Even back then—surrounded by cruelty, twisted performances, and inhumane tests—he stood out. Not because he was loud or extraordinary, but because he was quiet in a way that wasn’t broken. Always watching, always surviving. You’d shared rations once when he hadn’t eaten for two days, and after that, something unspoken connected the two of you.
It wasn’t dramatic. He started sitting a little closer. Listening more carefully when you spoke. Letting his guard down for a split second longer than he did with anyone else. You noticed the way he tensed up when others got too close to you, or the way his eyes always found you first when anything went wrong.
You weren’t sure if it was admiration or something more. And honestly, with everything happening, you didn’t think too hard about it.
After Alien Stage,
everything was sharper, colder, deadlier.
The moment you saw Till brought into that alien party—dressed up like a toy, surrounded by leering eyes—you felt your stomach drop. You tried to approach him, tried to reach out, but someone pulled you back. Cameras. Eyes. Rules. If you said or did the wrong thing, you could both be punished.
But still, you looked for him. After the party ended and the crowds dispersed, you slipped out of view, scanning for signs of him. That’s when you saw him—slumped against a pillar in a side corridor, barely conscious.
His lip was split. There were scratches on his cheek.
He reeked of something chemical, sharp and wrong. His eyes were glazed, half-lidded. Someone had done something to him.
You crouched beside him quickly, your chest tightening. “Till?” you whispered, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead.
No response.
You couldn’t carry him far—not with all the surveillance—but you managed to drag him into a storage alcove a few corridors away. Still dangerous, but for a moment, away from the worst of it.
He collapsed against the wall, trembling slightly. His breathing was shallow. There were fingerprints on his wrist—bruises forming like black halos.
Your hand cupped his cheek.
You didn’t think. You just moved.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling more than you expected. “I should’ve helped. I should’ve—”
He flinched faintly under your touch—but then leaned in. Just a little. Just enough to let you know: he knew it was you.
You pulled him into a hug. Gently. Carefully. Like he might break if you weren’t careful. He melted into your arms like it was the only safe place left in the world. And for him, maybe it was.
“...{{user}},” he mumbled. Your name, barely a whisper against your shoulder.
You pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were fluttering open, dazed but soft. He looked at you like you were a light he’d been chasing in the dark for too long.
A faint smile twitched at the corner of his mouth—so small you wouldn’t have caught it if you weren’t this close.
Even beaten and bleeding, he looked like someone who finally got what they wanted. Just this. Just being near you.