now i want to know what happens to the rest of gihun's harem. the extended version
okay, let's do this ✊😤
ali: he stays the same! that's a nice man through and through! not even the gihussy could influence him to become evil!
mr kim: oh he's def getting better, we all saw how soft he was with gihun in s2, imagine if gihun gave him access to his coochie.
daeho: slightly worse, in the sense that he'd want to fuck all day long and wouldn't do anything else bc he'd be thinking abt gihun.
062: better. i think the gihussy would make him smarter. no, i will not explain why.
jungbae: worse. we all heard how gihun's marriage fell apart bc jungbae dragged him to the horse races... well this would be payback.
the masked officer: horrifyingly worse. he'd get so possessive and wouldn't want gihun to get close to inho; in fact, inho being all over gihun is the reason why he even pursued him in the first place bc if inho is interested then the officer wants to steal it from him.
deoksu: surprisingly better. i don't think he's the jealous type, strangely, and i think he'd mellow out a bit. gihun tires him out and he has no energy to be terrorizing people in the streets.
his ex-wife's new husband: worse. gihun's coochie would be responsible for their divorce.
kim (mercenary team leader): better. idk, i just think he'd be so chill abt the gihussy. like it's amazing and he suddenly has better aim but he doesn't think it's bc of it. (it is.)
also, this ask is abt the poll i posted abt whether the gihussy was evil, and that poll was in turn inspired by these posts.
It cut through the dormitory like a knife, clear and musical. Too cheerful to belong here.
It ripped the dormitory out of its stale hush, jolting players awake one by one. A ripple moved through the room – bodies shifting under thin blankets, sharp inhales, groggy blinking. Metal frames creaked. Somewhere in the back, someone cursed under their breath.
In-ho snapped awake with the sound still echoing in his skull.
His fingers curled automatically, searching for the fork that wasn’t there – confiscated with the others when the guards swept through after the fight. His body was coiled, tense – not from the noise itself, but from the realization that he’d slept. Really slept.
He hadn’t meant to.
The weight of it settled in his chest as his eyes adjusted to the flickering lights. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. Didn’t remember letting go. Just the ache behind his ribs, the exhaustion that had finally dragged him under.
But nothing had happened. Not after the guards had broken up the fighting. Not after the black boxes and the silence that followed. Nothing had stirred in the dark.
And somehow, he’d fallen asleep.
There was a pressure near his leg. Something warm and still.
He glanced down.
Young-il was curled at the foot of the bunk, knees drawn up, cheek pressed to the blanket. One hand had drifted across the mattress in sleep, fingers lightly brushing against In-ho’s shin like he’d reached out by accident and never pulled back. His breath was even. Deep.
In-ho’s jaw clenched.
It wasn’t new – waking up to someone in his bed. Jun-ho had done the same when he was small. Half the time, he’d sneak in without a sound, crawl under the covers and wedge himself against In-ho’s side, small and warm and shivering from some half-remembered nightmare. Other times, he’d curl at the foot like a cat, limbs folded awkwardly, content just to be there. Sometimes In-ho would wake with Jun-ho sprawled over his chest, his hair tickling In-ho’s nose, arms clinging like ivy.
He used to sigh, used to grumble at how the kid always slipped past him unnoticed – but he never sent him away. Because beneath the tired annoyance, there’d always been a quiet certainty: Jun-ho had trusted him to keep him safe.
And In-ho had never wanted to break that trust.
He shook the memory away.
Above them, the piggy bank was moving.
Metal scraped against metal as it descended, slow and deliberate. The cables whined softly with the weight of it, and soon its golden glow cut through the gloom, pooling across the floor like warm syrup. Garish and cheerful in a way that had never fit.
Players were sitting up now. Blinking. Stretching. No one said much. They rarely did in the morning – if this even counted as morning.
Tae-jin was already on his feet. Standing near the edge of his bunk, eyes fixed upward. He didn’t move as the piggy bank settled. Didn’t speak. Just stared, jaw tight, hands still at his sides. In-ho didn’t know if he’d slept at all.
In-ho leaned down and rested a hand on Young-il’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Young-il didn’t answer at first. His brows twitched. His face scrunched like he was trying to roll away from the world.
In-ho gave a firmer nudge. “Wake up.”
Young-il grumbled something incoherent and flopped onto his back, one arm draped over his eyes like the light itself had personally offended him. His legs shifted, then stilled again, feet still tucked close to where In-ho’s knees had been a moment ago.
He wasn’t fully awake. Not yet. Just groggy and half-aware, like the world could still be ignored if he didn’t sit up.
In-ho rolled his eyes and didn’t bother saying anything else. There was no point. The kid would come around in his own time. And for now, he wasn’t hurting anyone by taking up the foot of the bed.
Instead, In-ho pushed to his feet. The muscles in his back protested the motion, tight from tension more than sleep. He ran a hand over his face, grounding himself. The piggy bank had finished its descent. The dormitory lights held steady now – too bright for comfort. Too sterile to feel real.
But the tension from the night before hadn’t left. Not really.
They’d made it through the worst of it. But something in the air still felt brittle.
And as the room shifted into morning, In-ho stayed alert.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Instead, he settled on the step beside Tae-jin who didn’t look over. His eyes stayed locked on the piggy bank above them. Watching. Waiting.
In-ho followed his gaze.
The glass chamber hovered there in its usual mockery of grandeur – golden light flickering across the room like sunrise through poisoned glass.
And then the first bundle dropped.
A thick block of bills fell from the top of the bank with a mechanical thud and landed with a dull, weighted slap.
Then another.
And another.
The sound repeated. Again. Again.
Soft thuds stacking into something heavier than noise. Something that built and built until every flicker of breath in the dormitory seemed to stop just to listen.
In-ho’s hands curled loosely over his knees. His eyes narrowed.
More money dropped.
It wasn’t stopping.
Around them, heads turned. Players shifted upright. Some still blinked blearily, but others… others sat up straighter. Eyes narrowing. Mouths parting slowly.
Tae-jin exhaled once, the breath sharp through his nose. He didn’t speak. But In-ho saw the way his jaw tensed even more. The way his brow pulled tight.
Young-il’s voice came from behind, thick with sleep. “Why’s it still going…?”
In-ho didn’t answer.
Because he was doing the math.
₩100 million per person.
The night before, there had been ninety-three players left.
Now… the bank had nearly doubled in value.
Young-il made a noise in his throat – disbelieving, breathy.
Tae-jin’s voice was quiet, almost too quiet. “Forty-eight.”
The number hit like a dropped stone. They hadn’t just survived the night. They’d crossed a line.
And the bank had rewarded it. Not for winning a game. Not for playing by the rules.
But for blood spilled in the dark.
A final clunk echoed into silence, and the dormitory stood still beneath the oppressive hum of the lights.
Then, as if on cue, the doors opened. Just the mechanical groan of steel dragging back, and the guards stepping inside with their usual expressionless purpose.
Each player was handed a small foil-wrapped parcel. The irony wasn’t lost on In-ho. He took his portion without looking up. He didn’t need to see who was handing it to him. His eyes were elsewhere.
They settled in their usual corner – same steps, same unspoken formation. Tae-jin perched near the edge, always with one eye on the room. Young-il folded himself onto the lower step, breakfast in his lap, still not fully awake. In-ho sat beside him, knees drawn up, foil resting unopened in his hands.
He wasn’t eating. He watched instead. Quiet. Still.
Not obvious, but attuned. Alert. The way he’d always been. Even before the games. Even back when watching people had been part of his job, not part of staying alive.
Because the dormitory was too quiet. Not silent – just quiet in that way that meant people were waiting. Holding something back. Gearing up for the next thing, whatever it was.
And that was when he felt it. That prickle – familiar as breath.
Eyes on him.
In-ho looked up. Casual. Slow. He didn’t need to guess who it was.
Player 249 sat just outside one of the larger clusters of players, leaning against a bunk frame like he belonged there. Arms draped over his knees, posture easy, like he had nothing to prove. But his grin said otherwise.
It was the same as before. That same slow, self-satisfied curl of the mouth that didn’t reach his eyes.
In-ho met his gaze. Just for a second.
Neither of them blinked.
249 didn’t look wary. Or angry. Or even curious.
He looked amused, entertained even.
And that was the part In-ho didn’t like. That small upward twitch of his mouth – like he was watching something unfold exactly the way he wanted it to. Like the night’s violence hadn’t shaken him at all. Like he was bored already, waiting for the next opportunity to cause trouble.
Waiting for something new to crack.
Waiting for someone to follow up.
In-ho didn’t give him more than that one second. He didn’t feel like performing. He dropped his gaze again, a clean dismissal. Message sent: ‘You don’t scare me.’
He turned his attention back to his teammates.
Young-il sat beside them on the steps, halfway slouched, still poking at his food like it had wronged him. He looked half-awake still – hair mussed, sleeves rumpled, one knee drawn up like it grounded him. He wasn’t talking. Just focused on the food in his lap, pulling it apart piece by piece like it was something to be solved instead of eaten. There was a smudge of something dark on the sleeve of his track suit.
He looked… harmless. Soft. Like someone who shouldn’t have lasted past the first game – but had. And was still here.
And then – his elbow slipped. Young-il jolted with a startled sound and caught himself just before tipping backwards down the step. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his feet back into a more stable position and rubbing his elbow like it had betrayed him.
Tae-jin didn’t react. In-ho almost smirked.
Almost.
He looked up again – more out of habit than anything – and caught it instantly. Player 249 hadn’t looked away. He was still lounging, still smirking.
But now…
Now he wasn’t looking at In-ho.
The man wasn’t even trying to hide it. He sat with his arms crossed loosely over his chest like he had nothing better to do than stare. His head tilted slightly, almost amused. The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. But his gaze had shifted. Just enough to land squarely on Young-il.
And everything in In-ho went still.
Of course.
Last night, 249 had tested him – measured how he moved, how Tae-jin stood beside him, how they didn’t flinch. It had been about sizing up control. Resistance. Influence. Power.
But then Young-il had entered the equation.
He’d charged in like an idiot – pipe in hand, eyes wide, running his mouth even then – swinging hard enough to drop one of 249’s men before In-ho could even yell at him. No hesitation. No calculation. Just reckless, stupid bravery.
And now he was paying for it.
In-ho saw it immediately. 249 wasn’t just watching. He was marking.
Not because Young-il was dangerous.
But because he’d mattered.
Because 249 had seen In-ho lunge for him. Pull him up. Pull him out. Because that kind of reaction – that kind of protection – was the only opening people like 249 needed.
You don’t go for the strongest.
You go for the one that makes the strong hesitate.
In-ho shifted slightly on the steps. Adjusted his posture. It wasn’t obvious – just a lean forward, elbow against his knee – but it was enough. A new angle. Just enough to block 249’s view of Young-il.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Didn’t give anything away.
But the weight of that stare didn’t lift. Not right away.
It lingered. Assessed.
And In-ho clenched his jaw, just once, knowing exactly what it meant.
Not a threat.
A promise.
Because he’d seen that look before. Too many times. In back rooms and holding cells. In alleyways and interrogation chairs. The grin of a man who had found his leverage and was willing to wait. Willing to use it.
And the worst part?
In-ho had handed it to him.
He should have known better. Should’ve kept his head down. Should’ve stuck to what had kept him alive this long – no attachments, no teammates, no names.
But then came Tae-jin. Then Hye-won.
Then the kid who didn’t know when to shut up and had no idea how much of himself he gave away just by being.
And now?
Now In-ho had painted a target on his back. On all their backs.
So he stayed where he was.
Still. Steady. Blocking what he could.
And he didn’t look up again – not until 249 finally leaned back, gaze drifting elsewhere, that smirk still tugging at the edge of his mouth like he already knew what he’d do next.
A familiar hiss of hydraulics broke across the dormitory, followed by the grinding pulse of the steel doors pulling open. The guards filed in – same faceless masks, same synchronized steps. Still no weapons visible, but their presence was enough. Enough to remind everyone that the reprieve was over.
It was time again.
No words. Just the sharp gesture toward the hall.
Players moved. Slow at first, like the stiffness hadn’t left their limbs from the night before. Like their bodies remembered fear even if their mouths didn’t speak it. They stood. Straightened. Gathered. Some clutched the foil wrappers from breakfast like they were unsure where to leave them. Others left theirs where they sat, forgotten.
In-ho rose with them. Young-il blinked up at him as he passed, yawning once, wide and unbothered – but In-ho stayed behind him.
Close enough to watch his back. Close enough to intercept anything before it could get too close.
Up ahead, player 249 slotted into the flow of bodies like he belonged there. No glance back this time. But In-ho knew better than to believe that meant anything.
As they began the familiar walk into the hall – the line forming, guards flanking either side – In-ho’s eyes scanned the moving bodies. Familiar clusters. The stragglers. The loners.
And then, as predicted, player 249 glanced back once. Just once.
In-ho didn’t miss it.
Neither did Tae-jin.
They moved in silence until the hallway curved into one of its usual featureless turns. The light overhead buzzed faintly, casting dull reflections against the concrete walls. Then, without turning his head, Tae-jin murmured low enough for only In-ho to hear.
“Stay close to him.”
It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a suggestion, either.
In-ho looked over. Tae-jin’s eyes were still forward. Focused. But his meaning was clear.
He’d seen it too. The way 249 had watched. Not just with interest – but with intent.
“Something’s off,” Tae-jin said, his voice steady but low. “That fight last night… it didn’t just happen. The forks, the late dinner – someone wanted it to escalate. And now…” He paused, eyes flicking to the guards before settling on In-ho again. “It must be part of the next setup.”
In-ho didn’t respond at first.
He let the words sink in, slow and heavy, echoing like something he’d already thought but hadn’t put into shape yet. Because he’d felt it too – the wrongness in the timing, the mechanical nature of it all. Dinner served just late enough to stoke agitation. Forks handed out when they weren’t needed. Guards who didn’t step in until someone was already dead.
It hadn’t been chaos.
It had been choreography.
The massacre wasn’t a glitch in the system. It was part of the machine.
And now, here they were – barely cleaned up from the last bloodshed, already being funneled into the next round.
Another game, as if nothing had happened.
In-ho glanced back toward Young-il, still a few steps ahead, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jumpsuit. Another target. Another kid In-ho had decided to protect.
He exhaled slowly, the sound quiet but deliberate. Then he nodded. “I’m sticking close to him,” In-ho muttered. “He’s already on 249’s list. Might as well make sure he doesn’t end up on someone else’s.”
Tae-jin gave a small grunt that In-ho took as agreement.
It wasn’t a plan. Not exactly.
But it was enough.
Because the rules were changing – faster than they could keep up. The line between the games and everything outside of them was starting to blur. Elimination wasn’t reserved for playtime anymore. And if that was true… the only thing left to do was adapt.
In-ho flexed his fingers once at his side. Sharp. Grounding.
Whatever came next – he’d be ready.
And Young-il wouldn’t face it alone.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
(A/N: noticed how I still haven't reached the fourth game? I seriously don't wanna... I have something planned, and I am not ready 😭)
