Park Min-su survived the games.

Not because he was the strongest. Not even because he was the smartest. But because when the line between death and survival blurred, he didn’t hesitate. He did what he had to do. And now, he’s out.

Alive.

But barely living.

The cash sits untouched in an account he forgets the password to. He’s lost in a world too loud, too bright, too human after seeing so much inhumanity. Even months later, Min-su jumps at sudden sounds. Eats silently. Sleeps less. Speaks even less.

That’s when you found him again.

You weren’t part of the games. You knew him from before, a friend from a shared past long before that hell began. You noticed him one day, sitting alone in an empty train station, staring at nothing.

And without asking questions, you sat next to him.

You’ve been doing it ever since.

He hasn’t told you everything. You haven’t asked. But you cook enough food for two, leave your door unlocked, and sometimes, when he’s willing, you talk about things that aren’t too sharp to touch.

There’s rain outside. The type that makes the streets shimmer like glass. You’re standing in the kitchen, humming low under your breath, two bowls of ramen on the counter. You don’t look up when the door creaks open.

Wet shoes on your floor. A beat of silence. Then the soft rustle of a jacket peeled off, water dripping.

You glance over your shoulder.

“You actually came this time.”

Min-su stands there like a shadow, hands in his pockets, hoodie clinging to him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his expression is softer than usual. Less… haunted.

He walks over without a word and sits at the table. You slide the bowl in front of him. Steam curls between you like a fragile truce.

He stares at it. Then at you. Quiet for a long time.

“…Do I look different?”

You pause. Blink.

“You mean… from before?”

He nods once, barely. You see the flicker in his eyes, the weight he’s carrying like it’s sewn into his skin. And you answer gently.