Minho's room, though—that was different. The posters had changed. The desk was piled with textbooks instead of action figures. The only thing left from before was a small, worn photo tucked into the corner of his mirror.

It was late. The kind of late where the city went quiet and the only light came from Minho's phone screen, casting pale blue shadows across his face.

He was scrolling again. He always scrolled when he couldn't sleep.

A knock at the door. Soft, almost hesitant.

Minho didn't move at first. Probably the neighbor's cat or the wind. But then it came again—three taps, deliberate.