Chapter Text

The limousine glided through the dimly lit streets, its blacked-out windows shielding its lone occupant from the noise of the city. Cellbit sat in silence, his long legs stretched out on the polished leather seats, idly scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t checking anything important —he never did. Life, for someone like him, had long lost its urgency.

Cellbit’s life was lonely despite all the money and power he had. He gained his fortune through dark and questionable ways, running businesses that often involved violence and blood. People respected him, but it wasn’t because they liked him —it was because they feared him. He lived alone, his days blending together, dull and predictable. Yet deep down, he craved something more. He had always felt a thirst for excitement, chaos, and danger.

That thirst for something more, had led him, years ago, to his first encounter with the Squid Games. What began as a dangerous flirtation quickly turned into an obsession. As a sponsor, he poured obscene amounts of money into the games, delighting in the raw spectacle of human desperation. His consistent patronage and staggering wagers had earned him a coveted VIP status, granting him exclusive privileges. From his private viewing suite, he could watch every grim detail unfold, savoring the carnage from the best seat in the house.

But even that had begun to lose its luster. It had all grown dull. And yet, here he was: another year, another game.

The Squid Games had been a novelty once. A spectacle of desperation, survival, and raw human instinct. Cellbit still remembered his first time attending: the sheer thrill of it all, the blood-slicked floors, and the sound of screams echoing in the cavernous arena. It had been exhilarating, terrifying, alive. But now? It felt monotonous.

Arriving at the game venue, Cellbit adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit. He was greeted by guards, their faces hidden by cold, blank masks. A clipboard was handed to him as he entered the observation lounge, a luxurious space filled with fellow elites.

“Contestants’ profiles, Sir” a guard informed him.

He took the clipboard and settled into one of the plush armchairs by the window. Below, the arena loomed —a brutal labyrinth waiting to devour its players. But first, he had to pick someone to bet on.

Cellbit flicked through the pages, scanning the contestants’ profiles with thinly veiled boredom.

Debt-ridden gambler. Pathetic.

Unemployed father of three. Predictable.

Egomaniac who thinks he can outsmart everyone. Seen it a dozen times.

They were all the same. People scrambling for a shot at redemption or clinging to a delusion of power. None of them were interesting. None of them were alive.

He sighed, about to toss the clipboard aside, when one profile caught his eye.

Roier Brown

The photo showed a young man with warm brown skin, a big smile and a blue bandana pulling back his fluffy hair. His eyes held a spark of life, something almost too bright for a place like that. His profile was unremarkable: no debts, no criminal record, no tragic sob story that tugged at the heartstrings...

No chronic illnesses, no suicidal tendencies, no shadow of desperation that so often clung to others who found themselves there. Just a seemingly normal guy in his twenties, the kind of person who might have blended seamlessly into the background in any other setting.

Cellbit frowned, reading the file again.

“How does someone like this end up here?” he muttered under his breath, flipping the page back to Roier’s profile as if it might offer more clues.

Curiosity flickered, faint but undeniable. It didn’t make sense that, among the desperate gamblers and ruined lives, there was someone… normal. It was almost laughable. He chuckled lowly. Could it be that this Roier was insane? That he had no idea what he was walking into?

For a fleeting moment, a strange thought crossed his mind: a poor, naive soul, stumbling blindly into the city’s most infamous “recreational” event, completely unaware that it might be his final memory before death. But the thought didn’t evoke pity—far from it. Cellbit’s lips curled into a dry smirk as a rare laugh escaped him, echoing in the otherwise silent lounge.

It was amusing, pathetic even. This man —Roier— was foolish enough to sign his life away for a fleeting chance at money. How long had it been since Cellbit felt even the faintest flicker of amusement? He couldn’t remember.

He glanced back at the photo. Roier had an annoyingly charming smile, the kind that could disarm the most cynical of people. Cute, even. And yet, what an idiot—to waltz into something so deadly, so final. Cellbit closed the file, but his curiosity had already bloomed, its roots digging deep into his disinterested mind.

Maybe, after all this time, the games wouldn’t be a waste of his time. Perhaps this Roier, this little fool, could finally entertain him.

Straightening in his chair, Cellbit waved for a nearby guard. “I want to see him.”

The guard hesitated. “The participants have already been processed and are being prepped for transportation to the arena, sir. Viewing them directly is not standard—”

Cellbit’s eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the air like ice. “I said i want to see him. If I’m expected to wager an obscene amount of money, the least I deserve is a glimpse at who I’m betting on.”

The guard stiffened, swallowing hard. “Of course, Sir. My apologies. I’ll arrange it immediately.”

Without another word, Cellbit stood, slipping his hands into his pockets as he followed the guard down a narrow corridor. His mind was already racing with possibilities. If nothing else, Roier was already proving useful: breaking the monotony of Cellbit’s perfectly dull world.

The guard led Cellbit down a long, sterile hallway before stopping at an unmarked door. With a swift motion, he unlocked it and gestured for Cellbit to step inside. “He’s here, sir. Take all the time you need.”

Cellbit didn’t respond, merely giving the man a sharp look before entering. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room. His gaze swept over the space until it landed on the small bed in the center. There, already dressed in the blue-green uniform with the number 055 stitched onto his chest, was Roier.

The man lay still, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his face softened in the kind of peaceful expression Cellbit rarely saw in this world—let alone in this place. Roier’s dark lashes brushed against his skin, and even the faint twitching of his hands as he shifted in his sleep seemed calm. It was as if he were immune to the shadow of death looming over him.

For a long moment, Cellbit stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the figure before him. Roier was… undeniably handsome. The photo in his profile hadn’t done him enough justice. In person, the delicate slope of his features and the slight curl of his lips were far more striking. How could someone like this end up here?

“Why are you here?” Cellbit murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

His eyes fell to the blue bandana resting on the bedside table. The guards had left it with him, probably thinking it a trivial detail. Internally, Cellbit thanked them. The bandana suited Roier, adding a touch of individuality that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Without thinking, Cellbit reached out, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. Then, carefully —almost reverently— he leaned forward, smoothing back a stray lock of hair that had fallen over Roier’s forehead. His hand lingered for a moment before he withdrew it, suddenly feeling like he’d committed some unspoken crime.

“You shouldn’t be here” he said, his voice firmer this time, though it carried a strange note of conflict.

It didn’t make sense. This place was for the broken, the desperate, and the damned —people who had nothing left to lose. Yet here lay Roier, looking as if he didn’t belong among them. He wasn’t a survivor clawing at his last chance, nor a gambler trying to cheat death. He was something else entirely, something far more pure.

Cellbit’s chest tightened with a sensation he couldn’t name. For the first time in years, he felt conflicted. His interest in Roier had been sparked by curiosity, but now it was deeper. It was unsettling. This man was an enigma, a flame flickering in a place meant to extinguish all light.

Betting on him felt wrong. It felt disrespectful, almost sacrilegious. Roier wasn’t like the others, he wasn’t someone to gamble on. There was no price that could measure his worth, no amount of money that could encapsulate whatever it was that made him feel so out of place.

Cellbit stepped back, his lips pressing into a thin line. He turned to leave, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, taking in the serene expression on Roier’s face. He didn’t understand why, but something about Roier had shifted the balance of his monotonous constructed world. And for the first time in a long while, Cellbit wasn’t sure what to do next.

As Cellbit closed the door to Room 055, a voice broke the silence of the corridor. “Is everything alright, Mr. Balanar?”

The tone seemed polite, but there was an undercurrent of dark in it. Cellbit turned, his sharp gaze falling on the man who spoke. Mr. C. The architect of the Squid Games. The man whose shadow loomed over every broken soul in that arena.

Rigid, dark, and unnervingly composed, Mr. C was a figure shrouded in mystery. Always hidden behind a bear mask with lifeless black eyes, he exuded an air of authority that demanded silence and submission. Even outside the games, no one knew his true identity, his face as much a secret as his motives. Rumors swirled among the elite about what he truly was —some whispered he wasn’t even human, but a cold, mechanical entity devoid of emotion or empathy. After all, who else could conceive such a merciless spectacle of death purely for the amusement of the privileged?

His and Cellbit’s relationship was… complicated. Years ago, when Cellbit first became involved in the games, there had been tension —disagreements that had escalated into violence. It wasn’t easy to maintain peace between men like them, whose lives revolved around power and control. Blood had been spilled to reach their fragile understanding, but now Cellbit stood there as more than just a sponsor. He had become someone Mr. C regarded as a near-equal, granting him privileges others could only dream of.

“Requesting to see a contestant isn’t standard protocol” Mr. C added, his dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though trying to read between the lines.

Cellbit leaned casually against the wall, letting the silence stretch until it bordered on uncomfortable. “He’s… different,” he finally said, tilting his head toward the door he’d just shut behind him. “Far from the usual types we get every year. I was curious.”

Mr. C’s lips twitched into a grin, cold and calculated. “Curious indeed. That one surprised all of us when his application came through. No debts. No criminal record. No tragic story. Frankly, I’m still wondering why he’s here.”

“So why accept him?”

The grin widened, turning into something almost robotic. “Why not? We don’t impose requirements. We just provide the stage. If someone offers themselves, the organization will gladly take them. No questions asked.”

His laugh echoed through the corridor, metallic and devoid of warmth.

“Are you planning to bet on him?” Mr. C asked suddenly, his tone laced with intrigue.

Cellbit didn’t even hesitate. “No.” The word came out sharp, final, almost involuntary. For reasons he couldn’t explain, the idea of anyone placing a bet on Roier, even if it was himself, still felt wrong.

Mr. C laughed again, the sound grating against Cellbit’s nerves. “Poor soul. He doesn’t stand a chance. Probably doesn’t even know what he’s gotten himself into.”

Oh, I think he does. He kept the words to himself. There was something in Roier’s face, in the quiet confidence of his profile, that told him this man wasn’t as clueless as he seemed. What it was exactly, Cellbit didn’t know —but he intended to find out.

“Honestly, the games haven’t been the same,” Cellbit said after a pause. “They’ve lost their edge. It’s always the same stories. I haven’t felt that rush—the chaos, the fear—in years. I miss it. The blood. The desperation. The will to live at any cost.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Mr. C’s grin faltered ever so slightly, just enough for Cellbit to notice. For all his composure, the man didn’t like the idea of someone like Cellbit losing interest.

“Not betting this year, then?” Mr. C asked, his tone deceptively light but laced with tension.

“No.”

“The games aren’t the same?” For a brief moment, Mr. C’s expression twisted, his face turning almost diabolic. It was as if the very idea of someone denying the grandeur and luxury of the games he provided was an affront to his existence. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Maybe that’s only because you’ve grown too comfortable, Mr. Balanar. Comfort dulls the senses. Perhaps it’s time I helped you rediscover your edge.”

Cellbit’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

“A more… personal experience,” Mr. C replied smoothly, his grin returning, sharper this time. “If it’s adrenaline you’re after, why not get closer? I offer you to step onto the floor yourself. Not as a player, of course, but as a guard.”

For a moment, Cellbit said nothing. The offer was bold, almost absurd. But as he thought about it, his pulse quickened. Not because of the games themselves —no, there was something more.

He knew this was reckless. Foolish, even. But It was the opportunity to be closer to him, to witness him not as a distant observer but as a shadow within his orbit, was irresistible. It wasn’t just intrigue, it was compulsion.

“You’d be compensated, naturally,” Mr. C added, his eyes gleaming as he watched Cellbit’s reaction like a predator circling prey. “It’s a dangerous position, I won’t deny that, but I’m more than willing to make it worth your while, just to keep the interest of one of my best contributors. And you’d finally get the thrill you’ve been craving. The players wouldn’t even know it’s you.”

The idea was reckless, dangerous, and entirely unorthodox. Cellbit’s lips curled into the faintest of smirks. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and calm, masking the spark of excitement flaring within him. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Mr. C clapped his hands together, his grin widening. “This year might be the most interesting yet.”

As they walked away, Cellbit’s mind raced. For the first time in years, he felt something stir in his chest; an unfamiliar mix of anticipation and intrigue. Whatever this year’s games held, one thing was certain: Roier had already changed everything.

Cellbit’s footsteps echoed as a guard led him through a new tlabyrinth of hallways. The air was cold, and the only sound that accompanied them was the faint hum of distant machinery. His mind buzzed with anticipation, but he kept a calm composure, focused on the black floor beneath him. The players were still asleep, unaware of the terror they would soon be thrust into, their fate sealed the moment they signed up. Cellbit was already enjoying the thought of what was to come.

The guard stopped in front of a steel door, its edges sleek and cold. With a quick nod, he motioned for Cellbit to enter. The room inside was stark with bright lights flickering above and a few metal lockers lined against the wall.

Inside, a set of red suits hung on a rack, neatly arranged. They were simple, unremarkable, and yet the uniform of the guards held a strange power in its anonymity. The guard simply handed him a suit and a matching black mask.

Cellbit took the suit without hesitation, peeling off his tailored clothes and slipping into the coarse fabric of the guard’s uniform. The fabric wasn’t much to look at —plain, red, unadorned— but it gave him the cover he needed. He pulled the mask over his face, the black void swallowing his identity, leaving nothing but the faintest silhouette of his sharp features. His eyes, cold blue behind the mask, glinted with anticipation.

“The rules are simple,” the guard said in a low, mechanical tone, his voice devoid of emotion. “You don’t speak to the participants. You don’t reveal your identity. And you don’t interfere with the games.” The man paused, letting the weight of the rules sink in, before adding, “The games must unfold naturally, as intended. No exceptions.”

Cellbit chuckled softly under his breath, his voice muffled by the mask. Rules. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes inside, knowing how easily they could be bent, once the game truly began. He had no intention of staying within the confines of those rules.

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to enjoy the show,” Cellbit said, his voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t worry about me.”

The guard didn’t respond, simply turning to lead the way deeper into the compound. Cellbit followed, his boots tapping rhythmically against the cold concrete, a growing sense of excitement bubbling inside him. He could almost taste the chaos that would soon unfold.

They moved through narrow corridors, passing silent rooms where the players slept, unaware of the fate awaiting them. Every now and then, a soft sound, like a groan or a shift, would echo through the walls, but the players remained oblivious, their minds lost to dreams they wouldn’t wake from until it was too late.

The path led them upward, to the higher levels where the guards were stationed. There, at the end of a long hall, was the guard section—bare, functional, designed to keep everything running smoothly while the real drama played out below.

Cellbit stepped into the room, his eyes quickly scanning the space. This was where he would wait, hidden behind the mask, blending in with the others. His pulse thrummed with anticipation. The players were still in transit, their fates yet to be sealed, but Cellbit could already feel the thrill of what was to come. He wasn’t there just to watch —he was there to shape the game, to push it in directions no one could predict.

He wasn’t there just to watch, he was there to shape the game, to push it in directions no one could predict. He had already made up his mind. Every move, every player’s fate, would be his to decide. It wasn’t about watching from the sidelines anymore. It was about feeling the game, being in the thick of it.

The rush of control, the spark of excitement that only came when you could push someone to their limits, watch as they broke, and decide whether they lived or died with a simple, deliberate choice. That was what he craved. That was what he was here for.

The game would no longer be some distant, boring spectacle to place bets on—it would be his game now.

The thrill was intoxicating, a buzz he couldn’t shake, as he settled into his place, waiting for the games to begin.

Day 1: First Encounter

The participants slowly stirred as they awoke in their cold, metallic beds, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights that flooded the arena. Confusion painted their faces. But as the disorientation began to fade, the stark reality of their situation started to sink in —they weren’t in a safe place, and the rules of this place were simple: survive or perish. The high, imposing walls that enclosed the arena cast long, oppressive shadows, amplifying the claustrophobic weight of their new prison. This was a place built for survival, where time moved with a chilling certainty, each tick of the clock counting down to death.

Cellbit stood in the shadows, unseen by the contestants where he could observe without interference. His eyes swept over the arena, mentally mapping the layout.  It was all too familiar to him by now, yet this time was different. This time, it felt real.

And then he saw him.

Roier.

The young man caught his eye immediately. Roier moved with ease, his gaze sweeping across the arena with a sharpness that belied his apparent naivety. He was the picture of confidence, every movement fluid and purposeful. Cellbit noticed the way he walked with a certain grace, as if the arena itself couldn’t intimidate him. His head was held high, his posture open, despite the looming terror of the situation. He was unbothered by the chaos around him, even as others fumbled to comprehend their predicament.

Roier’s charm was undeniable. Everywhere he went, people spoke to him, some offering nervous introductions, others making small talk to ease the tension. Roier responded with a smile, his easy demeanor allowing him to slip into conversations as though he belonged, as if the arena were just another setting for him to navigate. The way he interacted with everyone —calm, friendly— intrigued Cellbit. There was something about the way Roier scanned the people around him, learning who he could trust and who he could exploit. It was methodical, but also effortless. As if he was born to read people, to understand them.

The boy’s eyes flicked across the arena, noticing the small details that others might miss —the faded markings on the floor where the contestants would be positioned, the cameras hidden in the corners of the walls, the subtle shift in the lighting. He took it all in. His steps were deliberate, precise. He made his way through the arena, not as a prey to be hunted, but as a player who was already planning his next move. Every smile was a piece of the puzzle he was quietly assembling in his mind.

And yet, as Roier mingled effortlessly, laughing, talking, and making small jokes, Cellbit felt a growing unease. There was something about the ease with which Roier navigated the group, how quickly he connected with everyone, that unsettled him. The thought of Roier making allies there, of forming bonds in that cutthroat environment, stirred something deep inside him.

Jealousy? The voices in his head chimed in, playful and intrusive. “Absolutely not.” he muttered to no one, his words aimed at the empty air. The voices scoffed in response, their laughter dripping with cruel amusement, as if mocking the lie he couldn’t even admit to himself.

Look at you. What happened to the cold observer? Pathetic. They jeered at him, each taunt scraping against his carefully maintained composure. He clenched his jaw, pushing back against the rising tide of their laughter.

But still the sight of Roier so effortlessly mingling, charming everyone he encountered, refused to leave his mind. It wasn’t just unease. The idea of Roier forming connections — alliances even — with these people gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

They’re strangers. Weak. the voices hissed. What could they possibly offer him that you can’t?

And they were right. No one here knew the games like he did, no one understood how to truly survive. If Roier wanted guidance, he should be speaking to him , not wasting his time with those players who would likely stab him in the back the moment it suited them. Cellbit felt a sharp pang of frustration. He could teach Roier so much, tell him the real tricks that had taken him years of watching to detect. Roier should be learning from him —but he couldn’t. Not yet.

No, he needed to hold back. The games hadn’t started, he needed more time. He needed to see how Roier would react when the games began in earnest, when the true danger made itself known. Would Roier’s charm survive the pressure? Would he still smile, still carry that air of confidence, when the bloodshed started?

You’re getting soft…  the voices spat again. Why do you care? You’ve seen hundreds of contestants pass through here. He’s no different.

But he was, wasn’t he? Cellbit’s thoughts swirled, a mix of fascination and frustration. He forced his gaze back to the arena, pushing against the chaos clawing at his thoughts. Roier wasn’t distracting him. No. He was simply observing; studying the contestants, as he always did. That was all. This was about the game, about the thrill he’d been chasing. He wanted to enjoy himself, nothing more.

The nagging pull in his chest? Irrelevant. The flicker of frustration every time Roier’s easy laughter reached his ears? Insignificant. He wasn’t letting Roier get to him —he refused to believe that. That was his arena, his game, and Roier was just another player. A fascinating one, sure, but still just a player. That was all there was to it.

The blaring alarm echoed through the arena, slicing through Cellbit’s spiraling thoughts like a blade. It was time. The first games were officially underway, signaling the start of another brutal edition of the Squid Games.

Cellbit took his place on the sidelines, blending into the background as the players were corralled and prepped for the first rounds. They were simple, by the standards of this horrific spectacle —tests of raw physical skill designed to weed out the weakest early on. He watched with cold detachment as the participants sprinted, climbed, and clawed their way through the obstacles, escaping from robotic beasts that chased them alive, desperate to survive.

His tasks then were pretty simple: after the games, carrying bodies and cleaning up blood. It was practically another Tuesday in his line of work, nothing he hadn't seen before. Yet, seeing it unfold in person, hearing the screams up close, and watching the light leave their eyes added a visceral thrill that he couldn’t deny. There was something darkly satisfying about the immediacy of it.

But still, his focus kept drifting back to Roier.

Cellbit had marked him the moment the games began, easily picking him out in the chaos. The boy moved with a natural grace, weaving through the carnage like it was second nature. Where others stumbled and hesitated, Roier surged forward with an effortless confidence. The beasts unleashed in the arena —a horrifying mix of animalistic and mechanical monstrosities— were relentless, tearing through anyone too slow or too clumsy to escape. But Roier didn’t falter.

He was fast. Precise. The way he sprinted toward the nearest hiding spot, his timing perfect as he ducked out of sight just before a beast’s claws raked the air where he’d been, it was almost beautiful.

Cellbit found himself smirking as he watched. Of course, Roier would excel here. His physique hinted at a life of movement, his reflexes honed by experience. The boy wasn’t just surviving; he was thriving, adapting to the chaos around him with startling ease. Cellbit felt a strange, inexplicable pride swell in his chest, quickly followed by annoyance.

You shouldn’t care . The voices were speaking again. Roier didn’t need his worry or his admiration. The boy clearly had the first rounds under control. There was no struggle, no hesitation.

But Cellbit allowed himself to relax. It was only the beginning. The real tests hadn’t started yet, and Cellbit’s intrigue was far from sated. Roier might have escaped the beasts, but the question lingered in Cellbit’s mind: how would he fare when the arena stopped testing his body and started testing his mind?

The survivors trudged back to the main arena, exhaustion and fear etched into every face. The earlier confusion and disbelief had melted away, replaced by the suffocating weight of reality. Over a hundred pairs of eyes darted nervously, some welling with tears, others wide with dread. They understood now—this was no game of chance or skill. It was survival, and the price was steep. Only one of them would make it out alive.  

Whispers and low sobs echoed through the cavernous room as players clung to the edges of their makeshift world. Some huddled in groups, murmuring desperate prayers or forming tentative alliances. Others sat alone, shoulders hunched in defeat. A handful had already started looking for ways out—not for escape, but for surrender.  

Above it all, Cellbit observed the chaos from the shadows, his mask hiding a cruel smile. Fear was the great equalizer, the thing that stripped humanity down to its barest, ugliest instincts. And this? This was only the beginning.  

The night was still to come.  

A twisted anticipation churned in his chest. "The night" was one of his favorite events, one the elite looked forward to with ravenous glee. An hour of total darkness, where every bond of society was severed. No rules, no restraints, no consequences. Bets would be placed on how many bodies would pile up by dawn, a morbid lottery for those wealthy enough to spectate. For the players, it was chaos incarnate.  

His gaze swept the room, searching for one face among the sea of despair. He found Roier easily—his posture still upright, his movements deliberate. Roier had aligned himself with a small group, six of them in total. Cellbit’s eyes narrowed as he watched Roier talk animatedly with a few of them, his gestures quick, his tone calm. He could see the boy’s clever mind at work, organizing, preparing. They’d armed themselves with broken bottles and had staked out a corner of the arena, placing their beds in a tight circle for defense.  

It was smart. Cellbit couldn’t deny that. But he also knew better. Groups fell apart. Alliances cracked under the weight of desperation. And yet... he found himself trusting Roier’s instincts.  

Until the lights went out.  

The instant darkness swallowed the room, the panic was immediate. Screams erupted from every direction, punctuated by the sound of rushing footsteps and the sharp, sickening crash of violence. The chaos that followed was predictable—frantic, primal, and brutal.  

But Cellbit’s focus stayed locked on Roier. He was the key to this game, the one who made all of it interesting.  

And then, to his utter disbelief, Roier left his group.  

In the middle of the bedlam, Roier slipped away from his allies, clutching a broken bottle in each hand. His figure moved through the darkness like a ghost, his body tense but his movements deliberate.  

“What the hell are you doing?” Cellbit muttered under his breath, the mockery in his mind momentarily silenced by genuine concern. Going alone was reckless, suicidal even. Alone, Roier became a beacon for violence, a target for every scavenger and brute prowling in the shadows.  

Desperation clawed at Cellbit, something foreign and unwelcome twisting in his chest. Roier’s potential couldn’t end here —not on the first night, not for something so absurd. He wouldn’t let it happen. Roier would not die that night.  

Cellbit moved swiftly, slipping through the chaos like a phantom. The mask he wore gave him the advantage of night vision, letting him weave through flailing bodies and avoid threats with practiced ease. His eyes locked on Roier, standing alone in a corner, both bottles raised defensively, his head swiveling to catch any sign of movement.  

There was no fear in his expression, only sharp, cold focus. Still, Cellbit knew better. Alone, Roier was vulnerable.  

He considered his options, calculating the best way to intervene without drawing suspicion —or attention. A plan formed quickly in his mind.  

Roier’s sharp senses caught him before he could close the distance. The boy turned his head, his body tensing as he took a cautious step backward. Perfect. Exactly where Cellbit needed him to be.  

In one swift motion, Cellbit lunged. Roier’s reflexes were quick, he swung the bottle in his right hand, but Cellbit was faster. He caught Roier off guard, their bodies colliding as he shoved him toward the bathroom door. The force of the push sent both of them sprawling inside, the door slamming shut behind them.  

They hit the floor hard, Cellbit landing on top of Roier. The boy was pinned beneath him, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with surprise.  

For a moment, neither of them moved.  

Cellbit’s mask obscured his expression, but his piercing gaze locked onto Roier’s face, drinking in every detail: the flushed skin, the tense set of his jaw, the defiance burning in his eyes.  

Roier’s lips parted, and Cellbit’s breath hitched. Whatever words the other was about to say, Cellbit already knew they’d be anything but dull.  

Roier’s hand trembled slightly as he pressed the jagged edge of the broken bottle against Cellbit’s neck. His dark eyes were narrowed, scanning Cellbit’s mask, looking for any sign of weakness.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Roier hissed, his voice low but laced with fury. “Guards aren’t supposed to be here.”

Cellbit’s breath hitched, but his composure didn’t falter. “Why the hell were you alone?”

The question came out unbidden, surprising even himself.

Roier blinked, his expression shifting. The tension in his features softened, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

“Why were you alone?” Cellbit repeated, sharper this time.

For a moment, the two stared at each other, the heavy silence broken only by the distant chaos still raging outside. Then, Roier smirked, though the bottle didn’t waver. “Were you watching me?”

“No,” Cellbit said flatly, though the answer came too quickly to be convincing.

“Really?” Roier tilted his head, the smirk growing wider. “Then why do you care what I do? You’re just here to watch us kill each other, right? And to drag our bodies off to who-knows-where after.”

Cellbit’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. He didn’t answer, unwilling to give Roier the satisfaction.

“Thought so” Roier muttered, though his tone had lost some of its bite.

Roier’s gaze flicked down for the briefest moment, and Cellbit used it to his advantage. He shifted his weight subtly, pushing against Roier’s arm with just enough force to loosen the bottle’s hold on his neck. The movement brought their faces closer, and Roier froze, realizing their precarious position.

They both scrambled to their feet in an awkward, almost synchronized movement, brushing themselves off. Neither of them dared to speak for a few moments, as if acknowledging the tension would make it worse.

“Just wait here for the night to end” Cellbit said finally, his voice low but commanding.

Roier crossed his arms, a bottle still clutched tightly in one hand. “Why would I listen to you?”

“Why would you go back out there, where you can die, if you can avoid it?” Cellbit shot back, his tone biting but calm.

A slow smile spread across Roier’s lips, the kind that sent a strange heat through Cellbit’s chest. “Fair point. But again, why do you care?”

Cellbit ignored the question, stepping back slightly. “It’s just stupid,” he muttered, his voice laced with a faint irritation he couldn’t quite hide. “You were one of the best in the first games. You’ve got the skill to survive, but then you pull something reckless like this? Exposing yourself like that? I was... intrigued. That’s all.”

Roier raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning, but he said nothing, letting Cellbit’s words hang in the air.

“You can’t tell anyone you were in here. Not a single word. If you do, I’ll be the first to kill you” Cellbit added, his tone shifting to something colder, sharper.

Roier snorted, the sound equal parts amused and incredulous. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were doing me a favor.”

“You’re not wrong” Cellbit muttered.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” Roier said after a pause. “But you know what? If I do tell them that a guard cornered me—” he laughed sharply at the word “—I get the feeling they’d be more interested in killing you than in killing me.”

“Don’t try to act like you know everything,” Cellbit growled, stepping closer, his posture tense. “You’re already stupid enough for getting yourself into these games.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me.”

Roier opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the blinding lights of the arena came back on. The sudden sound of the illumination turning back on washed over both of them, breaking the charged atmosphere.

Roier glanced toward the door, then back at Cellbit, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’ll corner me in a bathroom again if you’re so curious” he said, his voice smooth, before slipping past Cellbit and stepping into the arena.

Cellbit's body stayed rooted in place, his pulse thundering in his ears. The burn of embarrassment clawed at him, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the raw, insistent pull surging within him.

He wanted to see Roier again. He needed to see Roier again.