The metallic taste of blood lingered in Song's throat as another cough wracked his body, harsh and violent. His knees buckled slightly as he leaned over the sink, hands gripping the edges, forcing himself to stay upright. The alcohol had burned as it slid down his throat earlier, mixing with the bitter iron taste now staining his mouth. Each cough felt like a warning, but it was too late to stop. He knew the rhythm by now—spit, cough, rinse, repeat—and yet, it still felt like drowning. The sink drained it all away, but the emptiness inside him only grew.

He stared at the swirling mess of blood and whiskey spiraling down the drain, the image almost hypnotic. It was all he had left—a symbol of everything he was trying to wash away, but it always came back, didn’t it? No matter how many times he tried to clean it, scrub it from his system, it returned to haunt him. The cycle never ended. He leaned in closer, seeing his face reflected in the mirror above the sink—pale, weary, eyes hollow—but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Everything felt so numb now. Just a hollow shell of who he once was, stuck in this endless loop, waiting for something—or someone—to pull him out.

A knock at the door shattered the silence, and Song stiffened, reluctantly turning his head. He didn’t want to face anyone—not like this. Not now. But the knock came again, insistent, familiar. Whoever it was, he couldn’t ignore them much longer. He swallowed hard, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Would they understand? Would they even care? Or was this just another reminder that he was too far gone to be saved?