..
"Why are you here?" Mark asked. His voice, which had been a low rumble for Win, was now a sharp, warning blade.
A maid stepped forward to place two glasses of water on the table, her hands trembling. Bryan didn't even notice her fear; he was too busy being himself. He reached for a glass, taking a sip with a playful wink at the maid before leaning toward Mark. "Don't be so prickly, Marky! I'm just here to help you."
"I don't need your help," Mark replied, the annoyance in his voice heavy enough to crush a normal man. But Bryan wasn't a normal man—he was a professional pest.
Bryan rolled his eyes dramatically, leaning across the table until he was almost in Mark's lap. "Oh... but Daniel needs it. Won't you let me help him? Be a good boy and say yes." Mark's gaze pierced through him, silent and predatory. Bryan didn't back down; he just pouted, shifting his weight with a restless, energetic grace. "So... is he your man? The little kitten?"
Mark didn't answer. He simply tilted his head, a gesture so menacing it would have sent anyone else running. Bryan just gave a cheeky, defensive laugh, waving his hands. "I didn't mean anything naughty! I only asked because you didn't introduce us. You're keeping all the pretty things for yourself, as usual!"
"If that is all you have to say, get lost," Mark said, pointing a steady, unwavering finger toward the lift.
Bryan's flirty smirk finally dimmed into something a bit more serious, though the spark of mischief remained in his eyes. He leaned forward, interlocking his fingers. "Fine, fine, I'm going. But before I do... Do you know my stepbrother? Steven?"
"I know the name," Mark stated, his eyes narrowing.
"I think he's involved in some very dirty business," Bryan sighed, his usual energetic spark replaced by a weary, heavy gravity. "Business that involves the flat you're investigating. He was there two days ago, Mark. And a month before that."
The air in the room didn't just turn cold; it vanished, leaving a vacuum of pure, unadulterated menace. Mark froze. He didn't respond immediately, but a low, predatory growl vibrated deep in his chest—the sound of a monster that had finally caught the scent of its target. When he finally turned to face Bryan, he wasn't wearing a mask. He wore a dark, lethal smirk that promised a massacre.
"Then let me tell you something," Mark said, his voice a low, terrifying roar that seemed to pull the shadows from the corners of the room. "Even God won't be able to protect him from me now."
Mark stood up and turned to leave, his long strides carrying him toward the sanctuary of his private quarters. But Bryan called out, the naughty flirtation entirely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate edge. "Look, I don't care about him! If he's dirty, let him burn. But I need you to invest in my company, Mark. Steven ruined it while I was away. The losses are... they're staggering."
Mark paused at the threshold of his room, his silhouette framed against the light like a dark, vengeful god. He didn't offer a hug or a comforting word to his friend. He offered a cold, calculated transaction.
"I'll talk to David," Mark said, his voice as final as a gavel. "But before that, you give Daniel everything. Every name. Every date. I want to know everyone who breathed near that apartment."
Mark disappeared into his room, the heavy oak door clicking shut with a sound like a casket closing. Bryan alone in the opulent hall, his brow furrowing as the reality of the deal set in. "David... he definitely won't invest," he muttered to the empty air, realizing he had just traded his stepbrother's life for a 'maybe' and a "I'll talk to David."
He pulled out his phone, his energetic fingers flying across the screen as he dialed Daniel. "Come to my office this evening," he snapped into the receiver, his voice sharp and done with games. "And bring your temper, Daniel. I'm giving you the keys to the kingdom. I'm done playing."
..
Mark entered the suite, the sharp, clinical click of the door latch cutting through the silence like a gunshot. He came to a dead halt. Win had just emerged from the bathroom, a vision of devastating innocence. His skin was flushed a pale rose from the heat, glistening with tiny, diamond-like droplets of water, and he was wrapped in nothing but a towel that clung dangerously low to his hips.
Win jumped, his breath catching in his throat as his wide, startled eyes met Mark's. In a frantic blur of motion, he snatched a second towel from the velvet sofa, shielding his chest from the Master's burning, obsidian gaze.
Mark didn't speak. He simply tracked Win's movements with a slow, predatory grace, the "Devil" within him waking up and demanding to be fed. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden, electric static. Mark began to close the distance, his hand reaching out with the slow, inevitable certainty of a man claiming a prize.
But Win was faster.
Before the Master's fingers could graze his skin, Win reached out and snared Mark's wrist mid-air. His grip wasn't the soft touch of a lover; it was firm, grounded, and shockingly defiant.
"NO..." Win said. It wasn't a plea; it was a soft, unbreakable command that echoed with the authority of someone who knew they were untouchable.
Before Mark could find his voice or utter a single protest, Win stepped into his space. He planted his palms against Mark's broad, silk-clad nightwear shoulders and physically shoved the Sovereign backward. Mark stumbled, the sheer audacity of the move short-circuiting his brain as he was forced toward the door of the steaming bathroom.
Mark looked back over his shoulder, his lips twitching with the ghost of a mock-offended smirk. He was being bullied—manhandled in his own fortress, by a boy who didn't even have his clothes on. It was a humiliating subversion of his power, and yet, looking at the fire in Win's eyes, he found he had never been more enthralled.
But Win wasn't playing. He stood his ground, the steam from the bathroom curling around him like a shroud. "I said no. I am going to be late, Mr. Mark. Now go. Wash."
The Devil didn't argue. He simply surrendered to the only person in the world who dared to tell him no.
..
When Mark finally emerged from the steam, his skin still radiating heat, he found Win still shirtless in the center of the room. The boy was focused, his fingers moving with agonizing care as he applied ointment to his skin. Mark stood paralyzed by the wardrobe, the sight of Win's bare, glowing shoulders testing every ounce of his legendary composure. He dressed with mechanical, frantic speed, his hands fumbling slightly as he fought the distraction of the morning light dancing over Win's skin.
Seeing that Win was still far from ready, Mark felt his usual impatience reassert itself—the part of him that was always on a schedule, always demanding efficiency. He stepped closer, standing like a dark shadow just behind the boy.
"Let's go," he prompted, his voice regaining its sharp, clinical edge.
Win paused, his brow furrowing into a sharp, dangerous line. He didn't look up immediately. "Won't you have breakfast first?"
"No," Mark replied dismissively. "I'm not hungry. I don't want to."
The air in the room didn't just chill; it froze. Win stopped mid-motion, the silence becoming a heavy, suffocating weight. He turned slowly, leveling a glare at Mark that was more terrifying than any threat he had ever faced from his rivals. It was a look of pure, silent authority—the gaze of a king demanding obedience from a commoner.
The Sovereign Devil actually flinched.
Mark felt a cold sweat prick his neck, his heart skipping a beat under the sheer intensity of Win's disapproval. The man who could command an empire felt his resolve crumble. "I... I was just about to head down," he corrected himself, his voice waering as he began a hasty, awkward retreat toward the exit. "You... you take your time. I'll meet you there."
That was too close... Mark thought, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird as he escaped into the safety of the hallway.
He made his way down to the dining hall, his aura darkening with every step. The staff bowed low as he passed, none of them aware that their Master had just been thoroughly scolded. He sat at the head of the long, mahogany table, staring intensely at his phone to mask the lingering flush on his face. When a maid approached, he didn't even grant her a glance.
"Green salad," he commanded, his tone sharp, brooding, and dripping with an artificial coldness. It was the only way he knew how to reclaim his dignity after being humbled by a single look.
..
Mark sat at the head of the table, his movements sharp and deliberate as he picked at his salad, the lingering sting of Win's earlier scolding still clouding his features. The dining hall was a cathedral of marble and morning sun, seemingly untouchable.
The Head Maid leaned down, her shadow falling across Mark's plate. Her voice was a ghost of a whisper, trembling with the weight of the secret she was delivering. "Something is wrong with the guard by the stairs, Master. He was filming Master Win... secretly," This was the same guard the Head Maid had already warned—the one who had dared to let his eyes linger on the Master's treasure.
The silver fork in Mark's hand didn't just stop; it bowed under the sudden, inhuman pressure of his grip.
In a heartbeat, the air in the grand dining hall didn't just chill—it became a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of the room. The petty annoyance of the morning was instantly vaporized, replaced by a primordial, volcanic rage that radiated from Mark like a physical shockwave.
A thick vein pulsed violently in his temple, a map of the lethal pressure building within his skull. His eyes, which had been softly brooding moments ago, transformed into twin abysses of obsidian, void of mercy, void of humanity. It wasn't just anger; it was a storm of pure, concentrated homicide. The thought of a common soldier's lens tracing the lines of his treasure, capturing Win's light for his own filth, sent a roar of white-hot blood through Mark's veins.
The table beneath his palms seemed to groan. He was a second away from rising—a second away from calling for a blade to personally flay the skin from the man's bones—when a soft, familiar melody broke the suffocating silence.
"Mr. Mark... I'm ready."
The melody of Win's voice hit the room like a divine intervention. The transformation was nothing short of terrifying. In a single, fluid heartbeat, the predator vanished into the shadows of Mark's soul. Mark turned his head, his gaze sweeping the hall with the cold precision of a scythe, pinning the mole by the stairs with a mental death warrant that promised a slow end. But as his eyes finally landed on Win, the obsidian depths melted instantly into a honey-like warmth—a gaze so tender and convincing it would fool an angel.
He stood up, his posture shifting from a coiled viper to a graceful King. Those hands—which were ready to crush a throat just seconds ago—now reached out to tenderly smooth a stray lock of Win's hair.
"Let's go," Mark murmured, his voice a soothing, rich velvet that betrayed none of the carnage screaming in his mind. He tucked his arm protectively around Win's waist, pulling him close as they began to walk toward the exit. "Kitty... should we take Meera with us? It's almost time for her school."
Win beamed, his innocence radiating through the cold, marble hall like a burst of pure sunlight. "Oh, really? Okay, let's take her!"
Mark stopped at the foot of the stairs, his smile perfect, radiant, and utterly hollow. "But Kitty," he said softly, his thumb caressing Win's side, "can you go up and get her? Bring her straight to the main gate. I just realized I left some urgent files in the study that I can't leave behind. I'll meet you there in five minutes."
"Oh... sure!" Win chirped, his heart light and his mind free of suspicion. He turned back toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing with a cheerfulness that felt sacred in such a dark house.
Mark watched him go. He stood like a statue carved from shadow, his gaze anchored to the spot where Win had last been visible. He watched until the last trailing inch of Win's shadow vanished around the corner, until the very air seemed to lose its color.
The second Win's footsteps faded into the upper levels, the warmth in the hall didn't just flicker—it died.
Mark remained motionless, his head tilted slightly, listening to the silence of the house until he was absolutely certain his "Kitty" was beyond the reach of his voice, beyond the reach of the screams that were coming. Then, the smile didn't just fade; it disintegrated. The mask of the doting lover fell away, revealing the unfiltered, abyssal cold of the Sovereign beneath.
His spine straightened, his posture shifting into a regal, lethal line that seemed to stretch his shadow across the marble floor. The atmosphere was sucked out of the room, leaving behind only the biting, metallic chill of the Mathew Curse. He didn't look for any files. He didn't take a single step toward the study.
He didn't need a pen or a paper to settle this account.
He slowly turned his head toward the stairs where the guard stood—the man who had dared to look at his treasure through a lens. Because of this man, because of this pathetic, unauthorized glimpse into Win's life, Mark's plans had been fractured. He had been forced to let Win go to the University alone, stripped of the ability to personally guard his treasure, and that realization caused his anger to surge into a lethal, red-hot peak. The silence in the dining hall was no longer peaceful; it was a tomb, and Mark was the only one allowed to breathe.
He messaged David with a clinical, icy detachment that made the screen of his phone seem to frost over: 'Drop Win at University. Make an excuse. He's with Meera.'
The order was absolute. The path was cleared.
Mark turned, and in the morning light, he looked devastatingly handsome—a dark Devil carved from obsidian. His all-black suit clung to his powerful frame, the silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the rhythmic, steady pulse of a predator who had found his prey. He didn't rush. He walked to the center of the hall with the slow, heavy stride of a man who owned the earth beneath his feet, and sank onto his velvet throne.
He sat with a terrifying, regal posture—one leg crossed over the other, his body draped in a display of lethal relaxation. One elbow rested on the velvet back of the couch, his hand supporting his jaw, while his thumb rhythmically rolled the heavy signet ring on his finger. The sound of the metal clinking against his skin was the only clock in the room, counting down the seconds of a man's life.
He tilted his head, a sharp, maniacal smile stretching across his face. It was a beautiful expression, yet it didn't reach his eyes—those were still black pits of a bottomless void.
He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The silence in the hall was his weapon. With the casual indifference of a god deciding the fate of an insect, he simply flicked his index finger toward the guard trembling by the stairs.
The gesture was small. The consequence would be eternal.
"You. Come here."
The command was low, but it carried the weight of a mountain. The air in the hall seemed to vanish instantly, leaving the guards gasping in a vacuum of fear. The signaled man began to tremble so violently that his holster rattled against his hip—a frantic, metallic rhythm of a heart failing. He stumbled forward, his boots dragging like lead on the polished marble, before his legs gave out entirely. He collapsed onto his knees, sweating so profusely that a dark, pathetic circle began to pool on the floor beneath him.
The Head Maid appeared like a ghost at Mark's side, her face a mask of stone. With a steady, practiced hand, she placed a silver tray on the table. The sharp, metallic clatter of the objects hitting the surface sounded like the cocking of a firing squad's rifles in the absolute silence.
On the tray sat the instruments of the Mathew Curse: a silver small cutter , a pair of heavy-duty metal cutters, and a platinum knuckle claw that caught the morning light with a lethal, shimmering grace. The guard's eyes locked onto the cold steel of the cutters, and a jagged, broken sob escaped his throat.
"Can you give me your phone?" Mark asked.
His voice was terrifyingly soft—almost a lullaby, melodic and sweet. He leaned his head into his palm, his posture drooping with a deceptive weariness. He slowly closed his eyes, appearing as if he were drifting off to a peaceful sleep in the middle of a waking nightmare. But everyone in the room knew the truth: the Sovereign wasn't sleeping. He was listening to the sound of a man's world falling apart.
"M-my phone?"
The guard's voice cracked, his mind finally snapping under the suffocating weight of Mark's silence. Driven by a blind, animal instinct to survive, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the exit. He didn't make it three steps. Two guards, moving with the synchronized fluidity of shadows, intercepted him. They slammed him back down onto the marble with a bone-jarring force that echoed through the hall.
Mark chuckled—a low, vibrating resonance that crawled up the spines of everyone present. It was a sound devoid of humor, a dry rattle of a predator who found the prey's struggle "quaint." He didn't even bother to open his eyes.
"I'll ask one more time," he whispered. The melodic softness was gone, replaced by a bone-chilling edge that felt like a razor pressed against the throat. "Can you give me your phone now?"
The traitor's hand shook so violently it was a miracle he could grip the device. He held it out like a cursed offering. It was snatched away by a subordinate and placed into Mark's waiting, steady palm.
Mark finally opened his eyes.
The honey was gone. The warmth was a distant memory. These were the eyes of the man who had executed his own blood to avenge his brothers—the eyes of a Sovereign who knew that mercy was a luxury for the weak. He stared down at the kneeling, broken heap of a man, his thumb hovering over the glass screen like a guillotine blade.
"Password?"
"4... 3... 2... 1..." the guard wheezed. The sound was thin and wet, the breath of a man whose lungs were failing under the sheer pressure of Mark's gaze. He panted like a dying animal, his terror reaching its peak as he realized the truth: he wasn't just a prisoner in the Mathew estate; he was already a ghost, and the man on the throne was his reaper.
Mark sat in the heavy, suffocating silence, the phone cradled in his palm like a live grenade. He scrolled, the light of the screen reflecting in the black voids of his eyes as he uncovered the extent of the betrayal.
His thumb froze.
..