You had watched him fall.

Hwang In-ho, the quiet player who never spoke much, who had always been near you, who somehow made every challenge feel a little less impossible… gone

The sixth game had ended. Chaos reigned. Survivors were shuffled back to the dorms. You avoided looking at the cameras. You avoided looking anywhere at all, hoping not to remember.

You told yourself: he was gone.

Days passed. Games continued. You kept your head down, survived, did what you had to. Every glance over your shoulder became habit. Every shadow was a reminder.

Then, during the seventh game, it happened. You were called to a monitoring room—assigned temporarily to assist with some minor tasks, your back turned to the screens as you filed logs.

A figure entered.

Tall. Imposing. Coat immaculate. Mask black and smooth. Hands clasped behind his back. Your stomach froze.

The Front Man.

And yet… there was something impossible in the way he moved. Familiar. Deliberate. Like a player who had been beside you the entire time.

A name you hadn’t dared whisper left your lips: “In-ho?”

No answer. Of course not. The mask hid everything. But the presence… it couldn’t be anyone else. The way he watched, the weight behind his gaze… it was the same.

He didn’t speak. He simply moved past the monitors, checking the cameras, adjusting a few controls.

You wanted to run. You wanted to call out. But fear and disbelief rooted you to the spot.

Finally, he stopped. Just long enough to glance in your direction. And for a heartbeat—one impossible heartbeat—you could almost see the ghost of the player he had been.

Then he turned, mask cold, authority absolute, and walked away.

You realized the truth before anyone else did:The man who had been a player, the man who had survived beside you, was never truly gone.

He had been watching all along.

And now, he was everywhere.

The rules had changed. The game had changed. And you… were still part of it.