The harsh buzz of fluorescent lights pierced the heavy silence, flickering intermittently above rows of steel-framed bunk beds. The air was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant mingled with the faint, sour tang of sweat and fear. Concrete walls stretched endlessly in every direction, their cold gray surfaces stained with patches of dampness and peeling paint. The ceiling, a lattice of exposed pipes and cables, dripped condensation that landed with soft plinks on the cold floor.
Seong Gi-hun’s eyes fluttered open, the harsh light stabbing at his pupils. His body felt leaden, muscles aching as if he’d been beaten by invisible fists. The thin mattress beneath him offered little comfort, the coarse polyester sheets rough against his clammy skin. His green tracksuit clung damply to his frame, the synthetic fabric stiff and scratchy.
He blinked, trying to focus. Around him, dozens of others stirred—some groaning softly, others sitting up abruptly with wide, terrified eyes. The dormitory was a cavernous space, filled with identical bunks arranged in regimented rows. Each occupant wore the same green polyester tracksuit, emblazoned with a white number stitched crudely on the chest and back. The fabric was thin but durable, the seams tight and utilitarian, designed for function rather than comfort.
Gi-hun’s gaze drifted to the faces around him. A man with a jagged scar running from temple to jawline rubbed his swollen eye, his lips trembling. A woman with cropped hair and a deep bruise blooming on her cheek clutched a threadbare blanket to her chest. The diversity of their features was striking—young and old, gaunt and muscular, faces etched with despair, fear, and a flicker of determination.
The fluorescent lights hummed relentlessly, their 60Hz flicker casting a subtle strobe effect that made the edges of the room seem to shimmer. The air was stale, recycled through vents that hissed softly, carrying the faintest whispers of muffled voices and distant footsteps.
Gi-hun swung his legs over the side of the bunk, feet touching the cold concrete floor. The roughness bit into his bare skin, sending a shiver up his spine. He noticed the faint scuff marks on the floor—scrapes and scratches from restless feet, a silent testament to the prisoners’ unease.
He rose unsteadily, muscles protesting with every movement. The tracksuit’s elastic waistband dug into his waist, and the cuffs at his ankles were frayed, evidence of the garment’s mass production and rough handling. The number “456” was stitched on his chest—his new identity in this brutal game.
Players moved like ghosts through the dormitory, their footsteps muffled by the thin soles of their sneakers. Conversations were whispered, voices hoarse and cautious. Gi-hun caught fragments of dialogue—questions about the next game, murmurs of disbelief, and desperate prayers.
Near the far wall, Deok-su, the burly man with the dragon tattoo coiling up his arm, paced restlessly. His tracksuit was stained with dirt and blood, and his knuckles cracked loudly as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His eyes burned with a predatory gleam, scanning the room for signs of weakness.
Old man Oh Il-nam sat quietly on his bunk, humming softly to himself. His skin was translucent, veins like delicate blue threads beneath the surface. Despite his frailty, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes, a stark contrast to the despair that hung over the room.
The intercom crackled to life, the distorted voice of a guard echoing through the dormitory: “Meal in ten minutes. No talking.”
A metallic clatter echoed from the adjacent mess hall as trays and utensils were prepared. The survivors exchanged wary glances, the promise of food a brief respite from their torment.
Gi-hun’s stomach growled—a hollow, aching sound that reminded him of his mother and daughter waiting somewhere beyond this nightmare. He swallowed hard, the dry air scratching his throat.
As he moved toward the exit, his eyes caught the faint outline of a small window near the ceiling. Through the grime-coated glass, a sliver of pale daylight filtered in—a fragile thread connecting this prison to the outside world.
But for now, the walls closed in, the game’s cruel grip tightening.
Gi-hun took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The nightmare was far from over.