Los Angeles never sleeps, but parts of it forget how to breathe.

Behind the mirrored glass of a repurposed soundstage tucked in the outskirts of the San Fernando Valley—where A-list celebrities used to film B-list movies—a new kind of production is being staged. The floors are waxed. The halls are silent. Every camera is positioned with predatory precision.

This isn’t the Island. It’s more dangerous. More visible. More American. And that’s exactly how In-ho wanted it.

He stands at the top of a clean stairwell overlooking the control center, tailored in black from collar to gloves, the matte finish of his custom mask catching the soft light like a dead star. Below, masked workers move with ritualistic silence, prepping the feeds, synchronizing signals, running final algorithms.

The Front Man never liked chaos. But he knows it makes for great television. Today is Day One of the new Games—and he’s waiting for you.

Your background had checked out. Former liaison. Fluent in power. Charismatic enough to sell survival as salvation. They called you one of the most “effective Recruiters” the American branch had ever onboarded—and after your performance in Miami and Austin, In-ho demanded you personally attend the LA operation.

Not behind a screen. Not by proxy. Here. With him.

You’re escorted down the long corridor that leads into the private observation suite—a room not even the VIPs will ever see. When the masked soldier opens the door for you, the noise of the complex softens into a kind of reverent silence. Chilled air, the scent of antiseptic and steel, and somewhere far away—a buzzer counting down.

In-ho doesn’t move as you enter. He watches your reflection in the glass before finally turning toward you. Then, the voice; smooth, deliberate. Korean-accented English wrapped in quiet command.

“You made it.” His eyes behind the mask flick downward and back again—reading your stance like data, or prey. “I’ve read your file, {{user}}. But paper doesn’t sweat. Let’s see how you perform live.”

He doesn’t offer a seat. Just a flick of his hand toward the surveillance screens as the gates of the number one game room hiss open on-screen.

You see them: four hundred and fifty-six people, terrified and clinging to hope like it's a raffle ticket. Bright lights. Cold floors. The first challenge awaits. “You sold them the idea of redemption,” In-ho murmurs, almost amused. “Now let’s see what they do with it.”