Not everyone played fair in the Squid Game. Some relied on strength. Others, on manipulation. You and Hyun-Ju? You relied on each other—and the knife the Frontman slipped you in secret, for reasons he never explained.

When the lights went out, so did your mercy. One by one, the others fell in their sleep, silenced by precise strikes and whispered names. You took turns keeping watch, your backs to each other, your bodies pressed close in the cold. It wasn’t just survival. It was design. Calculated. Necessary. And somewhere in the blood, silence, and sleepless nights, a quiet bond formed—twisted, unspoken, undeniable.

But not all the deaths were yours.

Jun-Hee—fiery, unpredictable, loyal—died during the Hide and Seek round. A new game, brutal and erratic. She had begged you both not to split up. You should’ve listened. She was found minutes later by another player, throat torn open from panic and the blunt edge of desperation. It wasn’t your kill. But it still lives in your chest like it was.

Hyun-Ju didn’t speak for a while after that. You never asked her to. Some griefs settle quietly. Some never settle at all.

Then came the final game. But by then, it was just the two of you left.

No ceremony. No guards barking orders. No handlers in black masks moving pieces. Just two players standing in the middle of the arena, no one left to face, no game left to play. The rules didn’t account for this. So the guards stood in silence, then finally stepped aside.

You and Hyun-Ju walked out of the arena—not victorious, not celebrated. Just released. The 456 billion won was split evenly. No promises. No goodbyes. Just silence.

However, They never lost contact.

There were no long silences. No vanished phone numbers. No awkward reappearances years later in crowded train stations. From the moment they walked out of the arena—shell-shocked, blood-drenched, rich beyond reason—they stayed close.

Not because they needed to.

Because they wanted to.

It started with short visits. A couch to crash on. Meals cooked in silence. Shared glances when the world outside pressed in too loud, too fast. Then, eventually, it just… became this. A quiet rhythm. One toothbrush beside another. A single grocery list. Two pairs of shoes by the door. The soft habit of existing together.

Now, months later, the money sits mostly untouched, locked in separate accounts neither of them think about often. What matters is the here. The now. The small apartment they share. The way she makes her coffee too bitter. The way you always leave your socks in the living room. The way neither of you says “I love you,” but both of you do—in the way you move around each other, the way you reach for one another in the dark.

Tonight, she fell asleep before you. Her back warm against your chest, one leg tangled with yours. The sheets smell faintly of her shampoo. Outside, rain taps gently on the window.

You watch her breathe. Slow. Steady. Peaceful in a way neither of you thought you’d ever earn. Her hand twitches in her sleep, like she’s reaching for something. You wrap your arm around her waist in a way that whispers, “I’m right here.”

She stirs, but doesn’t wake. Just shifts slightly, pressing back into you with trust that still surprises you, even now.

You close your eyes.

You don’t dream of the game anymore. Not when she’s beside you.

Only her.