Thank you to @bluerose5 for the tag!
If I manage to get this done on time, I'll be putting this up for the "organised crime" prompt for IAD. Imagine Gi-hun is a puppy and that In-ho is John Wick (except this isn't John Wick so I promise the dog doesn't die!)
Ok. So maybe not the best metaphor. But the incident in this excerpt begins a chain reaction of events that will send In-ho into full revenge mode š
I just hope I get it done...
Deep down Gi-hun knows that In-ho will kill him if he finds out he spent the day at the racetrack. But itās not like he does it all the time anymore, and he hardly ever gets to see Jung-bae these days. One little flutter, and thatās it.
Except, in a stroke of madness, it's not just one little flutter. Itās his birthday, after all, and heās feeling lucky. 50,000 won on a seven race accumulator. He and Jung-bae have worked it out. If every one of his horses wins, heāll pocket over forty-five billion won. Of course, if even one of them loses, heāll get nothing back.
Itās a silly pipe dream, one that he doesnāt expect will come to fruition. Just a little birthday fun and excitement, and a story to bemoan over soju later, while he waits for his husband to finish work.
But two races in, both horses have won.
The numbers jump. Not just a little. First a jittery leap, then something sharper, meaner, almost vindictiveāthe promise of a jackpot too large to explain, too dangerous to touch. One moment Gi-hun is clutching his ticket, sweating out his nerves with Jung-bae in the noise of the grandstand, and the next he's staring down the barrel of one hundred million won, blinking at the frantic, pulsing readout on his phone. Jung-bae hugs him for dear life as they watch the screens.
He stumbles toward the betting window, summoning the smile that has talked him out of parking tickets and late fees his whole life. The tellerāyoung, pretty, with cherry-red nailsābarely glances up as he leans in, voice honey-warm. "Listen, I've got a bit of a situation with this accumulator. Any chance we could settle up now?" His fingers drum the counter, wedding ring catching the light. She shakes her head, tapping her screen. "System doesn't allow it. Rules are rules." His charm evaporates like morning dew. He retreats to his seat, leg bouncing frantically, praying the next race will mercifully kill his bet. Anything but this purgatory. Anything but In-ho finding out how close they came to financial security only for it to be stripped away.
Jung-bae presses a cigarette into his hand, the gesture silent but solid, an anchor in the swirl of noise and light. Gi-hun barely feels it. His entire body is locked on the screen, heartbeat hammering in time with the pounding hooves out on the track. The numbers flash, horses rounding the curve in a blur of colour and muscle. He canāt breathe. He canāt even blink.
The favourite surges ahead. Gi-hunās ticket shakes in his fist. For a second, it looks impossibleāthe gap, the distanceābut then his horse slips through, a sliver of turquoise and white, streaking past the finish line. His throat constricts. Another winner. Three in a row.
Jung-bae whoops, wild, grabbing his arm. Gi-hun just stares. Four races left. Four, and then everything changes.
The fourth race speeds past in a smear of colour. Gi-hun doesnāt watch. He canāt. He folds forward, elbows braced on his thighs, both hands pressed flat against his stomach as if he can keep the numbers from tearing through him by sheer force. His breathing is all wrong. Shallow, spiked, every inhale a fresh punishment. Somewhere, horses thunder across a screen, the crowd howling, but all of it feels distant, unreal, as if the world itself has shrunk to the paper ticket crumpled in his fist and the burning acid in his gut.
Jung-baeās hand lands on his back, solid and anchoring. āThatās four,ā he whispers, voice hoarse with awe. āFour in a row, Gi-hun.ā
He wants to laugh, or sob, or crawl out of his own skin. Instead, he just waits.
The fifth race happens in a blur, then the sixth. Gi-hun doesnāt see them. He canāt. The noise of the crowd collapses into a distant, static roar, every cheer or groan cutting along his nerves like a scalpel. His body folds in tighter, palms pressed so hard against his knees he wouldnāt be surprised to find bruises blooming there later. He barely registers the numbers as they flicker past, the way the odds warp and recalibrate on the screens overhead. All he knows is the feverish churn of his own stomach, the burning in his throat, the knowledge that just one loss would obliterate everything, and the amount at stake now is too big, too monstrous, to even calculate. He canāt bear to look. He doesnāt dare.
And then the final race lines up at the start.
No pressure tagging @lenorenevermore99 @not-lonkero @nerdyhuntress @subversivegrrl
