The Seoul subway rattled relentlessly beneath the city, a steel serpent weaving through tunnels dark and damp. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in a steady rhythm, casting a cold, clinical glow over the passengers. The stale scent of sweat, burnt coffee, and the faint metallic tang of the rails filled the air.
Seong Gi-hun sat slumped against the scratched window of Line 4’s train car number 217, his gaze unfocused and distant. His dark eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, reflected the blurred neon lights of the underground stations flashing past. The worn fabric of his jacket clung damply to his skin, the faint odor of stale cigarettes lingering in the folds. His fingers nervously toyed with the black card he had received just hours earlier—a card embossed with three enigmatic symbols: a triangle, a circle, and a square.
As the train slowed to a stop at Dongmyo Station, a man stepped onto the car with a quiet confidence that cut through the ambient noise like a knife. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored Brioni suit of deep indigo, the fabric shimmering subtly under the harsh fluorescent light. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, and the faint scent of sandalwood and something antiseptic trailed behind him.
The man’s face was strikingly symmetrical, almost unnervingly so. His jawline was sharp, his cheekbones high and defined, and his skin smooth and pale, as if untouched by the city’s grime. The only imperfection was a thin, three-centimeter scar slicing through his left eyebrow—a jagged line that hinted at a violent past. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the car before settling on Gi-hun.
Without a word, the man approached and knelt down beside Gi-hun. From a sleek Bottega Veneta briefcase, he produced a small object—a ddakji, a traditional Korean folded paper tile. The tile was expertly crafted from thick, glossy hanji paper, folded into a perfect diamond shape with alternating red and blue faces.
“Play with me,” the man said softly, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous.
Gi-hun blinked, startled. The subway car was crowded, commuters jostling and avoiding eye contact, but here was a stranger inviting him into a game that seemed both innocent and ominous.
They crouched on the grimy tiled floor near Exit 7, the cold seeping through Gi-hun’s thin socks. Around them, polished leather shoes and nylon backpacks passed by, oblivious to the silent contest unfolding. The man’s manicured thumbnail gleamed as he prepared to strike.
Gi-hun’s fingers, rough and calloused from years of hard labor and bad decisions, trembled as he flipped his tile. The sharp snap of paper folding echoed louder than the rumble of the train. The man’s thumbnail struck with precision, flipping Gi-hun’s tile violently onto its back.
“Again,” the man said, his eyes glinting.
Round after round, Gi-hun’s heart pounded with each flip. The game was deceptively simple: flip your tile to land flat on top of the opponent’s. But the man’s skill was uncanny, his movements fluid and practiced.
Finally, after what felt like hours compressed into minutes, Gi-hun won. The man smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth, and slid a crisp envelope across the floor. Inside was a black card, heavier than it looked, embossed with the same triangle, circle, and square.
“Call this number before midnight,” the man instructed, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your debts can be erased. Your life can change.”
Before Gi-hun could respond, the man vanished into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of commuters clutching Starbucks cups and smartphones. Gi-hun’s fingers closed tightly around the card. The subway car lurched forward, the tunnel walls blurring past once more. His mind raced—was this a chance at salvation or a trap? The city’s neon lights flickered in his eyes as the train sped toward the unknown.