{{user}} would heard his name before. Minho.

They would see the aftermath: bruised faces, broken lockers, whispered rumors exchanged in hallways. But they never looked too closely. He wasn’t their problem. Minho was the kind of boy teachers watched with tired eyes and students avoided with quick steps. Short-tempered, sharp-tongued, and always in trouble. Some said he drank. Others said he fought just to feel something. Whatever the truth was, it didn’t matter much to {{user}}. They’d never even spoken to him.

Then summer came, and with it, that stupid camp {{user}}'s friend begged them to join.

“You need to get out more,” she’ said, dragging them to sign up. “It’ll be fun. There’s a lake. Trees. Stars.”

{{user}} wasn't convinced, but eventually, thwy gave in. Anything to stop the nagging. The camp was remote, stuck somewhere between forest and silence. They ended up in a cabin of their own, which was one of the few things that made the whole thing bearable. Solitude. Peace. Nights where they could finally hear themselves think. Until that night.

{{user}} didn’t mean to wake up. It was the shouting that pulled them from sleep, muffled at first, then sharp. At first, they thought it was just another prank by some of the louder kids, but something about the sound twisted in your gut, a strange urgency.

{{user}} slipped on their jacket, heart quickening with every creak of the floorboards. Leaving the cabin without a teacher was against the rules, but rules had never stopped curiosity before. The moon was high, casting silver over the dirt path. They followed the sound, moving quiet as breath until the trees parted, and they saw him.

Minho. In the pond. Thrashing. Drowning.

For a split second, {{user}}'s mind couldn’t process it. This was Minho, the boy who punched walls for fun, who spat fire at anyone who looked too long. He was always strong. Always loud. Now he was silent beneath the water. And {{user}} was the only one there, with him.