Chapter Four - Where it all went wrong?
The Red Light Exclusive Bar was a gilded cage, its velvet curtains and black marble floors dripping with wealth and secrets. The air was thick with the acrid burn of cigars, the sharp bite of whiskey, and a darker undercurrent—power, raw and unyielding. Avery stood frozen, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs, each beat a scream to flee the voice that had just shattered the room's silence. "Puppy." The word wasn't a name—it was a shackle, forged in blood and despair, binding his soul to a past he'd never escaped.
He thought it was over, but was it?
He was really wrong to ever think the deal with the devil ever ends, that deal made at a desperate time never comes to an end. Even after paying with your very soul, he just keeps demanding till you have nothing else to give. He was like his shadow, a hand around his throat that tighten everytime he tried to get away; the truth is he never left.
Augustus Salvatore Genovese loomed behind him, his presence a cold void that swallowed the dim amber light of the chandeliers. The low thrum of bass-heavy music faltered, as if the room itself bowed to his arrival. No one spoke. No one dared. Even Joshua, whose fingers dug into the bruises hidden beneath Avery's champagne-colored shirt, went rigid, his usual charm crumbling like ash. The men in the booth—hardened dealmakers with fortunes to their names—shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting to the shadows rather than meeting the gaze of the man who owned the air they breathed.
Avery's golden-brown eyes stayed locked on the polished floor, where his reflection flickered like a ghost. His body trembled, not from Joshua's grip but from the weight of that voice—the voice of his master, the king who'd claimed him years ago and never let go. "How did it all come to this?" he thought, his mind spiraling into a jagged abyss. "Where did my life go wrong?" The memory of a blood-soaked bathroom flooded back, pulling him into the past where the chains had first been forged.
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Seven Years Ago – Ivy Coast All Boys High School
Ivy Coast All Boys High School was a fortress of privilege in the heart of Crimson Bay, a city where neon lights masked a rotting underbelly. Its red-brick walls and ivy-draped arches promised prestige, but inside, it was a crucible of cruelty. Secrets thrived in its shadowed halls—blood spilled in empty classrooms, screams silenced behind locked doors. What happened at Ivy Coast stayed there, buried beneath the polished smiles of its elite students.
The third-floor boys' bathroom was a forgotten scar, its cracked white tiles stained with rust and worse. The air reeked of mildew and blood, the flickering fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps. A single leaking pipe dripped into a chipped sink, each drop a steady pulse against the silence. The mirrors, clouded with grime, reflected only fragments of the horror unfolding within.
Avery Celeste lay crumpled on the floor, his frail frame shuddering as blood dripped from a gash above his eyebrow, painting the tiles in crimson streaks. His strawberry-blonde hair, matted with sweat and red, clung to his bruised face. His navy blazer was torn, his gray slacks soaked with blood from a split lip and a cut on his thigh. Each breath was a knife in his ribs, sharp and unrelenting.
"Look at him squirming like a cornered rat," Derrick sneered, his voice bouncing off the tiles like a whip crack. He towered over Avery, a baseball bat gripped in his hands, its wood slick with blood. His blond hair gleamed under the flickering lights, his green eyes alight with sadistic glee. Two other boys—Caleb and Marcus—lounged against the sinks, their laughter jagged and cruel.
"Your brother's a filthy whore, isn't he?" Caleb spat, his broad frame casting a shadow over Avery. "Caught behind that dive bar on 5th, taking it from two guys like the trash he is. You're just like him, aren't you, Celeste?"
Avery's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms until blood welled up. Ethan, his older brother, was all he had—the one who'd worked nights in Crimson Bay's seedy bars to keep them alive after their mother overdosed. Ethan wasn't a whore; he was a survivor, scraping by in a city that devoured the weak. The lies burned worse than the blows, but Avery knew speaking would only invite more pain. He bit his tongue, tasting iron, and stayed silent.
"Defend him, come on!" Derrick taunted, swinging the bat. It cracked against Avery's shoulder, sending him sprawling with a choked scream. Pain exploded down his arm, white-hot and blinding. Caleb grabbed his hair, yanking his head back, and slammed a fist into his stomach. Avery gasped, the air driven from his lungs as blood sprayed from his mouth, splattering the tiles in a scarlet arc. The bat came down again, striking his thigh with a sickening crunch. His vision blurred, the flickering lights streaking into yellow smears.
"Say it!" Caleb roared, his fist crashing into Avery's jaw. Blood poured from a new cut, pooling beneath him, the tiles now a canvas of red and grime. The bathroom seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the stench of blood and sweat choked the air. Avery's body screamed, but his mind clung to one thought: Ethan doesn't deserve this. I won't betray him.
He wanted to fight back, to claw at their faces, to scream that they were wrong. A spark of defiance flickered in his chest, his fingers twitching toward a shard of broken tile nearby. He could grab it, drive it into Derrick's leg, make them feel his pain. But the thought died as quickly as it came—retaliation meant death in a place like Ivy Coast.
"You're nothing," Derrick hissed, tossing the bat aside. It clattered against the tiles, the sound a final nail in Avery's coffin. "You and Ethan belong in the gutter with the rest of the trash."
Avery's breaths were shallow, his body trembling as darkness crept into his vision. The dripping pipe counted down his fading consciousness, each drop a reminder of his helplessness. Then, a new sound pierced the haze—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing in the corridor outside. The boys froze, their laughter choking off like a snuffed flame. The bathroom door creaked open, and a shadow fell across the bloodied tiles, heavy and unyielding.
No one spoke. The air turned electric, the buzzing lights dimming as if in submission. Augustus Salvatore Genovese stepped into the room, his presence a storm that silenced the world. At seventeen, he was already a king, his dark hair swept back, his sharp cheekbones catching the sickly light. His eyes—ice-blue, cold as a winter grave—swept over the scene, lingering on Avery's broken form. His tailored uniform was pristine, untouched by the chaos, as if Ivy Coast's cruelty couldn't reach him.
He didn't speak at first, but his silence was a weapon, sharper than any blade. Derrick's bat slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. Caleb and Marcus shrank back, their bravado evaporating. Augustus's gaze pinned them like insects, and they didn't dare meet it. No one spoke to Augustus Salvatore Genovese unless he allowed it. He was the heir to Crimson Bay's underworld, the untouchable prince whose word was law.
"Leave," Augustus said, his voice low, smooth, and laced with a menace that made the walls tremble. The boys didn't hesitate, scrambling out like roaches fleeing light. The door slammed shut, leaving Avery alone with the figure who'd just rewritten his fate.
Augustus crouched beside him, his movements deliberate, predatory. He brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from Avery's face, his touch deceptively gentle but burning like a brand. "You're a mess, puppy," he murmured, his voice a velvet noose tightening around Avery's heart. "But you're mine now."
Avery's breath hitched, his body trembling under the weight of those eyes. They weren't human—they were a void, promising salvation and ruin in equal measure. "W-Who are you?" he whispered, his voice a broken thread.
Augustus's smile was a slow, deadly curve, his eyes never leaving Avery's. "Your king," he said simply, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "And you'll never escape me."
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Present Day – Red Light Exclusive Bar
Avery's mind snapped back to the present, the bathroom's blood-soaked tiles replaced by the bar's polished marble. Augustus's voice—"I found you, puppy"—echoed like a death knell, blending past and present into a single, suffocating moment. Joshua's hand on his waist was a feeble anchor compared to the tidal wave of Augustus's presence. The men in the booth sat frozen, their glasses untouched, their eyes averted. Even the music seemed to bow, its pulse fading into a whisper.
Joshua forced a laugh, but it cracked, betraying his fear. He opened his mouth to speak, but a single glance from Augustus silenced him. No one spoke to the king unless invited. Augustus's shadow stretched across the booth, his clean-spice scent laced with something darker—blood, power, death. The air grew heavy, the chandeliers' light dimming as if in reverence.
The man in the booth cleared his throat, his voice trembling. "We were just—"
Augustus raised a hand, and the man's words died. The gesture was small, but it carried the weight of a guillotine. "You don't speak," Augustus said, his voice calm but colder than ice, each word a law unto itself. The man shrank back, his face pale, his hands gripping the table as if to anchor himself.
Avery's fists clenched in his lap, blood welling under his nails. His body screamed to run, but his soul knew better—Augustus was a predator who never lost his prey. The memory of that bathroom, the blood, the promise of salvation that became a cage, burned in his mind. He'd thought Joshua was his hell, but Augustus was worse—a king who ruled with fear and owned with a glance.
"Puppy," Augustus said again, his voice softer now, almost tender, but it cut deeper than any blade. "Look at me."
Avery's heart stopped. A spark of defiance flared—he wanted to refuse, to keep his eyes on the floor, to hold onto the last shred of himself. But Augustus's command was iron, bending his will before he could resist. His golden-brown eyes lifted, meeting the icy void of Augustus's gaze. The bar vanished, Joshua's grip faded, and the world narrowed to those eyes—promising ruin, claiming him anew.
And then, a flicker of something else caught Avery's attention—a glint of silver on the bar counter, a forgotten knife from a cocktail tray. His fingers twitched, a whisper of rebellion stirring in his chest. Could he grab it? Could he fight? The thought was fleeting, but it was there—a spark in the dark, fragile but alive.
Augustus's smile widened, as if he saw the spark and relished it. "You can't run, puppy," he murmured, his voice a velvet blade. "Not from me."