Alright, let’s get straight to it: Are they really going to harm the baby? I get that in most TV shows, especially those that aren’t like Game of Thrones or House of the Dragon, they’d avoid something so drastic. But we’re talking about Squid Game here, a show infamous for toying mercilessly with viewer emotions until breaking point. So I must ask again: Is Squid Game really going to harm that baby?

Before dismissing this notion, think about the fates of other innocent characters throughout Seasons 2 and 3. Take Geum-ja, the sweet older woman, who ended her life after killing her own son to prevent him from hurting the baby’s mother. Then there’s Jun-hee, the injured young mother who jumps off a cliff to save her child, surrendering her life and leaving her baby’s future to Gi-hun.

Consider Hyun-ju, a strong yet gentle friend of Geum-ja and Jun-hee who meets a tragic end at the hands of Myung-gi, the father of the baby. And Min-su, the shy young man who found himself deep in debt without much fault of his own, now a dazed drug addict experiencing life as if in a surreal war movie. Or Jung-bae, Gi-hun’s endearing but hapless friend, who is killed by the Front Man right in front of Gi-hun. 

And his killer? The seemingly kind-hearted player 001, Young-il, who Gi-hun believed to be his friend until the Front Man unmasked and revealed the ruse in this very episode. This results in one of Lee Jung-jae’s most dramatic face journeys to date, which is really saying something.

This hour-plus episode is divided into two sections. In the first, the surviving two dozen players attempt to best the Jump Rope game. Some are intent on killing each other first and foremost, which forces Gi-hun to deck and kill some asshole who keeps pushing people off the edge when they make it to the other side. It’s only through Gi-hun’s good graces — and his willingness to squash a man’s eyeball with his thumb on screen — that anyone else survives at all.

Not that this stops Mr. 100, the biggest debtor in the game, from immediately turning on not only Gi-hun but the baby in his charge once the game is over. Gi-hun personally intervened to save this asshole, but the moment he hears from the guards that the players themselves get to select who’s eliminated in the next game — a minimum of three must go; the maximum is up to the players — contestant 100 issues Gi-hun, Min-su, and the baby a death warrant. It’s one the other players are all too eager to enforce.

The baby is only a factor because of the intervention of the VIPs, a disgusting and degenerate bunch of mostly young-ish, English-speaking rich assholes who sit around and snark and flirt and drink and generally have the time of their lives while other people die for their entertainment. It’s their idea to make the baby an official player in place of its late mother, and they seem as excited to see it murdered as any of the potential player-murderers do. As for the Front Man, he gives Gi-hun an ornate knife with which to defend himself — or stab the Front Man to death, if he wants, though it’s clear by now the games will go on with or without any one individual.

The key to it all may be the Front Man’s IRL brother, Jun-ho. By now this dogged ex-cop and his band of mercenaries have narrowed down the location of the game island so well that the Front Man gives the order for their erstwhile friend Captain Park to murder them all. Jun-ho comes out on top, barely, with only one other member of his team surviving. 

Player 256 is out on the water, too. Freed by rogue guard No-eul, he takes off on a motorboat after she returns to the island following a threat against the man’s sick child from her superior officer. She’s using herself as a diversion so the kid’s dad can make it to safety through the foggy sea. 

And through it all, that cheery Squid Game strangeness fuels the whole thing. During the Jump Rope game, drugged-out Min-su sees the gigantic little-boy statue smiling at him; hundreds of feet below him, crumpled bodies lie in pools of their own blood against a painted field of flowers spanning the floor. After the game, the eight surviving adult contestants, all men, are dressed up in black tie and fêted with an all-you-can-eat dinner in front of the piggy bank full of money, in a room with wall-to-wall black-and-white tiling. The visual echoes two of television’s great works of sinister surrealism, Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner and David Lynch & Mark Frost’s Twin Peaks.

Across the walls, in huge letters, a Latin saying is inscribed: “Hodie Mihi, Cras Tibi.” It’s a memento mori kind of sentiment; put simplest, it means “Me today, you tomorrow.” The meaning is twofold. In one sense, it’s the obvious truth of the games: someone will die today, and someone who watches them die will die the next day.

But depending on how you read it, it’s neither a lament nor a grim reminder, but a warning, even a promise. You may be on top now, but tomorrow is another day. And if you’ve put a baby on your hit list, don’t be surprised if people hit back.

Sean T. Collins (@theseantcollins) writes about TV for Rolling Stone, Vulture, The New York Times, and anyplace that will have him, really. He and his family live on Long Island.