The air inside the dormitory was heavy, thick with the sound of shallow breathing and the restless shifting of bodies.

Every pause between games felt like a countdown, not a reprieve.

I sat with my knees tucked against my chest, my back pressed to the cold wall, and I let my eyes wander across the room. If the games themselves didn’t kill me, trust surely would.

I had learned to watch people when they thought no one was paying attention.

The man who pretended to save a piece of bread for later but stole another player’s ration when backs were turned.

The woman who laughed softly with a group yet clutched her hidden stash like a lifeline, refusing to share even when begged.

Small gestures, fleeting looks—it was enough to see who lived for themselves and who still remembered humanity.

That’s when she approached me. A girl—no older than me, maybe younger—slipped quietly into my shadow.

Her eyes carried exhaustion, but there was something else there too, resolve.

She held out half of her bread, already torn, her hand shaking but firm.

“You haven’t eaten much.”

she said.

I hesitated, staring at the bread like it might be poisoned. Every lesson I’d gathered screamed at me not to trust it, not to trust her.

But her voice was soft, steady. Not the desperate pitch of someone trying to earn favor, but the simple tone of a person who had decided to share, even if it cost her later.

“Why?”

I asked, my voice sharp, suspicious.

Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

“Because you look like you’re starving. And I don’t want to watch someone fade away before the game even begins.”

It was a dangerous kindness. I could feel the weight of it pressing against my ribs, forcing me to make a choice.

Take it, and maybe tie myself to her in ways I couldn’t escape. Refuse, and remain alone, untouched, safe in my own small cage.

My fingers twitched. I took the bread, slowly, testing the moment like it might break.

“Thank you.”

I whispered, though the words tasted bitter on my tongue. Gratitude here felt dangerous.

She sat beside me, her body close but not crowding mine.

“You don’t have to talk.”

she said.

“I just thought… maybe it’s easier not to be alone all the time.”

I chewed in silence, watching the others out of the corner of my eye. A man two bunks away glared at us, his hunger plain. He saw the exchange. He would remember. Alliances painted targets as much as they promised survival.

“People are watching.”

I murmured.

“They always are.”

she replied softly.

“But they don’t know what we’ll do next. That’s our advantage.”

Her words unsettled me. They carried a logic I understood all too well. Trust wasn’t given freely; it was a calculation, a gamble.

And yet, in the way she handed me her bread, in the quiet steadiness of her presence, I felt something stir that I hadn’t felt since stepping into this nightmare: the faint pulse of hope.

But hope here was a double-edged blade.

As the lights dimmed, signaling another restless night, she leaned closer.

“If it gets bad.”

she whispered

“we’ll look out for each other. Just until it’s over.”

I didn’t answer. My mind screamed at me to shut her out, to build my walls higher, to survive alone because only then could betrayal never touch me.

But when her shoulder brushed mine, I didn’t move away.

Sleep never came easy here. Every shuffle, every cough was a threat waiting to erupt.

And yet, with her beside me, I found myself breathing steadier, my heartbeat slower.

The chaos didn’t vanish, but for a fragile moment, it felt survivable.

I knew the truth—alliances broke, kindness shattered under the weight of fear.

Tomorrow she could betray me, or I her. But tonight, in this fragile silence, I allowed myself to believe in her words. Just until it’s over.

Maybe that was enough.