The air was soaked in rain and tension.

The dark sky loomed heavy overhead, and the sandy field below was carved into strange white lines—the Squid Game. A child’s game turned into a battlefield. Thunder echoed in the distance, a cruel mockery of drums before war.

Three players stood at the gate:

Gi-hun, bloodied, exhausted, trembling with desperation.

Sang-woo, silent, sharp-eyed, weapon in hand, soaked in rain and guilt.

And then there was Myung-Gi.

Standing beside Sae-Byeok, her arm slung over his shoulders, barely able to stay on her feet.

She was pale. The wound in her abdomen was bound in makeshift cloth, hidden beneath her green jacket. She bled slowly, painfully—but she was alive. Still breathing.

And to Myung-Gi, that meant everything.

As the announcer’s voice boomed, laying out the final rules of the game, Myung-Gi didn’t move to join Gi-hun. He stood still—one arm holding Sae-Byeok close, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

His eyes were not on the finish line.

They were on her.

Because this wasn’t his fight.

He knew that.

He wasn’t here to win.

Not anymore.

Gi-hun stepped forward, his body poised at the edge of the painted lines. Across from him, Sang-woo mirrored him with the same intensity, holding his knife tightly. The storm above churned louder as they began to circle each other.

Meanwhile, Myung-Gi led Sae-Byeok carefully to the sidelines, guiding her to a small overhang near the entrance gate—away from the chaos.

She stumbled once.

He caught her.

When she sat, he kneeled beside her, hands trembling as he checked the wrappings over her wound. Blood was soaking through again. Too much.

But he didn’t cry.

Not this time.

He kept his expression firm—even if his eyes flickered with panic every time she winced.

“You shouldn’t have come back…” Sae-Byeok whispered, voice barely audible over the thunder. Her head leaned weakly against the wall.

Myung-Gi gave a breathy laugh through clenched teeth. “Neither should you.”

She smiled faintly.

And then, from the arena, a scream.

Both of them looked.

Gi-hun and Sang-woo collided like animals, years of betrayal and desperation crashing into each blow. Fists. Kicks. Blood mixing with mud as they wrestled in the storm.

But Myung-Gi didn’t move to join.

He didn’t so much as twitch.

He wasn’t a fighter—not like them.

And even if he was…

His only mission now was protecting her.

“I should be down there,” Sae-Byeok murmured, coughing.

“No.” His voice came sharper than he intended. “No, you shouldn’t.”

Silence settled between them again.

Only the thunder, the rain, and the violent struggle in the distance filled the space.

Myung-Gi gently placed his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That I couldn’t protect you better.”

Sae-Byeok turned her head toward him, even as her eyelids began to droop. “You did more than anyone ever has.”

He swallowed hard.

And then, from the arena—

A final cry.

A knife clattered to the sand.

Gi-hun stood—barely—over a fallen Sang-woo.

Myung-Gi didn’t cheer.

Didn’t smile.

He only pulled Sae-Byeok a little closer and let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding for what felt like hours.

This game was never about victory.

Not for him.

Not for her.

It was survival. Barely.

And as the rain poured down, soaking his hair, his jacket, his scarred face—he knew the fight wasn’t truly over.

But Sae-Byeok was still alive.

And for now…

That was enough.