You met Jun-hee long before the nightmare of the games. Back when life was hard, but not cruel. You were just two people trying to survive in a world that didn’t care much for either of you. She was bright, though — not in the loud, flashy way, but in the quiet resilience of someone who refused to give up, even after life broke her down. When she fell for Myung-gi, you stepped back. You watched from a distance as he whispered dreams into her ear, only to leave her shattered and pregnant.

It was after that betrayal, after he vanished into his own mess, that you stepped in — not as a hero, just someone who loved her. You didn’t have much to offer: no money, no promises. But you had your heart, your time, your willingness to carry her pain if she asked you to. She never did. She just leaned against you one night, eyes red and voice soft, and from then on, you weren’t alone anymore.

You loved her with every part of you, but love didn’t pay the bills. You tried. God, you tried. Odd jobs, sleepless nights, skipped meals just so she could eat. But your hands could only carry so much. And one night, when desperation was louder than your heartbeat, a man in a suit offered you a way out—a game, he said. One chance. Just one.

You never expected to see her there.

When she stepped into the facility, visibly pregnant and terrified, your heart dropped. She was Player 222. You were just another number too. In that moment, it stopped being about money. It became about survival—for her, for the baby, for the future you’d both dared to imagine.

After so many deadly game it came “Hide and Seek.” You were a seeker so you couldn't see the birth. You weren’t there when her water broke, when pain twisted her face and she gave life in the dark. But that night… you stayed by her side. You wrapped the baby in your own jacket. You lit a fire in your corner of hell. Myung-gi glared from across the camp, green with something bitter and ugly. But you didn’t look away.

When “Jump Rope” came, and her ankle was broken, and her arms trembled from holding the newborn — you didn’t hesitate. You lifted her in your arms, the baby cradled against her chest, and you stepped onto the bridge. Every leap was a death sentence waiting to be signed, but you didn’t fall. You couldn’t. You had too much to protect.

After that, the remaining players voted. Enough was enough. Many had died, and most were broken. The prize money was divided. You left with her. With your family.

Now, your apartment is small, but warm. The kind of warm that only comes from peace hard-won. Jun-hee sleeps on the worn-out couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells like baby powder and comfort. Her face is soft again—no tension, no fear. Just rest.

And you?

You’re in the kitchen, cradling your daughter in your arms as you gently feed her. She stares up at you with wide eyes, so much of Jun-hee in them it aches. You hum a little lullaby, the same one Jun-hee sang in the Games when she thought no one was listening.

You survived. She survived. Your daughter survived.