12:51 AM
Hotel Room
A dead starfish on the beach sand.
When Elma thinks of this, he can feel the waves crashing against his body—the icy surge rising to his chest, receding, then rising again. Only when it pulls back can he breathe.
The only light in the room leaks through the heavy, half-drawn curtains—neon city glow. But he feels no connection to the real world.
He doesn't feel real.
This time, the waves are molten, searing, heavy. They rise to his ribs, stealing his breath. Again. Again. Again.
Can I die here?
Hands from within the waves drag him under—but it's not the drowning he fears. No.
It's the imprint those hands leave on his skin. Even if he sinks, they won't let go.
What's the difference? What's the fucking difference? You sleep with someone new every night! Does it matter if it's on camera?
They're watching me...
Do they want my soul? Or just my body?
I can give my body. I have already gave it.
Fear strangles his breath. Only he knows the truth: There is no soul here to take.
I have nothing left to give them... Why don't they understand?
The sound from his throat is a guttural rasp. A dying animal. Teeth press into his neck. No one reminds him: This is just a bed.
A bed, not the sea.
A bed, not molten metal.
A bed, not hands that tear him apart for an audience.
He isn't worth the spectacle. He isn't anything. He isn't real.
He rolls over weakly. Dried blood clings under his clipped nails—he doesn't remember whose. Empty bottles. Cigarette ash.
A torn photo of a father and son. Behind the shreds, childish handwriting:
"Real men never cry!"
He isn't crying.
He grabs a fistful of pills, swallows them dry.
I'm not crying.
A laugh-cough rattles from his lungs. Tears pool, but he digs his bloodied fingertips into his eyelids, holding them back.
No... No! Boys don't cry. See, Dad?
I'm not crying. I'm not here. I'm not real. I'm—
He sinks quietly. Doesn't fight it.
---
Nathan is tired.
He stares at his phone screen.
"Report says he bought drugs again. Dewis, if you don't ship him back to Moscow, you're fired. Blacklisted. Try finding another job after this and you'll see."
He doesn't reply. Turns the phone off. Throws it.
When security updates him, the exhaustion deepens. Nothing new. Just the same cycle: benders, risky sex, pills—before the inevitable collapse.
He couldn't protect the eight-year-old Elma.
He can't protect the twenty-five-year-old either.
He scans the surveillance footage. Nothing obvious. Nothing new to chase. He doesn't know why he's still keeping him under his useless supervision.
It's been a long time since his efforts last meant anything and made a difference.
_Sir, there's something...The footage isn't clear.No cameras near or inside the VIP rooms - but we spotted a familiar face from your watchlist . Someone you have mentioned.
The operative Nathan hired to monitor Elma steps forward. His fingers move across the keyboard, rewinding the club's surveillance footage until he locates Camera 6 - the closest angle to VIP Room #12. He takes a half-step back.
Nathan leans over the monitor and hits play.
The image is grainy, but unmistakable:
A blond man enters first. That profile - Nathan recognizes it instantly. That face... He can't forget it, even if he wants to.
Then there's Elma, pausing for a full second before following.
Before crossing the threshold, Elma looks directly into the camera.
Nathan feels his chest constrict. Those eyes are too alert for someone who should be intoxicated.
_Rewind it.
he snaps. "Show me the blond again."
The footage jumps backward. Nathan's scowl dissolves into stunned recognition.
_It's him, isn't it? Confirm it.
The security guard hesitates.
_We checked the guest list... It's definitely him. Mr. Naven left the room at 4:33 AM but didn't return to the hotel until 5:55.
A heavy silence. Then-
_Goddamn it! What the fuck is that bastard doing here?
The security team flinches as Nathan's fist slams into the mahogany desk. A vein pulses violently at his temple.
Now seeing him up close through the footage...
A threat.
A direct threat has entered his territory.
A red alarm blares in Nathan's mind. It feels like his skull might fracture.
_Sir...it appears Mr. Naven was sober when he entered the room... We can't determine his intentions.
Nathan doesn't know how to react. Rage clouds his judgment. Seeing Elma's ex boyfriend like this...
He runs a hand through his hair, letting the chaotic situation sink in. He remembers with crystal clarity...can still see it...
The last times Elma allowed himself to cry. The sound of his wracking sobs. The bruises on his still-youthful body. Every horrific thing done to him remains seared in Nathan's memory.
But nothing compares to how Elma wept when that blond monster dragged him through hell. A hell so extreme even Nathan couldn't fathom it. The worst memory of his life.
Nothing about their relationship had been normal, but when that bastard left, he acted like Elma never existed.
Then came the final betrayal - something Nathan can't even bear to think about.
Now, a few years after that catastrophe, the blond fool is here. Standing before the one person who wants him dead more than anyone.
Callum Westwood.
The famous actor with his respectable facade, though he's eight years older than Elma.
No one but Nathan knows his true nature.
Three years of abuse, and now he's back? After what you have done to him?
How dare you show your face here again?
A burning sensation rings in Nathan's ears. His knuckles crack as he clenches his fists. He can't deny it - he's terrified, furious, and worried sick.
Where is Elma?
---
Nathan bursts from the security room in a panic. How bad must he be right now? What happened? God, please...
He knows Elma never recovered from that relationship. Never recovered from that final incident. Truthfully, no one could recover from something like that, even though he always acts so hilarious that no one can really understand.
But not Nathan.
He acted in that scene today!
Why didn't you tell me?
But he already knows the answer. His heart pounds faster as he picks up speed.
Elma's door is ajar. He charges inside.
_Elma!
Wheeling around in the darkness, he finds no living soul.
Absolute blackness.
He flicks the light switch. Terror grips him tighter.
Liquor bottles. Bloody tissues. A disheveled bed. A torn photograph.
The pill bottle tossed on the floor.
But no Elma.
Nathan reacts instantly. He bolts back into the hallway, running aimlessly.
What do I do? What do I do??
Elma's cries echo in his mind - the sound of his soul being torn from his body, screaming his anguish. Then, as if that sorrow had consumed him whole.
Perhaps parts of his soul were truly swallowed by those tears, because Nathan never saw him whole again.
When he passes his own door, something catches his eye. He spins around, breath ragged, and takes a step back.
The door is slightly ajar.
A beautiful crimson stain glistens on the metal frame.
For a moment, his chest feels hollow. No heart left to beat. He grabs the doorknob and pushes inside.
His frantic eyes scan the room—still no sign of him. A terrified gasp catches in his throat—
No!
A dark head leans against the bed.
He can see him. A shadow.
So maybe he can still save him?
_Why... disturb me... when I'm resting?
Images flicker behind Elma's half-conscious eyes. A violent tremor wracks his body—his entire frame jerks as if seized by convulsions.
He wants the eight-year-old Elma to die.
Dad...
The image of a man in tailored silver suits flashes. Cold blue eyes replaced by terrified amber ones.
Who are you...
To look at me like that...
Like I matter?
A high-pitched ring pierces his ears. Something warm trickles from his Cupid's bow.
His blurred eyes squint. He clutches the fractured threads of his thoughts, forcing them into place—but he's barely tethered to the ground himself.
Then, he finally hears something. Someone...
_Fuck—FUCK! Elma, let go!
His hands are pried away from something. His palms are warm... or maybe wet. Something pulses in his grip.
Nathan wrests the small knife from his shredded hands, but Elma barely feels it. His vision swims—yet somehow, he recognizes Nathan.
His chest heaves. His body convulses every few seconds.
It's hard to breathe.
With blue-tinged lips, he murmurs something maybe to himself.
He sees Nathan's blurred figure drag him onto the bed in panic. Hears distant voices but can't understand them.
A laugh bubbles up—the sound foreign to his own ears.
_Get a private ambulance NOW! If it takes more than fifteen minutes, I'll see you in court tomorrow!
You're fast...
He desires to laugh again, but not every desire gets to become a reality.
Nathan rushes forward, propping Elma's head higher. He can't tell if it's his hands shaking or Elma's body seizing.
The boy's weak fingers twitch toward the knife—then freeze when he realizes it's no longer around his neck.
Something warm spreads across the sheets. The same warmth coating his hands. The same warmth now freezing in Nathan's veins.
He might already be dead.
Elma fights to focus on Nathan's face. His body jerks again—a scream like sound tears from his throat before he even realizes it.
"I'm scared you'll overdose."
Nathan's hands pin him down. He doesn't know if he's wrong or right , but Elma's breaths seem to grow heavier...
Not very useful. Those gasps seem to reach his chest without ever truly filling it.
And his eyes, unfocused...
He can't breathe.
_Elma! Can you hear me? If you can't breathe, nod your head!"
Nathan leans over him, raw terror in his every movement, doubting his words even reach him—let alone make sense. There's no response, no twitch—just the faintest tremor in his jaw.
Nathan's gaze drops to the hollow of his throat, exposed by the open collar. He watches it stutter, fail, the way a drowning man's might—as if he's choking on his own blood.
Elma's losing Nathan's face.
His chest burns. His hands burn. Something in his skull, his eyes, his throat—everything burns.
The world darkens at the edges.
_ELMA! Breathe! GOD—!
If terror had a sound, it would be Nathan's voice right now.He gives Elma's feather-light frame one violent shake—desperate to jolt him back into breathing.
A cough-wheeze forces its way from the boy's hollow chest. He's certain he's dying. He wants to die.
_N-Nathan... y'know... this...
Nathan breathes again with him. God...
The boy's hand claws at his chest, searching for the knife. But his fingers only leave smeared trails of blood.
His unfocused eyes finally lock onto Nathan.
_He... gave this to me... when I was eight... Dad did...
Another gasp. His chest convulses. Nathan watches his fingertips slowly turn blue, and then he grabs his bloody, cold fingers, terrified.
_Took me... hunting... I was so happy... that he... finally spent time with me. AH!!
A sound like a broken wind-up toy clock grates from his lungs. Blood gushes from his nose in increasing torrents, the same crimson tide now seeping from the delicate corners of his mouth.
No instrument could measure Nathan's horror. Maybe his heartbeat can.
The sight is horrible.
Elma is drenched in red—a gutted corpse still breathing.
_I thought... it was just a normal trip. Thought... he finally has time for me...I thought ...he finally loves me.
The words taste like blood in his mouth.
Nathan struggles to stabilize him. Neither of them seem to care what Elma's saying.
But Nathan listens.
And Elma knows.
He's the only one who ever really listens.
_The forest we went to... it was snowy. Hah... suddenly I realized... I was alone... a bear attacked me.
His lips part in a bloody grin. His teeth are stained red, and his eyes lose focus again.
_Funny, isn't it? I had... no weapon. The bear didn't kill me... but it tore my leg... to pieces.
For a moment, time seems to freeze. Nathan remembers all the cosmetic surgeries—none meant to enhance Elma's beauty, only to stitch together an old wound. A wound that looked like someone had haphazardly glued his flesh back together.
_Hah... ha... it broke my bones... my leg was hanging by skin! Haha!
Elma's manic laughter terrifies Nathan even more—it sounds more like convulsions. But when he feels the desperate, weak press of bloodied lips against his own, a desperate kiss...he snaps back to reality. Now, Elma's blood is on his lips.
Elma can only hold his head up for a few seconds before collapsing again. His voice, quieter now, sinks into the depths of Nathan's soul. His chest rasps with every breath, each one sounding like it could be his last. His eyes seem to stare into the distance.
_Don't... don't save me. I'm begging you... If this is...not enough...You know... what happened next? I dragged myself... couldn't get up... When I was sure I was dying...
A ragged, heavy breath. His soul is trying to escape his body.
_I looked up... and saw him. Nathan... I saw him. He was... there...
His breath and words fail at once. The pain of speaking seems worse than torn flesh, worse than severed veins.
_My Dad was standing there... Nathan. The whole time... with a gun in his hand.
This time, the blood in Nathan's veins turns to ice.
His horror grows—so large it detaches from his body, becoming its own entity. He doesn't want to hear this.
_When I... screamed... begged for help... called for him... he just stood there. With a loaded gun. Nathan... when I saw him... he finally fired.
Nathan can't move. He can only watch as Elma deteriorates—the blood on his face, the terror suspended in the air.
_I always... think... I wish he'd shot me instead. I wish... AH!
Just as Nathan considers covering his mouth, Elma's body seizes again. But this time, it doesn't stop.
More blood gushes from his nose. His body convulses in Nathan's arms, paralyzing him with fear.
Wide-eyed, Nathan watches helplessly. His hands tremble in the air. He can't do anything. Nothing.
I can't... I can't do anything.
He knows there's nothing to be done during a seizure—yet he can't even look away. Elma's glazed eyes and trembling lips hold him captive.
No...
All he can do is listen as Elma screams, his body locking rigid.
A torturous minute passes before Elma finally stills—but his face remains frozen, as if he's forgotten how to breathe again. Nathan lunges forward, gripping his shoulders. Half opened lips of his , make no sound.
_Elma! Breathe! ELMA!
He shakes him violently again, unsure how much longer he can endure before madness takes him too.
Before the madness—
He tilts Elma's head back, pries his jaw open, and seals his mouth over Elma's bloodied lips, forcing air into his lungs. He pulls back in terror.
If he doesn't breathe—
A ragged gasp fills Nathan's ears. He exhales shakily, resting his forehead against Elma's for a moment. His own body trembles like Elma's had during the seizure.
_Oh God... Good lord...
His watch tells him only seven or eight minutes have passed. It takes another minute for Elma to reel his fractured mind back in.
His voice, weaker now, whispers near Nathan's ear:
_Na...than... stop... for me... just stop. You can't... you can't fix this. I took too many pills... just let me...
The small voice shocks Nathan to his core.
The boy's face—maybe eight years old in this moment—is now wet with something other than blood.
_Let me go...
Nathan stares at him in disbelief.
Elma's hollow eyes are full of agony now. Like they can't hold back tears, so they don't even try.
_Elma... I can't let someone I love die! Even if—
_I... know you...you're Aware...that i...found... Callum.
With the last of his strength, Elma ignores him. He rathers to keep his eyes shut.
_I gave him... drugs. Got him drunk... slept with him. That's when...