The others filed out about twenty minutes ago. Felix had squeezed your shoulder on the way past—too brief, too careful—murmuring something about getting food. You’d waved him off, said you wanted to run the formation one more time.

But you haven’t.

You’ve just been sitting here. On the floor. Legs stretched out, back against the mirror. Watching the ceiling.

Thinking.

It’s the small things. That’s what’s been sticking in your brain like a splinter you can’t dig out. Little inconsistencies that don’t mean anything until you stack them up, and then suddenly they mean everything.

Like how you’ve never once seen any of them eat. Not one bite. Not a single crumb. You’ve been here three months.

Three months.

Hyunjin will sit with you at the table, push food around his plate, sometimes even lift the chopsticks to his mouth—but you watch him when he thinks you’re not looking. He never swallows.

And the fridge in the dorm is always fully stocked. Vegetables, fruit, leftovers in labeled containers. You’ve opened it at 3am and seen enough food to feed a small army. But it never depletes. It just… rotates. Replaced when you’re not there to notice.

That’s weird, right? That’s not just a diet thing.

Then there’s the silence between 2 and 4am.

You wake up sometimes—restless, random, no reason—and the dorm is dead. No footsteps. No TV murmur from the living room. No one scrolling on their phone in the dark. Just complete, absolute stillness.

Except for movement. You’ve heard it. Soft. Deliberate. Like someone walking on carpet with their shoes off, trying not to make noise.

And Felix’s eyes. The way he looks at you sometimes—like you’re something he’s memorizing. Something he’s saying goodbye to.

Okay, that’s dramatic. He’s just intense. He’s an artist, they’re all intense.

(But he never blinks. Why does he never blink?)

How the hell does he know I’ve been in here for exactly two hours?