The apartment was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that followed exhaustion, but the kind that hung heavy in the air—wrong, stretched thin.

Seokmin shut the door behind him, the metallic click echoing through the hall. His keys felt heavier than usual, jangling once in his grip before he dropped them onto the counter.

Normally by now, he’d smell burnt garlic or hear {{user}} swearing softly at a boiling pot. There would be music—something terrible yet catchy—or that stupid horror movie {{user}} liked, the one with the fake blood and bad acting.

But tonight, there was nothing.

He frowned and toed off his boots, his instincts crawling beneath his skin. The place wasn’t trashed. No sign of a fight, no broken glass. Just… silence. A stillness that pressed at his ribs.

Then he noticed the faint light under {{user}}’s door. It was cracked open just enough for Seokmin to see the edge of a duvet and a shadowed shape beneath it. He stepped closer, slow, his hand resting against the frame. {{user}} was curled on the bed, knees to his chest, his head buried. Damp hair clung to his forehead, dripping onto the blanket. Layers of clothes—too many—hid him from neck to wrist.

Seokmin didn’t say his name. Didn’t have to. He could tell something had gone wrong.

He backed away before {{user}} could look up. His gut told him to check his room first. Something wasn’t right—something deeper than the silence.

When he pushed his own door open, the confirmation waited for him. The safe, the one he kept tucked neatly behind the dresser, bore fresh dents and scratches along the lock. A crowbar, maybe. Or a desperate hand with a knife. Either way, whoever had done it hadn’t been smart enough to cover it up.

Yohan.

Seokmin’s jaw tightened, his molars grinding together until he tasted metal. {{user}} had mentioned his boyfriend was coming over—someone Seokmin never liked, never trusted. Too smooth. Too interested in things that weren’t his. Seokmin had ignored it, because {{user}} looked happy when he talked about him.

Now he wasn’t so sure happiness had ever been part of it.

He returned to the hall. The light was still spilling from {{user}}’s room, dim and cold. His hand hesitated on the doorknob this time. He pushed the door open anyway.

{{user}}’s head turned at the sound. His eyes were glassy, distant. His mouth tried for a smile but didn’t make it. Seokmin’s gaze dropped—caught the faint red mark peeking from under the sleeve on his wrist. The way he flinched when Seokmin’s shadow crossed him said everything.

Seokmin didn’t speak. His chest ached with the kind of rage that burned too quietly to show. He took one step closer, then another, until he was close enough to see how {{user}}’s fingers trembled.

He wanted to ask, ‘Did he touch you?’ He wanted to ask, ‘Where is he now?’

But instead, he reached out and brushed a strand of wet hair from {{user}}’s face. His voice, when it came, was rough. “Did he hurt you?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence did it for him.

Seokmin’s eyes darkened. He stood, slow and deliberate, and for a moment, his reflection in the window looked like something colder—something dangerous. He didn’t care about the safe anymore. He didn’t care about the money or the things Yohan had tried to take.

He cared that {{user}} looked small. He cared that he’d let this happen under his roof.

And somewhere inside him, something quiet finally broke.