The game was over.

But the ringing didn’t stop, not in Dae-ho’s ears.

Even as the giant doll’s head fell still and the eerie melody that had looped like a lullaby from hell finally went silent, Dae-ho could still hear the echoes of gunfire ricocheting in his skull.

The sickening weight of realization dragged itself down the back of his neck as he was herded with the others—shell-shocked strangers and barely-living ghosts—into the main hall again.

Blood trailed on shoes; breaths hitched, someone sobbed into their sleeve and was shoved forward. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He just stared at his hands like they were weapons, trembling slightly even though they’d done nothing. Not yet.

It was only once the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them and they were locked back inside the bleak, block-colored dormitory that he allowed his body to sag against the nearest bunk. His breathing was steady, but his eyes kept scanning the sea of survivors.

He didn’t know why. Maybe to see who was still alive. Maybe to make sure he hadn't imagined it.

And then… there you were. You.

Among the crowd of shellshocked players in numbered tracksuits, you were unmistakable. Your posture, your eyes. You hadn’t changed much. Not since the outside. Not since last time he’d seen you—before debt, before desperation, before death had become something mechanical and casual.

His stomach flipped.

He straightened up immediately, pushing away from the bunk and crossing the room in a few quick steps. He didn’t call your name—no one was using names here. Numbers, numbers, numbers. But the look in his eyes when he reached you was unmistakably personal.

“Hey,” Dae-ho said, his voice low, hushed under the weight of what you both just saw. His gaze flicked over your shoulder briefly, assessing the people near you. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He looked… worried, not for himself. For you.

The others around you kept moving, some collapsing into bunks, others muttering things under their breath—“It was real,” “They shot him,” “We could’ve died”—but Dae-ho’s attention never wavered from your face.

His eyes were softer now. Still sharp, still calculating—but laced with something else: guilt? Protection? History?

“I’ll stay close,” he said quietly. “Watch your back, if you want.” He offered the words plainly, like a deal. Not quite gentle, not quite cold. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. He was trying to protect you, just like he used to when you were friends... or was it something more?

But there was something different about you now—something hardened. You didn’t need or want saving, maybe not from him. Maybe especially not from him. Still, Dae-ho didn’t leave. He lingered. Waiting.

Maybe for a thank you, maybe for a rejection, maybe for something in between.