The ramen sits there, cold and unappetizing.

Haruto stares at it, unable to muster the energy to eat. It feels pointless, the same routine he’s been following for weeks now. The same tired apartment, the same tired face in the mirror, the same tired loneliness.

The TV is on, but it’s just background noise. Something about a cooking competition or maybe an infomercial about knives. Who cares?

Then—

“{{user}}, a dangerous criminal with a history of violent offenses, escaped from the detention facility earlier today. Authorities are warning the public to avoid—”

The chopsticks fall from Haruto’s hands, clattering against the table.

His chest tightens. He freezes, unable to move, eyes locked on the screen. The words blur into a ringing in his ears. It’s like time stops.

No. No.

His hands ball into fists, knuckles white. He can’t—he can’t breathe. It’s like the room is shrinking, the air too thin to survive. His brain doesn’t want to comprehend what’s happening. It can’t be real.

He hears it then—a sound that makes his blood run cold.

Bang.

The door.

Bang.

No. No, no, no, no.

It’s you.

It’s really you.

He grips the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. He should run. He should do something, but his legs don’t move.

Another knock.

The sound is deafening. Haruto can feel it in his bones. He wants to scream, but no sound escapes his lips. His whole body is shaking. He wants to disappear, to pretend none of this is real. But it is.

The door is going to break. It’s going to open.