Player No. 7

The footage opened on Player No. 7 tearing down a forest path — then cut, without warning, to the control room.

A large screen displayed a map of the island where the survival match was underway, dense with tiny dots scattered across its surface. Anyone watching could grasp at a glance that each point marked a contestant's GPS signal.

Then one of those dots flared red, blinked out, and a message appeared at the top of the screen.

The control room erupted.

The match had barely begun, and a player was already eliminated. The gallery of onlookers, with no idea what had happened, scrambled into confusion.

With nearly thirty managers and agency staff packed into the control room, the reactions rang out almost as loud as a studio audience on a live broadcast.

Then the production crew's voices cut through the noise.

"Is it another sensor glitch? Get the safety team nearby to—"

"Doesn't look like equipment failure. Check Camera 47—"

Ah. They thought the sensor was broken because I took someone out too fast.

Even Yeon-woo was seeing the control room's reaction for the first time through the broadcast, and it was a fresh experience.

After lingering on the control room, the program rewound three minutes and returned to Player No. 7 sprinting down the forest trail.

What followed — the opening kill — drew gasps of admiration from every staff member in the conference room.

A clean sprint to high ground, a decisive occupation of the advantageous position, and a single precise shot that eliminated the target. Fast tactical judgment. Flawless marksmanship.

"Whoa — so this guy just bolted the second it started and took out whoever was closest?"

"First strike wins, every time."

Yeon-woo watched the management team trading comments and allowed himself a faint smile.

Right. They still don't know Player No. 7 is me.

He had been unconsciously reading the figure on screen as himself — but the person was sealed head to toe in protective gear, and the only visible skin was a strip of face above the philtrum, half-hidden behind oversized goggles. Without a close-up, recognition was nearly impossible.

Of course, the production team would never leave it that way forever.

They were almost certainly holding the reveal for maximum dramatic impact.

The footage shifted to other players receiving news of the opening kill and checking their smartwatches, then cut across the island to a string of skirmishes before settling on a standoff at the mountain summit — the scene where Yeon-woo had climbed first, concealed himself in the underbrush, and watched two late arrivals clash.

The headcam feeds of Players No. 2 and No. 29, locked in a tense duel, were shown from the contestants' own points of view, ratcheting the immersion higher. Even the people watching in the conference room had gone taut with tension, swallowing hard.

Then the screen cut back to Player No. 7 — the same one who had scored the opening kill — revealing that he had arrived first, claimed the position, and been watching everything unfold from cover.

Bang—!

Bang-bang—!

Player No. 7 waited with perfect composure, then intervened at the precise moment, eliminating both combatants and racking up a double kill.

The consecutive kill announcements drew fresh admiration from the staff.

"Wait — isn't that the same guy who took someone out right at the start?"

"Yeah. That was No. 7 too. So he's already eliminated three people?"

"Whoever he is, this show's going to make him pretty popular."

"Right? But why aren't they saying who he is?"

Meanwhile, Gong Min-jeong — who had been switching between the big screen and her phone to track online reactions — shot a sidelong glance at Yeon-woo sitting at the next table.

Still no appearance… The community trolls are probably having a field day writing hit pieces. Ugh.

Convinced Yeon-woo hadn't shown up even once since the match began, she sighed in advance over the negative reactions she expected to find.

Sure enough, the anonymous boards were in full frenzy.

Gong Min-jeong clenched her fists as she scrolled.

She wanted to drive even her softest cat-paw punch straight into the solar plexus of every single hater.

Around the same moment the staff in the conference room were all thinking When is Ryu Yeon-woo going to show up?, the screen cut to Yeon-woo giving an interview back at the lodging.

Saebyeol's employees tilted their heads.

Huh? Appearance is good, but… this abrupt?

The timing of the interview felt slightly off. Gong Min-jeong shared the mild dissatisfaction with the edit.

Don't tell me they're going to keep cutting away like this — sandwiching Yeon-woo's commentary between other players' highlights?

If that was the plan, it would shatter the immersion of a match people had been locked into, and the production team's transparent intent to milk the Ryu Yeon-woo brand for every drop of value would be so obvious it might even alienate general viewers.

Yeah, this doesn't feel right…

Then the interview question came through the speakers.

"Player No. 7 scored an opening kill and a double kill right from the early stages of combat, throwing the other players into confusion the moment they heard the news. Could you walk us through what that situation was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like?"

Gong Min-jeong shook her head hard.

Ugh, these network people… Looking at this edit, they're clearly going to ask Yeon-woo for a reaction every single time someone gets eliminated. Using him like a mascot or a face of the show. This needs a company-level complaint.

She was already planning to protest the editorial direction to PD Yoon Chang-joon through Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon the moment the first episode ended — when the subtitle that followed made her tilt her head.

Everyone else in the conference room did the same.

Beneath the interviewing Yeon-woo, a caption appeared on screen.

"Huh?"

"Wait—?"

Gong Min-jeong's eyes went wide. So did Son Jin-uk's, sitting right beside Yeon-woo and staring at the screen.

"What the hell does that mean? Y-Yeon-woo — that's you?"

The identity of Player No. 7 — the one who had been dominating the entire match — was the man sitting right next to him.

"Ah, the situation at the time was that once the game started, I needed to make a quick decision to expand my range of movement—"

On screen, Yeon-woo calmly explained the reasoning behind his judgment in an unflappable voice. But nobody in the conference room was looking at the screen anymore.

Feeling every pair of eyes on him, Yeon-woo scratched the back of his head.

"Yes. I'm Player No. 7."

The room exploded.

It wasn't that Yeon-woo hadn't appeared — it was that, for all practical purposes, only Yeon-woo had been on screen the entire time.

"No way — Player No. 7?!"

"Holy crap, this is insane."

"I'm taking back what I said about No. 7 blowing up from this show. Turns out he can't blow up any further."

"That was Yeon-woo the whole time…?"

At that same hour, Yeon-woo's parents and younger sister — watching the live broadcast from home — were just as stunned.

Ryu So-hyun had made a genuine sacrifice to sit in front of the TV, CSAT looming, simply because her brother was finally appearing on a variety show after so long.

"What? That was our Yeon-woo?"

"No way. Dad — this isn't some staged fake show where everyone's acting for Oppa's sake, right?"

"What even is a 'fake show'?"

So-hyun shook her head the moment the words left her mouth, realizing how absurd they were. A production of that scale couldn't possibly be staged without the truth leaking out.

Their mother, sitting beside her, looked over.

"Aigoo, I was so worried our boy would get hurt going on a show like that… So-hyun, check the internet on your phone. What are people saying?"

"Hang on, let me look."

So-hyun remembered something her brother always told her.

Don't bother showing Mom and Dad the negative stuff. Filter it yourself and only show them the good reactions. Got it?

Hmm. These are all people cheering for Oppa, but which ones do I actually show…? Mom and Dad are going to check the fan café themselves anyway.

With dramas and films, the comment sections skewed female, so at least most posts were written at a readable level. But Survival Island, even with Yeon-woo on it, drew a predominantly male audience — and ordinary men almost never posted online. What flooded the boards were the writings of people whose brains had been marinated in community culture: internet slang and profanity so dense that nothing a parent could reasonably understand was in sight.

"Uh… overall it's good. There's a lot of swearing, but… it's hard to explain, yet it is a positive expression?"

Meanwhile, there was one other person who had been waiting for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the first broadcast of Survival ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Island.

Even with the entire body sealed in protective gear and the face completely hidden, the running form and the way the rifle was held were enough for him to identify Yeon-woo in an instant.

"Ah, this looks fun."

Han Hae-un watched the TV, itching to move.

If he had been reincarnated as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a celebrity himself, he would have wanted to go on a show like this too. The thought left him faintly wistful.

Would a national-team soccer player find it boring to hide his identity and join a weekend amateur league? Absolutely not. Former athletes who throw themselves into recreational sports don't do it for nothing. The joy of casually dominating is more, not less.

"Damn, and he's still holding back for the cameras. He wouldn't even need to hide — if he just charged into every fight head-on, with Team Leader's rapid-fire skill it wouldn't be a problem at all."

Then his phone vibrated.

Bzzzt—.

Hmm? Not my personal phone — Alpha-Beta's ops line.

Something urgent enough to report at this hour? He hadn't assigned any separate missions right now…

Frowning slightly, Han Hae-un picked up the phone — and his expression turned peculiar.

"……"

Reading the message, Han Hae-un broke into a cold sweat.

That's… not what you think it is…