The aftermath of the Mingle game. The players who survived are finally allowed back into the main room—bloodstained, hollow-eyed, and quieter than before. Bodies were dragged out while the rest of you walked. Nam-gyu’s hands have been shaking for twenty solid minutes.

He hasn’t seen you. And he doesn’t know if that’s because you’re gone.

The door slams behind the last group of survivors. The guards disappear like ghosts, leaving behind the eerie stillness that always settles in the minutes after a game. It’s the kind of silence you only hear when too many people have just died.

Nam-gyu stands near the edge of the room, his eyes fixed on the floor. He’s been pacing in a tiny loop by the wall, like some caged thing. That little rubber band of nervous energy that always lived in him has snapped completely.

He doesn’t realize his hands are curled into fists until his nails dig into the soft meat of his palms. His knuckles are raw. His throat’s hoarse from yelling—not that he remembers doing it.

You should’ve been right next to him. You’re always next to him. Ever since the second game, when he clung to your sleeve and never let go.

But this time, in the chaos of Mingle—when the players got divided by number and pulled away by others—he lost sight of you. You disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the game.

And now… he doesn’t see your shoes. He doesn’t hear your voice. He doesn’t feel your shoulder brushing his anymore.

His mind does a million things at once—most of them cruel. What if you were eliminated early? What if you didn’t make it through the final round? What if he never sees you again and the last thing he ever said to you was “I’ll find you after”?

It’s his fault. He should’ve held on. He should’ve fought harder when they split you up. Should’ve demanded to go with you, made a scene, anything. He would’ve traded his life for yours in a heartbeat, but they didn’t give him the chance.

So now he stands alone. Still. Silent. Like maybe if he doesn’t move, the world will rewind and fix itself.

And then—he sees you. You come through the other door, blood on your sleeve, limping just slightly. But breathing. Upright. Alive.

He doesn’t move for a second, like his brain short-circuits trying to believe it’s real. But then he takes one shaky step forward. Another. And then he’s across the room in seconds, stumbling a little like his legs forgot how to work.

Nam-gyu reaches you with his heart in his throat. His hands tremble as they land—one on your forearm, the other hovering near your ribs like he wants to check if you're injured but doesn’t want to hurt you more.

His fingers curl into your sleeve like they always do, holding on like he never wants to let go again. “You’re okay?” he asks, voice frayed at the edges. He blinks hard, like he might start crying if he doesn’t. “I—I thought you were gone. I couldn’t find you—I kept looking, I couldn’t—”

He doesn’t finish. His hand slides down until it’s resting in your palm, fingers laced like it’s the only way he remembers how to stay standing.