The day at the office had been tense in Incheon. Your manager’s voice still echoed in your head — slamming files on the desk, shouting about “lazy employees” and “dead weight.” Minho’s name had come up again, sharp and bitter, followed by the threat that if he didn’t show up tomorrow, he’d be fired.

You barely knew Minho. He always sat quietly, head down, finishing tasks at half-speed — if at all. He was the kind of coworker others gossiped about in the break room, calling him pathetic or strange. But today, as the boss’s voice cracked with anger, something in you stirred. Concern.

After work, instead of heading home, you found yourself walking toward the address listed on the company records. The sky above was heavy, low-hanging clouds smothering the city in a gray haze. By the time you reached the coast, the wind cut sharp and cold, carrying the salty sting of the sea.

That’s when you saw him.

Minho.

Not at home. Not anywhere safe. But standing in the shallows, waves crashing against his legs, clothes soaked and clinging to his thin frame. His hair was plastered to his face, pale skin almost ghostlike under the dim, clouded sky.

For one terrifying moment, you realized he wasn’t just standing there. He was walking deeper. Step by step into the dark water.

The sea roared as if to swallow him whole, and your chest tightened with the cold shock of panic.

If you didn’t do something now — you might lose him forever.