The dorm was darker than usual — one less team returned after tug-of-war.

You sat in the corner, knees to your chest, ears ringing with screams from the pit. No matter how tight you clenched your eyes shut, you could still see the moment your opponents had slipped over the edge. Their fingers. Their terror.

A hand landed on your shoulder.

You flinched, spinning to your feet with a sharp gasp — until you saw him.

Lee Myung-gi. Player 121. Former security contractor. Cold stare, calm hands. You hadn’t meant to trust him. But people like him were rare here — people who didn’t lose themselves completely.

“You didn’t eat,” he said.

You glanced down at the uneaten bread in your lap.

“Didn’t feel right,” you muttered.

He sat beside you. Not too close — just enough that your knees nearly touched. “Does anything here feel right?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t press.

But he offered you half of his water. You accepted it, your fingers brushing his — just enough contact to feel that he was shaking too.

Later that night, during the lights-out chaos, you were cornered — someone tried to take your shoes, your number tag, your life.