Survival Island Filming (4)

Even as Yeon-woo advanced slowly across the island, mapping the terrain and scanning every rise and thicket, the kill logs kept stacking on his smartwatch.

Player 30… that’s the one who posted a kill log while I was climbing toward the summit.

He distinctly remembered seeing that Player 30 had taken someone out with a single hit. Among all the logs he’d tracked so far, that was the only participant besides himself who had managed a multi-kill.

As if reading his thoughts, a status update from the control room arrived on his watch.

Crouched in the undergrowth, Yeon-woo read the message and let his thoughts settle.

Just as I expected—survivors already down to less than half. “Unscathed” means never hit even once. “Scoreless” means never landed a single shot on anyone.

Which made it highly likely that the scoreless players were also among the unscathed.

The island’s big enough that some people simply never crossed paths with anyone else. Or they deliberately avoided every gunshot and every sign of movement, focusing purely on staying alive.

If a scoreless player wasn’t also unscathed, that would mean they’d been hit, failed to return fire, and still managed to escape. In a firefight the odds usually favored one side going down before either broke contact—so a clean getaway after taking damage was relatively rare.

Six unscathed, four scoreless… that leaves two people who have taken someone out and still hold every heart. One of them is me. So there’s at least one more.

Somehow he was certain that remaining player was Number 30.

Two eliminations, both finished with a single hit… that points to someone who shadows a fight, waits until it’s over, then cleans up the winner.

If that was true, the person had almost certainly received professional training in concealing their presence. The kill logs backed the theory: every time Player 30 scored, it was immediately after someone else had just taken a kill.

So there’s at least one person I need to keep a close eye on.

After the status message, no further kill logs appeared. With only thirty minutes left on Day One, no one was eager to risk a fight that might get them eliminated right before the buzzer.

Beep—!

At five o’clock sharp the smartwatch chimed the end of the match. From the brush only a few dozen meters ahead of Yeon-woo’s hiding place, another identical chime answered—someone else had been lying in ambush nearby.

The undergrowth is so thick after years without human hands that if someone really wants to stay hidden, spotting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them is nearly impossible.

In a real operation thermal gear would have made the foliage irrelevant, but this was still entertainment—still a game.

Hmm. I miss the kit I used when we swept the area around Gimpo Airport.

He stretched the stiffness from his limbs while his mind wandered. A staff member who had locked onto his GPS coordinates soon approached.

“Hello. I’ll escort you to the lodging.”

“Ah, thank you. After spending the whole day without saying a word, my throat’s gone a little rusty.”

Yeon-woo answered with an easy, friendly smile. The staffer laughed and loosened up.

“Watching your feed in the control room turned me into a full-blown fan. I never expected you to pull off that kind of performance.”

“Is that so? Thank you.”

“When you forced that guy to surrender with just the pistol—my palms were sweating.”

The staffer clenched a fist for emphasis. Yeon-woo’s smile deepened.

“Your manager mentioned you’d trained for this kind of thing overseas since you were young? You must have been busy with projects—when did you even find the time? It’s incredible. Was it preparation for some spy-action film?”

The staffer gave him a thumbs-up. Yeon-woo tilted his head.

“Overseas? Me?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm… did I…?”

He had no idea what the man was talking about, but the staffer’s eyes sparkled with such earnest conviction that Yeon-woo could only scratch the back of his head.

Of course, no matter what feats he pulled off, the notion that anyone would correctly deduce a former NIS black-ops agent had been reincarnated into a new life was absurd on its face. Still, whenever people asked where he’d learned these skills, the only ready answer was the tired “military otaku” line—so having them invent a convenient alibi for him was almost a relief.

But combat training abroad…? I really need to ask Min-su hyung what story he spun. We won’t see each other until filming wraps, so for now I’ll just roll with it.

Meanwhile, the eliminated players and the managers or company representatives who had accompanied them gathered at the pier, ready to leave the island. PD Yoon Chang-joon trailed after them, repeating the same stern reminder.

“Everyone—please honor the nondisclosure agreements you signed!”

“Yes.”

They all nodded, but Yoon knew full well that at least a few would break the promise—posting on SNS or casually spilling today’s footage to friends. He still had to issue the final warning; it was the only way to keep the leaks to a minimum.

Especially after the managers and entertainment-company staff had watched Ryu Yeon-woo’s absurd performance from the control room. Expecting them to keep those mouths shut was pure fantasy.

Damn it. I should’ve just locked the outsiders in the lodging for the entire match.

Originally he had seated them behind the control room on purpose—signed broadcast releases and everything—so he could cut in their reaction shots. He had never imagined one player would dominate so completely. And that the player would be Ryu Yeon-woo of all people.

Ah, whatever. If Day One’s highlights leak, I’ll just call it free noise marketing. And even if the rumors spread, will Korea’s notoriously skeptical netizens actually believe them? I saw it with my own eyes and I still barely believe it…

While Yoon ran the mental calculations, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the eliminated contestants and their entourages boarded the boat that would take them off the island.

The staffer, bubbling with curiosity, peppered Yeon-woo with questions the entire walk. The lodging they finally reached was a hastily erected temporary building not far from the pier and the control room. The grayish prefab structure looked ordinary—exactly the kind of lightweight steel-frame modular house you saw scattered across the countryside.

“The showers are decent, so feel free to strip off the gear and rest. You’re also free to talk with the other contestants sharing the same lodging. Dinner will be brought by another staffer shortly.”

“Understood. Thank you for guiding me.”

Once the staffer left, Yeon-woo opened the door and stepped inside. Because the chatty escort had slowed their pace, he was among the later arrivals; several other survivors were already there. The moment they saw him enter, a few let out soft exclamations.

“Whoa—Ryu Yeon-woo…”

“Oh, you made it through the day.”

“So we’re bunking together tonight? Insane. Man, no phones—can’t even grab a selfie.”

Yeon-woo toed off his combat boots and offered a polite greeting.

“Hello, everyone. Long day, right?”

“Yes, sir! Welcome. You can leave your gear by the entrance.”

“Thank you.”

He set the equipment where indicated and began stretching muscles that had stiffened under the weight of the protective gear all day. One of the contestants approached with a familiar air.

“You dropped on the steep side of the mountain, right? I was the guy sitting next to you in the van when we all had the blindfolds on before the start.”

Ah—the one who had wanted a photo after filming and looked disappointed when Yeon-woo said they’d both have to survive first.

“Is that so? Nice to meet you properly.”

“Man, and you actually made it through Day One.”

Yeon-woo smiled and nodded.

“Looks that way. I must have gotten lucky.”

Naturally, none of them seemed to suspect that Player 7 was Ryu Yeon-woo himself. After the global success of Netflix’s White Blood, he was already a world-class star; the other contestants drifted closer, hoping to build even a little rapport.

“Yeon-woo-ssi, you’ll want a shower first, right? You must feel sticky.”

“Ah, yes. Has everyone else…?”

“Most of us got here early and washed up already.”

Because Yeon-woo had crossed to the far side of the island for reconnaissance, the return trip had taken time; the others had finished bathing in the interim.

No one should arrive later than me… six people including myself in this lodging. So there must be two lodgings total.

He nodded and gave a short bow to the group he would share the night with.

“I’ll go clean up, then.”

“Sure. Staff said dinner’s coming soon—we can talk over the meal.”

“Sounds good.”

As Yeon-woo turned toward the shower, the others resumed the conversation they had been having among themselves.

“So who do you think Number 7 is?”

“Come on—even if they’re right here, they’re not going to raise their hand. Everyone would just pile on them tomorrow.”

While they speculated, the real Player 7 stepped into the makeshift shower stall and began washing the day’s grime away.

Hmm. Two lodgings… I didn’t spot another building nearby, so the second one must be a fair distance off. Deliberate production meddling, maybe.

There was more than enough open ground right in front of this building for a second structure. Separating the lodgings by distance had to serve some purpose.

They’re practically inviting us to form alliances for tomorrow’s match right here in the lodging…

On Day One they had all been enemies roaming the island, but precisely because survival had proven so brutal, the urge to band together would only grow stronger. Production had already declared that any tactic short of “dangerous conduct” was fair game. Contestants assigned to the same lodging could, for example, invent private recognition marks and simply refuse to shoot one another until every player from the other lodging was eliminated—raising their collective odds dramatically.

If they’d built one larger lodging or at least placed the two close together, that kind of collusion would never take root.

Power lines and water tanks had to be split and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠run to both sites at extra cost. Building them separately was intentional.

And of course, betrayal will bloom right in the middle of those alliances.

Any production team designing a survival format already had a staple card in mind for ratings: devil’s editing. It would be unfortunate for whichever contestant became the sacrificial villain, but as a method of hooking viewers with controversy it was unmatched.

In a survival game where the hunger to live collides head-on, there’s no way the network leaves that card unplayed.

They would need a ready-made villain for the edit. Some might wonder why anyone would betray knowing it would look terrible on air—but once the constant tension of survival combat took hold, the primal drive to stay alive swelled larger than any concern for how one appeared on camera. Rational self-image management became nearly impossible. That was why selfish-looking contestants appeared every year on audition shows and idol survival programs.

And if the production’s true intent matched what Yeon-woo suspected, it would become an extremely useful tool for completing the grand narrative of Survival Island.