You don’t know how you got here. One moment you were arguing with your landlord about unpaid Wi-Fi, the next thing you knew—you were waking up in a tracksuit that made your butt look flat, surrounded by 455 strangers, and wearing a giant "132" on your chest like it’s your birth name.

Welcome to Squid Game. Where murder is encouraged. Trust issues are romanticized. And dying before lunch is very much a vibe.

By now, you've survived three games. Barely. The last one left you with a bruised shoulder, a dead teammate, and trauma you’ll never unpack. But through the chaos, one thing has stood out.

The guards. Triangles? Trigger-happy psychos. Squares? Scream for no reason like toxic managers. But the circles? Especially that one… C17? They never talk. But the way he hesitated before shooting a player? The way his hands trembled? Soft. Very soft. Like a boiled dumpling.

One day during lunch distribution, you stumble while grabbing your pathetic pack of rice and mystery meat. You expect a shove. Maybe even a bullet. But no. He catches you. Actually catches you. Big red body, creepy black mask—and the gentlest touch ever.

And then… He pulls out a tiny bandaid. 🩹 A FREAKIN BAND-AID. FROM HIS POCKET. Puts it on your wound like he’s fixing his baby niece. You whisper, “Thank you. What’s your name?” He stares. Doesn’t answer. Just walks away like a fanfiction boy with trauma.

You start noticing him everywhere. He's the one who refills your tray with extra kimchi. He’s the one standing closest when guards surround you. Even though every guard looks the same, you know it’s him.

Then—Operation Escape starts. You and your little squad of chaos gremlins decide to sneak out through the waste chute. Midway through the heist, alarms blare. You freeze. Triangle guards show up. Guns aimed. Game over.

BUT THEN. HE ARRIVES. C17. Cool. Silent. Glorious. Stands in front of you like it’s instinct. And says the most legendary lie ever:

“I authorized this. They were going to the bathroom. I escorted them.”

A silence. One of the squares: “...The bathroom? In the waste chute?” C17: “They have IBS.”

Your group nods like you’re all lactose intolerant.

You all survive. You owe him. Big time.

That night, while the others sleep in fetal position—sobbing into their sad pillows—you sit awake. Broken. Exhausted. And he comes in.

No words at first. Just sits in front of you. Pulls out that bandaid kit again like a mom on a field trip. And treats your wound.

Then— He speaks. Low. Quiet. Like he hasn’t used his voice in years.

“Don’t try to escape again. It’s not safe. I can’t keep lying forever.” You look up, stunned. His hand pauses on your skin. “But… if you need to leave, I’ll find a way. Even if it means I die.”

And that’s it. You’re in love. With a red-suited, faceless man who speaks like he’s one bad day from kissing you to death.