Gi-hun awoke to the cold sting of rain soaking through the thin fabric of his borrowed suit. The neon lights of Myeongdong flickered erratically above, casting distorted reflections in the puddles pooling on the cracked pavement. His limbs ached as if bruised by unseen blows, and the taste of iron lingered bitterly in his mouth. The city around him was alive with noise—the chatter of late-night vendors, the rumble of distant traffic—but to Gi-hun, it all felt distant, unreal, like a cruel dream from which he had only just emerged.
His gaze drifted to the small, crumpled eviction notice fluttering on the gate of his mother’s hanok. The traditional wooden house, once a sanctuary filled with warmth and memories, now stood cold and silent, its doors padlocked by merciless hands. The weight of failure settled on his chest like a stone, pressing the breath from his lungs.
At a nearby convenience store, the flickering screen of a television caught his attention. A news broadcast showed a familiar face—Cho Sang-woo. The caption read: “SNU Graduate and Former CEO Wanted for Embezzlement of ₩6.3 Billion.” The camera zoomed in on Sang-woo’s cold, calculating smile as he fled in a black BMW i7, license plate 11바 3344. Gi-hun’s stomach churned. The man who had once been his childhood friend was now a fugitive, a symbol of the ruthless desperation that had consumed them all.
The city’s neon glow reflected in Gi-hun’s tired eyes as he wandered aimlessly, eventually finding himself at Gwangjang Market. There, he spotted Sae-byeok, her face hard and determined despite the hunger etched into her features. She was stealing mandu—steamed dumplings—from a vendor’s stall, her hands quick and practiced. When their eyes met, she spat bitterly, “The real world’s worse than this game.”
Not far away, Ali wept quietly at Incheon Dock 7. His foreman, a burly man with a gold chain and a cruel sneer, refused to pay his wages. “No papers, no pay,” he spat, tossing a crumpled contract onto the wet concrete. Ali’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, the injustice a fresh wound on his already battered spirit.
That night, Gi-hun sat alone in a dimly lit room, the black card clenched tightly in his hand. The cold metal of the Hyundai Staria van’s sliding doors groaned open once more, swallowing him into its sterile interior. Inside, the atmosphere was tense and foreboding. The familiar faces of Sang-woo, Sae-byeok, Ali, and others gathered silently, each marked by exhaustion, fear, and a flicker of resolve.
Sang-woo’s Rolex was gone, his wrist bare and bruised. Ali’s uniform was torn at the shoulder, revealing whip scars that spoke of harsh punishment. Sae-byeok sharpened a spoon into a deadly shiv against the metal bench, her eyes cold and unyielding.
The van ascended Bukhansan Mountain, tires crunching on the frost-hardened gravel. The fog thickened, swallowing the world outside in a suffocating embrace. Front Man’s voice crackled through the speakers, cold and unrelenting: “Next game: Sugar Honeycombs.”
Gi-hun’s fingers traced the photo of Ga-yeong tucked inside his jacket—the fragile smile of his daughter a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness. The doors sealed shut with a finality that echoed through the van’s metal walls. The nightmare was far from over.