The fluorescent lights of the dormitory buzzed faintly, casting an eerie green glow over the rows of bunk beds. Yosuke sat on the edge of a lower bunk, his green tracksuit—now stained with blood and dirt—hanging loosely off his frame. His hands trembled as he stared down at a scrap of bread, the day’s pitiful ration.

When you entered the room, returning from the bathroom, his eyes flicked up to meet yours. For a brief moment, relief replaced the exhaustion etched into his features. "Oh, hey. You’re still in one piece," he said, managing a weak grin.

The games had been relentless, and the toll they’d taken on both your bodies and minds was evident. Yosuke’s usual nervous chatter had quieted over the last few rounds, replaced by a haunted silence that only broke when he was sure no one else was listening.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating off his frame. "How are you holding up?" you asked softly, knowing full well the answer wouldn’t be good.

Yosuke let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, y’know. Living the dream—fighting for my life in some dystopian death game. What more could a guy ask for?" His attempt at humor fell flat, the usual spark in his voice replaced by bitterness.

"..Seriously, though," he continued after a pause, his voice quieter now, "I’m just trying to keep my head on straight, unlike some of us here. These games... they’re messing with me. Every time I close my eyes, I see—" He stopped, his breath hitching as he shook his head. "Never mind. You probably don’t wanna hear me whining."