Chapter Six.
The hallway seemed to grow narrower, the walls inching closer with every breath. The buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead grated against Klein's skull, each flicker cutting through the haze like static. His body felt too hot, too heavy, straining against itself as if his very nerves were being pulled taut.
The stranger still held him, fingers resting lightly at his arm and back, steadying without force, guiding without effort. It wasn't restraint, but it might as well have been. Klein couldn't move—couldn't even think of breaking free without the heat inside him screaming in protest at the idea of losing that contact.
He was trapped, not by strength, but by his own body's betrayal.
Klein swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw. He opened his mouth, wanting to form some excuse, some plea—but what slipped out was hoarse, broken, edged with desperation.
"It hurts…"
The words left him before he could stop them. His voice cracked, shame clinging to every syllable. "It—it burns. Please…"
If he was more sober, he would probably slam his face in embarrassment because of this behavior.
The man's lips parted, his polite smile curving into something sharper. His black eyes glinted with amusement, the crystal monocle flashing as he tilted his head.
"Hurts?" he echoed, as though tasting the word. "It's my first time hearing that my touch hurts."
He let his hand fall away for the briefest second. The absence was agony—like cold air against raw skin. Klein staggered, nearly falling, the sudden lack of touch igniting panic in his chest.
Then the hand returned—light, deliberate—fingers brushing along the fabric of Klein's sleeve. Relief struck so sharply that Klein shuddered, biting back another sound that threatened to escape. His knees buckled, breath shattering in uneven gasps.
The man chuckled softly, the sound low and cruel in its delight.
"Interesting," he murmured, leaning closer, as though confiding in Klein. "You beg for help, yet every touch makes you tremble. Which is it, I wonder? Do you want the pain to stop… or do you want more of it?"
What's wrong with me…
Klein's heart slammed against his ribs. He tried to shake his head, to deny it, but the haze blurred his control. His body swayed closer without meaning to, drawn by the teasing relief of contact.
"I… I just want it to stop," he managed, his voice almost a whisper, desperate and raw.
The young man's smile widened, his gloved fingers trailing higher up Klein's arm, the touch maddeningly slow.
"Then say it," he coaxed, every word silk threaded with mockery. "Beg me properly. Ask nicely, and perhaps I'll be generous."
Klein's pride clawed at him, fought to keep his lips sealed. But the heat—itching, burning, suffocating—was unbearable. He had endured fear before, but not this. Not this helpless torment that demanded he ask for what he hated to need.
It's fear mixed with pain, and Klein's more afraid of that burning sensation and maddening itch.
His voice broke, ragged, barely audible. "…Please."
The man laughed softly, a sound filled with delighted cruelty, as though Klein had just confirmed some private theory.
"Ah. Much better."
He let the word linger between them, savoring it. Then his touch slid just enough to send another wave of relief coursing through Klein's body, a mercy doled out like a toy being wound up for further amusement.
Klein shivered violently, shame burning hot against the fire already tearing through him. He was prey, strung along for the predator's entertainment. And the worst part—his body was betraying him at every step, leaning closer, trembling, wanting.
The stranger's smile softened into something almost gentle, but his eyes betrayed nothing but cold fascination.
The stranger's smile softened into something almost gentle, but his eyes betrayed nothing but cold fascination.
Klein's pulse thundered in his ears. He tried to steady himself, tried to think, but every flicker of the overhead light seemed to pierce deeper into his skull, blurring the hallway into a fever dream. His breaths came shallow, his body betraying him with each trembling step closer to the predator's touch.
And then—
A voice rang out behind him.
"Lil' Raven."
Klein flinched so violently that he nearly collapsed, the words shattering through the suffocating haze like cold water. He hadn't heard a single footstep, hadn't felt the weight of another presence until now. But suddenly, someone was there—close, uncomfortably close.
The air grew heavier.
Klein dared a glance over his shoulder.
A tall man stood at the far end of the hallway, his presence sharp and intrusive as a blade. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, the fabric gleaming faintly in the light, not a crease out of place. At his throat, a vivid tie the color of fresh blood drew the eye, the single flourish against the otherwise immaculate butler's attire. White gloves sheathed his hands, spotless, though Klein couldn't shake the impression that they had touched horrors not so easily washed away.
His hair burned like fire—red, vivid, untamed—yet his face was smooth and handsome, youth etched into every angle. The contradiction only deepened the wrongness of him: refined like a servant, radiant like a noble, dangerous like something far older than either.
Klein's chest tightened. He couldn't place this man, couldn't fathom where he had come from, and that ignorance alone left him trembling.
The red-haired butler tilted his head ever so slightly, lips curving into a faint smirk as his voice, smooth and unhurried, rolled through the narrow hall.
"Now look what we have here," he drawled, his tone rich with amusement. "You're using spices now? Really, Lil' Raven, how far you've fallen. In my day, you didn't need to rely on cheap concoctions to get a new toy."
His eyes flicked toward Klein, assessing him the way one might glance at a misplaced trinket. "And this one—hardly worth the effort, don't you think? Fragile. Half-conscious. You could have anyone wrapped around your finger with a whisper, yet here you are, resorting to drugs like some impatient suitor."
The taunting lilt in his voice made the words sting sharper, though his smile remained polished, his posture impeccable. He adjusted his blood-red tie with slow, deliberate care, as if tidying his appearance were more important than the scene before him.
The stranger behind Klein chuckled low, as though the words were an affectionate scolding rather than a rebuke. Fingers on Klein's arm pressed just slightly firmer, keeping him from stumbling away.
"Hmm? You're back early?" the monocled man replied softly, feigning innocence with a grin that could only be described as infuriating.
"Tch. Finish whatever you want quickly. We need to leave," the red-haired man—Medici—snapped, voice smooth but with the clear edge of someone seconds away from losing patience.
The monocled man tilted his head, smile widening. "This is why you're not popular with girls, Medici."
Medici's eye twitched. "Excuse me?"
But Amon had already turned away, adjusting his gloves with practiced nonchalance, ignoring him completely. The silence that followed was louder than any insult.
"Ah, right," Medici muttered dryly, straightening his crimson tie. "Why would I expect basic respect from someone who thinks that pranking people counts as social interaction?"
That earned him a low chuckle. "Please. It's called improvisation. Not everyone needs to rely on their charm when they're your age."
Medici blinked slowly. "…Did you just call me old?"
"Observing facts," Amon said simply, still not looking at him. "You're the one who made it sound tragic."
Klein's breathing hitched, shallow and unsteady. The hallway swam before his eyes, lights warping into blurred halos. He could still hear them—faintly—voices weaving in and out of his awareness like echoes underwater.
He blinked slowly, the edges of their silhouettes melting into one another. The flickering light above seemed to pulse with his heartbeat—too bright, too loud, too much.
The heat was crawling again, under his skin, between his ribs, searing through the haze that clung to him like smoke. He wanted to move, to run, to breathe—but every step felt stolen. His legs didn't quite obey him anymore. His mind stuttered, skipping like a broken reel.
Klein's world was coming apart at the seams, one heartbeat at a time. The tiled floor beneath him rippled; the walls breathed. The air pressed in closer and closer, until it felt like he was sinking into it—like the world itself was trying to swallow him whole.
Am I… still standing?
He couldn't tell anymore. His vision blurred again, the outlines of the two men twisting into indistinct shadows. One pale, gloved hand moved toward him, slow and deliberate—an artist touching his canvas, a collector admiring his prize.
And then—
Darkness.
Not sudden, not merciful. It crept in slowly, curling around the edges of his thoughts, whispering things he couldn't quite hear. Klein's final awareness was of that faint, amused voice—too close, too calm.
And though Klein was too far gone to hear it, the sound followed him down into the dark—soft and hungry, like a smile with teeth.