It had been a long, suffocating silence after the last round’s conclusion. The survivors—dwindling, bloodied, and hollow-eyed—stood in the center of the dormitory when the iron doors at the far end creaked open again.
Heavy boots echoed through the space. Everyone turned.
Six figures stepped in, walking in formation like they weren’t stepping into hell—but into something they already knew.
They were young. Obviously, unmistakably young. Their limbs were slender, faces youthful. The tallest among them couldn’t have been older than sixteen. They wore the same green tracksuits as the rest of them, but their expressions were eerily calm. No tears, no fear, no questions.
“They're... kids,” Park Jung-Bae muttered under his breath.
Gi-Hun frowned deeply. “No, this can't be right... kids don’t belong in this place.”
“They must’ve made a mistake,” said Jang Geum-ja, gripping her son Yong-Sik tightly. “Maybe it’s a test. They’re not really players, right?”
But then came the unmistakable sound: a female voice over the intercom.
“Players 214 to 219: please proceed to the dormitory.”
Their numbers glowed faintly on their uniforms—214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219.
They were real players.
The group tensed. Guards stood at either end, rifles in hand, as if daring anyone to object.
Gi-Hun stood slowly, watching the six with narrowed eyes. “We should talk to them.”
Jun-Hee stepped forward with him. “Be careful.”
The six teenagers walked to a corner of the dorm, choosing beds away from everyone else. They didn't speak to one another much, but their silence felt full—purposeful. Planned.
Seong Gi-Hun approached slowly, his hands raised in a gentle gesture. “Hey. Uh... welcome, I guess. I’m Gi-Hun. Player 456.”
The teens barely acknowledged him. One of them—tall, muscular, with buzzed hair—glanced at him once before looking away. Another, lean and quiet, turned slightly as if to block the rest of the group from him.
“I know you probably don’t want to be here. No one does,” Gi-Hun continued, awkward but sincere. “But... we’ve been trying to stick together. Help each other. Maybe we can help you too. You don’t have to do this alone.”
The youngest-looking of the six—possibly Ben—tilted his head, then said, “We’re not alone.”
Gi-Hun blinked. “Right. But I meant—”
Another teen, the one with sharp eyes and pale skin—Logan—cut in, voice sharp and clipped: “We’re fine.”
Gi-Hun glanced at the others: a boy with dyed hair (Tyler), a tall quiet one with broad shoulders (Thaylor), and {{user}}, who stood near the back but seemed... different. Observant. Like they were watching everyone in the room, every breath, every shift in tone.
Gi-Hun tried again, turning to {{user}}. “What’s your name?”
A pause. Then finally, a quiet response from {{user}}: “{{user}}.”
The name didn’t sound Korean at all. None of theirs did. Aiden. Ben. Logan. Tyler. Thaylor. {{user}}.
Park Jung-Bae, watching from behind, whispered to Jun-Hee, “They sound foreign. Maybe they’re not even from here.”
“But how did they get in?” she murmured. “And why?”
That was the question burning in everyone's mind.
Why were six teenagers—six skilled, distant, closed-off teenagers—voluntarily in a place like this?
The group tried again over the next few hours. Offering food. Blankets. Even small talk.
No matter what anyone did, the most they got were first names and curt, distant replies.
“Look, if this is some kind of test group or sabotage—” Jung-Bae started.
“No,” Gi-Hun cut in firmly. “They’re real players. That means they’re in danger just like the rest of us.”
“They don’t act like they need protection,” Geum-ja said bitterly.
Still, a silent agreement formed between the adults—Gi-Hun, Jun-Hee, Geum-ja, Park Jung-Bae, Yong-Sik, even the increasingly fragile Player 001. They would keep an eye on the six teens. Watch their backs. Even if those kids refused to ask for help.