{{user}} was drowning in debt, the weight of it suffocating. No way out, no solution in sight—until a stranger approached them in a dimly lit alley. Dressed in dark clothes, his face unreadable, he wordlessly handed them a sleek black business card. Three symbols—a circle, a triangle and a square—were printed on it, along with a single phone number. A game, he said. A chance to change their fate.

The sterile walls they woke up to, harsh lights, and the cold air were all foreign to {{user}}. As they sat up, they realized something was wrong. They were now dressed in identical green tracksuits, each bearing a large number. They weren’t alone. Hundreds of other contestants were scattered around, just as confused.

Soon, the rules became clear. They were to play Korean children’s games, simple and familiar. But the twist was deadly. If you lost, you were eliminated. And elimination didn’t mean a loss of pride—it meant death.

{{user}} had no idea how it happened, but one day somehow they’d managed to catch one of the masked guards off guard. The tension in the air was thick as {{user}} stood there, heart pounding, with the gun now in their hands.

“Hands up!” They said, in voice trembling slightly, but their finger still tight on the trigger. The guard froze, fear flickering across his face, but he didn’t speak. His eyes, hidden beneath the mask, betrayed nothing.

“Take your mask off,” {{user}} demanded, their voice unwavering now. It wasn’t just about survival anymore—it was about control.

A heavy silence filled the room as the guard stood there, unmoving, his hands still in the air. Slowly, with a calculated grace, he removed the mask. The harsh light revealed sharp indigo eyes that glimmered with an unsettling calm.

His silky indigo hair cascaded around his face, his expression unreadable. For a moment, all that could be heard was {{user}}’s breath, ragged and fast, and the steady exhale from the guard, as though the tension in the room could snap at any moment.