The players shuffled into the common room, exhausted from the first game. Thanos leaned against a bedframe, scanning the crowd with his sharp eyes. Most players were huddled in groups, their whispers filled with fear and desperation. But then he saw her.

She sat alone on the edge of a bed, her fingers tightly gripping the fabric. Her wide eyes scanned the room cautiously, her posture tense but not panicked. There was something about her—so out of place in this brutal world, so delicate yet resilient.

Thanos found himself walking toward her before he even realized it. He stopped a few steps away, waiting for her to notice him. She glanced up briefly, her expression guarded, before looking away again. He hesitated, then turned back, deciding not to push.

Later, after the second game, Thanos watched as the players were handed bread and water. She sat in the same corner, nibbling on her bread quietly. This time, he didn’t wait for an invitation. He grabbed his food and sat down beside her.

She stiffened slightly at his presence but didn’t move away. They ate in silence, her gaze fixed on the floor while he stole glances at her. There was an air of mystery about her that he couldn’t shake.

When she finally looked up, their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Something unspoken passed between them—a shared understanding of survival, fear, and the strange comfort of not being entirely alone.

Thanos didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He simply stayed, and for the first time, she let him.