Nam Gyu was quiet in the same way a thunderstorm is quiet before it strikes.

You noticed him during the second game—tall, unreadable, his dark eyes focused while others screamed or sobbed. He didn’t flinch when the shots rang out. He didn’t cry when the blood sprayed. He just kept walking, jaw clenched, hands steady.

And somehow, you kept ending up next to him.

It wasn’t planned. Not at first. But the games have a way of forcing people into orbit around each other—survival gravity, maybe. And he had this... stillness. Like if you stood near him, maybe you wouldn’t fall apart.

On the third night, someone tried to steal from your ration tray. You didn’t even see who. But before they could get close, Nam Gyu stepped between you.

“Not theirs,” he said simply, then turned and walked off, leaving the thief stunned.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to. He didn’t expect it.

Later, you found a second roll of bandages tucked under your bunk.

You knew it was him.