frostbitten from sleeping outside in the night. His hair was matted, long enough to get in his eyes and flicking in every direction, falling past his shoulders. His bomber jacket and worn out jeans were far too thin for the November weather.
Right, Gihun thought. It must be November now. His 47th birthday had passed.
Gihun splashed water over his face, his hands continuing to shake. The cop ushered him out of the bathroom and once again, Gihun had trouble distinguishing what was real or not as he remembered being led through the dark underground of the games.
He was poked and prodded by a medic that had apparently been brought in just to examine him; he flinched again when the door opened and an older officer entered.
“Hi Mr. Seong, I’m Chief Kim.” He gave Gihun a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes lingering on him for a moment before walking past him to look at the computer over the medic’s shoulder.
Gihun’s fists balled up over his thighs, his teeth grit as he tried to control his shaking, his foot tapping rapidly.
“Have I done something wrong? What’s all the fuss about?”
“Just a moment, Mr. Seong.”
“Why did you cops take my stuff?”
Chief Kim held up a hand while continuing to focus on the screen, leaning a little closer to it. “You’ll get your things back before we let you go, we just want to make sure your–,”
“I’m clean! I don’t even have a criminal record,” Gihun snapped. “I don’t like being held here.”
Chief Kim gave a small sigh, patting the medic on the shoulder. “If the tests are looking good, I can take it from here.” He turned to face Gihun who had gotten up from his chair, crossing his arms.
“Mr. Seong, I’d like to ask you a few questions before you go. Just standard procedure, nothing to worry about.”
Gihun groaned, the pressure in the front of his forehead getting worse. “Fine.”
Chief Kim waited until the medic closed the door behind him; he pulled up a chair. Gihun watched him warily–he was fiddling with his hands, oddly agitated.
“What do you want from me?” Gihun blurted.
“Let me explain,” Chief Kim said. “Someone called to report that you were in need of help last night–the guy was right to do so. You had a dangerous amount of alcohol in your blood. But I checked over your file, just routine procedure, and something caught my attention.”
Gihun brushed his hair out of his eyes, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m here because someone was worried about me?”
It made no sense. He was convinced he had been brought in just for being a drunk, for loitering, for laying his head somewhere for the night.
“There are good people out there,” Chief Kim said with a flat smile. “Now, I wanted to ask…are you acquainted with a man named Hwang Junho?”
Gihun reeled back slightly, wracking his brain; but all he could find was a fog. The pounding in his head wasn’t helping him think, either.
Chief Kim sucked in air through his teeth, shifting in his seat. “He’s a detective here at the Dobong Station. Ring a bell?”
Gihun furrowed his brow. Dobong Station sounded familiar, but not the detective’s name. It was impossible to remember anything without flashes of dead, broken bodies appearing in his vision along with things he saw in his nightmares.
“There was a note on Detective Hwang’s desk with your name and address on it, and one of our officers remembered him asking about you just before we lost contact with him. I’m not trying to alarm you or blame you. It’s more of a personal matter.”
Gihun didn’t have time for personal matters; he was getting nauseous, his head was killing him.
“Seong Gihun-ssi.” Chief Kim put a grounding hand on his shoulder. “I’m asking because Detective Hwang is currently in a coma, and I need answers.”
“What happened to him?”
“We don’t know. He was found unconscious by a sea captain somewhere in the Yellow Sea.”
Gihun breathed out, still unsure what any of this would have to do with him.
“When?”
“Back in June.”
He stared at Gihun expectantly, wide-eyed, but Gihun could hardly stand it anymore.
“I need some air. And a cigarette.”
Gihun took a long drag, inhaling as if it were his life force, tilting his head up to watch the smoke cloud above him as he blew it out. He shivered in the crisp air, his hands still shaking–they were red and chapped from the cold. Another wave of nausea rushed over him and he took another deep inhale of nicotine, looking around as if a convenience store might magically appear so he could buy soju.
He checked his phone for any other kind of stimulus or distraction, but it was dead. He realized he hadn’t charged it in days. If his birthday had passed, he wondered if he missed any calls–he wondered if Gayeong had tried to reach him.
Gihun stomped out his cigarette, teeth chattering, his throat feeling as if it were closing. He tried to think about the detective–Hwang-something, Gihun had already forgotten–things often slipped his mind quickly these days. Found in the sea, in June, the month Gihun had gone to the games–what did it matter, anyway? Everyone who was there with him in that place had died. He had already tried to tell the police about it back then, and they treated him like a drunk–now that he had really become one, there was no way they would take him seriously.
He paused, turning to look back at the front of the station; so that’s why it was familiar. It was the same one he had come to after being dumped off on the side of the road.
The door clicked open and Chief Kim came out to stand beside him, seeming to be unaffected by the cold even though he only wore a black polo shirt.
“What now?” Gihun asked, snappier than he intended.
“Mr. Seong, if you remember anything about Hwang Junho that might help us out in any way to figure out what happened to him, give me a call.” He held out a business card.
Gihun scoffed, barely able to look at the card. His shaking hands reached for his pack of cigarettes again, almost dropping them.
“Do I look like I’m in a position to help anyone right now?” He waved away the Chief’s hand. “Sorry about your coworker, but I don’t have any information.”
Chief Kim sucked in a sharp breath. “Please. He’s a good kid, and he’s been through a lot. His mother–,”
Gihun laughed cynically, not wanting to hear it. “Been through a lot…” he trailed off.
“I can pay you.”
Gihun just shook his head, a sour taste rising in his throat.
“Good luck, Chief.” He walked away without looking back.
These officers didn’t know that just hours before they found Gihun on the park bench, he had stood at the edge of the dock, watching the rushing river beneath him. He had watched dead leaves float along the surface, faster than the water seemed to be moving, until they were out of sight. He took long swigs of alcohol and teetered over the edge, toying with his fate. The only thing that had stopped him was an old woman who came by to sell roses, begging Gihun to buy one. He used the very last of his petty change he had made from his last chauffeur gig before the games to buy it. The woman had told him to come away from the water, because he might catch a cold; once she left, Gihun tossed the rose into the river and went to finish his soju on that bench.
The storm within him rose again as he walked through a park and saw all the other people without homes, struggling to survive in the colder weather, the kind of people who were targets for the games. An endless supply of disposable racehorses for their entertainment.
Soon enough, the loan sharks would find Gihun and sell his organs. The blood money would sit there on that plastic card, shackled to his feet, dragging him down to the bottom of the sea. No one would know or care that he was gone.
Gihun sat at the window of a convenience store with a half-empty bottle of soju and a cup of ramen, his first meal in two days. After a couple tries, Gihun managed to get a phone charger into the socket, and waited for his phone screen to flash white.
A picture of Gayeong with a huge toothy grin and her hair in two long braids greeted him when his phone turned on. Gihun stared at it for a while, until his service came back again, and a handful of messages appeared on his screen. Threats from the loan sharks mostly, a notification about upcoming horse races, overdraft warnings from the bank. A message saying he could redeem a free coffee for his birthday. A belated birthday message from Jungbae, apologizing for being a bad friend and asking how Gihun’s mother was doing.
There were two missed calls from a long-distance number.
Gihun’s thumb hovered over the number, only to remember if he called it now, Gayeong would be sleeping. Not like he had any idea what he would say to her, anyway. Not like he deserved to speak to her ever again.
The hour dragged on slowly as Gihun scrolled through his photos and past messages with her. He saw them smiling and playing together, he heard his own laughter behind the camera as he filmed her doing a gymnastics routine in the living room.
“Don’t laugh, daddy!”
“But you’re so cute, Gayeong-ie!” Gihun hiccuped between his giggles. “Do your handstand for Grandma!”
His mother was in the background, clapping along to the music a little off-beat. She was smiling, her eyes glistening. She was warm, happy and alive.
For the first time in months, a smile tugged at Gihun’s lips; he wiped away the wetness on his face and let out a laugh as Gayeong finished off her routine with a sassy pose.
“She gets that from me,” Gihun whispered into the camera.
“Idiot,” Gihun muttered to himself, and closed the video. He propped his fist under his cheek and gazed at his reflection in the window, the heaviness of reality slowly settling back over him.
He may have lost everything, but his daughter was still alive. Far away, but alive. At this point the only reason he was still here was because of her. The possibility that one day he could get back on his feet and meet her again, when he could be a dad she was proud to have.
When he left the convenience store, he returned to the river. There was a busker out playing guitar, couples of all ages strolling along the walkway wearing long coats and scarves, huddled into each other for warmth. Families eating ramen together and people walking their dogs.
Gihun thought of the old woman selling roses and the stranger who had called the police to help him because he was in danger.
All these people were blissfully unaware of the horrors that had happened somewhere on an island across the sea; the way those games made good-hearted people kill each other out of desperation and taking them away from their loved ones who would never get answers.
He thought of Saebyeok who pleaded with him to take care of her brother. Sangwoo, who’s last breath was spent pleading with him to take care of his mother. He was failing them just as he had failed his own mother and daughter.
The kindness of strangers had kept him from dying two days ago, and Gihun decided that was enough reason to give life one more chance.
Gihun woke up in a cheap but warm motel room the next morning. He showered, lathering his long, knotted hair with cheap shampoo, the water running down his body turning murky at his feet. He wiped away the fog from the mirror and pushed his hair out of his face, tying it back with an elastic before shaving. When he finished, he carefully dabbed cream on his skin, hissing a little at how it burned where he had been frostbitten.
He stared at the healed scar on his left hand, flipping it over, drawing in a shaking breath and closing his eyes.
The old clothes he had worn for months had been discarded and replaced with basic items more suitable for the weather. Gihun lay across the bed for a while; cleaning himself up had been a lot more draining than he expected. And the thought of going out into the world and being seen again was terrifying.
The next month was spent carefully withdrawing money, finding and adopting Kang Cheol to place him in the care of Sangwoo’s mother, and paying off his debts. For a little while, Gihun’s heart felt lighter, like he at least had a purpose to drive him forward, helping people.
If he could track down every single loved one of the people who died in that place to give them their share of the money, he would. And if he could track down that Front Man, and everyone else responsible for the entire disgusting operation, he would. But what difference could one man like himself make, in the end? Gihun knew there was still hope, still good people deserving of a second chance like him, but that wasn’t enough to end the games. He would need a lead, a plan.
It was early December now; Gihun had originally planned on finally calling his daughter today, and if it went well, he hoped to buy plane tickets to see her for Christmas. It would be the first large purchase he would make for himself, for his own family, in a long time. He yearned to really move on, to get out of this place, at least for a while.
But the nightmares didn’t cease; the deep voice he had heard in that limo haunted him. He saw a figure with a black mask towering over him when he closed his eyes, he would hear a knock at the motel door and imagine that man standing on the other side of it, and so many of his dreams took place on that field where they played Red Light, Green Light, the same place where Sangwoo bled out in his arms.
So instead, he decided to go back to the police station to find out more about Hwang Junho.