The motel room was soaked in red light. A single neon bulb outside blinked through the broken blinds, painting the walls in pulses — red, black, red again. The air was thick, humming faintly with the bass thudding from the bar below, as if the world outside hadn't yet realized something inside had gone very, very wrong.
Vincent stumbled backward onto the bed, his pulse still racing. The door slammed shut behind Marcus with a low, final click — a sound far quieter than it should've been, and somehow far more terrifying.
Marcus stood in front of it, chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm. His right hand was still smeared with blood, streaked down his wrist and over his veins like a crimson glove. He didn't seem to feel the pain — or maybe he enjoyed it. His eyes, those soft, distracted eyes Vincent had known until now, were gone. What replaced them was cold, focused, predatory.
Vincent swallowed hard. "Marcus… what the hell was that?"
No response. Marcus's head tilted slightly, his gaze steady — too steady. The dim light made the edge of his jaw sharp, carved like stone.
"You're bleeding," Vincent muttered, trying to stand. But Marcus moved first.
In a few strides, he was there — the space between them erased. His hand shot out, pressing Vincent back down to the mattress with unflinching force. The blood smeared onto Vincent's throat.
"Don't move," Marcus said softly.
It wasn't a shout. It wasn't even angry. It was calm — too calm. The kind of calm that made every nerve in Vincent's body scream danger.
Vincent froze, breath catching. "You're out of your damn mind—"
Marcus leaned closer, and for a second, his shadow swallowed Vincent whole. "You shouldn't have let her touch you," he whispered.
Vincent blinked. "What?"
"That girl," Marcus continued. "The one who—" His jaw clenched, and the muscles in his neck twitched. "—who put her hands on you... here" , his eyes dropped on to his bulge now more prominent for a fraction of second before meeting his eyes again.
Vincent felt heat raising up in his cheeks following his eyes movement but to mask the tension he let out a small, incredulous laugh. "You're jealous? After dragging me out like a psycho, that's what this is?"
Marcus's fingers tightened around his collar, just enough to make his words stop halfway. "You think this is jealousy?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "This is what happens when you forget what's yours.",Marcus tightened the pressure on Vincent's throat not enough to hurt , just enough to remind him who's in charge here.
Vincent's smirk faltered. The words burned, not just because of what they implied — but because of how real they sounded. There was no hesitation, no confusion in Marcus's tone anymore. This wasn't the lost, gentle boy clutching a notebook and forgetting his own past. This was something else. Someone else.
"Marcus," Vincent said slowly, eyes darting between the man's lips and his bloodied fingers, "you're scaring me."
Marcus smiled — faintly. "Good.", he almost sounded like he's amused and totally enjoying the play.
The way he said it made Vincent's chest tighten. Marcus wasn't breathing heavily anymore. He was in control, every movement deliberate. He pressed closer, the scent of his skin — metal and soap and something darker — filling the air.
Vincent's hands moved instinctively to push him off, but Marcus caught his wrist mid-air, twisting it gently but firmly, pinning it beside his head.
"Don't fight me," Marcus murmured. "You always fight."
"I don't belong to anyone," Vincent hissed, trying to steady his breathing. "Least of all you."
Marcus's grin widened slightly — not mocking, but fascinated, like he was studying a creature pretending to be brave. His eyes drifted over Vincent's face, tracing every flicker of defiance.
"Funny," he whispered. "You know .. you don't get to say , you belong to me or not , it's me who decides it."
Vincent's pulse skipped. The possessiveness and ownership in the statement made him shiver more than the grip on his wrist.
Outside, the muffled sound of laughter echoed from the bar — distant, almost unreal. The red light flickered again, brushing over Marcus's face, his features carved in shadows. The blood had dried at his knuckles, but the crimson still stood out — bright and terrifying.
"Who are you?" Vincent finally asked, his voice low, uneven.
Marcus blinked once, then leaned close enough that Vincent could feel the breath against his ear. "You already know," he said simply.
The room felt smaller with every second — the air denser, their breathing louder. Vincent's instincts screamed to run, yet something about Marcus's composure pinned him harder than the man's grip.
Marcus brushed his thumb along Vincent's jaw, streaking it faintly with red. "Do you know what happens when you lie to me?" he asked.
Vincent met his gaze, jaw tight. "You going to kill me, then?"
Marcus tilted his head again — the same unsettling calm. "If I wanted to…" he murmured, "…you wouldn't still be breathing."
Vincent swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet. Marcus's fingers loosened slightly, tracing down his throat where the blood had dried.
Then, for a fleeting second, Marcus's expression shifted — not softening, but deepening, like something buried inside was breaking through the cracks. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
When Marcus finally pulled back, his voice dropped to a whisper that sent chills down Vincent's spine. "Don't test me again, Vincent. I don't like being jealous."
He turned, walking toward the small sink near the wall, rinsing the blood from his hands in silence. The red spiraled down the drain like something symbolic—something final.
Vincent sat frozen on the bed, heart pounding so loud it filled the silence Marcus left behind.
When Marcus looked up again through the mirror, his reflection's gaze wasn't the soft, lost man from before. It was sharp, focused—dangerous.
For the first time, Vincent realized with certainty—
the man in front of him wasn't someone to pity.
He was someone to fear.
Vincent sat there in the silence, staring at the streak of blood drying on his skin. For the first time, he realized — he wasn't sure who was more dangerous anymore. Marcus. Or what Marcus brought out in him.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH POSSESSIVENESS,
MARCUS.
WITH ...CONFUSION..MAYBE EVEN FEAR ( HE'S SHAKING GUYS ..) ,
VINCENT.