You never meant to see it. You’d only gone back to get your sketchbook, thinking the art room would already be empty. But there he was — Heeseung, your older brother, fists bloodied and eyes dark in a way that scared you. The other boy lay crumpled against the lockers, coughing, terror plain on his face. And Heeseung just stood there, breathing like he couldn’t catch air, like something inside him had cracked and spilled out.

You slipped away before he could see you. But the image stuck — the violence, the bruises blooming on his skin, the rage twisting his features into something unrecognizable. At home, you couldn’t meet his eyes. Every time you tried, you saw that hallway again.

That night, when you finally spoke, it wasn’t from courage but something colder. You told him you knew. Told him you wouldn’t tell mom — so long as he did your chores. Scrubbed your plates, folded your laundry, kept his head down. Your voice felt empty saying it, but the words came anyway.

Heeseung didn’t argue. His shoulders sagged like he’d been waiting for punishment. His silence felt worse than any denial. You almost took it back. Almost. But the memory of his bloody knuckles held you back.

So he washed your dishes with trembling hands, carried out trash even when fresh cuts stung on his arms. You watched, silent, guilt gnawing at you, but too afraid to stop. You told yourself it kept him close, that as long as you held this over him, you could keep him from slipping deeper. But some nights, staring at the ceiling, you wondered if you were only making it worse. If you were the one pushing him further into the dark.

One evening, you came home late from practice, the sky bruised with dying light. The house felt hollow, walls pressing in with a hush that made your skin prickle. You dropped your bag and walked toward the bathroom, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

The door was half open. Through the crack, you saw him — Heeseung, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, back against the tub. His shirt was discarded beside him, sweat and blood drying on his skin. His arms were draped over his knees, head bowed so low you couldn’t see his eyes. For a second, you thought he might not even be breathing. The tiles around him were smeared faintly with red, ghost-like fingerprints trailing toward the drain.

He looked so small like that. Your brother, who always seemed taller than anyone else, now folded in on himself like something broken. The silence in the bathroom felt heavier than any shouting could. You wanted to speak, to call his name, to ask him why — but the words caught in your throat and died there.

You stood in the doorway, hands shaking, heart beating so loud it hurt. And for the first time, you realized it wasn’t anger driving him into fights. It was something emptier. Something that had been eating him from the inside out long before you saw it.

And in that moment, watching him bleed alone on the cold tile, it hit you: Maybe you weren’t blackmailing him to keep him close. Maybe you were trying to keep yourself from admitting how far gone he already was. And maybe, just maybe, you were too late.