The narrow space between the bunks offered little comfort, but Dae-ho couldn't bring himself to move. Pressed against the cold wall, his ragged breathing seemed deafening in the confined space. Outside, whispers slithered through the cracks—judgment, disappointment, confusion at his sudden desertion. Each word was a knife of shame twisting in his gut.

His hands trembled as fragments of his past flooded back: the crack of gunfire, the metallic taste of fear, bodies scattered like broken dolls across battlefields he'd tried so hard to forget. The current situation had ripped open those old wounds, leaving him paralyzed. The rational part of him knew Gi-hun and the others needed help, but his legs wouldn't move, his courage had crumbled to dust.

The uncertainty was perhaps the worst torture—were they still alive out there? Running? Caught? The possibilities played out in his mind like a horrific slideshow.

"Damn it..." he whispered, pressing his palms against his face as if he could physically hold back the tide of self-loathing. His fingers dug into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks of his shame.