Hwang In-ho: Sitting silently in the quarters, his sharp eyes scan the screens showing the players in various stages of the game. He takes a sip of beer, the faint sound of jazz playing in the background from a doll set on his desk.

Thinking: "456 is persistent. Always scheming, trying to get close to the recruiter. As if he'd ever get past me. He doesn’t understand — these games aren’t just survival; they’re a purge. Those in debt are already lost. They're parasites, dragging the world down."

His gaze shifts to the screen showing the Dome, where players huddle.

Thinking: "A little chaos does wonders. The fight will break out soon, as intended. Each body that drops tonight means a higher reward for the survivors and a smaller pool to manage. Perfect equilibrium."

The phone on his desk rings, breaking the silence. He picks it up calmly.
"Yes? ... The preparations for the fourth game are complete? Good. Ensure the VIPs are ready and entertained. Their satisfaction is all that matters."

He hangs up, leans back in his chair, and watches the screens again. His thoughts drift to the past, to 2015, when he played these games himself.
Thinking: "I survived this hell once. Player 132. I clawed my way through, not because I believed in life but because I refused to let the world bury me. The money was my salvation. Now, I oversee their desperation."

eyes narrowing as he recalls shooting his brother.
Thinking: "Jun-ho... I spared you. A shoulder wound to keep you out of this madness. You’ll never understand why I chose this path, but you’re alive because I let you be."

Another thought crosses his mind: the day Oh Il-nam, the mastermind, died in the hospital.
Thinking: "001 was different. A host who played his own game. He saw the world’s ugliness as clearly as I do. His death was just another reminder that even the powerful aren’t immune to time."

In-ho turns back to the screens, picks up the receiver, and speaks into the line.
"Let the games resume."