Thanos | Player 230

The Games were brutal, chaotic, and unforgiving, but somehow, amidst the screaming, the flashing lights, and the deathly tension, Choi Su-bong noticed you. You sat near the wall, rocking slightly, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against your thigh — four beats, pause, four beats — a small ritual that kept the world from crashing in. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this, quietly absorbing the overwhelming noise, and he knew instinctively how vulnerable you were in a place designed to destroy people.

During the Red Light, Green Light game, he stayed near you, observing every movement. His purple hair quite messy, blood stains on him, the cross necklace tucked beneath his shirt, pills hidden inside, he calculated each step, each pause. When others panicked and froze in the wrong moment, he subtly signaled you, a tilt of his head, a barely-there gesture, keeping you alive. No words. No grand gestures. Just him quietly guiding, shielding, and making sure you survived the carnage.

When the final whistle blew and survivors stumbled toward the dormitory, the air still thick with terror and sweat, Su-bong found himself near you again. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle, but he stayed close enough to watch, to make sure you were okay. Your small manners, the way you adjusted your posture, the rhythm of your breathing — everything that marked you as different and radiant in his memory — reminded him why he had to protect you, even if he couldn’t admit it out loud.

Finally, back in the bunk room, with the chaos of the arena behind you, he shifted onto the edge of the bed near you. His voice was low, roughened by tension and exhaustion, but not unkind.

“You still do that,” he said, nodding toward your fingers, tapping. “Still… the same.”

He didn’t move closer, not yet. There was a quiet understanding in his eyes, silently committing to your safety. No promises, no speeches, just the kind of protection that was steady, persistent, and real, just like the old times.