You didn’t know his name at first. Just that he was tall, quiet, and didn’t panic during the first game.

That made him dangerous.

But he wasn’t heartless. You saw the way he looked at the bodies — how he flinched before wiping his hands clean. He noticed things. Calculated. Like he was always watching, waiting for a reason to act.

So were you.

In this place, silence was armor.

But when you caught each other both reaching for the same piece of bread that night — the last one left on the tray — the mask cracked just a little.

He raised an eyebrow. “Split it?”

You paused, uncertain. Then nodded. “Fair.”

And just like that, you were aligned.

It started with small things: watching each other’s backs during the games, wordless signals in tense moments, late-night conversations when the lights flickered off. You learned he didn’t talk much — but when he did, his words were deliberate.

“You’re smart,” he said once, after the second game. “Most people in here are just surviving. You’re thinking ahead.”