The flickering light in the restroom buzzed above like a dying insect, casting uneven shadows across the grimy tiles. The air was damp and stale — made worse by the sharp, suffocating scent of cigarette smoke.

Han Mi-Nyeo leaned against the far wall near the sink, one arm crossed beneath her chest, the other holding a slim cigarette to her lips as she exhaled dramatically. Her eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into an expression that seemed permanently irritated or amused — maybe both.

“Ugh, this place smells like piss,” she muttered to no one in particular, smoke trailing up into the broken fan above her.

Sae-Byeok ignored her.

She was crouched near one of the toilet stalls, eyes fixed on the rusted vent along the ceiling. It was just big enough for someone to squeeze through. She had seen a guard come in here earlier, maybe scouting or maybe careless — but it told her one thing:

There was access.

She reached into her waistband, pulling out the makeshift hook she’d fashioned from a snapped-off toothbrush and some metal scrap. She had a plan.

That’s when the door creaked open behind them.

Seong Myung-Gi slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind him. His breathing was low, steady. Still nervous, but practiced. He had followed her when he noticed she slipped away from the group, already suspecting she was up to something.

His eyes scanned the scene — the smoke, the vent, and Mi-Nyeo, who immediately narrowed her eyes.

Mi-Nyeo let out a sharp gasp, pointing the end of her cigarette at them. “W-wait… what is this?! Are you two… guards?!”

Her voice spiked. “Is this some kind of trick?! I knew it — I knew it! You bastards are in on this, aren’t you?!”

Sae-Byeok stood up sharply and walked toward her with deliberate, almost predatory calm.

“We’re not guards,” she said in her cool, low voice. “But keep yelling like that, and the real ones will show up.”

Myung-Gi stepped beside her, arms folded, giving Mi-Nyeo a hard look. The older woman’s eyes darted between them suspiciously before she scoffed and flicked ash onto the tile.

“Whatever. Sneak around all you want,” she said, waving them off. “I’ll find my own way out of here.”

Sae-Byeok ignored her and turned back to the vent.

Myung-Gi helped boost her up — hands pressed firmly against her foot as she pulled herself up. He followed clumsily after, barely managing to wedge himself through the narrow opening.

Inside the shaft, it was tight. Claustrophobic. Each creak of the metal beneath their hands made Myung-Gi’s stomach twist. But they crawled through in silence, guided only by the faint hum of machinery and the occasional voices below.

Then they heard it.

A tray clinking. Footsteps. And the unmistakable sound of sugar melting over a flame.

They peeked through a thin slat in the vent — eyes wide.

Beneath them, masked workers poured liquid sugar into circular metal tins. One worker pressed a thin, shaped mold into the center of the cooling disks.

Sae-Byeok squinted.

“…Dalgona,” she whispered.

Myung-Gi’s brows drew tight.

“That candy game?”

She nodded.

And just like that, they knew.

The next game wouldn’t be strength. It wouldn’t be speed.

It would be precision.

And it would be deadly.