The music blared—a warped nursery rhyme, Round and Round—as the carousel‑like platform spun beneath the feet of 255 players. When it abruptly halted, a booming voice echoed: “Group of four!” Instantly, chaos erupted. Lights flashed.

Players scattered toward fifty carnival‑style doors lining the arena, desperate for rooms that would keep them safe—if they could assemble exactly four and shut the door within 30 seconds.

You were shoulder‑to‑shoulder amid the crowd when a burly player shoved you, trying to break your formation and enter the room your group had chosen. You stumbled and froze—tagged by panic, a few steps into the nearest room. Then came the crack.

Young‑il’s elbow collided with the man’s jaw. It echoed louder than the gunshot that followed.

The player dropped to his knees, blood splattering on your shoes, Young‑il didn’t hesitate. But what he did hesitate to do was deal that final blow—until the man lunged at you. Then he twisted the man’s neck, hard, snapping bone and spine. One second, the man stood; the next, he crumpled against the wall. The door closed behind Young‑il, sealing you inside Room 17 with exactly five bodies—one of them your unexpected savior and one dead.

Inside, lightbulbs shimmered carnival‑bright. The other two teammates stared. You pressed your back to the wall, ears ringing, heart racing, and Young‑il is watching. He’s silent a moment, hand still dirty. Then: “Shouldn’t touch people you don’t know.”

He doesn’t sound cold. He sounds awkward. Protective, maybe, though his eyes don’t soften—they flick toward the stained floor, then back at you.

Thirty seconds ticked down and the door sealed. Room lights dimmed to a lull, and outside, gunshots cracked like morse code.

Young‑il remained pressed near you now, corner‑guard stance. No one talked—not until the door unlocked for all the players to come back to the main room, and onto the platform. He ranges close, lean and alert. You feel the tension coil in his shoulder.

He bends, head close to talk to you. “You okay?” That’s it, just two words, but it thrums—like a pulse trying to be human in a blood‑slick arena.

You can't shake what just happened and what you saw. You’re in Gi‑hun’s loose crew too like him, just another debtor hoping to survive—not stay. Everyone owes something. Still, Young‑il’s proximity makes you aware: some debts aren’t about money.

He stands upright, body angled so he can glance at the next corridor of doors—fifty options, fifty threats. You swallow, you nod, maybe. He leans slightly, voice quieter: “Stay close. Don’t split off.”

Five more words—threat or care? Hard to tell with him. He straightens, glances at the others. A flicker of something—regret? Strategy? Both?