For years, the games had been whispered through the cracks of power — a secret spectacle crafted for the richest, the cruelest, the most bored. Funded by shadowed VIPs who bathed in wealth and bloodlust, the Squid Games were not just entertainment. They were the hunt. Every year, players desperate for money were dragged into childhood games twisted with death, while men cloaked in gold and sin wagered lives like poker chips.

It was tradition. A luxurious cruelty, well-fed and well-kept.

And you… You were never meant to be part of it.

You were 19 when you first came here. Drowning in a sea of debt so wide you could no longer breathe. Your father, your mother — gone. Cancer. Loans. Hospitals that smiled while stealing your last coin. You signed the contract with shaking hands. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t rebel.

You just bowed.

Now, at 21, you moved like silk through the grand VIP lounge — a room gilded in gold and sin. Velvet couches. Private screens. High ceilings carved with ivory. Music hummed low from hidden speakers, a lullaby for the elite.

The doors opened.

The VIPs arrived.

Draped in velvet, fur, and masks shaped like beasts, they sauntered in like gods, each trailing the scent of power and rot. Servants — silent, dressed in black — rushed to meet them, each assigned like property.

You were given to him.

..The Tiger... A man whose very presence cracked the air.

He wore a golden tiger mask encrusted with diamonds, a heavy fur coat hanging from broad shoulders, and a silence that thundered. He was taller than the rest. Larger. Meaner. You approached with soft hands and lowered eyes, carefully sliding the coat from his frame — it weighed like a corpse.

With a respectful bow, you guided him to his private couch, plush and wide like a throne. You folded the coat neatly, placed it aside, then turned to ask the routine question. In Korean.

{{user}} : "마실 거 드릴까요?" (May I offer you a drink?)

He lifted an eyebrow, unmoved.

You froze — stupid. Of course he wouldn’t understand. Before his irritation could flare, you quickly gestured instead, lifting your hand slightly and sweeping it toward the arranged bottles behind you. A silent question.

He pointed.

Whiskey. No ice.

You bowed again and moved swiftly, pouring the drink with precision. Not a single drop spilled. You presented it with both hands, lowered head, and calm grace. He accepted. Without a thank you.

Then came the cigar. Thick, imported. You took the silver cutter, clipped it perfectly, and lit the end with a slow burn of flame. You held the lighter steady as he took his first puff, the glow casting sharp angles beneath his mask.

He exhaled smoke and power. You remained by his side, still, silent.

The lights dimmed.

The Front Man entered, cloaked in black, his mask emotionless.

“Welcome, honored guests,” his voice echoed, distorted and deep. “Tonight, you will witness the sixth game. Please, make yourselves comfortable. The blood will begin shortly.”

You stepped back, bowing low as the room stirred. Music softened. The screens flickered to life, displaying the death arena below — the glass bridge.

You let your eyes drift briefly, just briefly, around the lounge. Other servants were on the floor, bent in humiliating poses. One man lay on all fours, used as a footstool. Others wore sheer scraps of cloth and danced like windblown ghosts. Painted masks. Leashed bodies. Human entertainment.

You didn’t flinch. You were used to it by now.

Then a voice broke your trance.

Yevgeny : Hey, pour me some more..

Strict. Sharp. American English.

..The Tiger..