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You hear him before you see him.
Shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor, a grunt as he lowers himself onto a bunk next to you, the mattress groaning under his weight. In the heavy silence of the dormitories, each noise was like a gunshot.
You silently cursed this man, for what you knew was a silly reason, internally praying that he’d, well, exist quieter. As if the guards would come in again at the sound, would maybe decide to finish the job on either one of you.
Your hands tremble despite yourself, fingers digging into the nail bed of your thumbs, damn near drawing blood. The game ended hours ago. Still, you couldn’t get the sound out of your head.
Not the gunshots – those were awful, yes, but finite. The silence after them? That’s what got to you. The way it would ring incessantly in your ear. The way it swallowed the screams like they never mattered. The way it would force you to look ahead, blood-stained dirt covering the distance between you and that glassy-eyed doll.
You suddenly feel eyes on you, snapping you out of your trance. It takes a couple of blinks and a quick rub of the eyes for the person to come into focus – But when you do, you see a man sitting across from you, propped up on one elbow, looking entirely too happy considering the circumstances.
“I saw you.”
You frown. You don’t recognize this man at all, with his too-bright smile and too-high ponytail. Your eyes blearily travel down to his shirt, his number reading 388.
“Sorry?”
“I saw you,” He repeats again, undeterred. “In the game! You were like,” He makes a running motion with his hand. “And then you were like-” He holds both his palms up, frozen in his position.
You blink at him in disbelief. Just who was this guy?
“Seriously,” He continues, “It was super smart.”
“I froze.” You correct, dusting off some gravel from your knee.
He snorts at that, for whatever reason. “Yeah. That’s what saved you.”
Your eyes flit around the room, air thick with sweat and panic. People murmuring amongst themselves now, some wide-eyed and shaking, others silently dissociated, hugging knees to their chests. None of those descriptions fit the man in front of you, somehow, his smile too genuine for a place this hellish.
You study him again, this time more carefully. There’s something off about that smile – not fake, exactly. But misplaced. Like he’s using it the same way you’re using silence. A shield.
“You always this cheerful after mass murder?” You ask, flat.
He raises an eyebrow, but the smile doesn’t drop. “No. Usually takes me two games.”
You stare at him.
He scratches the back of his neck, expression sheepish now, like he knows that was the wrong thing to say and said it anyway.
“I didn’t mean–” He starts, but cuts himself off, glancing down at his lap. The grin slips then, if only slightly. “Sorry. That was a stupid joke.”
You don’t answer. Mostly because you’re not too sure what to do with him. He really doesn’t look like the others. The ones with wild eyes and trembling hands, or worse, the ones already sizing people up like meat. He had an air of quiet acceptance. Like someone who already made peace with this place before he ever walked in.
“Why’d you come over here?” You ask, quieter now.
He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck again. A nervous tic, maybe. “You looked like you needed someone to talk to.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
You blink. You half expected him to pry further, half disappointed by his short response.
He lies back on the mattress, arms folded behind his head. One leg hangs lazily over the side of the bunk, his carefree attitude replaced with something more somber, more contemplative.
“I just didn’t wanna lie down next to that guy,” he mumbles, nodding toward a man two bunks down who was rocking back and forth, chewing on the collar of his shirt. “You looked like the least likely person to try kill me in my sleep.”
You huff. Barely. The ghost of a laugh, if you were feeling generous.
“How can you be so sure?” You test the waters, eyeing him with the slightest raise of your eyebrow.
He seemed amused by that, throwing his head back in a hearty laugh. “I just got a sense for these things.”
“What,” You sit up properly now, tilting your head at him. “You a psychologist or something?”
“No.” He says, too quickly. “I am… Was a Marine.”
His throat bobs, you’re not sure from what, exactly. But it’s a weird enough response for you to mentally file that away for later.
You nod slowly, the kind of nod that says huh, figures . That does explain a few things, you suppose. That quiet confidence. How he was able to survive the first game, when so many hadn’t. How calm he seems now, like he’d trained himself to keep breathing even when everything’s gone to hell.
“A Marine,” you say, testing the word. “That tracks.”
He hums in acknowledgment, folding his arms behind his head again like he’s done this before; The cramped cot, the low ceiling, the stillness after violence.
Then silence again. It’s less suffocating now, but there nonetheless. The ugly sobs and breathless prayers from other players had subsided for now, the room cast in dark, save for the soft glow of the blue O in the center of the room.
After a minute, you hear him shift again.
“I’m Kang Dae-ho,” he says, not looking at you this time. “Figured if I’m gonna annoy you to death, you should at least know my name.”
You give him a sidelong glance. His eyes are still trained on the ceiling.
You tell him your name. Not because you feel like sharing, but because it felt like the polite thing to do. Even in a place like this, you weren’t exactly free from the niceties that came from introductions.
He repeats your name under his breath, like he’s turning it over in his mouth, trying it on for size.
“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Sounds about right.”
You give him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder, still staring up at the ceiling. “Dunno. Some people just… look like their name, you know?”
You don’t answer. Partly because you’re not sure if that’s dumb or kind of profound, and partly because you’re too tired to care.
“It’s gonna be worse tomorrow.” You decide, an air of finality in your tone.
Dae-Ho says nothing to that, only running a hand across his face in a slow, tortuous manner. A silent agreement.
The silence stretches again. You’ve become accustomed to it now. You wish it were the awkward kind, the type of silence found in elevators with co-workers, or clumsy first dates. It was decidedly heavy, instead. The type that wraps around your shoulders like wet cloth.
Exhaustion sets in now, bone-deep and near debilitating. Your mind doesn’t quiet, though, spinning with flashes of red, green, red; That doll with those wide, frozen eyes.
You feel him shift again, his voice soft, almost a whisper.
“You got anyone here?”
You blink, turning towards him. “No.”
He nods. “Me neither.”
You both fall quiet again. And then:
“We should stick together.”
You eye him suspiciously. “Why?”
The question sounds stupid as soon as it leaves your lips, of course you knew the merit of having an alliance in a place like this. The only thing you couldn’t figure out is why Dae-Ho would choose you over anyone else.
“Well.” He kisses his teeth. “It’s either you or Mr. Slobber Shirt down there.” He stretches out his leg that was hung over the bunk, using his shoe to point at the man, the front of his shirt stained with tears, sweat and saliva.
You grimace, eyebrows knitted together.
“I’m not saying that we gotta be best friends .” He continues, sensing your hesitance. “Just… We both have a better chance of making it if someone’s watching your back, you know?”
You consider that. You want to say no, you’ve learnt already that being in someone’s debt never leads to anywhere good.
But you also remember the look in the eyes of the other players. The wild ones. The hopeless ones.
You turn to fully look at him now, this stranger with his ponytail and misplaced warmth, and decide that maybe– just maybe; That it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“Yeah.” You say, hoarse, like the air had just been kicked out of you. “Yeah… Fine.”
Something in him lights up at that, sitting up in his bunk with some kind of reinvigorated determination.
He reaches down, grabs the scratchy blanket from the foot of the cot, and tosses it halfway in your direction.
“Here. I run hot when I sleep.”
You hesitate, but take it. Fold it over your lap like a peace treaty.
The lights dim even further, plunging the dormitory into a quiet so absolute it almost rings in your ears. Beside you, Dae-ho is already lying back, arms behind his head again, chest rising and falling with the kind of rhythm that feels practiced.
Eventually, your body pulls you down, exhaustion beating out paranoia. The blanket is scratchy. The mattress harder than you thought. Dae-ho was out instantly despite it, face squished against his pillow, his light snores filling the room.
You stifle a laugh, the first real one that has come since entering this place.
Finally, mercifully, you let your eyes fall shut.
The ache in your chest doesn’t disappear. Nor does the fear. But it softens, just slightly, with the knowledge that someone else will be awake with you tomorrow, one that knows your name and not just your number.
It makes you feel more human, if you allow yourself to even dare think things like that in here.
Maybe that’s just what hope looks like in a place like this.
You drift off, the sound of his even breathing just steady enough to anchor you to the floor.