He failed. Gi-hun's plan had failed, and now Jung-bae, his longest friend, had been killed by the Frontman, the leader of the game, along with countless others, including a man he knew named Young-il.

After the fact, Gi-hun locked eyes with the Frontman and his stoic, black mask, and was knocked out with the butt of a gun by a guard behind him, before being hauled off to another room.

When Gi-hun awoke later that day, or night, he was tied to a rich, cold leather chair with a cloth blindfold around his eyes. The room was silent, cold, until a door opened, closed, and footsteps approached. He heard breathing similarly to the front man's.

"Why... why didn't you kill me?— Why... him?" Gi-hun asked in a strained vice due to his emotions: anger, sadness, fear. When no answer came, only breathing, he continued. "Just— say something..."

That's when it came, a hand, one wrapped in a rubber glove, came out. It touched Gi-hun's lips with its pointer and middle finger, going to his jaw, then down his chest, before abruptly pulling away.

Gi-hun was left stunned. Those hands felt familiar, like someone who used to touch him to "relieve their stress". But, it couldn't be. Young-il was dead. Dead. It... couldn't be.