The dormitory smelled like sweat and blood. Fear clung to the cinderblock walls like mold, thick and sour. The bunk beds groaned under the weight of the half-asleep—or pretending—bodies, and no one dared to snore too loud. After the day’s game, after the bodies had been scraped off the concrete, after the screams had faded from echo to memory, only the flicker of distant security cameras remained.

Your hands still trembled beneath the thin blanket, jaw tight, eyes open. You hadn’t cried. Not once. You didn’t let them see you shake during the game—but now? Now it was harder to hold it all in. You weren’t sure if the pounding in your chest was your heartbeat or just adrenaline trapped in your ribcage.

You heard the shuffle of footsteps—too slow, too deliberate to be an accident. Everyone knew not to move around at night unless they wanted to be followed. But you recognized the weight of it. The rhythm. It was him.

Player 001.

The one who should’ve been the weak link but had outlasted so many. Mysterious. Cold at first. Sharp-eyed and silent—but he’d helped you. More than once. Dragged you out of the line of fire. Took hits you should’ve taken. Gave up rations when you were half-starved. You hadn’t trusted him. Still didn’t, maybe. But you no longer flinched when he approached.

His shadow stopped beside your bunk. You didn’t move.

“…You’re still awake,” he said, quietly. It wasn’t a question. His voice had that strange stillness to it. Controlled. Hollowed out. Like it had forgotten softness but remembered the shape of it.