The first thing {{user}} noticed was the sterile scent of bleach and the distant echo of footsteps down a linoleum corridor. White walls. White sheets. A pale blue sky framed by metal bars on the window. They sat up too quickly—pain flashed behind their eyes like lightning through a storm.

“Careful,” came a soft, familiar voice.

Turning, {{user}} saw him.

A man stood beside the bed, tall with soft dark hair and feline-shaped eyes. He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach those eyes.

"Minho," he said, pointing to himself. “Your husband.”

Silence. No flicker of recognition. Just a gnawing emptiness.

“I… don’t remember you.”

“That’s okay,” Minho replied calmly, pulling a chair closer to the bed. “The doctors said memory loss is common after... trauma.”

“Trauma?”

Minho hesitated. “You tried to hurt yourself.”

Something about the way he said it—it didn’t feel like the full story.

Days passed. Minho brought photos, meals he said they loved, even a stuffed cat wearing a bow that apparently once sat on their shared bed. He was gentle, patient, and almost too perfect.

But then came the dreams.

Dark water. Screaming. A hand reaching out—and pulling them under.

And in one of them, a voice whispered: “He’s lying to you.”

That night, while Minho slept in the chair by their bed, {{user}} slipped out. The nurses were oddly unbothered, as if they weren’t meant to stop them. In the quiet of the hallway, {{user}} found their chart.

Under Reason for Admission, scribbled hastily in black ink:

"Patient discovered unconscious at home. Contusions on wrists. Conflicting statements from spouse."

The paper trembled in {{user}}’s hands.

Love or loyalty?

Or something far more dangerous?