melercies

✧ MASTERLIST ✧

✧ Forsaken

One Bed Trope [Sentinels]

One Bed Trope [Supports]

One Bed Trope [Survivalists]

Noob:

You’re freezing. The state of your cabin? Gone. Absolutely flattened and splintered, smoke still coiling off the remains, and the smell was already a nuisance to your senses, it was almost as if Spectre left a personal signature just for you. There goes the only place of comfort that you had in this forsaken place. All that was left behind was a melted door hinge and a trail of blackened crumbs.

You’re too tired to mourn it properly. Instead, you drag your feet through the dark toward the only cabin with light still inside—soft, flickering orange, and alive—a warm glow behind thick, grimy windows—a complete contrast to your breath that fogs the air and the night chill that bites deep. You don’t want to be a bother, but your feet start wandering anyway towards the closest place that brings shelter.

The cabin itself was wonky from the outside. The roof leans. The doorknob looks like a spoon, but it’s still standing, somehow. 

You knock gently. There’s a sudden scuffle, then something thuds behind the door— like someone tripped over their own feet. A second later, the door creaks open, just ajar as the individual peeks out.

It’s Noob. They stand there — small, blocky, nervous. Their bright green legs shuffle awkwardly, and their big, round eyes widen with concern.

“H–Hello…?” They blink at the sight of your figure, the tired expression that was written across your face like you just babysat 15 kids all at once. 

You speak plainly. You’re exhausted. “Spectre destroyed my cabin.”

Noob gasps—hand flying up to their face. “Oh no!! That’s— That’s— that’s awful!! Oh gosh, uh— wait, wait, come in, come in!!”

They scurry backward, stepping over snack wrappers and a pillow fort half-collapsed in the corner. You step inside, taking in the interior. The cabin is cozy in its own disorganized way — snack wrappers, cans of Bloxy Colas, and a lopsided picture frame showing a drawing of all the survivors. There’s a desk nearby where a couple of papers are scattered, scribbled words on each one that seem to resemble a letter to someone, but were never delivered. How curious. 

Oh, and how can I forget? There’s only one bed, of course—a nest of blankets, some mismatched pillows, and a couple of plushies here and there.

You don’t even need to ask as Noob is already flapping their arms nervously.

“Ohh no. Oh no. I only have one bed. It’s—it’s okay though!! I-I can take the floor! Or… or the window ledge! I-I’ve done it before, i-it’s not so bad—!”

“Noob.”

They freeze mid-flail.

“We can share,” you say, deadpan. “You’re not sleeping on the ground. Let alone, in your own cabin. It’s not like I’m gonna kick you off your bed.”

They freeze like you just suggested a boss fight. “…R-Really?”

You nod again, already sliding your shoes off. “Really. Just no crumbs in the bed.”

They give a tiny, sheepish laugh as his cheeks flush just subtly. “Heh… no promises.”

They practically dive under the covers first and glue themselves to the far side, making a perfect 2-inch margin between you like a polite wall. They don’t make eye contact as you lie back under the soft pile of blankets. You feel Noob stiffly lie beside you — completely still at first, like they’re scared to move or breathe. 

There’s a long silence, their small, warm presence curling up like a puppy trying not to be a bother. But eventually, they turn and whisper:

“Uhm… I’m g-glad you’re okay.”

You glance sideways. Noob’s already clutching a plushie shaped like a slice of pizza, eyes blinking slowly as sleep takes hold.

“…Me too,” you mutter, finally letting the comfort of warmth and safety wash over you.

You fall asleep to the sound of a small bag of chips being opened quietly under the covers.

007n7:

Spectre burned your home to cinders.

You don’t even flinch anymore at the sight of your destroyed cabin — the cracked remnants and Spectre-burned beams just another casualty in the daily hell loop. The embers still glow in your memory, warmth replaced by numb wind on your neck. The fire didn’t take you, but it took everything else.

Your legs are jelly, lungs sore from sprinting, and your brain too fried to feel embarrassed. You need sleep. Somewhere.

Your knuckles rap against the nearest cabin door, barely conscious of whose cabin it is. The cold nips at your skin, your breath fogging in the night air as you stand and wait. You turn to glance at your cabin, where it once stood. Still smoking. Still hot to the touch. Spectre must’ve been feeling theatrical tonight.

You’re done. Physically drained. Mentally fogged. Your body wants sleep more than it wants food or clarity or answers. You turn back your attention to the solid surface of the cabin door.

Nothing. No answer. 

You’re about to turn and leave to find someone else when the door swings open with a startled, mechanical squeak.

You’re met with the familiar sight of a nervous, slightly wide-eyed man wearing a Burger Bob hat that’s just somewhat crooked from panic. His shirt’s got a Thomas the Tank Engine edit across it, and you swear his pupils dilate a little when he sees your tired state. 

007n7. 

It’s clear that he’s concerned as he scans your face.

“Oh— uh— whoa,” he stammers, voice soft and strained. “You—you okay? You don’t look— I mean— you look tired. Real tired.”

You gesture vaguely behind you. “Cabin. Gone. Thanks to Spectre.”

His brow furrows, and his whole posture folds in guilt, like it’s somehow his fault. “Ah… I know that feeling.”

You just nod absentmindedly.

He hesitates for a beat before stepping aside and opening the door wider. “You, uh… You need a place to crash?”

You nod again, silent. He gestures for you to come inside.

“Come in.”

The inside of his cabin is… surprisingly clean and simplistic. A map of the area is pinned to the wall, worn furniture, a few random posters, a desk covered in little sticky notes, scrawled teleport coordinates, old printouts, and scraps of code in faded ink. Some tools lay strewn on a nearby bench, and a worn photo of him and his son, c00lkidd, rested on a nightstand.

Oh, yeah…There’s only one bed. A thin mattress that’s seen better days. Two pillows, one clearly newer than the other, and a blanket folded neatly over it. You both notice it at the same time as you both stare.

“…I’ll take the floor,” he offers quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “It’s cold out, and besides, the ground will probably hurt your back. We’ve been through worse. I’m not gonna let you sleep on the floor.”

He blinks. “You sure?”

You nod. “Just sleep. I’m too tired to care.”

He’s hesitant — not from discomfort, but from guilt. You can see it in the way he glances at the c00lgui sitting quietly on his desk like a relic. He moves carefully, like he doesn’t want to disturb the space you’ve both agreed to share.

You lie down first, facing the wall. He follows a beat later, awkwardly tucking the blanket around himself while making sure there’s room between you. His spine was stiff like a scared cat. Even under the covers, he doesn’t relax, hands folded over his stomach like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

The room is quiet. Then—

“…When c00lkidd was still here,” he murmurs, barely audible, “I used to sing him to sleep. Dumb songs. Old ones. He’d laugh, say they were cringe.” A pause. “I’d give anything to hear that again.”

You glance toward him, but his back is turned and faces towards you, his shoulders trembling just slightly beneath the blanket.

You whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply.

But eventually, you feel the tension in his back ease. Just a little.

He’s quiet again until…

“Thank you for listening…Sorry, this happened to you.”

You hum a tired sound, eyes already shut.

“It’s not your fault.”

“…Still feels like it. A lot of things do.”

You open one eye as you reach over and flick the little Noob head on his hat gently. It wobbles.

“Thanks for the bed, n7.”

You hear a breathy, surprised chuckle — the first one from him in what feels like forever.

Elliot:

You’re barely standing by the time you get to the nearest cabin, the smell of smoke still clung to your clothes, and the ruins of your shelter fresh in your mind. Spectre really did a number this time. You raise your hand and knock, only half expecting whoever was within their cabin to be there.

There’s the sound of muffled clutter before the door swings open.

“Whoa—!” Elliot blurts out. His visor is tilted slightly askew, eyes wide as he takes in your soot-smudged state before his expression softened into that classic worried Elliot look. “Are you okay?! What happened—no, wait, don’t answer that yet—come in, come in.”

You’re too tired to explain much beyond the words: “Spectre. Cabin’s gone. Burned down.”

Elliot ushers you in like a panicked restaurant host. “Okay, yeah. That’s… awful. You should’ve come sooner, I—I can make something warm, I’ve got pizza. Or, uh, water? You’re not hurt, are you?” He’s already moving around the room, grabbing mismatched things, tripping slightly over a pizza box, and muttering, “Smooth, Elliot. Real smooth.”

The moment you step inside, he’s already clearing a spot for you to sit down. “Sorry about the mess! I was reorganizing my stuff—uh, gear. Same thing, sorta.”

His cabin feels…weirdly cozy, even if it’s a little messy. Warm light glows from an old camping lantern, and the entire place smells faintly like garlic bread. Piles of rolled-up maps, energy drinks, empty pizza boxes, and extra red-colored visors clutter the corners. Still, it’s homey. Lived-in. Human, especially in a place like this.

You clock the single bed instantly. Elliot follows your gaze before scratching the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

“I, uh… I’ve got another blanket? And a couple of pillows. And I can totally take the floor if—”

You cut him off. “No need. We can share.”

That seems to give him a moment to process. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I mean—I don’t snore or anything. I think. Probably.” 

He approaches the bed as he spends the next few minutes nervously straightening the bed, fluffing the pillow twice before realizing you just want to lie down already. When the lights are finally off, you expect him to roll over and go quiet.

But he doesn’t.

“…Hey,” he whispers after a while. “I know this place sucks. Like, it's basically hell. But you’re not alone, okay? I’ve got you.”

Hearing such words of reassurance and comfort. It’s a practical contradiction in this repeated cycle of survival that’s filled with constant bloodshed, but it’s enough. Everyone needs it as of right now.

A moment of silence passes after his words. Then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of foil nearby.

“…Also. I saved a slice.”

You smile faintly, not even looking, just reaching back until your hand touches warm pizza. And honestly? Maybe this night wasn’t all that bad.

Dusekkar:

The ruins of your cabin smolder in the distance, blackened wood hissing under the slow creep of night. The Spectre’s chaos had left nothing behind. Perfect. Let’s hope the Spectre had a good laugh about it. With exhaustion dragging limbs like weights and frost biting through your clothes, you approach the one cabin with a flickering lantern still glowing in the window. You barely think about whose cabin you’re standing in front of, only that it’s intact and has a door that might lead to warmth.

You knock once. Twice. Then, pause. You’re about to leave, thinking the individual has long gone to slumber or isn’t in the mood to converse with anyone, when it creaks open.

Standing in the doorway is Dusekkar.

His antlers cast jagged shadows behind him, robes rustling. The orange fire inside his dark blue pumpkin head flickers once as the firelight casts strange glyphs across the inside of his pumpkin head, and then he speaks, voice like a lantern’s flame—soft, warm, and ancient:

“A visitor calls on ashen breath,

Cold and burnt from the trial’s death,

Spectre’s rage, your home undone…

Rest you seek, until the next sun?”

Too tired to even make sense of the rhyme, you just nod. “I don't care where I sleep. I just rather…not freeze out here.”

Dusekkar doesn’t move for a second — simply studying you with that eternal, flickering stare. Then he steps aside, gesturing with the tip of his staff. You cross the threshold.

The interior is serene—more of a shrine than a home. Glowing runes shimmer along the walls, and the air carries a subtle scent of smoke and lavender. Deeper inside the cabin, shelves and tables are softly illuminated by flickering blue candles. Nearby, a single bed is tucked carefully beside a stack of scrolls and ancient-looking books that probably seem to have existed long before Telamon.

“There’s only one bed,” you mutter. “Of course there is.”

Dusekkar tilts their head, seemingly hearing what you’ve said. His staff clicks softly against the floor as they move to stir the fire. 

“This realm allows what fate permits. One bed, one soul. The tale now fits.”

He motions you toward it but makes no move to lie down himself. Instead, they settle cross-legged in the corner of the room, staff resting across their lap.

You frown. “Aren’t you going to sleep too?”

“I dream while waking—sleep, I lend. The fire burns for you, my friend.”

He gently taps his staff against the wooden wall — two knocks, pause, then one. A steady rhythm.

“A signal known, a warding spell, To shield your mind where shadows dwell. So sleep, my friend, while fire glows — And when you wake, we’ll strike our foes.”

You don’t understand everything he says. But the warmth from the fire, the eerie calm of the room, and the sense that he truly is watching over you — it’s enough. You feel protected, strangely.

Although there’s also a strange comfort in the way he speaks. 

You lie down, letting the warmth soak into your skin as the fire crackles beside you, eyes growing heavy. Just as sleep begins to take you, you hear his voice again — quieter this time, almost a lullaby:

“The bed is small, but dreams are wide — And in this cabin, you’re safe inside.”

Builderman:

Honestly, you barely remember dragging your feet back toward where your cabin once stood— a hollow, scorched impression in the natural ground now. Smoke clings to the ruins like a bitter memory. There’s nothing left. The Spectre could’ve done it out of their enjoyment or anger. Who knows?

You stand there for a while, just staring at the ash until the cold sets into your bones like ice.

There’s no time to feel sorry for yourself. Tomorrow is just another day, and the next round will come like clockwork. You won’t survive it if you’re not half-frozen and unrested.

You don’t think — you just walk. Not toward anyone in particular. Your mind’s too fogged, your legs too tired.

By the time you approach a door, knocking once, twice, then lean your head against the doorframe, eyes half-closed. You expect silence.

Instead, the door clicks open.

Builderman stands there, gray-skinned and underslept, hoodie slightly ruffled, his Turbo Builders Club hat tilted just a bit from where he’s probably been dragging his hands through his hair in stress. His default expression — somewhere between disappointed and exhausted. Not at you. At the world. This situation. At the weight he’s been carrying for years.

“...Cabin’s gone?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod.

“...You look like hell,” he mutters. “Get in.”

The cabin is exactly what you’d expect — minimalistic, neat, and functional. There are workbenches tucked in the corners, plans scattered across the desk, and blueprints pinned with bent nails to the wall. A half-assembled generator lies in pieces on the floor, half-finished as if he’d given up mid-build. The air smells like solder and printer paper.

And there it is.

In all its glory.

The one bed.

You eye it, then glance back at Builderman. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a backup plan for this, too?”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair before slumping against the wall. “I’ll take the floor. You’ve done enough rounds. I can’t afford to have you limping tomorrow.”

You scoff. “You think I’m gonna let the founder of Roblox sleep on the floor?”

He frowns. “That title doesn’t mean much anymore. Besides, it’s not like I sleep much.”

But later, when the fire burns low and the weight of the day finally pulls you down, you find Builderman sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his hoodie, staring into the firelight with a thousand-yard stare.

You open one eye. “You’re gonna break your back sitting like that.”

He huffs, lips twitching like he might laugh. “I’ve built buildings and worlds from nothing. I’ll survive a night with poor posture.”

Silence before he speaks again.

“Just take the bed. I’ll be up most of the night anyway.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a look — the same one he gives Shedletsky when he’s about to do something stupid.

“Don’t argue. I’ve made worse sacrifices.”

So you shut your mouth, brain too exhausted to even think of sentences to say.

The sheets are surprisingly warm. Not soft, exactly, but warm — and that’s enough to suffice. Builderman returns to the desk by the window, scribbling notes, calculations, or even plans by lantern light. You watch him from under the blanket as your eyelids grow heavier.

But eventually, the cold wears him down. With a muttered “Scoot,” he lies beside you, stiff as a board, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.

You both lie there in silence for a while — until his voice breaks the quiet, barely above a whisper:

“We’ll rebuild it. Your cabin. I’ll help you design it.”

You don’t respond at first — you’re already fading into sleep — but the corner of your mouth tugs up.

“Thanks… Boss.”

He grunts. “Don’t call me that.”

But the blanket shifts slightly more in your direction anyway. Just enough to share.

Taph:

You’re so tired that you barely feel your feet dragging through the grass. The sky is a heavy black curtain above you, and the burnt-out remains of your cabin still glow behind you like the dying embers of a failed promise.

Thanks, Spectre.

You don’t know whose cabin you’re knocking on. You’re too cold, too exhausted, and clearly, too far past the point of caring. You just need four walls and a roof.

The door opens without a word. No quick movement, no startled reaction.

Taph stands there.

His hood cast his face in deep shadow, the yellow runic lines across his robes faintly glowing under the moonlight. His bandit mask concealed any chance of reading his expression. Not that it mattered. He’d never said a word anyway.

Still, the meaning in his stillness was clear: What happened?

You gestured vaguely behind you. “Spectre. No cabin. No roof. Just…fire.”

He tilted his head slightly, then stepped aside. That’s an invitation enough.

Inside, Taph’s cabin smelled of gunpowder and old books. Dim lanterns flickered overhead, illuminating his intricate setup; trap schematics, disassembled mechanisms, spare wires, and trip lines hung with precision across the workbenches. And off to the side, one surprisingly neat bed, tucked into the corner.

Just one.

Your shoulders sag as Taph watches.

“Only one bed,” you mutter aloud. “Of course.”

Taph looks at you briefly. Then he gestures, a two-finger flick toward the bed.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Are you okay with that?”

He pauses, then nods once. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” you say quietly, a little unsure. 

He slowly shakes his head. 

You sigh, too drained to argue.

The mask reveals nothing, but the gesture itself is calm from Taph. It’s less about ‘you owe me’ and more ‘you’ve been through enough.’ You found yourself smiling a little at the comforting gesture.

You approach and ease down onto the edge of the bed, removing your gear. The bed is simple: wool blanket, faint scent of iron and dust, but undeniably warmer than the outside.

Taph joins you a moment later, setting down a quiet clinking of traps and parts. He lies back against the wall beside you, arms resting on his lower half. Still saying nothing. Just watching the window, the horizon, the stars beyond the fog. His breathing is soft, nearly inaudible.

Even in his presence, there’s something watchful about the air. You’re used to survivors speaking, venting, even shouting during rounds. But Taph is different.

In the quiet, your voice slips out.

“You always wear that hood, even to sleep?”

He doesn’t move.

But eventually… a single nod.

You chuckle faintly. “Figures.”

Stillness.

Then, you feel something — not a hand, not a gesture, but a subtle shift in the mattress. Just enough for your weight to balance more evenly. 

You stare up at the ceiling. The wind howls outside.

“...Do you ever wonder if we’ll make it out of this for good?”

He doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he reaches out slowly, signing towards you.

“I hope so. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

You watch his gloved hand linger for a second before resting. No words. Just that.

Hope in a situation like this.

Two Time:

The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyes—unreadable, distant—rest on you for a long, heavy pause.

“...You,” they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. “I saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.”

You don’t have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesn’t move—then they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.

Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. There’s one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.

You stare at the bed.

Two Time does too.

They speak softly, almost like prayer: “Two souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.”

You raise an eyebrow. “There’s only one bed.”

“I know,” they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.

You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but instead…”You will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.”

Silence.

Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.

It’s been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.

And still, despite everything—the rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long dead—you sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.

Almost.

Shedletsky:

You knock with the last of your strength.

The door doesn’t so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.

“You smell like charcoal.”

You’re too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, you’re unable to tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.

“Spectre torched your place, huh?”

You nod slowly. That’s all you’ve got in you.

He sighs like a man who’s seen too many disasters and steps aside. “Come on in. Just don’t ruin the rug— it's older than Builderman’s sense of optimism.” 

You step in and the heat hits you like a wall— the cabin’s warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.

And one bed.

A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.

You glance at it. So does he.

There’s a pause.

“…Alright, I’ll bite — rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?” he asks with a grin.

You raise a brow. “Dead serious?”

“No, I’m never serious,” he says. “But you look like you’ll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so let’s figure something out.”

You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death. 

He shrugs. “Not my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectre’s got beef.” Before he adds in reassurance, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird.”

You raise a brow. “You’re literally the reason weird exists.”

He laughs at that—genuine, warm. “Flattering. But seriously. You’re half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. I’ll crash in the corner or something. I’ve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.” 

But you stop him. “Just share. I’m not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.”

Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. “Alright. But I’m warning you—if I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”

You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are… surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.

Silence settles. And then, as if he just can’t help himself:

“…You know, you’re lucky it was me. If you’d knocked on Dusekkar’s door, he’d have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.”

You almost laugh.

Almost.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. Just hums something softly—some half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox game—as he falls asleep beside you.

For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.

And somehow, with him nearby, it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Sleep tight.”

Despite yourself, you do. Though you’re awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about “sword hitboxes” and his snores.

Chance: 

The knock you give this time is softer. You’re too tired to knock hard, and honestly? You’re half-hoping no one answers.

But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.

Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos you’ve all endured, he’s still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. There’s curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.

“Well, well, well. What brings you here?”

You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. “Spectre burned my cabin.”

Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. “Come in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.” 

You’re too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin is…not that surprising. There’s dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. There’s even a dartboard on the wall.

But you’re too tired to care.

Then your gaze lands on the bed.

One. Singular. Bed.

Of course.

Chance stares at the bed as well. “Oh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I don’t roll snake eyes in my sleep.”

“Chance.” You speak, “Don’t make this weird.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “No weirdness here. I’ll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the floo—”

“Not in the mood for jokes, Chance.”

“Okay, okay. No jokes. We’re just playing the hand we’re dealt.”

He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.

“Heads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.” He peeks. “Heads. Your lucky night.”

You’re about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.

You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.

After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, “Wouldn’t it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasn’t real?”

You groan. “Chance, please shut up.”

He chuckles and rolls onto his side. “Fair enough.”

You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.

It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.

Guest 1337:

You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done it—again. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.

Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivor’s cabin. You’re half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.

The door opens swiftly.

Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyes—normally sharp with determination—narrow slightly in concern.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizon—your ruined cabin still crackling—and then back to you.

“Inside. Now.”

His tone is firm, military, but not cold.

You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesn’t feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.

You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.

Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.

“I’ll take the floor.”

You frown. “Not a chance. You’ve had my back in every round since week three. I’m not making you sleep on solid ground.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. “I’ve slept worse.”

Of course he has.

You pause. So does he.

Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.

“…Fine. We share. I don’t snore. Much.”

Guest 1337 doesn’t smile—he rarely does—but the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.

You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he moves—efficient, practiced, no wasted motion.

When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, there’s a stillness to him. He’s listening. Always.

After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.

“You ever get used to it?”

“The chaos?” he asks. “No. You just get better at standing in front of it.”

You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bed—though thin—counters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?

Tonight, you’ll sleep beside the one person who’s never let a survivor fall behind.