Abdul haye
A Squid Game Guard’s Tale:
When people think of the “Squid Game” that swept the world in 2021, the first images that come to mind are the neon pink tracksuits, the glittering daisy‑crowns, and the brutal, neon‑lit arenas where lives hung in the balance. Behind the high‑energy choreography of the games, however, lies a quieter, more complex world: the corridors of the abandoned factory, the hushed voices of the security staff, and the eyes of the guards who patrol the stages. This is the story of one of those guards—a man named Joon‑seek, a 38‑year‑old former truck driver turned security officer—whose internal landscape offers a startling counterpoint to the spectacle.
1. The Industrial Silence
The factory that housed the Squid Game was a relic of a forgotten era—a sprawling complex of rusted steel girders, concrete slabs, and more than a hundred rows of identical, brightly painted cages. From the outside, the place looked like a derelict playground, but inside it pulsed with a different kind of life. A low hum from the ventilation system, the occasional clank of a metal door slamming shut, and the relentless whir of the security cameras were the only sounds that kept the place from falling into total silence.
Joon‑seek’s routine began before the first light of dawn. He would walk the length of the corridors, shoulders squared, his watch ticking in his pocket. The guards wore identical dark uniforms—black shirts with a patch of a red, stylized panda. Their forearms were bandaged, and their faces were obscured by indistinguishable masks. Joon‑seek’s mask was a matte‑black visor that reflected nothing but the dim glow of the corridor lights. In his mind, the mask was both a shield and a barrier; it protected him from the emotional weight of the game and kept his identity anonymous to the players and the directors alike.
2. A Life Before the Game
Before the factory’s gates opened to the first batch of contestants, Joon‑seek was a truck driver. He spent years hauling goods across the Korean peninsula, ferrying everything from steel beams to office supplies. He was, by all accounts, a quiet, reliable man. His father, a former factory worker, had always told him that a career in transportation was a dignified, dependable path. The job had been steady, but it was also monotonous. Joon‑seek often found himself lost in the rhythm of the road: the whirring of tires, the fire of the diesel, the endless miles that seemed to blur together.
In 2017, the factory that would become the Squid Game’s battleground was demolished in an effort to make way for a new logistics hub. The demolition left Joon‑seek with a sudden, unanticipated vacancy—an open door that could be filled with any number of possibilities. The opportunity to become a security guard at the new facility lured him. The company offered a comfortable salary, a place to live, and a sense of purpose. Joon‑seek accepted, unaware of the surreal and harrowing environment that awaited him.
3. The First Day of Duty
On his first day, Joon‑seek stared at the endless rows of steel cages. Each cage held a number of players—each with their own story, their own debts, and their own desperation. He could barely say the name of the game. His supervisor, a stern woman named Do‑he, handed him a clipboard with a list of protocols and a key to the locker room. “You will not touch them,” she said, her voice low. “You will observe. You will enforce. And you will never let your emotions come between you and your duty.”
Joon‑seek nodded. He understood the words as a code, a script to be followed. He walked the perimeter of the arena, his eyes flying from one cage to another, taking in the stoic participants who looked like ghosts. The guards’ masks made it difficult to see the players’ emotions, but Joon‑seek felt a faint tremor of compassion. He thought of his own father, of the roads he had traveled, and he wondered whether the same desperation that drove the contestants had ever touched his own life. The question lingered—an echo that would haunt him throughout the game.
4. A New Reality
The Squid Game’s eight challenges were brutal. Joon‑seek had no time to contemplate their brutality; he had a responsibility to maintain order. He would oversee the safety of both the participants and the staff, watch the cameras, and interpret the signals from the directors. He did not participant in the games, but he existed as a silent witness to the deaths that unfolded each day.
On the second day, when the first player was eliminated, Joon‑seek’s hands trembled slightly as he recorded the incident. The mask, a feature he had grown used to, could not hide the internal dissonance. He saw the boys’ faces on the overlaid screen: the fear, the hope, the desperation. He could feel the weight of these emotions, even if he could not fully process them. He swallowed his anxiety and pressed on—as Do‑he had instructed.
While the games progressed, Joon‑seek noticed something peculiar: the guards, with their single black mask, were the only group who remained stoic in their expressions. The cameras recorded their movements, but no one could see the cracks in their composure. The guards were functionally immune to the emotions that ebbed and flowed within the arena. They were tasked with maintaining order, but they were also tasked with preserving themselves.
5. The Internal Struggle
After a week, Joon‑seek’s mind was a labyrinth of contradictions. He understood that he was not a villain. He was a tool in a system that had been set in motion by a higher power. Yet the sight of the players’ tears, their frantic shouts, and the brutal twist of a game that turned their lives into a series of near‑death experiences was unthinkable. He began to wonder whether the work he was doing was a form of complicity. The game was designed, but it had not been designed with morality in mind; it had been designed for entertainment, profit, and spectacle.
At night, when the factory’s lights dimmed and the cafeteria staff shifted to break rooms, Joon‑sik would often sit alone in his locker. He would curse the “gilded cage” that was his job. He would think of his father, who had once told him that “the road is the best teacher.” Joon‑sik had been on that road for years. He would think of the mothers who had sent their children to the game, the men who had pulled money from the banks, and the desperate couples who had found themselves in a no‑turns game.
6. A Glimpse of Humanity
One day, while performing a routine check in a cage, Joon‑seek found a young woman staring at the camera, her eyes wide with terror. He approached her, his mask still on, and whispered a soft apology: “Please, it is not… I’m sorry.” The woman looked at him—her face a mixture of terror and curiosity. She whispered, “Why?” The answer caught him off‑guard: “Because it’s a game.” The girl’s eyes filled with a brief, fragile light. She whispered a single word: “It felt like a dream.” Her voice was a quiet echo in the factory’s air.
The moment signified something. It was a glimpse of humanity—a reminder that the participants were not mere numbers. Joon‑sik realized that he was a witness, a silent observer to the series of emotional blows each contestant had to endure. The moment could have been the spark that ignited a change in his perspective, and it did.
7. The Moral Reckoning
As the games progressed, Joon‑seek found himself torn. The guards had a duty to keep the participants from awning the game. Yet he could not ignore the fact that the games were designed to test human resilience. He thought of the lines he had to obey and the dark secrets he had to hide. He thought of his own mortality. Did he want to keep his identity hidden from the world? Did he want to keep his name in the dark? Was it possible for him to keep his conscience intact while performing a role that directly or indirectly impacted the participants’ fate?
The moral reckoning reached its climax after the “Red Light, Green Light” game. Joon‑sik watched the contestants as they froze and then sprinted, the deadly countdown ticking off. When the first contestant was declared dead, he felt the weight of a decision that would haunt him. He realized that the game was a function of a system that was built to strip humanity from each participant. He realized that he had a unique position—he could be the one who inadvertently saved a life by making a mistake. The pressure was immense, but it also gave him a sense of purpose.
8. A Glimpse of Redemption
On the eighth and final day, the game’s conclusion was set to be an emotional crescendo. The last two players stood at the end of the track, each holding a red marble that claimed the winner. Joon‑sik approached them, his mask still on, and listened to the last confessions. The last person, a young man named Lee, whispered, “I want to go home.” Joon‑sik could not stop the game. But what he could do—what he chose to do—was to be a guardian of the last moment.
The last voice that spoke to him was not the voice of a participant, but a voice from within himself. “I am not a monster,” he whispered into the darkness, “I am a man as others are.”
9. The Aftermath
After the final game, the factory was dismantled, and the participants—those who survived—were taken home. Joon‑sik, like all the guards, was quickly reassigned. He returned to a life that was far from the image of a game. But the experience had left a scar—one that was both physical and psychological. He had witnessed the fragility of human life, heard the desperate cries of the players, and glimpsed the hollowness that the game revealed.
One evening, years later, Joon‑sik returned to the site of the factory. He walked through the abandoned halls and saw the graffiti of the players—a mosaic of names, numbers, and a few stray messages from the guards. The graffiti reminded him of the faces he had seen: a boy with a bright future cut short, a woman with a family, a man who had lost more than money to find his way out of debt. The graffiti was a testament to the memory of the game and to the role that the guards had played.
He saw how the graffiti had become a living memorial, a reminder of the event that had become a cultural phenomenon. The graffiti was a reflection and a reflection of the collective humanity. He realized that while he had been a passive observer, he had also carried a weight that had impacted the lives of the participants. And that realization led him to become a better man.
10. The Guard’s Perspective
Joon‑sik speaks to the world about his experience in a way that carries both the weight of his profession and the senses of a man who has seen the darkest side of human desperation. He is a guard who resisted being a villain, but who could not ignore the humanity that was up for grabs. He is a guard who can look at the camera and see more than a player. He is a guard who knows that the only thing in the game is the cost of watching it.
In writing about the guard’s experience, we see that the Squid Game is not merely a story of a group of contestants who fight for survival, but also an exploration of the moral complexity that surrounds the games. The guards are the footnotes of the narrative, but the footnotes carry a moral weight that influences the entire story. The guard’s perspective teaches us that the most powerful lessons may come from the unsung heroes of the narrative—a reminder that we all carry the responsibility of being more compassionate, more humane, and more honest.
**Conclusion**
There is an undeniable luxury in watching a story unfold. Yet when we take a step back and examine what goes on behind the scenes, we discover that the world is far more complex. The Squid Game Guards—particularly Joon‑sik’s story—offer us a perspective that is rarely explored. They fill the story with a sense of morality and humanity that the main characters often lack. Their story is a reminder that the most interesting stories are also the ones that are quietly played out in the shadows of the spotlight. It reminds us that we can all become better humans if we acknowledge our roles, our responsibilities, and our moral decisions. When the lights go out, the story does not end—rather, it continues. The guard’s heart beats within it, and the moral of the story is that the game is the same for them all.
