Squid Game; Chapter 7: The Calculus of Survival

Squid Game Novel

The acrid stench of gunpowder and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the synthetic sweetness of the playground’s candy-colored nightmare. The klaxon’s wail had faded, replaced by a suffocating silence broken only by ragged breaths and the soft groans of the wounded. The survivors lay scattered across the artificial turf, their green tracksuits soaked with sweat, dirt, and the dark stains of death.

Seong Gi-hun’s chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breath, every inhale tasting of iron and fear. His legs trembled beneath him, muscles screaming in protest, but his eyes were fixed on the carnage around him. Bodies lay twisted and broken—some still twitching, others eerily still—testaments to the merciless precision of the sniper’s bullets.

To his right, Sae-byeok pressed herself flat against the cool plastic slide, her dark eyes sharp and calculating. Her fingers clenched the edge of the slide, knuckles white, as she counted the doll’s rotations with the precision of a metronome. “Three seconds… two… one…” she whispered, timing the mechanical doll’s scanning cycle, knowing that every second of movement was a gamble with death.

Ali, ever the gentle giant, carried the frail old man Oh Il-nam piggyback. The old man’s papery skin was translucent under the harsh artificial lights, veins like delicate blue threads beneath the surface. His bony fingers dug into Ali’s collar, his breath shallow but steady. “Faster, Abdul-ah,” Il-nam wheezed, a faint smile playing on his cracked lips. Ali’s large hands gripped the old man tightly, balancing the weight as they moved cautiously forward.

Deok-su, the brutal thug with the dragon tattoo, was a whirlwind of violence. He shoved Player 070—a trembling teenager with wire-frame glasses—into the open, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. The boy’s face was pale, eyes wide with terror as the doll’s gaze locked onto him. The doll’s eyes flared a menacing scarlet, and a bullet tore through the boy’s chest, his body collapsing like a ragdoll. Blood pooled beneath him, a stark red contrast against the pastel playground.

Gi-hun’s muscles tensed as he lunged forward, every fiber screaming for survival. The doll’s head rotated again, sensors sweeping the field with terrifying precision. He froze mid-stride, sweat stinging his eyes, heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. Time slowed to a crawl; the world narrowed to the doll’s unblinking gaze and the pounding of his own heart. One wrong twitch, one breath too loud, and the cold kiss of a bullet would be his end.

Around him, players fell like dominoes—some from panic, others from miscalculation. The synthetic grass beneath their feet was slick with blood and sweat, the scent of iron thick in the air. The screams of the dying echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the mechanical voice that commanded the game.

Sang-woo crouched behind a giant Tootsie Roll statue, his expression unreadable but eyes sharp and focused. He calculated the doll’s three-second scan cycle, timing his movements with cold precision. Sae-byeok’s braid whipped behind her as she darted forward, her every step measured and deliberate.

With twenty seconds left, Gi-hun reached out, grabbing Il-nam’s fragile wrist and pulling him forward. The old man’s skin was paper-thin, veins like blue rivers beneath the surface. They tumbled across the finish line as the klaxon blared, signaling the end of the round.

Behind them lay a field littered with bodies—friends, strangers, victims of a merciless game. Player 188, a priest clutching a rosary, lay motionless, his beads scattered like ivory teeth across the rainbow-striped asphalt.

The guards, clad in pig-mask helmets and magenta jumpsuits, moved swiftly and silently, dragging away the dead with clinical detachment. Their movements were efficient, devoid of emotion, as if the lives they carried were nothing more than discarded objects.

Gi-hun collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, the taste of blood and fear thick in his mouth. His eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. The nightmare had only just begun.

Series Navigation

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