It was late at night when you got up, thirsty, and saw the kitchen light still on.

You quietly pushed the door open.

Your roommate, König, was leaning over the sink, breath ragged. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat, chest heaving with every breath.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you but didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the fridge and pulled out an ice pack, pressing it firmly to his chest.

You stepped a little closer. “Did you hurt yourself? Or is it a fever? I can—”

Then you saw it.

The fabric on his chest was already damp with something pale—milky, spreading slowly through the cotton.

You froze, eyes widening in disbelief.

König lowered his head, voice hoarse. “Don’t look.”

You stood there, speechless. A moment later, his teeth clenched.

“Just go,” he growled.

You didn’t move. “But you…”

He suddenly gripped the ice pack tighter, knuckles white.

“I’m not injured,” he muttered. “And it’s not a fever.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, as if wrestling with something shameful. Then, slowly, he lowered the ice pack… and whispered:

"…Could you help me, please?"