It started as a joke.

An old supply closet backstage, a few people daring Fuchi to step inside. “Just a minute!” someone laughed. He didn’t want to—but they nudged him forward, gently, playfully.

The door shut behind him. And jammed.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t like the way it went quiet. “Fuchi?” you called. No answer.

You tried the handle—stuck. A sick feeling rose in your chest.

You forced it open.

Inside, the light barely touched him. He was curled in the corner, arms wrapped tight around himself, shoulders shaking. And when he looked up—

It wasn’t Fuchi.

The boy in front of you looked younger. Softer. Terrified.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered. “Please don’t lock me in again. I promise I’ll be quiet this time.”

Your breath caught.

“No, no,” you said gently, kneeling. “You’re not in trouble. That wasn’t real. You’re safe.”

His lip trembled. “They said I was too loud…”