"How many points would I actually get from removing it?" Marcus asked, clinging to a thread of desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, the reward would justify the agony.
[Fortune's processing systems whirred audibly before responding with unmistakable enthusiasm: "Wow! Host, this would grant you 10 points in a single action! That's equivalent to one fully successful 'pleasurable contact' event!"]
"..." Marcus maintained silence for several long seconds, processing the information. Then he spoke with decisive finality: "No. I'm keeping it. I think it looks fine the way it is."
[Fortune's confusion transmitted clearly through the mental link: "What? Why would you refuse? We're talking about 10 points! You're starting from negative territory—these 10 points are critically important to your mission success!"]
"You're being too noisy. I have my own strategic considerations." Marcus attempted to sound like he'd made a calculated decision rather than just being a coward about pain.
[Fortune cut through the bullshit with surgical precision: "Host... you're just afraid of the pain, aren't you?"]
"What? That's—" Marcus's mental voice went defensive immediately. "That's completely—"
[Fortune pressed the attack, employing what could only be described as aggressive motivation tactics: "Furthermore, aren't you concerned that Elena's visceral dislike of this tattoo will make her find you even more repulsive? That it will actively sabotage your romance attempts?"]
"Why the hell would you assume I'm afraid of her?" Marcus's metaphorical hackles rose, stubborn pride kicking in. "If she can't stand the tattoo, then... then she'll just have to deal with it..."
Even as the words formed in his consciousness, he could hear how pathetically unconvincing they sounded. He couldn't help the awkward, self-deprecating chuckle that followed.
Marcus turned on the showerhead, letting warm water cascade over his borrowed body. While ostensibly focused on washing away the night's accumulated grime and anxiety, his mind—as if possessed by some compulsive demon—began actively searching for nearby tattoo removal establishments.
He found himself specifically targeting shops with reviews mentioning "virtually painless removal," "cutting-edge laser technology," and "overwhelmingly positive customer feedback."
"Hmm... this place looks promising. Five-star rating across the board. Multiple reviews specifically mention 'barely felt anything' and 'much less painful than expected'..." He muttered to himself while scrolling through virtual listings in his mind's eye.
[Fortune: "..." (The system maintained pointed, judgmental silence)]
Meanwhile, in the darkened bedroom, Elena Nightshade was decidedly not asleep despite her convincing performance to the contrary.
She lay perfectly still, gaze fixed on the bathroom door. Through the frosted glass panel, Marcus's silhouette was visible—tall, broad-shouldered, distorted by the textured surface into something vaguely threatening.
The knot of suspicion in her chest continued tightening, growing heavier with each passing moment: Why had Marcus returned at all? His behavior now bore absolutely no resemblance to the monster who'd brutalized her just hours ago. The contrast was jarring, inexplicable. What new scheme was concealed behind this aberrant display of restraint? What fresh manipulation was he setting up?
The throbbing ache radiating from her injured right eye served as a constant, insistent reminder: Never lower your guard. Never trust. Never believe.
Ever since that catastrophic day when she'd lost the use of her legs at age twelve—plunging from a normal childhood into a nightmare of vulnerability and predatory opportunists—malice from every conceivable direction had exhausted her, worn her down to psychological bedrock. She'd learned through brutal experience to interpret every action through the lens of worst possible intentions. Optimism was a luxury she could no longer afford.
Her cold fingertips drifted upward almost unconsciously, making delicate contact with the bruised tissue surrounding her eye. The touch triggered waves of burning heat interspersed with maddening, persistent itching—the body's inflammatory response to trauma.
This injury would require at least two full weeks to fade completely. Two weeks of visible evidence. Two weeks of being marked.
The bathroom water shut off abruptly.
Elena's eyes snapped closed with practiced speed. Her long lashes trembled with carefully controlled micro-movements meant to simulate REM sleep. She allowed her delicate face to sink deeper into the quilted embrace of the comforter, constructing a convincing tableau of peaceful unconsciousness.
But internally? Internally, unease and fear crashed through her in relentless waves, cold as oceanic currents pulling her under, drowning her in familiar dread.
This profound anxiety—born from the intersection of physical disability and human betrayal—had haunted her like an attached shadow ever since that pivotal twelfth year. Tonight, somehow, it seemed to have reached a new peak of intensity.
Beneath the concealing blanket, her hand clenched around the gemstone ring with white-knuckled force. The poisoned needle remained extended, ready. Whatever game Marcus was playing, whatever new torment he was orchestrating, she absolutely would not sit passively and accept victimhood. Not again. Never again.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click.
A cloud of warm, humid steam billowed out first, carrying with it the scent of expensive agarwood shower gel—clean, masculine, faintly exotic.
Then came the man himself.
A long, athletically muscled leg emerged from the doorway—bare, still damp, warm-toned skin gleaming in the low light. His bare foot made contact with the cold marble flooring, leaving wet footprints in his wake.
Marcus stepped fully into view wearing nothing but a white bath towel wrapped low around his hips. His wet black hair hung in disheveled strands across his neck and forehead, water droplets tracking down the defined lines of his collarbone and across the firm planes of his chest.
That aggressive scorpion tail tattoo on his arm practically glowed under the bathroom's residual lighting—sharp, dark, impossible to miss.
Through the tiny gap between her barely-parted eyelids, Elena registered all of this in vivid detail. Her heart began hammering against her ribs with such violence she feared he might actually hear it—the frantic percussion of trapped-animal panic threatening to burst straight through her sternum.
Fighting someone with his physical advantages—that height, that obvious strength, that raw athletic capability—while she remained functionally helpless with paralyzed legs... the odds of successfully defending herself were microscopically, terrifyingly slim.
And that tattoo. God, that tattoo. It triggered something visceral in her gut—an inexplicable revulsion mixed with bone-deep unease that she couldn't rationally explain but couldn't ignore.
His footsteps approached the bed with measured, steady rhythm.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he sat on the edge.
His shadow fell across her like a physical thing, blocking out the pale moonlight that had been illuminating her face, replacing it with darkness.
Elena fought desperately to control her breathing, maintaining the slow, even pattern associated with deep sleep. But every muscle in her small frame had gone rigid—taut as an overdrawn bowstring, trembling microscopically with suppressed tension, ready to explode into defensive action the instant he made an aggressive move.
Marcus leaned closer. She could feel the residual warmth radiating from his freshly showered skin, could smell that clean agarwood scent intensifying. His breath—warm, steady—ghosted across her forehead and the fine hairs at her temples.
"Asleep already?" he murmured to himself, voice pitched low. There was something in his tone—a note of careful testing, like he was actively trying to determine if she was genuinely unconscious or faking.
Elena's eyelashes betrayed her with the tiniest involuntary flutter. She swallowed with difficulty, throat working, feeling like her entire body had transformed into an arrow nocked and drawn, requiring only the slightest trigger pressure to release.
But the anticipated assault never materialized.
Instead, she heard him exhale—a long, quiet sigh that carried unmistakable notes of relief rather than frustration.
The oppressive shadow withdrew. His footsteps retreated, moving away from the bed with careful silence.
Elena risked opening her eyes fractionally wider, creating a slightly larger observational gap. Through this expanded slit, she watched Marcus moving through the dimness toward the large wardrobe positioned in the room's corner. She could hear the whisper of fabric, the quiet sounds of rummaging.
Moments later, he extracted a set of dark silk pajamas. With his back still turned toward her—maintaining that deliberate distance—he quickly pulled on the top, covering most of his skin and, more importantly, concealing the majority of that disturbing tattoo.
Moonlight traced the contours of his broad back muscles and narrow waist in silver relief. He hadn't yet pulled on the pajama bottoms, leaving his legs exposed—long, powerfully built, defined musculature visible even in low light.
Marcus tugged on the pajama pants, securing the drawstring with a quick motion. His internal monologue leaked through in a barely audible mutter: "At least this covers most of it. Should be less offensive this way..."
He grabbed a towel and subjected his dripping hair to a brief, careless rubdown, then began tiptoeing with exaggerated stealth toward his makeshift sleeping arrangement—that corner floor space he'd mentally designated as his "seventy-thousand-yuan-per-square-meter campsite."
He lowered himself onto the spread blanket with painstaking care, clearly terrified of generating even the smallest sound that might disturb the person in the actual bed. He even took time to meticulously tuck the edges of his covering around himself, shrinking his tall frame into the shadowed corner, deliberately minimizing his presence.
Silence descended over the room like a physical weight.
Moonlight pooled across surfaces like spilled liquid silver, painting Elena's face in pale illumination. The light seemed to emphasize the increasingly lurid purple-and-yellow bruising surrounding her right eye, making the injury appear even more grotesque and violent.
Marcus lay on his side, gaze drawn almost magnetically to that visible evidence of trauma. Something in his chest twisted painfully—an emotion he couldn't quite name.
This girl was only twenty years old. She should have been in the absolute prime of youth—laughing freely with friends on a university campus, staying up too late, making questionable decisions, enjoying the particular brand of chaotic freedom that comes with early adulthood. Instead, she was trapped in a wheelchair, confined by disability, unable to preserve even the simple dignity of an unblemished face.
Though he had to remember: even pitiable people could be dangerous. Sometimes especially pitiable people.
Time passed in unmeasured increments.
Eventually, the sound of Marcus's breathing settled into the deep, steady rhythm associated with genuine sleep. Only then did Elena's hypervigilant tension finally ease by microscopic degrees. Bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that comes from extended periods of high-alert fear—finally dragged her consciousness down into restless, nightmare-plagued sleep.
The dreams were cruel. Vicious.
She lay helpless and paralyzed in the bed, forced to watch as Marcus embraced another woman—someone conventionally beautiful, sexually aggressive, everything Elena could never be. They performed deliberate acts of intimacy designed specifically to humiliate her, to rub her inadequacy in her face.
Then that demonic hand finally reached for her, accompanied by obscene laughter: "Wife, now it's your turn!"
"Ah!" Elena jolted violently awake from the nightmare, heart slamming against her ribs in absolute panic.
Dawn was just beginning to break. Weak morning light leaked through gaps in the curtains, painting the room in shades of gray and pale gold.
Before she'd even fully opened her eyes, she registered an unexpected sensation—a pleasant, soothing coolness pressed against the corner of her injured right eye. A faintly medicinal scent tickled her nostrils, sharp and clinical but not unpleasant.
Simultaneously, a voice—deliberately pitched soft and gentle, almost tender—spoke near her ear:
"How could you have hit this hard..."
It was Marcus's voice.