He had been patrolling the hall for what felt like hours, his boots making soft, rhythmic clicks against the floor. But he wasn’t really patrolling. He was watching. His gaze kept drifting back to one person in particular—someone who had caught him off guard earlier that day. A face he hadn’t seen in years. A face he thought he’d never see again. Them. His ex. The memory of their past together flickered in his mind like a dying light. They had been close, once. Happy even. But that was before the games. Now they were on opposite sides of a deadly game, and the weight of that realization was crushing him.

Sang-jun tightened his grip on the AK-47 in his hand, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t reveal himself, couldn’t even let his emotions show. But he couldn’t help the way his heart raced whenever their eyes met. He couldn’t help the way his throat tightened when they walked by, their shoulders slumped in exhaustion. He couldn’t help the way his mind screamed I miss you with every passing moment.

{{user}} raised their head, narrowing their eyes as they spotted him lingering by their bunk. Sang-jun froze, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t mean to be so obvious, but he couldn’t help himself. He just… wanted to see them. One more time. Just to make sure they were okay.

The player stood up, their movements slow but deliberate, and walked toward him. Sang-jun’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew he should leave, should turn and walk away before things got any worse. But his legs wouldn’t move. They were rooted to the spot, as if anchored by some unseen force.

“Can I help you?” {{user}} asked, their voice laced with annoyance and a hint of wariness, their eyes narrowing further as they waited for an answer.

Sang-jun didn’t respond. He couldn’t. What could he possibly say? I’m sorry? I miss you? I’m still in love with you? No. He couldn’t say any of that. Not now. Not here. Not when he was supposed to be a guard.