Chapter Text
It all begins with a single rose.
An old woman sells it to him, and inside the transparent plastic wrapping, he finds a familiar card - this time with some text and not just shapes - that upends his life once again. He follows the address, talks to Il-nam, watches him die - and it almost becomes the final chapter in his history with the games.
He almost moves on. Almost flees the country to see his daughter and start anew - but then he spots an old acquaintance slapping yet another unlucky wretch across the face, and he can’t bring himself to walk away now.
He has to do something. He has to stop this madness.
He takes the business card. Makes the call. Hears the voice - the same one that once spoke to him in the limousine after his games.
And from that moment, his story takes another sharp turn.
Now he’s living in a derelict love hotel, bought dirt-cheap, using every resource he has just to find him - the man he knows only by voice. The man who sent him the rose…
More than just once.
He hadn’t thought much about the first rose. It stayed there, forgotten under the bridge as he stumbled away on shaking legs, clutching the business card - it seemed like a mere vessel for an important message, nothing more.
But when one day he returns to the hotel and finds a scarlet rose in the same cellophane wrap left at his doorstep, Gi-hun feels a chill crawl down his spine.
He scans the street, already knowing who left it - but there’s no one. He even darts toward the road, checking the cars, the sidewalks - nothing. Across the street, just a regular man in a hoodie slouches at a café table, his hair disheveled, he’s sipping coffee. His eyes look tired as he's flipping through a paperback. No one else is here. No one suspicious.
Pursing his lips, Gi-hun exhales and turns back to the rose. He stares at it - long, tense, as if it’s wired to explode - then finally picks it up, inspecting every inch.
No note. No hidden device. No nothing.
Convinced they wouldn’t just leave a rose for no reason, his trembling fingers shred it, petal by petal, until the ruined flower lies in a crumpled heap at his feet. He searches for a tracker, for anything - but there’s nothing. Not on the wrapping, not in the rose itself.
It’s just… a rose. They left him a rose - no, he did.
Okay.
Why?
It gnaws at him. Lying in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, he keeps thinking it over, unsettled. Why would the Frontman leave him a rose? Is it like… some twisted joke? A threat? Should he look up the meaning of red roses in flower language or something?
No, no - that’s insane. It’s just… just another way to mess with his head.
And damn it, this way is working.
A week later, when he finally decides to leave his hideout, he swings the door open - and hears a faint rustle. Looking down, he sees a third rose, dislodged by the sudden movement, now lying on the ground.
That same jagged mix of dread and desperate hope surges through him. He whirls around, sprinting out as if expecting the Frontman to be lurking nearby, watching his reaction - but there’s no one. When he picks up the rose, he realizes it’s already wilting. It must have been here for days. Whoever left it is gone by now for sure, searching the area is pointless.
With a sigh, he tosses it into the trash.
Screw this guy.
...
And yet, it does not end with it. At some point, it all only starts to feel even more ridiculous.
He no longer flinches at the sight of the flowers - now, he half-expects to find them every time he steps outside. He even decides to use the man’s bizarre behavior to his advantage, finally installing a discreet surveillance system around his hideout. But, as one might guess, the Frontman somehow finds out, and the roses stop appearing at his doorstep. And Gi-hun almost thought he’s done with him.
Instead, one day, his phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number - just a set of coordinates. And, as unsettling and suspicious it is, Gi-hun can’t ignore the lead.
He grabs his gun (just in case) and heads to the marked location. On the way, some guy in a hurry bumps into him, shoulders colliding - but Gi-hun barely spares a glance at the retreating figure, too focused on his destination.
The coordinates lead him to a derelict building a few blocks from his hideout - a place even worse than his love hotel, with shattered windows, stray cats slinking through piles of trash, and the distinct aura of a place that’s either a drug den or should be.
The moment he steps inside, his phone vibrates again.
He pulls it out, wary. Reads:
"To your left."
Gi-hun’s head snaps toward the darkened hallway on his left, grip tightening on his phone. The corridor is littered with broken glass and peeling wallpaper, the kind of place that screams turn back now. No sane man would go there.
But Gi-hun’s stubborn. He draws his gun and steps forward.
Another buzz.
"Second floor, up the stairs. Watch your step on the seventh one."
Is this all just a game to you? Gi-hun wants to ask, but instead, he presses his lips into a thin line and climbs. The seventh step is cracked - just enough that his usual clumsiness could send him tumbling - but the warning saves him. It irritates him.
"Third turn right."
The hallway is thick with dust, cobwebs clinging to the corners. He grimaces as his boot crushes something suspiciously rat-shaped. He hopes not to catch any infection here, simply turning at the right place, and at the same moment he receives another message from his secret admirer.
"Warmer."
This bastard. Gi-hun scans the walls for hidden cameras but finds none. Either they’re expertly hidden, or the Frontman’s watching him some other way.
Then, as he moves past one of the rooms, intending to reach the end of the corridor:
"Colder now."
He can’t take it anymore. With a scowl, he hits call and presses the phone to his ear. His other hand still clutches the gun, but it feels useless now - more like a prop than a threat.
He doesn’t expect the Frontman to answer. But then-
"Why should I pick up when you ended our last two calls by slamming the phone down without even so much as a goodbye?"
That voice - the one from his nightmares - sends a shiver down his spine. Gi-hun freezes, staring blankly, as if reality itself has glitched.
He’s really talking to him.
It feels like waking up from a coma.
"Are you going to hang up on me this time as well?"
Silence. Only Gi-hun’s tense breathing fills the line.
The Frontman continues. "Take three careful steps back. Look left".
Gi-hun exhales sharply but obeys - three steps, a turn - and there it is: a door, slightly ajar.
He pushes it open, cautious. A gray cat darts past, fleeing to the balcony. He watches it go before stepping inside.
"Warmer now…" the Frontman murmurs.
"Why are you playing this game with me?" Gi-hun finally finds his voice, starting to look around, going to the dresser, opening the drawers one by one. There is some junk there, not worthy of his attention. "What do you want?"
"Why are you playing this game with me?" the Frontman tosses back. "What are you hoping to achieve here, Player 456? Perhaps you think I’m hiding in one of those drawers?" there's a faint chuckle at the end of the phrase. "That’s cold, by the way".
Gi-hun slams the drawer shut a little too hard and turns, scowling. "What am I supposed to find here?"
"Does it matter?" the Frontman muses as Gi-hun yanks open a closet - empty except for moth-eaten coats. He considers checking the pockets (for another beige card, maybe?) when the man stops him. "Come on. I’m not that predictable. Think outside the box, Player 456. That’s the only way you’ll win your little prize".
Gi-hun’s gaze sweeps the room again - slower, sharper - and then he stops. Stares.
On a dusty bookshelf, a piggy bank grins back at him.
"There you go. Getting warmer," purrs the voice in his ear.
Gi-hun closes the distance to the shelf, holstering his gun and grabbing the piggy bank. After a quick inspection, he smashes it against the floor without hesitation.
"A little brute force is just necessary sometimes, isn’t it, Player 456?" the man remarks, and Gi-hun wishes he could punch him right now. Instead, he just curls his lip in disgust.
Kneeling beside the shattered pieces, he sifts through the broken ceramic and some coins until his fingers brush against a tightly rolled note. He unfurls it - only to scowl harder at the single line written there:
Follow the white cat.
Frustration boils over. "Stop playing games and just tell me what you want from me," he snaps, pushing back to his feet.
"It’s a Matrix reference. The white rabbit? Don’t tell me you don’t remember - it’s a classic," the Frontman muses, his tone infuriatingly light. Gi-hun didn’t know it was possible to want to hit someone this badly without even seeing their face once. "You should watch it sometime. The first one’s the best".
"Are you enjoying this?" Gi-hun asks, nearly spitting the words.
"I’m not forcing you to participate," the Frontman counters. "You can leave anytime. Hang up. Ignore me. No one’s holding a gun to your head. You chose to spend your evening like this, Player 456. So don’t act like you’re here against your own will".
Gi-hun glares at the cryptic note, tempted - purely out of spite - to hang up and walk away.
But then his gaze catches on an old poster on the wall.
Some rock band, probably. None of the members stand out - except for the white cat cradled in one woman’s arms. Its mouth is open mid-meow, one paw stretching toward the room’s upper right corner. Gi-hun follows the implied line.
And there, atop the highest shelf, sits a stack of cardboard boxes. Most are plain, unmarked. But one bears three familiar shapes.
He freezes.
"See? Not so hard, was it?" the Frontman remarks.
Gi-hun sets the phone down, drags a chair over with a screech of wood on concrete, and climbs up to grab the box. It’s suspiciously light. He opens it…
Oh.
This bastard has to be kidding him.
Inside, there’s a single white rose. No plastic wrap this time. Just delicate petals, pristine against the grime of this place.
He turns the box upside down just to be sure, and yep! Nothing else is there.
He stares. Then, jaw tight, he climbs down and snatches the phone back.
"What’s this supposed to mean?" he demands.
"Hm? Oh. It’s just a flower. When was the last time someone gave you flowers, Gi-hun? Before me, I mean," his tone is casual, as if he’s not the architect of death games - just a man making small talk on a Tuesday.
Gi-hun refuses to dignify that with an answer. "Is this all a joke to you? Sending ex-winners flowers, planting cameras in abandoned buildings - this how you spend your free time?"
"Not usually, no," the Frontman’s calm is maddening.
"So I’m special, then?" Gi-hun’s voice drips venom. "Didn’t realize I left such an impression. I’m almost touched".
"You should be".
A scoff. "Don’t you have more important things to do? Running your death island? Conducting murder games?"
"I’m on vacation. Spending my free time as I please."
"You say that like it’s just a job".
"It is a job," the Frontman says simply. "But I’m off the clock. And I’m not in the mood to think about work right now".
"Too bad. The only thing I care about is your work," Gi-hun spits. He throws the rose to the filthy floor and strides out of the room, stepping on it as he does it like it’s not even there. "Shut down the games - or I’ll find you and make you do that".
Predictably, the Frontman laughs - soft, amused. "Oh? Well, I’d love to see you try," the smile in his voice is audible, and it makes Gi-hun’s blood burn. But then his tone shifts, getting quieter. "But it’s not worth it. Living in this dump, rotting in your own regrets, pushing further away from the life where you could actually be happy - all because you’re chasing a ghost. That’s not the future I want for you, Gi-hun".
"Don’t pretend you give a damn about my future," Gi-hun snaps. "You’re just covering your own ass. I know you’re close. Show yourself - unless you’re just a coward hiding behind that sick mask".
"And then what?" the Frontman’s voice sharpens just for a moment, then becomes almost soft again. "You’d press a gun to my head and demand I push some magic button to destroy the island? That’s your plan? Hate to break it to you, but it wouldn’t work. I’m not at the top of this food chain. I clawed my way up, but I’m still just a spinning top in their hands. If something happens to me, they’ll replace me before the blood’s dry. That’s how this works. And - why didn’t you take the rose?"
"Why did you give it to me?" Gi-hun fires back.
Silence stretches on the other end of the line. Then there’s a heavy exhale. A rustle of hesitation, as if he's carefully weighing his words.
"I'm... indulging a whim," the Frontman says at last, his tone giving nothing away. "Does it bother you?"
"Getting flowers from a mass murderer?" Gi-hun's laugh is sharp as broken glass. "You could say that, yeah".
Another pause. For a moment, Gi-hun thinks he might have struck a nerve. He’s halfway down the stairs now, stumbling over the seventh step - too focused on the quiet sound of the other man’s breathing to remember the warning. He still stays on his feet, thankfully.
Then, the Frontman speaks again, his voice lower, softer:
"If only you could see me as clearly as I see you. Maybe then you’d have kept the rose".
The words hit like a blade - piercing, then twisting. Something in his tone, in the quiet ache of it, roots Gi-hun to the spot. A vine of realization coils around his ribs, thorned and relentless.
It dawns on him slowly, like light through cracked blinds: what if this is the key to him winning? This strange fixation, this flicker of vulnerability in the man who orchestrates nightmares.
What if the Frontman’s weakness… is him?
The thought is dangerous. Hopeful. He cradles it like a lit match in cupped hands.
Play this right, Gi-hun thinks, and maybe - just maybe - I can burn this whole damn system down.
When he speaks again, his voice is steady, and there’s almost a challenge in it. "If you want to be seen, you have to show yourself first. Not hide behind a mask and a phone".
He’s outside now, scanning the streets as if hoping to spot a familiar dark silhouette. His body is tense, his attention snagging on a sleek black Porsche parked nearby - ostentatious, suspicious.
Lips pressed thin, he strides toward it. "Let me see you".
"You really think I drive a Porsche?" the voice on the phone halts him mid-step, just as a tall woman in an emerald dress steps out of the car, chatting animatedly into her own phone about some new apartment.
"No," Gi-hun mutters, turning away. "You’re more of a limo guy, aren’t you?" his eyes dart to security cameras mounted on the buildings, locking onto one. He stares straight into its unblinking lens. "So, why not let me? Are you shy?" the words toggle between mockery and raw sincerity, like stepping from one glass on the bridge to the other. "What are you afraid of? That if you look me in the eye, you won’t be able to tell me I’m wrong anymore?"
Silence answers for him.
He pushes on. "Or do you have a family who can’t know what you do? Scared I’ll find them and tell them about your job? Are there a wife and kid waiting at home while you hand-deliver roses to some old man on a whim?"
"I don’t have a wife or a kid".
"Well, color me surprised," Gi-hun says, the cruelty deliberate.
"I don’t want you to see me because…" the Frontman cuts him off before he can spit more venom. "I want you to move on. Board that plane to America. See your daughter. Try to be happy again. Cause if you see me… if we meet, you’ll have even less chance of doing any of that, Gi-hun. Some doors need to stay closed. And this… is just my whim".
Gi-hun scowls, tightening his grip on the phone. "If you think I can forget everything and ‘move on’ while hundreds of people die in that dehumanizing machine of yours, you clearly don’t know me at all".
"What I think will happen and what I want to happen are very different things, Gi-hun,” he says his name again, this time on purpose, emphasizing it. Almost a friend-to-friend talk. “I want you far away from me and happy. Yet, what I think will happen is that you’ll keep trying to crawl under my skin until it becomes a sickness of mine".
A beat of silence. Then, quieter:
"And that I’ll let you".
The line goes dead before Gi-hun can reply - the Frontman hanging up first, leaving behind words that detonate like a nuclear blast in his chest. Gi-hun doesn’t even notice he stopped breathing for a minute.
The next few days, he keeps circling back to that conversation, sitting in the cold darkness of his hotel room as the ashtray overflows with cigarette butts. Could this really be his chance? That glimpse of vulnerability in his monster - the way he ached to be seen, to be understood? Could he use that, twist it, use him to dismantle the very system he’s a part of?
The Frontman, if his words were to be believed, was a crucial cog in the machine - but replaceable. A car can’t run without an engine, but engines can be swapped. Maybe the man he’d painted as the villain of his story was more human than he’d thought. Maybe there was still a chance for him to do something right. Step into the light. Join forces. End the nightmare.
His phone lies on the table. He stares at it but doesn’t reach out. He knows the Frontman would pick up, even at 2 AM.
It’s madness.
He doesn’t call him.
For a week, he leaves the hotel daily - taking out trash, buying groceries, grabbing black coffee from the café across the street. He uses every little excuse to open the door and check - but not a single new flower appears on his doorstep. He wonders if the Frontman’s finally stopped indulging his whims.
On the seventh day, he’s leaving the café when he brushes past a man he’s seen there before, the one with the book. He doesn’t look up, and Gi-hun just holds the door for him absentmindedly before stepping out himself.
Back in his hotel, he barely registers his surroundings - until he sees the bed.
Made.
He’s certain he left it unmade.
And there, on the smooth navy sheets, lies a rose.
Pink, this time.
He should feel violated. Should scour the room for hidden cameras. Should rage at the intrusion.
Instead, he picks up the rose, fills a dirty mug with water, and sets it carefully against the wall. Then he waits.
The call comes, as expected, not too late after.
"You didn’t throw this one away".
No greeting. Just that voice, blunt.
"So you do have your cameras here," Gi-hun replies, a smirk tugging at his lips.
The Frontman remains silent for a few moments longer than necessary, understanding and acknowledging what Gi-hun's intention was. When he speaks again, his voice carries the warmth of a smile. "I’ve always had access to your security system".
"Watch me sleep like a crip?" a provocation with a bitter sneer.
A sigh. "When the whim takes me," he doesn't hesitate to offer him this quiet confession. Gi-hun feels many conflicting emotions inside and bites his lip, turning his gaze to his camera in the corner of the room.
"This whole thing feels a little one-sided," he mutters. "You get to watch me. I don’t even know your face".
"Would you like to watch me?"
Gi-hun doesn’t answer, gaze fixed on the rose.
The Frontman continues, voice low. "Watch me sleep. Shower. Drink coffee. Feed the fish".
"I’m not as twisted as you," Gi-hun snaps. "I don’t get off on invading another man’s privacy".
"Of course not," the Frontman agrees, tone unchanging. "You’d tell yourself you’re studying the enemy. Learning his habits. Finding weak points. Figuring out how I ended up like this," there’s a beat of silence. "Aren’t you curious, Gi-hun? Don’t you want to take me apart - see what makes me tick, so you can fix me?"
Bullseye. Gi-hun wisely stays silent about it, trying to switch the direction of this conversation. "Or we could just talk. Like normal people".
"We are talking".
"I meant, face to face," Gi-hun clarifies, nearly rolling his eyes.
"So eager to see me?" amusement bleeds into his words. "I never took you for someone who cared about appearances so much".
"That’s not-" he turns abruptly, reaching for his cigarettes by the window. Empty.
"Of course it’s not it. And I left a fresh pack in your nightstand," the Frontman says, unbearably gracious. "Next to the gun you keep there to chase the nightmares at night".
Gi-hun turns gloomily toward his bed. Then, slowly, he approaches it and opens the bedside drawer, looking at the carefully placed pistol, the spare magazine of bullets and a fresh pack of cigarettes, the exact brand he always smoked. Just how well this man knows him still infuriates him unbearably - but in small things like this, it proves unexpectedly useful. He grimaces anyway as he takes one from the pack and clenches it between his lips.
He lights it with his old lighter, exhaling gray smoke in front of himself. It relaxes him, giving in to bad habits.
"I see you in my nightmares," Gi-hun says, not knowing why. "After the last game, before they knocked me out with that gas, I caught a glimpse of you. A gray coat. A stupid black mask. None of your masks have visible eye slits because you don’t think you can bear to see the nightmare you’re responsible for creating".
"I didn’t design them".
"Right, you just let them muzzle you and now you bark for table scraps," Gi-hun sneers, taking another drag. "You must be glad to hide your ugliness behind that mask. Does it really help with your conscience? You’re an idiot if it does. A smart man wouldn’t be fooled so easily. And you don’t sound stupid. I bet if I could watch you sleep through the cameras, the way you seem to watch me, I’d see you tormented by nightmares just as bad as mine".
For a while, he hears nothing but the other’s breathing. It feels almost uncomfortably intimate, and he’s about to say something to get rid of the tension, when he’s interrupted.
"You’ve grown thorns now, haven’t you?" the Frontman’s voice is slightly different, lower, so Gi-hun guesses he’s struck a nerve. Good.
"It shouldn’t be like this," he says, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers, his focus too fixed on this conversation. "These people you’re doing all this for. The ones you entertain. The ones who spin you like a top until you fall, then spin you again and again. Il-nam was one of them, wasn’t he?"
"Have you watched The Matrix yet?"
The sudden change of topic makes Gi-hun blink in confusion before he scowls and stands up. "Don’t you dare do that-".
"I want to talk to you like a normal person, Gi-hun, the way people usually do this. Is that so bad?" the Frontman asks.
He bites his lip. "You wanna have a normal human interaction? Fine. Tell me your name, then," Gi-hun challenges. "Because that’s how people communicate. It al starts with that name. In case you forgot".
A quiet exhale. "I could give you a fake name, you know?"
"Still better than no name at all," Gi-hun replies.
For a while, the man on the other end is silent. Gi-hun gives him time, flicking ash onto the floor and taking another drag.
"In-ho," the man finally says.
Gi-hun doesn’t believe him, but it’s still better than nothing.
He nods a few times, thoughts swirling in his head before settling heavily on his tongue. "Why are you so obsessed with me, In-ho?" he asks, blunt and bold.
The man doesn’t deny it. He stays silent, carefully weighing his next words.
Then, as if placing a period before starting a new chapter:
"Because you were kind".
The call ends before Gi-hun can master a response.
Now their score is even. Gi-hun hung up twice. Now In-ho did too.
Gi-hun stares at the rose and doesn’t dare to lie in his bed yet. It still carries the smell of someone else.