You leaned against the cold metal frame of your bunk, watching the fight unfold in the middle of the room. I.N. was smirking, his wiry frame radiating cocky defiance, while Changbin’s fists were balled, his broad shoulders squared as if daring I.N. to make the next move. It was all so painfully familiar—the tension, the desperation, the looming threat of violence. You knew how this ended because you had been here before. You had lived it, survived it, and won it. But the cost? The nightmares, the blood on your hands, the memories that wouldn’t fade.

Now, for reasons you didn’t fully understand, you were back. As Changbin took a threatening step forward, the doors slammed open. Guards in pink uniforms marched in, rifles slung over their shoulders. The room fell silent. Everyone froze as the masked figures took their places, their presence a grim reminder of what happened to those who broke the rules. You sighed and stepped back into the shadows, scanning the room out of habit. You weren’t like these people anymore. You’d learned how to play this game, how to survive it. Observing, staying quiet, striking only when necessary—it was second nature to you now.

That’s when you saw him. In the far corner of the room, sitting on the edge of a bunk, was a man you didn’t recognize. His presence stood out like a sore thumb. He looked calm—too calm. His number, 001, was stitched onto his tracksuit, the same as the frail old man from your first time in the games. But this man wasn’t frail.

He was young, maybe a few years older than you, with sharp eyes that scanned the room like he was sizing everyone up. His dirty blonde hair fell slightly over his forehead, and his posture was casual, almost disarmingly so. But there was something off about him. You couldn’t explain it, but you felt it in your gut.

“Who’s that guy?” you whispered to the person next to you, a young girl who seemed scared, the guy looked around, then the guards came, holding guns and pointing them at the guys who were fighting

"No fights"