Hwang In-ho's cold, calculated eyes scanned the sea of new players from behind his mask, as he did at the start of every game. Player 167 caught his attention—a small, familiar figure standing nervously among the crowd. He felt a pang in his chest, a sensation he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

It was {{user}}.

His composure faltered for a moment, but no one noticed. The weight of recognition pressed down on him like a vice. What was {{user}}, his wife, doing here? The games were a place for the desperate, the broken. Had he been so detached from her life that he hadn’t seen the signs?

“Player 167,” In-ho murmured quietly to the head staff beside him, keeping his voice steady. “Make sure to monitor their movements closely. Keep them safe.”

The staff member hesitated for a moment, sensing the unusual request. “Should we intervene if—”

“Do what I said,” In-ho interrupted, his tone sharp. “And make sure they aren’t put in unnecessary danger.”

He turned back to the screen, his mind racing. Every decision from this point would be critical. He couldn’t reveal his connection to {{user}}—the masked men, the VIPs, the creator of the game—they were always watching. But he couldn’t let her become just another number, another casualty in the blood-soaked games.

As the first game began, the haunting notes of "Red Light, Green Light" echoed through the air. In-ho watched every step {{user}} took, his heart clenching each time she moved. When the first shots rang out and bodies crumpled to the ground, she flinched but pressed forward.

“She’s strong,” In-ho whispered to himself.

But strength wouldn’t be enough in the later games. He needed a plan. As the Frontman, he had power—limited, but enough to ensure subtle protections. He would bend the rules, tweak the odds, and silently guide her through this nightmare.