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When Squid Game first hit Netflix back in 2021, few could have predicted that its everyman-turned-gladiator, Seong Gi-hun, would become the moral core of a global phenomenon. Fewer still would have guessed that his journey would culminate in an act so quietly heroic, it would leave audiences reeling — and Rotten Tomatoes scores in freefall.
In a TV landscape filled with triumphant last stands and dramatic mic drops, Gi-hun’s ending chose a different path: one where bravery wasn’t loud, and victory didn’t mean survival.
Disclaimer: This article contains spoilers. Reader discretion is advised.
His decision to walk off the final platform, letting the prize slip away and the baby live, wasn’t just a plot twist. It was a narrative reversal of everything Squid Game had conditioned us to expect. He didn’t fight for revenge. He didn’t try to burn it all down. He simply… chose not to kill.
In a game designed to reward cruelty, that choice was nothing short of revolutionary. And in doing so, Gi-hun died as he lived — a deeply flawed man trying to do the right thing in the worst possible circumstances.
Naturally, not everyone is thrilled. The finale polarized fans. But let’s not mistake dissatisfaction for failure. Gi-hun's death wasn’t fan service. It was a hard stop on the fantasy that you can win a rigged game without becoming what it demands. And that, ironically, might be the win we all needed.
The antihero we needed, not the champion we wanted
Gi-hun was never meant to be a hero. We first met him as a scant-working man, a gambling addict, and an ill-attending father to his child. However, in the show, it was clear that Gi-hun’s flaws were not moral failings in isolation; rather, they were symptoms of a system which punishes the weak.
In the last season, Gi-hun is faced with impossible choices—this time it wasn’t about surviving or winning money but rather how he could salvage the last thread of his soul.
His final act, refusing to kill a baby for the win, wasn’t framed with slow-mo or triumphant music. It was quiet. Almost anticlimactic. But within that silence was a seismic shift. In a world where self-interest is survival, Gi-hun’s sacrifice redefined what strength looks like. Not muscle. Not ruthlessness. But the willingness to lose everything for someone else’s future.
Death, not defeat: Why Gi-hun’s ending wasn’t a loss
Let’s get one thing straight — Gi-hun didn’t die a loser. He died a man who saw the system for what it was and refused to play along. That’s not just brave. It’s downright subversive. In a show built around brutal economics and human desperation, his death became a final protest against the idea that life is only worth something if you win.
And that’s why it hurts. Because we wanted him to win. Not the money — we’d long moved past that. We wanted justice, closure, rebellion. Instead, we got a man who chose love and morality over revenge, and died for it. It’s not the satisfying full-circle arc most fans craved, but it’s the one that sticks with you. That lingers in your gut. That makes you question what real victory looks like.
The game never ended—but the player changed the rules
Yes, the games will go on. That was the gut-punch of the finale. Despite everything, the system survives. But that doesn’t make Gi-hun’s actions pointless. If anything, they give the story its staying power. Gi-hun didn’t dismantle the machine in Squid Game—but he refused to let it crush what was left of his humanity. And that refusal is what makes his ending unforgettable.
There’s a scene in the finale where the masked guards watch in stunned silence as Gi-hun steps off the platform. It’s brief. Wordless. But that moment holds weight. Even in a system designed to desensitize and dehumanize, his final gesture shook something. Maybe not enough to stop the game. But maybe enough to change it. Or at least, to inspire others to.
From tragedy to legacy: Why Gi-hun’s story matters more now for Squid Game
The backlash was swift. Online threads lit up with fans calling the finale a betrayal. Some compared it to the finales of Game of Thrones or House—infamous for deflating great characters with endings that felt more like abandonments than conclusions. But that’s not what happened here. Gi-hun’s ending didn’t undo his journey. It completed it. Painfully, beautifully, and on his own terms.
What we’re left with isn’t just heartbreak. It’s a legacy. Gi-hun didn’t die a martyr or a messiah. He died a man who finally chose others over himself. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t polished. But in a story that was always about what people are willing to become for a shot at hope, he stayed human. And that might be the bravest thing anyone can do in a world built to break you.
In an age of safe finales and IP-padding spinoffs, Squid Game dared to make us uncomfortable. Gi-hun’s death wasn’t the feel-good send-off fans hoped for. But maybe — just maybe — it was the honest one we needed.
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