"Come in," the young man said.
The door swung open with a satisfying click. Stepping inside with a tray in hand was a pink-haired young woman—Annabelle. Her expression was unreadable as the door closed behind her. She took a moment, her gaze sweeping across the scene before her.
Majestic.
That was the only word needed to describe the room. It was vast, luxurious, and meticulously designed—a space crafted for the wealthy, for those who could afford extravagance without thought. Towering windows lined three sides of the room, allowing streams of golden sunlight to pour in, casting everything in an ethereal glow. Every piece of furniture was polished to perfection, arranged with an almost strategic elegance—grand wardrobes, ornate tables, and a massive king-sized bed at the far end. It had everything one could desire, everything required to provide the utmost comfort.
"You're late."
The words came from the young man seated at a table, an array of vials and potions spread before him. He didn't bother turning to acknowledge her, his focus solely on the substances in his hands.
"I… I had to make sure they didn't get suspicious," Annabelle said hesitantly.
A grin flickered across his lips—one she didn't catch.
"Kneel."
Her breath hitched. "But—"
"I said kneel."
His tone was commanding, absolute. And then—her body collapsed. It felt as though the very air around her had turned against her, as if gravity itself had multiplied a thousandfold.
"Argh," she gasped, her muscles trembling under the invisible weight. The more she resisted, the more unbearable the sensation became—heat searing through her limbs like fire, burning, suffocating. She didn't want to feel it. She couldn't take it.
So, she obeyed.
"Haa… haa… haa…" Annabelle panted, glaring up at him through strands of disheveled hair.
"How was it?" he asked.
"They believe you're dead. I made sure of it," she whispered, still catching her breath.
"Hm." He barely reacted, methodically pouring the contents of one glass tube into another. A transparent liquid met another transparent liquid—and almost instantly, the mixture bubbled, shifting into a brilliant shade of blue.
Annabelle hesitated before speaking again. "Please… at least spare Jason. You can kill all of them—I don't care. But him… let him live. Even if he's crippled, just… please."
Her voice wavered. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. At this point, she had accepted her fate.
She was at his mercy.
"Hm," he hummed again, capping the vial and setting it aside before finally turning to face her.
"You brought food," he noted, his hands clasped behind his back.
He was dressed in a bathrobe, his face hidden beneath a mask—one that shielded the grotesque ruin beneath.
"Yes… as per your request," she murmured.
He nodded, stepping closer. Lowering himself to one knee, he lifted the lid of the first dish.
"Steak?" He arched a brow. "How did you know I like meat?"
"I didn't," she admitted.
"Oh. Lucky guess, then."
He cut into the steak, spearing a piece with his fork. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it toward his mask. Annabelle watched, still kneeling, silent and unmoving.
Then, just as suddenly, he spoke again.
"You know what?"
She frowned. "What, Master?"
"I just lost my appetite."
With a lazy flick of his wrist, he twirled the fork once—then brought it down toward her mouth.
"Eat it."
"You heard me. Eat it." His voice was calm, yet the weight behind it was undeniable.
Anna swallowed hard, sweat forming on her forehead. "B-but you told me to get this for you on my way back—"
"And now I want you to eat it. That shouldn't be a problem, right?" His tone remained casual, yet something sinister lurked beneath it.
She bit her plump, pink lips, hesitating. "...N-no, but I've already eaten. I'm full," she tried to reason, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Then just one bite." He brought the food closer to her mouth. "Open up, Anna."
"Please… I don't want to." Her voice trembled as tears welled up in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks.
His free hand caught her chin, tilting her face up so their eyes met. His gaze was sharp, unwavering. "What's the matter, my dear Anna?"
"I... Please... Don't." Her voice cracked as she pleaded.
"Open. Your. Mouth."
As if controlled by invisible strings, she obeyed, lips parting involuntarily. He set the meat on her tongue. "Now chew," he commanded.
Tears spilled freely down her face as she forced herself to comply.
"See? That wasn't so hard." His fingers lifted her chin gently. Then, suddenly—
PAK!
A loud slap echoed through the room.
Anna gasped, stumbling as pain seared through her cheek. The tray clattered to the floor, and she collapsed, clutching her face. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her lips.
"Look at me," he ordered, gripping her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze.
"You don't tell me what to do," he continued, his fingers digging into her skin. "I own you. A single word from me, and you would kill both him and yourself without hesitation. Remember that."
There was no amusement in his face—just cold, absolute control.
"Argh…" A sudden change overtook her. The whites of her eyes tinged with red.
Then—
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the room. Her body convulsed, writhing in agony.
She squirmed, gasping for air, her entire body trembling violently. She was dying.
Yet he only laughed. "Quite foolish of you… to think you could poison me."
He rose from his position and walked toward a corner of the room where bottles of wine were neatly arranged. With practiced ease, he selected one, along with a glass, then strode back to the bed and sat down.
Pouring himself a drink, he swirled the deep red liquid before taking a slow sip.
"How does it feel to be helpless?" he mused. "To be chained? Stripped of free will? To be used?"
He placed his mask on the bed beside him, eyes locked onto her as she clutched her throat, her skin burning an unnatural, searing crimson.
"It must feel suffocating. Frustrating." He chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "I've lived nineteen years of my life like that."
His grip tightened around the glass. "No hope. No future. Just a pawn. Just a stepping stone."
Yet there was no bitterness in his expression anymore. Just something... different.
"Well, it doesn't matter anymore," he murmured, pouring himself another glass. "A happy life? That idea bores me."
His lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
"What would truly satisfy me… is destroying the one 'thing' she cares about."
He took another sip, savoring the taste.
"Even better—making the bitch watch as I do it."