Batman: Squid Games
Chapter Nine: Hopscotch
The glass bridge loomed before Gi-hun like a nightmare made real. The once innocent game of hopscotch had been twisted into something horrifying—something that would decide who lived and who died. The rules were cruel and simple: step across the glass squares, each one a gamble. Some were tempered, strong enough to hold multiple players. Others? Fragile. The wrong step, and you'd plummet into the abyss below.
The arena was filled with silent tension, the air thick with the knowledge that no one was safe. Gi-hun stood at the threshold of the bridge, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He had made it this far, past the brutality of the marble game, past the twisted betrayal that haunted his every thought. But this? This was different. This was a game of pure luck—and death.
The glass beneath his feet gleamed cold and unforgiving. His heart hammered in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder. Matches stood there, his face as unreadable as ever, watching the game unfold with a stoic calm that unsettled Gi-hun. The man was as much a mystery as the game itself.
"Player one, step forward," the announcer's voice echoed through the arena.
The first player, a young man with a look of desperation in his eyes, stepped forward. He paused, looking at the glass squares. He seemed to be calculating, weighing his options. He knew that one wrong move could be his last. His gaze flicked to the other players, as if searching for some clue, some indication of how to survive. But there was nothing. No hints. Just the cruel game.
His first step was tentative. The glass beneath his foot held, and a small gasp of relief escaped him. He took another step, then another. He was moving at a slow pace, testing each square carefully. With each successful step, his confidence grew. He made it halfway across before disaster struck.
Without warning, the glass beneath him cracked. It shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces. His scream echoed through the arena as his body disappeared into the abyss below, his desperate cry cut off as he fell.
Gi-hun's stomach lurched. His heart raced in his chest. That could have been him. That would have been him, if he had stepped forward first. He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the vision of the man's fall, the sound of his body hitting the ground.
"Player one has lost," the announcer intoned, indifferent as ever.
Gi-hun didn't have time to think about the man's fate for long. Player two, Ji-eun, was already stepping forward. Her face was calm, but Gi-hun could see the fear in her eyes. She was no different from the first player, but she moved with more purpose, as if the weight of what had happened to the first player had steeled her resolve.
She tested each step, moving across the bridge with meticulous care, her eyes flicking from square to square. There was no hesitation in her movements, only a quiet determination. For a moment, Gi-hun allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, someone could make it through this game unscathed.
But as she reached the halfway point, Ji-eun stepped onto the wrong square. There was no warning this time, no crack of the glass before it gave way beneath her. She fell, screaming as she disappeared into the darkness below, the sound of her fall swallowed up by the vast emptiness.
Gi-hun's throat tightened. Her fall had been swift, final. There was no chance for mercy in this game. It didn't matter how well you played, how hard you tried to survive. One misstep, and it was over.
"Player two has lost," the announcer's cold voice echoed again.
The arena was silent now, the weight of what had just happened sinking in. Gi-hun's body was tense, his legs aching from the fear of the challenge ahead. His thoughts raced, trying to think of a way to survive, to make it to the other side of this deadly game. But no strategy would save him now. It was all a matter of luck.
And yet, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. He had made it this far. He had survived the brutal rounds of the game. Why not this one? Perhaps luck would be on his side.
"Player three, step forward," the announcer's voice rang out.
Soo-jin, the quiet woman who had been by Gi-hun's side for much of the games, moved next. Her face was set in a hard mask of determination, but Gi-hun could see the fear in her eyes as she stepped forward. Like the others, she moved cautiously, testing each square with careful precision. The glass held under her weight, and for a moment, it seemed like she might make it through.
But her confidence faltered as she neared the middle of the bridge. She misjudged a step, and before she could react, the glass beneath her cracked and shattered, sending her falling into the abyss. The scream that tore from her lips was haunting, and for a moment, Gi-hun felt his breath catch in his chest.
"Player three has lost."
Gi-hun swallowed hard. Each death, each fall, felt like it was happening to him, too. It was a game of survival, and yet every step he took toward that survival meant someone else's demise. He couldn't afford to hesitate. He had to go forward. He had to survive.
"Player four, step forward."
It was his turn.
Gi-hun took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't look back now. Not after everything he had been through. He could hear the heavy breaths of the remaining players, their eyes on him, waiting to see if he would be the next one to fall.
He stepped forward, feeling the cold glass beneath his foot. The first square held. His breath escaped in a small sigh of relief, but there was no time to waste. He had to keep moving. He took another step, and then another, each one more careful than the last. He tried to focus, to forget about the deaths, to ignore the fear gnawing at his gut. His body ached with exhaustion, but he couldn't stop. Not now.
The countdown clock loomed overhead, ticking away the seconds. His heart raced in time with it. Ten minutes left. He had to move faster. He had to be smart, quick.
Gi-hun stepped onto the next square, his foot landing with a soft click. The glass held. He didn't dare look back. Not yet. But his eyes darted to the next square, weighing the chances. He didn't know which one would hold. He didn't know which one would break. He was guessing—just like the others. But with each step, the fear grew, the weight of the game pressing down on him harder than ever.
Halfway across the bridge, Gi-hun could see the final stretch. He was close. He was so close. But there was a dangerous flicker of doubt in his mind. Was the next square safe? The one after that? Or would the glass break beneath him, sending him plummeting to his death?
He could feel the eyes of the other players on him, waiting. Watching. He couldn't fail. Not after everything he had been through.
With a shaky breath, he took another step. His foot landed firmly on the glass. It held. He moved again, faster this time, his eyes fixed ahead. He was almost there. One more step, and he would be on the other side.
But then, everything changed. The glass beneath his foot cracked, just as he shifted his weight forward. His heart froze in his chest as the sound of the glass shattering filled his ears. He reached out instinctively, but it was too late. His foot plunged through the glass, and for a brief moment, everything was falling.
But then—something strong gripped his arm, yanking him back with brutal force.
"Hold on!" a voice grunted.
Gi-hun's head spun as he looked up to see Matches, his expression cold and focused, his hand gripping Gi-hun's arm tightly. With one powerful tug, he pulled Gi-hun back onto solid ground.
Gi-hun gasped, his heart racing. He had been seconds away from falling to his death, and yet Matches had reached out, saved him. But why?
"You saved me," Gi-hun muttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His body was shaking, adrenaline coursing through him.
Matches didn't respond at first. His eyes were focused on the remaining steps of the bridge. His grip on Gi-hun's arm tightened. "Survival," he said simply, his voice flat. "Nothing more."
Gi-hun was still reeling, his body numb from the shock. "But why?" he whispered. "We're not allies."
Matches' eyes flicked to Gi-hun, his gaze unreadable. "No. But we both want the same thing."
Gi-hun felt the cold weight of the glass beneath his foot. His heart still raced from the near-death experience as Matches dragged him back to safety. His mind reeled with the shock of his fall, the deafening crack of the glass, the agonizing weight of realizing how close he had come to meeting his end. The sensation of being suspended, falling toward nothingness, still clung to him like an aftertaste.
He stood on the edge of the bridge, his legs shaky beneath him. Matches, however, was unfazed. The man had saved him. There had been no hesitation, no second thought. Just action. Gi-hun's breath caught in his throat, as a strange tension pulsed between them. Why had Matches done it? What was his motivation?
The two of them stood there, on the precipice of survival, staring down at the remaining players. Each one had been pushed to the edge, hanging by a thread as they crossed the bridge of fate. The crowd was silent, waiting for the next victim, the next moment of terror. Gi-hun could feel the weight of their eyes on him, could hear the distant hum of the clock ticking in the background. Sixteen minutes.
"Why?" Gi-hun finally asked, his voice low but heavy with the confusion that clung to him.
Matches didn't even spare him a glance. His eyes were focused on the final stretches of the bridge ahead. "Survival," he repeated, his voice flat and detached. "Nothing more."
Gi-hun's hands clenched at his sides, frustration building up inside him. The man's words were cold, mechanized. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of struggle. Matches didn't seem to care about the lives lost or the ones still hanging by a thread. To him, it was just a game. And it made Gi-hun wonder: What was Matches truly after?
Before Gi-hun could say anything more, the next player stepped forward, their hesitant movements signaling their own fear. It was as if the atmosphere itself was suffocating them, the air thick with unspoken words and the scent of impending death. The other players hesitated, sizing up the bridge, their eyes darting to each square, looking for any signs of weakness in the glass.
Player six, a middle-aged man with a grim expression, stepped forward cautiously. The rest of the survivors gathered near the edge of the bridge, watching in utter silence as he took his first steps. He hesitated, but then, with a swift breath, planted his foot on the first glass square. The tension in the arena tightened like a vice.
The glass held.
He stepped forward again. Another square. His eyes flicked nervously to the players behind him. It was a deadly game of trial and error. He couldn't know which squares were safe—none of them could. They were all relying on luck, on fate. Every step, a risk.
Gi-hun watched the man move, his movements careful but gaining confidence. Perhaps, Gi-hun thought, maybe there was a way through this. If they all worked together, if they were all observant enough, they might find a pattern, a clue, something. But deep down, he knew that in this game, such hope was a lie. There were no alliances in Squid Game. No team effort. There was only survival.
Gi-hun's gaze flickered to Matches once more, as if searching for some sign of emotion, some flicker of humanity in his cold, calculating face. But there was nothing there. Just that unwavering calm. He was like a machine—mechanical, precise, emotionless.
And Gi-hun? He was far from calm. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat a reminder that his life hung by the thinnest thread. It felt wrong to trust anyone here, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel that Matches might have been his only lifeline. If not for him, he would have already been a pile of broken bones at the bottom of the chasm. But why had Matches chosen to save him?
The answer remained elusive.
Player six reached the halfway point, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for the next safe square. But then, with a sudden crack of the glass, everything changed.
A scream erupted from the man's throat as he tumbled forward, his body weight pulling him through the fragile square beneath him. The others stood frozen, eyes wide with horror, as the man disappeared from sight. The sound of his fall echoed through the arena, a brutal reminder of the stakes they all faced.
"Player six has lost."
The announcer's voice was almost too calm, too clinical for the moment. It only heightened the surreal nature of what was happening. They were playing a game of life and death, and yet the world seemed to be indifferent to their suffering.
Gi-hun exhaled, his body trembling. He wanted to scream, to rail against the unfairness of it all. But what good would it do? There were no answers. No reprieve. Only the relentless march of time.
Player seven, a woman with a tense expression, moved forward next. She watched the others fall, measuring each of their deaths with a calculating gaze. The fear was evident in her eyes, but she had no choice. She stepped onto the first square, her movements slow and deliberate.
She made it past the first few squares. Her pace quickened as she grew more confident, until—
Crack.
A loud, sickening crack echoed across the arena. The woman's foot sank through the glass, and before she could react, she was gone.
Gi-hun felt his stomach churn as the sound of her scream was cut off. It was getting harder to breathe, harder to focus. Each player who fell represented another soul lost. And Gi-hun knew that he, too, would eventually be part of that grim tally.
But he couldn't afford to think about that now.
"Player eight, step forward," the announcer called.
Gi-hun looked up. It was his turn again. And this time, it felt different. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked at the glass beneath his feet, feeling its cold emptiness. He took a step forward, but his legs felt like lead. He could feel the eyes of the other players on him, could sense the desperation, the gnawing hunger for survival in the air. They were all just trying to make it across, to escape this nightmare.
Gi-hun hesitated. He couldn't make the same mistake as before. He couldn't afford to fall. But as he glanced at the remaining players, he saw something in their faces. Something primal. They weren't playing to win anymore—they were playing to survive. And there was no room for mercy in this game.
He took a deep breath, his hands shaking as he moved forward. The glass under his foot held firm. His gaze flicked to the next square. He had to make a choice, and there was no room for hesitation.
He took another step, carefully placing his foot onto the glass. It held. Another step. And another.
But then, just as he was halfway across, something changed. The glass beneath him trembled, and before he could react, it shattered, sending him tumbling forward. His world became a blur of falling glass and black void, his body weightless as he plummeted toward his doom.
But then, out of nowhere, a strong hand gripped his arm.
Gi-hun's breath caught in his throat as he felt himself yanked back up, his head spinning. Matches, again, had saved him. But why? Why would he risk his own life for Gi-hun?
Gi-hun looked up, disoriented, his heart pounding in his chest. "You—why?" he asked, struggling to catch his breath.
Matches' gaze was cold, calculated, almost detached. But there was something else there too—a flicker of something deeper. He didn't answer right away, only gave a single, sharp tug, pulling Gi-hun to safety once more.
"We both want the same thing," Matches said, his voice low, steady.
Gi-hun didn't know what to say to that. What was Matches really after? Was he playing to win the game? Or was there something else? But there was no time for questions.
The bridge was almost clear now, and the remaining players were moving forward, their hearts pounding in time with the ticking clock above. But as they all reached the other side, Gi-hun couldn't help but feel the gnawing sense of unease that lingered in his gut.
They had made it across—but for how long? What would happen when they reached the next round? Each game grew more brutal, more dangerous. And though he had survived, Gi-hun felt like he was slowly losing himself to the terror, the hopelessness, the darkness that surrounded them all.
And through it all, Matches remained a mystery, his eyes cold and unreadable. Gi-hun couldn't figure him out—couldn't figure out why he had saved him. But as they walked away from the glass bridge, Gi-hun understood one thing: In this game, no one could be trusted. Not even the one who had saved his life.
The real battle, Gi-hun realized, was just beginning.
To be continued...