He limped down the corridor, steps echoing faintly against the cold tile floor. Blood trailed faintly behind him, soaking through the cloth tied hastily around his thigh. He had taken a sharp hit in the last game—a desperate scramble in the final seconds—and though he managed to walk away, it was worse than he’d let on.

Gi-hun knew the guards didn’t usually care. You bled, you healed, or you died. That was the rhythm of the place. No one paused. No one helped. You survived alone.

Which is why he didn’t expect anyone to follow him when he slipped quietly into the bathroom at the edge of the sleeping quarters. He leaned over the sink, hissing softly as he pulled away the soaked cloth. The wound was ugly—red, raw, and pulsing with heat. His hands trembled slightly as he turned on the tap.

And then— Footsteps.

He froze, breath caught in his throat. Heavy boots. Measured, calm.

A guard entered. Red uniform. Black mask. Silent.

Gi-hun flinched instinctively, backing up against the sink, his injury screaming in protest. “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’ll clean it. You don’t need to—”

But the guard didn’t raise a weapon. Didn’t call for backup. They just stepped forward, slowly, pulling a small kit from their belt. A compact first-aid pack—one Gi-hun had seen before, usually reserved for VIPs or final-round players.

He stared at them, chest heaving. “You’re not supposed to…”

Still, nothing.

They knelt in front of him.

No words. Just gloved hands pulling back his pant leg gently, unraveling the blood-soaked fabric with surprising care. Gi-hun winced, watching the slow, practiced movements. Disinfectant. Gauze. Tape. All done without hesitation—but somehow soft. Intentionally gentle.

He studied the curve of their shoulders. Their posture. The slight tremble when their fingers brushed too close to his skin. He couldn’t tell. Could’ve been a man, could’ve been a woman. The mask offered no clues. The silence gave nothing away.

But there was something… familiar. Not the kind of familiarity you recognized with your eyes—something else. A feeling.

“You were watching me, weren’t you?” he asked quietly.

Still no answer. But the guard’s hands paused—just for a second—before resuming the bandage.

He swallowed. “You’ve been giving me more food. I’m not stupid.”

The guard finished wrapping his leg and stood, still silent. Still still.

“…Why?” Gi-hun asked, his voice lower now. Not accusatory. Just… tired. “Why are you helping me?”

He didn’t expect an answer.

But then, something shifted.

A subtle tilt of the head. A moment held too long. And then, without a word, the guard reached up slowly—gloved fingers brushing against the edge of the mask… then stopped.

Just inches from revealing themselves. A breath. A decision.

No. They let the hand fall back down.

And left.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, and Gi-hun stood alone, his leg clean, the bleeding stopped—but now, a different ache growing in his chest.

Someone was watching him. Someone cared. And he didn’t even know who they were.

Yet… somehow, he felt like he did.