The long table stood in stark contrast to everything that had come before.

White linen. Silver cutlery. A full-course meal spread out with precision—steak, vegetables, rich sauces, wine. It was the kind of meal you only ever saw in movies or through windows you couldn’t afford to look into. Yet here it was… laid out in front of them like a final mockery of luxury. A prize before the last punishment.

Myung-Gi sat at the table, stiff and pale. He didn’t touch the food. Couldn’t.

He was seated beside Sae-Byeok—closer than necessary, almost clinging to the side of her chair with his own. Across from them, at opposite ends of the table, sat Gi-hun and Sang-woo. They ate in near silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional scrape of knife against porcelain or the clink of a glass.

But Myung-Gi didn’t move. His hands rested in his lap, clenched tightly. His stomach churned, twisting violently at the sight of the perfectly cooked meat in front of him. The aroma alone made him feel dizzy. He could still see them—Ji-Young, Ali, the old man… countless others. And now they were gone. Their silence filled the air more than the tension did.

He stared down at the steak, then over at Sae-Byeok. She hadn’t started eating either. Her expression was distant, unreadable as always—but there was a stiffness in her posture. A coldness in her eyes that was deeper now.

His voice came out low, barely above a whisper.

“…Do you think this was made from… all of them?” he asked, barely able to finish the sentence. His throat tightened.

She didn’t answer, but her silence said enough. And for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, wordlessly, Sae-Byeok picked up her fork and knife.

Myung-Gi watched her. The way her hand trembled just slightly as she cut into the meat. The way her eyes stayed fixed downward, like if she looked up she’d shatter. Still, she ate.

That was enough for him.

Hesitantly, he reached out and copied her. His hand trembled worse than hers. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to bite through the nausea and the grief and the horror of it all. He didn’t want to eat. But she was.

So he would, too.

His body sat close to hers, shoulder just brushing hers now and then. He leaned ever so slightly into her presence, needing it. Not in a romantic way. Not in some childish hope. Just for comfort. Just to not feel so alone.

As he chewed, barely tasting anything, he muttered under his breath without looking up.

“…I’m scared.”

And he felt her hand—briefly—rest on his leg under the table.

Not to hold. Not to soothe.

But just… so he’d know he wasn’t alone.

It was enough.