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The crosshair settles comfortably over the neck. The eye. Down to the jaw. If she pretends, she can envision him sketching at her old day job.
He runs his eyes, bold yet flitting across the periphery, before he returns to staring before him. To him—246, she tries to remind herself, even though she already knows him as Mr. Park (he doesn't know that)—she is a faceless void underneath her suit, an indistinguishable and emotionless body with a gun. It's true, at least. For her moreso than quite a few of the others in her station.
But when he wins the gonggi, when his team wins the other games, when they cross the finish line with seconds to spare, the breath of relief that leaves her becomes scarier and scarier by the moment.
Then he risks his life to leave. He’s too big, too close to trace his outline with her crosshair. The end of her gun presses against his chest.
My daughter is very sick.
No-eul squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t recall the last time she had a drive so strong for something that wasn’t hers left half a world away. But this circumstance that she's thrown herself into completely of her own volition is working against her—deep down, the ache that she feels isn't going to disappear. The loss that she knows she has to accept only looms beyond the island. No amount of money will bring that happiness back.
Please don't kill me.
She looks down. 246 moans under her hands as she digs out the bullet, thankfully not too deep from where she had shot him. By her feet are her gloves, ripped off in haste and dropped in a pool of blood. The guards around them are dead. Maybe one of them is the doctor—but she doubts it, given everything that’s happened. They’re struck through their heads as she is trained to do. So… she won't be able to use those gloves again.
His eyelids flutter. There's nothing in his gaze that suggests he recognizes her. Why should he? She's just another guard. No-eul opens her mouth, then closes it, just in time to hear him whisper, “I'm scared.”
She thins her lips behind her mask and drops the bullet onto the tray next to her. She only has moments—his face is pale, his movements weak. She'll be able to do this, but he'll need the rest of the night to rest. That'll be the hard part. But she’ll be damned if she doesn’t see him get through it.
He says something else. Her fingers clench around the sutures. He's whispering his daughter's name. Suddenly, with the red bloom on his chest, he looks so like the vision of his daughter Na-yeon in her head, the strawberry hat laid gently on her belly.
Her fingers slip briefly—she almost loses the needle and has to bite down the curse on her tongue.
“Stay awake,” she says sharply, when his head lolls to the side and his eyelids flutter. “Hold this.” She threads the needle to stitch him up and shoves the unneeded empty box in his hand. “Don't let go.”
246 (Mr. Park, her mind supplies unhelpfully instead) immediately wraps his fingers tight around it, crumpling it with a loud noise.
She starts to stitch. He cries out, and she shoves his jacket sleeve into his mouth. The new sting of pain will help keep him up. With it comes more muttering—"Na-yeon, Na-yeon, Na-yeon.”
It's a bit too dark to do a good job, but as she manages to make a passable pattern, he grows more and more used to it. He's still holding onto the box with a death grip, and he's sweating nonstop, bangs dripping wet against his forehead, but he keeps muttering his daughter's name, a prayer given voice in a godless lair. No-eul yanks the needle with the suture and closes the wound before snipping it with the scissors left over on the tray.
He moans pitifully under her hands. Her skin is soaked with his blood. When it dries, it’ll be tough getting it out from under her nails. She's only ever had the gloves on otherwise.
There are almost no bandages here, which makes sense given the purpose, but she has to make do with a clean tear of one of the dead guards’ undershirts. She strips it easily before propping him up. There's no easy way to wrap him—he’s too weak to keep himself upright. He leans against her shoulder as she wraps the fabric against his chest until it's sufficiently keeping pressure against his wound, right under his ribcage.
When she's done, she lays him back down and tilts his head with her hands side to side. Her fingertips touch the chip just beneath his skin behind his ear. She carves it out with the scalpel and he makes a tiny noise, too drained to even really feel it, she’s sure.
There’s no antiseptic here but there are decontamination wipes that they use between each player for the organ trade. She snatches one and cleans him up, wiping as much as she can, before finally giving herself a moment of peace. A slow ringing in her ears comes in and out. She suddenly tastes the dryness in her mouth, descending to her throat. It can only be worse for him.
But to leave him here when anyone can walk in?
No-eul pushes herself away. She'll have to clean up first. No time to rest.
He's asleep but breathing steadily as she works, disposing of the dead guards by cremation as well. She has as clean a suit as she can find, scrubbing blood with the cold water from the dive site. When she comes back, he's still asleep, but frowning.
She shakes him by the shoulder briefly. “Wake up.”
246 (Gyeong-seok, says her mind, traitor to her thoughts) opens his eyes with no fanfare. He’s easily more alert than before, but also clearly more uncomfortable now that he can feel things other than pain. “Wh…” he starts, then looks her over once or twice. She's standing there in her suit, holding an extra in her hands.
“Is that—” he starts hoarsely, before coughing. “I… are you…?”
“No time for questions,” she says. A twinge of discomfort hits her. She hasn't exactly thought about what would happen now with both of them awake and lucid. No-eul holds out the suit to him. “Put this on.”
He tries to get up, then immediately almost falls over. No-eul catches him and he steadies himself against her arms, bracing for weakness she knows he will feel in his legs. “Ohh,” he moans. “I feel sick.”
“I'll give you something for that in a moment. Hurry.”
Mr. Park (246, she forces herself to think) doesn't question her, but he's slow, and she has to kill the instinct to not to just dress him herself. It's good for him to do it. And it's good for him not to depend on her while he's sequestered here until she can safely get him out.
She holds out the accompanying triangle mask when he's managed to dress himself up. He stares at it for who knows what reason before reaching for it.
Then he grabs her hand. She immediately yanks away, pacing two steps back.
He throws his hands up. “I'm s-sorry. I—your hands. You—sorry.”
Blinking rapidly, she drags her eyes down. Ungloved, the long sleeves from her shirt wet with blood and shoved up to her elbow, and holding his mask before her, she can see the scars peeking from the outer pink sleeves.
“Just put it on,” she says, angrily, mostly at herself. “And wait here. If anyone else comes in, you're waiting for me—number 011—to check on the dives.”
“Okay.”
“Don't leave.”
“Okay.”
“I'm serious.”
“Okay,” he repeats. She stares, unable to move for a split second, but he says, “I'll stay.”
That seems to be enough for her body, apparently. She ducks out, leaving him alone.
When she gets back, it's two in the morning and she has two bottles of water and two sweet red bean buns in her freshly gloved hands. Mr. Park (Gyeong-seok, her tongue wants to say) is looking at the scalpel on the tray. He immediately stops and looks up at No-eul.
“It's me,” she says. “Take off your mask and drink this.”
He hesitates.
“And so I know it's you,” she says, curt. It's a formality, but…
“Then…” He takes a while to reply, distorted behind the mask’s filter. “Take off your gloves.”
No-eul winces.
“You—you can put them back on after,” he continues. “I don't… I don't know your face.”
A beat hangs in the air, grows large and heavy. She sets the bottles and buns on one of the folding chairs beside the door and then takes off her glove, pushing up her sleeves. “Your turn,” she says, once he's nodded at her. She shoves her sleeve down with more force than necessary.
He takes it off and pushes back the headgear. He has some color in his cheeks again, but he's still mostly pale.
She hands him a bun and he opens it gingerly, like it takes too much effort for his weak fingers to pry open. But he manages it. Taking pity on him, she snaps the seal on the water herself so he doesn't have to.
“Thanks,” he says quietly, his voice clearer without the filter.
She grabs her food and sits down, then—
She'll have to take her mask off anyway.
“I'm eating outside,” she says. She doesn't want to, since there'll be eyes on her, but—
“No!”
No-eul freezes. 246 (Mr. Park, comes that voice) looks shocked at his own outburst, but he presses on. “No—please stay. I don't—” He lowers his eyes, turns around. “I won't look.”
That beat in the air grows heavier.
“Don't look,” she repeats after him. “Just eat.”
“Okay.”
“And I'm not going to talk.”
“Okay.” He nods at the wall at this.
So she sits, and he faces the wall, looking down at his feet and slowly taking apart the bun with his hands. He can't eat too quickly or he'll surely feel upset, but so far he seems alright, and now that he's dressed and the night is quiet here, things seem…
Her chest tightens. She pulls off her mask and pulls open the shrink wrap around her bun. Visions of staff meetings. Invitations out for drinks after work. The days where she would pass him and his daughter, his eyes only on his little girl.
They spend about two minutes this way until he breaks the silence. “Na-yeon is my daughter,” he said. “When you were helping me.” He gestures vaguely to the table, back still toward her. Then he coughs. “I guess… I guess you already know that.”
Silently, No-eul chews. He must think she knows that because the game knows everything. But she knows more. She knows how his eyes crinkle when he looks at his daughter. She knows how he holds a pencil because he teaches Na-yeon the same way. She knows how she draws so advanced for her age because she loves her father so much. She knows he teaches his daughter all the games girls play because she deserves to play them.
He keeps going. Maybe he’s used to noise. “Her new treatment is too expensive and my job isn't… there's no way I can afford anything like that.” He breathes in before masking the croak in his voice with a sip of water. “I don't know what I'd do if I lost her. I didn't think this would be—”
Heavy air again. She crinkles the plastic and shoves it in her pocket. He's still facing the wall. Her eyes trace the span of his shoulders, tangible and without the shadow of the crosshair.
Gyeong-seok (Gyeong-seok, and it fits into place) breathes in, breathes out. He runs a shaky hand through his hair. It looks a bit silly through the pink sleeve, or maybe she just has to get used to it.
“I guess I just wanted to thank you,” he says finally. “But I don't know why, or… or if this is all just… a trick… or if there's something else going on, or… I'm not cut out for this. I'm not…”
This is the most she thinks she's ever heard him talk. When she made it into South Korea, she had a similar pressure in her chest—a need to finally release into a sudden moment of reprieve.
“I want to see your face,” he says suddenly. “You don't have to show me. But… if I'm going to leave here, I want to see my savior. Or if I'm going to die here, I want to see my killer.”
“You still think I'm going to—” The words leave her mouth before she knows it.
She clamps down on her tongue so hard she tastes blood. It ruins the taste of the sweet bean.
He stiffens. No-eul wills herself not to talk.
“Can I ask why?” he says, after a moment. “Why are you helping me? I didn't think anyone here would care.”
She squeezes her eyes shut for just a second as he trails off. When she opens them, the fluorescence blinds her and highlights small floaters in her vision, rainbow swirls clearing away to reveal the same sight of him facing the wall. The floaters quickly vanish after she blinks a few times.
The curve of his back deepens as he sighs. She's seen it often enough back at her old job, passing by him as he worked. Sometimes Na-yeon would be there, watching him. Sometimes he would let her try to trace his own soft lines on the bristol pad.
“You're not going to answer. It's fine. I'm grateful, if it means anything.” She watches his hand rub at his temple. “I don't know what I did for your help.”
A tightness deep in her chest is climbing into her throat. In her ears, she can just about hear the voice of a young girl. She feels Na-yeon’s fingers around her own in that hospital room. This room is suddenly too small.
“Just eat,” she breathes, and then she grabs for her water. The plastic crumples under her harsh grip, and she almost dribbles water along her chin. The lid falls to the ground, an ugly clack sounding against the concrete. She scrambles to pick it up, but it's not fast enough.
When she straightens, he's staring right at her.
“Kang No-eul,” he says, like he's reminding himself of an old classmate. But his eyes are wide. She knows why. He's never seen her save for at mandatory employee events or when she's dressing up in her ridiculous mascot suit.
She opens her mouth. She can't talk.
“Na-yeon…” He breathes in again, then stands from his stool with a clatter. He's still weak in the legs. “She said—she asked about… the pink bunny. About your hands. I…”
“Stop it.”
“I didn't ruin her daydream, of course, but she drew that sitting next to me with that candy she couldn't finish. She said she wanted to give you a gift because you gave her a gift.”
She squeezes her eyes shut again. He's coming closer—his steps are uneven, but with purpose.
“Did you help me because of her?” he asks. No-eul keeps her eyes firmly shut. But he doesn't move for a long time. “Please.”
No-eul opens her eyes, stares at his boots. She can see they're a bit too small for him. She can't answer. If she gives it a voice—a real reason out loud—she will be letting go of her baby girl from home. Something wild thuds in her chest.
“Mr. Park,” she says, staring not at his boots now, but just at the spot on his chest where she knew he was wounded, “you didn't lose at a game.” She looks up. “There was no reason for you to die.”
He stares at her. The moment's passed. He's caught off kilter by it. “What are you talking about?”
“Those who lose should be eliminated. If there's no game being played, then there are no winners or losers.”
Gyeong-seok steps back, incredulous. Good.
But then he says, “So you got me out and killed the other guards to… what? Take me back there?”
Her desperate bluff is called so easily that No-eul physically shudders; she drops her bottle, then bites her tongue in a totally different spot than earlier. That wild thing in her chest slows. She's never been good at lying. That's why she's always resorted to reticence, keeping everything distant. But it feels even worse right now. “I…”
He holds his hands up. “I won't ask you anymore. But… you made my daughter's world that day. Na-yeon wouldn't stop drawing for hours.”
No-eul feels sick. Eating any more of the bun might actually upset her stomach. But there's a bloom within her, desperate to escape. “You have an amazing girl,” she bites out. The rest of the words—memories of a life she doesn't have anymore—won't leave her. If she voices them, it’s over. Instead, she pins him with a hard glare. “She deserves to live. You need to make it back home to her. With the money for her blood cancer treatment.”
The walkie-talkie at her side pings. It's not for her; it's on a shared channel, but it shocks her back into reality. She checks the clock. It's three.
“What do I do?” he asks.
“You can leave.” She stands slowly. He holds out a hand to help her up, even though he's barely holding himself up, too. She takes it after a moment. “Or you can stay and act as a guard. I'd rather you left.”
“And leave you here?”
Gosh. Of course he wants her to come with him.
“I can't leave until all the games are done,” she says.
He runs another hand through his hair and watches her carefully. Maybe he has no more left to say, or his energy's been completely depleted, but it doesn't matter; this is his chance to leave. Not hers.
And as the wallflower that he is, he finally gives way. “When?”
“In a few hours when everyone’s gathering again. They'll be too busy to notice you, and no one will be here until there are more eliminations.”
Gyeong-seok lowers himself to the operating table carefully to sit on it. Even from just a few moments standing, he's a bit paler than before. “Take it easy before you leave,” she says quietly. “We don't have to go anywhere for now.”
“You should sleep,” he says.
“You're one to talk.”
He tries to keep meeting her eyes, but eventually he turns his gaze onto his hands in his lap. “I'll keep you company. We never really talked at work, after all." He smiles, mostly to himself, it seems. "You always seemed far away, more than the other performers. And if I'm going to leave, I want to tell Na-yeon more about you."
In her very chest sounds a bell, clear as daylight. She hasn't felt that for years.
No-eul adjusts herself on her chair.
“Tell me where Na-yeon got that strawberry hat,” says No-eul.
A beat. It's not as heavy anymore.
He's still smiling as he looks back up at her. “Sure.”