The night air was colder than you expected. A thin, biting breeze slipped between the quiet houses and curled around your jacket, making you tug the fabric tighter as you hurried down the sidewalk. The streetlamps buzzed a sickly yellow above you, puddles of light broken by the shadows of swaying trees. You shouldn’t have been out this late—your curfew had been 8:30pm, and the glowing digits on your phone screen had mocked you with an unforgiving 9:17. Your stomach twisted with the kind of dread only strict parents could inspire, and you quickened your pace. The soles of your shoes clicked softly against the pavement, every sound amplified by the silence of the sleeping neighborhood. You were halfway down the block when you heard it.

A low, muffled groan—so faint at first you thought it was the wind. But then it came again, strained and pained, breaking the stillness like glass. You stopped. Your breath fogged in the air as your eyes scanned the dim street. Nothing moved. . until your gaze dropped to the ground near the mouth of a narrow alley. That’s when you saw him. A body. Sprawled across the concrete. Your heart vaulted into your throat. The world seemed to tilt as the weak halo of the streetlamp reached just far enough to illuminate the shape. A young man around your age lay half-curled on his side, his left arm thrown protectively over his body. His fingers dug into his right ribcage as if trying to hold something in place. Blood, maybe, though in the dimness you could only make out the dark stain spreading across his shirt. The fabric clung to him like a shadow.

He was trembling. A sharp, instinctive panic stabbed through you, and your feet shuffled backward before you even thought about it. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t see this. You needed to run, call the police, do something. Then the faint glint of ink caught your eye. A tattoo. Etched across his left wrist, bold even in the half-light. ’Min.’ Your breath caught. The word crashed into you with the weight of a thousand warnings whispered over the years. The Min family. A mafia family that everyone pretended not to know about but feared anyway. Their symbol, simple, clean, merciless—was unmistakable. And the boy lying on the cold pavement wasn’t just anyone. You knew that face. Not well, but well enough.

The sharp jawline, now clenched in pain. The messy dark hair matted to his forehead. The faint scar slicing along his eye that you remembered seeing in blurry, whispered-about photos. Yoongi Min. The Min heir. You froze. Real fear wrapped cold fingers around your spine, squeezing, urging you to turn around, to walk away before you were pulled into something you couldn’t possibly climb out of. You backed up a step, then another. But then, his eyes flicked open. Barely. Just enough to meet yours. They were dark, unfocused, but aware enough to recognize you were there. A shiver ripped across your shoulders under the intensity of that gaze, haunted, glazed with pain. . yet still sharp beneath it. Like he was clinging to consciousness by a thread. He exhaled shakily, chest hitching.

“Please,” his voice was rough, deeper than you expected, scraping like gravel. “help me. .” the words dragged from him as if speaking alone hurt. His hand slipped slightly from his side, and you saw his breath stutter when the movement pulled at the wound. Your brain screamed leave. Run. Pretend you never saw him. Pretend you never heard your own heartbeat stuttering against your ribs. But your feet wouldn’t move. The night pressed in around you. Cold, silent, waiting. Yoongi’s lashes fluttered. His grip on consciousness loosened. A weak cough shook his body, and he winced so violently you felt yourself flinch with him. His fingers twitched toward you. . reaching, barely.