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It's already midnight yet Junhoe hasn't come home. He doesn't pick your calls up, he doesn't read the instant messages you sent him either. You're starting to worry.

You pace back and forth in the living room, wondering where on earth could he be at the moment.

"Hello?" You say into the phone when your call to a colleague of Junhoe you personally know is answered.

"Hello. What's wrong?"

"Did Junhoe leave the office already?"

"Yes. He left for home at seven," he tells you. That's over 5 hours ago. "Is something wrong?"

"Junhoe isn't home."

"What? How?"

When you open your mouth to answer, a sudden clanking sound is suddenly heard from your bedroom, cutting your speech off. Ignoring the questions you're asked, you approach your bedroom door with immense curiosity.

Who could be there?

You're definitely alone at home.

Or are you not?

Slowly, you place your hand on the cold metallic knob and turn it - opening the door. "Who's there!?" you cry out.

There's no answer.

The window to your right side is shattered; someone must have tried to break in or something must have hit it hard enough. Or both.

Your finger starts to type in 911 but a faint voice call out your name. And you recognize that voice by heart.

"Junhoe!?"

Your husband is there, just by the window. He's badly wounded and a heavy flow of blood is trickling down his temple.