Marcus found himself in the uniquely mortifying position of being unable to defend his honor—such as it was—against accusations he'd neither earned nor deserved. His face burned with the kind of heat that suggested spontaneous combustion might be medically possible. He could only force words through a throat constricted by embarrassment.
"I... I understand completely, Dr. Rebecca. I'll be... extremely mindful. Very careful. Exceptionally restrained." Each word emerged with the consistency of pulling teeth.
Dr. Rebecca responded with two satisfied hums—the auditory equivalent of checkmarks—before delivering her parting medical advisory. The coup de grâce. The final nail in the coffin of Marcus's dignity.
Her voice wasn't particularly loud, but it carried with crystal clarity, ensuring both Marcus and Elena received the message in full fidelity: "Young people need to understand moderation. You must feed both parties adequately. Can't just satisfy your own appetite while neglecting your partner's nutritional needs."
Oh my god, Marcus's internal voice achieved frequencies normally reserved for dog whistles. She did NOT just say that. This cannot be happening. I'm being lectured about sexual stamina and reciprocity by a physician who thinks I've been—
His face had progressed beyond simple flushing. He was approaching temperatures that would concern firefighters. His toes curled inside his shoes with such force he worried about permanent foot deformation.
I want to die. Actually die. Right here. Spontaneous existence failure would be preferable to this conversation.
And the worst part? He couldn't even claim complete ignorance about what Dr. Rebecca was implying. Sure, his personal experience in that particular arena registered at a solid zero. But Marcus —former bodyguard, veteran of countless undercover operations—had necessarily spent time in establishments of questionable moral standing. Seedy bars. Underground clubs. Places where the walls were thin and the activities behind closed doors were... educational.
He'd seen enough illicit manga, enough contraband romance novels with their anatomically improbable cover illustrations, enough late-night cable television to understand exactly what scenarios Dr. Rebecca was envisioning. The kind involving strategically deployed hands, suggestive dialogue, and positions that required impressive flexibility.
She thinks I'm some kind of sex-crazed maniac, Marcus's thoughts spiraled into indignant territory. Like I'm keeping Elena awake all night with excessive physical demands, wearing her down through relentless carnal activity until she's too exhausted to eat properly!
The injustice of it burned hotter than his embarrassment. I can barely touch her HAND without risking assassination! I approach physical contact with the caution of a bomb disposal technician! The idea that I would—that we would—NO. Absolutely not. Never happened. Not happening. Will not happen.
Fortunately—mercifully—Elena appeared to have completely missed the subtext. Her expression remained placid, her confusion seeming to center on entirely different concerns. She actually interjected with helpful clarification, her tone carrying genuine puzzlement:
"Dr. Rebecca, I truly can only manage two meals daily. My appetite doesn't accommodate more frequent eating. If I try to force additional food, I experience nausea and—"
She was talking about actual food. Literal sustenance. Three-meals-a-day nutrition planning.
Dr. Rebecca's pupils dilated fractionally—the involuntary response of someone whose brain had just performed emergency recalculation. She pivoted toward Marcus with an expression that demanded explanation.
Marcus initiated frantic damage control, shaking his head with enough vigor to risk whiplash. His mouth formed exaggerated words while his eyes broadcast desperate semaphore: "She means REAL eating! Food! Breakfast, lunch, dinner! Not—not the other thing!"
He verbally lunged for the conversational steering wheel, attempting to wrench this discussion back toward safe territory. "Dr. Rebecca, I assure you, regarding nutritional intake—which is what we're discussing, ONLY nutritional intake—I will personally ensure Elena maintains proper meal schedules and adequate caloric consumption!"
As he spoke, Marcus physically maneuvered Dr. Rebecca toward the bedroom exit, his hand applying gentle but insistent pressure to her shoulder. Relocate the battlefield. Change the environmental context. Escape this nightmare scenario. "Perhaps we could discuss Elena's care requirements in the other room? I have several questions about her treatment protocol that might be better addressed—"
Dr. Rebecca shrugged off his guiding hand with the ease of someone who'd spent decades dealing with nervous family members. Her expression had settled into "I know what's really happening here" territory—the look of a physician who'd seen every excuse and heard every rationalization.
She lowered her voice to confidential levels, though her words still carried enough to make Marcus wish for sudden deafness. "Listen, I understand. You're both young, healthy, hormones running high. Elevated libidos are perfectly normal biological functions. You don't need to maintain pretenses with me." Her gaze acquired knowing quality. "But moderation is essential! Physical intimacy is important, yes, but not at the expense of her overall health!"
Marcus felt his soul attempting to exit his body through sheer mortification. There are no words. Human language lacks vocabulary for this level of wrongful accusation.
"Demands... high?" Elena's voice cut through his existential crisis—soft, genuinely confused, repeating the phrase like she was trying to decode a foreign language.
Oh god she's going to figure it out and then she's going to MURDER me for allowing this misunderstanding to persist—
Marcus practically lunged at Dr. Rebecca, delivering emphatic shoulder pats that bordered on aggressive while verbally genuflecting. "I PROMISE—absolute PROMISE—complete restraint going forward! Maximum self-control! I will NOT overwork Elena! Especially regarding... eating... I will exercise EXTREME moderation!"
Each capitalized word emerged with the fervent energy of someone swearing court testimony.
Dr. Rebecca, apparently satisfied by his "sincere contrition," finally relented. She returned her attention to professional matters, extracting her prescription pad to document nutritional supplement recommendations.
Marcus sagged with relief, oxygen flooding back into lungs that had forgotten how to function properly.
His brain, meanwhile, performed belated calculations: Elena was essentially innocent regarding certain adult subject matter. Completely uninformed. The original novel had placed her "education" in those areas considerably later in the timeline—specifically during scenes involving the original Marcus Chen's coercive behavior that Marcus absolutely refused to replicate.
At this point in her development, she was genuinely naive. Unaware. A blank slate regarding physical intimacy.
Which means, his thoughts continued with uncomfortable awareness, that particular aspect of her education will eventually fall to Adrian Qi. Her precious Light in Darkness. He'll be the one to—
The thought triggered something unpleasant in Marcus's chest. An emotion he didn't want to examine closely. Something that felt uncomfortably like... jealousy? Possessiveness?
No, he told himself firmly. Just strategic concern about plot development. Nothing more.
Dr. Rebecca completed her prescription notations—three times daily, post-meal administration—and Marcus immediately volunteered escort services. "Please, allow me to see you out."
Dr. Rebecca adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, conducting a brief visual assessment of the young man standing before her. Rumor had painted him as worthless—a second-rate delinquent with no redeeming qualities. But actual interaction suggested otherwise. He demonstrated basic courtesy, appropriate concern, decent manners.
Interesting, she thought. Perhaps the gossip was exaggerated.
"This way, Dr. Rebecca."
"Let's proceed."
They traversed the villa's interior in professional silence, but once they'd cleared the entrance and Marcus had confirmed absolute privacy, his demeanor shifted. Voice dropping to confidential levels, he broached the subject that had been gnawing at his curiosity since accepting this insane mission.
"Dr. Rebecca, I need to be honest with you." Marcus adopted his most earnest expression. "Elena and I... our marriage was extremely rapid. Flash decision-making. We'd known each other only briefly before..." He gestured vaguely, suggesting whirlwind romance rather than contractual obligation. "My knowledge of her history is... unfortunately limited."
Dr. Rebecca's response emerged dry, clinical. "I noticed. Six months ago, her weight hadn't deteriorated to current levels."
"So I genuinely didn't—I haven't been—" Marcus's face heated again. "The 'exhaustion' you mentioned is absolutely NOT—"
"Whether you have or haven't is your private business," Dr. Du interrupted with the briskness of someone uninterested in bedroom details. "No need to file reports with me."
Then her tone acquired steel. "However, heed this warning: her leg muscles and nerve structures are extremely fragile. Do NOT manipulate them carelessly. Inappropriate pressure or awkward positioning could cause significant damage."
"...Understood." Marcus's internal monologue generated several variations on exasperated frustration, but he forced himself to capitalize on the opening. "Dr. Rebecca, I actually wanted to ask—Elena's legs. The paralysis. When did it happen? What caused the condition?"
Dr. Rebecca's gaze sharpened behind her lenses, surprise evident. "She hasn't told you?"
"No." Marcus shook his head, honesty coloring his response. More than 'hasn't told me'—it's clearly a forbidden topic. The kind of subject that gets you poisoned if you press too hard.
Even Fortune's database had been frustratingly vague. The original novel—that unfinished mess—had danced around the details, providing only oblique references and fragmentary hints.
But how can I help save someone from becoming a villain, Marcus reasoned, if I don't understand the trauma that's driving them toward darkness? Can't treat the disease without diagnosing the wound.
Dr. Rebecca's patent leather heels struck the concrete walkway with rhythmic percussion—sharp, staccato beats that seemed to measure time in reverse. Each impact pulled Marcus backward through the years, dragging him toward an event eight years past.
"I was on duty that evening." Dr. Du's voice acquired the distant quality that accompanied difficult memories, her gaze focusing on something Marcus couldn't see—a scene preserved in her mind's archive. "The ambulance siren started as distant wailing, then grew louder. Closer. That particular pitch—medical personnel learn to read it. This one was screaming 'catastrophic emergency.'"
Her words painted images with surgical precision, arranging them in Marcus's imagination:
The emergency department in organized chaos. Fluorescent lights too bright, reflecting off tile floors slick with various fluids. The metallic tang of blood thick enough to taste. Paramedics rushing through automatic doors, their gurney carrying three bodies.
Two already shrouded in white sheets—the universal signal that resuscitation was impossible.
Between them, a small figure in a blue-and-white school uniform. A girl whose face bore countless tiny lacerations from shattered glass, whose skin was painted with blood both her own and others'. But the injuries that would define her future—those resided in her legs.
Crushed. Mangled. Bent at angles that violated fundamental geometry. The kind of damage that announced itself as permanent the moment medical professionals assessed it.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nightshade were pronounced dead at the scene." Dr. Rebecca's pause carried the weight of professional experience delivering terrible news to desperate families. "All our resources concentrated on the child. Twelve years old. Still in that transitional phase between childhood and adolescence—unfinished, vulnerable."
Her clinical detachment wavered fractionally. "Beyond the facial abrasions, her legs sustained the most severe trauma. That accident didn't just take her parents. It stole her ability to run, to dance, to walk. The crash destroyed her mobility along with her family."
Marcus stood motionless, his chest constricting as though atmospheric pressure had increased dramatically. Breathing became effortful. His heart seemed to be clenched in an invisible fist.
He'd read the novel. Knew the broad strokes of Elena's backstory. But having a witness—someone who'd been there, who'd seen the twelve-year-old girl covered in blood and broken glass—describe the event in calm, measured tones created an entirely different category of impact.