We didn’t talk much as we kept moving, climbing higher and higher through the stairwell while the sounds below us slowly faded into something distant and unclear, and I wasn’t sure if that meant we were getting safer or if we were just walking toward something worse without realizing it yet.
My legs were starting to hurt.
Not the sharp kind of pain.
The heavy kind that slowly builds up and makes every step feel like it weighs more than the last.
I didn’t say anything about it.
Choi Han walked a few steps ahead of me, not rushing, not slowing down too much either, just moving at a steady pace like he was making sure I could keep up without needing to ask, and I hated how obvious it was.
I also appreciated it.
I kept both thoughts to myself.
“This game’s annoying,” I muttered after a while, mostly to break the silence.
Choi Han glanced back at me, his expression tired but calm, like he’d already accepted that complaining wouldn’t change anything.
“Yeah,” he replied, simple and honest.
That was it.
No long speech.
No trying to comfort me.
Just agreement.
That somehow made it easier to breathe.
We reached the next floor and stopped near a broken vending machine, its glass shattered and its contents spilled across the floor like someone had tried to loot it in a hurry, and Choi Han crouched down immediately, checking the hallway ahead while I leaned against the wall and tried not to look as exhausted as I felt.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Quiet,” he answered.
That didn’t mean safe.
It never did.
I watched him carefully as he stood there, alert and focused, and it was obvious why the game had chosen him, why the system kept favoring him in ways it never did for me, because he looked like someone who belonged here, someone who could adapt quickly without panicking.
Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive.
That difference sat heavily in my chest.
“We should rest for a minute,” Choi Han said after scanning the area again.
I almost laughed.
Resting in a place like this felt wrong.
But my legs were shaking now, and I knew pushing myself would just slow us down later.
“Just one minute,” I said.
He nodded.
We sat on opposite sides of the hallway, backs against the wall, both facing forward like we were afraid something would jump out if we relaxed even a little, and the silence between us wasn’t awkward this time, just tired.
My arm still hurt.
The makeshift bandage was soaked through.
I ignored it.
“You’re not very good at hiding pain,” Choi Han said suddenly.
I frowned.
“I am,” I replied.
“You’re really not.”
I sighed, leaning my head back against the wall and staring at the ceiling, which was cracked and stained in several places like it had been falling apart long before this game started.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Complaining won’t help.”
Choi Han didn’t argue.
He just nodded once.
That was something I noticed about him.
He didn’t try to force his opinions on me.
He didn’t act like he knew better just because the system favored him.
He listened.
Or at least, he pretended to.
Either way, it was better than being ignored.
Ding 一
[ SIDE QUEST AVAILABLE ]
The sound made both of us tense instantly.
Another message appeared in the air, smaller than the main scenario, but still impossible to miss.
[ Assist Another Player ]
[ Reward: Minor Recovery ]
[ Failure: None ]
I stared at it.
“Assist?” I repeated.
Choi Han frowned slightly. “That’s new.”
“Doesn’t say who,” I added.
That was the problem.
We exchanged a look.
Not emotional.
Not dramatic.
Just two people silently asking the same question.
Is it worth it?
“If it’s a trap, we leave,” Choi Han said.
I nodded. “Agreed.”
No hesitation.
No argument.
It felt strange how easily we were working together.
The sound of coughing echoed faintly from down the hallway, weak and uneven, and we followed it slowly, staying close to the walls and checking every corner like we’d already done this a hundred times before.
We found him slumped against a classroom door.
Another player.
Young.
Terrified.
Alive, for now.
Choi Han took the lead, checking the area while I crouched down a few steps away, watching the hallway behind us, my heart pounding hard even though nothing had happened yet.
“Can you walk?” Choi Han asked the guy.
The player nodded shakily.
“Good,” Choi Han said. “Then get up. We’re moving.”
No comforting words.
No promises.
Just instructions.
As we helped the player to his feet and started moving again, I realized something strange.
This wasn’t about trust.
Not really.
It was about necessity.
About survival.
About doing what made sense in the moment.
And right now, sticking together made sense.
We didn’t talk about the past.
We didn’t talk about the future.
We didn’t talk about why the game chose him and not me.
We just kept moving forward, watching each other’s backs, step by step, because in a place like this, that was all we could afford to do.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
