..
A rare, lopsided smile broke across Mark's sharp features—a smile of pure, smug triumph and shattered relief. He felt a sense of ownership so deep it was spiritual. He didn't just pick Win up; he claimed him. He swept the boy into his arms, holding him with a grip that was iron-strong yet terrified of causing a single bruise.
As he carried him back toward the sanctuary of their room, Mark felt a dark, shimmering resolve harden in his chest. If Win had waited thirteen years, then Mark would spend the next hundred making sure the boy never felt the cold again. Every step he took felt like a victory march. The Sovereign had his crown back, and he would burn anyone who dared to even look at it.
"Thirteen years," Mark whispered into Win's hair, his voice thick with a promise that was both a prayer and a threat. "You're never getting those years back, Kitty. I'm going to make you spend every second of the rest of them by my side."
He put Win on the bed and covered him with the blanket, tucking him in. "Stay like this for a while. Your hands are freezing."
Win sat up. Mark sat beside him and rubbed his hands gently, trying to share his own heat. "It's cold outside. Why did you leave the room? Look, your cheeks have turned red."
Win's lips curved into a playful, teasing smile that didn't quite reach the lingering shadows in his eyes. "It was your punishment," he said, his voice light but underlined with a soft tremor. "I was scared when I didn't find you beside me." But as the words left his mouth, the play fullness vanished, replaced by a deep, defensive pout.
..
Mark felt his heart hit the floor. To the Sovereign, that pout was more devastating than a declaration of war. He felt a surge of heat rush to his face, a rare, genuine blush creeping up his neck as he found himself completely humbled by the boy's vulnerability. "Do you want me to sleep beside you?"
"Umm? I don't know, but I was scared," Win flustered, his voice dropping to a breathy whisper. His heart began to race, a frantic thrumming against his ribs that Mark could practically see through the thin silk of his shirt.
Mark's self-control, which he had held onto like a fraying rope all night, was beginning to snap. He was a man drowning, and Win's lips were the only air left in the world. He tried to look away, tried to remind himself of the boy's fragility, but he was trapped. His gaze was a prisoner, constantly dropping to Win's moving lips and then to the pale, exposed expanse of his white chest visible through the deep V-neck.
He fought it until his muscles ached. He wanted to be the saint Win needed, but the sight of those pouting, biting lips made the blood in his veins turn to fire. Every second of restraint felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest, until the gravity of his desire became too much to bear.
He couldn't hold back a second longer. With a low, guttural sigh of defeat, Mark leaned in. He gently grabbed the back of Win's head—his large, calloused fingers tangling in the soft silk of his hair with a possessiveness that was both terrifying and holy. As Mark's lips finally met Win's, a kaleidoscope of the past flashed before Win's eyes.
In that tender, velvet contact, Win didn't just feel Mark; he felt the crushing absence of every kind touch he had ever been denied. For thirteen years, his body had been a battlefield—treated with coldness, violence, and neglect. He had never been handled like something precious. He had never been touched as if his skin were made of starlight.
The warmth was so foreign, so impossibly soft, that it felt like a burn.
Win got goosebumps all over his body, a primal reaction to a heat that seemed to melt the permafrost in his soul. But as the ice thawed, the pain rushed in. Suddenly, the joy was overtaken by a tidal wave of grief. His eyes widened, then filled with heavy, hot tears.
He broke the kiss, sobbing hard, his body shaking with a raw, agonizing sound. Inside, a crushing weight settled over his heart: How can he kiss someone as broken as me? Why is he treating a ruined thing with such worship? The gentleness of Mark's lips was the cruelest reminder of the life Win had been forced to live in the dark.
Mark was scared and immediately regretted his actions. "Kitty? Are you angry? Don't you like that? If not, just hit me—hit me more—but please don't cry like this. It hurts me."
..
Win's sobs were the breakers of a soundless, midnight sea, crashing with a relentless weight against the crumbling shore of his fortitude. His throat, tight and constricted, was choked with the salt of a sorrow he could no longer sing—a melody of grief that had been silenced for thirteen years.
The violent tremble of his shoulders was more than just a shiver; it was the physical vibration of an unheard song of pain, a frequency of agony that only Mark was tuned to hear. Every tear that escaped Win's lashes was a crystalline testament to his ruin. As they fell, each drop of moisture on his flushed cheeks stung Mark's heart, feeling like a slow, rhythmic drip of acid.
Mark didn't just see the tears; he felt them eating through his own skin, burning through his composure, and dissolving the "Sovereign" until there was nothing left but a man standing in the wreckage of his soul's only treasure. He watched the way Win's chest heaved, a frantic, broken bellows, and realized that the "Kitty" wasn't just crying—he was bleeding out the years of darkness through his eyes.
The silence of the room was gone, replaced by the deafening roar of Win's silent suffering. Mark reached out, his own breath caught in his lungs, desperate to catch the acid drops before they could burn any deeper into the boy he had finally found, and lost, and found again.
"Kitty?" The name was barely a word; it was a fractured breath, a plea for mercy. Mark's face, usually a mask of unyielding stone, had completely disintegrated. His eyes—those lethal, predatory eyes—were now wide and glassy with a reflection of Win's own agony. His brow was furrowed in a way that looked less like concern and more like a physical wound, his jaw trembling with a vulnerability he hadn't felt since he was a child. He looked like a man watching his entire world catch fire, standing helpless with empty hands.
"No! I am not angry!" Win hugged Mark tightly, saying it with his cracked and nasally voice, clinging to him for dear life.
"Then why are you crying?" Mark gently rubbed Win's back, his hand tracing the fragile spine.
"It's nothing," Win said through his sobs.
"If it's nothing, then please don't cry, okay?" Mark comforted him like a baby. He reached for the table, brought a glass of water, and asked Win to drink. Win took the glass, but as he was about to drink, it slipped from his trembling hand, spilling water all over his nightsuit.
Win panicked, but Mark said it was okay. He picked Win up, moved him to the sofa, and went to the cupboard to get a change of clothes.
He asked Win to change, but Win refused. "It's just a little wet. It will dry soon."
"Don't be stubborn. Just change, otherwise you will catch a cold," Mark said, his voice a mixture of authority and tenderness.
Win smiled sadly. "I often go like this and never get sick. It's okay not to change."
Mark sighed and started unbuttoning Win's shirt. Win told him to stop, his voice a small plea, but Mark didn't listen. "Please... be good and listen to me."
As the buttons gave way, the air didn't just turn cold—it vanished from Mark's lungs. He froze, his fingers still hooked into the fabric, as the reality of Win's skin was laid bare under the lamplight.
The silence that followed was deafening. Mark took a staggering step back, his vision tunneling until all he could see were those horrific cartographies of pain. The black-and-purple clouds of deep bruising, the jagged, silver-white lightning of old cuts, and the sickeningly neat, circular craters of cigarette burns. Each mark was a scream from the past that Mark hadn't been there to silence.
A low, animalistic growl vibrated in Mark's throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated carnage. His hands snapped into fists so tight the skin over his knuckles threatened to split, and his entire frame began to vibrate with a seismic force. He looked like a god of war witnessing the desecration of his only temple. His eyes, once soft with devotion, were now flooded with a dark, lethal red. He wanted to leave. He wanted to find whoever had done this and tear the life from their bodies with his bare hands. He wanted to hear them beg.
"Who?" he rasped, the single word didn't just hang in the air; it bled into the room, dripping with the dark, heavy promise of a massacre. Mark's voice had lost its human quality, sounding instead like the grinding of tectonic plates or the wheeze of a dying star.
Inside his chest, a different kind of war was raging. He knew the answer. He knew about the adoptive father—the man who had treated a saint like a punching bag and a miracle like a mistake. Mark had already ended that man's life, but in this moment, the memory of his own efficiency felt like a curse. A sudden, sharp torment of guilt twisted in his gut—a dark regret that he had killed the monster too quickly. He had granted that man a clean, sudden death when he should have carved the life out of him second by second, year by year, until the debt for every one of Win's tears was paid in blood.
But then he saw Win.
Win was trembling, his small hands fruitlessly trying to pull his shirt back together, his eyes wide with the terror of seeing the "Executioner" fully unleashed in their bedroom. The sight of Win's fear acted like a bucket of ice over Mark's burning soul.
I am scaring him, Mark realized with a sharp, agonizing jolt. The one person I swore to protect is cowering because of me.
The effort it took for Mark to remain still was physical torture. He forced his lungs to expand, forced his teeth to stop grinding, even as his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped beast. When Win reached out and pressed his forehead against Mark's chest, Mark felt the dampness of the boy's tears through his shirt.
Mark didn't move at first; he was a statue of suppressed violence. He felt Win's small, shaking fingers pry at his iron-clenched fist. Slowly, agonizingly, Mark forced his fingers to uncurl. He didn't deserve to touch Win with hands that were thinking of murder, but Win needed him.
"I'm here," Mark whispered, his voice shaking with the strain of holding back the storm. He wrapped his arms around Win, pulling him into a grip that was desperate yet impossibly light, closing his eyes so Win wouldn't see the tears of pure agony leaking out.
Every time his skin brushed against a bruise he could feel through the thin fabric, a fresh wave of rage rolled over him, but he funneled it all downward, locking it in the darkest cellar of his heart. For Win, he would be a pillow. For the rest of the world, he would be the end of days.
"I've got you, Kitty,"he breathed. "I've got you. No one... no one... will ever touch you again. I swear it on my soul."
..
..
Win came out of the washroom after changing. He saw a maid changing the bedsheets, her movements quick and silent, while Mark checked his phone, his face a mask of cold, distant business.
But as soon as Mark saw him, the mask shattered; he put the phone aside and smiled, a look of pure devotion warming his sharp features. The maid took the dirty, water-soaked sheets and left the room, closing the door on the rest of the world.
Mark led Win back to the bed. Win lay down, the soft pillows framing his face, and looked up at Mark with puppy eyes that made Mark's heart ache. Mark asked softly, "Do you want me to sleep beside you?"
Win didn't answer, his shyness returning in the quiet of the room.
"Okay, then... I'm going to sleep on the sofa," Mark said, turning to go, though the thought of leaving Win's side felt like a physical pull. But Win reached out, his small hand catching Mark's, and said, "I want you to sleep beside me."
Mark smiled, a rare and genuine expression that reached his eyes. He walked to the other side of the giant bed and got in, the mattress dipping under his weight. He leaned against the headboard and started caressingly Win's head, his fingers moving through the soft hair with a tenderness that was almost holy. As Win felt the comfort of having Mark beside him—the heat radiating from Mark's body acting as a shield—he slowly closed his eyes.
But Mark couldn't find peace. Even with the lights dimmed, he kept seeing Win's face and thinking about those intense, horrific wounds hidden beneath the clothes. His heart twitched with a sharp, agonizing pain; the man he loved most in the world, the one he had spent years searching for, was covered in bruises.
Am I too late?The thought was a scream in his mind. Was I not there when he needed me most?
"Kitty?" Mark whispered, his voice cracking.
Win didn't answer; the exhaustion and the safety of Mark's presence had finally allowed him to fall into a deep sleep. Mark laid down, his large body curling protectively around Win's. He pulled him into his arms, tucking Win's head under his chin, and covered them both with the heavy blanket. Win looked so tiny, a small bird seeking shelter in the arms of a lion.
When I gave you the name 'Kitty,' I wasn't wrong at all,Mark thought, his chest tightening.
He closed his eyes, holding his man with a grip that promised he would never let go again. He felt a smug, possessive satisfaction having his most precious person beside him, finally back where he belonged. But the memory of the bruises tormented him like a haunting ghost. The guilt of not being there while his beloved suffered alone in the dark was suffocating, a weight he couldn't lift. Tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes, silent and hot, as the Master wept for the pain he couldn't take away.
..
..
The Master's alarm rang at 6:00 AM, a sharp, cold sound in the dawn. He turned it off instantly and got up slowly, the silence of the room wrapping around him. He leaned down and kissed Win's forehead—a lingering, soft touch—before going to freshen up. He quietly put on a sharp, dark suit, looking into the mirror at a man who was no longer a lover, but a soldier about to go to war. A notification appeared on his phone, the light reflecting in his cold eyes:
Daniel: "Everything is ready."
Mark looked at his man sleeping peacefully, a fragile angel in a world of monsters. He kissed his forehead one last time and left. The guards at the door moved to close it, but Mark stopped them and closed it slowly himself, his fingers steady, as if even the tiny click of the lock might disturb the man's hard-won peace.
Mark was a fierce man, and everyone knew it. He was perfectly built and tall, but he looked truly terrifying when he wasn't smiling—his face becoming a mask of stone. He ordered the guards in a low, lethal whisper: "He is sleeping. No one is allowed in my room—not even the superior maid. And turn your phones to the lowest volume."
The guards bowed instantly, sensing the deadly aura radiating from him like a cold wind.
..
A sleek, obsidian sedan waited at the main gate, its engine a low, rhythmic growl that vibrated through the gravel like a predator purring in the dark. Daniel stood like a statue of salt, his face a void. He opened the door for Mark, the heavy click of the latch sounding like the chambering of a round. After thirty minutes of suffocating silence, they reached the carcass of an old house—the skeleton of Mark's childhood home.
It was no longer a place of memories; it was the "White Room." The structure stood like a jagged tooth against the moonless sky, a hollowed-out shell that exhaled the scent of stagnant dust, wet decay, and the metallic, copper sting of old, unwashed blood. The very air inside felt heavy, as if the walls were saturated with the screams of everyone who had been dragged across its threshold.
Mark stepped inside, the rhythmic clack of his expensive leather shoes on the rotted floorboards echoing like a funeral drum. Daniel followed a pace behind, a silent shadow to a walking nightmare.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a single, harsh bulb that swung like a pendulum, sat the woman from the orphanage. She was barely forty-five, but her face was a map of cold, calculated cruelty. Her hands were lashed to the back of a splintering wooden chair, the ropes biting into her skin.
Mark didn't rush. He pulled a chair directly in front of her, the legs screeching against the floor like a dying animal. As he sat, the flickering shadows of the room danced across his face, distorting his features until he was no longer a man in a black suit, but a demon rising from the abyssal dark. His aura was a physical weight, a suffocating pressure that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He didn't speak; he simply stared at her with eyes that were blacker than the suit he wore—eyes that had watched a boy sob "please don't" in his sleep. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, the damp walls beginning to weep as the Master leaned forward into the light, his presence promising a level of agony that death would be too kind to end.
He looked at her not as a human, but as a piece of meat he was about to dissect to find the root of Win's tears.
She said with a faint, mocking smile, "Mr. Mark... I thought we were on good terms, but seeing you behave like this, I'm not sure I'll help you in the future."
..