Y/n sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last message from Chan sat unread at the top of the screen. A simple, cold response to a simple, lonely question.

This wasn't new. Chan had always been driven, passionate, consumed by his music. But lately, the work had started to eat him alive. The studio had become his real home. Y/n had become a background notification—seen, but rarely opened.

And so the plan formed. A stupid, desperate plan.

Y/n's fingers moved before the guilt could catch up.

The read receipt appeared instantly. Three dots bounced at the bottom of the screen. Then—

Everything was set for the worst possible outcome.