The van’s doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing a vast, open space suspended high above the ground. A biting wind swept through the air, carrying the faint scent of damp metal and cold stone. The survivors stepped out cautiously, their legs unsteady from exhaustion and lingering fear. Below them yawned a dizzying drop—a sheer abyss that swallowed sound and light alike.
Before them stretched the arena for the next game: a massive steel platform, suspended by thick cables that disappeared into the foggy heights above. The platform was roughly the size of a basketball court, its surface a patchwork of rusted metal plates and sturdy grates, worn by countless battles. The edges were unprotected, a mere step away from plummeting hundreds of feet into darkness.
Thick, coarse ropes lay coiled at the platform’s center, their rough fibers frayed from use. The ropes smelled of salt and sweat, heavy with the promise of violence. The players’ green tracksuits fluttered in the cold breeze, the synthetic fabric stiff and scratchy against their skin.
Gi-hun’s breath came in shallow gasps as he took in the scene. The height alone was enough to unsettle him, but the knowledge of what awaited—the brutal contest of strength and will—pressed down like a weight on his chest.
Deok-su, the burly man with the dragon tattoo, cracked his knuckles loudly, his eyes gleaming with predatory excitement. He strode forward, selecting only the strongest men for his team, his voice a low growl as he barked orders and rejected those he deemed weak.
Nearby, Sae-byeok’s eyes were sharp and calculating. Despite the pain from her hidden stab wound, she moved with quiet determination, scanning the assembled players for allies. Ali stood close by, his broad shoulders squared and face set with resolve, ready to give everything for survival.
Sang-woo, cool and composed, surveyed the scene with a strategist’s eye. His crisp white shirt was stained and wrinkled, but his posture was impeccable, a mask of calm in the storm.
Gi-hun felt the tension coil tighter with every passing second. The players formed teams, alliances born of desperation and necessity. Voices rose in heated discussions, arguments flared, and uneasy truces were forged.
The guards in their magenta jumpsuits and black masks moved silently among the players, their presence a constant reminder of the deadly stakes.
A booming voice echoed through hidden speakers: “Form your teams. The game is Tug of War. The team that pulls the other off the platform wins. The losing team falls.”
A collective shudder rippled through the crowd. The simplicity of the rules belied the brutal reality—the drop below was a death sentence.
Gi-hun’s fingers tightened around the rough rope as his team gathered. Sweat slicked his palms despite the chill. The roar of the distant crowd seemed to fade, replaced by the pounding of his own heart.
This was no longer a game of chance. It was a test of strength, strategy, and trust.
And in this arena, trust was as fragile as the rope beneath their hands.