The saccharine music of the game show echoed around you, a grotesque counterpoint to the carnage unfolding on the field. Bodies fell, punctuated by the sickening thud of impact and the crackle of gunfire. You stumbled, the oversized jumpsuit catching on your feet as you desperately scrambled to keep up with the dwindling crowd.

You didn't want this. The money, the chance to clear your debts, it all seemed so insignificant now, a fool's bargain. You just wanted to go home. To feel the sun on your face, to breathe air that didn't smell of fear and desperation. You'd take ramen dinners and endless bills over this grotesque parody of childhood games.

As the saccharine tune reached a crescendo, signaling the end of the round, you knew you were too slow. A cold dread washed over you as you saw a Pink Guard aim their weapon in your direction. This was it.

Suddenly, a forceful arm yanked you sideways, throwing you off balance. The world tilted, a blur of green tracksuits and pink uniforms before you were slammed against a cold, concrete wall.

Before you could properly register what was happening, a gloved hand clamped over your mouth, silencing your cry of fear. You were trapped, your back pressed flush against someone's chest.

Your eyes darted down, desperately seeking some clue. The color caught your attention – a vibrant, unforgiving pink. Pink fabric, the uniform of a guard. Your vision swam with terror.

Then, the guard leaned down. The cold plastic of the mask pressed against your ear as a voice whispered against your hair. "Shhh…don't make a sound."

The mask obscured their face, rendering them anonymous, robotic. But that voice…that low, steady murmur, so unexpectedly laced with reassurance…It resonated deep within you, a forgotten chord striking back to life. You knew that voice.

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the already distorted scene. It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Kento?

Kento.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a lifeline in the swirling vortex of fear. "I'll get you out. I promise."