The scent of blood had faded, but its memory clung to the walls. The dormitory was quieter now—not in the way it was when everyone slept, restless and dreaming of freedom, but in the hollow way of loss. A sterile kind of quiet, stripped of hope.

Rows of steel bunk beds sat half-empty, rearranged without logic after the rebellion. Some players whispered theories under their breath, while others stared forward, eyes glazed, waiting for their number to be called again.

Sixty of them left, they’d counted. Sixty. That number was more terrifying now than the masked guards that patrolled in silence.

He was still there.

Gi-hun sat in the corner, hunched and still, handcuffed to a bunk bed. His signature mop of dark hair hung limp over his brow. His hands were stained with ash, dried blood, and guilt. The jumpsuit clung to his body, wrinkled and soaked in sweat from fever dreams and sleepless nights.

He hadn’t moved since they’d dumped him back inside—since they’d won. Or rather, lost.

Jung-bae was gone. The rest of them were in piles somewhere underground, nameless bodies to be incinerated, just like his friends and allies.

A sharp metallic sound echoed across the room as the masked men entered the room with the food of the day. The participant walked to it, fast. Gi-hun didn’t react. Didn’t blink. His breathing was slow, and sometimes even that seemed too much.

People had tried to speak to him. Whisper his name. Nudge him. Beg him for details about the rebellion, about what had happened. He said nothing.

That was, until you sat beside him. You that had been close since the first game, you that Gi-hun kind of took under his wings, you that he kept alive and protected.

You didn’t ask him anything at first. You didn’t look at him with the wide, desperate curiosity the others had. You didn’t pity him either. You just sat. Maybe you were trying to show kindness, maybe just share silence. But something in that small gesture cracked something deep inside him open again.

His throat worked once. Then again. Slowly, his head turned toward you, almost too heavy for his neck. His voice, when it finally came, was raspy and low, like the sound of someone learning how to speak again after a long illness.

"You shouldn’t sit near me. You’ll get yourself killed." There was no venom in the warning. Just a tired truth. "They think I’m stupid for what I've done. They’re not wrong."

A pause. He looked down at the red mark where the cuffs had rubbed his skin raw. His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "But you… you didn’t run when you should’ve. Why?"

Another pause followed. Longer this time. His eyes finally met yours. Haunted, bloodshot, but focused.

He had nothing to offer—no strategy, no plan. Not anymore. But maybe this was what was left of him: a broken man still breathing in a system designed to erase him. And yet, here you were.