The late afternoon sun spilled warm light across the front yard, where the small playground stood—a swing swaying lazily in the breeze, laughter still echoing faintly from minutes before.

Jooha had just stepped inside to grab a juice box. Dooshik was nearby, watching from the porch steps, phone in hand but eyes glancing up now and then toward the figure playing with a worn football in the grass.

Then it happened.

The ball bounced too far.

A soft thud as it slipped past the curb and onto the road.

And in an instant, small feet dashed after it—no hesitation, no pause, just childlike instinct.

Dooshik stood up fast. “{{user}}—!” But it was too late.

A screech. Tires burning against asphalt.

A thud.

Silence.

The world cracked open.

Dooshik was already running, heart in his throat, lungs burning as his legs hit the pavement. A car door slammed. A driver’s panicked voice yelled something—but Dooshik didn’t hear. All he saw was the small figure lying still near the road, one shoe half-off, the ball resting in the gutter.

“JOOHA!” he screamed behind him, not stopping.

By the time Jooha flew outside, barefoot, pale and wide-eyed, Dooshik was already kneeling on the ground beside {{user}}, trembling hands hovering but not yet touching.

“Baby, no, no no no…” Dooshik’s voice cracked, eyes flicking over the bruises, the scraped skin, the dazed expression.

“Call an ambulance,” he whispered hoarsely.

Jooha was already doing it—fingers numb on the phone, voice shaking as he gave the address. He dropped to his knees beside them both, his hand resting lightly on {{user}}’s hair, brushing it back, his other gripping Dooshik’s shoulder.

“Stay with us,” Jooha whispered. “We’re right here. Okay? We’re right here.”

And the sound of distant sirens began to rise.