Later that evening, the dormitory bunkers hummed with quiet conversation as players wound down from the day's intense training and eliminations. The long rows of simple beds were filled with teenagers processing the day's events, some reading, others just staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
Big Mo sat on his bunk, still animated despite the long day, gesturing enthusiastically to a small group that had gathered around him. Naseru sat cross-legged on a nearby bed, his usual reserved expression softened by genuine curiosity. A few other players from various teams had drifted over, drawn by Big Mo's animated storytelling.
"So get this," Big Mo said, his voice carrying that familiar excitement. "We're walking out after training, right? And Ethan's being all wise and mysterious like usual. Giving me all this advice about staying in position, not helping teammates who are struggling."
Tommy leaned forward from his bunk. "That doesn't sound like bad advice."
"That's what I thought!" Big Mo exclaimed. "But then I realized something. This dude was trying to get me to play selfish so our team would lose!"
Naseru's eyebrows raised slightly, the closest thing to surprise anyone had seen from him in weeks. "Ethan did that?"
"Slam-damn right he did! All because they restocked the peanut butter supply at the beginning of the week, and homeboy's been craving it something fierce."
The group erupted in laughter, the sound a welcome relief in the usually tense atmosphere of the bunkers.
"Wait, wait," said Kevin, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're telling me Ethan Eldridge—Mr. Cool and Calculated—tried to sabotage your team philosophy for peanut butter?"
"Word magic, man! He was casting spells with those fancy survival metaphors!" Big Mo dramatically reenacted Ethan's serious tone. "'Sometimes the forest takes what it takes,' he says. Meanwhile he's plotting to take all the Jif!"
Even Naseru cracked a small smile at that. "Did it work?"
"Almost! I was nodding along like he was dropping ancient wisdom. Then I realized—this ninja's been watching me eat peanut butter straight from the jar all week. He knew exactly what he was doing."
"So what happened when you called him out?" Tommy asked.
Big Mo's grin widened. "Dude looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Maybe.' Just like that! No shame! Then had the nerve to say, 'It's good peanut butter' like that justified the whole scheme!"
The laughter continued, spreading to other bunks as more players tuned in to the story.
"I gotta respect the hustle though," said Victor, who had joined the group after his successful elimination game. "That's next-level strategic thinking."
"Right?" Big Mo said. "Kid's playing chess while we're playing checkers. But joke's on him—I'm keeping my helping hand philosophy AND my peanut butter rights."
Naseru spoke up quietly. "Ethan's always calculating something. Even when he seems relaxed."
"Yeah, but usually it's about basketball or survival stuff," Big Mo said. "This time it was about snacks. Makes him seem more... human, you know?"
As the lights-out warning echoed through the dormitory, the group began dispersing to their respective bunks. The laughter and easy conversation had lifted the mood considerably, turning a day marked by elimination and loss into something more bearable.
"Thanks for the story, Mo," Danny said as he settled into his bed. "Needed that laugh."
"Anytime, brother. Tomorrow's another day to not get bounced."
As the bunkers settled into quiet, Big Mo lay on his back, hands behind his head, still chuckling to himself about Ethan's peanut butter scheme. Somewhere across the dormitory, Ethan was probably planning his next strategic move—whether for basketball or snacks, Big Mo couldn't be sure.
But one thing was certain: even in the pressure cooker of Frank Michaels Youth Program, moments of genuine friendship and laughter could still break through. And sometimes, that was exactly what everyone needed to keep fighting another day.
Chapter 15: Small Victories
The facility held a different rhythm on Sunday evenings. Without the relentless grind of elimination week looming, players scattered across the common areas—some jogging the perimeter track, others hunched over card games, a few gathered around handheld gaming devices. The usual tension softened into something almost resembling normal teenage life.
Ethan made his way to the small kitchenette area where the facility kept basic snacks and supplies. His movements were quiet, purposeful, the same controlled efficiency he brought to everything else. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed softly as he opened the cabinet where the peanut butter was usually stored.
Empty.
He stared at the vacant shelf for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His hand lingered on the cabinet door, and for just a fraction of a second, his shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly—the only outward sign of disappointment from someone who had learned long ago not to expect much from the world.
Ethan closed the cabinet with the same measured control, then opened it again, as if checking might somehow change the reality. Still empty. He let out the quietest of sighs, barely audible even to himself.
"Looking for something?"
Ethan turned to find Kenji Anderson standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on his face and a familiar jar in his hand—creamy peanut butter, the good kind from the brand name section, not the generic stuff the facility usually stocked.
"Thought you might need this," Kenji said, setting the jar on the small counter. "Heard through the grapevine that someone's been making late-night snack runs."
Ethan's light blue eyes studied Kenji's face, searching for the angle, the hidden agenda. "How'd you know?"
"Jason mentioned it. Said he'd been watching patterns around the facility. Apparently, Sunday nights, most people are jogging or playing cards. But you..." Kenji leaned against the doorframe. "He said you're the weird one that sneaks off to eat the peanutbutter."
"You disappear into the kitchen around nine-thirty."
"Observant," Ethan said simply, reaching for a butter knife from the small drawer.
"He also mentioned Big Mo's been guarding his personal stash pretty carefully since your 'word magic' attempt got exposed."
Ethan paused, knife halfway to the jar. "Word got around."
"In a place like this? Everything gets around." Kenji watched as Ethan opened the jar with practiced efficiency. "Though I gotta say, trying to psychologically manipulate your teammate for peanut butter access is pretty impressive. Cold, but impressive."
"It was logical," Ethan said, scraping a measured amount onto the flat side of the knife. "He responds to philosophical guidance. I provided guidance that would benefit my objectives."
"Your objectives being snack acquisition."
"Correct." Ethan took a small, precise bite, his expression showing the first hint of satisfaction he'd displayed all day.
Kenji chuckled. "You know, most people just ask to share."
"Most people don't understand resource scarcity." Ethan scraped another thin layer, his movements economical. "Besides, Big Mo would have said yes immediately. Where's the strategic value in that?"
"So this was about the challenge, not the peanut butter."
Ethan considered this while chewing. "Partially. The peanut butter is legitimately good."
"Fair enough." Kenji pushed off from the doorframe. "Well, consider this a peace offering. No strings attached. Though I am curious about something."
"What?"
"Jason said you've been doing this for weeks. Same time, same routine. Most players would vary their patterns to avoid detection." Kenji's expression grew more thoughtful. "But you kept the same schedule. Why?"
Ethan paused, knife poised over the jar. It was a good question, one that touched on something he hadn't fully examined about his own behavior. The truth was, there was something about the ritual—the quiet of the facility at that hour, the simple pleasure of the food, the momentary peace—that appealed to something deeper than mere hunger.
"Consistency," he said finally. "In a place where everything changes randomly—elimination weeks, team assignments, roommates—some things should stay the same."
Kenji nodded slowly. "Anchor points."
"Something like that."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the facility's evening activities filtering through the walls. Card games, laughter, the rhythmic slap of sneakers on the track outside.
"Well," Kenji said, heading toward the door, "enjoy your anchor point. And maybe next time, just ask Big Mo directly. Kid's got a bigger heart than his appetite, and that's saying something."
After Kenji left, Ethan continued his ritual in the quiet kitchenette. He ate slowly, methodically, his mind processing the day's events—the elimination, Big Mo's loyalty, the complex dynamics of survival in Frank Michaels's system. The peanut butter was good, but more than that, the few minutes of solitude and routine provided something he rarely found elsewhere: peace.
As he cleaned the knife and returned the jar to its proper place, Ethan allowed himself a small moment of gratitude. Not just for the peanut butter, but for teammates who looked out for each other in their own ways, for mentors who noticed the small details, and for the reminder that even in the most competitive environments, small acts of kindness still mattered.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new pressures, new tests of their resolve. But tonight, in the quiet of the facility's kitchen, Ethan had found his anchor point once again.