Squid Game; Chapter 8: The Price of Mercy

Squid Game Novel

The air inside the dormitory was thick with a suffocating silence, broken only by the ragged gasps and choking sobs of the survivors. The sterile fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting cold, unforgiving shadows across the rows of steel bunks. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the stale odor of sweat and fear, creating an atmosphere heavy with despair.

Seong Gi-hun sat slumped on the edge of his bunk, his hands trembling as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. The vivid images of the game—the doll’s unblinking gaze, the sniper’s merciless shots, the bodies collapsing in pools of crimson—played relentlessly behind his closed eyelids. His chest heaved with the weight of guilt and disbelief. How many had died? How many had been reduced to nothing more than numbers on a ledger?

The mess hall was a cavernous room adjacent to the dormitory, its walls lined with stainless-steel tables and benches bolted firmly to the floor. The survivors gathered there, their faces pale and drawn, eyes hollow from shock and exhaustion. The faint aroma of doenjang-jjigae stew wafted weakly through the air, but few had the appetite to eat.

Deok-su slammed a metal tray onto the table with a force that made the others flinch. His dragon tattoo rippled as he clenched his fists, eyes blazing with fury. “Who’s running this sick game? Who’s making money off our blood?” His voice was a low growl, filled with rage and desperation.

The room fell into uneasy silence, the question hanging like a dark cloud. Then, the ceiling screens flickered to life, and the chilling figure of the Front Man appeared. His black mask, sleek and featureless, reflected the harsh light, concealing any hint of humanity. His voice, distorted through a vocoder, echoed coldly through the speakers.

“Congratulations to the survivors of the first game,” he intoned. “You have won the right to continue. The prize pool now stands at ₩45.6 billion. Remember, the stakes will only rise. You may choose to end the game now, but the majority must agree.”

Voting booths slid silently from the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the harsh lights. Each booth was equipped with two buttons: green for “End” and red for “Continue.”

Ali’s large hand trembled as he approached the booth. His eyes were red-rimmed, and tears streaked down his dirt-smudged cheeks. He pressed the green button, his voice barely a whisper. “My son… he needs surgery. I can’t lose this chance.”

Sae-byeok’s gaze was steely as she stepped forward. Her fingers hovered over the buttons before decisively pressing red. “My brother’s waiting for me. I can’t give up now.”

Gi-hun hesitated, the weight of the decision crushing him. The faces of the fallen haunted him—their hopes extinguished in an instant. With a trembling finger, he pressed green.

The tally was announced: 100 green, 101 red.

A hiss filled the room as gas nozzles slid from the walls, releasing a faint mist of isoflurane. Panic rippled through the survivors as the sedative took hold. Gi-hun’s vision blurred, and he collapsed onto the cold floor, the last thing he saw was Sang-woo’s Rolex glinting mockingly in the dim light.

Hours later, Gi-hun awoke on a rain-soaked sidewalk in Myeongdong. His borrowed suit was soaked through, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The neon signs flickered overhead, casting distorted reflections on the puddles around him.

His mother’s hanok was padlocked, an eviction notice fluttering in the wind. The weight of failure pressed down on him like the relentless Seoul smog.

At a nearby convenience store, a television blared news of Sang-woo’s arrest for embezzlement, his face flashing across the screen with a cold, calculating smile. Gi-hun’s heart sank.

He found Sae-byeok stealing mandu at Gwangjang Market, her face hard and determined despite the hunger etched into her features. Ali wept quietly at Incheon Dock 7, his foreman withholding his wages, the injustice a fresh wound.

That night, Gi-hun’s fingers closed tightly around the black card. The Hyundai Staria van reappeared, its sliding doors opening like a mechanical maw. Inside, the atmosphere was tense and foreboding. Sang-woo’s Rolex was gone, Ali’s uniform torn, and Sae-byeok sharpened a spoon into a deadly shiv.

The van ascended the mountain once more, the fog swallowing them whole.

Front Man’s voice crackled through the speakers: “Next game: Sugar Honeycombs.”

Gi-hun traced the photo of Ga-yeong tucked inside his jacket, her innocent smile a fragile beacon in the encroaching darkness.

Series Navigation

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