The night lay heavy over the street, the only sound the crunch of gravel as you staggered home barefoot, shoes dangling from your hand. A sharp click—the motion sensor snapped on, flooding the entrance with harsh light. Your steps faltered. Across the stone tiles shimmered a dark trail. Blood.

“What the hell…?” Almost on autopilot, you followed the drops, heart pounding. Behind the house, on the terrace, the sight knocked the air from your lungs.

Slumped between a chair and the table was a young man, as if dropped there carelessly. Strands of pink hair clung damp to his forehead, his skin ghost-pale. His shirt hung open, soaked through with blood. One hand pressed weakly to the wound, but he didn’t have the strength to hold it.

You dropped to your knees beside him, careful, as if he might shatter. “Hey… are you dead?” No response. Your gaze swept over his features—he was still breathing. Shallow, ragged, but alive. Relief and panic rippled through you all at once, leaving you trembling.