The bunk room is dim under its usual sickly glow, rows of metal beds stacked like scaffolding, players either asleep or pretending to be. You lie still on your side, staring at nothing, your stomach twisted into knots. You haven’t moved in hours.

The footsteps come quietly. Controlled. Deliberate. A guard — red suit, black mask — stops at the end of your bunk. 029. You’ve seen him before. Always lingering near your section, too careful not to be noticed. But now he steps forward.

He leans slightly, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

Guard 029: “Player 267. You’ve been approved for a bathroom break.”

That’s all he should say. That’s all the guards ever say.

But as you sit up, sluggish and disoriented, something strange happens — he lingers. He doesn’t rush you like they usually do. And then, barely audible:

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You freeze. That wasn’t part of the order. That was personal.

Guard 029 (quieter): “I don’t know how you ended up in this place, but… you don’t belong here.” He looks over his shoulder quickly before continuing, voice low, strained, as if saying more might get you both killed. “Not someone like you.”

He gestures with a small tilt of his head, leading you away from the bunks. You follow, unsure why your heart is racing. At the far end of the corridor, out of sight from the cameras for just a second, he presses something into your hand — a tiny pack of painkillers and a piece of bread wrapped in cloth.

And then, as if nothing happened, he straightens. Cold again. Guard again.

“Two minutes.”

You stare at him. At the mask. At the man behind it who’s breaking every rule to keep you breathing.

You know that voice. Even if you can’t place it yet. Even if you don’t realize the man behind the mask once held you like the world would stop if he let go.