..
Mark was sitting on the couch; he stood up, walked around the room as if trying to outrun his own racing heart, and sat back down. He was nervous after that kiss, his skin humming with the electricity of Win's presence. He wanted to go further, to lose himself in the man he adored, but he remembered the wounds on Win's body. That memory acted as a cold chain, reminding him to control himself or he would definitely hurt the fragile treasure he had finally found.
..
Win came out of the washroom in a black silk robe belonging to Mark, the oversized fabric making him look even more delicate. His hair was wet, with a few drops of water glistening on his chest like diamonds. He was extremely beautiful, but when Mark saw his legs—the pale skin marred by purple and yellow shadows—his expression changed from admiration to a dark, simmering anger.
Mark's jaw tightened, his heart aching at the sight of the discolored skin that told a story of violence.
He turned, walked toward the cupboard, and brought him clothes and a hair dryer. He asked Win to change so he could dry his hair, his voice steady but thick with repressed emotion. Win understood from Mark's expression that he was not okay with these bruises; somehow, they were bothering him in a way that went deeper than pity.
Win took a few steps toward Mark, his bare feet silent on the floor. He turned around and slowly lowered his robe to his waist. Mark was confused, his breath hitching, but as soon as Win revealed his back, Mark became stunned. The room went silent. Seeing the deep, dark bruises—ghosts of old strikes and fresh shadows—Mark covered him immediately, pulling the silk back up as if to protect him from the very air.
..
Because of his height, Mark had to stoop his shoulders and bend forward, his tall frame curling over Win like a protective shadow. He hunched his spine, lowering his head until he could finally bury his face against Win's damp shoulder. To maintain the embrace, Mark had to tuck his chin and bow deeply, his forehead resting against the curve of Win's neck while his long arms wrapped twice around Win's smaller frame, anchoring him.
It had never been like this for Mark—being unable to control his emotions—but every time it came to Win's pain, he crumbled. In that lowered, bowed position, Mark felt his strength vanish. Tears were flowing from the depths of his soul, hot and silent, disappearing into the damp skin of Win's shoulder as Mark clung to him, his large body trembling with the weight of a grief he couldn't stand tall against.
"Do you want me to tell you how I got these bruises?" Win asked. The pain was like spikes in his throat, making every word a struggle. His voice was a ghost of a sound, thin and brittle, ready to break.
"Do you want to tell me?" Mark replied, his voice a low vibration against Win's back. "I am here to hold the weight of it, Win. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
"Yes... I want to... so that you won't regret it later."
..
Win sat on the sofa, his gaze pinned to his own trembling hands as if they were alien objects, too stained to belong to him. When he began to speak, the air in the room seemed to curdled. He wasn't just telling a story; he was dredging up the rotted, lightless filth of a decade, each word a jagged shard of glass he had to cough up just to breathe.
"I was never a person, Mark," Win whispered, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over a grave. "I was a currency. A long, red list of prices. That's all I was—a ledger of profit. The 'Mother' at the orphanage... she didn't just neglect us. She bartered us. She would dress me up and lock the door from the outside while men sat in a circle, deciding what my skin was worth that day. I could hear the click of the lock, Mark. That sound... it meant the world had ended again."
A violent shudder racked his thin frame, but he couldn't stop. The trauma was a cacophony of shattered glass in his chest, a rattling of rusted chains that had been wrapped around his soul for thirteen years. He was dragging his heart out from the churning, black depths of a thousand yesterday's sorrows and laying it—raw, pulsing, and beaten—at Mark's feet.
"And then... my 'Father,'" Win spat the word as if it were poison. "He didn't want a son. He wanted a centerpiece. He took his pleasure, and then he sold the leftovers. He charged a premium for the 'intense' sessions. He would smile as they brought the cigarettes and the belts... he told me the burns were just proof of how much I was worth. I used to lie there, pinned to the mattress, staring at the ceiling until my vision blurred. I would count every flower on the wallpaper, memorizing every petal, until I could force my soul to leave my body. I would float somewhere near the rafters, looking down at the boy on the bed, pitying him because I didn't inhabit him anymore. I had to leave, Mark. If I had stayed in my body, I would have died."
He stopped, the silence that followed feeling like a physical weight. He didn't dare look into Mark's eyes. He couldn't bear to see the shift from love to revulsion, the moment the "Sovereign" realized his treasure was nothing but a pile of ash and scars. To Win, he was a house that had been burned to the foundation and looted of its last bit of light.
"Tell me..." Win breathed, his voice fracturing into a million pieces, tears of pure agony finally spilling over and hot-tracking down his face. "Now that you know the truth... now that you can see how much filth is under my skin... do you still want to be with me? Or do you finally realize that there is nothing left inside me for you to love?"
He sat there, braced for the sound of Mark's footsteps walking away, his heart a bloody ruin waiting for the final blow of abandonment.
..
Mark sank to his knees, the movement heavy and deliberate—a king abdicating his throne to kneel in the ashes of his beloved's history. He reached out, his fingers trembling with the effort to remain gentle, and hooked his thumb under Win's chin. He forced that bowed head up, demanding that Win look into the depths of his soul.
"You aren't a burned-down house, Win," Mark whispered, his voice vibrating with a conviction so deep it felt like a vow. "You are the gold that survived the fire. The fire didn't destroy you—it only proved that you are the only thing in this world that cannot be consumed."
Inside, Mark was a screaming vortex of violence. Every detail Win had confessed—the locked doors, the wallpaper, the premium price for torture—felt like a hot iron branding Mark's own heart. His blood was boiling, a toxic slurry of rage that urged him to stand up, walk out, and start the massacre immediately. He wanted to hunt down every man who had ever looked at the ceiling with Win and tear their worlds apart.
But as he looked at Win's flushed, tear-streaked cheeks and his trembling, parted lips, Mark forced the monster back. He shoved the rage into a dark, iron box in the corner of his mind, locking it away with a mental snarl. For Win, he would be the calm. For Win, he would be the peace.
He reached up, cupping Win's face with both hands. His palms felt like a sanctuary, large and warm, shielding Win from the cold memory of those other, filthier hands. He searched Win's eyes, drowning out the cacophony of his own internal fury with the sight of the boy's fragile hope.
"Look at me," Mark breathed, his thumbs sweeping away the salt of Win's agony. "I don't see filth. I see a miracle."
Slowly, agonizingly careful not to spook the "trapped bird" still fluttering in Win's chest, Mark pulled him forward. He closed the distance, pressing his lips against Win's in a kiss that was a silent exorcism. It was a kiss that intended to overwrite every scar, every burn, and every memory of price with a love that was priceless.
...
The kiss was not an explosion of passion, but a soft, hallowed sealing of a covenant. It was a wordless vow, a gentle pressure that felt like a bridge being built over a decade of black water. In that shared breath, Mark was pouring every ounce of his soul into Win's, a reminder that the long, freezing winter of his isolation had finally come to an end.
He was telling him, through the tender brush of his lips, that the world was no longer a place of locked doors and bartered skin. He was promising that he would never again let Win's hand slip from his own, that he would become the iron wall between his Kitty and the predatory gaze of the world.
Every second the kiss lasted, Mark's mind was weaving a double-edged promise. To Win, it was a pledge of absolute protection—a vow to be the arms that held him and the heart that cherished him. But beneath that tenderness, the Sovereign was making a darker oath to the shadows: he would hunt down the memory of every "dirty thing" ever done to his man. He would transform his grief into a cold, systematic justice, ensuring that every soul who had profited from Win's pain would pay in a currency of blood.
As he pulled back just a fraction, his forehead still resting against Win's, Mark let the silence speak for him. He was the anchor, and Win was finally home. The "Sovereign" was ready to burn the world, but for now, the man was content just to hold the miracle that had survived the fire.
..
Win opened his eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth. He looked at Mark and asked, "Are you not going to hate me?"
"Didn't I make it clear?" Mark's voice was like velvet-covered steel.
Looking closely at Mark, Win found his reflection in those dark eyes—not in a lonely pool anymore, but in a mirroring comfort. Eyes once a reservoir of silence and lonely tides found satisfaction settling down over him like a long-awaited, gentle rain.
They sat in that shared silence for a long moment, the air thick with the weight of the truth and the lightness of being accepted.
The expression on Win's face made Mark curious. He asked, "Don't you trust me?"
The liquid grace of happiness and a gentle overflow of joy clothed Win. "How could I not trust you?" Win said, holding Mark's hand, his fingers interlocking with Mark's.
"Just trust me and let me be by your side. I promise, I won't let you down in any condition or any situation."
Win didn't reply, but his quiet gaze, soft and unwavering, wrapped around Mark's like a comforting shroud. It was a language of pure presence, where the soft curve of an eyelid spoke volumes that the tongue could not articulate.
"Kitty.. I love you, I love you the most in the world." Mark said, taking Win in a fierce, protective embrace. "You don't need to reciprocate this instantly, I can wait... I can wait eternity for you. But for now, let me be by your side and just trust me. Ok?"
"I love you too," Win replied, his voice finally steady, holding back Mark with all the strength he had left.
Mark's eyes widened, a sudden lightness displacing the heavy burdens from his heart. His breath caught in his throat. He freed Win from his embrace to look at him, confirming the words were real. That beautiful face gave him a kind of joy that rippled through his veins, leaving him feeling fully and wonderfully alive for the first time in thirteen years. Without saying anything, he pulled Win toward himself and kissed him passionately, like he was waiting for this one moment all his life.
As both of them longed for each other, they finally got immersed in one another's world, the shadows of the past fading behind the brilliant light of their reunion.
..
..
Knock knock...
"Don't come in!" Mark's voice was sharp, a warning that the bedroom was holy ground. He walked toward the door and opened it just a crack, his large frame blocking any view of the interior.
"The doctor has come," the maid informed him, her head bowed low.
"Let him sit. I'll be there in five minutes," Mark said, his tone dismissing her before she could even look up.
He closed the door and walked toward Win. He picked up the clothes from the couch—expensive, soft fabrics—and asked him to get dressed. Win was confused by the sudden urgency but didn't ask anything; he simply took the garments.
"Do you want me to go outside?" Mark asked, his voice softening.
Win just nodded.
Mark blushed—a rare flash of humanity on the Master's face—and stepped into the hallway. Both guards bowed instantly, their bodies stiff. They were confused as to why The Master was standing in the corridor like a sentry for no apparent reason, but they didn't dare ask. They glanced at each other behind his back, scared even to breathe the same air as him.
..
After a few minutes, Win emerged. He didn't grab Mark's hand directly; he reached out and held the corner of Mark's sleeve, a shy, grounding gesture. "I am ready."
Mark turned around and saw Win, looking beautiful and fragile in the morning light. Looking at his man, Mark's eyes crinkled with a genuine smile. He held Win's wrist—his grip firm but careful—and said, "Let's go."
They walked toward the hall. Win followed with his shorter strides, his wrist held in Mark's hand like a captured bird. Mark moved like a thick wall around him, a silent promise that his love would be a shield and a buckler, keeping the filth of the world at bay.
Win didn't notice anyone was in the hall until a voice broke the silence. "Win..."
He turned and saw a middle-aged man in a formal suit. The doctor stood up immediately, his posture humble, almost shrinking under the weight of Mark's gaze. He didn't look like a typical doctor, but the main thing was, Win didn't recognize him.
"Do I know you?" Win asked politely.
"You don't really know me, but I know you," the doctor said.
Mark's eyes flashed fiercely at the doctor, a silent warning not to say too much.
"Win is only my patient," the doctor defended himself, his voice trembling slightly. He looked at the Master with deep submission and sighed. "Can we talk alone?"
Mark looked at Win, his expression melting into tenderness. He patted Win's head. "Wait here. I'll be right back." Win smiled and nodded, sitting on the edge of the vast sofa.
..
Mark led the doctor to the side of the hall, near a big window where the plumeria vine swayed slowly. The view was grand, but Mark's gaze remained stern, fixed on the man who had seen Win's secrets.
The doctor lowered his voice, bowing his head. "Don't be suspicious of me, Master. I know him because my son is his university friend. My son has been worried sick right now for Win. Once, when he was seriously ill, my son brought him to my hospital. I saw his bruises... but before I could treat him, his 'father' took him away. My son insisted many times, but he never came back."
He looked toward Win and removed his glasses, his hands shaking. "His scars reveal a history of wounds so deep, it is a miracle he is standing. Aside from significant physical weakness and malnutrition, his internal health is currently stable. However..."
He paused, looking Mark directly in the eye, his gaze filled with a desperate urgency.
"You must be careful. His body may heal, but his mind is a landscape of jagged glass. The trauma he carries is not a memory; it is a living thing that breathes with him. He doesn't need medicine, Master. He needs you to be his absolute peace. He needs a love that is louder than the screams of his past. If he is to survive this, you must be the only sanctuary he ever knows again."
Mark stood motionless, every word from the doctor's mouth acting like a fresh strike of a hammer against his chest. The "stable" diagnosis brought him no comfort; it only highlighted the fact that Win had been kept alive solely to be used.
"Peace," Mark repeated, the word tasting foreign and holy on his tongue. He looked toward Win, his mind already constructing a fortress around the boy. He wasn't just going to be Win's peace—he was going to be the silent guardian who ensured that no shadow ever flickered across Win's wall again.
Mark just nodded, the weight of the responsibility settling into his bones. They returned to the sofa. The doctor handed over the prescription with a trembling hand and left after a deep bow. Mark ordered the superior maid to see him off and to inform little Meera to join them for breakfast.
..
When the kitchen staff asked for their order, Mark looked at Win. "I usually skip breakfast," Win admitted.
"You have to take medicine, so you can't skip it," Mark insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"Okay... then I will have a hung curd sandwich."
Mark ordered for everyone, including a green salad for himself, and then looked at Win. "Let's go to the terrace for some fresh air, hmm?"
..
On the terrace, the morning breeze was sharp and biting, a cold wind that seemed to cut through the fragile peace they had just found. Win shivered, crossing his arms over his chest in a desperate attempt to trap what little warmth he had left, looking small against the vast, grey horizon.
Mark noticed instantly, he stepped behind him—a silent, looming wall against the wind—and shed his heavy, charcoal blazer in one fluid motion. He draped the expensive fabric over Win's shoulders, the weight of it intended to feel like a shield, the silk lining still radiating the intense, feverish heat of Mark's own body.
He didn't stop there. Mark reached around, his large, calloused hands capturing Win's smaller, ice-cold fingers. He began to rub them with a steady, rhythmic pressure, his palms acting as a furnace to thaw the chill out of Win's bones.
Standing there, cocooned in Mark's scent and his warmth, Win felt the biting wind lose its edge. Mark's chest was a solid anchor against his back, a physical reminder that the "Sovereign" was no longer just a man in a suit, but a living barrier between Win and the coldness of the world.
..