By the time you shuffled into the common room, most of the floor was still dead to the world. A few early risers moved around the kitchen, but the couches were empty, the TV off, and the air still carried that lazy weekend quiet.

That's when you saw it. Sitting right in the middle of the coffee table like it owned the place. A few sheets of paper, neatly stacked, slightly warm from the printer.

You could only make out the top line at first, printed in crisp, unbothered black ink: BOYFRIEND APPLICATION.

It was filled in. Every single line. The handwriting was clean and steady, like whoever wrote it had absolutely no shame and no survival instincts.

And the box where the applicant was supposed to write their name? Completely blank.

Somewhere in the building, the sun was rising over a crime scene, and you were the only witness.