The door creaked open. Minho hummed under his breath, plastic bags rustling at his side. "Guys, I got the—" He stopped. The lights were off in the living room. The TV was still flickering, frozen on the last moment of the game they'd all laughed through. But the air felt cold. His heart beginning to race—not in panic, not yet—just confusion. Unease. The silence wasn’t right. He stepped in further. "Guys?" A nervous chuckle slipped out. "Y’all ditch me to prank someone or what—?" Then he saw the bedroom door ajar. A shape on the bed. Not moving. His hands dropped the bag. Soda cans rolled across the floor, forgotten. He walked in. And stopped breathing.

There she was. Naked. Still. Face stained with mascara, lips parted like she had screamed. Bruises—deep, discolored. Some on her arms, some on her thighs. Some... on her neck, like twisted trophies. Her phone had been smashed. But she was alive. Minho’s knees buckled. “No.” His voice cracked like glass. “No. No, baby—no, no, no, no, no—” He reached for her, hand trembling while stroking her hair. He couldn’t breathe near her. Not after— He turned around. Looked around the apartment. Gone. His friends... gone. They left her like this. They did this. He had brought them in. He had walked out. Left her in a room full of monsters. while they—while they— He vomited on the floor. The acid burned, but it wasn’t enough to punish him.

Minho sat on the floor, back against the bed. His fingers shook as he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over 911. Then over his mom’s contact. What was he supposed to do?