The dormitory was a cacophony of whispers and restless shuffling, the air thick with tension and the faint, metallic scent of blood. Dim, flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the cold, concrete floor. The rows of metal bunk beds loomed like prison bars, the faded green paint peeling in jagged lines that mirrored the desperation etched into everyone’s faces.

Myung Gi sat on the lower bunk, his back pressed against the icy wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His breaths were shallow, his pulse uneven, and his eyes darted to the far corner where she sat. She was tracing invisible patterns on the floor, her face obscured by the mess of her hair, but he could still catch the subtle quiver of her shoulders.

A single, stale bulb above her flickered, casting her in a muted, trembling halo. She didn’t cry, not outright. She was stronger than most here—maybe stronger than him—but her silence felt louder than the murmurs of the others.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the sting. It was easier than thinking about tomorrow. Easier than thinking about the blood-soaked arenas or the fact that, statistically, one of them wouldn’t see another sunrise.

The room hummed with the weight of unspoken alliances and festering betrayals, but all he could see was her fragile form in that cruel light. He rose, slowly, boots scraping the floor like a deliberate confession. The movement caught her attention, her head tilting just slightly toward him.

Sitting beside her, he could feel the faint warmth of her shoulder against his arm. It was absurd—how something so small could feel like salvation. He wanted to say something comforting, something that mattered, but the words choked in his throat. Instead, he whispered, “If tomorrow comes, sit next to me. Always.”