As the car door closed and the vehicle pulled away, Yaroslav let out a soft, mocking sigh. "This is so boring...very boring," he muttered to himself, his voice barely more than a murmur in the quiet room. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back from the window, his expression darkening with dissatisfaction. His brother's lecture, the warnings, the thinly veiled threats—all of it was so tedious. Day after day, the same tired routines, the same hollow games of power and control. He was done with it. The thrill had dulled, the challenge gone. If anything, this meeting had only reminded him of how utterly tiresome the family's affairs had become.
A grin slowly crept onto his face, a sharp, twisted smirk that was as unsettling as it was mischievous. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the desk, each beat in time with the machinations forming in his mind. His thoughts drifted from Vanya to Beom-ki—the intriguing little thorn he had so carefully placed in the game. Yes, Beom-ki. Now there was a source of amusement, a breath of fresh, unpredictable chaos in his otherwise dull world.
"Why don't I go and give Beom a visit?" Yaroslav mused aloud, his voice taking on a dark, almost sing-song tone. The very thought sent a ripple of excitement through him. Beom had been a source of fascination from the moment he first encountered him—an enigmatic, stubborn figure who hadn't broken as easily as others. Yaroslav had pushed him to his limits, tested his resolve, yet still, the man had managed to endure. A feat in itself. And that spark, that resistance… it was something Yaroslav couldn't resist fanning into flame.
His grin widened as he envisioned the meeting. The look of defiance in Beom's eyes, the tension that would undoubtedly tighten his frame, the way he would try to stand tall despite the odds. It was all too delicious, the idea of watching Beom-ki squirm under his gaze, struggle to keep control in the face of his taunts. Yaroslav could practically hear the sting of Beom's words, the clipped tone in his voice, and it thrilled him.
The thrill of confrontation, the potential for chaos—it was the kind of excitement he lived for. Unlike his family's rigid dealings, where everything was measured and calculated, Beom represented something raw and untamed. There were no predictable rules when it came to him, and Yaroslav relished that fact. It was exhilarating, knowing he could provoke such strong reactions, knowing he could get under Beom's skin in a way few could.
As he considered his plan, his expression darkened, his gaze narrowing with a kind of feral anticipation. Beom was a pawn in his game, but he was also something more—a toy, perhaps, something he could manipulate, push, prod, and torment. But toys could break. Would Beom? Would he crack under the pressure, or would he rise to meet Yaroslav's taunts, proving himself once again?
Yaroslav took a slow breath, savoring the anticipation, the intoxicating thrill of what was to come. He moved from the window, his steps unhurried, each one resonating with the confidence of a man who knew he controlled the game. As he reached for his coat, slipping it over his shoulders, he could already imagine the surprise, the flash of anger that would appear on Beom's face when he opened the door. The thought was a spark, igniting his cold, restless heart with a hunger for the thrill he so desperately craved.
"Get ready, Beom-ki," he murmured to himself, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as he glanced back at the empty office, the ghost of his brother's authority lingering in the air. "I'll make sure this visit is anything but boring."
Beom stirred restlessly, lost in a foggy half-dream. "Mhhmm…" he mumbled, shifting his weight as he tried to drift back into sleep. The hospital bed beneath him felt cold and unfamiliar, the sterile air prickling his senses. With a slight groan, he finally opened his eyes, blinking into the dim light filtering through the blinds. As his vision adjusted, he was startled to see a figure standing beside his bed, shadowed but unmistakably present.
Heart pounding, Beom squinted, his breath hitching as he recognized the sharp, ice-cold eyes fixed on him. "Sasha?" he whispered, barely able to breathe out the name. But as his focus cleared, dread rooted him to the spot. This wasn't Sasha alone—it was Yaroslav, his face twisted with a predatory grin.
A surge of panic jolted through Beom, and he instinctively reached out, his fingers stretching toward the call button by the bedside. But before he could press it, a powerful hand closed around his wrist like iron. In one swift, merciless motion, Yaroslav twisted Beom's arm behind his back and forced him down against the mattress. The weight of Yaroslav's body pinned him, immobilizing him entirely.
"Where do you think you're going, hmm?" Yaroslav's voice was a low, taunting purr that dripped with malice. He leaned in, his face inches from Beom's, eyes glittering with a cruel satisfaction as he tightened his grip around Beom's throat.
"Let… go… of me…" Beom managed to choke out, his voice rasping between desperate, gasping breaths. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but his rising terror. He clawed at Yaroslav's hands, his nails digging into the skin, scratching with all the strength he had. His legs thrashed wildly, trying to throw him off. Then, with one last burst of energy, he managed to plant his foot squarely in Yaroslav's side, kicking with every ounce of force he could muster.
The impact gave him just enough leverage to slip out of Yaroslav's hold. He scrambled backward, fumbling as he yanked the IV drip from his arm, barely feeling the sting of pain as he bolted toward the door. Every instinct screamed at him to escape. "Somebody! Help me!" he yelled, his voice cracking as it tore through the room. His hands shook as he reached for the door handle, twisting it frantically.
But just as he was about to pull it open, a rough hand slammed against the door, pressing it shut with brutal force. Yaroslav's towering form loomed behind him, a dark shadow that seemed to block out everything else. Before Beom could react, Yaroslav gripped him by the shoulders, and with terrifying strength, he was thrown against the wall, his back hitting the hard surface with a sickening thud.
Beom's vision blurred momentarily as pain shot through him. He tried to regain his balance, but Yaroslav was on him again, pinning him against the wall, his hands digging into Beom's shoulders with an unyielding grip. Beom's chest rose and fell in quick, panicked breaths as he struggled, feeling the unbreakable force of Yaroslav's hold.
"Where do you think you're going?" Yaroslav sneered, pressing his weight against Beom, forcing him against the wall. His hand reached up and yanked Beom's hospital gown, pulling it downward with a swift, harsh motion.
"Let… me… go!" Beom gasped, his voice hoarse and desperate. He twisted his body, every muscle straining as he struggled against Yaroslav's unrelenting grip. Panic clawed at him, raw and consuming, as he tried to pry Yaroslav's hands off him, his voice growing louder, more frantic with every word. "SOMEBODY… PLEASE… HELP M—"
But before he could finish, Yaroslav's hand clamped down over his mouth, silencing his scream.
"NO!" Beom jolted upright in his bed, his body trembling as he gasped for air. His chest heaved with every frantic breath, beads of cold sweat clinging to his skin. His wide eyes darted around the dimly lit room, scanning every shadow, every corner, as if expecting someone to emerge from the darkness. But the room was silent, empty save for the faint hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital.
His hands trembled as he reached up, wiping the dampness from his forehead. Slowly, Beom lifted the blanket covering him, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared down, his breaths shallow and uneven. He was still fully dressed in the hospital gown. Everything looked normal.
"It was just a dream," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. "Nothing happened, right?" He tried to convince himself, repeating the words in his mind like a mantra. But the vividness of it all—the feel of Yaroslav's hands, the sound of his mocking voice—lingered, haunting him. It felt too real, every detail etched into his memory like a cruel scar.
Beom swallowed hard and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his movements stiff and hesitant. As he shifted, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his waist, forcing him to suck in a sharp breath. He froze, his mind racing. Something wasn't right.
Then he felt it. A wet, trickling sensation sliding down the insides of his thighs. Beom's breath hitched as he instinctively reached down, his trembling fingers brushing against the source. They came away damp. His heart sank.
"No…" he whispered, his voice quivering. "No, no, no…" Panic rose in his chest as he stared at his fingers, glistening in the dim light. His mind spun in a chaotic swirl of disbelief and dread.
"Did… did it actually happen?" he thought, his throat tightening. The question echoed in his mind, relentless and cruel. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms as he tried to ground himself. But the pain, the sensation—it felt undeniable.
Beom's thoughts spiraled further, a mix of fear, shame, and confusion overtaking him. Why can't I remember everything? Was it really just a nightmare? Or… or did he… His chest ached, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
But how? How could he have gotten in here? He raked his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands as if that might somehow pull him out of this torment. Why would he do this? Was it because I fought back? Because I tried to stop him?
The idea of Yaroslav's presence, of what might have happened, made Beom's stomach churn violently. His body felt foreign, violated in ways he didn't want to acknowledge. His hands moved to his waist, trembling as he pressed against the ache, as if trying to erase the sensation.
Beom sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his chest heaving as fragmented memories of Sasha—or rather, Yaroslav—whirled chaotically in his mind. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as anger surged through him like a tidal wave. The audacity of that man, the sheer cruelty of his actions, burned in Beom's veins. Yaroslav's words, dripping with arrogance and malice, replayed in his head, mocking him.
The room felt suffocating. Beom's heart pounded as he clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together. "How dare he? How dare he treat me like some disposable pawn, like a toy for his sick games?" The thought twisted like a knife in his gut, and he doubled over slightly, his fists trembling. His body still ached from the ordeal, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the fire ignited in his soul.
His breathing steadied, but his resolve only hardened. He stared at the faint reflection of himself in the glass window, his expression a mix of determination and fury. "I won't let him win. I won't let him have the satisfaction of breaking me. Not now, not ever."
Images of Yaroslav's smug grin flashed before his eyes, that cold, calculating gaze that seemed to see through everything, twisting reality to his will. Beom's blood boiled at the memory. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up straighter.
"No more running, no more being a victim." The words rang loud in his head. Beom exhaled sharply, the weight of his anger grounding him, sharpening his focus. He didn't care how powerful Yaroslav was, how deep his connections ran within Crimson Vanguard or the mafia. Yaroslav was human, and humans could bleed.
"I'll bring him down," Beom muttered under his breath, the words almost growled. His fist slammed lightly against his thigh, a physical punctuation to his vow. "I'll expose him, destroy his reputation, rip apart everything he's built—every code, every secret, every lie."
The idea of vengeance filled him with a sense of grim satisfaction. It wouldn't be easy, and he knew the stakes were high. Yaroslav wasn't just a dangerous man; he was a monster cloaked in charm and intellect. But monsters could fall, and Beom was determined to make sure Yaroslav fell hard.
"You messed with the wrong person," Beom thought fiercely, his gaze hardening. His anger burned away any fear lingering in the corners of his mind. "You thought you could use me, break me, but all you've done is make me stronger. I'll hunt you down, Yaroslav. I'll take back my dignity, my strength, and I'll make you pay."
His breathing steadied again, but his fists remained tight. The fury in his chest settled into something colder, more calculated. This wasn't blind rage anymore. This was resolve. Beom's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile.
"Enjoy your games while you can, Yaroslav," he thought, his eyes narrowing. "Because I'll make sure you're the one who ends up begging for mercy."
Beom felt the weight of his mission as he moved quietly into the library, the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood oddly grounding him. He couldn't escape the gnawing feeling that he'd been a step behind this entire time, that Sasha—no, Yaroslav—had always been one step ahead, weaving a careful web of deception. But that was why he was here—to piece together the puzzle, to finally get a grip on what Yaroslav and the Vyshnevsky family were hiding.