[Marco's Apartment—Night]
The laughter was the first crack in Ren Foster's world. Light, breathy… intimate. A sound meant for him was whispered instead to someone else.
He stood frozen outside his apartment door, keys digging into his palm. The laughter dissolved into soft moans—each one a blade twisting deeper beneath his ribs.
He pushed the door open.
Clothes lay scattered across the floor—evidence of moments he wasn't supposed to see. The dim lighting wasn't merciful; it revealed too much. Ren's gaze landed on Marco—shirtless, flushed, and straddling a stranger whose name Ren would never know.
His breath faltered. The moment tasted like betrayal.
Marco hadn't seen him yet. But the man beneath him did. A slow smirk curled on the stranger's lips—mocking, victorious, and cruel.
"Marco…" the man said, voice dripping arrogance, "do you feel good?"
Marco leaned down, breath warm against the stranger's throat. "Of course. You're amazing, love."
The word stabbed sharp.
Love.
A word Marco once said to Ren like a promise. Now tossed to a stranger like trash.
The man tightened his grip on Marco's hips, eyes flicking deliberately to Ren—enjoying his breaking.
"Am I better than Ren?" he asked.
Marco chuckled, casual… uncaring… smashing Ren's heart with every syllable.
"Better?" he clicked his tongue. "You're the best. Ren is a mood-off button. Whenever I try to be intimate, he pushes me away—'Not now,' he says."
The stranger laughed softly.Marco smiled down at him as if Ren had never mattered.
Ren's world went silent.Still.Cold.
Ren hadn't even realized he'd stepped back until the doorknob pressed into his spine. His throat tightened painfully. Humiliation. Anger. Despair. Tangled into something suffocating, almost physical, crushing his chest.
But his voice had abandoned him—caught somewhere between his ribs and his shattering heart. Ren stood there trembling, breath unsteady, as everything he thought he knew turned to dust.
A tear slipped down his cheek.Then another.And another.
Finally, with the last of his strength, he turned away. Behind him, the sounds of pleasure resumed—louder than his heartbreak.
A low moan.A gasp.A laugh against bare skin.
Then—THUD!
The door slammed shut as Ren staggered out. Marco's head jerked up at the noise.
"Hm?" he muttered, brows furrowing. "Did someone just… walk in?"
The stranger beneath him dragged Marco back down with a possessive grip.
"Don't stop…" he whispered, voice thick with lust. "go faster...I want more."
Marco smirked—cruel, careless. "Gladly."
Their moans grew louder, shameless… echoing like knives through the walls.
—
And meanwhile, Ren?
Ren walked.
Out of the apartment.Out of the life he thought he had.
His tears blurred the golden hallway lights into cruel streaks. Each step felt heavier, his pulse pounding like a wounded thing begging to be held. He reached the street—Rome alive and vibrant around him—yet he had never felt so completely unwanted.
The night air hit him cold.
He pressed a hand to his chest as if he could hold the pieces of his heart together. But they slipped through his fingers—sharp, merciless.
Every breath hurt.
Every memory hurt worse.
Rome's beauty mocked him.
Couples laughed near the fountain. Lights glimmered on cobblestones polished by history and heartbreak alike. The city breathed romance—while his had died on a stranger's lips.
Ren wiped his cheeks, though the tears kept falling stubbornly. He didn't know where he was walking… which streets he passed… which alley he turned into. He just moved, carried by the ache in his chest.
It was supposed to be his day.Their date.A celebration of love.
Instead, Marco was tangled in someone else's arms—because Ren hadn't been ready to give him his body.
Was that all their love had been worth? A single 'no'?
His memories betrayed him—soft laughter, warm touches, whispered promises—and each one cut deeper as he wandered farther into Rome's forgotten veins.
The night changed around him.Shops disappeared.People vanished.Windows darkened.
He had slipped into the kind of place tourists avoided… and where the sane simply did not go.
If he had noticed the silence… if he had felt the watchful eyes hidden in the dark… Maybe he would have turned back. But heartbreak blinds. And pain pulls you forward when you should run.
Ren didn't know he was walking toward a man more dangerous than his worst nightmares—a man who would ruin him far more than Marco ever could.
Then—
A voice split the quiet.
"P-Please—don't—!" A desperate cry, cracked with terror.
Ren stopped breathing. Another scream, sharper. Something—someone—being dragged against stone, "What...was that?"
Ren's pulse hammered as adrenaline cut through the numbness. Without thinking, he took a step toward the sound. Then another.
"Help!" the voice shrieked again, wild and terrified. "Somebody—help me—!"
Ren froze at the mouth of a narrow alley, darkness swallowing the space ahead. His heart pounded so loud it drowned the world.
A final cry ruptured the night—
"NO—PLEASE—AAAHHHHHH!"
BANG!
Silence followed.Heavy. Absolute.
Ren's blood iced. His feet refused to move… yet somehow he found himself taking one slow, trembling step into the shadows.
That step sealed his fate. Because at the far end of the alley, beneath a flickering lamp, stood a man dressed in a suit blacker than the night—hand raised, gun smoking, expression untouched by death.
He didn't see Ren.Not yet.
A man knelt on the ground, legs twisted beneath him—blood pooling around shattered bones.
"Please…" the man cried, his voice breaking into panic. "Silas, I'll disappear. I swear it. I'll go far away. You'll never see me again. Just… please. Forgive me…"
Silas.
The name hit the air like a verdict.
A slow, unamused exhale left the killer's lips. His voice—deep, cold, and beautiful in a terrifying way—slid like a blade across the alley:
"Why would I forgive someone who betrayed me?"
The man sobbed. "Silas… I—"
BANG.
The bullet tore through his skull with precision—the kind that came from practice. His body dropped like discarded trash, face still frozen in hopeless pleading.
Ren's entire body shook. Flight surged violently through his veins—but fear made his legs useless. He wanted to run away but he stumbled back—
THUD!
The sound was small, but in that dead alley, it crashed like thunder. Every man in a black suit whipped around, guns half-raised, eyes narrowing.
Slowly, the killer stepped out of the shadows—and Ren finally saw him fully.
Silas Moreau.
Black hair. Ice-blue eyes that held no mercy. A physique carved from power and violence.
And those eyes—when they locked onto Ren's—they didn't widen with surprise. They simply claimed. Ren scrambled to his feet, panic ripping through his chest. He didn't think—he just ran, phone still recording, breath fractured by terror.
Behind him, a voice—controlled and calm—cut through the night.
"Sir," one of the men asked, "should we chase him?"
Silas's gaze didn't leave Ren's fleeing figure.
"No," he said, holstering his gun smoothly. "Just keep an eye on him."
His men nodded and silas turned to look at the dead body, saying, "And clean this mess."
His men obeyed instantly. Silas looked down at the corpse—already forgotten—and a faint hint of a smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not amused.
Predatory.
Meanwhile, Ren ran as if the world were ending. And in a way… it was.
Not the world itself—but his.
Because he didn't know that the moment his eyes met Silas Moreau's, his fate was no longer his own.