This recap covers episodes three, four, and five, “War,” “Nowhere to Hide,” and “Trick or Treat.”
I understand why Husnain (198) did it. In poker terms, the guy was on tilt. Fueled by annoyance with Bryton (432) and devoutly eager to be rid of him, he pounced on any potential opportunity to do so. Repeatedly. Perhaps he forgot the nature of the competition he’s in. Whatever the case, Husnain now finds himself in a bad situation, having been instructed to convince someone else to grab the phone and get eliminated — or be eliminated himself.
He doesn’t have many options. In theory, this is an instance where someone with a close bond with another player can cash in if they were perhaps a little heartless. “Hey buddy, want a treat?” Pop. You’d be distrusted for the rest of the game, but at least you’d still be in it. Husnain hasn’t accumulated that kind of capital; in any case, the rest of the room sees the look on his face. He attempts to go the “Hey, they’re not going to give treats to the same person twice” route, and miraculously, he comes close to duping a few others into the trap. But his sweatiness is too obvious. Husnain ultimately fails. Bryton lives to condescend another day.
A nice moment transpires between Physician Rick (232) and Mullet Stephen (243), who bond beyond the age gap as Rick tells his younger companion about how he’d be happy just being a factor in someone else’s success. Between Physician Rick and LeAnn (302), Squid Game: The Challenge appears to possess a strong narrative interest in the older players. This, I think, extends from the show’s nature as an adaptation. The K-drama drew out a lot of emotional tenderness from the relationship between the main character, Seong Gi-hun, and an older player, Oh Il-nam, and in this sense, it’s fascinating to see the reality show port over that narrative thread. Of course, Oh Il-nam turns out to be the villain behind the entire Squid Game enterprise. I doubt that Rick, or any of the other players, will turn out to be the executive producer or something, but hey, you never know. All of which is to say I find Rick very endearing — his beekeeping anecdote alone! — but knowing the source material, I’m keeping him at arm’s length.
Similarly, Trey (301) has an endearing moment with Figgy (33), whom he asks to care for his mother LeAnn should he get axed first. They, too, have developed a nice bond. In the confessional, we hear Figgy lay out her philosophy in the game of serving as a safe space for others. This is lovely to hear, providing evidence that there can be other ways to be in this game other than automatically assuming the worst in people. (Shout-out to the departed Kyle and Dani.)
Then again, Bryton continues to hover over the proceedings. Having watched the K-drama, he’s betting the next challenge will be Tug of War. So he spends the morning warming up, getting his muscles swole, and firming up his alliances with fellow swoles in anticipation of having to yank another team down into the abyss.
Bryton’s confidence in his prediction is further deepened when the players are eventually shepherded into the pre-challenge waiting room, where they’re instructed to form eight lines. The self-sorting process proves challenging because everyone else has made the same analysis that they’d probably benefit from being in the same line with the swoles. So some players prove to be intransigent, refusing to be resorted into other lines, and this becomes an issue because there’s a time limit. Lingering over everything is the memory of Dalgona reps being eliminated for not achieving consensus in time.
Player 182, named TJ, emerges as a character at this moment. Taking on the demeanor of a coach — because that’s what he is in the real world — he implores the room to be less selfish. “Just think about each other!” he shouts. “Don’t think about y’all selves!” When the lines are ultimately formed, some are visibly nervous. Player 453 starts to cry, which Bryton characteristically berates. “Control your emotions,” he says aloud. “This is not a game of sympathy at all.” Ugh. TJ cuts a sharp contrast as he comforts 453.
Bryton’s line is part of the first matchup. He continues feeling confident, having assessed the opposition as not physically capable. But his confidence is all for naught. Because the challenge, surprise surprise, isn’t Tug of War at all. Instead, they’re made to compete in a large-scale game of Battleship, or Warship, as I guess they’re calling it. Bryton is overcome with emotion. Cue the confessional smack-talk by the opposing team’s Player 337, Brad: “The team we’re going up against was thinking brawn was gonna win this? Oh, no.” He taps his noggin. “This is gonna win all day, baby.” I made a sound of delight at the twist.
The rules, in case you need a refresher: Yep, it’s just Battleship, pegs and all. Each team is led by two people, with everyone else making up the peg of each ship. Teams win by sinking two opposing ships, but the nuance lies in how elimination works. The losing team’s leaders get axed, as do people on sunk ships on both sides. This means you can be on the winning team but still be eliminated, and you can be on the losing team and still survive.
The challenge shakes out to be Bryton’s worst nightmare, as he’s rendered a cog in a machine with little control over his fate and even less faith in his leaders. So he’s unable to do anything but hold hands with his hunky Australian neighbor when Brad, who’s assumed captainship over the opposing team, sinks his boat. Curtains fall on abrasive Bryton as Brad’s team returns to the dorm and celebrates with, uh, a squid-inspired dance.
I’ll be honest: The Warship challenge is mostly a tedious watch. It was plenty dramatic in the first round, which had the particular hook of Bryton being on the bubble and the match coming down to the wire, but as we moved through the following rounds, the cadence felt pretty repetitive. It just doesn’t feel like the most dynamic television.
Which isn’t to say it was absent of drama. There’s still plenty of that. The second round sees TJ assume captaincy over a team that includes Jada (97, or the hamburglar from the phone test), Trey, and LeAnn. That match came within a hair of the mother-son combo being knocked out in one fell swoop, but TJ manages to pull off the victory without losing a single soul. Later, in the dorm, he finds a quiet moment for himself to cry. Trey, who back in the arena looked like a man fully bought into the TJ program, comes up to pledge his undying loyalty.
The third round introduces a new character: Bee (Player 18), a British professional gamer who takes quite a bit of pride in her intelligence, as she should. Bee uses her grasp on game design to wipe the floor with the opposing team. She even teaches us a fun fact: In Battleship, people always seem to go after C3. Interesting!
The final round sees the Gganbu gang take on a team that includes Figgy and Matteo (107), who you’ll recall came first in Red Light, Green Light. It’s a close one, but following a ballsy nudge by Physical Rick, the Gganbu gang takes the game. Figgy and Matteo are eliminated, which is a bummer because who’s gonna look out for LeAnn if Trey gets canned first? And so we arrive at a juncture where Squid Game: The Challenge starts to really hit a narrative sweet spot as the pool of players dwindles and the number of developed characters begins to steadily expand.
Time for the tally. We’re now down to 73 players, corresponding to a pot of $3.83 million. There’s some excitement in the room, but it feels more muted than usual.
You’d think we’d be done for the day, but no. The red tracksuits return, dragging out a lectern with a number pad on it. There will be two more tests of character before the next challenge, and this first one is fairly straightforward in its design. Everyone has to vote for one person to be eliminated. Votes are public. The top three vote-getters are out. They’re given some time to come up with a plan.
This is where “Nowhere to Hide” picks up. In hindsight, this is also perhaps where the producers of Squid Game: The Challenge start to fully lean into a more active role as game masters. One could argue that all the other tests and challenges so far have possessed a kind of systemic neutrality; they are brutal because people fail to master the game. Even the phone test: Husnain was self-defeating, punished for being a little too greedy. Here, the players as a whole are made to act upon the moral judgments of everyone around them.
I thought Dr. V (33) had an elegant idea in proposing an effort to conceptualize a less pointed way of determining the three losers. Another game to lay on top of this test, as it were. But others, including LeAnn, the stone-cold killer, are dismissive. “I like the chaos of their game,” she says. Personally, I go back and forth on how I feel about this. On the one hand, I’m all for trying to introduce more fairness. On the other hand, strong emotions in the group have festered, and this would be an outlet for that.
Credit to Dr. V, though, for sounding out the alternative; putting yourself out there is always a risky move. Chaney (179) narrates her dislike of his demeanor, and she isn’t alone. It turns out that Physician Rick, who apparently does not associate with doctors despite being a retired medical professional, and the rest of the Gganbu gang are wary of Dr. V as well. They also consider going after Coach TJ, clustering around the logic of going after the obvious leaders in the group. (Rick, by the way, prefers to be a leader on the down low.)
A spread of strategies emerges. One guy, Player 374, works to aggressively project a sense of chill, trying to make it seem to others that he’s not super wedded to staying in the game. What exactly drives this thinking is unclear to me. Perhaps he believes being known to want it more puts a bigger target on your back, but it just seems foolhardy. Alliances are firming up their singularity of votes, knowing that spreading their votes too thin puts them at risk as well. Rumor and gossip and bits of intel fly around the dorm as players hustle to figure out viable targets.
All the while, paranoia settles into the firmament. When Bee, LeAnn, and Amanda (19) bring out a bowl of sliced apples they’ve prepped in the kitchen, Lorenzo (161), who’s similar to Bryton in his abrasive hyperindividualism, views the offering with suspicion. He isn’t entirely wrong to do so, as nice public gestures in the context of this game are still likely to be self-serving, but he’s unnecessarily mean about it. This does not sit well with LeAnn.
Time for the vote. Immediately, the full picture of the test’s dynamics clicks into place. Vote entrepreneurs carry a disproportionate burden here. Those who select new targets draw direct attention and ire to themselves while providing cover for the people after them, who get to hide behind existing targets. So the pressure is on the vote entrepreneurs to go after players who they know most of the room will feel okay about ousting.
Player 374’s gambit — of playing it cool? Or eliciting sympathy? Who knows — backfires, and he’s first on the board. There’s no way he’s getting out of this. LeAnn, that stone-cold killer, decides to throw Lorenzo up on the board instead of hiding behind a 374 vote. Lorenzo, seemingly oblivious to the consequences of his behavior, is surprised. What’s interesting to note here is the sequencing: While it’s risky to be a vote entrepreneur, they tend to be most advantaged by being further in the front because the longer line behind them contains more potential votes to fall into their selections. Chaney recognizes this, having clocked that three people need to go no matter what. So she throws Dr. V on the board, believing that the solidarity of her team will hold.
Those three faces are alone on the board for quite some time, racking up votes, until Dr. V takes his turn at the lectern. Unsurprisingly, he adds Chaney to the mix. Will he have enough votes behind him? The same question applies to Lorenzo, who makes a show of going after LeAnn. The answer, of course, is no. Player 374 was toast from the start, and neither Lorenzo nor Dr. V are able to drum up enough of a resistance. But it turns out that Lorenzo did, indeed, establish some friendships in the room, and his departure leaves his allies in tears. LeAnn, who we learn was a competitive athlete in her youth, takes note of the possibility that she’s made enemies.
Everyone gets some downtime before the next test of character, due to take place the following morning, and the players largely spend it emotionally sorting out what just happened. Some, though, try to use this time to put plans into motion. Or whatever Dash (141) thinks he’s doing, which mostly amounts to telling one side of the room one thing before telling the other side a whole other thing altogether in a bid to oust … Chaney? He feels vulnerable and like he needs to do something about it, but hey, at the end of the day, it’s a small room. Word about his machinations gets back to Chaney before long.
In a confessional, Bee, whose read of social dynamics is increasingly shown to be impeccable, is bang-on in her assessment of the bigger picture. “We are all finding person-to-person elimination harder than the game,” she says. “Everyone who’s in alliances are seeking extreme reassurance, and everyone is trying to decide the next people they might go for so they can feel safe.” We see this expressed in other ways. In the showers, the Gganbu gang reverbalize their commitment to each other (for now). Elsewhere, others, like Mai (287) and Chad (286), do the same.
As downtime drags on, life continues to hum along. The players eat, hang out, exercise, occasionally breakdance. We get a beat featuring two new characters, Phalisia (229) and Ashley (278), who quietly observe the state of the dorm’s dynamics — in particular, the formation of male-dominated group alliances, which they, very relatably, find frustrating. The two bond over missing their kids, and we get a little backstory for Phalisia, someone who fought hard to have a child with her wife and who’s there, in this very strange experience, fighting hard for her family.
Speaking of familial bonds: When Physician Rick is summoned to the chore room, he brings along Mullet Stephen, with whom he’s developed an informal father-son-esque relationship. I’ll be real: They should’ve been suspicious as hell the second they saw the game of Ddakji laid before them. You’ll recall that this is the very game Gi-Hun plays at the start of Squid Game, where he’s ultimately lured in by the mysterious, hunky, slap-happy recruiter. The two have a little fun as Rick teaches Stephen how to play, which is a very sweet but nervy moment, and I came to the exact same conclusion when the lone red tracksuit walked into the kitchen. Thankfully, Rick, who was wiping the floor with Stephen, gets a candy bar, and no one is eliminated.
Having seen what happened to poor old Husnain, few feel enthusiastic about volunteering when the next test of character rolls around. But I can get behind Phalisia’s choice to do so. At some point, you’d want to start exercising a bit of agency over the situation and not just let things happen to you. So she, along with Jesse (183), 87, 130, and 375, steps up to the task … and immediately regrets the decision when six jack-in-the-boxes are brought out.
So begins “Trick or Treat.” The test is an adapted Russian roulette, with each jack-in-the-box containing a different outcome. The player might be eliminated, given the chance to eliminate, granted an advantage in the next challenge, and so on. Jesse’s box grants him the task of eliminating two players, and we get to hear his reasoning. He axes his first target, Player 26, for being the only person in the dorm who hasn’t spoken to him before. It’s an emotionally easier cut for him, but it also carries an interesting moral edge, as if he’s penalizing 26 for not making the effort. (That cuts both ways, though.) Jesse’s second cut is Dash, whose shenanigans come back to bite him. Dash lies on his way out about not lying but takes a parting shot by emphasizing Jesse’s alliance with Chaney, Coach TJ, and Player 176.
Player 375’s box is a bullet in the chamber; he’s out. Player 87’s box grants him the chance to eliminate one player, which he responds by picking up Dash’s thread and axing Player 176, who briefly forgets his own number. Phalisia’s stressed as Player 130 cranks his box, but the guy gets an advantage in the next game. Lucky devil!
… or not. After a nail-biting, drawn-out run-up, Phalisia pulls the opportunity to cut three players. Her first choice is Player 130, simply for the reason of having drawn that advantage. I feel for the guy, but Phalisia has to make three politically imprudent decisions, and there is a clear, widely acceptable logic to that decision. Pockets of the room mumble in understanding. She’s far more vicious in her next targets. She picks off informal father-son pair, Physician Rick and Mullet Steve, effectively decimating the Gganbu gang. I’m bummed narratively — gonna miss that beekeeper! — but I, too, mumble in understanding. The strategy is sound. (Props to Player 269 for the most emotive response. “Rick, we love you,” he whimpers. I love that guy.)
Phalisia’s gambit strikes fear into the hearts of remaining alliances, who increasingly understand the liability of being too visible as coordinating units. The remnants of the Gganbu gang commit to lying low for a bit. Organically formed groups of buddies start to feel nervous about hanging out constantly. Trey, who’s essentially in an unbreakable two-person coalition with his mother, LeAnn, starts to really worry about that fact. After all, the two have constantly come up as potential elimination targets since the beginning.
Time for the tally. We’re now down to 63 people, with a pot of $3.93 million. The room seems the most muted it’s ever been.
As the dorm decompresses, various players take stock of their situations. Phalisia reunites with her closest ally, Ashley (who’s a civil-rights investigator!), and the two steady themselves in each other’s presence. Player 87, whose name is Kyle, not to be confused with the departed Mullet Kyle, reconvenes with his alliance, apparently called “The Corner.” We’re introduced to a new character: Mikey (254), who tells us in the confessional that he wouldn’t bat an eye axing other members of the group. The competition is what it is, I suppose. Elsewhere, Trey and LeAnn check in with Roland (418), an extremely chill dude with pigtails, about whether anyone’s still targeting LeAnn, but he doesn’t think so. Trey has grown to become a prominent narrator through the series so far, and here we get a little more backstory: how he recently had a near-death medical experience, a chapter in his life that transformed him.
It’s chore time, but with a twist. If five volunteers complete the task in time, everybody gets a treat. Mikey is understandably suspicious; we just saw what happened to the last five volunteers. The five who enter the kitchen are tasked with juicing oranges under a time limit, and they aren’t entirely sure at the end if they are successful.
They only learn later that they were. The armada of red tracksuits returns, and the players are instructed to form pairs and line up for their treat — which is a picnic! So the players sort themselves out, with many pairing up with their closest friends in the room: Ashley and Phalisia; Trey and LeAnn; Mikey and Kyle. Only Jordan (222), or Young Hulk Hogan, is left all by himself. But the guy doesn’t fret, being characteristically Australian about it.
Picnic baskets emerge: juice, cookies, cupcakes, chips. The overhead lighting warms into an orange hue as the players euphorically dig into their treats. It’s a fun, joyful beat, and for a moment, everybody seems to forget the show they’re on. But not for long. Working on a hunch, Trey starts examining his picnic basket. Eventually, he finds a false floor and pulls out a small pouch. The realization descends on mother and son, who now realize they have to fight to eliminate each other. It’s time for Marbles.
