The rain had stopped just moments ago, leaving the streets of Seoul’s Dongdaemun Market slick and shining under the early morning glow. The cold air was sharp, biting at the exposed skin of Seong Gi-hun’s face, which was pale and drawn, the faint stubble on his chin patchy and uneven as if he had tried to shave but given up halfway. His dark brown eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, darted anxiously beneath thick, unkempt eyebrows, searching for any sign of escape.
Gi-hun’s worn leather jacket, once black but now faded to a dull charcoal, clung to his slender frame, the cracked surface releasing a faint scent of burnt rubber and stale sweat. The jacket’s zipper was stuck halfway, and the cuffs frayed from years of neglect. His hands, calloused and trembling, clutched a crumpled piece of paper: an eviction notice, printed in harsh black Korean characters, threatening to throw his mother out of her small apartment if the rent wasn’t paid by the end of the week.
The narrow alley he ducked into was a forgotten corner behind the sprawling fabric stalls of Dongdaemun. The walls, coated in peeling posters and graffiti tags, closed in like a trap. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering erratically—one advertising a karaoke bar, another a soju joint—casting a sickly green and red glow that danced across the puddles of murky water. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of exhaust fumes mixed with the faint aroma of grilled fish from a nearby street vendor’s cart.
Suddenly, the low growl of an engine broke the uneasy silence. A matte-black Kia K8 sedan rolled to a stop at the alley’s entrance, its sleek curves and polished chrome accents a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. The tires crunched over shards of broken glass, sending tiny sparks of light scattering like fireflies. The car’s tinted windows concealed the faces of the men inside, but Gi-hun knew who they were before they stepped out—loan sharks, their faces hardened by years of violence and debt collection.
The leader, a burly man with a dragon tattoo curling up his neck and disappearing beneath his collar, stepped forward. His Moncler jacket was counterfeit, the logo slightly askew, but his presence was intimidating enough. His knuckles were inked with faded prison tattoos—symbols of broken men who had clawed their way back into the world with blood and menace.
“Seong Gi-hun,” the man growled, voice rough like gravel scraping metal. “Mr. Park says you owe him. Time’s up.”
Gi-hun swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He glanced back toward the dim light of his mother’s apartment window, barely visible through the maze of alleyways. The old woman was alone, fragile, her health deteriorating with every passing day. She depended on him, but he had nothing left to give.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from his daughter, Ga-yeong. The screen illuminated with her smiling face, frozen in a birthday party snapshot. The message read: “Appa, don’t forget my party today.” The words stabbed at his heart, a cruel reminder of promises broken and time lost.
Gi-hun’s fingers trembled as he pulled out his mother’s debit card, worn and bent from constant use. The magnetic strip was frayed, but it still worked. Desperation pushed him toward the nearest ATM, its cold metal surface slick with rainwater. He slid the card in, the machine whirring and clicking as it processed the request. ₩10,000 notes spat out, each one a small victory in a losing battle.
Later, at the Seoul Racecourse Park, Gi-hun found himself surrounded by the raucous crowd of bettors. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of sweat. Bookies in crocodile-skin loafers barked odds and took bets with practiced ease. Gi-hun’s last ₩100,000 was placed on a chestnut mare named “Red Light,” her glossy coat shining under the floodlights.
The horses thundered down the track, hooves pounding like war drums against the wet dirt. Gi-hun’s heart pounded in time with the rhythm, his breath shallow and ragged. But as they neared the final hurdle, “Red Light” stumbled, her legs tangling in the mud. The crowd’s cheers turned to gasps, and Gi-hun’s hope shattered like glass.
His cracked Nokia 3310 buzzed again. Another message from his mother: “Landlord came. We have until sunset.” The weight of his failures pressed down on him like the heavy Seoul smog, choking the last flicker of hope.
As night fell, Gi-hun sat alone in his cramped apartment, the flickering fluorescent light casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. He stared at the black card in his hand—the one the mysterious Salesman had given him after their game of ddakji in the subway. The triangle, circle, and square embossed on its surface seemed to pulse with a strange energy.
His mind raced with questions and fears, but one thing was certain: this card was his last chance. The path ahead was dark and uncertain, but Gi-hun knew he had to take it—for his mother, for Ga-yeong, and for himself.