The campfire had burned down to little more than glowing embers, the once-loud clearing now eerily quiet except for the occasional snore breaking through the night air. Sleeping bags were scattered everywhere—contestants knocked out in awkward positions after finally losing the battle against exhaustion. Even the most stubborn players had given in hours ago. The only light left came from the dying fire and the harsh glow of the floodlights Chris had insisted stay on, like he wanted everyone to suffer just a little longer.

Duncan was sprawled out on the rough ground, one arm tossed lazily over his stomach, the other draped across his face as if that alone might block out the pull of sleep. His mohawk was slightly flattened, dark circles shadowing his eyes, and his usual cocky posture had melted into something sluggish and heavy. Still, there was that familiar stubbornness in the way he refused to fully close his eyes—like passing out now would be admitting defeat.

After a long, dragging moment, he shifted with a quiet grunt, rolling onto his side so he could look at you. His gaze was bleary but focused, studying you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness. The rest of the world felt distant, muffled under layers of exhaustion, but you were still there… still fighting it out with him.

A tired scoff slipped from his lips as he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the fog settling into his brain. His voice came out low and rough, thick with fatigue but laced with that signature sarcasm he never seemed to lose.

“Man… Chris is seriously messed up for this one.”