Behind the Mask: A Squid Game Story

The siren blared. Again.

Junaid jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. The cold metal bunk beneath him groaned as he sat up. Around him, 200 others stirred inside the towering concrete room lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Most were silent now. They had learned that panic didn’t help here. It just got you noticed.

He was Player 456B — a coincidence, he thought bitterly. The same number as the winner from the original Squid Game rumors. Was that fate? Or a sick joke?

It had been three days since they were drugged and brought here. Three games had passed. Already over half were dead.

The first was a twisted version of Red Light, Green Light, where the doll not only detected movement, but heart rate. One girl had a panic attack and was shot even though she hadn’t moved an inch.

The second was Wire Bridge — except instead of guessing tempered vs. regular glass, players had to choose between two narrow paths — one electrified, one safe. Only three survived that one. Junaid remembered the screams. The smell.

The third game had involved teams — a blindfolded puzzle solved by guiding your partner. The trick? Only one in each pair would advance, but they didn’t know until it was too late.

Now, they stood in the main chamber, backs straight as the Front Man’s voice echoed.

> “Tonight’s game... will be different.”

The masked guards stepped aside. A black screen descended. On it appeared eight names.

> “These are tonight’s selected... Hunters. The rest of you are the hunted.”

A pause.

> “Survive until dawn.”

Gasps rippled. Whispers. One woman screamed. The lights dimmed to blood-red.

Then all hell broke loose.

---

Junaid didn’t wait. He grabbed Layla’s arm — a girl he had trusted since the second day — and ran. They dashed through the dorm levels as screams echoed behind them. He turned, glimpsing a masked Hunter — taller than the guards, with a serrated baton — slam someone to the ground.

“This isn’t a game anymore!” Layla shouted, panting.

“It never was,” Junaid said grimly.

They ducked into a storage room, pushing metal shelves in front of the door. For now, they were safe.

Layla leaned against the wall, shaking. “Why us? Why play like this? What’s the point?”

Junaid didn’t answer. He was staring at the wall — where tiny tally marks were scratched into the paint. Someone else had hidden here before. Someone who didn't survive.

---

As the night wore on, the screams became fewer. Junaid counted gunshots. Twelve? Fifteen?

He had no idea how many were still alive.

“We need a plan,” he whispered.

Layla nodded. “There’s a hallway near the kitchen. Maybe we can make it to the elevator shafts—”

The door slammed open.

Layla screamed.

A Hunter stepped in. He was huge. His mask shaped like a wolf’s snarl. Blood dripped from the metal baton in his hand.

Junaid stepped forward. “Take me,” he said. “Let her go.”

The Hunter tilted his head. Then laughed.

But just as he raised his baton, Layla moved — she stabbed a metal rod into the Hunter’s side. He staggered.

Junaid tackled him, slamming his head into the wall. Again. And again.

The mask cracked.

And what Junaid saw made his blood freeze.

It was Zahid — the quiet boy from the third game. He had failed. They had seen him fall.

Or so they thought.

“What is this?” Layla whispered. “They’re turning losers into killers?”

Zahid, gasping blood, laughed. “The real game... never ends...”

Then he went still.

---

At dawn, only 12 contestants stood in the center.

The screen flickered again.

> “Congratulations. You have survived the Hunt.”

They weren’t told how many had died. But the floor was stained in red patches.

Then, a new message:

> “You are the finalists. Only one of you will leave. The final game begins tomorrow.”

As they were herded back to the dorms, Junaid noticed a camera tracking him. Not all of them. Just him.

Why?

---

That night, sleep was impossible. Junaid sat up, watching the others. Layla was across from him, nodding off. A guard entered, dropped a note into his hand, and left.

It read:

> “You weren’t supposed to survive. Meet me at Door 7. Come alone.”

He went.

Behind Door 7 was a narrow hall that descended into an observation room. Screens lined the walls — every player tracked, their heart rates, movements, bios.

A man in a white mask sat facing him.

“You’re interesting, 456B,” he said. “You’re not like the others.”

Junaid said nothing.

“You protected others. Even when it cost you.”

The man stood. “Let me offer you a choice. Don’t play the final game. Become one of us. A designer. A handler. You could help shape the next round. Or die in this one.”

Junaid clenched his fists. “Why me?”

“Because we need players who understand mercy. And how to kill it.”

A pause.

Then Junaid smiled — a small, dangerous smile.

“I’ll play.”

The man nodded. “Very well. Tomorrow, you die. Or you ascend.”

---

The Final Game

A glass room. A single table. Two chairs.

Junaid sat in one. Layla in the other.

The instructions were simple:

> Convince the other to quit. Or kill them. One winner.

They stared at each other for a long time.

“You’re going to say you’ll quit for me, right?” Layla said.

Junaid didn’t answer.

Layla smiled bitterly. “I can’t let you die. But I also don’t want to live knowing I killed someone like you.”

She reached across the table. “So let’s both stand. Refuse to play. Like in the rumors.”

Junaid blinked. Then nodded.

They stood.

The alarm blared.

Red lights.

But nothing happened.

Then, a voice:

> “Unexpected choice. Game... over.”

---

Epilogue

Junaid awoke in his own bed.

His bank account flashed with numbers he had never imagined.

No message. No confirmation. Just a silent ending.

He turned on the news.

A fire had burned down a remote island. No survivors reported. Just rumors.

He sat back, staring at the ceiling.

Was he free?

Or had the real game... just begun?