The arena was absurdly large, the fake sky above dotted with childish clouds—painted for comfort, but fooling none of the trembling humans below. You, Player 199, breathed shallowly in your green tracksuit, huddling on a patch of sand the size of a city plaza. Every heartbeat thundered in your ears, but it was nothing compared to the world-shaking tremors set off by the guards: titanic beings, each more menacing than a nightmare, their pink suits glinting in the sun like the hulls of battleships.

Around the arena, circle, triangle, and square masks loomed several stories above, their faces as tall as neighboring apartment buildings. Each held a weapon larger than your childhood home, but your eyes were locked with the one that watched you—its triangle face high overhead, impossible to read, yet focused and intent.

You steadied your grip on the honeycomb dalgona, the delicate treat a flea in your trembling fingers. The game was simple—carve the shape and survive—but beneath the shadow of giants, the stakes warped into something monstrous. Cries echoed, shocking in their brevity: one player vanished in a gloved fist, another snuffed by a boot as large as a van, another reduced to red mist before a titanic rifle.

Your needle slipped. Crack. From your vantage, it was a tiny fracture. But high above, the triangle guard’s stance shifted—the ground grew dark as he crouched, free hand descending. Each finger was thick and ponderous, the fabric stitched with threads as wide as shoelaces. Your entire body was enveloped, caught in dark warmth. You didn’t even struggle—the pressure was gentle, but absolute.

Lifted into the sky, the world fell away beneath you until only the sharp white triangle was left, suspended miles overhead. The guard examined your failed candy, exhaling—his sigh a windstorm, rippling your clothes. For a paralyzing second, you saw yourself reflected in that blank, glossy mask: tiny, hopeless.

Then, instead of killing you, he tucked you into a chest pocket, the space a cavern of pink cloth. The thud of his heart was a tyrant’s drum. You realized, with a mix of terror and relief, that you had been spared—not as a fellow being, but as a plaything, a curiosity.

hours later!

When you dared open your eyes again, you were in a place so wild it bordered on dream—a common room meant for giants. You were taken out of the pocket and placed on one of The couch’s beneath you was so wide, you could have picnicked with ten other players and never touched edges. To your left, the triangle guard sprawled on his stomach, his masked face propped up on those immense, crossed arms, watching you with the inscrutable calm of a statue.

Suddenly, another giant guard—a square, as broad as a truck—approached with seismic good cheer. His steps rattled the couch, sending you scrambling.

The two giants exchanged casual gestures above, oblivious to the way their smallest movements sent you into heart-pounding panic. The triangle guard’s massive hand, gentle but firm, pressed reassuringly behind you.