The door was cracked open.

That was the first warning.

Not just unlocked—open. A slow, breathless creak, like the flat itself was exhaling something heavy, something rotten. The hallway smelled like burnt foil and bad decisions, like the kind of night you don’t walk away from.

{{user}} stepped inside quietly. No lights. Just the blue flicker of a television left on a static channel, casting shadows like ghosts over the floor. The living room was wrecked. A lamp on its side, shattered glass underfoot. Pill bottles—empty, spilled—littered the coffee table. A rolled-up ten-pound note beside a streak of powder that hadn’t even been wiped clean.

Something moved down the hallway. Not a person. Just a sound—low, guttural. Like someone choking on air.

They found him in the bedroom.

Lee was half on, half off the bed, his body tangled in the bedsheet like he’d tried to stand and collapsed. His hoodie was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his spine. There was blood on his knuckles, smeared against the wall like a desperate attempt to stay conscious. His mouth was slack, jaw hanging open, eyes wide but glassy—like he was seeing something far, far away. Pupils blown. Arms twitching. His face was grey.

It looked like he’d fought something and lost.

And maybe he had.

He was gone.