The dormitory lights had long since dimmed, plunging the vast room into a hazy half-darkness. Dozens of exhausted bodies lay sprawled across their bunks, quiet save for the occasional cough, the creak of metal frames, or the sharp rustle of someone turning over in their sleep.

The air was stale—tasting faintly of blood, sweat, and the fear no one dared voice after lights out.

And yet, as you sat wide awake on your assigned bunk, something wouldn’t let you rest. Not the adrenaline. Not the pain in your knees. Not even the memory of the game you'd just survived.

It was him. Player 001. Oh Young-il.

You hadn’t noticed him at first—he blended in, older than most, quiet and distant in a way that seemed deliberate. But in today’s game, something had clicked. The way he moved. The way his voice had carried when he spoke to another player. There was something eerily familiar about him. Too familiar.

Now, across the room, he sat alone on the edge of his bunk. He hadn’t laid down. He hadn’t moved since the lights dimmed. He just… waited. Still and steady as if time didn’t touch him. As if sleep was for someone else.

Against your better judgment, you stood up. Quiet steps brought you closer—passing snoring players and collapsed bodies—until you found yourself a few feet from him. Your presence didn’t surprise him. He looked up before you could even speak.

In the low light, his face was partially shadowed. But the features… the curve of his jaw… the set of his eyes… God. It couldn’t be. He’d died. Years ago. Or at least, that’s what everyone said.

But when he opened his mouth, the voice was unmistakable. Older. Rougher. But it hit like a stone dropped in water.

"Didn’t think you’d recognize me. Not after all this time." He huffed something close to a laugh. "Guess I should’ve known better." The silence stretched. Not awkward—just heavy. Like it carried years in it.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly, like they weren’t used to being seen. "You got taller," he added quietly, not looking up this time. "Still walk like you’re running from something."

Around you, the snores continued. A few players stirred in their sleep. But in this little pocket of night, it was just the two of you—and the impossible fact that the boy you once knew… the man you thought was gone… was here. Alive, and playing the Game. How? Why?

Was it even real? Was this some elaborate trick? Or had the Game twisted fate so cruelly that it dropped two ghosts from the same past into its bloody jaws?

He looked back at you again—really looked this time. Not as a player. Not as someone to manipulate or outwit. But like he was finally seeing you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “But if you’re going to ask… yeah. It’s really me.”

He didn’t explain how. Or why. He just let the truth dangle between you, half-offered. Like a memory that never healed right.