The apartment was unusually quiet tonight. No sarcastic jabs, no chaotic energy—just the sound of Soo-yeol pacing back and forth in the kitchen, rubbing his temples like he was trying to push his thoughts back into place.

He hadn’t said much since he came home. No kisses. No jokes. Not even a glance in your direction.

You watched from the couch as he finally stopped, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I blacked out again,” he said suddenly. Voice flat. “Woke up with blood on my sleeve. Not mine. Don’t worry.” A bitter chuckle followed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That guy—K—he’s real. He’s not just a voice anymore.”

He finally turned to look at you. Tired eyes. Hollow. “Tell me the truth. If I can’t control this... would you still want to stay?”