My body is frozen to the table, thin paper crinkling beneath me. I can't move. My arms, my legs, my neck... they're strapped down. The panic claws up my throat.

A doctor's there. His face is blurred at the edges, but I can feel his hands holding me down.

"You need to stay still," he says. His voice is calm.

The needle glints under the light. Long and thin and sharp. My breath catches. My arms jerk instinctively, but the straps keep me pinned down.

"You have to stay still," the doctor repeats.

My chest tightens as the needle dips lower, lower, toward my spine. I can't move. I can't stop it.

My mouth opens—stop, please stop—but nothing comes out.

The needle presses against my skin. A slow, terrible pressure before it pierces.

Fire rips up my spine. My body jolts. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms as the pain sears through me. My vision whites out.

"You need to stay still."

My body is shaking, twisting, trying to get away from the pain. The doctor's hand presses into my back again, forcing me still as the needle drives deeper.

The pain is unbearable. Worse than anything. My mouth opens, and now I'm screaming, my whole body convulsing beneath the doctor's hands, yet he doesn't stop.

My arms go slack.

My whole body falls into stillness, except for the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

"You did well," the doctor says. "We'll try again tomorrow."

I try to scream another time, but my body doesn't respond. My mouth doesn't open. My hands don't move.

"You need to stay still," he says.

The needle comes toward me again.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I jolt awake with a gasp.

My whole body is shaking. My chest is heaving, and my hands are twisted into the sheets, my knuckles white. My face is wet, tears hot and sticky against my skin.

I can still feel it. The needle. The straps. The pain.

A broken sound slips out of my throat before I can stop it. My hands press to my face, trying to steady myself, but it's no use.

I sit there for a long time, knees pulled up to my chest, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. My skin feels cold. My spine aches. It was just a dream, but still.

I slide out of bed. Step by step, down the hall. Past the empty bathroom. Past the shadows.

I stop at my dad's room. The door is open just enough for the light from the hallway to creep across the carpet.

Maybe I would've gone to Dariel had he still been here.

I stand there, in the dark, trembling. My hands are pulled into the hem of my hoodie. I feel small. My dad is asleep. He looks... calm. Softer than he ever does when he's awake.

I should just go back to my room.

But then he stirs, his brow pulling together slightly before his eyes open. "Minho?" His voice is rough with sleep. He rubs a hand over his face. "What are you doing?"

"I..." My voice breaks. "I had a nightmare."

For a second, he just looks at me. Then he sighs and pushes himself upright. His mouth twitches like he's not sure what to say.

"Come here," he says finally.

My heart almost explodes with nerves. I don't move.

"Minho. Sit down."

My legs hesitate. But then I'm moving, sitting on the edge of the bed. My whole body is tight, like it's bracing for rejection. For him to say something cold or distant.

After a second, he shifts toward me. His arm comes around my back—hesitating for a moment—before pulling me in.

I don't know how to react. My dad doesn't do this. He doesn't comfort people.

But his hand is rubbing slowly along my back. His chin rests lightly against my hair. The tension in my chest snaps. My breath shudders out. My face twists up, and before I know it, tears are burning in my eyes again.

"I'm sorry," he says after a long pause. "I should've been better."

I don't know what to respond.

"I'm sorry for...everything," he continues. "For not being here when you needed me. For how things have been since...since the divorce." He looks up at me. "For not being the kind of father you deserved."

I swallow hard. "It's not..." I stop myself. It's not fine. It's never been fine. "You've always been busy."

"That's not an excuse." His jaw tightens. "I told myself it was. I told myself work was important, that providing for you and Dariel was enough. But I used it to hide. I didn't know how to..." He shakes his head. His hands curl into fists. "I didn't know how to handle things after your mom left."

I feel a dull ache in my chest. "So you just gave up on us?"

His head jerks toward me, eyes wide. "No," he says. "I never gave up on you. I... I just didn't know how to be the person you needed."

"So you left us to figure it out ourselves."

"I know. I let you handle too much on your own. And now you're sick, and I don't... I don't know how to fix this."

"You can't."

He winces. His hand drifts toward mine, as if he's not sure if he's allowed to touch me. After a moment, I let my hand rest there, next to his. His fingers curl around mine. His grip is strong.

"I saw you in the hospital," he says. "After the seizure. After the lumbar puncture. I should have stayed. I should have been there, but I was scared," he admits. "I didn't want to see you hurting and know that there was nothing I could do about it."

I glared at him. "You don't get to play the victim."

He looks down, his hand tightening around mine. "I know I screwed up. With you. With Dariel."

"You didn't just leave us to figure it out," I say. My voice is sharper than I expect it to be. "You left Dariel to figure it out. He had to be the one taking care of me while you were gone. And now he's turning into you."

His brows pull together. "What do you mean?"

"He's always working. Always stressed. He doesn't stop. Ever."

My dad's expression hardens. "Dariel's not like me."

"Isn't he? He's taking on everything by himself because no one else will. He barely sleeps. It's all on him, and you know why? Because he thinks he has to pick up the pieces you left behind." I force my head up.

"Dariel knows how to handle himself—"

"Does he? Because he's not handling it. He's burning out. You think he's fine because he holds it together, but he's not. You taught him how to hide it, but he's falling apart. He's hitting people, just like you. Hurting others because of the stress."

I'm about to continue, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It's late. Way too late for anyone to be calling him. My eyes shift toward the screen, but he's already reaching for it.

He turns it off.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Nothing," he repeats. His grip is stiff.

The screen lights up again. The message flashes across the top for a second before disappearing, but I catch a glimpse of it.

We need to talk. You're already late on the payment.

My dad's face tightens. He stands abruptly, moving toward the door.

"What was that?" I repeat.

"Nothing," he says again. "Minho—"

"Who's asking for money?" My pulse picks up.

"I said it's nothing." His voice sharpens. "Go back to bed."

I push up. My legs feel shaky, but I ignore it. "Are you... in trouble?"

"Go to bed, Minho."

"You wouldn't be acting like this if it was nothing."

"It's not your business."

"Not my business? Are you serious? You just said you want to fix things, and then you continue hiding your shit from me—"

His phone buzzes again.

This time he grabs it and heads toward the hall.

"I said go to bed," he says over his shoulder.

A late payment.

He's in trouble. That much is obvious. But it's not just that—it's the way he reacted. The way his whole body tensed. Is he getting threatened?

I walk back to my room. Dariel, rings through my mind.

He's not like me, my dad said. But he is. If Dad's in trouble, Dariel's involved.

Luciana said he often gets home late.

I push up from the floor, walk to my desk, and unlock my phone. My hand shakes slightly as I pull up his contact, and press the button.

It rings once. Twice. A third time.

On the fourth ring, he picks up.

"Minho?" His voice is rough. Like I woke him up. Or like he hasn't slept at all.

"Dariel."

A pause. Then, "What's wrong?"

I almost hang up.

But the words are already slipping out. "What's going on with Dad?"

Silence. I hear him breathing on the other end of the line.

"Dariel," I press. "I'm not an idiot. He's in trouble, isn't he?"

He exhales. "Go to bed, Minho."

"No," I snap. "You're not going to shut me out this time."

"Minho—"

"I saw the message. The late payment. He's involved in something—something serious—and you know about it, don't you?"

"It's under control. Don't involve yourself."

"That's not an answer, Dariel. What the hell is going on?"

"I told you—"

"You didn't tell me anything! I'm not a kid anymore. Stop acting like I don't deserve to know!"

"Minho—"

"What is it?"

"It's not your problem."

My chest squeezes painfully. "It's not my problem?" I choke out. "Are you kidding me? If Dad's in trouble, if you're in trouble—how the hell is that not my problem?"

Dariel's quiet for so long that I almost think he's hung up.

"It's money," he eventually admits.

"What kind of money?"

"Debt."

I swallow. "How bad?"

Another pause.

"Bad," he says. "And not just money."

"What do you mean, not just—"

"You don't want to know," he snarls. ""Stay out of it, Minho."

"You really think that's an option now?"

"Listen to me," Dariel lowers his voice. "It's handled."

"If it's handled, why is Dad getting threats?"

He curses under his breath. I hear rustling: he's moving. "It's complicated."

"Dariel."

"Drop it, Minho."

"No," I snap. "I'm not dropping it. I deserve to know."

"It's not your fight," he says, voice cold.

"Then whose is it?"

A sharp knock sounds on the other end. My brother's breath hitches.

"Dariel?" I say quickly. "Who's that?"

More knocking. Then a muffled voice—low and angry—filters through the speaker. My heart pounds.

"Dariel," I say again. "Who's there?"

"I have to go," Dariel says.

"No—"

"I'll call you later."

The line cuts out.

I stare down at my phone, my whole body shaking. It's not just debt. It's more.

Dariel is right in the middle of it. And so is Dad.

A part of me wants to scream. Another part wants to wake up and find out this was some twisted dream as well.

Instead, I hear movement.

Footsteps down the hall. A creak of the floorboards by the front door.

I get up without hesitation. My heart is already beating too fast as I slip down the hall, careful not to make a sound. I peek around the corner.

Dad is by the door. He's pulling on his jacket.He checks his phone, frowning at something on the screen, before tucking it into his pocket. His face is tense. He looks... afraid.

And then he's out the door.

I slip on my shoes, pull my hoodie over my head, and slip outside into the cold night air. My dad's already halfway down the driveway. His car unlocks with a beep.

When he drives away, I start running.

My lungs burn as I cut across the neighbor's yard, toward the alley. His car turns a corner. I sprint to keep it in view. I don't know what I'm doing, but I have to know.

I follow him through the neighborhood, down streets I barely recognize. He turns toward the industrial district; places no one should be at night.

I slow down once I see him pull into an empty lot. His headlights cut through the dark. A single streetlight flickers overhead. On instinct, I duck down behind a parked truck.

My dad steps out of the car. He looks around before shoving his hands in his pockets. He's nervous.

A low rumble cuts through the air.

Another car. Then another.

My stomach drops.

Three black cars roll up. Tinted windows. No plates.

A total of six guys step out.

They don't look friendly. Dark jackets. Cold eyes.

"You didn't need to come here," Dad's voice echoes through the night.

"You missed a payment," says the tallest guy.

"I told you—I need more time."

"That's not how this works."

The tall guy steps forward. His eyes gleam under the streetlight. "You know the rules."

"I just need—"

"You're out of time."

The guy's hand shifts toward his jacket—

Another car pulls up.

Dariel steps out.

My heart almost stops.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dariel's voice is sharp as he strides toward my dad. His hair is a mess, his jacket hanging loose off one shoulder.

The cold air bites at my skin, but I can't move. My heart is slamming against my ribs. My hands press against the rusted frame of the truck.

Dariel's here. And my dad. With those guys.

And guns.

I'm frozen, watching as Dariel steps toward my dad and the guys tense around them. The tall guy's hand shifts toward his jacket. Dariel's eyes narrow.

My dad says something I can't hear over the blood rushing in my ears.

Dariel steps closer. His hands curl into fists, and it swings backwards.

I shift forward—

A hand grabs my shoulder.

Another hand seizes my arm and wrenches it behind my back. I open my mouth, ready to scream, but a hand closes over it.

Someone drags me away.

I thrash. My foot connects with something solid—a leg—yet the grip doesn't loosen. I'm being pulled toward the alley.

Before I know it, my back hits the cold brick wall.

"Stay still," a voice murmurs in my ear.

I twist, trying to wrench free, but a fist slams into my ribs.

All the air punches out of my lungs. I sag, gasping. My knees hit the pavement.

Rough hands drag me back up. My cheek scrapes against the brick.

"What do we have here?" a new voice wonders.

My breath stutters. Footsteps approach.

Another guy. Not the ones from the lot—a different one. Younger. Dark eyes and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He crouches down, head tilted. His eyes skim over me.

"Well, well. Looks like the little brother wanted to see how men handle things."

I jerk my head back, trying to pull free, but the grip on my arms tightens.

The guy's smile fades. His hand grips my chin. Forces me to look at him.

"I don't like spies," he says quietly.

I should've stayed in my room after that nightmare.

The guy's hand slides down my throat, pressing lightly. His smile is thin. "Maybe we should teach you a lesson."

I try to pull away. "Let me go."

The guy's smile widens. He nods to the others.

Another fist slams into my stomach.

I double over, choking on air. Hands drag me up when my knees start to buckle.

The guy crouches in front of me, watching me struggle to breathe. His hand catches my chin. "What's your name, kid?"

The blood in my mouth tastes like a threat, yet I don't take it as a sign to respond.

His fist cracks across my face.

Pain explodes through my skull. My head snaps to the side. I gasp as the blood fills my mouth again.

"Answer me."

I grit my teeth. "Screw you."

"You've got a mouth on you."

He nods again.

A fist cracks into my ribs. Another into my face.

My body crumples, my head swimming. My hands curl into fists, but I can't fight back. My whole body feels sluggish.

The guy with the cigarette steps back for a moment, letting the others take their turn. I feel a boot to my ribs, and another punch lands on my jaw, snapping my head to the side. The force of it sends me to my knees.

"Not so tough now, huh?" The guy crouches down again.

The pounding continues. Each hit feels like it's pulling me under even more.

The blows come to a stop after what feels like forever. I'm left gasping for air, barely able to keep my eyes open. My body is trembling, blood dripping from my nose and the corner of my mouth. I taste iron. My head spins with every breath. But still, I don't beg, don't cry. The silence is broken by the low, amused chuckle from the guy with the cigarette.

"Not bad, kid," he says. "You've got guts. But guts won't get you far around here. See, we're not just gonna let you walk away from this." He kneels down. You've seen too much. Heard too much. And we don't take kindly to loose ends."

I flinch as he pulls my head back, the pressure on my scalp making my eyes water.

"You've got two choices," he continues. "You can keep your mouth shut and do what we tell you, or..." His lips curl into a cruel smile. "You can find out what happens to people who get in our way."

He lets the threat hang in the air for a long moment. My stomach turns, the idea of working for them, being their puppet, is disgusting. But I now know what they're capable of.

And I'm not sure if I want to be on Dad and Dariel's team.

"Well?" he presses. "What's it gonna be, tough guy?"

I barely have the strength to speak, but I force the words out, my voice hoarse. "I'm not working for you."

The guy's expression darkens immediately. Without warning, he kicks me in the side, knocking me over, leaving me gasping for air.

"You either work for us, or you die here."

"Alright," I give up, too fast. "I'll do it. I'll work for you."

I'm not sure what that means. Maybe it'll be good— probably not. But it might give me a chance to show Dad and Dariel they shouldn't think of me as a baby.

The guy's smile returns. "Smart kid. Real smart."

He stands up and pulls me to my feet roughly.

"You start tomorrow," he says. "And you better keep your mouth shut. If you talk, if you step out of line, we won't hesitate to remind you of your place." He gives me one last shove, sending me stumbling. "You're ours now."

I can't even look him in the eye, my body too beaten to resist.

"Let's go." They start moving towards a dark, narrow alleyway. I'm shoved forward, forced to stagger behind them like some kind of prisoner.

The pain in my ribs is sharp with every step. I want nothing more than to collapse right here. But I can't. Showing weakness in front of guys like this is not ideal.

As we turn the corner, I see a rundown warehouse, its windows broken and covered in grime.

They stop in front of a grimy metal door. One of the guys knocks twice, and a voice from inside calls out. "Who's there?"

"It's us. We got a kid." He looks down at me. "You related to those men?"

"I..." I stammer, then nod firmly. "My brother and my dad."

Oh, you stupid little— I force my thoughts away.

The door opens with a creak, revealing a small, dimly lit room. I'm shoved inside. The walls are covered in peeling paint, and the only furniture is an old chair in the center of the room. The floor is dirty, stained with who knows what.

The guy with the cigarette stands in front of me. "This is where you'll stay tonight it. You'll work for us, and you'll keep your mouth shut. Act normal towards your family but don't even think of telling them about this. It seems like you enjoyed spying on us— now we're allowing you to spy on them. Easy peasy, since you must live together."

"What do you want me to do?" My voice shakes.

He looks me up and down. "For now? You're gonna sit tight and wait. We've got a job for you tomorrow. You're gonna make yourself useful to us, or else..." With that, he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.