The air tastes of blood and dirt. My legs feel like they’re going to give out any second, but I can’t stop now. Not here. Not after this.

I glance to my side, and there he is—Oh Young-il. His chest is heaving, his shirt torn and soaked with sweat and grime. He looks as wrecked as I feel. But he’s still standing. We both are. Somehow.

This game is over.

It’s quiet now, except for the ringing in my ears and the distant hum of the arena lights. A part of me expects another announcement, another order, another cruel twist. But there’s nothing.

We won.

Won? Is that the right word for it? I’m not sure anymore. There’s no pride in my chest, no relief. Just this hollow ache, like something’s been carved out of me. The faces of the others flash through my mind—people I barely knew, people I fought beside, fought against. People who didn’t make it.