Two Dead Men

The Front Man let Gihun wash his mouth out before they went to sleep. Then Gihun did as he was told and got into bed. The Front Man turned the lights off so the room was pitch black, and Gihun could hear him moving about the room. Taking the mask off and placing it down. Undressing. Every sound stood out against Gihun’s harrowed breath.

Then came the rustle of covers as the Front Man got into bed beside him. Gihun lay there, stiff-backed – there was no way he could fall asleep. There was no way the Front Man should have slept either, knowing Gihun hated him and wanted him dead. All he was doing was torturing himself and Gihun both.

Despite that, sleep came.

Gihun didn’t know how much later it was that he woke. His shoulder was painful in a way it hadn’t been before. When Gihun touched the bandage over the wound, it seemed hot. He sat up and massaged the skin around the wound with one hand, as if that might ease the pain.

Beside him, the Front Man stirred. It shamed Gihun, that they’d both managed to sleep. Gihun had threatened to strangle the Front Man, hadn’t he? It should still be on the cards.

But the Front Man woke and Gihun told him, ‘You did a shitty job first-aiding. I think it’s infected.’

Gihun felt the mattress give as the Front Man sat up beside him. ‘Hand or shoulder?’

‘Shoulder,’ Gihun said. ‘I guess you won’t be sending me to hospital.’ This was it, he supposed. The remaining players would die – but one – and he would die too, once the infection overcame him.

‘We have antibiotics,’ the Front Man said. His voice sounded different, in bed beside him. No mask and only bare air between them. He sounded, Gihun thought, like Youngil. Poor dead Youngil.

The Front Man’s touch on Gihun’s arm startled him, as did the hand he pressed to Gihun’s forehead. The cool palm of his hand. It was enough to make Gihun giddy.

‘I think we’ll need them,’ the Front Man said.

‘Don’t bother. I’ll die with everyone else. That’s what should have happened in the first place. It should never have been me who survived.’

The Front Man didn’t respond; he got out of bed, and Gihun heard him pad across the room.

‘I said don’t bother.’

‘I said –’ Youngil’s voice – ‘I wasn’t going to let you rot.’

The door to the room opened, and Gihun saw him silhouetted there, his broad back and shoulders. Only in his underwear, but he’d put the mask back on.

It was only for a moment, before the Front Man drew the door closed behind him. But a moment was enough. It was Oh Youngil.

A number of things went though Gihun’s head all at once. That once again, Player 001 had been a plant. That the Front Man had been with him the whole time. That Youngil had only pretended his support. That Youngil had killed Jungbae who he’d fought beside.

The whole time, one person. Pretending to confide in Gihun, pretending to be convinced by him.

Gihun had trusted him.

Gihun rose and stumbled toward the door. His head spun; his shoulder shot pangs through his roaring blood.

Gihun had thought they were friends. As much as you could trust anyone in these games, Gihun had trusted him. Never mind that amount of trust was none at all.

He wanted to be wrong.

‘Oh Youngil.’ Gihun said the name out loud in the hallway. The Front Man had put the lights on and it was too bright; Gihun’s brain felt thick and swollen in his skull. ‘Where did you go?’

The Front Man reappeared in the bathroom doorway, an incongruous figure in mask and underwear. Why had he bothered with the mask? Why continue this farce? Gihun wanted to kill him. He’d wanted to kill him this whole time, but now the desire was a physical desire through his whole body.

‘I’m not Oh Youngil,’ said the man who’d been lying to Gihun this whole time.

Gihun wanted to punch him, but with the fever, he knew he wouldn’t last in a fist fight. There was a whiskey decanter on a table nearby and Gihun picked it up, feeling the heft of it in his hand.

‘If you’re not Oh Youngil,’ Gihun said, ‘you can take off the mask and show me.’

Because the jig was up, the Front Man listened. He put down the pill bottle he was carrying, moving slowly. As if that would stop Gihun going off.

Gihun popped the lid off the decanter, and took a swig from the bottle. Felt the liquor burn.

He watched the Front Man take off his mask.

Oh Youngil.

Gihun threw the whiskey decanter; Youngil ducked and it hit the wall behind him. Damn thing didn’t even break, but the whiskey spilled across the floor. Youngil held the mask under one arm and picked up the pill bottle again, still moving slowly.

‘This whole time,’ Gihun said, ‘you were laughing at me.’

‘Never,’ Youngil said. He held the pill bottle in his arm extended. ‘Here. Antibiotics.’

‘I don’t want them.’ Gihun didn’t want anything from this man every again. He’d die first.

He was already dead.

Youngil lowered his arm. ‘Then I guess we have nothing to say to one another.’

Gihun looked around for something else to throw. He picked up the side table the whiskey had been on; that at least broke one of the legs when he threw it. Youngil dodged again, but it didn’t entirely miss him.

Gihun’s breath came heavy and fast. He was beginning to feel frayed at the edges of himself.

Either that or he was about to pass out.

Gihun caught his weight against the back of the couch and tipped his head backward to the ceiling, blinking as he tried to convince himself he could stay upright.

‘Are you done?’ Youngil asked.

‘I thought,’ Gihun said, ‘you were someone I could rely on.’ He’d given Youngil the last of his ammo. What had he done with it?

‘Never rely on anyone but yourself,’ Youngil said. ‘Didn’t you learn that the first time?’

Gihun heard him come closer, and he squeezed his eyes shut. If only his head would stop swimming. Then he could deal with this.

‘Take the antibiotics,’ Youngil said. He took Gihun’s hand; Gihun flinched and tried to pull away, but Youngil was pressed the pill bottle to him.

Reluctantly, Gihun accepted it. Stared at the little label trying to register the instructions. Fumbled with the cap until Youngil took it off him again. Youngil opened the bottle and shook one of the pills into Gihun’s waiting hand, and Gihun swallowed it dry.

The bastard went to get him a drink of water too. Gihun drank, because he was worried the pill might get stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to feel anything lodged there. Youngil waited nearby.

‘Why’d you go along as far as you did?’ Gihun asked. The twenty-seven men Black had mentioned – Youngil hadn’t just let them be killed. He’d taken part in the rebellion himself. He hadn’t just been pretending – Gihun had seen him shoot to kill.

He’d saved Gihun’s life.

He was still saving Gihun’s life.

‘I wanted to know if you could succeed,’ Youngil said.

‘Does it count,’ Gihun said, ‘if you turn around and sell me out at the end?’

‘It wasn’t going to work. You’d failed already.’

‘Because I trusted you.’

‘I’m not the one who let you down.’ Youngil paused. ‘It was a doomed enterprise.’ It sounded like an apology.

‘You killed Pak Jungbae,’ Gihun whispered.

‘Yes.’

Gihun was tired. He couldn’t take any more. It wasn’t just physical weariness, the exhaustion that comes when you’re in pain and can’t escape it; he was emotionally exhausted.

Gihun crouched down on the floor, forearms folded over his head. ‘He was a good friend. The best.’

Youngil didn’t say anything.

‘He tried to tell me something about you, but he changed his mind. He must have thought there wasn’t anything to worry about after all.’

More silence. Even though he’d taken the mask off, Gihun wasn’t any closer to knowing what went on in the Front Man’s head.

Or Gihun was just too sore and feverish to think.

He should kill this Youngil, who he’d already believed dead. If he could work up the strength, he should kill him. But he found that, knowing who he was, he was curious about him. About the Front Man, who was the same person as Youngil. Who’d said he wasn’t Oh Youngil, but …

All that meant was he had another name.

‘That story about your wife,’ Gihun said, lifting his head. ‘Was that true?’

‘It was true. Once, it was true. She’s dead now.’

Youngil seemed unbothered. As if whatever grief he’d felt had happened to another person, and he was only reporting on it. And yet Gihun had felt his grief when Youngil had told the story originally.

‘Then … who are you?’

Youngil met Gihun’s eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters.’

Youngil’s gaze drifted toward the mask where it had fallen. ‘The games matter. The mask matters. Not who’s underneath it.’

Gihun got to his feet, hands in fists, and before he could register his vision blacking out, he pushed Youngil in the chest. Youngil rocked backwards, and Gihun knew he would snap back, except now Gihun wasn’t pushing him; now he was using Youngil to hold himself upright.

‘You don’t really think that.’ Gihun shoved the words out, struggling with the fog in his head. ‘If you thought that, you wouldn’t have got involved. I’d be dead.’

Whatever anger Youngil felt, he pushed down; he settled his hands on Gihun’s shoulders. ‘You should sit down.’

‘You wouldn’t have given me those antibiotics,’ Gihun went on, ‘if you thought that.’

Youngil said nothing, and stepped into the space at Gihun’s side; he steered him over to the couch. Gihun let it happen; he was still talking.

‘You wouldn’t have made me fuck you.’

Youngil pushed Gihun down onto the seat, where Gihun readily fell. Youngil walked away from him to a little table with a diorama on it; it was inconspicuous against the rest of the room.

Gihun didn’t look at the diorama, but at Youngil, the muscle of his back and in his legs. He was a handsome man; it didn’t make any sense.

Or maybe it did. It made more sense than a faceless automaton.

Youngil was standing there to avoid Gihun’s accusation, not for Gihun to leer at. But Gihun looked. He’d felt so sick earlier at being used, but now he was the one considering things.

Gihhn stood up again. This time the dizziness was momentary. He approached Youngil, who didn’t turn. Gihun did what had first popped into mind when he saw Youngil from behind, and grabbed his ass. Youngil didn’t jump away, but a sort of shudder went through him.

‘You wanted to do it,’ Gihun said, behind his ear. ‘Not for the game. You’re sick.’ He said that, but it was hard now to step away. Maybe it was the fever, but Youngil had a nice firm bum, and Gihun thought he’d rather rub up against him. He put his hands on Youngil’s arms, running them upwards to squeeze his shoulders, and stepped closer. ‘Tell me who you are.’ His dick pressed against Youngil’s ass.

‘I’m no-one,’ Youngil said. ‘That person doesn’t exist any more.’

Gihun breathed in, his nose against Youngil’s hair. He moved a hand around to the front of Youngil’s neck, wrapped his fingers around his throat.

Youngil jerked away, out of Gihun’s grip. Gihun swayed a little in his absence.

‘The games will finish tomorrow, according to plan,’ Youngil said. ‘You can’t stop it.’

Gihun squeezed the fist that he’d held against Youngil’s throat. Could he kill someone with his bare hands? Youngil could, Gihun was sure.

‘You’ll be there?’ Gihun said.

Youngil nodded.

‘And after that?’

‘We’ll pack up and go home.’

‘But I’m dead,’ Gihun said. ‘So how can I go home? I don’t have a home. I wanted one thing –’ He held up a finger – ‘one thing in this world.’

‘I know. But it won’t end if you kill me.’

‘Because you’re already dead?’

There was something like approval in Youngil’s face. ‘Now you get it.’

Gihun was suddenly too tired for this. His headache came back; antibiotics or no antibiotics, he needed to rest.

‘We’re not the same,’ he said, and he stepped back and dropped into the couch. He didn’t want to sleep in that bed again. If Youngil wanted to force the matter, he could drag Gihun there himself.

Youngil looked at him a moment. Then he went silently to pick up the mask where it had fallen. Gihun turned his head to watch.

Youngil threw the mask hard back across the hallway. It startled Gihun, but Youngil wasn’t looking at him. He left the mask where it had fallen, and he stalked back to the bedroom, turning the lights off as he went.

Gihun was alone in the dark. He’d got a fright when Youngil threw the mask; that was why he was breathing heavily all of a sudden. That was all.

---

Gihun woke when Youngil came back into the hallway the next morning. Presumably it was the morning – Gihun couldn’t really tell. He didn’t even know if they’d been keeping to 24-hour days up till now. Youngil didn’t acknowledge him, but went straight to the bathroom and shut the door.

Gihun’s head felt hot and heavy. He didn’t want to get up, but he knew he would lose the opportunity to change anything at all if he didn’t.

There was an old-fashioned phone on a side table, and Gihun thought first of calling Junho. He had his cellphone number memorised; what he didn’t have was any idea of where they were. He could try searching the apartment for information, but the elevator at the end of the hall was more attractive. It was mesmerising.

Gihun tried every one of the buttons inside the elevator, but none of them did anything. He didn’t have the right access.

He went back into the hallway. He could hear Youngil in the shower, and thought for a moment of accosting him there. Gihun would have enjoyed shoving Youngil up against the wall of the shower while he was vulnerable and wet.

Obviously, he was losing it.

Standing there in reverie, Gihun’s eyes caught on the Front Man’s mask, still where it had fallen the night before. That fucking mask.

Gihun picked it up and slipped it on. His heart was thudding; it was a heavy thing, the mask. It shut out the edges of his vision.

Gihun listened for the sound of the water – still running. He went back to the elevator.

With the mask on, his button press registered.

Quickly, Gihun shoved his hand between the closing doors to get out again. Back to the bedroom – he needed the clothes as well, the coat to go with the mask. It seemed to take a long time to get dressed. Gihun thought, this won’t work; I’m taller than Youngil; they’ll all know.

He heard the water switch off.

The clothes were heavy. Everything about this was so heavy. Gihun checked frantically for the gun, but it wasn’t in the bedroom. Last time he saw it … he wasn’t thinking about that.

There was no time. He’d have to go without.

Make like you own the place.

Youngil was still in the bathroom when Gihun left. The mask left his senses strangely muted; Gihun couldn’t hear what Youngil was doing. Maybe he was just waiting. Standing on the other side of the door, waiting for Gihun to try this.

Gihun hesitated at the elevator. His head was still foggy; hadn’t Youngil said something, the day before, about Gihun wearing the mask? He couldn’t remember.

He stepped inside anyway.

---

It was like trying to make your way somewhere in a dream.

The fog in Gihun’s head made it worse. But his feet knew the way to the control room.

On the way, he met two of the triangle workers. If they noticed anything unusual about him, they didn’t show it – they only stopped because Gihun told them to, and the voice that came from the mask was not his own.

‘Let me see your weapon,’ Gihun said. It took the triangle he addressed a moment to comply. Gihun took the rifle as if to inspect it.

Then he shot them both.

It wasn’t a thrill, exactly, but he felt a sick satisfaction seeing their bodies drop. This was who he’d become now. A killer. The man in the fucking mask.

Gihun didn’t stop. He took the other worker’s ammo, and he left the bodies where they were.

Would Youngil come after him?

Did he want Youngil to come after him?

It was hot wearing the mask, wearing the hood; Gihun could feel the sweat running down his neck. His temperature was probably up as it was. He should have taken another antibiotic before he left the apartment.

Gihun found the control room; dressed like this, it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t. He could do anything.

‘How long have we got?’ Gihun asked the most in-charge-looking square.

They straightened. ‘Forty minutes, sir. Everything is under control.’

Gihun nodded, surveying the monitors. There were three figures in the dormitory; they moved listlessly, as if they’d just woken. One of them was Junhee. The other two …

Gihun remembered Saebyeok, suddenly. The memory was a knife in his own gut.

What had he come here for?

If he started shooting, even wearing the Front Man’s mask wouldn’t stop people from shooting back. What he needed was to let Junho know where they were. Except forty minutes wasn’t time enough for that.

What he needed to do was end this round.

Three players left. Junhee wouldn’t have voted to keep going, so that meant the other two had. And if they had, Gihun didn’t want either of them as winner. The vote they’d made was equal to a decision to murder.

So what did that mean? Should Gihun decide? Could he decide?

He left the control room then. He would go to the dormitory, and no-one would stop him. He could make his choice, and deprive the VIPs of their final game. When he thought of it that way, it made sense. It was something he could live with. If he was killed straight afterwards, it was something he could die for as well.

One of the pink triangles was coming down the hallway. Gihun could have just let them past – this one had no rifle. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether or not to shoot this one too.

The worker slowed as well. And came to a stop, lifting their mask as they did so. Only briefly, before settling it back in place.

Long enough for Gihun to see his face. Not one of the plebian workers after all, but Youngil in their clothes.

Gihun felt the weight of the rifle at his back. He could kill him now. He should kill him now. Except he had an idea in the back of his head: that Youngil was a player too, and his actions could only be seen in that light.

Like tricking an old man at dice.

‘Where is this place?’ Gihun asked. ‘The coordinates.’

‘Why?’ Youngil asked. ‘Do you think if you give him your location, Hwang Junho will come to your rescue?’

He wouldn’t let Youngil confuse him. ‘Yes.’

‘Go back to your rooms then,’ Youngil said. ‘There’s a landline.’

‘What?’ If there had been a phone in the muraled room, Gihun would have noticed.

‘You took the mask,’ Youngil said. ‘That makes them your rooms now.’

‘They’re not mine –’ Why was he arguing? There wasn’t time for this.

Gihun brushed past Youngil, back the way he came. Youngil followed after him. It was unnerving. With Youngil in costume, it was like he had an escort. It made Gihun think, suddenly, that he would transform. Gihun would become the Front Man, by virtue of wearing the Front Man’s clothes. He would meet the VIPs. He would oversee the final game. He would tear all this up …

Gihun was chilled from the sweat on his back, and he was starting to feel distinctly unwell.

They took the elevator back to the apartment. When they got there, Gihun ignored the phone and went for the antibiotics in the bathroom instead. He pulled the hood back and the mask off and he took one, and then sculled half a glass of water.

Youngil still followed him; he waited by the bathroom door with his mask on. Gihun could have forgotten it was Youngil, in that outfit. They had switched places.

‘What happened to the bodies?’ Gihun asked. They hadn’t passed any on the way back.

‘I moved them.’

‘Where are we? I need to know –’

‘You should be meeting the VIPs right now. The game’s in half an hour; calling Hwang Junho won’t solve anything.’

Gihun rubbed his eyes. He wanted to sit down, but if he did that, he might never move again. ‘And if I don’t show up?’

‘The game will run anyway.’

They had failsafes for that sort of thing. Of course.

‘Tell me where we are.’

‘You can shoot me first.’

Gihun swung his rifle around and pulled the trigger. He shot him in the leg – Gihun wasn’t aiming to kill just yet.

Youngil buckled in on himself, letting out a choked breath of air. He didn’t scream or holler, but stood bent over with his hand against his shin. Gihun couldn’t see his face, of course.

‘Tell me where we are.’

There was blood soaking through Youngil’s fingers and into his tracksuit. Gihun jabbed his chest with the end of the rifle; Youngil knocked the barrel away reflexively. Gihun let it happen, because the alternative was probably a fight.

Or was this already a fight?’

‘Our location,’ Gihun said. ‘Then you can patch yourself up.’

Youngil reeled off a string of coordinates. Gihun let the numbers flow into him; he dashed for the phone, then realised he would lose them recalling Junho’s number.

‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Write it down.’

Youngil straightened; he limped over, and he opened the cupboard beneath the phone, grabbed a pad and a pen to write the numbers out for Gihun.

Gihun called Junho. He expected Youngil to go for the first aid kit, but instead he lowered himself to the ground against the cupboard. He wrapped one hand across his shin, where the fabric of his tracksuit was sodden. His knuckles were white, where they weren’t bloody.

Junho’s number wasn’t going through.

Gihun read off the coordinates to Junho’s voicemail. Finished, ‘The final game is in half an hour,’ before he put the phone down.

If Youngil realised he hadn’t got through, he made no sign. Gihun leaned over to pull the mask from his face; Youngil was glazed and sweaty underneath. Gihun felt the urge to be spiteful, to press down on the wound, maybe dig at the bullet with his bare fingers. But he found he sympathised with Youngil’s physical unease.

‘Won’t you come watch?’

Youngil blinked up at him, comprehension slowly gathering. He heaved himself up with a grunt, leaning his weight on his good leg.

Gihun clucked his tongue. ‘Give me your sweatshirt,’ he said. Again, there was a moment of uncomprehension. Then Youngil pulled the sweatshirt off and offered it to Gihun.

Gihun folded it and looped it around Youngil’s leg, knotting it over the wound.

‘You really don’t know first aid, do you?’ Youngil’s voice was faint from pain.

‘I don’t need you to survive,’ Gihun said. ‘I just want you to see.’ He put the Front Man’s mask back on and went for the elevator. Youngil grabbed his own mask and trailed after him, dragging his leg.

Inside the elevator, Gihun gestured for Youngil to lean on him. That gesture Youngil understood; he put an arm over Gihun’s shoulders, and leaned on him. Gihun supported his weight as they left the elevator.

What a picture they painted. If anyone ran across them though, Gihun could shoot them. Youngil wouldn’t stop him.

Why wouldn’t Youngil stop him?

Gihun came to a halt in the middle of the hall. Youngil turned his face in question.

‘You’ve got the pistol, haven’t you?’ Gihun said.

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you let me shoot you?’

‘Aren’t I the one who told you to?’

His words made no sense. Youngil could have given up the coordinates without getting shot. Maybe he hadn’t even given Gihun the real coordinates. He could be leading him on a dance till the end. He could be planning to kill him at the climax of this game.

Was Gihun really going to go into this wearing his clothes?

‘Left up here,’ Youngil said, when Gihun didn’t move.

‘I’m going to the arena,’ Gihun said. ‘Not to meet your VIPs or whatever it is you want.’

After a moment, Youngil indicated they should go straight.

The doorway Youngil led him to wasn’t the one Gihun had walked through four years ago. Gihun felt, nonetheless, that it was the right one.

They’d stopped outside the entrance to arena, but Youngil still leaned on him. Gihun shouldn’t have been able to stand this much contact, but somehow it was as if they were leaning on each other. He thought of Sangwoo, suddenly. The Sangwoo he’d relied upon. Sangwoo, who should have been the winner and not him.

Gihun pushed open the door. Even though it was early for the game. Youngil followed on his own, bearing his own weight.

On the field was drawn the familiar shape. Gihun looked up and saw the open sky. It was a clear beautiful day. No sign of rain at all.

Gihun strode forward and he dropped the rifle at the end of the squid. Shrugged the coat off, threw it to the ground too. Youngil stopped where it fell before his feet.

Gihun took the mask off and threw it down. Took off his shirt.

Youngil stared at him.

‘You too,’ Gihun said. They had time. If the workers weren’t already rushing down to deal with them. Gihun gestured to the field. ‘Let’s play.’

Moving slowly, Youngil pulled his mask away and dropped it to the ground. Pulled the pistol from his waistband and set it down beside the rifle. Pulled his t-shirt off and dropped that too.

‘Same rules?’ Youngil said. He meant to the death.

‘Same rules,’ Gihun said, although he wasn’t sure it was Youngil who would kill him. Any moment the workers would stream in …

But twenty-seven fewer than there had been. Twenty nine, now.

‘I’ll attack,’ Gihun said. ‘You defend.’

It must have been a strain, but Youngil smiled. It could have been a joke Gihun made; he was thinking rather of Youngil’s leg as a handicap.

They got into position, and Gihun ran.

This was stupid. They were both about to collapse – Gihun felt like shit, Youngil looked like shit, and here they were, repeating this pointless game.

Youngil waited at the intersection of shapes, and when Gihun tried to dart by him, Youngil hit him like a steamroller. He tackled Gihun with his whole weight, and Gihun lacked the nimbleness to avoid him. He fell to the dirt – still inside the squid – and put his arms up to block when Youngil tried to punch him in the face. Managed to get his leg around Youngil’s, and squeeze his leg around Youngil’s calf – the injured one. Youngil folded, and suddenly his weight was no longer pinning Gihun.

Gihun stumbled to his feet, but a hand snaked out and grabbed him by the ankle. Youngil dragged himself up and Gihun down; Gihun kicked him in the face but that only made Youngil more determined. As if he wanted to live. He’d let Gihun shoot him, yet he wanted to live.

Gihun lay for a moment with his elbows in the dirt, trying to catch his breath even with Youngil dragging his way up his body. Gihun gave himself a moment, then flipped himself over and kicked out again. This time when his heel caught Youngil, it knocked him loose.

Before he could get up, Gihun was fixed by his eyes, the desolate will that lay there. Youngil wouldn’t give up. Not until the end.

They both wanted to live.

Gihun scrambled forward, tearing himself away from that recognition. He was dizzy, his heart pounding heavy in his ears, his whole body clumsy. He stumbled even without Youngil grabbing him.

Across the field from them, a door opened. Was it that time already? Gihun looked back, and tripped onto his ass in the dirt.

In that moment of distraction, Youngil grabbed Gihun under the shoulders, or rather fell against him – so when Gihun pushed himself up again, he took a share of Youngil’s weight with him.

They stumbled to the end together.

Dimly, Gihun could hear Junhee calling to them. He snatched the pistol up from the ground; Youngil grabbed the rifle.

And Gihun didn’t know what either of them would do, until Youngil pivoted round and shot one of the workers accompanying the players in the head.

‘Nice shot,’ Gihun found himself saying.

Youngil grunted. He pointed the rifle again. The second worker dropped his own gun, and held his hands in the air. After a moment, Youngil lowered his weapon. Player 333, the young man beside Junhee, registered the action and snatched the rifle up from the ground. He held it shakily, but he wasn’t the only shaky one.

‘Don’t pass out,’ Gihun said to Youngil.

‘You’re alive!’ Junhee called, and the young man grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t trust it,’ he said. She looked at him, baffled.

Well, Gihun probably deserved that at this point.

He dragged himself upright, never mind he was swaying. Lifted his voice. ‘I know you’re listening. These games are over.’

Gihun bent and grabbed the mask from the pile they’d made, his vision going black as he straightened. But he willed himself through it, and his vision cleared. He cast the mask back down, and he shot it, three times in succession, until the casing was shattered in the dirt.

‘You can come here and fight it,’ he announced – he was sure they were preparing to – ‘or we can all go home.’

Looked at the girl with her belly, and the boy beside her. The fucking old guy with them who’d voted to continue every step of the way.

Beside Gihun, Youngil pushed himself upright, using the rifle as a crutch. Under his breath, he said, ‘Don’t you pass out either.’

‘How could you?’ The old guy lifted his voice. ‘When we were so close?’

‘Looking forward to killing a pregnant woman, were you?’ Youngil said.

‘I wasn’t going to kill anyone –’

‘Then you were going to die.’ Something in Youngil’s voice made the older man back down. He settled for looking Youngil up and down, unimpressed.

‘What happened to you?’

‘We were sure you were dead,’ Junhee said. She took in Youngil’s state too. ‘Are you okay?’

‘He’s not,’ Gihun said. ‘We need to talk to whoever’s in charge and end this.’

‘But the money!’ said the old guy. ‘I didn’t go through all this for nothing.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Youngil said. ‘Your debts will be paid. You should be grateful for that much, because the young man there would definitely have killed you.’

The old man was offended as a cat; the young man didn’t argue the point, but lifted his chin defiantly.

Gihun thought he knew who the survivor might have been. It would have been the same way Gihun would have done it.

‘Um. Excuse me.’ The new voice was the remaining pink worker. ‘The boss wants to come in. Will you promise not to shoot him?’

‘That depends on what he’s offering,’ Gihun said. ‘But let’s get this straight. He’s not the boss. The boss is dead.’

The Front Man was dead. He was dead as soon as he took off the mask. As soon as Gihun had recognised the human underneath.

Gihun could have been the Front Man, but he wouldn’t.

But he wasn’t going to punish Youngil for it either. It was the feeling he’d got when they played against each other: this wasn’t the first time for either of them.

---

They let the replacement 2IC in, whereupon they established that the remaining workers would really rather not die in the name of keeping the game running, and that they’d let the rest of them leave. On the subject of money, the 2IC said he couldn’t authorise anything, but there were a number of wealthy men in the facility who might be willing to beg for their lives.

Well, if Gihun had his way, he’d just shoot them. But he was willing to let the old guy try some extortion first.

Youngil got paler over the course of the negotiations, until Junhee went to him and put her arm under his to support him. ‘Mr Youngil needs medical care,’ she said. ‘How soon can we leave?’

A triangle worker spoke up then. ‘There’s a doctor on the island.’

‘What?’ said the boss.

‘A surgeon. He’s not, um, here officially.’

Youngil chuckled. The girl looked startled. She suddenly lowered herself to the ground, as Youngil’s legs buckled.

‘I’m okay,’ Youngil said, although he sounded out of breath. Gihun didn’t move.

‘Get the doctor,’ he said.