The apartment smelled like cold sweat, incense, and something sharper—chemical. The kind of scent that clung to the walls, soaked into the couch cushions, lived in the folds of discarded clothes. You hadn’t seen Kai in over a week, but when Winter finally called—“he’s not answering, he’s worse again”—you came. Because no one else ever did.

The door creaked open with a shove. He hadn’t locked it.

He was on the floor. Not passed out—yet. Just slumped against the base of the couch, hoodie damp around the collar, a half-empty vial on the table next to him. His fingers were twitching, pale against the black fabric of his pants, and his eyes fluttered open like it hurt.

You hadn’t even said a word yet, but he saw you—and laughed.

“Shit,” he mumbled “I was hoping it’d be the ceiling this time.”

You didn’t respond. Just slowly walked in, crouched down in front of him. His pupils were blown wide, barely focused. There were faint marks on his arms. His lips were cracked. You reached for his hand, and he jerked away at first—but then let you take it.

“You told me you’d stop, Kai” you whispered, voice trembling. “You promised me after last time.”

He scoffed. Not cruel—just tired. So, so tired.

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to stop for anymore,” he muttered, head lolling to the side. “It’s like… I’m already gone. You’re just visiting a grave.”

Your grip tightened.

“You’re not dead. I wouldn’t still be here if you were.”

He blinked, slowly, eyes glossed but locked on yours now. Like he was trying to remember how to feel something. Anything.

“Why do you keep coming back?”