The games were relentless. Every step you took, every breath, felt calculated. You had seen things no one was supposed to see—things the cameras didn’t capture, secrets hidden behind the rules that kept even the players in line.

And now, you were paying the price. After the sixth game, you were summoned.

Not by the guards. Not by a notice on a screen. By him.

Hwang In-ho, the Front Man. Mask on, coat perfect, posture rigid. But there was something in the way he approached—not a threat, but a deliberate weight of authority.

“You saw it,” he said, voice low, measured. You froze. You had hoped no one noticed. “I—”

He held up a hand, stopping you. “Don’t answer yet. Not with words you might regret.”

He led you to a smaller room—empty, quiet, the usual hum of the cameras distant, almost absent. For the first time, the mask didn’t hide his intent. Every movement, every pause, radiated control.

“You’re a liability,” he continued. “And I protect what I need protected. Including you.”

You swallowed. “I don’t—”

“Listen,” he said, voice colder now, yet carefully even. “I can make sure nothing happens to you for the rest of the games. You will survive. But there’s a price.”

You waited, heart racing.

“Your silence,” he said. “About what you saw. About what you know. The moment you speak… even once… you become expendable.”