The night had settled like a heavy curtain over Seoul, muffling the city’s usual cacophony into an eerie silence. The streets were slick with recent rain, reflecting the sparse glow of street lamps that flickered sporadically through the mist. At the edge of Namsan Tunnel, where the city’s heartbeat slowed and the shadows grew long and thick, a white Hyundai Staria van waited patiently, its engine idling with a low, almost imperceptible hum.
The van’s exterior was marred by streaks of dirt and grime, the license plates deliberately obscured by a thick layer of mud, as if to erase any trace of its identity. The sliding door hissed open, revealing a cold, sterile interior bathed in harsh fluorescent light that buzzed faintly, casting sharp-edged shadows across the metal benches bolted firmly to the walls.
Inside, the air was stale and oppressive, tinged with the acrid scent of chloroform and the faint, lingering odor of discarded kimbap—a reminder of hurried meals and stolen moments of normalcy. The walls were bare, save for the occasional vent that exhaled recycled air with a mechanical sigh. The cold metal floor beneath the players’ feet was unforgiving, echoing every shuffle and whisper.
Seong Gi-hun sat motionless on one of the benches, his wrists bound with thin plastic restraints that bit into his skin with every subtle movement. His green tracksuit, identical to those worn by the others, hung loosely on his slender frame, the fabric damp with nervous sweat. His dark eyes, wide and haunted, flickered between the faces of his fellow captives, each of whom bore their own story of desperation and survival.
To his left was Cho Sang-woo, number 218. Sang-woo’s sharp features were etched with a cold, calculating intensity that seemed to slice through the dim light like a blade. His once-pristine Ermenegildo Zegna suit was rumpled beneath the tracksuit, the cuffs frayed and stained—a silent testament to the man’s fall from grace. On his pinky finger gleamed a Seoul National University class ring, its polished surface catching the light as he clenched his fists. A Rolex Submariner peeked from beneath his sleeve, its gleaming face a stark contrast to the grim surroundings. Sang-woo’s jaw was clenched tight, his eyes darting with restless calculation, as if already plotting his next move.
On Gi-hun’s right sat Kang Sae-byeok, number 067. Her raven-black hair was shaved close on one side, revealing a jagged five-centimeter scar that ran from temple to ear—a brutal souvenir from her harrowing escape across the North Korean border. Her hoodie was pulled tight around her slender frame, sleeves drawn over her hands to conceal the faint outline of a butterfly knife tucked in her pocket. Her dark eyes, sharp and vigilant, scanned the van’s interior ceaselessly, betraying a fierce determination to survive. Every muscle in her body was taut, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.
At the far end of the bench sat Ali Abdul, number 199. His powder-blue dockworker’s uniform was stained with sweat and grime, the fabric worn thin from years of labor. The faded name tag, embroidered with “Abdul,” hung crookedly on his chest. His hands, large and calloused, trembled slightly as he clutched a worn photograph of a toddler—a child with a cleft lip, whose innocent smile was a fragile beacon of hope in Ali’s otherwise bleak existence. His eyes shimmered with a mixture of fear, hope, and quiet resolve.
The van lurched forward, its tires crunching over gravel as it rolled away from the city’s edge. Outside, the neon glow of Seoul’s skyline faded into a blur, swallowed by the thick fog that clung to the mountainside. The winding road ahead was a serpentine path into darkness, the only illumination the dim glow of the dashboard and the intermittent flashes of passing streetlights.
Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. The players exchanged little more than furtive glances, their breaths shallow and uneven. The hum of the engine was punctuated by the occasional creak of the van’s suspension and the faint rustle of fabric as someone shifted uncomfortably.
Suddenly, the sliding door at the rear hissed open, and a figure stepped inside—a guard clad in a magenta jumpsuit and a fencing mask that obscured all facial features. His movements were deliberate and mechanical as he approached each player with a syringe filled with a clear, viscous liquid.
One by one, the players were injected with the sedative. The cold bite of the needle was a sharp contrast to the warmth of their rising panic. Gi-hun’s vision began to blur, the edges of the world softening as the drug coursed through his veins. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each beat slower and heavier than the last.
As consciousness slipped away, fragmented memories surfaced—Ga-yeong’s laughter echoing in a sunlit room, the flicker of birthday candles casting dancing shadows on her smiling face. The warmth of her small hand in his, the promise of a future he desperately wanted to reclaim.
The van continued its ascent, climbing higher into the mountain’s mist-shrouded embrace. The city below was swallowed by darkness, leaving only the cold, sterile interior of the van and the uncertain fate that awaited its passengers.
Gi-hun’s last fleeting thought was a silent plea—a hope that whatever lay ahead would offer a chance to break free from the chains of his past.