The bathroom door creaked open, steam spilling into the room like a haze of mystery. Jimin stepped out, the cool air hitting his damp skin, sending a shiver through his body. Droplets of water traced slow, deliberate paths down the hard ridges of his torso, glistening in the dim light. His hair, still wet from the shower, clung to his forehead, the rest falling in messy, damp strands around his face. A towel hung loosely around his hips, barely clinging to his form, the dangerous dip of his waist and the sharp cut of his hip bones teasing exposure.

He looked sinfully beautiful. The kind of beauty that stopped hearts, turned heads, and made even the most indifferent feel something—whether they wanted to or not.

As he moved, the soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows along the ink stretched across his ribs. Nevermind. The word was etched in delicate, sharp lettering, a whisper of defiance inked into his skin. It stood in contrast to the smooth planes of his torso, an unspoken story wrapped in a single word. A choice, a regret, a warning—no one truly knew what it meant except him.

His movements were languid, almost lazy, as he walked toward the room fridge, the cool air from the open door brushing against his fever-warmed skin. He grabbed a can of beer, popping it open with a sharp hiss, the sound slicing through the silence like a promise of things to come.

Taking a slow sip, he turned, his eyes catching the dim glow of the table in the corner of the room. The case. It sat there, unassuming, but he knew exactly what it held—everything he needed, everything he wanted. The weight of it was more than just physical. It was his key to freedom. Freedom from the weight of not being enough.

He walked over to the couch, his steps casual, but every movement seemed deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. He sank into the plush cushions, manspreading, his body taking up more space than it should, as if daring the world to notice. He tilted his head back, the beer bottle resting on his lips as his eyes lazily traced the outline of the case.

His fingers tightened around the can as he stared at it, the weight of what it represented settling deep within him. The job wasn't over, not by a long shot, but tonight? Tonight he'd savor the moment.

Jimin's gaze lingered on the case for a moment longer, but something else caught his eye. Hanging loosely from the handle, there was a glint of something shiny, a shimmer that caught the low light of the room. His brows knitted together as he squinted, his curiosity piqued.

Without thinking, he reached forward, setting the beer can down on the coffee table with a soft clink. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the case before they landed on the delicate object hanging from the handle.

It was a bracelet. Or, what was left of one. The once intricate links were broken, scattered like shattered dreams. He turned it over in his fingers, examining the fractured beauty of it.

How come this tag alone? Whom could it belong to? He hadn't been with any woman-

His mind immediately shot back to the moments of the evening—the chaotic rush, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The way she had grabbed onto the case struggling to take it away, before he yanked it away. Though their faces were completely obscured he knew that she had looked at him with rage and frustration. It was desperation, like she knew the stakes, like she knew this could happen.

Jimin's grip on the broken bracelet tightened as memories of the chase came rushing back. The sound of the SUV's engine, the screeching tires, the way he'd led them into the alleys, every step calculated. And, he hadn't expected the rival to cover his back while he deceived at the end. Of course, the case was more important than everything else.

He turned the bracelet over in his hands, the small box-like charm dangling from the broken chain catching his attention. Something about it felt odd, as if it held a secret that hadn't been revealed yet. His fingers traced the delicate lines of the box, feeling the weight of it shift in his palm. He tugged gently at the broken chain, and the little charm detached, falling into his hand with a soft clink.

Jimin tilted it, studying the small box with a frown. There was no way it was just decorative. His eyes narrowed as he carefully pried it open, his breath stilling as he revealed the contents hidden inside.

A small piece of paper, old and worn out, was tucked inside the box, tightly folded. It looked like it had been there for years, hidden away from the world, waiting for someone to find it. His heart beat faster, the thrill of discovery igniting a spark of curiosity.

With deliberate care, he started to pluck at the edges of the paper, the brittle texture of it making him cautious. It came loose slowly, and as he unfolded it, he saw it had been packed in layers, the folds tight and precise.

The paper seemed to hold its own secrets, the ink faint, as though it had faded over time. Jimin's fingers lingered on the edges of the paper as he slowly unrolled it, his eyes flicking over the face that was smiling against the worn-out canvas.

It was a hand sketch of a small baby girl, with soft, round features that were captured in delicate, imperfect lines. Her tiny hands were held out in front of her, almost as though she were reaching for something—or someone.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were drawn with strange intensity, full of an innocence that contrasted against the haunting expression that curled at the corners of her lips. The smile on her face was too knowing, too sinister for someone so young, so fragile.

Jimin's chest tightened as he studied the drawing. The artist had captured the child's innocence, but there was something in the way she was depicted—a dark undertone that unsettled him, sending a ripple of unease through his body. The surface of the paper had dried dots of droplets in countless places, like tears. The girl's eyes seemed to follow him wherever he moved, unblinking, never shifting.

The lines were rough, hasty, as if the artist had been desperate to finish. But the more Jimin stared at the sketch, the more the baby girl's gaze seemed to pierce through him, pulling him into the strange, unsettling aura of the drawing.

He flipped the paper over, his heart pounding.

Maybe there was more to it.

More answers.

But there was nothing. No writing, no marks.

Just the faint remnants of ink, faded and smeared, as though the paper had been touched countless times.

The room grew colder, the air thickening with a sense of foreboding. His breath caught in his throat. What was it about this drawing soaked in tears that felt so... wrong?

The feeling of something sad, something deeper, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

—-----------------------------------

The sound of drawers slamming echoed through the small apartment, the sharp clatter of objects hitting the floor mixing with her ragged breathing. She tore through every inch of the place, her hands shaking as she overturned cushions, yanked open cabinets, and swept the contents of her vanity onto the ground.

The bracelet. Where was it?

I can't lose it. I can't lose the only thing that still binds me to her.

She's already slipping away. Fading. A voice I can barely remember, a face blurred at the edges of my mind. But that sketch—was real. It was solid. It was proof that she existed, that she was here, that she mattered.

And now it's gone. Where is it? Where is it?

Her vision blurred, her heart hammering against her ribs as she threw open another drawer, digging through its contents with frantic, uncoordinated movements. Papers crumpled under her grip, pens, and trinkets clattered onto the wooden floor, but it wasn't there.

Think, Maria, think!

I've searched everywhere. The drawers, the bed, the floor—it should be here. It should be here.

I need to find it. I have to find it.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she tried to recall the last time she had felt its weight against her wrist. It had been there before the chase. Before everything had gone to hell. Before—

Her breath hitched.

The bandage on her hand had loosened from all the movement, slipping away from her skin, revealing the deep cut beneath. The wound pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache, but she barely noticed it. Her palm, smeared with fresh crimson, left faint prints on every surface she touched. The doorknob, the edges of her dresser, the pale sheets she had tossed aside—everything was tinted red.

She didn't care.

She needed to find it.

Her knees hit the ground as she dug through the pile of scattered belongings, pushing away a photo frame that clattered onto its side. Her chest heaved, a quiet curse slipping from her lips.

I can't stop.

Because if I do—if I let myself think for even a second—

Then I'll have to face the truth. That she's slipping away. That maybe she's already gone.

And now, so is the last piece of her I had left.

It was gone.

Cold panic gripped her, tightening like a vice around her lungs. No, no, no, this can't be happening.

Her hands trembled as she pushed her hair back, smearing a streak of blood across her temple.

Her legs wobbled as she staggered to her feet, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The room spun—too fast, too much. The walls felt like they were closing in, pressing against her, suffocating her with their silence.

No, no, I just need to keep looking.

Her steps were unsteady as she reached for the nightstand, fingers shaking as they curled around the edge. But the moment she tried to move, her knee buckled, and before she could catch herself, she was falling—

A sharp gasp left her lips as she hit the cold, wooden floor. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her arms, but it barely registered. Her vision swam, her chest tight with something too heavy to name.

Get up. Keep searching. Don't stop. Don't think.

But I can't. I can't. It's gone. She's gone. And what am I supposed to do now?

Her hands clenched into fists against the floor, nails digging into her palms as a sob tore through her. It broke past her lips, raw and aching, shattering the silence like glass.

And once it started, she couldn't stop.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and relentless, dripping onto the floor beneath her. She pressed her forehead against the cool surface, her shoulders shaking with every uneven breath.

It was gone. The bracelet. The last thing she had of her. A choked cry slipped from her lips as her fingers dug into the floor, desperate, helpless.

I promised. I swore I'd never let go, never let her fade into something distant and unreachable. But I lost it. I lost her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words barely audible between her sobs. "I'm so sorry."

She had promised. Promised she would never let go. Never forget.

But now, the last piece of her sister was gone.

And she admitted. I feel truly alone.