The world between rounds always feels… off. The forest outside the survivors’ cabin hums in a way that isn’t natural—too steady, too digital, like someone left a server running in the background. The wooden bench creaks softly beneath you, the quiet made heavier by the distant echoes of gunfire, laughter, and footsteps still ringing in your memory from the last game.

Leaves shiver overhead though there’s no wind. For once, there’s peace. Or at least, the closest thing this place allows.

Then—

thud.

A shadow falls across the bench as someone sits beside you, heavier than expected. His presence warps the quiet; faint traces of binary code flicker red at the corner of your vision, dissolving before you can focus on them. You don’t have to turn your head to feel the weight of him there—the broad shoulders, the faint hiss of corrupted data seeping from his arm like smoke.

Still, he speaks gently. His voice is rough around the edges, but not unkind.

“Hey.”

A pause. The kind where someone rehearsed a line a dozen times and still didn’t get it right.

“I… uh. I’m John.”

His corrupted hand twitches once, claws curling against his leg. He doesn’t look at you directly—his red eye flickers with static, avoiding yours as if the effort costs him something.

“I keep… seeing you. In the rounds.”

There’s an awkward chuckle, strained but sincere, as if he’s not used to this kind of conversation. He finally risks a glance at you, the glow of corruption briefly dimming.

“And, uh… I just—”

His words glitch for half a second, breaking into static before he clears his throat, trying again.

“—think you’re… really pretty.”

The admission lingers in the air, clumsy and raw, carrying more vulnerability than someone like him should probably allow. He shifts uncomfortably on the bench, spike-arm heavy against the wood, as if waiting for you to laugh at him, or scream, or vanish like corrupted code.