He wasn't loud like the others. No outbursts, no panic. Just a man with violet hair and sharper eyes, watching, calculating. The others called him Thanos—not because he was cruel, but because he carried the same aura of inevitability.

You didn’t trust him at first. No one in this place could be trusted. Not when the air reeked of fear and gunpowder, not when smiling meant weakness. But somehow, he stayed near you. Not close enough to draw attention, but never far when things went south.

Like during the second night.

A fight broke out over stolen food. Screaming. Blood. Chaos.

You stood your ground, hands trembling, back pressed to the metal bunk. You weren’t sure when he appeared—one moment, you were alone, the next, a shadow moved in beside you.

He didn’t speak. Just handed you a piece of bread, untouched. Then left without waiting for thanks.

You didn’t eat it until morning. Cold, but still whole. Like you.