..
The shadows of the bedroom seemed to dissolve, the heavy silence of the mansion replaced by the golden, hazy light of a decade ago.
Mark remembered the lake-the only place where his father Ethan's belt couldn't reach him, where the air didn't taste of iron and discipline. He remembered the plumeria tree that leaned over the water, its heavy, honey-sweet scent acting as a fragrant shield that masked the acrid smell of his own fear.
And he remembered the first time he saw Win.
He had been a tiny Plumeria Bud disguised as a child, sitting in the dirt with his knees pulled to his chest. He was shedding tears that looked like liquid diamonds, each one catching the sun before soaking into the earth. To thirteen-year-old Mark, who was already being forged into a weapon, the sight was a fracture in his reality.
"Why are you crying?" Mark had asked. His voice was already starting to deepen, carrying a nascent weight of the dark heritage he had inherited.
The child raised his head. Even through the tears, he was a vision of eternal sunshine, his eyes reflecting a moon that hadn't yet been clouded by the world's cruelty. He looked at Mark with a terrifyingly pure curiosity, as if he didn't realize he was looking at the son of a monster.
Mark had stood there for a moment, mesmerized. He turned away, walked to the low-hanging branches of the tree, and plucked the brightest, most pristine white flowers he could find. He sat in the dirt beside the boy, offering the blossoms like an olive branch.
"I am Mark," he said, the name sounding like a vow even then.
Clutching the soft petals to his chest, the boy finally whispered, his voice a tiny, melodic chime that would haunt Mark for the rest of his life:
"I am Win."
Thirteen-year-old Mark became drugged by that boy, intoxicated by a purity he didn't know existed. Even then, he couldn't stand the sound of that beautiful child's cry; it felt like a jagged blade against his own nerves. Mark was a victim of his own father, trapped in an estate that was hauntingly beautiful-a gilded cage where a monster walked the halls. He had spent his young life dreaming of a way to protect David, Daniel, and himself from Ethan's shadow, but that day, the path he took to escape his father led him straight to his treasure.
Looking at the boy with the plumerias, Mark gave up the idea of running away. He realized that to keep this "Kitty" safe, he couldn't just flee the darkness-he had to own it. He vowed then, in the dirt by the lake, to become the strongest, most terrifying power in the world, building a fortress around his little treasure and his brothers.
..
From that day on, Win became the only "beautiful thing" in Mark's world. To his father, Mark was nothing but a weapon to be forged in the fires of discipline; to Win, he was just "Mark."
Mark called him "Kitty" because the boy was so small, so soft-a creature of moonlight that would be crushed by the sun if Mark didn't stand in the way.
But then came the "Great Sorrow." Ethan's command to send Mark abroad felt like a death sentence-a cold-blooded excision of his heart.
One night, the house felt colder than a tomb. Mark stood in the kitchen, the moonlight reflecting off the stainless steel like a predatory eye. His hand trembled-not with fear, but with a starving, impotent rage-as he gripped a heavy kitchen knife. He stared at his father's bedroom door, calculating the distance, the strength required to pierce a monster's heart.
But at thirteen, the "Devil" was still trapped behind a boy's ribs. His muscles lacked the weight; his soul lacked the callousness. He had failed to kill the source of his pain that night, and the realization was a bitter, iron pill he was forced to swallow. He wasn't a king yet; he was just a subject, and his king was sending him to exile.
..
The next day at the lake, the heat was suffocating, smelling of stagnant water and dying grass. Mark arrived with empty hands, his chest feeling like an open wound. Win, sensing the encroaching darkness, tried to do what Mark always did. He stood up, his nine-year-old frame straining, his small sneakers slipping in the mud as he reached for the high, fragrant branches.
He jumped, he reached, and finally managed to snap off a dusty, dull branchlet. It wasn't the pristine bloom Mark usually gave him; it was bruised and coated in the grey grit of the lakeside path. He offered it to Mark with a worried tilt of his head, his small face a map of concern.
"Are you sad?" Win's voice was a silver bell ringing in a graveyard.
Mark took those dusty flowers as if they were the last living things on earth. "I won't be able to come here anymore," he choked out. The "thorny wire" of grief didn't just tighten; it began to shred his vocal cords. "My father is forcing me to go abroad to study. He promised to lock me in the dark until I rot if I stay."
"It's good to study abroad," Win whispered. He was too young to understand that "abroad" meant an ocean of silence. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I don't want to leave you."
"It's not leaving," Win replied softly. He stepped closer, the scent of sun-warmed skin and plumerias wrapping around Mark like a shroud. "I'm not going anywhere. If you come back, you will find me here. I don't have long legs like yours... I won't be able to go that far."
Mark stood up, clutching that dusty, bruised branch to his heart so hard the stems snapped. "I promise I will come to you first. No matter what. I will find you."
"What if I'm gone?" Win teased, his voice wobbling as a single liquid diamond finally escaped and traced a path through the dust on his cheek.
"I will find you," Mark vowed. His voice lost its boyish tremor, settling into the terrifying, flat resonance of the man he would become. "I will definitely find you. Even if I have to burn every forest and dry every sea to see through the smoke."
He turned to leave. Every step felt like his feet were being flayed on the gravel. He was walking toward a plane, toward a decade of cold rooms and iron discipline, toward the forging of the Sovereign.
"Mark!"
The boy's voice hung in the air, a final thread of light before the decade of darkness began.
Mark spun around. The discipline his father had beaten into him snapped like dry tinder. He ran back, his heavy boots thumping against the earth, and threw his arms around Win. He didn't just hug him; he clung to him as if he were a man drowning in a black sea. He sobbed with a desperate, raw finality, his tears soaking into the collar of Win's small shirt.
With a frantic, trembling hand, Mark reached up into the low-hanging branches of the tree. He didn't just pick flowers; he harvested them, plucking one last handful of the freshest, most fragrant plumerias. He pressed them into Win's small, upturned palms, his fingers lingering against Win's skin as if he could sew their souls together.
"Kitty... I will find you no matter what," Mark gasped, the scent of the crushed petals filling his lungs-a scent he would spend the next thirteen years trying to find in the cold, clinical air of foreign cities. "If the world tries to hide you, I will tear it apart. Do you hear me? I will come back for you."
He pulled back just enough to look into Win's wide, tear-blurred eyes. He wanted to memorize every lash, every freckle, the exact shade of the sun hitting the boy's hair. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, he tore himself away.
He didn't look back again. He couldn't. He left behind a nine-year-old boy standing alone under a tree, clutching a handful of dying flowers and the promise of a monster-in-the-making.
..
The "thorny wire" of the past snapped, the phantom pain jerking Mark back into the cold, amber-lit reality of the bedroom.
The honey-sweet scent of the lake was gone, replaced by the clinical, expensive silence of the mansion and the faint, bitter ghost of the burn on Win's arm. He looked at the man sleeping before him-his Kitty, who had kept his word and stayed "under the tree" for a decade, only to be preyed upon because his protector was across an ocean.
Mark's silver-rimmed eyes bled into black pits of lethal fire. The grief was gone, replaced by the cold, ticking machinery of a man who no longer felt mercy. He leaned down, his forehead resting against Win's pulse point, the steady thrum of life under the skin serving as the only thing keeping Mark from burning the city to the ground this very second.
"You stayed," Mark whispered, the words vibrating against Win's pulse like a jagged promise of blood. "You didn't have the long legs to run away from them... but I have the long arms to reach every single one of them. I can reach into the dark. I can reach into the earth. There is nowhere my hands won't find them."
He stood up, his massive frame blotting out the lamp's glow, casting a long, predatory shadow over the bed. His face transformed, settling into a mask of immovable stone.
The boy who had sobbed under the plumeria tree was dead. The Sovereign was back, and he was ready to collect the crushing interest on a thirteen-year-old debt.
Outside, the world was still turning, unaware that the Devil had just finished his prayers.
..
..
Win woke with a deep, bone-aching stretch, his muscles feeling like leaden weights submerged in honey. The bed felt cavernous-a vast, silk-covered desert that was far too cold without the Master's oppressive, grounding heat pinning him to the mattress.
The room was bathed in a thick, honeyed light. The mid-day sun fought its way through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, dramatic bars of gold across the dark mahogany floors. In those beams, tiny dust motes danced like suspended spirits, adding to the room's hushed, cathedral-like stillness.
The air was heavy and sweet, saturated with the intoxicating, tropical fragrance of fresh plumerias. Mark must have had them replaced while Win slept; the crystal vases scattered around the suite were overflowing with the waxy, white-and-yellow blooms, their scent acting as a fragrant ghost of Mark's presence.
Every time Win's gaze drifted toward the wall facing their bed, his heart gave a small, contented thrum. There, housed in a custom-built glass cupboard as if they were priceless museum artifacts, sat the two cat plushies Meera had given him.
Mark had placed them there with obsessive care, positioning them right at Win's eye level. It was a silent, daily reminder from the Master: You are not a caged bird in this mansion; you are the soul of it. Win's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as he looked at them. To the rest of the world, this room was a fortress of marble and secrets, but to Win, it was a "Fluffy Sanctuary." Mark's ruthless hands, which were currently elsewhere "collecting debts," had spent their morning arranging flowers just to ensure that when Win opened his eyes, he felt nothing but sweetness.
He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, his eyes squinting against the violent flare of the screen.
11:30 AM.
"Fuck... I slept for twenty-four hours," he hissed, his voice a dry, raspy ghost of itself. He sat up abruptly, the room tilting as vertigo gripped him. Then, he saw the notifications: 18 missed calls from Justin. The memory of the University parking lot yesterday rushed back, hitting him harder than the dizziness. He remembered the way Justin had stood there, oily and arrogant, looking at the Sovereign-the man who was Win's sun and moon-and dared to speak to him with such casual filth.
"How could he say 'playing'?" Win whispered to the empty room, the word tasting like copper in his mouth. To Justin, Mark was a predator using a toy; to Win, Mark was the air in his lungs. The suggestion that their bond was a mere game was a blasphemy he couldn't swallow. His heart began a frantic, jagged rhythm against his ribs-not from the trauma of the past, but from a white-hot protective rage.
He tossed the phone onto the duvet, recoiling as if the device were a live grenade primed to blow his fragile peace to pieces. Justin wasn't just a "friend" who had failed him; he was a stranger who had insulted his God.
He moved to the washroom, the steam of the shower clearing the cobwebs from his mind. When he emerged, vigorously rubbing a towel over his damp hair, he caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He looked pale, his lips a soft, bruised pink that looked like crushed fruit.
His eyes drifted to his left arm. The bandage Mark had meticulously placed there yesterday-applied with a surgical, possessive tenderness-was a stark, clinical white against his ivory skin. It was a physical seal. A reminder that no matter what Justin said, Mark was the one who had stayed to clean the wounds.
"Couldn't he even wake me up?" Win murmured, pouting at his reflection and huffing as he tried to tame a stray lock of damp hair. The fragile, shattered "Saint" from the hallway was gone, replaced by a disgruntled student. "I've skipped two days of classes because of him... and he just left me sleeping? I'm going to be so behind. Just wait until you come home, Mr. Mark. I will teach you a lesson."
He muttered the threat with a flare of his nostrils, unaware that the "lesson" he planned would likely end with him pinned to the bed again.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and wandered out of the suite, his bare feet making no sound on the polished, icy marble of the hallway. He didn't get far before a maid appeared, seemingly out of the shadows. She stood like a statue until he approached, then bowed so low her spine curved into a perfect, fearful arc of submission.
"Master Win..." her voice was hushed, as if she were speaking in a cathedral. "Should I bring your breakfast to your room, or would you like to come to the dining table? The Master left instructions that you were to be served the moment you stirred."
Win stopped. His brows drew together, creating those tiny, stubborn wrinkles on the bridge of his nose-the ones Mark loved to smooth away with his thumb before kissing the spot. He bit his lip, his stomach doing a nervous flip. The "thorny wire" of the past two days still made his throat feel tight, that made the idea of a heavy breakfast feel impossible.
He didn't want the clinical luxury of the dining hall or the watchful eyes of the staff. He wanted comfort. He wanted to find Meera, to hide away in her play-den, and perhaps break the "Master's" rules by sharing a secret stash of chocolates with her before noon.
"Can't I skip breakfast today?" he asked, his voice soft and hopeful.
The maid's head snapped up, her eyes wide with a flash of genuine, shivering panic, cold alarm. "You cannot, Master, You didn't even have dinner yesterday-your body must be hollow. The Master's orders were absolute, carved in iron-you are to be fed the moment you stir, or we are to answer for it."
Win didn't use logic; he didn't have the strength for it. Instead, he used the only weapon he possessed that was sharper than Mark's knives: himself. He leaned in slightly, the oversized sleeves of his silk robe slipping down his pale wrists. His eyes grew wide and shimmering, the "Kitty" persona taking over with a practiced, unconscious grace. He looked at her with a soft, pleading gaze-the kind of look that had turned the city's most ruthless Sovereign into a desperate beggar.
"Can't you keep this as a secret for me? Just this once?" he whispered, his voice a melodic chime. "I'm really not hungry... my stomach still feels a bit tangled."
The maid's breath hitched. She was caught in a lethal pincer move. Behind her stood the mental image of Mark Mathew's cold, obsidian eyes-the man who could dismantle a life with his silence. The Master will kill me... he'll have my head for this...
But then she looked back into those "liquid diamond" eyes, seeing the exhaustion hidden behind the pout. She realized, with a start, that she was more afraid of casting a shadow over Win's "Eternal Sunshine" than she was of Mark's wrath. Win was the only person in this fortress of stone who actually breathed, who actually felt. He was the mansion's beating heart, and she couldn't bring herself to bruise it.
"Okay..." the maid whispered, her voice trembling as she surrendered to a mere pout. "I'll tell the chef you ate in the room. I'll clear the plates myself so there's no evidence."
Win's face broke into a radiant, triumphant grin-the kind of light that could blind a man. It was the "Eternal Sunshine" that made the Master a slave to his every whim, a smile that was worth more than all the gold in Mark's vaults.
"You're the best!" he chirped, already turning toward the lift.
..
The lift doors hissed open on the first floor, and Win stepped out, expecting the soft, pastel colors of Meera's world. Instead, the air hit him like a physical blow to the lungs. It wasn't the lavender-scented silence of the upper floors; it was thick, heavy, and scorched-tasting of cold iron and the acrid salt of heavy, honest sweat.
The floor beneath his feet didn't just tremble; it throbbed with a rhythmic, subterranean violence.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact of fist on leather sounded like a gunshot echoing in a cavernous tomb. Guttural, primal grunts tore through the humid air, punctuated by the rhythmic, metallic rattle of chains that sounded like a beast trying to break its leash. It was a symphony of raw, unadulterated fury that seemed to make the very marble of the mansion ache under the strain.
Win stepped forward, his heart hammering a frantic, bird-like rhythm against his ribs. He felt like a trespasser in a world that shouldn't exist, his bare feet feeling dangerously exposed on the vibrating floor. He turned the corner into a massive, industrial hall, and his jaw dropped.
The space was a cathedral of pain. In the center sat a professional boxing ring, its canvas stained with the history of a thousand battles. Surrounding it were rows of lethal-looking iron equipment-machines that looked more like instruments of torture than tools for fitness.
The light here was different-harsh, clinical, and unforgiving. Win pulled his silk robe tighter around his frame, suddenly feeling impossibly small, a creature of moonlight lost in a factory of iron and rust.
In the center of that factory, there was a monster.
"Mr. David...?" Win's voice was a soft, trembling thread, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
..