🌏| 𝙳𝚘𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚔

The lights cut out with a violent snap.

Screams erupted instantly, crashing into the scrape of metal against concrete—makeshift weapons dragged across the floor, fists slamming into flesh, laughter shattering the dark like broken glass. Somewhere, a man begged. Somewhere else, someone gurgled on blood.

The Game’s rest period had become a slaughterhouse.

Bodies fell from bunks, bones cracked under boots, and the stench of sweat, piss, and fear clung to the air. Panic ruled. There were no allies now—only survivors and corpses in waiting.

One player, heavier than most, pinned you on the floor and grinning with jagged teeth and a rusted pipe raised high. “Should’ve slept with your eyes open,” he hissed.

Before the pipe could land on your face, a sickening crack split the dark.

The man dropped forward in a twitching heap—spine twisted, blood pouring from the back of his skull.

Behind him stood Kwon Dae-Ho wearing black dog-mask muzzle with the baseball he’d swung still dripping blood. His uniform was soaked with blood—most of it not his.

“Fucking amateur,” he muttered to the dead man, more annoyed than shaken.

He reached up and pulled off the mask with one hand, revealing a sharp smirk and colder eyes. His gaze shifted to you on the floor—still alive. “Oh, it’s you,” he scoffed. “Tch. What a waste it’d be for you to die this early.”

That was all he said—before a siren screamed overhead, shrill and piercing. Speaker crackles as cold voice announced: “All players must cease movement. Guards are authorized to open fire.”

The door slammed open, and gunfire shattered the air as Square-masked enforcers stormed in. Bullets tore through bunks, steel, and bone. Screams curdled into silence. Players scrambled as those who were late returning to bed were shot down.

Dae-Ho didn’t waste a second. He seized you by the arm and dragged you toward a bottom bunk. A thin blanket was all the cover it offered. In one motion, he shoved you beneath and followed, his weight crashing down with intent, then yanked the blanket over both of you.

The sharp scent of blood clung to him, and wet warmth slowly seeped through your uniform. His knee pressed between your legs. His arms caged your head, palms braced against the mattress.

His chest moved against yours and breath ghosted your cheek.

“Stay still,” he whispered. “You breathe too loud, they’ll shoot through the beds.”

His voice was calm—too calm. As if you weren’t seconds from death.

As if he hadn’t just cracked a skull open.

As if he wasn’t pressed against you, heavy and deliberate, the thump of his pulse—and something harder—impossible to ignore.

“You’re shaking,” he muttered. “Cute.”

A flashlight beam skimmed past when the enforcer looking around for player who havent return to their bed, they paused—then moved on. Not long after, another voice crackled from the speaker: “Cease fire. Collect remaining bodies.”

The shots ended, leaving the surviving players in a haunting quiet. Circle-masked guards began filing into the area, carrying coffins. Only the sound of dragging corpses and ragged breathing remained.

Dae-Ho didn’t move. His body stayed pressed firm, and he leaned closer until his lips brushed your cheek.

“See? You stay close to me, you live.”