..
It was 1 PM. The mansion was a sanctuary of gilded peace, the afternoon sunlight dancing off the marble floors like liquid gold. Win was sprawled on the oversized velvet sofa, the soft flickering of cartoons on the screen a comforting hum against the silence. In this house, he felt wrapped in a cocoon. In this house, he wasn't a "ledger"; he was a person who was cherished.
But the silence was punctured—stabbed—by the persistent, shrill beep of his phone on the coffee table.
Win didn't move at first. He didn't even blink. He knew exactly who it was. Since yesterday Justin dared to speak "sh*t" about Mark—questioning the Master's intentions and painting the man Win worshipped as a monster—Justin had become a stain on Win's world.
Win's heart, usually so soft that it bled for stray animals and wilted flowers, had turned into a block of ice toward his friend. To Win, Justin wasn't being "protective"; he was being a blasphemer. How could Justin be so blind? How could he speak against the Sovereign—the man who had watched over Win through the darkest nights of his life, the man who had starved so he could eat with Win?
The phone screamed again. The vibration rattled against the expensive wood of the table, sounding like a warning.
Win looked at the screen. Justin's name flashed like a warning sign, a reminder of the "old life" that didn't understand the "new truth." Every beep felt like a drop of ink falling into a glass of clear water. He felt a surge of the "iron" he had discussed with Daniel earlier. He wasn't going to let Justin's voice—filled with doubt and "logic"—pollute the air that Mark had purified for him.
The phone screamed again. And again. A relentless, ugly sound in a room meant for beautiful things.
The notifications were a barrage of desperate, prying questions that cluttered his screen:
Justin: Where are you?
Justin: Are you sick?
Justin: Why are you not answering my calls?
Justin: Don't you know, it was compulsory to attend the lectures?
Justin: Are you ignoring me?
Justin: Win..?
Justin: Are you with Mr. Mark?
Win's jaw tightened, a hard line appearing where there was usually only softness. The mention of Mark's name in Justin's texts felt like a profanity uttered in a temple. He didn't want to give Justin the satisfaction of a conversation, but the noise was a jagged edge, a serrated blade cutting through the silence of his sanctuary.
He didn't want Justin to even speak the Master's name. To Justin, Mark was a subject of suspicion; to Win, Mark was the air in his lungs.
He snatched the phone, the movements of his hands no longer fluttering like a bird, but sharp and purposeful. He typed with a cold, focused fury, his thumbs stabbing at the glass as if he were trying to shatter the connection itself.
"Don't worry.. I will join the classes tomorrow."
Short. Dismissive. A wall built of cold text.
He didn't add an emoji. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't give Justin a single "in" to ask another question.
He threw the phone face-down on the velvet cushion, the silence returning like a heavy, protective blanket.
But the irritation lingered like a bitter smoke in the back of his throat. He thought of Justin's words—the way he had disrespected the Master—and then he thought of Mark's hands. Those powerful, scarred hands that could crush steel but held Win like he was the only thing of value in a broken world.
Win didn't hate Justin; he couldn't. Justin had been a good friend, and Win knew his care was a form of protection. But since the day Justin had proposed, the air between them had changed. Justin's "concern" felt less like friendship and more like a claim. And for Win, there was no room for another claim. Mark was possessive, yes—jealous and intense—but they had been separated for thirteen years of agonizing silence. Win wouldn't risk a single second of their reunion. He wouldn't allow a "friend" to create a crack in the fortress Mark had built.
A new thought ignited in Win's mind, sharp and cold.
If Justin thought he could speak about the Master that way, it was because the world saw Win as a weak link. They thought Mark was a predator only because they saw Win as helpless prey. They thought Mark was "using" him because they didn't think Win was capable of being a partner.
I won't be his weakness, Win realized, his heart hammering against his ribs with a new, rhythmic force. I'll be the one who makes them shut their mouths. I'll be the reason they realize Mark isn't a monster—he's a man who found his equal.
His gaze shifted to the phone again. His frustration with Justin became the high-octane fuel for his promise to Daniel. He picked up the device, but his movements were no longer frantic or bird-like. He was calm, focused, and deadly serious.
He opened the alarm settings. The glowing numbers stared back at him.
4:20 PM.
He set the alarm, the "save" button clicking with a finality that felt like a door locking. He wasn't just setting a reminder for a workout; he was setting a countdown for the end of his own helplessness.
As he set the alarm, he felt a surge of "positive strength"—a warm, steady hum that replaced the jagged anxiety Justin had caused. This wasn't just a lesson for himself anymore; it wasn't about ego or vanity. He was going to learn to fight so that one day, when the world dared to speak ill of the Master, he wouldn't just sit there in silence, a fragile ornament on a shelf. He would be a force they had to fear. He would be the shield for the man who had been his only sun.
He set the phone down on the velvet cushion, its screen dark and silenced. He turned back toward the television, but the frantic colors and laughter of the cartoons were just background noise now—a flicker of a world he was quickly outgrowing.
His eyes were fixed on the digital clock on the mantle.
The numbers shifted with a silent, rhythmic click. To anyone else, it was just a lazy afternoon in a quiet mansion. But to Win, every passing second was a drop of water in a vessel that was finally beginning to overflow. He wasn't just waiting for a workout; he was waiting for the minute he could start becoming the man the Sovereign deserved.
His hands folded in his lap, the very picture of innocence. But deep in his gaze, the "thousand lamps" were no longer just glowing—they were beginning to burn.
..
In the roaring chaos of the classroom, Justin was an island of absolute, frozen silence. Around him, the world was a blur of banal life—shouts of rock-paper-scissors, groans about assignments, the superficial hum of girls discussing makeup. But for Justin, the air had turned to lead. It was thick and tasted of ozone. He stared at his phone, his eyes boring into that single, cold sentence from Win like it was a death warrant.
"Don't worry.. I will join the classes tomorrow."
The disappointment felt like a sudden, violent increase in gravity. It didn't just make his shoulders heavy; it made his soul feel like it was being pulled through the floor. The "cheerful days" they had shared—the shared notes, the soft laughter in the library, the way Win used to scold him—didn't feel like memories anymore. They felt like ashes.
A thick, invisible wall of Mark's making had been erected between them. Through it, Win looked like a ghost—close enough to see, but impossible to touch.
Justin's fingers clamped over the phone, his knuckles turning the color of bleached bone.
His grip was a fusion of rage and a sickening kind of hope; he wanted to hurl that desperate anchor against the wall, to scream until the classroom went silent, but his muscles had fused into a steely clamp. He couldn't let go.
Justin stood and walked out, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder like a heavy burden. The sunlight on campus felt offensive, too bright and too cheerful for the cold weight settling in his gut.
Finding a spot under a sprawling tree, he leaned back against the rough, biting bark and dialed. His voice, when his father answered, was terrifyingly calm—the kind of stillness that precedes a massacre.
"Dad.. what type of man is that bastard?"
"Who are you talking about?"
Justin smirked, exhaling a breath that tasted like bile. He was done being the "supportive friend." He was done watching the person he loved be swallowed by a shadow. "Mr. Mark," he spat, the name feeling like a curse on his tongue.
There was a silence on the other end—not a thoughtful silence, but a paralyzed one.
"You are not going to listen to me.. right?" His father's voice finally exploded through the speaker, laced with a raw, jagged fear that made Justin's hand tremble. His father, usually a man of logic and status, sounded like he was whispering in a room full of ghosts. He knew the power, the name Mark hold. He knew that the Sovereign didn't have "rivals"—he only had "reminders" of what happens to those who forget their place.
"Justin, listen to me very carefully," his father hissed, his voice trembling. "You don't mention that name. You don't look in his direction. That man isn't a person; he's a sinkhole. You step too close trying to 'save' someone, and you don't just lose your friend—you lose your family, your future, and your life. He doesn't play by the laws you study in your lectures, Justin. He is the law."
Justin's grip on the phone tightened. The warning didn't scare him; it only fed his fire. To his father, Mark was a monster to be avoided. To Justin, Mark was a thief who had stolen a "Saint" and locked him in a golden cage.
Justin didn't flinch. He watched a bird take flight from a nearby branch, his eyes darting with a restless, schemy energy that bordered on feverish. "Dad.. I won't cause you trouble. Trust me. Please... just help me with this once."
"Ok.. let's talk later," his father hung up. The click of the line sounded like a final latch falling into place, locking Justin into the dark, narrow corridor of his own making.
Justin leaned his head back against the tree, a small, jagged smile twitching on his lips He opened the gallery on his phone, he scrolled past the world—past his family, his life, his future—until he reached the "Sacred" folder.
Dozens of photos of Win filled the screen. Win laughing. Win looking away, unaware he was being watched. Win bathed in the sunlight that Justin felt he owned.
He began to murmur, his voice a low, honeyed poison that seemed to crawl through the humid afternoon air. He didn't just touch the screen; he caressed it, his thumb tracing the curve of Win's jawline with a rhythmic, hypnotic slow-motion.
"Win.. now I have no alternative," he whispered, his breath hitching.
His eyes softened, but the warmth didn't reach his pupils; they remained cold, dilated pits of obsession. He looked at the digital image of the man who was slipping through his fingers and leaned in, his lips nearly touching the glass.
"Baby.. you're being so naughty now, ignoring me like this," he crooned, a chilling, affectionate lilt in his voice. "You've let that monster put a leash on you, haven't you?
You've forgotten who really knows you. And I really, really can't stand this."
He tapped the screen—not a tap, but a sharp, possessive strike over Win's heart. "If I have to burn the Sovereign's kingdom to the ground just to see you crawl back to me... then I'll be the one to light the match. You'll thank me when you're mine again."
Drowning in those pictures of Win—the soft curve of his neck, the haunted light in his eyes—Justin forgot the world around him.
..
David sat across from the Master, the heavy mahogany desk acting as a border between the world of ledgers and the world of ghosts. While David's voice hummed with the dry reality of documents and logistics, the Master remained reclined against his headrest, drifting in a distance no one else could reach.
His thumb traced the cold platinum of his ring—a restless, rhythmic movement that mimicked the ticking of a bomb. With every rotation, he revisited a memory: every bruise he had seen on Win's porcelain skin through a telescope, every tear he had watched fall from a distance while he stood paralyzed in the shadows.
A poignant, terrifying stillness settled over him—the kind of silence that precedes a landslide. In the hollow of his chest, a whispered idea of cruel punishment began to take shape. It wasn't a flare of temper; it was a masterpiece of suffering being painted in his mind, dedicated to anyone who had ever dared to treat Win like a currency.
Mark's gaze remained fixed on the distance, but his mind was occupied with the geography of pain. He didn't just want them dead; death was a mercy, a quick exit that he wasn't prepared to grant. He wanted to strip them of their dignity, layer by layer, the way they had stripped Win of his childhood. He wanted to hear their voices break in a room that had no windows and no God, just as Win had cried in a room with no hope.
He wasn't thinking as a businessman or an arms smuggler anymore. He was thinking, as a God of Vengeance.
The very idea of their punishment was a dark prayer he whispered to the shadows. Anyone who had ever touched his man, anyone who had even thought about treating Win as a commodity, was already a walking corpse in Mark's world. In his mind, he watched the "ghost of the trader" clawing at a throat that had no air; he watched the men who had touched Win with their filth, whimpering for the mercy of a quick end. Mark was simply deciding how long he would let them borrow the air before he collected the debt in blood.
A poignant sadness washed over David. He stopped reading, his eyes softening with an empathy that only a brother-in-arms could possess. He beheld the weight of the Master's struggles—the silence that felt like a physical burden—and his heart grew heavy. David knew Mark was drowning. The Master had decided to sink into the absolute dark, holding his breath as a silent, agonizing vow: he would not breathe fully until he had burned every soul who harbored a filthy intention toward Win.
To pull Mark back to the surface, David leaned forward, his voice a soft anchor: "Do you have any suggestions for the name of the orphanage, Mark?"
"Hmm?… What did you ask?"
The Master's voice was a low, fractured rasp, like stones grinding together. He slowly aligned his body toward David, his large, powerful hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table as if he were physically anchoring his soul back to reality.
"The name," David repeated patiently. "For the place where we found him. The orphanage."
"When will the renovation work begin?" Mark asked. He picked up a heavy silver pen and twirled it—a sharp, lethal flash in the dim amber light of his office.
"From tomorrow."
"Good." Mark's expression shifted. The icy, impenetrable mask of the Sovereign flickered, and for the first time in hours, a momentary warmth bled through. "I am leaving the execution of the project to you, David. I want no corners cut. I want it to be a fortress of peace."
He looked at the pen in his hand, then let his gaze drift to the single, perfect plumeria sitting in a crystal vase on his desk. "And about the name… how about Plumeria Garden? What do you think?"
As he spoke, the rigid tension in Mark's shoulders finally dissolved. The shadows in his eyes—the images of the Trader and the debt—retreated into the corners of the room. For a second, he wasn't the man who owned the city; he was just a man who worshipped a boy. He was imagining a world where the gray, peeling walls of that wretched orphanage were covered in blooming petals, a place where no version of Win would ever have to feel the cold again.
A small, rare curve touched his lips as he looked at the flower. He had already given everything to Win—his fortune, his power, even his every breath. He wanted to gather every soft, beautiful thing this cruel world had to offer and lay it at Win's feet, a carpet of silk and scent, just to see the "thousand lamps" ignite in Win's eyes.
To the world, Mark was a storm. But for Win, he would be the soil that made the garden grow.
"It's very nice," David complimented, a slight smile finally breaking through his professional mask. He closed the file, the name Plumeria Garden now etched into the future of the firm. But then his brows rose, his tone shifting into the sharp, familiar irritation of a man who had pulled Mark out of the trenches more times than he could count.
"As for your plan to invest in Bryan's company—seriously, Mark, it's a disaster," David groaned, leaning back. "Because of his brother, that company is trash. Poor management, zero innovation, and a vision so blurred it's blind. Their reputation is already at rock bottom. You're not investing; you're throwing a lifeline to a sinking anchor."
Mark let out a low, genuine chuckle. He enjoyed this—the way David guarded the empire's hoard like a dragon.
"Just help him, David," Mark said, his voice softening. "For the sake of our friendship. And if your professional soul can't handle the loss… then just deduct it from my personal accounts. Call it 'charity.'"
"No need," David snapped, his annoyance flaring. He didn't look at Mark as a "Master," but as a brother who was being far too reckless with the spoils of their war. "I'm well aware we are super rich—rich enough to throw money at people like we're discarding trash—but that doesn't make it right."
Mark sighed, a small, knowing curl touching his lips. He knew David was the only man alive who would dare scold a billionaire for being too generous, but that was why David was here. In a world where everyone bowed to the Sovereign's shadow, these brothers were the only people who still looked him in the eye and saw the boy he used to be.
"If it doesn't feel right to you, then leave it," Mark said, waving a hand dismissively. "I won't force you to sign off on a sinking ship."
"I'm not going to waste our blood-money on a fool, anyway," David muttered. He didn't call it "the company's money" or "Mark's money." He called it theirs.
He stood up, snatched his leather files, and marched toward the door with a huff of indignation that would have cost any other man his life. David didn't exit with a bow; he exited with the heavy, frustrated stride of a brother who was tired of cleaning up Mark's "sentimental" messes.
Mark shook his head in disbelief, a ghost of a smile lingering on his face as the heavy door clicked shut. He leaned back in his chair, the silence of the office returning like a familiar shroud. He whispered to the quiet room, his voice fond, layered with a deep, unspoken gratitude:
"Such a childish behavior."
He knew it wasn't childhood, though. It was the only way they knew how to keep each other human. David played the "stubborn accountant" so Mark didn't have to be the "cold-blooded monster" all the time.
Mark's gaze drifted back to the plumeria on his desk. The business with David was over. The business of vengeance was paused. Now, as the afternoon sun began to dip, his mind turned back to the one thing that truly mattered, his treasure.
..