The Hyundai Staria van wound its way up the serpentine roads of Bukhansan Mountain, tires crunching over frost-hardened gravel that scattered like brittle bones beneath the wheels. Outside, a thick fog clung to the trees, their skeletal branches reaching out like desperate hands through the mist. Inside, the air was heavy, suffused with a tense silence broken only by the occasional shuffle or whispered breath.
Seong Gi-hun sat near the rear, clutching a worn photograph of his daughter Ga-yeong. The edges were frayed, the image faded from years of handling, but her smile remained bright and innocent—a fragile beacon in the darkness that threatened to consume him. He traced the outline of her face with a trembling finger, drawing strength from the memory of her laughter, the warmth of her small hand in his.
Around him, the other survivors bore the scars of recent battles. Sang-woo’s wrist was bare where his Rolex had vanished, the skin bruised and raw. Ali’s dockworker uniform was torn at the shoulder, revealing whip scars that whispered of past abuses and betrayals. Sae-byeok sat quietly, her dark eyes cold and unyielding as she sharpened a spoon into a deadly shiv against the metal bench, the faint metallic scrape echoing in the van’s confined space.
The sliding doors hissed shut with a finality that sent a shiver down Gi-hun’s spine, sealing them inside the van’s metal coffin. The world outside disappeared into fog and shadow, leaving only the cold, artificial light and the suffocating weight of anticipation.
Then, the voice of the Front Man crackled through the speakers, modulated and devoid of emotion:
“Next game: Squid Game.”
Gi-hun’s breath caught. The words echoed in his mind, stirring memories long buried beneath layers of pain and regret.
He remembered the dusty playgrounds of his childhood—the chalked lines on cracked asphalt, the laughter of friends chasing each other beneath the fading sun. The Squid Game was a simple children’s game, a test of agility and balance. But here, it was twisted into a deadly contest, a cruel echo of innocence lost.
The van came to a halt, and the players were herded out into the cold mountain air. The arena stretched before them—a sprawling court painted in the shape of a squid, its head, body, and tentacles outlined in stark white against the weathered asphalt. The lines were cracked and faded, but the symbolism was unmistakable.
Two teams would face off: offense and defense. The offense’s goal was to hop on one foot from the squid’s head through its body and then tap the circle at the top of the court. The defense’s task was to block and push the offense out of bounds, using any means necessary.
Gi-hun’s heart pounded as the coin toss decided roles. He won, choosing offense. The weight of hope and desperation settled heavily on his shoulders. This was more than a game—it was a battle for survival, a test of will.
The whistle blew, piercing the cold air.
Gi-hun began to hop forward, the rough asphalt scraping against his sneakers. Every muscle screamed for balance, every step a tightrope walk between life and death. His breath came in short gasps, the cold air burning his lungs.
Sang-woo was defense, his eyes sharp and calculating. He moved with predatory grace, blocking Gi-hun’s path with ruthless efficiency. The two circled each other, a deadly dance of offense and defense, each anticipating the other’s moves.
The crowd’s distant cheers and gasps echoed in Gi-hun’s ears, but he tuned them out, focusing solely on the game. Memories flickered in his mind—friends lost to poverty and addiction, promises broken by desperation, the innocence of childhood shattered by the harsh realities of adulthood.
Deok-su lurked nearby, his dragon tattoo flexing as he watched with a cruel smile. Sae-byeok’s eyes never left the court, calculating, waiting for her moment.
Gi-hun’s foot slipped once, scraping against the asphalt, but he caught himself. He forced his body forward, each hop a battle against exhaustion and fear. The defense closed in, pushing and shoving, trying to unbalance him.
With a final desperate leap, Gi-hun reached the circle at the top of the squid’s body. His foot tapped it lightly, a small victory in a sea of despair.
The whistle blew again.
Victory.
But the cost was immense.
Gi-hun’s chest heaved as he sank to his knees, the adrenaline ebbing away to leave a hollow ache. Around him, the survivors exchanged exhausted glances—108 remained from the original hundreds. The game’s cruel lesson was clear: strength alone would not save them. Precision, patience, and unyielding will were the true weapons.
As the sun dipped below the mountain peaks, casting long shadows across the court, Gi-hun stood alone. The weight of the game pressed down like a shadow, dark and unrelenting. The path ahead was uncertain, the future a fragile hope.
But for now, he had won.
And that was enough.