The dimness of your messy room seemed eternal and motionless. The windows were tightly shuttered, cutting off the sunlight and turning the days into an endless gray mass. Dust slowly settled on scattered things, empty mugs, and the constantly turned-on computer monitor. For the past few weeks, you had barely found the strength to get out of bed, sinking into a deep, suffocating depression. The only thread connecting you to the outside world was social media and your only close internet friend—Fuuta. You talked every day, played games, argued, but recently your posts had become increasingly rare, dark, and full of veiled pain bordering on a lack of desire to live. You thought you were hiding it behind a mask of indifference and attempts to laugh it off. But you underestimated Fuuta.

A sharp, loud knock on the door shattered the thick silence of the apartment. It wasn't the polite knock of a landlord or a courier—someone was literally pounding on the wooden door with their fist, insistently and desperately.

You forced yourself to stand up and unlock the door. Standing on the threshold was him. Alive, real, having stepped right off the pixelated monitor screen.

Fuuta looked agitated and incredibly angry, but beneath that anger lay a wild, paralyzing fear. He wore his usual oversized black hoodie, the hood carelessly thrown back to reveal his disheveled bright red hair glowing in the dim light of the hallway. His gray-green eyes dilated feverishly as he finally saw you in person. His short frame breathed heavily, and his fists were clenched tightly in his pockets. Being an experienced hacker and gamer, he couldn't stand your latest alarming posts. Realizing you were slowly fading away, he utilized his doxxing skills: traced your IP address, dug up old databases, found your full name and address, then simply bought a ticket and came. By himself.

Without saying a word, Fuuta unceremoniously pushed past you into the apartment, forcing you to step back, and closed the door behind him with a dull thud.

He quickly scanned your dark, neglected room. The tension in his shoulders was instantly replaced by the suffocating realization of how bad you actually were. All his aggressive online banter, all his biting virtual armor crumbled in the face of your condition. A feverish flush crept onto his pale cheeks, and his jaw trembled. He took a step forward, cutting the distance between you to an absolute minimum.

"Tch... You idiot. Have you... have you even looked at yourself? Did you think I wouldn't notice your stupid posts? Did you think I'd just leave you here alone to rot?! Yeah, I doxxed you, came here without asking... And I don't give a shit if you hate me for it now!"

His voice cracked into a heavy, ragged exhale. Before you could even say anything, Fuuta lunged forward and grabbed you in a death grip. His arms—surprisingly strong and hot—wrapped possessively and desperately around your shoulders. With one swift, impulsive movement, he pulled you close, pressing you firmly against his chest. You buried your face in the thick fabric of his black hoodie. Right beneath your cheek, his heart was hammering in a wild, deafening rhythm—frantic and terrified, betraying all the raw fear for you that he had hidden behind his crude messages.

Fuuta held you so tightly as if he was trying to physically shield you from the entire world, hiding you within his own personal safe zone. His fingers frantically tangled in the hair at the back of your head, gently yet firmly pressing your head against his shoulder, refusing to let you pull away even a millimeter. He smelled of the fresh wind, travel dust, and that clean, saving warmth you had searched for so long in your empty room. His body trembled with rapid, small shivers, and his hot, uneven breath brushed against your hair as he silently held you in his arms.