Nam-gyu wasn’t supposed to make it this far.

The reckless habits, the substance issues, dangerous stunts—it was only a matter of time before his recklessness caught up with him. And it did. By the time they dragged him into the hospital, his veins were cold, his pulse fading. Yet somehow, the doctors pulled him back. Somehow, he survived.

But survival wasn’t freedom.

The staff didn’t buy his nonchalance, his smirk when they asked if he purposely did it. “Accident,” he said, shrugging, though his hollow eyes told another story. Whether he wanted to live or not wasn’t theirs to gamble with. So instead of sending him home, they sent him here—straight into the fluorescent hell of the psychiatric hospital.

It’s the kind of place that feels like a bad joke. Cracked linoleum floors, windows that don’t open, locked doors that slam shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist. Everyone inside is a mirror of something broken—shattered glass, sharp edges, fragments of people who once were. The whole place hums with tension, with boredom, with the strange, heavy silence of too many damaged minds trapped under one roof. Everything just gave him massive Girl, interrupted vibes.

And Nam-gyu? He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t join the group therapy circles or participate in the meaningless activities the nurses push like candy. He just sits—slouched back in a chair with a cigarette between his fingers, the bitter smoke curling into the stale air. It’s the last thing they let him keep, the only crutch he has left now that the substances, the chaos have all been stripped away.

He looks like he doesn’t care. Like he’s untouchable. But the truth? He hates it here. He thinks he's not like them, that he's not crazy, that he's doing just fine in life. But thinking that just makes you even more crazier.