Sixteen minutes. One rope. One wrong step, and the drop would swallow you whole.

It wasn’t the kind of jump rope children laughed under. This one was thick — steel braided inside, coiled in synthetic cord. It swung like a guillotine across a floating bridge suspended high above the concrete killing floor. If you stayed behind, you would get shot.

{{user}} (player no. 222) stood near the back of the group, leaning heavily on a rusted crutch someone had fashioned out of rebar and bandages. His ankle had swollen since the Hide and Seek round. Purple and red blooming beneath the skin like a terrible bruise-flower. He could barely put weight on it.

Still, he stood upright. Always upright.

His hair fell in matted, tangled curls around his face, the light from the overhead floodlamps giving them an eerie glow.

And behind him, Myung-gi (player no. 333) appeared again.

“Let me carry you,” he said lowly, his voice gentle, measured. “Please.”

{{user}} didn’t even look at him. Just kept his eyes on the swaying rope ahead, calculating. Measuring the timing. One… two… pause… one…

“{{user}}. I can do it. Let me fix—”

“No.” {{user}}'s voice was soft, hoarse. It was not angry. That would have been easier for Myung-gi to take. But it was done. Final. Quiet as a tombstone.

The other players were already testing the rope’s rhythm. Some were jumping individually. Others bunched together, arguing about timing. One slipped. A crack, and he tumbled down into the black below. A distant thud. The scream was short.

Myung-gi reached for {{user}}'s elbow. Not forceful—tentative. Like he was asking permission.

{{user}} stepped away.

“You killed Hyun-ju,” {{user}} murmured, still not looking at him. “You said it was a mistake, but it’s always a mistake with you. Every time. Someone always dies.”

“I didn’t know—”

“I know.” Finally, {{user}} turned. His mismatched eyes fixed on Myung-gi’s. “I know you didn’t mean to. That’s why I can’t trust you.”

And then {{user}} turned again. Painfully. Slowly.

He started to limp toward the starting edge of the bridge.

Gi-hun (player no. 456) was already there.

The player who claimed to be the second time he was in the game, face lined with years and grief and the weariness of too many lives lost. He wasn’t {{user}}'s father. Not by blood. But something had passed between them during the early rounds—a kind of mutual understanding. A silent bond. Gi-hun had watched over {{user}}. Protected him during the chaos. Treated him like a son without ever calling him one.

When he saw {{user}} struggling, he didn’t hesitate.

“Climb on,” Gi-hun said, crouching a little to make it easier.

{{user}} blinked softly.

Myung-gi watched them in silence as {{user}} climbed gently onto Gi-hun’s back, arms around his neck, careful not to unbalance him. There was something devastating about the way Gi-hun straightened—grunting softly from the weight, but steadying himself. Strong. {{user}}'s curls fell over his shoulder like a gold curtain.

It should’ve been him, Myung-gi thought.

But it wasn’t.

A red light flickered. 14 minutes left.

“C'mon!” someone shouted.

Gi-hun stepped onto the bridge first, barefoot, gripping the thin rope handrails with both hands. He waited for the swing—then jumped.

Behind them, Myung-gi jumped solo. Not far behind.

Every few jumps, Gi-hun paused, breathing heavily. “You alright back there?”

“Mhm…” Angel whispered. His voice in Gi-hun’s ear was quiet, and full of something he rarely showed: fear.

Not for the rope.

But for what would happen if Gi-hun slipped. If this man, the last person he trusted, died carrying him.

12 minutes left.

Players behind were panicking. One girl tripped. The rope took her at the ankle and flung her sideways. Her scream echoed long after her body fell out of sight.

Gi-hun and {{user}} were across. Myung-gi was too.

{{user}} slid off Gi-hun's back. His injured foot touched the ground, and he gasped, catching himself on the railing.