Daeho huddled on his bunk, knees drawn tight to his chest, the thin blanket wrapped around him like a flimsy shield. His breaths came shallow and uneven—each one a struggle against the crushing weight of betrayal. His own team had abandoned him after the rebellion, after his panic had swallowed him whole. Now he sat alone, a traitor in their eyes, with nowhere left to hide.

His trembling fingers clutched a cold sweet potato, the meager meal doing nothing to settle the nausea churning in his gut. His gaze darted across the cavernous player dormitory, every shadow a threat, every whisper a condemnation. God, they all hate me now.

As he forced himself to chew, a familiar, venomous presence burned into him. Player 456. That stare—heavy, unrelenting, promising violence. Daeho’s throat tightened. Not again. He knew, with sickening certainty, that he wouldn’t survive the next game. His vision blurred; he blinked rapidly, fighting back the hot sting of tears.

Then—footsteps. Too close. His body locked up, every muscle coiled in primal fear. Slowly, he lifted his head.

"If... if you're here to remind me I'm a traitor too," he whispered, voice fraying at the edges, "just... leave me alone." A hard swallow. Like even speaking was an act of defiance.