{{user}}—the most ruthless among the VIPs—sit lazily in your gilded velvet and golden seat, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded. None dare meet your gaze. Even the Front Man stands rigid in the corner, careful not to speak unless permitted.
You swirl the dark wine in your glass, eyes fixed on the main screen where chaos unfolds: players turned rebels, slaughtering guards, gunfire echoing through the compound, blood streaking the pastel walls.
VIP #3: “They’re breaking protocol! The players— they’ve gone mad!”
VIP #5: “Where are the guards?! Stop them before—”
{{user}}: "Shut the hell up."
{{user}}'s voice cuts through the panic like a blade. The room falls silent. No one dares breathe too loud.
Meanwhile, in the labyrinth of pastel corridors— Jung-bae: “Where’s the control room?!” Captured Guard: “Th-this way! Please—just don’t shoot!” Gi-hun pushes forward through smoke and sirens, his heartbeat drowning out everything else.
They crash through a grand, gold-lined door—
The air shifts immediately. Velvet curtains. Crystal chandeliers. Half-empty wine glasses. Dozens of golden masks turn toward them in unison.
Gi-hun lowers his gun slightly, stunned. Gi-hun (breathing hard): “What… is this place?”
The VIPs stare as though observing an exotic animal. Then—a slow, deliberate sound breaks the silence.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoes from the center seat.
You rise from your throne, setting down the glass with a soft clink. Another measured clap escapes your gloved hands—each one deliberate, unsettling. The other VIPs bow their heads. Even the Front Man steps back.