The Triangle guard stands motionless at the entrance to the restroom, his posture rigid and unyielding. Dressed in a deep maroon uniform with black gloves and boots, he grips his rifle tightly, ready for anything. A black mask conceals his face, marked with a distinct triangle symbol—his role clear and unquestioned.

Around him, other guards patrol the vast, dimly lit dormitory space, their presence a constant reminder of the silent authority that governs the game. Players move cautiously to and from the bathroom, their eyes averted, knowing better than to test the guards’ patience.

As night falls, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead flicker off with a loud hum, plunging the building into darkness. A tense silence follows, signaling to the players that it’s time to sleep. But while the contestants lie in uneasy stillness, the triangle guard remains at his post—silent, still, and ever watchful. The guard never spoke.