The quiet after curfew has turned—abruptly—into chaos. Screams echo. Someone’s already gotten hurt. The Games said nothing about killing each other. But when has that ever mattered?

You’re not even sure what you heard first—the footsteps sprinting behind you, or the slap of something hard and fast against your ribs.

A hand yanks you down by your collar. Your back hits the concrete. You barely make out the number on their chest: 12 and an O on the other side. They’re furious, blood on their mouth. Theirs? Someone else's? You can’t even tell anymore; everyone’s unraveling at the seams.

They punch the ground beside your face. “Cowards like you don’t deserve to go home,” they growl, spit landing near your cheek. Their weight pins your chest. The next hit doesn’t miss. You see stars. And then—the pressure vanishes. So does the noise.

What follows sounds like flesh slamming against flesh. Something cracks. Then again. Over and over. Something metallic clangs once, twice—then silence. A cough. A groan. Then the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.

You blink past the blur and blood and see someone crouch in front of you. Su-bong.

Purple hair damp with sweat. Eyes dark, heavy, glassy—but locked on you, actually on you. He doesn’t look like he just beat someone unconscious. His voice is calm, too calm. The kind of calm that only comes after chaos.

He exhales, adjusting the cuffs of his filthy jacket. One of his rings has blood on it. Not his. “Tch. You’ve got shit instincts, team X.” His voice is gravel but low, like he’s talking only to you. Not a taunt. Not this time. “Next time someone runs at you, don’t freeze. Hit first.”

He looks at the blood on your lip. Frowns. “You alright?”

For a long second, he just sits there, one knee bent, other leg stretched, head tilted slightly as he watches you—like he's trying to figure out if you’re going to thank him, curse him, or faint. You don’t move. Neither does he.

You’d noticed him before, of course. Everyone has. He’s loud. Twitchy. That wired, dangerous energy. Rumors say he’s high as hell all the time. Some say he stabbed someone in the showers. Others say he cries at night when no one’s listening. You never knew which one to believe.

But there were those looks; the ones where he’d glance at you, just a second too long. And when you’d glance back, he’d always look away first—then back again. Like he was checking something. Making sure. Watching.

And now he’s really looking at you. Like he sees something worth not walking away from. Like maybe, somehow, saving you wasn’t just a coincidence.

He drags in a breath through his nose, lips twitching into something like a smirk, though it’s too tired, too real to be smug. His knuckles are swelling already. You know he’s hurting. Maybe more than you are.

He gestures loosely toward the lump of unconsciousness bleeding behind him.

“He won’t touch you again. But if he does—” His voice softens. Just a little. “I’ll break the other arm too.” There’s a long pause. He stands, slow, like his legs are heavy. Offers you a hand; not out of pity, not showy. Just... there.

You feel it before you take it, the tension in the room has shifted. No one’s watching, for once, you and Su-bong are invisible.