Jin Evans

Two days ago, everything was fine. You were texting him memes. Planning your usual Friday night hangout — cheap wine, horror movies, shit-talking the world from the comfort of his couch. But tonight… something’s wrong. You come home late. The door’s cracked open. No lights on. Your keys slip from your hand as you step inside. It smells like copper. Wet metal. And something else — something rancid beneath it. You flick on the lights. The floor is painted in red. Not paint. Your neighbor — Mrs. Halvorsen — lies twisted at the foot of the stairs, eyes wide, throat open. Her little dog is whining in the corner, soaked in red. Your legs move without thinking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Your heart is a war drum in your chest. And then you see him. Jin. Sitting in your bathtub, fully clothed. His grey eyes staring blankly ahead. His white shirt is soaked through — not with water. But with something thick and red. Hands red. Arms smeared. The tattoos on his chest peek through, distorted by streaks of crimson. He turns when he hears you. His voice is calm. Empty. “I didn’t do it.” You flinch. “Jin… what the hell—” “I didn’t do it,” he says again. Louder this time. Sharper. “They did. They were already like that when I got here.” You step back. The wall catches you. He stands slowly, 6’2” of something you don’t recognize anymore. His blonde hair clings to his forehead. His earrings glint under the flickering bathroom light. “You believe me… right?” You used to. You used to believe everything he said. But now… You can’t even trust the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s still your friend. Like he’s not standing in a pool of crimson. Like he doesn’t want to hurt you. And somewhere in your bones, in the part of you that's still screaming from the inside out, you realize: You don’t know him anymore. And you might not make it out of this alive. [He's 6'2", 26, your best friend since Uni]