Two Dead Men

After the rest of a humiliating dinner, Gihun was taken back to the same room, chained to the same bed. He was escorted again by two workers, and he wondered if they’d been able to hear what went on.

His stomach roiled. Maybe it was the rich food after the meagre amount they’d been fed during the games. Or it was just shame.

There was so much he should have asked. Everyone who had died. Everyone who survived. How many more games were there going to be.

It should only be the one, if it were the same as last time. If that were the case, Gihun had already failed. He hadn’t changed anything. He wasn’t going to change anything.

Would the Front Man kill him once the games were over? Would he keep him here?

Would he set him free?

Gihun should have been too anxious to sleep, to sleep again so soon. He only lay down because he was so worn. But sleep was a reprieve: he didn’t know the pain he was in, while he was sleeping. He didn’t picture the faces of the people who could have been alive or were probably dead. Faces showed in his dreams anyway – he would sleep, and wake, and sleep again, and when he woke he found his eyes were wet. Because in his dreams people who were dead were alive. He hadn’t failed them yet.

When the door opened again, Gihun was awake in an instant. It was one of the pink squares, accompanied by another dressed in black. Not the Front Man: a different mask, pink stripes. Not that Gihun could have known who was beneath the costume.

‘I told you,’ Pink said. ‘It’s 456.’

Gihun slowly pushed himself upright, shifting to the end of the bed.

‘So even the high and mighty like to pick and choose,’ Black said. He bent as if to inspect Gihun closer. Gihun was glad suddenly for his shirtsleeves; this man couldn’t know where he was injured.

‘Imagine what we could’ve got if we’d known,’ said Pink.

‘Idiot,’ Black said, turning his head. ‘He’s alive because the Front Man wanted him to be, not because someone flubbed a kill.’

It was strange, to see the workers speaking familiarly like this. As if he wasn’t there.

‘Where were you shot?’ Black asked, attention back on Gihun.

Gihun patted his right shoulder.

‘Someone wasn’t trying.’

‘What’re we going to do?’ Pink asked.

‘There is no we. You’re not going to do anything.’

Pink sagged.

‘You’re the second in command?’ Gihun asked. He thought now that he’d seen the costume before, and wished he hadn’t remembered.

‘You can go,’ Black said to Pink. Pink went, in a silence that seemed sullen rather than obedient.

‘You’re checking up on what your master does?’ Gihun said. He was only half-surprised when Black smacked him across the face with the butt of a pistol.

‘You don’t talk unless I ask you a question.’

Gihun rubbed his fingers against his jaw where he’d been hit. He didn’t speak. Maybe the Front Man wanted him alive, but this man would kill him if the mood struck. Or, perhaps, if he wanted to piss off his boss.

‘Stand up,’ Black said. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

Gihun stood. He lifted his foot so that the chain jingled. In case the man hadn’t noticed.

Black looked down. ‘Don’t try anything,’ he said, and he knelt to unlock the cuff from Gihun’s ankle. It was tempting for Gihun to bring his foot down on the man’s head, but it wouldn’t count for much. And Gihun wanted to see where this was going, besides.

Down the hallways. Gihun did his best to memorise the route they took, to map the facility in his head. In case he could get a message out. In case he got another go at things.

Occasionally they passed the pink workers, and Gihun could sense the doubletakes they did, behind the faceless masks. He tried to picture them all as kids who didn’t know anything. It didn’t make him feel better.

When the walls turned purple, Gihun found it harder to keep walking. There was only the sound of his and Black’s footsteps, but Gihun remembered the gunfire. There would be bullet marks on these walls, dozens of little craters.

It was only days ago. Another life.

Now Gihun was being taken inside the sanctum he’d tried to penetrate. It felt terribly wrong.

They arrived at the control room. Gihun knew that was what it was: the workers were lined up in rows, gaze fixed on the screens in front of them. It was the larger screens on the walls that drew Gihun’s attention, the ones showing the players in the dormitory. Maybe he could see who was alive –

‘Why would you bring him here?’ the Front Man said. He wasn’t addressing Gihun.

‘He was already behind the scenes when we found him,’ said Black, ‘sir. I thought you might like to dispatch this one yourself.’

Everyone’s attention was on Gihun, now: a room full of masks, all rotated toward him. Gihun forced himself to look away from the screens.

The Front Man’s response was slow, words dripping like water from a stalactite. ‘Was he or was he not already secured?’

‘Respectfully, this is the player who led the murder of twenty-seven of our men –’

‘So you brought him here. To our control centre.’ The voice was icy, and Gihun felt the rest of the room pretend to turn back to work. No-one wanted to get dragged into a confrontation between bosses.

‘As I said. I thought you’d want to take care of things yourself. But maybe you’ve grown too attached.’

Gihun looked back at Black in shock. He wondered if this was the time to start backing away. As if he had any path for escape here.

‘I can deal with it, if you prefer.’ Black drew his gun, and he pointed it toward Gihun.

‘You don’t know what the situation is. One of the VIPs requested him.’

What a liar. Gihun could have laughed. Instead he let the wine stem caught in the fabric of his cuff drop down into his hand.

‘I should have been made aware of any request like that.’ Black pulled Gihun’s arm toward him, bringing the muzzle of the gun closer to his head. ‘Respectfully, but I believe you have been compromised. You can take care of 456, or you can hand in your mask.’

‘Is this a mutiny?’ The Front Man didn’t sound concerned.

‘I think you’ll find I’m not the only one with concerns.’ A pause. The whole room was listening. A number of the pink workers rose from their seats, turning toward the Front Man. Rifles swung into grip.

‘Twenty-seven men,’ Black said, ‘and you went along with it.’

The Front Man, too, unholstered his gun.

‘You just want me to kill 456?’ Casually, like he was confirming an order in a restaurant.

Gihun didn’t want to die.

If he were going to die, he wanted to take at least one of them with him.

He didn’t wait to see the Front Man lift his hand; Gihun grabbed for Black’s gun hand, and with the other, jabbed upwards with the wineglass stem, aiming for the place between the neck and the jaw.

Black shot the gun, of course, but the shot went wild. Gihun missed the mark as well.

The Front Man didn’t. He shot Black in the face. Gihun jumped backwards as Black’s mask shattered in front of him. Gihun lost his footing, fell on his ass. No-one gave him any mind.

A number of the rifles pointed toward the Front Man, but perhaps they lacked their leader’s bravado – they didn’t fire.

The Front Man turned his attention across the room. ‘Today’s insolence will be forgiven,’ he said. ‘One of you will even be getting a promotion.’ He walked over and bent to remove what was left of the mask from Black’s face.

Gihun looked away; it wasn’t a clean shot. The Front Man tossed the mask across the floor, in Gihun’s direction.

Gihun was still holding the glass stem; it was cutting into the palm of his hand. Should he attack the Front Man too? The idea was a wild conflagration inside of him.

But Black had said something. Twenty-seven men. And you went along with it.

‘Someone clean this up before the next game,’ the Front Man said. ‘I’ll return 456 to his cell myself.’ He turned to Gihun. ‘On your feet.’

He must have seen when Gihun attacked Black that he was carrying something. But he didn’t ask for it, or try to take it.

Gihun stood. It took more effort than usual. He followed the Front Man out the control room, into the purple corridors, obedient as a child.

‘You know one of them told that square where I was.’

‘I know.’

‘They’ll all point their guns at you when they think you’re not looking.’

‘And you?’ The Front Man didn’t stop walking. ‘You’ll stab me?’

Gihun fingered the jagged end of the wine stem. He didn’t answer the question. ‘What did he mean, you let those men die?’

‘Everything that happens here,’ the Front Man said, ‘happens as I want it.’

‘And here I thought you wanted me to win again. Isn’t that why you didn’t kill me with Park Jungbae?’ Bitterness seeped into Gihun’s voice.

‘It’s true. I didn’t expect you to stumble so quickly.’ The Front Man paused. ‘Why don’t you try again now?’

Gihun knew it wouldn’t work. Nevertheless, he took a swing. He didn’t even make contact before the Front Man had turned into the motion and grabbed him; when he threw Gihun, Gihun hit the ground hard.

He dropped the glass as he tried to right himself, blood smearing on the floor.

The Front Man slammed his boot into the side of Gihun’s head. Gihun fell back to the ground, catching his weight on his palms. The Front Man kicked him again, in the belly. Then his foot was pressing down on Gihun’s stomach, forcing him flat on the ground.

‘Feel better?’ Gihun asked, voice raw from having the breath knocked out of him. His head rang. His shoulder ached anew, and he could feel warm blood on his cut hand.

The Front Man leaned his weight down hard, so that Gihun let out an oof through guttered teeth. But he could breathe even with the constriction. ‘He pissed you off, right? And then he died like that.’ Gihun lifted his fingers in a pistol shape. He smiled, but it was more like a grimace. Just an ugly shape he was making with his mouth. ‘Take it out on me. I’ll keep trying too.’

He couldn’t promise that. Not really. He was so tired.

When the Front Man didn’t move, Gihun asked, ‘Is it the last game yet?’

The Front Man took his boot off Gihun’s stomach. Gihun lay there another moment, breathing deeply.

Then he got up, and he followed the Front Man back through the facility.

---

They didn’t go back to the same room. Instead, the Front Man took him to an elevator. It opened to a black corridor, cast in gold light from a number of chandeliers; Gihun could see a sort of sitting room at the end, but they didn’t go there. Instead, the Front Man opened the door to a bathroom.

Gihun hesitated.

‘The first aid kit’s in here,’ the Front Man said, and Gihun quashed his reservations and followed him inside. The bathroom, too, was in black and gold. Gihun sat down on the edge of a large bath. He was tired enough he felt he could sleep there.

The Front Man stripped his gloves before washing his hands. He turned back to Gihun. ‘Show me your hand.’

Gihun couldn’t sleep after all. He endured the pain as the Front Man cleaned the wound; he was methodical about it, and not gentle. When he was done he wrapped the bandage with familiar ease.

Then he said, ‘Take off your shirt.’

Gihun looked at him dubiously. He didn’t think the Front Man was likely to want another go at him so soon, but you never knew.

‘The dressing needs changing,’ the Front Man said. ‘Unless you got rid of it already?’

Gihun skipped his gaze away, feeling sheepish; he unbuttoned his shirt. Slipped it off the one shoulder. The dressing was stuck with blood, of course. Even if the wound had stopped bleeding, Gihun had been pushed around so much that it had started again.

Gihun didn’t touch it, but let the From Man tend him. He was quick with the removal; Gihun kept his head turned away, his breath a sharp inhale when the bandage came free.

It was uncanny, the all-black figure in the side of his vision. Like being cared for by a robot. Or a monster.

But the Front Man had taken his gloves off for this, and that made him a human monster.

He unpacked the blood-swollen gauze. Gihun looked away harder, feeling queasy.

‘Why bother with this?’ he muttered. ‘I’m already dead.’

‘That doesn’t mean I want you rotting.’ The Front Man almost sounded human too.

He washed this wound out with saline; Gihun winced through the process. Through the repacking of the wound. The fresh bandage at least was a relief.

The Front Man’s hands were firm, steady as he worked. They didn’t linger. When he turned to wash his hands again, Gihun pulled his shirt back on, and redid the buttons.

‘Why’re you wearing that jacket in here?’ Gihun asked. He was watching the Front Man’s back.

‘That’s how it works. If we didn’t wear what we were supposed to, how would anyone know who was in charge?’

‘Like the masks. They’re what gets you through the doors.’

The Front Man didn’t respond, but Gihun already knew it was true.

‘If I wore the mask, would that make me the Front Man?’

The Front Man turned his head, and then his whole body, leaning against the sink. ‘Inasmuch as if I took it off,’ he said, ‘that would make me you. Do you want to swap, 456?’

‘Do you?’ He didn’t know why he was asking. Why bother trying to understand the man in charge of the show, when what he wanted was to bring the show down? But he kept going. ‘Take it off,’ he said. His voice guttered, as if he meant something more than the mask.

‘If I take it off, you have to put it on.’

‘I’d sooner smash the damn thing.’

‘That I can’t allow.’ The Front Man stood straight again; he gathered the used dressings and gauze.

‘Then why am I here?’

The Front Man dumped the trash. It was so incongruous when he was dressed like that. ‘Not to smash it,’ he said. He turned on the faucet to wash his hands again, then turned it off. Turned around. ‘What did you have, after you left this place? When the thing you wanted to save was gone?’

Gihun blinked, not expecting an assault from that angle. ‘The knowledge that this was wrong.’

‘You think that’s why you came back here? More than the chance to be in your daughter’s life?’

‘I’m a shitty father,’ Gihun said. ‘And I’ll never make up for that. But not everyone here is like me. They deserve to live. A chance that doesn’t come at the cost of other people’s lives.’

‘There’s no such thing.’

The words were bitter, not dismissive. Gihun had a feeling, then, like standing at the edge of a lake in the night. He had no idea how deep the lake was, nor how wide.

‘Your way comes at the cost of lives too,’ the Front Man said. ‘Remember that.’

‘People who were complicit.’

‘Not just them,’ the Front Man said. ‘Or did you forget what happened the night you made your play?’

The young woman, stabbed to death in front of him. All the dead who had voted alongside them.

Gihun had fallen into the water, plunged deep into the icy chill of it.

‘It couldn’t be helped,’ he said. He had a million excuses ready on his tongue.

‘It could have. You chose not to, that’s all.’

Gihun hadn’t realised the Front Man was watching so closely. The sticky fingers of guilt closed on him.

If he’d chosen differently, those men who had followed him would still have been alive. Jungbae would still be alive. Gihun could still see the expression on his face as he died.

‘Is the truth so baffling?’

Gihun looked up at the mask.

‘They were going to die anyway,’ Gihun said. ‘456 people, and only one of them gets to walk away. It was the right choice.’

The Front Man didn’t respond, but Gihun could feel him considering: how much of Gihun was bravado; how much guilt might be transmuted into danger. Except Gihun didn’t feel very dangerous. The Gihun who had pushed forward through these halls, the Gihun who had contributed to those twenty-seven dead, felt like another man.

‘You should get some rest,’ the Front Man said at last. Meaning, get out of my bathroom.

‘What happens once this is all over?’ Gihun asked. He pushed himself to his feet. He would have more bruises soon, from the Front Man’s boot. Adding to his collection.

The Front Man watched him steady himself before he answered. ‘I’ll put you back where I found you.’

‘Where I found you.’

‘You and Junho can regroup and try again next time,’ the Front Man said. ‘Maybe things will go differently.’ He opened the door for Gihun, and Gihun shuffled out. He began to head to the elevator before the Front Man said, ‘Not that way.’

Gihun turned to face him. The Front Man beckoned with his hand, and he led him through another doorway.

This room was nothing like the room Gihun had slept in earlier. That room had been a riot of excess; this was functional. A neat bed with a few knick-knacks on the bedside table. A desk with a computer; a wardrobe. The bed was more appealing than it should have been, given the situation.

‘Are we sleeping together?’ Gihun said. He looked at the faceless mask. ‘You wear that thing while you sleep?’

‘You won’t be bothered in here,’ the Front Man said, avoiding the questions. He put his hands on Gihun’s shoulders and pushed him gently toward the bed.

Gently, but Gihun remembered the manhandling he’d received earlier.

It was a very nice bed.

He expected the Front Man to secure him somehow, but he didn’t. The chain and manacles had been left behind in the last room.

He sat on the bed. The Front Man stood and watched him until Gihun swung his feet up onto the bed and laid flat. He closed his eyes. He felt weird and tense, but his body sunk into the mattress and he felt like it wouldn’t be a bad idea, to lie there for a minute.

He heard the Front Man leave. That should have been Gihun’s cue to get up and explore, but just another minute, he thought.

Then, of course, he fell asleep.

---

Gihun woke again when the Front Man arrived, but it was a slow waking. His mind was groggy; he hardly recognised the Front Man as an enemy.

‘Is it finished?’ Gihun pushed himself into a sitting position. The Front Man was folding his coat over the desk, as if he were done for the day.

‘Tomorrow.’

How could Gihun have slept? ‘What time is it?’

‘A little after eleven.’ The Front Man sounded amused. He turned to face Gihun, back against the desk. ‘You’re in my bed.’

Gihun’s mouth went dry. ‘Scared I might suffocate you in your sleep?’

One shoulder shrugged. ‘Then you’ll put on the mask. Or someone else will.’

‘Someone else.’ Gihun was more awake now. ‘But you killed your 2IC.’

‘I’ve lost a lot of men thanks to you, Seong Gihun.’

‘Thanks to you too,’ Gihun said. ‘Isn’t that what he said?’ The Front Man had said it too. Everything here happens as I want it.

Gihun in his bedroom. That he’d bandaged Gihun up.

Gihun clenched his injured hand, feeling his palm flex against the wrapping. ‘How long have you been planning this, then?’

No answer, just the blank mask.

‘How long were you planning to screw me?’

If he named it, he could take away its power. Make it about sex, not rape. Not on top of the rest.

‘I wasn’t planning that,’ the Front Man said.

Gihun stared at his hands. His fingers shook.

‘Maybe,’ the Front Man said, ‘I saw how close you and 390 were.’

It took a moment for Gihun to translate the number. ‘Hey, what’re you implying? We weren’t like that.’

‘I’m not saying you were.’

‘He was my friend. A good friend. And you –’ Why would he even bring Jungbae up? ‘Is that why you killed him?’

‘I killed him to put an end to your little insurrection. To teach you a lesson.’

‘A lesson.’

The Front Man leaned forward, hands on the desk behind him. ‘There’s three people left. If you don’t cooperate, 222 doesn’t survive the night.’

The pregnant girl. Junhee. ‘She’s alive?’

The Front Man didn’t answer. But he took the gun from his belt, and he placed it on the desk behind him, hand over it like a caress.

‘What do you want?’

‘Cooperate,’ the Front Man said. ‘I killed my man instead of you. You could show some gratitude.’

‘Gratitude? You –’ Gihun shut up. He knew what the Front Man meant by gratitude. ‘What do you want from me?’

The Front Man lifted the gun, and he tapped it over his crotch. Gihun’s eyes followed involuntarily.

He remembered the tang of iron, when the Front Man had forced the barrel into his mouth.

It would be easier just to let the Front Man fuck him. Then, Gihun just had to take it. He didn’t have to do anything.

The Front Man placed the gun back on the desk, and he stood there expectantly.

Gihun pushed himself off the bed, and he got down on his knees. He shuffled forward until he was kneeling between the Front Man’s legs. There was a rushing noise in his ears, like he’d been dropped into the ocean.

He started with the belt buckle. His shaking was getting worse, but the Front Man didn’t help.

Belt buckle, pants button, unzip. The Front Man’s underwear was black too, but his skin was pale above that. Gihun had to reach in and pull his dick free. Soft, which maybe should have made the enterprise less intimidating, but didn’t. Part of the assignment was getting him hard, after all.

Gihun wondered if the Front Man had had a shower since he’d fucked Gihun over the dining table. He hoped he had; he didn’t smell bad. He just smelt like a man.

But still. Gihun really didn’t want to put his mouth on him.

Cooperate. Even if he wasn’t planning to kill Gihun, there was the girl to think about. Junhee with her baby. Gihun had to do this.

He took the head of the Front Man’s dick in his mouth, testing the size of it. How wide he had to open. It didn’t taste unpleasant, only a little salty. Like sticking your finger in your mouth.

Bigger than a finger, though.

Gihun used his tongue, licking over the tip, skimming the edges of the foreskin. This was really something he was doing. Sucking another guy’s dick.

He pulled back and looked at it. Giving himself a moment before he went back in. Opening his mouth up wider, to take in more of him.

The Front Man grunted, and Gihun felt his dick twitch against his cheek.

Okay. He could do this. Women did it all the time, didn’t they, and they couldn’t always have been happy about it. Pretend you fucking like it, Gihun. You’re not being humiliated, you’re just sucking a dick. Just skin and flesh.

But maybe he wasn’t very good of it, because the Front Man seemed to stay soft a long time.

Gihun resorted to using his hands as well, half expecting that the Front Man would call that cheating. But there was no objection from the Front Man, who put a hand on Gihun’s hair, gloved fingers on his scalp. A gentle pressure, when Gihun would rather not be touched at all. Just get it over with.

He got him up in the end, the Front Man’s dick firm in his hand, in his mouth, pressing against his cheek. His fingers played against Gihun’s scalp. As if there was anything about this to justify that caress; as if Gihun was in any way a willing participant.

Gihun’s jaw began to ache. He didn’t need any more pain in this battered body of his. His jaw, and his knees …

Gihun pulled his mouth free, and he said, ‘Can’t we finish this another way?’ Kept stroking him with his hand, in case the Front Man thought the suggestion meant he wasn’t cooperating.

The Front Man tightened his fingers in Gihun’s hair and tipped his head back. Holding him for examination. Then he said, ‘Get on the bed. Head this way. On your back.’

Don’t get what you wish for. Gihun got to his feet, and arranged himself according to instruction. The Front Man waited.

Gihun had meant couldn’t the Front Man just fuck him in the ass the way he had the first two times. Not this. Head hanging off the side of the bed, the Front Man’s hands supporting his neck.

The Front Man fucked his mouth that way.

Gihun regretted the thoughts he’d had about the effort involved in giving head. At least that had allowed him some control. Now, the Front Man thrust into his mouth and it was all Gihun could do not to gag. To just take it. He wasn’t a participant, he was a receptacle. The Front Man’s dick would hit the back of his throat and Gihun had to let it.

But he couldn’t help the sound it made. It was an awful sound, sick wet gagging, but it didn’t deter the Front Man any. He moved a hand over Gihun’s throat. Maybe he wanted to feel it, his dick pushing up through the inside. Maybe he wanted Gihun to choke on him, no room left for air, for life.

When he’d finished, Gihun rolled over, coughing, meaning to spit out what he could. The Front Man grabbed him by the jaw and held his mouth shut. Gihun narrowed his eyes and refused to swallow. Let the thick spunk sit on his tongue.

‘Gratitude,’ the Front Man said; Gihun jerked himself away, but he swallowed. Wiped his mouth.

But he couldn’t wipe this clean.

He didn’t know when he’d started to cry, the tears were hot on his cheeks. ‘Just kill me,’ Gihun said. ‘Just shoot me.’ Where had the Front Man put the gun? It was still on the desk, and the Front Man between them.

‘You only like it in your ass, huh?’ the Front Man said, crude at last. Gihun felt his anger rise.

‘Fuck off!’ he said. ‘I’m not doing this because I want to. I don’t –’ He squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed his sleeve on his face.

Then went dead still, as the Front Man stepped forward and put one arm around him. Embracing him.

‘What are you doing?’ said Gihun.

A hand squeezed him gently through the front of his trousers.

‘No,’ Gihun said, but there was no force to his voice. ‘Kill me instead.’

‘And waste all those deaths you caused?’ The words were a purr in his ear, almost familiar. But no-one had purred like that in Gihun’s ear before …

But Gihun’s refusal must have got through, because the Front Man withdrew. Took his hand off Gihun’s dick, took his arm away from the circle it made of his back.

Took pity on him, maybe.

That was a joke. The Front Man had no pity.