The car glided to a halt in front of the mansion, the engine's final purr sounding like a dying breath. Mark stepped out into the biting morning air, his presence so cold it seemed to kill the morning light. He didn't look at the gardens or the grand architecture; he moved with the singular, terrifying focus of a machine.
As he reached the heavy gold-trimmed doors and headed for the lift, Daniel's voice cracked the silence. It was a question born of a final, desperate hope for mercy-or perhaps a warning of the sheer scale of the bloodbath to come.
"Mark... Do you really want that four-year list? It will be... dozens. Maybe hundreds."
Mark stopped. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to show his face for Daniel to feel the lethal weight of his expression.
"What do you think?" Mark's voice was a low, vibrational hum of pure malice. It wasn't a question; it was a confirmation of a death sentence for an entire city of ghosts.
He stepped into the lift and turned. As the doors began to hiss shut, he walked away toward the master suite, his long black coat fluttering behind him like the tattered wings of a dark, prehistoric bird-a predator returning to its nest, carrying the scent of the grave back to the saint he was determined to resurrect.
The "Sovereign" was no longer just a man with a title. He was a force of nature, and as the lift ascended, it felt as though he were rising from the depths of hell itself, ready to burn the world to ashes just to keep his 'Kitty' warm.
..
The clock on the wall read 8:30 AM, but for Mark, time had frozen in the graveyard of the White Room. He stepped into the bedroom, where the golden morning light spilled across the silk sheets like a cruel mockery of peace.
There lay Win, bathed in a halo of warmth, a few stray strands of hair brushing against the soft, flushed curve of his red cheeks. At the sight, Mark's chest heaved. His eyes flooded with tears once more-not out of mercy, but out of a devastating, soul-deep agony. He reached out a hand, his fingers twitching to brush that hair away, to feel the velvet of Win's skin, but he recoiled as if burned.
He felt filthy. He felt as though the stench of the White Room, the echoes of the "traders," and the ghostly touch of the men who had bartered for Win's innocence were clinging to his own skin. To touch Win now felt like a second violation.
He retreated into the washroom, slamming the door and leaning his forehead against the freezing tile. The guilt was a physical weight, a jagged blade twisting in his gut. He was haunted by the faces of the two men he had already sent to the grave: his own father and Win's adoptive monster. For the first time, he hated himself for his efficiency. He had been a "merciful" executioner, giving them quick, cold ends. Now, he wanted to dig them up just to kill them again. He wanted to hear them scream for a century. He felt he had cheated Win out of the justice he deserved by letting them die so easily.
Inside him, a towering wave of rage escalated, crashing against his ribs until he thought his heart would burst. The images of those "Father" figures using Win as a centerpiece for their greed made him want to reduce the mansion to rubble with his bare hands. He gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, his knuckles white and his veiny arms trembling with a violent, electric tremor. He was seething, a volcano on the verge of erupting, his mind a whirlwind of knives and blood.
But then, he remembered the silence in the other room.
For Win-for the boy who was finally, miraculously, sleeping without a nightmare-he forced the beast back into its cage. He turned the tap to the coldest setting, splashing the freezing water onto his face until his skin went numb. He scrubbed his hands until they were raw, desperately trying to wash away the "darkness" of the morning and the sins of his bloodline.
When he finally stepped back out, his face was a mask of damp, frigid iron. He looked at the bed, his heart a burning ruin of guilt, and whispered a vow to the golden light: They had the easy death, Kitty. But for the ones who are left... I will take my time.
..
When Mark re-entered the room, the transformation was jarring. Win was awake, bathed in the soft, honeyed light of the morning. He was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, his hair a messy, silken halo-a picture of such devastating, perfect innocence that it felt like a physical blow to Mark's chest. Looking at him, it was impossible to reconcile this sweet, sleepy boy with the horrific ledger of trauma Mark had just memorized.
Seeing Mark still clad in his sharp, formal suit, Win tilted his head. "Are you going somewhere?"
Mark walked toward the bed, every step feeling heavier than the last. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under the weight of a man who carried a massacre in his pocket. As he reached up to untie his silk tie, his fingers trembled slightly. He pulled the fabric loose, letting the constriction of the "Sovereign" fall away, trying to exhale the metallic scent of the White Room.
"I had a meeting at 6:45 AM," Mark said, his voice a low, forced calm. "I just got back."
"What? You're back already?" Win's eyes widened in surprise. He let out a small, soft sigh, his lower lip blooming into a pout. "You should have woken me up."
Mark's heart, which had been a jagged shard of ice all morning, finally began to thaw, the beat slowing into a dull, protective ache. He looked at Win-really looked at him-seeing not a "broken" thing, but his entire world. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Look at that... I managed to leave and return before you even opened your eyes."
"Hmph... but you left me alone while I was sleeping." Win pouted those red lips-the same lips that had cried out in Mark's memory just an hour ago. He looked up at Mark with those wide, puppy eyes, a gaze so pure it threatened to shatter the last of Mark's iron resolve.
Mark reached out. His hands were red from the freezing water and the scrubbing, but they were finally clean enough to touch his treasure. He smoothed the messy hair away from Win's forehead, his touch as light as a prayer, before leaning in to pinch those soft cheeks with a gentleness that bordered on worship.
"How would I dare leave you for long?" Mark whispered, his thumb lingering against Win's skin as if to erase every invisible scar. "I just had some urgent business to take care of. Some weeds that needed pulling."
The lie tasted like ash, but the warmth of Win's skin was the only thing keeping Mark from drifting back into the dark.
..
Win leaned in and hugged Mark, burying his face against that broad, steady chest. He let out a long, shaky breath, the exhaustion of a decade finally lifting as he muttered with his eyes closed, "Do you know... it was my first time. I slept like a dog. Having you by my side is really peaceful."
Mark's heart stuttered, a jagged pain lancing through his ribs. To a stranger, it was a sweet compliment; to Mark, it was a devastating confession. It was the sound of a boy who had spent thousands of nights sleeping with one eye open, guarding a soul that had been treated like a commodity. He felt Win slightly turn his head to look up at him, those clear eyes searching Mark's face. "You won't leave me... will you?"
Mark smoothed the hair back from Win's forehead, his large hand trembling with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. He looked into Win's eyes with a gaze that promised both heaven and hell. "I can't even conceive of a world where I'm not by your side," Mark whispered, his voice thick with a dark, holy vow. "I would let the whole world burn to ashes before I'd take a single step away from you."
A comfortable silence settled between them, until Win tilted his head, his curiosity peaking. "Are you dating someone?"
The question was a lightning bolt from a clear sky, striking the Master's composure to pieces. Mark flustered, the cold, untouchable Sovereign vanishing in an instant. He looked away, a rare heat rising to his neck, feeling suddenly, agonizingly vulnerable. "No," he said diffidently, his voice uncharacteristically small. "But... I already have someone in my mind."
Win pulled back abruptly. The sudden loss of warmth made Mark's brow furrow in immediate protest. Win slid off the bed, standing in the golden light with a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. "Me too!" he chirped, before turning on his heel and skipping toward the washroom with a playful sway.
Mark sat frozen on the edge of the mattress. The world seemed to go silent. He had expected a blush, a confession, perhaps a shy smile-but not this.
He sat there, the "Me too" echoing in the room like a taunt. A small, jagged thorn of jealousy pricked at his heart, and within seconds, it grew into a thicket of thorns. His mind, which had just been filled with images of flowers and peace, was suddenly flooded with the ghosts of the men the old woman had mentioned. Every name on that four-year list flashed before his eyes in a red haze.
Who? The thought was a growl in his mind. Who could have possibly touched a piece of Win's heart before me? He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists, the leather of the bedframe groaning under his grip. The protective lover was momentarily overshadowed by the possessive monster. He looked toward the closed washroom door, his eyes darkening with a cold, predatory fire. He didn't care who it was; if there was another name written in Win's heart, Mark would find it, erase it, and replace it with his own-no matter what he had to burn to do it.
..
Win stood before the mirror, a frustrated angel engaged in a losing battle with his silken, sleep-mussed hair. He was pouting at his own reflection, his brow furrowed in a look of adorable annoyance that made Mark's chest ache.
Suddenly, the mirror darkened. Mark appeared behind him like a silent, towering eclipse, his broad shoulders swallowing Win's small frame in the glass. He wrapped his arms around Win, pulling him back against his chest in a crushing, desperate embrace. Win began to sulk, wiggling his hips and shoulders to break free from the iron-strong hold, but Mark was unmovable-a mountain of muscle and possessive intent.
Win tilted his head back, his eyebrows arched sharply as he snapped, "Don't you have someone you like? Someone you're 'thinking of'? Why don't you go find them and hug them instead?"
Mark didn't release him. Instead, he turned Win around in the cramped, steam-misted space of the washroom, trapping him between his body and the cold marble of the sink. He leaned down, his eyes turning a dark, predatory obsidian.
"Yes... I have someone I love," Mark murmured, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through Win's very bones. "And I am holding him right now." He reached out, his thumb tracing the trembling line of Win's lower lip. "Kitty... don't play those games with me. My heart is a volatile thing, and right now, it's burning. I am jealous. I'm so jealous I can barely breathe."
Win's breath hitched, his eyes wide as he blinked in pure disbelief. The raw honesty in Mark's voice-the admission of weakness from the Sovereign-sent a shockwave through him. Panicked and flushed a deep, feverish crimson, Win exerted every ounce of his strength to shove Mark back and bolted from the washroom.
But Mark was a shadow that couldn't be shaken. He followed Win into the bedroom, closing the distance in two predatory strides, and caught Win's hand. Win tried to wrench his wrist away, his heart hammering against his ribs, but Mark simply reached down and swept him up. He hoisted Win into his arms as if he weighed no more than a handful of plumeria petals and carried him to the velvet couch.
Mark sat down, settling Win firmly in his lap like a precious, recalcitrant child. Win struggled, his face turned away to avoid the piercing, soul-searching gaze of the man holding him. Mark didn't force his head around; instead, he traced the delicate curve of Win's jaw with his knuckles, his touch a mixture of a king's command and a beggar's plea.
"Look at me," Mark whispered, his voice tight and strained with an agonizing tension. He waited until Win's eyes finally met his. "Do you really like someone else? Tell me the truth, Win. Because the thought of another man in your heart is making me want to tear the world apart."
His heart was seething-a hot, dark tide of possessiveness that made him want to lock Win away in a tower made of gold and silence, far from the prying eyes of the world. He didn't just want Win's love; he wanted to be the only name Win knew, the only hand he felt, the only sun in his sky
..
Win struggled with a sudden, frantic energy, his small frame pushing against the solid, unyielding wall of Mark's chest. But it was like trying to move a mountain. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm, a trapped bird fluttering desperately against the cage of his ribs. He took a sharp, shaky breath, the scent of Mark's expensive cologne-woodsmoke and cold iron-grounding him in the reality of the man who held him.
"How can that even be possible?" Win whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of thirteen years of solitude. "I have only ever been waiting for you."
Mark's breath hitched. The jagged, dark jealousy that had been clawing at his throat vanished in an instant, replaced by a warm, aching relief that nearly brought him to his knees. His hold on Win shifted, becoming less of a shackle and more of a sanctuary.
"So..." Mark asked, his voice softening into a velvet caress, the lethal Sovereign replaced by a man humbled by a single sentence. "You don't have anyone? There is no one else?"
"Yes... there is no one."
Mark leaned in, his forehead resting against Win's, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the sun-drenched room. "Can you love me?" he requested. It wasn't the command of a Master or the threat of a maniac; it was a kindness, a soft, trembling prayer offered up to the only god he believed in.
"Let me go," Win breathed, his voice barely audible. He turned his face away, terrified that if he looked into the depth of Mark's eyes, he would drown in the intensity he found there. He wasn't ready for the weight of that question-not after a lifetime of being told he was nothing.
"No," Mark murmured, his voice absolute. He didn't tighten his grip, but his presence was a silken trap, an inescapable promise. "I won't. I've spent too many years with empty arms, Kitty. I'm never letting go again."
"Please," Win breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as he trembled in Mark's lap. "Please don't do this... don't make me hope."
..
His voice broke on the last word, a small, jagged sound that carried the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. It wasn't a rejection of Mark, but a plea for mercy against the overwhelming tide of Mark's affection. A single, hot tear escaped and soaked into the front of Mark's shirt. Win's small hands, which had been pushing against the solid wall of Mark's chest, finally lost their strength. His fingers curled into the fabric, clutching at him even as he begged for distance.
He felt like a ghost being asked to walk in the sun; he was terrified that if he accepted Mark's love, the light would only reveal how truly shattered he was underneath. His "please" was a soft, trembling shield held up against a King who was offering him a kingdom he felt he no longer deserved to rule.
..
"Why?" Mark asked, the word cracking like a fissure in ice. "You have waited for me... and I have spent every waking second of my life clawing my way back to you. We are finally here... so what is the problem? Or is it that you don't love me?"
His voice trembled with a rare, naked fear, a vulnerability that would have shocked the world outside those doors. Mark knew the answer-the "problem" was etched into Win's skin and burned into Mark's own retinas in shades of purple and black. Every word the woman had spat in the White Room was a ghost standing between them.
Mark's gaze darkened, his eyes roaming over Win as if he could physically see the "filth" of the past. He didn't just want to love Win; he wanted to perform an exorcism. He wanted to be the only touch Win remembered. He wanted to press his skin against every inch of Win's body until the memory of those hands-those traders, those "buyers"-was smothered and suffocated by his own heat. He wanted to scrub Win clean with his own devotion until the past was nothing but white noise.
"It's not that I don't love you... but you will only hate me when you come to know about my past. So... please just let me be by your side like this," Win said, his voice breaking. He stopped struggling and instead squeezed himself into Mark's arms, burying his face in the crook of Mark's neck, finding a peace and comfort he hadn't felt in thirteen years.
Mark tilted his head against Win's, his eyes closing as he felt the warmth of Win's skin. "You don't need to be by my side, because I have already been on your side from the very beginning." Mark sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and with a tremulous voice, he continued, "I know I am late... I wasn't even with you at your worst. But from now on, I am not going to leave you... I promise."
Mark loosened his embrace just enough to draw Win's face upward, bringing their worlds into a single, shared breath. He looked at the boy-his Kitty-and saw the flickering terror in those wide, glassy eyes. Mark leaned in and pressed his lips against Win's in a kiss that was achingly gentle, a soft, reverent promise of safety.
As their lips met, a sudden gush of tears escaped Mark, hot and silent, tracking paths through the cold mask he had worn all morning.
Win didn't struggle this time. Instead, he froze, his heart stuttering against Mark's chest. Beneath the kiss, Win's mind was a storm of agony. He was paralyzed by a singular, suffocating fear: If Mark found out, he would leave. Win was certain that once the "Sovereign" learned how many hands had touched him, how much of his innocence had been bartered and sold, the love in Mark's eyes would turn to disgust. He expected Mark to recoil, to see him as something broken and discarded, a treasure turned to ash.
Yet, as he felt the warmth of Mark's tears wetting his own skin, something in Win's soul cracked open.
With a trembling left hand, Win reached out. His fingers hovered for a heartbeat before his palm finally settled against Mark's cheek. He caught a falling tear, the salt stinging his skin. It was the first time he had ever touched a man without flinching, a small, desperate act of bravery. He searched Mark's face, looking for the rejection he was sure was coming, but he found only a devotion so fierce it felt like it could swallow the world.
Mark supported Win's head, his right arm acting as a sturdy pillar, and continued kissing him with a slow, desperate devotion. Win leaned into it, his hand moving to Mark's neck to pull him closer, craving the heat. But Mark suddenly stopped. He pulled back just an inch, his breathing heavy. He told Win they shouldn't rush things; he wanted to ensure every step they took was built on a foundation of safety and trust, not just impulse.
Win nodded, his eyes misty and soft. He got up from Mark's lap and walked toward the washroom for a shower. Mark followed him with his eyes, his gaze never leaving Win until the door clicked shut. The moment he was alone, the "Lover" vanished and the "M
aster" returned. He pulled out his phone and called David.
"Send the doctor," Mark commanded, his voice turning back into cold steel. "Now."
..