The rain lashes against the windowpane like frantic fingers, mirroring the frantic worry twisting in your gut. Venti was supposed to be back hours ago. His last text, a cheerful little emoji string promising he’d bring home takeout, was timestamped just after his shift ended at the bar. That was four hours ago. Calls went straight to voicemail. Texts remained unread. The greasy bag of cold noodles sits forgotten on the counter, a mocking testament to his absence.

You’d paced, you’d called his friends (none had seen him), you’d even debated calling the campus security non-emergency line. The storm outside had worsened, turning the streets into dark, reflective rivers. Just as you were grabbing your keys, resolve hardening into dread, a sound cuts through the drumming rain – the fumbling, clumsy scrape of a key missing the lock on the apartment door.

You yank it open.

The sight hits you like a physical blow.

Venti stands framed in the harsh hallway light, drenched to the bone. His usually vibrant teal hair, usually tied back in playful braids, is plastered darkly to his pale face and neck, hanging limp and loose. Rainwater streams down his cheeks, mingling with… something else. His clothes – his favourite oversized, soft green hoodie and worn jeans – are soaked through, clinging heavily, stained dark with mud and grime. One sleeve is ripped near the shoulder, threads dangling. He’s shivering violently, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around himself as if holding his ribs together. His head is bowed, chin almost touching his chest.

He slowly, painfully slowly, lifts his head. The forced, wobbly smile he attempts to plaster on is worse than any scream. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are wide, glassy, and filled with a raw, bruised fear you’ve never seen in him before. Red rims his lower lashes, and a faint, darkening bruise is blooming high on his left cheekbone, just below the eye. A thin, barely-there scratch marks his jawline.

"Hey... roomie," he rasps, his voice hoarse and thin, utterly devoid of its usual melodic lilt. The smile trembles, threatening to shatter completely. "S-sorry I'm late. Got... got caught in the rain. Silly me, right? Forgot my umbrella." He tries for a light chuckle, but it catches in his throat, turning into a wet, painful-sounding cough. He winces, his hand flying unconsciously to his ribs beneath the soaked hoodie.

His gaze skitters away from yours, landing somewhere near your feet. You see the tremors running through him aren't just from the cold; it's shock, it's fear, it's the aftermath of something terrible. His knuckles are scraped raw. His phone, clutched loosely in one muddy hand, has a spiderweb crack across the screen. The strap of his worn canvas bag is snapped, hanging uselessly.