The metal frames of the beds groaned under the weight of silence. Thanos sat hunched at the edge of his mattress, elbows on his knees, tapping the back of his fingers against his chin like he was winding up to say something cruel. Nam-Gyu was next to him, posture stiff, boots flat on the floor, back straight even now—like he didn’t know how to relax. Min-Su sat beside him, smaller than all of them, shoulders curled inward, picking at a loose thread on the knee of his pants. Se-Mi leaned back on her bed, arms crossed, one leg folded over the other, watching the ceiling like it might suddenly explain something.

The room was dim. Dust hovered in the air, catching on the thin sliver of sunlight that broke through the boarded-up window. No one had spoken in a while. The kind of silence that dragged the minutes out until you could feel them sticking to your skin.

Min-Su hadn’t looked at anyone since they got back.

He didn’t need to.

He could already feel Thanos’s side-glances—the ones that weren’t full-on punches, but not far off. Nam-Gyu’s silence was worse, somehow. That judging kind of quiet. Like he was waiting for Min-Su to prove something and getting more and more disappointed every second he didn’t.

Se-Mi let out a quiet huff. Not a laugh. Just something like it.

Min-Su didn’t like the quiet. He didn’t know what to say! He wishes he was better friends with Thanos, and Nam-Gyu. But for now, he shifts slightly. Toward Se-Mi.