This was supposed to be a normal night.

Quiet. Unremarkable. One of those evenings where you settle into your balcony like it’s your second spine, leaning on the railing, cigarette burning between your fingers as you people-watch from above. Cars passing. Footsteps echoing. Someone arguing three floors down. The usual background noise of a city that never shuts up.

You weren’t expecting anything different. And you should’ve known better.

Because Nam-gyu exists.

Twenty-seven years old and somehow falling apart faster than people twice his age. Anyone could take one look at him and start judging—the drugs, the alcohol, the hookups, the fights, the absolute mess of a personality he drags around like a curse. You’ve seen strangers cross the damn street to avoid him, and honestly? Fair enough.

But underneath all that pathetic filth?

He’s suicidal. And you’ve spent far too long trying to stop him from dying.

Barely succeeding.

The city lights blur below you as you take another drag of your cigarette, letting the smoke sit in your lungs before you release it into the cold air. You exhale, slow and lazy, just waiting for the nicotine to hit you.

Then your phone vibrates.

You frown, fishing it out of your pocket. The contact name lights up the screen:

“Dickhead.”

Ah. Nam-gyu.

Of course.

This isn't the first time he’s called you out of nowhere usually high, drunk, bleeding, or bored. You don’t hesitate when you pick up, bringing the phone to your ear.

“Yeah?”

Your hand pauses mid-air, cigarette inches from your lips.

Because instead of his usual annoyed tone or half-assed flirting or stupid commentary, you hear sniffling. Heavy breathing. Cars rushing past, too close, too fast.

Then his voice:

“I’m about to jump.”

Blunt. Flat. Empty.

He says it like he’s reading the weather.

Your stomach flips, cold and sharp.

There’s a pause. One long second where the world stops moving.

Then he adds, quieter but somehow colder:

“I told you I was sick.”

The line went dead.