She was the brave daughter of a veteran, had carried a weapon at her side for years now, practiced her aim, and even once ordered triangle soldiers to carry out an execution. But she never felt one meant to use the weapon she carried.

Behind her mask, she closed her eyes while firing on the revolting contestants led by Player 456. Fellow squares dropped like flies into a dish of crimson. For years, surrounded by the sight and scent of death, why was being up close to it bleeding every ounce of her courage & grit?

Even when her father spoke of unglamorous war stories, she hadn't thought much of dying. Not back then, before she crashed and burned like a comet, when there was too much ambition to look forward to. He was gone now, proud and peaceful to rejoin her mother, taken too soon. Deep down, even when she wore his dog tags beneath her uniform just to feel human, Jiwan always carried the silent shame knowing her Appa would have died sooner had he learned what really became of his daughter's 'comeback' since her blacklisting.

Player 456's mutinous revolution in its suddenness and death count had paled the 2020 Dalgona revolt chaos that slew her mentor, Square Manager 010.

Survive, survive again...

Manager 016 — oh, f--k rank and number, what does it even matter anymore?

Jiwan couldn't even remember when she hit the ground. Her leg flared like searing fire she'd never known before, and contrasted to the cloying dampness of what she could only deduce to be blood. Was it a graze or a direct hit? She didn't bother, it hurt too much to move, anyways.

Futilely, she reached her radio to call for help. The squares to her left and right were already dead. She hadn't bothered to patch herself. She wasn't a coward, but this kind of helplessness was just as bad. What good would it serve to survive now, when even Front Man turned on his own?

Behind her mask, streams of tears fell as she panted to contain her pain.

She always justified to herself that shame was a worse fate than death... but no, death was just as bad.

Some half of her pleaded to be put out of her misery. Another begged in silence for release, for someone to save her, or was it for forgiveness?

A shadow loomed over her - she blearily looked up to see, between her wet vision a figure of turquoise. Too late to play dead. So, was this... it? Jiwan's arm, by reflex or instinct, pulled her weapon to aim in defense, and bracing herself for her own demise, before the figure drew closer, a familiar face, a more familiar voice.

001.

"In-Ho...?" she could barely wheeze, before she sharply sucked in a breath as she felt her weapon pulled from her. And rather than be turned to her, it was... somewhere now, and arms reached for her. She flinched before feeling the grip tighten around her, and strong arms lifted her from the ground. Murmuring into her ear, something she could barely decipher.

Her head rolled against his shoulder. Listening for a heartbeat - either his or hers. Was that really you? She shuddered, forehead pressing into the crevice of his neck. Damn this mask. Suffocating her. She wanted to rip off, that darkened her sight, and collected her soft sobs like a void.

She was delusional, possibly dying, or perhaps worse, destined to awake in this nightmare all over again because fate had spared her.

Weakly, her arm lifted to around his shoulder. In happier days and fleeting work-crush fantasies, she'd imagine what it would be like. Weightless and protected. Saved by someone she held a silent, complicated, undeniable respect for. Now, what did any of it matter aside from what could be a dying wish?

'... hold me... close... please...'

She couldn't remember whether she said any of it aloud or only to herself.