I Got Isekai'd to Another Planet

The lights never fully turned off in the prison.

Even during "night," the cold violet hue still pulsed faintly along the ceiling lines and floor veins, bathing the cells in a sickly dream-light. It was enough to remind you that you were never truly alone, never truly unobserved.

Miguel sat on the edge of his bunk, blood washed from his face, though the bruises remained like war paint.

His ribs ached with every breath. His knuckles throbbed. But none of that stopped him as he slowly, painfully limped to the front of his cell. He sank down with a wince and rested his back against the thick wall next to the gate.

Directly behind that wall was June.

He could feel it.

"June?" he called softly.

Silence.

He waited a few seconds.

"June," he tried again, louder this time, pressing his palm gently against the steel. "You awake?"

Still nothing.

He chuckled, half to himself. "June... come on, man. Don't leave me hanging like this."

A new voice echoed from another cell down the tier. "Oi! June! Answer your boyfriend so we can sleep!"

A few other chuckles rippled across the hallway.

Miguel grinned, unfazed. "Sorry, guys. She's giving me the silent treatment."

Inside her cell, June sat on the edge of her bunk, elbows on knees, eyes locked on nothing. She'd been awake the entire time, still as a statue. But eventually, with a sigh she didn't fully feel, she stood.

She padded over to the front of her cell and sat, mirroring Miguel's position. The wall was cold at her back, his warmth just on the other side.

Neither could see the other.

But they knew.

"You weren't sleeping, were you?" Miguel asked, voice softer now.

"No," June said.

"But if I were," she added dryly, "you would've woken me by calling my name over and over."

Miguel chuckled. "Guilty."

They sat in silence for a moment. No talking. No awkwardness. Just... breathing.

Then June spoke again. "Why didn't you fight those guys?"

Miguel was quiet.

But only for a beat.

"Because I know how to hurt people. Really hurt them," he said, his voice suddenly grounded, stripped of the usual cheer. "I was a professional MMA fighter before this. My coach always told me, never use what you've learned outside the cage. Only if someone's life is actually in danger."

He paused.

"And I didn't want to kill them, you know?"

June frowned.

She leaned her head back against the wall. "So you just let yourself get stomped."

"Yeah," he said. "Better me than someone else. I'll heal."

She closed her eyes.

Idiot.

Too kind. Too noble. Too soft for this place. He won't last.

And yet, here he was. Still breathing.

"How'd you know I could fight?" Miguel asked, changing the subject gently. "You don't exactly seem like a fighter yourself."

June's lips twitched, just barely. "My mom. She was obsessed with cage fighting. Watched every event, every weekend. Never missed one. I grew up learning how to spot real skill."

Miguel let out a low whistle. "She sounds amazing."

That caught June off guard.

No sarcasm. No mockery. Just a genuine compliment.

A strange warmth flickered in her chest. She hadn't thought about her mother in months. Not since... before the spiral. Before the emptiness.

"She was," June whispered.

And for the first time in years, she smiled.

It was small. Faint. Almost involuntary.

But it was real.

And no one saw it.

They didn't need to.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. June stayed by the gate, her arm still pressed to the metal, head tilted back against the wall. Her body eventually gave in to exhaustion.

Her breathing slowed.

Her hand slipped down to the floor, just barely sticking out between the bars of the gate.

Fingers twitching.

Whimpering softly in her sleep.

On the other side, Miguel had remained upright, guarding the silence like a loyal dog. His black eye was swelling, and his knuckles throbbed like they were being chewed by fire.

Then he saw it, her hand.

Barely reaching out.

Instinct moved him before logic could catch up.

He leaned forward and gently took her hand in his.

It fit there, fragile and trembling.

June stirred, eyes fluttering open.

She didn't pull away.

She looked down at their joined hands.

Then closed her eyes again.

This time, her breathing was slower. Calmer.

She fell asleep holding his hand through the gap between the cell gate bars.

Miguel smiled to himself.

Then leaned back against the wall again, still sitting.

And let sleep take him, bruised and content.

The next morning...

The prison stirred at exactly 08:00.

A chime rang out, soft but cold, followed by a mechanical hiss as the gates of every cell slid open in perfect sync. Across the tiers, groggy survivors stepped out into the strange half-light of morning. Some looked like they hadn't slept at all. Others had cried themselves into silence. A few didn't come out at all.

June stood before her cell before the gate even finished opening.

She didn't stretch.

Didn't yawn.

She just walked out.

Like she'd been awake for hours, which she had, even if half of it was while asleep on cold metal with someone holding her hand.

She passed Miguel's cell and slowed for the briefest moment.

He was standing inside, drying his hair with a white towel, steam still rolling from his skin. The violet lights caught the edges of old scars stretched across his back and torso, gunshot wounds, deep blade cuts, tattoos curling around his ribs and collarbone like stories etched in ink.

His purple cargo uniform jacket hung from his waist, sleeves tied at the front. He had the boots on, but his chest was bare, abs cut deep and lean with muscle.

Too lean for comfort. Too built to be harmless.

June didn't react, but she stared longer than she meant to. Her thoughts, for once, weren't numb or empty.

Damn.

She blinked, once.

Miguel looked up and spotted her.

His face flushed instantly.

He scrambled to drop the towel and yanked on his jacket like he'd been caught doing something illegal.

"Uh... morning," he stammered, voice cracking a little as he zipped it up halfway. "Sorry, didn't think anyone'd be passing."

June tilted her head slightly.

No smile. No comment.

Just a flat stare.

Miguel looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "You okay?"

"Fine," she replied.

But in her mind, her analysis had already shifted.

He's not just a fighter.

That body's seen wars. Knife fights. Gunfire.

He's not as innocent as he acts. He's played a dangerous game before.

Probably played it well.

Still, she said nothing.

Miguel cleared his throat, trying to cut through the awkwardness that only he seemed to feel. "Uh... how'd you sleep?"

June leaned against the wall outside his cell, arms folded. "Better than I have in years."

Miguel smiled. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "You?"

Miguel smiled again, but it was tired.

"Like a baby," he lied.

June noticed the bags under his eyes. The way his shoulder slouched on one side, likely from bruised ribs. She knew pain when she saw it.

But she let the lie live.

She just turned and started walking down the corridor.

Miguel blinked, tossed his towel inside the cell, and jogged after her.

They moved together now, not in rhythm, but side by side.

Exploring.

The prison corridors were far less chaotic than yesterday. The fear had dulled into cold anxiety. People were scattered in clumps, some this chatting , others creating plans, a few just sitting in corners with haunted eyes.

Everything felt like the last hour before a storm.

And then it came.

A voice from the walls.

"ATTENTION, SURVIVORS. THE FIRST GAME BEGINS AT 15:00 HOURS."

"PREPARE ACCORDINGLY."

A chime followed.

June and Miguel stopped.

Fifteen hundred. That was seven hours from now.

Miguel whistled. "And here I thought we'd get a breakfast buffet first."

June didn't answer.

She was already scanning the faces around them.

People gathering in alliances. Others already sizing up threats. Some crying. Others praying.

The clock had started ticking.

And when 15:00 came…

People would start dying.