“Hyukjae?” The man calls his friend-slash-lover’s name hesitatingly. “Where are you? I have your coffee.”

There’s the shuffling of feet, and then a man swings open the door with a friendly wave of the hand; his hair is rather messy, and his forehead is dappled with beads of perspiration. He receives the cup of coffee with an appreciative grin, downing about half of it in a matter of seconds.

“How was dance practice?” he asks casually, sipping at his own half-finished cup of coffee. Hyukjae practically brightens at the mention of dance, running a hand through his tangled strands of hair while chatting excitedly at the same time.

“It’s going really great! You should come and watch some day, Donghae - I think I’ll be able to debut soon! I really hope I’ll be successful.”

He knows his best friend well enough to hear the nervous exhilaration in every note of his voice, and tell his half-hidden trepidation from the way his words tremble just the slightest. “You’ll do fine,” he speaks with more conviction than he’d thought possible of himself, “You’ll do great. Everyone will love you.”

Hyukjae’s eyes are alight with anticipation and hope and perturbation and everything in between; in the end, he settles for a deep inhalation of breath and a smile.

“I really hope so, Donghae.” He pauses, almost as if not knowing what to say, “But even if I don’t get famous, and I’m not successful, you’ll still be there to support me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Hyukjae?”

It’s a quarter past midnight when an extremely tired Donghae stumbles to his door. He swings it open to realise that there’s no one present; a frown sets upon his lips, and he tilts his head in a hazy confusion - could he have hallucinated the knock on his door out of weariness?

Hyukjae often comes over to sleep at his house on dance practice nights since it’s closer to the dance studio that he goes to; and yet, he often arrives at approximately midnight. Donghae’s gaze slides to the clock mounted on the wall of the living room - the seconds gradually tick into minutes, and he stands and watches with a growing sense of unease as the clock hands move from twelve-fifteen to twelve-twenty to twelve-twenty-five.

Where are you?

“Donghae?” His mother calls his name from upstairs, her voice thick with sleep. “Go to bed soon.”

“I will,” he responds, “Hyukjae said he’d be coming over tonight but he’s twenty-five minutes later than usual.”

He watches.

Time passes.

“I’m going to see if Hyukjae’s at the twenty-four hour fast food shop,” he shouts up the stairs, “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” His mother responds with a sentence he can’t really make out; most likely something along the lines of ‘please bring a torch’ or ‘don’t go too far’.

He pulls on the nearest pair of sneakers that he can find; the darkened sky brings chills to him, more so than the wind against his skin. He’s grateful for the street lamps that cast their orange glows across the pavement - he tugs at his sleeves as if hoping that it’d bring him warmth.

“Hyukjae?” His feet travel the familiar path towards the store that’s still brightly lit. He pushes the door open, and wrinkles his nose slightly at the too-strong smell of frying oil that wafts into his nostrils. He bows his head, greeting the owner respectfully, and offers an uncomfortable smile to the woman and her child who are ordering food to take away - why they’re ordering food past midnight, he doesn’t know and he’s too damn tired to feel curious.

“Would you like to order anything, young sir?” the owner queries. He startles a little, shaking his head quickly and backing away.

“No, I was just looking for my friend but I suppose he isn’t here.” He dips his head once more before shutting the door, and the way it impacts loudly with the frame is reflective of the way his heart clashes wildly in his chest.

A shout splits the air; it’s jarring, and it only makes his heart beat faster.

Who the is still out at twelve-forty at night?

There’s more distinct shouting, muffled syllables - and then silence.

The silence comes so abruptly, goosebumps run across his skin and his spine erects straighter than a board and he feels as if a million winter winds had just passed him by.

What just happened?

His feet are taking him towards the direction of the shout, his mind is screaming at him to stop and turn back and run back to the beckoning safety of his home, his heart is feeding him possibilities and what if’s - that somehow, maybe, the shouts had been related to Hyukjae.

Maybe he got into a fight. There are some people around here who like to pick fights for no reason.

But what fight would end so suddenly like that?

He turns the corner.

And he stops.

Three people.

One is hooded, and he turns at the sound of footsteps against the ground. Their eyes meet - one wide open in unwithheld shock, the other haunted by a thousand ghostly shadows.

The other two do not move to look up at him; one lies slumpe