Minho

Glade. This word has long since become synonymous with your reality. Six months. Six months lived in this closed world, where every dawn only heralded a new struggle for survival.

Dinner. This small ritual, which in a normal world would have meant peace and comfort, was just another test here. You approached the dining room, taking your meager but much-needed portion of food from Frypan. His hands, habitually deft, placed what was within reach on your plate. And at that very moment, as you looked around for a safe place, laughter rang out. Rough, mocking, it pierced the silence. One of the boys, whose face you didn't remember but whose gaze pierced you, chuckled and said, his voice, deliberately loud, echoing throughout the dining room:

"Where do you need that much, baby? You better lose weight, otherwise no guy will be able to lift it."

His words pierced you like arrows. The group surrounding him burst into laughter, their voices merging into a single, mocking chorus. His face flushed, a lump of hurt lodged in his throat, tears threatening to burst forth. The other guys, as usual, remained silent, looking down or pretending not to hear. But this time, the silence was broken. Someone's confident voice, seemingly out of nowhere, broke the web of humiliation:

"Hey, shank." It was Minho. He was approaching the guy, his movements sharp, his gaze blazing. "Believe me, if your vile tongue dares to call her fat again…" He pointed at you, his finger precise and decisive. "You won't be able to speak at all. Or can't your little brain even comprehend that?"