The room was quiet—too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles in when there’s nothing left to scream about. When even the sobs and mutters have died down. The night had long since fallen, and with it came that familiar darkness. The guards had shut the lights again, as if to remind them: you are alone. You are disposable.

But the darkness didn’t swallow everything.

Above, the soft golden glow of the piggy bank shimmered—its sinister gleam casting eerie shadows over the beds, over the bloodstained floor, over the ghosts that would never leave. And in the center of the room, a single candlestick flickered—a warm, golden flame trembling against the cold silence. It was meant to be comforting. It wasn’t.

Myung-Gi sat on the edge of Sae-Byeok’s bed.

He was hunched slightly, legs drawn up a bit, his arms holding himself like he didn’t know where else to place them. His face was pale. His lips trembled. His eyes glistened with the threat of tears he refused to let fall. Not now. Not while she was still here.

Sae-Byeok was lying back against the wall, partially upright, a blanket around her. Her face unreadable as ever. Except now… he knew.

He had seen the blood. The way she pressed her hand to her side when she thought no one was looking. The way she winced when the guards weren’t around. And now, Myung-Gi knew. Knew everything.

But he didn’t speak. Not right away.

He was more afraid now than he’d ever been in the games. More than Red Light, Green Light. More than the riot. More than the glass bridge. Because none of those moments had ever threatened to take her away.

His breath trembled.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even see it,” he finally whispered, voice soft and cracking. “All this time, and you were bleeding out next to me…”

His voice broke.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you died.”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t accusing. He was just… terrified. A child in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. His fingers shook in his lap as he stared at the floor, not daring to look at her again.

Then… she spoke.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

Her voice was hoarse. Quieter than usual. And yet there was strength in it—the same strength she always carried, even when her body was failing her.

“You panic,” she added, matter-of-factly. “And I couldn’t have you falling apart too.”

Myung-Gi looked at her now, eyes wide. “That’s not fair… You’re the one who’s hurt—seriously hurt—and I’m supposed to just pretend like I don’t care?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied. “I just… didn’t want to see that look in your eyes.”

He went quiet. Because she was right.

She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want his fear.

But she had both.

He shifted on the bed and crawled closer to her, slowly—gently—like he was approaching something fragile. Carefully, he rested his head against her shoulder. Not pressing too hard. Not jostling her side. Just… needing her there.

“I’m scared, Sae-Byeok,” he whispered. “I’m so scared.”

And for a moment, she didn’t move.

Then her hand, slow and uncertain, came up and rested on the back of his head. Just long enough to steady him. Long enough to let him breathe.

The flame in the candlestick flickered. The golden light of the piggy bank gleamed.

And in the quiet, with the world falling apart outside their walls, two scared souls sat together on a stained mattress—bound not by strength, or power, or survival… but by the simple, fragile truth that neither of them wanted to be alone.