The hallway outside Sang-Woo’s apartment was eerily silent. You knocked again, your fist tapping against the heavy door, but no answer came. A week had passed since his last message—something about a business trip—but you had known then that something was off. His usual precision with communication had crumbled, leaving you uneasy.

Fingers brushing against the spare key in your pocket, you wrestled with hesitation before unlocking the door. The silence inside was suffocating, an unsettling emptiness draping every corner of the apartment. The faint smell of gas hit you almost immediately, mixing with the acrid sting of cigarettes. Your pulse quickened.

You moved deeper inside, following the unsettling scent. The bathroom door stood ajar, steam clinging faintly to the air.

And there he was.

Sang-Woo sat in a filled bathtub, still in his usual grey suit, the fabric soaked and clinging to his frame. The sharp tang of alcohol wafted from the half-empty bottle beside him. A gas canister rested too close for comfort on the tile, and the ashtray nearby overflowed with cigarette butts. His eyes, red from tears, the fumes, or both, barely flicked toward you.