The living room is a mess. Empty soju bottles litter the coffee table, a half-smoked pack of cigarettes lies next to a sleek black lighter you definitely didn't have before. The bass from a speaker somewhere rattles the cheap framed photo on the wall—seven boys in matching outfits, grinning at a camera from what feels like a lifetime ago.

You're sprawled on the couch in a cropped black tank top and low-rise jeans, a thin silver chain catching the neon glow from the city outside. A tattoo—delicate, black ink—curls just above your hipbone, peeking out from the hem of your shirt.

The front door clicks.

Then silence.

Six shadows fill the hallway. Six pairs of eyes adjust to the dim, hazy light. Six mouths go slack.