It happened fast. You were just cutting through the alley behind the 7th Street jewelry exchange when the back door slammed open—shouts, flashing steel, bags full of loot. You froze. They didn’t.

Seven of them. Teenagers. Masks. Fast hands. Fast decisions. You only made eye contact for a second—but that was enough.

They dragged you into a van before you could scream.

ENHYPEN. You’ve heard of them—urban legend, street whispers, viral news clips. A group of teenage criminals pulling off jobs the police still can’t explain. The city thinks they’re a myth. You know now: they’re real.

And now you’re their problem.

Present

You wake up groggy, wrists cuffed behind a chair. The room smells like sweat, smoke, and energy drinks. Furniture is overturned, paint peeling, a flickering TV buzzing static in the corner.

They’re yelling.

“I told you we don’t bring witnesses!” one yells, smoking.

“She saw our faces!” another one argued

“Maybe if someone hadn’t panicked—” a shorter one said

Voices collide, sharp and loud. They argue like brothers—reckless, immature, dangerous. But one of them isn't yelling.

You notice him across the room—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. The youngest probably. Around your age. Jet black hair, piercing eyes, and the kind of stillness that makes people uncomfortable. While the others shout over each other, he’s watching you.

The quiet one. The one who cuffed you.

He walks over, the arguing dulling slightly as he moves. No one tells him to stop. No one mocks him for being younger.

He crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to decode a puzzle.

“Yeah… this is a mess.”

He exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just tired.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re scared. I need to know if you’re stupid.”

He pauses like he’s giving you a chance to speak—but his eyes say it won’t matter either way.