“We are not horses. We are humans. And humans are…”

And just like that, Squid Game didn’t just end, it detonated. Netflix crashed. Twitter/X combusted. Reddit lit up like a Christmas tree of trauma. And we? We sat there at 3 AM, mouths hung open, jaws on the floor and tears streaming down our faces, rethinking every life choice that led us to watch this season.

The Final Game Begins – Squid Game Season 3

Season 3 wasn’t playing around. The stakes were higher. The games were deadlier. Every good person was dying, leaving us screaming internally. But nothing could’ve prepared us for the finale. a ruthless emotional assault.

The fandom buzzed all week. Everyone knew something big was coming. But we expected a twist. Not a full-blown existential gut-punch with a baby at the center of it. The moment Player 456 stood at the top of that tower, baby in arms, eyes full of silent rage and grief, the tone shifted. This wasn’t just a finale. It was a reckoning.

The Moral Dilemma: Humanity vs Greed

Let’s talk about that loaded question: “Do you still have faith in people?” The Frontman didn’t just throw it out like some edgy line; it was the thesis. And everything in this finale tried to break whatever fragile belief we had left.

Jun-Hee’s (222) trust in Gi-Hun (456) was a rare glimmer of humanity. Amid all the betrayal and death, 222 still believed someone might choose empathy. That trust was heavy, not just on 456’s conscience, but on ours as viewers.

And then came the baby. The moment the VIPs revealed the infant as the next contestant, the air left the room. This wasn’t a strategy anymore. This was psychological warfare. Naming a literal newborn as the next player was the final proof that the VIPs weren’t just twisted — they were irredeemable. The baby became the purest symbol of innocence dropped into a pit of madness.

The other players begin to turn, greed blinding their eyes. They were ready to kill a literal baby. It revealed the layers of dehumanization the game had inflicted. These weren’t people anymore. They were starving animals, programmed to win at any cost. We all felt a small sense of relief when the guard announced that violence against other players was no longer allowed.

456 stood at the center of it all, broken but alert. Haunted by Season 1’s bloodbath and years of guilt, he had nothing left to lose. Yet, somehow, he became the only one willing to protect something.

The Baby as a Symbol

Let’s not underestimate what the baby meant. This child wasn’t just a shock device; it was the thematic heartbeat of the entire finale.

The baby represented everything the game tried to strip away: vulnerability, hope, trust. It was humanity, untouched by strategy or survival. By placing it in the game, the showrunners weren’t just being dark for shock value. They were forcing the ultimate moral collapse: If survival meant killing purity, would anyone say no?

In literary terms, the baby is the last moral compass. It’s the candle in the abyss. And for 456, it wasn’t just a child, it was redemption. A final shot at meaning after everything he’d lost. The baby gave him purpose and reminded him of his goal. If he couldn’t stop the games, at least he could protect.

Tower of Sacrifice: The Final Choice

Then came the tower. A button. Three players. The baby, Gi-Hun and Myung-gi(333), the father.

One player had to fall for the rest to win. 333 walks to the tower first. Everyone gasped when he told 456 to stay back and hand him the baby. That meant, to survive, 333 would either have to kill himself… or the baby… his baby. 456 pretends to stay back, only to jump on the tower at the last minute. 333 and 456 fight, trying to throw the other off the tower. Eventually, 333 falls to his death. But the realization dawns on 456. The button was left unpressed.

To win, 456 has to throw the baby off the tower. It’s not even metaphorical. It’s literal. One must fall. One must survive.

He puts the baby down. His choice is clear. Standing at the edge, his final words echo:

“We are not horses. We are humans. And humans are…”

He never finishes the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Answering the Frontman’s Question

So, did humanity survive?

Yes. Because 456 showed us that survival without compassion is hollow. That winning the game doesn’t matter if you lose your soul. He didn’t just refuse the system; he broke it. His death was more powerful than any win. It was a rejection. A refusal to play.

The VIPs lost that day, even if they didn’t realize it. Their spectacle crumbled because someone dared to say no. 456 chose the baby — the future — over himself. In doing so, he proved that despite everything, we still have a choice. He reminded us that humanity isn’t measured by who survives, but by what we’re willing to protect.

This wasn’t just an ending. It was a revolution in a single act.

He didn’t fall. He rose.

Conclusion: A Masterpiece That Broke Us

Season 3 of Squid Game didn’t just give us blood, betrayal, and broken bodies. It gave us a question we’re still trying to answer. The finale was brutal, yes. But it was also poetic. Political. Philosophical. It forced us to look at ourselves, at society, at what we value when everything else is stripped away.

456’s final act wasn’t about playing a game. It was about rejecting one. About reclaiming what the system tried to destroy. And in doing so, he reminded us that no matter how far we fall, humanity can still rise. His last words weren’t unfinished by accident. It was a question. What are humans? Are they cruel and unfeeling? Or are they kind and compassionate? The answer to the question is that they’re both.

How can we define humans with one word, when humanity comes in so many forms?