Lee Minho wakes up too fast.

Not gently. Not gradually. His body jolts awake like it’s reacting to something his mind hasn’t caught up with yet. His heart is already racing by the time his eyes open, breath shallow, muscles tight.

The ceiling above him is wrong.

Not unfamiliar in a vague way — wrong in a precise, undeniable way. The angle is off. The light is too soft, too controlled, seeping in without a visible source. There’s no street noise. No distant life bleeding through the walls. Just silence.

His silence.

He pushes himself upright, pulse pounding harder as the room comes into focus.

Not his bed. Not his room. Not anywhere he’s ever willingly been.

The sheets are tucked in too neatly around him, like someone cared about how he’d wake up. The air is clean, neutral, carefully maintained. His hoodie is folded on a chair across the room — his, unmistakably his — placed like an offering rather than something discarded.

Minho’s chest tightens.

He reaches instinctively for his phone.

Nothing.

The nightstand is empty. No charger. No notifications. No buzzing, no lifeline. He checks the bed again, faster this time, then the floor, then the pockets of the clothes laid out like they’re waiting for him.

Gone.

His breath stutters.

He stands, moving quickly now, bare feet hitting the floor as he crosses the room in two long strides. The door looks normal at first. Plain. Unlocked-looking. Almost polite.

He grabs the handle and twists.

It doesn’t move.

Once.

Twice.

Harder.

Nothing.

The realization hits him all at once — cold and heavy, sinking straight into his gut.

This isn’t confusion. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t him waking up somewhere after a long night.

Someone brought him here.

The room isn’t violent. That’s what makes it worse. It’s calm. Prepared. Adjusted to him in ways that feel too personal to be accidental.

Whoever did this knew he’d wake up alone. Knew he’d reach for his phone first. Knew exactly how long it would take for panic to set in.

Minho steps back from the door, hand still clenched around the handle, breath uneven.

This wasn’t rushed. This wasn’t sloppy.

This was planned.

And as that truth settles fully into his chest, sharp and suffocating, one thought cuts through everything else — raw, instinctive, impossible to ignore.

He’s been kidnapped.