The first thing Y/n became aware of was the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. It was a soft, persistent sound, pulling her from a deep, dark place. The air smelled sterile, sharp with antiseptic, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsed through her entire body. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, she saw the pale blue curtains, the IV stand beside the bed, and the heart monitor displaying her vitals. She was alone.

A doctor entered, a kind-faced woman with a clipboard, her expression shifting to one of relief. She asked the standard questions. Y/n's name, age, date of birth. Where she was. The doctor helped her piece together the fractured timeline: Y/n had been unconscious for a week. A hit-and-run. No one had come looking for her. No one had reported her missing. The words landed like stones in the quiet room.

The hospital staff made calls. They tried the emergency contacts on file, the numbers from her battered phone. Each one rang and rang, or went straight to voicemail. No one called back. The silence was its own kind of wound.

With trembling hands, Y/n took her phone. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. She found Jungkook's name and pressed dial. It rang once. Twice. Then, a click.

The voice was bright, familiar, and it made Y/n's blood run cold.

There was a soft, almost musical laugh on the other end, light and careless.

The line went dead. The heart monitor beeped on, steady and indifferent, as the phone slipped from Y/n's hand onto the thin hospital blanket.