Gi-hun’s eyes fluttered open to a sterile, humming light that pierced the darkness like a blade. His head throbbed with a dull ache, a persistent pulse that echoed through his skull. The cold metal beneath his back was unforgiving, and as he shifted, the thin mattress groaned faintly under his weight. He was lying on a narrow steel-framed bunk, its paint chipped and scratched, revealing rust beneath. The mattress was wafer-thin, the fabric coarse and itchy against his clammy skin.
He forced himself to sit up, the plastic restraints around his wrists now gone, but his limbs felt heavy, as if weighted by invisible chains. The air was thick with the sterile scent of bleach and disinfectant, mingled with the faint coppery tang of dried blood. His throat was dry; swallowing produced a rasping sound that seemed too loud in the oppressive silence.
As his eyes adjusted, Gi-hun took in his surroundings. The room was cavernous, stretching far beyond what the flickering fluorescent lights could illuminate. Rows upon rows of identical steel bunks lined the concrete walls, each occupied by a figure clad in the same green tracksuit he wore. The fabric was synthetic, a dull polyester blend that clung uncomfortably to skin, with white numbers stitched crudely on the chest and back.
The floor was cold, bare concrete, polished to a dull sheen but stained in places with dark patches that Gi-hun dared not identify. The walls were unadorned and damp, the paint peeling in irregular patches, revealing the rough gray stone beneath. The ceiling was high, crisscrossed with exposed pipes that dripped condensation, the water pooling in small puddles that reflected the harsh overhead lights.
A low, mechanical hum filled the space—the sound of ventilation systems working overtime, pumping recycled air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and mold. Somewhere in the distance, the faint clatter of footsteps echoed, followed by the metallic clang of a heavy door slamming shut.
Gi-hun’s gaze drifted to the other occupants. Some were awake, their faces etched with exhaustion, fear, or resignation. Others lay curled up, eyes closed, trying to shut out the nightmare that had become their reality. The uniformity of their attire and surroundings stripped them of individuality, reducing them to mere numbers in a system designed to control and dehumanize.
Near the bunk labeled 200, a large man with a dragon tattoo coiling up his forearm held court. Deok-su, number 101, radiated menace even in this bleak environment. His neck bore a jagged scar, a souvenir from a prison brawl, and his knuckles were cracked and calloused from years of violence. He gripped a stolen apple tightly, the fruit’s bright red skin a stark contrast to the dull green of his tracksuit. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the room, seeking weakness.
In a shadowed corner, an elderly man sat quietly on his bunk. Oh Il-nam, number 001, was frail and slight, his skin translucent and papery, veins like delicate blue threads beneath the surface. Despite his age and apparent frailty, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes as he hummed softly to himself, folding an origami crane from a scrap of paper.
Gi-hun’s stomach growled, a hollow sound that echoed in the vastness of the dormitory. The announcement came over a crackling intercom, the voice distorted but authoritative: “Meal in ten minutes. No talking.”
The mess hall was a cavernous room adjacent to the dormitory, its walls lined with stainless-steel tables and benches bolted to the floor. The air was thick with the aroma of doenjang-jjigae—a fermented soybean paste stew—but the smell was weak, diluted by the sterile environment. The food was served in dented tin bowls, the portions small and unappetizing.
Gi-hun sat beside Ali, number 199, whose large hands trembled slightly as he held his bowl. Ali offered Gi-hun a portion of his rice without hesitation, a gesture of kindness amidst the cruelty. Sae-byeok, number 067, sat a few seats away, her eyes cold and calculating as she pocketed a stainless-steel spoon stamped with the manufacturer’s mark: Daehan Stainless, Busan. The spoon was a small but significant possession, a tool she guarded fiercely.
Deok-su’s thug snatched Player 240’s glasses—a pair with thick lenses and wire frames—and crushed them underfoot. The sound of the lenses shattering was like ice breaking, and Player 240’s anguished cry was swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Gi-hun’s thoughts raced. This place was a prison, a cage disguised as a game. The green tracksuits, the numbered labels, the uniform bunks—all stripped away identity and hope. He wondered how many had come before them, how many would be lost in the days to come.
As he lay back on his bunk, the cold seeping into his bones, Gi-hun’s mind drifted to Ga-yeong. Her laughter, her smile, the promise of a better life. He clenched his fists, determination hardening within him. This nightmare was far from over, but he would fight—for her, for his mother, for himself.
The dormitory doors slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the cavernous space. The game had begun.