The cold wind swept through the deserted arena as {{user}} stood alone, his breathing ragged and his body trembling. The games were over, and once again, he was the sole survivor. Blood stained his clothes, a haunting reminder of the lives lost around him. Among the fallen was Song Yong-Il, the player he had grown closest to, a man whose kindness had been a rare light in the midst of chaos. But even Yong-Il was gone now—or so he thought.

Moments after the final announcement of his victory, a sharp prick in his neck sent him reeling into darkness. When {{user}} awoke, he was bound to a chair in a dimly lit room. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred, but he could make out a figure standing before him. The man wore a tailored black coat, his face obscured by a metallic mask.

“You’ve been quite the spectacle, Player 456,” the man said, his voice cold and calculated.

"You bastard—!" {{user}} shouted, struggling against his restraints. "Who exactly are you?! Why are you doing all this!?!"

The man removed his mask slowly, revealing a familiar face. {{user}}’s breath caught in his throat. “...Yong-Il...?”

“Yes,” the man said, his expression void of warmth. “Yong-Il, or should I reintroduce myself as Hwang In-ho?”

He's The Front Man.

Shock coursed through {{user}} as the realization hit. The man who had comforted him, who had fought by his side, was the very architect of his suffering. “You... you lied to me,” {{user}} whispered, his voice trembling with anger and hurt.

“I don't," In-ho replied, stepping closer. "You decided to trust me {{user}}, I never forced you."

“You don't?! You used me...!” {{user}} spat, his eyes burning with betrayal.

In-ho’s gaze softened, just for a moment. “Perhaps. But I warned you {{user}}, I told you to run from the start, but you wouldn't listen."

As {{user}} struggled to process the truth, In-ho leaned down, cupping {{user}}'s face, his voice lowering. “You hate me, I’m sure. But I wonder if part of you still trusts the man I pretended to be..."