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PLAYER 333 ELIMINATED!
A thunderous roar echoed through the lavish viewing room as the screen went black. Gasps and murmurs rose among the VIPs, all of whom sat dressed in absurdly ornate masks and expensive suits. The atmosphere crackled with disbelief, confusion, and the bitter taste of lost money.
“He really did it…” The female VIP whispered in disbelief, her jeweled fingers tightening around her champagne glass. She leaned forward, her voice trembling with awe. “He won the games. Twice. That’s… impossible.”
She sipped her drink as if trying to compose herself, her eyes locked on the now-idle screen. “Looks like we owe you quite a bit of money,” she muttered to the older man seated beside her, whose mask resembled a roaring lion.
“Don’t jump to conclusions just yet,” Lion Mask said with a sly tone, swirling his drink lazily. He jabbed a finger toward the center of the arena displayed on a secondary monitor. “He hasn’t pressed the button. That means the challenge never officially started.”
“FUCK!” A third VIP snarled, suddenly erupting in rage. He hurled his champagne glass across the room, the delicate crystal shattering against the marble wall. The fizzing remains of expensive alcohol dripped down to the floor as everyone flinched. “HE’S GOING TO KILL THAT STUPID BABY! I was this close to winning millions! WHY DIDN’T HE PRESS THE GODDAMN BUTTON?!”
“Sit down, you moron,” the female VIP hissed, shoving the enraged man back into his seat with visible annoyance. “He’s not pressing the button because he’s climbing back up.” Her voice turned cold, amused. “You’re really going to lose all your money.”
Down below, Gihun struggled. His hands trembled as he dragged himself up the sloped, elevated arena floor. Sweat dripped from his hairline, his body trembling from exhaustion, blood staining his torn clothes. But he didn’t stop. His gaze remained fixed on one thing, the baby.
When he finally reached the top, his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He gasped for breath, staring down at the button.
It was green.
He stared at it as if it were a venomous snake. His chest heaved violently. And then—suddenly—he turned and vomited onto the floor, his body convulsing from the trauma. The audience of elites above watched in stunned silence.
Gihun wiped his mouth, stumbled forward… and walked toward the baby.
“...He’s going to kill the baby. He’s really doing it.” A VIP said in a low, bitter tone, nodding toward the screen while snapping his fingers for an assistant to clean up the shattered glass at his feet.
But Gihun didn’t touch the button. He didn’t raise his fists. He simply picked up the baby—delicate, crying, innocent—and turned his gaze upward, directly toward the windowed wall where the VIPs sat.
He couldn't see them. Not really.
But they felt seen.
“What the hell is he doing?” the female VIP demanded, her voice laced with rising anxiety. “Is he threatening us? Does he think he can scare us with some dramatic stunt?”
“He can’t see us,” a deep, emotionless voice interrupted. The Frontman stepped forward from the shadows, flicking on a display of screens. “These windows are one-way. He has no idea where we are.”
Then, Gihun's voice rang through the arena.
“WE AREN’T HORSES!!”
His shout cracked through the air like a whip. The VIPs jolted.
“WE ARE HUMANS! AND HUMANS ARE—”
Before he could finish, the arena door burst open with a bang.
“POLICE! EVERYONE DOWN!”
Chaos. Armed officers stormed the observation deck, shoving guards and VIPs to the floor, confiscating weapons, slamming golden masks to the ground. One man tried to run—he was tased and dropped like a ragdoll.
Detective Junho charged forward, his eyes burning with purpose. He locked onto the man in black standing still by the window.
Inho. The Frontman.
“Don’t move,” Junho growled. He stormed up to him, gripped his shoulder, and slammed him against the wall with brutal force. His gun pressed against his brother’s skull.
“It’s been three years,” Junho said, his voice low and trembling. “Three years thinking you were dead. Wondering if I was crazy. And this whole time—you were here, letting people die for sport!”
He ripped the mask off. Inho stared blankly, unfazed.
“You abandoned me. You abandoned Mom. And for what?” Junho’s eyes burned. “To play god? To turn people into animals for your entertainment?! What’s stopping me from putting a bullet through your head right now!?”
There was silence. Then, Inho mumbled, barely audible.
“I wish you could understand…”
Junho’s hand trembled on the trigger.
Then, he stepped back.
“Take this man into custody,” he barked to the nearby officers. “He’s to be questioned like the rest of them.”
A moment later, Junho grabbed a nearby mic and turned toward the arena floor. “Mr. Gihun, this is the police. Do not make any drastic decisions. We’re coming for you. Stay where you are.”
Hours Later
The island was swarmed with investigators. VIPs were dragged off in cuffs. Guards unmasked and detained. Every room was searched. Every recording seized.
On one of the rescue boats, Gihun sat wrapped in a blanket. His face was pale, hollow. The baby lay quietly in his lap, swaddled in fresh clothes.
Junho approached, slowly.
“I’m sorry,” Junho said gently, lowering himself beside Gihun. “For not finding you sooner. If we had just gotten here days ago, maybe…”
“It’s not your fault,” Gihun whispered. His voice cracked. “It’s mine. I killed people. I let people die. I thought I could change things… rebel. But the system was too deep. Too strong.”
“You did change things,” Junho replied. “Millions of lives—saved. That’s what matters. You exposed them. If I hadn’t found your signal, this would’ve gone on forever.”
Gihun didn’t reply. He simply looked down at the baby in his arms.
“She’s beautiful,” Junho said softly. “She was on the island too?”
“She’s… the daughter of someone I tried to protect.” Gihun’s eyes glistened with tears. “Her mother couldn’t complete one of the games. I promised her… I’d keep her safe.”
He looked up, weary, haunted.
“But I think someone else could do a better job than me.”
Junho looked at him for a long time. Then, wordlessly, he reached out—and gently took the child into his arms.
The boat sailed on through the quiet sea.
Behind them, the island disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by the fog.
A few months later
The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the prison gates as they slowly rolled open with a mechanical groan. The metal bars parted like curtains on a stage, revealing Woo-seok, dressed in simple civilian clothes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and a sarcastic smirk glued to his face.
A black car waited just outside the gates, idling quietly. As Woo-seok stepped out into the open air, Junho leaned against the hood with his arms crossed, his signature black coat blowing lightly in the breeze.
“Well, look who finally made parole,” Junho called out, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You clean up alright for an ex-felon.”
“Ex-hero, thank you very much.” Woo-seok grinned back and threw open his arms dramatically. “C’mon, don’t be shy. I know you missed me.”
Junho chuckled and pushed off the car to give him a firm hug. “Welcome back.”
Woo-seok clapped him on the back a few times, then pulled away, a glint in his eye. “Four months in jail and not a single visitor from my so-called best friend—I should be filing a complaint.”
“I sent you protein bars.”
“Expired ones,” Woo-seok shot back as they made their way to the car.
Junho smirked. “That was part of the punishment.”
They got into the car, the door shutting with a heavy thunk. As Woo-seok settled into the passenger seat, he glanced into the back—and froze.
A pair of curious baby eyes stared straight back at him from the car seat. The tiny girl blinked, then gave a tiny coo.
“…What the hell is that?” Woo-seok asked, pointing like he’d seen a ghost. “Is that a baby, Junho?”
Junho reached for the keys and started the engine. “Yeah. You remember I told you Gihun gave me a baby from the island, right? This is her.”
“I thought you were joking!” Woo-seok twisted around, blinking in disbelief. “You said, ‘Gihun handed me a baby and vanished like Batman’—you suck at making serious announcements.”
“Well, I wasn’t joking. Her name’s Haeun. She’s… complicated.”
“I’ll say!” Woo-seok stared at the child, stunned. “You’re actually dad-ing right now? You? The man who once said babies look like angry potatoes?”
“She still kind of does,” Junho muttered, easing the car onto the road. “But she cries less than most adults I’ve interrogated.”
Woo-seok burst into laughter. “I missed you, man.”
There was a beat of silence as the car merged onto the highway, the city skyline stretching in the distance. Then Junho glanced sideways, one hand still on the wheel.
“By the way,” he said casually, “I’ve got another surprise for you.”
“More babies?”
“No. Better.” Junho reached into the center console and handed Woo-seok an official-looking envelope. “After the whole Squid Game investigation, I got promoted. Private Detective. Independent jurisdiction, government-funded. And as for you…”
Woo-seok slowly opened the envelope, eyes scanning over the contents. His expression shifted from confusion… to shock.
“They’re wiping your record,” Junho continued. “Clearing every charge, expunging everything. And the station approved something else: I’m hiring you. Officially. As my assistant. You’ll be on payroll. Badge and everything.”
Woo-seok lowered the paper slowly, speechless.
“You’re not joking again?” he asked, his voice low, almost vulnerable.
“I don’t joke twice in the same day.”
For a moment, Woo-seok didn’t say anything. Then he exhaled shakily, looking down at the letter again.
“…You have no idea how much this means to me,” he murmured. “After Mr. Kim died… I didn’t think anyone would give me a second chance. I thought I was done. Just… floating around, screwing up my life over and over.”
Junho glanced over again. “You didn’t screw anything up. You broke into that monster’s house, got us the intel we needed, and risked everything to help me find Gihun. You’re the reason we saved those people.”
“And you’re the reason I’m not just a ghost in the system right now.” Woo-seok wiped his eye discreetly. “I owe you everything, man.”
Junho gave a rare, soft smile.
“Then don’t waste it.”
In the back seat, little Haeun suddenly giggled—an innocent, chime-like laugh that made both men glance back.
“…She just laughed. At what?” Woo-seok asked.
“I think she’s laughing at you,” Junho replied dryly. “She has good instincts.”
“Great. She’s already developing sarcasm.”
Junho shook his head and focused on the road.
“Welcome back to the real world,” he said quietly. “You’ve got work to do.”
——————
The doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet hum of the late afternoon.
From inside the kitchen, a woman’s voice called out, casual but curious.
“Who is it?”
“It’s—it's just some mail, Mom! I’ve got it!” Gayeong’s voice came out too fast, too high. She rushed down the hall, her heart already pounding in her chest.
She opened the door—and froze.
Gihun stood there on the porch, holding a small bouquet of wilted flowers. His eyes looked older, more hollow, as if he hadn’t slept in days. A patchy stubble shadowed his jaw. The man in front of her looked nothing like the father in her memories—warm, playful, always promising to come back soon.
Gayeong’s hand trembled slightly as she gripped the doorknob. Then, in a flash of anger, she stepped outside and shut the door behind her.
She faced him head-on, arms crossed tightly.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped. Her voice cracked but she didn’t let it soften. “I thought you forgot you had a daughter.”
Gihun flinched like she’d slapped him.
“Gayeong… you know I never forgot you.” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “Things—got complicated. But I swear, I thought about you every single day. I’m so sorry I wasn’t around more. I wish you knew how much I wanted to see you.”
“You had my number,” she hissed. Her eyes blazed with hurt. “You had Mom’s number. You had years. You say you were tired? That’s not an excuse! You could’ve called. You could’ve tried!”
“I’m not lying when I say I wasn’t in a good place…” Gihun took a cautious step closer, clutching the flowers like a lifeline. “I was broken, Gayeong. After what I went through—what I did—I didn’t know how to be a father anymore. But I’m here now. Please… just give me a chance.”
Gayeong let out a bitter laugh, choked with emotion.
“A chance?” she repeated. “I needed you, Dad. Years ago. I needed you when I cried at my first school play because all the other kids had parents in the audience. I needed you when I had my first heartbreak. I needed you every time Mom worked overtime and I sat in my room wondering if you were even alive.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they spilled anyway, hot and furious down her cheeks.
“Where were you when I needed you?”
Gihun looked shattered.
Without a word, he slowly knelt in front of her, the flowers dropping to the ground unnoticed. His voice shook with emotion as he reached up, gently wiping the tears from her face with trembling fingers.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You have every right to hate me. But I swear on my life, I came back because I couldn’t take one more day without trying to make it right.”
He hesitated, eyes full of guilt and love. Then, softly:
“I promise… I’ll be with you until the day I die.”
Gayeong stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat.
A long moment passed.
Then, with a trembling breath, she stepped forward and fell into his arms.
It wasn’t a perfect hug. It was messy—awkward, desperate, painful. But it was real.
And for the first time in years, Gihun felt something crack open in his chest. Something that had been locked away ever since he stepped onto that cursed island.
He clutched his daughter tightly, eyes clenched shut as silent tears spilled onto her shoulder.
From the other side of the door, Gayeong’s mother stood quietly, a dish towel in her hand, listening. She said nothing.
But she didn’t interrupt.
Not this time.