The heavy steel doors slid shut with a deafening clang, sealing the survivors inside a cold, windowless chamber. The air was thick and stale, heavy with the scent of sweat, fear, and something faintly metallic. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered erratically, casting long, jittery shadows that danced across the concrete walls.
Gi-hun’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. His legs trembled beneath him as he sank to the cold floor, the rough concrete biting into his palms. Around him, the other players were scattered like broken dolls—some curled into trembling balls, others pressed their backs against the walls, eyes wide with terror.
A low hiss began, almost imperceptible at first, then growing steadily louder. From vents high above, a thin mist began to seep, swirling like ghostly fingers through the stale air. The players’ eyes darted upward, panic blooming in their chests.
“Gas,” someone whispered, voice trembling.
Gi-hun’s heart thundered as the mist thickened, a cold, invisible fog creeping into every corner of the chamber. The air grew heavy, oppressive, each breath a struggle. His throat burned, his lungs seized in spasms. The world tilted, colors bleeding into shadows.
Players clawed at their throats, gasping for air that no longer came. Some collapsed instantly, bodies crumpling like ragdolls onto the unforgiving floor. The metallic taste of blood filled Gi-hun’s mouth as he fought to stay conscious, every nerve screaming for oxygen.
Desperation surged. Hands reached out blindly, searching for something—anything—to hold onto. Gi-hun’s fingers closed around a stranger’s wrist, the grip weak but grounding. He forced himself to breathe shallow, measured breaths, willing his body to resist the suffocating haze.
Minutes stretched into eternity. The hiss of the gas was relentless, a silent executioner claiming its victims one by one. The chamber was filled with the sounds of choking, gasping, and the soft thuds of bodies hitting the floor.
Gi-hun’s vision blurred, edges darkening. Memories flickered—Ga-yeong’s laughter, his mother’s worried eyes, the promise of a better life. He clung to them like lifelines, refusing to let go.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the hiss ceased. The vents closed, and fresh air flooded the chamber. Gi-hun’s lungs burned as he sucked in the cool oxygen, coughing violently. Around him, survivors stirred—some groaning, others silent, their eyes vacant.
The chamber was a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered hopes.
Gi-hun pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady but determined. The nightmare was far from over.
Outside the chamber, the guards moved with clinical detachment, preparing the survivors for the next brutal trial.
Gi-hun’s gaze hardened. Survival was no longer a choice—it was a necessity.