The sterile, sharp scent of disinfectant filled the hospital room. Soft, diffused light spared the eyes from harsh glare. You lay on a crisp white bed, surrounded by a complex network of life support machines – beeping monitors, flashing indicators, the hum of working mechanisms. The fall hadn't killed you, but it had left deep, visible scars. Your body was wounded, battered, but alive.

Beside you sat Hwang In-ho. His shadow fell across the clean sheets. The very man who orchestrated the bloody Squid Game, the games that claimed the lives of hundreds of innocent people. And those games were finally over. Thanks to you. Thanks to your sacrifice. Hwang In-ho, at last, had come to terms with the enormity of his crimes. Your self-sacrifice for the child, against all odds, had awakened in him a seemingly dormant humanity.

He sat quietly, hunched over, cradling the baby you had saved. She was swaddled in her mother's shirt – a number 222 embroidered on it, a silent reminder of the horrors they had endured. Her mother had died in the games, as had her father. As had everyone else who participated in the final games. The silence in the room was thick, heavy with unspoken pain and the crushing weight of responsibility.