Marcus wrestled with doubt through the night. Should he tell Lucas about Ms. Len once Lucas regained consciousness? Or should he bury that mystery deep inside himself until the right moment came?
He stayed by Lucas's side in the hospital, slumped against a bench. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he drifted into a restless sleep.
At dawn, a nurse's voice broke through his haze.
"Sir, you're with Mr. Vane's family, right?"
Marcus, eyes still heavy with fatigue, nodded.
"Yes…"
"Mr. Vane has been shifted to the general ward. We've given him sedatives because the stitches in his back were causing severe pain. You can see him now."
The nurse left, and Marcus stepped into the ward. Lucas lay on his stomach, turned carefully so the fresh stitches wouldn't tear. The sight made Marcus's chest tighten. He sat down beside the bed, watching silently, helpless.
Two days slipped by in the hospital. In between, Marcus turned his rage toward the tattooed boy they had captured—the one with the leopard ink crawling across his chest. Marcus slammed his fists on the interrogation table, snarling:
"Talk! Who else is in this with you? Give me names before I drag your boyfriend into this mess. If you don't speak, I'll make sure he pays the price for your silence."
The boy's jaw tightened. His lips trembled, but he refused to speak.
Marcus grabbed his collar and hissed, "You think I won't do it? I'll break you, and I'll break him too."
Finally, the tiger tattooed boy cracked—not with names, but with fury. His voice trembled as he spat out,
"We don't have families like you people. We were never given a chance. I was beaten half to death by my own father. My mother remarried, and my stepfather—" his eyes flickered with shame and fury, "—he used me, over and over, when I was just a child."
The room went silent. Marcus's junior co workers froze, their knuckles tightening on the table, rage and pity mixing in their eyes.
The boy continued, his tone bitter, hollow.
"I tried to work like a decent person. Washed dishes in a food stall. Got thrown out after they accused me of stealing. Worked in a vegetable market, and again—they called me a thief. The police beat me, mocked me. Everywhere I went, the world pushed me into the dirt."
His voice broke, and his lips twisted into a crooked smile.
"One night, I was freezing on a bench, starving, my body shutting down. That's when she appeared—a woman in a red coat and black hat. I never saw her face. She gave me money, ordered her bodyguard to bring me food, then left… like an angel who never came back."
His eyes grew glassy, distant.
"After that, I searched for her, but she vanished like smoke. Eventually, a man found me. He was kind… or so I thought. He promised money, shelter, power. All I had to do was work for him. Lead his crew. I was too desperate to refuse."
Marcus's jaw clenched, his knuckles white.
The boy's voice turned into a low growl.
"My father showed up again, begging for money after losing everything to gambling. He even dragged his mistress into his misery. I spat in his face. That bastard had called me cursed my whole life. And then I heard he died—stabbed in some filthy alley. I didn't shed a tear. Why would I?"
Marcus's junior co workers exchanged uneasy looks. The weight of the boy's story pressed into the room, thick and suffocating.
The boy finally looked Marcus dead in the eyes, his voice soft but desperate:
"Sir… please… whatever you do, don't hurt my boyfriend. He's the only thing I have left."
Marcus leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
"Fine. I'll spare him. But on one condition—" his voice dropped into a dangerous growl, "—you walk away from this filth. You want redemption? Then work under me. Clean, straight, and loyal. No more drugs, no more blood."
The boy hesitated. His lips parted, then pressed shut again. After a long silence, he whispered,
"Alright… I'll try. I'll talk to my uncle. He's a good man. Maybe he'll understand… maybe he'll forgive me."
The confession lingered in the air, thick with pain, regret, and a faint sliver of hope.
To be Continued...