Squid game

The yacht glided across the black water as if the night itself were pushing it forward. On deck, VIP guests sat in armchairs covered with fine wool blankets, drinking champagne that cost more than the annual income of most of the gamblers who would be forced to die that day. Among them was Mr. Park, the owner of a shipping empire, a man accustomed to the world adjusting to his schedule. His lion mask was heavy, golden, with a predatory grin, and even in the dim light it seemed alive. And next to him, huddled, sat his daughter Hana. She was sixteen, and she hated the sea, yachts, and especially this island, which rose from the fog like a monster's tooth. She looked at the concrete walls, the spotlights, the figures of the security guards in pink suits—and felt everything inside her tighten into a tight knot. “Don’t shake,” her father said, not looking at her. “It’s just business.” Hana clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. “This isn’t business. This is murder.” Mr. Park chuckled, as if he’d heard something funny. “You’re too sensitive. In our world, softness is risk. And risk is weakness.” She wanted to answer, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she simply turned away and stared at the water, hoping that if she didn’t blink long enough, it would all go away. On the island, Frontman stood by the glass wall, watching the players in green tracksuits slowly fill the waiting room. His posture was motionless, as if he himself were part of the architecture of this place. A black mask hid his face, but there was something in his eyes that even the impersonal suit couldn’t hide—weariness mixed with cold determination. He knew the VIP guests were already approaching. He knew there would be a special game today: "Slow and steady wins the race," where a doll turns and kills anyone who moves. A children's game turned into a massacre. When the yacht docked, Frontman went down to the dock to personally greet the guests. He felt neither hatred nor admiration for them—only a detached understanding: they were fuel.