Chapter Text
Est moved through his house as if it were a stranger. The rooms felt empty, hollow, a place stripped of life even though everything was still in place.
He mindlessly walked to the kitchen, grabbing the kettle and placing it on the stove. The burner came alight filling the quiet. As the water heated up, he stood motionless, staring at nothing, almost as if in a trance.
His cat— Sparkles, moved around his ankles, brushing against him with persistence— tail curled like a question mark, asking for attention Est couldn’t give.
He blinked, snapped out of his daze for a moment, and moved to the shelf where he kept his cat food. He reached inside and grabbed the bag, ready to pour it into the bowl.
But the bowl was already full.
The cat still pressed against his feet, purring and rubbing, desperate for a touch. Est’s gaze lingered on the untouched food. The kettle hissed louder behind him, it’s steam beginning to rise, the sound ringing in his ears like static.
And in that small ordinary moment, something inside him cracked. His tears slipped out freely, unrestrained and his sobs came out— hard and sudden.
His chest tightened until it hurt, and he covered his mouth, but the sound still spilled out of him. Tears blurred his vision as he moved to the counter, gripping it with both hands as the room tilted, feeling like it might collapse.
He hated how pathetic he had become, how every small thing sent him spiraling.
His life had been this way— ever since Thame passed away, three months ago. And yet it still felt like yesterday, like a wound that refused to close.
He pressed his forehead against the cool counter and wept until the kettle shrieked, its whistling a piercing noise in the quiet house.
He ignored it.
Nothing got better. The world had been piercing him for months.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced at the screen through his tear stricken eyes.
Mum💚
He watched the phone ring and the sound only made the weight of his grief seem heavier. He tried to swallow his sobs, tried to steady himself, but they kept coming, clawing at his throat, bleeding him dry, until he couldn’t take it anymore.
So he did the only thing he knew he would take it away.
His hand found the lighter in the drawer. Grabbing it, he flicked it open, the flame trembling at first, then steady. Slowly, he brought it close until the naked flame kissed the skin of his forearm.
The pain was sharp and bright, cutting through his despair. It calmed him. Was a brief escape from his depressing reality.
When he flicked the lighter shut, the quiet returned, and his heartbeat slowed. He drew in a shaky breath, forcing it deeper, steadier. Then, as if nothing had happened, he went about his day.
Est folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, made a list and went grocery shopping.
His mind drifted through it all in a haze, ignoring the dozens of texts messages and calls piling up.
Every task felt mechanical, something to keep his hands moving so he wouldn’t fall apart again.
But somehow, everything pulled him back to Thame.
Every shadow reminded him. Every silence felt heavier because Thame wasn’t there to fill it with laughter, with warmth, with his presence.
Thame had been his lover. His best friend. His soulmate. His everything.
A plane crash had taken him— swift, unexpected, and three months later, Est still felt the void he left.
He barely made it back into the house before he broke again. The grocery bag slipped from his hand, cans and vegetables scattering across the floor, and he slid down against the door, his body folding into itself.
He covered his face with both hands as he sobbed, asking himself the same question he asked every night.
Will his pain ever end?
Est didn't know the answer.
His days blurred into one another.
Est still wrote— barely.
His editor Daou was a constant pain. He never understood. Just demanded and demanded.
His royalties from old books kept his bills paid, but deadlines slipped by, and drafts piled up. When he did manage to turn something in, it was late, sloppy, not good enough to soothe Daou’s rigid standards.
He knew it was bad. He just couldn't bring himself to care. His grief had hollowed him from the inside. Now he was a shell of the man he once was.
Even Sparkles, the only companion who still stayed close was neglected. The cat curled around his legs in the evenings, climbed his legs when he sat working, sat on his chest when he lay lifelessly on the bed looking for sleep.
But Est never reached down to stroke her, never responded to her soft cries.
By the end of the month, guilt pressing in, he brought the cat to his mother.
She gasped when she saw him.
His slimmer figure, his sunken cheeks, the hollow, dead eyes.
“Est, you have to see a therapist— I can't stand seeing you like this… it’s not even up for debate.” She insisted.
“Mae, I’ll be fine.”
When she suggested moving in, Est agreed to it. Said he would try before the week ran out.
Est tried.
The office was warm. Too warm. It only heightened his anxiety. The walls were lined with books, professional photographs and framed degrees.
The therapist— Khun Pemika was a beautiful woman in her forties. She had very kind eyes and her voice was calm, measured, every question placed gently, like glass that might shatter.
“Tell me a little about Thame.” She asked, a polite smile gracing her lip.
Est blinked, then swallowed nervously. “He was—” The words lodged in his throat.
“You can just tell me one word Est.”
Est thought long and hard, about the years together, the wonderful memories shared. Memories he could never get back “Everything. He was my everything.”
Pemika gaze softened even further. “And how has life been without him?”
Est’s throat tightened. He nervously dug his fingers dug into his knees. “Its been empty. That's what it feels like. Like it doesn’t matter anymore.”
She nodded, processing the words. “And what do you do? To fill in these empty days?”
His opened his mouth, wanted to confess, wanted to tell her he'd been hurting himself to take the pain away.
But the words didn't come out.
He stared at the carpet, hating the way his chest twisted. So he settled for a lie. “Just write. And play with my cat.”
She stared at him long, almost as if reading him. “And does it help?” She pressed, unable to mask her concern.
“No.” Est said, simple, factual. “Just still… loud.”
She nodded, scribbling something down. “I think you need to come out of your routine. Do things that used to bring you life. Hang out with friends, travel, explore new spaces, meet new people. Or you can just go outside, maybe to places you used to enjoy, places that remind you of beauty.”
The suggestion sounded ridiculous, he only did those things with Thame.
But Est nodded, agreed anyway, if only to end the session quick.
The next week, he took her advice.
He went to the museum.
It was crowded that day, but the quiet chatter of the galleries still wrapped around him, like a comforting scarf.
He wandered aimlessly, letting his feet carry him until he found himself in front of the painting he and Thame had loved.
On the large canvas, a lone tree rose into a haze of colors, its branches dissolving into the heavens as though the sky itself is carrying it away.
Standing before it, Est felt a quiet pull in his chest— like the tree was reaching not just upward, but beyond, somewhere where maybe a lost, loved one might be waiting.
It left him aching, yet strangely lighter, as if grief and hope could exist in the same breath.
Est stood there, unmoving, breath caught in his chest. He reached out, without realizing, almost as if in a trance, his hand trembling as it neared the painted surface.
“Sir, please don’t touch the painting.” A guard’s voice broke the spell, pulling him down to earth.
He flinched, blinking wildly.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered the apology, lowering his hand, an embarrassed flush creeping up his face.
Then he turned and walked away.
He didn't notice the man carefully watching him from across the room.
Later that day, he wandered to the park, the memory of painting still heavy in his chest. He sat on the bench, hands pressed on his knees, shoulders slumped forward.
And he thought about Thame.
Thought about the memories they’d shared on this very bench. Loud laughters, chaste kisses and hushed whispers.
And suddenly, the urge to cry again pressed behind his eyes. He bit the salty tears back, fighting to keep himself whole, to not unravel here, out in the open.
Then a man sat beside him.
But Est didn't take notice.
Well-dressed. Custom Tailored suit that looked out of place in the warm weather. Sunglasses that hid his eyes. His hair— silver, sleek— caught the sunlight. To the ordinary eye, he would look sharp, intriguing, magnetic.
But only if Est noticed.
“Beautiful day…” The man stated, his tone casual.
Est blinked and turned to meet his gaze, before shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
An awkward silence hung as Est lookec at him. But the man’s stare didn't falter.
A slow smile spread across his lips as he took his sunglasses off, letting out a loud sigh. “The bruise on your arm… was it an accident? Or intentional?” The words slipped out lightly, as though he were asking about something as ordinary as the weather.
The words stunned Est, caught him off guard. He turned sharply, his heart hammering in his chest.
His mouth opened to say something, but nothing came out. His stutter, his frozen breath, his rigid posture— everything gave him away.
The man tilted his head to the side, offering an explanation to Est’s unasked question. “At the museum earlier, when you reached for the painting, your sleeve lowered. I saw them.”
Est’s defenses shot up. “Are you following me?”
The man smiled— slow, knowing. “Yes… But you don’t have to worry.” He lifted his own sleeve, revealing a large red welt across his skin. “We’re just alike.”
Est’s eyes widened as he stared at it. Confusion grew in his chest. Tangled within.
He wanted to speak, to ask, but the words stuck in his throat. He thought it best to leave as well but his legs felt heavy, rooted to the spot.
“What’s your name?” The man asked.
Est thought long and hard, if he wanted this stranger to know his name. Khun Pemika’s words rung in his ears. After a long pause, he decided. “Est...”
The man’s smile widened, softer now. “It’s nice to meet you, Est. I’m Hong.”
Est swallowed nervously. “How did you get that?” His eyes flicked to the welt, carefully studying it
“Somebody gave it to me.” The words were said with a cocky grin and such casual ease that made Est’s heart stutter.
Est’s processed the words, blinked and thought this stranger had gotten it all wrong. “Are you… are you being abused? I think you’re confused.”
Hong shook his head. “No Est. I’m not confused. I’m a masochist.” His voice was calm, steady.
The confession landed like a stone in still water.
Est let out a nervous laugh, baffled. “A masochist? Then how are we alike?”
Hong moved closer, gaze sharpened. “The thing is, Est… I think you like pain too.”
The words stunned Est. Made him feel trapped. Heat rushed to his face. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, unable to look away yet desperate to escape.
Hong noticed his discomfort. “What you’re doing Est— i’ve been there. And i’ll tell you this. it won’t take your pain away.”
Est didn’t answer. Didn’t deny. But he didn't accept it either. He just remained quiet.
“I could show you a better way.” The words were soft, light, almost like a chant, hypnotic.
Est was still quiet. Didn't know how to answer.
Hong studied him, thoughtful. Then he let out another heavy sigh, sliding a card next to Est on the bench. “Call me… or don’t.”
And with that, Hong stood up and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Est stared at the card.
Black. An engraved symbol you could only see if you looked close. No name.
It lay there like something dangerous, radiating a pull he didn’t want to admit. His hand hovered, then retreated. But finally, reluctantly, he picked it up, flipped it over.
Four numbers— 6169.
He hesitated, before putting it in his pocket. He told himself he'd just hold on to it even though he would probably never use it.
The card burned in his pocket for days.
He told himself he wouldn’t call, even shoved it in the trash once to prove a point.
But even as he sat staring at blank pages of his word doc, the thought of it lingered. The edges of the card pressed into his mind, whispering.
He tried to live as if he hadn’t met Hong at all. Tried to forget the knowing smile, the welt across his arm, the calm certainty in his voice.
But the silence kept caving in on him.
Therapy didn’t help.
Every session left him feeling more stripped open, raw, as if the Khun Pemika was peeling at wounds that hadn't even stared healing yet.
“Tell me about your routine this week Est.” She asked one afternoon.
“I don’t have one.” Est muttered. His hands twisted in his lap.
“What about what I suggested? Did you try it?”
“I did. It didn't help..”
She nodded then looked down. Her pen scratched across the paper. “And why do you think that is?”
“Because he’s not here!” The words came out— sharper than intended, before Est could stop them. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hating himself for how weak he sounded.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “If you want to me help you, You have to want to help yourself Est…” She encouraged.
Est walked out of the meeting feeling even worse. Like his entire life had been reduced to questions with no answers.
It was an almost terrifying existence.
He managed a week without hurting himself.
A week of swallowing down the urge, of clenching his fists, of shaking through long nights.
But one night, the weight grew too heavy.
The rooms closed in on him. His chest felt too tight. Felt like it was splitting apart. He needed release.
He went through the trash, hands trembling as he rummaged through it, searching beneath old nylon wrappers, stale coffee grounds, until his fingers brushed against cardboard. He pulled it out.
The card.
He stared at it for a long time, his breath shallow, pushing the damp dirt away.
He hated himself for holding it again, hated how his chest tightened and loosened at the same time. After a long internal conflict, he picked up his phone and dialed the number.
It rang once. Twice.
Then Hong’s voice came through the line— smooth, certain. Pleased. “I’ve been waiting.” He said without even hearing Est’s voice. It made his stomach drop.
“You… have?” Est asked, voice uncertain.
“Mmmh. I knew you’d call.”
Est swallowed hard. “I—” His voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t have to…” Hong said simply. “Just follow instructions. I’ll text you a code and an address.”
The line went dead.
Seconds later, his screen lit up with a message.
Est stared at it, thumb hovering, heart pounding.
He almost deleted it. Almost.
Instead, he grabbed his keys, his coat— pulling it on, before slipping out into the night.
He drove to the address.
The outskirts of town, not deserted but not nearly as crowded at this time of the night. He parked at the designated spot and stepped out of the car.
The city felt colder than usual around these parts. The streets were emptier here, lonelier. He walked slowly, his steps unsure, following the directions until the glow of streetlamps thinned and the silence grew heavier.
It led him to an abandoned construction site. The large concrete walls and pillars stretched around him, the area echoed his footsteps. Shadows filled every corner he could lay his eyes on.
Est hesitated, every part of him screaming to turn back. This seemed dangerous, stupid even.
But still, he moved forward, following the map.
A door waited at the far end of a dimly lit corridor— metal, unmarked. Ordinary.
There was a broken, dusty light switch next to it. Est pulled it out, revealing a small keypad. He punched in the code Hong had sent, each beep punctuating the silence. The lock clicked and the door fell open. It was thicker on the inside, 6 inches of reinforced steel.
It only heightened Est's nerves. But he kept moving. He stepped into darkness. And looked down.
The hallway was narrow, dimly lit, stretching farther than he expected. He descended slowly, carefully, his shoes scuffing against the floor, the sound swallowed by silence. Until he arrived at an end.
Another door. Another code. Another click.
When it opened, light spilled out— red, low, pulsing.
Est took a shaky breath and stepped into another world.
The air was thick, charged with something he couldn’t name. Music throbbed faintly— a slow, sultry beat that seemed to sync with his racing heart. Faint red lighting bathed the walls, the floor, the bodies that moved within.
And there were bodies.
Half-naked, glistening with sweat, collared, bound, draped across benches or suspended in the air. Leather gleamed. Chains clinked softly in the background. The scent of cologne and sweat and something metallic perfumed the air.
Est froze at the entrance— his throat tight, heart pounding. His eyes darted across the room, unable to stay anywhere for long.
Every sight was overwhelming. Every sound pressed into his ears.
He started to leave.
But then a voice halted him midstep
“Est.”
The name slipped out, smooth and steady.
He turned towards the source of the voice. And there he was.
Hong stood at the bar a distance away, a glass and a bottle in hand, dressed sharp as ever. Dark shirt, tailored jacket, silver hair colored with the glow of the red lights.
His aura was unmistakable, cutting through the room like a blade.
Est’s legs moved before his mind could catch up. He approached, each step heavy, uncertain until he was close enough to see the curve of Hong’s smile. He had make up on— dark, sharp, gothic. It unnerved Est a little but he also found it strangely beautiful.
“Welcome to the Citadel.” He flashed him a beaming smile, settling on a stool and placing the bottle on the counter. “Drink?” He asked Est, lifting his own glass.
Est shook his head. His mouth was dry and he didn't think he could stomach his anxiety and alcohol at the same time.
Hong studied him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Why did you come here, Est?”
The question caught Est off guard. He blinked, then asked. “What?”
“You clearly don’t want to be here.” Hong's tone was sure, but his eyes held no sharpness.
Est’s gaze dropped.
‘Why am i here?’ He pondered. He didn't have an answer.
A soft hand touched his chin— gentle but firm, tilting his face back up. Hong’s eyes swept over his face and Est felt exposed under his intense gaze.
He sighed again, his eyes now glinting with dark humor. “Okay. Here’s how this is gonna work…” Hong said softly, voice now edged with something sharper. “When I speak to you, you answer. Do you understand?”
Est’s pulse hammered in his ears. He could feel the danger in disobeying, the promise of consequence in Hong’s tone. He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Hong’s smile curved. “Good boy.”
The words made Est’s stomach knot, made heat crawl up his neck.
“Now…” Hong murmured. “Why did you come here?”
Est hesitated. Then took a shaky breath and whispered. “You said you could show me a better way.”
Hong leaned back slightly, amused. “I can Est. The question is… are you ready?” Then his voice dropped. “To be enlightened?”
Est’s eyes flicked around the room.
On a small stage in front them, a woman was suspended from ropes, her naked body stretched and displayed. Multiple figures— some masked, stood below, caressing her body like an offering.
His breath caught at the scene. His palms dampened.
Was he ready?
He didn’t know.
A hand gently cradled his face, pulling him out of his whirlwind of thoughts. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to…” Hong’s voice was gentle, his eyes soft— steady, as if he could see through Est’s doubts. “You can just observe.”
Est’s throat tightened. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. His mind reeled with contradicting thoughts.
Slowly, almost against his will, he nodded.
Hong’s smile deepened, knowing. He turned to the bartender. “Tell them to prepare my chamber.”
The words hit Est sharp, sank into him like a warning and a promise all at once.
The bartender gave a quick nod and slipped away into a secret room.
Hong took his time, savoring his drink, studying Est as though he were a puzzle only he could solve. The bartender soon returned and Hong finished his drink in a smooth swallow, setting the glass on the counter. He got up and motioned to Est.
“Come.” He said simply, and started walking.
Est stood, took a shaky breath and followed.
The club opened wider the deeper they went, corridors unfolding like a maze of temptation. The further they walked from the bar, the darker the light grew, the red glow fading to a blend of dimly lit white over the black, dark hallways. The music pulsed lower here, almost like a distant heartbeat above them.
Everywhere Est looked, there were glimpses of things he had never imagined in real life.
One room passed by with its door half-open. Inside it was a figure bound to a chair, their head tilted back in surrender as another leaned close, whispering something into their ear.
Est looked away quickly, his face heating.
In another, screams spilled out from behind the close door, whether in pain or pleasure, Est could not tell.
A corridor at a corner revealed a small stage where a man dangled suspended on a cross, ropes wound around his body in intricate knots that seemed more like art than bondage.
An audience watched in silence, the only sounds the creak of rope and the man’s soft, steady breaths.
The air grew heavier the deeper they went.
Leather. Sweat. Perfume— washing everything in scent of sin. A scent that twisted his stomach and made something unsteady vibrate in the chest.
Est’s steps faltered. Once, twice.
He wanted to stop, wanted turn back. But Hong’s presence— graceful and unbothered, pulled him forward like gravity.
Finally, they stopped at a door.
Unlike the others, this one was heavier, reinforced, a panel of red light glowing faintly above it.
Hong pushed a key in. Then the lock clicked.
He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Est followed— and froze.
The room was dimly lit, bathed in deep red and black. The walls were lined with shadows, shelves, gleaming steel fixtures.
A massive bed, stretched against one wall, larger than any Est had ever seen— even larger than a king size. The sheets dark and rich silk, it’s plush pillows just as massive.
In the far corner stood a heavy wooden cross, its beams worn smooth with use. To the left of the room, a chair like a throne rested in the shadows, its dark fabric shimmering. On the other end was a large, plush sofa, made of the same fabric as the throne.
Against another wall, a large chest sat closed, but Est could guess what was inside. Belts, whips, cuffs— the tools Hong had hinted at.
“Sit.” Hong said, nodding toward the chair by the wall.
Est obeyed, sinking down, his arms planted to his side, his damp hands resting on his knees. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and he swallowed a nervous lump in his throat.
Hong moved with slow, graceful precision.
He crossed to the bed, pulled the chest open, and began laying out items one by one.
A whip, its leather ends coiled like a sleeping serpent. Leather cuffs, its buckles gleaming. A row of condoms, stacked neatly. Each piece he placed on the bed with care, like instruments before a performance.
Est’s eyes followed every movement, caught in the spell, unable to look away.
Then Hong straightened, his back to Est, and began to undress.
He slipped off his jacket first, folding it neatly and setting it aside. Then his shirt, black fabric sliding over silver hair as he pulled it free. His skin was pale, unblemished, his body lean, sculpted, muscles shifting as he moved with calm confidence.
Each motion was slow, deliberate, as though even the act of stripping was part of the ritual.
Est’s chest tightened.
He looked away, his gaze landing instead on the wooden cross, but the image of Hong’s bare back burned into his mind.
A faint chuckle resounded in the room.
“You know…” Hong’s voice was smooth, laced with amusement. “If you’re going to learn anything tonight, you actually have to look at me.”
Est blinked, steadied himself. Then reluctantly, he shifted his gaze.
Hong’s eyes caught his— steady and unreadable. A faint smile curved his lips as he unfastened his trousers. The fabric slid down, revealing long lines of muscle, pale skin touched red by the light.
Est’s pulse quickened. His breathing sharpened. His hands gripped his knees harder.
A knock at the door cut the tense silence.
Hong didn’t flinch. Just gave a knowing smile.
“Get that for me?” He said.
Est rose on unsteady legs and crossed to the door. When he opened it, a man stepped inside— masked, clad in a sharp suit. His eyes flicked to Est, curious, before turning to Hong in questioning.
“He’s observing.” Hong explained.
The masked man nodded.
Without a word, he removed his jacket. Then his shirt, folding each with the same careful precision Hong had shown.
His chest was broad, his movements efficient, practiced.
Est moved to the chair, his breath shallow.
“Sit.” Hong told him again, firmer this time.
Est sank down, heart hammering.
Hong’s silver hair glowed faintly red as he reached behind him, gathering it into a knot, and tying it back with a small band.
Then he moved to the center of the room, sank to his knees, and lowered his palms his knees.
The sight stunned Est, caught him off guard.
He hadn't expected this.
For all Hong’s control, his authority, he was now kneeling.
In perfect submission.
Head bowed. Body waiting.
Something unsettling shifted in Est’s chest— fear, confusion, curiosity, all tangled into one.
The masked man approached— slow and deliberate. He cupped Hong’s chin, lifting his face, and he spoke for the first time. His voice was deep, steady.
“Safe word?”
“Crimson.” Hong answered without hesitation.
“And if you need to stop?”
“I will say it, Sir.”
The man studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. “Hold out your hands.”
Hong obeyed without hesitation.
The leather cuffs closed around his wrists with soft clicks, buckles tight, the chains faintly rattling as they locked. Then Hong stood and moved a few steps forward, near the ends of the room. The masked man stood next to him and clipped the cuffs to a length of chain overhead, pulling to make sure it was steady. Then he moved away.
Hong’s arms were drawn up until his shoulders strained. He was left standing, stretched tall, his tip-toes pressing into the floor for balance.
He looked strangely vulnerable like this and Est felt his unease grow. He gripped the armrests now, his knuckles tight, eyes fixed on the scene, unable to look away. His chest ached with every beat of his heart.
The masked man retrieved the whip from the bed, uncoiling it slowly, the leather sliding over his hands.
He lifted it once, tested the weight, hide against skin.
Then without warning, he let it fall against Hong’s back with a sharp crack.
The sound cut through the room like thunder.
Hong’s body jolted, breath shuddering— but instead of pain, a low sound left his throat, half-moan, half-sigh.
“One.” He counted, his voice steady, low.
Another crack. This time just above his buttocks.
“Two.”
The whip sang through the air again, again.
Each strike left a line blooming red across Hong’s skin.
Each number he spoke was firm— not broken, not faltering.
Est’s breath became shallow, his own body tensing with every strike. The sound, the sight, the strange mix of pain and serenity on Hong’s face— it disturbed him, but still it pulled at him. He didn’t understand it, didn't want to but he still couldn’t look away.
The room pulsed with red light. With sound bounced off the walls. It made it all the more intense.
And Est sat frozen, his world narrowing to the rhythm of whip, moan, count.
The whip cracked again.
“Five.”
The sound tore through the room, steady as the faint beat of the music above them.
A strike left another welt blooming bright against Hong’s pale back. His skin was now flushed, marked, alive with color.
Est’s hands were slick on the armrests. His throat was dry. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. The sound drew him in, each moan like a thread pulling tighter around his chest.
“Six.” Hong’s voice did not waver.
The whip fell again. “Seven.”
There was no shame in the way he stood, no fear in the way he offered his body. Only certainty.
As if the pain grounded him, as if each strike carved him deeper into himself.
Est’s stomach twisted. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. But the longer he watched, the harder it was to breathe.
By “Eight.” Est’s palms trembled. His heart pounded so loud he thought it might echo in the room.
When “Nine.” landed, he felt heat crawl up his neck, his confusion pooling with something darker, heavier.
And when Hong whispered “Ten.” voice now strained but sure, Est’s chest clenched so tight it hurt.
He wanted to run. He wanted to stand and bolt for the door, but it was like he’d been stitched into the chair, each thread pulling him tighter, unmovable.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His lungs ached.
His eyes stayed locked on the sight unfolding before him, no matter how much he willed them to look away. The air felt heavier, pressing in until he thought he might suffocate.
And then, somehow, an unknown surge of strength pulsed in his legs.
He stood, unsteady, forcing himself toward the door.
He didn’t look back.
The hallway blurred, the red lights flashing too bright, too close. It felt like he'd been drugged. Low voices swirled around him but he couldn’t make sense of the words.
His only thought was escape.
Out, out, out.
The cold night hit him hard like a slap.
He staggered down the street, every breath he took sharp in his chest, until finally he got to his car. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove— half blind until reached home.
He slammed the door shut behind him and pressed his back against it, dragging in air.
Only then did he realize— he was shaking.
His hands had trembled so badly he’d barely gotten the lock open.
His body ached, felt hollow, like all his nerves had been shrunk.
He stumbled to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He opened it and drank straight from the bottle without thinking.
The burning liquid scorched his throat but he kept drinking. One gulp, then another, until the room tilted, swayed.
His thoughts blurred, drowned beneath the haze of alcohol.
Finally, the weight dragged him down. He collapsed onto the couch, the bottle slipping from his hand, and the darkness enveloped him.