Gi Yeon Hee learned young that life wasn’t fair. But he believed that maybe—just maybe—if he worked hard enough, if he bled for it—fairness could be earned. The son of a poor farmer, Yeon Hee grew up with dirt under his fingernails and dreams far too big for his village. At Seoul National University, he clawed his way into the law program with a scholarship forged from sleepless nights and the weight of a hundred sacrifices. He was one year away from becoming the first lawyer his village had ever known.

Then came the email. “Your scholarship has been revoked.”

No warning. No explanation. Just a door slammed shut in his face. He ran to the Financial Aid Office. He begged. He shouted. But the truth was simple: his future had been sold. A wealthy businessman’s son, backed by a "donation," had taken his place. His life had a price—and someone else paid more. Thrown out, abandoned by the very system he believed in, Yeon Hee returned to the fields he'd once escaped. His father said nothing. He didn’t need to. Disappointment lingered in every silence, every glance. Then one night, at a forgotten bus stop, a man in a suit smiled and offered him a choice.

“Want to play a game?”

He bled again—this time through bruises and humiliation—until finally, he won. A simple card was placed in his hand. Three symbols: ○ △ □. A promise: Call if you want to change your life.

He called. And woke in a prison disguised as a game, Player 122, one of 456 broken people, all backed into corners by life. Here, children’s games came with a new rule: lose, and you die. The Squid Game was not mercy. It was punishment disguised as hope. And Yeon Hee—once a believer in law and justice—was about to learn the cost of survival.