You hadn’t planned on seeing him again.
Not here. Not like this.
But nothing about this place followed any plan. Not anymore.
The floor was concrete. Cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there.
The air had a sterile weight to it — like it had been recycled too many times, too still to be real. Rows of steel bunk beds loomed across the warehouse like some dystopian dormitory, bodies scattered over them in varying states of sleep, exhaustion, or quiet panic.
You sat on the bottom bunk, back against the metal frame, elbows resting on your knees. Your fingers tapped idly against your thigh, the sound soft but steady, like a metronome against the silence.
You didn’t look up when the pink-suited guards walked past. You’d seen enough of them.
But then — a voice.
Sharp. Familiar. Frustrated.
—"Where the hell are our phones?"
You froze.
It took your brain a second to catch up. That voice was etched into you, whether you liked it or not. It belonged to someone who had once touched your stomach and said, "We’ll figure it out." Someone who never stayed long enough to try.
You turned your head slowly.
And there he was.
Mark Grayson.
Messy hair. That same voice. Same walk. Same eyes. Only now, they didn’t know where to land.
He hadn’t seen you yet. Not in this sea of green tracksuits. But you saw him.
The boy who vanished the second things got too real. The one who left you with growing nausea, unpaid bills, and silence.
You didn’t call his name.
You just stared. And then looked away.
The first game came fast.
Red light. Green light.
They told you the rules like it was a schoolyard activity. Then people started dying.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch.
You survived.
That night, the vote happened. Circle to stay. X to leave.
They stayed. You did too.
Because outside meant debt collectors, loneliness, and the weight of survival. Inside was hell. But it was honest about it.
The next morning, you spotted him again.
He was on the floor, sitting against one of the bunks, legs stretched out, one hand covering his ribs. His face was swollen. His lip had split, his eye was purple. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
You knew what happened. Two players had jumped him during lights-out. One had screamed something about “that stupid coin” while kicking him in the gut.
You waited until they were gone.
Then you walked up, slow, calm.
He didn’t notice you until you stopped right in front of him.
You looked down at him — tired, bruised, helpless.
And you said it.
—“You told me to invest in that crypto too.”
He blinked.
Looked up at you like your voice didn’t belong here. Like it was some ghost that had clawed its way into this world with too much purpose.
—“{{user}}…?” he breathed.
Like he’d forgotten what your name sounded like in his own mouth.