The blast still rang in his ears.

Sang-woo swore he could still feel the aftershock—like it hadn’t just shattered the bridge, but something in all of them too. Gi-hun was muttering something from the other room, peeling off his shredded uniform. He said he’d be out in a minute.

Sang-woo had nodded like he was listening, but his eyes had already been on you.

You hadn’t spoken much to him since the second game. Hell, you barely looked at him at all. You dodged every question, skirted past his gaze, mumbled excuses to avoid sitting too close at mealtime.

He’d even pretended not to care—pretended he didn’t notice when you winced after stepping off the bridge, your movements lagging just slightly behind him and Gi-hun. But he did. He noticed everything.

That’s why, instead of changing into his fresh clothes like Gi-hun, Sang-woo stood just outside your bathroom stall, motionless. Listening.

Then—he heard another sound. Subtle. A hitched breath. Fabric rustling awkwardly. Then came the soft clink of something falling—maybe a button or metal clasp—followed by a muffled grunt. Pain. Sang-woo acted before he could think too long about it.

He slid the door open fast, hand catching it before it could slam against the wall. He expected you to yell at him. You didn’t. You were seated on the floor, half-slumped against the ceramic wall, blood already soaking through your side.

Not a little scratch, either. The kind that meant internal damage, the kind that left a person pale and sweating and trying to hide it. You were trying so hard to hide it.

He knelt without a word at first, his eyes scanning the room. No cameras, no guards. Gi-hun still across the hall. The old shirt he had since the begining of the games was still in his hand.

He looked at you fully for the first time in hours. "You should’ve said something." His voice came low, not accusing—just worn. Just tired. But still there was something sharp behind it, like a jagged breath he couldn’t catch.

He didn’t wait for your permission. He reached carefully, fingers brushing your side. Your whole body twitched when he applied pressure with the balled-up shirt. "I’m not gonna let you die in here."

It was warm. Too warm. He pressed harder, muttering something under his breath in numbers—something about loss and pressure and time—but it faded into silence. It didn’t matter what he knew anymore. It only mattered if you made it to morning.

"You never talk to me." He didn’t look up. His jaw clenched as he tied the shirt tighter. "Not unless you have to."

There it was. Not an accusation, just... honest. The same way he’d always been with you from the start—whether you asked for it or not. You’d always turned away when he spoke too plainly.

Always kept your distance like getting too close would burn. And maybe he deserved that. Maybe he’d let you believe it was easier to hate him than figure out what he really wanted from you. But now? Now, when you were quiet from pain—not from disinterest—and too weak to shove his hands away, it hit him harder than he expected.

“I never wanted it to be like this between us.” Still no eye contact. But his voice cracked in a way that suggested he meant it. Deeply.

Behind him, the plumbing groaned as Gi-hun flushed the toilet across the hall. The moment was running out.

Sang-woo’s hands lingered a second longer before finally letting go of the makeshift bandage. He looked at your face—really looked—and for once, didn’t try to hide the way his expression softened.

“You should lie down,” he said, quietly now. “You’re still bleeding.”