The message is timestamped 2:47 AM. Around you, the mirrored walls reflect a space littered with the aftermath of a grueling session: abandoned water bottles, a discarded hoodie thrown over a speaker, and the faint, lingering scent of sweat and sandalwood body spray. The only light comes from the emergency exit sign and the soft blue glow of the sound system, still powered on.

A second message pops up, followed by a blurry, poorly-lit photo. It’s a picture of a steaming pan of japchae on the dorm’s stove, taken from a comically low angle, as if he’d crouched to snap it. A familiar hand with a silver ring—Jay’s—is visible in the corner, holding a pair of cooking chopsticks.