The Perfect Player:Ayanokoji in the Squid Game

The room was all marble and silence—an old-world luxury buried deep beneath modern Seoul, beneath even the records that tried to hide it.

A chessboard sat untouched between two men.

On one side, Ayanokoji's father—still pristine, untouched by time, posture rigid as ever.

On the other, Oh Il-nam—smiling, fragile, but with eyes sharper than any knife in the room. The old man's hand trembled slightly as he moved a pawn forward.

"I heard your son survived the fire," Il-nam said softly.

The father didn't respond.

"I told you the boy was different. You raised him like a tool. But the most dangerous weapons... sharpen themselves."

"I didn't come here to discuss my failures," the father replied coldly.

Il-nam chuckled, coughing into a gold-embroidered handkerchief.

"No... you came here to discuss the Game."

A pause. Heavy.

Ayanokoji's father placed a single file on the table—sealed, unmarked, except for a blood-red K on the spine.

"He's resurfaced in Korea. I want to see what he does next."

Il-nam tapped the file with two fingers. "Then let him play."

Their eyes met.

"And when he wins?" Il-nam asked.

"He won't win," Ayanokoji's father said. "He'll ascend."

Il-nam's smile faded. For once, even he didn't know if that was a promise—or a warning.

Seoul, South Korea – 11:47 PM
Rundown Motel, Sangbong-dong
Ayanokoji Kiyotaka pov:

The hum of neon outside my window was the only thing that kept time in this part of the city.

11:47 PM.

Across the street, Unit 204 remained dark. The only sign of life was a flickering hallway bulb on the third floor, stuttering like a dying signal. I watched it blink, sipping stale coffee from a paper cup that had long outlived its usefulness.

That's when the knock came.

Three slow taps. Then silence.

I didn't move right away. I listened—for footsteps retreating, for breath being held outside the door. Nothing. Just that unnatural pause in the world, like the city itself exhaled and waited.

I opened the door.

No one.

Just an envelope—black, wax-sealed, thick.

No name. No stamp.

I picked it up and closed the door behind me, sliding the chain lock back into place before breaking the seal.

Inside: a single red card.

"PLAYER 067.
Location: Disclosed Upon Acceptance.
The Game Returns."

And beneath it, scribbled by hand—no print, no type, just a cruel familiarity in the pen strokes:

"We missed your mind.
Let's see if it still works.
— F"

My fingers tightened slightly around the card.

So it begins.

Not just a challenge.

An invitation.

From him.
I never intended to apply. That's for people who believe they're still part of a system. Who beg to be chosen.

I've never begged. Not even in the White Room.

The red card sat under my boot now, its edges curled with heat from the radiator. I'd already extracted what I needed—paper stock, ink patterns, chemical scent residue from the wax seal.

The Game thinks it's untouchable.

They forget I was born inside something colder.

⸻

Later – 2:03 AM
Underground Station, Near Mangwon District

The handler was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Skinny. Nervous. Wearing the beige windbreaker the others always wore. He stood under the flickering platform light, clutching a list in one hand, burner phone in the other. To the untrained eye, he looked like any other subway drifter.

To me, he looked like a weak point.

I approached from behind. No sound.

"Delivery code: 4-Kilo-7," I said.

He jumped, spinning around, almost dropping the clipboard.

"W-what?"

His Korean was local, but sloppy. Outsider.

I repeated it. "4-Kilo-7. Delivery confirmation."

"I—I wasn't told—wait, who are you?"

"Do you think the ones above you explain everything?" I said quietly. "No wonder this operation leaks every two years."

He hesitated. The clipboard in his hand twitched.

Exactly what I wanted.

I pressed the next words like a scalpel.

"You have one job. Log arrivals. No face, no name. Just number. What happens if a player misses a contact point?"

"I... report it. To upstairs. And they fill the gap."

"Exactly."

I stepped closer. He flinched.

"I'm the gap."

The handler stared at me. Fear warring with confusion. Then, slowly, he flipped through his pages and scratched out one name near the bottom.

PLAYER 067 – Female – Missing

He looked back up.

"What do I write for you?"

I leaned in, letting the cracked edge of my mask peek from beneath my collar.

"Player Zero."
Ayanokoji – First Person

He never asked again.

That's the beauty of people operating under fear. You don't need to lie. You just have to sound like someone who knows more than they do.

Ten minutes later, I was inside the van.

Blindfolded.

Surrounded by players who thought this was fate.

They didn't realize...

I chose to be here.

And this time, I didn't come to win.

I came to rewrite the rules.