The first step into the subway tunnels felt like stepping into another world.

Lin descended last, lowering himself carefully onto the corroded service ladder. The sound of his boots hitting the damp concrete echoed down the hollow passage like a gunshot. Keller swung down ahead of him with practiced ease, grumbling as his flashlight beam flickered across rusted rails and water-stained walls. Min-joon landed unevenly, knees buckling, his breath ragged from the strain. The smell hit them next—mildew, iron, and something faintly chemical, a staleness that had clung to the tunnels ever since they'd been sealed off from the public.

"God," Min-joon muttered, covering his nose with the back of his sleeve. "It smells like rot down here."

"It's worse than rot," Keller said. His voice carried far too easily in the silence, bouncing off the curved walls. "It's stale air. Place hasn't breathed in years."

Lin's gaze swept the tunnel. The beam of his flashlight illuminated rows of skeletal tracks, broken sleepers, and piles of rubble where the ceiling had caved. The darkness ahead seemed bottomless, an unending mouth that promised to swallow them whole. He steadied his breathing, his instincts sharpening. This wasn't a retreat—it was a passage into territory no one sane would tread. And Jin knew it.

"We move," Lin said. His tone brooked no argument.

But Min-joon hesitated. "You're sure this isn't exactly what he wants? Leading us into his maze?"

Lin's eyes lingered on him for a moment. The young man's face was pale in the dim light, sweat slick on his forehead despite the cold. Fear clung to him like a second skin.

"He wants us dead," Lin replied. "But he wants me to see the board first. He won't kill us yet."

Keller let out a bitter laugh. "Great. So we're rats in the walls, waiting for the cat to strike."

The sound of dripping water filled the silence as they moved deeper. Each step echoed hollowly on the damp concrete, every noise amplified by the tunnel's acoustics. Their flashlights caught graffiti layered over years of abandonment—half-washed slogans, cryptic symbols, old warnings.

Then Lin stopped.

On the wall ahead, drawn in a deep black pigment, was a crude spiral. It wasn't fresh—its edges had run with moisture, bleeding into the concrete—but the shape was unmistakable.

A spiral, looping inward until it vanished into a dot.

"Another one," Lin murmured. His stomach tightened.

Keller aimed his light at it. "You've seen this before?"

Lin nodded slowly. "Back at the rooftop. And on the alley wall near the safe house."

"It's his mark," Min-joon whispered. "Like… a signature."

"No," Lin corrected. His voice was flat, precise. "It's a map. A spiral always pulls you inward. He's drawing us into his center."

They pressed on, following the tunnels where the spiral pointed them. The deeper they went, the more signs they found—another symbol, half-hidden behind collapsed tiles, then a second spiral scratched into a rusted service door. Each one marked the path, a breadcrumb trail designed for them and no one else.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The tunnels twisted, broke off, merged again. At times they were forced to wade through stagnant water that soaked their boots, other times they crawled on hands and knees through collapsed sections barely wide enough to squeeze through. Min-joon's breathing grew louder, panicked, as if the weight of the earth above was pressing the air out of his lungs.

When the first trap revealed itself, it was almost too late.

Lin's instincts screamed—he grabbed Min-joon by the collar and yanked him backward just as his boot hovered above a patch of ground. A hollow click echoed. Keller's flashlight beam caught the glint of wire.

"Pressure plate," Lin said. His pulse was steady, but his grip on Min-joon was iron. "Another step and you'd have been shredded."

Min-joon staggered back, shaking. "He's got traps down here too?"

"He's got traps everywhere," Keller spat. His flashlight scanned ahead, finding more wires, more trip points strung low across the passage like spiderwebs. "Son of a bitch rigged the whole place."

They detoured, crawling along a narrow ledge that hugged the wall, avoiding the pressure plate. Every second felt like borrowed time.

Soon after, the tunnel opened into a cavernous chamber. The ceiling soared upward, lost in shadow, while broken rails split into branching lines that led into multiple black mouths. It was a nexus of forgotten lines, an underground crossroads.

But what froze them wasn't the size of the chamber.

It was what filled its center.

A room had been constructed within the space, built from scavenged boards, rusted metal sheets, and shattered tiles. Its walls were covered entirely in papers—maps, notes, photographs—held in place with old nails and tape.

Lin stepped inside cautiously. His flashlight beam passed over walls layered with evidence: crumpled subway blueprints annotated with red markings, grainy surveillance stills, lists of names crossed out in thick strokes. And photographs—hundreds of them—some faded, some recent. Faces stared back, captured mid-laugh, mid-stride, mid-fear. Many were marked with Xs.

"This isn't Jin's hideout," Lin said after a long silence. His voice was low, almost reverent. "It's someone else's."

Min-joon's eyes darted nervously around the walls. "What do you mean? Whose, then?"

"Someone who tried to fight him before." Lin's beam landed on a cluster of photographs, all showing the same man—broad-shouldered, scarred cheek, eyes burning with determination. Scribbled notes surrounded his image, arrows pointing to names, maps of movements. But every note ended with a single word: Failed.

Keller muttered a curse. "He kept records of them. Like trophies."

Lin studied the walls more closely. The papers weren't Jin's hand—too erratic, too desperate. These were written by someone trying to map Jin's moves, trying to anticipate the game. A hunter who became prey.

And then Lin's light caught something that stopped him cold.

A photograph, pinned near the center.

His own face.

It was taken years ago. Lin recognized the background instantly—Seoul, a nondescript street near the market he used to frequent when he first arrived in Korea. He looked younger, his jaw less hard, his eyes less cold. But it was him.

Min-joon saw it too. His voice faltered. "Lin… that's… you. But—how? This is from before all of this."

Keller turned slowly, his expression grim. "That means he's had you in his sights a long time. This isn't random. He's been building toward you."

Lin's chest tightened, though his face betrayed nothing. He reached out, fingers brushing the photograph lightly. The edges were curled, the colors fading, but the implication was sharp enough to cut.

Jin hadn't found him recently. Jin had always known him.

The chamber suddenly felt smaller, suffocating with its weight of ghosts. The walls pressed in with the faces of those who had walked this path before, each one ending in failure. And now, Lin's own face joined them—a prophecy written before the game had even begun.

Somewhere in the tunnels, faint but deliberate, came the sound of a slow clap.

Three sharp strikes that echoed endlessly, as if the tunnel itself applauded.

Lin's jaw set. His hand dropped to his weapon, but his voice stayed calm. "He's here."

The darkness swallowed the last echo, leaving only silence.

But the message was clear.

The spiral had finally closed around him.