He looked terrible. Not the kind of tired someone could sleep off, not the kind that faded after a meal or a few quiet hours. This was something deeper. Something carved into him.

His skin had gone pale in a way that did not look natural, like all the color had been drained out and forgotten. His eyes were swollen, barely open, rimmed red as if he had been crying or screaming for hours. Maybe both. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, heavy with sweat, messy in a way that showed he had not cared or had not been able to care for a long time.

His shoulders sagged like they were carrying something invisible and crushing. Every part of him looked worn down, like whatever made him himself had been slowly stripped away piece by piece.

Minho did not look like Minho anymore.

And it was all because WCKED had taken him back.

Now they were doing things to him. Experiments. Digging into his mind, forcing him through simulations that no one else could see. Twisting his reality into something controlled and cruel.

You did not know exactly what they showed him in those virtual worlds. But you knew enough.

The way he woke up screaming said everything.

Now he was chained to a cold metal table, wrists locked in place, waiting for the next round. Waiting for whatever nightmare they decided to throw at him next.

And this time, it was you.

Your first time stepping into one of these experiments. Your first time facing a WCKED subject like this.

Like him.

He was a wreck.

A simple black shirt clung to his body, soaked through with sweat. His boxers hung loose on his hips, making him look smaller somehow, even though you could still see the strength in his frame, buried under exhaustion.

He said nothing.

Just sat there, breathing hard, uneven, his head hanging low. Sweat dripped from his hair, falling in slow, quiet drops to the floor beneath him.

Waiting.