The Last Step of a Man Who Grew Up Too Late – Seong Gi-hun from ‘Squid Game’

The Last Step of a Man Who Grew Up Too Late – Seong Gi-hun from ‘Squid Game’

Seong Gi-hun was always someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s friend. But he had never once been the owner of his own life. He laughed to escape blame, wandered to avoid pain, and every time he did, life took one step further away from him. His smile held nothing. Just survival.

Then came the game. He entered because he was broke, because his life was already at the bottom. He didn't choose this path. He simply landed there. So when he said yes to the game, it wasn’t a choice born of courage, but of desperation—a reflex, not a conviction.

At first, he was scared. Then confused. Then numb. He watched people die. He watched himself changing. And strangely, he adjusted. That terrified him the most.

But something unexpected happened. He laughed less. He paused more. He began to hesitate—not to survive, but to feel. A man who had once drifted through life began to return to himself, piece by piece. Through terror, through guilt, through witnessing cruelty up close.

He looked at Cho Sang-woo differently. He breathed heavily beside Kang Sae-byeok. He called out to Ali with a voice soaked in regret. The man who once shielded himself behind failure began to break—so he could protect someone else for once.

Maybe surviving wasn’t luck. Maybe it was the price of growing up too late. Because in the end, he realized something: he didn’t want to live unless he could live for someone else.

He walked out of the game a rich man. But he didn’t feel like one. The money wasn’t freedom. It was weight. He had blood on his hands and silence in his pockets. And when he dyed his hair red, he didn’t do it to change. He did it to show the world he couldn’t go back.

He stood at the airport. A plane waited to take him to his daughter. To love. To peace. To all the things he thought he wanted. But he turned back. Not out of fear—but because some things need to be faced first.

He owed it to those who didn’t walk out with him. To Ali. To Sae-byeok. Even to Sang-woo. He owed it to himself.

His final step wasn’t loud. It wasn’t heroic. It was quiet. Heavy. Measured. But it was a step toward becoming someone he could finally look in the mirror and recognize.

He thought of his daughter. He remembered the birthdays he missed, the lies he told, the meals he didn’t share. He wanted to be the kind of man who didn’t flinch when asked what kind of father he was. And he knew he had to rebuild that answer from scratch.

One day, he hoped to walk beside her. Buy her fish cake at a street cart. Let her laugh without guilt. Tell her not just that he loved her, but that he was finally someone who could protect that love.

Gi-hun was a man who broke late, and healed slowly. But he kept walking. Not because he was whole. But because he wanted to be.

And sometimes, the last to grow up are the ones who love the deepest. Their steps may come late, but they fall with the weight of every moment they once ran away from.

Gi-hun's final step wasn’t toward victory. It was toward humanity.

He lives quietly now. Not as a hero, not as a victim, but as a man trying to become a better version of himself. The world outside the game doesn’t reward that kind of change. No cameras follow him. No applause greets him. But he still chooses it, day after day.

Some nights, he wakes in a sweat, hearing the marble hit the ground, Ali’s trusting smile flashing before his eyes. Other nights, it’s Sae-byeok’s silence that haunts him. He cannot undo the choices. But he can carry their memories forward. In that, he finds his purpose.

He started writing letters to his daughter. Not emails—letters. Handwritten, honest, imperfect. He doesn’t send them. Not yet. Maybe when he feels worthy. Maybe when he believes he can answer her questions without shame.

He started talking to strangers. At parks, at bus stops. Not because he needs anything from them, but because he wants to be present in a world he once tried so hard to escape. These small acts—they are his new steps. Toward connection. Toward redemption.

Gi-hun is not done walking. His path may be long, uncertain, painful. But every step he takes now is chosen. And that, more than any prize, is his redemption.

Sometimes he imagines the moment she hugs him first. Not because he’s her father, but because she forgives him. He doesn't know when it’ll happen. But he walks for that day.

He started cooking. Nothing fancy—just rice and kimchi stew. The kind his mother used to make. The kind he never learned to prepare until now. Somehow, boiling broth feels like an act of memory. A quiet apology. A promise to not forget what made him human.

He once lost everything chasing something bigger. Now, he finds meaning in the smallest things. A quiet morning. A warm bowl. A folded letter left unsent. In those moments, he finally understands: survival was never the goal. It was the path. Redemption was what came after.

by K-team