The Weight of a Pawn
TW: angst, character death
Ji-seong face claim: g-dragon
Word count: 2k
Dedicated to/plot credits: @celestialswanlake
The moment Thanos saw Ji-seong again, his breath caught in his throat.
It had been over a decade since high school, since the nights spent sneaking onto rooftops and talking about the future—about escaping the suffocating streets of Seoul, about never ending up like the desperate men around them.
And yet, here they were.
Thanos stood frozen in the holding area of the latest game, staring at Ji-seong as if he were a ghost. His old friend looked different—leaner, sharper, the scars on his knuckles speaking of fights neither of them had ever imagined back then. But when Ji-seong turned and their eyes met, a flicker of recognition broke through the coldness of the game.
“Thanos?” Ji-seong’s voice was raw with disbelief.
A thousand emotions crashed over Thanos, but only one escaped his lips.
“Ji-seong.”
Before either of them could speak, a metallic voice echoed through the room.
“Players, proceed to the arena.”
A guard shoved Thanos forward. He barely felt it, still reeling from the shock of seeing Ji-seong after all these years. They moved through a corridor, then emerged into a massive hall, the floor an enormous chessboard of polished black and white tiles. The sight alone was unsettling, but the bloodstains on some of the squares made it worse.
Above them, in the observation balcony, sat Club Pentagon’s elite, their laughter and murmurs blending into a cruel symphony. And at the center of it all, leaning back in his seat with a smirk of pure disdain, was Nam-gyu.
Thanos knew that look all too well. Nam-gyu had always despised Ji-seong, even before the debt. Now, with Ji-seong caught in the club’s clutches, there was no telling how far Nam-gyu’s cruelty would go.
“The next game,” the announcer declared, “is human chess.”
A hush fell over the contestants. They had all seen previous games, had all witnessed the way losses were handled—with bullets, with blades, with execution-style efficiency.
“This will be a team game,” the announcer continued. “Two sides, black and white. The king of each side must survive at all costs. You are merely the pieces in play. Follow the commands given. Sacrifices are final.”
Thanos clenched his fists. No way out. Not yet.
A guard shoved a chess piece into his hand. A knight. He exhaled sharply. That meant movement, a chance to stay ahead of danger. He turned to Ji-seong, whose grip tightened around his own piece.
A pawn.
Thanos swore under his breath. The pawns were always the first to die.
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The board was set, and the first move was called. The game started slowly, tension coiling with each movement. Players hesitated before stepping onto the indicated squares, fully aware that any mistake could mean their death.
Thanos moved cautiously, obeying the orders of his team’s strategist. Across the board, Ji-seong did the same, but Thanos could see the weariness in his movements. The weight of debt, of survival, of knowing that Club Pentagon controlled his fate—it was crushing him.
Then, the first capture was made.
A pawn stepped into a controlled square. A guard stepped forward, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger. The player collapsed, blood pooling beneath their lifeless body. A few gasps broke through the crowd, but most remained silent. Shocked. Horrified.
Ji-seong flinched, but his expression hardened. He had seen death before.
So had Thanos.
The game continued, each move sending another player closer to their end. The knights leaped across the board, the bishops slid into dangerous positions, and the rooks cut off escape routes.
Then the opposing knight made its move—toward Thanos.
He tensed. There was no way out. If he stayed, he was next.
“Pawn to D4.”
The order came sharp and final.
Thanos’s stomach dropped.
That was Ji-seong’s square.
His friend hesitated for only a second. Then he stepped forward, blocking the knight’s path.
Thanos shook his head. “No—”
Ji-seong turned to him, something unreadable in his expression. “It’s okay.”
Thanos’s breath hitched. “Ji-seong, don’t—”
But it was already done.
The knight struck.
Ji-seong staggered, a blade sliding between his ribs. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, but he stayed standing for a moment, his body refusing to collapse. Blood spilled onto the pristine white tile beneath him.
Thanos moved without thinking, catching Ji-seong as he fell. His friend’s weight was heavy against him, his breaths shallow.
“Why?” Thanos choked out.
Ji-seong exhaled a faint laugh, even as pain twisted his features. “Because you… you always had a future, Thanos.” His voice wavered, but his hand gripped Thanos’s wrist, firm despite his failing strength. “Live for me, okay?”
Thanos felt something inside him break.
Ji-seong’s hand slipped away. His body went still.
And just like that, his best friend—the boy he had shared dreams with, the brother he had lost and found again—was gone.
A silence fell over the board.
Then, the announcer’s voice rang out.
“The match is over.”
--------------------
Nam-gyu stood, peering down at the bloodied chessboard with mild disinterest. He glanced at Ji-seong’s lifeless form, then at Thanos, who was still holding his friend as if refusing to let go.
“Such a waste,” Nam-gyu murmured before turning away.
Thanos barely heard him. His world had narrowed to the body in his arms, to the weight of loss pressing against his chest.
The guards moved in, pulling Ji-seong away. Thanos wanted to fight, wanted to scream, but his limbs felt like lead.
He had survived.
But at what cost?
As he was led away, a single thought burned in his mind.
This wasn’t over.
Ji-seong had sacrificed himself for Thanos’s future.
And Thanos would make damn sure that future meant something.
