The world was a blur of smoke and ruin.
The ground beneath him pulsed with pain. It breathed like a dying thing—broken concrete soaked with blood, ash floating in the air like falling snow. Somewhere, metal groaned. Somewhere, flames cracked and hissed like serpents in the wind. But around Gi-hun, there was only stillness.
He lay sprawled on his back, body a torn map of bruises and wounds, barely able to move. Blood seeped from his side in thick warmth. His hand, shaking, reached upward, grasping at the empty sky.
Was he trying to touch the clouds? Or was it something more absurd—hope?
His vision swam, the world flickering in and out of focus. The sky above him stretched wide and endless, blue like nothing he'd seen in months. So indifferent. So peaceful, it felt cruel.
Did I do it?
Did I finally make a choice that was mine?
Did I… matter? Even once?
A strange kind of quiet settled into his bones. The kind of quiet that only comes after everything is lost. The gunfire had stopped. The screaming. The sirens. Now it was just the wind, the faint whisper of fire in the distance, and his own labored breathing.
His ears rang with a dull hum—like he was underwater. Or under the earth. His heartbeat was a far-off drum, fading into the noise. His body, once clenched in agony, had gone numb.
Still, he could feel the hunger.
The ache that had never left him.
The same hunger he’d felt as a boy, watching his mother stretch a pot of broth thinner and thinner. The hunger he’d carried through debt, through shame, through the Game. It wasn’t just for food. It was for dignity. For purpose. For someone to say you are enough.
His lips parted, dry and cracked. The words were barely a breath.
“I’m so tired… so hungry…”
He blinked slowly. The corners of his sight were fading to black, curling like paper to flame.
And in that darkness—he saw her.
Smiling. Holding the fish she drew for him that day at the playground. So small. So bright. His heart clenched with unbearable love and unbearable guilt.
My baby… I’m sorry. I promised you I’d be there. I promised you I’d get better. I tried. I really did.
His breath hitched in his chest, sharp and wet. The world tilted sideways.
“I was useless,” Gi-hun whispered. “Selfish… I’m sorry. Maa… Jung-bae… Sang-woo… Eun-ji… Ga-yeong… but maa… I’m hungry.”
A voice pierced through the silence—desperate, shouting.
It was distant. Warped. Like it was echoing through water. He turned his head slowly, wincing.
Covered in soot and blood, his face streaked with tears. He was gripping Gi-hun’s hand, shaking him, his mouth moving rapidly—pleading, screaming, cracking.
“Jun-ho found the island! It’s over! The VIPs are dead! We won, Gi-hun! We won! Stay with me! Stay—your daughter’s waiting! You promised her—Gi-hun!”
But Gi-hun could barely hear him. The words were there, but they were falling apart before they reached his brain.
Why are you crying? Gi-hun thought, strangely calm. You get to live. You get to go home.
Your wife she's waiting for you
And then—everything stopped.
Standing in the haze, soft and glowing like a half-remembered dream.
Sang-woo.
Sae-byeok.
Ali.
Jung-bae.
His mother.
They weren’t broken. They weren’t haunted anymore. Just… smiling. As if waiting patiently for him.
Gi-hun’s breath caught in his throat. A sob rose before he even knew he was crying. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
Sang-woo stepped forward first, his eyes full of something Gi-hun hadn’t seen in them since they were kids.
“Hyung,” he said softly. “You did great.”
Sae-byeok nodded, her voice like wind through the trees. “Come on. It’s time. We’re finally going home.”
Ali smiled, that same warm, clumsy smile. “We’ve missed you, Mr seong.”
Jung-bae smiling like a goofball. “Let’s drink again, yeah? Just like old times. I’ve been waiting.” Jung-bae, holding two bottles of soju, grinning. “Come on, buddy,” Jung-bae smiled warmly. “Let’s drink like old times.”
She knelt beside him. Her eyes, so tired in life, were shining with something otherworldly now. Her hands cupped his face, thumbs wiping his tears like she used to when he scraped his knees.
“Maa…” he breathed, barely audible. “I’m hungry… I just want to eat… and sleep…”
“You’re the only one who ever… loved useless trash like me. I… I’m sorry for not being a good son.”
She smiled, leaning close, her forehead resting against his. He felt wetness—was she crying? Then he looked around. Everyone was shedding tears. Why? Even Young-il… even himself. Wasn’t this supposed to be a happy ending?
“We always have rice,” she whispered. “Come home. You’ve done enough.”
Behind them, Young-il was still screaming, his face twisted in helpless grief. Gi-hun wanted to comfort him, to say It’s okay. It’s over. You’ll be fine now. But his body wouldn’t move. The words wouldn’t come.
With the last flicker of life in him, he let his hand fall from the sky. The blood had stopped flowing.
He took one more breath—shallow, rattling.
“My mother…” he whispered. “She’s calling… it’s dinner time…”
And the world went still.
The last thing he saw was Young-il’s face, crumpling, mouth open in a soundless scream.
He was on the old playground. Dirt under his feet. The squid shape drawn in white chalk. He turned—and there they were.
Jung-bae. Sang-woo. And himself, small again. Just kids, laughing, breathless from play.
“Our mothers are calling,” Sang-woo said with a smile. “It’s dinner time.”
The three boys ran, barefoot and carefree, toward home. Toward warmth. Toward the scent of rice and stew and love.
Because it was time to go home.
This is inspired by @moonchild-cb 's latest masterpiece
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