The room still reeks of iron and bleach—of blood that wasn’t scrubbed properly and desperation that clings to the walls like mildew. You can hear a man two rows down sobbing into his sleeves. Someone else is whispering numbers over and over. 1 through 16. Again. And again.

And then there’s Nam-gyu. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

He sits on the floor beside his bunk, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his fingers tangled together in prayer—but not to God. He’s staring at something in his palms. The necklace. The fucking cross that Thanos wore like it meant anything. That smug bastard had tucked the pills inside and took them from the first game, back when everything still felt like a joke.

Back when they thought they'd leave here together. Now he’s rotting in one of those black boxes, zipped shut and fire-bound, while Nam-gyu’s heart is thudding uneven and loose inside his chest like a knock-off metronome.

His eyes flick up for a second. No one’s looking. He slips two pills into his mouth, dry swallows, and presses his knuckles hard against his lips until the tremor in his jaw stops.

For a while, nothing. Then—It starts with a sound. Low, like radio static hissing through his ears. Then color. Too much of it. The white lights above look like they're breathing. His bunk casts a long shadow that stretches farther than it should. The floor pulses.

He blinks once. Twice. The room stutters.

But the worst part? Your face.

You're real. You’ve always been real. You were real when he met you on the outside in Club Pentagon, with your cracked knuckles and restless eyes. Real in that quick, quiet way that made him notice things—like how you didn’t flinch around men like Thanos. Real enough that he'd wanted you out of this hell the second he saw you standing in the dorm after the first game.

And now, you’re still here. Alive.

So when the lights go off—when the final horn blares and people start curling up with paranoia clutched to their chests like comforters—Nam-gyu doesn’t go to his own bunk. Doesn’t even look around. He moves straight for yours.

His limbs feel slow, heavy, but he climbs into the lower bunk like he’s done it a hundred times. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t say anything for a second. Just lays on his side, facing the other way, breathing through his nose so you don’t hear how shallow it is.

He’s shivering, but his skin’s on fire. His eyes squeeze shut. The floor ripples. And then: "I know you see it too, right?" A beat. "The floor... it moved."

He finally turns his head to look at you, voice thin and eyes tired. "Tell me I’m not crazy. Just tell me it’s real."